she/her. in my 20s. incredibly amateur writer (masterlist in the works). angst central. svu, chicago med, the pitt, off campus. 24/7 yearner for john logan.
summary: reader helps a woman with her baby. logan experiences a little baby fever. fluff, short fic. requested!
The sound of a bell ringing takes you out of your almost meditative state of sweeping floors. You turn to face the door, expecting to see Logan, just to find a woman and her baby staring back at you.
“We’re closed for the night. Sorry, ma’am.”
“No, I know, I’m sorry—” The woman starts saying, her voice apologetic, “I was hoping I could use your bathroom? I– I just need to change, I’m meeting someone and she dropped her juice on my shirt.”
Now that you’re closer, you can see the big, orange spot in her white shirt, along with the way the sling tugs on her shoulders and the frown on her young face, “I won’t take long, I promise.”
“Yeah, absolutely,” you nod, “Second door to the left, ma’am.”
“Uh, one more thing.” Her face twists in embarrassment, “I’m so sorry, do you mind holding her while I do it? I don’t have her stroller with me, I was just going–” She starts rambling, stopping to compose herself, “I’m sorry, it’s been a long day.”
You offer her a reassuring smile, “It’s okay. Here, hand me her–” you leave aside the broom you were holding, quickly cleaning your hands on a cloth over your shoulder. The woman carefully takes her baby out of the sling, handing her to you. The baby starts kicking her legs, making you chuckle, “Someone’s happy to be off the sling.”
She’s a quiet thing, the baby. Chubby face and big, dark eyes looking up at you. “This is Posie.” Her mother says, “I’m Mary. Thank you for watching her.”
“No problem.” You smile at her, Posie looking curiously at you, “Take your time, yeah? There’s paper towels in there, feel free to use it.”
Mary nods thankfully, quickly rushing to the bathroom. You look around the place, holding Posie on your hip as you fish the phone out of your back pocket — Logan was supposed to pick you up after practice today, but you don’t think you’ll close the bar in time. You're trying your best to type a quick message using just one hand when the door bell dings again.
“Hey, hon—” Logan walks in, stopping on his tracks once he sees you holding Posie. He looks around, eyebrows crossed in confusion, “Did I step into an alternate universe? Since when do we have a baby?”
“Ha ha. Very funny, Logan.” You say sarcastically, then smiling at the baby in your arms, “This is Posie. Her mom’s in the back using the restroom.”
Poor little Posie seems to grow fussy over the mention of her mother, face twisting in a frown much like her mother’s, “Aw, darling. You’re alright.” You say, voice so gentle, “Your mom’s in the bathroom. Let’s give her some time, yeah?”
Logan watches as the baby starts blubbering in your arms, and you shift to rest her little head over your shoulder. Your hands move to Posie’s small back, comforting her as you shush her little cries.
He can’t remember if he’s ever seen you interacting with a kid ever, but he thinks it must be the first time. There’s no way he’d ever forget this feeling, he decides, as he feels his ribs tugging, heart melting in such a lovely way.
“It’s okay,” you keep repeating, “You’re okay, Posie. Don’t cry, please. Let’s not startle your mom.”
Posie settles a little, lips still curved but now quiet, eyes fluttering closed.
“You’re good with kids.” He whispers to you, trying not to alarm the baby. You look up at him, watching as his eyes move from little Posie to you, pupils dark and adoring, “I think I’d be good too.”
Your lips quiver into a little smile, “Don’t even think about that.”
“What?” He lets out a quiet, incredulous laugh, “I wasn’t thinking.”
“Yes, you were. I can see it in your face.” You say, and his mouth splits into a smile, “See! Stop!”
He shrugs, still smiling, “Okay, not thinking anymore.” Logan takes a step back, hands on his varsity pockets, “You’d want one?”
Your hand keeps drawing circles on little Posie’s back. “I don’t know. Maybe someday?” You murmur, “Do I have to answer now?”
“No,” he chuckles, “Of course not. I’m just wondering.”
“Okay. Someday, then.”
He hums, “Someday.”
Mary doesn’t take too long in the restroom. You quickly introduce her to your boyfriend, saying he’s here to pick you up. She seems mortified to have stalled you both, but thanks you profusely once she finds her daughter so close to sleeping in your arms.
“She’s so tired, poor thing.” Mary says, adjusting little Posie on her sling, “Thank you again.”
You just shake your head, “Have a good night, you and Posie.”
Logan helps you finish cleaning the place, stacking the chairs as you finish sweeping, a quiet domesticity fog dawning over you both. You watch as he looks up at you every other minute, a chuckle breaking through his lips.
You don’t scold him for his obvious train of thought. Instead, you quickly press a giggly kiss on his cheek, him wrapping his arms around you for a bit. There’s no promise over your heads, just a glimpse of a possible future, someday.
notes: thank you for reading! requests are open! likes/reblogs/thoughts are appreciated! <3
Summary: Weeks after Dean's party, you encounter Logan by accident when you're asked to take pictures of the guys during a hockey interview.
Pairing: John Logan x fem!reader
Word count: 5.1k
Warnings/tags: mentions of childhood bullying, parental issues, reader has food sensory issues and trouble understanding social cues. leaning hard into her being ND just fyi <3 dean and garrett being kinda annoying but they mean well. hannah being a cutie. photographer!reader. this is kind of a slow burn so nothing really happens tbh except logan being a nice young man :)
Notes: this is a series now? maybe?? i have no idea what's happening but thank u for all the support on the first fic! i guess if u guys are still interested, i'll keep writing these two!
i don't do taglists but you can follow @sanguinelibrary for all fic updates
the divider
“Yo. Hey, Logan. Loooogan. Dude.”
Logan peeks one eye open. Dean is crouched in front of him, at the side of his bed, shirtless, which is pretty much the last thing he wants to see ever.
Dean smiles with all of his teeth. “Hey, sunshine. Drain's clogged again.”
Logan grunts. “What'd you do this time?”
“Absolutely nothing. It was Garrett.”
“It was not, asshole,” Garrett says, strolling into Logan's room. He throws a shirt at Dean. “I just got home. Someone thought it'd be a great idea to pour bacon grease down the drain.”
“Why are you both in here? This doesn't feel like a conversation that requires a town hall meeting,” Logan grumbles.
“Well, I don’t cook, so it can’t have been me. Must’ve been Tucker,” Dean says.
Tucker walks in then, as if on cue. “If you're spreading bullshit about me, Dean, I'm here to defend myself. For the record: yes, I did make bacon, and there's a plate downstairs. But I was not the one who poured grease down the drain, because I'm not a fool.”
They all look at Dean, who bobs his head. Logan really wishes he had a stack of pucks to chuck at them right now.
“Yeah, I lied earlier,” Dean says. “It was me. I wanted to use the cup.”
Logan smiles flatly. “I already knew it was you, dumbass. You clog every drain in the house once a week. Vote time. Everyone in favor of kicking Dean out forever?”
The three of them say aye. Dean squawks like a big blond bird.
“Nay! It's not my fault. How am I supposed to know what to do with bacon grease?”
“Yeah, how's the little prince supposed to know?” Tucker says, rolling his eyes.
Then he bolts for the door, Dean on his heels. Logan sighs and lies back, staring up at the ceiling. He dreamt about you again. You were on the ice, skating with him, telling him how much you like Taco Bell. He kissed you.
Then Dean clogged the drain and woke him up.
“Hey, don't forget that we still have that interview at the stadium today,” Garrett says, typing on his phone. No doubt texting Hannah. Logan is proud to say that he no longer has a crush on Hannah Wells, as fleeting as that was. No, he has a crush on her friend, who is smart and beautiful and who probably hasn't given him another thought since the party three weeks ago.
He missed you in class this week. He even stayed behind and pretended he had a question in order to scan the room to check if maybe he didn't see you the first time. But you were nowhere to be found. And it's not like he can text you. He scoured Instagram, Snapchat, and even Facebook for your account, until he felt like a fucking creep and stopped, the search fruitless. Hell, Logan would write you letters if it meant talking to you beyond the two sentences you exchange in class.
You did wave at him last week. Usually, you pack up your things as fast as possible and run out of the lecture hall. So when you lingered long enough to smile at him… well, that was pretty fantastic.
“Yeah, thanks,” Logan says.
Garrett nods. “I'll see you there. Wellsy wants to study.”
Logan lets his head fall back against the pillow as Garrett leaves. He thinks what Garrett's doing with Hannah will probably end with one or both of them getting hurt, especially since they’re both so obviously such soft hearts. Logan saw Garrett listening to Hannah’s Instagram songs more than once. Garrett’s absolutely in denial about how much he likes her. But at least they talk to each other.
“Fuck,” he says to himself, palms on his eyes.
You lost your silica gel.
It's not terrible… no, it is. It's thrown off your whole week, actually. You've been on websites longer than usual, looking at fidget toys, sorely tempted. You're especially taken with a moldable squishy with beads inside. It's like the mother of silica gel, and your fingers itch with anticipation of how it would feel.
But you can't. It's eighteen dollars, which is certainly one reason why you shouldn't buy it, but it also would make noise. And even if you used it outside of class… what if someone found it or caught you using it? How do you explain that?
And you hate feeling like you need a toy to keep you grounded. Your stomach hurt so badly that you skipped class on Monday, which sucked because you didn't see Logan. But you were thinking about having to see your mother during the break and your upcoming finals and nothing, not even listening to music, helped the resulting pain in your stomach.
Your mother has always told you that it's psychological, and treats your anxiety like a moral failing on your part. If you would just try harder… but you don't know how to do that. You're already trying so hard. It's difficult enough to eat everyday, and go to class, and sleep enough, and not rot in your dorm.
Your mother would be pleased if you told her you went to a party. She'd dismiss the fact that a guy harassed you. She wouldn't believe you if you told her about Logan and his pretty curls and mouth. No man is looking to just be friends with you.
She was the one who wanted you to go away for college. You didn't mind staying local, but she said you'd never “grow into yourself” if you didn't move away.
Your nails have been bitten to stubs. You've been growing them for a month, and all your hard work is lost. The silica gel occupied your hands but now that it's gone, you've fallen back to nail biting.
Hannah said she would meet you at the stadium after her class this morning. Two days ago, you told one of the editors of the Briar newspaper that you bought a new camera. You've taken pictures for them before, but never during an event. Stupidly, you revealed your new purchase, and the editor excitedly asked you to attend an interview that some of the Hawks players were giving today, and take pictures for the paper.
If only you knew when to keep your mouth shut. Taking pictures of people is stressful. You hate it. They often want you to turn them into someone they're not through the camera lens. People can never just be themselves on camera. That's why you take pictures of birds or buildings or sunsets. They just are, and you can capture them in all their candidness. Most of the world doesn't perform for a camera—only people do.
Hannah is the first one to greet you when you get inside the stadium. You walk to the bleachers together, where a video crew is setting up.
“This is great,” Hannah says. “People are gonna see your pictures, as they should.”
You shrug. “I guess so. I didn't really want to do this.”
“Your photos are really good,” she says. “And getting them published in the school paper is huge. What are you worried about?”
You sigh. “I don't know. It's kind of scary when people see you through the camera.” Fourth wall breaks unnerve you for the same reason. “And what if the players hate the pictures?”
“Well, Garrett's doing the interview, and he wouldn't let anybody on the team say anything to you about your pictures. But it's only a few of them, I think. Do you want me to stand with you?”
You nod, the pit in your stomach loosening a little. Hannah always seems to know what to say.
She beams. “Of course I'll stay.”
But as everyone finishes setting up, Coach Jensen approaches you. Hannah explains that she's Garrett's tutor, and Coach tells her that she can stay, but only in the bleachers.
“I'm here to support my friend,” she says. “It’s her first time photographing for the team. Please?”
“Sorry. Only press and photographers can be here.”
She looks at you sympathetically. “I'll be right over there, okay? You'll be great.”
You watch Hannah go sit, wishing you had the silica gel.
Garrett is the first player interviewed. You take many pictures, so there are lots of options to choose from when you send them to the paper. He doesn't look at you once, which is splendid.
Next is Dean. He's fired up in his interview, swearing that Briar will crush the competition. Then it's Tucker, who seems a little nervous in front of the camera. You understand completely.
You lower your camera as you see Logan approach the local reporter. He shakes her hand and says something you can’t hear. Then he looks in your direction. He pauses, then grins widely, waving at you. You wave back, face suddenly warm.
“So John,” begins the reporter. “How is the team preparing to win the next three games? You’ll need three wins to keep Briar’s ranking.”
“Yeah, you know, we work really well as a team, and Garrett’s a great captain, of course, so I have no doubt we’ll win. We’ve been putting in plenty of hours of practice.”
He glances in your direction. Click. You’re not supposed to snap pictures when people are looking at the camera, but you can’t help it. You won’t send that one to the paper.
“How are you personally feeling about the season?” the reporter asks.
You take more pictures. Logan keeps glancing in your direction, so much so that the reporter eventually holds her hand up.
“John, sorry, but we really need you to look at the camera,” she says. “Is there something distracting you? A light? A noise?”
“Nope,” Logan says, standing straighter, shaking his head. “All good.”
He answers a few more questions. The reporter thanks all of them for their time and then the crew packs up. You put the lens cap on your camera and pack it up in its case.
“Hey.”
You look up from your case. Logan’s in front of you. This close, you can really take in his appearance: his swoopy hair, his azure jacket with the Hawks emblem on the chest. He smells like apples, as always.
“You’re here,” he says, before you can say hi back.
You nod, confused. “Um. Yes?”
“I didn’t know you were a photographer.” He’s smiling as hard as he does when the Hawks win a game. “I haven’t seen you photographing games.”
“I don’t. The paper’s editor asked me to take pictures for their article on the team.”
“Can I see?”
You hesitate. “I can’t retake pictures.”
“I know. I’m asking because I want to see your pictures, not ‘cause I care about how I look in them. You don’t even have to show me the pictures from today. Do you have more?”
“You want to see my other photos? They’re of birds and stuff like that.”
“I fucking love birds. And I mean that.”
You blink. “Oh. Okay. Me too.”
“I didn’t see you in class this week,” he says.
“I was sick.”
“That sucks, I’m sorry.”
You nod. You don’t tell him why you were sick. He doesn’t need to know. No one knows except Hannah. And speaking of, you can see her walking down the bleachers.
