Burning Bridges  

Logan's POV

There's a reason movies never show the aftermath of moments like these. 

The part where the cops show up with paramedics and stitch you together while asking a million tedious questions about what you were doing out late and why you're covered in the blood of three other men. That part is boring. Annoying. Tedious. Not good for the screen—hell, even cop shows have to make it more dramatic than reality. 

Someone like me dealing with something like this? The press might as well be hanging out in the back seat of the police cruiser. 

But, right now, I can handle that. The negative attention. The cameras. I'm already in yellow for running off the field last game—might as well jump into the red with a "Baseball star violently beats up three men" segment on the morning news. 

But Noah? Oliver? 

They don't need that kind of attention. 

I won't let that kind of attention touch them. 

Luckily, I don't have to. 

"I'll call the cops and tell them they underestimated the guy they tried to mug," Elliot says, handing me Noah's wallet and car keys. 

I stare at him, breath still uneven, my hands still tingling from the fight. "And the guy?" 

Elliot smirks, running a hand through his messy black hair. "Took off." 

I exhale, tension rolling off me in waves. Thank fuck. 

"Thanks, Elliot," I say, voice gruff with exhaustion. 

Noah is too weak to speak, his face pale as he cradles Oliver, gently stroking his hair. 

So I speak for both of us. 

And once the words are out of my mouth, once Elliot is handling the shitstorm we're leaving behind, my focus narrows onto the only thing that's ever truly mattered. 

Noah. 

The first aid kit is in his car, tucked in the glove compartment like it's just another everyday essential—right next to an extra pack of baby wipes and a spare pacifier. 

Oliver has already fallen asleep in Noah's arms by the time I press the detox pen into his father's arm. 

A small, sharp injection. A minute of hell. 

Noah doesn't make a sound as the nanomagnets attract the silver in his blood to themselves.

He doesn't flinch when I go over his cuts and bruises with rubbing alcohol, salve, and cotton pads.

He doesn't even wince when I carefully and steadily wrap a bandage around his knife wound.

But when I'm done, he whispers, "He cried himself to sleep." 

I looked down at Oliver, his small, round face still damp from tears, fingers curled into Noah's shirt. 

Noah's voice was softer than I've heard it in years. "I'm glad he can sleep after all that." 

My heart clenches, tightly and painfully.

I want to say something. Anything. That I'm sorry. That I should have noticed them leaving the stadium. That if I had just gone after them when I heard Oliver's voice calling out for "Guy," none of this would have happened. 

But none of that would change anything. 

What's done is done. 

What matters now is keeping them safe. 

So instead, I say, "I'm driving you home." 

Noah barely lifts his head. "But your shoulder. You need to go to the hospital. I'll take you there and drop you at your hotel so—" 

"Noah." 

I say his name steadily, with the weight of an Alpha who won't take no for an answer. 

He hears it.

His resistance crumbles. 

"...Okay." 

So I take him home. 

***

Before I left Eastvale, Noah and I lived in one of the Lykandor apartments, a building designated for pack members who needed a place to stay. Werewolves don't rent from humans if they can help it—too much hassle, too many landlords who reject you the second they see 'non-human' on your ID. 

I never minded the apartment. It was close to home but private enough that my parents didn't hound me to visit daily. It was small, warm, full of Noah's scent, and even though I never admitted it, it felt like home. 

But I got restless. 

I wanted more. The big leagues, the world, the fame.

Noah just wanted to stay. 

So I left. He moved out of the apartment and into one of the small Lykandor cottages, and it's here that I watch him now—watch as he plops down onto a tiny couch and lets out an exhausted sigh.

Oliver is already asleep in the bedroom, Noah made sure to tuck him in the minute he was through the doors. 

I finish putting away the groceries he never got to use today, letting my hands go through the motions of finding what goes where, grounding myself in the mundane normalcy of it all.

Noah yawns. 

I look up at him. It's a real wonder how he's able to keep his eyes open. "Looks like we need to get you to bed." 

