Summary: You should’ve known better to study at your boyfriend’s house if you wanted to be actually productive.
Warnings: Fluff! Established relationship
Author’s Note: Thank you so much for the positive response to the last post!!! Here’s another draft that’s been sitting around. Stay tuned for more!
“Can you come to bed now?” Logan whines pathetically from his bed.
Despite being the same size of a small bear, he gives me large puppy eyes when I glance over my shoulder. I bite my lip to hold back a snicker. What would his teammates think?
“I’m almost done with this section,” I say, turning back to my notes.
“That’s what you said half an hour ago.”
Even though I’m not looking, I know for a fact he has his lips in an adorable pout. One day I’ll sneak a photo of him begging and pouting and send it to the entire hockey team. Logan always acts like a tough guy for the rest of Briar U but when it’s just us, he turns into a softie. Normally I appreciate this side of him but right now I’m having serious beef with this gen chem textbook.
“Sorry if I don’t wanna fail my quiz. I have to finish this section by tonight or else my whole study schedule is messed up.”
“For a quiz that’s three weeks away,” he grumbles, to which I roll my eyes and try to understand the sentence I’ve been rereading for the past few minutes.
I don’t hear another complaint from Logan which makes me smirk in victory.
The quiet doesn’t last as a pair of arms warp around my shoulders and the smell of aftershave invades my nose. A shiver goes down my body when I feel Logan’s stumble scratch against my skin as he buries his face into my neck.
“Logan please,” I squeak out.
“How about you study in bed baby?” He murmurs, lips brushing my ear.
I turn my head slightly to raise my brow at him.
“No funny business, I just wanna hold you,” he assures, giving a peck to my temple.
I pretend to think about it even though the answer is yes. He gives me a grin, releasing me from his arms to grab my textbook and notes and saunters to the bed.
“Why don’t you teach it to me?” he says, patting his lap, “It might help.”
I let out another scoff but it has no real heat to it.
I settle in the space between his legs, letting him pull me flush against his hard chest. My cheeks grow warm at the proximity but I force myself to open back up my notebook
He lets me angle the textbook on his leg while one of arms snakes around my waist to hold me close, drawing circles with his thumb against his my hoodie.
“Ok so this is basically…” I begin to explain, pointing at the textbook image and then jotting down my notes into the book balanced in my own lap. It’s not the best surface for writing but I’m not complaining when I feel Logan press his lips into my hair.
He hums a response, giving me a squeeze which takes everything in me not to melt into him. I continue to ramble about the different molecules and sometimes he’ll press a kiss on my temple and mumble something along the lines of “smart girl” or “good job baby”. And every time I have to give myself at least ten seconds to slow my heart rate.
Even though we’ve been dating for a couple months, he still has this effect on me. Probably forever.
I wasn’t even expecting him to listen but he surprised me by asking a few follow-up questions which helped me solidify my confidence in the topic. Even though Logan lives a completely different life with insane expectations and priorities, he always manages to still make me feel like the most interesting and important thing in his life.
After a few minutes go by, I feel his lips brush against the shell of my ear.
“You’re distracting me,” I murmur.
“Well I just saw we finished the section but you haven’t closed the book yet.”
Damn him. I forget how observant he is.
“Come on baby,” he says, “It’s almost one in the morning. You know I need my full eight hours.”
I glance over at the clock on his nightstand to see that it was way past the time I had planned to stay up. I blame Allie and Dean taking forever to make dinner tonight. What do you mean you forget to preheat the oven?
But Logan’s right, I’m already feeling the tiredness creep into my bones. No use fighting it. Especially when Logan continues to stroke my sides which makes me feel all fuzzy.
I let out a sigh of defeat and began to tidy up my things. Logan loosens his grip to let me quickly shove all the material into my bag by the desk. He shuffles to lay down and outstretches his arms when I turn to face him. He has a stupid grin plastered on his face making you think he just won a hockey game.
Nope. The smile is just for me which makes my heart clench.
“You’re so clingy,” I chide but take my proper spot next to him.
His eyes are already half closed when I shuffle to face him. I feel bad keeping him awake knowing that he already had a long practice.
Not too bad about it though because he was the one blowing up my phone insisting I come over tonight.
“You love it,” he hums.
One of his arms wraps around my waist to pull me close and his legs tangle with mine. He gives me a kiss, cupping my face with his free hand. Before I can even react, Logan is pulling away to settle into his pillow. I rest my head on his chest, listening to the soft rhythm of his heartbeat. His breath tickles the top of my head while his fingers are warm against my back.
The rain had been drumming a steady, peaceful rhythm against the glass of Logan’s off-campus apartment for hours, blurring the campus lights into soft smudges of yellow and amber. Inside, the world was entirely quiet. The usual chaotic energy of the hockey house had cleared out for the weekend, leaving behind a rare, heavy stillness that felt almost sacred.
You were curled up on the oversized fabric sofa, wearing a worn-out Briar University sweatshirt that belonged to him, your knees pulled up to your chest. Logan was sitting right next to you, his long legs stretched out ahead of him, one arm draped casually over the back of the cushions behind your shoulders. His thumb was tracing slow, absentminded circles against the fabric of your sleeve, a gentle habit he always slipped into whenever he was completely relaxed.
Blending the sharp, quick-witted charm he carried on the ice with the softer, deeply protective warmth he usually kept hidden from the world, Logan looked entirely at peace. There was no pressure to perform, no game tape to analyze, and no campus rumors to dodge. It was just the two of you, wrapped in the quiet comfort of a rainy Saturday night.
"My mom sent me a massive digital album this morning," you murmured, breaking the silence as you leaned your head back against his shoulder. "Just a huge dump of random childhood photos and old memories she found while cleaning out her old hard drives. I was scrolling through them earlier while you were at practice."
Logan let out a low, amused chuckle, the vibration rumbling pleasantly against your back. "Let me guess. You found some embarrassing middle school phase you tried to scrub from the internet?"
"Worse," you laughed, shifting slightly to look at him. "I found a photo from a random road trip when I was eleven years old. We got a flat tire on our way to Cape Cod, and our car got towed to a garage in a tiny town called Hastings. In the photo, I’m standing on the gravel lot, wearing neon green shorts, looking absolutely miserable because it was ninety degrees outside."
You paused, your voice softening as you looked at his profile in the dim light of the living room lamp. "Logan, I zoomed in on the background of the photo today. The sign on the building says Hampton & Sons Auto Services. And sitting right underneath it, on a faded wooden bench by the bay doors, is a skinny kid with dark hair, grease on his face, and a massive scowl, wearing a giant teal shirt."
Logan froze. His thumb stopped its movement against your shoulder as his dark eyes locked onto yours with sudden, intense focus. "Wait. You're kidding."
"I'm completely serious," you said, a soft, breathless laugh escaping your lips as the sheer impossibility of it washed over you. "I completely forgot that town even existed until I saw the photo today. I never put it together until this morning. Logan, that kid on the bench was you."
Logan stared at you, a look of pure wonder washing over his handsome features. A low, disbelieving laugh left his chest, and he shook his head slowly.
"I remember that summer," he whispered, his voice dropping into a quiet, reverent register. "I was eleven, which means my mom had just packed up and left. My dad was completely falling apart, drinking heavily in the back office, and he basically forced me to sit outside the bay doors all day just to watch the lot while he passed out. I spent that whole July wearing this horrific, oversized teal promotional shirt, absolutely hating the world."
He reached out, his large, warm hand sliding down to wrap around yours, his fingers tangling effortlessly with your own. The contrast of his rough, hockey-calloused palm against your skin felt grounding, a familiar anchor in the middle of a sudden, mystical realization.
"We were in the exact same gravel lot," you murmured, leaning your cheek against his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring thud of his heart. "Six years before we ever met in the library at Briar. You were having the worst summer of your life, and I was just a random kid complaining about a flat tire."
"Time is a curious thing," Logan said softly, his chin resting gently on the top of your head as he began to stroke your hair. "It gives you absolutely no signs, no compasses, no clues. We were breathing the same air, completely oblivious to the fact that our lives were eventually going to crash right into each other when we grew up."
A comfortable silence settled over the room again, but it felt different now, charged with a beautiful, secret weight. The rain continued to slash against the windowpane, but inside the small apartment, the space felt infinitely warmer. Logan’s hold on you tightened, wrapping all of his heavy childhood memories, your old heartbreaks, and your collective doubts in something soft and protective. He was the golden thread that had pulled you out of all the wrong directions, straight into the quiet sanctuary of this room.
"Isn't it just so pretty to think," you whispered into the quiet, "that all along, there was some invisible string tying you to me?"
"Yeah," Logan breathed, his voice rich with an emotion he rarely let show, a perfect blend of his protective nature and total devotion. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against the crown of your head. "It’s a really cool thought, baby. Hell was the journey for both of us back then, but it brought me right here. And I wouldn't trade where we landed for anything."
You closed your eyes, shifting your hand until your fingers were laced tightly with his, feeling the absolute truth of his words settle deep into your skin. The invisible string had done its work perfectly, pulling the two of you through the dark until the sky finally turned into a beautiful, permanent pink.
Notes - I thought I would start my first John fic with some fluff yall have earned with all my writing recently!
You found out pretty soon into your college career that happy hour at Malone’s only ended in two different ways for you.
Outcome one was like everyone else’s—have way too many drinks and spill a few too many secrets all while dancing like no one was watching. Sure, you probably misplaced your purse a while ago and the next morning you’d wake up with a killer hangover, but that was a future-you issue.
Outcome two was more pitiful. You likely had something important to do in the morning, so you decided against drinking, meaning your butt was glued to the booth that you shared with your best friend as he made googly eyes at the waitress.
It was nights like these that made you want to rip your heart out of your chest and stomp on it. That would hurt less than this.
“You know staring at her any harder won’t magically make her a mind reader, right?”
His eyes flickered back over to you with some poor attempt at confusion. “Who?”
“John Logan, do not play stupid with me, your smarts is the only thing you have going for you.”
A laugh escaped the boy, his lips spreading across his cheeks in a way that made your heart flutter. “Gee thanks, tell me what you really think.”
You attempted to mirror his actions, letting a similar smile find you that never truly reached your eyes. “If I told you what I really think, you’d be running for the hills.”
“Give me some credit,” he replied, bumping his shoulder into yours. “If I wanted to run, I would’ve done it ages ago.”
It was like something was tethering you to him wherever he touched you, urging you to seek him out. As he bumped his shoulder into yours, you leaned into it, smiling as the two of you met in the middle.
“I’ll hold you to it,” you smiled.
“Oh, I know you will.”
For that small bit of time as the music continued on and the world spun around the two of you, you were able to forget and play pretend just for a bit. Pretend that the way he leaned into your touch meant something more. Pretend that he also felt something every time your eyes would cross.
You could even imagine a world where you got over yourself and admitted everything that has sat on your chest since what felt like the beginning of time.
“Hey guys, welcome to Malone’s, I’m Hannah. What can I get started for you today.”
And in a flash, the moment would slip away to the nothingness you were dealt with as John sat up in his seat, leaning forward so his eyes were centered on her.
You felt it as that dagger in your chest twisted itself as you watched his eyes light up at the sight of her. Your eyes trailed over him observing the way his smile grew shy and how seemed to be fiddling with his hands as he talked to her.
Flicking your eyes up to Hannah, you could feel the way your heart sank. Some deep, selfish part of you wanted nothing more than to hate the girl. If you hated her, then maybe you’d find some weird twisted vindication for the way it all made you feel.
But you couldn’t bring yourself to hate her.
In turn, all you were left with were these cruel comparisons that lingered in your mind. How she seemed to carry herself with this assurance—like she knew exactly what she was going to do and nothing would get in her way. How she seemed to make people laugh without even trying. Even how she looked so effortlessly beautiful even after working the fifth hour of her nighttime shift.
It made you feel rather dull in comparison.
“And for you?”