She stops next to you. “Hey! How was it?” She looks at Logan, and seems a little startled. “Hi, Logan. What’s up?”
“Hey, Wellsy,” he says. You try not to frown. It’s stupid to want Logan to have a nickname for you. Wellsy isn’t even his invention.
“Logan wants to see my photos,” you say.
Hannah raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? I didn’t know you liked photography, Logan.”
“Oh, big time,” he says, looking at you.
Hannah widens her eyes at you. You have no idea why. She pats your back.
“You did great,” she says. “I’ll see you later?”
“I thought you wanted to get lunch together,” you say.
“Uh…” She glances between you and Logan. “I’ll catch up with you. I have to tutor Garrett anyway. He canceled on me yesterday.” She rolls her eyes. “Hockey players.”
“Ouch,” Logan says, nudging her.
Hannah smiles sweetly. “You and Tucker are the best players, and you can quote me on that.”
“Garrett will definitely be hearing that.”
“Good.” She squeezes your arm. “I’ll see you later, okay? Have fun.”
You watch her go, feeling lost. “She said we were going to eat lunch together. Why did she change her mind?”
“Oh, um, I don’t think Hannah meant anything by it,” Logan says. He chews his lip for a second. “Garrett’s such a diva, honestly—he’d probably whine about not studying today even though he canceled on her yesterday.”
You do know how important the philosophy midterm is to Garrett, especially since he’s currently failing. And Hannah has complained about how stubborn he is.
“I guess that makes sense,” you say. “I’ll go eat by myself then. It’s one o’clock, so it’s lunchtime.”
“I could come with you.” Logan clears his throat. “Uh, if you want, I mean. No pressure. You can say no.”
“Oh. No, I’d like that.” You smile. “And I can show you my photos, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, sounding breathless. “Please do.”
Logan has three chicken thighs on his plate.
“Hockey season,” he explains as he sits. He bought your food with one of his meal swipes. You told him he didn’t have to; he said he wanted to.
You sit opposite him with your own food. Nothing had seemed appetizing, but you have a headache, which is your body’s way of telling you that you really need to eat. Sometimes you don’t feel hungry, but logically you have to eat at least three meals, so you try to time eating around the same time, so you don’t have to rely on faulty signals that never arrive.
And when Hannah eats with you, it helps, because then you aren’t distracted by other things, like listening to music or watching a show. You can’t do those things in front of another person, because it’s rude. When you eat alone, you frequently forget you’re supposed to be eating. And by the time you remember, the texture or temperature of the food has changed, and it’s no longer appetizing.
“Eating that much chicken doesn’t make you feel sick?” The thought of eating that much meat in one sitting makes you want to vomit. Not to mention the chicken ick. Chicken is an extremely unsafe food—if you detect a hint of tendon or fat, you can’t eat it.
Logan shakes his head. “Nah, I’m hungry. Dean can easily tear up, like, five of these.”
He starts eating, scooping the chicken with the gravy, peas, and potatoes in one forkful. You watch, fascinated. Eating probably wouldn’t be such a chore if you could eat like that.
You were going to try and convince Hannah to go to Taco Bell with you because that’s the only thing that sounds edible today, but since you’re with Logan, you can’t do that. Probably you can’t go to Taco Bell every time you see him… still, you’re tempted. Maybe you can just sit here until Logan’s done eating, and then you can go get what you want.
You take a deep breath. No, you should eat. You should eat like a normal person. You want your headache to go away—it’s too hard to talk to people when you have a headache, and you really want to talk to Logan.
You unwrap the foil your turkey burger is in. You take it out and remove the whole wheat repulsive bread, then put the meat on your plate. You cut it into small triangles with your knife and fork.
“Not a fan of the bun?”
You look up at Logan, hunched over the plate. You eye him suspiciously.
“This bread tastes like cardboard,” you say slowly, watching him for judgment. “I like fluffy white rolls only.”
“That’s my favorite too. Garrett’s always on me to eat more whole grains.”
“Maybe another brand would taste good. School food tastes like slop sometimes.”
Logan laughs. “Seriously. I think I’m spoiled by Tucker’s cooking. He’s a master chef.”
You squeeze a packet of mayo, then hot sauce, then mustard. This is your trick for when you don’t want to eat: you overdo it with sauces you like, to mask whatever you’re eating. At least you don’t have to taste the turkey burger, though that doesn’t dismiss the possibility of a bad texture.
You chew, staring at your plate. You forget you’re not alone until Logan taps your shoulder. You jump.
“Sorry,” he says. “Again. Seems like I’m always doing that.”
“I zoned out.”
“Yeah, you’re really focused on your food there.”
“I have to be, or I won’t finish it,” you say. “Nothing’s appetizing right now, so I have to make myself eat.”
You quickly finish the burger, which isn’t the worst, to be fair, but you’re not happy to eat like you were yesterday with the tater tot casserole the cafeteria served. They serve that once every two weeks, and it’s your favorite day on campus.
“Okay,” you say. “Now I can talk to you.”
Logan smiles. “Awesome. Can you show me your pictures?”
“Oh, right. Yes, I can.”
You get out your camera and move to sit next to Logan. He leans in to look at your camera’s screen, but he doesn’t touch you. You kind of wish he would. You bet he’s warm and solid.
“Wait, go back,” he says.
You were skipping through the pictures from today’s interview. You press the left arrow to go back.
“There! Oh my God, that’s so funny. Please use that picture for the paper,” Logan says, snickering.
It’s a picture of Garrett, mid-yawn. His face is scrunched, mouth wide open.
“That was a mistake,” you say, but you’re smiling too. You can’t avoid Logan’s infectious giggles.
“No, that was a gift from above,” Logan says, still laughing. “God, that’s perfect. If you don’t send it to the paper, please at least send it to me.”
“How?”
“Do you have Instagram?”
“No,” you say. “I deleted it. It made me feel bad about myself.”
“Honestly? Good for you. I’m not on it that much either.”
“The only people who I want to talk to have my number anyway,” you say. “So it doesn’t really matter. I don’t care about random students’ lives.”
“You rock,” Logan says. “Seriously. You’re my hero.”
You can’t take it when he says things like that. All you can do is look away, your face heating up.
“Well, uh,” he continues. “This might be presumptuous of me, but… d’you wanna exchange numbers?”
“It’s not presumptuous,” you say. “I like talking to you.”
He lights up. “Same here.”
You type your number into his phone.
Hi :) says the message on your phone.
Hi, you text back. You change his contact to Logan 🏒.
“I’ll send the picture when I upload them tonight,” you say.
“I’m gonna terrorize him with it in the group chat. Show me more pictures? You said you saw some birds.”
“I did.” You shuffle through the photos until you find one of a hawk flying low. It’s one of your favorites; you were so proud to capture it. It’s only a little blurry too.
“That is so fucking cool, whoa.” Logan scoots closer to look, his arm touching yours. You don’t move away. “You’re amazing at this. What else did you capture?”
You show him pictures of the nearby lake, sunsets, a deer, the Boston skyline. Logan loves them all, and tells you many times how good of a photographer you are.
“You could do this professionally, seriously,” he says. “Like, you should photograph our games. You could get paid for it.”
You shrug bashfully. “I don’t know. It’s not even my major. It’s just a hobby.”
“So what? You’re really good.”
You gnaw the inside of your cheek. “Maybe.”
“Yeah, think about it. I could talk to Coach, see what’s open.”
You and Logan are pretty much curled up next to each other by now. Your arm and thigh are pressed against his. He is indeed warm, and you can feel his muscles shift against you. You think of him in the gray sleeveless shirt at the party. You couldn’t stop staring at his biceps. You want to hold them, trace the veins on his forearms.
And when he turns to talk to you, he’s so close. Close enough to—
“Yo, Logan, you started without us?”
Raucous laughter breaks the moment. As soon as you see Logan’s teammates, you put a foot of distance between you two, shifting to the next chair over.
“Hey, man,” Garrett says, tapping Logan's shoulder. “I thought you said you were gonna hit the gym.”
“Plans changed,” Logan says. He doesn’t look very happy to see them. You’re puzzled.
“Hi,” Tucker says, waving at you, saying your name. You wave back.
And then Garrett and Dean seem to notice you. Dean grins, looking between you.
“Ah,” he says. “Plans changed. Got it.”
You don’t like the tone of his voice. You don’t like the way he and Garrett are smiling at each other.
“How do you know Logan?” Dean asks. “You a hockey fan?” He winks.
“I’ve only been to one game. Logan and I are in developmental psychology together.”
“You guys study together?” Garrett asks, glancing at Logan. The table shakes, and Garrett winces. “Ow! What the fuck, man? Why’d you kick me?”
“Because you’re both asking idiotic fucking questions,” Logan says. “Lay off. She’s not a suspect.”
Your skin itches. You don’t like being watched. And they’re watching you, you can tell. They’re studying you. Figuring you out.
“Actually, I should go,” you say, getting up. You try not to eye the others as you say it.
“Are you sure?” Logan asks, getting up with you.
“Yes, I have finals to work on.” You gather your things, putting your backpack over your shoulders. “Thank you for the meal swipe.”
“Yeah, anytime,” Logan says. “I’ll see you in class on Monday?”
You nod. “You will. I’ve taken two unexcused absences and the syllabus said that Dr. Jenkins will demote us by a letter grade for any more than that.”
“‘S not a real threat,” Garrett says around a mouthful of rice. “They have to put that on the syllabus, but a lot of professors don’t care. Dean was absent eight times in that class.”
“And I still got a B minus,” Dean says, fist-bumping Garrett.
Tucker shakes his head. “Yeah, and you failed the subsequent course because you missed so much of the semester, dude.”
“A win is a win.”
“So Dr. Jenkins lied?” you ask, brows furrowing.
Garrett shrugs, digging his knife into his chicken. “Kinda. More like a bluff.”
You squeeze your backpack straps, your chest feeling tight. “Why does everyone know the secret rules but me?”
All week you’ve been anxious about potentially missing a third class because of your stomach. You were prepared to chug as much Pepto Bismol to avoid that as you needed to. Has everyone else been living without a care in the world, not forcing themselves to go to class when they feel sick? You’ve gone when you were sure you’d throw up. You went to class in the throes of the worst gallbladder pain you’ve ever felt, right before you got it removed.
Garrett stops chewing, looking at you. In fact, they’re all staring at you. Fuck.
“Whaddya mean, secret rules?” Dean asks.
Fuck, fuck. You’re being weird. Stop it. Stop.
“Hey,” Logan says gently, drawing your attention to him. He moves so he’s the only person you can see, blocking out the rest of the cafeteria. “If you don’t feel well, you should skip, but you aren’t, like, losing out on some grand life experience if you miss half the semester. That’s what college is for. You’re doing the right thing. It’s not a secret rule, it’s just a loophole that some assholes like to exploit.”
Dean scoffs. “Excuse me?”
Logan ignores him. “So I hope you come on Monday, but if you feel sick, rest up, okay? Tucker’ll make you soup and I’ll bring it over.”
Tucker leans around so you can see him and gives you a thumbs-up in confirmation. Your breathing gets a little easier; your shoulders soften.
“Okay,” you murmur. You drift towards him, and Logan brushes your fingers. You aren’t brave enough to take his hand, so you touch and step back.
“Can’t wait to see your pictures in the paper,” Logan says.
You smile. “They’re of you.”
“Yeah, but you took ‘em. Who cares what they’re of?”
You duck your head, feeling shy again. It’s a residual shyness, but sometimes you get so aware of how nice and handsome Logan is, and the fact that he goes out of his way to talk to you. Not that you’ve ever cared much about the college social hierarchy, but you aren’t immune to the charms of a hockey boy who sings praises about your photography. You’ve been trying to shake this aching want for more ever since the party. You can’t.
“Well, um, bye. I’ll drop off your wings soon,” you say.
“Stop by anytime.”
“See ya around,” says Tucker.
“Yeah, see you,” Garrett says. Dean nods.
You mumble a short goodbye to them, still feeling flustered. You hope Logan won’t hold it against you.
Once outside, you take out your camera and flip through some of the shots of Logan. You’re not sure what he likes so much about your photos, but now you’re a little glad that the editor asked you to take pictures.
“Hey, wait up!”
You turn around. Logan’s jogging toward you.
“What are you doing?” you ask as he stops in front of you.
“Uh.” He puts his hands on his hips, breathing hard. “Um. Hm. Good question. I don’t know, actually. I just feel like we ended on a weird note in there.”
You frown, nodding. “I know. I’m sorry I was weird and freaked out in front of your friends.”
“What? You didn’t—”
“I did, Logan. I know I did. I saw Dean and Garrett’s faces. They thought I was weird. And I was, to be fair. I reacted too strongly to the absence thing. Sometimes I do that, and I don’t realize until someone’s really obvious with their face that I, you know, emoted wrong.”
“You did not emote wrong,” Logan says, shaking his head in disbelief. “You didn’t, okay? I promise that Garrett and Dean didn’t think that. They were probably just confused. You and Hannah are, you know…”
“Nerds?” you finish.
“Smart, studious, all that. And I know we keep it hidden, but we’re actually not winning any Nobel prizes in between practice. They’re not used to people who worry about attendance. That’s all it was, I promise.”
You purse your lips, trying to figure out if he’s telling the truth. You can’t, so you just ask. “Do you mean it?”
“Yes,” Logan says. “I mean it.”
“It’s okay if you don’t. I wouldn’t hold it against you. Lots of people have thought I’m weird. Lots of boys. Lots of athletes. I was terrible at kickball in middle school, and people hated me for it. I would sit out early so they wouldn’t purposely kick the ball at me.”
His eyes get sad. That’s an expression you recognize on Hannah too.
“That’s fucking awful,” Logan says. “We aren’t all like that. I’m not, anyway, and the guys I hang out with aren’t either. Even if you are weird, it’s not a bad thing. Not at all.”
No one’s ever told you it’s okay to be weird. They’ve only ever denied that you are, even though you’re pretty sure you are. You can’t help it either. But Logan doesn’t mind. You’re still good. He still likes you. No one is going to kick a ball at you.
“Okay. Can you tell me how to get to the Hawks house? I’m going to drop off your wings before Monday.”
