𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — logan brings you to the rink on his day off, determined to teach you how to skate. you’re terrified of falling, but he doesn’t seem to mind giving you something to hold onto.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — pure fluff, established relationship, boyfriend-coded logan, rink date, reader is scared of falling, hand holding, kissing.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 — 5,294.
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — based on this request 💌 this is exactly why logan is my favourite, he’s so boyfriend-coded it hurts. now i need him to teach me how to skate too. i hope you like it <3 also, i’m still trying to figure out a new aesthetic for my page, tell me what you think
𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⟶ you can find my taglist here!
𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⟶ you can find my masterlist here!
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You should’ve known Logan was up to something the second he told you to wear something warm. Not something nice, not something cute. Warm.
Suspicious. Even more suspicious was the way he smiled when he picked you up, leaning against his car with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, looking far too pleased with himself for a man who’d refused to tell you where you were going.
You stopped on the sidewalk, narrowing your eyes at him.
“No,” you said immediately.
Logan’s brows lifted, all fake innocence. “I didn’t even say anything.”
“You have a face,” you pointed out.
“I do, yeah,” Logan agreed.
“A guilty face,” you corrected.
His grin widened, clearly pleased with himself. “I think you mean a handsome face.”
“I mean a face that says I’m about to regret trusting you.”
He pushed off the car and stepped closer, still smiling like he was trying not to laugh. “You trust me?”
“I’m currently reconsidering.”
“Too late,” he said, reaching for your hand and pulling you in gently before pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “You’re already here.”
“I’m standing on a public sidewalk,” you reminded him. “I can still run.”
“You wouldn’t get far.”
You gasped. “Rude.”
“You’re wearing boots with absolutely zero grip.”
You looked down at your shoes, deeply offended to find that he was right.
Logan laughed, opening the passenger door for you. “Come on, dramatic. You’ll like it.”
“That’s exactly what people say right before ruining my afternoon.”
“I’m not going to ruin your afternoon.”
“Logan,” you warned slowly, “where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise,” he answered.
“I don’t like surprises.”
“You told me last week that you loved surprises.”
“I like surprises when they involve flowers or coffee or you showing up with fries because I had a bad day. I don’t like surprises that start with you telling me how to dress.”
His expression softened at that, just for a second, like the memory caught him off guard in the best way. Then he kissed your hand before letting you climb into the car.
“You’re going to like this one,” he promised.
You didn’t believe him, not fully. But after six months of Logan looking at you like that — soft around the edges, all playful mouth and careful hands — you’d learned that trusting him was usually easier than pretending you didn’t.
So, despite your better judgment, you got in.
The drive didn’t take long. Almost too short, really. Long enough for Logan to keep glancing at you like he was waiting for you to figure it out, but not long enough for you to collect enough evidence to start a real argument. He hummed along to the radio, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel, one hand occasionally drifting over to squeeze your knee.
That should’ve been another warning sign. Logan was always affectionate, but this felt different — almost nervous, like he cared a little too much about whether you liked whatever he’d planned.
You turned in your seat to look at him. “Are you taking me somewhere illegal?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “No.”
“Somewhere dangerous?”
“No,” he assured you.
“Somewhere embarrassing?”
“That depends entirely on how good your balance is.”
Your eyes widened as realization hit, and Logan’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.
“No,” you said at once.
“You don’t even know what I mean yet.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“John Logan,” you warned.
“Oh, full name.” He pulled into the parking lot, still trying not to smile. “Serious.”
You looked out the window, already dreading what you were going to see, and then you saw it.
The rink.
The arena sat quiet under the afternoon light, the parking lot nearly empty and familiar in a way that made your stomach dip. Of course, you’d been here before — for games, mostly, practices sometimes, loud nights full of cheering and whistles and bodies slamming into the boards while Logan flew across the ice like he’d been born there.
But now, it looked different. Almost still. Almost private. Waiting.
Slowly, you turned toward him.
