When Logan moved in, it wasn't supposed to be permanent.
Just a few weeks, Sabrina had said. Something about her lease expiring before her new apartment was ready. He could crash in the guest room until then—simple, clean, temporary.
But nothing about him ever felt temporary.
He arrived with a heavy duffel slung over one shoulder and a toolkit in the other hand. His boots hit the floor like they belonged. The moment he stepped into our house, something shifted. The air got heavier. Quieter.
He didn't say much. Just nodded at me and gave a short, low "Hey." I replied with something equally useless and tried not to stare.
Logan was… well, Logan. Thirty-one. Built like scaffolding and steel. Stubble along his jaw, a scar near the bridge of his nose, and those deep, unreadable eyes that always seemed to look past you instead of at you. He was the kind of man who never needed to raise his voice—he just existed, and people adjusted around him.
Sabrina adored him. She acted like he was the first real man she'd ever dated. Maybe he was.
I wasn't used to men like Logan. Men who didn't flirt. Who didn't joke too much. Who didn't even notice you unless you spoke first. At least, that's how it felt.
And yet, I noticed him.
Every time.
His cologne—woodsy, sharp, warm—lingered in the hallway long after he passed. His boots left clean outlines in the carpet. I memorized the way his voice sounded late at night when he answered the phone in the other room. I told myself it was nothing. A harmless little fascination.
But it wasn't harmless. And it wasn't little.
It started on the second night.
I heard them through the wall.
The bedframe creaked once. Then again. A pause. A laugh. Sabrina's voice—soft, breathless. His voice—low, impossible to decipher, just a murmur against her skin. Then nothing.
Silence, except for the pounding of my own heart. I lay on my side, facing the wall, my blanket pulled up to my nose. My throat was dry. My chest ached.
It happened again the next night. And the next.
Eventually, I started waiting for it. Like some kind of sick ritual. I hated myself for it. I hated how my hand would hover over my chest or how my body would stir the moment I heard the first noise. I hated that I couldn't stop imagining what he looked like in that moment—his muscles tensing, his mouth against her shoulder, his hand curling around her hip.
I didn't want to think those things. I didn't want to feel that way.
But I did.
And it only got worse when Sabrina started coming home late.
"Don't wait up," she'd text.
She always did.
Logan never said anything about it. He'd come home, drink a beer, shower, sit in the living room for a while, and then vanish into the guest room.
Sometimes, the bathroom door would be left slightly open, steam spilling out into the hallway. I never looked directly, but I didn't have to. I caught glimpses. His back. His chest. A towel riding low on his hips. The way water clung to his collarbone before trailing down.
And I hated that my body noticed. That my breath caught. That I had to walk faster to hide the heat spreading across my face.
One night, he found me in the kitchen past ten. The light was dim. I was pretending to scroll through my phone, just to keep my hands busy.
"You always up this late?" he asked, pulling a beer from the fridge.
"Sometimes," I replied.
He nodded, leaned against the counter, took a slow sip. His shoulders were relaxed. His eyes looked tired, like something was eating at him, but he didn't say what.
"You should get some sleep," he murmured. "You look exhausted."
And that was it. He left.
Door cracked open behind him.
I stood there for a while, my pulse loud in my ears, wondering what I wanted more—to follow him, or to forget he existed.
I did neither. I just went back to bed and lay there in the dark, thinking about what it would feel like to sit on his lap and kiss his tired mouth until he gave in.
I didn't sleep.
A few nights later, I passed by the guest room again. The door was open wider than usual. No lights on. Just him, shirtless, sitting at the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, like he'd been staring at the floor for hours.
I paused.
"You okay?" I asked quietly.
He looked up. The shadows deepened the lines on his face.
"Yeah," he said. "Just thinking."
"About her?"
He shook his head. "No. Just… life."
I didn't know what that meant. I just stood there, hovering.
"Want some water?" I asked.
He nodded.
I brought him a glass, holding it carefully so our fingers wouldn't touch. But they did. Briefly.
Warm skin. Rough calluses. A jolt down my spine.
"Thanks," he said.
I started to leave.
"You ever feel like you're just waiting for something to happen?" he asked.
I stopped in the doorway.
"Every day."
He leaned back on the bed, one arm folded under his head, the other resting on his stomach. I turned away before I could let myself stare too long.
That night, I dreamed about him. His hands on my thighs. His voice in my ear. His mouth against mine. I woke up aching and afraid, too ashamed to even touch myself.
Every time I saw him after that, I flinched.
But he didn't act any different.
Still called me "kid" or "buddy." Still ruffled my hair once, in passing, like it meant nothing.
It meant everything.
One morning, I came down early. He was already in the kitchen, shirtless again, sipping coffee by the window. The early sun caught the lines of his muscles. He didn't hear me at first. I just stood there like an idiot, staring.
Then he turned.
We locked eyes.
I looked away so fast my neck ached.
He gave me a lazy smile.
"Morning."
"Morning," I whispered.
I rushed to the bathroom, locked the door, and pressed my palms to the sink.
I couldn't keep doing this.
I couldn't keep wanting him.
But I did.
And I didn't think I was strong enough to stop.