“Sure, so you’re gonna walk down this little path here, Cooper Avenue. Then you’re gonna turn left, onto Montgomery. Then you’ll walk all the way down till you get to Pickett Lane. It’s like a dirt path. And you’ll turn right onto that. We’re the first house on the left.”
You nod, even though you’ve already forgotten all that. You’re terrible with street names. “I’ll be there.”
“I look forward to it,” Logan says, grinning.
You start to walk away, then you turn around and return. “I actually don’t remember anything you’ve just said. I’m bad with streets and directions. Can you tell me in terms of landmarks?”
“I can absolutely do that,” Logan says softly. “Okay, you know the statue of the guy on the horse?”
“Yes, the famous horse wrangler who carried children on horseback to Briar’s first schoolhouse in 1846.”
He tilts his head. “How do you know that?”
“It’s on the plaque.”
“Huh. Embarrassingly, I’ve never stopped to read one of those plaques. I should do that.”
“He brought children to school for eighteen years. One of them ended up founding Briar University.”
“Shit, wow. That’s cool.”
“History is cool.”
Logan hums. “You’re cool. And that mentality is why Dean’s the loser for missing half the semester and you aren’t.”
You smile. “I guess so.”
“Okay, so, horse wrangler. Turn left when you get to him. Then you’re gonna walk past that student vegetable garden you photographed. Keep walking until you see that giant oak tree with the knots in the trunk. The one that students make out under. Or, uh… study?”
“Attempt to study, anyway.” You know the struggle well.
“There’s a path there, and you’ll walk until you see our house on the left.”
“Got it,” you say. “For real, this time.”
“Good. Then I’ll see you at some point, before class. If you want to stop by.”
You look at the cafeteria. “They won’t mind?”
“Nah, we always have people come over, don’t worry. Hey.” Logan bumps your arm gently. “They won’t bother you. And if you want, text me, so you’ll know I’ll be home.”
The sun is in his eyes. Speckled tree bark. Rich, black tea. You want to kiss him so badly.
“I really do like talking to you,” you say.
“Me too.” Logan steps closer. Your heart is in your throat.
“Okay, well, see you!” And you’re gone.
There’s a photo from this morning’s interview you took of Logan. He’s looking at you—well, the camera—smiling, a curl falling into his eyes. You don’t send it to the editor, even though it’s one of your best photos. Instead, you set it as his contact picture on your phone.
premise: logan continues to follow up with you, even when you try to put some distance between the two of you. one night, you make the ultimate error of sleeping over at his place, and you're forced to confront your own feelings for him.
category: some fluff, mainly hurt/comfort, ANGST CENTRAL BABY, john mf logan has been officially appointed as the mayor of yearningdon (and i stand by that)
word count: around 6.6k
content/trigger warnings: vivid description of a night terror (brief mentions of a jail cell, blood, screaming), vivid description of a panic attack (brief mentions of strained breathing, hyperventilation), mention of PTSD, self-deprecating comments (reader is not nice to herself but she's working on it trust), mention of family fights.
context notes: i'm pretty sure that logan still has an older brother in the show, right? i think in an interview they talked about how logan is now a middle child (jeff is the oldest and jules is the youngest). but i could be wrong, please let me know! i also kept up with the show's changes regarding his mother. and there's no smut in this (sorry). also i haven't played poker in a while so lmk if anything sounds off lol. and if any of y'all spot the J. Cole reference i casually slipped in there...i love you.
author notes: holy shit, i was not expecting that level of engagement on part i. my heart was bursting at every like, every comment, every reblog, every person who asked to be tagged for the next part. this is officially the first off campus fic i have posted, and it will certainly not be the last. i'll start working on some more soon! thank you guys again for all of the love. i love y'all so much <3 (also this was not proofread at all, i will edit it in a bit. hopefully it's not too messy).
i also want to preface that not everyone's experiences with PTSD (like any mental health disorder) will look the same. i got diagnosed with it some time ago and i'm still having to adjust to it. i would love to hear your thoughts on how it is displayed in this fic.
“You know, I don’t know if I told you, but I got an 85 on the last test?”
“No way! You did not tell me,” You smile at Beau, giving him a playful shove as you walk him out of the tutoring center. “You see? Intro to Genetics is not that bad. It’s actually pretty fun once you get the hang of it.”
The football player quickly whipped his head towards you, staring at you with a look of mock horror. “Oh, absolutely not. I’d much rather streak across campus than relearn the steps of DNA replication.”
You scoff and roll your eyes at him, the two of you inching closer to the main entrance. Tutoring Beau was your last session of the night, and you’re the last worker inside the center. Even the receptionists dipped out an hour ago.
Before you say bye to Beau, his eyes flicker towards a familiar figure leaning against at the main door, lips stretching into a grin.
Your heart sinks to the bottom of your stomach.
“Logan! How’s it going?” You watch as the two of them greet each other, and suddenly you feel as if you’re underwater, because everything comes out muffled. While tuning out their conversation, you fix your gaze on the clock conveniently located behind Beau’s head, restraining yourself from looking at the man that you’ve been avoiding for a week.
You don’t even notice that the two of them are trying to get your attention until Beau waves in your face.
“Hey, Earth to Y/N?” He chuckles, and you revert your gaze back to the football player. “All good?”
You stammer for a moment, and despite your tenacious attempt to ignore his warm eyes and crooked smile, you greedily sneak a look at Logan as you struggle to string together a coherent sentence. “Sorry, it’s been a long week.”
Beau gives you a side hug. “All good. Thanks again for the help,” As he exits the center, he gives a nod towards Logan. “Nice seeing ya.”
You follow Beau’s retreating body as he leaves through the glass doors, unable to fully look at the hockey player in his eyes.
“Hey,” His gentle voice snaps you out of your trance, and as your heart races to a rate that’s bordering on tachycardia, your mind conveniently goes back to Beau’s words.
Yeah, you would rather streak across campus than talk to John Logan right now.
“Hey. Um,” You bow your head to your shoes, trying to muster up the confidence to look him in the eyes. You never told him about your schedule on Thursday nights, yet here he is, showing up exactly when your shift is over. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
He shrugs, stepping closer to your body. You have bravely updated your stance from staring at your shoes to staring at his tattered Briar Hockey sweatshirt. Progress.
“Yeah, I just wanted to check in on you,” He confesses, and then lets out a chuckle that doesn’t have much humor to it. “I feel like I haven’t heard from you all week.”
Shit.
He’s not wrong. After last Friday, you haven’t texted Logan at all. And of course, as if he purposefully wants to add fuel to your self-inflincted anguish, he continues to message you, asking how you’re doing, and even sending the occasional meme on Instagram.
Suddenly, you feel the oxygen escape your lungs as he rests his index finger on your chin, tenderly lifting your head. A sharp ache thumps across your chest as you finally meet his gaze. You can’t quite pinpoint the emotion painted in his eyes.
“Is everything okay? It’s just me, you know.”
You internally scoff at the latter sentence, hoping that the self-pity doesn’t reflect on your face. It’s “just” Logan. It’s “just” your situationship. It’s “just” the man that your mind flickers back to as you lie on your bed. It’s “just” the man you think about after a particularly hard night, longing for his comforting arms and sustained body heat.
It can never be “just” Logan. That sounds too casual. Too relaxed. Too ridiculous.
“Yeah,” You breathe out shakily, hoping he doesn’t notice the uneasiness coursing through your body as you shift your weight from one leg on to the other. “I’ve…I’ve been swamped this week. I’ve barely been on my phone.”
To truly send you into ventricular tachycardia, he has the audacity to wrap a callused hand around your waist, pulling you even closer like it’s second nature. As if the two of you have been dating all along.
At least it’s just the two of you in the center. And if Logan has to decency to walk out the front door right now, you could self-combust by yourself, in peace.
“All good, I just wanted to make sure that you were still alive,” He jokes, but the sarcasm hits hard in your chest. His dimples don’t help with the desire churning deep inside of your heart either. “Are you free tonight?”
For what seems to be the millionth time in the past few minutes, you struggle again as you scramble through the English dictionary of your mind to figure out what exactly you want to say to him. To increase your self-misery, you decide to torture yourself by laser-focusing on the beads of water slowly dripping down the veins of his neck. He must have driven to the center right after his post-practice shower.
“Um, not really. I’ve barely slept at all this week,” And that wasn’t a lie. “I want to go home, take a shower, and fall asleep before the clock hits 10:00 PM.”
“Ah, isn’t that the dream,” Logan muses, and the twinkle in his molten eyes can disintegrate your trembling body right on the very spot. “Let me walk you to your car.”
You furrow your eyebrows at him. “You came all this way from the rink to ask me how I am? And now you want to walk me to my car?”
“You know, Y/N, if you just tilt your head up just slightly to look at the clock, it’s after 9:00 PM. And if you look outside, you’ll see it’s quite dark,” He teases, and you’re undeniably certain that your cheeks are as red as the feathers of the Briar University hawk. “I’m just fulfilling my duties as a gentleman.”
“Right, I forgot about that.”
And to shamelessly place the final nail in the coffin of your tightly-wound agony, he has the nerve to stick his arm out, gesturing for you to hold on it. And in an act of complete, utter selfishness, despite your effort to distance yourself from this man, you wrap a tentative hand around his bicep, greedily feeling his muscle tense beneath your fingers.
As the two of you walk through the parking lot in a “not too uncomfortable” sort of silence, you take the opportunity to lean against his shoulder, inhaling his scent. You breathe in his crisp cologne, cedar and pine bundling you to him like a tight-knit blanket. He smells like home. Like comfort. And that’s a dangerous feeling.
When he opens your driver-side door, you open your mouth to say goodbye. To rip off the bandaid. But he cuts you off.
“I missed you,” He confesses, exhaling a deep sigh as if he’s been holding on to that piece of information for years. “Truly.”
You recognize the sincerity in his eyes, and his lips part lightly and his eyebrows dip down and he looks…kind of sad.
You can’t bring yourself to come up with a half-assed lie as your hand still cradles his bicep. “Me too.”
“You said you aren’t free tonight,” He says in a resigned sort of tone, his other hand coming up to scratch the bank of his head. And then he throws another curveball at you. “But how about tomorrow? We’re throwing a game night. It’ll just be us and some guys from the team. It won’t be a party or anything.”
“Um, I don’t know,” You pull your hand away from his arm, trying to regain the tiniest bit of self-control, if that’s even possible at this point. “What kind of games will there be?”
“Some board and card games. Monopoly, blackjack, poker,” He accentuates the last word as he smirks at you, teasing dimples on full display. “And if I recall correctly, you were the reigning poker champ when we played together last Halloween.”
Your mouth stretches into a smile as you remember that night, but your eyes quickly widen as all of the details come back to your mind. “Wait, will it be strip poker again?
“No! No,” He frantically and adamantly confirms, his curls bouncing around as he tenaciously shakes his head. His frightened face stirs a loud laugh out of your chest, and you notice his eyes glimmer at the sound. “It will not be strip poker. I already see Dean in his boxers on a regular basis. I will not subject you to that image.”
“Thank you for the clarification. I appreciate the precautions that you take to prevent me from seeing that happen,” You allow yourself to joke, enjoying the current banter you have with him. “Very gentleman-like.”
“Anytime,” He tilts his head as if he’s taking off a hat, laughing with you. “You absolutely dominated last time. I would love to see you kick Garrett’s ass again.”
“Well, Mr. Graham needed to be humbled,” You jokingly put your hands up in self-defense, shrugging. “And I was honored to put him in his place.”
Logan’s smile has not wavered in the slightest. “It was awesome. And this night will be totally chill, I promise. The guys would love to see you as well.”
His mention of the boys warms your heart. “What time is it at?”
You didn’t think it was possible for this man’s eyes to light up even more. “Starts at 8:00. We might go on for a while though. Might be good to stay over,” Logan suggests with a casual shrug of his shoulders. He slips the last sentence in so quickly that you’re positive that you misunderstood what he said.
You sigh, biting your bottom lip. “Well, um…I’ll think about it.”
Logan sneaks a gaze to your lips, then returns to meet your eyes. “You know what? I’ll take that.”
You look back to your car, trying to signal to him that you wanted to go home. “Alright, I should start driving back now. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“See ya,” He grins, slyly pressing a quick kiss to your temple before walking away. Your mind only registers the kiss once he’s more than ten feet away, and you brush your fingers over your temple as if his kiss was still lingering.
You have his beaming smile imprinted in your brain as you drive back to your apartment.
You quickly scanned the living room and kitchen after Tucker let you into the house the next night. Logan was right, the game night seemed pretty chill. Other than the core group, along with Hannah and Allie, you recognized Birdie and Simms, as well as a puck bunny that you interacted with once at a game before. Carly, you think her name was.
Everyone gathered around the dining table, with Logan right by your side, of course. He pulls up a chair next to Tucker, who was sitting next to you, and tells him to “scooch” while casually handing you a beer bottle.
“You like pilsners, right?”
You stare at him, tilting your head at him in amusement. You don’t remember mentioning to him that you preferred pilsners over other kinds of beer.
“Yeah, I do.”
You grab onto the bottle and murmur a soft “thanks,” watching as his mouth twitches. The two of you don’t exchange any words. Logan just beams at you with that familiar glimmer in his eyes, and you laugh into the bottle.
“Huh, I was wondering why Johnny here got a whole eight pack of pilsners, considering none of us like ‘em,” Dean loudly mocks Logan as he sits across the two of you, grabbing onto Allie’s hand for her to sit next to him. You definitely think that there’s something going on between them.
Logan just reaches over and lightly shoves at the blond hockey player, muttering “idiot” underneath his breath. Hannah raises her eyebrows at you as she helps Garrett with shuffling the cards. You look at her in confusion, not understanding her reaction. She shakes her head, mouthing the words “we’ll talk later” to you.
As everyone gets settled around the table, Garrett proposes a game of Rummy. And over the next few hours, as you transition between Rummy to Speed to Crazy Eights, you try to tune out the presence of Logan beside you. But his breaths hover close to your neck, and his left ankle wraps around your right one, and his fingers brush around your shoulders as he leisurely rests his arm on the back of your chair.
And unfortunately for you, you perform poorly in the first three games, and you selfishly blame him for distracting you. In your head, of course.
Finally, you guys play a game of good old-fashioned Texas Hold’Em. The two cards that Garrett deals you at the beginning are strong, but you won’t go all in right away. Not yet.
