Blurb: You’ve been avoiding Dean Di Laurentis for over a week, and he is taking it about as well as expected. But when his dramatic little rant gets interrupted by the one thing neither of you saw coming, Dean has to prove there is more to him than jokes, charm, and terrible timing.
Warnings: pregnancy scare, fear of being alone, emotional conversation, casual relationship turning serious, anxious reader, dean being dramatic but sweet.
You had been avoiding Dean Di Laurentis for nine days.
Not because he had done anything wrong.
For once.
Your period was late. Not late enough to be certain of anything, but late enough that your stomach had been in knots for days. Every time Dean texted, called, or sent some dramatic Snapchat about your “cruel disappearance,” you turned your phone facedown and told yourself you would answer him later.
Later kept getting pushed back.
By day nine, Dean stopped waiting.
The knock at your apartment door came just after seven.
“I know you’re in there,” he called through the door. “Your TV is on, your car is outside, and I’m way too charming to be ignored this aggressively.”
You squeezed your eyes shut.
Another knock.
“I will start singing.”
You crossed the room fast. “Don’t.”
There was a pause.
“Aha,” he said. “So she lives.”
You opened the door.
Dean stood in the hallway in a Briar hoodie, looking far too good for someone who was clearly annoyed. His eyes moved over you quickly, taking in your face, your sweatpants, and the hoodie you were wearing.
His hoodie.
“Wow,” he said. “Look at that. She remembers I exist.”
“Dean.”
“No, no, this is good. I was starting to think I made you up. A whole woman who steals my clothes and then ghosts me like I’m some random guy with bad hair and a podcast.”
You stepped back to let him in. “I didn’t ghost you.”
Dean walked inside and turned around, looking deeply offended.
“You didn’t ghost me?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Busy?” he repeated. “That’s your defense?”
“It’s an answer.”
“It’s a terrible answer.” He pointed at you as he started pacing. “You ignored eight texts, four calls, and one vulnerable Snapchat.”
“The one where you zoomed in on your face and asked if I still cared about your emotional well-being?”
“That took courage.”
“It took boredom.”
“It took both.” He stopped in front of you, his frustration slipping just enough for you to hear the worry underneath. “You can’t just disappear on me. Garrett asked if I pissed you off and I didn’t even know what to say. Do you understand how humiliating it is for me to not know something?”
Your throat tightened as Dean kept going, too wound up to notice.
“And no one avoids Dean Di Laurentis. People seek me out. People circle back. People pretend they didn’t see me when we both know they absolutely saw me. I’m visible from space.”
“Dean.”
“If this is about that girl at Malone’s, I swear I told her I was there with someone. You were in the bathroom, so she may not have believed me, but I was noble. Hot, obviously, but noble.”
“I might be pregnant.”
Dean stopped completely.
His mouth stayed slightly open. His eyes widened, and for once in his life, no joke came out.
The silence scared you more than his ranting had.
“I’m sorry,” you rushed out. “I should’ve told you sooner. I know that. I just didn’t know how, and I kept thinking maybe I was overreacting, but then it kept getting later and I got scared, and we’re not even really—”
“Stop.”
His voice was quiet.
You wrapped your arms around yourself. “I didn’t want you to feel trapped.”
Dean crossed the room before you could say anything else.
Then his arms were around you.
You froze at first, surprised by how fast he pulled you in, but his hand slid up your back and held you there.
A shaky breath left you, and you grabbed the front of his hoodie.
“You don’t have to go through something like this alone,” he said.
“I was so scared,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“I didn’t know what you’d do.”
Dean pulled back just enough to look at you. His face was pale under the tan, but he stayed close.
“I don’t know what I’d do,” he admitted. “My brain is currently running around with no pants on. But I know I’m not leaving you alone with it.”
You let out a giggle.
His mouth twitched. “That was not my best line, but I stand by the meaning.”
You wiped your cheek with the sleeve of his hoodie.
“Have you taken a test?” he asked.
You shook your head.
Dean blinked. “You’ve been sitting with this for over a week and haven’t taken a test?”
“I couldn’t.”
His expression softened.
“Okay,” he said. “Then we get one.”
“Now?”
“No, next spring.” He winced immediately. “Sorry. Bad joke. I’m panicking and my mouth has become hostile.”
Despite everything, you laughed again.
Dean reached for your hand. “Shoes. We’re going to CVS before I start Googling symptoms and convince myself I’m pregnant too.”
Five minutes later, he was standing by your door in a baseball cap and sunglasses.
You stared at him as it was dark outside.
“Dean.”
“What?”
“You look insane.”
“I look normal enough.”
You rolled your eyes, but the knot in your chest loosened a little.
At CVS, Dean kept the sunglasses on until you reached the pregnancy test aisle.
Then he took them off and stared at the shelves like he had been asked to solve a crime.
“Why are there so many?”
You covered your mouth.
“No, seriously.” He stepped closer, squinting at the boxes. “How many ways do we need to find out if there’s a tiny Di Laurentis in there?”
“Dean.”
“What’s the difference between this one and that one?”
“That one is digital.”
“So it speaks English?”
“It says pregnant or not pregnant.”
“Great. Better than interpreting emotional hieroglyphics while I’m on the verge of a medical event.”
You laughed for the first time all night without feeling like you might cry.
Dean turned to look at you, and his face softened before he could hide it.
“Don’t look too impressed,” he said. “I’m still wildly unqualified.”
“I can tell.”
He grabbed one box, then another.
“One is enough,” you said.
“Or it could be wrong.”
“Pregnancy tests don’t just make things up.”
“You can’t be sure of that.”
“Dean.”
“I’m getting two.” He paused, then grabbed a third. “Three.”
“You’re panicking.”
“I’m a thorough panicker.”
At the register, he added sour gummy worms to the counter.
