｡.｡: 𔘓 double j [2j] got me. yes, logan and tucker. hi, this is mawi. filipina. 20+. too many things to think about, so i turn them into words that you're reading. au writer and reader. write poems a lot. formula 1 [gr63 ; mv3 ; aa23 ; op81 ; cs55]. into k-pop [bbhl ; engene ; deobi]. music, movies, books, photography, food, coffee, matcha, travel, makeup.
˚○◦˚.˚◦○ oh, dean and garrett? yes, this is an 18+ blog. minors do not interact. please be mindful for your own media consumption.
ₓₒ⋆:° hey, allie and hannah! here's my masterlist or you can search #mawi writes or #alwaysforgr63fics. i write for jl22 for now, but i will definitely write for jt46, ddl66, and gg44 in the future. also, leaving a friendly reminder: always remember to separate fiction from reality!
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｡.｡:∞ additional. english is not my first language and i'm new to hockey.
summary: you're in love with logan, but what happens when you think he doesn't feel the same way?
request: yes/no
warnings: swearing, drinking
word count: 2.80k
authors note: the amount of people that requested this concept acc shocked me like I have like another thing like this coming out soon because so many people love this concept. hope you all enoy it though and I really don't have much more to say beyond that.
For someone as smart as Logan could be, he could also be the stupidest man alive.
Because as Hannah went up after Beau for karaoke, all Logan could focus on was the girl singing.
The look he gave her made your stomach churn as it was the same look you often gave him.
It was one full of love and hope, not for the person in front of them but for what the two of them could become together.
You had been Logan’s best friend since your first day in your freshman year.
He needed a pen and when you offered up several different colours to him, something just clicked for the two of you. Leaving you inseparable ever since. The puck bunnies always asked why you had never done anything with Logan as his friends always asked if he was hiding that you were more to each other than the rest of the world knew.
While you were always left being forced to smile and nod along when those questions came your way as you swore you two were just friend, you had to admit that it was starting to hurt you.
Somewhere along the way you stared to like John, as more than just a friend.
At first you played it off as something silly, but by the time you actually decied to rip off the bandaid and tell him how you felt.
It was too late, not because Logan was taken but instead because he was looking at Hannah like she already had his heart.
And tonight just reminded you of that as you were forced to sit there and watch as Logan looked at her like she was performing to a room of just him and her “I hate love.” You grumbled as you shook your head when you felt the seat next to you get taken.
Beau went to comfort you “shit,” he yelped as he drunkenly fell off of his chair.
Your hand immediately clasped over your mouth “you good?” Your words were muffled as you tried to hold your other hand out to help him back up.
The boy laughed, finally making you break too “ow.” He groaned as he stood back up.
You shook your head “idiot.” You elbowed the boy who sent you a grin “at least I wasn’t just complaining about a guy.” He stuck his tongue out at you.
A laugh left your lips again as your cheeks turned red “watch it or else I’ll push that chair.” Your warning made Beau grin as he sat on his chair again.
When your eyes went back to Logan you saw him looking right back at Hannah.
From that night you decided that you needed a break.
A chance to pull yourself out of the situation.
A moment to gaslight yourself into thinking that maybe you were wrong and Logan wasn’t in love with Hannah.
And the only way you knew how to do that was to avoid him entirely.
So that was exactly what you did.
And Logan realised something was seriously wrong when you stopped coming to the house entirely.
At first, it had just been smaller things.
Skipping movie nights.
Leaving group chats on read.
Suddenly always “busy” when the boys invited you over.
But now?
Now it had been almost two weeks since he’d properly seen you.
And Logan hated how much he noticed.
The house felt off without you in it.
Too quiet.
Nobody stealing fries off his plate.
Nobody yelling at Dean for putting empty milk cartons back in the fridge.
Nobody curled into the corner of the couch in one of his hoodies while pretending not to fall asleep during movies. Yet always ending up with a blanket wrapped around you
It irritated him more than it should have “she’s avoiding me,” Logan muttered finally one night when he walked from a run.
He thought the fresh air would clear his mind, but instead, he just found himself craving your company even more.
The boys all looked up from the living room at the exact same time.
Dean paused mid-scroll on his phone.
Garrett blinked slowly.
Tucker looked like he was trying not to laugh “what?” Logan asked immediately.
Dean stared at him for a long moment “you’re kidding.” He looked at the other guys to see if anyone else found it so funny.
“About what?”
Garrett physically set his drink down “oh my god, he actually doesn’t know.” He brought his hand to his mouth.
“Know what?”
Tucker laughed under his breath, “this is painful.” He mumbled making the blonde nod in agreement.
Logan frowned harder “can one of you just explain what the hell you’re talking about?”
Dean pointed at him dramatically “she likes you, idiot.” He was done waiting for Logan to get on the same page as everyone else.
Logan blinked.
“What?”
The room went dead silent.
Then Dean actually threw his head back laughing as Garrett looked personally offended “no way.” Logan stared at them.
“No she doesn’t.”
All three of them groaned simultaneously as they hit their heads with their hands “yes she does,” Dean said immediately as he knew Logan was on a losing side of this battle.
What made it sad was that Logan was unaware of it all “massively,” Tucker added.
Garrett leaned forward “it is genuinely impossible to miss.” He pointed out as he rolled his eyes.
Logan looked between them almost nervous, “you’re messing with me.” He didn’t want to believe that they were all right.
Dean barked out a laugh “Logan, she literally follows you around this house like a lost puppy.” He didn’t even mean it in a bad way, it was just the truth. You just loved being around Logan.
“She does not.”
“She absolutely does,” Dean cut in.
Logan opened his mouth to argue again, but Garrett beat him to it “she sits beside you every single time we watch movies.” Without fail, your legs always landed up in his lap.
“That doesn’t mean-”
The blonde pointed his finger into the air “she does it because she loves getting a chance to cuddle you!” Dean interrupted as he shook his head.
Logan frowned slightly.
Beau pointed out as he walked into the house, “she also laughs at jokes that are objectively not funny when you make them.” Logan felt like the most unamusing person in that group half the time.
“That’s not true.”
One of the boys threw something at Logan as if it would knock some sense into him “dude,” Garrett deadpanned as he sent Logan an unimpressed look“you made a joke about a burnt grilled cheese last week, and she laughed so hard she cried.” Logan hesitated because maybe that one was fair.
Dean was already on a roll now.
“She brings you a thing of berries because she thinks of you.”
“She remembers your practice schedule better than you do.”
“She knows your coffee order.”
“She looks at you like you’re the only dude in this house half the time.”
Logan stared at the blonde, who continued to list things off
His stomach was starting to feel weird “she does not look at me like that.” He shook his head as the three of them exchanged a look.
Then Dean leaned back against the couch cushions dramatically “oh my god he’s stupid,” he muttered as he rubbed his face with his hand.
“Hopelessly stupid,” Garrett corrected.
Dean pointed toward the kitchen “last month you walked in wearing that grey hoodie she likes, and she genuinely forgot how to use a microwave.” Logan blinked as he swore that he never had that effect on you.
“What?”
Tucker nodded solemnly “tragic, honestly.” Not knowing if he was talking more about you or Logan in that moment.
Garrett laughed as he thought back to his favourite memory of you trying to hide your crush “and every time you touch her,” he did his best to hold back a laugh, “she goes completely silent for like ten seconds.”
Logan frowned harder, trying to think back.
Little moments suddenly started replaying differently.
You getting flustered when he threw an arm over your shoulders.
How pink your face got whenever he complimented you.
The way you always seemed to brighten the second he walked into a room “oh,” Logan said quietly.
Dean pointed at him again “there it is.”
Logan looked genuinely stunned now, like his world had stopped in that moment.
“She-”
“Yep,” Beau interrupted him immediately, not giving Logan a chance to come up with something wrong.
Silence quickly fell over the room as the boys waited for Logan to say something, “for how long?” Logan asked, his cluelessness made everyone else laugh.
Garrett shook his head “months, man.” Dean nodded in agreement as he ate his food.
Logan sat back slowly against the couch cushions.
And suddenly, karaoke night replayed in his head, too.
A switch had flipped in your brain, and you were stoic towards him after Hannah’s song.
The way you barely looked at him afterwards.
How you’d practically vanished from his life the next day.
Logan looked back at them “she stopped coming around because she likes me?” It was as if the penny dropped for him in that moment.
Dean’s expression softened slightly “she stopped coming around because she thought you liked Hannah.” Logan and Garrett all made awkward eye contact.
Logan blinked as he cocked his head “yep.” The boys all nodded in agreement before Logan had a chance to question it.
Logan ignored him completely as he stood up “oh, you are an idiot,” Garrett words were so quiet but still Logan heard everything he said.
Because the boys were right.
Days later, you didn’t know how you ended up at the boys place after a win.
Well that was a lie, Beau and Dean practically dragged you out of your dorm after believing that you were becoming a decoration within your own room.
It was hard to say no to either of them when they started guilting you “I should go home.” You announced at the front door when the boys tightened their hands on your shoulders.
Dean shook his head “look just have fun with us.” Beau mumbled into your ear.
You sighed as they walked you into the house. Music echoed in your ears as people flooded around the first floor “we’ve got your back.” Beau added as he watched your eyes land on the boys.
More specifically, Logan.
The boy looked tired as he listened to Tucker recount a story that had him being overly expressive with his hands.
His under eyes were dark as Logan looked almost like he wasn’t there anymore, at least not mentally.
But when he finally saw you, he smiled. It was this soft, sweet one that almost looked delicate, like he was worried if he gave you anything more, that he was worried you’d run away.
Your eyes drifted somewhere else in the room as you felt your heart throb.
It was killing you to not talk to Logan, but when you saw how Hannah smiled at something that Garrett said, you knew it was all because you could think about was what you didn’t have “c’mon let’s get you a drink.” Dean patted your shoulders as he pushed you in the direction of the kitchen.
The boys kept on replacing your drinks every time you finished them.
And you were doing a good job of throwing each newly refilled cup back like it was nothing.
Song after song.
Drink after drink.
Every effort to avoid Logan went successfully.
Time slipped away and the night grew older.
And before you knew it, you were drunk.
Not the cute kind of giggly that wine got you.
But the stubborn and determined drunk that tequila got you. And that’s when you decied that you had enough.
The air was cold when you finally left the party.
You had decided that avoiding Logan was getting too much, so you left.
The fall weather should have left your cheeks cool when the night breeze drifted past you, but instead, you felt like you were on fire.
All your focus was on putting one foot in front of the other so that, by the time you made it to the sidewalk, the front door opened.
You had created enough distance between you and the house “are you fucking serious right now?” Logan scoffed when he let the door shut with a slam behind him.
Footsteps pounded behind you as you kept on walking fast. Which for someone who was as drunk as you were, wasn’t very fast at all “don’t,” you grumbled, knowing that he was steps behind you.
Your fists clenched “what the hell is that supposed to mean?” Logan almost laughed as he furrowed his eyebrows.
“It means just leave me alone!”
Logan finally reached for you as you stumbled over your feet “I won’t.” He ended up in front of you forcing you to stop.
A harsh sigh escaped from your lips “I’m fine.” You slurred, feeling your head spin.
Alcohol tainted your tongue as Logan could smell it, “you’re so far gone.” He shook his head when he frowned.
Your lips formed a pout “well aren’t you observant?” You stuck your tongue out at him as he laughed.
You tugged your body back “so let me go home.” Your voice came out harsher than intended, and you were so drunk that you didn’t notice.
He glared at you and you glared right back.
And somehow that little moment sent the two of you over the edge “you know you have been avoiding me for damn weeks.” Logan was hurt and even if he tried to hide it, it still seeped through his voice.
You rubbed your cheeks with your hands “not this shit again.” You groaned as you shook your head.
“Yes, this again.”
Logan wasn’t going to stop until he had a reasonable answer from you “you disappeared and acted like it was nothing!” He tugged his fingers through his hair.
You finally looked at the boy’s eyes “look you didn’t even notice.” Your voice was barely above a whisper.
It made the boy frown “of course I noticed when you weren’t around.” Logan clicked his tongue “hell you’re the first person I always look for in a room, even if I know you won’t be there.” His confession made your stomach churn.
You shook your head “you don’t get to do this.” You raised your hand to stop him “look it’s bad enough you don’t like me back but don’t lie to me.”
Logan crossed his arms “I am not lying jesus,” he scoffed as if he was offended that you even thought it.
You looked up at the sky as you licked your lips “you love Hannah-” he tried to cut you off but you stopped him.
Your hands wrapped around yourself, “and I need to learn to accept that you just don’t love me how I love you.” Your words came out and it was as if you had opened a can of worms.
“In a way that makes me fine when you eat the last cookie or wait at the rink after games just so that I can be the first one to congratulate you or hug you, and god it’s in an unfortunate way that makes me hate you for not seeing me how I see you.”
Silence followed your words as you felt your throat constrict, “oh god.” You groaned as you pushed Logan away from you, leaning into the dirt next to him.
His hands immediately went to your hair as you threw up “let it out.” He cooed, rubbing your back as you whined.
“I’m gonna die.” You groaned weakly, making him laugh “no you won’t.”
You looked up at him in betrayal “I told you I love you and you are laughing at me?” You grumbled as you sent him a scowl.
He shook his head “absolutely not.” He forced his lips shut “okay maybe a little bit.”
Logan went back to rubbing your back “for the record I love you too.” The words slipped from his lips making you stand up.
Your eyes were wide “you do?” Your voice was barely a whisper.
He nodded “I was trying to stop it because I wanted to keep you as a friend rather than lose you altogether.” Logan let his hands fall to your hips.
You melted into his touch “now please never leave me like that again.” Logan pressed a kiss against your forehead as you nodded.
Logan smiled as he could smell your perfume on you again and not just on his clothes “can we go back to your room?” You asked as he let his hand slot into yours.
𝓫𝓵𝓾𝓻𝓫 you ask Logan to film a fit-check before a game.
Logan had agreed to the video because you asked. That was the entire beginning and end of his defence.
He had not agreed because he understood the point of it. He did not. He had not agreed because he believed TikTok needed to see his suit. It did not. He had not agreed because he wanted to stand in the living room of Hockey House while Dean, Tucker, Garrett, and, for some reason, Beau sat around with the collective expression of men who had just been gifted premium blackmail material.
He had agreed because you had looked at him over your phone, smiled that sweet little smile that usually meant he was about to do something embarrassing, and said, “Baby, can I film your game-day fit?”
And Logan, who was apparently a stronger man on ice than in your hands, had said, “Yeah, okay.”
That had been twenty minutes ago.
Now he was standing near the front window in a dark suit, white shirt, tie slightly loosened because he hated wearing it tight before he absolutely had to, polished shoes, gelled hair pushed back from his face thanks to your gentle handed styling, and the expression of someone being held hostage by affection.
You stood a few feet away with your phone up.
“Okay,” you said brightly, “Just act natural.”
Logan stared at you.
Behind him, Garrett laughed once.
Logan turned his head, “Don’t.”
Garrett held up both hands from the couch, “I said nothing.”
“You are breathing judgementally.”
“I’m sitting in my own house.”
“You’re making the space hostile.”
Dean, sprawled across the armchair like he was posing for a fragrance campaign no one had asked for, lifted his chin, “For the record, I think this is brave.”
Logan pointed at him, “Coming from you, i’m not impressed.”
“It is worse,” Tucker said from the floor, where he was tying his dress shoes with the concentration of a man attempting surgery, “He means embarrassing.”
Beau, who was not on the hockey team and had only come over because Allie said there might be leftover pasta in the fridge, leaned against the kitchen counter with a protein bar in one hand, “I don’t know. Football guys do this stuff all the time.”
“That’s because football guys think walking into a building in sunglasses is a personality,” Garrett said.
Beau lifted his protein bar in acknowledgement, “Fair.”
You lowered your phone slightly and gave the room a look, “Could everyone stop making my boyfriend emotionally unavailable for thirty seconds?”
Dean pressed a hand to his chest, “Your boyfriend came like that.”
Logan’s ears went pink.
Your smile sharpened, “Oh,” you said softly, “He’s shy.”
“I’m not shy.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m warm.”
“It’s November.”
“This house has bad ventilation.”
Garrett looked delighted, “He’s spiralling.”
Logan closed his eyes for one second, then opened them and looked at you. Only you, “What do you want me to do?”
The room made a collective noise so obnoxious that he regretted asking before the sentence had finished.
You, however, looked pleased enough to make it worth it.
“Just stand there first,” you said, lifting your phone again, “Then I’ll pan down.”
“Pan down,” Dean repeated, “Very cinematic.”
Allie’s voice came through from the phone on the coffee table, where she and Hannah were on FaceTime from your apartment because apparently this had become a production, “Dean, shut up and let her direct.”
Dean leaned toward the phone, “I feel unsupported in my artistic commentary.”
“You are unsupported in most things,” Allie said.
Hannah’s face appeared beside hers on the screen, smiling, “Logan, you look nice.”
“Thank you,” Logan said immediately, because Hannah was safe and had not yet betrayed him.
Garrett’s head snapped toward the phone, “He says thank you to you but glares at me?”
“You told him he was spiralling,” Hannah said.
“He was.”
“He is,” Allie added.
You started recording before the argument could gain structure.
“Game-day fit check,” you said, your voice shifting into that light, teasing tone you used online, “John Logan edition.”
Logan’s mouth twitched despite himself.
You moved the camera slowly, starting at his shoes, “Classic black dress shoes, very polished, ten out of ten.”
“They’re normal shoes,” he said.
“Shh. The shoes are performing.”
Tucker nodded solemnly, “Let the shoes work.”
You panned up, “Dark suit, tailored nicely, very handsome.”
Logan looked away.
Garrett immediately sat forward, “Did he just look away?”
“Betrayal,” Dean said.
“He cannot take a compliment,” Garrett continued, like he was narrating an academic finding, “I’ve been saying this for years.”
“I can take a compliment,” Logan said.
You kept filming, “Can you, baby?”
His gaze flicked back to you.
The room went feral.
Dean slapped the arm of the chair. Tucker dropped one shoe. Garrett made a noise like he had been harmed. Beau, who had no stake in this except entertainment, started laughing into his protein bar.
Logan’s jaw flexed, “I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t,” you said sweetly.
You kept the phone steady even though your own laughter was starting to creep into the frame, “Turn around.”
Logan froze, “What?”
“Just a little spin.”
“No.”
“Babyyy”
“No.”
“For the fit check.”
“I am not spinning.”
Dean pointed at him, “Spin, coward.”
Garrett leaned back, arms crossed, “He won’t do it.”
That was a mistake- Logan turned his head slowly toward Garrett, “I won’t?”
You pressed your lips together.
Garrett’s smile was small and self-depreciating, “No.”
Logan looked back at you, “Fine.”
You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep the video from shaking.
He turned. Not a full dramatic spin, because he was still Logan and dignity remained one of his chronic illnesses, but enough to show the back of the suit, the line of his shoulders, the way the jacket fit him unfairly well. When he faced you again, he looked pained but committed.
You lowered the phone, “Oh my God.”
His eyes sharpened, “What?”
“That was so cute.”
“It was not cute.”
“It was extremely cute.”
“Delete it.”
“Absolutely not.”
Garrett looked at him with friendly malice, “She got you to twirl.”
“I turned.”
“You twirled.”
“I turned in a circle because my girlfriend asked.”
Dean lifted a finger, “That is the definition of twirling.”
You slowly lowered your phone. Logan stopped breathing.
Garrett’s eyebrows shot up.
Dean looked like he had just witnessed a car crash and wanted to clap.
Tucker whispered, “Oh, quarterback’s bold.”
Beau looked around, “What?”
Allie’s voice screamed from the phone, “BEAU!”
Hannah covered her mouth on the screen.
You looked at Logan.
He was staring very hard at the floor now, cheeks pink in a way that travelled down his neck. Your heart did something so soft and ridiculous you almost forgot to be embarrassed.
“Husband spin?” Dean repeated, delighted.
Logan pointed without looking up, “Do not.”
Garrett leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring at his best friend with the narrowed focus of someone filing this away forever, “Interesting...”
“There’s nothing interesting here”
“You went quiet.”
“I’m thinking about the game.”
“You’re thinking about marriage.”
“I’m thinking about murder.”
“Same neighbourhood.”
You ended the video because your hands were no longer steady and Logan looked two seconds away from throwing Garrett through a wall. Not seriously. Probably not seriously. Mostly not seriously.
You crossed the room and stepped in front of him, smoothing your hands over the lapels of his jacket.
The teasing quieted slightly.
Not all the way, because Dean still existed, but enough for him to relax.
“You do look very handsome,” you said, softer now.
Logan looked at you.
It was immediate, the way the noise fell back for him when you were close. In a room full of boys, chirping, jokes, game-day nerves, the chaos of Hockey House before leaving for the rink, his focus still found you like a hand reaching through a crowd.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.” You fixed his tie, even though it did not need fixing, “Very boyfriend.”
Dean made a wounded sound, “Not husband?”
You did not look away from Logan, “Dean.”
“Sorry.”
Logan’s mouth curved slightly.
You tugged the tie into place, “Very handsome boyfriend who is going to win tonight.”
“That’s a lot for a fit check.”
“I’m expanding”
“You do that.”
“And you are going to let me post the video.”
His eyes lifted from your hands to your face, “Am I?”
“You did the spin.”
“Turn.”
“You did the spin, Mechanic.”
Garrett coughed, “Husband spin.”
Logan closed his eyes.
You smiled sweetly, “I can edit that part out.”
His eyes opened, “Can you?”
“I can.”
“Will you?”
“No.”
He stared at you.
You kissed his cheek.
The betrayal on his face melted so fast it was honestly embarrassing, “Low blow,” he murmured.
“You love me.”
“I do.” His hand brushed your waist, quick and warm, “Unfortunately for my dignity.”
Behind you, Tucker sighed, “That was nice.”
Dean nodded, “I felt it.”
Garrett looked at Hannah on the FaceTime screen, “Do not ask me to do a fit check.”
Hannah smiled, “I wasn’t going to.”
Garrett relaxed.
Then she added, “I already have videos.”
Dean screamed with laughter as Garrett froze.
Logan looked at him and, for the first time all afternoon, smiled with true peace, “Interesting...”
“Shut up,” Garrett said.
“No, no,” Logan said, still smiling, “I want to hear about your emotional availability.”
Hannah laughed, “He fixes his cuffs in every reflective surface. I have a whole folder.”
Allie leaned into frame, “Dean poses voluntarily, so none of this works on him.”
Dean spread his arm, “I was born for documentation.”
“You were born for attention,” Garrett said.
“Same thing.”
The pre-game energy returned in full force after that. Ties were adjusted. Shoes were found. Tucker located his missing phone inside the fridge, which no one had the energy to explain. Beau stole the last of the pasta from the container and was told by Logan that he was “a guest, not a raccoon.” Dean asked if you could do a fit check for the whole team next time and was immediately told no by three different people. Garrett kept watching Logan with that best-friend expression that made Logan look vaguely hunted.
You sat on the arm of the couch, editing the video while Logan gathered his things.
The clip was, unfortunately, perfect.
The pan up from shoes to suit. Your voice calling him handsome. His shy little glance away. The reluctant turn that was absolutely more spin than turn. Garrett’s laugh in the background. The moment you said “very handsome” and Logan’s whole face betrayed him before he could stop it.
You added the audio, trimmed the beginning, put a tiny cherry emoji in the corner because you were only human, and posted it to your TikTok.
Thirty seconds later, Logan’s phone buzzed.
Then again.
Then again.
He pulled it from his pocket, frowned at the screen, and looked at you, “Did you tag me?”
“You’re in the video.”
“You tagged me.”
“People need to know whose fit is being checked.”
“I think they know.”
Dean leaned over his shoulder, “Oh, comments already.” he squinted, “Someone said, ‘He looks like he’s about to ask her dad for permission.’”
Beau choked on his pasta.
Garrett started laughing.
Logan’s entire face changed, “Give me that.”
Dean danced out of reach with the phone, “Another one says, ‘The way he folded when she called him baby.’ Accurate.”
“Dean.”
“Your sister Sarah replied with- oh, wow. All caps.”
You grabbed your own phone in horror.
Sarah: HE DID A LITTLE PROM HUSBAND TURN
Hugh: Boston has entered his soft launch era
Maddie: You both look lovely
Jordan: Why is Hugh here again
Allie, from FaceTime, whispered, “I love your family so much.”
You groaned into your hands.
Logan took his phone back from Dean and looked at the replies with the grim resignation of a man understanding the internet could now hurt him through multiple avenues.
Then his expression shifted.
You peeked through your fingers, “What?”
He turned the screen toward you.
Nana had replied with a single message.
Nana: Handsome boy. Good suit. Tell him to fix his tie properly before the game.
You burst out laughing.
Logan looked down at his tie in panic, “You said it was fine.”
“It is fine.”
“Your grandmother says it’s not.”
“Nana thinks every tie is a personal conversation with God.”
He walked to the mirror by the door and started fixing it anyway.
Garrett saw and immediately pointed, “No way.”
Logan glared at him through the mirror, “Shut up.”
“You listened to Nana from one TikTok reply.”
“Would you ignore her?”
Garrett opened his mouth. Closed it, “No.”
“Exactly.”
You crossed to Logan, gently moving his hands away so you could fix the tie yourself. He let you, your big, suited athlete turned into an obedient boyfriend all because your grandmother had spoken and you had touched his chest.
“There,” you said, “Nana-approved.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ll send her a photo.”
He groaned, “Please don’t.”
You looked up at him,“Too late.”
He stared at you. You smiled.
He looked like he wanted to kiss you and confiscate your phone in equal measure.
The boys started filing toward the door, still laughing, still chirping, still making noise around the warm little bubble you and Logan had somehow created in the middle of their house. Garrett clapped Logan on the shoulder as he passed.
“Good luck tonight, husband spin.”
Logan shoved him toward the door, “Walk.”
Dean called back, “Cherry, send me the video.”
“No.”
“Allie!”
“No,” Allie yelled from the phone.
Beau lifted a hand, “Good luck, hockey people.”
“Stop eating our pasta,” Logan said.
“You’re leaving,” Beau replied, “House rules.”
“You do not live here.”
“Emotionally, with the pasta, I do.”
Finally, Logan paused at the door, bag over his shoulder, tie fixed, suit sharp, face still faintly pink from an afternoon of being adored against his will.
You stepped in front of him.
“Win,” you said.
His smile softened, “Bossy.”
“Motivational.”
“You coming?”
“With Hannah and Allie.”
“Good.”
“As long as you promise to do the husband spin again if you score.”
His eyes narrowed, but there was a smile beneath it, “Not happening.”
“We’ll see.”
“We will not.”
“You love me.”
His hand caught your waist for one quick second, pulling you close enough for him to kiss you once, warm and brief and not nearly enough.
“I do,” he said against your mouth, “Unfortunately for my dignity.”
Then he left with the others, Garrett already saying something that made him swear in the hallway, Dean laughing too loudly, Tucker asking if anyone had seen his other glove, and the door swinging shut behind them.
Your phone buzzed again.
A reply from Logan.
Sent from the hallway, because he was ridiculous.
Mechanic 🔧
delete the spin
A second later,
Mechanic 🔧
after the game
Mechanic 🔧
also send me the video
You smiled down at your phone until Allie’s voice from the coffee table said, “He wants to save it, doesn’t he?”
Hannah sighed happily, “Of course he does.”
You looked at the closed door, your chest warm and stupid and full.
Summary: Logan loves going down on you. He lives for it, he craves it, he loves everything about it. But what he didn’t expect was your reaction when you were the one who goes down on him.
Warning/s: Minors do not interact. Smut. Mature. 18+. Oral sex (F and M receiving). Unprotected sex. Comfort. Crying. Established relationship. They are unhinged, horny, and thinking about sex all the time but they love each other too. Be responsible for your own media consumption. Grammar/Spelling. If I missed anything, let me know kindly!
Word Count: 3.5k
A/N: I’m in no way a pro when it comes to writing smut but I try and this is me trying (and probably experimenting on my writing too). Got inspired while listening to Tears by Sabrina and a conversation I had with my best friend.
I have another Logan fic in progress but it’ll be some time before it’s up since I’m not confident about it yet. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this one. Like, reblogs, and comments are very welcome and appreciated!
MASTERLIST.
Please do not translate and repost.
Divider by chrisssiren.
Logan is sick, he’s sure of that. But the thing is, as cliche as it may sound, you are the only person who could cure him. He had known a long time ago that he loves going down on girls, he lives for it. But nothing ever prepared him for you and the changes you brought into his sex life.
He’d been with many girls before you, yes. What you and he are doing—at least, some of it—he had done it before. You knew it, having to be one of the witnesses of some of those sexcapades he did in the past. However, that’s never been an issue between you two. Sex with you is something that Logan has never experienced before. But no, it’s not some, “You’re different from other girls” kind of bullshit. It’s the feeling that was different.
