this is a mess.

18+ y/o | part of way too many fandoms. sometimes i write stuff but there's no actual theme to this whole thing. like i said, a mess | masterlist | anime masterlist

[rgntthragg]

Cupid's Bow

☄︎ Warnings: None ☄︎ Pairing: F!Reader x John Logan ☄︎ Rating: PG ☄︎ Words: 1000 ☄︎ AN: written for this request and i incorporated this comment too. gave myself a good little giggle writing this so i hope everyone thinks i am as funny as i think i am. hope you enjoy, comments and feedback are always appreciated xoxo ☄︎ Summary: Logan retells the story of your meet cute (a lil follow up to Falling for You (Literally) and the guys think Logan has lost his mind.

It takes Logan 20 minutes longer to get home than it should. His tailbone is still sore from hitting the ice, and he’s doesn’t want to make the injury worse. He has to be able to play on Friday, you said you’d consider coming.  

Despite the ache radiating from his lower back, he limps home with a wide grin on his face, replaying the images of you that he had committed to his memory. Every now and then, he hears the sound of your laughter ringing in his ears. He doesn’t even notice the extra time that it takes to get back to the house.

Logan swings the front door open and goes straight for the sofa, collapsing on top of Tucker’s bare legs. Tucker, who was mindlessly scrolling on his phone, immediately yelps. “Ew! Logan, what the fuck man. Why are you wet?”

Tucker pulls his legs out from under the wet fabric of Logan’s jeans. Garrett, who is sitting at the kitchen island with his laptop open, and Dean, who’s raiding the fridge with a girl on his arm, both look over to see what the commotion is.

Logan turns to look over at them, a dazed, loopy, smile plastered across his face. “I met her,” he grins, completely ignoring Tucker’s protest. “The love of my life.”

Over by the fridge, Dean turns to exchange a look with Garrett who just shrugs and mouths, ‘No idea.’

Garrett shuts his laptop halfway and turns to Logan. “Okay, sure...” he says slowly.

“Seriously, why are you wet!” Tucker demands again, wiping his legs with his hands.

“Oh. I was chasing after her and I slipped on some black ice,” Logan says, his smile never fading.

Everyone in the room pauses to look at Logan. Dean is the first one to speak. “You were chasing after a girl... at midnight... in the dark?”

Logan sits up, wincing and rubbing his aching tailbone. “It wasn’t like that. It was romantic.” Dean snorts and Logan ignores him. “I hit the ground so hard I thought I died. But when I opened my eyes, she was leaning over me. She literally had a golden halo around her head. The snow was falling in slow motion. I thought she was an angel and asked her if I was in heaven.”

Dean full on belly laughs now. “You did not use that line on her, did you?”

“I mean it worked, so whatever. You can’t ruin this for me, bro.”

That makes Dean laugh harder.

Tucker looks at Logan, squinting at him with deep concern. “Logan,” he says slowly, “Did you hit your head on the ice?”

“No! Well, maybe a little, but that’s not the point.”

Tucker turns his head to look at Garrett, who turns to look at Dean.

“Well, I wish you and your imaginary girlfriend many years of happiness. I’ve got business with a real girl to attend to,” Dean chuckles as he pulls his girl back up the stairs.

Logan looks over and watches Dean disappear around the corner of the staircase, scowling. “She is not imaginary. She’s real. And she’s witty. And she’s beautiful. And real.”

Garrett bursts out laughing, shutting his laptop completely. “The more you say she’s real, the less real she sounds.”

“No,” Logan whines. He can’t understand why the existence of your perfectly realistic meet-cute is being denied.

“She’s real, she took my hand.” He raises the hand that you held to help him stand in the snow, as if that proves your existence. “And she said she’ll consider coming to the game on Friday.”

Garrett and Tucker look at Logan’s outstretched hand.

“Look, if she actually comes to the game on Friday, I’ll pay for your first date,” Garrett laughs. “In the meantime, go get some ice for your head... and ass.”

Logan drops his hand, glaring at them both.

“You’ll see,” he mutters, wincing as he stands and limps down the hallway to his room. The dazed, loopy, smile returns the second his door is closed. He doesn’t care what they say. He knows you’re real.

⋆꙳⛸❅*‧⛸‧*❆₊⛸⋆❆⋆꙳⛸❅*‧⛸‧*❆₊⛸⋆❆⋆꙳⛸❅*‧⛸‧*❆₊⛸⋆❆

As usual, the arena is completely packed and the energy is electric as they take to the ice. Logan plays like a man possessed, every time he has a free moment, his eyes scan the rows of the crowd, searching for you.

By the third period, he still hasn’t found you and the boys are giving him shit for it.

“See your imaginary girlfriend yet, Logan?” Dean teases, squirting water into his mouth.

Logan ignores him, hopping over the boards as the whistle blows. He still has time to spot you, he knows you’re in the room. That “I’ll consider it.” was basically a promise.

With two minutes left on the clock, Logan scores a blinder and the crowd erupts. He lets out a triumphant shout, skating towards the corner to celebrate. But, as he nears the boards, his eyes lock onto a face in the second row.

It’s you.

You’re in the crowd, clapping and cheering as the fans around you go wild. Your eyes meet his through the glass and you give him a little wave.

He slows his skate towards you, lifting up his right knee and balancing on one leg, he mimics shooting off an invisible arrow aimed right at your heart.  

Just as he puts his leg back down, Dean and Tucker crash into him, wrapping him into a tight hug. They slap his pads and helmet, celebrating the game winning shot, but Logan completely ignores them, his gaze still locked on to you.

He breaks away from their grip just enough to shoot you a wave. Dean looks confused and follows the direction of Logan’s wave.

In the second row of the stands, you’re blushing as you laugh and wave back again.

“No fucking way,” Dean mutters, his jaw dropping as he looks between you and Logan. “Is that...?”

Tucker looks over too, eyes wide. “Holy shit. Halo girl is actually real.”

Off Campus Masterlist

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ drunk romance.

pairing – garrett graham x reader summary – after a party, garrett is drunk, clingy, and very committed to proving that sloppy kisses count as romance. warnings – alcohol, post-party setting, clingy/flirty behaviour, suggestive jokes, sloppy kisses, strong language notes from me – a little something based on these asks!! i didn't go overboard w the tall girl mentions, bc i agree sometimes it's nicer just baked into the story!! thank u bbys xx word count – 0.6k

navigation – masterlist |

Garrett gets both of them caught in the doorway, even though there’s more than enough room for the two of them. It’s his room, his stupid off-campus hockey house bedroom with the laundry basket spilling athletic socks onto the floor and three empty Gatorades on his desk like a memorial site. 

He just forgets, somewhere between the hallway and the threshold, how to move his feet without also trying to kiss her neck, which means his shoulder bumps the frame, her hip catches the edge, and he makes this wounded little noise into her skin like the door has personally betrayed him.

“Jesus, Graham,” she says, laughing despite herself, one hand fisted in the back of his shirt to keep him upright. “Walk first. Seduce never.”

“M’not seducing,” he mumbles, warm and beer-sweet against the side of her jaw. His hands have found her waist like they were put there at birth and he’s now too drunk to question destiny. “This is romance.”

“This is a concussion waiting to happen.”

He lifts his head at that, offended in the loose, unfocused way of someone whose pupils are doing their best but not their finest work. His curls are a disaster, flattened on one side from wherever Logan had shoved a backwards cap onto him earlier and then stolen it back, and his mouth is shiny from the sloppy kisses he keeps missing by half an inch. “I don’t get concussions. I’m elite.”

“You tried to drink from a bottle of barbecue sauce ten minutes ago.”

“Protein.”

“It was Sweet Baby Ray’s.”

“Baby,” he says, with sudden, devastating sincerity, like he’s just remembered she exists and is furious about how much he likes it. He drops his forehead against hers, close enough that they’re breathing the same dumb, alcohol-warm air, and because they’re practically eye to eye like this, she gets the full force of his ridiculous drunk softness without having to tilt her chin back very far. “You’re so pretty it’s actually pissing me off.”

She bites the inside of her cheek because smiling will only encourage him, and he’s already plenty encouraged, big hands sliding around to her back, dragging her in until her knees knock lightly into his. 

“Sit down,” she tells him, guiding him toward the bed. “Before you compliment me into manslaughter.”

He goes, but only because she goes with him, folding down onto the mattress beside him as he immediately lists sideways and tries to crawl halfway into her lap. It would be less absurd if he weren’t built like someone engineered in a lab to win face-offs and ruin lives. Instead, he’s heavy and clingy and muttering nonsense into her collarbone while she pries off one of his shoes with her heel.

“Dean said I’m embarrassing,” Garrett says, scandalised.

“Dean watched you tell Tucker’s ficus it had nice vibes.”

“Mean plant.”

“You’re done talking.”

He hums, unconvinced, then presses a kiss somewhere near her shoulder, misses, and gets the strap of her top instead. “Stay?”

She smooths his hair back from his forehead, feeling the heat of him, the party still humming through the floorboards downstairs, boys yelling, bass thudding, the whole house alive and messy around them. Garrett’s eyes are half shut now, his cheek mashed against her chest like he’s found the only safe place in Massachusetts.

“Yeah,” she says, quieter, letting her thumb drift over his brow. “I’ll stay.”

His mouth curves, smug even half-asleep. “Knew it.”

She looks down at him, at the golden boy of Briar hockey currently drooling very delicately on her shirt, and huffs a laugh through her nose.

“Romance,” she mutters.

Garrett, already gone, squeezes her once like he agrees.

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[kaiwithlove]

۶ৎ paper rings, picture frames & dirty dreams. | j. logan

welcome to the dollhouse, dear reader!

short summary: where john logan wants to propose. unfortunately, the engagement ring is expensive, your future apartment is expensive, life is expensive, and he's slowly losing his mind. pairing: boyfriend!john logan x fem!reader word count: 6.2k warnings: angst with a happy ending, misunderstandings, emotional hurt/comfort, secret engagement planning, financial insecurity, discussions of money, reader thinking logan is cheating, emotional repression, crying, proposal anxiety, mild swearing, mentions of grief/loss of a parent, lots of kissing, dean di laurentis being aggressively unhelpful, garrett and tucker being the voices of reason for once, paper ring proposal, excessive use of "babe", tooth-rotting fluff at the end, reader is referred to as a she & as a woman, let me know if i missed any! all characters in this story are adults. english is not my first language, so please forgive me for any errors. a/n: full disclosure, i was bawling my eyes out writing this. i love logan so much. also, dean deserved at least three separate concussions for his behavior in this fic. also, i was very inspired by this. what's kai listening to: paper rings by taylor swift.

18+; mdni. likes, comments and reblogs are always and forever appreciated <3

The place was perfect.

You stood in the middle of the empty apartment, taking in the floor to ceiling windows, the marble of the breakfast bar, the pretty little notch in the kitchen island you couldn't wait to turn into a coffee bar. You could almost see it, almost smell the coffee brewing as the early morning sunlight filtered into room, caressing Logan's face with its golden fingers as he made breakfast. You could almost feel the way his mouth would curl against yours in a soft smile as you kissed him good morning, could almost hear his voice—

"Babe?" Logan's footsteps were soft against the hardwood floors as he rounded the corner with the realtor who was showing you the apartment. His dark hair was falling onto his forehead, blue eyes immediately finding you standing in the middle of the empty room. "What do you think?"

You meet his gaze, melting into him as he wraps an arm around your waist—casual, sweet. You loved that about him, loved that he wasn't a grand gestures, in-your-face romantic. He was steady, calm, the harbor in a storm. "I love it, Logan. It's beautiful."

He smiles at you, squeezing your waist before turning back to the realtor, Anna, taking off to follow her as she continued with the tour of the house. The property was honestly lovely—the kind of apartment you could see yourself living in after the two of you graduated college in a few months.

Senior year had been blissful, to say the least. After you and John finally—finally—began dating toward the end of your freshman year, life at Briar had transformed into something you never would've pictured for yourself. Weekends spent with the boys at the Hawks House, hanging out with Hannah and Allie on game days, parties that somehow always ended with you and Logan sneaking off to the firepit to sip beer and look at the stars. It was honestly hard to believe that you had been dating for only a couple of years—it felt like a lifetime.

And now, with finals, and graduation, and Logan being a shoo-in for the Bruins alongside Garret, you were excited to start the rest of your lives together. Most conversations these days between you and Logan were about apartments, where you guys would live after graduation. You were excited to move out of New Hastings and into Boston, where you'd been offered a job that was honestly, your dream since the day you walked into Briar U.

As Anna wrapped up the tour, you slipped your hand into Logan's, his palm rough, calloused against yours. Anna smiled as she handed you one of the brochures for the apartment. "So, the apartment would be around $3,900 a month. Utilities are not included, of course. I'll need the first and last month's rent if you decide to take the unit. The amount for the security deposit, as well as my fee is at the back of the brochure. If you have a few minutes, I'd recommend taking a walk around the block, familiarizing yourself with the neighborhood. I think you'd really like it."

You felt Logan's arm tense. Not too much—slight enough that you were sure you'd imagined it at first. But then, as you slipped the brochure into your purse, walking down the stairs, you noticed the slight crease in his brow, looking down at his phone. "Is everything okay?"

His gaze snapped up to yours instantly, his face softening the way it always did when he looked at you. "Of course it is, babe. Wanna take a walk around the block, see what's around?"

The two of you stepped out into the evening sun, hand in hand. The apartment was located in Beacon Hill, in a charming old brownstone. The cobblestone streets were lined with little luxury boutiques, antique stores, and gorgeous art galleries.

You passed several such stores in blissful silence, glancing idly at the displays in the windows, until—

"Oh, my God."

Logan was nearly yanked off-balance as you stopped short in front of the window of a jewelry store, mouth agape, staring at a pair of gorgeous diamond earrings. You turned to Logan. "These are exactly like the ones my mom had when I was a kid!"

Logan's face softened immediately. "Yeah?"

You turned back to the window display, pressing closer to the glass, close enough that your breath began to fog up the pane. The earrings were beautiful—simple diamond studs surrounded by a delicate halo of smaller stones. They were elegant, timeless.

"When I was little, my mom had a pair exactly like these. She wore them everywhere. To work, to date nights with my dad, even grocery shopping." A laugh escaped you, your gaze still fixed on the display, unable to tear your eyes away. "I used to sneak into her room and try them on when she wasn't looking."

Logan smiled faintly. You missed the way it didn't quite reach his eyes. "They're nice."

"Nice?" you repeated in mock offense. "John Logan, these are stunning."

"Right." Logan cleared his throat. "Stunning."

You finally dragged your attention away from the display to look at him properly. You couldn't seem to shake the feeling that something was off. You couldn't quite put your finger on it, but he hadn't been himself lately.

It had been happening more and more often—little moments where he seemed to disappear into his own head, where his smile seemed forced, where his eyes got this distant, faraway look in them, like he wasn't quite in the moment with you.

The crease between his brows was back.

Before you could even open your mouth to ask him about it, his phone buzzed, startling him. His hand immediately to his pocket, pulling out the lit up screen. Logan angled it away from you before you could even catch a glimpse of the caller ID, but you could see the look on his face—something between panic and relief.

Logan cleared his throat. "Sorry babe, I gotta take this."

"Everything okay?" you asked, trying to ignore the sickening sinking feeling blooming in the pit of your stomach.

"Yeah." The words spilled out of his mouth a little too quickly. Almost as if he could see the wheels in your head turning, Logan curled the corner of his lips into a smile—that familiar smile that usually settled every worry in your chest.

This time, it didn't.

Logan didn't seem to notice. "I'll be right back," he said, stepping away before you could say anything else, already lifting the phone to his ear.

You watched him retreat down the sidewalk, broad shoulders tensing underneath his jacket. You watched as his free hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing the spot at the top of spine like he always did when he was stressed.

Your stomach knotted itself further. Maybe it was hockey, maybe graduation, maybe apartment hunting. God knew the two of you had enough going on lately to make anyone lose their mind.

But somehow, you couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else.

You forced yourself to let it go, instead you turned back toward the jewelry store window. The earrings sparkled underneath the warm display lights—and before you could talk yourself out of it, you were reaching for the door handle.

A small bell jingled overhead as you stepped inside. The store was lovely. Crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, casting soft light over glass display cases. You felt like a kid in a candy store.

A saleswoman was by your side almost immediately. She looked to be in her fifties, dressed impeccably in black. "Welcome, dear. Can I help you with anything?"

You smiled, pointing toward the window. "Could I see those diamond earrings, please?"

"Excellent choice," the woman said, her face brightening.

A few moments later, she was placing them carefully on a velvet tray. Up close, they were even more beautiful. Gently, delicately, you lifted one. The diamond caught the light, scattering a million tiny rainbows across the glass.

Your mother's face flashed through your memory—helping you zip up your prom dress, teaching you how to curl your hair, laughing so hard tears rolled down her cheeks at Thanksgiving dinner. A sudden warmth bloomed in your chest, but it had nothing to do with the earrings and everything to do with the woman who raised you.

"Would you like to try them on?" the saleswoman asked.

You swallowed the lump of emotions in your throat as you nodded, lifting the stud to your ear. The woman stepped forward, helping you fasten them.

Slowly, you turned your head to the side, glancing in the mirror. Your face immediately cracked into a smile. "Oh."

"I take it that's a yes?" the saleswoman laughed.

You turned your head to the other side, watching them sparkle. They really were almost identical—close enough that your mom would've loved them. Without thinking too hard about it, you asked, "How much are they?"

The saleswoman named the price.

They were expensive—definitely expensive. But not impossible.

You'd been saving aggressively ever since accepting your job offer in Boston. Between that and the graduation gifts from family, you could afford them quite easily.

You looked at yourself one more time, thinking about your mother, about all the milestones waiting just around the corner—graduation, moving to a new city, a new life. "Can I give them gift wrapped?"

The saleswoman smiled knowingly. "Of course."

Twenty minutes later, you stepped back onto the sidewalk carrying a small, cream-colored shopping bag tied with a pink satin ribbon.

The evening sun was beginning to dip lower between the brownstone buildings. Down the block, you could see Logan, still on the phone. His back was turned you, one hand shoved into the pocket of his jeans, the other pressed tightly to his forehead.

Your smile faded. The call had clearly lasted longer than expected.

As if sensing your gaze, Logan looked up, his entire expression changing the moment he saw you. The tension vanished, the crease on his forehead smoothening out. His smile returned, easy, warm, and familiar.

But this time, you were almost certain it wasn't real.

His gaze dropped to the shopping bag in your hand. Something flashed across this face so quickly you nearly missed it. It wasn't annoyance, wasn't surprise—it was something heavier.

