Page 39 of Spilled Coffee

Ethan was spread across the back seat, fast asleep, chest rising with uneven snores, his face slack under the faint orange light seeping through the window.

“Jeez…” Logan smiled, a soft, tired curve. “What the hell am I gonna do with you?”

CHAPTER 20

Logan half-carried,half-dragged Ethan up the narrow stairwell to his apartment.

Each step was a battle against gravity, Ethan’s weight dragging him down like a drunken anchor.

Even the stairs seemed to conspire against them, Logan’s boots scuffing the worn treads, the dull clump echoing in the tight space, while Ethan’s boots scraped along behind, lifeless and uncooperative.

The smell of stale beer clung to his skin, mingling with the faint tang of cold air that seeped through the cracked window at the landing.

Outside, the city simmered in its nocturnal state. The night pressed, trying to get in, the dim glow of the streetlights spidering across the glass.

Bright orange streaks slashed jagged patterns across Logan’s face as he paused at the landing, catching a breath and shifting Ethan’s weight higher onto his shoulder.

“Jeez,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and taut. “You’re heavier than you look.”

A wheezy puff of air escaped Ethan’s lips, hot against Logan’s neck, carrying a slurred mumble that might have been words—or just noise—and he glanced down at the unconscious man’s face, flushed and slack, his eyelids drooping like shades barely clinging to their frames. “You better not puke, or so help me…”

The hall to Ethan’s apartment loomed above them, dim and uninviting. The fluorescent lights buzzed intermittently, and the air smelled of old takeout—egg rolls and curry, he guessed.

Ethan swayed, his legs giving way as he sagged against Logan’s side. His head lolled forward, his glassy eyes barely able to focus as he let out a weak laugh that dissolved into incomprehensible mumbling.

“Whoa there,” Logan said, throwing out a steadying arm for support. “Ethan,” he said firmly, shaking him lightly by the shoulder. “Keys? Where are your keys?”

He waited for a response but got only another garbled sound. “Of course,” he muttered dryly, pinning Ethan to the wall with one hand while digging through his pockets with the other. His fingers brushed past crumpled receipts, a stray coin and something sticky that he didn’t want to consider before they finally closed around a keyring.

“Jackpot.” He pulled it free with a triumphant jangle and held it up to inspect in the light. His thumb sorted quickly—his truck, some battered fob that looked like it belonged to a gym locker, and one that seemed apartment-shaped.

He slid it into the lock and with a sharp click, the door swung open.

“Alright,” Logan said as he turned back, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Home sweet home.” But before he could maneuver Ethan through the door, he crumpled, sliding down the wall into an unceremonious heap on the floor.

“Shit,” Logan muttered then crouched down beside him.

Ethan’s legs were sprawled at awkward angles, his head slumped against the baseboard while a low groan rumbled from deep in his chest.

For a moment, Logan just stared at him—this ridiculous mess of a man who somehow managed to look both pitiful and endearing all at once. “Brick… you’re so gonna answer for this,” he grumbled as he slipped an arm under Ethan’s shoulders and hoisted him upright again. “How the hell did you let him get this smashed?”

Muscles strained as he hefted the limp body over one shoulder, adjusting carefully so that his arms dangled down Logan’s side instead of flopping dangerously close to his face.

The apartment greeted them with silence, and as Logan stepped inside, he kicked the door shut behind him.

The living room could generously be described as ‘lived-in.’ A sagging couch huddled against one wall, its gray fabric worn in spots and an abandoned blanket tangled with crumbs from who-knew-what snack.

Logan wrinkled his nose at the blend of pizza box grease and old coffee grounds forgotten in some corner of the kitchen.

“You really know how to roll out the red carpet,” he muttered sarcastically as he lowered Ethan against the couch, then adjusted the pillows behind him. “Hey,” he said softly but firmly. “You good? Still breathing?”

Ethan cracked one eye and let out a soft grunt that sounded vaguely affirmative before slipping back into whatever half-sleep drunkenness afforded him.

“Yeah, thought so.” Logan pushed up from the floor with a groan and ran a hand through his disheveled hair, mussing it further as his eyes swept over the chaos surrounding him.

The room was a war zone of empty bottles and takeout boxes stacked precariously. A stray sports sock was draped over the back of the couch like a sad flag of surrender. He inhaled sharply through his nose, hands propped on his hips. “You owe me big time for this,” he grumbled, more to himself than to Ethan, whowas still sprawled on the couch, another casualty of the tequila assassin.

“Coffee,” he declared to no one in particular. “We need lots and lots of coffee.”

---