my favorite picture of my boyfriend and I was on the back of that phone.
and then, because apparently I was not suffering enough for the narrative, the thief decided to become a minor antagonist in a coming-of-age film and made me think my phone had been found.
how?
he put the location directly at the police station.
the POLICE STATION.
so there I am, briefly restoring my faith in humanity. thinking wow. maybe someone turned it in. maybe the universe is healing.
no ❤️
the phone then proceeded to leave the police station and go on a little adventure around town before ending up in a park.
somewhere out there is a man who stole my phone and also committed to a bit.
tumblr user experiencing character development against her will.
author’s note 𓂃 requested by @myst3ryin0rperated 💌 this ended up being way longer than planned, but honestly? tuck deserves the attention. i love parts of this, but i’m also not fully sure how i feel about it yet, so i’d love to know what you think <3
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
The first time Tucker saw you, you almost took out an entire row of glasses at Malone’s. Not one, not two, but an entire row.
It happened on a Friday night, which meant the bar was already packed with students pretending they didn’t have assignments due, hockey players pretending they weren’t exhausted from practice, and Della behind the counter pretending she wasn’t five seconds away from throwing someone out for ordering another round only to forget what they’d asked for immediately.
You were new, and that much was obvious. Not because you were bad at the job, exactly, but because you still had the bright, nervous energy of someone who hadn’t yet learned that Malone’s on a Friday night was less a bar and more a sticky-floored battlefield.
You came out from behind the counter with a tray balanced carefully in both hands, brows pinched in concentration as your bottom lip caught between your teeth. You were wearing black jeans and a Malone’s blue shirt, your hair pulled back messily, as if you’d done it in a rush, and Tucker found himself noticing you before he could think better of it.
He noticed the way you smiled at a customer who was definitely being too loud. He noticed the way you thanked Della twice when she moved around you. He noticed how hard you were trying to do everything right.
And then you set the tray down on the bar too quickly, caught the edge of a napkin holder, and sent three clean glasses tipping into each other with a loud, terrible clatter.
Everyone at the table flinched. Dean was the first to turn around, Garrett’s attention snapped away from whatever Hannah was saying, and Logan started laughing before he’d even fully figured out what had happened.
You froze immediately.
“Oh my god,” you said, hands flying up like you were surrendering to the glasses. “I’m so sorry. I swear I’m usually less of a disaster when no one’s watching.”
Della sighed, though there was already affection in it. “Sweetheart, nobody expects grace here. Just survival.”
Dean grinned from the booth where he sat with the boys. “Ten out of ten entrance.”
Garrett kicked him under the table without even looking at him.
You winced, cheeks burning, and immediately started gathering the glasses before any of them could fall off the bar.
Tucker was on his feet before he’d even thought about moving.
“Here,” he said, already grabbing a stack of napkins from the end of the counter and stepping closer. “I got it.”
You looked up at him, startled, like you hadn’t expected someone to help instead of laugh. Something weird shifted in Tucker’s chest.
“Oh,” you said, your voice softening. “Thank you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, steadying one of the glasses before it could roll off the edge. He gave you a small smile. “First Friday?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Only a little,” he said, smile tugging at his mouth.
Your mouth curved into an embarrassed but sweet smile, and Tucker noticed the way your whole face seemed to warm with it.
Dean, because of course he did, leaned over the booth and said, “Careful, Tuck. She might make you work for free.”
You glanced between them, your smile still lingering. “Tuck?”
“Tucker,” he said, handing over the glass he’d rescued. “John Tucker.”
You took it from him, your fingers brushing against his for half a second.
“I’m [Y/N],” you said. Then you looked down at the glasses, sighed, and added, “Apparently also a public safety hazard.”
Tucker laughed, not because it was that funny, though it was, but because you were smiling at him like you were happy he had.
That was the first thing Tucker noticed. Not that you were the prettiest girl in the room, though you were. Not that you were the clumsy new waitress, though the boys would absolutely bring that up later. Not even that you were the transfer student Hannah had mentioned once, the one who’d started working at Malone’s because she needed extra money, and Della liked hiring people she could boss around.
The first thing was that you looked at Tucker like he was the one you were talking to — not the guy beside Dean, not Garrett’s friend, not one of the hockey boys. Him.
It was a stupid thing to notice, so of course Tucker noticed.
Over the next few weeks, you became part of Malone’s the way some people became part of a song — slowly at first, then all at once.
You were there on Fridays and sometimes Saturdays, always with your hair tied back in a way that never lasted more than an hour before pieces started falling loose around your face. You learned the regulars’ orders faster than anyone expected. You learned Della’s moods, learned that Dean always said he wanted something different before ordering the same beer anyway, that Logan would steal fries from whoever sat too close, that Garrett was polite because Hannah elbowed him when he forgot, and that Allie always tipped too much because she knew what the job felt like.
And Tucker — you learned his drink by the third Friday. That shouldn’t have affected him. It did anyway.
“You want the usual?” you asked, already reaching for it as he and the boys slid into their booth after the game.
Dean stopped mid-sentence and turned slowly toward Tucker, wearing the most irritating smile imaginable. Logan looked absolutely delighted. Garrett looked like he was trying very hard not to seem delighted. Tucker ignored every single one of them.
“You remembered?” he asked, which was the wrong thing to say because it made him sound surprised.
You blinked at him, then smiled. “You order the same thing every time.”
“So does Dean,” Tucker said.
“Yeah, but Dean changes his mind three times before going back to the same thing. You have to prepare for that emotionally.”
Garrett laughed quietly into his drink.
Dean put a hand over his chest. “I feel attacked.”
“You should,” Allie said, appearing beside him like she’d been summoned by the opportunity to tease him. “It was accurate.”
You grinned and slid Tucker his drink first, and he hated how quickly he liked it—hated how his eyes followed you when you walked away to help another table. Hated even more that Dean noticed immediately.
“Oh, you’re so in trouble.”
Tucker glanced at him. “Shut up.”
“I didn’t even say anything specific,” Dean said.
“You didn’t need to.”
Logan leaned forward, as if this were crucial evidence. “She gave you your drink first.”
“Because I was sitting closest.”
“You weren’t,” Garrett said.
Tucker shot him a look. “Aren’t you supposed to be mature now?”
Garrett shrugged, his arm around Hannah. “I’m in a relationship, not dead.”
Across the room, you laughed at something Della said, nearly dropped a pen, caught it against your chest, and looked far too proud of yourself for saving it.
Tucker tried not to smile, and failed.
Dean pointed at Tucker’s face as he’d just found evidence. “That. Right there. That’s pathetic.”
Tucker picked up his drink, unimpressed. “You’re literally dating Allie.”
“Yes, and I became pathetic in public. It’s part of the process.”
“I’m not becoming anything,” Tucker said.
“Sure,” Dean said.
Tucker knew exactly what they thought.
He knew how it looked: new girl, pretty smile, sweet enough to make everyone in the room feel like she was happy to see them. Of course, he liked her. Everyone probably liked her. You were the kind of person people noticed because you made it easy for them. You asked questions, laughed without trying to seem cool, apologized to chairs when you bumped into them, and once gave a drunk sophomore a full pep talk because he looked sad over mozzarella sticks.
You were sunshine in a place that mostly smelled like beer and fried food.
Tucker told himself that was all it was: you were friendly, and he was interested because of it. It didn’t mean you were interested back.
Girls usually went for guys like Dean: loud, confident, easy to flirt with because he did half the work for them. Or Garrett, with the captain thing and that accidental golden-boy charm, even though Hannah would probably murder anyone who tried. Or Logan, who looked like trouble and knew exactly how to make it work.
Tucker was the nice one, the safe one, the one girls asked to hold their coats while they danced with someone else.
He’d made peace with that a long time ago — mostly. Then, on the fourth Friday, you proved you were going to be a problem.
It was later than usual, with the crowd thinning out around midnight and the booths left sticky and half-empty. Tucker had ended up at the bar while the others argued over whether to go back to the house or order food. You were wiping down the counter with your sleeves pushed up, cheeks flushed from the long shift.
“You’re staring again,” you said, not even looking up.
Tucker blinked at you. “What?”
You glanced at him, eyes bright with amusement. “I said you’re staring.”
“I wasn’t,” he said.
“You were,” you said.
“I was just thinking,” he said.
“About the counter?” you asked.
“It’s a very interesting counter.”
You smiled, and Tucker felt stupidly pleased with himself for being the reason.
“You always do that,” you said, still smiling.
“Stare at counters?” he asked.
“No,” you said, leaning your hip against the bar. “Make jokes when I catch you looking at me.”
Tucker’s throat went dry.
That wasn’t fair. You couldn’t look that sweet and then say things like that.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
You hummed like you didn’t believe him, which was fair, considering he sounded ridiculous.
Dean appeared at Tucker’s shoulder at the worst possible time, because of course he did. “He never does.”
Tucker closed his eyes like he was praying for patience. “Go away.”
Dean grinned at you because, apparently, subtlety had never been an option. “Has he asked you out yet?”
Tucker’s head snapped toward Dean. “Jesus Christ.”
You froze for half a second before your face went pink.
Dean looked like Christmas had just come early.
“Oh,” Dean said slowly, looking far too pleased. “Interesting.”
“Dean,” Tucker said, warning clear in his voice.
You cleared your throat and turned back to the counter, trying to hide your smile. “Does he need help with that?”
Tucker stared at you, Dean made a sound like he’d been shot, and Garrett yelled from the booth, “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Tucker said, far too quickly.
Dean turned back toward the table. “Tucker’s dying.”
“I’m fine,” Tucker said.
You were still smiling down at the counter like you hadn’t just caused chaos.
Tucker didn’t recover for the rest of the night.
After that, things changed. Not dramatically, and not enough that anyone else would’ve called it obvious — except maybe Dean, who called everything obvious if it helped him be annoying. But Tucker felt it.
You started lingering near him when the bar slowed down. You leaned across the counter when you talked to him, chin propped in your hand and eyes warm with focus. You asked about his classes. His practices. His stupid sandwich preference after Logan tried to convince you Tucker had “boring taste,” which somehow turned into a ten-minute argument about whether turkey counted as a personality flaw.
You also started touching him. Not much, just enough to ruin him.
Your fingers brushed his wrist when you set down his drink. Your knee bumped his when you sat beside him for five minutes during your break. Your hand landed briefly on his shoulder when you squeezed past him behind the bar, soft and apologetic and completely unnecessary.
Tucker told himself you were probably like that with everyone, right up until he watched you tell Dean to stop leaning over the bar because he was “ruining the ecosystem,” and decided maybe you weren’t.
By the sixth Friday, Della had started looking at both of you like she knew something neither of you had admitted yet.
That was also the night everything finally clicked into place.
The boys came in late after an away game, tired and loud, their faces flushed from the cold. Hannah and Allie were with them, bundled in coats and already claiming a booth while Dean declared he was starving with the drama of a man who hadn’t eaten in years.
You were working closing again, and Tucker tried very hard not to look too happy about that. Failed, probably.
From behind the bar, you caught his eye and smiled so brightly that his chest went warm.
“The usual?” you asked.
Dean groaned, as if he were personally offended. “This is disgusting.”
You laughed, confused. “What?”
“He’s smiling like an idiot,” Dean said.
Tucker elbowed him in the side.
You looked at Tucker, smile softening as you asked, “Are you?”
“No,” Tucker said.
“He is,” Logan called from the booth.
“He absolutely is,” Garrett added from the booth.
Tucker stared at Garrett. “You too?”
Garrett lifted his hands in surrender. “I’m just observing.”
You set his drink down in front of him, fingers brushing his for a second too long. “For the record, I don’t mind.”
Tucker forgot how to speak, and you walked away before he could find a response.
Dean leaned closer, his voice low enough that only Tucker could hear. “If you don’t ask her out tonight, I’m doing it for you.”
“You are not doing anything,” Tucker said.
“Then do something,” Dean said.
Tucker looked toward the bar, where you were reaching for a stack of napkins and laughing at something Hannah had said. You nearly knocked over a bottle with your elbow, caught it just in time, and then looked around to see if anyone had noticed.
Tucker had. You saw him seeing you, and your nose scrunched with embarrassment. He smiled before he could stop himself.
Dean sighed, as if this were personally exhausting. “God, you two are unbearable.”
Tucker looked away, like that settled it. “She’s just friendly.”
Dean stared at him.
“What?”
“Are you actually stupid?”
“Wow. Very helpful.”
“I’m serious,” Dean said, glancing toward you before looking back at Tucker. “That girl has been making heart eyes at you for a month.”
“She’s nice to everyone,” Tucker said.
“She threatened to pour soda on Logan last week,” Dean said.
Logan looked up from stealing Allie’s fries. “I deserved that.”
Dean continued, with the patience of someone explaining something painfully obvious, “She likes you.”
Tucker shifted, uncomfortable under the weight of the words. “You don’t know that.”
Dean’s expression softened slightly, which was somehow worse. “Tuck.”
“Don’t,” Tucker said.
“I’m just saying,” Dean started.
“I know what you’re saying,” Tucker said, his voice coming out lower than he meant. “But she’s new. She’s nice. And she has all of you literally sitting here every week. I’m not going to assume she’s looking at me like that just because I want her to.”
For once, Dean went quiet.
Tucker regretted saying it immediately. Not because it wasn’t true, because it was, but because he’d never said it out loud before. And, of course, because timing apparently wasn’t on his side, he looked up and saw you standing a few feet away with a tray in your hands, your expression caught somewhere between surprise and something softer.
Tucker’s stomach dropped. You had heard. Maybe not all of it, but enough.
You blinked once, then gave him a small smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Della said last call.”
Then you turned and walked back to the bar.
Dean leaned back slowly, the teasing finally slipping from his face.
Tucker dragged a hand over his face, guilt hitting all at once. “Fuck.”
“Yeah,” Dean said, quieter now. “That one might be on you.”
The next twenty minutes were horrible. You weren’t rude, and somehow, that made it worse. You were still sweet when you cleared the table, still smiling when Hannah hugged you goodbye, still telling Logan he couldn’t take the basket of fries with him because it was “not a souvenir.” But you didn’t linger near Tucker, didn’t brush his hand, didn’t smile at him first.
By the time the others left, Dean gave him one very pointed look from the door. Tucker ignored it, mostly because he deserved it.
He stayed behind while you wiped down the bar, sitting at the end with his coat folded beside him like he wasn’t sure where else to put himself. Della had disappeared into the back, clearly on purpose, and without the usual noise, the bar felt strange. Softer. Too quiet.
You didn’t look at him for a while, and Tucker let you have that.
Eventually, you set the rag down with a sigh. “Are you waiting for Della or me?”
“You,” he said. You glanced up, and he swallowed. “If that’s okay.”
You looked at him for a moment before nodding. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry.” You seemed surprised by that, so Tucker kept going before he could lose his nerve. “For what I said earlier. You weren’t supposed to hear it.”
“Would it be better if I hadn’t heard it?”
“No,” he said, looking down at his hands before meeting your eyes again. “Probably not.”
You crossed your arms and leaned against the bar. “Do you really think I’m just being nice?”
Tucker hated how gentle your voice was.
“I think you are nice,” he said.
“That’s not what I asked.”
A small smile tugged at his mouth before he could stop it. “No, it wasn’t.”
You waited, giving him time to answer.
Tucker exhaled slowly. “I don’t know what I think. I guess I’m trying not to assume.”
“Assume what?” you asked.
“That you’d choose me.”
The words settled between you, quiet and honest and too exposed.
Your expression softened when you said his name. “Tucker.”
He let out a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. “I know. It sounds stupid.”
“It doesn’t,” you said.
“It kind of does,” he said.
“No,” you said, walking slowly around the bar until you were standing in front of him. “It sounds like you don’t see yourself clearly.”
He looked at you then. Really looked. Your face was still flushed from work, hair coming loose around your cheeks, your eyes tired but warm. There was nothing teasing in them now.
“You keep acting like I’m looking past you,” you said, voice soft. “I’m not.”
Tucker went completely still.
You swallowed, a little nervous now, and somehow that made the words hit even harder. “I saw all of them first. I still looked at you.”
For a second, Tucker couldn’t speak. He’d imagined you saying a lot of things. Not that. Never that.
“[Y/N],” Tucker said quietly.
Your smile wobbled slightly. “Too much?”
“No,” he said, voice rough. “No, not too much.”
Della chose that moment to appear from the back, took one look at the two of you, and turned right back around. “I forgot absolutely nothing. Continue.”
You laughed, breaking the tension just enough for Tucker to breathe again.
He stood and grabbed his coat. “Let me walk you home.”
Your eyes lifted to his, softer now. “Okay.”
Outside, the cold air hit your face, and you pulled your jacket tighter around yourself. Tucker walked beside you, close enough for your shoulders to brush every few steps, but not close enough to crowd you. The streets around Briar were quieter now, wrapped in the kind of late-night stillness that made every little sound feel louder — your shoes on the sidewalk, Tucker’s breath in the cold, the distant noise from another bar down the street.
For a minute, neither of you said anything, and then you laughed softly.
Tucker looked over at you. “What?”
“I just realized I basically confessed to you in front of a bar counter that still smelled like spilled beer.”
His mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “Very romantic.”
“I’ve always been known for my elegance.”
“You did knock over four glasses the first night I met you.”
“Three,” you said, pointing at him. “It was three.”
“One almost fell off the counter,” he said. “I’m counting it.”
“You’re cruel,” you said, trying not to smile.
“I did help.”
“You did,” you said, your voice softening. “That’s why I remembered you.”
Tucker’s chest tightened at that.
You kept walking for a few more steps before adding, “Everyone else laughed. Not in a mean way, but still. You just helped.”
“It wasn’t exactly heroic.”
“It was to me,” you said quietly.
He didn’t know what to do with that, so he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and looked down at the sidewalk like it might tell him what to say.
You smiled at him, and somehow Tucker felt it even without looking.
By the time you reached your apartment building, the tension had changed shape again. It was still soft, still warm, but there was something electric underneath it now, something that had been building for weeks across bar counters, half-finished conversations, and every smile you’d given him like it wasn’t ruining his day in the best way.
You stopped when you reached the door.
“This is me,” you said.
Tucker nodded, like he knew that and still wasn’t ready to leave. “Yeah.”
Neither of you moved. Then you looked up at him. “Do you want to come in?”
His eyes lifted to yours. The question was quiet, but there was nothing unclear about it.
Tucker’s voice dropped when he asked, “Do you want me to?”
You stepped closer, your eyes still on his. “Yes.”
That was all Tucker needed.
The elevator ride was silent, broken only by your uneven breathing and the small ding of each floor passing. Tucker stood beside you with his hands at his sides, not touching you yet, though the restraint in him was obvious. You could feel it — in the tight line of his jaw, in the way his eyes kept flicking to your mouth before he forced them away, in the way he seemed to be waiting until you were somewhere private before letting himself want you properly.
Somehow, it only made you want him more.
Your apartment was small and warm, a little messy in a way that made you immediately wince as you unlocked the door.
“Don’t judge,” you said as you stepped inside. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
Tucker looked around at the books stacked on the coffee table, the blanket slipping off the couch, the mug in the sink, and the tiny lamp glowing in the corner before looking back at you.
“I like it,” he said softly.
You smiled at him. “You’re very easy to impress.”
“Only when it’s you,” he said.
The words were quiet and simple, and they stole the air from your chest.
You closed the door behind him, then turned the lock.
Tucker’s eyes dropped to the movement, and his expression shifted. When he looked back at you, something had changed. He was still Tucker — still warm, still steady — but the softness in him had sharpened into something more focused.
You swallowed, voice suddenly smaller. “Hi.”
His mouth curved, just barely. “Hi.”
“You’re standing very far away,” you said.
“I’m trying to be respectful,” he said.
You stepped closer, eyes on his. “You can stop.”
His eyes darkened at that. “Yeah?”
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
Tucker moved then, closing the small space between you in two steps. His hand came up to your jaw, gentle at first, like he was giving you one last second to lean away.
You leaned into his touch.
After that, the kiss wasn’t gentle. It was warm, deep, and immediate, like weeks of almosts had finally found somewhere to land. Tucker’s hand slid into your hair, the other settling at your waist as he pulled you close enough for your chest to press against his. A soft sound slipped out against his mouth, and Tucker’s grip tightened.
“There you are,” Tucker murmured against your mouth.
Your stomach flipped at the sound of his voice.
You kissed him harder, your hands sliding up his chest and feeling the solid warmth of him beneath his jacket. Tucker walked you back until your spine met the wall near the door, his body caging yours in without ever making you feel trapped.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he said, his mouth brushing your jaw.
Your head tipped back as his lips moved to your neck. “I wanted you to.”
His hand tightened briefly at your waist.
“Yeah?” His voice dropped lower. “Wanted me to walk you home?”
“Yes,” you breathed.
“Wanted me to come upstairs too?”
“Yes,” you breathed.
His mouth hovered near your ear, voice low. “Wanted me to touch you?”
Your breath caught before you could answer. “Tuck—”
He kissed the spot just beneath your jaw, pulling a sound from you that was almost a whimper.
His voice went rough. “Say it.”
You swallowed, your fingers curling into his shirt. “Yes. I wanted you to touch me.”
He groaned, low and restrained, before his mouth found yours again, hungrier this time. Your hands pushed at his jacket, clumsy with urgency, and Tucker helped you pull it off before shrugging out of it and tossing it somewhere near the couch.
You laughed breathlessly as it knocked into a chair.
“Sorry,” you breathed.
“Don’t care,” Tucker murmured, already kissing you again.
Your back hit the wall hard enough to make your whole body light up, but not enough to hurt. Tucker’s thigh slid between yours, and the second you rocked down against it without thinking, his hand tightened on your hip.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “You’re going to make me forget how to be nice.”
Your lips curved against his. “Maybe I don’t want nice.”
His eyes lifted to yours, and there it was again — that quiet intensity.
“I can do both,” Tucker said, voice low.
The words went straight through you, sharp and warm all at once.
His hands slipped beneath your shirt, his palms warm against your skin. He touched you slowly at first, almost reverent, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you. Then your hips moved against his thigh again, and his control slipped just enough that his fingers pressed into your waist.
“You’re so pretty,” he murmured, voice rough. “I’ve been thinking that since the first night.”
“When I dropped the glasses?” you asked.
“Especially then,” he said, like it was obvious.
You laughed, only for it to break into a gasp when his mouth found your neck again, his teeth grazing lightly before his tongue soothed the spot.
“Tucker,” you breathed.
“I know,” he murmured, his hand moving higher until his fingers brushed the underside of your breast through your bra. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
You shook your head quickly, voice barely steady. “No.”
“No?” he asked, voice low.
“Don’t stop,” you whispered.
His eyes darkened at that, and then he kissed you like those words had undone something in him. The warm, steady Tucker from Malone’s was still there, but this version of him felt different — more confident, more direct. His hands knew exactly where they wanted to go, his mouth knew how to make you melt, and every quiet groan he gave you made your knees a little less reliable.
He pushed your shirt up slowly, and you lifted your arms for him. The second your shirt hit the floor, his gaze dropped to your chest, and his jaw flexed.
“Jesus,” he breathed.
You almost made a joke. Almost. But the way he looked at you made it hard to hide behind one.
His hands came up to cover your breasts through your bra, thumbs brushing slowly over the thin fabric. Your back arched off the wall as a soft moan slipped out before you could stop it.
Tucker’s mouth parted slightly, his voice rough. “Don’t hide that.”
“What?” you breathed.
“Those sounds,” he said, his thumb moving again just to make your breath catch. “I want to hear them.”
Your cheeks warmed, but your body answered before your mouth could, another quiet whimper slipping out when he leaned down and kissed the top of your breast.
“Like that?” Tucker asked, voice low.
“Yes,” you breathed, your fingers tightening in his shirt. “Like that.”
He undid your bra carefully, sliding the straps down your arms before letting it fall between you. His eyes moved over you more slowly this time, and something about the softness in his face made your chest ache.
Then his mouth closed around your nipple, pulling a moan from you as your head knocked back against the wall.
Tucker groaned against your skin, one hand firm at your waist while the other covered your breast, fingers rolling your nipple until you started shifting against him, needy and restless.
“You’re so responsive,” Tucker murmured, kissing across your chest. “Do you have any idea what that does to me?”
You swallowed, surprising yourself with how steady it sounded. “Tell me.”
His eyes flicked up, and for a second, he looked surprised. Then his expression shifted, a small, almost dangerous smile tugging at his mouth.
“It makes me want to take my time,” he said, voice low. “Makes me want to find out every way to make you sound like that again.”
Your thighs pressed together, and Tucker noticed immediately. Of course he did. His hand slid down your stomach, fingers pausing at the button of your jeans.
“Can I?” he asked, voice low.
“Yes,” you whispered.
He unbuttoned your jeans slowly, eyes fixed on your face as he pushed the denim down your hips. You kicked them off awkwardly, nearly tripping in the process, and Tucker caught you with a quiet laugh, his hands steady on your waist.
“Still clumsy,” he murmured.
“You’re very distracting,” you said.
“Good,” he murmured.
You were about to answer, but then his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your underwear, and every thought disappeared.
He touched you over your panties first, two fingers pressing against the wet fabric, and his breath caught.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re wet.”
Your face burned at the way he said it. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m not,” he said, fingers moving slowly over your clit through the soaked material. “Just trying to process the fact that you wanted me this badly.”
“I did,” you whispered.
The admission came out soft and honest.
Tucker’s eyes lifted to yours. You held his gaze, even though it made you feel exposed.
“I wanted you,” you said again, softer this time.
Something shifted in his face. Then he kissed you hard, fingers pushing your underwear aside and sliding through your wetness. The first touch of his skin against your cunt pulled a gasp from you, your hips bucking toward his hand before you could stop them.
“There you go,” he murmured, voice rough with satisfaction. “That’s what I wanted.”
His fingers circled your clit slowly, steady and precise, and you clung to his shoulders as pleasure sparked low in your stomach.
“Tuck,” you whimpered, fingers tightening on his shoulders.
“Right here,” he murmured, his forehead touching yours. “I’ve got you.”
He slid one finger into you, eyes fixed on the way your lips parted, then added another when your hips rolled against his hand. The stretch pulled a louder moan from you, and Tucker’s jaw tightened like the sound was testing every bit of his restraint.
“Fuck,” he breathed, voice rough. “You sound so pretty.”
His touch grew deeper and more deliberate, his thumb finding you again as you stayed pressed against the wall, nearly bare while Tucker was still fully dressed. The imbalance should have made you embarrassed.
It didn’t. Not with him looking at you like that, not with his hand between your thighs, his mouth at your jaw, and his voice low in your ear.
“Tell me what feels good,” he murmured.
Your breath shook around the answer. “Your fingers.”
“Yeah?” he murmured.
“Yes,” you breathed, gripping his shirt tighter. “Right there. Don’t stop.”
His fingers curled again, and a moan broke from you into the quiet room.
“That’s it,” he murmured, voice rough. “Let me hear you.”
The pleasure built faster than you expected, heat tightening through your stomach and thighs, but just before it could break, Tucker pulled his fingers away.
A frustrated sound slipped out of you. “Why—”
He dropped to his knees, and your mouth went dry as Tucker looked up at you from the floor, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs.
“I’m not done with you yet.” It should not have sounded as hot as it did.
Then he pulled your underwear down, slow and deliberate, before lifting one of your legs over his shoulder.
“Tucker,” you breathed, fingers tightening in his hair.
His mouth pressed against the inside of your thigh. “Hold onto me.”
Your fingers slid into his hair, and then his mouth found your cunt.
The first stroke of his tongue made your whole body jerk, a sharp moan slipping out as his hands tightened on your thighs. He ate you like he’d been waiting weeks for it, slow and deep at first, tongue dragging through your wetness before flattening over your clit.
“Oh my god,” you gasped.
He hummed against you, the vibration making your knees buckle slightly, and Tucker held you up.
His mouth worked over you with a patience that felt almost unfair, tongue circling your clit, lips sucking softly while his fingers dug into your thigh every time you tugged his hair. You could feel how wet you were, could hear it too, and the sound made your face burn even as your hips started moving against his mouth.
“Tuck—fuck, right there,” you gasped.
He groaned like the words had gone straight through him, focusing there until the pleasure turned sharp and bright. Your head fell back against the wall, one hand still buried in his hair while the other braced beside you.