You blinked back to attention, realizing both of their eyes were on you. “Oh um…just water please.” Your smile felt weak, reminding you that you’d be happier watching some rom-com back at your dorm instead of putting yourself through this hell.
“Y’sure you don’t want anything else,” John asked, his brow quirking up at you curiously.
You nodded, pulling your arms under the table and squeezing them together as you shoulders pulled in. “Yeah. I’m not all that hungry if I’m being honest.”
“Alright then,” Hannah smiled. “Just let me know if you change your mind, everything should be out shortly.”
Once she left the table, you remained silent. Your eyes swept across the room, seeing the live band playing from the front and the crowd forming around them, but you weren’t really watching them.
You kind of drifted off, staring aimlessly ahead of you as your thoughts and frustrations swirled heavily in your chest.
Then you felt the warmth that wrapped around your hand, threading between your fingers and holding you carefully. “Hey, you okay?”
And like a boulder being pushed back up the hill again, you felt the spiking of your heartbeat as you looked over to see John looking at you with concern. His brows pinched together in a way that made you want to cup his face and smooth over his frown lines.
You tried your best to push out the best ‘yeah!’ and inwardly cringed as it sounded to bright and chipper.
He squeezed your hand, bringing it to the table as he leaned in, tilting his head to you inquisitively. “You’re a terrible liar, y’know?”
You scoffed and smiled lightly. “Says you.”
John let out a drawn out hum. “Well now your deflecting.”
“Nothing gets past you, huh?”
A beat of silence passed over the two of you for just a moment as he his eyes scanned over your face carefully, a small frown taking his lips.
“Talk to me.” His tone was deeper now, softer as he lowered his voice just for you. “You always have.”
You couldn’t bring yourself to say anything at first, just staring back at him with a melancholic admiration. He could always read you. He knew it, his friends knew it, and you knew it all too well.
It swirled all too many feelings in your chest every time you were presented with that fact. Your heart bleeding at the thought that no one on this earth knew you better than him. Then it froze over with fear at the idea that one look too long would send him into the realization that you are hopelessly in love with him. And of course, it all shattered in hurt as you were forced to realize that he didn’t know.
He didn’t know the biggest, all-encompassing secret that kept you up into the long hours of the night and prevented you from being alone and drunk with out of the fear of spilling everything.
It made you wonder how much he truly knew you, and how much you fabricated in your head to cope with the fact that he wasn’t yours and probably never will be.
“I know,” you smiled convincingly enough, squeezing his hand back. “I’m just a little tired. It’s been a long week.”
You felt as his hand untangled itself from yours as he lifted his pinky up to you. “Promise?”
A short moment passed as you blinked at his finger. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you smiled and interlocked your pinky with his. “Promise.”
“Alright, guys. I’ve got two waters, an order of burgers and fries, and an extra fry.”
And just like that his gaze was back on her. “Thank you, Hannah.”
“Of course,” she smiled, throwing her hands up on her hips. “Did you guys want anything else?”
You only shook your head and smiled halfheartedly. “No, that’ll be all.”
“Great! If you need anything else, I’m Hannah!”
At first you watched as she walked away, then you let your eyes drift back to John where he had just the similar thought.
You bit your lip in thought, deeply mulling over the words that you knew you’d come to regret.
“You should talk to her…outside of here I mean.”
He whipped his head around to face you, his brows knitting back down in a form of confusion. “What,” he laughed. “No, I couldn’t.”
“Why not,” you joked, bumping your shoulder into his again. “If you stare at her longingly like that any longer then you’ll just look like a creep.”
His mouth fell open and shut as he searched for his words—or excuses. “I’m not her type—she doesn’t even like hockey guys.”
You nodded skeptically. “And how do you know that?”
He responded with a wince, his face contorting into a cringe as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I may or may not have overheard her telling her friend about it the other day at the counter.”
This time, it was your turn to laugh as your mouth fell open in disbelief. “Oh my god, you are a creep. I take it back, maybe you shouldn’t talk to her.”
“I’m not a creep,” he scoffed, hiding his smile. “It was an accident. I meant to talk to her, I just…froze up I guess.”
You could’ve teased him for it, but you didn’t. Instead you met him with sincerity. “You gotta take your chance at some point. Before someone swoops in and takes that chance before you. Then you’ll sit there regretting every action you didn’t take.”
You looked at him absentmindedly, not meaning it to come off as profound advice, but when you met his eyes again, they were back on you in a way that made your eyes widen a bit.
“Woah,” he commented half jokingly. “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”
You rolled your eyes, snagging a fry from his basket. “Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy.”
John hummed and rolled his eyes. “Can’t go a moment without saying something sarcastic, can you?”
You grinned. “Nope. I’d die without it.”
He smiled again, making your heart sparkle once more.
“Here,” he replied, pushing his extra basket of fries in your direction. “That’s for you.”
“What? I didn’t order any.”
“I know,” he murmured. “But you always say you’re not hungry before eating half my fries. Can’t have you going hungry on me.”
You looked at the basket, hand hovering over it before flitting your eyes back up to him.
“…thank you…”
“Of course. What are friends for?”
[2]
You were 15 when you met John Logan—the guarded yet kind boy that ended up being your partner for the class project. From then on, the two of you were practically attached at the hip.
He was there for you at every bad day and rough moment and you were there whenever his world became too much.
The two of you balanced out the chaotic lives you lived and over those years, you learned a few things about him.
You knew that he had the tendency to bite his tongue, never wanting to step on someone else’s toes unless he pushed to his limit. You knew he was especially hard on himself because no one else was; because if he wasn’t he’d have to face the reality of losing everything he worked hard to build. You also knew that if he didn’t want to be found, he knew just how to make himself sparse.
The past few days had been fine, the both of you focusing on your respective schedules and finding time for each other in between, but then out of nowhere, it was radio silent from him.
You let it go on for a day, giving him the time to breathe because you knew he likely needed it if he was avoiding you, but after that you decided you should find him. And you knew exactly where to find him.
With a zip, you closed up your hoodie as you walked into the doors of the skating rink. Sure enough, he was right where you expected him to be: pushing himself beyond his limit as an excuse to get his mind off is life.
Wordlessly, you sat there and watched him as he paced back and forth on the ice, smacking the pucks aggressively into the goals. You didn’t flinch or react as the sound echoed through the room, only kept your eyes trained on him as he finally slowed to a stop and skated in your direction.
“Hey stranger,” you called once he was close enough. “Y’wanna talk about it?”
His breath was shallow as he looked at you through the metal of his helmet. You could see the sweat dripping off him as he shook his head. “It’s nothing.”
“Okay then,” you replied coolly, nodding before holding up a pair of skates for him to see. “Can I join you?”
He looked at you with a sense of disbelief. “You wanna do drills with me?”
You shrugged. “I don’t wanna play. I wanna skate. It’ll be kinda hard though with a big angry hockey player smacking his shit around on the ice.”
After a beat of contemplation from him, a small victorious smile slipped onto your lips as you saw his shoulders slump in defeat. “For old times sake Johnny.”
The boy lost the helmet and stick by time you slipped your skates onto your feet and made your way on the ice.
You didn’t wait for him as you kicked off, skating a jogging pace around the ice. You didn’t need to look back to know what he was already slowly catching up to you before finding his pace right next to you.
At first, the two of you skated in silence. Only the noise of the blades meeting the ice could be heard. Then he broke the silence.
“Garrett and Hannah got together.”
His words were blunt and spit out—you almost missed them. But when they eventually caught up to your ears, you came to a sudden stop, John stopping and turning around just a few feet ahead of you.
“What?”
He shook his head. “I really don’t wanna repeat it.”
Apart of you wanted to be gleeful. That recurring selfishness that wanted nothing more than to let Hannah be out the picture. But then you saw that hurt and frustration covering his face and it all melted into guilt.
“I–you were right. I should’ve said something when I had my chance. It’s just…pisses me off.”
You skated up to him slowly. “That she’s taken?”
“That it’s Garrett!” His voice rebounded off the walls as it raised slightly. “He—he didn’t even know her name a week ago and I just—,” he cut himself off.
His face was flushed red when you reached him, refusing to even look you in the eye. “Garrett’s great. My best friend or whatever but,” he looked up at you and shook his head, “I know him. He’s gonna be over her in less than a month and she doesn’t deserve that…”
You hated that feeling that rushed over you as you stood before him. Frustration and self-pity welling up in a bile that rested somewhere in your chest, waiting to just engulf you. The only thing worse than the feeling itself had to be shoving it away like your feelings were worth nothing.
Yet with a gentleness reserved for very few, you slipped your hands into his and gave it a squeeze. “John…I’m gonna tell you something. I know you’re not gonna wanna hear it but you need to.”
He didn’t look up at first, just glared at the ice below him.
“John.”
With stubborn defiance, he let his eyes meet yours and behind all that anger you could see the real vulnerability pouring through.
“It’s not your place to decide what’s good for Hannah.”
You could see his jaw clench as you continued, not in anger but when he knew you were right and didn’t want to admit it. “She is a grown woman who can date or hook up with whoever she likes…even Garrett.”
“I know,” he pushed out. “I just feel like he gets all these wins and I’m just…fucked. Like I can’t stop pulling the short end of the stick.”
You nodded, staring at him intently as you kept your grip on his hands. “I know. And unfortunately, that’s life. Sometimes you get shit and sometimes you get gold and most days you can’t control which hand you’re dealt. What you can control is what you do with it. Are you gonna obsess over this girl that isn’t yours, or are you gonna find a way to move past it?”
His breath was even now and his eyes stayed concentrated on you as his anger slowly slipped away. Wordlessly, he nodded and squeezed your hands one last time and let you ground him in this moment.
[INTERLUDE]
John was a man of consistency. Growing up the way he did, he chased that rhythm of knowing exactly was going to happen next in his life; whether that be with his academics, his career, or just sticking to a weekly schedule of class, gym, practice, studying, and sleep (save room for a party or two of course).
Within that schedule was movie night with you every week.
The two of you sat on the couch, lucky to snag the tv before any of the other boys. He sat in the corner of the couch, arm thrown over the back while you cozied into his side.
If he was being honest, he lost the plot of the movie a while ago; it had been a long day and practice was particularly rough so he felt dead. But he enjoyed these smaller moments with you when the world quieted itself just for the two of you.
“You’re not falling asleep on me,” you asked, looking up at him knowingly.
A rumble moved through his chest as he blinked himself awake. “Of course not. I could never miss the fundamentals of Jane Austen adaptations.”
“Don’t act like you don’t force me to watch your movies too,” you shoot back with a laugh while poking him in the side.
But before he could respond, a pain flared from his chest, forcing him to sit up with a groan. “Fuck.”
“Shit,” you murmured. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he grunted, trying to shake it off before you got too worried. “Probably just a bruise.”
But John eventually learned that a world that you weren’t worried about him was a world that simply didn’t exist.
“Let me see.”
He laughed it off at first, looking up at you. “What?”
“You heard me.” Your voice was stern and stubborn, not offering much room for him to argue back. “Lift up your shirt.”
“Jesus, buy me dinner first.”
You frowned at him. “John Logan—,”
“Okay, okay fine,” he ushered, moving his hand that kept his shirt from riding up. “Forget how stubborn you can be.”
You didn’t give him much of a response as you reached for the hem of his shirt and lifted it up to reveal the large scrape running up the side of his abdomen.
“Jesus Christ, you’re bleeding.”
His mouth fell open a moment, looking down at his injury then back up at you. “I’d hardly call it bleeding. I’ve had worse.”
“Doesn’t mean you should be bleeding out on the couch.”
“I’m not bleeding out,” he tried. “The boys just got a little carried away during practice okay? I’ll go patch myself up right now if you’re so worried.”
“No,” you demanded, pushing him lightly back onto the couch as you now knelt above him to stand up. “You stay put, I’ll do it.”
“That’s really not necessary.”
You threw your hands up on your hips and glared at the boy. “How about this, either you let me help you or you let the doctor in the emergency room help you? Your pick.”
