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The sky’s crying.
A gift, and a much-needed one. El Paso’s desert blooms rejoice as they drink their helping of water after nearly three weeks of punishing heat in an arid landscape.
The Chrysler is parked. Logan manages to walk in right as the shower bursts into a full-on downpour. The faint petrichor only lasted for two stretched-out minutes.
His footsteps almost echo in the dim space of the smeltering plant—clouds and rain pelting against the rusted windows mean less light from the outside. A dark grey late afternoon.
Charles is asleep. He stares at the older man for a while, as if pondering the frailty of who was supposed to be—and still is—the strongest of them all, before making his way back to his quarters.
A cling-wrapped plate of empanadas sit silently on the dining room table. Must be your doing.
He leaves them be. Food is not what he’s craving.
He finds you in bed, legs half tangled in-between the sheets like you can’t decide if it’s too warm or too cool. From the doorway, his ailing eyes catch the steady rise and fall of your chest, casting a shadow of his figure upon the already darkened room. You’re on your side, fast asleep, none the wiser to his presence.
Wearing his shirt and nothing else.
A heavy sigh escapes him. Whether he’s collapsing from the burdens of the day or from something else, he’s not quite sure. He takes off his jacket and drapes it on a chair, then his shirt, until he’s left wearing undershirt and slacks. He slips onto the bed behind you, a soft grunt as he does so, the give of the soft surface almost forcing his joints to relax.
Then your scent hits him. All over the pillows and sheets. All around him.
He shifts, arms wrapping around your waist while his nose finds the crook of your neck like it always does. Inhaling. Exhaling. Letting the different notes of you in his system, as if you’re the thing that sustains him—shampoo, skin, and a hint of spice.
Maybe it’s the weight of his arm that causes you to murmur, slowly stirring. He strokes your hair and kisses your shoulder, trying to placate you back to sleep, but you sigh and yawn, and he knows he’s woken you up.
“‘s just me,” he rumbles. Too late. You’ve turned around, hazy half-lidded eyes peering into his.
“You’re back,” you hum, nuzzling into his chest like a spoiled house cat. His arm tugs you close and the metal in his bones melt into something lighter, not without a twinge of pain in his chest.
This is what he’s craving.
Your breath tickling his collarbone, hands curled around his undershirt, like you’re happy he interrupted your nap. The soft smile on your face says just as much.
“I cooked and put Charles to bed,” you whisper, voice still laden with sleep. “He’s talkative today.”
Logan doesn’t reply, but feels the good news in his body the most, how his tired lungs seem to expand a little more when he breathes in. What would he do without you? You smell like a lifeline, one that he’s tethered himself to, latched on with wolf-like teeth on your neck, which you always seem to freely offer.
A gift. A beautiful one.
He kisses the crown of your hair and inhales.
A strong gust of wind sends rain hurtling down harder, its torrents hitting the glass like a million loud drums, but the room is still, save for the few sacred motions of his body and yours.
His hands slipping under your shirt—his—to skim lightly up your ribs and nestle on your back. Inhale, exhale.
His.
The flutter of your eyelashes against the space between his shoulder and chest, as you blink. Slow. Sleepy.
His.
His chin on the top of your head.
His.
Just the two of you in this bed, and you’re his.
“Nap with me?” you ask, fingers quietly tracing the path of veins on his arm.
“For a while,” he mutters.
A terrible lie.
He’d stay here forever if he could. Denounce the dust of roads traveled if it means ending up where you are. Where he lay next to you like this and count the beat of your heart above the storm.
You lean up and cradle his face before kissing him. He mirrors your motions, keeping a hand on your jaw while his lips part, tongue already searching yours like it’s missed you. And it has—his entire being has.
Once upon a time, he was afraid. Tried to get you to leave before you became precious enough to hurt him. But not anymore. Not when you place desert willows in a mason jar on the dining table to “make the room smile a little”. Not with the way your arms slip around him like it’s the easiest thing in the world to do.
Not with your mark all over the soft corners he didn’t know existed within him.
You let out a quiet sigh, deepening the kiss, fingers carding through his hair. For a moment, he forgets. Every bruise, every bullet hole, every cut on his flesh.
He forgets what hurt means.
Because this is where he can truly breathe. Where his bones find rest—a kind of rest so pure he can’t help but wake up another day and try again. Where century-old dirt gets washed away, as ardent as desert rain. The fount he leashed his fate to. His life-giving pond.
His oasis.