As the game progresses, the majority of the players fold, including Logan. At the end, there’s only three people: you, Tucker, and Dean.
“Alright, let’s go,” Garrett drums his hands on the dining table, shaking the table so hard that the beer bottles on top start to wobble. Hannah rolls her eyes playfully, “Showdown time.”
Tucker goes first, a resigned expression on his face as he shows his hand. A regular flush. Not bad, but not good enough to win. Logan pats him on the back, muttering “next time, Tuck” as he looks dejectedly at the table.
Dean, already sporting his cocky “I won” face, dramatically flips over his cards. “And, that my friends, is what? A straight. Mother. Fuckin’. Flush. Boom!” He howls so houd that Hannah covers her eyes, lifting his beer bottle up high. “Read it and weep.”
He then leans over the table, pointing in fake menace towards you, the competitive streak still firing up in his eyes. “And what does little Ms. Y/N have? You don’t have a straight flush, don’t ya?”
All eyes turn expectantly towards you, watching as you sigh and look at your cards with a glum face. Logan’s arm is still lingering on the back of your chair. In its natural place, of course.
You slump your shoulders. “Yeah, Dean. You’re right, I don’t,” You finally flip your cards, looking back at the overconfident hockey player with an incredibly controlled expression. “I have a royal flush, actually.”
Cue the hollers. The hockey house goes haywire.
Tucker immediately bursts out laughing, slapping his hand on the table and pointing at Dean. Allie’s jaw drops. Hannah joins in on the laughter, her eyes wide as she looks at you in excitement. Garrett chuckles, shakes his hand, and gives you his own personal round of applause. And Logan, within the same vein as Tucker, also points towards Dean and yells, with his full chest, “Loooooooser!”
Meanwhile, Dean looks like he just got slapped in the face, his cheeks flushing so hard that you almost feel bad for the guy.
“No. No fucking way. You checked the entire time. You barely fucking raised!”
You shrug your shoulders, looking up at him with a sly grin. Your casual silence only tips Dean over the edge.
“Oh hell no. Garrett, shuffle the cards,” He orders his captain, who just looks at Dean with a straight face, completely dismissing him. “We’re replaying.”
You let a tired sigh, peeking at the time on your phone and rubbing the exhaustion out of your eyes. 12:14 AM. You’re junior in college and yet, you are the epitome of a grandma.
“Dean, for the love of God, just GOMD.”
As the letters slip out before your brain can catch up with your mouth, you halt and everyone looks at you in surprise. Dean just groans. You don’t even want to look at the satisfaction on Logan’s face right now.
“Jesus Christ, not you too,” He stares pointedly at Logan. “You got her saying bullshit acronyms now too?”
Logan shrugs at his roommate, sipping his beer and remaining silent. His other hand goes to rest on your upper thigh, and you try to not flinch in surprise.
Dean looks at you in pure exasperation. “And what the fuck does that even mean?”
At last, you stand up from your chair, playing with the chips in your hand. “It means to get off my dick, Dean.”
The house loses it again. Garrett’s composure completely breaks as his chest rumbles with laughs. Tucker is on the brink of fucking tears, walking over to Dean and shoving him, and Logan just looks at you in childish amusement, shaking his head as he laughs.
Dean chidishly huffs, turning his head away fron you and putting his palm to your face. “God, I can’t even look at you right now. I have half a mind to banish you from this house.”
“As if you would ever do that,” Allie remarks, rolling her eyes and patting Dean on the chest.
Garrett asks the group if they want to play another game, and even though a chorus of yes’s emerges, you shake your head at the captain, looking at the beer bottle you finished at least two hours ago.
“I’m spent. And I don’t feel like schooling Dean’s ass again,” You joke, and Dean rolls his eyes to the back of his head. “I might leave here in a bit.”
Once your comment registers to him, Logan instantly stands up with you, brushing a hand over your forearm. “You sure? You don’t want to stay a bit longer?”
His soothing eyes could melt you into a puddle. You’re calling it: John Logan is going to be the death of you.
“I’m not going to lie, I’m pretty tired. I’m not too in the mood to play another game right now,” You explain as the two of walk away from the dining table, getting farther away from the group’s chatterings.
“Honey, I’m not gonna lie, I don’t know how I feel about you driving late at night. Especially when you’re tired,” He confesses in a low voice, his hand wrapping around your shoulder.
You’re not my boyfriend, you desperately yearn to say.
“You don’t trust my driving skills?” You opt to say instead, joking with him, but the stern look on his face doesn’t waver.
“I do, but I don’t want you to drive when you’re tired. And it’s late on a Friday, and I really don’t want you to run into any drunk drivers,” He adds, and his concern for you tugs at your heart. He then begins to knead at your shoulder, feeling how tense you are. “I was thinking we could chill for a bit. We can go upstairs, watch a movie, unwind a little. You definitely need to relax. Your shoulder’s crazy stiff.”
You tilt your head at him in confusion. “Yeah, and what are you going to do about it?”
He raises an eyebrow at you, his mouth twitching into his typical smartass grin. “Well, Y/N, I don’t know if you know, but I am an athlete,” You let an exasperated sigh, which only makes him smile wider. “And I’ve been given a lot of massages by PTs before, so I know some basics. I can definitely give you one.”
“A massage? Really?”
“Yeah,” That cheeky grin finally gets you, and you can’t control the blush plastered on your flaming cheeks. His fingers push a bit deeper into your shoulder and damn, that feels good. “See? You’ve been needing this.”
You look at him, really look at him, and you give him a resigned expression.
“I hate when you’re right.”
As soon as he hears the words fall from your lips, he’s grabbing your hand and leading you up the stairs.
Once your body hits the mattress, your self-restraint completely unravels. You shed some of your clothes, curling up into your unofficial side of Logan’s bed, getting yourself comfortable as he watches in amusement.
And right after he places his hands back on your shoulders, you feel your body sinking deeper and deeper, fighting with your life to keep your eyes open. But as Logan mutters sweet nothings into your ear, you can’t help but let the slumber overtake you.
You lie motionless on a concrete floor, your eyes frantically darting around as you try to recognize the walls of your enclosure. Groaning, you slowly pull yourself onto your knees, feeling your bones sink to the ground. You feel unbearably weak, trying your best to keep all of your limbs upright. It’s almost as if a huge weight is tied to your ankles, pulling you down as you try to stand up. You ultimately succumb to your fate as you use your elbows and knees to crawl on the grimy floor.
Everything is eerily silent. The only noise you hear is the sound of your own heavy breathing, hoarse exhales climbing from your trachea. You turn to your side and take stock of the metal bars holding you in your jail cell. Groaning, you slowly crawl to the bars, knees against scraping the rigid floor. Though the movement seems relatively easy, your lungs pound with a burning soreness, and your legs ache as if you’ve just run a marathon. It’s all in slow motion.
Finally, you reach a shaky hand up to one of the bars, shaking it so loud that your ears start to bleed. Gasping, you bring your face to the metal, mouth trembling as you let a scream.
“Help!” You cry out, banging on the bars. “Help me, please!”
The sobs spewing out of your body are uncontrollable. As the tears overwhelm you, an ache in your head begins to throb violently, the pain spreading like a virus to your temples. Completely and utterly debilitated, you roll your head as it bangs against the metal, surrendering yourself to the pain.
You let out a final scream for help, feeling your throat practically tear itself into two.
And then, you hear another voice.
“Y/N!” You hear the shout, but it’s rough and muffled and feels impossibly far away.
You let out a cry to signal your presence, but the voice only gets quieter and quieter. You try to call to this being, but they say your name one last time, before the room turns silent again.
“No! No!” You repeatedly try to scream, but you feel your lungs collapsing as your mouth abruptly begins to fill itself with blood.
Suddenly, before your body caves in and topples onto the ground, you hear your name. Again. As if it wants to taunt you.
“Y/N!”
But now, the voice is loud and clear. You open your eyes and practically flinch when you notice the wide eyes and parted mouth and furrowed eyebrows of the familiar face right above you.
No.
“Hey, hey, Y/N,” Logan calls out to you, his firm hands grasping onto your shoulders as the fear rocks through your body. You fix your eyes onto his bare chest, where you see him inhaling and exhaling at practically the same rate as your breathing. “Hey, it’s me. It’s Logan. It’s just me.”
No. This can’t be happening.
He brings a gentle hand to your cheek, but you recoil from his touch. The tears overwhelm your vision, but you can see the hurt plastered across his face.
“Y/N, you’re safe, okay? You’re with me.”
This can’t be happening.
You barely register his words as you scramble out of his bed, the jarring movement clearly taking him aback, and rushing to the nearest closed space. Away from him. Away from all of this.
Quick footsteps follow behind you, a “fuck” coming out under his breath.
The sound of the bathroom door slamming shut jostles you even more, and after you lock the door, your quivering body sinks below to the freezing cold tiles, and you wrap a hand your mouth to silence your wails. But you’re not sure it’s totally effective.
The rattle of the doorknob sends shock waves throughout your body, and you muster up all of the energy you have left to inch away further from the door, legs violently shaking.
“Shit. Y/N, can you please unlock the door?” Even though the door acts as a barrier and suppresses his voice, you can still hear his unsteady breaths. “Please. I’m really fucking worried.”
Everything burns. Your eyes sting. Your throat’s on fire. Your head pounds with an incessant and intolerable buzz.
You had a plan, and you didn’t stick to it.
Your mind immediately sends you into a turbulent spiral, convincing yourself with a terrifying intensity that you messed everything up. You placed another burden on him. You are the reason that this casual relationship will end.
It’s all your fucking fault.
And as you helplessly drown into the vortex of your mind, your ears still cling on to the pleas coming out from the other side.
“Y/N, please. Let me in,” He repeatedly calls out, frantically rattling the doorknob, and you hear a “thud” against the door. The sound initially makes you flinch, but you realize that it’s probably from his head leaning against the door. “Baby, please.”
Suddenly, you hear a commotion in the hallway, voices from various people all blending into each other.
Great, now you woke up several people. As if this night could get any worse. You begin to hyperventilate and wheeze, seeing stars form out of the corner of your eyes.
But Garrett’s captain voice comes out loud and clear, even though you can’t exactly hear what he says. You then hear an even louder, “don’t you fucking tell me to calm down” and “can’t you hear? She can barely fucking breathe right now.”
And as you rock yourself back and forth on the tiles, you realize that the booming voices feel farther and farther away, until you hear another knock.
“Hey, Y/N. It’s Hannah,” You freeze in surprise, head whipping towards the door. “Um, I don’t know if you can hear me. But Garrett took Logan downstairs for him to cool off. I think the loud noises just make everything worse, right?”
You don’t say anything back, but your breaths don’t feel as shallow anymore. The stars from your vision have faded away.
“Logan said that you had a pretty bad nightmare. Is that true? I trust Logan, but I also wanted to confirm with you. And to see if you needed anything.”
You crawl towards the entrance, your hands gripping onto the sink to pull yourself up. You swallow for at least a full minute before you decide to finally speak.
“Is there anyone else with you?” God, you hate how croaky your voice sounds right now.
“No, Y/N. It’s just me. I swear. I’m pretty sure Garrett and Logan are outside now. They can’t hear us—”
The words die down on Hannah’s lips as you open the door. You watch as her face visibly saddens when taking in your damp cheeks and bloodshot eyes. But she doesn’t say anything, waiting patiently for you to speak first.
“I had a night terror,” You confess, your voice coming out as a whisper. “I have them quite often, but I haven’t told him, or anyone at Briar, about them.”
Hannah nods, slowly and carefully. “Okay. Is there anything I can do for you right now? What do you need?”
Your bottom lip wobbles as you take in her kindness. “Uh…I don’t know. I needed some space, which is why I locked myself in there. I never planned on Logan seeing me like this,” Your throat throbs as you chuckle without humor. As if you could plan out your night terrors. “I didn’t know how he’d react.”
“He was very worried,” Hannah says with full sincerity while looking into your eyes. “He actually wanted to grab a screwdriver and unlock the bathroom door that way. But Garrett persuaded him not to. It probably would’ve freaked you out even more.”
Garrett’s not wrong. You sigh, trying to search for your phone, figuring you left it in Logan’s room. “What time is it?”
Hannah fishes her phone out of the pockets of her sleep shorts, the brightness of the screen overtaking her face. “A little bit after 4:00. But don’t worry about that. It’s Saturday, and they don’t have a game tomorrow.”
You let out a relieved sigh at her reassurance. When you shift your eyes to looking downstairs, Hannah follows your gaze. “You want to go down?”
After you nod, she extends her hand towards you, and you allow yourself to take it. The two of you walk down the stairs, and through one of the living room’s windows, you see Garrett leaning on the wall while Logan paces on the grass.
“I’ll talk to him,” You tell Hannah, and she gives you a supportive smile, and asks for your permission to give you a hug. You grant it, of course. And you really needed the hug.
“I’ll be in the living room if you need anything, okay?” She tells you, and hands you a jacket. “The cold is not anything like last week, but it’s still chilly out there.”
“Thank you,” You whisper to Hannah, and she nods back at you as if to say “anytime.”
You walk into the backyard, and the sound of your feet hitting the grass makes both of the boys’ heads turn around. Garrett looks at you with an expression that you can’t quite pinpoint; it’s stern, yet kind at the same time.
Logan, on the other hand, has completely disheveled hair after running his hands through his curls multiple times. His jaw twitches, and the corners of his eyes have the tiniest hint of redness surrounding them. He places one foot ahead of the other, but stops before completely heading to you, practically restraining himself from hugging you immediately.
He looks fucking wrecked.
“Garrett, um, I need to talk to Logan alone. If that’s okay,” You’re the first one to speak, and the hockey team captain crosses his arm and nods.
“Alright. I’ll be inside if you need anything,” He spares one last look at Logan, sighs, and supportively pats your shoulder as he heads back into the house.
God, you would rather lose miserably to Dean at poker than open up to Logan right now.
But you still take the first step. You walk by and take a seat onto one of the lawn chairs, sighing as you look down at your lap. Logan still hasn’t moved, clearly waiting for your consent before he gets close to you.
You turn towards him, nodding your head at the other chair, and he takes the hint, slowly taking a seat facing you.
Your heart rattles fiercely against your ribs.