You looked at him. “What are those?”
“Emotional support worms.”
The cashier’s mouth twitched.
You wanted to disappear. You also wanted to kiss him.
Back at your apartment, the air felt heavier again.
Dean set the CVS bag on the counter and looked at you.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “Me neither.”
That honesty hit harder than another joke would have.
You took one test and went into the bathroom. Dean stayed outside the door.
“You good?” he called.
“I’m reading the instructions.”
“Right. Literacy first.”
You huffed, then took the test with shaking hands.
When you were done, you set it on the counter and opened the door.
Dean was sitting on the floor outside the bathroom, elbows on his knees, phone in his hand.
He stood immediately.
“How long?”
“Three minutes.”
He set a timer. “Great. Three minutes. That’s nothing.”
A beat passed.
“That’s a lie. Three minutes is forever. You can ruin your whole life in three minutes. You can burn toast and set off the smoke alarm. You can scroll through your ex’s Instagram and make terrible decisions.”
“Dean.”
“Sorry. Filtering broke.”
You leaned against the bathroom doorway, arms wrapped around yourself.
Dean stopped pacing.
His face changed when he looked at you, and he stepped closer but stayed outside the bathroom.
“Whatever it says, we figure it out,” he said. “You hear me?”
You looked down. “You keep saying that.”
“Because I mean it.”
“You don’t know what you’d do.”
“I know I’d freak out,” he said. “Probably in several creative ways. I might call Tucker and say words he can never unhear. I might buy a parenting book written by someone named Linda. I might vomit.”
That pulled a tiny laugh out of you.
“But I won’t leave,” he said. “That part I know.”
The timer went off, your heart dropping as Dean went still.
You turned back into the bathroom and picked up the test. The words were right there on the little screen.
You opened the door and held it out.
Dean snatched it from your hand, then stared down at it.
His shoulders dropped all at once.
“Not pregnant,” he breathed.
You nodded.
For one second, neither of you moved.
Then Dean sagged against the wall and covered his face with one hand.
“Thank fuck.”
You laughed, shaky and relieved. “Yeah.”
“No, I mean that in every possible way.” He lowered his hand, looking dazed. “Spiritually. Emotionally. Academically.”
“Academically?”
“I don’t know. I’m overwhelmed.”
You laughed harder, and he pulled you into his arms again.
You buried your face against his chest, feeling the last nine days loosen all at once.
Dean held you for a long moment, his chin resting against your hair.
Then he exhaled.
“I’m buying condoms in bulk,” he said. “Costco-level commitment. I’m going to have a rewards card.”
You burst out laughing into his hoodie.
“I’m serious,” he said. “I’m going to be the most prepared man in Massachusetts.”
“That’s not something to brag about.”
“It is after what I just survived.” He pulled back, still holding you. “Honestly, I may glue one to my dick.”
“Ew what? Please don’t.”
“Fine. Tape?”
“Dean.”
“Okay, no adhesives. I’m listening.”
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.
Dean nodded, then brushed his thumb along your jaw.
“Next time you’re scared, you come to me before making me chase you around like a rejected frat boy.”
“You were kind of acting like one.”
For once, he seemed to actually think before speaking.
“I don’t want to do the casual thing if casual means you think you can’t call me when something matters,” he said.
Your heart shifted.
“You don’t?”
“No.” His mouth tipped into a small smile. “I like you.”
You raised an eyebrow.
He winced. “That sounded sixth grade as hell. I’m aware.”
You laughed softly.
“I mean I like you,” he said. “Not just the fun parts. I like being here. I like that you steal my hoodies and pretend my jokes are worse than they are.”
“They are pretty bad.”
“And yet you laugh.” He leaned closer. “I want you. In a way where you don’t hide from me when things get complicated.”
You stared at him for a second.
“That sounds like dating.”
Dean gasped lightly. “Dating? Wow. Forward. Scandalous.”
“You brought it up.”
“I did not use the word dating. You did. But since you’re clearly obsessed with locking me down—”
“Dean.”
His grin softened. “Yeah. It sounds like dating.”
You nodded. “Okay.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
Dean smiled so wide it made your chest ache.
“Great,” he said. “Cool. Very normal reaction from me.”
“You’re smiling like an idiot.”
“I got a girlfriend and a negative pregnancy test in the same night. This is elite emotional whiplash.”
You laughed, and he kissed your forehead.
A little later, you were curled against him in bed with the sour gummy worms between you and his hoodie still wrapped around your body. Dean held your hand under the blanket, his thumb moving slowly over your knuckles.
The fear had not completely vanished, but it no longer had you alone in a quiet apartment, staring at a phone you were too afraid to answer.
Now it had Dean beside you, warm and ridiculous and impossible.
“Hey,” he murmured.
“Yeah?”
“I’m still ordering condoms tomorrow.”
You groaned. “Dean.”
“In bulk,” he said. “Costco-level commitment.”
“You don’t even have a Costco membership.”
“I’ll get one.” He kissed the top of your head. “I’m a provider now.”
“You provided gummy worms.”
“Emotional support worms,” he corrected.
You laughed into his chest, and Dean held you a little tighter.
For the first time in nine days, you finally believed him.
The leak started as a soft, irritating drip beneath the kitchen sink.
At first, you tried to ignore it. Hannah and Allie had left for the weekend with a list of instructions that made the apartment feel less like a place to live and more like something you had been trusted not to destroy, and you refused to be the person who called for help over a little water.
By the time you opened the cabinet, the bottom shelf was already wet.
“Great,” you muttered.
You shoved a towel under the pipe, then another when the first one soaked through faster than you liked. The water was not pouring out, not yet, but it was steady enough to make your stomach tighten. You crouched in front of the cabinet with your phone balanced on your knee, watching some man on a repair video explain the shutoff valve like every sink in the world had been made by the same person.