You see, the girls he had been with? It was always rushed, short-lived. It was only for the sake of sleeping together. But with you? You build up the moment, but still make sure not to waste time. You make him feel hot and excited, but give him what he wants to balance it out. You let him do what he wants, but signals him when to stop. You make him crave for you, crave for it. And when you especially know when he needs it? You give it to him, no questions asked.
And Logan would always savor the moment when you just unfold your legs for him, when you let him lap at your center like a starved man, and when you encourage him to keep going; even stretching your legs further so he could have more space.
Logan loves your pussy, and he loves every single second of being down on you and if he could live between your legs, he would.
There’s something so addicting about having them wrapped around his head, or when you spread it for him so he could bite on your inner thighs, or the way it almost suffocates him when you’re on top of him, riding his face while he busies himself admiring the swell of your breasts; the way they move when you jerk forward because his tongue hits a certain spot, or the way your chest falls up and down so you can get enough oxygen in your lungs, or when your nipples hardened he just had to let go one of your legs so he could play with them.
Yet he loves it more when you tugs at his curls, moaning for him. The sound you make going straight to his cock, thrusting on the bed or in the air depending on where you got him eating you out. He loves the look on your face—how your mouth forms an o-shape when he sucks at your sensitive nub or when you cover it to muffle the sounds because his friends are sleeping, how your eyes glaze when you’re near, how your lips turn swollen from too much biting, and how your head falls backwards to reveal your neck, thinking about biting the flesh once he’s fucking you.
Logan swore he could cum by just eating you out, but looking at you enjoying yourself? That’s another thing he needs to control. He could combust with a single, “Making me feel so good, Johnny.” but he’d do his best to restrain himself. He’d only allow himself to finish once you do because for him, it’s you before everything else. There were times that even after making you cum three times, he’d hold it in because that won’t be enough. He’d wait for you to say, “Please, let me feel you. I want it.”, that he’d permit himself to let go and you’d be so full of him. Then, he would look at your face only to see you smiling at him, so lost in the pleasure and so fucking beautiful, and he’d take pride knowing he’s the one who made you feel that way—and he feels like cumming again, his cock hardening inside you once more.
He thought that would be it, nothing else could make him feel like he’s doing it for the first time aside from eating you out and you, looking so pretty for him. But boy, was he wrong.
It happened for the first time when Logan felt a little more beaten up after practice. Completely drained and exhausted from all the physical and mental challenges hockey takes from him. You knew the moment he slumped beside you on his head, dropping his gym bag on the side, that he’s spent.
“Hey, gorgeous. I missed you.” Logan’s hands automatically searched for your waist as his head hits your lap, his hair still damp from the shower. He relaxes the moment your hands massage at his scalp, down to the back of his neck, and to his shoulder blades. His usual protective guard is down and at that moment, under your gaze, he’s just a guy who needs comfort.
Your boyfriend needs comfort.
“I missed you too, baby. How are you?” Logan lifted his head a bit, his eyes cast downward, his body barely holding his weight, but he didn’t say anything. He just smiled at you before seeking your warmth again. You bit your lip and maybe, seeing him like that—sore, tired, worn out—is what triggered your desire to take care of him. He spends so much energy in hockey, in studying, in the garage, in everything that he does, including looking out for you without being asked that seeing him vulnerable makes you want to put him first. So an idea popped in your mind.
“Hey, come on, lay down properly.” Logan obliged, rather slowly. You were standing at the foot of the bed, supporting his movements. Once he’s comfortable, you start removing his clothes. He didn’t think much of it at first, he always sleeps with only his boxers on and you learned about it early on in your relationship. It even got to a point that you were the one undressing him and you’d cuddle under his covers.
However, Logan felt your hands caressing his legs as you crawled on top of him. Your fingers tugged down at his boxers until it reached just above his knees, but before you could take it off, Logan caught your hand, crease forming between his brows. He understands immediately what you were trying to do, and it’s not that he doesn’t want it. He’s just not sure if he could do any action tonight and he will never forgive himself if he allows it to happen only for you to not to feel good.
“Thank you, gorgeous, but I don’t think I can do—”
“Who said you’re doing anything?” You raised one eyebrow at him, the corner of your lips curving into a tempting smile that had Logan heaving a deep breath. He knew it’s happening, you looked so good and while the rest of his body is tired, his cock sure isn’t as it slowly grows hard between his thighs, directly under you. “Just lay down for me, John, okay? You’ve been working so hard, you deserve to be rewarded for it.”
And nothing ever prepared him for what happened next.
Logan never presented the idea of blowjob, nor you brought it up yourself. In the entirety of your relationship, you never went down for him. You never put his length in your mouth, you never gagged at the feeling of him hitting your throat, and you never knew what it was like to look up at him over your lashes. But just because it never happened, doesn’t mean you never wonder what it would be like.
It’s not like you never gave head before. You have a fair share of experience yourself like Logan, but you keep on wondering if it would feel like the way it made him feel. He told you about it, how going down on you made him feel like an entirely different person. That the way your pussy feels against his mouth was nothing like he ever felt before. That if your legs suffocate him and he dies accidentally, he’d still thank you for it.
You knew it wasn’t about the experience, you knew it was the feeling. Because you trust him, you allow yourself to be vulnerable and comfortable with him that the intimacy instantly feels different. So, you took advantage of the moment to test it out yourself.
“Are you sure about this? You know you don’t have to, right? We can just—”
But Logan’s head dropped back down on his pillow when he felt your hands around him, pumping him slowly, getting him to completely relax for you. A heavy and ragged sigh escaped his lips at the feeling, his broad shoulders sinking into the mattress, shutting his eyes close to regain some control. And he thought that he’s doing a great job at it, he’s getting used to the feeling of the slow movements of your hands that he willed himself to open his eyes.
“Fuck, that feels good, gorgeous.” He rasped, voice thick and rough at your ministrations. The exhaustion of the day leaving his body. The tension, the expectations, the brutality of the world outside his room fading behind him as he let you take care of him. His hands gripped at his bed, not wanting to pressure you to take anything further by putting them on your head.
You shifted your weight, finding a more comfortable place between his thighs. And then you see it before you feel it; the intimacy did feel different.
You saw how Logan does his best to keep his hands to himself, you feel how he tries not to thrust upwards in your hands, you feel from the way he remains so compliant with your touch that he’s not rushing you, and you saw how his eyes glint with encouragement to do whatever you want next—continue or stop, entirely up to you.
The moment was slow and heavy with trust. And that did something to you, probably the way it did something to Logan.
It made you feel good, confident, trusted, and loved.
When Logan felt your movements have slowed, he peeked at you to see that you got this dazed look on your face. He was about to reassure you that it’s okay to stop when you looked down at his dick and leaned forward, replacing your hands with the warmth of your lips. Logan choked on his breath, the words caught in his throat as he felt his self control leaving his body as he completely surrendered to you.
Logan’s entire body went still for a second, a low, guttural moan vibrated in his chest before he forced himself to relax again. His fingers gripped at the sheets again, tighter this time as his knuckles turned white. You saw this from the corner of your eyes and tapped at his thighs, reaching for one of his hands and guided it above your head. He had to fight every instinct to take over because of the action, but he reminded himself that tonight, this is what you want.
You moved over him, finding your rhythm as your eyes flicked up to look at him. His head was still thrown back, buried in his pillow, exposing his adam’s apple. His sweat glistened on his collarbone and you moaned at the sight, he looked completely undone and ruined by your touch. And the same feeling came back.
Looking at Logan, completely at your mercy and stripped of his usual protective and strong stance made you clench your thighs together. You continue pumping at his length while switching between sucking and lapping at the head, his tip leaking pre-cum. Logan’s grip on your head tightened and it should hurt, but you just took him further inside your mouth. You gagged slightly, the sound causing him to massage your jaw, motioning for you to breathe through your nose as he guided your head to stay in place.
“That’s it, gorgeous, don’t forget to breathe.” You understood what he said, you knew when to stop if it gets too much for you, but your mind started to jumble. Because how could he be so sweet and caring yet so filthy at the same time? When you felt your lungs needing some air, you pulled back, a string of spit connecting your lips to his cock. And Logan was about to throw a praise when you lick from his base before taking him whole again.
“Fuck me—slow down, gorgeous. You’re killing me.”
It feels too good; the thickness in your mouth, the taste of his pre-cum oozing out directly on your tongue, the control he’s trying to gain, the way he grips at your head and caresses your cheeks just to feel himself bulging from it. Everything feels too good and without meaning to, a stray tear spilled over your lashes, tracking down your cheek and landing softly on his thighs. Logan snapped up immediately at the unwelcomed feeling, only to see you crying. The immense pleasure brought by your mouth dissipates in the air as he scrambles to seat.
“Woah, woah, hey, talk to me.” He whispered, afraid that if he went a little louder, you'd cry even more. He wanted to move to your side, but for some reason, your hand is still wrapped around his length and you’re still between his legs. Logan tried his best to meet you eye-to-eye with the position, his hands gently cupping your face, his thumbs wiping away the dampness on your skin. “Sweetheart, please, talk to me. What’s wrong? Did I hurt you? Was it something I did? Was I too much?”
You only shook your head at him and Logan had to stop the sigh that wanted to escape his lips when he felt your hand gripped him, and instead focused on making sure that you’re okay. “Hey, it’s alright, we can stop now, hmm? It’s alright, I got you.”
But then you opened your mouth and Logan cursed at himself because maybe he heard it wrong, maybe he heard you wrong. There’s no way you’re crying because of that, right? His girlfriend, who is usually composed, independent, strong-willed, and doesn’t take shit from others, is crying.
All because of his dick.
He studied your face, your eyes that were blown out with lust, your lips hanging open in anticipation, your brows creased together awaiting his response. But above everything, he saw honesty and trust and it dawned on him that he didn’t hear it wrong. Logan heard you correctly.
“I don’t want to stop. I want your cock.”
Because that’s what you really said and you didn’t plan on taking it back.
Not when Logan’s eyes darkened with want as he held your face so softly, waiting for you to take your words back. Not when the words made you shudder when it left your lips, not when it caused you to rub your thighs together, not when your eyes basically watered again at the thought of it in your mouth, in your hands, in your pussy. Not when you’re pushing Logan back on the bed to hover above him, so sure of yourself, repeating the words.
“I love your cock, Johnny.”
Logan doesn’t know what to do. You are equally as obsessed as he was and he doesn’t know what to do with that. He never cried when he’s down on his knees, trapped between your legs, but he sure felt like it every single time. You make him addicted, you make him starve and crave, and you make him mad about it. And seeing you, like a reflection of himself, enjoying yourself, destroys him in a delicious way.
You spent the rest of the night sobbing at the feeling of his length in your mouth and Logan lives for it. He’d smile at you, comfort you, and praise you for it while anchoring himself to keep it together.
“Fuck, gorgeous, you take me so well.”
“You love it? Say it again, come on.”
And between his praises and the fullness of him inside your mouth, you’d look up at him just to ask, “It’s my dick now too, right?”
And Logan had to physically stop himself from pulling you back down his length, his grin widening with mischief and his eyes twinkle with something you’ve never seen before. Without breaking eye contact, his thumbs traced your lips before sliding it inside, your tongue automatically swirling around it as you await for his answer.
“So fucking right, gorgeous, it is.”
The night ended with both of you tangled in his sheets, satisfaction and pride swimming in your system. You were safely tucked beside him after your unexpected discovery, Logan peppering your head with kisses. And he thought, that was it. What he didn’t know was that behind your peaceful form, you discovered another thing.
You love Logan when he respects you in bed. But you love it more when he gets filthy.
He was on his way back to the hockey house when it happened the second time. He just bid goodbye to a classmate when his phone buzzed in his jeans. It was a message from you. An entirely unhinged message from you.
“I need it, please.”
Logan drove so fast back to the house and when he opened the door of his room, there you were, dressed in his jersey. But it didn’t take long for both of you to get undressed. The moment escalated so quickly as you dropped to your knees in front of him, tugging at his pants.
“Take it out, baby.”
And Logan never complied so fast in his life. Not even when Coach Jensen told him to do better with his moves, to skate faster. But you got him on chokehold with just your words and the next second, you were taking him in your mouth, the dirtiest words escaping his lips.
“You want it so bad, yeah? You missed it?”
“So pretty like this. Keep going. Come on, you got it.”
“Open your mouth wider, gorgeous. I thought you said you wanted it?”
And you’re equally as bad as him. The words you thought that you’ll never say are encouraged out of you because of Logan, and the way he looks at you with so much adoration and pride.
“This is only mine, right? It’s mine.”
“It feels so good in my mouth, Johnny, I don’t want to stop.”
“Yes, I wanted it. I can take it. Please.”
Logan thought—once again and he’s wrong—that would be it. But you’re sneaking into the shower room when you know he’s the only one using it and would join him. Saying how you could not wait any longer and you’d end up spending an extra hour in the showers because both of you couldn’t get enough of each other.
Or at Beau’s party, when he looks too good drinking with his friends and he’d throw teasing glances your way and he’d take it far by sending you a message, mentioning how one of the rooms was his for the night and he’d be waiting for you. Both of you would end up making out and eventually, him on top of you. He fucks you like he’s never done before, but you’re crying for it and he’d be damned if he doesn’t make it worthwhile.
And Logan is fucking sick. Because he couldn’t take the image of you crying for him, for his dick. Sometimes, he couldn’t help but wonder if you’re thinking about it too, because he does. In the middle of the class, during practice, while showering. Any chance that he could get, he’ll think about it. During those times, he’d shoot you messages.
“Can’t stop thinking about you, gorgeous.”
“Bet you’re soaking wet for me right now.”
“So fucking hard for you, gorgeous. Is your class over?”
He’d smile so hard because your replies matched his energy, it matched his freak. He’d go over them, read them over and over again just to make sure that he’s reading it right.
“I dreamed of you fucking me and I want it now.”
“Can I come over before practice? I’ll just suck a little.”
“Do you think we can get a replica of your dick? Just for study purposes.”
Both of you are so obsessed with each other that even your friends noticed it right away. The changes in your relationship that weren’t there in the beginning, the stolen glances, the mischief behind the smiles, the sneaking in the middle of a conversation. When you and Logan disappear at the same time, they'll understand what’s happening quickly. When they catch one of you smiling at your phone, they know that you’re exchanging unhinged messages yet again.
But underneath all that—the sole reason why both of you are crazy about the sex, about each other—was the foundation you built together over time; the trust, the intimacy, the care, the love, and the understanding where the pleasure should end and begin. The respect you put into the relationship and the boundaries you’ve set, the communication between what you can cross and not.
So, yes, Logan is sick, but at least you cure him and he does the same to you—in more ways than one.
A/N: Thank you for reading, lovely! Stay safe always ♥️
Summary: Logan loves going down on you. He lives for it, he craves it, he loves everything about it. But what he didn’t expect was your reaction when you were the one who goes down on him.
Warning/s: Minors do not interact. Smut. Mature. 18+. Oral sex (F and M receiving). Unprotected sex. Comfort. Crying. Established relationship. They are unhinged, horny, and thinking about sex all the time but they love each other too. Be responsible for your own media consumption. Grammar/Spelling. If I missed anything, let me know kindly!
Word Count: 3.5k
A/N: I’m in no way a pro when it comes to writing smut but I try and this is me trying (and probably experimenting on my writing too). Got inspired while listening to Tears by Sabrina and a conversation I had with my best friend.
I have another Logan fic in progress but it’ll be some time before it’s up since I’m not confident about it yet. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this one. Like, reblogs, and comments are very welcome and appreciated!
MASTERLIST.
Please do not translate and repost.
Divider by chrisssiren.
Logan is sick, he’s sure of that. But the thing is, as cliche as it may sound, you are the only person who could cure him. He had known a long time ago that he loves going down on girls, he lives for it. But nothing ever prepared him for you and the changes you brought into his sex life.
He’d been with many girls before you, yes. What you and he are doing—at least, some of it—he had done it before. You knew it, having to be one of the witnesses of some of those sexcapades he did in the past. However, that’s never been an issue between you two. Sex with you is something that Logan has never experienced before. But no, it’s not some, “You’re different from other girls” kind of bullshit. It’s the feeling that was different.
You see, the girls he had been with? It was always rushed, short-lived. It was only for the sake of sleeping together. But with you? You build up the moment, but still make sure not to waste time. You make him feel hot and excited, but give him what he wants to balance it out. You let him do what he wants, but signals him when to stop. You make him crave for you, crave for it. And when you especially know when he needs it? You give it to him, no questions asked.
And Logan would always savor the moment when you just unfold your legs for him, when you let him lap at your center like a starved man, and when you encourage him to keep going; even stretching your legs further so he could have more space.
Logan loves your pussy, and he loves every single second of being down on you and if he could live between your legs, he would.
There’s something so addicting about having them wrapped around his head, or when you spread it for him so he could bite on your inner thighs, or the way it almost suffocates him when you’re on top of him, riding his face while he busies himself admiring the swell of your breasts; the way they move when you jerk forward because his tongue hits a certain spot, or the way your chest falls up and down so you can get enough oxygen in your lungs, or when your nipples hardened he just had to let go one of your legs so he could play with them.
Yet he loves it more when you tugs at his curls, moaning for him. The sound you make going straight to his cock, thrusting on the bed or in the air depending on where you got him eating you out. He loves the look on your face—how your mouth forms an o-shape when he sucks at your sensitive nub or when you cover it to muffle the sounds because his friends are sleeping, how your eyes glaze when you’re near, how your lips turn swollen from too much biting, and how your head falls backwards to reveal your neck, thinking about biting the flesh once he’s fucking you.
Logan swore he could cum by just eating you out, but looking at you enjoying yourself? That’s another thing he needs to control. He could combust with a single, “Making me feel so good, Johnny.” but he’d do his best to restrain himself. He’d only allow himself to finish once you do because for him, it’s you before everything else. There were times that even after making you cum three times, he’d hold it in because that won’t be enough. He’d wait for you to say, “Please, let me feel you. I want it.”, that he’d permit himself to let go and you’d be so full of him. Then, he would look at your face only to see you smiling at him, so lost in the pleasure and so fucking beautiful, and he’d take pride knowing he’s the one who made you feel that way—and he feels like cumming again, his cock hardening inside you once more.
He thought that would be it, nothing else could make him feel like he’s doing it for the first time aside from eating you out and you, looking so pretty for him. But boy, was he wrong.
It happened for the first time when Logan felt a little more beaten up after practice. Completely drained and exhausted from all the physical and mental challenges hockey takes from him. You knew the moment he slumped beside you on his head, dropping his gym bag on the side, that he’s spent.
“Hey, gorgeous. I missed you.” Logan’s hands automatically searched for your waist as his head hits your lap, his hair still damp from the shower. He relaxes the moment your hands massage at his scalp, down to the back of his neck, and to his shoulder blades. His usual protective guard is down and at that moment, under your gaze, he’s just a guy who needs comfort.
Your boyfriend needs comfort.
“I missed you too, baby. How are you?” Logan lifted his head a bit, his eyes cast downward, his body barely holding his weight, but he didn’t say anything. He just smiled at you before seeking your warmth again. You bit your lip and maybe, seeing him like that—sore, tired, worn out—is what triggered your desire to take care of him. He spends so much energy in hockey, in studying, in the garage, in everything that he does, including looking out for you without being asked that seeing him vulnerable makes you want to put him first. So an idea popped in your mind.
“Hey, come on, lay down properly.” Logan obliged, rather slowly. You were standing at the foot of the bed, supporting his movements. Once he’s comfortable, you start removing his clothes. He didn’t think much of it at first, he always sleeps with only his boxers on and you learned about it early on in your relationship. It even got to a point that you were the one undressing him and you’d cuddle under his covers.
However, Logan felt your hands caressing his legs as you crawled on top of him. Your fingers tugged down at his boxers until it reached just above his knees, but before you could take it off, Logan caught your hand, crease forming between his brows. He understands immediately what you were trying to do, and it’s not that he doesn’t want it. He’s just not sure if he could do any action tonight and he will never forgive himself if he allows it to happen only for you to not to feel good.
“Thank you, gorgeous, but I don’t think I can do—”
“Who said you’re doing anything?” You raised one eyebrow at him, the corner of your lips curving into a tempting smile that had Logan heaving a deep breath. He knew it’s happening, you looked so good and while the rest of his body is tired, his cock sure isn’t as it slowly grows hard between his thighs, directly under you. “Just lay down for me, John, okay? You’ve been working so hard, you deserve to be rewarded for it.”
And nothing ever prepared him for what happened next.
Logan never presented the idea of blowjob, nor you brought it up yourself. In the entirety of your relationship, you never went down for him. You never put his length in your mouth, you never gagged at the feeling of him hitting your throat, and you never knew what it was like to look up at him over your lashes. But just because it never happened, doesn’t mean you never wonder what it would be like.
It’s not like you never gave head before. You have a fair share of experience yourself like Logan, but you keep on wondering if it would feel like the way it made him feel. He told you about it, how going down on you made him feel like an entirely different person. That the way your pussy feels against his mouth was nothing like he ever felt before. That if your legs suffocate him and he dies accidentally, he’d still thank you for it.
You knew it wasn’t about the experience, you knew it was the feeling. Because you trust him, you allow yourself to be vulnerable and comfortable with him that the intimacy instantly feels different. So, you took advantage of the moment to test it out yourself.
“Are you sure about this? You know you don’t have to, right? We can just—”
But Logan’s head dropped back down on his pillow when he felt your hands around him, pumping him slowly, getting him to completely relax for you. A heavy and ragged sigh escaped his lips at the feeling, his broad shoulders sinking into the mattress, shutting his eyes close to regain some control. And he thought that he’s doing a great job at it, he’s getting used to the feeling of the slow movements of your hands that he willed himself to open his eyes.
“Fuck, that feels good, gorgeous.” He rasped, voice thick and rough at your ministrations. The exhaustion of the day leaving his body. The tension, the expectations, the brutality of the world outside his room fading behind him as he let you take care of him. His hands gripped at his bed, not wanting to pressure you to take anything further by putting them on your head.
You shifted your weight, finding a more comfortable place between his thighs. And then you see it before you feel it; the intimacy did feel different.
You saw how Logan does his best to keep his hands to himself, you feel how he tries not to thrust upwards in your hands, you feel from the way he remains so compliant with your touch that he’s not rushing you, and you saw how his eyes glint with encouragement to do whatever you want next—continue or stop, entirely up to you.
The moment was slow and heavy with trust. And that did something to you, probably the way it did something to Logan.
It made you feel good, confident, trusted, and loved.
When Logan felt your movements have slowed, he peeked at you to see that you got this dazed look on your face. He was about to reassure you that it’s okay to stop when you looked down at his dick and leaned forward, replacing your hands with the warmth of your lips. Logan choked on his breath, the words caught in his throat as he felt his self control leaving his body as he completely surrendered to you.
Logan’s entire body went still for a second, a low, guttural moan vibrated in his chest before he forced himself to relax again. His fingers gripped at the sheets again, tighter this time as his knuckles turned white. You saw this from the corner of your eyes and tapped at his thighs, reaching for one of his hands and guided it above your head. He had to fight every instinct to take over because of the action, but he reminded himself that tonight, this is what you want.
You moved over him, finding your rhythm as your eyes flicked up to look at him. His head was still thrown back, buried in his pillow, exposing his adam’s apple. His sweat glistened on his collarbone and you moaned at the sight, he looked completely undone and ruined by your touch. And the same feeling came back.
Looking at Logan, completely at your mercy and stripped of his usual protective and strong stance made you clench your thighs together. You continue pumping at his length while switching between sucking and lapping at the head, his tip leaking pre-cum. Logan’s grip on your head tightened and it should hurt, but you just took him further inside your mouth. You gagged slightly, the sound causing him to massage your jaw, motioning for you to breathe through your nose as he guided your head to stay in place.
“That’s it, gorgeous, don’t forget to breathe.” You understood what he said, you knew when to stop if it gets too much for you, but your mind started to jumble. Because how could he be so sweet and caring yet so filthy at the same time? When you felt your lungs needing some air, you pulled back, a string of spit connecting your lips to his cock. And Logan was about to throw a praise when you lick from his base before taking him whole again.
“Fuck me—slow down, gorgeous. You’re killing me.”
It feels too good; the thickness in your mouth, the taste of his pre-cum oozing out directly on your tongue, the control he’s trying to gain, the way he grips at your head and caresses your cheeks just to feel himself bulging from it. Everything feels too good and without meaning to, a stray tear spilled over your lashes, tracking down your cheek and landing softly on his thighs. Logan snapped up immediately at the unwelcomed feeling, only to see you crying. The immense pleasure brought by your mouth dissipates in the air as he scrambles to seat.
“Woah, woah, hey, talk to me.” He whispered, afraid that if he went a little louder, you'd cry even more. He wanted to move to your side, but for some reason, your hand is still wrapped around his length and you’re still between his legs. Logan tried his best to meet you eye-to-eye with the position, his hands gently cupping your face, his thumbs wiping away the dampness on your skin. “Sweetheart, please, talk to me. What’s wrong? Did I hurt you? Was it something I did? Was I too much?”
You only shook your head at him and Logan had to stop the sigh that wanted to escape his lips when he felt your hand gripped him, and instead focused on making sure that you’re okay. “Hey, it’s alright, we can stop now, hmm? It’s alright, I got you.”
But then you opened your mouth and Logan cursed at himself because maybe he heard it wrong, maybe he heard you wrong. There’s no way you’re crying because of that, right? His girlfriend, who is usually composed, independent, strong-willed, and doesn’t take shit from others, is crying.
All because of his dick.
He studied your face, your eyes that were blown out with lust, your lips hanging open in anticipation, your brows creased together awaiting his response. But above everything, he saw honesty and trust and it dawned on him that he didn’t hear it wrong. Logan heard you correctly.
“I don’t want to stop. I want your cock.”
Because that’s what you really said and you didn’t plan on taking it back.
Not when Logan’s eyes darkened with want as he held your face so softly, waiting for you to take your words back. Not when the words made you shudder when it left your lips, not when it caused you to rub your thighs together, not when your eyes basically watered again at the thought of it in your mouth, in your hands, in your pussy. Not when you’re pushing Logan back on the bed to hover above him, so sure of yourself, repeating the words.
“I love your cock, Johnny.”
Logan doesn’t know what to do. You are equally as obsessed as he was and he doesn’t know what to do with that. He never cried when he’s down on his knees, trapped between your legs, but he sure felt like it every single time. You make him addicted, you make him starve and crave, and you make him mad about it. And seeing you, like a reflection of himself, enjoying yourself, destroys him in a delicious way.
You spent the rest of the night sobbing at the feeling of his length in your mouth and Logan lives for it. He’d smile at you, comfort you, and praise you for it while anchoring himself to keep it together.
“Fuck, gorgeous, you take me so well.”
“You love it? Say it again, come on.”
And between his praises and the fullness of him inside your mouth, you’d look up at him just to ask, “It’s my dick now too, right?”
And Logan had to physically stop himself from pulling you back down his length, his grin widening with mischief and his eyes twinkle with something you’ve never seen before. Without breaking eye contact, his thumbs traced your lips before sliding it inside, your tongue automatically swirling around it as you await for his answer.
“So fucking right, gorgeous, it is.”
The night ended with both of you tangled in his sheets, satisfaction and pride swimming in your system. You were safely tucked beside him after your unexpected discovery, Logan peppering your head with kisses. And he thought, that was it. What he didn’t know was that behind your peaceful form, you discovered another thing.
You love Logan when he respects you in bed. But you love it more when he gets filthy.
He was on his way back to the hockey house when it happened the second time. He just bid goodbye to a classmate when his phone buzzed in his jeans. It was a message from you. An entirely unhinged message from you.
“I need it, please.”
Logan drove so fast back to the house and when he opened the door of his room, there you were, dressed in his jersey. But it didn’t take long for both of you to get undressed. The moment escalated so quickly as you dropped to your knees in front of him, tugging at his pants.
“Take it out, baby.”
And Logan never complied so fast in his life. Not even when Coach Jensen told him to do better with his moves, to skate faster. But you got him on chokehold with just your words and the next second, you were taking him in your mouth, the dirtiest words escaping his lips.
“You want it so bad, yeah? You missed it?”
“So pretty like this. Keep going. Come on, you got it.”
“Open your mouth wider, gorgeous. I thought you said you wanted it?”
And you’re equally as bad as him. The words you thought that you’ll never say are encouraged out of you because of Logan, and the way he looks at you with so much adoration and pride.
“This is only mine, right? It’s mine.”
“It feels so good in my mouth, Johnny, I don’t want to stop.”
“Yes, I wanted it. I can take it. Please.”
Logan thought—once again and he’s wrong—that would be it. But you’re sneaking into the shower room when you know he’s the only one using it and would join him. Saying how you could not wait any longer and you’d end up spending an extra hour in the showers because both of you couldn’t get enough of each other.