“This is…really, really hard for me to do,” You confess, staring at the ground and focusing on the sounds of cars driving past the neighborhood. “I didn’t think it would come to this point.”
His face visibly blanches, hands trembling as he nervously wrings them together.
Okay, maybe you shouldn’t have worded it like that.
“I haven’t told anyone at Briar about this. Hell, I even just now told Hannah briefly when we were upstairs,” You let a huge exhale, and pull your knees to your chest. “But I think you deserve to know. We’ve been…fooling around for a couple of months now, and we’ve gotten, you know…close.” You wince as you hesitate on saying the last word.
When there’s silence from Logan, you take that as your sign to go ahead.
“Ever since I was four, I have been having night terrors. On and off. Some months, even some years are worse than others. One time in high school I went two years without them, and suddenly in senior year, they came back,” You ramble on, and you force yourself to inhale in order to center yourself. “And they’re different than nightmares. Much more intense. Nightmares usually occur in REM sleep, whereas my night terrors happen when I’m in a deep sleep, and it’s so, so hard for me to wake up. I thrash around, a lot. I’ve been to several doctors for it, even a somnologist,” You explain, and when you lift your head, you see his eyebrows furrow in confusion.
You quickly clarify. “A somnologist is a doctor who specializes in sleep disorders. But, yeah. Children usually grow out of their night terrors, but I never did. And it’s…debilitating. It’s fucking horrible.”
You fix your gaze on him, and you watch as he takes in every word that you say, his forehead wrikling with concern.
Finally, he speaks up.
Alright, Y/N. Your situationship is about to end things with you. Deal with it.
“The doctors that you went to…” He clears his throat, his voice coming out all ragged and rough. “Have they found the underlying cause for these?”
In all of the scenarios you went through in your mind in the thirty seconds before he spoke, you definitely did not consider one where he asked a question.
“They haven’t pinpointed an exact cause. But they have identified some triggers,” You sigh, looking up at the sky to prepare yourself to utter the next words you’re about to say. “Mainly stress-related. They believe that my PTSD plays a huge part in them.”
Immediately, his eyes widen and his lips part when he registers the last sentence. He lets out a shaky breath, looking down at his hands as he continues to wring them together.
“You have PTSD?”
You nod, biting into your lip. Remember, Y/N. Control.
“Yeah. I’ve been working through it since high school. Met with a therapist and everything. You know, trying not to let it define me. I spent my whole life being the mediator in my family, constantly solving other people’s problems instead of identifying my own. It was rough. Hell, I used to have panic attacks all the time in class,” You laugh mirthlessly, playing with the hem of your shirt. “Now I’ve upgraded. I just have them behind closed doors, when no one else is awake. I used to have both panic attacks and night terrors, luckily now I…only deal with one.”
Nothing about your situation is lucky.
The sheer magnitude of what you’ve revealed to Logan finally hits you. You grip the back of your thighs to hide your shaking hands.
Y/N, that was the opposite of control.
“I-I’m sorry,” You sputter out quickly, but Logan only stares at you in confusion. “I…I shouldn’t have unloaded all of that onto you. It’s a lot, I know—”
“Y/N,” He rasps out, and he presses his fingers into his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose before he looks at you again. “Can I take your hand?”
You nod wordlessly, giving your right hand to his left one. He draws soothing circles onto the back of your hand, even though his fingers are shaking as well. He bites his lip as he stares at you, looking utterly destroyed.
“Is this why you never stay over?”
The breath quickly escapes your lungs. You can’t find in yourself to speak, so you nod.
And Logan tightens his grip on your hand, his breaths coming out wobbly and unsteady.
“Thank you,” He enunciates, and you can’t help but look at him in surprise. “For…for trusting me with this. I had a feeling you were going through something, but I didn’t want to push you to say anything.”
You can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. “You’re not uncomfortable with me unloading all of this onto you? Even though we’re just casual?”
“Oh, baby,” He breathes out, and wraps his right hand around your cheek. You instinctively nestle into his warm touch. “There’s nothing casual about the way I feel about you.”
Before you can stop yourself, you reach out and wrap your arms around his torso, pressing your face into his neck to hide the incoming tears. Logan immediately welcomes your touch, settling your body onto his lap and tenderly cradling your head with his palm. His whole body relaxes as he runs his fingers through your hair, pulling you even closer. You feel your shoulder starting to get a tad damp as well.
“I was so fucking worried,” His voice trembles into your hair, which only makes your tears flow even faster. “I just needed to make sure you were alright. God, I was going crazy when Garrett pulled me aside.”
You don’t say anything, only breathing a watery sigh into his neck and tangling your fingers into his waves. Your heart rate finally slows down, and your muscles gradually loosen against his protective grip.
You’re safe.
The two of you remain in each others’ arms for a while until you twist around in his lap, turning to face him. He gives you a small closed-mouth smile, and you lazily trace his dimples. He turns his head to your palm, gingerly kissing your hand, feeling the stubble around his chin.
You could stay like this all night.
Logan then clears his throat, even though you’re sure that his voice is still raspy.
“You know, I kind of related to what you said earlier. About being the mediator,” He sighed, sneaking a hand under your shirt to rest his palm against your stomach. “I used to be the mediator in my family. We had so many fucking fights in our house. Between Jules and Jeff, Jeff and my mom, Jules and my mom…I got so sick and tired of it.”
You nod, listening intently. A few months ago, he gave you some information about his childhood and upbringing, about how early he had to start working and how he frequently argued with his mother. Ironically, it didn’t sound too different from your childhood, either.
“It’s the worst,” You add on, playing with his curls. “It feels like you have no space to breathe. Everyone vents to you, but you have no one to talk to. Their problems slowly drain you, even when you’re drowning in your own sorrows.”
“That’s exactly how I felt,” He tells you earnestly, his palm still resting against your stomach. He dips his head slightly to press a kiss onto your forehead.
“Yeah, I remember you telling me about your problems at home. I thought about sharing my own experience as well, but I didn’t want to be a burden. You already have enough on your plate,” You confess, eyes nervously darting to your hands. You felt like you needed to let him now.
But as he grasps the back of your head to pull you in for a much-needed kiss full of passion, serenity, and comfort, you know deep inside your heart that you do not have to fear for his response.
“Y/N, you are the absolute furthest thing from a burden in my life,” The emotion that exudes from his eyes is enough to send you back into tears, but you don’t feel your throat closing up. “Baby, you can always talk about your problems with me. Air out your frustrations and vent all you want. I’ll be here.”
And as the two of you hold on to each other, lingering outside long enough to see the sunrise, you know that your comfort zone is not necessarily a place, but the person who wraps his arms lovingly around your body and flashes that beautifully crooked smile for you. Only for you.
“where are we?” you slur lazily, body leaning against your boyfriend for support. one of his hands is wrapped around your hip and the other one slams his bedroom door shut. “thought we’d go t’yours.” you pout.
and logan has to do his best to not bark out a laugh. a breathy laugh bubbles out of his throat. you’re funny when you’re drunk. he wipes a stray lock of hair out of your face. “we are at mine, baby.” he mumbles, eyes glistening. “c’mon. i’ll remove your make up.”
he walks you over to his soft bed. the one you lay in almost everyday. you immediately melt into a sleepy puddle of limbs. “give me a kiss first, johnny.”
you tip yourself up on your elbows, glossy lips puckered up. logan is too down bad for you, because he immediately indulges in your request and pushes his soft lips to yours.
the kiss is dramatic. you dramatically moan into his mouth, your lips smacking against his. it’s not a fluid kiss, it’s mouthy and swirly, but logan makes it work with a stable hand cupping your chin to coordinate you.
“happy now?” logan questions, pulling back. you let yourself fall back on the duvet, his smell lingering on the sheets. your eyes flutter shut.
“yes,” you reply, “you’re a really good kisser. now we can sleep. maybe i can sleep with you.” you giggle, mischievous grin on your face.
“oh— does your boyfriend know?” logan pulls back, plucking the micellair water from the night stand, faux-shocked expression on his face.
you burst out a laugh, hoisting your legs up from laughing too hard: “you are my boyfriend, silly!”
logan laughs that gentle laugh when he lightly traces the cotton pads over your skin. he hums in approval. “i’m a lucky guy, my love.”
he continues to clean your pretty face up. sleep is at the verge of conquering you, but before it pulls you under, you ask: “can i wear your shirt to bed?”
“of course, honey. of course you can.”
eventually you and logan end up tangled under the sheets. you’re wearing one of his old training shirts, his name and number on your back. and some old, oversized basketball shorts.
logan doesn’t really sleep with you like that. of course not. instead, your face is pushed into his neck. you’re knocked-out cold, softly snoring as logan presses a kiss to your knuckles. slowly intertwining your hands before placing them on top the duvet.
a/n: this guy looks so much like the guy i was into during my first year of uni. i have such a hard time not texting him. omgggggg and we're graduating i HAVE to text him right. RIGHT????
summary: drunk reader confesses her feelings to logan. short fic, requested (via dm)
The glittery eyeshadow makes your eyes pop, Logan thinks as he stares down at you. It’s a shame he has to take it off.
“Why are you staring at me?” You say, giggling.
He shakes his head, “Nothing. Your makeup looks really nice.”
“Thank you.” You say, beaming up at him. “Your face looks really nice.”
Logan lets out an incredulous laugh, but how could he not? You’re stupidly drunk after one of the infamous Briar U Hockey Team parties, and the alcohol seems to have completely removed the filter between your mind and your mouth, leaving you rambling your every thought to him as he decided it’s time for you to go to bed.
Now, there you are, shiny eyes looking tired under the low lights of his room, wearing his clothes, sitting cross-legged on his bed, calling him pretty. It's both adorable and nerve wracking.
“You’re just drunk, honey.”
“I am so drunk.” You nod, chuckling, “But I’ve always thought you were pretty.”
He looks at you, “Yeah?”
“Yes, sir.” You say, solemnly.
Logan shakes his head, grabbing a makeup wipe he got from Hannah’s tiny box of supplies in Garrett’s bathroom. He sits by your side and delicately grabs your chin, holding you in place. “What are you doing?”
“Taking your makeup off.” He says, concentrating on wiping your face gently enough.
“Why? You just said you liked it.”
“Because it’s time for bed. Close your eyes for me?”
You do, and Logan carefully starts removing the smudged glitter on your eyes. You hum as he wipes the make up off of your eyes, “This feels nice.”
“Yeah? Not too harsh on your skin?”
You try shaking your head no, Logan’s hand still holding you in place. You giggle, “No, it’s not harsh at all. Well,” You say, “Your fingers are a bit callous.”
He smiles at your sincerity, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I like them,” You say, then a little more sure, “I like you.”
Logan’s grip completely falters, and he lets his hands fall to his lap.
He wishes he could’ve said it took him by surprise, but honestly, no, not really. Actually, he should’ve seen it coming tonight.
It was pretty obvious that Logan had a soft spot for you from the moment you got introduced into the group by Hannah, and he might be slow, but he’s not blind — he knows you like him too. It’s like you’ve been playing a silly game of will they, won’t they, both too coy to take the initiative. Until alcohol gets involved, that is. Then all your inhibitions are swallowed down, and next thing he knows, you’re a dream come true confessing your feelings for him.
It can’t be like that, Logan thinks.
You open your left eye just slightly, peeking through your lashes, “Logan?”
“I– I think you should go to bed,” he says, not giving you any time to repeat yourself, getting up from his bed, “We can talk in the morning, yeah?”
You blink, face turning from giddy-drunk to frowny-drunk, “Okay.”
Not okay, he can tell from your curved lips. “Yeah? You good?”
“Yeah.” You say, crawling to the top of his bed. “All good. Night, Logan.”
“Hey,” he says before you can close your eyes, “We talk in the morning, okay?”
You nod, then hide under the covers.
—
Logan doesn’t see you in the morning.
In fact, he wakes up with an awful back pain from sleeping on the big chair near his bed, just to find his bed empty, clothes carefully folded and not another sign of you.
Fuck, he thinks, grabbing his phone from the nightstand to check if there’s any phone calls or texts from you, to no success. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Logan gathers his last bits of hope to go downstairs, but the house is silent, and everyone seems to be asleep still.
He tries calling you, but you won’t answer. He texts you, hey, can we talk? Then, please? to no avail.
By the end of the morning, he’s desperately knocking on your bedroom door.
“Oh, my God,” You show up at the door, flunging it open, “What the fuck is wrong with– Oh. Logan. I– I wasn’t expecting you–”
“I called you.” He cuts you off, “I mean, you weren’t there this morning, and I tried calling but you wouldn’t answer. I– I was hoping we could talk?”
You frown, “So you can reject me to my face? Again? No, thank you. I’m too hungover for this.”
“No, no. What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about me reading this,” you point between you both, frustrated, “all wrong. Look, I’m sorry, but I thought–”
“I like you.” He says, watching as you close your mouth, taking a step back. He follows your step, getting an inch closer.
“You do?”
He scoffs, “Honey, you know I do.”
“I don’t know anything, Logan.” You answer softly, “I thought I did, but…”
“But you were really fucking drunk,” he says, hiding back a laugh as he gets closer, “And calling me pretty, and– And I was thinking, god, I like you so fucking much.”
You grin at him, “Really?”
Logan refuses to answer you, his lips finding the corner of your mouth, chasing your kiss over and over and over again til you’re dizzy again, drunk on something much stronger this time.
notes: thank you for reading! requests are open! likes/reblogs/thoughts are appreciated! <3
6:00 pm on a thursday. one month fresh out of a bitchass relationship. came home from work. ordered my poke bowl. smoked. gonna rewatch off campus and continue writing my john logan fic. #girlwhoisgoingtobeokay
summary: The thing about Logan is that he always knew what to say. He just kept finding reasons not to say it.
or: the five times Logan almost confessed and the one time he did.
notes: hii!! lazy sunday inspiration, this one is like sabrina short and sweet, hope you guys like it! enjoy your reading!!
warnings: childhood friends to lovers, fluff, happy ending.
word count: 4k
I've been afraid of changing because I've built my life around you
You had met Logan at a rink.
This was, in retrospect, the most inevitable thing about you, that two people who had built their entire lives around ice would find each other on it. You had been eleven, in the middle of a spin sequence that wasn't working, frustrated enough that you had stopped and put your hands on your hips and glared at the ice like it had personally wronged you. He had been eleven too, sitting in the penalty box with his helmet off, watching you with the focused attention of someone who had forgotten he was supposed to be somewhere else.