You found what looked like the right valve and twisted it with more hope than confidence.
The dripping slowed, and for one brief second, you thought you had handled it.
Then something under the sink gave a sharp little sputter, and water sprayed straight across the front of your shirt.
You scrambled back with a gasp, bumping into the cabinet behind you.
“Shit.”
Your eyes went straight to the fridge.
Hannah’s post-it was still there, bright yellow and impossible to ignore.
logan — if something leaks, breaks, explodes, or you panic. do not let him flirt his way out of doing the job.
You stared at his name for a long second.
“No,” you said to the empty kitchen.
The pipe sprayed again.
You grabbed your phone.
It rang twice before he answered.
“Please tell me this is the part where you say you need me.”
You closed your eyes. “I need a wrench.”
There was a small pause, and then Logan laughed under his breath. “That is a devastating downgrade.”
“I might need a plumber,” you said, looking at the water spreading across the tile. “Or an exorcist.”
“Which apartment?”
“Hannah and Allie’s.”
“Yeah, figured. Hannah told me she left my number.”
“She also told me not to let you flirt your way out of doing the job.”
“She wrote that down?”
“In pink ink.”
“Wow.” You could hear the grin in his voice. “She knows me so well.”
“Can you fix a sink or not?”
“Probably.”
“Probably?”
“I haven’t seen the sink yet.”
“Logan.”
“I’m five minutes away.”
You looked down at your wet shirt clinging to your chest, then at the puddle near your feet. “Make it four.”
His voice softened slightly, though the amusement stayed. “You okay?”
“I’m wet, annoyed, and my kitchen is flooding.”
“That sounds like a yes with attitude.”
“It’s a yes with a time limit.”
“I’m on my way.”
He was there in four.
When Logan showed up, you were standing in the kitchen with damp socks, a soaked shirt, and the deeply unfair feeling that the apartment had chosen to embarrass you in front of the one person who would enjoy it.
He knocked twice before you opened the door.
John Logan stood in the hallway in sweats and a dark T-shirt, hair slightly messy, mouth already tilted like he knew the night had handed him something good.
His gaze flicked over you, quick enough to almost be polite, then lifted back to your face.
“Bad sink?” he asked.
You stepped aside. “Evil sink.”
He walked in, glanced at the towels on the floor, then at the bowl under the cabinet. “Yeah, I can see that.”
“I had it under control for about twelve seconds.”
“That’s longer than most people.”
You looked at him.
He held his hands up, fighting a smile. “That was supportive.”
“It sounded judgmental.”
“It was both.”
Despite yourself, you almost laughed, which annoyed you more than the leak.
He crouched in front of the sink and opened the cabinet, leaning in with one shoulder braced against the counter. The easy joking faded just enough once he saw the pipe, and that was somehow worse. He was still Logan, still too relaxed in your kitchen, but now he actually looked like he knew what he was doing.
You passed him the wrench when he asked for it, then a dry towel. His fingers brushed yours both times, and you told yourself it was only because the kitchen was cramped.
“So,” he said from under the sink, voice muffled. “Boyfriend couldn’t come save the day?”
You leaned back against the opposite counter. “That would require having a boyfriend.”
He paused with his hand still under the sink.
Not long. Just enough.
“Good to know.”
Your stomach dipped, and you hated that he probably heard the silence that followed.
“That was not an invitation.”
“Didn’t say it was.”
He turned the wrench again, but there was a smile in his voice now, low and pleased and impossible to miss.
You looked down at the towel in your hands instead of at him. “Fix the sink, Logan.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A small laugh slipped out before you could stop it.
Logan glanced back at you like he had caught something he wanted to keep, and that annoyed you more than if he had actually said something about it.
You busied yourself with the towels, wringing one out over the sink while he went back to the pipe. The kitchen settled into the sound of water dripping into the bucket, his hand moving against metal, and your own very poor attempt at not watching him work.
After another minute, he reached out without looking. “Towel.”
You handed it over.
He wiped beneath the pipe, then adjusted something near the valve with a focus that made you regret how much you were watching his hands.
“You sure this is fixing it?” you asked.
“No faith in me?”
“I met you through a post-it on the fridge.”
“That post-it had my number for a reason.”
“Hannah also warned me not to let you flirt your way out of doing anything.”
Logan looked up at that, grin slow but not overdone. “Smart girl.”
“I meant her.”
“I didn’t.”
Your stomach dipped, and he ducked back under the sink before you could come up with anything decent to say.
After another turn of the wrench, he said, “Relax. I’m good with my hands.”
You almost dropped the towel.
He noticed without even looking directly at you.
“That came out exactly the way you meant it,” you said.
“Did it?”
“Logan.”
“What?” He glanced up, all innocence and none of it believable. “I’m fixing your sink.”
The worst part was that he really was fixing it.
He joked too much, and he looked entirely too pleased with himself every time he made you stumble over a response, but he was not just poking at pipes for show. He knew where to look, what to tighten, when to stop and check the leak. Every few minutes, he asked for something, and every few minutes, you found yourself looking at his hands before you realized you were doing it.
It was getting irritating.
Not because he was annoying.
Because he was annoying and attractive and actually helping.
That combination felt personally unfair.
When he finally told you to turn the faucet on, you did it slowly, one hand on the handle and the other ready to shut it off if the sink decided to attack again.
For two seconds, everything was fine.
Then water burst from under the pipe and hit Logan square in the chest.
“Shit.”
He reached under the sink while you scrambled for the faucet, twisting it too far in the wrong direction before finally getting it right. The spray stopped all at once, leaving behind a dripping cabinet, a wet floor, and Logan kneeling in front of the sink with his shirt plastered to his chest.
He sat back on his heels, water running down his neck, and pushed a hand through his hair.
You meant to look at the pipe.
You looked at him instead.
