I don’t know how to move forward without you, I know you’re not physically gone but thinking about that you’ll be away for years with no updates, no anything tears me apart. I hope people will see how good person you are because you didn’t hurt anybody. You are not alone, you were never alone in this. You still have people who support and love you, I, by your side throughout this time. Things happen for a reason so I know God has a plans for you but for the time being please be healthy and heal yourself from this. I’ll be here waiting. I love you for eternal, Michael, and I will see you soon on a better day. @.ilhoonmj
summary: angst/hurt comfort. logan finds you crying in the bathroom during a party. short fic. requested here and here!
Logan isn’t there when it happens, but he certainly hears the commotion around it through the grapevine. The whispers dancing around the party, spreading the news of a girl slapping a Sig Tau frat’s face after he tries (or rather, forces) a move on her, your name mixed within them.
He shares a brisky look with Tucker, who quickly mumbles something among the lines of “I’ll take care of it. Go.” before pushing him back inside the house. Logan runs through the crowd of people, eyes scanning every face, then up the stairs storming a bunch of rooms occupied by couples who definitely should’ve locked the door. He only finds you when he starts banging on the locked doors of the upstairs bathroom.
“Go away!” You yell from the other side.
“It’s just me.” He answers, loud enough for you to hear but never to scare you, “Would you open the door, please?”
There’s a beat of silence, then the sound of the lock turning.
Logan opens the door to find you sitting on the bathroom floor, hiding your face behind your hands. “I’m so embarrassed.” You say, voice muffled by your own palms, “I didn’t know he’d– I didn’t mean to–”
“Hey, no– You’re good. You did nothing wrong, ‘kay?” He cuts you off, crouching down to sit by your side on the floor, hand going for your shoulder in a comforting move, asking in a lower voice, “Wanna tell me what happened?”
You lift your head up, and Logan sees your tear-streaked face and wobbly underlip, feeling almost light-headed with the sudden flush of emotions. He feels ready to go out there and give a proper finish to the damage you’ve started on the guy’s face, yet, he knows that there’s no way in hell he’d ever leave you alone in those cold bathroom floor tiles — especially when he feels your hand curving around his upper arm, seeking his assurance.
“I was just grabbing a drink.” You say, voice cracking in such a way that makes his ribs hurt. “In the kitchen. Then this guy– I don’t know, I turn around and suddenly he’s too close, and– And he’s trying to push me against the wall, so I–”
You start growing antsy and take a moment to breathe, eyes closing. You drop your head into his shoulder, “I wasn’t thinking. I just had to get him away from me.”
“You did good.” Logan repeats himself, his arm tentatively going around your shoulders, careful not to startle you. You curl up against him, and he goes on saying, his low voice a litany of assurances, “You got him away, yeah? That’s what matters. You did great, honey.”
You breath in, staying still where your head lands on his shoulder, and Logan won’t dare to move either until you do. A knock on the door is the sole reason for your disturbance.
“Occupied.” Logan says, but the voice that comes out the other side is from Garrett.
“Everything okay there?”
“Fine.” You say, “Just– Yeah. We’re good.”
“Okay. Uh, the girls are waiting in the car. We’re, uh, ready to leave if you are.” His voice says.
Logan turns to face you, your eyes blinking slowly like you’ve just been pulled out of sleep. “You ready to go?” He murmurs.
You nod, “Yes, please.”
He lifts himself off the floor, offering you a hand.
When he opens the door, Garrett isn’t the only one on the other side. Dean and Tucker stand there, one on each side of him, all three standing like guards waiting for orders. Logan’s eyes fall down to their hands, and if you notice the redness around each their knuckles, you don’t mention it. None of them really say a word other than a quick “c’mon” and know that you understand it exactly as they mean to — as in “We got you too.”
It’s a quiet drive in the backseat of Garrett’s car.
There’s a silent agreement, reinforced by you saying that you don’t wanna go to your dorm, that everyone’s staying the night at the boy’s house, and Logan doesn’t care if he has to sleep on the couch, or rather force Garrett out of his own room so you can share the bed with Hannah, but he knows is that you’re not staying alone tonight.
You keep your head on Logan’s shoulder, hands intertwined with his. He closes his eyes, focusing solely on the softness of your fingers as he calms himself down. There’s a lot of emotions to unpack and possibly hard conversations to get through in the following days. Right now, all he cares about is keeping you safe by his side, fast asleep on the road home.
notes: quick psa, if you or anyone you know has ever been affected by sexual harrasment, please know that it's not your fault and finding support is always the best choice. thank you for reading <3
𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : none! mention of dicks, walking into changing room full of guys? swearing? dramatic, feral Hannah. Established Hannah X Garrett, Allie X Dean, crackfic!
𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : If a small, angry music major student were to a) be one of your best friends and b) insist on going to hunt down her boyfriend to shove her phone up his ass. would you argue, even if it meant bursting into the locker room after practice?
or
When you, Allie and Hannah walk into the changing rooms, omitting the fact that they'd just finished practice.
𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐜𝐞 : 4.5k words
𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲’𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 : something to tide ya'll over as I work through my big bertha fics for yall, and yes, I will start planning the first part of my series... when I feel like it! She's a slow grower ykwim? grower not a shower? whatever helps me sleep at night. Hope you like this little piece! Thank you @mndvx for the gif and @somebitchprobably-graphicdump for the dividers !
𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 : I would really appreciate if you could send in an ask to be on my taglist, it's easier for me to manage and make sure everyone is added!! here is the post of my current taglist. Also, if your user is bolded, I'm going on a prayer that youve been tagged but Tumblr wouldn't let me properly do so. I would recommend checking your privacy settings to allow other people to tag you.
One thing you learnt about Hannah Wells, being one of her best friends and all, was that she was normally- a very reasonable person. She was the one to keep electrolyte sachet’s in her bag during a night out, the one to book the uber a day in advance and the one to always text check-ins on the group chat during finals week.
That was her, normally.
Unfortunately, ever since she decided to become the first hockey WAG in the group, the captain she shared a bed with had spent their entire relationship testing that theory. The relationship was undoubtedly adorable, some may say to a disgusting, how-to-lose-a-guy-in-10-days level, but sometimes Garrett would feel the need to use Hannah's tightly strung mental stability as a pair of chopsticks.
“Just, tell me again why we’re doing this?” You watched Hannah with a concerned expression, she was aggressively highlighting a sentence that had absolutely nothing to do with the paragraph she'd just read.
The yellow highlighter squeaked angrily across the page,"You know why," She gritted out.
"No, I know why you're angry,” You pointed at the highlighter.
"I'm asking why that textbook is suffering for it."
The answer never came, but that was attributed to the fact that Hannah was still busy glaring at her notes like they had personally offended her. Beethoven was a bitch.
The study room had fallen suspiciously quiet about twenty minutes ago, with Allie laying on the sofa in the corner going through a script for class and you and hannah sitting on the large table in the centre of the glass box, you scribbling out statistics equations and Hannah trying to compose a new piece.
That initial plan went out the window when Hannah began to complain about Garrett, either of you could have stopped her, put a pin in it and dealt with it at home. Instead, Allie and you happily discarded your work and quipped helpful bits of advice during her rant.
"You know what his problem is?"
You exchanged a glance with Allie, both of you knew it was better if nobody answered- experience had taught you this was a trap.
"He says he'll call me."
Hannah pointed at her phone that she had flung across the table at the beginning of her speech, "then doesn't call me."
You nodded, the man had a habit of saying he’ll call after practice- then take hours in the locker room with the boys. Your own boyfriend had the bad habit, but you made peace with it very early on; assuming it was because the boys were engrossed in some weird, hockey bro hangout while they changed.
It was nonetheless a reasonable complaint, because the team was AWOL for nearly the entire day, and the three of you were suffering for it. Ever since Garrett returned from the bench, training was 24/7 and you were lucky to get a morning kiss, a small whisper of seeing you later before the door shut and their phones seemed to have fallen off the face of the planet.
