pairing – garrett graham x reader
summary – one drunk shakespeare performance turns into old feelings, bad decisions, and garrett graham onstage where he absolutely does not belong.
warnings – alcohol, drunk characters, jealousy, post-breakup angst, suggestive jokes, strong language
notes from me – as voted!! thank u for the request, anon!! angst is not my strong suit – but i hope u enjoy!!
word count – 12.3k
navigation – part 02 | masterlist | taglist
The lobby’s already humming by the time she comes out. Coats sliding off shoulders, somebody laughing too loudly near the bar, plastic cups being passed hand to hand, perfume and beer and winter air and stage makeup all blurring together under the old gold wash of the sconces.
The crowd had arrived ready to be made part of something, which is always a little dangerous when the premise involves Shakespeare, liquor, and actors encouraged by applause to make increasingly worse decisions.
She stood near the far side of the room with the rest of the cast half-scattered around the floor, exactly where they’d been told to be for the pre-show mingling, smiling like her stomach wasn’t doing small, hostile little turns beneath all the pretty fabric.
The outfit helped. There were worse ways to feel emotionally unstable than in a pink corset that made her waist look tiny and a sheer midi skirt that moved around her legs in soft, layered pieces, all gauzy and petal-thin whenever she shifted her weight.
Glitter sat over the high points of her cheekbones, dusted down over her collarbones and the slope of her chest, catching every time she turned toward the lights.
Allie had done it with the focus of a surgeon and the morals of a drag queen, leaning in close in the dressing room and saying, “If one person doesn’t accidentally walk into a wall tonight, I’ve failed.”
So, yes. The outfit helped. It didn’t, unfortunately, make her immune to Garrett Graham walking into a room.
Which was rude, honestly. Deeply rude. Months should have been enough time for a body to stop reacting to one specific man. Months should have been enough time for the sight of broad shoulders in a fitted sweater and dark curls and that stupid easy way he moved through a crowd to become a normal campus sighting, like a flyer for open mic night or a freshman crying outside the library. Something observed. Something passed.
Instead, the second the doors opened and Garrett came in with Tucker beside him and Dean a half-step ahead, her hand tightened around the plastic cup she wasn’t drinking from, the cheap rim biting lightly into her palm.
He looked good, of course. It would’ve been too merciful of the universe to let him come in looking tired or badly dressed or even slightly humbled by the winter. But no. Olive-green fitted knit, black pants, chain at his throat catching under the lobby lights in one small flash that felt frankly targeted.
His hair was doing the annoying Garrett thing where it looked messy in a way she knew took no effort at all. He laughed at something Dean said as they came in, head tilting, mouth bright, shoulders loose, and the sound hit somewhere behind her ribs before she had time to brace for it.
Amazing. Fantastic. Great start.
She had broken up with him. This was a fact she kept returning to with the grim determination of a person trying to build a table out of wet cardboard.
She had done it. She had said the words. She had decided she couldn’t keep standing in the middle of whatever they were, feeling like she was being measured against a whole campus of girls who had touched him before her, after her, near her, around her, in stories told too casually by boys who forgot she was in the room.
She had been the one who got tired of swallowing the old hurt and pretending it wasn’t humiliating to know exactly how easily Garrett had been wanted before her.
And he had been tired too, in his own way. Tired of needing her to be fine when she wasn’t. Tired of not knowing what to do with all the stuff in her that didn’t arrange itself neatly around his games, his schedule, his charm, his ability to walk into a room and be adored without seeming to ask.
They had loved each other badly for a while. Or maybe not badly, maybe just youngly. Messily. With too much pride and not enough skill.
Still, some ugly little part of her had thought they might circle back eventually. Maybe they’d talk one night after a party. Maybe he’d text. Maybe she would. Maybe they’d find each other in the line at the coffee place and it wouldn’t feel like stepping wrong on a bruised ankle anymore.
And then there was Hannah. Pretty, sweet Hannah, with the clear voice and the soft eyes and the kind of face that made jealousy feel especially tacky, because what was she supposed to do, dislike someone for being lovely?
Garrett had been around her lately. Enough that people noticed. Enough that even if nobody had said anything directly, campus had done what campus always did and arranged a narrative out of sightings: Garrett and Hannah walking together after class, Garrett laughing beside her outside the music building, Garrett standing with his head bent toward her like he was listening properly. Garrett looking happy.
Now he’d barely made it three steps inside before his eyes found her. Hannah stood near the centre tables with Justin, hands wrapped around a cup, smiling up at him when he approached. Garrett’s face changed when he saw her. A small, immediate softening, a shift around the eyes, the kind of thing that had once made her feel chosen when it happened in her direction, and now made the inside of her mouth taste faintly metallic.
He crossed the room to Hannah like it was the most obvious place in the world for his body to go. She looked away before it could get humiliating.
“Careful,” Dean said beside her, not looking at Garrett, which meant he absolutely had been looking at Garrett. “You’re making the cup beg for mercy.”
She glanced down and realised the plastic had dented under her fingers. “It likes it.”
Dean’s mouth pulled into a grin. He looked almost offensively at ease in the lobby, all tall limbs and rich-boy posture, holding his drink with the lazy entitlement of someone who had never once questioned whether he belonged in a room.
Dean Di Laurentis was a ridiculous person in many, many ways, but he had turned out to be a surprisingly decent friend once sex had been removed from the table with a large, permanent sign reading Garrett’s ex, do not touch unless you enjoy being murdered by a teammate and possibly also God.
He still flirted as a reflex sometimes, but only in the harmless, atmospheric way he flirted with bartenders, professors, elderly women, and traffic lights. But mostly he’d just been a decent friend. He kept making stupid jokes. Kept inviting her into conversations when Garrett was around and things got weird. Kept pretending not to notice when she needed two seconds to recover from seeing her ex with his new girl.
“Very healthy dynamic you and the cup have,” Tucker said from Dean’s other side.
She looked at him, grateful for the dry landing. “Thank you. We’re working through some things.”
Tucker nodded solemnly. “Communication is key.”
Beau, who had been standing with them in the slightly dazed posture of a man who had agreed to come to theatre with hockey players and was now realising the bar had been a survival mechanism, lifted his drink. “I’m just excited to be culturally enriched.”
Dean clapped him on the shoulder. “You are so brave.”
“I know,” Beau said. “Nobody talks about it.”
She laughed, and for a second the tight little thing under her sternum loosened. That was the problem with Dean, and Tucker, and the strange leftover orbit of Garrett’s world. She had meant to break up with one man and accidentally kept access to a whole ecosystem of idiots she had become fond of against her will.
Dean had simply refused to leave the friend column. Tucker remained polite, steady, and impossible not to like. Logan wasn’t here tonight, thank God, because Logan in a theatre full of audience participation and alcohol felt like the kind of threat insurance companies wrote special clauses about.
Then, because the universe was committed to the theme of personal attack, Kendall walked in. She saw the hair first, glossy and perfect over a pink top, then the mouth, then the easy way Kendall scanned the room like she expected at least one person in it to have thought about her naked.
Which, fine. Maybe statistically likely. Kendall had been one of those Garrett-adjacent girls before they’d dated, and then again after. Ex-fuck buddy? Fling? Girl who existed in the category of people who made her feel like a loser for caring about categories at all? Whatever the technical term, Kendall’s presence tonight was almost funny in its cruelty.
Her ex. Her ex’s new almost-girlfriend. Her ex’s former something. All in the audience of a show where she was dressed like a fairy slut and encouraged to make people drink.
Theatre, she thought, with an internal hysteria so clean it almost felt spiritual.
The lobby lights flashed once, then again, the signal bouncing over everyone’s faces in white little bursts. Her cue to move. Her body recognised it before her brain fully did, all the nerves that had been wasting themselves on Garrett snapping toward the familiar machinery of performance.
Places. Breath. Smile. Shoulders back. Don’t trip in the heels. Don’t look at the man in the olive-green sweater like he took something with him and left a bruise.
She reached out and grabbed Dean’s arm, fingers closing around his sleeve, the grin coming on fast and bright because finally there was something to do with her face that wasn’t feel. “That’s my cue.”
Dean looked down at her hand, then at her, his grin softening in a way he would deny under oath. “Break a leg.”
“Thanks, guys.” She lifted her cup in a tiny salute toward Tucker and Beau. “Have fun. Drink up.”
“We’re here for the art,” Tucker said.
“No, you’re not,” she said, already backing away.
“Okay, fine,” Dean called after her. “We’re here for the hot girls in corsets.”
She flipped him off without turning around and heard him laugh as she slipped through the side door toward backstage.
The second the door shut behind her, the lobby noise turned muffled and thick, swallowed by black curtains and narrow hallways and the backstage smell of dust, hairspray, old wood, and bodies trying not to panic.
Allie was already there in her blue corset, hair curled, glitter catching at her temples, looking both gorgeous and like she might bite anyone who wished her good luck too earnestly.
“You saw him?” Allie asked immediately.
She blinked. “Hello to you too.”
Allie gave her the flat look of a woman in blue satin with no time for lies. “Did you see him?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And he has hair and legs and unfortunately remains three-dimensional.”
Allie made a sympathetic face. “Devastating.”
“And Hannah’s here.”
“Mm.” Allie’s eyes flicked toward the curtain like she could psychically locate every romantic complication in the room. “Saw that.”
“And Kendall.”
Allie’s mouth opened. Closed. Then she made a small, horrified sound of appreciation. “Oh, that’s camp.”
“It’s a fucking hate crime.”
“It is a little bit a hate crime.” Allie stepped closer, eyes sweeping over her corset with professional focus. “Okay. Tits?”
Blessedly, this was their actual ritual, and therefore required no emotional processing.
She looked down at Allie’s chest, tugged the centre of the blue corset a fraction, adjusted one strap, then gave a decisive nod. “Perfect. Mine?”
Allie leaned in, examined her like a very affectionate costume mistress, then hooked two careful fingers at the top edge of the pink corset and tugged it down half an inch. Enough to weaponise the garment as intended. “There. Sitting pretty.”
“Excellent. Teeth?”
Allie bared her teeth with all the elegance of a show pony and none of the shame.
She checked quickly. “Good. Mine?”
Allie peered, nodded. “Perfect.”
They clapped hands once, sharp and familiar, palms landing with a tiny smack that steadied something under her skin.
“We got this,” Allie said.
“We got this,” she repeated, and for a second she almost believed it in every possible direction.
Out front, Dexter’s voice cut through the curtain, bright and obscene and already eating the room alive. “Come on, bitches. Let me hear you all scream for our gay show. A midsummer night’s… scream!”
The crowd erupted. Screams, clapping, whistles, someone banging on a table hard enough that the stage manager beside them closed her eyes as if praying for structural integrity.
She slipped to the edge of the curtain and peered out through the narrow gap, not enough to be seen, just enough to let the room arrive in pieces. Dexter stood in the centre of the stage, arms thrown wide in glitter and velvet, grinning like he’d invented bad decisions.
The audience had already given itself over, faces lit with anticipation and alcohol, chairs angled toward the stage, drinks raised.
Her eyes found Garrett before she meant them to. Middle row. Centre. Sitting with Dean, Tucker, and Beau, one ankle hooked out slightly, shoulders broad beneath the olive sweater, head turned toward Dean as if Dean had just said something deeply stupid.
Dean looked far too pleased with himself for a man who had not yet committed his worst crime of the evening. Tucker sat beside them with his drink low in one hand, and a piece of fruit in the other, expression calm but alert, which was Tucker’s version of thrilled.
But Hannah wasn’t with them. Hannah was sitting with Justin, closer to the stage on a small couch, laughing at something he said, her body turned toward him.
Weird.
Her pulse gave one irritating little misfire, not quite relief because she refused to dignify it with a name.
She stepped back from the curtain. No. Absolutely not. This mattered tonight. The show mattered.
She had spent weeks memorising beats that would all go violently off-script the second audience volunteers got involved. She had sweated through rehearsals, bruised one knee during movement work, and spent half the afternoon in a dressing room getting glitter applied to her cleavage with the seriousness of a religious rite. She was not going to let Garrett Graham’s seating choices turn her into a stupid, lovesick girl before curtain.
Onstage, Dexter continued, voice ringing with manic delight. “Now, virgins oft find Drunk Shakespeare scary. If it’s your first time, I’ll pop your cherry.” The crowd whooped at that, because of course they did. “Now, there’s only one rule, my sweet, gentle twinks. When an actor calls ‘line,’ everyone drinks.”
The audience clapped.
She rolled her neck once, feeling the tiny stretch pull through the back of it, then shook her hands out at her sides. The nerves were still there, bright and quick, but they had shifted shape. Theatre nerves now. Useful nerves. The kind that sat in her fingertips and lungs instead of rotting behind her ribs.
The stage manager pointed. She went.
The heat hit first, that blunt stage-light warmth that made the glitter on her chest feel suddenly alive. Then the room, all those faces lifting toward her as she crossed into Dexter’s orbit in a swish of pink fabric and sheer skirt, heels clicking once, twice, three times across the boards. She leaned up and theatrically whispered into his ear, one hand cupped dramatically around her mouth.
Dexter gasped like she had told him the pope was pregnant. “No.”
She widened her eyes at the audience, hand pressed to her chest.
Dexter turned slowly back to them, face arranged in tragic solemnity. “I’m so sorry, everyone. It seems that the actors that were going to play our four young lovers have all been struck by a terrible affliction.”
Bec, who was sitting on the front of the stage, called out, all concern and sweetness. “True love?”
Dexter snapped his gaze to her. “No. Gonorrhea.”
The laugh that went through the room was immediate and generous, a wave of it rolling up toward the stage. She used the swell of it, the cover of everyone’s open mouths and clapping hands, to let her eyes cut once toward the middle row.
Garrett was looking at her. Full attention, quiet in the middle of all that noise, his mouth not quite smiling anymore. His gaze had caught somewhere between her face and the shimmer at her collarbones and the pink corset sitting exactly as Allie had arranged it, and the tiny satisfaction that moved through her was so petty and so human she almost forgave herself for it on the spot.
Good, she thought. Look.
Then she turned away before the look could do anything worse to her.
Dexter clapped his hands together, delighted with the room and himself. “Now, tragedy has stolen from us. Disease has humbled us. Theatre, as usual, has failed to plan responsibly. Which means we’ll be needing some brave volunteers from the audience.”
A ripple went through the crowd instantly. People sank in their chairs. People pointed at friends. One girl near the aisle visibly tried to become part of the wall.
Dexter shaded his eyes with one hand, scanning. “Oh,” he said suddenly, voice turning syrupy with threat. “Would you look at this couple?”
He pointed straight at Hannah and Justin. Hannah’s eyes went huge. Justin started shaking his head before Dexter had finished the sentence.
“No?” Dexter said. “You’re saying no? To art? To community? To me, personally?” He placed a hand over his heart as if wounded, then brightened at once. “Give it up for our Hermia and Lysander!”
The audience cheered with the relief of people watching someone else be sacrificed.
She moved down the steps and into the aisle before Hannah and Justin could fully disappear into the couch. Hannah was laughing now, nervous but game, one hand over her mouth. Justin looked like a man discovering, too late, that theatre people could smell fear.
She reached Hannah first, offering her hand with the clean, stage-bright smile that made everything easier because it gave her a role to stand inside.
“Come on,” she said, low enough only Hannah could hear, and because Hannah was Hannah, sweet even while being publicly dragged into Shakespeare, she took her hand and laughed.
“I’m going to be so bad at this,” Hannah whispered.
“That’s the point,” she murmured back, helping her up.
Justin followed after with the helpless smile of a boy who had accepted doom because the crowd was clapping too loudly for pride. She got them both onto the stage and placed them where Dexter directed, Hannah flushing prettily under the lights, Justin blinking out at the audience like he’d been kidnapped by improv.
“Okay,” Dexter said, pacing with predatory glee. “Next, I need a big, strong man to play Demetrius.”
The words had barely landed before her eyes betrayed her. Just a flick. Just one stupid, automatic glance across the lights to Garrett in the middle row. A mistake, obviously. Fatal, theatrically speaking.
But Dean saw it. Dean Di Laurentis, who had been placed on this earth to make every delicate situation worse with astonishing commitment, sat up so fast Tucker’s drink nearly sloshed.
He cupped both hands around his mouth and called, in a voice so bright and clear it could have reached a neighbouring county, “Me, Garrett Graham, I want to be in the show!”
The room exploded. Garrett turned his head toward Dean so slowly it should have come with a warning sound.
Even from the stage, she could see his mouth move around something furious and silent. Dean was grinning like an angel with a criminal record.
Tucker had turned slightly away, shoulders shaking once, his hand pressed over his mouth in the weakest possible attempt at neutrality. Beau looked stunned and delighted, like he had accidentally attended a live execution and discovered he supported the death penalty.
Dexter spun toward the commotion with the instantaneous focus of a shark smelling blood. “Oh?”
Garrett was shaking his head before Dexter took a step. “No. That’s okay.”
Dean leaned into him, whispering aggressively. Garrett shoved him back with one hand, eyes narrowed, and Dean shoved right back with the delighted persistence of a man who had decided friendship meant physical betrayal.
Dexter held out his arms. “Come here, pookie.”
Another roar from the audience.
Garrett closed his eyes briefly. “No, I’m alright,” he said, loud enough to be heard and absolutely not loud enough to save himself.
“Oh, you’re ours now,” Dexter sang.
Dean gave Garrett one more firm push toward the aisle, and Tucker, traitor that he apparently was, shifted his knees just enough to make the route easier.
The audience clapped and whooped as Garrett stood, dragging a hand over the back of his neck in that particular way he did when he was trying not to smile and trying very hard not to murder his best friend in public.
He looked up at the stage. At her, and for one second, the whole room narrowed around the line of his gaze and the warm stage lights and the stupid gold chain at his throat.
Then he came down the aisle. It was unfair, how much space he took up without trying. How the crowd reacted to him, the grin threatening at one corner of his mouth, the easy athlete’s confidence even under embarrassment.
He climbed the stage steps and stepped into the light beside her, close enough that the scent of him reached her through hairspray and dust and other people’s drinks. Clean soap, warm skin, a faint trace of whatever cologne he used so casually it had once lived on her pillow for three days after he left.
Fuck.
He cleared his throat softly, dipping his head just enough that it looked casual to everyone else. “Hey.”
Her smile came tight-lipped and bright, the exact facial equivalent of a locked door with flowers painted on it. “Hi.”
Garrett’s eyes flicked over her face, then down for the smallest, most controlled fraction of a second before returning to her eyes. Enough to be noticed by the part of her that had spent too many months trying to forget exactly what it felt like to have Garrett Graham look at her like he remembered her.
His mouth twitched, barely. “Nice outfit.”
Her heartbeat kicked in a way she deeply resented. “Nice kidnapping.”
“Dean’s dead after this.”
She hummed. “Get in line.”
Dexter slid between them like a glittery demon with perfect timing. “Now,” he announced to the audience, “we just need a Helena. She’s a real messy bitch who wants to get in Demetrius’ pants. Can anyone relate?”
Half the women in the room raised their hands. A chorus of “me!” and “over here!” and one very loud “I can fix him!” rose up so fast the stage nearly shook with it.
She scoffed before she could stop herself, rolling her eyes toward Allie in the wings, who was visibly biting her cheek to keep from laughing.
Garrett, unfortunately, heard it. She felt him glance at her, felt the question in it, but she kept her gaze forward with the grim dignity of a woman refusing to be emotionally undone by audience participation.
Then Kendall stood. She rose from the side section with terrifying composure, drink abandoned on her chair, hair falling over one shoulder, smiling like she had been waiting her entire life to be called a messy bitch by a man in velvet.
“Allow me,” Kendall said.
The audience lost its mind again. For one long second, she stared at the middle distance and considered the possibility that a chandelier might fall. Not on Kendall, or maybe on Kendall. But generally. A small technical emergency. Something with paperwork. Anything. Please, anything.
Kendall climbed onto the stage without waiting for assistance, because clearly being picked was for people with shame, and crossed directly to Garrett’s other side. She stood close enough that her shoulder nearly brushed his sleeve, smiling at him with the kind of familiarity that did absolutely nothing good to the inside of her body.
Garrett went still. She was close enough to catch it: the minute tightening around his mouth, the way his eyes flicked once toward her and then away, as if suddenly aware that every person from every messy little corner of his romantic history had been arranged on the same stage under theatrical lighting like an evidence board with cleavage.
Dexter looked Kendall up and down, delighted beyond measure. “Not even going to wait to be picked. That is messy.”
Kendall gave a little bow.
“She understands the assignment,” Dexter said, then threw both arms wide. “Let’s hear it for our four young lovers!”
The audience clapped and cheered, loud and bright and thrilled with the specific chaos they didn’t yet understand they had been handed. Hannah laughed into her hands. Justin raised one awkward arm like he was accepting election to a position he had never campaigned for. Kendall smiled like a cat in a warm window.
Garrett stood between the past and the present and whatever the hell Kendall counted as, looking for once like charm might not be enough to get him out of the room alive.
And she clapped with the rest of them, glitter catching at her chest, pink skirt shifting around her knees, smile fixed beautifully in place while something hot and awful and very, very funny curled under her ribs.
Drunk Shakespeare had decided to become personal.
Hannah turned slightly toward Kendall while Dexter fussed with the prop scrolls at centre stage, and because the stage was small and cruel and acoustics had chosen violence, she heard Hannah say, light and a little flustered, “Oh– No. He’s not… he’s not locked. He’s free to unlock anyone he wants.”
The words landed weirdly. Small and sideways, slipping beneath the laughter and clapping and settling under her skin with a cold little click. She glanced across before she could stop herself.
Hannah was smiling like she meant to make it a joke, shoulders lifting in that sweet, awkward way of hers, and Kendall was looking back at her with one brow tipped up, amused, curious, maybe already smelling blood in the water because Kendall had the exact face of a girl who knew when information was about to become socially useful.
Garrett, blessedly or horribly, didn’t seem to have heard. He was looking out into the crowd with the faintly strained expression of a man realising too late that volunteer theatre was distinct from hostage-taking only by tone.
He’s not locked. Free to unlock anyone he wants.
For a second she just stood there in pink glitter and stage lights and felt the phrase rearrange the last few weeks with humiliating speed. Garrett and Hannah walking together after class. Garrett bending his head toward her outside the music building.
Garrett disappearing upstairs with her at Dean and Beau’s party, which had seemed, at the time, like the sort of thing a girl could absolutely survive elegantly if she was normal and mature and not already two vodka sodas past good decision-making.
She had not survived it especially elegantly. She remembered the kitchen at that party in flashes: Allie’s hand closing around her wrist when she reached for her phone; one of her theatre friends saying, “Nope, we love you, but absolutely not,” while physically sliding the device into her own bra like some kind of benevolent phone jail.
Dean, of all people, appearing in the doorway and immediately clocking the entire emotional scene with one sweep of his eyes before saying, very carefully, “You good?” which had nearly made her cry because Dean being gentle was frankly an upsetting genre.
She remembered insisting she was fine with the aggressive brightness of a woman who was visibly not fine. She remembered saying she wanted to call him and everyone in a three-foot radius saying, almost in chorus, “You broke up with him,” which was unfair because she knew that. She had been there. She had done the breaking.
She simply hadn’t expected the broken pieces to keep behaving like they belonged to her.
And now Hannah, pretty sweet Hannah, apparently didn’t even have the lock. Great. Cool. The universe had mistaken her for a stronger woman.
Dexter clapped sharply, dragging everyone back to the next beat, and the cast began moving with practiced chaos around the volunteers. Hannah and Justin were led toward their first marks.
Garrett and Kendall were swept half-backstage for the timing of the bit, and she went with them because that was the blocking and because theatre, unlike her personal life, had cues that people were expected to follow.
The backstage corridor was dim and narrow after the assault of stage lights, all black curtains and coiled cables and a folding table crowded with sweating bottles, plastic shot cups, cheap wine, and the kind of cut fruit someone had optimistically provided as if oranges could meaningfully alter the trajectory of a cast being encouraged to drink on command.
From the stage, the play kicked off in full ridiculous motion, Dexter’s voice booming, Allie already chiming in with something bright and filthy enough to make the audience scream.
Garrett came to a stop beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him again, which was deeply unnecessary. Kendall leaned one hip against the wall like she had been born under a backstage cue light and immediately picked up a tiny bottle of something clear from the wet bar, examining it with interest.
She cleared her throat, because somebody had to be professional and apparently it was going to be the girl currently one Hannah sentence away from emotional combustion.
“Um,” she said, looking mostly at the space between Garrett and Kendall rather than directly at either of them, “so, after this we’ve got, like, ten minutes of mechanicals. Just stay back here until we pull you again. Feel free to help yourselves to the wet bar.”
She turned to go, already reaching for the curtain edge, already grateful for the stage and the next line and the exact relief of becoming someone with a task.
Garrett’s voice caught her before she made it. “Hey– wait.”
Her hand tightened on the curtain. For a second she considered pretending she hadn’t heard him. The stage was loud enough. She could’ve sold it. But his voice did the same stupid thing it always did, slipped through the noise and found the part of her body that still answered before pride could get there.
She turned back, pink skirt brushing her calves, smile small and sharp enough to cut if handled wrong.
“Sorry. I gotta go.” Her eyes flicked over him, then toward the stage. “I’m in a play, remember? It’s not all about Garrett Graham all the time.”
Kendall made a delighted little sound, the kind of reaction a person gave when they were thrilled to be standing close enough to drama without being asked to mediate it.
Garrett’s jaw shifted. He looked tired suddenly, or maybe just less protected by the lights and the audience and everybody wanting him to be easy. “That’s not fair.”
Her brows drew together before she could stop them. Enough for his eyes to catch on it. “Isn’t it?”
The silence after that was tiny. Barely half a second. Something moved across his face, quick and almost hurt, and the worst part was that it worked.
Garrett had always had a face that could make a person start doubting the evidence in their own hands. She hated that. Hated that even now, with Hannah’s almost-not-a-confession still ringing in her ear and Kendall standing two feet away with a shot glass and the whole crowd waiting beyond the curtain, she could see him wounded and feel the old reflex to smooth it over.
But she didn’t. She turned and went back onto the stage before softness could become another mistake.
After that, the play did what Drunk Shakespeare always did and became, by degrees, less a performance than a ritual sacrifice to timing, alcohol, and the collective human desire to watch attractive people make terrible choices under lights.
The first twenty minutes held together beautifully, which was always the danger period because it gave everyone false confidence. Then Dexter called line, the audience drank, Allie missed a cue because someone in the front row had yelled something obscene about fairies, and the whole room tipped into the exact kind of glorious disorder the show had been built to survive.
She got drunk in increments. The stage was hot and the crowd was loud and every time someone called line, the audience roared and drank and the cast drank with them, and each sip loosened a different little screw.
The first made the lights softer around the edges. The second put a pleasant warmth behind her cheeks. The third arrived after she did a shot with a woman in the second row, and that one slid straight down into the part of her brain responsible for restraint and started rearranging furniture.
The crowd got worse too, which made them better. People who had arrived stiff-backed and curious were now leaning forward with elbows on knees, shouting suggestions, chanting for kisses, calling line whenever anyone even looked like they might forget something.
Dean had become an issue in the middle row. Every time she crossed downstage, he found a new way to be loud about it. Tucker, beside him, kept attempting to look like he wasn’t amused, which was useless because his shoulders kept moving. Beau had committed to the evening with the serene panic of a man who had not expected Shakespeare to involve this much audience yelling.
At one point, she came out through the side entrance and climbed onto the little platform near the gold stripper pole, because some brilliant, sick mind on the production team had decided the fairy realm needed a metallic vertical feature and large detachable wings.
She was meant to spin once, land, say something sharp and enchanted, and gesture toward the next entrance.
She remembered the spin. She did that part beautifully, actually. One hand around the pole, pink skirt lifting in a soft sheer flare around her legs, heels catching the light, glitter sparkling down her chest like she had been dipped in bad decisions by a very competent stylist.
The crowd whooped. Someone screamed. The room tilted around her in a pretty, golden blur and for one perfect second she felt exactly as she was supposed to feel: ridiculous, lovely, untouchable, alive.
Then Dean wolf-whistled. It was loud. Horrifically loud. A piercing, obnoxious, jock-house wolf whistle that cut right through the cheers and hit her so unexpectedly she lost the line completely.
She snapped her head toward the middle row and saw him cupping his hands around his mouth, grinning like a demon. Her mouth opened. Nothing Shakespeare-adjacent arrived.
Instead she dissolved into giggles. The room loved this, obviously. The room loved anything that looked like the wheels coming off.
She pointed at Dean from the platform, trying very hard to gather dignity around the fact that she was clinging to a gold stripper pole in a pink corset. “Fuck you, Dean!”
The audience screamed. Dean clutched his chest like he’d been blessed.
She pressed the back of one hand to her mouth, laughing too hard to recover the line, and finally threw her free hand up. “Line?!”
The response was immediate and feral. The whole room yelled with her. Cups lifted. Shots went down. The cast drank. The crowd drank. Somewhere in the back, the stage manager probably aged ten years.
She took her own drink from Allie, who had appeared at the edge of the platform with the solemnity of a priest offering communion, and knocked it back while the audience chanted approval.
By the time Kendall and Garrett were brought back out, the room had fully abandoned subtlety. Hannah and Justin had gone through their early lover beats with surprising commitment, Justin somehow becoming funnier the more terrified he got, and Hannah turning out to have a very sweet, very deadly stage presence that made the audience adopt her almost instantly.
Which was annoying, not because Hannah had done anything wrong, but because she was actually good. Game and bright and blushing every time Dexter flirted with her in character.
It was just difficult to fully enjoy another woman’s charm when some small, gremlin part of your heart had already filed her under girl Garrett might have chosen.
Garrett and Kendall came out from the wings tipsy enough that the shift was visible before either of them said a word. Kendall stumbled on the first step, her heel caught and her balance tipped sideways. Garrett reached automatically, one hand closing at her waist to steady her.
They both laughed. It was nothing. It was literally nothing. A normal human reflex. Someone stumbled, someone else caught them.
If Tucker had done it, she would have thought, oh good, nobody died. If Dean had done it, she would have assumed he’d been waiting for the chance.
But Garrett’s hand was on Kendall’s waist, and Kendall was giggling up at him, and Garrett’s face had opened with that easy amused warmth he gave away like it cost him nothing, and her body reacted before any reasonable thought could intervene.
A small, ugly twist low in her stomach. A tightening in her throat. The stage lights, suddenly too hot.
Dexter swept in between them with a flourish before she could stand there and stare like an idiot. “I made this love potion special for the boys,” he announced.
That was her cue. She moved forward with two shot glasses, pink plastic catching under the lights, and handed one first to Justin, then to Garrett.
When Garrett’s fingers closed around the cup, they brushed hers. Barely. A nothing touch. The kind of contact that could have been absorbed by the noise of the room if her skin had not been, apparently, a traitor with archival access.
His eyes were already on her. His gaze burned straight into hers, dark and steady beneath the stage lights, and for one second the whole drunken theatre seemed to thin out around the edges.
She looked up at him through her lashes because the role let her, because the stage gave her permission to make things look deliberate that would have been unbearable anywhere else.
Garrett’s jaw clenched. Tiny and viciously satisfying. The muscle near his cheek jumping once like something in him had been pulled too tight.
Good, she thought again, meaner this time and more miserable underneath it. Feel something.
Dexter was still talking. She had no idea what he was saying for half a breath. Then the room surged around the line and she found herself stepping back into place while Garrett and Justin tossed back the shots.
Garrett swallowed his cleanly, throat moving, mouth tightening around whatever cheap sweet thing they had poured into the glass. His eyes flicked briefly to the shot glass with a look of disgust, and despite everything, despite Kendall and Hannah and the horrible circus of her own chest, she almost smiled.
Garrett Graham could take a check into the boards and keep skating, but one suspiciously fruity theatre shot had him looking betrayed by the arts.
“When they came to,” Dexter cried, “they only had eyes for Helena!”
He guided Kendall to the little throne set up stage left, all gold paint and fake flowers and one glittering cushion that had seen too many drunk volunteers in its lifetime.
Kendall sat with immediate commitment, crossing one leg over the other, smiling as Dexter placed a crown on her head. The audience oohed obediently, the sound rising and falling like they had been waiting all night to worship messy women in prop crowns.
Dexter turned slowly, eyes wild with manufactured revelation. “But, fools and mortals. Who will win fair Helena’s hand? How is a buxom maiden ever to decide?” He pressed one finger to his lips, pretending deep thought. “Oh. I know.”
Two of the cast members came out from the wings and began removing the oversized wings from the gold stripper pole with the solemnity of stagehands handling sacred objects.
The audience started murmuring before Dexter even said it, anticipation spreading fast and stupid through the rows.
Dexter threw one arm toward the cleared pole. “How about a good old-fashioned dance-off?”
The room detonated. Justin immediately pointed at Garrett.
Garrett pointed right back at Justin, shaking his head with a laugh already breaking through. “No. Nope. Him.”
Justin shook his head so hard his hair moved. “Absolutely not.”
The answer built from three voices to ten to half the room in under five seconds.
“Garrett! Garrett! Garrett!”
Dean was, of course, leading the chant with both fists in the air like he had founded a religion and Garrett’s humiliation was the first commandment. Beau had joined in with startling enthusiasm.
Garrett dragged one hand over his face, laughing now despite himself. “Fuck you guys.”
The crowd only got louder. He flipped them off, which made everything worse. People screamed. Dean looked like he might actually ascend. Dexter clutched Garrett by the shoulder and spun him toward the pole with the kind of glee that suggested he had been waiting for an athletic man with public name recognition all night.
And Garrett, because he was Garrett, because he had never once been capable of doing anything halfway once a room started chanting his name, gave in.
A roll of his shoulders, a shake of his head, a laugh under his breath like he couldn’t believe this was his life. He stepped toward the open space, the olive sweater catching over the lines of his chest and arms, chain flashing once at his throat when he moved.
The music shifted into something bass-heavy and obscene. The audience reacted before he’d even started properly, because anticipation had already made fools of them all.
He put one hand on the pole. Her stomach dropped.
It wasn’t jealousy this time, or not only jealousy, at least. This was worse because it came from memory, hot and immediate and embarrassingly intact.
Her body remembered before her mind could file an objection. Garrett on a dance floor with one hand at her waist and the other holding his drink above the crowd, laughing into her ear because she had accused him of having no rhythm and then immediately proving her wrong with the sort of casual hip movement that had made her lose the thread of her own insult.
Garrett behind her at some party near Briar, mouth near her temple, his hand spread low on her stomach as they moved with too many people around them and not enough air between them.
Garrett at three in the morning, waking her up in his bed with a kiss to her shoulder and his voice rough with sleep and want, murmuring something filthy and fond that had made her laugh into his pillow before he rolled her beneath him.
His hips. Fuck his fucking hips.
He hadn’t even done anything yet. That was the insulting part. One hand on the pole, one foot shifting into the beat, mouth still curved in that half-embarrassed, half-cocky grin, and already her brain had lit up with every inconvenient piece of him she had spent months trying to box away.
His hands on her thighs. The chain against her mouth when she used to pull him down by it. The warmth of his chest under her cheek. His laugh in the dark after she told him he was insufferable and he said, yeah, but you’re awake.
The room kept chanting. Garrett moved his hips once, barely more than a test, and the audience screamed like they’d paid extra for the privilege.
She couldn’t breathe right. Which was dramatic and stupid because she was in public and tipsy and glittering and supposed to be part of the bit, not standing stage right with a fake smile and a real ache opening under it.
The weird sick fold of jealousy and want and regret and alcohol, all going warm and sour together beneath the corset until the boning felt too tight around her ribs.
It wasn’t fair. That was the childish truth of it, and because she was drunk enough to be honest with herself but not drunk enough to enjoy it, the unfairness hit harder than anything else.
It wasn’t fair that she had broken up with him and still wanted to be the only person allowed to miss him. It wasn’t fair that he looked good. It wasn’t fair that Hannah might not be dating him and somehow that made everything worse, because it took away the clean excuse and left only Garrett being Garrett and her being weak in his direction.
It wasn’t fair that Kendall sat crowned on the throne, laughing like this was fun, like Garrett dancing for her was a joke and not a blade sliding neatly between old ribs.
Garrett glanced toward her. Maybe by accident. Maybe not. His hand still on the pole. Music crawling through the floorboards. Crowd screaming his name. His eyes found hers across the stage, and whatever he saw on her face made his grin flicker.
That was enough. Before he could start properly, before he could move in a way that would make the whole room lose its mind and make her hate every nerve ending she owned, she slipped backward into the wing.
The noise dimmed by half the second the curtain edge fell between her and the stage. The chant still thudded through the black fabric. Music pulsed through the floor into the heels of her shoes. The backstage air was cooler and dustier, smelling like hairspray and electrical heat and the cheap citrus of sliced oranges sweating on the wet bar table.
She took one breath. It did absolutely nothing. So she grabbed the nearest shot off the table and downed it.
It was tequila. Or vodka. Or something pretending to be one of those while failing several requirements. It burned down her throat and hit her empty-ish stomach with a hard bright slap, and she bent slightly at the waist for one second, one hand braced on the folding table, eyes squeezed shut.
From onstage, the crowd screamed louder. Garrett must have started dancing.
She laughed once under her breath, but it came out wrong. Thin and sharp and almost nothing.
“Fuck,” she whispered to the bottles, the cables, the indifferent black curtain. Then she pressed the heel of her hand lightly against the glitter at her chest, right over the too-fast beat underneath, and tried to remember which cue came next.
The curtain shifted. The black edge pulling back a few inches, enough for sound to leak in harder and stage light to cut across the folding table in a pale gold stripe, catching on the wet rings around the shot glasses and the glitter dusted over her knuckles.
For one stupid second, she thought it might be Garrett. Which was unfair of her body, honestly. Delusional. Embarrassing. The kind of reflex that should have been taken out back and put down humanely months ago.
But it wasn’t Garrett, it was Hannah.
Hannah slipped through the curtain, cheeks flushed from the stage lights, hair a little loosened from whatever Dexter had made her do three minutes earlier, looking so pretty and concerned that it somehow made the shot burn worse in hindsight.
She blinked into the dim backstage space, eyes finding her by the wet bar.
“Hi,” Hannah said, just soft enough that the stage didn’t steal it. “Are you okay?”
The question was so genuinely asked that it hit her all wrong. There was no smugness, no little victory tucked under the sweetness. No hidden I win, you lose.
Only Hannah standing there looking at a girl she barely knew like she had noticed something go sideways and had enough kindness or poor survival instincts to follow it.
She nodded too fast. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine.” The word came out bright and brittle and not remotely worth believing, so she picked up another shot glass because at least that gave her hands something less incriminating to do. “Sorry. You should… go back out to–” She swallowed, the stage noise pushing at her back like a wave. “To your boyfriend.”
Hannah’s brows pulled together immediately. “Garrett?”
The name did an annoying little thing in the air between them.
She lifted one shoulder, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around lightly poisoned. “Unless you’ve got another one out there.”
“No.” Hannah shook her head, a little laugh catching awkwardly in her throat. “No, he’s not– no. He’s not my boyfriend. Like, at all.”
The shot was already at her mouth, which was convenient because it meant she didn’t have to answer right away. She tipped it back. It was worse than the last one, or maybe her throat had just begun filing formal complaints.
Her eyes watered slightly, which was humiliating, but not as humiliating as how quickly the sentence went through her.
He’s not my boyfriend. Like, at all.
She set the empty glass down with more care than it deserved. “Seems like it.”
Hannah’s face did something small, like she was figuring out where all the broken glass was on the floor and trying not to step in it. “Kendall… Kendall told me about you,” she said, and her voice gentled around the last word like it had become fragile without permission. “Just– just before. About you and Garrett.”
Fucking typical that Kendall, who had walked onto the stage like a human plot device in heels, had found time between accepting the crown and letting Garrett steady her waist to give Hannah the emotional program notes.
Kendall had probably delivered the whole thing with the delicate sympathy of a woman enjoying herself enormously. Here’s the ex. Careful, she bites. Also she looks like she might cry if he takes his shirt off. Enjoy the show.
She sucked at her teeth, gaze dropping to the table because looking at Hannah was too much like looking at someone who had accidentally wandered into the aftermath of a storm and was now politely asking if the roof had always been in the pool. “What about us?”
Hannah hesitated.
From out front, the crowd roared. Something heavy thumped against the stage. Dexter screamed, “Art!” like that was either a line or an emergency, and somebody in the audience started chanting Garrett’s name again with the persistence of people who had been given a hot athlete and no adult supervision.
Hannah glanced back at the curtain, then at her. “I mean… I think that he–” She stopped, mouth pressing together for a second as if she knew exactly how ridiculous it sounded to deliver emotional speculation in the wings of Drunk Shakespeare. “I mean, it seems like he misses you. Or I think he does.”
The words should have landed soft, but they didn’t. They hit something already bruised and made it flare, sharp and stupidly tender.
Her fingers curled around the edge of the table. The glitter on her chest caught in the sliver of light from the stage, every breath making the shimmer move like her body had decided to keep performing even after she left the scene.
“You’ll miss your cue, Hannah,” she said, because if she gave that sentence even one inch of room it might start growing teeth. “You should be out there.”
Hannah didn’t move right away. “I’m not trying to–”
“No, I know.” She looked up, and the smile she gave her wasn’t unkind, which felt like a miracle considering the amount of alcohol and old heartbreak currently operating the machinery. “Seriously. You should go.”
The crowd screamed again. Louder this time. Filthy, delighted, entirely too invested. Against every good instinct she had left, she glanced through the gap in the curtain.
Garrett was shirtless now. Somewhere in the thirty seconds since she had fled the stage, theatre had found a way to remove his sweater and expose the broad, warm chest she once slept on more often than her own pillow to an audience already one group chant away from needing a priest.
His olive knit was gone, probably flung over the throne or into Dexter’s evil little hands, and he was in the middle of the stage with the gold chain still against his chest, skin warm under the lights, hair messed from someone’s hand or his own or the general chaos of being cheered at by drunk college students.
Kendall sat on the throne, crowned and laughing, one hand braced on the armrest as Garrett, grinning now in full showman surrender, backed himself toward her lap with a ridiculous over-the-shoulder look that made the audience shriek.
He wasn’t touching her in any real way. It was theatre. It was parody. It was drunk, stupid, harmless, exactly the kind of thing the show had designed itself to produce. Then he playfully ground back against her knees. Kendall threw her head back laughing.
The audience nearly came apart.
She picked up another shot and swallowed it before her body could decide whether it wanted to throw up, cry, or walk back out there and commit an act of artistic violence.
“Yeah,” she said, voice flat around the burn. “Really seems like he misses me.”
Hannah’s face fell a little. Understanding, maybe. The soft, useless kind.
“I should–” Hannah said, then stopped, glancing back toward the stage as her name was yelled by Allie with the kind of sharp backstage friendliness that meant get the fuck out here right now. “Okay. I’m going. But he’s not my boyfriend.” She stepped backward through the curtain, then paused for one second with the black fabric caught in her hand. “And I don’t think Kendall knows as much as she thinks she does.”
Then she was gone, swallowed by light and noise and the bright, drunken mess of the play.
The rest of the show happened in pieces after that. She hit her cues. Mostly. She said her lines or called line with enough timing to make the audience scream.
She took another shot with a man in the front row. She watched Dexter nearly lose his balance on a prop stump and recover with such flamboyant rage that the crowd gave him a standing ovation for remaining vertical.
Allie, drunk and radiant and too talented for the amount of chaos around her, at one point went entirely off script, seemingly rambling about Sean. But she performed it so wonderfully she got a standing ovation anyway. Kendall committed fully to being worshipped as Helena, which was deeply annoying and, if one were being fair under duress, objectively good stage instinct.
Garrett was good too. That part she hated most. He should have been awkward. A little stiff, maybe. A hockey player dragged onstage by his horrible friends, laughing through the embarrassment, throwing out just enough charm to survive.
Instead he turned out to have the infuriating competence of a man whose body understood audience approval in any room. He was loose by the end, tipsy and grinning, leaning into Dexter’s prompts, making Justin break character twice, letting Allie drape a flower crown over his curls while he bowed with stupid solemnity.
Shirt back on eventually, thank God, though not before half the room had wolf-whistled itself hoarse and Dean had nearly needed medical intervention from laughing so hard.
Every time Garrett looked toward her, she looked somewhere else.
The final scene arrived in the kind of glorious collapse only live drunk theatre could earn. The crowd was wasted. The cast was worse. Somebody had spilled red wine near stage left and covered it with a fake fern like that solved anything.
Dexter’s closing speech had become half Shakespeare, half slurred nonsense, and by the time the last line landed, the audience was on its feet.
The applause was hot and huge and messy, rolling over the stage in waves. She stood with the cast, hand linked with Allie’s, pink skirt sticking lightly to the back of her knees, glitter still catching along her skin, the room swimming beautifully and terribly in front of her.
She bowed and nearly overcommitted the angle, Allie tightening her grip just enough to keep her upright without making it obvious.
“Subtle,” Allie muttered through her smile.
“I’m a professional,” she whispered back.
They bowed again. The audience roared. Dean had both hands above his head, clapping like a lunatic. Tucker stood beside him, smiling despite himself. Beau looked sunburned from secondhand embarrassment and deeply changed as a person.
Garrett, somewhere behind them with the volunteers, clapped too, and she didn’t look at him until the lights dropped enough to give her mercy.
Backstage afterward was a disaster of bodies, costumes, half-empty cups, and everyone speaking too loudly because their ears were full of applause and alcohol.
People hugged each other with the sweaty urgency of survivors. Someone cried because they always did after a show, even a show where a man in fairy wings had yelled drink, sluts at a paying audience.
Allie was dragged into a cluster of cast members near the mirror, blue corset flashing as she laughed with her head tipped back. Dexter had already acquired a bottle of champagne from somewhere and was calling it hydration for homosexuals, which nobody had the energy to correct.
She had just leaned against the edge of the dressing table, one heel half-slipped from her foot and her throat dry enough to make swallowing feel like an additional challenge on top of all the others, when Garrett appeared in front of her holding a cup of water.
Filled properly, condensation gathered along the outside. He held it out with a slightly awkward little lift, like he'd been carrying it for long enough to think too hard about how offering water to your ex after she watched you shirtlessly dance for another girl might be received.
“Uh,” he said. “Here.”
She looked at the water first. Then at him. His sweater was back on, though the neckline sat a little stretched from being pulled off and on in chaos, and his curls were a mess from the flower crown, from the stage, from the night. His chain was still there, sitting at his throat like an insult in gold.
She took the cup. Their fingers didn’t touch this time. “Thanks.”
He nodded once, eyes moving over her face in a quick, careful scan that made her chest feel worse. Not the sexy scan from the stage. Not the stunned little outfit glance.
This was Garrett checking. Water, balance, pupils, whether she was smiling in a way that meant she was about to bite. Captain instincts, boyfriend instincts, ex-boyfriend instincts. Whatever they were, they hadn’t been switched off with the breakup, apparently.
“You were incredible tonight,” he said.
The compliment landed somewhere soft and inconvenient. She looked down into the cup because it was easier than looking at his mouth while he sounded sincere. The water wobbled slightly in her hand. “Um. Thanks.”
“I mean it.” His voice warmed a little, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I didn’t know you could do all that.”
She glanced up. “What, Shakespeare?”
“No.” His gaze moved over her face, careful and warm in a way that made the backstage noise feel suddenly farther away. “Being up there. Holding the room like that. You were really good.”
A laugh almost got out of her, a little disbelieving. She hated that too. Hated how close it sat under her ribs, waiting. “That was… quite a show you put on out there.”
Garrett’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh?”
“Mhm.” She took one sip of water, mostly to prove she could, then immediately wished it were anything else because the sudden cold made her stomach realise how much alcohol it had been asked to process tonight. “Very Boys Gone Wild.”
He laughed then, quick and genuine, his head tipping down for half a second. “Thanks.”
“Not a compliment.”
“Felt like one.”
“Mhm.”
The smile stayed on his mouth, smaller now, still trying not to be too much. He looked almost pleased she was talking to him like this. Like sharp was better than silence. Like he would take a little blood if it meant she was still close enough to swing.
She shifted her weight and regretted it instantly when the room softened at the edges. “You should probably go–” she murmured, setting the water down on the dressing table with intense focus. “Go find Hannah.”
Garrett’s expression changed. “Hannah?”
“Yeah. Or–” Her heel caught wrong against the floor. She stepped back half a pace to correct it and the whole room made an unhelpful little tilt to the left.
Garrett caught her waist. One hand at her side, the other hovering near her elbow like he was trying very hard not to grab more of her than necessary. “Whoa.”
The contact went through her immediately, warm and humiliating. Her corset suddenly felt too tight again, or maybe that was just her lungs misplacing the next breath.
She looked down at his hand, fingers spread carefully over the pink fabric at her waist, and then back at him with as much dignity as a tipsy girl in glitter could gather under difficult circumstances.
“Or Kendall,” she mumbled. The words came out before she could sand the edges down. “Or half… half the girls on campus.”
Garrett’s mouth twitched. It was the wrong reaction, obviously. He seemed to know that, because he bit it back almost immediately, pressing his lips together like the smile had physically tried to escape against his will.
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking something.”
“Usually.”
“Garrett.”
He looked down at her, and the smile softened into something worse. Something too fond to be fair. “You jealous?”
“No,” she said immediately. Too immediately.
Garrett’s brows went up.
She frowned at him with great concentration. “No.”
“Yeah, alright,” he said, and there was a laugh in his voice now, tucked low and warm where she could feel it even without letting him have the satisfaction of smiling back.
She swayed again, enough that the hand he still had on her waist went from polite to necessary.
His amusement dimmed by a fraction. “Will you sit?”
“Nope.” She shook her head, which was a mistake. “No… no, I… will… not.”
Garrett stared at her for a beat, then sighed like he was calling on several reserves of patience he was very proud of himself for owning. He looked like he wanted to laugh and was trying to be decent about it, which somehow made him more unbearable. “Fine. Can I at least drive you home?”
“Nope. I’m–” A hiccup broke through, tiny and sharp, cutting the sentence in half.
Garrett’s mouth moved. He lost the fight for about half a second, smile flashing at the corner before he got it under control. “You’re?”
“I’m going out after.”
He nodded slowly. “Right. Totally.”
“I am.”
“Yeah, no, that sounds like a great plan.” His eyes flicked down to her feet, then back to her face. “Can you even stand?”
She straightened with the wounded dignity of someone being slandered by physics. “I’m standin’ right now.”
Garrett nodded again, very serious. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
His hand left her waist. The betrayal was immediate, she hadn’t realised how much of her balance he’d been supporting. The room moved backward, or she did, or the floor had finally had enough of her and decided to make a point. Her body tipped before she caught up to it, shoulders going first, one hand flying uselessly toward the dressing table and missing the edge by an amount that felt personal.
Garrett caught her again with both hands, one at her waist, one wrapping around her back, pulling her gently but firmly upright against him.
“Yeah,” he said, voice warm with amusement right beside her ear. “Thought so.”
She shut her eyes for one second, partly because the room was spinning and partly because being held by him still felt good in a way she found to be incredibly offensive.
“Don’t be happy,” she muttered.
“I’m not happy.”
“You are.”
He tilted his head. “I’m a little happy you didn’t hit the floor.”
“Noble.”
“Thanks.” His hand moved once at her back, careful, steadying without rubbing. “C’mon. I’ll give you a lift.”
She wanted to argue. Truly. A principled objection rose somewhere inside her, assembled itself out of pride and glitter and tequila, then collapsed.
She sighed. “Mhm.”
Garrett’s expression softened like he knew exactly how much surrender that little sound had cost her. He did not, thankfully, comment on it.
He only turned slightly, one arm still under hers to keep her stable, and reached for the bag hanging over the chair beside the dressing table. “This yours?”
“Pink one.”
“The one with rhinestones?”
“Mm”
He slung the bag over his own shoulder without a hint of embarrassment, rhinestones flashing against his olive sweater, and shifted his arm around her again. “Ready?”
“No,” she grumbled.
“Great.”
Getting out of backstage was a process. She said goodbye to people as they passed, or maybe people said goodbye to her and she waved in several wrong directions.
Dexter blew her a kiss and called, “Petal, hydrate or perish.” Allie appeared briefly near the hall and immediately assessed the situation with one devastating glance.
“You good?” Allie asked.
“She’s good,” Garrett said.
She lifted one hand. “I’m good.”
Allie looked at Garrett’s arm around her, then at Garrett’s face, then at hers. Something sharp and protective passed over her expression, but she didn’t push.
“Text me when you get home,” Allie said.
“I will.”
“Garrett,” Allie added, with the calm menace of a woman in a blue corset and glitter eyeshadow who could absolutely ruin a man’s life if motivated.
Garrett nodded once, not offended. “I’ll make sure she does.”
Allie held his gaze a second longer, then stepped aside. “Good.”
They made it into the side hallway and then out through the lobby, which had emptied into post-show clusters of drunk, overexcited people still quoting lines badly and taking selfies under the poster. Dean spotted them immediately from near the bar.
His eyes dropped to Garrett’s arm around her, then to the pink bag over Garrett’s shoulder, and his grin began to spread with the slow, terrible beauty of dawn.
“Not a word,” Garrett said without breaking stride.
Dean put both hands up, drink in one of them. “I said nothing.”
“You were about to.”
Tucker, standing beside him, looked her over with far more subtle concern. “You alright?”
She gave him a thumbs up that came out a little too close to her own face. “Thriving.”
“She’s drunk,” Garrett said.
She pointed at Dean as Garrett guided her past. “You wolf-whistled me.”
Dean placed a hand over his heart. “In support of the arts.”
“You’re an idiot.”
Garrett kept walking, which was probably wise, because Dean looked like he had at least four more comments loaded and none of them would have improved the evening.
Outside, the cold hit hard enough to make her gasp. The air smelled clean and wet, all pavement and campus trees and the far-off smoke of someone’s cigarette near the curb.
Her bare shoulders prickled instantly under the thin straps of the corset, glitter cooling on her skin, and she folded a little closer to Garrett before she remembered she was mad at him or sad about him or whatever pathetic cocktail of the two had been sloshing around inside her all night.
Garrett noticed, his arm shifted a little, drawing her more securely against his side while they crossed toward the parking lot. His body angling to block the wind before she could ask.
That was the sort of thing he had always done that made hating him properly difficult. The quiet practical stuff. The hand before the fall. The water before the headache. The careful thumb over a cup rim while he said something smug enough to make her roll her eyes.
She hiccuped again halfway across the lot.
Garrett glanced down. “You okay?”
“I did so many shots.”
“I saw.”
“You were a slut.”
His mouth pulled in at one corner so fast she almost missed it. “Yeah?”
“Mm.” She lifted her face toward him, very serious now because this was important. “A stage slut.”
“Is that a formal theatre term?”
“It is now.”
He huffed a laugh. “You danced on a stripper pole too.”
She stopped walking for half a second, offended enough that he had to adjust his grip before she tripped over her own heel. “Mine was for Shakespeare.”
Garrett nodded very seriously. “Right. Academic.”
“Yours was…” She searched for the word with great effort, brows drawn, then landed on it with grim satisfaction. “Being a whore.”
Garrett’s laugh came out properly this time, warm and startled in the dark. He ducked his head like he couldn’t help it, curls falling slightly over his forehead, and for one painful second he looked exactly like the Garrett she had once loved in easy moments. Laughing because she had said something stupid and he adored it before he remembered not to.
“Okay,” he said, still smiling as they reached his car. “Watch your head.”
He opened the passenger door and turned her carefully by the waist, one hand hovering over the top of the frame while the other helped her fold into the seat.
She sat with a soft little collapse, pink skirt spilling over her thighs, one heel slipping loose again, the glassy edge of drunkenness turning the dashboard lights into a low blur.
Garrett crouched slightly to gather the sheer fabric before it got caught in the door, tugging the layers in with a focus that made something tender and awful press against the inside of her ribs. He tucked her bag near her feet, then reached for the seatbelt.
“I can do it,” she mumbled.
“Okay.”
She reached for the belt, missed it once, found it, pulled it halfway across herself, then got distracted by the way his chain flashed when he leaned in and forgot what the next step was.
Garrett waited about two seconds. “Can I?”
She handed it over with what she hoped was dignity. “Fine.”
“Thank you for your trust.”
“Don’t make this weird.”
“Oh, I would never.” He clicked the belt in and tugged once to check it, eyes flicking briefly to her face. “You gonna puke in my car?”
“No.”
He straightened, one hand still braced lightly on the roof of the car. She looked up at him from the passenger seat, at the sweater stretching across his chest, at his hair still messy from the stage, at his face half-shadowed by the parking lot light.
The night had blurred so much at the edges, but he had gone weirdly clear. Annoyingly clear. Like every drink had washed out the background and left only Garrett Graham standing in front of the car door with her glitter probably on his sleeve.
He started to pull back. She caught his jumper before he could close the door. Her fingers closed in the knit at his stomach.
Garrett looked down at her hand first, then at her face. His expression changed immediately, the smile fading into something cautious.
The words came before she could make them pretty. Maybe because pretty had been the problem all night. Pretty corset, pretty stage lights, pretty Hannah, pretty Kendall, pretty Garrett being adored by the room while her chest did something ugly underneath all the prettiness.
“I’m really sorry,” she said.
Garrett went still.
Her grip on his sweater tightened by a fraction. The wool was soft under her fingers. Warm from him. “For… everything.”
For breaking up with him. For not knowing how to stay. For wanting him to become less known, less wanted, less Garrett so she could feel safer loving him. For leaving and then resenting every space he filled without her. For Dean and the phone confiscation and the way she had looked at Hannah like happiness itself had wronged her. For tonight. For calling him a whore in a parking lot after a Shakespeare show where she had done shots with strangers and nearly cried into a wet bar.
She didn’t say all that, obviously. There were limits. Even drunk.
But maybe some of it sat in the air anyway, because Garrett’s face softened in that careful, unguarded way that made him look less like the boy half the campus wanted and more like the person who used to lie beside her at four in the morning and ask questions he didn’t always know how to hear the answers to.
He looked at her for a long second. Then he nodded once. “Me too,” he said.
Just two words, low and rough enough to make her fingers loosen in his sweater before she had fully decided to let go.
Garrett waited until her hand fell back to her lap. Then he closed the door gently, like the quiet mattered. Like slamming it would have broken something already cracked.
Through the glass, she watched him stand there for a second, head dipping, one hand dragging once through his hair.
Then he walked around the front of the car, and she sat in the warm, dim passenger seat with glitter on her skin, tequila in her blood, and the horrible, tender knowledge that sorry had not fixed anything.
summary: You've been filming John Logan for many months. Forty seven saved clips, only eleven of them for work. You know his tells, his angles, his best light. You know him better than you probably should for someone who is just the social media girl. What you don't know is that the night he finally asked you out, there was a check involved. A thousand dollars. And three months of the most real thing you've ever felt sitting on top of a secret that was always going to cost someone.
notes: hii i'm back!! after a week of writing between breaks this one finally came to life and i really hope you guys enjoy it, also i've been informed that puck flying accidents are not very common but we're all going to pretend together, also may contain some hockey inaccuracies, i love the game but i'm definitely not a pro. as always thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think, your comments genuinely keep me writing!!
warnings: swearing, a bet that was a terrible idea, one thousand dollars, dean being dean, forty seven saved clips, angst with a happy ending.
word count: 12.2k
When you started working on the social media position for the hockey team at Briar U, you didn't understand how it was possible for people to take you even less seriously than you already took yourself. But then there would come the moment that they needed you, and things would change, and you would think oh, how the tables have turned.
You understood this in the first week. The girl who came before you, Liana, had walked you through everything: cameras, angles, schedules, the way the athletics department liked their content formatted. But had failed to mention that the players would not look at you so much as look through you at first. Like you were part of the furniture. A tripod with a heartbeat.
In a way, that was fine. Being invisible was a perfectly good way to do the job. Players acted more naturally when they forgot the camera was there, and natural content was always better than posed content. This was something you had understood instinctively from the beginning.
You had been doing this job since the beginning of fall semester. It had come to you not accidentally but not exactly sought either, you had always followed the team, always been a genuine fan. Liana, the former social media girl, was a friend from a very boring Thursday morning class you had both suffered through together. When she came close to graduating she recommended you for the job. You had been working the library circulation desk before that. When the athletics department called it had seemed like a no-brainer.
A few months in, you knew the inner workings of the team the way you knew the layout of your own apartment. Their training schedule, their game schedule, the subtle social architecture of a group of people who spent most of their waking hours together. You knew which players were camera shy and which ones had a natural appeal and actively enjoyed being filmed — cough Dean cough — and by now you knew everyone's best angle, best light, best moment.
Which brought you to Logan.
You were also, which was a separate and entirely unrelated issue, completely down bad for one of the players.
It had not happened all at once.
You had known who John Logan was before you got the job, everyone who followed Briar hockey knew who he was, which was most of the campus, but knowing of someone and being in the same building as them four times a week were different things entirely.
You had known about his escapades too. His romantic history was the kind of thing that Olivia, your friend and a woman of genuinely exceptional gossip quality, had mentioned more than once with the relish of someone who considered this information a public service. Before the job, you had laughed about it the way you laughed about things that had nothing to do with you.
Now that you actually knew him, not knew knew him, but saw him daily, which was its own specific category, you thought about his former, and hopefully past, escapades and felt something uncomfortably close to jealousy.