His shirt clung to him in a way that made the kitchen feel very quiet. You could see the shape of his chest beneath the wet fabric, the way his stomach tightened when he breathed, the water caught along his jaw before it slipped down his throat.
Logan’s eyes lifted to yours.
For once, he did not say anything immediately.
That was worse too.
He stood slowly, reaching for one of the towels on the counter. “That part was not supposed to happen.”
“I figured.”
“You look a little too satisfied about it.”
“I’m deciding whether I should still trust you with the sink.”
He dried his face with the towel, but his eyes stayed on you. “That what you’re deciding?”
The question was simple. The way he asked it was not.
You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of your own shirt sticking to your chest.
“Yes.”
His gaze dropped for half a second, then came back up.
“Okay,” he said, quieter. “Decide.”
The kitchen seemed smaller than it had a few minutes ago. Water dripped softly into the bucket under the sink. Your shirt clung to your skin, and his clung to him, and the space between you felt thin enough to snap.
You looked at the towel in his hand, then at his wet shirt, then at the way his fingers tightened around the fabric like he was stopping himself from reaching for something else.
“You told me you were good with your hands.”
Logan’s expression changed.
The teasing did not disappear, but it settled into something heavier.
“I did,” he said.
A second passed.
Then he stepped closer.
“Was that just about the sink?” you asked.
His eyes dropped to your mouth.
“No.”
That was all it took.
He crossed the space between you in one hard step, and then his mouth was on yours.
It was not sweet. It was not tentative. It was a wet, hungry kiss that shoved the breath out of you and made your back hit the counter before you realized he had moved you. His hands went to your waist, firm and hot through the damp fabric of your shirt, and you grabbed his shoulders because he was already kissing you like he had been thinking about it since he walked in.
Maybe before that.
His tongue slid against yours, and the sound that left you made his fingers dig into your waist.
His hands tightened on your waist. He stepped between your legs, caging you against the counter, and the feel of his body pressed to yours sent a hot, dizzy rush through you.
His shirt was cold and wet against your chest, but underneath it he was warm, solid, all hard muscle and restless hands.
He kissed you until you could barely think through it.
Then his hands slid down to your thighs.
“Up,” he said against your mouth.
You barely had time to react before he lifted you onto the counter.
The casual strength of it made your stomach flip. One second your feet were on the floor, and the next you were sitting on the cold kitchen counter with Logan between your knees, pulling you forward until your legs opened around him.
“Well damn,” you breathed before you could stop yourself.
His grin was instant.
“Already?”
“Shut up.”
He kissed you again, deeper this time, his hand spreading across your lower back as he pulled you tight against him. He did not leave space between you. Not even a little. His chest pressed to yours, his mouth stayed close, and his other hand slid along your thigh, fingers pushing beneath the hem of your shorts.
You shivered.
He felt it.
A pleased breath left him against your jaw. “Still thinking about what I said?”
“About what?”
His fingers skimmed higher.
“My hands.”
Your breath caught.
He kissed the corner of your mouth, then the line of your jaw, then the side of your neck where your pulse was making a fool of you. His arm stayed locked around your back, holding you against him as his hand slid between your legs over your shorts.
The first press of his fingers made you inhale sharply.
Logan paused just enough to look at you.
“Still okay?”
You nodded.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Say it for me.”
“Yes.”
The answer barely left your mouth before he kissed you again.
His fingers moved slowly at first, rubbing over the damp fabric, learning the shape of your reaction. You tried to keep kissing him like you were still in control of any part of this, but then he pressed harder, right where you needed him, and your mouth opened against his.
“That’s better,” he murmured.
You dug your nails into his shoulders.
“Cocky,” you managed.
He smiled against your neck. “You like it.”
“I haven’t decided.”
His fingers slid beneath the waistband of your shorts.
Your whole body tensed.
Logan’s arm tightened around your back, keeping you close as his hand dipped under your panties. His fingers found you wet and aching, and his breath left him in a rough sound that went straight through you.
“Fuck,” he said softly. “You’re soaked.”
“You sprayed me with the sink.”
He laughed under his breath, but it broke when his fingers slid through your pussy, gathering the wetness there.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s definitely what this is.”
You would have snapped back if he had not started touching you properly.
Two fingers rubbed slow circles over your clit, and every thought you had scattered across the kitchen floor with the towels. You pressed your face into his shoulder, biting back a moan, but Logan was not having that. His hand at your back slid up beneath your shirt, palm warm on bare skin, and he pulled you closer until your breasts pressed hard against his chest.
“Don’t hide from me,” he said near your ear. “I want to hear you.”
The words made your pussy clench around nothing.
His mouth brushed your ear, his smile almost cruel. “Yeah. You liked that.”
You lifted your head and kissed him because it was easier than answering. He kissed you back immediately, tongue sliding into your mouth while his fingers kept moving between your legs. The wet sounds of his hand under your shorts were obscene in the quiet kitchen. You could hear them beneath the drip of the sink, beneath your uneven breathing, beneath the small groan he made when your thighs tightened around his hips.
He was still standing right in front of you, holding you like he wanted every inch of you pressed to him. You could feel his cock getting hard through his sweats, thick against the inside of your thigh.
The realization made heat roll through you.
Logan’s fingers slowed.
“You felt that, huh?”
You looked at him, breathless. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re sitting on the counter with my hand in your shorts.”
You hated how badly you wanted him.
You hated how much he knew it.
Then he pushed one finger inside you, and you stopped thinking about anything else.
Your head fell back, a moan slipping free before you could swallow it. Logan’s mouth moved to your throat as his finger slid deeper, curling slowly, testing what made your thighs shake. He found it too fast. A smooth curl, a press, and suddenly your hips jerked against his hand.
His laugh was soft and wicked.
“Still questioning my hands?”