So, if Graham had promised he’d “see his girl tonight” because he “missed her so much” and then had the gall to not reply to her messages for half an hour. You were prepared to ride at dawn, and steal his skates to rub against concrete for as long as your drill sergeant ordered.
However, currently the drill sergeant was pink in the face and grabbing at her phone, stretching herself over her textbook to wave the device angrily.
"And then when I text him asking where he is-"
You already knew this wasn't going to end well.
"He sends me a thumbs up."
The silence was immediate, you gaped at Allie, she gaped back. It was two fishes staring at each other while Hannah slumped into her chair.
It shouldn't have been shocking, it was exactly the sort of thing Garrett would do. But he was an idiot for deciding to not fight against his nature during this trying time.
Allie lowered the script she had folded against her legs, flopping it onto her chest as she sat up. Slowly, carefully, as if she’d been told there was a rabid animal that could sense her fear.
"A thumbs up?"
"A thumbs up."
"Oh."
"Exactly."
You shook your head and closed your eyes. This was rough, like Liverpool F.C rough.
"I know he meant well."
That sentence was somehow worse, because she was trying to be rational. And when Hannah was angry and tried to be rational, it usually resulted in disaster.
"Did he think?"
Allie's contribution was deeply unhelpful.
Hannah jumped and gave her a thankful clap, "THANK YOU."
"I'm just saying."
You groan and give her a look of deep regret, "You are not helping."
"I wasn't trying to." She grinned at you.
Hannah dropped her head onto the table, face first into her music sheets. The universal sign of academic and emotional defeat.
You watched her lie there for a moment.
Then another
Then-
"I am going to kill him."
You roll your eyes and cross your arms, there it was. The threat you’d all been waiting for, Allie checked her phone, nodding her head.
"Only ten minutes."
"A personal best." You added.
Hannah stood up immediately, the chair scraped obnoxiously against the floor- as if warning her not to do the thing she was absolutely going to do. Both you and Allie looked up, concerned at the way she blinked quickly, the cogs in her head turning so fast that you were sure smoke would start spilling from her ears.
You recognised the look on her face, a dangerous determination, masked by an eerie calm. In actuality it was a complete loss of common sense
"Hannah." Allie started, warningly.
"No."
"You haven't even heard the question."
"I know the question."
The smile spreading across Hannah's face made your stomach drop. It was a Hannah Has An Idea smile and historically speaking, those had a terrible survival rate.
You racked your brain for what she could possibly be plotting. Then your face fell. Practice had ended approximately fifteen minutes ago. Which meant the boys were currently finishing up at the rink. A fact that should've been irrelevant, so painfully ordinary that it was similar to breathing. Instead, it somehow became the most important detail in the room.
“Hannah, no-”
She had already grabbed her bag and started walking towards the door. Allie scrambled to her feet, shoving her stuff into the tote she randomly picked up when you left that morning. You did the same, not caring that you messily crumpled up your work into your bag, instead more focussed on watching Hannah strut out of the library, stomping through the isles- not paying you any mind.
You panted when you caught up to her, dragging a hand through your hair,
"Oh no."
"Oh yes."
"Hannah."
"No."
"Hannah."
The door to the outside world opened and Allie squinted against the golden hour glow, Hannah’s smile widened dangerously,
"I am going to find my boyfriend."
The first sign this was a terrible idea came when Hannah ignored the boys leisurely walking out of the athletes' building, their hair damp from showers, you recognised a few, some from the calisthenics club, you waved at the girls on the swim team and pointedly flipped off the lewd comments from the lacrosse team. Eugh.
The second sign came when she didn’t listen to your warnings.
The third came when she barely blinked at the coach giving her a confused greeting.
By that point, frankly, the universe had done everything it reasonably could.
"Hannah."
No response.
"Hannah."
Still nothing.
The woman marched through the arena, stumbling sharply against the chairs. You inched through behind her, holding Allie's hand as she huffed and whipped her bangs out of her eyes, glaring at Hannah, who was already at the bottom of the staircase, about to turn into the back corridor.
Neither of you were particularly interested in letting your best friend commit relationship homicide without witnesses.
"Hannah."
"What."
The answer arrived instantly. She stilled just before the dim pathway towards the locker room, hands braced on her backpack straps, her shoes tapped on the floor expectantly.
"You do realise practice literally just ended."
"Correct."
"You do realise hockey players are probably changing."
"Correct."
You looked at Allie, whose eye was twitching at her best friend's unwavering need for vindication.
"You're concerning me."
She rolled her eyes and dashed down the hallway, you recognised this part of the training facility instantly, it was embarrassing the amount of times you had waited here, leaning against the wall for Logan to emerge, his chain glinting in the yellow lighting as he hauled equipment over one shoulder, the other carried his own gear.
He would kiss you quickly, mumbling against your lips about missing you, and then dump all the random sticks and bags of pucks into the storage before slinging an arm around your shoulder, slowing to a leisurely stroll as you recounted your day.
You rounded the corner, and froze. Allie bumped into you, whining as she rubbed her nose.
The locker room doors sat at the end of the corridor. You stared ahead, and blinked when Hannah barely stopped- charging forward.
"Hannah."
"No."
"Hannah."
You cupped your hands around your mouth and shouted after her, jogging behind. "What exactly is your plan here?"
"I am going to find Garrett."
"Then?"
"Then I am going to explain why sending a thumbs up was stupid."
Allie threw her hands up and blocked her pathway to the door, "Hannah."
"No." She tugged down Allie’s arms, and pushed the girl out of the way. Before either you or Allie could stop her, Hannah grabbed the door handle, and it was like the world slowed.
"HANNAH!"
The door opened and you immediately regretted the day you were born. The silence hit you like the torrential stream of water in a car wash, burning your eyes as a gasp got stuck in your throat.
Then your brain caught up with what was in front of you- because unfortunately, disastrously, hockey practice had ended, extremely recently. So recently in fact, that half the team were still in the showers hooting and hollering, while the other half were dripping wet in front of their cubbies. Staring straight at you, towels paused mid-dry.
You froze.
Hannah froze.
Allie froze.
The hockey team froze.
Time itself appeared to freeze.
"Oh my God." Allie giggled shrilly, her eyes wide as her hand came up to stifle a mix between a gasp and sob.
It wasn’t the shirtless hockey players that disturbed you. It was the penis’.
Everywhere.
Anywhere.
Dicks floor to ceiling, no matter where your troubled eyes would take you, it was phallic body parts all around. A sight that would haunt you until graduation.
The team were the first one to snap out of the trance, some of them barely phased at the intrusion, the other half silently covered their junk and shouted brokenly for the people you were actually looking for.
“What?” Logan’s voice shouted from beyond the showers, luckily you were far enough away to avoid the sight of your boyfriend and his teammates in the steamy, tiled cheap porno setting.
You accidentally made eye-contact with one of the freshmen on the team, and he winked at you. The expression on your face must've been unbelievably unimpressed because he rushed to get dressed immediately after his failure.
That made your survival instincts finally activate.
You spun around immediately, a sensible decision on your part.
Unfortunately, Allie had chosen the exact same strategy.
The two of you collided at full speed.
"OW."
The yelp escaped simultaneously. One second you were turning around, the next your shoulder crashed into Allie's.
Your foot caught on your other ankle, and suddenly gravity joined the party. The floor rushed upwards, the world tilted and you were convinced this was your rapture.
Two seconds away from meeting your untimely demise, strong arms caught you before impact.
"Oh my God, babe?" The voice sounded familiar and you braced yourself for his bewildered expression when you squinted your eyes open. Logan’s face was approximately six inches away and you felt the towel he had hurriedly wrapped around himself slip low down his hips against your waist.
"Nope, don’t ask." You closed your eyes against the water droplets splashing onto your face from his hair. The tickle of his silver chain against your cheek made you wave your hands between the two of you. You could feel him gearing up to ask something,
A finger wag in his face and a simple, "Nope." made him laugh as he hoisted you up.
Across from you, Dean had already reached Allie, looking equally concerned and delighted.
"Are you okay?" His arms were bound securely around her, pressing in front of him.
Allie flicked his forehead, "Stop smiling."