Or at Beau’s party, when he looks too good drinking with his friends and he’d throw teasing glances your way and he’d take it far by sending you a message, mentioning how one of the rooms was his for the night and he’d be waiting for you. Both of you would end up making out and eventually, him on top of you. He fucks you like he’s never done before, but you’re crying for it and he’d be damned if he doesn’t make it worthwhile.
And Logan is fucking sick. Because he couldn’t take the image of you crying for him, for his dick. Sometimes, he couldn’t help but wonder if you’re thinking about it too, because he does. In the middle of the class, during practice, while showering. Any chance that he could get, he’ll think about it. During those times, he’d shoot you messages.
“Can’t stop thinking about you, gorgeous.”
“Bet you’re soaking wet for me right now.”
“So fucking hard for you, gorgeous. Is your class over?”
He’d smile so hard because your replies matched his energy, it matched his freak. He’d go over them, read them over and over again just to make sure that he’s reading it right.
“I dreamed of you fucking me and I want it now.”
“Can I come over before practice? I’ll just suck a little.”
“Do you think we can get a replica of your dick? Just for study purposes.”
Both of you are so obsessed with each other that even your friends noticed it right away. The changes in your relationship that weren’t there in the beginning, the stolen glances, the mischief behind the smiles, the sneaking in the middle of a conversation. When you and Logan disappear at the same time, they'll understand what’s happening quickly. When they catch one of you smiling at your phone, they know that you’re exchanging unhinged messages yet again.
But underneath all that—the sole reason why both of you are crazy about the sex, about each other—was the foundation you built together over time; the trust, the intimacy, the care, the love, and the understanding where the pleasure should end and begin. The respect you put into the relationship and the boundaries you’ve set, the communication between what you can cross and not.
So, yes, Logan is sick, but at least you cure him and he does the same to you—in more ways than one.
A/N: Thank you for reading, lovely! Stay safe always ♥️
summary: based on this ask! tucker teaches you how to cook <3
contains: tooth-rotting fluff! established relationship, no use of y/n, pet names (baby), smooching, hugging, tucker being the human equivalent of a cinnamon roll
author’s note: first tucker fic!!! thank u anon for this ask, this was so adorable :3
“Okay, so maybe I cut the vegetables.” Your boyfriend approaches you like you’re pointing a loaded gun at him and very carefully lowers the knife you’re gripping back down to the cutting board.
To be fair, it was still a weapon. One you hadn’t really handled before beyond the menial task of cutting the occasional piece of fruit. And even then, those knives were significantly smaller and much less sharp than this one. This one was horror movie level. And if you knew anything about John Tucker, you knew his knives would be sharpened to professional chef grade.
You pout as he takes over for you, making quick work of the half-onion on the cutting board. Truthfully, you don’t mind all that much. You weren’t especially looking forward to your mascara running and potentially slicing your hand open when tears blurred your vision.
He laughs lightly at your expression, kissing your pouty mouth that quickly forms into a smile at his tenderness.
“How about you wash the veggies and I’ll cut?”
“Now, that’s more my speed.”
You exist peacefully together, gently humming along to the jazz music playing over the bluetooth speakers, watching his deft fingers nimbly slice and dice various herbs and things. You get distracted only twice, letting the water run excessively long over the celery stalks you’re meant to be washing, and snapping back to it when Tucker’s soft, dark eyes flick over to you, an amused smirk on his lips like he knows what his cooking does to you.
What can you say? You love a man who knows his way around the kitchen.
When you’re finished with your task, you watch him complete his, enjoying the aroma of the onion and butter cooking in the bottom of the steel pot on the stove.
“Why do you put the onion in first?” You ask, linking your arms around his waist and watching over his shoulder as he cuts carrots.
“It helps with the flavor. You cook the onion until it’s translucent, then add the garlic. And you don’t want to brown the garlic—that’s a common misconception, actually. You just want it to get fragrant, then you put in the rest.”
You hum like you understand, but you don’t really. You just like listening to him talk. You nuzzle your nose into his neck, loving how the smell of him seems to be most potent there. His body wash, his laundry detergent, and just him.
“Are you paying attention?” He doesn’t sound upset, just amused, as he turns his head to look at you.
“Yes. Sorry.” You straighten a bit, but don’t step away.
“Because you asked me to teach you.”
“I know, I’m sorry.” You reluctantly disentangle yourself from him, stepping to stand beside him instead, a safe distance that didn’t tempt or distract you.
“Alright. Can you grab me some spices out of the cabinet?”
“Yes, chef.” He shakes his head at you exasperated, but the fact that the tips of his ears turn pink at your words doesn’t get past you. As you face the shelves and shelves of spices, you realize there are far too many you don’t recognize. Like, what in the world was ‘Tandoori Masala?’
“I need thyme, oregano, cayenne pepper, cumin, bay leaves, salt and pepper.”
You turn back to look at him slowly, but he’s gone back to chopping vegetables, overly confident in your ability to remember simple instructions.
You do alright, you grab sage leaves instead of bay leaves, but the label was a bit worn and hard to read.
“Now, put in a few shakes, and then we’ll taste it once we put the broth in to see if we need more.”
“Me?” You squeak, like you didn’t voluntarily sign up for this. He nods. “Me put in the seasonings?”
“Yes, you.” He chuckles.
“I don’t think you should trust me with that.”
“It’s just shaking a bottle, baby. You’ll do fine.”
He hands you one of the seasonings and waits for you to comply, which you reluctantly do. You start with one small shake, barely anything coming out, and when you look over to him for confirmation, he nods at you to continue. You do a few more, coating the vegetables cooking in the bottom with a layer of green flakes.
“Good. Next one.” He hands you another bottle, and so on until you get to the salt. “Now, this one—“ He doesn’t get a chance to finish, you’ve already begun shaking the container, the lid flying off and mound of salt falling into the pot. “…has a loose lid.”
You’re panicked, immediately grabbing the spoon to try and scoop some of the salt out, but Tucker is only laughing, reaching out to take the spoon from you.
“I’m so sorry,” you rush to say.
“Baby, baby.” He takes the spoon from your hand and grips your wrist gently. “You’re learning. It’s okay.” You relax a little bit, watching him calmly scoop the rest of the salt out, some already having absorbed into the food.
You look into the bottom of the pot worriedly, but he hugs you from behind and gives you a reassuring squeeze and a sweet kiss on the cheek.
“We still have the broth to put in, which will dilute the flavor some. It’s not ruined, I promise.”
“Okay,” you mutter, unconvinced you haven’t completely ruined the pot of soup. It was his mother’s recipe, too. Her famous chicken and vegetable soup that Tucker had told her you were making. You wanted to start with something smaller, maybe something less sentimental, but he insisted this would be the perfect beginners course. You were still seriously doubting that.
You pour the chicken broth in with his arms still around you and his chin still resting on your shoulder, supervising the whole thing. You wait for it to boil before dipping the spoon in to take a taste. Tucker blows on the liquid pooling in the dip of the wooden spoon and then gently brings it to your mouth for you to try. To your surprise, it isn’t overly salty. In fact, it’s sort of bland for how much seasoning you thought you put in.
“More pepper?” He asks, like you should know.
“More everything,” you correct, getting a laugh out of him.
You carefully add more of each seasoning, this time very carefully pouring some salt into your palm and then sprinkling it over the golden, bubbling liquid. The small veggies Tucker cut float about the pot, the current from the roiling boil churning the ingredients in an almost hypnotic way. You’re starting to understand why some people find cooking therapeutic.
“Alright, now the rice.”
You pour in about a cup of white rice and place the lid over the pot like a mother might place her sleeping baby in a crib. Then, with nothing left to do but wait for the rice to cook, you hoist yourself up onto the kitchen counter across from the stove and stare like maybe if you do it hard enough, you could see through the stainless steel.
“Watching it won’t make it cook faster,” Tucker informs you, coming to stand between your legs and block your view.
“No, but it’s less likely something will happen if I’m looking at it.”
“Sweetheart, it’s literally impossible to mess up a soup.”
“Well, you may think that, but you’re talking to the girl who somehow managed to burn pudding.”
He laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners the way you love. You lean in to kiss him then, never able to restrain yourself around him, and wrap your arms around his neck to pull him closer to you.
His thumbs rub gently back and forth where his hands rest at your hips, and between his mouth and his hands, you’re too distracted to notice the soup boiling over.
You both break apart once the liquid boils over the lid and starts sizzling as it drips onto the flame of the stove burner. You squeak in surprise as Tucker quickly moves to lift the lid, the frothy bubbles immediately sinking back down.
“I told you!” You motion towards the stove. Your boyfriend just laughs, completely unworried.
When you sit down to eat, you’re more nervous to try the soup than you should be. You and Tucker sit at the island, steaming bowls in front of you. The soup looked okay, but that didn’t mean much.
You blow on the spoon a few times before tentatively taking it into your mouth. It’s still a little too hot, but the flavor you taste overpowers the temperature.
You whip your head over to look at Tucker beside you.
“It’s good!” You exclaim incredulously.
“I told you it would be.”
“I can’t believe I did it! I made soup! And it’s actually good!”
You throw yourself into his lap, your arms wrapped around him as he laughs in surprise at your overreaction. It’s stupid to be so excited about, but Tucker never tells you that. He just squeezes you tighter to him, and murmurs a, “good job, baby.”
summary: You've been filming John Logan for many months. Forty seven saved clips, only eleven of them for work. You know his tells, his angles, his best light. You know him better than you probably should for someone who is just the social media girl. What you don't know is that the night he finally asked you out, there was a check involved. A thousand dollars. And three months of the most real thing you've ever felt sitting on top of a secret that was always going to cost someone.
notes: hii i'm back!! after a week of writing between breaks this one finally came to life and i really hope you guys enjoy it, also i've been informed that puck flying accidents are not very common but we're all going to pretend together, also may contain some hockey inaccuracies, i love the game but i'm definitely not a pro. as always thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think, your comments genuinely keep me writing!!
warnings: swearing, a bet that was a terrible idea, one thousand dollars, dean being dean, forty seven saved clips, angst with a happy ending.
word count: 12.2k
When you started working on the social media position for the hockey team at Briar U, you didn't understand how it was possible for people to take you even less seriously than you already took yourself. But then there would come the moment that they needed you, and things would change, and you would think oh, how the tables have turned.
You understood this in the first week. The girl who came before you, Liana, had walked you through everything: cameras, angles, schedules, the way the athletics department liked their content formatted. But had failed to mention that the players would not look at you so much as look through you at first. Like you were part of the furniture. A tripod with a heartbeat.
In a way, that was fine. Being invisible was a perfectly good way to do the job. Players acted more naturally when they forgot the camera was there, and natural content was always better than posed content. This was something you had understood instinctively from the beginning.
You had been doing this job since the beginning of fall semester. It had come to you not accidentally but not exactly sought either, you had always followed the team, always been a genuine fan. Liana, the former social media girl, was a friend from a very boring Thursday morning class you had both suffered through together. When she came close to graduating she recommended you for the job. You had been working the library circulation desk before that. When the athletics department called it had seemed like a no-brainer.
A few months in, you knew the inner workings of the team the way you knew the layout of your own apartment. Their training schedule, their game schedule, the subtle social architecture of a group of people who spent most of their waking hours together. You knew which players were camera shy and which ones had a natural appeal and actively enjoyed being filmed — cough Dean cough — and by now you knew everyone's best angle, best light, best moment.
Which brought you to Logan.
You were also, which was a separate and entirely unrelated issue, completely down bad for one of the players.
It had not happened all at once.
You had known who John Logan was before you got the job, everyone who followed Briar hockey knew who he was, which was most of the campus, but knowing of someone and being in the same building as them four times a week were different things entirely.
You had known about his escapades too. His romantic history was the kind of thing that Olivia, your friend and a woman of genuinely exceptional gossip quality, had mentioned more than once with the relish of someone who considered this information a public service. Before the job, you had laughed about it the way you laughed about things that had nothing to do with you.
Now that you actually knew him, not knew knew him, but saw him daily, which was its own specific category, you thought about his former, and hopefully past, escapades and felt something uncomfortably close to jealousy.
The crush had consolidated gradually and against your will, the way water finds its way through things. A practice here. A post-game there. The specific way he looked when he was focused on something, the way he talked to his teammates, the way he sometimes looked directly into your camera with an expression that suggested he had briefly forgotten it was there and was just looking.
And then there was the other thing, which was honestly the worst part: he was so unfairly polite. He said good morning and good afternoon. He smiled when he caught you filming something. He said goodbye when he left and apologized if the puck flew in your direction, which it occasionally did, and each time he said sorry about that with the specific sincerity of someone who actually meant it.
You knew you had a crush on him. Obviously. That part was not new information.
What was new information was the following Tuesday, late after practice, the rink mostly empty, you sitting in the stands with your laptop open and the tiredness of someone who had been on their feet for three hours. The players were filtering out through the doors and you were reviewing footage on autopilot, not really watching, when you looked up without thinking about it.
You were looking for Logan before you had decided to look for him.
When you found him, he was at the boards, removing his helmet and pushing a hand through his hair.
Fuck me, you thought.
And then it seemed like he had heard you, because he lifted his eyes and looked straight at you across the empty rink and smiled.
You smiled back and closed your laptop.
Time to go home and think about John Logan in bed.
You reached for your camera on the tripod — force of habit, you always checked the last few shots before packing up — and opened the gallery.
Logan drinking water. Logan laughing at something Garrett said. Logan tying his skates. Logan high-fiving Tucker after a good drill. Logan making a face directly at the camera, having clearly just noticed you filming him, looking entirely unbothered about it.
You stared at the screen.
Oh.
Oh no.
The real problem came later.
The game was at Harvard, which meant the bus, which meant a situation you had been successfully avoiding for six months. You never took the team bus, too much male energy, too many large people occupying space in a way that made you feel like you had accidentally wandered into someone else's environment. You usually went with the student bus, which was fine, which was your preferred option.
The student bus had a mechanical issue and couldn't make the drive in time.
So you, along with the other team staff, boarded the team bus with approximately forty hockey players and the quiet resignation of someone who had lost a negotiation they hadn't known they were in.
The game itself went fine, nothing groundbreaking, but Briar won, which was all that mattered. You packed up your equipment and joined the line filing back onto the bus, looking for the same seat you'd had on the way there.
You were making your way down the aisle when you spotted Logan sitting alone.
You slowed down. Made the calculation. Gave yourself approximately four seconds of internal encouragement.
A freshman defenseman sat down next to him before you could finish the thought.
You did not pout. You were a professional.
"Aw, look who it is." Dean's voice came from the seat directly behind Logan. He was sitting in the aisle seat, legs stretched out, watching you with the expression of someone who had seen everything. "You can sit with me."
"Sure," you said.
"Geez, don't look so happy about it." He pulled his legs in so you could slide past. "I even let you have the window."
"What a gentleman," you said, settling in and pulling your laptop from your bag.
"Are we watching a movie?" Dean pointed at the laptop.
"No. I'm working."
"Bummer," he said, shifting in his seat to get comfortable. Dean was a broad person and the seats were not designed with broad people in mind, which meant that when you sat down you were immediately, unavoidably in contact, arms pressed together, shoulders touching. You had briefly considered putting the armrest down for some personal space, but Dean seemed completely unbothered by the proximity, which somehow made it easier to be unbothered yourself.
This was the thing about Dean that had surprised you most when you first started the job: there had never been an awkward phase. No stiff introductions, no careful professional distance, no period of working out who you were to each other. He had simply decided you were friends and proceeded accordingly, and somehow six months had passed and it felt like you had known each other much longer than that.
You connected your camera to the laptop and started pulling up photos from the game. Selected the best ones. Started uploading them to the shared drive.
"Uh oh," Dean said, leaning over. "That's not my best angle."
You looked at the photo. He was facing almost entirely away from the camera.
"Shut up," you said, lightly slapping his hand away from the screen. "What do you mean not your best angle? Are you not proud of your very nice backside?"
This was a callback, and Dean knew it. He had said something similarly direct about you at a party two months ago in the shameless way that Dean said most things, and you had decided that the only appropriate response was to give the same energy back.
"I am," he said, "but the front is much better. You should check it out sometime."
"Are you referring to your face as the front of your backside?"
Dean repeated the question back to you in a mocking tone.
You opened the photos and started scrolling through them, and approximately three seconds later you noticed the pattern and began praying, quietly and sincerely, that Dean would not notice it too.
Too late.
"Why do you have so many pictures of Logan?" He was looking at the screen with his eyebrows raised. "There are like ten Logan pictures for every one of anyone else."
"Logan just photographs well."
"He photographs well."
"Yes."
"That's your explanation."
"That's my explanation."
Dean looked at you with the expression of someone assembling a conclusion. "You have the hots for Logan."
"The hots? Dean, what is this, a Disney Channel movie? And no. I don't."
"Yeah? Explain the hundred photos of him drinking water. Sorry, but you can't use those for Instagram." He paused. "Unless you're using them for something else. Like, I don't know. Your spank bank."
You gasped and punched his arm. "Shut up."
"Admit it."
"I plead the fifth."
"That's not how that works."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You have to. I'm your best friend."
"No you're not. It's Olivia."
"On the team, I meant."
"It's probably Tucker."
"Tucker?" Dean looked genuinely wounded. "Tucker? Don't try to change the subject."
You closed the laptop.
"Go to sleep, Dean."
"This conversation is not over."
"Yes it is."
"No it's not."
"Yes it is."
"No it's not," he said, adjusting himself against the seat with the decisive energy of someone settling in for a nap. You let your head fall back against the window. A moment later his head dropped onto your shoulder with the comfortable weight of someone who had decided this was acceptable.
"Do not drool on me," you said.
"I bet if it was Logan you wouldn't mind," he said, eyes already closed. Of course not.
"Don't be disgusting."
"And by the way —" he opened one eye "— he has the hots for you too."
"Oh my god," you said. "Stop talking like this is iCarly."
He closed his eye again.
The bus moved through the dark and you sat there with Dean's head on your shoulder and the laptop closed on your knees and tried very hard not to look at the back of Logan's head in the row in front of you.
Oh no, you thought, again, for the second time that week.
A couple of weeks later, Dean found you setting up the tripod in the corner of the film room before pre-game interviews.
"So," he said, appearing at your elbow with the energy of someone who had been waiting for the right moment. "I saw that you didn't RSVP to the invitation for mine and Beau's birthday bash. And it's tomorrow."
You winced. You had been avoiding this topic.
"I have a thing," you said, very casually, adjusting the tripod height without looking at him.
"A thing." He repeated it back with the tone of someone who found this deeply insufficient. "What thing could possibly be more important than my birthday?"
"They painted a new wall in the hallway of my apartment so —"
"Shut up," he said, moving closer. "You're coming. Also —" he said it with the specific energy of someone deploying their strongest argument "— Logan is going to be there."
You kept your eyes on the tripod. "I would assume so. Since you live together."
"You know what I mean."
"I really don't."
"Yes you do."
"I'm working tomorrow night," you said.
"It's a Saturday."
"Content doesn't take weekends off."
"You literally schedule everything in advance and you know it." Dean leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. "Come to the party. Talk to him. He's going to be right there."
"I talk to him all the time. It's my job."
"Yeah, but when you talk to Logan you do the thing."
You looked up for the first time. "What thing."
"The thing." He gestured vaguely at your face. "The thing where you forget to be normal."
"I am always normal."
"You called his assist last Tuesday 'genuinely cinematic.'"
"It was a good play."
"To his face."
"As a professional observation —"
"He smiled about it for the rest of practice." Dean looked at you steadily. "Come to the party."
You turned back to the tripod.
"I don't think Logan has the hots for me, you know," you said. "He's like a hot athlete. And I'm like the social media nerd."
Dean stared at you with the expression of someone who had just heard something that offended him on multiple levels simultaneously.
"Geez," he said. "You're not the girl in every romcom who doesn't know she's pretty." He paused. "Also you may be a nerd but — with all due respect to you and to my buddy Logan — you're pretty hot."
You pushed his shoulder and muttered a low stop.
"I'm being sincere!" He caught himself on the wall, laughing. "Party. Tomorrow. Eight o'clock. Logan will be there." He pointed at you one more time. "You will also be there."
He walked away before you could respond.
You looked at the camera. The camera looked back at you.
Genuinely cinematic, you thought, mortified.
You were definitely not going to that party.
The thing about watching two people be completely oblivious to each other was that it was, at first, entertaining.
Dean had found it genuinely funny in the beginning, the way you would track Logan across a room without realizing you were doing it, the way Logan would find reasons to be wherever you were without announcing that was what he was doing. It was like watching a nature documentary.
It had been funny for approximately three weeks.
It was now week seven and Dean was losing his mind.
It was a Thursday practice, nothing special about it. Dean was on the ice going through drills with Tucker when he caught it, the peripheral awareness of someone who had been watching a situation develop for too long.
You were in your usual spot in the stands, laptop open, camera on the tripod, doing the thing you always did where you looked like you were reviewing footage but were actually, if you knew what to look for, tracking Logan across the ice without moving your head.
Logan, for his part, was doing the thing he always did where he skated past your section of the stands more than was strictly necessary for any drill that had been assigned.
"He's done that four times," Tucker said, appearing at Dean's elbow.
"Five," Dean said. "You missed one while you were talking to the coach."
Tucker watched Logan complete another unnecessary loop near the boards. "Are they ever going to do something about that?"
"Apparently not," Dean said.
On the ice Logan slowed near the boards not stopping, that would have been too obvious, just slowing and said something up toward the stands. You looked up from your laptop and said something back. Logan smiled. You looked back at your laptop immediately, in the specific way of someone using a screen as a shield.
Logan skated away looking slightly more cheerful than he had thirty seconds ago.
"It's painful," Tucker said.
"It's excruciating," Dean agreed.
"Wow, that's a big word" Tucker said mocking Dean and skating away.
After practice Dean was still thinking about it in the locker room.
He was unwrapping his tape when Garrett sat down across from him.
"You have a face," Garrett said.
"I'm thinking."
"About what."
"Logan and the social media girl, or as I call her, (Y/N)"
"So her name—" Garrett replied.
Garrett looked at him with the mild, steady expression he used when he was waiting for someone to either say something sensible or stop talking. "And?"
"And they've been doing this for like seven weeks and nothing is happening and I'm tired of watching it."
"So tell him to do something about it."
"I've told him." Dean had, in fact, told Logan approximately six times in varying tones of directness. "Telling doesn't work. Logan needs a push."
"A push," Garrett repeated.
"A significant push."
Garrett looked at him for a long moment. "What kind of push."
"A financial one," he said.
"Dean —"
"Hear me out."
"I don't think I want to."
"A thousand dollars," Dean said. "I bet him a thousand dollars that he won't ask her out. He needs the money, he likes her, this solves both problems simultaneously. It's elegant."
Garrett stared at him. "It's really not."
"It gets him to do the thing he already wants to do."
"By paying him."
"By incentivizing him."
"Those are the same thing."
"Garrett," Dean said, in the tone of someone who had considered the counterarguments and dismissed them. "They have been doing this for weeks. At this rate they'll still be doing it at graduation. I'm helping."
Garrett looked at the ceiling briefly. "You shouldn't do this," he said finally.
"Noted," Dean said.
He did not change his mind.
Logan came in from the showers to find Dean sitting on the bench across from his locker with an expression that meant something was coming.
Tucker was in the corner pretending to check his phone. Garrett was lacing his shoes with more focus than the task required.
"What," Logan said.
"I have a proposition," Dean said.
Logan looked at Tucker. Tucker looked at his phone. Logan looked at Garrett. Garrett looked at his shoes.
"What kind of proposition," Logan said.
"A thousand dollars," Dean said. "All you have to do is ask her out."
He didnt't have to specify who the her was.
The locker room was quiet.
Logan opened his locker. Got his jacket. "No."
"Logan —"
"No, Dean."
"You like her."
"That's not —"
"You've skated past her section of the stands five times today during drills that don't require you anywhere near the boards." Dean's voice was completely even. "I counted."
Logan said nothing.
"You check her posts before anyone else on the team," Dean continued. "You know her schedule better than your own. You said sorry to her last Tuesday when the puck went near her even though it didn't come close to actually hitting her." A pause. "You apologized preemptively."
"I was being polite."
"You were being in love with her," Dean said, simply. "Which is fine. Great, actually. And fixable. With one conversation and a thousand dollars."
Tucker made a small sound that was not quite disapproval and not quite agreement.
Garrett said nothing, which was its own kind of answer.
Logan looked at his jacket in his hands. He thought about the time that had passed, the practices and bus rides and the specific way you closed your laptop when you were trying to hide something. He thought about his bank account, which was having a difficult semester. He thought about the rent that was due. The equipment he needed.
He thought about asking you out, which he had been meaning to do, which he had been telling himself he was going to do, which he had not done.
I was going to do it anyway, he told himself. The money doesn't change what I was going to do anyway.
"Fine," he said.
Tucker made the sound again, slightly louder.
Garrett looked up from his shoes for the first time. His expression was not angry, not exactly. More like a person watching a decision being made and knowing already how it was going to cost someone.
Dean produced a check from somewhere — written on the back of a receipt, which was so Dean that Logan almost laughed — and held it out.
Logan took it.
He folded it once and put it in his jacket pocket and did not look at Garrett again.
I was going to do it anyway, he thought.
He almost believed it.
The subject of the party was a sore one.
Part of you wanted to go and part of you didn't, and the two parts had been arguing since Dean walked away from the tripod, and by the time you got back to your apartment you had resolved nothing except that you needed to talk to Olivia about it.
Olivia listened to the full recap of the Dean conversation with the focused attention of someone taking notes. When you finished she was quiet for approximately three seconds.
"We're going," she said.
"I said I wasn't sure —"
"I've made up my mind. You were invited so you need to go, and I'm coming with you because—." She looked at you with the expression of someone who had already decided the fun they were going to have and was simply waiting for logistics to catch up. "What's the theme?"
"Dynamic duo."
"Perfect for us." She was already opening her laptop. "I know exactly what we're wearing."
"I don't even know what to wear," you breathed out, dropping flat onto your bed and staring at the ceiling. "What kind of theme even is that? Dynamic duo? That's so vague."
"It's not vague, it's versatile." She turned the screen to face you. "Clueless. Cher and Dionne. The plaid."
You looked at the screen. You looked at Olivia.
"Obviously," you said.
You walked into the party in matching plaid ,short skirt, blazer, the whole thing and felt immediately, objectively, like you had made the right costume choice. Olivia walked in beside you with the confident energy of someone who had never had a bad entrance in her life.
The house was full and warm and smelled like every college party you had ever been to. You did a quick scan of the room in the completely professional way of someone who was not looking for anyone specific.
You found him in approximately four seconds.
Logan was in the kitchen with Dean, drink in hand, laughing at something. He was wearing a sleveless gray shirt with a pair of wings.
You gave a small wave in their direction. Dean spotted you first and his face did something immediately, and then he clapped a hand on Logan's back and pushed him in your direction with the subtlety of a person who had never heard the word subtle.
Logan crossed the room.
"Hey —" His eyes moved over you and something in his expression shifted slightly. "Clueless?"
"Yeah," you said, nodding perhaps a few more times than necessary.
Beside you, Olivia made a sound that she converted, barely, into a cough. She had been documenting your inability to form complete sentences in Logan's presence for approximately three months and found it genuinely hilarious.
"You look very pretty," Logan said.
"Oh — thanks." The blush arrived before you could do anything about it. Compose yourself.
Logan seemed to remember that you were not alone. "You too, Olivia."
"Yeah, right," Olivia laughed. "I'll go get a drink."
She disappeared into the crowd. As she passed behind Logan she turned to face you and mouthed make a move with the enormous unsubtle energy of someone who had been waiting three months to say it.
You looked back at Logan.
"I'm glad you came," he said. "Dean mentioned you weren't sure."
"I had some content to edit," you said.
"This is more important," he said, lightly, like a joke, but with something underneath it that wasn't entirely a joke.
"Yeah," you said.
And then you were both just standing there. Drinks in hand, the party moving around you, talking the way you had discovered you talked when you were alone together, which was easily, which was the specific ease of two people who had been in the same orbit long enough to have figured out each other's rhythms without officially acknowledging it.
"So what are you supposed to be anyway?" you asked, taking the opportunity to look at him properly. The gray shirt. The wings. The arms, which were — you looked at his face instead. "Jacob Elordi in Saltburn?"
Logan laughed — a real one, surprised and warm. "Bird and the bee. I'm the bird. Tuck's the bee."
"Oh," you said. "That tracks."
"Does it."
"The bee has better energy," you said. "No offense to you."
"I'll tell Tucker you said that."
"Please don't."
Dean chose this exact moment to appear between you.
"Hello, you two." He looked between you with barely concealed delight. "What are we talking about?"
"The birds and the bees," you said, and watched Dean's eyebrow go up in real time.
"Oh, I like where this is headed."
"No — I mean his costume," you said quickly. "What are you supposed to be?"
"Maverick." He pointed across the room to where Beau was talking to a very beautiful brunette. "Beau's Goose."