"Your left shoulder drops," he said.
You had looked at the penalty box. At the boy in it. At the hockey gear he was still wearing.
"Did I ask?" you said.
"No," he said. "But it does."
You had glared at him for a long moment. Then you had tried the sequence again with your left shoulder deliberately up and it had been better. Significantly better.
You had not told him that.
You had skated to the boards and looked at him.
"Why are you in the penalty box?" you said.
"Coach," he said, simply.
"What did you do."
"Argued a call."
"Was the call wrong?"
"Obviously," he said.
You had looked at him for another long moment.
"I'm (Y/N)," you said.
"Logan," he said.
Ten years later you were still talking.
one — the competition february, sophomore year
The thing about watching you skate was that it was completely impossible to be indifferent to.
Logan had been to enough of your competitions by now that he had developed what he privately considered a professional appreciation for figure skating, he understood the technical elements, the edge work, the difference between a clean landing and one that cost points. He had opinions about judging. He had once gotten into a fifteen-minute argument with Tucker about the scoring system.
He was, in other words, not watching you the way a normal person watched figure skating.
He was watching you the way he had been watching you for approximately five years without doing anything about it, which was with focused attention of someone who had accidentally learned the exact shape of their own feelings by observing them in a controlled environment and then never done anything with the information.
You were in the middle of your free skate program.
The arena was quiet, something that happen only when a competition in progress, a few hundred people all holding the same breath and you were in the center of the ice in a deep red costume that caught the light when you moved, and you were moving the way you always moved when you were doing this properly, like you were constantly sure of all the decisions and it was up to everyone else to accept it.
The triple axel was coming. Logan knew your program better than his own game tape.
He watched your set up for it and then you were in the air and rotating and landing clean, one blade, no stumble, the crowd exhaling around him in something close to relief.
Logan exhaled too.
You finished the program and stood in the center of the ice with your arms out and your chest heaving and your face doing something close to relief and the thin line with triumph.
He knew that face. He had photographs of that face going back five years.
Logan was completely gone.
After the scores were posted — first place, which was not a surprise to anyone who had been paying attention — Logan found you in the corridor outside the changing rooms, still in the costume, skates exchanged for boots, medal around your neck that you kept touching like making sure it was real.
You saw him and couldn't help but to smile.
"You came," you said.
"I always come," he said.
"I know." You were smiling the real one, not the competition smile, not the public smile. "How was the axel?"
"Perfect," he said. "Clean landing, good height, the rotation was exactly right."
"You sound like my coach."
"Your coach is correct."
You laughed and walked toward him and he opened his arms because that was what happened after competitions you walked into them and he held on and you smelled like the rink and some body lotion that he has been trying to steal for a long time, he had his chin on top of your head and everything was exactly the same as it always was.
Except that his heart was doing something extremely inconvenient.
"I have something to tell you," he said, into your hair.
"Mm?" You didn't move.
He had the words right there. Had been carrying them for approximately two years, which was when he had stopped being able to pretend to himself that what he felt was just friendship, had been practiced and ready and —
"You dropped your left shoulder in the step sequence," he said. "Third section. It cost you."
You pulled back and looked at him. "You can not be serious right now, Johnny."
"It's a small thing, but —"
"I just won," she said.
"I know. You also dropped your shoulder."
You stared at him for a long moment with a watchful expression.
"I hate you," you said.
"No you don't," he said.
"Maybe I do" you looked at him "No I don't," you confirmed.
You took his hand and pulled him toward the exit to find the others, and Logan walked behind you and thought about what he had almost said and hadn't. Logan had decided for once, to store away this information, maybe soon would come in handy.
two — the lazy day april, sophomore year
It was a Sunday in April, a Sunday that had decided to be warm for the first time all year, and you were lying on the floor of Logan's room with your legs up on his bed because the floor was cooler than the bed and you had been at the rink since six in the morning and every single part of you ached.
Logan was on the bed, technically reading something for class, practically staring at the ceiling.
You had been in this exact configuration approximately four hundred times over ten years. The comfortable silence of two people who had run out of things to say and were fine with that.
"My coach wants me to change the music for nationals," you said, to the ceiling.
"What's wrong with the current music?"
"She says it doesn't show enough range."
"What does she want instead?"
"Something more emotional apparently." You paused. "She used the word vulnerable which made me want to scream."
Logan made a sound that meant he was listening.
"I'm not un-vulnerable," you said. "I'm just — I show it differently."
"You show it on the ice," Logan said. "Anyone paying attention can see it."
You turned your head to look at him. He was still looking at the ceiling.
"That's a nice thing to say," you said.
"It's a true thing to say." He turned his head and looked at you. From this angle, floor to bed, you were looking at each other sideways, and there was something about the afternoon light coming through the window that was doing something to his expression, making it more open than usual, less managed.
"I've been thinking," he said.
"About what."
He looked at you for a moment. The open expression doing something more complicated.
"About —" he started.
Your phone went off.
The ringtone you had assigned to your coach, which you had made deliberately annoying so you couldn't ignore it. You grabbed it off the floor and sat up and mouthed sorry at Logan and answered.
Your coach talked for eleven minutes about the music change.
When you hung up Logan was reading again, or pretending to, and the afternoon light had shifted, and whatever the moment had been it had passed.
"What were you thinking about?" you said.
"Nothing," he said. "Doesn't matter."
You looked at him for a second longer than necessary.
Then you put your legs back up on his bed and went back to staring at the ceiling.
three — the boys september, junior year
The thing about you was that you were, objectively, extremely easy to be around.
Dean had arrived at this conclusion independently and over time, through the accumulated evidence of approximately a year of you being at various team events and group hangs and spontaneous Malone's trips, and it was not a controversial conclusion, Tucker had said the same thing, Garrett had nodded in agreement.
You were funny and direct and had opinions and didn't perform interest you didn't have, which was rarer than it should have been. You also had the unselfconscious ease of someone who had been comfortable on a competitive stage since you were fourteen, which meant you walked into rooms the same way you walked onto ice like you had already decided you belonged there.
Dean had been thinking about this for approximately three weeks when he cornered Logan after practice.
"Your figure skater friend," he said.
Logan looked at him over his equipment bag. "Her name is (Y/N)."
"Is she single?"
The locker room continued around them. Tucker was unwrapping tape. Garrett was checking his phone. Nobody appeared to be paying particular attention.
Logan's jaw did something.
"Yeah," he said. "She's single."
"Nice." Dean leaned against the locker with the easy confidence of someone who had made a decision. "Do you think she'd be open to —"
"She's focused on skating," Logan said. "Nationals are in February. She doesn't have time for —"
"I'm not talking about anything serious," Dean said. "Just —"
"She's busy," Logan said.
Dean looked at him.
Logan looked at his equipment bag.
"Sure," Dean said, slowly. "Right. Busy." A pause. "You sure you don't have a —"
"She's my best friend," Logan said. "Can you just — not."
Dean looked at him for a long moment with the expression of someone doing math.
"Okay," he said. "Sure."
He went back to his own locker.
Tucker caught his eye across the room and raised his eyebrows. Dean gave the smallest possible shrug, which in their particular shorthand meant: you are seeing what you think you're seeing.
Tucker looked at the ceiling briefly and then went back to his tape.
Logan texted you that night.
logan: what are you doing
yn: stretching. my hip flexors are staging a revolt. what's up
logan: nothing. just checking in
yn: at 10pm on a tuesday
logan: is that suspicious
yn: a little
logan: go stretch your hip flexors
yn: i am. you could come over and suffer with me
A pause. Longer than usual.
logan: be there in twenty
He showed up with food and sat on your floor and watched you stretch with the expression he sometimes had when he was thinking about something he wasn't saying. You didn't push. You had learned, over ten years, the difference between Logan processing something and Logan ready to talk about it.
You stretched your hip flexors.
He was quiet beside you.
It was, somehow, exactly enough.
four — the party november, junior year
Hannah had a very simple theory about Logan and you that she had shared with Allie approximately four months ago and had been collecting evidence for ever since.
The theory was: you were both completely in love with each other and were going to keep not doing anything about it until one of them finally cracked or they both graduated and went their separate ways, which would be a tragedy.
Allie's theory was identical, arrived at independently, and they had spent four months running what amounted to a covert observation project with no intervention component because, as Allie had said, correctly , very time anyone said anything to Logan he went quiet and every time anyone said anything to you, you laughed and changed the subject, and the only thing that was going to fix this was one of them actually doing something.
The party was in November, someone's house, the kind that happened naturally when enough people were in the same place with nothing specific to do. Allie and Hannah had come together. Logan and you had come separately and found each other within four minutes, which was, Hannah noted, always how it went.
You were in the corner of the living room now, in the configuration you always occupied at parties, close enough that yourshoulders touched, talking in the way you talked when you were somewhere loud, which was slightly lower and slightly more direct, leaning in.
"He's doing it again," Hannah said.
Allie, beside her, followed her eyeline. "The shoulder thing."
"He always does the shoulder thing when he's about to say something."
They watched. Across the room, Logan's shoulder had indeed done the thing, a slight forward tilt, the specific posture of someone turning toward something rather than standing beside it.
You were looking up at him with the expression you had when you were actually listening to someone, which was different from your polite listening expression and your processing expression and was reserved for maybe three people in your life.
"He's going to do it," Hannah said.
"He's not going to do it," Allie said.
"He's leaning in —"
"He never does it."
"There's always a first time —"
Someone across the room called Logan's name. Loudly. Urgently. Something about a game in the kitchen that required his participation immediately.
Logan closed his eyes very briefly.
Then he straightened up and said something to you — one second probably, or back in a minute — and went toward the kitchen.
You watched him go with an expression that lasted approximately two seconds before you reorganized it into something neutral.
Allie looked at Hannah.
Hannah looked at Allie.
"I'm going to lose my mind," Hannah said.
"Same," said Allie.
They looked at each other.
"We're not intervening," Allie said.
"We're absolutely not intervening," Hannah agreed.
They watched you drift toward the snack table looking slightly like someone who had been about to hear something and hadn't.
"We're not intervening," Allie said again, more firmly.
"Right," said Hannah. "Definitely not."
allie: okay so
hannah: i KNOW
allie: the shoulder thing
hannah: and her FACE when he left
allie: someone needs to do something
hannah: we said we weren't intervening
allie: i know what we said
hannah: allie
allie: i'm just saying
hannah: we are not telling them
allie: fine
hannah: fine
allie: ...fine
hannah: goodnight allie
allie: if they're still doing this at graduation i'm saying something
hannah: GOODNIGHT ALLIE
five — the almost january, senior year
You found out about the Dean thing entirely by accident.
You had been in the kitchen at the off campus house, making tea because it was January and you were cold and your coach had banned coffee during competition prep, and Tucker had come in and started making a sandwich and you had been coexisting peacefully until Tucker said, entirely unprompted and clearly without thinking:
"By the way, for what it's worth, I told Dean not to."
You looked at him. "Told Dean not to what."
Tucker looked at his sandwich. Then at you. Then at his sandwich again with the expression of someone who had realized, too late, that they had said something.
"Ask about you," he said finally. "Like — ask Logan if he could pursue you. I told him it was a bad idea."
You put down your tea.
"Dean asked Logan if he could pursue me," you said.
"Back in September. Logan said you were busy with skating." Tucker picked up his sandwich. "Which was — I mean, you are busy. But also —" he stopped. "I probably shouldn't have said anything."
"Probably," you said.
Tucker took a bite of his sandwich and left the kitchen with the energy of someone removing themselves from a situation.
You stood at the counter with your tea and thought about September and Logan showing up at your apartment at ten on a Tuesday for no reason, sitting on your floor, being quiet beside you in a way that had felt like something without ever becoming something.
She's busy, he had apparently said.
You looked at the doorway Tucker had disappeared through.
You looked at your tea.
Hm, you thought.
Logan found you twenty minutes later in the living room, already in his jacket, apparently on his way out.
"Hey," he said. "You good?"
"Fine," you said. "Where are you going?"
"Skate rental shop. I need new laces." He paused. "Do you want to come? We can get food after."
You looked at him.
"Sure," you said.
You got your coat.
one — the one time he did january, senior year.
The skate rental shop was quiet on a January afternoon, the mundane warmth of a place that smelled like rubber and old equipment, and Logan found his laces in approximately four minutes and then stood in the aisle for another ten not moving, which you had learned to recognize as Logan making up his mind about something.
You looked at a display of blade covers that you did not need.
"Tucker told me," you said, to the blade covers.
A pause.
"Told you what," Logan said.
"About Dean. In September."
The aisle was very quiet.
"She's busy," you said. "That's what you said, apparently."
Another pause. Longer.
"You were," Logan said. "You were in nationals prep."
"Logan."
"What."
You turned to look at him. He was looking at the laces in his hands with the expression he got when he was trying to decide something and hating that he had to decide it.
"Why did you say she's busy," you said. "Instead of — anything else."
He looked up. His jaw did the thing.
"Because," he started.
"Because why."
He looked at you. Really looked at you, the way he sometimes did when he thought you weren't paying attention, except you were paying attention and he knew it and he still wasn't looking away.
"Because it's you," he said. "And I couldn't just — I didn't want Dean to —" he stopped. Started again. "I didn't want anyone to."
The skate rental shop was very quiet.
"Okay," you said.
"Okay?" he said.
"That's — I needed to know that." You looked at the blade covers. You looked at him. "I also needed you to know that I'm not busy. I mean — I am. But I'm not. Not for — not for this."
Logan looked at you for a long moment.
"Not for this," he repeated.
"Not for you," you said, which was the more honest version, which you had decided to say because you were twenty-two and you had been doing this for five years and Tucker had accidentally said something in a kitchen and it was January and you were tired of not saying things.
The laces in Logan's hands had been thoroughly analyzed.
He put them back on the shelf.
"I was going to tell you after your competition," he said. "In February. Your sophomore year."
"You talked about my shoulder."
"I know," he said. "I know I did."
"And on the Sunday in April —"
"Your coach called."
"And at the party in November —"
"Dean," he said, simply, and you almost laughed.
"Five times," you said.
"Probably more," he said. "I stopped counting."