"I'm not smiling."
"You absolutely are."
Dean was moments away from framing the incident and hanging it on a wall, it was when Allie had steadied herself and stepped fractionally away from him that you noticed Dean hadn’t managed to grab a towel. And stood naked, right in front of you. As bare as the day he was born.
You retched loudly and tried to run out the door, forgetting that Logan was still holding you upright, an arm around your waist- hand steadying your shoulder.
Deeply and violently, you groaned- accepting that this was your life right now, "Please tell me I died."
The laughter around you doubled in volume, a few of the guys chirping at you.
Somewhere behind Logan, Garrett appeared, towel around his waist- completely oblivious to the chaos playing out with his team.
"What happened?"
The silence that followed was immediate, the boys pursed their lips together, you and Allie were engrossed in anything that didn't involve Hannah.
She glared at him slowly, dangerously. Garrett took one look at her expression, and his eyes ping ponged around the changing area, the open door, the duo of embarrassed girlfriends- one of them looking at her boyfriend seductively, the other hiding her face in her hands. And finally the boys, Dean who was playing into Allies flirting- butt naked. And Logan who was stifling a laugh against your shoulder as you shook your head silently into your palms.
Understanding dawned, making him rush over to his bag and dig out his phone, his eyes widening at his girlfriend, "Oh."
The idiot actually laughed. Hannah looked ready to gouge his eyes out with his stick. And somehow, unbelievably, things were about to get worse.
By dinner the same day, everybody knew, not just the team, not just other teams. The entire student population.
People in your classes, people in the library, people in the campus cafes. Somehow all of them must've collectively received an email.
You still didn't know how, no matter how hard you searched the gossip account, your dm’s, hunted through stories. There was no way to determine how the hell the situation had reached every set of ears at Briar. You'd spent the better part of twelve hours trying to figure it out.
The incident had happened at approximately 9 am that morning.
By six-fifteen, two members of the lacrosse team had smirked at you in passing.
By seven, somebody in a study group asked if you were "recovering."
By eight-thirty, a girl in your dorm-block had winked.
"Tell me again why I haven't transferred,” You dropped your forehead onto the cafeteria table.
Across from you, Hannah looked equally traumatised as she picked at her dinner, Allie looked murderous as another pair of irrelevant students giggled as they passed by.
The three of you had spent the entire day suffering.
Allie slumped in her chair, "Because we're seniors."
You stabbed aggressively at your salad. "Unfortunately,” mouth half-full of lettuce you continued, "You know what the worst part is?"
Nobody answered, mostly because nobody wanted to encourage you.
"The fact we literally didn't do anything."
"THANK YOU."
Allie pointed dramatically.
"THANK YOU."
The cafeteria table rattled slightly, you winced and gave her an accusing stare. While the passion was appreciated, the volume was not.
"We walked into a room." Hannah shrugged
"Accidentally." Allie added.
"Then left."
"Immediately."
You threw your hands up, "And somehow everyone is acting like we joined an orgy."
The three of you sat in offended silence, completely justified silence. Silence that lasted approximately four seconds.
Then somebody cleared their throat and you closed your eyes, praying to whatever god that put you in that situation this morning, wasn’t just deciding to test your self control.
You swore, if you opened your eyes, and the person who you thought it was, was standing in front of you. There would be a search warrant for your name, and a blown up ice rink in your wake.
"No."
Across the table, Hannah groaned and Allie made a sound like she was ready to throw something. The answer came before you opened them, pressing your lips to your hands that were held together in a praying position, you shook your head, "No."
Because standing directly behind you was, Dean who was grinning so wide, you’d think Santa Clause gifted him a dildo, Garrett, currently more occupied in flashing his puppy dog eyes at Hannah and Logan, the only useful one, who came bearing gifts with an apologetic yet amused smile on his annoyingly handsome face.
The Three Horsemen of Making Things Worse.
"Oh, come on.” Dean looked genuinely offended, hand on his chest as he pulled out the seat next to you, in front of Allie.
She threw one of Hannah’s chips at his face, which he caught in his mouth, "We came to support our girlfriends! amidst their public cancellation from society."
"You came to laugh at us." You corrected, ignoring the paper container that slid in front of your tray and the weirdly shaped Logan entity that sat on the other side of you.
The smile on Dean's face widened, "How ‘bout both?"
Hannah dropped her fork and lunged at him, only held back by Garrett- who had two fingers looped into her belt loop.
During this, you peeked into the container, flicking open the lid to see a slice of your favourite cake- red velvet from the bakery just outside campus.
You glanced at Logan and stuck your tongue out at him in response to his pleading expression. There it was, you thought- your eye twitching, the complete lack of shame astounded you.
You hated the smug bastard. A deep, passionate hate. But you still gave him a quick peck, intertwining your hands beneath the table and placed them on his thigh. He suppressed a grin and leaned back in his chair watching you cut into the pastry with your fork.
"How's recovery going?" Dean rested his chin on his palm, twirling a blonde strand with his finger.
Allie flipped off her boyfriend, "Leave."
Garrett laughed immediately, "You have to admit-"
"No." Hannah interrupted, hands slapping at his wrist which comfortably kept his hand looped into her jeans.
"You don't even know what I was going to say."
"Because it doesn't matter."
"It was funny."
"It wasn't."
"It really was."
The idiot looked entirely too pleased with himself, which was particularly annoying because he wasn't even the one receiving the worst of it.
That honour belonged to you and Allie. Specifically because both of your boyfriends had apparently become the main characters of the story. A fact you deeply resented.
"You know what?" You sat up, “How come nobody is talking about Hannah?”
The entire table went quiet.
Hannah blinked.
"Oh my God." Allie said slowly, "You're right."
"I know."
Hannah immediately looked suspicious, "Why aren't they talking about me?"
Then Allie pointed dramatically, "THAT'S WHAT I'VE BEEN SAYING."
"You haven't said that."
"I've been thinking about it."
Somehow, the entire college manipulated the story into a desperate cliche- that you and Allie were dying to see your boyfriend’s and just. couldn't. wait. for them, so you burst into the changing room, ovulation phase at it's peak and boned down in front of the entire team.
Completely cutting out the bit where you both were trying to stop Hannah from social suicide.
Mission accomplished apparently. The problem now, was that you’d stepped in front of the bullet, and forgot that it meant you’d get shot.
"You started the whole thing." You whined at her.
"EXACTLY."
Dean and Garrett looked delighted.
"You stormed across campus." You held up one finger.
"Correct." Hannah nodded.
"You opened the door." Another finger.
"Correct."
"You ignored approximately fourteen warnings." A third.
"Correct."
"And somehow everyone else became the main characters." You harrumped and slumped back into your seat, glaring at Logan whose arm came up to rest behind you- but you didn’t pull away when he pecked your forehead.
Hannah looked genuinely aghast at her lack of involvement within the gossip mill, "You know what?" She folded her arms, "That is offensive."
"There she is." Dean blew an exaggerated kiss at her, "The victim complex."
Hannah threw a napkin at him.
The situation somehow got worse, a possibility you never thought could be true.
By Wednesday morning, people had started inventing details, ones that didn’t even make sense. Especially because the original story was already embarrassing enough.
Now there were rumours.
Terrible rumours.
Wild rumours.
Factually incorrect rumours.
"I heard somebody say we were recording."
Hannah looked flabbergasted, the pen in her hand creaked as her first tightened.
Across the corridor, Allie stopped walking, "We weren't?"
"Exactly."
"We were too busy being surrounded by cockfest 2026."
The three of you continued toward class, united by shared trauma- forged entirely through public humiliation.
The campus buzzed around you, students heading between lectures, athletes carrying equipment bags, people drinking coffee they absolutely couldn't afford. The usual. Until somebody shouted out your name, the voice was gratingly familiar in a way that made you want to spit out your tonsils.
The guys sitting outside the student centre weren't even subtle about it, the one who called out for you nudged another, the second looked up and smirked.
They were two guys from the lacrosse team. Arguably, you’d think such a fancy sport would produce gentlemen, but the game manufactured slime-balls like the two currently snickering at your deadpan expression.