The crush had consolidated gradually and against your will, the way water finds its way through things. A practice here. A post-game there. The specific way he looked when he was focused on something, the way he talked to his teammates, the way he sometimes looked directly into your camera with an expression that suggested he had briefly forgotten it was there and was just looking.
And then there was the other thing, which was honestly the worst part: he was so unfairly polite. He said good morning and good afternoon. He smiled when he caught you filming something. He said goodbye when he left and apologized if the puck flew in your direction, which it occasionally did, and each time he said sorry about that with the specific sincerity of someone who actually meant it.
You knew you had a crush on him. Obviously. That part was not new information.
What was new information was the following Tuesday, late after practice, the rink mostly empty, you sitting in the stands with your laptop open and the tiredness of someone who had been on their feet for three hours. The players were filtering out through the doors and you were reviewing footage on autopilot, not really watching, when you looked up without thinking about it.
You were looking for Logan before you had decided to look for him.
When you found him, he was at the boards, removing his helmet and pushing a hand through his hair.
Fuck me, you thought.
And then it seemed like he had heard you, because he lifted his eyes and looked straight at you across the empty rink and smiled.
You smiled back and closed your laptop.
Time to go home and think about John Logan in bed.
You reached for your camera on the tripod — force of habit, you always checked the last few shots before packing up — and opened the gallery.
Logan drinking water. Logan laughing at something Garrett said. Logan tying his skates. Logan high-fiving Tucker after a good drill. Logan making a face directly at the camera, having clearly just noticed you filming him, looking entirely unbothered about it.
You stared at the screen.
Oh.
Oh no.
The real problem came later.
The game was at Harvard, which meant the bus, which meant a situation you had been successfully avoiding for six months. You never took the team bus, too much male energy, too many large people occupying space in a way that made you feel like you had accidentally wandered into someone else's environment. You usually went with the student bus, which was fine, which was your preferred option.
The student bus had a mechanical issue and couldn't make the drive in time.
So you, along with the other team staff, boarded the team bus with approximately forty hockey players and the quiet resignation of someone who had lost a negotiation they hadn't known they were in.
The game itself went fine, nothing groundbreaking, but Briar won, which was all that mattered. You packed up your equipment and joined the line filing back onto the bus, looking for the same seat you'd had on the way there.
You were making your way down the aisle when you spotted Logan sitting alone.
You slowed down. Made the calculation. Gave yourself approximately four seconds of internal encouragement.
A freshman defenseman sat down next to him before you could finish the thought.
You did not pout. You were a professional.
"Aw, look who it is." Dean's voice came from the seat directly behind Logan. He was sitting in the aisle seat, legs stretched out, watching you with the expression of someone who had seen everything. "You can sit with me."
"Sure," you said.
"Geez, don't look so happy about it." He pulled his legs in so you could slide past. "I even let you have the window."
"What a gentleman," you said, settling in and pulling your laptop from your bag.
"Are we watching a movie?" Dean pointed at the laptop.
"No. I'm working."
"Bummer," he said, shifting in his seat to get comfortable. Dean was a broad person and the seats were not designed with broad people in mind, which meant that when you sat down you were immediately, unavoidably in contact, arms pressed together, shoulders touching. You had briefly considered putting the armrest down for some personal space, but Dean seemed completely unbothered by the proximity, which somehow made it easier to be unbothered yourself.
This was the thing about Dean that had surprised you most when you first started the job: there had never been an awkward phase. No stiff introductions, no careful professional distance, no period of working out who you were to each other. He had simply decided you were friends and proceeded accordingly, and somehow six months had passed and it felt like you had known each other much longer than that.
You connected your camera to the laptop and started pulling up photos from the game. Selected the best ones. Started uploading them to the shared drive.
"Uh oh," Dean said, leaning over. "That's not my best angle."
You looked at the photo. He was facing almost entirely away from the camera.
"Shut up," you said, lightly slapping his hand away from the screen. "What do you mean not your best angle? Are you not proud of your very nice backside?"
This was a callback, and Dean knew it. He had said something similarly direct about you at a party two months ago in the shameless way that Dean said most things, and you had decided that the only appropriate response was to give the same energy back.
"I am," he said, "but the front is much better. You should check it out sometime."
"Are you referring to your face as the front of your backside?"
Dean repeated the question back to you in a mocking tone.
You opened the photos and started scrolling through them, and approximately three seconds later you noticed the pattern and began praying, quietly and sincerely, that Dean would not notice it too.
Too late.
"Why do you have so many pictures of Logan?" He was looking at the screen with his eyebrows raised. "There are like ten Logan pictures for every one of anyone else."
"Logan just photographs well."
"He photographs well."
"Yes."
"That's your explanation."
"That's my explanation."
Dean looked at you with the expression of someone assembling a conclusion. "You have the hots for Logan."
"The hots? Dean, what is this, a Disney Channel movie? And no. I don't."
"Yeah? Explain the hundred photos of him drinking water. Sorry, but you can't use those for Instagram." He paused. "Unless you're using them for something else. Like, I don't know. Your spank bank."
You gasped and punched his arm. "Shut up."
"Admit it."
"I plead the fifth."
"That's not how that works."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You have to. I'm your best friend."
"No you're not. It's Olivia."
"On the team, I meant."
"It's probably Tucker."
"Tucker?" Dean looked genuinely wounded. "Tucker? Don't try to change the subject."
You closed the laptop.
"Go to sleep, Dean."
"This conversation is not over."
"Yes it is."
"No it's not."
"Yes it is."
"No it's not," he said, adjusting himself against the seat with the decisive energy of someone settling in for a nap. You let your head fall back against the window. A moment later his head dropped onto your shoulder with the comfortable weight of someone who had decided this was acceptable.
"Do not drool on me," you said.
"I bet if it was Logan you wouldn't mind," he said, eyes already closed. Of course not.
"Don't be disgusting."
"And by the way —" he opened one eye "— he has the hots for you too."
"Oh my god," you said. "Stop talking like this is iCarly."
He closed his eye again.
The bus moved through the dark and you sat there with Dean's head on your shoulder and the laptop closed on your knees and tried very hard not to look at the back of Logan's head in the row in front of you.
Oh no, you thought, again, for the second time that week.
A couple of weeks later, Dean found you setting up the tripod in the corner of the film room before pre-game interviews.
"So," he said, appearing at your elbow with the energy of someone who had been waiting for the right moment. "I saw that you didn't RSVP to the invitation for mine and Beau's birthday bash. And it's tomorrow."
You winced. You had been avoiding this topic.
"I have a thing," you said, very casually, adjusting the tripod height without looking at him.
"A thing." He repeated it back with the tone of someone who found this deeply insufficient. "What thing could possibly be more important than my birthday?"
"They painted a new wall in the hallway of my apartment so —"
"Shut up," he said, moving closer. "You're coming. Also —" he said it with the specific energy of someone deploying their strongest argument "— Logan is going to be there."
You kept your eyes on the tripod. "I would assume so. Since you live together."
"You know what I mean."
"I really don't."
"Yes you do."
"I'm working tomorrow night," you said.
"It's a Saturday."
"Content doesn't take weekends off."
"You literally schedule everything in advance and you know it." Dean leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. "Come to the party. Talk to him. He's going to be right there."
"I talk to him all the time. It's my job."
"Yeah, but when you talk to Logan you do the thing."
You looked up for the first time. "What thing."
"The thing." He gestured vaguely at your face. "The thing where you forget to be normal."
"I am always normal."
"You called his assist last Tuesday 'genuinely cinematic.'"
"It was a good play."
"To his face."
"As a professional observation —"
"He smiled about it for the rest of practice." Dean looked at you steadily. "Come to the party."
You turned back to the tripod.
"I don't think Logan has the hots for me, you know," you said. "He's like a hot athlete. And I'm like the social media nerd."
Dean stared at you with the expression of someone who had just heard something that offended him on multiple levels simultaneously.
"Geez," he said. "You're not the girl in every romcom who doesn't know she's pretty." He paused. "Also you may be a nerd but — with all due respect to you and to my buddy Logan — you're pretty hot."
You pushed his shoulder and muttered a low stop.
"I'm being sincere!" He caught himself on the wall, laughing. "Party. Tomorrow. Eight o'clock. Logan will be there." He pointed at you one more time. "You will also be there."
He walked away before you could respond.
You looked at the camera. The camera looked back at you.
Genuinely cinematic, you thought, mortified.
You were definitely not going to that party.
The thing about watching two people be completely oblivious to each other was that it was, at first, entertaining.
Dean had found it genuinely funny in the beginning, the way you would track Logan across a room without realizing you were doing it, the way Logan would find reasons to be wherever you were without announcing that was what he was doing. It was like watching a nature documentary.
It had been funny for approximately three weeks.
It was now week seven and Dean was losing his mind.
It was a Thursday practice, nothing special about it. Dean was on the ice going through drills with Tucker when he caught it, the peripheral awareness of someone who had been watching a situation develop for too long.
You were in your usual spot in the stands, laptop open, camera on the tripod, doing the thing you always did where you looked like you were reviewing footage but were actually, if you knew what to look for, tracking Logan across the ice without moving your head.
Logan, for his part, was doing the thing he always did where he skated past your section of the stands more than was strictly necessary for any drill that had been assigned.
"He's done that four times," Tucker said, appearing at Dean's elbow.
"Five," Dean said. "You missed one while you were talking to the coach."
Tucker watched Logan complete another unnecessary loop near the boards. "Are they ever going to do something about that?"
"Apparently not," Dean said.
On the ice Logan slowed near the boards not stopping, that would have been too obvious, just slowing and said something up toward the stands. You looked up from your laptop and said something back. Logan smiled. You looked back at your laptop immediately, in the specific way of someone using a screen as a shield.
Logan skated away looking slightly more cheerful than he had thirty seconds ago.
"It's painful," Tucker said.
"It's excruciating," Dean agreed.
"Wow, that's a big word" Tucker said mocking Dean and skating away.
After practice Dean was still thinking about it in the locker room.
He was unwrapping his tape when Garrett sat down across from him.
"You have a face," Garrett said.
"I'm thinking."
"About what."
"Logan and the social media girl, or as I call her, (Y/N)"
"So her name—" Garrett replied.
Garrett looked at him with the mild, steady expression he used when he was waiting for someone to either say something sensible or stop talking. "And?"
"And they've been doing this for like seven weeks and nothing is happening and I'm tired of watching it."
"So tell him to do something about it."
"I've told him." Dean had, in fact, told Logan approximately six times in varying tones of directness. "Telling doesn't work. Logan needs a push."
"A push," Garrett repeated.
"A significant push."
Garrett looked at him for a long moment. "What kind of push."
"A financial one," he said.
"Dean —"
"Hear me out."
"I don't think I want to."
"A thousand dollars," Dean said. "I bet him a thousand dollars that he won't ask her out. He needs the money, he likes her, this solves both problems simultaneously. It's elegant."
Garrett stared at him. "It's really not."
"It gets him to do the thing he already wants to do."
"By paying him."
"By incentivizing him."
"Those are the same thing."
"Garrett," Dean said, in the tone of someone who had considered the counterarguments and dismissed them. "They have been doing this for weeks. At this rate they'll still be doing it at graduation. I'm helping."
Garrett looked at the ceiling briefly. "You shouldn't do this," he said finally.
"Noted," Dean said.
He did not change his mind.
Logan came in from the showers to find Dean sitting on the bench across from his locker with an expression that meant something was coming.
Tucker was in the corner pretending to check his phone. Garrett was lacing his shoes with more focus than the task required.
"What," Logan said.
"I have a proposition," Dean said.
Logan looked at Tucker. Tucker looked at his phone. Logan looked at Garrett. Garrett looked at his shoes.
"What kind of proposition," Logan said.
"A thousand dollars," Dean said. "All you have to do is ask her out."
He didnt't have to specify who the her was.
The locker room was quiet.
Logan opened his locker. Got his jacket. "No."
"Logan —"
"No, Dean."
"You like her."
"That's not —"
"You've skated past her section of the stands five times today during drills that don't require you anywhere near the boards." Dean's voice was completely even. "I counted."
Logan said nothing.
"You check her posts before anyone else on the team," Dean continued. "You know her schedule better than your own. You said sorry to her last Tuesday when the puck went near her even though it didn't come close to actually hitting her." A pause. "You apologized preemptively."
"I was being polite."
"You were being in love with her," Dean said, simply. "Which is fine. Great, actually. And fixable. With one conversation and a thousand dollars."
Tucker made a small sound that was not quite disapproval and not quite agreement.
Garrett said nothing, which was its own kind of answer.
Logan looked at his jacket in his hands. He thought about the time that had passed, the practices and bus rides and the specific way you closed your laptop when you were trying to hide something. He thought about his bank account, which was having a difficult semester. He thought about the rent that was due. The equipment he needed.
He thought about asking you out, which he had been meaning to do, which he had been telling himself he was going to do, which he had not done.
I was going to do it anyway, he told himself. The money doesn't change what I was going to do anyway.
"Fine," he said.
Tucker made the sound again, slightly louder.
Garrett looked up from his shoes for the first time. His expression was not angry, not exactly. More like a person watching a decision being made and knowing already how it was going to cost someone.
Dean produced a check from somewhere — written on the back of a receipt, which was so Dean that Logan almost laughed — and held it out.
Logan took it.
He folded it once and put it in his jacket pocket and did not look at Garrett again.
I was going to do it anyway, he thought.
He almost believed it.
The subject of the party was a sore one.
Part of you wanted to go and part of you didn't, and the two parts had been arguing since Dean walked away from the tripod, and by the time you got back to your apartment you had resolved nothing except that you needed to talk to Olivia about it.
Olivia listened to the full recap of the Dean conversation with the focused attention of someone taking notes. When you finished she was quiet for approximately three seconds.
"We're going," she said.
"I said I wasn't sure —"
"I've made up my mind. You were invited so you need to go, and I'm coming with you because—." She looked at you with the expression of someone who had already decided the fun they were going to have and was simply waiting for logistics to catch up. "What's the theme?"
"Dynamic duo."
"Perfect for us." She was already opening her laptop. "I know exactly what we're wearing."
"I don't even know what to wear," you breathed out, dropping flat onto your bed and staring at the ceiling. "What kind of theme even is that? Dynamic duo? That's so vague."
"It's not vague, it's versatile." She turned the screen to face you. "Clueless. Cher and Dionne. The plaid."
You looked at the screen. You looked at Olivia.
"Obviously," you said.
You walked into the party in matching plaid ,short skirt, blazer, the whole thing and felt immediately, objectively, like you had made the right costume choice. Olivia walked in beside you with the confident energy of someone who had never had a bad entrance in her life.
The house was full and warm and smelled like every college party you had ever been to. You did a quick scan of the room in the completely professional way of someone who was not looking for anyone specific.
You found him in approximately four seconds.
Logan was in the kitchen with Dean, drink in hand, laughing at something. He was wearing a sleveless gray shirt with a pair of wings.
You gave a small wave in their direction. Dean spotted you first and his face did something immediately, and then he clapped a hand on Logan's back and pushed him in your direction with the subtlety of a person who had never heard the word subtle.
Logan crossed the room.
"Hey —" His eyes moved over you and something in his expression shifted slightly. "Clueless?"
"Yeah," you said, nodding perhaps a few more times than necessary.
Beside you, Olivia made a sound that she converted, barely, into a cough. She had been documenting your inability to form complete sentences in Logan's presence for approximately three months and found it genuinely hilarious.
"You look very pretty," Logan said.
"Oh — thanks." The blush arrived before you could do anything about it. Compose yourself.
Logan seemed to remember that you were not alone. "You too, Olivia."
"Yeah, right," Olivia laughed. "I'll go get a drink."
She disappeared into the crowd. As she passed behind Logan she turned to face you and mouthed make a move with the enormous unsubtle energy of someone who had been waiting three months to say it.
You looked back at Logan.
"I'm glad you came," he said. "Dean mentioned you weren't sure."
"I had some content to edit," you said.
"This is more important," he said, lightly, like a joke, but with something underneath it that wasn't entirely a joke.
"Yeah," you said.
And then you were both just standing there. Drinks in hand, the party moving around you, talking the way you had discovered you talked when you were alone together, which was easily, which was the specific ease of two people who had been in the same orbit long enough to have figured out each other's rhythms without officially acknowledging it.
"So what are you supposed to be anyway?" you asked, taking the opportunity to look at him properly. The gray shirt. The wings. The arms, which were — you looked at his face instead. "Jacob Elordi in Saltburn?"
Logan laughed — a real one, surprised and warm. "Bird and the bee. I'm the bird. Tuck's the bee."
"Oh," you said. "That tracks."
"Does it."
"The bee has better energy," you said. "No offense to you."
"I'll tell Tucker you said that."
"Please don't."
Dean chose this exact moment to appear between you.
"Hello, you two." He looked between you with barely concealed delight. "What are we talking about?"
"The birds and the bees," you said, and watched Dean's eyebrow go up in real time.
"Oh, I like where this is headed."
"No — I mean his costume," you said quickly. "What are you supposed to be?"
"Maverick." He pointed across the room to where Beau was talking to a very beautiful brunette. "Beau's Goose."
You considered this. "Was there not a dynamic duo where one of them didn't have a tragic ending? You could have been Ice."
"Ice and Maverick hated each other," Dean said.
"No they didn't! In your own words they had the hots for each other."
Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Pointed at you. "That is actually a fair point."
"Thank you."
"You're insufferable," he said, smiling. He looked between you and Logan one more time. "I'm going to go find Beau. You two —" he gestured vaguely at the space between you "— continue."
He disappeared back into the crowd.
You looked at Logan. Logan looked at you.
"He's not subtle," you said.
"No," Logan agreed. "He really isn't."
The party continued around you. At some point you had moved slightly closer together. Neither of you had announced it. At some point his hand had found the small of your back, briefly, when someone pushed past in the crowd. It had stayed there a moment longer than strictly necessary. You had not moved away.
At some point Olivia had caught your eye from across the room and given you a look of such unrestrained triumph that you had been forced to look at the floor to keep from laughing.
"So —" Logan started. He stopped. Tried again. "I've been thinking. For a while actually." He looked at you with the expression of someone abandoning a rehearsed script entirely in favor of just saying the thing. "Would you like to go out? With me. On a date."
Inside your chest, something that had been very carefully managed for months made a sound like:
YESYESYESYESYESYESYESYES —
"Yes," you said, with great composure. "I'd like that."
Something settled in his expression warm and certain. "Good. I was hoping you were going to say that."
"I was hoping you were going to ask," you said.
He smiled. Not the polite one, not the team-photo one the real one, the one you had forty-seven saved clips of and only eleven of them were for work.
Across the room, completely uninvited into this moment, Dean let out a noise of triumph loud enough that Tucker turned around to look.
You and Logan both looked at Dean.
Dean pointed at both of you, then at himself, then gave two thumbs up with the energy of a man who had absolutely no shame about any of this.
"He planned this," you said.
"Obviously," Logan said.
You looked at Dean, who was now saying something to Beau that was making Beau look confused and Dean look extremely pleased with himself.
"I'm going to delete all his content," you said.
"Probably," Logan said. "But maybe tomorrow."
You looked back at him.
"Yeah," you said. "Maybe tomorrow."
What you did not know — what you would not know for three months — was what had happened two hours before that conversation.
The first date was a Tuesday.
Logan had asked on a Saturday and then spent the intervening three days being completely normal about it, which meant he had checked his phone approximately forty times and suggested three different restaurants to Dean who had not asked for his opinion and had given it anyway.
He picked you up at seven. You had worn something simple and he had looked at you the way he sometimes looked into the camera, direct, unhurried, like you were something worth paying attention t, and said you look great in the specific voice he used when he meant things, and you had said thanks, so do you and meant it, and the evening had been easy in the way that things were easy when they had been building for a long time and had finally found the right outlet.
You talked for three hours. Not about anything important about the team, about your job, about the things you had noticed about each other without ever saying so. He told you about the preemptive puck apology before you could bring it up and looked slightly embarrassed about it, which you found endearing in a way you did not make him aware of. You told him about the forty-seven saved clips and watched his expression do something warm and complicated.
He walked you back to your dorm. He kissed you at the door — soft and unhurried, the specific patience of someone who had been waiting a while and had decided that arriving was enough for now.
You went inside and stood in the hallway for a moment.
Oh, you thought. Not oh no this time. Just — oh.
What followed was three months that assembled themselves quietly and completely, the way good things tended to do when you stopped trying to manage them.
You learned the specific rhythm of being with Logan, which was different from the rhythm of being near Logan, which you had spent seven months memorizing from behind a camera. Being with him was easier. Less careful. The things you had noticed from a professional distance — the way he focused, the way he was with his teammates, the particular quality of his attention when he was genuinely listening were the same up close, just without the glass between you.
He remembered things. That was the detail that accumulated the most weight over three months small things you had said once, in passing, that he filed away and produced later in the specific way of someone who had been listening more carefully than you knew. The coffee order. The fact that you hated the overhead lights in the film room. The name of the professor whose class you had shared with Liana.
You told Olivia about the coffee order detail on a Thursday night and she looked at you with an expression that said everything she was choosing not to say out loud.
"Don't," you said.
"I'm not saying anything," she said.
"You have a face."
"I have my normal face."
"Olivia."
"I'm just glad," she said simply, and went back to whatever she was doing, and you sat with that for a moment and found that you were too.
Logan was also, three months in, still thinking about the check.
Not constantly. Not the way he had in the beginning, when it had surfaced at inconvenient moments, the first dinner, the first time you laughed at something he said, the first time you fell asleep on his shoulder watching something neither of you were paying attention to. Those early weeks it had been a persistent background noise, a low-level static of something he should have said and hadn't.
But the weeks had passed and the static had gotten quieter, the way noise does when you choose not to listen to it long enough. He had paid his rent. He had replaced the equipment. He had told himself, again and again, that he had been going to ask you out anyway, that the money had been incidental, that what they had built in the three months since was real regardless of how it started.
All of that was true.
The part that was also true, the part he didn't let himself look at too directly, was that you didn't know. And not knowing was its own kind of thing, a thing that existed in the space between you without you being aware of it, that he was aware of every time you said something honest to him, every time you looked at him the way you looked at him.
He had meant to tell you. In the beginning. There had been a window, early on, when it would have been a small thing — by the way, Dean made a bet, it's a whole thing, I was going to ask you anyway—. He had rehearsed it. He had not said it. The window had closed, and then it had been a week, and then a month, and then three months, and now saying it felt like dropping something large into a quiet room.
So he didn't say it.
He told himself it didn't matter because it hadn't changed anything real.
He was getting better at believing that.
It was a Saturday afternoon in February, the specific grey-white quality of a winter afternoon that had given up pretending it was going to improve, and you were in Logan's room doing nothing in particular.
This had become one of your favorite things — the doing nothing in particular. You had a tendency, left to your own devices, to fill time with productivity, with scheduled content and edited footage and the general sense that unoccupied time was time being wasted. Logan had, over three months, introduced you to the concept of lying on a bed on a Saturday afternoon and simply existing, which you had resisted and then accepted and now found genuinely necessary.
He was on his back, one arm behind his head, reading something on his phone. You were beside him, legs tangled, working your way through a Cosmopolitan from 2003 that you had found at the thrift store the previous weekend when you had gone with Allie. It had a younger Jennifer Lopez on the cover and approximately forty pages of advertisements for perfumes that no longer existed, and you had bought it for fifty cents because something about it felt like an artifact.
"Listen to this," you said.
"Mm."
"It's a quiz." You held up the magazine. "Is your relationship ready for the next level? I feel like we should take it."
"I feel like that magazine is older than some of our teammates."
"That's what makes it valuable." You turned back to the page. "Okay. Question one. When you picture your future, does your partner feature prominently? Options are: always, sometimes, or only when I'm feeling optimistic."
"Always," Logan said, without looking up from his phone.
You looked at him sideways. He was still reading, expression neutral, like he had answered a question about the weather.
"Okay," you said, and looked back at the magazine, and did not make anything of it, because making something of it would have required acknowledging that it had landed somewhere specific and stayed there.
You worked through several more questions — about communication, about conflict, about shared values — Logan answering in the same unhurried, matter-of-fact way, like the answers had already been decided and he was simply reporting them.
And then you got to the last one.
"Okay, last question." You shifted onto your side to face him. "If your partner made a serious mistake — something that hurt you — what would it take to make things right? Option A: a heartfelt conversation and genuine apology. Option B: time, space, and proof of change. Option C —" you paused, because option C was very 2003 "— a grand romantic gesture. Flowers, candlelight, the whole thing."
You said it like it was funny. You said it with the lightness of someone reading from an old magazine on a Saturday afternoon.
Logan put his phone down.
He looked at the ceiling for a moment. Then he turned his head and looked at you with an expression that was doing something complicated underneath the surface.
"What would you pick?" he said.
You considered it. "Honestly? C, but private. Like not in front of everyone. Just — showing up. With flowers, or peonies, they are my favorite. And meaning it." You paused. "The meaning it is the important part."
Logan looked at the ceiling again.
"Many flowers," he said. His voice was even. Carefully even.
"Like an unreasonable amount," you said. "Like someone made a decision about it."
"Right," he said.
He was quiet for a moment. You looked at him — at the careful evenness of his expression, the specific stillness of someone sitting with something — and almost asked what he was thinking about.
Then he turned back to you with the warm unhurried expression you knew, and kissed your temple.
"Good to know," he said.
You looked back at the magazine. Jennifer Lopez looked back at you, unbothered.
You did not know, lying there on a grey February Saturday, that you had just handed him the exact shape of something he was going to need.
Logan knew.
He stared at the ceiling after you looked away and thought about a check written on the back of a receipt and a conversation in a locker room and the specific, settling weight of something that had been waiting a long time to be said.
Too many flowers, he thought. Private. Meaning it.
He closed his eyes.
I have to tell her, he thought.
He did not tell her.
Allie had not been looking for information.
She had been in the kitchen at the off campus house on a Wednesday evening, waiting for Dean to finish getting ready so they could go to dinner, scrolling through her phone with the patience of someone accustomed to waiting for Dean to finish getting ready. She was not listening. She was not paying attention to anything except the particular injustice of being told seven-fifteen and it being seven-thirty-two.
And then Dean's phone rang on the counter.
She glanced at it automatically. Logan.
Dean came out of the bathroom still pulling on his jacket and picked it up. "Hey. What's up."
Allie went back to her phone.
"What do you mean you need to tell her." Dean's voice had shifted into something lower, more careful. "What's — Logan. Logan, have you not told her yet?"
Allie looked up.
Dean had his back to her, one hand pressed to the counter, the specific posture of someone having a conversation they hadn't prepared for. "It's been three months, man. How have you — okay. Okay, calm down. Just — tell me what happened."
A pause. Dean listening.
"So tell her," Dean said. "Just — tonight. Call her and tell her. It's been long enough, she'll —" another pause "— Logan, I know it's not going to be easy but you can't just — yes I know you actually love her, that's not the — okay, listen —"
Allie set her phone down on the counter very carefully.
"What," she said.
Dean turned around.
The expression on his face moved through several things in quick succession — surprise, recalibration, and then the specific, flattening look of someone who understood exactly what had just happened.
"Allie —"
"What did you do," she said. Not a question.
Dean lowered his phone slowly. On the other end Logan was saying something, unaware.
"Dean." Her voice was very even. "What did you do."
He told her.
He told her all of it — the bet, the thousand dollars, the locker room — and Allie stood in the kitchen and listened with the stillness of someone who was getting progressively more furious in a way that had not yet found its exit.
When he finished she said nothing for a moment.
"She's my friend," she said finally.
"I know —"
"She is my friend and you let her date him for three months without telling her."
"It wasn't supposed to —"
"Dean." She picked up her keys from the counter. "Do not follow me."
"Allie, please just —"
"I have to tell her," she said. "She's my friend. I'm not going to —"
"Please," Dean said, and his voice had lost all its usual confidence, stripped down to something that was just — asking. "Please just give me a chance to fix it. I'll tell Logan to tell her tonight. Just give me —"
"You had your chance to fix it three months ago," Allie said. "And two months ago. And last month." She looked at him for a long moment. "I love you. And you did something really wrong. And she needs to know."
She left.
Dean stood in the kitchen alone and listened to Logan's voice still coming from the phone in his hand.
He put the phone to his ear.
"She already knows," he said.
You were in your aparment when Allie knocked.
She told you everything standing in your doorway, quickly and directly, the way Allie did things — no preamble, no softening, just the facts arranged in order. The bet. The thousand dollars. The locker room. Three months.
You stood very still while she talked.
When she finished you said nothing for a long moment.
"Get your keys," you said.
"(Y/N) —"
"Get your keys, Allie."
The drive to the off campus house took four minutes. You did not speak. Allie drove and you looked at the road ahead and felt cold clarity of someone who had moved past the part where things hurt and into the part where they simply had to be dealt with.
The lights were on when you pulled up. Of course they were.
You didn't knock.
You walked in and Logan was already in the hallway, like he had heard the car, like some part of him had known — and the expression on his face when he saw you was the expression of someone who had been waiting for this and was still not ready for it.
Dean was behind him. Tucker and Garrett further back, in the doorway of the living room, with the expressions of people who understood the room and had decided to stay very still.
"Hey —" Logan started.
"Did you take a bet," you said, "to ask me out."
The hallway was very quiet.
"Yes," Logan said.
The word landed.
"How much," you said.
"A thousand dollars."
You looked at him. This person. This person whose coffee order you knew, whose preemptive apologies you had found endearing, whose smile you had forty-seven saved clips of and only eleven of them were for work.
"You had to be paid," you said. Your voice was very quiet. "Someone had to pay you. To ask me out."
"It wasn't —"
"A thousand dollars," you said. "That's what it cost. That's what asking me out was worth to you. A thousand dollars and someone else's idea."
"That's not —"
"I told you I loved you." The words came out steadier than you expected. "Three weeks ago. In your room. I told you I loved you and you said it back and the whole time —" you stopped. Started again. "The whole time there was a check. There was a check and you knew and you said it back anyway."
"I meant it," Logan said. "I mean it. I love you, that has nothing to do with —"
"It has everything to do with it." Your voice cracked slightly and you pushed past it. "Because maybe you do. Maybe you actually do love me. But I will never know that now. Do you understand that? I will never know which part was real and which part was a thousand dollars because you didn't tell me. You had three months to tell me and you didn't."
"I was going to —"
"When?" you said. "When were you going to tell me? After another month? After a year? Were you ever actually going to tell me or were you just going to keep it and hope I never found out?"
He said nothing.
"That's what I thought," you said.
You turned to Dean.
Dean was standing very still with an expression that had none of his usual ease in it, stripped down, uncomfortable, genuinely ashamed in a way that you recognized as real and that made it worse rather than better.
"I thought you were my friend," you said. Your voice was different now, not cold, something more broken than cold. "I thought — you were supposed to be my friend. I told you things. I told you how I felt about him and you used it. You turned it into a transaction and then you watched me fall in love with him and you said nothing."
"I know," Dean said. His voice was very quiet. "I know."
"I taught you how to use the camera," you said, which was not what you meant to say but came out anyway, and somehow it was the most honest thing — the small specific intimacy of it, the way you had shown him the angles and the settings and he had been genuinely interested and you had thought this is what a friend looks like. "I showed you everything. I thought you were —"
"I was," Dean said. "I am. I'm so sorry."
"Don't." You picked up your bag. "Don't apologize right now. I can't — I need you to not talk to me right now."
You looked at Logan one more time. He was standing in the hallway with his hands at his sides and the open, devastated expression of someone who had run out of words and knew it.
"Please," he said. Just that. Just the word, quiet and without any of the composure he usually wore like a second skin.
"I have to go," you said.
"Please just let me —"
"Logan." Your voice broke on his name, just slightly, and you steadied it. "I have to go."
You walked to the door. Behind you you heard him take a step.
You opened the door.
"You two fucking suck," you said, to the hallway, to both of them, to the three months of Tuesday practices and bus rides and magazine quizzes and I love you said and meant and received by someone who was keeping a check in his jacket pocket the whole time. "Never talk to me again."
You walked out.
Allie was waiting by the car. She took one look at your face and said nothing, just unlocked the doors, and you got in, and she drove, and the campus moved past the windows dark and quiet and entirely indifferent.
You did not cry until you got back to your aparment.
And then you did, for a while, with Olivia sitting beside you saying nothing because there was nothing to say, just being there the way people who actually loved you were there when things went wrong.
You had to be paid, you thought, in the dark.
A thousand dollars.
The house was very quiet after you left.
Tucker and Garrett had retreated to the living room. Nobody was saying anything.
Dean sat on the bottom step of the stairs and put his head in his hands.
Logan stood in the hallway where you had left him and looked at the closed door and thought about everything — the check, the locker room, the first dinner, the magazine quiz on a grey February Saturday, too many flowers, private, meaning it — and underneath all of it, constant and quiet, the thing he had known for three months and had managed to convince himself didn't matter:
You had deserved to know.
You had deserved to know from the beginning and he had chosen not to tell you and you stood in his hallway and said I will never know which part was real and he had had no answer because there was no answer that fixed that.
Garrett appeared in the doorway of the living room. He looked at Logan for a long moment.
"I told you not to," he said. Not unkindly. Just said.
"I know," Logan said.
"From the beginning. I told you."
"I know, Garrett."
Garrett looked at him for another moment. Then he went back to the living room without saying anything else, which was somehow the most devastating response available.
Logan sat down on the floor of the hallway with his back against the wall and stared at nothing.
I have to fix this, he thought.
He had absolutely no idea how.
The email to the athletics department went out the following morning.
It was professional and brief — you cited personal reasons, thanked them for the opportunity, offered to train your replacement, gave two weeks notice. You sent it before you could think about it too hard, before the part of you that loved the job could talk the other part out of it.
You were not going to sit in that rink anymore. You were not going to film those practices or those games or stand in that corridor outside the locker room with your tripod and your equipment bag and pretend that everything was the same as it had been before.
Your phone had messages from Logan and Dean by noon. You read none of them.
The football team's social media coordinator reached back out by the end of the day.
You started the following Monday.
The football team was different from the hockey team in ways that were both obvious and unexpected. Louder, in some ways. Different rhythms, different energy. The guys were nice and the work was interesting and you were good at it, because you were good at this, that had never been in question.
You were fine.
You were getting finer by the day, which was either progress or a very convincing impression of it.
Allie texted. Garrett texted — I'm sorry, for what it's worth I told him not to — which you appreciated more than you could say. Tucker sent a single text that just said I tried to talk him out of it and you believed him and told him so.
You did not respond to Logan.
Logan's days had a new shape to them and he hated it.
Practice was the same, same drills, same ice, same team, but the stands were wrong. The spot where you always sat, third row back on the left side, was empty now, and he knew it was empty without lookin. He looked anyway. Every practice, every morning skate, every film session, he looked, and the spot was empty, and he looked away.
Logan texted you every three days. Not long messages, just checking in, just your name sometimes, just I know you don't want to hear from me right now but I'm sorry. He did not expect responses. He sent them anyway because not sending them felt worse.
He watched your football content. Every post, every reel, every behind-the-scenes clip. He watched the way you filmed the new team — the same eye, the same instinct for the right moment, the same ability to make something look like something worth watching — and felt the specific, particular ache of someone who understood what they had lost because they had been paying attention to it the whole time.
He had always been paying attention.
That was the thing that made it so much worse.
Three weeks after you left, the hockey team got a new social media person.
Her name was Jade. She was a sophomore, enthusiastic, slightly overwhelmed, and she had asked you to walk her through the setup on a Tuesday morning when the team had a late practice, which meant you were in the rink, with your old equipment, showing someone else how to use the angles you had spent seven months learning, when the team came off the ice.
You had not planned for this. You had assumed they would be gone by the time you were done.
They were not gone.
You heard them before you saw them, he familiar noise of the team coming out of the locker room corridor and then Tucker saw you first and stopped walking so abruptly that Garrett walked into him.
"What —" Garrett looked up. Saw you. His expression did something complicated.
The rest of the team filtered out around them, and then Dean, and then Logan, and the corridor went through a specific collective recalibration.
You kept your face completely neutral. "Hey," you said, to the general group. "This is Jade. She's taking over the social media. I'm just showing her the setup."
Jade waved cheerfully, unaware of the atmospheric pressure of the corridor.
"Taking over?" Tucker said slowly.
"Yes," you said. "I moved to football." You said it simply, like it was information and not anything else. "Jade is great, she's going to do a really good job."
The team was looking at you with various expressions. Tucker looked pained. Garrett looked like he was doing math.
Dean was looking at the floor.
Logan was looking at you with the expression of someone watching something leave that they had already lost and were only now understanding the full shape of. You could feel it without looking directly at him. You had spent seven months learning the specific weight of his attention.
"I already left," you said. "This is just the handover."
"But —" Tucker started.
"Tuck," you said, gently. "It's fine. Jade is great."
Jade smiled again.
"We kind of made you leave," Tucker said, in the specific tone of someone who had been holding something for three weeks and had finally said it out loud.
"Tucker —"
"No, like —" he stopped. Looked at Dean. Looked at Logan. Looked back at you. "We made you leave. That's what happened. And I just — I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say but I'm sorry."
The corridor was very quiet.
"You didn't make me leave," you said carefully. "You tried to talk him out of it. I know that."
Tucker nodded. Still pained.
"Right," Garrett said finally, in the tone of someone deciding to be graceful about something painful. "Good luck with football."
"Thanks," you said.
You turned back to Jade and kept going with the walkthrough, and the team filed past, and you did not look at Logan as he walked by even though you could feel him slowing down, even though you could feel him wanting to say something.
"Hey," Logan said. Very quietly. Just that.
You kept your eyes on the camera settings you were showing Jade.
He stood there for a moment. Then his footsteps continued down the corridor.
You exhaled very quietly and kept talking to Jade about angles.
Behind you, fading, you heard Dean say something low and urgent to Logan that you couldn't make out. And Logan's response, quieter still:
"I know."
Logan started showing up.
Not to you, he respected the never talk to me again enough not to push himself into your space. But he started showing up in the ways that were available to him.
He fixed the tripod mount in the storage room that had been broken since October — the one you had mentioned once, months ago, in passing, because it made the camera angle slightly off and you had learned to compensate for it. He left a note on it that said finally fixed it. sorry it took so long. No signature. He didn't need one.
He started showing up to the football team's games.
Not every game. Not in a way that was dramatic or obvious. Just there, in the stands, with the quiet patience of someone who had decided that if the mountain wouldn't come to him he would go to the mountain and sit in the stands and watch from a respectful distance.
Olivia told you the second time it happened.
"He was there again," she said carefully.
You said nothing.
"He's not doing anything," she said. "He's just — there. Watching."
You said nothing.
"I thought you should know," she said.
You knew.
You knew because you had clocked him the first time — third row back, left side,— and you had kept filming and not said anything and thought about it for three days.
He texted you after the third game.
logan: you got a good shot of the QB in the third quarter. the one right before the play call. it was good.
You stared at the message for a long time.
yn: how would you know
logan: i was there
A long pause.
logan: i'll keep coming if that's okay. i won't bother you. i just want to be there.
You put your phone down.
You picked it up.
yn: it's okay
Dean did not sleep the night you found out.
He lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling and thought about the specific expression on your face when you said I thought you were my friend — not angry, which would have been easier, but broken, which was not easier at all.
At four in the morning he picked up his phone.
dean: allie
allie: i'm awake
dean: i know i really messed up
allie: yes
dean: i don't know how to fix it
A long pause.
allie: you start by not trying to fix it. you start by just being sorry.
dean: i am
allie: i know. she needs to hear it from you. not a text. not through anyone else. you.
dean: she said never talk to her again
allie: i know what she said. give her time. and then go.
Dean put his phone down.
He stared at the ceiling until it got light outside.
You took your own sweet time.
Not to feel better, you were not operating under the illusion that time fixed everything, but to feel what you needed to feel without an audience. You went to classes. You went to work. You filmed the football team's Tuesday practice and focused on the angles and the light and the professional satisfaction of a job done well, and you did not think about hockey, and you did not look at your phone when certain names appeared on the screen, and you let Olivia bring you food and watch bad television with you without making you talk about it.
On the fourteenth day Dean was waiting outside your lecture hall.
He looked terrible. Not dramatically terrible — Dean was constitutionally incapable of looking terrible — but tired.
You stopped when you saw him.
He held up both hands. "I'm not here to make excuses," he said. "I know you said never talk to me again. I know. I just — five minutes. And then I'll go and I won't bother you again if that's what you want."
You looked at him for a long moment.
You stepped to the side of the path, out of the flow of people. He followed.
"Say what you have to say," you said.
Dean looked at you with the expression you had never seen on him before, no performance, no charm deployed at the right moment, nothing managed. Just a person who had done something wrong and knew it and was standing in front of the person he had done it to.
"I've never had a friend like you before," he said. "Like — actually. I have guy friends. I have girls I've hooked up, almost dated or whatever. But I've never had a girl who was just — a friend. Who I talked to and who talked to me and who I could be around without it being anything else." He paused. "And I took that and I made it into a scheme. And I told myself I was helping and maybe part of me was but part of me just — didn't think far enough ahead. Didn't think about what it would mean to you if you found out. Didn't think about you at all, honestly, which is the thing I'm most sorry about." He held your gaze. "I thought about Logan being in love with you and I thought about the bet being clever and I didn't think about you being a person who deserved to know the truth. And I should have. You should have been the first thing I thought about."
The path had mostly emptied. A bird somewhere was doing something aggressively cheerful.
"I miss my friend," Dean said. "I know I don't get to just say that. I know. I just needed you to know that it's real. You are actually my friend and I actually miss you and I'm actually sorry, not sorry like I feel bad, sorry like I understand what I did."
You looked at him.
You thought about the bus and his head on your shoulder and on the team, I meant and the way he had looked genuinely wounded when you said Tucker was probably your better friend on the team.
"It's going to take time," you said finally.
Something in his expression shifted — careful, not quite hope yet.
"I know," he said.
"You don't get to just be normal yet. We have to rebuild that."
"I know."
"And you have to actually be different," you said. "Not just sorry. Different."
"I will be," he said. "I already am. Or I'm trying to be." He paused. "Is that enough to start with?"
You looked at him for a long moment.
"It's enough to start with," you said.
The careful-not-quite-hope became something more than that.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"Don't thank me yet," you said. "We have a long way to go."
"I know," he said. "I'll go as slow as you need."
You looked at the path ahead.
"I have class," you said.
"I know. Go."
You went.
It was a start.
Logan was harder.
Not because you were angrier at him — you were, if you were being honest, angry at both of them in equal measure, just differently. Dean had betrayed a friendship. Logan had betrayed something larger, something that had your name on it, something you had handed him on a grey February Saturday when you said I love you and meant it with everything you had.
You saw him at the football games. Third row back, left side, every time. Not looking at you directly, just there, present, with the quiet patience of someone who had decided that showing up was the only thing available to him and had committed to it without reservation.
He sent you a text after every game. Not about him, not about them, about your work. Good shot in the second half. The one where you caught the receiver right before the snap. The slow motion reel you posted was really good. The timing was perfect. Small specific things that said I was paying attention without saying anything else.
You read them all.
You responded to some of them.
Small things. Thanks. I almost didn't post that one. Nothing that opened a door, just acknowledgment. The acknowledgment of someone who was not ready and was not pretending to be and was also not entirely gone.
He was not pushing. That was the thing you noticed most. He had shown up to three football games and fixed a broken tripod mount and sent careful specific texts about your work and he had not once asked for anything in return. Had not once said I think we should talk or please give me a chance or any of the things that would have made it easier to keep the door closed.
He was just — there.
Being different.
The grand gesture arrived on a Thursday, five weeks after the fight.
You were in the football team's equipment room going through footage on your laptop when someone knocked on the door. One of the managers looked in.
"There's someone outside asking for you," he said, with the specific expression of someone who had seen something and found it notable.
You went outside.
The path outside the athletics building was where you found him — Logan, in the cold, with flowers. Not a bunch. Not a normal amount. An amount that represented a decision — sunflowers and peonies and something small and white, wrapped loosely in paper, assembled with the specific intention of being too many, more than one person could reasonably carry, held in both arms with the careful energy of someone who had thought about this and decided it was not enough and added more anyway.
You looked at the flowers. You looked at him.
He looked tired in the same way he had looked tired since the night you left — not dramatic, not performing it, just genuinely worn down in the way of someone who had been carrying something for five weeks without putting it down.
"You said private," he said. "Too many flowers. Someone made a decision." He paused. "I made a decision."
Your throat did something inconvenient.
"Logan —"
"I'm not asking you to forgive me today," he said. "I just you said meaning it was the important part. And I needed you to see that I mean it. That's all. I'm not asking for anything."
You looked at the flowers. Peonies. He had gotten peonies specifically.
"You remembered the peonies," you said.
"You mentioned them once," he said. "A long time ago."
"You were paying attention," you said.
"I was always paying attention," he said quietly. "That was never the problem."
You stood there in the cold outside the athletics building and thought about I will never know which part was real and the third row left side and the texts about your work and five weeks of him being different without being asked to prove it.
"This isn't enough," you said.
Something flickered in his expression.
"I know," he said.
"I need more than flowers."
"I know," he said again, steadily. "Tell me what you need. Whatever it is. I'll do it."
You looked at him for a long moment.
"I need time," you said. "Real time. Not rushing. Not us going back to how things were because it was comfortable and we missed each other. Actually starting over and doing it right."
"Okay," he said.
"I need you to keep showing up," you said. "Not just when it's easy. When it's hard and uncertain and you don't know if it's working. You keep showing up anyway."
"I will," he said.
"And I need you to understand that I might get angry again," you said. "Even after I've forgiven you. It might come back and I might need to say something and you have to let me say it without shutting down."
"I will," he said. "I'll listen. Every time."
You looked at him.
"The texts," you said. "About my work."
"Yeah."
"You were at every game."
"Yeah."
"Third row back. Left side."
He looked at you quietly.
"I know," you said. "I noticed."
Something in his expression shifted.
"I was always going to ask you out," he said. "I need you to know that. Not as an excuse. Just as a true thing. The money didn't change what I felt. It just — it gave me a reason I shouldn't have needed and I took it and I'm sorry. But what happened between us was real. Every single part of it was real."
"I know," you said, which surprised you slightly, because you hadn't known you knew until you said it. "I know it was real. That's what made it hurt so much."
He nodded.
"Give me the peonies," you said.
He carefully extracted the peonies from the arrangement and held them out. You took them.
"The rest you can take home," you said.
"Okay."
"And Logan —" you paused. "The showing up. Don't stop."
Something broke open in his expression — not dramatically, not loudly, just quietly and completely, the expression of someone who had been holding something for five weeks and had finally been given a place to put it down.
"I won't," he said. "I promise."
You looked at him for one more moment.
"Slow," you said.
"As slow as you need," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."
You went back inside.
You stood in the equipment room with the peonies and thought about everything — the check and the bet and the fight and five weeks of third row left side and too many flowers on a Thursday afternoon in the cold.
You were not okay yet.
But you were standing with peonies, which was somewhere.
It was enough to start with.
The getting back together did not happen all at once.
It happened the way the crush had happened — gradually, against nobody's will this time, the way things did when they had been building for a long time and had finally found the right conditions.
The first time you went back to the rink it was not for work.
It was a Saturday game, mid-March, the kind that mattered for standings, and you had told yourself you were going because Allie and Hannah were going and Olivia was going and it was a group thing and had nothing to do with anything else.
You brought your camera.
Not the work camera your personal one, the smaller one you used when you were filming for yourself rather than for a content schedule. You told yourself it was habit. You told yourself you just liked having it.
You sat third row left side.
The thing about watching hockey when you actually knew what you were looking at was that it was a completely different experience from watching hockey when you were just there for the atmosphere. You knew the plays. You knew the patterns. You knew which moments were about to become something before they became something, the specific pre-motion stillness that preceded a good play, the way certain players telegraphed their intentions without knowing they were doing it.
You knew Logan's tells better than anyone.
Which was why you had your camera up and ready when he got the puck in the second period the slight shift of his weight, the way his head came up a half second before anyone else's, and then the play unfolding exactly the way you had known it would, clean and fast and entirely worth watching.
You got the shot.
Forty-three seconds of it, actually.
You lowered the camera and looked at what you had captured and felt something settle in your chest that was warm and quiet and entirely familiar.
Genuinely cinematic, you thought, and smiled at the ice.
Briar won.
The team filtered out of the locker room in the usual way in ones and twos, loud and post-game, spilling into the corridor where the usual group had gathered. Allie found Dean. Hannah found Garrett. Tucker found someone to complain to about a call in the third period.
You were reviewing footage on your camera when you felt someone stop beside you.
You looked up.
Logan was still in half his gear, hair damp, and he was looking at you with the expression you had forty-seven saved clips of — the real one, the one that had nothing managed about it — except that now you were allowed to look at it directly, which was still something you were getting used to.
"You came," he said.
"I came," you confirmed.
"You brought your camera."
"I brought my camera."
He looked at it. He looked at you. "Did you get anything good?"
You turned the camera around and hit play. The second period play unfolded on the small screen — the weight shift, the half second of stillness, the clean fast movement of something that knew exactly where it was going.
Forty-three seconds of it.
Logan watched it. Something in his expression went soft in the specific way it did when he was actually feeling something and had decided not to manage it.
"That's —" he started.
"Genuinely cinematic," you said.
He looked at you.
You looked back at him.
And then he kissed you right there in the corridor.
It was warm and certain and tasted like relief of something that had been a long time coming and had finally, simply, arrived.
When you pulled back he was smiling the real one, the one you had been filming without quite admitting why for seven months.
"So," he said.
"Yeah," you said. "We're back together." You pointed at him. "Don't fuck up."
Logan laughed a real one, surprised and warm, the kind that carried down the corridor and made Tucker laugh too without knowing why.
"I won't," he said.
"I mean it."
"I know you mean it."
"Good." You tucked your camera back into your bag. "Buy me food. I've been at a hockey game for two hours and I'm starving."
"Done," he said immediately.
You started walking and everything was different from before, which was the whole point, which was exactly what you had asked for.
Better. Not the same. Better.
Behind you, fading, you heard Tucker say something to Garrett.
Summary: John Logan can flirt with anyone for fun, but the second y/n ties his hockey jacket around her waist, it starts feeling dangerously less casual. Between stolen touches, teasing confessions, and a growing inability to keep their eyes—or hands—off each other, one night at Malone’s turns into the beginning of something neither of them is prepared for.
wc: 2870
Pairing: John Logan x Reader
A/N: I was going to split this into two parts but then changed my mind. Formatting is kind of everywhere. Not edited.
The bass at Malone’s was loud enough to vibrate through the floorboards.
Every surface in the place felt sticky, humid from too many students packed together under flashing lights, and the air smelled like cheap beer, perfume, sweat, and something aggressively fried from the kitchen. Which normally would have been my cue to leave after thirty minutes.
But Hannah and Allie had cornered me before I could escape.
So now I’m trapped in the middle of the dance floor while Allie screamed the lyrics to a JLo directly into my ear.
“If you elbow me one more time, I’m reporting you to the authorities,” I yelled over the music.
“You look too hot to complain!” she shouted back immediately.
“That’s because this dress is cutting off circulation to my legs!”
Hannah burst out laughing beside us, dark curls bouncing as she danced. “Worth it!”
Easy for her to say.
The black dress looked incredible in my bedroom mirror two hours ago. Sleek. Tiny. Dangerous in a fun way.
Now?
Now it had decided it couldn't stay down on my thighs and kept trying to ride up. Every thirty seconds I had to yank the hem back down while trying to preserve what little dignity I had left.
“I swear to God,” I muttered, tugging at the fabric again, “this dress is one wrong move away from becoming a crop top.”
Allie nearly choked laughing.
“You’re so dramatic.”
“I’m fighting for my life.”
“You’re winning, though,” Hannah assured me. “Half the bar has been staring at you since we got here.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It should be.”
Unfortunately, Hannah wasn’t wrong. I could feel eyes following us every time we moved through the crowd. And one pair in particular was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
Because leaning against the bar in a fitted grey Henley—with sleeves pushed up to his forearms like he personally wanted to ruin my mental stability—was John Logan.
He was currently talking to Garrett Graham. Laughing at something Dean said. Looking unfairly good doing literally nothing. I made the mistake of glancing over again. Big mistake. Huge.
Because Logan happened to look up at the exact same moment. Our eyes locked across the crowded bar. Then he smiled, not a polite smile, not a casual hey-I-know-you smile either. A slow, knowing smile like he’d caught me doing something I shouldn’t be. Heat immediately crawled up my neck.
“Oh my God,” Hannah said beside me. “You’re staring again.”
I immediately started moving again out of pure embarrassment, nearly sloshing my drink onto the stranger beside me.
“I hate both of you.”
“You wanna know the worst part?” Hannah asked.
“No.”
“He keeps looking over here too.”
I nearly choke on air. “Excuse me?”
But before Hannah could answer, the dress betrayed me again. Aggressively. I gasped, grabbing the hem before disaster struck. “That’s it. I’m taking this thing out back and setting it on fire.”
Allie doubled over laughing. “You brought extra clothes though, right?”
“Yes,” I said obviously. “Because unlike you two, I believe in preparation.”
Honestly, being roommates with Hannah and Allie meant always carrying backup options.
Backup makeup, shoes, advil, dignity.
“My bag’s at the table,” I said, pointing toward the back booth where Tucker and Dean sat.
Hannah nodded sympathetically. “Go change before you accidentally traumatize the hockey team.”
“Excellent idea.”
I shoved my way through the crowd, muttering apologies. Heat clung to my skin from dancing, and by the time I reached the booth, I was already annoyed enough to change into sweatpants and never speak again.
Tucker looked up first. “There she is,” he announced dramatically. “The only responsible person at this school.”
Dean snorted into his drink. “That’s a low bar.”
I laughed softly and bent down to grab my tote bag from beside the booth—Only for another hand to reach it first. Long fingers wrapped loosely around the strap. My stomach immediately did something humiliating. Slowly, I looked up.
Logan sat sprawled comfortably against the booth seat, one arm stretched along the back behind Dean. Up close he somehow looked even broader than he had across the room, shoulders straining the soft grey fabric of his Henley. His hair looked slightly damp at the ends and his eyes were absolutely full of amusement.
“You leaving already?” he asked. His voice was rough from the noise in the bar, low enough that I felt my heart skip.
“No,” I replied. “My dress is trying to humiliate me.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I noticed.”
My entire body heated instantly. “You noticed?”
Dean made a choking sound into his beer while Tucker physically covered his face.
Logan looked completely unashamed. “It’s hard not to,” he said. “You’ve been fighting with that thing since you got here.”
I pointed accusingly at him. “You are a terrible person.”
“Nah.” He stood up from the booth in one smooth movement. “Just observant.”
Standing this close to him felt unfair. He was tall enough that I had to tilt my head slightly to keep eye contact. Then Logan glanced down toward my legs again. A slow grin spread across his face. “You know,” he drawled, already shrugging off his hockey jacket, “there’s a pretty obvious solution here.”
Before I could answer, he held the jacket out toward me. Navy blue with ‘Briar Hockey’ stitched across the chest. It was still warm from his body.
“You’re offering me your jacket?”
Logan lifted one shoulder casually. “Seems safer for the general public.”
Tucker laughed so hard he almost dropped a fry.
I should’ve said something smooth. Something flirtier than standing there staring at him like an idiot. But of course my brain had become occupied by the sight of Logan holding the jacket. Dear God. “You okay there, y/n?” he asked, clearly entertained now.
“Yes,” I lied immediately. “I am perfectly fine.”
His grin widened. “That’s good news for me.”
I blinked. “Why?”
“Because I’ve been flirting with you for the last ten minutes.”
My heart nearly stopped.
Dean made a loud gagging noise. “Jesus Christ, Logan. Buy us dinner before you start confessing feelings.”
“Shut up,” Logan muttered automatically. But he never looked away from me once.
And suddenly the noise of Malone’s felt farther away somehow., like the entire bar had blurred around us. Then Logan stepped closer, close enough that my pulse jumped stupidly hard.
“C’mere,” he said softly.
My brain short-circuited again.
Before I could respond, he took the jacket gently from my hands and moved behind me.
Every nerve ending in my body immediately became aware of the fact that John Logan was standing directly behind me.
I could feel heat radiating off him.
Could smell his cologne more clearly now—clean and warm and dangerously comforting.
Then his fingers brushed lightly against my hips as he wrapped the sleeves around my waist.
Not lingering.
Barely there.
Still enough to make my stomach flip violently.
“You’re freezing,” he murmured near my ear.
I swallowed hard. “It’s winter.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Oh.
Oh, that was flirting flirting.
His knuckles skimmed my waist one last time as he tied the sleeves securely in front.
“There,” Logan said quietly behind me. “Problem solved.”
I turned around slowly.
Big mistake.
Because now he was even closer.
Close enough that I could see the tiny scar near his eyebrow.
Close enough that I noticed his eyes weren’t just brown—they had these stupid gold flecks in them under the bar lights.
Close enough that my brain started making deeply unhelpful observations about how nice his mouth looked.
“You’re very smug for someone lending me a jacket,” I managed.
“Can you blame me?” His gaze dragged slowly over me, entirely unapologetic. “You look really good in my clothes, y/n.”
That should not have affected me that much.
And yet.
I crossed my arms mostly to give myself something to do. “Do you flirt with every girl like this?”
“Nah.”
His eyes held mine steadily.
“Only the ones who stare at me from the dance floor like they wanna climb me.”
My jaw dropped open.
Dean lost it completely beside us.
“Oh my God,” I laughed, horrified. “You saw that?”
I groaned and covered my face instantly while Tucker cackled loud enough to attract attention from nearby tables.
“This is my villain origin story.”
Logan laughed too then.
Not the cocky teasing laugh from before.
A real one.
Warm and low and ridiculously attractive.
Then his hand closed gently around my wrist.
The touch surprised me enough that I looked up immediately.
“Don’t hide now,” he murmured, tugging my hand away from my face.
The teasing edge in his voice softened just slightly.
And somehow that felt even more dangerous.
“I kinda like when you look at me.”
My stomach flipped so hard it was honestly concerning.
For one suspended second neither of us moved.
The lights flashed blue and gold across his face. Music pounded through the floor beneath our feet. Around us, Dean was still laughing at something Tucker said, people shouted over drinks, glasses clinked behind the bar—
But Logan’s attention stayed completely, entirely on me.
Like I was the only interesting thing in the room.
Then his gaze flicked briefly to the jacket tied around my waist before returning to my face.
“Plus,” he added casually, “now everybody knows you’re wearing my jacket.”
I blinked. “And why exactly does that matter?”
His grin turned lazy again.
“No reason.”
Liar.
And judging by the look in his eyes—
he knew I knew it too.
By the time I realized John Logan was still holding my wrist, it was already becoming a problem.
Not a real problem.
A dangerous problem.
Because his hand was warm, his thumb rested lazily against the inside of my wrist, and the look in his eyes was doing deeply irresponsible things to my nervous system.
Around us, Malone’s was still loud and chaotic—music blasting, people yelling over each other, glasses clinking behind the bar—but somehow the space directly around us felt weirdly smaller.
Focused.
Like the rest of the room had blurred at the edges.
Logan tilted his head slightly, watching me with obvious amusement. “You always get this quiet when a guy flirts with you?”
I narrowed my eyes immediately. “I’m not quiet.”
“You were staring at me like you forgot your own name two seconds ago.”
“That’s a medical condition.”
Dean nearly fell out of the booth laughing.
Tucker pointed a fry at me. “Honestly, y/n? Respect.”
“Thank you,” I said with dignity. “At least someone here supports women.”
Logan’s mouth twitched.
Still holding my wrist.
Still entirely too close.
“You okay there, hockey boy?” I asked sweetly. “You seem attached.”
His gaze dropped briefly to where our hands were touching before lifting back to my face.
“Nah,” he said easily. “Just making sure you don’t run away.”
My stomach flipped.
Which was ridiculous.
Absolutely ridiculous.
Because John Logan flirted with everyone. That was practically part of his personality. He was charming and hot and knew exactly how to look at someone like they were the center of the universe for five minutes at a time.
I knew that.
Unfortunately, knowing it did absolutely nothing for me when he smiled like that.
“You think I’d run away?” I asked.
“I think,” Logan said slowly, “you’ve been pretending not to notice me staring at you all night.”
Heat crawled up my neck instantly.
“Oh my God,” I muttered.
“That’s not a denial.”
“Please stop being observant. It’s ruining my life.”
He laughed softly, finally letting go of my wrist.
I immediately missed the warmth.
Which felt pathetic.
Before I could spiral about that too much, Logan leaned one hip against the edge of the booth beside me.
“So what’s in the emergency backup bag?” he asked.
“Gym shorts. Oversized T-shirt. Snacks.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Snacks?”
“I’m a woman in STEM. Survival is important.”
Dean pointed at me dramatically. “See? This is why she’s my favorite.”
“You told Hannah last week I looked like I’d poison someone for fun.”
“You do.”
“That’s just the eyeliner.”
Logan laughed again, shaking his head.
God, he laughed a lot around me.
That felt… nice.
Dangerously nice.
“What kind of snacks?” he asked.
I stared at him. “Are you flirting with me or trying to rob me?”
“Can’t it be both?”
I snorted despite myself and finally crouched to dig through my tote bag. “Goldfish crackers. Granola bars. Sour candy.”
“y/n,” Tucker said solemnly, “marry me.”
“No.”
“That’s fair.”