Once again, he let his mouth fall open and shut incredulously as a scoff of a laugh left. “Fine, okay. If you insist.”
You eventually returned with this silent concentration that he rarely ever saw in you. Wordlessly, you sat back down on the couch next to him.
He watched as you worked on him and somewhere between you lightly wiping the wet cloth over his wound and tearing open the bandage packet, something changed.
Suddenly he took notice of the way your eyes trained so heavily on him, the way you bit your bottom lip, the way your fingers brushed against his skin so lightly in a way that trailed a flame with every touch.
It was like you set him on fire and he had no clue what to do with it.
[3]
The library was typically where you found the most peace. Most times you were there with John, studying until your eyes hurt and you couldn’t bear to type another paper or jot down another formula. Tonight was meant to be no different.
But your study partner’s mind seemed to be wandering elsewhere.
“Okay I’ll bite,” you huffed out, tossing your pen down to the table. “What’s wrong?”
John’s eyes flickered up to you in confusion. “What do you mean?”
You stared at him. Hard. Your eyes scanned all over his face before leaning back in your chair with a sigh. “I thought you were done with all this Hannah mess.”
“I-,” he stammered. “I was—I am! What are you on about?”
You quirked a brow up at the boy. “You’re making that face you always do. That face when you see Hannah and you want her to look at you. Except now it’s worse because she’s not even here.”
“That’s not—I don’t—,” he cut himself off, rubbing his hand over face. “It’s not Hannah…not anymore.”
You paused, suddenly afraid of moving as he avoided your gaze. You knew the question you wanted to ask—it weighed on your chest, fat, heavy, and waiting to be addressed.
“But there is someone?”
The silence in the air was enough of an answer for you, but his responses that tumbled out only seemed to taunt you more, beating the dagger deeper into your chest.
“Yes? No. Maybe. I don’t know…it’s complicated.”
That silence sat uncomfortably with you, as if the room was closing in. You wanted nothing more than to take down the walls so hellbent on closing in on you.
“Two lovers in a month,” you joked, your smile half-assed. “Quite the Casanova, huh Johnny?”
You didn’t expect him to snap back at you.
“Don’t be like that.” It wasn’t harsh or mean, but you could sense the edge in his voice as he looked back up at you.
“Like what,” you bit back, your voice cautious on the air.
“Like…” he trailed off, searching for the words in his head. “I don’t know.”
You looked at him patiently, rolling the ball of thought in your head before finally speaking up. “Tell me about them?”
He looked up at you and in his eyes you found something new, something strange. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, either.
“I…I just don’t want to fuck it up. I’m not good at this and you know I’m not but this time…they’re not like Hannah. I’d actually have something to lose if I do anything.”
God it felt like someone was punching you in the gut, watching him go on with this sparkle in his eyes that seemed to intensify from the times he’d go on about Hannah.
But you still did what you did best. You gave him advice.
“Well…I know it’s corny to say but, I think the best thing for you is listen to yourself…I can tell you that you need to man up or that you need to focus on yourself, but at the end of the day, it all comes down to what you’re willing to risk for what you want.”
He didn’t respond at first. Only sat there quietly and you weren’t really sure how he felt about what you had to say.
“I can say this. Ever since I met you, you always carefully picked the people you were friends with. If this person means as much to you as you say then something like this won’t chase them off.”
You leaned forward and let your hands cover his, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles in a way that only felt selfish.
You could only bring yourself to wonder why you kept putting yourself in positions like this with him.
[+1]
Finals season was finally over and you were free. It felt like one of the many weights were lifted off your shoulder and you were finally free to do what you really wanted to do.
Maybe on another night you would’ve stayed in and slept until the next semester, but somehow (with very little convincing) you were at Malone’s once again with your friends.
One thing led to another and suddenly you were settling on one of your two inevitable outcomes that came from Malone’s: enough drinks in your system to want to dance on a table. It was the kind of confidence you weren’t even sure where it came from.
You had already found the chair to help you reach the table before you felt someone tugging you down into their chest.
You whipped your head around suddenly before your shock melted into a dizzy smile as you recognized him.
“Johnny! I missed you. Where have you been?”
“Well,” he started with an amused smile, slowly leading you away from the crowd and towards the door. “One of your friends called and told me you were a bit to drunk to drive home.”
You let out a dramatic gasp, halting in your step before turning around to face him fully. “Was is Mackenzie? Or was it Kris? Traitors…”
John huffed out a laugh as he took you by your hand and continued to pull you toward the exit, guiding you to his car with the looming fear of you suddenly falling over or puking. Or both.
“I’m not supposed to be alone with you when I’m drunk,” you groaned as he began his drive. “Sober-me made drunk-me swear by it.”
He looked at you with a raised eyebrow. “Why’s that?”
“Because,” you hissed. “I have secrets! Big secrets. If I’m drunk then I’ll want to tell you my secrets.”
He could only let himself smile a bit as he tried to brush off your words. “Well then I’ll be sure you don’t spill any secrets to me.”
You only giggled and grinned as you turned to him. “That sounds like a challenge.”
“I thought you didn’t want me to have your secrets,” he laughed.
“That’s sober-me,” you replied with a feigned coolness. “Drunk-me doesn’t associate with them.”
“Talk about self-sabotage,” he chuckled lightly to himself.
His hand rested on the console between the two of you, drumming lightly in a way that caught your attention. Absentmindedly, you reached for it, running your fingers up and down to trace where his veins trailed.
“You have pretty hands, Johnny.”
His eyes flickered to look at you from his peripheral. “Thank you.”
His voice was clipped. Restrained.
“Johnny?”
A beat of silence passed between the two of you before he spoke up. “Yeah?”
“Can I tell you something?”
A small smile spread across his lips again. “Is it a secret?”
You giggled again, looking back at him. “No…it’s a question. I always give you advice, I think it’s about time you give me some earth=shattering advice.”
He couldn’t help but laugh at that before releasing a soft sigh. “Go for it.”
“If I have a this big fat secret that I technically shouldn’t tell, I know that I shouldn’t ever bring it up.”
“That’s typically how secrets work.”
“Okay smart-ass,” you frowned, flicking his hand before sitting back in your seat. “But what if this secret is like huge. Like…it makes me want to throw up, explode, and vomit all at the same time.”
“Aren’t vomiting and throwing up the same thing,” he questioned.
“Oh my god,” you groaned, throwing your head back to stare at the ceiling of the car. “Stop trying to be funny, a piece of me dies every time you try to be funny.”
“Wow,” he muttered, failing to even try to hide his smile. “I think a secret like that should be told to the right person. You should find someone you trust with it if you can’t share it.”
The car finally came to a stop, allowing him a moment to fully look at you as your eyes drooped back down to him. “And if the secret is about the person I trust the most in the world?”
The silence that passed between the two of you was typically short and quick, shoved under the rug before it could even be processed. This silence was not like that.
It laid in the air with heavy existence as John struggled to come up with anything to say. All he could focus on was the way your eyes seemed to glimmer under the lights of the nearby street lights.
And of course, he was always the one to break it. “Look at that, we’re here. C’mon.”
Even drunk, you knew the routine whenever you spent the night at John’s. You’d take the bathroom first, then him and he’d let you take the bed while he took the floor (no matter how hard you fought him over it). You had stayed over so often that he already had your clothes waiting for you in his bottom drawer.
It didn’t take long for the two of you to get ready. You sat on his bed, watching him expectantly as he made his own makeshift bed on the floor beside you.
“You should know my secret,” you blurted out.
“I really don’t think I should,” he replied softly.
“I really think you should.”
“y/n.”
“It’s really important actually—been eating me alive since freshman year.”
“y/n.”
“I’m in love with you John Logan.”
With his back to you, the man froze in his actions. Unable to move as the words fully moved through his head. But you kept going.
“I wanted to tell you immediately actually, but then there was her. Yo—you liked her for so long and y’know it was always Hannah. Always. And a part of me, a really really selfish part of me, wishes it stayed Hannah. Because then…it means less. Hannah is amazing and kind and beautiful, and so so so funny. Hell I’d be in love with Hannah if I wasn’t so in love with you.”
He knew he should stop the words free-falling from your lips, but he couldn’t even gather himself to move much less convince you to stop saying all the things he knew you’d regret in the morning.
“But then you met someone else and then I finally realized it. It was never about me not being like Hannah. It was about me not being right…for you. I’ll never be right for you, will I?”
Not enough words could describe everything John wanted to say in that moment, but it truly didn’t matter. For when he turned around to face you, you were already fast asleep.
[the aftermass]
You weren’t sure exactly what time it was when you eventually woke up, all you knew is that you were drenched in regret as a headache pounded incessantly in your head.
The night came back to you in pieces, like a puzzle waiting to be put back together slowly. You remember your friends inviting you to Malone’s, having a few too many drinks, the dancing, the attempts to climb on the table.
It got fuzzier as you tried to recall. John had shown up, dragging you out the bar, convincing you not to spill—
You sat up suddenly, headache be damned, as your memories slammed itself back into your mind.
And then the voice you dreaded to hear. “Good morning.”
He was seated there on the floor, just like he always was when you woke up. You would exchange your ‘good mornings’, laugh about whatever happened the night before, talk about what you had planned that day.
“You remember much from last night,” he asked, sounding as if he’d been up for hours.
You only nodded.
If you were being honest, you wanted to skip over the entire routine. You swung your feet over the bed, planting your feet on the ground while avoiding his gaze.
“Do you want to talk about it,” he asked.
You shook your head at first. “No.”
You didn’t need to look at him to register how much he was thrown off. “No?”
“No just…not yet.” You began for the door, hand landing on the doorknob. “I need coffee before I can talk about anything.”
You knew he was following and you really wished you didn’t. Knowing he was just a few steps behind you only made the thudding in your heart all the more intense.
It was a huge awkward silence that settled between the two of you as he stood there, waiting for the moment you gave any indication as to wanting to continue the conversation.
“You want some,” you ask, back turned completely to him.
“y/n.”
You let out a sigh as you gripped your now full mug, glaring into the pool of brown liquid before eventually turning around to face him from where he stood at the other side of the island.
“Guess that’s a no,” you attempted to joke, but he didn’t quite return the sentiment. He only seemed to look back at you with that look of conflict he wore so often.
“If you don’t want to talk about it…”
“No,” you blurted out suddenly. “I just…”
You pinched the bridge of your nose before tossing your hand up and letting it fall to the side. “I kinda said everything I needed to say last night. Yes, I’ve liked you or been in love with you since we moved here. Yes, I was jealous of Hannah and I’m jealous of whoever you seem to like right now and no, I had no intention of telling you.
First it was Hannah and then it was your mystery person and I just don’t want to stand in the way of what you have going on and ruin thin—”
“y/n.”
He was beginning to make it a habit of saying your name in that specific tone that made you all dizzy inside.
“Can I have a turn to speak,” he asked softly.
You let out a brisk sigh before motioning for him to speak.
“Do you remember that one night a few weeks ago? When we were watching Pride and Prejudice in the living room?”
Your brows furrowed down in confusion before nodding slowly. “Yeaaah…? What about it?”
He took a step around the island, walking just a bit closer to you while still offering you that space. “Well, when I was sitting there, watching you patch me up, I realized something.”
He took another step. “I realized that you’re stubborn. And you rarely let other people have their way. But I like that about you.”
Another step. “You’re considerate. You always put other’s feelings before your own…even if it means sacrificing something for yourself.”
He took a final step forward, landing barely even a foot away from you. “I also learned that no one else in the world cares for me like you do. And I was blind to miss it for so long.”
Your mouth fell open, looking at him in with a mix of disbelief and skepticism. “I don’t understand. Your…your mystery person.”
With a gentle hand, he reached for your coffee mug and placed it down on the counter before grasping your hand to squeeze it tight, just like every time you did so to ground him.
“You are that person. It’s always been you. And if I’m being honest…ever since that night I have been doing everything in my power to not kiss you on the spot.”
And for a moment, neither of you moved. Neither of you was sure if one should. But then you saw that flicker of doubt in his eyes and the way he slowly leaned back from you.