"Oh look." The smile spread, "The locker room girls."
You stopped mid-step, and you’d known it was a mistake the minute your foot paused, because now they knew you'd heard. The embarrassment hit instantly, like a slap to the face that reached down your throat, hot in a way that made your body burn.
Beside you, Hannah looked ready to throw hands, her eyes narrowing at the boys.
“You got only fans? We’d love to see what happened in the locker room.”
Allie grit her teeth and just as she was about to bite back, a voice interrupted her.
"Say that again."
The atmosphere chilled behind you, one second the lacrosse pair were giggling like little goblins, the next, their faces were frozen with teetering smiles.
You felt an arm wrap around your shoulders. Logan stood next to you, his thumb rubbing soothingly on your arm.
Dean was walking up to Allie, his hands still cupped around his mouth from his interruption. Garrett hung back, but welcomed Hannah into his side when she begrudgingly shuffled up to him.
They had apparently finished a team strategy session, an unfortunate coincidence for the boys in front of you, who suddenly looked significantly less dick-ish.
The one with slicked back, blonde hair looked to his friend- who shrugged and patted him on the shoulder, his lip visibly quivered when he spoke, "What?" the question came out weak.
Dean smiled, two hands braced on his girlfriend's frame. Leisurely almost. "Oh, don't do that." He tilted his head with a pout, "You were really confident thirty seconds ago."
Nobody answered.
Garrett called out, still maintaining a generous distance from the situation- probably not wanting to get too involved with another team as the captain, “You seem like the type to be on only fans Jackson. Is that what you do when you lose to Eastwood?” The disappointment in his voice somehow made it worse.
"Seriously,” Dean shook his head, "Dude, if you're going to talk shit about my girlfriend at least be creative." Allie smacked the front of his chest, but nodded in agreement.
Then Logan spoke, "Find something else to talk about."
Jackson, and the other guy- equally as greasy, dissolved into pitiful excuses and throwaway comments, scoffing as they retreated into the building.
"Holy shit."
Dean grinned, "You're welcome."
"You enjoyed that." Allie poked him accusatorially, leaning up on her toes to kiss his cheek a few times, leaving lipstick prints against his dimple.
"I enjoyed that immensely."
Nearby, Garrett wrapped an arm around Hannah's shoulders and joined the rest of you.
"You know," Garrett said thoughtfully, "I feel like people would've stopped talking about it sooner if Dean hadn't told literally everyone."
The silence was beautiful. The three of you slowly turned to look at Dean, who was gritting out threats at Garrett, a horrified expression gracing his features as he timidly caressed Allie's hair.
"I did not."
Logan punched his shoulder jokingly, like bros talking about whose basketball team won last night, "You absolutely did."
"I told one person."
The universe was finally smiling down on you, since Tucker walked up to the six of you, pushing his curls out of his face.
"You told Tucker." Garrett laughed.
Tucker blinked between the two, who were now engaged in a heated conversation using their eyes.
"That's still one person."
"Dean."
"One person."
"You told the biggest gossip on the hockey team that our girlfriends walked into the changing room after practice and saw everyone's dicks. by accident."
Tucker finally nodded his head with an affirmative sound, “Oh yeah, I’m just annoyed I left practice early for a doctor's appointment.” He patted Dean on the shoulder, grinning as he stirred the proverbial pot, “luckily Dean here, my best friend, the person who tells me everything. Recounted it in perfect detail.”
An argument exploded instantly, involving Allie smacking Dean upside the head and she bickered about how the last 48 hours had been a living hell.
Hannah wasn’t letting Garrett off the hook easily, nagging him that if he had just “replied to her goddamn messages” the three of you wouldn’t have been in there, she quietened and blushed when he whispered in her ear.
Tucker had joined Allie in bashing Dean, but the three of them groaned when Dean promised, “mind-blowing orgasms on every surface of the house”. Allie didn’t say anything further, just glared at him when he hooked a hand onto her waist and pulled her in.
They drifted ahead while they bickered. Leaving you slightly behind with Logan, who had somehow presented an iced coffee from behind his back and was watching you sip it.
"You didn't have to do that." You said mid-sip.
Logan looked over, "What?"
"That."
You gestured vaguely toward the now-empty student centre steps. Logan’s expressions softened slightly as he took your bag from your shoulder and pulled you into him, tucking a hand into your back pocket.
"Yeah." he paused, "Actually, I kind of did."
Your stomach performed a deeply inconvenient little flip.
"Why?"
Logan looked ahead, then to the ground in an almost bashful kind of way, then he shrugged. Like the answer was obvious, "I don't like people making you feel bad."
You cooed at him, grabbing his face with your free hand and squishing his face between your fingers, “You’re such a softie.”
Smacking a kiss to his stubbly cheek, you returned to the drink, gulping it down appreciatively.
He snickered to himself and added unhelpfully, “Plus, kind of owed you since you saw Dean’s cock.”
Synopsis: What starts as a simple repair turns into late-night diner runs, coffee deliveries to the garage, and a growing attachment neither of you expects. Logan likes that you talk too much when you're nervous. You like that Logan becomes softer when nobody’s watching.
But as pressure mounts with Logan's hockey career and real life starts pulling at you from opposite directions, you begin to wonder if you’re just a temporary stop in Logan’s fast-moving future.
And Logan realizes far too late that somewhere between oil stains and midnight drives, you became the closest thing he’s ever had to home.
summary: logan looks really fucking hot in a suit and it just makes you a little unhinged. short fic, requested!
warnings: hornyyy but no actual smut! reader is described wearing a dress and laced panties
It takes Logan almost two weeks of constant phone calls and at least a dozen meetings with Coach Jensen, but he finally manages to do it: he gets the Briar board into sponsoring their next Hurricanes event.
Out with cheap venues or karaoke nights – Briar U is now throwing a proper gala, sending out invitations for every member of the Council, arranging a next-level campaign that’s truly more than Logan could’ve dreamed of for a Hurricanes fundraising.
And he’s so close to putting it all at risk inside this tiny fucking fancy bathroom.
“You gotta stop this.” he says, his entire face blushing.
You smile meekly at him, “I’m sorry,” you say, moving towards him, “You just look really, really good right now.”
John Logan is a beautiful man, you’ve always known that. But ever since you’ve met there have been very few opportunities where you got to see him in anything other than casual or gym clothes (or, you know, no clothes at all), let alone wearing a suit. When he shows up to your door that evening, his shirt half unbuttoned, suit jacket over the shoulder and asking for help with his tie, you feel like a woman possessed. You try bringing his face down to yours, planning on kissing him stupid as for as long as humanly possible.
Logan, however, gives you nothing but a quick peck before urging you to get dressed.
“We can’t be late for the reception, you know?” he says, an apologetic smile on his pretty face and hands on your shoulders gently pushing you back, “So let's get moving, yeah? Want me to zip up your dress?”
Quick pecks and long introductions is all you've been getting throughout the night. Logan talks to sponsors, introduces you to the Council, goes up the stage and preaches about the fundraising, talks about how the Hurricanes youth program changed his life and he wants to pass it on for future generations of hockey players, and so it goes. And it’s hot, plain and simple, seeing him move so professionaly and inviting, shaking hands with sponsors, every so often throwing you a smile or, god forbid, a wink.
You’re seated for dinner when you decide you’ve had enough.
Logan sits right next to you, chatting with Coach Jensen and his wife from across the table, hand holding yours. You stare your joined hands for a moment before drop his , pretending to check for something in your purse in hopes no one will notice your sneaky moves, allowing your hand to rest over Logan’s knee, hiding a giggle when you feel him immediately stiffen. You don't test your waters for a little something more — you're not trying to get risky, nor you’re to embarrass him. You’re just sending him signs as you squeeze his thigh three times, “I need you.”
Logan clears his throat before speaking up again, “I, um, need to use the restroom,” he says, voice higher than usual as he tries to focus again, pushing himself out of the table rapidly.
You and wait two full minutes before excusing yourself and going after him, quiet like a mouse as you stand on the corridor. Logan opens the door and you block his way out, immediately pushing him back inside, the small of his back hitting the countertop, “Wow, hey.”
