A pause. Just long enough for the words to settle, to sink in, to twist the knife deeper.
“You left him to drown.”
Logan closed his eyes, his head bowed as the tears spilled freely. His voice trembled when he spoke. “It wasn’t like that,” he said, the words sounding weak even to his own ears. “I loved him. I love him now. I never stopped loving him—not for a single minute.”
Dean’s silence hung heavy in the room. When he finally spoke, his tone was quiet but laced with undeniable truth. “Maybe you did,” he said, his gaze meeting Logan’s. “Maybe you still do. But love isn’t just a feeling, Logan. It’s a choice. And you didn’t choose him when it mattered.”
The room felt impossibly small, the weight of Dean’s words pressing down on Logan until he thought he might break. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. The only sound was the distant crash of waves, as ceaseless and unforgiving as time itself.
Dean sighed, straightening as he glanced toward the door. “I hate you, Logan,” he stated again, his voice devoid of venom but heavy with exhaustion. “I hate you for what you did to him. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re here now. And for whatever reason, Adrian hasn’t sent you away. Because if he really wanted you gone, he’d tell me to get you the hell out of here, but he didn’t, so I think he… on some level wants you here.”
Logan looked up, hope flickering faintly in his tear-streaked eyes.
Dean’s expression softened, but only for a moment. “So fight for him,” he pleaded. “But remember this: he’s dying. This isn’t about you. If you’re going to stay, you don’t get to make this harder for him. When he needs space, you give it to him. When he needs you to back off, you do it. Understand?”
Logan nodded, his voice barely a whisper. “I understand.”
And with a heavy sigh and a quick nod, Dean stood and turned away, his footsteps echoing faintly as he retreated into another room, before emerging once again moments later and leaving the house.
Logan remained still, his body tight as though preparing for an unseen tempest, and he felt a bitter taste of regret on his tongue.
He tried to focus on the space around him, to anchor himself in the present, but everything blurred into one undeniable truth: Adrian was dying. The thought churned in his mind like an undertow, pulling him deeper into his own despair.
The hallway felt impossibly long as Logan made his way to Adrian’s door; each step echoed softly.
He paused, pressing his palm lightly against the wood, as though he could somehow reach Adrian through the thin barrier. Inside, he heard the faintest sounds—deep, uneven breaths and the occasional muffled sniffle. The realization that Adrian might still be crying twisted something deep in Logan’s chest.
“Adrian,” he called softly, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I’m still here.”
There was a shuffling sound inside, faint but unmistakable. Adrian had heard him. Logan pressed his forehead against the door, words spilling out chaotically and without restraint. “I’m not going anywhere, you hear me? You can scream at me, curse me, hit me—whatever you need. But I’m not leaving. Because I’m so damn sorry. Because…I love you.”
It was a quiet tragedy that the first time Logan spoke those words to Adrian, it was through a closed door—a barrier that mirrored the distance he had spent years building between them. But that was all he had left now. And if speaking his heart through wood and silence was the only way to reach him, then he would do it, no matter how much it broke him.
Logan’s voice cracked, but he kept going, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I’m sorry I ran away. I’m sorry I didn’t wake you up that night to tell you I was scared. I’m sorry I blocked you. I’m sorry I married her in front of you, and that I acted like you didn’t mean everything to me. God, Adrian, I’ve been sorry every single day since I walked away.”
Logan wiped at his eyes, tears spilling from them in a wet trail that spoke of the pain. His body throbbed and trembled with longing, a restless ache seething beneath his skin as he was so close to Adrian, yet could not reach out and touch him. He longed for the comfort of Adrian’s arms, the warmth of his skin, the quiet reassurance of his presence. It was a longing that had never left him, and now it seared like molten metal.
When it became painfully clear that Adrian wasn’t going to respond, Logan’s resolve crumbled. Slowly, he sank to the floor, his back pressed against the wall, the weight of his sorrow pulling him down. He let his head rest against the cool surface, just inches from Adrian’s bedroom door, as if the nearness might somehow bridge the chasm between them.
The silence on the other side was smothering, a void that swallowed everything he had left to give.
He sat there, legs drawn up, as close to Adrian as he could get without crossing the line he knew he’d long since forfeited. The minutes stretched into hours, the stillness of the house broken only by the faint crushing of waves in the distance.
Now that he was so close to Adrian, the smallest distance between them felt unfathomably vast—too immense to confront, too painful to endure. With his soul recognizing its other half just beyond that door, separated by nothing more than a mere board of wood, he was left in a state of helpless longing.
At some point, sleep must have claimed him, because when Logan stirred awake, the house was cloaked in darkness. His neck throbbed from the awkward angle, and the hard floor beneath him should have seeped November’s chill deep into his bones. But instead, he felt unexpected, comforting warmth. Blinking groggily, he cast a bleary gaze downward and discovered a blanket lovingly draped over him. The soft fabric exuded an unmistakable scent; Adrian’s scent. The intoxicating smell, a blend that Logan’s brain recognized too well—like a predator stalking his prey, it surged through Logan, awakening a torrent of memories that lingered inexorably in his mind. He recalled the peaceful moments spent lying in bed with Adrian nestled in his arms, enveloped by that familiar fragrance. It was a delicate blend of sweetness and cleanliness, intermingled with hints of his cologne and the shampoo he favored—all woven together with an essence that was purely Adrian, a scent imbued with warmth and comfort.
Beside him, a small portable heater hummed quietly, its glow casting faint shadows against the wall. Logan’s breath caught in his throat. At some point, Adrian must have emerged from his room, seen him curled up against the wall, and chosen to help him. It was such a painfully Adrian thing to do, silent, tender, and full of a love that lingered, refusing to be extinguished, even after everything.
His eyes shifted toward the door beside him, still closed but no longer a fortress. No longer an impenetrable thing built to keep him out. Instead, it felt like a veil—thin, fragile, something he could almost slip through if he reached for it. He pressed a palm to the wood, fingers splayed out, feeling for something, some warmth, presence, a heartbeat on the other side.
“Ad,” he murmured, his voice raw from sleep. The name barely rose above the hum of the heater, but it carried everything—years of longing, of regret, of love never given the chance to settle, to rest, to be enough.
Silence.
Logan swallowed against the weight of it, his pulse drumming in his ears. He thought of pushing the door open, stepping inside, spilling every word that had burned inside him for the past two years, but he stopped himself. He didn’t have that right. Not anymore.
This is about Adrian. He reminded himself.