In a split moment of decision making, you finally let your impulses speak for themselves and you grabbed the fabric of his shirt and pulled him into you, letting your lips collide.
He didn’t react at first, his eyes blowing wide as his senses caught up to him. But when they did, everything seemed to melt in place. With one arm wrapping itself around your waist, he let his other hand find the nape of your neck, cradling you close as you tried to breathe in every inch of him.
Your hand buried itself in his hair, nails scratching gently at his scalp, only making him sigh into the kiss. “Damn,” he mumbled against your lips, his breathing shallow as he pressed his forehead against yours.
You let out a soft laugh, unable to believe everything that’s finally happened. “Took you long enough to catch up, Johnny. You were killing me here.”
A smile blessed his lips as he continued to kiss you, like a vice. “I know. How will I ever make it up to you?”
You grinned devilishly. “I can think of a few different ways.
main masterlist
a/n: this was NOT meant to be this long omg. I just finished this show earlier this week and I'm obsessed with Logan, he's honestly one of my favorites. I hope this gets all the love, please comment and reblog it would mean so much to me!!
⤿ JOHN LOGAN was a firm believer that love at first sight was fake, then he saw you get checked into the boards at full strength. That was enough to convince him you were his soulmate.
!! wc: 4.5k. fluff. fem!reader. yearner!logan. hockey player!reader. dean and tucker cameos of course. should i make a mini series about logan x hockey reader. taglist open. ENJOY. COMMENTS ENCOURAGED.
The rink smelled like cold air, sweat, and freshly resurfaced ice, the familiar combination settling heavily into your lungs every time you pushed off the bench and stepped back onto the surface.
Your legs already ached.
The game had turned aggressive halfway through the second period after one shitty call spiraled into another, and now every shift felt sharper around the edges. Faster. Meaner. The kind of game where players stopped caring about penalties and started caring about pride instead.
You preferred games like that, if you had to be honest.
Your ponytail stuck damply to the back of your neck beneath your helmet while you skated toward center ice, adjusting your grip against your stick as the referee dropped the puck between you and the opposing center.
The collision happened almost immediately after that.
Sticks clashed. Skates carved violently against the ice. Somebody shouted from the bench behind you while bodies slammed together hard enough to rattle the boards, but your focus narrowed the way it always did during games until the rest of the rink became background noise.
You stole the puck cleanly and pushed forward.
A defender cut toward you from the left.
You dipped your shoulder, trying to slip around her.
Instead, she drove straight into your side.
The impact sent you hard against the glass with a crack loud enough to echo through the arena, pain blooming sharply along your ribs as the boards shook beneath you.
The crowd reacted instantly, and so did your teammates.
But you barely had time to register any of it before irritation outweighed the pain completely.
You shoved off the glass immediately, stealing the puck back before the defender could recover properly, and skated straight down the ice with enough force behind your strides to make your thighs burn.
Somewhere behind the opposing bench, somebody yelled, “Holy shit.”
The puck left your stick seconds later, and the goal light flashed red.
You barely had time to breathe before gloves slammed against your helmet and arms wrapped around your shoulders, the team crowding around you near the bench while the arena noise swelled louder overhead.
“You’re insane,” your captain laughed breathlessly against the side of your helmet.
You grinned despite yourself, adrenaline still racing violently through your system.
The celebration around you lasted only a few seconds before the line changed again and everybody scattered back into position, skates carving sharply across the ice while the energy in the rink climbed even higher after the goal.
You pushed a hand briefly against your ribs while skating backward toward center, testing the ache already beginning to settle beneath your padding.
It hurt.. not enough to matter, yet.
Across the arena, Logan still had not looked away from you.
He sat forward in his seat slowly, forearms resting against his knees while the rest of the crowd blurred into noise around him. The game continued moving at full speed beneath the arena lights, players shouting over one another while the referees reset the faceoff, but his attention stayed fixed entirely on you.
Dean noticed first, because of course he did.
“You good, bro?” he asked, glancing sideways from his seat beside him.
Logan barely blinked. “Who is that?”
Dean followed his line of sight toward the ice where you were circling near center.
“The defenseman?”
“The one that just got launched into the glass.”
Tucker snorted from Logan’s other side. “That doesn't narrow it down at all. They've been nasty tonight.”
Logan ignored him completely.
You pushed your helmet back slightly while talking to one of your teammates, visibly unfazed by the hit you had taken less than a minute earlier, and something about that seemed to irritate Logan further.
He wasn't irritated with you.
At the fact that nobody else on the ice appeared nearly as bothered by it as he was.
“She’s fine,” Dean said casually, mid bite of his overpriced arena pretzel. “Women’s team plays mean as hell.”
“That wasn’t a casual hit.”
Dean shrugged. “She got back up.”
“Not the point.” Logan groaned, leaning back in his seat and letting his legs spread a bit.
Tucker looked over slowly then, eyebrows lifting slightly as realization started creeping into his expression.
“Oh my God,” he muttered. “You’re obsessed with her.”
Logan finally tore his eyes away from the ice long enough to glare at him.
“I’m not obsessed.”
“You looked ready to fight somebody for checking her.”
“She hit the glass hard.”
“She also scored immediately after.” Dean piped up with a shrug and a wink.
Logan’s jaw tightened slightly.
The game resumed again before Dean could say anything else, but Logan’s attention kept drifting back toward you no matter how hard he tried to focus elsewhere. Every shift you played seemed sharper than everyone else’s. Faster. More aggressive.
You didn’t hesitate.
Most players slowed right before impact without even realizing they were doing it, bodies instinctively bracing against pain before collisions happened.
You didn’t.
You kept driving forward like fear genuinely never occurred to you.
Halfway through the third period, you slammed another player into the boards hard enough that Tucker actually winced.
“Jesus Christ,” he laughed. “She’s terrifying.”
Logan said nothing.
Your helmet turned slightly while backing away from the boards afterward, and for a brief second the arena lights caught the side of your jersey clearly enough for him to see the number stretched across your back.
Twelve.
Before he could make out the name above it, you skated off toward the bench again.
Logan leaned forward immediately.
“Twelve,” he repeated.
Dean stared at him. “What?”
“Her number.”
Dean burst out laughing. “You’re actually trying to identify her right now?”
Logan reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled his phone out without answering.
“Oh, this is bad,” Tucker said, grinning openly now. “He’s gone.”
Dean leaned over slightly while Logan opened the Briar women’s hockey roster, scrolling quickly with his thumb while the game continued in the background.
“Twelve,” Logan muttered quietly to himself.
The roster loaded slowly.
Tucker watched him with open amusement. “You don’t even know this girl.”
Logan’s eyes stayed fixed on his phone. “Working on it.”
Dean laughed under his breath. “You got all this from one hit into the boards?”
Logan finally looked back toward the ice.
You were standing near the bench listening to your coach, one glove hanging loosely from your hand while you nodded along absently, cheeks flushed from exertion and baby hairs sticking damply to your forehead beneath your helmet.
Then you smiled at something one of your teammates said.
Five minutes ago you had looked vicious enough to start a fight in the middle of the rink. Now you looked warm and relaxed. The contrast was something that Logan understood and admired.. something that was also making him constantly reconnect his wifi in the hopes that it would load faster.
Logan looked back down at the roster immediately.
“There,” Dean pointed suddenly, leaning closer. “Number twelve.”
Logan’s thumb stopped scrolling.
Your name sat there on the screen beneath your player photo.
Defense. Junior. The same number stitched across your jersey.
For some reason, finally knowing your name only made the strange tight feeling in his chest worse.
Tucker looked between Logan and the phone before laughing again.
“You’re done for, bro.”
Logan barely heard him.
Down on the ice, you stepped back into play again, completely unaware that a man several rows above the rink had just memorized your name like it was something important.
By the final stretch of the third period, Boston College had stopped looking organized and started looking frustrated.
Every pass they attempted felt rushed, every hit carried just a little too much irritation behind it, and Briar only seemed to feed off the shift in energy. The game had become brutal in the way rivalry games always did once pride got involved, fast and physical and loud enough that the sound of skates carving into the ice blended together with the roar of the crowd overhead.
Your lungs burned every time you pushed off into another sprint, exhaustion settling heavily into your legs beneath the adrenaline, but it barely registered anymore. The ache in your ribs from earlier pulsed every time you twisted too sharply, yet even that felt distant compared to the rush of momentum building around your team.
The scoreboard hanging above the rink read 5–1.
Boston looked furious about it.
You stole another pass near center ice before one of their forwards could recover properly, intercepting it so cleanly that she nearly lost her footing trying to turn around after you. The crowd reacted immediately, noise erupting through the arena while you accelerated down the ice with one of your teammates racing alongside you.
A defender moved toward you.
You waited until the very last second before sliding the puck across the ice.
Your teammate buried it immediately.
The red goal light flashed, and before you fully registered it, the arena exploded.
By the time you reached the boards again, your teammates were already swarming you, gloves smacking against your helmet and shoulders while somebody nearly crashed hard enough into your back to knock you forward.
You were laughing before you realized it, adrenaline making everything feel sharp and electric beneath your skin while the Boston goalie snapped her stick against the post in frustration somewhere behind you.
Several rows above the glass, Tucker stood abruptly from his seat with the kind of dramatic excitement only hockey players seemed capable of.
His hands coming together with immense force as his claps echoed alongside the rest of the cheers in the arena.
Dean laughed immediately beside him, though his attention shifted toward Logan a second later once he realized there had been absolutely no reaction.
Logan had not looked away from the ice.
Not once.
His forearms rested against his knees while his eyes tracked you, a small grin tugging at his lips despite the intent behind his eyes.
Dean noticed it first.
Or maybe he had noticed earlier and only now found it entertaining enough to comment on.
“Y'know,” he said slowly, “most people blink occasionally.”
Logan barely reacted.
“You’re staring at her like you’re scouting for the NHL,” Tucker added, dropping back into his seat.
“She’s good,” Logan answered simply.
It came out quieter than either of them expected.
Not dismissive. Not casual. He was just certain.
Dean glanced sideways at him then before looking back toward the ice again where you were circling near the bench waiting for the next line change.
“That is not a normal amount of interest for someone you’ve watched exactly one game of.”
Logan didn’t answer immediately.
The truth was he had stopped paying attention to the rest of the game almost twenty minutes ago. Every time you stepped onto the ice, his focus shifted toward you without thinking. The speed, the aggression, the complete lack of hesitation every time another player came near you. You played like somebody who trusted herself completely, and there was something about that confidence that had rooted itself beneath his skin almost instantly.
The final buzzer sounded not long after.
Briar won 7–1.
The entire team spilled onto the ice immediately afterward while music blasted through the arena speakers and students crowded harder against the glass cheering. Your helmet disappeared during the celebration at some point, leaving your hair flattened messily around your face while one of your teammates jumped against your side hard enough to throw both of you off balance.
You caught her automatically, laughing hard enough that Logan could see it even from the stands.
Dean leaned back in his seat slowly.
“Oh, you are fucked,” he muttered.
Logan finally dragged his attention away from the rink long enough to frown at him slightly. “Fuck off." He shoved Dean's shoulder while the two of them laughed as Logan's eyes wandered back to the ice.
You were standing near the bench now talking to your coach, your gloves tucked beneath one arm while you nodded along absently. The arena lights reflected faintly against the sweat still shining along your forehead, and even exhausted, you still looked completely awake somehow. Alive in a way that made it difficult to stop looking at you once he started.
After a short victory lap, the team slowly started disappearing through the tunnel beneath the stands while the energy in the arena softened into postgame noise. You lingered near the ice longer than most of your teammates, still talking to someone through the glass while tossing a puck over for a kid with a little Briar hockey jersey on.
Then your head turned slightly toward the stands.
Toward him.
Logan went still.
Even from this far away, he could see the brief flicker of awareness cross your expression as your eyes passed over the crowd and paused for half a second too long in his direction.
