We stumble out of the shower, not bothering to dry off properly, water dripping on the floor as we make our way to my bedroom.
Logan backs me toward the bed, eyes never leaving mine.
“You have no idea how long I’ve been thinking about this,” he says.
“About what?”
“About you,” he says, hands framing my face. “About us. About having you like this again, not because you’re trying to find something to make you forget for a minute, but because you want to be with me.”
My breath catches. “Logan?—”
“I love you,” he says, and his voice cracks on the words. “I love you so fucking much.”
My eyes sting. “I know,” I whisper. “I love you too.”
He kisses me then—soft and deep and full of promise—and then he’s lowering me onto the bed, following me down.
He settles between my thighs, and for a moment, we just look at each other.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, brushing hair back from my face.
“Not too bad yourself,” I whisper.
His mouth curves, and then he’s kissing me again—slower this time, like we have all the time in the world.
His hand slides down my body, between my legs, checking if I’m ready.
“Please,” I whisper. “I need you.”
“Condom?” he asks.
I shake my head, already knowing my answer. “No, I want to feel you. Just you. I’m on birth control.”
He positions himself at my entrance, eyes locked on mine, and then he’s pushing inside—slow and careful and so, so deep.
We both groan at the sensation.
“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping to mine. “You feel incredible."
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Move,” I beg. “Please move.”
He does, setting a rhythm that’s perfect—deep and slow and deliberate.
Every thrust feels intentional. Meaningful.
Like he’s writing a promise into my skin with his body.
“I’m never leaving you,” Logan says, voice rough with emotion. “I don’t care what happens. I don’t care where football takes me.You’remy priority. You’re my person. You’re my end game.”
The words crack something open in my chest.
“End game,” I repeat, pulling him down for a kiss.
He kisses me back like I’m oxygen, and he’s been holding his breath for years.
His pace picks up, hips driving harder, and I meet him thrust for thrust, nails digging into his shoulders.
“God, you’re perfect,” he groans. “So perfect for me.”
