Check Engine Light // John Logan x Fem!Reader - [Chapter Eleven]
Synopsis: What starts as a simple repair turns into late-night diner runs, coffee deliveries to the garage, and a growing attachment neither of you expects. Logan likes that you talk too much when you're nervous. You like that Logan becomes softer when nobody’s watching.
But as pressure mounts with Logan's hockey career and real life starts pulling at you from opposite directions, you begin to wonder if you’re just a temporary stop in Logan’s fast-moving future.
And Logan realizes far too late that somewhere between oil stains and midnight drives, you became the closest thing he’s ever had to home.
You couldn’t say what songs played on the radio or how many traffic lights you stopped at. Your thoughts remained stubbornly fixed on the garage and on Logan’s face when you’d told him you felt like you were already losing him.
You hated that image. It followed you all the way back to your dorm.
By the time you got to your room, kicked off your shoes, and dropped your bag onto the floor, exhaustion had finally caught up to you. For a while, you tried to distract yourself by changing into sweatpants, washing off your makeup, and straightening up things in your room that didn’t need straightening.
Anything to avoid thinking or looking at your phone. Eventually, you failed. The screen lit up the second you picked it up.
There was a text from Logan, sent twelve minutes ago.
Logan: made it home?
You stared at the message; it was such a normal thing to ask. You sat down on the edge of your bed and typed back.
You: yeah
The response came a few minutes later.
Logan: okay
That was it. You stared at the screen long after the message arrived, just waiting. Not that you expected another text, but that you realized you wanted one. Something stupid, or meaningless. A meme, or a joke, or a complaint about Garrett or Dean or Tucker. Anything that felt normal. Nothing came.
You set the phone on your nightstand and climbed into bed. The room was dark aside from the soft glow of the lamp beside you. You found yourself staring at the ceiling, wondering what he was doing. Was he asleep? Was he replaying the fight too? Was he sitting in his room at his house feeling just as miserable as you did?
Despite everything you’d said that afternoon, despite all of the hurt and frustration and tears, you first instinct was to worry about him.
Eventually, sleep came. Not easily, but… eventually.
The next morning, you woke up before your alarm. For a few seconds you remained half asleep, staring at the pale sunlight that was filtering through the curtains.
Then you reached for your phone, the movement automatic. Your fingers found the screen, and that’s when you realized that nothing was there. No text, no good morning, no heart emoji.
The empty screen shouldn’t have surprised you. Not after the garage and everything you’d said. Now, there was only silence.
You placed the phone face down on the mattress beside you, before immediately picking it back up again, as if another message might have appeared in the last five seconds.
As you got ready for class, you found yourself checking your phone far more often than you wanted to admit. Again, not because you were expecting a message, but that you couldn’t quite stop hoping for one.
By lunchtime, you had convinced yourself that you were being ridiculous. Not because you suddenly felt better about what happened at the garage, but because you were perfectly capable of surviving a few hours without hearing from your boyfriend.
Or former boyfriend. Or whatever you were now. The problem was that you weren’t entirely sure which category applied.
You hadn’t broken up, neither of you had said the words. There hadn’t been some dramatic declaration in the middle of Logan & Sons.
But, you also hadn’t left with a plan. There was no ‘let’s work on this’ or ‘let’s take a few days and talk again’. Not even a ‘we’ll figure it out.’
You hated ambiguity. By the time you’d reached the student center between classes, you’d checked your phone often enough that you shoved it into the bottom of your bag out of sheer stubbornness.
That lasted twenty-three minutes. Not that you were counting.
You were sitting at a table near the windows, attempting to read an article for class, when Mel dropped into the chair across from you.
One look at your face and her expression immediately softened.
“Oh.”
You groaned.
“It’s not that bad.”
Mel leaned back in her chair.
“The fact that you’re arguing before I even ask a question tells me it’s bad,” she said.
You rolled your eyes.
Mel watched her for a moment before speaking again.
“Have you heard from him?” she asked.
You looked down at your half-finished assignment in front of you.
“No.”
Mel nodded slowly.
“Have you texted him?”
“No.”
The time, Mel’s eyebrows lifted. You immediately knew what you were thinking.
Normally, you would’ve. Normally, if there was tension, you wre the first person to reach across the divide. The first to call and smooth things over. This time, you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You were just tired.
Mel seemed to understand that without you saying it. She reached across the table and squeezed your hand briefly.
“What do you want to happen?”
The question caught you off guard. Everyone kept asking what had happened, but nobody had asked that. You looked away for a moment.
“I just want him to understand.”
The words came out before you could think about them. Mel nodded.
“I don’t need him to agree with me, or think I’m right about everything. I just need him to understand why it hurt.”
You looked down at your hands. What you needed was for Logan to understand that it wasn’t one individual moment; it was that those moments had stacked on top of each other, week after week, until you’d felt more alone in the relationship than you ever thought possible.
Mel was quiet for a few seconds, then she said softly, “I think he does.”
You looked up, “What?”
“I think he does understand. Maybe not all of it.”
She paused before adding, “From what you’ve told me, he looked pretty devastated.”
You laughed weakly.
“Yeah.”
That was one word for it. The way he’d looked when you’d told him you felt like you wre losing him. The way his face had changed when he’d admitted he didn’t know how to fix it. Hearing him admit he was lost had made the situation feel frighteningly real.
Mel tilted her head, “What are you thinking?”
You hesitated and then answered honestly, “I miss him.”
“Of course you do,” Mel said, almost expecting that answer.
You shrugged, feeling stupid.
“You don’t stop loving somebody because you had one terrible conversation,” Mel said.
You nodded. You just wanted to believe that the boy you loved was still somewhere underneath all of the pressure and expectations. You just wasn’t sure if either of you knew how to find him anymore.
--
The first few days were the hardest. You hadn’t realized how much of your daily routine had quietly wrapped itself around Logan until suddenly he wasn’t woven through it anymore.
His absence showed up in strange places. A walk across campus where you instinctively glanced toward the hockey facilities because that was usually where you’d find him. A funny story during class that had you reaching for your phone before remembering that there was nobody else you wanted to text it to. A late-night trip to the dining hall where you automatically checked your messages, expecting some complaint about one of the guys eating someone else’s leftovers.
Every time it happened, the realization stung all over again. There was no clear ending to mourn, because again, you hadn’t broke up. There was just a conversation at the garage and a silence that neither of you seemed willing to break.
By Friday, you had become embarrassingly aware of how often you looked for him. A campus that once seemed enormous, now seemed determined to throw you into each other’s orbit.
The first time was outside the student center. You were leaving a class meeting when you spotted a group of hockey players coming down the front steps. Your stomach dropped before your brain fully processed why.
Logan.
One glimpse of him and every carefully constructed emotional wall that you’d spent days building developed cracks. He was laughing at something Dean said, his head tilted back slightly. His shoulders were relaxed, and for a brief moment, he looked exactly like himself.
The sight hit you harder than you expected. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed seeing him smile.
As if sensing something, Logan looked up. Your eyes met across the crowded walkway.
Dean kept talking, Garrett said something, but Logan stopped walking.
The smile faded from his face; not because he was unhappy to see you, but because now he looked uncertain. For a second, you thought he might walk over and part of you desperately wanted him to. However, you simply looked at each other.
Then, you forced yourself to keep walking. By the time you glanced back, the hockey players were moving again and Logan disappeared into the crowd.
The encounter lasted less than ten seconds, but it ruined the rest of your afternoon.
--
That night, you were halfway through answering emails when your phone buzzed. The sound immediately drew your attention.
The screen lit up on your desk, and you saw the contact name. Logan. For a moment, you simply stared at the name. Finally, you tapped the screen, opening the message.
Logan: Hope your presentation went okay today
You read it twice. No apology, no request to talk or emotional speech. It was just a simple message, but it was significant. You hadn’t told him you had a presentation today, at least, not recently. Then, you remembered. Three weeks earlier, lying in bed together at his house, you told him you had the presentation and you were nervous about it.
Logan had apparently remembered, and that realization caught you off guard.
You: it went well
You stared at the message before finally hitting send. The bubbles appeared to show he was typing.
Logan: good, I know you were stressed about it
The words made your chest tighten. They sounded like Logan. Just your Logan.
You looked at the screen for a moment, and then set your phone aside without answering. You didn’t know how to continue the conversation. For the first time since the garage, something other than sadness settled in your chest. Not happiness, not yet, but the faint, cautious realization that maybe silence wasn’t the only thing waiting on the other side of that conversation.
The conversation didn’t continue that night. For some reason, that made you respect it more.
--
The next afternoon, you found yourself at Malone’s, grabbing a quick lunch. What you didn’t realize, was that Allie would be your waitress that day.
You hadn’t spoken to Hannah or Allie more than a few texts here and there, and you figured that they’d gotten the story from Logan or their boyfriends.
Allie appeared next to you at your table, putting your drink down. She looked like she was deciding whether to say something or not.
“Dean’s losing his mind,” she finally said.
You looked up.
“What else is new?”
“No, seriously.”
“What happened?” you asked curiously.
“Logan left here after twenty minutes yesterday.”
You blinked, “What?”
“Twenty minutes. Dean thought he was dying.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
“Why?” you asked.
Allie shrugged, “Said he was tired.”
You looked down at the menu in front of you. The answer shouldn’t have mattered, and yet you couldn’t stop yourself from thinking about it. Logan loved this place, not because he loved the place itself, but because that’s where everyone was: his team, his friends, and the noise and energy he’d always seemed to thrive on.
You nodded.
Allie watched you carefully, “He’s been weird lately.”
The comment was casual, and you immediately knew there was more coming. You sighed.
“Allie.”
“What?”
“Don’t.”
A grin tugged at her mouth, “I’m not doing anything.”
“You absolutely are.”
She laughed, and then surprisingly, let the subject drop as she took your order.
That relief lasted approximately twenty minutes, long enough for you to convince yourself that Allie would drop it. Then, Allie appeared to drop off your food.
“You know what’s even weirder?” Allie asked.
You groaned.
“Allie—”
“He turned his phone off.”
Your head snapped up before you could stop yourself.
“See?”
“Allie.”
“He turned it off.”
“People turn their phones off.”
“No they don’t.”
You opened your mouth, and closed it again.
Logan practically lived with his phone attached to him lately. The image of him constantly checking messages at Malone’s flashed through your mind, the memory still stinging.
“You’re just as bad at meddling as Dean,” you said, trying to change the subject.
Allie laughed and walked off. You couldn’t stop wondering why Logan would shut his phone off. Not because you thought it had anything to do with you, that would’ve felt dangerously close to hope. Still, the thought stayed with you for the rest of the afternoon.
That evening, you attended the Briar U Hockey game. You spent most of the drive to the arena debating whether you should go at all. That argument was ridiculous; of course you wre going. You’d been going to games long before the garage argument happened, long before you’d start wondering if you and Logan were slowly slipping through each other’s fingers.
One conversation didn’t get to take away hockey and supporting him from you, even if part of you worried that seeing him might hurt.
The arena buzzed with its usual energy. Students packed the stands in blue, white, and red. You were wearing one of Logan’s old practice jerseys, the 22 and LOGAN in bright white letters on your back.
Music blasted through the speakers, and the ice gleamed beneath the bright arena lights. Everything looked exactly the same. You weren’t sure if that was comforting or upsetting. You found your usual seat and settled in just as warmups began, and the boys skated out onto the ice. You felt your heart jump as you looked for number 22 but didn’t see him yet.
A few minutes later, Dean spotted you. Even from halfway across the ice, he waved enthusiastically. You laughed and lifted a hand in return to wave. Some things never changed.
A few of the remaining boys who weren’t there for warmups came out later, Logan and Garrett included. Their backs were to you as they all stood for the national anthem to play.
Then, the game started. For a while, you managed to lose yourself in it. The speed and noise were distracting you. Then, Logan stepped onto the ice, and suddenly nothing felt simple anymore.
You watched as he effortless glided across the ice, commanding attention. The same person you’d spent days trying not to think about, but also missing. You watched him adjust his gloves after the whistle was blown, and he glanced towards the stands.
Then, he froze. Only for a second, it was a blink-and-you-miss-it moment. But, you saw it, because he was looking directly at you. Even from across the rink, you could see the surprise in his expression. The realization that you’d come. Neither of you looked away from each other. Then, the referee skated into position, and the moment ended as Logan got ready for the game to resume.
For the rest of the first period, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. It was like the ground beneath you was finally beginning to move after standing perfectly still for the last few days.
The game was one of Logan’s best in weeks. You had realized it sometime during the second period, as he scored, and the announcers kept saying his name. You heard the crowd around you start whispering about him. He looked different during the game; lighter.
The tension you’d grown accustomed to seeing in him seemed less pronounced somehow. He was still playing hard, still carrying the pressure that came with being one of Briar’s biggest NHL prospects, but there was a confidence to him tonight that had been missing lately.
Twice, you caught Dean looking toward the stands and grinning. You caught Garrett doing the same thing. The second time, Garrett pointedly looked from Logan to you and then shook his head as if he had just solved a mystery.
You immediately pretended not to notice. Unfortunately, Garrett saw you notice. His grin widened.
You spent the rest of the period avoiding eye contact with any of them entirely. By the time Briar secured the win, the arena was loud enough to shake the bleachers. Logan had scored twice.
Student surged toward the exits, excitedly talking about the game and beating one of the team’s biggest rivals. The team gathered near center ice with their coach. You remained seated for a few extra moments, letting the crowd thin.
A month ago, you would’ve lingered outside the locker room, assuming you’d see him afterward. Maybe you’d grab food, or end up at his house. The possibilities had once felt endless, but now they felt impossibly far away.
You stood, standing there for a moment before you headed toward the exit. It wasn’t because you wanted to leave, but you’d spent too much time waiting already and didn’t know what to say to him. You felt strangely proud of yourself, because leaving hurt, but you did it anyway.
The text arrived ten minutes later. You were stopped at a red light when your phone buzzed in the cupholder beside you.
You saw the name flash across the screen. Logan.
The light turned green, and you forced yourself to keep driving. Only when you reached your dorm parking lot did you finally check it. The message was short.
Logan: thanks for coming tonight
You stared at it and read it again. There was just gratitude.
You: you played really well
The response came a minute later.
Logan: I wasn’t sure if you would come
The honesty of it caught you off guard. It felt like Logan. For the first time in days, you allowed herself to imagine what he was doing. The post-game interviews were probably over by now. Was he headed to Malone’s?
You looked back at your phone.
You: I’ve never missed one of your home games
The response took longer this time, long enough that you wondered if he’d gotten pulled into something. When the message finally appeared, it was only one sentence.
Logan: I know.
Two words. Somehow, they carried more weight than entire conversations. It was something deeper, like he was saying ‘I know you’ve always been there.’
Your phone buzzed again.
Logan: Can I ask you something?
Your heartbeat immediately quickened. The question felt different. You stared at the screen for several seconds before replying.
You: okay
This time, the pause stretched longer. Long enough that you wondered if he’d changed his mind. Finally, the bubble popped up showing he was typing.
Logan: would it be ok if I took you to get coffee sometime next week?
You read the message a few times. Not dinner, not a date, just coffee. Something simple, and low pressure. The type of request that acknowledged exactly where they were, and didn’t assume anything.
Something inside of you softened, just a little. Not enough to erase the hurt and undo the last few weeks. But, to remind you why this had been so difficult in the first place. Logan wasn’t trying to force his way back into your life. He was knocking, and waiting to see if you would answer.
summary: what happens when the mom and dad of the group become, well, mom and dad?
request: yes/no
warnings: swearing, hints to smut if you squint, pregnancy.
word count: 2.63k
authors note: this was actually a lot of fun to write because the idea was like all mapped out in my head before I wrote it tbh after our last piece John Logan I figured we needed to give him something more cutesy so here it is.
series masterlist
The joke started the same way they always did with the group.
Casually, then completely unavoidable.
It was Dean who said this one first.
You were reorganising the boys fridge one night after he turned the takeout containers into a game of tetris “relax mom.” It made Logan laugh as he didn’t look up from his phone while he sat at the kitchen counter.
He claimed he was there as moral support, but it was really because he just wanted to be near you “don’t encourage her.” He warned “she gets worse when shes stressed.”
His words were met with a gasp “excuse me?” You scowled letting your mouth fall open when you turned to glare at him.
Tucker grinned as he stole the chicken wings from your hands “careful dad, mom might get ya.” And somehow it just stuck.
Mom and Dad. You and Logan.
It wasn’t even meant to be the case at first but somewhere along the way, the two of you became the glue that kept everyone together.
Logan kept track of the practice schedule and ensured that everyone ate the food that Tucker cooked.
You kept a list of everyone’s birthdays, deadlines, arguments, and who wasn’t talking to whom.
Logan calmed the chaos, and you seemed to organise it. And somehow the two of you worked perfectly together.
So of course, the jokes kept on coming.
“Ask mom if I can go out.” Dean would say as he peered into the living room where you read a book, “Logan said no.” You knew all about the house arrest Logan had Dean on because he needed to study for a major midterm.
Your brother huffed as he sprawled out on the couch, resting his feet on your lap “hey!” You scoffed, watching him grab a carrot stick from your plate, “your boyfriend is being dramatic again.” His words came as he stuck his tongue out at you.
The sound of Logan complaining about the blocked shower drain travelled down the stairs. And Garrett was surprisingly calm about it, which was saying something as he’d once sworn that Logan wouldn’t live long enough to graduate if he dated you.
Now he just complained like Logan was already a part of the family.
Which in a way, now that your dad didn’t totally hate the idea, he was.
Except lately, you couldn’t laugh at it the same way.
Because something had shifted and only you knew why.
It all happened three weeks ago.
You were standing in your bathroom, staring at the sink as if it had personally betrayed you.
Two pink lines and those words you hated so much to see.
You were pregnant.
And the world did not stop. That was the most terrifying part. It just kept on going.
Outside of that room, Hannah was laughing at something on her laptop while Allie was humming as she got ready for class. Someone could even be heard yelling in the hallway about how they needed coffee.
Normal life kept on going on, while yours had just split into two.
You pressed your hand to your stomach instinctively; it was still flat and still normal.
Nothing looked different about you, yet everything was.
You were meant to see the boys later that day for lunch and you had no clue how to tell them.
Garrett took so long to accept that Logan was your boyfriend, but this was a different ballpark.
And Logan loved you like you were something delicate that he had to protect.
You were terrified that this would break that.
Logan on the other hand, was feeling like an idiot.
He was ready to marry you, as if you asked him to go to Vegas tomorrow to do it he would.
But it felt like you were ready to break up with him.
So rather than talking about it, he picked up whatever he could. Odd jobs to fill the time that he wasn’t spending with you.
And for the most part, that really did work. He was able to make himself so busy that there wasn’t time during the day to think about what you might have been doing that didn’t involve him.
But at night?”
That was a whole different story.
He’d park his truck outside your building and send you a text begging to let him come up. He knew he could ask Allie or Hannah to let him in, but he wasn’t going to go against your boundaries like that. If you didn’t want to talk to him, well, he was convincing himself that he was okay with that.
So instead, he would hide away in his room, scrolling through the album on his phone of the two of you that you organised one day while he studied.
It had everything from the time the two of you used to sneak around before anyone knew you were seeing each other. All the way to when Dean and Tucker would crash your couple pictures, swearing that ‘your kids’ have to be in them too.
It made him laugh, honestly remembering how you’d shoo the boys away so that Allie could get a decent picture. Then Logan got to the one that Hannah took.
It was from a party after a big win when the couples were playing each other in beer pong, despite the fact that Garrett swore he should be the one to play with his sister.
Logan’s arm was wrapped around your waist as you had your tongue out, trying to focus on the throw. All the boy was focused on, both now and then, was you.
Hannah couldn’t help it when her eyes stayed glued to the sight “I know Wellsy, he loves her more than he loves hockey.” Garrett’s voice was louder than he intended it to be as he spoke.
The words made your cheeks redden as Logan tightened his grip on you “no I don’t.” He shook his head, convincing nobody, as his eyes were still on you.
Garrett let out a dry laugh “I’m pretty sure she could ask you to drop hockey and move to Vermont to become tree farmers, and you’d do it.” Logan couldn’t argue with that because it was actually true.
That boy was ready to move to the end of the world for you if you asked him to.
You furrowed your eyebrows “that's not true.” You mumbled, finally turning your attention back to your boyfriend. Your eyes settle onto his lips “we’d totally farm goats.” Your words made everyone laugh as you kissed Logan.
It earned a groan from Garrett with a complaint for you to just throw the ball. And all you did was flip him off in response.
The day when you knew you could no longer hide it from Logan came; it was gameday and also your one-year anniversary.
After the game, the two of you had plans to go out, but with the way you had been acting. Logan honestly wondered if you were even going to be at the game.
That was how Garrett ended up at your door.
Well more like in your room.
Because that’s where you found your brother sat, comfortably on your bed when you came back from getting a smoothie with Allie “oh please make yourself at home.” You grumbled letting your bag drop to the floor.
Your brother couldn’t help it when he let out a soft laugh “look are you okay?” The question made your eyes widen.
Because you were so clearly not okay “I’m perfect Gar.” You forced the lie out as you sat on your chair.
“No you’re not.”
You rolled your eyes “why’d you ask me if you already knew the answer?” You sucked at your teeth crossing your arms in the process “you’ve been avoiding your boyfriend.” The point made you feel nauseous all over again.
Garrett saw your reaction. It was like his little twinstinct to know exactly when your slight movement meant something so much worse “if he did something-” he was already getting up ready to march back to the house.
You were quick to press your hand into his chest, stopping him from leaving your room “he didn’t do anything I swear.” As much as you loved your brother, you knew that if he could. You’d be wrapped in bubble wrap and hidden away from the world. And even then he’d still worry himself sick over protecting you.
Garrett leaned against your table “then what is going on with you?” He knew that your dad had been blowing up both of your phones to meet his fiance but Garrett knew you ignored him in the best of times, so why would this affect you now.
Staring at the ground, you frowned, “I need to tell Logan first.” If you could have it your way you’d never tell your brother, and just say you fund your child on the street.
You couldn’t help it when you sighed, pulling your brother into a hug that usually made you feel better “I just need to find the right time.” You knew your answer didn’t make sense but when you were going with it.
Garrett nodded, not because he wanted to believe you but because he knew he had no choice in the matter “but please tell him before he eats himself up over something that isn’t his fault.” You wanted to point out that your boyfriend was in fact the exact reason why you were in this position.
But you couldn’t so instead you nodded “I promise I’ll tell him after the game tonight.” You nodded, forcing a smile onto your lips when your brother kissed your head.
The game should have been an easy win. A game where they could have put up a B team and still won by 3 goals. But instead, it was an utter shitshow.
Logan spotted you in the crowd immediately; he always did the moment he stepped onto the ice. But tonight it seemed that once he knew you were there, he actually didn’t want to see you. He got into a fight, was thrown against the boards and spent more time in the penalty box than actual time on the ice as the coach pulled him off, seeing that his head wasn’t in the right place.
Garrett actually pitied his teammate; he never thought there’d be a day when he thought you were in the wrong and that whatever issues you two were having would be your doing.
So when you saw the look your brother gave you at the end of the game, you knew you were to stand by Logan’s truck waiting for him as the game ended. Or else Garrett would get involved, and quite frankly, nothing ever went well when he did.
And that was exactly where Logan found you after the game “I’ll see you guys later.” He announced, no longer looking at Dean or Tucker; instead, his eyes had settled on you.
You sent him a soft smile as the boys waved at you “hey.” Your voice was quiet as your boyfriend threw his bag into the back of his truck.
He remained silent, “look we need to talk.” Your announcement almost made him laugh.
Because how was it that you got to decide that tonight was when you’d finally talk “nice to know that my girlfriend still knows how to do that.” The comment came off harsher than it was intended to.
The boy sucked at his teeth when you reached for him “look I know I have been an ass-“ Logan had to admit he was glad you had more emotional awareness than your brother “it’s our one-year anniversary and I didn’t even know if I still had a girlfriend!”
You wanted to respond, you really did. But you felt your stomach churn, and suddenly you were bent over in the direction of the nearest bushes.
Instinctively, he reached for your hair, pulling it out of your face as he rubbed your back “you eat something bad today?” Logan cocked his head, knowing that it wasn’t like you to throw up.
You spat out a glob of spit as you shook your head “it’s what I wanted to tell you about.” You groaned, feeling your stomach churn again.
To his credit, Logan didn’t push until you were standing upright again “I wanted to have some speech, but that clearly isn’t gonna happen.” you brought your sleeve up to wipe your mouth, not caring that you’d regret it later.
“I’m pregnant.”
Your words made him freeze as his eyes went wide “we’ve been careful.” He spoke as if his word was gospel.
Your cheeks reddened at the memory, “not always.” Your eyes trailed back to the truck. It was a night where both your place and his were busy and the two of you just couldn’t keep your hands off of each other. So you figured that his car was the best place for the two of you to be.
Logan frowned as he furrowed his eyebrows “this is what you’ve been avoiding me for?” He realised as he shoved his hands into his pockets, “did you think I’d leave you?”
He wasn’t angry.
He was hurt.
Hurt that you would think that he’d leave you, and especially hurt that you thought he’d make you deal with this alone.
But you shook your head as tears welled in your eyes, “i thought you’d hate me.” Your voice broke as it broke something in him.
He hated seeing you sad “hate you?” His voice broke as his hands cupped your cheeks “are you actually insane?” He would have laughed if you weren’t upset.
That was the thing that broke you. Finally, tears streamed down your cheeks and Logan didn’t think twice about pulling you into his embrace “I’m scared.” Your confession made his heart break as he could only think about how long you had been dealing with that emotion alone.
His fingers ran through your hair, immediately soothing you “we will figure this out together, okay.” His words made you nod as you looked up at him.
His eyes didn’t hesitate to meet yours.
He was still him.
He was still yours.
And just like that Logan let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding “I thought you were leaving me.” It made your heart hurt that he could have thought that it was the issue.
You shook your head “I thought I was ruining your life.” You whispered back.
Just like that, his expression changed. It changed into something solid, yet protective in a way that made your knees weak “you are not ruining my life.” He said firmly, “you’re my life.” His words were easy to roll off his tongue as if he hadn’t said the one thing that finally made the last few weeks feel like they were nothing.
So the two of you stood there in silence as his hand rubbed slow circles on your back before his tired laugh finally broke it “I’m gonna be a dad.” You nodded, matching his tone “we’re gonna be parents.” He grabbed your hand, giving it a solid squeeze.
Before his face dropped, “your brother is actually going to kill me.” His words made you really laugh now, that was something you realised a while ago.
Logan guided you into the passenger seat of his car before he made his way to his own “you know,” you trailed off when he put the key into the ignition.
You leaned over to kiss his lips “we could always just become goat farmers in Vermont.”
He looked as if he was genuinely considering it “yeah but then our kid is gonna relate to Noah Kahan, and do we really want that?”
Summary: Dean has never held on to anything — not girls, not feelings, not the memory of a childhood best friend who disappeared across an ocean at fourteen. Then you walk back into his life on a brisk October morning, and every carefully constructed wall he never knew he had built comes down in an instant. You came to Briar to disappear. You didn’t count on being found
Warnings: 18+ content
The late October air sweeping across the Briar University quad is brisk enough to make a normal person shiver, but Dean runs hot. He always has.
Right now, he’s walking backward, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, completely ignoring the fact that he’s navigating a crowded campus blind. But then again, Dean rarely has to watch where he’s going. People naturally move out of his way.
“I’m just saying,” Dean says, raising his coffee cup to emphasize his point, his voice carrying that familiar, effortless charm that makes half the girls within a fifty-foot radius turn their heads. “It’s not about the quantity, gentlemen. It’s about the experience. The mutually beneficial exchange of joy.”
Logan snorts, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his broad shoulder. “Mutually beneficial exchange of joy? Did you read that in a poetry textbook, Di Laurentis? Or is that just the line you used on the kappa sig girl last night?”
“First of all, her name was Britney,” Dean corrects, flashing a bright, wicked grin. “And second, I didn’t use any lines. I am simply a purveyor of good times. I like women. Women like me. It’s the circle of life, Elton John style.”
“You’re a menace,” Garrett mutters, though he’s grinning. Garrett is walking beside Beau, who is casually tossing a small foam football between his hands. Tucker brings up the rear, quiet and imposing, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his denim jacket.
“I am a public servant,” Dean fires back, spinning around so he’s finally walking forward, falling into step with the rest of the hulking athletes. Together, the five of them take up the entire sidewalk. They are Briar’s royalty — hockey stars and the football golden boy — and they know it. But Dean wears the crown with a different kind of ease. He doesn’t have the brooding intensity of Garrett or the quieter, intimidating stoicism of Logan. Dean is sunshine and sin, wrapped in a designer jacket that probably costs more than a semester’s tuition.
And he has nothing to be stressed about. His parents are two of the most high-powered attorneys on the East Coast. His mother’s family basically owns half the luxury hotels in the country. He grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut, in a house that looked like a castle, raised by parents who were shockingly down-to-earth and irritatingly in love with each other. He knows what love looks like. He just has absolutely no interest in it right now. Why tie himself down when the world is full of beautiful, willing women?
“You’re going to catch something one of these days, man,” Beau chuckles, spiraling the foam ball into the air and catching it effortlessly. “And I don’t mean feelings.”
“I am pristine,” Dean says, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I am a beacon of health and vitality.”
“You’re a slut,” Logan corrects cheerfully.
“I am comfortably sex-positive,” Dean counters, winking at a passing group of cheerleaders who immediately dissolve into giggles. He doesn’t break his stride. He rarely spends a night alone, and he likes it that way.
“Hey, watch it,” Tucker says suddenly, putting a massive hand on Dean’s shoulder to stop him from plowing into a cluster of students gathered near the science building.
Dean halts, taking a sip of his coffee. He glances over the heads of the crowd, his eyes scanning the courtyard purely out of habit. Looking for a pretty face, a nice smile, someone to spend the evening with.
That’s when he sees you.
Dean stops breathing. Actually, physically forgets how to inhale.
Across the courtyard, standing beneath the shade of a massive oak tree, is a woman. And not just any woman. She stands out against the sea of Briar University hoodies and sweatpants like a diamond sitting in a pile of gravel. She’s wearing a tailored camel trench coat, tied neatly at the waist, over a dark, elegant turtleneck. Her posture is immaculate — straight-backed, poised, the kind of posture drilled into someone through years of etiquette classes and formal dinners.
But it’s not the clothes that make Dean’s heart violently hurl itself against his ribs. It’s the face.
He blinks hard. He shakes his head, rubbing his free hand over his eyes. No, he tells himself. You’re hallucinating, Di Laurentis. Too much studying. Too much caffeine. Because it can’t be you. You are an ocean away.
You are the daughter of his mother’s best friend. The girl who grew up in the estate next door in Greenwich. The girl who used to build terribly constructed forts with him in the woods, who used to scrape her knees trying to keep up with him, who he used to share all his secrets with before the world got complicated. You were joined at the hip, practically a permanent fixture in the Di Laurentis household, until right before high school.
That was when your father was appointed as the Ambassador to the United Kingdom. And just like that, you were whisked away to London.
The distance had been a sudden, sharp ache that Dean had never fully known how to process. Over the years, the letters and FaceTime calls had dwindled as you both grew up and built separate lives. Last he heard from his mother, you were studying at Oxford. You were thriving. You were also, allegedly, dating some British aristocrat. A Lord, or an Earl, or a Viscount. Something pretentious. Not that Dean was jealous. He absolutely wasn’t jealous. He was a Briar hockey star; why would he care about some tea-drinking Earl in tweed?
But the woman standing under the tree looks exactly like the girl he used to know, overlaid with a breathtaking, mature beauty that makes his throat go dry.
“Whoa,” Beau murmurs, having followed Dean’s line of sight. “Who is that? She looks like she belongs on the cover of Vogue, not outside the geology building.”
“Transfer student?” Garrett guesses, narrowing his eyes.
“I call dibs,” Logan says immediately.
“Shut up,” Dean snaps. The harshness of his own voice surprises him, and it definitely surprises the guys, who all turn to look at him in bewilderment.
Dean ignores them, his eyes locked on the figure under the tree. The woman is talking to two girls from Dean’s sports psychology class. She looks slightly shy, her hands clasped elegantly in front of her.
Then, one of the girls says something, and the woman laughs.
It’s a soft, musical sound, ringing clear across the crisp autumn air.
Dean drops his coffee.
The paper cup hits the concrete, splashing warm, brown liquid over his pristine white sneakers, but he doesn’t even notice. He would know that laugh anywhere. He has heard it a thousand times in his childhood — when he fell off the monkey bars, when he told a terrible joke, when they stayed up past midnight watching movies they weren’t supposed to see.
“Y/N?” Dean breathes.
He doesn’t realize he’s moving until he’s already shoving past a group of freshmen.
“Whoa, Dean! Where are you going?” Tucker calls out.
Dean ignores them. He closes the distance across the courtyard in long, frantic strides. His heart is pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against his sternum. As he gets closer, he raises his voice, the desperation bleeding through.
“Y/N!”
You pause. The polite smile falters on your lips as you hear your name. You turn, your eyes scanning the chaotic campus crowd in confusion. You look bewildered, slightly out of your depth, a delicate flower suddenly dropped into the chaotic wilderness of an American college campus.
Then, your eyes land on him.
Dean stops a few feet away, his chest heaving as if he just skated three periods back-to-back.
You stare at him. Your wide, expressive eyes blink once. Twice. Your lips part in shock. You take in the messy blonde hair, the broad shoulders that have filled out significantly since you were fourteen, the familiar, handsome face that has haunted your memories for years.
“Dean?” Your voice is a soft gasp, carrying a subtle, elegant British lilt that completely wrecks him.
“Holy shit,” Dean breathes out. “It’s really you.”
Before you can even formulate another word, Dean crosses the remaining distance. He doesn’t think. He just acts. He throws his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of you. You smell like expensive vanilla and Earl Grey tea, sophisticated and warm and so intensely you that it makes his head spin.
For a second, you freeze, completely shocked by the sudden, overwhelming embrace. But then, instinct takes over. You melt against him, your arms wrapping around his waist, holding onto him with a fierce, quiet desperation.
The entire courtyard seems to stop.
“Is that … Dean Di Laurentis?” A girl whispers loudly nearby. “Is he hugging someone?”
“Like … romantically?” Another asks in disbelief. “I thought he didn’t do public affection.”
“I thought he only hugged girls when they were horizontal.”
Dean hears the whispers, but he couldn’t care less. He squeezes you tighter, lifting you off your feet just a fraction of an inch, relishing the feeling of you in his arms. It’s a completely foreign sensation for him — touching a woman not with the intent to seduce, but out of overwhelming adoration and relief.
When he finally, reluctantly pulls back, he keeps his hands on your shoulders, his thumbs gently grazing the soft fabric of your coat. He looks down at you, really looking at you, taking in the elegant curve of your jaw, the soft flush on your cheeks, the way your eyes sparkle with unshed tears.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with an emotion he can’t quite name. “You’re … God, you’re beautiful. You’re all grown up.”
You blush, a deep, pretty pink spreading across your cheeks. You duck your head shyly, a demure gesture that completely contradicts the bold, brash girls Dean usually surrounds himself with. “You haven’t done too badly yourself, Dean. Though I see you’re still as dramatic as ever.”
Dean laughs, a bright, genuine sound. “What the hell are you doing here? Mom told me you were at Oxford. Getting cozy with royalty or whatever.” He tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but a tiny sliver slips through.
Your smile falters slightly, a shadow passing over your eyes. You glance around, suddenly aware of the massive crowd of students staring at you, and more specifically, the four giant athletes slowly approaching from behind Dean, their jaws practically on the floor.
“It’s … complicated,” you say softly, your hands nervously twisting the belt of your trench coat. “I transferred. I’m going to Briar now.”
“You’re going to Briar?” Dean repeats, his brain struggling to compute this information. You, the diplomat’s daughter, the Oxford scholar, at a party school in Massachusetts? “Since when?”
“Since about a week ago,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Dean, I …”
“Hold on, hold on,” Logan’s voice interrupts, loud and booming. Dean groans inwardly, dropping his hands from your shoulders as his friends finally catch up.
Logan, Garrett, Tucker, and Beau form a massive, intimidating wall of muscle behind Dean. They are all staring at you as if you just dropped out of the sky in a flying saucer.
“Dean,” Garrett says slowly, his eyes darting between you and his best friend. “Are you going to introduce us to your … friend?”
Dean feels a sudden, fierce wave of protectiveness wash over him. He steps slightly in front of you, shielding you from their intense gazes.
“Guys, this is Y/N,” Dean says, his voice taking on a serious tone that the guys rarely hear. “Y/N, these are my idiot friends. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, and Beau.”
You offer them a small, polite smile, dipping your head in a graceful nod. “It is very lovely to meet you all. Dean has mentioned … well, he actually hasn’t mentioned you, but his mother has.”
Beau chuckles, immediately charmed. “Well, aren’t you a breath of fresh air. How do you know our boy here?”
“We grew up together,” you explain softly, your eyes darting back to Dean. “In Greenwich. We were best friends.”
“Best friends,” Logan repeats, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. He looks at Dean, a slow, annoying smirk spreading across his face. “Funny. Dean never mentioned he had a gorgeous, British-sounding best friend.”
“She’s not British, she just lived there,” Dean snaps, glaring at Logan. “And I didn’t mention her because you degenerates don’t deserve to know about her.”
Tucker chuckles, tipping his imaginary hat to you. “Ma’am. It’s a pleasure.”
“Please, just Y/N is fine,” you say, your cheeks still flushed.
Dean turns his attention back to you, completely ignoring his friends. He reaches out, gently catching your hand. Your fingers are freezing.
“You’re shaking,” he notes, his brow furrowing. “And you didn’t answer my question. Why are you here, Y/N? And don’t give me some bullshit about wanting to experience American college life. Oxford was your dream.”
You look down at your intertwined hands, your thumb unconsciously tracing the knuckles of his hand. It’s an intimate, familiar gesture that sends a jolt of electricity straight to Dean’s groin, but he aggressively shoves that reaction down. This is you. He cannot corrupt you.
“My father,” you start, your voice trembling slightly. You swallow hard, looking up into Dean’s eyes, seeing the genuine concern radiating from him. “He … he was getting threats. At the embassy. Serious ones.”
The air around the group instantly shifts. The playful banter evaporates. Garrett’s posture straightens, Tucker crosses his arms, and Dean’s entire body goes rigid.
“Threats?” Dean asks, his voice dropping an octave, losing all of its usual playful cadence. “What kind of threats?”
“Political ones,” you say vaguely, not wanting to spill state secrets in the middle of a busy quad. “Things got very tense very quickly. Security advised that my family be relocated. My parents are back in D.C. under heavy detail, but they didn’t want my education completely derailed. Briar has an excellent political science program, and they accepted my transfer credits immediately. Plus, it’s far away from Washington, but still in the States. They thought I would blend in here.”
You gesture helplessly to your immaculate outfit, contrasting sharply with the neon leggings and hoodies around you. “Though I suppose I’m failing a bit at the blending in part.”
Dean doesn’t laugh. His jaw is ticking, a muscle feathering in his cheek as he processes what you’re saying. You were in danger. You were threatened. The thought makes a sudden, terrifying rage spike in his chest.
“Are you safe here?” Dean demands, his hand tightening around yours.
“Yes,” you assure him quickly. “I have … well, I have discrete security. But officially, I’m just a normal student now. Or trying to be.”
Dean looks at you, really looks at you. He sees the exhaustion lurking beneath your perfectly applied makeup, the faint dark circles under your eyes, the tension in your shoulders. You have been uprooted, terrified, and dropped into a completely alien environment.
“Where are you living?” Dean asks.
“They put me in a single dorm in the upperclassman hall,” you say softly. “I was just trying to find the registrar’s office to get my schedule sorted, but this campus is rather massive.”
Dean makes a split-second decision.
“You’re not staying in a dorm,” Dean says definitively.
You blink in surprise. “Pardon?”
“He said,” Logan chimes in, correctly reading Dean’s mood and seamlessly backing him up, “that the dorms are trash. And you’re not staying in one.”
“I—I have to,” you stammer, looking overwhelmed. “It’s already paid for, and-”
“I don’t care if the President himself paid for it,” Dean says, stepping closer to you. “You’re not sleeping in a building with a broken security door and a bunch of drunk frat boys running down the halls. You’re coming home with me.”
Your eyes go wide. “Dean, I couldn’t possibly-”
“I live in an off-campus house,” Dean continues, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. “With Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. We have a spare room. It’s supposed to be a gaming room, but we’ll clear it out. You’re staying with us.”
“Dean,” Garrett says slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean, we’re not exactly … quiet.”
“She’s staying with us, Garrett,” Dean repeats, shooting his captain a look that dares him to argue.
Garrett holds his hands up in surrender. “Hey, I’m not arguing. It’s your call. Just warning the lady.”
You look entirely flustered, your elegant composure cracking as you look between the massive hockey players and your childhood best friend. “Dean, really, it’s too much. I don’t want to intrude. You have your own life, your own friends-”
“Y/N,” Dean says softly. He reaches out, gently cupping your cheek. The contact makes you gasp quietly. His thumb strokes your cheekbone, his eyes softening as he looks into yours. “You are never an intrusion. You’re family. And right now, you need someone to look out for you. Let me do this.”
You stare up at him, your heart doing a complicated flutter in your chest. The boy you used to know — the skinny, hyperactive kid who used to catch frogs in the creek — is gone. In his place is a man. A broad, commanding, impossibly handsome man who is looking at you with such fierce, protective devotion that it makes your breath catch.
“Okay,” you whisper softly. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” Dean says, offering you a breathtaking, devastating smile. The kind of smile that breaks hearts on a daily basis.
He turns to the guys. “Beau, go to the registrar and sort out her schedule. Take her ID. Garrett, Logan, Tucker — we’re going to her dorm to pack up her shit and move it to our house.”
“Wait, I didn’t agree to be manual labor,” Logan complains.
Dean shoots him a dark look.
“Manual labor is my favorite,” Logan corrects immediately. “Point me to the boxes.”
Dean turns back to you, slipping your hand securely into his, lacing your fingers together. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you out of this quad.”
As Dean leads you away, with three massive hockey players trailing behind like your personal bodyguards, you can’t help but feel a profound sense of whiplash. Within twenty minutes, your entire terrifying, lonely American college experience has been hijacked by Dean Di Laurentis.
You look down at your intertwined hands, feeling the heat of his palm against yours.
Maybe coming back to America wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
***
The walk to your dorm is a surreal experience. The Briar campus is bustling with mid-morning activity, and you are acutely aware of the stares. Specifically, the stares directed at your joined hands.
“Dean,” you murmur, leaning closer to him so the guys trailing behind you won’t hear. “People are staring.”
“Let them stare,” Dean says easily, his thumb rhythmically stroking the back of your hand. “They’re just jealous because I’m walking with the prettiest girl on campus.”
You roll your eyes, though a hot blush creeps up your neck. “You haven’t changed. Still a terrible flirt.”
“I’m not flirting,” Dean says, sounding genuinely offended. “I’m stating facts. I have an eye for aesthetics, Y/N. You know this.”
“I know that your mother used to complain that you spent more time looking in the mirror than she did,” you tease gently.
Dean barks out a laugh. “That was one time! And I was styling my hair for the seventh-grade dance.”
“You used an entire can of hairspray,” you remind him, a genuine smile finally breaking through your anxiety. “You smelled like a chemical hazard.”
“And yet, you still danced with me,” he counters, throwing a wink over his shoulder.
“I took pity on you,” you reply primly.
Behind you, Logan lets out a low whistle. “She’s got jokes, Di Laurentis. I like her. Can we keep her?”
“She’s not a stray dog, Logan,” Garrett groans.
“She’s too classy for us,” Tucker adds in his slow, Southern drawl. “Look at her. She looks like she should be having tea with the Queen, not walking next to a guy who ate cereal out of a frisbee this morning.”
You glance back at Tucker, slightly horrified. “You ate cereal out of a frisbee?”
“All the bowls were dirty,” Logan defends him. “It was a logistical necessity.”
You turn back to Dean, your eyes wide. “What exactly have I agreed to?”
“Chaos,” Dean admits cheerfully. “Absolute, unmitigated chaos. But I promise we’ll keep the house clean for you. I’ll personally hire a maid if I have to.”
“You don’t have to do that,” you say quickly. “I can clean. I’m quite domesticated.”
Dean stops walking. He turns to look at you, his expression completely serious. “Y/N. You are not cleaning our house. I will literally physically restrain you before I let you scrub a toilet that Logan has used.”
“Hey!” Logan yells from behind.
“I’m serious,” Dean says, his eyes boring into yours. “You’re a guest. You’re my … you’re with me. You don’t lift a finger.”
His words send a strange shiver down your spine. There is a possessiveness in his tone that you’ve never heard before. It’s thrilling, and terrifying, and completely unexpected.
You finally reach your dorm building. It’s a standard, slightly run-down brick building that smells vaguely of cheap beer and floor wax. Dean wrinkles his nose as you lead them inside and up to the third floor.
When you unlock your door and push it open, the stark, depressing reality of the tiny room hits you again. A single twin bed with a thin mattress, a particle-board desk, and two large suitcases sitting unpacked in the center of the floor.
Dean steps inside, looking around with blatant disgust. “Yeah, no. This is a prison cell. Grab what you need for the day, we’re taking the rest.”
“It’s not that bad,” you say softly, walking over to your suitcase.
“It’s inhumane,” Dean corrects. He turns to his teammates. “Grab the bags. Let’s go.”
Garrett and Tucker easily heft your massive, heavy suitcases as if they weigh absolutely nothing. Logan grabs a smaller duffel bag and a few hanging garment bags.
“Is this everything?” Dean asks.
You look around the barren room, clutching your handbag. “Yes. I haven’t exactly had time to unpack.”
“Good,” Dean says. He steps close to you again, his presence overwhelming in the tiny space. He reaches out, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers brush against your skin, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core.
“You’re safe now,” he murmurs, his voice so low only you can hear it. “I’ve got you, Y/N. I promise.”
You look up into his warm, green eyes, seeing the fierce sincerity there. The fear and isolation that had been gripping your chest for the past week slowly begins to uncoil.
“I know,” you whisper.
For the first time since you landed in America, you actually believe it.
Dean smiles, a soft, intimate thing that makes your breath catch. He takes your hand again, leading you out of the dismal dorm room and toward whatever crazy, chaotic new life awaits you at the off-campus house.
As you walk out of the building, surrounded by a phalanx of massive hockey players, you realize one very undeniable fact.
Dean Di Laurentis might be known as the campus womanizer, but to you, he is something entirely different. He is your past, your protector, and quite possibly, the most dangerous thing to your heart.
The walk to the house is a blur of falling autumn leaves and the continuous, rapid-fire banter of the Briar hockey players. You mostly listen, fascinated by the easy camaraderie between Dean and his friends. It’s vastly different from the stiff, overly polite circles you ran in at Oxford, where every conversation felt like a chess match. Here, the insults are hurled with affection, and there are absolutely no filters.
“So, Y/N,” Garrett says, easily matching your pace despite carrying a suitcase that weighs half as much as you do. “Politics, huh? You want to be a diplomat like your dad?”
“That’s the plan,” you say, your voice steadying as you find your footing in the conversation. “International relations, specifically. Though right now, I think I’d settle for just passing my midterms without causing an international incident.”
“If you need help studying, Logan is basically a genius,” Dean chimes in, though his tone is heavily laced with sarcasm. “He once tried to put metal in the microwave to see if it would sparkle.”
“It was a scientific inquiry!” Logan defends loudly from the back. “And I was a freshman!”
“You were a sophomore,” Tucker corrects mildly.
You let out a soft laugh, the sound bubbling up naturally. Dean’s head snaps toward you, his eyes catching yours. The playful smirk on his face softens into something warmer, something that makes the knot of anxiety in your stomach loosen even more.
“Here we are,” Dean announces, gesturing grandly to a large, slightly weathered two-story house sitting on a quiet residential street just off campus. The lawn could use a trim, and there’s a stray hockey stick leaning against the porch railing, but it looks incredibly inviting. It looks like a home.
Dean leads you up the steps and pushes the front door open, stepping aside to let you enter first.
You step into the foyer, immediately assaulted by the scent of pine cleaner, old leather, and something distinctly masculine. The living room to the left is massive, dominated by a huge sectional sofa and a television that belongs in a movie theater.
“It’s … very big,” you remark politely, stepping further inside.
“It’s a pigsty,” Dean corrects, glaring at a pair of discarded sneakers in the hallway. He kicks them into a closet. “I’m going to murder whoever left their shoes out.”
“Those are your shoes, bro,” Logan points out, dropping your bags at the base of the stairs.
Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m a complex man. I contain multitudes. Come on, sweetheart, let me show you your room.”
He takes your hand again — a gesture that is quickly becoming a habit — and leads you up the wide wooden staircase. You trail behind him, acutely aware of how small your hand feels in his.
At the end of the hallway, Dean pushes open a door.
“This was the designated gaming room,” Dean explains, flipping on the light switch. “But we have another TV downstairs, so it’s basically just storage. Give us an hour to clear out the Xbox and the beanbag chairs, and we’ll bring up a bed from the basement. It’s a real mattress, I swear. Not that dorm room cardboard.”
You step into the room. It’s spacious, with a large window overlooking the backyard. Right now, it’s cluttered with video game cases, a ratty sofa, and empty pizza boxes.
You turn to Dean, feeling overwhelmed all over again. “Dean, I can’t ask you to give up your space for me. I can just stay in the dorm. It really isn’t-”
“Stop,” Dean says softly, stepping into your personal space. He reaches out, placing his hands lightly on your waist. The heat of his palms bleeds through your trench coat, sending a violent shiver down your spine.
“Look at me,” he commands gently.
You look up, meeting those devastating green eyes.
“I am not letting you stay in a dorm where anyone could walk in,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a serious, gravelly register. “I know you have security, but I don’t care. I need to know you’re safe. I need to know that when I go to sleep at night, you’re just down the hall. Let me do this for you, Y/N. Please.”
His plea is so earnest, so completely stripped of the cocky armor he usually wears, that it breaks your heart a little. You realize then that this isn’t just about protecting you; it’s about him needing the reassurance.
“Okay,” you whisper, nodding slowly. “Okay, Dean. Thank you.”
He exhales a long breath, a stunning smile breaking across his face. “Good. Now, sit on that disgustingly stained sofa and supervise while I make these idiots do heavy lifting.”
For the next hour, you sit and watch in amusement as the hockey players dismantle the gaming room. They move furniture with shocking efficiency, bickering the entire time. Dean is a relentless taskmaster, snapping orders and threatening bodily harm if anyone scratches the walls.
When they finally lug a heavy wooden bed frame and a pristine mattress up from the basement, Dean insists on making the bed himself.
You lean against the doorframe, watching as the notorious campus playboy meticulously tucks in a fitted sheet with absolute precision.
“You have excellent domestic skills, Di Laurentis,” you tease, crossing your arms over your chest.
Dean smirks, tossing a pillow onto the bed. “My mother taught me that a man should always know how to make a bed perfectly. Among other things.”
He shoots you a wicked, heavily implied wink that makes your face burn.
“Down, boy,” Garrett warns as he walks past, carrying the last stack of video games. “Don’t scar the poor girl.”
“I am a perfect gentleman,” Dean protests, fluffing the pillow aggressively.
Once the room is cleared and your suitcases are placed at the foot of the bed, Dean ushers the other guys out of the room.
“Give her some space to unpack,” Dean orders, practically shoving Logan out the door. “We’ll order pizza for lunch. Y/N, you like pepperoni?”
“I love pepperoni,” you say softly.
“Perfect. Unpack. Breathe. Come down when you’re ready,” Dean says. He lingers in the doorway for a second, his eyes tracing over your features as if he still can’t believe you’re actually standing in his house.
“Welcome home, Y/N.”
And as he pulls the door shut, leaving you alone in the suddenly quiet room, you press a hand to your chest, feeling the frantic, terrifyingly fast beat of your heart.
You are thousands of miles from the life you knew, hiding from threats you barely understand, living in a house full of giant athletes.
But as you look at the perfectly made bed, and remember the fierce, protective heat in Dean’s eyes, you realize something profound.
For the first time in weeks, you aren’t afraid.
By the time you finish unpacking your essentials and hanging your tailored clothes in the small closet, the scent of melted cheese and greasy pepperoni is wafting up the stairs. Your stomach gives an unladylike rumble, reminding you that you haven’t eaten since a piece of dry toast at 6:00 AM.
You take a deep breath, smoothing down the front of your sweater. You swapped the formal trench coat and turtleneck for a pair of fitted dark jeans and a soft, oversized cashmere sweater — an attempt to match the casual vibe of the house without losing your own sense of style.
When you walk down the stairs, the volume of the house hits you instantly. The television is blaring a sports broadcast, and three overlapping arguments are happening simultaneously in the kitchen.
You peek around the corner. The massive kitchen island is covered in flat cardboard pizza boxes. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker are all standing around, shoving slices into their mouths at an alarming rate.
Dean is leaning against the counter, a slice of pizza in one hand and a beer in the other. He looks perfectly in his element, relaxed and gorgeously disheveled.
Then he spots you.
The conversation around him continues, but Dean completely tunes it out. His eyes lock onto yours, sweeping over your casual outfit. A slow, devastating smile spreads across his face, lighting up his features in a way that makes your breath catch.
“Hey,” he says softly, his voice cutting through the noise in the room like a knife.
The other guys immediately stop talking and turn to look at you.
“The Queen descends,” Logan jokes, offering you a greasy salute with his pizza crust.
“Ignore him,” Dean says, pushing off the counter and walking over to you. He grabs a clean paper plate, loads it with two slices of pepperoni pizza, and hands it to you. “Eat. You look like a stiff breeze could knock you over.”
“Thank you,” you murmur, taking the plate. You walk over to the island, hyper-aware of Dean shadowing your steps. You take a delicate bite of the pizza, the warm, greasy goodness making you close your eyes in appreciation. “Oh, that is heavenly.”
“See?” Dean says, looking incredibly smug. “American pizza. Way better than whatever boiled garbage they serve in England.”
“They don’t boil pizza, Dean,” you point out dryly, taking another bite.
“Whatever,” he dismisses smoothly. He leans against the counter next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. The physical contact is completely casual for him, but it sends a jolt of electricity straight to your brain. “So, did Beau text back about your schedule?”
Tucker pulls out his phone. “Yeah, Beau texted the group chat while you were upstairs. He got her registered. Emailed the schedule to her student account. She’s got Political Theory at 8 AM tomorrow.”
You groan softly, dropping your head forward. “Eight AM. The cruelty of the American education system.”
Dean laughs, a rich, warm sound that vibrates in his chest. “Don’t worry. I’ll drive you.”
You look up at him, startled. “Dean, you don’t have to do that. I can walk. I’m sure you have your own classes.”
“I don’t have class until eleven,” Dean says simply, taking a sip of his beer. “And you’re not walking across campus alone. Not right now. Until we get a handle on … your situation, you don’t go anywhere alone. Understand?”
His tone leaves no room for argument. It’s the voice of a man who is used to getting his way, but beneath the bossiness, there is a thick layer of genuine anxiety. He is worried about you.
“Alright,” you agree softly. “If you’re sure it’s not a bother.”
“You,” Dean says, leaning in so his face is only inches from yours, his green eyes intense, “are never a bother.”
The kitchen suddenly feels very small, and very hot. You stare into his eyes, completely forgetting how to breathe, let alone speak. The undeniable, pulsing tension between you is thick enough to cut with a knife.
Someone clears their throat loudly.
You jump, breaking eye contact with Dean and looking over to see Garrett leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, observing the two of you with raised eyebrows.
“So,” Garrett drawls, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Childhood best friends, huh? You guys used to play in the sandbox together?”
“I used to push him into the mud,” you correct, finding your voice. “Regularly.”
Logan barks a laugh. “I knew I liked her.”
“She was vicious,” Dean agrees, turning back to the guys but keeping his body angled toward you. “One time, she convinced me that poison ivy was a rare type of mint. I was covered in rashes for a week.”
“You were terribly gullible,” you say innocently, taking another bite of pizza.
“I trusted you!” Dean gasps in mock betrayal. “You were the diplomat’s daughter! You were supposed to be honorable.”
“Diplomacy,” you counter smoothly, “is just the art of letting someone else have your way. I wanted to see what would happen.”
The guys burst into laughter, and even Dean chuckles, shaking his head. He reaches out and nudges your shoulder gently. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Y/L/N.”
The casual compliment makes your heart stutter. You duck your head to hide the sudden blush painting your cheeks.
As lunch winds down, the guys scatter to their respective routines. Garrett and Logan head to the living room to play NHL on the Xbox, and Tucker retreats upstairs to study.
Which leaves you alone in the kitchen with Dean.
You start gathering the empty pizza boxes, intending to throw them away, but Dean intercepts you. His hands cover yours, stopping your movements.
“I told you,” he says softly. “You don’t clean.”
“Dean, it’s just boxes,” you protest weakly, staring down at his large, warm hands covering yours.
“I don’t care,” he says. He takes the boxes from you and tosses them into the large trash can by the door. Then, he turns back to you, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious.
“Y/N. Come here.”
He grabs your hand and leads you out of the kitchen, pulling you toward the back of the house and out onto a small patio. The crisp autumn air bites at your cheeks, but you barely feel it. Dean lets go of your hand and leans against the wooden railing, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Tell me the truth,” he says, his eyes boring into yours. “How bad are the threats?”
You wrap your arms around your middle, suddenly feeling very small. The playful banter of the kitchen is gone, replaced by the stark, terrifying reality of why you are actually here.
“They were … specific,” you whisper, looking down at the wooden planks of the patio. “Letters delivered directly to the embassy. Photos of me at Oxford. Walking to class. Sitting in cafes. Someone was following me.”
Dean curses violently under his breath, his hands gripping the railing so hard his knuckles turn white.
“My father’s security detail intercepted them before I saw most of it,” you continue, your voice trembling slightly at the memory. “But they told him that the people making the threats knew my schedule perfectly. They wanted my father to vote a certain way on an upcoming international trade sanction, and they were using me as leverage.”
Dean pushes off the railing and steps closer to you. He doesn’t touch you, but his physical proximity is a comfort in itself. “So they pulled you out.”
“In the middle of the night,” you nod, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye to my professors or my friends. They packed my bags, put me on a private jet with four armed guards, and flew me to D.C. I stayed in a safe house for three days before they decided Briar was a safe enough distance to hide me.”
You look up at him, a single tear spilling over your lashes and tracking down your cheek. “I’m terrified, Dean. I’m trying to be brave, but every time I look over my shoulder, I expect to see someone watching me.”
“Hey,” Dean breathes, closing the remaining distance between you. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you firmly against his chest. You bury your face in his shoulder, letting out a shaky breath as his arms envelop you completely.
“No one is watching you here,” Dean whispers fiercely into your hair, his hands stroking up and down your back. “I swear to God, Y/N, no one is going to touch you. You have me. You have Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. We are literally a house full of giant, violent hockey players. You are the safest person in the state of Massachusetts.”
You let out a wet, watery laugh against his sweater. “You’re not violent.”
“I can be,” Dean says, and the deadly serious tone of his voice makes you pause. “For you, I could be.”
You pull back slightly, looking up into his face. The cocky, charming playboy is entirely gone. In his eyes, you see a fierce, unyielding devotion that takes your breath away.
“Why are you doing this, Dean?” You whisper. “You have your own life. You don’t need to babysit me.”
Dean reaches up, his thumb gently wiping away the tear track on your cheek. His touch is impossibly tender.
“Because you’re mine,” he says simply, the words slipping out naturally, as if it’s the most obvious fact in the universe. “You always have been, Y/N. Since we were kids. I lost you once when you moved away. I’m not letting anything happen to you now that I have you back.”
Your heart slams against your ribs. The words echo in your head, thrilling and terrifying all at once. You stare at him, seeing the sudden realization of what he just said flicker in his own eyes. Dean swallows hard, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before darting back up to your eyes.
The air between you is highly combustible. All it would take is one lean, one tilt of the head, and years of childhood friendship would go up in flames.
Dean slowly leans in, his face inches from yours. You find yourself leaning closer, your eyes fluttering shut, anticipating the slide of his lips against yours.
BANG.
The sound of the back door flying open shatters the moment like glass.
You and Dean spring apart instantly, your faces flushed, breathing heavily.
Logan stands in the doorway, oblivious to the heavy tension he just interrupted. “Yo, Di Laurentis! Are we doing the grocery run or what? We’re out of beer and Y/N probably needs, like, fancy British tea or something.”
Dean closes his eyes, taking a deep, ragged breath. When he opens them, he shoots Logan a look of pure, unadulterated murder.
“I’m coming,” Dean snaps, his voice completely strained.
Logan blinks, finally sensing the weird vibe. “Uh … did I interrupt something?”
“Yes,” Dean says bluntly. “Go start the car.”
Logan throws his hands up in surrender and retreats back inside.
Dean turns back to you, dragging a hand through his messy blonde hair. He looks incredibly frustrated, but a small, breathless smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
“We’re going to pick up some things for you,” Dean says softly, his eyes dropping to your lips again. “Get settled. Take a nap. I’ll be back soon.”
You nod silently, still trying to get your erratic heartbeat under control. “Okay.”
He hesitates for a second, looking as though he wants to close the distance again, but then he shakes his head and steps back. “Lock the door behind me.”
As Dean walks back inside, leaving you alone on the crisp patio, you press your fingers against your lips. They are tingling, buzzing with the phantom feeling of a kiss that never happened.
You are hiding from a terrifying political threat, living in a house of hockey players, and you are dangerously close to falling completely, irrevocably in love with the biggest playboy on campus.
Welcome to Briar University.
***
It has been exactly three weeks since you moved into the off-campus hockey house, and the entirety of Briar University is operating under the collective, terrifying assumption that Dean Di Laurentis has been abducted by aliens. Or cloned. Or possessed by a very chaste, very domesticated demon.
There is simply no other logical explanation.
“I’m telling you, it’s not him,” Logan says, his voice hushed but frantic as he peeks around the kitchen doorframe. He’s staring into the living room, where Dean is currently sitting on the couch. “Look at him. Just look.”
Garrett sighs, leaning against the counter and crossing his massive arms. “He’s reading a textbook, Logan. It’s called studying. Normal college students do it.”
“Dean doesn’t!” Logan hisses, gesturing wildly. “Dean pays attention in class just enough to coast, and he spends his free time trying to get horizontal with anything that has a pulse and a nice smile! He hasn’t brought a girl home in twenty-one days, Garrett. Twenty-one! Do you know what that means?”
“That we don’t have to bleach the living room rug anymore?” Tucker suggests mildly from his spot at the kitchen island, not looking up from his breakfast.
“It means his brain has been hijacked,” Logan insists.
Beau, who had stopped by to steal their food, chuckles and takes a bite of an apple. “Or, and hear me out, it means his childhood best friend moved in, and he’s realized he has to actually be a functional human being to keep her safe.”
They all fall silent, turning to look back out into the living room.
