No Perfect Game  

Noah's POV

I wake up to the smell of fresh coffee and pancakes wafting from the kitchen, and I can't decide whether that's better or worse than waking up next to Logan Whittaker. 

For a few seconds, I just lay there, letting the warm and familiar scents of my home settle over me. My limbs ache from the events of last night, my arm still stings where I got stabbed, but it's the absence beside me that makes my chest tighten. Logan had been here. Close enough that his warmth had seeped into my skin. Close enough that when I'd stirred in my sleep, I'd felt the faint, steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my palm. 

But now, he's gone. 

And, by the sound of it, he's not too far.

A murmur of voices drifts from the kitchen. My ears twitch. 

Oliver. 

I open my eyes to find that his cot—the one I really should upgrade to a proper bed because the boy grows like a damn sprout—is empty. 

A flicker of unease twists in my gut, but it's quickly replaced by something much heavier when I follow the sounds to the kitchen and see him. 

Logan stands at the stove, barefoot, shirtless, wearing my apron like he belongs here. 

He laughs at something Oliver says, that easy, rumbling sound that used to be a part of my mornings. He flips a pancake onto a plate, drizzles syrup over it, and slides it in front of our son before ruffling his hair. 

Oliver beams up at him, mouth already full. 

It feels like I've walked into the set of a sitcom where I'm the unsuspecting guest character, and the audience is laughing. 

Then for a second, just one fleeting second, I see it. 

The life I wanted. The life I used to dream about. 

Logan, standing in our kitchen, silver hair messed up from sleep, flipping pancakes like this is just any other morning. Oliver giggling as Logan replies to his babbling so casually, so easily, like this is the most natural thing in the world. 

For a second, I let myself imagine it— waking up to this every morning. 

And then reality slams back into me like a brick to the face. 

I almost took a step toward them before stopping myself. Finnian has been uncharacteristically quiet since last night, shaken up by the attack but now she lets out a soft, mournful whimper. 

She wants this. 

She wants him. 

I shove the thought down, locking it away like I always do. 

Logan looks up then, catching sight of me standing stiffly in the doorway. His smile softens, and under the golden morning light, his blue eyes melt. 

My heart skips a beat.

That's unfair. He shouldn't be allowed to look at me like that. 

"Hey, Olly," Logan says, still watching me. "Look who's finally up." 

Oliver turns, his own blue eyes—so painfully similar to Logan's—lighting up with excitement. 

"Papa!" he squeals, clambering down from his chair and rushing toward me. 

I crouch just in time to catch him, pressing my nose into his curls and inhaling. He still smells like sleep, like safety, and it grounds me enough to remember that whatever whirlwind emotions Logan is stirring in me, Oliver is what matters. 

"Hey, bug," I murmur. 

Oliver leans back, grinning. "Guy made pancakes! Lots and lots of pancakes!" 

I glance up at Logan who's still standing at the stove like he has every right to be here. 

"I can see that," I say flatly, setting Oliver back into his chair. "Sit and eat your breakfast." 

I watch as Oliver obeys, clambering up his booster seat like a little monkey. Then I look back at Logan as he flips another pancake with an infuriatingly pleased expression. 

"I've got your batch running here," he says, nodding at the pan. "Should be done soon." 

I hesitate. I shouldn't be hesitating. Hesitation is for people who don't know what they want to say and I know what I should be saying:

'Thanks for your help, I'll see you out.'

'It was nice having you here, I'm going to need you to leave.'

'The pancakes are overkill; who are you trying to deceive?'

Amongst the other hundreds of phrases that'll shut this down now before it becomes something I can't control. 

But instead, what comes out is: 

"Okay." 

Logan glances over his shoulder at me, slightly surprised. He blinks, then nods. "Okay," he echoes. 

And just like that, I've lost another battle. 

Logan goes back to turning the batter into the pan and I busy myself wiping syrup off Oliver's face. 

"Papa…" the little man pouts, exasperated as I go over a spot I've already cleaned with a napkin. 

I'm being more fussy than usual and he knows it.

"Sorry bug," I apologise, wincing slightly.

Logan glances at me but he doesn't say anything as he plates the last batch of pancakes and slides a plate to me.

It's now or never.

I peek up at him, take a deep breath and say, "Logan, we need to talk." 

He visibly tenses, his hands frozen beneath the running tap water. Then he completes the short ritual of washing his hands and, when he turns to me, his expression is neutral. "Alright." 

I nod toward the back door, and without another word, we step out into the crisp morning air. 