He waves me off, still yawning. "I'm fine. I just need—" 

I set away the last of the groceries and walk to where he's seated on the couch. Without thinking, my fingers slip into his curls and I gently scratch his scalp, slow and soothing. 

A low, involuntary whine escapes his throat. 

I grin. Gotcha.

It's good to see my omega still loves head scratches.

Noah freezes, eyes snapping open, cheeks flushing deep red. 

With visible reluctance, he reaches up and removes my hand from his head.

"I am tired," he admits stiffly. "But I can't sleep now. You're injured, and I have to—" 

"I'll take care of it," I cut in. "You go take a bath." 

His brows furrow. "Is that your way of calling me dirty?" 

I huff a laugh. "I just figured that after the night you've had, you'd want to wash the blood off." 

His lips curl into a pout. I know that pout.

Even covered in bruises and scars, he still tries to wear his pride. 

Unfortunately for him, I know exactly what he looks like when that pride crumbles under me.

Noah glares at me, then trudges toward the bathroom. I bite my tongue to keep from grinning too hard. 

Once he's gone, I strip off my shirt and set to work bandaging my own shoulder. The wound is numb and sore, and I can feel the broken bones beneath aching all over again. 

I've already broken one of Noah's rules—I got hurt. 

I'll have to meet with my physical therapist soon. 

I finish cleaning the bite wound, wrapping it in bandages, and try to reach the **claw marks on my back. 

But I can't reach them properly.

I know they're there—caked in blood, raw from exposure to air—but it's difficult to clean them properly if I can't see them.

So I do the next best thing.

I head into the kitchen and start making Noah something to eat.

The night has been long as hell, and if I'm hungry, Noah must be starving. 

I wash my hands, search through his fridge and cupboards, and begin the task of assembling a sandwich. 

I lose myself in the process. Bread, tomatoes, lettuce. It's comforting, in a way. My life may be one huge, heart-attack inducing, rollercoaster but I can never mess up a sandwich. 

I'm putting the final touches on my masterpiece when I feel gentle fingers trace the wound on my back. 

"Idiot," Noah mutters behind me. 

His fingers trace the claw marks on my back, the featherlight touch sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. 

"You said you were going to take care of it," he says, voice softer now. 

I swallow. Hard.

He smells so fucking good— honey and spice body wash, laundry detergent, and something that's just… him.

I want to turn around and wrap myself around him, bury my nose in his scent and stay there forever. 

Don't turn around. Don't do anything stupid. 

I force myself to stay still. "Couldn't reach it. Thought I'd make you something to eat instead." 

Noah's fingers trace higher, brushing over my injured shoulder. I grit my teeth to keep from groaning.

"I didn't give you permission to rummage through my kitchen," he says. 

I smirk, biting back a growl. "I'm not going to let you sleep on an empty stomach." 

He huffs. "I'll eat your sandwich. But you—" he squeezes my shoulder lightly, his touch lingering, "go shower. I'll patch you up when you get back."

"Sure thing," I murmur, too overstimulated from his touch to argue. 

"Down the hall, by your left," he calls as I trudge through the cottage. 

I find a fresh towel, a pair of shorts and a T-shirt waiting for me. I take a quick shower with Noah's bath wash. I wear the shorts and forgo the shirt. When I return to the kitchen, Noah is setting the last slice of bread on a fresh sandwich. 

I freeze. 

Not because I'm impervious to sandwiches and this is the end for me. But because Noah made it for me. 

He should be in bed, passed out from exhaustion. He should be worrying about himself, not about whether or not I've eaten. But instead, he stood here, after everything, making me food like it was muscle memory. 

He says, "Sit." 

Like an obedient hound, I sit. 

Noah pushes the plate towards me, picks up the first aid kit and tends to my wounds while I eat the sandwich he made for me. 

Chicken, mayo, sour cream. 

Just the way I like it.

It's such a small thing, but it sinks into my chest like a stone. 

He still remembers.

I swallow hard, pushing down the sudden tightness in my throat. While I eat, he tends to my wounds. Every brush of his fingers against my skin is pure torture.