You are sitting on the opposite end of the oversized sectional. You have a thick political science textbook resting on your knees, your brow furrowed in concentration as you highlight a passage. You’re wearing a pair of soft grey sweatpants — a recent, highly encouraged addition to your wardrobe by the guys — and an oversized Briar hockey hoodie that absolutely swallows your delicate frame. The hoodie belongs to Dean.
And Dean? Dean is sitting about a foot away from you, his own textbook open, but he isn’t reading. He’s just watching you. His arm is draped along the back of the sofa, his fingers lightly, almost unconsciously, playing with the frayed end of your hoodie string. His eyes are soft, tracing the line of your profile with a reverence that borders on religious.
“It’s freaky,” Logan mutters. “He went from being a certified campus manwhore to … a golden retriever. A very protective, aggressively loyal golden retriever.”
“He’s whipped,” Garrett says, though there’s a fond smile pulling at his lips. “And they aren’t even dating.”
“Yet,” Beau corrects softly. “Give it time. The guy looks at her like she hung the moon and the stars.”
In the living room, you let out a soft sigh, rubbing your eyes. You’ve been studying for three hours straight. The sudden shift from the British educational system to American midterms has been jarring, and the added stress of your security situation hasn’t helped your focus.
“Tired?” Dean asks instantly, his voice a low, soothing rumble.
You turn to look at him, offering a small, exhausted smile. “A bit. Rousseau is incredibly dense when you’re running on four hours of sleep.”
Dean frowns, his hand dropping from the hoodie string to gently brush a stray lock of hair out of your eyes. “You need a break. We have class in an hour anyway. Come on, I’ll make you tea.”
“I can make it,” you protest gently, starting to close your heavy book.
“Absolutely not,” Dean says, already standing up. He reaches down and effortlessly plucks the massive textbook from your lap, tossing it onto the coffee table. “You sit. I brew. That’s the deal.”
As Dean walks into the kitchen, Logan, Garrett, and Beau immediately scatter, trying to look as though they weren’t just intensely analyzing his every move. Dean ignores them completely, walking straight to the kettle.
You watch him from the couch, your heart doing that familiar, terrifying little flip. The way he treats you is entirely at odds with the reputation that precedes him. You’ve heard the whispers on campus. You know what people say about Dean. You know the girls point and stare, whispering about his conquests. But the man who makes your bed when you forget, who insists on walking you to every single class, who glares at any frat boy who looks at you for too long? That man is careful. He treats you like you are something precious, something made of spun glass that he is terrified of breaking.
Ten minutes later, Dean emerges from the kitchen with a travel mug. He hands it to you.
You take a sip and close your eyes, a genuine hum of pleasure escaping your lips. “Dean … this is Earl Grey. With exactly a splash of oat milk and half a teaspoon of honey.”
“I know,” Dean says, grabbing his backpack and slinging it over one broad shoulder.
“How do you remember that?” You ask, staring up at him in wonder. “I haven’t ordered this in front of you since I moved here. I’ve just been drinking whatever drip coffee the guys make.”
Dean pauses, looking down at you. The easy, arrogant smirk he usually wears is nowhere to be found. “I remember everything about you, Y/N. Everything. I didn’t forget your favorite tea just because you moved across an ocean.”
Your breath catches. You stare at him, feeling a hot flush rise to your cheeks.
“Come on,” Dean murmurs, his voice softening even further. He reaches down, grabbing your heavy tote bag before you can even reach for it. “Let’s go to class. I want a good seat.”
The walk across campus is, as always, an exercise in public scrutiny. Dean walks slightly ahead of you, his large frame parting the sea of students effortlessly. Every time you pass a group of girls, you see the hopeful glances directed his way, followed immediately by total confusion when Dean doesn’t even spare them a second glance. His entire focus is tethered to you.
When you enter the massive lecture hall for your Political Science seminar, it’s already crowded. Dean immediately zeroes in on two seats near the middle row. He drops your bag onto one chair and his own onto the other, effectively claiming the territory.
“Hey, Dean,” a high-pitched, bubbly voice calls out.
You both turn to see a stunning blonde in a cropped sweater leaning over the row behind you. She flashes Dean a brilliant, practiced smile. “I was hoping you’d be here. There’s an empty seat next to me if you want it. We could … share notes.”
You feel a sudden, sharp prickle of insecurity. She is exactly the kind of girl you imagine Dean with — bold, beautiful, and completely uninhibited. You instinctively shrink in on yourself, looking down at your hands. You are so fundamentally different. You are quiet, painfully shy, and the thought of public displays of affection makes you want to spontaneously combust.
But Dean doesn’t smile back at the blonde. In fact, his expression remains completely blank, almost bored.
“I’m sitting with Y/N,” Dean says flatly, leaving absolutely no room for interpretation.
“Oh,” the girl falters, her smile slipping as she glances at you with thinly veiled disdain. “Right. The … new girl.”
Dean’s jaw ticks. He steps slightly in front of you, a clear, territorial block. “Yeah. My girl. Excuse us.”
The words send a dizzying rush of heat straight to your core. You sink into your seat, your face practically burning, as Dean sits down next to you. He casually drapes his arm across the back of your chair, his solid, warm presence a shield against the rest of the room.
“You didn’t have to be rude to her,” you whisper, though secretly, you are terribly glad he was.
“I wasn’t rude,” Dean whispers back, leaning in so close his breath ghosts over your ear. “I was honest. I don’t care about her notes. I only care about you.”
You bite your lower lip, trying desperately to suppress the smile fighting its way onto your face. Dean’s eyes track the movement of your teeth on your lip, his pupils dilating slightly, but he quickly forces his gaze away and pulls his notebook out. He is so restrained with you, so careful not to push your boundaries, and it only makes you fall for him harder.
Friday night arrives with the heavy, pulsing bass of a house party.
The guys decided to throw a rager to kick off the start of the hockey season. Under normal circumstances, you would have locked yourself in your room with a pair of noise-canceling headphones. But Dean had looked at you with those big, green eyes and promised he would stay by your side the entire night, so here you are.
You are standing in the corner of the crowded living room, clutching a red Solo cup filled with ginger ale. You are wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved black dress that hits mid-thigh. It’s elegant, understated, and completely out of place in the sea of neon crop tops and miniskirts surrounding you.
“Are you okay?”
You look up as Dean materializes through the crowd. He’s wearing a fitted black Henley that highlights every single muscle in his chest and arms, and his hair is perfectly, artfully messy. He looks like pure, unfiltered trouble. But the moment his eyes land on you, the dangerous edge softens.
“I’m fine,” you say, though you have to shout slightly over the music. “It’s just … very loud.”
“We can go upstairs,” Dean offers immediately, stepping closer so he doesn’t have to yell. His body acts as a natural barrier, preventing a stumbling frat boy from bumping into you. “We can lock the door and watch a movie. I don’t care about the party.”
You stare at him in disbelief. “Dean, this is your house. Your team. You can’t just hide upstairs with me. Everyone expects the legendary Dean Di Laurentis to be out here, working the room.”
Dean scoffs, taking a sip from his own cup. “Let them expect whatever they want. I’ve retired.”
“Retired?” You echo, a small laugh escaping you.
“Yep,” Dean says, leaning against the wall next to you. “Hung up my jersey. I’m a one-woman man now.”
The casual confession makes your breath hitch. He says it so easily, so confidently, but the weight of the words is staggering.
Before you can formulate a response, a girl with bright red hair pushes her way through the crowd and practically throws herself at Dean.
“Deeeaan,” she purrs, trailing a manicured hand down his bicep. “I haven’t seen you all night! We should go to the kitchen and do shots. Or go somewhere … quieter.”
She presses her chest against his arm, shooting a triumphant look at you. It’s the kind of blatant proposition that the old Dean would have accepted before she even finished her sentence. You’ve heard the stories. You know that more than once, he’s hooked up with girls right here in the living room while a party raged around them.
You instinctively take a step back, the familiar, suffocating shyness gripping your throat. You can’t compete with this. You don’t want to compete with this.
But Dean doesn’t even blink. He physically steps back, dislodging the redhead’s hand from his arm as if she’s made of acid.
“Not interested, Lexi,” Dean says, his voice devoid of any warmth.
“What?” Lexi pouts, looking genuinely shocked. “Come on, Dean. Don’t be boring. It’s Friday!”
“I said no,” Dean repeats, his tone dropping into a freezing, commanding register that makes the girl actually flinch. “I’m busy.”
He reaches out, grabbing your hand and pulling you firmly to his side. He intertwines your fingers, holding your hand up slightly so the girl can see it.
“I’m with her,” Dean states unequivocally. “Have a good night.”
Lexi stares at your joined hands, then looks up at your flushed face. She huffs in annoyance, turning on her heel and stomping away into the crowd.
You look up at Dean, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “You really didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did,” Dean says, looking down at you. His thumb strokes the back of your hand, a grounding, soothing motion. “I told you, Y/N. I don’t want anyone else. They don’t even register on my radar anymore. It’s just you.”
“Dean …” you breathe, feeling completely overwhelmed by the raw honesty in his eyes.
“Hey, lovebirds!”
The moment breaks as Tucker and Logan push their way over to your corner. Logan is grinning like a madman, holding two fresh beers.
“Di Laurentis,” Logan says, shaking his head. “I just watched you turn down Lexi. The Lexi. Are you feeling okay? Do we need to call a doctor?”
“I’m perfectly fine,” Dean snaps, though he doesn’t drop your hand.
“He’s domesticated,” Tucker drawls, leaning against the wall and tipping his cup toward you. “You’ve tamed the beast, Y/N. The whole hockey team is terrified of you.”
You blush furiously, looking down at your shoes. “I haven’t done anything.”
“That’s the crazy part,” Logan laughs. “You literally just exist, and he acts like a knight in shining armor. It’s disgusting. I love it. Can I get a hug?”
Logan opens his arms, stepping toward you.
Before you can even react, Dean steps directly between you and Logan, pressing a flat hand to his teammate’s chest.
“Do not touch her,” Dean growls, half-joking, half-deadly serious.
Logan puts his hands up in surrender, laughing harder. “Alright, alright! Guard dog mode activated. I respect it.”
As the guys fall into an easy banter, Dean pulls you slightly closer, tucking you into his side. You lean your head against his shoulder, letting the chaos of the party wash over you. Surrounded by the towering hockey players, anchored by Dean’s warm, protective grip, you feel something you haven’t felt since you lived in London.
You feel entirely safe.
The next evening is the first official home game of the season.
The Briar University arena is packed to the rafters, a sea of black and red violently cheering as the Zamboni finishes clearing the ice. The energy is electric, thick with anticipation and the smell of roasted peanuts and cold air.
You are standing outside the home locker room, clutching a plastic cup of overpriced hot chocolate.
The door swings open, and Dean steps out.
He is fully geared up, massive in his shoulder pads, his Briar jersey stark and imposing. He looks like a gladiator about to step into the Colosseum. But the moment his eyes find you, the ferocious intensity of his game-face melts away, replaced by that soft, devoted smile reserved entirely for you.
He walks over, his skates clacking loudly against the rubber floor mats.
“Hey,” he says, stopping right in front of you.
“Hey yourself,” you reply softly, looking up at him. “You look … intimidating.”
Dean chuckles, a low, nervous sound. “Good. That’s the point. But I don’t want to intimidate you.”
“You never intimidate me, Dean,” you say truthfully.
Dean swallows hard, his eyes dropping to your outfit. You are wearing a simple black turtleneck and jeans. He frowns slightly.
“Hold on,” Dean says. He reaches back and grabs the hem of his game jersey, pulling it up and over his head in one fluid motion.
You gasp, your eyes going wide as he stands there in just his black under-armor shirt, the tight material clinging to every ridge of his abs and chest. “Dean! What are you doing?”
“You’re not wearing my colors,” Dean states simply. He shakes out the massive jersey and holds it out to you. “Put it on.”
“Dean, it’s your game jersey,” you protest, your heart doing a wild, frantic dance. “You need it to play!”
“I have a spare in my locker,” he dismisses easily. “Put it on, Y/N. Please. I want … I want everyone in that arena to know whose side you’re on.”
The intense possessiveness in his voice makes your knees weak. With shaking hands, you hand him your hot chocolate and take the jersey. You pull it over your head. It is ridiculously large on you, the heavy fabric falling almost to your knees, the sleeves swallowing your hands entirely.
But across the back, in massive block letters, it reads DI LAURENTIS 66.
You smell like him now — a mix of clean laundry detergent, ice, and that distinct, spicy cologne he wears.
Dean stares at you, his chest heaving slightly as he takes in the sight of you swimming in his jersey. His eyes darken, a visceral, primal reaction flashing across his features before he aggressively reels it in.
“Yeah,” Dean breathes, his voice rough. “That’s exactly how you’re supposed to look.”
He hands you back your drink and steps closer, reaching out to gently tug on the collar of the jersey. “I have to go to the bench. Beau is saving you a seat three rows behind our box. It’s next to the glass. You’ll be safe there.”
“I’ll be cheering for you,” you promise softly.
Dean leans down, and for a terrifying, exhilarating second, you think he’s going to kiss you. But instead, he presses his lips firmly to your forehead, lingering there for a long moment, inhaling your scent.
“Watch me, sweetheart,” he whispers against your skin. “I’m going to play for you.”
When you finally take your seat next to Beau in the stands, the entire arena seems to be buzzing. Beau takes one look at the oversized jersey swallowing you whole and bursts out laughing.
“Oh, he is so gone,” Beau cackles, shaking his head. “If he plays half as aggressively as he’s acting right now, we’re winning a national championship.”
The puck drops, and the game begins.
It is violent, fast-paced, and incredibly stressful. You sit on the edge of your seat, your hands clutched tightly in your lap as you watch the boys crash into the boards.
But Dean is a revelation.
He skates with a fluid, lethal grace, dodging defenders and making plays that leave the opposing team looking foolish. He is a blur of motion, hyper-focused and ruthless.
Midway through the first period, Briar gets a breakaway.
Logan intercepts a pass and sends it rocketing up the ice. Dean is there, catching it flawlessly. He tears down the center, the crowd rising to their feet, screaming his name. He fakes left, drops his shoulder, and sends a devastatingly fast wrist-shot right over the goalie’s glove.
The red light flashes. The horn blares. The arena completely erupts.
You jump to your feet, screaming in delight, your hands flying up in the air.
On the ice, Garrett and Logan immediately tackle Dean, shoving him against the glass in celebration. Dean laughs, shaking them off, and skates directly toward the bench.
But he doesn’t stop at the bench.
He skates right up to the glass where you are sitting. The crowd around you goes wild, but Dean doesn’t look at them. He looks right at you.
He taps his stick against the plexiglass twice, right in front of your face. Then, he presses his gloved hand to his chest, right over his heart, and points directly at you.
The gesture is so public, so undeniably romantic, that the entire section of fans surrounding you completely loses their minds. Girls are screaming, Beau is howling with laughter, and you are standing there, wearing his name on your back, feeling completely cherished.
Two hours later, the game is over. Briar has decimated the visiting team 4-1, and the post-game high is practically vibrating through the concrete walls of the arena corridors.
You are standing in the secluded hallway just past the locker rooms, waiting. The crowds have mostly filtered out, heading to the inevitable victory parties, but you stayed exactly where Dean told you to wait.
The heavy locker room door opens, and the boys start pouring out. They are showered, dressed in their street clothes, and loud.
When Dean finally emerges, he looks exhausted but radiant. His hair is damp from the shower, curling slightly at his forehead, and he’s wearing a simple grey t-shirt and jeans. He has a massive sports duffel slung over his shoulder.
He spots you leaning against the wall, still drowning in his game jersey, and a slow, exhausted smile spreads across his face. He drops his bag immediately and crosses the hallway in three long strides.
“Hey,” he breathes out, stopping right in front of you.
“Hi,” you say, looking up at him with wide, shining eyes. “You were incredible out there, Dean. Truly.”
“Yeah?” He asks, his eyes searching your face, seeking your approval above all else.
“The best on the ice,” you confirm softly.
The boys are filtering past you both, offering catcalls and teasing whistles.
“Get a room, Di Laurentis!” Logan shouts as he walks by with Tucker.
“Shut up, Logan!” Dean yells back without breaking eye contact with you.
The hallway finally clears, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, fluorescent-lit corridor. The adrenaline from the game is still humming in the air between you, mixing violently with the unspoken tension that has been building for three weeks.
Dean steps closer, invading your personal space. He reaches out, his large hands resting gently on your waist, over the heavy fabric of the jersey.
“I meant it,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping an octave. “When I pointed to you. That goal was for you, Y/N.”
You look up at him, at the handsome, reckless boy you grew up with who has somehow morphed into this incredible, devoted man. You realize, with a sudden, crystal-clear certainty, that you don’t want to be scared anymore. You don’t want to hide behind your shyness or your fears of ruining your friendship.
“Dean,” you whisper.
You reach up, your hands slipping out of the oversized sleeves. You place your palms flat against his chest, feeling the heavy, rapid beat of his heart through his t-shirt.
Dean completely freezes. His breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t move a muscle, terrified that if he does, you will pull away.
You rise up on your tiptoes. Dean instinctively tilts his head down, meeting you halfway.
You press your lips to his.
It is not a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. It is chaste. Soft. Sweet. It is a gentle press of lips, a quiet, tender thank you, a desperate confession of everything you are too afraid to say out loud.
It lasts only three seconds.
When you pull back, dropping down to your flat feet, you keep your eyes closed for a moment, terrified of his reaction.
When you finally open them, you gasp.
Dean Di Laurentis — the guy who has quite literally been with half the campus, the guy who knows every sexual maneuver in the book, the guy who thrives on marathon, sweaty, athletic encounters — looks completely devastated.
He looks like he has died and gone to heaven.
His green eyes are blown wide, his pupils completely dilated. His jaw is slack, his lips slightly parted, pink and damp from your brief touch. His chest is heaving as if he just skated ten periods back-to-back.
“Y/N,” Dean breathes, the word trembling on his lips.
He raises a shaking hand, pressing his fingers to his own mouth, as if he can’t quite believe what just happened.
“Was that … was that okay?” You whisper, your insecurity suddenly flaring up. “I know it wasn’t … I know you’re used to-”
“Don’t,” Dean interrupts, his voice cracking slightly. He drops his duffel bag entirely and reaches for you, wrapping both arms around your waist and hauling you flush against his chest.
“Don’t you dare compare yourself to anyone else,” Dean says fiercely, staring down at you with a reverent, blazing intensity. “That was … Y/N, that was the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
“It was just a small kiss,” you murmur, your face burning.
“It was everything,” Dean corrects, his hands gripping your waist tightly. “You’re everything. God, I’m so in love with you.”
The words slip out of his mouth before he can stop them, tumbling into the quiet hallway like a grenade.
You freeze, your heart slamming against your ribs so hard it hurts. “Dean …”
Dean closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours. He lets out a shaky laugh, a sound of pure relief and surrender.
“I know,” he whispers, his breath fanning across your lips. “I know it’s fast, and I know you’re scared, and I know I have a terrible reputation. But I’m yours, Y/N. I have always been yours. You just had to come back for me to realize it.”
He opens his eyes, looking deep into yours.
“You don’t have to say it back,” Dean promises, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. I just needed you to know. I’m not playing games, sweetheart. I’m playing for keeps.”
You stare up at the man holding you, feeling the absolute truth in his words. The terrifying world outside — the threats, the politics, the uncertainty — melts away entirely.
You rise on your tiptoes again, but this time, Dean doesn’t wait. He captures your lips, kissing you with a tender, devastating passion that seals your fate completely.
***
The collective student body of Briar University is, for lack of a better term, completely losing its mind.
It has been nearly two months since the legendary, untouchable Dean Di Laurentis officially took himself off the market. Two months since he dragged a beautiful, shy transfer student into his orbit and never let her go. And yet, the novelty of his absolute, unrelenting devotion hasn’t worn off. If anything, it’s only become more aggressively apparent.
It’s a chilly Tuesday afternoon, and the campus coffee shop, The Daily Grind, is packed with students seeking refuge from the biting wind.
You and Dean are standing near the pickup counter. You are wearing a cream-colored knit sweater, the sleeves pulled down over your knuckles, your posture as impeccable as ever. Dean is standing practically flush against your back, his large hands resting possessively on your hips. He’s leaning down, his chin resting near your shoulder, listening intently as you softly explain a concept from your international relations seminar.
A few yards away, sitting at a cramped corner table, Logan and Garrett are nursing their coffees and watching the spectacle.
“I give up,” Logan says, shaking his head. “I literally give up. I don’t know who that man is. He’s an imposter. A body double.”
“He’s in love,” Garrett corrects, though he looks equally bewildered. “I mean, we knew it was bad, but this is … this is advanced whipped.”
A group of sorority girls at the next table over are openly staring, whispering behind their hands.
“Do you remember sophomore year?” One of the girls mutters loud enough for Logan to catch. “When he hooked up with those two girls on the literal pool table at a Theta party? He didn’t even care who was watching! It was like a spectator sport for him.”
“I know,” her friend replies, eyes wide. “And now look at him. He looks like he wants to build a white picket fence right here in the cafe line.”
At the counter, the barista calls out your name. “Y/N! London fog latte and a black coffee.”
You step forward to grab the drinks, but a hulking frat boy in a backward cap, rushing to grab his own macchiato, bumps hard into your shoulder.
You stumble slightly, letting out a soft, surprised gasp.
Instantly, the atmosphere in the coffee shop shifts. Dean’s relaxed posture vanishes. He steps in front of you, his chest broad and imposing, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle feathers dangerously. His green eyes turn to ice as he glares at the frat boy.
“Hey,” Dean barks, his voice low but carrying across the suddenly quiet shop. “Watch where the hell you’re going.”
The frat boy pales, taking in the sheer size of the angry hockey player. “My bad, man. I didn’t see her.”
“Well, open your eyes, or I’ll wire your jaw shut so you don’t have to worry about drinking your little coffee,” Dean threatens, taking a menacing step forward.
Before Dean can escalate a simple accident into a full-blown brawl, you move. You reach out, your delicate hands flattening against the solid wall of his chest.
“Dean,” you murmur, your voice soft, sweet, and perfectly calm.
Dean freezes. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under your palms.
You offer him a small, placating smile. You slide your hands up his chest, resting them gently on his broad shoulders. Then, ignoring the dozens of eyes fixed on you, you rise up on your tiptoes. You press a soft, lingering kiss to his tense jawline, right over the ticking muscle.
“I’m alright,” you whisper softly against his skin. You reach up, gently smoothing down the collar of his flannel shirt. “He just bumped me, Dean. Let it go. Please?”
The transformation is instantaneous.
The murderous rage evaporates from Dean’s eyes. His shoulders drop. He lets out a shaky exhale, his hands coming up to wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He leans his forehead against yours, completely ignoring the terrified frat boy who scurries away.
“I know,” Dean breathes, his voice entirely soft, meant only for you. “I just … I hate when people aren’t careful with you, sweetheart.”
“You’re careful enough for the both of us,” you tease gently, your cheeks flushing a pretty, soft pink at the public display, even though it was entirely initiated by you. You give his chest a gentle pat. “Now, carry my tea, please. It’s dreadfully hot.”
Dean practically melts into a puddle on the floor. “Whatever you want, baby.”
He grabs the tray of drinks, completely docile, and follows you out of the shop like a well-trained puppy.
The moment the bell above the door jingles shut behind you, the coffee shop erupts into whispers.
“Did you see that?” Logan says, staring blankly at the door. “She literally just rebooted his operating system with a kiss on the cheek.”
“It’s a superpower,” Garrett murmurs in awe. “She’s a witch. A beautiful, polite, sort of British witch.”
Later that evening, the off-campus house is blissfully quiet. Garrett and Logan are at the library (allegedly), and Tucker is out on a date.
You are in Dean’s bedroom. Or, rather, your shared bedroom. The spare room you initially moved into has slowly become little more than a closet for your clothes, as Dean flat-out refused to sleep in a bed that you weren’t occupying.
The contrast between the Dean that the campus sees — the fiercely protective, completely obsessed boyfriend — and the Dean behind closed doors is staggering.
In public, you are shy, demure, and easily flustered by too much attention. Dean respects that. He shields you, gives you space, and handles the spotlight so you don’t have to.
But here, in the dim, amber glow of the bedside lamp, with the heavy wooden door locked and the world shut out? Here, Dean worships you. And he systematically, patiently dismantles every ounce of your shyness.
You are sitting on the edge of his massive mattress, wearing one of your elegant silk nightgowns. It’s champagne-colored, modest by most standards, but the way Dean is looking at you makes you feel completely exposed.
He is kneeling on the floor between your parted thighs. He hasn’t even taken off his jeans yet, though he shed his shirt hours ago. His broad, muscular chest is on full display, his skin golden in the low light.
“You’re blushing,” Dean murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrates straight through to your core.
You duck your head, your hands nervously smoothing the silk over your thighs. “You’re staring at me.”
“I’m admiring,” Dean corrects softly. He reaches up, his large, warm hands wrapping around your ankles. His thumbs slowly, deliberately stroke the delicate skin there. “I can’t help it. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I love it when you flush for me, Y/N. I love knowing exactly what it does to you when I look at you.”
Your breath hitches. His words are always so direct, so unapologetically filthy and sweet all at once. He is a master of this — of seduction, of bodies, of pleasure — but he treats you as if you are the very first woman he has ever touched. There is a reverence to him that completely wrecks your defenses.
“Dean,” you whisper, a soft plea leaving your lips.
“Look at me, sweetheart,” he commands gently.
You force your eyes up to meet his. His green eyes are dark, completely blown out with desire, but there is an anchor of absolute patience there. He never rushes you. He has spent the last few weeks slowly, meticulously broadening your horizons, taking you further than you ever thought you’d go, and making sure you feel entirely safe the entire time.
He slides his hands up your calves, his rough palms sending a shockwave of heat over your skin. He stops at your knees, leaning in to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your right knee.
You gasp, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
“So pretty,” he breathes against your skin. He shifts higher, pushing the hem of your silk nightgown up your thighs. “You get so pink, Y/N. It starts on your cheeks …”
He kisses higher up your thigh, his tongue darting out to taste the sensitive skin. You let out a soft whimper, your back arching slightly.
“… and then it spreads down your neck,” he continues, his hands sliding up to grip your hips securely. “Down your chest. All over your stomach. You blush everywhere for me, don’t you, baby?”
“Only for you,” you manage to gasp out, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
Dean growls, a low, primal sound of satisfaction. He rises up onto his knees, towering over you slightly. He reaches for the thin straps of your nightgown, slipping them slowly off your shoulders.
You instinctively cross your arms over your bare chest, that ingrained, polite shyness flaring up even now.
Dean gently catches your wrists. He doesn’t force them away, but he holds them softly, his thumbs stroking your pulse points.
“Don’t hide from me,” he whispers, leaning in so his lips are barely a breath away from yours. “I want to see you. I want to worship every single inch of you. Let me see, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”
His words melt your resistance entirely. You slowly uncross your arms, letting your hands fall to his broad shoulders.
The silk nightgown pools around your waist, leaving your top half completely bare to his hungry gaze.
Just as he predicted, a deep, beautiful flush of pink spreads rapidly down your neck, blooming across your chest and stomach.
Dean lets out a ragged breath. He looks at you as if you are a religious artifact, something holy and miraculous. “God, you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.”
He leans in, replacing his intense gaze with his mouth. He kisses the hollow of your throat, his lips hot and demanding. You tip your head back, a soft, breathy moan escaping your lips as his mouth trails lower.
He takes his time, kissing the swell of your breasts, the valley between them, worshipping the flushed skin just as he promised. When his mouth finally closes over one sensitive peak, drawing it in and laving it with his tongue, you completely lose your mind.
“Dean!” You cry out, your hands gripping his shoulders hard, your fingernails digging into his skin.
“I’ve got you,” he hums against your skin, the vibration sending a fresh wave of electricity straight down to your core. “I’m right here. Just feel it, baby. Let go.”
He is relentless in his devotion. His hands are everywhere, mapping your body, learning exactly what makes you gasp, what makes you arch into his touch. For a man who used to thrive on quick, athletic hookups, Dean is agonizingly slow with you.
He pulls away just long enough to shed his jeans and boxers, tossing them carelessly to the floor. When he returns to you, he is fully bare, completely aroused, and radiating heat.
He gently pushes you back until you are lying flat on the mattress, your hair fanned out over his pillows. He follows you down, his massive frame hovering over yours, supporting his weight on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you.
“Tell me this is what you want,” Dean says, his voice strained with the immense effort it’s taking to hold himself back. He needs to hear it. He needs your verbal consent, your absolute certainty.
“It’s what I want,” you whisper, reaching up to cup his handsome, tense face. “I want you, Dean. Please.”
That is all it takes.
Dean shifts his hips, settling himself between your thighs. He reaches down, guiding himself to your entrance. He pauses there, his eyes locked onto yours, searching for any sign of hesitation. When you only nod, your eyes wide and completely trusting, he slowly, steadily pushes inside you.
You let out a sharp cry, your eyes fluttering shut as the feeling of him filling you completely takes over. It is overwhelming, intense, and deeply, achingly intimate.
Dean freezes, his jaw clenched tight. “Y/N? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
“No,” you gasp, opening your eyes. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his face down to yours. “No, Dean, it feels … it feels incredible. Don’t stop.”
He lets out a shuddering breath, pressing his forehead against yours. “You’re so tight, baby. So incredibly sweet. I’m going to take it slow. I promise.”
And he does. He begins to move, pulling back slowly and pressing in deep, establishing a steady, torturously good rhythm. Every time he hits the back of your slick heat, he presses a kiss to your lips, your jaw, your neck.
He murmurs dark, dirty praise into your ear, perfectly contrasting your elegant nature. He tells you how good you feel, how beautiful you look laid out in his bed, how much he loves the sounds you make when he hits that one specific spot.
You are completely undone by him. Your shy, reserved exterior is shattered entirely under his careful worship. You are writhing beneath him, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, matching his rhythm, chasing the blinding pleasure he is feeding you.
“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice breaking as the pressure builds low in your stomach. “I can’t … it’s too much.”
“It’s not too much, sweetheart,” he grunts, his pace quickening, his hips snapping against yours with more force. “You can take it. Let it happen. Come for me, baby. Just for me.”
The possessive command is the final push you need. You shatter entirely, a high, keening cry escaping your lips as your body goes rigid. The climax rips through you in violent, beautiful waves, your internal muscles clenching tightly around him.
Dean groans loudly, his control snapping the second he feels your release. He drives into you a few more times, fast and deep, before burying his face in the crook of your neck and finding his own release with a deep, guttural shout.
He collapses against you, his heavy chest heaving, his heart hammering against yours. You hold him tightly, your hands stroking his damp hair, entirely sated and floating in a euphoric haze.
Dean eventually rolls to the side, taking his weight off you, but he pulls you tightly against his chest, tucking your head under his chin. He pulls the heavy duvet over both of your bodies, enveloping you in warmth.
“God,” Dean breathes into the quiet room, sounding entirely awestruck. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I love you. I love you so damn much, Y/N.”
“I love you too,” you whisper sleepily, pressing a kiss to his bare collarbone. “You’re wonderful, Dean.”
“Only with you,” he promises, his arms tightening protectively around you as you drift off to sleep.
The next morning, the campus is bustling with the standard Wednesday chaos.
Dean is walking you to your 10 AM lecture. He’s wearing his Briar hockey letterman jacket, looking impossibly large and handsome.
You are walking beside him, holding his hand. The contrast from last night is almost comical.
You are back in your tailored clothes — a pleated wool skirt, tights, and a high-necked cashmere sweater. Your hair is perfectly styled, and your posture is immaculate. You look every inch the untouchable, elegant diplomat’s daughter.
As you walk past the quad, a group of guys from one of the fraternities walk by. One of them, not noticing Dean immediately, lets out a low, appreciative whistle directed at you.
“Damn, baby. Looking good,” the guy calls out.
Instantly, that furious, shy blush races up your neck and paints your cheeks bright pink. You immediately duck your head, feeling incredibly embarrassed by the crass public attention, and instinctively turn your face in toward Dean’s bicep to hide.
Dean wraps a heavy arm around your shoulders, tucking you safely into his side. He shoots the frat boy a look so terrifying, so full of lethal, possessive promise, that the guy practically trips over his own feet trying to hurry away.
But as Dean looks down at you, hiding your bright red, blushing face against his jacket, a slow, incredibly smug smile spreads across his lips.
Everyone on campus thinks you are a fragile, shy angel who can barely handle a compliment.
But Dean knows the truth.
He knows what you look like completely undone, blushing that exact same shade of pink while tangled in his bedsheets. He knows the sounds you make, the way you scratch his shoulders, the way you let him broaden your horizons in the dark.
The dichotomy is thrilling. It makes his heart race with a fierce, possessive joy. You are this sweet, untouchable, elegant creature to the rest of the world, but behind closed doors, you belong entirely to him.
“You okay, sweetheart?” Dean asks softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
“I’m fine,” you mumble against his jacket, still embarrassed. “People are so loud here.”
Dean chuckles, a rich, warm sound that vibrates through his chest. He pulls you a little closer, kissing your temple.
“Don’t worry about them,” he murmurs, his green eyes sparkling with a secret only the two of you share. “They don’t know anything about you. But I do. And I think you’re perfect.”
You peek up at him, seeing the wicked, knowing gleam in his eye, and your blush somehow deepens even further.
“You’re terrible,” you whisper, though a small smile plays on your lips.
“I’m the best,” Dean corrects easily, pulling open the door to the lecture hall for you. “And you know it.”
You do know it. And as you walk into the classroom, your hand firmly intertwined with the biggest playboy turned most devoted boyfriend in Briar University history, you wouldn’t trade him for the world.
***
The late November air bites sharply at your cheeks as you and Dean walk out of the political science building. The Briar University campus is painted in stark shades of grey and deep, dying auburn, the sky threatening an early winter snow.
You are bundled in a thick wool coat and a cashmere scarf, your hands buried deep in your pockets. Dean is walking beside you, seemingly impervious to the cold in just a Briar Hockey quarter-zip, though he has your heavy canvas tote bag slung effortlessly over his broad shoulder.
“I still think the professor has it out for me,” Dean complains, bumping his shoulder gently against yours as you navigate the crowded sidewalk. “I answered the question perfectly.”
“You compared the socioeconomic impacts of the Industrial Revolution to the plot of Transformers,” you point out mildly, though a fond smile pulls at your lips. “It wasn’t exactly a perfect academic parallel.”
“It’s about the rise of machines, Y/N,” Dean argues, a wicked, charming grin spreading across his handsome face. “It’s deeply metaphorical. He just doesn’t appreciate my genius.”
“Of course,” you say, laughing softly. “That must be it. You’re a misunderstood scholar.”
Dean stops walking suddenly, turning to fully face you. He reaches out, pulling your cold hands from your coat pockets and wrapping his large, warm ones around them. He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss to the chilled skin right there in the middle of the quad.
“I don’t care if I’m a scholar,” he murmurs, his green eyes locking onto yours with that familiar, breath-stealing intensity. “As long as I get to sit next to you.”
A blush instantly warms your cheeks, combating the winter chill. It’s been weeks of this — weeks of Dean completely upending his life to revolve around yours, weeks of his fierce protection and tender worship — and you still haven’t gotten used to the sheer force of his devotion.
“Come on,” Dean says softly, tugging your hands. “Let’s go get lunch. Garrett said he was craving-”
Dean’s words cut off abruptly.
You look up, following his line of sight, and your heart skips a sudden, violent beat.
Standing near the edge of the courtyard, completely out of place amidst the sea of stressed-out college students in sweatpants, is a man in an immaculate, bespoke navy suit. He is flanked by two very large, very discreet men in dark overcoats who exude a quiet, lethal sort of professionalism.
“Dad?” You gasp, the word slipping out in absolute shock.
Your father turns his head at the sound of your voice. His stern, diplomat’s face instantly softens into a warm, relieved smile.
“Y/N,” he says, his deep, cultured voice carrying across the pavement.
You don’t think. You just run. You drop Dean’s hands and sprint across the quad, throwing yourself into your father’s open arms. He catches you effortlessly, wrapping his arms tightly around you and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
“Dad, what are you doing here?” You ask, your voice muffled against his lapel. “Is everything okay? Are you safe? Is Mom okay?”
“We are perfectly fine, sweetheart,” your father assures you, pulling back just enough to look at your face, his hands resting on your shoulders. “Everything is fine. In fact, it’s more than fine.”
You blink, confused, as Dean slowly walks up behind you. He is standing a respectful distance away, his posture rigid, his jaw clenched tight. The playful, flirtatious college boy has completely vanished, replaced by a tense, hyper-vigilant protector.
“Ambassador Y/L/N,” Dean says, his voice respectful but cautious.
Your father looks up, his sharp eyes taking in Dean’s massive frame, the Briar hockey quarter-zip, and the canvas tote bag adorned with your handwriting that Dean is still holding.
“Dean Di Laurentis,” your father replies, a small, knowing smile touching his lips. “It has been quite a few years. You’ve grown into a mountain of a young man. How are your parents?”
“They’re doing very well, sir. Thank you,” Dean says stiffly.
You look between the two of them, the tension crackling in the cold air, before turning back to your father. “Dad, please. Tell me what’s going on. You’re supposed to be locked down in D.C. Why are you in Massachusetts?”
Your father sighs, a sound of profound, weary relief. He gestures to a nearby stone bench. “Let’s sit down for a moment.”
Dean remains standing, flanking the bench like a bodyguard as you and your father take a seat.
“The threat has been neutralized, Y/N,” your father says quietly, his voice dropping into the serious, commanding tone he uses for state briefings. “Completely.”
Your breath catches. “Neutralized? How?”
“It was a joint operation,” your father explains, glancing around the quad to ensure no one is within earshot. “MI6 and the FBI have been tracking the extortion ring for months. The group using you as leverage to manipulate the trade sanctions made a mistake. They tried to move funds through an offshore account that had been flagged. The authorities raided their compound in Zurich two days ago. The key players have all been indicted, and the network has been dismantled.”
You stare at him, your brain struggling to process the magnitude of his words. For the past two months, you have lived with a persistent, low-grade terror thrumming in your veins. You had accepted that your life would never look the same, that you would always be looking over your shoulder.
“Are you absolutely sure?” You whisper, your voice trembling. “They’re gone?”
“They are gone,” your father confirms firmly, covering your hand with his. “The Director of Intelligence personally assured me this morning. You are no longer a target, my darling. The danger has passed.”
A wave of dizzying relief washes over you. You slump forward slightly, tears of sheer release pricking the corners of your eyes. Your father wraps an arm around you, holding you close as you let out a shaky sob.
Above you, Dean lets out a long, ragged exhale. The rigid tension bleeding from his broad shoulders is almost palpable.
“Thank God,” Dean breathes, running a hand through his blonde hair. “Thank God.”
“Indeed,” your father says. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a crisp, white envelope, handing it to you. “Which brings me to the secondary reason for my visit.”
You sniffle, wiping your eyes carefully as you take the envelope. It bears the official crest of Oxford University.
“I spoke with the Dean of your college at Oxford yesterday,” your father continues, his tone gentle. “They understand the extenuating circumstances of your sudden departure. They have held your spot, Y/N. Your transfer credits from Briar will apply. You are entirely free to return to England and resume your studies next semester, just as you planned.”
The words hang in the freezing air, heavy and catastrophic.
Behind you, Dean stops breathing entirely.
The color drains rapidly from Dean’s face. His heart, which had just been soaring with relief for your safety, suddenly plummets straight into his stomach, crashing violently against the cold dread pooling there.
Return to England. Resume her studies. Leave Briar.
Leave him.
Dean feels physically ill. It’s only been a month and a half. He has only had you back in his life for a fraction of a semester, but in that time, you have become the absolute center of his universe. You are the air he breathes, the reason he wakes up in the morning, the only thing that makes this chaotic, loud world make sense. The thought of you packing your bags, getting on a plane, and crossing an ocean again feels like a physical blow to his chest.
He remembers the ache of losing you when you were both fourteen. He remembers how quiet his house felt, how empty his days were without his best friend. But this? Losing you now, after he has tasted your lips, after he has held you in his bed, after he has realized that his soul is irreversibly tied to yours?
It will break him. He knows, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that if you leave, he will not recover.
Dean instinctively takes a half-step backward, the physical manifestation of his emotional retreat. His hand, which had been resting on the back of the stone bench near your shoulder, drops to his side. He stares at the ground, his jaw locked so tight his teeth ache, preparing himself for the inevitable. You belong at Oxford. You belong in grand libraries and ancient halls, not in a messy hockey house with a guy who barely scrapes by in political science.
You look down at the heavy, embossed envelope in your lap.
Oxford. It was your dream. You had worked tirelessly to get in. You had friends there, a life there, a clear, pristine path laid out for your future in diplomacy. Returning is the logical, smart, expected thing to do.
You look up at your father, seeing the quiet expectation in his eyes.
Then, you turn your head to look at Dean.
He won’t meet your gaze. He is staring fiercely at the concrete, his broad shoulders hunched as if bracing for an impact. You see the subtle tremor in his clenched jaw, the absolute devastation radiating from his rigid posture. He has already convinced himself that you are leaving. He is already letting you go, because that is the kind of man he is — he would tear his own heart out before he ever held you back from something you wanted.
A fierce, protective warmth blooms in your chest.
You don’t want Oxford. Not anymore. The ancient halls and polite, intellectual debates suddenly seem terribly cold and lonely compared to the chaotic, vibrant, fiercely loyal life you’ve found here. You don’t want a life without Garrett stealing your snacks, without Logan’s terrible jokes, without Tucker’s quiet drawl.
And, most importantly, you absolutely refuse to exist in a world where you don’t wake up next to Dean Di Laurentis every single morning.
You slide the envelope back across the bench toward your father.
“No, thank you,” you say softly, but your voice is remarkably steady.
Dean’s head snaps up so fast you’re surprised he doesn’t pull a muscle. He stares at you, his green eyes wide, raw shock and desperate hope colliding in his expression.
Your father arches a dark eyebrow. “No? Y/N, you loved Oxford. It is one of the premier institutions in the world for your field.”
“It is,” you agree, reaching out to gently lay your hand over the envelope. “And I am grateful they held my spot. But I don’t want to go back to England, Dad. I want to stay here. At Briar.”
“Briar is an excellent school,” your father acknowledges smoothly, ever the diplomat. “But it is a significant shift in your trajectory. Are you certain this isn’t a reaction to the trauma of the past few months? Now that the threat is gone, you don’t need to hide anymore.”
“I’m not hiding,” you say firmly. You stand up from the bench, stepping closer to Dean. You reach out, your delicate fingers sliding into his large, calloused hand. Dean gasps softly, a quiet, broken sound, and immediately crushes your hand in his, holding on as if you are a lifeline.
You look up at Dean, offering him a smile so full of love and absolute certainty that the last lingering remnants of his panic melt away.
You turn back to your father, your hand firmly anchored in Dean’s. “I’m not hiding, Dad. I’ve built a life here. I have friends here. I’m happy here. Really, truly happy. I want to stay.”
Your father looks at your joined hands. He looks at the way Dean is looking down at you — as if you are the sun and he has spent his entire life in the dark. The Ambassador has spent his career reading people, analyzing motives, and deciphering unsaid truths. It takes him less than five seconds to understand exactly what is happening in front of him.
A slow, genuine smile breaks across your father’s stern face.
“Very well,” your father says, standing up and smoothing the front of his suit jacket. “It is your life, Y/N, and your education. If Briar is where you wish to remain, I will not attempt to convince you otherwise. I trust your judgment.”
You let out a massive sigh of relief, your shoulders dropping. “Thank you, Dad.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” your father says, his eyes shifting to Dean. “My driver is waiting by the main gates. I have reservations at Ostra in Boston for lunch. You are both joining me.”
It isn’t a request.
Dean swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yes, sir.”
The drive to Boston is quiet, insulated by the tinted windows and plush leather of your father’s town car. You sit in the middle of the spacious backseat, your father on your right, and Dean on your left. Dean hasn’t let go of your hand since the courtyard. His thumb traces anxious, rhythmic circles into your palm, betraying the calm, stoic mask he is trying desperately to maintain.
Ostra is exactly the kind of restaurant your father frequents — impeccably designed, quietly opulent, and smelling of expensive wine and Mediterranean seafood. The maitre d’ immediately ushers the three of you to a private, secluded booth in the back.
As the waiter pours sparkling water and takes their drink orders, Dean is practically vibrating with tension.
He knows how this goes. He isn’t stupid. He is the guy with a notorious campus reputation who has suddenly shacked up with the Ambassador’s sheltered, brilliant daughter. He has been waiting for the shovel talk since the day you moved into the hockey house. He is entirely prepared to take it. He is prepared to sit here and let your father threaten him, dissect his character, and warn him of dire consequences if he ever breaks your heart.
Dean will agree to all of it, because he’d sooner die than hurt you.
“So, Dean,” your father starts once the waiter retreats, resting his forearms on the white tablecloth. “Political Science. A slight departure from your parents’ corporate law background.”
“Yes, sir,” Dean says, sitting incredibly straight. “I plan to go to law school after graduation, but I wanted a broader undergraduate foundation. And … hockey takes up a significant amount of my time.”
“Ah, yes. The Briar hockey program,” your father nods slowly. “Your mother mentioned you were a standout player. Any plans to pursue it professionally?”
“I have options,” Dean answers honestly, his voice steady despite his nerves. “I’ve had some interest from scouts, but my priority right now is finishing my degree. And making sure Y/N is situated.”
Your father takes a slow sip of his water, his sharp eyes pinning Dean to the plush leather of the booth.
“Speaking of Y/N,” your father says softly, the diplomatic polish stripping away to reveal the protective father underneath. “She has been staying with you and your teammates at an off-campus residence.”
Dean stiffens. “Yes, sir. When she first arrived, the dorms lacked the necessary security parameters. My housemates and I decided it was safer for her to be with us. We have a spare room.”
It’s a half-truth. You haven’t slept in that spare room in weeks, but Dean isn’t about to volunteer that information over the bread basket.
“I appreciate your hospitality,” your father says smoothly. He sets his glass down. “I also appreciate that you have taken it upon yourself to act as her personal shadow. My security detail informed me that you walk her to every class, you sit beside her in the library, and you haven’t attended a single social event without her on your arm.”
Dean’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t apologize. He looks your father dead in the eye. “She was threatened, sir. I wasn’t going to let her out of my sight. Not when I had the means to protect her.”
You reach under the table, resting your hand gently on Dean’s rigid thigh, a silent gesture of support. Dean’s hand immediately covers yours, gripping your fingers tightly.
“Sir,” Dean continues, his voice dropping into a serious, unwavering register. “I know what this looks like. I know you’re probably aware of … certain aspects of my reputation before Y/N transferred here. And I know you probably brought me here to give me the warning I absolutely deserve. I am completely ready to hear it. But you need to know that I love her. I love your daughter more than anything in this world, and my only priority is her happiness and her safety. You can threaten me all you want, but I am not going anywhere.”
You stare at Dean, your heart swelling with so much love you think it might genuinely burst. You look at your father, ready to defend Dean, ready to tell your dad that Dean is the best thing that has ever happened to you.
But your father doesn’t look angry.
Instead, a soft, incredibly fond smile touches his lips. He leans back in the booth, looking at Dean with an expression of profound respect.
“Dean,” your father says gently. “I did not bring you here to threaten you.”
Dean blinks, completely thrown off guard. “You didn’t?”
“No,” your father chuckles quietly. “My entire career is built on assessing character, gathering intelligence, and understanding the truth of a situation before I enter the room. I know exactly what your reputation on this campus was. And I know exactly how drastically it changed the moment my daughter set foot in Massachusetts.”
Your father folds his hands on the table, his expression turning entirely earnest.
“You think I don’t know the boy sitting across from me?” Your father asks softly. “I have known you since you were in grade school. I have watched you grow up alongside my daughter.”
Your father pauses, his eyes softening as he looks into the past. “Do you remember the summer you were both twelve? Y/N had convinced you to take one of the small sailing dinghies out onto the Long Island Sound, despite the small craft advisory.”
Dean exhales a shaky breath, the memory hitting him instantly. “I remember.”
You look down, blushing slightly. “That was entirely my fault. I wanted to see the lighthouse up close.”
“A sudden squall rolled in,” your father recounts, his voice thick with remembered fear. “The wind picked up, and the boat capsized. The Coast Guard was dispatched, but it took them nearly an hour to locate you in the chop.”
Your father looks directly at Dean. “When they finally pulled you both out of the water, Y/N’s life vest was gone. The clasp had broken when the boom swung around. But she wasn’t under the water. You had given her your life vest, Dean. You spent an hour treading water in freezing temperatures, holding her up above the waves, completely risking your own life to ensure she didn’t drown. You were hospitalized for hypothermia, and you refused to let the doctors treat you until you saw with your own eyes that Y/N was unharmed.”
Dean looks down at the table, his cheeks flushing a dull red. “She couldn’t swim as well as I could. I wasn’t going to let her sink.”
“I know,” your father says quietly. “That is my point, Dean. When the threats against my family escalated in London, my first thought was terrifying panic. My second thought was finding a safe harbor for her. The government suggested several secure locations. But when my wife mentioned that Briar University was an option — that you were at Briar — I signed the transfer papers immediately.”
Dean’s head snaps up, absolute shock written across his features. “You … you sent her to Briar because of me?”
“I sent her to Briar because I knew that if you were there, no one on this earth would be able to touch her,” your father states with absolute, unwavering conviction. “I knew the boy who gave up his life vest in the freezing Sound had grown into a man who would do whatever it took to keep her safe. I don’t need to give you a shovel talk, Dean. You are perhaps the only man on earth I trust implicitly with my daughter’s heart, and her life.”
The silence in the opulent restaurant booth is deafening.
Dean stares at the Ambassador, his green eyes shining with unshed emotion. The heavy, suffocating weight of guilt he has carried about his past, the fear that he wasn’t good enough for you, is completely decimated by your father’s words.
Dean swallows hard, his jaw working as he struggles to find his voice. He looks at you, his eyes blazing with a fierce, watery devotion, before turning back to your father.
“Thank you, sir,” Dean says, his voice thick and rough. “I won’t let you down. I swear to God, I will never let her down.”
“I know you won’t, son,” your father smiles warmly, picking up his menu. “Now, I am told the sea bass here is excellent. And I believe we have a celebration in order. My daughter is safe, she is staying in America, and she is in excellent hands.”
Under the table, you squeeze Dean’s hand, leaning over to rest your head gently against his broad shoulder. Dean presses a kiss to your hair, his entire body radiating a profound, beautiful peace.
He didn’t just get to keep the love of his life today.
He finally realized he was worthy of her.
***
Spring break at Briar University usually means packed beaches in Cabo, cheap tequila, and a week of terrible decisions.
But Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t do anything by the standard playbook anymore.
When you had offhandedly mentioned over a midnight study session that you missed the rainy, historic charm of England and the specific scones from a little bakery near your old flat, you hadn’t expected anything to come of it. You were simply feeling a bout of homesickness.
Two days later, Dean had dropped two first-class tickets to Heathrow onto your textbook.
Now, you are walking hand-in-hand down the ancient, cobblestone streets of Oxford, bundled in a sleek wool coat to ward off the crisp March chill.
The trip has been nothing short of a fairy tale. Dean had rented a massive suite in London for three days, taking you to the West End, indulging in high tea, and buying you more luxury clothes than you could ever fit in your suitcase. Then, he had whisked you away to the Cotswolds, renting a secluded, romantic stone cottage with a thatched roof and a roaring fireplace. You had spent three days snowed in, wrapped in thick blankets, drinking hot cider, and letting Dean absolutely worship every inch of you in front of the hearth.
But Oxford is different. Oxford is your past.
“So, this is it,” Dean says, his head tipped back as he looks up at the towering, magnificent dome of the Radcliffe Camera. “The legendary stomping grounds. I have to admit, sweetheart, it’s pretty spectacular. Makes Briar look like a strip mall.”
You laugh, squeezing his large hand. “Briar has its own charm. But yes, Oxford is … it’s special. I spent hours reading in that library. I used to sit on that wall right over there and debate international policy until the sun went down.”
Dean looks down at you, his green eyes entirely soft, crinkling at the corners. He is wearing a long, tailored black overcoat over a dark turtleneck, looking so impossibly handsome and devastatingly striking that people have been turning their heads to stare at him all morning.
“Show me,” Dean murmurs, pulling you flush against his side and pressing a warm kiss to your temple. “Show me everything. I want to see where you lived, where you drank, where you bought those scones you wouldn’t stop talking about.”
“You bought me five dozen scones yesterday, Dean. I think I’m set for life,” you tease, leaning your head against his broad shoulder.
“I’m a provider,” he counters smoothly, flashing that wicked, brilliant grin. “It’s in my nature.”
You lead him through the winding, historic streets, pointing out your favorite pubs and the quiet little courtyards hidden behind massive iron gates. Dean listens to every word you say with absolute attention. He asks questions, he remembers the names of your old professors, and he looks at you with a devotion so fierce it makes your chest ache in the best possible way.
“And this,” you say, stopping in front of a rustic, wood-paneled pub with hanging flower baskets, “is The Turf Tavern. It’s practically a requirement to get a pint here. Shall we?”
“Lead the way,” Dean says, reaching past you to push the heavy oak door open.
The pub is crowded, smelling of ale, fried fish, and damp wool. You navigate through the low-ceilinged room, Dean keeping a protective hand resting securely on the small of your back. You manage to find a tiny, secluded booth near the back.
Dean goes to the bar to order two pints and a plate of chips. You sit at the booth, pulling your scarf off and feeling a profound sense of contentment wash over you. You are back in the city you love, but you are here with the man who holds your entire heart. It is the perfect collision of your two worlds.
“Y/N? Is that you?”
The crisp, highly polished, and painfully familiar British accent cuts through the low din of the pub.
You freeze. Your blood turns to ice water in your veins.
You turn your head slowly. Standing a few feet away, holding a half-empty pint glass and wearing a perfectly tailored tweed blazer, is Edward.
Edward, the Viscount of Scunthorpe. The aristocratic, impossibly snobby ex-boyfriend you had dated during your time at Oxford. The man who had treated you more like a shiny, diplomatic accessory than a human being.
“Edward,” you say, your voice tight. You force a polite, entirely fake smile onto your face. “Hello.”
Edward steps closer, his gaze sweeping over you with an uncomfortable familiarity. “I had heard a rumor you fled back to the States. Something about your father and a political scandal? What a dreadful business. You look well, though. A bit … domestic, perhaps, but well.”
His backhanded compliment grates on your nerves. You immediately shrink back into the booth, your ingrained, polite shyness warring with your immense annoyance. “I didn’t flee, Edward. I transferred. And I’m doing perfectly fine.”
“Of course you are, darling,” Edward smirks, taking another step forward. He reaches out, aiming to lazily tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Though I must say, Oxford has been terribly dull without-”
A massive, calloused hand suddenly intercepts Edward’s wrist mid-air.
The grip is visibly bone-crushing.
Edward gasps, his eyes blowing wide as he looks to his right.
Dean is standing there. He holds two pints of beer effortlessly in his left hand, while his right hand is locked around Edward’s wrist like a steel vice. Dean’s expression is completely blank, but his green eyes are practically glowing with lethal, frozen rage.
“Don’t touch her,” Dean says. His voice is dangerously low, a soft, gravelly threat that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.
Edward tries to yank his arm back, but Dean doesn’t budge an inch. “I beg your pardon?” Edward sputters, his face turning an undignified shade of red. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
Dean slowly, deliberately releases Edward’s wrist, shoving the man’s arm back toward his chest with just enough force to make Edward stumble back a step.
Dean sets the pints down on the table. He doesn’t sit. He turns, placing himself entirely between you and Edward, shielding you from the Viscount’s sightline.
“I’m the guy who is going to break your hand if you reach for my girlfriend again,” Dean answers smoothly, his tone conversational, though the threat is violently real. “I’m Dean.”
Edward scoffs, rubbing his wrist, though he wisely takes another step back from the towering, broad-shouldered American athlete. “Your girlfriend. I see. Y/N, really? You traded me for a … what are you, a footballer? A rugby brute?”
“Ice hockey,” you say clearly, finding your voice. You slide out of the booth, stepping up to stand right beside Dean. You wrap your arms around Dean’s bicep, pressing yourself against his side. “And I didn’t trade you for anyone, Edward. We broke up because you were entirely insufferable.”
Dean looks down at you, the lethal ice in his eyes melting instantly into a look of absolute, smug adoration. He wraps a heavy arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side.
Edward sneers, looking Dean up and down with blatant aristocratic disdain. “Ice hockey. How terribly colonial. Tell me, Dean, do you actually know how to read, or do you just hit things with a stick for a living? I’m surprised you can even keep up with a conversation here at Oxford.”
Dean doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t raise his voice. Instead, he laughs. It’s a dark, rich, incredibly condescending laugh that completely catches Edward off guard.
“You know, Edward,” Dean says, leaning forward slightly, using his height to completely dwarf the other man. “You talk a lot for a guy whose family wealth is currently tied up in the failing agriculture sector because your father completely botched his investments in the post-Brexit trade agreements. From a socioeconomic standpoint, you’re practically a peasant in a nice jacket.”
Edward’s jaw actually drops. The color drains from his face.
You stare at Dean, absolutely floored.
Dean continues, his voice dripping with terrifying charm. “I study political science and corporate law, Edward. My parents are two of the most ruthless litigators on the East Coast. So, if you want to debate international trade laws or intellectual property, we can. But right now, I’m on vacation with the woman I love, and you are boring me to death.”
Edward opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly defeated, stripped of his aristocratic armor by a guy who he assumed was nothing but muscle.
Dean doesn’t give him a chance to recover.
He turns to you, completely ignoring Edward’s existence. “You ready to get out of here, sweetheart? The air in here suddenly feels incredibly cheap.”
“Yes,” you whisper, your heart doing frantic, somersaulting leaps in your chest. “Take me back to the hotel.”
Dean smirks. Right there, in the middle of the crowded pub, with your ex-boyfriend standing three feet away, Dean reaches up and cups your face. He tilts your head back and crushes his lips to yours.
It is a claiming, devastating, incredibly filthy kiss. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting you, devouring you, staking a completely undeniable claim. He kisses you until you are breathless, until your knees go weak and you have to grip his coat lapels to stay standing.
When he finally pulls back, you are thoroughly flushed, your lips swollen and wet.
Dean turns his head slightly, shooting Edward a look of pure, dominant victory.
“Have a nice life, Eddie,” Dean deadpans.
He grabs your hand, lacing your fingers together, and leads you out of the pub, leaving the Viscount standing completely humiliated in the dust.
The walk back to the Randolph Hotel is a blur.
You are practically vibrating with adrenaline. You had never seen Dean like that. You had seen him protective, yes, but the way he had verbally dismantled Edward without even raising his voice, the way he had claimed you so thoroughly in public — it sent a rush of intense, liquid heat straight to your core.
The moment the heavy, oak door of your luxurious hotel suite clicks shut behind you, the calm, collected facade Dean had maintained completely shatters.
Dean spins around, grabbing you by the hips and backing you forcefully against the heavy door.
You let out a soft gasp as your back hits the wood.
“Darling?” Dean snarls, his voice dropping into a dark, guttural growl that sends a violent shiver down your spine. “He called you darling?”
“Dean-” you start, but he cuts you off, his mouth crashing down onto yours.
There is no slow, patient worship this time. This is feral. This is possessive. He kisses you with a desperate, consuming hunger, his tongue pushing past your lips to conquer your mouth. He tastes like ale and dark desire.
You moan softly into his mouth, your arms instantly coming up to wrap around his neck. You kiss him back with matching ferocity, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
Dean’s large hands tear at your wool coat, practically ripping it off your shoulders and tossing it to the floor. His hands roam over the thin silk of your blouse, his palms hot and heavy.
“Tell me whose you are,” Dean demands, pulling back just a fraction of an inch, his chest heaving against yours. His green eyes are black with lust, wild and completely untamed. “Tell me, Y/N.”
“Yours,” you gasp, your eyes fluttering shut as he trails open-mouthed, biting kisses down the column of your neck. “I’m only yours, Dean. Nobody else’s.”
“Fucking right you’re mine,” he groans against your skin. He sucks a hard, bruising mark into the sensitive spot right above your collarbone, making sure to leave a physical reminder of exactly who you belong to.
You cry out, arching your back off the door to press your chest flush against his.
Dean grabs the back of your thighs and lifts you effortlessly. You instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, crossing your ankles behind his back. He carries you across the luxurious suite, your back never leaving his chest, and drops you onto the center of the massive, king-sized bed.
You bounce slightly on the plush mattress, looking up at him through heavy, hooded eyes.
Dean strips off his overcoat and his turtleneck in one fluid, aggressive motion. He stands beside the bed, his golden, impossibly muscular chest heaving. He reaches for the buckle of his belt, his eyes fixed on you like a predator watching its prey.
“Did he ever touch you like this?” Dean asks, his voice tight with lingering jealousy. He reaches down, grabbing your ankles and dragging you down the mattress until your hips are right at the edge of the bed.
“No,” you whisper, shaking your head frantically. “God, no, Dean. Never. It was never like this. It’s only you.”
Dean lets out a harsh, satisfied breath. He kneels between your parted thighs. His hands make quick work of your blouse, popping the buttons and tossing it aside, followed quickly by your bra and skirt.
In seconds, you are completely bare to him, flushed a deep, beautiful pink from your chest down to your thighs, completely exposed to his heated gaze.
“You’re so beautiful,” Dean murmurs, the feral edge softening into pure, intense worship. “You make me absolutely crazy, sweetheart.”
He leans forward, pressing his mouth to the valley between your breasts, before trailing wet, hot kisses down your stomach. You writhe beneath him, your hands gripping the high thread-count sheets on either side of your head.
Dean’s hands slide up the inside of your thighs, pushing them wider apart. He settles himself fully between your legs, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive core.
“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice a high, sweet whimper. You are already aching, already so incredibly slick and ready for him.
“I’ve got you, baby,” Dean hums.
He lowers his head and takes you into his mouth.
You scream his name, your back arching violently off the mattress. His tongue is relentless, swirling and flicking exactly where you need it, while his large fingers slide effortlessly inside your slick, wet heat. He mimics the rhythm of sex, pumping his fingers deep inside you while his mouth devours you, driving you completely out of your mind.
“That’s it,” Dean praises darkly between wet, sloppy kisses against your core. “Let go for me. Show me how much you want it.”
You can’t hold back. The intense, overwhelming pleasure builds too fast, shattering through your body in a blinding wave. You climax hard against his mouth, your internal muscles clenching tight around his fingers, a sobbing moan tearing from your throat.
Dean doesn’t give you a moment to recover.
He rises up, his own need completely overriding his patience. He shoves his jeans and boxers down his hips, freeing his aching, heavy arousal.
He grips your hips, his thumbs pressing into your hip bones, and aligns himself with your entrance. He looks down at you, his eyes blazing, a muscle ticking in his strong jaw.
“Look at me,” Dean commands softly.
You open your eyes, tears of pure pleasure pricking the corners, and meet his intense gaze.