“Logan.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
He added a second finger, stretching you with slow, deliberate strokes that made your eyes flutter. His arm stayed around your back the entire time, keeping you upright against him, close enough that every breath dragged your chest against his. Your wet shirt stuck to your breasts, and when he shifted, the friction made your nipples tighten painfully.
He noticed.
His mouth moved lower, kissing over the damp fabric at your chest before his hand left your back just long enough to drag your shirt upward. You lifted your arms because there was no pretending now. The shirt came off and hit the floor with a wet slap.
Logan looked at you.
Really looked.
Your skin burned under it.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
You reached for him, suddenly needing him closer again, and he came willingly. His mouth covered yours as his free hand cupped one of your breasts, thumb dragging over your nipple while his fingers kept fucking you. You arched into him, your knees tightening around his hips.
“That’s it,” he said against your mouth. “Let me feel you.”
His thumb circled your clit while his fingers moved inside you, and the combination made pleasure build fast and hot in your stomach. You gripped the edge of the counter with one hand and his shoulder with the other, trying to hold on to something as your body started to shake.
He kissed you through it.
Messy, deep kisses that stole every sound from your mouth until he wanted them back and pulled away just enough to hear you.
“You had a lot to say a minute ago,” he murmured.
You tried to answer.
He curled his fingers again.
Your words fell apart into a moan.
Logan’s eyes darkened. “That’s what I thought.”
You were close already. Embarrassingly close. Maybe it was the teasing. Maybe it was his fingers. Maybe it was the fact that he still had one arm around you like he had no intention of letting you lean away from a single second of it.
Maybe it was all of him.
His wet shirt. His mouth. His hand. His cock hard against you. His voice in your ear, rough and smug and getting less controlled every time you moved against him.
“Come for me,” he said. “Right here.”
Your thighs trembled.
“Logan.”
“I’ve got you.”
That did it.
The words were softer than everything else, but they hit harder. Your pussy clenched around his fingers as the orgasm rolled through you, sharp and warm and dizzying. You buried your face against his neck, moaning into his skin while he kept touching you through it, slower now, drawing out every pulse until your body went loose against him.
He did not let you fall back.
He held you close, breathing hard against your hair, his fingers still buried inside you until you whimpered from how sensitive you were.
“Fuck,” he said, voice rough. “You look good like that.”
You lifted your head, still trembling.
He kissed you before you could answer.
This kiss was different. Hotter because he had lost some of his patience. His fingers slipped out of you, and you gasped at the emptiness, but then he was reaching for the waistband of your shorts.
Then your shorts and panties were being pulled down your legs, his hand gripping your thigh to lift you enough to get them off. They dropped somewhere near the towels. You barely cared. Your hands were already at his shirt, dragging the soaked fabric upward.
He helped you yank it over his head, and for a second you lost your place in the rush of it.
Because he was right there.
Wet skin, hard chest, hair damp and messy, eyes locked on you like he was trying to decide whether to kiss you again or devour you whole.
You touched him because you had to.
Your hands slid over his chest, down his stomach, feeling the flex of muscle beneath warm skin. Logan sucked in a breath when your fingers reached the waistband of his sweats.
His hand returned to your lower back instantly, catching you, pulling you upright against him again. The closeness made your head spin. Even while you fumbled with his sweats, even while he shoved them down enough for his cock to spring free, he kept you against him like he could not stand the idea of space.
Your eyes dropped.
He was hard and thick, flushed at the tip, and the sight of him made your mouth go dry.
Logan noticed.
“Still full of myself?” he asked.
You dragged your fingers along his cock, and his breath hitched.
“Maybe not full enough.”
His eyes snapped to yours.
For once, he looked like you had stolen the line right out of his mouth.
Then he laughed, low and disbelieving, and kissed you again. “You’re trouble.”
“You asked if I had a boyfriend while fixing my sink.”
“Yeah, and look how well that worked out for me.”
He reached down, wrapped his hand around his cock, and dragged the head through your pussy. The slick slide made both of you go still. Your hands gripped his shoulders. His forehead dropped to yours, and for one breath, neither of you said anything.
Then he did it again, dragging himself over your clit, down to your entrance, then back up until your hips lifted on their own.
“Logan,” you breathed.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
His eyes lifted to yours. “Yeah.”
There was something in his voice that made you ache worse than the teasing had.
He reached to the side, grabbing his sweats from where they had bunched at his thighs. You realized what he was doing when he pulled a condom from his wallet. The normalness of it should have cooled things down.
It did not.
Watching him roll it on while standing between your spread thighs made your stomach twist all over again.
Then he stepped back in, one hand sliding behind your back, the other gripping your thigh. He pulled you to the edge of the counter until your pussy brushed the head of his cock.
You inhaled sharply.
He kissed your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.
“This still what you want?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
You looked at him, heat blooming in your face despite everything he had already done to you.
“I want you to fuck me.”
His eyes went dark.
“Christ.”
Then he pushed inside.
The stretch made your mouth fall open. Logan groaned, deep and rough, his arm tightening around your back as he sank into you inch by inch. You clung to him, legs locking around his waist, your body adjusting to the thick pressure of his cock filling you.
He stopped once he was fully inside, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.
“Fuck,” he said. “You feel so good.”
You could barely answer. He was so close, chest against yours, one hand spread wide over your back, holding you upright while his cock throbbed deep inside you. The counter was cold beneath your thighs. His skin was hot under your palms. The sink dripped behind him like the most ridiculous reminder of how this had started.
Then he moved.
Slow at first, just a pull of his hips and a deep thrust back in that made your nails dig into his shoulders. His mouth found yours, swallowing your moan. His tongue slid against yours as he started to fuck you, still holding you close enough that every thrust rocked you into his chest.
You had expected him to be good.
You had not expected this.