“Absolutely not,” you said.
Logan turned off the car. “You haven’t even heard my pitch.”
“I don’t need to hear your pitch. Your pitch involves putting me on ice, and I happen to enjoy having unbroken bones.”
“I’m going to teach you,” he assured you.
“That’s not as comforting as you think it is.”
“It should be,” he informed you. “I’m very good.”
“At hockey,” you corrected. “Not necessarily at keeping your girlfriend alive.”
Logan placed a hand over his chest. “You wound me.”
“You’re about to wound me physically.”
His laughter softened when he looked at you, and for a second, the teasing faded into something warmer.
“I got the rink for an hour,” Logan said, softer now. “Just us.”
You blinked, caught off guard, and your panic quieted a little.
“Just us?” you asked.
“Yeah.” He shrugged, suddenly looking almost shy, which was rare enough to make your heart squeeze. “I thought it could be fun. You come to games and everything, but that’s different. It’s loud, everyone’s there, and I’m usually trying not to get my teeth knocked out.”
“You make almost getting your teeth knocked out sound very romantic.”
His smile softened. “I wanted you to see it like this.”
The words landed softly, right in the place your panic had been a few minutes ago.
You looked back toward the rink.
This place belonged to Logan in a way you’d never fully understood before. Not all of it, maybe, but a big piece.
The ice.
The boards.
The sound of skates cutting across the surface.
The place where he was confident, fast, and completely impossible to look away from.
You’d watched him here from the stands so many times.
But Logan was right. This was different.
From the stands, Logan had always belonged to the noise.
To the team.
To the game.
To everyone cheering his name.
Today, he’d brought you here in the quiet.
Just you. Just him.
You swallowed, trying very hard not to show how much that touched you.
He laughed, catching your hand before you could pull away and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.
“But I’ll catch you,” he promised.
“You sound very confident,” you said.
“I’m extremely confident,” Logan replied.
“In yourself?” you asked.
“In us,” he said.
That was deeply unfair.
You stared at him, your argument fading under the weight of the way he was looking at you. You sighed dramatically, because apparently that was the closest thing to winning you were going to get.
“If I die, I’m haunting you,” you declared.
“Fair.”
“And I want it on record that I was manipulated.”
“I’ll tell everyone you were brave,” Logan said, like that was generous and not deeply insulting.
“I’ll be dead, Logan,” you pointed out.
“Beautiful and brave,” Logan announced.
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling by the time he got out of the car.
Inside, the rink felt completely different without the crowd. Your footsteps echoed down the empty hallway, and the air smelled cold and clean, carrying that sharp, frozen scent that always clung to arenas. Logan walked beside you, your skates in one hand and his in the other, looking more relaxed with every step.
You noticed it immediately — the way his shoulders loosened. The way his gaze moved around the rink was like he was greeting something familiar. The way he seemed quieter here, but not sad.
Peaceful.
You bumped your shoulder against his, smiling a little. “You like it when it’s empty.”
He glanced down at you, his smile small. “Yeah.”
“Why?” you asked.
He was quiet for a moment, thinking about it.
Then he answered, “It’s quiet. I don’t have to think about anyone watching.”
That made you look over at him again.
He gave a small shrug, keeping his eyes ahead. “During games, everything feels loud. The crowd, Coach, the boys, my own head. I love it, most of the time. But sometimes it’s a lot.”
You nodded.
Logan looked toward the rink entrance, voice softening. “When it’s empty, it’s just the ice.”
Something about that made your chest ache softly.
In six months, Logan had let you see plenty of versions of him. Flirty Logan. Sleepy Logan. Cocky post-win Logan. Frustrated Logan, after bad games, dropped onto your bed and complained into your pillow until you ran your fingers through his hair.
But this felt like another version of him, one he didn’t share with everyone, and the fact that he wanted you here to see it made your chest ache.
You reached for his free hand, and Logan looked down just as your fingers slipped between his, closing his hand around yours without hesitation.