“I love you,” Dean says, the words a fierce, unbreakable vow.
He drives his hips forward, burying himself completely inside you in one long, deep thrust.
You cry out, the feeling of him stretching you, filling you so completely, sending a fresh wave of electricity straight to your brain. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, locking him flush against you.
Dean begins to move. He sets a punishing, desperate pace, pulling almost completely out before slamming his hips forward, driving deep into your tight, wet heat. The sound of his skin slapping against yours echoes loudly in the quiet hotel room.
“Dean!” You cry, your fingernails digging into his broad shoulders, leaving half-moon indentations in his golden skin.
“You feel so fucking good,” Dean groans, his teeth gritted. “So tight. You’re mine, Y/N. Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” you sob out, completely lost in the overwhelming sensation of him. “Always yours. Oh god, please, harder.”
Dean complies instantly. He adjusts his grip, hooking his arms under your knees and pulling your legs all the way back against his chest, opening you up completely. He thrusts deeper, hitting a spot that makes you see stars.
You are a chaotic mess of flushed skin, tangled hair, and breathless moans. Every time he hits that spot, you shatter a little more. You are entirely consumed by him, by his heat, his scent, his overwhelming, possessive love.
“I’m close,” Dean grits out, his pace turning frantic, his thrusts losing all coordination as the pleasure takes over. “Baby, I’m right there.”
“Come for me,” you beg, your own body tightening, ready to fall over the edge again. “Dean, please.”
Dean lets out a deep, guttural roar. He drives into you three more times, as deep as he possibly can, before his body goes entirely rigid. He clenches his jaw, his eyes squeezing shut as he pours his release into you, his hips locked flush against yours.
The feeling of him finishing deep inside you pushes you over the edge, your own body convulsing around him as you climax for a second time, calling out his name like a prayer.
For a long time, the only sound in the luxurious hotel suite is the harsh, ragged breathing of two entirely exhausted people.
Dean eventually collapses forward, his heavy chest resting fully against yours, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He is covered in a light sheen of sweat, his heart hammering a violent rhythm against your own.
You wrap your arms around his broad back, holding him tightly, your fingers lazily tracing the deep ridges of his spine. You feel entirely boneless, floating in a euphoric, hazy afterglow.
Slowly, gently, Dean rolls to the side, taking his heavy weight off you but immediately pulling you flush against his side. He reaches down and pulls the thick, white hotel duvet up over your bare bodies, cocooning you in warmth.
He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, his thumb gently stroking the curve of your waist.
“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” Dean murmurs into the quiet room, his voice raspy. “I just … seeing him look at you like that. Thinking about him touching you. I saw red, Y/N.”
“You didn’t lose your temper,” you reply softly, turning your head to press a kiss to his chest. “You were completely calm. Terrifyingly calm, actually. I think you might have broken his spirit.”
Dean chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through you. “Good. He was a prick. And he didn’t deserve you.”
“No,” you agree, looking up into his warm, green eyes. “He didn’t. But you do.”
Dean’s breath catches. He reaches up, gently brushing a tangled lock of hair out of your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek.
“I meant what I said,” Dean whispers, all the playful arrogance stripped away, leaving only the raw, honest truth of the man who has loved you since you were children. “I’m your future, sweetheart. I know we’re young, and I know we have our whole lives ahead of us. But I am not doing any of it without you.”
Tears prick your eyes again, but this time they are tears of absolute, profound joy.
“I’m not going anywhere, Dean,” you promise him, sliding your hand up to cup his handsome face. “I love you. I love you more than anything.”
Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, impossibly tender kiss. It is a promise, a vow, a sealing of a fate that had been written in the stars the moment you built your first terribly constructed fort in his backyard in Greenwich.
He pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours, a stunning, radiant smile breaking across his face.
“So,” Dean murmurs, a hint of his signature, charming arrogance slipping back into his tone. “Since I successfully defended your honor against a British Lord, do I get to be a knight now? Is that how it works here?”
You laugh, the sound bright and clear, echoing perfectly in the quiet room.
“You’re already my knight in shining armor, Dean Di Laurentis,” you tease, pressing a final kiss to his jaw. “Now, shut up and hold me.”
“As you wish, sweetheart,” Dean replies smoothly, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you impossibly closer.
As you lie there in his arms, thousands of miles from the Briar hockey house, looking out the window at the ancient spires of Oxford, you realize you have never felt more at home.
You had crossed an ocean to escape your past, but in the end, it was your past that had caught you, held you safe, and given you the most beautiful, chaotic, perfect future you could ever ask for.
➷ summary: after plowing down john logan during one of your volleyball games, you catch the man’s eye. and, to be totally honest, he caught yours, too. but you know you can’t give in that easily; you’ve got to make him earn it, and during that process, you discover that through getting to know and understand john logan, you’ve unlocked a whole new chapter of your life that you didn’t even know was possible to exist.
pt.2 of plowed down
➷ word count: 5919
➷ warnings: cursing, little bit angsty during one part (just about family stuff, nothing to do with their relationship so don’t worry), you’re the main character (sure me, idc), definitely inaccurate volleyball references. also, i know that with ncaa championships, they’re typically like a few days after the semifinals BUT FOR THE PLOT, we’re gonna pretend it’s like two weeks after (again, sorry, just bear with me).
omg also guys thank you so fucking much for the love that i received on plowed down!!! like it was genuinely bonkers waking up to all those notifications, so thank you so much!!!!
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
You weren’t exactly sure what you had going on with John Logan.
It had been two weeks since you plowed the man down– two weeks since you made out against your apartment door, since you told him you didn’t do casual; that you didn’t do hook-ups.
Two weeks since the guy started practically worshipping the ground you walked on.
You aren’t sure what you did to warrant this; you had quite honestly been playing hard to get after making out with him. Partly because you were maybe a little bit embarrassed by how easily you gave into his charm, but also partly because you knew how guys like John Logan worked. They were athletes who had sex with different girls every few days, who were texting multiple girls at once. Guys like John Logan were players, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing when they were honest about it.
But you didn’t like to engage with players more than once, because, again, casual didn’t work for you. It was just something you swore off on in your sophomore year of college because for you, flings and hook-ups came with too much emotional baggage.
It was your own fault, quite honestly.
To you, intimacy was much more than a quick fuck. It always meant more to you. It had to be with someone you trusted, someone you had gotten to know over a certain amount of time. You learned that through a messy situationship, which is what created your personal rules.
That is why you tried to let John Logan down the easy way. With a playful grin, you had whispered the words, “I don’t do hook-ups. Or casual.”
And John Logan had fucking grinned.
Like he understood– like he was on the same page, which you knew he wasn’t.
Or, at least, you thought you knew.
But apparently you didn’t, because after you had said those words, he backed off you, his fingers lingering on your hips. He had still been smiling as he looked at you with gentle eyes and nodded, “Okay. Nothing casual, no hooking up. I can do that.”
“What?”
You blurted out the question, and you’re positive your face revealed how fucking shocked and baffled you were, because John had laughed, the sound warming your chest in the scariest way for a man you had only known for a few hours. He was dangerous, and yet you still felt the urge to dip your fingers into his flames.
He shrugged, and then said, “I can do that.”
“Okay, no.”
“No?”
“No! Isn't it your thing, to like, hook up with girls at parties?”
“I haven’t done that for weeks now–”
“Oh, how tragic,” you drawl, but you’re still smiling despite yourself. You let your hands trail up his arms and to his shoulders. You give them a quick squeeze, and then nod, “Well, this was fun.”
Now he looks baffled.
“So we’re done?”
“I don’t do hook-ups.”
“I won’t either.”
“That’s a lot of commitment for a girl you just met.”
He sighs, and he looks down at you, as if he’s searching your eyes for something, anything– and, you don’t know how, but the motherfucker seems to find what he’s looking for, because he nods, grins, and says, “Can I get your number, then? You should get to know me before you decide to get rid of me completely.”
“We’re following each other on Instagram now.”
“This is different.”
You’re slightly shocked by his words, but you’re watching his face, and you can’t help the way your lips quirk up. But you don’t nod, and you don’t give in. You smile and watch as his eyes glimmer when you respond.
“You’ve gotta earn it, Logan.”
As you said those words, you figured he’d get bored of you within a couple days. Forget about you completely, be a failed sexual encounter in the back of his mind, who he would forget about in a few months time.
Yeah, that absolutely did not happen.
Not even two days later the man somehow found your practice schedule– you had deep suspicion Jade was his source– where he had waited outside for you to finish up, standing on the cold with not even an ounce of exasperation.
“... You waited for me to finish practice?” You question, your practice bag slung over your shoulder. You stared at John Logan, dumbfounded. He was standing outside of the Briar gymnasium where your practice was held, hands shoved in the pockets of his Carhartt jacket, a happy smile on his face.
“You said if I wanted your number, I’d need to earn it. Here I am, earning it.”
“You’re being serious?” You question, and you look back to your teammates, all of whom had stopped in their tracks, watching the scene with a mixture of expressions. Some shocked, some giddy. The only part of the expressions that stayed consistent was how everyone was smiling from ear to ear.
“Yes.”
You falter– stammer, quite honestly– and you feel like your head is about to explode, because you never expected that John Logan would take you to your word. You stand there for about thirty seconds, baffled into silence, when Louisa finally nudges you in the ribs, knocking your thoughts back into your head.
“I mean, a deal’s a deal,” you say after leaving the poor guy standing in silence for far longer than necessary. You don’t miss the way his face lights up, and you watch as he hurries over to you, digging out his phone from his pocket.
He unlocks it, passing you the phone, and you go to his contacts, creating your own.
You look back up at him, face held with faux seriousness, “What number should I be? Girl thirty-five? Thirty-six?”
“Number one works.”
You snort, “Number one? Be serious.”
“I am,” he says with a playful grin. “I’m not a total player. Anymore, at least.”
“Mhm,” you nod. “Well, you’re number fourty-seven in my phone, so–”
He snorts at that, a loud laugh escaping him, and his smile is still wide on his face as you hand him his phone back. He looks down at the screen, clicking onto your contact. You’ve written your name and put a little volleyball emoji next to it, which has him looking up at you with a raised eyebrow.
“Just so I won’t get lost in your sea of girls,” you elaborate.
“It’s more like a plastic fair bag now, but okay.”
For whatever reason, that had you seeing hearts because holy shit he was funny. But you compose yourself enough to not tackle him to the floor with a frenzied kiss.
In fact, ever since that encounter, you’ve learned to compose yourself in many ways. Basically whenever you guys hang out. Because, despite wanting to kiss the ever-loving shit out of him every time you guys were together, you had composed yourself with major difficulty. In the two weeks he’d had your number– the two weeks that you guys had been doing random, stupid shit together– you had only made out with John Logan three times. And each time, it had only been making out. Nothing more.
As it turned out, John Logan really was a man of his word. He had no expectations for whatever the fuck was going on between you two. During the three times you two had made out, it had caught him by surprise each time. Not that he wasn’t into it; he was extremely into it. He just hadn’t been expecting any kissing.
You had been the one to initiate it each time, and he was there to happily oblige.
Which, unfortunately for you, only made him hotter.
Still, most of your hangouts would be what many would deem as boring. He’d pick you up from your practice most nights, and then you guys would get food; always your choice, even when you tried to make him choose. You’d sit in his car and talk about whatever– you had even gone on a rant one time on how a block of cheese was technically a loaf of milk, and the guy had nodded along with full seriousness as if you had just said the most logical thing he’d ever heard.
You’d also gone over to his house a few times, gotten to know the teammates that he lives with (his best friends). And their girlfriends, of course. As it turn outs, Allie and Hannah were fun as fuck. The number of times you guys had played Just Dance on the guys’ TV was astronomical for the limited amount of time you’d known the group; you had become fluent with the Rasputin dance. And, God, you didn’t even want to calculate the number of late nights you had stayed at the house, beating the absolute shit out of Tucker and Dean in Mario Kart with Allie.
You swore sometimes you had more fun with John’s friends than him.
You had even told John that to his face once; his response was to give you the most dramatic pout he could muster, which, in turn, caused you to make out with him for the third time. He was smiling after that.
Out of all your hangouts, though, most of them were dedicated to you doing something of importance while he just sat beside you and watched.
Such as right now.
You were in the Briar U library, flipping through one of your textbooks as you took notes for an upcoming midterm. You weren’t all that worried about it since the class was relatively easy, but you still wanted to study. Just in case.
You would’ve been nearly done with studying had a little leech not been bothering you the entire time.
You side-eyed Logan as he flipped through your stack of notecards, watching as he let out a bored breath of air. He then reached over, grabbing your pencil pouch, where he opened it, grabbing an orange sparkly pen from inside.
Instantly, you snatch it from his grip.
“Absolutely not.”
“What?” He asks, eyes wide in a playful manner. His boredom was swept away in a matter of seconds, and he straightened up, leaning closer to you.
“That’s my lucky pen, and I swear to everything if you took away its luck with your grubby hands–”
“Grubby?”
“– I will kill you.”
He smiles, something he can’t seem to stop doing around you, and sinks back into his chair. “Fine.”
“Good,” you say, returning to your notes. But not before you lift your eyes to look at him, where you mutter, “Just sit there and look pretty.”
“You think I’m pretty?”
“Why else would I have kept you around?”
He laughs quietly, “So my looks are all I’m good for?”
“That and your friends.”
“Wow.”
This time it’s you who smiles and you can’t stop yourself as you lean over, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.
You’re quick to get back to the task at hand– studying– because if you don’t, you know you’ll see the dopey expression on John’s face. If you see that, you know that three make-out sessions will immediately turn into four. And you know that can’t happen in the middle of a fucking library where people are studying, so you distract yourself instantly, flipping back through the pages of your textbook.
It’s silent for a couple minutes as he watches you, completely content with where he’s at. But he sits up suddenly, seemingly remembering something, and then he says, “You should come over tonight.” His fingers were tapping against the wood of the table as he spoke, his eyes watching your hands as you paused on a page, a flash of confusion corrupting your expression. His eyes soften as a result, “Tucker said he’s trying out a new dish. You’d like it.”
“I can’t,” you respond without much thought, furrowing your brows as you flip back a few pages in your textbooks, and then in your notes. You’re trying to find a specific concept that you remember reading, but for some reason, you can’t find it anywhere; it’s the pure source of your confusion and it will stay that way until you find what you’re looking for. “The fuck?” You mumble, and then you look at John when he lets out a little snort, “Sorry– what’d you say?”
“You should come over,” he repeated, this time with a soft grin as he watched you. His eyes flickered over your face, scanning. It was something he always did when you spoke, like even the tiniest change in your facial expression was a portal to something holy.
“Oh, right,” you nod. You shake your head immediately after. “Can’t.”
“I heard.”
“Sorry,” you apologize, but your tone isn’t very sincere. Not as you flip a few more pages in your textbook, looking for the concept that seems to have vanished off the face of the earth. John doesn’t seem to care, his pretty smile still on full display.
“Why can’t you?”
“Late practice tonight,” you say, and then you turn to look at him, finally smiling at the softness in his eyes. “Y’know, for the championship in a couple days.”
“After, then. Come over. I’ll pick you up.”
“I won’t get out of practice until after 9. I’ve been sloppy with my saves these past few practices, and Coach Peters is really getting worried, so–”
“God, I love it when you talk volleyball to me,” he interrupts, to which you lose your smile and shoot him a harsh look because he knows what that does to you.
It was the reason for the other two times you had made out with him. And, fuck, it was about to be the fourth, because the man was unreasonably hot. You shake your head, deciding to scoot your chair away from his. Your self-restraint is quickly wavering, especially after you glance him over, allowing you to really absorb how good he looks in the sweatshirt he’s wearing. And, watching as you scoot away from him, he lets out a small sigh, scooting his chair closer. You give him a look, and he grins, scooting even closer, the side of his knee pressing against yours. Your eyes turn annoyed, and he innocently asks, “What?”
“You’re distracting me, and you know it,” you answer. “You do this on purpose.”
He hums, “So you’ll come over?”
“Yeah,” you say, as if it was the most obvious answer. When he smiles, you quickly add on, “only for the meal, though.”
“Obviously,” he nods with fake seriousness. “Why else would you?”
“Don’t get any ideas.”
“No ideas are coming to mind.”
“Good. Because I’m just coming over to eat.”
“Yep.”
“So no kissing.”
“No kissing?” He whines, completely dramatic and not at all serious. You can see him fighting to keep the smile from his face, “Why not?”
“Keep it in your pants, Logan.”
“Oh, it hasn’t left my pants. My pants have remained perfectly intact, thank you.”
You laugh, covering your mouth with your hand before you piss off the librarian. You shake your head, and you look at him with a level of affection that is far stronger than it should be with how little time you have known the hockey boy.
“You’re insufferable,” you whisper with a big smile.
“I think you love it.”
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
You get out of practice at 9:34 p.m.
It’s later than you had been expecting, and you’re absolutely exhausted as you trudge over to John’s truck. You pull open the passenger side door, and he looks up from his phone with a soft smile as you toss your back to the floor, pulling yourself into your seat with a long sigh.
“You okay?”
“Sleepy,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes before turning your head to look over at him.
“You want me to take you back to your apartment?” He asks, his tone gentle as he watches you buckle your seatbelt. “You don’t need to come back to mine if you’re too tired. We can hang out another time–”
You shake your head, “No, I’m starving, and all I’ve been imagining for the past two hours is Tucker’s food.”
He laughs softly and nods, “Okay.”
When you finally get to the house that’s situated off campus, John cuts his engine, exits the vehicle, and walks around the front of his truck. He opens the passenger side door before you can even unbuckle, and you smile softly as he reaches over you, unbuckling the seatbelt for you.
“I could’ve done that myself, y’know?” You say, taking the hand that he held out for you. “I’m perfectly capable.”
He gave your hand a short squeeze as you hopped out of his truck, and he nodded, “I know. But you’re tired.”
Your eyes follow as he grabs your practice bag and slings it over his shoulder, using his foot to shut the passenger. His hand remains threaded with yours, and you him softly, “You’re playing gentleman tonight?”
“I’m always a gentleman. Get it straight.”
You laugh softly, giving him a slight nudge with your shoulder as you guys reach the front door. John opens it, and you walk in alongside him, instantly greeted with the delicious smell of whatever the hell Tucker cooked. Your stomach growled as a result, and your hand– still linked with John’s– squeezed his as you tugged him along to the kitchen, where his entire friend group was gathered, hanging out casually as they usually did.
Hannah notices you first, and she smiles softly, “How was practice?”
“Tiring,” you respond, finally releasing John’s hand. You slip into one of the island chairs next to Allie, and you thank Tucker quietly as he slips a bowl of fancy looking pasta in front of you. You grab your fork, twirl some pasta onto the prongs, and bite into it with a satisfied hum, “This is so fucking good, Tuck.”
He grins happily, “Logan said you would like it. It has parsley!”
“It’s delicious,” you nod, taking another bite. And as you do, you feel Logan come up behind you, his arms snaking around your front, his chin resting on the top of your head. You promptly ignore the warm feeling that flutters in your chest, eating more of the amazing pasta dish.
After finishing up the food, you and the rest of the group somehow migrate to the living room. You’re sitting on the couch beside Logan, tucked beneath his arm, your head resting against the crook of his shoulder as you watch Dean and Garrett play the worst game of silent charades that you had ever seen. Allie seemed borderline aggravated as she yelled out words that she thought aligned with the movements of the men only to then be pissed off because ‘Dean, what the fuck even was that?’.
You had to admit, it had been the funniest thing you’d witnessed in awhile.
And, you’re not sure when you fall asleep, all you know is that you’re woken sometime later in the evening by the soft touch of Logan, his eyes gentle as he carefully shifts you awake. You blink your eyes open, only to realize that all the others are heading to bed, and reach over Logan, grabbing his phone from his lap. You tap on the screen, checking the time; 12:17 a.m.
“Want me to drive you home?” He asks, using his thumb to swipe an eyelash from your cheek.
You groan in response.
“No?” He laughs, the hand that’s around your shoulders rubbing up and down your arm.
“Can I just stay here tonight?”
“Absolutely.”
He says the words immediately, and you’re caught entirely off guard as he stands from the couch, scooping you up in his arms with a scary amount of ease. Your eyes widen, arms scrambling to latch around his shoulders as you let out a quiet sound of panic, voice rushed as you breathe out, “John, what the fuck–”
“You’re tired.”
“Yeah, but I can still walk, you idiot. Oh my God, put me down–”
“We’re half way up the stairs and you want me to drop you?”
“If you drop me I’m never speaking to you again.”
He laughs again, this time filled with pure amusement as he continues scaling the stairs with you in his arms. Your arms stay hooked around his shoulders as he walks in the direction of his room, and carefully opens the door, stepping inside. Still, he doesn’t bother to put you down just yet. He holds you as he shuts the door behind him, his grip on you steady while he walks over to his desk, switching on the lamp.
When he finally sets you down, he plops you onto his mattress, not giving you much time before he’s draping himself over you with a satisfied sigh, and you can’t help the smallest giggle that leaves your chest, your hands pressing against his front.
“You’re crushing me.”
“Whoops.”
He makes no attempt to move, and again, you push against his shoulders, “You’re comfy, but I’m still in my volleyball clothes, and I want to change–” You stop suddenly, groaning with dismay.
Instantly, he pushes himself off you.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, eyebrows furrowed with concern.
“I have no clothes to change into.”
“Just wear my stuff,” he says, pulling himself from you completely. He stands with a stretch, and you watch as the bottom of his sweatshirt rises just enough for you to see a sliver of his stomach. Fuck, you were going to go feral.
You clear your throat, and clap your hands once, “Then chop chop, hockey boy.”
It only takes him a few seconds to grab you something to wear; he comes up with a pair of plaid boxer shorts and a Briar hockey sweatshirt with the number 22 on the back. As you take the clothing, you raise your eyebrow, “No other sweatshirts?”
“Nope, that’s my only clean one. Sorry.”
And the man’s a fucking liar because behind him, where is closet is just partially open, you can see at least four more regular sweatshirts hanging, completely clean.
“Huh,” you mutter. “You must be blind.”
“That’s the only clean one,” he repeats. “So, better go ahead and change into it.”
You laugh, shaking your head. Standing, you clutch the clothing in your hands, and as you pass him, you press a soft kiss to his lips– which, holy shit, it’s the first time you’ve ever done that as if it were second nature– and you mumble, “You really are insufferable, Logan.”
He hums against your lips, his hand going to your jaw as he presses a couple more soft kisses to you. You can’t help but smile, and you lean back, gazing up at him. You don’t say anything, just run a hand through his hair, and your smile turns giddy as you pull back fully, your bottom lip tucking beneath your teeth as you try to bite back your grin.
You point to the bathroom that’s connected to his room, “I’m gonna go change.”
He nods with a happy smile, responding in that soft voice that you realized he only uses with you, “Okay.”
Once changed, you exit the bathroom, finding John already in his bed, wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt. You walk over to his bed, not saying a thing as you plop down on his mattress, stretching out across his mattress.
“Cozy?” He asks as he turns on his side to face you.
“Yeah. It’d be better if we were cuddling, though.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Not that I expect you to do that, though,” you say the words playfully. “I mean, I’ve never watched you play, but I assume you’re the same on and off the ice.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re not good at taking the shot, if you get what I mean–”
“Shut up,” he laughs, and he grabs your arm, gently tugging you to him. You grin, getting situated against his body, one of your legs draped across his while your arm rests over his torso, your head settled comfortably on his chest with your ear pressed right over the beating of his heart.
And you stay like this for a while, just until you’re on the brink of falling asleep. But before you can slip into that peaceful state of bliss, a question you had been meaning to ask– a question you had been too nervous to ask– comes to mind.
You’re not able to stop yourself from asking it.
“You wanna come to the championship and watch me play?” You question from where your head is still tucked against his chest, your voice whispers into the fabric of his sweatshirt and against his skin that lies beneath it. “It’s a three hour drive away.”
You feel him let out a soft breath of air, his fingers dancing gently along the fabric of his sweatshirt that covers the dip of your back. His voice is low and gravelly as he speaks, coated with a layer of sleepiness, “I want to, and I tried to find tickets, but they’re all sold out. Even Allie tried to find some and she couldn’t, which means I’m shit out of luck.”
“I’ve got tickets,” you say. “My teammates and I each got six tickets. Thought you might want them. You and your friends can go. They’re good seats.”
You can practically feel the frown in John’s expression as he asks quietly, “You’re not gonna give them to your family?”
“No,” You swallow thickly and do your best to keep your eyes shut because you know John’s looking at you now. His fingers stopped trailing along your spine as a result of the change in your tone and your body language, and you sigh against him. Might as well get it out of the way. “I just– I did everything I could to get out of my house as a teenager. To get away from my parents and the rest of my family. I don’t really feel like giving them a straight ticket back into my life, y’know?”
He’s quiet for a second before he nods, speaking softly, “Yeah, I know. I get it.”
“I’ve never had anyone in any of the seats during my games,” you continue. “I just thought it would be kinda nice to have that for once. You don’t need to, though. I know it’s really last minute, and–”
“No, I’ll go,” John interrupts you before you can finish. “We all will. Me and the guys. And Hannah and Allie. The six of us will go.”
“You sure?”
He laughs softly, tiredly, and nods, “Yeah, baby, I’m sure.”
Oh my God, you were going to fucking implode. But you hold in the desperate need to squeal like a dumbass, and instead bite the inside of your cheek to fight against the wide grin that wants to break out on your face.
After composing yourself enough to not make a complete and utter fool of yourself, you nod, and tilt your head up, pressing the softest kiss to his jaw.
He smiles as a result, the smallest shade of pink flushing his cheeks.
“Okay,” you whisper. “I’m excited.”
“Me too.”
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
John Logan was your goodluck charm.
The guy had to be, because this was the best fucking game you had ever played in your life. Sure, the first set wasn’t the best for Briar U, but that was okay given you guys were playing against Penn State. The team had won every single game so far this season, so, in short words, they were good as hell. They’d also won the NCAA Championship for the past five years, which was devastatingly nerve wracking knowing you were against the best team D1 volleyball currently had.
Still, tonight, you and your teammates came with a mission; you were going to win.
And, fuck, was it looking promising.
Despite Penn State winning the first set, Briar U had won the other two.
They weren’t wipeouts, but that didn’t matter, because you had won them.
That meant that if you and your teammates somehow managed to win this fourth set, you’d place Briar as the fucking NCAA Women’s Volleyball Champions for the first time in over ten years. It’d be an insane feat, and you had to fight from getting too excited about the possibility, especially because right now, it was looking very likely.
So far, you’ve saved every stray ball, hitting it back to your teammates or over the net with ease. As you played, your smile never left your face. Not even as you dove for the ball, saving it as you slid across the polished wood floor.
That didn’t mean Penn wasn’t doing good, though. Because they absolutely were.
They were playing with a fierceness of a team who wanted this win just as badly as you did; it felt like an even playing field, and while that could be fun, tonight it was terrifying.
Right now, the score was 22 to 23. The set was almost over, and it was in Briar’s favor. If you guys got two more points, you were winning the match. If you won, you’d be the first captain in over ten years to lead Briar to a volleyball victory and that’s exactly what you were planning on doing.
No way did you fight this hard only to lose.
You were hovering near the back of the court, watching as Jade surged forward, tapping the ball over to the right of the court. Instantly, your teammates rallied toward the ball, leaving the left side of the court completely unguarded, and your eyes lingered on the ball, watching as Louisa sprinted forward, feet fast as she jumped up, spiking it over the net.
The middle hitter on the Penn State team hurried forward, blocking the spike with a bump of her arms, and you watched as the ball practically hovered over the net.
Right to the spot that was unguarded.
You’re not sure how you moved as fast as you did– one second, you were at the back right of the court, and the next, you were flying in the upper left, body in the air as you threw yourself forward, your right hand bumping the ball back to your teammates just before it hit the ground on your side of the net.
Your body hit the floor with a thud, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care, because the moment you had successfully executed the move, your side of the room erupted in loud cheers. It shook the floor as you stood up, and you didn’t waste any time as you sprinted back to the center of the court.
Just in time, too, because the setter of Penn State sent a lethal spike in your direction, and you dropped to a knee, forearms out as the ball bounced from your skin and back over the net. Two saves in a matter of seconds, and you could literally see your coaches losing it from pure happiness in the corner.
You probably looked like a cocky motherfucker, your lips upturned in the smallest of smiles as you shuffled backward, and then dove sideways, saving yet another ball from being spiked into the ground.
And yeah, you were definitely right– John Logan was totally your lucky charm tonight because holy fuck, you were even impressing yourself.
More cheers sounded throughout your side of the room, increasing tenfold as Liliana jumped, spiking the ball down to the back corner of Penn State’s side, earning Briar U their 24th point of the fourth set.
It was an exhilarating sound, and you laughed with pure joy as you ran over to Liliana, the rest of the girls on your side of the court meeting halfway. You huddled with pure glee; one more point, and you guys were winning.
All you needed was one more point.
Leaving the huddle, you guys got back into your positions. You watched as Macey served the ball, starting what would hopefully be the final round of the night.
The Penn girls were quick to rally on the ball; they moved it over the net with ease, and you watched as Jade ran, hitting it back over the net. It went back and forth for a bit, the round intense. It felt like it was purely silent save for the cheers from supporters that erupted when either side had a good save or hit.
You watched as the libero for Penn bump the ball with her wrist, causing it to go over the net. And then you see as the entire team moves away, going near the back of the court, like they knew what the next play was going to be; a spike ball.
Except it wasn’t that at all.
No, it’s the complete opposite, because you’re in the exact spot that you’re meant to be in for this current play. You’re close enough that the ball clearly belongs to you at this moment, and you run up, arms carefully bumping the ball over the net.
It barely catches the top before it topples over to Penn State’s side.
The girls hadn’t been expecting it; they’re unable to move fast enough from where they had migrated to the back of the court with the expectation that Liliana or Louisa were going to spike the ball over the net, a move that had earned you guys many wins this season.
They hadn’t been expecting you to run up and hit the ball with your forearms in such a way that it only just made it over the net.
You watched as the volleyball hit the floor on Penn’s side.
Holy fuck.
You’d scored the winning point.
You can’t even process the fucking thing, because you’re instantly bombarded by your teammates– ones both on and off the court– as they swarm into a pile around you, the deafening cheers of the crowd blocking out the cheers from your own teammates who stood around you.
You guys are jumping up and down, and you’re not even sure when you stop, because one moment you’re celebrating with your teammates and coaches, and the next you’re following after your teammates, running towards the people who had come to watch you in the stands.
And you find him instantly.
John Logan is standing in the front row– because, yes, the seats were great– with his friends next to him, all of them grinning ear to ear as they cheered for you.
Your feet moved like they had a mind of their own; you’re sprinting to John like he’s the only thing you’re even capable of thinking about at the moment, and that’s because he is.
When you finally reach him, you practically leap into John’s arms, your hands threading around the back of his neck with a tight grip, and you have the widest smile on your face as you press your lips firmly against his.
He reciprocates the kiss instantly, hands clutching your waste as he leans down to match your lips.
It’s soft, not anything over the top, but fuck does it have you wanting more.
As you pull away, you stare up at John with an excited spark in your eye.
“So kissing’s a thing we do regularly now?” He asked, the happiest grin you’d ever seen on his face. “That’s okay now?”
“Yeah,” you nod, your grin matching his. “I’d say so.”
Check Engine Light // John Logan x Fem!Reader - [Chapter Nine]
Synopsis: What starts as a simple repair turns into late-night diner runs, coffee deliveries to the garage, and a growing attachment neither of you expects. Logan likes that you talk too much when you're nervous. You like that Logan becomes softer when nobody’s watching.
But as pressure mounts with Logan's hockey career and real life starts pulling at you from opposite directions, you begin to wonder if you’re just a temporary stop in Logan’s fast-moving future.
And Logan realizes far too late that somewhere between oil stains and midnight drives, you became the closest thing he’s ever had to home.
You woke up tangled in Logan’s arms in his room, with the sunlight filtering through the blinds, and for a little while, the fear from the night before felt stupid.
Logan’s alarm went off, and he turned over and buried his head into your neck after hitting snooze.
“Five more minutes.”
You laughed softly, “You have to get up, babe.”
A groan vibrated against your skin. For a few precious minutes, things felt normal again. Maybe he really was just tired, and this wasn’t becoming something bigger.
By the time you both finally got dressed, Logan looked more awake than the night before. He still had limited sleep, but he looked functional.
He packed his hockey bag up, complete with a change of clothes for the media breakfast he had that morning.
“What are you going to do this morning?” he asked you.
“I have to go back to my dorm and do some studying.”
He nodded before leaning down to kiss you.
“See you tonight? Maybe we can go to Malone’s?”
The question settled warmly into your chest.
“Yeah. Text me.”
“I will,” he said, stealing one more kiss before he was out the door.
--
The first few hours passed normally. You went home and started studying before grabbing lunch with a friend at a small café near campus. You answered emails, stopped by the library, and then threw in a load of laundry.
Now and then, you checked your phone. Every time your screen lit up with a new notification, you glanced down automatically.
At around three, you sent him a picture of a terrible motivational poster hanging near the library.
You: This feels threatening
There was no response. It wasn’t out of the ordinary; he was busy, you knew that.
At five, you texted him again.
You: Survived studying statistics
Still nothing. Again, not too weird. Maybe he’s sleeping.
You refused to become one of those girlfriends who spiraled because your boyfriend took a few hours to text back. You had a life, you were fine.
At seven thirty, you started checking your phone more often. Not obsessively, just… more. By eight, you’d finished dinner. By eight thirty, you finally got a text. Relief hit you so fast that it embarrassed you. Then, you opened it.
Logan: Sorry. Crazy day. Hope studying was okay.
You smiled at the screen. See? Everything was fine. You were just being ridiculous.
You: It was, still alive. You?
The three dots bubble appeared, disappeared, and then appeared again.
Logan: exhausted lol talk later?
You hesitated. Something about the message felt rushed.
You typed back.
You: of course. Love you
A minute passed, and then he wrote back.
Logan: love you too
That should’ve been enough.
--
At ten thirty, you were lying in your bed, looking at Instagram on your phone, having just brushed your teeth and changed into some pajamas.
You noticed that Dean had a new Instagram story.
You almost swiped past it, but then you looked at it. It was from Malone’s; there was music, crowded tables, and the hockey team packed into their usual booth. Dean filmed himself singing terribly as he turned the camera toward Garrett, who flipped him off. Tucker was laughing, and there, for maybe two seconds, was a shot of Logan.
He was sitting in the corner booth, smiling at something one of the other hockey players said as he sat next to him. A beer was in his hand, and he looked completely unaware he was being filmed.
You stared at the screen. Once, and then again, and then again for a third time.
“Maybe we can go to Malone’s?” you remembered.
Those were his words from this morning. You had thought that he had just skipped everything tonight and gone home to sleep, but it was just you who had the absence of any invitation.
You sat on the edge of your bed, your phone still in your hand. You weren’t angry, you were… confused. He hadn’t chosen the team over you; you knew that. If you’d texted him and asked to come, he would’ve said yes immediately. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that he hadn’t thought about it. At least, not enough to invite you, or enough to text and ask you.
You stared at Dean’s story again as the video looped. Logan laughing, Dean yelling, the team celebrating. A knot tightened slowly in your chest.
Your phone buzzed suddenly, and you jumped. It was him.
Logan: just got home, gonna crash. Love you
You stared at the message and then at Dean’s story. You looked at the timestamp on Dean’s story, which said twelve minutes ago.
You didn’t think he was lying, but, with everything going on, you just didn’t think he remembered. You didn’t think he realized you would’ve gone, or that anything was wrong, because he forgot.
You swallowed hard before typing back.
You: love you too. Hope you sleep well
The three dots appeared instantly and then vanished. He sent you back a heart emoji. You set your phone down, the room feeling strangely quiet.
You were trying to decide why this hurt so much. Of course, you didn’t have to go everywhere and do everything with him. It wasn’t Malone’s. It wasn’t the hockey team; it wasn’t being left out. It was the fact that he had asked to see you earlier in the day, even mentioning Malone’s, and then didn’t even ask you to go later. It was the promise of plans without the follow-through. It was that he made you feel like he’d forgotten you. Not intentionally, not cruelly, just… forgotten. Somehow, that felt worse to you than if he’d done it on purpose. Because if it were intentional, you could fight about it. If it was intentional, you could feel angry without feeling guilty. This? This was Logan getting pulled in a million directions that eventually something slipped his mind, and that one thing had unfortunately been you this time.
What scared you the most was how quickly you’d forgiven it. A small voice in the back of your head kept whispering, ‘If this is the first thing he forgot, what happens when there are more?’
--
You told yourself not to make it weird. That became the goal. Not a ‘don’t be hurt’, but a ‘don’t make it weird’ message to yourself. Logan forgetting to invite you to Malone’s wasn’t a crime; it wasn’t betrayal. It was just a mistake, one exhausted decision he probably didn’t even remember making.
So when you saw him Monday afternoon outside the student center, you smiled. For a second, everything felt normal. Logan spotted you from halfway across the quad, his face lighting up. He crossed the grass without hesitation, and wrapped an arm around your waist, and kissed you.
“Hey,” he said to you.
“Hey.”
His hoodie sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, exposing tan forearms. His hair was slightly messy, and there were traces of dark circles under his eyes. He still looked happy to see you, which made things more confusing.
“You eating lunch?” he asked you.
You nearly laughed. Same Logan, there he was.
“Yes, Mom.”
“Good.”
His phone went off, and he checked the screen, typing something before looking back at you.
“Sorry,” he apologized, sliding his phone back into his pocket.
“How’s your day?” he asked you, as he linked their hands.
“Good.”
“Yeah?” he said, raising one eyebrow.
You nodded.
Then, before you could stop yourself, you asked, “How was Malone’s?”
The question slipped out casually enough, at least you hoped it did. Logan froze, like, actually froze.
“Oh.”
Your stomach dropped, because immediately he knew.
“Y/N.”
There it was, the guilt. It was fast. He ran a hand through his hair.
“Shit.”
“It’s fine.”
“It isn’t.”
People walked around them across the quad. Students were laughing, and music was playing somewhere near the center of the quad.
“I completely forgot.”
You forced a smile, “I figured.”
His face somehow got worse because, apparently, hearing that hurt too.
“Coach pulled us into something after practice, and then everyone ended up at Malone’s and—”
He stopped because the explanation didn’t matter. The problem wasn’t Malone’s. The problem was exactly what he’d already admitted: he forgot.
“I’m sorry.”
You shrugged lightly, “It’s okay.”
Logan’s eyes narrowed, “You’re upset.”
“No,” you lied.
Logan immediately recognized it, “Y/N.”
“It’s really okay.”
And mostly it was, that was the frustrating part. You understood, you did. Which somehow made it harder to explain why it still bothered you. Logan stepped closer to you, his hand settling on your waist.
“I’m really sorry.”
You nodded once and then leaned up and kissed him briefly. Not because everything felt fixed, but because you didn’t want to do this here.
--
The next few days passed strangely. They weren’t bad, they were just… off. Like every interaction had a tiny crack running through it now.
On Wednesday afternoon, you sat with Logan outside the business building while he worked through scouting reports on his laptop.
You were halfway through telling him about one of your professors' arguments with another student.
“It was so weird, it was like he had this grudge against the student—”
Logan’s phone buzzed. He looked down automatically, and you stopped talking. You waited while he typed a quick response. He looked back up at you, and there was a beat of silence.
“Sorry, what happened?”
The words hit harder than they should have. Not because he meant anything by them, but because you realized you’d started expecting them.
“Nothing.”
“Y/N.”
“It’s fine.”
Logan frowned. You hated that look, the confused one. He genuinely didn’t understand why these moments felt bigger than they were. To him, it was one interruption. To you, it was becoming a pattern.
--
Friday night was worse. Not because of anything Logan did, but more because of what he didn’t do. On that Wednesday night, he’d invited you over for a movie night on Friday at the boys’ house.
It was nothing special, just pizza, the boys, Hannah, and Allie. They all wanted to watch this terrible action movie.
You showed up at the house that night, carrying snacks. You had Logan’s favorite candy and a few other things you thought everyone would like.
You knocked on the door, and Dean answered. He blinked, a confused look on his face as he looked at you.
“What are you doing here?” he asked you. It wasn’t mean, he was just puzzled.
You laughed, “What?”
Dean frowned, “No, seriously.”
Your smile slipped slightly. “Movie night?”
Confusion crossed his face. Then realization took over, and then horror.
“Oh.”
Your stomach dropped, because it was in that moment that Dean immediately looked like he wanted to throw himself off a bridge.
“Oh no.”
“Dean.”
“Oh no.”
“Dean,” you said louder.
He physically winced.
“Logan didn’t text you?”
The answer sat between them before you even spoke. No. He hadn’t.
“Coach asked him to stay after practice for a meeting.”
“But why him and not the rest of you?”
“I think it was something about a scout that’s interested in him.”
Silence. Dean rubbed a hand down his face.
“I can’t believe he forgot.”
You took a deep breath and nodded. That was exactly what hurt; You could believe he did. A few months ago, he would’ve remembered. Six weeks ago, he would’ve texted. A month ago, he would’ve called. Now? Now, he forgot. Again.
Dean looked genuinely upset on Logan’s behalf.
“He’s been a disaster lately.”
You managed a small smile, “It’s okay.”
Dean stared at you, then quietly said, “No, it’s not.”
For the first time, someone else saw it too.
Dean ended up making you stay anyway. Mostly because he looked like he would personally fight Logan if you left.
“You’re already here,” he said.
“Dean—”
“We have pizza.”
“That’s not a compelling argument.”
“We have good pizza.”
You laughed softly, and that seemed to relax him slightly.
“See? Fixed.”
“Nothing was broken.”
Dean gave you a look that clearly said, ‘I’m not stupid.’ Unfortunately, Dean was far more observant than most people gave him credit for.
The house was unusually quiet without Logan there, or maybe you are just so used to Logan’s presence being so big in your life.
Garrett sat on the couch, working on something for class and waiting for Hannah, while Tucker was in the kitchen making sure there was enough ice for all of the drinks. This was normal for all of the boys; it was comfortable.
Somehow, it made you miss Logan even more, because you could picture exactly where he’d be. He’d be curled into the corner of the couch, an arm around your shoulders, stealing your candy even though he had his own, and making fun of the movie that Dean chose.
About an hour later, your phone buzzed.
Logan: where are you?
You stared at the message, and then at Dean. Then, you looked back at the screen. He didn’t even know you were at his house.
You: your house.
The typing bubble appeared and disappeared quickly.
Logan: shit.
You closed your eyes briefly. Across the room, Dean visibly winced. Apparently, Logan had texted him, too. A second later, another message appeared.
Logan: Y/N I’m so sorry
Logan: I completely forgot
The words should have made you feel better, but they didn’t. This wasn’t crossed wires. This wasn’t miscommunication. He forgot, plain and simple. Again.
You: It’s okay
His response came immediately.
Logan: no it’s not
Logan: I’ll leave as soon as we’re done
You could picture it perfectly; Logan already exhausted, already stretched too thin… and now add guilt on top of it. The thought made you feel awful.
You: finish your meeting
Logan: love you
The message sat on your screen as you looked at it for a second.
You: love you too
The response felt honest. You still loved him exactly the same, maybe even more. Somehow, this made it hurt worse.
Logan showed up nearly two hours later. You heard the front door open before you saw him, and Dean looked at him from the couch.
“Nice of you to remember where you live,” Dean said, half joking, half pissed about what he’d done.
Logan ignored him, or tried to. His eyes found you immediately, and the second they did, guilt washed visibly across his face.
You suddenly wanted to take all of it back because he looked devastated.
“Hey,” he said, directed at only you. He dropped his hockey bag beside the door and crossed the room immediately. He stopped in front of you, like he wasn’t sure whether he deserved a hug.
You stood from the couch. The relief that crossed Logan’s face when you wrapped your arms around him nearly broke your heart. His arms tightened around you instantly.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into your hair.
You closed your eyes; there it was again. It was the cycle you’d learn to expect: Forget, Apologize, Forgive. You were starting to hate it. It wasn’t because he wasn’t sincere; he was, every single time.
He pulled back slightly, running a hand over your jaw.
“I swear I remembered this morning,” he said to you.
You nodded, “I know.”
Logan studied your face carefully, like he was looking for signs that you were angrier than you claimed. Then, his phone buzzed, and the entire room went silent. Logan looked down automatically, and then seemed to realize what he’d done because he froze and then slowly lowered the phone.
Logan looked embarrassed. Garrett and Hannah looked away awkwardly, and Dean and Allie suddenly became very interested in what movie they were going to pick for everyone. Nobody said anything, and that made it worse.
Later, after the movie ended and everyone started drifting upstairs, Logan walked you to your car. The night air felt colder than it should have. Neither of them spoke immediately.
When they reached your car, he stopped. He stepped forward and kissed you. It was soft, careful, and almost cautious, like he was trying to fix something with affection. When he pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
You nodded, “Okay.”
Normally, that would have been enough. You would have driven back to your dorm smiling. Instead, you watched as Logan walked back toward the house alone, and one thought kept repeating itself in your head: he keeps saying sorry, but nothing is actually changing.
You found yourself wondering whether love was enough to outrun whatever was happening to them.
--
On Saturday night, Malone’s was crowded, loud, and familiar in the way that it had become over the last few months. The hockey team occupied their usual booth. Dean was losing a game of darts that he insisted he was winning. Garrett was arguing with Tucker about a video game, and music blasted overhead from the speakers.
People drifted in and out of conversations, and everything looked normal. You sat beside Logan in the booth, your shoulder brushing his. His arm rested across the back of the seat behind you, his fingers occasionally grazing your back. From the outside, you probably looked exactly the same as you always did: happy, comfortable, and in love.
Logan checked his phone three times in the last ten minutes. Dean made his way back to the table, telling everyone some ridiculous story, and half of the table laughed. You laughed, too. A second later, you realized Logan hadn’t.
“Everything okay?” Garrett asked, who was sitting across from us.
Logan looked up, “Huh?”
Garrett nodded at him, “The phone.”
“Oh.”
Logan glanced down at it. “Yeah.”
A waitress dropped off their food, and everyone immediately started digging in. Everyone except for Logan, who left his burger untouched.
Without thinking, you nudged his arm lightly, “You’re not eating.”
Logan didn’t look up from his phone, “Mhmm.”
You waited.
“You should eat,” you said.
It was simple, something you’d said a hundred times before. Something he’d always bugged you about, too. The same thing he’d usually roll his eyes at. He’d maybe steal one of your fries, or maybe joke about how bossy you were.
Instead, he exhaled sharply.
“Y/N.”
His tone stopped you immediately. It wasn’t loud or cruel, just frustrated.
“Can we not do this right now?” he said sharply.
Silence. The words landed on the table like broken glass.
Dean stopped talking, looking between both of you. Garrett looked down. Tucker suddenly became very interested in his drink.
You just stared at him. Logan froze immediately afterward. You couldn’t stop staring at him. You’d never heard that tone directed at you before, not once. Not ever.
Suddenly, every forgotten text, every interrupted moment, every canceled plan, came rushing back at once.
The table remained painfully quiet. Dean and Garrett looked like they wanted to disappear. Logan finally looked at you.
You felt embarrassed; you felt dumb sitting there. You slid out of the booth quickly, the movement surprising you.
Logan looked up immediately.
“Where are you going?” Logan asked.
“I uh, I think I’m going to head home.”
His forehead creased.
“What?”
You grabbed your purse, feeling tears stinging the corner of your eyes.
“It’s getting late.”
The excuse sounded weak. You knew it, he knew it, and everyone at the table knew it.
“Y/N.”
You couldn’t look at him, too embarrassed. You’d been embarrassed that no one at the table could look at you. You’d been embarrassed by how hurt you were. You’d been embarrassed by how much you’d been carrying around without saying anything.
“I should go,” you reiterated.
Logan pushed himself upright; the confusion on his face looked genuine.
“I thought you were staying with me tonight?”
The words hit hard, because you had been. That had been the plan. Spend the night at his house, in his room. Spend Sunday morning together.
You said quietly, “Maybe it’s better if I don’t.”
The silence afterward felt enormous. Logan was stunned. Nobody said anything; not Dean, Garrett, or Tucker. The music kept playing, and people laughed at other tables. Glasses clinked, and the entire bar kept moving around them.
You slipped your jacket on, put your purse on your shoulder, and turned toward the door. For weeks, you’d been afraid that you’d lose Logan someday, that hockey would take him away. Afraid the pressure would become too much. Now? You felt like it was already happening, and that thought followed you out into the cold.
premise: you're in a "casual" relationship with logan, but you continuously refuse to spend the night at his place. in fact, you force yourself to never fall asleep in his bed. falling asleep next to him risks exposing him to your demons. and the last thing you want to do is place a burden on the man you're deeply in love with.
category: super super super light smut (minors dni), mostly fluff and yearning (incoming hurt/comfort in part ii)
word count: around 3.5k
content/trigger warnings: the lightest smut ever at the beginning (again, minors dni), vivid description of a night terror (brief mentions of blood, gunshots, screaming, suffocation in the night terror, but no other mention outside of it).
context notes: reader works at Briar's tutoring center. i originally was only going to make a Psych major, but i added Bio because i wanted her majors to reflect her interest in figuring out how night terrors work (i never explored this angle in part i, but i will in part ii)
author notes: i've been in a creative writing rut for two years and off campus has pulled me out of it. sooo there's definitely room for improvement, please bear with me :) i'm also super inexperienced in writing smut, which is why the smut scene is pretty short. i originally wanted to write this fic all in one go, but i'm having some writer's block for the latter part, which is why i'm publishing it in two parts. feedback is much appreciated! (also not proofread)
The afternoon sun slowly filters into his bedroom, basking your bodies in a soft, gentle glow. Though the entirety of Briar’s student body is still recovering from the brutal winter storm, you found shelter in his arms, feeling nothing but warmth while pinned beneath his body. As the end of February approaches, the promise of Spring weather reinvigorates Briar students as they deal with the exhaustion brought on by their grueling midterms. After all, the new season brought blooming flowers, brilliantly sunny days, and new beginnings.
Perhaps, the onset of Spring could mark a new beginning for you as well. Maybe you could experience a fresh start in your life by ending this bizarre arrangement that you have with this dazzling hockey player. Ending this “casual” relationship would be good for the both of you.
But ever since you stumbled into his bed on one October night during some Halloweekend festivities, Logan quickly became your comfort zone. And right now, as you restlessly writhe between his sheets, you have absolutely zero desire to leave this comfort.
“Fuck,” the man of the hour rasped and grunted, his head dropping unceremoniously onto the crook of your neck. He breathes frenzied exhales into your shoulder, hot air drifting towards the bottom of your ears. His body weight practically crushes you, leaving you with just the tiniest slot of air to supply your lungs. But you’re not complaining. You’re exactly where you want to be.
You gasp into his brown curls as his thrusts quicken, your hands desperately fisting and grabbing onto the fitted sheet as some sort of pathetic attempt to anchor yourself. Watching you twist underneath him with heavy-lidden eyes, Logan grasps your hands, carefully interlocking your fingers with his, your palms firmly sealing against each other. Like the satisfying connection of the final pieces of a puzzle.
The loving gesture tugs at your heart. This “casual” intimacy is too much to bear, but you can’t bring yourself to let go.
“Y/N,” He rasps into your skin, his frantic breaths imprinting themselves like love bites onto your neck. You know that he’s close, and judging by the tension breeding underneath your belly that’s threatening to release itself, you know that you’re not that far off either. With your elbows digging into his mattress, you arch your back, slightly lift your hips just a tad higher, and the sound that emerges from your throat reverberates off the walls of his bedroom. Logan immediately finds his own release as he moans your name into your neck, his stubble etching a mark onto your skin, and his own body shaking from head to toe.
After he takes off the condom, Logan’s chest makes its way on top of yours as you sink into his bed, trying to catch your breath as he lazily draws circles on your thigh. Though your mind flinches at the “casual” nature of your relationship with Logan, your heart eventually learns to return to slow resting state while around him. He’s a steady presence, and his company is much needed as you try to navigate around the various stressors in your life.
Already, your tortuous coursework and demanding work-study stint are clearly draining you. Hannah frequently points out the dark bags under your eyes and the sluggish, lethargic nature of your gait as you force yourself to attend class.
But you had another stressor that completely robbed the last morsels of life clinging on to your body. A hidden, yet dangerous stressor that you kept snapped shut in the corners of your mind, only giving the key to your therapist for her to unlock.
The reason why you always refused to sleep at Logan’s place.
“So beautiful,” Logan’s voice pulls you from your reverie, his hoarse whisper tickling your collarbone. He kisses over the hickeys he proudly implanted near your breast, admiring his view. “All for me.”
You bite your bottom lip at his comment, pressing down so hard that you’re sure blood will ooze out any minute now. You’re technically not “all for him.” Even though he skips hockey practice to help jumpstart your car on the side of the road. Even though he now uses a fragrance-free laundry detergent because his sheets would irritate your sensitive skin. Even though he looks at you with those eyes that compel you to answer his text every single time. Even though his bed feels so comfortable right now.
Control yourself.
“Back at ya,” You awkwardly laugh, delivering a very nervous and spur-of-the-moment reply. So smooth, Y/N. Did you flirst this badly when he tore your Tinkerbell costume off?
Chuckles rumble from his chest, pressing down onto your heart. You could play his laugh on repeat. Hell, even set it as your ringtone. “Still not used to receiving compliments, I see.”
You don’t offer a response. Suddenly, the bed feels way too warm and way too inviting. As his pillow swallows your head, your eyes start to close.
But you quickly force yourself to wake up, remembering that you do not, in any circumstance, want to fall asleep in his bed. You will not make that mistake.
Instead, you lean over to check the time on your phone. 4:09 PM.
“I need to get going to my shift,” You slide out from underneath him, removing yourself from his grap. The sudden loss of warmth feels like whiplash.
His dark eyebrows furrow as you grab the haphazardly laid clothes on the wooden floor. “Doesn’t it start at 5:00? You still have some time,” He pats your unofficial side of his bed, watching you shimmy yourself into your jeans. “Come ‘ere. Stay a ‘lil longer.”
You bite your lip even harder, using it like a stress ball, and you try to forget that your situaitonship remembers that tiny detail of your work schedule. Of course he does.
“I like getting there early, though. It’s much better than arriving five minutes before a session starts,” You zip up your jeans, chuckling softly when he flashes his signature sad puppy eyes at you. “I like to quickly refresh myself on the content beforehand.”
“As if you would need any refreshing, Mrs. Bio and Psych Double-Major,” He teases, and yep, you’re pretty sure that’s blood you’re tasting right now.
“Trust me, I don’t always remember the ins and outs of signal transduction.”
Logan tilts his head to the side, staring at you with those confused eyes that you find so absolutely endearing. “And what the hell is ‘signal transduction?’”
You sigh, kneeling onto the floor and tying your shoes. “That’s a story for another time. I better get going.”
“Wait, I’ll walk you down.” He says as he jumps on the bed, rapidly putting on his sweatpants and grabbing a random flannel from his desk chair.
You roll your eyes as you open his bedroom door, hearing the noises of his roommates from downstairs. “I’ve been here plenty of times, Logan. I know my way around the house.”
He shrugs, buttoning up his flannel. “So? God forbid a guy wants to be a gentleman.”
“A gentleman?” You stifle a laugh, and he has the gall to put on a mildly offended face.
“Of course, my lady. I’m always on my best behavior for you.”
More blood seeps from your lip. You give him a playful shove on his shoulder, but he brandishes that signature crooked smile at you, and fuck, you’re in deep.
As the both of you walk downstairs, your peer at the living room and say a goodbye to the rest of the boys. Tucker and Dean were sitting on the couch, pouring over a textbook that you knew all too well. By the looks of it, Garrett wasn’t home. He was probably hanging out at Hannah’s dorm, per usual.
“Good seeing ya, Y/N.” Tucker smiles at you, lifting his head from the textbook.
“Yes, very good seeing ya,” Dean drawls, suddenly jumping up from his spot on the couch and making his way over to you. “And we are in desperate need of your guidance. This bio class is killing us.”
All of the boys knew you already. Though you and Logan weren’t “serious” by any means, neither of you kept your situationship a secret from others. At least Logan spared you the hurt and discomfort that comes from sneaking around.
Then again, all of his charming, boyfriend-coded compliments haven’t made the situation any better either.
You shake your head jokingly at Dean. “You guys have Professor Ragner, right? He’s chill. You’ll be fine.”
Dean gasps in fake shock, puting a hand to his heart as if he were in a melodramatic soap opera. “Wow, so you’re just leaving us to drown with no support? I see how it is, Y/N.”
You scoff. “No offense to y’all, but I don’t have time for free tutoring. I’m getting paid minimum wage, which is practically nothing to begin with, to tutor jocks like y’all in the first place. I’m sure as hell not doing any unpaid labor.”
“I can pay you in a different way,” Dean unabashedly flirts, blond waves falling over his eyes, voice dropping to a lower tenor. You raise an eyebrow in amusement, knowing that he’s joking.
Then someone behind you loudly clears their throat. You turn around to Logan, who is adorning an expression that you can’t quite decipher.
“Jesus, relax, Johnny,” Dean comes around and pats him on the back, which Logan rejects in fake disgust, pretending to flinch. “I was just suggesting an alternative method of payment.”
“Uh-huh, sure you were," Logan replies with a chuckle, though his smile doesn’t reach all the way to his eyes.
Tucker rejoins the conversation. “I don’t know about cash, but I’ll pay you back with free meals. I make a mean pasta carbonara.”
“Now that, I can get behind,” You point finger guns towards Tucker. “Well boys, I’m off to work. I’ll see y’all later.”
Tucker and Dean say their goodbyes. With a light touch of his hand on the small of your back, Logan leads you to the porch. He opens the door, and as you step outside, he wraps a hand around your wrist, wanting to say one last thing before you leave.
“Have a good shift,” He presses a kiss to your forehead. You force yourself to not bite your lip for the hundredth time. Control. “I’ll see you on Friday, yeah?”
You don’t know what to say. You knew that the team was throwing a party before their game on Saturday. A sharp inhale exits your nose.
“Yeah, sure,” You smile at him, starting to walk to your car. “See you, Logan.”
As you drive to the tutoring center, you chastised yourself for how close you were to falling asleep in his bed. This pathetic attempt at a situationship was going to tear you apart. And if you need to distance yourself from those warm eyes and beaming smile, then so be it.
Friday was two days away. You decided to not come over to the hockey players’ house for their before before Eastwood. Not only did you want some space between you and Logan, but you also had an upcoming midterm that made up a good chunk of your grade for your Psych class. You thus planned on devoting your entire weekend to studying for it.
So when Friday night came along, giving excuses to Logan felt easy. Somewhat easy.
(9:21 PM) Logan: Hey, I haven’t seen you yet. Are you on the way?
(9:46 PM) Y/N: I have a huge midterm on Monday. I need to study. Sorry, I forgot to tell you :/
(9:48 PM) Logan: Ahh I see, no worries.
(9:51 PM) Logan: I looked forward to seeing you.
(9:52 PM) Logan: I’ll see you after the midterm? Good luck, you got this.
(10:23 PM) Y/N: Thanks, good luck with the game.
A twinge of guilt spread through your chest and hammered at your heart when you didn’t confirm the rendezvous. You always came to the boys’ parties before their games, even though you continuously stuck by your rule of never sleeping over, which definitely took Logan a little bit of time to get used to. During Halloweekend, you surprised him when you slipped out of his bed at 3:00 AM, grabbing your car keys and opening his bedroom door.
“You don’t want to stay the night?” You recall his gravelly voice, utterly rattled with sleep, as he watched you put on your shoes. “It’s kinda late.”
“I have an early morning. And I didn’t drink at all, so…” You explained, giving him a tight smile before closing the door so that you didn’t have to stare any longer at his bare, toned chest. “See ya.”
Starting with a clean slate was necessary. After all, you needed to keep your commitment to both your grades and your job. Logan would only serve as a distraction.
That’s what you kept repeating to yourself as you went to bed that night, putting your phone on the other side of your room in order to stop checking it.
The first thing that you notice is that you can’t speak.
You bring a palm up to your mouth, but your face feels completely numb. Anything you say just comes out extremely muffled, as if you never had a mouth in the first place. You gaze around your environment with blurry eyes, looking at the four corners of the dingy room. You try to touch one of the walls, but as soon as your hand comes into contact, the wall becomes translucent, your hand just floating around in open space. But as you pull your hand back, the wall comes up again, inching closer and closer to your face.
Your breath hitches as you try to find an escape—a trapdoor, a window, just anything will do. But the room starts to resemble a box the more you look at it, as if you were an inanimate object shoved inside a carton to never be seen again. The lump in your throat grows as your vision subsides with each passing second, complete murk and darkness clouding up your eyes.
You try to bang on the walls, but your balled up fists just fall into air. You try to scream for help, but you feel chains wrapped around your mouth, silencing your cries and greedily swallowing up any remaining shred of air needed for your survival.
The sound of falling object tears your gaze away from the walls. You eyes widen as you watch clumps of your hair disintegrating into the floor and massive droplets of blood emanating from your fingertips. You frantically search your whole body for any sign of a cut, a wound, an injury, but your hunt is fruitless.
And that’s when the walls start closing in, devouring every inch of space that’s not covered by your trembling body.
You sink to the floor as your knees helplessly buckle, crawling up into a ball as a fresh flow of tears sprint down your cheeks. Soon those tears also turn to blood, drowning your limbs in a sea of red. And the ceiling feels so fucking close to you, you’re certain that it’s going to collapse.
Sounds of whining sirens and howling wind and quick gunshots and terrified screaming all fuse and merge tightly together in perfect storm, a cacophony where you can hear each individual occurrence happening at once. The walls are up to your nose, and you try so hard to scream. To cry for help.
The sound of a door slamming shut finally wakes you up.
You’re heaving as you sit up in your bed, your fists rapidly unclenching to rest your palms on your chest. Your body feels so unbearably hot, outlines of your sweat etching themselves onto your sheets. A fearful whimper tears out of you, and you wrap your hands around your curled-up body as you begin to frantically rock yourself back and forth on your bed. The sobs pour out of you in an instant, breaths clawing themselves up your throat in such a sharp, stiniging manner that you’re sure there’s clawmarks scarred across your trachea. You’ve had night terrors ever since elementary school, but you’ve never really adjusted them.
The tears completely wreck you. You move your hands from your body to the sheets, fists digging into the fabric, helplessly searching for security. What a stark contrast to your time with Logan, where you desperately fisted at his sheets while waves of pleasure cascaded through your body.
Both times, however, you were looking for control.
Nevertheless, as your sobs gradually begin to subside, you inhale shaky breaths to center yourself back to reality. When your vision starts to clear up, you go back to the 5-4-3-2-1 coping technique that your therapist suggested to ground yourself.
Five things you can see. Four things you can touch. Three things you can hear. Two things that you can smell. One thing that you can taste.
As you slowly list through the four things you can touch, your mind goes back to the hockey player you’re trying so desperately not to think about. But all you desire is to feel his callused palm on your cheek, his long arm around your waist, and his mouth trailing kisses on your neck.