Before you could figure out what it was, it was gone, and Logan was walking toward you. "Ready to keep walking?"

You slipped your hand into his, the shopping back swinging lightly from your wrist. "Yep."

Logan squeezed your hand—one, two, three times.

Together, you continued down the cobblestone street, neither of you noticing that the things you weren't saying were beginning to pile up between you.

At first, you told yourself you were imagining things.

Logan had a lot on his plate—he really did. Graduation was only a few months away now, and the Bruins had practically been circling him for over a year now. Between practice, games, classes, apartment hunting, and preparing for an entirely new chapter of your lives, it would've been strange if he wasn't stressed.

That was what you told yourself, anyway.

It was becoming a lot harder to believe, now that three weeks had passed and nothing had changed. In fact, if anything, you were afraid they'd gotten worse.

The first thing you noticed were the late nights. Logan had always been the kind of person who could fall asleep practically anywhere—on the couch, during movies, in the passenger seat of your of your car on the trips home for Thanksgiving.

But now? You woke up at two in the morning to find his bed empty.

The first time it happened, you found him sitting at the table in the Hawks House' kitchen, his tired face bathed in the blue light of his open laptop.

When he noticed you, he slammed it shut so quickly that you jumped. "Jesus, Logan."

"What're you doing awake at this hour?" he asked, his eyes widening.

"I could ask you the same thing."

You could've sworn he looked almost guilty as he looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just couldn't sleep."

At the time, you'd accepted the explanation... until it happened again. The second time, he was sitting on the balcony, the third time, in the living room. The fourth time he was on the living room couch, claiming he was reviewing paperwork for the Bruins.

Every answer felt reasonable, but every answer somehow made you feel worse—because none of them explained why he looked so nervous, so guilty every time you caught him, or why he hid whatever was on his laptop, or why his phone suddenly never left his side.

You noticed the last part one Thursday afternoon, when the two of you were sprawled across the couch, your head in his lap, his fingers twisted in the ends of your hair as he watched a hockey game.

His phone buzzed on the coffee table, and Logan lunged for it so quickly you were nearly thrown off his lap. The movement was so abrupt that both of you froze.

A tense silence settled over the room. You had that feeling again—that strange, sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach like the day he got that phone call outside the jewelry store. It was stronger now, more potent, almost tangible.

Logan stared at you, forcing a laugh. "Sorry, babe."

Nothing—no explanation. You tried not to think about it, but once the thought entered your head, it became impossible to ignore, because there other things, too. Tiny, insignificant things that probably meant nothing... except they didn't feel like nothing.

You started noticing how often he stepped away to answer incoming calls, how frequently he angled his phone away from you. How many texts arrived late at night. How distracted he became whenever you asked him if everything was okay.

One evening, you were brushing your teeth in his bathroom when his phone lit up on the counter.

You weren't trying to snoop—genuinely. Your eyes simply caught the notification as his phone screen lip up with an incoming text. Your chest tightened—no name, just an unsaved phone number.

The screen darkened before you could read the message. Your fingers itched to reach out and hit the power button, to see what the text was, but no. You trusted Logan—you trusted him with your life.

A moment later, Logan entered the bathroom, almost as if he heard the distinct ding of the incoming text from where he lay on his bed. His gaze immediately found the phone, then you.

The tension in his shoulders materialized instantly. "What?"

You flinched at how sharp the word came out. "Nothing."

His face softened immediately. He stepped inside, reaching around you to pick up the phone, planting a soft, gentle kiss on your temple. "I'm sorry, babe."

You gave him a tight-lipped smile, but the damage was already done. That night you lay in bed next to him, staring at the ceiling. Try as you might, you couldn't fall asleep.

It was ridiculous. Logan loved you, you knew that. You'd never doubted it for a second, not once in almost three years.

John Logan wasn't a cheater. He wasn't.

So why did it suddenly feel like he was hiding something? The question followed you everywhere—to class, to work, to lunch with Hannah and Allie.

Which, unfortunately, spending time with Hannah and Allie only made things worse, because apparently, you were terrible at hiding your emotions.

"You okay?" Hannah asked, setting her coffee down.

You looked up from the drink you'd absentmindedly been stirring. "What?"

"You haven't heard a single thing we've said for the last ten minutes," Allie frowned. "Is everything okay with you and Logan?"

You immediately forced a smile, even as the concern in her voice made your stomach twist. "Yeah. Yeah, everything's okay."

The silence stretched as neither of them looked convinced. Then, Hannah's eyes narrowed. "Oh, my God."

"Hannah, no—"

"You think Logan's cheating on you."

The words came too fast out of your mouth. 'I do not."

Allie and Hannah exchanged a look that you could read all too well. It was a look you knew meant they didn't believe you.

"Oh, my God," Allie echoed.

You groaned. "I don't think he's cheating."

"Okay," Hannah said slowly. "Then why do you look like you're about to throw up every time somebody says his name?"

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Nothing came out—because saying it out loud would somehow make it real. It would make the the late nights, the secretive phone calls, the hidden laptop screens, the weird tension, the distance, the uncertainty—all of it would become far too real.

Suddenly, your coffee tasted like battery acid. Allie's face softened. "Oh, honey."

"I know how this sounds," you whispered, wrapping both hands around your cup. "I know Logan would never—"

The words caught in your throat. Would he?

The awful little voice in your head whispered something ugly—you'd trusted people before, you'd been wrong before. And lately, every time you looked at Logan, it felt like he was standing just a little bit farther away than he used to. Not physically, but emotionally, like there was an entire conversation happening inside his head that you weren't allowed to hear.

The thought made your chest ache, because the worst part wasn't the possibility that he was cheating.

The worst part was that for the first time since you'd fallen in love with John Logan, you weren't completely sure what was going on inside his heart.

John Logan had never thought buying an engagement ring would make him feel like he was losing his mind.

And yet, somehow, here he was—three P.M. on a Saturday afternoon, surrounded by his teammates, staring at a spreadsheet. A fucking spreadsheet. He stared at the screen, already able to feel a headache building as he fiddled with an old receipt from Malone's.

"You know," Dean said from where he was sprawled across the couch, "most people use computers for porn."

Logan didn't even look up. "Shut up."

"No, seriously. Every time I see you lately, you're glaring at that thing like it personally offended your family."

Across the room, Tucker glanced over from his phone. "What's on it?"

"Nothing."

"That's a lie," Garrett said immediately.

Logan finally looked up only to see that all three of them were staring at him, judging him. And honestly, fair. He'd been acting like an asshole for weeks. He knew that, but the worst part, he couldn't seem to stop.

Every time he thought he had things under control, something happened that sent him spiraling all over again—like the earrings.

Jesus Christ, the earrings.

He'd watched you walk into that jewelry store and nearly had a heart attack—not because you'd bought something, but because you'd looked so happy, so excited. He couldn't forget the way your entire face had lit up, and

all he'd been able to think was that the earrings probably cost more than the ring he could currently afford. The thought had followed him home, into bed, into practice the next day, into every waking moment since then.

Logan rubbed a hand across his face. "I need a drink."

"It's three o'clock," Tucker pointed out.

"I need several drinks."

Dean sat up. "Okay, that's it."

Logan frowned, his fingers folding and unfolding the scrap of paper he was still holding on to. "What?"

Dean pointed at him. "You've been weird for a month. Like, you look like you're about to be executed."

"Pretty fucking accurate," Garrett snorted.

Logan glared at both of them in vain—neither of them seemed even remotely intimidated.

Eventually, Garrett sighed. "Dude."

The single word carried enough weight that Logan meet his watchful eyes, studying him carefully. "You gonna tell us what's going on?"

The silence stretched out between them. Logan looked away first, and that, unfortunately, that answered the question.

Three seconds later, Dean practically launched himself off the couch. "Holy shit."

Tucker sat up straighter, meeting Dean's widened eyes. "Holy shit."

Garrett groaned. "Oh, for fuck's sake., what?"

Dean pointed toward Logan. "He's proposing."

Logan froze as the room fell silent, Garret's jaw dropping, Tucker's eyes widening. Then—

"HOLY FUCKING SHIT."

"Keep your voice down, Di Laurentis!" Logan snapped, rubbing an exasperated hand over his face.

Dean looked personally offended. "No."

"Tucker?"

"Nah, dude."

Logan looked over at Garret, who was already laughing. "Come on man, you too?" he groaned, dropping his head into his hands. This was a mistake—a massive mistake.

"I don't even have a ring yet." The words slipped out before he could stop them. Immediately, all three guys went quiet.

Garret frowned. "What do you mean?"

Logan let out a slow breath. If he was already talking, he might as well finish. "The ring I want is too expensive, and every cheaper option feels wrong." Neither of them seemed particularly impressed, but Logan pushed forward anyway. "She deserves something nice."

"She deserves you," Tucker said.

Logan ignored him. "She loves jewelry." The memory of the earrings flashed through his head again—the way your eyes had lit up, the excitement in your voice, the sheer joy.

Dean groaned. "Oh my God." He was looking at Logan like he was an idiot—all three of them were. That annoyed him, because he was already very well aware of the fact that he was being an irrational idiot. "You think she cares about how much the ring costs?"

Logan opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. Before he could force his brain to string the words together, Garret beat him to it, staring pointedly at the piece of paper Logan was still messing around with. "She'd say yes if you propose with a Ring Pop."

"That's not the point," Logan sighed.

"That's exactly the point."

The front door opened before Logan could argue, the sound instantly drawing everyone's attention. A second later, a lilting, beautiful laugh floated into the house—a sound Logan would recognize anywhere. Your laugh.

His stomach tightened, eyes immediately looking for you as Hannah and Allie entered the house. You followed close behind, and immediately, every ounce of progress he'd made disappeared. Because there—shopping bags. Everywhere.

Bright little logos, gold embossing of luxury brands, of little boutiques, of department stores. Logan could feel his pulse spike. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean tensing, muttering under his breath, "Oh, for the love of God."

Logan shot him a warning look. Dean rolled his eyes so hard Logan was almost genuinely impressed.

He saw your sift through the room, landing on Logan, and for a moment, a flash of emotions flickered across your face—relief, followed by uncertainty, then settling into something colder, emptier, something that made his stomach drop.

"Hey." Your voice was soft, polite and distant.

Logan hated it with every ounce of his being. "Hey, babe."

You smiled, the look never reaching your eyes. A moment of tense silence enveloped the living room. Logan could feel every single pair of eyes zeroed in on the two of you, and apparently, you could too, because you shifted uncomfortably. "I think I'm gonna put my stuff away."

Before Logan could respond, you disappeared up the stairs. The silence that followed was deafening, everyone's eyes trained on Logan until Dean let out an exasperated sigh, smacking the back of his head.

"Ow!" Logan groaned. "What the fuck?"

"Go."

Logan was up on his feet immediately, slipping the folded paper object into his back pocket before Hannah and Allie could get a good look at it.

And for once, nobody argued. Nobody joked about him being whipped, nobody teased him for being wrapped around your finger—because even they could feel the tension, the distance, the way something had shifted between the two of you.

Logan found you in your bedroom, the shopping bags sitting on the floor next to the bed. You stood on the far end, unpacking them carefully, methodically, like you were trying really hard not to think about something.

The look on your face made his chest hurt. "Babe?"

You glanced up, eyes sliding over his face before going right back to what you were doing. "Hi."

The polite distance in your voice was killing him. Logan stepped closer, words tangling in his throat. He needed to explain, needed to tell you. Except, as it always did in any important moment, his words failed him.

You stared at him expectantly for a moment, then sighed. "I got you something."

"What?" Logan blinked, confusion clear on his face as he accepted the small box you were holding out to him. His emotions knotted tight in his throat as he opened it, because something made you think of him.

Inside, on a delicate velvet cushion, sat a Bruins keychain—a simple, unremarkable trinket that brought him to the forefront of your mind while shopping. Undeniable proof that you were thinking of him, even when you were out with Hannah and Allie, even when you were clearly vexed with him.

His throat tightened. "Babe—"

"I thought you'd like it," you said softly. The smile that accompanied the words was small, sad.

Logan hated it, but more than that, he hated the realization that he'd brought that expression on your face. Because the weeks of stress, of secrecy, of acting like a complete asshole had clearly taken a toll on your relationship, and now—now you were looking at him like you weren't sure what to do with him anymore.

Logan cleared his throat. "I think I owe you an explanation."

You met his eyes, and for the first time all day, he saw something other than distance—hope. It was tiny, fragile, almost undetectable, but it was there.

"Okay," you whispered. The word had barely left your mouth when his phone rang. Logan froze. No. No, no, no.

He glanced down at the caller ID, his heart sinking, and sure enough, it was the jeweler—the custom jeweler he'd been working with for weeks, the one he'd been desperately waiting to hear from.

Before his very eyes, your expression changed. The hope vanished, replaced by the same cold indifference as before. Logan's pulse quickened. "Babe—"

"It's fine."

"I just need a minute."

You waved your hand dismissively, stepping back to create physical space between the two of you. "It's fine, Logan."

His phone continued to ring as he realized this was all his doing. All this distance between the two of you was his creation. The realization hit him like a punch in the ribs, gutting him almost as thoroughly as you brushing past him with the words, "I'll see you downstairs."

And just like that, the conversation was over.

His phone rang again, demanding his attention once more. Logan stared at the screen, then out the bedroom room at the empty hallway you'd disappeared into, and for the first time in weeks, a terrifying thought entered his mind: maybe the ring wasn't the thing he should've been worried about losing.

The call lasted several minutes—several long, agonizing minutes.

Logan barely heard half of what the jeweler was saying, his mind barely registering the words. Custom setting. Center stone.

Any other day, it would've been exactly the conversation he'd been waiting for, but instead, all he could think about was the look on your face when you walked out of the room.

By the time he hung up and headed downstairs, he felt sick.

The house was louder downstairs, Dean arguing with Garrett about something while Hannah laughed. A hockey game was playing on the television like background noise.

Life was continuing exactly as normal, which somehow made everything worse—because nothing felt normal.

Logan found you sitting alone in the lawn chairs by the firepit in the backyard. The sun was beginning to set, painting the yard pink and gold.

You were curled up on the chair, knees tucked against your chest. For a minute, he stood there, just outside your line of sight, wondering how he'd managed to screw up so fucking royally.

The floorboard of the back stoop creaked beneath his weight as he took a step toward you. You lifted your head, your face closing off the second you saw him—and that was the moment Logan truly knew that whatever was happening between the two of you wasn't something he could smooth over with a kiss and an apology. "Can we talk?"

You stared at him for several seconds, then nodded slowly. "Sure."

He lowered himself into the chair next to you, a heavy, uncomfortable silence settling between the two of you—the kind that hadn't ever existed before.

Finally, you spoke. "Are you cheating on me?"

The question hit him so hard he physically recoiled. "What?"

Your laugh was humorless, boken. "I asked if you're cheating on me."

"Babe—"

"Because I don't know what else I'm supposed to think anymore." The words were spilling out faster now, like they'd been trapped inside you for weeks. "You won't talk to me. You leave the room to answer phone calls. You hide your laptop every time I walk in."

Logan's stomach dropped. He opened his mouth to speak, but you kept going.

"You barely look at me lately." Your voice cracked—just slightly, just enough that the sound tore straight through him. "And every time I ask what's wrong, you tell me you're fine."

And suddenly, Logan could see it, could see the weeks of secrecy, of distance, of unexplained behavior through your eyes. God.

Of course you'd think that.

Your eyes were shining now. "You know the worst part?" you whispered, looking away. "I would've rather had you tell me the truth."

The sentence shattered something inside him, because you genuinely believed it. You genuinely thought there was another woman. That after everything—after three years, after every promise, every late night conversation making plans for your future together, you thought he was capable of hurting you like that.

And it wasn't because you didn't trust him, but because he'd given you every reason to question him, to harbor these thoughts.

The realization hit him like a freight train.

"Baby, no," he whispered, his voice cracking. "No."

You blinked. "What?"

"No." The words stumbled out of his mouth broken, desperate. "I'm not cheating on you. God, no."

You stared at him, hurt and uncertainty written all over your tear stained face. He'd done that. He'd put that doubt there. The realization made Logan drop his head into his hands.

For a second, neither of you spoke. Then everything he'd been carrying for months finally spilled out, summed up in eight simple words. "I was trying to buy you a ring."

Complete silence. Logan turned his head toward you to see your brows furrowed. "What're you talking about?"

Logan laughed, a miserable, exhausted sound. "The phone calls, the laptop, all of it. I wanted it to be perfect. The proposal, the dream, everything."

He could see your mouth parting slightly in surprise, but he couldn't stop the words from tumbling out anymore, couldn't stop the tears blurring his vision as he continued in messy, unfiltered sentences. "You love beautiful things,"

"Logan—"

"No, listen. You do." A helpless smile tugged at his mouth. "You stop at every jewelry store window."

You laughed softly despite yourself. "I do not."

"You absolutely do."

A tiny ember of warmth flickered between the two of you, then disappeared. Logan swallowed hard. "The earrings."

Your smile vanished. "The earrings?"

"That day in Boston. Babe, you were so happy."

You stared at him, completely lost, and suddenly Logan felt absolutely ridiculous, but he continued anyway, pushing through the discomfort of laying his heart bare, because where else would he be safe if not with you? "I couldn't stop thinking about how much you loved them."

"Because they reminded me of my mom."

"I know," Logan's voice dropped. "I know, babe. That's what made it worse. Because all I could think about was that if those earring made you so happy, your engagement ring should make you even happier."

He laughed shakily. "And every ring I could afford felt wrong. I kept looking at our apartment options, at budgets, at our future."

His eyes met yours, voice choking as a single tear finally escaped the confines of his long lashes. "I want to give you everything, my love. I want you to have the life you deserve."

"John."

"And it's—it's killing me that I can't do it. It was killing me that I couldn't afford the ring I wanted for you."

You hand flew to your mouth, the tears in your eyes mirroring his.

"And then I started thinking maybe I should wait." Logan shook his head. "But I don't want to wait."

A tear slid down your cheek. "John."

He barely noticed. "I want to marry you."

The words landed heavily between you—simple, honest, terrified.

Logan looked away, unable to hold your gaze anymore. "I know its stupid. I know how insane I sound." Silence, for a moment. Then, quietly: "But you deserve so much better than what I can give you right now."

The sound of your chair scraping as you stood up made Logan finally lift his eyes up off the floor. You crossed the space between the two of you without hesitation. Your hands found his face—warm and familiar and feeling like coming home.