It wasn't recognition, despite the fact that he wanted it to be. It was really just awareness.. like you had felt someone watching you.
Before either of you could hold the moment long enough for it to become anything real, one of your teammates grabbed your arm and dragged your attention away again, pulling you toward the tunnel with the rest of the team.
Logan kept looking toward the empty space you had left behind long after you disappeared from sight.
The next morning felt painfully slow after the energy of the game the night before.
Campus had settled back into its usual rhythm by the time Logan crossed the quad toward his lecture hall, students moving in uneven streams through the cold while coffee cups steamed between gloved hands and backpacks bumped against shoulders in crowded walkways.
He barely noticed any of it, all he could think about was crawling back into his bed after his classes wrapped up.
Not because anything was wrong, which honestly only irritated him more, but because every time he closed his eyes he kept replaying flashes from the game in frustratingly vivid detail. The sound of skates against the ice. Your laugh during the postgame celebration. The way you kept getting back up after every hit like it genuinely offended you to stay down.
Dean had called him pathetic three separate times already that morning.
Logan still wasn’t entirely convinced he was wrong.
He pushed open the door to the lecture hall a few minutes before class started, stepping into the familiar low buzz of conversation and keyboards tapping. The room smelled faintly like coffee and winter air dragged in from outside, students already settling into seats while the projector glowed dimly against the front wall.
Logan started down the steps automatically, his hands settled in his pockets while he made his way towards the usual row he sat in.
Then, his steps came to a screeching halt.
Three rows from the front sat a navy blue Briar athlete backpack slouched beside one of the seats.
Women’s hockey was embroidered, and small along the top of the front pocket.
His eyes caught on the small keychain hanging from the zipper almost instantly.
#12.
For a second, he just stared at it. Then his gaze lifted higher.
You sat half turned in your seat talking quietly to the girl beside you, one sleeve pulled over your hand while you absentmindedly highlighted something in your notebook with the other. Your hair was perfect, and despite being beneath a helmet earlier that morning for practice, he was sure it smelled like vanilla.
Without all the gear and arena lights around you, you looked softer somehow. Still pretty enough to make his chest tighten annoyingly hard. Just… real now. Close enough to touch.
Logan stood there long enough that somebody behind him had to awkwardly step around him to get down the stairs.
He moved automatically after that, though his attention stayed fixed on you the entire way down the aisle.
You still had not noticed him.
Part of him almost preferred it that way, because now that he was actually standing in the same room as you instead of watching from the stands, he realized he had absolutely no idea what to say.
Which was new.
Logan was not usually nervous around women. Confident, relaxed, occasionally arrogant if Dean was being honest, but never nervous.
Yet suddenly he was hyperaware of everything. The sound of his shoes against the lecture hall floor. The fact that his heartbeat felt stupidly loud. The way your fingers tapped absently against your pen while reading over your notes.
He passed your row. Kept walking. Then, immediately regretted it and pretended to take a phone call to abort back up a few rows.
By the time he dropped into a seat a few rows higher, Dean — who had walked in behind him at some point — looked close to losing his mind laughing.
“Holy shit,” he whispered while sitting beside him. “You panicked.”
“I didn’t fucking panic.”
“You literally walked past her like a Victorian dude seeing an ankle.”
Logan stared straight ahead. “Shut up.”
Dean leaned back in his chair, visibly delighted. “You’re down horrendous.”
Logan ignored him, though not very successfully considering his attention had already drifted back toward you again.
You were still focused on your notebook completely unaware of the crisis currently happening several rows behind you.
Then, as if sensing it somehow, you glanced over your shoulder.
Your eyes landed on him immediately with a flicker of recognition swiping across your face almost instantly.
Logan watched the exact second you noticed him noticing you. You looked away first, and that was enough to make warmth crawl unexpectedly up the back of his neck.
Dean saw the entire interaction and looked ready to combust.
“You made eye contact,” he whispered dramatically, his eyelashes batting in a playful fashion.
“Please be quiet.”
“Are you in love?”
Logan rubbed a hand slowly over his face.
Class started before Dean could keep talking, though that honestly did not help much, considering Logan spent the first twenty minutes hearing absolutely none of the lecture.
His focus kept drifting. He noticed how you chewed lightly on the end of your pen while reading. The way you fidgeted with your necklace while listening to the professor. You wrote quickly, confidently, barely ever crossing things out or hesitating before moving onto the next line.
At one point, you stretched slightly in your seat and winced.
Subtle and quick. But Logan noticed immediately, of course he did, he was noticing everything you had done for the past 30 minutes.
Your ribs.
The hit from yesterday had clearly bruised you worse than you’d acted like it did. The thought of that was enough to bother him for the rest of class.
When the lecture finally ended, students started gathering their things immediately, backpacks zipping loudly while conversations picked up around the room.
Logan watched you zip your backpack shut carefully before standing. Then he watched two different guys notice you at exactly the same time.
One of them moved before he was able to finish fumbling to put his laptop away.
Of course he did.
Tall, confident-looking business major type. The kind of guy that was probably in a frat with a snap score of at least 2 million.
Logan felt irritation spark instantly.
The guy smiled at you while adjusting the strap of his backpack. “Hey, you’re on the hockey team, right? You played last night?”
You looked up politely. “Oh-.. uh, Yeah.”
“You were really good.”
Logan hated how genuine the compliment sounded, he was expecting this douche to be superficial and just ask for your snap to add to his roster.
You smiled softly anyway. “Thank you.”
The guy opened his mouth again, clearly gearing up to continue the conversation.
Then Logan stood.
Dean looked up immediately with the kind of excitement usually reserved for live sporting events.
“Ho-ly shit,” he muttered.
Logan ignored him completely before heading down the stairs.
He wasn’t entirely sure what his plan was, only that the idea of walking out of this room without talking to you suddenly felt impossible.
The guy was still talking by the time Logan reached the bottom of the stairs.
Something about study groups, or maybe coffee. Logan honestly was not listening closely enough to tell the difference.
Your attention stayed politely fixed on him while you adjusted the strap of your backpack higher onto your shoulder, though there was something slightly distracted about your expression, like your mind was already somewhere else entirely. Exhaustion lingered faintly beneath your eyes from the game the night before, softened only slightly by the fact that you still looked unfairly pretty standing there in your Briar hockey sweatshirt and sweatpants.
The small keychain hanging from your backpack zipper knocked lightly against the fabric every time you moved.
#12.
Logan’s eyes caught on it again before he could stop himself.
“You play unbelievable, by the way,” the guy continued. “That goal in the third period was insane.”
You smiled politely, surprised that this guy actually had gone to the game, and wasn't just using it as an excuse to hit on you. “Thanks, Boston's never an easy opponent.”
The conversation should have ended there.
You clearly wanted to end it there.
But the guy kept standing in front of you anyway, lingering just enough that Logan recognized the strategy immediately. Stretch the interaction out long enough and eventually it becomes something else.
Normally he wouldn’t have cared.
Except now he did, annoyingly so, at that.
Before he could overthink it, he stepped closer.
“You should probably ice your ribs.” The words came out naturally, low and calm, though the moment they left his mouth, you turned toward him immediately.
Recognition crossed your face faster, and it wasn't just vague familiarity, but rather memory this time.
You had seen him in the stands last night, and Logan got to watch the exact second it clicked for you.
“The guy from the game,” you smiled before seeming to realize you had spoken out loud.
Your voice sounded rougher than he expected, slightly worn at the edges from yelling over rink noise the night before.
Something about it settled heavily in his chest.
“Yeah,” Logan answered quietly.
For a brief second, the other guy still standing beside you looked deeply confused by the interaction happening in front of him.
“You know each other?” he asked.
“No,” both of you answered at the exact same time.
That seemed to catch you off guard a little because your mouth twitched faintly afterward, like you were trying not to laugh.
Logan felt warmth spread unexpectedly through his chest at the sight of it.
The other guy looked between the two of you again before apparently deciding he was suddenly no longer part of the conversation.
“Well,” he said awkwardly, adjusting his backpack strap, “I’ll see you around.”
You smiled politely again. “See you.”
The second he disappeared into the crowd of students leaving the lecture hall, silence settled briefly between you and Logan.
Up close, he noticed details he hadn’t been able to see clearly from the stands. A faint bruise near your jaw partially hidden beneath your hair. The exhaustion lingering beneath your eyes. The slight stiffness in your posture every time you shifted your weight too quickly.
You were definitely hurting more than you wanted people to notice.
“You really should ice those ribs,” he repeated more quietly this time.
Your eyebrows lifted slightly. “You could tell?”
“You flinched during class.” The answer seemed to surprise you, no one besides your roommate paid enough attention to notice when you had an injury you were insistent on downplaying.
Heat crawled faintly into your expression before you looked away for half a second, adjusting the sleeve pulled over your hand.
“It’s fine,” you murmured. “Just bruised, at least nothing's broken. ”
Logan frowned slightly. “That hit looked bad.”
“It was bad.”
“Yet, you got right back up. Scoring after nearly breaking the glass is some insane shit.”
Something softer flickered briefly across your face then.
“Kind of have to in hockey.” You shrugged in amusement, a smile tugging at your lips that was much more genuine than with the frat guy from a few moments ago.
And Logan was taking that as a win.
Students continued filtering loudly around the two of you while the lecture hall slowly emptied, but Logan barely registered any of it anymore. His attention stayed fixed entirely on you, on the way you shifted your backpack higher against your shoulder or how your fingers tapped absently against the strap while thinking.
“So, you came to the game? There was more turnout than usual for our game's last night, it was fun.” you asked after a second.
The question sounded casual, though curiosity lingered beneath it.
Logan nodded once. “Yeah, I went with some of my roommates, we decided last minute because one of them wanted a fucking pretzel.”
“And now you’re giving medical advice to strangers?”
A smile tugged unexpectedly at his mouth. “You don’t really feel like a stranger.” The sentence slipped out before he could stop it, and immediately his eyes squinted a bit in regret, and his brows furrowed.
Your eyes lifted back to his immediately.
For one horrible second, Logan considered the possibility that he had just sounded insane, but your expression softened instead in a very subtle way.
“Well,” you hummed quietly, “you still don’t know me.”
“I know your name.”
The moment he said it, your eyebrows lifted again.
“I-... uh, looked up the roster.” Logan had the decency to look slightly guilty as the words left his mouth.
You stared at him for half a second longer before laughing softly under your breath, and the sound hit him with the same force it had the night before in the arena.
It was soft and warm, to anyone else it would be like music to their ears, but to Logan? It was dangerous.
“That’s a little insane,” you told him, playfully putting on a disapproving face that quickly dissolved into a smile.
“Yeah, no, for sure.”
The honesty of the answer seemed to catch you off guard enough that you laughed again, shaking your head while starting toward the aisle leading out of the lecture hall.
Logan naturally fell into step beside you without thinking about it. From across the aisle, Dean held up two thumbs-ups and mouthed 'Fuck yeah,' which Logan was happy to drown out with the conversation that was slowly building between the two of you.
She was a friend of Jason’s visiting Virginia Beach. Special Forces with stories that rivaled Bravo. The guys are smitten with her after she sparred with Full Metal earlier in the day whooping his ass. Sonny declared it was a monumental occasion for drinks out at the Bulkhead because of her victory and on Metal’s dime.
“I’m gonna get me a date boys, watch and learn.” Sonny was hardly within three feet of her at the pool table where she was engaged in a game with Trent when her pool cue hit his chest.
“Imma stop you right there little hobbit from the Texan shire. I have no interest in an adventure chasing down the rest of your ilk to Isengard or whatever else you’re searching for.”
Sonny walked away speechless unable to understand what the hell just happened. Trent on the other hand chuckled earning a wink from her loving the nerdy fantasy reference.
Next came Brock sauntering up cocky as could be. Leaning on the table beside her interrupting her turn.
“How bout we pretend I’m the Titanic and you’re the ocean and I’ll go down on you.” Brock looked hopeful til she yawned.