I pulled out the folded pair of black athletic shorts I planned on changing into and tossed the bag onto the booth seat.
Logan looked personally offended.
“You’re replacing the dress?”
“The dress betrayed me.”
“But the dress is winning.”
“That sounds fake.”
“No seriously.” His eyes dragged over me again, slower this time. “It’s a really good dress.”
My brain fully malfunctioned for half a second.
The confidence in his voice was what got me.
Not teasing now.
Not joking.
Just honest.
And somehow that was worse.
“You are aggressively good at this,” I informed him.
“At flirting?”
“At making people forget basic motor functions.”
A grin spread slowly across his face. “Yeah?”
“Unfortunately.”
Dean groaned loudly. “I can literally feel the sexual tension from here.”
“Then leave,” Logan said without looking away from me.
Tucker clutched his chest dramatically. “He’s in deep already.”
“I’m not in deep,” Logan shot back automatically.
I raised an eyebrow. “Interesting choice of wording.”
He looked at me for a second.
Then smirked.
“You catch everything, huh?”
“Occupational hazard.”
“What occupation?”
“Judging people.”
“Damn,” he said. “And here I thought it was pharmacy.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
And Logan’s expression shifted immediately when he heard it.
Softer somehow.
Like he liked making me laugh.
That realization hit me right in the chest.
“You know what’s weird?” he asked suddenly.
“What?”
“You’re way less scary than Hannah made you sound.”
I gasped dramatically. “Excuse me. I worked very hard on my terrifying reputation.”
“She told Garrett you once made Dean reconsider his entire personality.”
“I did.”
Dean pointed at me. “She looked me dead in the eyes and asked if I had hobbies besides being loud.”
Logan barked out a laugh.
“To be fair,” I said, “you didn’t have an answer.”
“That’s not the point.”
The music switched songs, bass vibrating through the floor harder now as more people crowded onto the dance floor.
Across the room, Hannah spotted me and wiggled her eyebrows obnoxiously.
I immediately flipped her off.
She looked delighted.
Logan followed my gaze toward the dance floor. “You gonna keep dancing?”
“Eventually.”
“You were having fun before your dress declared war.”
“I was having fun until somebody noticed.”
“y/n,” he said, looking genuinely amused, “you were staring at me like you were conducting scientific research.”
“In my defense, your arms are upsetting.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Tucker made a strangled noise.
Dean physically bent over laughing.
And Logan—
Logan looked so pleased with himself it was unbearable.
“My arms?” he repeated carefully.
I immediately realized my mistake.
“Oh my God.”
“y/n likes my arms,” he announced to the table.
“I actually need everyone here to die.”
He laughed outright now, head tipping back slightly, and the sight hit me with embarrassing force.
Because Logan was pretty.
Like offensively pretty.
Especially when he laughed.
“You know,” he said casually, flexing one arm against the table edge just enough to be annoying, “most people compliment my face first.”
“You don’t need compliments about your face. You already know about your face.”
“That’s true.”
“Horrific answer.”
He grinned.
Then leaned closer suddenly, voice dropping lower.
“But for the record,” he murmured, “I noticed your legs first too.”
My entire train of thought derailed.
Completely.
Gone.
Dean slapped the table hard enough to rattle the drinks. “Jesus Christ, just kiss already.”
“Dean,” I said weakly, still staring at Logan, “I’m trying to have a nervous breakdown in peace.”
Logan’s eyes flicked down briefly to my mouth.
Just for a second.
Still enough to make my pulse jump.
Then he looked back up slowly.
“Would it help,” he asked softly, “if I told you I’ve been trying not to kiss you since you walked in?”
I forgot how breathing worked.
Actually forgot.
Logan noticed immediately too, because his grin turned lazy and unbearably smug.
“There she goes again,” he murmured.
“Shut up.”
“You get all wide-eyed every time I flirt with you.”
“Maybe because you flirt like you’re trying to cause structural damage.”
That earned me another low laugh.
And before I could recover from that either, Logan reached out and adjusted the collar of his hockey jacket where it sat tied around my waist.
His fingers brushed bare skin just above my thigh.
➷ summary: you’re the captain of the briar girl’s volleyball team, leading your team through the ncaa volleyball semifinals in the hopes of reaching the championship. and you do achieve that, but not after experiencing the most insane introduction with john logan, a man you hadn’t known to exist until now
➷ word count: 5464
➷ warnings: cursing, sexual references kind of (no smut), probably inaccurate volleyball because i literally have never played and don’t know anything about it (i was researching as i wrote this, so i'm genuinely so sorry if it’s completely wrong. also, for the sake of plot making sense, we’re gonna say the ncaa volleyball tournaments take place in march because i want hannah and garrett, and allie and dean to be together)
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
It was nearing the end of the 5th set, and yet, still, both Briar U and Harvard’s girl’s volleyball teams were tied. Fucking 24 points each, both having two winning sets beneath their belts. Meaning, whoever got the last two points– the points that both teams desperately needed– would get a ticket straight to the NCAA Championship.
And you, the libero on the team, the captain, were fucking livid.
Your team, as well as yourself, had been playing sloppy– or at least, it felt like you had– and you really had no clue why. You guys had been perfect during practice, together as one team. Hell, the first two sets had been great, too. Wipeouts.
But then, of course, because it was fucking Harvard, they won the third set. And then the fourth.
And now you were on the fifth and final set of the NCAA Semifinals, tied 24 points each.
It had to be the most intense game you had ever played in your 15 years of volleyball.
It didn’t help that Harvard was absolutely, 100%, targeting your ass. You guess it made sense– since your freshman year, you’d been talked about. A prospect that sports sites couldn’t stop talking about. Your name had been in their mouths since your first game at Briar U, and it hadn’t left since.
And that’s because you– to be totally, completely humble– were a really fucking amazing libero.
Your defensive moves and tactics were the highlights of many games, the Briar U volleyball account literally reposting edits that fans have made of your best saves. You didn’t let it get to your head, of course. You couldn’t, even if you had tried. You weren’t like that– you could never be like that, because in all honesty, you knew the only reason you had gotten as good as you had was because of past coaches and teammates. As well as current ones.
So yeah, you were good, maybe even great as some of the sports sites put it, but it was all through the effort of others.
And, to be honest, right now, you didn’t feel great.
Or good.
You felt completely, utterly, horrible, because during this set– despite it being in the beginning– you had failed to save two hits, the spikes from the opposing team smacking the center of your side of the net. This meant that Harvard had earned two points because you couldn’t get your shit together, and it was driving you fucking nuts.
You felt like you had the pressure of this win on your shoulders, and it really didn’t help that the stands were filled to the brim with students. Harvard students, yes, but mostly Briar students, since it was ‘Briar Blackout’ tonight, a term coined for any sports event when they were wanting to fill the stands, especially now, since it was semifinals, which were held in an arena very close to campus. And boy, were they filled. Which made this all that much worse. God, did it feel like you were letting them down right now. It was embarrassing. Every time Harvard got a point, the disappointed groans of your supporters met your ears, and the usual smile that you wore on your face as you played had been completely wiped from your features during the third set. Because genuinely what the fuck?
This game had been disappointing on so many levels to the point that you were now actively listening to the chants from fellow students and supporters, something you never did. You always tried to block them out, to focus on yourself, but right now, you needed the support.
And it helped a bit, hearing the chants of your name, as well as the other names of girls on your team, shouting how you guys totally ‘got this’.
The people sitting in the courtside seats were the loudest.
In the chairs to your right sat people who had actually bought tickets, while the courtside seats to your left was the Briar boys volleyball team. And, in the courtside seats directly behind you sat the Briar U boys hockey team. Which was new.
You’re pretty sure it was because they had won nationals, so they were here to support the girls volleyball team as they fought for their place. Which you were dreading may be coming to a dead-end tonight.
But you couldn’t be thinking about the hockey boys right now– you couldn’t be thinking about any of this, not when you watched as Luisa Elliot, your best friend, your outside hitter, stumbled as her hands tapped the ball, sending it in the completely wrong direction. Instead of it going back over the net like it was meant to, it had been hit completely off course.
It flew over your head, and was heading straight for the stands directly behind.
That was no good.
You sprint with not an ounce of hesitation towards the ball, following its movement with your eyes and legs, and you knew there was no way in hell you were going to make it– not when you were coming horribly close to the hockey boys. And, if you ran into them before you sent that ball back where it was meant to go, then you might not get the point, or, worse, Harvard could get the point.
And, fuck, you really couldn’t have that.
So you did what you always did– you leaped, quite literally throwing yourself forward in a dive, right arm pointed straight out, desperate to hit that ball back to your teammates. And you felt it, the ball smacking against the fleshy part of your hand below the knuckle of your thumb.
You figured it went as planned, your eyes watching as the ball went back over your head– and, when a loud, collective, deafening cheer sounded from your side of the stands, you were positive that your play had gone perfectly, the ball going exactly where it was supposed to be.
However, you were not where you were supposed to be.
No, you were currently dangling over one of the Briar hockey boys.
In the save that may have kept Briar in the game, you had sacrificed your dignity, because here you were, body pressed against and over a man you had never once spoken to– hell, you didn’t even know which hockey player was beneath you. All you knew was that you could feel his face pressed into the fabric that covered your stomach, the rest of your upper body draped over the top of his head. The only reason why you hadn’t flipped completely over the man was because his right arm had instinctively secured itself around the back of your thighs, keeping you in place.
To your left, you heard the loud cackle from one of the boys, and to your right, you heard another one of the guys react with a shocked, “Oh, shit!”
You tried to move quickly, hearing the game continuing behind you as the ball was passed between the Harvard girls. Your hands, which had previously been held out in front of you, trying to balance yourself, now were being grabbed by the two other hockey players beside you, who helped tug you to an upright position as quickly as they could.
As they do this, you feel the arm of the guy that you are currently straddling slide away from your thighs, and he holds his hands back, palms facing you as if he was surrendering to something.
You only get a quick glance of the guy’s baffled– but heavily amused– eyes before your left hand quite literally presses against his face, using it as leverage to push yourself off him, where you start at a sprint back towards the game that had your entire focus. And, it’s lucky you did that, because just as you were about to make it back to the court, the middle hitter of the Harvard team had spiked the ball straight to the floor on your side of the court.
Again, you dove to the ball, slamming your hand down on the polished wood floor just in time. Instead of the volleyball making contact with the planks of wood, it ricochets off the back of your right hand, moving upward where another one of your teammates– Liliana Amato– bumps it up and over to Louisa.
Louisa, the fucking amazing hitter that she is, spikes the ball with the palm of her hand, sending it straight to the back corner of Harvard’s side of the net.
Their libero isn’t fast enough.
No one on their team is fast enough, because the ball hits the wood with a loud smack, resulting in the entire room to vibrate with the loud cheers and screams of Briar students and fans.
You jump up quickly when you hear the whistle from the referee, and you swear you could cry from pure glee when the ref announces that, yes, the point did count, despite the Harvard team trying to claim that your pancake move hadn’t actually saved the ball.
This causes another wave of loud cheers to erupt in the room, and you move to Louisa and Liliana, a giant grin on your face as you three high five, but not before each of you took a running headstart, jumping as you met in the middle, your shoulders colliding in a celebration of glee. It was something you always did, the three of you, because, as fate had it, you three were the ‘big three’. You guys moved with an efficiency like no other, and as it turned out, sports websites loved it.
All you needed now was one point.
One point, and you would be two points ahead, and then you’d win.
If you guys got this point, you’d make it to the NCAA Championship, something that Briar girls volleyball hasn’t been to in over ten years.
The arena gets quiet again as the two teams get ready, and from the corner of your eye you watch as Macey Cameron, your team's setter, tosses the ball up into the air, using her palm to serve it to Harvard.
And, like that, another intense battle ensues. You swear to God you’ve lost at least twenty pounds through this game because the Harvard girls really were putting you to work– the ball had gone over the net and back three times in the last thirty seconds, and each time, you’ve had to dive to save the ball from one of the girls' vicious spikes.
Like now.
You had just gotten to your feet again when Harvard’s middle hitter sent a completely fucking lethal spike your way. It was going down and over your head with a speed you didn’t even know was possible, and you tossed yourself backwards, right hand out to save the ball from hitting the floor. As it flies up, your body rolls on top of itself, and you’re pretty sure you’ve done some sort of fucking backward sumersault, because one second you’re on your back, and the next you’re on your knees, panting as you rise back to your feet, watching as Liliana sends the ball back over the net.
You watch as the ball flies near the back of the court, hitting the polished wood planks before any of the girls can get it.
But the room stays deathly silent because was that out?
It couldn’t be out.
There was no way you guys just did all that shit for the fucking ball to go out.
Everyone’s eyes are on the ref, who’s talking to the other referees. They’re huddled in a group, and after thirty seconds, they step apart. You watch, and you feel like it’s in slow motion as the man points to your team, nodding.
It had gone in.
The ball had gone in, meaning that Briar had just won the second point needed.
Meaning you were going to the fucking NCAA Championship.
In an instant, the room erupted in cheers so loud that it vibrated through the ground, reaching your feet as you and your team jumped up and down, your coaches– who have yelled at you more times than you could count this game– joining in. You’re so ecstatic that you don’t even think to apologize to the hockey boy that you had run down just minutes prior.
The hockey boy that is now watching you as he cheers, a soft, intrigued smile on his face.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Typically after volleyball games, you went straight home, where you would take a shower and then slump into bed, passing out before you could even question if you were comfortable. It was a ritual at this point; you play a game, you go home and sleep immediately after.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, you and your team had made it to the fucking NCAA Volleyball Championship, which Briar hadn’t done since you were still in elementary school. So, yes, you would fight through your exhaustion for one night, and head to Malone’s for a late night meal with three of your teammates– your best friends– and you would have a great time despite desperately wanting to get comfy in your bedsheets.
Which is how you found yourself now, at 10:30 p.m., entering Malone’s with Louisa, Lililiana, and another girl on the team, Jade, at your side, the four of you walking through the doors of the popular diner.
You were chatting with Louisa who walked directly next to you, and you laughed at something she said, the soft sound carrying through the diner over the group you had yet to notice. The group you had yet to ever meet.
“Holy shit, it’s her!” Dean hissed, leaning across the table to nudge Logan in the shoulder from where he sat beside Garrett. “She’s literally right there–”
“Yeah, I have fucking eyes and ears, man,” Logan responded back quickly, voice terse as his eyes sideglanced you and your group, watching as the four of you walked past the table that currently held six people, including himself, without any knowledge that you were being watched. He looked back to Dean, eyes narrowed, “Can you be quiet?”
“Why?” Dean asked with a smirk, leaning back against the booth chair, his arm still hung comfortably around Allie, who was grinning with Hannah. “You’ve been aware of this girl for four hours now, and it’s obvious you already have a massive crush on her.”
“I don’t–”
“You’ve been stalking her Instagram since the game ended,” Garrett interrupted with a snort. “I’m pretty sure you’ve scrolled down to her sophomore year of high school.”
Hannah laughs into her drink at that, sharing a look with Tucker who had been snacking on the basket of fries that sat in the middle of the friend group.
Logan feels his face heat up at that, and he promptly shuts off his phone, pressing it face down onto the table. Then, he picks up his drink, taking a large sip as he shrugs, speaking into the glass, “She’s interesting.”
“Yeah, interesting because she practically gave you a lap dance mid-game,” Tucker snickered, which, as a result, caused Hannah and Allie to erupt into fits of laughter.
Logan glared harshly at Tucker, “That’s not why I find her interesting.”
“Sure,” Dean drawls out.
“Dude, I’m serious,” Logan huffs, taking a fry and chucking it at the blonde’s head. Then, he leans back against his seat, crossing his arms over himself, “She’s good at her sport. It's fun to watch."
“I think he’s so intrigued because she has no idea who he is,” Hannah butts in with a grin, laughing as Garrett nods along, his arm resting firmly around her, his fingers rubbing against the fabric of her cardigan. “And that’s new for any Briar hockey boy.”
“Oh, definitely,” Garrett agrees.
Logan only stays quiet with a sharp roll of his eyes. But he doesn’t deny it. He can’t deny it, because it’s true.
Just hours ago, after your amazing win, you had been asked for a post-game interview by Briar’s sports media team. And you had said yes, because why would you not? It was better than having to deal with the glares and snarky comments from exiting Harvard fans.
Now, one thing about you was, you didn’t do hockey. Like, at all. You’ve never been to a game before. You didn’t understand how the stupid little ice game worked. Which, very fucking embarrassing for you, was discovered by the entire internet just hours prior.
It was discovered by John Logan hours prior.
The questions had been basic; they always were. Just repeats of the same things, such as certain plays, how you felt winning, yada, yada, yada. However, tonight, the last question had been different, directly tied to the man you had plowed down hours ago. The man who you didn’t know a fucking thing about, because you seriously didn’t do hockey.
“Alright,” the reporter, Sammy, had said, moving onto the next question. “Now, kinda venturing off… we actually wanted to talk about a specific save tonight.”
You smiled your practiced smile, the type that was sweet and polite and all the right ways, “Oh yeah?”
“John Logan. How are you feeling about that?” The reporter stated the question like you were supposed to know who the fuck that was. And maybe it was because your brain was practically mush from the brutal game, paired with the fact that you were running on pure adrenaline post game, but you couldn’t for the life of you connect that the guy you had run down was John Logan. Again, whoever the hell he was.
“Sorry, who?”
Yeah, you couldn’t have picked a worse fucking response.
But, in John Logan’s eyes, that was the perfect fucking response. When he watched the interview on the way to Malone’s after the game– because he was intrigued with volleyball, that was the only reason– he couldn’t help the amused but giddy smile that laced his face.
The reporter’s smile faltered, and she looked back to the camera that was videotaping the entire thing for the school’s media, before her gaze returned back to you like you guys were in an episode of The Office, “Uh… John Logan?”
“Yeah, um... I’m really sorry, I have no clue who that is.”
“The guy you ran into. When saving one of the passes.”
“Oh,” you respond. And because for some fucking reason you can’t help but embarrass yourself tonight, the situation finally clicks in your head, and you say the worst thing humanly possible: you smile, and say, “Hockey boy.”
Like a fucking idiot.
Or, in John Logan’s eyes, like a fucking angel.
“...Right. He plays right wing for Briar men’s hockey,” she explains. And then, she looks back at the camera as she asks, “You didn’t know the hockey team was behind you, watching tonight?”
And, of course, because for some reason your brain’s goal is to get you to make a complete fool out of yourself, you answer an even worse answer.
But, no, you weren’t a fool in Logan’s eyes. Not even close. You were the complete opposite and it had his heart going like a freight train was headed straight for him.
“I knew they were here. I just don’t have a clue who they are.”
“You don’t know Garrett Graham?”
“Uh… nope? I don’t think so.”
“Dean Di Laurentis?”
“Not ringing a bell, sorry.”
“John Tucker?”
“The guy I ran into?”
Logan had laughed at that, making up a quick excuse to Tucker, who had been sitting next to him in the car back when Logan had first seen the video.
“What? No– no, that was John Logan.”
“Right.” You shake your head and you laugh, “Too many John’s, am I right?”
The reporter was watching you like you had grown another head; she did not laugh. You felt a swell of embarrassment creep up in your chest, but you pushed it away, trying to finish the interview as quickly as possible. And you had.
Jesus Christ, Logan practically ate the thing up. He’d played it back, telling himself it was for educational volleyball purposes, when really it was to watch as your eyebrows furrowed in confusion when asked who he was.
And not caring when finding out who he was.
Which is how he ended up searching your name on Instagram, scrolling through your feed, post by post like some weird stalker, according to his friends. Who, presently, were watching him, because he had turned on his phone yet again, eyes flickering down to the screen, watching an old volleyball practice video you had posted.
“Just go talk to her, dude,” Garrett finally said after another thirty seconds of watching Logan silently yearn at your Instagram profile. “She’s two tables down.”
Logan followed Garrett’s gesture, his head turning a fraction, his eyes catching your form as you hovered over a laminated menu, talking pleasantly with the girl who sat beside you. You pointed at something on the menu, wiggled your eyebrows at the girl across from you, and then snorted at what you had said while your three friends gave you bored expressions.
God, he hadn’t even spoken to you and he was positive he was in love.
“No,” he finally says, twisting his head back to his friends.
“Okay, this is painful,” Dean finally said, throwing his hands up. “Give me that–”
Dean had reached forward, plucking Logan’s phone from his loose grip.
“What– dude, stop– give it back–”
But Dean had stood in the booth, holding Logan’s phone out of reach, and he scrolled all the way back up to the top of your Instagram. He wasted no time, clicking the follow button with a sigh of content before shutting off the device and tossing it back to Logan.
And, oh, if looks could kill.
“Are you fucking–”
“Shhhh, thank me later.”
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
“No way.”
“What?” Louisa had said, smiling at the waitress as she brought out the four Cokes that you guys had ordered. She took a long sip, staring at you from over the rim, “What’s up?”
You silently turn your phone, showing your three best friends your most recent notification.
John Logan has requested to follow you.
“Holy fuck,” Jade gapes. Then, she snatches your phone from your grip, and you reach forward, trying to snatch it back. However, she’s already leaning far away from you, “Oh, we are accepting this right now–”
“No! No, we are not,” you respond, voice stern as you stand to try and reach for your phone again. “He literally just followed me. If I accept now, he’ll think me plowing into him was intentional or something, so give–”
“And, accepted! Alrightly, follow back… and look at that, he already approved it!”
“I hate you,” you groan.
“Bro,” Liliana said, gesturing to your phone, “he was the one who followed you first. Which means that after you ran him down, he looked you up on Instagram. Which means he has been debating following you for four hours now. Which means he has the hots for you.”
“You guys are all delusional,” you respond, but not before quickly thanking your waitress, who brings over the four burgers and fries you guys had ordered just a bit ago. The food had come quickly, and you know it’s because Malone’s is relatively empty tonight. Only three tables are taken, including the one that you and your friends occupy.
“I don’t think you’re grasping the severity of this situation.”
“‘The severity of the situation’?” You repeat Jade’s words. “The hell does that mean?’
“That you have one of the hottest guys at Briar, a hockey player, following you almost immediately after you straddled him–”
You feel your face burn, “I did not straddle him.”
“Babe,” Louisa interjects, “you absolutely straddled him. Wanna see a video?”
You groan, “They already posted it?”
“Girl, they posted it three minutes after it happened,” Liliana said. She grabbed her phone, typing quickly, and then slid her phone across the table. You steadied it in front of you, leaning over to watch. And, yeah, you definitely straddled the guy. But not after you fucking launched yourself at him like a rabid squirrel, nearly flinging over his shoulder– you only hadn’t because he had held you against him.
“Oh,” Louisa says from beside you, pointing to the phone. “So that’s Garrett Graham,” she points to the guy who was on your right, the one who had vocalized his surprise when it had happened, “and that’s Dean Di Laurentis,” and then she points to the guy who had cackled. You watch as her finger points to the man next to Dean, “That’s John Tucker. The other John. They all live together. They throw the best parties, too, out of all the hockey boys.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Literally everyone does except you, apparently.”
“Okay, whatever.”
Jade groans loudly, “Can we return to the issue at hand here? John Logan thinks you’re hot.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Girl, look at his smile after you push your hand against his face.”
Jade leans over, using two fingers to zoom the video on the guy’s face, and sure enough, after you push off against his face, sprinting to save the volleyball once more, he watches you with what looks to be a dazed grin, his bottom lip tucked beneath his teeth.
Fuck, it was kinda hot.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” you choose to say instead.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Jade groans. “Look, whatever. Do you at least find him attractive?”
You shrug, lying, “I dunno. Didn’t get a good look at him.”
“Alright, Liliana, pull up the edit.”
“What the fuck do you mean, ‘the edit’?” You question, absolutely baffled. “This guy has edits made for him?”
“He’s a college hockey player, and he’s fucking amazing. And really fucking hot. So, yeah, he’s got edits– but this one is like, top tier. Really gets you going, if you know what I mean–”
“You guys are disgusting.”
“Here,” Liliana says, clicking a video in her liked posts. She shifts her phone towards you, turning up the volume with the pad of her thumb, and you watch as the song “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys sounds through her phone, an extremely well crafted edit of John Logan both on the ice and in interviews playing before you.
“Okay,” you say once the edit finishes, “he’s hot. I get it.”
“See!” Jade grins, “He’s hot, and he’s definitely interested in you after tonight, which means that–”
But you all pause. All four of you freeze, because two tables down, you hear the sound of your voice on full blast, coming from someone’s phone. It’s you answering a question after a relatively successful game, followed by a song. Meaning that somewhere in this fucking diner, someone was watching edits of you.
“Shit! Dean, turn it down–”
It was too late, though.
You and your friends’ heads snapped in the direction of the noise, only to be met with the eyes of six others– five who seemed absolutely thrilled that you had noticed, while the sixth definitely looked like a deer in headlights.
The sixth being John Logan.
You can’t even react accordingly, because Louisa is grinning like a madman, shaking your shoulder and pointing very obviously at the group that’s only two tables away, “Holy shit, he’s right there, oh my God–”
“I can see that, Louisa,” you hiss, pushing her hands off you. Then, you turn back to John Logan, watching as he whispers heated words to his friends before standing. And holy fuck, he’s making his way over to you. Before he even reaches the table, Liliana, Louisa, and Jade are standing, gathering their things and food, and your eyes widen with an alarmed expression, and you hurriedly whisper, “Where the fuck are you guys going?”
“To a different table so we don’t block his cock.”
“Oh my–”
You can’t even finish your words, because your friends are gone. And John Logan is standing right in front of you, a small, gentle smile on his face as he watches your friends scurry over to the table he had just come from. They shove themselves into the booth next to Logan’s friends, acting as if they knew the people they now sat with, which they did not.
Logan’s friends didn’t seem to care, though. They looked just as eager, making room so your three obnoxious teammates could sit comfortably.
You fight the urge to audibly sigh, looking back at the man in front of you. You match his smile, and you really don’t know what’s with your fucking head today, but the first words that leave your mouth aren’t something sweet. They aren't cute. They make you look like a dipshit.
“My victim.”
You immediately want to get up and leave, because genuinely what the fuck were you on today?
But you don’t leave, not when John’s smile widens, and you can see his pretty teeth. He looks thoroughly amused, excited even, and he nods along with your words as he responds, “My attacker.”
“I wouldn’t call it an attack–”
“What would you call it?” He asks with his gentle grin, and he pulls out the chair where Jade had just been, sitting directly across from you.
“A collision on the playing field,” you offer with a hint of playfulness, which he catches onto instantly. “I’m sure you’re used to those. With hockey and everything.”
“So you know who I am now?” He asks, his eyes sparkling with something exciting.
“Hard not to when our video is already making its way through social media. Have you seen it?”
“Absolutely,” he says with a nod, and his tone is serious in a joking way. He’s got his arms now on the table, leaning forward as he speaks to you. He’s still grinning, and you conclude now that this guy is insanely good at keeping eye contact. It's really hot. “You tackling me, me catching you–”
“Straight out of a sports romcom,” you conclude. Then, you shake your solemnly, “What a waste, am I right? If we had some good dialogue, we would’ve gotten a ticket straight to the Oscars!”
“Oh, I know,” he says, and he throws his hands up dramatically. “We’ve been snubbed.”
Fuck, he was fun to banter with.
All the nerves you felt when you first realized he was walking over had vanished into thin air, because you guys got along good. You clicked instantaneously, falling into an easy back and forth that had you leaning forward as you spoke to him, words playful as he nodded along, eyes wide in a way that showed he was having just as much fun as you were.
You guys had been so invested in your many conversations about literally whatever the fuck came up that you didn’t even realize when your friends left. Or when his friends left. Or when you two were the only people left in Malone’s, except for the staff.
And, through the long, witty, playful conversations you were having with John, you two somehow ended up staying at Malone’s until close. It was late out, just past 2 a.m., and John offered to walk you home, which you refused at first, worried about keeping him out too late. But the man pouts dramatically, a playful expression as he told you there's nothing else he'd rather do, and you can’t help but agree.
Which is where you found yourself now.
Pushed up against the front door of your apartment, lips pressed against his, hands threaded through his hair while his fingers held your waist, thumbs rubbing over your hipbones with the type of gentleness that made your heart ache.
He presses more kisses to your lips. They’re firmer, eager, and it’s now that you know you have to break the news to him.
“Wanna know another thing about me, John?” You grin, tilting your head back as he presses kisses down your neck.
He hums against your skin, sucking gently at your pulse point before smoothing it over with his tongue, pressing once final kiss to the skin. He moves his way back up your neck and jaw with soft kisses, pressing one final kiss to the softness of your lips, “What?”
“I don’t do hook-ups. Or casual.”
You expect him to falter, to pull back with a face of disappointment. You figured that’s what would happen, but you didn’t necessarily care. Sure, it was going to suck, having to end this short-lived thing with the hottest guy you ever met, but you weren’t going to change your rules for a guy you had just met.
But, no, Logan doesn’t react how you were expecting at all.
No frown, no hint of irritation. He does something else, something that catches you off guard in the best way possible.
𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞 : john logan x fem! di Laurentis!reader
𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : points of tension? but not angst, secret relationship
𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : Being Dean di daurentis' little sister came with many...features, hundreds of eyes would be trained on the both of you- a dynamic pairing that was sure to breathe life into a party just by blinking at the venue, lavish lives of comfort and quiet luxury, it didn't help you had killer genes on top of it all. With those abilities came challenges, such as, your personal lives being the literal talk of the town.
Meaning you'd be willing to do just about anything to protect the one good thing you had kept to yourself since you lied to your parents about getting drunk for the first time. That included, a bunch of brain rotting dates with the most eligible bachelors at Briar, which, fair warning- will lead to your boyfriend not being the happiest man on earth.
𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐜𝐞 : 7k words
𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲’𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 : What can I say for this one. I just hope you guys think I still have a life. I do, it's just a bit lost at the moment. I swear. I'm also on break right now- so I have alot of free time haha. catch me not uploading anything when teaching starts again. Anyway, just goes to show that when I get requests I don't half ass them haha. Thank you @pinkyups for the gif and @onyxdaze for the dividers !
𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 : I would really appreciate if you could send in an ask to be on my taglist, it's easier for me to manage and make sure everyone is added!! here is the post of my current taglist. Also, if your user is bolded, I'm going on a prayer that youve been tagged but Tumblr wouldn't let me properly do so. I would recommend checking your privacy settings to allow other people to tag you.
The hockey house was always, somehow, loud. Loud in that pre-party way on a Friday night that made your head spin and bring a giddy smile to your face. The warm-up stage, if you will. Everyone half-distracted and talking over each other while deciding what the night was actually going to become.
Which was exactly why Dean had decided it was the perfect time to ruin your life.
“No seriously,” your brother insisted from across the kitchen island, pointing his beer bottle at you like he was presenting a business proposal to investors instead of actively setting his sister up on a date, “this guy is perfect for you.”
You stared at him flatly and leaned on your elbows, the stool you were sat on tipped dangerously.
“Every time you say that, I suffer.”
“That’s because you keep picking emotionally unavailable weirdos.”
Everyone partially ignored Dean, he was always doing this- offering to set you up with the next eligible bachelor that he had scouted in his classes, or mutual friends, one time he set you up with one of his ex-hookup’s hookup. That one didn’t go as well as the majority of your brother’s matchmaking pursuits.
From the couch, Logan’s ears perked up and he choked slightly on his drink; he glanced around hoping nobody noticed, and it didn’t seem like they did.
Except Garrett.
Garrett glanced up from his phone, eyes moving from Logan to you and then back to Logan again with the expression of somebody who had just noticed a bomb underneath the dining table.
Your eyes flicked to Logan, a secret twinkle in them before you steeled and ignored him. Dean, fortunately for you didn’t even notice and continued talking.
“He’s pre-law,” he said proudly.
Logan rolled his eyes and scoffed before he could stop himself. He didn’t even recognise the noise that he made, but he stilled when he felt the group’s eyes on him.
Allie frowned from where she sat cross-legged on the floor. “Why did you react like that?”
Logan shrugged quickly, leaning further back into the couch cushions beside Tucker. “I didn’t.”
“You literally scoffed.”
“I breathed.”
“That was a judgmental breath.”
“It’s pre-law,” Logan muttered, finger running along the rim of his beer bottle.
Dean narrowed his eyes immediately, “What’s wrong with pre-law?”
Logan took another sip of his drink like he hadn’t just entered the conversation voluntarily. “Sounds evil.”
Tucker barked out a laugh from beside him. “Bro, weren't you considering law for a bit?”
“We don’t about that dark time of my life,” Logan muttered, he nodded silently as the yeasty alcohol slipped down his throat- his eyes flicked to you but he refocussed on the conversation at hand.
You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to stop yourself smiling.
The two of you had agreed on the secrecy together.
Mostly because your friends were all deeply nosy and incapable of minding their own business for longer than six consecutive minutes, but also because you and Logan had somehow slipped into dating without fully meaning to and then panicked slightly once you realised how serious it had become.
Now here you were.
Four months deep into a relationship that you couldn’t reveal, unless you wanted to bring about the next Dean-meltdown. The last one almost ended with him moving to Australia and making a life with the kangaroos.
Which meant that every time somebody tried setting one of you up with another person, you both had to sit there pretending it was completely normal.
You liked to think that you had been handling it significantly better than Logan.
“All I’m saying,” Dean continued, oblivious to the psychological warfare occurring three feet away from him, “is that he’s smart, he’s tall, he cooks-”
“That’s manipulative,” Logan interrupted.
The room went quiet.
You looked at him.
Dean looked at him.
Even Hannah slowly lowered her phone.
“What?” Dean said eventually.
Logan blinked once like he had only just realised he’d spoken aloud.
“What?” he repeated.
“You think cooking is manipulative?”
Logan shifted slightly in his seat. “Sometimes.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Neither does pre-law.”
Allie turned fully toward him now, deeply suspicious. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, “You seem weirdly invested.”
“I’m not invested.” He quickly replied.
Garrett spoke without looking up from his phone.
“You wanna explain why you’re reacting like a divorced father who just found out his ex-wife is dating again?”
Tucker physically folded over laughing.
Logan pointed at Garrett immediately. “See? This is why nobody likes you.”
“People love me.”
“Your own girlfriend looks tired.”
Hannah snorted into her can of coke and ran her hand through her boyfriend’s hair, who was staring daggers at Logan until he melted into her touch.
You looked away before you snorted at Logan’s antics, which probably in hindsight wasn’t the best idea, because the second your attention drifted away- you could feel him boring holes into the side of your face, like he was trying to telepathically communicate his annoyance across the room.
Your phone buzzed against the counter and you grabbed it quickly before someone noticed the way you grinned to yourself, biting down on your lip you checked the notifications; even though you already knew who it was.
Hockey boy 💗
stop smiling at dean about another guy before i lose my mind
Across the room, Logan stared at his own phone with the deeply concentrated expression of someone trying not to commit homicide.
You typed back carefully, intentionally slower so as not to alert your brother- who was now chattering with his girlfriend across the room.
You:
you are being unbelievably dramatic rn
Hockey boy 💗
he said the guy cooks
You:
so…do you?
Hockey boy 💗
yeah but i do it sexier
You physically had to cough to disguise the laugh that escaped you.
Hannah looked over instantly.
“What?” she asked suspiciously.
“Nothing.”
“You just giggled at your phone.”
“I did not.”
“You literally did.”
Dean pointed at you accusingly. “Wait. Is there already another guy?”
You jumped so hard that your knee hit the island and you hissed. Logan had sat up straighter, fast enough that it alarmed Tucker, who was sunken into the couch next to him.
“No,” he said immediately.
The entire room turned toward him.
A beat passed.
Logan slowly leaned back again, cringing and half hoping the universe would grant him reprise in the deepest black hole it could create.
“I mean,” he added poorly, “how would I know?”
Garrett finally looked up fully now, staring directly at Logan with open fascination, his eyes widening as he properly studied the both of you. His mouth popped open in an O shape.
Your heart launched into your throat as you met the captain’s eyes, half pleading that he was as slow as his stereotype allowed him to be. But before Garrett could elaborate further, Dean steamrolled right over the moment.
“Whatever,” he said dismissively, already pulling out his phone again, “look at this guy and tell me I’m wrong.”
He shoved the screen in your direction, you squinted and slumped forward, hitting your older brother with a dead look.
You hated how attractive the man was.
Tall. Dark hair. Nice smile.
One of those annoyingly clean-looking corporate boys that somehow always smelled expensive.
Before you could stop yourself, your eyes flicked instinctively toward Logan. If there was a bigger mistake you could've made, it would be murder. Because he was already looking at you, his eyes inquisitively blinking between you and Dean.
Waiting.
You raised one eyebrow slightly, teasing him and Logan narrowed his eyes immediately. Then, because apparently self-preservation had abandoned him entirely tonight, he muttered,
“He looks like he moisturizes too much.”
Dean stared at him, baffled that this was coming from the same man who probably owned 500 different types of skincare. What Dean didn’t know is that each time a new product would pop up on his sink, it was actually yours.
“All humans should moisturize.”
“Not that much.”
“John,” Hannah said slowly, “you own more hair products than me.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
Logan opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“It just is.”
“You are such a fucking hater,” Tucker wheezed.
Logan looked genuinely offended, looking at the group, whipping around like a broken spinning top, “I’m not a hater.”
“You’re beefing with a man none of us have met.”
“I’m not beefing with him.”
“You called his face moisturized in a derogatory way.”
Logan rolled his eyes and slumped again, tapping at his phone. Yours buzzed against your thigh- it seems secrecy had flown out of the window tonight. Four months of perfect sneak-ins, disguised dates and unknown sleepovers flushed away.
Hockey boy 💗
if he touches you im transferring schools
You stared at the text for a full three seconds before looking up, Logan was already messing with his hair absently, jaw tight, eyes narrowed at absolutely nothing.
God.
He was unbelievable, you tried not to gape at him while tapping on your phone,
“He wants to meet tonight?” You ask Dean, feigning interest as you squinted at the phone over the lip of your cup.
Dean perked up and texted this guy, Ethan, Evan? You didn’t care, “He says…” Dean held the room still with his hands outstretched, “He’ll be over in an hour!” Your brother jumped triumphantly into Beau, who had missed the entire debacle when he disappeared into the toilet.
That gave you the perfect window to meet Logan’s gaze, which had flared considerably. You shrugged and winked at him, biting your cheek when he blushed and huffed, turning away to down the rest of his drink.
You managed to escape upstairs under the guise of getting ready for this date- far away from Tucker, who had gotten into the habit of critiquing your outfit choices like he was one planned ensemble away from Vogue.
You slipped into the bathroom, starting to wash your face with products that Logan had shamelessly claimed as his, just so you could keep more of your stuff over on his shelf.
You towel dried your face when the door to the bathroom cracked open with a dull knock. You didn’t turn around immediately, mostly because you already knew who it was.
“Baby.”
There it was, you huffed, hands barely pausing their circular movements of rubbing moisturizer into your skin. You glanced over bemused with the puppy act that Logan was currently playing at the doorway. That tone is exactly the tone he used on you when he was not happy about what your secret relationship brought along with it- it was low, annoyed in a way that immediately made warmth crawl up your spine despite your best efforts
Adjusting one of your earrings in the mirror and pressing your lips together with a new layer of lipgloss, you watched him click the door behind him and lean against it- bashfully looking at you from below his eyelashes
“You know following me upstairs while I’m getting ready for another guy is objectively making this situation weirder.”
He crossed his arms over his chest as you adjusted your skirt.
“Another guy,” he repeated flatly.
You met his eyes through the mirror.
Your boyfriend looked deeply unimpressed by the entire concept of tonight, which was slightly ironic considering he’d spent the last few months allowing Allie to continuously set him up with girls under the assumption he was still hopelessly into Hannah.
“You’ve literally gone on three dates this month,” you reminded him.
“They barely count.”
You turned around fully then, eyebrows lifting. “One of them took you mini golfing.”
“She talked about her ex for forty minutes.”
“That’s still a date.”
“It was psychological warfare.”
You snorted and planted your hands on your hips, your resolve barely holding when his eyes softened slightly at the sound, that was part of the reason you both worked. No matter how irritated he got, no matter how jealous or grumpy or territorial he became, there was always this underlying tenderness to him around you that completely gave him away if you paid attention for long enough.
And you were always paying attention to him.
His gaze dragged over you slowly now. Taking in the dress, your hair, the shimmer of your lipgloss that he interrupted the application of. Your eyes widened when his jaw tightened
“Oh my god,” you laughed quietly, shaking your head, “you’re actually jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“You compared his moisturizer usage to shooting puppies.”
“He looks slippery.”
“That is not a real critique.”
“It could be.”
You laughed again, properly this time- Logan’s expression immediately worsened, as if he couldn’t believe that you were going to look like that for a guy that wasn’t him.
“You look too pretty for this,” he muttered.
Your stomach flipped, your laugh settling to a soft smile. Logan always spoke like that, somehow injecting sincerity into everything he said even when he was irrationally possessive.
You tried very hard not to melt visibly.
“Well unfortunately,” you said lightly instead, stepping closer to him, “our friends are insane and think you’re still in love with Hannah.”
“I haven’t liked Hannah in like 6 months.” Your eyebrows lifted slightly with a grin
“6 months?”
Logan realised his mistake immediately.
“Don’t do that,” he warned.
You cheekily bit your tongue, “Do what?”
“That thing where you look smug.”
“I’m not smug.”
“You’re literally smirking.”
You were doing the mental maths, because if Logan stopped liking Hannah almost 6 months ago.. Well.
You’d started sleeping together six months ago and got together two months after that.
Interesting timeline.
Your boyfriend stepped closer before you could weaponize that information further, hands finding your waist automatically like muscle memory. Like he physically couldn’t stand within arm’s reach of you without touching you somehow.
“You better not actually like this guy,” he muttered.
You blinked once. Twice. Then brought your arms to his shoulders- comfortingly rubbing the soft flannel
“John Logan,” you said slowly, “are you trying to establish rules for a date I didn’t even want to go on?”
His hands tightened slightly against your waist.
“No.”
“Yes you are.”
“No I’m not.”
“You’re literally pouting.”
“I don’t pout.”
You reached up immediately and pressed your thumb against his lower lip, his eyes darkened.
“There,” you whispered sweetly. “That. That’s pouting.”
Logan grabbed your wrist before you could pull away, dragging you flush against him in one smooth movement that made your breath catch embarrassingly fast.
“You think this is funny,” he said quietly.
“A little bit.”
“That’s concerning.”
“You’re being insane.”
“I’m being reasonable.”
“You called him slippery.”
“He is slippery.”
You dissolved into laughter again, forehead dropping briefly against his chest. Logan exhaled heavily above you, one hand sliding up your spine slowly - exposed from the cutout of your dress. His fingers curled at the back of your neck.
“Don’t let him kiss you,” he murmured.
You tilted your head back immediately and grinned at him- as if you would ever consider the ridiculous idea.
“Oh my god.”
“I’m serious.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“I mean it.”
Your amusement faded slightly then, into something gentler that settled underneath your expression, beneath all the jealousy and dramatics and weird comments about moisturizer, you knew what this actually was.
Logan wasn’t angry, he was scared. Not of you cheating- you’d threatened him enough that you’d need to be held at gun point for the thought to even breach your mind. He was worried that someone better would come along, someone more charming, someone who was a part of your world. The world that Dean and you shared along with the ultra elite trust-fund babies.
Your expression softened.
“You know I’m yours, right?” you asked quietly.
The change in Logan's face made your chest hurt ever so slightly- he sighed and dropped his forehead against yours,
“Yeah?” he asked softly.
You swallow away the knot in your throat and kiss his nose, “Yeah.”
Logan smiled at the feeling of your lips on his face, grinning at the triumphant look on your face. And for a second, neither of you moved, just basking in the feeling of each other's closeness. Then his hand slid properly into your hair and he kissed you, and just like every time this man kissed you, your knees felt weak and you leaned into him.
His mouth moved against yours slowly at first, careful and lingering and familiar enough to make your sigh slightly before he deepened it with the quiet sort of desperation that always seemed to sneak into him around you, you hum softly into his mouth, fingers curling into the front of his hoodie.
“John,” you whispered when he kissed down your jaw.
“Hm?”
“If you leave a mark on me before my date I’m actually going to kill you.”
Logan kissed your neck again deliberately then started nipping at the skin purposefully, you whacked his head, groaning when he soothed over the stinging skin with his tongue.
“You asshole.”
“You said no marks,” he murmured smugly against your skin, “these are just... friendly reminders.”
You were seconds away from shoving him when Dean’s voice suddenly echoed up the stairs.
“HEY!”
You gasped and jumped apart violently, his hands tightened on your waist and you could feel his heartbeat thumping wildly below your hand.
“IS MY SISTER READY YET OR IS SHE MAKING THIS GUY WAIT ON PURPOSE?”
Logan inhaled sharply, squeezing his eyes shut . You bit down on your smile and turned to fix your makeup, your lipgloss smudged to your chin and all over his mouth. You usher him towards the mirror to wipe it off.
Then Dean yelled again,
“AND LOGAN WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU GO?”
The two of you stared at each other, a short moment of silence passed, then you both had to stifle laughs against the other, your mouth pressed into his shoulder as he cradled your head and pressed a hand to his lips.
Logan dragged one hand down his face. “I hate everyone in this house.”
“You live here.”
“Don’t remind me.”
You grinned and reached up, gently fixing the collar of his shirt where you’d wrinkled it. His eyes softened again immediately and he smoothed out your hair,
“Go on your stupid date,” he muttered, rubbing away the last of the lipgloss from your chin.
“You’re adorable when you’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“You followed me upstairs.”
“I was stretching my legs.”
“Through my tonsils?”
Logan rolled his eyes and kissed your forehead
If you were to be objective about the situation your brother had put you in- you’d have to say that he did an annoyingly good job. You’d never tell him that of course, you’d prefer to use Logan’s pliers to rip your teeth out individually.
But the guy sitting across from you was genuinely perfect on paper.
Ethan was funny in that easy, socially polished way corporate aspirants somehow always were, where every joke sounded rehearsed enough to land properly but natural enough that you couldn’t call him out on it. He opened doors without making a huge deal out of it, remembered details from previous conversations Dean had apparently told him about you, and somehow managed to make expensive restaurants feel casual instead of pretentious.
Worst of all. He was genuinely attractive. You could think of at least 5 of your girlfriends who would happily take the inconvenience out of your hands.
Dark hair slightly messy in that intentional way rich men cultivated, broad shoulders underneath a fitted black sweater, stupidly nice hands that looked like they belonged in a watch advertisement.
You hated how much Dean would enjoy being right about this.
“And then Di Laurentis told me,” Ethan laughed lightly, leaning back in his chair, “that if I hurt you he’d apparently feed my body to the hockey team.”
You snorted into your drink. “Yeah, that sounds like my brother.”
“He’s weirdly intimidating for a guy that owns that many tank tops.”
“He weaponizes confidence.”
Ethan grinned and held eye contact with you while he sipped from his whiskey glass. And you stumbled into the same feeling you had been experiencing the entire evening, everytime Evan smiled- your brain automatically compared it to Logan.
Ezra’s smile was clean, polished and pristine. You’d go as far as to say it was pretty under most lighting.
You couldn’t help the comparison. Logan’s smiles made your stomach flip and consciousness flutter in a way only he could manage. Split lips after hockey games- stretched into victorious laughter, crooked smirks when he was about to say something unbelievably annoying and your favourite, the devastatingly soft grin he got only around you, like his entire body was tuned to your reactions.
Your throat dried and you worked hard to keep an uncomfortable grimace at bay.
“So,” Eli said, resting his chin against his hand slightly, “Dean says you practically live at the hockey house.”
You nearly choked on your drink.
The statement itself wasn’t inaccurate, you did spend a lot of time at the house. But if Elijah knew how much of that time you’d spent in John Logan’s bedroom, you’re pretty sure he would evaporate on the spot.
“Yeah.. They’re my brother’s teammates, we all just ended up becoming friends,” you said carefully.
“You and Logan seem close.”
Your heart skipped once at the mention of his name and you fought against the natural instinct to bite back a smile, instead you kept your expression neutral with the kind of effort that deserved academic recognition.
“Logan?”
“Yeah.” Everett shrugged lightly. “He looked like he wanted to kill me earlier.”
You laughed too quickly, waving off the notion that Logan would be anything but jealous.
“He’s just weird.”
Eric nodded thoughtfully, studying your face in a way that made you send an impromptu prayer up to God that he wasn’t putting the badly veiled pieces together, then he grinned and shrugged.
“I figured.”
The waiter arrived then, setting down your desserts while Edward thanked him politely. You mentally facepalmed, again, this guy was objectively perfect. But you had to stop yourself from recoiling away when his hand brushed yours, gentle and hesitant across the table.
Your mind flashed back to the most recent date Logan took you on, a small, independent coffee shop outside of the Briar locality- away from prying, gossiping eyes. He had grimaced as he paid for your drink and stifled his love for it when you made him take a sip, your hands were intertwined the entire time, a carefree momentum settled in your conversation whilst he played with the rings on your fingers, openly, unabashedly.
The memory hit you so suddenly you almost laughed. Dean had hit gold with this guy, you could read Erik like an open book, and the entire time he had been nothing but sweet, smart at points and attentive nearly the entire length of the date. Your friends would probably start planning a big, upper-east side wedding by next week.
But still your mind drifted back to the only man you could see yourself marrying, and how much he would absolutely hate this restaurant. The excess of cloth napkins would make him tense, the dim lighting irritating him enough to make his entire face scrunch up and the lack of fries would be considered diabolical.
But you knew, with absolute certainty, that if you wanted to dine in a restaurant like this, he would suffer an eternity in these four walls if it meant he was with you.
Your phone buzzed against your lap, breaking your chain of thought.
Hockey boy 💗:
Are you home yet?
You stared at the carousel of messages prior to this, and the timestamps
9:14 PM.
9:26 PM.
9:41 PM.
9:57 PM.
Four separate messages.
Your lips twitched helplessly, all of them were as performatively nonchalant as the others.
Hockey boy 💗
If this Egbert guy touches you, I'm keying his daddy’s jeep.
Hockey boy 💗
Don’t ask how i know this but his linkedin is not very impressive- not good enough to date my girl that’s for sure.
Hockey boy 💗
I miss you.
Ethan noticed immediately, the way your eyes softened and a huff made your lips part in a ghost of a smile.
“Boyfriend?” he asked casually.
Your head snapped up.
“What?”
He smiled, cocking his head slightly, “You’ve checked your phone every five minutes since we got here.”
Heat crawled up your neck instantly and you furrowed your brows in apology,
“No,” The lie felt bitter on your tongue, but you silenced your phone and set it down face first on the table. Eran hummed like he didn’t fully believe you, but thankfully let it go.
The rest of the date shifted slightly after that, not awkward since poor Edmund hadn’t let the clarifying moment put a dent in his enthusiasm. It just meant that his hand hadn’t touched yours since you replied to Logan.
You wanted to apologise to him, to say that it wasn’t working out for any reason that didn’t involve Logan. But you opted for polite, self-explanatory silence on the matter. Letting Edwin slip on your jacket for you and engaged in a cursory side hug that made you both cringe a little, but it was easier than explaining to him that instead of his simple affection, you wanted the idiot currently losing his mind back at the hockey house over a pre-law major named Elton.
Logan would honestly rather take a hundred slapshots straight to the ribs without pads than listen to Dean brag about what a 'good guy' he’d set his sister up with.
It started with a passing comment, then a phone lighting up on the coffee table which led to Dean half-paying attention to the loud conversation being had in the living room while scrolling. This cumulative, slow motion train crash in front of Logan’s eyes, meant he had gone suspiciously quiet in the midst of the heated debate between Allie and Tucker and was now focussing on his friend who was grinning like a Cheshire cat at his phone.
Dean eventually spoke, stretching back into the couch like he owns it, a triumphant look spread across his face. The group quietens when they notice the smug expression, which either meant he was about to announce something gross or he was going to be an ass about being right.
“She just got dessert,” he casually reports, looking around the room, like a king would look at his subjects- pompous and on the highest horse possible.
Logan does not respond immediately. He just leans forward slightly, fiddling with the loose thread fraying from the cuff of his sleeve, when he does decide to grace Dean with an answer- it takes everything in him to keep his voice steady and flat in a way that should come across as disinterested.
“That’s nice.” His tone was clipped, a stark difference from his usual charismatic demeanor. The rest of the group makes up for his lack of enthusiasm, the girls giggled and congratulated Dean on finding such a catch, the guys laugh and speculate that in the dating world- getting dessert is equivalent to a perfectly timed, public, flash-mob proposal.
Logan prayed for it to end there. It normally would’ve, Dean hadn’t said anything that would invite continuation. You had ordered dessert and that meant Logan would need to become a world class pastry chef as soon as possible. Case closed. Goodnight.
“And he says she’s laughing a lot.”
A badly stifled suffering sigh escapes Logan’s lips, his body briefly pauses, as if it had forgotten how to act normal and instead decided to shut down.
He recalibrated, ignoring the ugly, curling sensation that lurched in his stomach and instead, rather stiffly, managed to say,
“Good for her,” he says. Perfect. His voice was still intensely calm, still controlled and his answer invited no follow-up.
Across the room, Tucker glances up from his seat with the vague expression of someone who is only half following the conversation but is starting to sense that the topic was sprinting full speed down an unexplored path . Hannah leans toward Allie, lowering her voice.
“Why is he talking like that?” she asks.
Allie glances between them. “Like what?”
Hannah thinks for a second, “Remember the time he walked in on you and Dean?”
Allie sighs dreamily at the memory, obviously not remembering the avoidant, distasteful tone that Logan had adopted for the rest of that night.
“Ohhhh,” Allie nodded slowly, the specifics hazy in her mind, but she could clearly remember Logan looking like he would let Garrett shave off the outer layer of his eyeballs with his skates.
Dean hears this and instead of doing the smart thing for everyone in the vicinity, he contributes to the analysis,
“That’s what it is!,” he snaps his fingers and points at Logan, who glanced at the perky blonde out of his periphery and slapped his outstretched fingers with his palm.
Garrett in the middle of the exchange has stopped pretending entirely that he is not listening. He doesn’t dare react, but his attention splits between Logan and Dean regularly, as if he was the first to picture something that everyone else had not yet realised.
Dean’s phone vibrates in his hand, “Oh,” he says after a moment, like he is remembering another detail. “He also says she’s really pretty when she’s concentrating.”
Logan exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, and finally looks down at his hands as if the table in front of him has suddenly become more interesting than anything else in the room, focussing more on the worn out grain and the used fibres of the carpet beneath it. When he speaks again, his tone is still even, but it takes slightly longer to form the sentence.
“That’s… nice.”
Hannah slowly sits up a little straighter, her brows knitting together in mild confusion rather than concern.
“Am I crazy,” she mutters, “or does this feel weird?”
“You are always slightly crazy,” Tucker replies automatically but he shares the same, puzzled look.
“That is not helpful.”
Allie is also watching Logan, like she is trying to decide whether this is something she is allowed to comment on or whether it falls into the category of things that will resolve themselves without intervention.
Garrett still says nothing, opting to sit with his discovery in unparalleled superiority.
The room continues as if it is trying to behave normally around something that it does not fully understand yet. Dean scrolls again, far too unaware of the pressure building in the man beside him.
“Oh,” he adds, like he has found another harmless detail. “She keeps fixing her hair when she laughs.”
Logan stills, properly this time. A eerie calm settles over his body, because he was internally cursing himself for being in this situation, damn his friends and their nosey tendencies and damn you for being the sister of his teammate.
He ruminates on the choices that brought him here today, coming to the conclusion, that he'd rather be trapped in an endless, no-whistle bag skate at five AM than endure these idle, cheerful updates. A bag skate ended eventually. This felt like it never would.
But Tucker leans slightly toward Hannah and whispers, “Is he doing okay?”
Hannah whispers back, “I think we are all missing something.”
Allie does not take her eyes off Logan, morbidly fascinated at the fact that the world’s most suave person, had his lips pressed against his hands and had managed to end up with a raincloud over his head in the middle of July. “Something is definitely happening.”
Garrett shifts against Hannah, still choosing to be an idle spectator in Logan’s ruin, but even he could muster up a sympathetic grimace when Dean chose to continue the narration.
Logan finally cuts in.
“Can you stop reading that out loud.”
Dean looks up, “Why?”
A pause.
“Just tired. Honestly, I’d rather coach put us through a three-hour gauntlet drill right now than hear any more details about your sister’s love life. It’s weird, man.”
Dean’s eyes widened by a fraction, “Woah, is everything alright?” He looks genuinely concerned and that just makes Logan want to run into a wall at full speed. Because the whole room was staring at him, blinking like a flock of owls that were studying their latest choice of prey.
He scratches the back of his neck, hoping that nobody notices the nervous tick, “Sorry..” Logan grabs his hoodie as he takes his leave, “My coursework has been killer lately, must not be getting enough sleep. My bad man.” He pats Dean’s shoulder once and moves towards the staircase.
The entire house seemed to be suspended in awkward confusion- and Logan was prepared to add homicidal undertones as he reached the top step and Dean’s voice fluttered after him,
“Allie-cat what kind of girls have you been setting him up with? Maybe I should take over his matchmaking”
Logan groans and flops into his bed the minute the door creaks shut behind him, too dejected to glance up when his comforter vibrates beneath him.
The window is not the traditional avenue to enter a room, you realised that throughout the entirety of your senior year of highschool. It always requires a small negotiation with physics, a bit of careful balance, and the kind of confidence that suggests you have done this before and will probably do it again.
Which you admittedly have, given that you had memorised the best notches in the brick to wedge your foot into and where not to grab unless you wanted to end up face to face with a view directly into your brother's window.
When you finally reach your destination and fiddle with the window enough to coax it open, a soft creak permeates in the summer breeze- which you immediately curse because you had dedicated a solid 20 minutes to convince yourself that you were being quiet and the window very clearly disagrees.
You pause with your knee digging into the frame, listening as your heartbeat hammers in your ears. The night answered you, a dainty chirp of a cricket paired with the whirring of traffic further away in the city made you relax, continuing your journey into the room.
Inside, the lighting is low in a way that makes everything feel softer than it probably is in reality.
A desk lamp glows in the corner, throwing warm light across the room, and Logan is sitting on the edge of his bed like he has been doing exactly that for a while without moving very much at all.
Logan looks up when he hears your pants replace the faint buzz of the house, he doesn’t startle- just rushes over as silently as possible to grab your waist before you nosedive into his bedside table.
“Woah.” He steps back whilst keeping his hands firmly planted on your waist, watching you topple slightly on your heels, “What are you doing here?”
You look up at him, your lips downturning in a confused smile, “Hello to you too,” a peck to his lips interrupts your answer, “You said you missed me, so I'm here.”
The dress you had on stretches in tandem with your movements, stepping out of his loose hold to flop onto his bed- which protested slightly with a pained squeak, “You could say the feeling was mutual” You grinned up at him, leaning back onto your hands in the process.
He purses his lips, trying to hide a smile- which he does worryingly well. The neutrality in his eyes makes your spine rigid.
“You used the window,” he says, glancing at his curtains that now flitter along the wall.
You blink at him. “Yeah… Like I’ve done since we started hooking up”
Logan exhales through his nose, but it doesn’t fully commit to being a sigh.
“You could’ve used the door,” he clarifies.
“I didn’t want to wake anyone,” you reply, finally swinging your leg onto the duvet leaving your heel to topple uselessly to the floor with a dull thud.
Logan stays where he is for a second longer, watching you like he is trying to decide whether to stay where he is or act like a normal person and come closer. You match his gaze cheekily, shrugging off your bag while taking the room in, “God I love your room baby, it's so you.”
He stands up from where he was leaning against his desk, and crosses over to you in that slightly controlled way he gets when he is pretending he is not emotional, while very obviously being emotional in a quiet, annoyed-at-himself kind of way.
“You were gone longer than you said,” he mutters.
You pause mid-unzip of your dress.
“I said I’d be out for a bit.”
“That is not a time.”
You finally look at him properly.
There it is, a signature Logan pout. You’d gotten used to every version of them, since he knew how to use his artillery- but this one wasn’t one that sat well with you, it buried its way into your chest and blossomed into a pang of anxiety.
“Oh my god,” you say mainly to yourself, pushing up so you could stand chest to chest with him, inspecting his face.
Logan barely tilts his head to meet your scrutiny, “What?” he asks, like he already knows he is about to lose this conversation.
You shake your head, “You’re pouting.”
“I’m not pouting.”
“You are absolutely pouting.”
“I’m not-”
He stops mid-sentence, watching your hands come up to his face and gently squish his cheeks just enough that his expression breaks in a way that is immediately unfair to him.
“There,” you say softly. “That one.”
His brows knit together.
“This is not-”
You lean in and press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth.
He pauses.
You do it again, slightly higher this time, like you are correcting the unhappy crease of his lips. His hands hover for a second like he is deciding whether to be annoyed or affectionate and then, predictably, choose neither and both at the same time as they settle lightly at your waist.
“I don’t like it,” he says finally.
You hum.
“What part?”
His eyes flick to yours properly now.
“The part where you go out with someone else and come back smiling like it’s normal.”
You blink once, then your expression softens in a way that is very deliberately not taking him seriously, even though you absolutely are.
“Logan,” you say, gently.
He looks at you like he is bracing for impact, the undeniable pain of defeat, of losing you to the suave guy who apparently was very focussed on your dessert choice. You lean your forehead against his chin.