And you hate how much you yearn to be in Logan’s arms right now. You ache for his comforting presence, but you know you can’t place this trouble on him, this overwhelming burden to bring you back to Earth after a night terror. He already has enough on his plate.
Sighing, you make your way to the bathroom to splash some water on your face. On your way there, you grab your phone, looking at the date and time. 2:38 AM, Monday, February 23rd.
So you had a night terror the morning of your big exam. Great.
At least you can thank your neighbors’ rowdiness for pulling you out of your dream. They loved to slam the door after a night out, and unfortunately for you, they seemed to go out every fucking night. You kindly asked them to close their door more gently, but clearly, your words had zero effect.
After wiping your face and staring too long at your bloodshot eyes in the bathroom mirror, you walk to your desk, deciding to fit in a last-minute study session now that you’re awake. You definitely don’t want to go back to sleep now.
After five minutes of flipping through some flashcards, you make the mistake of scrolling through the notifications on your phone. Your eyes immediately lock on to some notifications from Instagram. Specifically, some DMs from Logan.
When your trembling fingers open your message thread with him, the slight shaking in your body stops when you browse through his messages. All of them were either the silliest of reels or the stupidest of memes. And under each and every one of them, he wrote a message: This made me think of you; or you definitely need to watch this; or even this is so stupid, but it made me laugh so hard that I had to send it you.
As you laugh while watching cat videos and overplayed vines, the desire for Logan seeps through your veins. He has no idea of the effect you have on him.
But you’re still going to keep your distance. You have to, even when you watch all of the reels he sends you, despite telling yourself that you need to go back to studying any minute now.
summary: john logan graduates from briar university in 2016 and finds a place to put down his roots in tree hill, north carolina. he meets a different bunch of people compared to his college friends. there's keith, his boss and owner of the auto body shop he's made a steady income working at. there's also lucas, who doubles as keith's nephew and logan's co-worker, who ends up being his saving grace during a majority of his shifts. logan finds himself appreciating and embracing the future he is creating for himself in tree hill.
when you return to your home town after graduating in 2017, wondering exactly what to do next in terms of the big question mark that is your life, you find yourself acquainted with the fresh face that has graced your small town, trying your best not to develop any type of feelings. after all, you're determined that your future will really start when you up and leave tree hill behind.
with...
fem!reader (no descriptive terms used and can be imagined however you'd want! after all, you are the reader) ♡
characters mentioned from the off campus series! ♡
characters mentioned from the one tree hill series! ♡
intended to be a social media au, with some story plot lines written out! if anyone would want to be added to a taglist, please let me know!
summary: You've been filming John Logan for many months. Forty seven saved clips, only eleven of them for work. You know his tells, his angles, his best light. You know him better than you probably should for someone who is just the social media girl. What you don't know is that the night he finally asked you out, there was a check involved. A thousand dollars. And three months of the most real thing you've ever felt sitting on top of a secret that was always going to cost someone.
notes: hii i'm back!! after a week of writing between breaks this one finally came to life and i really hope you guys enjoy it, also i've been informed that puck flying accidents are not very common but we're all going to pretend together, also may contain some hockey inaccuracies, i love the game but i'm definitely not a pro. as always thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think, your comments genuinely keep me writing!!
warnings: swearing, a bet that was a terrible idea, one thousand dollars, dean being dean, forty seven saved clips, angst with a happy ending.
word count: 12.2k
When you started working on the social media position for the hockey team at Briar U, you didn't understand how it was possible for people to take you even less seriously than you already took yourself. But then there would come the moment that they needed you, and things would change, and you would think oh, how the tables have turned.
You understood this in the first week. The girl who came before you, Liana, had walked you through everything: cameras, angles, schedules, the way the athletics department liked their content formatted. But had failed to mention that the players would not look at you so much as look through you at first. Like you were part of the furniture. A tripod with a heartbeat.
In a way, that was fine. Being invisible was a perfectly good way to do the job. Players acted more naturally when they forgot the camera was there, and natural content was always better than posed content. This was something you had understood instinctively from the beginning.
You had been doing this job since the beginning of fall semester. It had come to you not accidentally but not exactly sought either, you had always followed the team, always been a genuine fan. Liana, the former social media girl, was a friend from a very boring Thursday morning class you had both suffered through together. When she came close to graduating she recommended you for the job. You had been working the library circulation desk before that. When the athletics department called it had seemed like a no-brainer.
A few months in, you knew the inner workings of the team the way you knew the layout of your own apartment. Their training schedule, their game schedule, the subtle social architecture of a group of people who spent most of their waking hours together. You knew which players were camera shy and which ones had a natural appeal and actively enjoyed being filmed — cough Dean cough — and by now you knew everyone's best angle, best light, best moment.
Which brought you to Logan.
You were also, which was a separate and entirely unrelated issue, completely down bad for one of the players.
It had not happened all at once.
You had known who John Logan was before you got the job, everyone who followed Briar hockey knew who he was, which was most of the campus, but knowing of someone and being in the same building as them four times a week were different things entirely.
You had known about his escapades too. His romantic history was the kind of thing that Olivia, your friend and a woman of genuinely exceptional gossip quality, had mentioned more than once with the relish of someone who considered this information a public service. Before the job, you had laughed about it the way you laughed about things that had nothing to do with you.
Now that you actually knew him, not knew knew him, but saw him daily, which was its own specific category, you thought about his former, and hopefully past, escapades and felt something uncomfortably close to jealousy.
The crush had consolidated gradually and against your will, the way water finds its way through things. A practice here. A post-game there. The specific way he looked when he was focused on something, the way he talked to his teammates, the way he sometimes looked directly into your camera with an expression that suggested he had briefly forgotten it was there and was just looking.
And then there was the other thing, which was honestly the worst part: he was so unfairly polite. He said good morning and good afternoon. He smiled when he caught you filming something. He said goodbye when he left and apologized if the puck flew in your direction, which it occasionally did, and each time he said sorry about that with the specific sincerity of someone who actually meant it.
You knew you had a crush on him. Obviously. That part was not new information.
What was new information was the following Tuesday, late after practice, the rink mostly empty, you sitting in the stands with your laptop open and the tiredness of someone who had been on their feet for three hours. The players were filtering out through the doors and you were reviewing footage on autopilot, not really watching, when you looked up without thinking about it.
You were looking for Logan before you had decided to look for him.
When you found him, he was at the boards, removing his helmet and pushing a hand through his hair.
Fuck me, you thought.
And then it seemed like he had heard you, because he lifted his eyes and looked straight at you across the empty rink and smiled.
You smiled back and closed your laptop.
Time to go home and think about John Logan in bed.
You reached for your camera on the tripod — force of habit, you always checked the last few shots before packing up — and opened the gallery.
Logan drinking water. Logan laughing at something Garrett said. Logan tying his skates. Logan high-fiving Tucker after a good drill. Logan making a face directly at the camera, having clearly just noticed you filming him, looking entirely unbothered about it.
You stared at the screen.
Oh.
Oh no.
The real problem came later.
The game was at Harvard, which meant the bus, which meant a situation you had been successfully avoiding for six months. You never took the team bus, too much male energy, too many large people occupying space in a way that made you feel like you had accidentally wandered into someone else's environment. You usually went with the student bus, which was fine, which was your preferred option.
The student bus had a mechanical issue and couldn't make the drive in time.
So you, along with the other team staff, boarded the team bus with approximately forty hockey players and the quiet resignation of someone who had lost a negotiation they hadn't known they were in.
The game itself went fine, nothing groundbreaking, but Briar won, which was all that mattered. You packed up your equipment and joined the line filing back onto the bus, looking for the same seat you'd had on the way there.
You were making your way down the aisle when you spotted Logan sitting alone.
You slowed down. Made the calculation. Gave yourself approximately four seconds of internal encouragement.
A freshman defenseman sat down next to him before you could finish the thought.
You did not pout. You were a professional.
"Aw, look who it is." Dean's voice came from the seat directly behind Logan. He was sitting in the aisle seat, legs stretched out, watching you with the expression of someone who had seen everything. "You can sit with me."
"Sure," you said.
"Geez, don't look so happy about it." He pulled his legs in so you could slide past. "I even let you have the window."
"What a gentleman," you said, settling in and pulling your laptop from your bag.
"Are we watching a movie?" Dean pointed at the laptop.
"No. I'm working."
"Bummer," he said, shifting in his seat to get comfortable. Dean was a broad person and the seats were not designed with broad people in mind, which meant that when you sat down you were immediately, unavoidably in contact, arms pressed together, shoulders touching. You had briefly considered putting the armrest down for some personal space, but Dean seemed completely unbothered by the proximity, which somehow made it easier to be unbothered yourself.
This was the thing about Dean that had surprised you most when you first started the job: there had never been an awkward phase. No stiff introductions, no careful professional distance, no period of working out who you were to each other. He had simply decided you were friends and proceeded accordingly, and somehow six months had passed and it felt like you had known each other much longer than that.
You connected your camera to the laptop and started pulling up photos from the game. Selected the best ones. Started uploading them to the shared drive.
"Uh oh," Dean said, leaning over. "That's not my best angle."
You looked at the photo. He was facing almost entirely away from the camera.
"Shut up," you said, lightly slapping his hand away from the screen. "What do you mean not your best angle? Are you not proud of your very nice backside?"
This was a callback, and Dean knew it. He had said something similarly direct about you at a party two months ago in the shameless way that Dean said most things, and you had decided that the only appropriate response was to give the same energy back.
"I am," he said, "but the front is much better. You should check it out sometime."
"Are you referring to your face as the front of your backside?"
Dean repeated the question back to you in a mocking tone.
You opened the photos and started scrolling through them, and approximately three seconds later you noticed the pattern and began praying, quietly and sincerely, that Dean would not notice it too.
Too late.
"Why do you have so many pictures of Logan?" He was looking at the screen with his eyebrows raised. "There are like ten Logan pictures for every one of anyone else."
"Logan just photographs well."
"He photographs well."
"Yes."
"That's your explanation."
"That's my explanation."
Dean looked at you with the expression of someone assembling a conclusion. "You have the hots for Logan."
"The hots? Dean, what is this, a Disney Channel movie? And no. I don't."
"Yeah? Explain the hundred photos of him drinking water. Sorry, but you can't use those for Instagram." He paused. "Unless you're using them for something else. Like, I don't know. Your spank bank."
You gasped and punched his arm. "Shut up."
"Admit it."
"I plead the fifth."
"That's not how that works."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You have to. I'm your best friend."
"No you're not. It's Olivia."
"On the team, I meant."
"It's probably Tucker."
"Tucker?" Dean looked genuinely wounded. "Tucker? Don't try to change the subject."
You closed the laptop.
"Go to sleep, Dean."
"This conversation is not over."
"Yes it is."
"No it's not."
"Yes it is."
"No it's not," he said, adjusting himself against the seat with the decisive energy of someone settling in for a nap. You let your head fall back against the window. A moment later his head dropped onto your shoulder with the comfortable weight of someone who had decided this was acceptable.
"Do not drool on me," you said.
"I bet if it was Logan you wouldn't mind," he said, eyes already closed. Of course not.
"Don't be disgusting."
"And by the way —" he opened one eye "— he has the hots for you too."
"Oh my god," you said. "Stop talking like this is iCarly."
He closed his eye again.
The bus moved through the dark and you sat there with Dean's head on your shoulder and the laptop closed on your knees and tried very hard not to look at the back of Logan's head in the row in front of you.
Oh no, you thought, again, for the second time that week.
A couple of weeks later, Dean found you setting up the tripod in the corner of the film room before pre-game interviews.
"So," he said, appearing at your elbow with the energy of someone who had been waiting for the right moment. "I saw that you didn't RSVP to the invitation for mine and Beau's birthday bash. And it's tomorrow."
You winced. You had been avoiding this topic.
"I have a thing," you said, very casually, adjusting the tripod height without looking at him.
"A thing." He repeated it back with the tone of someone who found this deeply insufficient. "What thing could possibly be more important than my birthday?"
"They painted a new wall in the hallway of my apartment so —"
"Shut up," he said, moving closer. "You're coming. Also —" he said it with the specific energy of someone deploying their strongest argument "— Logan is going to be there."
You kept your eyes on the tripod. "I would assume so. Since you live together."
"You know what I mean."
"I really don't."
"Yes you do."
"I'm working tomorrow night," you said.
"It's a Saturday."
"Content doesn't take weekends off."
"You literally schedule everything in advance and you know it." Dean leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. "Come to the party. Talk to him. He's going to be right there."
"I talk to him all the time. It's my job."
"Yeah, but when you talk to Logan you do the thing."
You looked up for the first time. "What thing."
"The thing." He gestured vaguely at your face. "The thing where you forget to be normal."
"I am always normal."
"You called his assist last Tuesday 'genuinely cinematic.'"
"It was a good play."
"To his face."
"As a professional observation —"
"He smiled about it for the rest of practice." Dean looked at you steadily. "Come to the party."
You turned back to the tripod.
"I don't think Logan has the hots for me, you know," you said. "He's like a hot athlete. And I'm like the social media nerd."
Dean stared at you with the expression of someone who had just heard something that offended him on multiple levels simultaneously.
"Geez," he said. "You're not the girl in every romcom who doesn't know she's pretty." He paused. "Also you may be a nerd but — with all due respect to you and to my buddy Logan — you're pretty hot."
You pushed his shoulder and muttered a low stop.
"I'm being sincere!" He caught himself on the wall, laughing. "Party. Tomorrow. Eight o'clock. Logan will be there." He pointed at you one more time. "You will also be there."
He walked away before you could respond.
You looked at the camera. The camera looked back at you.
Genuinely cinematic, you thought, mortified.
You were definitely not going to that party.
The thing about watching two people be completely oblivious to each other was that it was, at first, entertaining.
Dean had found it genuinely funny in the beginning, the way you would track Logan across a room without realizing you were doing it, the way Logan would find reasons to be wherever you were without announcing that was what he was doing. It was like watching a nature documentary.
It had been funny for approximately three weeks.
It was now week seven and Dean was losing his mind.
It was a Thursday practice, nothing special about it. Dean was on the ice going through drills with Tucker when he caught it, the peripheral awareness of someone who had been watching a situation develop for too long.
You were in your usual spot in the stands, laptop open, camera on the tripod, doing the thing you always did where you looked like you were reviewing footage but were actually, if you knew what to look for, tracking Logan across the ice without moving your head.
Logan, for his part, was doing the thing he always did where he skated past your section of the stands more than was strictly necessary for any drill that had been assigned.
"He's done that four times," Tucker said, appearing at Dean's elbow.
"Five," Dean said. "You missed one while you were talking to the coach."
Tucker watched Logan complete another unnecessary loop near the boards. "Are they ever going to do something about that?"
"Apparently not," Dean said.
On the ice Logan slowed near the boards not stopping, that would have been too obvious, just slowing and said something up toward the stands. You looked up from your laptop and said something back. Logan smiled. You looked back at your laptop immediately, in the specific way of someone using a screen as a shield.
Logan skated away looking slightly more cheerful than he had thirty seconds ago.
"It's painful," Tucker said.
"It's excruciating," Dean agreed.
"Wow, that's a big word" Tucker said mocking Dean and skating away.
After practice Dean was still thinking about it in the locker room.
He was unwrapping his tape when Garrett sat down across from him.
"You have a face," Garrett said.
"I'm thinking."
"About what."
"Logan and the social media girl, or as I call her, (Y/N)"
"So her name—" Garrett replied.
Garrett looked at him with the mild, steady expression he used when he was waiting for someone to either say something sensible or stop talking. "And?"
"And they've been doing this for like seven weeks and nothing is happening and I'm tired of watching it."
"So tell him to do something about it."
"I've told him." Dean had, in fact, told Logan approximately six times in varying tones of directness. "Telling doesn't work. Logan needs a push."
"A push," Garrett repeated.
"A significant push."
Garrett looked at him for a long moment. "What kind of push."
"A financial one," he said.
"Dean —"
"Hear me out."
"I don't think I want to."
"A thousand dollars," Dean said. "I bet him a thousand dollars that he won't ask her out. He needs the money, he likes her, this solves both problems simultaneously. It's elegant."
Garrett stared at him. "It's really not."
"It gets him to do the thing he already wants to do."
"By paying him."
"By incentivizing him."
"Those are the same thing."
"Garrett," Dean said, in the tone of someone who had considered the counterarguments and dismissed them. "They have been doing this for weeks. At this rate they'll still be doing it at graduation. I'm helping."
Garrett looked at the ceiling briefly. "You shouldn't do this," he said finally.
"Noted," Dean said.
He did not change his mind.
Logan came in from the showers to find Dean sitting on the bench across from his locker with an expression that meant something was coming.
Tucker was in the corner pretending to check his phone. Garrett was lacing his shoes with more focus than the task required.
"What," Logan said.
"I have a proposition," Dean said.
Logan looked at Tucker. Tucker looked at his phone. Logan looked at Garrett. Garrett looked at his shoes.
"What kind of proposition," Logan said.
"A thousand dollars," Dean said. "All you have to do is ask her out."
He didnt't have to specify who the her was.
The locker room was quiet.
Logan opened his locker. Got his jacket. "No."
"Logan —"
"No, Dean."
"You like her."
"That's not —"
"You've skated past her section of the stands five times today during drills that don't require you anywhere near the boards." Dean's voice was completely even. "I counted."
Logan said nothing.
"You check her posts before anyone else on the team," Dean continued. "You know her schedule better than your own. You said sorry to her last Tuesday when the puck went near her even though it didn't come close to actually hitting her." A pause. "You apologized preemptively."
"I was being polite."
"You were being in love with her," Dean said, simply. "Which is fine. Great, actually. And fixable. With one conversation and a thousand dollars."
Tucker made a small sound that was not quite disapproval and not quite agreement.
Garrett said nothing, which was its own kind of answer.
Logan looked at his jacket in his hands. He thought about the time that had passed, the practices and bus rides and the specific way you closed your laptop when you were trying to hide something. He thought about his bank account, which was having a difficult semester. He thought about the rent that was due. The equipment he needed.
He thought about asking you out, which he had been meaning to do, which he had been telling himself he was going to do, which he had not done.
I was going to do it anyway, he told himself. The money doesn't change what I was going to do anyway.
"Fine," he said.
Tucker made the sound again, slightly louder.
Garrett looked up from his shoes for the first time. His expression was not angry, not exactly. More like a person watching a decision being made and knowing already how it was going to cost someone.
Dean produced a check from somewhere — written on the back of a receipt, which was so Dean that Logan almost laughed — and held it out.
Logan took it.
He folded it once and put it in his jacket pocket and did not look at Garrett again.
I was going to do it anyway, he thought.
He almost believed it.
The subject of the party was a sore one.
Part of you wanted to go and part of you didn't, and the two parts had been arguing since Dean walked away from the tripod, and by the time you got back to your apartment you had resolved nothing except that you needed to talk to Olivia about it.
Olivia listened to the full recap of the Dean conversation with the focused attention of someone taking notes. When you finished she was quiet for approximately three seconds.
"We're going," she said.
"I said I wasn't sure —"
"I've made up my mind. You were invited so you need to go, and I'm coming with you because—." She looked at you with the expression of someone who had already decided the fun they were going to have and was simply waiting for logistics to catch up. "What's the theme?"
"Dynamic duo."
"Perfect for us." She was already opening her laptop. "I know exactly what we're wearing."
"I don't even know what to wear," you breathed out, dropping flat onto your bed and staring at the ceiling. "What kind of theme even is that? Dynamic duo? That's so vague."
"It's not vague, it's versatile." She turned the screen to face you. "Clueless. Cher and Dionne. The plaid."
You looked at the screen. You looked at Olivia.
"Obviously," you said.
You walked into the party in matching plaid ,short skirt, blazer, the whole thing and felt immediately, objectively, like you had made the right costume choice. Olivia walked in beside you with the confident energy of someone who had never had a bad entrance in her life.
The house was full and warm and smelled like every college party you had ever been to. You did a quick scan of the room in the completely professional way of someone who was not looking for anyone specific.
You found him in approximately four seconds.
Logan was in the kitchen with Dean, drink in hand, laughing at something. He was wearing a sleveless gray shirt with a pair of wings.
You gave a small wave in their direction. Dean spotted you first and his face did something immediately, and then he clapped a hand on Logan's back and pushed him in your direction with the subtlety of a person who had never heard the word subtle.
Logan crossed the room.
"Hey —" His eyes moved over you and something in his expression shifted slightly. "Clueless?"
"Yeah," you said, nodding perhaps a few more times than necessary.
Beside you, Olivia made a sound that she converted, barely, into a cough. She had been documenting your inability to form complete sentences in Logan's presence for approximately three months and found it genuinely hilarious.
"You look very pretty," Logan said.
"Oh — thanks." The blush arrived before you could do anything about it. Compose yourself.
Logan seemed to remember that you were not alone. "You too, Olivia."
"Yeah, right," Olivia laughed. "I'll go get a drink."
She disappeared into the crowd. As she passed behind Logan she turned to face you and mouthed make a move with the enormous unsubtle energy of someone who had been waiting three months to say it.
You looked back at Logan.
"I'm glad you came," he said. "Dean mentioned you weren't sure."
"I had some content to edit," you said.
"This is more important," he said, lightly, like a joke, but with something underneath it that wasn't entirely a joke.
"Yeah," you said.
And then you were both just standing there. Drinks in hand, the party moving around you, talking the way you had discovered you talked when you were alone together, which was easily, which was the specific ease of two people who had been in the same orbit long enough to have figured out each other's rhythms without officially acknowledging it.
"So what are you supposed to be anyway?" you asked, taking the opportunity to look at him properly. The gray shirt. The wings. The arms, which were — you looked at his face instead. "Jacob Elordi in Saltburn?"
Logan laughed — a real one, surprised and warm. "Bird and the bee. I'm the bird. Tuck's the bee."
"Oh," you said. "That tracks."
"Does it."
"The bee has better energy," you said. "No offense to you."
"I'll tell Tucker you said that."
"Please don't."
Dean chose this exact moment to appear between you.
"Hello, you two." He looked between you with barely concealed delight. "What are we talking about?"
"The birds and the bees," you said, and watched Dean's eyebrow go up in real time.
"Oh, I like where this is headed."
"No — I mean his costume," you said quickly. "What are you supposed to be?"
"Maverick." He pointed across the room to where Beau was talking to a very beautiful brunette. "Beau's Goose."
You considered this. "Was there not a dynamic duo where one of them didn't have a tragic ending? You could have been Ice."
"Ice and Maverick hated each other," Dean said.
"No they didn't! In your own words they had the hots for each other."
Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Pointed at you. "That is actually a fair point."
"Thank you."
"You're insufferable," he said, smiling. He looked between you and Logan one more time. "I'm going to go find Beau. You two —" he gestured vaguely at the space between you "— continue."
He disappeared back into the crowd.
You looked at Logan. Logan looked at you.
"He's not subtle," you said.
"No," Logan agreed. "He really isn't."
The party continued around you. At some point you had moved slightly closer together. Neither of you had announced it. At some point his hand had found the small of your back, briefly, when someone pushed past in the crowd. It had stayed there a moment longer than strictly necessary. You had not moved away.
At some point Olivia had caught your eye from across the room and given you a look of such unrestrained triumph that you had been forced to look at the floor to keep from laughing.
"So —" Logan started. He stopped. Tried again. "I've been thinking. For a while actually." He looked at you with the expression of someone abandoning a rehearsed script entirely in favor of just saying the thing. "Would you like to go out? With me. On a date."
Inside your chest, something that had been very carefully managed for months made a sound like:
YESYESYESYESYESYESYESYES —
"Yes," you said, with great composure. "I'd like that."
Something settled in his expression warm and certain. "Good. I was hoping you were going to say that."
"I was hoping you were going to ask," you said.
He smiled. Not the polite one, not the team-photo one the real one, the one you had forty-seven saved clips of and only eleven of them were for work.
Across the room, completely uninvited into this moment, Dean let out a noise of triumph loud enough that Tucker turned around to look.
You and Logan both looked at Dean.
Dean pointed at both of you, then at himself, then gave two thumbs up with the energy of a man who had absolutely no shame about any of this.
"He planned this," you said.
"Obviously," Logan said.
You looked at Dean, who was now saying something to Beau that was making Beau look confused and Dean look extremely pleased with himself.
"I'm going to delete all his content," you said.
"Probably," Logan said. "But maybe tomorrow."
You looked back at him.
"Yeah," you said. "Maybe tomorrow."
What you did not know — what you would not know for three months — was what had happened two hours before that conversation.
The first date was a Tuesday.
Logan had asked on a Saturday and then spent the intervening three days being completely normal about it, which meant he had checked his phone approximately forty times and suggested three different restaurants to Dean who had not asked for his opinion and had given it anyway.
He picked you up at seven. You had worn something simple and he had looked at you the way he sometimes looked into the camera, direct, unhurried, like you were something worth paying attention t, and said you look great in the specific voice he used when he meant things, and you had said thanks, so do you and meant it, and the evening had been easy in the way that things were easy when they had been building for a long time and had finally found the right outlet.
You talked for three hours. Not about anything important about the team, about your job, about the things you had noticed about each other without ever saying so. He told you about the preemptive puck apology before you could bring it up and looked slightly embarrassed about it, which you found endearing in a way you did not make him aware of. You told him about the forty-seven saved clips and watched his expression do something warm and complicated.
He walked you back to your dorm. He kissed you at the door — soft and unhurried, the specific patience of someone who had been waiting a while and had decided that arriving was enough for now.
You went inside and stood in the hallway for a moment.
Oh, you thought. Not oh no this time. Just — oh.
What followed was three months that assembled themselves quietly and completely, the way good things tended to do when you stopped trying to manage them.
You learned the specific rhythm of being with Logan, which was different from the rhythm of being near Logan, which you had spent seven months memorizing from behind a camera. Being with him was easier. Less careful. The things you had noticed from a professional distance — the way he focused, the way he was with his teammates, the particular quality of his attention when he was genuinely listening were the same up close, just without the glass between you.
He remembered things. That was the detail that accumulated the most weight over three months small things you had said once, in passing, that he filed away and produced later in the specific way of someone who had been listening more carefully than you knew. The coffee order. The fact that you hated the overhead lights in the film room. The name of the professor whose class you had shared with Liana.
You told Olivia about the coffee order detail on a Thursday night and she looked at you with an expression that said everything she was choosing not to say out loud.
"Don't," you said.
"I'm not saying anything," she said.
"You have a face."
"I have my normal face."
"Olivia."
"I'm just glad," she said simply, and went back to whatever she was doing, and you sat with that for a moment and found that you were too.
Logan was also, three months in, still thinking about the check.
Not constantly. Not the way he had in the beginning, when it had surfaced at inconvenient moments, the first dinner, the first time you laughed at something he said, the first time you fell asleep on his shoulder watching something neither of you were paying attention to. Those early weeks it had been a persistent background noise, a low-level static of something he should have said and hadn't.
But the weeks had passed and the static had gotten quieter, the way noise does when you choose not to listen to it long enough. He had paid his rent. He had replaced the equipment. He had told himself, again and again, that he had been going to ask you out anyway, that the money had been incidental, that what they had built in the three months since was real regardless of how it started.
All of that was true.
The part that was also true, the part he didn't let himself look at too directly, was that you didn't know. And not knowing was its own kind of thing, a thing that existed in the space between you without you being aware of it, that he was aware of every time you said something honest to him, every time you looked at him the way you looked at him.
He had meant to tell you. In the beginning. There had been a window, early on, when it would have been a small thing — by the way, Dean made a bet, it's a whole thing, I was going to ask you anyway—. He had rehearsed it. He had not said it. The window had closed, and then it had been a week, and then a month, and then three months, and now saying it felt like dropping something large into a quiet room.
So he didn't say it.
He told himself it didn't matter because it hadn't changed anything real.
He was getting better at believing that.
It was a Saturday afternoon in February, the specific grey-white quality of a winter afternoon that had given up pretending it was going to improve, and you were in Logan's room doing nothing in particular.
This had become one of your favorite things — the doing nothing in particular. You had a tendency, left to your own devices, to fill time with productivity, with scheduled content and edited footage and the general sense that unoccupied time was time being wasted. Logan had, over three months, introduced you to the concept of lying on a bed on a Saturday afternoon and simply existing, which you had resisted and then accepted and now found genuinely necessary.
He was on his back, one arm behind his head, reading something on his phone. You were beside him, legs tangled, working your way through a Cosmopolitan from 2003 that you had found at the thrift store the previous weekend when you had gone with Allie. It had a younger Jennifer Lopez on the cover and approximately forty pages of advertisements for perfumes that no longer existed, and you had bought it for fifty cents because something about it felt like an artifact.
"Listen to this," you said.
"Mm."
"It's a quiz." You held up the magazine. "Is your relationship ready for the next level? I feel like we should take it."
"I feel like that magazine is older than some of our teammates."
"That's what makes it valuable." You turned back to the page. "Okay. Question one. When you picture your future, does your partner feature prominently? Options are: always, sometimes, or only when I'm feeling optimistic."
"Always," Logan said, without looking up from his phone.
You looked at him sideways. He was still reading, expression neutral, like he had answered a question about the weather.
"Okay," you said, and looked back at the magazine, and did not make anything of it, because making something of it would have required acknowledging that it had landed somewhere specific and stayed there.
You worked through several more questions — about communication, about conflict, about shared values — Logan answering in the same unhurried, matter-of-fact way, like the answers had already been decided and he was simply reporting them.
And then you got to the last one.
"Okay, last question." You shifted onto your side to face him. "If your partner made a serious mistake — something that hurt you — what would it take to make things right? Option A: a heartfelt conversation and genuine apology. Option B: time, space, and proof of change. Option C —" you paused, because option C was very 2003 "— a grand romantic gesture. Flowers, candlelight, the whole thing."
You said it like it was funny. You said it with the lightness of someone reading from an old magazine on a Saturday afternoon.
Logan put his phone down.
He looked at the ceiling for a moment. Then he turned his head and looked at you with an expression that was doing something complicated underneath the surface.
"What would you pick?" he said.
You considered it. "Honestly? C, but private. Like not in front of everyone. Just — showing up. With flowers, or peonies, they are my favorite. And meaning it." You paused. "The meaning it is the important part."
Logan looked at the ceiling again.
"Many flowers," he said. His voice was even. Carefully even.
"Like an unreasonable amount," you said. "Like someone made a decision about it."
"Right," he said.
He was quiet for a moment. You looked at him — at the careful evenness of his expression, the specific stillness of someone sitting with something — and almost asked what he was thinking about.
Then he turned back to you with the warm unhurried expression you knew, and kissed your temple.
"Good to know," he said.
You looked back at the magazine. Jennifer Lopez looked back at you, unbothered.
You did not know, lying there on a grey February Saturday, that you had just handed him the exact shape of something he was going to need.
Logan knew.
He stared at the ceiling after you looked away and thought about a check written on the back of a receipt and a conversation in a locker room and the specific, settling weight of something that had been waiting a long time to be said.
Too many flowers, he thought. Private. Meaning it.
He closed his eyes.
I have to tell her, he thought.
He did not tell her.
Allie had not been looking for information.
She had been in the kitchen at the off campus house on a Wednesday evening, waiting for Dean to finish getting ready so they could go to dinner, scrolling through her phone with the patience of someone accustomed to waiting for Dean to finish getting ready. She was not listening. She was not paying attention to anything except the particular injustice of being told seven-fifteen and it being seven-thirty-two.
And then Dean's phone rang on the counter.
She glanced at it automatically. Logan.
Dean came out of the bathroom still pulling on his jacket and picked it up. "Hey. What's up."
Allie went back to her phone.
"What do you mean you need to tell her." Dean's voice had shifted into something lower, more careful. "What's — Logan. Logan, have you not told her yet?"
Allie looked up.
Dean had his back to her, one hand pressed to the counter, the specific posture of someone having a conversation they hadn't prepared for. "It's been three months, man. How have you — okay. Okay, calm down. Just — tell me what happened."
A pause. Dean listening.
"So tell her," Dean said. "Just — tonight. Call her and tell her. It's been long enough, she'll —" another pause "— Logan, I know it's not going to be easy but you can't just — yes I know you actually love her, that's not the — okay, listen —"
Allie set her phone down on the counter very carefully.
"What," she said.
Dean turned around.
The expression on his face moved through several things in quick succession — surprise, recalibration, and then the specific, flattening look of someone who understood exactly what had just happened.
"Allie —"
"What did you do," she said. Not a question.
Dean lowered his phone slowly. On the other end Logan was saying something, unaware.
"Dean." Her voice was very even. "What did you do."
He told her.
He told her all of it — the bet, the thousand dollars, the locker room — and Allie stood in the kitchen and listened with the stillness of someone who was getting progressively more furious in a way that had not yet found its exit.
When he finished she said nothing for a moment.
"She's my friend," she said finally.
"I know —"
"She is my friend and you let her date him for three months without telling her."
"It wasn't supposed to —"
"Dean." She picked up her keys from the counter. "Do not follow me."
"Allie, please just —"
"I have to tell her," she said. "She's my friend. I'm not going to —"
"Please," Dean said, and his voice had lost all its usual confidence, stripped down to something that was just — asking. "Please just give me a chance to fix it. I'll tell Logan to tell her tonight. Just give me —"
"You had your chance to fix it three months ago," Allie said. "And two months ago. And last month." She looked at him for a long moment. "I love you. And you did something really wrong. And she needs to know."
She left.
Dean stood in the kitchen alone and listened to Logan's voice still coming from the phone in his hand.
He put the phone to his ear.
"She already knows," he said.
You were in your aparment when Allie knocked.
She told you everything standing in your doorway, quickly and directly, the way Allie did things — no preamble, no softening, just the facts arranged in order. The bet. The thousand dollars. The locker room. Three months.
You stood very still while she talked.
When she finished you said nothing for a long moment.
"Get your keys," you said.
"(Y/N) —"
"Get your keys, Allie."
The drive to the off campus house took four minutes. You did not speak. Allie drove and you looked at the road ahead and felt cold clarity of someone who had moved past the part where things hurt and into the part where they simply had to be dealt with.
The lights were on when you pulled up. Of course they were.
You didn't knock.
You walked in and Logan was already in the hallway, like he had heard the car, like some part of him had known — and the expression on his face when he saw you was the expression of someone who had been waiting for this and was still not ready for it.
Dean was behind him. Tucker and Garrett further back, in the doorway of the living room, with the expressions of people who understood the room and had decided to stay very still.
"Hey —" Logan started.
"Did you take a bet," you said, "to ask me out."
The hallway was very quiet.
"Yes," Logan said.
The word landed.
"How much," you said.
"A thousand dollars."
You looked at him. This person. This person whose coffee order you knew, whose preemptive apologies you had found endearing, whose smile you had forty-seven saved clips of and only eleven of them were for work.
"You had to be paid," you said. Your voice was very quiet. "Someone had to pay you. To ask me out."
"It wasn't —"
"A thousand dollars," you said. "That's what it cost. That's what asking me out was worth to you. A thousand dollars and someone else's idea."
"That's not —"
"I told you I loved you." The words came out steadier than you expected. "Three weeks ago. In your room. I told you I loved you and you said it back and the whole time —" you stopped. Started again. "The whole time there was a check. There was a check and you knew and you said it back anyway."
"I meant it," Logan said. "I mean it. I love you, that has nothing to do with —"
"It has everything to do with it." Your voice cracked slightly and you pushed past it. "Because maybe you do. Maybe you actually do love me. But I will never know that now. Do you understand that? I will never know which part was real and which part was a thousand dollars because you didn't tell me. You had three months to tell me and you didn't."
"I was going to —"
"When?" you said. "When were you going to tell me? After another month? After a year? Were you ever actually going to tell me or were you just going to keep it and hope I never found out?"
He said nothing.
"That's what I thought," you said.
You turned to Dean.
Dean was standing very still with an expression that had none of his usual ease in it, stripped down, uncomfortable, genuinely ashamed in a way that you recognized as real and that made it worse rather than better.
"I thought you were my friend," you said. Your voice was different now, not cold, something more broken than cold. "I thought — you were supposed to be my friend. I told you things. I told you how I felt about him and you used it. You turned it into a transaction and then you watched me fall in love with him and you said nothing."
"I know," Dean said. His voice was very quiet. "I know."
"I taught you how to use the camera," you said, which was not what you meant to say but came out anyway, and somehow it was the most honest thing — the small specific intimacy of it, the way you had shown him the angles and the settings and he had been genuinely interested and you had thought this is what a friend looks like. "I showed you everything. I thought you were —"
"I was," Dean said. "I am. I'm so sorry."
"Don't." You picked up your bag. "Don't apologize right now. I can't — I need you to not talk to me right now."
You looked at Logan one more time. He was standing in the hallway with his hands at his sides and the open, devastated expression of someone who had run out of words and knew it.
"Please," he said. Just that. Just the word, quiet and without any of the composure he usually wore like a second skin.
"I have to go," you said.
"Please just let me —"
"Logan." Your voice broke on his name, just slightly, and you steadied it. "I have to go."
You walked to the door. Behind you you heard him take a step.
You opened the door.
"You two fucking suck," you said, to the hallway, to both of them, to the three months of Tuesday practices and bus rides and magazine quizzes and I love you said and meant and received by someone who was keeping a check in his jacket pocket the whole time. "Never talk to me again."
You walked out.
Allie was waiting by the car. She took one look at your face and said nothing, just unlocked the doors, and you got in, and she drove, and the campus moved past the windows dark and quiet and entirely indifferent.
You did not cry until you got back to your aparment.
And then you did, for a while, with Olivia sitting beside you saying nothing because there was nothing to say, just being there the way people who actually loved you were there when things went wrong.
You had to be paid, you thought, in the dark.
A thousand dollars.
The house was very quiet after you left.
Tucker and Garrett had retreated to the living room. Nobody was saying anything.
Dean sat on the bottom step of the stairs and put his head in his hands.
Logan stood in the hallway where you had left him and looked at the closed door and thought about everything — the check, the locker room, the first dinner, the magazine quiz on a grey February Saturday, too many flowers, private, meaning it — and underneath all of it, constant and quiet, the thing he had known for three months and had managed to convince himself didn't matter:
You had deserved to know.
You had deserved to know from the beginning and he had chosen not to tell you and you stood in his hallway and said I will never know which part was real and he had had no answer because there was no answer that fixed that.
Garrett appeared in the doorway of the living room. He looked at Logan for a long moment.
"I told you not to," he said. Not unkindly. Just said.
"I know," Logan said.
"From the beginning. I told you."
"I know, Garrett."
Garrett looked at him for another moment. Then he went back to the living room without saying anything else, which was somehow the most devastating response available.
Logan sat down on the floor of the hallway with his back against the wall and stared at nothing.
I have to fix this, he thought.
He had absolutely no idea how.
The email to the athletics department went out the following morning.
It was professional and brief — you cited personal reasons, thanked them for the opportunity, offered to train your replacement, gave two weeks notice. You sent it before you could think about it too hard, before the part of you that loved the job could talk the other part out of it.
You were not going to sit in that rink anymore. You were not going to film those practices or those games or stand in that corridor outside the locker room with your tripod and your equipment bag and pretend that everything was the same as it had been before.
Your phone had messages from Logan and Dean by noon. You read none of them.
The football team's social media coordinator reached back out by the end of the day.
You started the following Monday.
The football team was different from the hockey team in ways that were both obvious and unexpected. Louder, in some ways. Different rhythms, different energy. The guys were nice and the work was interesting and you were good at it, because you were good at this, that had never been in question.
You were fine.
You were getting finer by the day, which was either progress or a very convincing impression of it.
Allie texted. Garrett texted — I'm sorry, for what it's worth I told him not to — which you appreciated more than you could say. Tucker sent a single text that just said I tried to talk him out of it and you believed him and told him so.
You did not respond to Logan.
Logan's days had a new shape to them and he hated it.
Practice was the same, same drills, same ice, same team, but the stands were wrong. The spot where you always sat, third row back on the left side, was empty now, and he knew it was empty without lookin. He looked anyway. Every practice, every morning skate, every film session, he looked, and the spot was empty, and he looked away.
Logan texted you every three days. Not long messages, just checking in, just your name sometimes, just I know you don't want to hear from me right now but I'm sorry. He did not expect responses. He sent them anyway because not sending them felt worse.
He watched your football content. Every post, every reel, every behind-the-scenes clip. He watched the way you filmed the new team — the same eye, the same instinct for the right moment, the same ability to make something look like something worth watching — and felt the specific, particular ache of someone who understood what they had lost because they had been paying attention to it the whole time.
He had always been paying attention.
That was the thing that made it so much worse.
Three weeks after you left, the hockey team got a new social media person.
Her name was Jade. She was a sophomore, enthusiastic, slightly overwhelmed, and she had asked you to walk her through the setup on a Tuesday morning when the team had a late practice, which meant you were in the rink, with your old equipment, showing someone else how to use the angles you had spent seven months learning, when the team came off the ice.
You had not planned for this. You had assumed they would be gone by the time you were done.
They were not gone.
You heard them before you saw them, he familiar noise of the team coming out of the locker room corridor and then Tucker saw you first and stopped walking so abruptly that Garrett walked into him.
"What —" Garrett looked up. Saw you. His expression did something complicated.
The rest of the team filtered out around them, and then Dean, and then Logan, and the corridor went through a specific collective recalibration.
You kept your face completely neutral. "Hey," you said, to the general group. "This is Jade. She's taking over the social media. I'm just showing her the setup."
Jade waved cheerfully, unaware of the atmospheric pressure of the corridor.
"Taking over?" Tucker said slowly.
"Yes," you said. "I moved to football." You said it simply, like it was information and not anything else. "Jade is great, she's going to do a really good job."
The team was looking at you with various expressions. Tucker looked pained. Garrett looked like he was doing math.
Dean was looking at the floor.
Logan was looking at you with the expression of someone watching something leave that they had already lost and were only now understanding the full shape of. You could feel it without looking directly at him. You had spent seven months learning the specific weight of his attention.
"I already left," you said. "This is just the handover."
"But —" Tucker started.
"Tuck," you said, gently. "It's fine. Jade is great."
Jade smiled again.
"We kind of made you leave," Tucker said, in the specific tone of someone who had been holding something for three weeks and had finally said it out loud.
"Tucker —"
"No, like —" he stopped. Looked at Dean. Looked at Logan. Looked back at you. "We made you leave. That's what happened. And I just — I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say but I'm sorry."
The corridor was very quiet.
"You didn't make me leave," you said carefully. "You tried to talk him out of it. I know that."
Tucker nodded. Still pained.
"Right," Garrett said finally, in the tone of someone deciding to be graceful about something painful. "Good luck with football."
"Thanks," you said.
You turned back to Jade and kept going with the walkthrough, and the team filed past, and you did not look at Logan as he walked by even though you could feel him slowing down, even though you could feel him wanting to say something.
"Hey," Logan said. Very quietly. Just that.
You kept your eyes on the camera settings you were showing Jade.
He stood there for a moment. Then his footsteps continued down the corridor.
You exhaled very quietly and kept talking to Jade about angles.
Behind you, fading, you heard Dean say something low and urgent to Logan that you couldn't make out. And Logan's response, quieter still:
"I know."
Logan started showing up.
Not to you, he respected the never talk to me again enough not to push himself into your space. But he started showing up in the ways that were available to him.
He fixed the tripod mount in the storage room that had been broken since October — the one you had mentioned once, months ago, in passing, because it made the camera angle slightly off and you had learned to compensate for it. He left a note on it that said finally fixed it. sorry it took so long. No signature. He didn't need one.
He started showing up to the football team's games.
Not every game. Not in a way that was dramatic or obvious. Just there, in the stands, with the quiet patience of someone who had decided that if the mountain wouldn't come to him he would go to the mountain and sit in the stands and watch from a respectful distance.
Olivia told you the second time it happened.
"He was there again," she said carefully.
You said nothing.
"He's not doing anything," she said. "He's just — there. Watching."
You said nothing.
"I thought you should know," she said.
You knew.
You knew because you had clocked him the first time — third row back, left side,— and you had kept filming and not said anything and thought about it for three days.
He texted you after the third game.
logan: you got a good shot of the QB in the third quarter. the one right before the play call. it was good.
You stared at the message for a long time.
yn: how would you know
logan: i was there
A long pause.
logan: i'll keep coming if that's okay. i won't bother you. i just want to be there.
You put your phone down.
You picked it up.
yn: it's okay
Dean did not sleep the night you found out.
He lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling and thought about the specific expression on your face when you said I thought you were my friend — not angry, which would have been easier, but broken, which was not easier at all.
At four in the morning he picked up his phone.
dean: allie
allie: i'm awake
dean: i know i really messed up
allie: yes
dean: i don't know how to fix it
A long pause.
allie: you start by not trying to fix it. you start by just being sorry.
dean: i am
allie: i know. she needs to hear it from you. not a text. not through anyone else. you.
dean: she said never talk to her again
allie: i know what she said. give her time. and then go.
Dean put his phone down.
He stared at the ceiling until it got light outside.
You took your own sweet time.
Not to feel better, you were not operating under the illusion that time fixed everything, but to feel what you needed to feel without an audience. You went to classes. You went to work. You filmed the football team's Tuesday practice and focused on the angles and the light and the professional satisfaction of a job done well, and you did not think about hockey, and you did not look at your phone when certain names appeared on the screen, and you let Olivia bring you food and watch bad television with you without making you talk about it.
On the fourteenth day Dean was waiting outside your lecture hall.
He looked terrible. Not dramatically terrible — Dean was constitutionally incapable of looking terrible — but tired.
You stopped when you saw him.
He held up both hands. "I'm not here to make excuses," he said. "I know you said never talk to me again. I know. I just — five minutes. And then I'll go and I won't bother you again if that's what you want."
You looked at him for a long moment.
You stepped to the side of the path, out of the flow of people. He followed.
"Say what you have to say," you said.
Dean looked at you with the expression you had never seen on him before, no performance, no charm deployed at the right moment, nothing managed. Just a person who had done something wrong and knew it and was standing in front of the person he had done it to.
"I've never had a friend like you before," he said. "Like — actually. I have guy friends. I have girls I've hooked up, almost dated or whatever. But I've never had a girl who was just — a friend. Who I talked to and who talked to me and who I could be around without it being anything else." He paused. "And I took that and I made it into a scheme. And I told myself I was helping and maybe part of me was but part of me just — didn't think far enough ahead. Didn't think about what it would mean to you if you found out. Didn't think about you at all, honestly, which is the thing I'm most sorry about." He held your gaze. "I thought about Logan being in love with you and I thought about the bet being clever and I didn't think about you being a person who deserved to know the truth. And I should have. You should have been the first thing I thought about."
The path had mostly emptied. A bird somewhere was doing something aggressively cheerful.
"I miss my friend," Dean said. "I know I don't get to just say that. I know. I just needed you to know that it's real. You are actually my friend and I actually miss you and I'm actually sorry, not sorry like I feel bad, sorry like I understand what I did."
You looked at him.
You thought about the bus and his head on your shoulder and on the team, I meant and the way he had looked genuinely wounded when you said Tucker was probably your better friend on the team.
"It's going to take time," you said finally.
Something in his expression shifted — careful, not quite hope yet.
"I know," he said.
"You don't get to just be normal yet. We have to rebuild that."
"I know."
"And you have to actually be different," you said. "Not just sorry. Different."
"I will be," he said. "I already am. Or I'm trying to be." He paused. "Is that enough to start with?"
You looked at him for a long moment.
"It's enough to start with," you said.
The careful-not-quite-hope became something more than that.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"Don't thank me yet," you said. "We have a long way to go."
"I know," he said. "I'll go as slow as you need."
You looked at the path ahead.
"I have class," you said.
"I know. Go."
You went.
It was a start.
Logan was harder.
Not because you were angrier at him — you were, if you were being honest, angry at both of them in equal measure, just differently. Dean had betrayed a friendship. Logan had betrayed something larger, something that had your name on it, something you had handed him on a grey February Saturday when you said I love you and meant it with everything you had.
You saw him at the football games. Third row back, left side, every time. Not looking at you directly, just there, present, with the quiet patience of someone who had decided that showing up was the only thing available to him and had committed to it without reservation.
He sent you a text after every game. Not about him, not about them, about your work. Good shot in the second half. The one where you caught the receiver right before the snap. The slow motion reel you posted was really good. The timing was perfect. Small specific things that said I was paying attention without saying anything else.
You read them all.
You responded to some of them.
Small things. Thanks. I almost didn't post that one. Nothing that opened a door, just acknowledgment. The acknowledgment of someone who was not ready and was not pretending to be and was also not entirely gone.
He was not pushing. That was the thing you noticed most. He had shown up to three football games and fixed a broken tripod mount and sent careful specific texts about your work and he had not once asked for anything in return. Had not once said I think we should talk or please give me a chance or any of the things that would have made it easier to keep the door closed.
He was just — there.
Being different.
The grand gesture arrived on a Thursday, five weeks after the fight.
You were in the football team's equipment room going through footage on your laptop when someone knocked on the door. One of the managers looked in.
"There's someone outside asking for you," he said, with the specific expression of someone who had seen something and found it notable.
You went outside.
The path outside the athletics building was where you found him — Logan, in the cold, with flowers. Not a bunch. Not a normal amount. An amount that represented a decision — sunflowers and peonies and something small and white, wrapped loosely in paper, assembled with the specific intention of being too many, more than one person could reasonably carry, held in both arms with the careful energy of someone who had thought about this and decided it was not enough and added more anyway.
You looked at the flowers. You looked at him.
He looked tired in the same way he had looked tired since the night you left — not dramatic, not performing it, just genuinely worn down in the way of someone who had been carrying something for five weeks without putting it down.
"You said private," he said. "Too many flowers. Someone made a decision." He paused. "I made a decision."
Your throat did something inconvenient.
"Logan —"
"I'm not asking you to forgive me today," he said. "I just you said meaning it was the important part. And I needed you to see that I mean it. That's all. I'm not asking for anything."
You looked at the flowers. Peonies. He had gotten peonies specifically.
"You remembered the peonies," you said.
"You mentioned them once," he said. "A long time ago."
"You were paying attention," you said.
"I was always paying attention," he said quietly. "That was never the problem."
You stood there in the cold outside the athletics building and thought about I will never know which part was real and the third row left side and the texts about your work and five weeks of him being different without being asked to prove it.
"This isn't enough," you said.
Something flickered in his expression.
"I know," he said.
"I need more than flowers."
"I know," he said again, steadily. "Tell me what you need. Whatever it is. I'll do it."
You looked at him for a long moment.
"I need time," you said. "Real time. Not rushing. Not us going back to how things were because it was comfortable and we missed each other. Actually starting over and doing it right."
"Okay," he said.
"I need you to keep showing up," you said. "Not just when it's easy. When it's hard and uncertain and you don't know if it's working. You keep showing up anyway."
"I will," he said.
"And I need you to understand that I might get angry again," you said. "Even after I've forgiven you. It might come back and I might need to say something and you have to let me say it without shutting down."
"I will," he said. "I'll listen. Every time."
You looked at him.
"The texts," you said. "About my work."
"Yeah."
"You were at every game."
"Yeah."
"Third row back. Left side."
He looked at you quietly.
"I know," you said. "I noticed."
Something in his expression shifted.
"I was always going to ask you out," he said. "I need you to know that. Not as an excuse. Just as a true thing. The money didn't change what I felt. It just — it gave me a reason I shouldn't have needed and I took it and I'm sorry. But what happened between us was real. Every single part of it was real."
"I know," you said, which surprised you slightly, because you hadn't known you knew until you said it. "I know it was real. That's what made it hurt so much."
He nodded.
"Give me the peonies," you said.
He carefully extracted the peonies from the arrangement and held them out. You took them.
"The rest you can take home," you said.
"Okay."
"And Logan —" you paused. "The showing up. Don't stop."
Something broke open in his expression — not dramatically, not loudly, just quietly and completely, the expression of someone who had been holding something for five weeks and had finally been given a place to put it down.
"I won't," he said. "I promise."
You looked at him for one more moment.
"Slow," you said.
"As slow as you need," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."
You went back inside.
You stood in the equipment room with the peonies and thought about everything — the check and the bet and the fight and five weeks of third row left side and too many flowers on a Thursday afternoon in the cold.
You were not okay yet.
But you were standing with peonies, which was somewhere.
It was enough to start with.
The getting back together did not happen all at once.
It happened the way the crush had happened — gradually, against nobody's will this time, the way things did when they had been building for a long time and had finally found the right conditions.
The first time you went back to the rink it was not for work.
It was a Saturday game, mid-March, the kind that mattered for standings, and you had told yourself you were going because Allie and Hannah were going and Olivia was going and it was a group thing and had nothing to do with anything else.
You brought your camera.
Not the work camera your personal one, the smaller one you used when you were filming for yourself rather than for a content schedule. You told yourself it was habit. You told yourself you just liked having it.
You sat third row left side.
The thing about watching hockey when you actually knew what you were looking at was that it was a completely different experience from watching hockey when you were just there for the atmosphere. You knew the plays. You knew the patterns. You knew which moments were about to become something before they became something, the specific pre-motion stillness that preceded a good play, the way certain players telegraphed their intentions without knowing they were doing it.
You knew Logan's tells better than anyone.
Which was why you had your camera up and ready when he got the puck in the second period the slight shift of his weight, the way his head came up a half second before anyone else's, and then the play unfolding exactly the way you had known it would, clean and fast and entirely worth watching.
You got the shot.
Forty-three seconds of it, actually.
You lowered the camera and looked at what you had captured and felt something settle in your chest that was warm and quiet and entirely familiar.
Genuinely cinematic, you thought, and smiled at the ice.
Briar won.
The team filtered out of the locker room in the usual way in ones and twos, loud and post-game, spilling into the corridor where the usual group had gathered. Allie found Dean. Hannah found Garrett. Tucker found someone to complain to about a call in the third period.
You were reviewing footage on your camera when you felt someone stop beside you.
You looked up.
Logan was still in half his gear, hair damp, and he was looking at you with the expression you had forty-seven saved clips of — the real one, the one that had nothing managed about it — except that now you were allowed to look at it directly, which was still something you were getting used to.
"You came," he said.
"I came," you confirmed.
"You brought your camera."
"I brought my camera."
He looked at it. He looked at you. "Did you get anything good?"
You turned the camera around and hit play. The second period play unfolded on the small screen — the weight shift, the half second of stillness, the clean fast movement of something that knew exactly where it was going.
Forty-three seconds of it.
Logan watched it. Something in his expression went soft in the specific way it did when he was actually feeling something and had decided not to manage it.
"That's —" he started.
"Genuinely cinematic," you said.
He looked at you.
You looked back at him.
And then he kissed you right there in the corridor.
It was warm and certain and tasted like relief of something that had been a long time coming and had finally, simply, arrived.
When you pulled back he was smiling the real one, the one you had been filming without quite admitting why for seven months.
"So," he said.
"Yeah," you said. "We're back together." You pointed at him. "Don't fuck up."
Logan laughed a real one, surprised and warm, the kind that carried down the corridor and made Tucker laugh too without knowing why.
"I won't," he said.
"I mean it."
"I know you mean it."
"Good." You tucked your camera back into your bag. "Buy me food. I've been at a hockey game for two hours and I'm starving."
"Done," he said immediately.
You started walking and everything was different from before, which was the whole point, which was exactly what you had asked for.
Better. Not the same. Better.
Behind you, fading, you heard Tucker say something to Garrett.
Summary: John Logan smells like apples and lends you pencils and tells you it's okay to wear your headphones in his car. He brings you to Dean and Beau's party after you misunderstand who's invited. He's your friend now, apparently. You're starting to think that maybe you don't just want him as your friend, though.
Pairing: John Logan x fem!reader
Word count: 3.5k
Warnings/tags: drinking, a guy harasses reader. reader being a little weird (affectionate). maybe a little ND coded <3 misunderstandings. reader is friends w/ hannah. logan being a sweetie pie.
Notes: hi hello i am writing for off campus apparently (?) we'll see. i love u john logan
the divider
“That was so good!” Hannah says in your ear, her arm around you. “Wasn’t it?”
“It was,” you say, your smile a little strained.
She’s flushed from the excitement of the game. She cheered and clapped almost the whole time. You did a little. It’s not that Briar didn’t do well—they crushed Eastwood, in fact, 6-2. But you’re a little overwhelmed by all the noise. You’d like to leave as soon as you can.
“Are you sure you don’t wanna come?” Hannah asks as you go down the bleachers.
“I’m okay. I have a paper to write.”
She pouts. You don’t know why—after all, you weren’t invited. You couldn’t attend Dean and Beau’s birthday party even if you wanted to.
“Okay,” she says, finally acquiescing. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Sure. Good luck with your hard launch.”
Hannah bites her lip, her eyes shining. “Yeah, we’ll see what Garrett has planned. Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you to the dorm?”
“I’m alright, really. I can take the shuttle.”
She’s not happy about it. Something you like about being friends with Hannah Wells is that she wears almost every emotion on her face. Once you deciphered her expressions, it was easy enough to figure out from there what she’s feeling. It makes everything much simpler. You wish everyone were as easy to read as Hannah.
She lets you go with one last affectionate goodbye. You start walking, not sure where you’re supposed to go to find the shuttle from the stadium. Part of you doesn’t really care as much about that. Mostly, you want to get away from the noise. Tonight was just a cacophony of buzzers and slammed pucks and chants and shouts. Players getting shoved against the glass was the worst. You jumped every time.
You pull out your phone. It feels like you’ve gone in a circle. The stadium is a maze.
“Hi.”
You look up. John Logan—everyone calls him Logan, which throws you off—is about ten feet away, and he’s coming closer. He’s still in uniform, even his skates. You’re always impressed when you see players walk on skates. His hair is damp with sweat and at its curliest. Usually, it’s in fluffy waves.
“Hey, are you coming to the party?” he asks, coming to a stop in front of you.
“I wasn’t invited,” you say.
He tilts his head, eyebrows scrunching. You focus, trying to figure his face out. A look like that usually means you’ve said something that doesn’t make sense, but you can’t imagine what that would be. You don’t even talk much with Logan, so how can he already be confused by you?
“You’re friends with Hannah, right?” he asks. “And Hannah’s bringing her friend Allie?”
You nod. “Yes, they were invited.”
“It’s a campus-wide invite,” Logan says. “No one got invited specifically—Dean and Beau posted the details expecting the entire student body to show up.”
“Oh. That’s confusing.”
He shrugs. “It’s usually the same group of people who go to the parties, so I guess people don’t think about it. But uh, you know, if Hannah and Allie are going, it’s safe to say that you can go too.”
People don’t think about a lot of things. They tell you even less, which makes you feel stupid and lonely sometimes. But you don’t say any of this, because your mother would say those are inside thoughts. Instead, you shove your hand in your pocket and play with a silica gel packet that came in your new camera box.
You like to roll the beads inside the packet, and you’ve discovered that if someone asks what you’re fiddling with, it’s acceptable if you show them the silica gel. You used to fiddle with a ball of plastic wrap, but that made too much noise in class.
“Okay, well, congratulations on your game,” you say when Logan says nothing else. “Bye.” You turn to leave the stadium.
“Wait!” Logan jogs around to face you again. “Uh, wait. Did Hannah not invite you?”
“She asked me to go, but I declined because I have a paper due next week, and because I wasn’t invited. It’s rude to go to parties you aren’t invited to.”
That’s a rule that took a few times to learn in middle school, but you’re very proud that you know it now. Except apparently it doesn’t apply in college. Rules are always changing, and sometimes it makes you so frustrated, you could spit.
“Well, what if I asked you to go? Invited you officially. I live with Dean, and I helped set up the party. Is that enough of an authority?”
“I don’t really know what constitutes an authority to invite people to parties,” you say. “Why do you want me to go?”
“Uh, well…” Logan steps forward, bowing his head a little. One thick curl falls into his eyes. He has such beautiful hair. You wonder what conditioner he uses. A few times you’ve sat next to him in class, and he smells like apples. “I feel like we’re kinda friends now.”
“We are?”
He winces. “I mean, kinda? Is that okay for me to say? We’re in class together, and you stop by with Hannah.”
“I stopped by once because she left her bag. I didn’t come inside.”
“True, fair enough. You can come in though, you know? Like that’s totally okay. Just for the future.”
You doubt you’ll stop by the Hawks House again. You have no reason to. But you nod anyway.
“Plus we compared notes that one time,” Logan says, snapping his fingers. “That’s a friend thing to do, right?”
You let his words wash over you. John Logan says you’re kinda friends. You like Logan. He’s nice to you, and to Hannah. You haven’t spoken much, but he lent you a pencil a few weeks ago in your developmental psychology class. And he always waits and holds the door for you, even if you’re a few people behind him. He doesn’t scare you like athletes often do. He isn’t loud, and he doesn’t say rude things about women, or make fun of how clumsy you are. When you tripped on a step in class, he didn’t snicker like other students—he reached out to catch you, and asked if you were okay.
Then again, you’ve hardly hung out together. There’s always time for him to change his mind, show a different side. Plenty of people have done that.
But you like making friends. You’re not good at it. You want to be.
“Okay,” you say. “We can be friends.”
Logan grins. “Awesome.”
“You have nice teeth.”
He grins wider. “Thanks. I think that’s the first time anyone’s complimented my teeth.”
“That surprises me,” you say. “I don’t have a costume. Can I still enter the party, or will I be banned for life?”
Logan laughs. You squint. What’s funny?
“Normally, you’d get banned, but as an official party planner, I can get an exception made.”
Your eyes widen. “Oh…”
“I’m kidding,” he says gently, nudging your shoulder. It’s a soft nudge because of his padding. “You don’t need to wear a costume, but if you want, I have an extra pair of wings. You can be a bird with me. Tuck’s a bee.”
You’ve never been a part of a group costume. “I thought it was supposed to be costumes for two people.”
“We make our own rules. I’ll drive you there, okay? I don’t think you’ll wanna be on the party bus. It gets loud.”
You’re relieved. “Yes. Thank you.”
“No sweat. I’ll be out in a sec.”
You watch him disappear into the men’s locker room. You sit on a nearby bench. People are still filing out of the stadium. You put your headphones on, lean your head against the wall, and close your eyes.
Seven minutes later, a hand on your elbow makes you jump, eyes flying open. You tear off your headphones.
“Sorry,” is the first thing Logan says. He’s in a gray sleeveless shirt and dark jeans. Water drips from his hair onto his shoulders. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s okay.”
People don’t really touch you, mostly because you don’t care for it. Hannah and Allie like hugs, and sometimes you give them one, especially if they’re sad, because that’s what you do for sad friends. But mostly, you avoid it. People hug too hard, or too long, or they’re sweaty or smell funny. Logan doesn’t smell bad—he smells like orange Dial soap and his apple shampoo or conditioner, and you realize he must’ve showered.
“Tuck is waiting for us in the car,” he says. “The wings are in the trunk.”
You follow him outside, into the mild night. His curls are even curlier when wet. You want to reach out and tug one, watch it spring back into place, but that’s definitely not an appropriate thing to do. You shove your hands in your pocket and squeeze the silica.
“What were you listening to?” he asks.
“Brown noise.”
