Pairing: John Logan x Reader
wattpad request:Heyy I have a request for Off campus.. Could you make a Y/N and Logan imagine where Y/N gets into an accident and him finding out through his friends, and the aftermath.
John knew something was wrong the second Garrett called him twice in a row.
It was late enough that the hockey house had gone quieter than usual, the kind of late where even the loudest guys had started to settle into their own corners of the room. John had been half watching a game on the TV and half pretending to read a text from you that had been sitting unanswered for almost an hour.
He frowned at the second call and answered immediately.
Garrett’s voice came through fast and tight. “Are you with Y/N?”
That tiny pause was all it took.
John’s stomach dropped. “Garrett.”
“Okay,” Garrett said, and now the forced calm was obvious. “Don’t freak out.”
John was already standing. “What happened?”
Another pause, shorter this time, like Garrett was trying to decide how much to say first. “She got in an accident.”
The room seemed to go very still around him.
John gripped the phone harder. “What kind of accident?”
“She got hit,” Garrett said quickly. “Not, like,bad, I don’t think. She’s awake. She’s talking. But she’s going to the hospital just to be checked out.”
John’s pulse started hammering so hard he could hear it in his ears. “Why am I hearing this from you?”
“Because she made us promise not to call until someone got a hold of you and she was being stubborn as hell.”
John had already shoved himself away from the couch. “Where is she?”
“Ambulance. They’re taking her now.”
John was already grabbing his jacket. “Which hospital?”
Garrett gave him the name, and John barely managed a rough, “I’m coming,” before hanging up and heading for the door.
Behind him, Tucker had already stood up. “What happened?”
John barely heard him. “Y/N was in an accident.”
Dean’s face changed instantly. “Is she okay?”
Garrett had said awake. Talking. But John’s mind had already leapt to every worst possibility it could find, and none of them were helping. He was halfway out the door when Logan caught his arm.
He turned, breathing hard.
Logan’s face was careful and serious in that quiet way he had when someone needed him to be steady. “Go. We’ll handle things here.”
John nodded once, already gone inside his own head. “Yeah.”
Garrett’s voice came through the phone again a second later, this time from the background on speaker. “Tell him she was upset because she dropped her phone and she kept apologizing to everybody like she was the one who got hit.”
That was somehow exactly the kind of thing you would do.
John swallowed hard, throat tight. “What happened?”
“She got clipped turning at an intersection,” Garrett said. “Airbags went off. The front of the car got messed up but not, like, catastrophic. She was conscious the whole time. She kept asking if she could call you.”
John closed his eyes for a second, that single detail landing like a blow and a relief at the same time. She had wanted him. She had been scared and had wanted him.
He was already driving before he fully realized he was in the truck.
The whole ride to the hospital felt like moving through something thick and unreal. Every red light was insulting. Every car in front of him felt too slow. His hands were tight on the wheel, knuckles white, his thoughts jumping between the worst images and Garrett’s voice saying she was awake.
When he finally got to the ER, he was out of the truck before he had even fully parked.
Garrett was waiting near the entrance, hands shoved into his pockets, face tense but relieved when he saw John.
“She’s in exam room four,” Garrett said immediately. “They’re still checking her over. Nothing obvious from the outside, but they’re being careful.”
John nodded once, unable to talk for a second.
Garrett looked at him. “Hey. She’s okay.”
John dragged a hand down his face. “I need to see her.”
“Yeah,” Garrett said. “Come on.”
The hallway to the exam room felt too bright, too sterile, too quiet. John could hear himself breathing. He could hear the squeak of his shoes. None of it felt real until Garrett pushed the door open and John saw you.
You were sitting up on the bed, one arm bandaged a little at the forearm, hair messy, your face pale but alert. There was a cut on your lip and a bruise already blooming near your temple, but you were awake. You were okay enough to sit there with an anxious nurse checking your vitals while trying to look braver than you probably felt.
The second you saw John, your entire face changed.
“John,” you said, voice breaking a little on his name.
He crossed the room in three steps and stopped so fast in front of you that he almost didn’t know what to do with his hands. Then, when he saw the way your eyes had gone shiny and the way your shoulders had started to shake, he made the decision for both of you.
He wrapped you in his arms very carefully.
You gave a small, broken sound and clung to him instantly.
John buried his face against your hair and shut his eyes, the relief hitting him so hard it almost hurt. “Hey,” he whispered, voice rough. “I’ve got you.”
You nodded against his chest and then immediately winced.
John pulled back just enough to look at you. “What hurts?”
“Everything,” you admitted, trying to laugh and failing a little. “Mostly my pride.”
That made a weak breath of a laugh escape him, though his hands were already checking you gently, as if he could tell by touch whether anything serious had happened. One hand brushed your cheek. The other hovered at your shoulder before settling carefully at your waist.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he said quietly.
Your eyes filled immediately. “I’m sorry.”
John frowned. “No. Don’t do that.”
You looked at him with that wrecked, guilty expression people only wore when they thought they had caused pain by existing in the wrong place at the wrong time. He hated it. Not because it made you look weak. Because it made you look like you thought you had to earn being cared about.