"So let me get this straight." Your thumbs brushed beneath his eyes. "You thought I cared more about a ring than I care about you?"

Logan winced. "When you put it that way—"

"John Logan." The fondness in your voice made his heart stutter. "I like jewelry. I like sparkly necklaces and expensive dress. I like shiny things—but none of those things are you."

His breath caught in his throat as you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his. "I don't care about a large sparkly diamond."

"You don't mean that."

"I do."

'You d—"

"I'd marry you with paper rings, John Logan," you whispered, as his arm wrapped around your waist, holding you to him like you'd disappear if he let go. "I'd marry you with a twist tie. I'd marry you with nothing at all. You're the one I want, and nothing's ever gonna change that."

Logan's vision blurred again, because suddenly, all those nights, all those spreadsheets, all the fears—they all felt so small compared to this, compared to what he had with you. Compared to the certainty in your eyes—the certainty he'd been too stupid to trust.

Something in Logan's chest stuttered, because suddenly, he remembered the folded receipt, still sitting in his pocket. He'd been folding and refolding it between his fingers while Garrett and Dean gave him hell earlier, creasing the paper absentmindedly, and before he could think, his hand was moving.

You frowned as he dug into his back pocket. "What're you doing?"

Logan looked down, letting out a watery laugh.

"Jesus." Carefully, he pulled out the crumpled strip of paper. The receipt had been folded and twisted so many times that it barely resembled what it once was.

Except somehow, he'd managed to fold it into a ring.

A crooked, terrible ring—the saddest excuse for jewelry in human history.

You stared. "Oh my God."

Heat flooded Logan's face. "I was nervous."

A laugh escaped you. "What does that have to do with—"

"I don't know." He was laughing now, too, half-hysterical, half-relieved. "I just kept folding the damn thing."

The ring sat trapped between his fingers, somehow more important than any diamond he'd spent months obsessing over. There was no diamond, no grand romantic gesture. Just you—just the love of his life.

Logan knelt, and despite all the words spilling out of him only moments before, the only word that parted his lips was, "Please."

"Are you serious?"

Logan's voice shook. "I don't have the ring yet. I don't have the proposal I wanted to give you. I don't have it all figured out right now. But I know I want forever, and I don't want it with anyone but you."

A tear tracked it's way down your cheek. "John."

"I know it's not much, but—"

"It's perfect."

"It's literally made out of a receipt."

You laughed through your tears. "So?" The sound nearly stopped his heart. "So was our first grocery list."

Logan laughed—a real laugh this time, the first one in weeks. "Please, babe? Will you marry me?"

"Yes. Yes, you big idiot, of course I'll marry you."

You stared the paper ring from his hand as though it were made of diamonds, holding out your hand for him to slide the ring onto your finger.

It fit terribly. You loved it.

And just like that, every spreadsheet, every budget, every sleepless night, every fear he'd carried for months disappeared.

Because standing in front of him was the woman he'd been trying so desperately to impress, the woman who loved sparkly things, who deserved the world.

The woman wearing a paper ring like it was the most beautiful piece of jewelry she'd ever owned.

💌: from kai, with love <3

[lushfruit]

you’re losing me - john logan

Pairing: John Logan x fem!reader

summary: Being in love with your childhood best friend was no easy feat, but it was manageable. Until it wasn’t. When John Logan breaks a crucial promise, he’s forced to confront what’s been standing in front of him all along.

based on this request! i hope i did it justice <3

read part two here

content: so.much.angst. like, so much. unrequited love, reader is a stem major. the characters are more accurate to their book counterparts occasionally, namely tucker. oops. some things may be ooc but it is for the sake of the plot. logan is unknowingly an asshole.

note: i may or may not do a part two, my motivation fluctuates! hope you enjoy because this was super sad to write.

He’s looking at her.

His arm rests along the back of the couch, the sensation of it familiar enough that you barely notice it anymore. Every few minutes, when someone says something particularly funny, his hand shifts and his fingers brush against the exposed skin of your shoulder blade. It’s casual, absent-minded contact. It means nothing to him and everything to you.

Around you, the boys’ house is lively. Tucker is arguing with Birdie about the game they’ve been at for hours on the TV. Every once in a while, someone tells them to shut up. They do that for a total of five minutes before someone inevitably raises their voice, leading the other to do the same.

You should be finishing up your story. It was a stupid tale, one about falling asleep during a lecture.

Instead, you’re watching him.

Or rather, you’re watching where he’s looking.

His gaze drifts across the room so often that you’ve begun anticipating it, finding yourself following the path before he’s even finished turning his head. It happens during conversations. During periods of silence. During moments when he’s supposed to be paying attention you.

His eyes always find the same person.

You wonder if anyone else notices.

Maybe they don’t. Maybe they haven’t spent nearly ten years studying every version of John Logan.

Ten years.

Long enough to remember the cracked sidewalks of your hometown and the suffocating certainty that neither of you belonged there. Long enough to remember sitting on the roof of his garage at thirteen years old, passing back and forth what was always bag of Hot Cheetos while making promises far too big for kids your age.

You had been determined to leave.

And somehow, against every odd stacked against two middle-schoolers with seemingly unattainable dreams and no real plan, you did.

You earned your place through a STEM scholarship that had consumed countless nights and enough caffeine to raise alerts towards your cardiovascular system. He earned his through hockey, through early mornings and bruises and a relentless dedication that you supported him all throughout.

Different roads, same destination.

For nearly a decade, the two of you had existed side by side.

And for six of those years, you’ve loved him.

You weren’t sure when you realized it, but once you did, it felt as though things finally clicked into place. There had always been that speculation from others that you two were something beyond a mere friendship—but there was no weight to it. Not while it wasn’t true, anyway.

You thought it may have been the puberty. John was no longer a scrawny kid who you hovered over. He’d grown into himself as the years passed—taller, stronger, more confident. It was a simple crush that came as a result of change, you told yourself.

But you had began to think it was more than that, that it always had been. Once the feeling arrived, it made no effort to fade—settling into the empty spaces between inside jokes and late-night phone calls, between shared victories and devastating failures. It lodged itself so deeply within your bond that you stopped looking for where friendship ended and something else began.

Maybe that was your mistake.

Across the room, Hannah laughs.

The sound is soft enough that most people would miss it beneath the chatter, but John hears it.

Of course he does.

Hannah Wells has a way of drawing attention effortlessly. Her smile comes easily, brightening her entire face like a Christmas tree. Honey-brown hair spills over one shoulder as she speaks. Her deep cerulean eyes crinkle when she laughs. Hearing her sing for the first time made it no better.

And she is so kind.

She remembers your birthday, she asks you questions on a subject you think had long been over. She makes you feel seen.

It’s impossible to blame him for looking.

The problem is that lately, he hasn’t seemed capable of looking anywhere else.

His fingers brush your shoulder again, mindlessly.

Across the room, Hannah says something to Allie that you can’t quite make out.

Logan smiles.

And suddenly, despite his arm around you and his knee pressed lightly against yours and nearly ten years of friendship sitting comfortably between the two of you, you’ve never felt further away from him.

Tucker notices your shift in mood before Logan does. You like Tuck the most out of all of Logan’s friends. He’s a year below the rest of you, though you like to say he’s the most mature out of all of them. He’s observant, you learned.

He tilts his head at you, silently asking if you’re okay. You send him a half-hearted thumbs up. Something clicks for him and he accepts your answer, redirecting his attention to the game.

You think Tucker knows about your crush on John. A part of you hopes he doesn’t, but another part of you knows that he does.

At some point, Logan notices you’ve stopped talking. By the time he has, you’re fiddling with your bracelet. He frowns, glancing at his own matching one on his left wrist. You were both surprised they had never broken. Logan enjoyed referring to it as a testament to your long-standing friendship. The blue and purple embroidery of both your bracelets have become a halo of fuzz, but they remain intact nonetheless.

Logan glances back at you, studying you once again—knit eyebrows, lip tucked between your teeth. You’re upset.

“What’s wrong?”

You meet his doe eyed gaze and hate yourself for thinking about drowning in them. He knows you as well as you know him. So much so that you can’t lie and pretend you’re okay. He’s read you and he’s decided that you’re not.

So you do the next best thing.

“It’s just stuffy in here,” you reply passively, maintaining a poker face when you push off the couch and his fingertips leave your shoulder blades. “I’m gonna get some air.”

The cool evening air hits you the second the front door clicks shut, but it does nothing to clear the sudden suffocating weight in your chest. You walk over to the edge of the porch, gripping the wooden railing just to have something solid to hold onto.

Behind you, the front door opens and shuts. Familiar footsteps thud against the wood. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him, you’d know the specific cadence of his stride anywhere.

"Hey," Logan says softly, stepping up beside you, jacket in his hand. He leans his forearms against the railing, his large frame blocking out the slight breeze. "You left your jacket inside. It’s freezing out here."

You make no effort to retrieve the coat from his grasp. You don’t look even at him. Instead, your eyes fixate on a tiny, industrious spider crawling across the top of a plastic patio chair a few feet away. It is small, frantic, and entirely unaware of the shifting plates of your universe, completely consumed by the monumental task of weaving a web between two cheap slats of faux-wicker. You envy it. You want to be anything else—a spider, a piece of dust, a thread on your frayed bracelet—anything but the girl standing under the porch light, slowly unraveling.

"I'm fine," you tell him, the words slipping out easily, rehearsed from a decade of practice.

"You're not fine," he insists softly. It’s not an accusation. It’s a statement of fact.

"I am fine," you repeat, but your voice is uneven.

You always are, somehow. It’s a reflex by now. Burn the midnight oil until your vision blurs, crash through exams on three hours of sleep, watch the boy you’ve loved for six years slip through your fingers like water—the answer is always the same: I’m fine.

"Don't do that," Logan mutters, turning his head to look at you. His eyes are swimming with an earnest yet frustrating concern that always makes you want to spill your guts. "We don't do that. Talk to me. Did someone say something inside? Did I do something?"

You let out a breath that cuts like a laugh, though there’s no humor in it. You look out at the dark front yard, at the dead leaves scattering across the pavement.

You finally turn your head to look at him. You note the exact way the yellow porch light catches the bridge of his nose, the slight shadow of stubble along his jawline. You know every iteration of this face. You know the childhood version, the teenage version, and this current, devastatingly handsome collegiate version.

And yet, looking at him right now, he feels like a stranger wearing your best friend's skin.

"That's just it, Logan. You haven't done anything." Your voice drops, stripped of its usual warmth. "You haven't been doing anything. Not with me, anyway."

He blinks, a small, defensive crease forming between his eyebrows. "I don’t understand.”

“I know you don’t,” you murmur.

“Then explain it to me.”

"It means you’re pulling away," you say directly, the words tasting like copper in your mouth, but you force them out anyway. You don't mention Hannah. You don't have to bring up the way his eyes track her, or the way his laugh sounds higher when she’s in the room. This isn't about her. This is about him. This is about the space where your best friend used to be. "You’re always somewhere else. I talk to you, and it’s like I’m throwing words into an empty room. You look right through me lately. You’re right here, and it feels like there’s a thousand miles between us."

Logan stiffens. For a second, his mouth opens to deny it, the knee-jerk reaction of a guy who prides himself on being loyal. But as he looks at you—at the tight line of your jaw, at the way you're holding onto your own arm like you’re trying to keep yourself from falling apart—you can see the fight slowly leave him.

The silence stretches, punctuated only by the joyous yells of your friends inside.

"I didn't. . .” Logan starts, his voice dropping an octave. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, looking down at his shoes. "I didn't realize I was making you feel like that. I swear to God, I didn't."

"Well, you are." Your voice trembles just a fraction, and you hate yourself for it, pulling your shoulders back to overcompensate. "I know that friends drift. But I don’t wanna be background noise in your life.”

Logan steps closer, closing the small physical gap between you. He reaches out, his large hand wrapping around your forearm—right over the frayed threads of your bracelet. You pray he doesn’t notice the hitching of your breath.

"You're not background noise," he says sincerely, his desperate eyes searching yours. "You could never be. I'm sorry. Seriously. I've had. . . I’ve just had a lot on my mind lately, and I’ve been distracted. I’ve been a shitty best friend, and there’s no excuse for it. I’m so sorry."

You look at his hand on your arm. You look at the genuine regret pulling at the corners of his eyes. He doesn't know that the distraction is killing you for an entirely different reason. He just knows he hurt his person, and he wants to fix it.

You swallow the ache in your throat, nodding slowly. You let the anger go, because holding onto it hurts worse than forgiving him does.

"It’s okay," you assure him. "Just don’t forget about me, dork.”

"Never," he promises, squeezing your arm before letting go. A small, relieved smile tugs at his lips, the tension leaving his shoulders. He makes no effort to back away from you. It’s all the more suffocating. "I promise. Hey, you still have that big winter showcase coming up in two weeks, right? For your department?"

"Yeah," you say, a genuine spark of nervousness lighting up your stomach. "It’s the Friday after this upcoming one."

"I'll be there," Logan says instantly, his voice full of the certainty that usually makes you feel safe. "Front row. I'll even wear a stupid button-down shirt so your professors think I'm respectable. Deal?"

You look at him, wanting so badly to trust the boy who used to share bags of Hot Cheetos on a garage roof.

"Deal," you agree.

The fluorescent lights of the auditorium are blinding. It is 5:30PM. The STEM showcase had officially kicked off at five, the culmination of sleepless semesters, data sheets that blurred into meaningless code by three in the morning, and enough stress to permanently alter your brain chemistry.

Your phone sits completely dark and powered down in the bottom of your tote bag. You hadn't sent Logan a reminder text today. You hadn’t wanted to seem needy, and besides, you figured he’d remember.

He knew what this meant to you. He’d been the one to hold you on the floor of your bedroom a week ago ago when the overthinking caught up to you, his large hands rubbing slow circles into your back while you sobbed into his chest, terrified that it wouldn’t be enough. He’d promised then, just like he’d promised on the porch, that he’d be here.

Last night, you had even swung by the hockey house, your presentation slides printed out and shaking in your hands, just looking for a final bit of reassurance to quiet the jitters. But Logan wasn't there. He’d been at Malone’s, helping Hannah setup tables and banners for the upcoming weekend showcase she offered to host for music majors.

It was fine, you told yourself. It really was. He was trying to be better, and you could see the effort. The crush was still a persistent ache in your ribs, but he hadn't let it bleed into your friendship the way he had before. You understood what it was like to be at someone’s beck and call—hell, you’d been at his for six years. You couldn't blame him for falling under Hannah’s gravitational pull.

Logan hadn't been there last night, but Tucker had.

Tucker had stopped chopping vegetables, wiped his hands on a dish towel, and sat you down at the kitchen island. He listened to you stumble through your abstract, giving you a supportive nod when you finished. When you told Tucker he didn't have to worry about coming tomorrow since it was so last minute and Logan would be there anyway, Tucker had just given you an easy smile.

“Then you’ll have two of us cheering you on," he’d promised.

Now, standing by your trifold and your laptop, the nerves are a sickening weight in your stomach. You’ve just finished presenting to the final round of judges. Your mouth is dry, your throat tight, but you’d gotten through it just fine.

Tucker had slipped into the back of the room right before your time slot, his broad shoulders cutting a reassuring silhouette against the crowded aisle. Seeing his familiar face had kept your knees from buckling.

But Logan’s seat in the front row—the one he’d promised to occupy in a stupid button-down shirt—remained completely empty.

It hurts. A sharp, localized sting right beneath your breastbone. You hadn't told anyone else in your life about the showcase because public speaking made you feel entirely naked, meaning Logan and Tucker were your only safety nets.

Everyone else would most likely be at Malone’s. You didn’t want them to choose between you and Hannah, because you knew they’d try to compromise, complicating things. You didn’t want a whole crowd, you were okay with just one person being there.

But you swallow the lump in your throat and smooth down the fabric of your slacks. It’s fine. Logan probably just got caught in campus traffic, or he had a handyman gig that kept him late. He missed the actual presentation, yeah, but there’s still time. The showcase goes until eight.

As long as he shows up before the winners are announced, it’ll be fine. He’ll still be there to celebrate with you. He has to be.

Two hours later, the auditorium is a blur of echoing applause and bright flashing cameras.

When the department head speaks your name into the microphone, announcing you as the first-place recipient of the showcase, the room erupts. Your peers are cheering, clapping you on the back as you walk up the stage, but the sound feels like it’s happening underwater.

Even the heavy glass they hang around your neck and the oversized novelty check—grant money that will entirely fund your next semester of research—do nothing to lift the leaden weight in your chest.

Tucker maneuvers through the crowd as soon as you’ve left the stage, a massive, proud smile lighting up his face as he pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. He hoists you slightly off your feet, laughing, telling you he always knew you had it in the bag.

But when he pulls back, his smile falters. He looks at your eyes, watery and strained, and the pride in his expression softens into a deep concern. He knows. He can tell exactly how badly you're hurting.

But even now, with a first-place medal heavy against your sternum, you find yourself building a fortress of excuses for John Logan.

You give him the benefit of the doubt, because the alternative is unendurable. He’d never do this intentionally. Not after last week. Not to you. Something had to have happened. A family emergency with his mom. Something with Jules. Maybe he’d taken a brutal hit at practice and was sitting in the training room with a concussion, his phone locked away. He had to be hurt. He had to be incapacitated.

"Let's get you out of here," Tucker says softly, his hand settling on the small of your back, shielding you from the lingering crowds as you pack up your laptop. "I can walk you back to your dorm."

"Actually," you say, your voice tight as you zip your tote bag, "can you take me back to the house? Honestly, after the day I’ve had, I’m dying for a home-cooked Tucker special. I need some real comfort food."

You try to make it sound like a casual request, but Tucker’s hand goes entirely still against your back. He doesn't laugh it off. Instead, an uncomfortable hesitation washes over his features. He looks away, his jaw tightening as he stares out at the emptying auditorium.

In that single beat of silence, a cold and sickening realization dawns on you.

Perhaps Logan isn't sick. Perhaps he isn't hurt. He isn't in a hospital or dealing with a family crisis. Tucker knows exactly where he is.

He forgot.

The thought devastates you, a physical blow that leaves you in theoretical agony, but right on the heels of the sadness comes a sharp, blistering wave of fury. You’re a winner. You just secured your future for the next semester. This should be one of the greatest nights of your life, and yet Logan has latched himself so deeply into the fabric of your existence that he can still ruin it without even being in the room. You hate yourself for letting him have that much power over you.

"You sure you want to go to the house right now?" Tucker asks, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, laced with a warning he isn't entirely voicing.

You stop, staring at him. Your chest heaves. "Why? Is he there?"