The closeness made it worse. Better. Impossible. He did not give you room to turn away from the feeling. His arm stayed around your back. His hips pushed between your thighs. His mouth kept coming back to yours every time you tried to breathe. It was wet and heated and messy, the kind of kissing that made you feel like he was just as gone as you were.
Your breasts brushed against his chest with every thrust, nipples dragging over damp skin until you were shivering from that alone. He gripped your thigh harder, lifting it higher around his waist, changing the angle so his cock hit deeper.
Your head tipped back.
“Oh my God.”
Logan’s mouth moved to your throat.
“There,” he said. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
You could only nod.
He did it again, and your whole body jolted.
“Words,” he murmured, breath hot against your skin.
“Yes,” you gasped. “There.”
His hips snapped forward a little harder.
Pleasure sparked bright through your body.
“Right there?”
“Logan.”
He kissed you, smiling into it for half a second before the smile disappeared into a groan. “You say my name like that again and I’m not lasting.”
You clenched around him.
His eyes squeezed shut.
“Fuck.”
You would have laughed if you had enough breath for it. Instead, you pulled his mouth back to yours and kissed him until he started moving faster.
The rhythm turned frantic without losing the closeness. He fucked you hard, but he kept you wrapped against him, one arm behind your back, one hand on your thigh, his chest pressed to yours like he needed to feel every reaction. Your hands slid into his hair, tugging when he hit that spot again, and his answering groan vibrated against your mouth.
“Keep your legs around me,” he said.
You did.
You could not imagine doing anything else.
Your heels pressed into the backs of his thighs. Your pussy took every thrust, slick and tight around his cock, the wet sound of it mixing with the harsh pull of his breathing. The counter creaked beneath you. Somewhere behind him, water dripped into the bucket.
It should have been funny.
Maybe later it would be.
Right now, all you could think about was Logan’s cock inside you and his hand moving between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again with devastating accuracy.
Your body jerked.
He felt it and groaned.
“God, you get so tight when I touch you there.”
You made a helpless sound into his mouth.
He kissed you through it, his thumb rubbing steady circles while his hips kept moving. The pressure built again, hotter this time, deeper because he was inside you, because his cock kept dragging through you just right, because he was holding you like there was nowhere else he wanted to be.
“Next time,” he said, voice rough, “you don’t have to wait for the sink to break.”
The words went straight through you.
“There’s a next time?”
His hips slowed just enough for him to look at you.
His eyes were dark. His mouth was swollen from kissing you. His hair was damp, his chest flushed, his hand still moving between your legs like he knew exactly how close you were.
“You tell me.”
Your answer came out as a kiss.
He took it like a yes.
His hips drove forward again, and the counter dug into the backs of your thighs. You barely felt it over the pleasure gathering low in your stomach. His thumb circled your clit faster, his cock thrusting deep, and you broke away from his mouth with a moan you could not hold back.
“Logan, I’m gonna come.”
“I know.” His voice sounded wrecked. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”
You tried to hold his gaze, but then he shifted the angle again, deeper, harder, still pressed so close you could feel his heartbeat against your chest. The orgasm hit fast, a rush of heat and pressure that made your pussy clamp around him as your body shook in his arms.
He cursed into your neck.
“Fuck, that’s it.”
He kept moving through it, fucking you while you came, his thumb slowing only when you started to tremble from too much. You clung to him, face buried against his shoulder, every pulse of pleasure leaving tingles down your thighs, your spine, the tips of your fingers.
Logan’s rhythm faltered.
His grip on your back tightened. His mouth found yours again, rough and desperate, tongue sliding against yours as he chased his own release. You kissed him back, still clenching around him, still shaking, and that seemed to break whatever control he had left.
His hips drove in deep once, twice, then he came with a low groan, his forehead dropping to yours as his body went tense against you.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
The apartment was quiet except for breathing.
And the sink.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
You started laughing first.
It slipped out of you, breathless and disbelieving, your forehead falling against his shoulder as the full reality of what had just happened came crashing in. Logan lifted his head, looked at the sink, then looked back at you.
“Technically,” he said, still breathing hard, “I did solve the emergency.”
You wanted to shove him. You also wanted to kiss him again, which was deeply inconvenient.
He slid out slowly, making both of you suck in a breath, then helped you down from the counter like he had any right to be sweet after what he had just done to you. Your legs were not entirely trustworthy, and Logan noticed immediately.
His hands went to your waist.
“Whoa.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
You gave him a look.
He kissed you once, quick and smug, then reached for his discarded shirt and paused when he realized it was soaked.
You glanced around the kitchen. Towels everywhere. Your shorts on the floor. His sweats low on his hips. The sink still dripping into the bucket.
Your phone buzzed on the counter.
Hannah’s name lit up the screen.
did everything survive? did you call logan?
Logan glanced at it before you could move the phone away.
“Nosy,” you muttered.
“She asked about me.”
“She asked about the sink.”
He looked past you, toward the cabinet, where the dripping had finally slowed to almost nothing.
“Same thing.”
You rolled your eyes and typed back.
yes. unfortunately.
Logan laughed under his breath. “Unfortunately?”
“You heard me.”
His smile stayed, but he let it go. For a second, neither of you moved. The kitchen was still a mess, your clothes were still on the floor, and his hoodie hung loose on your body while he stood there shirtless and damp, watching you like he already knew this was not ending here.
Then the sink gave one last quiet drip.
Logan sighed and reached for the towel.
“Give me two minutes.”
This time, you did not pretend not to watch him work.
A minute later, the dripping stopped.
He stood, glanced at the post-it on the fridge, and took the pen from the counter.
