Page 40 of Spilled Coffee

He turned for the kitchen when a loud thud echoed behind him. He froze, head snapping around just in time to see Ethan sliding off the couch in slow motion, limbs tangling awkwardly before he hit the floor with another unceremonious crash. He groaned, a low, pitiful sound that barely qualified as human but at least confirmed he was alive.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Logan hissed under his breath as he rubbed his temple with two fingers.

Shaking his head, he left Ethan where he was and continued to the kitchen. The space wasn’t much better—small with dingy linoleum floors and countertops buried under a week’s worth of accumulated clutter. Dishes were stacked haphazardly next to a sink overflowing with mismatched mugs, as a faint plink-plink echoed from the leaky faucet.

He shoved aside a loaf of stale bread that looked like it might’ve been there since Christmas and grabbed the coffee jug wedged behind it. Filling the tank with water, he then reached for the dented canister of coffee grounds perched on the counter and scooped a generous amount—precision be damned—before slamming it shut.

The machine sputtered to life with a gurgling hiss, steam curling into the air as it began to brew.

When it finished, Logan poured coffee into two mugs—black as night and bitter enough to peel paint. No cream, no sugar; this wasn’t about enjoyment.

Steam curled from the mugs in lazy tendrils as he carried them back to the lounge. Ethan hadn’t moved even an inch from where he’d fallen against the side of the couch, one arm flung dramatically over his face like some tragic Shakespearean hero.

Logan set both mugs down on the battered coffee table before he crouched beside Ethan.

“Hey,” he barked sharply, giving Ethan’s cheek a couple of light slaps. “Wake up!” When that didn’t get a reaction, he slapped harder—this time enough to sting.

Ethan blinked, sluggishly, as Logan hauled him into a sitting position. He grimaced and rubbed his head, a groan rumbling out before it drooped forward again. “Mmm... get off me... I don’t... stop,” he slurred, words a jumbled mess.

“Drink this,” Logan shoved the mug against his mouth. “We need to sober you up before you start puking all over the rug.”

The bitter and scalding liquid hit Ethan’s tongue, and he made a noise somewhere between a groan and a whine. The first sip hit like a slap in the face and was enough to make him gag. “Ughhh...” he grimaced, pulling away as if Logan had just tried to poison him. “What the fuck is that?”

“Black coffee,” Logan deadpanned, setting the mug down before Ethan could spill it all over himself—or worse, throw it at him in some drunken fit of rebellion. “And if you don’t drink it, I’ll waterboard you with it.”

Ethan groaned again, his words slurring together incoherently, something about “getting off” and “don’t wanna” mixed with unintelligible grumbles that sounded vaguely like protests.

Logan pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience was wearing thin by the second. “Alright,” he finally said, his voice clipped and decisive as he pushed back to his feet. “That’s it—UP!”

Grabbing Ethan under the arms, he hauled him upright with considerable effort. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered through gritted teeth as he adjusted his grip to keep Ethan from face-planting again. “You weigh more than you look, and that’s saying something.”

Ethan’s head lolled against Logan’s shoulder as they stumbled toward the bathroom like participants in some bizarre three-legged race.

The bathroom was just as shabby as the rest of the place—a single bulb casting dim yellow light over white tiles and grout stained gray with mold. The faint scent of mildew lingered despite half-hearted attempts to mask it with cheap lemon-scented cleaner.

Logan maneuvered Ethan toward the shower. “Alright,” he said briskly as he leaned over to turn on the water. The faucet squealed in protest before roaring to life with an icy spray that quickly began misting up the little space there was. “Time for you to join the land of the living.”

When Ethan didn’t respond—aside from another incomprehensible groan—Logan snapped his fingers sharply in front of his face. “Ethan! Take your clothes off! Now!”

Ethan blinked, shaking his head in protest. “Nooo... too cold...”

Logan clenched his teeth, then grabbed Ethan’s sweat-soaked T-shirt and without permission yanked it free. He tossed it into a soggy heap on the floor.

“Jeans next,” he commanded as he reached for Ethan’s waistband, zero fanfare or ceremony. The words were an order, not a suggestion, and his hands moved with the same precision he used in the field—swift, no-nonsense, and unrelenting.

The denim resisted for a while, clinging to Ethan’s legs in protest, still damp from spilled beer and sweat. But everyone breaks in the end.

Logan grimaced, his jaw tight, his focus razor-sharp on the task at hand. This wasn’t about dignity; it was about necessity.

Ethan whined, but unlike the jeans, he didn’t resist—mostly because he lacked both coordination and energy—as Loganwrestled the denim down his thighs, letting them pool on the floor alongside his boots.

“Logan…” Ethan mumbled, a petulant edge creeping in. “I can do it myself…”

“Yeah?” Logan shot back dryly, barely sparing a glance upward as he hauled the jeans past Ethan’s knees. “Because you’re doing a great job so far.”

Ethan’s thighs—solid muscle under smooth skin—were left exposed to the chilly air, and despite telling himself not to, Logan’s eyes flicked up. It was half a second before he forced them away again, focusing on kicking the discarded clothing aside.

He ignored everything else and shoved Ethan under the water without warning.

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