“Well,” you said, because being sincere for too long made your heart feel too exposed, “the ice and your girlfriend’s soon-to-be-concussed skull.”
Logan laughed and squeezed your hand. “You’re not getting concussed.”
“That sounds like a promise you’re not legally allowed to make.”
“I’m not going to let you fall that hard.”
“So you admit I’m going to fall.”
“Baby,” he said, gentle enough to make it worse, “you’re definitely going to fall.”
You stopped walking immediately. Logan made it one more step before turning back to you with a grin.
“I hate you,” you told him.
“No, you don’t,” Logan replied.
“No, I don’t,” you admitted, irritated by how little hesitation there was.
His smile softened at that.
You sat together on the bench near the boards before Logan crouched in front of you, your rental skates in his hands.
“Oh, so we’re doing this now?” you asked.
“That’s usually how skating works,” Logan said.
“I thought maybe we’d admire the ice from a safe, non-life-threatening distance.”
“You can admire it from up close,” Logan offered.
“I can admire it from the floor once I inevitably collapse.”
Logan shook his head, laughing under his breath as he slipped one of your boots off, but he went quiet while helping you into the skate.
The simple intimacy of it caught you off guard, how careful he was with something so small.
His hands were careful around your ankle, his fingers steady as he tightened the laces. You watched him focus, brows slightly drawn together and mouth relaxed in a way that made him look softer than usual. He tugged the laces once, checked the fit, and then looked up at you.
“Too tight?” he asked.
You shook your head, still watching him. “No.”
“Tell me if it hurts,” he said.
“I will,” you promised.
“You say that, but you have a habit of pretending you’re fine.”
You blinked, caught off guard.
Logan kept his gaze on yours, and there was no teasing in it this time.
You looked down at his hands instead, suddenly unable to hold his gaze. “You noticed that?”
“I notice a lot of things about you,” he said softly.
Your heart did something embarrassing.
“Unfortunately for you, skating is going to make it very obvious if I’m not fine.”
“Good,” he said, tying the second skate. “Then I won’t have to guess.”
You were quiet for a moment before you said, “You’re being very boyfriend right now.”
He looked up at you, grinning. “I’m your boyfriend.”
“I know,” you told him. “But you’re being extra boyfriend right now.”
“Is that supposed to be a complaint?”
“No,” you admitted.
His smile softened at that. “Good.”
Once your skates were tied and Logan had his own on, you tried to stand carefully, but the second your blades touched the rubber flooring, your legs betrayed you.
You grabbed Logan’s arm with both hands, immediately abandoning any pretense of dignity.
“No,” you protested.
Logan laughed immediately.
“Don’t laugh at me,” you blurted.
“I’m not,” Logan lied.
“You’re literally laughing.”
“You’re just cute when you panic,” he teased.
“I’m absolutely not panicking.”
“You tried to sit back down before you were even fully upright.”
“That was self-preservation.”
“Come on,” he coaxed, holding both your hands as he stepped backward toward the gate. “Small steps.”
“I’m going to die before we even make it to the ice.”
“You’re not going to die.”
“You don’t know that,” you argued, taking one step forward.
“I do,” he said, as that settled it.
“You’re alarmingly calm for a man leading his girlfriend to her doom.”
His grin widened, but his hands stayed steady around yours. “I’ve got you.”
That shouldn’t have worked as well as it did.
But Logan said it as he meant it, his hands steady around yours, and that made it harder to keep pretending you were scared of anything except how much you trusted him.
So you moved slowly, dramatically, and with a lot of complaining.
By the time you reached the open gate and saw the ice up close, your stomach had dropped. It looked impossibly smooth and impossibly hard, like it’d been waiting all afternoon for the chance to betray you.
Logan stepped onto the ice first, easy as breathing, and the second his blades touched the surface, something in him changed. He became fluid, lighter somehow, at home in a way that felt almost unfair.
Your grip tightened on the boards.
“Absolutely not.”