You were close, close enough that your thighs started trembling.
“Tucker,” you gasped. “I’m—”
He didn’t stop. He didn’t slow down. He only held you tighter, mouth sealed over your clit until you came with a broken moan, hips jerking against him as pleasure rolled through you. He stayed with you through it, easing the pressure when you started to shake and pressing kisses to your inner thigh when you finally whimpered from the sensitivity.
When he stood again, his mouth was wet and his eyes were dark.
You could only stare at him.
He wiped his thumb across his lower lip before leaning in to kiss you. You tasted yourself on his tongue, moaning into his mouth as Tucker made a rough sound against you.
“Bedroom,” he said, voice rough.
You nodded quickly.
The walk there was not graceful. You bumped into the side table, Tucker knocked into the doorframe, and you both laughed against each other’s mouths until the laughter turned into another kiss the second you reached your room.
Tucker pulled his shirt off, and you finally got to touch him properly.
He was warm beneath your palms, solid and broad, and his stomach tightened when your fingers dragged lower toward his belt.
“You okay?” you asked, a small smile tugging at your mouth.
His eyes met yours, dark and unsteady. “I’ve been better.”
You laughed, but then your hand brushed over the hard outline of him through his jeans, and his smile vanished.
“Oh,” you whispered, your smile fading too.
Tucker caught your wrist gently, his voice rough. “Careful.”
You looked up at him, pulse jumping. “Or what?”
His expression shifted again, that quiet confidence settling over him like he knew exactly what you were doing.
“Or I’m gonna fuck you against that wall before we even make it to the bed.”
Your stomach dropped, but you held his gaze. “Maybe I’d like that.”
For a second, neither of you moved. Then Tucker kissed you hard enough that you stumbled backward.
Your back hit the bedroom wall, his body pressing close while his hands lifted you by the backs of your thighs. You wrapped your legs around his waist on instinct, and Tucker groaned when you rolled your hips against him.
“Condom?” he asked, his voice strained.
“Nightstand,” you said, breathless.
He carried you to the nightstand just long enough to grab one before returning you to the wall, laughing low when you kissed his neck impatiently.
“Eager,” he murmured.
“You’re the one who mentioned the wall,” you said.
“I did,” he said, voice low.
“Then stop talking,” you breathed.
Tucker’s mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “Yes, ma’am.”
He shoved his jeans down just enough to roll the condom on, then stepped between your thighs again, one hand sliding over your hip while his other arm kept you steady against the wall.
The head of his cock brushed through your wetness, and for a second, both of you went quiet.
Your fingers dug into his shoulders, voice barely steady. “Tuck.”
His forehead pressed to yours. “I know.”
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open while holding you like you were something precious and something he wanted badly enough to ruin all at once. The angle was intense, your back against the wall, legs wrapped around his waist, his body doing all the work as he filled you completely.
Your mouth fell open, breath catching in your throat.
Tucker groaned, the sound rough against your mouth. “Fuck, you feel good.”
“You too,” you breathed, fingers digging into his shoulders. “You feel so good.”
His eyes squeezed shut for a second before he started moving. Slow at first. Controlled. Deep enough that every thrust stole your breath, his hips pinning you to the wall while his hands kept you steady. You were still sensitive from his mouth, still wet and aching, and every drag of his cock pulled another moan from you.
“Tucker,” you gasped.
“I know,” he murmured, his mouth brushing your jaw. “I’ve got you.”
“You keep saying that,” you breathed.
“Because I do,” he said, voice steady.
Your chest tightened, but then his hips snapped a little harder, and the feeling turned back into heat.
“Oh, fuck,” you gasped.
“There?” he asked, his voice rough.
“Yes,” you gasped.
He adjusted his grip, holding you higher before hitting the same spot again, and your head fell back against the wall with a moan.
Tucker’s eyes locked on your face. “That’s it.”
His pace built slowly, not rushed but intense, every thrust dragging sounds from you that you couldn’t hold back. The wall was cold against your back, his skin hot against yours, and your whole world narrowed to Tucker’s hands, Tucker’s mouth, Tucker’s cock moving inside you like he’d been waiting weeks to prove exactly how well he could ruin you.
“You have no idea how hard it was,” he murmured against your throat, “watching you smile at me from across that bar.”
A whimper slipped out of you before you could stop it.
“Thinking you were just being nice,” he said, hips driving into yours harder until you gasped. “Thinking I was making it up.”
“I wasn’t,” you breathed, clinging tighter to his shoulders. “I wasn’t looking at them.”
Tucker’s grip tightened, and you pulled his face to yours, kissing him messily. “I wanted you.”
He groaned against your mouth.
The next thrust nearly tore a cry out of you.
“Say that again,” he rasped.
“I wanted you.” The next thrust hit harder, stealing the rest of the sentence from you. “Tucker—”
“Again.”
“I wanted you,” you moaned, nails dragging down his shoulders. “I wanted you so badly.”
That broke something in him. His pace turned rougher, still controlled but less careful now, hips snapping into yours as he held you against the wall. You clung to him, moaning his name, letting him hear every gasp and broken sound because he seemed to need them as badly as you needed the way he moved.
“Touch yourself,” he said suddenly, and your breath hitched.
His eyes met yours, dark and intent.
“I want to feel you come around me.”
Your hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and the first circle made your whole body jolt. Tucker cursed, forehead dropping to yours as you clenched around him.
“Fuck, that’s it.”
Your fingers moved faster, clumsy from how badly you were shaking, but the pressure built quickly with him still fucking into you, his voice low and constant in your ear.
“Look at you,” he murmured against your ear. “You’re so pretty. Doing so good for me.”
Your breath broke.
“Come on, baby.” His grip tightened. “Let me feel it.”
The orgasm hit hard, your body tightening around him as your moan broke into something helpless. Tucker held you through it, thrusting deep and uneven as you pulsed around him, until he followed with a rough groan, hips jerking as he came.
He stayed there for a moment, breathing hard against your neck, holding you up like letting go was not an option. Then he laughed softly.
You opened your eyes, still trying to catch your breath. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said, his mouth brushing your shoulder. “Just thinking Dean’s never going to shut up if he finds out.”
You laughed, still breathless and warm. “Then don’t tell him.”
“He’ll know,” Tucker said.
“Why?” you asked, smiling against his skin.
Tucker pulled back just enough to look at you, his smile softer now. “Because I’m not going to be able to stop smiling.”
Your heart did something stupid in your chest.
After that, he carried you to the bed and set you down carefully before disappearing to clean up. When he came back, he had a damp cloth in his hand, cleaning you gently and murmuring an apology when your thighs twitched from sensitivity.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
You nodded, still a little breathless. “Very okay.”
His mouth curved. “Good.”
He lay beside you, and for a second, a strange shyness settled between you again. Not awkward. Just new.
You turned onto your side to face him. “You can stay.”
His eyes softened at that. “Yeah?”
“If you want.”
“I want,” he said, without hesitation, and the answer came fast enough to make you smile.
Tucker pulled the blanket over both of you, and you curled into his side like it already felt familiar. His arm came around you, warm and steady, fingers tracing slow lines down your back.
For a while, neither of you said anything. Then you whispered, “I meant it, you know.”
His hand paused against your back. “What?”
“I saw all of them,” you said, tilting your head up to look at him. “I still looked at you.”
Tucker stared at you for a second, something tender and disbelieving crossing his face. Then he kissed you, soft this time, slow, like he finally believed you.
The next morning, Tucker woke with your leg thrown over his and your face tucked against his chest.
For a second, he didn’t move. He just looked at you — at the sunlight slipping through your curtains, your hair messy against his skin, the tiny crease between your brows like you were arguing with someone in your sleep.
He smiled before he could stop himself, which, as it turned out, was exactly the problem. Because when he finally left your apartment in yesterday’s clothes and walked into the hockey house just before noon, Dean was sitting on the couch with a bowl of cereal.
Dean looked up. Tucker froze. The spoon stopped halfway to Dean’s mouth as a slow, terrible smile spread across his face.
“No way.”
Tucker sighed. “Don’t.”
Logan appeared from the kitchen immediately, because he had a sixth sense for chaos. “What? What happened?”
Dean pointed his spoon at Tucker. “Our boy didn’t come home last night.”
Garrett looked over from the table, his brows lifting.
Logan’s face lit up. “[Y/N]?”
Tucker tried to walk past them. “I’m leaving.”
“You just got here,” Dean said, delighted.
“Then I’m leaving again.”
Garrett laughed under his breath. “Good for you, man.”
That was somehow worse than the teasing. Tucker shook his head, but he was smiling, and Dean noticed, because Dean noticed everything that made life unbearable.
“Oh, he likes her likes her.”
“Shut up.”
Logan grinned, leaning in like this was the best news he’d heard all week. “Did she finally get tired of waiting for you to make a move?”
Tucker paused at the stairs. Thought about your smile, your apartment, your voice saying, I still looked at you. Then he turned just enough to say, “Actually, she made the move.”
The room exploded. Dean yelled, Logan swore, and Garrett laughed properly this time.
Tucker headed upstairs before any of them could ask anything else, but he still heard Dean call after him.
Tucker finally catches you staring at his thighs and decides a cooking lesson isn't what you actually need.
word count : 2.1k — explicit — thigh-riding — dry-humping — praise — tuck being super sweet and cute and a giver — tuck (he deserves a warning cause damn) — my boy tucker deserves the filth so i'm not sorry about that one — enjoy and please tell me what you think !
There was a fine line between patience and sheer torture, and John Tucker had been dragging you across it for months.
It wasn't his fault, that was the worst part. He wasn’t playing games—he was just genuinely, wholesomely oblivious. Every time you wore his favorite jersey, or intentionally leaned close to touch his forearm while he laughed, or made a pointed comment about how he’d make an incredible boyfriend, Tucker would just beam, give you that sweet, devastating dimpled smile, and say something like, "Appreciate you, darlin', always so good to me."
Always so good to him. His polite deflections were a special kind of psychological torture.
Right now, you were sitting at his kitchen island, supposed to be chopping garlic for the shrimp scampi alfredo he was teaching you to make. Instead, you were entirely hypnotized by the view.
Tucker was standing at the counter, leaning over a cutting board. He was wearing a pair of very, very thin, gray athletic shorts. Because he was leaning forward, the fabric was pulled tight, completely mapping out the staggering size of his thighs. They were dense, farm-boy quads carved out by years of heavy squats and explosive skating. You could see the distinct, powerful sweep of muscle definition, and the way they flexed every single time he shifted his weight.
You swallowed hard, your grip tightening on the knife. You wanted to bury your face in them. You wanted them gripping your waist. You wanted—
"Uh, darlin'?"
Tucker’s sweet voice shattered your trance.
You blinked, snapping your eyes up. He was looking at you, a half-bun of messy dark curls sitting on top of his head, holding a block of aged asiago cheese. He was frowning slightly, but his eyes were warm and amused.
"You've been hacking at that same clove of garlic for five minutes, and I think you're about to slice your thumb off," he laughed, stepping away from the counter.
"Oh. Right. Sorry," you muttered, looking down at the mangled garlic.
"Everything alright?" He walked over, stopping right beside your stool. He was so close you could feel the heat radiating off his bulky frame. "You've been quiet all evening. Not like you."
"I'm fine, Tuck. Just... distracted."
"By the cooking?" He smiled, entirely missing the mark. "I can take over the chopping if you need a break."
Amused, Tucker leaned closer, resting one hand on the edge of the counter to look down at your messy chopping board. The movement brought him directly into your space. Because you were sitting and he was standing, his broad chest was right at your eye level, and his solid leg was practically brushing against your knee.
The kitchen went dead silent, save for the low sizzle of the butter and garlic simmering on the stove.
You froze, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm. Up close, the sheer size of him was completely overwhelming, and your eyes helplessly darted right back to the thick muscle of his leg, just inches away from you. The weight of your own dirty thoughts made you dizzy, and a wave of mortification washed over you. You couldn't think, couldn't breathe, and you definitely couldn't handle him being this close while your brain was doing that.
"Tuck," you choked out, your voice tight as you gently pressed a hand against his chest to keep him from getting any closer. "Can you... can you back away just a little bit? Please?"
Tucker blinked, completely caught off guard. He froze, looking down at your hand, and then up at your face. The easy, golden-retriever warmth in his eyes instantly shifted into pure, panicked concern. He immediately took a large step back, his shoulders tensing.
"Did... did I do something wrong?" he asked, uncharacteristically quiet and hesitant. He looked entirely heartbroken at the idea that he’d made you uncomfortable. "I swear I didn't mean to overstep, darlin'. If I said something insensitive, or if I'm being a bad teacher—"
"No! No, Tuck, it's really not you," you interrupted quickly, your face burning a violent, hot shade of red as you looked away shyly. You wrung your hands in your lap, wishing the kitchen floor would open up and swallow you. "It’s... it’s a really silly thing. Honestly. I'm just being ridiculous, but I... I haven't been able to stop thinking about it all evening, and having you right there was just too much."
Tucker frowned slightly, his concern melting into soft, focused curiosity. He leaned forward just a fraction, throwing the dishtowel he was holding over his shoulder, trying to catch your eye, his tone incredibly sweet. "What is it? You can tell me. You know you can tell me anything."
You swallowed hard, your throat completely dry. You tried to find the words to explain the last three months of unrequited pining, but your brain entirely short-circuited. Instead of speaking, your gaze helplessly dropped again.
You just stared.
Tucker followed your line of sight. He looked down at his own lower half, at the thin, gray athletic shorts stretched taut over his quads.
He looked back up at you, his brows arching high in utter disbelief. He slowly raised a hand, pointing a thick index finger directly at his own leg.
You gave a tiny, incredibly embarrassed nod.
"You're... you're thinking about my legs?" he breathed, his voice dropping into a register that was completely new. The confusion on his face melted away, replaced by a sudden, breathless warmth.
He didn't back away this time. Instead, he took a slow, deliberate step forward, re entering your space again until your bodies almost touched. Up close, he was so bulky and warm, and as his eyes locked onto yours, his gaze softened into something... different. Heavier. His eyes dropped down, noting the deep flush spreading down your neck, the way your breathing had turned shallow, and the distinct, telling tension in your posture.
Tucker’s breath hitched. A slow realization hit him.
"Oh," he murmured, his voice deep and velvety.
A faint, endearing pink crept up his own neck, but he didn't back down. Instead, a sweet, slightly stunned smile touched his lips. He reached out, his large hands surprisingly gentle as they settled on your cheeks. He leaned in, leaving barely any space between your faces.
"Well, little darlin'," he whispered, his voice low and teasingly soft near your ear. "If it's bothering you that much... do you think you'd let me help you with it?"
You gave a tiny, helpless tremble. You couldn't even breathe, completely undone by the sudden, heavy hunger in his eyes.
"Yes," you whimpered.
The sweet, patient boy didn't hesitate. With one easy, seamless movement, Tucker took a step back, pulling up the barstool right next to yours. He sank onto it heavily, rotating his frame so his back was resting flush against the edge of the countertop.
He looked up at you through his long lashes, his chest heaving as he let out a low exhale. The golden-retriever innocence was far gone, replaced by a quiet intensity that made your pulse skyrocket. Without a word, Tucker raised his hand and firmly patted the top of his rock-hard thigh.
"Come here."
Your breath hitched, a sudden wave of nerves making you freeze. You stared at his leg, then up at his eyes, faltering on the edge of your seat.
Seeing your hesitation, Tucker's expression softened into a look of pure, reassuring patience. He reached out, sliding his hand over yours. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, warm and steady, and he slowly guided you off your stool. He pulled you into the narrow space between his knees, lifting you just enough to guide your legs apart until you were straddling his right thigh.
The contact was electric. Before you could pull away, he took both of your hands in his. He brought them down, pressing your open palms flat against the bare, burning skin at the hem of his shorts. He forced your fingers to curve around the thick, dense sweep of his quad.
"Touch it," he hummed, his voice a sweet command against your ear.
Even now, with the air thick and heavy between you, his true nature didn't change. Tucker was, at his core, a caretaker. He was the boy who always quietly made sure you were looked after, and this moment was another extension of that—him easing the ache you’d been carrying all evening, giving you exactly what you needed. But as your palms settled fully against his skin, his chest rose in a slow, deep breath, his eyes closing as he let out a shaky exhale. His thigh flexed under your hands—not to pull away, but leaning up into your touch, completely yielding to it. Because Tucker wasn't just doing this for you; he was sinking into it just as deeply, needing the closeness just as much.
The sheer sensation of his muscle flexing under your fingertips sent a jolt straight to your core. Your hips twitched instinctively, a helpless, desperate movement that ground your center right against the hard ridge of his leg.
Tucker let out a low, ragged growl, his hands instantly locking onto your waist to hold you right where he wanted you. "Do that again. Ride it, darlin'. Let me feel you."
All your built-up frustration broke. You shifted your weight, and slid your hips down against his leg in a heavy, deliberate rhythm. The friction through your clothes was devastating. Tucker leaned his head back, a choked sound escaping his throat as you rode him, his fingers digging possessively into your hips. He braced his foot against the bottom rung of the stool, angling his thigh up to give you more leverage, matching your frantic pace with steady, torturous upward thrusts.
The friction alone was sending him over the edge. Up close, you could feel the sheer, radiating heat rolling off him; he was burning up, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. Beneath the thin gray fabric of his shorts, his length had grown shockingly hard, straining painfully against his waistband as he watched you work yourself against him.
The pleasure built too fast, coiling tight and sharp in your stomach. You whimpered, your movements turning wild and uncoordinated as the edge rushed up to meet you.
As your body began to tighten and tremble, Tuck reached up. He brought his large hand to your face, cupping your jaw with a fierce devotion. His thumb brushed over your lips, parting them, and he pushed it ever so slightly into your mouth.
You didn't even think. Your eyes locked onto his blown-out pupils as you instantly wrapped your lips around his thumb, sucking on it desperately while your hips shuddered through a hard, breathless climax.
He leaned in close, pulling you up until your foreheads pressed flush together, his hot, heavy breath mingling with yours. As the waves of heat crashed through you, Tucker watched you shake, his attention entirely locked on you as he guided you through it.
"Good girl," he husked, the warm pad of his thumb moving gently inside your mouth. "Look at how perfect you fit against my thighs."
You cried out around his finger, your core pulsing helplessly against his solid quad as the release completely emptied you out. The intense, tight contractions of your climax clamped down on his leg, and the sheer sight and feel of you completely unraveling in his lap shattered whatever remaining restraint Tucker had left.
His jaw went rigid, his eyes rolling back as a harsh, violent shudder tore right through his bulky frame. He choked on a breath, his fingers digging bruisingly deep into your waist as his hips gave one last, desperate, involuntary jerk upward into you. He came hard right there in his pants, the thick heat of his release soaking through the front of his gray athletic shorts, matching the wetness you had left on his thigh.
For a long moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the ragged asymmetry of your shared breathing. Tucker’s forehead rested heavily against yours, his chest heaving as the tremors finally subsided, leaving him thoroughly spent and slumped against the counter.
Gradually, a slow, familiar warmth returned to his eyes. He slipped his wet thumb from your mouth and used it to gently tap the tip of your nose, that devastating dimple finally cutting through his dazed expression.
"You know," he chuckled breathlessly, looking up at you through his messy curls. "Next time you want to skip the lesson, all you have to do is ask."
He gave your waist an affectionate squeeze, his eyes dancing with mischief as he looked down at the dark wetness soaking through his shorts.
"You spent all that time on this one," he teased, his gaze dropping to where your hands were still molded around his right quad. A slow, playful grin touched his lips as he nudged his left leg slightly against yours, drawing your attention to it. "But I promise the other one is just as good."
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.
I am so so sorry for the random ass message I sent you, bit of backstory. im puckingcuckbunny, this is my f1 account. and the message I sent you was meant for a different creator who I got you confused with. This sounds so superficial now but I also loved your work, 12 hours was very delicious! I love the rom-com feel you write with and the softness of Logan you lean towards.
And I just finished reading your part 2 to the fic and it was so gorgeous! I think it really highlighted how intimate sex really is? and it can be gentle, worshipful even. And it was so beautiful!
Again so fucking sorry about the message I sent you that was meant for someone else. feel free to delete it and please know I really do mean the stuff I said about your work above!
Oh my gosh, please don’t worry about it at all! 😭
Thank you so much for taking the time to explain and for your incredibly kind words about my writing. It genuinely means a lot to hear that you enjoyed 12 Hours and Part 2 of the fic!
And seriously, no hard feelings whatsoever about the message mix-up. I’m glad you reached out, and I’m grateful you took the time to send this. 💕 Thank you for reading and for being so thoughtful!
Synopsis: Three weeks ago at Hannah's Halloween party, John Logan almost kissed you in a hallway. You panicked. You laughed. You stepped back. Neither of you has talked about it since. Now you're trapped in the hockey house during the worst snowstorm of the year — just you, just him, just twelve hours and nowhere to go.
Word count: ~7k
Content / Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI. Explicit sexual content. Forced proximity (snowstorm). Slow burn. Best friend's best friend dynamic. Near-kiss flashback (steamy). Heavy emotional tension. Mutual avoidance into mutual confession. Praise kink (light). Pet names ("baby"). Garrett Graham mentioned. Hannah, Allie, Dean, Tucker mentioned. Reader is part of the friend group through Hannah and Allie.
You only stopped by the hockey house to drop off Garrett's stupid jacket.
That's it. That's all. Hannah had texted you an hour ago — babe can you do me the biggest favor in the world he forgot his blue jacket at my place again and he needs it for the away trip tomorrow and I'm already in PJ's i literally cannot — and because you love Hannah and because you live a few blocks away and because you owe her approximately a thousand favors, you said yes.
The drive over is fine. Easy. It's snowing — soft little flakes, the kind that make you feel like you're in a Hallmark movie — but the roads are clear and you've got the radio on and you've been singing, and the snow is the kind of snow you can ignore.
Garrett isn't home. You let yourself in (you've had a key for years, every Graham sibling-adjacent friend does), drop the jacket on the couch with a sticky note that says YOU OWE ME ETERNALLY, and turn to leave.
You don't make it to the door.
"Y/N?"
You freeze.
Because John Logan is standing at the top of the stairs in a hoodie and sweatpants, hair a little messy like he was halfway through doing something when he heard the front door, and your stomach does a stupid traitorous flip that you immediately try to crush.
"Logan."
"Hi."
"Hi."
"I didn't know you were coming over."
"I was just — Hannah asked me to drop off Garrett's jacket—"
"Right."
"Yeah."
"Cool."
He's not coming down the stairs. You're not moving toward the door. The two of you stand there, suspended in the entryway and the staircase, and you have not been in a room alone with him for three weeks and now here you are and the air is doing that thing where there's no oxygen in it—
Both your phones go off at the same time.
The sound is deafening. That alarm-bell emergency-alert buzz, the kind that overrides your ringer settings, the kind that makes everyone in a public space grab their phone at the same time. Both of you flinch. Both of you reach for your pockets.
You stare at your screen.
⚠️ EMERGENCY WEATHER ALERT A severe winter storm warning has been issued for your area. Heavy snow and high winds expected. Travel is strongly discouraged. Stay indoors. Roads will be closed within the hour. ⚠️
"...oh," you say.
"Yeah," Logan says, from the stairs.
You look up. He's already looking at you.
He looks at the window. You follow his gaze.
The world outside has changed.
The snow is no longer Hallmark-movie snow. The snow is a wall. The wind is hitting the porch in solid sheets that hadn't existed twenty minutes ago. The street you drove in on is gone — just white, in every direction. You can't even see your car at the curb. The snow has already buried the bottom of the porch steps. The streetlight at the end of the block is just a fuzzy yellow smudge in a sea of white.
"Oh my god," you whisper.
"Yeah," Logan says again.
Your phone buzzes.
Mom (Hannah, you renamed her this when you were drunk): BABE Mom (Hannah): DON'T DRIVE Mom (Hannah): THE ROADS ARE A NIGHTMARE Mom (Hannah): I JUST SAW IT ON THE NEWS Mom (Hannah): YOU ARE NOT DRIVING HOME I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU SAY
You stare at your phone. You look up at the snow. You look back down at your phone. You look up at Logan.
"Garrett's at Hannah's," Logan says. "Tucker's at his parents'. Dean's been at Allie's all week. It's just me."
"...so it's just you."
"It's just me."
"Cool."
"Cool."
"Cool."
He stares at you. You stare at the floor. The wind hits the window so hard the glass rattles.
"You're stuck here," he says, finally. "Until the storm passes. There's nothing we can do about it."
"Right."
"...so."
"So."
You stare at each other.
The thing about not-talking-about-something for three weeks is that, when you're suddenly in a room together with no one else and a snowstorm raging outside and the lights flickering ominously above your head, the not-talked-about thing fills up all the air in the room. There's no oxygen left. Just the thing.
The thing being: a Halloween party three weeks ago. A hallway. Logan's hand at your jaw. The way he'd leaned in. The way you'd both stopped, half a breath away. The way you'd laughed, and made some stupid joke, and stepped back. The way he'd nodded — yeah, yeah, of course — and walked away. The way neither of you had said anything about it since.
The way you've been deliberately, carefully not being in the same room with him for twenty-one days.
The way that is now physically impossible.
"I'm gonna go get a blanket," you announce, way too loudly. "I'm gonna — go get a blanket. From the couch."
"Okay."
"Cool. Okay."
You bolt.
You spend the first hour of your unwilling sleepover doing an absolutely incredible job of pretending Logan is not in the same house as you.
He's in the kitchen. You're in the living room. He's making something — you can hear pans, smell something garlicky. You're curled up on the couch under the world's softest blanket, scrolling your phone, watching the snow pile up against the bay window. You are fine. You are completely fine. You are an adult woman who is not affected by the proximity of John Logan. You are thriving.
You scroll the same three Instagram stories four times.
The lights flicker. You jump.
"You good?" Logan's voice from the kitchen.
"Fine!"
"You sure?"
"Fine, Logan."
"Cool."
A beat. Then, quieter, from the kitchen doorway: "I made grilled cheese. If you want one."
You look up. He's leaning in the doorway in his hoodie, holding a plate, looking at you like he's not sure if he should come closer. There's a smudge of melted cheese on the side of the plate. He's standing there with a grilled cheese. For you.
Something in your chest goes very soft. Very fast.
You hate it.
"You made me a grilled cheese?"
"I made two grilled cheeses. One of them is for you if you want it."
"You hate cooking."
"I do not hate cooking."
"You literally told me last month that you, quote, do not have the patience to be a person who cooks—"
"Are you going to interrogate me about the grilled cheese or are you going to eat it."
You hold out your hands. He crosses the room slowly — like he's not sure how close he's allowed to get — and hands you the plate. Your fingers brush. You both flinch, just a little. He pretends he didn't.
He sits on the other end of the couch. Not next to you. Not close. A whole cushion of space between you.
You can still feel him there. Vividly.
"Thank you," you say to the grilled cheese.
"Mhm."
You eat. He eats. The wind howls. The TV is off because Logan said earlier we should probably save the power in case it goes out, which felt cinematically ominous and also accurate. The fire in the fireplace — of course the hockey house has a working fireplace, of course tonight is the night Logan apparently knows how to light a fire — crackles softly. The light catches the side of his face.
You look away before you can think about that.
"This is good," you say.
"Thanks."
"Surprisingly good."
"Thanks, Y/N."
"Like — like concerningly good. You should grilled-cheese professionally."
"You're being weird."
"I'm being normal."
"You're being weird."
"You're being weird."
"I'm being quiet. You're being weird."
You stuff the rest of the grilled cheese into your mouth so you don't have to answer.
By hour three, the power has flickered so many times you've stopped jumping at it, and you have both, without saying anything to each other, migrated to closer ends of the couch. Not touching. Just — closer. The middle cushion is no longer between you. Just half of it.
You are aware of this. You are very aware of this. You are pretending you are not.
Logan put on a movie an hour ago. He picked it. You don't know what it is. You are not watching it. You are watching the way the firelight moves across his throat when he swallows.
"What."
"Huh?"
"You're staring."
"I am not."
"You are."
"At the movie, Logan."
"The movie's on the TV, Y/N. I'm not on the TV. You are staring at me."
"I was zoning out."
"On my face."
"In the general direction of your face."