You considered this. "Was there not a dynamic duo where one of them didn't have a tragic ending? You could have been Ice."
"Ice and Maverick hated each other," Dean said.
"No they didn't! In your own words they had the hots for each other."
Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Pointed at you. "That is actually a fair point."
"Thank you."
"You're insufferable," he said, smiling. He looked between you and Logan one more time. "I'm going to go find Beau. You two —" he gestured vaguely at the space between you "— continue."
He disappeared back into the crowd.
You looked at Logan. Logan looked at you.
"He's not subtle," you said.
"No," Logan agreed. "He really isn't."
The party continued around you. At some point you had moved slightly closer together. Neither of you had announced it. At some point his hand had found the small of your back, briefly, when someone pushed past in the crowd. It had stayed there a moment longer than strictly necessary. You had not moved away.
At some point Olivia had caught your eye from across the room and given you a look of such unrestrained triumph that you had been forced to look at the floor to keep from laughing.
"So —" Logan started. He stopped. Tried again. "I've been thinking. For a while actually." He looked at you with the expression of someone abandoning a rehearsed script entirely in favor of just saying the thing. "Would you like to go out? With me. On a date."
Inside your chest, something that had been very carefully managed for months made a sound like:
YESYESYESYESYESYESYESYES —
"Yes," you said, with great composure. "I'd like that."
Something settled in his expression warm and certain. "Good. I was hoping you were going to say that."
"I was hoping you were going to ask," you said.
He smiled. Not the polite one, not the team-photo one the real one, the one you had forty-seven saved clips of and only eleven of them were for work.
Across the room, completely uninvited into this moment, Dean let out a noise of triumph loud enough that Tucker turned around to look.
You and Logan both looked at Dean.
Dean pointed at both of you, then at himself, then gave two thumbs up with the energy of a man who had absolutely no shame about any of this.
"He planned this," you said.
"Obviously," Logan said.
You looked at Dean, who was now saying something to Beau that was making Beau look confused and Dean look extremely pleased with himself.
"I'm going to delete all his content," you said.
"Probably," Logan said. "But maybe tomorrow."
You looked back at him.
"Yeah," you said. "Maybe tomorrow."
What you did not know — what you would not know for three months — was what had happened two hours before that conversation.
The first date was a Tuesday.
Logan had asked on a Saturday and then spent the intervening three days being completely normal about it, which meant he had checked his phone approximately forty times and suggested three different restaurants to Dean who had not asked for his opinion and had given it anyway.
He picked you up at seven. You had worn something simple and he had looked at you the way he sometimes looked into the camera, direct, unhurried, like you were something worth paying attention t, and said you look great in the specific voice he used when he meant things, and you had said thanks, so do you and meant it, and the evening had been easy in the way that things were easy when they had been building for a long time and had finally found the right outlet.
You talked for three hours. Not about anything important about the team, about your job, about the things you had noticed about each other without ever saying so. He told you about the preemptive puck apology before you could bring it up and looked slightly embarrassed about it, which you found endearing in a way you did not make him aware of. You told him about the forty-seven saved clips and watched his expression do something warm and complicated.
He walked you back to your dorm. He kissed you at the door — soft and unhurried, the specific patience of someone who had been waiting a while and had decided that arriving was enough for now.
You went inside and stood in the hallway for a moment.
Oh, you thought. Not oh no this time. Just — oh.
What followed was three months that assembled themselves quietly and completely, the way good things tended to do when you stopped trying to manage them.
You learned the specific rhythm of being with Logan, which was different from the rhythm of being near Logan, which you had spent seven months memorizing from behind a camera. Being with him was easier. Less careful. The things you had noticed from a professional distance — the way he focused, the way he was with his teammates, the particular quality of his attention when he was genuinely listening were the same up close, just without the glass between you.
He remembered things. That was the detail that accumulated the most weight over three months small things you had said once, in passing, that he filed away and produced later in the specific way of someone who had been listening more carefully than you knew. The coffee order. The fact that you hated the overhead lights in the film room. The name of the professor whose class you had shared with Liana.
You told Olivia about the coffee order detail on a Thursday night and she looked at you with an expression that said everything she was choosing not to say out loud.
"Don't," you said.
"I'm not saying anything," she said.
"You have a face."
"I have my normal face."
"Olivia."
"I'm just glad," she said simply, and went back to whatever she was doing, and you sat with that for a moment and found that you were too.
Logan was also, three months in, still thinking about the check.
Not constantly. Not the way he had in the beginning, when it had surfaced at inconvenient moments, the first dinner, the first time you laughed at something he said, the first time you fell asleep on his shoulder watching something neither of you were paying attention to. Those early weeks it had been a persistent background noise, a low-level static of something he should have said and hadn't.
But the weeks had passed and the static had gotten quieter, the way noise does when you choose not to listen to it long enough. He had paid his rent. He had replaced the equipment. He had told himself, again and again, that he had been going to ask you out anyway, that the money had been incidental, that what they had built in the three months since was real regardless of how it started.
All of that was true.
The part that was also true, the part he didn't let himself look at too directly, was that you didn't know. And not knowing was its own kind of thing, a thing that existed in the space between you without you being aware of it, that he was aware of every time you said something honest to him, every time you looked at him the way you looked at him.
He had meant to tell you. In the beginning. There had been a window, early on, when it would have been a small thing — by the way, Dean made a bet, it's a whole thing, I was going to ask you anyway—. He had rehearsed it. He had not said it. The window had closed, and then it had been a week, and then a month, and then three months, and now saying it felt like dropping something large into a quiet room.
So he didn't say it.
He told himself it didn't matter because it hadn't changed anything real.
He was getting better at believing that.
It was a Saturday afternoon in February, the specific grey-white quality of a winter afternoon that had given up pretending it was going to improve, and you were in Logan's room doing nothing in particular.
This had become one of your favorite things — the doing nothing in particular. You had a tendency, left to your own devices, to fill time with productivity, with scheduled content and edited footage and the general sense that unoccupied time was time being wasted. Logan had, over three months, introduced you to the concept of lying on a bed on a Saturday afternoon and simply existing, which you had resisted and then accepted and now found genuinely necessary.
He was on his back, one arm behind his head, reading something on his phone. You were beside him, legs tangled, working your way through a Cosmopolitan from 2003 that you had found at the thrift store the previous weekend when you had gone with Allie. It had a younger Jennifer Lopez on the cover and approximately forty pages of advertisements for perfumes that no longer existed, and you had bought it for fifty cents because something about it felt like an artifact.
"Listen to this," you said.
"Mm."
"It's a quiz." You held up the magazine. "Is your relationship ready for the next level? I feel like we should take it."
"I feel like that magazine is older than some of our teammates."
"That's what makes it valuable." You turned back to the page. "Okay. Question one. When you picture your future, does your partner feature prominently? Options are: always, sometimes, or only when I'm feeling optimistic."
"Always," Logan said, without looking up from his phone.
You looked at him sideways. He was still reading, expression neutral, like he had answered a question about the weather.
"Okay," you said, and looked back at the magazine, and did not make anything of it, because making something of it would have required acknowledging that it had landed somewhere specific and stayed there.
You worked through several more questions — about communication, about conflict, about shared values — Logan answering in the same unhurried, matter-of-fact way, like the answers had already been decided and he was simply reporting them.
And then you got to the last one.
"Okay, last question." You shifted onto your side to face him. "If your partner made a serious mistake — something that hurt you — what would it take to make things right? Option A: a heartfelt conversation and genuine apology. Option B: time, space, and proof of change. Option C —" you paused, because option C was very 2003 "— a grand romantic gesture. Flowers, candlelight, the whole thing."
You said it like it was funny. You said it with the lightness of someone reading from an old magazine on a Saturday afternoon.
Logan put his phone down.
He looked at the ceiling for a moment. Then he turned his head and looked at you with an expression that was doing something complicated underneath the surface.
"What would you pick?" he said.
You considered it. "Honestly? C, but private. Like not in front of everyone. Just — showing up. With flowers, or peonies, they are my favorite. And meaning it." You paused. "The meaning it is the important part."
Logan looked at the ceiling again.
"Many flowers," he said. His voice was even. Carefully even.
"Like an unreasonable amount," you said. "Like someone made a decision about it."
"Right," he said.
He was quiet for a moment. You looked at him — at the careful evenness of his expression, the specific stillness of someone sitting with something — and almost asked what he was thinking about.
Then he turned back to you with the warm unhurried expression you knew, and kissed your temple.
"Good to know," he said.
You looked back at the magazine. Jennifer Lopez looked back at you, unbothered.
You did not know, lying there on a grey February Saturday, that you had just handed him the exact shape of something he was going to need.
Logan knew.
He stared at the ceiling after you looked away and thought about a check written on the back of a receipt and a conversation in a locker room and the specific, settling weight of something that had been waiting a long time to be said.
Too many flowers, he thought. Private. Meaning it.
He closed his eyes.
I have to tell her, he thought.
He did not tell her.
Allie had not been looking for information.
She had been in the kitchen at the off campus house on a Wednesday evening, waiting for Dean to finish getting ready so they could go to dinner, scrolling through her phone with the patience of someone accustomed to waiting for Dean to finish getting ready. She was not listening. She was not paying attention to anything except the particular injustice of being told seven-fifteen and it being seven-thirty-two.
And then Dean's phone rang on the counter.
She glanced at it automatically. Logan.
Dean came out of the bathroom still pulling on his jacket and picked it up. "Hey. What's up."
Allie went back to her phone.
"What do you mean you need to tell her." Dean's voice had shifted into something lower, more careful. "What's — Logan. Logan, have you not told her yet?"
Allie looked up.
Dean had his back to her, one hand pressed to the counter, the specific posture of someone having a conversation they hadn't prepared for. "It's been three months, man. How have you — okay. Okay, calm down. Just — tell me what happened."
A pause. Dean listening.
"So tell her," Dean said. "Just — tonight. Call her and tell her. It's been long enough, she'll —" another pause "— Logan, I know it's not going to be easy but you can't just — yes I know you actually love her, that's not the — okay, listen —"
Allie set her phone down on the counter very carefully.
"What," she said.
Dean turned around.
The expression on his face moved through several things in quick succession — surprise, recalibration, and then the specific, flattening look of someone who understood exactly what had just happened.
"Allie —"
"What did you do," she said. Not a question.
Dean lowered his phone slowly. On the other end Logan was saying something, unaware.
"Dean." Her voice was very even. "What did you do."
He told her.
He told her all of it — the bet, the thousand dollars, the locker room — and Allie stood in the kitchen and listened with the stillness of someone who was getting progressively more furious in a way that had not yet found its exit.
When he finished she said nothing for a moment.
"She's my friend," she said finally.
"I know —"
"She is my friend and you let her date him for three months without telling her."
"It wasn't supposed to —"
"Dean." She picked up her keys from the counter. "Do not follow me."
"Allie, please just —"
"I have to tell her," she said. "She's my friend. I'm not going to —"
"Please," Dean said, and his voice had lost all its usual confidence, stripped down to something that was just — asking. "Please just give me a chance to fix it. I'll tell Logan to tell her tonight. Just give me —"
"You had your chance to fix it three months ago," Allie said. "And two months ago. And last month." She looked at him for a long moment. "I love you. And you did something really wrong. And she needs to know."
She left.
Dean stood in the kitchen alone and listened to Logan's voice still coming from the phone in his hand.
He put the phone to his ear.
"She already knows," he said.
You were in your aparment when Allie knocked.
She told you everything standing in your doorway, quickly and directly, the way Allie did things — no preamble, no softening, just the facts arranged in order. The bet. The thousand dollars. The locker room. Three months.
You stood very still while she talked.
When she finished you said nothing for a long moment.
"Get your keys," you said.
"(Y/N) —"
"Get your keys, Allie."
The drive to the off campus house took four minutes. You did not speak. Allie drove and you looked at the road ahead and felt cold clarity of someone who had moved past the part where things hurt and into the part where they simply had to be dealt with.
The lights were on when you pulled up. Of course they were.
You didn't knock.
You walked in and Logan was already in the hallway, like he had heard the car, like some part of him had known — and the expression on his face when he saw you was the expression of someone who had been waiting for this and was still not ready for it.
Dean was behind him. Tucker and Garrett further back, in the doorway of the living room, with the expressions of people who understood the room and had decided to stay very still.
"Hey —" Logan started.
"Did you take a bet," you said, "to ask me out."
The hallway was very quiet.
"Yes," Logan said.
The word landed.
"How much," you said.
"A thousand dollars."
You looked at him. This person. This person whose coffee order you knew, whose preemptive apologies you had found endearing, whose smile you had forty-seven saved clips of and only eleven of them were for work.
"You had to be paid," you said. Your voice was very quiet. "Someone had to pay you. To ask me out."
"It wasn't —"
"A thousand dollars," you said. "That's what it cost. That's what asking me out was worth to you. A thousand dollars and someone else's idea."
"That's not —"
"I told you I loved you." The words came out steadier than you expected. "Three weeks ago. In your room. I told you I loved you and you said it back and the whole time —" you stopped. Started again. "The whole time there was a check. There was a check and you knew and you said it back anyway."
"I meant it," Logan said. "I mean it. I love you, that has nothing to do with —"
"It has everything to do with it." Your voice cracked slightly and you pushed past it. "Because maybe you do. Maybe you actually do love me. But I will never know that now. Do you understand that? I will never know which part was real and which part was a thousand dollars because you didn't tell me. You had three months to tell me and you didn't."
"I was going to —"
"When?" you said. "When were you going to tell me? After another month? After a year? Were you ever actually going to tell me or were you just going to keep it and hope I never found out?"
He said nothing.
"That's what I thought," you said.
You turned to Dean.
Dean was standing very still with an expression that had none of his usual ease in it, stripped down, uncomfortable, genuinely ashamed in a way that you recognized as real and that made it worse rather than better.
"I thought you were my friend," you said. Your voice was different now, not cold, something more broken than cold. "I thought — you were supposed to be my friend. I told you things. I told you how I felt about him and you used it. You turned it into a transaction and then you watched me fall in love with him and you said nothing."
"I know," Dean said. His voice was very quiet. "I know."
"I taught you how to use the camera," you said, which was not what you meant to say but came out anyway, and somehow it was the most honest thing — the small specific intimacy of it, the way you had shown him the angles and the settings and he had been genuinely interested and you had thought this is what a friend looks like. "I showed you everything. I thought you were —"
"I was," Dean said. "I am. I'm so sorry."
"Don't." You picked up your bag. "Don't apologize right now. I can't — I need you to not talk to me right now."
You looked at Logan one more time. He was standing in the hallway with his hands at his sides and the open, devastated expression of someone who had run out of words and knew it.
"Please," he said. Just that. Just the word, quiet and without any of the composure he usually wore like a second skin.
"I have to go," you said.
"Please just let me —"
"Logan." Your voice broke on his name, just slightly, and you steadied it. "I have to go."
You walked to the door. Behind you you heard him take a step.
You opened the door.
"You two fucking suck," you said, to the hallway, to both of them, to the three months of Tuesday practices and bus rides and magazine quizzes and I love you said and meant and received by someone who was keeping a check in his jacket pocket the whole time. "Never talk to me again."
You walked out.
Allie was waiting by the car. She took one look at your face and said nothing, just unlocked the doors, and you got in, and she drove, and the campus moved past the windows dark and quiet and entirely indifferent.
You did not cry until you got back to your aparment.
And then you did, for a while, with Olivia sitting beside you saying nothing because there was nothing to say, just being there the way people who actually loved you were there when things went wrong.
You had to be paid, you thought, in the dark.
A thousand dollars.
The house was very quiet after you left.
Tucker and Garrett had retreated to the living room. Nobody was saying anything.
Dean sat on the bottom step of the stairs and put his head in his hands.
Logan stood in the hallway where you had left him and looked at the closed door and thought about everything — the check, the locker room, the first dinner, the magazine quiz on a grey February Saturday, too many flowers, private, meaning it — and underneath all of it, constant and quiet, the thing he had known for three months and had managed to convince himself didn't matter:
You had deserved to know.
You had deserved to know from the beginning and he had chosen not to tell you and you stood in his hallway and said I will never know which part was real and he had had no answer because there was no answer that fixed that.
Garrett appeared in the doorway of the living room. He looked at Logan for a long moment.
"I told you not to," he said. Not unkindly. Just said.
"I know," Logan said.
"From the beginning. I told you."
"I know, Garrett."
Garrett looked at him for another moment. Then he went back to the living room without saying anything else, which was somehow the most devastating response available.
Logan sat down on the floor of the hallway with his back against the wall and stared at nothing.
I have to fix this, he thought.
He had absolutely no idea how.
The email to the athletics department went out the following morning.
It was professional and brief — you cited personal reasons, thanked them for the opportunity, offered to train your replacement, gave two weeks notice. You sent it before you could think about it too hard, before the part of you that loved the job could talk the other part out of it.
You were not going to sit in that rink anymore. You were not going to film those practices or those games or stand in that corridor outside the locker room with your tripod and your equipment bag and pretend that everything was the same as it had been before.
Your phone had messages from Logan and Dean by noon. You read none of them.
The football team's social media coordinator reached back out by the end of the day.
You started the following Monday.
The football team was different from the hockey team in ways that were both obvious and unexpected. Louder, in some ways. Different rhythms, different energy. The guys were nice and the work was interesting and you were good at it, because you were good at this, that had never been in question.
You were fine.
You were getting finer by the day, which was either progress or a very convincing impression of it.
Allie texted. Garrett texted — I'm sorry, for what it's worth I told him not to — which you appreciated more than you could say. Tucker sent a single text that just said I tried to talk him out of it and you believed him and told him so.
You did not respond to Logan.
Logan's days had a new shape to them and he hated it.
Practice was the same, same drills, same ice, same team, but the stands were wrong. The spot where you always sat, third row back on the left side, was empty now, and he knew it was empty without lookin. He looked anyway. Every practice, every morning skate, every film session, he looked, and the spot was empty, and he looked away.
Logan texted you every three days. Not long messages, just checking in, just your name sometimes, just I know you don't want to hear from me right now but I'm sorry. He did not expect responses. He sent them anyway because not sending them felt worse.
He watched your football content. Every post, every reel, every behind-the-scenes clip. He watched the way you filmed the new team — the same eye, the same instinct for the right moment, the same ability to make something look like something worth watching — and felt the specific, particular ache of someone who understood what they had lost because they had been paying attention to it the whole time.
He had always been paying attention.
That was the thing that made it so much worse.
Three weeks after you left, the hockey team got a new social media person.
Her name was Jade. She was a sophomore, enthusiastic, slightly overwhelmed, and she had asked you to walk her through the setup on a Tuesday morning when the team had a late practice, which meant you were in the rink, with your old equipment, showing someone else how to use the angles you had spent seven months learning, when the team came off the ice.
You had not planned for this. You had assumed they would be gone by the time you were done.
They were not gone.
You heard them before you saw them, he familiar noise of the team coming out of the locker room corridor and then Tucker saw you first and stopped walking so abruptly that Garrett walked into him.
"What —" Garrett looked up. Saw you. His expression did something complicated.
The rest of the team filtered out around them, and then Dean, and then Logan, and the corridor went through a specific collective recalibration.
You kept your face completely neutral. "Hey," you said, to the general group. "This is Jade. She's taking over the social media. I'm just showing her the setup."
Jade waved cheerfully, unaware of the atmospheric pressure of the corridor.
"Taking over?" Tucker said slowly.
"Yes," you said. "I moved to football." You said it simply, like it was information and not anything else. "Jade is great, she's going to do a really good job."
The team was looking at you with various expressions. Tucker looked pained. Garrett looked like he was doing math.
Dean was looking at the floor.
Logan was looking at you with the expression of someone watching something leave that they had already lost and were only now understanding the full shape of. You could feel it without looking directly at him. You had spent seven months learning the specific weight of his attention.
"I already left," you said. "This is just the handover."
"But —" Tucker started.
"Tuck," you said, gently. "It's fine. Jade is great."
Jade smiled again.
"We kind of made you leave," Tucker said, in the specific tone of someone who had been holding something for three weeks and had finally said it out loud.
"Tucker —"
"No, like —" he stopped. Looked at Dean. Looked at Logan. Looked back at you. "We made you leave. That's what happened. And I just — I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say but I'm sorry."
The corridor was very quiet.
"You didn't make me leave," you said carefully. "You tried to talk him out of it. I know that."
Tucker nodded. Still pained.
"Right," Garrett said finally, in the tone of someone deciding to be graceful about something painful. "Good luck with football."
"Thanks," you said.
You turned back to Jade and kept going with the walkthrough, and the team filed past, and you did not look at Logan as he walked by even though you could feel him slowing down, even though you could feel him wanting to say something.
"Hey," Logan said. Very quietly. Just that.
You kept your eyes on the camera settings you were showing Jade.
He stood there for a moment. Then his footsteps continued down the corridor.
You exhaled very quietly and kept talking to Jade about angles.
Behind you, fading, you heard Dean say something low and urgent to Logan that you couldn't make out. And Logan's response, quieter still:
"I know."
Logan started showing up.
Not to you, he respected the never talk to me again enough not to push himself into your space. But he started showing up in the ways that were available to him.
He fixed the tripod mount in the storage room that had been broken since October — the one you had mentioned once, months ago, in passing, because it made the camera angle slightly off and you had learned to compensate for it. He left a note on it that said finally fixed it. sorry it took so long. No signature. He didn't need one.
He started showing up to the football team's games.
Not every game. Not in a way that was dramatic or obvious. Just there, in the stands, with the quiet patience of someone who had decided that if the mountain wouldn't come to him he would go to the mountain and sit in the stands and watch from a respectful distance.
Olivia told you the second time it happened.
"He was there again," she said carefully.
You said nothing.
"He's not doing anything," she said. "He's just — there. Watching."
You said nothing.
"I thought you should know," she said.
You knew.
You knew because you had clocked him the first time — third row back, left side,— and you had kept filming and not said anything and thought about it for three days.
He texted you after the third game.
logan: you got a good shot of the QB in the third quarter. the one right before the play call. it was good.
You stared at the message for a long time.
yn: how would you know
logan: i was there
A long pause.
logan: i'll keep coming if that's okay. i won't bother you. i just want to be there.
You put your phone down.
You picked it up.
yn: it's okay
Dean did not sleep the night you found out.
He lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling and thought about the specific expression on your face when you said I thought you were my friend — not angry, which would have been easier, but broken, which was not easier at all.
At four in the morning he picked up his phone.
dean: allie
allie: i'm awake
dean: i know i really messed up
allie: yes
dean: i don't know how to fix it
A long pause.
allie: you start by not trying to fix it. you start by just being sorry.
dean: i am
allie: i know. she needs to hear it from you. not a text. not through anyone else. you.
dean: she said never talk to her again
allie: i know what she said. give her time. and then go.
Dean put his phone down.
He stared at the ceiling until it got light outside.
You took your own sweet time.
Not to feel better, you were not operating under the illusion that time fixed everything, but to feel what you needed to feel without an audience. You went to classes. You went to work. You filmed the football team's Tuesday practice and focused on the angles and the light and the professional satisfaction of a job done well, and you did not think about hockey, and you did not look at your phone when certain names appeared on the screen, and you let Olivia bring you food and watch bad television with you without making you talk about it.
On the fourteenth day Dean was waiting outside your lecture hall.
He looked terrible. Not dramatically terrible — Dean was constitutionally incapable of looking terrible — but tired.
You stopped when you saw him.
He held up both hands. "I'm not here to make excuses," he said. "I know you said never talk to me again. I know. I just — five minutes. And then I'll go and I won't bother you again if that's what you want."
You looked at him for a long moment.
You stepped to the side of the path, out of the flow of people. He followed.
"Say what you have to say," you said.
Dean looked at you with the expression you had never seen on him before, no performance, no charm deployed at the right moment, nothing managed. Just a person who had done something wrong and knew it and was standing in front of the person he had done it to.
"I've never had a friend like you before," he said. "Like — actually. I have guy friends. I have girls I've hooked up, almost dated or whatever. But I've never had a girl who was just — a friend. Who I talked to and who talked to me and who I could be around without it being anything else." He paused. "And I took that and I made it into a scheme. And I told myself I was helping and maybe part of me was but part of me just — didn't think far enough ahead. Didn't think about what it would mean to you if you found out. Didn't think about you at all, honestly, which is the thing I'm most sorry about." He held your gaze. "I thought about Logan being in love with you and I thought about the bet being clever and I didn't think about you being a person who deserved to know the truth. And I should have. You should have been the first thing I thought about."
The path had mostly emptied. A bird somewhere was doing something aggressively cheerful.
"I miss my friend," Dean said. "I know I don't get to just say that. I know. I just needed you to know that it's real. You are actually my friend and I actually miss you and I'm actually sorry, not sorry like I feel bad, sorry like I understand what I did."
You looked at him.
You thought about the bus and his head on your shoulder and on the team, I meant and the way he had looked genuinely wounded when you said Tucker was probably your better friend on the team.
"It's going to take time," you said finally.
Something in his expression shifted — careful, not quite hope yet.
"I know," he said.
"You don't get to just be normal yet. We have to rebuild that."
"I know."
"And you have to actually be different," you said. "Not just sorry. Different."
"I will be," he said. "I already am. Or I'm trying to be." He paused. "Is that enough to start with?"
You looked at him for a long moment.
"It's enough to start with," you said.
The careful-not-quite-hope became something more than that.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"Don't thank me yet," you said. "We have a long way to go."
"I know," he said. "I'll go as slow as you need."
You looked at the path ahead.
"I have class," you said.
"I know. Go."
You went.
It was a start.
Logan was harder.
Not because you were angrier at him — you were, if you were being honest, angry at both of them in equal measure, just differently. Dean had betrayed a friendship. Logan had betrayed something larger, something that had your name on it, something you had handed him on a grey February Saturday when you said I love you and meant it with everything you had.
You saw him at the football games. Third row back, left side, every time. Not looking at you directly, just there, present, with the quiet patience of someone who had decided that showing up was the only thing available to him and had committed to it without reservation.
He sent you a text after every game. Not about him, not about them, about your work. Good shot in the second half. The one where you caught the receiver right before the snap. The slow motion reel you posted was really good. The timing was perfect. Small specific things that said I was paying attention without saying anything else.
You read them all.
You responded to some of them.
Small things. Thanks. I almost didn't post that one. Nothing that opened a door, just acknowledgment. The acknowledgment of someone who was not ready and was not pretending to be and was also not entirely gone.
He was not pushing. That was the thing you noticed most. He had shown up to three football games and fixed a broken tripod mount and sent careful specific texts about your work and he had not once asked for anything in return. Had not once said I think we should talk or please give me a chance or any of the things that would have made it easier to keep the door closed.
He was just — there.
Being different.
The grand gesture arrived on a Thursday, five weeks after the fight.
You were in the football team's equipment room going through footage on your laptop when someone knocked on the door. One of the managers looked in.
"There's someone outside asking for you," he said, with the specific expression of someone who had seen something and found it notable.
You went outside.
The path outside the athletics building was where you found him — Logan, in the cold, with flowers. Not a bunch. Not a normal amount. An amount that represented a decision — sunflowers and peonies and something small and white, wrapped loosely in paper, assembled with the specific intention of being too many, more than one person could reasonably carry, held in both arms with the careful energy of someone who had thought about this and decided it was not enough and added more anyway.
You looked at the flowers. You looked at him.
He looked tired in the same way he had looked tired since the night you left — not dramatic, not performing it, just genuinely worn down in the way of someone who had been carrying something for five weeks without putting it down.
"You said private," he said. "Too many flowers. Someone made a decision." He paused. "I made a decision."
Your throat did something inconvenient.
"Logan —"
"I'm not asking you to forgive me today," he said. "I just you said meaning it was the important part. And I needed you to see that I mean it. That's all. I'm not asking for anything."
You looked at the flowers. Peonies. He had gotten peonies specifically.
"You remembered the peonies," you said.
"You mentioned them once," he said. "A long time ago."
"You were paying attention," you said.
"I was always paying attention," he said quietly. "That was never the problem."
You stood there in the cold outside the athletics building and thought about I will never know which part was real and the third row left side and the texts about your work and five weeks of him being different without being asked to prove it.
"This isn't enough," you said.
Something flickered in his expression.
"I know," he said.
"I need more than flowers."
"I know," he said again, steadily. "Tell me what you need. Whatever it is. I'll do it."
You looked at him for a long moment.
"I need time," you said. "Real time. Not rushing. Not us going back to how things were because it was comfortable and we missed each other. Actually starting over and doing it right."
"Okay," he said.
"I need you to keep showing up," you said. "Not just when it's easy. When it's hard and uncertain and you don't know if it's working. You keep showing up anyway."
"I will," he said.
"And I need you to understand that I might get angry again," you said. "Even after I've forgiven you. It might come back and I might need to say something and you have to let me say it without shutting down."
"I will," he said. "I'll listen. Every time."
You looked at him.
"The texts," you said. "About my work."
"Yeah."
"You were at every game."