“Is that a band or a song or…”
“No, it’s like white noise, but softer.”
He nods slowly, eyebrows knitting. “Oh. Huh.”
“There’s also pink noise and black noise, which I listen to at night to sleep. White noise feels like needles in my ears.”
“So you don’t listen to music?”
“I love music,” you say. “But sometimes it’s too much. The arena was loud, and sometimes I need something quiet to reset my brain, you know?”
“I definitely get that. I’m gonna check those out.”
“Will you really?”
Logan looks surprised. “Yeah, I will.”
You meditate on that, trying to figure out how that makes you feel, Logan meaning what he says.
Tucker greets you happily, and says that more’s the merrier when you tell him about Logan’s idea to join their costume. He has a girl named Kayla with him, and they sit in the backseat on the ride over, kissing and giggling. So you sit in the front with Logan, who keeps the radio turned low.
“If you wanna wear your headphones, I don’t mind,” he says.
You don’t, but the offer makes you beam at him.
Before you go inside, Logan gives you a pair of glossy black bird wings to wear. He steps back, smoothing the feathers, and looks at you.
“You look good. Those really suit you,” he says, and you wonder if he means that too. You’re not brave enough to ask.
The party is already in full swing by the time you arrive, which astounds you, considering the game officially ended less than an hour ago. Dean and Beau are at the center of the party, doing shots. Everyone cheers when they finish. Tucker and Kayla go to greet Dean, but Logan hangs back with you. He leans in to talk in your ear.
“Do you want a drink?” he asks.
You shake your head. “I don’t like drinking.”
“That’s cool. I’m gonna get a beer. Do you want to come with me?”
You eye the swell of people in the kitchen and grimace. “No, that’s okay. I’ll be here.”
He smiles, dark eyes warm. Your stomach flips. “Okay. Be right back.”
As he goes, you scour the room for food. If you’d known you were going to the party, you would’ve eaten before the game. But you find an untouched plate of pizza rolls, which is probably the most exciting thing that’s happened tonight, besides Logan telling you that you’re friends.
You put three on a napkin and stand to the side, watching people dance. Allie’s in a beautiful green dress, and you see Dean dance with her. Jealousy strikes you—not because you want Dean, but because you wish you were adept at all of this. Dancing, talking, making friends. Making a boyfriend. Going to college. Living. Hannah understands your struggle a little, but even you can see how well she and Garrett are hitting it off, fake relationship or not.
You finish your pizza rolls and fold the napkin, bouncing your head in time to the music. You don’t like parties, but this isn’t so bad, you suppose. It’s certainly reasonable enough to withstand in the name of friendship, and that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?
“Can I refresh that for you?”
You squint at your now empty napkin, where your pizza roll crumbs now lie. Then you look at the guy who asked. He might be a hockey player, you’re not sure. You pretty much only know Logan and Garrett, because Hannah’s your friend. You know Tucker, you suppose, since you’ve now ridden in a car with him. You know of Dean, because it’s impossible to go to Briar U without learning Dean Di Laurentis’ name and seeing his bleach blond head of hair on campus. But you couldn’t pick any other player out of a lineup.
“It's a napkin,” you say. “It had food, not a drink.”
He holds up his hands and laughs. “Yeah, duh. It was an opener. I wasn’t being literal.”
Opener to what? You don't ask. He keeps talking, evidently not needing you to participate in the conversation.
“I’m Ben Pembroke. I just tried out for the team, but I’m pretty much a shoo-in. My dad played for Briar. Do you come to a lot of games?”
“No,” you say. “I came to this one because Logan asked me to.”
Ben frowns. “Are you together?”
“He drove me here in his car.”
He rolls his eyes. “I mean, are you dating?”
“No,” you say. “I'm not dating anybody.”
His smile returns. It looks wrong on his face. He has nice teeth too, but they don’t look as nice as Logan’s. “Good.”
“Why is that good?”
“Because.” Ben suddenly creeps a hand up your back. “It means you're available tonight. You're cute.”
You push his hand off. “Don't touch me. I don't like strangers touching me.”
Ben scoffs. “C'mon, enough with the ‘hard to get' act. I get it, you're ‘not like them.’ You're a nice girl. Whatever.”
“I don't know what you're talking about, but whatever it is, I want no part of it. Leave me alone.”
Ben gets closer to you. You flinch. He's tall and he's angry. You think so, anyway.
“The fuck? You were sending me signals. You want me.”
Definitely angry. You ball up your empty napkin in your fist. You hate arguing. You usually have to get loud to make people take you seriously, and shouting gives you a headache.
“I was not sending you signals,” you say, voice rising. “I don't want anything to do with you. You came over here.”
Ben smiles again, full of ice. “Look, babe, it's cool, okay? None of your nerdy little friends will know we were together.”
“Together for what? Sex?”
Ben winks. You make a noise of irritation.
“I did not send you sex signals, you creep. I don't like you! Go away!”
Ben reaches for you again. You yell, throwing your napkin on the ground.
“Get away from me!” People start to look at you. You scream without words, so angry you feel like you might die. “Go away, go away!”
“Fuckin’ weirdo,” Ben snaps, but you ignore him. You don’t care what he calls you as long as he leaves.
“Hey.”
Logan’s wings are suddenly in front of you. He glances at you.
“You okay?” he asks, holding out his hand behind him. He doesn’t touch you—you think his hand might be an offer, if you need it.
You chew the inside of your cheek. You don't feel okay, but you don't know if this is one of those times when you should lie. Sometimes lying makes things easier, but you never know when that is.
Logan turns back to Ben after you take his hand. “What the fuck, Pembroke? You're harassing women?”
“Man, she wanted me, I swear—”
“I did not send you sex signals,” you shout. “I don't like you!”
Ben's face spasms. Logan puts a hand on Ben's chest.
“Take it somewhere else. She's not interested.”
Ben flings a finger at you. “But she—”
“Get. The fuck. Out.” Logan's hand curls in Ben's shirt. A warning. Jules said that in one of their videos about Briar’s games. When John Logan touches people and gets in their faces, he “means business.”
Ben scowls at you. Logan steps back so he can block you from Ben's face.
“Fine. Fucking whatever.”
He stomps away. You squeeze the silica gel so hard, the beads dig into your palm. You fear the packet might burst. Your brain aches with the fight and the anger and anxiety that accompanied it. You promised yourself you wouldn't make a scene like you always do. It's why you can't keep friends, and you brace yourself for Logan to tell you something similar.
He leans in so you can hear him over the music. “Let's go outside. It's too loud here.”
Relief softens your body, even if Logan’s only taking you somewhere quieter so he can tell you off. “Okay.”
You pick up your napkin and throw it away. Then you follow him to the backyard. It's big too, and you're glad everything is well-lit and marked. It'd be too easy to get lost in this house. Logan takes you to two chairs on the deck where there's less people. Most of the guests are inside since Beau didn't fill the pool.
You sit. People hate it more when you defend yourself, but Logan has to know that you really did try not to make a scene. You care about things that your friends like, and you want to keep Logan as a friend. You like him, especially after tonight.
“I tried to tell him I wasn't interested in my quiet voice,” you say. “So many times. I didn't want sex. I swear I didn't send him signals, Logan, I didn't even approach him firs—”
“Whoa, hey.” He pushes his hair back, leaning in. “Hey, hey. I know you don't like Pembroke, and you don't have to try to convince me that he started it. He was a total jerk.”
You’re miserable. “People don't like when I use my loud voice, but sometimes they just won't listen to me. I had to.”
“Is it okay if I take your hand?” Logan asks softly.
You nod. Logan takes your hand in both of his, resting them on his knee. He’s quiet for a moment.
“You didn't do anything wrong,” he finally says. “When someone is harassing you, you have the right to be as loud as you want. It fucking sucks, and I’m sorry he did that. I’m gonna tell the guys and make sure he doesn’t make the team next year. He’s a shit player anyway.”
You fiddle with the silica gel again. “I wanted to be good at the party. You like parties, and a video I watched about making friends in college said that I should do things that other people like to become their friend.”
“Oh,” he says gently, rubbing your knuckles. “We’re already friends. You don't have to go to any parties to be my friend. Parties are fine, yeah, but they aren't the only thing I like. I'm not Dean.” He rolls his eyes and laughs.
You smile, pleased to catch onto his joke. “He was dancing with Allie.”
“Yeah, I think we may have witnessed a historical event: Dean Di Laurentis not getting what he wants.”
“Because she didn't kiss him?”
Logan snorts. “Exactly. Look, do you wanna ditch this party and do something else? There's a guest house on the property if you just wanna chill. I would drive you home, but I’m still a little tipsy.”
He's still holding your hand. You like it. You like how rough his palms are, his cool skin against your warmth. You link your fingers with Logan's. He looks down, then looks back up at you.
“I'm hungry, actually,” you say.
He hums. “Good.”
“How is that good?”
“No, I mean, it's good you're being honest with me and telling me what you want. Don't force yourself to go to any more parties, okay?”
“Okay, Logan. Is there a Taco Bell nearby?”
****
“You’re a genius,” Logan says, his mouth full of Crunchwrap. He chews, then swallows before speaking again. “Taco Bell should be a post-game tradition. Garrett’s a health nut, but I think I could convince him.”
The Taco Bell is only a few blocks away from the house, so you and Logan walked here. He paid for your food even though you have money. He said it was to make up for the shitty party. You told him he didn’t need to do that. He said he wanted to.
“It’s my favorite fast food,” you say, working on your potatoes. You stick a fork into one, then carefully dip one corner in sour cream and the other in the nacho cheese.
“I thought they put the sauces on top,” he says.
“Normally they do, but I ask for them on the side because otherwise all the potatoes don’t get an equal distribution of sauce.”
It’s quiet, and you find Logan staring at you as you chew. You swallow, frowning.
“What?”
He shakes his head, grinning. He does that a lot. “Nothing, just… you’re different.”
“Oh.” You pull your food closer to you, shoulders curling in.
“Not in a bad way! I like it. You know what you want.”
“Not really.” You suddenly remember Allie and Dean dancing. “Or if I do, I don’t know how to get it.”
“I think that’s pretty common,” Logan says, resting his chin in his hand. “I’ve been in that situation plenty of times.”
“What did you do?”
“Hmm.” He takes a long sip from his coke. “Depends on what I wanted. For the most part, I just went for it. No one else is gonna give it to you, you know?”
“I guess so.”
“What do you want?”
It strikes you now that Logan’s eyes are not just brown; they’re speckled gold, like spattered sunlight on tree bark. They’re lovely even in the harsh fluorescent light. He’s like some kind of fantasy novel angel with the wings and his swoopy curls. His lashes are long and thick. He licks his lips, and now you can’t stop staring at his mouth. Your heart starts to pound, the longer he looks at you.
Oh no, you think. Oh no. I don’t want to be his friend.
Yet another thing you’ve misunderstood.
“I don’t know,” you say hoarsely. You clear your throat. “I really don’t know.”
“Well,” Logan says. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. And whatever it is, it’ll be there for you.”
You can hardly speak. You twirl the silica gel between your fingers. You do that the whole car ride home. Logan leaves the radio on low again. He gets out and opens your door after he pulls up to your dorm. Again, he offers his hand, and again, you take it.
“You look really pretty in those wings,” he says, like he’s telling you a secret, even though he already told you that earlier. He must really mean it.
It’s just you two here; campus is pretty much dead because almost everyone else is at the party.
“So do you.”
He laughs, and you think you’d really like it if he gave you a hug right now. But you’re not a hugger. You don’t know how to ask for such a thing from John Logan.
“You played really well,” you say.
Logan hums. “Thanks. I’m really glad you came.”
He’s still holding your hand. He squeezes it.
“Well, um, bye,” you say, letting go.
“Goodnight,” he says after you.
It’s only after you get to your room that you realize that you’re still wearing Logan’s wings.
Twelve light-years from Earth, Commander Y/f/n Y/l/n wakes up as one of two remaining crew members of the Hail Mary Mission. Her only companion is Dr. Ryland Grace, the world's leading astrophage expert and her best friend. Will the Commander be able to ignore her growing feelings for the Dr. and save humanity, or will she succumb to her deepest desire?
Better known as a Ryland Grace/Reader fic following the plot of Project Hail Mary.
The man sitting beside you is by no means sober, but you need to figure out what the hell is going on so you don’t particularly care. Right now, both of you are sitting in the cockpit of the Hail Mary. Grace is fidgeting while sipping a cup of water you got for him, while you are running through some basic diagnostic tests from the pilot’s seat. You left on whatever playlist Grace had chosen for background noise, so the two of you are currently being serenaded by the sweet vocals of Bowie’s Starman.
You pull your eyes away from the plethora of screens when Grace doesn't immediately respond. His eyes are already on you and there is an embarrassed look on his face.
“Okay, don’t take this the wrong way,” Grace starts, “But what’s your first name?”
You tell him and he repeats it back. Your mouth quirks downward at how foreign he makes it sound.
“Alright, so I woke up roughly ten days ago. Alone.” He continues, eyes flashing away from yours toward his lap, fiddling with the zipper on his (your) jacket, “At the time, I’d thought I was in the hospital or something, with all the tubes and wires and medical equipment, y’know?” He gave a weak laugh, “But once I finally remembered my name and got out of that freaking room, I figured out where I was.” His eyes shoot back to yours as he continues on a bit more frantically, “And I panicked, ok? Like any sane person would, because I have no idea what I am doing in space!”
“How much do you remember?” You question, glancing back at your screens. You saw him shake his head out of the corner of your eye.
“Not much. I remember my name, some things from childhood, that I used to be a middle school science teacher on Earth, and that I was studying astrophage at the behest of Eva Stratt. Nothing else yet.” Grace says so helplessly it makes your heart ache.
“This must just be a side effect of the coma,” You decide, pulling up the next test to check the status of the fuel stores. “We all have the resistance gene, but the scientists studying it told us they couldn’t be exactly sure how our bodies would be affected. Most of my memories returned within thirty minutes of waking up, but here and there something small will come back. Yours must be taking a bit longer.”
“Wait, what gene?” Grace asks, bewildered.
“The long-term coma resistance gene.” You start while still clicking around, “It’s just what it sounds like. A gene found in roughly one in 7,000 people that allows them to be put into an extended coma without dying.”
“And I have that?”
“Yup. You have it, I have it, as well as our pilot Yáo and engineer Ilyukhina.” Grace seems to bristle a bit at this so you turn to him and continue on a bit gentler, “That’s why we were chosen to be on this mission, Stratt needed people like us who were going to be able to survive the long journey from our solar system to Tau Ceti.”
“Why put people in comas at all though? It was only four years, right?”
“I always figured it was so we didn’t drive each other crazy. Four years is a long time to spend on a spaceship with only three other people. Never knew for sure though. Honestly, you probably have a better idea of what Stratt’s motivations were. You were her second in command.” This gains a strong reaction from Grace.
“Me? I was the second in command?” He says, leaning in disbelievingly; it’s not hard to tell he’s thinking back on the state you found him in earlier.
“Yup.” You say simply, and Grace leans back in his chair, hands on his head.
“So I was like… What, Stratt’s coffee guy?” The corners of your mouth pull into a smile as you turn back to your screens, this time testing a couple of switches for the floodlights attached to the ship. Grace always found a way to downplay his accomplishments to people; it should’ve been no surprise that he’d try to do the same even with no real memory.
“Not even close,” You reply, “You went everywhere with her, helped her with her most important decisions, stood in for her when she was otherwise occupied, and were her first point of contact.” You chose not to mention that there were rumors about the two of them sleeping together, not wanting to have it possibly confirmed. You think back to all those times aboard the aircraft carrier when your plans with Grace were rearranged because Stratt was dragging him around. “Not to mention, you are the premier expert on astrophage. She was right to have you by her side.” You hope he didn’t hear the jealousy tinging your voice.
“So I was her little science lapdog? I’m sorry, I just can’t imagine that-”
“Feel free to ask either Yáo or Ilyukhina.” You reply a bit sharply, “They will tell you the same exact thing.”
Grace bristles again which makes you feel slightly bad about snapping at him, but if there’s one thing you cannot stand it's Grace underestimating himself. Which he knows, or you guess, he knew. You narrow your eyes at the man unflinchingly, until you see tears well up in his eyes. Your body goes cold. Too far.
“Listen,” Grace starts, voice trembling, “There’s something you need to know… About the rest of the crew.” But his voice sounds strange, like he is approaching a wounded animal. It finally clicks. It’s the same way your dad had sounded when he told you mom had passed. That’s why Grace was so startled earlier when you found him, why he’d drunk himself stupid. Before you had woken up, he’d believed he was the only living person left on this ship.
He’s still talking when you get up. Not caring whether Grace follows, your feet take you with deadly calm through the ship, leading you ladder to ladder until you make it to the dormitory hatch. With a shaky breath you start downwards, and it doesn’t take you long to find them. When you’d woken up, you’d been so concerned about yourself and the mission that you hadn’t really bothered taking in your full surroundings. But right there, about halfway to the bottom, were the bodies of your friends.
For a quick second after you pull the sheet back on the first bed, you can’t tell who you are looking at. A body with dry, leathery skin about one gust of wind from flaking off entirely lies where former pilot Yáo should be. You knew he was in this bed, you helped prep him for the journey in this bed, your brain just cannot accept that the body in front of you is actually him. You reach for the visible dog tags around the body’s neck. It confirms your worst fear, 姚, Yáo. You pull your hand back quickly as though burned by the small piece of metal, mind reeling. You quickly pull the white sheet back over him and climb downwards.
If Yáo was up in the first bed, then you already knew who would be staring up at you in this one. You will your breath to stay steady but feel sick, knuckles turning white as you grip the ladder rung. C’mon, you tell yourself, Stratt picked you because you knew how to put your game face on and get shit done, even when it felt like the world was ending, right? So then fucking do it. You pull back the sheet covering her in one fluid motion and feel all the air leave your body.
“Cестричка!” Ilyukhina called to you over the noise of the crowd from your usual table, “Get me another vodka!”
It’s a Friday night on the aircraft carrier and you’d just walked through the door of the break room, hair still damp from your recent shower. Today had been a bit of a rough day, you’d had back-to-back meetings with Stratt on mission logistics, simulation training with your alternate that had run long causing you both to miss lunch, and finally a meeting between the primary crew of the Hail Mary and Grace, which was… tough. With launch almost here, it had finally been time to decide how you wanted to die. You had been afforded this one luxury: being able to die on your own terms. It really wasn’t a difficult choice for you all things considered, but it did bring things back into perspective. Needless to say, you could use a damn drink.
“You do realize that ‘little sister’ is going to be the one giving you orders for the rest of your life in about a month, right?” You said with a smile, taking your seat and setting down her drink as well as your own.
“No, cannot be right. You are only a baby.”
“I turn twenty eight in like two weeks Ilukhina.” You said with a slight air of indignation.
“See, just a baby! I guess that means I only have so much longer to boss you around, cестричка.” Ilyukhina fired back and clinked her glass with your own, “Поехали!”
You each took a sip of your drink and settled into an easy conversation, chatted about your days, gossiped, and everything in between. Somebody across the room had taken it upon themselves to start up the karaoke machine, so you listened to a rather lacklustre performance of Vienna while you chatted. Pretty soon, you started to feel that nice warm buzz coming to take the day's weight off your shoulders. It doesn’t take long for the conversation to shift to Ilyukhina’s favorite topic, who she was currently sleeping with.
“I mean why do men even have penises if they are not going to learn how to use them?” Ilyukhina loudly complained, “Like seriously, I say ‘like that’ and he go faster, I say ‘right there’ and he change angle, I do not understand!”
At this point, you’re laughing so hard you’re afraid you’ll snort and send your drink right up your nose. You couldn’t help but wonder if whoever she was talking about was somewhere in the room listening to every word.
“Maybe he doesn’t speak English?” You offered through laughs.
“I thought that too! I say again in Russian and in Mandarin but still nothing works.” She grumbled as you laughed some more. Ilyukhina always had new stories to tell you. She frequently used her celebrity status as one of the main mission crew to talk her way into just about anyone’s pants. She’d teased you a couple of times for your more reserved approach, having only been with two people since coming aboard about a year ago. “Come on!” She’d exclaimed, “We are going to die, you should have fun while you can!” Hookups just weren’t your thing, especially in such close quarters. It was like college all over again. You’d drawn a line in the sand with Ilyukhina after the third time you’d walked into your shared room, only to find her mid-hookup. No sexual partners in your shared room. She’d thankfully respected your wish, having to settle with just verbally telling you about her escapades instead of you directly bearing witness.
As you put your drink to your mouth, attempting to restrain your giggles, you spot a familiar head of dirty blond hair making his way through the crowd as the karaoke singer starts their final chorus. Surprised to see Grace out for a drink, you called out to him, waving him over to join you and Ilyukhina. He stopped for a second after realizing it was you, gaze boring into yours, and without response beelined it for the door. Your heart sank in disappointment as you watched him leave.
“What’s his deal?” Ilyukhina asks, having watched the entire thing.
“I don’t know,” You replied, “Maybe it has to do with the meeting from earlier.”
“Probably. You especially did not make it easy for him. Plus, Dr. Grace has made very clear from beginning that he is uncomfortable with sending people to die for Earth." She said simply, “He probably push it to back of his mind, only to remember now that we talk about it today.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” You said and sipped your drink. Grace had seemed a bit off today in the meeting, more fidgety than normal. He’d also had this look in his eyes that made you worried he was going to just get up and sprint out of the conference room, but he’d thankfully stayed and heard you all out. Still, you couldn’t help but wonder a bit self-consciously if there’d been some other reason your friend ignored you.
You and Ilyukhina stayed silent for a bit, both in your own heads. The room was still bustling, having only gotten busier since you arrived. You took the chance to look around at everyone here, scientists, engineers, soldiers. A new group was at the karaoke machine now, butchering a rendition of that old Natasha Bedingfield song. By the time they got to the chorus they were practically yelling into the microphone, causing you to wince, but their gusto made you smile. They all deserved this moment of reprieve. They’re the ones with the hard part of dealing with what’s to come, the mass hysteria, the crop failure, the wars. If you were being honest, you almost felt lucky. All you really had to do was take some samples.
“Finally feels real, huh.” Ilyukhina said a bit lower, looking into her empty glass.
“Yeah,” You mumbled with a sigh, “Yeah, it does.” Another minute passed between the two of you before Ilyukhina unexpectedly grabbed your hand, which startled you. You looked up to find her eyes shining with tears.
“You must know,” She started, voice quavering the slightest bit, “To get to know you cестричка, has been greatest honor of my life. More so to die with you.”
With that she squeezed your hand, and your voice failed you. You and your team had known from the start what was to come and never once complained. You’d faced the challenge head-on together, doing everything in your power to make sure humanity had a fighting chance. You were proud of the hard work put in by your crew. But after the last year, you knew these people, knew their likes and dislikes, their quirks and coffee orders. They’d become people that you loved, trusted, and wanted nothing but the best for. They’d become your family. So while laying down your life was something you'd come to accept, facing the fact that your crew was to lay down theirs as well… All you could give Ilyukhina was a watery smile and a nod. The honor is all mine, big sister.
“So,” She said in a forcibly lighter tone, letting go of your hand and taking a second to wipe her eyes before leaning back in close, “Do you think Dr. Grace knows how to properly pleasure a woman in bed?”
And with that, the moment was over and you were blushing as you laughed all over again.
The sounds of footsteps pull you back to reality. Glancing up, you see Grace staring down at you.
“You ok?” He asks tentatively.
“Fine.” You reply before yanking the sheet back over Ilyukhina’s face and climbing up to meet him. When you reach the last rung he offers his hand and you take it. Butterflies immediately erupt in your stomach. Stupid things, now is not the time.
The two of you sit yourselves down in the small corridor, a heavy weight palpable. Neither of you spoke for quite some time. Grace must’ve stopped the music while you were checking on the others because the only thing that greets your ears is the ambient noise of the ship, occasionally broken up by sniffles from the man across from you. To be honest, you weren’t sure what to even say. Half your crew is dead. Not only that, but Grace has been rendered useless for the time being because of his lack of memory. The weight of the entire mission's success rests on your shoulders at this point. Were you just supposed to act as if nothing happened? You already knew that the answer was yes. You need to be able to function, not be incapacitated by grief. Of course, you’d all been prepped on what to do if a crew member were to die during the mission, but it all felt so wrong now. To accept their death so quickly felt as though you were dishonoring their sacrifice, ignoring their contribution to the people of Earth. As though they died for nothing.
“So yeah…” Grace croaks, “That’s what happened.”
You didn’t respond, fighting against the tide of your emotions, afraid they might pull you under.
“When I woke up, I found everyone dead. Even you.” Grace says, and then after a moment follows with, “Why aren’t you dead?”
You’re not sure how to respond, but settle on a weak shrug, “I don’t know.”
“I’m happy I’m not alone,” Grace says, “I’m happy you’re here with me now.”
You can tell he means it too. Your heart helplessly somersaults in your chest hearing him say it.
“Me too.” You reply with a grim smile.
You eventually go back up to the cockpit, set on finishing up all the diagnostic procedures, leaving Grace to his own devices for the time being. It takes well over two hours, the silence buzzing in your ears all the while. But you’re happy to have something to do besides spiral into nothingness. By the time you finish everything the lights are starting to autodim for the ship’s night cycle, signaling to both you and Grace that it’s time for bed.
You make your way back down where you left him, and find Grace curled up against the bottom of the ladder, asleep. You give him a slight nudge to wake up and say, “Come on Ry, time for bed.” And walk towards the ladder down to the dormitory.
“Wait.” Grace croaks behind you. Turning back, you can see his eyes darting towards the hatch and back to you, dread clearly written on his face. He doesn’t want to sleep down there any more than you do. You think for a moment before deciding on an idea.
“Hold on one second.” You tell him and descend the ladder, doing your best to ignore the bodies as you climb. First, you find yourself an outfit for bed, which ends up being a tank top and a pair of black leggings. Your braid has held up well enough that you leave it as is, and then turn to the rest of the room. The beds themselves are bolted to the walls, but you grab the linens from two and start the climb back up. When you make it back to the top, Grace is there waiting, having also taken the time to shed his extra layers. Without speaking, you throw him some blankets and a pillow and get to work in the dim light. The two of you make your beds in silence on separate sides of the small area. Once done you both lay under the covers for a while, not saying anything. You turn on your side to face him
“Goodnight Grace.” You say into the dim room.
He briefly turns his head to face you, “Goodnight.”
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
Bright lights swirl behind his eyes. Two cups of coffee, made just to taste. Melodic humming. Hair blowing in the wind. Early mornings. The smell of something… No someone. Music playing from an unknown source. Pink lips pulling into a smile. Matching Converse. He looks up to find an endless sea of stars and fabulous colors, all blues and pinks and purples. Soft skin. Camera flashes. A pair of eyes that seem to have their own gravitational pull. Shared headphones. Wishing for more time. The charged moment before a kiss. A bottle of wine. Pain radiating from his chest, his neck. Wishing. A familiar voice.
“I mean, we wouldn’t want to waste such a lovely night.”
Ryland opens his eyes with a groan. It seems his three day bender is finally coming to an end and is putting up a fair fight. He is too warm, his mouth is dry, and he’s got a splitting headache that seems to be getting worse by the minute. Just wonderful. The lights are still dim around the lab, so it must not be too long since he initially fell asleep. Gosh, he wishes he had a watch right now. Yes, he knows that it’s effectively useless now that he’s no longer on Earth, but he’d like to know relatively what time it is. Does it ultimately matter whether it's 11 pm or 2 am? No, not really, but he wants to know, ok? Hopefully, tomorrow he can muster up the courage to go in the dormitory and find one in his stuff. He would get up now, but he deems sleeping away his mistakes more important. Shifting on to his right side, Ryland closes his eyes. He’s surprisingly comfortable on the floor, but he just can’t settle in. See, this is why he didn’t drink, it always messes him up. He turns over to his other side hoping it would be better, but no dice. He finally rolls over on his back and accepts his insomniatic fate.
Laying there in the silence, he’s able to fully think over the events of the day. He’d woken up alone and drunk, sure that he was going to die in the overwhelming expanse of space without even knowing his middle name. But in a strange turn of events went to sleep as part of a pair. Commander Y/f/n Y/l/n. From what he learned so far she is resolute, quick to annoy, and a natural leader. Plus, she knows what the fudge is going on which makes her even better. He’d been confused earlier when he’d learned her name, it is the same one written on the whiteboard upstairs, the same one that has been lingering in the back of his brain since waking up. It couldn’t be a coincidence. He wishes his stupid brain would help him out for once. Honestly, Ryland's brain is having a hard time deciphering his relationship with the commander. He isn’t going to delude himself and say his feelings now are strictly platonic. But what were they? She is clearly comfortable enough to laugh at him, but at the same time there were moments he felt like there was something more.
Frustrated, Ryland turns to look in her direction, but finds only empty sheets. His heart rate picks up. Calm down, she probably just went to the bathroom. This momentarily calms him, she should be back soon. But one minute turns to two, which turns to five, which eventually turns to ten (yes, he counted) that she’s been gone. He finally can’t take it anymore.
Ryland gets up, careful not to topple over like earlier. Where could she have gone? Is she in trouble? He glances around for his missing crewmate. Nothing besides some rumpled bedding. His brain sends a thought to the forefront of his mind that makes him shiver. No… No no no no no. He couldn’t have. Did he… Make her up? Did Ryland’s brain in some sad attempt to self-soothe make up that the previously dead commander of the Hail Mary woke up and was here to save him? Ryland places a hand on the wall and feels like he’s going to be sick, and with the hangover starting to really take hold of him there’s an increasing likelihood he actually will be sick. Ryland lurches toward the ladder. No, this couldn’t be happening.
He climbs upwards toward the cockpit, wracking his brain to find even the smallest of reasons to believe the commander is truly alive. Did she leave anything tangible anywhere? Write anything on any of the whiteboards? Ryland stops a few rungs above the lower lab area platform to focus on not hyperventilating. He’s shaking at this point, body in overdrive. He’s alone, he’s really here all alone. His chances of anything other than a worthless death have completely vanished. Humanity’s last-ditch effort is an abject failure dressed in a Cats: The Musical shirt and sweats. The room starts to feel as if it's rapidly closing in on him.
“Ry?” A quiet voice calls into the dark.
Ryland freezes in place, thoughts halting.
“Over here.” The voice says again, “You ok?”
Ryland squints, following where the noise came from. Relief floods his nervous system. Sitting in the lower lab at the observation window on the far wall is the commander. He’d been in such a frenzy that he’d nearly blown right past. He just stares at her through the dim light. There she is, she is real.
“Come.” She beckons him, “Sit with me.” And who is he to say no.
In the dim light he finds her resting in the window nook, an empty cup by her side. Her lower half is covered by a multicolored quilt Ryland hasn’t seen before, but it's covered with a plethora of different images. He slides down across from her, wiping his damp eyes and saying nothing. They’re close enough that if he wanted to he could reach and touch her, and she the same. She immediately drapes the quilt over his own legs once he’s seemingly comfortable. He looks up and notices she’s wearing the floral silk robe he had on earlier and has a wired headphone stuck in one ear that seems to be connected to a small portable CD player at her side. She follows his gaze and, without asking, offers him the other. With a trembling hand, Ryland takes it and places the earbud in his ear. His shoulders tense. Violins, trumpets, drums, you name it, are all playing so frantically that he’s not sure if his already-pounding head can take it. He must have shot her a look because she grabs the CD player and pauses the music. Cool quiet fills the space again.
“Sorry,” She whispers, “I should’ve turned that down. Just give me one second.” And clicks the CD player a couple of times.
When the music begins again, it's already so much better. Still classical music, but calmer than before. His shoulders relax the slightest bit. She nudges his leg with her own and Ryland glances up. She looks back at him expectantly, and he gives a slight nod. Yes, this is good. She smiles and turns to the window, looking out at the expanse of stars. Ryland follows her lead, looking at the cosmos before him. The sheer number of stars visible gives him goosebumps. Before she’d woken up, he’d been intentionally ignoring the windows, the dread that filled him upon his initial look not forgotten in the slightest. Though now with someone else, it doesn’t feel as bad. Immensely scary, sure, but undeniably beautiful.
The song continues on its dreamy tune and Ryland’s focus is pulled back to the woman in front of him. She is leaning back against one of the windows continuing to stare out, seemingly in her own world. From where he’s sitting she seems to glow, haloed by the stars behind her. It takes his breath away. Ryland has to fight the urge to reach out and touch her. He convinces himself that it’s because he needs to make sure she is 100% real, to make sure he’s not dreaming. He must have been staring too long because she angles her head in his direction and flits her gaze over to his. Her eyes reflect starlight.
“What song is this?” He blurts out before he can stop himself. She smiles.
“Venus from Holst’s suite, The Planets. Thought it was appropriate.” She replies softly before looking back out the window. Ryland follows suit. They sit there for a long while, the song playing on until the very end. When the last of the strings finally fade out, his partner hits the pause button.
“Alright, want to tell me what happened?” She asks, facing him and taking the headphone out of her ear. Ryland follows suit.
“I-I woke up earlier and… And you were gone.” He stutters out, face starting to heat up. It sounds so silly when put like that.
His partner does not laugh or poke fun though. Merely tilts her head before responding. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“It’s ok.” Ryland responds immediately, “It’s been a crazy day, I should’ve known you needed some time to process everything.”
She sighs deeply and turns back to the window before replying, “Yes, something like that.” And then after a moment, “We should do something with them tomorrow.”
Ryland’s brows raise at this, “Tomorrow? You don’t want to-”
“No.” She replies firmly, “Tomorrow.”
Ryland nods, not knowing how to respond. He reaches out to touch her, and rubs her calf in what he hopes is a soothing manner. “I’m sorry.”
Her eyes find their way back to him and display confusion, halting his motion. “What are you apologizing for?”
“Just for,” He starts, “Not remembering everything. I wish I could be more of a help to you, and like, actually be there for you.”
Her eyes soften at his words, “You already are, more than you know.” The words seem to hang in the air as they sit there, Ryland’s hand still lightly resting on her leg. That is, until his partner starts to fidget with the end of her braid and breaks the silence, voice a bit louder than before, “Is there anything I can do for you? To help you remember. Anything I can answer for you?”
“Um-” Ryland’s mind is void of questions, focusing on the way her knee is now resting against his own, rather than any kind of cognitive function, “What are we?” His face immediately goes beet red, “I mean- How do we know each other?” He may as well go walk out the airlock. He seriously asked What are we???
His stupidity is rewarded with a soft laugh from the commander. A slight pink hue tinges her cheeks that Ryland can't pull his eyes away from. “Well, we met because of the Hail Mary Mission obviously, but it’s a bit of a funny story.” She sees to hesitate for a second, “The first time we met, you actually spilled your coffee on me.”
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” Ryland reflexively groans, covering his face with his hands. He thought his actions now were bad, past him was a whole different kind of mess.
“Nope.” You reply with a light laugh, “It was the flight crew’s first time on the aircraft carrier where we were staying at the time, and Stratt wanted to introduce us to some key players for the mission. I was walking with my crew on the way to your office, and you turned the corner just at the right time that we collided. You, of course, were extremely apologetic but for a couple of weeks after we sort of avoided one another, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
Ryland is beyond embarrassed by his past behavior, but ultimately isn’t surprised.
Clearly sensing his changing mood, she continues on, “We got over it quickly though. As commander, I made it my business to know the basics of my other crew members' specialties in case anything came up, so I ended up guilt-tripping you into letting me sit in on your lessons, and the rest is history, I guess. By launch, I pretty much considered you my best friend.” Ryland's sure it's just a trick of the light, but her eyes seem to sparkle as she tells him.
He didn’t know how to respond. An admittedly not small part of him is disappointed there was no mention of romance between the two of you. But also, he is confused by how you talk about him, as if he weren’t a part of the crew. He starts to open his mouth to ask, but ends up letting out a big yawn, causing his commander to do the same. It seems to pop whatever spell that had kept both of you there.
“Seems like we should go back to bed. I can answer anything else in the morning.” You said, quickly grabbing your things. Before Ryland can fully react, you start off down the hall without him, only stopping for a moment to turn and call over your shoulder.
“You coming Ry?”
His leg burns cold where yours had just been, and he aches to stay in whatever this was a little while longer. Where nothing matters except for the woman in front of him. But nonetheless, Ryland gets up and follows. His questions would have to wait.
Hey everyone, here's another chapter! I had intended to post it last week, but I went on a bit of a sabbatical and didn't write at all lol. Not only that but most of my time has been spent on phmtwt, so currently coltlandgentry is taking over my brain to the point where I'm debating on making it part of Grace's backstory in this. We shall see haha. As for the story itself, the translations for the phrases Ilyukhina speaks in the flashback are
Cестричка - Little Sister
Поехали - Let's Go!
I am by no means a Russian speaker, so if it's a little funky in context, I apologize. Here is also the list of songs for this chapter:
Starman
Vienna
Unwritten
Venus
I've had so much fun writing these two chapters, and I'll be back with more soon. Thanks for sticking with me!
-Ash♡
summary: after traveling into the wrong dimension, you find yourself in the presence of someone or something else’s presence. with a quick decision, you choose to approach.
pairings: ryland grace x fem!cooper!reader (interstellar)
warnings: reader is referred to as “coop” or “cooper” last name wise by TARS! the ship reader is using is implied to be a lot bigger than what we saw in the ending (about the same size as the hail mary, give or take).
notes: formatting is a lot easier on desktop, so hopefully things look less clunky now!
prologue
As you approach the foreign object—which looks to be a ship, though severely lacking compared to your own—your console crackles. “There.” You say, “I detect it.”
The other ship is unmoving—either due to lack of noticing you, or a separate reason. That doesn’t sit right with you. Ships don’t just drift like that—not unless something’s wrong.
“TARS.”
“I see it.”
“Power?”
“Inconsistent.”
You don’t like that.
You flip the channel open without hesitation, pulling the radio close to your lips. “Unidentified vessel, this is…—” You pause for a brief moment, do ship names really matter here? Not really, not anymore. “This is Cooper. Do you read?”
It’s silent, static filling the line. You don’t repeat yourself. If someone’s there, they heard you.
Until a voice finally speaks.
A human (presumably), panicked by the sound of it, but also… relieved? “Oh, thank God—yes—hi—hello, um… Yes, I read you! Are you, um—Are you real?”
Your brow raises at that, a quick glance being sent towards TARS before you respond nonetheless: “Yeah,” You huff out what sounds to be a chuckle, “I’m real.”
A few moments pass, and you choose to take the initiative. “Who am I speaking to?”
Grace was alone.
When he awoke, everything was jarring. He had no recollection of his name, who he was, where he was, why he was here, what his purpose was… Yeah, there were a lot of things he didn’t know right now. The first few days he spent drowning in misery—the loss of his crewmates (he assumed they were his crewmates, anyways), the loss of himself, the loss of being home. The silence didn’t help. Nothing helped.
The bags of vodka Ilyukhina left behind were quite possibly his saving grace (pun intended), and by the time he finished them he had (somewhat) snapped out of it. Not better. Just… less worse.
From then on, memories came back to him in short flickers (funny enough, these ‘flickers’ reminded him of those old lightbulbs in his classroom… Hey, wait, was he a teacher?). That thought stuck longer than the others: a teacher.
Right, yeah, okay, that felt right. A teacher with a PhD in biology, apparently—which, great, awesome, love that for him—but that doesn’t explain why he’s in space. Alone. On what he thinks is a very important mission.
First were things he assumed about himself, then he found the patchwork of what he assumed to be his name (Was his name Grace or was that his last name?), and then… a blank slate.
He knew Earth was dying. He knew he had been sent up here to solve that, but he couldn’t do it alone. Not when his memories were such a jumbled mess. Not when he wasn’t confident in himself. Not when every other thought ended in I don’t know.
Contacting Earth wasn’t even an option either—he shouldn't have to wait 11 lightyears for a singular reply!
So yeah. Alone.
You can only imagine how relieved Grace was when the Hail Mary sensed something—okay, well, maybe not with how it alerted him (seriously, was the alarm that loud on purpose?), but hearing an actual human voice speak to him through comms? Yeah, this person had to be an angel sent from heaven.
Grace had immediately rushed to the control room, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process, awkwardly sitting—well, more like dropping—himself into the pilot seat while begging Mary to tell him where the radio was.
“Okay—okay—where is it—where is the—comms—comms—comms—” He muttered, hands flying over controls he only half understood.
The second he replied to you, he mentally facepalmed. Jesus, why did he—why did he talk like that?! This was so embarrassing.
At your question, Grace paused. The silence stretched long and thin until you spoke up again.
“You still there?”
Grace gulped, sitting up a little straighter like you could somehow see him through the radio. “Yeah, um—Yes—Hi! I’m, uh… I’m still here! Sorry—but—yeah—sorry, what was the… the question?” He stuttered out.
“Who am I speaking to?” You repeated once more.
So how exactly was he supposed to answer that? He didn’t even know himself. And God knows what you’d do if he went and said Hey, so I actually don’t remember anything at all or even my full name! You could just turn and leave for all he knew.
“Right—okay—uh…” He runs a hand over his face, already regretting everything. “Well—who am… I… speaking to?” He returned the question to you, buying time more than anything else.
“Cooper. (Y/N) Cooper.”
“Right, cool, yeah—Cooper—cool,” He nods to himself, immediately wincing because why is he nodding. “Cool name! Well—last name—kinda… intimidating—Not like that! No, no, haha—It’s, uh—neat and—”
“Who am I speaking to?”
Oh, right, that. He goes quiet again—just for a second. “…Grace,” He blurts out finally. “Yeah, Grace. I think. Pretty sure. Like—80% sure? Which feels like a solid B, so I’m gonna go with that.”
Another moment of silence passes, and he isn’t sure if you’re evaluating him or waiting for more information. So instead, he continues:
“…Hi.”
On your end, you glance at TARS.
“He doesn’t seem to be very confident.” You mutter.
“Very low.”
“Yeah. I got that.”
You bring the radio back up. “Alright, Grace,” You speak steadily. “You alone over there?”
A pause.
“…I think so.”
You nod once, his answer isn’t exactly reassuring, but it’s too late now with how you’re already shifting your attention back to the ship outside your viewport.
“Okay,” You say. “Then we’re coming to you.”
“Wait—we?”
“TARS and I.”
“…TARS…?”
You almost smile. “You can call him a sentient robot.”
Another pause, though much shorter this time.
“…Okay, that’s actually really cool.”
You don’t respond to that. Instead, your hands move over the controls, adjusting trajectory, closing the distance. Because whatever this is, whoever he is, you didn’t come this far to turn around now.
The distance between the two ships closes faster than Grace is emotionally prepared for. Which, granted, is not a very high bar.
“Oh—wow—okay, you’re—uh—you’re a lot bigger up close,” he mutters, leaning forward in his seat like that’ll somehow help him process what he’s looking at. Because wow. Your ship dwarfs his. Not just a little, not even moderately. It dwarfs it.
“Is that—Is that military?” he blurts out into the comms, immediately cringing at himself. “No, wait, that’s a dumb question, sorry, you don’t have to answer that—”
“We’re coming in to dock,” you cut in, almost like this is standard procedure for you. Which, for you, it is.
“For docking?” he repeats, a little higher-pitched than he’d like. “Right—okay—yeah—docking—good—love docking—big fan—”
You don’t respond to that. Instead, your eyes stay locked on the readouts, hands steady on the controls.
“TARS.”
“Docking clamps are functional.”
“Alignment?”
“Adjusting.”
The ship shifts, smooth and controlled in your experienced hands. On Grace’s end, it feels like the universe just moved entirely.
“Okay—yep—feeling that—definitely feeling that—” he grips the armrests, eyes wide. “Is it supposed to—do that?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Awesome. Love that.”
There’s a low hum as your ship positions itself, the sheer size of it casting a shadow over the Hail Mary. Grace stares out at it, equal parts terrified and amazed.
“…That is so cool.”
“Pressure equalization?” you ask.
“In progress.”
“Make it quick.”
“I am making it as quick as safely possible.”
You exhale through your nose. “Then make it quicker.”
On the other end, Grace is pacing now. Well… attempting to pace. Zero gravity makes that… difficult. So it’s more like awkward pushing off walls and immediately regretting it.
“Okay, okay, okay,” He mutters, running a hand through his hair. “This is good. This is really good. Another person. A real person. Not dead—very important—huge improvement—” He stops mid-ramble. “…What if they’re weird?”
A moment passes, “…I mean, I’m weird, so that’s—hypocritical—but like—what if they’re, you know, dangerous weird?” He glances toward the airlock. Then back to the monitors. Then back to the airlock.
“…Okay, but they said they’re coming over, so—too late now.”
A sharp clunk echoes through both ships. You don’t react to the noise.
“Docking secure,” TARS confirms.
“Good.”
“Pressure stabilized.”
You’re already unstrapping yourself, “TARS, you’re with me.”
“Of course.”
Grace freezes at the sound. “…Oh.” That sounded… final. Like, really final. He stares at the airlock door like it’s about to personally ruin his life. “Okay,” he whispers to himself. “Okay, this is fine. This is—this is good. You’re meeting another human. That’s normal. People do that. All the time. On Earth. Which you remember. Vaguely.”
He pushes himself toward the door, immediately overshooting it and having to grab onto the frame. “Okay—less enthusiasm—got it—” He straightens—well, as much as one can straighten in zero gravity—and awkwardly tries to compose himself.
“Hi,” he practices under his breath. “Hello. I’m—Grace—probably—nice to meet you—” He winces. “…Nope. Hate that.”
The hatch cycles open with a hiss. You don’t rush, it’s something you’ve grown used to. TARS follows behind you, his metal limbs shifting. The interior of the ship is… different. It’s smaller, tighter, messier. It looks… lived in.
Your eyes scan everything in seconds—layout, damage, supplies, exits... Then you spot him. Grace is floating just past the doorway, looking like he’s not entirely sure what to do with his own body. You stop a few feet away, studying him silently. He’s clearly alive, though incredibly alert, panicked, and somewhat… relieved? Well, it’s clear he’s human.
“Grace?” you ask.
Grace blinks—once, then twice. “…Oh,” he says. That’s… yeah, that’s a person. A real person. Not a hallucination. Not a corpse. A person.
And—okay, wow—she’s—
He straightens instinctively—or at least tries to—and ends up spinning slightly to the side instead. “Yep—hi—yeah—that’s me,” he says quickly, grabbing onto the nearest surface to stop himself. “Grace—again, like—pretty sure—that’s—still my name—so—” He cuts himself off, because wow, he is talking too much.
“…Hi,” he finishes, a little quieter this time.
You nod once, “(Y/N) Cooper.” Then you ask: “How come your ship’s in zero gravity?”
“Yeah, um—I don’t—I don’t know… How to fix that?”
“Right…” You raise a brow—are they really just letting anyone pilot a spacecraft these days? You’d have to help him with that later. “You said you were alone?”
“…Yeah,” he says, glancing back into the ship, as if waiting for someone else to suddenly pop in. “Yeah, just me. Unless—” he pauses, frowning slightly. “No, yeah, just me.”
You study him for another second. “Alright.” It’s as simple as that, your decision made.
Behind you, TARS shifts, floating idly, his panel blinking.
“He appears to be stable,” he notes.
Grace’s eyes snap to him. “…Okay, that is a sentient robot.”
“Yes,” TARS replies, “But I’m a lot more than just that.” (TARS is a pain in your ass, is what you want to say)
“…That’s so cool.”
You ignore that. Instead, your attention stays on Grace. “Walk me through your situation.” You’re straight to the point, as always. There’s no easing into it, because time matters right now, because something is clearly wrong.
Grace exhales, something between a laugh and a nervous huff. “Okay—uh—so—fun fact—” he gestures vaguely to his head, already wincing. “I don’t remember… like… anything. Which is—bad—super bad—working on it—kind of—” He glances at you, like he’s waiting for you to leave. You don’t, so he keeps going. “I think I’m on a mission? Like—a really important one? Something about Earth dying—which, again, not great—um—and I’m supposed to fix it? But—” He lets out a breath. “I don’t know how, or why I’m the one doing it.”
It goes silent.
“…So. Yeah. That’s—uh—that’s where we’re at.”
You take it in. Earth dying? It reminds you of your dimension. Except, from what you’ve gathered, this Earth appears to be savable.
“Alright,” You say.
Grace blinks at you. You’re not shocked? Or doubtful? Or even afraid? How are you so calm?
“…That’s it?”
“That’s enough to start.” You glance around the ship once more, then back at him. “Let’s figure it out after I fix your gravity situation.”
summary: after hearing the last request of your dying daughter, you make the choice to leave saturn in search of edmunds planet alongside TARS. however, unexpected problems arise when you enter the wormhole and you find yourself in a new dimension entirely.
pairings: ryland grace x fem!cooper!reader (interstellar)
warnings: reader is referred to as “coop” or “cooper” last name wise by TARS! the ship reader is using is implied to be a lot bigger than what we saw in the ending (about the same size as the hail mary, give or take).
extra: it's been a long time since i last wrote a fic! my skills are very rusty </3 apologies if anything is off! it's been a while since i last watched interstellar :)
════════════════════════════════
It was hard enough as is—watching as your daughter quietly slipped into an endless sleep only after you’ve just reunited.
No parents should have to watch their own child die.
You wished you came back sooner. If only you had just stayed. No parent wants to outlive their child, and Murphy seemed to sense the inner turmoil you were battling with.
“I have my kids here for me now, you go.” Murphy offered a gentle smile.
“Why?” You questioned her.
“‘Why?’” Murphy repeated.
Because you're the one who leaves.
She’s out there.
Because you always do.
You got up, giving one last loving glance towards Murphy as you watched her own family encase her.
Setting up camp.
Your feet began moving before you knew it, your strides slow—confident.
On a foreign planet.
TARS watched as you geared up. Perhaps Murphy knew that some day you would return—and that someday, you’d need your own ship. Maybe she knew you’d come back alone, and that’s why she had the spacecraft specially made for you.
All alone.
TARS and you climbed into the ship, “Ready?” You turned back to look at your robot companion.
“Ready as I’ll ever be, Coop.”
════════════════════════════════
So far everything was steady—or at least as steady as things could be if you ignored TARS’ horrendous attempts at humor.
“Did someone mess with your humor setting?” You groaned out.
“Still at 70%, Coop. Statistically, you’ve laughed twice.”
“So then I just need to turn it down some more…”
“Don't.”
“Too late now, TARS.” You joked with a smile. The robot, in turn, responded with a ‘huff’.
The rest of the journey was smooth sailing, but the biggest problem was going through the right wormhole. The wormhole itself was a confusing bastard, one mistake and you could end up in someplace else entirely—and while, yes, that’s what you hoped for, you wanted to get to the dimension that Edmunds Planet was in, not away from it.
“This is a gamble, Cooper. Not your best habit.”
“It’s always a gamble,” Your grip tightens on the controls, “Just a question of how bad.”
“Current odds of survival—unfavorable.”
“Yeah?” You exhale through your nose, “Story of my life, TARS.”
Time passed by differently in each wormhole, and your biggest concern was going through one that would pass through time faster than Edmunds Planet. It was risky, but it was necessary.
“You can do it, (Y/N),” TARS is quick to add, “Provided you don’t kill us both.”
“Yeah, reassuring, TARS.”
“I specialize in morale.”
“You specialize in talking too much.”
“Would you like me to reduce honesty?”
“...Don’t you dare.”
The wormhole stretches endlessly in front of you. It looks wrong, feels wrong—near damn impossible. It’s the kind of thing you wished didn’t exist, and yet here it is. It’s the same as the last one, the same as every bad decision that somehow kept you alive this long.
You don’t hesitate—rarely do anymore. “Hang on,” you say.
And then you push forward.
════════════════════════════════
The moment you cross, everything breaks. It isn’t violent, there’s no explosion, no tearing metal… But it’s all just wrong in a way your brain can’t place—something you don’t understand. If only Brand were here.
Space begins to fold in on itself, it stretches thin, snaps back, and repeats. Light bends where it clearly shouldn’t—time. Time, if that’s what it is, distorts the space around you. It’s almost like lag, and for a second, you swear you see your hand split.
“TARS—”
“I am here.” His voice stutters, but it’s not distortion. It’s delay.
“Instruments?” You snap.
“Noncompliant.”
Figures.
The ship begins to lurch—not forwards, hell, not even back, but sideways into nothing that has a direction. Your grip tightens on the controls, it doesn’t matter if they work, you still hold them anyways. Letting go isn’t an option.
“The… The structural integrity?”
“Stable—for now.”
“For now isn’t good enough!”
“No,” TARS agrees, “It is not.”
The stars—or at least what you assume them to be—smear into unrecognizable shapes. They’re lines, then they’re spirals, then suddenly they’re bursts of colour.
Your vision begins to blur, and before you can brace for impact, the wind is knocked out from your lungs. The last thing you see is pitch blackness. Almost as if the universe just lets go.
════════════════════════════════
You awake gasping for air, coughing as you struggle to adjust. Your instruments flicker back to life one by one, and once your hand reaches the controls the ship moves this time. The jump is a success—but is it the right place?
You’re quick to scan through everything. The coordinates? Wrong. The star patterns? Wrong. Everything? Wrong.
“...TARS.”
“I see it.”
“Tell me I didn’t just miss.”
“You did not miss,” he says, making you breathe a sigh of relief. “You missed entirely.”
You’re quick to send him a look, “Great.” You don’t panic, at least not yet. Panic will waste your time, and time in an unknown place is invaluable.
“Where are we?” You quickly regain composure.
“Unknown system. No matching records.”
“Try harder.”
“I am trying at maximum capacity, Cooper.”
“Try faster!”
“I am already doing that as well.”
Before you can get out another unreasonable demand, something pings on the console. It’s faint, not too far, but also not close.
“Tell me you see that.”
“I do.”
It’s a signal.
“Life?” You ask.
“Unconfirmed.”
“Don’t give me that.”
“Then: probable.”
TARS’ answer is enough. You’re already moving, rerouting power, analyzing the signal, figuring out just where it is. It’s messy, not clean like the Lazarus Missions.
“Plot an intercept.”
“Fuel—”
“Plot it.”
TARS goes quite, aware that arguing with you would get him nowhere. “Course set.”
The ship turns slowly, but it seems to be responsive enough in this atmosphere. You keep your eyes on the readout, “Don’t look away from it for a single second.”
The inside of your dorm room had been doused in a tense silence ever since you got that flight confirmation from Ethan. Trying to focus on anything else was seemingly impossible.
Your laptop screen had dimmed twice already.
Each time you absentmindedly tapped the space bar to wake it up again, staring at the blank document in front of you like it might eventually decide to write itself.
It didn’t.
Because you couldn’t stop thinking about the plane ticket.
Your phone sat face down beside your laptop, but the knowledge of it was still there. Lingering. Heavy. Pulling at your attention every few seconds like a loose thread begging to be tugged.
You flipped it over again.
The email confirmation was still open.
Departure: 1 hour, 32 minutes.
Your name sat printed neatly across the ticket, the destination city glowing beneath it.
The same city where the championship game would be played tomorrow night.
The same city where Steve Harrington was apparently waiting for you.
Your stomach twisted.
You dropped your phone back onto the desk like it had burned you.
This was insane.
Absolutely insane.
Three days ago he had stood in a crowded party and told you he was glad nothing ever happened between you.
Three days ago a video of that moment had spread across the internet like wildfire.
Three days ago Colin had called and calmly informed you that you were being pulled from the story that was supposed to define your entire senior year.
And now? Steve wanted you to get on a plane.
You leaned back in your chair, dragging both hands down your face slowly.
“You’re an idiot,” you muttered to yourself.
Because the worst part wasn’t that he had asked.
The worst part was that you were actually considering it.
•
The Uber arrived twenty minutes later.
You hadn’t even realized you’d ordered it until the notification popped up on your phone telling you the driver was outside.
Your laptop was closed.
Your backpack was slung over one shoulder.
And your small rolling suitcase sat beside the desk like it had been waiting there the entire time.
You stared at it for a long moment.
The newsroom lights hummed softly overhead as you reached for the handle and pulled it upright.
The wheels echoed quietly across the tile floor as you walked toward the exit.
Each step felt strangely disconnected from your body, like you were watching someone else make the decision.
Outside, the air was cold enough to make your breath visible.
The Uber idled at the curb, headlights cutting pale lines across the pavement.
The driver leaned slightly toward the passenger seat window when he saw you approaching.
“Airport?” he asked.
Your grip tightened around the suitcase handle.
For a moment, the only sound was the low rumble of the engine.
Airport.
That was where this would go.
You would get on the plane.
You would fly across the country.
You would walk into that arena tomorrow night and see Steve again.
See the same boy who had called you Paparazzi like it was your real name.
The same boy who had quietly pushed gummy Coke bottles across tables toward you like it was a secret only the two of you understood.
The same boy who had kissed you in his room in Hawkins like he’d been waiting to do it for months.
The same boy who had smirked at you while another girl was wrapped around him.
Your chest tightened sharply.
You swallowed.
The driver waited.
“Actually,” you said slowly.
Your voice sounded distant, even to yourself.
“Cancel the ride, please. I’m sorry.”
The driver blinked in confusion.
“Oh, uh, okay.”
You stepped back from the car.
The door closed with a quiet thud.
A second later the Uber pulled away, disappearing down the dark street.
The silence that followed felt enormous.
For a long moment you stood there alone on the sidewalk.
Then you pulled your phone from your pocket and opened Ethan’s message again.
Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Finally, you typed.
Tell Steve good luck tomorrow.
You hit send before you could second guess it.
The message delivered instantly.
You stared at the screen for another few seconds.
Then you turned around and walked back toward your dorm building.
•
Across the country, Steve Harrington sat alone in a nearly empty arena.
The overhead lights were dimmed, casting long shadows across the polished hardwood floor.
Most of the team had already gone back to the hotel.
Coach had insisted everyone get some sleep before the game tomorrow.
Steve had nodded.
Promised he would.
But instead he had found himself drifting back toward the arena after dinner, like something in his chest needed to see the place again before everything happened.
He sat halfway up the bleachers now, elbows resting on his knees as he stared down at the court.
The championship banner hung above it.
Tomorrow night it would be packed.
Thousands of fans.
Camera crews.
Reporters.
But right now it was quiet.
Steve pulled his phone out of his pocket again.
The screen lit up instantly.
No message.
No call.
No sign that you had gotten on the plane.
His jaw tightened.
Maybe you were already in the air.
Maybe you had turned your phone off.
His phone buzzed suddenly.
Steve sat up immediately.
Ethan’s name flashed across the screen.
He answered before the second ring.
“Is she coming?”
There was a pause on the other end.
Then Ethan sighed quietly.
“She told me to tell you good luck.”
The words hit harder than Steve expected.
For a moment he didn’t say anything.
The arena felt even bigger around him suddenly.
Even emptier.
“Got it,” he said finally.
Ethan hesitated.
“I’m sorry, man.”
Steve nodded even though Ethan couldn’t see it.
“Yeah.”
The call ended a few seconds later.
Steve sat there for a long time after that, staring down at the court.
Tomorrow night he would play the biggest game of his life.
Tomorrow night scouts would be watching.
Reporters would be writing stories.
His future would be decided in forty minutes of basketball.
But right now, all he could think about was the empty seat at the edge of the court where you used to sit.
And the fact that tomorrow, you wouldn’t be there.
~
Steve barely slept.
He tried. At some point after leaving the arena he had returned to the hotel with the rest of the team, nodding through Coach’s final speech in the conference room before everyone was sent upstairs to get rest before the biggest game of their season. But sleep never really came. Instead, he lay on top of the stiff white hotel sheets staring at the ceiling, the soft glow of the digital clock beside the bed slowly ticking through the early hours of the morning.
1:47 am.
2:32 am.
3:19 am.
Every time he closed his eyes, the same image replayed in his head.
You standing in that doorway.
Your face falling.
The way you had looked at him like you didn’t recognize the person in front of you anymore.
By the time his alarm finally went off at seven, Steve had already been awake.
~
The arena felt completely different on game day.
By the time the team bus pulled up outside that afternoon, the streets were already crowded with fans in school colors, their voices echoing loudly off the concrete buildings as cameras and reporters swarmed near the entrance.
Normally Steve thrived on that kind of energy.
The noise. The attention. The pressure.
But today the sound felt strangely distant, like it was happening somewhere far away from him instead of directly outside the bus window.
He stepped down onto the pavement with the rest of the team, the familiar flashes of cameras lighting up the entrance as reporters shouted questions toward them.
“Harrington! How’s the ankle feeling?”
“Steve! Big night tonight!”
“Any comment on the championship matchup?”
He didn’t answer any of them.
He barely even registered the words as he walked past the crowd and into the arena tunnel.
Because without thinking about it, his eyes had already started scanning the stands.
•
You were doing everything in your power not to watch the game.
By 6PM the campus already felt different.
The basketball team had made the championship game before, but not in years, and the entire university had decided to treat it like a national holiday. Students crowded the sidewalks in school colors, groups spilling out of dorms and bars and student lounges as the night crept closer to tip-off.
It was impossible not to notice.
Which was exactly why you grabbed your jacket and left your dorm before the broadcast even started.
You told yourself it was because you needed food.
Because you had been sitting in the same chair staring at the same unfinished homework for three hours and your brain needed a break.
Because you were hungry.
Not because you were trying to outrun the fact that Steve Harrington was about to play the biggest game of his life.
Not because you couldn’t stand the thought of watching it happen without being there.
The cold air hit your face the second you stepped outside, sharp enough to make your eyes water as you shoved your hands into your pockets and headed toward the edge of campus.
The first restaurant you tried was packed.
Students crowded every table, jerseys and hoodies filling the room as the loud cheers from the televisions mounted above the bar echoed against the walls.
You froze just inside the doorway.
The game had already started.
On the screen above the counter, a familiar figure jogged across the court as the commentators loudly discussed the matchup.
Steve.
Even from across the restaurant you could recognize the way he moved.
Your chest tightened instantly.
Someone near the bar shouted when he made the first shot of the game, the crowd erupting in applause that bounced around the room like fireworks.
You turned around immediately.
“Actually,” you muttered quietly to the confused host behind the stand, “never mind.”
The door closed behind you a second later.
The second place wasn’t any better.
Neither was the third.
Every restaurant, every bar, every café you walked into had the same thing happening.
Televisions glowing.
Crowds cheering.
The same game playing on every screen.
By the time you reached the small diner just off campus, you had almost convinced yourself that this one might finally be quiet.
It usually was.
Half the time the television mounted in the corner wasn’t even turned on.
You pushed the door open and stepped inside and immediately heard the commentator’s voice echoing across the empty tables.
“Harrington driving down the lane again—”
You stopped walking.
The TV above the counter showed the court from a wide camera angle as Steve pushed past two defenders, his jersey sticking slightly to his back as he moved.
The waitress behind the counter glanced up at the screen just as he scored.
“Well, damn,” she said under her breath.
Your throat tightened.
You didn’t realize you had been staring until the waitress turned toward you.
“You wanna sit down?”
You blinked quickly and looked away from the television.
“Can I just get something to go?”
“Sure thing.”
You ordered the first thing you saw on the menu board without really reading it.