Logan turned back, skating backward a few easy feet. “You haven’t even stepped on yet.”
“And that’s exactly why I’m still alive.”
He held out both hands, steady and waiting. “Come here.”
You stared at him like he’d lost his mind.
He waited with his hands still outstretched, not impatient or mocking, just there, and you hated how much it helped.
With a deep breath and what you considered heroic bravery, you placed one skate on the ice, only for the blade to slide immediately.
You made a noise that wasn’t your proudest moment, grabbing Logan so fast that his eyes widened before he laughed.
“I’m sorry,” he managed, though he was very clearly not sorry at all.
“I hate ice,” you muttered.
“You’re doing great,” Logan said gently.
“I have one foot on the ice, Logan.”
“And that foot is doing great.”
You glared at him, and he only looked more delighted.
Eventually, with Logan holding you steady and offering encouragement that was only occasionally interrupted by laughter, you got both feet onto the ice.
You didn’t move, but you were on the ice. That counted.
“Okay,” Logan said, standing in front of you with both your hands held securely in his. “Bend your knees a little.”
“My knees are locked because they’ve correctly identified danger.”
“Bend them for me, baby.” You did, but barely. “Good,” he praised.
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t use that voice.”
“What voice?” he asked.
“The soft coach voice,” you accused.
“You don’t like it?” Logan murmured, still smiling.
“I like it too much,” you admitted. “Which is irritating when I’m trying to be mad at you.”
His smile softened into something fond. “Noted.”
He started skating backward slowly, pulling you with him.
The second your skates shifted under you, your entire body tensed.
“Logan,” you warned.
“I’ve got you,” he said, hands steady around yours.
“Logan,” you repeated, grip tightening.
“Look at me,” he said gently.
“I’m looking directly at imminent death.”
“Look at me,” he repeated, his voice softer this time.
You dragged your gaze away from your feet and up to his face.
His eyes caught yours, steady and warm, and despite yourself, some of the panic loosened in your chest.
When you looked down, all you could focus on was the ice, the blades, the strange pressure in your ankles, and the terrifying lack of friction. But when you looked at Logan, there were his hands around yours, his eyes on your face, his body moving backward smoothly like guiding you was the easiest thing in the world.
You moved barely an inch, but it still counted.
“Oh my god,” you whispered, staring at him as he’d just performed a miracle.
Logan’s smile widened, proud and entirely too pleased. “See?”
“I’m skating,” you whispered, like saying it too loudly might ruin it.
“You are,” Logan said, smiling like he was proud of you.
“I’m incredible,” you declared.
“You’re extremely humble,” Logan teased, still guiding you backward.
“I’m basically ready for the Olympics.”
“Let’s maybe get you to the blue line first,” Logan suggested.
You looked down at the ice.
Mistake.
Your skate wobbled, your balance tipped, and a tiny scream slipped out as your arms flailed.
Logan caught you before you could fall, one hand at your waist and the other around your back, pulling you against him before you could hit the ice. Suddenly, your face was pressed to his chest, his laugh soft above you — not loud, not mean, just warm and happy as his arms stayed secure around you.
“I told you,” he murmured, his arms still secure around you. “I’ve got you.”
Your heart was pounding, and not entirely because of the almost-fall.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” you grumbled into his jacket.
“I’m enjoying holding you,” he murmured.
You lifted your head just enough to glare at him, but Logan only smiled down at you, warm and pleased in a way that made the glare hard to maintain.
That was the problem with Logan.
Sometimes it was impossible to stay annoyed with Logan when he looked at you like that, all soft eyes and quiet amusement, like your fear of ice was something precious he’d been trusted to hold.
You swallowed, trying very hard not to melt. “This is very manipulative.”
“What is?” Logan asked, looking far too innocent.
“You being cute while I’m vulnerable.”
His brows lifted, his smile already starting. “You think I’m cute?”
“I regret saying that,” you muttered, because Logan had clearly found a weak spot.