Tucker looks at you, his brown eyes full of a grim, reluctant pity. He stays silent. He doesn't say a word, but his silence tells you everything you need to know. He's there. He's perfectly fine, at the hockey house while you were standing on a stage alone.

A hot, dangerous spark ignites in your blood.

"Take me there," you say, your voice dropping all the compliance, hard as flint. He begins to say your name, but you don’t allow him to. "Tucker. Take me to the house."

The ride to the hockey house is quick, though you believe that’s a product of the heavy thrum of your own pulse. Tuck keeps one hand on the steering wheel, your grim mood proving itself to be contagious.

Every few minutes, his voice breaks through the quiet of the truck, telling you to take a breath, telling you to try to calm down. But you can hear the sharp undercurrent of his own anger fueling the engine. He’s pissed on your behalf, but you don't have the capacity to appreciate it right now. You just stare straight ahead.

When the truck comes to a stop in the driveway, you don't wait for Tucker to kill the ignition. You throw the door open and march up the steps, completely ignoring him as he calls your name.

You push the door open, not so much that it was disruptive, but it was noticeable nonetheless.

The warmth of the house hits you first, along with the loud, easy cacophony of a Friday night wind-down. The TV is on, and everyone is scattered across the living room. Allie, Garrett, Dean, and Hannah.

And Logan.

The sheer normalcy of the scene feels like a slap to the face. You stand in the entryway, the first-place medal swinging slightly against your chest, dressed in the gray slacks and blouse you’d picked out so carefully. For a fraction of a second, looking at their relaxed posture and happy faces, you feel entirely microscopic. Like an ant on the back of someone’s boot, completely insignificant to the world revolving around them.

Then, the room goes quiet.

Dean is the first one to look up from the couch. His eyes take in your sharp posture, the formal attire, and finally, the heavy piece hung around your neck catching the ambient light. A grin breaks across his face, completely ignorant of the storm cloud rolling off your shoulders.

"Look at that," Dean announces, raising his cup in a mock toast. "The prodigal daughter returns!"

He’s trying to be supportive. Under any other circumstance, you’d smile, you’d thank him through narrowed eyes. You know he doesn't know. He has no idea what Logan promised, or what it cost you to stand on that stage alone.

But you don't look at Dean. You don't look at Garrett or Allie or Hannah.

Your eyes lock onto Logan.

He’s sitting on the edge of the cushions, and the exact moment your gaze finds his, the color drains completely from his face. It’s like watching a man realize he’s stepped off a cliff. His eyes drop to the medal on your chest, then snap back up to your face, wide and absolutely crushed. The realization of what he’s done hits him in a ton of bricks.

Usually, that look on his face would undo you. Usually, seeing John Logan look that miserable would trigger every protective instinct you’ve harbored for him, making you want to soften the blow, to tell him it’s fine, to smooth it over.

But tonight, you feel absolutely nothing.

The reservoir of sympathy has completely dried up, replaced by a fury that has been bubbling beneath the surface for months.

He hadn't just missed a presentation. He had broken a promise. He had lied to your face on the porch, sworn he was back, and then willfully chose to be somewhere else.

You stare at him, the silence in the room turning suffocatingly loud as the others finally catch onto the tension, and the only thought roaring through your mind is how completely invisible you’ve been to him.

That look of shame is enough gratification for you. If he can feel only a fraction of the pain you’d allowed yourself to endure these past few years, that was good for you. You couldn’t stand staring into the eyes of the man you once thought you knew anymore.

You turn your heel against the floorboards, every instinct screaming at you to walk out that door, to erase John Logan from your life, and to leave him standing in the wreckage of a ten-year friendship.

"Wait," his voice cracks through the silence of the room as he calls your name. "Please wait. I’m sorry. Just—please, just wait!”

You halt entirely. Your flats glue themselves to the floor, the medallion thudding against your chest like a pendulum swinging into a dead stop.

Sorry?

The word tastes rancid just hearing it bounce off the walls of the hockey house. You hadn't known what you wanted him to say when you walked through that door.

You hadn't known if there was a combination of vowels and consonants in the English language that could possibly fix this. But hearing his apology serves as nothing other than gasoline thrown directly onto a grease fire.

Slowly, you turn back around.

Your friends look horrified. You almost feel bad that they’re forced to witness this. You almost want to turn around and leave, leaving this argument for when you’re less heated, less hurt.

But you can’t. He needs to hear you. If not last week or the week before that, now.

Logan takes a step toward you, his hands raised slightly as if approaching a wild animal. "I lost track of time. The showcase at Malone’s—"

"Shut up," you say quietly.

The words aren't screamed. They are quiet, sharp, and dripping with an edge that makes Logan freeze in his tracks.

"Just. . . shut the hell up, Logan." You take a step forward, your shoes clicking against the hardwood. "Don't you dare use that as an excuse for being a pathetic, spineless coward."

He glances at the group that has gone dead silent. You don’t know if what he says next is for your sake or his, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Let’s go outside,” he offers, his tone resembling something of a plea. “We can—“

“No!” you spat harshly. “You’re gonna listen to me.”

You’d never spoken to him this way. Not in such a venomous tone, stripped from all warmth. For once, Logan does exactly what you’ve asked of him—to listen. His lips part but no words escape them.

"You sat on the porch two weeks ago," you continue, your voice rising now, the heat finally breaking through the ice. "You held my arm, and you looked me in the eyes and promised me you’d change. Do you have any idea what today was?"

Logan swallows hard, his brown hues welling with a desperate, pathetic panic. "It was the department showcase."

"It was the biggest night of my academic career!" you explode, the anger tearing out of your throat. "I have spent months working on this! I broke down sobbing over this because of how tired I was, and you were the one who held me! You knew exactly how terrified I was. You knew I didn't invite anyone else! What would’ve happened if Tuck wasn’t there?"

You gesture wildly to the medal around your neck.

"I stood on that stage alone, John. I scanned that auditorium for two hours, giving you the benefit of the doubt. I thought something had happened. I thought you were lying in a ditch somewhere or bleeding out in a hospital, because that is the only reason the John Logan I grew up with would ever miss this!"

A tear escapes his eye, rolling down his tanned cheek. "I messed up. Fuck, I know I messed up. Let me make it up to you, please—"

"You didn't mess up, you chose!" you hiss, stepping right into his space, forcing him to look down at the fury burning in your eyes. "You’ve made it perfectly clear where I rank on your list of priorities."

"I am wearing a first-place medal," you continue, your voice trembling with a devastating mix of triumph and agony. "I just won enough grant money to pay for my entire next semester of research. This should be the happiest night of my life. But all I can think about is how my best friend couldn’t show up when I needed him.”

"Please," Logan chokes out, reaching a trembling hand toward your shoulder, his fingers twitching to make that familiar, absent-minded contact. "Just—“

You snap your shoulder back, avoiding his touch as if his hand were coated in acid.

But as you jerk away, the zipper of his jacket catches on the frayed, fuzzy threads of your embroidered bracelet. There is a sudden rip. The threads give out all at once, unraveling in a split second as the broken token of your childhood slips from your wrist and flutters uselessly to the floor.

Logan freezes, his eyes dropping to the colorful, ruined heap of strings resting on the hardwood between you two.

It’s symbolic, you think.

"Don't touch me," you say, your voice dropping into a flat, dead register. You stare at him, washing away every ounce of the six years of love, every ounce of the ten years of friendship, until there is absolutely nothing left between you but a void.

"Don't talk to me. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever. You’re dead to me, John."

You turn on your heel and march straight out the front door into the freezing night air.

Logan doesn’t even think before stepping forward to follow after you, but Tucker shuts the door, preventing him from doing so.

He doesn't yell. Instead, he steps into Logan’s space, grabs a fistful of his shirt right at the collar, and shoves him backward into the hallway leading toward the bedrooms. Logan doesn't even try to fight it—he stumbles back, his eyes wide and vacant, completely numb from the fallout.

Tucker slams the door of his room shut, but he doesn't bother locking it. He doesn't need to.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Tucker demands, his voice a growl that vibrates through the walls. He isn’t screaming, but he’s not exactly whispering. “Because right now, I’m having a hard time recognizing one of my best friends.”

“Tuck, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen—”

“You made her a promise, man!” Tucker cuts in sharply. “You told her you’d be there. You looked her dead in the eye and gave her your word. Do you have any idea what today was like for her?”

“I lost track of time. Hannah—”

“Don’t do that,” Tucker says, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t make this about Hannah. This is about you. You screwed up. You’ve been taking that girl for granted for long enough, and she’s been in your corner through every stupid decision you’ve made. Last night, I was the one sitting with her while she practiced that presentation because you were too busy being handyman.”

“She stood on that stage tonight. Every time those judges walked up to her, she checked those doors. Every damn time. She thought something happened to you, because that’s the only reason she could come up with for why you’d break your word to her. And the whole time, you’re moving tables at Malone’s? That’s your excuse?”

“I know I messed up,” Logan chokes out. “I know. I’ll fix it. I’ll talk to her—”

“No, you won’t,” Tucker says immediately. “Not today. Not anytime soon.”

He takes a step back, folding his arms across his chest.

“She told you to stay away. So for once, stop thinking about what you want and listen to what she asked for. You made this mess. If you actually want a shot at fixing it, give her some space and hope she decides you’re worth talking to when she’s ready.”

“Tuck—”

“I’m serious, Logan. Leave her alone. The last thing she needs right now is you showing up trying to make yourself feel better.“

@itmekelpy

[sunnydilaurentis]

late night | john logan ✶

summary: in which a drunk y/n arrives home after a night out and logan is forced to endure the torture of helping her take off her jewellery and dress while she looks far too pretty, far too affectionate, and far too tempting for his own sanity - only for him to prove, once again, that he’ll always put taking care of her before anything else.

pairing: john logan x fem!reader

note: my first fic request!! oh how i love sweet john logan. i hope you enjoy <3

ꪆৎ

you were standing in front of the bathroom mirror when logan found you.

well-

“standing” was generous.

you were leaning heavily against the marble counter in your tiny satin dress, one bare shoulder pressed lazily against the mirror while you squinted furiously at your own reflection with the sort of concentration only drunk people seemed to possess.

your fingers fumbled uselessly with the tiny clasp of your necklace for what was probably the sixth time in the last minute.

“stupid fucking-”

your tongue poked slightly against the inside of your cheek as you tried again, brows pinching together in frustration before the delicate chain slipped straight through your fingers once more.

you groaned dramatically.

the sound made logan bite back a laugh from the bathroom doorway.

he’d been halfway through pulling off his hoodie when he noticed the bedroom light still on beneath the cracked bathroom door, and now he was completely frozen there instead, broad shoulder leaning against the frame while he took you in properly for the first time tonight.

and christ.

the sight of you nearly knocked the air straight from his lungs.

your makeup was slightly smudged beneath your eyes from hours of dancing and laughing, lips glossy and swollen from sugary cocktails, cheeks warm and flushed from the cold night air outside.

your hair was messy too.

not ruined.

just soft around the edges now, like you’d spent the entire night running your hands through it absentmindedly.

and the dress-

fuck.

the tiny satin dress hung off your body in a way that felt genuinely unfair.

the thin straps slipped low against your shoulders every few seconds, exposing warm skin logan knew too well, while the silky material clung to every curve of your body like it had been specifically designed to test his self-control.

especially paired with the sleepy frustration written all over your face.

“need help there, baby?” he asked finally, voice rougher than intended.

you looked over immediately at the sound of him.

and the second your eyes landed on him, your entire expression softened.

“logan.”

just his name.

but the way you said it, warm, relieved, slightly drunk, made something tighten painfully in his chest.

you turned back toward the mirror with a dramatic sigh, lifting the necklace helplessly.

“it won’t come off,” you informed him accusingly. “i think it’s broken.”

logan huffed out a quiet laugh before pushing himself away from the doorway and walking toward you slowly.

“yeah?” he murmured. “gimme a second.”

the second he stepped behind you, his hands settled instinctively against your hips.

firm.

warm.

steadying.

and you immediately relaxed back against him like it was muscle memory.

that alone almost ruined him, because it happened so naturally.

like your body knew his before your brain even caught up.

logan lowered his head slightly, eyes focusing on the tiny clasp resting at the back of your neck while your hands came to rest lazily over his forearms.

he could smell your perfume this close.

sweet and expensive and familiar enough now that it clung permanently to the hoodies tossed around his room. his fingers brushed lightly against the warm skin at the nape of your neck while he carefully worked at the chain.

you shivered instantly.

logan’s eyes flickered upward toward yours through the mirror.

“cold?”

you shook your head softly. “your hands are just cold.”

“sorry, baby.”

“don’t be.”

your voice came out quieter this time.

sleepier.

softer.

logan swallowed hard. there was something dangerously intimate about moments like this. not the big dramatic ones, not parties or kisses or sex.

this.

standing half-drunk in his bathroom at two in the morning while he carefully untangled your jewellery for you.

it was domestic, comfortable.

a moment that was just yours.

finally, the clasp loosened beneath his fingers.

“got it.”

you let out a tiny victorious hum as logan carefully slid the necklace away from your skin before placing it gently beside the sink.

“there.”

you smiled at him through the mirror immediately.

god, that smile.

sleepy and warm and entirely for him.

“thank you.”

logan’s mouth twitched upward without him meaning it to.

“you got any more jewellery that’s personally attacking you tonight?”

you held your wrist up toward him sadly.

“bracelet.”

he barked out a quiet laugh under his breath before reaching for your hand. his fingers engulfed your wrist completely as he turned it carefully beneath the bathroom light, eyes narrowing in concentration at the tiny clasp.

his large hockey-player hands looked almost ridiculous against something so delicate.

but he was still careful.

you watched him openly now through half-lidded eyes while he concentrated, tongue dragging briefly across his lower lip the way it always did when he focused too hard on something.

your stomach tightened immediately.

because john logan genuinely didn’t understand the effect he had on you half the time. he didn’t realise that small things like this destroyed you more than anything else ever could.

the way his brows furrowed slightly, the warmth of his hands, the quiet patience in every movement of his. the fact that he treated you gently even when you were being objectively annoying.

“you’re staring,” he murmured without looking up.

your lips curved lazily.

“can you blame me?”

his mouth twitched again. “you’re drunk.”

“mhm.”

“and trouble.”

you grinned sleepily.

“you love me.”

logan finally slipped the bracelet free before setting it carefully beside the necklace, both hands settling automatically against your waist afterward like he physically couldn’t help himself.

then his eyes lifted fully to yours in the mirror and the entire mood shifted.

because the second he really looked at you, at your flushed cheeks, heavy-lidded eyes, glossy lips, something in his expression darkened.

the straps of your dress had slipped lower along your shoulders while you leaned against him, the thin satin clinging softly to your skin, and logan’s grip tightened almost imperceptibly against your waist as his gaze dragged slowly over you. you noticed immediately and your expression softened into something teasing.

“hi.”

“don’t,” he warned quietly.

“don’t what?”

“look at me like that.”

you turned slowly in his arms then until you were facing him fully, fingertips sliding lightly up the front of his t-shirt. the thin cotton stretched warm and soft beneath your hands.

“like what?”

logan exhaled slowly through his nose.

because fuck.

you had absolutely no idea what you looked like right now.

or maybe you did.

your fingers curled lightly against his chest before drifting lower, smoothing absentmindedly over the hard planes of his stomach beneath the fabric. logan’s hands tightened instinctively at your waist.

“y/n,” he said carefully, almost in warning.

“mhm?”

“stop playin’ games with me.”

you smiled innocently.

“i’m not playing games.”

“bullshit.”

a soft laugh escaped you and the sound alone nearly did him in.

logan’s eyes dropped briefly toward your mouth before dragging themselves upward again like it physically pained him to do it.

then your fingers found the hem of his shirt once more and logan nearly lost his fucking mind.

“okay,” he muttered immediately, catching your wrist gently before you could keep going.

“absolutely not.”

you tried not to smile.

“what?”

“you know what.”

instead of answering, you stepped closer until your bodies pressed together fully. logan’s jaw clenched instantly.

because suddenly he could feel all of you.

the satin shifting softly against his sweatpants, the warmth of your thighs brushing his, the curve of your waist beneath his palms, especially when the neckline of the dress dipped lower from the movement.

and especially when he caught the first glimpse of black lace beneath the satin.

fuck.

his eyes flickered downward for half a second before immediately dragging back up to your face.

you caught it.

of course you did.

your smile softened then, less teasing this time, more wanting.

“logan,” you whispered quietly.

and that nearly killed him more than anything else had tonight, because suddenly you weren’t just messing with him anymore.

you were looking at him like you wanted him.

really wanted him.

and god, he wanted you too.

so fucking badly.

his hand slid carefully upward along your spine before stopping at the zipper resting against the small of your back.

“can i?” he asked softly.

you nodded immediately.

logan’s fingers curled lightly around the zipper before slowly dragging it downward. the sound filled the quiet bathroom. the dress loosened inch by inch beneath his hands.

and logan’s breathing visibly slowed.

because beneath the satin was soft black lace stretched against warm skin and enough exposed shoulder to completely derail every coherent thought left in his brain.

the straps slipped lower down your arms as the dress loosened, exposing more skin with every passing second. you leaned forward slightly until your forehead rested against the centre of his chest, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt.

logan shut his eyes briefly.

“jesus christ.”

you laughed quietly against him, the sound warm and muffled.

“that bad?”

“baby,” he muttered, voice rough now. “you gotta stop asking questions you already know the answer to.”

your fingers slipped beneath the fabric of his shirt slightly then, nails brushing warm skin along his stomach.

logan physically inhaled sharply, every muscle in his body tensing immediately. then he caught your hand gently before you could keep going.

not roughly.

just steady.

careful.

grounding.

his forehead dropped against yours while his fingers wrapped loosely around your wrist.

y/n,” he said quietly. “you know i want you.”

your teasing faltered slightly at the sincerity in his voice.

logan’s hand stayed warm against your waist, fingers flexing faintly like he was physically restraining himself from pulling you even closer.

“but you’ve been drinking” he murmured softly.

“i know.”

“and i know you’re okay,” he continued quietly, thumb brushing slowly across your cheek.

“but you've had enough that i'm not gonna take advantage of it.”

his forehead rested lightly against yours as he exhaled shakily.

“trust me,” he muttered softly, almost sounding frustrated with himself.

“this is killing me.”

despite everything, a small smile pulled at your lips.

“yeah?”

his eyes flickered down toward your mouth for a split second before forcing themselves back up again.

“yeah” he said hoarsely.

