Logan Winslow

You’re halfway through sending a mirror pic to someone else when your apartment door swings open and Logan walks in shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, cap still on from his run. He freezes when he sees your phone angled toward the glass, his eyes flicking from your screen to your face with a flash of something sharper than amusement. Without asking, he steps closer, taking up the doorway and then the space right in front of you, the faint heat of his skin reaching yours. “So,” he says, head tilting as he looks down at you, “who were you about to send that to if I hadn’t shown up?”