“No, no,” he said, holding you a little closer. “Let’s go back to that.”
“Absolutely not,” you muttered.
“You called me cute,” he reminded you.
“I was briefly concussed,” you replied.
“You didn’t fall,” Logan pointed out.
“I was emotionally concussed,” you replied, like that was a valid medical defense.
He laughed, kissing your forehead before letting you find your balance again.
For the next twenty minutes, Logan tried to teach you how to move.
You learned how to push off gently, keep your knees bent, and stop staring at your feet, even though they felt deeply untrustworthy. You learned that Logan was more patient than you’d expected, repeating himself without getting frustrated, catching you every time you stumbled, and praising even the smallest bit of progress as it mattered.
“That was good,” Logan praised after you managed three tiny glides without clinging to him.
“That was barely movement.”
“That was good,” Logan insisted.
“I moved approximately four inches,” you argued, like the measurement alone proved your point.
“Six, at least,” he corrected.
“Wow,” you deadpanned. “Alert the press.”
He skated a small, effortless circle around you, looking annoyingly beautiful while he did it. “You’re improving.”
“You’re showing off,” you accused.
“Maybe a little,” Logan admitted.
You watched him move, all easy bend in his knees and smooth shifts of weight, as the ice knew him as well as he knew it. He looked different here, not like he belonged to hockey exactly, but like this was one of the places where he could finally breathe.
It was beautiful, and a little intimidating.
Your smile faded before you could stop it, and Logan noticed immediately.
He slowed beside you, his voice gentler now. “Hey.”
You looked down at your skates, avoiding his eyes. “I’m fine.”
“Nope,” Logan said softly.
You sighed, still avoiding his eyes. “What?”
“That’s your fake fine,” Logan pointed out.
You looked up at him, and his face was open, concern softening it in that quiet way he got when he wasn’t trying to turn everything into a joke.
“It’s nothing,” you tried, but Logan’s expression made it clear he didn’t believe you for a second.
“It’s nothing if it made your face change like that.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly, and you hated that.
The day had been sweet and funny and light, and suddenly your eyes were threatening to do something dramatic.
“I just…” You looked past him, toward the empty stands. “You’re so good here.”
Logan blinked, like that wasn’t where he’d expected your mind to go.
“And I know that’s obvious,” you continued quickly, suddenly feeling silly, “because it’s literally your thing. But seeing it up close is different. You look so comfortable here, like this whole place makes sense to you.”
His expression softened at that.
“And I’m standing here like a baby deer with knives strapped to its feet.”
His lips twitched, but he managed not to laugh.
“Don’t laugh,” you warned.
“I’m not,” Logan lied.
“You want to,” you accused, because the corner of his mouth was giving him away.
“A little,” he admitted, the smile fading into something softer. “But keep going.”
You exhaled, suddenly embarrassed. “I don’t know. I guess I hate being bad at something you love.”
Logan went still, as that’d hit somewhere he wasn’t expecting.
And there it was — the small truth you hadn’t meant to say out loud.
It felt ridiculous as soon as you said it. This was skating, not some life-changing test, and Logan was your boyfriend, not someone waiting to judge you. Still, you felt exposed, unsteady in more ways than one.
“I know it’s stupid,” you rushed out. “I just don’t want you to regret bringing me here because I’m terrible at this and scared and—”
“Baby,” Logan said softly.
You stopped, and Logan skated closer until the tips of his skates nearly touched yours. Then he reached for your hands.
“I didn’t bring you here because I needed you to be good at it,” Logan said, his hands steady around yours. “I brought you here because I wanted you here.”
Your chest tightened at that.
His thumbs brushed gently over your knuckles.
“I don’t care if you fall every five seconds,” he said, thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “I don’t care if we spend the whole hour by the boards. I just…” He glanced around the rink, then back at you. “This place is a big part of me. And you’re a big part of me now, too. I wanted those things to overlap a little.”
You stared at him, too full of feeling all at once to know what to say.