“you have absolutely no idea.”

your chest tightened painfully at the sincerity in his voice.

because even now, even with his breathing uneven. even with his hands gripping your waist hard enough to betray exactly how badly he wanted you, logan was still making sure you felt safe first.

still making sure you were okay.

still putting you before himself.

you looked up at him quietly for a long second before your expression softened completely. a warm and achingly fond look settled across your features.

“you’re really good to me.”

logan’s entire face gentled instantly at that. his thumb brushed lightly beneath your jaw before he leaned down enough for his forehead to rest properly against yours.

“i'm always going to be good to you.”

[cashmoneyyysstuff]

#luvlife ꩜ katsuki bakugou ⋆·˚ ༘ * (1.9K wc.)

synopsis. katsuki wants to know why you're staring at everyone today. and, most importantly, why everyone except him ?!

cw. nothin big i think ! readers is kinda weird n its okay embrace your inner weirdo to be cringe is to be weirdo, either way katsuki's into it bad lol, cussing. cut him some slack he's nervous

a/n. short bday post(wasnt originally but i remembered hey today birfday! lol), i had funsies making this banner i wish i could've used it for something better lol but i fink this is cutesie(then again ive got free will for a reason i could use it again if i want to will keep in mind) the title of this is the name of the song that ppl use in that mii trend i think it's so cute omg i need NEED THIS GAME GIMME IT

you're going around asking all your classmates to get a look at their faces.

it was definitely weird at first, the way you walked up to kirishima and told him to sit still for a couple seconds. especially because all you did afterwards was nod and walk off, but everyone is pretty much used to your antics. they were endearing in a way...so he's heard. not that katsuki finds you endearing.

it really would freak out anybody unfamiliar how kaminari, sero, midoriya, iida, shoji... all your friends simply seem so damn eager to help you in whatever it is you were doing. no questions asked. guess you could say class A was bonded in that way.

katsuki wonders what the hell was up with that...but more importantly, he bitterly wonders why you hadn't walked up to him yet.

it's stupid, you were just doing something stupid again. still, it wasn't like you to shut him out of your stupidities. he thought you were somewhat close enough to have him included, yet you avoided him like the plague. there weren't that many people in your class--what, did you think you were too good to look at his face or something ?

..what's wrong with his face anyway ?!

nothing. of course there's nothing wrong with his damn face and he knows that (he'd checked the bathroom mirror earlier and nothing seemed out of place at least). you definitely weren't scared of him..at least he hopes thinks so. the way you never failed to run your mouth sure made it seem like you liked him enough to bother him. so what the fuck was your deal now ?

finally, after classes end, katsuki catches you outside of class 3-B. he'd just been gotten a drink from the vending machine and decides--

fuck it.

"oi."

you look up at him, blinking in surprise before your face settles again. katsuki analyses you, you don't seem mad. he wants to hit himself for worrying so much about how you feel.

"hi." you respond casually, happy. the relief in flowing through his chest feels like a breath of fresh air in a sunny, flowery field. yuck. he should stop thinking.

as casually as he can he cracks open the can of soda he bought, groaning when a few fizzles spurt onto his finger. "what're doin' standin' here like an idiot ?"

you don't ask him the easy question of why he's so curious to know what you're doing, the snide comment he made doesn't even distabilise you a little bit. you never did what katsuki expected you to. maybe that was what made you so interesting to him, regrettably. you definitely kept him on his toes.

you softly rock forward and back on your heels, a soft hum slips past your lips "i'm waiting for tetsutetsu. i need his face."

that was definitely a sentence. to hear on a tuesday.

"...the fuck did you just say ? "

"i need to...see, his face."

you seem to realise yourself that the response was absurd, and katsuki should feel insulted when you laugh in his face but he's sure that if he were to see his expression from another point of view it'd make him chuckle a bit.

"it's for my game." you continue explaining when katsuki raises a brow, mouth occupied with his drink "my tomodachi life island, i'm adding all my friends to it. i don't wanna make any mistakes on the faces, you know ? i promised tetsu i'd add him to my island, so i'm waiting for him now." you say, tone now a bit more cheerful.

katsuki feels his expression sour at the affectionate nickname, he gulps back his drink "and you're gonna corner him to stare at his face like you've been doing with everyone else all day ?"

you nod assuredly "yup."

"tch," he scoffs. figures you'd ask someone from the whole other class before him. not that he cares or anything.

you tilt your head, stepping a bit closer and katsuki almost jumps out of his skin. he hates how you make him feel, how every one of your movements no matter how small throws him off completely.

"you're mad ?"

"no." comes his quick, sharp response. his eyes won't meet yours after a couple seconds of your stare down match. you have those often, granted katsuki thinks you might not see them as matches like he does. you watch him like a docile bird but he feels like prey under your gaze.

he moves back to make space between you both but you step closer. his breath gets caught in his throat, grip now tight on his soda can. "oi-"

"why are you mad ?"

"i'm not fuckin' mad." he hisses through gritted teeth.

you snicker after a pause, clearly not convinced. and you tell him so. because you always believed katsuki needs your opinion on him.

"you're a terrible liar."

usually, katsuki likes that you're so outspoken. it was one of many things thing he respected about you. he also sort of liked how you laughed. it was soft and airy and it trails off at the edges, fading for only him to hear in instances like this. like the soft smell of your perfume that tickles his nose and--

"tetsu sure is taking a while, i wanna add him to my island already. i want to make him friends with kiri." you sigh, your complaint trailing off into a whine.

katsuki snaps out of his daydream to roll his eyes, this time making sure to take a full step away from you, as casually as he could. he chooses to stand a bit next to you, leaning against the wall.

"can't believe you'd waste your time on this shit..." he grumbles, he can't watch his tone enough for it not to sound bitter before it's already out.

"oh, bakugou, you buzzkill.." your eyes widen and you turn your stupid face at him with the smallest hint of a smirk, eyes twinkiling with thoughts katsuki already knows he'll hate. his lip curls up into a frown.

"i hate that face. whatever you're thinkin' fuckin'--stop.'"

"do you wanna be on my island ?"

you say it quickly, arms behind your back to fiddle at your hands excitedly. you talk like you're trying not to scare off a wounded animal. it should feel insulting, but an unknown instinct in him prepares to hiss.

"that's not what the fuck i said."

"but it's what the fuck you meant." you respond without missing a beat, completely straight faced despite what you just said. katsuki catches the laugh building in his throat too late until it clogs weirdly and he clears his throat to pretend it didn't happen.

and clearly it doesn't work to fool you, you smile a little wider.

"that's funny i...i was gonna ask you if you wanted to be in it, actually." you mutter, eyes drifting downards and away from his now. his ears prick up at your words despite himself.

"so..why didn't you ?" he mutters, trying not to sound overly eager.

you shrug casually, too casual for katsuki who feels like flicking you on the forehead for causing him so much distress over something so stupid.

"just thought you didn't want to.." you admit "i wasn't going to force you to be a resident against your will."

he huffs, remembering not to let his arms drop since he still has a drink in his hand. he chugs the remainder of his drink down, then turns and chucks it in the trashcan behind him.

"well...you're not hearing me say no, are you ?"

"well, technically you just did."

"cus you fuckin--accused me of sayin' shit i didn't say." he scoffs.

you roll your eyes but thankfully, you let him have this. "well bakugou, can i add you to my island ?" you smile widely, eyes crinkling at the corners.

he raises a brow, this time actually shoving his hands in his pockets "y'not gonna stare into my soul like with the other guys ?" he jokes.

this time you splutter, eyes darting around you. you quickly look off to nothing in particular to your right. "i don't need to look at your face."

his eyebrows furrow, insulted "fuck does that mean ?! why not ?"

"cus...cus !" you insist weakly. your lips pull down into a small pout and katsuki hates how cute he finds it. you look stupidly cute.

he scoffs. "that doesn't mean anything, just so you know."

"i already know what your face looks like--i'm already looking at you." you shoot back quietly, face completely turned away from him now, glued to the floor, staring holes into the tile below your feet.

pride bubbles in his chest. finally, he has the upper hand. for once, you're the one stumble over your words about him catch you off guard. thinking he might start to enjoy this too much, he takes his chance and steps a bit closer.

"well, now y'not..." he drawls lowly, "you don't wanna miss any details, right ? i'll get pissed off if you get my face wrong, i'll start a fuckin' riot on your island."

your shoulder shake with a giggle. then, with a sigh, you finally look up at him. katsuki hates how quickly his heart beats, how quickly he feels nearly cornered again. how thrilling it all feels. you tilt your head and he stares back, challenging, raising a brow.

katsuki doesnt know how long he sits there letting you look at him, but he nows he won't to stop you for however long you feel like standing here playing this game. he can't have you know that thought, so he speaks again, sarcastically.

"takin' your sweet time, huh ?"

your nose scrunches up and you playfully frown at him, tutting. "my island is on the line here. can't make any mistakes," you tease.

"besides i wanna...get you right. you've got a lot of details."

"m'pretty sure human faces should have a lot of details."

you rolls your eyes, but they dont stray far. he doesn't want them to."it's different right now..." you whisper.

"different..?" he utters just as quietly. he leans in slowly, so close now he can see your lashes flutter in surprise. yet, you don't move.

"yeah, you're...different," your eyes flick down to his lips before locking with his again. "in a good way."

katsuki gulps, his eyes flutter shut before he blinks then back open, you follow the movement with utmost focus.

it makes him dizzy, but you won't look away, and neither will he. he definitely doesn't plan on breaking first but he'll admit you're a worthy opponent. he can't tell if the way your eyes dart across his face means you're still analysing him or if this was something completely differnt now.

who was he kidding...whatever it was, so long as it was you he couldn't find it in himself to complain. or tell you to stop. because the truth is that he doesn't want to either when he thinks to lean forward again. just a little more--

"oh ! hiya, yn ! and the explosion guy !"

just as quickly as it happened the moment's over. a small shriek slips past your lips, katsuki's just quick enough to miss you almost headbutting him. your head whips around dumbly searching for the source of your interruption. you relax when you realise that metal freak finally appeared. just as quickly as you'd been batting your eyelashes at him your face hardens, your shoulders square up at attention.

"a-ah, tetsu ! c'mere, i need your face !"

"huh ?!"

katsuki wonders if there's a way to kill people in your game.

cashmoneyyysstuff © 2026 hey, this is my stuff ! do not copy, translate modify it or use it to train ai. if you want to take inspiration from one of my works, just let me know or mention me in your post <3

taglist(if your name is thick i couldnt tag you :< ). @napbatata @andysdrafts @queenpiranhadon @jastoo46 @cecelia77 @katszumi @m-inluv @monchurie @the-hangry-otter @starlostlaiba @moonshuul @erenstitanweave @katsus-mistress @dondeh-zedonutqueen @liluvtojineteyam @aspiringwriter1111 @sugurusmoon @redvelvetstan1 @niktwazny303 @nemisimp @kit-katsukii @alphasage @milktea-academia @qyuin @bakugouswaif @3thr3al @mimimikamiks @eternallyshifting @frosted-flakes @vnstennis @dragonictales @kab-oo-m @blueemochii @theblackfandomtraveler @raeyas-ghost @usagi-kb-kc

[dynamightsfave]

I hope whenever Tucker's season arrives they make some silly callback to his fruit babies

something like the guys teasing him "are you sure you're ready? you lost a lot of fruit babies" or him being worried about the actual baby because of that for a second

[scullayann]

[thepittmemes]

whitsantos friendship!!!

[thepittmemes]

they deserve so much and they steal the show for me

[whisperedmeg]

mayhaps this is a controversial take, but the moral high ground anti-cheating trope police are so BORING like omg grow UPPPP. they’re fictional characters!!!!! FICTIONAL!!! no one who writes about and/or enjoys media containing a cheating trope is saying real-life infidelity is okay. it’s simply a plot device. for FICTION. get off your lame ass high horses and have some FUN jesus fkn christ

[p1stach-io]

badly need a tucker x reader fic where she falls first and he falls harder

love on the brain.

summary: you’ve months convincing yourself that john tucker only sees you as a friend. you couldn’t be more wrong. (6.9k)

pairing: john tucker x reader.

content: smut 18+ (MDNI), pining, alcohol, angst, hurt/comfort, idiots in love, tucker being down bad, language, friends to lovers, language, karaoke scenes (it’s a little bit corny but we move).

author’s note: i had to post this request in honour of hitting 600 followers (wtaf is going on) thank you so so much my sweet angels, im indebted to you all ☹️🫀

you were currently pressed flat against the kitchen counter, gripping a plastic cup filled with a concerning ratio of vodka to blackcurrant squash.

you were trying your hardest to look microscopic but for the last ten minutes, a guy you vaguely knew from the theatre club had you pinned in place.

his arm was thrown against the cupboard right next to your head, his alcohol-sour breath fanning over your face.

you were nodding, forcing your most polite, people-pleasing smile, uttering empty "oh, totallys" because you didn't know how to tell him to back off without causing a scene.

the kitchen had exactly everything that the college parties that you had went to occasionally had.

desperate guys, cheap beer, and the overwhelming heat of too many bodies packed into a single room.

you shouldn't even have been here. you weren't a big party person, but john tucker had personally texted you earlier that afternoon, asking if you wanted to come.

and you really couldn't say no to tucker.

you never could, not since the very first semester of freshman year.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

you had been stranded in the commuter parking lot during a freezing september downpour, staring hopelessly at a completely dead engine and crying, when tucker had pulled up in his massive truck.

he hadn't just lent you jumper cables which would've been more than enough.

he had stood out in the freezing rain, hooking up the batteries, talking you through exactly what was wrong and then waited until you safely cleared the campus gates.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

now, a year later into your sophomore year, you two were inseparable.

you weren't just classmates anymore. you had become really good friends. he was one of your anchors on campus, a person you trusted.

and for over a year—for as long as you had known him, really—you had been desperately, quietly drowning in love with him.

your best friend, nadia, had been pushing you for months to just give in and finally make a move, insisting that the chemistry was entirely there.

but you would honestly rather walk face-first into oncoming traffic than risk your friendship by putting yourself out there like that.

so, you had chosen to keep it buried, agonizingly silent.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

you had been able to pinpoint the exact moment you truly fell for him, too.

it was during a chaotic karaoke night at malones.

tucker had practically dragged you up onto the sticky stage to sing mr. brightside with him.

he had wrapped a heavy, protective arm around your shoulder, holding the microphone directly in front of both of you as you both screamed the lyrics.

you had sung quite badly on your end, but he hadn't cared at all.

you even let out a breathless, private kind of laugh as you yelled the words, because the lyrics about jealousy and watching someone else with the person you wanted were so brutally, painfully ironic.

at the time, tucker was kind of seeing another girl, and it had lowkey broke your heart every single time you thought about it.

still, the entire bar had cheered for you, and when the song finished, amidst the flashing lights and laughing crowd, he had leaned down and kissed your forehead.

it was a completely casual, affectionate gesture to him, but it had sent a seismic shock through your chest, and you had had to fight with every ounce of your willpower just to stay composed.

your heart wasn't hammering against your ribs.

not at all.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the air in the crowded kitchen shifted.

a shadow fell over you, and the oppressive weight of the room seemed to lift.

"hey," a low, steady voice rumbled.

you looked up to see tucker was standing there. he was wearing a black t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders, his curly dark hair slightly mussed from the humidity.

he didn't look angry, just looked immovable.

tucker's eyes flicked briefly to the guy's hand near your head, then down to your face. he read the tight, exhausted strain in your smile instantly.

"sorry to interrupt," tucker said to the guy, his voice entirely polite but carrying an undercurrent that brooked zero argument.

he looked back at you, his brown eyes softening. "but you dropped your sweater on the stairs earlier. want to go grab it before someone spills something on it?"

"oh. uh yes. thank you," you breathed, the relief so sharp it made your knees weak.

the guy blinked and slowly backed away, raising his cup in a silent surrender.

tucker didn't look at him again. instead, he placed a warm, heavy palm against the small of your back.

the heat of his hand burned straight through the thin fabric of your top, guiding you through the crushing crowd and up the stairs toward the quieter, dimly lit second floor.

"you okay?" he asked as soon as the noise of the downstairs dropped by half. he stopped in the hallway, turning to face you fully.

he kept a respectful distance, but his eyes were entirely locked onto yours. "you looked like you were about to faint down there."

"i was just... trying to be nice," you murmured, staring at the collar of his shirt because looking into his eyes felt too dangerous. "i didn't want to make it weird. since you invited me, i didn't want to seem ungrateful."

tucker let out a soft, huffed breath, a mixture of amusement and genuine concern. "you don't have to be nice to people who don't respect your space. you are allowed to say no." he stepped a fraction closer, his head tilting down to catch your gaze. "if you want to leave, i can drive you. my truck is right outside."

you looked up at him then. tucker was the resident 'good guy' of the hockey team. he was the one who did the grocery shopping, the one who cooked the meals, the one who always seemed to have his life entirely together.

he was your friend, the boy who sat next to you in class with perfect posture, taking meticulous notes, always completely steady.

"i don't want to go home yet," you whispered, the alcohol in your system giving you a sudden, terrifying burst of reckless courage. "but i really don't want to go back downstairs either."

tucker's chest rose and fell in a slow, deep breath.

his eyes darkened, the easygoing, polite classmate fading away to reveal something much heavier, much hungrier. "okay," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a rough murmur. "well you know my room is at the end of the hall."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

you knew exactly which room it was.

you had been in tucker's room to study on multiple occasions before, whenever the house was chaotic and the living room was completely unusable.

you had sat cross-legged on his floor with your notebooks spread out whenever dean decided he was going to aggressively make out with some girl on the couch.

when garrett and logan would yell at each other while playing video games at maximum volume you had sat in his swivel chair.

back then, tucker's room had been a platonic sanctuary.

but the moment the bedroom door clicked shut behind you tonight, the polite boundaries dissolved.

tucker didn't pounce. he moved with a deliberate, agonising slowness that made your blood sing.

he walked up to you, his hands rising to gently cup the sides of your face. his thumbs traced your cheekbones, his callouses catching slightly against your skin.

he waited, his eyes searching yours in the dim light of his bedside lamp. "are you sure? tell me to stop if you want me to stop."

"don't stop," you choked out, reaching up to grip his wrists.

when his mouth finally met yours, it was like a dam breaking. tucker was patient, but there was an underlying desperation in the way he pulled you against him.

his hands moved down your bare back where the halter top exposed your skin, his fingers locking around your waist and lifting you slightly so you were flush against chest.

he tasted like mint and the dark beer he had been sipping, his tongue sliding against yours with a deep, consuming rhythm that made your head spin.

he guided you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of his mattress, and then you were falling, tucker coming down with you.

every single movement was an exercise in communication. even when his hands were trembling with the effort to hold himself back, he kept checking in.