Hi there 🤗 Don't know if you're still taking requests but if you are i'd love a Logan story where reader has recently moved in with Hannah and Allie and they're gone for the weekend but reader is faced with a plumbing issue and the girls left a post-it note maybe with his number on it in case anything happens? So reader calls him for help and flirting ensues and the rest is up to you! Love your writing style and i trust you to turn anything into a great story 🧚♀️
blurb: The morning after should have been simple, but secrets have a way of finding daylight. When everything finally comes out, you and Garrett are forced to decide whether what happened between you is something worth hiding, or something worth fighting for.
warnings: angst, Dean’s sister!reader, brother’s best friend trope, secret relationship, mentions of past smut, overprotective brother, confrontation, yelling, physical tension/altercation, hurt feelings, guilt, Garrett trying to do the right thing badly, sibling conflict, mild injury, hurt/comfort, fluffy ending.
Garrett woke up with your leg over his and sunlight cutting across your bedroom floor.
For a few seconds, he stayed still. Your face was tucked against his shoulder, your breathing soft, your hair messy from sleep. It would have been easy to pretend the house was quiet because the world had given both of you a break.
Then a cabinet slammed downstairs.
Dean’s voice carried up through the floor.
Garrett opened his eyes. “Shit.”
You stirred against him. “If he’s making breakfast, don’t eat the eggs.”
“This is not the time.”
“Relax.”
“Your brother is downstairs.”
“I’m aware.”
Garrett sat up, dragging a hand through his hair. His shirt was on the floor near the mirror, his swim trunks were half under the bed, and your bikini top was hanging off the chair like evidence.
You followed his gaze and huffed a quiet laugh. “Don’t start.”
Garrett shook his head, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Not starting anything.”
You watched him for a second, the moment settling between you.
Then Garrett got out of bed.
You watched him pull on his swim trunks and grab his shirt. The second his expression shifted, you knew exactly where his head had gone.
“Don’t,” you said.
He paused with his shirt half-buttoned. “Don’t what?”
“Do that thing where you start looking guilty.”
His jaw tightened. “I don’t want Dean finding out like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like me sneaking out of your room.”
You sat up, the sheet pulled around your chest. “Then don’t sneak.”
Garrett looked at you, and the guilt in his eyes made your stomach sink.
Before either of you could say more, a voice came from the hallway.
“Graham?”
Everything stopped.
Dean stood a few feet from the cracked door, holding a mug in one hand. His eyes moved from Garrett’s half-buttoned shirt to his bare feet, then past him to you sitting in bed.
The hallway went silent as Dean put it together slowly, then all at once.
Garrett stepped out of the room. “Dean.”
Dean shoved him hard into the wall, and the mug hit the floor and shattered.
You scrambled out of bed, grabbing Garrett’s shirt and pulling it over yourself as you rushed to the door. “Dean, stop.”
Dean didn’t look at you. His eyes stayed locked on Garrett, full of anger and something worse underneath it.
“You were in her room.”
Garrett hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah.”
Dean’s jaw tightened. “My sister’s room.”
Garrett didn’t look away. “Yeah.”
The honesty only made Dean angrier.
He shoved Garrett again, and Garrett lifted his hands.
“I’m not fighting you.”
Dean laughed once, sharp. “How kind of you.”
“Dean, listen.”
“No.” Dean’s voice cracked through the hallway. “Don’t stand there like you weren’t lying to me all day.”
Garrett’s jaw flexed. “I should have told you.”
Dean swung.
Garrett caught his arm on instinct, and that was all it took. Dean shoved forward, Garrett pushed him back for space, and suddenly they were grabbing at each other in the hallway, shoulders slamming into the wall hard enough to make something rattle downstairs.
“Stop it!” you snapped.
Neither of them listened.
Dean got one punch in, catching Garrett across the mouth. Garrett’s head turned with the hit, but he still didn’t swing back. Blood appeared at his lip, and your whole body went hot.
“Dean!”
Footsteps thundered down the hall.
Logan appeared first, hair a mess, eyes wide. “What the hell?”
Tucker was right behind him. He took one look at Dean, Garrett, the blood, and you in Garrett’s shirt, then moved fast.
“Enough,” Tucker said, grabbing Dean from behind and pulling him back.
Dean fought against his hold. “Let go.”
“Not while you’re trying to put him through a wall.”
Logan stepped between Dean and Garrett, hands up. “Everybody breathe.”
Dean pointed at Garrett over Tucker’s arm. “He slept with my sister.”
Logan froze, his eyes flicked to you.
“Oh.”
Garrett wiped at his mouth and looked down at the blood on his thumb.
Dean saw that and laughed, but it sounded more hurt than angry. “Say something.”
Garrett lifted his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what you’ve got?”
You stepped forward. “Don’t do that.”
Dean finally looked at you. “Don’t do what?”
“Act like he did this alone.”
Dean’s face tightened. “I don’t want to hear this.”
“Well, you’re going to.”
Garrett said your name quietly, but you ignored him.
Dean’s breathing was still too hard. “So what was it? You kissed? Messed around? What exactly am I supposed to be mad about?”
Something in you snapped.
“Ugh, yes, we fucked, Dean!”
The hallway went dead silent.
Logan’s eyes widened.
Tucker closed his eyes like he wished he could disappear.
Garrett looked at you immediately.
Dean went still.
You were too angry to take it back.
“We fucked. I wanted him. He wanted me. I invited him into my room, and I’m not standing here while you beat the shit out of him like I’m something he stole from you.”
Dean stared at you. “You’re my sister.”
“I know,” you said. “You keep saying that like it means I stop being a person.”
That landed.
Dean looked away first.
Garrett moved slightly toward you, then stopped. You saw the guilt settle over his face, the same guilt from that morning, the same one from months ago.
Your chest tightened.
“Don’t,” you said to him.
His brows pulled together.
“Do not pull away from me right now because you feel bad.”
Garrett swallowed. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
Dean’s gaze cut back to Garrett. “You pulled away from her?”
Garrett didn’t answer.