“Hi, handsome.”
Your hands go up to the back of his neck, fingertips curling through his hair just the way you know he likes. Logan sighs, eyes fluttering closed, “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” You say, pulling him in for a kiss on the corner of his mouth, then another one on his lips.
There’s only so far Logan can go resisting when you’re actively trying to seduce him. His lips part, allowing you to deepen the kiss, hands moving to his face and dragging him closer like you’re trying to swallow him, encouraged by his quiet moans against your open mouth. He loves when you get like this — desperate, needy, tempting. It takes everything in him to stop you.
He is, after all, still a man of senses, and having you kissing his jaw and dragging your teeth down his neck is enough to make him well aware of where this is quickly going. Logan slips out from where he stands, pinned between you and the sink, and moves to the door, locking you both in.
Logan turns to you, “You gotta stop this.” he says, his entire face blushing.
You smile meekly at him, “I’m sorry,” you say, moving towards him, “You just look really, really good right now.”
“Baby, I’m serious. The entire Council is outside. Coach Jensen would tear me a new one if he ever–” He turns away from you, leaning on the counter. Your lips curve in a tight-lipped smile, thinking he sounds like he's trying to convince himself more than anything. Logan quickly runs his hands over his face and through his hair, “I have to give a final speech.”
You feel deliciously bad, seeing him so frustrated for denying you and himself of this.
You sneak in between his legs, his bright, sulken eyes on you. “Don’t look so distressed,” you say, fingers pushing his hair back, this time in a much softer manner, “You’re right, we can't do that. I’m sorry for messing with you.”
Logan shakes his head, “You always mess with me. Look at you,” he stares you up and down, hands going to your sides, “You look like a dream tonight.”
“Well, let me tell you how it goes, then.” you get closer to him, mouth so close to his ear as you whisper, “You go up that stage, you make a goddamn perfect final speech, and I’ll make all your dreams come true tonight, okay?”
Logan lets out a low noise, something in between a pained whimper and chuckle, resting his forehead on your shoulder, “Yeah, okay.” He looks up at you again, “Kiss for good luck?”
You curve your lips into a smirk, “I’ll do you one better.”
Pulling back from him, you lift up your dress below your knees, just enough for your hands to travel up from your calves up to your hips without revealing him anything. You watch his eyes fixated on your legs as you pull down your black laced panties. Logan’s unmoved as you unbuttons his jacket suit, carefully dropping it into his inside pocket.
“A good luck charm for you to keep,” You press an innocent kiss to his face, “Wait a few minutes before leaving, okay? Or they’ll think we’re being perverts and doing it on the bathroom counter.”
You move towards the door, turning the lock, “I’ll tell Coach Jensen you got caught in conversation with a potential sponsor. Man’s gonna think you’re a saint, baby.”
Logan thinks he might just be one, for it takes a fucking miracle for him not to follow you like a leashed dog as you walk out the door.
notes: thank you for reading! requests are open, likes/reblogs/thoughts are appreciated! <3
from an irritated "oh, fuck!" to a confident "fuck it", your entire relationship with John Logan can be mapped out in seven specific exclamations of his favorite four-letter word.
word count : 6.1k (sorry) — enemies to lovers, kind of — logan is moody — SMUT, minors DNI — Enjoy and please tell me what you think !
One — "Oh, fuck!"
The music wasn’t just loud; it was vibrating through the old floorboards and thumping directly against your ribs. You’d only been there for twenty minutes, entirely dragged along by Hannah, who was currently tucked under Garrett’s arm near the doorway. Watching them was sweet—almost nauseatingly so—but it left you feeling like a ghost drifting through a sea of oversized jerseys, loud hockey players, and the thick scent of cheap beer. For the most part, the rest of the boys were incredibly welcoming; even though you'd just met them tonight, they were already loud, inherently kind and easy to be around.
Except for John Logan.
You hadn’t actually been introduced to him yet, but you’d felt his suffocating vibe the moment he walked through the door. He looked like absolute thunder. Briar had dropped a frustrating, tight game that evening, and while Garrett was channeling his nervous energy into playing the charismatic host, Logan was wearing his irritation like armor. Leaning against the kitchen counter with a dark scowl that practically screamed at people to stay away, his knuckles were white around his glass, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for a reason to snap.
Navigating that crowded, chaotic kitchen with a brim-filled, sticky mixed drink was your first mistake. Your second was catching the rubber toe of your sneaker on the lifting edge of a rogue anti-fatigue mat near the sink.
You stumbled forward, your arms flailing wildly in a desperate, ungraceful bid for balance. You didn’t fall, but your cup did a violent, mid-air flip, slipping from your fingers. A torrential wave of sticky, dark rum and cola splashed directly across the pristine gray fabric of Logan’s Henley shirt, soaking through the chest, darkening the material instantly and dripping down the front of his dark jeans.
Logan froze. His head snapped down slowly, looking at the huge, dark stain spreading across his clothes, and then his gaze lifted to yours. His eyes were blazing, a dangerous brown, entirely unamused and dripping with venom. "Oh, fuck!" he snapped, his voice cutting right through the ambient noise like a knife. He pulled the wet, heavy fabric away from his skin with two fingers, a look of pure annoyance twisting his features. "Are you serious right now? Watch where the hell you're going."
The sheer aggression in his tone caught you completely off guard, instantly sparking your own deeply ingrained, stubborn nature. You had been about to apologize profusely, the words of remorse already forming on your tongue, but the bite in his words choked them right out of your throat. You squared your shoulders, refusing to back down under his glare. "It was an accident," you retorted, pulling a few crumpled, napkins from the counter and shoving them toward his chest. "You don't have to be a complete dick about it. It’s just a shirt, I'm pretty sure you'll survive."
"It's a wet, sticky shirt at the end of a terrible, exhausting fucking day," he growled, his voice dropping an octave as he batted your hand away with a harsh flick of his wrist. He didn't take the napkins; they fluttered uselessly to the floor. Instead, he leaned down slightly, giving you a long, icy glare that made you feel about two inches tall, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle tick. "Next time, look up from your feet." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and storming down the hallway toward the stairs, muttering curses under his breath.
You stood there rooted to the spot, your cheeks burning with a toxic mixture of intense embarrassment and sudden, deep-seated dislike. Garrett materialized at your side a split second later, a sympathetic, slightly apologetic grimace on his face as he patted your shoulder gently. "Hey, don't sweat it," Garrett reassured you quietly, glancing warily toward the stairs where Logan had disappeared. "Logan’s just in a brutal mood because of the game, and he hates losing more than anyone. He's usually a great guy, I swear. He’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow morning."
You forced a tight, fake smile and nodded, but as you looked down at your empty, sticky hands, a bitter taste lingered in your mouth. Spoiler alert: he wouldn't forget. and neither would you.
Two — "Fuck you"
A few weeks later, the initial friction hadn’t dissolved; it had hardened into a permanent, icy chill. You tried your best to play nice for the sake of Hannah and Allie, but Logan made it incredibly difficult. You saw how he was with the rest of their circle—fiercely loyal, easygoing, and warm. He was the kind of guy who quietly made sure Allie and Hannah got home safe from their late shifts and spent his free afternoons helping Jules with media stuff. He was patient with the entire world. But the exact millisecond you walked into a room, his posture stiffened and his jaw set. You hated being the sole exception to his good nature, so you simply stayed out of his way.
The breaking point came on a gray, rainy Tuesday afternoon. You and Hannah had walked over to the hockey house to help Tucker untangle a massive, soul-crushing history assignment he was drowning in. The three of you were spread across the dining table, surrounded by a chaotic mess of highlighters, laptop cords, and heavy library textbooks.
The back door clicked open, and Logan walked in. He was wearing his Briar athletic gear, a damp towel slung over his shoulders from a post-practice shower, his hair messy and wet. He looked exhausted, his shoulders tense, carrying the unmistakable hangover of a brutal morning practice. Instead of walking past to the kitchen, he paused by the table, leaning over Tucker’s shoulder to scan the open pages. He let out a heavy, deliberate sigh. "You’re using the wrong primary sources for that era, Tuck," Logan said, his voice dropping into that effortless, uninvited authority. "You need the economic logs from the eastern front, not these political manifestos. You’re going to tank your thesis statement with those."