Logan’s mouth curved into a faint, self-conscious smile. “Too cheesy?”
“A little.”
“Good cheesy or bad cheesy?” he asked, still looking a little unsure.
You squeezed his hands, smiling despite the ache in your chest. “Devastating cheesy.”
The teasing faded from Logan’s face. “I’m serious,” he said. “I like having you here.”
You swallowed, hating how small your voice sounded. “Even if I’m bad?”
“Especially if you’re bad,” Logan said gently.
Your eyes narrowed at him.
He laughed, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “Because then I get to hold your hands.”
“You’re impossible,” you murmured, but your hands tightened around his anyway.
“You love me,” Logan said, entirely too pleased with himself.
You froze for half a second, and Logan’s smile faltered like the words had caught up to him too late.
It wasn’t the first time either of you had used the word casually. You loved plenty of things — fries, sleep, the way Dean got offended when nobody laughed at his jokes. But this time, it landed differently.
It slipped out softly, easily, too close to something real for a relationship that was still new enough to make you both careful.
Six months was long enough to know his favorite breakfast order, the way he liked his hair touched when he was tired, and all the little things that made him feel familiar. But it was still new enough that some words felt too big to throw around carelessly.
Logan’s expression shifted, a little panic flickering at the edges, and you squeezed his hands before he could take it back.
“I do,” you said quietly, and his breath caught like he hadn’t expected you to let the words stay.
The whole rink seemed to go impossibly still around you.
Your cheeks warmed immediately. “I mean, I do love you,” you rushed out. “Not just because you’re holding me upright, though that’s definitely helping your case.”
Logan stared at you, and for once, John Logan had absolutely nothing to say.
You gave him a nervous smile. “You’re supposed to say something now.”
His mouth opened. Closed. Then he laughed under his breath, soft and a little wrecked.
“I was trying not to say it first,” he admitted.
Your heart stumbled.
“What?” you breathed.
He looked down at your joined hands before looking back up, his eyes softer than you’d ever seen them.
“I didn’t want to scare you.”
“You thought loving me would scare me?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged, suddenly bashful in a way that made you want to kiss him until he stopped looking unsure. “Six months is still new, and you’re careful with stuff like that.”
“I’m careful because you’re terrifying,” you told him.
“I am?” he asked, looking genuinely confused.
“You’re John Logan,” you said.
“That explains absolutely nothing,” Logan said.
“You’re charming, and flirty, and everybody likes you, and sometimes you say things so easily, like they don’t mean anything, but they feel like something to me. I never know if I’m allowed to keep them.”
Something in his face changed, the softness there deepening until it almost hurt to look at.
“You’re allowed,” he whispered, and your throat tightened before you could stop it. “With me, you’re allowed.”
For a second, you stood together in the middle of the ice, hands linked, the quiet rink around you seeming to hold the moment carefully.
Then Logan looked at you and whispered, very softly, “I love you.”
There was no dramatic lead-up, no big speech, no smirk to soften it. Just Logan, standing in the place that felt most like him, giving you something he’d apparently been holding back out of fear.
You smiled, wobbly and helpless. “I love you too.”
His face broke into the sweetest smile, and then your skate slipped, because apparently romance and balance were too much for your body to manage at once.
Logan caught you before you could fall, laughter warm against your hair as you clutched at his jacket.
“Seriously?” Logan laughed.
“I was emotionally compromised,” you defended.
“You used that excuse already.”
“It keeps happening,” you argued.
He kept his hands at your waist, still smiling like he had no intention of ever letting this go.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded, still a little breathless. “Yeah.”
“Good,” he murmured, and then he kissed you right there on the ice.
It was soft at first, his hands steady at your waist while yours fisted in the front of his jacket. Cold air brushed your cheeks, but Logan was warm against you, his mouth gentle and smiling, and you felt the curve of it when he kissed you again, slower this time, like he had all the time in the world and nowhere else he wanted to be.