While the waitress disappeared into the kitchen, you sat at the counter with your back carefully turned toward the television.
You still heard everything.
The commentators.
The crowd noise.
The occasional cheer from the couple sitting in the corner booth who had clearly come here for the same reason everyone else on campus had gone somewhere tonight.
Your fingers tapped nervously against the counter.
You hated how easy it was to picture what was happening without even looking.
The way Steve would rub the back of his neck during timeouts.
The way he paced slightly near the sideline when the team was down.
The way his eyes always drifted toward press row between plays.
Your stomach twisted.
You wondered if he was looking tonight.
By the time your food was ready, the game had reached halftime.
You paid quickly and grabbed the bag from the counter.
As you turned toward the door, the television behind you showed a close-up shot of Steve standing near the bench, breathing hard as one of the trainers wrapped something around his ankle.
The commentators’ voices filled the diner.
“Harrington has been battling through that ankle injury all week…”
You froze.
Just for a second.
Then you forced yourself to keep walking.
The bell above the door jingled softly as you stepped back into the cold night air.
For a moment you just stood there on the sidewalk, the warm paper bag clutched in your hands.
The sounds of cheering drifted faintly from the dorm buildings across campus.
Your chest felt tight again.
You looked down at the food in your hands.
And suddenly realized you weren’t hungry anymore.
~
You didn’t walk straight back to your dorm.
Instead you wandered toward the small courtyard behind the library, the one with the old wooden benches that were usually empty after dark. The campus had quieted slightly as the game went on, most students either packed into common rooms or crowded around televisions in bars off campus.
The courtyard lights cast soft yellow circles across the pavement as you lowered yourself onto one of the benches and set the takeout bag beside you.
For a moment you just sat there.
The cold air brushed against your cheeks, carrying distant bursts of cheering from somewhere across campus. Someone must have left a window open in one of the dorms because every so often the roar of a crowd spilled faintly into the night before fading again.
You pulled the container of food from the bag and peeled the lid open slowly.
The smell hit you immediately.
You realized you hadn’t actually eaten anything all day.
Your fork scraped quietly against the container as you took a bite, chewing mechanically while staring out across the dark courtyard.
Your mind drifted without your permission.
To a kitchen in Hawkins where Steve had leaned against the counter with that lazy smile, sliding a bag of Coke gummies across the surface toward you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
To the way he had looked at you that night.
Like he was finally letting himself.
You swallowed hard and forced another bite down.
The food tasted like nothing.
Somewhere in the distance the faint sound of cheering erupted again.
Your chest tightened.
You imagined the arena thousands of miles away. The packed stands. The bright lights reflecting off the polished court. The sound of sneakers squeaking across the floor.
Steve pacing near the sideline.
Rubbing the back of his neck.
Looking toward the press row without realizing he was doing it.
You pressed your lips together.
After a while you gave up trying to eat.
The container went back into the bag, barely touched.
Your hands felt colder now as you stood from the bench and slung the bag over your arm.
The walk back to your dorm felt longer than usual.
The closer you got to the residential buildings, the more you noticed something strange.
It was quiet.
Earlier that evening the sidewalks had been crowded with students in school colors, voices loud and excited as they talked about the championship game like it was already theirs.
Now most of them walked with their heads down.
Small groups moved slowly across the quad, their conversations muted and heavy in a way that made your stomach begin to twist before your brain fully caught up.
One guy wearing a team hoodie kicked a loose pebble across the sidewalk as he passed.
“…we should’ve had that,” he muttered to the friend beside him.
Your steps slowed.
Another group walked past you near the dorm entrance.
“…Harrington’s ankle was clearly screwed up…”
“…last five minutes were brutal…”
Your chest tightened painfully.
You didn’t need to hear anything else.
Still, your heart started beating faster as you climbed the stairs to your floor.
The hallway felt strangely subdued too. Doors that had been wide open earlier in the night were now closed, the usual bursts of cheering replaced by quiet conversations and the occasional disappointed groan drifting through the walls.
Your room felt colder than usual when you stepped inside.
You set the bag of uneaten food on your desk and closed the door behind you.
For a long moment you just stood there.
Then slowly, almost reluctantly, you reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone.
Your thumb hovered over the screen.
You already knew what you were going to see.
But somehow that didn’t stop the dread from pooling heavily in your stomach as you opened your browser.
It only took one search.
The score appeared immediately.
Bright and unavoidable.
Final: 74–68
Your school’s logo sat by the 68.
You stared at the screen.
Your chest tightened sharply as the reality settled into place.
They lost.
Which meant the season was over.
Which meant Steve’s last game as captain had ended with confetti falling for the other team.
You sank slowly onto the edge of your bed, the phone still clutched loosely in your hand.
For a moment you pictured him standing on the court when the buzzer sounded.
The stunned quiet.
The celebration happening around him.
The way he probably looked toward the stands without thinking.
Toward the place where you used to sit.
Your vision blurred.
You swallowed hard, pressing the heel of your hand against your eyes as the sick feeling in your stomach deepened.
Because the worst part wasn’t the loss.
The worst part was knowing that somewhere across the country, Steve Harrington had probably spent the entire night looking for you in a crowd where you were never going to be.
And you weren’t sure which one of you that hurt more.
•
After the final buzzer, after the confetti fell for the other team and the arena filled with the deafening sound of celebration that had nothing to do with them, he stood frozen near the sideline for longer than anyone else.
His teammates eventually disappeared down the tunnel one by one, their shoulders slumped with exhaustion and disappointment.
Coach had clapped him on the shoulder at some point, saying something about being proud of the season.
Steve didn’t remember what he said back.
All he remembered was looking toward the stands.
Just one more time.
Just in case.
It was stupid. He knew that.
But part of him had still hoped you’d changed your mind.
~
The hotel room was dark when he got back.
The team had gathered in one of the conference rooms downstairs for a short meeting after the game, the mood quiet and heavy as Coach talked about the season and the future and how proud he was of the work they’d done.
Steve barely heard any of it.
By the time he reached the hallway outside his room, the adrenaline from the game had worn off completely, leaving behind a dull ache in his ankle and an even heavier pressure sitting in the middle of his chest.
The key card clicked softly in the door.
The room was silent when he stepped inside.
For a moment he just stood there in the darkness, staring at nothing.
Then the door shut behind him with a quiet thud and something inside him snapped.
“Yeah,” he muttered bitterly to the empty room. “Nice job, Harrington.”
He dropped his gym bag onto the floor harder than necessary, the sound echoing against the hotel walls.
“Captain of the fucking year.”
His hands dragged through his hair roughly as he paced once across the small room.
“You had one job.”
The words came out harsher now.
Louder.
“One goddamn job.”
He stopped near the window, staring down at the dark city streets far below.
“You just had to show up and play the game.”
His reflection stared back at him in the glass.
Sweat-damp hair.
Exhausted eyes.
A bruise already forming along his jaw where someone had caught him with an elbow in the second half.
Steve let out a humorless laugh.
“Couldn’t even do that right.”
His gaze dropped slowly toward the floor.
Toward the small folded piece of paper sticking out of his bag.
Your letter.
He had brought it with him to the game.
Like an idiot.
Like somehow carrying it around in his pocket would magically undo everything he had done.
Steve dragged a hand down his face.
“You deserved to lose,” he muttered quietly.
The words landed heavily in the silent room.
His jaw tightened as the anger turned inward.
“You humiliated her in front the damn country.”
His voice rose again, sharper now.
“You let Courtney crawl all over you just to prove a point.”
His chest tightened painfully.
“And for what?”
He shook his head slowly.
“For a notebook.”
The word tasted bitter.
A stupid misunderstanding.
A stupid assumption.
A stupid, selfish decision that had blown up everything.
Steve turned away from the window, pacing again as the frustration boiled over.
“You really thought she was using you?” he scoffed to himself.
“You’re not that important, Harrington.”
His hands clenched at his sides.
“She wrote you a fucking love letter.”
The words echoed loudly in the room.
“And you slept with someone else.”
Silence followed.
Heavy. Suffocating.
Steve let out a shaky breath as he sank down onto the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees.
“Yeah,” he whispered hoarsely.
“You deserved that loss.”
His phone buzzed suddenly on the nightstand.
Steve barely glanced at it at first.
But when the screen lit up, the name made his stomach drop.
Dad.
For a second he considered ignoring it.
But something bitter twisted in his chest and he grabbed the phone anyway.
“Yeah?”
There wasn’t even a greeting on the other end.
“What the hell happened tonight?”
Steve closed his eyes.
Of course.
“Good to hear from you too,” he muttered.
His father ignored the comment.
“I put too much into this program for you to screw it up now.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
Steve’s jaw clenched.
“We lost a game,” he said flatly.
“You lost the championship.”
His father’s voice carried that same sharp edge it always had.
“That’s not just a game.”
Steve stared down at the carpet.
“Right.”
“I made calls for you, Steve.”
The words came slower now.
More pointed.
“You think those scouts just magically show up?”
Steve felt something ugly twist in his chest.
“You think that coach built this whole offense around you because he felt like it?”
His father exhaled sharply.
“Even with my help you still managed to screw this up.”
The silence that followed stretched long and painful.
Steve’s grip tightened around the phone.
“You done?” he asked quietly.
His father scoffed.
“Grow up, Steve.”
The line went dead.
Steve lowered the phone slowly.
For a long moment he just sat there.
Then he let out a harsh laugh that sounded more like a broken exhale.
“Yeah,” he muttered to himself.
“Guess that’s what I do. Screw shit up.”
His eyes drifted back toward the letter on the bedside table.
Toward the careful handwriting that ended with two words he had read a hundred times in the past two days.
Love, Paparazzi
Steve swallowed hard.
Then he leaned back against the wall behind the bed and stared at the ceiling.
The one person who had actually believed in him had chosen not to come tonight.
And for the first time in a long time Steve Harrington finally understood exactly why.
•
A week passed.
Not quickly.
Not cleanly.
A week that dragged across every hour of every day like something heavy stuck to the bottom of your shoes.
Campus had slowly returned to normal after the championship loss. The first few days had been filled with loud debates in dining halls and disappointed conversations outside classrooms, but by the end of the week even that had faded into something quieter.
People moved on.
They always did.
Except for you.
Because the one thing that hadn’t returned to normal was Steve.
At first you hadn’t noticed.
Why would you? You had been avoiding the athletic buildings entirely since coming back from the tournament, sticking mostly to the journalism wing and the library and your dorm like those were the only safe corners of campus left.
But by the third day the rumors started slipping into conversations you couldn’t avoid.
Someone mentioned the basketball team had resumed workouts.
Someone else mentioned the captain hadn’t been there.
Then Ethan had walked into the newsroom that afternoon and tossed his bag onto the table with a frustrated sigh.
“He still hasn’t come back.”
You looked up immediately.
Your stomach dropped.
“What do you mean?”
Ethan frowned slightly.
“The team got back last Sunday.”
You nodded slowly.
You knew that.
Everyone knew that.
The buses had pulled into campus late that night. Videos of disappointed players stepping off the bus had circulated around social media for half a day before people eventually got bored and moved on to the next thing.
But Ethan shook his head.
“Harrington wasn’t on it.”
Your chest tightened.
“He probably just stayed with family or something,” you said quickly.
The explanation came out almost automatically.
It wasn’t unusual for players to go home for a few days after the season ended.
But Ethan shrugged.
“Maybe.”
He didn’t sound convinced.
“And nobody from the team has heard from him either.”
Your fingers curled slightly against the edge of the table.
That part didn’t sound like Steve.
He might disappear for a day or two after a loss. He might sulk or avoid reporters or hole up in his apartment for a weekend.
But he wouldn’t vanish.
Not completely.
Not like that.
~
By the end of the week you had checked your phone more times than you were willing to admit.
Not for a message.
You had blocked him.
That part hadn’t changed.
But something restless had started growing in the back of your mind.
A quiet uneasiness that you couldn’t quite shake.
You told yourself it wasn’t your problem anymore.
You told yourself a dozen reasonable explanations every time the thought crept in.
But none of them stopped the knot tightening slowly in your stomach.
~
The call came just after midnight.
Your phone buzzed loudly against the nightstand beside your bed, dragging you abruptly out of sleep.
For a second you just blinked up at the dark ceiling, disoriented.
The buzzing continued.
You groaned softly and reached for the phone, squinting at the bright screen, an unknown number flashing in your face.
You frowned.
For a moment you considered letting it go to voicemail.
But something about the late hour made your chest tighten uneasily as you swiped to decline the call.
The phone went quiet again.
You set it back down on the nightstand and rolled over.
Ten seconds later it started ringing again.
You stared at the screen.
Same number.
Your stomach twisted slightly.
Slowly, you tapped the small information icon beside the number.
Then opened your browser.
The area code appeared instantly.
Your breath caught.
Hawkins, Indiana.
Hawkins.
You sat up immediately.
Your heart started beating faster as the phone continued ringing in your hand.
You answered on the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
There was a second of static on the other end of the line.
Then a familiar voice rushed out quickly.
“Oh thank god.”
You blinked, sitting up slightly in your bed.
“Robin?”
“Yeah,” she said immediately, sounding both relieved and slightly breathless. “Hi. Sorry. I know it’s like insanely late.”
Your confusion deepened.
“How did you even get this number?”
“Steve gave it to me.”
Your stomach tightened instantly.
Before you could respond, a muffled voice echoed somewhere in the background of the call.
“Robin—”
The sound was slurred.
Familiar.
Your chest tightened sharply.
“Was that—”
Robin sighed heavily.
“Yeah.”
Another muffled voice behind her.
“Robin, seriously—”
There was the sound of something bumping against the phone like someone trying to grab it.
“Steve, stop—”
“I just wanna talk to her.”
Your breath caught.
The words were thick and unsteady.
Drunk.
Very drunk.
Robin covered the receiver for a second, but his voice still carried through faintly.
“You said you’d call her.”
“I did call her!”
“Then why isn’t she answering?”
“She is answering, you idiot.”
A pause.
Then his voice again, closer now.
“Wait.”
Your heart started beating faster.
Robin exhaled slowly into the phone again.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “So. Here’s the situation.”
You rubbed your eyes tiredly.
“Robin—”
“I know things are complicated right now,” she said quickly. “Trust me. Dustin has filled me in on basically everything.”
You closed your eyes briefly.
“Yeah.”
“But he’s really not okay,” she continued, her voice softening slightly.
Another sound in the background.
Steve again.
“Robin, please—“
Your chest tightened painfully.
Robin sighed again.
“He’s been like this for 5 days.”
“What do you mean like this?”
“Drunk. Sad. Dramatic. The usual Steve Harrington spiral but like way worse.”
There was a faint thud in the background.
Then Steve’s voice again.
“Did she hang up?”
“No.”
Silence for half a second.
“She didn’t?”
Your throat tightened.
Robin lowered her voice slightly.
“I’m not saying you have to forgive him tonight or anything,” she said carefully. “But if you’d just consider talking to him for a minute… I think it would help.”
You hesitated.
Your mind immediately filled with the last mental images you had of Steve.
Courtney’s arms around his neck.
The humiliation.
But then another thought followed.
Steve sitting alone on the court after the championship loss.
Looking up into empty stands.
Your chest tightened painfully.
“Fine,” you said quietly.
Robin let out a relieved breath.
“Okay.”
There was a rustling sound as the phone shifted hands.
“Don’t yell at him too much,” Robin added quickly. “He’s already doing that himself.”
Then another shuffle.
And suddenly his voice was right there.
“Hello?”
Your heart stopped.
For a second neither of you spoke.
Steve inhaled sharply.
“Paparazzi?”
The nickname came out soft.
Uncertain.
Like he wasn’t sure if he was imagining you.
“Yeah,” you said quietly.
Silence filled the line.
Then you heard him laugh.
Except it wasn’t really a laugh.
It sounded more like disbelief.
“Holy shit.”
Your chest tightened.
“I thought Robin was lying.”
“I’m not lying,” Robin called from somewhere behind him.
“You lie all the time,” Steve muttered faintly.
Then he sighed.
And the sound that came out of him next was so tired it made your stomach twist.
“You shouldn’t have answered.”
You frowned slightly.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t deserve that.”
Your throat tightened.
Neither of you spoke for a moment.
Then Steve exhaled slowly.
“Did you watch the game?”
You hesitated.
“A little.”
Another quiet laugh from him.
“Yeah.”
Silence again.
Then his voice dropped lower.
“I lost it for them.”
Your chest tightened.
“That’s not how basketball works.”
“It is when the captain screws up.”
“Steve—”
“No, it’s fine,” he said quickly, though the words came out slurred again. “It’s fine. I deserve it.”
A pause.
Then he added quietly,
“I deserve a lot worse actually.”
Your stomach twisted.
“Don’t say that.”
He ignored the comment.
“You know what my dad said after the game?”
Your grip tightened around the phone.
“What?”
Steve let out a hollow laugh.
“He said he put too much into this program for me to screw it up.”
The words hung heavily in the air.
“And then he said even with his help I still managed to ruin it.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
“Steve…”
“I think he hates me.”
The sentence came out casually.
Like he was stating the weather.
Your throat burned.
“That’s not true.”
“Yeah it is.”
Silence.
Then his voice softened slightly.
“But it’s fine.”
You waited.
Because you knew there was more coming.
And there was.
“Cuz I hate me too.”
Your heart cracked a little at the words.
Steve inhaled slowly.
“You wrote me a letter,” he continued quietly. “Like a whole letter.”
You swallowed hard.
“And I read it.”
Your stomach twisted.
“And you said you loved me.”
Your fingers tightened around the phone.
“I did.”
Another pause.
Then his voice broke slightly.
“And I slept with someone else.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
“I know.”
“I ruined it,” he said hoarsely.
Silence stretched between you.
Then he whispered, “I ruin everything.”
Your eyes burned.
“You don’t ruin everything.”
“I ruined you.”
The words landed softly.
But they hurt anyway.
Another quiet moment passed before he spoke again.
“I needed you to be real.”
Your breath caught.
“What do you mean?”
Steve exhaled slowly.
“Everything else is fake.”
His voice had dropped almost to a whisper now.
“My dad, my teammates, the scouts. All that shit.”
Another pause.
“But you were real.”
Your throat tightened.
“You called me out when I was being an asshole.”
A quiet laugh escaped him.
“You literally wrote an article about it.”
You couldn’t help the small smile that flickered briefly through the pain.
“And then you still—”
His voice broke slightly.
“You still loved me anyway.”
Silence filled the space between you.
Then Steve said softly, “I needed that.”
Your heart ached.
“And I screwed it up.”
Another pause.
Then the words came out rough.
“I really need you right now.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
Not because of the words themselves.
But because of how honest they sounded.
Like he wasn’t trying to manipulate you.
He was just desperate.
“I know I don’t deserve that,” he added quickly. “I know that.”
Your fingers curled tighter around the phone.
“But you’re the only person I want to talk to.”
His voice softened even more.
“Please don’t hang up.”
And suddenly you realized you hadn’t even considered it.
•
You didn’t hang up for a long time after that.
Eventually Robin reappeared somewhere in the background, gently prying the phone away from Steve after his words started slurring together more heavily. You heard faint arguing, the rustle of movement, then Robin’s quieter voice apologizing again before the call finally ended.
But the silence that followed felt louder than anything Steve had said.
You sat on the edge of your bed for a long time with the phone still pressed loosely against your ear.
Your room was dark except for the faint glow of the streetlight outside your window. The campus had gone completely quiet hours ago, the occasional sound of a car passing in the distance the only reminder that the world outside still existed.
Your heart still hadn’t settled.
Steve’s voice kept replaying in your head.
I hate me too.
You were real.
I really need you right now.
Your chest tightened painfully.
You dropped the phone onto your mattress and dragged both hands down your face.
“This is a terrible idea,” you muttered quietly to the empty room.
Because it was.
Going to Hawkins would be reckless. Emotional. Completely illogical after everything that had happened between you.
You had spent weeks trying to put distance between yourself and Steve Harrington.
You had blocked him.
You had convinced yourself that walking away had been the right decision.
That it had been the only decision.
But hearing him tonight had cracked something open again.
And now the doubt was back.
You laid back against the pillows and stared up at the ceiling.
Sleep never came.
Instead your mind wandered through every version of the same argument over and over again.
He hurt you.
He humiliated you.
He didn’t trust you.
But another voice kept pushing back.
He read the letter.
He apologized.
He’s hurting.
You groaned softly and rolled onto your side, burying your face in the pillow.
“This is stupid,” you whispered into the fabric.
But even as you said it, you already knew you weren’t convincing yourself.
~
The sun was just beginning to rise when you finally sat up.
Your room was pale with early morning light now, soft gray shadows stretching across the floor.
You felt exhausted.
Emotionally wrung out.
But the restless feeling in your chest still hadn’t faded.
Your eyes drifted toward your phone sitting on the nightstand.
For a long moment you just stared at it.
Then you grabbed it.
Your fingers moved to type in your browser before you could overthink it.
Directions to Hawkins Indiana.
Your heart started beating faster as the map appeared.
It wasn’t close.
Not even remotely.
But it wasn’t impossible either.
You stared at the screen for another few seconds.
Then you stood up.
~
The drive took most of the day.
Long enough for doubt to creep back in at least a dozen times.
Long enough for you to question whether this was the worst decision you had ever made.
But you didn’t turn around.
Even when the roads grew smaller.
Even when the city buildings slowly gave way to long stretches of quiet highway and open farmland.
Even when the sign that read Welcome to Hawkins appeared on the side of the road.
Your stomach twisted nervously as you drove past it.
It only took one stop at a gas station and a hesitant question to a bored cashier before you had directions to the Harrington residence.
By the time you pulled onto the quiet residential street your hands had started sweating slightly against the steering wheel.
You slowed the car as you approached the house.
The last time you were here, you had thought things between you and Steve were beyond perfect.
Now, your heart pounded harder as you pulled into the driveway.
For a moment you just sat there.
Watching the front door.
Nothing moved.
No lights flickered on.
The house looked completely still.
Your stomach twisted.
Maybe he wasn’t even home.
Maybe Robin had taken him somewhere else.
You forced yourself to stop stalling and get out of the car.
The gravel crunched quietly under your shoes as you walked up the driveway.
Each step felt heavier than the last.
You stopped at the front door.
Your hand hovered over the doorbell.
For a moment your brain tried one last time to talk you out of it.
You can still leave.
But your finger had already pressed the button.
The chime echoed faintly inside the house.
You waited.
Nothing.
Your stomach dropped.
You knocked this time.
Then you heard movement.
Footsteps shuffled somewhere deeper inside the house.
Slow.
Unsteady.
The sound of something bumping against a wall.
Your heart jumped into your throat.
The door finally opened.
Steve stood there.
He looked rough.
His hair was sticking up in every direction like he had run his hands through it a hundred times. Dark circles shadowed the skin beneath his eyes, and he wore an old Hawkins High t-shirt and sweatpants like he had just rolled out of bed ten seconds ago.
For a moment he didn’t even look at you.
He squinted out into the sunlight like it physically hurt.
“Robin,” he muttered hoarsely, rubbing his face with one hand, “I swear to god if this is another one of your—”
His eyes finally lifted.
And landed on you.
The words died in his throat instantly.
Steve froze.
His expression shifted slowly from irritation, to confusion, and eventually to something that looked a lot like disbelief.
“Paparazzi?”
The word came out barely above a whisper.
Like he wasn’t entirely sure you were real.
You swallowed.
“Hi, Steve.”
He just stared at you.
Clearly trying to process what he was seeing.
Then he blinked slowly.
“Did I hit my head?”
You couldn’t help the small breath of laughter that escaped you.
“No.”
Another long pause passed.
Then Steve ran a shaky hand through his hair.
“I think I might still be drunk. How did you know I was here?”
And the realization hit you all at once.
He didn’t remember the phone call.
Not fully.
Your stomach flipped.
Because the last thing he remembered was probably still the worst version of himself.
Steve stared at you for another few seconds, waiting for a reply.
As you stared back, trying to decide how to approach this, you noticed the wetness suddenly rimming his eyes.
Something in your chest twisted as you realized he was crying.
His voice cracked as he finally broke the silence instead, hesitantly stepping closer to you.
“God please tell me you’re real.”
Whatever invisible wall you’d been meticulously crafting for the last couple weeks suddenly crumbled and you found yourself reaching up to touch him.
Brushing his disheveled hair out of his face before cupping his jaw with your hand.
“I’m real, Steve.”
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
a/n: imagine losing the championship and the girl, rip
Working at Family Video was meant to be easy cash to pay for your rent and save up while you figure out what you want to do with your life. Steve Harrington was not part of the plan, let alone fake dating him to make your crazy ex back off and to satiate his concerned friends' desires for him to get a girlfriend. And falling in love? Well, that wasn't in the plan either.
Steve harrington x fem!reader, 14.7k words
You are having a very long week.
The kind of week where your professor assigned a twelve-page paper due Monday, and your landlord raised the rent effective immediately, and your roommate decided to "express herself" by learning the drums at seven in the morning.
So when Robin shows up at your apartment on Wednesday with a bag of bagels, you're ready for a distraction.
"You need a job," Robin announces, dropping the bagels on your kitchen counter and collapsing onto your couch like she owns the place.
"That I do," you reply, following her into the living room. "Jobs give you money. Money gives you food. Food gives you energy to write twelve-page papers about—" You squint at your notebook. "Second-order homogenous linear differential equations using the Heun function."
Robin stares at you. "You made that up."
"I wish."
She grabs a cushion and hugs it to her chest, watching you settle into the armchair across from her. Her eyes have that glint you recognise — the one that says she is about to pitch you something she has already decided you are going to do.
"Come work with me," she says.
"Work with you where? The video store?"
"Family Video, yes. It's perfect. They're hiring. I already talked to my manager. Well, I talked to my manager's manager, because Keith — that's my manager — is useless, but the regional guy said we could use another person. And you need money. And I need someone to talk to who isn't Steve Harrington."
You have heard about Steve Harrington. You have heard a lot about Steve Harrington. Robin says he's funny when he's not being a total grump, which is maybe 5% of the time.
You feel like you know him, really. "I don't know that much about movies," you say.
"You don't need to know anything about movies. You need to know the alphabet and basic movie genres. That's it. That's the job."
"What if someone asks me for a recommendation?"
"Then you say, 'I don't know, I'm new,' and then you find me."
"What if you're not there?"
"Then you find Steve. And if Steve's not there, you make something up. Tell them Steel Magnolias is great. Everyone loves Steel Magnolias."
"I've never seen Steel Magnolias."
Robin throws her hands up. "That's not the point! The point is you need money and I need a friend and Family Video needs someone who can alphabetise without complaining."
You laugh despite yourself. "Okay. Fine. I'll come in for an interview. But if your manager is weird, I'm blaming you."
Robin grins. "Oh, Keith is definitely weird. But he's funny, you might like him. A little oddball."
The interview is scheduled for Thursday at 3 PM.
You walk to Family Video because you haven't saved enough for a car yet — which is, you remind yourself, exactly why you are doing this.
The heat is oppressive, the kind of humidity that makes your hair curl in directions you did not know it could curl, and by the time you push open the door of Family Video, you are flushed and slightly out of breath and pretty sure your outfit was a mistake.
The store is cool. Air-conditioned, so you sigh happily as you step inside. Rows of VHS tapes line the walls, new releases on the back, older movies toward the front.
There is a counter at the front, cluttered with candy and tapes and a cash register that looks older than you. Behind the counter, a guy is leaning against the wall, reading a magazine. He has a Family Video vest on, the name tag reading "KEITH" in block letters, and he does not look up when you walk in.
You stand there for a moment. Clear your throat. Still no reply, so you say, "I'm here for an interview?"
Keith looks up. His face is completely blank. Not annoyed, not surprised, not anything. Just — blank. Yeah, he's definitely weird. "You're the friend," he says. It is not a question.
"Robin's friend, yeah. She said you were hiring?"
Keith nods slowly, like this is information he is processing one word at a time. He stops in front of you. Looks you up and down. You resist the urge to smooth down your jeans.
"Three favourite movies," he says.
You blink. "What?"
"Three favourite movies. Everyone who works here has to tell me their three favourite movies. It's the interview."
"Um." You try to think. You have watched a lot of movies. You have watched movies with Robin, with your roommate, with your mom when you were home for break. But now that someone is asking, your mind is completely blank. "I like — I like The Princess Bride."
Keith nods. Writes something on a clipboard you did not notice he was holding.
"And?"
You scramble. "And — Back to the Future. I saw it three times in theatres."
"And the third one?"
You open your mouth. Close it. You can feel your face heating up. Behind Keith, through the staff room window, you see some guy with really nice hair turn around.
He is holding a box of tapes, and he is looking at you through the glass, and even from here you can see that he is — well. He is very pretty. Which is annoying, because you are trying to remember a movie and he is standing there being pretty and it is distracting.
"Um," you say again. "When Harry Met Sally," you say finally. You have not seen When Harry Met Sally. But Robin told you about it, and it seems like the kind of movie someone should say in an interview, and you need to say something.
Keith writes it down and then looks up. "You're hired."
You stare at him. "What?"
"You said three movies. That's the interview." He turns and walks back behind the counter, picks up his fishing magazine. "Robin will show you the schedule. You start Monday."
You stand in the middle of Family Video, trying to process what just happened. You have been here maybe three minutes. You have not filled out an application. You have not given him your resume. You said three movie titles and you have a job.
The staff room door opens. The pretty guy with the hair emerges, still holding the box of tapes, and up close he is even more distracting. Sharp jaw, big brown eyes, big hands — god, he has nice hands, you notice absently — and a mouth that is currently pressed into a thin line like he's trying very hard to look unimpressed.
He is wearing the same vest as Keith, his name tag reading "STEVE" in slightly crooked letters, and he is looking at you like you are a problem he did not ask for. "You're the new girl," he says.
You smile at him. You cannot help it. He is very pretty and you just got a job and the air conditioning is still blowing cold air on your overheated skin and everything feels a little bit like a dream. "I'm the new girl!"
His expression flickers. Something passes over his face — surprise, maybe, or confusion. Like he was expecting something else. Someone else, maybe.
"So," you say, because you are good at filling silences and this one feels like it needs filling. "You're Steve."
He raises an eyebrow. "You've heard of me?"
"Robin talks about you all the time."
His expression flickers again — something that might be pleased, quickly suppressed. "Good things, I hope."
"Robin says you're grumpy."
Both of his eyebrows go up this time. "Robin says a lot of things."
"She says you're funny, too. But only sometimes. Like five percent of the time."
"Five percent?"
"That's what she said. I don't know if it's accurate. I haven't known you long enough to do the math."
He makes a sound. It's not quite a laugh, but it's close. Something caught in his throat that wants to be a laugh and is being wrestled into something else. "You're doing the math?"
"I'm a math major. I do math all the time. It's kind of my whole thing."
He blinks. Something shifts in his expression — recalibration, maybe. Like he had you filed under a certain category and now has to move you somewhere else. "Math major."
"Was that not what you expected?"
He opens his mouth. Closes it. His eyes do that thing again, flicking from your face to somewhere else and then back. "I don't know what I expected."
"You expected something," you say, because you can see it in the way he's standing, the way he keeps looking at you like he's confused. "Robin told you about me, didn't she?"
"I didn't ask."
"You didn't have to ask. She just talks."
"She does talk," he admits. His mouth twitches. "A lot."
"That's why she's your best friend. "
"I'm not—" He stops. His jaw works. "Not best friends. We work together. That's different."
"You work together and you're best friends. I can tell."
"How can you tell? You've known me for three minutes."
"Because you're standing here talking to me when you could be doing anything else. Shelving tapes. Alphabetising. Whatever it is you do back there." You nod toward the staff room. "But you're here. Talking to me."
He looks at you for a long moment. His arms are still crossed, the box of tapes still pressed against his chest, but something in his posture has shifted. Softened. Just a little. "Maybe I'm just being polite."
"Are you?"
"No."
You laugh.
He looks at you. His eyes are very brown. Very warm. The grumpiness has slipped, just for a moment, and underneath it is something else. Something softer. Something that makes your chest feel tight. "How come you're working here, when you're a hotshot math major?"
You grin, amused. "My landlord raised my rent. And my scholarship only covers so much. And differential equations don't pay the bills, at least not yet, unfortunately, so I had to apply for this job that I'm totally unqualified for, and... here I am."
"Here you are," Steve echoes, and he looks like he's trying very hard not to smile. "You have to be qualified if you passed Keith's interview, though," he teases.
"I said When Harry Met Sally. I've never seen it."
He blinks. "Why did you say it, then?"
You hesitate. You could lie. You could make something up, something normal, something that doesn't reveal the embarrassing truth. But he's looking at you with those eyes, and you've never been good at lying, and something about the quiet of the store, the late afternoon light, the way he's standing there with his nice hands and his hair and his brown eyes — it makes you want to tell him.
"Because I was distracted," you say.
Steve frowns. "By what?"
You point at him. "By you."
He stares at you. His mouth opens. Closes. His ears are very red now. "By me."
"You were in the window. With your hair. And your—" You gesture vaguely at his face. His whole face. "You know."
"I don't know."
"You were being very—" You search for the right word. "Visible. In the window. Where I could see you."
He is quiet for a moment. His hand is in his hair again, messing it up more, and he doesn't seem to notice. His eyes are fixed on your face, and there's something in them that you can't quite name.
"You picked When Harry Met Sally," he says slowly, "because I was distracting you."
"My brain stopped working. You were the reason my brain stopped working. So technically, yes. You're responsible for that answer."
He stares at you. For a long moment, he just stares, and you think — you think maybe you have said too much. You have only known this person for five minutes. You do not get to tell him that he made your brain stop working. That is not a normal thing to say.
But then he smiles. A real one. Wide and surprised and a little disbelieving, like he can't help it, like the smile is happening to him without permission. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," he says.
"Hey!" you protest. "I told you the truth, and you're being mean."
"You told me the truth," Steve says, and his voice is doing something strange. It's softer now, amused. "You told me I made your brain stop working. In a job interview."
"Are you going to hold that against me forever?"
"Probably."
"You are the worst."
"You sound like Robin."
"Yeah, well, she's a good teacher," you cross your arms, but you're smiling, you can't stop smiling, and he's smiling too, and the two of you are standing in the middle of Family Video grinning at each other like idiots. "I'm going to be so very good at this job. You'll see. I'm going to learn everything about everything. I'm going to alphabetise so hard."
"Alphabetise so hard," he repeats, a grin tugging at his mouth. "You're a weirdo."
"Keith is a weirdo," you correct.
He shakes his head, but he's still smiling.
"I have to go finish a paper," you say, and you're surprised to find that you don't want to. You want to stay here, in this cool, quiet store, with this grumpy boy who keeps smiling at you like he can't help it. "Twelve pages. Differential equations. The Heun function."
"That's—" He stops. "That sounds like a lot."
"It's a lot of math." You sigh dramatically. "I'm going to be up all night."
"You should go, then."
"I should."
You don't move. He doesn't move. The afternoon light is shifting, turning gold, catching in his hair. It's very nice hair. You've noticed. You're noticing now.
"Steve," you say.
"What?"
"Are you always here? Or just on Thursdays?"
He frowns. "I'm here most days. Why?"
You shrug, aiming for casual and missing entirely. "No reason. Just — for when I start. So I know who to bother when Robin's not around."
"You're going to bother me?"
"Duh."
He sighs, long and heavy, but his eyes say he doesn't really mind. "You're going to be a problem, aren't you?"
You beam at him. "A good problem, I hope."
Steve looks at you for a long moment, something in his eyes that you can't quite identify. "Go write your paper," he says.
"I'm going."
"You're not going. You're standing here."
"Well sorry, Mr. Technical. I'll leave now." You gather your bag, sling it over your shoulder. You're at the door when you stop, turn back. He's still standing there, watching you. "See you Monday, Steve."
"See you, sunshine."
You freeze at the door. Sunshine. He called you sunshine.
You turn back, but Steve has already turned away, his ears very pink, his hand very busy rearranging the candy display. You push open the door and walk out into the heat, and the word follows you like a warmth under your skin.
Sunshine.
You go to sleep smiling. You wake up smiling. Your roommate asks if you're okay. You tell her you've never been better, and you mean it.
The weekend passes in a blur of differential equations and daydreaming. You finish your paper — barely — and turn it in on Monday morning with dark circles under your eyes and a smile that won't go away.
You walk to Family Video faster than necessary. Your heart is already beating too fast when you push open the door, the bell jingling overhead, the cool air washing over you.
The store is quiet. The afternoon light slants through the windows, gold and soft, catching on the dust motes floating in the air. And there he is.
Steve is behind the counter, counting the till, his brow furrowed in concentration. He's wearing the same vest, the same jeans. His hair looks incredibly soft today.
He looks up when the bell rings. Sees you. His eyes crinkle at the corners, his mouth softens, and his shoulders drop. "Hey, sunshine."
Your heart feels like it's in your throat. "Hey."
Robin appears from the back room, a stack of tapes in her arms. "There she is! My favourite brand new Family Video employee!" She sets the tapes down, comes around the counter, pulls you into a hug. "I'm so glad you're here."
"Uh, excuse me?" Steve chimes in grumpily from the cashier. "What are you trying to say, Buckley, that I'm not good company?"
"That's exactly what I'm trying to say, Dingus," she replies, but she's grinning, wide and amused, and you know she doesn't mean it. Steve is definitely her best friend.
"Your words wound me," Steve says, pressing a hand to his chest like he's been shot. His eyes, though, are still on you. You can't seem to look away.
"You don't have wounds, Steve. You have feelings. There's a difference." Robin pats his cheek twice, firm. "And your feelings are going to be fine because you have someone to train today. Someone who will actually listen to you."
She's looking at you when she says this. You feel your face warm.
Steve straightens, smooths down his vest. "Right. Training. The register first. It's not complicated."
He rounds the counter, and you follow him, your bag sliding off your shoulder. Robin is already disappearing into the back, humming something under her breath, and then it's just you and Steve behind the counter.
"So," Steve says. He's standing close, close enough that your shoulder bumps his, close enough that his arm brushes yours when he reaches for the register. "This is the cash drawer. This button opens it. Don't press it when there's no sale or Keith gets weird."
"Weird how?"
"He doesn't say anything. He just looks at you. For a really long time, like you're stupid."
You laugh. Steve glances at you, brown eyes soft and less guarded.
"So you open the drawer," he continues, clearing his throat. "You take the money. You make change. The computer tells you how much change to make, so it's easy."
You nod, watching his hands as he moves through the motions. His fingers are long, his movements sure. You wonder what it would be like to have those hands around yours. You wonder what it would be like to have him teach you something else, something slower, something where he stood closer and—
"Are you listening?" Steve's voice cuts through your thoughts.
"Yes," you say quickly. Too quickly. "Change. Computer. Easy."
He narrows his eyes. "What did I just say about the five-dollar bill?"
Your mind blanks. "It's... green?"
Steve stares at you. His mouth twitches in amusement. "That's not—" He stops, running a hand through his hair. "You're not listening."
"I'm listening. I'm just — it's really hot. The heat. From outside. It makes my brain slow." You stop. He's looking at you. "I'm not making a good first impression, am I?"
He leans against the counter, arms crossed. His shoulder is very close to yours. "Your first impression was telling me I made your brain stop working. This is actually an improvement."
You feel your face go hot. "I'm really never going to live that down, am I?"
He grins. "Nope."
You groan, letting your head fall forward. Your forehead nearly hits the counter, but Steve's hand shoots out, his palm flat against your forehead, stopping you.
And he's got good reflexes. Damn it. You are screwed.
"Easy," he says. His hand is warm, his fingers spread wide, and you're suddenly very aware of how close he is, how his palm fits against your skin, how his thumb is almost at your temple. "You'll give yourself a concussion like that. Then I'd get fired, 'cos you're under my watch, and Keith would have to do your training. And trust me, you don't want that."
You look up at him through your lashes. His hand is still on your face. He doesn't seem to realise he hasn't moved it.
"Keith's training would be worse than yours?" You ask, smiling.
"Ha ha," Steve deadpans. "Hilarious. Depends on your definition of worse. Keith's training is sitting in the back room reading his fishing magazine while you figure it out yourself." His thumb moves, just a fraction, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "I had to learn the register alone. Took me three days to figure out the cash drawer."
You blink at him. "You didn't know how to open the cash drawer?"
"I couldn't find the button." His ears are pink. "It was a learning experience."
You laugh, because you can't help it, because he's funny and you didn't expect him to be funny and because you can't believe you're working at a video store with Steve "The Hair" Harrington who couldn't figure out how to work the cash drawer. He's a little adorable.
Steve's hand drops from your face, but he's smiling, that soft smile, the one that makes your stomach flip. "I'm glad my suffering is amusing to you," he says.
"You suffered?"
"I suffered," he affirms, leaning against the counter, watching you double over to laugh.
"Okay," you manage, through a giggle. "Okay. Show me the register again. I promise I'll listen this time."
He raises an eyebrow. "Really? You promise?"
You nod seriously. "Very professional, I promise."
He doesn't look convinced, but he turns back to the register anyway. His hand brushes yours as he reaches for the drawer, and he doesn't pull away.
"The five-dollar bill," he says, and his voice is lower now, softer, "goes here. In this slot. The tens go here. The twenties here. The coins go in the little cups. Don't mix them up."
You nod, eyes fixed on the register, even though they ache to flit towards where his hand is so close to yours.
"The computer tells you how much change to give," he continues. "You count it back to the customer. Slowly. Out loud. So they know you're not cheating them."
"People think you're cheating them?"
"People think everyone's cheating them. It's the American way." He glances at you. "You want to try?"
You nod. He steps back, just enough to give you room, and you slide into the space he was occupying. You go through the motions. Open the drawer. Pull out the bills. Count them back. Your hands are steady, your movements sure. You can feel him watching you, his eyes on your hands, your face, your hair.
"Good," he says, and his voice is strange. Thicker. "You're a natural."
"Thanks," you hum softly, looking back at him over your shoulder.
He stares for a long moment, then clears his throat. "Okay. Next thing. Returns."
You spend the next hour learning returns. Steve shows you the system, explains the difference between damaged tapes and returned tapes, shows you where to put the ones that need to be rewound. He's patient, clearer than you expected, and he doesn't laugh when you put a tape in the wrong pile.
"Returns go in this bin," he says, pointing. "Damaged tapes go in this one. Tapes that need rewinding go in the back room. On the shelf. The one that says REWIND."
"That makes things easier," you note, "wouldn't peg Keith for the type of guy to make things easier for his employees."
"I made the sign myself."
You look up at him. "You made a sign that says REWIND?"
"It was necessary," he protests, but his cheeks are a little pink. "People, Robin included, kept putting them in the wrong place, so. It's a good sign. Very helpful."
"I'm sure it's a great sign."
"It's a great sign. Stunning, really."
You laugh. He glares at you, but there's no real heat in it. "Show me the sign," you find yourself saying.
He leads you to the back room. It's small, cramped, filled with boxes of tapes and a little desk with a lamp and a stack of schedules. On the wall, above a shelf lined with tapes, is a piece of cardboard with REWIND written in black marker.
Steve is watching you. "Well?"
"It's beautiful," you say.
He blinks. "What?"
"It's beautiful. The—" You gesture. "The craftsmanship. The attention to detail. You can really see the—" You wave your hand vaguely. "The heart. I might cry, really. So much effort for such a helpful act of kindness."
He stares at you, his mouth opening, then closing. "You're making fun of me."
"I'm not making fun of you. I'm appreciating the sign. The sign you made. With your own hands."
"It's cardboard."
"It's heartfelt cardboard."
He laughs, bends down a little to look at the sign closer. "It is heartfelt cardboard," he agrees, and you can't breathe, because his lips are right next to your ear, and he's impossibly close, and suddenly there's no space at all in this tiny backroom, and—
The bell over the door jingles. You both jump. Steve scrambles to his feet, nearly knocking over a stack of tapes.
You follow him to the front. You don't say anything about the moment you just had in the backroom, and he doesn't either. But when you shelve tapes together for the rest of the shift, he stands a little closer. His hand brushes yours when he hands you a tape. He calls you sunshine, and his voice is softer than it was before.
At the end of your shift, you're standing by the door, your bag over your shoulder. Steve is behind the counter, counting the till.
"Same time tomorrow?" you ask.
He looks up. His eyes are warm. "Same time."
You should go. You definitely should go. But you don't want to. You want to stay here, in this store, with this grumpy boy who made a sign that says REWIND and couldn't figure out a cash machine for three days.
"Goodnight, Steve," you murmur as you leave.
"Goodnight, sunshine."
You push open the door and walk out into the evening air, and you don't feel the heat at all. You're too busy smiling, too busy thinking about pink ears and brown eyes and pretty hair.
You're thinking about tomorrow.
You wake up on Tuesday with a smile already on your face.
It's ridiculous. You know it's ridiculous. You've known Steve Harrington for exactly one shift — one shift and an interview, which barely counts — and already you're smiling before your eyes are even open. Your roommate is still drumming somewhere in the apartment, a steady thump-thump-thump that usually makes you want to throw something at the wall. Today it sounds like music.
You pick out your outfit carefully. Jeans, a soft sweater, your hair loose around your shoulders. You check the mirror twice. Not because you're worried — you're not, you tell yourself — but because you want to look nice. For yourself. Definitely just for yourself.
There's something different in your reflection, something you can't quite name. A brightness, maybe. A lightness. You look happy. You realize you are happy. You're happy because you have a job, because you finished your paper, because the sun is out and your roommate's drumming doesn't bother you today.
That's all. It has nothing to do with a boy with nice hair and pink ears who called you sunshine and made a sign that says REWIND.
Nothing at all.
When you reach Family Video, Steve is behind the counter, his back to you, rearranging the candy display. He doesn't turn around.
You stand there for a moment, watching him. His hair is soft today, falling across his forehead. He's wearing his vest over a plain white t-shirt, and you can see the shape of his shoulders, the line of his back. He's humming something under his breath, something you don't recognise.
You clear your throat.
He turns. His hands are full of Milk Duds, his expression distracted, and then he sees you. His whole face changes. The distraction clears. His eyes crinkle at the corners, his mouth curves into something soft and surprised and warm.
"Hey," he says. "Hey, sunshine."
You beam at him, too happy to stop the way your mouth curves upwards. “Hi, Steve.”
He sets the Milk Duds down, rounds the counter. He's wearing jeans that fit him well, a belt, the same vest. His eyes are on your face, traveling, cataloguing. "You're early," he says.
"I wanted to—" You stop. You were going to say ‘I wanted to see you’, but that's too much, too soon, too honest. "I wanted to get here before Robin. So I could learn more. Before the rush."
He nods, but he's still looking at you, and there's something in his expression that makes your stomach flip. "Okay. Come on," he says. "Rom-com section needs organising. Robin's been messing with it again."
You follow him through the store, past the new releases, past the horror section, past the drama. The rom-com section is in the back corner, tucked between the classics and the kids' movies, and it's a disaster. Tapes are shoved in the wrong places, some upside down, some facing the wrong way.
A copy of When Harry Met Sally is somehow on the floor next to Ghostbusters.
Steve picks it up, holds it out to you. "Look what someone did to your favorite movie,” he teases softly, and it makes you laugh. “You should actually watch it though, sometime. It’s a good film.”
"Maybe I will."
He nods. "Maybe you should."
Steve drops down to the floor, cross-legged, and starts pulling tapes off the shelf.
"Come on," he says. "If we're going to fix this, we're going to fix it right."
You drop down across from him, a stack of tapes between you. The floor is cold through your jeans, the carpet worn and scratchy, but you don't care. You're sitting on the floor of Family Video with Steve Harrington, surrounded by romantic comedies, and you've never been happier.
He hands you a tape. "This one goes in the B section. Under 'B' for 'Runaway Bride.'"
You blink at him. “You realise that makes no sense, right? It should go under ‘R.’”
"It's a movie about a bride who runs away. B is for ‘bride’. It makes sense."
"That's not how alphabetising works."
"My system isn't about letters. It's about vibes."
"Vibes," you repeat.
"Vibes. Energy. The feeling of the movie. You can't put Sleepless in Seattle next to Steel Magnolias. They have different energies."
You stare at him. He's holding a copy of Sleepless in Seattle, his face serious, his brow furrowed. He's not joking. "You're weird," you say.
He looks up. "You're weird."
“You’re the one organising by your so-called ‘vibes’. What would Keith say?”
“You know, Keith actually agrees with me on this one,” Steve grins, eyes meeting yours. “It’s the one thing me and that oddball have in common. Plus, vibes are important. You can't put a movie about a woman dying next to a movie about a woman finding love. It's disrespectful."
"You're ridiculous," you reply through a laugh.
"You like it."
You do. You really do.
You spend the next hour on the floor, sorting tapes, arguing about where things belong. Steve has opinions. Strong opinions, but you find yourself not really minding. You like listening to him. He tells you about the kid who tried to rent an R-rated movie and argued with him for twenty minutes about the rating system.
“His name is Dustin,” Steve says, slotting a tape into place. “He’s like, sixteen. Funny kid, though, I have to admit. Don’t tell him that.”
“I won’t,” you murmur, smiling at your lap.
The bell over the door jingles, and Steve is already moving, pushing himself up, reaching for the tapes. "Coming!" he calls, and then he's gone, rounding the corner, heading toward the front.
You follow him. You’re still thinking about his smile, the look in his eyes, when you round the corner and see him.
You stop. Your hands tighten on the action tapes in your hands. Your feet won't move. Your voice won't come.
Mark. It's Mark. Your ex. The one who didn't like when things didn't go his way. The one who called your apartment for months, who left messages you didn't answer, who showed up at your classes until you changed your schedule. "I've been looking for you," he says. "You haven't been answering my calls."
You can't speak. You can't move. Your hands are shaking, and the tapes are slipping, and you can feel yourself shrinking, becoming smaller, becoming the person you were when you were with him.
Steve moves.
You don't see him cross the space between you. You don't see him step in front of you. But suddenly he's there, his body between you and Mark, his hand finding your arm, pulling you close. You go without thinking, your feet moving, your body pressing against his side.
His arm slides around your waist, pulls you tighter, and you tuck yourself under his arm, your face against his shoulder, your hands finding his shirt.
You can feel his heart beating. Fast. Angry.
"You okay?" His voice is low, meant only for you.
You nod. You can't speak. His arm is solid around your waist, his hand splayed across your hip, and it makes you feel safe.
Mark's eyes are on Steve now, narrowed, assessing. "Who's this?"
Steve's arm tightens. His hand is warm through your shirt, his fingers spread wide. "I'm her boyfriend," he says. Boyfriend. The thought makes your heart squeeze. "Who are you?"
Mark's smile flickers. His eyes go from Steve to you, to the way you're pressed against him, to the way his arm is wrapped around you. "Boyfriend," he repeats. "Since when?"
Steve's hand moves on your hip, pulling you closer. "Since she stopped picking up calls from guys who can't take a hint."
Mark's jaw tightens. He looks at you, and there's something in his expression that makes you press closer to Steve. "Come on," Mark says. "I just want to talk. We have things to work out."
Steve steps forward. Just one step, but it's enough. He's taller than Mark, broader, and he's standing between you like a wall. "She doesn't want to talk to you."
Mark's eyes flick to Steve. "I wasn't asking you."
Steve's hand moves from your hip to your waist, pulling you against his side. His body is tense, coiled. "She's my girlfriend. You're making her uncomfortable. You need to leave."
Mark stares at him. Steve stares back. The store is quiet, the afternoon light gold, and you can feel the anger rolling off Steve, can feel the way his muscles are tight under your hands.
"This isn't over," Mark says finally. His voice is low, dangerous.
Steve's arm is a band of iron around you. "Yeah, it is."
Mark looks at you one more time. Something passes over his face — frustration, maybe, or anger — and then he turns and walks out, the door slamming shut behind him.
You're shaking. You didn't realize you were shaking until Steve's other hand comes up, cups your face, turns you toward him. His eyes are dark, worried, scanning your face.
"Hey," he says softly. "Hey, sunshine. He's gone. You're okay."
You nod. Your hands have grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, and you can’t seem to let go.
"Was that—" He stops. His jaw works. "Was that your ex?"
You nod again. Your voice comes out small. "We broke up six months ago. He doesn't — he doesn't like when things don't go his way."
Steve's hand tightens on your waist. His face is hard, his eyes dark. "If he comes back—"
"He won't." You take a breath. Let it out. "Not now. Not with you here."
He looks at you for a long moment. His thumb is moving against your cheek, slow and steady, and you realize he's still holding your face, still holding you close. His arm is still around your waist. You're still pressed against him.
"Good," he says. "That's good."
"I'm sorry," you whisper. "I didn't mean to — I didn't want you to have to—"
"Don't." His voice is firm. "Don't apologise. You didn't do anything wrong."
You look at him. His eyes are brown and warm and so close you can see the gold flecks. His hand is still on your chin, still steady, still gentle. His arm is still around your waist, still holding you close. And you realise you don't want him to let go. You don't want to step away. You want to stay here, in his arms, with his hand on your face and his heart beating against yours.
"Thank you," you whisper. "For — for pretending. For being my—"
"Boyfriend?" His voice is soft. "Yeah, well." He shrugs, but his hand doesn't move. "It wasn't really pretending. I mean—" He stops. His ears go pink. "I mean, he didn't know that. He thought — I was convincing. That's what matters."
You nod. Your heart is beating too fast. "Right. Convincing."
He drops his hand. Steps back. The space between you feels sudden, cold. "I should — we should get back. Robin's going to wonder where we are."
"Yeah." You smooth your shirt, tuck your hair behind your ear. "Yeah, we should."
You walk back to the front together. You don't touch, but you walk close, your shoulder almost brushing his arm. Robin is behind the counter, counting the till, and she looks up when you come in, her eyes sharp.
"You okay?" she asks. Her voice is careful.
You nod. "Fine. Just — someone I didn't want to see."
She looks at Steve. Something passes between them, something you don't understand. "Okay," she says. "Well, I'm here if you need me."
You smile. It's small, but it's real. "Thanks."
The rest of the shift passes quietly. Steve doesn't mention Mark. You don't mention Mark. But he stays close, closer than before, his hand brushing yours when he hands you tapes, his shoulder bumping yours when you walk.
At the end of the shift, Robin leaves early. Something about band practice, something about not wanting to be here for Steve's closing routine. You're packing your bag when Steve comes up beside you.
"Hey," he says.
You look up. "Hey."
He's standing close, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders tight. He looks nervous, you realise. He looks like he's trying to figure out how to say something.
"That thing earlier," he says. "With your ex."
You tense. "You don't have to—"
"Let me finish." He takes a breath. "I was thinking. About the boyfriend thing. The pretending." He looks at you, and his ears are pink. "It could be useful. For both of us."
You blink. "What do you mean?"
He shifts his weight. "Robin's been trying to set me up with people. For months. She thinks I need a girlfriend. And Nancy — you don't know Nancy, but she's my friend, and she's been looking at me with this look, like she feels bad about us breaking up, and I just—" He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. "It would be nice. To have someone. To pretend with. So people stop asking."
You stare at him. "You want us to pretend to be dating. Regularly."
He nods. "It could help you too. With your ex. If he comes back. If he sees you're with someone, maybe he'll back off."
You think about Mark. The way he looked at you. The way he said this isn't over. Your stomach turns.
"It could help," you say slowly.
Steve's face lights up. Just a little. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You pause. "But we need rules."
He nods. "Rules. Right. Good. Rules." He holds up one finger. "Rule number one is that you can't fall in love with me."
“You are so cocky,” you roll your eyes, but you’re grinning.
He smiles back, and he shrugs, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. "I'm not cocky. I'm realistic. It's a very real risk."
"You're the one who should be worried about falling in love with me," you say, crossing your arms. "I'm very charming."
He laughs. "You're very something."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He tilts his head, looking at you with something warm in his eyes. "It means you're a lot. In a good way. I'm just saying — you should be careful. I'm very charming too."
You roll your eyes, but you're smiling so hard your face hurts. "Okay, Harrington. What's rule number two?"
He thinks for a moment, tapping his chin. "Rule number two: we have to be convincing. No one can know it's fake. That means—" He pauses. His ears go pink. "That means we have to act like a real couple. In public. When people are watching."
Your heart skips. "What does that mean, exactly?"
He shrugs, aiming for casual and missing entirely. "You know. Hand holding. Arm around the shoulder. The occasional—" He gestures vaguely. "The occasional affectionate gesture."
"Affectionate gesture," you repeat.
"Nothing weird. Nothing—" His ears are very pink now. "Just convincing. That's all."
You nod slowly. "Okay. That's fine. I can do that."
He lets out a breath. "Good. Good. Rule number three: we have to actually hang out. Outside of work. So it looks real."
"So we're going on dates."
"They're not dates. They're—" He waves his hand. "Public appearances. Strategic outings."
"Strategic outings," you echo.
"Very strategic. We need to be seen together. By the right people."
You bite your lip. "And who are the right people?"
He ticks them off on his fingers. "Robin, obviously. Nancy and Jonathan. Your ex, if he shows up again. That's probably enough."
Your chest feels warm. "Okay," you say. "Okay. I'm in."
His face lights up. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You hold out your hand. "Partners?"
He takes it. His hand is warm, his fingers wrapping around yours. "Partners."
You stand there for a moment, your hand in his, the store quiet around you. His thumb is moving against your knuckles, slow and steady, and you don't pull away.
"So," he says. "We should probably figure out our story. For when people ask."
"Our story?"
"How we met. How long we've been together. All that stuff." He leans against the counter, his hand still in yours. "We need to be consistent. So we don't slip up."
You think about it. "We met at work. That's easy. Everyone knows that."
He nods. "Okay. Good. And how long have we been together?"
“Recently,” you nod. “Because I only just started working here. So. It would have to be really recent.”
He nods slowly, thinking. "Right. So we've been together... a few days? That's not very convincing."
You shrug. "It's new. New relationships are exciting. People won't question it if we're—" You wave your hand. "Enthusiastic."
"Enthusiastic," he repeats, a grin tugging at his mouth.
"Affectionate. You know.”
"That's what you said."
"I know what I said." He's still holding your hand. His thumb hasn't stopped moving. "So we're a new couple. Very new. So new that we're still in the—" He stops.
"The what?"
"The honeymoon phase," he finishes, and his ears are pink. "Where you can't keep your hands off each other."
“Yeah,” you murmur, cheeks warm. “I guess so.”
Steve clears his throat. "So," he says. "We have a story. Now we just need to practice."
"Practice what?"
He looks down at your joined hands. "Being convincing."
You're still holding hands. Neither of you has moved to let go. His thumb is still tracing patterns on your knuckles, slow and absent, like he doesn't even know he's doing it.
"So," he says, and his voice is lower now, quieter. "So who asked who out?"
You don't hesitate. "You asked me."
He raises an eyebrow. "Why do I have to be the one who asked?"
"Because you need this more than me. I'm doing you a favour."
"A favour," he repeats, and there's something in his voice that makes your stomach flip.
"A very generous favour. You should be thanking me."
He laughs. "Thank you for pretending to be my girlfriend so my friends stop feeling sorry for me."
"You're welcome." You squeeze his hand. "And because you said you were very charming. So charm me. How did you do it?"
He grins. "Okay. I saw you across the counter. Thought you were cute. Asked you out."
"That's your story?"
"It's romantic."
"It's a line."
"It worked, didn't it?"
"Okay," you say. "So you asked me out. Where did you take me?"
He thinks for a moment. "Somewhere casual. Coffee? Drinks?"
"Coffee," you decide. "That's safer. Less pressure."
He nods. "Coffee. And we talked. For hours."
"Hours?"
Steve smiles. “Hours. That’s not really stretching the truth, is it? I mean, we have talked for hours,” his voice drops, and you feel your face warm. "You told me about your math classes. About the Heun function. I pretended to understand."
You smile. "And you told me about your organising system. I pretended to think it made sense."
"It does make sense."
“Sure it does, Harrington.”
The next few days fall into a rhythm.
You work shifts with Steve, with Robin, sometimes with Keith when he emerges from the back room like a bear coming out of hibernation. You learn the store, the customers, the rhythm of things. You stop opening the cash drawer by accident. You stop putting horror movies in comedy. You stop being the new girl.
But you don't stop thinking about Steve. You don't stop noticing the way he looks at you when he thinks you're not looking. You don't stop noticing the way he stands a little closer than he needs to when you're shelving tapes together, the way his hand brushes yours when he hands you something, the way his voice gets softer when he says your name.
The fake dating thing is... going. You've been on three "strategic outings" now — coffee, a walk through the park, a trip to the diner you mentioned once, weeks ago. Each time, Steve picks you up at your apartment. Each time, he brings flowers. Each time, he puts his arm around you when you walk, his hand warm on your shoulder, and your heart beats too fast.
You haven’t told anyone, not yet, because it has to feel real before you do.
It's supposed to be fake. You know it's supposed to be fake. But when he looks at you like that, when his thumb traces patterns on your hand, when he says your name like it's something precious — you forget, sometimes. You forget it's not real.
You're in the comedy section one afternoon, shelving returns, when Steve appears beside you. The store is quiet — Robin is in the back, Keith is nowhere to be seen.
"You're doing it wrong," he says.
You turn. He's leaning against the shelf, arms crossed, the picture of casual annoyance. But his eyes are warm.
“Yeah, I’m not following your system, Steve,” you say, biting your cheek to keep from smiling. "Someone has to put these tapes in the right place."
"My system is the right place."
You laugh, turning back to the shelf, slotting a tape into place. You can feel him watching you, the weight of his gaze, the warmth of it. Your hands are steady, but your heart is not.
"Hey," he says.
You glance back. He's not leaning anymore. He's standing closer, his hands in his pockets, his head tilted. "Come take a break."
"A break?"
"You've been alphabetising for an hour. That's a lot of alphabetising. You need to rest your brain."
"My brain is fine.”
“Just come here.” He drops down to the floor, cross-legged, and pats the carpet beside him. "Come on. Take five."
You hesitate. The store is quiet. Robin is in the back. Keith is nowhere. It's just you and Steve and the afternoon light.
You sit.
You leave a space between you, a careful distance, your knees tucked up, your hands in your lap. It's professional. It's friendly. It's—
Steve's hand reaches out. His fingers hook into your belt loop, tugging gently, pulling you closer. You slide across the carpet, your hip bumping his, your shoulder pressing against his arm.
"There," he says, and his voice is lower now, softer. "That's better."
You can't breathe. He's close—so close you can see the gold flecks in his eyes, the faint freckles across his nose, the way his lashes catch the light. His hand is still hooked in your belt loop, his fingers warm through the denim.
"You're very bossy," you manage.
"I'm meant to be. I’m your trainer, remember?”
"Yes, I remember, which means you're supposed to be training me. Not dragging me across the floor."
He grins. "This is training. Important training. Learning how to take breaks is a crucial skill." His arm comes up, sliding around your shoulders, pulling you against his side. You go easily, your body relaxing into him, your head finding its natural place against his shoulder.
You tilt your head, looking up at him. His face is close, his eyes soft, his mouth curved. "There's no one here to see us."
His smile flickers, just for a moment. "I know."