Tucker blinked up, looking miserable. "Wait, really? I thought—"
"We checked those, Logan," you interrupted, keeping your voice level and calm as you kept your eyes on your notebook. "We've got it handled," you smiled, trying to remain polite.
Logan didn't move. His eyes slid slowly down to the side of your face, unamused. "Right. Because you're an expert on 20th-century economic trade?"
"No," you said, your pen pausing on the page. "But I can read a syllabus. If you're so worried about Tucker's academic results, you could have sat down and helped him yourself already."
Logan’s jaw tightened, a sharp spike of tension instantly replacing his usual easygoing demeanor. He took his hands out of his pockets and leaned forward, bracing his palms on the edge of the table, firmly invading your space. Tucker shot Hannah a wide-eyed, panicked look across the textbooks, both of them suddenly bracing for impact.
"I gave him my old notes weeks ago," Logan shot back, his voice dropping into something smaller, tighter. "But sure, ignore the guy who actually passed the class because you're too stubborn to take a note from me."
"I'm not being stubborn, you're just being a patronizing prick," you retorted, leaning back in your chair. "You’ve been hovering over this table for five minutes just looking for a problem because you had a bad day and want to take it out on someone."
Logan let out a harsh, dry laugh, though there was a flicker of genuine frustration in his eyes—the look of a good guy who couldn't understand why he kept letting you bait him. "Take it out on someone? Trust me, if I wanted to take anything out on someone, I wouldn't waste my time on you. I'm trying to keep my friend from bombing a midterm because he made the mistake of letting you organize his thoughts."
"My thoughts are perfectly fine, Logan," Tucker muttered quietly under his breath, his eyes glued to his laptop screen, desperately trying to dissolve into the background.
"They're fine when you're left alone, Tuck," Logan said, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring his teammate's plea. "Not when you're letting someone drag their own contrarian agenda into your coursework."
"A contrarian agenda?" You stood up, your chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. Hannah flinched at the sharp noise, withdrawing her hands from the table and motioning for Tucker to leave the potential future crime scene. They both complied quickly, knowing you both well enough to understand that trying to reason with you in that moment would be pointless. "Are you actually insane? I'm sorry that anyone else having a brain in this house threatens your need to micromanage every single thing that happens under this roof."
"It doesn't threaten me at all," Logan said, standing up straight and towering over you, using his height to crowd your space until his shadow completely blocked out the light from the window. The sheer, uncharacteristic anger rolling off him was suffocating; Tucker actually slid his chair back a few inches, completely done with trying to intervene at this point. "It annoys me. You annoy me, actually. I'm not going to walk on eggshells in my own dining room because you can't handle a basic correction."
"I can handle a correction if it's respectful," you shot back, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you refused to take a step away from him. "You don't want to help Tucker. You just want to feel like the smartest guy in the room and that is annoying."
"I dont—," Logan started, a nervous scoff escaping his lips. "You don't know anything about me. Please let's keep it this way, since you clearly can't stand me anyway."
"You're the one who treats me like an absolute inconvenience the second I breathe in your direction!" you yelled, the weeks of being ignored, brushed off, and glared at finally boiling over into raw, unadulterated anger. "If you hate me being here so much, just say it. But stop acting like I'm the one bringing the venom into this house when you're the one dripping it."
The air between you turned completely volatile, thick enough to choke on. A strange, angry electricity snapped between you, the argument completely detached from history or homework now, exposed and raw. Logan stared down at you, his breathing heavy and uneven as he tried to swallow down the sheer frustration rolling off him in waves. He leaned down slightly, bringing his face inches from yours, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle violently ticked in his cheek.
"Fuck you," he whispered.
The words hit with a cold, deliberate weight that vibrated in the dead-silent room. Before you could fire back, Tucker's voice boomed from the kitchen archway, stern and completely done with both of you. "Enough! Both of you, cut it the hell out."
But the damage was done. The look in Logan's eyes made something tight and painful twist in your chest. You refused to sit there and breathe the same air as him for another second. Blindly turning around, you grabbed your laptop and notebook, shoving them into your backpack with rigid, uncooperative hands.
"I'm leaving," you muttered, keeping your eyes glued firmly to the floor as you pushed past Hannah’s reaching hand on the way out. You grabbed your jacket from the hook and left through the front door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the frame, stepping out into the pouring, cold rain with the echo of his voice looping in your head like a curse.
Three — "Fuck off"
For the next month, you became an absolute expert at avoiding John Logan. You turned it into an art form. If he was at a crowded house party, you stayed firmly in the kitchen or on the opposite porch. If the entire group gathered at Malone's, you ensured you sat on the exact opposite end of the long table, hidden behind Dean's loud gestures.
Because of this, you never saw the way his eyes silently followed you when you entered a room, or the almost guilty look that crossed his face whenever your name came up in conversation. He knew he'd crossed a line by cursing at you like that—but your unbreakable silence gave him absolutely no room to apologize, and his own stubborn pride kept him from forcing the issue.
There were small signs of his guilt, though. One random Thursday afternoon, he showed up at the place you shared with Hannah and Allie, claiming he was just dropping off a spare hockey hoodie Garrett had left in his truck. You had stayed in your room with the door cracked just an inch, watching through the tiny gap as he lingered by the entrance, his eyes constantly drifting toward your door, silently checking to see if you'd come out. You hadn't moved an inch, holding your breath until he finally left.
Eventually, Hannah and Allie staged a full-blown intervention. A brand-new club had opened downtown, and they absolutely refused to let you stay home and rot in your room, even though they openly admitted the boys were all coming along. You finally relented, numbing your spiking anxiety by pouring yourself two heavy pre-game vodka crans before leaving the house.
The club was a massive sensory overload—flashing neon lights, artificial fog, and heavy, chest-thumping bass that made communication impossible. By midnight, everyone was comfortably, heavily drunk. You were leaning your back against the sticky mahogany bar, sipping a gin and tonic, when you finally caught sight of him through the pulsing crowd.
Logan was laughing at something Beau said, a dark red bandana tied tightly around his messy hair, looking effortlessly, devastatingly handsome in a black fitted t-shirt. As if sensing the weight of your gaze, his head turned. His dark eyes locked directly onto yours across the smoky crowded room. He didn’t look away. He held your stare for a second, then two, then three — a strange, intense, unreadable heat settling over his features before a group of dancers blocked your view.
A few minutes later, a guy from one of the campus fraternities slithered up next to you on the edge of the dance floor. He was loud, sweaty, and smelled entirely too much like cheap cologne and whiskey — but a little bit of dancing could help taking your mind off of a certain hockey player, you thought. You enjoyed it at first, moving along, focusing on the music, the stranger getting closer and closer as the playlist progressed. But then, just as you started to feel good - just the right amount of alcohol in your veins to feel lighter and relaxed - he tried to grind his hips against yours. You tried to step back, laughing it off politely at first, pushing his hands away, but he didn't take the hint. His hands came down on your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you flush against him with a grip that was far too tight and aggressive.
Before you could even raise your hands to shove his chest, a massive shadow loomed over both of you.
A now familiar hand gripped the frat guy’s shoulder, spinning him around with enough force to make his sneakers squeak on the floor.
"Fuck off," Logan snarled, his voice a low, lethal vibration that cut right through the heavy bass of the music. He leaned in until he was nose-to-nose with the guy. "Get your fucking hands off her and fuck off right now."
The guy looked at Logan and wisely raised his hands in surrender, backing away rapidly into the foggy crowd without throwing a single punch.
Logan’s breathing was heavy, his chest heaving, his fists still clenched tightly at his sides as his eyes scanned the immediate area like a wild animal looking for another threat. He looked ready to tear the entire club apart with his bare hands. Anxious that he might actually chase the guy down for a fight, you stepped directly into his line of sight, capturing his attention.