When he's wrapped bandages around my torso, he starts to ally fresh salve to the bites on my shoulder.

Noah sighs. "Guess you'll have to be benched next game too." 

I set down my sandwich. "Is this really the time to talk about work?" 

Noah scoffs, "Not all of us are billionaires who can afford not to think about work."

"I'm not a billionaire." 

Noah deadpans, "Yet." He sighs again, cutting the excess bandage away from my shoulder. "Look, Logan… What you did, jumping between me and those wolves. Fighting them off. That was incredibly—"

"Stupid?" I offer.

"Yes," Noah replies, simply. "But I was going to say incredibly brave." 

A pause. 

Then, "Thank you. I mean that. You saved us— me."

I turn around on the stool to face him. "So you don't care that I probably won't be able to play?" 

Noah rakes his fingers through his hair, "With all due respect to the overlords that pay my salary; screw the Coyotes. If you hadn't been there, Oliver could have- I could have—" 

Tears fill those hazel eyes of his and he sounds choked. I take his hand and softly caresses the back of his palm with my thumb. I don't want him to cry, not while I'm here.

 "I'll never let anyone hurt you," I whisper.

Noah exhales shakily, his eyes widening. And, suddenly, I feel stupid. So I can still play the role of knight, hero and protector when…

I look away from him. "It's stupid how I was able to take down three wolves without shifting, yet I couldn't tell one vampire in a club to back off."

Noah's fingers curl around mine, forcing my attention back on him. "You can't keep blaming yourself for that."

I sigh. He's right. "Maybe I will with time."

He tilts his head like he usually does when he's considering something. "Maybe you should think about going to therapy."

I huff a dry laugh. "What, so some guy with glasses and a notepad can tell me I have unresolved issues? Nah, I think I figured that out all by myself." 

Noah just gives me a look. That look—the one that cuts through all my bullshit like a fastball straight down the middle. The one that used to make me spill my guts without even realizing it. 

I sigh, running a hand down my face. "Maybe I will." 

And there's silence. 

This is the part where he sends me home. This is the part where this bubble of protection and warmth pops and everyone goes their separate ways and acts like it never happened. This is the aftermath I've been dreading the most and I'd rather rip off the bandaid than wait to be kicked out. 

"Alright," I announce. "I guess I better head out."

But I don't stand up.

"You left your car at the stadium," Noah points out. 

Oh, yeah. I did.

"My parents live like ten minutes away," I wave nonchalantly. "They'll be glad to see me."

One of his sleek brows raise. "In the middle of the night?"

My cheeks warm up. I'm not the blushing type but Noah makes it so easy to feel embarrassed. "They're always glad to see me."

There's silence again. I try not to look like an idiot, Noah looks thoughtful. It's now that I notice his hand is still in mine. 

Noah says, quietly, "Or you could stay…"

I do a horrible job of hiding my shock. "I could?" 

Noah's gaze meets mine, shyly. I might be blushing but there's a smattering of blush across his cheeks and it makes him look even more adorable. "You should. I- I want you to stay. I don't want to be alone right now."

So I take the couch and Noah sleeps in the bedroom with the door open. 

At 11 a.m, Oliver wakes up screaming. 

I pick him up and rock him back to sleep. Afterwards, I lay down on his side on the bedroom floor beside the cot. 

About two hours later, Noah starts talking in his sleep, crying, kicking and afraid. 

I gently shush him, I wipe away his tears. 

One bleary eye opens, "Lo?"

"Go back to sleep," I whisper into the dark, "I'm here."

Noah says, "Hold me. Please."

So I hold him.

Noah falls asleep in his arms and I try to remember why I ever thought it was a good idea to give up on this. 

Because, as I savor the feeling of my mate in my arms, as I wonder if Fenrir can feel it too, wherever he is, I know that morning will come. And I know that, when the sun rises, Noah is going to look back at the night before, at the slices of bread missing from the package and at the crease in the sheets from where we lay together and he's going to say 'This doesn't change anything.'