You look at him. He looks at you. The store is quiet, the afternoon light gold through the windows, and his arm is around you, and his hand is warm on your shoulder, and you think — you think maybe this isn't fake. Maybe it hasn't been for a while.
"Steve," you say.
"What?"
You open your mouth. You don't know what you're going to say. Something honest, maybe. Something true.
The bell over the door jingles.
You both freeze. Footsteps, quick and light, coming toward the back. Robin's voice, bright and curious. "Steve? You back here?"
Steve's arm tightens around you. His hand is warm on your shoulder, his fingers curled over the edge of your sweater. You're pressed against his side, your face close to his, your heart pounding.
Robin rounds the corner. Stops.
Her eyes go wide. Her mouth opens. Her hands, full of tapes, fall to her sides.
Steve's arm doesn't move. His hand doesn't move. You don't move. You're frozen there, pressed against him, his arm around you, your face tilted up toward his.
"Uh," Robin says. "I — I was looking for — I didn't—"
Steve clears his throat. His cheeks are very pink. His arm doesn't move. "We were just—"
"Taking a break," you finish. Your voice comes out higher than you meant it to. "He was making me take a break."
"A break," Robin says. Her eyes flick to Steve's arm around your shoulders. To the way you're pressed against his side. To the way neither of you has moved.
"A break," she repeats slowly. Her mouth is doing something dangerous. It's threatening to become a grin. "In the comedy section. On the floor."
"The floor is comfortable," Steve says, and his voice is strangled. "Good for the back."
Robin's eyes are very bright. She's not buying it. Neither of you has moved. Steve's arm is still around you. Your shoulder is still pressed against his chest. Your face is still tilted up toward his like you were about to say something, something you can't remember now.
Steve's hand is still on your shoulder. His thumb is moving, just a little, like he's forgotten it's there. You can feel the warmth of it through your shirt, the steady pressure of his fingers.
Robin sets her tapes down on a shelf. Very slowly. Very deliberately. Her eyes don't leave the two of you. "You know, Nancy was asking about you the other day."
Steve's hand tightens on your shoulder. Just a fraction. "Nancy?"
"She wanted to know if you were seeing anyone. I told her you were very busy with work. Very focused on your career." Robin's grin widens. "I didn't realize your career involved so much... close consultation."
Steve opens his mouth. Closes it. His arm is still around you. You're still pressed against his side. You should move. You should definitely move. But Steve's hand is warm, and his shoulder is solid, and you don't want to. You don't want to at all.
Robin picks up her tapes. She's backing away now, her eyes still on you, her grin still wide. "I'm going to go. To the front. To do returns. Very important returns. Very busy. Lots of work."
"Robin—" Steve starts.
She holds up a hand. "Don't let me interrupt.” She rounds the corner. Her voice floats back, sing-song: "I'll just be up front! Doing my job! Not telling anyone anything!"
Steve's arm is still around you.
The store is very quiet.
"She's gone," you say.
"Yeah." His voice is low. "She's gone."
"We should probably—" you start.
"Yeah," he says again. "Probably."
You don't move. He doesn't move. The afternoon light is gold through the windows, catching in his hair, making everything soft. His face is close. His eyes are very brown.
"She's going to tell Nancy," you say.
Steve exhales. "Yeah. She is."
"And Nancy is going to want to meet me. Properly. After hearing about—" You gesture vaguely at the two of you, pressed together on the floor of the comedy section. "This."
Steve's hand tightens on your shoulder. "Is that okay?"
You look at him. His face is open, earnest, a little nervous. His hair is falling across his forehead.
"Yeah," you say. "It's okay."
The next day, Steve is behind the counter when you walk in, counting the till. He looks up when the bell rings.
"Nancy called," he says.
Your stomach flips. "What?"
"This morning. She wants to do a double date. This weekend. With me and you and her and Jonathan." He comes around the counter, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders tight. "I told her we'd think about it."
You stare at him. "A double date."
"A double date. She said she wants to meet you. Properly. After Robin told her about—" He gestures vaguely. "About us."
You think about yesterday. Robin finding you on the floor, Steve's arm around you, your face tilted up toward his. The way she grinned. The way she backed away. The way she was definitely, absolutely, telling Nancy everything.
"She thinks we're together," you say.
Steve nods. "She thinks we're together."
You take a breath. "So we go on the double date. We act convincing. We—" You stop. He's looking at you. "We do what we said we'd do."
He nods slowly. "Yeah. We do what we said we'd do."
You stand there for a moment, the counter between you, the afternoon light gold through the windows. His hands are in his pockets. Your hands are at your sides.
"We should practice," you say.
He blinks. "Practice what?"
You step closer. Your hand finds his, pulls it out of his pocket. His fingers are warm, his palm rough. You lace your fingers through his, the way you've done a dozen times on your strategic outings. The way that feels less like practice every time.
"This," you say. "Being convincing. So we're ready. For the double date."
He looks down at your joined hands. His thumb finds your knuckles, starts that slow pattern. "Okay."
You step closer. His arm comes up, slides around your waist. His hand settles on your hip, warm and steady. You lean into him, your shoulder against his chest, your face tilted up toward his.
"This is convincing," you say.
He nods. His eyes are very brown. "Yeah."
Your free hand comes up, touches his face. His skin is warm, his jaw rough with the shadow of stubble. His breath catches.
"This?"
He doesn't answer. He doesn't move. His arm is tight around your waist. His hand is warm on your hip. His eyes are fixed on your face.
You should say something. You should pull away. You should remember that this is practice, that this is fake, that this is supposed to be convincing for other people, not for you.
But his face is close, and his eyes are soft, and his hand is warm, and you don't want to pull away. You don't want to remember.
"Steve," you whisper.
"What?"
You open your mouth. You don't know what you're going to say. The bell over the door jingles, and you jump apart.
His arm drops from your waist. You take a step back, smooth your shirt, tuck your hair behind your ear. Robin appears from the back, a stack of tapes in her arms. "Hey," she says, her eyes sharp, grinning. "Did I interrupt something?"
"No," you say, too quickly.
"Yes," Steve says, at the same time.
Robin looks at you. Looks at Steve. Her grin is wide now. “Sure,” she drawls, amused. “Have fun doing… whatever you were doing.” She backs away like a cheshire cat, clearly about to call Nancy and spill everything.
You don’t know what to think about this anymore.
The double date is scheduled for Saturday.
The days between Tuesday and Saturday pass in a blur of shifts and stolen moments. Steve's hand finds yours more often now, under the counter, behind the returns cart, in the back room even when Robin isn't looking, even when you don’t have to pretend. His arm settles around your waist like it belongs there. His thumb finds your knuckles, your hip, the small of your back.
You tell yourself it's practice. You tell yourself it's for the double date. You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything.
You're getting very good at lying.
Saturday arrives faster than you expect.
You spend the afternoon in front of your mirror, changing your outfit three times, checking your hair, telling yourself it's just a double date, it's just acting, it's just one night of pretending to be someone's girlfriend.
The doorbell rings. You take a breath. Open it.
Steve is standing on your doorstep, his hands in his pockets, his hair soft, his face open. He's wearing a clean shirt, dark jeans, and he's holding a small bouquet of flowers.
"Hey, sunshine," he says.
Your heart does something complicated. "Hey."
“You look nice,” he murmurs, holding out the flowers. "For you. These are your favourites, right? I, um, I think Robin mentioned it. Offhand, a while ago.”
You blink down at the flowers, fight the urge to squeal like an excited toddler. “They are my favourites. Thank you. I’ll just — give me a second, I want to put them in a vase.”
He nods, and you step aside to let him in, closing the front door to head into the kitchen.
“So this is your place,” he murmurs.
“This is my place,” you affirm. “My roommate’s infamous drum set,” you say, nodding your chin towards the back of the living room.
He grins. “I see.”
You find a vase under the sink, one your mom gave you when you moved in, the one you never use because you never have flowers. You fill it with water, arrange the bouquet carefully, your fingers trembling just a little. Steve is in your living room.
Steve Harrington is in your living room, looking at your bookshelf, your puzzle on the coffee table, the photos on the wall.
You watch him for a moment. He's standing with his back to you, his hands in his pockets, his head tilted. He's looking at the picture of you and your mom from graduation, the one where you're laughing, your cap almost falling off, her arms around you.
"Is that your mom?" he asks.
You come up beside him, the vase in your hands. "Yeah. That was last year.”
He smiles. "You look happy."
"I was. I am." You set the vase on the coffee table, step back. He's still looking at the photo, his expression soft.
"You look like her," he says. "You have the same smile."
You feel your face warm. "I get that a lot.”
He turns to look at you. His eyes are warm. "I like your apartment. It's very—" He gestures vaguely. "You."
You look around. The puzzle on the coffee table, half-finished. The stack of textbooks on the floor. The blanket your grandma made you, draped over the couch. The photos on the wall, the plants on the windowsill, the mug from your favorite coffee shop.
"It's a mess," you say.
"It's not a mess. It's—" He stops. His eyes land on the stack of tapes by the TV. "Is that When Harry Met Sally?"
Your face goes hot. "I told you I was going to watch it."
He crosses to the TV, picks up the tape. His grin is wide. "You watched it."
"Twice."
He looks at you. "Twice?"
"I wanted to be prepared. For when people ask. About my favourite movies. I didn't want to slip up."
He's still holding the tape. His eyes are very bright. "And? What did you think?"
You cross your arms, lean against the back of the couch. "I cried."
He laughs. "You cried?"
"At the end. When he's running through the city. I knew what was going to happen, Robin told me the whole plot, but I still—" You stop. He's looking at you. "It's a good movie."
He sets the tape down carefully, like it's something precious. "Yeah," he says. "It is."
You stand there for a moment, the coffee table between you, the afternoon light gold through your windows. His hands are in his pockets. Your arms are crossed. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears.
"We should probably go," you say. "The restaurant. Nancy and Jonathan. We don't want to be late."
He nods. "Yeah. We should go."
Neither of you moves.
The apartment is quiet. The puzzle pieces are scattered on the coffee table. Your flowers are bright in their vase. Steve is standing in your living room, wearing a clean shirt, his hair soft, his face open.
"Steve," you say.
"What?"
You don't know what you're going to say. Something honest, maybe. Something true. "I'm glad it's you."
He tilts his head. "Glad it's me what?"
You take a breath. "Pretending. With. I'm glad it's you."
He looks at you for a long moment. His hands come out of his pockets. He steps around the coffee table, crosses the space between you. He's close now, close enough that you can smell something clean and warm, close enough that you can see the gold flecks in his eyes.
"Me too," he says. His voice is low.
Your hands are at your sides. His are at his. You're not touching. You're not pretending. There's no one here to see.
"Sunshine," he murmurs.
Your heart skips. "Yeah?"
He reaches out. His hand touches your face, his fingers light on your cheek. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, slow and gentle. "You look nice."
Your breath catches. "You said that already."
"I'm saying it again."
He's so close. His hand is warm on your face. His eyes are soft. His lips are parted. You can see the shape of his mouth, the curve of it, the way he's looking at you like you're something he's been waiting for.
You lean in. Just a little. Just enough.
His hand slides from your cheek to your jaw, tilts your face up. His thumb brushes your lower lip. "I've been wanting to do this," he says. "For weeks. Since the first day. Since you walked in with your messy hair and your terrible taste in movies."
You laugh, soft, breathless. "I told you. I've seen it now. Twice."
"Doesn't matter." His face is very close.
"Steve."
"What?"
You don't answer. You can't. His hand is on your face. His eyes are on your mouth. He's going to kiss you. He's going to kiss you and it's not going to be practice, it's not going to be for anyone else, it's going to be real.
He leans in. You lean in. Your eyes close. His breath is warm on your lips.
The phone rings.
You both jump apart. Your hand flies to your chest. Steve's hand drops from your face. The phone rings again, loud and insistent, and you stare at it like it's a traitor.
"That's—" you start.
"I should—" he says.
The phone rings again. You cross to it, pick it up. "Hello?"
Robin's voice, bright and impatient: "Are you two on your way? Nancy's asking. She's very excited. She wants to know what you're wearing."
You look at Steve. He's standing in the middle of your living room, his hands in his pockets, his ears pink. He looks like he's trying very hard not to laugh.
"We're on our way," you say. "We'll be there soon."
"Okay, okay. Don't be late. Nancy's very punctual. It's a whole thing." She hangs up before you can respond.
You set the phone down. Steve is looking at you. His ears are still pink.
"We should go," you say.
He nods. "Yeah. We should go."
Neither of you moves. You stand there, the coffee table between you, the afternoon light gold, the flowers bright in their vase.
"Steve," you say.
"What?"
You smile. It's small, shy, real. "Later."
His face softens. "Later."
He crosses to the door, holds it open for you. You grab your bag, your jacket, follow him out. He locks the door behind you, his hand brushing yours as he hands you the keys.
You walk to his car together, your shoulders almost touching, your hands swinging at your sides. The afternoon air is warm, the sun is low, and you're thinking about the way his hand felt on your face, the way his eyes looked when he almost kissed you.
He opens the car door for you. You slide in. He closes it, walks around to the driver's side, gets in. His hands are on the steering wheel. He's not starting the car.
You look at him. He's looking at the windshield, his jaw working.
"Steve?"
He turns to you. His eyes are very brown. "I'm going to kiss you. Later. After the double date. When we don't have to pretend anymore."
Your heart is beating too fast. "Okay."
He nods. Starts the car. Pulls out of the driveway. His hand is on the gear shift. Your hand is on your knee. You want to reach out. You want to touch him. You want to close the space between you.
He looks at you. His hand moves. His fingers find yours. He laces them together, his thumb on your knuckles, and he doesn't let go.
You drive to the restaurant like that, his hand in yours, the afternoon light gold through the windows. He doesn't let go when he parks. He doesn't let go when he helps you out of the car. He doesn't let go when you walk toward the door, your shoulders pressed together, your hands swinging between you.
Inside, Nancy and Jonathan are already at a table. Nancy's face lights up when she sees you. Steve's hand tightens on yours.
"Ready?" he murmurs.
You squeeze his hand. "Ready."
You walk in together, his hand in yours, your shoulder against his arm. Nancy is watching, her eyes bright, her smile warm. Jonathan raises his hand in a wave.
Steve pulls out your chair for you. You sit. He sits beside you, his thigh pressed against yours, his hand finding your knee under the table.
"You must be the girlfriend," Nancy says.
You smile. "I must be."
She laughs. Jonathan laughs. Steve's hand is warm on your knee. His thumb is moving, slow and steady, and you think about later. You think about his hand on your face, his breath on your lips, the way he said I'm going to kiss you.
Later, you think. Later.
You smile at Nancy, at Jonathan, at Steve. You let your hand find his under the table. You lace your fingers together.
"Tell me everything," Nancy says. "How did you two meet?"
Steve's thumb moves against your knuckles. "She came in for an interview," he says. "She told Keith her favorite movies."
You look at him. His eyes are warm. "I was distracted," you say. "He was in the window. With his hair."
Nancy laughs. "His hair?"
"It's very distracting hair."
Steve's hand tightens on yours. "She told me her brain stopped working. Because of me.”
Jonathan grins. "She told you her brain stopped working?"
“I did,” you say, smiling, cheeks flushed as you hide your face in Steve’s shoulder. “I’m never going to live it down, I think.”
Nancy and Jonathan exchange a look. Something passes between them, something you don't understand. Jonathan's hand finds Nancy's under the table.
The dinner is easy. Easier than you expected. Steve keeps his hand on your knee, his thumb moving against your jeans. You lean into him when you laugh, your hand on his chest. You look up at him when he talks, your eyes wide, your smile soft. You call him Steve in a voice that's just for him.
It's not acting. It's not pretending. It's real. It's been real for weeks, maybe, since the first day, since he called you sunshine, since you told him he made your brain stop working.
Nancy is watching you both. Her smile is warm. "I'm glad he found you," she says.
You look at Steve. He's looking at you. "I'm glad he found me too."
After dinner, you walk out together, Steve's arm around your waist, your hand in his. Nancy hugs you, quick and warm. "We should do this again," she says. "Soon."
Steve nods. "Definitely."
Nancy and Jonathan get in their car, drive away. The parking lot is quiet, the streetlights gold. Steve's arm is still around you. His hand is warm on your hip.
You look up at him. "That was good."
He nods. "We're good at this."
You're not talking about pretending anymore. You both know it.
He pulls you closer. His hand comes up, touches your face. His fingers are warm, his palm rough. His thumb brushes your cheek.
He leans in. His forehead touches yours. His breath is warm on your face. His eyes are closed.
"Steve," you whisper.
He opens his eyes. They're brown and warm and so close you can see the gold flecks. "What?"
You don't answer. You can't. His hand is on your face. His arm is around your waist. He's going to kiss you. He's going to kiss you and it's not going to be practice, it's not going to be for anyone else, it's going to be real.
He leans in. You lean in. Your eyes close.
"Hey."
You freeze. Steve's arm tightens around you. His body tenses. You know that voice. You know it too well.
Mark is standing across the parking lot, his hands in his pockets, his mouth curved into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He's leaning against a car, casual, easy, like he's been waiting.
Steve steps in front of you. His hand is flat against your hip, pressing you behind him. "Not now," he says. His voice is hard.
Mark's eyes flick to Steve, then back to you. "I just want to talk."
"She doesn't want to talk to you." Steve's hand is steady on your hip. His body is a wall between you and Mark.
Mark's smile doesn't waver. "I'm not talking to you."
You press closer to Steve. Your hands find his shirt, curl into the fabric. You can feel his heart beating, fast, steady.
He takes a step forward. Steve's hand tightens on your hip, his fingers pressing into the denim, holding you in place behind him. You can feel the tension in his body, the coiled readiness, the way his shoulders have gone broad and immovable.
"She said she doesn't want to talk to you," Steve says. His voice is low, calm, dangerous. "That means you leave."
Mark's eyes slide past Steve, fix on you. "Come on," he says, and his voice is soft now, the old voice, the one that used to make you believe him. "You don't have to do this. You don't have to pretend with him. I know you. I know what you really want."
Your hands are shaking. You press closer to Steve, your face against his back, your fingers curling into his shirt. His heartbeat is steady under your palm, fast but steady.
"She doesn't want anything from you." Steve's voice hasn't changed. "You need to leave. Now."
Mark takes another step. He's closer now, close enough that you can see his face, the tightness around his mouth, the way his eyes haven't left you. "I'm not talking to you," he says again. "I'm talking to her."
"She's not listening."
"She will." Mark's hand shoots out, grabs your wrist. His fingers are cold, tight, familiar in the worst way. "Just come here. Let's talk. We can work this out."
You gasp. Your body jerks forward, pulled by the force of his grip, and Steve moves.
It's fast. You don't see it happen. One moment Mark's hand is around your wrist, cold and tight, and the next there's a crack, a sharp sound that echoes across the parking lot, and Mark is on the ground. His hand is gone from your wrist. His face is turned to the side, his mouth open, his hand pressed to his jaw.
Steve's hand is a fist at his side. His knuckles are red. His chest is rising and falling, fast and hard. His eyes are on Mark, dark and burning.
"Don't," Steve says. His voice is low, rough. "Don't ever touch her again."
Mark looks up at him. There's blood on his lip, a dark smear across his chin. His eyes are wide, shocked, and for a moment — just a moment — you see something in them you've never seen before. Fear.
Steve steps forward. His body is still between you and Mark, his hand still a fist, his shoulders still broad. "If you come near her again," he says, "if you call her, if you even look at her, I will find you. Do you understand me?"
Mark scrambles backward, his hands flat on the pavement, his eyes flicking between Steve and you. He's breathing hard, his chest heaving, his face pale. He looks smaller somehow. Smaller than you've ever seen him.
"Get up," Steve says. "Get up and get out of here."
Mark gets up. His legs are unsteady, his hand still pressed to his jaw. He looks at you one more time, something flickering in his eyes—frustration, maybe, or rage, or something else you don't want to name—and then he turns. He walks away, fast, his footsteps sharp on the pavement, and then he's gone. The parking lot is quiet again.
Steve doesn't move. His back is to you, his shoulders still tight, his hand still a fist at his side. You can see his knuckles, red and raw, the skin split across two of them.
"Steve," you whisper.
He turns. His face is hard, his jaw tight, his eyes dark. And then he sees you — sees your face, your shaking hands, the tears you didn't know were falling — and everything in him softens. The hardness drains out of his shoulders. His hand uncurls. His eyes go from dark to warm in the space of a breath.
"Hey," he says softly. "Hey, sweetheart." His hands come up, cup your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears. His hands are shaking, you realize. He's shaking. "He's gone. You're okay. You're safe."
You nod. You can't speak. Your hands find his shirt, curl into the fabric, hold on. His heart is pounding under your palm, fast and hard, and you hold on to the rhythm of it, let it anchor you.
"I'm sorry," he says. His voice is rough. "I should have — I should have moved faster. I should have—"
"You stopped him." Your voice comes out small, cracked. "You stopped him."
His hands tighten on your face. His forehead drops to yours. His breath is warm on your lips. "I should have stopped him sooner. I should have seen him coming. I should have—"
"Steve." You pull back, just enough to look at him. His eyes are wet. His hands are shaking. His knuckles are bleeding. "You stopped him. You stopped him."
He stares at you for a long moment. His thumb moves against your cheek, slow and steady. "I'm not going to let him hurt you," he says. "I'm never going to let him hurt you again."
You lean into his hands. His palms are warm, rough, steady. "I know."
He pulls you against his chest, his arms around you, his face in your hair. His heart is still pounding, but slower now, steadier. You press your ear to his chest, listen to the rhythm of it, let it fill you up.
"I've got you," he murmurs. "I've got you, sunshine."
You stay like that for a long time. The parking lot is quiet, the streetlights gold, and you're wrapped up in him, his arms around you, his heart beating against yours.
"Your hand," you say finally, pulling back. "You're bleeding."
He looks down at his knuckles like he's forgotten they exist. "It's nothing."
"It's not nothing." You take his hand, turn it over. The skin is split across two knuckles, red and raw, but the bleeding has stopped. You run your thumb over the edge of his palm, careful, light. "We should clean this."
He looks at you. His eyes are soft. "Okay."
He drives you home with one hand on the wheel and the other holding yours. He doesn't let go. He doesn't let go when he parks, when he walks you to your door, when you fumble with your keys and your hands are still shaking.
Inside, you lead him to the kitchen, sit him down at the table, find the first aid kit under the sink. He watches you, his eyes soft, his good hand flat on the table, his injured hand resting in his lap.
You sit beside him, take his hand, lay it palm-up on the table. His fingers are long, his palm rough, his knuckles split and raw. You clean the cuts with antiseptic, your touch light, careful. He doesn't flinch. He watches your face.
"You don't have to do this," he says quietly.
You look up at him. "Do what?"
"Take care of me. I'm supposed to be taking care of you."
You laugh. It's small, wet, surprised. "You punched my ex in the face. I think I can clean your hand."
He smiles. It's the smile you've been waiting for, the one that makes your chest warm. "He deserved it."
"He deserved worse."
Steve's hand turns under yours, his fingers wrapping around your wrist. His thumb finds your pulse, presses lightly. "Next time," he says, "I'll do worse."
You look at him. His eyes are brown and warm and so close you can see the gold flecks. His hand is around your wrist, gentle, steady. His knuckles are red and raw and he's looking at you like you're something precious.
"Steve," you whisper.
"What?"
You don't answer. You can't. His hand is around your wrist. His eyes are on your face. He's going to kiss you. He's going to kiss you and it's not going to be practice, it's not going to be for anyone else, it's going to be real.
He leans in. You lean in. Your eyes close. His breath is warm on your lips.
His lips touch yours. Soft, gentle, barely there. His hand slides from your wrist to your face, cups your cheek, tilts your face up. His thumb brushes your cheekbone. His lips move against yours, slow and soft and real.
When he pulls back, you're both breathing hard. His forehead is against yours. His eyes are closed.
"Okay," he says, breathless. "Okay."
You laugh. It's soft, surprised. "Okay?"
He opens his eyes. They're brown and warm and so close you can see yourself reflected in them. "That's all I've got right now. My brain's not working."
You smile. "My brain's never working. Around you."
He grins. It's the grin you've been waiting for, the one that transforms his whole face. "Good. That's good."
He kisses you again. It's longer this time, deeper, his hand in your hair, his mouth soft and warm. When he pulls back, you're both smiling.
"I'm going to take you on a real date," he says. His voice is low, rough, his forehead still pressed against yours. "Tomorrow. A real one. Dinner. A walk. Whatever you want."
You smile. "Okay."
"And then the day after that. And the day after that." His thumb traces your cheekbone. "Every day. I want to take you on a date every day."
You laugh. "That's a lot of dates."
He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are soft, warm, a little nervous. "Is that okay?"
Your chest is full. "Yeah," you say. "That's okay."
He exhales, long and slow, like he's been holding his breath. His hands are still on your face, his palms warm, his fingers gentle. "Come here," he says, and he pulls you forward, guiding you into his lap. You go easily, your legs folding, your body curling against his chest. His arms come around you, hold you close, and you press your face into his neck, breathe him in.
His hand finds your hair, strokes it back from your face. "You're tired," he says.
You nod against his shoulder. You are tired. The adrenaline has drained out of you, left you hollow and heavy, and his arms are warm, his chest is steady, and you don't want to move. You don't want to think. You don't want to remember Mark's voice, his hand around your wrist, the cold press of his fingers.
"Don't think about it," Steve says softly. His hand moves in your hair, slow and soothing. "Don't think about him. He's gone. He's not going to bother you again."
You press closer. "How do you know?"
His arms tighten. "Because I'm not going to let him." His voice is quiet, fierce. "I'm going to be there. Every time. I'm going to be right there."
You close your eyes. His heartbeat is steady under your ear, slow and sure. You let it anchor you, let it pull you away from the cold, from the fear, from the way Mark's voice still echoes in your head.
"Steve," you whisper.
"Steve," you whisper.
"What?"
"Talk to me. About anything. Just — talk."
He's quiet for a moment. His hand doesn't stop moving in your hair. His chest rises and falls under your cheek.
"Okay," he says. His voice is low, soft. "Okay. Did I ever tell you about the time Robin put a porno in the kids' section?"
You laugh. It's small, surprised. "What?"
"It was my first week," he says. "I was still learning the system. Robin was supposed to be training me, but she thought it would be funny to test me. So she took a tape from the adult section and put it in with the Disney movies. Right between The Little Mermaid and The Fox and the Hound."
You lift your head, look at him. "She didn't."
"She did. And then she waited. She didn't tell me. She just — waited." He's smiling, a small, fond smile. "This woman comes in with her kid. Maybe five years old. And she picks up the tape, and she looks at it, and she looks at me, and her face just—" He shakes his head. "I thought she was going to kill me."
You're laughing now, your face pressed into his chest, your shoulders shaking. "What did you do?"
"I panicked. I told her it was a mis-shelving error. I said someone must have put it there by accident. I apologized like twenty times. She was so mad." He laughs, the sound rumbling in his chest.
You giggle into his chest. “Robin’s terrible,” you say, face tucked under his chin.
"She's my best friend, though," he says quietly. "She's annoying and she talks too much and she put a porno in the kids' section, but she's my best friend. She was there when I didn't have anyone else. She—" He stops. His hand stills in your hair.
You open your eyes, look up at him. His face is soft, his eyes far away. "She what?"
He looks at you. His expression clears. "She's the reason I have this job. The reason I'm not—" He stops again. His jaw works. "The reason I'm not somewhere else. Someone else."
You reach up, touch his face. His skin is warm, his jaw rough. "I'm glad she did," you say. "I'm glad you're here."
He turns his head, presses a kiss to your palm. His lips are soft. "Me too."
You stay like that for a while, curled in his lap, his arms around you, his voice low and steady in your ear. He tells you about the regulars—Mrs. Patterson, who always rents Audrey Hepburn movies and cries at the end; Mr. Chen, who comes in every Friday for a western and brings his own popcorn; the kids who try to sneak into the R-rated section and jump at every sound.
You listen to his voice, let it wash over you. You're not thinking about Mark. You're thinking about Steve's hands, warm and gentle in your hair. You're thinking about his voice, low and soft, telling you about the time he couldn't figure out the cash drawer.
You're thinking about the way he looks at you, like you're something precious, something worth protecting.
"Steve," you say.
His hand stills. "What?"
You close your eyes. "Don't stop talking."
He's quiet for a moment. His hand resumes its slow movement in your hair. "Okay," he says. "Okay, sunshine."
He talks until your eyes are heavy, until your breathing slows, until your body is loose and warm against his. He talks about the first time he saw you, through the glass in the staff room door, the way you were flushed from the heat, your hair curling around your face, your smile bright and open and real.
"I thought," he says, and his voice is lower now, softer, "I thought, I want to know her. I want to know everything about her."
You smile against his chest. "You know everything about me."
"I don't," he says. "I don't know your favorite color. I don't know what you wanted to be when you grew up. I don't know what makes you cry, what makes you laugh, what makes you stay up late at night when you can't sleep." His hand moves to your face, tilts it up. "I want to know. I want to know everything."
You look at him. His eyes are brown and warm and so close. "Yellow," you say. "My favorite color is yellow. I wanted to be an astronaut when I was little. I cry at commercials with dogs in them. I laugh at your terrible alphabetising system. I stay up late thinking about integration and whether I'm ever going to figure out what I want to do with my life." You reach up, touch his face. "And you. Lately, I stay up late thinking about you."
His breath catches. His hand tightens on your face. "Yeah?"
You smile. "Yeah."
He kisses you. It's soft, slow, his lips warm against yours. His hand slides into your hair, cradles your head. His mouth moves against yours like he's learning you, memorizing you, and you let him, you give yourself to it, to him.
When he pulls back, you're both breathing hard. His forehead is against yours. His eyes are closed.
"I want to do this for real," he says. His voice is low, rough. "I don't want to pretend anymore. I don't want to practice. I want to take you on dates. Real dates. I want to hold your hand in public and argue about alphabetizing and bring you flowers that are your favorite color. I want to be your boyfriend. Your real boyfriend."
You open your eyes. He's looking at you, his face open, earnest, a little scared.
"Okay," you say.
He blinks. "Okay?"
You smile. "Okay. Be my real boyfriend."
His face breaks into a grin. It's the grin you've been waiting for, the one that transforms his whole face. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He kisses you again, and you're laughing, and he's laughing, and his arms are around you, and your hands are in his hair, and the kitchen light is warm above you, and the flowers are bright on the coffee table, and you're not pretending anymore. You're not pretending at all.
Note: This is my first time writing any form of fanfiction! I’m really not sure if I’ll end up continuing this. I just have so many ideas that pop into my head and it's hard to find fics that satisfy said ideas, so I thought I'd give writing a try. If people see this and enjoy it, maybe I’ll continue it. Maybe it’ll just get deleted. Who knows!
Dad!Steve. He doesn’t know though. Reader was gone for the whole quarantine. Raising her kid. But she's back. And Steve's still there.
Word Count: 881
~
January, 1988
The air is still cold this time of year. A layer of snow coating the streets. Christmas lights clinging to the overhang of the Family Video entrance despite the holiday season being over. Leave it to Keith to neglect taking them down.
The drive through Hawkins was… weird. It’s been almost two years since you’ve been here. Which really isn’t that long, but it's felt like a lifetime. Maybe that's got something to do with the sleeping one year old girl bundled in a light purple puffer jacket balanced on your hip.
After the “earthquake” split Hawkins in two, your parents made the decision to leave. And being the supportive daughter you are, you left with them. Boldly assuming that, since you weren’t moving far, you could still come back and visit frequently. Help the rest of the group figure out what the hell was going on with Vecna and the Upside Down.
But almost directly after you left, Hawkins was put under military quarantine. You had to find that out after they blocked off all the roads leading in and out.
So here you are. Back in your hometown, walking into the last place you remember your best friend Robin working. Hoping that, maybe, her best friend still works there too.
The bell above the door rings as you enter. You don't see Steve. Or Robin. But just your luck, you see Keith. He glances up like he doesn’t recognize you. He probably doesn’t.
“Hey.” You take a second to think before just spitting it out.
“Is Steve here?”
He gives you that blank look that seems to never leave his face.
“No.”
Shit.
“Okay. Uhm, is Robin?”
“No.”
You blink. Unresponsive shithead.
“Do they still work here?”
“No.”
You take a deep breath. From annoyance or stress you’re not fully sure.
“Do you know where either of them work now?”
He eyes you. Then the bundle of purple polyester in your arms. He sighs. Heavy and bored. Like getting asked questions is the most draining, inconvenient thing ever.
“Radio station.”
“WSQK?”
“mhm.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
The bell rings again as you leave the building. The bundle’s still sleeping. So you gently secure her in her car seat. Thinking of Steve and Robin. At the radio station. It's not too far, nothing really is in Hawkins. And it's still relatively early, so maybe there's a chance of them being there.
You get into the driver's seat, turning the ignition before switching on the radio. It takes a few tries, but you find the WSQK channel. And are met with the sound of Robin rambling about some special deal Melvalds is having on laundry detergent. You’d know her voice anywhere.
So Robin’s a radio host. But you don't hear Steve. Is he a host too? He never really seemed like the type.
As if on que Robins finishes her ad segment, calling to “Sound-guy Steve” before a sound bite of cheering fills the car.
A sound guy. That's more fitting.
You pull out of the parking lot. Driving in the direction of the station.
You aren’t sure what you’re going to tell Steve once you see him.
“Hey! Remember that time we hooked up and I skipped town and couldn’t talk to you or see you for almost two years? Anyways, you have a kid!”
Stupid.
The drive doesn’t take long, and by the time you reach the station, Robin is closing up the morning broadcast. Static fills the car the second you turn it off.
The wind nearly slams the car door shut behind you. And just like that, she wakes up. Not crying, but making a small sound of startlement before babbling about nothing. You grab her before you can chicken out, kissing her forehead before walking up the front door of the building.
The station is much warmer inside. The air smelling faintly of coffee, cardboard, and some kind of must. Rounding the corner, you see an empty radio booth, and the back of someone with a short, dirty blonde bob, sliding a few vinyls back onto their shelves. Before you know it, Robin is turning around to see who just walked in, and nearly screeches.
“HOLY SHIT!”
You give her a small smile. That’s your best friend.
“Hi, Rob.”
She’s on you in seconds, hugging you, unconsciously avoiding the baby on your hip.
“What are you doing here?! When did you get here? Did you know about the quarantine? Of course you knew, who didn’t? Ohmygod I missed you! So much. Seriously, what are you doing here? And- whos this?”
She finally registers the small girl in the purple jacket.
You open your mouth but it's not your voice that you hear.
“Robin? What the hell are you screaming abo-“
Steve stands there. Frozen in the doorway of what looks like another storage room. Hand still on the knob. He's looking at you with this soft look of surprise you don’t think you’ve ever seen before. He breathes your name out. Like his breath stopped in his chest and stayed stuck till he said it. Those warm, brown eyes pull away from you, landing on the girl in your arms, before shifting back.
Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!reader (timeline: season somewhere 1-4 ish...?)
Synopsis: Twenty years after Tim Bradford, your first love, stopped replying to your letters from the army, you show up as a new literary analyst at the Mid-Wilshire Police Department. Old feelings resurface, buried truths come out, and what you both thought was long over suddenly doesn’t feel finished at all.
CW: angst, angst, angst; typical miscommunication trope; "what letters" trope; lots of italics; repeats; yelling; probably not v canon compliant,we're pretending isabelle probs never happened but upto you, mention of divorce, engagement, tim is lowkey a bitch but so are we<3 random OCs are added in, ehh.
WC: 8.4 K
A/N: This went on wayyy longer than it should have, so here, have fun with your angsty, comfort at the end fic. This is SO self-indulgent it's not even funny. I just wanted an excuse to write the "what letters" trope with Tim, muehehehehe. Also, the breakroom scene is inspired by my sister asking me why so many of the rookie characters are divorced lmaoo. The end is low-key rushed, but I cannot care anymore. Pretty sure the literary analyst part was inspired by one of @fluentmoviequoter's works check them out they're awesome😭
Tulipz Navigation🌷
~Always remember,
Tears on the letter
I vowed not to cry anymore
If we survived the Great War~
~~~
Tim Bradford was your first kiss.
The first boy you hung out with on your house's roof, overlooking growing bushes and thinning trees. Your fingers interlocked, watching the sun dip below the horizon.
The first boy whose hand had slipped into yours as the other cradled your face. Flushed cheeks, crooked smiles and hushed giggles.
Tim Bradford was the first boy who made your heart giddy; you could still recall its thumping. Steady, calm, and whispering comfort.
The first boy you went on a date with to the amusement park, rode on the rollercoaster, ate cotton candy and watched the whole city from the top of the Ferris wheel.
He had asked you to be his girlfriend on that Ferris wheel, his mouth dry, fingers clamped around the edge of the seat.
Tim Bradford was the first boy who held your arm a little tighter one night, beckoning you to not leave, not because he feared you would, but because he feared everything else.
That night he confided in you of his desire to join the army. Desire would be an understatement. Decision, really—a choice he had already made.
“But what about college?”
You had asked in a rather foolish tone, holding onto hope that may as well have been thoroughly shattered.
"I mean, I just kind of wanna get away from...here, yk?”
He had gestured vaguely around the parking lot. You lifted your eyes to see where he was pointing: nothing but a clearing where the trees parted ways, leading to a walkway, but you knew; you always did.
You knew that his hand pointed not towards the vague expanse of foilage around you but that it pointed to his house, three blocks down the road. His father's house.
His hand had lowered only slightly before he clenched his fist and continued.
“...I mean, I don't even know what I'd study in college."
Understandingly, you had nodded and leaned up to kiss the corner of his mouth. The night had ended with whispered promises and moments spent in stolen silence.
Tim Bradford was the first boy you ever liked.
Somewhere between the pages adorning his crooked handwriting recounting days from where he was posted, there was care. It was simple at first, simple country-border postings that he tried tirelessly to belong at.
He'd tell you how he missed you and how his days had been boring without you; he'd talk about your smile, your lips, your humour and your eyes.
He talked a lot about your eyes.
Tim Bradford was the first boy you fell in love with.
And you—oh, foolish you—you'd told him as much.
You'd found yourself smiling at his stories, replying in blue ink that you had made sure to test for smudging—lest he be unable to read it.
Eagerly you had scribbled out in a running hand how you’d fallen. Hard.
Tim Bradford was the first boy who broke your heart.
When his letters stopped coming mere days after he was deployed to Afghanistan. Days after you had professed your undying love for him, marked in that careful blue ink, curved letters adorned the otherwise boring military-grade paper.
You waited; god, you waited, but after the third month you figured he must've gotten too busy, too distant.
Or maybe he had decided you weren’t worth loving at all.
Your heartbreak came like a hurricane, shattering all the pieces of your trust. Days were spent crying in your father's arms or hurling insults at the setting sun.
The anger mellowed after a while, fading to a low hum in the back of your mind. The pain still present, still gnawing, but shallow. Bearable.
You studied and built a dream for yourself. A dream away from the suburban houses of Los Angeles. Away from your memories of teenage years, amusement parks, stolen kisses and secret bike rides.
A dream away from him.
You’d kept in contact with Genny, Tim's sister, and had been unfortunate enough to receive the news that he came back after twelve long years, from Iraq, a posting you knew nothing of.
You'd begged her to not say more, afraid that whatever she may reveal about Tim, his new job, or his new home may force your heart to seek him out all over again.
Twelve years.
Time never had been on your side.
In the years that followed, whenever you had to visit, well… LA was big enough if you tried hard enough.
It isn’t until eight more that you return to Los Angeles, a transfer in your job.
That is what brought you to the Mid-Wilshire Police Station as an acting literary analyst, in the core of the city you remember calling home.
The same city with broken promises, crooked smiles and flushed faces that you kept under lock and key in your very mind.
~~~~~~
The bullpen smells faintly of disinfectant and stale coffee. Your feet carry you towards the centre, where Detective Angela Lopez, Watch Commander Grey and your new partner Emma are all standing together reviewing a case file. The case that you were called in to assist on.
When you pause a few feet away from the trio, their eyes promptly turn towards you. The detective gives you a smile as Sergeant Grey extends his hand in greeting. You shake his hand, along with Emma's, and introduce yourself.
"Welcome; I hope you find everything to your liking here. I’ll make sure to introduce you at roll call.” The sergeant promises.
You give all three a smile and decide to utilise the time until roll call – fifteen minutes – and take a stroll around the precinct, thinking it’ll be advantageous if you stay here long-term.
That's when you spot him.
He has just walked out of the locker room; a woman – with a straightened uniform, taut bun and flustered expression – accompanies him. He stops after putting his hands on his hips and turns to the woman, expression unreadable, as he seemingly reprimands her in a hushed tone. The woman nods, flustered, then scrambles to join a few other similarly dressed officers on the other end of the room.
Tim Bradford. Your Tim has just crashed your new place of work. And what’s worse is that it seems he belongs here far more than you do.
He doesn’t see you yet, and you take the opportunity to turn around and make a beeline towards the water fountain.
Your footsteps echo in your own ears once you’ve made your way far enough away.
First, confusion takes it's rightful place in your mind. How could this happen? What are the chances?
Then, doubt. What if he doesn't remember me? Am I ready to face him again?
In that moment you’re presented with a choice.
Either you make your peace with what happened and move forward professionally, or you let your feelings get in the way and request your firm to appoint someone else to the case, demanding a transfer at once.
No.
You’ve survived Tim Bradford before; you can survive him again.
You choose the former.
And so, when the fifteen agonizing minutes have passed, having been rehearsing your first words – if any – to the boy who broke your heart when you were seventeen, you stand at the door to the briefing room waiting to be called in.
Your eyes are trained on Tim; he’s sitting at the far end of the room, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest assertively. He looks older; of course he does, but still, he is the Tim you used to know.
His eyes haven't changed; though, they’ve hardened in the years you haven't seen him.
His shoulders are broader, more muscular. He hadn’t necessarily been a lanky kid back then but certainly didn’t have biceps that threatened to rip his shirt at the seams, or shoulders that gave him this boxy appearance.
What is the most striking is his hair. It’s the same buzzed-down cut from all those years ago, as if the man sitting here and the boy you loved all those years ago were one and the same.
Grey announces your name loudly, which forces you to turn your attention towards the head of the room. You walk confidently, your stance unwavering.
You’re here with purpose, a job to do. And you intend to make that abundantly clear.
“Here is our literary analyst for the case; she’s been appointed by the city, and they believe she’ll be a great asset in addition to our forensic department.”
You face the room full of officers; the three crisp-uniformed ones are sitting at the front with straightened spines, a row of detectives at the back and several other uniformed officers scattered about.
A voice quips from the right.
“What’s the point of a literary analyst in this?”
That's another thing that has changed, you suppose. His voice. It’s deeper now, hoarser than you remember, carrying a seriousness you never noticed two decades ago.
Murmurs follow Tim's query, many officers agreeing with the doubt.
You turn your head towards the watch commander, silently asking if you may address the question. At the nod of his head, you prepare to reply.
Doubt floods your mind again. What do you call him? Do you even take his name at all?
You settle on ‘Officer’.
“The investigation department has assigned me to the case due to my expertise in the location, Officer. Not to toot my own horn, but otherwise, I assure you it is not a matter of general intervention.”
Clear. Concise. To the point.
Professional.
If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t see any recognition flash in his eyes, no longing, no sympathy, not even resentment.
The tension lingers in the room long after the briefing is over.
~~~~~~
When your name was announced, Tim thought he was hearing things. That his mind was still repeating the name of the girl, from his teenage years, that he could never let go.
But then you walked in.
Your professional block-heeled shoes clacked loudly on the tile, announcing your presence. Your shirt was smooth, tucked into your knee-length skirt, paired with translucent stockings. A binder was held in your hand, blue and comically overfilled with pages and tabs.
Tim took in your appearance like he was seeing you that night all over again, holding a stick of cotton candy for you, smiling so wide it had hurt his cheeks.
Your hair was longer now, not anymore in a ponytail at the base of your skull but instead left open and free. You’d grown taller, and your nails were painted; Tim could tell as much, even from his seated position on the desk.
He couldn’t help himself, really, when his words carried themselves through the room, breaking the curt atmosphere and giving rise to murmurs from other officers.
He wanted to know.
He needed to know if you remembered him.
So when you answered his question with a lifeless statement and didn't even mention his name – which he knew you would know – Tim knew he was done.
The rest of the day felt like torture. The officer wanted no more than to be off duty and let out some steam by punching bags or lifting weights.
He had to stop himself before he lashed out at his rookie for forgoing an otherwise negligible step of protocol. Even Lucy pin-pointed the extra tension he carried in his jaw and his sudden meticulous attention to detail.
By the time their shift was over, the probationary officer was left slumped in her seat, dejectedly playing with the chipped polish on her fingernails.
~~~~~~
Exiting the locker room, Tim caught himself mid-walk, almost having run into a figure that he didn't see.
You.
Your head was angled downwards, fingers wading through the three folders you held in your arm. At the commotion that his boots had made while halting suddenly, you turned your head to look at the source.
Tim nodded once to acknowledge your presence and again when he addressed you apologetically.
“Analyst.”
Analyst. Not your name. Not even your last name.
Just an analyst.
Tim's hand stilled on the strap of his bag, his mouth stretched into a thin line.
You scoffed once, irritation evident on your features.
“I have a name, you know? Officer.”
Tim said nothing for a while, simply glaring into your eyes with a clenched jaw and furrowed brows, all traces of guilt wiped off of his face.
“I know.”
His shoulder brushed slightly against yours as he stepped around you to continue towards the exit.
Your pulse was left pounding as your feet remained glued to the station tile.
Part of it from your exchange and part from his proximity. The brush against your shoulder felt both like a distant memory and an unyielding force. Continuous but fading.
You heaved a sigh, returning to the files in your arms, flipping through them with practised ease.
~~~~~~
Genny's eldest son was the one that opened the door, his eyes lighting up at the presence of his favourite—only—uncle at their doorstep.
Excitedly he called out to his mom and gave Tim a hug before padding down to his room to retrieve his brother.
Tim's sister entered the living room with a smile, ready to greet her brother, but her smile faltered at the sight of his tight frown, eyes boring into her with precision and something close to – but not quite – anger.
“She's back and you didn't tell me?” Tim huffed, moving to drop his bag onto Genny's couch.
Genny stood still for a moment until her feet moved on their own; she placatingly laid a hand on his shoulder, speaking.
“She told me not to say anything, Tim. I would've otherwise.”
Just like how you'd asked her to not speak further about his return, you had asked her to keep quiet about your own whereabouts as well, unsure if your heart could handle another heartbreak.
Tim shook his head and let himself plop down on the couch, shoving his head into his hands, resting his elbows on his knees.
“She didn't even recognise me.”
His muffled words made Genny's eyes widen. She took a cautious step, moving around the couch.
“Wait, what? Tim, what are you talking about?”
Tim looked up at that, briefly meeting her eyes. He tilted his head questioningly as he answered.
“She saw me, didn't say a word. Not my name, nothing.”
Genny frowned and sat down beside him, the thoughts in her mind running a hundred miles an hour.
“But she knows you. She's seen pictures; there's no way she didn't—"
She cut herself off with a sigh from saying anything further, abruptly standing and heading into the kitchen, leaving Tim alone in the company of his own thoughts.
By the time she returns with two glasses of water, Tim's eyes are bloodshot. His gaze is fixed on something indistinct outside the window in her living room, distant, unfocused.
She knows what he's thinking, how he's processing.
He thought you moved on. He convinced himself he deserved it.
She knows there isn't anything she can do other than just let him be.
~~~~~~
The next time Tim sees you, you’re laughing with Avery Finley, another forensic analyst who has flown in from Chicago to assist on the case. Your eyes are crinkled in the very way he remembers from your first date, your hands placed loosely on your hips.
He sees you shake your head with a smile at whatever the officer says before his feet are moving, footsteps sharp, decisive and loud.
You turn your head at the sound, mouth still quirked up from the remnants of your laughter and then your eyes land on him – and incidentally – on the report he’s carrying in his hand.
Behind Tim, Detective Hall follows, and your eyes dart towards him instead.
It is then that you realise Tim isn’t looking at you, infact he’s looking past you even as he hands you the rather bulky envelope.
You accept the article with minimal movements, muttering a ‘Thank you, officer' and turning away instantaneously to work on something at your desk.
The two other men exchange glances at the sudden shift in atmosphere, looking between you and Tim curiously. The smile on your face has faded completely; in its stead is a tight-lipped scowl. Tim's posture is stiff, his hands resting stiffly upon his duty belt.
You ask Avery a question; Tim takes it as his cue to leave, boots thudding on tile, leaving Detective Hall to stare at his retreating back.
Once the officer is out of earshot, Hall turns to you, making you pause your movements on the keyboard.
“Okay…?” he says, dragging out the two syllables as you simply raise a brow at him.
“What was that?” Finley finishes for him, an incredulous stare accompanying his question.
You huff, giving a shrug as a response. Your voice tumbles out evenly.
“No clue what you’re talking about."
Avery’s hand dramatically flies to his chest, muttering something about ‘betrayal’ and ‘thought we were friends’ while Hall rolls his eyes.
You give another shrug at their actions, resuming your typing.
“I used to know him once. That's all.”
~~~~~~
Three weeks.
Three weeks is how long it took for the case to be closed. Three weeks and your briefcase was being shut with sharp precision, a meticulous stack of all your belongings: papers, cards and a score of pens bundled neatly within a pouch.
You would be moving back to headquarters tomorrow, not the one back “home” in Boston, but the one here in LA.
Still far from the Mid-Wilshire Police Station, you had become comfortable walking into each morning.
After hearing the latch click shut, you gathered the handles of your briefcase and set it down on the chair accompanying your desk. You collected the last few pieces of scrap paper and inkless pens to throw away on your way to Grey’s office.
As you spin around to reroute your steps, a broad, hard surface collides with your form, pushing you backwards and forcing your arms to latch onto the first thing you could grab, pens clattering to the ground and scrap paper fluttering on their way down.
oh.
Him.
One of Tim’s hands finds your waist, and as if on instinct alone, his other hand reaches out to stabilise himself – and you – on your desk.
Your eyes widened as you braced for the fall that never came, breath stuttering at the sight of the training officer.
You could’ve sworn you saw him glance downwards at your lips, but with your heart racing like a Formula One car and fingers still desperately death-gripping his biceps, you couldn’t be so sure.
And oh.
You suppose that, in the three weeks that you have been at the station, you never quite noticed how handsome Tim Bradford has become.
How he has remarkably grown into his features, with blue eyes almost always narrowed slightly, a sharp jaw set in place and smile lines adorning every inch of his face.
Oh-
He’s attractive.
Wait – no. Snap out of it!. He broke your heart, girl!
…But damn, those biceps—
Tim clears his throat as he firmly places you back on your feet, and you swear you can see his face flushed under the dim lights of the bullpen. He brings one hand to the back of his neck while the other remains on your desk, half-caging you between it and his body.
“Uh— Grey wanted me to take you to his office, said you had a meeting…?”
Trying to cool off your now flaming cheeks, you watch him blink twice before you bend down to retrieve the fallen pens and papers and respond.
“Yeah, I’ll be there in a sec.”
You only hope that your voice didn’t betray your calm confidence as you stand up and discard the objects carelessly on your desk while Tim awkwardly stands, shifting his weight from one foot to another.
He clears his throat again and gestures in the general direction of the watch commander’s office, giving you a curt nod and walking away.
Huh. You guess that’s one habit he hasn’t grown out of. The gesturing.
You straighten your posture and tighten your ponytail, continuing to stare at the spot he had just stood at.
Shaking your head, your hands gather the papers once again before heading towards Grey's office at last.
~~~~~~
Divorces and second marriages had been the topic of conversation in the break room today.
Nyla was the one that began the discussion, Nolan having contributed with his own little sprinkle of knowledge.
But with only those two in the group being 'experienced' and Nolan skipping over to the coffee machine, the conversation soon shifted to a 'worst love life' contest between you and your female colleagues.
One of your own coworkers, Emma, a forensic analyst, moves the spotlight to you and asks if you've dated your fair share of men.
"Oh, me? I guess… and I kind of got engaged once…?" you reply, half-heartedly rolling your eyes at the redhead.
"Kind of?" Lucy asks, as she tilts her head forward.
"Yeah, I mean, he broke it off before we even planned the wedding. I guess I just thought I had to say yes."
You finish with a laugh, already having moved past the awkwardness.
The women pass along their own little comments. 'Good for you, girl,' 'His loss,' and 'What a loser,' accompanied by giggles, filled the small space.
None of you seemed to notice the way Tim looked up from his coffee or how his cup was gripped a little harder in his hand after.
~~~~~~
You exit the precinct with a smile, the zeal from the pleasant interaction of the day still buzzing off of you.
It isn't until you've quietly fished out your keys from your bag that you train your eyes forward, towards your car parked neatly in its designated spot.
Your smile falls.
Your steps stutter for a moment, confusion evident in your gaze as you take in the picture in front of you.
Tim Bradford, leaning on your car. His arms are crossed, one ankle crossed over the other as well. You take your bottom lip between your teeth unconsciously, chewing without a thought.
You straighten your back and walk forward again, confidence radiating off every stride.
You stop about two feet from the man, stance questioning, already impatient from whatever he must have been here to say.
You don't look at him; no, instead, you focus on the tap of his finger against his elbow, the fluorescent light illuminating each curve.
You expect an order, maybe a rush on the report you need to file tomorrow.
"You moved on."
It's not a question; he doesn't ask you anything. It's a declaration, like he's accusing you of something he didn't think you were capable of.
You laugh bitterly as your hands begin to fiddle with your keys, shoulders squared with tension that you can't quite place.
Of-fucking-course he eavesdropped on that breakroom conversation; you thought you had seen him lift his head up in your periphery.
You glance at him, his azure eyes locked in on you with purpose, the kind that's built after years of mastery.
You swear you can see traces of longing in them, but you blame the navy filter that this night has put on the two of you.
"You disappeared. What was I supposed to do?"
A mindless chuckle falls in between the two sentences, breaking them up uncomfortably.
Tim has the audacity to scoff. He fucking scoffs.
He shifts his weight on one leg, angling his body towards you in a way that screams business. Like you're some criminal he has to deal with in the interrogation room, with accusations or insults.
"I disappeared?"
His brows are lifted in amusement, his eyes flitting over your figure, up and down. He pushes himself off the body of the car and uncrosses his arms.
This whole conversation is amusing to him, you conclude—a mask he puts on when things get heavy.
Twenty years you haven't seen each other.
Even after twenty years, his gaze is fixed on the way your hands remain still when he moves, keys no longer jingling.
Like he still knows you. Like he still has the right to know you.
And here, you pretend to not know him.
He doesn't read your mind when he utters his next words, but the way he says them still knocks the wind out of you one way or another.
"Why did you pretend to just not know me then? When you came back."
The words prick you, hard. His figure becomes nothing but a blur, and you're not sure you want to know if it's your anger that clouds your vision or your tears.
Your pulse feels loud enough to shake your ribs, your breath falling short and throat stinging with the pain you try so hard to keep down.
"Because you fucking abandoned me, Tim!"
Your voice gets uncharacteristically loud, Tim notes. You're no longer the calm, patient, put-together analyst.
You're seventeen again, with crushed promises and a broken heart making home in the palm of your hand.
Tim doesn’t respond, not yet.
It takes you a moment to gather your breath, chest still heaving from the sheer strength it took to be that loud.
It takes another moment to recall where you are for the smallest bit of embarrassment to flood your senses. Not enough for you to stop, but enough to manifest as discomfort.
You're still at the station, in the parking lot.
The light from within the building is blinding to your right, a constant presence you cannot seem to ignore.
Shadows dance across the pavement. Someone's hand reaching out, pulling the shoulder of another away from watching whatever scene you two have created.
Lucy, Jackson.
Even amidst the angry huffs and the faint hum of traffic on the nearby road, you can make out a few gasps, some shocked, some scared.
Someone even whispers, 'what the hell?'
Your feet move before your mind can comprehend. In a haste, you turn your body away from Tim completely, seeking whatever semblance of ignorance you can muster.
His footsteps are loud, too loud, as he crosses the distance you had put between you two with little effort.
Your jaw is clenched; you can feel its pull. You can also feel the tremble of your hands as they stay at your sides, keys now held looser in your grip.
You swallow; Tim shifts somewhere behind you.
His next words aren't loud enough to reach the station, but they're loud enough for you. Uttered with careful urgency, like they were meant for your ears and yours alone.
"If you cared so much, why didn't you reply to any of my letters?"
Tim doesn't shout. He doesn't increase his volume; he doesn't even forcibly thrust the words in your direction.
He says it like he's asking himself, wondering – no, demanding – where he went wrong.
Your thoughts scatter. Suddenly, you're thinking of a hundred things at once.
Your rooftop. The Ferris wheel. The confession. The park. The letters.
Wait.
The letters?
You spin on your heel with such haste that your feet stumble against eachother. Eyes narrowed, fists now clenched, you put words to your doubt.
"What letters?"
Your brows are furrowed. Tim is looking at the space above your head, as if afraid to meet your eyes.
A beat passes.
"After you told me you—"
He pauses mid-sentence, like saying the words physically pains him. Like they probe a knife through his chest with no mercy. He inhales deeply, then releases the words with his breath.
"—after you told me you loved me."
He winces right after, like the knife has now been twisted viciously.
The air gets caught in your throat, your eyes widen, and something akin to a gasp escapes you.
You move your head to the side, eyes stubbornly not leaving his, which have started to stare right back at you.
"Tim...what letters?"
His name comes out in a whisper, the rest following in a haze.
You can see the moment recognition flashes across his face, the moment the resolve crumbles and the anger slips through the cracks.
The anger slips away through the cracks.
He takes one step towards you, his chest nearly colliding against yours with the motion.
He stands close enough for you to make sense of his musky perfume, still fresh, still—
Lilac?
You'd recognise that scent anywhere. His eighteenth birthday gift. The one you gave him even prior to his enlistment, knowing he'd be spending his birthday alone. The one he made fun of and said he'd never use.
That one must've expired long ago. Unless...
Unless he never changed it. Unless he buys it over and over and uses it to this day.
You open your mouth to try and give an explanation, one you know he deserves. But what do you explain?
You still have no idea what he's talking about.
What fucking letters?
For the third time in your life, and in all the time that you've known Tim Bradford, you hear him stutter.
First, when he had opened up about his father.
And second, when he had asked you to be his girlfriend.
And third now.
"I-I wrote you letters from Afghanistan; they always came back. Always, always, stamped 'return to sender'."
For a moment your world stops, and not in the good way.
You say his name first, then take one step backwards.
It's not intentional, your movement, but Tim notices. He always notices.
He takes your response as rejection, the way he was trained to, in the way that was wired into him – no, hammered into him – from the days before he met you.
He turns on his heel before your fingers can reach him, your hand hanging limply in the air as the sound of his footsteps gets quieter until his truck door slams and the engine starts.
By the time you move your feet, his truck has left the parking lot.
You can't quite tell how long you stood there until Lucy's hand brushed your elbow as she calmly guided you towards your car.
She drove you home in silence. No explanation, no questions, nothing.
You don’t remember saying a word either.
~~~~~~
The entrance to Tim's house is slammed shut with a bang so loud that it rattles the windows and causes the jackets hung behind his door to nearly fall.
He rakes an unsteady hand over his face, head angled upwards, silently willing the tears to not fall.
He stalks towards the bedroom like a dead man, doesn’t even bother locking the front door. He takes off his boots and sits on the edge of his bed.
He lets out a shuddering breath. His hands are clammy; he knows it. The traffic noise from the street outside is too loud; it makes him wonder if he left a window open somewhere.
His phone rings for the eighth time that night, and to Angela's surprise, he finally picks up. Her voice sounds partly like static through the speakers.
“You wanna tell me what happened back there? The whole station got a view of that spectacle.”
Tim grunts, bringing the phone closer to his face. He pauses initially, then replies.
“I can’t. Not right now.”
He doesn’t think he’d recognise his voice if someone played him a recording of this later; he can’t bring himself to care. Angela says his name once; it’s preceded by a sigh of her own.
Tim swallows, though; tonight it feels like he’s swallowing down bile that has threatened to rise up.
“Angela, I really can't," he says, almost like he’s begging.
Angela sighs again on the other side of the call and mutters something about ‘being here’ before the call cuts.
Tim sits in silence for a while, mind blank, knuckles whitening over his knees.
He stands up, swaying a little as he walks toward the closet.
A neat arrangement of greys and blues stares back at him. He thinks that the brown box, a stark contrast to the rest, must be mocking him while he pulls it out.
The lid opens; inside lies a stack. A stack of at least a hundred letters, neatly placed, each stamped in angry red ink ‘Return to sender’.
One envelope is crumpled, lying on top of the rest, like it's worn out from being carried everywhere.
He did—carry it everywhere, that is. For all twenty years, it sat undisturbed in his chest pocket, only being moved here three weeks ago.
"Because you fucking abandoned me, Tim!"
Did you really believe that he chose war over you? You were the one that gave up on him when he was alone in a foreign country.
Weren’t you?
~~~~~~
You don’t know why your feet have brought you here or why your fingers had tirelessly skimmed through address logs until you spotted his name. Why you’re standing at his doorstep in navy pyjama bottoms and a sweatshirt thrown on haphazardly.
You don’t know why you even ring the doorbell, why you don’t shy away from it in an instant, why you suddenly hold your ground and decide to be the ‘mature’ person.
Scratch that.
You do know why you’re here.
You know it’s the same reason you refuse to meet his eyes at work, the same reason you talk to him with clipped tones and minimal words.
Time never had been on your side.
It’s only moments later when the door opens, yellow light from the hallway bulb shooting forward through the crack.
His eyes follow next. The vibrant azure hue that you’ve come to expect is somehow dimmer than you remember. They widen the moment he registers your figure.
He yanks the door open hastily, taking a moment to square his shoulders as his brows furrow. He looks you up and down once, taking in your odd outfit choice and glassy eyes.
You tilt your head and begin to look around, now avoiding his gaze that suddenly makes you want to curl in on yourself. You open your mouth a couple times, closing it again when no sound escapes.
He says your name. You can’t quite place why, but it makes your heart swell.
Not ‘analyst’. Not ‘ ma’am’.
Your name.
It gives you the courage you needed to speak.
“I-I can leave—" you offer, shrinking under his blatant stare.
His response is immediate; the door opens further, and a quiet 'no' whas you dragging your feet through the door despite yourself.
“We should talk.” he says after a moment.
You both cautiously pad further into the home, past his living room, stopping near the kitchen.
Like two teenagers who got caught sneaking out.
He offers you water like he doesn’t know what else to do. You accept before sitting down on a stool at the island, jumping in your seat when he sits on the one beside you, pushing forward a filled glass.
You rub your feet against one another, tapping one finger on the counter, the other hand resting tentatively on the glass as if to stall time. Tim breaks the silence first.
“I didn’t poison it, if that’s what you’re wondering."
His tone is light, airy and carefree. Like everything between the two of you, past and future, doesn’t depend upon this single conversation. You smile without meaning to as you trace your finger on the edge of the glass.
Tim lets out a breathy chuckle, and once his laughter dies down, you take it as your cue to talk.