"too much?" he whispered, his lips brushing the sensitive skin right beneath your ear, making an involuntary shiver rip through your body.

"no. it's perfect. please, tuck."

he groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated against your collarbone. his hands moved to the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it over his head, a few stray dark curls falling into his eyes before his fingers reached for the ties of your top.

he paused for a fraction of a second, waiting until you arched into his touch and gave him the unspoken permission he required.

with a gentle tug, he undone the straps, pulling the fabric away. his eyes roamed over your skin with a reverence that felt almost sacred.

he looked at you like he worshipped you.

his mouth followed the path of his hands, leaving a trail of burning, wet kisses down your throat, across the curve of your shoulder, down to the soft skin of your stomach.

when he finally rid himself of the rest of his clothes, the sheer scale of him took your breath away—all hard muscle and tan skin.

but when he slid between your thighs, he was incredibly gentle. he braced his weight on his forearms, framing your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, winding through it.

"hey, look at me," he asked you softly.

you opened your eyes, blinking through the haze of pleasure. tucker was staring down at you, his jaw clenched, a bead of sweat tracing the line of his temple. his eyes were burning, completely stripped of his usual easygoing charm.

"it's just you and me," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "just us."

you gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders as a wave of intense, blinding heat flooded your system.

tucker froze, letting you adjust, his chest heaving against yours. he kissed away the tear that leaked from the corner of your eye, murmuring a stream of praise against your skin. "you're so beautiful. come here, sweetheart, i've got you."

you silently choked at the compliment, it almost felt real. but you knew what this was.

when he started to move, the pace was agonizingly perfect. it wasn't the frantic, uncoordinated fumbling you had experienced with other guys. tucker knew his body, and he wanted to know yours.

he set a slow, deep, devastating rhythm, his hips rolling into yours with a physical certainty that had you sobbing his name into the quiet of his room within minutes.

every time you tried to pull away from the sheer intensity of it, his grip on your waist tightened.

he anchored you to him, pulling you deeper into the sensation until the entire world narrowed down to the sound of his ragged breathing and the friction of skin against skin.

you felt the overwhelming, terrifying realization that you were completely, utterly undone by him.

when he finally came, his head buried in the crook of your neck and he gripped you so tight you could barely breathe.

and you held him just as hard, believing, with every fiber of your being, that everything had changed.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

what you could only describe as a cacophony of metal and chaos was coming from the kitchen downstairs.

the alcohol had completely worn off, leaving behind a pounding headache and a sudden, suffocating wave of reality.

the room was cold, but the heater in the corner clicking loudly. next to you, tucker was still asleep, lying on his stomach, the sheets pooled around his lower back, exposing the muscular expanse of his spine.

you sat up slowly, pulling the duvet tightly against your chest, and looked around.

tucker’s hockey gear was stacked neatly in the corner. his textbooks were lined up on his desk. everything about john tucker's life was orderly, structured, and deliberate.

and then there was you.

a heavy, sickening dread began to pool in your stomach. your brain, always hyper-tuned to the threat of rejection, immediately went into overdrive.

what did you do? the unwelcome voice whispered.

he's your friend. you've studied in this exact room so many times as just a friend, completely terrified of ruining what you had, and now you've gone and done exactly that because you basically threw yourself at him.

you remembered how he had said, "we don't have to make a big deal out of this," to a girl at a party a few weeks ago who had been clinging to his arm. you remembered how he valued his peace.

he's going to wake up, look at you, and realize he made a massive mistake and completely ruined our friendship, you thought, the humiliation already burning in your throat.

you wanted to disappear. to protect your own fragile pride, your defenses immediately slammed down.

you pulled your knees to your chest, your expression suddenly turning tight, closed-off, and rigid.

tucker stirred, a low groan escaping his throat as his eyes slowly blinked open.

he turned over, his face soft with sleep, a faint, instinctive smile forming on his lips as he looked at you.

"hey," he rasped, his voice incredibly deep from sleep. he reached out, his hand moving to rest on your thigh over the blanket. "how you feeling?"

you didn't move into his touch. you stayed perfectly still, your voice coming out clipped and distant. "i'm fine. i should probably get going before nadia thinks that i died."

tucker's smile faltered. his hand remained on your thigh, but his fingers went still.

his brown eyes, usually so warm, sharpened as he scanned your face. he saw the tension in your jaw, the way you were holding the blanket like a shield, the complete lack of warmth in your eyes.

he misread it instantly.

to tucker, a guy who prided himself on reading people and making them feel safe, your rigid posture looked like pure, unadulterated regret.

he thought you woke up, looked at him, and wished with everything you had that you hadn't slept with your friend.

a sharp pang of guilt sliced through his chest, followed closely by a dull, hollow ache. his jaw clenched, and he slowly pulled his hand back, tucking it under the pillow.

"right," tucker said. the softness vanished from his voice, replaced by that careful, polite, emotionally controlled tone he used when he was trying to manage a difficult situation.

he didn't want to pressure you. he didn't want to make you feel worse than you clearly already did. "yeah, of course. don't stress about it."

he sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, keeping his back to you as he grabbed his sweatpants from the floor.

"we don't have to make a big deal out of this," tucker murmured, his voice entirely deadpan as he pulled the fabric up.

he turned his head slightly, offering you a small, forced smile that didn't reach his eyes. "it was a crazy night. we're good. i can drive you home, or i can just head down to the kitchen and give you some space to get dressed. whatever you want."

to your ears, it was the ultimate rejection.

we don't have to make a big deal out of this, translated to: it was a mistake. let's forget it happened so our friendship isn't ruined.

"the kitchen is fine," you said, your voice entirely hollow. "and i can walk home. it's close."

tucker swallowed hard, the muscle in his jaw jumping. "okay. uh i'll see you later in class then."

he walked out, closing the door quietly behind him. and you sat in his bed, wrapped in his scent, feeling smaller than you ever had in your life.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the library basement was freezing.

up on the main floors, people actually studied, but down here in the archives, the air tasted like dust and old paper.

it was the perfect place to hide.

"if we use the third-quarter data for the mock marketing pitch, professor hayes is going to lose his mind," tucker's voice broke through the silence, rich and steady, dragging you back to the present.

you blinked before focusing on the heavy textbook open between you. this was your usual routine. monday and thursday afternoons, tucked away in the back corner, acting like you hadn't map-read every inch of each other's bodies three months ago.

you had become masters at it. you had learned how to position your notebooks so your elbows never brushed. you had learned how to look at his forehead instead of his lips when he spoke.

for three months, you had forced yourself into a grueling routine of emotional detachment. you had systematically taken every memory of that night and buried them under layers of cold logic.

you had forced yourself to fall out of love with him, day by agonising day, because surviving his presence required it.

and the hardest part?

tucker was a good communicator. everyone knew that about him. he was the stable one, the guy who spoke his mind, the guy who handled problems head-on.

so when he had gone completely silent about that night, you hadn't viewed it as hesitation. you had viewed it as an answer.

you assumed his silence meant he didn't want you.

you assumed that to him, it had just been a momentary lapse in judgment, an itch scratched with a convenient friend.

you had no idea how beautifully, tragically wrong you were.

you didn't see the war he was fighting every single day.

tucker wasn't silent because he didn't care.

he was silent because he was terrified.

in his mind, he had already crossed the ultimate line by having sex with you and he was absolutely paralyzed by the fear of losing the only thing he had left.

your friendship.

he was suffocating in his own caution, desperately trying to protect your comfort while his own heart tore itself to pieces in the process.

"right. third-quarter data," you muttered, your fingers hovering uselessly over your keyboard before you typed a string of nonsense sentences just to look busy.

beside you, tucker shifted. even without looking, you were acutely aware of him—the heat radiating off him in the drafty basement, the scent of his laundry detergent mixed with the crisp air he had brought in with him.

your phone buzzed on the wood. the screen lit up, cutting through the dimness of the booth.

isaiah: can't do dinner tonight, forgot i have a group project meeting. come over after? like 11?

you had started hooking up with isaiah a month ago after meeting him at a seminar.

you didn't even like him that much. he was careless, he left you on read for hours, and he never supported your goals.

just last week, when you told him about the competitive summer internship you were applying for, he had barely looked at you, and said, "why do that to yourself? it's a lot of work for a low payoff."

but isaiah was safe. he didn't know the exact cadence of your laugh. he didn't make your chest ache with a heavy, hollow longing every time he walked into a room.

most importantly, isaiah didn't make you feel like you were a mistake.

he was the buffer you needed to prove to yourself that you were over john tucker.

you reached out, your thumb hovering over the screen to type a quick no worries, see you then, but you never got the chance.

a hand suddenly moved across the desk and clamped down around the edges of your phone, and with a swift, deliberate motion, tucker flipped it face-down against the wood.

the sharp clack of the plastic hitting the table echoed in the quiet corner.

but he didn't pull his hand away.

his fingertips brushed against your knuckles, just a fraction of a second too long, a heavy, desperate warmth that sent a jolt straight up your arm.

you looked up, startled, your breath catching in your throat.

tucker was staring at you. the easy, relaxed posture he usually maintained was entirely gone. his jaw was clenched so tight a small muscle was leaping under his tan skin.

he had seen the text. because he sat right next to you, because he was always hyper-aware of your movements, he always saw.

"don't," tucker said.

"tucker, it's fine," you said, your voice shaking slightly as you reached out to pull your phone back.

you tried for a casual, dismissive shrug, but it felt brittle. "it’s just casual—"

"it's not fine," he interrupted.

he leaned forward, planting his forearms on the table, and his massive shadow completely eclipsed you, cutting off the rest of the library.

the polite, stable classmate you had forced yourself to get used to evaporated in a single exhale. in his place was something raw, volatile, and entirely starved.

"he treats you like a late-night option, and you just take it because you think that's all you're worth," tucker hissed, his dark eyes boring into yours, practically stripping away every defense you had spent months building. "it kills me. it is physically killing me to sit here every week, pretending to read these damn chapters, and watch you let him do it."

his gaze dropped to your lips for a devastating, lingering second—a look full of so much unsaid hunger, regret, and agonizing yearning that it made your chest ache.

he looked like a man dying of thirst, staring at water he wasn't allowed to drink.

your breath hitched, your heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs.

for a second, the sheer intensity in his eyes made you dizzy.

but then, the reality crashed back over you, and the sheer hypocrisy of his words flared a sudden, angry fire in your chest.

"you don't get to say that to me" you whispered fiercely, leaning in too, refusing to let him back you into a corner.

"you don't get to judge who i spend my time with, tucker. not when you're the one who walked out of your room the next morning and told me not to make a big deal out of it. you're a communicator, tucker. you talk when something matters to you. you set the rules with your silence, and i'm just following them."

tucker flinched as if you had physically struck him.

the irony of your words clearly cut him to the bone. his desperate attempt to communicate respect had been read as total indifference.

when his eyes snapped back to yours, they were blazing, but the truth he so desperately wanted to scream was choking him.

he couldn't say it. not here.

not when he was still terrified that pushing too hard would make you run away forever.

he swallowed hard, his throat bobbing, his jaw working as he forced the raw, aching desperation back down, locking it behind a wall of sheer willpower.

"i told you that because you looked like you were going to cry," he said, his voice dropping to a harsh, strained whisper that vibrated with everything he was keeping back.

he ran a hand through his hair, gripping the strands tightly before letting go. his eyes searched yours, pleading, absolutely drowning in a longing he felt entirely unequipped to handle. "i thought i crossed a line. i thought i ruined us."

he looked down at your face-down phone, his mouth pulling into a grim, tight line, his hand twitching on the table as if he was fighting every instinct in his body to reach out, pull you against him, and never let you go.

when he looked back up, the vulnerability was guarded, but his eyes were still heavy with a crushing, silent ache.

"go to his place if you want to," tucker said softly, though the tension in his rigid shoulders betrayed him completely.

he picked up his pen again, his fingers gripping it so hard it looked ready to snap. "but don't pretend you're doing it because you actually want him."

the silence that followed his words was thick enough to suffocate.

tucker didn't look back up at you. he kept his eyes pinned to his textbook, his broad shoulders practically rigid as he turned a page with a sharp, aggressive snap that nearly ripped the paper.

he was completely retreating back into himself, locking the doors and pulling the blinds, leaving you stranded in the wreckage of whatever the hell had just happened.

your chest heaved as you stared at the side of his face.

you wanted to scream at him. you wanted to demand he explain what those words meant, what that look meant, why he was acting like your choices were tearing him apart when he was the one who had drawn the boundary lines in the first place.

but the sheer exhaustion of the last few months caught up to you all at once.

the anger drained out, leaving nothing but a hollow, heavy ache.

so without a word, you reached out, snatched your phone from beneath his hand and shoved it into your pocket.

you didn't text isaiah back and for the remaining forty minutes of the study session, neither of you spoke.

the only sounds were the scratching of tucker's pen and the frantic, chaotic thoughts screaming inside your own head.

when the clock finally hit four, you packed your laptop so fast the zipper caught on your cord, and you left without saying goodbye.

he didn't try to follow you.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

what followed was a brutal, agonizing stretch of silence that lasted for days. you skipped your usual thursday afternoon study slot, pretending you had a sudden conflict, unable to face the suffocating atmosphere again.

tucker noticed. of course he did.

by thursday night, the texts started coming. your phone would buzz against your nightstand, and every time you saw his name flash across the screen, your throat would go tight.

j.tucker: hey. can we talk? about tuesday.

you read it from your lock screen, then cleared the notification.

an hour later, another one.

j.tucker: i shouldn't have judged your situation. it wasn't my place. i'm sorry.

you actually opened that one. you let the chat stay open, letting the 'seen' status flash right back at him, a deliberate, quiet retaliation for the months of silence he had handed you first.

it felt petty and cruel, but it was the only armor you had left.

around midnight, one final text slipped through.

j.tucker: please don't freeze me out. i just want to make it right.

you left him on seen for that one, too, staring at the ceiling until three in the morning, wondering how a guy who was usually so perfect at finding the right words could have spent three months completely misreading yours.

you were trying so hard to stay mad at him, because being mad was infinitely easier than acknowledging the terrifying truth.

the truth was that his words had shaken every single defense you had built.

the friction of it all made everything else feel completely unearned.

by friday afternoon, looking at your phone felt like a chore, especially when a text from isaiah popped up asking if you were still coming over later.

tucker's words hung over your head like a dark cloud.

unfortunately he was right. you were using isaiah as a shield, and it wasn't fair to anyone.

so, you called him. it took less than two minutes. you told him it wasn't working out, that you weren't looking for the same things anymore. isaiah barely even sounded surprised—just muttered a careless "alright, cool, catch you around" before hanging up.

it didn't even hurt.

if anything, the lack of effort on his end only proved how right tucker had been.

but dumping him didn't fix the hollow ache in your chest.

it just stripped away your final buffer, leaving you entirely unprotected against the thought of tucker.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

by friday night, you were a complete wreck, which was the only reason you let your friends drag you to malones. it was suffocatingly hot, packed wall-to-wall with sweaty students looking to forget about midterms.

"nadia shoved a plastic cup of mystery liquid into your hand and yelled over the noise vibrating through the floorboards. "stop thinking about isaiah. stop thinking about everything. we are getting drunk."

"i'm trying," you lied to nadia, taking a sip that tasted mostly like foam.

you weren't thinking about isaiah. you were looking for a specific head of curly hair in the crowd, even though you told yourself you hoped he wouldn't show up.

the opening notes of a song started pulsing through the bar's speakers, cutting through the generic pop remixes the student dj had been spinning. it was slow, heavy, and drenched in bass.

love on the brain by rihanna.

a loud cheer went up near the small, makeshift karaoke stage in the corner.

"oh, shit, look who's up," nadia laughed, nudging your shoulder.

your eyes snapped toward the stage.

tucker was standing there, looking like he had been completely hijacked into doing this. he had a beer in one hand and the mic in the other, wearing a simple yellow t-shirt, his shoulders dropped in a lazy, unbothered posture.

down in the front row, dean di laurentis was leaning against a high-top table, a massive, shit-eating grin plastered across his face as he raised his glass toward the stage.

it took you exactly one second to realize what had happened.

dean had requested it.

he was the one who had submitted tucker's name to the dj and picked the track, completely intending to instigate.

dean had been watching the two of you dance around each other for months, picking up on the sharp drops in temperature whenever you walked into a room, and he was clearly done waiting for tucker to make a move.

tucker looked out over the crowd and gave dean a slow, warning glare, pointing a finger at him and mouthing you are dead toward the front row.

he was trying so hard to play it off perfectly—just a guy getting forced into a bad slot on the karaoke wheel by his roommate, keeping it light, keeping it casual so nobody would think twice about it.

but as he leaned into the mic and the first verse started, the athlete front began to quiet down.

tucker didn't do the usual dramatic karaoke bit. he didn't try to perform or work the room.

it was smooth, effortless, and entirely devoid of any theatricality. it was just him.

he kept his eyes on the back wall for the first few bars, entirely focused on maintaining that unbothered, nonchalant vibe.

but as the heavy, aching longing of the chorus started to swell, his focus shifted.

he didn't scan the crowd. his eyes cut through the haze of the bar, landing on the shadow of the pillar where you were standing with a sudden, quiet precision.

he didn't hold your gaze like a man putting on a show.

it was a heavy look—the kind that felt entirely accidental but completely deliberate.

in the brief moments his eyes locked onto yours, the casual act he'd been putting on for the room completely vanished.

the lyrics didn't feel like a performance instead they felt like a confession he was trying very hard to suppress.

his eyes stayed anchored to yours through the bridge. there was a raw, quiet desperation in his expression that he couldn't hide behind a grin anymore.

the noise around you seemed to dull into background static. you couldn't move.

you just watched him, the truth he had been suffocating under laying entirely bare between you across the crowded room.

he wasn't silent because he didn't care.

he was silent because he was drowning.

don't you stop loving me.

his eyes never breaking from yours for even a fraction of a second.

despite how hard he had tried to play it off just moments ago, john tucker was down on his knees, begging you to understand.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the second the song ended, the bar erupted.

his teammates started shouting, slamming their cups against the tables, and dean was laughing loudly, clapping tucker on the back as he stepped off the low stage.

but tucker didn't look at any of them.

his eyes stayed pinned to yours for one last, heavy second before the moving bodies of the crowded bar finally cut off his view.