“I was thinking of you the whole time,” you say simply, biting the inside of your cheek when you feel his shoulder drop just a fraction.
His voice, when he speaks again, is quieter.
“That’s not fair.”
You smile.
“Why?”
“Because I had to be normal about it in front of everyone,” he mutters.
You laugh softly at that, genuinely amused now, and he immediately looks offended by your amusement, which only makes it worse.
“You were not normal about it,” you say.
“I was.”
“You were sitting here brooding like a Victorian man in a tragic novel.”
“I was not brooding.”
“You were brooding.”
He opens his mouth to argue again, but you cut him off by pulling him closer by the front of his hoodie. His protests die unspoken on his lips, as they always do whenever you pull that move.
“There,” you say, softer now, kissing his cheek, then his jaw, deliberately unhurried. “Better?”
Logan exhales, arms coming up to wrap around your shoulders, pressing you tightly against him.
“You’re distracting,” he murmurs into your hair.
You snort against his neck, “That’s kind of the point.”
A short pause takes over the conversation, a lull in his displeasure as you dig your fingers into the plush material that stretched over his back.
Then, Logan sighs and very quietly, in the dark of his room admits, “I didn’t like imagining you laughing at someone else’s jokes.”
You pull back slightly just to look at him, hes looking down at nothing in particular, half of his face glowing a soft amber in the pool of light spilling out from his lamp, the other half hides in the shadows- he turns his head fully into the darkness when you cup his cheek and rub placating lines with your thumb against his stubble.
“Oh,” you whisper. “You were jealous, jealous.”
“I was not-”
He stops, because you kiss him again a quick, gentle press of your lips against his- barely anything but enough to make him smile slightly and shake his head.
“You’re annoying,” he says again, but there is no heat in it.
You hum, watching how his caramel curls wrap around your fingers as you brush your hand through them.
“You likeeeee me.” You tease, your voice barely a hushed whisper, “Baby, I don’t even have a way to contact that guy- he could tell I wasn’t into the date.”
Logan blinks at you, “Wait, what?”
“I mean- I made him swear not to tell Dean, but I think it was somewhere between me replying to you every five minutes and the fact I flinched when he tried to hold my hand” You bite your lip sheepishly, “Great guy though! I might have a friend for him.”
He finally smiles properly, small and unwilling, like it slipped out by accident, “Yeah? He can date all your friends,” His hands press against your spine, curving you into him at last.
Logan ghosts his lips over yours, turning his head out of the shadows and back into the light. Your fingers hover over his jaw, studying the new look in his eye- a twinkle of affection that makes you melt completely into him as he whispers into your mouth, “as long as he doesn’t dare to look at you.”
𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞
You woke up to the morning light personally burning your eyelids open, which probably serves you right for not bothering to shut the curtains last night. But you were slightly pre-occupied, which was evident at the string of clothes that littered the floor, you blinked sleepily whilst tracing the journey the different articles went on, leading up to the bed.
Your bra and his shirt were intertwined by his desk while your dress lay pooled at the foot of the bed along with his sweatpants and boxers, the only thing you couldn’t account for were your underwear.
Strange.
The birds chirped in a messy orchestra by the window, the sharp sound made you groan and stretch lazily, wincing at the delicious ache that licked down from your thighs to your toes and up through your arms. The perpetrator of these pains was still sound asleep, tucked into your shoulder with an arm flung over your bare middle, fingers twitching slightly as you rubbed your eyes and intertwined your legs with his beneath the covers.
Logan mumbled into the pillow, or your hair, perhaps both since he was face first into the area that had been taken over by the thick fan of wispy strands, “g’morning baby,” His hands tightened on your waist, holding you still as you looped your arms around his neck. He pecked your shoulder, then the curve of your neck and ended up stifling a deep laugh against your jaw when you smacked his arm.
“I will literally snap in half if you start something mister.” You scolded softly, your words not matching your actions entirely, since your fingers had began to scratch his neck softly, grinning when he all but purred at your touch.
“I didn’t hear you complaining last night.” He mumbled, play-biting your dewy skin. You had wiped up the obvious mess in a sleepy haze, but the dampness of sex still clung to your pores like a condensation on a can.
You gasped theatrically and flipped the pair of you over, so you were now resting your face on his sternum, “I don’t think you would've heard much since you had me pressed into the pillow.” Your fingers traced the splattering of hair that tickled your face,
Logan smirked down at you, stroking your hair, “Once again I fail to hear a complaint.”
“You-”
“YO LOGAN!” The both of you jumped at the interruption.
“Shitshitshitshitshit” you began whispering hurriedly, your gaze whipping around the room for possible escape plans that involved leaving the premises immediately.
It was not looking good to say the least, since Logan would probably prefer to get caught than for you to consider sneaking out of his window sans clothes.
Dean pounded on the door, “HAVE YOU SEEN MY SISTER AROUND? I WANTED TO ASK HER ABOUT THE DATE.”
Logan groaned and was close to petulantly kicking his legs like a toddler reminded about their bedtime, “Dean I think I have more knowledge about bird sphincters than I have about your sister or her sex life.”
You gape incredulously at him and mouth, “Bird sphincters?”
Logan silently stutters and shrugs his shoulders, his hands settling on your bare hips,
You heard Dean thump his head against the door, jiggling the handle but the lock held well against his attempts, “WELL ADAM HASN’T SAID ANYTHING HAPPENED AFTER THE DATE, SO IT MUST'VE GONE BADLY.”
A beat passed where you and Logan stared at each other, “His name was Adam?”
summary: in which garrett receives an almost unreadable message from you while you're out celebrating one of your close friends birthdays. offering to pick you up, garrett has an interesting car ride home and rest of the night.
pairing: garrett graham x fem!reader
notes: hi! just some established relationship fluff! i hope you enjoy <3
-
saying you were slightly intoxicated would’ve been a drastic understatement. it was the night of allie’s birthday, and while the celebrations had started off relatively tame - just a small night in with close friends, somewhere between the second round of margaritas and the dangerously sweet cocktail allie kept forcing into everyone’s hands, you’d managed to consume more alcohol in a few hours than you normally drank across an entire semester.
you weren’t big on drinking, and that made your tolerance for it incredibly low.
the soft buzz of garrett’s phone vibrating against the kitchen counter interrupts the sound of the hockey highlights playing quietly from the television in the background. it was nearly one in the morning, and despite the fact he had conditioning at eight and an early lift before practice, he’d promised he’d stay awake to pick you up.
you had tried to tell him at least six separate times that you could just uber home.
he hadn’t listened to a single one.
garrett was stubborn in a way that felt gentle rather than frustrating, and once he’d decided something, there was really no changing his mind.
especially when it came to you. he’d told you earlier that evening that there was “absolutely no universe” where he was letting you get into a random rideshare drunk and alone at one in the morning.
so eventually you’d given up.
stretching across the couch in the hockey house living room, garrett reaches for his phone, the corner of his mouth immediately twitching upward the second he sees your contact flash across the screen.
y/n <3: garrettttt
a laugh slips from his lips.
y/n <3: garret
y/n <3: garret grahm
y/n <3: i mis u
he shakes his head affectionately before typing back.
garrett: miss you too sweetheart
garrett: you okay over there?
y/n <3: yes
y/n <3: maybe
y/n <3: no
y/n <3: allie keeps pouring me more margarita mix
another quiet chuckle leaves him.
garrett: yeah i figured
garrett: want me to come get you now?
y/n <3: im fineeeeee
y/n <3: very fine actually
y/n <3: grace says i am glowing
garrett: that sounds terrifying
y/n <3: ur mean
garrett: i’m coming to get you
y/n <3: ok
y/n <3: i lob you
his entire expression softens at that.
garrett: love you more, y/n. see you soon
garrett grabs his keys from beside dean’s protein shaker before making his way out the front door.
the winter air is freezing, cold enough that he immediately shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket while making his way towards his jeep.
twenty minutes later he’s pulling into the dorm complex where allie lives.
only one other car remains parked outside.
everyone else had obviously already left.
garrett jogs up the stairs two at a time before knocking lightly against the door. he barely waits ten seconds before allie swings the door open, smiling at garrett sheepishly before opening the door wider, signalling for him to follow her inside.
"she's in the living room", allie states, a hint of amusement evidently laced in her voice.
garrett follows the sound of your voice before finally spotting you curled up sideways across the couch, your heels abandoned somewhere near the coffee table while you sat clutching allie’s decorative throw pillow against your chest.
the second your eyes land on him, your entire face lights up.
“garrett!” you gasp loudly, as though you haven’t seen him in weeks instead of six hours.
his chest physically tightens at the sight of you.
god.
even drunk out of your mind you were still the prettiest girl he’d ever seen.
the apartment itself looked exactly like the aftermath of an allie hayes birthday celebration - empty margarita glasses scattered across the counter, half deflated balloons hanging from the ceiling fan, confetti covering nearly every surface imaginable. somewhere in the corner grace was asleep, wrapped entirely in a blanket burrito while allie attempted to clean up around her.
garrett’s attention shifts briefly toward the line of alcohol bottles littering the kitchen counter before settling back on you.
definitely the reason behind your texts.
“hi baby,” he says softly, moving toward the couch.
“you’re so handsome,” you mumble immediately.
garrett merely shakes his head, although he can’t stop the smile tugging at his mouth
“thanks sweetheart.”
“like offensively handsome,” you continue seriously, staring at him. “it’s actually rude.”
he crouches down in front of where you sat, reaching his hands out to fix your dress, "how'd this happen silly?" he questions, amusement laced clearly in the tone of his voice.
in an attempt to untangle your dress, he lifts the top half slightly, the movement exposing the black lace bralette beneath. his eyes drag briefly over the newly revealed skin before returning to your face, a quiet grin tugging at his mouth as he smooths the fabric back into place.
you stare at him intently, watching as he carefully repositions your dress.
“how much did you drink?” he asks carefully.
you stare at him for a moment.
“…yes.”
allie bursts out laughing from the kitchen.
garrett exhales through his nose, fighting back his own amusement before carefully helping you sit upright. his hand resting gently on your exposed thigh.
“come on baby,” he murmurs gently.
“let’s get you home.”
you slowly nod, wanting nothing more than to be in the comfort of garrett's bed, falling asleep in his arms. you allow him to carefully pick you up bridal style.
before leaving, he says goodbye to allie and hannah, thanking them for taking care of you while simultaneously apologising for your current state.
the cold air hits your face the second garrett steps outside, causing you to bury yourself deeper against his chest while he carries you towards the car.
once he gets you settled safely into the passenger seat and buckles your seatbelt himself, he finally climbs into the driver’s seat.
for a few minutes the drive is quiet.
his hand rests casually on your thigh while soft music hums through the speakers.you find yourself staring shamelessly at his side profile which had been illuminated by passing streetlights.
god.
he really was beautiful.
“garrett?”
“yeah baby?”
“are you real?”
his lips twitch upward instantly.
“pretty sure.”
“no but like…” you narrow your eyes at him thoughtfully. “you’re too attractive to be real.”
he laughs quietly, thumb rubbing soothing circles against your thigh.
“you’re drunk, y/n.”
“mhm.”
another few seconds pass before you suddenly turn toward him fully.
“kiss me.”
garrett glances over briefly before returning his attention to the road.
“can’t right now sweetheart, i’m driving.”
your entire face falls.
“but you love me.”
“i do love you.”
“then kiss me.”
“baby-”
“liar,” you mumble under your breath, crossing your arms dramatically and turning toward the window.
unfortunately for you, he hears it.
garrett sighs softly before signalling and pulling the car carefully off to the side of the empty road.
the second he parks, he turns fully towards you.
“look at me.”
you refuse.
“y/n.”
still nothing.
then his hand gently hooks beneath your chin, guiding your face back towards his.
“i literally pulled over just to kiss you.”
guilt immediately floods through you.
“sorry,” you whisper.
his expression softens instantly.
“c’mere.”
the moment you lean forward his lips meet yours, warm and familiar and impossibly soft. his hand slips into your hair while the other remains resting against your jaw, kissing you slowly like he has absolutely nowhere else to be.
you melt immediately.
when he finally pulls away, he presses several smaller kisses across your cheeks and forehead while mumbling quiet i love you’s against your skin, each one making your chest ache a little more.
you giggle softly, pushing lightly against his chest. “okay i get it.”
“do you?”
“yes.”
“good.”
-
eventually the two of you make it back to the hockey house.
the second you walk through the front door, you attempt to wander towards the kitchen, but garrett catches your wrist instantly.
“where are you going?”
“water.”
his eyes narrow suspiciously.
“…vodka”
“absolutely not, y/n.”
heavy footsteps suddenly sound from the stairs.
“g?”
dean’s voice carries through the hallway a second before he appears around the corner wearing grey sweats, clearly about to make himself an absurdly late-night snack.
his eyes land on you first.
then the way you’re practically hanging off garrett’s side.
then your smudged makeup.
then the heels dangling loosely from your fingers.
dean grins immediately.
“oh this is bad.”
“dean,” garrett warns tiredly.
“no, no,” dean continues, holding both hands up defensively while very obviously trying not to laugh.
“i’m just impressed she’s still standing. last time allie got her drunk she fell asleep in the booth at malone's still holding her drink.”
you immediately point at him. “that happened one time.”
dean chuckles, "and i'll never forget it, y/n."
garrett exhales a laugh under his breath while tightening his grip slightly around your waist to steady you.
“you’re both insufferable,” he mutters.
dean points lazily at him. “says the guy who physically cannot go one party without turning it into a hockey strategy meeting.”
garrett scoffs immediately. “that is not true.”
“really?” dean asks. “because last week at tucker’s thing you spent forty minutes talking about eastwood’s defensive structure.”
“we had a game next week,” garrett argues.
“we always have a game next week” dean says smugly. “normal college students drink tequila. you start analysing power plays.”
you’re not entirely sure why the conversation is suddenly the funniest thing in the world, but a burst of laughter escapes you anyway, hard enough that your forehead drops against garrett’s shoulder while your fingers curl lazily into the front of his hoodie.
dean watches you fondly before shaking his head.
“she’s gone.”
“completely,” garrett agrees.
“hey,” you mumble defensively, lifting your head slightly. “i’m still aware.”
dean raises an eyebrow. “really?”
you squint at him. “…why are there two of you?”
“there it is,” dean says proudly.
garrett pinches the bridge of his nose while trying not to laugh and before either of you can react, dean walks over and pulls you into a quick side hug.
“missed you tonight, troublemaker.”
the movement nearly knocks you off balance, unsteady from the amount of alcohol still coursing through your system. garrett’s arm tightens instinctively around your waist, grounding you before you stumble.
“dean,” he says sharply.
“relax,” dean laughs. “you caught her.”
you grin up at dean lazily. “you smell like fries.”
“thank you.”
“that wasn’t a compliment.”
dean places a hand over his chest in mock offence. “wow. i open my home to you, i support your relationship, i let you steal our food every weekend-”
“your food?” garrett interrupts. “she literally buys half the groceries in this house.”
“and yet somehow my cereal still disappears every time she stays over.”
you gasp dramatically. “because we both like the same cereal!”
garrett’s shoulders shake slightly with quiet laughter while dean continues pointing accusingly at you.
“last week i went to pour myself lucky charms and there were three marshmallows left in the box.”
you blink innocently. “well, that sounds like a you problem.”
“you’re lucky i love you.”
you immediately grin. “i know.”
dean narrows his eyes suspiciously before looking at garrett. “she gets mean when she’s drunk.”
“she gets mean when she’s sober too.”
“true.”
you smack garrett lightly in the chest. “not true.”
he catches your hand instantly, pressing a quick kiss against your knuckles while smiling softly. “still love you though.”
dean groans loudly.
“you two are disgusting.”
you’re still giggling when garrett finally starts guiding you toward the stairs.
“okay,” he says, voice warm with amusement. “time for bed before she starts another argument.”
“night, y/n,” dean calls after you.
you turn around mid-step. “goodnight deanie!”
dean immediately smirks and points at garrett. “she never gives you cute nicknames like that.”
“baby is literally a nickname.”
“not as cute as deanie.”
garrett flips him off without missing a beat, earning a loud laugh from dean as he disappears back into the kitchen while garrett continues leading you upstairs, quietly muttering about how he desperately needed a better roommate.
Summary: one random night. No names. No consequences. Except three weeks later you’re standing outside a locker room and the guy who had you pinned against a door is introduced as your fiercely protective older brother’s best friend. The same brother who makes his teammates promise to treat you “like a sister.” The same brother who will absolutely commit murder if he finds out. So obviously the only logical solution is to keep sneaking around behind his back. What could possibly go wrong?
Warnings: 18+ content
Read part two here
The bass in the Boston bar is loud enough to rattle the ice cubes in Logan’s glass, but it’s not enough to drown out Dean’s incessant complaining.
“I’m just saying,” Dean mutters, leaning against the sticky mahogany of the bar and dragging a hand through his hair. “It’s the first weekend of the season. The energy is prime. The girls are out. And Garrett is sitting in his room icing a sprain that barely qualifies as a bruise.”
Logan smirks, taking a slow sip of his whiskey. “Leave him alone. The guy’s got a bruised ego more than a bruised ankle. Besides, it’s a classic case of NFP.”
Tucker, who has been quietly peeling the label off his beer bottle, looks up with a heavy sigh. “I swear to God, Logan. If you make me ask what that means, I’m leaving.”
“No Fun Permitted,” Logan deadpans, flashing that easy, charming grin that usually gets him out of trouble. “Garrett’s resting up. The captain’s gotta lead by example. Or whatever.”
“More like missing out by example,” Dean grumbles.
Logan lets his friends bicker, his gaze sweeping over the crowded dance floor. The flashing neon lights paint the sweating bodies in shades of electric blue and violent pink. He loves this city, loves the start of the hockey season. Out on the ice, he’s one of Briar University’s top players, a forward with hands so fast the scouts practically drool over him. They did drool over him. Up until the draft.
A familiar, heavy weight settles in Logan’s chest, dulling the buzz of the whiskey. He skipped the draft. Walked away from the NHL, from the millions, from the dream. The guys know he pulled his name, but they don’t really know the depths of the why. It’s easier to play the funny, sarcastic, reliable guy than it is to explain the deal he made with his older brother. His brother put his own life in a holding pattern to run Logan & Sons, the family mechanic shop, while Logan gets to play college hockey for four years. The shop was supposed to be run by their father, but their father is currently busy being a fall-down drunk. When graduation hits, the party is over. Logan goes back home, takes over the shop, takes care of the old man, and his brother goes free.
“Earth to Logan,” Tucker says, waving a hand in front of Logan’s face. “You’ve got that look again.”
“What look?”
“The ’I’m plotting a murder or thinking up a terrible acronym’ look,” Tucker points out.
“JCT,” Logan counters smoothly. “Just Chilling, Tucker. Relax. I’m going to go get another drink. Try not to marry anyone before I get back.”
Logan pushes off the bar, leaving his teammates to their own devices, and weaves his way through the crush of bodies. That’s when he sees you.
***
Across the room, the heat of the dance floor is exactly what you need. You throw your head back and laugh as your Northeastern teammate, a fiery winger named Cammi, spins you around.
“See?” Cammi yells over the pounding remix of a 2000s R&B track. “I told you coming out was better than sitting in your dorm organizing your hockey tape!”
“I don’t organize my tape!” You shout back, laughing as you sway your hips to the rhythm.
“Liar!”
You let the music wash over you, closing your eyes for a brief second. You’re a freshman. You made the Northeastern women’s hockey team as their starting center. You’re in Boston. You are finally, truly, free.
Whenever things get too loud, too chaotic, your mind always drifts back to the quiet, suffocating terror of your childhood home in New York. Your father, a star defenseman for the Rangers, was a god to the public and a monster behind closed doors. The memories of his explosive rage, the sound of things breaking, the way he treated your mother — it’s a dark stain on your mind. Garrett, your older brother, had been your shield. He took the hits, both literal and metaphorical, hiding you in his room, turning up the TV, doing whatever it took to keep you safe.
And then the lung cancer took your mother, and the house had grown even colder. But you survived. Garrett survived. You both got out. Garrett is across town right now, the captain at Briar, nursing a sprained ankle. You had texted him earlier to check in, and he’d ordered you to go out and celebrate the start of your own season.
So here you are.
You’re wearing a sleek, dark red slip dress that clings to your curves in all the right ways, paired with comfortable black combat boots because you refuse to ruin your feet in heels. Your hair falls in messy waves around your shoulders. You feel good. You feel electric.
Someone bumps into you, sending a splash of someone’s drink onto your boots, but you barely register it. You just keep moving, letting the heavy bass guide your hips, losing yourself in the anonymity of the crowd.
***
Logan freezes halfway to the bar.
He’s seen a lot of beautiful girls in his time at Briar, but the sight of you in that dark red dress stops him dead in his tracks. It’s not just the way the fabric slides against your skin, or the way you move with a natural, effortless athleticism. It’s the sheer joy radiating from you. You look like you don’t have a single care in the world, like you own the space you’re occupying.
He watches you laugh at something your friend says, the bright, genuine sound of it somehow cutting through the heavy thrum of the club’s speakers.
“Well, damn,” Logan mutters to himself.
He doesn’t think. He just moves. Logan has always been a player who acts on instinct — on the ice, and off it. He navigates the sweaty crowd until he’s right at the edge of your circle. He waits for the exact right moment, right as the DJ transitions into a slower, heavier beat.
You step back, and Logan steps in.
***
You feel the solid wall of a chest against your back before you even realize someone has approached. The sudden heat radiating from the stranger sends a shiver down your spine. A pair of large, strong hands settle lightly on your hips.
Normally, you’d shove a guy away. But there’s something about the confident, gentle pressure of his hands that makes you pause.
You glance over your shoulder.
He’s tall. Much taller than you. Broad shoulders, a mop of messy, dark hair, and a pair of sharp, amused eyes that lock onto yours. He has a ridiculously handsome face, a sharp jawline dotted with a faint hint of stubble, and a smirk that screams trouble.
“You’re in my way,” you say, shouting slightly over the music, though your tone is teasing.
“Actually,” Logan says, leaning down so his mouth is hovering near your ear, his voice a low, raspy rumble that makes your stomach flip, “I think you backed into me. Standard MVA.”
“MVA?” You ask, turning around fully so you are facing him. You have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze.
“Motor Vehicle Accident,” he replies smoothly, his hands sliding from your hips to rest casually at his sides, giving you space, which you internally appreciate. “But in this case, a Dance Floor Collision. DFC.”
You arch an eyebrow, trying not to smile. “Do you always speak in acronyms, or are you just trying to be annoying?”
“A little bit of Column A, a little bit of Column B,” Logan says, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer. The scent of him — woodsmoke, musky cologne, and something distinctly masculine — wraps around you. “I’m mostly just trying to keep your attention.”
“It’s a bold strategy.”
“I’m a bold guy.” He smirks, and there’s a genuine sweetness in his eyes that contrasts with the cocky tilt of his mouth. “You’re celebrating something. I can tell. Your vibe is extremely ... victorious.”
You laugh, the sound bubbling up from your chest. “You can read vibes now?”
“It’s a gift,” he nods solemnly. “So? What are we celebrating? A promotion? A birthday? Successful bank heist?”
“Start of the season,” you reply, the words slipping out before you can filter them.
“Ah.” Logan’s eyes light up with recognition. “An athlete. Should have known. You’ve got that ... balance.”
“Balance?”
“Yeah. And the combat boots. Very intimidating. I like it.” He leans in again. “I’m celebrating the exact same thing.”
“You play?” You ask, looking at the breadth of his shoulders. Obviously, he plays.
“I dabble,” Logan says, his eyes dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your gaze again. The shift in his attention is subtle, but it sends a rush of heat straight to your core. “What’s your sport?”
“Puck,” you say.
Logan’s smile widens. “A hockey girl. My favorite kind.”
He doesn’t ask what team. You don’t ask him either. It’s better this way. No names, no schools, no complications. Just the heavy, pulsing beat of the music and the electric tension pulling the two of you together.
“You talk a lot,” you murmur, stepping into his space. You don’t know what’s come over you tonight. Maybe it’s the freedom. Maybe it’s the whiskey you had before leaving the dorms. Or maybe it’s just him.
“I’ve been told I have a big mouth,” Logan whispers, his hands finding their way back to your waist. His thumbs brush against the bare skin at the low dip of your back, and you gasp softly.
“Prove it,” you challenge.
Logan doesn’t hesitate. He closes the distance, his mouth crashing down onto yours.
The kiss is explosive. It’s not hesitant or sweet; it’s hungry, demanding, and incredibly hot. Your hands immediately go to his hair, pulling him down, deepening the kiss. He groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your lips, and pulls you flush against his body. You can feel every hard line of him against the soft fabric of your dress.
The club is too loud, too crowded, but right now, there is only the frantic slide of his tongue against yours, the taste of whiskey and mint, the desperate grip of his hands on your hips.
“Too crowded,” Logan mutters against your mouth, his breathing jagged. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and dilated. “Let’s go.”
You don’t need to be told twice.
He grabs your hand, his fingers lacing through yours, and pulls you through the throng of dancing bodies. You follow blindly, your heart hammering against your ribs. The destination doesn’t matter, only the urgency.
Logan navigates the club with practiced ease, finally spotting a secluded hallway near the back that leads to the bathrooms. It’s dimly lit, the pulsing lights of the dance floor reduced to a soft, flickering glow. He pulls you down the hall, pushing open the heavy wooden door of what looks like an employee or VIP bathroom that someone forgot to lock.
He pulls you inside and kicks the door shut behind him, the lock clicking into place with a sharp clack.
The silence of the tiled room is deafening compared to the club outside. The only sound is the heavy, ragged breathing echoing between the two of you.
“You are absolutely gorgeous,” Logan breathes out, backing you up against the cool tiles of the wall.
“Less talking,” you demand, grabbing the lapels of his jacket and pulling him back down to you.
He laughs softly against your lips — a rough, breathless sound — before devouring your mouth again. His hands are everywhere, frantic and exploring. He maps the curve of your waist, the slope of your back, his large palms hot against your skin. You let out a soft moan as his lips leave your mouth to trail fiery kisses down your jawline and onto your neck.
“So impatient,” Logan teases, though his own voice is tight with desire. He bites down gently on a sensitive spot just below your ear, making your knees buckle slightly.
“You’re the one who dragged me in here,” you manage to say, your fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. You push the fabric aside, pressing your palms flat against his warm, hard chest. His heart is racing just as fast as yours.
“Correction,” Logan groans, as your hands slide over his abs. “We dragged each other. Mutually Assured Destruction. MAD.”
“Shut up with the acronyms,” you whisper fiercely, pulling his face back up to yours.
He kisses you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs. With a swift, effortless motion that reminds you how incredibly strong he is, he lifts you off the ground. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, your combat boots scraping against his jeans. Logan presses you against the door, holding you up with ease, his body a solid weight keeping you pinned.
The angle is perfect. The friction is maddening.
You reach down, your fingers tangling in his belt loops, tugging him even closer. The raw, desperate energy between you two is overwhelming. It’s completely out of character for you. You don’t do this. You don’t hook up with random guys in club bathrooms. But the way he looks at you, the way he touches you like he’s starving for it, strips away every inhibition you have.
“Tell me if I need to stop,” Logan says, his voice thick, his forehead resting against yours. Even in the haze of lust, that core of reliability, of fundamental goodness, shines through. He’s asking for consent. He’s making sure you’re okay.
“Don’t you dare stop,” you breathe, your hands sliding up into his hair, pulling gently.
Logan’s eyes flash with a dark, primal heat. He shifts his grip, one hand supporting your thighs while the other slides up to trace the edge of your red dress. He pushes the thin fabric up, his rough fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your upper thigh. You gasp into his mouth as his touch becomes more deliberate, tracing higher, sending bolts of pure electricity straight to your core.
He kisses you harder, swallowing your moans, his tongue tangling with yours in a desperate, wet rhythm that mirrors the heavy thrusting of his hips against yours. The heavy denim of his jeans grinds against you, and it’s simultaneously the best and most frustrating feeling in the world.
“You’re driving me crazy,” Logan mutters, his lips moving frantically over your neck, his teeth scraping lightly against your collarbone.
“Then do something about it,” you dare him, your voice shaking with need.
Logan chuckles, a low, dangerous sound. His fingers expertly work the clasp of your undergarments, and when his skin finally meets yours, you let out a loud, uninhibited cry that is completely swallowed by his mouth.
He moves inside you, and the sensation is so intense, so overwhelmingly perfect, that you see stars behind your closed eyelids. Logan groans loudly, his grip on your thighs tightening as he sets a frantic, punishing pace. He’s strong, so incredibly strong, pinning you against the heavy wood of the door, completely controlling the rhythm.
Every thrust sends a shockwave through you. The heat in the small bathroom is stifling, the air thick with the smell of sex and sweat and his intoxicating cologne.
“Look at me,” Logan commands, his voice ragged.
You open your eyes, meeting his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched tight with the effort of holding back. The sheer intensity of his stare makes your breath hitch.
“You feel unbelievable,” he rasps out, his hips snapping forward with a force that makes the door rattle in its frame.
“Faster,” you plead, your nails digging into his shoulders.
Logan obliges, his pace doubling. You cling to him, entirely lost in the storm of sensation. The world outside the bathroom ceases to exist. There is no abusive past, no dead mother, no heavy burden of the mechanic shop or the alcoholic father. There is only here. There is only now. There is only the sliding heat of his body, the rough texture of the wall at your back, and the mind-shattering pleasure building in your chest.
“I’m close,” you sob out, tossing your head back.
“Let go for me,” Logan whispers against your neck, his thrusts becoming jagged and desperate. “Come on. Let go.”
His words, the deep, encouraging rumble of his voice, are the final push you need. The climax hits you like a freight train, a cascading wave of blinding heat that tears a loud moan from your throat. Your body shudders violently against his, your muscles clenching tightly around him.
Logan grunts, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He gives one final, deep thrust, his entire body going rigid as he finds his own release. He holds you tightly against him, his chest heaving, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your own.
For a long time, neither of you moves. The only sound in the bathroom is the heavy, ragged sound of your synchronized breathing. Logan’s face is still buried in your neck, his lips pressing soft, absentminded kisses against your damp skin as his heart rate slowly begins to settle.
Eventually, the reality of the situation begins to seep back in. The muffled thud of the bass from the club outside reminds you both where you are.
Logan slowly lowers you down, his hands lingering on your hips until your boots hit the floor. Your knees are trembling so violently that you have to lean against the door for support.
He steps back, looking slightly dazed, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he buttons his shirt. He looks at you, his eyes sweeping over your flushed face, your swollen lips, and the messy tangle of your hair.
“Wow,” Logan breathes, a genuine, awe-struck smile breaking across his face. “That was ...”
“Yeah,” you manage to say, smoothing down the front of your red dress, feeling a sudden, intense flush of shyness. “It was.”
You avoid his gaze, quickly fixing your clothes and running a hand through your hair. The magic of the bubble is bursting. The anonymity is starting to feel heavy.
“Hey,” Logan says softly, stepping closer and lifting a hand to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The sweetness of the gesture makes your heart ache. “I never even got your name.”
You look up at him. You see the genuine interest in his eyes. He’s not just a frat boy looking for a quick lay. There is a depth to him, a heavy, quiet kind of reliability that you can sense even now. But you can’t. You’re Garrett’s little sister. You have a reputation to build, a life to start, and getting tangled up with a Briar hockey player — a guy who looks like trouble wrapped in charm — is a terrible idea.
“It’s better this way,” you say quietly, stepping around him toward the door.
Logan frowns, his hand dropping to his side. “Wait. Seriously? No name? No number?”
“No acronyms,” you reply, offering him a small, almost sad smile.
Before he can argue, you unlock the door and slip out into the dimly lit hallway. You don’t look back. You merge back into the sweaty, pulsing crowd of the dance floor, letting the music swallow you whole.
Back in the bathroom, Logan stands alone, staring at the closed door. He runs a hand through his hair, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.
“Well,” he murmurs to the empty room. “FML.”
***
The Matthews Arena is freezing, smelling sharply of Zamboni exhaust, stale popcorn, and that distinct, metallic tang of fresh ice. For Logan, it’s a scent that instantly feels like home, even if he’s sitting in enemy territory. Northeastern University’s rink is packed for the women’s game against Harvard, the crowd a sea of red and black.
Logan shivers, pulling the collar of his Briar University hockey jacket a little higher. He bumps his knee against the plastic seat in front of him, leaning over to look at his best friend.
“I still can’t believe you dragged us out of bed before noon on a Sunday,” Logan complains, his voice raspy from sleep. “It’s practically a human rights violation.”
Garrett doesn’t even look away from the ice. He’s practically vibrating with nervous energy, a half-eaten pretzel abandoned in his lap. “Shut up, Logan. You slept until eleven. And it’s my sister’s first home game against a rival. I wasn’t going to miss it, and I wasn’t letting you idiots miss it either.”
“We’re honored, truly,” Dean drawls from Logan’s right, suppressing a yawn. “But couldn’t we have been honored from the comfort of our couch? With, like, breakfast sandwiches?”
“Focus,” Garrett commands, pointing a finger toward the ice. “Puck drop is in two minutes. And I swear to God, if any of you embarrass me, I’m making you run stairs until you puke at practice tomorrow.”
Tucker, sitting on the other side of Dean, chuckles softly. “Relax, G. We’re on our best behavior. We just want to see if the Graham hockey genes actually transferred over, or if you stole all the talent in the womb.”
“Oh, she’s got the talent,” Garrett says, and for a second, the cocky, commanding captain of the Briar team melts away, replaced by a fiercely proud older brother. “Just watch number twenty-one.”
Logan leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He hasn’t met Garrett’s little sister yet. He knows they’re incredibly close, knows a little bit about the dark, heavy history they share with their father — a topic Garrett rarely touches, but when he does, it’s with a protective ferocity that Logan respects. The timing just never worked out for them to meet. When you were visiting Briar, Logan was usually back home dealing with his dad or at the shop. And since you started at Northeastern a few weeks ago, their schedules have been a nightmare of overlapping practices and away games.
The buzzer blares, echoing through the arena, and the starting lines skate out to the center circle.
Logan’s eyes immediately scan the red jerseys for the number twenty-one. He spots you lining up for the face-off. Even under the bulky pads and the caged helmet, there’s a distinct posture to you. A coiled, aggressive energy that reminds him so much of Garrett it’s almost funny.
The referee drops the puck.
You win the draw instantly, a sharp, precise flick of the wrist that sends the puck straight back to your defenseman. And then, you explode into motion.
“Whoa,” Dean says, sitting up a little straighter. “Okay. She’s fast.”
“Told you,” Garrett says smugly.
Logan watches in genuine awe as the game unfolds. You aren’t just fast; you’re brilliant on the ice. Your hockey IQ is off the charts. You anticipate plays before they happen, finding open ice where there shouldn’t be any. Halfway through the first period, you receive a pass in the neutral zone, weave through two Harvard defenders with a blindingly quick deke, and fire a wrist shot that pings off the crossbar and into the net.
The crowd erupts. Garrett jumps to his feet, screaming his head off, slamming his hands against the glass.
“That’s my sister!” Garrett roars, looking back at the guys with a wild grin. “Did you see those hands? Did you see that?”
“NFD,” Logan mutters, his eyes wide as he watches you celebrate with your team, slamming your gloves against your teammates’.
“Don’t do it, Tucker,” Dean warns.
“I have to,” Tucker sighs. “What does NFD mean, Logan?”
“No Freaking Doubt,” Logan says, a grin spreading across his face. “She’s lethal. G, I think she might actually be better than you.”
“Don’t push it,” Garrett warns, sitting back down, though he’s practically glowing with pride. “But yeah. She’s incredible. Has been since she was five. I basically taught her everything she knows.”
“Somehow, I doubt that,” Logan laughs.
For the rest of the game, Logan can’t take his eyes off the ice. It’s a distraction he desperately needs. For the past three weeks, his mind has been a broken record, constantly skipping back to the girl in the red dress from the club. It’s driving him insane. He’s the guy who lives in the moment, the guy who never gets hung up on a one-night stand. But that night in the bathroom wasn’t just a hookup. It felt like a collision. He’s spent the last twenty-one days scanning crowds, looking for that wild hair, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. He doesn’t even know her name. He’s half-convinced he hallucinated the entire thing.
But watching you play, the sheer aggression and skill you bring to the ice, it centers him. It’s a damn good game of hockey.
By the time the final buzzer sounds, Northeastern has secured a 4-2 victory, with you notching a goal and two assists. You’re the clear MVP of the match.
“Alright,” Garrett says, standing up and stretching. “Let’s head down to the tunnels. I texted her to meet us outside the locker room.”
The boys shuffle out of the stands, joining the flow of parents and friends heading down to the lower levels of the arena. The air down here is thicker, smelling strongly of sweat and sports tape. They find a spot against a cinderblock wall just outside the double doors of the Northeastern locker room.
“So, what’s the protocol here?” Dean asks, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. “Do we bow? Do we offer her a tribute for absolutely carrying her team today?”
“Just be normal,” Garrett snaps, suddenly looking a little anxious. “And keep your gross, flirtatious comments to yourselves. She’s my baby sister. Look at her, tell her she played well, and do not hit on her. I mean it. Especially you, Dean.”
“Hey! I am a perfect gentleman,” Dean protests.
Logan chuckles, leaning his head back against the cold wall. “Relax, Garrett. We know the bro code. Best friend’s sister is strictly off-limits. Untouchable. It’s, like, the fundamental law of the universe.”
“Exactly,” Garrett says, pointing a firm finger at Logan. “I trust you, Logan. You’re the only one of these idiots who actually respects boundaries.”
“I am a pillar of morality,” Logan agrees solemnly, placing a hand over his heart.
Tucker snorts. “You’re a pillar of something, alright.”
They wait for another fifteen minutes as players slowly trickle out, greeting their families. The heavy double doors swing open again, and Logan hears Garrett suck in a sharp breath.
***
You push through the locker room doors, a heavy duffel bag slung over your shoulder. Your hair is still damp from the showers, falling in messy, natural waves around your face. You’re wearing a pair of comfortable gray sweatpants and a massive, oversized Northeastern Hockey hoodie that swallows you whole. Your muscles are aching, your legs feel like lead, but there is a triumphant, soaring feeling in your chest.
You beat Harvard. You proved you belong here.
You scan the crowd of lingering families in the hallway, your eyes searching for a familiar face. And then you see him. Standing tall in his Briar letterman jacket, looking exactly the same as he always does.
“Garrett!” You call out, a massive, exhausted smile breaking across your face.
You drop your duffel bag instantly, not caring where it lands, and practically launch yourself at him. Garrett catches you easily, wrapping his large arms around you and lifting you entirely off your feet, burying his face in your damp hair.
“God, you were amazing,” Garrett murmurs fiercely into your shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. “I am so damn proud of you. That goal in the first period? Filthy. Absolutely filthy.”
“I learned from the best,” you whisper back, squeezing him tight.
In this moment, the rest of the world fades away. It’s just the two of you. The two kids who used to hide in a locked bedroom in New York, the two survivors who made it out to the other side. Every time you step onto the ice, you play for yourself, but you also play for him. Because he made sure you survived long enough to lace up your skates.
“Okay, okay,” Garrett laughs, finally setting you down, though he keeps one arm securely draped over your shoulders. He looks down at you, his eyes shining. “Let me look at you. You look terrible. Exhausted.”
“Thanks,” you scoff, punching him lightly in the ribs. “I feel terrible. But winning takes the edge off.”
“I brought the guys,” Garrett says, his tone shifting into his captain voice. He turns slightly, gesturing to the three tall, intimidating hockey players standing a few feet away. “They’ve been dying to meet the mythical little sister. Guys, this is her.”
You turn, a polite, friendly smile already plastered on your face. You’re ready to meet the famous Briar boys you’ve heard so much about.
“Hey, it’s nice to-”
The words die in your throat.
Your eyes sweep past a blonde guy with a cocky grin, past a tall, quiet-looking guy with curly hair, and land squarely on the third guy.
The tall guy with the messy, dark brown hair. The sharp jawline. The broad shoulders. The guy who, three weeks ago, pinned you against a heavy wooden door in a club bathroom and made you see stars.
The blood instantly drains from your face. The world tilts on its axis.
***
Logan freezes.
Every single muscle in his body locks up. He stops breathing. He stops blinking. The cinderblock wall behind him is the only thing keeping him from collapsing onto the floor.
He stares at you. At the damp hair, the gray sweatpants, the oversized hoodie. But it’s the eyes. It’s the sharp, expressive eyes that he spent an hour staring into in a dark, sweaty hallway. It’s the curve of your mouth that he had bruised with his own.
*No. No, no, no.*
The realization hits him with the force of a freight train colliding with a brick wall. The girl in the red dress. The girl who tasted like whiskey and mint. The girl whose moans he still hears when he tries to fall asleep.
It’s you.
It’s Garrett’s little sister.
Panic, cold and sharp, floods Logan’s veins. His heart begins to hammer violently against his ribs, a frantic, terrified rhythm. He is a dead man. He is literally going to die today, right here in the Matthews Arena. Garrett is going to murder him. Garrett is going to strip him of his hockey gear, drag him out onto the ice, and beat him to death with his own stick.
“Earth to Logan,” Dean says, elbowing Logan sharply in the ribs. “Introduce yourself, weirdo.”
Logan swallows hard. His mouth is completely dry. He tries to form words, but his brain is short-circuiting. Code Red. CR. Catastrophic Failure. CF. I Am Going To Die. IAGTD.
He looks at you, really looks at you, and sees the exact same horror mirrored in your eyes. You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. Your lips are slightly parted, your chest rising and falling rapidly as the shock registers.
“Hey,” Logan manages to croak out, his voice sounding entirely unlike his own. It’s an octave higher, strangled and tight. “I’m Logan.”
***
“Logan,” you repeat, the name slipping out of your mouth like a curse word.
John Logan. Garrett’s best friend. The guy your brother trusts more than anyone else in the world.
You slept with him.
You can feel the hysterical urge to laugh bubbling up in your throat, but you ruthlessly suppress it. Your mind races, trying to stitch together the pieces of that night. No names, no schools, no complications. What a spectacularly stupid rule that turned out to be. If you had just asked his name, if he had just mentioned he played for Briar ...
“Yeah, this is Logan,” Garrett says, oblivious to the nuclear bomb currently detonating in the space between you two. He claps Logan on the shoulder, and you watch Logan flinch as if he’s been burned. “And this is Dean, and Tucker. Guys, my little sister.”
“Incredible game out there,” Tucker says smoothly, stepping forward to offer a fist bump, which you return mechanically. “Your vision on the ice is insane.”
“Uh, thanks,” you manage to say, tearing your eyes away from Logan to look at Tucker. “I appreciate it.”
“Seriously,” Dean chimes in, flashing a bright, flirtatious smile that instantly makes Garrett narrow his eyes. “You didn’t tell us she was a superstar, G. Or that she was this pretty.”
“Dean,” Garrett barks, his voice low and dangerous. “I will end you.”
“Just stating facts!” Dean raises his hands in surrender.
You try to focus on the banter, try to act normal, but it’s impossible. You can feel Logan’s stare burning a hole into the side of your head. The tension radiating from him is palpable. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler.
“So,” Garrett says, turning back to you, completely blind to the silent panic attack Logan is having three feet away. “We were thinking of grabbing food to celebrate. There’s a diner a few blocks from here. You up for it, or are you too dead?”
“I ...” You desperately want to say no. You want to grab your bag, run back into the locker room, lock the door, and never come out. But you look at Garrett, at the sheer happiness on his face. He’s so excited to have you here, to introduce you to his world. You can’t ruin this for him.
“I’m starving,” you lie, forcing a bright smile. “Food sounds great.”
“I am?” Logan stammers, his eyes snapping to Garrett.
“Yeah, you drove us here in your truck,” Garrett points out, looking at Logan like he’s grown a second head. “Are you okay, man? You look like you’re going to throw up.”
“I’m fine,” Logan says quickly, too quickly. “Just hungry. Blood sugar is low. LBS.”
“Stop with the acronyms,” Garrett sighs, rolling his eyes. He turns to you. “He does this thing where he makes up acronyms. It’s annoying, but you learn to tune it out.”
“I know,” you say softly.
The words slip out before you can stop them.
The hallway goes completely silent.
Dean and Tucker pause. Garrett frowns, looking between you and Logan. Logan looks like he’s about to sprint down the hallway and jump into moving traffic.
“You know?” Garrett asks slowly, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “How do you know?”
Crap. Crap. Crap.
“I mean,” you backpedal frantically, your heart hammering against your ribs, “I assume it’s annoying. You know? Guys who do that ... it’s usually annoying.”
Garrett stares at you for a second longer before his face clears, and he laughs. “Yeah. See? Even she thinks you’re annoying, Logan.”
Logan manages a weak, strained chuckle. “Yeah. Hilarious.”
The walk to Logan’s truck is the longest walk of your entire life. Garrett walks beside you, excitedly breaking down the plays from the game, asking you about your linemates, while the three boys trail behind.
You can feel Logan’s eyes on your back the entire time. It’s a heavy, burning weight.
When you reach the parking lot, Logan clicks his keys, and a massive, beat-up black Chevy Silverado chirps.
“I call shotgun!” Dean yells, lunging for the front door.
“No way,” Garrett says, grabbing Dean by the back of his jacket and yanking him backward. “Sister gets shotgun. You animals get in the back.”
“Garrett, it’s fine,” you protest immediately, holding your hands up. “I can sit in the back.”
The idea of sitting in the passenger seat, mere inches away from Logan, in the enclosed space of his truck, sounds like absolute torture.
“Nonsense,” Garrett insists, opening the passenger side door for you. “You’re the VIP today. Get in.”
You shoot a desperate, fleeting glance at Logan over the hood of the truck. His face is pale, his jaw clenched tight. He looks completely out of his depth, which is terrifying, because Logan is supposed to be the guy who has it all together. The cool, calm, collected one.
You climb into the truck. The smell of the interior hits you instantly. It’s the exact same smell that clung to his skin that night in the bathroom. Woodsmoke and that same masculine cologne. It makes your head spin.
Logan climbs into the driver’s seat. He shuts the door, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles.
Garrett, Dean, and Tucker pile into the back seat, instantly filling the cab with noise and chaos as they argue over legroom.
“Alright, Logan,” Garrett says from the backseat, leaning forward to clap Logan on the shoulder. “To the diner. Let’s get some food in this champion.”
Logan starts the engine. The low rumble of the truck vibrates through the seat, sending a phantom shiver up your spine. He puts the car in drive, finally turning to look at you for the first time since the locker room.
His eyes are dark, filled with a chaotic mixture of panic, disbelief, and something else — something dangerously similar to the raw hunger you saw in the club.
“Buckle up,” Logan says, his voice a low, raspy whisper that is meant only for you.
You swallow hard, grabbing the seatbelt and pulling it across your chest. The click of the buckle sounds as loud as a gunshot in the tense silence of the front seat.
“Ready,” you whisper back.
Logan tears his gaze away, staring straight ahead at the road as he pulls out of the parking lot.
It’s going to be a very, very long lunch.
***
The bell above the door of Della’s Diner chimes a cheerful, tinny note that sounds entirely too happy for the funeral march currently playing in Logan’s head.
The diner is a quintessential college town staple — smelling of old frying oil, burnt coffee, and maple syrup, with neon beer signs buzzing faintly in the grease-stained windows. It’s usually Logan’s favorite place to recover after a rough practice, but right now, it feels like an interrogation room.
“Booth in the back,” Garrett declares, pointing to a circular corner booth upholstered in cracked red vinyl.
It’s a tight squeeze. Too tight.
Garrett slides in first, pulling you in right beside him. Dean drops into the opposite side, dragging Tucker with him. That leaves one spot left. Right in the middle. Directly across from you.
Logan stands in the aisle for a fraction of a second too long, staring at the empty space on the vinyl seat like it’s a trap door.
“Sit down, man, you’re blocking the aisle,” Tucker says, giving Logan a shove.
Logan practically falls into the booth. His knees immediately bump against something soft under the table.
You jerk your legs back so fast you nearly spill the glass of water the waitress just set down. “Sorry,” you murmur, your cheeks flushing a brilliant shade of crimson.
“My bad,” Logan chokes out. He pulls his long legs back, pressing his knees firmly together. He feels like he’s trying to defuse a bomb with a pair of chopsticks.
The waitress, a gum-chewing woman in her fifties named Stacy, pulls a notepad from her apron. “What can I get you boys? And the lovely lady?”
“Three orders of the lumberjack special,” Garrett says without looking at the menu. “Extra bacon for me. Tucker will have the chicken wrap, because he’s boring.”
“It’s called macronutrients, Garrett,” Tucker sighs.
“And for the lady?” Stacy asks, giving you a warm smile.
“I’ll just take a side of fries, please,” you say, peeling off your oversized Northeastern hockey hoodie to reveal the gray tank top underneath. “And a strawberry milkshake. Extra thick.”
Logan swallows. Hard.
“Coming right up, hon,” Stacy says, clicking her pen and sauntering away.
“Just fries?” Garrett frowns, shifting in the booth to look at you. “You played a hell of a game, you need protein. You want some of my eggs?”
“I’m too amped up to eat a heavy meal, G,” you say, leaning back against the vinyl. “You know how I get after a game. Adrenaline crash hasn’t hit yet.”
“Suit yourself,” Garrett shrugs. “But you’re eating at least half my bacon.”
Logan stares blankly at the laminated menu in front of him, seeing absolutely nothing. He is in hell. A very specific, vinyl-upholstered circle of hell.
You are sitting directly across from him. The diner lighting is catching the faint sheen of sweat still lingering on your collarbones. He can see the subtle shift of your athletic shoulders under the thin fabric of your tank top, and all he can think about is the way those shoulders felt under his hands when he pinned you against that bathroom door.
Stop it. Logan squeezes his eyes shut for a microsecond. Wayne Gretzky. 2,857 career points. 894 goals. 1,963 assists.
“So,” Dean starts, leaning his elbows on the table and giving you his best, most dazzling smile. The one that usually makes puck bunnies melt into puddles. “Northeastern, huh? Why didn’t you come to Briar with Garrett?”
You look at Dean, your expression perfectly composed. “Northeastern offered me a full ride and a starting position at center. Briar wanted me to sit on the bench for a year to develop. It wasn’t a hard choice.”
“Ouch,” Dean laughs, clutching his chest. “Brains, beauty, and she’s ruthless. You sure you’re related to Garrett?”
“Dean, I swear to God,” Garrett warns, his voice dropping an octave. “I will stab you with this fork.”
“Just making conversation!” Dean defends himself, picking up a sugar packet and tossing it at Garrett. “It’s nice to actually meet her. You’ve kept her locked in a tower for years.”
“I haven’t kept her in a tower,” Garrett grumbles. “She was back home. I was here.”
Logan keeps his eyes glued to the table, tracing the wood-grain pattern with his thumbnail. He needs to say something. If he stays silent, it’s going to look suspicious. He is the loud one. The funny one. The guy who never shuts up.
“So,” Logan forces his vocal cords to work, glancing up to meet your eyes. “Center. You like running the offense?”
Your breath hitches slightly when his eyes lock onto yours, but you recover instantly. You are incredibly good at this game.
“I do,” you nod, wrapping your hands around your glass of water. “I like controlling the pace. Setting up the plays. Better than waiting around for someone else to pass me the puck.”
Oh, Jesus. Logan’s brain completely short-circuits. She likes controlling the pace. Mario Lemieux. 1,723 points. 690 goals. 1,033 assists. Won the Stanley Cup in ‘91 and ‘92.
“She’s a control freak on the ice,” Garrett laughs, bumping his shoulder against yours. “Always has been. Even when we were playing street hockey as kids, she bossed me around.”
“Someone had to,” you shoot back, a genuine, easy smile breaking across your face. It’s the exact same smile Logan saw in the club right before he kissed you.
Stacy returns, balancing a massive tray of food. She deposits plates of eggs, pancakes, and greasy bacon onto the table. Finally, she places a tall, condensation-beaded glass filled with pink milkshake directly in front of you. It comes with a thick red straw and a mountain of whipped cream.
“Enjoy, sweetheart,” Stacy says, winking before she walks away.
“Thanks,” you say, grabbing the glass.
Logan watches in slow motion as your lips wrap around the thick red straw.
You take a long, deep pull of the milkshake. Your cheeks hollow out slightly from the effort, the thick ice cream requiring serious suction. You swallow, your throat working, and pull the straw away, your lips slick and shining with the pale pink liquid. A tiny drop of milkshake lingers on the corner of your mouth.
You dart your tongue out and lick it away.
Logan’s hands grip the edges of the table so hard his knuckles turn stark white. Bobby Orr. Number 4. Eight consecutive Norris Trophies. 270 career goals. It’s not working. The stats aren’t working.
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trying to adjust his jeans without anyone noticing the distinct, painful problem developing below the table. He is having a physical reaction to his best friend’s sister drinking a strawberry milkshake. He is a monster. A depraved, irredeemable monster.
He just wants to finish the season. He wants to play his final year of college hockey, graduate, and go back to his dad’s mechanic shop. That’s the deal. He just needs to survive these next few months before Garrett inevitably finds out and murders him with his bare hands.
“You okay, Logan?” Tucker asks, pausing halfway through a bite of his chicken wrap. He looks at Logan with narrow, analytical eyes. “You’re sweating.”
“I’m fine,” Logan rasps, reaching for his ice water and downing half the glass in one go. “It’s hot in here. HC. Heat Casualties.”
You let out a soft, sudden sound — a cross between a cough and a laugh — and choke on your milkshake.
Garrett immediately drops his fork and thumps you on the back. “Whoa, easy. Breathe. You good?”
“I’m fine,” you wheeze, covering your mouth with a napkin. Your eyes, bright and watery, dart across the table to glare at Logan. “Just went down the wrong pipe.”
“It’s Logan’s stupid acronyms,” Garrett sighs, handing you another napkin. “I told you, he’s insufferable.”
“They’re not stupid, they’re efficient,” Logan says defensively, though his voice is still a little tight. “Saves time.”
“Saves time for what? More terrible jokes?” Dean quips around a mouthful of pancake.
“Exactly,” Logan snaps back, finally finding his rhythm. The banter is safe. The banter is familiar. “At least I have jokes. Your entire personality is just hair gel and daddy issues, Dean.”
“Hey!” Dean protests, running a self-conscious hand through his perfectly styled hair. “I love my father, thank you very much.”
You laugh, and the sound does funny things to Logan’s chest. It’s warm and real, totally different from the dark, heavy lust that defined your first encounter. He realizes, with a sinking feeling of dread, that he likes you. Not just the physical memory of you, but you. The way you hold your own against his idiot friends. The way you look at Garrett with pure adoration.
I am so dead, Logan thinks, watching you steal a piece of bacon off Garrett’s plate. I am absolutely, definitively dead.
The rest of the meal passes in a blur of hockey talk, arguments over NHL standings, and Tucker quietly destroying everyone’s logic with statistics. You fit into the group seamlessly. You speak their language.
Under the table, it’s a different story.
The booth is small, and Logan has long legs. Twice, your knee brushes against his. The first time, he flinches so violently he nearly knocks over his coffee mug. The second time, he freezes, holding his breath as the soft denim of your sweatpants drags slowly across the heavy denim of his jeans.
He looks up. You are casually talking to Dean about Northeastern’s defensive lineup, sipping your milkshake, acting completely unaffected. But Logan sees the slight tremor in your hand holding the glass. He sees the high color in your cheeks.
You are feeling it too. The electricity. The undeniable pull.
It’s making the situation infinitely worse. If you hated him, if you were disgusted by him, he could back off. He could bury it. But knowing that the memory of that bathroom is playing on a loop in your head just like it is in his? It’s a ticking time bomb.
“Alright,” Garrett says, tossing his napkin onto his empty plate and reaching for his wallet. “I got this.”
“You don’t have to pay for me, G,” you protest, reaching for your own bag.
“Put it away,” Garrett orders, throwing a twenty-dollar bill onto the table. “Big brother privilege. Besides, you’re a broke freshman. Save your money.”
You roll your eyes but let your bag drop back onto the seat. “Fine. Thank you.”
“Okay, before we get out of here,” Garrett says, his tone suddenly shifting from casual to commanding. He looks at Dean, Tucker, and finally, Logan. “Phones out. All of you.”
Logan stares at him. “What?”
“Phones out,” Garrett repeats, pulling his own cell phone from his pocket. “You too, Y/N.”
You look just as confused as Logan, pulling your phone out of your hoodie pocket.
“Exchange numbers,” Garrett instructs, gesturing between you and the boys.
Logan’s blood runs cold. He stares at Garrett, convinced this is some sort of elaborate trap. “Why?”
“Because,” Garrett says, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. He looks at the three of them with deadly serious eyes. “You three are my brothers. You’re the only people I trust completely. My sister is living in this city now. She’s at Northeastern, dealing with a new team, new classes, new everything.”
Garrett pauses, looking at you, his expression softening slightly. “I’m not always going to be available. We have away games. I have practice. Sometimes my phone dies. If she ever needs anything — a ride, help moving a couch, someone to bail her out of a bad situation — and she can’t reach me, I want her to be able to reach you.”
You stare at your brother, your throat working. “Garrett, I’m fine. I don’t need a babysitting squad.”
“It’s not a babysitting squad,” Garrett says firmly. “It’s an insurance policy. Mom is gone. Dad is ...” Garrett’s jaw clenches, the muscles ticking violently. “Dad is dead to us. It’s just you and me. And these guys. This is our family now.”
The diner goes totally quiet. Dean drops the joking facade, his face sobering instantly. Tucker nods slowly.
Even Logan feels a sharp, painful ache in his chest. He knows better than anyone what it’s like to deal with a toxic father. He knows what Garrett has sacrificed to protect you. Garrett is handing over the most precious thing in his life to his best friends, trusting them to protect her.
“He’s right,” Tucker says quietly, unlocking his phone. “Read us your number, Y/N.”
You look overwhelmed, blinking rapidly as if fighting back tears, but you softly read out your ten-digit number.
Dean types it in, saving the contact. “Got it. And hey, for the record? I’m honored, G. We got her back.”
“Always,” Tucker agrees.
Garrett looks at Logan. “Logan?”
Logan’s hands are shaking as he unlocks his phone. He types your number into the keypad. The screen glows brightly, mocking him. He hits Save Contact.
Y/N Graham.
“Got it,” Logan forces the words past the massive lump in his throat. He looks up, meeting Garrett’s eyes.
“I need you to promise me,” Garrett says, his voice thick with emotion, looking specifically at Logan. “You treat her like a sister. All of you. She is off-limits to everyone on our team, everyone you know. You look out for her like she’s your own blood. Understood?”
“Understood,” Dean says solemnly.
“Got it, Garrett,” Tucker nods.
Garrett doesn’t look away from Logan. He knows Logan is the wild card. The guy who hooks up and moves on. The guy who never commits.
“Logan?” Garrett prompts.
Logan looks at his best friend. The guy who covered for him when his dad showed up drunk to a home game. The guy who let Logan sleep on his floor for a week when things got too bad at home. Garrett trusts him implicitly.
“I promise,” Logan says, the lie tasting like ash on his tongue. “Like a sister. I swear, G.”
“Good,” Garrett exhales, clapping Logan on the shoulder. The tension breaks, the heavy atmosphere dissipating back into the background noise of the diner. “Alright. Let’s get out of here. I need to ice my ankle again before practice tomorrow.”
They all slide out of the booth. You grab your hoodie, pulling it over your head to hide your face for a second.
As they file out of the diner into the crisp autumn air, Garrett walks ahead, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. You lean into him, laughing at something he says.
Logan hangs back, trailing behind with Dean and Tucker.
He stops on the sidewalk, looking up at the gray, overcast Boston sky. The clouds are thick, heavy with the promise of rain.
He promised Garrett he would treat you like a sister.
He thinks about the heavy wooden door of the club bathroom. He thinks about the way your nails dug into his shoulders. He thinks about the sounds you made when he pushed inside you, the desperate, uninhibited way you wrapped your legs around his waist and begged him not to stop.
Logan closes his eyes, tilting his head back toward the sky. He lets out a long, ragged exhale that turns into a white cloud in the cold air.
I have done things to her, Logan thinks, a feeling of absolute doom settling deep in his bones, that absolutely no one should ever do to their little sister.
He opens his eyes, staring at your retreating back as you walk to the truck with Garrett.
Fuck his life.
***
The dashboard of your beat-up Toyota Corolla flickers violently, a dying strobe light of warning symbols, before the entire console goes pitch black. The engine gives one final, pathetic shudder and dies, leaving you coasting in terrifying silence down a dark, empty stretch of road just outside the Boston city limits.
You wrench the steering wheel hard to the right, using the last of your momentum to pull onto the gravel shoulder before slamming the car into park.
For a moment, the only sound is the frantic beating of your own heart and the rhythmic, aggressive drumming of the freezing November rain against your windshield.
“Perfect,” you whisper to the empty car. “Just perfect.”
You slam your hands against the steering wheel, letting out a frustrated groan. It’s nearly midnight on a Tuesday. You were just driving back from a late-night study session at the library, your brain completely fried from staring at anatomy textbooks. Now, you are stranded in the freezing cold.
You grab your phone from the cup holder. Your fingers are already starting to go numb. You pull up your favorites list and immediately hit Garrett’s name.
The line rings once. Twice. Three times.
“Hey, this is Garrett. Leave a message, unless you’re Dean, in which case, stop calling me.”