“Not interested in a Wish version of a Jim Henson Muppet.” She said it as clear as day and as smoothly to boot.
Clay thought his charming smile would win her over but alas he was wrong.
“Does your mother know you snuck outta the house?” Rolling her eyes huffing an annoyed sigh. She’d been trying to hit her ball for the last 20 minutes but Bravo wouldn’t stop. "Why don’t you go pop that binky back in your mouth and take a nap.“
Jason and Ray thought the whole thing was hilarious. Her dead-pan dry wit was why she and Jason had gotten along as friends for so many years. Not too many people would have been able to talk to each other the way they did and remain friends but maybe that was a side effect of being in the military as well. Humor could be found even in the darkest of places.
She was racking the balls for another game of pool with Trent when Metal appeared offering a shot of whiskey and a cocky smirk.
"I’m not into watching sunsets but I’d love to watch you go down.”
“Does that shit actually work on anyone you don’t have to pay by the hour?” It was the second time that day that she’d managed to wound the ego of the infamous Alpha 1.
Three games of pool later she and Trent were sitting at the bar talking about Comic-Con and the Mandalorian. She shared a loved of all things geeky and nerdy that drew him in when he finally noticed the way she was smiling at him.
“What?” Returning the grin.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had this much fun with a woman without the obsessive wonder of whether or not she was focusing on his arm. She’d glanced at it twice throughout the night but not a hint of pity as she did. It was kinda exhilarating being able to ‘fangirl’ over Star Wars without her making fun of him too.
“Why didn’t you join in on their game?” Nudging his shoulder playfully. “Am I not your type?”
“No, God no!” Trent almost knocked his beer over embarrassed. “I mean you are my type it’s just… I don’t have the greatest luck with the ladies.” He glanced towards his scarred arm as if that was the sole reason for the lack of a love life. “Two failed marriages so I gotta be the problem, right?”
“I doubt that,” snaking her arm around his leaning into him, palm on his scarred arm drawing shapes with her finger, sucking in her bottom lip. “You’re a fantastic combo, good looking, funny, and oh so nerdy it’s a major turn-on. Come on, gimme your best line. The worst thing that could happen is I laugh and give you a pity kiss.”
“And the best thing?” Knuckles rolling over her arm making goosebumps appear.
“I get to see how you like your coffee in the morning,” wiggling her brows with a wide smirk.
Trent thought for a minute when it hit him. He couldn’t remember where he’d heard it but it was still funny as shit thinking about it. She seemed like the type to appreciate it.
“Do you know what’s better than sixty-nine?” A confident grin played at his mouth.
“What?” Licking her lips at the way he smiled.
“Eighty-eight.”
“What?” Scrunched eyes chuckling at the way his eyes lit up.
“Yeah, eighty-eight” sitting up a little taller. “Because you get eight twice.”
“That’s it,” pulling her arm away she stood up gathering her things from the bar top.
Trent thought he failed, the others shaking their heads from their table a few feet away thinking Trent struck out. She was a couple of steps away when she stopped.
“You coming or what?” Biting her lip to keep from smiling uncontrollably.
“Huh? Wait that worked?” Jumping to his feet in disbelief.
“Come on, show me how a wet seal can get,” giggling pulling him out of the front door of the Bulkhead.
“Pay up fuckers,” Jason’s palms out motioning for cash.
There are some characters you just CANNOT read fanfiction of them with xReader or xOG Character because they’re already with their soulmate. Like those babes come as a set & therefore CANNOT be separated.
Emma's experience with relationships (or—relationship, singular, really) was largely built on pressure and reciprocity. the very fundamentals of love and affection being hinged on a quid pro quo.
no physical, emotional intimacy without an equivalent exchange of something sexual. a caveat her ex-boyfriend (dumped after a lot of nagging from her peers who knew about him—but the final nail in the coffin being Dana's incredulous stare and miffed Jesus, kid, you lettin' him walk all over you like that?) used to whine about constantly—despite her repeatedly telling him she wanted to wait until marriage. she's just—used to being pressured into giving something up in exchange for something else.
it's just how it is, she thinks, because relationships, to her, are about a constant nagging, the whining, the guilt-tripping (don't you, like, love me, Emma? marriage doesn't even mean anything), and attempts at guilt-tripping and shaming her (because he's the only virgin in his friend group and it's kinda lame, waiting for marriage at their age—).
and when she ends up dating Park, she expects a lot of the same when she finally—in a stammering fluster—admits that she wanted to be a nun, but settled instead for waiting until marriage, and that sex isn't something that will unfold in their relationship anytime soon, if at all.
waits, tense and nervous in the front seat of his car, for the scoffs, the incredulity, the guilt-trips—the five stages of grief but it's a grown man being denied the immediacy of sex. braces for it, even, because there's telling a guy the same age as her that she doesn't want to fuck, and then there's telling a man twice her age—a man with stubble and chest hair and penthouse he owns all to himself; a career, a surgeon—and a damned good one, at that—and a respectable adult, a forty-one year old who is probably only dating her for the benefits, right? sex with someone so much younger. the novelty of it all—that it's not on the table.
but instead of whining, begging, scoffing, or dumping her on the spot, he just stares at her for a beat, mulling it over in his head, before he nods. a slow, easy thing. okay, that's fine. just like that. like it's no big deal. and it's a little too good to be true, isn't it? he's not the second, or even fifth, man she's dated within the last year after her breakup who said the same thing, only to begin pestering her once the novelty wore off and they thought they could convince her now that she was malleable, pliant—to no avail. she assumes it'll be much the same, and has one foot constantly out the door because she's set on her decision. set on her choice.
only it isn't the same at all because unlike her ex-boyfriend or the guys she saw before Park, he doesn't bring it up. doesn't expect anything at all after their dates, just drives her to her apartment, says goodnight, and walks her to her door, waiting until the lock turns and the lights go off before he drives away. intimacy—physical, emotional—are given when she needs them, but not in the way she expected to get them: little things, like his hand on her lower back whenever they go anywhere, his finger curling into her belt loop to keep her close, laying in his bed with him—fully dressed—while they watch old man movies he's so fond of but she's never seen; his eyes finding hers, immediately, in any room he walks into; his thumb brushing over the swell of her cheek before he leans down and kisses her. and it's always a chaste, soft thing that leaves her hungry for more in a way she never felt before—
in a way that makes her acutely aware of the ache between her thighs—a new thing she doesn't remember feeling unless she was alone in her bed, paper-thin fantasies spinning behind her eyelids—and an itch that burns, burrows deep, whenever she smells his aftershave on her skin when she's lying in bed, still dizzy from the way he kissed her senseless and then took her home, put her to bed with stubble-irritated skin, swollen lips, and a need so deep, she feels the sticky, slick slide of her thighs each time she moves; the wetness saturating her panties and sticking to mound every breath. it's a little unbearable, really. and makes her silently wish he was just like the rest—pushy and wanting and giving her ultimatums so she can finally give in, give up, and just let him fuck her—
but he doesn't. he won't.
and even when she's the pushy one, the one begging and mewling against his lips, leaving slick, open-mouthed pleas along his stubbled jaw to just do it, just fuck her, she doesn't want to wait, all he does is huffs—this chest deep exhale, like he's amused by her—and then grabs her wrists in his hand, before dragging her until she's sitting on his lap with her back pressed to his chest, his voice rumbling in her ear as he tells her to be good. puts on a movie as she squirms, feeling the thick, hard press of his cock against her ass, but unable to do anything about it because she doesn't know how, and he won't let her.
leaves her feeling needy and wanting and useless and half-crazed as he wraps his thick arms around her, and grunts come on, watch the movie, Emma—like she wasn't seconds away from giving up her oath, her promise; wasn't actively (and eagerly) throwing her consent in his lap for him to devour until there wasn't nothing left for anyone else. instead he leaves her a frustrated, weepy mess wishing he was just like her ex as he hums in her ear about whatever stupid movie he put on for them to watch, seemingly content to ignore the fever in her veins as Al Pacino struts on the tv.
and in the aftermath, Emma tries to find ways to make him break; and Park contemplates just how long he has to keep this going before she's too eager to say no when he finally pulls out the velvet box he'd gotten only hours after their first date.
I need more fics of these men!!! Like these babes deserved to get the girl and we were deprived of it dammit!! Like don’t tell me they had slim to zero game. I’m calling bullshit.
Emma Nolan/Park the Shark roommate AU fic that I have in the works, because I’ve read all 38 fics in the babyshark relationship tag on ao3 and it’s simply not enough:
>>>
Brendon’s therapist told him to get a roommate.
He’s an orthopaedic surgeon on a six figure salary so it’s not like he needs the money. But his therapist says he’s lonely and that he shies away from emotional intimacy and meaningful connections.
Brendon thinks it’s bullshit, but he doesn’t pay the guy for nothing. Besides, the other option presented to him had been dating, which was never happening in a million years.
In comparison, the whole roommate schtick seemed to be the most low-effort, low-commitment of them all.
He works an easy 60 hours a week. He’s only ever really home to eat or sleep, and if he really hates the idea of having a roommate, he can just ask them to leave and return any unused rent back to them.
So, he puts out an ad online for a roommate. He lives close to the hospital — Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Centre, or PTMC for short. He doesn’t really need the rent, so he advertises for well below market rate, and he specifies that he’ll only accept fellow a medical professional as a roommate. Ideally, they’ll also work at PTMC given he’s only a ten minute drive from the hospital, but he’s happy to take someone that works at UPMC Mercy or Presbyterian seeing as he lives relatively close to all three.
The important thing for Brendon is that they work as much as he does and that they appreciate the need for a quiet, calm home after the chaos of a 12 to 16 hour shift.
This is how he meets one Emma Nolan, a newly registered nurse set to start at PTMC in a few weeks.
She’s bright eyed, sweet, and bubbly. She tours the apartment with a keen eye that tells Brendon she’s lived in a shit hole or two whilst at college. She checks that his dryer works, which he tries not to be offended by, and she turns on all the lights and runs the water in the en-suite bathroom attached to what would become her bedroom.
She puts it all back meticulously, and Brendon makes a mental note to try and snag her for the surgical nursing team on his floor at the first chance he gets.
PTMC had decided long ago that newly registered nurses needed experience elsewhere in the hospital before being put in the pressure cooker of the operating room, where the stakes were higher and the doctors were less forgiving.
Brendon didn’t necessarily disagree with the policy, but now he’s starting to wish for a loop hole he can abuse to poach her early.
i come bearing babyshark that i horked up after a year of no writing. have at it, my loves. 700 ish words, very lightly hinted breeding kink and dom/sub dynamics, park is down bad bc it's what emma deserves. not beta read, i am going down with this like robby does with his mental health.
he stares at the spot as if it personally offended him. it did, really, seeing it mar the soft canvas that is his girl, the cute little thing wandering around the ED with eyes the size of saucers.
she is his. in his bed, in his house, in his shirt, smelling of his overly expensive cologne.
which is why he is currently staring daggers at the scraggly looking intern's spine as he is bent over her arm, cleaning up a cut and ruining his pretty little thing in the process.
god, he should've fucking chosen plastics. could've fixed her up himself, find an excuse about the tension of the skin and the location of the cut looking less than desirable. alas, he takes far too much pleasure in abusing bones back into their proper places, fixing faulty structures.
she isn't faulty. she's a fucking perfect example of a person, kind and gentle, a round ass straining against the fabric of the scrubs that look good on no one but her, the braids he does for her every morning before work brushing along her upper back, her smile, eyes, her voice-- god she would look so good with his kid in her belly, cooing to the little thing when it arrived, forever linked to him by proxy.
molars grit harshly as he stares across the pit, zeroed in on her as her skin gets stained with betadine.
it doesn't belong on her skin. it belongs on imperfect things that need to be fixed, and she never needs to be fixed. she is perfect as is. too good for this place, too good for him.
and yet.
he takes one last drag before tossing the cigarette onto the ground, crushing it with the heel before stomping inside, ignoring everyone as he marches over and fully yanks the curtain aside.