You looked at him. This person who had been in the penalty box when you were eleven and had told you your shoulder dropped and had come to every competition and had stood in a locker room in September and said she's busy when what he meant was something else entirely.
"So say it now," you said. "We're in a skate rental shop in January. There's nobody here. Say it now."
Logan looked at you.
"I love you," he said. Not dramatically just simply, the way he said true things, like it was information that had been waiting a long time to be delivered and was relieved to finally arrive. "I've loved you since you told me I didn't ask and then tried the spin again anyway. I love you and I'm sorry it took me this long."
The blade covers blurred slightly.
You reached up and took the lapel of his jacket in your hand.
"You talked about my shoulder," you said.
"I know," he said. "I'm sorry."
"I'm going to bring that up for years."
"I know," he said. "I deserve that."
You pulled him down by the jacket.
He kissed you in the skate rental shop in January, between the blade covers and the laces display, with nobody watching and nothing to interrupt, and it was warm and unhurried and tasted like something that had been a long time coming and had finally, simply, arrived.
When you pulled back he had the expression you had been trying not to notice for five years — open and certain and entirely unmanaged.
"For the record," you said, "my shoulder doesn't drop anymore."
"It really doesn't," he said. "You've completely fixed it."
"I know," you said. "I'm very good."
He laughed and pulled you back in, and the skate rental shop continued to be entirely quiet around you, indifferent and perfect.
You told Allie and Hannah together, which was the only way to do it.
You had barely gotten the words out before Hannah made a sound that could only be described as vindicated, and Allie said I told you to Hannah at the same moment Hannah said I told you to Allie, and then they looked at each other and then at you and both started talking at the same time.
"The shoulder thing at the party —"
"In sophomore year when you called after the competition —"
"The thing in September with Dean —"
"We knew," Hannah said. "We have known for so long."
"How long," you said.
They looked at each other.
"Since the first time we saw you two in the same room," Allie said.
You looked at them. "And you didn't say anything?"
"We said we weren't going to intervene," Hannah said, with the dignity of someone honoring a commitment.
"You could have said something to me," you said.
"We said we weren't going to intervene," Allie said, equally dignified.
You looked at them both.
"I cannot believe," you said.
"You're welcome," they said, simultaneously.
Logan told the team at dinner.
Or rather, Dean asked where you were and Logan said she's coming later and Tucker said she's coming? is she — and Logan said yeah in the even tone that contained a lot of information, and Dean looked at Tucker and Tucker looked at Dean and Garrett looked at his food and the table continued exactly as it always had except that something had shifted in the specific, settled way of something that had always been heading here finally arriving.
When you got there Logan moved over without being asked and you sat beside him and his shoulder was warm against yours and everything was exactly the same as it had always been.
Except that his hand found yours under the table.
And this time he didn't let go.
allie: so
hannah: SO
allie: we called it
hannah: from the beginning
allie: the penalty box story is the most romantic thing i have ever heard
blurb: a rich uptown girl with car issues keeps visiting the small garage off the highway where the owner’s super hot son works.
warnings: fem!reader, fluff, lowk ditzy!reader but not really, yummy mechanic!logan.
Logan heard you before he saw you.
He memorized the sound of those heels clicking against the rough pavement like a second heartbeat. After all, not many girls around this side of town wore vintage Prada pumps to an off-highway garage.
And even if they did, they most certainly did not own a BMW 6er f12 convertible.
Logan’s older brother Jeff was leaning against the workshop desk and sipping on a can of Coke when he saw you strut in. He sighed, “Here comes Lottie.”
The nickname was a running joke between the brothers. Jeff had muttered it under his breath when you first visited the shop and asked a question about diesel gas. He took one look at you and knew you were a clueless, rich girl who shouldn’t be visiting garages such as theirs.
Logan hadn’t entertained the nickname so much. He thought it was unnecessarily mean. Besides, Lottie was always a sweetheart in Princess and the Frog.
Jeff turned on his heels and disappeared into the garage’s office, leaving Logan to deal with you on his own.
Logan put down a spare part he was working on and turned around, leaning back against the counter.
You waved excitedly with a cheerful grin. “Hi, Logan!”
He smiled politely, “Hey…”
“Did you save my girl?” You asked, batting your lashes.
Logan nodded, “She’s all fixed up for you,” he said, walking over to the wall of car keys hung on hooks to retrieve yours.
You clapped your hands, “Yay!”
He chuckled whilst shaking his head. You got happy over the simplest of things. He thought it was endearing.
You walked over to your car. Nebula, as you called her. A fitting name for a sleek, black convertible with dark purple leather upholstery and shiny silver rims.
Logan came over and handed you your keys. “You wanna try her out?”
You nodded and unlocked your car before opening the driver’s side door. No beeping. Perfect.
You beamed at Logan. “You did it!”
He smiled with an easy laugh, feeling proud of his work. In reality, your car issue was a minor one; the door sensor just needed a replacement. Nothing about it required a lick of rocket science, and yet you looked at him as if he hung the stars in your galaxy.
You put your designer bag into your car and bent over to fish out your wallet. Logan stared at your body for a second before he caught himself, clearing his throat and looking away respectfully.
You stood up straight, holding your leather wallet between both hands, looking at him with a doe-eyed expression.
He scratched the back of his neck and gestured for you to follow him to the counter. The gritty sounds of his boots crunching the gravel below and the rhythmic click click click of your heels echoed through the garage.
Logan went around the counter and pulled out a receipt and wrote down the service you needed with the price. He slid the piece of paper to you but you just kept looking at his face with a smile. He blinked before realizing you didn’t care for the price. Right, he thought. Rich girls don’t worry about those things.
“Cash or card?” He asked.
You held up your metal black credit card.
Logan pursed his lips and nodded as he pulled out a card reader. You tapped your card without even glancing at the screen and clapped your hands when the machine beeped in satisfaction.
“Thank you, Logan,” you told him kindly.
He shrugged politely, “It’s no problem.”
You smiled at him. He returned it, “Do you want your recei—“
Before he could even hand you your proof of service, you were walking back to your car. He nodded to himself and stuffed the receipt into the cash register.
He watched as you exited the garage, waving at him enthusiastically as you drove by. He gave a small wave back.
+
A week later, your BMW pulled into the garage whilst Logan was working under a car.
He didn’t hear the sound of your heels this time as he had headphones in, blasting a classic rock song. He felt a shadow looming nearby so he turned and saw your heels appear. He paused and rolled out from under the car, meeting the sight of your broad smile peering down at him.
“Hi, Logan!”
“Hey…” He sounded confused. His eyebrows furrowed and he glanced around, “Didn’t you pick up your car last week?”
You nodded. “Yep. But my AC is broken now…” You pouted.
Hm, Logan thought. He sat up, “Oh, I didn’t see that when I did the diagnostic last week—“
“Must be a new issue, then. These foreign cars are all funny,” you replied, tilting your head.
He cleaned his hands with a rag before standing up. He had oil stains on his shirt and just a little smudge on his face. You thought he looked so ruggedly handsome.
“Let me take a look,” he said and you stepped out the way for him to crank open your hood and inspect the situation.
As he got to work, you leaned against your car and watched. After a moment, you asked, “How was your weekend?”
People don’t usually talk to Logan when he repairs their cars. Especially not pretty, rich girls like you.
“It was good, played hockey, worked here in the shop,” he responded casually.
You nodded along even though he couldn’t see you.
“Did you win?” You asked.
He laughed, an amused sound. “Yeah…yeah, we won.”
You clapped your hands, “Yay!”
Logan laughed again. It was cute, he thought, how you always clapped at good news.
“You like hockey?” He asked, looking over your hood to meet your eyes.
You hummed, “I only recently got into it. My family prefers watching polo, golf, or tennis.”
Rich people sports, he wanted to say. That made sense.
“Recently, huh?” He said instead, ducking his head to keep working. “Who should I thank for putting you onto hockey?” He joked.
You smiled shyly and said, “You…”
His hand paused. The parts of your car suddenly looking like alphabet soup moving in jumbled letters. He lifted his head to meet your gaze again. But before he could manage a reply, you changed the subject. “Is it broken beyond repair?” You asked, turning your attention to your car parts.
He snapped out of his daze and shook his head. “Uhh, no. No, you just need AC coolant.”
“Is that an easy fix?” You asked.
He nodded, “Yeah, the easiest.” He said.
You smiled in relief. “Thank goodness I have you fixing my car,” you told him.
He smiled at that.
He fixed your car, you chirped out a “Thank you, Logan!”, you paid without looking at the bill, and waved goodbye as you left.
“That the BMW girl again?” Logan’s dad asked as he stepped out the office.
“Yeah,” Logan replied, wiping his hands.
“Lottie back again so soon?” Jeff teased. Logan rolled his eyes at the jab.
“You overcharge her?” His dad asked.
Logan looked at him, “Why would I do that?”
His dad shrugged, “Luxurious car fee?”
Logan squinted his eyes, “We don’t do that.”
Jeff piped in, “We could. She doesn’t even check her receipts.”
Logan looked between his dad and brother, “So what? We charge her fair and square.”
His dad shared a looked with Jeff before he went back inside the office.
+
Week after week, you came by to the garage. First it was an oil change, then a rim replacement, then a loose window ribbon, then a tire with low air, and so on.
By week 7, Logan had had enough. It’s not that he didn’t like seeing you, no. Far from it. He actually enjoyed your company. He often looked forward to when you’d come by and say Hi, Logan! in that sing-song voice of yours, your joyful smile, and innocent questions.
But now he was noticing a pattern.
So when you rolled in that Thursday night like clockwork, he didn’t go up to you. He stayed by the workshop desk and watched you with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Hi, Logan!” You beamed with a gleeful wave.
But upon meeting his stern expression, your smile faltered and your hand slowly dropped back to your side. You looked around the empty garage before walking over to him in hesitant steps. The sound of your heels filled the space between the two of you. You stopped in front of him and flattened down your skirt, a nervous tic of yours that you never noticed before.
“Y/n,” he said, his tone serious. “This is the seventh time you’ve come to the garage.”
You nodded, “Nebula keeps acting up—“
“No, she doesn’t.”
You looked at your feet. No smile, no lively clapping.
His arms uncrossed and he stepped closer. He wasn’t angry. No, it wasn’t that. Logan isn’t an idiot. He knew. He knew you had a crush on him, knew the only reason you showed up time and time again was just to spend time with him. Why else would you come? He knew families like yours had their own repairmen at fancy dealerships who could fix any problem. You didn’t need to come into his family’s garage.
Yet, you did.
Logan figured it out by week 4. But truth be told, he never mentioned it because a part of him liked being around you too. He liked hearing your upbeat voice, the familiar tap of your heels, the sound of your laugh. So he stayed quiet, he fixed your tires, and refilled your car’s oil. He went along with it. Because he liked your company just as much as you liked his.
Unable to lie to him, you lifted your head and met his eyes. “I did those things to my car on purpose.” You confessed quietly.
Logan blinked. His stance eased at your admission and he looked at you with soft eyes.
“I watched a YouTube video on how to drain AC coolant,” you added. “And drove around until my tires lost some of its pressure, and—”
“Y/n,” he held your chin with his hand. “You didn’t have to do all that to see me.”
Your eyes widened as you stared at him. He smiled gently, “I…like seeing you. With or without Nebula.”
“You do?” You asked.
He nodded, “I do.”
He leaned in slowly, giving you the chance to pull away. But you stayed. His lips met yours in a gentle kiss. Not hungry or desperate, just a soft sealing; a mutual understanding—I like you and you like me.
When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. You looked at him with a honeyed, dazed expression. He smiled down at you and pecked your lips once more. You weren’t a spoiled, rich girl to him. Not clueless or ditzy. You were just…you. A sweetheart with a crush on a cute guy who would do anything to see him. You were Lottie.
He glanced behind you at your car. He pulled away with a reluctant sigh, “What did you do to her this time?”
You smiled sheepishly, “I jammed my gearshift…”
He chuckled softly, both amused and fondly exasperated by you. “Okay…let me take a look.” He said, lacing his hand with yours and bringing it up to his lips to press a kiss.
premise: you're in a "casual" relationship with logan, but you continuously refuse to spend the night at his place. in fact, you force yourself to never fall asleep in his bed. falling asleep next to him risks exposing him to your demons. and the last thing you want to do is place a burden on the man you're deeply in love with.
category: super super super light smut (minors dni), mostly fluff and yearning (incoming hurt/comfort in part ii)
word count: around 3.2k
content/trigger warnings: the lightest smut ever at the beginning (again, minors dni), vivid description of a night terror (brief mentions of blood, gunshots, screaming, suffocation in the night terror, but no other mention outside of it).
context notes: reader works at Briar's tutoring center. i originally was only going to make her a Psych major, but i added Bio because i wanted her majors to reflect her interest in figuring out how night terrors work (i never explored this angle in part i, but i will in part ii)
author notes: i've been in a creative writing rut for two years and off campus has pulled me out of it. sooo there's definitely room for improvement, please bear with me :) i'm also super inexperienced in writing smut, which is why you can barely consider the smut scene "smut" in the first place lmao. i originally wanted to write this fic all in one go, but i'm having some writer's block with the latter half, which is why i'm publishing it in two parts. feedback is much appreciated! (also very lightly proofread as of 06/02/26)
The afternoon sun slowly filters into his bedroom, basking your bodies in a soft, gentle glow. Though the entirety of Briar’s student body is still recovering from the brutal winter storm, you found shelter in his arms, feeling nothing but warmth while pinned beneath his body. As the end of February approaches, the promise of Spring weather reinvigorates Briar students as they deal with the exhaustion brought on by their grueling midterms. After all, the new season brought blooming flowers, brilliantly sunny days, and new beginnings.
Perhaps, the onset of Spring could mark a new beginning for you as well. Maybe you could experience a fresh start in your life by ending this bizarre arrangement that you have with this dazzling hockey player. Ending this “casual” relationship would be good for the both of you.
But ever since you stumbled into his bed on one October night during some Halloweekend festivities, Logan quickly became your comfort zone. And right now, as you restlessly writhe between his sheets, you have absolutely zero desire to leave this comfort.
“Fuck,” the man of the hour rasped and grunted, his head dropping unceremoniously onto the crook of your neck. He breathes frenzied exhales into your shoulder, hot air drifting towards the bottom of your ears. His body weight practically crushes you, leaving you with just the tiniest slot of air to supply your lungs. But you’re not complaining. You’re exactly where you want to be.