“Damn it, Garrett,” you mutter, hanging up. You try again. Straight to voicemail. He must have finally fallen asleep after complaining all afternoon about the massive bruising on his ribs from practice.
You lean back against the headrest, staring blankly at the dark screen of your phone. You need a jump. Or a tow. Or a miracle.
Your thumb hovers over the contacts list. Garrett’s mandate from the diner echoes in your head. If she ever needs anything ... I want her to be able to reach you.
You never thought you’d actually have to use the emergency hockey-player hotline.
You scroll down. Dean? Absolutely not. He would show up with a stupid grin, probably hit on you while holding the jumper cables, and make the entire ordeal ten times more exhausting. Tucker? Tucker is a solid option. He’s quiet, respectful, and probably knows how to fix a car.
But then your thumb stops on the last name.
John Logan.
A hot flush of heat floods your chest, completely counteracting the freezing temperature of the car. It’s been weeks since the diner. Weeks of aggressively avoiding him. If you go to Briar to see Garrett, you make sure Logan isn’t around. If the boys come to your games, you keep a safe, polite distance. But avoiding him hasn’t stopped you from thinking about him. Every time you close your eyes, you’re back in that club bathroom.
You stare at his name. If you call Tucker, it’s safe. If you call Logan, you are willingly inviting the chaos back into your space.
But there is a strange, twisted logic forming in your tired brain. Logan has already seen you completely unraveled. He knows what you sound like when you lose control. The barrier of intimacy is already so irrevocably shattered between the two of you that calling him almost feels ... easier. There’s no pretense to keep up.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you press the green call button.
It rings twice.
“Hello?” His voice is rough, heavy with sleep, and the sound of it sends a sharp jolt straight to your core.
“Logan,” you say, your voice trembling slightly — mostly from the cold, but partly from the sheer adrenaline of hearing him say your name. “It’s ... it’s Y/N.”
There is a split second of silence on the line, followed by the sound of rustling sheets and a loud thud, as if he just vaulted out of bed.
“Y/N?” His voice is suddenly wide awake, sharp and entirely focused. “Are you okay? Where are you? Did something happen?”
“I’m okay,” you say quickly, not wanting to trigger a full-blown panic. “I’m not hurt or anything. I’m just ... my car died. I’m stuck on the shoulder off Route 9, a couple of miles past the exit for the campus.”
“Is anyone with you?” He demands, the protective edge in his voice so fiercely reminiscent of Garrett it makes your throat ache.
“No, I’m alone. I tried calling Garrett, but he’s not picking up, and-”
“I’m on my way,” Logan cuts you off smoothly. “Lock the doors. Keep the hazards on if the battery has enough juice for them. Do not get out of the car for anyone but me. Understood?”
“Understood,” you whisper.
“ETA is twenty minutes. Hang tight, sweetheart.”
The phone clicks dead. You stare at the screen, your heart doing a strange, fluttering gymnastics routine in your chest.
***
True to his word, exactly eighteen minutes later, the blinding headlights of a pickup truck cut through the rain, pulling up right behind your dead Civic.
You unlock the door the second Logan steps out of his truck. He’s wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and a dark Briar hockey hoodie, the hood pulled up against the freezing rain. He walks over to your window, his jaw clenched tight, scanning the dark road around you before he looks down at you.
“You okay?” He asks, his voice muffled by the glass.
You roll the window down an inch. “I’m freezing, but I’m fine. The engine just completely died.”
Logan nods, immediately shifting into a mode you haven’t seen before. It’s not the sarcastic jokester from the bar, and it’s not the panicked guy from the diner. This is Logan in his element. He grew up in a mechanic shop.
“Pop the hood,” he instructs, turning back to his truck.
You pull the lever under the dash. By the time you step out of the car, wrapping your thin jacket tightly around yourself, Logan is already hooking up a set of heavy-duty jumper cables to his battery.
“Get back in the car, Y/N,” Logan barks over the sound of the rain, glancing up at you. “You’re shivering. I’ve got this.”
“I want to help,” you insist, your teeth chattering.
Logan sighs, walking over to the front of your car. He effortlessly lifts the heavy hood, propping it open. He moves with practiced, confident precision, attaching the red clamp to the positive terminal of your battery, then the black clamp to a piece of unpainted metal on the engine block.
“It’s a dead battery,” Logan says, wiping his wet hands on his sweatpants. “Alternator might be shot, too, considering it died while you were driving. But this should get you enough juice to get to my place or back to your dorm.”
“Your place?” You echo, the words slipping out.
Logan pauses, the rain plastering his dark hair to his forehead. He looks at you, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light. “Yeah. My place. Or your dorm. Whichever you want.”
He turns away, walking back to his truck. “Start it up!” He yells over his shoulder.
You slide back into the driver’s seat, turning the key. The engine sputters, whines a pathetic, high-pitched noise, and then, miraculously, roars to life. The heat instantly blasts from the vents.
You let out a massive sigh of relief, leaning your head against the steering wheel. He saved you.
You step back out of the car into the rain. Logan is already disconnecting the cables, tossing them into the bed of his truck before slamming the tailgate shut. He walks back over to you, rain dripping from his nose and chin, a small, tired smile playing on his lips.
“Good to go,” he says, his voice a low rumble over the idling engine. “SRO. Successful Rescue Operation.”
You laugh, the sound bubbling up through the cold. You are so overwhelmed with relief, so utterly grateful that you didn’t have to spend the night freezing on the side of the road, that you don’t even think about what you’re doing next.
You step directly into his space.
“Thank you, Logan,” you say, looking up at him. “Seriously. You’re a lifesaver.”
Before he can respond, you rise up on your toes, press a hand flat against his damp chest for balance, and press your lips to his.
It is meant to be a thank-you kiss. A quick, friendly peck on the corner of the mouth. But the second your lips touch his, muscle memory violently hijacks your brain.
Logan freezes. For a millisecond, his entire body goes completely rigid under your hand. And then, with a sharp, desperate intake of breath, he breaks.
His large hands come up, gripping your waist with bruising force. He pulls you flush against his body, opening his mouth over yours, entirely swallowing your gasp. The kiss is instantaneous fire. It’s exactly like the bathroom at the club — frantic, hungry, and completely consuming. You tangle your fingers into the wet hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, your mouth opening to the familiar, intoxicating slide of his tongue.
The freezing rain soaking through your clothes suddenly doesn’t matter at all. The only thing that exists is the burning heat of his mouth, the solid wall of his chest, and the desperate, crushing grip of his hands on your hips.
Logan groans into your mouth, a rough, guttural sound that vibrates straight down to your toes. He walks you backward until your spine hits the wet metal of your car door, pinning you there just like he did before.
But then, as quickly as it started, the reality of the situation crashes down on both of you.
Logan tears his mouth away, his chest heaving violently. He rests his forehead against yours, his hands still gripping your waist in a vise. You are both panting, staring into each other’s wide, terrified eyes.
“What are we doing?” Logan whispers, his voice trembling.
“I don’t know,” you breathe back, your hands still resting on his chest, feeling the frantic, galloping rhythm of his heart.
“Garrett is going to bury me under the ice rink,” Logan says, his eyes squeezing shut. “He is going to murder me. He’s going to use my bones to make a new hockey stick.”
“And I’ll be shipped off to a convent,” you add, your voice tight with panic. “I’ll be the first ever hockey-playing cloistered nun.”
Logan lets out a breathless, choked laugh, his forehead still resting against yours. “We can’t do this. You know we can’t do this.”
“I know,” you whisper. “We really can’t.”
You wait for him to step back. You wait for him to let you go.
He doesn’t move an inch.
Instead, his thumbs slowly begin to stroke the curve of your waist, right through the wet fabric of your jacket. The touch is so agonizingly slow, so heavy with intent, that a small, broken whimper escapes your lips.
“I’ve been going insane,” Logan admits, his voice dropping to a harsh rasp. He opens his eyes, staring directly into yours. The raw vulnerability in his expression makes your heart shatter. “Since the diner. Since the club. I can’t sleep. I can’t think on the ice. Every time I close my eyes, I see you drinking that damn milkshake.”
“Logan ...”
“I know I’m supposed to be the reliable guy,” he continues, his hands sliding up your sides to grip the lapels of your jacket. “I promised Garrett. I swore to him. But Y/N, I can’t stop. You are all I think about.”
The admission hangs heavy in the freezing air between you, thick and undeniably true. You feel the exact same way. The rules, the brother, the consequences — none of it feels real compared to the overwhelming, magnetic pull you have toward this man.
“My backseat is practically a living room,” Logan whispers, his eyes darting down to your lips.
“Logan ...” you say his name again, but this time, it’s not a warning. It’s a surrender.
“Tell me to get in my truck and drive away,” Logan pleads, his face inches from yours. “Tell me right now, and I will.”
You look at him. You look at the rain dripping from his lashes, at the desperate, agonizing hope in his eyes.
“I don’t want you to drive away,” you say, your voice perfectly clear over the sound of the storm.
Logan lets out a sharp exhale, his restraint finally snapping completely. He kisses you again, hard and bruising, before grabbing your hand and pulling you away from your car. He drags you toward the truck. He throws open the heavy back door, practically lifting you off your feet and tossing you onto the wide, expansive upholstered bench of the backseat.
He climbs in after you, slamming the door shut.
The sudden silence inside the truck is deafening. The windows are heavily tinted, shielding you from the outside world. The only light comes from the faint glow of the dashboard in the front.
Logan wastes absolutely no time. He crawls over the leather seats, caging you in against the soft upholstery. He straddles your hips, looking down at you with a gaze so hot it could melt glass.
“You are so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, his hands instantly reaching for the zipper of your wet jacket. He pulls it down with frantic haste, tugging the damp material off your shoulders and tossing it onto the floorboards.
“You talk too much,” you breathe, reaching up to grab the collar of his hoodie, pulling him down to you.
The kiss is explosive. It’s different from the club. At the club, it was pure, anonymous lust. This is heavier. This is loaded with weeks of pent-up desire, forbidden attraction, and the terrifying realization that there are real feelings involved.
Logan’s hands are everywhere, exploring you with a desperate reverence. He pushes your tank top up, his large, warm palms flattening against the bare, shivering skin of your stomach. You gasp into his mouth as he trails his hands higher, mapping the curve of your ribs before pushing the fabric up entirely.
“God,” Logan groans, pulling back just enough to look at you in the dim light. His eyes trace the lines of your body, filled with a deep, consuming hunger.
“Don’t stop,” you plead, your fingers tangling into his wet hair.
Logan leans down, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the slope of your breast. The contrast of his scorching mouth against your cold skin sends a violent shiver down your spine. He traces his tongue along the edge of your bra, biting down gently on the sensitive skin, eliciting a loud, uninhibited moan from your throat.
“You like that?” Logan rumbles against your skin, his hands moving to the button of your jeans.
“Logan, please,” you beg, arching your back off the leather seat.
He works the button and zipper with practiced ease, his fingers sliding beneath the denim. The second his rough skin brushes against your center, your entire body completely locks up.
Logan watches your face intently as his fingers begin to move. He sets a slow, maddeningly precise rhythm, his thumb circling and pressing exactly where you need it. You throw your head back into the leather seat, your hands gripping his shoulders like a lifeline.
“Look at me,” Logan commands, his voice thick with lust.
You force your eyes open, meeting his dark, intense gaze.
“You are mine,” Logan whispers fiercely, the words slipping out of him like an undeniable truth. He increases the pressure, his fingers moving faster, deeper. “You hear me? You’re mine.”
You can’t even form words to agree. The pleasure is too absolute, too consuming. The heat inside the cab of the truck is suffocating, completely fogging up the windows and isolating you both in a cocoon of raw, desperate need.
You feel the climax building rapidly, a tight, coil of energy in your lower stomach.
“Logan,” you sob out, your nails digging crescents into his shoulders.
“Let it go, sweetheart,” he encourages, leaning down to capture your lips in a devastating kiss. “I’ve got you.”
You shatter completely. The orgasm rips through you with a violent intensity, pulling a loud, muffled scream from your throat directly into his mouth. Your muscles clench tightly around his fingers, your entire body trembling uncontrollably as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you.
Logan holds you through it, his chest heaving, waiting until the violent tremors begin to subside.
When you finally open your eyes, you are gasping for air. Logan is looking down at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Without a word, he reaches down and grabs the hem of his own hoodie, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion. He tosses it aside, revealing his broad, heavily muscled chest.
He reaches for the waistband of his sweatpants.
“My turn,” he whispers, his eyes completely dark.
You reach up, helping him push the fabric down. The second he is free, he settles back over you, parting your knees with his thighs. He aligns himself perfectly, pausing for just a fraction of a second to look at you, to make sure you are ready.
You nod, lifting your hips to meet him.
Logan pushes inside you in one long, smooth, devastating thrust.
A sharp gasp leaves your lips, your eyes fluttering shut at the overwhelming sensation of being completely filled by him. It is infinitely better than the club. There is no door to pin you against, but the heavy, solid weight of his body pressing you deep into the leather seat is so much better.
Logan lets out a low, guttural groan, resting his forehead against yours as he takes a moment to adjust.
“Fuck,” he breathes out, his voice shaking. “You feel perfect.”
“Move,” you demand softly, your hands tracing down the hard, sweaty planes of his back to grip his hips.
He obeys. He sets a slow, agonizingly deep pace. Every thrust is deliberate, completely burying himself inside you before pulling almost entirely out. The friction is maddening. The truck rocks gently on its suspension with the force of his movements, the only sound inside the cab the wet slide of bodies and the heavy, ragged sound of your synchronized breathing.
“Wrap your legs around me,” Logan whispers harshly.
You immediately do as he asks, crossing your ankles over the small of his back, pulling him even deeper.
The change in angle is all it takes for Logan’s restraint to snap. The slow, deliberate pace vanishes, replaced by a frantic, punishing rhythm. He grips your hips so tightly it’s definitely going to leave bruises, his hips snapping forward with a force that drives you further and further into the seat.
You cling to him, entirely lost to the storm. The feeling of him inside you, the way his body covers yours perfectly, the desperate sounds he makes against your neck is intoxicating.
“Y/N,” Logan groans, his pace becoming erratic and entirely unhinged. “I’m going to-”
“Do it,” you sob out, your own second climax building with terrifying speed. “Logan, please.”
He thrusts deeply one final time, a harsh, jagged cry tearing from his throat. His entire body goes completely rigid as he finds his release, burying his face in the crook of your neck. The force of his climax pushes you directly over the edge, your body shattering around him simultaneously.
For a long time, neither of you moves.
Logan is a heavy, completely exhausted weight on top of you. His heart is hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against your chest, his skin slick with sweat despite the freezing temperatures outside. The windows of the truck are entirely opaque with condensation.
Slowly, the reality of the situation begins to creep back in. The rain is still drumming relentlessly against the roof of the truck.
Logan slowly lifts his head, looking down at you. His eyes are soft, devoid of the frantic panic that usually accompanies your interactions. He brushes a damp strand of hair out of your face, his touch remarkably gentle.
“Garrett is going to kill me,” Logan says quietly, the words lacking their usual terror.
You let out a soft, tired laugh, running your hands through his messy hair. “Yeah. He really is.”
“It’s worth it,” Logan says, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “For the record. I would let him kill me a thousand times if it meant I got to do this again.”
Your heart does a painful, stuttering flip in your chest. You look up at him, seeing the utter sincerity in his eyes. He isn’t joking. He isn’t deflecting with acronyms.
“Me too,” you whisper.
Logan smiles, a devastatingly soft expression that completely alters his face. He rolls off you gently, reaching down to grab his hoodie.
“Come on,” he says, pulling the hoodie over his head before handing you your damp jacket. “Let’s get you back to your dorm before you catch pneumonia. SVD. Safe Vehicle Drop-off.”
“You’re an idiot,” you laugh, sitting up and starting to re-dress.
“Yeah,” Logan agrees, watching you with an expression you can’t quite place. “I am.”
summary: Three months ago, you and Logan quietly became something. You forgot to tell anyone. That was fine, it was yours, and you liked it that way. Then you found out your friends had started a betting pool on when you'd finally get together, and suddenly keeping the secret became a lot more fun.
or: four times someone almost caught you, and one time someone did.
notes: hii i'm back!! okay so this one is a little different from my usual so no angst, no parking lot confessions, no rain. also this pic of antonio is just so boyfriend that i had to write something. thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think!!
warnings: swearing, implied intimacy, a missing bra, hannah being a terrible secret keeper and fluff.
word count: 6k
You and Hannah were not often scheduled to work the same shift at Malone's, for the simple reason that you two were dangerously prone to a severe case of the giggles that management had clocked early and worked around. But today was different, another server had called in sick and your manager had called you in a tone that left very little room for negotiation. You said yes, of course. You always said yes.
Arriving, you spotted Hannah immediately, weaving between tables with three plates balanced on her arm. You passed her on your way to the staff locker room and gave her arm a quick squeeze. She grinned at you over her shoulder.
The lunch rush was the particular kind of brutal that didn't leave room for anything except moving, table to table, order to order, the focused blur of a busy service. By the time it slowed down your feet ached and your ponytail had developed a life of its own.
Hannah found you at the counter, mechanically polishing glasses.
"So busy we couldn't even talk today," she said, sliding in beside you and stealing a glass to polish.
"It was genuinely awful," you agreed. "My feet are going to file a formal complaint."
Hannah laughed. And then the door opened.
Logan, Garrett, Tucker, and Dean came in with the energy of people who had just finished practice and were extremely confident about their right to exist in any space they chose. Garrett made a beeline for Hannah with the focused intention of a man who had one priority. Behind him, Logan drifted toward the counter, casually, like he just happened to end up there, and leaned against it, watching you serve a customer with an expression that was doing nothing for your professional composure.
You almost dropped the bag the customer was reaching for.
"Hi, Logan." You kept your voice completely neutral. "Do you mind not staring at me? I'm working, you know."
He laughed, low and unhurried. "No, I don't think I can manage that."
"You could try."
"Not when you look this pretty."
"This pretty?" You gestured at yourself. "My hair is dirty and I didn't even have time to put on makeup."
"Still the prettiest," he said, and winked, and wandered back to the table where his friends had settled in like they owned the place.
You looked back at the counter. The glass you had been polishing was now somehow less clean than when you started.
Hannah had materialized at your elbow with the expression of someone watching something inevitable unfold.
"When," she said reverently, "are you two just going to date like normal people?" She sighed. "I hope it's soon. I kind of want to win that betting pool Tucker made."
You put the glass down. "What betting pool?"
Hannah's expression cycled through several things in rapid succession.
"No betting pool," she said. "I meant a real pool. Tucker said something about you guys and a real pool. Can't think of what it actually was. Because it was so long ago."
You looked at her.
"Hannah Marie Wells."
"That's not my middle name."
"Tell me the truth right now."
She looked left. She looked right. She found no exits. She exhaled.
"All right. Tucker organized a bet where everyone has to guess when you two will finally become a couple. I said three weeks from the day the bet was made, which is actually — tomorrow — so if you two could maybe just —"
"I cannot believe you guys would bet on something like that." You shook your head. "Actually, I can believe them. But you, Hannah. I expected better."
"Allie too," Hannah offered, as though this was helpful.
"What does the winner get?"
"Pride and glory. Also we each put in twenty dollars."
You set down the glass and made a direct line for the boys' table. Logan spotted you coming and started to smile, that smile, the one that was specifically for you.
"Logan," you said pleasantly, "can you help me with something? The door on one of the staff lockers is jammed. Do you mind taking a look? Your bill will be on the house if you fix it."
He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, sure." He pushed back from the table, nodded to the others, and followed you toward the back.
Dean watched you go with an expression of mild suspicion. Tucker didn't look up from his menu.
The staff locker room smelled like industrial cleaner and someone's forgotten lunch, which was not exactly the atmosphere you would have chosen, but it would do.
"So where's the door?" Logan said, looking around.
"There's no door."
He turned. "What?"
"There's no door. I needed to get you alone." You crossed your arms. "Your friends are running a betting pool on us."
"What do you mean there's no door?" He looked genuinely betrayed by the architecture. Then: "And they're your friends too."
"Not when they're betting on us. There's no door, Logan, I made it up. Focus."
He laughed and crossed the small room toward you, his hands finding your waist and pulling you in with the unhurried ease of someone who had been doing it for a while, not long enough that it felt ordinary, long enough that it felt inevitable.
"It's not a big deal, you know," he said. "The bet. They're just nosy."
"I know." He was very close, which made it difficult to maintain the appropriate level of outrage. You found yourself pressing small kisses to his lips almost without deciding to, punctuating your words between them. "I just — don't want — to make it — a whole thing yet."
Logan pulled back far enough to look at you properly.
"Yeah?" he said. Not pushing. Just asking.
"It's ours," you said, which came out simpler and more honest than you had intended. "For a little while longer. I just want it to be ours."
Something in his expression settled, warm and unhurried, the specific look of someone who understood completely and wasn't going anywhere.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay?"
"Yeah." He tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. "Okay."
You pulled him in by the front of his shirt and kissed him properly this time, the locker room and the betting pool and Hannah's guilty face all receding into irrelevance.
Logan pulled back.
"Wait," he said. "So no bill on the house, then?"
one — tucker
The thing about Logan's shirts was that they were extremely comfortable.
This was not a controversial observation. They were soft and worn-in and smelled like him which was a feature rather than a bug on cold Sunday mornings when getting dressed felt like an unnecessary commitment.
You had not planned to be at the house on a Sunday morning. You had planned to be at your own place, in your own bed, wearing your own clothes, like a person who had their life together. What had actually happened was that Saturday night had turned into Sunday morning in the way that it sometimes did around Logan, and now it was nine-fifteen and you were in his kitchen in his grey shirt making coffee while he was still asleep upstairs.
Which was fine. Which was completely normal and fine.
The house was quiet. Tucker's door had been closed when you passed it. Dean and Garrett weren't home, Logan had said. You were alone with the coffee machine and a comfortable Sunday silence and absolutely no reason to think anyone was going to come downstairs for at least another hour.
You had just found the good mugs when you heard footsteps on the stairs.
Tucker appeared in the kitchen doorway in a hoodie and the expression of someone who had not yet fully committed to being awake. He was looking at his phone. He walked to the refrigerator. He opened it. He stared into it with the vacant focus of someone hoping food would appear through willpower alone.
Then he turned around and saw you.
The silence that followed had a very specific quality.
Tucker looked at you. He looked at the shirt. He looked at the coffee you were making, looked at the two mugs, and something moved across his face that went through approximately six stages before landing on stunned comprehension.
"Hey," you said, with the casual energy of someone who was not wearing their boyfriend's shirt in his kitchen on a Sunday morning. "Coffee?"
Tucker opened his mouth.
"I stayed over," you said pleasantly. "The couch is really comfortable actually."
Tucker looked at the shirt. He looked at the mugs. He looked at the shirt again.
"...Right," he said slowly.
"He let me borrow this because my top had a thing. A stain. From last night." You gestured vaguely. "Very embarrassing, actually. Pasta related."
Tucker was still looking at the mugs.
You picked up both mugs, tucked them against your chest in what you hoped was a casual gesture rather than an incriminating one, and smiled at him.
"I'm just going to bring this up," you said. "You should have some. There's plenty."
You walked past him and up the stairs before he could say anything else.
Logan was sitting up in bed when you came back, hair doing something architecturally ambitious, squinting at the light.
"Tucker's awake," you said, handing him his coffee and sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed.
Logan processed this. "And?"
"And I told him I slept on the couch because my shirt had a pasta stain."
Logan looked at you for a long moment.
"Did he believe you?"
"Absolutely not," you said cheerfully, and drank your coffee.
Downstairs, Tucker stood in the kitchen for another full minute. Then he took out his phone.
tucker: i just saw (Y/N) in the kitchen wearing logan's shirt
tucker: making TWO coffees
tucker: and she said she slept on the couch because of a pasta stain
dean: WHAT
garrett: what
tucker: I THINK I JUST WON THE BET
hannah: you didn't win the bet tucker. it was clearly just a pasta stain situation
tucker: HANNAH
allie: omg omg omg
tucker: do i win?? does the pasta stain story count as them getting together???
dean: i don't think pasta counts as confirmation tucker
tucker: I WILL NEVER FINANCIALLY RECOVER FROM THIS
two — hannah
The thing about Malone's on a Friday night was that it had exactly one staff bathroom and one customer bathroom, and the customer bathroom had been out of order since Wednesday, which meant that the staff bathroom had become public property by necessity, which meant the line for it snaked along the back wall and required a wait time that was genuinely unreasonable.
You had been waiting for four minutes when you remembered that you knew where the staff entrance was.
The staff hallway was quiet and dim, the sounds of the bar muffled behind the door. You had worked here long enough to know the code, and the bathroom was unlocked, and you were inside and washing your hands within ninety seconds, feeling extremely smug about the whole thing.
You were just reaching for a paper towel when the door opened.
Logan slipped inside, pulling the door shut behind him, and looked at you with the expression of someone who had just made the same efficient calculation.
"Oh," he said. "You had the same idea."
"Staff entrance," you confirmed.
"Smart."
"I know."
He crossed to the sink beside yours and turned on the tap, and for a moment you were just two people washing their hands in a small staff bathroom, which was either extremely romantic or extremely unromantic depending on how you looked at it. His shoulder was warm against yours in the small space. You handed him a paper towel.
"Tucker's texts have been unhinged this week," you said.
"The pasta shirt thing really broke him," Logan agreed, the corner of his mouth lifting.
"He texted me three times yesterday asking if I wanted to talk about my feelings."
Logan laughed. You loved the sound of it in small spaces, the way it filled them. You turned toward him and he turned toward you and you were very close, and he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear with the absent, habitual tenderness of someone who had been doing it long enough that he didn't think about it anymore, and you went up on your toes and kissed him quickly.
"Separate," you said against his mouth. "We should go back separately."
"Separate," he agreed, not moving.
You kissed him again, less quickly this time, his hands finding your waist, the paper towel entirely abandoned.
The door opened.
Hannah stood in the doorway.
The three of you looked at each other.
"The customer bathroom is out of order," Hannah said, very carefully, "so I used the staff code."
"Same," you said. You and Logan had separated with the practiced efficiency of people who had been interrupted before. "Just washing our hands."
"Both of you."
"It's a two sink bathroom," Logan said.
Hannah looked at the two of you. She looked at the very small bathroom. She looked at the single paper towel that was inexplicably on the floor.
"Right," she said. "Of course. I'll just —" she pointed at the toilet. "I'll just use this."
"We were just leaving," you said.
You and Logan filed past her. You did not look at each other in the hallway.
Behind you, you heard Hannah take out her phone.
hannah: ok so i just walked into the staff bathroom at malone's and (Y/N) and logan were BOTH in there
allie: WHAT
tucker: I TOLD YOU ABOUT THE PASTA SHIRT
hannah: they said they were just washing their hands
dean: both of them. in the staff bathroom. together.
hannah: there were two sinks
garrett: hannah
hannah: i mean it's a completely reasonable explanation!!
tucker: HANNAH YOU ARE LITERALLY DATING GARRETT YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS
hannah: i mean. yes. but also. two sinks.
allie: hannah i love you but two sinks is not an explanation
hannah: i just think we should give them the benefit of the doubt!!
tucker: hannah you literally have twenty dollars on this
hannah: ...i said three weeks
hannah: from a month ago
hannah: i may have already lost
three — allie
Allie considered herself an observant person.
This was not arrogance, it was simply a fact, documented over years of being the person in any given group who noticed things. Who left early. Who had argued with whom. Who liked whom. The small social architecture of any room was, to Allie, essentially readable at a glance.
Which was why she could not understand why no one else was seeing what she was seeing.
It was a random week night, the kind that had somehow evolved from a study session into a full group hangout without anyone formally announcing it, and now there were seven of them spread across the living room , Logan and Dean on the floor with Tucker's terrible taste in television providing background noise, Garrett and Hannah on the armchair that was technically too small for two people but they had been making work for months, and you and Allie on the big couch with your respective laptops.
Normal. Fine. A completely normal Tuesday.
Except.
Allie had been reaching for her water bottle when she saw it.
Logan had said something to Tucker, something quiet, barely audible over the television, and Tucker had responded, and then Logan had looked across the room at you. Just looked. For maybe two seconds.
And you had looked back.
It wasn't a loaded look, exactly. It wasn't the dramatic eye contact of a romantic comedy. It was quieter than that, it was the almost imperceptible look of two people who were sharing a private thought from across a room. Easy. Habitual. Like a conversation conducted entirely without words by people who had been having it for a long time.
Allie's water bottle missed the table entirely.
"You okay?" you asked, looking at her.
"Fine," Allie said. "Totally fine."
She looked at Logan. He had gone back to whatever Tucker was saying. Completely normal. Nothing to see.
Allie looked back at you. You were typing something on your laptop. Also completely normal.
I saw that, Allie thought. I absolutely saw that.
She leaned over to you. "Hey," she said, very casually. "What was that?"
You looked up from your laptop. "What was what?"
"That —" she gestured vaguely between you and Logan. "That look."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You and Logan just —" she did the gesture again, which in retrospect was not a very descriptive gesture.
"Allie," you said pleasantly, "I genuinely don't know what you're referring to."
You went back to your laptop. Allie stared at the side of your head.
I saw it, she thought. I definitely saw it.
She turned to the room. She needed a witness.
"Dean," she said.
Dean looked up from the floor. "What."
"Did you just see —" she started. But Dean had already looked back at the television. Tucker was saying something about the episode. Logan was responding. You were typing. Nothing was happening. The moment was completely gone, absorbed back into the ordinary texture of a Tuesday night, leaving absolutely no evidence.
Allie sat back on the couch.
I know what I saw, she thought.
Twenty minutes passed.
And then Logan got up to refill his water bottle in the kitchen, and on his way back he passed the couch, and his hand dropped briefly to your shoulder, barely a touch, a graze really, the kind that lasted less than a second and you didn't even look up from your laptop, just tilted your head toward it slightly, like a plant toward light, like the most natural thing in the world.
Allie's laptop slid off her knees.
"I SAW THAT," she said.
Everyone looked at her.
"Saw what?" Tucker said.
"Logan's hand — and her shoulder — they just —" she pointed. Logan was back on the floor. You were looking at Allie with an expression of polite confusion. "He touched her shoulder and she —"
"Are you okay?" Dean said.
"I'm fine, I just —" Allie looked around the room. Six faces looked back at her with varying degrees of concern. "Did anyone else see that?"
"See what?" Logan said.
"You touched her shoulder," Allie said, pointing at him.
"I was just walking past," Logan said.
"She leaned into it!"
"I have a stiff neck," you said.
"YOU HAVE A STIFF —" Allie stopped. Took a breath. "I know what I saw," she said, with dignity.
"Allie," Dean said carefully. "Have you had enough water today?"
"I've had plenty of water, Dean, I'm not —"
"Sometimes dehydration causes —"
"I am not dehydrated!" Allie said. "I know what I saw and what I saw was —" she looked at you. You were looking back at her with an expression of patient concern. She looked at Logan. He was also looking at her with patient concern. Both of you at the same time, with the same expression. "— you know what, never mind," she said. "Never mind. I'm fine."
She picked up her laptop.
Across the room, completely undetected, Logan looked at you.
You looked back.
The corner of your mouth moved. His did too.
Allie, who had her eyes fixed resolutely on her screen, did not see this.
She was choosing not to look anymore. For her own mental health.
allie: OKAY SO
allie: I JUST SAW SOMETHING
tucker: WHAT
allie: logan touched (Y/N)'s shoulder while walking past and she LEANED INTO IT
allie: and before that there was A LOOK
dean: allie we were all in the same room
allie: YOU WEREN'T PAYING ATTENTION DEAN
hannah: what kind of look
allie: the kind that MEANS SOMETHING
garrett: i mean they're friends
allie: garrett
garrett: what
allie: i love you but you have the observational skills of a golden retriever
garrett: ...fair
tucker: ALLIE YOU MIGHT HAVE JUST WON THE BET
allie: i can't win on a shoulder touch and a look tucker i need more evidence
tucker: THE PASTA SHIRT WAS EVIDENCE
allie: the pasta shirt was circumstantial
dean: none of us are going to win this bet are we
three and a half — garrett
It was a Wednesday afternoon, the house quiet in the way it got between practice and evening, and you had let yourself in with the key Logan had given you two weeks ago, casually, like it was nothing, tucked it into your palm and gone back to whatever he had been saying, and you had put it on your keychain without making a thing of it either.
You were in the kitchen making tea when Garrett came downstairs.
He was in sweats, hair still damp from the shower, moving with the unhurried ease of someone with nowhere to be. He went to the refrigerator, opened it, considered it, closed it. Then he leaned against the counter across from you and looked at the mug situation with the mild, unreadable expression that was, you had come to understand, just his face.
"Logan's still at the rink," he said. "Film session ran over."
"I know," you said. "He texted."
Garrett nodded. He picked up an apple from the fruit bowl. He looked at it. He looked at you.
"You should tell him about the Boston thing," he said.
You looked up. "What?"
"The conference. The one your professor forwarded you." He bit into the apple with the casual certainty of someone stating something obvious. "You've been sitting on it for two weeks. You should just tell him."
You stared at him.
The Boston conference was something you had mentioned exactly once, in passing, weeks ago, in the middle of a conversation about something else entirely. You had said three sentences about it and then moved on. You had not mentioned it since. You had not mentioned it to Logan because you hadn't figured out how yet because Boston was four days in February and it was a good opportunity and you didn't know what it meant for the thing that was still, technically, just yours.
"How did you —" you started.
Garrett shrugged. "You got quiet when someone mentioned February plans at dinner last week." He took another bite of the apple. "Logan noticed too. He just didn't want to push."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"He'll be fine with it," Garrett said, simply, like that was the part you needed to hear. "He's not going anywhere." He pushed off the counter and headed toward the living room. "Tell him about Boston."
He disappeared around the corner.
You stood in the kitchen holding your mug, looking at the space he had just occupied.
You had not told anyone about Boston. You had not told Hannah, who told you everything. You had not told Allie, who noticed everything. You had mentioned it once, in passing, and Garrett who had the observational skills of a golden retriever, according to Allie, according to everyone had filed it away and waited until you were alone to say the thing you needed to hear.
You looked down at your mug.
Then you took out your phone and texted Logan.
can we talk tonight? nothing bad. just something i've been sitting on.
His response came back in under a minute.
yeah. i'll bring food. what do you want?
You smiled at your phone in the empty kitchen.
surprise me.
four — dean
You weren't really supposed to be there.
You had come over earlier in the afternoon with the genuine intention of spending a couple of hours with Logan and then going home like a responsible person. What had actually happened was that Logan had been very convincing about the staying part convincing in the specific way that involved kissing you before you could finish your sentence and pulling you back against the mattress until leaving felt like a genuinely unreasonable idea.
So now it was late, and you were sprawled across his bed while he kissed your neck, his hands finding the hem of your shirt and pulling it over your head.
"I missed them," he said, with complete sincerity, cupping your chest in both hands, unclasping your bra with an easiness that frankly made you jealous.
You giggled and pushed his shoulders. "You idiot."
He kissed you again slow and soft, his tongue lazy against yours, the unhurried quality of someone with absolutely nowhere to be. You were certainly not going home now. You reached up and pulled his shirt over his head, and your fingers found a purple mark spreading across his stomach.
"What's this?" you said, tracing it gently.
"Practice got tough."
"Oh, my poor baby." You shifted, pressing a line of soft kisses across his stomach. You felt him shiver underneath you. "My poor, poor baby —"
The knock on the door made you both freeze.
"Logan?" Dean's voice, from the other side. Another knock. The sound of the handle being tried. "You in there, man?"
You and Logan looked at each other with the wide-eyed, frantic energy of two people who had absolutely no good explanation for the current state of the room.
Logan started moving toward the door.
"No," you whisper-screamed.
"Hide," he said, at the same volume.
"Where?"
You looked around the room in rapid, increasingly desperate assessment. The bathroom — no, what if Dean needed it. The wardrobe what if Logan opened it. The only viable option was under the bed, the duvet long enough to reach the floor and conceal the gap completely.
You rolled off the mattress and slid underneath it in one graceless motion. You heard Logan muffle a laugh by converting it unconvincingly into a cough. In your frantic scramble you had grabbed your shirt, clutched against your chest, but your bra was somewhere out there discarded, incriminating, absolutely in the middle of the room.
Fuck, you thought.
Logan opened the door.
Dean walked in. There was a brief silence of the kind that meant someone had immediately spotted something they were not expecting to see. From your position on the floor you had a very clear view of Dean's socks stopping in the middle of the room.
Then not moving.
You watched Dean's socks stand very still for approximately eight seconds.
"I need to borrow your charger," Dean said.
His voice was extremely, carefully normal. The voice of a man making a decision in real time.
Logan turned and retrieved the charger from the bedside table. "Here."
A pause. Dean's socks did not move.
"Leave, Dean," Logan said.
Another pause.
Dean's socks backed slowly toward the door.
He stood in the hallway for a moment, you could hear him through the door, just standing there, processing, and then his footsteps retreated down the hall. You waited until you heard his door close before sliding out from under the bed, pulling your shirt back on and looking at Logan, who was leaning against the wall with his hand over his mouth doing an extremely poor job of not laughing.
"Your bra," he managed.
"I know."
"It was just — right there —"
"I know, Logan."
He was fully laughing now, silent and shaking, and you threw a pillow at him, which did nothing to help.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
dean: dude…
logan: say nothing
You watched him type it, one eyebrow raised. His phone buzzed back almost immediately.
dean: i have twenty dollars on the line
logan: dean
dean: i'm just saying
logan: goodnight dean
dean: does tucker know
logan: GOODNIGHT DEAN
Logan put his phone down. You looked at him. He looked at you.
"He's not going to say anything," Logan said, with the confidence of a man who was not entirely sure of this.
His phone buzzed again.
dean: for what it's worth i called it from the beginning
Logan turned his phone face down.
You looked at him for a moment longer.
Then you retrieved your bra from the corner of the room where it had been sitting like evidence at a crime scene, and you got back into bed, and Logan pulled you against him with the easy, unhurried certainty of someone who had won the argument about staying a long time ago.
Down the hall, Dean lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, charger plugged in, feeling extremely vindicated about everything.
He did not tell Tucker.
He did not tell Garrett.
He did not tell Allie, who sent him three texts the following morning about the shoulder touch that he left on read.
He did not tell Hannah, which was the hardest one, because Hannah asked him directly at breakfast if he had noticed anything and Dean had looked her in the eye and said no.
He was, he decided, a good friend.
He was also, he decided, definitely going to win that bet.
five — garrett
The hit happened in the second period.
It wasn't malicious, just the particular physics of two large bodies in a confined space moving fast, the kind of collision that happened in every game, that everyone who had ever watched hockey understood to be part of it. Logan went into the boards hard and stayed down for a moment longer than usual, and the arena went quiet in a collective way that meant everyone was holding the same breath.
You were on your feet before you had decided to stand up.
He was moving. He was getting up, slowly, with assistance from a teammate, skating to the bench under his own power. The arena exhaled. You sat back down.
Your heart was doing something extremely inconvenient.
"You okay?" Hannah said, from your other side.
"Fine," you said. "Totally fine."
She looked at you for a moment. You looked at the ice.
Logan was on the bench. The trainer was with him. He was talking, responding, doing all the things that meant he was okay, and you sat in the stands and watched with the stillness of someone who was doing a very good impression of a person who was just watching a hockey game and not mentally composing hospital directions.
He came back in the third period.
You exhaled properly for the first time in forty minutes.
After the game the group filtered down to the corridor outside the locker room the way they always did. You went because you always went, because it was a group thing, because it meant nothing in particular.
The players came out in ones and twos. Garrett first, immediately absorbed by Hannah. Tucker departing with a couple of the other guys. Dean getting into a conversation with someone near the exit.
Logan came out last.
He had a bruise forming along his jaw and he was walking with the slightly careful gait of someone who had taken a hit, and when he saw you he smiled, that specific smile, the one that was yours, and something in your chest did the thing it always did, except louder tonight, turned up by forty minutes of sitting in the stands holding your breath.
You crossed the corridor and hugged him, which was normal, everyone hugged after games, that was a completely normal thing to do.
Except then you pulled back and looked at him, at the bruise, at the careful way he was holding himself, and you said his name, quietly, in the way that was only for him, and he looked back at you in the way that was only for you, and the thing you had been keeping quietly for months was right there at the surface, obvious and warm and entirely done being kept.
You kissed him.
Not a quick kiss. Not an ambiguous one. A real one, his hand coming up to your jaw, yours finding the front of his jacket, the kind that had three months of ordinary Tuesday nights and Sunday mornings and staff bathroom detours in it.
The corridor went quiet.
You pulled back.
The group was looking at you.
Tucker's mouth was open.
Garrett had an expression cycling through several things very quickly , and then it landed on something that looked, more than anything, like quiet relief. Like someone who had been waiting for a particular thing to resolve and was glad it finally had.
Hannah was smiling in the particular way of someone who had known something for a while and was very glad to finally be allowed to show it.
Dean looked, more than anything, deeply smug.
"Wait," Tucker said. "Are you two — have you been —"
"Three months," Logan said, still looking at you, the corner of his mouth doing the thing.
"THREE MONTHS?"
"We forgot to mention it," you said.
"YOU FORGOT TO —"
"Tucker," Logan said.
"I HAD TWENTY DOLLARS ON THIS." Tucker pointed at you both. "I HAD — the pasta shirt! I KNEW about the pasta shirt! Does the pasta shirt count? When was the pasta shirt? If the pasta shirt counts then I —"
"Who won?" Allie said. "Technically who —"
Everyone looked at each other. A rapid, chaotic calculation passed through the group.
"Garrett," Hannah said slowly. "Garrett said —"
"After a game," Garrett said, with the equanimity of someone who had never been particularly worried about it. "I said after a game."
"You said after a game," Dean confirmed.
Tucker made a sound that had no letters in it.
"So Garrett wins?" Allie said.
"Garrett wins," Hannah confirmed, and immediately turned to Garrett with an expression of pure delight. "You won, baby."
Garrett looked at Logan. Logan looked back at him.
"You've been together for three months," Garrett said.
"About that," Logan confirmed.
"And you didn't tell anyone."
"We wanted to keep it for a while," you said, which was the simplest and most accurate version of it. "It was ours. We just wanted it to be ours for a bit."
Garrett looked at you for a moment. Something in his expression was entirely unsurprised. He nodded once, like a thing confirmed, and then looked at Logan with the small, easy smile of someone who had never doubted the outcome.
"Okay," he said. "Good."
Tucker pointed at both of you. "I want my twenty dollars back."
"You didn't win," Dean said.
"I KNEW ABOUT THE PASTA SHIRT."
"Tucker —"
"THE PASTA SHIRT WAS EVIDENCE AND NO ONE LISTENED TO ME —"
Logan looked at you. You looked back at him.
"Worth it?" he said quietly.
You looked at Tucker, who was now gesturing with both hands. You looked at Allie, who was consoling him with the resigned energy of someone who had expected this outcome. You looked at Hannah, who was collecting twenty dollars from Dean with the serene satisfaction of a person who had always known. You looked at Garrett, who was watching all of it with the calm, unhurried expression of a man who had called it months ago in a quiet kitchen on a Wednesday afternoon and had simply waited.
"Completely worth it," you said.
Logan kissed your temple.
Tucker made the sound with no letters in it again.
tucker: I WANT IT ON THE RECORD THAT I KNEW
tucker: THE PASTA SHIRT WAS REAL EVIDENCE
tucker: I CALLED IT FROM DAY ONE
dean: garrett won tucker
tucker: GARRETT WASNT EVEN PAYING ATTENTION
garrett: i was paying attention
tucker: YOU HAVE THE OBSERVATIONAL SKILLS OF A GOLDEN RETRIEVER
garrett: allie said that first
allie: it's true both times
allie: okay fine. garrett wins. i respect it.
tucker: I DO NOT RESPECT IT
tucker: TWENTY DOLLARS. GONE.
garrett: worth every penny honestly
allie: okay fine it was very cute
allie: i still saw the look though
allie: i want that acknowledged
dean: acknowledged allie
allie: thank you
tucker: I WILL NEVER FINANCIALLY RECOVER FROM THIS
You found out pretty soon into your college career that happy hour at Malone’s only ended in two different ways for you.
Outcome one was like everyone else’s—have way too many drinks and spill a few too many secrets all while dancing like no one was watching. Sure, you probably misplaced your purse a while ago and the next morning you’d wake up with a killer hangover, but that was a future-you issue.
Outcome two was more pitiful. You likely had something important to do in the morning, so you decided against drinking, meaning your butt was glued to the booth that you shared with your best friend as he made googly eyes at the waitress.
It was nights like these that made you want to rip your heart out of your chest and stomp on it. That would hurt less than this.
“You know staring at her any harder won’t magically make her a mind reader, right?”
His eyes flickered back over to you with some poor attempt at confusion. “Who?”
“John Logan, do not play stupid with me, your smarts is the only thing you have going for you.”
A laugh escaped the boy, his lips spreading across his cheeks in a way that made your heart flutter. “Gee thanks, tell me what you really think.”
You attempted to mirror his actions, letting a similar smile find you that never truly reached your eyes. “If I told you what I really think, you’d be running for the hills.”
“Give me some credit,” he replied, bumping his shoulder into yours. “If I wanted to run, I would’ve done it ages ago.”
It was like something was tethering you to him wherever he touched you, urging you to seek him out. As he bumped his shoulder into yours, you leaned into it, smiling as the two of you met in the middle.
“I’ll hold you to it,” you smiled.
“Oh, I know you will.”
For that small bit of time as the music continued on and the world spun around the two of you, you were able to forget and play pretend just for a bit. Pretend that the way he leaned into your touch meant something more. Pretend that he also felt something every time your eyes would cross.
You could even imagine a world where you got over yourself and admitted everything that has sat on your chest since what felt like the beginning of time.
“Hey guys, welcome to Malone’s, I’m Hannah. What can I get started for you today.”
And in a flash, the moment would slip away to the nothingness you were dealt with as John sat up in his seat, leaning forward so his eyes were centered on her.
You felt it as that dagger in your chest twisted itself as you watched his eyes light up at the sight of her. Your eyes trailed over him observing the way his smile grew shy and how seemed to be fiddling with his hands as he talked to her.
Flicking your eyes up to Hannah, you could feel the way your heart sank. Some deep, selfish part of you wanted nothing more than to hate the girl. If you hated her, then maybe you’d find some weird twisted vindication for the way it all made you feel.
But you couldn’t bring yourself to hate her.
In turn, all you were left with were these cruel comparisons that lingered in your mind. How she seemed to carry herself with this assurance—like she knew exactly what she was going to do and nothing would get in her way. How she seemed to make people laugh without even trying. Even how she looked so effortlessly beautiful even after working the fifth hour of her nighttime shift.
It made you feel rather dull in comparison.
“And for you?”
You blinked back to attention, realizing both of their eyes were on you. “Oh um…just water please.” Your smile felt weak, reminding you that you’d be happier watching some rom-com back at your dorm instead of putting yourself through this hell.
“Y’sure you don’t want anything else,” John asked, his brow quirking up at you curiously.
You nodded, pulling your arms under the table and squeezing them together as you shoulders pulled in. “Yeah. I’m not all that hungry if I’m being honest.”
“Alright then,” Hannah smiled. “Just let me know if you change your mind, everything should be out shortly.”
Once she left the table, you remained silent. Your eyes swept across the room, seeing the live band playing from the front and the crowd forming around them, but you weren’t really watching them.
You kind of drifted off, staring aimlessly ahead of you as your thoughts and frustrations swirled heavily in your chest.
Then you felt the warmth that wrapped around your hand, threading between your fingers and holding you carefully. “Hey, you okay?”
And like a boulder being pushed back up the hill again, you felt the spiking of your heartbeat as you looked over to see John looking at you with concern. His brows pinched together in a way that made you want to cup his face and smooth over his frown lines.
You tried your best to push out the best ‘yeah!’ and inwardly cringed as it sounded to bright and chipper.
He squeezed your hand, bringing it to the table as he leaned in, tilting his head to you inquisitively. “You’re a terrible liar, y’know?”
You scoffed and smiled lightly. “Says you.”
John let out a drawn out hum. “Well now your deflecting.”
“Nothing gets past you, huh?”
A beat of silence passed over the two of you for just a moment as he his eyes scanned over your face carefully, a small frown taking his lips.
“Talk to me.” His tone was deeper now, softer as he lowered his voice just for you. “You always have.”
You couldn’t bring yourself to say anything at first, just staring back at him with a melancholic admiration. He could always read you. He knew it, his friends knew it, and you knew it all too well.
It swirled all too many feelings in your chest every time you were presented with that fact. Your heart bleeding at the thought that no one on this earth knew you better than him. Then it froze over with fear at the idea that one look too long would send him into the realization that you are hopelessly in love with him. And of course, it all shattered in hurt as you were forced to realize that he didn’t know.
He didn’t know the biggest, all-encompassing secret that kept you up into the long hours of the night and prevented you from being alone and drunk with out of the fear of spilling everything.
It made you wonder how much he truly knew you, and how much you fabricated in your head to cope with the fact that he wasn’t yours and probably never will be.
“I know,” you smiled convincingly enough, squeezing his hand back. “I’m just a little tired. It’s been a long week.”
You felt as his hand untangled itself from yours as he lifted his pinky up to you. “Promise?”
A short moment passed as you blinked at his finger. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you smiled and interlocked your pinky with his. “Promise.”
“Alright, guys. I’ve got two waters, an order of burgers and fries, and an extra fry.”
And just like that his gaze was back on her. “Thank you, Hannah.”
“Of course,” she smiled, throwing her hands up on her hips. “Did you guys want anything else?”
You only shook your head and smiled halfheartedly. “No, that’ll be all.”
“Great! If you need anything else, I’m Hannah!”
At first you watched as she walked away, then you let your eyes drift back to John where he had just the similar thought.
You bit your lip in thought, deeply mulling over the words that you knew you’d come to regret.
“You should talk to her…outside of here I mean.”
He whipped his head around to face you, his brows knitting back down in a form of confusion. “What,” he laughed. “No, I couldn’t.”
“Why not,” you joked, bumping your shoulder into his again. “If you stare at her longingly like that any longer then you’ll just look like a creep.”
His mouth fell open and shut as he searched for his words—or excuses. “I’m not her type—she doesn’t even like hockey guys.”
You nodded skeptically. “And how do you know that?”
He responded with a wince, his face contorting into a cringe as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I may or may not have overheard her telling her friend about it the other day at the counter.”
This time, it was your turn to laugh as your mouth fell open in disbelief. “Oh my god, you are a creep. I take it back, maybe you shouldn’t talk to her.”
“I’m not a creep,” he scoffed, hiding his smile. “It was an accident. I meant to talk to her, I just…froze up I guess.”
You could’ve teased him for it, but you didn’t. Instead you met him with sincerity. “You gotta take your chance at some point. Before someone swoops in and takes that chance before you. Then you’ll sit there regretting every action you didn’t take.”
You looked at him absentmindedly, not meaning it to come off as profound advice, but when you met his eyes again, they were back on you in a way that made your eyes widen a bit.
“Woah,” he commented half jokingly. “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”
You rolled your eyes, snagging a fry from his basket. “Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy.”
John hummed and rolled his eyes. “Can’t go a moment without saying something sarcastic, can you?”
You grinned. “Nope. I’d die without it.”
He smiled again, making your heart sparkle once more.
“Here,” he replied, pushing his extra basket of fries in your direction. “That’s for you.”
“What? I didn’t order any.”
“I know,” he murmured. “But you always say you’re not hungry before eating half my fries. Can’t have you going hungry on me.”
You looked at the basket, hand hovering over it before flitting your eyes back up to him.
“…thank you…”
“Of course. What are friends for?”
[2]
You were 15 when you met John Logan—the guarded yet kind boy that ended up being your partner for the class project. From then on, the two of you were practically attached at the hip.
He was there for you at every bad day and rough moment and you were there whenever his world became too much.
The two of you balanced out the chaotic lives you lived and over those years, you learned a few things about him.
You knew that he had the tendency to bite his tongue, never wanting to step on someone else’s toes unless he pushed to his limit. You knew he was especially hard on himself because no one else was; because if he wasn’t he’d have to face the reality of losing everything he worked hard to build. You also knew that if he didn’t want to be found, he knew just how to make himself sparse.
The past few days had been fine, the both of you focusing on your respective schedules and finding time for each other in between, but then out of nowhere, it was radio silent from him.
You let it go on for a day, giving him the time to breathe because you knew he likely needed it if he was avoiding you, but after that you decided you should find him. And you knew exactly where to find him.
With a zip, you closed up your hoodie as you walked into the doors of the skating rink. Sure enough, he was right where you expected him to be: pushing himself beyond his limit as an excuse to get his mind off is life.
Wordlessly, you sat there and watched him as he paced back and forth on the ice, smacking the pucks aggressively into the goals. You didn’t flinch or react as the sound echoed through the room, only kept your eyes trained on him as he finally slowed to a stop and skated in your direction.
“Hey stranger,” you called once he was close enough. “Y’wanna talk about it?”
His breath was shallow as he looked at you through the metal of his helmet. You could see the sweat dripping off him as he shook his head. “It’s nothing.”
“Okay then,” you replied coolly, nodding before holding up a pair of skates for him to see. “Can I join you?”
He looked at you with a sense of disbelief. “You wanna do drills with me?”
You shrugged. “I don’t wanna play. I wanna skate. It’ll be kinda hard though with a big angry hockey player smacking his shit around on the ice.”
After a beat of contemplation from him, a small victorious smile slipped onto your lips as you saw his shoulders slump in defeat. “For old times sake Johnny.”
The boy lost the helmet and stick by time you slipped your skates onto your feet and made your way on the ice.
You didn’t wait for him as you kicked off, skating a jogging pace around the ice. You didn’t need to look back to know what he was already slowly catching up to you before finding his pace right next to you.
At first, the two of you skated in silence. Only the noise of the blades meeting the ice could be heard. Then he broke the silence.
“Garrett and Hannah got together.”
His words were blunt and spit out—you almost missed them. But when they eventually caught up to your ears, you came to a sudden stop, John stopping and turning around just a few feet ahead of you.
“What?”
He shook his head. “I really don’t wanna repeat it.”
Apart of you wanted to be gleeful. That recurring selfishness that wanted nothing more than to let Hannah be out the picture. But then you saw that hurt and frustration covering his face and it all melted into guilt.
“I–you were right. I should’ve said something when I had my chance. It’s just…pisses me off.”
You skated up to him slowly. “That she’s taken?”
“That it’s Garrett!” His voice rebounded off the walls as it raised slightly. “He—he didn’t even know her name a week ago and I just—,” he cut himself off.
His face was flushed red when you reached him, refusing to even look you in the eye. “Garrett’s great. My best friend or whatever but,” he looked up at you and shook his head, “I know him. He’s gonna be over her in less than a month and she doesn’t deserve that…”
You hated that feeling that rushed over you as you stood before him. Frustration and self-pity welling up in a bile that rested somewhere in your chest, waiting to just engulf you. The only thing worse than the feeling itself had to be shoving it away like your feelings were worth nothing.
Yet with a gentleness reserved for very few, you slipped your hands into his and gave it a squeeze. “John…I’m gonna tell you something. I know you’re not gonna wanna hear it but you need to.”
He didn’t look up at first, just glared at the ice below him.
“John.”
With stubborn defiance, he let his eyes meet yours and behind all that anger you could see the real vulnerability pouring through.
“It’s not your place to decide what’s good for Hannah.”
You could see his jaw clench as you continued, not in anger but when he knew you were right and didn’t want to admit it. “She is a grown woman who can date or hook up with whoever she likes…even Garrett.”
“I know,” he pushed out. “I just feel like he gets all these wins and I’m just…fucked. Like I can’t stop pulling the short end of the stick.”
You nodded, staring at him intently as you kept your grip on his hands. “I know. And unfortunately, that’s life. Sometimes you get shit and sometimes you get gold and most days you can’t control which hand you’re dealt. What you can control is what you do with it. Are you gonna obsess over this girl that isn’t yours, or are you gonna find a way to move past it?”
His breath was even now and his eyes stayed concentrated on you as his anger slowly slipped away. Wordlessly, he nodded and squeezed your hands one last time and let you ground him in this moment.
[INTERLUDE]
John was a man of consistency. Growing up the way he did, he chased that rhythm of knowing exactly was going to happen next in his life; whether that be with his academics, his career, or just sticking to a weekly schedule of class, gym, practice, studying, and sleep (save room for a party or two of course).
Within that schedule was movie night with you every week.
The two of you sat on the couch, lucky to snag the tv before any of the other boys. He sat in the corner of the couch, arm thrown over the back while you cozied into his side.
If he was being honest, he lost the plot of the movie a while ago; it had been a long day and practice was particularly rough so he felt dead. But he enjoyed these smaller moments with you when the world quieted itself just for the two of you.
“You’re not falling asleep on me,” you asked, looking up at him knowingly.
A rumble moved through his chest as he blinked himself awake. “Of course not. I could never miss the fundamentals of Jane Austen adaptations.”
“Don’t act like you don’t force me to watch your movies too,” you shoot back with a laugh while poking him in the side.
But before he could respond, a pain flared from his chest, forcing him to sit up with a groan. “Fuck.”
“Shit,” you murmured. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he grunted, trying to shake it off before you got too worried. “Probably just a bruise.”
But John eventually learned that a world that you weren’t worried about him was a world that simply didn’t exist.
“Let me see.”
He laughed it off at first, looking up at you. “What?”
“You heard me.” Your voice was stern and stubborn, not offering much room for him to argue back. “Lift up your shirt.”
“Jesus, buy me dinner first.”
You frowned at him. “John Logan—,”
“Okay, okay fine,” he ushered, moving his hand that kept his shirt from riding up. “Forget how stubborn you can be.”
You didn’t give him much of a response as you reached for the hem of his shirt and lifted it up to reveal the large scrape running up the side of his abdomen.
“Jesus Christ, you’re bleeding.”
His mouth fell open a moment, looking down at his injury then back up at you. “I’d hardly call it bleeding. I’ve had worse.”
“Doesn’t mean you should be bleeding out on the couch.”
“I’m not bleeding out,” he tried. “The boys just got a little carried away during practice okay? I’ll go patch myself up right now if you’re so worried.”
“No,” you demanded, pushing him lightly back onto the couch as you now knelt above him to stand up. “You stay put, I’ll do it.”
“That’s really not necessary.”
You threw your hands up on your hips and glared at the boy. “How about this, either you let me help you or you let the doctor in the emergency room help you? Your pick.”
Once again, he let his mouth fall open and shut incredulously as a scoff of a laugh left. “Fine, okay. If you insist.”
You eventually returned with this silent concentration that he rarely ever saw in you. Wordlessly, you sat back down on the couch next to him.
He watched as you worked on him and somewhere between you lightly wiping the wet cloth over his wound and tearing open the bandage packet, something changed.
Suddenly he took notice of the way your eyes trained so heavily on him, the way you bit your bottom lip, the way your fingers brushed against his skin so lightly in a way that trailed a flame with every touch.
It was like you set him on fire and he had no clue what to do with it.
[3]
The library was typically where you found the most peace. Most times you were there with John, studying until your eyes hurt and you couldn’t bear to type another paper or jot down another formula. Tonight was meant to be no different.
But your study partner’s mind seemed to be wandering elsewhere.
“Okay I’ll bite,” you huffed out, tossing your pen down to the table. “What’s wrong?”
John’s eyes flickered up to you in confusion. “What do you mean?”
You stared at him. Hard. Your eyes scanned all over his face before leaning back in your chair with a sigh. “I thought you were done with all this Hannah mess.”
“I-,” he stammered. “I was—I am! What are you on about?”
You quirked a brow up at the boy. “You’re making that face you always do. That face when you see Hannah and you want her to look at you. Except now it’s worse because she’s not even here.”
“That’s not—I don’t—,” he cut himself off, rubbing his hand over face. “It’s not Hannah…not anymore.”
You paused, suddenly afraid of moving as he avoided your gaze. You knew the question you wanted to ask—it weighed on your chest, fat, heavy, and waiting to be addressed.
“But there is someone?”
The silence in the air was enough of an answer for you, but his responses that tumbled out only seemed to taunt you more, beating the dagger deeper into your chest.
“Yes? No. Maybe. I don’t know…it’s complicated.”
That silence sat uncomfortably with you, as if the room was closing in. You wanted nothing more than to take down the walls so hellbent on closing in on you.
“Two lovers in a month,” you joked, your smile half-assed. “Quite the Casanova, huh Johnny?”
You didn’t expect him to snap back at you.
“Don’t be like that.” It wasn’t harsh or mean, but you could sense the edge in his voice as he looked back up at you.
“Like what,” you bit back, your voice cautious on the air.
“Like…” he trailed off, searching for the words in his head. “I don’t know.”
You looked at him patiently, rolling the ball of thought in your head before finally speaking up. “Tell me about them?”
He looked up at you and in his eyes you found something new, something strange. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, either.
“I…I just don’t want to fuck it up. I’m not good at this and you know I’m not but this time…they’re not like Hannah. I’d actually have something to lose if I do anything.”
God it felt like someone was punching you in the gut, watching him go on with this sparkle in his eyes that seemed to intensify from the times he’d go on about Hannah.
But you still did what you did best. You gave him advice.