"Yeah."
"Third row back. Left side."
He looked at you quietly.
"I know," you said. "I noticed."
Something in his expression shifted.
"I was always going to ask you out," he said. "I need you to know that. Not as an excuse. Just as a true thing. The money didn't change what I felt. It just — it gave me a reason I shouldn't have needed and I took it and I'm sorry. But what happened between us was real. Every single part of it was real."
"I know," you said, which surprised you slightly, because you hadn't known you knew until you said it. "I know it was real. That's what made it hurt so much."
He nodded.
"Give me the peonies," you said.
He carefully extracted the peonies from the arrangement and held them out. You took them.
"The rest you can take home," you said.
"Okay."
"And Logan —" you paused. "The showing up. Don't stop."
Something broke open in his expression — not dramatically, not loudly, just quietly and completely, the expression of someone who had been holding something for five weeks and had finally been given a place to put it down.
"I won't," he said. "I promise."
You looked at him for one more moment.
"Slow," you said.
"As slow as you need," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."
You went back inside.
You stood in the equipment room with the peonies and thought about everything — the check and the bet and the fight and five weeks of third row left side and too many flowers on a Thursday afternoon in the cold.
You were not okay yet.
But you were standing with peonies, which was somewhere.
It was enough to start with.
The getting back together did not happen all at once.
It happened the way the crush had happened — gradually, against nobody's will this time, the way things did when they had been building for a long time and had finally found the right conditions.
The first time you went back to the rink it was not for work.
It was a Saturday game, mid-March, the kind that mattered for standings, and you had told yourself you were going because Allie and Hannah were going and Olivia was going and it was a group thing and had nothing to do with anything else.
You brought your camera.
Not the work camera your personal one, the smaller one you used when you were filming for yourself rather than for a content schedule. You told yourself it was habit. You told yourself you just liked having it.
You sat third row left side.
The thing about watching hockey when you actually knew what you were looking at was that it was a completely different experience from watching hockey when you were just there for the atmosphere. You knew the plays. You knew the patterns. You knew which moments were about to become something before they became something, the specific pre-motion stillness that preceded a good play, the way certain players telegraphed their intentions without knowing they were doing it.
You knew Logan's tells better than anyone.
Which was why you had your camera up and ready when he got the puck in the second period the slight shift of his weight, the way his head came up a half second before anyone else's, and then the play unfolding exactly the way you had known it would, clean and fast and entirely worth watching.
You got the shot.
Forty-three seconds of it, actually.
You lowered the camera and looked at what you had captured and felt something settle in your chest that was warm and quiet and entirely familiar.
Genuinely cinematic, you thought, and smiled at the ice.
Briar won.
The team filtered out of the locker room in the usual way in ones and twos, loud and post-game, spilling into the corridor where the usual group had gathered. Allie found Dean. Hannah found Garrett. Tucker found someone to complain to about a call in the third period.
You were reviewing footage on your camera when you felt someone stop beside you.
You looked up.
Logan was still in half his gear, hair damp, and he was looking at you with the expression you had forty-seven saved clips of — the real one, the one that had nothing managed about it — except that now you were allowed to look at it directly, which was still something you were getting used to.
"You came," he said.
"I came," you confirmed.
"You brought your camera."
"I brought my camera."
He looked at it. He looked at you. "Did you get anything good?"
You turned the camera around and hit play. The second period play unfolded on the small screen — the weight shift, the half second of stillness, the clean fast movement of something that knew exactly where it was going.
Forty-three seconds of it.
Logan watched it. Something in his expression went soft in the specific way it did when he was actually feeling something and had decided not to manage it.
"That's —" he started.
"Genuinely cinematic," you said.
He looked at you.
You looked back at him.
And then he kissed you right there in the corridor.
It was warm and certain and tasted like relief of something that had been a long time coming and had finally, simply, arrived.
When you pulled back he was smiling the real one, the one you had been filming without quite admitting why for seven months.
"So," he said.
"Yeah," you said. "We're back together." You pointed at him. "Don't fuck up."
Logan laughed a real one, surprised and warm, the kind that carried down the corridor and made Tucker laugh too without knowing why.
"I won't," he said.
"I mean it."
"I know you mean it."
"Good." You tucked your camera back into your bag. "Buy me food. I've been at a hockey game for two hours and I'm starving."
"Done," he said immediately.
You started walking and everything was different from before, which was the whole point, which was exactly what you had asked for.
Better. Not the same. Better.
Behind you, fading, you heard Tucker say something to Garrett.
Summary: As a photography student, taking photos became an outlet of your every emotion. And eventually, it also became the sole witness of the love you secretly harboured over the years for Logan. Every chance you could get to capture him during his game, or a party, or a group hangout, you will take it. Until you noticed a pattern, he never looked at the lens of your camera but rather at your friend, Hannah. Yet, a shift occurred when the journalism club announced their annual media and arts exhibition and suddenly, you were left confused to understand the thing you never thought was possible.
Warning/s: Angst. Fluff. Photographer!AU. Friends-to-lovers. Slow burn. Making out, 18+. One sexual innuendo. Mixed with messages screenshots. Reader spaced out three times and is in denial (but it’s because she didn't want to ruin their friendship & she needs confirmation). Logan refers to her as “ma’am”. All of them are in the same circle. They are in their senior year except the reader (junior), just for their first meeting to make more sense. There may be grammatical and typographical errors. If I missed anything, please let me know kindly.
Word Count: 15.8k
A/N: Hi! This is my first John Logan fic that I’ve been writing for two weeks so I hope you guys will like it. I am not new to tumblr and not new to writing, but it’s been a while since I last posted something here. Let me know what you think. Likes and reblogs are very much appreciated. Enjoy!
Please do not translate and repost.
Divider by chrisssiren.
The first time you used a camera was during Christmas eve. You were five and curious, and everything around you seemed to be very vibrant, very festive, and very fast moving like the cars your father and uncles always watch on TV every weekend. You didn’t fully understand what was happening, but the cheerful atmosphere left you feeling giddy and excited that you just wanted to freeze the moment and admire it. Your eyes wander around the room, studying the face of every family member present. The reflection of the colorful fairy lights sparkling inside your eyes, mirroring the shiny ornaments dangling from the Christmas tree not far from the center table of the living room. That’s when your eyes landed with intrigue on the camera left abandoned on the wooden furniture while the rest of the room glowed with celebration—waiting to be used, waiting to capture the moment.
It was your grandma’s camera, a gift she gave herself back then. You stole a quick peek at her, only to meet her eyes already twinkling with approval that made you even more excited. She gave you an encouraging nod, and then it happened.
There was pure fascination as you turned on the small device—that you soon realized was too heavy and too big for a five year old to be holding—and pressed the small button that triggered the flash as it captured the whole living room. The result left you in bewilderment. While the photo remained still, the room kept moving. Your cousins were talking, the adults were sharing a drink, kids your age were still running around the house, and the lights were blinking in the same pattern. But you and the photo staring back at you from the camera remained still.
The initial bewilderment changed to awe and that awe grew to something you love: a hobby you spent most of your time doing. And ever since then, working behind the cameras has been your most favorite thing to do. What was once a hobby eventually turned into a program you chose in college and suddenly, it was your whole life.
Because, how amazing it was to see a single photo, but it could tell a lot of different stories at the same time?
Your love for photography also became a part of your extracurricular activities when you became one of the photojournalists of Briar University’s journalism club when you applied during your freshman year. You cover different events ranging from sports, academics, musical showcases, theatrical plays, and even parties Dean and Beau love to throw every now and then. Though, the last one wasn’t the kind of media your journalism adviser would like to see in newspapers or social media accounts, you sure enjoy capturing moments when people are not paying attention. When the world is moving and you have to stand still in the middle of it to savor what is happening and forever store it in your camera.
You found a sense of adoration and beauty in it. It was your very kind of poetry. If for Justin, it was in the way he wrote his songs; if for Allie, it was in the way the stage embraced her talent; if for Hannah, it was in every ounce of emotion and vulnerability she poured in singing; and if for Garrett, it's in the ice rink and the adrenaline it made him feel; for you, it was this—the silent shutter of the camera in a rather loud and fast pacing world.
Because while everyone else was busy living their lives aloud—laughing, fighting, talking—you were observing quietly, hiding behind your camera, the blinding flash of it, the shutter sound it makes, and the continuous click of the small button that captures frame after frame.
It’s not like you hate catching the attention of your audience, or that you hate when people look directly at your lens, or that you hate doing planned photographs. But you learned early on that people change when they know they’re being watched; their posture practiced, their smile instantly too wide, asking if they look a bit much or a bit less, or sometimes, they turn away altogether. But if you stay still enough, if you become a presence that blends with the wind carrying a lens, they will let you do your thing while you let them do theirs without any mask.
And you enjoy it, people enjoy it. The members of journalism praise you for capturing the best moments. The subject of your photos during different events asking for a copy for their own use because it should be posted too outside Briar’s official account and sent to their families and friends. The praise was just a bonus because you loved doing it and you promised yourself that you’ll never let the praises get inside your head.
But most of all, you love how it allows you to admire someone without giving away so much of yourself.
“Job well done, ma’am. Did you take a good shot of me earlier?” You jolted from your seat when Dean unexpectedly appeared from behind you and slung his arm around your shoulders, peeking over at your laptop as you finished transferring files from your camera that you covered earlier during their game and the afterparty at Malone’s.
“Jesus, Di Laurentis! Why can’t you be normal and appear without giving me a fucking heart attack?” Dean laughed as he straightened his posture before getting distracted when he saw himself on the screen of your laptop. “Wait! I like this one! Please, post this one. Allie will love it.”
You’re currently at their place off campus after having a blast at Malone’s. They just won another game against Eastwood and the energy just kept rolling and was brought to the diner until Della literally had to push everyone outside. You didn’t bother going back to the dorms at Bristol’s since Hannah and Allie practically dragged you with them to the house, drunk and ready to call it a night.
Tucker was sleeping peacefully beside you, who kindly offered you his room for the night despite your protests. You knew you won’t be sleeping soon since you still have to edit the raw photos from the game earlier and Tucker deserved to sleep peacefully inside the comfort of his room. But his Mama didn’t raise him like that, he said. Still, from his room, you ended up joining him in the common area where Dean is currently giving you hums and nods of approval of your shots. Logan also told you that you can sleep in his room, you can take his bed and he’ll sleep on the floor. But you can’t stay with him, especially not with your camera and laptop that’s been keeping your secret safe for so long.
“Oh, Logan totally ate here! Look, you captured every single moment of his goal perfectly.” While Dean was still busy assessing your photos, pointing out the best ones and the funny ones, your mind started drifting elsewhere at the mention of his name.
John Logan.
The man with the number 22 on his back whenever he’s on ice, the man carrying the red toolbox whenever he needs to fix things, the man whose arms always wrapped protectively around his sibling’s shoulders, the man who’s always ready to help carry your heavy equipment whenever you have events, and the man who occupied not only the storage of your camera but also the space in your mind ever since you met him almost three years ago.
And it was all because of your camera.
It all started during Briar U’s Freshmen Day and you were busy setting up your camera when someone accidentally took out your entire setup with a stray foam hockey puck—that travels with a frightening speed—straight from the athletic department’s promotional booth.
You had just carefully leveled your tripod on the campus quad, dialing in the settings on your brand-new DSLR you gifted yourself, when a loud, panicked voice yelled not too far from where you were standing, “Heads up!” Before you could even make sense of what’s happening or where the voice even came from, a piece of orange foam smacked directly into your lens hood. The impact wasn't enough to break anything, fortunately, but it sent your tripod spinning. Your eyes widened in panic as your body twisted in the direction of the puck and your camera. Automatically, your hand reached to save the expensive equipment and in an instant, you lunged forward, tripped over your own camera bag, and fell.
When you looked up, a pair of muddy, dirty sneakers and the hem of faded blue jeans met your line of vision. A crease on your forehead immediately formed as you felt your cheeks heating up. But no, it’s not because you were embarrassed, it’s because you were furious. Clearly, whoever that person was who sent your setup flying to the ground with the puck, and you with it, wasn’t being careful.
“Oh, shit! I am so, so sorry. Please tell me you’re alive.” You squinted up into the blinding September sun with your hand trying to cover your eyes, breathing out a sigh of frustration that soon turned into a silent gasp when you got a good look at the person.
Kneeling down in front of you was a guy you thought just fell from your favorite romantic book. His messy and fluffy dark hair swaying like a curtain that frames his face perfectly, his stupidly mesmerizing brown eyes glinting with both amusement and concern, his cheeks are dusted with a hint of flush—from embarrassment or heat of the sun, you’re not entirely certain, and he’s flashing you a smile too easy for the disaster he just caused.
The camera!
And that snapped you out of your thoughts, gasping and scrambling to your feet to check your DSLR. “Fuck, my camera.”
But before your hand could make contact with the device, the guy quickly but carefully picked up the tripod and handed it to you like the action in itself was an apology. You quickly snatched the equipment from him, rather with force, and meticulously searched the lens with the rest of the parts. When you made sure that the camera wasn't damaged, you turned toward the guy, who’s patiently waiting for you to notice him, and glared. He raised his arms and offered a sheepish smile this time. “Hey, I am really sorry. Garrett, my friend, dared me if I could hit the tree from fifty yards away and I guess, my aim was a little .. off?”
“Right, hockey puck guy. And I guess that makes you a very, very qualified hockey player, yes?” You grumbled sarcastically while rolling your eyes, setting up the tripod once again and expertly fixing the settings, completely ignoring the presence behind you. This earned you a snicker from him and that earned him another sharp glare from you.
“Woah, hockey puck guy has a name and it’s John Logan.” He held out his hand, expecting you to give him your name in return like the rest of the girls he met that week. But when you just stared at his hand, annoyance still clear on your face, he only grinned. That’s when he noticed a nametag on your left chest, your name written in a funny font. You noticed him staring at it, which prompted you to cover it with your hands as his grin widened. “So, that is your name. Gorgeous.”
“Okay, hockey puck guy has a name and it’s John Logan, you got my name, we made sure my camera is okay, I’ve set it up again, you said sorry, apology accepted, and I have things to do, what else do you want from me?” You didn’t know how your voice reached the booth where Logan came from since you’re sure it was at a normal level, but you heard a blonde guy and a man wearing a pink apron hollering from their booth, “Yeah, Logan, what do you want from her?”. Yet, the moment you raised an eyebrow at them, they immediately closed their mouths and turned their backs on you, while one of them, which you assumed was Garrett, gave you an encouraging thumbs up.
“Ignore them. They are a bunch of kids.” This time, you gave him your full attention. Meaning, he is now at the receiving end of your deathly glare. Logan really finds everything amusing, and he’s wondering if it’s possible to glare at someone with so much passion because that’s what you’re doing now.
“Alright, I do really feel bad for what happened so please, allow me to make up for my terrible aim. That being said, I am officially volunteering to be your personal muse for today and I will abandon my hockey booth just for you. Do you need photos? I am your guy because if you haven’t noticed yet, I am highly photogenic.” And to make his point, he did random poses with the foam hockey puck, with his jersey, and even made faces which contradict being photogenic. This almost made you laugh because he looked ridiculous doing so, but you instantly composed yourself.
“Logan, right? Okay, Logan, I appreciate the poses, but my assignment for today is candid photography and not sports modeling.” You tried to sound uninterested, bored even. However, you noticed how your voice shook when you said his name the second time, your heart suddenly doing weird thumping rhythms against your ribs. There’s no denying that Logan is truly and utterly attractive, but he didn’t need to know what he’s already aware of.
“Oh, that’s perfect. I can do that.” He insisted and true to his words, he linger in your booth totally abandoning his very own one. The guy who gave you thumbs up earlier, which you correctly guessed as Garrett, even came up and gladly gave Logan the permission to be your personal muse—assistant, actually—for the day. And for the past two hours? You confirmed that Logan both can and can’t do candid things, depending on the situation.
Another two hours passed and this time, it was you going around campus to capture the activities prepared by the students themselves. Logan was just tailing behind you, carrying your equipment while saying hi to the people you and him passed by, which are mostly girls—that you soon learned are called the puck bunnies.
Sometimes, when you have your camera up and ready to take candid shots of the events in your surrounding, Logan’s face would suddenly pop into the frame. That will either draw an exhausted or entertained reaction from you.
There were shots of him where he was being completely normal, photogenic. But most of it? You didn’t even want to describe. The a capella group booth? You did a good job framing everyone in the shot. Except, Logan was suddenly behind one of the alto singers, his hands clasped together and looking at the maestro with so much focus. The cheerleading squad doing stunts in the oval? You captured the timing perfectly when they tossed the cheerleader up in the air and then there’s Logan, who just did a jump shot with both his arms stretched out. Then a photo of their booth, where Tucker is currently giving a masterclass of some sort to the interested student, except, yes, except, Logan is beside his friend acting attentive, but his hand is very busy and very actively doing evil works above Tucker’s head.
When you finally returned to your booth to take a rest and to review your shots, you let out a laugh as Logan handed you a bottle of water that he already had open which you blindly reached for before he gently guided your hand to it. “Alright, ma’am, hydrate yourself first.”
“Logan, you completely ruined my photos!” You laughed once again, but it’s more delightful this time. Your eyes are still studying the photos, your finger is busy clicking the small button beside the small screen, and you are entirely unaware of your surroundings, already lost in your bubble.
The sound of your laughter also drew a smile on Logan’s lips, chugging his own bottled water while stealing glances at your face. He couldn’t help but think how natural you are acting toward him. It wasn’t something bad and he wasn’t sure if it’s good either. Maybe he wasn’t just used to this anymore and it’s refreshing. Girls fawn over him because he’s a hockey player, popular, good-looking, an instant boost in their social status, but even after knowing these things the past four hours you’ve spent together, you treat him just the same.
“I mean, look at this! You just made a face while Coach Jensen was lecturing the team earlier!” That brought him back to the present, wiping the side of his mouth as he got reminded of copying their coach while he was just literally behind him.
“Nope, I didn’t ruin anything. I added a new flavor to your techniques.” Logan jokingly corrected and walked the short distance to where you were sitting and peek over your shoulder at the playback screen. The proximity almost made you jump, but you condition yourself to stay calm even though the closeness is slowly making your heart beat rapidly just like what happened earlier. You could smell his cologne, fresh like citrus with a hint of sandalwood and felt his breath fanning beside your cheeks as he spoke, “See? Your shot was so good I looked like an art. Knew it, I belong in the gallery.”
“Nope.” You said, mimicking him, trying your best to stay grounded. “It belongs here in my camera because anyone who sees it will be traumatized.”
“Wow, we just met a few hours ago and here you are hurting my feelings.” A playful chuckle bubbled inside you and was about to throw in another remark but decided to stay silent at the last minute and smiled instead. But Logan took your silence seriously, as he scrambled to sit beside you. He stole your camera from your hand and turned it off, carefully placing it in your bag after capping the lens. And all of a sudden, he seemed so shy under your confused gaze.
“Look, to fully make it up to you, from the foam puck incident to ruining your photos, can I buy you a drink? We can go to Malone’s. What do you say?” You paused and looked intently at his ridiculous, hopeful smile, then at your bag that appeared to be small atop Logan’s lap, and got reminded of the things he did for you today. Even the most unhinged one like photobombing your shots. “Please?”
“Alright, fine.” You sighed in surrender, packing up the rest of your things and watched as Logan rose to his feet with a triumphant fist in the air. “But hey, I was just joking earlier. You didn’t ruin any of my photos. If anything, you made my freshmen day memorable. So, thank you. But! I am gonna have to ask to stay ten feet away from my camera from now on.”
“Okay, okay, that’s fair.” You started walking after asking someone to cover for you for a few hours, with Logan easily falling into step just beside you. And naturally, he took your things from you and carried it himself without even asking you. As if he had done it multiple times in the past even though you only met him today. “But just so you know, the camera loves me. Your camera loves me and you're gonna have a hard time keeping me out of the frame.”
You and Logan reached Malone’s and spent the rest of the afternoon talking. Everything just fell into place in its own way. Fitting, not awkward, comforting, but also thrilling at the same time. And both of you have no idea yet about how right he was about his last statement.
You’re gonna have a hard time keeping me out of the frame.
And sure enough, you spent the next years keeping him in it.
“Hey, you okay?” You snapped your head up toward Dean’s direction and soon realized that you spaced out, his elbow nudging you gently. He’s now holding a glass of water with one hand and the other a bottle of beer. But instead of behind you, he’s now occupied the seat beside you. He passed you the glass of water, in which you said thanks before taking a sip. “Gotta keep you hydrated. Logan will kill me if he learns that I find you awake and didn’t even offer you anything to keep you hydrated.”
“Yeah, he’s very keen on turning me into this online game character, watergirl.” You joked as you keep scrolling, categorizing, and watermarking the photos you’ll soon upload on the university’s website and social media accounts. Making sure that the best ones are chosen carefully while the rest are saved if the students requested for a copy. “How’s Allie, by the way? She was so drunk when we left Malone’s.”
Dean smiled at your question, remembering how he carried Allie earlier and mentioning how they looked like a married couple. “She’s fine. Peacefully sleeping on my bed while reciting random lines from Drunk Shakespeare. I’m scared of her sometimes, you know? She’s—that photo of Tucker is impressive, let me mark this one, can’t miss it—yeah, as I was saying, she’s making me lose my shit with just a smile and that’s fucking terrifying for me and—Logan is so fucking hopeless.”
Surprise etched on your face at the sudden change of topic to Logan. You glanced at Dean and then back at your laptop screen, trying to make sense of what’s going on. Then he pointed at three of the photos and when you observed what’s in it, you immediately understood what he meant.
Photos you took at Malone’s. Photos you took from the entrance with a clear vision of the bar and the small stage at the center. Three photos that appeared to be identical until you saw the shift in Logan’s facial expression. Because in the photo, he was at the side of the stage. At first, he was having a blast and cheering for Tucker; the second one, he was looking over at the bar where you left Hannah and Garrett to spend their time together; and the last one, he got this frown plastered on his face.
Then, it slowly dawned on you.
Dean is also aware of Logan’s one-sided feelings.
“How long have you known?” You silently asked, your voice shaking a little at the end. For the longest time, you thought you’re the only one who knows since everyone seemed to be clueless about it. Logan is really good at hiding his emotions. Before anyone else could figure him out, he’s already way ahead and moved on or at least, he tries to. But your camera, like your own version of a mask to hide yourself and your own feelings, always captures the moments when Logan is looking at Hannah, with or without Garrett.
“Logan’s feelings for you?”
“Yes—what?! Di Laurentis, what the fuck?!” And if that wasn’t enough confusion and surprise for the night, another figure in the form of Tucker appeared from your other side, exhaustion evident in his eyes but he decided that listening and joining in on your conversation with Dean is suddenly very appealing than falling back to his previous slumber.
“Yes, Logan’s feelings for you. Let’s talk about it.” Tucker rubbed at his right eye like a baby, while the other one was blinking at you slowly.
“What—oh, my, you two. Let’s not read too much into my friendship with Logan because he doesn’t have any feelings for me. Not in that way.” Dean and Tucker stared at each other, as if asking themselves if you’re being serious. Then at the same time, they turned to look at you, as if they were asking you the same thing this time.
“Be for real.” The way that they are so in sync almost spook you if it weren’t for the fact that they seemed to know something you don’t. Or that it’s giving you hope and you didn’t want that. Especially if it’s not directly coming from Logan, especially if it could potentially ruin something so precious.
“I’ve known since she first attended our game.” Tucker said, stealing your laptop from your lap to check out the photos himself. He unmarked the photo of him that Dean just saved earlier and chose a funny one of the latter in replacement.
“I've known since day one.” This time, it was yours and Tucker’s turn to look at Dean rather incredulously. He got this proud look on his face as if he just decoded the answer to the country’s greatest national treasure. “What? Come on, Tuck! I’ll understand if our beautiful friend right here doesn’t see it, but haven’t you really noticed the way Logan is always tailing her like a lost puppy ever since they met during Freshmen Day? At this point, he’s become the second shadow of her figure.”
Gears seemed to be twisting and turning inside Tucker’s head as he focused his gaze on you. Your laptop was now left deserted on the center table as he made sense of what Dean just said. “You’re onto something here, D, because I remembered Logan asking if she’s going to cover the first game for that semester.”
“Right? And he never played so well his entire hockey career when he saw her behind our bench taking photos. Dude scored 2 goals and secured our win.”
Dean also pointed out that one event organized by music major students which Logan was too lazy to attend even though Hannah and Garrett asked them to volunteer. Yet, the moment he saw a photo of you with Birdie posted by Jules on The Fifth Line page with the caption, “The artist and her muse?” Logan drove back to the university at an impossible speed and looked for Jules just to say, “Excuse me but I am her first and only muse.”
Tucker also pitched in his observations and before you know it, they are fully discussing your ‘friendship’ with Logan without filter and how you guys are not just friends as if you’re not present in the room with them. You couldn’t deny that they are making a fair point, but as much as you want to believe them, your photos are literally staring back at you. The sequence of Logan’s change of emotions and facial expressions whenever he sees Hannah are too obvious to ignore. And the most shattering part? This is not the only evidence you have, because you got tons of it.
You breathed out a sigh unconsciously as Dean’s and Tucker’s voice faded into distance.
For years, you find comfort in every click of your camera and the way the photos freeze in time. It even got to a point that your camera became an extension of your nervous system. You’ve learned that if you’re anxious, the framing is always slightly tilted to the side; if you’re sad and down, you avoid having humans in your photos because in that way, no stories could be told; and for almost three years that you’re in love, the focus was entirely on Logan.
You had tons of photos of him. Him laughing at a crowded party with Tucker pushing his whole body on the sofa. Him mid-air on the ice, a fierce focus and determination plastered on his face that his head gear couldn’t hide. There was a photo of him sitting on the hood of his car at the beach, a summer getaway with your friends, the sun behind him creating a halo over his head and turning his hair a shade lighter. Your camera bears witness to the feelings you’ve buried and every snap was a quiet confession you never dared to say out loud. So you did the easiest thing—frame him and make him the masterpiece of your own gallery: your heart.
Yet like a double-edged sword, your camera grants you to hide your feelings while it also shows you reality. And that was how you figured it out.
You and some of the journalism club members were spending the night, once again, in your designated office, tweaking raw files, editing online newspaper layout, and writing headlines and captions, immersing yourselves in the comfort it provides. However, there’s something you’ve noticed the past three nights that you’ve been there.
A devastating pattern your photos showed you.
It started with a photo during their game. You stood up from where you were sitting with Allie and Hannah to find a good spot because you noticed that Logan was making a move to score a goal and you didn’t want to miss the moment. And sure enough, he did. You were so proud of that series of shots because you perfectly captured Logan’s winning goal followed by him sending an arrow celebration to the crowd, directly to where Hannah was clapping and screaming in joy.
Once you observed the photo, you pulled up folder after folder, going through your archives as curiosity drove you to check your photos of Logan.
There was a photo during your group hangout at Malone’s. Garrett was telling a story about his date with Hannah with the latter responding with an angelic laugh. You were directly seated on the same side of the booth with them, pressed against the wall with Logan standing beside them at the aisle. This gave you a perfect view of the couple and unfortunately, Logan’s reaction. There was a soft smile on his lips, but there was something in his eyes that you can’t quite figure out.
Then a bonfire by the lake during Friendsgiving. Logan and Tucker disappeared inside the rented house to get more food and left you sitting with Hannah, Garrett, Allie, and Dean. You thought that the angle from your side was a bit off so you stood up and walked toward a tree not far from them, just enough to frame the bonfire and the two couples acting so lovely. There was the shutter of your camera and Logan’s perfect timing to appear once again, his confused eyes immediately landing on Garrett and Hannah.
Then comes the latest one, a party at Beau’s home. Logan was in the living room talking to Tucker and Birdie, a red cup in his hands that he chugged down in one swing. He looked extremely good under the lights so you raised your camera, adjusting the lens, and ready to freeze the moment when Logan moved. He spun toward the kitchen’s doorway where you left Hannah a moment ago, waiting for Garrett. You noticed that her boyfriend was already standing behind her, and you turned to check the digital preview of your shot just to see Logan already frowning.
You stopped scrolling, you stopped comparing the moments, you closed the folders, bid good night to your fellow journalists, and packed up your things. It was cold outside when you stepped out of the building despite the thick coat you were wearing, but there was nothing colder than the newfound information that made home in your mind. That you weren't the only one hiding behind a lens to cover the fact that you’re hopelessly in love. Because Logan was doing the exact same thing with his own eyes. The only difference was, your camera captured everything—including the fact that he would never see you, because he was too busy watching her while you were looking at him.
And for the first time in years, the comfort you find in every click of your camera became a sound of the slow and quiet breaking of your own heart.
The present only settles once again when you smelled something close to a beef soup and saw that Tucker prepared three cups of instant ramen, which you’re not sure if they are even allowed to eat. Dean carefully handed you your own cup, a bit of smoke escaping the slightly opened lid, and let the heat warm up your hands. And then you realized something, they are still talking about you and Logan.