"move."
the intern he vaguely recognises startles, eyes wide as he looks up. "oh, uh, doctor park-, I, uh…" the kid stutters, looking like a mouse caught in a trap. "it's- this is, emma, she's a--"
"move," he snarls again, and the kid skitters off without opening his mouth again, leaving him to take his seat.
he flicks on a pair of gloves, eyes glued to the dark betadine stain surrounding a small cut on her wrist.
"what happened?"
she doesn't blink, doesn't protest as he gently turns her wrist, checking all angles. "tried to accept a scalpel back, except we both missed and it slipped," she softly replied. "bloodwork is already sent off, i'll hear back later."
his face remains emotionless, but he also knows she's beneath his skin in a manner that terrifies him. as much as he wants to devour her whole, he knows it would never happened if she wasn't on to him.
"glue should be fine," he grits out after scanning every possible angle of a cut that can't be bigger than a quarter. "i want you to take tomorrow off."
"it's just a cut."
"take tomorrow off."
"it is just a cut."
"it wasn't a suggestion," he snarls. "you are taking tomorrow off, and staying at mine. understood?"
for a moment, he thinks she'll go full brat on him, defy him even if she was the one to insist avoiding each other at work, never take that part of them along with them. she has her tells, head held high and jaw ticking, eyes turning frigid where they're always soft.
all the tells are there.
"fine," she settles on. "only if you do it with me, and we order potstickers."
"fine."
"fine."
she always looks like the cat that got the cream when she gets her way, even if it is really his way, the corners of her mouth curling up. he thinks she'd purr if she could.
he carefully pinches the sides of the cut together, checking one more time before barking over his shoulder.
"you. come here."
the same intern, the one that looks like he's been worked to the bone since he first drew breath if those circles beneath his eyes where anything to go by, rushes forward.
"it can be glued. clean up the skin after. do not let it happened again, understood?"
"y-yes, sir."
he rises and takes the gloves off, tossing them into the bin. he ignores the curious glances that he can feel on his skin, punching the elevator button to head back upstairs.
later tonight, he'll bathe her, make sure all that skin is in perfect condition and wholly his again, the exact way it should always be.
The road blurred into long stretches of dark highway and dim gas station lights, the kind that flicker in empty parking lots at two in the morning. His truck hummed beneath him, engine steady, tires whispering against wet asphalt.
Rain had started somewhere along the way.
Light at first.
Now it tapped against the windshield in a quiet, restless rhythm.
Johnny barely noticed.
His mind was somewhere else entirely.
Every mile that passed only made the realization hit harder.
Every memory sharpened.
You laughing at something stupid he said.
You shaking your head when he got cocky.
The way you looked at him when he was telling a story.
You patiently explaining what some girl meant when she sent a confusing text.
“You should ask her out, Johnny.”
The memory of your words twisted something deep in his chest.
Because now he understood something that made his stomach feel sick.
You’d been helping him chase other women.
And he had been too blind to see what was right in front of him the whole time.
Johnny tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
“Idiot,” he muttered to himself.
Three hours.
Three hours of thinking about every conversation the two of you had ever had.
Three hours of wondering how he’d missed something so obvious.
Three hours of wondering if it was already too late.
The thought made his chest tighten.
We he arrived, your apartment building was quiet.
The kind of quiet that only exists deep into the night.
Most windows were dark.
The hallway lights buzzed faintly overhead as Johnny climbed the stairs two at a time, boots thudding against the concrete steps.
His pulse hammered in his ears.
He hadn’t planned what he was going to say.
He just knew he had to say something.
Now.
Tonight.
Before he lost the nerve.
Before he lost you.
Johnny stopped outside your door.
For a moment, he just stood there.
Rainwater clung to his jacket and darkened his hair, his chest rising and falling with quick breaths.
And then… he knocked.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
The knock came like something urgent trying to break through the night.
Not polite. Not patient.
You woke with a sharp inhale, disoriented, staring into the dim blur of your bedroom ceiling while your brain tried to understand what had pulled you from sleep. The room was dark except for the faint blue glow of your alarm clock.
2:13 AM.
The knock came again.
Harder.
You pushed yourself upright slowly, heart beginning to thump in your chest. Nobody knocked on your door at two in the morning unless something was wrong.
You grabbed the oversized shirt hanging off the back of your desk chair and pulled it over your head as you walked toward the door, bare feet quiet against the floor. The apartment was still, the only sound the faint patter of rain against the windows.
Another knock.
“Alright,” you called groggily, voice rough with sleep. “Hold on.”
When you opened the door, the words died in your throat.
Johnny stood in the hallway like a man who had driven straight through a storm without stopping.
Rain darkened his hair, plastering some of it to his forehead. His jacket was damp, the shoulders speckled with droplets. His chest rose and fell heavily, like he’d been running even though you knew he hadn’t.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
“Johnny?” you said finally, confusion pushing through the fog of sleep. “What are you doing here?”
He looked at you like he hadn’t been entirely sure you’d open the door.
Like he needed to see you standing there to believe it.
“I left the date.” he said.
You blinked.
“The one tonight?”
“Aye.”
The hallway light buzzed faintly above him.
You glanced past him into the empty corridor, then back to his face.
“Okay,” you said slowly. “Why?”
Johnny ran a hand through his wet hair, pushing it back from his forehead. The movement looked restless, like his body had too much energy and nowhere to put it.
“Can I come in?” he asked.
The question surprised you more than anything else. Johnny rarely asked permission for things like that. Normally he would’ve already stepped inside, talking the whole time.
Something about the carefulness in his voice made your chest tighten.
You stepped aside.
“Yeah. Of course.”
He walked in slowly, pulling the door closed behind him. The quiet of the apartment seemed to settle around both of you immediately. The small lamp near your couch cast a soft amber glow over the room, catching on the water still clinging to the shoulders of his jacket.
Johnny stood there for a second, looking around like he needed a moment to gather himself.
Then he said quietly, “I think I’ve been living my whole life backwards.”
You frowned. Sleep making everything a little more… confusing.
“What does that mean?”
Johnny looked at you.
Not the casual glance he usually gave, the quick easy one you’d known for years.
This was heavier.
Intense.
“I was halfway through dinner tonight,” he said slowly, “and I realized I didn’t want to be there.”
“Bad date?” you asked gently.
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“That’s the problem.”
You tilted your head slightly.
He exhaled, long and steady.
“She’s nice. Smart. Funny. Beautiful. Everything I’m supposed to want.”
“Okay…”
Johnny’s eyes dropped briefly to the floor.
“And I kept wishing she was you.”
Your heart stumbled.
“Johnny…”
“I tried to ignore it,” he continued quietly. “Thought maybe I was just distracted. But then she laughed at something I said.”
Your brows knit together.
“That sounds normal.”
He shook his head faintly.
“It wasn’t your laugh. Didn’t… sound like yours.. didn’t.. make my chest all warm and…”
The words landed softly but they still knocked the breath from your lungs.
Johnny leaned back against the wall, dragging both hands over his face.
“…And suddenly I started remembering things…” he murmured.
You stood there watching him, the heaviness in his voice making your chest feel tight.
“Like what?” you asked.
He lowered his hands.
“You remember the first time we met?”
The question startled a small breath of laughter out of you.
“You tackled me.”
“I did not tackle you.”
“You absolutely did.”
“You were stealing my football.”
“I picked it up.”
“You ran.”
“You chased me!”
Johnny’s mouth twitched slightly, but the humor faded quickly.
“You had dirt all over your knees,” he said, gaze drifting somewhere past you like he was watching the memory unfold. “And you punched me in the arm when I grabbed the ball back.”
“You deserved it.”
“I was ten.”
“So was I.”
He nodded faintly.
“I remember thinking you were the angriest girl I’d ever met.”
You crossed your arms.
“I was not angry.”
“You threatened to throw my shoe in the creek.”
“That’s because you called me bossy.”
“You were bossy.”
You gave him a look.
Johnny’s expression softened, the faintest hint of a smile appearing.
“But you walked me home anyway…” he said.
Your arms loosened slightly.
“You were lost.”
“I was not lost.”
“You were two streets away from where you lived.”
Johnny shrugged.
“Technicalities.”
Silence settled between you for a moment.
The rain tapped softly against the window.
Johnny’s voice lowered again.
“You remember sophomore year?”
Your stomach tightened.
“Johnny…”
“The dance.”
You looked down.
“Yeah.”
“You sat on the bleachers the whole night.”
“I was tired.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
You didn’t answer.
Johnny pushed himself off the wall, stepping closer.
“I asked three girls to dance that night.” he said.
Your throat felt tight.
“I remember.”
“And I didn’t ask you.”
“No.”
“I didn’t even think about it.”
The honesty in his voice was brutal.
Your chest ached.
“You don’t have to do this..” you murmured.
“Yes, I do.”
His voice was firm now.
“Because tonight I realized something that makes me feel like the biggest idiot alive.”
You looked up slowly.
Johnny’s eyes found yours.
“I’ve spent the last ten years telling the girl I love about every other woman I thought I might like.”
The words knocked the air right out of your lungs.
“You don’t—”
“I do.”
Your voice shook.
“Johnny, you can’t just—”
“I drove three hours because I couldn’t sit there another second pretending I hadn’t figured it out.”
Your heart pounded.
Johnny’s voice softened.
“Do you know what I remembered on the drive here?”
You shook your head faintly.
“The night my dad died.”
Your breath caught.
“You were sixteen,” he continued quietly. “You climbed out your bedroom window and walked three blocks to sit on the curb outside my house.”
You swallowed hard.
“You didn’t say anything,” he said. “You just sat there next to me.”
Your voice came out small.
“You looked like you were going to fall apart.”
“I was.”
Johnny’s eyes didn’t leave yours.
“You stayed until the sun came up.”
You felt tears prick behind your eyes.
“You always stayed.”
The weight in those words nearly crushed you.
“And what did I do?” he went on softly. “I grew up, joined the military, and started asking you how to text other women.”
Your eyes burned.
“You didn’t know.”
“I should have.”
You shook your head, voice breaking slightly.
“How?”
Johnny stepped closer.
“You look at me like I hung the bloody moon” he said.
You let out a shaky laugh.
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
His voice dropped lower.
“And I’ve been too blind to notice.”
You wiped quickly at your cheek.
“You were happy,” you whispered.
Johnny stared at you.
“You thought helping me chase other women would make me happy?”
“I thought if I told you how I felt, I’d lose you.”
His face softened instantly.
“You could never lose me.”
“I could’ve.”
Johnny stepped even closer.
Now there was barely any space left between you.
“Tell me something honestly,” he said quietly.
Your chest rose and fell unevenly.
“Okay.”
“Did you love me back then?”
The question felt fragile in the air.
You hesitated.
Then nodded.
“Yes.”
Johnny closed his eyes briefly, something like pain crossing his face.
“How long?”
Your voice barely carried.
“Since we were teenagers.”
He exhaled slowly.
“Christ.”
Silence wrapped around you again.
Then Johnny looked at you with something softer now.
“If I’d realized sooner,” he asked quietly, “would you have said yes?”
Your heart twisted painfully.
“Yes.”
The answer came without hesitation.
Johnny’s gaze lingered on your face for a long moment.
Then he reached up slowly, brushing his thumb beneath your eye where another tear had slipped free.
His touch was gentle.
Reverent.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked softly.
The question made your chest ache in a completely different way.
You nodded.
Johnny leaned down slowly, giving you every chance to change your mind.
You didn’t.
When his lips finally met yours, the kiss was soft and careful at first, something long imagined finally becoming real.
Your hand slid up into his damp hair without thinking.
Johnny made a quiet sound against your mouth, his hand settling at your waist as the kiss deepened slightly.
Warm.
Certain.
Years of unspoken feelings collapsing into a single moment.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
Both of you breathing a little harder.
Johnny let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh.
“All this time..” he murmured.
Your fingers curled gently into the front of his shirt.
“Took you long enough, MacTavish.” You teased lightly.