“Well…I know it’s corny to say but, I think the best thing for you is listen to yourself…I can tell you that you need to man up or that you need to focus on yourself, but at the end of the day, it all comes down to what you’re willing to risk for what you want.”
He didn’t respond at first. Only sat there quietly and you weren’t really sure how he felt about what you had to say.
“I can say this. Ever since I met you, you always carefully picked the people you were friends with. If this person means as much to you as you say then something like this won’t chase them off.”
You leaned forward and let your hands cover his, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles in a way that only felt selfish.
You could only bring yourself to wonder why you kept putting yourself in positions like this with him.
[+1]
Finals season was finally over and you were free. It felt like one of the many weights were lifted off your shoulder and you were finally free to do what you really wanted to do.
Maybe on another night you would’ve stayed in and slept until the next semester, but somehow (with very little convincing) you were at Malone’s once again with your friends.
One thing led to another and suddenly you were settling on one of your two inevitable outcomes that came from Malone’s: enough drinks in your system to want to dance on a table. It was the kind of confidence you weren’t even sure where it came from.
You had already found the chair to help you reach the table before you felt someone tugging you down into their chest.
You whipped your head around suddenly before your shock melted into a dizzy smile as you recognized him.
“Johnny! I missed you. Where have you been?”
“Well,” he started with an amused smile, slowly leading you away from the crowd and towards the door. “One of your friends called and told me you were a bit to drunk to drive home.”
You let out a dramatic gasp, halting in your step before turning around to face him fully. “Was is Mackenzie? Or was it Kris? Traitors…”
John huffed out a laugh as he took you by your hand and continued to pull you toward the exit, guiding you to his car with the looming fear of you suddenly falling over or puking. Or both.
“I’m not supposed to be alone with you when I’m drunk,” you groaned as he began his drive. “Sober-me made drunk-me swear by it.”
He looked at you with a raised eyebrow. “Why’s that?”
“Because,” you hissed. “I have secrets! Big secrets. If I’m drunk then I’ll want to tell you my secrets.”
He could only let himself smile a bit as he tried to brush off your words. “Well then I’ll be sure you don’t spill any secrets to me.”
You only giggled and grinned as you turned to him. “That sounds like a challenge.”
“I thought you didn’t want me to have your secrets,” he laughed.
“That’s sober-me,” you replied with a feigned coolness. “Drunk-me doesn’t associate with them.”
“Talk about self-sabotage,” he chuckled lightly to himself.
His hand rested on the console between the two of you, drumming lightly in a way that caught your attention. Absentmindedly, you reached for it, running your fingers up and down to trace where his veins trailed.
“You have pretty hands, Johnny.”
His eyes flickered to look at you from his peripheral. “Thank you.”
His voice was clipped. Restrained.
“Johnny?”
A beat of silence passed between the two of you before he spoke up. “Yeah?”
“Can I tell you something?”
A small smile spread across his lips again. “Is it a secret?”
You giggled again, looking back at him. “No…it’s a question. I always give you advice, I think it’s about time you give me some earth=shattering advice.”
He couldn’t help but laugh at that before releasing a soft sigh. “Go for it.”
“If I have a this big fat secret that I technically shouldn’t tell, I know that I shouldn’t ever bring it up.”
“That’s typically how secrets work.”
“Okay smart-ass,” you frowned, flicking his hand before sitting back in your seat. “But what if this secret is like huge. Like…it makes me want to throw up, explode, and vomit all at the same time.”
“Aren’t vomiting and throwing up the same thing,” he questioned.
“Oh my god,” you groaned, throwing your head back to stare at the ceiling of the car. “Stop trying to be funny, a piece of me dies every time you try to be funny.”
“Wow,” he muttered, failing to even try to hide his smile. “I think a secret like that should be told to the right person. You should find someone you trust with it if you can’t share it.”
The car finally came to a stop, allowing him a moment to fully look at you as your eyes drooped back down to him. “And if the secret is about the person I trust the most in the world?”
The silence that passed between the two of you was typically short and quick, shoved under the rug before it could even be processed. This silence was not like that.
It laid in the air with heavy existence as John struggled to come up with anything to say. All he could focus on was the way your eyes seemed to glimmer under the lights of the nearby street lights.
And of course, he was always the one to break it. “Look at that, we’re here. C’mon.”
Even drunk, you knew the routine whenever you spent the night at John’s. You’d take the bathroom first, then him and he’d let you take the bed while he took the floor (no matter how hard you fought him over it). You had stayed over so often that he already had your clothes waiting for you in his bottom drawer.
It didn’t take long for the two of you to get ready. You sat on his bed, watching him expectantly as he made his own makeshift bed on the floor beside you.
“You should know my secret,” you blurted out.
“I really don’t think I should,” he replied softly.
“I really think you should.”
“y/n.”
“It’s really important actually—been eating me alive since freshman year.”
“y/n.”
“I’m in love with you John Logan.”
With his back to you, the man froze in his actions. Unable to move as the words fully moved through his head. But you kept going.
“I wanted to tell you immediately actually, but then there was her. Yo—you liked her for so long and y’know it was always Hannah. Always. And a part of me, a really really selfish part of me, wishes it stayed Hannah. Because then…it means less. Hannah is amazing and kind and beautiful, and so so so funny. Hell I’d be in love with Hannah if I wasn’t so in love with you.”
He knew he should stop the words free-falling from your lips, but he couldn’t even gather himself to move much less convince you to stop saying all the things he knew you’d regret in the morning.
“But then you met someone else and then I finally realized it. It was never about me not being like Hannah. It was about me not being right…for you. I’ll never be right for you, will I?”
Not enough words could describe everything John wanted to say in that moment, but it truly didn’t matter. For when he turned around to face you, you were already fast asleep.
[the aftermass]
You weren’t sure exactly what time it was when you eventually woke up, all you knew is that you were drenched in regret as a headache pounded incessantly in your head.
The night came back to you in pieces, like a puzzle waiting to be put back together slowly. You remember your friends inviting you to Malone’s, having a few too many drinks, the dancing, the attempts to climb on the table.
It got fuzzier as you tried to recall. John had shown up, dragging you out the bar, convincing you not to spill—
You sat up suddenly, headache be damned, as your memories slammed itself back into your mind.
And then the voice you dreaded to hear. “Good morning.”
He was seated there on the floor, just like he always was when you woke up. You would exchange your ‘good mornings’, laugh about whatever happened the night before, talk about what you had planned that day.
“You remember much from last night,” he asked, sounding as if he’d been up for hours.
You only nodded.
If you were being honest, you wanted to skip over the entire routine. You swung your feet over the bed, planting your feet on the ground while avoiding his gaze.
“Do you want to talk about it,” he asked.
You shook your head at first. “No.”
You didn’t need to look at him to register how much he was thrown off. “No?”
“No just…not yet.” You began for the door, hand landing on the doorknob. “I need coffee before I can talk about anything.”
You knew he was following and you really wished you didn’t. Knowing he was just a few steps behind you only made the thudding in your heart all the more intense.
It was a huge awkward silence that settled between the two of you as he stood there, waiting for the moment you gave any indication as to wanting to continue the conversation.
“You want some,” you ask, back turned completely to him.
“y/n.”
You let out a sigh as you gripped your now full mug, glaring into the pool of brown liquid before eventually turning around to face him from where he stood at the other side of the island.
“Guess that’s a no,” you attempted to joke, but he didn’t quite return the sentiment. He only seemed to look back at you with that look of conflict he wore so often.
“If you don’t want to talk about it…”
“No,” you blurted out suddenly. “I just…”
You pinched the bridge of your nose before tossing your hand up and letting it fall to the side. “I kinda said everything I needed to say last night. Yes, I’ve liked you or been in love with you since we moved here. Yes, I was jealous of Hannah and I’m jealous of whoever you seem to like right now and no, I had no intention of telling you.
First it was Hannah and then it was your mystery person and I just don’t want to stand in the way of what you have going on and ruin thin—”
“y/n.”
He was beginning to make it a habit of saying your name in that specific tone that made you all dizzy inside.
“Can I have a turn to speak,” he asked softly.
You let out a brisk sigh before motioning for him to speak.
“Do you remember that one night a few weeks ago? When we were watching Pride and Prejudice in the living room?”
Your brows furrowed down in confusion before nodding slowly. “Yeaaah…? What about it?”
He took a step around the island, walking just a bit closer to you while still offering you that space. “Well, when I was sitting there, watching you patch me up, I realized something.”
He took another step. “I realized that you’re stubborn. And you rarely let other people have their way. But I like that about you.”
Another step. “You’re considerate. You always put other’s feelings before your own…even if it means sacrificing something for yourself.”
He took a final step forward, landing barely even a foot away from you. “I also learned that no one else in the world cares for me like you do. And I was blind to miss it for so long.”
Your mouth fell open, looking at him in with a mix of disbelief and skepticism. “I don’t understand. Your…your mystery person.”
With a gentle hand, he reached for your coffee mug and placed it down on the counter before grasping your hand to squeeze it tight, just like every time you did so to ground him.
“You are that person. It’s always been you. And if I’m being honest…ever since that night I have been doing everything in my power to not kiss you on the spot.”
And for a moment, neither of you moved. Neither of you was sure if one should. But then you saw that flicker of doubt in his eyes and the way he slowly leaned back from you.
In a split moment of decision making, you finally let your impulses speak for themselves and you grabbed the fabric of his shirt and pulled him into you, letting your lips collide.
He didn’t react at first, his eyes blowing wide as his senses caught up to him. But when they did, everything seemed to melt in place. With one arm wrapping itself around your waist, he let his other hand find the nape of your neck, cradling you close as you tried to breathe in every inch of him.
Your hand buried itself in his hair, nails scratching gently at his scalp, only making him sigh into the kiss. “Damn,” he mumbled against your lips, his breathing shallow as he pressed his forehead against yours.
You let out a soft laugh, unable to believe everything that’s finally happened. “Took you long enough to catch up, Johnny. You were killing me here.”
A smile blessed his lips as he continued to kiss you, like a vice. “I know. How will I ever make it up to you?”
You grinned devilishly. “I can think of a few different ways.
main masterlist
a/n: this was NOT meant to be this long omg. I just finished this show earlier this week and I'm obsessed with Logan, he's honestly one of my favorites. I hope this gets all the love, please comment and reblog it would mean so much to me!!
Summary: Garrett is supposed to hate you by association. You’re dating his rival. You’re wearing the wrong colors. But he doesn’t look at you like you’re the enemy, he looks at you like he’s seeing something everyone else has learned to ignore. And when you run out of places to hide, his number is the only one you can think to call
Warnings: 18+ content, domestic violence, sexual assault, and trauma recovery
Read part two here
The locker room smells like victory — sweat, ice, and that particular brand of arrogance that comes from stomping your rivals into the boards. Garrett sits on the bench, unlacing his skates with practiced efficiency, while his teammates celebrate around him like they’ve won the Stanley Cup instead of just another regular season game.
“Did you see Beck’s face when you scored that hat trick?” Dean practically shouts, still riding the high. “Dude looked like he wanted to murder you.”
“Beck always looks like that,” Logan says, toweling off his hair. “Guy’s got permanent asshole face.”
Garrett doesn’t join in the trash talk. He pulls off his skates and flexes his feet, working out the stiffness. Five to one. They demolished BU tonight, and while he should feel satisfied — while he does feel satisfied — something about the win feels hollow. Maybe it’s because Cameron Beck spent most of the third period playing dirty, throwing elbows when the refs weren’t looking, talking shit that had nothing to do with hockey.
“You don’t look good. You look like you’re planning someone’s funeral.”
Garrett manages a half-smile. “Just tired, man. It’s been a long week.”
It has been. Two midterms, practice every day, a game against Northeastern that went into overtime, and now this. He loves hockey — lives for it, really — but sometimes the weight of being captain, of being the guy everyone looks to, of keeping his grades up and his scholarship secure, feels like carrying a truck on his shoulders.
“Alright!” Coach Jensen’s voice cuts through the celebration. “Bus leaves in ten. If you’re not on it, you’re walking back to Briar.”
The team starts moving with renewed urgency, shoving gear into bags, pulling on sweatpants and hoodies. Garrett’s methodical about it, the way he is with everything. Skates in the bag, pads folded properly, stick secured. His mom taught him that — take care of your equipment and it’ll take care of you.
He pushes the thought away before it can dig in too deep.
“You riding shotgun?” Logan asks as they head toward the bus.
“Nah, you take it. I’m gonna crash in the back.”
The cold Boston air hits him like a slap when they step outside. February in New England is brutal, the kind of cold that gets into your bones and doesn’t let go. The team bus idles in the parking lot, exhaust forming clouds in the darkness. Most of the guys are already boarding, still loud, still buzzing.
That’s when Garrett sees them.
At first, it’s just movement in his peripheral vision — two figures near the back entrance of the arena, half-hidden in shadows. He almost doesn’t look. Almost keeps walking toward the bus because it’s cold and he’s tired and it’s none of his business.
But then he hears it. A voice, male, low and vicious.
“I told you not to embarrass me.”
Garrett stops walking. Tucker nearly crashes into him.
“Dude, what-”
“Hold on.”
He moves closer, his body reacting before his brain catches up. The angle shifts and he sees her clearly now — a girl, small, pressed back against the brick wall with her hands up in a gesture that Garrett recognizes instantly. It’s the same way his mom used to stand when his dad came home in one of his moods. Defensive. Placating. Terrified.
The guy is Cameron Beck. Even from fifteen feet away, even in the shitty parking lot lighting, Garrett knows it’s him. And Beck has his hand wrapped around your wrist, squeezing hard enough that Garrett can see you wince.
“Cameron, please-” Your voice is barely audible, thin and desperate. “I didn’t do anything-”
“You were talking to that guy. I saw you.”
“He asked me for directions to the bathroom-”
“Don’t fucking lie to me.”
Beck yanks you forward and you stumble, catching yourself against his chest. He grabs your other wrist and Garrett sees them clearly now — the bruises. Dark purple and yellow, finger-shaped marks that circle both your wrists like ugly bracelets.
Something white-hot ignites in Garrett’s chest.
“Hey!” His voice comes out harder than he intends, sharp enough to make Beck’s head snap up. “Get your hands off her.”
Beck doesn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightens. “Mind your own business, Graham.”
“I said, get your fucking hands off her.”
Garrett’s already moving, closing the distance. He’s vaguely aware of his teammates behind him — Tucker’s saying something, maybe Logan too — but all he can focus on is your face. You’re looking at him now, and your eyes are the most heartbreaking thing he’s ever seen. Wide and dark and absolutely terrified, but not of Beck. Of him. Of the situation. Of what’s going to happen next.
“This doesn’t concern you,” Beck says, but there’s an edge to his voice now. He drops your wrists and steps slightly in front of you, like he’s shielding you from view. Like he’s protecting you instead of hurting you.
You don’t move. Don’t run. Just stand there with your arms wrapped around yourself, and Garrett can see you shaking even from here.
“You always put your hands on people smaller than you?” Garrett asks, his voice deadly calm now. “Or just women who can’t fight back?”
“Watch your mouth-”
“Graham!” Coach Jensen’s voice cuts across the parking lot. “What the hell are you doing? Get on the bus!”
Garrett doesn’t move. He keeps his eyes locked on Beck, watching for any sign that he’s going to grab you again. Behind Beck, you’re barely breathing. You’re wearing a BU sweatshirt that’s too big for you and jeans that look painted on, and even though it’s freezing, you’re not wearing a coat. Your hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and there’s a bruise on your cheekbone that makeup can’t quite hide.
“Is he hurting you?” Garrett directs the question to you, but you don’t answer. Just stare at him with those haunted eyes.
“She’s fine,” Beck snaps. “She’s my girlfriend and this is between us, so why don’t you take your hero complex and shove it-”
“I wasn’t asking you.”
“Graham! Now!” Coach Jensen sounds pissed.
Tucker’s hand lands on Garrett’s shoulder. “Come on, man. We gotta go.”
“Not until-”
“There’s nothing you can do,” Tucker says quietly, meant only for Garrett’s ears. “Not here. Not now.”
Garrett knows he’s right. Knows that if he throws a punch at Beck right now, he’s the one who’ll get suspended. Knows that confronting Beck isn’t going to help you, might even make things worse once you’re alone again. But walking away feels impossible. It feels like the biggest betrayal in the world.
He looks at you one more time. Tries to communicate something with his eyes. I see you. I know what’s happening. This isn’t okay.
“I’m watching you, Beck,” he says finally. “You fuck up, and I’ll know about it.”
“Yeah, I’m real scared,” Beck sneers, but he doesn’t sound as confident as before.
Tucker practically drags Garrett back to the bus. The guys have all gone quiet now, watching. Logan looks grim. Dean looks confused. Some of the younger guys look uncomfortable, like they’re not sure what just happened.
“What the hell was that?” Coach demands as Garrett climbs the steps.
“Beck was hurting his girlfriend.”
“And you thought starting a fight in their parking lot was the solution?”
“I didn’t start anything. I told him to back off.”
“Sit down. We’re talking about this later.”
Garrett moves to the back of the bus and drops into a seat, his heart still jackhammering against his ribs. Through the window, he can see you — Beck has his arm around your shoulders now, steering you toward the parking garage. To anyone else, it probably looks almost normal. Protective, even. But Garrett sees the way you’re holding herself. Sees the careful distance you’re trying to maintain even while being pulled close.
The bus engine rumbles to life. They start moving, pulling out of the parking lot, and Garrett watches until he can’t see you anymore.
He punches the seat in front of him. Hard enough that his knuckles split, hard enough that pain shoots up his arm.
“Whoa!” Dean twists around. “Dude, what the hell?”
“Leave him alone,” Logan says quietly.
Garrett stares out the window at the Boston lights sliding past. His hand throbs. His chest feels tight. And all he can see is your face — the terror in your eyes, the bruises on your wrists, the way you didn’t say a word in your own defense.
He doesn’t even know your name.
***
You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter.
“Get in the car,” Cameron says. His voice is controlled now, almost gentle. It’s worse than the yelling. So much worse.
“Cameron-”
“Get. In. The car.”
You slide into the passenger seat of his BMW and buckle your seatbelt with trembling fingers. The bruises on your wrists ache where he grabbed them. They’ve barely healed from last time, and now they’re going to be even worse tomorrow. You’ll have to wear long sleeves again. Find excuses not to go to the gym, where someone might see you change.
Cameron gets in the driver’s side and sits there for a moment, both hands on the steering wheel. You don’t look at him. You learned months ago that making eye contact during these moments is dangerous.
“That guy asked you for directions,” Cameron says finally.
“Yes.”
“To the bathroom.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t think it was weird that some random dude was asking you instead of literally anyone else?”
Your throat feels like it’s closing. “I was just trying to be helpful.”
“Helpful.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You want to be helpful? Stop making me look like an idiot. We were in public, Y/N. People could see you flirting-”
“I wasn’t flirting-”
The slap comes so fast you don’t see it. One second you’re trying to defend yourself, the next your cheek is on fire and your eyes are watering. It wasn’t hard — Cameron knows better than to leave marks where people can see them easily — but it’s enough to shut you up.
“Don’t interrupt me.” His voice is still calm. Still controlled. “I’ve had a shit night. We lost five to one. Five to fucking one. And then I have to watch my girlfriend chatting up random guys like she’s single.”
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
“What?”
“I’m sorry.” Louder this time.
“That’s better.” He starts the car. “We’re going back to my place. You’re staying the night.”
It’s not a question. It’s never a question anymore.
You stare out the window as he drives, watching Boston blur past. You used to love this city. Used to walk around campus with your camera, taking pictures for the journalism assignments that actually excited you. Used to have friends, plans, dreams. You were going to work for ESPN. You were going to be the next Erin Andrews, traveling with teams, doing sideline reporting, making a name for yourself.
That was before Cameron. Before he slowly, methodically, isolated you from everyone who cared about you. Before he convinced you that you were lucky to have him, that no one else would ever want you, that you were too sensitive, too dramatic, too much work.
Before you started believing him.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You don’t reach for it. Cameron has rules about phones when you’re with him. You learned that lesson too.
“Who is it?” He asks.
“I don’t know. I didn’t look.”
“Check.”
You pull out your phone with shaking hands. It’s your roommate, Julie. Where are you? You ok?
“Julie,” you say. “Asking where I am.”
“Tell her you’re with me. Tell her you’ll be back tomorrow.”
You type out the message exactly as instructed. Julie responds immediately. Call me when you can. Please.
She knows. Of course she knows. She’s seen the bruises, heard the excuses, watched you disappear into yourself over the past year. She’s tried to talk to you about it, tried to convince you to leave, but you’ve gotten good at deflecting. Good at lying. Good at pretending everything’s fine.
“Done?” Cameron asks.
“Done.”
“Good girl.”
The words make your stomach turn. He used to say them differently — warm, affectionate, after you’d aced an exam or nailed an interview. Now they’re just another way to control you. Another reminder that your worth is tied to your obedience.
You think about the guy from the parking lot. The hockey player who intervened. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and eyes that looked almost black in the shitty lighting. But it was the way he looked at you that’s stuck in your head. Like he actually saw you. Like he recognized something in your terror that other people miss or choose to ignore.
I’m watching you, Beck.
Cameron’s hands tighten on the steering wheel like he’s remembering it too.
“That Graham kid is going to be a problem,” he mutters.
You don’t respond. You’ve learned that sometimes the safest thing to do is stay silent, make yourself small, wait for the storm to pass. You’ve gotten so good at it that sometimes you forget how to be anything else.
Sometimes you can’t remember what your real voice even sounds like anymore.
Cameron’s apartment is in one of the nicer buildings near campus — his parents pay for it, along with his car and his credit cards and pretty much everything else. He’s never had to work for anything in his life, which maybe explains why he thinks people are possessions. Things to own and control.
You follow him inside, toeing off your shoes by the door. The apartment is immaculate because Cameron has a cleaning service. There are hockey trophies on the shelves and a massive TV mounted on the wall. It looks like something out of a magazine. It looks nothing like the prison it’s become.
“I’m going to shower,” Cameron says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “You should be in bed when I get out.”
It’s not a suggestion.
You nod and he disappears into the bathroom. The second the door closes, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Your hands are still shaking. Your cheek still stings. Your wrists throb with every heartbeat.
You sit on the edge of his bed and stare at the wall.
This is your life now. This is what you’ve become. A girl who flinches at loud noises, who measures every word before speaking, who has nightmares about making her boyfriend angry. A girl who used to be bright and funny and ambitious but now can barely recognize herself in the mirror.
Your phone buzzes again. Julie. I’m worried about you. Please talk to me.
You want to. God, you want to. But what would you even say? That you’re too scared to leave? That you’ve tried twice and both times Cameron found you, convinced you to come back, promised he’d change? That you’re terrified of what he’ll do if you try again?
That part of you has started to believe you deserve this?
You delete the message without responding and put your phone on silent.
In the bathroom, the shower turns off. You have maybe three minutes before Cameron comes out, before you have to paste on a smile and pretend everything’s okay, before you have to be the version of yourself that keeps him happy.
You change into the clothes you keep here — sleep shorts and one of Cameron’s old t-shirts — and climb into bed. Pull the covers up. Make yourself small.
And you think about the hockey player one more time. About the way he looked at Beck like he wanted to break him in half. About the way he looked at you like you mattered.
Then you close your eyes and wait for Cameron to decide what happens next.
Because that’s all you do anymore.
Wait.
***
The dream always starts the same way.
Garrett is seven years old, small for his age, standing in the hallway of their old apartment in Manhattan. The wallpaper is peeling near the ceiling and there’s a water stain that looks like a dragon if you squint. He used to stare at that dragon for hours, imagining it coming to life and burning everything down.
His father is in the living room. Garrett can hear him before he sees him — that particular tone of voice that means his mom did something wrong. Or didn’t do something right. Or just existed in a way that pissed him off.
“I told you I needed my dress shirt ironed,” his dad says. Phil Graham, star defenseman for the New York Rangers, six-foot-three and two hundred pounds of controlled violence. “I have a fucking press conference in an hour, Lauren.”
“I know, I’m sorry-” His mom’s voice is small, apologetic. “I forgot, I was picking up Garrett from school and then I had to-”
“I don’t care what you had to do. When I tell you something needs to get done, it needs to get done.”
Seven-year-old Garrett peers around the corner. His mom is standing by the ironing board, one hand pressed to her chest like she’s trying to hold herself together. His dad is looming over her, still in his Rangers sweatpants, hair wet from the shower.
“Don’t fucking cry,” his dad snaps when his mom’s eyes start to water. “Jesus Christ, you’re so dramatic. All I asked was for you to iron a goddamn shirt-”
“I’ll do it now, it’ll only take a minute-”
His dad grabs the iron. For a second, Garrett thinks he’s just going to do it himself, but then his mom flinches and Garrett knows — knows with the certainty that children who grow up in war zones develop — that something bad is about to happen.
“You think this is hot?” His dad asks, holding the iron close to his mom’s face. Not touching, not yet, but close enough that Garrett can see her leaning back, trying to create distance. “You think this is as hot as I’m going to be standing in front of those cameras looking like an idiot because my wife can’t do the one fucking thing I asked her to do?”
“Phil, please-”
The iron moves closer. His mom’s breath comes in short, panicked gasps.
“Stop!” Garrett shouts, but his voice is tiny, insignificant. He runs into the room, grabs his dad’s arm with both hands, tries to pull him away. “Leave her alone! Leave her alone!”
His dad shoves him backwards. Not hard — never hard enough to leave marks where people can see — but enough to send seven-year-old Garrett stumbling into the coffee table. Pain explodes in his hip.
“Go to your room, Garrett.”
“No! Stop hurting Mom!”
“I said go to your fucking room!”
But Garrett can’t move. Can’t do anything but watch as his dad turns back to his mom, as she raises her hands in that defensive gesture Garrett will see repeated a thousand times over the next ten years, as his dad-
The dream shifts.
Now Garrett isn’t seven anymore. He’s twenty-one, standing in a parking lot in Boston, and it’s not his mom against the wall. It’s you. The girl from the parking lot. You’re looking at him with those terrified eyes and Cameron Beck has his hands around your wrists and Garrett can see the bruises blooming under Beck’s fingers like ugly flowers.
“Help me,” you whisper.
Garrett tries to move but his feet are cement. He’s frozen, useless, watching it happen all over again.
“I’m watching you, Beck,” he hears himself say, but it sounds hollow. Meaningless.
Beck laughs. “Yeah? What are you going to do about it?”
You’re crying now. “Please. Please help me.”
“I can’t,” Garrett says, and the words feel like they’re being ripped from his chest. “I can’t, I’m sorry, I can’t-”
Beck’s hands tighten. You scream. And Garrett just stands there, seven years old again, helpless, watching someone he should protect get hurt and doing nothing, nothing, nothing-
He wakes up in a cold sweat, gasping like he’s been drowning.
His dorm room is dark except for the numbers on his alarm clock: 4:19 AM. Garrett’s sheets are tangled around his legs and his heart is trying to punch through his ribcage.
He sits up, runs both hands through his hair, tries to breathe.
It’s been years since he had the dreams this bad. Years since he woke up feeling like this — angry and helpless and so fucking furious at the world that he wants to break something. After his mom died, after he finally got away from his dad and came to Briar on a full ride, he thought he’d left this behind. Thought he could bury it under hockey and classes and being the kind of captain his team needs.
But one look at that girl’s face and it all came roaring back.
He grabs his phone from the nightstand, squints at the brightness. No new messages. Nothing from anyone who would be awake at this hour.
He opens Instagram.
He’s not even sure what he’s looking for. Closure, maybe. Confirmation that what he saw was real and not some manifestation of his own trauma. Proof that you exist, that you’re okay, that he didn’t just imagine the terror in your eyes.
But he doesn’t know your name. Doesn’t know anything about you except that you’re dating Cameron Beck and you’re in trouble.
Garrett’s never been one for social media stalking — he barely posts on his own accounts — but he navigates to Beck’s profile with the grim determination of someone going to war. The guy’s profile is exactly what Garrett expected: carefully curated photos of hockey wins, parties, expensive shit his parents bought him. Every caption is some variation of “living my best life” or “grind never stops” or other meaningless bullshit.
Garrett scrolls back through months of posts, his jaw getting tighter with each one, until finally … there.
A photo from last summer. Beck at some beach, tanned and shirtless, arm slung around a girl in a yellow bikini. You’re smiling at the camera but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. The caption reads Summer vibes with my girl.
You’re tagged. @yourusername
Garrett clicks through so fast he almost drops his phone.
Your profile loads and he feels something in his chest twist. Your bio is simple: BU | Journalism | Boston Born & Raised. Your profile picture is you in a Bruins jersey, grinning at whoever’s taking the photo, eyes bright with genuine happiness.
He starts scrolling.
The most recent post is from four months ago. You at some coffee shop, mug raised in a half-hearted toast, smile that looks more like a grimace. The caption is just a coffee emoji. Before that, five months ago: you and another girl at what looks like a BU football game. You’re wearing sunglasses but Garrett can see the tension in your shoulders, the way you’re leaning slightly away from the camera.
He keeps scrolling back and the transformation is devastating.
Eight months ago: you holding up an acceptance letter, caption reading INTERNSHIP AT WEEI SPORTS RADIO! Dreams coming true! Your smile is radiant. Real.
Ten months ago: a whole series of posts from what looks like spring break. You and a group of friends at various beaches, bars, tourist traps. You’re laughing in most of them, mid-sentence, caught in moments of unselfconscious joy.
A year ago: you with a camera around your neck, press pass visible, standing on the sidelines of what looks like a hockey game. First day covering BU hockey for the Daily Free Press! Living the dream!
Garrett stops on that one. Studies your face. You look so young, so excited, so full of potential. This was before Beck, he realizes. Or maybe early in the relationship, before it turned bad. Before you learned to make yourself small.
He keeps scrolling, going further back. You playing intramural soccer. You at journalism club meetings. You with your family at what looks like a Thanksgiving dinner, squeezed between an older couple who must be your parents. You’re wearing a sweater and you’re laughing at something off-camera.
The last post from freshman year shows you standing in front of a BU dorm building, suitcases at your feet, arms spread wide. The caption reads Let’s do this, Boston! 📚🎓
You looked so hopeful.
Garrett closes Instagram and stares at his ceiling. Outside, he can hear the first birds starting their morning songs. The world is waking up and he hasn’t slept at all, and all he can think about is the difference between the girl in those old photos and the girl he saw in the parking lot.
You used to be so alive.
What the fuck did Beck do to you?
***
You’re running through a hallway that never ends.
Behind you, Cameron is gaining ground. You can hear his footsteps, heavy and relentless, can hear him calling your name in that tone that makes your blood freeze.
“Y/N! Get back here!”
You’re trying to scream but nothing comes out. Your legs feel like they’re moving through water. There are doors on either side of the hallway but when you try the handles, they’re all locked. Every single one.
“You can’t run from me,” Cameron says, and suddenly he’s right behind you, his hand closing around your arm, spinning you to face him. “You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.”
He’s not angry. That’s the worst part. He’s smiling, calm, like this is all perfectly reasonable.
“Please,” you manage to whisper. “Please let me go.”
“I can’t do that. You know I can’t do that.” His grip tightens until you can feel your bones grinding together. “Who else is going to love you? Who else is going to put up with you?”
“Someone,” you sob. “Anyone.”
“No one wants damaged goods, baby.”
The scene shifts. Now you’re in his apartment, in his bed, and he’s on top of you and you’re trying to say no, trying to push him away, but your arms won’t work. Your voice won’t work. Nothing works except the part of your brain that’s screaming this is wrong this is wrong this is wrong-
And then you’re in the parking lot again, pressed against the cold brick wall, and Cameron’s hands are around your throat and you can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t-
The hockey player appears. The one from last night. He’s reaching for you, mouth moving, saying something you can’t hear over the roaring in your ears.
Help me, you try to say, but Cameron’s grip gets tighter.
The hockey player turns away.
Everyone always turns away.
You wake up to pain.
At first, you can’t process what’s happening. Your body registers it before your brain does — the invasion, the wrongness, the way your body is being used without your consent. Again.
Cameron is inside you.
You’re lying on your side, facing away from him, and he’s behind you, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, moving with steady, selfish rhythm. You’re not ready. He didn’t prepare you, didn’t wake you, didn’t ask. Just took what he wanted because in his mind, you’re his to take.
You stare at the wall and let it happen.
Fighting makes it worse. You learned that months ago. Crying makes it worse. Asking him to stop makes it worse. So you just lie there and wait for it to be over, counting the seconds in your head, disassociating so hard you might as well be floating on the ceiling.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.
Cameron’s breath is hot on your neck. His grip tightens.
“So good for me,” he murmurs, like this is romantic. Like this is consensual. “My perfect girl.”
A single tear slides down your cheek and disappears into the pillow.
Forty-eight Mississippi. Forty-nine Mississippi.
He finishes with a grunt, pulling out and rolling away from you like you’re a tissue he’s done with. You feel the wetness between your legs, feel the ache that’s going to linger all day.
“Morning, babe,” Cameron says, already reaching for his phone. “I’m thinking pancakes for breakfast. You want pancakes?”
You don’t answer. Can’t answer. Your voice is buried somewhere so deep you’re not sure you’ll ever find it again.
“Y/N? Pancakes?”
“Sure,” you whisper.
“Cool. There’s that place on Comm Ave we like. Get dressed.” He’s already out of bed, completely unbothered, heading for the bathroom. “Wear that blue dress I got you. The one that shows off your legs.”
The bathroom door closes. The shower turns on.
You lie there for another minute, staring at nothing, feeling nothing. Then you get up because that’s what you do. You get up and you put yourself back together and you pretend everything is fine.
In the bathroom mirror, you look like a ghost. There are dark circles under your eyes that makeup won’t fully hide. Your hair is a mess. The bruises on your wrists have darkened overnight, deep purple now, unmistakable.
You brush your teeth. Wash your face. Try to find some version of yourself in the reflection that you recognize.
She’s not there.
You get dressed like Cameron asked — the blue dress that you used to like before it became a costume, before it became something you wear to keep him happy. It’s February and freezing but you add tights and a cardigan and hope that’s enough to satisfy him.
When Cameron comes out of the bathroom, he’s in a good mood. That’s almost worse than when he’s angry. When he’s angry, at least you know where you stand. When he’s happy, you’re constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“You look beautiful,” he says, kissing your forehead like he didn’t just violate you twenty minutes ago. “Ready?”
You nod.
Breakfast is performative. Cameron orders the biggest thing on the menu — some ridiculous stack of pancakes with whipped cream and berries — and expects you to do the same. You order oatmeal because your stomach is churning and you know you won’t be able to eat much anyway.
“That’s all you’re getting?” Cameron frowns. “Come on, babe. Live a little.”
“I’m not that hungry.”
“You’re never hungry anymore.” He reaches across the table, takes your hand. To anyone watching, it looks sweet. Loving. They can’t see the way his thumb digs into your bruised wrist. “You’re getting too thin. It’s not attractive.”
“Sorry,” you say automatically.
“It’s fine. We’ll work on it.” He releases your hand and pulls out his phone. “Shit, I have a meeting with my advisor at ten. Can you be ready to leave in twenty?”
“Yeah.”
You pick at your oatmeal while Cameron scrolls through his phone, occasionally showing you memes that aren’t funny, highlights from last night’s game that you don’t care about. He’s talking about the playoffs, about how BU is definitely going to make it even though they lost to Briar, about how that Graham kid got lucky.
“Cocky bastard,” Cameron mutters. “Someone needs to put him in his place.”
You think about the way Garrett Graham looked at Cameron last night. The absolute fury in his eyes. The way he stepped between you like he actually gave a shit about a stranger.
“Did you hear me?” Cameron asks.
“Sorry, what?”
“I said you can’t come to the next game. After the way you embarrassed me last night, I think you need a break from being around the team.”
Relief floods through you so fast you feel dizzy. “Okay.”
“Don’t sound so happy about it.”
“I’m not—I didn’t mean-”
“Relax. I’m kidding.” He’s smiling but his eyes are cold. “Jesus, you’re so tense all the time. Maybe you should see someone about that.”
By someone, he means a therapist. He’s suggested it before, usually right after he’s the reason you need one. The implication is always clear: you’re the problem. You’re too sensitive, too anxious, too broken. Never mind that he’s the one who broke you.
You make it through breakfast. Through the ride back to campus. Through Cameron walking you to your dorm like he’s some kind of gentleman.
“I’ll text you later,” he says, kissing you goodbye on the steps. “Love you.”
“Love you too,” you say, because that’s the script.
***
Garrett can’t focus on anything Professor Harris is saying about Kant’s categorical imperative. He’s sitting in the back row of his Philosophy 301 lecture, laptop open to a notes document that’s completely blank except for the date, phone hidden behind his screen.
He’s still on your Instagram.
He’s gone through every post now, read every caption, studied every photo. He’s built a timeline in his head: You started dating Beck around March of last year. The first photo of you two together was from spring break. You looked happy then. Cautious, maybe, but happy.
By summer, something had changed. You started posting less. Your smiles looked forced. The photos with Beck became more frequent but you looked less comfortable in each one.
By fall, you barely posted at all. And the few photos that are there — you look hollow. Like someone reached inside and scooped out everything that made you you.
The last post, from four months ago. You haven’t shared anything since.
Garrett wonders if Beck made you stop. If he isolated you so completely that you don’t even have the autonomy to post on social media anymore.
His hand tightens around his phone.
“Mr. Graham.”
Garrett’s head snaps up. Professor Harris is looking at him expectantly, along with the rest of the class.
“Sorry, what?”
“I asked if you could explain the practical imperative.”
Garrett has no idea. He was a good student once — still is, technically, maintaining the 3.5 GPA his scholarship requires — but right now his brain is full of you and Beck and the sound of his mom’s voice saying please in his nightmares.
“I … uh …”
“Act in such a way that you treat humanity, whether in your own person or in the person of another, always at the same time as an end and never simply as a means,” Logan says from two rows ahead, saving his ass.
Professor Harris nods, apparently satisfied, and turns back to his lecture.
Garrett shoots Logan a grateful look. Logan just raises his eyebrows in a what the hell is wrong with you expression.
Garrett goes back to his phone. He knows he should stop. Knows this is bordering on obsessive. But he can’t shake the feeling that if he can just find you, if he can just talk to you, he can help. He can do what he couldn’t do for his mom.
He opens Beck’s Instagram again, goes back through the tagged photos, looks for clues. Where do you go? What do you do? How the fuck is he supposed to find one girl in a city of seven hundred thousand people?
Class ends at 11:30. Garrett packs up his stuff mechanically, mind still churning.
“Dude.” Logan falls into step beside him as they file out of the lecture hall. “You good? You’ve been weird since last night.”
“I’m fine.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”
They walk across campus in silence. It’s brutally cold, the kind of February day that makes you question why anyone lives in New England. Students hurry past with their heads down, buried in their coats.
“That girl last night,” Garrett says finally. “Beck’s girlfriend. I can’t stop thinking about her.”
“Yeah, that was fucked up.”
“I should’ve done more.”
“G, you did what you could. What were you supposed to do, kidnap her?”
“Maybe.”
Logan stops walking. “Are you serious right now?”
“No. I don’t know.” Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “I just … I’ve seen this before. I know how it ends.”
Logan’s expression softens. He knows about Garrett’s mom. They’ve been friends since freshman year, and you can’t live with someone for that long without learning their ghosts.
“You can’t save everyone,” Logan says gently.
“I couldn’t save her either.”
“You were a kid.”
“I’m not a kid anymore.”
They resume walking. Practice is at 2:00, which gives Garrett a couple hours to grab lunch and pretend to study. But he knows he won’t be able to concentrate. Won’t be able to think about anything except you and those bruises and the terrified look in your eyes.
“What are you going to do?” Logan asks.
“I don’t know yet.”
But he’s lying. He knows exactly what he’s going to do.
***
Practice is brutal. Coach Jensen runs them into the ground — suicides, bag skating, drills until Garrett’s legs are shaking and his lungs are burning. It’s punishment for last night, for the altercation in the parking lot, for drawing attention to the team in a way that doesn’t involve winning games.
Garrett welcomes the pain. Uses it to clear his head.
By the time they’re done, it’s almost 5:00 PM and the sun is setting. The team staggers to the locker room, everyone too exhausted to do more than grunt at each other.
Garrett sits on the bench, peeling off his gear, when he remembers.
Colin Monroe.
Monroe transferred from BU to Briar at the start of the season — some issue with playing time, Garrett never got the full story. He’s a sophomore defenseman, solid player, keeps mostly to himself. But he spent a year and a half at BU before transferring.
He would know where BU students hang out.
Garrett waits until most of the team has cleared out, until it’s just him and Monroe and a couple other guys. He approaches casually, like the thought just occurred to him.
“Hey, Monroe.”
Colin looks up from tying his shoes. “Yeah?”
“You were at BU before you transferred, right?”
“For a year and a half, yeah. Why?”
Garrett tries to sound casual. “Just curious where you guys hung out. Like, where do BU students go? Coffee shops, bars, whatever.”
Monroe gives him a weird look. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just thinking about checking out some new spots. You know, off-campus stuff.”
“You’re asking me for Boston recommendations? Dude, you’ve been here longer than I have.”
Fair point. Garrett pivots.
“Okay, fine. I’m looking for someone.”
“Who?”
“A girl from BU. I need to talk to her.”
Monroe’s expression shifts from confused to amused. “Oh shit, did you hook up with someone from the rival team? That’s bold.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what’s it like?”
Garrett debates how much to say. Monroe is a good guy, not a gossip, but this feels too personal to share. Too raw.
“I just need to find her,” Garrett says finally. “It’s important.”
Monroe studies him for a long moment, then shrugs. “Alright, man. BU kids are all over Comm Ave and Kenmore. There’s this coffee shop called Pavement that’s always packed with journalism and comm students — it’s right on Commonwealth, you can’t miss it. There’s also The Castle, this pub on Brighton Ave that does trivia on Wednesday nights. And if she’s into the athletic crowd, they’re usually at The Dugout on game days.”
“Yeah, it’s like, the spot. Everyone’s always in there working on articles or whatever.”
Something clicks in Garrett’s brain. Your Instagram bio. Journalism.
“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”
“Sure. Good luck with your mysterious BU girl.” Monroe grins. “Let me know if you need a wingman.”
“I will.”
Garrett grabs his bag and heads out before anyone else can ask questions. His car is parked in the lot behind the arena, and he sits in the driver’s seat for a minute, engine running, heat blasting.
He pulls up Pavement Coffee on Google Maps. It’s a twenty-minute drive from Briar. He could go now. Could drive over there and camp out and wait to see if you show up.
But then what? Walk up to you? Say what, exactly? Hey, I saw your boyfriend abusing you last night and I’ve been stalking your Instagram all day, want to grab a coffee and talk about your trauma?
Garrett drops his head against the steering wheel.
This is insane. He knows it’s insane. You’re a stranger. You probably don’t want his help. You probably think he’s some white knight psycho who needs to mind his own business.
But he can’t stop seeing your face. Can’t stop thinking about the way you looked at him like he was your last hope and then watched him walk away.
His phone buzzes. Text from Tucker: Be back for dinner? I promised to make wings.
Garrett texts back: Can’t tonight. Have something to do.
Tucker: Everything ok?
Garrett: Yeah. Just need to take care of something.
He puts the car in drive and heads toward Boston, toward Pavement Coffee, toward you.
He doesn’t let himself think about what he’s going to do when he finds you.
He just knows he has to try.
***
Pavement Coffee is exactly what Monroe described — packed with students hunched over laptops, the air thick with the smell of espresso and stress. Garrett stands in the doorway for a moment, scanning the crowd, heart hammering against his ribs.
He almost doesn’t see you.
You’re tucked into a corner table near the window, laptop open, surrounded by papers and highlighters and what looks like a half-empty cup of something that’s probably gone cold. Your hair is down today, falling like a curtain around your face, and you’re wearing an oversized BU sweatshirt that swallows your frame. From this distance, you look like any other college student cramming for an exam or working on an assignment.
But Garrett knows better now.
He weaves through the crowded café, dodging backpacks and chairs, his palms suddenly sweating. He hasn’t thought this through. Hasn’t planned what to say. All the speeches he rehearsed in his car on the drive over evaporate the moment he’s standing in front of your table.
You don’t notice him at first. You’re too focused on whatever you’re reading, highlighter poised mid-air, bottom lip caught between your teeth in concentration.
Garrett clears his throat.
Nothing.
He pulls out the chair across from you and sits down.
That gets your attention.
You look up, and for a split second, there’s confusion in your eyes — like you’re trying to place where you know him from. Then recognition hits, and Garrett watches your entire body go rigid. The highlighter slips from your fingers. Your eyes go wide, that same terror from the parking lot flooding back into them.
“Please don’t-” Your voice comes out in a whisper, barely audible over the ambient noise of the café. “Please, you can’t—he’ll-”
“Hey, hey.” Garrett raises both hands, palms out, like he’s approaching a spooked horse. “It’s okay. I’m not here to cause trouble. I just want to talk.”
“You need to leave.” Your eyes dart toward the door, then back to him, then to the other customers like you’re checking to see if anyone’s watching. “If Cameron finds out-”
“He’s not here.”
“That doesn’t matter.” You’re gathering your stuff now, shoving papers into your bag with shaking hands. “He has friends everywhere. Someone could see us. Someone could tell him-”
“Then let them.” Garrett leans forward, keeping his voice low and calm. “What’s the worst he can do?”
The look you give him is so devastated it makes his chest ache.
“You don’t understand,” you say quietly.
“Then help me understand.”
You freeze, hands still on your laptop. For a moment, Garrett thinks you might actually open up. Might tell him everything. But then you shake your head and go back to packing.
“I need to go.”
“Wait. Please.” Garrett reaches across the table like he’s going to touch your hand, then thinks better of it. “Just five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Why?” You look up at him, and there are tears gathering in your eyes now. “Why do you even care? You don’t know me.”
“You’re right. I don’t.” Garrett runs a hand through his hair, trying to find the right words. “But I know what I saw in that parking lot. And I know that if I just let you walk away right now, if I don’t at least try to help, I’m going to regret it for the rest of my life.”
You’re staring at him like he’s speaking a foreign language.
“I’ve seen this before,” Garrett continues, his voice rough. “I’ve watched someone I love get hurt over and over by someone who was supposed to protect them. And I couldn’t stop it. I was too young, too small, too powerless. But I’m not powerless anymore, and neither are you.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” But you’ve stopped packing. Your hands are still on the table, fingers twisted together.
“Don’t I?” Garrett nods toward your neck, where he can see the edge of something dark peeking out from under your sweatshirt collar. “What’s that?”
Instinctively, your hand flies to your neck, pulling the collar up. But it’s too late. Garrett’s already seen it — hand-shaped bruises, finger marks pressed into your skin, covered with what looks like concealer that’s been rubbed away throughout the day.
The rage that floods through him is white-hot and immediate. His hands curl into fists under the table. He wants to find Beck right now, wants to make him feel every ounce of pain he’s inflicted on you, wants to-
“Breathe,” you whisper, and Garrett realizes he’s stopped breathing entirely.
He forces air into his lungs. Forces his hands to unclench. Forces himself to stay seated when every instinct is screaming at him to go find Beck and end this.
“I’m okay,” you say, which is such an obvious lie it would be funny if it weren’t heartbreaking.
“You’re not okay.” Garrett’s voice comes out harder than he intends. “And we both know it.”
You flinch, and immediately he wants to take it back. Wants to rewind and try again with more gentleness, more care.
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—fuck. I’m really bad at this.”
“At what?”
“At …” He gestures vaguely between you. “This. Helping. I don’t know how to do this without being an asshole about it.”
You almost smile. It’s barely there, just a tiny quirk of your lips, but it’s something.
“You’re not an asshole,” you say quietly.
“Beck would probably disagree.”
“Cameron thinks anyone who doesn’t worship him is an asshole.”
It’s the first time you’ve said anything even remotely critical of Beck, and Garrett latches onto it like a lifeline.
“He hurt you.” It’s not a question.
You don’t answer. Just look down at your hands, at the bruises on your wrists that match the ones on your neck.
“How long?” Garrett asks.
“That’s not—I can’t-”
“How long has he been hurting you?”
Your jaw tightens. “It’s complicated.”
“It’s really not.”
“You don’t understand-”
“Then explain it to me.” Garrett leans forward, desperate now. “Because from where I’m sitting, this looks pretty simple. He’s hurting you. You’re letting him. And if you don’t stop this, if you don’t get out, it’s going to kill you.”
“I can’t just leave.” Your voice breaks on the last word.
“Why not?”
“Because-” You stop, swallow hard. “Because he loves me.”
Garrett feels like he’s been punched. “That’s not love.”
“You don’t know him like I do.”
“I know that love doesn’t leave bruises.” Garrett points to your neck, your wrists. “I know that love doesn’t make you look over your shoulder every five seconds. I know that love doesn’t turn someone as bright and alive as you clearly used to be into-” He stops himself, but it’s too late.
“Into what?” Your voice is cold now. “Into what, Garrett?”
He’s surprised you know his name. Surprised and oddly touched.
“Into someone who’s afraid to exist,” he finishes quietly.
You look away, but not before he sees the tears spill over. You wipe them away quickly, angrily, like you’re mad at yourself for showing weakness.
“You looked at my Instagram,” you say.
“Yeah.”
“That’s creepy.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you wanted to work in sports media. I know you had an internship at WEEI. I know you used to smile like you meant it.” Garrett’s voice softens. “I know that girl in those photos wouldn’t recognize the person sitting in front of me right now.”
You’re quiet for a long moment. The café noise fills the silence — the hiss of the espresso machine, the murmur of conversations, the click of laptop keys.
“She’s gone,” you finally whisper.
“She’s not. She’s just hiding.”
“You don’t understand what it’s like.” You look up at him, and the devastation in your eyes is unbearable. “He didn’t start out this way. He was sweet. He was charming. He made me feel special, like I was the only person in the world who mattered. And then gradually, so slowly I didn’t even notice at first, things changed. He started criticizing little things. The way I dressed. The way I talked to other guys. My friends. My ambitions. He said it was because he cared. Because he wanted me to be the best version of myself.”
Garrett’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“And I believed him,” you continue, your voice getting smaller. “I thought if I just tried harder, if I just did what he wanted, things would go back to how they were. But they never did. They just got worse. And by the time I realized what was happening, I was so isolated, so cut off from everyone who might have helped me, that I didn’t know how to get out.”
“You get out by leaving.”
“I tried.” The words come out in a rush. “Twice. Both times he found me. Both times he convinced me to come back. He cried, Garrett. He got down on his knees and cried and promised he’d change and I believed him because I wanted to believe him.”
“And did he change?”
You laugh, but it’s a broken sound. “What do you think?”
Garrett wants to flip the table. Wants to scream. Wants to grab you by the shoulders and shake you until you understand that you deserve better than this, deserve better than him.
But he knows that won’t help. Knows from watching his mom that you can’t force someone to leave. They have to choose it themselves.
“If you go back to him,” Garrett says carefully, “you’re going to die. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually. Either he’ll kill you, or he’ll kill everything that makes you you until you’re just this empty shell going through the motions. Is that what you want?”
“Of course that’s not what I want.” Your voice cracks.
“Then leave.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“You don’t understand-”
“My mom said the same thing.” The words are out before Garrett can stop them.
You go still.
“She said she couldn’t leave my dad,” Garrett continues, staring at a spot on the table between them. “Said it was complicated. Said he didn’t mean it. Said things would get better. She said that right up until the day she died.”
“Garrett-”
“Cancer,” he says. “Lung cancer. And you want to know the fucked up thing? When she was in the hospital, when she was dying, he still found ways to hurt her. Still found ways to make her feel small and worthless. And she let him. Right up until the end, she let him.”
He looks up, meets your eyes.
“I was eleven when she died,” he says. “And I spent the next ten years hating myself for not being able to save her. For not being strong enough or brave enough or smart enough to make her leave. But the truth is, I couldn’t have saved her. She had to save herself. And she never did.”
You’re crying openly now, tears streaming down your face.
“Don’t be her,” Garrett says, his voice urgent. “Don’t be the person who gives up everything for someone who doesn’t deserve it. Don’t let him win.”
“I’m scared,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“He’ll come after me.”
“Let him.” Garrett’s voice hardens. “And when he does, you call the cops. You get a restraining order. You press charges for assault. You do whatever it takes.”
“It’s not that simple-”
“It is that simple. You just don’t want it to be.”
The words hang between you like an accusation. Garrett knows he’s pushed too hard, knows he’s being too aggressive, knows he should back off and try a gentler approach.
But he’s so fucking tired of watching people destroy themselves for love that isn’t love at all.
You shake your head. It’s the tiniest movement, barely perceptible, but Garrett sees it. Sees the resignation in your eyes, the defeat.
You’re not going to leave.
Not today. Maybe not ever.
The realization settles over him like a weight.
“Okay,” he says finally, sitting back in his chair. He wipes a hand down his face, exhausted suddenly. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
“Don’t apologize to me. I’m not the one you’re hurting.”
You flinch like he’s slapped you.
Garrett reaches across the table, grabs one of your pens before you can stop him. He pulls a napkin from the dispenser and scribbles something on it, then slides it across to you.
“That’s my number,” he says. “When — not if, when — things get bad enough that you’re ready to leave, you call me. Day or night, I don’t care. You call me and I will help you. I will come get you, I will find you a safe place to stay, I will stand between you and him if I have to. But you have to make the choice. You have to be the one to decide you’ve had enough.”
You stare at the napkin like it’s a bomb.
“Take it,” Garrett says.
Slowly, hesitantly, you reach out and pull the napkin toward you. Your fingers brush his for just a second and Garrett feels something electric pass between you. Recognition, maybe. Or possibility.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
“Don’t thank me yet.” Garrett stands, shouldering his backpack. “Thank me when you use it.”
He starts to walk away, then stops. Turns back.
“You said he didn’t start out this way,” Garrett says. “That he was sweet and charming and made you feel special.”
You nod.
“That’s what they all do,” Garrett says. “That’s how they get you to stay. They show you the person they could be, and you spend the rest of the relationship trying to get back to that version. But that person was never real. It was just bait.”
He can see from your expression that the words land. That some part of you knows he’s right.
“I hope you figure that out before it’s too late,” Garrett says.
Then he walks to the counter, cutting through the line with an apologetic nod to the students waiting. The barista looks annoyed until Garrett starts talking.
“See that girl in the corner?” Garrett nods toward you. “Blue sweatshirt, by the window?”
The barista glances over. “Yeah?”
“I want to buy her a drink. Whatever your best latte is. And …” Garrett scans the pastry case. “That cranberry scone.”
“You want me to bring it to her?”
“Yeah. Don’t tell her who it’s from.”
The barista looks skeptical. “Dude, if this is some creepy stalker thing-”
“It’s not. I promise. She’s …” Garrett struggles for the right words. “She’s having a hard time. I just want to do something nice for her.”
Something in his expression must convince the barista because he shrugs and rings up the order. Garrett pays, leaves a generous tip, and steps away from the counter.
He looks back one more time.
You’re still sitting at the table, the napkin with his number clutched in your hand. You’re staring at it like it’s the answer to a question you haven’t figured out how to ask yet.
Your coffee has gone cold. Your laptop is closed. Your papers are still scattered across the table, but you’re not working anymore. You’re just … sitting there. Existing in whatever complicated hell Beck has created for you.
Garrett wants to go back. Wants to sit down and try again, find better words, make you understand.
But he knows that won’t help. Knows he’s already said everything he can say. The rest is up to you.
So he turns and walks out into the February cold.
***
You sit at the table long after Garrett leaves, his words echoing in your head.
Don’t be her. Don’t be the person who gives up everything for someone who doesn’t deserve it.
Your hands are shaking. The napkin with his number is crumpled from how hard you’re gripping it. Your chest feels tight, like there’s not enough air in the room, and you can’t stop crying even though you’re in public, even though people are starting to stare.
You know he’s right. God, you know he’s right.
But knowing something and being able to do something about it are two different things.
“Excuse me?”
You look up. The barista is standing there with a latte and a scone on a small plate.
“I didn’t order this,” you say, your voice hoarse.
“Someone bought it for you.” He sets it down on your table.
“Who?”
The barista just shrugs and walks away.
But you know. Of course you know.
You look toward the door, but Garrett’s already gone. Just the ghost of him, the weight of his words, the impossible choice he’s asked you to make.
The latte is still hot. The scone looks fresh. It’s such a small gesture, such a simple kindness, and somehow it breaks something open inside you.
You pull out your phone with trembling fingers.
You should delete his number. Should throw the napkin away. Should pretend this conversation never happened and go back to Cameron and the safe, familiar horror of your life.
But instead, you carefully input the numbers into your contacts.
You save it under a name Cameron won’t recognize if he looks. Boston Pizza.
Then you put your phone away, pick up the latte, and take a sip.
It’s perfect.
And that almost makes it worse.
Because now you know there’s someone out there who sees you. Really sees you. Who looked past the makeup and the excuses and the carefully constructed lies and saw the truth.
Someone who cares enough to try to save you.
Even if you’re not ready to save yourself.
You sit there until the latte goes cold again, turning Garrett’s words over and over in your mind.
When things get bad enough that you’re ready to leave, you call me.
Not if. When.
Like he has faith in you that you don’t have in yourself.
You pick up the scone and take a bite.
It tastes like possibility.
And that’s the most terrifying thing of all.
***
You make it back to your dorm around 8:00 PM, the latte from Pavement long gone but the napkin still in your tote bag. You tucked it into the side pocket, hidden beneath a pack of gum and your lip balm, somewhere Cameron would never think to look.
Except Cameron always thinks to look.
He’s waiting for you when you open the door to your room, sitting on your bed like he owns the place. Your roommate Julie is nowhere to be seen, which means she either left or he made her leave. Your money’s on the latter.
“Hey, babe.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Where’ve you been?”
Your heart starts hammering. “Library. Studying.”
“Really? Because I texted you like three hours ago and you didn’t respond.”
You pull out your phone, check your messages. Sure enough, there’s a text from Cameron from 5:32 PM. Where are you? You were at Pavement then, talking to Garrett, too distracted to check your phone.
“I had my phone on silent,” you say, which is true. “I didn’t see it. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry.” Cameron stands up, and the temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. “You’re sorry that you ignored me for three hours?”
“I wasn’t ignoring you, I was studying-”
“Bullshit.” He’s across the room in three strides, grabbing your tote bag before you can stop him. “Let me see your phone.”
“Cameron, come on-”
“Let. Me. See. Your. Phone.”
You hand it over with shaking hands because refusing will only make this worse. He scrolls through your messages, your calls, your social media.
“Library, huh?” Cameron looks up from your phone. “Then why do you have a text from Julie asking if you’re still at that coffee shop?”
Fuck. You forgot about that text.
“I stopped for coffee on my way to the library,” you say quickly. “I was only there for like twenty minutes-”
“Don’t fucking lie to me.”
He throws your phone onto the bed and starts rifling through your tote bag. Books, pens, highlighters, notebooks — everything gets dumped onto the floor. You watch in horror as his hand closes around the side pocket.
“Cameron, please-”
He pulls out the napkin.
For a moment, he just stares at it. At the ten digits written in Garrett’s messy handwriting. Then he looks at you, and the rage in his eyes makes your blood run cold.
“What the fuck is this?”
“It’s nothing-”
“WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?”
You flinch, stumbling backward until you hit the wall. “I can explain-”
“You’re cheating on me.” His voice is eerily calm now, which is somehow worse than the yelling. “You’re fucking cheating on me.”
“I’m not, I swear-”
“Then whose number is this?”
“Nobody’s-”
“WHOSE FUCKING NUMBER IS IT?”
“A guy from the coffee shop!” The lie spills out in a rush. “He was hitting on me and I took his number to be nice but I was going to throw it away, I swear-”
“You expect me to believe that?” Cameron crumples the napkin in his fist. “You expect me to believe that you just happened to run into some random guy at a coffee shop and he gave you his number and you kept it?”
“I didn’t keep it, I forgot about it-”
“Stop lying!”
He’s on you before you can react, hand closing around your throat, slamming you back against the wall. Your vision goes spotty immediately, your lungs screaming for air.
“Cameron—can’t—breathe-”
“You made me do this,” he hisses, his face inches from yours. “You made me into the bad guy. All I’ve ever done is love you, and this is how you repay me? By whoring around behind my back?”
“Not—cheating-” you manage to gasp out.
His grip loosens slightly, just enough for you to suck in a desperate breath. Then his other hand comes up and slaps you across the face so hard your ears ring.
“Don’t lie to me!” Another slap. “Don’t you fucking lie to me!”
You’re crying now, trying to twist away, but he’s got you pinned. His hand goes back to your throat, squeezing harder this time, and the edges of your vision start to go dark.
This is it, some distant part of your brain thinks. This is how you die.
Cameron’s face swims in and out of focus above you. He’s saying something but you can’t hear it over the roaring in your ears. Your lungs are burning. Your fingers claw uselessly at his hands.
And then, like a gift from whatever god might still be listening, his grip shifts. Loosens just enough that you can move.
You bring your knee up as hard as you can.
It connects perfectly.
Cameron makes a sound like all the air has been punched out of his lungs and stumbles backward, hands going to his crotch. You don’t wait. Don’t think. Just grab your phone from the bed and run.
“You bitch-” Cameron’s voice follows you into the hallway. “Get back here!”
But you’re already running, flying down the stairs because the elevator is too slow, too risky. You can hear him behind you, cursing, his footsteps heavy and angry.