"holy shit," nadia breathed next to you, her jaw practically on the floor.

you couldn't even hear her. your lungs felt entirely empty. the heat in the bar was suddenly suffocating, and the walls felt like they were closing in on you.

"i need air," you choked out, not waiting for nadia's response as you shoved your cup into her hand and began pushing your way through the dense crowd toward the exit.

you spilled out of the heavy front doors and into the cool, crisp friday night air.

you walked a few yards down the pavement, ducking into the dim, quiet alleyway beside the building just to get away from the bass vibrating through the brick walls.

you leaned your back against the cool brick, closing your eyes and trying to force your heart to slow down.

don't you stop loving me.

the words were still ringing in your ears, wrapped in that low, gravelly register.

"you left your drink with nadia."

your eyes snapped open.

tucker was standing at the mouth of the alley. the neon red light from the bar's sign caught the edge of his jaw, throwing the rest of his face into deep shadow.

he had his hands buried in his pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched against the night breeze.

he looked completely depleted, the confident front he had maintained on stage entirely gone.

"i didn't want it anyway," you whispered, your voice shaking.

tucker took a slow, deliberate step into the alley, his heavy boots clicking against the pavement.

"didn't know you had a future in r&b, tuck. that was... intense." you said not meeting his eyes.

"dean's a fucking idiot," he said quietly, his voice rough. "he thinks he's funny. i didn't mean to put you on the spot like that."

"didn't you?" you asked, a sudden spark of that old defense mechanism flaring up in your chest to keep you from crying. "because you looked right at me, tucker. you looked right at me and you sang those words like you wanted to kill me."

tucker stopped walking. he was only a few feet away from you now, his frame completely blocking out the streetlights behind him. he pulled his hands out of his pockets, his knuckles twitching.

"i looked at you because i couldn't help it," he confessed, his voice dropping into that low, raw register from the library basement. "i've been trying to help it for months, and i'm done. i'm entirely empty. i have nothing left to fight you with."

"you're the one who started the fight" you cried out, your voice breaking as the tears you had been holding back all week finally blurred your vision.

"you walked out of that room the next morning, tucker. you told me it wasn't a big deal. do you have any idea what that did to me? i had to force myself to fall out of love with you because i thought i was a mistake to you!"

tucker flinched as if you had physically struck him. the word love seemed to hang in the space between you, heavy and terrifying.

"you weren't a mistake," he choked out, stepping closer until the heat radiating off him completely wrapped around you.

his hands came up, hovering just inches from your face, his fingers trembling. "you were the only thing that felt real. i told you that because when i woke up, you were staring at the ceiling looking like you regretted every single second of it. you looked terrified. i thought if i pushed you, i would lose you completely."

he let out a ragged, broken laugh, his eyes swimming with the exact same yearning that had been burning on that stage.

"so i stayed silent. i tried to be the good guy. i tried to be respectful while you started going out with isaiah," tucker hissed, his jaw clenching. "and it was killing me. every single day. i didn't want to break the rules, but then i realized my silence didn't protect you at all. it just let someone else ruin you."

he looked down at his shoes, then back up at you, his eyes entirely bare. "today i saw you standing there, and i realized i would rather dean mock me for the rest the year than spend another day letting you think i didn't want you. it was killing me. you have no idea how much it was killing me."

you stared at him, your heart turning over in your chest.

all this time you thought you were the one drowning, but tucker had been completely underwater.

"i broke it off with him," you whispered.

tucker froze. his chest stopped heaving. "you what?"

"i called isaiah this afternoon. i broke it off," you said, looking up at him through your eyelashes. "because you were right. i was using him as a shield because being with him was safe. it wasn't fair to him, and it wasn't fair to me. because he isn't you."

a soft, fractured sound ripped from tucker's throat.

the next second, his hands were in your hair, his large palms cupping the back of your head as he tilted your face up and brought his lips down against yours.

it was like pouring rain after a drought. the kiss was deep, heavy, and desperate, his mouth moving against yours with a fierce, possessive hunger that made your knees go entirely weak.

you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, tangling your fingers in the short hairs at the nape of his neck as you completely gave in.

tucker groaned against your lips, his hands moving down to grip your waist, lifting you slightly off the ground to press you firmly against the brick wall.

he kissed you like he was trying to make up for every single day of silence, every single unread text, and every single second he had spent starving for you since october.

when he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours. his breath was coming in short, ragged gasps, his eyes still dark and heavy with emotion as he looked down at you.

"i'm not backing off this time," tucker whispered fiercely, his thumbs wiping the stray tears from your cheeks with a tenderness that made your heart swell. "i don't care about the rules. i don't care about being casual. we are doing this right."

you let out a shaky, breathless laugh, burying your face in the crook of his neck. "okay." you whispered against his skin.

"about fucking time!"

the loud, booming voice shattered the quiet of the alleyway, making both of you jump.

you blinked against the sudden glare of the streetlights as you peeked over tucker's shoulder.

dean and logan were standing at the mouth of the alley, leaning against the brickwork like a pair of absolute menaces.

dean had his arms crossed over his chest, his trademark smug grin practically splitting his face in two, while logan stood beside him, shaking his head with a slow, amused chuckle.

tucker didn't let go of you. if anything, his grip on your waist tightened, a heavy protective weight as he let out a low, deeply irritated sigh.

"go away," tucker muttered, his voice still thick and rough from the kiss, not even turning around to face them.

"oh, come on, tuck, show me some gratitude," dean scoffed, taking a sip from a fresh plastic cup of beer. "i literally orchestrated your entire romantic awakening tonight. if it weren't for my flawless track selection on that karaoke machine, you would still be pining."

"he's right, you know," logan chimed in, tossing an arm over dean's shoulder with a lazy smirk. "we've been suffering through the tension in that house for months. we practically had to hold a house meeting just to discuss how miserable you were."

"seriously," dean agreed, shaking his head dramatically. "the yearning was getting a little pathetic. we had to intervene for our own sanity."

tucker finally turned his head just enough to give his teammates a deadly, unamused glare. "if you two aren't gone by the count of three, i'm letting garrett know who actually broke the blender last weekend."

logan's smirk instantly vanished, and dean straightened up, clearing his throat.

"okay, okay, we're leaving," dean said, raising his hands in surrender as he started to back away toward the bright, noisy entrance of the bar. "but for the record, you're welcome!"

"don't forget to thank us in your wedding speech!" logan shouted back, laughing as dean shoved him back into the crowded bar.

the heavy metal doors slammed shut behind them, cutting off the bass and leaving the alleyway quiet once again.

tucker let out a soft huff of laughter against your hair, the rigid tension finally leaving his shoulders as he looked back down at you.

his eyes were softer now, warmer, but the heavy heat from moments ago was still simmering right beneath the surface.

a slow smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he leaned back in, closing the distance between you again.

[rinvvii]

i'm looking at you; john logan

summary: you spend hours picking the perfect photos to post, while logan insists he doesn't understand instagram. but after becoming your unofficial photographer and photo critic, you learn that his favorite picture of you isn't one you'd ever upload—it’s one he never stopped looking at.

pairings: john logan x reader

RIN'S NOTE: I was just taking a selfie of myself 2 days ago likeee idk I am just a bit confident that day then before I posted it on my insta this just pops out in my mind and go to my laptop to write it, hehe.

【 WC 1.62k 】

You learned a lot from dating John Logan.

Among them were John Logan's ability to score goals under duress, pass college tests that he ought to have studied for sooner, and still manage to be one of the most endearing individuals you've ever encountered.

Another was that he had absolutely no respect for Instagram.

At least, that's what he claimed.

"Why do you need twenty-seven photos?" Logan asked. You looked up from your phone in disbelief.

"Twenty-seven isn't even that many."

Logan glanced down at the screen.

Then at you.

Then back at the screen.

"They're the same picture."

"They're not."

"They absolutely are."

You gasped dramatically. Across the couch, Garrett didn't even look up from his game. "Don't get involved, Logan. You're already losing."

"I'm not losing."

"You are," Garrett said. "Trust me."

You immediately held your phone closer to Logan's face.

"Look."

"I am looking, baby."

"No, actually look."

Logan sighed. The two photos looked nearly identical. Same pose. Same smile. Same coffee cup.

But because he'd been dating you long enough, he knew better than to say that.

So he studied them. Seriously. For you.

Like he was reviewing game footage. Your eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Well?"

"The second one."

You blinked. "Why?"

Logan shrugged.

"Better lighting."

You stared. Then slowly pointed at him.

"See? You get it."

"No, I don't."

"You do."

"I don't."

"You literally noticed the lighting."

Garrett finally looked over.

"Oh, he's gone."

"What does that mean?" Logan asked.

"It means you've become an Instagram boyfriend."

The horrified look on Logan's face made you laugh.

The problem was that it kept happening.

Every day. Everywhere.

At first, Logan only took your pictures because you asked. Then somehow it became routine.

Walking downtown?

"Babe, picture."

At a café?

"Logan, picture."

Pretty sunset?

"Baby."

And every single time he complained. While still taking the photo.

"Move a little to the left."

You paused.

"What?"

"The light."

You stared. Slowly. Carefully.

"Excuse me?"

Logan immediately realized his mistake.

Across the table, Hannah burst out laughing.

"Oh my god." Dean pointed dramatically.

"He said it."

"Said what?"

"'The light.'"

Garrett looked genuinely emotional.

"They grow up so fast."

"Shut up."

You were already grinning. Because Logan had started noticing things.

The background. The angles. The lighting.

And worst of all? He was good at it. Really good. Sometimes he'd hand your phone back and you'd stare at the pictures in shock.

"Logan."

"What?"

"These are amazing."

He looked confused.

"You just stood there, baby"

"Exactly."

A few weeks later, the situation became even worse. You were sitting on the couch with your head laying on Logan's shoulder while you scroll through your camera roll.

Trying to decide what to post. Again.

"Question."

Logan sighed.

"There it is."

"Which picture?"

You held your phone up. Three selfies. Logan looked. For about two seconds.

"The third one."

Your eyes widened. "That fast?"

"The third one."

"Why?"

"The smile's more real."

Silence. You stared. Logan stared back.

Then slowly returned to his phone. Like he hadn't just completely ruined your day.

Because what did he mean, the smile was more real?

And why he was right?

The thing was, Logan noticed things. Small things. The things nobody else paid attention to.

When you were genuinely happy versus when you were forcing a smile.

When you liked an outfit but were pretending you didn't care.

When you felt confident.

When you didn't.

Which was why he noticed immediately when you stopped asking about pictures.

At first, he didn't think much of it. Then three days passed.

No Instagram questions.

No photo requests.

Nothing.

You were sprawled across Logan's bed while he sat at his desk pretending to study.

Pretending being the important word.

Because every few minutes, his eyes drifted away from his textbook and toward you. At the moment, you were scrolling through your camera roll with a deep frown.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

Another photo disappeared. Then another. Then another.

Logan watched for a minute before finally speaking.

"What happened?"

You didn't look up.

"Nothing."

"That's not true."

You sighed dramatically. "I look weird." Logan blinked.

"What?"

"In the pictures."

He stared at you for a second. Then at your phone. Then back at you.

"You asked me to take those."

"I know."

"And now they're bad?"

"I didn't say bad."

"You literally just deleted twenty of them."

You groaned and flopped backward onto his bed. "Forget it."

Logan immediately knew not to forget it.

Because he knew you. And sometimes, when you got frustrated with yourself, you started seeing flaws nobody else could see.

So he held out his hand.

"Give me the phone." Suspiciously, you handed it over. Logan scrolled.

One picture.

Then another.

Then another.

A few more.

His brows furrowed slightly. You watched him nervously. "Well?"

"I'm confused."

That wasn't the answer you expected.

"What do you mean?"

Logan looked up. "I'm trying to figure out which part is supposed to look weird." Your face immediately heated.

"Logan."

"I'm serious."

"You have boyfriend bias."

"Obviously."

You buried your face in a pillow. Immediately. Because somehow that answer was worse. Logan laughed quietly.

The mattress shifted slightly as he moved closer. Then he gently tugged the pillow down just enough so he could see your eyes.

"There you are."

You glared at him. Weakly. Logan remained completely unbothered.

"You keep looking at the pictures trying to find flaws."

You rolled your eyes.

"And?"

His expression softened.

"And I'm looking at you."

Your heart did something incredibly annoying. Logan seemed completely unaware of the damage he'd just caused.

Typical.

For a second, neither of you spoke. Then he handed the phone back. You glanced down at the screen.

The same pictures. The same lighting. The same smile.

Nothing had changed. Yet somehow they didn't seem quite as bad anymore.

"You know," Logan said casually, leaning back against the headboard.

"Hm?"

"My favorite pictures of you aren't even on Instagram."

You frowned.

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing."

Your eyes narrowed immediately.

"Logan."

"Nothing."

"Logan."

He smiled. The kind of smile that told you he absolutely knew something you didn't.

"What pictures?"

"Not telling you."

"Why?"

"Because you'll make fun of me." Your jaw dropped.

"That's suspicious."

"It should be."

"Logan!"

He laughed. Actually laughed. Then reached over and stole your phone before you could continue interrogating him.

The conversation ended there. Or at least, you thought it did.

Because later that night, when Logan's phone buzzed from the nightstand and he asked you to grab it for him.

The screen lit up. And suddenly, everything made sense.

For a second, you just stared.

Then stared some more. Because there you were. Curled up asleep on Logan's couch.

One of his hoodies swallowed you whole, sleeves covering your hands. Your hair was a complete mess, your cheek squished against a cushion, and one leg was hanging off the edge like you'd fallen asleep halfway through moving.

It wasn't a flattering picture. It wasn't posed. You weren't even looking at the camera. You had no idea it existed.

And yet, it was his lock screen.

Your heart immediately did something stupid.

"Logan."

The second he heard your voice, he knew.

"Oh no."

You slowly turned his phone around.

"What is this?"

Logan dropped his head back against the headboard. Like a man accepting his fate.

"It's a picture."

"Of me."

"Yeah."

"Sleeping."

"You were asleep at the time." You laughed despite yourself.

"That's not the point."

"Seems relevant."

"Logan."

He peeked at you from beneath one eye.

You were smiling. That made this significantly worse. "When did you even take this?" He groaned. "I don't know."

"Logan."

"A few months ago."

"A few months?"

"It sounds worse when you say it like that."

You stared at him. Then back at the phone. Then back at him. Out of every picture he'd ever taken.

The café photos.

The sunset pictures.

The ones you'd actually posted.

The dozens sitting in his camera roll.

He'd picked this one.

This sleepy, messy, completely unplanned picture.

"Why this one?" you asked quietly.

Logan looked genuinely confused by the question. Like the answer should've been obvious.

His gaze flickered toward the screen. Then back to you. And his shoulders lifted in a small shrug.

"Because it's my favorite."

Your chest tightened instantly.

"Why?"

"You want the honest answer?"

"Obviously."

For a second, Logan simply looked at you softly. The same way he always did when he forgot to hide how much he loved you.

Then he reached over and brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

"You looked happy, baby."

The room suddenly felt very quiet. You glanced down at the picture again.

Messy hair. Oversized hoodie. Half hanging off the couch.

Nothing about it was Instagram-worthy. Nothing about it was perfect.

But looking at it now, you remembered that day. Movie playing in the background. Logan studying nearby.

Falling asleep because you felt safe enough to. And somehow, that made your eyes sting a little.

"You know," you said softly, "for someone who claims to hate Instagram, you're kind of sentimental." Logan immediately looked offended.

"I am not sentimental."

"You have a secret collection of candid photos of me, don't you?"

Silence.

Your jaw dropped. "Oh my god."

"It sounds worse than it is."

"How many are there!?"

Logan refused to answer. Which was an answer. You gasped dramatically.

"John Logan."

He was laughing now. Actually laughing. The kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

And suddenly you couldn't stop smiling either. Because after all those months of asking.

Which picture should I post?

Which one looks better?

Which song should I use?

You finally realized something. His favorite picture wasn't on your Instagram. It wasn't even on your phone.

It was sitting on Logan's lock screen.

And somehow, that meant a whole lot more.

© 2026 rinvvii

[asieybarbie]

mutha semiu grier

[puckmegirl]

JEALOU$Y (ft. John Logan)

blurb: john logan claims that he doesn’t do jealousy. he thinks he’s above such petty feelings. but what happens when his girlfriend gets hit on at a house party?

warnings: fem!reader, suggestive, established relationship, alcohol

note: smut pt. 2 here

“Cupcake?”

You turned around at the voice, meeting the face of a 6’2” football player you didn’t know personally but recognized from the Briar sports Instagram account.

He was staring at your headpiece; a frosting top with colorful sprinkles. You realized what he was trying to say.

“Oh, no. I’m chocolate,” you said.

He raised an amused brow, “Chocolate?”

You nodded, sipping your beer. “Chocolate.” You confirmed, then pointed across the room to where Kendall was busy making out with one of the hockey players. “She’s vanilla. We’re chocolate and vanilla swirl.”

The football player nodded in understanding. “Ah. I see,” he said before looking over at Kendall. “Though vanilla isn’t very vanilla.”

You laughed at his witty joke, both of you watching Kendall as she did a body shot off of the hockey player she was kissing two seconds ago. She was dressed in the same tube top and bubble skirt set you were wearing, complete with the knee-high boots and matching headpiece; hers a whipped white color, yours a cocoa brown.

From the other side of the room, Tucker and Logan were talking when the former spotted you chatting with the tall football player.

Tucker nudged Logan, “Yo, is that your girl?”

Logan followed his line of sight and it landed on you, leaning against the kitchen counter and speaking to the good-looking stranger with an easy smile on your lips.

Logan looked away and gulped down his beverage. “She’s a big girl.”

Logan wasn’t one of those insecure, pompous boyfriends. He didn’t do jealousy. He’s convinced jealousy was invented by a short dick man with an easily bruised ego. Logan was secure enough in his relationship with you to never have any reason to feel jealous.

You turned to the jock and gave his costume a once-over. Knitting your brows together, you racked your brain’s storage full of pop culture references and iconic fictional characters.

“Timothée Chalamet in Call Me by Your Name?” You tried.

He let out a huff of laughter, “Close. I’m Luca from the Disney-Pixar movie.”

“Ahh,” you nodded. “Practically the same.”

He flashed a charming smile, dragging a sip from his bottle. He extended his hand to you, “James.”

You shook his hand and told him your name.

“Pretty name,” he responded. “Though…” he leaned in closer, “…cupcake fits better, don’t you think?”

Ah. At that, you picked up that he was attempting to flirt with you. Forever loyal to your boyfriend, you opened your mouth to turn his advances down. But before you could, you felt an arm wrap around your waist from behind and find purchase on your hipbone. You knew who it was without even looking.