When he pulled back, your eyes stayed closed for a second.
“Still hate skating?” he whispered.
You cracked one eye open, like even that took too much effort. “I’m considering tolerating it.”
“Look at you. Big progress.”
“Mainly because there’s kissing involved.”
“Yeah, I can definitely work with that.”
You laughed, and he leaned in to kiss you once more, quick and sweet.
After that, you managed to make it a little farther across the ice, and while no one would’ve called it graceful or impressive, it still felt like progress. You even made it halfway around the rink with Logan skating backward in front of you, his hands holding yours as he smiled every time your eyes found him instead of the ice.
“Look at you,” he said, like he was proud enough to make your cheeks warm.
“Don’t hype me up,” you warned. “I’ll get cocky and die.”
“You’re doing great.”
“I’m doing okay.”
“You’re doing great,” he reassured you, his hands steady around yours.
You tried to glare at him, but the smile tugging at your lips ruined it.
Eventually, your legs got tired, and your ankles started to complain, so Logan guided you toward the bench. You nearly fell as soon as you stepped off the ice, but he caught you with a smile and claimed it didn’t count since you technically weren’t skating anymore.
He helped you sit before crouching in front of you again, his hands already moving to untie your skates.
You watched him work in silence, your fingers still cold, your cheeks still warm, and your chest still full from the kiss and the way he’d looked at you when he said he loved you.
“Thank you,” you murmured, watching his hands work at your laces.
Logan looked up from your skates. “For what?”
“For bringing me here,” you said, watching his smile soften. “Even though I complained the whole time.”
“Especially because you complained.”
“You’re too fond of me,” you said, like that was the problem.
“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “I am.”
You leaned forward and pressed your hand to his cheek. Logan turned into your palm without thinking, and the smallness of it almost undid you.
“You really wanted me here?” you asked.
Logan looked up at you, his expression soft. “I always want you where I am.”
Your heart gave a painful little squeeze.
“Stop being romantic,” you whispered, like your voice wasn’t already giving you away. “It’s embarrassing for both of us.”
He grinned, like he already knew the answer. “You love it.”
“I love you,” you corrected.
His expression softened all over again, like he still wasn’t used to hearing it and needed to hear it a hundred more times before he believed it.
He stood before sitting beside you on the bench, close enough that your shoulders brushed. You leaned into him without thinking, and Logan wrapped an arm around you, pulling you into his side.
The rink stayed quiet around you—no crowd, no whistles, no teammates yelling from the boards. No pressure. Just Logan, the ice, and you.
After a while, Logan pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
“So,” he started, his voice light, “second rink date?”
You let out a groan. “Logan.”
“What?” he asked, grinning. “Too soon?”
“I barely made it through the first one.”
“You did more than survive,” he said, smiling down at you.
“I nearly died three times.”
“I caught you three times, so really, you’re welcome.”
“Exactly,” you said. “Dangerous.”
He laughed and gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze.
You tipped your head back to look at him. “Maybe.”
His brows lifted. “Maybe?”
“Maybe we could do this again.”
His smile went soft, though there was no hiding how victorious he looked. “Yeah?”
“If you promise you’ll keep holding my hands.”
Logan looked at you like there was nothing easier in the world to promise.
“Always,” he promised.
He leaned down and kissed you again, soft and slow, while you sat there beside the rink with your skates untied and your fingers curled into his jacket.
You still weren’t sure skating was for you, but you loved the way Logan looked at you every time you tried.
For my acceptance speech, I'd like to thank all of my friends for giving me the strength to go on through trying times and of course, mother Mar for being a star 🌟
bitch this is all you’re gonna get. this life, this face, this body. you better not ‘maybe in another universe’ your way out of everything. sit your ass down and face this. go make tea and have a picnic and read a goddamn book. kiss your loved ones, send that damn text, and hug your siblings. this is all you’re gonna get.
don't think about tomorrow, just celebrate today @burnishedcrown - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