“Tucker, you are a genius! Because there was one time during—”
“Guys, in case you forgot, which I know you didn’t, I’m still here. And I’m telling you, Logan doesn’t see me that way.” You stared at both of them, fully opening the lid of the ramen and cautiously sipping the hot broth as your friends started doing the same thing. Dean slurped at the noodles, only to regret it right away when he spat it back to his cup. You and Tucker shared a disgusted look, but your friend is too busy eating and too busy thinking to even pay attention to you both.
You thought that the conversation would end there, the three of you sharing a hot, comforting, and much needed midnight snack in the living room. But the universe decided otherwise. Because just when Dean finished his food, a bit red due to the heat with sweat covering his forehead, he blurted out something that made you choke.
“Alright, bestie, let’s say Logan is not totally and utterly and hopelessly and disgustingly in love with you, how are you going to explain the folder in your laptop that said ‘the muse’ with hundreds of Logan’s photos?” It was your turn to get flushed, but you’re sure it wasn’t because of the ramen you’re eating. It wasn’t because it was slightly spicy, no. It’s because they caught you. Your secret.
You could’ve easily denied it, but there’s no way you could’ve hidden the way you froze. Your hand mid-air, the noodles dangling from your fork, your mouth slightly open, and the way your eyes darted around the room, downright ignoring your friends, gave it away. You put down the cup beside your laptop to properly look at Dean and Tucker. There was no judgment in their eyes, the playfulness gone as well. They are just present and gazing at you with understanding. As if telling you that they also know and that your secret is safe with them.
“Well, there’s really no explanation for it. It’s there and you know, Logan isn’t exactly hard to like. And even if there is an explanation, I’m not going to explain it to you, D. Maybe to Tucker, yes.” Dean gasped at your words and clutched at his chest, mouth opened wide in fake offense while Tucker raised his brow at his friend proudly, raising his hand to high-five you.
The night continued on like that. The three of you joking around, throwing banters here and there, you showing them the Logan folder and telling random stories that you’ve witnessed while taking them. Eventually, it became a night of throwbacks as you pulled up your archives and reminisced the past three years you’ve spent with them.
The clock strikes at four AM and all three of you decide that it’s time to sleep. They helped you pack your things and cleaned up the cups of ramen after. Once everything is at their specific places, Tucker told you to go and occupy his room but you only shook your head.
“Tuck, it’s okay. Take your room, I’ll crash at Logan’s. Although maybe my camera and laptop could stay in your room? I mean, I know Logan wouldn’t snoop into my things, I trust him. But yeah, I don’t want to take my chances.” Tucker gave you an ‘Are you sure?’ look, but when he saw that you’re being serious, he nodded and took your things with him. When you turned around to finally go up, you bumped into Dean who got a teasing grin on his lips, eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Oooh, she’s going to sleep in Logan’s room. Are we going to hear some—” He didn’t get the chance to finish what he was about to say when you elbowed him at his side, walking past him and toward the stairs. You heard him mumbling something to Tucker but the moment he saw you looking, he just smiled and gestured for you to keep going.
Once you all made it on the second floor, you all bid each other good night. Tucker was the first to disappear inside his room still carrying your equipment but not before giving you a hug. “Sorry for prying into your folders. We shouldn’t have opened it since we already know that it’s Logan’s. But promise, we won’t tell him. So proud of you today. Your photos are outstanding, like always.”
You smiled at his words and returned the hug, patting his back in the process and sent him to his room. You were about to do the same until Dean called out for you, his head peeking from behind his door.
“Hey, there’s no denying that you are incredibly good at capturing genuine feelings in your photos. It shows, and I wish I have the same talent. But maybe you’re missing something in Logan's photos? What I meant to say is, just—just try not to hide too much behind your camera, okay? I know you love it and we do too, but don’t forget to live in the moment as well. Good night, bestie!” He already closed his door before you could even ask what he meant, his words replayed in your mind in a loop. You didn’t dare to ponder too much about it, though you might have an idea, because you felt the exhaustion catching up on you and decided to think about it once you have the energy.
The moment you made it inside Logan’s room, you saw him peacefully sleeping under his covers. His bed is enough to fit two people and you could easily sleep beside him, but you decided to choose the safe option. So, you took two blankets from his cabinet, stole one of his pillows, and sat on the floor just beside his bed to look at him once more.
He was hugging a pillow and his body is facing you so you have a clear vision of his face that is illuminated by the moonlight peeking from the window. He looks so beautiful like this. Sleeping so serene without a care in the world. You smiled as you felt your eyelids getting heavier and with one last glance at Logan, you lay down on the floor and turned your back on him, muttering a silent good night—a picture of his calm resting figure the last thing you saved in the space of your mind before you drifted off to sleep.
The smell of Logan’s cologne greeted your senses when you woke up, followed by the comfortable and fluffy feeling beneath your body. You blinked against the morning sun and stretched your arms, becoming aware of the fact that you were buried under a thick, navy-blue comforter rather than the blankets you wrapped around yourself with last night. You were pretty sure that you passed out on the floor. Not unless you crawled all the way up to his bed last night.
Before you could fully process the confusion of how you got up there, the bedroom door slowly opened and Logan’s head appeared, his wide and cautious eyes directly landing on you as if to check if you’re still sleeping. When he saw that you’re already awake, though still a bit out of it, an easy smile graced his lips as he walked in. Then you notice the paper bag he was carrying. The mouth-watering scent registered in your mind and with one look at Logan, you quickly catch on that he bought your favorite food.
“Look who’s alive.” His grin widened when you made space for him on his bed, silently inviting him to sit beside you. He handed you the brown paper bag and helped you with the food, setting the drink on his nightstand after telling you to take a big sip. “Good morning, ma’am. You look good.”
“Yeah? I probably looked like a mess right now, but thank you?” You laughed at his words, taking a bite of your meal. Logan just waved it off and urged you to eat while he scrolled at his phone. “Also, you should really stop calling me ‘ma’am’. Even Dean is calling me that.”
“Well, you are the boss in this dynamic and I’m just happy to follow your lead. And believe me, D is calling you that just to tease you.” Logan replied without even looking at you, still busy using his phone, as if what he just said didn’t hit you in a whole different way. As if you shouldn’t be saying such a thing because it’s obvious, like both of you have already established that a long time ago. But at that moment, for you, he just basically admitted something beyond his words. And suddenly, you were reminded of what Dean told you last night.
Maybe you’re missing something in Logan’s photos.
Try not to hide too much behind your camera.
Don’t forget to live in the moment.
You don’t want to overthink it, you don’t want to make something out of pure observation, you don’t want to give meaning into his words especially after what they mentioned to you last night. You don’t want to believe their words, not when your photos show an entirely opposite thing.
Logan has feelings for you, Tucker and Dean said.
Logan is always looking at Hannah, what your camera captured for you.
You couldn’t even bring yourself to develop any kind of negative feelings toward Hannah. The girl is very kind and she helps you out a lot if you have events and vice versa. She made sure that your ‘Welcome Back to Uni’ video for last year’s semester has good and upbeat music and you were always the one she calls to film her music videos with. You’ve always been present in each other’s lives since Logan introduced you to her and there’s no way you could hate her.
You shake off the thoughts in your head and focus on the present.
Live in the moment.
Logan is still beside you, but you noticed that he’s closer now. His leg is touching yours, his body leaning on you that you could feel the heat radiating off of him. He tilted his head until it landed on your upper arm, a soft sigh escaping his lips at the contact.
The proximity isn’t something new between you and Logan. After hanging out with him a couple times, you’ve learned that he’s rather clingy when he becomes comfortable.
At the hockey house during movie night? He’d plant himself beside you just to pull you against him. Or sometimes, he’d make you his personal pillow and will lay his head on your thighs. Whenever you have university events to cover? He always had his arms around your shoulders when you’re not taking photos, or he’d play with your fingers while you’re checking your images. And even when he’s carrying your equipment, he’d still find a way to stay close to you. At parties? He will always place his warm hands over your hips or waist whenever someone is standing too close for your own comfort. And even if it’s just the two of you, his body will just automatically cling to you like a magnet.
But just because it’s not new doesn’t mean it makes you feel normal. No, you’re far from feeling normal. You even got to a point that you feel like the closeness will be the death of you because your heart rate always spikes up. You seemed calm outside, a relaxed smile on your face, joking around with your friends, but inside? A total chaos. And that’s happening right now.
Logan appears to be unaware of this since he just stole a bite of your breakfast by bringing your hand with the food to his mouth and took a gulp from your beverage that you’ve been drinking. Given, he was the one who bought it and maybe he intends to have it shared, the whole thing just happened so naturally it almost gave you a heart attack. So before it could actually happen, you tried to focus on something else.
“Hey, did you carry me onto your bed?” You cautiously asked, trying to stabilize your voice.
“Yeah. Well, actually, you kinda did it yourself when I was about to. I think you felt my arms because you literally said, ‘Logan, leave me alone’, but still let me guide you toward my bed anyway.” Logan chuckled at the memory as he copied you and you raised your eyebrow at his overexaggerated execution of what happened, a sarcastic smile on your lips. “But no, even if you tell me to leave you, I won’t. The floor is bad for your back so, yeah.”
“Then I guess that deserves a, ‘thank you, Logan’.”
“Always, ma’am.” He shrugged casually, his attention back on his phone even though there was a satisfied gleam in his eyes. He didn’t dwell on it though, and instead watched the video currently playing on his screen. But not even a minute passed, he locked his phone and glanced up at you. “By the way, where are your camera and laptop? You didn’t leave them in my room so I assumed it was downstairs, but I didn’t find them.”
The question caught you off-guard. You took a moment to let the question hang in the air, diverting your attention to the last of your food. It wasn’t like you’re planning to lie to him or avoid the question altogether. However, lately, Logan is always eager to see your photos of him. But due to the amount of it that you haven’t let him see, it’s getting harder and harder for you to hide the folders. Especially when he borrows your laptop to send himself a copy of the available ones that you allowed him to see, separated from the original transferred file folder. And the rest where he was just the sole focus while the rest of the world blurred behind him? Those, he cannot see just yet.
“Oh, they’re in Tucker’s room. I was supposed to stay there last night since he offered his room but we kinda ended up in the living room with D—”
“I have my room, you can always stay here.” Logan’s eyebrows shot up at the information, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face and he did the thing with his lips that he always does whenever he’s thinking. But before you could read him, he already turned away.
“You know what? I am giving you my full permission to access my room whenever you want to. And before you protest, which I know you will, don’t. From now on, this room is yours now as much as it is mine. That’s why, you should grab your things from Tucker’s room so we can check the photos you took last night—forget it, I’ll go get it myself.”
Logan was about to stand up when you grabbed his arm that was just leaning on you earlier. There was an unsure smile over your lips, not used to this side of Logan. Sure, you’ve seen him talking a lot, but that’s when he’s playing video games or on ice with his teammates. And on other occasions, when he’s reviewing for his exams. But not like this, not in this kind of situation. He almost sounds envious of the fact that your things are staying somewhere else other than his room. But you pushed the thought at the farthest back of your mind and instead, teased him.
“Logan, relax. If you want me to move in with you and be roomies, all you had to do was ask. There’s no need to use the photos as an excuse.” Logan plopped down beside you again, his eyes studying your face to see even a hint of your seriousness in it. He sighed when he saw none, it was just you joking around with him.
“I mean, think about it, it’s not a bad idea. It would be like a work-university-hockey-life balance for me and you can ask me for help or annoy me whenever you want to.” This time, faux confusion swims on your expression as you ponder over his words.
“I’m not sure I understand. Am I gonna be part of the university and hockey category so you can have professional and unlimited photos of yourself, in exchange of me annoying you—hold up, did you just call me annoying? Excuse me, John Logan?” He laughed out loud at your words, throwing his head back in the process. When his laughters died down, there was an adoration pooling in his eyes that you weren’t prepared to see.
“You’re not annoying.” He softly said. “And my life, you fall in the life category. The whole of it, but only if you want to.”
Your stomach did a violent flip as silence enveloped the room. You didn’t even know how long it stretched out, but you are pretty sure that you just kept staring at each other. The moment was vulnerable and it’s scaring you, especially when Logan’s gaze didn’t waver. The same adoration is still present but now mixed with honesty and yearning.
“Life category, interesting.” You swallowed hard, anchoring yourself to stay calm when you heard that it came out a little breathier than it should. “And you didn’t deny the unlimited photos. In case you haven’t realized the severity of your silent acceptance, that means a lot of storage space in my hard drive. Are you willing to buy me storage space for the whole of it?”
You didn’t know how you managed to say those. Maybe you’ve finally mastered the art of masking it up, of not acknowledging what this might be, of ignoring the insinuations, of accepting that Logan is really just like this and there’s nothing real special about how he treats you.
But Logan’s lip twitched, a fond smile spreading across his lips that reached his eyes as they smiled with him, leaning forward in your direction. “Anything you asked me to, ma’am, you got it.”
“You’re so annoying, Logan. Get out of my face.”
Logan moved a bit, but his body is still pressed slightly against you. He watched you for a moment as you started cleaning up the paper bag, his smile now softening into something curious. The bubble of vulnerability floating around inside the room a moment ago shifts into a much comfortable state. Like the conversation itself made peace with the two of you, like it understood that whatever occurred isn’t just something that came and passed, but it stayed and will live with the both of you.
“Hey, we’ve been friends for years now and I’m sure I haven’t asked you this, but why did you choose candid photography? Of all styles, why do you love it so much when people are not looking?”
You paused, looking back on the reason on how your love developed for that certain style. Soon, a small smile tugged at the corner of your lips and then you realized something. Over the course of three years, aside from the main reason why you kept doing candid photography, Logan unknowingly spent it being your favorite subject and he never knew about it.
Eventually, you let out a sigh, the smile still maintained which didn’t go unnoticed by Logan. “There we go, there’s that smile.”
“It actually started when I was five. When I took a photo of my family while they were busy doing their own things, it was Christmas that time. The world kept spinning, but time froze and so was the moment when I used the camera.” A soft laugh escaped you as you tried to find the right words, your voice dropping just a little.
“And that’s beautiful. Because I learned that they don’t just freeze in time, it holds stories as well. When I asked my mom later on if she remembered what happened, she told me a version different from my uncle. My cousin said she was chasing her cat, my grandma said she was just watching me, my other cousin said she was busy critiquing her mom’s roasted chicken, and my story? I was the one who took the photo and it was so, so beautiful, Logan.”
Logan was just silently listening beside you, studying your every word and making mental notes on how this certain conversation is making you feel. What do you look like, how you talk about it, your hand gestures, and how your face contorts into different expressions. His silence urged you to keep going, the words pouring out.
“Also, people are more honest when they don’t know there’s a camera. Because when they know, they put up a wall. I have nothing against that, I do that too sometimes and I love it when they pose for the camera, I pose for the camera. But candid photography? It captures how people actually look around them. What they’re feeling in that instant and who they are looking at.”
Then suddenly, you were thinking of the photos you had of him. During his hockey games, at parties, at Malone’s, at a group vacation, and a few completely random moments where your camera happens to be with you and you can’t resist taking photos of your surroundings. Logan dwells on your words, still quiet but present.
Then all of a sudden, he took your phone from his nightstand and asked you to open it. He pulled up your gallery and clicked on one of the photos, handing the phone to you.
“Tell me a story then.” And of all the photos that he chose, he chose the one where you guys spent Friendsgiving on the lakehouse. The photo you took where he suddenly appeared from inside the house and directly looked at Hannah.
“Uhm, suddenly? Well, I remembered Allie complaining that Dean was leaning too close to her and that Garrett was starving and he wanted more of Hannah’s lasagna and Tucker’s turkey.” You purposely skipped out the part where he was visibly seen in the background. You ignored the look he has on his face and focused on the sole subject of the photo, the couples.
“I’m in the photo too. What’s my story?” You turned to look at Logan, your mouth suddenly dry. You cannot possibly say, “Oh, you’re looking at Hannah, right? And you had this look on your face because you wished you were in Garrett’s place instead.” So, once again, you chose the safe option.
“How could I possibly know? You were too far.” You laughed dismissively and locked your phone, but Logan wasn’t finished.
He didn't say anything for a moment, thinking over his words as he bit his lower lips. He just stared at you, his dark eyes shimmering with courage and searching your face as if what he wanted to say was something that could make or break the moment, as if you are what he wanted to say. The silence grew heavy with unsaid words until Logan opened his mouth.
“I know. You were—” But the harsh buzz of his phone cut him off. He pinched the bridge of his nose at the intruding sound, breathing out heavily as he pulled his phone from his pocket. He cursed at the small device, reading the message before tucking it back inside his jeans.
“Sorry to interrupt our conversation, ma’am. But I have a plumbing business to attend to and apparently, a car that suddenly broke down.” He sighed, collecting the garbage from his bed and the nightstand. He offered you a regretful smile, standing beside his bed, not ready to leave just yet. “Anyway, stay as long as you need if you don’t have classes but shoot me a message if you need a ride back to campus, okay? Make sure to get your things from Tucker too. Remember, my room is yours now.”
“Wait, I thought I’m the boss here? Why are you giving me orders?” He walked toward the door, but stopped right at the threshold at the sound of your teasing voice. He turned back, his gaze locking onto yours one last time, his own tone copying yours.
“You’re still in charge, but even you have house rules to follow. Like, Rule No. 1: You are not allowed to walk back to campus when I’m capable of driving you back there—”
“And I’m also capable of walking, Logan.” The playful glint in his eyes is still present, but it’s softer now. He exhaled, knowing well that you have something to say in return. But he stood his ground and stepped out of his room, only to peek inside once more just to tease you.
“I’m sorry, but I cannot seem to comprehend that statement so I’m still driving you back to campus, alright? See you later.” With a quick wink he threw your way, he disappeared down the hallway, leaving you alone in his bed with your heart hammering against your ribs. And you finally let out the heaviest huffed you breathed out your entire life. The past hour that you’ve spent with him almost felt like a lifetime and you were nearing your death. You silently thanked whoever that was who called him for a job, because if Logan stayed a bit more, you’re not sure what’s going to happen.
You were still recovering from everything when your own phone buzzed between your hands, the notification sending your heart in shock at the unexpected sound. When you’ve calmed down, you check to see what it’s all about.
The notification was from the journalism club group chat. And it’s about the annual exhibition related to media and arts. However, this year’s theme wasn’t about the usual subject. It wasn’t about “what the journalism club covers?” but it’s about “who makes the coverage happen?” The editor-in-chief, Meadow, who is a senior, wanted to shift the attention to the students that keep the Briar university media alive and the adviser approved it.
You opened the link and it directed you to a private document where the complete details of the exhibition laid out. There, in bold letters were BEHIND, the overall theme for the exhibition. You scrolled through the document until you saw the part specifically for photojournalists, the assignments and guidelines carefully listed out.
BEHIND: The Lens.
Each photojournalist must showcase a minimum of 10 (20 at maximum) high resolution and raw images where they were the subject. (Photos taken during an event, party, personal getaway, etc. as long as they are the subject are acceptable.)
It is important that they are carrying their camera, doing their usual task as photojournalist.
Those were some of the important ones that you read. And it said twenty days. You only got twenty days to prepare everything. That includes the photos, the captions, the stories, the editing, the perfect printing, the exhibit setup. You love Briar U, you love your adviser, you love being a journalist and a photographer, but doing everything in twenty days? While also juggling other courses and activities? You thought you might as well just disappear.
You’re already thinking about how you’re collecting the photos. Maybe your fellow photojournalists have stolen photos of you while you’re covering, maybe your friends got a few as well. But it’s a very rare occasion for a photojournalist to be photographed. There’s a reason why you’re the ones carrying the camera and for a moment there, you started stressing out. You’re lucky to get at least five or eight, but ten to twenty? You really hope your friends have some photos, even the blurry ones would suffice.
You were still reading the guidelines when you received a message from Logan.
And that was enough to forget the stress as you started getting ready for the day, the corner of your lips beaming with anticipation. The only thought in your mind is Logan and how he always knows when to appear, even unknowingly.
“They changed the guidelines, guys! Imagine that! And now, they wanted a maximum of twenty photos. Like, how would over a hundred photos fit in the gallery? I only have ten photos at the moment, which met the initial guideline. We only have seven days left. We barely got everything together, Ms. Rodriguez is sick, and at this point, I’m not sure if the exhibit is still feasible at all.” You all but ranted at your friends at the diner, pushing a fry around your plate in which Logan picked up to bring near your lips so you could finally eat. “Stop feeding me, Logan. These fries are just as stressed as I am, they taste so bad.”
Allie and Hannah gave you a sympathetic look, offering you a light squeeze on your shoulder since that was the only thing they could do for now. Three out of your ten photos actually came from them, four were from Tucker, Garrett, and Dean, while the remaining three were from Logan. They have asked around themselves but to no avail, and the stress is slowly eating at you.
That moment, it dawned on you that being a candid photographer means literally blending with the wind because none of your subjects notice you which you don’t mind in many cases, but you do now. Even your friends from journalism don’t have photos of you. Well, they have. But you were not carrying your camera, you were instead posing for theirs.
“And I mean, I can’t fake it. I can’t just ask you guys to take pictures of me right now because that’ll be unnatural which kills the sole reason why I’m doing this in the first place. Candid is my brand, my trademark.”
Garrett then chimed in, a memory flashing in his mind during your rant. “Wait, I think I have another photo of you during my birthday but it’s in my old phone. I’ll check it later, okay? Can’t promise you it’s good though.”
You almost cried at that, sending Garrett a grateful smile. This made you turn to your friends, the same look on your face, while Logan was still busy feeding you fries from time to time. “Guys, any photo will do at this point as long as I have my camera. It’s not even important now whether I’m checking photos or just simply holding it, I just need the photos because they must be printed by Friday this week and it’s already Tuesday. I swear, I’ll treat all of you to dinner once this is over.”
Hannah shook her head as she reached for your hands, enveloping it with hers as she smiled at you. “Hey, we got this, okay? I’ll double check if I missed anything from our beach trip last summer. You’ll complete the twenty photos, babe, trust me.”
You didn’t know if it was the dread of the upcoming deadline playing with your mind but you saw Hannah throwing Logan a look. But when you glanced at him, he didn’t say anything, he also stopped tending to your fries. He just took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes looking back at Hannah before landing on you for a second longer than usual until he looked down at his phone. You felt the familiar ache in your chest before you turned away from him yourself. He was probably thinking about something else, or someone else. And he didn’t speak anymore for the duration of your stay after that.
Time passed by quickly in the diner as you spent it sending out messages to your friends to help you collate photos for the exhibit. You even got Beau and Dexter to help when they joined your table. And before you know it, all of you call it a day.
By the time you got back to your dorm, with Logan driving you, he still hasn’t said a word. You didn’t know what’s going on or what he was thinking about, but his silence is affecting you. Logan was never this quiet when he’s with you, so you’re not very sure how to approach the situation.
“Thanks for the ride, Logan. Be safe on your way to the house.” You muttered quietly as you unfastened your seatbelt. When he stayed silent, you started to collect your bag and camera between you and him, refusing to look his way. But when you were about to hop out of his truck, he stopped you, his hand reaching out to gently grab your arm. However, even with the contact, he still didn’t say anything. “Logan, are you okay?”
“Yeah, uhm, let me walk you to your room.”
You just nodded in response and waited for him as he parked his car. On your way to your dorm room, that’s when he started asking questions about the exhibit. How many more photos do you need, can’t you really just take new photos, what else is lacking, what kind of photos do you want the audience to see the most for your entry, and the like. You were surprised how attentive he is now compared to when you were at the diner, but you weren’t complaining.
When you reached your room, you offered to invite him inside but he kindly declined and mentioned there’s something important he needs to do tonight. You shook your head in understanding and gestured that he should go back home.
“Thank you, again, for the ride, and for listening to my rants. Message me once you’re back home, okay? Good night, Logan.” You stood there for a moment, waiting for Logan’s response that didn’t come. Instead, he engulfed you with a hug. His warmth quickly spreads throughout your body, your arms automatically wrapping around him.
“Research shows that hugging can reduce stress so let’s stay like this for a moment.”
It was completely random, you thought. But it’s true, you felt yourself melting against Logan as he held you close to him. His arms only tightened on you when you tugged at his sweater, trying to be as close to him as possible. It wasn’t the first hug that you shared, but there’s something about this one that felt different. It felt intimate and not just for the sake of physical contact.
You didn’t know how much time had passed when you loosened your hold on him, pulling a foot away to look at him. “I don’t know how many times I’m gonna say thank you tonight but thank you. That hug really helped a lot.”
Logan gave you a slight tap on your nose as he completely let go, though reluctantly. The silence came back, but it’s much more comfortable now unlike earlier. Logan busied himself by fixing your clothes that wrinkled during the hug and gazed directly at your eyes.
“Don’t stress, okay? I got you. Tonight, allow yourself to relax. You’ll be okay, I promise.” And then he left, right after sending you inside your dorm, after hearing you lock the door, after making sure that you’re safe.
And especially after gracing your forehead with a kiss that he couldn’t help himself to give.
You weren’t sure what to do with what happened.
Logan, who was supposed to like Hannah, just kissed your forehead and just left. He hugged you for who knows how long and then he kissed you. After telling you not to stress and to relax for tonight, he did the exact thing that kept you from doing so. Obviously, you couldn’t relax. You don’t kiss your friend on their forehead. Because that will blur the line between being friends, nothing in the friendship would feel normal after that.
Not unless Logan kisses all his friends to their forehead, you wouldn’t react this way. Well, he did kiss Garrett one time on the same spot but you were playing some drinking game that time. Do the dare, tell the truth, or drink the weird mixture prepared by Tucker. But that was a totally different scenario. See, that’s the thing, Logan doesn’t kiss all his friends that way and he wasn’t definitely playing with you earlier. And that is a territory that you’re trying to understand at two AM in the morning.
You’re currently sitting on the floor of the journalism club office after accepting the fact that sleep is miles away from your reach because of two things. One was obviously because of Logan, and two, you’re still contacting friends about your photos while also brainstorming possible layouts and captions. Ms. Rodriguez allows students to stay for as long as they need in the office. Especially at times like this when everyone is busy preparing for an event.
A few other members also came to do their assignments. But unlike you, they are actually accomplishing something. You glanced at the door when one of the editorial cartoonists bid good night, wishing the rest of you good luck to finish your tasks. And you hoped that it’d work because you badly needed it.
Puffing out a breath, you put your attention back to your laptop and continued scrolling on your archives. You knew it was no use since the photos were not you, but looking at them brings you comfort. Until you pulled up Logan’s folder.
The Muse.
You clicked at the small icon and patiently waited for it to load. The photos appeared one after another, the pixels forming into clarity. You gasped, the small numbers on the left down corner of your screen still surprising you whenever it stops at a certain amount. You’ll never get used to it, because you know that as long as the lens of your camera catches Logan, you’ll click that small button to capture him. The sequence of his whole existence turning into pages inside your album.
I am your guy because if you haven’t noticed yet, I am highly photogenic.
He mentioned during your first meeting, and did he lie? No, he didn’t. Because keeping his words, he wasn’t just photogenic but he also became your guy. The last years proved that, the present proved that. You just didn’t know how much longer you could keep it in considering the observations of your friends and the way Logan acted the past few days, especially earlier. And you thought to yourself—hiding his photos is one thing, suppressing your feelings is another, and a girl can only do both for a long time.
“Ruin the friendship, babe. He’s a senior, who knows what will happen after graduation?” Meadow suddenly appeared behind you, balancing her laptop with her left hand while the right one was carrying probably her third cup of coffee since 12 AM. “And before you deny it, I’ve seen the way you look at him and the way he looks at you, and I’m telling you, it’s worth ruining the friendship.”
“Meadow, it’s not—” But she’s already backing toward the door, her playful eyes never leaving your form. And before she completely left, she pointed at your phone beside your laptop. “He sent you a message, by the way, but you were too busy looking at his photos. Live in the moment, babe. Good night!”
You didn’t get to respond to her as she briskly went and closed the door, leaving you dumbfounded and realizing that she said the same thing as Dean. Your phone buzzed again, preventing you from thinking over the words. You picked it up to see four messages from Logan.
Curiosity and excitement clouded your mind as you opened your email, thinking that maybe he collected the photos Garrett and Hannah promised to double check for you and a few more from him and the others. When the page loaded, Logan’s mail sat at the top of your inbox which contained a shared drive link with a camera emoji as the title.
When you click the link, you expect to see blurry and casual frame phone snaps. The photo Garrett said was probably bad, the photo from the beach getaway by Hannah, but you saw none of those. Instead, you had to wait a full minute for the folder to fully load.
Your breath caught in your throat as the sheer volume of files flashed before you, each thumbnail beginning to clear.
There are hundreds of them. Hundreds of candid photos of you.
It was all you.
Holding your camera, browsing the photos, capturing others.