Didn’t hate them – he just didn’t get them. Didn’t get how people melted over something that screamed, drooled, and stared at him like he was a nightmare in human form.
Kids always screamed when they saw him in his balaclava.
He took it off?
Worse. Way worse.
That was why he never showed at team dinners. Soap’s kids, Price’s kids – he didn’t want to be the reason they cried. Didn’t want to see that look again.
He’d seen it once before.
A kid on the street had stared at him too long and blurted out,“Mum, he’s uglier than a monster.”
The woman had grabbed her son and practically run, fear all over her face.
Ugly. Monster. Scarred. Scary.
So when it came to his baby girl, Simon was fucking terrified.
“No,” he said flatly the first time you suggested it.
You’d barely finished your sentence.
“She’s our daughter, Si,” you said gently. “She should see your face. Her father's face.”
“She doesn’t need to,” he snapped. “Mask stays on. End of it.”
He’d sit with her for hours, mask firmly in place, huge gloved hands impossibly gentle as he played with her. And she adored him —giggled every time he spoke, squealed when he leaned close.
“Yeah, you’re proper hard, you are,” he muttered one afternoon, bouncing her lightly. “Big strong girl. Gonna knock yer old man out one day, eh?”
She babbled back, fingers grabbing his crooked nose through the fabric.
You smiled from the doorway.“She thinks you’re pretty, Si.”
He scoffed. “Don’t talk shite.”
“I’m serious.”
“She’s a baby,” he muttered. “Give it a second. Soon as this comes off, she’ll scream her head off. I’m not doin’ that to her.”
Days later.
Steam still clung to the bathroom door when Simon stepped out, towel slung low around his hips, one hand scrubbing roughly at his face. Bare. Exposed.
You froze.
Then grinned.
“Oh no,” he muttered immediately. “Don’t you dare.”
Too late.
You stepped right into his path, your baby balanced on your hip. “Hi, love.”
“Absolutely not,” Simon barked, panic sharp in his voice. “Now’s not the time. Move.”
“Simon.”
He turned toward the wall, shoulders tight. “I said no. I’m not lettin’ her see me like this.”
“She deserves—”
“She’ll cry,” he snapped. “And I’m not havin’ that. So fuck off and let me get dressed.”
You reached for the towel. He tightened it instantly. It was heartbreaking seeing such a well trained soldier and more than capable man hiding himself out of fear of hurting his baby girl. Making her scared of him...
“Don’t,” he growled. “Don’t push me.”
Silence stretched - thick, painful. You didn't like this side of him. The side that hates himself so much he ends up hurting you.
Then–
The loudest giggle you’d ever heard.
Your baby shrieked with laughter, burying her face into your neck, shaking with it.
Simon froze.
“What…?” He turned slowly, confused.
She peeked out.
And saw him.
Her smile vanished for half a second–tiny brow furrowing, eyes studying his scars, his broken nose, the harsh lines of his face. Who was this man...huh...
Simon swallowed hard. “Sweetheart…” His voice cracked despite himself. “It’s me.”
That was it.
Recognition hit her like lightning. Her whole face lit up, mouth opening in a toothless grin as she squealed and reached for him.
“No! wait!!” Simon protested, panic flaring again.
You didn’t hesitate. You placed her straight into his arms.
He went completely still. Every muscle locked. Braced for rejection. A scream, a cry.
Instead—
She laughed harder.
Her chubby hands smacked against his scarred cheeks, fingers exploring every line, tugging his nose like it was her favourite toy. She pressed her mouth to his cheek and slobbered happily.
Simon let out a broken sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
“Oh...fuck,” he whispered.
Tears welled, spilling freely as he smiled, really smiled, for the first time in years.
You crossed your arms, smug through your own tears.“Told you.”
She babbled at him, patting his face like she was soothing him now. Little chubby hands awkwardly patting his cheeks and eyes.
He kissed the top of her head, breathing her in like she was air. Then he pulled you into his side with one arm.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured thickly. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry. Thought I’d scare her. Thought I weren’t good enough.”
You leaned into him. “She loves you, Simon. Mask or no mask.”
He spends days afterwards apologizing, doing everything he could to make you happy. But you already were the happiest seeing your daughter shriek with laughter as her daddy makes funny faces to feed her.
And begs you to make little skull patterned mittens for her. To match of course.
Simon Riley’s baby loved him more without the mask.
She grew up thinking she looked just like her dad. And that made her proud.
MASTERLIST 🍎
A/N: Likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated. Luv u all 🍓
You've got your legs tucked up on the sofa, completely lost in a book. Not scrolling. Not half-distracted. Fully gone.
Johnny watches you for a solid five minutes before blurting; "What's it doin' to you that I'm not?"
You blink up at him. "What?"
"That book. You stare at it like it's whisperin' secrets."
You stare at him. Then you hold it out. "Read it."
He scoffs. "I don't-"
Two days later he's asking what chapter you're on.
Now it's a thing.
Between missions, you read together. Sometimes in silence, sometimes shoulder to shoulder. Sometimes sprawled on the floor with a shared blanket like you're not surrounded by tactical gear and weapons.
First genre he tries? Smut.
Because of course.
You warned him. He didn't listen.
Twenty pages in he's staring at you like the book personally betrayed him.
"They're doin' what with _
"Keep reading," you say calmly, not looking up.
He does. Regrets nothing.
Now you both end up whispering commentary.
"That's unrealistic."
"Shut up, let them live."
"Why is he growling?"
"Focus, Johnny."
He absolutely loses it when you casually flip a page and mutter, "That's not how anatomy works."
Soap reading smut is a spiritual experience. He gets invested. Protective. Personally offended by bad writing.
Gaz walks past once and hears;
"NO, he would not have that kind of stamina."
He backs away slowly.
Sometimes it's classics.
You hand him something heavy. Russian. Soul-crushing.
He squints at the names. "Why does everyone have three?"
Halfway through, you're both quiet. Too quiet.
"This is bleak," he mutters.
"Yeah."
"Are we havin' fun?"
"No."
You keep reading anyway.
By the end you're staring at the ceiling together, emotionally wrecked.
"Why would you do this to me," he says softly.
"It builds character."
Price overhears that and mutters, "It builds insomnia."
Then there's sci-fi.
lan M. Banks type stuff. Big concepts. Huge worlds.
Soap gets obsessed.
You'll find him pacing, book in hand, explaining a fictional civilisation like it's real intelligence.
"The scale of it- d'you realise-"
You nod because you do.
You both end up curled on opposite ends of the couch, quiet for hours. Not touching. Just existing in the same imaginary universe.
Ghost walks in once. Looks at the two of you silently reading.
..you're both weird."
You don't even look up.
Gaz peeks over your shoulder sometimes, asks questions. Price pretends not to care but once borrowed one of your books and returned it with dog-eared pages (you gasped).
It becomes ritual.
On mission downtime, in barracks, in transport when it's safe; you and Johnny with books in your laps.
Sometimes your shoulders touch.
Sometimes your knees knock.
Sometimes you both look up at the same time and just grin because you've hit the same ridiculous sentence.
He started reading because he was curious about you.
Now he reads because he likes the way it feels. The quiet. The shared immersion. The way you get animated explaining a theme.
And sometimes-
When the world outside is loud and violent-
It's just you, him, and a story.
And that's enough.
I just realised tumblr is the only social media I care abt being anonymous, it's not cause I care but that's just the vibe yk? Tumblr has creeps that's what l've always heard
SIMON'S MISSUS WHO KICKS AND SLEEP-TALKS LIKE SHE'S POSSESSED 🦖
♡──♡──♡༺♡༻♡──♡──♡
He didn’t know this before marrying you. Not that it would’ve changed his mind, no, but it would’ve been useful information.
First night of marriage. He’s drifting off, arm heavy around you, when you whisper -
"Eyes are the egg yolks of our body."
He frowns into the dark. "The fuck"
“Huh...you droppin’ random facts on me, darlin?” he mutters, half-asleep, Mancunian slurring hard.
You smack your lips, burrow into his chest, and mumble about "you have brown yolks. prettybrown..yolks..mhm.. 500 rainbow pigs beneath the bed.”
He exhales slowly. "Right. Married a lunatic." Arms tugging the blanket over your head. If only he knew this was just the tip of it.
He was gone most of the nights. But oh when he was on a break from missions, he noticed the more tired you are, the worse it gets.
"Mmm… gah. Fuck the Brits" you mumble, rolling away.
He stiffens. "Oi - hang on. I’m British."
Before he can defend his country, your body jolts and you shriek -
"SIMON, GO BACK!"
He bolts upright, heart slamming. "Go back where?! I’ve just got here!"
And then he realised where the slogan came from. God knows why your sleeping brain decided to summon the Indian freedom movement.
The next incident is after a nightmare of a day. You barely make it to the bed, exhausted from your office - and just collapse beside him. He’s come back from a mission early. One look at you and he knows.
He sighs. Tonight’s gonna be violent.
He murmurs about base stuff, boring on purpose, hand massaging your shoulders. He would never tell you the details of the mission but instead told you about the ration food they ate, how Soap managed to save a child or how Gaz adopted a cat on base. You smile faintly, tangle your legs with his, eyes glassy.
"M so in love with you, Si. Your stupid boy missions…"
That does him in. Completely ruins him.
He softens, fingers gentle as he shifts to braid your hair like you do before sleeping. "Aye… sleep, love. You’re knackered." And then you’re out cold.
Three in the morning -
"FREEDOM, COMRADES!"
The scream is feral. Your legs start twitching like you’re charging into war. Simon knew the fucking engine was warming up for it. Legs vibrating like a missile ready to fly off.
"OI - BUNNY - NO - WAIT - DON’T - " he tries holding your thighs.
CrACk!!! Right in the balls.
"FUCKKKK OHh..YOU...gaah...FUCK-" he wheezes, voice breaking.
He curls instinctively, back facing to you as he fights back tears - and that’s when you nail him again. Straight to the ass.
He goes flying off the bed with a heavy thud.
"Never turn yer back to me. Victory at last!!!" you shout, pumping fist in the air, dead asleep.
He lies on the floor, staring at the ceiling, gasping for air.
"...I married a revolution."
In the morning, you find him shuffling across the kitchen, moving very slow.
"Si? Why are you waddling like a penguin?”
He side-eyes you. Slow. Dangerous. "I'm gonna have to cuff you."
You blush instantly, biting your lip. "Oh?"
He snorts. "Oh don’t flatter yourself."
"I mean literally tyin’ your hands and feet at night so you don’t end up ruinin’ our future kids."
It hits you. Oh my God. You kicked his balls in sleep.
You gasp. "Oh my God Si, I’m so sorry!"
He groans, collapsing onto the couch like a Victorian man with the vapours.
"I’ve been shot. Stabbed. Blown up" He glares.
"None of that prepared me for you. Married a woman more lethal than a bomb."
God you feel horrible now. You bring him tea and icepack. He watches you like you’re armed.
"Next time you shout freedom love" he mutters, "I’m sleepin in riot gear."
He pulls you gently between his knees anyway, resting his forehead against your stomach. Protective even while wounded.
You grin. "Still love me?"
He exhales, lips brushing your skin.
"Unfortunately. Madly" he places kisses on your tummy as you knead his scalp gently.
"When they're auditioning for Exorcist 2, I'll let em know I have a lead actor in mind" he grins pulling you closer.
That night, he wraps an arm and a leg around you like a human restraint system. Doesn’t sleep properly. One eye open. Always.
You murmur, half-asleep, "Mmm… rebellion…"
"Don't" he warns softly. "I swear to God."
You kick once - just a twitch.
He tightens his grip instantly. "Nope. Absolutely not. Sleep, Che Guevara."
"Gandhi" you whisper.
And Simon Riley, elite soldier, reduced to fearing bedtime. All thanks to his little nutjob of a wife. He would never admit to anyone on base - how his wifey kicked his ass..quiet literally. But oh how he loves her - natural like breath. He might have to go ribbon shopping later tho..😉