He's smiling now. Small. Faint. He's not looking at you, he's looking at the TV, but the corner of his mouth is doing that thing where it's pretending not to do anything. You watch his mouth. You make yourself stop.
"Logan."
"Mm."
"Can I ask you something."
"You're gonna anyway."
"Why are you being so nice to me."
He goes still.
Like, visibly still. Like the air around him has frozen for a second. He turns his head, slowly, to look at you. The firelight is doing something to his eyes that you do not want to think about right now.
"What?"
"You're being. Nice. Right now."
"...okay."
"You haven't been nice to me for three weeks."
"Y/N."
"You've been polite. You've been polite the way you'd be polite to, like, a postal worker. And now I'm trapped in a snowstorm with you and suddenly you're making grilled cheese and lighting fires and—"
"I have always been nice to you."
"You've been avoiding me."
"You've been avoiding me."
"I haven't—"
"You have, Y/N."
You stop. He stops. You both stare at the TV. The TV is playing some kind of car chase. You don't know what's happening in the car chase. You don't think Logan does either.
The lights flicker.
They don't come back on.
It takes you a second to realize. The TV blinks black. The hum of the fridge in the kitchen cuts out. The whole house drops into a deeper kind of quiet — just the fire, and the wind, and the radiator clicking somewhere down the hall.
"...oh," you say.
"Yep."
"Power's out."
"Power's out."
"How long do you think—"
"No idea."
"Cool."
"Cool."
The fire pops. The room is much darker now. Just the orange glow of the flames on the floor, on the couch, on his hands, on yours.
You are very aware that his hand is six inches from yours.
Just a second. Just to stop looking at his hand. Just to stop counting the inches.
It's a mistake.
Because the second you close your eyes, you're not on the hockey house couch anymore. You're three weeks ago. You're in Hannah's apartment. You're in a black dress with little devil horns clipped into your hair — the cheap kind, from the drugstore, the kind that pinch your scalp by hour two — and the apartment is loud, so loud, music thudding through the floor, somebody's speaker turned up too high, the smell of cheap beer and cinnamon candles.
You'd been in the kitchen for an hour. You'd been avoiding the kitchen for an hour, actually — because Logan had been in the kitchen, leaning against the counter in his stupid flannel, holding a beer he'd barely touched, claiming to be a lumberjack with the energy of a man who'd put zero effort in and somehow still looked—
(You're not thinking about how he looked. You weren't thinking about how he looked. You absolutely were thinking about how he looked.)
Hannah, in her angel costume, had pushed you toward him at one point. Go talk to him, she'd hissed, he's been looking at you all night, go—
You hadn't gone.
You'd done laps around the apartment instead. Living room. Hallway. Bathroom. Living room. Hallway. Bathroom. Avoiding the kitchen. Avoiding the kitchen. Avoiding the—
And then, somewhere around midnight, you'd found yourself in the hallway looking for the bathroom because someone had locked themselves in the one off the living room, and the hallway was darker, quieter, the music muffled through the wall. And the door at the end of the hallway had opened. And Logan had stepped out.
He'd stopped.
You'd stopped.
He was holding a glass of water. You don't know why you remember that specifically. He was holding a glass of water and he was wearing that stupid flannel and his hair was a mess and his eyes had locked on yours and stayed there.
"Hi," he'd said.
"Hi."
"You hiding?"
"Looking for the bathroom."
"It's right behind me."
"...okay."
You hadn't moved.
He hadn't moved either.
The hallway was narrow. You don't know if you remember that accurately or if your brain has been editing it for three weeks, making it smaller, making him closer, but you remember that he was close enough that you could smell his cologne under the cinnamon and the beer, and you remember that the hallway light was that warm orange kind that makes everyone look like they're in a movie, and you remember—
You remember he set the glass of water down on the little side table in the hallway.
You remember he didn't break eye contact when he did it.
You remember thinking oh, in a way that had no follow-up sentence. Just oh.
"Y/N."
"Yeah."
"Can I ask you something."
"Yeah."
"Have you been avoiding me tonight."
You'd swallowed. You don't think you'd meant to swallow audibly. You think you did anyway.
"...maybe."
"Why."
"I don't know."
"You don't know."
"I don't know."
His head had tilted. Just a little. The hallway light catching his cheekbone. You remember his cheekbone specifically, because at the time you'd been having a small private crisis about it.
He'd taken one step closer.
You'd taken a step backward. Your back had hit the hallway wall. You don't think he was advancing on you — you think you'd just moved, automatically, the way your body does when you don't know what else to do with it. He'd seen you move. He'd hesitated.
"I can go back to the party," he'd said, quietly.
"...don't."
He hadn't.
He'd taken another step.
And another.
And by the time he was close enough that you could feel his breath on your face, your hands had found the front of his flannel and you hadn't even realized you'd grabbed it. You remember the texture. You remember it was soft — of course his flannel was soft, of course his stupid lumberjack costume was actually a comfortable shirt he wore all the time, of course of course — and you remember that he'd reached up and brushed his thumb against your jaw and that his hand had been warm, warmer than it had any right to be, and his eyes had dropped to your mouth and lingered there for one full second—
And he'd leaned in.
Slowly.
So slowly that you had a thousand chances to stop him.
And he'd stopped, the way he stopped tonight, a breath away from your mouth, and he'd waited.
You can still feel his breath on your lips. Three weeks later. You can still feel it.
You can still feel the way your chest had cracked open with wanting it.
You'd laughed.
You'd laughed because you panicked. You'd laughed because your brain had short-circuited and the only thing it could do was bail. You'd laughed and said something — you can't even remember what, something stupid, something about him being very into character as a lumberjack, something — and you'd ducked under his arm and gone back to the party and you hadn't looked at him for the rest of the night.
You hadn't looked at him for three weeks.
You hadn't let yourself think about the way he'd nodded — that one small, defeated nod — and stepped back. You hadn't let yourself think about the way the warmth had drained out of his eyes. You hadn't let yourself think about any of it, except you have. You have. You've been thinking about it every single night for twenty-one nights and now you're trapped in a snowstorm with him and his hand is six inches from yours and—
You open your eyes.
The fire is still crackling. The wind is still howling. Logan is still sitting on the other end of the couch, looking at the dead TV like it might still come back on if he stares at it long enough.
His hand is still six inches from yours.
His thumb is doing slow, absent little circles on the couch cushion.
By hour five, you have run out of small things to talk about.
You've covered: the snow. The grilled cheese. Logan's classes. Your job. Hannah and Garrett (an easy subject, beloved). Allie and Dean (also easy). The hockey team's various ailments. A weird podcast Logan listens to. A book you've been reading. Whether or not the dog two doors down is technically a husky or a malamute (Logan says malamute, you say husky, you've agreed to disagree).
You have not covered the Halloween party.
You have not covered any of it.
It is becoming a problem.
You're lying on the couch now — actually lying down, your head on the armrest, your legs tucked up. Logan is sitting at the other end with your feet in his lap. You don't know how this happened. You don't know when this happened. At some point you stretched out and he didn't move and now your feet are tucked under his thigh and his hand is resting absently on your ankle and you have no idea how to address this.
So you don't.
You stare at the ceiling.
"Logan."
"Yeah."
"Can I say something."
"Yeah."
"And can you not — can you not be weird about it."
"...okay."
"Promise."
"Y/N, I'm not gonna be weird, just say it."
You take a breath. You take another breath. You think about all the ways to start this sentence and none of them feel right and then you think fuck it and you just—
"At Hannah's Halloween party."
He goes very still.
His hand on your ankle stops moving. You didn't realize it was moving. It had been, apparently, drawing slow little circles with his thumb. It stops.
"Y/N."
"I just — I just want to say something about it. Just once. And then we don't have to talk about it again."
He's quiet for a long moment.
"Okay."
You stare at the ceiling so you don't have to stare at him.
"I didn't laugh because I didn't want you to," you say.
The silence after is huge.
He doesn't say anything. You can hear him breathing. You can feel his hand on your ankle, not moving, not pulling away. You can hear the fire. You can hear your own pulse in your ears, loud.
"...what?" he says, finally. Quietly.
"I laughed. At the party. When you — when we — I laughed and I made a joke and I made it weird and I want you to know that I didn't laugh because I didn't want you to. I laughed because — because I — "
"Because you what."
"Because I panicked, Logan."
You sit up.
You sit up because you can't keep saying this to the ceiling. You sit up and pull your knees up to your chest and you look at him and he is looking at you with the exact expression he had in that hallway three weeks ago. The same one. Exactly the same one. The one that had made you laugh and step back. The one that has been living in the back of your head, rent-free, for twenty-one days.
"Y/N."
"And I've been thinking about it for three weeks and I've been ignoring you for three weeks because I didn't know what to do with it and now I'm — I'm here, and you're being nice to me with grilled cheese, and the power is out, and you're—"
"Y/N."
"And I just — I needed to say it. I needed you to know."
The fire pops.
He looks at you for a long, long moment.
Then he, very slowly, very deliberately, turns to face you fully. His knee bumps yours. He doesn't move it. And he turns. To face you fully. His knee bumps yours. He doesn't move it.
"You panicked," he says.
"I panicked."
"Because you wanted me to."
"Because I wanted you to."
"At the party."
"At the party."
"And you've been avoiding me for three weeks."
"...yes."
"Y/N."
"What."
"I've been avoiding you for three weeks because I thought I made you uncomfortable."
You stare at him.
He stares at you.
The fire crackles. The wind hits the window. The world outside is white and quiet and very, very far away.
"Logan."
"What."
"You absolute idiot."
"I'm the idiot?"
"You — yes! You're the idiot! I've been losing my mind for three weeks—"
"You laughed! In the hallway! You laughed, Y/N!"
"I PANICKED."
"I DIDN'T KNOW THAT."
"WELL I DIDN'T KNOW THAT YOU DIDN'T KNOW—"
You're both laughing now. You don't know when it started. He's got a hand pressed over his face and you've got both hands over yours and the laughter is the slightly-hysterical kind, the relief kind, the oh my god we are such idiots kind. He pulls his hand down. His eyes find yours.
His eyes are doing the thing. The thing from the hallway. The thing you've been thinking about.
He's not laughing anymore.
Neither are you.
"Y/N."
"Yeah."
"Come here."
You don't say anything. You can't. You just — move. You shift across the couch and his hand comes up to cup your jaw and you can feel him shaking a little, just a little, because he's been waiting three weeks and he doesn't quite trust this is real, and his thumb brushes your cheek and he leans in slowly, slow enough that you could stop him, slow enough that the room narrows down to just this, just him, just—
He stops.
A breath away.
Right where you stopped him last time.
Except this time he's not laughing. This time you're not laughing. This time the fire is the only sound in the room and your nose is brushing his and you can feel his breath on your mouth and his eyes flick down to your lips and back up to your eyes and—
"Tell me to," he whispers.
"What?"
"Tell me to, Y/N."
"You're really gonna make me say it."
“After three weeks? Yeah. I really am going to make you say it.”
You close the half-inch between you.
The first touch of his mouth is soft.
Softer than you expected. Softer than you've been imagining for three weeks. Just his lips brushing yours, tentative, like he's still not sure you won't pull away. Like he's giving you one more chance to laugh, to step back, to run.
You don't run.
You press closer.
And something in him breaks.
His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers threading through it, tilting your head back just slightly, and the kiss deepens. Slow. Deliberate. His mouth moves against yours like he's been thinking about this, like he's memorized exactly how he wanted to do this, and you make a sound — small, involuntary — and you feel him smile against your lips.
"Yeah," he murmurs, so quiet you almost don't hear it. "Yeah, baby."
Your brain short-circuits.
Your hands find the front of his hoodie and you pull him closer, and he comes willingly, his other hand finding your waist, his thumb pressing against your hip through your shirt. The firelight flickers across his face when you open your eyes for half a second — gold on his cheekbone, shadow under his jaw — and then you close them again because you can't think and look at him at the same time.
He kisses you like he's been starving for it.
Slow, then deeper. Then slow again. His tongue brushes your bottom lip and you open for him and the taste of him floods your senses — something warm, something faintly sweet, something that makes you forget there's a world outside this couch. His hand tightens in your hair. Not rough. Just — anchoring. Like he needs to hold onto you. Like he's afraid you'll disappear.
You won't disappear.
You're not going anywhere.
Your fingers twist in his hoodie and you pull, and he makes a sound low in his throat that you feel more than hear, and then his hands are on your hips and he's pulling you into his lap.
You go.
God, you go so easily.
Your knees bracket his thighs and his hands slide up your sides, slow, like he's memorizing the shape of you, and you're kissing him harder now, less tentative, more desperate. Three weeks of wanting this. Three weeks of lying awake at night thinking about the way he'd looked at you in that hallway. Three weeks of convincing yourself it didn't matter.
It matters.
It matters so much you can't breathe.
"Y/N," he says against your mouth, and his voice is wrecked. Absolutely wrecked. "God, I've been waiting for this."
"Me too."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark in the firelight, pupils blown, and his lips are red and his hair is a mess where your fingers have been in it and he looks — he looks —
You kiss him again before you can finish the thought.
This time it's you who deepens it. You who licks into his mouth. You who makes him groan, low and rough, his hands gripping your hips hard enough that you'll feel it tomorrow. The fire crackles behind you. The wind howls outside. The world is a snowstorm and you are here, in his lap, in his hands, and nothing else exists.
His mouth moves to your jaw. Then your neck. Slow, open-mouthed kisses that make your breath catch, that make your hands tighten in his hair.
"Logan—"
"I know," he murmurs against your throat. "I know, baby."
You don't know what he knows. You don't know what you were going to say. You just know that his mouth is on your skin and his hands are sliding under the hem of your shirt, fingertips brushing the bare skin of your waist, and you are on fire. You are burning. The fireplace has nothing on this.
You pull at his hoodie.
He helps you.
It comes off in one smooth motion and you have half a second to appreciate the fact that he's in a t-shirt underneath — a soft, worn t-shirt that clings to his shoulders — before you're kissing him again. Your hands find the hem of his shirt and slide underneath, palms flat against his stomach, and he sucks in a breath.
"Y/N."
"Yeah?"
"You're killing me."
"Good."
He laughs. It's breathless and a little bit desperate and it makes something in your chest crack wide open. He catches your mouth again, kisses you slower this time, deeper, his hands sliding up your back under your shirt. His palms are warm. Everything about him is warm. The fire is warm and he is warm and you are warm and the cold outside doesn't exist.
Time moves differently here.
You don't know how long you kiss him. It could be minutes. It could be hours. His hands map your spine. Your fingers trace his shoulders. His mouth moves back to your neck and you tilt your head back and his name falls from your lips like a prayer.
"That's it," he murmurs against your collarbone. "Just like that."
Your shirt is rucked up. His is halfway off. You don't remember taking it off. You don't remember him taking yours off. You just know that there's less fabric between you now and his chest is pressed against yours and you can feel his heartbeat, fast and hard, matching yours.
He pulls back.
Just enough to look at you.
His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek, and his eyes are so soft. So unbearably soft.
"Hi," he says.
You laugh. It comes out shaky. "Hi."
"You okay?"
"I'm—" You don't have words. You shake your head. "Yeah. Yes. I'm—"
"Good." He kisses you again. Soft. Sweet. "Good."
You kiss him back. Slower now. The desperation has ebbed into something gentler, something that aches in a different way. His hands are careful on your waist. Your fingers are gentle in his hair. The fire pops and a log shifts and the orange light flickers across both of you.
When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard.
His forehead drops to yours.
You close your eyes.
His hand is still in your hair. Your hand is still fisted in his shirt. You're half in his lap, half on the couch, tangled together in a way that should be uncomfortable but isn't. His thumb strokes slow circles against your scalp. Your fingers loosen, smoothing out the wrinkles you've made in his shirt.
Outside, the wind howls.
Inside, the fire glows.
You are here. He is here. You are both here.
"I've got you," he murmurs, so quiet you almost miss it.
You open your eyes.
He's already looking at you.
"Yeah," you whisper. "You do."
His mouth curves. Small. Soft. He kisses your forehead. Then your temple. Then, very gently, your mouth.
Synopsis: The storm didn't stop. You thought last night was all you'd get—just the fire, just the confession, just twelve hours, and nowhere to go. But the roads are still closed, and the world outside is still white, and morning changes everything.
Word count: ~ 15K
Content / Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI. Explicit sexual content. Sex. Praise kink (light). Pet names ("baby").
The kind that's heavy and earned, the kind that only comes from sleeping somewhere genuinely safe. The blanket is tucked around me in a way I don't remember doing myself — thick and soft, the hockey house blanket that smells faintly like cedar and something else I'm not ready to identify yet. I register that. File it away. Don't look at it directly.
Then there's the storm.
I can hear it before I open my eyes. The wind against the windows — not the soft Hallmark-movie snow from yesterday afternoon, not the wall of white that had swallowed the street whole, but something steadier now. Lower. A constant, patient howl that means still. That means not done yet. That means nowhere to be.
I don't open my eyes.
I lie there and let myself come back in pieces, the way I always do — slow, like surfacing from something deep. The couch cushion under my cheek. The weight of the blanket. The fire burned down low, just embers now, still throwing faint warmth across the room. The grey-white light coming through the bay window, snow-light, the particular flatness of a world buried.
My phone is on the cushion beside me.
I don't reach for it yet.
I reach for it eventually.
The screen is cold under my thumb. I squint at the brightness — 8:47am, and three texts from Hannah, sent sometime in the early hours when she'd apparently woken up worried.
babe are you okay
i saw the storm is still going please tell me you're not trying to drive
Y/N i swear to god if you drove home in that i will never forgive you
I type back — i'm fine, still at the hockey house, roads are still closed — and then I see the emergency alert underneath. Still active. Severe winter storm warning still in effect. Travel strongly discouraged. Roads closed until further notice.
I set the phone back down.
Stare at the ceiling.
Still at the hockey house.
Still here. Another day of it. Another day of the storm and the fire and the—
That's when I hear it.
The shower.
It's running somewhere down the hall — I can hear the pipes, faintly, the low rush of water through old walls. I lie there and I listen to it and I don't move. I just — listen. And something in my chest does a slow, complicated thing that I don't have a name for yet. Something that starts in my sternum and spreads outward.
Last night comes back in pieces.
Not all at once. Not in a rush. Just — pieces.
His hand in my hair. The fire. The way he'd said come here like it was the simplest thing in the world. The way I'd gone. God, the way I'd gone — no hesitation, no laughing it off, no stepping back. Just moved across that couch like I'd been waiting to. Like my body already knew before my brain caught up.
Tell me to.
You're really gonna make me say it.
After three weeks? Yeah. I really am going to make you say it.
I close my eyes.
Press the back of my hand against my mouth.
My phone buzzes again.
I look down.
Hannah: okay but like
Hannah: you're stuck there with LOGAN though
Hannah: just the two of you
Hannah: hello???
Hannah: Y/N I know you're awake you always wake up early don't play dead with me
I stare at the screen.
Hannah: are you ALIVE
Hannah: or are you busy 👀
Hannah: no okay i'm not doing the emoji thing i'm being serious are you okay
Hannah: (also are you guys okay 👀👀)
Hannah: ignore the second one. first one only. are you okay.
I can hear her voice so clearly in my head it almost makes me laugh. The way she'd be lying in Garrett's bed right now, phone held above her face, typing with the focus of someone who absolutely does not have an ulterior motive.
I type back.
me: i'm alive
me: stop doing the eyes emoji
Three dots appear immediately.
Hannah: I KNEW YOU WERE AWAKE
Hannah: okay but how are you. how are things. how is the house. how is the WEATHER
Hannah: how is logan
There it is.
I set my phone face down on the cushion.
Pick it back up.
me: the storm is still going
me: i'm fine
me: the house is fine
Hannah: and LOGAN
me: also fine
me: go back to sleep hannah
Hannah: it's 9am i've been up for hours
Hannah: garrett says hi
Hannah: (garrett did not say hi garrett is asleep i lied)
Hannah: Y/N.
Hannah: bestie.
Hannah: my best friend in the entire world who I would do anything for.
Hannah: did anything happen
I look at the ceiling for a long moment.
The shower is still running down the hall.
me: nothing happened go back to sleep
I put the phone face down again before she can respond.
It buzzes four times in a row against the cushion.
I don't look.
The thing about lying still is that it gives everything room to catch up with you.
I know this about myself. I've always known this. It's why I wake up slowly, why I don't reach for my phone first thing, why I give myself the grace of coming back in pieces — because the second I stop moving, the second there's no task, no distraction, no forward momentum, everything I've been not-thinking-about lines up quietly and waits.
It's waiting now.
I stare at the ceiling and I let it.
Last night.
Logan's thumb brushing my cheek. The way he'd been shaking slightly, just slightly, when he'd cupped my jaw — like he'd been holding onto this for a long time and didn't quite trust that it was real. The way that detail had cracked something open in me. Not the kissing. Not the firelight. Not any of the things I'd spent three weeks imagining. Just that. The fact that his hands weren't steady.
I've been waiting for this.
Yeah?
Yeah.
I press my palm flat against my sternum.
My heart is doing something inconvenient.
The rational part of my brain — the part that woke me up laughing in a hallway three weeks ago, the part that has been carefully, methodically keeping me on the far side of every room he's in — clears its throat. Tries to get a word in.
Okay, it says. So that happened.
Yeah.
And now it's morning.
Yeah.
And you're still here.
Yeah.
And he's in the shower.
I know.
And you have no idea what any of this means.
I know.
And you're going to have to look at him. Like, today. You're going to have to look at him and figure out what your face does and—
I know. I know. I'm aware. Thank you.
The rational part of my brain subsides, dissatisfied.
The rest of me lies there and listens to the shower running.
It's such a mundane sound. That's the thing that gets me, lying here in the grey morning light — it's such an ordinary sound. Water through old pipes. The low rush of it, distant through the wall. The sound of a person doing the most normal human thing there is, the thing everyone does, every morning, without thinking about it.
Except I'm thinking about it.
I'm thinking about it very specifically and I need to stop.
I turn onto my back and look at the ceiling and take a slow breath through my nose.
Okay.
Last night happened.
Last night happened and it was — it was a lot. It was three weeks of not-saying-something finally saying itself. It was firelight and a power outage and his hand in my hair and the way he'd smiled against my mouth, small and private, like I'd given him something he'd stopped expecting to get.
And now it's morning.
And the storm is still going.
And I'm still here.
And I don't know what we are. I don't know if we talked enough or said enough or if what happened on that couch was the beginning of something or just — the storm. Just the forced proximity and the firelight and the three weeks of wanting it finally having nowhere left to go.
I don't know.
I hate not knowing.
My phone buzzes again. I don't look at it. It's Hannah. It's definitely Hannah. She's probably sent a paragraph. Possibly a voice memo. I love her. I cannot talk to her right now.
The shower shuts off.
The pipes go quiet.
The whole house goes a shade quieter and I become very aware of the distance between this couch and that bathroom. The specific number of steps. The door. The fact that in approximately two minutes John Logan is going to come out of that bathroom and we are going to have to look at each other in daylight for the first time since—
I sit up.
The blanket falls off my shoulders.
I sit there on the edge of the couch in yesterday's clothes, hair a mess, heart doing something medically questionable, and I stare at the hallway.
I can hear him moving. Quiet sounds — a drawer, maybe. The soft sound of a towel. Normal sounds. Morning sounds.
I should stay here.
I should stay exactly here and wait for him to come out and let whatever happens happen naturally and not make it weird and not overthink it and—
I stand up.
I don't make a decision exactly. My body just — stands. The way it had moved across the couch last night. Before my brain caught up. Before I could talk myself out of it.
I'm halfway down the hall before I've finished the thought.
The bathroom door isn't fully closed.
I notice that first. A sliver of warm air spilling out into the cool hallway, carrying steam, carrying the smell of soap and something warmer underneath it. The light inside is soft — the little frosted window above the shower letting in that flat grey storm-light, the kind that makes everything look like a photograph.
I raise my hand to knock.
I don't knock.
I just — stand there. Hand lifted. Knuckles an inch from the wood. And through the gap I can see the mirror, still fogged at the edges, and the edge of the sink, and—
And him.
Logan is standing at the sink with a towel wrapped low around his waist.
That's it. That's all. Just that. And I forget, momentarily, how to be a person.
He's not doing anything remarkable. He's just standing there, one hand braced on the edge of the sink, head slightly bowed, like he was looking at something or thinking about something or just existing in the particular quiet way he has — that stillness he carries, the one that always made me think he was somewhere slightly deeper than wherever everyone else was.
His back is to me.
I should announce myself. I know I should announce myself. I know that standing in a hallway looking at a person through a gap in a door they think is closed is not — that's not a normal thing to do. I know that.
I can't move.
Because his back is —
I didn't know. That's the thing. I didn't know what was under the hoodie and the worn t-shirts and the flannel. I mean, I knew, abstractly, the way you know things about people you've been determinedly not-thinking-about — hockey player, works out, obviously — but abstract knowing and this are two very different things.
His shoulders are broad. Not in a performative way, not in the way that announces itself — just quietly, solidly broad, the kind that comes from years of actual work. Warm tan skin. There's a faint scar on his left shoulder blade, small, silvery. His spine is a straight line down the center of his back, the muscles bracketing it shifting slightly as he adjusts his grip on the sink. The towel sits low on his hips. Dangerously low. Tied in that casual way that suggests he didn't think about it, that this is just what he does, that he has no idea—
He has no idea I'm standing here.
His hair is dark and full, loose waves that curl slightly at the nape of his neck where it's still slightly damp.
That's what gets me, somehow. Out of everything — the shoulders, the towel, the steam, the soap smell, the scar — it's the hair. The way it sits when it's dried without thinking about it. The way I've never actually seen it because I've been so careful, so deliberate about not being in morning spaces with him.
My chest does something I don't have a word for.
Something slow and aching and completely beyond my control.
He shifts his weight. Reaches for something on the counter — his watch, I think, or his phone. And in reaching, he turns slightly, just enough that the line of his jaw comes into view. The shadow under it. The sharp cut of his cheekbone catching the grey morning light. The stubble there, darker in the morning.
I press my palm flat against the doorframe.
Breathe.
I think about stepping back. Going back to the couch. Pretending I was never here. I think about it seriously, concretely, as a real option — I could do that. I could turn around right now and he would never know and we could do the rest of this day safely, at a distance, and I could keep my hands to myself and my heart at a manageable volume and—
He looks up.
Into the mirror.
And finds me.
He doesn't startle.
That's the first thing I notice — he doesn't flinch, doesn't spin around, doesn't do any of the things a person does when they realize someone is watching them. He just — stills. Goes that particular kind of quiet that is different from his regular quiet. Deeper. Like something in him that was moving has stopped.
His eyes find mine in the mirror.
And stay there.
The steam is still curling at the edges of the glass, the fog not quite cleared, and his reflection is soft at the margins — but his eyes aren't. His eyes are very clear. Very present. That dark, steady brown that I have been carefully, methodically avoiding for three weeks and am now, apparently, staring directly into via a fogged bathroom mirror at nine in the morning.
Neither of us says anything.
The storm fills the silence. Wind against the frosted window. Snow against the glass.
I should say something. I'm aware that I should say something — something normal, something casual, something that explains why I'm standing in the hallway looking at him through a gap in the door like a person with no self-control whatsoever. I have several options. I could say sorry, I was just going to knock. I could say I didn't realize you were still in here. I could say literally anything.
I don't say anything.
Neither does he.
He's just looking at me.
In the mirror, I can see my own face — hair from sleeping, yesterday's clothes, cheek still creased faintly from the couch cushion. I look exactly like someone who just woke up and walked down a hallway without thinking it through. I look exactly like what I am.
His jaw moves. Just slightly. Like he started to say something and decided against it.
His eyes drop.
Just for a second. Just a fraction of a second — down and back up, the way you can't help, the way your eyes do the thing your brain tells them not to. And when they come back to mine in the mirror there's something in them that wasn't there before. Something that makes my throat go dry.
He turns around.
Slowly.
Not fast, not sharp — just turns, unhurried, the way he does everything. The towel shifts with the movement, sitting even lower on his hips, and I am extremely aware of the specific geometry of his stomach, the faint definition of muscle, the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the white terry cloth, and I am also extremely aware that I am staring and that he can see me staring and that I cannot stop.
He leans back against the sink.
Crosses his arms loosely over his chest.