"Logan," you breathed, your voice soft and entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. Without thinking about the consequences, you reached out, your bare fingers wrapping around his forearm.
The exact millisecond your skin met the warm, rock-hard muscle of his arm, Logan froze entirely. It was the first time the two of you had ever willingly, gently touched, and the effect was instantaneous. The blinding anger seemed to drain out of him in a single breath, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of air. He looked down at your small hand resting on his arm, his skin tingling where you touched him, and then he slowly, deliberately lifted his gaze to your eyes.
The noisy club, the flashing strobe lights, the roaring bass, the alcohol—it all faded into irrelevant background noise. You stood face-to-face on the crowded dance floor, completely motionless, just looking into each other's eyes. Your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, not from fear of the frat guy, but from a sudden, dizzying, terrifying realization. Looking into his wide, intensely focused eyes, you realized you didn't hate him. Not even close. And from the soft, almost vulnerable parting of his lips, he didn't hate you either. You weren't close to being friends yet, but the ice had officially shattered into a million pieces.
Four — "What the fuck"
The shift between you was subtle, but it was absolutely undeniable. The sharp hostility was gone, completely replaced by a quiet, lingering, heavy awareness that neither of you knew quite what to do with.
A week later, you were sitting in a sunlit corner booth at Malone’s. You were completely, entirely absorbed in a brutal, multi-chapter study session for your finals, a pair of heavy over-ear headphones clamped securely over your ears. The sweet, nostalgic melody of American Pie was playing through the speakers, and without even realizing it, you were softly humming along to the chorus, tapping the cap of your yellow highlighter rhythmically against the open pages of your textbook.
You were so deeply focused on your notes that you didn't hear the diner's front door chime, nor did you see Logan walk in. He was there to finalize the last-minute details for the upcoming Hockey Fundraiser with Hannah and Della. But the exact moment his eyes scanned the room and spotted you sitting alone in the corner booth, he stopped dead in his tracks.
He didn’t approach right away. He just stood near the counter, watching you. A soft, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he listened to your faint, slightly off-key humming.
Prickled by the sudden, distinct sensation of eyes on you, you blinked and lifted your head from your textbook. Logan instantly wiped the smile from his face, clearing his throat roughly and pretending to read a missing cat flyer on the bulletin board.
You pulled your headphones down, a small smirk playing on your lips. "You know, if you stare any harder, you're going to burn a hole right through my skull, Logan."
Instead of snapping back with a sarcastic, biting retort like he used to, Logan let out a soft chuckle. He walked over to your booth and, to your surprise, slid into the bench by your side, his knee almost touching yours.
"Just making sure you weren't torturing the rest of the innocent customers with your singing," he teased gently, his shoulder brushing against yours in the tight space.
You rolled your eyes, but there was no spite left in your expression. "I happen to have the voice of a literal angel, thank you very much. You're just jealous."
The playful banter slowly subsided into a comfortable silence. Logan looked at you, his expression turning a little more serious, his eyes softening as his voice dropped to a much quieter register. "Hey… are you doing okay?" Since what happened the other night, obviously implied by the way he looked at you right now, concern written all over his face.
You felt a warm flush creep up your neck and settle into your cheeks. "I'm okay, thank you" you smiled and he nodded, both silently agreeing not to discuss this unpleasant event anymore. You paused, looking down at his large hands resting on the table before forcing yourself to look back up. "How are you doing ? With the fundraiser and everything, I mean. You look like you haven't slept in a week."
He seemed genuinely surprised that you were asking about him. Really, truly asking. He leaned back against the vinyl booth, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he completely opened up to you. He talked about the immense stress of managing the team's high expectations, his constant worries about Jules’ upcoming exams, and the suffocating pressure of the NHL scouts attending the next three games. You listened intently, never interrupting, offering gentle encouragement and a few dry, sarcastic jokes that had him laughing quietly into his palms. For a full hour, the two most stubborn, argumentative people at Briar University just… talked.
"Well," you finally said, checking the diner clock and reluctantly packing your laptop into your bag. "I have to get to my shift at the library. Don't let Della bully you into paying extra for the tableware."
"I won't," Logan said, his eyes tracking your every movement, lingering on your face. "See you around?"
"See you around." You gave him a small, genuine smile—the first real one he'd ever received from you—and walked out into the crisp afternoon air, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks.
Inside the booth, Logan sat completely still for a long, agonizing moment. He watched your retreating figure through the glass window until you turned the corner and disappeared from view. Slowly, he let out a shaky exhale, burying his face entirely in his hands. He rubbed his palms over his eyes, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
"What the fuck," he whispered into the empty diner booth, his voice laced with a mixture of absolute awe and sheer, unadulterated panic. He was screwed. He was completely, utterly, hopelessly screwed, and he knew there was no turning back.
Five — "Well, fuck"
The night of the Briar Hockey Fundraiser at Malone’s was a chaotic, high-energy, glittering success. The entire diner had been completely transformed for the evening—the regular tables had been pushed to the far perimeter to create a makeshift dance floor, strings of warm fairy lights hung across the ceiling, and a massive turnout of wealthy alumni, boosters, and students kept the bar utterly slammed.
You had dressed up significantly for the occasion, wearing a form-fitting, emerald green silk dress that Allie let you borrow from her closet - of course. You spent the first half of the night talking to Hannah near the punch bowl, but your eyes kept unconsciously tracking a certain someone across the room.
Logan was entirely in his element—charming the older donors, laughing easily with his teammates, and looking entirely too edible for your own good.
Around midnight, the formal event finally dissolved into a proper, rowdy college party. The DJ cranked up a heavy, slow, rhythmic pop song, the bass echoing through the floor, and the dance floor filled up with couples. You were navigating the edge of the sweaty crowd, trying to find Allie when a sudden, firm, yet gentle pull on your wrist guided you backward.
You spun around on your heels, your chest bumping right into Logan’s broad torso. "You've been actively dodging me all night," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating right against your skin as his large hand settled naturally around yours. The casual, unhesitating intimacy of the gesture sent a fierce, blinding jolt of electricity straight down your spine.
"I wasn't dodging you, I was letting you do your official host duties," you shot back, a wicked, playful smile spreading across your lips. The alcohol gave you a surge of confidence, and you looped your arms slowly around his neck, stepping closer into his personal space until there was absolutely no air left between you. "Besides, I didn't think you could actually handle me dancing with you."
Logan’s dark eyes lit up instantly, a dangerous, competitive challenge flaring in his pupils. He pulled you a fraction of an inch closer. "Oh, really? Try me, sweetheart."
You didn't hesitate. As the heavy beat of the music dropped, you shifted your weight, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, and sinfully against his. You leaned in close, your lips brushing the warm shell of his ear as you whispered, "You're all talk, John Logan. Let's see if you can actually keep up with me."
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding down his chest to grip the crisp fabric of his shirt, tugging him rhythmically, tightly against your body. The friction was immediate, heavy, and intoxicating. Logan’s breath hitched audibly in his throat. A dark, intense flush crept up his neck, coloring his sharp cheekbones as his hands settled on your waist, his fingers digging firmly into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress. He swallowed hard, his eyes dropping helplessly to your parted lips, entirely overwhelmed and undone by the sudden confidence of your movements. He could feel exactly how much you were affecting him, his body reacting instantly to the touch of your hips.
A breathless, desperate laugh escaped him. He jerked his head back for a split second, fighting a losing battle for self-control. "Well, fuck," he muttered, his voice raw, completely devoid of its usual composure.
"Did I break the big, tough hockey player already?" you cooed, tilting your chin up tauntingly, your noses almost touching as you continued to sway against him.
"You wish," he groaned, his thumbs stroking the bare skin of your lower back where your dress dipped low. He didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled you even tighter against his lower body, matching your sinful rhythm perfectly, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a burning intensity that made it very clear the playful teasing was rapidly turning into something much more dangerous and inevitable. When the night finally forced you apart, it didn't feel like a goodbye — it was a promise.
