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routine was the friend you’d never imagined having.
but it was there. in the mornings, with brewed coffee. mugs set on the counter, waiting. one for you, and one for him. sugar, and cream, because you liked it.
it was there during the day, when you came home for a lunch break, and the curtains were cracked just enough to let in the sunlight. when you found the note he left in the cabinet, because he left earlier than you did, and he missed you.
in the evening, when his boots stayed by the doorway out of respect for the clean floorboards of the house you shared, that he’d built. when the lights are low, and you’re tucked into the corner of the couch, and he’s sitting next to you. when your cold toes poke into the side of his thigh until he finally takes your ankle in his hand and tugs until your feet are in your lap, and time passes slowly, slowly, just like that, until it’s time for bed.
it’s there on saturday mornings, marked on the calendar as grocery day.
it’s not your favorite chore. but it’s manageable.
logan wakes up first, always. even if his shoulders are still stiff from the day before. even if he hadn’t slept as well as he had wished. he is, if nothing else, a creature built from habit.
when the sun first rises, invading the dimmed space of the bedroom, his eyes crack open. slowly, always savoring the last few moments of his in-between state of awake and asleep. it’s the one habit he can indulge himself in: when you’re still slotted against him, hair messy and cheek smushed to his skin. he watches: one, two, breaths as they slowly puff out between your slightly parted lips. his nose brushes against your forehead, catching the lingering smell of your body wash and shampoo and essence, knowing well enough by now that just that isn’t enough to wake you up yet.
he could wake up like this, the same way, a million times, and it still wouldn’t be enough.
it’s a quarter past seven when he finally begins the process of untangling. it requires deftness on his part, rearranging limbs carefully to not jolt you awake. it’s a delicate process, and takes up about another five minutes of his morning routine. the result is worth it, though, when his feet finally hit the floor and you’re still underneath sheets and blankets, and blissfully unaware.
what does he do when you’re not wrapped around him? when the day isn’t calling his name, insistent that he owes the world something?
the first thing is the porch.
just a few steps outside, just far enough to see that everything is still how he left it. a daily confirmation that his life is still whole, and that everything hasn’t been one long dream. the trees still stand tall, his driveway is still passable. it’s a small thing, but to logan howlett, it is everything.
satisfied, he goes back inside, shutting the door firmly behind him, latching the lock.
it’s a quarter past nine before logan finally hears the noises that indicate you’ve come back to the world. sheets rustling, and a soft groan. your feet on the floor, and then the motions of your own morning routine.
by nine thirty, you’ve found him in the kitchen. coffee brewed and breakfast on the stovetop, just waiting. he’s leaned against the counter, tall, and imposing, and the embodiment of the sun to you. after a second of recognition, you wordlessly walk forward, into his space. his head inclines, dropping a kiss to the center of your forehead. he smells like pine, and weirdly, like the diced potatoes that are still warm in the pan.
“mornin’.” he lingers, letting you warm up to the space around you.
“mm.”
you can feel, more than hear, the chuckle that pulls from his chest in response. your eyebrows furrow, a small pout on your lips, until logan’s palms are against your arms, gently rubbing warmth where he touches.
“saturday again?” you murmur.
“sure is.”
it’s unnatural, you think, how easy he is in the morning.
a plate of breakfast, one cup of coffee, and one travel mug later, and the two of you are in logan’s truck. the weekly shopping list is folded safely inside of your pocket.
a mile down the road, and like clockwork, the radio flickers out. it’s an easy landmark, letting you know when home was close—and an inconvenience that was so temporary, one almost didn’t notice it. a blink later, and station returns—an endearing-if-you-squinted nonnegotiable of logan’s, to keep the original stereo and forgo upgrading to something more from this millenia with bluetooth—over half-way through the first verse of the song.
in the misty morning fog with
our, our hearts a thumpin’
your eyes flick over to catch a glimpse of logan’s face, because you know the look he has—a small twitch of a smile, eyes crinkled at the corners. carefree. your favorite look. his hand slides to your thigh, thumb brushing over the curve of your knee. you move your hand to cover his, fingers slotting between his.
logan takes his eyes off of the road in front of him just long enough to look in your direction. he’s not a singer, but every now and again, the mood strikes—usually late at night, sometimes after the wine that you coerce him into drinking on a date night, and always directed to you. for you.
the song beats on, and logan’s low voice joins in as the refrain begins—
and you, my brown-eyed girl
you bite your tongue between your teeth, trying to reign in the stupid grin on your face. logan howlett, the wolverine—the man with the past you only knew in glimpses because even though he was honest, he didn’t want to burden you with the whole, bloody truth—was singing an outdated song to you. the hand that he still had on the steering wheel absently tapped along to the beat, while his other hand gave yours a small squeeze.
logan’s focus returns to the road, navigating the final few turns between the house and the grocery store. he hums under his breath, a few words escaping his lips occasionally. the written list in your pocket doesn’t feel so heavy anymore, nor does the thought of the impending fluorescent lights in your future.
saturdays, and grocery shopping, actually aren’t that bad.