You gasp into his brown curls as his thrusts quicken, your hands desperately fisting and grabbing onto the fitted sheet as some sort of pathetic attempt to anchor yourself. Watching you twist underneath him with heavy-lidden eyes, Logan grasps your hands, carefully interlocking your fingers with his, your palms firmly sealing against each other. Like the satisfying connection of the final pieces of a puzzle.
The loving gesture tugs at your heart. This “casual” intimacy is too much to bear, but you can’t bring yourself to let go.
“Y/N,” He rasps into your skin, his frantic breaths imprinting themselves like love bites onto your neck. You know that he’s close, and judging by the tension breeding underneath your belly that’s threatening to release itself, you know that you’re not that far off either. With your elbows digging into his mattress, you arch your back, slightly lift your hips just a tad higher, and the sound that emerges from your throat reverberates off the walls of his bedroom. Logan immediately finds his own release as he moans your name into your neck, his stubble etching a mark onto your skin, and his own body shaking from head to toe.
After he takes off the condom, Logan’s chest makes its way on top of yours as you sink into his bed, trying to catch your breath as he lazily draws circles on your thigh. Though your mind flinches at the “casual” nature of your relationship with Logan, your heart eventually learns to return to slow resting state while around him. He’s a steady presence, and his company is much needed as you try to navigate around the various stressors in your life.
Already, your tortuous coursework and demanding work-study stint are clearly draining you. Hannah frequently points out the dark bags under your eyes and the sluggish, lethargic nature of your gait as you force yourself to attend class.
But you had another stressor that completely robbed the last morsels of life clinging on to your body. A hidden, yet dangerous stressor that you kept snapped shut in the corners of your mind, only giving the key to your therapist for her to unlock.
The reason why you always refused to sleep at Logan’s place.
“So beautiful,” Logan’s voice pulls you from your reverie, his hoarse whisper tickling your collarbone. He kisses over the hickeys he proudly implanted near your breast, admiring his view. “All for me.”
You bite your bottom lip at his comment, pressing down so hard that you’re sure blood will ooze out any minute now. You’re technically not “all for him.” Even though he skips hockey practice to help jumpstart your car on the side of the road. Even though he now uses a fragrance-free laundry detergent because his sheets would irritate your sensitive skin. Even though he looks at you with those eyes that compel you to answer his text every single time. Even though his bed feels so comfortable right now.
Control yourself.
“Back at ya,” You awkwardly laugh, delivering a very nervous and spur-of-the-moment reply. So smooth, Y/N. Did you flirt this badly when he tore your Tinkerbell costume off?
Chuckles rumble from his chest, pressing down onto your heart. You could play his laugh on repeat. Hell, even set it as your ringtone. “Still not used to receiving compliments, I see.”
You don’t offer a response. Suddenly, the bed feels way too warm and way too inviting. As his pillow swallows your head, your eyes start to close.
But you quickly force yourself to wake up, remembering that you do not, in any circumstance, want to fall asleep in his bed. You will not make that mistake.
Instead, you lean over to check the time on your phone. 4:09 PM.
“I need to get going to my shift,” You slide out from underneath him, removing yourself from his grap. The sudden loss of warmth feels like whiplash.
His dark eyebrows furrow as you grab the haphazardly laid clothes on the wooden floor. “Doesn’t it start at 5:00? You still have some time,” He pats your unofficial side of his bed, watching you shimmy yourself into your jeans. “Come ‘ere. Stay a ‘lil longer.”
You bite your lip even harder, using it like a stress ball, and you try to forget that your situationship remembers that tiny detail of your work schedule. Of course he does.
“I like getting there early, though. It’s much better than arriving five minutes before a session starts,” You zip up your jeans, chuckling softly when he flashes his signature sad puppy eyes at you. “I like to quickly refresh myself on the content beforehand.”
“As if you would need any refreshing, Mrs. Bio and Psych Double-Major,” He teases, and yep, you’re pretty sure that’s blood you’re tasting right now.
“Trust me, I don’t always remember the ins and outs of signal transduction.”
Logan tilts his head to the side, staring at you with those confused eyes that you find so absolutely endearing. “And what the hell is ‘signal transduction?’”
You sigh, kneeling onto the floor and tying your shoes. “That’s a story for another time. I better get going.”
“Wait, I’ll walk you down,” He says as he jumps out of the bed, rapidly putting on his sweatpants and grabbing a random flannel from his desk chair.
You roll your eyes as you open his bedroom door, hearing the noises of his roommates from downstairs. “I’ve been here plenty of times, Logan. I know my way around the house.”
He shrugs, buttoning up his flannel. “So? God forbid a guy wants to be a gentleman.”
“A gentleman?” You stifle a laugh, and he has the gall to put on a mildly offended face.
“Of course, my lady. I’m always on my best behavior for you.”
More blood seeps from your lip. You give him a playful shove on his shoulder, but he brandishes that signature crooked "John Logan smile" at you, and fuck, you’re in deep.
As the both of you walk downstairs, your peer at the living room and say a goodbye to the rest of the boys. Tucker and Dean were sitting on the couch, pouring over a textbook that you knew all too well. By the looks of it, Garrett wasn’t home. He was probably hanging out at Hannah’s dorm, per usual.
“Good seeing ya, Y/N,” Tucker smiles at you, lifting his head from the textbook.
“Yes, very good seeing ya,” Dean drawls, suddenly jumping up from his spot on the couch and making his way over to you. “And we are in desperate need of your guidance. This bio class is killing us.”
All of the boys knew you already. Though you and Logan weren’t “serious” by any means, neither of you kept your situationship a secret from others. At least Logan spared you the hurt and discomfort that comes from sneaking around.
Then again, all of his charming, boyfriend-coded compliments haven’t made the situation any better either.
You shake your head jokingly at Dean. “You guys have Professor Ragner, right? He’s chill. You’ll be fine.”
Dean gasps in fake shock, puting a hand to his heart as if he were in a melodramatic soap opera. “Wow, so you’re just leaving us to drown with no support? I see how it is, Y/N.”
You scoff. “No offense to y’all, but I don’t have time for free tutoring. I’m getting paid minimum wage, which is practically nothing to begin with, to tutor jocks like y’all in the first place. I’m sure as hell not doing any unpaid labor.”
“I can pay you in a different way,” Dean unabashedly flirts, blond waves falling over his eyes, voice dropping to a lower tenor. You raise an eyebrow in amusement, knowing that he’s joking.
Then someone behind you loudly clears their throat. You turn around to Logan, who is adorning an expression that you can’t quite decipher.
“Jesus, relax, Johnny,” Dean comes around and pats him on the back, which Logan rejects in fake disgust, pretending to flinch. “I was just suggesting an alternative method of payment.”
“Uh-huh, sure you were," Logan replies with a chuckle, though his smile doesn’t reach all the way to his eyes.
Tucker rejoins the conversation. “I don’t know about cash, but I’ll pay you back with free meals. I make a mean pasta carbonara.”
“Now that, I can get behind,” You point finger guns towards Tucker. “Well boys, I’m off to work. I’ll see y’all later.”
Tucker and Dean say their goodbyes. With a light touch of his hand on the small of your back, Logan leads you to the porch. He opens the door, and as you step outside, he wraps a hand around your wrist, wanting to say one last thing before you leave.
“Have a good shift,” He presses a kiss to your forehead. You force yourself to not bite your lip for the hundredth time. Control. “I’ll see you on Friday, yeah?”
You don’t know what to say. You knew that the team was throwing a party before their game on Saturday. A sharp inhale exits your nose.
“Yeah, sure,” You smile at him, starting to walk to your car. “See you, Logan.”
As you drive to the tutoring center, you chastised yourself for how close you were to falling asleep in his bed. This pathetic attempt at a situationship was going to tear you apart. And if you need to distance yourself from those warm eyes and beaming smile, then so be it.
Friday was two days away. You decided to not come over to the hockey players’ house for their party before playing Eastwood. Not only did you want some space between you and Logan, but you also had an upcoming midterm that made up a good chunk of your grade for your Psych class. You thus planned on devoting your entire weekend to studying for it.
So when Friday night came along, giving excuses to Logan felt easy. Somewhat easy.
(9:21 PM) Logan: Hey, I haven’t seen you yet. Are you on the way?
(9:46 PM) Y/N: I have a huge midterm on Monday. I need to study. Sorry, I forgot to tell you :/
(9:48 PM) Logan: Ahh I see, no worries.
(9:51 PM) Logan: I looked forward to seeing you.
(9:52 PM) Logan: I’ll see you after the midterm? Good luck, you got this.
(10:23 PM) Y/N: Thanks, good luck with the game.
A twinge of guilt spread through your chest and hammered at your heart when you didn’t confirm the rendezvous. You always came to the boys’ parties before their games, even though you continuously stuck by your rule of never sleeping over, which definitely took Logan a little bit of time to get used to. During Halloweekend, you surprised him when you slipped out of his bed at 3:00 AM, grabbing your car keys and opening his bedroom door.
“You don’t want to stay the night?” You recall his gravelly voice, utterly rattled with sleep, as he watched you put on your shoes. “It’s kinda late.”
“I have an early morning. And I didn’t drink at all, so…” You explained, giving him a tight smile before closing the door so that you didn’t have to stare any longer at his bare, toned chest. “See ya.”
Starting with a clean slate was necessary. After all, you needed to keep your commitment to both your grades and your job. Logan would only serve as a distraction.
That’s what you kept repeating to yourself as you went to bed later that night, putting your phone on the other side of your room in order to stop checking it.
The first thing that you notice is that you can’t speak.
You bring a palm up to your mouth, but your face feels completely numb. Anything you say just comes out extremely muffled, as if you never had a mouth in the first place. You gaze around your environment with blurry eyes, looking at the four corners of the dingy room. You try to touch one of the walls, but as soon as your hand comes into contact, the wall becomes translucent, your hand just floating around in open space. But as you pull your hand back, the wall comes up again, inching closer and closer to your face.
Your breath hitches as you try to find an escape—a trapdoor, a window, just anything will do. But the room starts to resemble a box the more you look at it, as if you were an inanimate object shoved inside a carton to never be seen again. The lump in your throat grows as your vision subsides with each passing second, complete murk and darkness clouding up your eyes.
You try to bang on the walls, but your balled up fists just fall into air. You try to scream for help, but you feel chains wrapped around your mouth, silencing your cries and greedily swallowing up any remaining shred of air needed for your survival.
The sound of falling objects tears your gaze away from the walls. You eyes widen as you watch clumps of your hair disintegrating into the floor and massive droplets of blood emanating from your fingertips. You frantically search your whole body for any sign of a cut, a wound, an injury, but your hunt is fruitless.
And that’s when the walls start closing in, devouring every inch of space that’s not covered by your trembling body.
You sink to the floor as your knees helplessly buckle, crawling up into a ball as a fresh flow of tears sprint down your cheeks. Soon those tears also turn to blood, drowning your limbs in a sea of red. And the ceiling feels so fucking close to you, you’re certain that it’s going to collapse.
Sounds of whining sirens and howling wind and quick gunshots and terrified screaming all fuse and merge tightly together in perfect storm, a cacophony where you can hear each individual occurrence happening at once. The walls are up to your nose, and you try so hard to scream. To cry for help.
The sound of a door slamming shut finally wakes you up.
You’re heaving as you sit up in your bed, your fists rapidly unclenching to rest your palms on your chest. Your body feels so unbearably hot, outlines of your sweat etching themselves onto your sheets. A fearful whimper tears out of you, and you wrap your hands around your curled-up body as you begin to frantically rock yourself back and forth on your bed. The sobs pour out of you in an instant, breaths clawing themselves up your throat in such a sharp, stiniging manner that you’re sure there’s clawmarks scarred across your trachea. You’ve had night terrors ever since elementary school, but you’ve never really adjusted them.
The tears completely wreck you. You move your hands from your body to the sheets, fists digging into the fabric, helplessly searching for security. What a stark contrast to your time with Logan, where you desperately fisted at his sheets while waves of pleasure cascaded through your body.
Both times, however, you were looking for control.
Nevertheless, as your sobs gradually begin to subside, you inhale shaky breaths to center yourself back to reality. When your vision starts to clear up, you go back to the 5-4-3-2-1 coping technique that your therapist suggested to ground yourself.
Five things you can see. Four things you can touch. Three things you can hear. Two things you can smell. One thing you can taste.
As you slowly list through the four things you can touch, your mind goes back to the hockey player you’re trying so desperately not to think about. But all you desire is to feel his callused palm on your cheek, his long arm around your waist, and his mouth trailing kisses on your neck.
And you hate how much you yearn to be in Logan’s arms right now. You ache for his comforting presence, but you know you can’t place this trouble on him, this overwhelming burden to bring you back to Earth after a night terror. He already has enough on his plate.
Sighing, you make your way to the bathroom to splash some water on your face. On your way there, you grab your phone, looking at the date and time. 2:38 AM, Monday, February 23rd.
So you had a night terror the morning of your big exam. Great.
At least you can thank your neighbors’ rowdiness for pulling you out of your dream. They loved to slam the door after a night out, and unfortunately for you, they seemed to go out every fucking night. You kindly asked them to close their door more gently, but clearly, your words had zero effect.
After wiping your face and staring too long at your bloodshot eyes in the bathroom mirror, you walk to your desk, deciding to fit in a last-minute study session now that you’re awake. You definitely don’t want to go back to sleep now.
After five minutes of flipping through some flashcards, you make the mistake of scrolling through the notifications on your phone. Your eyes immediately lock on to some notifications from Instagram. Specifically, some DMs from Logan.
When your trembling fingers open your message thread with him, the slight shaking in your body stops when you browse through his messages. All of them were either the silliest of reels or the stupidest of memes. And under each and every one of them, he wrote a message: This made me think of you; or you definitely need to watch this; or even this is so stupid, but it made me laugh so hard that I had to send it you.
As you laugh while watching cat videos and overplayed vines, the desire for Logan seeps through your veins. He has no idea of the effect you have on him.
But you’re still going to keep your distance. You have to, even when you watch all of the reels he sends you, despite telling yourself that you need to go back to studying any minute now.