You were completely in your element.
And they were all taken by Logan. You confirmed this by seeing the small watermark, JL22, located at the uppermost right corner of the photos. A watermark you helped him design a year ago that you never see him use. But now, you understand. He never intended for it to be seen by other people, it was solely just for you.
You scrolled at the shared folder, your heart hammering against your ribs as if it wanted to jump out. The corner of your eyes started to sting without permission, tears forming the longer you browsed. The photos weren’t accidental nor taken with low-effort, and as someone who has been doing photography, Logan’s angles were so good he might be mistaken as part of the club. The lighting was perfect, the focus was measured, the background fading behind as you stood out.
You’ve taught Logan how to use a camera one time, but you didn’t realize how much attention and effort he put into that day for his photos to turn out this way. They were taken so carefully.
Or maybe because he’s been observing you, he’s been paying attention. That while you were too occupied adjusting your lens, his focus was already on yours.
The tears in your eyes fell one by one but you weren’t sure what the reason was. All you know was you’re overwhelmed, you’re confused, and you really want to talk to Logan about this. Because this completely changed everything. The hug and the kiss? It was just the start, but this? You’re crossing a whole foreign zone in this predicament.
You clicked on the photos and observed each one, remembering the moment and what you were doing—what was your story.
There was a picture of you during an off-campus party, your face half-hidden by your camera as you try to capture Justin and his band. Another photo was you sitting behind Logan’s truck during your beach getaway as you set up your tripod to shoot the sunset, looking for the best angle. And there was a candid shot of you from a random day in the library but this time, you were transferring files, your camera resting safely beside your laptop.
You continued scrolling, too mesmerized to stop. Because at that moment, you felt seen, you felt loved. It feels like Logan learned how to appreciate you and what you do based on how you appreciate the world, and it was destroying your walls—both in good and bad ways.
Until you noticed something. A pattern, again. But it wasn’t the kind that breaks you, it was the kind that showed you another side of the story, Logan’s side of the story. And there was only one way to prove these patterns. You opened the tab containing your own archive, splitting the screen so you have it side-by-side with Logan's shared drive.
The photos you took at Malone’s to celebrate their win, the same night you spent hanging out with Tucker and Dean. Your photo was taken from the entrance and Logan was looking at Hannah and Garrett over at the bar where you left them to hang out. And Logan’s photo was you, laughing and capturing the couple in front of you, right before you left them.
The photo during your group hung out at the same diner. You were pressed against the wall as you pictured the same couple teasing each other. But looking at Logan’s photo, he didn’t even include Hannah and Garrett, he just focused on you while you were still holding your camera.
And there was Friendsgiving by the lake. He was in the background emerging from the lakehouse, confusion obvious on his face. Then you glanced at his version, and the picture was taken inside the house, you were still sitting beside Hannah, preparing to photograph your friends.
Then Beau’s party. Logan was frowning at your photo, looking at the kitchen’s doorway where Garrett stood close behind his girlfriend. But then there was you, perfectly captured by Logan, at the same kitchen doorway where you were showing Hannah something in your camera.
Realization hit you at once. Logan hadn’t been looking at Hannah all this time, he had been looking at where he last saw you, which was usually beside the latter. He wasn’t tracking her movements, he was tracking yours. He wasn’t paying attention to her in ways that you thought, he was paying attention to you. He positions himself in every possible corner of the room to give himself the clearest sight of you—the person holding the camera, the person who’s always engaged behind the lens of her camera that she totally missed the eyes of the person she wanted to catch the most.
Live in the moment. Maybe you’re missing something in Logan’s photos.
That instant, it occurred to you that the reason he rarely looked at the lens of your camera was because he was too busy trying to catch your eyes. You're too occupied watching Logan and the way he's looking at Hannah, that you missed who he's actually looking at.
Sitting on the floor of the journalism club office, the overwhelming feelings slowly dissipate as your mind clears out. Your heart goes back to its normal rhythm, while your mind is gradually absorbing the new information you’ve found out. Your emotions are still not at its one hundred percent best, but the ache of the last year believing that Logan likes someone else is now being replaced by a cure you didn’t know existed.
A breathy laugh escaped your lips as you stared at the split screen in front of you. Because all along, you thought that you and Logan were in the same heartbreaking situation of being in love with someone you could never have.
Turned out, both of you have been harboring a secret and hopeless love for each other.
You then looked at the printer a few feet away from you, then back at the laptop. You already printed out the first ten, you just have to choose ten more. And after a few careful consideration, you’ve chosen the best ones from his folder, a satisfied smile crossing your lips at the last one.
The night is getting deeper, but you know that Logan is still awake. So, while the printer was doing its job bringing the photos in its form, you took your phone from your bag and messaged him.
The last of your photo was printed out when you heard the entrance door open, Logan’s head peeking behind as he glanced inside the empty office. You smiled at his presence, gesturing for him to come inside as you picked up the final photo to put beside the other ones to dry down.
He didn’t come in right away, he just stood at the doorway, hands tucked in his pockets as a slow and knowing grin spread across his face. He had his eyes locked onto yours, watching you organize the things you used for printing and at the photos hanging just behind you.
His photos.
Logan felt a sense of pride knowing that you were able to complete the twenty photos because of him. He always calls you ma’am, he always says that he’s happy to do whatever you ask him to, but what he doesn't say is that he likes taking care of you. In ways that you allow him, without making you feel like you’re dependent. And this is just one of the ways he shows it. Making himself present, but not hovering.
“You weren’t kidding, those are mine.” He softly said, his voice carrying a gentleness to it that made you look at him. At the same time, he glanced down to meet your gaze. “They’re beautiful.”
For a moment, none of you speak. You just let the silence take over the both of you, his words lingering like a reminder of what’s about to come, of the reason why you messaged him. Both of you understood that it wasn’t just about the ride, but it’s also about the path you’ll navigate after tonight.
“They are, and you were the person behind these photos.” The way you said it went straight to Logan’s heart, because you said it with ease, with normalcy. You sound so proud and it did something to him. “Come in, please. We need to talk.”
Logan walked over, the gap between you disappearing instantly and suddenly, the room felt small. But he didn’t push, he didn’t crowd your space, he just let you take the next step. Just like he always did. He always patiently waits for you, in many ways that you could name. Then you nudged at your laptop so the device was facing him, the screen displayed your folder and his; showing him that both of you kept an archive of each other.
“First of all, thank you. For the photos, it truly helped me complete my entry for the exhibit. You have no idea how grateful I am for these.” You began, your eyes casting toward the ten printed photos that hung in a line above you. You started tracing the outline of yourself and the way Logan made you appear like a main character in his photos, an intimate tug at your lips forming. “And I’m sorry, for not seeing it sooner.”
You exhaled shakily, twisting around to face Logan who’s already looking at you. “When I saw your email, what it contained, your photos, I realized that I relied on my camera too much and what it showed me. Dean was right, there was something missing in your photos. I missed to capture the way you’re looking at me, because I thought you were looking at someone else.”
Logan’s expression softened, it was a subtle change in his eyes but it was enough for you to notice. He was hanging on every word that you’re saying, longing for it to unfold. But being the man that he is, he didn’t say anything, he just let you find the right path through your thoughts.
“Then, it dawned on me that you were not hiding your feelings for someone else—you were not hiding anything at all. It’s always been laid out there for me but I was too scared to ruin what we have. Because what we have is good, Logan. You’ve been such a good friend to me and I can’t ruin that. But looking at my photos, at your photos, I feel like I only captured a fraction of what is actually happening.
“And that it was actually me that has been hiding a lot. Behind my camera, behind the blinding flash of it because it was easier for me. It was easier to look at you when I have my camera because it lets me control how I see things, how I see you. And that’s not fair.”
The admission almost broke Logan’s heart, because in the past three years that he’d known you, this is the first time that he saw you totally break down your walls. Sure, there were the vulnerable times when you allowed yourself to rely on him, to cry in front of him, but he never saw you this way. And he wanted nothing but to tell you that it’s okay, that he doesn’t find it unfair. That he understands because if he were being honest, he didn’t exactly come clean himself. He never actually admitted his feelings for you and he could only hope at that moment that he had done it a long time ago.
“I always say that I love candid photography because there is always a story behind it. But you, you’ve always been my favorite person to picture yet I didn’t exactly give you the chance to tell your side of the story.” Then you took a step forward, there was still space between you but it’s almost nonexistent now. “If you want, I wish to hear every single version of the stories you have through your lens. I’m done telling mine, Logan, I choose to listen this time, I choose to see this time.”
Logan let out a quiet, breathy laugh, keeping his emotions at bay. He doesn’t know whether to slap himself to confirm if this was a dream or just put you in an embrace, in his arms, and hold you for the rest of time. But he stopped himself and moved forward, and he swore he could almost feel your heart beating the same rhythm as his.
“Oh, baby, it wasn’t unfair. You have every right to interpret this however you want, because I didn’t say anything sooner. And I’m sorry too, for making you feel that way.” He said, his tone dropping to a velvet whisper that seemed to absorb the remaining space between you. His hands hovered beside your arms, testing the moment, and when he didn’t see any hint of hesitance on your face, he wrapped his hands around yours.
“I wished I did things differently, there was no reason for me to keep my feelings a secret. But I believe I was just terrified as you are because you were right, what we have is really good. And I will never be able to handle knowing that I could potentially break what we have because I started seeing you more like a future than a friend.” He confessed, his gaze dropping to your joined hands, staring at the way they fit perfectly together. Like it was sculpted to be that way. You felt your tears build up once again and you looked up to prevent it from falling, your throat constricting as you do so.
Logan drew comforting circles against your skin before his eyes met yours again with a raw and obvious vulnerability, yearning to look at you and to be looked by you. He let go of one of your hands just so he could wipe a stray tear that fell, and eventually, he gently cupped your cheek.
“I cannot go back and change what happened, but I can definitely make up for it starting now. And if you wanna know what I want? I want us. I want what you want and everything that you don’t. I want myself with you, not just for now but for—”
“The whole of it.”
“Yeah, baby, the whole of it. But only if you want to?” You laughed, the glee sound of it echoing in Logan’s mind, taking note of how you looked right now. And while you’ve always been beautiful in his eyes, he couldn’t help but notice the way you appeared so breathtaking in his gaze that second.
“John, did you just use the same words you told me a week ago?” His hand that was holding your cheek dropped back to his side as he sheepishly smiled at you, but you saw a depth behind it. He genuinely wanted to know the answer, because that time in his room, you didn’t give a clear response and he understood why. But now, things have changed. You knew that the moment the both of you walked out the journalism office, you’ll no longer be just friends. Your relationship will be more, and that includes making decisions.
“Hey, you didn’t have to say anything now. We have time, love, there’s no rush.” Logan gave your hand a squeeze, a final assurance to his words. But you shook your head, your mind swirling with something else.
“Logan, I spent—we spent a lot of years not saying anything and I don’t want to do that anymore. And this is not us rushing, this is you and me finally choosing us. And I want more of it, I want the whole of it.”
Logan exhaled heavily, like he wasn’t expecting you to say the words he’d been dying to hear. None of you said a word, but the silence was enough to speak for itself as you tugged him closer to your body. Logan’s hands automatically held your hips, while yours wrapped around his neck, drawing him toward your face.
Your foreheads bumped together as your eyes meet, the connection palpable. He didn’t move, he was just waiting again on your next move. But his grip tightened on your body when he felt you gently grab the back of his neck, a hint of coyness on his expression.
“I want it, Logan. I want you.”
And with one pull, the gap completely disappears as your lips connect for a kiss. The hesitation, the holding back, the years you’ve spent watching each other from lens’ reach, all of it evaporated the second your lips met. It was everything both of you have expected and more.
Logan’s tightened grip on your hips moves toward the small of your back, pulling you flush against him as if the proximity wasn’t enough; while his other hand cradled your cheek, guiding your head as he deepened the kiss. You felt everything at once instantly—the yearning, the warmth, how the contentment settled in, how both of your bodies melted into each other.
You pulled back just a little to catch your breath, only to dive back in for another kiss. A low ragged breath escaped Logan and it turned to a quiet rumble against your chest as he started laughing in between kisses.
“Point proven.” Logan’s forehead rests against yours, the smile lay permanent on his lips. His voice is a little rough, but it was laced with affection that touched your heart. He leaned in again, but the kisses this time are lighter, softer, as it lingered and traced down your jawline up to the spot just below your ear, and back to your lips.
You naturally arched into his touch as the kiss grew more desperate, hungrier. His tongue swiped at the top of your lips, as if asking for permission to explore your mouth, and you didn’t hesitate to let him in. Despite the growing passion, both of you made sure to savor the moment. Memorizing the pattern of the kiss, which angle makes Logan heave a breath, and what makes you shiver when his hands explore what he can touch.
He broke the kiss for a second just to gaze at your eyes, a glint you’ve never seen before swimming in them, and buried his head at the junction of your neck to inhale your scent. You still felt him leaving small kisses on your skin, his hands engulfing you in another hug.
“This is per—you’re so perfect.” The admission left you chuckling as you played with the back of his neck, massaging his scalp, while your other hand rubbed at his back. The comfort and solace it brings made Logan sigh in your arms. “I didn’t even want to think how I managed to go on the last years without this. If I had known that it'd feel like this, I would’ve shown you how I feel for you.”
“Well, you never have to think about it now. You got me.”
A few minutes have passed when Logan lets go, glancing around the office as his eyes land on the wall clock, realizing that it’s time to go home. You quickly caught on at the change in his posture and started gathering your things, which Logan took from you right away.
“You ready to go, ma’am?” Logan stretched out his hand your way, waiting for you to clasp your own ones with his. And when you did, he tugged you beside him to lay a peck on your forehead, satisfaction filling his system. “Alright, let’s get you home.”
Once outside, you started locking the doors but Logan stole another scan of your photos from the glass window. Then he caught the last photo you printed out and it made him pause. He didn’t think you’d notice, but he should’ve thought better than to believe you wouldn’t. His expression softened at the realization that you picked out his most favorite photo from his own folder.
It was a perfectly angled and photographed image of you in the hockey house. You were holding your camera toward his direction, your lips curved in a smile as you took a picture of Logan. At that time, you thought he was busy looking at his phone. But that was proven wrong because while you definitely stood out in the picture, Logan was in the background, his reflection clear on the mirror just behind you. A perfect image that showed how the camera works in two ways.
With one last glance, Logan pulled you to walk alongside him, a newfound peace settling in.
And as you turned a corner going to the parking lot, you looked up just to see Logan already staring back at you. And as much as you don’t want to admit, Dean has always been right all along.
You should live in the moment.
Do not hide behind your camera all the time.
So you’ll not miss what’s happening in front you.
And as you’re nearing his truck, it struck you that while you're busy loving him through the lens of your camera, he's spent the past few years loving you through his very own eyes and you can’t wait to do the same.
BONUS: Exhibit day, opening.
A/N: Thank you so much for reading and reaching up to this point. It was totally a challenge writing this one but I pushed through. This one was actually self-indulgent and I had so much doing this. Anyway, always stay safe, lovelies! ♥️
omg I love the way you write it’s soo vulnerable and passionate could you please do a part 2 maybe of both of them I’d love to read more it’s beautiful
hi, anon! this was very nice of you and i appreciate it a lot. i tried to incorporate both themes together as much as i could and i'm glad you felt it ෆ
i'm still working on another fic as of the moment and it might take a while to work on your request, but i'd also like to explore more on "tears". if you want, you could send in another ask to elaborate more on what you'd like to see and i'll do my best to write it after my current wip.
once again, thank you for reading! i hope you're doing well 🤍
⁀➴┊warnings: 18+ (mdni), nsfw headcanons at the end!
⁀➴┊BOYFRIEND!JOHN LOGAN... who is your personal heater. he’s just so warm. his arms, his face, his chest. it’s all so snug and cozy, especially on cold winter mornings when you’re nestled in his grip under the thick duvet. 100% the type to press his face into your neck when the first rays of sunshine stream through the curtains, engulfing you in his undeniable warmth as he pulls your body on top of his to shield the light of day away.
⁀➴┊BOYFRIEND!JOHN LOGAN... who is so attentive. he takes mental notes of your takeaway orders, your favourite tea blends, what you crave when you’re on your period. he never suggests to watch horror movies, because he knows you don’t like them. drives to the other side of town to get you those strawberry crackers you like, and does it without complaining, because he loves to see that giddy, grateful smile on your face.
and he always. always. makes time for you. when he’s knee-deep in his literature research, and you call him when you need to be picked up from work, he’s dropping everything to tend to you. grabbing his car keys from his night stand, with his phone still pressed to his ear. “don’t take the bus, baby,” he’ll say, clumsily jumping around, trying to put his trainers on with you still on the line. “i’m already on my way.” he’s just happy to take care of his girl.
⁀➴┊BOYFRIEND!JOHN LOGAN... who loves to put you in his clothes. the first thing he asks when you come over is: “are you comfortable enough, or do you want something of mine?” and is benevolent enough to put apart the shirts and shorts you like to wear into separate piles. he melts upon seeing you with your sweater paws, or when the drawstring of his shorts are pulled super tight around your waist. he just thinks you look so irrevocably his.
⁀➴┊BOYFRIEND!JOHN LOGAN... who is super clingy, especially if he’s a little sore — or when he’s actually injured — from hockey practice. he’s pathetically sprawled on the sofa only with some old basketball shorts on and no shirt, purple-blue bruises blossoming over his ribs. when you walk over to the kitchen to get new ice packs from the fridge, he’ll literally whine. actually whine. when he has bruises on his jaw, or anywhere else on his face, he’d ask you to “kiss it better” with a satisfied grin on his face when you roll your eyes, but still delicately press your lips to his skin.
⁀➴┊BOYFRIEND!JOHN LOGAN... whose love language is acts of service. we all know logan is a crazy skilled handyman. when he comes over to your dorm, he notices all these random things that somehow “need fixing”. he opens your bedroom door, and the door creaks like all old dorm doors do, but no. john logan is like: “wait— that doesn’t sound good. let me get some silicone spray from my car so i can fix the hinges.” and he does this with everything: creaking stairs, when the water pressure in your shower is a little bit off, when your car starts acting up. he’s there, fixing it. safe to say, he only wants what’s best for his girl, and nothing less.
⁀➴┊BOYFRIEND!JOHN LOGAN... who loves to call you sweet pet names, and i think “baby” is his favourite. maybe also loves to call you “precious”, because that’s what you are to him. i can see so vividly in my mind he loves to call you “miss thing” when you act a little sassy, giving your ass a playful tap after. refers to you as “my girl” when he’s with others.
“is that my hoodie you’re wearing?” logan asks incredulously when he sees you pack your schoolbag after you stayed over. you’re clad in your usual jeans, but the sweater you’re wearing is a little too loose and a little too familiar to logan’s eyes. you pinch the worn-out material between your fingers, looking down at it. “oh. this thing? got it from my personal thrift shop.” you joke with a toothy grin. and logan just chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief. “sure, miss thing,” twirling his car keys around his finger. “come on, i’ll drive you to your lecture.” he tells you before giving your ass a tiny slap to send you off.
maybe after a game, his teammates are like: “you coming to malone’s for drinks?” and logan? He just shakes his head. “’m sorry,” he says, but he does not look sorry at all. In fact, he’s wearing a stupid, lovesick smile on his face. “gonna spend time with my girl.”
⁀➴┊BOYFRIEND!JOHN LOGAN... who genuinely feels proud of you when you do well on your exam and get a good result. he knows that you can get nervous at times, and he always goes out of his way to walk you to the exam hall, hand-in-hand, softly telling you that you’re going to ace it, that you’re going to ace the exam. because he genuinely thinks you’re amazing at whatever you do. you’re genuinely someone he looks up to, someone he can learn something from, someone he admires.
⁀➴┊BOYFRIEND!JOHN LOGAN... who loves to distract you when you’re studying. he does it with kisses, because he thinks you look so adorable when you’re focused with a light frown on your face as you jot down your notes. on your nose, your jaw, your forehead. anything to get you to pay some attention to him. or when you’ve been studying for a good bit behind his desk. maybe you’ve been ignoring him because you’re so concentrated, so he’ll randomly pick you up with ease. “you’re done,” he says resolutely, gently tossing you on his bed. you can only squeal as you feel logan’s arms tighten around your waist. he tsks at the twinkle in your eye. “ignorin’ me—” logan mutters under his breath as he lowers his face to your neck, placing a tentative kiss there. “i need some attention too, baby.”
⁀➴┊BOYFRIEND!JOHN LOGAN... who loves when you sleep over. his excitedness is shown tackles you on his bed when you step out of the bathroom, your hair and skin still a little damp from the warm shower you just took. “john—!” you shriek when he instantly pushes his body weight onto you, nosing your skin. “you smell so nice, baby.” literally extends your arm to brush tiny, fluttery kisses all over it. his lips feathery over the sensitive inside of your elbow, his eyes never leaving yours. you can only giggle from how light his kisses feel.
⁀➴┊BOYFRIEND!JOHN LOGAN... who hates when you go on your phone when it’s bedtime. he just wants to use that time to cuddle instead, duh! maybe the occasional tiktok-scroll is tolerated, but when you start texting your friends, he gets lowkey offended. “c’mon honey, put your phone away—” he rasps, his entire room engulfed in darkness, except for your illuminated screen. “i’m being replaced by a fucking glowing rectangle.”
and eventually, he snatches your phone out of your strong grip, putting it screen-down on his bedside table while pulling your body further into his chest. he just starts whispering sweet nothings into your ear, massaging his thick fingers into your hair while your breathing evens out.
⁀➴┊BOYFRIEND!JOHN LOGAN... who has a thing for fucking you when his friends are home. he just loves the risk that comes with it. “you’re gonna be quiet, baby?” he taunts, clasping his big hand over your mouth, trying to keep your moans muffled while he feeds you syrupy slow strokes, and tears start welling up when you feel your climax approach. logan’s not letting up his thrusts into you, only the sound of your slick drooling around his cock, the squelching sound of your pussy sucking him in and logan’s heavy breaths filling the room, the tinkly sound of his chain repeatedly tapping against your chin.
loves when you bite on the chain to pull his face closer to yours; turns him on beyond words to see you a little assertive underneath him.
⁀➴┊BOYFRIEND!JOHN LOGAN... who 100% bends you over his ’69 camaro. come on. that’s his baby. it’s a total double kill if he can bend and fuck his other baby right over it. it happens in his father’s garage at night on a hot summer day, the hood is popped open, your skirt rucked up and his jeans are zipped down just enough to ease into you. “that’s it—” logan grunts, his warm chest sticking to your back, “y’like being bent over a car? you’re a nasty girl, baby, fuck.” the car makes an obscene squeaking sound from how powerful logan’s strokes are, hips bucking into you without any mercy until you’re shaking, a waterfall of your essence dripping on the concrete floor.
⁀➴┊BOYFRIEND!JOHN LOGAN... who is superstitious as fuck. one time, he went down on you the night before a very important game, which he eventually won. so now, he has to eat you out every night before a game to consolidate his good luck. you’re not complaining, though, when he spreads your legs wide open and disappears under the covers. and he does it so earnestly. he’s truly taking his time, picking you apart, making you shatter from pleasure, pumping his fingers into you slowly, scissoring you open until you’re dripping all over his wrist before even considering putting his mouth on you. it’s sweet torture.
⁀➴┊BOYFRIEND!JOHN LOGAN... who always dedicates his celebrations to you. no matter if it’s just pointing at you, shooting a wink your way, or kissing his ring finger whilst looking at you. you’re the first person he wants to share his happiness with, only after that he celebrates with his teammates on the ice, but you’re definitely his first thought when his puck finds the opponent’s net.
⁀➴┊BOYFRIEND!JOHN LOGAN... who knew that, from the day he first met you, you were going to be his wife. he promises to himself to keep saving money — whilst keeping his head down, and work hard — for that ring so he can propose to you on the day both of you graduate. he doesn’t care much about playing in the ahl — as long as you, the love of his life, are by his side.
𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃. 𓏲ּ𝄢🪽
a/n: i got maaany sweet messages about my cozy john logan fic with the tea, so i thought maybe i’d make a whole bedtime routine with logan fic, bc i too am a sucker for slow, cozy, sleepy nighttime vibes 😛 if there’s enough ppl enthused
uggghh or i might write a tucker fic who makes you chaiiiii. choices choices people
summary: as a photography student, taking photos became an outlet of your every emotion. and eventually, it also became the sole witness of the love you secretly harboured over the years for logan. every chance you could get to capture him during his game, or a party, or a group hangout, you will take it. until you noticed a pattern, he never looked at the lens of your camera but rather at your friend, hannah. yet, a shift occurred when the journalism club announced their annual media and arts exhibition and suddenly, you were left confused to understand the thing you never thought was possible.
title: tears ; 🌧️
summary: logan loves going down on you. he lives for it, he craves it, he loves everything about it. but what he didn’t expect was your reaction when you were the one who goes down on him.
Summary: Logan loves going down on you. He lives for it, he craves it, he loves everything about it. But what he didn’t expect was your reaction when you were the one who goes down on him.
Warning/s: Minors do not interact. Smut. Mature. 18+. Oral sex (F and M receiving). Unprotected sex. Comfort. Crying. Established relationship. They are unhinged, horny, and thinking about sex all the time but they love each other too. Be responsible for your own media consumption. Grammar/Spelling. If I missed anything, let me know kindly!
Word Count: 3.5k
A/N: I’m in no way a pro when it comes to writing smut but I try and this is me trying (and probably experimenting on my writing too). Got inspired while listening to Tears by Sabrina and a conversation I had with my best friend.
I have another Logan fic in progress but it’ll be some time before it’s up since I’m not confident about it yet. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this one. Like, reblogs, and comments are very welcome and appreciated!
MASTERLIST.
Please do not translate and repost.
Divider by chrisssiren.
Logan is sick, he’s sure of that. But the thing is, as cliche as it may sound, you are the only person who could cure him. He had known a long time ago that he loves going down on girls, he lives for it. But nothing ever prepared him for you and the changes you brought into his sex life.
He’d been with many girls before you, yes. What you and he are doing—at least, some of it—he had done it before. You knew it, having to be one of the witnesses of some of those sexcapades he did in the past. However, that’s never been an issue between you two. Sex with you is something that Logan has never experienced before. But no, it’s not some, “You’re different from other girls” kind of bullshit. It’s the feeling that was different.
You see, the girls he had been with? It was always rushed, short-lived. It was only for the sake of sleeping together. But with you? You build up the moment, but still make sure not to waste time. You make him feel hot and excited, but give him what he wants to balance it out. You let him do what he wants, but signals him when to stop. You make him crave for you, crave for it. And when you especially know when he needs it? You give it to him, no questions asked.
And Logan would always savor the moment when you just unfold your legs for him, when you let him lap at your center like a starved man, and when you encourage him to keep going; even stretching your legs further so he could have more space.
Logan loves your pussy, and he loves every single second of being down on you and if he could live between your legs, he would.
There’s something so addicting about having them wrapped around his head, or when you spread it for him so he could bite on your inner thighs, or the way it almost suffocates him when you’re on top of him, riding his face while he busies himself admiring the swell of your breasts; the way they move when you jerk forward because his tongue hits a certain spot, or the way your chest falls up and down so you can get enough oxygen in your lungs, or when your nipples hardened he just had to let go one of your legs so he could play with them.
Yet he loves it more when you tugs at his curls, moaning for him. The sound you make going straight to his cock, thrusting on the bed or in the air depending on where you got him eating you out. He loves the look on your face—how your mouth forms an o-shape when he sucks at your sensitive nub or when you cover it to muffle the sounds because his friends are sleeping, how your eyes glaze when you’re near, how your lips turn swollen from too much biting, and how your head falls backwards to reveal your neck, thinking about biting the flesh once he’s fucking you.
Logan swore he could cum by just eating you out, but looking at you enjoying yourself? That’s another thing he needs to control. He could combust with a single, “Making me feel so good, Johnny.” but he’d do his best to restrain himself. He’d only allow himself to finish once you do because for him, it’s you before everything else. There were times that even after making you cum three times, he’d hold it in because that won’t be enough. He’d wait for you to say, “Please, let me feel you. I want it.”, that he’d permit himself to let go and you’d be so full of him. Then, he would look at your face only to see you smiling at him, so lost in the pleasure and so fucking beautiful, and he’d take pride knowing he’s the one who made you feel that way—and he feels like cumming again, his cock hardening inside you once more.
He thought that would be it, nothing else could make him feel like he’s doing it for the first time aside from eating you out and you, looking so pretty for him. But boy, was he wrong.
It happened for the first time when Logan felt a little more beaten up after practice. Completely drained and exhausted from all the physical and mental challenges hockey takes from him. You knew the moment he slumped beside you on his head, dropping his gym bag on the side, that he’s spent.
“Hey, gorgeous. I missed you.” Logan’s hands automatically searched for your waist as his head hits your lap, his hair still damp from the shower. He relaxes the moment your hands massage at his scalp, down to the back of his neck, and to his shoulder blades. His usual protective guard is down and at that moment, under your gaze, he’s just a guy who needs comfort.