Looks at me.
Just — looks at me. Like he has all the time in the world. Like the storm outside has given him that, the unhurried patience of a man who isn't going anywhere and knows it. A drop of water tracks slowly from his hairline down his temple. He doesn't wipe it away.
"Hey," he says.
His voice is morning-rough. Low and quiet and slightly wrecked in the way voices are before they've fully warmed up, and it does something to me that I feel in my sternum.
"Hey," I say back.
It comes out smaller than I intended.
The corner of his mouth moves.
Not a full smile. Not even close to a full smile. Just that — the corner. The faint curve of it. The crooked thing that he does when he's trying not to do it, when he's keeping it contained, when he thinks if he lets it out fully it'll say too much.
It says too much anyway.
"You gonna come in?" he asks. Quiet. Like it's a simple question. Like it isn't the most loaded simple question anyone has ever asked me.
I look at him.
At the mirror behind him, still fogged at the edges.
At the drop of water on his temple.
At the towel.
At his eyes.
"Yeah," I say.
And I push the door open.
The bathroom is warm.
That's the first thing — the warmth of it, the contrast with the cool hallway at my back. The steam has mostly settled but it's still there, soft in the air, and it smells like him. His soap. Something clean and warm with something underneath it, something that isn't product, just — him. The smell I'd noticed in a Halloween hallway three weeks ago and had spent three weeks trying to forget.
I step inside.
He doesn't move.
He's still leaning against the sink with his arms loosely crossed and he's watching me cross the small distance between the door and where he's standing and he's not moving an inch, not coming to meet me, not making it easier. Just watching. Patient. Like he did last night on the couch when he'd said tell me to and waited, like he's always done this, like he knows something about me that I'm only just figuring out —
That I move when I'm ready.
That he just has to wait.
The floor is cool under my feet. The frosted window throws soft grey light across the tiles, across the edge of the sink, across his bare shoulder. Another drop of water tracks down from his hairline, past his temple, down the side of his jaw. I watch it.
I stop in front of him.
Close enough that I have to look up slightly to find his face.
He looks down at me.
Doesn't say anything.
Doesn't reach for me.
Just looks, the way he does — that particular quality of attention he has, the kind that makes you feel like the only thing in the room, like he's been paying attention to you for longer than you realized, cataloguing things quietly, storing them away. I think about the car he fixed freshman year. I think about Hannah waiting tables at Malone's for years before Garrett knew her name. I think about the way he'd noticed the grilled cheese was my favorite without me telling him, the way he'd tucked the blanket around me while I slept.
He notices things.
He noticed me.
My hand comes up before I decide to move it.
My fingers find the curl stuck to the side of his neck and I peel it away gently, slow, and smooth it back into the damp hair at his temple. My fingertips graze his jaw on the way back down.
He exhales.
It's barely audible. Just a slow breath out through his nose, controlled, like he's been holding something and just let a fraction of it go. His arms uncross. His hands find my waist — both of them, warm and certain, settling there like they already know the shape of me, like last night taught them something they haven't forgotten.
He still doesn't pull me closer.
Just holds.
Looks down at me with those dark quiet eyes and holds me at arm's length like he's giving me one more chance to think about this. Like he's being careful. Like he knows what it cost me to walk down that hallway and push open that door and cross the room to him and he doesn't want to rush the rest of it.
"Hi," he says again.
Softer this time.
"Hi," I say back.
"You sleep okay?"
"Yeah." My voice is still small. I don't know how to make it bigger right now. "You?"
"Yeah."
A beat.
His thumbs move. Slow circles against my waist, through the fabric of my shirt, barely-there pressure. I don't think he knows he's doing it.
"The storm's still going," I say.
"I know."
"Roads are still closed."
"I know."
"Hannah texted."
Something shifts in his expression. Barely — just a flicker at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah?"
"She wanted to know if I was okay."
"Are you?"
I look at him.
At the drop of water that has reached his jaw now, hanging there at the edge of it. At the scar on his shoulder that I can see from here, small and silver, that I want to know the story of.
"Ask me something easier," I say.
The corner of his mouth does the thing.
The almost-smile.
His hands tighten slightly on my waist — not pulling, just tightening. Just a fraction. Just enough that I feel it through the fabric, just enough that my breath catches on it, and he sees my breath catch, he notices, of course he notices.
He leans down.
Slowly.
His forehead drops to mine.
We just — stand there. Foreheads touching, the steam settling around us, the storm against the window, his hands warm on my waist and my fingers resting light against his chest now, against his bare skin, and I can feel his heartbeat under my palm.
It's fast.
He's as undone as I am.
He's just quieter about it.
"Y/N," he murmurs.
"Yeah."
"I'm gonna kiss you now."
"Okay."
"Just — wanted to say it this time."
Something cracks open in my chest.
Something wide and warm and terrifying.
"Logan," I whisper.
"Yeah."
"Kiss me."
He does.
He kisses me like he has nowhere else to be.
That's the only way I know how to describe it. Like the storm cleared his calendar. Like he looked at the next twelve hours and decided every single one of them could go here, could go to this, to me, and he has no complaints about that. No urgency. No rush.
Just this.
His mouth is soft at first. The way it was last night — that same careful softness, like he's still giving me room, still leaving the door open. His hands slide from my waist to the small of my back and he draws me in, slowly, closing the distance between us inch by inch until there's no space left, until I can feel the warmth of his chest against me and the damp of his skin through my shirt and the low, solid steadiness of him.
I exhale into the kiss.
He makes a sound. Low. Barely there. Like my exhale did something to him, like the feel of me going soft against him did something he didn't have a word for either.
His hand comes up.
Slow — deliberately slow, telegraphed, giving me every chance to see it coming — and cups the back of my head. His fingers thread through my hair, gentle, unhurried, like he's memorizing the texture of it. Like he has time to memorize it. Like he's going to.
He tilts my head back just slightly.
And deepens the kiss.
Not fast. Not desperate the way last night got desperate. This is something different — something more patient, more deliberate, like last night was the dam breaking and this is what comes after. The steady current underneath. The thing that was always there.
I grip his arms.
My fingers find the muscle of his forearms and hold on and I feel him register it — the slight flex, the breath through his nose, the way his hand tightens fractionally in my hair. Not rough. Just — present. Just I feel you.
He kisses me like he's been thinking about how to do it right.
Like he ran through it in his head and decided slow was the answer. Like he knows something about me that I'm still figuring out — that I needed this, specifically this, the unhurried version, the one that isn't running from anything or toward anything, the one that just is.
His mouth moves to my jaw.
Soft. Open. Warm.
He takes his time there. His lips trace the line of my jaw to the hinge of it, patient, and I feel my head tip back further on its own, feel my eyes close, feel my fingers tighten on his arms.
"Logan—"
"I know," he murmurs against my skin.
His lips find my neck.
And that's where he stays.
Like he knows. Like he figured something out about me last night and filed it away quietly the way he files everything away — the car, the blanket, the grilled cheese, all of it catalogued, all of it remembered. His mouth is warm and unhurried against my throat and his hands are moving now, slow and certain, mapping me like he has all morning, like the storm gave him all morning and he intends to use every minute of it.
"You're—" I start.
"Mm."
"You're doing this on purpose."
I can feel him smile against my neck.
Not the crooked almost-smile. The real one — I can feel the shape of it against my skin and it does something catastrophic to my knees.
"Yeah," he murmurs. Low. Warm. "I am."
His hands slide under the hem of my shirt.
Palms flat against my skin, warm, warmer than the steam in the air, warmer than the grey morning light. He spreads his fingers wide like he wants as much contact as possible and draws them slowly up my sides and I—
I make a sound.
Not a gasp. Just — a sound. Low and involuntary and slightly embarrassing and I feel him register it the way he registers everything. Quietly. His hands still for just a fraction of a second and then his thumbs press a little harder against my ribs and I think oh he's absolutely doing that on purpose.
His palms are rough.
Not painfully rough — just textured, real, the kind of hands that have actually done things. Hockey and weights and fixing cars in parking lots at two in the morning. And there's something about that specific roughness against my bare skin that I wasn't prepared for. Something that makes the contact feel more real than I was ready for it to feel.
I reach for his shoulders without deciding to.
My fingers find the muscle of them and grip and I can feel the tension there — the particular held-back quality of him, the way his whole body is doing the thing his face sometimes does. Containing something. Keeping it at a controlled simmer.
He's warm. Genuinely, almost unreasonably warm. Warmer than the steam still soft in the air. I've been thinking about what John Logan feels like for three weeks straight and apparently I was wrong about this specific detail.
"Hey," he says quietly.
I look up. I have to tilt my head back to find his face — he's tall enough that even on the sink I'm looking up at him — and when I find it his jaw is tight and his eyes have gone very dark and he's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the room. Like I'm the only thing that's ever been in any room.
"Still here?" he murmurs.
"Still here."
"Good."
His hands slide higher.
And I stop thinking in complete sentences. Just fragments. Just — his hands and I've been avoiding this man for three weeks and now his hands are under my shirt and I literally cannot think in a straight line and this is insane and don't stop.
He reaches the edge of my bra and pauses there, looking at me, waiting.
"Yes," I say before he can ask.
His mouth curves. That real smile again.
"You don't know what I was gonna ask," he murmurs.
"I don't care. Whatever it is, yes."
Something shifts in his expression. Something heated and certain and I feel it land in my body before I understand what it means.
He reaches for the hem of my shirt.
His fingers curl into the fabric and he pauses there, giving me one more chance to change my mind, one more moment to think about this.
I lift my arms.
He draws the shirt up slowly. So slowly. Like he's unwrapping something he's been thinking about for a while. The fabric slides up my ribs, over my breasts, over my shoulders, and then it's gone and I'm sitting on the edge of the sink in just my bra and jeans and the cold air hits my skin and I shiver and think oh god I should have worn the good bra and then immediately are you seriously thinking about your bra right now what is wrong with you—
"Hey," he says quietly.
I look up.
He's watching my face. Not my body. My face.
"Stay with me," he says.
And it's such a Logan thing to say — practical, steady, bringing me back — that something in me settles.
"I'm here," I whisper.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "You are."
He steps closer.
His hands find my waist again and this time there's no fabric between his palms and my skin. Just warmth. Just contact. Just the particular way he spreads his fingers wide like he wants to touch as much of me as possible, and the roughness of his hands against my bare skin makes something in my chest crack open.
I reach for the towel.
I've been aware of it since I walked into this bathroom. The white terry cloth knotted at his hip. The way it sits low on his waist, the line of dark hair disappearing beneath it. I've been trying not to look at it directly. Trying not to think about what's underneath.
I'm done trying not to think about it.
My fingers find the edge where it's tucked against his hip.
The fabric is still slightly damp, warm from his skin. I can feel the knot — simple, practical, the kind of knot you tie without thinking when you're just getting out of the shower. My fingers work at it slowly, finding the end, pulling gently.
Logan goes completely still.
I feel it happen. The way his breathing changes. The way every muscle in his body seems to tighten and hold.
I look up at him.
He's watching my hands.
Not my face. My hands. Watching what I'm doing with an intensity that makes my own breathing stutter. His jaw is tight. His eyes are dark. There's something in his expression I've never seen before — something raw and unguarded and entirely focused on this moment.
The knot comes loose.
I pull the end free and the towel loosens but doesn't fall yet. It's still caught on his hips, held there by friction and nothing else.
I pause.
My hand is still holding the fabric. His eyes are still on my hands. Neither of us is breathing normally.
And then I let go.
The towel falls.
It puddles on the floor between us and I don't look right away. I keep my eyes on his face for one more second, giving myself one more moment before I see him, before this becomes real in a way I can't take back.
His expression doesn't change. He doesn't look away. Doesn't move to cover himself. Doesn't make a joke or deflect or do anything to make this easier.
He just waits.
Patient. Certain. Like he knows exactly what he's doing to me and he's willing to let me take my time with it.
I look down.
And—
He's beautiful.
That's the first thought. Not clinical. Not analytical. Just — beautiful in a way that makes my chest hurt.
The grey morning light catches the lines of his body. His shoulders are broad and defined, the muscle there earned from years of hockey. Warm tan skin. His chest is lean and solid, scattered with dark hair that trails down his stomach. His abdomen is cut with definition — not the exaggerated kind, just the real kind that comes from being an athlete. His hips are narrow, the V-line there sharp and pronounced, drawing my eyes down to—
To him.
He's hard. Fully hard. And I can see exactly how much he wants this, how much he's been wanting this, maybe since last night, maybe since three weeks ago in Hannah's hallway, maybe longer than that.
He's bigger than I expected. Thicker. The kind of size that makes something low in my stomach clench with want and nervousness at the same time.
There's a small silvery scar on his left shoulder blade, visible now from this angle. I want to know the story. I want to touch it. I want to kiss it.
I can't breathe.
My hands are shaking slightly and I press them against my thighs to steady them and I think I've been thinking about this for three weeks and you have no idea what you do to me and oh god what if I'm not—
"Hey."
His voice is quiet. Rough.
I look up.
He's still watching me. Still not looking away. Still letting me look at him like this is something he's giving me, like my eyes on his body is something he wants.
"You okay?" he asks.
And there's genuine concern in his voice. Genuine care. Like even now, even standing naked in front of me, he's more worried about whether I'm okay than anything else.
"Yeah," I whisper. "You're just—" I don't finish. I don't know how to finish that sentence. You're just perfect sounds ridiculous. You're just exactly what I've been thinking about sounds desperate.
"Come here," he says quietly.
I reach for him instead.
My hands find his chest. The warmth of his skin. The solid reality of him. I slide my palms up slowly, feeling the muscle there, the way his breathing changes under my touch. My fingers trace the line of his collarbone, his shoulders, and then around to his back where I find that scar.
I lean forward and press my lips to it.
He makes a sound.
Low. Rough. Like that did something to him he wasn't expecting.
His hands find my face and he tilts my head up and kisses me. Deeply. Desperately. His tongue slides against mine and I open for him and his hands are in my hair and mine are on his bare chest and we're pressed together now, skin to skin, warmth to warmth.
His hands slide down.
To my waist.
To the button of my jeans.
"Tell me if you need me to stop," he says quietly against my mouth.
"Don't stop," I breathe.
He undoes the button. The zipper. His fingers hook into the waistband and I lift my hips and he slides them down slowly, taking his time, his eyes never leaving mine. The denim catches on my thighs and he works it down carefully until they're pooled on the floor and I'm sitting on the edge of the sink in just my underwear and bra.
The porcelain is cold against the backs of my thighs.
The contrast between that cold and the warmth of him standing between my legs is stark and grounding and real and I think this is happening and I want this and I've wanted this since the moment he almost kissed me in Hannah's hallway.
He steps back.
Just for a moment.
Just to look.
I watch his eyes track over me — the grey morning light on my skin, the particular way I'm breathing, the flush across my chest. His jaw is tight. His hands flex at his sides like he's restraining himself.
"You're beautiful," he says.
The words land like something solid. Not performative. Not trying to charm me. Just — stated. Like a fact.
"Logan," I whisper.
He steps between my legs again.
His hands find my thighs. Slide up slowly. His palms are rough against my skin and I can feel every callus, every place his hands have been worn down by hockey sticks and weights and years of work. The roughness of it makes me shiver.
"You cold?" he murmurs.
"No."
"You're shaking."
"I know."
His hands slide higher. To my hips. His thumbs trace the edge of my underwear and he pauses there, looking at me, waiting.
"Yes," I breathe.
He reaches behind me. His fingers find the clasp of my bra and he undoes it slowly, deliberately, and draws the straps down my arms. The fabric falls away and then I'm bare to him from the waist up and the grey morning light is soft on my skin and his eyes are so dark they're almost black.
"Y/N," he says quietly.
It's just my name. But the way he says it — like a prayer, like a promise — makes my chest ache.
I reach for him. Pull him closer. His mouth finds mine and we kiss deeply, desperately, and his hands are on my bare skin now, sliding up my sides, cupping my breasts, thumbs circling, and I make a sound into his mouth and he swallows it.
"Your hands," I breathe against his mouth.
"Yeah?"
"I didn't know it could feel like this."
Something in his expression shifts. Softens. He kisses me again, slower this time, like he's memorizing the shape of my mouth.
His mouth moves to my jaw. My neck. Lower. His lips trace my collarbone and I tip my head back and my fingers tighten in his hair and I feel him smile again against my skin. He's learning me. Every sound I make. Every place that makes me react. Filing it all away.
His mouth moves lower still. To my breast. His tongue circles and I stop breathing and my fingers grip his shoulders and he does it again, slower this time, more deliberate, because he noticed what it did to me.
"God," I breathe. "That — right there."
"Yeah," he murmurs against my skin. "I've got you."
His hand slides between my legs. Over the fabric of my underwear. Pressing gently.
I make a sound I've never made before.
He pulls back just enough to look at my face, watching my reaction, and his fingers press again, circling slowly, and my hips lift on their own.
"That's it," he murmurs.
His fingers move with more purpose now. Circling. Pressing. Finding the rhythm that makes my breathing stutter and I think I've been avoiding this man for three weeks and this is insane and I never want this to stop.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
"Yes," I breathe. "God, yes."
He hooks his fingers into my underwear and draws them down slowly, and then there's nothing between us anymore. Nothing but skin and want and three weeks of waiting.
He touches me. Gentle. Careful. Learning.
And I exhale slowly and my head falls back against the mirror and my fingers grip his shoulders and he watches my face the entire time, cataloguing every reaction, every sound.
"Logan," I breathe.
"I'm here."
His fingers slide lower. Inside. And the sensation is overwhelming and perfect and I think this is what I've been wanting and don't stop at the same time.
"I need you," I say quietly. The words come out before I can stop them. Honest. Vulnerable. Slightly embarrassing.
He leans down. His forehead touches mine.
"You have me," he whispers.
"No, I mean—"
"I know what you mean."
His hand leaves me and I hear him moving, the rustle of fabric somewhere, a drawer opening, the tear of a wrapper, and then he's back, pressing close.
And I feel him.
Not against me yet. Just — there. Close. The heat of him radiating even though we're not touching.
He steps between my legs again and his hands find my hips and he pulls me closer to the edge of the sink and—
And then I feel him against my inner thigh.
The heat of him. The weight. He's pressed there, not deliberately, just — there. Because of how close we are. Because of where I'm sitting. Because of the angle.
And I become very aware of him.
The specific warmth of him against my skin. The solidness. The reality of what's about to happen settling into my body in a way that makes my breathing change.
I can feel him. Not inside me. Not yet. Just — there. Against my thigh. Hard and warm and real.
My brain goes quiet. Just — oh and that's him and I want—
I think about reaching for him. The thought forms slowly, deliberately. Not impulsive. Not panicked. Just — a decision forming in real time.
I could reach down. I could touch him. I could wrap my hand around him and feel the weight of him, the heat, the reality of him.
I want to.
The wanting is so sharp it's almost painful.
I look up at him.
He's watching my face. His jaw is tight. His eyes are dark. He's not moving. Not pushing. Just — waiting. Letting me decide.
And I decide.
I reach down. Slowly. Deliberately.
My hand slides between us and I feel the heat of him before I touch him, the warmth radiating, and then my fingers find him and—
He's so warm. Warmer than I expected. Solid and thick and the skin is softer than I thought it would be, stretched tight over the hardness beneath.
I wrap my hand around him.
He makes a sound. Low. Rough. His forehead drops to my shoulder and his breathing goes ragged and his hands tighten on my hips.
"Y/N," he breathes. "You don't have to—"
"I want to," I whisper.
I stroke him once. Slowly. Learning the weight of him, the heat, the way he feels in my hand. And I think I'm doing this to him and I have no idea what I'm doing and I don't want to stop.
"You're gonna kill me," he mutters against my skin.
"Good," I whisper.
I stroke him again and his hips jerk forward slightly and I feel the tension in every line of his body — the particular way he's holding himself back, keeping control by a thread.
"Logan," I say quietly. "I need—"
"Yeah," he breathes. "Me too."
He takes himself from my hand gently. Positions himself.
And then I feel him there.
Not inside yet. Just — there. Pressing against my entrance. The head of him hot and blunt and right where I want him.
The sensation is overwhelming before anything even happens. Just the pressure of him there. The heat. The specific feeling of him positioned right at the edge of me, my body already responding, already trying to accommodate him even though he hasn't moved yet.
I can feel how big he is. How warm. The weight of him. The reality of what's about to happen settling into my body in a way that makes my breathing stutter.
His hips shift slightly. More pressure. Not pushing in. Just — there. Letting me feel him. Letting my body adjust to even just this contact.
My hands find his shoulders and grip hard.
He's breathing roughly now too. I can hear it. Feel it. The particular raggedness that means he's working hard to keep control, to keep this slow.
"Look at me," he says quietly.
I open my eyes.
His face is right there. So close. His dark eyes almost black and entirely focused on me. The stubble on his jaw catching the grey morning light.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Yes."
"You sure?"
"Yes," I breathe. "Please—"
"I've got you," he murmurs.
And then he pushes inside.
Slow. So slow.
The first inch is — it's everything. The stretch immediate and intense and I make a sound and my fingers dig into his shoulders. He's bigger than I expected, thicker, and the sensation of him pushing into me is overwhelming in the best way.
He pauses. Just that first inch inside. Giving me time to adjust. To breathe. To feel it.
"You okay?" he asks. His voice is strained.
"Yes. Don't stop."
He pushes deeper. Another inch. Then another. Slowly. So slowly. Like he's memorizing exactly how this feels. Like he wants to feel every moment of this, every inch of the way my body opens for him.
My breathing is coming in short bursts now. Every inch he pushes deeper I feel it everywhere — the stretch, the fullness, the particular way my body is accommodating him, wanting him, pulling him in.
"Logan," I breathe. His name comes out broken.
"Almost there," he murmurs. "Stay with me."
One more slow push.
And then he's fully inside. All the way. Every inch of him buried in me, his hips pressed flush against my inner thighs, his body against mine, no space left between us.
He goes completely still.
We both do.
Just breathing. Just feeling this.
The specific sensation of him fully inside me for the first time — the depth of it, the fullness, the weight of him against me and inside me and everywhere. The reality of this moment settling into both of our bodies at once.
I can feel everything. The way my body is stretched around him. The heat of him. The particular fullness that's almost too much and exactly right at the same time. The way his hips are pressed against me. The way his chest is rising and falling rapidly against mine. The way his hands are gripping my hips like he's afraid to let go.
"Oh my god," I breathe.
"Yeah," he says roughly. His forehead drops to my shoulder. "Yeah."
We stay like that. Just breathing together. His face buried in my neck. My hands in his hair. Both of us processing the gravity of this — the realness of it, the way it feels, the fact that this is actually happening.
I become aware of small things. The cold porcelain still under my thighs. His heartbeat against my chest — fast, hard, gradually slowing. The particular way my body feels right now — full, stretched, changed somehow.
He's still inside me. I don't want him to move. Not yet. Just — stay.
"You okay?" he asks quietly against my skin.
"Yeah," I whisper. "You?"
"Yeah." He lifts his head to look at me. His eyes are dark and soft and entirely focused on my face. "You feel—" He doesn't finish. Just shakes his head slightly like he doesn't have words for it either.
"Yeah," I whisper. "You too."
He kisses me. Soft. Gentle. Like we have all the time in the world now.
And then he moves.
Slow at first. Pulling out almost all the way and then pushing back in with that same unhurried patience. Like he has all morning. Like the storm gave him all morning and he intends to use every minute of it.
The sensation is overwhelming. Every time he pulls out I feel the loss of him. Every time he pushes back in I feel the fullness, the stretch, the particular way my body responds to him.
I wrap my arms around his neck. Pull him closer.
He groans and his pace increases slightly, still controlled but with more purpose now, more need. His mouth finds mine and we kiss messily, desperately, breathing into each other as he moves.
"God," I breathe against his mouth. "Logan—"
"Yeah. I know."
The rhythm builds slowly — not rushed, but steady, deliberate. His hands grip my hips and I can feel the roughness of his palms against my bare skin, the way his fingers dig in slightly when he thrusts deeper.
The storm is still going outside the frosted window. The grey morning light is still soft in the steam. The porcelain is still cold against my thighs.
But all I can feel is him.
"Y/N," he breathes against my mouth.
"Yeah."
"You feel so good."
"So do you," I breathe. "Don't stop—"
He kisses me harder and moves deeper and I make a sound into his mouth and my fingers tighten in his hair. I can feel the roughness of his jaw against my neck when he buries his face there, the stubble scraping gently against my collarbone, my shoulder.
His breathing is getting rougher now. Less controlled. I can hear the way it catches, the way he makes small sounds against my skin that I feel as much as hear. When I clench around him, his rhythm falters — just for a second — and a rough involuntary sound gets torn from him against my collarbone, something he couldn't stop, and his grip on my hips tightens hard enough that I know I'll have marks.
His hand slides between us. Finds where we're joined. Touches me there while he moves and the dual sensation makes my vision white out.
"Logan," I gasp. "I'm—"
"Yeah," he murmurs. His voice is rough. Strained. "I can feel it. Let go."
"I can't—"
"Yes you can. Let go. I've got you."
And hearing him say it — practical, steady, certain — is what does it.
His fingers press harder. His hips angle differently.
And I shatter.
The orgasm hits me and I cry out his name — desperate, undone, completely different from every other time I've said it — and my body clenches around him and he groans and his movements become less controlled, more desperate, chasing his own release. I can feel him everywhere — the weight of him above me, around me, inside me, the way his muscles shift and move under my hands as he thrusts deeper, harder.
"Y/N," he gasps. "I'm—"
"Yes," I breathe. "Please—"
He thrusts deep one more time and goes still and I feel him pulse inside me and his face buries in my neck and he makes a sound I've never heard him make before — raw and vulnerable and entirely mine.
We stay like that.
Breathing hard.
Tangled together.
His arms wrapped around me. Mine around him. The cold porcelain under my thighs and the warmth of him against me and inside me and everywhere.
And then—
Nothing.
Just breathing.
Just existing.
Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks.
The storm is still raging outside. I can hear it distantly — the wind against the frosted window, the particular howl that means not done yet. The grey morning light is still soft through the steam. The bathroom is still warm.
But all I can feel is him.
His weight against me. His chest rising and falling rapidly against mine. His face still buried in my neck. His arms still wrapped around me. His body still inside mine.
I become aware of things slowly. One at a time.
The cold porcelain under my thighs. Still there. Still grounding.
His heartbeat. I can feel it against my chest. Fast. Hard. Gradually slowing.
The particular way my body feels right now. Overwhelmed. Satisfied. Changed somehow. Like something fundamental shifted and I can't quite name what it is yet.
He's still inside me. I don't want him to move. Not yet. The thought forms slowly, quietly. Not yet. Just — stay.
His breathing is slowing. I can feel it. The way his chest expands and contracts against mine. The way the raggedness is smoothing out into something steadier.
I think this is real and the thought doesn't finish. Just — this is real and then nothing after it. Like my brain can't process what comes next. Like the sentence is too big to complete.
His arms tighten around me slightly. Not dramatically. Just — a small shift. A small increase in pressure. Like he's checking that I'm still here. Like he needs to feel me solid against him.
I tighten my arms around him in response. I'm here. I'm here.
The storm howls. The grey light stays soft. We stay tangled together.
And then, quietly, against my neck:
"Hi."
His voice is rough. Soft. Wrecked in the best way.
Something in my chest cracks open.
"Hi," I whisper back.
He lifts his head slowly. Looks at me. His eyes are softer now. Warmer. Still dark but with something tender in them that makes my throat tight.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
And I know he's not just asking about my body. He's asking about all of it. About this. About us. About whether I'm okay with what just happened, with what it means, with the fact that we can't take it back now.
"Yeah," I whisper. "You?"
"Yeah."
A beat.
His hand comes up. Cups my face. His thumb traces my cheekbone gently and I lean into the touch without meaning to.
"That was—" he starts.
"I know," I whisper.
He smiles. That real smile. The one that makes the corner of his eyes crinkle slightly.
And then he kisses me. Soft. Sweet. Like we have all the time in the world now.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.
We stay like that. Just breathing together. The storm still raging outside. The grey light still soft. The certainty between us settling into something solid and real.