You swallowed hard. “I didn’t want to freak you out.”
John’s jaw tightened. “You got hit by a car.”
You made a face. “That sounds much worse when you say it.”
“It is worse when I say it.”
That got the tiniest, tearful smile out of you.
The nurse finished up and gave John a quick rundown about the bruising, the cut, and the fact that you were being monitored mostly out of caution. No broken bones. No internal bleeding from what they had seen so far. You’d probably be sore and miserable, but you were fine.
John heard the words, but it still took a second before they fully landed.
When the nurse left and Garrett quietly stepped out to make a phone call, John sat beside your bed and reached for your hand immediately.
You looked at him with a little uncertainty. “You’re not mad?”
That made him stare at you.
Then his face softened in a way that nearly undid you all over again. “Mad?”
He huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh. “I’m mad at the universe. Not you.”
You blinked, then your mouth trembled. “Okay.”
John’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. “You really thought I’d be mad at you for getting hurt?”
“I don’t know,” you whispered. “I just,”
He stopped you gently with his hand. “Hey.”
He studied your face for a second, then said, very quietly, “You can stop trying to make yourself small right now.”
John kept going, voice low and steady. “You’re hurt. You’re scared. You’re allowed to be both. And I’m allowed to be scared too.”
Your face crumpled, just a little, and John immediately moved closer, wrapping one arm around your shoulders while careful not to press too hard against anything that might hurt. You leaned into him with a shaky breath, and he held you there until the tears settled.
“I tried to call you,” you said into his shirt. “I really did.”
“I was so mad because I dropped it and then I thought maybe I’d never get to talk to you and I was being stupid and,”
John kissed the top of your head. “You were not being stupid.”
You sniffled. “I was scared.”
That made his whole expression go soft in a way that hurt to look at.
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “I’m here now.”
You nodded, still teary and shaky.
He brushed his thumb under your eye, careful around the bruising. “You doing okay?”
That earned a quiet, relieved laugh from him. “Fair.”
A little while later, after the doctor confirmed you were fine to go home with instructions to rest and keep an eye on the concussion symptoms, John helped you into his truck like you were made of glass and had absolutely no interest in pretending otherwise.
You winced when he shut the door too quickly, and his whole face changed immediately.
He nodded once like he was taking notes. “Got it.”
On the drive home, you dozed against the seat with your head tilted toward the window. John glanced at you every few seconds, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over occasionally to rest on your thigh just to make sure you were still there.
When he pulled into his driveway, you woke just enough to frown. “You’re carrying me in.”
You looked at him like he had offended your entire bloodline. “John.”
He gave you the most unimpressed look in existence. “You got hit by a car.”
You glared. “That is extremely rude to say in that tone.”
He got out, came around, and opened your door with all the finality of a man who had already made the decision. “I’m carrying you.”
You groaned, but you also smiled a little because you were too tired to keep fighting him properly.
Inside, he set you up on the couch with blankets, water, and the remote, then disappeared for ten minutes before returning with a bowl of soup and a bottle of painkillers.
You stared up at him. “You planned this?”
He looked mildly offended. “I’m not incompetent.”
You smiled weakly. “That is very debatable.”
He sat beside you and carefully tucked the blanket around your shoulders. “Eat.”
You obeyed because the warmth of the soup was making your whole body feel less bruised already.
John watched you for a minute, then reached over and gently took your hand again. “You okay?”
You glanced at him. “You’ve asked that like seven times.”
You smiled, then your face got a little softer. “You were really scared.”
John didn’t answer immediately.
Then he looked at you, honest and unguarded in the low light of the living room, and said, “I was terrified.”
That made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the accident.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered again.
He immediately frowned. “No.”
You gave him a tired, guilty look. “John.”
He leaned in and kissed your forehead. “I am not mad at you.”
Then, because you were still shaken and sore and emotionally cracked open, you shifted a little closer to him and leaned into his side. He wrapped an arm around you with the same careful tenderness he’d used at the hospital and rested his cheek against your hair.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
The quiet between you was soft now. Safer.
Eventually you whispered, “Can you stay on the couch with me?”
John looked down at you, then smiled faintly. “Yeah.”
“Especially if you fall asleep.”
You relaxed into him fully after that, and the rest of the night blurred into warm lamplight, quiet reassurances, and John refusing to let go of your hand even while you drifted in and out of sleep.
Every so often, when you woke a little, he’d be there exactly where you left him, watching over you with that steady, devoted look that made it impossible to stay afraid for long.
And when you finally woke the next morning sore and fuzzy and safely home, John was still beside you, one hand resting over yours like he had spent the whole night making sure the world stayed away.
He looked up when you shifted and gave you a tired, relieved smile.
“Morning,” he said quietly.
You smiled back, even through the pain. “Morning.”
He kissed your temple and murmured, “Don’t do that again.”
You huffed a weak laugh. “I’ll try.”
John shook his head, but his hand tightened around yours.
“I mean it,” he said softly. “I need you.”
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