𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝘽𝙞𝙯𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙚, 𝙅𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙐𝙨 (An SBG fic 🥰)

Chapter Six - Why Are You An Asshole?!?!

Logan woke up the next day with little to no hope for himself. His morning was already off to a rough start, the harsh blaring of his alarm dragging him out of sleep, leaving him groggy and irritated. He trudged into the kitchen, the familiar space now tinged with unpleasant memories of his nightmares. As he took a sip from his glass, he jolted. Looking into the cup, he spotted the liquid—orange juice? When did they get that? Confused, he set the cup down and let his gaze wander out the kitchen window, his eyes landing on the neighbour's yard.

The young woman next door was outside, wiping sweat from her brow. She glanced up and, noticing Logan, waved softly. Her gesture was simple, yet carried a warmth that cut through the haze of his tiredness. He waved back sluggishly, the action more out of habit than real energy, but he couldn't deny the small comfort her familiar presence gave him. She had babysat him when he was younger, always free of charge, her soft greetings and glances a constant source of reassurance. He thought back to his first day back home—the concern on her face as she watched him dash out the front door. She hadn't said anything, but her eyes had followed him, full of unspoken worry.

The morning light filtered through the window, casting soft shadows on the kitchen floor, but Logan's mind remained clouded. The stress of the previous night lingered, weighing heavily on his chest as he sighed deeply. His morning had barely started, yet it already felt like it was going to be a difficult day.

Sighing, he washed his now-empty glass of orange juice and placed it in the drying rack beside the sink, letting it clatter against the other dishes. He leaned against the sink for a few more seconds, his gaze wandering aimlessly to the bits of food and melting ice left behind. His grandparents had already had breakfast, it seemed.

The weekend stretched before Logan like an obstacle course he hadn't trained for. Every task waiting for him felt heavy, adding to the exhaustion he hadn't been able to shake since the night before. He rested his elbows on the counter, staring off into the space of the kitchen, and let out another sigh—his thirteenth, or at least it felt that way. The weight of everything settled over him like a blanket that wasn't quite warm enough, pressing down but offering no comfort.

Finally, after standing there long enough for the silence to feel oppressive, Logan pushed himself off the counter. His legs felt heavy, each step slower than the last as he headed back to his room. There was no rush. The house was quiet, almost too quiet, the kind that makes every creak of the floorboards sound louder than usual. Logan couldn't help but linger in that silence, as if dragging out the moment.

This week had been, without a doubt, the most eventful in Logan's life—though part of him wondered if that was even accurate. His mind buzzed with so many fragmented thoughts, it felt impossible to keep track. Stalking out of the kitchen, his eyes briefly flickered toward the hallway, catching the familiar shadows cast by the early light. The pit in his stomach tightened.

As he trudged up the stairs, the weight of everything pulled at him. Anxiety gripped him in ways it hadn't before. That haunting dream—or whatever it was—clung to him like a second skin. Was it really a dream? It felt too real. Too visceral. Each step up the stairs seemed to echo with a reminder of that horrible moment, as if reality and nightmare were starting to blur. He shook his head. Logan kept up the act, as he always had, pushing through every previous challenge with sheer willpower. He wasn't about to let some nightmare get the best of him, even if this one lingered more than it should have. Maybe it was all in his head, part of some elaborate subconscious narrative he'd cooked up.

"I'm hopeless," he muttered to himself, the words slipping out with a sigh as he stood in front of his bedroom door. His breath came heavy as he realized he'd been standing there for longer than he meant to, lost in thought. The plain oak door, marked by the faint remains of stickers long since peeled off, stared back at him.
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With a creak, the door swung open, revealing the familiar sight of his room. But he hesitated. His feet didn't move. It wasn't fear—no, that couldn't be it. Could it? He didn't know, and that frustrated him more than anything. Groaning at his own irrationality, Logan forced himself inside, flopping against the desk chair. Useless, he thought. The chair wasn't even broken, though by the way he had thrown in that ridiculous horror it should've been.