Eventually, slowly, carefully, he pulls back. The whimper that escapes me is involuntary — desperate, barely audible — and he goes completely still, his hands gripping my waist hard enough that I feel the possessiveness in it, like he's fighting the urge to pull me back in. He helps me down from the sink. Steadies me when my legs shake. His hands are gentle on my waist now, holding me until I find my balance.
We stand there for a moment. Just breathing together. His hands on my waist. Mine on his chest. The storm outside. The grey light. The certainty between us.
He finds a t-shirt and a pair of sweats from his room — both his, both worn soft — and hands them to me through the gap in the door without looking, which makes something in my chest do a complicated thing.
I change in the bathroom.
Pull his t-shirt over my head.
It falls to mid-thigh. The sleeves hang past my elbows. It smells like his laundry detergent and something warmer underneath and I stand there for a second with my hands inside the too-long sleeves and think okay the way you think okay when something is happening that you don't have bigger words for yet.
I look at the sweatpants.
Then down at the t-shirt, which is already covering everything that needs covering and then some.
I leave the sweatpants on the sink.
I roll the sleeves up three times. They fall down immediately. I roll them up again. I look like I'm wearing a person. I look like I belong here.
That last thought I don't look at directly.
Stop, I tell myself. Just go downstairs.
I go downstairs.
The smell hits me before the kitchen does.
Eggs. Butter. Bad coffee doing its best.
I stop in the doorway.
Logan is at the stove with his back to me.
Grey sweatpants sitting low on his hips. No shirt.
Just — no shirt. Just his back, bare in the grey morning light. Warm tan skin. The particular lines of muscle shifting slightly as he moves the spatula through the pan with the focused patience of someone determined to do this right. The small silvery scar on his left shoulder blade. His hair dark and full, loose waves that curl slightly at the nape of his neck.
I stand there for a long moment.
Just looking.
Three weeks, I think. I avoided this man for three weeks.
I genuinely don't know how.
Standing here in the doorway in his t-shirt with the sleeves falling over my hands again, watching him make eggs in the grey morning light like it's the most ordinary thing in the world — I don't know how I managed it. How I sat across rooms from him and looked at the floor and found reasons to leave before he arrived. How I laughed in a hallway and walked back to a party and spent twenty-one nights lying awake thinking about a man I was too scared to want out loud.
I push off the doorframe.
I cross the kitchen quietly.
He doesn't hear me. Or he does and he's giving me this — the approach, the moment before, the way he always gives me room to move at my own pace without making me feel like I'm being waited on. His attention stays on the pan. Adjusting the heat. Tilting the handle slightly.
I stop just behind him.
Close enough to feel the warmth coming off his skin.
I reach out.
My fingers find his back first — just the tips of them, barely there, the lightest possible contact — and I feel him register it immediately. The way his shoulders tighten. The way his breathing changes, just slightly, just enough. But he doesn't turn around. Doesn't speak. Just — holds still. Lets me have this.
So I take it.
I press my palm flat against the center of his back.
Warm tan skin under my hand. The particular solidity of him. I spread my fingers slowly and I just — feel him. The warmth radiating up into my palm. The faint definition of muscle under smooth skin. The way his back expands and contracts as he breathes, slower now, more deliberate, like he's concentrating on it.
I start to move my hand.
Not going anywhere specific. Just — learning him. The way his muscles shift when he breathes. The plane of his shoulder blade, the slight ridge of his spine. I find the silvery scar on his left shoulder blade and trace it with my thumb — slow, the full length of it — and he makes a sound. Low. Barely audible. His head drops forward slightly.
I lean in and press my lips to it.
Just that. Just my mouth against that small silvery mark.
His breath hitches.
The spatula goes completely still in the pan.
His whole body goes that particular kind of still — not tense, not braced, just — suspended. Like he's holding everything very carefully so as not to break whatever this is.
I keep going.
My lips move from the scar to the warm tan skin beside it. A soft kiss. Then another. My hands moving slowly across his back as I go, fingers spreading wide, palms pressing gently like I want as much contact as possible. Like I'm making up for three weeks of carefully not touching him.
I find a small mark on his right shoulder — a freckle, barely visible against the tan of his skin, the kind you'd only find if you were paying very close attention. I press my lips to it.
He exhales shakily.
"Y/N." His voice is rough. Low. Like he had to work to get even those two syllables out.
"Mm."
"What are you—"
"Shh."
He goes quiet.
I keep moving. My fingers find another mark, lower this time, just below his left shoulder blade. Something small and faint. I trace it with my fingertip first, then follow with my lips, and I feel the shiver that moves through him — involuntary, barely there — and I think I'm doing this to him and it cracks something open in me.
John Logan.
Who notices everything. Who says nothing. Who waits.
Undone, right here in his own kitchen, because I'm kissing his back.
My hands are moving still — slowly, mapping him, the warmth of his skin and the muscle underneath and the scattered marks I keep finding like small secrets — and my lips follow wherever my fingers lead. Up the line of his spine. Across the plane of his shoulder. Back to the scar.
His breathing is ragged now.
The eggs have definitely stopped being the priority.
"Y/N," he says again. Quieter this time. More careful. Like he's trying to hold something together. "Can I — can I say something."
"Yeah," I murmur against his skin.
"I need you to—" He stops. Tries again. His voice is strained. "You need to stop hiding from me."
I still.
My hands flat against his back. My lips just above the scar.
And something in my chest just — opens.
Wide and warm and completely certain.
"I love you," I say.
He goes completely still.
Not the patient waiting stillness. Not the held-back controlled stillness. Something different. Something I've never felt from him before — genuine surprise moving through his whole body like a current, everything going motionless under my hands.
"I love you," I say again. My voice is quiet. More certain the second time than the first. "I've probably loved you for a while and I kept laughing at the wrong moments and stepping back when I should have stayed and making it into something smaller than it was and I'm—" I press my palms flat against his back one more time. Feel his heartbeat. Fast and hard and real. "I'm done doing that."
A long moment of silence.
Then he turns around.
Slowly.
The spatula still in his hand. His dark eyes finding mine immediately — wide, just for a second, the surprise still there, the most unguarded I've ever seen him. Then something else moves through his expression. Something warm and certain and slightly wrecked.
He sets the spatula down.
"Say it again," he says quietly.
"I love you."
Something in his face breaks open completely.
He reaches for me.
Both hands finding my face, warm and certain, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones, and he looks at me the way he looks at things he's been paying attention to for a long time. The stubble on his jaw catching the grey morning light. The warm tan of his skin. The dark eyes that have gone soft in a way I've only seen a handful of times.
"I was going to say you need to stop hiding," he murmurs.
"I know."
"You cut me off."
"I know."
The corner of his mouth does the thing. The real one. The crooked smile that costs him something every time it comes out.
"I love you too," he says. "Have for a while." His thumbs trace slow circles against my cheekbones. "Since before I had a good reason to say it."
"You had reasons," I whisper.
"I was waiting for you to be ready to hear them."
I look at him.
At the man who fixed a car and remembered it three years later. Who made grilled cheese and lit fires and tucked blankets around sleeping people and stood in hallways with glasses of water and waited. Who has been paying attention to me quietly and saying nothing and waiting for me to stop running.
I reach up.
My fingers find his hair — dark and full and loose — and I push it back from his forehead slowly. My palm resting against his face the way it has before, the way it already feels like it belongs there.
"I'm not running," I say.
"I know," he murmurs.
"I'm done."
"I know." He turns his head slightly. Presses his lips to my palm. "I know, baby."
And something in my chest settles so completely and so finally that I feel it in my whole body.
He kisses me.
Soft. Unhurried. Like the eggs can wait and the bad coffee can wait and the storm can keep going for as long as it wants.
Outside it does.
Inside the kitchen is warm and grey and quiet and his hands are on my face and I am not running and I am not laughing at the wrong moment and I am not making it small.
a/n: i really didn't think part one would get this much love, and i hope this was worth the wait. fifteen thousand words. eight days. logan refused to be rushed ❣️ keep an eye out for garrett ;)
Synopsis: The storm didn't stop. You thought last night was all you'd get—just the fire, just the confession, just twelve hours, and nowhere to go. But the roads are still closed, and the world outside is still white, and morning changes everything.
Word count: ~ 15K
Content / Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI. Explicit sexual content. Sex. Praise kink (light). Pet names ("baby").
The kind that's heavy and earned, the kind that only comes from sleeping somewhere genuinely safe. The blanket is tucked around me in a way I don't remember doing myself — thick and soft, the hockey house blanket that smells faintly like cedar and something else I'm not ready to identify yet. I register that. File it away. Don't look at it directly.
Then there's the storm.
I can hear it before I open my eyes. The wind against the windows — not the soft Hallmark-movie snow from yesterday afternoon, not the wall of white that had swallowed the street whole, but something steadier now. Lower. A constant, patient howl that means still. That means not done yet. That means nowhere to be.
I don't open my eyes.
I lie there and let myself come back in pieces, the way I always do — slow, like surfacing from something deep. The couch cushion under my cheek. The weight of the blanket. The fire burned down low, just embers now, still throwing faint warmth across the room. The grey-white light coming through the bay window, snow-light, the particular flatness of a world buried.
My phone is on the cushion beside me.
I don't reach for it yet.
I reach for it eventually.
The screen is cold under my thumb. I squint at the brightness — 8:47am, and three texts from Hannah, sent sometime in the early hours when she'd apparently woken up worried.
babe are you okay
i saw the storm is still going please tell me you're not trying to drive
Y/N i swear to god if you drove home in that i will never forgive you
I type back — i'm fine, still at the hockey house, roads are still closed — and then I see the emergency alert underneath. Still active. Severe winter storm warning still in effect. Travel strongly discouraged. Roads closed until further notice.
I set the phone back down.
Stare at the ceiling.
Still at the hockey house.
Still here. Another day of it. Another day of the storm and the fire and the—
That's when I hear it.
The shower.
It's running somewhere down the hall — I can hear the pipes, faintly, the low rush of water through old walls. I lie there and I listen to it and I don't move. I just — listen. And something in my chest does a slow, complicated thing that I don't have a name for yet. Something that starts in my sternum and spreads outward.
Last night comes back in pieces.
Not all at once. Not in a rush. Just — pieces.
His hand in my hair. The fire. The way he'd said come here like it was the simplest thing in the world. The way I'd gone. God, the way I'd gone — no hesitation, no laughing it off, no stepping back. Just moved across that couch like I'd been waiting to. Like my body already knew before my brain caught up.
Tell me to.
You're really gonna make me say it.
After three weeks? Yeah. I really am going to make you say it.
I close my eyes.
Press the back of my hand against my mouth.
My phone buzzes again.
I look down.
Hannah: okay but like
Hannah: you're stuck there with LOGAN though
Hannah: just the two of you
Hannah: hello???
Hannah: Y/N I know you're awake you always wake up early don't play dead with me
I stare at the screen.
Hannah: are you ALIVE
Hannah: or are you busy 👀
Hannah: no okay i'm not doing the emoji thing i'm being serious are you okay
Hannah: (also are you guys okay 👀👀)
Hannah: ignore the second one. first one only. are you okay.
I can hear her voice so clearly in my head it almost makes me laugh. The way she'd be lying in Garrett's bed right now, phone held above her face, typing with the focus of someone who absolutely does not have an ulterior motive.
I type back.
me: i'm alive
me: stop doing the eyes emoji
Three dots appear immediately.
Hannah: I KNEW YOU WERE AWAKE
Hannah: okay but how are you. how are things. how is the house. how is the WEATHER
Hannah: how is logan
There it is.
I set my phone face down on the cushion.
Pick it back up.
me: the storm is still going
me: i'm fine
me: the house is fine
Hannah: and LOGAN
me: also fine
me: go back to sleep hannah
Hannah: it's 9am i've been up for hours
Hannah: garrett says hi
Hannah: (garrett did not say hi garrett is asleep i lied)
Hannah: Y/N.
Hannah: bestie.
Hannah: my best friend in the entire world who I would do anything for.
Hannah: did anything happen
I look at the ceiling for a long moment.
The shower is still running down the hall.
me: nothing happened go back to sleep
I put the phone face down again before she can respond.
It buzzes four times in a row against the cushion.
I don't look.
The thing about lying still is that it gives everything room to catch up with you.
I know this about myself. I've always known this. It's why I wake up slowly, why I don't reach for my phone first thing, why I give myself the grace of coming back in pieces — because the second I stop moving, the second there's no task, no distraction, no forward momentum, everything I've been not-thinking-about lines up quietly and waits.
It's waiting now.
I stare at the ceiling and I let it.
Last night.
Logan's thumb brushing my cheek. The way he'd been shaking slightly, just slightly, when he'd cupped my jaw — like he'd been holding onto this for a long time and didn't quite trust that it was real. The way that detail had cracked something open in me. Not the kissing. Not the firelight. Not any of the things I'd spent three weeks imagining. Just that. The fact that his hands weren't steady.
I've been waiting for this.
Yeah?
Yeah.
I press my palm flat against my sternum.
My heart is doing something inconvenient.
The rational part of my brain — the part that woke me up laughing in a hallway three weeks ago, the part that has been carefully, methodically keeping me on the far side of every room he's in — clears its throat. Tries to get a word in.
Okay, it says. So that happened.
Yeah.
And now it's morning.
Yeah.
And you're still here.
Yeah.
And he's in the shower.
I know.
And you have no idea what any of this means.
I know.
And you're going to have to look at him. Like, today. You're going to have to look at him and figure out what your face does and—
I know. I know. I'm aware. Thank you.
The rational part of my brain subsides, dissatisfied.
The rest of me lies there and listens to the shower running.
It's such a mundane sound. That's the thing that gets me, lying here in the grey morning light — it's such an ordinary sound. Water through old pipes. The low rush of it, distant through the wall. The sound of a person doing the most normal human thing there is, the thing everyone does, every morning, without thinking about it.
Except I'm thinking about it.
I'm thinking about it very specifically and I need to stop.
I turn onto my back and look at the ceiling and take a slow breath through my nose.
Okay.
Last night happened.
Last night happened and it was — it was a lot. It was three weeks of not-saying-something finally saying itself. It was firelight and a power outage and his hand in my hair and the way he'd smiled against my mouth, small and private, like I'd given him something he'd stopped expecting to get.
And now it's morning.
And the storm is still going.
And I'm still here.
And I don't know what we are. I don't know if we talked enough or said enough or if what happened on that couch was the beginning of something or just — the storm. Just the forced proximity and the firelight and the three weeks of wanting it finally having nowhere left to go.
I don't know.
I hate not knowing.
My phone buzzes again. I don't look at it. It's Hannah. It's definitely Hannah. She's probably sent a paragraph. Possibly a voice memo. I love her. I cannot talk to her right now.
The shower shuts off.
The pipes go quiet.
The whole house goes a shade quieter and I become very aware of the distance between this couch and that bathroom. The specific number of steps. The door. The fact that in approximately two minutes John Logan is going to come out of that bathroom and we are going to have to look at each other in daylight for the first time since—
I sit up.
The blanket falls off my shoulders.
I sit there on the edge of the couch in yesterday's clothes, hair a mess, heart doing something medically questionable, and I stare at the hallway.
I can hear him moving. Quiet sounds — a drawer, maybe. The soft sound of a towel. Normal sounds. Morning sounds.
I should stay here.
I should stay exactly here and wait for him to come out and let whatever happens happen naturally and not make it weird and not overthink it and—
I stand up.
I don't make a decision exactly. My body just — stands. The way it had moved across the couch last night. Before my brain caught up. Before I could talk myself out of it.
I'm halfway down the hall before I've finished the thought.
The bathroom door isn't fully closed.
I notice that first. A sliver of warm air spilling out into the cool hallway, carrying steam, carrying the smell of soap and something warmer underneath it. The light inside is soft — the little frosted window above the shower letting in that flat grey storm-light, the kind that makes everything look like a photograph.
I raise my hand to knock.
I don't knock.
I just — stand there. Hand lifted. Knuckles an inch from the wood. And through the gap I can see the mirror, still fogged at the edges, and the edge of the sink, and—
And him.
Logan is standing at the sink with a towel wrapped low around his waist.
That's it. That's all. Just that. And I forget, momentarily, how to be a person.
He's not doing anything remarkable. He's just standing there, one hand braced on the edge of the sink, head slightly bowed, like he was looking at something or thinking about something or just existing in the particular quiet way he has — that stillness he carries, the one that always made me think he was somewhere slightly deeper than wherever everyone else was.
His back is to me.
I should announce myself. I know I should announce myself. I know that standing in a hallway looking at a person through a gap in a door they think is closed is not — that's not a normal thing to do. I know that.
I can't move.
Because his back is —
I didn't know. That's the thing. I didn't know what was under the hoodie and the worn t-shirts and the flannel. I mean, I knew, abstractly, the way you know things about people you've been determinedly not-thinking-about — hockey player, works out, obviously — but abstract knowing and this are two very different things.
His shoulders are broad. Not in a performative way, not in the way that announces itself — just quietly, solidly broad, the kind that comes from years of actual work. Warm tan skin. There's a faint scar on his left shoulder blade, small, silvery. His spine is a straight line down the center of his back, the muscles bracketing it shifting slightly as he adjusts his grip on the sink. The towel sits low on his hips. Dangerously low. Tied in that casual way that suggests he didn't think about it, that this is just what he does, that he has no idea—
He has no idea I'm standing here.
His hair is dark and full, loose waves that curl slightly at the nape of his neck where it's still slightly damp.
That's what gets me, somehow. Out of everything — the shoulders, the towel, the steam, the soap smell, the scar — it's the hair. The way it sits when it's dried without thinking about it. The way I've never actually seen it because I've been so careful, so deliberate about not being in morning spaces with him.
My chest does something I don't have a word for.
Something slow and aching and completely beyond my control.
He shifts his weight. Reaches for something on the counter — his watch, I think, or his phone. And in reaching, he turns slightly, just enough that the line of his jaw comes into view. The shadow under it. The sharp cut of his cheekbone catching the grey morning light. The stubble there, darker in the morning.
I press my palm flat against the doorframe.
Breathe.
I think about stepping back. Going back to the couch. Pretending I was never here. I think about it seriously, concretely, as a real option — I could do that. I could turn around right now and he would never know and we could do the rest of this day safely, at a distance, and I could keep my hands to myself and my heart at a manageable volume and—
He looks up.
Into the mirror.
And finds me.
He doesn't startle.
That's the first thing I notice — he doesn't flinch, doesn't spin around, doesn't do any of the things a person does when they realize someone is watching them. He just — stills. Goes that particular kind of quiet that is different from his regular quiet. Deeper. Like something in him that was moving has stopped.
His eyes find mine in the mirror.
And stay there.
The steam is still curling at the edges of the glass, the fog not quite cleared, and his reflection is soft at the margins — but his eyes aren't. His eyes are very clear. Very present. That dark, steady brown that I have been carefully, methodically avoiding for three weeks and am now, apparently, staring directly into via a fogged bathroom mirror at nine in the morning.
Neither of us says anything.
The storm fills the silence. Wind against the frosted window. Snow against the glass.
I should say something. I'm aware that I should say something — something normal, something casual, something that explains why I'm standing in the hallway looking at him through a gap in the door like a person with no self-control whatsoever. I have several options. I could say sorry, I was just going to knock. I could say I didn't realize you were still in here. I could say literally anything.
I don't say anything.
Neither does he.
He's just looking at me.
In the mirror, I can see my own face — hair from sleeping, yesterday's clothes, cheek still creased faintly from the couch cushion. I look exactly like someone who just woke up and walked down a hallway without thinking it through. I look exactly like what I am.
His jaw moves. Just slightly. Like he started to say something and decided against it.
His eyes drop.
Just for a second. Just a fraction of a second — down and back up, the way you can't help, the way your eyes do the thing your brain tells them not to. And when they come back to mine in the mirror there's something in them that wasn't there before. Something that makes my throat go dry.
He turns around.
Slowly.
Not fast, not sharp — just turns, unhurried, the way he does everything. The towel shifts with the movement, sitting even lower on his hips, and I am extremely aware of the specific geometry of his stomach, the faint definition of muscle, the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the white terry cloth, and I am also extremely aware that I am staring and that he can see me staring and that I cannot stop.
He leans back against the sink.
Crosses his arms loosely over his chest.
Looks at me.
Just — looks at me. Like he has all the time in the world. Like the storm outside has given him that, the unhurried patience of a man who isn't going anywhere and knows it. A drop of water tracks slowly from his hairline down his temple. He doesn't wipe it away.
"Hey," he says.
His voice is morning-rough. Low and quiet and slightly wrecked in the way voices are before they've fully warmed up, and it does something to me that I feel in my sternum.
"Hey," I say back.
It comes out smaller than I intended.
The corner of his mouth moves.
Not a full smile. Not even close to a full smile. Just that — the corner. The faint curve of it. The crooked thing that he does when he's trying not to do it, when he's keeping it contained, when he thinks if he lets it out fully it'll say too much.
It says too much anyway.
"You gonna come in?" he asks. Quiet. Like it's a simple question. Like it isn't the most loaded simple question anyone has ever asked me.
I look at him.
At the mirror behind him, still fogged at the edges.
At the drop of water on his temple.
At the towel.
At his eyes.
"Yeah," I say.
And I push the door open.
The bathroom is warm.
That's the first thing — the warmth of it, the contrast with the cool hallway at my back. The steam has mostly settled but it's still there, soft in the air, and it smells like him. His soap. Something clean and warm with something underneath it, something that isn't product, just — him. The smell I'd noticed in a Halloween hallway three weeks ago and had spent three weeks trying to forget.
I step inside.
He doesn't move.
He's still leaning against the sink with his arms loosely crossed and he's watching me cross the small distance between the door and where he's standing and he's not moving an inch, not coming to meet me, not making it easier. Just watching. Patient. Like he did last night on the couch when he'd said tell me to and waited, like he's always done this, like he knows something about me that I'm only just figuring out —
That I move when I'm ready.
That he just has to wait.
The floor is cool under my feet. The frosted window throws soft grey light across the tiles, across the edge of the sink, across his bare shoulder. Another drop of water tracks down from his hairline, past his temple, down the side of his jaw. I watch it.
I stop in front of him.
Close enough that I have to look up slightly to find his face.
He looks down at me.
Doesn't say anything.
Doesn't reach for me.
Just looks, the way he does — that particular quality of attention he has, the kind that makes you feel like the only thing in the room, like he's been paying attention to you for longer than you realized, cataloguing things quietly, storing them away. I think about the car he fixed freshman year. I think about Hannah waiting tables at Malone's for years before Garrett knew her name. I think about the way he'd noticed the grilled cheese was my favorite without me telling him, the way he'd tucked the blanket around me while I slept.
He notices things.
He noticed me.
My hand comes up before I decide to move it.
My fingers find the curl stuck to the side of his neck and I peel it away gently, slow, and smooth it back into the damp hair at his temple. My fingertips graze his jaw on the way back down.
He exhales.
It's barely audible. Just a slow breath out through his nose, controlled, like he's been holding something and just let a fraction of it go. His arms uncross. His hands find my waist — both of them, warm and certain, settling there like they already know the shape of me, like last night taught them something they haven't forgotten.
He still doesn't pull me closer.
Just holds.
Looks down at me with those dark quiet eyes and holds me at arm's length like he's giving me one more chance to think about this. Like he's being careful. Like he knows what it cost me to walk down that hallway and push open that door and cross the room to him and he doesn't want to rush the rest of it.
"Hi," he says again.
Softer this time.
"Hi," I say back.
"You sleep okay?"
"Yeah." My voice is still small. I don't know how to make it bigger right now. "You?"
"Yeah."
A beat.
His thumbs move. Slow circles against my waist, through the fabric of my shirt, barely-there pressure. I don't think he knows he's doing it.
"The storm's still going," I say.
"I know."
"Roads are still closed."
"I know."
"Hannah texted."
Something shifts in his expression. Barely — just a flicker at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah?"
"She wanted to know if I was okay."
"Are you?"
I look at him.
At the drop of water that has reached his jaw now, hanging there at the edge of it. At the scar on his shoulder that I can see from here, small and silver, that I want to know the story of.
"Ask me something easier," I say.
The corner of his mouth does the thing.
The almost-smile.
His hands tighten slightly on my waist — not pulling, just tightening. Just a fraction. Just enough that I feel it through the fabric, just enough that my breath catches on it, and he sees my breath catch, he notices, of course he notices.
He leans down.
Slowly.
His forehead drops to mine.
We just — stand there. Foreheads touching, the steam settling around us, the storm against the window, his hands warm on my waist and my fingers resting light against his chest now, against his bare skin, and I can feel his heartbeat under my palm.
It's fast.
He's as undone as I am.
He's just quieter about it.
"Y/N," he murmurs.
"Yeah."
"I'm gonna kiss you now."
"Okay."
"Just — wanted to say it this time."
Something cracks open in my chest.
Something wide and warm and terrifying.
"Logan," I whisper.
"Yeah."
"Kiss me."
He does.
He kisses me like he has nowhere else to be.
That's the only way I know how to describe it. Like the storm cleared his calendar. Like he looked at the next twelve hours and decided every single one of them could go here, could go to this, to me, and he has no complaints about that. No urgency. No rush.
Just this.
His mouth is soft at first. The way it was last night — that same careful softness, like he's still giving me room, still leaving the door open. His hands slide from my waist to the small of my back and he draws me in, slowly, closing the distance between us inch by inch until there's no space left, until I can feel the warmth of his chest against me and the damp of his skin through my shirt and the low, solid steadiness of him.
I exhale into the kiss.
He makes a sound. Low. Barely there. Like my exhale did something to him, like the feel of me going soft against him did something he didn't have a word for either.
His hand comes up.
Slow — deliberately slow, telegraphed, giving me every chance to see it coming — and cups the back of my head. His fingers thread through my hair, gentle, unhurried, like he's memorizing the texture of it. Like he has time to memorize it. Like he's going to.
He tilts my head back just slightly.
And deepens the kiss.
Not fast. Not desperate the way last night got desperate. This is something different — something more patient, more deliberate, like last night was the dam breaking and this is what comes after. The steady current underneath. The thing that was always there.
I grip his arms.
My fingers find the muscle of his forearms and hold on and I feel him register it — the slight flex, the breath through his nose, the way his hand tightens fractionally in my hair. Not rough. Just — present. Just I feel you.
He kisses me like he's been thinking about how to do it right.
Like he ran through it in his head and decided slow was the answer. Like he knows something about me that I'm still figuring out — that I needed this, specifically this, the unhurried version, the one that isn't running from anything or toward anything, the one that just is.
His mouth moves to my jaw.
Soft. Open. Warm.
He takes his time there. His lips trace the line of my jaw to the hinge of it, patient, and I feel my head tip back further on its own, feel my eyes close, feel my fingers tighten on his arms.
"Logan—"
"I know," he murmurs against my skin.
His lips find my neck.
And that's where he stays.
Like he knows. Like he figured something out about me last night and filed it away quietly the way he files everything away — the car, the blanket, the grilled cheese, all of it catalogued, all of it remembered. His mouth is warm and unhurried against my throat and his hands are moving now, slow and certain, mapping me like he has all morning, like the storm gave him all morning and he intends to use every minute of it.
"You're—" I start.
"Mm."
"You're doing this on purpose."
I can feel him smile against my neck.
Not the crooked almost-smile. The real one — I can feel the shape of it against my skin and it does something catastrophic to my knees.
"Yeah," he murmurs. Low. Warm. "I am."
His hands slide under the hem of my shirt.
Palms flat against my skin, warm, warmer than the steam in the air, warmer than the grey morning light. He spreads his fingers wide like he wants as much contact as possible and draws them slowly up my sides and I—
I make a sound.
Not a gasp. Just — a sound. Low and involuntary and slightly embarrassing and I feel him register it the way he registers everything. Quietly. His hands still for just a fraction of a second and then his thumbs press a little harder against my ribs and I think oh he's absolutely doing that on purpose.
His palms are rough.
Not painfully rough — just textured, real, the kind of hands that have actually done things. Hockey and weights and fixing cars in parking lots at two in the morning. And there's something about that specific roughness against my bare skin that I wasn't prepared for. Something that makes the contact feel more real than I was ready for it to feel.
I reach for his shoulders without deciding to.
My fingers find the muscle of them and grip and I can feel the tension there — the particular held-back quality of him, the way his whole body is doing the thing his face sometimes does. Containing something. Keeping it at a controlled simmer.