You burst out of the dorm building into the February night. It’s freezing — you’re not wearing a coat, just your sweatshirt and jeans — but you don’t stop. Can’t stop. If he catches you, he’ll kill you. You know that now with absolute certainty.
You run down Commonwealth Avenue, dodging other students, nearly getting hit by a car. Behind you, you can still hear Cameron shouting your name.
Your phone is clutched in your hand. You fumble with it as you run, trying to unlock it with shaking fingers. The cold is making everything harder. Your hands won’t work right.
Finally, the screen unlocks.
You pull up your contacts, scroll frantically until you find it. Boston Pizza.
You hit call.
It rings once. Twice. Three times.
Pick up, you think desperately. Please pick up please pick up please-
“Hello?”
Garrett’s voice, rough with sleep, is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.
You try to speak but all that comes out is a sob.
“Hello? Who is this?”
“Garrett-” Your voice cracks. “It’s—it’s me-”
There’s a pause. “Y/N?”
“Please-” You’re running down a side street now, looking for somewhere to hide. “Please, I need-”
“What’s wrong?” His voice changes completely, all traces of sleep gone. “Where are you?”
“I don’t know—I’m running—he found the napkin and he-” Another sob cuts you off.
“Slow down. Take a breath. Are you hurt?”
“I think—I think he was going to kill me-”
“Fuck. Okay. Okay, listen to me.” Garrett’s voice is steady, authoritative. “I need you to find somewhere safe. A store, a dorm building, anywhere with people. Can you do that?”
“I’m trying-” You’re on Brighton Ave now, you think. Everything looks unfamiliar in the dark. “All the buildings are locked-”
“Keep trying. Share your location with me. Do you know how to do that?”
“Yes—hold on-”
You pull the phone away from your ear, fumbling through the menus with numb fingers. Finally, you find the option and send him your location.
“Got it,” Garrett says. “I’m leaving right now. I’ll be there in twenty minutes, maybe less. Stay on the phone with me, okay? Don’t hang up.”
“Okay.” You’re in front of an apartment building now. You try the door. Locked. “Fuck!”
“What?”
“The building’s locked. They all need codes-”
“Try another one. Just keep moving.”
You run to the next building. Also locked. The next one. Locked.
Behind you, somewhere in the darkness, you hear Cameron calling your name.
Panic surges through you. “He’s coming—I can hear him-”
“Stay calm. Keep trying the doors.”
The fourth building — a newer apartment complex with a fancy glass entrance — you try the handle and nearly cry with relief when it opens.
“I’m in—I found one-”
“Good. Where are you exactly?”
“The lobby. There’s nobody here-”
“Hide. Find a corner or a hallway or something. Stay out of sight.”
You look around frantically. The lobby is all glass and exposed, but there’s a hallway to the left that leads to what looks like a mail room. You duck around the corner, pressing yourself against the wall.
“I’m hidden,” you whisper.
“Good. Good girl. I’m in my car. I’m coming as fast as I can.”
You can hear the engine revving through the phone. The sound is oddly comforting.
“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice small. “I’m so sorry-”
“Don’t apologize. You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I should have listened to you. I should have left-”
“We’ll talk about that later. Right now I just need you to stay safe, okay? Stay on the phone with me. I’m about fifteen minutes away.”
You slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the floor, knees pulled to your chest. Your whole body is shaking — from cold, from fear, from adrenaline crash. Your throat hurts where Cameron choked you. Your face throbs where he hit you.
“Talk to me,” Garrett says. “I need to know you’re okay.”
“I’m here. I’m-” Your voice breaks. “I’m so scared.”
“I know. I know you are. But you’re safe right now. He doesn’t know where you are.”
“What if he finds me?”
“He won’t. And even if he does, you’re in a building with other people. You can scream. You can call 911.”
“He’ll talk his way out of it. He always does-”
“Not this time.” Garrett’s voice is hard. “Not fucking this time.”
You can hear traffic sounds through the phone, the occasional horn. You try to focus on that instead of the fear clawing at your chest.
“Garrett?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For answering. For coming.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I didn’t know who else to call.”
“I’m glad you called me.” There’s something in his voice — relief, maybe. Or vindication. “I meant what I said. Day or night. You call me.”
You close your eyes, let his voice wash over you. Somewhere above you, you can hear footsteps. Someone’s TV playing too loud. Normal apartment sounds. It helps ground you.
“I’m about twenty minutes away,” Garrett says. “Maybe less. Traffic’s not bad.”
“Are you speeding?”
“Definitely.”
Despite everything, you almost smile. “You’re going to get a ticket.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
The minutes stretch out. You keep listening to Garrett’s breathing on the other end of the line, the sound of his car. It’s the only thing keeping you from completely falling apart.
“Okay, I’m about two minutes out,” Garrett says. “What’s the address of the building you’re in?”
You peek out from behind the corner, looking for a sign or a number. “Um … 6209 Brighton Avenue, I think?”
“Got it. I see it. Stay where you are, I’m pulling up now.”
Thirty seconds later, you hear a car screech to a stop outside. A door slams.
“I’m coming in,” Garrett says.
The front door opens and then he’s there — Garrett Graham in sweatpants and a Briar Hockey hoodie, no coat, hair disheveled like he literally just rolled out of bed. Which he probably did.
You step out from behind the corner.
When Garrett sees you, his entire face changes.
You must look worse than you thought. You can see the horror in his eyes as he takes in your appearance — the handprints on your throat, the swelling on your face, the way you’re shaking so hard you can barely stand.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes.
He starts toward you, hand outstretched, then stops himself. Lets his hand fall.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says softly. “I promise. I just want to help.”
You nod, but you can’t seem to make yourself move.
“Can I come closer?” Garrett asks.
Another nod.
He approaches slowly, carefully, like you’re a wild animal that might bolt. When he’s close enough to touch, he holds out his hand.
“Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”
You take his hand. His skin is warm, his grip gentle but steady. He leads you toward the door, but you balk when you see the street outside.
“What if he’s out there?” Your voice is barely a whisper.
“Then I’ll handle it.” Garrett’s jaw is set, his eyes hard. “He’s not going to touch you again. I promise you that.”
You let him guide you outside, into his car. It’s still running, heat blasting. He opens the passenger door and helps you in like you’re made of glass.
But before he closes the door, you grab his arm.
“What?” Garrett asks.
You can’t put it into words — the gratitude, the relief, the overwhelming sense that this stranger has just saved your life. So you just hold onto his arm for a moment, looking up at him.
“Thank you,” you manage.
His expression softens. “Don’t thank me yet. Let’s just get you somewhere safe.”
He closes your door and runs around to the driver’s side. As soon as he’s in, he locks the doors and checks his mirrors. You can’t help doing the same thing — looking back down the street, expecting to see Cameron appear at any moment.
“He’s not coming,” Garrett says, but his hands are tight on the steering wheel. “And even if he does, I’ll kill him.”
He says it so matter-of-factly that you believe him.
Garrett pulls away from the curb and starts driving. You don’t ask where you’re going. Don’t care. Anywhere is better than where you were.
“I’m taking you to my place,” Garrett says after a few minutes. “I live with my teammates. Three other guys. They’re good people, I promise. You’ll be safe there.”
“Okay.”
“In the morning, we can figure out next steps. Police report, restraining order, whatever you want to do. But tonight, you just need to rest.”
You nod, but the word makes your stomach churn. Cameron’s parents are lawyers. Rich, connected lawyers. The last time you tried to leave, he threatened to have them destroy you. Said they’d make you look crazy, make sure no one believed you.
And you believed him. Just like you believed everything else.
“Hey.” Garrett glances over at you. “You with me?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
The drive to Garrett’s place takes about fifteen minutes. He lives in a house off-campus, the kind of place that definitely houses multiple hockey players based on the Briar Hockey flags in the windows and the hockey sticks on the porch.
He parks in the driveway and turns to you.
“Okay, so fair warning: the place is kind of a mess. We’re college guys. But it’s safe, I promise.”
“I don’t care about the mess.”
“Good.” He gets out, comes around to your door, and opens it for you.
You follow him up the walkway, up the porch steps. Your legs feel like jelly. The adrenaline is wearing off and everything hurts.
Garrett unlocks the door and leads you inside. The house is dark except for the kitchen light. It’s quiet — everyone’s probably asleep.
“Let me give you the quick tour,” Garrett says softly. “Living room, kitchen, bathroom’s down that hall. Upstairs are the bedrooms. Mine’s the second door on the left.”
“I can sleep on the couch-”
“No.” His voice is firm. “You’re taking my room.”
“Garrett, I can’t-”
“Yes, you can. It’s got a lock on the inside if you want to feel safer. Clean sheets, bathroom right next door. I’ll bunk with Logan.”
You’re too tired to argue. Too broken to do anything but nod.
He leads you upstairs. The hallway is covered in hockey photos and what looks like a championship banner. Garrett’s room is at the end, exactly as he described.
It’s neater than you expected. A queen-sized bed with navy sheets. A desk covered in textbooks and hockey equipment. A Briar Hockey poster on the wall.
“Bathroom’s through there,” Garrett says, pointing to a door. “There should be towels and stuff. I can get you some clothes to sleep in-”
“This is fine.” You’re still in your sweatshirt and jeans, but the thought of changing feels impossible right now.
“Okay. Well, if you need anything, I’ll be with Logan. His room is the first door on the right. Just knock.”
You nod.
Garrett lingers in the doorway, looking like he wants to say something else. “You did the right thing. Calling me. Running. You saved your own life tonight.”
The words hit you harder than they should. You feel tears pricking at your eyes again.
“Get some sleep,” Garrett says gently. “We’ll figure everything else out in the morning.”
He closes the door behind him, and you’re alone.
You stand in the middle of his room for a long moment, just breathing. Then you go to the door and turn the lock. The click is oddly reassuring.
You should probably shower. Should probably wash the day off. But you can’t seem to make yourself move. Instead, you sink onto Garrett’s bed, still fully clothed, and pull the blanket around yourself.
It smells like him — clean, masculine, safe.
You close your eyes and let yourself cry.
***
Garrett makes it to Logan’s room and closes the door before he loses it.
“Dude, what the fuck-” Logan sits up in bed, squinting at him. “It’s like 1 AM-”
“I need to bunk with you tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s someone in my room.”
That wakes Logan up. “What?”
Garrett runs both hands through his hair, pacing. “That girl. From the parking lot. Beck’s girlfriend. She called me. He hurt her, Logan. Really fucking hurt her.”
“Shit. Is she okay?”
“I don’t know. She’s-” Garrett’s voice cracks. “You should see her throat. He strangled her. She’s got bruises all over her face, her neck. If she hadn’t gotten away-”
“Fuck.”
“I want to kill him.” Garrett’s hands are shaking now, adrenaline and rage coursing through him. “I want to find him and beat him so badly he never gets up again.”
“Garrett-”
“I should have done more. At the parking lot. I should have made her leave then-”
“You did what you could.”
“It wasn’t enough!” Garrett slams his fist into the wall, then immediately regrets it when pain shoots up his arm.
Logan gets out of bed, walks over to him. “Look at me. Look at me, G.”
Garrett forces himself to meet Logan’s eyes.
“She called you,” Logan says. “When she was in trouble, when she needed help, she called you. That means you did everything right. You gave her an option and she took it. That’s huge.”
Garrett wants to believe that. Wants to believe he did enough. But all he can see is your face — the terror, the pain, the way you flinched when he reached for you.
“She looks like she’s halfway to dead,” Garrett says quietly.
“But she’s not dead. She’s here. She’s safe.”
“For now.”
“For now is all we’ve got.” Logan claps him on the shoulder. “Come on. You can take the beanbag.”
“I’m not sleeping.”
“Fine. Then you can not-sleep on the beanbag.”
Garrett collapses into the oversized beanbag chair in the corner of Logan’s room. It’s not comfortable, but he barely notices. His mind is racing, playing the phone call over and over. The sound of your voice — terrified, desperate. The way you were gasping for breath.
The fact that you thought Beck was going to kill you.
Because he was. Garrett knows that now with certainty. If you hadn’t fought back, if you hadn’t gotten away, Beck would have killed you.
“What are you going to do?” Logan asks from his bed.
“I don’t know. Call the cops. Get her a restraining order. Press charges.”
“You think she’ll do it?”
“I don’t know.”
That’s the truth. You’re terrified of Beck, terrified of his family’s power, terrified of what he’ll do if you fight back. Garrett’s seen it before — the way abuse victims get trapped in this cycle of fear and dependency.
His mom never pressed charges against his dad. Not once. Even when she had evidence, even when people offered to help, she always backed down.
And look where that got her.
“He’s going to come looking for her,” Garrett says.
“Then we’ll deal with it.”
“We?”
“You think I’m going to let some abusive piece of shit show up at our house?” Logan’s voice is hard. “Fuck that. He tries anything, he’s going through me, Dean, and Tucker. And you know Tucker will lose his shit.”
Despite everything, Garrett almost smiles.
“We should tell them,” Garrett says. “In the morning. They need to know.”
“Agreed.”
Garrett leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. But every time he does, he sees you — trembling in that apartment lobby, handprints on your throat, looking at him like he’s the only thing standing between you and death.
“I should have done more,” he says again.
“You did enough.”
But it doesn’t feel like enough. It feels like he’s still that seven-year-old kid watching his mom get hurt and being powerless to stop it.
Except this time, he’s not powerless.
This time, he can fight back.
And if Cameron Beck shows his face anywhere near you again, Garrett’s going to make sure he regrets it.
Synopsis: What starts as a simple repair turns into late-night diner runs, coffee deliveries to the garage, and a growing attachment neither of you expects. Logan likes that you talk too much when you're nervous. You like that Logan becomes softer when nobody’s watching.
But as pressure mounts with Logan's hockey career and real life starts pulling at you from opposite directions, you begin to wonder if you’re just a temporary stop in Logan’s fast-moving future.
And Logan realizes far too late that somewhere between oil stains and midnight drives, you became the closest thing he’s ever had to home.
pairing – garrett graham x reader
notes from me – i know i usually only write rafe/drew but i'm on my second rewatch of off campus and i couldn't help myself!!
warnings – alcohol, drunken silliness, soft/protective garrett, party chaos, mild innuendo
word count – 4.1k
navigation – masterlist
The thing about Garrett Graham being on a one-drink limit was that it made him unbearably observant.
Usually, at parties like this, Garrett was loud in the easy way he always was when the room already liked him. Leaning against the kitchen island with a red cup in one hand, shoulder knocked against Logan’s while Tucker said something dry enough to make both of them laugh through their noses, still getting pulled into conversations every two minutes by guys who remembered Briar had a game tomorrow and thought “bury those assholes” counted as both analysis and encouragement.
He was still doing that, still smiling when somebody slapped his shoulder on the way past. Still nodding along when a freshman he vaguely knew started talking at him about the power play with the intense glassy-eyed sincerity of a man who had consumed too much cheap vodka and exactly one hockey podcast. Still charming people mostly by accident, because Garrett had never once walked into a room and thought maybe he should make himself smaller for everybody else’s sake.
But sober Garrett had range. Unfortunately for her, sober Garrett noticed things.
He noticed when Logan’s cup went from beer to something stronger. Not his problem. He noticed Dean talking with both hands while Allie stood tucked under his arm, laughing like she knew whatever came out of his mouth next was going to be either stupid or actionable. Also not his problem.
He noticed Tucker quietly moving somebody’s drink away from the edge of the counter before it got knocked onto the floor, because Tucker had always possessed the exhausting dignity of a man born already tired of everyone’s shit.
And he noticed the exact second his girlfriend put one hand on the kitchen bench again. That was his problem.
He’d already stopped this exact mission twice in the last ten minutes, which felt excessive for a girl who kept insisting she was literally fine while blinking a little too slowly and smiling at him like the lights had all gone soft around the edges.
The first time, he’d caught her by the waist and set her back on the floor with a calm, captainly, “Nope,” said close to her ear. The second time, he’d stepped between her and the counter like a very attractive barricade while she pouted at him like he'd personally cancelled fun.
Now she was trying again, because, apparently, the second a vodka cranberry and an Ariana Grande song got into the same room, her ability to retain recent history collapsed entirely.
Her skirt was too short for climbing. It was probably too short for several forms of normal standing, if Garrett was being honest, but that was between him, God, and the part of his brain currently doing threat assessment on behalf of her underwear.
Her heels were tall enough that Allie had called them hot but fucking dangerous when they arrived, and now one of them scraped against the cabinet front as she lifted her knee with absolutely no concern for balance, modesty, or Garrett’s long-term cardiovascular health.
Dean, from the other side of the kitchen, had been waiting for this. Garrett could feel it in the air. The man had made three separate comments about keeping her away from elevated surfaces and then looked personally enriched every time Garrett told him to shut the fuck up.
Garrett moved before the room really had time to understand what was happening. One second he was beside Logan, cup loose in his hand. The next he was behind her, cup abandoned somewhere near the sink, palm landing firm and warm against the back of her thigh as he tugged the hem of her skirt down with the grim focus of a man handling something highly flammable.
“Yeah, nope,” he said, low against her shoulder, his voice amused even as his hand stayed where it was. “Not doin’ that.”
She turned around like she'd been caught doing something cute instead of deeply stupid, her face bright with that pleased, unfocused warmth she got when the room had started moving a little faster than she could keep up with and Garrett was suddenly close enough to touch.
Her hands went straight to his chest, fingers sliding up the front of his shirt with drunken affection and absolutely no subtlety, and she beamed at him like she hadn't seen him in months. “Baby!”
Garrett looked down at her hands, then back at her face, his mouth twitching. “Hi.”
“Where were you?”
“Right there.” He nodded vaguely over his shoulder, where Logan had turned to watch them with the exact expression of a man who would rather die than become useful. “Saw you, like, ten seconds ago.”
“Oh.” She seemed to consider this very seriously, brows knitting for one whole beat before her face opened again, delighted by the rediscovery. “Hi.”
“Yeah, we did that part.”
She smiled anyway, her hands still sitting flat against his chest like she had every right to keep them there. Which she did. That was becoming a problem, actually. The newness of it. The fact that they were together enough now for people to know, for her to touch him without pretending it was accidental, for him to stand in a crowded kitchen the night before a game with one beer in his system and her skirt in his hand like this was a normal responsibility a man could acquire through dating.
She swayed into him. A small tilt of her weight, the kind someone else might have missed if they were drunker or less embarrassingly tuned to her. Garrett’s hand tightened at her waist before she seemed to notice she’d moved at all.
“Okay,” he said, dragging the word out in warning. “Bar stool. Right now.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re beautiful.”
Her eyes narrowed at him, suspicious and visibly pleased. “That’s not what I said.”
“No, but it worked better.” He turned her neatly by the hips before she could decide the counter still had unfinished business with her. “Sit.”
She made a noise of offence, but she let him guide her onto the stool, mostly because it was already there and because Garrett’s hands were warm and annoyingly sure and doing that thing where they seemed to make decisions for her body a full second before her brain managed to file an objection.
The room tilted pleasantly when she sat. The bass pushed through the kitchen floor and up into the bones of her legs. Someone had spilled beer near the fridge and the tile caught lightly under the heel she kept tapping against the stool rung. Across the room, Allie was tucked into Dean’s side, laughing at something Tucker said while Dean looked over her head with the bright, vicious joy of someone watching Garrett suffer a romantic inconvenience in real time.
Garrett went to the sink and filled a plastic cup with water. He came back holding it out like evidence.
She reached for it.
He lifted it just out of range.
She blinked at him.
His face went blank in that innocent way that always meant he was about to become deeply irritating. “What?”
“Gimme.”
“I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m trying.”
She pouted. “You’re being mean.”
“I’m providing medical care.”
“You’re making me work for water, Garrett.”
His laugh came out before he could stop it, quick and real, his head ducking for half a second as if he was genuinely annoyed with himself for enjoying her this much. He lowered the cup again. She reached. He moved it left. Her fingers closed around absolutely nothing.
“Garrett.”
“Reflexes are a little rough tonight, huh?”
“I will break up with you.”
“No, you won’t.” He brought the cup close again, then jerked it back when she lunged, and she burst into giggles so hard her knee knocked against his thigh.
“Baby, this is bleak. This is like watching a kitten lose a fight with a shoelace.”
“I hate you.”
He finally let her take it, but only after wrapping his hand around hers to steady the cup because she came in too fast and almost sent half of it down her front. “Slow. Drink it like you’ve used a mouth before.”
She glared at him over the rim while she drank, which would have worked better if he hadn’t still been holding the cup with her. The water was cold enough to make her teeth ache, cutting through the sugary film of whatever Allie had mixed earlier and landing hard in the warm, spinning centre of her stomach.
Garrett watched her with his head tipped slightly, all amused mouth and attentive eyes, and she hated, immediately and deeply, how much she liked it. Not the fussing, she would deny enjoying the fussing until the end of time. But the way he did it. Like he could tease her without making her feel stupid. Like the joke was never that she was embarrassing him. Like he had simply accepted that she was drunk, pretty, badly behaved, and his to keep upright for the next hour.
His hand settled on her thigh while she drank, thumb resting just under the edge of her skirt, not doing anything much except being there. The contact was casual enough to look like nothing from the outside. From inside her body, it had weight. A small, steady point in a room full of noise.
Someone yelled his name from the living room. “Graham!”
Garrett turned his head. “What?”
A couple of hockey guys were waving him over, one of them yelling something about the line changes tomorrow and another immediately shouting over him that they were not talking strategy at a party because some of us actually know how to live.
Garrett’s attention shifted for barely two seconds. Barely. His hand left her knee. His shoulders angled away. And then the opening presented itself. It wasn't her fault. It really wasn’t. Because Ariana came on.
The song that reached into the middle of her chest and hit whatever drunk, glittery emergency button existed in girls at parties. The one that made Allie gasp from across the room and point at her because Allie understood. Allie knew. This was not about Garrett and his very boring anti-countertop agenda anymore. This was bigger than him. This was practically civic duty.
She set the water down very carefully, which felt mature enough to balance the scales of whatever happened next, and slid off the stool.
Dean noticed first. Dean noticed anything with potential for either nudity or injury, especially if both were being offered at once.
His whole face lit up. “Wooo!” he shouted, lifting his cup. “Get up there!”
Allie smacked him in the stomach, laughing even as she did it. “Don't encourage her.”
“What? I’m supporting women.”
“You’re supporting Garrett committing murder.”
Dean’s grin widened.
Garrett turned.
The timing was, unfortunately, beautiful. Her knee was already on the counter. One hand braced against the surface. Her skirt was doing its absolute best in conditions no garment that short should ever have been expected to survive.
She looked back over her shoulder at the exact moment Garrett’s expression shifted from distracted amusement to flat, immediate disbelief.
His cup was gone again. Nobody knew where he kept putting them. One second his hands were empty; the next they were on her waist.
“Alright,” he said, hauling her backward before the second knee could get involved. “We’re done here.”
She made a sound that was half laugh, half protest, her feet finding the floor with such minimal commitment to the task that he had to catch more of her weight.
“We’re done.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You were halfway to a public incident.”
She furrowed her brow, glaring up at him. “I was dancing.”
“You were climbing furniture.”
“For art.”
“For urgent care.” He bent a little to look into her face, and fuck, he was so annoying like this. So sure of himself. So warm around the edges of his authority that it made arguing with him feel less like resistance and more like foreplay’s better-behaved cousin. “Up we go.”
Her eyes widened. “Where?”
“Anywhere that isn’t this kitchen.”
“Garrett, no–”
But she was already laughing, because he had that look. The one that said he had made a decision and her role in the next thirty seconds was mostly decorative. His arm slid around the backs of her thighs, the other braced firm at her waist, and before she could do anything more strategic than clutch at his shirt, the whole kitchen flipped.
Light, ceiling, cabinets, Logan’s deeply entertained face, Dean’s open-mouthed delight. All of it went upside down in one warm, dizzy rush as Garrett threw her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing and he had reached the end of negotiations.
She shrieked.
Everyone cheered.
“Garrett!”
“Yup.” He adjusted his hold like this was a normal thing to be doing in somebody’s kitchen, one hand firm across the backs of her thighs, the other keeping her skirt decent. “That’s my name.”
She smacked his back, badly, mostly because she was laughing too hard to aim. “Put me down!”
“No.”
“I’m serious!”
“You’re drunk and upside down. You’re not serious.”
Dean was losing his mind across the room, bent halfway over Allie’s shoulder while she tried and failed to look disapproving. Logan lifted his cup with solemn respect. Tucker, because he had chosen betrayal, called, “Honestly, I think this is the safest option available.”
“I hate all of you,” she announced to the kitchen, though it came out wobbly with laughter because Garrett had started walking and every step made her bounce lightly against his shoulder.
Garrett paused in the doorway and turned just enough for the room to see her dangling there, hair falling toward the floor, cheeks hot, both hands planted uselessly against his back while her skirt remained under the firm jurisdiction of his palm.
“Say goodnight, everyone,” he said.
She lifted her head with great effort, spotted Allie first, then Dean, then Logan, then the blurry, bright collection of cups and boys and bad decisions behind them, and waved with both hands like she was leaving a pageant. “Goodnight, everyone!”
The kitchen erupted again. Dean actually clapped. Allie blew her a kiss. Logan yelled, “Hydrate!” with the confidence of a man who had not had water since Thursday.
Garrett carried her through the house, past the crush of bodies in the hallway, past two people making out badly against the wall by the stairs, past somebody’s abandoned jacket and an open front door letting in a thin slice of cold night air.
The music followed them out in pieces, bass first, then voices, then the muffled whole of the party dropping behind them as Garrett stepped onto the porch and the night came up around her bare legs.
The air sharpened everything at the edges. Damp grass. Car exhaust. The metallic bite of early spring. Garrett’s cologne caught in the cotton of his shirt where her cheek had ended up pressed against his back.
For a few seconds she kept wriggling on principle, because it seemed important for the record that she hadn't gone quietly. Then the path dipped slightly and the world swung with it, and she decided stillness had a lot going for it.
Halfway down the walk, she stopped struggling altogether and just hung there, arms loose, one heel slipping lower on her foot.
“Babe,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“You have a nice butt.”
Garrett did not miss a step. “Thanks, baby.”
“Like, really nice.”
“I know.”
She gasped, offended despite having introduced the subject herself. “You’re so cocky.”
“You’re upside down staring at my ass and giving live commentary. I feel like the confidence is evidence-based.”
She giggled again, softer this time, the sound spilling out into the cold. Garrett’s hand shifted against the backs of her thighs, careful with her balance, careful with the hem of her skirt, careful in a way that shouldn't have been noticeable when she was upside down and full of vodka and openly objectifying him, but was.
He could have made a thing of it. Could have rolled his eyes harder. Could have acted like taking care of his drunk girlfriend was some massive inconvenience being inflicted on him by the universe and Ariana Grande.
But Garrett just carried her like it was easy. Like she was funny. Like she was his problem, and he was, privately and embarrassingly, kind of pleased about it.
At his car, he set her down slowly, both hands at her waist until her heels found pavement and stayed there. The world rushed upright too fast, porch light blurring behind his shoulder, and she grabbed his forearms while her stomach took a second to remember where it lived.
Garrett watched her face, his smile fading into something more focused. “Good?”
She nodded, then immediately leaned forward until her forehead touched his chest because nodding had been a little ambitious. “Mhm.”
“That was wildly convincing.”
“I’m graceful.”
“You tried to climb a kitchen counter because Ariana Grande told you to.”
“She did.”
“She didn't personally tell you shit.”
She pointed one finger up at him. “You don’t know our relationship.”
His mouth curved again, and he brushed her hair back from her face, knuckles grazing her cheek in a touch so light it made her eyes want to close. “Your relationship with gravity is a little unstable right now.”
She looked up at him. The kitchen light was still on him somehow, caught in the angles of his face, in the dark sweep of his lashes, in the small amused pull at the corner of his mouth. He was close enough that she could see the faint scrape near his jaw from shaving, the tiredness tucked under his eyes from practice, the way his attention kept moving over her in pieces. Eyes. Mouth. Balance. Mood.
He was still teasing her, still Garrett, still unfairly pleased with himself, but under it sat the thing he did without announcing it. The checking. The steadiness. The hand already there before the fall happened.
She slid her hands up his chest again because it was the easiest place to put them, fingers curling loosely in his shirt. “Are you mad?”
Garrett looked genuinely insulted by the question. “At you?”
“Mm.”
“For trying to flash half the hockey team and die on a countertop?” He pretended to consider it. “Nah.”
Her mouth turned down. “That sounded judgy.”
“That was the edited version.”
“You’re mean.”
“I’m driving you home, giving you water, and preventing you from becoming a cautionary tale. I’m a hero.” His hands settled at her hips again, thumbs warm through the thin fabric at her waist. “A hot one, apparently. Nice butt. Heard that somewhere.”
She groaned and dropped her forehead back against his chest, and his laugh moved under her ear, low and pleased.
For a few seconds they just stood there beside his car while the party carried on without them, muffled and distant now, her body still buzzing with music and alcohol and the delayed embarrassment of nearly becoming a story Dean would tell until graduation. Garrett’s hand moved once down her back, then up again.
When she tipped her face up, he was already looking.
“What?” she asked, suspicious.
“Nothing.”
“You’re doing a face.”
“That's because I have a face.”
“A smug one.”
“Yeah, that’s genetic.” He opened the passenger door and guided her toward it, one hand hovering near her head so she didn’t knock it against the frame. “In.”
She sat with less dignity than she would have preferred, knees bumping together, one heel catching awkwardly on the floor mat. Garrett crouched before she could fully process the problem, fingers closing gently around her ankle as he straightened the shoe and set her foot flat. The intimacy of it caught weirdly in her stomach.
“There,” he said. “Both shoes accounted for. Huge night for us.”
She stared down at him. “You’re really pretty from this angle.”
He looked up, one brow lifting. “From the floor?”
“Mhm.”
“Good to know.” He reached across her for the seatbelt, and she took the opportunity to press a messy kiss to his cheek, catching more jaw than anything else. Garrett paused with the belt pulled across her lap, mouth twitching like he was trying very hard not to smile too obviously. “You missed.”
“I didn’t.”
“That was my jaw.”
“I know what I did.”
“Terrifying sentence.” He clicked the belt into place and tugged once to check it, then braced one hand on the roof of the car and looked down at her. “You gonna puke in my car?”
She considered lying, then made a face. “No.”
“Very long pause.”
“I was thinking.”
“That’s what scared me.”
She laughed, head falling back against the seat, and Garrett’s smile went helpless for half a second. There and then mostly gone, swallowed back under the usual cocky tilt of his mouth before she could do anything devastating with it, like point it out.
But she saw it. The fondness. The stupid, pleased little crease near his eye, like this – her drunk and difficult and half-asleep in his passenger seat, mascara probably doing something unfortunate, skirt riding high enough on her thighs that he reached in and tugged it down again with a muttered, “Jesus, baby,” – was somehow not a nuisance to him.
Somehow, it was worth smiling about.
He shut the door and walked around the front of the car, and through the windshield she watched him shake his head to himself, still grinning.
When he got in, the party disappeared almost completely. Door closed. Engine on. The car filled with the low blue glow of the dashboard and the clean, familiar smell of Garrett’s hoodie thrown in the backseat.
He handed her a half-full water bottle from the backseat. “Drink.”
She took it with both hands. “You’re bossy.”
“You like it.”
She hummed into the rim, then looked over at him with her cheek pressed against the seat. “Maybe.”
Garrett pulled away from the curb with one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over without looking to settle warm over her bare knee.
“Next party,” he said, “we’re putting you in pants.”
She made a horrified noise. “Absolutely not.”
“Fine. Longer skirt.”
“No.”
“Flats?”
She turned her head very slowly, giving him the full weight of her disappointment. “Garrett.”
He glanced over, and the grin came back. “Yeah, okay. That was too far.”
“Thank you.”
“But no counters.”
She sighed like he had asked her to give up art. “You’re ruining my brand.”
“Your brand almost gave Tucker a full view of your underwear.”
“Was he impressed?”
Garrett’s hand tightened on her knee. Enough that she felt the shift before she saw the look he kept aimed at the road. “Careful.”
Garrett Graham, competitive down to the bone. Still warm, still amused, but with that little edge in his voice that made her grin against the side of the cup because he was so easy sometimes. Pretty and cocky and gone for her in ways he kept trying to disguise as confidence.
She reached over and covered his hand with hers, fingers slipping between his. “I’m kidding.”
“I know.”
“You’re my favourite.”
His mouth softened before he could stop it. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.” Her eyes were getting heavy now, the night stretching into something blurred and honey-warm around the edges. “Even when you’re mean and anti-Ariana.”
“I’m pro-Ariana. I’m anti-head injury.”
She hummed again, sinking lower in the seat, her thumb moving lazily over his knuckles. The car rolled through the quiet streets around Briar, past porch lights and parked cars and the occasional burst of noise from other parties spilling out over lawns.
Garrett drove slower than usual, glancing over every so often like she might attempt to climb something inside the car if left unsupervised.
Maybe she loved that. Just a little.
Maybe that was the problem with him. The dangerous part wasn’t the grin, or the body, or the fact that half the girls at every party seemed to know where he was without looking directly at him.
It was this. His hand steady under hers. His hoodie in the backseat. His voice still teasing because he knew she would hate being fussed over too seriously, even while he kept watch like it mattered.
She turned her face toward him, smiling sleepily. “Garrett?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Next time she plays that song, I’m getting on the bench.”
He laughed under his breath, eyes on the road, thumb brushing once over the side of her hand.
Can I please get literally anything with garret graham my only thing is I want them in a established relationship
absolutely!!! here is a bunch of stupid social media trends that you & garrett have done tehe
pairing - garrett graham x gf!reader
word count - 2.5k
Ignoring my boyfriend for 20 seconds
You set your phone up somewhere discreet on the kitchen side so Garrett wouldn’t see.
After double checking it was recording, you continued to chop vegetables. You were making dinner for Garrett, because he’d been at hockey practice all evening and - honestly - you were just that good of a girlfriend.
Garrett always got home first from practice, so you knew when you heard the front door open and shut that it was him.
Okay, brave face.
You heard Garrett drop his bag off his shoulder onto the floor and his chucked his keys onto the counter.
“Hey.” He said tiredly.
This was going to be more difficult than you thought, because you already wanted to cave and just dote on him.
When you didn’t turn around or greet him, he got closer to you. His arms snaked around your waist so he could hug you from behind, his nose briefly inhaling the familiar scent of you at the back of your neck.
“Hello?” He questioned this time, whilst you continued to chop vegetables.
Your eyes darted to your phone and you had to hold back any emotion, which was difficult when your heart was melting at the sight of him pouting. Garrett’s eyebrows were furrowed the longer you went without acknowledging him.
“Baby.” He said a little more urgently this time.
Was that 20 seconds up?
Garrett huffed, unwrapping his hands from around your waist but still keeping you close against him. One hand reached for you to drop the pepper and the other reached to safely put the knife down.
Within a second he had you turned around so he could see your face. “What’s going on?”
His eyes tried to catch yours. You knew you would cave the moment you looked at him, which you did a moment later because you’d had enough of this trend already.
Garrett was frowning when you looked up at him. He looked worried, which only turned into confusion when he noticed you were trying to hold back a smile.
“I’m sorry.” You let out an exasperated sigh, “It’s for a TikTok.”
You turned to point at your recording phone.
Garrett’s whole body visibly softened and the crease between his furrowed eyebrows disappeared. He leaned down to rest his forehead against your shoulder and you brought your hands up to gently stroke through his damp curls.
“You scared me. I thought you were mad at me because I’d done something.”
“No, baby.” You smiled sadly, hating that you’d actually caused him this much panic or stress. “I’m sorry.”
Garrett lifted his head so he could look at you.
“It’s okay. Just don’t ever shut me out, okay? If you are actually mad at me, just talk to me. Please.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Video comments:
deandilaurentis: You got him good L/N
↪️ garrettgraham: Don’t encourage her… I don’t need any more emotional damage
alliecat: Aweeee he’s just a baby
randomgirl1: I would die just a chance to hold Garrett Graham like this
↪️ randomgirl2: Girl same
Ranking his hugs and kisses like a critic
You handed your phone to Hannah, who was already laughing at the outcome of this dumb trend.
You bit your lip, a nervous energy swelling inside of you. Hannah encouraged you with a nod, following you but also keeping herself hidden.
You walked up to Garrett, who was standing at Malone's bar waiting to be served. You sauntered up beside him and hugged him as best you could from the side.
"Oh, hey." Garrett's body melted against yours and he brought his arm instantly around your shoulders, pulling your body close so he could give you a kiss on the top of your head.
You pulled away after about five seconds.
"6.5. Felt like I was more into it than he was." You said, before walking away and leaving Garrett standing there none-the-wiser.
It was a bit later in the night and you were dancing with Hannah.
When she pulled out her phone and started to record you, anyone else would have thought she was just being a good girl-friend and capturing photos of you. Little did they know, she was actually filming you in preparation for your boyfriend approaching you from behind.
You threw your arms up in the air to the beat of the music.
Garrett made romance look so effortless as he slipped his head between your arms, his arms sliding around your waist to hold you close against his front.
Your eyes rolled back at the feeling of his warm hands against your stomach.
Your own hands reached behind you at an odd angle and around the back of Garrett's neck, blushing at the intimacy of it all. You were in the middle of Malone's for fuck sake not a club.
"And cut!" Hannah shouted.
If she hadn't said anything you probably would have forgotten all about this stupid trend you've been trying to do all night. Your eyes opened and you pulled out of Garrett's hold, turning around to face him.
He did not look happy that you'd just escaped him for the second time this evening.
"8.5. Getting better. More passion required." You said, before moving on.
"What the..." Garrett muttered to himself.
Dean swung his arm around Garrett's shoulders then, his other hand coming to pat him a couple times on the chest. "Is she trying to give you blue balls, dude?"
The final straw for Garrett is when you're speaking to some random guy and he's clinging onto every word you say.
The clench of his jaw must have been really obvious, because Hannah pulled out her phone to record just before Garrett stormed his way over to you.
You tried to keep a composed face as you Garrett came up behind the guy who was talking to you about literally nothing interesting.
"Hey man," Garrett tapped the guys shoulder, trying his best to look unbothered, "Can I just cut in here for a minute?" He gestured towards you.
"Oh yeah, of course G."
Garrett gave the guy a look, because only his close friends were allowed to call him 'G' and he had never once seen this guy in his life before.
Before you had the chance to say hello, Garrett's arms pulled on your waist and the back of your neck, towards him, until his lips met yours.
The kiss was messy and hot.
You stopped being shocked two seconds into the kiss and threw your hands into the hair on the back of your boyfriends neck, pulling strands the way you knew he liked.
Garrett kept kissing you, not letting either of you have more than half a second between kisses.
You whimpered when Garrett pulled you even closer into him, your boobs pressing against his chest. Even though you were both still clothed, it was completely overwhelming.
He pulled away with a satisfied smirk when he noticed how hot and flushed you looked. He could tell there wasn't a single thought behind your eyes.
"Was that enough passion for a 10?" He asked.
Your brain had to slowly compute what he had asked, but you gave him a knowing smile when you realised he had caught on to the trend you have been testing on him all night.
"Fuck yeah, that was a 10."
Video comments:
hannahwells: my video skills are unmatched
↪️ yourinstagram: thank you for your help as always wellsy <33
randomgirl1: Garrett Graham the God that you are
randomgirl2: The way he kissed her like there was nobody else in the room smh
itsjohnlogan: Get a room
↪️ garrettgraham: We did.
POV: Distance is temporary
Garrett had been gone for three days now.
He had left on the Friday and it was now Monday. An entire weekend without him had sucked. There had been no one there to make you breakfast in the morning, or pick you up from class or hold you tight when you fall to sleep.
You'd been making a short video documenting the time without him.
It started with you and Garrett in his room, laying on his bed together and laughing over something silly.
"I'm going to miss you." You whispered against his chest.
"I know."
"Did you just Star Wars me?" You chuckled. Garrett's chest rose and fell from laughing too.
"Yes. It's romantic."
"The most romantic, actually." You agreed.
Then the video cut to you waving him goodbye on the team bus, with him throwing you a bunch of kisses through the window.
Another video cut to you watching Garrett at the away game on your laptop, cheering when he scored a goal. When he tapped his glove over his heart, you knew that was his way of saying that the goal had been for you.
Then the video cut to you and Garrett on face-time.
"Aren't you going out with the guys?" You asked.
"In a bit." He yawned as he stretched out on the bed. "Are you at mine?"
"Mhm." You showed him a bit more of the background around you to confirm that you were in his room.
"Fuck I wish I was there too."
Your eyes softened and you couldn't contain the smile that his words brought out of you. "Wish you were here too. But you're not... so go and celebrate your win instead."
"I will. I just want to talk to you first."
Then the video cut to a POV from one of the guys' phone, filming Garrett at the party to celebrate their win.
"This is a party, Graham!" Logan shouted.
Garrett was too focused on texting you to even notice Logan's voice, let alone the camera filming him.
Finally the video cut to you slightly pacing the small length of Garrett's bedside, anticipating him walking through his bedroom door any moment.
When the door creaked open you didn't waste a moment to go over and jump on him for an all-encompassing hug. Garrett chuckled as you koala-beared yourself around him, stuffing you face into his neck to burrow yourself away. His bag fell to the floor with a thump and he walked further into his room so he could shut the door behind him.
Garrett's arms shifted beneath your body to hike you higher up his body.
"Nice to see you too."
Video comments:
itsjohnlogan: He genuinely didn't hear a word I said. He was locked-in on your texts
↪️ yourinstagram: aweee :(((
alliecat: MY FAVE COUPLE
↪️ hannahwells: so true bestie
randomgirl1: when is it my turn /gen
randomgirl2: i'm so sick of my FYP constantly showing me this couples relationship... (*scrolls through entirety of yoursinstagram feed*)
garrettgraham: <3
He's a man written by a woman
The idea of the video was sent to you by Sabrina, who said it was the most Garrett Graham-coded thing ever.
It relied on you montaging together loads of moments from the beginning of your relationship until now - but moments that specifically showed that Garrett Graham was a man written by a woman. If you know, you know.
The first few clips were of Garrett carrying your bags around.
"How many books does one person need?" Garrett's muscles flexed as he lifted the two bags of books out of the trunk of his car.
"Did you really just ask me that." You laughed, filming him pretending to do some bicep curls with the bags.
"I can't even hold your hand now."
"We're literally walking 20 metres from your car to your house."
"I agree - It's outrageous."
The next clip was you holding your phone up in front of the bathroom mirror. You had just taken some photos with him, because you liked the lighting in here and you were always looking for an excuse to have more photos together.
You quickly pressed record when you noticed Garrett fiddling with your necklace, frowning when he saw that the small letter 'G' was at the back of your neck rather than the front. He moved it around, carefully.
"There. Much better." He kissed your cheek.
It was clips like that where Garrett had been paying such close attention to you that he never even noticed you filming.
Your favourite video clip was barely visible, because you'd taken it at night.
Garrett and you were tucked well underneath his duvet.
"Stop."
You were still attempting to shove your camera in his face rather than listen to him. "Hold still."
"No. You'll film me and send it to the guys and I will forever lead a sad and regretful life." He continued to swat your arms away.
"Baby, please! You look so cute."
"Cute? I'm not cute."
"Your hair is literally scraped back, with a bright pink elastic, into a tiny ponytail right now." You tried to reason with him. That sentence alone should allow you to film without any restrictions.
Garrett groaned and lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. You curled up next to him and brought the camera to hover above both of you so you could show off his hair styled.
You giggled again.
It was only when you went to upload the video and subsequently watched it back, that you noticed Garrett's whole demeanour soften when you laughed and he stopped pretending like this moment was the bane of his existence.
Video comments:
hannahwells: he's so book boyfriend coded
↪️ alliecat: agreed
↪️ sabrinaaa: agreed
↪️ itsgraceivers: agreed
↪️ garrettgraham: What does this even mean?
deandilaurentis: Setting the bar WAY to high G
↪️ itsjohnlogan: Preach
Interviewing him
It felt like Christmas day when your mini-microphone arrived in the mail.
After setting it up, you immediately went to try it out on your boyfriend.
Garrett was grabbing a snack from the fridge, shirtless and grey sweatpants - because he knew they were your weakness and he was a masochist.
Your phone was recording him as you spoke into the microphone behind the camera, "How does it feel dating the funniest girl alive?"
You pointed the tiny microphone over to Garrett, who looked at you like you'd grown a third eye.
"What?" He smiled, shutting the fridge with his leg and a bunch of things to make a sandwich in his hands.
"How does it feel dating the funniest girl alive?" You asked again.
Garrett shook his head over your antics, before giving in - because honestly who even was he if he wasn't giving you anything you wanted?
"Honestly, it’s a lot of pressure. I have to laugh at least 65% of the time just to keep her ego in check."
You scoffed behind the camera. The video caught the beginning of Garrett laughing out loud, but you walked off in a huff to avoid giving him the satisfaction of winning this conversation.
Video comments:
alliecat: Was this the day that you ignored Garrett for the entire day and he followed you around like a lost puppy because he genuienly thought you were upset?
↪️ yourinstagram: yes
↪️ garrettgraham: Still trying to get her to love me again...
Summary: when the pre-med girl with the perfect GPA meets the hockey player with the far from perfect reputation, neither of you expects to become each other’s biggest distraction. You’ve got your whole life planned out. He’s never planned anything past Friday night. But somewhere between study sessions and split lips, you discover that the scariest thing isn’t falling, it’s admitting you want to
Read part two here
The bass is so loud you can feel it in your chest, and you’re pretty sure that’s not supposed to be a good thing.
“This was a terrible idea,” you shout over the music, but your roommate Maggie just laughs and pulls you deeper into the chaos that is The Boy’s House.
“You literally never go anywhere!”
“I go to the library!”
“That doesn’t count!” Maggie’s still dragging you through a sea of bodies, past the kitchen where someone’s doing a keg stand, past a couple making out against the wall with such enthusiasm you have to look away. “You need to live a little. Have fun. Maybe even-”
“Don’t say it.”
“-talk to a guy.”
You stop walking, forcing Maggie to stop too. “I didn’t come here to talk to guys. I came here because you said, and I quote, ’If you don’t come with me I’ll tell Professor Lawrence you’re the one who accidentally broke his microscope.’“
“Blackmail is just another word for effective persuasion.” Maggie grins, completely unrepentant. “Come on, let’s get you a drink. A non-alcoholic one,” she adds quickly when she sees your face. “I know, I know. 4.0 GPA. Pre-med. Future doctor. You’ve mentioned it.”
“Once or twice,” you mutter, but you follow her anyway.
The kitchen is somehow even more crowded than the living room. Red Solo cups litter every surface, and there’s a girl sitting on the counter who looks like she’s about three seconds from passing out. You make a mental note to check on her in a few minutes — instincts already kicking in, apparently.
“Maggie!” A tall guy with dark hair and an easy smile pushes through the crowd. “You made it!”
“Logan, hi!” Maggie lights up in a way that makes you wonder why she really wanted to come to this party. “This is my roommate, Y/N. Y/N, this is Logan.”
“Nice to meet you,” Logan says, and he seems genuinely friendly. “Want a drink? We’ve got beer, jungle juice — which I don’t recommend unless you want to hate yourself tomorrow — or there’s probably some Coke in the fridge.”
“Coke sounds perfect,” you say, grateful.
Logan grins. “A woman who knows what she wants. I like it.” He turns to rummage in the fridge, and Maggie elbows you.
“See? This isn’t so bad.”
You’re about to respond when a burst of laughter from the living room makes everyone turn. Through the doorway, you can see a guy sprawled on the couch — not just any guy, you realize, but the guy. Even you, with your library-heavy social life, know who Dean Di Laurentis is. Member of the hockey team. Walking, talking definition of “big man on campus.” And currently, very occupied.
There are two girls with him. One blonde, one brunette, and they seem to be taking turns kissing him and occasionally each other, which — okay, you definitely need to look away from that.
“That’s Dean,” Logan says, handing you a Coke. He doesn’t sound judgmental, just matter-of-fact. “He’s, uh … he’s having a good night.”
“He has a lot of good nights,” Maggie says, and you catch something in her tone — not jealousy, exactly, but maybe a kind of weary resignation that this is just how things are.
You take a sip of your Coke and try very hard not to look at the couch again.
You fail.
***
Dean’s having a great time. Or he should be having a great time. Rachel — or is it Rochelle? — is doing this thing with her tongue that’s usually his favorite, and the other girl (he definitely didn’t catch her name) has her hand in his hair, tugging just right, and yeah, this is exactly how Thursday nights are supposed to go.
Except.
Except he can’t stop looking at the girl in the kitchen.
She’s not his usual type. She’s wearing jeans and a sweater that looks like it came from the clearance rack at Target, and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail that’s starting to come loose. She’s not trying to catch his attention. She’s not trying to catch anyone’s attention. She’s just standing there, looking vaguely uncomfortable, holding her Coke like it’s a life preserver.
And Dean can’t look away.
“Dean?” Rachel-or-Rochelle pulls back, pouting. “Where’d you go?”
“Nowhere, babe,” he says automatically, flashing the smile that usually works. “Just thought I heard something.”
But his eyes drift back to the kitchen. The girl’s talking to Logan now, and she’s smiling — really smiling, not the practiced, flirty smile he sees at these parties, but something genuine and a little shy. Logan says something that makes her laugh, and Dean feels something weird in his chest.
Huh.
“I need a drink,” he announces, extracting himself from the tangle of limbs with practiced ease. “Be right back.”
“Dean!” Both girls protest, but he’s already moving.
Logan spots him first. “D! Good party, man.”
“Yeah, it’s alright.” Dean’s looking at the girl now, really looking. She’s got these eyes — he can’t tell what color they are in the shitty lighting, but they’re watching him with something that might be wariness. “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Y/N,” Logan says. “Maggie’s roommate. Y/N, this is-”
“Dean Di Laurentis,” you finish, and your voice is different than he expected. Clear and direct. “I know who you are.”
“Good things, I hope,” Dean says, turning on the charm. It’s automatic, like breathing.
“That depends on your definition of good.”
Logan chokes on his beer. Maggie looks like she’s trying not to laugh. Dean just stares at you for a second, genuinely thrown.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “That’s fair.”
You take another sip of your Coke, and Dean notices your hand is steady. Not nervous. Just unimpressed.
“Are you having fun?” He tries again.
“Not particularly.”
“Want me to show you around? Give you the grand tour?”
“I think I can navigate four rooms on my own, thanks.”
Maggie makes a strangled noise. Logan’s grinning so wide it looks painful. Dean can feel his own smile shifting into something more genuine, more interested.
“You’re not a fan of parties,” he observes.
“You’re very perceptive.”
“So why are you here?”
You glance at Maggie. “Effective persuasion.”
“That sounds like a story.”
“It’s really not.” You set your Coke down on the counter. “Maggie, I’m going to check on that girl who looks like she’s about to fall off the counter. Then maybe get some air.”
“Want company?” Maggie asks, but you shake your head.
“I’m good. You stay, have fun.”
You move past Dean, and he catches a whiff of something clean and simple — not the heavy perfume most girls wear to these things, just soap, maybe? Shampoo? Whatever it is, it’s driving him crazy.
“Nice meeting you,” you say to Logan. To Dean, you just nod. Polite. Distant.
And then you’re gone, navigating through the crowd with single-minded determination toward the drunk girl on the counter.
“Dude,” Logan says.
“Yeah,” Dean agrees.
“She just …”
“Yeah.”
“That never happens to you.”
“I know.”
Logan’s laughing now. “Oh man, this is beautiful. This is the best thing I’ve seen all semester.”
“Shut up.” But Dean’s watching you help the drunk girl off the counter, watching the way you’re gentle and efficient, getting her to sit down, checking her pupils. “Who is she?”
“I literally just met her five minutes before you did.”
“Maggie!” Dean turns to your roommate, who’s watching him with undisguised amusement. “Tell me about Y/N.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I’m asking nicely?”
Maggie snorts. “That’s not as compelling as you think it is.” But she relents, maybe because she’s a good friend, or maybe because she’s curious about what’ll happen. “She’s pre-med. Crazy smart. Like, scary smart. She has a 4.0 and she’ll probably keep it all four years. She studies constantly. She’s literally never had a boyfriend.”
“Never?” Dean’s eyebrows go up.
“Never. She went to all-girls schools before Briar. I don’t think she’s even been kissed.”
Logan whistles low. “And you brought her here? To our party?”
“I thought it would be good for her! You know, broaden her horizons.”
“Pretty sure her horizons just got an eyeful of Dean and the twins making out on the couch,” Logan points out.
Maggie winces. “Okay, yeah, that might have been poor timing.”
Dean’s not really listening anymore. He’s watching you crouch down next to the drunk girl, talking to her in a low, calm voice. Someone hands you a water bottle and you help her drink it, supporting her head like you’ve done this before. Like you know exactly what you’re doing.
“She’s going to be a doctor,” he says, more to himself than anyone else.
“That’s the plan,” Maggie confirms.
“Huh.” Dean tilts his head, still watching. “I like her.”
“Dude, she shut you down in like thirty seconds flat.”
“I know.” Dean’s grinning now, a real grin, not the practiced one. “It’s amazing.”
Logan and Maggie exchange a look.
“This is going to be a disaster,” Logan predicts.
“Oh, absolutely,” Maggie agrees.
But Dean’s already moving.
***
You manage to get the drunk girl — her name is Amy, apparently — to drink some water and eat a few crackers someone scrounges up from somewhere. Her friends finally surface from whatever corner they’ve been in and promise to take care of her. You make them promise to take her back to her dorm, not let her drink any more, and check on her every few hours.
“Are you a doctor?” One of them asks.
“Pre-med,” you say. “But still, seriously. Keep an eye on her.”
“We will. Thank you so much.”
You escape to the backyard before anyone else can need medical attention. The air is cold — it’s early October in Massachusetts, and you can see your breath — but it’s a relief after the heat and noise inside. There are a few people out here, but they’re mostly in clusters, talking and laughing. You find a spot on the porch steps and sit down, pulling your phone out of your pocket.
Three new emails. One from your advisor about next semester’s schedule, one from your organic chemistry professor about the exam next week, and one from your mom with the subject line “Just Checking In!” which means she’s worrying about you again.
You’re composing a response in your head when someone sits down next to you.
“You’re good at that,” Dean says.
You don’t jump, but it’s close. “At what?”
“Taking care of people.” He’s got a fresh beer in his hand, but he doesn’t look drunk. Just comfortable, like he owns the space he’s in. Which, technically, he kind of does. “That girl looked rough.”
“She’ll be fine as long as her friends actually watch her.” You pocket your phone. “Shouldn’t you be inside? With your … company?”
“They’ll survive without me for a few minutes.” He takes a sip of his beer. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”
The question catches you off guard. Not because it’s rude — it’s not, really — but because it’s direct. Honest.
“I don’t know you,” you say carefully.
“But you know of me.”
“Everyone knows of you.”
“And what does everyone say?”
You look at him properly for the first time since he sat down. He’s objectively attractive — you’re not blind — with the kind of face that probably gets him whatever he wants. Blond hair that looks like he’s been running his hands through it, sharp jawline, eyes that are actually kind of distracting in the porch light. And he’s looking at you like he’s genuinely interested in what you’re about to say.
“They say you’re a great hockey player,” you offer.
“True.”
“That you’re charming.”
“Also true.”
“That you go through women like most people go through socks.”
He laughs, and it’s a real laugh, surprised and genuine. “Okay, ouch. But probably fair.”
“You asked.”
“I did.” He’s still smiling, though. “What else?”
“That you’re rich. That your family owns hotels or something.”
“My mom’s family. Hotels, some restaurants, a few other things. But that’s them, not me.”
“Isn’t it, though?” You tilt your head. “You live in this house. You throw these parties. You don’t exactly seem to be struggling.”
“No,” he admits. “I’m not. I’m lucky as hell. But I also work my ass off on the ice. I’m getting a degree in political science that I’ll actually use. And my parents would kill me if I turned into some trust-fund asshole who thinks money solves everything.”
There’s something in his voice that makes you think he’s being honest. Or at least, honest about this.
“Why do you care what I think?” You ask.
“I don’t know,” he says, and he sounds almost surprised by his own answer. “You’re different.”
“Different how?”
“You looked at me like I was just some guy. Not the captain of the hockey team, not Dean Di Laurentis, just … some guy.”
“You are just some guy.”
“See?” He grins. “That. Nobody talks to me like that.”
“Maybe they should.”
“Maybe.” He takes another sip of his beer, looking out at the backyard. There’s a group of guys playing beer pong, and someone’s playlist is drifting through an open window. “Maggie says you’re pre-med.”
“She talks a lot.”
“She’s a good friend. Trying to hype you up.”
“I don’t need hyping up.”
“No,” Dean agrees, looking at you again. “You really don’t.”
There’s something in the way he says it that makes your heart do a weird little flip, which is annoying. You don’t do heart flips. You do studying and lab work and carefully planned career trajectories.
“I should go,” you say, standing up. “I have studying to do.”
“It’s Thursday night.”
“So?”
“So don’t you ever take a break?”
“This was my break.” You gesture vaguely at the house. “Party attendance: checked off the list. Now I can go back to my regularly scheduled programming.”
Dean stands too, and you’re reminded that he’s tall. Taller than you expected. “Can I get your number?”
“Why?”
“So I can text you.”
“Why would you text me?”
“To ask you out.”
You blink. “No.”
“No, I can’t have your number, or no, you won’t go out with me?”
“Both.”
“Can I ask why?”
“Because I’m not interested in being another notch on Dean Di Laurentis’s bedpost.” The words come out sharper than you intended, but you don’t take them back.
Something flashes across his face — surprise, maybe, or hurt — but it’s gone quickly. “That’s not what I-”
“Yes, it is.” You’re not angry, just tired suddenly. Tired of this conversation, this party, this whole night. “Look, I’m sure you’re used to girls falling all over themselves for a chance with you. And that’s fine. That’s their choice. But I have plans for my life, and they don’t include getting my heart broken by a guy who’s just looking for his next conquest.”
“You think that’s all this is?”
“Isn’t it?”
He opens his mouth, closes it again. Runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know,” he finally says, and points for honesty again. “Maybe. Probably. But I’d like to find out.”
“Well, I wouldn’t.” You pull your phone back out. “I’m going to call an Uber. Have a good night, Dean.”
“Let me at least walk you to the front-”
“I’m fine.”
“Y/N-”
“Seriously. I’m fine.” You soften slightly, because he does look genuinely concerned, which is almost worse than if he were just annoyed. “Thank you for the conversation. It was … enlightening.”
You make it to the front of the house before Maggie finds you.
“Hey, where are you going?”
“Home. I’m Ubering.”
“Already? We just got here!”
“You just got here. I’ve been here for an hour and I’ve already hit my social quota for the week.” You show her your phone screen. “Car’s three minutes away.”
Maggie looks back toward the house, then at you. “Did something happen? Did someone-”
“No, nothing like that. Everyone was fine. I’m just tired.”
“Dean was talking to you.”
“Dean talks to everyone.”
“Not like that, he doesn’t.” Maggie’s eyes are bright with curiosity. “What did he say?”
“He asked for my number.”
“And?”
“And I said no.”
Maggie’s mouth falls open. “You said no? To Dean Di Laurentis?”
“Is that really so shocking?”
“YES!” Maggie’s practically shouting now. “He never asks for numbers! He doesn’t have to! Girls just throw themselves at him!”
“Well, I didn’t throw myself anywhere except toward the door.” Your Uber’s pulling up. “Look, stay, have fun with Logan. He seems nice. Text me when you get home so I know you’re safe.”
“You’re really leaving.”
“I really am.”
Maggie hugs you suddenly, fierce and quick. “You’re crazy. But I love you.”
“Love you too. Be safe.”
You slide into the Uber, give the driver your address, and lean back against the seat. Through the window, you can see the house, still bright and loud and full of people having the time of their lives.
And standing on the front porch, watching your car pull away, is Dean.
***
“So let me get this straight,” Garrett says the next morning over breakfast. He’s making pancakes, which is the only reason Dean’s awake before noon on a Friday. “You asked for her number, and she said no.”
“Yep.” Dean’s nursing his coffee like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. He didn’t sleep well. Kept thinking about eyes he still can’t quite place the color of.
“And then you asked her out, and she said no to that too.”
“Correct.”
“And then she called an Uber and left.”
“You’ve got it.”
Tucker wanders in, looking even more hungover than Dean feels. “Who left?”
“You’ve mentioned her thirteen times since I woke up.”
“I have not.”
“You literally started the conversation with ‘So there’s this girl.’”
Tucker perks up slightly. “A girl turned down Dean? This I have to hear.”
“There’s nothing to hear. She’s just … different.”
“Different how?” Tucker’s pouring himself coffee now, settling in.
Dean tries to explain it. The way you looked at him like he was just another guy. The way you handled drunk Amy with competence and care. The way you called him out without being mean about it, just honest. The way you smiled at Logan’s joke, genuine and unguarded.
The way his chest did something weird when you walked away.
“Oh man,” Tucker says when he’s done. “You’re screwed.”
“I’m not screwed.”
“You’re so screwed,” Garrett agrees. “This is amazing.”
“This is not amazing. This is annoying.” Dean drops his head to the table. “Why can’t I stop thinking about her?”
“Because she’s the first girl who’s ever said no to you,” Logan says, appearing in the doorway. He’s somehow showered and dressed already, looking fresh and put-together in a way that makes Dean want to throw his coffee at him. “It’s basic psychology. We want what we can’t have.”