The cottage is surrounded by vast Lykandor woodland, sunlight filtering through the trees in golden streaks. In the distance, beyond the treeline, I can spot the other pack cottages—each one spaced out enough for privacy, but close enough that no one is ever truly alone. 

I love this place. The Lykandor Pack has been my home for so long that I feel safe out here. 

Usually. 

Now, my heart is pounding. 

How do I even say the things I want to say? How do I unspool this mess of emotions in my head? Finnian is so ready to forgive, so ready to have her mate back like she's forgotten that Fenrir is gone. She seems desperate to have Logan again even though that's just one half of him.

But she's a child of nature and I'm the adult that has to deal with all the consequences that'll come with another heartbreak.

So, again, how the hell am I going to start?

Before I can dig myself into a mental hole, Logan clears his throat and speaks first. 

"Oliver is such a sweet kid," he says, staring out at the trees. "You're doing such a good job raising him." 

I swallow hard. This is true. I have been doing such a good job raising him.

With a hint of amusement, he adds, "Though I do wonder why he keeps calling me 'Guy'." 

I cringe. Just a little. "...That's because I told him you were just some guy when you first showed up." 

Logan exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his silver hair. "Fair." 

This is already going sideways. 

I sigh. "Thanks for making breakfast," The words come out reluctantly. "You didn't have to." 

Logan's gaze flickers toward me. "I wanted to." 

There it is. That longing in his voice. That quiet, unspoken plea for forgiveness. 

I knew I'd hear it. 

"You shouldn't have," I say firmly. 

His jaw clenches. "You were tired, and I wanted to help take care of Oliver." 

Logan always knows the exact combination of words to use to make me snap.

"Now?!" My voice rises. "After all this time, you want to help?!" 

Logan takes a step forward, hands flexing at his sides. "I never stopped wanting to help, Noah. You cut me off." 

"Yes, that's typically what people do when their significant other leaves." The words tear out of me before I can stop them. My throat tightens. My chest aches. "You stopped being here. You stopped choosing me and by extension Oliver." 

Logan's face twists, like my words physically hurt him. "I didn't even know that you were— I didn't know that he—"

My anger simmers into sadness. "Because I never got the chance to tell you before… y'know…"

There's silence. Logan looks guilty. Good.

"Look, Logan, last night was intense," I force out. "We were scared, emotions were high, and you got hurt. It was a lot. Honestly, we have to stop meeting like this, okay? Harrowing, life-threatening situations do weird things to the emotions, but that doesn't mean—" 

I pause. 

The memory of last night surges through me—Logan's hands on me, his arms around me, his voice whispering, 'I've got you.'

"What I'm trying to say is…" 

Logan finishes for me, voice barely above a whisper: 

"This doesn't change anything." 

I exhale shakily. "Yeah," I whisper. "This doesn't change anything." 

Silence settles between us again. My chest is heaving slightly, all that rage, all that confusion bottled up somewhere within me.

I don't expect the finger that comes beneath my chin. Neither do I expect it to tilt my face up, forcing me to meet his eyes. 

"Then look me in the eyes and say it," Logan challenges. "Tell me again slowly."

I open my mouth. 

Nothing comes out. 

Instead, I say, "We need to move on, Lo." 

It'll do us both good. We had our chance. It was good until it wasn't and, while I appreciate the good parts, I never want to experience 'it wasn't' again. I never want to see him like that again— see myself like that again. And I can't bring him into Oliver's life knowing what he's capable of.

Logan's fingers slip away, but his expression turns unreadable. 

"No," he says quietly. "That's where you're wrong." 

My heart stutters. "...Eh?" 

Logan exhales, steady and sure. "I agree, we have to stop meeting like this," he murmurs. "But this changes everything. And nobody says we have to move on." 

My breath catches in my throat, barred by deep frustration. Sure, it's not written in some religious text that we can't be together again but— and I don't understand how he doesn't understand this— the trust. After what he's done, I don't think I can trust him again. Not with my heart, not with the things and people most important to me.

I want to spell it out for him but he's still speaking.

"This changes everything, Noah," he repeats. "I still love you. And I know you love me too." 

I flinch. "Stop it." 

"Why?" 

"Because I don't trust you!" 

Logan doesn't even flinch when I shove my hands against his chest, ignoring the brief flicker of guilt when I remember he's injured. 

"You broke my trust, Logan." My voice shakes. "You broke it and now I'm terrified of you, of the things you could do to me if I let you in again. So, yeah; this doesn't change anything. And I say we need to move on."