He's warm. Genuinely, almost unreasonably warm. Warmer than the steam still soft in the air. I've been thinking about what John Logan feels like for three weeks straight and apparently I was wrong about this specific detail.
"Hey," he says quietly.
I look up. I have to tilt my head back to find his face — he's tall enough that even on the sink I'm looking up at him — and when I find it his jaw is tight and his eyes have gone very dark and he's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the room. Like I'm the only thing that's ever been in any room.
"Still here?" he murmurs.
"Still here."
"Good."
His hands slide higher.
And I stop thinking in complete sentences. Just fragments. Just — his hands and I've been avoiding this man for three weeks and now his hands are under my shirt and I literally cannot think in a straight line and this is insane and don't stop.
He reaches the edge of my bra and pauses there, looking at me, waiting.
"Yes," I say before he can ask.
His mouth curves. That real smile again.
"You don't know what I was gonna ask," he murmurs.
"I don't care. Whatever it is, yes."
Something shifts in his expression. Something heated and certain and I feel it land in my body before I understand what it means.
He reaches for the hem of my shirt.
His fingers curl into the fabric and he pauses there, giving me one more chance to change my mind, one more moment to think about this.
I lift my arms.
He draws the shirt up slowly. So slowly. Like he's unwrapping something he's been thinking about for a while. The fabric slides up my ribs, over my breasts, over my shoulders, and then it's gone and I'm sitting on the edge of the sink in just my bra and jeans and the cold air hits my skin and I shiver and think oh god I should have worn the good bra and then immediately are you seriously thinking about your bra right now what is wrong with you—
"Hey," he says quietly.
I look up.
He's watching my face. Not my body. My face.
"Stay with me," he says.
And it's such a Logan thing to say — practical, steady, bringing me back — that something in me settles.
"I'm here," I whisper.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "You are."
He steps closer.
His hands find my waist again and this time there's no fabric between his palms and my skin. Just warmth. Just contact. Just the particular way he spreads his fingers wide like he wants to touch as much of me as possible, and the roughness of his hands against my bare skin makes something in my chest crack open.
I reach for the towel.
I've been aware of it since I walked into this bathroom. The white terry cloth knotted at his hip. The way it sits low on his waist, the line of dark hair disappearing beneath it. I've been trying not to look at it directly. Trying not to think about what's underneath.
I'm done trying not to think about it.
My fingers find the edge where it's tucked against his hip.
The fabric is still slightly damp, warm from his skin. I can feel the knot — simple, practical, the kind of knot you tie without thinking when you're just getting out of the shower. My fingers work at it slowly, finding the end, pulling gently.
Logan goes completely still.
I feel it happen. The way his breathing changes. The way every muscle in his body seems to tighten and hold.
I look up at him.
He's watching my hands.
Not my face. My hands. Watching what I'm doing with an intensity that makes my own breathing stutter. His jaw is tight. His eyes are dark. There's something in his expression I've never seen before — something raw and unguarded and entirely focused on this moment.
The knot comes loose.
I pull the end free and the towel loosens but doesn't fall yet. It's still caught on his hips, held there by friction and nothing else.
I pause.
My hand is still holding the fabric. His eyes are still on my hands. Neither of us is breathing normally.
And then I let go.
The towel falls.
It puddles on the floor between us and I don't look right away. I keep my eyes on his face for one more second, giving myself one more moment before I see him, before this becomes real in a way I can't take back.
His expression doesn't change. He doesn't look away. Doesn't move to cover himself. Doesn't make a joke or deflect or do anything to make this easier.
He just waits.
Patient. Certain. Like he knows exactly what he's doing to me and he's willing to let me take my time with it.
I look down.
And—
He's beautiful.
That's the first thought. Not clinical. Not analytical. Just — beautiful in a way that makes my chest hurt.
The grey morning light catches the lines of his body. His shoulders are broad and defined, the muscle there earned from years of hockey. Warm tan skin. His chest is lean and solid, scattered with dark hair that trails down his stomach. His abdomen is cut with definition — not the exaggerated kind, just the real kind that comes from being an athlete. His hips are narrow, the V-line there sharp and pronounced, drawing my eyes down to—
To him.
He's hard. Fully hard. And I can see exactly how much he wants this, how much he's been wanting this, maybe since last night, maybe since three weeks ago in Hannah's hallway, maybe longer than that.
He's bigger than I expected. Thicker. The kind of size that makes something low in my stomach clench with want and nervousness at the same time.
There's a small silvery scar on his left shoulder blade, visible now from this angle. I want to know the story. I want to touch it. I want to kiss it.
I can't breathe.
My hands are shaking slightly and I press them against my thighs to steady them and I think I've been thinking about this for three weeks and you have no idea what you do to me and oh god what if I'm not—
"Hey."
His voice is quiet. Rough.
I look up.
He's still watching me. Still not looking away. Still letting me look at him like this is something he's giving me, like my eyes on his body is something he wants.
"You okay?" he asks.
And there's genuine concern in his voice. Genuine care. Like even now, even standing naked in front of me, he's more worried about whether I'm okay than anything else.
"Yeah," I whisper. "You're just—" I don't finish. I don't know how to finish that sentence. You're just perfect sounds ridiculous. You're just exactly what I've been thinking about sounds desperate.
"Come here," he says quietly.
I reach for him instead.
My hands find his chest. The warmth of his skin. The solid reality of him. I slide my palms up slowly, feeling the muscle there, the way his breathing changes under my touch. My fingers trace the line of his collarbone, his shoulders, and then around to his back where I find that scar.
I lean forward and press my lips to it.
He makes a sound.
Low. Rough. Like that did something to him he wasn't expecting.
His hands find my face and he tilts my head up and kisses me. Deeply. Desperately. His tongue slides against mine and I open for him and his hands are in my hair and mine are on his bare chest and we're pressed together now, skin to skin, warmth to warmth.
His hands slide down.
To my waist.
To the button of my jeans.
"Tell me if you need me to stop," he says quietly against my mouth.
"Don't stop," I breathe.
He undoes the button. The zipper. His fingers hook into the waistband and I lift my hips and he slides them down slowly, taking his time, his eyes never leaving mine. The denim catches on my thighs and he works it down carefully until they're pooled on the floor and I'm sitting on the edge of the sink in just my underwear and bra.
The porcelain is cold against the backs of my thighs.
The contrast between that cold and the warmth of him standing between my legs is stark and grounding and real and I think this is happening and I want this and I've wanted this since the moment he almost kissed me in Hannah's hallway.
He steps back.
Just for a moment.
Just to look.
I watch his eyes track over me — the grey morning light on my skin, the particular way I'm breathing, the flush across my chest. His jaw is tight. His hands flex at his sides like he's restraining himself.
"You're beautiful," he says.
The words land like something solid. Not performative. Not trying to charm me. Just — stated. Like a fact.
"Logan," I whisper.
He steps between my legs again.
His hands find my thighs. Slide up slowly. His palms are rough against my skin and I can feel every callus, every place his hands have been worn down by hockey sticks and weights and years of work. The roughness of it makes me shiver.
"You cold?" he murmurs.
"No."
"You're shaking."
"I know."
His hands slide higher. To my hips. His thumbs trace the edge of my underwear and he pauses there, looking at me, waiting.
"Yes," I breathe.
He reaches behind me. His fingers find the clasp of my bra and he undoes it slowly, deliberately, and draws the straps down my arms. The fabric falls away and then I'm bare to him from the waist up and the grey morning light is soft on my skin and his eyes are so dark they're almost black.
"Y/N," he says quietly.
It's just my name. But the way he says it — like a prayer, like a promise — makes my chest ache.
I reach for him. Pull him closer. His mouth finds mine and we kiss deeply, desperately, and his hands are on my bare skin now, sliding up my sides, cupping my breasts, thumbs circling, and I make a sound into his mouth and he swallows it.
"Your hands," I breathe against his mouth.
"Yeah?"
"I didn't know it could feel like this."
Something in his expression shifts. Softens. He kisses me again, slower this time, like he's memorizing the shape of my mouth.
His mouth moves to my jaw. My neck. Lower. His lips trace my collarbone and I tip my head back and my fingers tighten in his hair and I feel him smile again against my skin. He's learning me. Every sound I make. Every place that makes me react. Filing it all away.
His mouth moves lower still. To my breast. His tongue circles and I stop breathing and my fingers grip his shoulders and he does it again, slower this time, more deliberate, because he noticed what it did to me.
"God," I breathe. "That — right there."
"Yeah," he murmurs against my skin. "I've got you."
His hand slides between my legs. Over the fabric of my underwear. Pressing gently.
I make a sound I've never made before.
He pulls back just enough to look at my face, watching my reaction, and his fingers press again, circling slowly, and my hips lift on their own.
"That's it," he murmurs.
His fingers move with more purpose now. Circling. Pressing. Finding the rhythm that makes my breathing stutter and I think I've been avoiding this man for three weeks and this is insane and I never want this to stop.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
"Yes," I breathe. "God, yes."
He hooks his fingers into my underwear and draws them down slowly, and then there's nothing between us anymore. Nothing but skin and want and three weeks of waiting.
He touches me. Gentle. Careful. Learning.
And I exhale slowly and my head falls back against the mirror and my fingers grip his shoulders and he watches my face the entire time, cataloguing every reaction, every sound.
"Logan," I breathe.
"I'm here."
His fingers slide lower. Inside. And the sensation is overwhelming and perfect and I think this is what I've been wanting and don't stop at the same time.
"I need you," I say quietly. The words come out before I can stop them. Honest. Vulnerable. Slightly embarrassing.
He leans down. His forehead touches mine.
"You have me," he whispers.
"No, I mean—"
"I know what you mean."
His hand leaves me and I hear him moving, the rustle of fabric somewhere, a drawer opening, the tear of a wrapper, and then he's back, pressing close.
And I feel him.
Not against me yet. Just — there. Close. The heat of him radiating even though we're not touching.
He steps between my legs again and his hands find my hips and he pulls me closer to the edge of the sink and—
And then I feel him against my inner thigh.
The heat of him. The weight. He's pressed there, not deliberately, just — there. Because of how close we are. Because of where I'm sitting. Because of the angle.
And I become very aware of him.
The specific warmth of him against my skin. The solidness. The reality of what's about to happen settling into my body in a way that makes my breathing change.
I can feel him. Not inside me. Not yet. Just — there. Against my thigh. Hard and warm and real.
My brain goes quiet. Just — oh and that's him and I want—
I think about reaching for him. The thought forms slowly, deliberately. Not impulsive. Not panicked. Just — a decision forming in real time.
I could reach down. I could touch him. I could wrap my hand around him and feel the weight of him, the heat, the reality of him.
I want to.
The wanting is so sharp it's almost painful.
I look up at him.
He's watching my face. His jaw is tight. His eyes are dark. He's not moving. Not pushing. Just — waiting. Letting me decide.
And I decide.
I reach down. Slowly. Deliberately.
My hand slides between us and I feel the heat of him before I touch him, the warmth radiating, and then my fingers find him and—
He's so warm. Warmer than I expected. Solid and thick and the skin is softer than I thought it would be, stretched tight over the hardness beneath.
I wrap my hand around him.
He makes a sound. Low. Rough. His forehead drops to my shoulder and his breathing goes ragged and his hands tighten on my hips.
"Y/N," he breathes. "You don't have to—"
"I want to," I whisper.
I stroke him once. Slowly. Learning the weight of him, the heat, the way he feels in my hand. And I think I'm doing this to him and I have no idea what I'm doing and I don't want to stop.
"You're gonna kill me," he mutters against my skin.
"Good," I whisper.
I stroke him again and his hips jerk forward slightly and I feel the tension in every line of his body — the particular way he's holding himself back, keeping control by a thread.
"Logan," I say quietly. "I need—"
"Yeah," he breathes. "Me too."
He takes himself from my hand gently. Positions himself.
And then I feel him there.
Not inside yet. Just — there. Pressing against my entrance. The head of him hot and blunt and right where I want him.
The sensation is overwhelming before anything even happens. Just the pressure of him there. The heat. The specific feeling of him positioned right at the edge of me, my body already responding, already trying to accommodate him even though he hasn't moved yet.
I can feel how big he is. How warm. The weight of him. The reality of what's about to happen settling into my body in a way that makes my breathing stutter.
His hips shift slightly. More pressure. Not pushing in. Just — there. Letting me feel him. Letting my body adjust to even just this contact.
My hands find his shoulders and grip hard.
He's breathing roughly now too. I can hear it. Feel it. The particular raggedness that means he's working hard to keep control, to keep this slow.
"Look at me," he says quietly.
I open my eyes.
His face is right there. So close. His dark eyes almost black and entirely focused on me. The stubble on his jaw catching the grey morning light.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Yes."
"You sure?"
"Yes," I breathe. "Please—"
"I've got you," he murmurs.
And then he pushes inside.
Slow. So slow.
The first inch is — it's everything. The stretch immediate and intense and I make a sound and my fingers dig into his shoulders. He's bigger than I expected, thicker, and the sensation of him pushing into me is overwhelming in the best way.
He pauses. Just that first inch inside. Giving me time to adjust. To breathe. To feel it.
"You okay?" he asks. His voice is strained.
"Yes. Don't stop."
He pushes deeper. Another inch. Then another. Slowly. So slowly. Like he's memorizing exactly how this feels. Like he wants to feel every moment of this, every inch of the way my body opens for him.
My breathing is coming in short bursts now. Every inch he pushes deeper I feel it everywhere — the stretch, the fullness, the particular way my body is accommodating him, wanting him, pulling him in.
"Logan," I breathe. His name comes out broken.
"Almost there," he murmurs. "Stay with me."
One more slow push.
And then he's fully inside. All the way. Every inch of him buried in me, his hips pressed flush against my inner thighs, his body against mine, no space left between us.
He goes completely still.
We both do.
Just breathing. Just feeling this.
The specific sensation of him fully inside me for the first time — the depth of it, the fullness, the weight of him against me and inside me and everywhere. The reality of this moment settling into both of our bodies at once.
I can feel everything. The way my body is stretched around him. The heat of him. The particular fullness that's almost too much and exactly right at the same time. The way his hips are pressed against me. The way his chest is rising and falling rapidly against mine. The way his hands are gripping my hips like he's afraid to let go.
"Oh my god," I breathe.
"Yeah," he says roughly. His forehead drops to my shoulder. "Yeah."
We stay like that. Just breathing together. His face buried in my neck. My hands in his hair. Both of us processing the gravity of this — the realness of it, the way it feels, the fact that this is actually happening.
I become aware of small things. The cold porcelain still under my thighs. His heartbeat against my chest — fast, hard, gradually slowing. The particular way my body feels right now — full, stretched, changed somehow.
He's still inside me. I don't want him to move. Not yet. Just — stay.
"You okay?" he asks quietly against my skin.
"Yeah," I whisper. "You?"
"Yeah." He lifts his head to look at me. His eyes are dark and soft and entirely focused on my face. "You feel—" He doesn't finish. Just shakes his head slightly like he doesn't have words for it either.
"Yeah," I whisper. "You too."
He kisses me. Soft. Gentle. Like we have all the time in the world now.
And then he moves.
Slow at first. Pulling out almost all the way and then pushing back in with that same unhurried patience. Like he has all morning. Like the storm gave him all morning and he intends to use every minute of it.
The sensation is overwhelming. Every time he pulls out I feel the loss of him. Every time he pushes back in I feel the fullness, the stretch, the particular way my body responds to him.
I wrap my arms around his neck. Pull him closer.
He groans and his pace increases slightly, still controlled but with more purpose now, more need. His mouth finds mine and we kiss messily, desperately, breathing into each other as he moves.
"God," I breathe against his mouth. "Logan—"
"Yeah. I know."
The rhythm builds slowly — not rushed, but steady, deliberate. His hands grip my hips and I can feel the roughness of his palms against my bare skin, the way his fingers dig in slightly when he thrusts deeper.
The storm is still going outside the frosted window. The grey morning light is still soft in the steam. The porcelain is still cold against my thighs.
But all I can feel is him.
"Y/N," he breathes against my mouth.
"Yeah."
"You feel so good."
"So do you," I breathe. "Don't stop—"
He kisses me harder and moves deeper and I make a sound into his mouth and my fingers tighten in his hair. I can feel the roughness of his jaw against my neck when he buries his face there, the stubble scraping gently against my collarbone, my shoulder.
His breathing is getting rougher now. Less controlled. I can hear the way it catches, the way he makes small sounds against my skin that I feel as much as hear. When I clench around him, his rhythm falters — just for a second — and a rough involuntary sound gets torn from him against my collarbone, something he couldn't stop, and his grip on my hips tightens hard enough that I know I'll have marks.
His hand slides between us. Finds where we're joined. Touches me there while he moves and the dual sensation makes my vision white out.
"Logan," I gasp. "I'm—"
"Yeah," he murmurs. His voice is rough. Strained. "I can feel it. Let go."
"I can't—"
"Yes you can. Let go. I've got you."
And hearing him say it — practical, steady, certain — is what does it.
His fingers press harder. His hips angle differently.
And I shatter.
The orgasm hits me and I cry out his name — desperate, undone, completely different from every other time I've said it — and my body clenches around him and he groans and his movements become less controlled, more desperate, chasing his own release. I can feel him everywhere — the weight of him above me, around me, inside me, the way his muscles shift and move under my hands as he thrusts deeper, harder.
"Y/N," he gasps. "I'm—"
"Yes," I breathe. "Please—"
He thrusts deep one more time and goes still and I feel him pulse inside me and his face buries in my neck and he makes a sound I've never heard him make before — raw and vulnerable and entirely mine.
We stay like that.
Breathing hard.
Tangled together.
His arms wrapped around me. Mine around him. The cold porcelain under my thighs and the warmth of him against me and inside me and everywhere.
And then—
Nothing.
Just breathing.
Just existing.
Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks.
The storm is still raging outside. I can hear it distantly — the wind against the frosted window, the particular howl that means not done yet. The grey morning light is still soft through the steam. The bathroom is still warm.
But all I can feel is him.
His weight against me. His chest rising and falling rapidly against mine. His face still buried in my neck. His arms still wrapped around me. His body still inside mine.
I become aware of things slowly. One at a time.
The cold porcelain under my thighs. Still there. Still grounding.
His heartbeat. I can feel it against my chest. Fast. Hard. Gradually slowing.
The particular way my body feels right now. Overwhelmed. Satisfied. Changed somehow. Like something fundamental shifted and I can't quite name what it is yet.
He's still inside me. I don't want him to move. Not yet. The thought forms slowly, quietly. Not yet. Just — stay.
His breathing is slowing. I can feel it. The way his chest expands and contracts against mine. The way the raggedness is smoothing out into something steadier.
I think this is real and the thought doesn't finish. Just — this is real and then nothing after it. Like my brain can't process what comes next. Like the sentence is too big to complete.
His arms tighten around me slightly. Not dramatically. Just — a small shift. A small increase in pressure. Like he's checking that I'm still here. Like he needs to feel me solid against him.
I tighten my arms around him in response. I'm here. I'm here.
The storm howls. The grey light stays soft. We stay tangled together.
And then, quietly, against my neck:
"Hi."
His voice is rough. Soft. Wrecked in the best way.
Something in my chest cracks open.
"Hi," I whisper back.
He lifts his head slowly. Looks at me. His eyes are softer now. Warmer. Still dark but with something tender in them that makes my throat tight.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
And I know he's not just asking about my body. He's asking about all of it. About this. About us. About whether I'm okay with what just happened, with what it means, with the fact that we can't take it back now.
"Yeah," I whisper. "You?"
"Yeah."
A beat.
His hand comes up. Cups my face. His thumb traces my cheekbone gently and I lean into the touch without meaning to.
"That was—" he starts.
"I know," I whisper.
He smiles. That real smile. The one that makes the corner of his eyes crinkle slightly.
And then he kisses me. Soft. Sweet. Like we have all the time in the world now.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.
We stay like that. Just breathing together. The storm still raging outside. The grey light still soft. The certainty between us settling into something solid and real.
Eventually, slowly, carefully, he pulls back. The whimper that escapes me is involuntary — desperate, barely audible — and he goes completely still, his hands gripping my waist hard enough that I feel the possessiveness in it, like he's fighting the urge to pull me back in. He helps me down from the sink. Steadies me when my legs shake. His hands are gentle on my waist now, holding me until I find my balance.
We stand there for a moment. Just breathing together. His hands on my waist. Mine on his chest. The storm outside. The grey light. The certainty between us.
He finds a t-shirt and a pair of sweats from his room — both his, both worn soft — and hands them to me through the gap in the door without looking, which makes something in my chest do a complicated thing.
I change in the bathroom.
Pull his t-shirt over my head.
It falls to mid-thigh. The sleeves hang past my elbows. It smells like his laundry detergent and something warmer underneath and I stand there for a second with my hands inside the too-long sleeves and think okay the way you think okay when something is happening that you don't have bigger words for yet.
I look at the sweatpants.
Then down at the t-shirt, which is already covering everything that needs covering and then some.
I leave the sweatpants on the sink.
I roll the sleeves up three times. They fall down immediately. I roll them up again. I look like I'm wearing a person. I look like I belong here.
That last thought I don't look at directly.
Stop, I tell myself. Just go downstairs.
I go downstairs.
The smell hits me before the kitchen does.
Eggs. Butter. Bad coffee doing its best.
I stop in the doorway.
Logan is at the stove with his back to me.
Grey sweatpants sitting low on his hips. No shirt.
Just — no shirt. Just his back, bare in the grey morning light. Warm tan skin. The particular lines of muscle shifting slightly as he moves the spatula through the pan with the focused patience of someone determined to do this right. The small silvery scar on his left shoulder blade. His hair dark and full, loose waves that curl slightly at the nape of his neck.
I stand there for a long moment.
Just looking.
Three weeks, I think. I avoided this man for three weeks.
I genuinely don't know how.
Standing here in the doorway in his t-shirt with the sleeves falling over my hands again, watching him make eggs in the grey morning light like it's the most ordinary thing in the world — I don't know how I managed it. How I sat across rooms from him and looked at the floor and found reasons to leave before he arrived. How I laughed in a hallway and walked back to a party and spent twenty-one nights lying awake thinking about a man I was too scared to want out loud.
I push off the doorframe.
I cross the kitchen quietly.
He doesn't hear me. Or he does and he's giving me this — the approach, the moment before, the way he always gives me room to move at my own pace without making me feel like I'm being waited on. His attention stays on the pan. Adjusting the heat. Tilting the handle slightly.
I stop just behind him.
Close enough to feel the warmth coming off his skin.
I reach out.
My fingers find his back first — just the tips of them, barely there, the lightest possible contact — and I feel him register it immediately. The way his shoulders tighten. The way his breathing changes, just slightly, just enough. But he doesn't turn around. Doesn't speak. Just — holds still. Lets me have this.
So I take it.
I press my palm flat against the center of his back.
Warm tan skin under my hand. The particular solidity of him. I spread my fingers slowly and I just — feel him. The warmth radiating up into my palm. The faint definition of muscle under smooth skin. The way his back expands and contracts as he breathes, slower now, more deliberate, like he's concentrating on it.
I start to move my hand.
Not going anywhere specific. Just — learning him. The way his muscles shift when he breathes. The plane of his shoulder blade, the slight ridge of his spine. I find the silvery scar on his left shoulder blade and trace it with my thumb — slow, the full length of it — and he makes a sound. Low. Barely audible. His head drops forward slightly.
I lean in and press my lips to it.
Just that. Just my mouth against that small silvery mark.
His breath hitches.
The spatula goes completely still in the pan.
His whole body goes that particular kind of still — not tense, not braced, just — suspended. Like he's holding everything very carefully so as not to break whatever this is.
I keep going.
My lips move from the scar to the warm tan skin beside it. A soft kiss. Then another. My hands moving slowly across his back as I go, fingers spreading wide, palms pressing gently like I want as much contact as possible. Like I'm making up for three weeks of carefully not touching him.
I find a small mark on his right shoulder — a freckle, barely visible against the tan of his skin, the kind you'd only find if you were paying very close attention. I press my lips to it.
He exhales shakily.
"Y/N." His voice is rough. Low. Like he had to work to get even those two syllables out.
"Mm."
"What are you—"
"Shh."
He goes quiet.
I keep moving. My fingers find another mark, lower this time, just below his left shoulder blade. Something small and faint. I trace it with my fingertip first, then follow with my lips, and I feel the shiver that moves through him — involuntary, barely there — and I think I'm doing this to him and it cracks something open in me.
John Logan.
Who notices everything. Who says nothing. Who waits.
Undone, right here in his own kitchen, because I'm kissing his back.
My hands are moving still — slowly, mapping him, the warmth of his skin and the muscle underneath and the scattered marks I keep finding like small secrets — and my lips follow wherever my fingers lead. Up the line of his spine. Across the plane of his shoulder. Back to the scar.
His breathing is ragged now.
The eggs have definitely stopped being the priority.
"Y/N," he says again. Quieter this time. More careful. Like he's trying to hold something together. "Can I — can I say something."
"Yeah," I murmur against his skin.
"I need you to—" He stops. Tries again. His voice is strained. "You need to stop hiding from me."
I still.
My hands flat against his back. My lips just above the scar.
And something in my chest just — opens.
Wide and warm and completely certain.
"I love you," I say.
He goes completely still.
Not the patient waiting stillness. Not the held-back controlled stillness. Something different. Something I've never felt from him before — genuine surprise moving through his whole body like a current, everything going motionless under my hands.
"I love you," I say again. My voice is quiet. More certain the second time than the first. "I've probably loved you for a while and I kept laughing at the wrong moments and stepping back when I should have stayed and making it into something smaller than it was and I'm—" I press my palms flat against his back one more time. Feel his heartbeat. Fast and hard and real. "I'm done doing that."
A long moment of silence.
Then he turns around.
Slowly.
The spatula still in his hand. His dark eyes finding mine immediately — wide, just for a second, the surprise still there, the most unguarded I've ever seen him. Then something else moves through his expression. Something warm and certain and slightly wrecked.
He sets the spatula down.
"Say it again," he says quietly.
"I love you."
Something in his face breaks open completely.
He reaches for me.
Both hands finding my face, warm and certain, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones, and he looks at me the way he looks at things he's been paying attention to for a long time. The stubble on his jaw catching the grey morning light. The warm tan of his skin. The dark eyes that have gone soft in a way I've only seen a handful of times.
"I was going to say you need to stop hiding," he murmurs.
"I know."
"You cut me off."
"I know."
The corner of his mouth does the thing. The real one. The crooked smile that costs him something every time it comes out.
"I love you too," he says. "Have for a while." His thumbs trace slow circles against my cheekbones. "Since before I had a good reason to say it."
"You had reasons," I whisper.
"I was waiting for you to be ready to hear them."
I look at him.
At the man who fixed a car and remembered it three years later. Who made grilled cheese and lit fires and tucked blankets around sleeping people and stood in hallways with glasses of water and waited. Who has been paying attention to me quietly and saying nothing and waiting for me to stop running.
I reach up.
My fingers find his hair — dark and full and loose — and I push it back from his forehead slowly. My palm resting against his face the way it has before, the way it already feels like it belongs there.
"I'm not running," I say.
"I know," he murmurs.
"I'm done."
"I know." He turns his head slightly. Presses his lips to my palm. "I know, baby."
And something in my chest settles so completely and so finally that I feel it in my whole body.
He kisses me.
Soft. Unhurried. Like the eggs can wait and the bad coffee can wait and the storm can keep going for as long as it wants.
Outside it does.
Inside the kitchen is warm and grey and quiet and his hands are on my face and I am not running and I am not laughing at the wrong moment and I am not making it small.
a/n: i really didn't think part one would get this much love, and i hope this was worth the wait. fifteen thousand words. eight days. logan refused to be rushed ❣️ keep an eye out for garrett ;)
I genuinely have no words, thank you all so much for the love you’ve shown my writing. It seriously means everything to me 😭 And trust me, I’m nowhere near done yet. I’m literally kicking my feet over here thinking about possibly writing a fake dating story for John Logan next… 👀
I’ll definitely be writing for more characters too, so if there’s anyone you’d wanna see, let me know!!
━━ john logan x graham!reader ; wc 3.5k
tw ; mention of parental abuse ( phil graham ) , secret relationship/brothers best friend , kissing , unedited
You should have been asleep.