“It’s not just that.”
“Then what is it?”
Dean doesn’t have an answer. Or rather, he has too many answers, none of which make sense.
He’s attracted to you, obviously. But he’s attracted to lots of girls, and he usually stops thinking about them approximately five minutes after they leave his bed.
He’s intrigued by you. Your intelligence, your focus, your complete lack of interest in impressing him.
He’s challenged by you. You saw through his charm in about thirty seconds and called him on his shit without being cruel.
And he wants to see you again. Not just hook up with you — though yeah, okay, he wouldn’t say no — but actually see you. Talk to you. Figure out what color your eyes are. Learn what makes you laugh.
“I’m in trouble,” he says to the table.
“Finally figured that out, did you?” Garrett slides a plate of pancakes in front of him. “Eat. You’ll need your strength.”
“For what?”
“For winning over the first girl who’s ever seen right through you.”
Dean picks up his fork, but he’s not really thinking about pancakes.
He’s thinking about you in the library, probably. Studying. Focused on your 4.0 and your medical school dreams and your carefully planned future.
A future that apparently doesn’t include him.
Well.
Dean Di Laurentis has never backed down from a challenge in his life.
He’s not about to start now.
***
You don’t think about Dean at all on Friday.
(That’s a lie. You think about him three times during organic chemistry, twice during your shift volunteering at the campus health center, and once during dinner when Maggie asks how you’re doing and gives you a look that suggests she knows exactly what you’re not saying.)
You definitely don’t think about him on Saturday.
(Another lie. You think about him when you see a hockey jersey in the bookstore. When someone in the library mentions the game tonight. When you’re trying to fall asleep and your brain helpfully replays the conversation on the porch, the way he looked at you when you walked away.)
By Sunday, you’re annoyed with yourself.
“I met him for like twenty minutes,” you tell Maggie, who’s watching you with barely concealed amusement. “Why is he taking up this much space in my head?”
“Because he’s hot and rich and into you?”
“He’s not into me. He’s into the challenge.”
“Okay, but what if he’s into both?”
“Maggie.”
“Y/N.” She mimics your tone perfectly. “Would it kill you to consider that maybe, just maybe, you made an impression on him too?”
“It doesn’t matter if I did. I have a plan. Medical school, residency, building a career. No time for distractions.”
“You sound like a robot.”
“I sound focused.”
“You sound scared.”
That stops you. “I’m not scared.”
“No?” Maggie tilts her head. “Then why are you so determined to write him off before you even give him a chance?”
“Because I know how this story ends. Girl meets charming hockey player. Girl falls for charming hockey player. Charming hockey player gets bored and moves on to the next girl. Girl is left with a broken heart and ruined GPA.”
“That’s one possible ending,” Maggie allows. “But it’s not the only one.”
You don’t have a response to that.
Your phone buzzes. Unknown number.
Unknown: hey, it’s dean. got your number from maggie (don’t be mad at her, i can be very persuasive). just wanted to make sure you got home okay thursday night.
You stare at the screen.
“Did he just text you?” Maggie leans over, reading. “Oh my god, he texted you!”
“You gave him my number?”
“He asked very nicely! And he seemed genuinely worried about you!”
You read the text again. And again.
You: I got home fine. Thank you for checking.
You hit send before you can overthink it.
Three dots appear immediately.
Dean: good. i was worried you might have gotten lost in the library and been shelving yourself with the medical textbooks
You: That’s not how libraries work
Dean: you sure? you seem like the type who’d be very organized about it. probably alphabetized by author
Despite yourself, you smile.
You: I’m more of a Dewey Decimal girl
Dean: knew it. so listen, i know you said you’re not interested, and i respect that. but i was thinking
Dean: what if we were friends?
You blink at the screen.
You: Friends?
Dean: yeah. no pressure, no ulterior motives. just friends. we could study together, grab coffee, whatever friends do
You: You want to study with me
Dean: i’m taking business finance as an elective this semester and it’s kicking my ass. you’re smart. seems like a win-win
You: And this has nothing to do with trying to change my mind about going out with you?
Dean: scout’s honor
You: Were you even a scout?
Dean: no but i’m honest when it counts. so what do you say? friends?
You look at Maggie, who’s reading over your shoulder and nodding frantically.
This is a bad idea. You know it’s a bad idea.
But there’s something about the way he texts — casual, funny, not trying too hard — that makes you want to say yes.
You: Fine. Friends. But if you try anything-
Dean: i won’t. promise. when are you free?
You: Tuesday afternoon. Library, 2pm
Dean: it’s a date. i mean a friend date. a friend meeting. a platonic gathering of two people who are definitely just friends
You: You’re ridiculous
Dean: you’re smiling though aren’t you
You are. You don’t respond.
Dean: see you tuesday, friend
You put your phone down and find Maggie grinning at you.
“Don’t,” you warn.
“I’m not saying anything.”
“You’re thinking it very loudly.”
“I’m just thinking that this is going to be interesting.”
“We’re just friends.”
“Uh huh.”
“We are!”
“Okay, babe. Whatever you say.”
But as you go back to your studying, you can’t quite shake the smile off your face.
And in a house across campus, Dean is grinning at his phone like he just won the championship.
“Friends?” Garrett asks, reading over his shoulder.
“Friends,” Dean confirms.
“Right. Because that’s going to work out exactly as planned.”
“It will.”
“Dean, buddy. You’re already gone.”
Dean doesn’t argue.
Because Garrett’s probably right.
But as far as Dean’s concerned?
This is only the beginning.
***
Three weeks of “friendship” with Dean Di Laurentis has taught you several things.
One: He’s actually smart. Not just hockey-smart or street-smart, but genuinely intelligent. Your Tuesday study sessions have evolved into genuine collaboration, and he’s helped you understand financial models for your Healthcare Economics elective while you’ve kept him from failing Business Finance.
Two: He’s funnier than you expected. Not in a trying-too-hard way, but in a quick, observational way that catches you off guard and makes you laugh when you’re supposed to be studying.
Three: He’s a terrible liar.
“So, as my friend,” Dean says, drawing out the word in a way that tells you he’s about to ask for something, “you should come to my game Friday night.”
You don’t look up from your organic chemistry notes. “Should I.”
“Yes. Friends support friends. It’s in the friendship handbook.”
“I don’t cheer loudly.” You flip a page. “I barely cheer quietly.”
“You could learn.” He leans back in his chair, and you can feel him watching you. “Come on, Y/N. You’ve never been to a game.”
“I’ve never been to a lot of things.”
“Which is exactly why you should come. Broaden your horizons. Live a little.”
“You sound like Maggie.”
“Maggie’s a smart woman.” He pauses. “I’ll buy you nachos.”
Now you look up. “Are you trying to bribe me with stadium food?”
“Is it working?”
You consider. You’ve been to the library every Friday night since school started. You’re ahead on all your reading. And there’s something in the way Dean’s looking at you — hopeful and a little uncertain — that makes your resistance crack.
“Fine,” you say. “But I’m not wearing a jersey.”
His face lights up. “You don’t have to wear anything-” He stops, recalibrating. “That came out wrong. You can wear whatever you want. Just come.”
“I’ll come.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You try to sound casual about it, like this isn’t a big deal. Like your heart isn’t doing that annoying flutter thing again. “As friends.”
“As friends,” he agrees, but his smile suggests he’s already won something.
***
Friday night, and Garrett is giving Dean a look.
“You know she’s going to see right through whatever you’re planning, right?”
They’re in the locker room, suiting up. The game starts in forty-five minutes, and Dean’s been checking his phone every three seconds like you might cancel.
“I’m not planning anything,” Dean lies.
“Dude, you’ve been weird all week.”
“I’m focused.”
“You’re distracted.” Logan pulls his jersey over his head. “Which is going to get you checked into the boards if you’re not careful.”
“I’m fine.”
“Is she actually coming?” Tucker asks, lacing his skates.
“She said she would.”
“And you believe her?”
Dean does, actually. In three weeks of friendship, you’ve been nothing if not reliable. If you say you’ll be somewhere, you show up. Usually with coffee for both of you and color-coded notes that make his business homework actually make sense.
“She’ll be here,” he says.
And right before the game starts, when he skates out for warm-ups and scans the crowd, he sees you.
You’re in the student section, sitting next to Maggie, wearing jeans and a navy blue sweater, looking simultaneously interested and slightly overwhelmed by the chaos around you. Your hair is down tonight, and even from the ice he can see you’re taking it all in with those analytical eyes.
Then you see him looking, and you wave.
It’s a small wave, almost shy, but it does something to his chest that makes him nearly miss the puck Garrett sends his way.
“Focus!” Garrett yells, skating past.
Right. Focus. Hockey. Winning.
He can think about you later.
***
Hockey is violent.
This is your main takeaway fifteen minutes into the first period. You’ve seen clips before, obviously, but watching it live is different. The speed, the impact, the way bodies slam into the boards with a sound that makes you wince.
“Is this legal?” You ask Maggie over the roar of the crowd.
“What, the checking? Yeah, totally legal.”
“Someone’s going to get a concussion.”
“Probably!” Maggie’s grinning, completely unbothered by this fact. “That’s hockey, babe!”
You watch Dean skate backward, cutting off an opposing player with casual efficiency. He’s good — even you can tell that. Fast and smart, always seeming to know where the puck is going before it gets there. And when he steals it and sends it flying up the ice to Logan, who scores, the arena erupts.
“LET’S GO BOYS!” Maggie’s screaming, and you find yourself clapping, caught up in the energy despite yourself.
Dean skates past your section during the celebration, and even with his helmet on, you can tell he’s looking for you. When he finds you, he taps his stick on the ice.
“Was that for you?” Maggie demands.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“That was totally for you!”
“We’re friends.”
“Uh huh. And I’m the Queen of England.”
You don’t answer, but you’re smiling.
The game is close — tied 2-2 going into the third period. You’ve started to understand the rhythm of it, the strategy. Dean’s not a flashy player, but he’s essential. He breaks up plays, protects the goal, makes the kind of smart, unglamorous decisions that keep the other team from scoring.
“He’s really good,” you say to Maggie during a stoppage.
“One of the best defensemen in college hockey,” she says proudly, like she had something to do with it. “NHL scouts come to watch him play.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. There’s talk he might sign with a team. Go pro.”
This information sits strangely with you. The idea of Dean leaving, going off to some NHL team in some other city. Not that it matters. You’re friends. And friends can be happy for each other from a distance.
Right?
With two minutes left, Logan scores again. The arena goes insane. Briar wins 3-2, and the team piles on each other in celebration, sticks raised, the student section chanting “HAWKS! HAWKS! HAWKS!”
And you’re on your feet with everyone else, cheering for reasons you’re not entirely ready to examine.
***
Dean’s high lasts through the handshake line, through the initial celebration, right up until they get back to the locker room and he remembers his plan.
His stupid, impulsive, absolutely terrible plan that he’s been thinking about all week.
“Okay,” he says to Garrett, who’s the only one he’s told. “I’m going to do it.”
“Don’t do it.”
“I’m doing it.”
“Dean, this is the dumbest thing you’ve ever thought of, and you once tried to longboard down the library steps.”
“That was Tucker’s idea.”
“You still did it!” Garrett grabs his shoulder. “Dude, just ask her out like a normal person.”
“I’ve tried that. She said no.”
“So try again!”
“I need an edge. Something that’ll-” He stops. “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.”
“I understand you’re about to give yourself an actual injury to fake an injury, which is literally insane.”
But Dean’s mind is made up. He’s been thinking about this since Tuesday, when you mentioned your volunteer shift at the campus health center. How you’d patched up a guy who’d split his lip playing basketball, how you’d been gentle and efficient and completely in your element.
He wants to see you like that. Focused on him. Those careful hands on his face. Just the two of you, without the “friendship” buffer.
Is it manipulative? Maybe.
Is it ridiculous? Definitely.
Is he going to do it anyway?
Absolutely.
He waits until most of the team is in the showers. Then, before he can think better of it, he grabs his stick and-
CRACK.
“JESUS CHRIST!” Logan appears from around the corner just in time to see Dean lower his stick, blood already dripping from his lip. “DID YOU JUST HIT YOURSELF IN THE FACE?”
“Maybe,” Dean says, tasting copper.
“ON PURPOSE?”
“Keep your voice down-”
“GARRETT! TUCKER! DEAN JUST SMASHED HIMSELF WITH HIS STICK!”
So much for subtlety.
Within seconds, he’s surrounded by half the team, all staring at him like he’s lost his mind.
“Why?” Tucker asks, genuinely baffled.
“It’s not that bad,” Dean says, even though his lip is throbbing and there’s definitely blood on his jersey now.
“You’re bleeding everywhere!” Garrett’s looking at him with something between horror and reluctant admiration. “This is about that Y/N, isn’t it?”
“What?” Logan asks.
“Y/N! He’s trying to make her go all Meredith Grey on him!”
“By giving himself an actual injury?” Logan looks impressed despite himself. “That’s … that’s actually kind of genius?”
“It’s psychotic,” Tucker corrects.
“It’s both,” Garrett decides. “Dean, you’re an idiot.”
“Noted.” Dean grabs a towel, pressing it to his lip. “Now can someone go tell her I need medical attention?”
“You need psychiatric attention,” Garrett mutters, but he’s already moving.
***
You’re waiting outside the locker room with Maggie and a handful of other girlfriends and friends when Garrett emerges, looking harried.
“Y/N? Dean’s asking for you.”
Your stomach drops. “Why? What happened?”
“Took a stick to the face during the game. His lip’s split. He’s bleeding pretty good.”
You’re already moving. “How bad? Is he dizzy? Nauseous? Did he lose consciousness at any point?”
“Uh-”
“Never mind, I’ll check myself.” You push past him into the locker room, medical training overriding any sense of propriety.
Dean’s sitting on the bench in his hockey pants and undershirt, holding a rapidly reddening towel to his mouth. When he sees you, he lowers it, and — yeah, that’s a decent split. Upper lip, maybe half an inch long, still bleeding freely.
“Hi,” he says, and it comes out mushy because his lip is already swelling.
“What happened?” You’re already kneeling in front of him, tilting his head toward the light. Your hands are gentle but firm on his jaw, and Dean’s trying very hard to focus on not revealing that this is exactly what he wanted and not on how close you are or how good you smell or-
“Took a high stick in the scrum in front of the net,” he lies. “Didn’t even feel it until after.”
“Adrenaline,” you murmur, examining the cut. “You’re lucky it didn’t get your eye. Did you bite through? Let me see your teeth.”
He opens his mouth obediently.
“Okay, no tooth damage. That’s good.” You look around. “Do you guys have a first aid kit in here?”
“There’s a full medical setup in the training room,” Logan offers. He’s watching this with undisguised amusement, and Dean makes a mental note to murder him later.
“Show me.”
Five minutes later, you’ve got Dean sitting on a training table, supplies laid out with the kind of organization that makes him smile despite the pain. You’ve washed your hands twice and put on gloves, and now you’re back between his knees, carefully cleaning the wound.
“This is going to sting,” you warn.
“I can handle—OW.”
“I warned you.” But your voice is soft. “Stay still.”
He stays still.
“You know,” you say, working carefully, “hockey is incredibly dangerous. Repeated head trauma, chronic traumatic encephalopathy, not to mention acute injuries like fractures and lacerations-”
“Are you giving me a lecture right now?”
“Yes.” You don’t look up from your work. “Someone needs to. You’re all insane, throwing yourselves into walls and each other for fun.”
“It’s not for fun, it’s for glory.”
“Glory isn’t going to help you when you can’t remember your own name at forty.”
“Wow, you really know how to make a guy feel better.”
“I’m not trying to make you feel better, I’m trying to make you be smarter.” You lean back, examining your work. “You might have a scar.”
“Chicks dig scars.”
You give him a look. “Did you seriously just say that?”
“I’m concussed, I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“You’re not concussed. I already checked.” But you’re fighting a smile. “Though I’m starting to think you have a different kind of brain damage.”
“Ouch.”
“Hold still, I’m not done.” You’re applying something to the cut now, some kind of adhesive. “You’re going to need to keep this clean. No kissing anyone for at least a week.”
“There’s only one person I want to kiss anyway,” he says before he can stop himself.
Your hands pause. Just for a second. Then you continue working. “Dean.”
“Sorry. Friends. I know.”
“I’m serious about the kissing thing. If this gets infected-”
“It won’t.”
“You can’t know that.”
“Then you’ll just have to check on me. Make sure I’m being good.”
You step back, pulling off your gloves. “You’re never good.”
“I’m good at hockey.”
“You just got hit in the face.”
“Occupational hazard.” He touches his lip carefully. “How bad does it look?”
“Like you got hit with a hockey stick.” You’re packing up the supplies now, not looking at him. “Which you did. Because you play a violent sport with no regard for your personal safety.”
“You’re really worried about me.”
“I’m worried about anyone who voluntarily puts themselves in danger repeatedly.”
“But especially me.”
Finally, you look at him. Really look at him. And there’s something in your eyes that makes his heart race faster than any game ever has.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Especially you.”
The moment stretches. Dean’s very aware that you’re still standing between his knees. That your face is close enough that he could lean forward and kiss you if his lip wasn’t split open. That you’re looking at him like you’re trying to figure out a particularly complicated equation.
“Y/N-”
“I should go.” You step back quickly. “Keep it clean. Ice for the swelling. If you develop a fever or the pain gets worse, go to the health center.”
“Will you be there?”
“Dean.”
“What? It’s a legitimate question. I want to make sure I see a qualified professional.”
“Any of the nurses can handle a split lip.”
“But you handled this one.”
“Because Garrett came and got me.”
“Lucky me.”
You shake your head, but you’re smiling. “You’re impossible.”
“You like it.”
“I tolerate it. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
You’re saved from answering by Garrett sticking his head in. “Everything okay in here? Dean still alive?”
“Barely,” you say. “He needs to be more careful.”
“Good luck with that,” Garrett says. “He’s the least careful person I know.”
“I’m careful,” Dean protests. “I’m very careful.”
“You just got hit in the face with a stick.”
“That’s—yeah, okay, fair point.”
You gather your bag. “I really should go. Maggie’s waiting.”
“Let me walk you out,” Dean says, hopping off the table.
“You should stay here and rest.”
“I’m fine.”
“Dean-”
“Y/N.” He matches your tone exactly, and you huff out a laugh.
“Fine. But if you pass out, I’m leaving you where you fall.”
“That’s fair.”
He walks you out of the training room, past his teammates who are all very obviously pretending not to watch, through the locker room and out into the hallway where Maggie’s waiting.
“Oh my god,” Maggie says when she sees his face. “That looks painful.”
“It’s not that bad,” Dean says.
“It looks awful,” you correct. “He needs to rest and ice it.”
“I need to take you home first.”
“We have an Uber-”
“Cancel it.” He’s already pulling out his phone. “I’ll drive you.”
“Dean, you just played a full game and took a stick to the face. You should not be driving.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine, you’re-”
“Stubborn?” Maggie suggests. “Determined? Completely gone for you?”
“Maggie!” You elbow her.
But Dean’s grinning now, despite the pain it causes. “All of the above.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you say, but you don’t argue when he leads you to the parking lot.
His car is exactly what you’d expect — a sleek black Audi that probably cost more than your entire college tuition. He opens the passenger door for you, which makes Maggie practically swoon in the back seat.
“Such a gentleman,” she stage-whispers.
“Shut up,” you whisper back.
The drive to your dorm is short, but Dean takes the long way, which doesn’t escape your notice.
“You missed the turn,” you point out.
“Did I?”
“Dean.”
“I’m concussed, remember? No sense of direction.”
“You’re not concussed!”
But you’re laughing, and he counts that as a win.
When he finally pulls up to your dorm, Maggie tactfully announces she needs to “check the mailroom” and disappears, leaving you alone in the car with Dean.
“Thank you,” you say. “For driving us. And for inviting me to the game. It was … actually really fun.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Even though you scared me with the whole bleeding thing.”
“Sorry about that.”
“No, you’re not.”
He grins. “No, I’m not.” He pauses. “So, would you come to another game? As friends?”
You’re quiet for a moment, looking at him. His split lip, his hopeful eyes, the way he’s trying so hard to be patient when patience is clearly not his strong suit.
“Dean,” you say carefully. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“This. The friendship thing. The study sessions. Tonight. Why?”
He could lie. Should lie, probably. Keep up the pretense that this is all casual, all friendly.
But he’s tired of pretending.
“Because I like you,” he says simply. “I’ve liked you since the moment you told me I go through women like socks. I like how smart you are. How focused. How you don’t take any of my shit. I like that you see me as just some guy, not the hockey captain or Dean Di Laurentis. Just me.”
You’re staring at him.
“And I know you have plans,” he continues. “Medical school and saving lives and all that. And I know you think I’m just going to break your heart and mess up your GPA or whatever. But I’m not asking you to change your plans. I’m just asking for a chance to be part of them.”
“Dean-”
“I know. You want to just be friends. And if that’s all you can give me, I’ll take it. But you asked why I’m doing this, and that’s why. Because you’re worth it.”
The silence that follows is the longest of Dean’s life.
Then you unbuckle your seatbelt.
“Your lip,” you say.
“What about it?”
“I said no kissing for a week.”
“You did say that.”
“So this is a terrible idea.”
“Probably.”
“It could get infected.”
“I’ll risk it.”
You lean across the console, and Dean stops breathing.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” you whisper, your lips inches from his.
“Okay,” he whispers back.
“We’re still just friends.”
“Whatever you say.”
“I mean it, Dean. This is-”
He kisses you.
Or you kiss him.
Honestly, he’s not sure who moves first, but suddenly your hand is in his hair and his hand is on your waist and you taste like mint chapstick and something sweet and he never wants to stop.
You pull back after a moment, breathing hard.
“Your lip,” you gasp.
“Don’t care.”
“It’s going to start bleeding again.”
“Still don’t care.”
You kiss him again, softer this time, mindful of the injury. It’s gentle and sweet and somehow more intense than anything Dean’s ever felt.
When you finally pull away, you’re both flushed.
“I should go,” you say, not moving.
“Probably.”
“Maggie’s waiting.”
“Definitely.”
Neither of you moves.
“This was a one-time thing,” you say.
“Sure.”
“I’m serious, Dean. This doesn’t change anything.”
“Of course not.”
“Stop smiling.”
“Can’t help it.”
You kiss him one more time, quick and impulsive, then scramble out of the car before he can pull you back.
“Ice your lip!” You call back. “And text me if anything changes!”
“Yes, doctor,” he calls after you.
He watches you disappear into your dorm, probably to face Maggie’s interrogation. Then he touches his lip — which is definitely bleeding again — and grins so wide it hurts.
Worth it.
Completely, absolutely worth it.
His phone buzzes.
Garrett: so did your insane plan work?
Dean: better than i could have imagined
Garrett: you’re an idiot
Dean: yeah but I’m an idiot who just kissed y/n
Garrett: WHAT
Tucker: WHAT
Logan: FINALLY
Dean’s still grinning when he drives home, still grinning when he gets into bed, still grinning when he finally falls asleep.
And in your dorm room, you’re lying in bed, fingers touching your lips, trying to convince yourself that this was a mistake.
Trying.
Failing.
“So,” Maggie says from her bed. “Just friends, huh?”
“Shut up.”
“That’s what I thought.”
You don’t answer. You’re too busy replaying the kiss in your mind. The way Dean looked at you. The way he said you were worth it.
The way you’re starting to think he might be worth it too.
Your phone buzzes.
Dean: for the record, that was the best worst idea you’ve ever had
You: I told you it was a terrible idea
Dean: terrible ideas are my specialty
You: I’ve noticed
Dean: so … still friends?
You stare at the message for a long time.
You: we’ll see
Dean: i’ll take it
Dean: sweet dreams, friend
You: goodnight Dean
You put your phone on your nightstand and stare at the ceiling.
What have you gotten yourself into?
And why does it feel so much like exactly where you’re supposed to be?
***
The shift from library to living room happens gradually.
First, it’s just one Tuesday when the library’s too crowded and Dean suggests his place. “It’ll be quieter,” he says, which is a lie because Tucker and Logan are playing video games at top volume, but his room is quiet, and you get more done than you have in weeks.
Then it becomes a regular thing. Tuesdays and Thursdays at The Boy’s House, sprawled across Dean’s bed with textbooks scattered around you, his desk chair pulled close so he can see your notes.
“This is dangerous,” Maggie says when you tell her.
“We’re studying.”
“In his bedroom.”
“It’s more comfortable than the library.”
“Uh huh. And how long before ‘studying’ becomes something else?”
“We’re taking things slow,” you say, which is true. Since the kiss in his car three weeks ago, there’s been more kissing. A lot more kissing. But always with boundaries. Always with you pulling back when things get too intense, and Dean letting you, patient in a way you didn’t know he was capable of being.
“You’re falling for him,” Maggie observes.
“I’m not falling for anyone. I’m focused on my goals.”
“You can do both, you know.”
“Can I?”
Maggie just looks at you, and you don’t have an answer.
***
Dean’s failing at the whole “just friends” thing spectacularly.
“You’ve got it bad,” Garrett says, watching Dean reorganize his desk for the third time. You’re coming over in twenty minutes, and he’s acting like the President is visiting.
“I’m just cleaning.”
“You never clean.”
“I clean.”
“You literally have a service that comes once a month to clean because you never clean.”
Dean throws a pillow at him. “Get out of my room.”
“Gladly. This is painful to watch.” But Garrett pauses at the door. “You know you’re going to have to actually talk to her about what you are, right? This weird limbo thing can’t last forever.”
“We’re taking it slow.”
“You’re taking it glacial. And one of you is going to crack.”
Dean knows this. Feels it every time you bite your lip in concentration, every time you absently touch his arm while explaining a concept, every time you look at him like you’re trying to solve an equation that doesn’t have an answer.
But he’s trying to be good. Trying to be what you need, which apparently is a friend who kisses you sometimes but doesn’t push for more.
Even if it’s killing him.
The doorbell rings — you always ring the doorbell instead of just walking in like everyone else — and Dean takes the stairs two at a time.
You’re standing on the porch in leggings and an oversized sweater, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair in a messy bun. You’re not wearing makeup. You look tired.
You look perfect.
“Hey,” you say.
“Hey.” He steps aside to let you in. “Rough day?”
“Organic chem exam. I think I aced it, but my brain feels like mush.”
“Want to reschedule?”
“No, I need to focus on something else or I’ll obsess over every answer.” You’re already heading up the stairs to his room, comfortable now in a way that makes his chest tight. “Please tell me you have coffee.”
“Made a fresh batch ten minutes ago.”
“You’re a saint.”
“I’m really not,” he mutters, following you up.
***
Two hours later, you’ve made significant progress on Dean’s Business Finance case study and your Healthcare Economics paper. You’ve also consumed an entire pot of coffee and are now lying across Dean’s bed on your stomach, ankles crossed in the air, reading an article on your laptop.
Dean’s at his desk, supposedly working on his own assignment, but mostly just watching you. The way you scrunch your nose when you read something confusing. The way you absently twist a strand of hair around your finger. The way you’ve made yourself completely at home in his space.
“I can feel you staring,” you say without looking up.
“Can’t help it. You’re very watchable.”
“That’s not a word.”
“Sure it is. I just used it.”
You finally look at him, and you’re smiling. “You’re distracting me.”
“Sorry.” He’s not sorry.
“No, you’re not.”
“You’re right, I’m not.”
You shake your head, but you’re still smiling. You go back to your article, and Dean goes back to pretending to work.
Ten minutes later, he notices you’ve stopped scrolling.
“Y/N?”
No answer.
He turns in his chair. You’ve fallen asleep, face pillowed on your arms, laptop still open beside you. Your breathing is deep and even, and there’s a small crease between your eyebrows like you’re concentrating even in sleep.
Dean stands slowly, carefully. He should wake you. Let you go home. But you look so peaceful, and he knows you’ve been running yourself ragged with classes and volunteering and somehow still making time for him.
He gently closes your laptop and sets it on his nightstand. You don’t stir.
He should really wake you.
Instead, he finds himself carefully pulling the throw blanket from the foot of his bed and draping it over you. You make a small sound, shifting slightly, and his breath catches. But you just burrow deeper into his pillow.
Dean stands there for a long moment, just watching you sleep in his bed, and something in his chest cracks wide open.
He’s in love with you.
The realization should terrify him. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t do love. He does fun and casual and uncomplicated.
But you’re none of those things, and he doesn’t care.
He’s in love with you.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
You sleep on, oblivious.
Dean grabs his spare pillow and a second blanket. He should sleep on the floor. Or in the living room. But the thought of being away from you, even just downstairs, is impossible.
So he lies down on top of his covers, careful not to jostle you, keeping a respectful distance.
He’ll just close his eyes for a minute.
Just a minute.
***
You wake up warm.
That’s the first thing you register. Warm and comfortable and-
Your eyes fly open.
Dean’s bedroom. Dean’s bed. And Dean is-
Oh god.
Sometime in the night, you’ve migrated together. Your back is pressed against his chest, his arm is wrapped around your waist, and his face is buried in your hair. You can feel his breath on your neck, slow and steady.
He’s still asleep.
You should move. Extract yourself carefully. Pretend this never happened.
But he’s so warm, and you’re so comfortable, and when was the last time you felt this safe?
“Y’wake?” Dean’s voice is rough with sleep, and you feel it rumble through his chest.
“Yeah.”
“What time is it?”
You crane your neck to see his alarm clock. “Six thirty.”
“In the morning?”
“Yeah.”
He groans, but his arm tightens around you. “Too early.”
“I should go.”
“Why?”
“Because I fell asleep here. In your bed.”
“So?”
“So that’s not … we’re not …”
“We’re not what?” His thumb starts tracing absent circles on your hip, and you’re pretty sure he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
“Dean.”
“Hmm?”
“We should talk about this.”
“About what? Two friends having a sleepover?”
“Friends don’t usually sleep like this.”
“Maybe they should. It’s very comfortable.”
Despite yourself, you laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“You say that a lot.”
“Because it’s consistently true.”
He shifts, and suddenly he’s propped up on one elbow, looking down at you. His hair is a mess, and there’s a crease on his cheek from the pillow, and he’s looking at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
“You drool when you sleep.”
“I do not!” You swat at him, but he catches your hand.
“Okay, you don’t. But you do make these little snoring sounds.”
“I don’t snore!”
“They’re cute. Everything about you is cute.”
Your heart does that annoying flutter thing. “Dean-”
“I know. Taking it slow. Being patient. I’m being good.”
“Are you?”
“I’m trying.” His eyes drop to your lips. “It’s really hard when you look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to kiss me.”
“I-” You stop. Because he’s right. You do want to kiss him. You want to do more than kiss him. You’ve been wanting to for weeks now, and the wanting is starting to override the carefully logical reasons you’ve built up for why this is a bad idea.
“Can I kiss you?” Dean asks, and his voice is soft. Careful.
“We’re in your bed.”
“I noticed.”
“If we start kissing in your bed, it’s going to lead to other things.”
“Not if you don’t want it to.”
“That’s the problem. I’m starting to think I do want it to.”
Dean goes very still. “Y/N-”
“I should go,” you say quickly, sitting up. “I have a class at nine and I need to shower and-”
“Hey.” He catches your hand again. “Don’t run.”
“I’m not running.”
“You’re definitely running.” But he lets go, giving you space. “I’ll drive you.”
“You don’t have to-”
“I want to.”
The drive back to your dorm is quiet. Not uncomfortable, just weighted. Like you’re both thinking the same thing but neither of you knows how to say it.
When he pulls up to your building, you unbuckle your seatbelt but don’t get out.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“Last night … it was really nice.”
He turns to look at you, and something in his expression makes your breath catch. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You lean over and kiss him, quick and soft. “I’ll see you Thursday?”
“Thursday,” he confirms.
You make it halfway to the door before he calls your name.
“Y/N?”
“Yeah?”
“You can fall asleep in my bed anytime you want.”
You smile. “Good to know.”
And you definitely don’t spend the entire day thinking about the way he held you. The way you fit together. The way you’ve never felt safer than you did waking up in his arms.
Definitely not.
***
Thursday becomes a repeat of Tuesday. You study, you talk, you laugh. And when you start to fade around eleven, Dean just hands you a t-shirt.
“You can’t sleep in jeans,” he says. “They’re not comfortable.”
“Dean-”
“I’ll turn around. I promise.”
He does, facing the wall while you change quickly, and when you climb into his bed wearing his shirt and your underwear, he doesn’t comment. Just lies down on top of the covers again, maintaining that careful distance.
Until you wake up tangled together anyway.
It becomes a routine. Study sessions that run late. You, falling asleep in his bed. Dean, sleeping above the covers. Both of you waking up intertwined.
“This is ridiculous,” you say one morning, still wrapped in his arms. “You’re sleeping on top of the covers.”
“I’m being respectful.”
“You’re being uncomfortable.”
“I’m fine.”
“Dean.” You turn to face him. “Just get under the covers. We’re going to end up cuddling anyway.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
That night, when you start to fade, Dean just lifts the covers.
“Come here,” he says, and you do.
You fit against him like you were designed for it. His arm around your waist, your head on his chest, legs tangled together.
from an irritated "oh, fuck!" to a confident "fuck it", your entire relationship with John Logan can be mapped out in seven specific exclamations of his favorite four-letter word.
word count : 6.1k (sorry) — enemies to lovers, kind of — logan is moody — SMUT, minors DNI — Enjoy and please tell me what you think !
One — "Oh, fuck!"
The music wasn’t just loud; it was vibrating through the old floorboards and thumping directly against your ribs. You’d only been there for twenty minutes, entirely dragged along by Hannah, who was currently tucked under Garrett’s arm near the doorway. Watching them was sweet—almost nauseatingly so—but it left you feeling like a ghost drifting through a sea of oversized jerseys, loud hockey players, and the thick scent of cheap beer. For the most part, the rest of the boys were incredibly welcoming; even though you'd just met them tonight, they were already loud, inherently kind and easy to be around.
Except for John Logan.
You hadn’t actually been introduced to him yet, but you’d felt his suffocating vibe the moment he walked through the door. He looked like absolute thunder. Briar had dropped a frustrating, tight game that evening, and while Garrett was channeling his nervous energy into playing the charismatic host, Logan was wearing his irritation like armor. Leaning against the kitchen counter with a dark scowl that practically screamed at people to stay away, his knuckles were white around his glass, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for a reason to snap.
Navigating that crowded, chaotic kitchen with a brim-filled, sticky mixed drink was your first mistake. Your second was catching the rubber toe of your sneaker on the lifting edge of a rogue anti-fatigue mat near the sink.
You stumbled forward, your arms flailing wildly in a desperate, ungraceful bid for balance. You didn’t fall, but your cup did a violent, mid-air flip, slipping from your fingers. A torrential wave of sticky, dark rum and cola splashed directly across the pristine gray fabric of Logan’s Henley shirt, soaking through the chest, darkening the material instantly and dripping down the front of his dark jeans.
Logan froze. His head snapped down slowly, looking at the huge, dark stain spreading across his clothes, and then his gaze lifted to yours. His eyes were blazing, a dangerous brown, entirely unamused and dripping with venom. "Oh, fuck!" he snapped, his voice cutting right through the ambient noise like a knife. He pulled the wet, heavy fabric away from his skin with two fingers, a look of pure annoyance twisting his features. "Are you serious right now? Watch where the hell you're going."
The sheer aggression in his tone caught you completely off guard, instantly sparking your own deeply ingrained, stubborn nature. You had been about to apologize profusely, the words of remorse already forming on your tongue, but the bite in his words choked them right out of your throat. You squared your shoulders, refusing to back down under his glare. "It was an accident," you retorted, pulling a few crumpled, napkins from the counter and shoving them toward his chest. "You don't have to be a complete dick about it. It’s just a shirt, I'm pretty sure you'll survive."
"It's a wet, sticky shirt at the end of a terrible, exhausting fucking day," he growled, his voice dropping an octave as he batted your hand away with a harsh flick of his wrist. He didn't take the napkins; they fluttered uselessly to the floor. Instead, he leaned down slightly, giving you a long, icy glare that made you feel about two inches tall, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle tick. "Next time, look up from your feet." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and storming down the hallway toward the stairs, muttering curses under his breath.
You stood there rooted to the spot, your cheeks burning with a toxic mixture of intense embarrassment and sudden, deep-seated dislike. Garrett materialized at your side a split second later, a sympathetic, slightly apologetic grimace on his face as he patted your shoulder gently. "Hey, don't sweat it," Garrett reassured you quietly, glancing warily toward the stairs where Logan had disappeared. "Logan’s just in a brutal mood because of the game, and he hates losing more than anyone. He's usually a great guy, I swear. He’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow morning."
You forced a tight, fake smile and nodded, but as you looked down at your empty, sticky hands, a bitter taste lingered in your mouth. Spoiler alert: he wouldn't forget. and neither would you.
Two — "Fuck you"
A few weeks later, the initial friction hadn’t dissolved; it had hardened into a permanent, icy chill. You tried your best to play nice for the sake of Hannah and Allie, but Logan made it incredibly difficult. You saw how he was with the rest of their circle—fiercely loyal, easygoing, and warm. He was the kind of guy who quietly made sure Allie and Hannah got home safe from their late shifts and spent his free afternoons helping Jules with media stuff. He was patient with the entire world. But the exact millisecond you walked into a room, his posture stiffened and his jaw set. You hated being the sole exception to his good nature, so you simply stayed out of his way.
The breaking point came on a gray, rainy Tuesday afternoon. You and Hannah had walked over to the hockey house to help Tucker untangle a massive, soul-crushing history assignment he was drowning in. The three of you were spread across the dining table, surrounded by a chaotic mess of highlighters, laptop cords, and heavy library textbooks.
The back door clicked open, and Logan walked in. He was wearing his Briar athletic gear, a damp towel slung over his shoulders from a post-practice shower, his hair messy and wet. He looked exhausted, his shoulders tense, carrying the unmistakable hangover of a brutal morning practice. Instead of walking past to the kitchen, he paused by the table, leaning over Tucker’s shoulder to scan the open pages. He let out a heavy, deliberate sigh. "You’re using the wrong primary sources for that era, Tuck," Logan said, his voice dropping into that effortless, uninvited authority. "You need the economic logs from the eastern front, not these political manifestos. You’re going to tank your thesis statement with those."
Tucker blinked up, looking miserable. "Wait, really? I thought—"
"We checked those, Logan," you interrupted, keeping your voice level and calm as you kept your eyes on your notebook. "We've got it handled," you smiled, trying to remain polite.
Logan didn't move. His eyes slid slowly down to the side of your face, unamused. "Right. Because you're an expert on 20th-century economic trade?"
"No," you said, your pen pausing on the page. "But I can read a syllabus. If you're so worried about Tucker's academic results, you could have sat down and helped him yourself already."
Logan’s jaw tightened, a sharp spike of tension instantly replacing his usual easygoing demeanor. He took his hands out of his pockets and leaned forward, bracing his palms on the edge of the table, firmly invading your space. Tucker shot Hannah a wide-eyed, panicked look across the textbooks, both of them suddenly bracing for impact.
"I gave him my old notes weeks ago," Logan shot back, his voice dropping into something smaller, tighter. "But sure, ignore the guy who actually passed the class because you're too stubborn to take a note from me."
"I'm not being stubborn, you're just being a patronizing prick," you retorted, leaning back in your chair. "You’ve been hovering over this table for five minutes just looking for a problem because you had a bad day and want to take it out on someone."
Logan let out a harsh, dry laugh, though there was a flicker of genuine frustration in his eyes—the look of a good guy who couldn't understand why he kept letting you bait him. "Take it out on someone? Trust me, if I wanted to take anything out on someone, I wouldn't waste my time on you. I'm trying to keep my friend from bombing a midterm because he made the mistake of letting you organize his thoughts."
"My thoughts are perfectly fine, Logan," Tucker muttered quietly under his breath, his eyes glued to his laptop screen, desperately trying to dissolve into the background.
"They're fine when you're left alone, Tuck," Logan said, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring his teammate's plea. "Not when you're letting someone drag their own contrarian agenda into your coursework."
"A contrarian agenda?" You stood up, your chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. Hannah flinched at the sharp noise, withdrawing her hands from the table and motioning for Tucker to leave the potential future crime scene. They both complied quickly, knowing you both well enough to understand that trying to reason with you in that moment would be pointless. "Are you actually insane? I'm sorry that anyone else having a brain in this house threatens your need to micromanage every single thing that happens under this roof."
"It doesn't threaten me at all," Logan said, standing up straight and towering over you, using his height to crowd your space until his shadow completely blocked out the light from the window. The sheer, uncharacteristic anger rolling off him was suffocating; Tucker actually slid his chair back a few inches, completely done with trying to intervene at this point. "It annoys me. You annoy me, actually. I'm not going to walk on eggshells in my own dining room because you can't handle a basic correction."
"I can handle a correction if it's respectful," you shot back, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you refused to take a step away from him. "You don't want to help Tucker. You just want to feel like the smartest guy in the room and that is annoying."
"I dont—," Logan started, a nervous scoff escaping his lips. "You don't know anything about me. Please let's keep it this way, since you clearly can't stand me anyway."
"You're the one who treats me like an absolute inconvenience the second I breathe in your direction!" you yelled, the weeks of being ignored, brushed off, and glared at finally boiling over into raw, unadulterated anger. "If you hate me being here so much, just say it. But stop acting like I'm the one bringing the venom into this house when you're the one dripping it."
The air between you turned completely volatile, thick enough to choke on. A strange, angry electricity snapped between you, the argument completely detached from history or homework now, exposed and raw. Logan stared down at you, his breathing heavy and uneven as he tried to swallow down the sheer frustration rolling off him in waves. He leaned down slightly, bringing his face inches from yours, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle violently ticked in his cheek.
"Fuck you," he whispered.
The words hit with a cold, deliberate weight that vibrated in the dead-silent room. Before you could fire back, Tucker's voice boomed from the kitchen archway, stern and completely done with both of you. "Enough! Both of you, cut it the hell out."
But the damage was done. The look in Logan's eyes made something tight and painful twist in your chest. You refused to sit there and breathe the same air as him for another second. Blindly turning around, you grabbed your laptop and notebook, shoving them into your backpack with rigid, uncooperative hands.
"I'm leaving," you muttered, keeping your eyes glued firmly to the floor as you pushed past Hannah’s reaching hand on the way out. You grabbed your jacket from the hook and left through the front door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the frame, stepping out into the pouring, cold rain with the echo of his voice looping in your head like a curse.
Three — "Fuck off"
For the next month, you became an absolute expert at avoiding John Logan. You turned it into an art form. If he was at a crowded house party, you stayed firmly in the kitchen or on the opposite porch. If the entire group gathered at Malone's, you ensured you sat on the exact opposite end of the long table, hidden behind Dean's loud gestures.
Because of this, you never saw the way his eyes silently followed you when you entered a room, or the almost guilty look that crossed his face whenever your name came up in conversation. He knew he'd crossed a line by cursing at you like that—but your unbreakable silence gave him absolutely no room to apologize, and his own stubborn pride kept him from forcing the issue.
There were small signs of his guilt, though. One random Thursday afternoon, he showed up at the place you shared with Hannah and Allie, claiming he was just dropping off a spare hockey hoodie Garrett had left in his truck. You had stayed in your room with the door cracked just an inch, watching through the tiny gap as he lingered by the entrance, his eyes constantly drifting toward your door, silently checking to see if you'd come out. You hadn't moved an inch, holding your breath until he finally left.
Eventually, Hannah and Allie staged a full-blown intervention. A brand-new club had opened downtown, and they absolutely refused to let you stay home and rot in your room, even though they openly admitted the boys were all coming along. You finally relented, numbing your spiking anxiety by pouring yourself two heavy pre-game vodka crans before leaving the house.
The club was a massive sensory overload—flashing neon lights, artificial fog, and heavy, chest-thumping bass that made communication impossible. By midnight, everyone was comfortably, heavily drunk. You were leaning your back against the sticky mahogany bar, sipping a gin and tonic, when you finally caught sight of him through the pulsing crowd.
Logan was laughing at something Beau said, a dark red bandana tied tightly around his messy hair, looking effortlessly, devastatingly handsome in a black fitted t-shirt. As if sensing the weight of your gaze, his head turned. His dark eyes locked directly onto yours across the smoky crowded room. He didn’t look away. He held your stare for a second, then two, then three — a strange, intense, unreadable heat settling over his features before a group of dancers blocked your view.
A few minutes later, a guy from one of the campus fraternities slithered up next to you on the edge of the dance floor. He was loud, sweaty, and smelled entirely too much like cheap cologne and whiskey — but a little bit of dancing could help taking your mind off of a certain hockey player, you thought. You enjoyed it at first, moving along, focusing on the music, the stranger getting closer and closer as the playlist progressed. But then, just as you started to feel good - just the right amount of alcohol in your veins to feel lighter and relaxed - he tried to grind his hips against yours. You tried to step back, laughing it off politely at first, pushing his hands away, but he didn't take the hint. His hands came down on your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you flush against him with a grip that was far too tight and aggressive.
Before you could even raise your hands to shove his chest, a massive shadow loomed over both of you.
A now familiar hand gripped the frat guy’s shoulder, spinning him around with enough force to make his sneakers squeak on the floor.
"Fuck off," Logan snarled, his voice a low, lethal vibration that cut right through the heavy bass of the music. He leaned in until he was nose-to-nose with the guy. "Get your fucking hands off her and fuck off right now."
The guy looked at Logan and wisely raised his hands in surrender, backing away rapidly into the foggy crowd without throwing a single punch.
Logan’s breathing was heavy, his chest heaving, his fists still clenched tightly at his sides as his eyes scanned the immediate area like a wild animal looking for another threat. He looked ready to tear the entire club apart with his bare hands. Anxious that he might actually chase the guy down for a fight, you stepped directly into his line of sight, capturing his attention.
"Logan," you breathed, your voice soft and entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. Without thinking about the consequences, you reached out, your bare fingers wrapping around his forearm.
The exact millisecond your skin met the warm, rock-hard muscle of his arm, Logan froze entirely. It was the first time the two of you had ever willingly, gently touched, and the effect was instantaneous. The blinding anger seemed to drain out of him in a single breath, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of air. He looked down at your small hand resting on his arm, his skin tingling where you touched him, and then he slowly, deliberately lifted his gaze to your eyes.
The noisy club, the flashing strobe lights, the roaring bass, the alcohol—it all faded into irrelevant background noise. You stood face-to-face on the crowded dance floor, completely motionless, just looking into each other's eyes. Your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, not from fear of the frat guy, but from a sudden, dizzying, terrifying realization. Looking into his wide, intensely focused eyes, you realized you didn't hate him. Not even close. And from the soft, almost vulnerable parting of his lips, he didn't hate you either. You weren't close to being friends yet, but the ice had officially shattered into a million pieces.
Four — "What the fuck"
The shift between you was subtle, but it was absolutely undeniable. The sharp hostility was gone, completely replaced by a quiet, lingering, heavy awareness that neither of you knew quite what to do with.
A week later, you were sitting in a sunlit corner booth at Malone’s. You were completely, entirely absorbed in a brutal, multi-chapter study session for your finals, a pair of heavy over-ear headphones clamped securely over your ears. The sweet, nostalgic melody of American Pie was playing through the speakers, and without even realizing it, you were softly humming along to the chorus, tapping the cap of your yellow highlighter rhythmically against the open pages of your textbook.
You were so deeply focused on your notes that you didn't hear the diner's front door chime, nor did you see Logan walk in. He was there to finalize the last-minute details for the upcoming Hockey Fundraiser with Hannah and Della. But the exact moment his eyes scanned the room and spotted you sitting alone in the corner booth, he stopped dead in his tracks.
He didn’t approach right away. He just stood near the counter, watching you. A soft, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he listened to your faint, slightly off-key humming.
Prickled by the sudden, distinct sensation of eyes on you, you blinked and lifted your head from your textbook. Logan instantly wiped the smile from his face, clearing his throat roughly and pretending to read a missing cat flyer on the bulletin board.
You pulled your headphones down, a small smirk playing on your lips. "You know, if you stare any harder, you're going to burn a hole right through my skull, Logan."
Instead of snapping back with a sarcastic, biting retort like he used to, Logan let out a soft chuckle. He walked over to your booth and, to your surprise, slid into the bench by your side, his knee almost touching yours.
"Just making sure you weren't torturing the rest of the innocent customers with your singing," he teased gently, his shoulder brushing against yours in the tight space.
You rolled your eyes, but there was no spite left in your expression. "I happen to have the voice of a literal angel, thank you very much. You're just jealous."
The playful banter slowly subsided into a comfortable silence. Logan looked at you, his expression turning a little more serious, his eyes softening as his voice dropped to a much quieter register. "Hey… are you doing okay?" Since what happened the other night, obviously implied by the way he looked at you right now, concern written all over his face.
You felt a warm flush creep up your neck and settle into your cheeks. "I'm okay, thank you" you smiled and he nodded, both silently agreeing not to discuss this unpleasant event anymore. You paused, looking down at his large hands resting on the table before forcing yourself to look back up. "How are you doing ? With the fundraiser and everything, I mean. You look like you haven't slept in a week."
He seemed genuinely surprised that you were asking about him. Really, truly asking. He leaned back against the vinyl booth, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he completely opened up to you. He talked about the immense stress of managing the team's high expectations, his constant worries about Jules’ upcoming exams, and the suffocating pressure of the NHL scouts attending the next three games. You listened intently, never interrupting, offering gentle encouragement and a few dry, sarcastic jokes that had him laughing quietly into his palms. For a full hour, the two most stubborn, argumentative people at Briar University just… talked.
"Well," you finally said, checking the diner clock and reluctantly packing your laptop into your bag. "I have to get to my shift at the library. Don't let Della bully you into paying extra for the tableware."
"I won't," Logan said, his eyes tracking your every movement, lingering on your face. "See you around?"
"See you around." You gave him a small, genuine smile—the first real one he'd ever received from you—and walked out into the crisp afternoon air, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks.
Inside the booth, Logan sat completely still for a long, agonizing moment. He watched your retreating figure through the glass window until you turned the corner and disappeared from view. Slowly, he let out a shaky exhale, burying his face entirely in his hands. He rubbed his palms over his eyes, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
"What the fuck," he whispered into the empty diner booth, his voice laced with a mixture of absolute awe and sheer, unadulterated panic. He was screwed. He was completely, utterly, hopelessly screwed, and he knew there was no turning back.
Five — "Well, fuck"
The night of the Briar Hockey Fundraiser at Malone’s was a chaotic, high-energy, glittering success. The entire diner had been completely transformed for the evening—the regular tables had been pushed to the far perimeter to create a makeshift dance floor, strings of warm fairy lights hung across the ceiling, and a massive turnout of wealthy alumni, boosters, and students kept the bar utterly slammed.
You had dressed up significantly for the occasion, wearing a form-fitting, emerald green silk dress that Allie let you borrow from her closet - of course. You spent the first half of the night talking to Hannah near the punch bowl, but your eyes kept unconsciously tracking a certain someone across the room.
Logan was entirely in his element—charming the older donors, laughing easily with his teammates, and looking entirely too edible for your own good.
Around midnight, the formal event finally dissolved into a proper, rowdy college party. The DJ cranked up a heavy, slow, rhythmic pop song, the bass echoing through the floor, and the dance floor filled up with couples. You were navigating the edge of the sweaty crowd, trying to find Allie when a sudden, firm, yet gentle pull on your wrist guided you backward.
You spun around on your heels, your chest bumping right into Logan’s broad torso. "You've been actively dodging me all night," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating right against your skin as his large hand settled naturally around yours. The casual, unhesitating intimacy of the gesture sent a fierce, blinding jolt of electricity straight down your spine.
"I wasn't dodging you, I was letting you do your official host duties," you shot back, a wicked, playful smile spreading across your lips. The alcohol gave you a surge of confidence, and you looped your arms slowly around his neck, stepping closer into his personal space until there was absolutely no air left between you. "Besides, I didn't think you could actually handle me dancing with you."
Logan’s dark eyes lit up instantly, a dangerous, competitive challenge flaring in his pupils. He pulled you a fraction of an inch closer. "Oh, really? Try me, sweetheart."
You didn't hesitate. As the heavy beat of the music dropped, you shifted your weight, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, and sinfully against his. You leaned in close, your lips brushing the warm shell of his ear as you whispered, "You're all talk, John Logan. Let's see if you can actually keep up with me."
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding down his chest to grip the crisp fabric of his shirt, tugging him rhythmically, tightly against your body. The friction was immediate, heavy, and intoxicating. Logan’s breath hitched audibly in his throat. A dark, intense flush crept up his neck, coloring his sharp cheekbones as his hands settled on your waist, his fingers digging firmly into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress. He swallowed hard, his eyes dropping helplessly to your parted lips, entirely overwhelmed and undone by the sudden confidence of your movements. He could feel exactly how much you were affecting him, his body reacting instantly to the touch of your hips.
A breathless, desperate laugh escaped him. He jerked his head back for a split second, fighting a losing battle for self-control. "Well, fuck," he muttered, his voice raw, completely devoid of its usual composure.
"Did I break the big, tough hockey player already?" you cooed, tilting your chin up tauntingly, your noses almost touching as you continued to sway against him.
"You wish," he groaned, his thumbs stroking the bare skin of your lower back where your dress dipped low. He didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled you even tighter against his lower body, matching your sinful rhythm perfectly, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a burning intensity that made it very clear the playful teasing was rapidly turning into something much more dangerous and inevitable. When the night finally forced you apart, it didn't feel like a goodbye — it was a promise.
Six — "Fuck"
Some things are bound to reach a breaking point, and the agonizing tension building between you for months was no exception. Three nights later, Briar won a massive game and the ensuing after-party at the boys' house was pure chaotic madness. The house was packed to maximum capacity, a sweaty, pulsing mass of drunken celebration, loud music, and screaming students.
But you and Logan weren't paying any attention to the party. For the past two hours, you had been moving around the house like two high-powered magnets — constantly drawing closer, stealing long, heated glances across the crowded rooms, the unspoken, heavy weight of the fundraiser hanging between you.
Seeking a brief moment of quiet to cool down your flushed skin, you headed down the dark back hallway toward the upstairs bathroom. Just as you reached out for the brass doorknob, the door swung open from the inside.
Logan stepped out.
You nearly crashed straight into his chest, cutting your breath short as you ground to a halt mere inches from him. The hallway was swallowed by shadows, save for the frantic strobe lights bleeding in from the living room. Logan stared down at you, wide-eyed, his chest rising and falling in sync with the thick, suffocating heat pulsing through the house.
Neither of you said a single word. The months of toxic banter, the vicious, screaming arguments, the desperate avoidance, and the agonizing teasing all converged into a single, breathless, breaking second.
Logan reached out with lightning speed, his large hand wrapping around your waist, and shoved you backward into the bathroom, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind you and twisting the lock with a sharp, echoing click.
Before the sound of the lock could even fade, his mouth crashed onto yours.
It was an absolute explosion. The kiss was passionate, borderline feral, a violent release of pure, pent-up, crazy frustration. You let out a muffled gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to rip into his dark hair, pulling him down toward you out of sheer desperation. He groaned deep in his throat, a sound of pure hunger, pinning your body flat against the heavy wooden door, his thick thighs crowding tightly between yours. His hands were absolutely everywhere—clutching your face, tracing the line of your throat, gripping your hips with a bruising, desperate force that felt incredibly, entirely right.
"Logan," you whimpered against his mouth as he tore his lips away to kiss your jawline, your neck - his hands sliding down to frantically bunch up the silk fabric of your dress.
With a sudden burst of strengh, he hooked his large hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly into the air. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist as he deposited you onto the cold marble edge of the bathroom sink counter. He didn't waste a single second. His hands slid all the way up the bare, warm skin of your thighs, finding the edge of your underwear. His fingers quickly found your slick, burning, over-sensitized core, rubbing against you through the damp fabric with a rhythm that made your head tilt back and earned a large grin from him.
You arched your back off the counter, a loud sob escaping your lips, your fingers digging deep into his shoulders.
"You like that?" Logan growled against your neck, his voice dripping with lust. His fingers moved faster, driving you up a steep, agonizing cliff. "Tell me you want it."
"Logan," you breathed out, "please," you cried out, your head tossing back against the large bathroom mirror. Your hands flew down to his waist, frantically, blindly fumbling with the button of his jeans. You shoved the denim down his hips until his length snapped free—thick, heavy, and pulsing with heat. The moment your fingers wrapped tightly around him, moving in a fast, desperate stroke, Logan’s eyes rolled back.
His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his neck. He couldn't endure the exquisite torture for long, his quiet moans matching your own, before his large hand clamped over yours, freezing your movement. "Stop, stop," he panted, his chest wild, his forehead pressing against yours. "I'm going to come right now if you keep doing that. I need to feel you, right now."
With trembling, frantic hands, he reached into the small drawer next to the sink—Dean’s emergency stash—and ripped open a foil condom wrapper, spitting the plastic away and rolling it onto himself in one fluid, desperate motion.
Then he stepped back between your open thighs. His hands gripped your hips with an iron hold, dragging you to the very edge of the marble counter. He aligned himself against you, waiting just long enough for your frantic nod of approval. With one heavy, unyielding, possessive thrust, he buried himself completely inside you.
The sheer, overwhelming pleasure of that sudden fullness hit you both at once, fracturing the quiet of the bathroom with a sharp, mutual gasp. Instead of slowing down, the friction only stoked the fire, drawing a long, ragged, shattered exhale from deep in Logan's chest. His pupils were completely dilated, dark and wild with pure lust as his forehead dropped heavily against your shoulder.
"Fuck," he groaned into the crook of your neck, his voice a raw, visceral prayer vibrating against your collarbone.
His hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like an anchor as he immediately established a rhythm. The restraint dissolved into pure instinct. He pulled you flush against him, his thrusts becoming powerful, deep, and utterly relentless from the very start. Every heavy drive forced a breathless cry from your lips, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. You rocked together on the cold edge of the marble sink, your bodies generating a feverish heat that defied the chilly stone beneath you.
The bass from the after-party still thudded through the floorboards, a distant, muffled reminder of the chaotic world outside, but within the locked walls of the bathroom, that world was entirely forgotten. There was only the slick, friction-heavy slide of skin against skin, the frantic tangle of your fingers in his hair, and the hot, primal rhythm consuming you both.
The friction was dizzying, driving you both toward a precipice that neither of you could fight anymore. Logan’s pace turned frantic, his breath coming in harsh, ragged stabs against your ear as his hips slammed against yours with an undoing, desperate urgency. Every stroke sent a white-hot wave of pleasure straight to your core, tightening the coil inside you until it was agonizing.
You choked out a breathless, broken sound, your hands clamping onto his biceps as your head thrashed back against the mirror once more.
He didn't need words to know you were right there. He buried his face in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he delivered three more devastatingly deep, relentless thrusts.
That was the final breaking point. Your walls clamped down around him tight and pulsing, fracturing your breath into a loud, ruined cry as your entire body shattered into a blinding, head-to-toe release.
Hearing you break completely ruined him. Logan let out a guttural, unhinged groan that vibrated deep in his chest. His jaw locked, his body rigid and trembling as he gave one last, deeply possessive shove, throwing his weight into you as he came violently inside the condom. He held himself deep within you, his hips shuddering against yours as he rode out the waves of his own release, the two of you panting heavily in the quiet aftermath, entirely spent.
Seven — "Fuck it"
Roughly thirty minutes later, the two of you finally emerged from the bathroom. You had tried your absolute best to fix your chaotic appearance in the mirror—re-applying a bit of smudge-proof lip gloss, smoothing down the wrinkled fabric of your dress, and trying to tame your wildly tangled hair with your fingers—but the physical evidence of what had just occurred was written all over your faces. Your skin was flushed a deep unmistakable pink, your lips were incredibly swollen and red, and Logan was walking with a loose, stupidly contented, proud stride, his hair completely disheveled and sticking up in directions where your fingers had repeatedly torn through it.
The exact moment you stepped back onto the floor of the crowded living room, a loud, piercing whistle cut through the air.
Dean was leaning against the back of the sofa, a beer dangling from his fingers and a knowing smirk plastered across his face. His eyes darted from you to Logan, zeroing in instantly on the faint trace of your lip gloss smeared along Logan’s jawline.
"Well, well, well," he said, loud enough to be heard over the music. "Must have been a pretty intense plumbing emergency in there. Either that, or you two just went ten rounds with a blender. You might want to wipe your face, Logan."
Your cheeks instantly burned. You took a step back. "Dean, shut up, we were just—"
But Logan didn't let you finish the lie. He looked down at you, catching the slight panic in your eyes, and then looked over at Dean, who was practically vibrating with smug satisfaction.
Instead of getting defensive, Logan just let out a short, quiet laugh. The stubbornness, the secrecy, the remnants of your old feud—it all suddenly felt completely irrelevant. He was tired of hiding it.
"You know what? Fuck it," Logan muttered.
Before you could process the words, his hand slid around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your jaw as he pulled you flush against his chest. Right there by the sofa, he leaned down and kissed you.
Dean threw his arms up in a dramatic, sweeping gesture. "About damn fucking time! Graham, you owe me twenty bucks!"
When Logan finally pulled back, his eyes were bright, a relaxed, genuinely happy smile playing on his lips as his thumb brushed your cheek. You looked up at him, the noise of the party fading into the background, finally realizing that the long, argumentative journey of seven dirty words had brought you exactly where you were supposed to be.
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