“I…”
An inhale. An encouraging nod of his head.
“I never got your letters. The ones after…” you trail off, hoping he catches the sincerity in your words.
At his lack of a response, you grasp that, much like you, Tim has also spent the last 6 hours, between the station and now, figuring things out. And much like you, he has reached the same conclusion.
With no one to condemn and nothing to blame, you let out a bitter laugh, the collective weight of twenty years lifting from your shoulders.
Tim follows it with a laugh of his own and shakes his head as he speaks.
“So… I guess that was stupid, huh? The twenty years, hating eachother.”
“I didn’t hate you," you instantly reply, turning to him with a frown.
Tim only raises his brows before a smile breaks out on his face, yours following soon after.
The two of you fall into a solemn rhythm, littered with acknowledgement and acceptance. It’s not easy conceding the damage and how it happened. You admit you were kids. You admit that it still hurts.
You don’t notice when the two of you shift closer, when your knee starts touching his and your arms fold neatly onto the counter beside his own.
By the time the conversation has lulled, moving to stories and memories, Tim says something you have to take a second to process.
“You were the only good thing in that house.”
He says it like a confession, hanging his head low and fiddling with his empty glass. You don’t realise when a tear falls from your eye, a burning sensation hitting your throat. Not until his hand reaches up to wipe it away, muttering a kind ‘hey’.
His hand stills on your cheek, cupping it gently. His face moves closer as another whisper escapes him. 'I'm okay now’. A reassurance, a promise.
Your eyes dart to his lips, gulping at the realisation of how impossibly close he has gotten. His gaze moves downwards aswell, just for a second.
Your eyes flutter before you look up, seeing his eyes still trained on your lips.
He stops.
And then, barely louder than a whisper, he speaks.
“We’re not seventeen anymore."
You nod instantly, hand grasping his – that was still on your cheek – and bringing it down. Pushing your legs back, you stand, tugging at the sleeves of your sweatshirt.
“I should—" You motion towards his front door, already straightening your socks. He nods once, slowly, then follows you to his house’s exit.
You halt your steps on your way to your car, turning around in a hurry. Tim tilts his head, silently asking if something happened.
Glancing around, you rock on the balls of your feet, swaying on the front porch.
“So… friends?”
A smile breaks out on his face at your suggestion; he nods, watching you turn around and comically walk—skip—over to your car.
He then closes the door with a smile and a shake of his head.
~~~~~~
Tim’s friends are also your friends.
It’s been about a month and a half of having transferred to your new job at HQ. After the completion of that case, your help has been both requested and required at several other precincts across the state.
Despite having to travel several hours each workday, you’ve found yourself making time to visit your ‘friend’ Tim, spending days at the station during your off time or making yourself at home in his apartment when he’s on duty.
His coworkers talk to you almost every day; brunch dates with Lucy, clothes shopping with Angela and Genny, and back-and-forth debates with Wesley have kept you busy long enough to forget about Boston and get used to LA again.
As for with Tim… It was awkward at first, having to relearn eachother after years of longing, guilt and distance.
So much distance.
But it's been comfortable, oddly so, like you simply picked up where you left off, laughing at the TV and making sassy remarks about eachother’s food preferences.
His friends, on the other hand, have started to comment on his changed demeanour. How his insults carry no weight and his reports have become more generous.
Most of all, they comment on his eyes lingering on your form long after you have turned away, a soft look on his face, uncharacteristic of the brooding T.O.
Lucy teases him about the way he smiles when you ramble.
Angela lifts her brow at dinner when he wordlessly slides his mushrooms to your plate with no hesitation.
Wesley tilts his head at the coffee you bring him one morning before a meeting he has with the lawyer.
You really think nothing of it when the same looks and questioning stares make their way into your own routine.
~~~~~~
Tim has been meaning to assemble a new armchair he got recently, and being his bestfriend (self-proclaimed), you took it upon yourself to help.
He sits cross-legged on the carpeted floor, brows furrowed at the set of instructions in his hand, sixty pages long. You return from the kitchen, beer bottle in hand and stop at the back of the couch, peering over the backrest to see his tense shoulders, bowed head and tightened hands.
A laugh escapes your throat at his focused expression, prompting him to look over the instruction manual.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing…” you respond.
It’s easy being Tim's friend. Sometimes too easy and you find yourself wondering if he’s just grown comfortable with you now or if there is something deeper going on.
Sometimes, just sometimes, there are certain lines that blur.
Like when his hand hovers too long over the small of your back, guiding you to his desk or the exit.
Or when his eyes linger on your lips as you finish speaking, darting to your eyes soon after.
Little things.
Tim motions for you to get him a screwdriver while tearing open a package of screws with his teeth.
Your feet padded down the hall. You turn to the right and enter his bedroom, heading straight for the closet where you know he keeps his tools. Your hand skims the handle of the toolbox before your attention is drawn elsewhere.
A brown box, half open, with white paper within, seemingly screaming your name, like it's begging you to see what's inside, like an itch you can’t yet scratch.
You take the gamble, pulling your hand away from the toolbox and towards the cardboard instead. Steady hands pry open the lid the rest of the way.
A stack.
At least a hundred letters, neatly placed, each stamped in angry red ink 'Return to sender’.
One envelope lies wrinkled, having been crumpled and then flattened out, atop the rest. You reach for the stack first, all considerations of privacy thrown out the window carelessly.
The stack is heavy in your palms, with sharp folded edges, compressed from years of being kept together, nearly merging into one.
The smell of old paper hits your nose the moment you lift it from the box, somewhere mixed with lilac and the lingering scent of ink.
The first letter is written in jet-black, careless, boyish writing, scribbled hastily on the paper. It’s dated. And as you recall, only a week after your confession.
Your eyes fly across the words, reading each line twice.
“I keep thinking about your eyes.
The way they crinkle when you’re trying not to laugh.
I think about them when it gets loud here. It helps.”
Your breath picks up, fingers beginning to quiver unconsciously, hesitant. You reread the words again.
Your eyes. He used to mention your eyes.
You take a breath, just one, willing yourself to push down the lump that has formed in your throat.
The next letter is sharper, with more full stops littering the paragraphs. More concrete thoughts framed into those boxy letters.
“I don’t know if you’re reading these anymore.
I keep replaying the way you looked at me the night I left.
I can’t tell if I imagined it. Or if you already knew I wouldn’t stay.”
You blink several times, fingers nimbly closing the flap of the envelope.
The angry red letters stare back at you; in the creases you can see fragments of the boy from highschool.
The crooked smile.
His stare at the back of your head in math class.
His fingers shielding his eyes as he looks up at the sun.
You don’t read one, you read all of them. They lengthen as you progress, getting more detailed as you near the end.
“You used to look at me like I meant something.
Like I wasn’t just… my father’s son.
I don’t know if anyone’s ever looked at me like that since.”
You press this one to your lips, a ghost of a laugh escaping you. The plastic is still moving in the living room, your heightened senses picking up on each rustle.
The next letter makes your hands tremble. The words are shaky, frantically etched onto the paper, tripping over eachother. The sentences are clipped, smaller than the rest; the ink is angrily smudged towards the corner.
“It was loud today. I kept thinking, What if I die here?
You’ll never know I meant it. I meant it. I did.
I kept my eyes closed longer than I should have.
And all I could see were yours.”
A quiet sob escapes you as the words drill into your mind.
You smooth out the minor wrinkles with your knuckles, fingers slow and intentional. Your head tilts back to look at the ceiling, and that's when the first tear falls.
The crumpled one is different; it’s not dated, not even addressed, no red stamp bleeding through the back. The handwriting is tighter, straighter, and less boyish.
He starts the letter normally.
“___,
I don’t know if you’re getting these anymore.”
Then there’s a scratch through your name. It's not messy; it’s deliberate. A single strike stretching to cover the length of your name
Like he tried to write it, stopped, then started again beneath it.
“I don’t know if you want to hear from me.”
Then it goes into the mundane; he talks of the sky, clouds and birds, the dust, and how quiet it has been lately. How he misses your bike rides and your lame dad jokes.
Then the handwriting tilts again, smoother, as if the words were writing themselves before the mind could comprehend.
“I thought loving you meant I was allowed to hope.
I think…maybe I misunderstood.”
Your breath stutters at the next line and the one that follows. Because at the bottom, when he signs off, he writes:
“I won’t write your name again if you don’t want me to.
- Tim
(the one you used to look at like he was worth something)”
The letter flutters as it falls down, your hands having left the paper, now one at your mouth and the other fisting your shirt, hoping to fruitlessly ground yourself.
Sobs rake your body, louder now, reality crashing down on you with each passing second. Your mind drifts to each day spent with the boy at seventeen, laughing, hands linked, hours bleeding into dusk.
You break.
Not because Tim Bradford stopped loving you.
But because he thought he had to.
~~~~~~
By the time Tim enters the room, your tears have dried. There you were, kneeling between his closet and his bed, holding a bundle of red and white, your cheeks streaked with saline water and mascara.
When he arrives, the door creaks.
His footsteps echo, thumping loudly as he hurries to your side, a quiet flurry of 'What happened?' and 'Hey's accompanying him.
Your body is still shivering with the remnants of your sobs when his hand lands hesitantly on your shoulder.
You look up to meet his eyes, and another wave of tears gathers at your waterline. His face twists into concern again, and his eyes dart down to your hands at the crumpled letter you’re gripping onto.
He meets your eyes again, and you can barely give it much thought; you push yourself forward and wrap your arms around him, taking him by surprise.
There is no hesitation when he wraps his own arms around your frame, swaying gently with one hand cradling your head.
“I’m so sorry," you whisper, the words wedged between sobs.
You feel Tim shake his head, still buried in the crook of your neck, and you cling harder onto his shirt, like he’ll disappear again if you let go.
You jerk back like you’ve been burnt, your eyes wide and frantic, pushing Tim off yet holding him at arm's length. Words tumble out. Raw, unfiltered. Weak.
It's now or never.
“I love you! I’m still in love with you, Tim. I tried—and trust me, I did—I tried to make it smaller, to make it all go away—”
Your voice falters at the edge of your words, rough and raw. But you continue despite it.
“But I just can’t not love you. I—you're still everything to me.”
Tim’s eyes widen, his hand stilling at your nape. He swallows once, then opens his mouth to no avail.
At his lack of response, you continue, having just now registered the weight of your words, wishing you could have taken them back.
“And I get it if—if you’ve moved on and you don’t ever wanna see me again, I—I’ll deal with that. But i just had to tell you, after reading them and—”
Your voice has returned to a shallow whisper by the time you finish. The rest of the words getting stuck like thorns on your tongue.
The air shifts then, his hand tightening on your neck, an anchor, and yours coming up to rest on his chest.
He opens his mouth and closes it, swallowing.
And then he leans in.
Any remaining thoughts get pushed to the back of your mind the moment his lips crash into yours, one of his hands still at your shoulder.
Like he’s afraid you’ll break if he presses too hard.
His thumb brushes the damp skin beneath your eye. Your fingers tighten in his shirt without you realising.
It’s slow and unsure, nothing dramatic. There is no collision. Not a desperate clash of tongue and teeth. It just is. A declaration of the words Tim wishes he could say out loud.
He pulls back with a slight flush on his cheeks, his hand limp around your neck. Your eyes are wide open again, lips slightly parted, heart still racing abnormally fast.
He doesn’t have to say it. Not out loud, and the way his hand stays at your neck, like it belongs there, feels like answer enough.
But he does anyway.
“Not going anywhere," he says, softly.
The softest of smiles curves at the corner of his mouth. He presses his forehead to yours, quiet, just breathing.
And for a moment you’re not in his bedroom anymore; the room feels suspended suddenly, like the world is small and moving below you.
You're high above the city lights, metal creaking softly, one hand intertwined with his, the other clutching the seat of a Ferris wheel carriage, afraid to look down.
“I’m not going anywhere." he had said then, and you hadn’t believed him.
But you sure as hell believe him now.
And for the first time since you were seventeen, it makes you trust that maybe, just maybe, you survived the great war.
~Fin.~
General Taglist: : @desikudisworld @wh0re-for-w0lfstar
Tags for this fic: @steveharringtonsidepiece
Tysm for reading, as always, reblogs are the heart of tumblr, if you liked this fic, a reblog would mean the world to me.
pairings ━ steve harrington x fem!reader with foster child!OC
synopsis ━ after defeating vecna, jodie saw her biggest fears come to life. she thought abandonment was in her cards, unaware that you and steve would never leave her alone again.
time stamp ━ november 6th, 1987
warnings ━ long chapter, angst, mentions of death, anxiety, fears of abandonment, injury, adoption
series masterlist
a metallic floor plate groaned under eleven’s telekinetic grip, with the sound hearing through the backyard of hawkins lab like a dying bird.
the lab itself was an eerie place to be at. you've heard so much about this place from steve, hopper, and joyce. you remember the times when your parents, before their death, mentioned this place being owned by the department of energy. however, it kept children for superpower experiments, you know now.
eleven stood at the center of it all with her face pinched in concentration, and her nose starts trickling blood as she lifted the heavy plate inch by inch. the girl's eyes were squeezed shut as you watched from a few feet back, arms crossed tight over your chest to brace against the pull on your ribs.
the idea of a portal into the upside down being created by the hands of one person made your skin crawl and your fractured rib ache deeper, as if the other side was calling to the pain already inside you.
every breath was a negotiation since each one was shallow enough not to flare the fracture, yet deep enough not to pass out. anxiety churned in your gut, since you wanted to be mad at steve. you wanted to be so mad your blood boiled.
he’d slipped away from the hospital while you were stuck in that sterile hell, arguing with nurses about discharge papers. your man left you behind like you were fragile glass he couldn’t risk breaking.
however, the anger wouldn’t stick. it melted into something worse and it turned into anxiety that twisted your insides until you felt sick.
did he find something down there?
dustin’s voice on the walkie earlier had been garbled, static-crackled words about seeing jodie and holly... but your heart had raced anyway with hope and fear colliding like thunder. if she was with them, how the hell were you supposed to explain all this?
how were you supposed to explain the upside down, the monsters, vecna. jodie loved science which involved volcanoes, stars, and radios, we all knew that. but this was an entire shadow world of red lightning and flesh-eating horrors?
it would overwhelm her and shatter that bright, curious spark in her eyes. she was nine and too young for the nightmares that had stolen your own childhood.
you scoffed inwardly, the thought bitter on your tongue. you sounded like a mother.
and maybe that was the point.
the two-year foster clock was ticking down. last month, shannon’s voice over the phone echoed in your head about a family in california who was ready to meet and adopt her, but you couldn’t let her go. not after everything and the anxiety about her being gone had clawed at you for days, with a constant strangle around your chest harder than the fractured rib.
sending her away would destroy you, and her. hawkins was her home now which had the radio station with robin, science fairs with dustin, basketball in the driveway with lucas. abandoning her to strangers across the country would echo every loss she’d already endured with her parents, and the “accident” cover story.
you were keeping her, and adopting her.
the money for college, for DC, for escaping this cursed town... it could wait. she was your family and steve’s too.
you’d make it work, somehow.
soon eleven finally lifted the plate free with a final clang, crashing to the side. with that, a sea of red glowed up from the ground, pulsing like a heartbeat with the air shimmering with heat and that sickly sweet rot from below.
mr. clarke... your old middle school science teacher, dragged into this madness by murray’s and erica's “persuasive” speech.. stood frozen beside you with his wire-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose, mouth agape.
“holy mother of—” he stammered, eyes wide as saucers.
murray chuckled from behind, slinging a backpack over his shoulder, “you coming, snookums?”
clarke blinked, face paling further as the rumbling from the gate grew louder with a low, guttural vibration that shook the floor, “we’re… going in there?”
you smirked, since laughing would pull at your ribs, “it’s not as bad as it looks.”
that was a lie. the upside down was hell and it was cold, toxic, and full of things that wanted to rip you apart. you stepped forward anyway with you heart pounding and the red glow reflecting in your eyes like blood.
robin and vickie went first, with vickie clutching a flashlight like it would run away if she let go. you followed, and the descent was like falling into a wound with vines slithering along the edges, red mist curling up to meet you, and the air turning thick and cold midway down.
your boots hit the ground with a wet squelch because of the upside down dirt, always damp, always alive underfoot. the world inverted around you with the hawkins lab’s underbelly twisted into something nightmarish. the ceilings were dripping with black ichor, the walls were pulsing with veiny growths that glowed faintly purple. the sky above was that endless storm with dark clouds roiling, and red lightning forking silently.
“nancy! holly!” mike yelled into the blue-gray wind, voice desperate for any response.
“jodie! steve?” you called, the words tearing out of you despite the stab in your side. you winced, hand flying to your ribs, but kept moving.
vickie coughed, waving a hand in front of her face, “is this shit safe to breathe?”
“unclear,” robin said flatly, scanning the shadows.
“well... um... i got a sore throat after the first time i was under here,” you added, forcing a smile, “but hey, builds character.”
vickie’s eyes widened, with anxiety going deeper into her face. she clutched robin’s arm tighter, flashlight beam jittering across the ground.
“mike? mike!” a voice yelled from the distance. it was faint and distorted by the wind before it got closer with flashlights waving ahead... dustin.
your group broke into a run, pain be damned as your ribs screamed with every jolt. the beams converged and soon dustin, steve, nancy, jonathan emerging from a cluster of twisted trees with their faces smeared with ash and weird goo.
“jesus, it’s so good to see you guys,” mike said, voice breaking.
dustin threw himself into mike’s arms, the two boys hugging tightly yet quick. you scanned the group with nancy hugging joyce, jonathan clasping hopper’s shoulder.
there were no small figures, though. no curls, and no jodie, and no holly.
your smile died as steve’s face which was defeated, haunted, and worse than nancy’s or jonathan’s... told you everything. you walked forward, past your group, the pain in your side fading under the crush of dread.
“steve?” you mumbled, hands reaching for his arms, gripping gently.
steve couldn’t meet your eyes as he stared at the ground, ashamed, broken.
“where is she?” you whispered, “where’s the girls?”
steve finally looked up, shaking his head as his eyes which are usually so warm, and so steady with you were shattered, twinkling with unshed tears.
“she was here, y/n,” he mumbled, “she was here.."
your mouth went agape, "what?"
"something had a hold of her, but you couldn’t see anything. she was just… right there. now she’s gone.... it was him, it had to be.” steve said, with the defeat on his face clear.
your eyes widened with horror blooming cold and loud in your chest, “I don't... I don't get it?”
nancy stepped closer, and her face was more pale than usual, “we were on the floor below the roof and we heard screams... we ran up and we looked up and saw jodie floating and terrified. she was screaming for us.... for steve. she reached for him, but… something pulled her away and up into the sky like vecna had her on a string.”
jonathan nodded grimly, “holly too. we saw her shadow above but it was the same thing, like the two of them were gone before we could do anything.”
you looked back at steve and searched his face as moisture started building in your eyes, “she was… screaming?”
steve’s voice cracked, “my name.... over and over. I tried, y/n. I reached but she was too high and she got yanked away like the clouds swallowed her.”
the words punched through you since your little girl, terrified, alone, calling for steve, couldn't be reached. failure crashed over you again and it was heavier than the rib pain, than anything else.
mike’s walkie crackled suddenly and lucas’s voice was frantic.
“mike, do you copy? is jodie okay? is holly okay? mike? mike do you copy?”
however, the boy's voice was static in your ears since the white noise drowning everything. she was so close and now so far and gone again.
tears blurred your vision, “we have to get her back,” you whispered, “now.”
steve pulled you into his arms and it was so gentle, being mindful of your ribs. “we will,” he said, voice convincing despite the break in it, “i swear. we’ll get them back.”
later, the van ride back to wsqk was suffocating in its silence. the only sounds were the low rumble of the engine, the occasional crackle of gravel under tires, and the wind whistling through a cracked window that no one bothered to close.
nancy sat being the driver's seat in the back, with her arms crossed tight and staring straight ahead like she could will the road to move faster.
jonathan was beside her, head against the glass, eyes distant and nearly broken from something deeper than just the events happening right now.
in the middle in the backseat, dustin fidgeted with a walkie and started turning knobs that weren’t there, all while you sat in the passenger seat as steve drives another car that was not lost in the upside down... all while your ribs scream with every pothole.
he drove with both hands on the wheel, knuckles white and jaw locked so tight you could see the muscle jump.
steve’s face was a mask of quiet devastation with his mouth set in a line that hadn’t softened since the roof. he kept glancing at you right and there, like he needed to confirm you were still there and still breathing, and still with him.
the relief of having you out of the hospital warred with the fresh horror of jodie’s scream still went through his head like a radio rewinding. he’d reached for her and she’d reached for him, yet she’d been yanked away anyway.
you stared out the passenger window, watching the dark shapes of hawkins blur past with abandoned houses, rift-scarred streets, and the occasional federal barricade lit by floodlights.
rage burned low and constant in your chest, hotter than the pain in your side. it wasn’t just steve leaving the hospital without you, it was everything piling up at once, a landslide you couldn’t outrun.
first, your mind replayed your parents’ car crash at fourteen. imagining the screaming sirens, hospital smells, and the sudden silence where their voices used to be.
next, the russians at starcourt with the truth serum burning your veins, steve’s blood on your hands, and the mall collapsing in fire and smoke.
after that, it was vecna’s curse and lucas' description of max’s bones snapping, with her lifeless body later in his arms, and the way you’d frozen when steve looked at nancy like she was still his future.
now it is jodie screaming everyone's name, steve’s name, reaching for safety that wasn’t there.
every breath pulled at the fracture in your third left rib, a sharp pinch that made your vision spot black at the edges. you welcomed it since the pain was grounding.
pain meant you were still here, and still fighting.
the van lurched to a stop in the wsqk parking lot. nancy and jonathan were out before the engine fully cut with their boots hitting gravel, moving toward the building like they could outrun their own fear. dustin scrambled after them as steve killed the ignition.
the sudden quiet, afterward, was deafening as he turned to you.
“y/n.”
you didn’t respond at first since your gaze was fixed on the heat vent by the passenger window, watching the faint ripple of warm air. your pupils were blown wide, breath shallow, with your mind miles away replaying jodie’s possible scream, imagining the way her small hand had reached for steve, and the way the sky had swallowed her.
“y/n,” he said again, softer.
you turned slowly and the movement made your ribs flare as steve’s face swam into focus... exhausted, heartbroken, terrified.
“we will get her back,” he said, reaching across the console to take your hand. steve's fingers were cold as he squeezed gently, “i promise.”
you stared at your joined hands with his thumb brushed over your knuckles... once, then twice... like he was reminding himself you were real.
he smiled before he turned to reach for the door handle, at that time is when you blurted three words out.
“i’m adopting her.”
the words came out quiet, but they landed like a gunshot.
steve froze, hand on the handle. slowly, he turned back to you.
“yeah…” he said, “i figured that.”
you blinked, all while confused, “you… figured?”
he nodded, settling back into the driver’s seat, with his shoulders relaxing for the first time in days, “the day shannon called about that family in california… you were anxious for weeks and pacing, never sleeping. you kept looking at her like she might disappear if you blinked. and after everything—” he gestured vaguely around the place, like explaining now's events, “—everyone knew we weren’t just gonna let her go... not after two years and not after she became ours.”
your throat tightened, “but… do you think it’s a good thing? now it’s not two years anymore. it’s… the rest of our lives.”
steve looked at you, and he really looked and his eyes were soft, tired, yet certain.
“yeah,” he said, “I know, but we’re good people. nowadays, at least.” a small, crooked smile tugged at his mouth, “she’ll be okay with us.”
he reached across, hand cupping your cheek.
you leaned into it, with your eyes closing for a second as his thumb brushed away a tear you hadn’t realized was falling.
“besides,” he murmured, “jodie’s technically our first out of six nuggets.”
a laugh burst out of you... short, surprised, and painful since your ribs protested, but the sound felt like release.
“there’s my girl,” steve said, smile widening.
he leaned over the console and kissed your temple before he got out of the van. you watched him round the hood, open your door, offer his hand.
you took it.
inside wsqk, the environment was full with urgency and coffee. the main room had been turned into a makeshift command center with maps pinned to every wall, radios crackling, and glass windows covered in dustin’s frantic handwriting.
joyce sat at the center, briefing the group and hopper leaned against the window in the back, arms crossed as robin near vickie. everyone else was sat on a couch, and you were sitting beside steve on your left and murray on your right.
“what’s the plan?”
eleven sat beside her sister and her eyes were distant, with blood dried under her nose. she’d just come from saving her sister, and the red glow still lingered on her exposed arm skin like sunburn.
dustin exhaled, “so the upside down isn’t a world,” he said, “it’s a tunnel... like a bridge to another world. we are calling that other world the abyss.”
your stomach dropped.
“jodie and holly is in there,” dustin said quietly, “with the others.”
you stared at him, “how do you know?”
“will felt it,” dustin said, “when he connected. it’s… different and colder. vecna’s not hiding in the upside down since he’s in the abyss while building something.”
nancy spoke up despite the exhaustion etched into her face, “that’s why every crawl led to dead ends....”
eleven nodded, “and that is why i can’t find him in the bath.”
you shook your head, hand pressing harder against your ribs, “so all this time, vecna’s been hiding in the sky, like the sky in the upside down?”
joyce nodded, “that explains the floating. the way jodie and holly were pulled up. he’s not just taking them. he’s collecting them.”
“for what?” hopper growled, angry at the idea of something happening to childern.
will spoke softly from the couch, “the same reason he took me. kids’ minds are weaker., and more malleable. he used me to amplify his reach. now he’s doing it again, with them.”
you sighed deeply, and steve’s hand tightened on your back as a result of that.
“amplify his abilities?” hopper asked, “to do what?”
max, finally awake, and finally here sat in her wheelchair with her voice rough, “to move worlds.”
the room went still.
“holly told me,” max said, “henry... he told the kids they were going to help him move worlds. he wants to use jodie like he used will by being another sorcerer, all because she’s been through harder things. because she’s… gifted, he says.”
the word hit like a slap to your heart. jodie is gifted, and vecna wanted that.
you stood up from the couch and turned away with a hand over your mouth, trying to breathe through the pain in your side, in your chest, in your head.
steve followed you into the hallway as you speed walked, “y/n—”
you spun on him, tears spilling over.
“jodie,” you choked out.
he pulled you into his arms, careful of your ribs, and you collapsed against his chest, sobbing.
“i need to get her back,” you whispered, “we have no other choice.”
steve nodded against your hair, “yeah. her, holly, the others. we’re getting them all back, y/n. we just need to all talk about it, okay?”
you clung to him, shaking.
“i’m sorry,” you mumbled, “for everything and for doubting you, and for pushing you away.”
“stop,” he said softly, “we’re past that, babe. we’re here, and we are together.”
after another minute, he guided you back into the main room and will was standing now, marker in hand, drawing on the window with squiggly lines representing rifts, a larger shape for the abyss.
you sat on the arm of the couch beside steve with your ribs throbbing, and hands slightly shaking.
will spoke quietly, “henry wants to merge his world with ours. he wasn’t licking his wounds in the abyss. he was creating rifts.” he drew connecting lines between hawkins and the abyss, “he’s weakening the boundary like he weakened hawkins. when the abyss and hawkins collide—”
he pressed his hands together.
“—they become one.”
steve leaned forward, “so how long do we have? instantly? or…?”
mike answered, “we better hope it takes time because if will’s right, we have to get two thousand feet in the air, find our way into the abyss, free holly and jodie and the others, and kill vecna all before the merge finishes.”
lucas nodded grimly, "and if my calculations are correct… he’s moving worlds tonight.”
the room went dead silent.
as some people complained about hating lucas' theory, you stood up... too fast and pain flared white-hot. you gasped, hand flying to your side.
“then what are we waiting for?” you said, voice raw as steve reached his arm up, helping you stand more balanced.
hopper scoffed, “you know i hate all of this... but at least we know what we’re up against.”
after steve came up with a beautiful plan in another room, joyce looked around the room seeing exhausted faces, bruised bodies, and terrified eyes.
“we gear up,” she said, “we move at dawn.”
you nodded once before then you walked out of the room, going into one of the closets and finding a backup outfit, one you've always kept here at the radio station incase of emergencies. all dark clothing, perfect.
afterwards, you move into the hallway bathroom and you locked the door. shortly after, you stripped off your jeans and dark green sweater and stood in your bra and underwear, staring at your reflection in the mirror in front of the sink.
the bruise on your left side was massive, it was a deep purple spreading across your ribcage like spilled ink, yellowing at the edges.
you touched it lightly and pain flared which caused you to hiss.
after seeing the big bruise, and feeling the pain that followed, you wondered, for one terrible second, if this was your last night alive.
vecna didn’t lose, not really. every time you've encountered an upside down monster in the last few years something always went horribly wrong.
but... but for jodie, for the shy girl you’d raised into someone bright and brave, you’d do anything.
shaking your head, trying to push your thoughts aside, you pulled on black windbreaker nylon pants, a black long-sleeve shirt, and a dark green camouflage army jacket you kept here for emergencies.
afterwards, you had on your brown military boots laced tight.
you looked at yourself again and you were bruised and terrified... but ready.
opening the bathroom door, you stepped back into the war room to see everyone was moving by loading weapons, checking batteries, and taping knives to bats.
steve looked up when you walked in and his eyes softened.
“you okay?” he asked quietly.
you nodded, “we’re getting her back,” you said.
he crossed the room at that moment, and pulled you into a careful hug.
“yeah,” he whispered against your hair, “we are.”
the journey through the gate at the mac-z had you clenching your teeth the whole way, with one hand pressed to your side the whole time pretending like the fractured rib wasn’t screaming louder than the monsters that could be around, or the military men.
adrenaline had dulled the worst of it for a while, but now crammed into murray’s van hurtling through the inverted hawkins streets, the pain was back with teeth and harsher words.
the van lurched over a cracked road and you knocked hard into steve’s side. thankfully, he caught you instantly with arm around your waist, careful not to squeeze but the jolt still sent a white-hot spike through your left ribcage.
“jesus christ,” he exhaled, voice tight with worry.
you hissed through your teeth, hand flying to your side, “'m sorry.”
hopper’s voice boomed from the front, “everybody alright? everyone okay? y/n?”
steve’s grip tightened protectively, “y/n, babe—”
you shook your head, forcing a tight smile as you slid down to sit on the van floor between his knees, hands braced on the metal walls for balance.
“i just get motion sickness too. i’ll be fine.”
it wasn’t a complete lie since the van’s erratic swerving and murray’s maniacal driving were making your stomach churn, but everyone knew the real culprit. pity flickered across their faces since robin, holding onto a support bar for dear life, gave you a look that said she wasn’t buying it.
lucas, pressed against the opposite wall, winced in sympathy.
“i kind of thought that was supposed to be the easy part,” robin called over the engine noise, voice shaking from the ride.
“it was,” lucas muttered.
you closed your eyes for a second, trying to breathe through the pain. it was shallow and slow as the van’s motion rocked you forward and back with each jolt tugging at the fracture like someone twisting a knife. thankfully closing your eyes helped a little since the darkness behind your lids was quieter than the chaos around you.
when you opened them again, your gaze landed on eleven.
she stood across from you, staring straight ahead at kali on the other side of the van in front of her. both sisters radiated that eerie calm they got before using their powers... eyes glassy, expressions focused.
however, there was something else in the look they shared. a silent agreement like a willingness to burn themselves out if it meant ending this.
your eyebrows furrowed and the dread coiled tighter in your gut.
before you could day anything, he van finally screeched to a halt and murray killed the engine.
the sudden silence was deafening before the side door slid open with murray’s grinning face appeared, backlit by the red glow of the upside down sky.
“come on, fellas. a whole dimension is about to come falling down on our heads.”
his cheer was forced and you knew that because his eyes were too wide, and his smile too sharp. he was terrified, you all were as he helped hopper down first, then kali, then eleven.
steve jumped out next, turning immediately to offer you his hands and you took them, easing yourself down as carefully as possible. the impact still jarred your ribs but you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from gasping. steve’s arm slid around your waist instantly, steadying you as robin climbed out last.
murray clapped steve on the shoulder, “you’re driving the others, kid. I'm staying here—I gotta help hopper with the bomb.”
steve nodded once as you and robin squeezed into the passenger seat together. there wasn’t enough room, so you ended up half on her lap, legs awkwardly folded, one arm around her shoulders for balance as steve finally hopes into the driver's seat.
robin snorted softly, “this isn’t weird, right?”
you managed a weak smile, “not unless you make it weird.”
steve slid behind the wheel, shaking his head as he started the engine.
“okay, don’t do that with my girlfriend, rob.”
you smirked despite everything, “do what, steve?”
he glanced over, fighting his own smile at you, “let’s save the teasing until after all of this shit is over. deal?”
you and robin nodded in unison, serious now as the humor was drained away as quickly as it had come.
the van lurched forward again, and murray’s reckless driving replaced by steve’s careful but urgent pace. the upside down’s hawkins unfolded around you with treets cracked open like wounds, buildings sagging under vines, and the sky churning with red lightning that never struck. wsqk’s radio tower rose ahead and it was two thousand feet of twisted metal wrapped in black tendrils, with platforms jutting out at intervals like broken ribs.
steve parked at the base and the group piled out once you slid open the back door.
soon, everyone gathered as lucas stared up, “no sign of an evil moving planet.”
you exhaled shakily, following his gaze as the tower loomed impossibly tall, vines pulsing faintly, with wind howling through the girders.
climbing that, with a broken rib, was going to be torture.
jonathan stepped forward.
“well, that’s good. ‘cause this is gonna take some time.”
you sighed, looking from steve on your left to nancy on your right.
jonathan continued, “alright, we should split up. let’s use both ladders.” he looked at you specifically, “do not rush. pace yourselves.”
you straightened as much as your ribs allowed.
“that’s why i’m going last.”
steve turned sharply, “no. I'm going directly after you.”
you shook your head, “steve, i’m going to slow the group down if anybody goes after me. i’ll be fine being last... i promise.”
he searched your face and saw the stubborn set of your jaw, and the desperation in your eyes. finally, he nodded, reluctant.
jonathan added, “there are platforms along the way, y/n. use them to rest, okay?”
you nodded, silently lying through your teeth. you had no intention of stopping and not when jodie was up there somewhere, waiting.
“alright,” you said anyway.
the group split with half to one ladder, half to the other. you watched them start the climb with robin first, then dustin and lucas, mike and will, nancy and jonathan.
steve stayed at the bottom with you, hand on your lower back.
“you sure that you'll be okay climbing this?” he asked quietly.
you looked up at him, and you really looked since your pupils lined up with his. steve's face was pale, and his eyes shadowed.
“i’m sure,” you said, “she needs you.. and she needs me too.”
steve nodded once before he leaned in, kissing your forehead which was soft, and it lingered as he turned around, and started climbing.
he stopped after the ninth step, looking down to watch you starting to climb. after the twentieth step, each rung started to feel like agony. your left arm pulled at the fracture every time you reached up with your boots slipped on vine-slick metal.
wind tore at your jacket, howling through the girders like a chorus of screams. halfway up the first section your vision grayed at the edges. you stopped, only for a second to cling to the ladder, breathing through your teeth.
you could hear the others above you with grunts of effort, occasional curses, and the clang of boots on platforms.
you kept going, mostly using mental strength rather than physical strength.
every rung was slick with the upside down’s perpetual damp, cold and oily goo under your palms. on the way to the second platform, you clenched your teeth so hard your jaw ached since you refused to let the pain slow you down.
steve climbed just ahead of you now, four rungs above since he went a little slower to make sure that you were okay. he never went more than that. he’d insisted on going last on his ladder so he could keep you in sight, but you went last instead.
every few platforms he paused, boots planted wide on the grated metal, turning to look down at you. your man's face was streaked with sweat and ash, hair plastered to his forehead thanks to his hat with eyes full with worry that never quite left.
“y/n,” he called over the wind after the third platform, “you okay?”
you were maybe fifty feet off the ground... already higher than you’d ever wanted to be with cracked bones but you forced your voice steady.
“keep going, hun, i’m fine.”
he hesitated, hand gripping the rung above him, “you’re breathing funny.”
“i’m always breathing funny when i’m climbing a two-thousand-foot death trap with a busted rib,” you shot back, trying for humor. it came out thinner than you meant, “just keep moving, harrington. i’m right behind you.”
he studied you for another beat and saw the way your left arm trembled slightly when you reached, also the way your jaw locked every time you pulled yourself up.
steve nodded once, which was reluctant, “alright. but you yell if you need to stop.”
“i won’t need to stop.”
he exhaled sharply through his nose which was half frustration, and half fear, before he resumed climbing. you followed, slower than him but steady.
one rung, then another.
the pain was constant now, and it was a deep ache that radiated from your side into your shoulder, your neck, your skull. each breath felt like inhaling broken glass, but you refused to let it show. not when jodie was somewhere above you terrified, and maybe hurt. the thought of her alone in that abyss drove you upward, one agonizing step at a time.
the platforms helped a little since every hundred feet or so there was a small grated landing, just wide enough for two people to stand side by side. steve waited on each one, leaning against the railing, watching you haul yourself over the edge.
on the fourth platform he crouched immediately, reaching down to help you up the last few rungs. your boyfriend's hands closed around your forearms which were gentle, and careful not to pull too hard.
“easy,” he murmured as you stepped onto the metal, “lean on me if you need to.”
you shook your head, though your legs trembled under you, “i’m good.”
steve didn’t believe you since he could see the sweat on your forehead wasn’t just from exertion. steve can see the way your left hand kept drifting to your side but he didn’t push since he knew it would upset you. instead he stayed close, with his shoulder brushing yours, giving you something solid to lean against without making it obvious.
“we’re making decent time,” he said quietly, “you’re doing better than i thought.”
“liar,” you muttered, managing a weak smile, “i’m slowing you down.”
“you’re not.” he looked up the tower which was still impossibly tall, with platforms disappearing into the red haze, “you’re keeping up. that’s more than most people could do with a busted rib.”
you didn’t answer and just breathed through the next wave of pain, with your eyes fixed on the next set of rungs.
he waited until your breathing steadied, then asked again, softer.
“still okay?”
you nodded, “keep going.”
he studied you a moment longer and saw the stubborn set of your jaw, the way you refused to lean on him even though you wanted to... then turned back to the ladder.
“alright,” he said, “forty more to the next platform. then we rest.”
“no rest,” you said automatically, “we don’t have time.”
he didn’t argue and just started climbing again, slower than before so you could match his pace.
soon, your vision tunneled at the edges with black spots dancing like demobats but you kept moving because stopping meant admitting you couldn’t do this and you had to for jodie.
for the girl who’d once been too scared to leave her bedroom, who now drew pictures of stars and called you her "younger mom” to her friends when she thought you weren’t listening.
you reached the next platform... the fifth or sixth, with legs shaking and sweat stinging your eyes. steve was already there, turning back to help you over the edge.
this time you let him as his hands closed around your wrists. he pulled you up slowly, yet easily and carefully, until you were standing on the grated metal beside him. the wind tore at your jacket, howling through the girders.
steve didn’t let go right away. he kept one arm around your waist, letting you lean into him while you caught your breath.
“you’re shaking,” he said quietly.
“cold,” you lied.
he didn’t call you on it since just held you tighter, chin resting lightly on top of your head.
“we’re way more than halfway,” he murmured, “you’re doing it.”
you closed your eyes for a second, letting yourself feel his heartbeat against your back, “i know.”
he kissed your temple, and it was quick before he then stepped back to the ladder.
“ready?”
you nodded.
soon, everyone reached the very top and you were panting by the time your feet touched the metal surface. steve rubbed your back, staying to the right side as you turned your head, stretching out whatever tension muscles you may have.
however, you drop to one knee with your chest heaving. for a split second the others freeze with their eyes wide, thinking the pain from your ribs finally buckled you but you force yourself upright again, slow, deliberate.
it wasn’t the break, you were just bone-tired with every muscle screaming from the climb. your side still throbbed, sharp and hot with every breath, but you shove the feeling down deep.
in your head you repeat it like a mantra that if you focus on it, it gets worse. so you don’t focus on it.
everything up here drowns in red. the sky bleeds crimson with the clouds boil like open wounds, and lightning cracking so close the thunder feels like it’s inside your skull.
you tilt your head back, squinting through the haze and searching for the tear, the place where the other world should be pressing down.
soon you see ragged splits in the “roof” above you, glowing faintly with the edges fraying like torn fabric. the upside down’s false sky is lowering, inch by inch, straight toward the radio tower’s antenna.
your stomach lurches since if that world collides with the needle, the whole structure collapses, and you’re all dead and someone else seems to notice it too.
“no no no, guys—it’s not lining up,” lucas says, voice pitching high as he stares upward, one hand shielding his eyes.
“what do you mean it’s not lining up?” steve asks, stepping closer, with his confusion turning into alarm.
“look! the weather needle, the antenna! it’s not gonna hit one of the holes in the rift. it’s off. it’s way off!”
you crane your neck beside dustin and steve, horror crawling up your throat. the massive spire of the tower is perfectly centered under the descending tear, but the glowing gaps above aren’t aligning. the antenna will smash straight into solid other-world ground instead of slipping through like it’s supposed to.
“shit,” steve breathes.
“the tower’s gonna come down if the abyss hits the needle,” you say, the words tumbling out too fast with your voice cracking.
your feet shuffle backward instinctively toward the ladder, toward escape, toward anything but being crushed here.
“y/n,” robin says quickly, with her hand clamping onto your shoulder, anchoring you before you can bolt.
“great. that’s just great,” steve mutters, still staring up, oblivious to how close you came to running.
dustin’s already on the walkie, voice shaking.
“hey, chief, we’re gonna need el to stop this planet on the sooner side, please!”
you nod uselessly since hopper can’t see you, and can’t hear the frantic beat of your heart... but you still nod anyway.
“how soon?” hopper’s gruff voice crackles back.
“like… thirty seconds?” dustin guesses, eyes flicking between the rift and the walkie like he’s bargaining with time itself.
“robin, i’m scared,” you whisper, barely audible over the rising wind.
“me too,” she admits, fingers tightening on your shoulder. she doesn’t let go of you as the rift drops faster now, and it is too fast. you grab robin’s wrist with one hand, white-knuckling the railing with the other. the metal groans under your grip as your pulse explodes in your ears.
“hopper, what is going on!?” dustin nearly screams into the walkie.
“i don’t know! i gave her the signal, I can’t talk to her right now!”
your lungs seize and the air feels thinner, and tighter. fuck, you cannot die here and not on this cursed tower, not in this red-soaked hell, not when the kids are waiting, when jodie’s waiting, and when you promised you’d come back.
“we’re about to be squished by a moving planet, hopper!” dustin yells.
you look up again and the descending world is close enough now that you can see faint outlines of the ground crashing down. your eyes find steve’s at the same instant his find yours with pure terror mirrored back.
you lunge toward him, closing the gap just as the antenna kisses the underside of the other world and metal screams.
the tower shudders violently then lurches sideways like a ship taking a wave. everyone screams as your lungs burn white-hot as you cling to the railing, to steve, to anything.
the violent sway rips you apart from him for a heartbeat.
you spin, reaching blindly before his entire body flys off of the edge.
“steve!”
the scream tears out of you, animal like as it shreds the vocal cords inside of your throat. you lunge toward the drop, feet sliding on the grated platform as robin’s arms hook around your waist, yanking you back just as your fingers hit the lip.
steve’s fingers scrabble on the metal, then nothing.
you see flashes behind your eyes at this moment. scoops ahoy, the stupid hats you wore, the way he leaned over the counter and asked for your number like it was the easiest thing in the world even though his hands were shaking.
everything was perfect, down to the late nights of him training you how to swing a bat properly while you taught him how to shoot a gun. steve was your bestfriend at first, since the two of you would laugh at anything until your sides hurt when he kept missing shots on purpose just to make you stay longer.
the first date at the theater with his arm slung around you, pretending to watch the screen while he traced slow circles on your shoulder.
steve confessed his feelings for you outside of hawkins high after dark, rain soaking through your clothes with the both of you finally saying the words out loud like you’d been holding them too long.
afterwards you had the russians, and the bunker then jodie showing up in your lives like she’d always belonged there, with tiny hands reaching for both of you at once.
now, he was almost gone. one second away from falling into nothing, and from leaving you and jodie and every stupid, beautiful, terrifying thing you built together. the fear tastes like metal in your mouth and it claws up your throat and you can’t swallow it down.
you’re still screaming and shaking as terror and ache from the amount of tears blurs everything. robin holds you back from the edge with every ounce of strength she has.
suddenly, jonathan dives and catches steve's wrist in both hands from over the edge. the man's muscles strain, with veins bulging in in his neck as he hauls.
steve dangles, legs kicking empty air with the red sky swirling behind him as onathan grunts, then pulls harder, and finally drags steve’s chest over the railing.
steve collapses onto the platform, gasping realizing that he is alive but your heart is still hammering like it’s trying to escape your ribs, and the tower keeps shaking beneath you all.
you’re already moving before your brain catches up, stumbling forward with tears blurring everything. robin’s grip on your arm loosens only when she sees you’re not running to the edge anymore.
if he had fallen, if jonathan hadn’t lunged, if—
steve pushes himself up on one elbow, eyes finding yours instantly.
“i’m okay,” he rasps, voice rough from panic, “baby, i’m okay.”
you crash into him anyway, burying your face against his shoulder as your fingers twist in his shirt like you can anchor him to the tower through sheer force. he smells like sweat and upside-down ash and him, and the sob that rips out of you is ugly.
“you idiot,” you choke against his neck, “you absolute fucking idiot.”
your man's arms wrap around you hard, with one hand cradling the back of your head. “i’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs into your hair, “i promised, remember?”
you pull back just enough to look at him with dirt streaked across his cheek, and his pupils blown wide with adrenaline. your hands frame his face and you kiss him like you’re trying to prove he’s real, like if you stop he might disappear again.
he kisses you back just as desperate, fingers digging into your waist, pulling you impossibly closer until there’s no space left for fear.
when you finally break apart, three seconds later, you’re both breathing like you’ve run miles. he rests his forehead against yours, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek.
“you thought i was leaving you that early,” he says, half-laugh, half-wrecked.
you smack his chest weakly, “shut up, harrington. you nearly died.”
he laughs and it is shaky, and breathless before he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead.
“never. i’m not leaving you or jodie behind.”
the walkie crackles with lucas’s voice, bright and triumphant.
“the abyss stopped! el got the bastard! el got the damn bastard!”
the relief hits you like a wave, he is right. the abyss had to stop because of eleven. she is with jodie right now.
you turn with your arms still tangled with steve, and robin barrels into you next, arms tight around your shoulders.
“we’re gonna get jodie home!” she yells, voice cracking with joy.
you laugh through the tears, hugging her back, “we are, rob.”
the hug is a quick few seconds and quieter, just for robin you add, “by the way, steve and i are adopting jodie.”
robin's eyes go wide, then soft, and she squeezes you harder. the rest of the group hears you, and they erupted in cheers, whoops, with dustin’s fist pumping the air. jodie is so loved, and hearing it out loud, up here on this cursed tower with the red sky pressing down, makes something warm bloom in your chest despite everything happening to you.
you wipe your face, glance up at the rift hanging above you like a wound in the world.
"who's going up first?" you ask, curiosity filling your eyes.
everyone goes quiet, with their eyes on you as they hesitate to move. when you realize and understand their looks, you knew that you were going first.
“okay,” you say, small smile tugging your mouth, “so i guess it’s me.”
steve and jonathan are already moving, kneeling, offering their hands.
“we’re gonna help you, sweetheart,” steve says, voice steady now.
you step into their grip, right foot on jonathan’s palms, left on steve’s. you look down at him one last time as he gives you that small, reassuring nod, the one that’s gotten you through every nightmare since 1985.
“on three,” he says.
you don’t wait for three since you push off, and they launch you upward into the slime and the red glow and the unknown.
the push from steve and jonathan the second you shift your weight feels coordinated as you’re launching upward before the rift swallows you in an instant.
it’s cold and thick, like plunging through gelatin made of motor oil. slime coats your skin, your hair, and your clothes as it clings and pulls and makes every inch of you feel violated.
your stomach lurches as the red haze of the upside down vanishes and the world flips to a softer, sickly orange that seeps into your vision like spilled sunset.
gravity feels wrong for a heartbeat, it is lighter, then heavier again before then you’re tumbling out the other side.
you hit sandy ground hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. the impact jars your broken ribs as pain flares white-hot along your side, but you grit your teeth and roll onto your hands and knees instead of curling up.
a low grunt escapes you as you force yourself upright, with the shotgun you had on your back that entire time already sliding off your shoulder into your grip.
the barrel feels reassuringly heavy, even though you've had it during the climb.
for a few seconds you just breathe careful breaths through your mouth because the air here is bone-dry and tastes like dust and rust and something faintly metallic. you blink against the orange light as the landscape stretches out in distorted dunes that ripple like they’re breathing, rocks that look half-melted, and a horizon that bends in ways horizons aren’t supposed to.
it’s a desert, but wrong like someone took a photo of the sahara and stretched it over a dune-like state.
you’re the first human here, voluntarily. the thought lands heavy in your chest with pride and terror twisting together.
soon, there is a grunt behind you and you spin, shotgun halfway raised, only to see nancy drop through the rift next.
she lands in a crouch, more graceful than you managed, and immediately snatches her own rifle from where it’s slung across her back like yours was.
the woman's curly hair is already coated in that same glistening slime as yours and she wipes a streak from her cheek with the back of her hand and grimaces.
your eyes meet with no words at first... just a long, silent look that says everything. this place is fucked, the air is too dry and the light is too wrong.
nancy breaks the silence first, with her voice low and a little breathless.
“does this officially make us the first space travelers?”
you can’t help it since a small, tired smile tugs at your mouth. you nod once.
“interdimensional space travelers.”
she lets out a short, surprised giggle and the sound almost foreign in this dead place. thankfully, it loosens something in your chest just enough to breathe a little easier.
one by one the others come through with lucas first after nancy, afterwards robin, jonathan, dustin yelling the whole way up like he’s on a carnival ride, then steve, will, and joyce last with a grunt that sounds more annoyed than afraid.
they all hit the sand, curse, shake off the slime, then check weapons. for a long minute no one speaks. everyone just stands there, turning slow circles, taking in the endless tan desert that isn’t quite a desert.
jodie is somewhere in this world, the other kids are too.
the group starts moving... slow at first with their weapons up as eyes scan every shifting dune. you fall into step beside steve without thinking.
after ten minutes of walking, he nudges your shoulder gently with his.
“how’re you feeling?” steve's voice is soft, but his eyes are sharp and scanning your face, and your posture like he’s cataloging every place you might be hurting.
you shake your head, “a little weird, honestly.”
he glances at your side, “your side still hurts after all of that?”
you scoff, but it comes out weaker than you mean it to.
“it burns, honestly.”
he shifts closer until your arms brush with every step. you catch sight of jonathan walking just off to your left, maybe three feet away close enough to hear, yet far enough to give you space.
noticing you looking at jonathan, steve’s voice drops lower.
“do you promise to go to the hospital, and stay there for as long as you have to, after all of this?”
you look up at him and see the worry carved into his face, with the love sitting right beside it. you notice the way he’s holding himself like he’s ready to carry you the rest of the way if he has to.
you nod slowly, “once jodie’s back in our world, safe,” you say, “she needs to go to the hospital too.”
steve’s mouth quirks, “that makes sense.... but look at you being so maternal already.”
you roll your eyes, but the smile is real this time, “says you. you’re overprotective about the both of us.”
he nods, looking down at the sand for a second, “yeah but i wasn’t protective enough to keep her out of this situation.”
the guilt in his voice hits you like a slap.
you stop walking, turn to face him fully.
“it wasn’t your fault, steve. if anything… all of this is my fault.”
you keep going before he can interrupt, “i mean… if i didn’t let that one petty moment distract me nearly two years ago, vecna wouldn’t have gotten this far, and max would’ve never been stuck in her trance.”
you think you’re making sense and you think the logic holds but lucas stops ahead of you, and turns around fast.
“y/n, you need to stop being so hard on yourself.”
steve echoes him instantly, “i agree.”
you open your mouth to argue, but lucas cuts you off, stepping closer. “none of us blame you for any of this. nobody... because it was not your fault. okay? max doesn’t hate you, either. she knows it wasn’t your fault.”
lucas words land solid, they were so nice and honest that it shocks you.
you stare at him for a beat with your throat tight like you wanted to cry, before close the distance and pull lucas into a quick hug. he hugs back just as hard before letting go and turning to keep walking.
you linger there a second, alone in the middle of the group.
you almost drift back toward steve but you turn and notice that he’s fallen into step with jonathan now, heads close, talking low. it was surprising, and you catch yourself smiling at the sight of them together.
soon after walking again, robin’s beside you and she is matching your pace like she timed it perfectly.
“lucas is right,” she says quietly, “you need to stop being so hard on yourself.”
you try, “i don’t think i am, though.”
she scoffs and it is loud and dramatic, “you’re fighting for the sake of humanity with a broken ribcage. i think that is a little hard on yourself.”
she smirks as you roll your eyes, but when she lifts her arm you duck under it without hesitation, wrapping both arms around her middle and squeezing tight. she hugs you back just as strong, chin resting on your head for a second.
when you pull apart from robin, the group has stopped ahead and you look up seeing a massive shape looming in the distance. it is spider-like, with too many legs, and too many joints with its body segmented and gleaming under the orange sky.
the dunes around it are brighter, the air itself shifting from dusty haze to thick, burning amber.
“holy fuck,” you mutter.
will’s voice, small, cuts through.
“that’s it. the kids are in there.”
you glance at him and his face is pale with his eyes fixed on the thing. after you turn back to the creature. jodie is in there and your heart kicks hard against your broken ribs.
“then what are we waiting for?”
your hands tighten on the shotgun and you don’t wait for anyone else. you break into a run, with sand kicking up behind you as nancy falls in beside you instantly, rifle at the ready, matching your stride.
behind you, the rest of the group follows a heartbeat later with footsteps pounding, shouts overlapping, and weapons clicking into place. the orange sky pulses ahead like a heartbeat, and you run straight toward it.
in henry’s mind, jodie runs barefoot across cracked red desert sand, with her small hand locked tight in holly’s. the cave stretches endless around them since this is the place henry was supposed to fear, but he got right in anyway, and now jodie feels every step he takes echoing in her chest like a second heartbeat.
she’s terrified, but she keeps moving, pulling holly faster as all of the kids run away.
back in the abyss, will drops to his knees in the sand, hands pressing flat against the ground as if he can feel the tremor through his palms. you look down at him alongside joyce, with your heart slamming against your broken ribs.
will's face is pale, and distant.
“he’s inside,” will whispers, “he found the kids.”
the ground under your feet shudders. ahead, the mind flayer stirs. its legs, long and jointed like nightmare scaffolding, lift slow from the sky then slam down. each impact sends shockwaves rippling through the dunes.
the creature creaks, metal-bone grinding against itself as you flick the safety off your shotgun with a sharp click, finger hovering near the trigger.
dustin’s voice cracks through the dry air, “run!”
everyone spins and bolts the opposite way. your lungs scream with every breath feels like inhaling fire, ribs grinding bone on bone but you push anyway. the legs smash down around you, close enough that the wind from one hit knocks you sideways.
you stumble, dodge a plume of sand and dust, then another leg comes down too fast. pain explodes white-hot through your side as you fall hard, knees and palms slamming into the ground.
the next leg rises above you, shadow swallowing the orange light, ready to spear straight through you and a scream rip from you before Steve dives full body, crashing into you and rolling you both away.
the leg slams down inches from where your head was, cratering the sand.
he hauls you up fast, “babe, come on, come on—”
adrenaline floods in like ice water, numbing the fire in your ribs as you run again, matching pace with Nancy now with your shotgun bouncing in your arms. the monster roars overhead, hot foul wind blasting your face.
you cover your mouth, eyes watering as its legs sweep in a cage around the group, trapping you all as you spin.
the mind flayer rears up, mouth splitting wide, roaring straight into your faces. the smell hits like death and sulfur as you rip the shotgun around, and the jam shells in.
before you can fire, a boulder the size of a car hurtles from the side and smashes into the creature’s face. it screeches, reeling back as rock and slime rain down. the ground cracks and crumbles as you look to your right, and far ahead eleven stands in the distance with blood trickling from her nose.
mike watches her with pure pride, with his chest heaving as she sprints forward from afar, ducking under the flayer’s legs, then launches herself straight into its chest.
the monster howls, body convulsing.
“she’s hurting it!” lucas yells.
“how?” mike asks, stunned.
you shake your head, “no! she’s fighting vecna. we need to help—now!”
no one hesitates anymore since nancy volunteers herself as bait, drawing its attention as you pair with robin, steve with dustin, lucas with mike, and joyce stays with will.
you run hard toward a jagged cliffside, shotgun ready but you notice that jonathan freezes for a second when nancy darts past, mind flayer lunging after her.
“no, jonathan, no!” you grab his sleeve, “there’s nothing we can do—come on, please!”
he snaps out of it, turns, and runs with you and robin.
it works since eleven drives vecna back. after a long fight, and from the help of the group... vecna's body impales on one of the flayer’s own spears, pinned, bleeding black.
the monster’s chest splits open, a wet gaping wound.
once you noticed that the mind flayer was dead, meaning vecna was too, you don’t wait for another second before sprinting straight inside of the thing.
the interior is dying, with the walls of the flayer slowly throbbing, and slime dripping is from the ceiling in thick ropes.
you scan the supernatural sight with your heart in your throat.
“jodie!?”
you whip your lead to the left, and there on a caved platform of fused goo and flesh, a small shape lies cocooned in goo. right away, you notice the messy braids, and the familiar striped shirt now soaked through with her green overalls. your eyes widen, seeing the tentacle pulsing in her mouth.
dropping the shotgun, you sprint and tear at the slime with bare hands. it rips like wet paper, even though it was tough. the flesh opens with strength you didn’t know you had.
you peel the covering away, and yank the tentacle free as jodie’s body slumps forward into your arms.
she was too heavy for your pained state, and steve reaches you in the next second, catching you both before you collapse with the unconscious girl.
he sinks to his knees, pulls you onto his lap so jodie lies across yours.
“jodie! jodie!”
you’re shaking, panting, tears already falling.
“jodie, please—”
after five seconds, she coughs and it is hard, wet, violent. at the same time, her soft eyes flutter open with goo clinging to her lashes, and her cheeks, but it’s her alive.
“y/n? steve?” her voice is small, cracked, like she’s not sure this isn’t another trick from mr. whatsit.
“it’s us,” you sob-laugh, “it’s us, jodie, it’s us!”
steve’s voice breaks, “hey, kid.”
she stares, processing, then her face crumples.
jodie throws herself into you, arms locking around your neck as the three of you cling together crying messily while covered in slime. there is relief as the others work to free the rest of the kids around you.
the nine year old's sobs start soft against your shirt, then grow sharper and harder.
those cries start to feel different, and you notice the shift in her body. she goes from being relieved and relaxed to getting tense, with her tiny fingers digging into your back like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go even a little.
you pull back just enough to look at her and steve’s eyes meet yours over her head, worried.
“hey, baby,” you whisper, brushing slime-soaked hair from her face, “we’re here, and you’re okay.”
she jerks back suddenly, eyes wide and frantic, darting between your face and steve’s like she’s waiting for the trap to spring.
“you are.. b-but are you… are you letting me leave now? are you giving me back?”
your heart stutters, almost shocked at the outburst, “huh? what? no—no, jodie, what—”
“don’t lie!” her voice cracks high, almost like a scream as she scrambles half out of your lap, knees digging into the slime-slick floor, but her hands stay fisted in your shirt like lifelines, “you saw the papers! you both saw them! two years—that’s all it was supposed to be! two years and then they take me somewhere else to strangers who don’t even know me! next week! it’s next week and you’re gonna let them!”
tears pour down her face faster than you can wipe them, mixing with the goo until her cheeks shine. jodie's whole body trembles violently as your hands shake with her.
“jodie—” steve starts, reaching for her, but she flinches like the touch might burn.
“please,” she chokes out with her voice splintering, "please don’t send me away. i’ll be so good, I swear! i won’t talk back, i won’t ask for anything, i’ll clean my room every day, i’ll never complain about bedtime again—just don’t make me go! i can’t… i can’t do another house with another set of people who look at me like i’m broken or temporary or… or wrong. you two... you made me feel like I mattered and wanted me! I love the movie nights with popcorn fights, and I love when steve lets me sit on his shoulders at the fair. y/n I love when you sing me to sleep when the nightmares came back… i thought maybe, maybe this time it was real but being in here all alone... it felt like when my parents died.... like i was nothing again and forgotten. please. i’m begging you. don’t let them take me! adopt me! keep me. forever. i don’t want anyone else. i only want you! please, please, please—”
jodie's words dissolve into wrenching sobs that shake her so hard you feel them in your own chest. she’s curled in on herself now, forehead pressed to your collarbone, fists so tight in your shirt the fabric twists.
“don’t abandon me,” she whispers, over and over, barely audible, “don’t abandon me like everyone else would.... i can’t… i can’t lose you too…”
steve’s eyes are streaming, jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumps in his cheek. he wraps both arms around her from behind, cocooning her between the two of you.
“jodie. look at me.”
she doesn’t at first since she is too scared... but he waits, patient even through his own tears.
finally she lifts her head, face blotchy and terrified.
“we are not sending you anywhere,” he says, voice super low and soft, “we are not giving you back. we are not letting anyone take you. you hear me? you’re ours. you’ve been ours since the day you walked through our door with that little backpack and those big scared eyes. we already decided. we’re adopting you. legally and permanently. forever. there is no more two-year limits and no more foster anything. just us. just family. you’re never leaving. never.”
you nod, cupping her face with both hands, thumbs stroking through the mess on her cheeks.
“he’s right, baby. we’re keeping you for good. you’re our daughter now. no one else gets to have you. no one else gets to love you the way we do. you’re stuck with those movie nights, bad singing, and thunderstorms under the blankets, all of the things you love... forever.”
jodie's breath hitches, eyes searching yours like she’s looking for the lie that has to be there.
“you promise? you really promise? no tricks? no… no one coming to take me next week?”
“i swear on everything,” you say with your own voice breaking, “no one’s coming. we’re signing the papers and we’re making it official. you’re staying since you’re home with us.”
the relief hits her like a physical blow as her face crumples again, but this time the sobs are different.
it is deep, cleansing, like something massive is finally cracking open and letting light in. she throws herself forward, burying her face in the crook of steve’s neck, arms wrapping around him so tight her knuckles go white.
“forever, stevie?” she mumbles into his shirt, voice muffled and small.
“forever,” steve whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. he rocks her gently, one hand rubbing slow circles on her back.
you stroke her slime-covered braids, gentle and steady with tears slipping down your own face as you watch her shoulders slowly stop shaking.
steve looks up at you over her head, eyes red-rimmed but shining with something unbreakable. he mouths the words silently.
i love you both.
you smile through the mess, through the tears, through the ache still burning in your ribs, and mouth back.
i love you both, too.
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author's note: thank you so much for tuning into this series, it means the world to me and any reposts and like is highly appreciated <3 again, thank you