Honestly, you had every intention of staying asleep.
You'd barely stirred when Logan carefully untangled himself from around you a few hours earlier. The second Logan's warmth disappeared from around you, sleep had abandoned you completely. You remembered the sleepy press of lips against your temple, remembered him whispering something about emergency practice before disappearing back through the bathroom with more effort than a six foot hockey player should have needed to move quietly.
You had laid there for nearly twenty minutes staring at the ceiling while cold air slowly replaced the heat his body had left behind. That had been the end of sleep.
Eventually, you gave up and grabbed your laptop instead.
Which was how you ended up cross legged in the middle of your unmade bed at six in the morning, drowning in English literature notes while wearing one of Logan's old briar jerseys like a sleep shirt.
The sleeves hung past your wrist, and the stitched hem brushed against your thighs whenever you shifted beneath the blankets. Your laptop sat balanced on your knees in front of you while color coded note card littered the comforter around your legs in chaotic little piles.
The room smelled faintly like vanilla coffee creamer and Logan's cologne. The thought probably should have bothered you more than it did. Garrett would lose his fucking mind if he saw this.
The thought flickered through your head so automatically it barely registered anymore. By now sneaking around with Logan had become muscle memory. You were half way through rereading your notes on gothic symbolism when the bathroom door connecting your room to his clicked softly.
You barely looked up. That alone probably should have been alarming. But the only people who used that bathroom were you and Logan.
He paused halfway through the doorway, one hand still resting against the door knob as surprise crossed his face. His dark hair was damp from a rushed shower after practice, curling slightly at the ends, and he’d traded his gear for gray sweatpants and a black Briar Hockey hoodie that looked like he’d pulled it on without fully drying off first.
“You’re awake?" His hockey bag hit the bathroom floor softly behind him as he nudged the door shut with his foot.
You hummed absently, eyes still scanning the highlighted paragraph glowing on your laptop screen.
A beat of silence passed.
“Tell me I didn’t wake you when I left.”
That finally dragged your attention toward him.
You scrunched your nose automatically, guilt flashing across his face the second he saw it.
“Oh, baby,” he groaned quietly.
You shrugged one shoulder, trying to dismiss it, but Logan already looked annoyed with himself as he crossed the room.
The mattress dipped beneath his weight when he dropped onto the bed beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours immediately. Warmth radiated off him in sleepy waves, carrying traces of cold winter air, clean soap, and lingering hockey equipment beneath it all.
“I’m sorry.”
"You're loud," you mumbled, teasingly.
"I was not loud."
"You're, like, genetically incapable of being quiet."
"That is offensive."
“What’d they drag you guys in so early for anyway?” you asked, eyes drifting back toward your screen.
Logan rested his chin against your shoulder, close enough that his voice vibrated lightly through your skin when he answered.
“Cody got drunk at a frat and fell off a table. Dislocated his shoulder.”
You snorted softly.
“And you have a game tomorrow,” you murmured, piecing it together out loud. “Hence the emergency practice.”
He hummed against your shoulder in confirmation, the vibration making you shiver slightly before his mouth followed after it, pressing a lazy kiss against the fabric stretched over it.
Then another.
Then another higher up near your neck where the oversized collar slipped low against your skin.
Your fingers paused over the keyboard.
“Come on,” Logan mumbled against your throat. “Take a break?”
You ignored him on purpose.
It was almost impossible to study with Logan around. Not because he was obnoxious about it but mostly because he wanted your attention with the same attention he wanted ice time, and when John Logan wanted something, he tened to throw his whole body at it.
Which, unfortunately for your GPA, usually worked.
He sighed dramatically.
“Baby.”
“Logan.”
His mouth curved against your skin at the warning in your voice.
Logan lifted his head just enough to pout at you, and unfortunately for your concentration, he looked unfairly good like this—fresh from practice, slightly sleepy, soft around the edges in a way nobody else ever got to see.
He knew it too.
“I missed you,” he added, pouting still. You laughed quietly before you could stop yourself, turning your head enough to look at him properly. Logan immediately brightened like he’d won something. “You were at practice for like two hours.”
“Hey,” he said, nudging your knee with his. “Don’t be mean just because I like you.” The teasing grin lingered for only a second before something softer settled over his face.
His hand slid over your thigh absentmindedly, thumb brushing against the bare skin beneath the hem of his jersey. “I’m serious, though,” he said quietly. “I really like you.”
The words still did strange things to your chest no matter how many times he said them. Not because you doubted him. But because part of you still wasn’t entirely used to being wanted this gently.
You looked at him fully. “I know,” you said softly. “I like you too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His entire face changed.
It hit you suddenly sometimes, how different he was with you compared to everybody else downstairs. The version of Logan most people got was loud laughter, easy flirting, cocky one-liners, and chaotic energy spilling into every room he entered.
With you, he was soft in a way nobody would believe if they only knew him from hockey games and party stories and whispered puck bunny gossip around campus.
This version belonged only to you.
Before you could process the thought too deeply, Logan reached over and closed your laptop. “Hey,” you protested immediately. “I’m studying.”
“Nuh uh.” He grabbed the laptop before you could reclaim it and set it carefully on the nightstand. “Break time.”
“Logan.”
But he was already gathering your note cards into one messy stack, ignoring your increasingly offended expression entirely.
“You are the worst,” you informed him.
“Mm. Keep talking. Gets me all hot.” He tossed the final stack of cards aside before turning back toward you fully. Your pout barely lasted two seconds before he kissed you.
Heat crept into your face immediately. You hated how easily he could still do that to you. Logan was your first relationship.
Briar had been your first real school, your first time living around people your age instead of watching normal life through windows and secondhand stories from Garrett.
Your first sememster had felt like everybody else had recived some invisible handbook you'd somehow missed entirely. Parties, flirting, hookups, dorm drama, it all seemed to come naturally to everyone exept you.
Especially hockey culture.
You still remember Garrett standing in the kitchen before the semester started, arms crossed while Dean snickered into a beer beside him. "No hockey players," Garrett had said flatly.
You remember rolling your eyes so hard it hurt. Dean had immediately pointed at himself and Tucker. "What about us?"
"You especially," Garrett had laid the law. At the time, you'd thought it was stupid, embarrassing overprotective older brother bullshit. You'd assumed Garrett simply didn't want to hear locker room stories about his little sister from his teammates.
Now, with Logan's mouth brushing yours softly while morning light spilled gold across your tangled bedsheets, it almost felt funny.
Logans kisses were slow, not rushed the way your kisses sometimes became when you were sneaking around the house trying not to get caught.
This kiss felt like exactly what he’d said earlier.
I missed you.
Your fingers curled automatically into the front of his hoodie as he kissed you deeper, patient and unhurried as he pulled you closer across the mattress.
Even now, months into sneaking around, it still caught you off guard sometimes—the way he touched you carefully without making you feel fragile, the way he held your waist like it belonged beneath his hands naturally, the way he kissed you like he genuinely missed you after only a few hours apart.
Your hands slid into his damp hair as he shifted closer, and suddenly your laptop and exam and notecards felt impossibly far away. “Missed you so much,” he mumbled again against your mouth.
You smiled helplessly into the kiss. “Needy.”
“For you? Yeah.”
Somewhere between one kiss and the next, you ended up in his lap.
One second he was beside you and the next his hands were spread warm against your waist, guiding you over his thighs while your knees pressed into the mattress on either side of him. The position pulled a quiet sound from him, one that made your pulse jump embarrassingly fast.
The jersey had ridden dangerously high up your legs by now.
Logan noticed. His hands slid carefully from your waist to your hips, fingertips brushing beneath the hem just enough to make your breath catch against his mouth.
The look he gave you afterward nearly unraveled you completely.
Your heart hammered hard enough to make your chest ache. Maybe this would be the moment. The thought arrived suddenly and stayed there.
Heat bloomed low in your stomach when Logan kissed you again, slower this time, one hand slipping up your spine while the other settled low against your hip.
The knock at your bedroom door barely registered. You froze. Neither of you had time to move before the door opened.
Garrett stepped inside.
For one horrible second, nobody moved.
His gaze swept across the room slowly. The abandoned study notes, Logan’s practice bag at the foot of the bed, your bare legs over Logan’s lap, his jersey hanging off your body, Logan’s hands still spread across your body.
The silence turned suffocating.
You scrambled off Logan immediately, yanking the jersey down your thighs as heat flooded your face. Garrett looked stunned until his expression twisted. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"
The words cracked through the room so sharply that it felt like the temperature dropped with them.
Garrett stood frozen in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the frame completely, hockey hoodie half-zipped. His eyes moved once more across the scene in front of him like he still couldn’t quite make sense of it.
You in Logan’s jersey.
Logan sitting on your bed.
His practice bag on your floor.
Your flushed face.
The way Logan’s hands had only just left your body.
You and Logan began speaking at the same time. "Garrett—"
"G—"
"No," Garrett snapped immediately, voice rough enough to cut skin. "Don't 'Garrett' me right now." Logan stood slowly from the bed to stand beside you.
Garrett laughed once under his breath, but there was nothing amused about. "How long?" The question was simple enough but neither of you answered fast enough.
Garrett looked at you then. Anyone else might have mistaken his expression for just pure rage, but you could see the fear in his eyes. "You promised me."
Your stomach twisted. Because you remembered it. You remember Garrett standing in this exact house, telling every guy under this roof to stay away from you and more importantly you had promised, no hockey players.
"G, listen, man—"
"Do not call me that right now!" Garrett barked. The force of it made silence slam back into the room. Then Garrett looked at Logan fully for the first time since walking in, betrayal twisting ugly across his face.
"Out of every girl at Briar," he started harshly, "you just had to pick my baby sister to get you fucking dick wet?"
"What the fuck, bro?" And again, you and Logan spoke simultaneously. "Garrett, back off!"
The second the words left your mouth, Garrett went still. Something flickered across his face so quickly most people probably wouldn't have caught it, but you knew Garrett too well not to.
It was shock. Not because you had yelled but because you had defended Logan. And suddenly Garrett was looking at the two of you like a pissed off older brother anymore.
Logan stepped forward slightly. "I swear it's not like that, man," his voice was strained now, confused and defensive all at once, "we haven't had sex."
You actually thought, for one horrible second, that maybe that would help. Maybe if Garrett understood that this wasn't just some reckless hookup, he'd calm down. Maybe if he understood that Logan cared about you, really cared about you, the situation would stop spiraling so fast.
Instead Garrett covered his whole face with both hands. "Jesus fucking Christ."
You chest tightened, you hated what this secret had done. "I really care about her, G," Logan confessed.
Garrett dropped his hands slowly, then he laughed. Not because anything was particularly funny, but because he knew he was on the brink of loosing control. The sound had come jagged and breathless and it had made a knot form in your throat.
"You care about her?"
Logan frowned immediately, he was really trying to not get worked up. But his defensiveness got the better of him as he yelled, "Yeah," he shot back. "I really fucking do."
The volume of it bounced off the bedroom walls. You recoiled, but the only person who saw was Garrett because Logan stood in front of you. The motion had practically confirmed every fear that Garrett was trying to prevent.
And then suddenly he wasn’t standing in your bedroom anymore.
You could see it happen in real time.
His eyes stopped focusing properly. His jaw locked so tightly a muscle ticked there. Whatever Garrett was seeing now wasn’t you and Logan anymore—it was memory layered over reality until he couldn’t separate the two.
“What happens after a bad game?”
“Garrett—”
“What happens when your pissed off and she the only one home?”
Your blood ran cold. Logan's brows furrowed in confusion. “Garrett.” You try to pull his attention to you, anything to get him to stop talking, but his sights are solely set on Logan. “What happens when you start drinking too much and she says the wrong thing—”
“Garrett!”
The shout ripped out of you loud enough to sting your throat.
Garrett sucked his top teeth with his tongue hard enough for you to hear it. It took him a second to drag his glare away from Logan and back toward you.
Beside you, Logan had gone very still.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
But Garrett wasn’t even looking at him anymore.
Your palms were slick with sweat now. Your heart hammered so violently it made your ribs ache. Logan was standing right there. Right there. And Garrett was too angry to stop talking and Logan was far too smart not to put the pieces together eventually.
One more sentence.
That was all it would take and the one person in the entire world you tried to shield this from, would know everything.
“You think dad walked around acting like a monster all the time?” Your stomach dropped. “Stop it, Garrett!” You stepped forward until you were standing in front of Logan, closer to Garrett. You don't know what you were going to do, but some insane part of you wanted to shield Logan even though he probably already understood what was happening.
“You think mom didn’t love dad once too?”
The room tilted. You made the mistake of glancing toward Logan and immediately regretted it because there it was.
That look.
Your entire body flushed hot with humiliation so intense it almost made you dizzy.
“Fuck you, Garrett!”
“Woah, baby—” Logan started but he was quickly cut off by Garrett.
“Fuck me?” Garrett snapped, pointing at himself before swinging that same finger toward Logan. “No, fuck him!” If not for pointing at Logan, you might have thought the him he was refering to was your father.
Your chest hurt.
You suddenly couldn’t stand the way Logan was looking at you. Couldn’t stand the fact that he knew now. Maybe not every detail, maybe not every ugly memory, but enough.
Enough to understand.
“I watched mom make excuses for him for years—”
“I know,” you fired back instantly, voice shaking now. “I was there too.”
Garrett’s expression cracked for half a second. Then hardened again. “Then why are you making the same mistakes she did?”
“Shut up!” The words tore out of you so violently they almost sounded broken. Silence crashed over the room. Nobody moved. Your breathing sounded too loud. So did Logan’s.
Garrett stared at you like he wanted to say more and knew he shouldn’t. Logan looked like somebody had knocked the air out of him entirely. You suddenly felt sick standing in Logan’s jersey.
Like your own skin didn’t fit correctly anymore. “Get out,” you whispered. Garrett hesitated.
“Get out!”
The shout echoed off the walls.
Something ugly flashed across Garrett’s face then, anger winning over reason for one disastrous second. He slammed his fist into the hallway wall hard enough to shake the framed picture hanging beside your bedroom door.
The sound cracked through you instantly. You flinched before you could stop yourself. Tears burned your eyes immediately afterward, humiliation following close behind them. Because Garrett saw it. You knew he saw it.
Garrett looked horrified for exactly half a heartbeat. Then he walked out. The bedroom door stayed open behind him. Silence swallowed the room again.
Logan moved first, slowly and carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal. “Baby—” You stepped backward immediately.
“Oh my god,” you whispered, shaking your head before he could touch you. “Just please get out.”
He stopped a few feet away from you, chest still rising hard from everything that had just happened. His eyes flickered over your face quickly, like he was trying to figure out which version of this situation he was standing in now.
The girl he’d been kissing five minutes ago.
Or this one.
The one standing barefoot in the middle of her bedroom looking like the floor had dropped out from beneath her.
“Baby,” he said carefully, voice quieter than you had ever heard it. “Please just let me—”
“Get out!” Your breathing shook. Logan froze completely.
Heat crawled viciously up your throat. You suddenly couldn’t stand the feeling of the jersey against your skin anymore. Couldn’t stand standing there wrapped in something that belonged to him while he looked at you like that.
Before you could stop yourself, your fingers hooked beneath the hem of the oversized Briar jersey and yanked it harshly over your head.
Logan’s eyes widened instantly.
The cold air hit your skin all at once, leaving you standing there in nothing but your bra and underwear, chest heaving unevenly.
For one horrible second, nobody moved. Then you threw the jersey at him.
The fabric smacked against his chest before falling halfway down his arm, and Logan caught it automatically out of reflex more than anything else.
The expression on his face wrecked something inside you further. He was in complete and utter shock. Not because you were half-dressed, he’d seen you in less before.
Shock because he understood what you were doing.
Your eyes burned. “Take it,” you snapped, voice trembling despite your best efforts. “Take your shit and just go.”
“Baby—”
“No!”
Your gaze caught on the hockey bag sitting at the foot of your bed. Still sitting exactly where he'd dropped it after practice because he had come straight here. Like this room had become home to him too.
The thought made something sharp twist painfully in your chest. Before you could think better of it, you grabbed the strap and hurled the bag toward him. It hit the floor beside his feet heavily with a dull thud, one skate shifting loudly inside the bag from the force.
Logan stared at it for half a second.
Then at you.
You hated how careful he looked now, how cautious. That look was exactly what you had spent your entire relationship terrified of.
Your throat tightened painfully. “Please,” you whispered this time, weaker now. “Just leave.”
Something else flickered across his face but it wasn't pity like you expected. God, somehow that would have been easier, you think.
It was the look of pure heartbreak. Which was way way worse. Logan swallowed hard once before bending slowly to pick up his bag. He gathered the jersey after it, fingers tightening around the crumpled fabric for a brief second.
At the bathroom door, he hesitated but you couldn’t look at him anymore so you kept your gaze on the floor.
Synopsis: I'll show you. You show me. The plan was simple. Stay on your side of the room. Don't touch. Don't cross any lines. But the second Garrett looks at you across the lamplight, the lie you've both been telling starts to fall apart.
Warnings / Content: 18+ MINORS DNI. Explicit sexual content (mutual masturbation). Vague references to past trauma (non-graphic, non-detailed). Emotional vulnerability. Performance anxiety. Discussions of consent. Praise kink (light). Pet names ("baby"). Mild language. Garrett Graham being soft and patient and ruining your life.
Tags: Garrett Graham x Reader, mutual masturbation, fake dating, friends to lovers, slow burn, hockey romance, emotional intimacy, vague past trauma references, performance anxiety, consent-focused, praise kink (light), pet names, first time, Off-Campus / Briar U universe, reader insert, y/n, NSFW, 18+, minors DNI
I lie back against the pillows on Garrett's bed, the cotton sheets cool under my bare skin, and try to remember how to breathe normally. My shirt is already discarded on the floor—when did I take it off? Two minutes ago? Five?—and the warm lamplight spills across my stomach like honey, pooling in the dip of my navel. Low music pulses from his speakers, something slow and bass-heavy that matches the thud of my pulse in my throat, my wrists, between my legs.
This is just practice, I tell myself. For Justin. For this weekend.
The thought feels hollow even as I think it.
Garrett sits a few feet away in the wooden chair angled toward me, shirtless, and God—I've seen him shirtless a hundred times. At the gym, at parties, that time he answered his door in just a towel. But this is different. The lamplight catches the defined lines of his chest, the ridges of his abs, the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath his waistband. His chest rises and falls in steady rhythm, hands resting loose on his thighs, fingers spread wide. Casual. Patient. Like we have all the time in the world.
Like this isn't about to change everything.
He watches me with that patient, half-smile that always makes my stomach flip—the one that says he knows exactly what he's doing to me and he's enjoying every second of it. His dark eyes track over my body, lingering on the curve of my breasts, the nervous flutter of my stomach, the way my thighs press together.
"You okay, baby?" His voice is low and even, wrapping around me like velvet. "We can stop anytime. Just say the word."
I nod, not trusting my voice yet. My throat feels tight.
"Need to hear you say it," he says, softer now. "Tell me you want this."
"I want this." The words come out breathier than I intended. "I want... I need to know what it feels like. Before—"
Before Justin. I don't finish the sentence. Can't.
Something flickers across Garrett's face—too quick to read in the dim light. His jaw tightens for just a second before that easy smile returns. "Then let's take it slow. Start with just your fingertips, okay? I want you to touch yourself the way you would if you were alone. Like I'm not even here."
Except he is here. That's the whole point. That's what makes my skin feel too tight, my nerve endings sparking like live wires.
"Slip your hand under your underwear," he continues, voice dropping lower. "Find your clit. Just circle it for me. Light touches. Breathe through it. You're in control here."
Am I? I don't feel in control. I feel like I'm standing at the edge of something vast and terrifying, and one wrong step will send me tumbling.
But I do what he says. My fingers slip beneath the waistband of my underwear—plain cotton, nothing sexy, because I wasn't planning on anyone seeing them—and find that sensitive spot. The first slow circle sends a spark up my spine, makes my breath hitch audibly.
"That's it," Garrett murmurs, and there's something in his voice now, something rough around the edges. "Nice and easy. Tell me how it feels."
"Good," I whisper, breath catching again as I circle once more. "Warm. Like it's... building already."
It's more than warm. It's heat spreading through my lower belly, pooling between my thighs. My hips shift restlessly against the sheets, seeking more friction, more pressure. I keep the touch light like he said, but it's already so much more intense than when I'm alone. Because he's watching. Because I can feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch, tracking every movement of my hand beneath the fabric, every hitch in my breathing.
Don't think about Justin, I tell myself. This is for Justin. Practice for Justin.
But I'm not thinking about Justin at all. I'm thinking about the way Garrett's hands would feel instead of my own. The way his voice sounds when he calls me baby, like it means something more than just a casual endearment. The way he's looked at me lately when he thinks I'm not paying attention—like he's memorizing me, cataloging every detail.
He chuckles softly, the sound wrapping around me, settling low in my belly. "Take your time. No rush. I'm right here." His fingers finally move to his own waistband, and my breath stops entirely. "Gonna join you now, okay? Keep doing what you're doing. Don't stop."
I watch—I can't not watch—as he lifts his hips slightly and pushes his sweatpants down. He's not wearing anything underneath. His cock springs free, already hard, flushed and thick, and something in my chest cracks open at the sight.
He's hard because of this. Because of me.
The realization lands low in my belly, hotter than the touch of my own fingers. Not because of some fantasy, not because of porn on his phone. Because of me, half-naked on his bed, touching myself while he watches.
Garrett wraps his hand around his length with deliberate care, and I watch the way his fingers curl around himself, the slow drag of his fist from base to tip. His thumb swipes over the head and his breath hitches—just slightly, but I catch it. He starts stroking, slow and measured, the same pace he's guiding me to keep.
"Keep going, baby," he says, and his voice is rougher now. "Match my rhythm. Slow circles. Feel how good it is when you don't rush."
I force my fingers to maintain that light, teasing pressure, even though every instinct is screaming at me to press harder, move faster. My other hand fists in the sheets beside me. I watch the way his abs tighten with each stroke, the flex of his forearm, the way his thighs spread wider to give himself room. There's a bead of moisture at the tip of his cock now, catching the lamplight.
God, he's beautiful.
The thought comes unbidden, and I can't push it away. I've always known Garrett was attractive—half the campus knows it, the way girls watch him in the dining hall, the way they show up to hockey games in his jersey number. But this is different. This is intimate. Vulnerable. The careful control in every movement of his hand, the way his chest rises and falls faster now, the muscle jumping in his jaw.
Something inside me shifts, cracks, breaks open.
This isn't practice. This was never practice.
Our eyes meet across the small space between bed and chair. The careful distance we've both been pretending feels suddenly thin, meaningless. Like I could reach across it and touch him. Like he could cross it in two steps and—
Garrett's hand pauses for a fraction of a second. His lips part. "Fuck," he breathes, unguarded and quiet, and it's the most honest sound I've ever heard from him.
The word hangs there between us, heavy with everything we're not saying.
The music swells, a soft guitar line filling the silence, and I hear our breathing—his slightly ragged now, mine shallow and quick. Neither of us looks away. I can't. His eyes are so dark in the lamplight, pupils blown wide, and I see something in them that makes my chest ache. Something that looks like the same desperate wanting that's clawing at my ribs.
The "just practice" excuse cracks open like light through a door, and for a long moment we simply watch each other, the air thick with everything we haven't said. All the weeks of fake-dating that felt too real. All the casual touches that lingered too long. All the times I've caught him looking at me like he's trying to solve a puzzle he can't quite figure out.
I'm falling for him, I think, and the recognition is terrifying and exhilarating all at once. I'm falling for him and this is going to ruin everything.
My hips twitch forward without permission, seeking more pressure. Pleasure coils tight and fast in my lower belly, too fast, spiraling up my spine. My fingers move in quicker circles and I hear myself gasp, a broken sound that echoes in the quiet room.
"Hey." Garrett's voice cuts through the haze, firm but gentle. "Slow down, baby. Ease off a little."
"I can't—" My voice breaks. "It's too much, I'm—"
"I know. I know it feels good. But ride it with me, okay?" His own strokes never quicken, but I see the tremor in his thighs, the white-knuckle grip he has on the arm of the chair with his free hand. He's holding back. For me. "We've got time. Breathe, Y/N. Feel how close you are without falling yet."
I force my fingers to lighten, circling slower, and the effort makes me tremble. It's exquisite torture—the pleasure right there, right there, coiled tight and ready to snap, but held just out of reach. My legs shake. My free hand twists in the sheets hard enough that my knuckles ache.
"Good girl," Garrett murmurs, and the praise shoots straight through me. "Just like that. Stay with me."
He matches my slower pace, hand moving in long, controlled pulls, and I watch the way his cock pulses in his grip, the way his abs contract with each stroke. His jaw is tight, a muscle jumping in his cheek. A fine sheen of sweat gleams on his chest. He's struggling just as much as I am, fighting to maintain control, and somehow that makes it even more intense.
We hover there together on that sharp edge, breathing loud in the lamplight, the restraint making every sensation louder, sharper, more. The music is just background noise now, drowned out by the sound of skin on skin, of ragged breathing, of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.
This is Garrett, I think, fragmented and desperate. This is us. This is real.
Heat building—coiling—tight—
Can't think—can't breathe—
His eyes, dark and desperate, locked on mine—
The way he says my name like a prayer—
God, I want him—
"Garrett," I whisper, and his name slips out needy and raw before I can catch it, before I can shove it back down. It's a plea and a confession all at once.
His hand falters. His whole body goes rigid for a heartbeat, and then his expression breaks open—eyes dark and desperate, mouth parted, all the careful patience cracking into something deeper, something that looks like the same desperate longing that's tearing me apart from the inside.
"Say it again," he rasps, and it's not a request. His hand moves faster now, control slipping. "Say my name again, baby. Please."
"Garrett—" It comes out as a gasp, broken and breathless. "Garrett, I—"
His chest hitches with a sharp inhale as our eyes lock, the lamplight catching the tremor in his hand, the way his hips lift slightly into his grip. The music fades until there is only the suspended pull of our breathing, the wet sound of his fist, the rustle of sheets as my hips rock helplessly.
"Let go," he says, voice wrecked. "I've got you. Let go for me."
And I do.
Pleasure crashes through me in waves, whiting out my vision, arcing up my spine and exploding outward until I'm shaking with it. My back arches off the bed. My fingers press hard against my clit, drawing it out, making it last. I hear myself cry out—his name again, I think, but I'm not sure, can't be sure of anything except the overwhelming sensation rolling through me.
Through the haze I watch him follow, his release spilling over his fist as a low groan leaves his chest, his head falling back against the chair. His throat works as he swallows hard, chest heaving, and even in the aftermath he's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
The room fills with the sound of our breathing, heavy and shared, the music still playing softly underneath. My body feels liquid, boneless, trembling with aftershocks. Garrett's hand is still wrapped loosely around himself, his chest rising and falling in deep pulls.
Neither of us speaks. Neither of us looks away.
And I know—with absolute certainty—that everything between us has changed.
A/N: part 2 of the series 💌 The actual aftermath comes in part 3... y/n still has some things to figure out — and someone she still hasn't texted back....
Synopsis: Three weeks ago at Hannah's Halloween party, John Logan almost kissed you in a hallway. You panicked. You laughed. You stepped back. Neither of you has talked about it since. Now you're trapped in the hockey house during the worst snowstorm of the year — just you, just him, just twelve hours and nowhere to go.
Word count: ~7k
Content / Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI. Explicit sexual content. Forced proximity (snowstorm). Slow burn. Best friend's best friend dynamic. Near-kiss flashback (steamy). Heavy emotional tension. Mutual avoidance into mutual confession. Praise kink (light). Pet names ("baby"). Garrett Graham mentioned. Hannah, Allie, Dean, Tucker mentioned. Reader is part of the friend group through Hannah and Allie.
You only stopped by the hockey house to drop off Garrett's stupid jacket.
That's it. That's all. Hannah had texted you an hour ago — babe can you do me the biggest favor in the world he forgot his blue jacket at my place again and he needs it for the away trip tomorrow and I'm already in PJ's i literally cannot — and because you love Hannah and because you live a few blocks away and because you owe her approximately a thousand favors, you said yes.