For a long, aching moment, he's silent. 

Then, he leans in—so close his breath brushes my ear—and whispers: 

"I refuse."

My brain falters. Again. 

There's something about the way he says it—quiet, certain, immovable. 

Like a promise. Like a challenge. 

I pull back just enough to glare at him. "What?" 

Logan meets my eyes, his own blue ones steady. "I refuse." 

And then, just as calmly, he keeps going. 

"We played this game your way," he says, his voice low but firm. "I listened to your little orders. I ran your extra laps. I tried to keep things professional. And where did that get us?" He tilts his head, his silver hair catching the sunlight. "The universe keeps shoving us back together in the worst ways possible. So I'm done playing by your rules." 

I swallow hard. "Logan—" 

He doesn't let me finish. 

"Here are mine," he continues, stepping just close enough that I can feel his body heat again. "I will earn your trust. And I will make you mine." 

Finnian bristles, tail lashing.

'Yes, Mine,' she snarls, like Logan's answer is the only acceptable one. Like I'm the idiot for even trying to deny it. 'Ours.'

Traitor. It seems like one act of heroism from Logan was enough to make her cave but I'm not that easy.

I shove her down so hard it makes my head spin.

Not this time, Fin.

"Are you insane?" I manage to force out the only thing I can think to say.

Logan raises an eyebrow, looking far too smug for someone who just declared all-out emotional war.

"We have games coming up," I remind him, barely keeping my voice even. "Games that—if we lose—I can kiss my job goodbye." I motion to his shoulder, then his bandaged torso. "You're even more injured than you were when you got here. Emotions are all over the place—you lost your wolf, I almost died—and your big game plan is to win me back?" 

Logan shrugs, completely unbothered. "Among other things," he admits. He reaches behind his back and unties my apron, pulling it off like he hasn't just tossed my sanity away. "I'm still workshopping it, but that's the main goal, yes." 

I stare at him. "You're absolutely off your rocker." 

"Maybe." Logan folds the apron and hands it to me. 

I take it automatically, still in shock. "I agreed to go out with Dr. Saleh, y'know?" 

Logan gives me a lazy smirk. "That's fine."

"I'm gonna try dating again," I emphasize each syllable, hoping they'll drill into his thick skull. "Meet other people. Oliver needs someone stable in his life, and I'm hoping to find that." 

"That's fine," Logan repeats, running a hand through his hair, pushing the silver strands away from his face as he steps back into the golden light. 

"It is?"

What happened to the jealous Alpha I know? What happened to the Logan who almost killed a man on my account last night?

"After all," he says, stretching like he has all the time in the world, "there's no perfect game without competition." 

My stomach twists. 

I want to punch him. I want to kiss him. 

Logan Whittaker has always been like this. Reckless. Stubborn. Eager to dive feet-first into anything he sets his mind to. 

Two years ago, that was the big leagues. 

Now, I'm the goal he's set his sights on. 

And that realization sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the cool morning air. 

Finnian lets out a low, longing whine. 

Prey, she whispers. We are prey. 

I shake my head. "You're insane." 

Logan chuckles, all smug confidence and daring. 

Then, before I can even process what's happening, his thumb brushes over my cheek, featherlight and deliberate. 

I'm rendered incapable of movement as—goddess help me—he presses a kiss to my forehead. 

A simple thing. A brief touch of lips against skin. 

But it wrecks me. 

My body betrays me, my breath hitching as warmth spreads from where he kissed me. I feel it like an imprint, like something I won't be able to scrub off no matter how hard I try. 

Finnian purrs, pressing against my senses, her tail curling in pleasure. 

I want to be furious. I am furious. So furious that I can't voice it.

But Logan—proud bastard that he is—just steps back and stretches his arms over his head like he didn't just short-circuit my entire brain. 

"Possibly," he says, still smirking. "But you know me, Noah. When I've got my eyes on the ball, there's no way I'm striking out." 

I clutch the apron in my hands, still reeling, still trying to catch up. 

That was code. 

That was Logan Whittaker code for 'I am going to make you mine.'

And worst of all? 

I believe him. 

I hate that I believe him. That some desperate, traitorous part of me wants him to prove it. 

Logan straightens, exhaling. "Now, if you'll excuse me," he says, his tone maddeningly casual, "I'm going to seek medical attention at my parents' place." 

And just like that, he turns and starts walking off into the woods, leaving me standing in the doorway, clutching my apron like it's the only thing tethering me to reality.