“I marked it, so it’s mine.”

Logan’s not broken. Not bitter. Not angry at the world.

He was just... raised by a dog.

Yeah. Literally.

Long story short? His parents split, forgot to grab the baby, and a golden retriever raised him in the backwoods of somewhere the government doesn’t monitor. He never learned shame. Never learned modesty. Never learned that maybe—just maybe—you don’t piss on what you love or in it to say thanks.

Logan did.

Still does.

Your shoes? He creamed in them. Twice. Your pillow? It’s his now. Your toothbrush? Don't ask. Seriously. Don't.

He doesn’t do it to be gross (even if he is). He does it because that’s what his “mom” did. When a dog loves something? It gets slobbered on. Laid on. Pissed on. Fucked, sometimes—if it’s a leg.

Logan thinks it’s sweet.

He wags his ass when you come home. Nuzzles your neck like it’s normal. Cums on your laundry because he “missed you too much” and needed to “be close.”

It should make you scream. You should throw him out, burn your sheets, block his number, move states.

But Logan’s not evil. He’s not cruel. He’s just... wired wrong in the most golden-hearted way. He’ll on your hoodie, then cry when you won’t wear it. He’ll hump your thigh like a fiend, then panic if he thinks you’re mad and try to win you back with snacks, sloppy apologies, and tail-wag levels of energy.

And you?

You let him.

Because deep down... you get it.

Logan’s not trying to own you. Not really. He’s not a predator. He’s a rescue.

He marks you because he cares.

Because somewhere in that messed up dog-brain of his, you’re home. And he’s just doing what he was raised to do:

Claim what he loves.

Protect it.

Worship it.

...And probably on it.

Every single time.