The drive over is fine. Easy. It's snowing — soft little flakes, the kind that make you feel like you're in a Hallmark movie — but the roads are clear and you've got the radio on and you've been singing, and the snow is the kind of snow you can ignore.
Garrett isn't home. You let yourself in (you've had a key for years, every Graham sibling-adjacent friend does), drop the jacket on the couch with a sticky note that says YOU OWE ME ETERNALLY, and turn to leave.
You don't make it to the door.
"Y/N?"
You freeze.
Because John Logan is standing at the top of the stairs in a hoodie and sweatpants, hair a little messy like he was halfway through doing something when he heard the front door, and your stomach does a stupid traitorous flip that you immediately try to crush.
"Logan."
"Hi."
"Hi."
"I didn't know you were coming over."
"I was just — Hannah asked me to drop off Garrett's jacket—"
"Right."
"Yeah."
"Cool."
He's not coming down the stairs. You're not moving toward the door. The two of you stand there, suspended in the entryway and the staircase, and you have not been in a room alone with him for three weeks and now here you are and the air is doing that thing where there's no oxygen in it—
Both your phones go off at the same time.
The sound is deafening. That alarm-bell emergency-alert buzz, the kind that overrides your ringer settings, the kind that makes everyone in a public space grab their phone at the same time. Both of you flinch. Both of you reach for your pockets.
You stare at your screen.
⚠️ EMERGENCY WEATHER ALERT A severe winter storm warning has been issued for your area. Heavy snow and high winds expected. Travel is strongly discouraged. Stay indoors. Roads will be closed within the hour. ⚠️
"...oh," you say.
"Yeah," Logan says, from the stairs.
You look up. He's already looking at you.
He looks at the window. You follow his gaze.
The world outside has changed.
The snow is no longer Hallmark-movie snow. The snow is a wall. The wind is hitting the porch in solid sheets that hadn't existed twenty minutes ago. The street you drove in on is gone — just white, in every direction. You can't even see your car at the curb. The snow has already buried the bottom of the porch steps. The streetlight at the end of the block is just a fuzzy yellow smudge in a sea of white.
"Oh my god," you whisper.
"Yeah," Logan says again.
Your phone buzzes.
Mom (Hannah, you renamed her this when you were drunk): BABE Mom (Hannah): DON'T DRIVE Mom (Hannah): THE ROADS ARE A NIGHTMARE Mom (Hannah): I JUST SAW IT ON THE NEWS Mom (Hannah): YOU ARE NOT DRIVING HOME I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU SAY
You stare at your phone. You look up at the snow. You look back down at your phone. You look up at Logan.
"Garrett's at Hannah's," Logan says. "Tucker's at his parents'. Dean's been at Allie's all week. It's just me."
"...so it's just you."
"It's just me."
"Cool."
"Cool."
"Cool."
He stares at you. You stare at the floor. The wind hits the window so hard the glass rattles.
"You're stuck here," he says, finally. "Until the storm passes. There's nothing we can do about it."
"Right."
"...so."
"So."
You stare at each other.
The thing about not-talking-about-something for three weeks is that, when you're suddenly in a room together with no one else and a snowstorm raging outside and the lights flickering ominously above your head, the not-talked-about thing fills up all the air in the room. There's no oxygen left. Just the thing.
The thing being: a Halloween party three weeks ago. A hallway. Logan's hand at your jaw. The way he'd leaned in. The way you'd both stopped, half a breath away. The way you'd laughed, and made some stupid joke, and stepped back. The way he'd nodded — yeah, yeah, of course — and walked away. The way neither of you had said anything about it since.
The way you've been deliberately, carefully not being in the same room with him for twenty-one days.
The way that is now physically impossible.
"I'm gonna go get a blanket," you announce, way too loudly. "I'm gonna — go get a blanket. From the couch."
"Okay."
"Cool. Okay."
You bolt.
You spend the first hour of your unwilling sleepover doing an absolutely incredible job of pretending Logan is not in the same house as you.
He's in the kitchen. You're in the living room. He's making something — you can hear pans, smell something garlicky. You're curled up on the couch under the world's softest blanket, scrolling your phone, watching the snow pile up against the bay window. You are fine. You are completely fine. You are an adult woman who is not affected by the proximity of John Logan. You are thriving.
You scroll the same three Instagram stories four times.
The lights flicker. You jump.
"You good?" Logan's voice from the kitchen.
"Fine!"
"You sure?"
"Fine, Logan."
"Cool."
A beat. Then, quieter, from the kitchen doorway: "I made grilled cheese. If you want one."
You look up. He's leaning in the doorway in his hoodie, holding a plate, looking at you like he's not sure if he should come closer. There's a smudge of melted cheese on the side of the plate. He's standing there with a grilled cheese. For you.
Something in your chest goes very soft. Very fast.
You hate it.
"You made me a grilled cheese?"
"I made two grilled cheeses. One of them is for you if you want it."
"You hate cooking."
"I do not hate cooking."
"You literally told me last month that you, quote, do not have the patience to be a person who cooks—"
"Are you going to interrogate me about the grilled cheese or are you going to eat it."
You hold out your hands. He crosses the room slowly — like he's not sure how close he's allowed to get — and hands you the plate. Your fingers brush. You both flinch, just a little. He pretends he didn't.
He sits on the other end of the couch. Not next to you. Not close. A whole cushion of space between you.
You can still feel him there. Vividly.
"Thank you," you say to the grilled cheese.
"Mhm."
You eat. He eats. The wind howls. The TV is off because Logan said earlier we should probably save the power in case it goes out, which felt cinematically ominous and also accurate. The fire in the fireplace — of course the hockey house has a working fireplace, of course tonight is the night Logan apparently knows how to light a fire — crackles softly. The light catches the side of his face.
You look away before you can think about that.
"This is good," you say.
"Thanks."
"Surprisingly good."
"Thanks, Y/N."
"Like — like concerningly good. You should grilled-cheese professionally."
"You're being weird."
"I'm being normal."
"You're being weird."
"You're being weird."
"I'm being quiet. You're being weird."
You stuff the rest of the grilled cheese into your mouth so you don't have to answer.
By hour three, the power has flickered so many times you've stopped jumping at it, and you have both, without saying anything to each other, migrated to closer ends of the couch. Not touching. Just — closer. The middle cushion is no longer between you. Just half of it.
You are aware of this. You are very aware of this. You are pretending you are not.
Logan put on a movie an hour ago. He picked it. You don't know what it is. You are not watching it. You are watching the way the firelight moves across his throat when he swallows.
"What."
"Huh?"
"You're staring."
"I am not."
"You are."
"At the movie, Logan."
"The movie's on the TV, Y/N. I'm not on the TV. You are staring at me."
"I was zoning out."
"On my face."
"In the general direction of your face."
He's smiling now. Small. Faint. He's not looking at you, he's looking at the TV, but the corner of his mouth is doing that thing where it's pretending not to do anything. You watch his mouth. You make yourself stop.
"Logan."
"Mm."
"Can I ask you something."
"You're gonna anyway."
"Why are you being so nice to me."
He goes still.
Like, visibly still. Like the air around him has frozen for a second. He turns his head, slowly, to look at you. The firelight is doing something to his eyes that you do not want to think about right now.
"What?"
"You're being. Nice. Right now."
"...okay."
"You haven't been nice to me for three weeks."
"Y/N."
"You've been polite. You've been polite the way you'd be polite to, like, a postal worker. And now I'm trapped in a snowstorm with you and suddenly you're making grilled cheese and lighting fires and—"
"I have always been nice to you."
"You've been avoiding me."
"You've been avoiding me."
"I haven't—"
"You have, Y/N."
You stop. He stops. You both stare at the TV. The TV is playing some kind of car chase. You don't know what's happening in the car chase. You don't think Logan does either.
The lights flicker.
They don't come back on.
It takes you a second to realize. The TV blinks black. The hum of the fridge in the kitchen cuts out. The whole house drops into a deeper kind of quiet — just the fire, and the wind, and the radiator clicking somewhere down the hall.
"...oh," you say.
"Yep."
"Power's out."
"Power's out."
"How long do you think—"
"No idea."
"Cool."
"Cool."
The fire pops. The room is much darker now. Just the orange glow of the flames on the floor, on the couch, on his hands, on yours.
You are very aware that his hand is six inches from yours.
Just a second. Just to stop looking at his hand. Just to stop counting the inches.
It's a mistake.
Because the second you close your eyes, you're not on the hockey house couch anymore. You're three weeks ago. You're in Hannah's apartment. You're in a black dress with little devil horns clipped into your hair — the cheap kind, from the drugstore, the kind that pinch your scalp by hour two — and the apartment is loud, so loud, music thudding through the floor, somebody's speaker turned up too high, the smell of cheap beer and cinnamon candles.
You'd been in the kitchen for an hour. You'd been avoiding the kitchen for an hour, actually — because Logan had been in the kitchen, leaning against the counter in his stupid flannel, holding a beer he'd barely touched, claiming to be a lumberjack with the energy of a man who'd put zero effort in and somehow still looked—
(You're not thinking about how he looked. You weren't thinking about how he looked. You absolutely were thinking about how he looked.)
Hannah, in her angel costume, had pushed you toward him at one point. Go talk to him, she'd hissed, he's been looking at you all night, go—
You hadn't gone.
You'd done laps around the apartment instead. Living room. Hallway. Bathroom. Living room. Hallway. Bathroom. Avoiding the kitchen. Avoiding the kitchen. Avoiding the—
And then, somewhere around midnight, you'd found yourself in the hallway looking for the bathroom because someone had locked themselves in the one off the living room, and the hallway was darker, quieter, the music muffled through the wall. And the door at the end of the hallway had opened. And Logan had stepped out.
He'd stopped.
You'd stopped.
He was holding a glass of water. You don't know why you remember that specifically. He was holding a glass of water and he was wearing that stupid flannel and his hair was a mess and his eyes had locked on yours and stayed there.
"Hi," he'd said.
"Hi."
"You hiding?"
"Looking for the bathroom."
"It's right behind me."
"...okay."
You hadn't moved.
He hadn't moved either.
The hallway was narrow. You don't know if you remember that accurately or if your brain has been editing it for three weeks, making it smaller, making him closer, but you remember that he was close enough that you could smell his cologne under the cinnamon and the beer, and you remember that the hallway light was that warm orange kind that makes everyone look like they're in a movie, and you remember—
You remember he set the glass of water down on the little side table in the hallway.
You remember he didn't break eye contact when he did it.
You remember thinking oh, in a way that had no follow-up sentence. Just oh.
"Y/N."
"Yeah."
"Can I ask you something."
"Yeah."
"Have you been avoiding me tonight."
You'd swallowed. You don't think you'd meant to swallow audibly. You think you did anyway.
"...maybe."
"Why."
"I don't know."
"You don't know."
"I don't know."
His head had tilted. Just a little. The hallway light catching his cheekbone. You remember his cheekbone specifically, because at the time you'd been having a small private crisis about it.
He'd taken one step closer.
You'd taken a step backward. Your back had hit the hallway wall. You don't think he was advancing on you — you think you'd just moved, automatically, the way your body does when you don't know what else to do with it. He'd seen you move. He'd hesitated.
"I can go back to the party," he'd said, quietly.
"...don't."
He hadn't.
He'd taken another step.
And another.
And by the time he was close enough that you could feel his breath on your face, your hands had found the front of his flannel and you hadn't even realized you'd grabbed it. You remember the texture. You remember it was soft — of course his flannel was soft, of course his stupid lumberjack costume was actually a comfortable shirt he wore all the time, of course of course — and you remember that he'd reached up and brushed his thumb against your jaw and that his hand had been warm, warmer than it had any right to be, and his eyes had dropped to your mouth and lingered there for one full second—
And he'd leaned in.
Slowly.
So slowly that you had a thousand chances to stop him.
And he'd stopped, the way he stopped tonight, a breath away from your mouth, and he'd waited.
You can still feel his breath on your lips. Three weeks later. You can still feel it.
You can still feel the way your chest had cracked open with wanting it.
You'd laughed.
You'd laughed because you panicked. You'd laughed because your brain had short-circuited and the only thing it could do was bail. You'd laughed and said something — you can't even remember what, something stupid, something about him being very into character as a lumberjack, something — and you'd ducked under his arm and gone back to the party and you hadn't looked at him for the rest of the night.
You hadn't looked at him for three weeks.
You hadn't let yourself think about the way he'd nodded — that one small, defeated nod — and stepped back. You hadn't let yourself think about the way the warmth had drained out of his eyes. You hadn't let yourself think about any of it, except you have. You have. You've been thinking about it every single night for twenty-one nights and now you're trapped in a snowstorm with him and his hand is six inches from yours and—
You open your eyes.
The fire is still crackling. The wind is still howling. Logan is still sitting on the other end of the couch, looking at the dead TV like it might still come back on if he stares at it long enough.
His hand is still six inches from yours.
His thumb is doing slow, absent little circles on the couch cushion.
By hour five, you have run out of small things to talk about.
You've covered: the snow. The grilled cheese. Logan's classes. Your job. Hannah and Garrett (an easy subject, beloved). Allie and Dean (also easy). The hockey team's various ailments. A weird podcast Logan listens to. A book you've been reading. Whether or not the dog two doors down is technically a husky or a malamute (Logan says malamute, you say husky, you've agreed to disagree).
You have not covered the Halloween party.
You have not covered any of it.
It is becoming a problem.
You're lying on the couch now — actually lying down, your head on the armrest, your legs tucked up. Logan is sitting at the other end with your feet in his lap. You don't know how this happened. You don't know when this happened. At some point you stretched out and he didn't move and now your feet are tucked under his thigh and his hand is resting absently on your ankle and you have no idea how to address this.
So you don't.
You stare at the ceiling.
"Logan."
"Yeah."
"Can I say something."
"Yeah."
"And can you not — can you not be weird about it."
"...okay."
"Promise."
"Y/N, I'm not gonna be weird, just say it."
You take a breath. You take another breath. You think about all the ways to start this sentence and none of them feel right and then you think fuck it and you just—
"At Hannah's Halloween party."
He goes very still.
His hand on your ankle stops moving. You didn't realize it was moving. It had been, apparently, drawing slow little circles with his thumb. It stops.
"Y/N."
"I just — I just want to say something about it. Just once. And then we don't have to talk about it again."
He's quiet for a long moment.
"Okay."
You stare at the ceiling so you don't have to stare at him.
"I didn't laugh because I didn't want you to," you say.
The silence after is huge.
He doesn't say anything. You can hear him breathing. You can feel his hand on your ankle, not moving, not pulling away. You can hear the fire. You can hear your own pulse in your ears, loud.
"...what?" he says, finally. Quietly.
"I laughed. At the party. When you — when we — I laughed and I made a joke and I made it weird and I want you to know that I didn't laugh because I didn't want you to. I laughed because — because I — "
"Because you what."
"Because I panicked, Logan."
You sit up.
You sit up because you can't keep saying this to the ceiling. You sit up and pull your knees up to your chest and you look at him and he is looking at you with the exact expression he had in that hallway three weeks ago. The same one. Exactly the same one. The one that had made you laugh and step back. The one that has been living in the back of your head, rent-free, for twenty-one days.
"Y/N."
"And I've been thinking about it for three weeks and I've been ignoring you for three weeks because I didn't know what to do with it and now I'm — I'm here, and you're being nice to me with grilled cheese, and the power is out, and you're—"
"Y/N."
"And I just — I needed to say it. I needed you to know."
The fire pops.
He looks at you for a long, long moment.
Then he, very slowly, very deliberately, turns to face you fully. His knee bumps yours. He doesn't move it. And he turns. To face you fully. His knee bumps yours. He doesn't move it.
"You panicked," he says.
"I panicked."
"Because you wanted me to."
"Because I wanted you to."
"At the party."
"At the party."
"And you've been avoiding me for three weeks."
"...yes."
"Y/N."
"What."
"I've been avoiding you for three weeks because I thought I made you uncomfortable."
You stare at him.
He stares at you.
The fire crackles. The wind hits the window. The world outside is white and quiet and very, very far away.
"Logan."
"What."
"You absolute idiot."
"I'm the idiot?"
"You — yes! You're the idiot! I've been losing my mind for three weeks—"
"You laughed! In the hallway! You laughed, Y/N!"
"I PANICKED."
"I DIDN'T KNOW THAT."
"WELL I DIDN'T KNOW THAT YOU DIDN'T KNOW—"
You're both laughing now. You don't know when it started. He's got a hand pressed over his face and you've got both hands over yours and the laughter is the slightly-hysterical kind, the relief kind, the oh my god we are such idiots kind. He pulls his hand down. His eyes find yours.
His eyes are doing the thing. The thing from the hallway. The thing you've been thinking about.
He's not laughing anymore.
Neither are you.
"Y/N."
"Yeah."
"Come here."
You don't say anything. You can't. You just — move. You shift across the couch and his hand comes up to cup your jaw and you can feel him shaking a little, just a little, because he's been waiting three weeks and he doesn't quite trust this is real, and his thumb brushes your cheek and he leans in slowly, slow enough that you could stop him, slow enough that the room narrows down to just this, just him, just—
He stops.
A breath away.
Right where you stopped him last time.
Except this time he's not laughing. This time you're not laughing. This time the fire is the only sound in the room and your nose is brushing his and you can feel his breath on your mouth and his eyes flick down to your lips and back up to your eyes and—
"Tell me to," he whispers.
"What?"
"Tell me to, Y/N."
"You're really gonna make me say it."
“After three weeks? Yeah. I really am going to make you say it.”
You close the half-inch between you.
The first touch of his mouth is soft.
Softer than you expected. Softer than you've been imagining for three weeks. Just his lips brushing yours, tentative, like he's still not sure you won't pull away. Like he's giving you one more chance to laugh, to step back, to run.
You don't run.
You press closer.
And something in him breaks.
His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers threading through it, tilting your head back just slightly, and the kiss deepens. Slow. Deliberate. His mouth moves against yours like he's been thinking about this, like he's memorized exactly how he wanted to do this, and you make a sound — small, involuntary — and you feel him smile against your lips.
"Yeah," he murmurs, so quiet you almost don't hear it. "Yeah, baby."
Your brain short-circuits.
Your hands find the front of his hoodie and you pull him closer, and he comes willingly, his other hand finding your waist, his thumb pressing against your hip through your shirt. The firelight flickers across his face when you open your eyes for half a second — gold on his cheekbone, shadow under his jaw — and then you close them again because you can't think and look at him at the same time.
He kisses you like he's been starving for it.
Slow, then deeper. Then slow again. His tongue brushes your bottom lip and you open for him and the taste of him floods your senses — something warm, something faintly sweet, something that makes you forget there's a world outside this couch. His hand tightens in your hair. Not rough. Just — anchoring. Like he needs to hold onto you. Like he's afraid you'll disappear.
You won't disappear.
You're not going anywhere.
Your fingers twist in his hoodie and you pull, and he makes a sound low in his throat that you feel more than hear, and then his hands are on your hips and he's pulling you into his lap.
You go.
God, you go so easily.
Your knees bracket his thighs and his hands slide up your sides, slow, like he's memorizing the shape of you, and you're kissing him harder now, less tentative, more desperate. Three weeks of wanting this. Three weeks of lying awake at night thinking about the way he'd looked at you in that hallway. Three weeks of convincing yourself it didn't matter.
It matters.
It matters so much you can't breathe.
"Y/N," he says against your mouth, and his voice is wrecked. Absolutely wrecked. "God, I've been waiting for this."
"Me too."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark in the firelight, pupils blown, and his lips are red and his hair is a mess where your fingers have been in it and he looks — he looks —
You kiss him again before you can finish the thought.
This time it's you who deepens it. You who licks into his mouth. You who makes him groan, low and rough, his hands gripping your hips hard enough that you'll feel it tomorrow. The fire crackles behind you. The wind howls outside. The world is a snowstorm and you are here, in his lap, in his hands, and nothing else exists.
His mouth moves to your jaw. Then your neck. Slow, open-mouthed kisses that make your breath catch, that make your hands tighten in his hair.
"Logan—"
"I know," he murmurs against your throat. "I know, baby."
You don't know what he knows. You don't know what you were going to say. You just know that his mouth is on your skin and his hands are sliding under the hem of your shirt, fingertips brushing the bare skin of your waist, and you are on fire. You are burning. The fireplace has nothing on this.
You pull at his hoodie.
He helps you.
It comes off in one smooth motion and you have half a second to appreciate the fact that he's in a t-shirt underneath — a soft, worn t-shirt that clings to his shoulders — before you're kissing him again. Your hands find the hem of his shirt and slide underneath, palms flat against his stomach, and he sucks in a breath.
"Y/N."
"Yeah?"
"You're killing me."
"Good."
He laughs. It's breathless and a little bit desperate and it makes something in your chest crack wide open. He catches your mouth again, kisses you slower this time, deeper, his hands sliding up your back under your shirt. His palms are warm. Everything about him is warm. The fire is warm and he is warm and you are warm and the cold outside doesn't exist.
Time moves differently here.
You don't know how long you kiss him. It could be minutes. It could be hours. His hands map your spine. Your fingers trace his shoulders. His mouth moves back to your neck and you tilt your head back and his name falls from your lips like a prayer.
"That's it," he murmurs against your collarbone. "Just like that."
Your shirt is rucked up. His is halfway off. You don't remember taking it off. You don't remember him taking yours off. You just know that there's less fabric between you now and his chest is pressed against yours and you can feel his heartbeat, fast and hard, matching yours.
He pulls back.
Just enough to look at you.
His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek, and his eyes are so soft. So unbearably soft.
"Hi," he says.
You laugh. It comes out shaky. "Hi."
"You okay?"
"I'm—" You don't have words. You shake your head. "Yeah. Yes. I'm—"
"Good." He kisses you again. Soft. Sweet. "Good."
You kiss him back. Slower now. The desperation has ebbed into something gentler, something that aches in a different way. His hands are careful on your waist. Your fingers are gentle in his hair. The fire pops and a log shifts and the orange light flickers across both of you.
When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard.
His forehead drops to yours.
You close your eyes.
His hand is still in your hair. Your hand is still fisted in his shirt. You're half in his lap, half on the couch, tangled together in a way that should be uncomfortable but isn't. His thumb strokes slow circles against your scalp. Your fingers loosen, smoothing out the wrinkles you've made in his shirt.
Outside, the wind howls.
Inside, the fire glows.
You are here. He is here. You are both here.
"I've got you," he murmurs, so quiet you almost miss it.
You open your eyes.
He's already looking at you.
"Yeah," you whisper. "You do."
His mouth curves. Small. Soft. He kisses your forehead. Then your temple. Then, very gently, your mouth.
Synopsis: Fake-dating your best friend was supposed to make your crush jealous. It wasn't supposed to blur every line you'd carefully drawn between you. But when Justin finally texts, you realize there's only one person you trust enough to help you get ready, and Garrett's offer changes everything.
Warnings: None for this part. Mentions of past trauma (vague, non-graphic). Heavy tension, emotional vulnerability. Part 2 will be 18+ NSFW (mutual masturbation, explicit content), minors DNI when part 2 drops.
My phone buzzed on Garrett's desk, and we both froze.
I knew who it was before I even looked. Justin. Of course it was Justin. It was always Justin lately, these little texts that made my stomach flip and my palms sweat and my brain go completely offline. Hey, you around this weekend? Three words and I was a mess.
"Go ahead," Garrett said from where he was sprawled on his bed, controller still in his hands, not even looking at me. "I won't judge."
"You will absolutely judge."
"Okay, I will judge. But go ahead anyway."
I grabbed my phone and read the message again. You around this weekend? So casual. So... maybe something? I'd been fake-dating Garrett for weeks now — long enough that half the campus thought we were actually a thing, long enough that the lines had gotten blurry in ways I definitely wasn't supposed to let them get blurry. The whole point was to make Justin jealous. The whole point was to make Justin notice.
And it was working. He was noticing.
"Well?" Garrett was looking at me now, one eyebrow up, that smirk he got when he thought something was funny playing at the corner of his mouth. "Is it him?"
"Maybe."
"Oh my god, it's definitely him." He sat up, tossing the controller aside. "What'd he say? And before you lie, remember I know your face. I can see your face right now. You're doing that thing where your left eye gets smaller."
"My eye does not get smaller."
"It does. It's cute. What'd he say?"
My heart skipped a beat at the way he said it, at the slight curve of his mouth. I ignored it, focusing back on my phone instead.
"He asked if I'm around this weekend."
Garrett was quiet for a beat. Then: "And?"
"And what?"
"Are you gonna say yes?"
"I don't know. Maybe. Probably. Yes." I set the phone down and flopped backward on his bed, staring at the ceiling. "This is it, right? This is the moment where he finally — where we finally — "
"Have sex?"
"Garrett!"
"What? That's where this is going, isn't it?" He was sitting up now, fully focused on me in that way he had that made it impossible to think about anything else. "That's the endgame. Justin notices you're with me, Justin gets jealous, Justin asks you out, and then what? You sleep with him?"
"I don't — I haven't thought that far ahead."
"Liar."
"Okay, yes. Maybe. Possibly." I turned my head to look at him. "Is that so crazy?"
He didn't answer right away. He was looking at me with that expression I'd learned not to try and read, because it made my chest do weird things. "No," he finally said. "It's not crazy. It's just — you sure about that?"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"Because you've never done this before. And I just — I need to know you're actually ready. That you're doing this for you, not because you feel like you have to."
I felt the air shift between us. Because we both knew what he was really saying. We both knew what he wasn't saying. There were things in my past I hadn't fully unpacked, even with him, and he was the only person who knew enough to ask the question without asking it.
"I won't know unless I try, right?" I said quietly.
"That's one way to find out."
"What's another way?"
Garrett looked at me for a long moment. Then he said, very quietly: "What if you practiced?"
I blinked at him. "What?"
"With me." He said it fast, like if he didn't get it out quick he'd lose his nerve. "You could practice. With me. So that when it actually happens with Justin — if it actually happens with Justin — you're not going in cold. You know what to expect. You know you can handle it."
My heart was doing something crazy in my chest. "Garrett."
"Hear me out—"
"That's not how this works. That's not — we're fake dating. You don't actually — "
"I know we're fake dating." His voice was sharp now, edged with something I couldn't quite name. "I'm not suggesting we actually get together. I'm suggesting you trust me enough to let me help you. Because I know you. And you know me. And there's no one else on this campus you trust more than me, right?"
He was right. Infuriatingly right.
"And," he continued, quieter now, "there's chemistry between us. You know there is. We've been doing this fake relationship thing for weeks and half the campus thinks it's real because of how we are together. So it's not like it'll be awkward. It'll just be — "
"Just be what?"
He held my eyes. "Safe."
I felt something crack open inside my chest.
"No pressure," he said. "No script. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. But if you want to get more comfortable with — with intimacy, with your own body, with someone in the room — I'm right here. And I'm not going anywhere."
I was quiet for a long time. My phone was still on the nightstand, Justin's message glowing on the screen. You around this weekend?
"If I say yes," I finally whispered, "we're just — it's not real. Right? It's just practice."
"Just practice," he agreed. But there was something in his voice that suggested he didn't entirely believe that either.
"And if I change my mind, we stop."
"Immediately. No questions."
"And this doesn't change anything between us."
He was quiet for a beat. Then: "Yeah. Okay. This doesn't change anything."
He was lying. I could tell he was lying. But I was also lying to myself about what I wanted, so maybe that was fair.
"Okay," I said.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Okay. Let's — let's do it."
He exhaled like he'd been holding his breath. "Okay. Um. Now?"
My pulse was hammering. "Now?"
"Or we could wait, I don't — I'm not trying to rush you—"
"No, now is good. Now is — yeah, let's do now."
He stood up, and I watched him pull his shirt off in one smooth motion, dropping it on the floor like it was nothing. Like my entire world hadn't just tilted on its axis. He was all lean muscle and hockey-toned shoulders, dark hair a little messy from running his hand through it, that sharp jaw I'd memorized without meaning to. I'd seen him like this a hundred times — shirtless in the locker room, shirtless after practice, shirtless wandering around the house like he owned the place — but suddenly I couldn't stop looking.
He sat down in the chair by his desk, angling it toward the bed. Toward me. Close enough that I could see everything. Far enough that I wasn't going to forget I was in control.
"You okay?" he asked.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"Your turn," he said. Soft. A little rough around the edges. "Whenever you're ready."