Your boyfriend needs comfort.
“I missed you too, baby. How are you?” Logan lifted his head a bit, his eyes cast downward, his body barely holding his weight, but he didn’t say anything. He just smiled at you before seeking your warmth again. You bit your lip and maybe, seeing him like that—sore, tired, worn out—is what triggered your desire to take care of him. He spends so much energy in hockey, in studying, in the garage, in everything that he does, including looking out for you without being asked that seeing him vulnerable makes you want to put him first. So an idea popped in your mind.
“Hey, come on, lay down properly.” Logan obliged, rather slowly. You were standing at the foot of the bed, supporting his movements. Once he’s comfortable, you start removing his clothes. He didn’t think much of it at first, he always sleeps with only his boxers on and you learned about it early on in your relationship. It even got to a point that you were the one undressing him and you’d cuddle under his covers.
However, Logan felt your hands caressing his legs as you crawled on top of him. Your fingers tugged down at his boxers until it reached just above his knees, but before you could take it off, Logan caught your hand, crease forming between his brows. He understands immediately what you were trying to do, and it’s not that he doesn’t want it. He’s just not sure if he could do any action tonight and he will never forgive himself if he allows it to happen only for you to not to feel good.
“Thank you, gorgeous, but I don’t think I can do—”
“Who said you’re doing anything?” You raised one eyebrow at him, the corner of your lips curving into a tempting smile that had Logan heaving a deep breath. He knew it’s happening, you looked so good and while the rest of his body is tired, his cock sure isn’t as it slowly grows hard between his thighs, directly under you. “Just lay down for me, John, okay? You’ve been working so hard, you deserve to be rewarded for it.”
And nothing ever prepared him for what happened next.
Logan never presented the idea of blowjob, nor you brought it up yourself. In the entirety of your relationship, you never went down for him. You never put his length in your mouth, you never gagged at the feeling of him hitting your throat, and you never knew what it was like to look up at him over your lashes. But just because it never happened, doesn’t mean you never wonder what it would be like.
It’s not like you never gave head before. You have a fair share of experience yourself like Logan, but you keep on wondering if it would feel like the way it made him feel. He told you about it, how going down on you made him feel like an entirely different person. That the way your pussy feels against his mouth was nothing like he ever felt before. That if your legs suffocate him and he dies accidentally, he’d still thank you for it.
You knew it wasn’t about the experience, you knew it was the feeling. Because you trust him, you allow yourself to be vulnerable and comfortable with him that the intimacy instantly feels different. So, you took advantage of the moment to test it out yourself.
“Are you sure about this? You know you don’t have to, right? We can just—”
But Logan’s head dropped back down on his pillow when he felt your hands around him, pumping him slowly, getting him to completely relax for you. A heavy and ragged sigh escaped his lips at the feeling, his broad shoulders sinking into the mattress, shutting his eyes close to regain some control. And he thought that he’s doing a great job at it, he’s getting used to the feeling of the slow movements of your hands that he willed himself to open his eyes.
“Fuck, that feels good, gorgeous.” He rasped, voice thick and rough at your ministrations. The exhaustion of the day leaving his body. The tension, the expectations, the brutality of the world outside his room fading behind him as he let you take care of him. His hands gripped at his bed, not wanting to pressure you to take anything further by putting them on your head.
You shifted your weight, finding a more comfortable place between his thighs. And then you see it before you feel it; the intimacy did feel different.
You saw how Logan does his best to keep his hands to himself, you feel how he tries not to thrust upwards in your hands, you feel from the way he remains so compliant with your touch that he’s not rushing you, and you saw how his eyes glint with encouragement to do whatever you want next—continue or stop, entirely up to you.
The moment was slow and heavy with trust. And that did something to you, probably the way it did something to Logan.
It made you feel good, confident, trusted, and loved.
When Logan felt your movements have slowed, he peeked at you to see that you got this dazed look on your face. He was about to reassure you that it’s okay to stop when you looked down at his dick and leaned forward, replacing your hands with the warmth of your lips. Logan choked on his breath, the words caught in his throat as he felt his self control leaving his body as he completely surrendered to you.
Logan’s entire body went still for a second, a low, guttural moan vibrated in his chest before he forced himself to relax again. His fingers gripped at the sheets again, tighter this time as his knuckles turned white. You saw this from the corner of your eyes and tapped at his thighs, reaching for one of his hands and guided it above your head. He had to fight every instinct to take over because of the action, but he reminded himself that tonight, this is what you want.
You moved over him, finding your rhythm as your eyes flicked up to look at him. His head was still thrown back, buried in his pillow, exposing his adam’s apple. His sweat glistened on his collarbone and you moaned at the sight, he looked completely undone and ruined by your touch. And the same feeling came back.
Looking at Logan, completely at your mercy and stripped of his usual protective and strong stance made you clench your thighs together. You continue pumping at his length while switching between sucking and lapping at the head, his tip leaking pre-cum. Logan’s grip on your head tightened and it should hurt, but you just took him further inside your mouth. You gagged slightly, the sound causing him to massage your jaw, motioning for you to breathe through your nose as he guided your head to stay in place.
“That’s it, gorgeous, don’t forget to breathe.” You understood what he said, you knew when to stop if it gets too much for you, but your mind started to jumble. Because how could he be so sweet and caring yet so filthy at the same time? When you felt your lungs needing some air, you pulled back, a string of spit connecting your lips to his cock. And Logan was about to throw a praise when you lick from his base before taking him whole again.
“Fuck me—slow down, gorgeous. You’re killing me.”
It feels too good; the thickness in your mouth, the taste of his pre-cum oozing out directly on your tongue, the control he’s trying to gain, the way he grips at your head and caresses your cheeks just to feel himself bulging from it. Everything feels too good and without meaning to, a stray tear spilled over your lashes, tracking down your cheek and landing softly on his thighs. Logan snapped up immediately at the unwelcomed feeling, only to see you crying. The immense pleasure brought by your mouth dissipates in the air as he scrambles to seat.
“Woah, woah, hey, talk to me.” He whispered, afraid that if he went a little louder, you'd cry even more. He wanted to move to your side, but for some reason, your hand is still wrapped around his length and you’re still between his legs. Logan tried his best to meet you eye-to-eye with the position, his hands gently cupping your face, his thumbs wiping away the dampness on your skin. “Sweetheart, please, talk to me. What’s wrong? Did I hurt you? Was it something I did? Was I too much?”
You only shook your head at him and Logan had to stop the sigh that wanted to escape his lips when he felt your hand gripped him, and instead focused on making sure that you’re okay. “Hey, it’s alright, we can stop now, hmm? It’s alright, I got you.”
But then you opened your mouth and Logan cursed at himself because maybe he heard it wrong, maybe he heard you wrong. There’s no way you’re crying because of that, right? His girlfriend, who is usually composed, independent, strong-willed, and doesn’t take shit from others, is crying.
All because of his dick.
He studied your face, your eyes that were blown out with lust, your lips hanging open in anticipation, your brows creased together awaiting his response. But above everything, he saw honesty and trust and it dawned on him that he didn’t hear it wrong. Logan heard you correctly.
“I don’t want to stop. I want your cock.”
Because that’s what you really said and you didn’t plan on taking it back.
Not when Logan’s eyes darkened with want as he held your face so softly, waiting for you to take your words back. Not when the words made you shudder when it left your lips, not when it caused you to rub your thighs together, not when your eyes basically watered again at the thought of it in your mouth, in your hands, in your pussy. Not when you’re pushing Logan back on the bed to hover above him, so sure of yourself, repeating the words.
“I love your cock, Johnny.”
Logan doesn’t know what to do. You are equally as obsessed as he was and he doesn’t know what to do with that. He never cried when he’s down on his knees, trapped between your legs, but he sure felt like it every single time. You make him addicted, you make him starve and crave, and you make him mad about it. And seeing you, like a reflection of himself, enjoying yourself, destroys him in a delicious way.
You spent the rest of the night sobbing at the feeling of his length in your mouth and Logan lives for it. He’d smile at you, comfort you, and praise you for it while anchoring himself to keep it together.
“Fuck, gorgeous, you take me so well.”
“You love it? Say it again, come on.”
And between his praises and the fullness of him inside your mouth, you’d look up at him just to ask, “It’s my dick now too, right?”
And Logan had to physically stop himself from pulling you back down his length, his grin widening with mischief and his eyes twinkle with something you’ve never seen before. Without breaking eye contact, his thumbs traced your lips before sliding it inside, your tongue automatically swirling around it as you await for his answer.
“So fucking right, gorgeous, it is.”
The night ended with both of you tangled in his sheets, satisfaction and pride swimming in your system. You were safely tucked beside him after your unexpected discovery, Logan peppering your head with kisses. And he thought, that was it. What he didn’t know was that behind your peaceful form, you discovered another thing.
You love Logan when he respects you in bed. But you love it more when he gets filthy.
He was on his way back to the hockey house when it happened the second time. He just bid goodbye to a classmate when his phone buzzed in his jeans. It was a message from you. An entirely unhinged message from you.
“I need it, please.”
Logan drove so fast back to the house and when he opened the door of his room, there you were, dressed in his jersey. But it didn’t take long for both of you to get undressed. The moment escalated so quickly as you dropped to your knees in front of him, tugging at his pants.
“Take it out, baby.”
And Logan never complied so fast in his life. Not even when Coach Jensen told him to do better with his moves, to skate faster. But you got him on chokehold with just your words and the next second, you were taking him in your mouth, the dirtiest words escaping his lips.
“You want it so bad, yeah? You missed it?”
“So pretty like this. Keep going. Come on, you got it.”
“Open your mouth wider, gorgeous. I thought you said you wanted it?”
And you’re equally as bad as him. The words you thought that you’ll never say are encouraged out of you because of Logan, and the way he looks at you with so much adoration and pride.
“This is only mine, right? It’s mine.”
“It feels so good in my mouth, Johnny, I don’t want to stop.”
“Yes, I wanted it. I can take it. Please.”
Logan thought—once again and he’s wrong—that would be it. But you’re sneaking into the shower room when you know he’s the only one using it and would join him. Saying how you could not wait any longer and you’d end up spending an extra hour in the showers because both of you couldn’t get enough of each other.
Or at Beau’s party, when he looks too good drinking with his friends and he’d throw teasing glances your way and he’d take it far by sending you a message, mentioning how one of the rooms was his for the night and he’d be waiting for you. Both of you would end up making out and eventually, him on top of you. He fucks you like he’s never done before, but you’re crying for it and he’d be damned if he doesn’t make it worthwhile.
And Logan is fucking sick. Because he couldn’t take the image of you crying for him, for his dick. Sometimes, he couldn’t help but wonder if you’re thinking about it too, because he does. In the middle of the class, during practice, while showering. Any chance that he could get, he’ll think about it. During those times, he’d shoot you messages.
“Can’t stop thinking about you, gorgeous.”
“Bet you’re soaking wet for me right now.”
“So fucking hard for you, gorgeous. Is your class over?”
He’d smile so hard because your replies matched his energy, it matched his freak. He’d go over them, read them over and over again just to make sure that he’s reading it right.
“I dreamed of you fucking me and I want it now.”
“Can I come over before practice? I’ll just suck a little.”
“Do you think we can get a replica of your dick? Just for study purposes.”
Both of you are so obsessed with each other that even your friends noticed it right away. The changes in your relationship that weren’t there in the beginning, the stolen glances, the mischief behind the smiles, the sneaking in the middle of a conversation. When you and Logan disappear at the same time, they'll understand what’s happening quickly. When they catch one of you smiling at your phone, they know that you’re exchanging unhinged messages yet again.
But underneath all that—the sole reason why both of you are crazy about the sex, about each other—was the foundation you built together over time; the trust, the intimacy, the care, the love, and the understanding where the pleasure should end and begin. The respect you put into the relationship and the boundaries you’ve set, the communication between what you can cross and not.
So, yes, Logan is sick, but at least you cure him and he does the same to you—in more ways than one.
A/N: Thank you for reading, lovely! Stay safe always ♥️
summary: when things get rough, john logan disappears. good thing you know exactly what to do and how to get him back to himself again. (3.7k)
warnings: mentions of logan's dad and his alcoholism, mention of injury (bruises) but nothing graphic. tooth rotting fluff!
a/n: the moment i laid eyes on this man i knew i'd be down bad and now here we are! john logan you have bewitched me, body and soul <3
"What's up, fuckers?"
A chorus of half-assed returned greetings reach your ears, but it looks like the boys are too busy playing video games to pay you any attention. You shrug off your jacket, throwing it on one of the hooks by the door before venturing deeper into the house.
It may be cold outside, but this place is always toasty. You always joke it's because of the testosterone of the four college boys living here.
One of those college boys is your boyfriend, but upon a glance around the living room, the only one who isn't sprawled out on the couch.
"Logan upstairs?"
The boys look towards each other, a silent conversation amongst the three of them that you aren't privy to, but know can't be a good thing. Dean's nostrils flare in retaliation to Garrett's ever so slight shake of the head, and Tucker's eyes widen, paired with a tilt of his chin in your direction.
"Uh, nope," Tucker says carefully. You raise an expectant brow. "Jeff called earlier."
Your heart sinks in your chest.
Whenever Logan's older brother, Jeff, calls him, it's never a nice conversation. It usually has to do with their father, always a sore subject between the two Logan boys. Whether their old man has been arrested again for being drunk and disorderly, or failed to show up for work or something important, everyone close to John Logan knows his complicated feelings towards his family.
"Shit. What happened now?"
Dean shrugs. "Dunno. He wouldn't say, just got up and left."
You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose with two fingers. "Alright. I know where he is."
"You got him?"
"Always do."
The only other car in the parking lot when you get to the Hawks practice facility is Logan's beat up truck. The main doors to the building get locked at night, but you know from experience the maintenance door around back is easy to get open if you have the right touch, it isn't hard to get in. You assume that's how Logan got in, because he's the one who taught you the way to jiggle the lock.
You already know your way around, and you can already hear the telltale scraping of blades on ice, over and over and over.
Normally, the whole arena is lit up, but in the after hours only the main light over the ice is on, shining over one lone figure in the middle of the rink. Logan takes off from the center, legs and arms pumping, skates flying across the slippery surface back and forth, from wall to wall and then again.
He does four more runs before he takes a break, shoulders heaving from the effort of pushing hard.
You rap your knuckles against the sideboards, the sound echoing through the empty space, and it gets Logan's attention immediately. He yanks his helmet off as he glides over, and the closer he gets the more frustrated you can tell he is.
"Hey, you," You greet, palms bracing on the wall.
Logan scrapes to a stop mere inches from your face, mouth set into a thin line, eyes hard, chest heaving. Those eyes soften just the slightest bit when you reach out and brush the sweaty hair out of his eyes, but still, you can clearly see he's upset.
"How'd you know where I was?"
"You always come here when you're trying to get your mind off something."
Something in Logan's jaw ticks. "The boys told you then, huh?"
"When did your brother call?"
"About an hour ago."
"And you've been here ever since."
Logan doesn't have to say a word for you to know you're right, that he's been here busting his ass off for the past hour, pushing himself to the brink like he's punishing himself for something.
You run your hands over his shoulders and let them link around the back of his neck, tugging him closer to kiss him gently. His mouth works against yours on instinct, head tilting to get a better angle, one gloved hand curling around the small of your back. When you pull away some time later you're both panting into each other's space, eyes fluttering open slowly.
"I don't really wanna talk about it," He murmurs. He looks a little more at ease now, that little crease in between his eyebrows he gets when he's upset nowhere to be found.
Shaking your head, you flatten a palm against his cheek, stroking your thumb over sticky skin. "We don't have to, baby. Just…maybe get off the ice soon? Don't overwork yourself because of him."
Logan looks like he wants to protest, but one look at you and that sweet face he can never say no to and he sighs, nodding. "Lemme do my warm down and change, then I'm yours."
Satisfied, you press another quick kiss to his lips, before settling into one of the rinkside seats to wait while he finishes up.
He emerges from the locker room soon after in sweats and a hoodie, dark hair wet from a shower and curling at the ends, with his hockey bag hiked over his shoulder, managing a small smile at the sight of you waiting for him as he makes his way over.
Only then do you notice the slight lean while he walks. The way he seems to be favoring his left side a little more than his right, hiding it well but not well enough for your watchful eyes.
You stop him with a hand to the chest before he gets close enough to hug you, fingers gripping the hem of the heavy fabric.
He inhales sharply. "Wait—"
But you're quicker than him. You lift his hoodie and hold back a gasp at the sight underneath, eyes going wide.
Bruises like patchwork lick over half his ribcage and around his back, a blossom of colors that skin definitely isn't supposed to be. Some are old, however, some look to be newer.
"What the fuck, Logan?" You huff, letting your fingertips ghost over the injuries lightly.
"Shit, it—they look worse than they really are, sweetheart. They're just bruises, I promise," He insists, placating you with both hands up in surrender. You narrow your eyes at him and his hands go higher. "I'd go see our trainer if something was really wrong, you know I would."
"You're gonna ice that when you get home, right?"
Logan winces, turns on his big brown eyed pleading gaze, paired with a small pout of his lower lip.
"Can I stay at yours?" He asks hopefully, lacing his fingers with yours. You must give him some sort of look, because he shakes his head. "Just for tonight. They're gonna look at me weird if I go home and I can't deal with that shit right now."
"Okay, fine. But tomorrow you're facing your friends, because they might be stupid sometimes, but they mean well."
"I know," He sighs, dragging a hand back through his hair. "I'll talk to them."
"And you're lucky my roommate went home to visit her boyfriend for the weekend."
"Why? We gonna get up to some stuff later tonight?" Logan leans into your space with wiggling eyebrows, the scruff on his cheeks tickling the side of your face where he nuzzles against you.
You stifle a laugh when he presses a kiss to your neck, shoving him away gently. "Not with those bruises we aren't. The only thing you're gonna be all up on is an ice pack."
"You're not even gonna take pity on the injured guy and give him a back rub?"
"Maybe if you don't put up a fuss about icing."
He grins, slinging an arm around your shoulder to pull you against his good side as you make your way outside. "You're amazing and I love you."
"Yeah, I love you too, you idiot."
Your apartment is small compared to the boys' house, but Logan seems to enjoy it here a little more these days. It's quieter, and he gets to spend time with you, away from the always crowded house where you can never seem to get a moment alone.
He makes himself right at home, kicking off his shoes by the door and heading immediately for the cold pack you keep in the freezer specifically for him.
"Did you eat?" You ask, tossing your keys into the bowl by the door. Logan's silence is answer enough, so you make your way to the fridge, grabbing what you need for a quick sandwich.
"Hey, no, I can make my own sandwich," He protests, pushing off the opposite counter. He doesn't grimace with the effort, but you can tell he's in obvious discomfort.
"It's not your sandwich. It's mine. I'm just letting you have half," You say, very matter-of-factly.
He shakes his head, chuckling in amusement at your obvious workaround. "Okay, fine. I will gladly take that half sandwich, thank you."
You hum in approval and whip one together quickly, sliding it in front of him. "Eat," You say, pushing a stray curl out of his face with a look that screams no nonsense as you hop up onto the counter beside where he leans. Of course, he obliges, scarfing down a bite that nearly engulfs his entire half.
He sighs appreciatively, grinning at you through a mouthful of turkey and cheese. "Fantastic. Better than Tucker's cooking."
"Better not let him hear you say that!"
As usual, Logan starts to eyeball your sandwich as soon as he finishes, and as usual, you give it to him. You aren't really hungry anyways.
"Thank you," He says quietly after he's polished off the entire thing, stepping in to cage you between his arms.
"Darling, it was a sandwich. I'll make you one anytime you want."
"Not just for that. For getting me out of that rink. For caring about me, loving me the way you do. I don't think I'll ever get over how lucky I am that you chose me."
"I'd choose you in any lifetime, John Logan," You murmur, arms draping over his shoulders.
His mouth crashes against yours without further ado, body slotting itself between your legs, pulling your hips against his until there isn't an inch of space left between you. Your fingers bury themselves in his already messy hair, using the soft strands to tilt Logan's head in a way that allows you to lick deeper into his mouth.
You're lost in him. The feeling of his mouth on yours, the warmth pooling low in your belly, as Logan uses a hand to guide your legs around his waist. Somewhere in it all, your top winds up on the floor across the room, and you're half a moment away from starting to undress him too.
In the distance, the front door opens.
For two whole seconds, you pay it no mind. In the third second, when the same door slams shut, it hits you like a freight train.
Much to Logan's dismay, you pull away quickly with a sharp inhale.
"Baby, what—" He murmurs, eyes heavy lidded as he attempts to go back in for another kiss, only to be stopped by a pull to his hair. Letting out a little huff, he pinches your hip gently, brows creasing. "Literally what is going on right now?"
You tug at the hem of Logan's hoodie, panicked at what's about to happen. "Give me your hoodie."
"What?"
"Logan! Hoodie!"
"Okay, okay!" He yelps, grabbing at the back of it to pull it over his head. "Care to fill me in on what the hell is happening?"
"For whatever reason, my roommate is home and about to find us here, and I'm not wearing a shirt!"
Logan lets out a appreciative groan from the back of his throat, head tipping back. "Fuck, I know."
All you can manage to do is clutch the piece of clothing to your chest and pray your tits aren't out before your roommate appears in the doorway, coming to a standstill.
"Hi! I thought—" Your voice comes out all strangled and squeaky, so you clear your throat. "Erm, I thought you were heading home for the weekend?"
For a few seconds, she stares at you, expression unreadable. She doesn't seem to notice your lack of clothing, the shirt a few inches away from her foot, or your boyfriend trying and failing to seem nonchalant as he blocks most of you from view.
Then, much to your surprise, she bursts into tears.
You share identical wide eyed looks of shock with Logan, equal parts confused and taken aback. He shrugs helplessly.
Yanking his hoodie over your head, you scramble across the room just in time for the girl to collapse into your waiting arms, shoulders shaking as she sobs into your shoulder.
You rub soothing circles over her back on the way to the couch, because the two of you aren't the closest, but she's a nice girl and you're not heartless.
Eventually you manage to figure out that her boyfriend had broken up with her through text as she'd been about halfway through the drive, and then accidentally sent her a shirtless pic that was meant for another girl. It wasn't too hard for her to put the pieces together, and she'd decided to come home rather than spend two days in a town where everything reminded her of him.
To be completely honest, the guy was kind of a dick anyways, so you aren't too surprised. It was a borderline scum of the earth move—devastating for her, but fitting for him.
After you've console the poor girl the best you can and have coaxed her to sleep in her bed with assurances that he's the biggest asshole ever and promises that she'll be okay, you close her bedroom door, ever so gently, letting your forehead rest against the smooth wood just for a moment.
Your shoulders slump, the weight of all the heightened emotions crashing over you at last.
You turn back to the couch, to where Logan has been trying to remain supportive from a distance for the past half hour. "That's never happened before."
"I think you did great," He insists, shaking his head. "We handled the situation perfectly."
"We? You just sat here looking like a deer caught in fucking headlights!" You let out bark of laughter, flopping onto the cushion beside him, tucking your legs underneath yourself comfortably. Logan immediately shifts to let you lean against him, but you stop short when you feel a wet patch along his injured side as you go to drape an arm over his torso. "Why is your shirt wet? You're not the one she cried all over."
"Been trying not to let the ice pack drip all over the place. I was too scared she'd get worse if I got up to put it back in the freezer," He whispers. He looks entirely serious too, bordering on worried.
So worried that you can't help it—you burst into laughter, burying your face into Logan's hoodie to dampen the noise. Logan's lips press into your hair to quiet chuckling of his own, arms wrapping around you snugly.
For a while, you soak each other's company. Your chin snuggled in the dip of his shoulder, his fingers skimming your arm aimlessly. Not kissing, not talking, just comfortable silence. Everything quiet and calm in a way it hasn't been in a while. You quite enjoy these moments with Logan—just the two of you really able to relax together without having to worry about anything for the time being.
In a world where everything is always busy and full of people, some alone time is much needed.
From down the hall, you hear a loud thud. You pause and lift your head from Logan's chest, squinting.
"Twenty bucks she just rolled out of her bed in her sleep?"
Logan shakes his head vehemently, brows flying high. "No way I'm taking those odds. She definitely just fell out of bed."
"I should go check on her," You sigh. You go to clamber out of his warm embrace, but he loops an arm around your waist, pulling you back down with a mumbled reluctance. "Babe, what if she's hurt? Hit her head, or something?"
"She's a big girl, she'll be fine!" He whines, giving your face a smattering of kisses all over. "C'mon, stay. Please? No fair she gets all the love and care when I'm still here too."
You curl back into his side, nestling your cheek to his chest, fingers intertwining right above his heart. "Thank you for bearing through all of that."
"You're a really good roommate, y'know. She's lucky to have you."
"I'm gonna go check on her." You smile at him, quick and a little guilty.
"Babe!"
"Just really fast, and then I'll come right back. I swear," You insist, wriggling out of his embrace with a kiss pressed to his cheek. Despite his grumblings, you dart off, and true to your word you do come back within a few minutes, grinning sheepishly as you settle back in next to him. "She's fine. Got back into bed herself."
"Have you ever thought about, like, getting a place together?"
You blink and cock your head at the sudden ask. "You and me?"
"No, me and fuckin' Beau," Logan snorts, rolling his eyes. "Yes, you and me, babe. Us having our own place, not having to worry about roommates breaking down, or random people in our space at all hours of the day. Just…the two of us."
His voice goes softer, almost wistful, with that last sentence, smile gracing his lips as he continues on. "I mean, I'm making a little extra money with my handyman business around campus, you just got that promotion. I'd have to crunch some numbers but I think we could swing it. Get someplace nice, make it our own," He muses. "And…I've been saving some of my sponsorship money. That Liquid IV thing with Garrett has been pretty sweet."
"Logan, that's your money. It's for your future, I can't ask you to spend that on us."
"Kinda got my future laid out for me already, don't I?"
You know the deal Logan has with his brother. After college, instead of pursuing his dream, he'll move back home and take over the family business from Jeff, look after his drunk of a father. It makes your blood boil even just thinking about it, but a promise is a promise, and John Logan is nothing if not a man of his word.
You, on the other hand, made no such promise. You want the best for Logan, and as much damage his addiction did to his family, for Ward Logan as well.
So you've been researching rehab facilities—around the area, up and down the East Coast. As of right now, you haven't found the right place, but when you do, you'll find a way to take care of the garage and get Logan out of that fucking town.
He'll get back on the ice where he belongs, even if you have to move heaven and earth to do it.
"Miracles can happen to anyone, y'know."
Logan shakes his head, smiling so soft, so fond that you nearly spill your plan. "I don't need a miracle. I've got you."
Instead, you giggle, leaning in and kissing his cheek. "You're so cheesy it's sickening."
"Laugh all you want, but I'm serious. You're it for me, baby. So long as you'll have me, you're my future," He says softly. He takes your hand in his, dropping a gentle kiss to the inside of your wrist. "But hey, no pressure. It doesn't have to be now if you think it's too soon. Just putting it out there, food for thought."
Well, the truth is, you have thought about it.
Your places are a fifteen minute drive apart, which isn't long by any means, but you'd love to come home to Logan—on the shitty days, the good ones. All the days.
You'd love to unwind with him after a long day of classes and work, to study with him on the couch and dance like fools together in the kitchen at two in the morning, to see him off before every hockey game and be right there for him when things get rough.
Movie nights with friends, hangouts and dinners in a place that didn't smell like testosterone and sweat all the damn time. Sharing a bedroom, a bathroom sink, his everyday life mingling with yours in a space that you create together.
Someplace you could call yours.
So yeah, safe to say you've thought about it quite a bit.
"We could get a dog!" He sing-songs, wiggling his eyebrows like that alone would entice you. And because he knows you so well, he also knows that it might just work.
Still, you hmph despite the offer he dangles in front of you, ever the realist. "John Logan, we are not getting a dog. We don't have time to be—"
Logan surges forward across the couch and smothers your words with a searing kiss, cone hand sliding around the back of your neck as he lays you down against the cushions. He hovers over you, lips just inches from yours, pulled into a perfect, hopeful grin.
"Don't worry about it. Just say yes," He breathes, eyes bright. "Say you wanna live together. Say you'll move in with me."
You reach up and cup his face, bringing him down the rest of the way to press his forehead against yours.
"Yes," You giggle quietly, smiling from ear to ear. "Yes, of course I wanna live with you."
"Good. 'Cause I may have already started looking for places around here," He admits sheepishly, returning himself to a sitting position, and you follow, throwing your legs across his lap.
"You already knew I'd say yes."
"Of course I did. Because I know you and I love you, and I know you're just as all in with me as I am with you."
You lace your fingers through his, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "And aren't you just the luckiest guy in the world because of it?"
"Yeah," He murmurs. "I am pretty lucky."
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