Your voice dropped. “He did it before too.”
Garrett looked at you then, wounded and guilty, but you were too hurt to soften it.
Dean’s anger shifted. “You did this before?”
Garrett looked at him. “Yes.”
“Why?”
Garrett glanced at you, then back at Dean. “Because I was scared of this.”
Dean breathed out hard. “You should have been.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.” Dean’s voice went rough. “I stood there yesterday and said nobody touches my sister, and you stood there like you hadn’t already done it.”
Garrett didn’t defend himself.
“I know,” he said.
The fight went out of Dean’s face all at once, leaving only the hurt behind.
He pulled out of Tucker’s hold. This time, Tucker let him.
“I can’t look at either of you right now.”
Your chest tightened. “Dean.”
“No.” His voice was quieter now. “I need space.”
He walked away before anyone could stop him.
The hours after that were awful.
The house turned too quiet. Logan stopped making jokes. Tucker cleaned the broken mug from the hallway. Allie came to your room, wrapped you in a hug, and didn’t ask you to explain before you were ready.
Garrett kept away.
Not gone. You heard him downstairs, low-voiced with Tucker, then outside with Logan. But he didn’t come to you.
By late afternoon, you found him in the kitchen with an ice pack against his mouth.
He looked up when you walked in.
“Hey.”
You leaned against the island. “That’s what you’re going with?”
Garrett lowered the ice pack. “I don’t know what else to say.”
“You could start with why you disappeared.”
“I was giving you space.”
“I didn’t ask for space.”
He exhaled. “I know.”
You stared at him, hurt sitting heavy in your chest. “You did it again.”
His face tightened.
“You decided backing off was the right thing,” you said. “You did it after the first time, and you did it again this morning.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know.” Your voice cracked, and you hated it. “That’s the problem. You keep hurting me by trying so hard not to.”
Garrett set the ice pack down.
For a moment, he just looked at you.
Then he came around the island slowly, stopping close enough to touch but not touching yet.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Not because Dean found out. Not because he hit me. I’m sorry because you asked me not to disappear, and I did anyway.”
Your throat tightened.
“I don’t want you to feel like a secret,” he said.
“Then don’t make me one.”
“I won’t.”
He reached for your hand carefully, giving you time to pull away.
You didn’t.
His fingers slipped through yours.
“I want you,” he said. “Not just when no one is looking. Not just when it’s easy. Not just when Dean doesn’t know.”
Your chest ached.
“You better mean that.”
“I do.”
Before you could answer, Dean’s voice came from the doorway.
“I really hate walking into rooms now.”
You and Garrett turned.
Dean stood there in shorts and a wrinkled shirt, hair messy from the wind, expression tired in a way you weren’t used to seeing on him. His eyes dropped to your joined hands.
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t yell. Garrett started to let go, and you held tighter. Dean noticed, and for a few seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Dean looked at Garrett. “I’m still pissed.”
Garrett nodded. “I know.”
“I hate that you lied.”
“I know.”
“I hate that you let me look like an idiot.”
You opened your mouth, but Dean looked at you first.
“And yeah,” he said, quieter. “I know I was hurt.”
That stopped you.
Dean rubbed a hand over his face, then looked back at Garrett.
“I hate that it’s you.”
Garrett’s expression tightened.
Dean exhaled hard. “And I hate that if it was going to be anyone, I’d probably want it to be you.”
You blinked.
Garrett looked just as surprised.
Dean pointed at both of you. “Do not look relieved. I’m still mad.”
“I wasn’t,” Garrett said.
Dean stared.
Garrett cleared his throat. “A little.”
“Idiot.”
“Fair.”
Dean looked at you then, and his anger softened around the edges.
“You’re happy?”
Your throat tightened.
You glanced at Garrett. He was looking at you without hiding now, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.
“I think I could be,” you said.
Dean hated that answer. You could see it on his face. Not because it was wrong, but because it was honest.
He nodded once, sharp and reluctant.
“Fine.”
“Fine?” you asked.
“Fine,” Dean repeated, then pointed at Garrett. “But if you break her heart, I’m not fighting you in the hallway next time.”
Garrett nodded solemnly. “No?”
“No, this time I'm killing you.”
“That’s worse.”
“It’s supposed to be.”
You almost smiled.
Dean saw it. “Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re thinking about it.”
“A little.”
His mouth twitched before he could stop it.
Then he looked at Garrett again, serious now. “Don’t make her feel stupid for trusting you.”
Garrett’s hand tightened around yours. “I won’t.”
Dean studied him for a moment, then nodded once.
“I need air.”
“You were just outside,” you said.
“I need different air.”
He turned to leave, pausing just long enough to brush your shoulder on the way past.
Small. Barely anything.
But from Dean, right then, it felt like an apology.
When the kitchen went quiet again, Garrett was still holding your hand.
This time, he didn’t let go.
“You okay?” he asked.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
You tilted your face up. “You’re still a bad idea, Graham.”
His smile brushed your mouth. “Maybe.”
“Definitely.”
He kissed you once, light and lingering.
“But not one I’m walking away from,” he said.
For once, you believed him.
Outside, Dean groaned loudly enough for both of you to hear.
“I hate this already.”
Garrett kissed you again.
You smiled against his mouth.
“Me too,” you called back.
Dean made a wounded sound from the patio, Logan laughed, and somehow, impossibly, the house started to feel like a vacation again.
Hi!! I absolutely adore your writing and went through all of your off campus masterlist in one evening 🫣 I was wondering if I could request a John Tucker one where the reader drunkenly admits she has a crush on "John" but one of the other boys assumes she means Logan and not Tucker and the aftermath of that confession? Maybe with Tucker already having a crush on reader for a while? I'll let you have fun with it but something fluffly and smutty in there as well if it fits because you write it so well 🥰 Thank you and have a wonderful day!!