Six — "Fuck"
Some things are bound to reach a breaking point, and the agonizing tension building between you for months was no exception. Three nights later, Briar won a massive game and the ensuing after-party at the boys' house was pure chaotic madness. The house was packed to maximum capacity, a sweaty, pulsing mass of drunken celebration, loud music, and screaming students.
But you and Logan weren't paying any attention to the party. For the past two hours, you had been moving around the house like two high-powered magnets — constantly drawing closer, stealing long, heated glances across the crowded rooms, the unspoken, heavy weight of the fundraiser hanging between you.
Seeking a brief moment of quiet to cool down your flushed skin, you headed down the dark back hallway toward the upstairs bathroom. Just as you reached out for the brass doorknob, the door swung open from the inside.
Logan stepped out.
You nearly crashed straight into his chest, cutting your breath short as you ground to a halt mere inches from him. The hallway was swallowed by shadows, save for the frantic strobe lights bleeding in from the living room. Logan stared down at you, wide-eyed, his chest rising and falling in sync with the thick, suffocating heat pulsing through the house.
Neither of you said a single word. The months of toxic banter, the vicious, screaming arguments, the desperate avoidance, and the agonizing teasing all converged into a single, breathless, breaking second.
Logan reached out with lightning speed, his large hand wrapping around your waist, and shoved you backward into the bathroom, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind you and twisting the lock with a sharp, echoing click.
Before the sound of the lock could even fade, his mouth crashed onto yours.
It was an absolute explosion. The kiss was passionate, borderline feral, a violent release of pure, pent-up, crazy frustration. You let out a muffled gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to rip into his dark hair, pulling him down toward you out of sheer desperation. He groaned deep in his throat, a sound of pure hunger, pinning your body flat against the heavy wooden door, his thick thighs crowding tightly between yours. His hands were absolutely everywhere—clutching your face, tracing the line of your throat, gripping your hips with a bruising, desperate force that felt incredibly, entirely right.
"Logan," you whimpered against his mouth as he tore his lips away to kiss your jawline, your neck - his hands sliding down to frantically bunch up the silk fabric of your dress.
With a sudden burst of strengh, he hooked his large hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly into the air. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist as he deposited you onto the cold marble edge of the bathroom sink counter. He didn't waste a single second. His hands slid all the way up the bare, warm skin of your thighs, finding the edge of your underwear. His fingers quickly found your slick, burning, over-sensitized core, rubbing against you through the damp fabric with a rhythm that made your head tilt back and earned a large grin from him.
You arched your back off the counter, a loud sob escaping your lips, your fingers digging deep into his shoulders.
"You like that?" Logan growled against your neck, his voice dripping with lust. His fingers moved faster, driving you up a steep, agonizing cliff. "Tell me you want it."
"Logan," you breathed out, "please," you cried out, your head tossing back against the large bathroom mirror. Your hands flew down to his waist, frantically, blindly fumbling with the button of his jeans. You shoved the denim down his hips until his length snapped free—thick, heavy, and pulsing with heat. The moment your fingers wrapped tightly around him, moving in a fast, desperate stroke, Logan’s eyes rolled back.
His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his neck. He couldn't endure the exquisite torture for long, his quiet moans matching your own, before his large hand clamped over yours, freezing your movement. "Stop, stop," he panted, his chest wild, his forehead pressing against yours. "I'm going to come right now if you keep doing that. I need to feel you, right now."
With trembling, frantic hands, he reached into the small drawer next to the sink—Dean’s emergency stash—and ripped open a foil condom wrapper, spitting the plastic away and rolling it onto himself in one fluid, desperate motion.
Then he stepped back between your open thighs. His hands gripped your hips with an iron hold, dragging you to the very edge of the marble counter. He aligned himself against you, waiting just long enough for your frantic nod of approval. With one heavy, unyielding, possessive thrust, he buried himself completely inside you.
The sheer, overwhelming pleasure of that sudden fullness hit you both at once, fracturing the quiet of the bathroom with a sharp, mutual gasp. Instead of slowing down, the friction only stoked the fire, drawing a long, ragged, shattered exhale from deep in Logan's chest. His pupils were completely dilated, dark and wild with pure lust as his forehead dropped heavily against your shoulder.
"Fuck," he groaned into the crook of your neck, his voice a raw, visceral prayer vibrating against your collarbone.
His hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like an anchor as he immediately established a rhythm. The restraint dissolved into pure instinct. He pulled you flush against him, his thrusts becoming powerful, deep, and utterly relentless from the very start. Every heavy drive forced a breathless cry from your lips, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. You rocked together on the cold edge of the marble sink, your bodies generating a feverish heat that defied the chilly stone beneath you.
The bass from the after-party still thudded through the floorboards, a distant, muffled reminder of the chaotic world outside, but within the locked walls of the bathroom, that world was entirely forgotten. There was only the slick, friction-heavy slide of skin against skin, the frantic tangle of your fingers in his hair, and the hot, primal rhythm consuming you both.
The friction was dizzying, driving you both toward a precipice that neither of you could fight anymore. Logan’s pace turned frantic, his breath coming in harsh, ragged stabs against your ear as his hips slammed against yours with an undoing, desperate urgency. Every stroke sent a white-hot wave of pleasure straight to your core, tightening the coil inside you until it was agonizing.
You choked out a breathless, broken sound, your hands clamping onto his biceps as your head thrashed back against the mirror once more.
He didn't need words to know you were right there. He buried his face in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he delivered three more devastatingly deep, relentless thrusts.
That was the final breaking point. Your walls clamped down around him tight and pulsing, fracturing your breath into a loud, ruined cry as your entire body shattered into a blinding, head-to-toe release.
Hearing you break completely ruined him. Logan let out a guttural, unhinged groan that vibrated deep in his chest. His jaw locked, his body rigid and trembling as he gave one last, deeply possessive shove, throwing his weight into you as he came violently inside the condom. He held himself deep within you, his hips shuddering against yours as he rode out the waves of his own release, the two of you panting heavily in the quiet aftermath, entirely spent.
Seven — "Fuck it"
Roughly thirty minutes later, the two of you finally emerged from the bathroom. You had tried your absolute best to fix your chaotic appearance in the mirror—re-applying a bit of smudge-proof lip gloss, smoothing down the wrinkled fabric of your dress, and trying to tame your wildly tangled hair with your fingers—but the physical evidence of what had just occurred was written all over your faces. Your skin was flushed a deep unmistakable pink, your lips were incredibly swollen and red, and Logan was walking with a loose, stupidly contented, proud stride, his hair completely disheveled and sticking up in directions where your fingers had repeatedly torn through it.
The exact moment you stepped back onto the floor of the crowded living room, a loud, piercing whistle cut through the air.
Dean was leaning against the back of the sofa, a beer dangling from his fingers and a knowing smirk plastered across his face. His eyes darted from you to Logan, zeroing in instantly on the faint trace of your lip gloss smeared along Logan’s jawline.
"Well, well, well," he said, loud enough to be heard over the music. "Must have been a pretty intense plumbing emergency in there. Either that, or you two just went ten rounds with a blender. You might want to wipe your face, Logan."
Your cheeks instantly burned. You took a step back. "Dean, shut up, we were just—"
But Logan didn't let you finish the lie. He looked down at you, catching the slight panic in your eyes, and then looked over at Dean, who was practically vibrating with smug satisfaction.
Instead of getting defensive, Logan just let out a short, quiet laugh. The stubbornness, the secrecy, the remnants of your old feud—it all suddenly felt completely irrelevant. He was tired of hiding it.
"You know what? Fuck it," Logan muttered.
Before you could process the words, his hand slid around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your jaw as he pulled you flush against his chest. Right there by the sofa, he leaned down and kissed you.
Dean threw his arms up in a dramatic, sweeping gesture. "About damn fucking time! Graham, you owe me twenty bucks!"
When Logan finally pulled back, his eyes were bright, a relaxed, genuinely happy smile playing on his lips as his thumb brushed your cheek. You looked up at him, the noise of the party fading into the background, finally realizing that the long, argumentative journey of seven dirty words had brought you exactly where you were supposed to be.