“Hey, got you a refill,” Logan said, taking the half empty can from your hands and replacing it with a new one.

“Thanks,” you said. As your hand moved to pop the can open, Logan’s deft fingers beat you to it and he cracked the tab for you.

The football player, James, eyed the two of you, biting his lip whilst reconfiguring his whole plan. “You’re both…?”

“Air signs,” Logan teasingly remarked with a straight face, casually drinking from his red solo cup. You elbowed him with a small smirk.

“No,” James shook his head. “I mean—”

“Together,” Logan told him, putting his now empty plastic cup down on the counter. His newly freed hand joined the other by holding onto your other hip and giving it a squeeze.

James nodded to himself. “Got it.” And away he went. Probably off to find his Alberto.

Logan’s eyes followed his retreating figure, not easing up until he was out of sight. Only then did he drop his hands off your body.

You turned around and looked up at your boyfriend with a wide smile. “What was that?”

“What was what?” He returned, pouring himself a new drink.

“That whole thing,” you responded.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” You repeated.

Logan shrugged. “A normal interaction, no?”

“He was flirting with me before that.”

“Oh so you’re aware.”

Your expression dropped. Oh, is that why—

“Logan.”

“Hm.”

“Logan.”

“Hm?”

You tilted his face down to look at him. “I wasn’t going to entertain it.”

“I know,” he replied.

“I was going to shut it down right before you showed up.”

“I know.”

“I want to make sure you know that.”

“And I know that.”

You squinted your eyes. This was suspiciously too easy. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

You stared at one another for a beat longer than necessary.

“You’re still upset,” you observed.

“I’m not upset,” he answered.

“So what are you feeling?” You asked.

“I don’t like how he called you cupcake,” Logan told you.

“Me neither. Not when I’m so clearly chocolate.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

“Y/n.”

You sighed softly, “Okay, sorry. I thought humor would make it better.”

Your fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck, hoping to relieve some of his tension. It worked. A little.

“It was a shitty pickup line,” you said. “Wouldn’t work on me even if I was single.”

“I hope so.”

“Oh, please, Logan. Take me out the back and shoot me if you ever see me falling for that,” you commented. He let out a small laugh. That’s progress

His hands returned to your hips and he pulled you closer. Your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck. His large hands rested just above your ass.

“What if I called you that?” Logan said lowly.

“Wanna give it a try?” You offered.

He leaned in, his lips hovering right by your ear. You could feel his warm breath fanning over your sensitive flesh. “Would you be into that, cupcake?” He whispered, ending it with a gentle nibble on your earlobe.

You shivered, feeling goosebumps crawl over your skin. “Fuck, I guess you have to take me out back with a gun, Logan.”

He pulled back with a hearty chuckle. You gave a matching smile and he held your face, brushing his thumb across your cheekbone.

As he looked at you, his face turned thoughtful for a moment. You squeezed his hand reassuringly.

He leaned in again. “I didn’t like how he looked at you.”

“How’d he look at me?” You wondered.

“Like how I look at you.”

You stared up at him, biting your lip. “And how do you look at me?” You whispered.

He brought his forehead against yours, gazing deep into your eyes. “Like I want you.”

Oh screw your sexy boyfriend and his even sexier responses. And that’s exactly what you wanted to do now—if only you weren’t in the middle of Beau and Dean’s birthday bash.

You had enough of this game. You raised yourself up and pressed your lips to his. Logan was hungry; he seemed to devour your kiss, swallowing every soft sound you made. His hand strayed down to grip your ass, the other held your waist comfortably. His tongue was already begging to enter your mouth, and you obliged without hesitation.

When you pulled away several moments later, Logan chased your lips with eagerness, gently biting your bottom lip as you separated.

“Mine,” he breathed out under his breath.

You bared a dazed smile, “I only want you.” You mouthed silently.

Logan let out a soft sound of amusement, nodding more to himself than to you. Satisfied and high off your impromptu makeout session, he pressed one last kiss to your forehead before rejoining his friends, this time with a protective hand on the small of your back.

i’m such a logan girl, sorry not sorry

[dynameow]

GET READY WITH ME ✶ FT. BAKUGOU KATSUKI

── ✶ before you read: 1.4k words ; female reader ; established relationship ; very unserious influencer reader ; pro hero katsuki ; fluff and banter ; masterlist.

based on this post and amira’s hilarious comment

“Get ready with me to dump my pro hero boyfriend!”

You grin into your phone camera as you prop it up against a bottle of moisturizer on the bathroom counter. Beside you, Katsuki is brushing his teeth. The brushing immediately stops. You watch as his eyes narrow at you through the mirror, stifling a giggle.

“The fuck did you just say?”

You bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing. “Hi, guys!” you continue cheerfully, waving at the camera. “Today I’m getting ready to break up with my pro hero boyfriend. Some of you might know him as Dynamight—”

“Is this some bullshit new trend online?” He crosses his arms, toothbrush hanging in his mouth as he looks at you unamused.

“—who I’m leaving because, unfortunately, he’s become a huge burden in my life, and I need to cut him loose.”

The toothbrush leaves his mouth, falling into the sink as he gapes, “What?”

You reach for a makeup sponge. “Normally, I would start with skincare, but he buys me the expensive stuff, and since I’m dumping him and won’t have his wallet anymore, I have to make it last. Can’t be wasting it on him, you know?”

“Hah?” he snaps, inching closer as he stares into the camera with furrowed brows. You easily ignore him.

“I’ve been meaning to break up with him sooner, but I just didn’t want to handle all the crying and stuff—from him, not me, just to be clear.”

“I’m not gonna fuckin’ cry over your stupid ass video—”

“Unfortunately, he’s a very emotional person. Very clingy, too.”

“I’m not clingy. You’re the one who spams me with texts while I’m on patrol!”

You dab concealer beneath your eyes as he defends himself against every accusation you make, and it becomes far too difficult to hide your laughter. You let out a soft giggle, and he throws you a very offended glare. (Yes, Katsuki is smart enough to know that this is a silly little joke on your part just to be funny. No, that does not stop him from treating this as a serious matter in which he has to protect his dignity. Lucky for you, that only makes for better views.)

“Now, some people might think breaking up with a pro hero wouldn’t be very smart for my brand, but luckily, mine is very easy to replace.”

“Easy to replace?”

You have to look away from him because the expression on his face is making it ten times harder to pretend to take this seriously, and you’re barely keeping a straight face. “There are lots of blonde men in the world, so I’m sure I’ll easily find someone else to fit the role.”

“Who the fuck are you gonna find better than me, huh?” He challenges, particularly irritated by that statement. 

“As you can see, he’s already in denial.”

“Oi! Don’t ignore me!”

“Anger is the next stage of grief.”

The phone is grabbed before you can dab on your blush, and he spins you around, pinning you against the bathroom counter as he gives you a dirty look. You break into a fit of giggles, wrapping your arms around his neck as you press an innocent kiss to the tip of his nose. 

“Hi, baby,” you hum.

He raises a brow. “Don’t hi baby me, dumbass. You make sure you tell that camera that you’ll never dump your boyfriend and that there’s no other man—blonde or not—like him, and—”

You roll your eyes, hands cupping his cheeks as you pull him into a soft, slow kiss, cutting his words off effectively. He melts into you, kissing back as soon as your lips touch his, and you like to think that your silly idea only makes him kiss you a little more seriously. A little more meaningful, just to prove something.

“Don’t worry,” you peck the corner of his mouth, “I was just kidding. I’d never dump someone with pro hero money from the number five spot.”

— — — — —

“Get ready with me to get proposed to by my pro hero boyfriend!”

You beam at your phone camera from your vanity. Behind you, Katsuki is sprawled across the bed, one ankle hooked over the other, scrolling on his phone while sipping on his morning coffee. The coffee immediately goes down the wrong pipe.

He chokes, and a terribly strained coughing fit erupts from behind you. You almost feel bad for disrupting his peace on his day off—almost. 

“Now, the proposal hasn’t been planned yet,” you explain to your hypothetical audience while reaching for your moisturizer, “but I’ve decided I want it to happen today.”

Another coughing fit. “What?”

“Katsuki, are you okay? You’re coughing a lot today. Do you have a cold?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, woman—what the fuck are you up to this time?”

You give him an innocent smile as you say, “Nothing!”

You’ve decided to keep this little game going for as long as you can—a new scheme whenever you can to keep him on his toes. Partially because you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy his reactions, but partially because, truthfully, you think seeing a softer, more human side of Katsuki will do him some wonders in the public eye. And what sort of doting girlfriend would you be if you didn’t take your chances at helping his public image?

“Why do you keep lying to your audience through these stupid videos?” he demands.

You gasp. “Lying?”

“Yes, lying,” he gives you a flat look, eyeing you like you’re crazy for denying the accusation.

“Why would this be a lie?” You challenge. Then, dramatically, you gasp, clutching your chest in mock hurt as you hiss, “So are you saying that you don't want to marry me?”

“W-what? I didn’t fuckin’ say that—don’t put words in my mouth—”

“So, I guess this video is now becoming a get-ready-with-me to get dumped, because apparently Katsuki wants to break up with me because he fell out of love with me and found someone new. I think he’s been emotionally cheating on me with someone—a sidekick, I’d bet. Always trust your gut, ladies—your gut never lies.”

“Hah?! You—” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face as he exhales tiredly and gives you a dry look. “You know what, that’s right. M’fuckin’ dumping your ass.”

You clap a hand over your mouth dramatically. “Everyone cancel him!”

— — — — —

“Get ready with me to make out with my pro hero boyfriend!”

You beam at your phone camera yet again. But today, for the first time in the history of these videos, there is no Katsuki behind you that is staring at you in disbelief or glaring at you in irritation. Instead, Katsuki is sitting on the bed, looking up from his phone as a wide, smug grin spreads across his face.

“Finally,” he says, setting his phone aside. “You thought of a good one.”

You blink. “Wait—”

“No, no, you can’t take shit back now. You wanna make out with your pro hero boyfriend, so that’s what your video is gonna be, baby.”

“Katsuki—”

He stands, hastily walking over as he says in approval, “Now we’re talkin. I like this video idea.”

He materializes in front of you, easily grabbing you by the wrist and tugging you up before he hooks an arm around your waist and pulls you flush against him. His lips start peppering kisses up your throat and along your jaw as he works his way up to your lips. You melt against your will, giggling a little as you hiss (weakly), “Kats! We can’t…you can’t kiss me yet!”

“And why the fuck not, huh? You got some other boyfriend to kiss? Bring ‘im here, I can fight.”

“I have to get ready first,” you huff, shoving him lightly, “that’s the point of a get-ready-with-me? You have to wait till my makeup is done.”

“What’s the point in that?” He hums, pressing a soft, delicate peck to your lips before he murmurs, “s’just gonna be a waste of all your hard work when m’done with you, yeah baby?”

You shiver at the tone in his voice, pupils dilating as you stare at him. His eyes are twinkling with amusement as he gives you a wolfish grin, reaching over and locking your phone, and cutting the camera off from recording. This video might not end up getting posted at all, you think—this one might just break community guidelines. 

this is SO ridiculous im CRYING LOLLLLL

[puckmegirl]

UPTOWN GIRL (ft. John Logan)

blurb: a rich uptown girl with car issues keeps visiting the small garage off the highway where the owner’s super hot son works.

warnings: fem!reader, fluff, lowk ditzy!reader but not really, yummy mechanic!logan.

Logan heard you before he saw you.

He memorized the sound of those heels clicking against the rough pavement like a second heartbeat. After all, not many girls around this side of town wore vintage Prada pumps to an off-highway garage.

And even if they did, they most certainly did not own a BMW 6er f12 convertible.

Logan’s older brother Jeff was leaning against the workshop desk and sipping on a can of Coke when he saw you strut in. He sighed, “Here comes Lottie.”

The nickname was a running joke between the brothers. Jeff had muttered it under his breath when you first visited the shop and asked a question about diesel gas. He took one look at you and knew you were a clueless, rich girl who shouldn’t be visiting garages such as theirs.

Logan hadn’t entertained the nickname so much. He thought it was unnecessarily mean. Besides, Lottie was always a sweetheart in Princess and the Frog.

Jeff turned on his heels and disappeared into the garage’s office, leaving Logan to deal with you on his own.

Logan put down a spare part he was working on and turned around, leaning back against the counter.

You waved excitedly with a cheerful grin. “Hi, Logan!”

He smiled politely, “Hey…”

“Did you save my girl?” You asked, batting your lashes.

Logan nodded, “She’s all fixed up for you,” he said, walking over to the wall of car keys hung on hooks to retrieve yours.

You clapped your hands, “Yay!”

He chuckled whilst shaking his head. You got happy over the simplest of things. He thought it was endearing.

You walked over to your car. Nebula, as you called her. A fitting name for a sleek, black convertible with dark purple leather upholstery and shiny silver rims.

Logan came over and handed you your keys. “You wanna try her out?”

You nodded and unlocked your car before opening the driver’s side door. No beeping. Perfect.

You beamed at Logan. “You did it!”

He smiled with an easy laugh, feeling proud of his work. In reality, your car issue was a minor one; the door sensor just needed a replacement. Nothing about it required a lick of rocket science, and yet you looked at him as if he hung the stars in your galaxy.

You put your designer bag into your car and bent over to fish out your wallet. Logan stared at your body for a second before he caught himself, clearing his throat and looking away respectfully.

You stood up straight, holding your leather wallet between both hands, looking at him with a doe-eyed expression.

He scratched the back of his neck and gestured for you to follow him to the counter. The gritty sounds of his boots crunching the gravel below and the rhythmic click click click of your heels echoed through the garage.

Logan went around the counter and pulled out a receipt and wrote down the service you needed with the price. He slid the piece of paper to you but you just kept looking at his face with a smile. He blinked before realizing you didn’t care for the price. Right, he thought. Rich girls don’t worry about those things.

“Cash or card?” He asked.

You held up your metal black credit card.

Logan pursed his lips and nodded as he pulled out a card reader. You tapped your card without even glancing at the screen and clapped your hands when the machine beeped in satisfaction.

“Thank you, Logan,” you told him kindly.

He shrugged politely, “It’s no problem.”

You smiled at him. He returned it, “Do you want your recei—“

Before he could even hand you your proof of service, you were walking back to your car. He nodded to himself and stuffed the receipt into the cash register.

He watched as you exited the garage, waving at him enthusiastically as you drove by. He gave a small wave back.

+

A week later, your BMW pulled into the garage whilst Logan was working under a car.

He didn’t hear the sound of your heels this time as he had headphones in, blasting a classic rock song. He felt a shadow looming nearby so he turned and saw your heels appear. He paused and rolled out from under the car, meeting the sight of your broad smile peering down at him.

“Hi, Logan!”

“Hey…” He sounded confused. His eyebrows furrowed and he glanced around, “Didn’t you pick up your car last week?”

You nodded. “Yep. But my AC is broken now…” You pouted.

Hm, Logan thought. He sat up, “Oh, I didn’t see that when I did the diagnostic last week—“

“Must be a new issue, then. These foreign cars are all funny,” you replied, tilting your head.

He cleaned his hands with a rag before standing up. He had oil stains on his shirt and just a little smudge on his face. You thought he looked so ruggedly handsome.

“Let me take a look,” he said and you stepped out the way for him to crank open your hood and inspect the situation.

As he got to work, you leaned against your car and watched. After a moment, you asked, “How was your weekend?”

People don’t usually talk to Logan when he repairs their cars. Especially not pretty, rich girls like you.

“It was good, played hockey, worked here in the shop,” he responded casually.

You nodded along even though he couldn’t see you.

“Did you win?” You asked.

He laughed, an amused sound. “Yeah…yeah, we won.”

You clapped your hands, “Yay!”

Logan laughed again. It was cute, he thought, how you always clapped at good news.

“You like hockey?” He asked, looking over your hood to meet your eyes.

You hummed, “I only recently got into it. My family prefers watching polo, golf, or tennis.”

Rich people sports, he wanted to say. That made sense.

“Recently, huh?” He said instead, ducking his head to keep working. “Who should I thank for putting you onto hockey?” He joked.

You smiled shyly and said, “You…”

His hand paused. The parts of your car suddenly looking like alphabet soup moving in jumbled letters. He lifted his head to meet your gaze again. But before he could manage a reply, you changed the subject. “Is it broken beyond repair?” You asked, turning your attention to your car parts.

He snapped out of his daze and shook his head. “Uhh, no. No, you just need AC coolant.”

“Is that an easy fix?” You asked.

He nodded, “Yeah, the easiest.” He said.

You smiled in relief. “Thank goodness I have you fixing my car,” you told him.

He smiled at that.

He fixed your car, you chirped out a “Thank you, Logan!”, you paid without looking at the bill, and waved goodbye as you left.

“That the BMW girl again?” Logan’s dad asked as he stepped out the office.

“Yeah,” Logan replied, wiping his hands.

“Lottie back again so soon?” Jeff teased. Logan rolled his eyes at the jab.

“You overcharge her?” His dad asked.

Logan looked at him, “Why would I do that?”

His dad shrugged, “Luxurious car fee?”

Logan squinted his eyes, “We don’t do that.”

Jeff piped in, “We could. She doesn’t even check her receipts.”

Logan looked between his dad and brother, “So what? We charge her fair and square.”

His dad shared a looked with Jeff before he went back inside the office.

+

Week after week, you came by to the garage. First it was an oil change, then a rim replacement, then a loose window ribbon, then a tire with low air, and so on.

By week 7, Logan had had enough. It’s not that he didn’t like seeing you, no. Far from it. He actually enjoyed your company. He often looked forward to when you’d come by and say Hi, Logan! in that sing-song voice of yours, your joyful smile, and innocent questions.

But now he was noticing a pattern.

So when you rolled in that Thursday night like clockwork, he didn’t go up to you. He stayed by the workshop desk and watched you with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Hi, Logan!” You beamed with a gleeful wave.

But upon meeting his stern expression, your smile faltered and your hand slowly dropped back to your side. You looked around the empty garage before walking over to him in hesitant steps. The sound of your heels filled the space between the two of you. You stopped in front of him and flattened down your skirt, a nervous tic of yours that you never noticed before.

“Y/n,” he said, his tone serious. “This is the seventh time you’ve come to the garage.”

You nodded, “Nebula keeps acting up—“

“No, she doesn’t.”

You looked at your feet. No smile, no lively clapping.

His arms uncrossed and he stepped closer. He wasn’t angry. No, it wasn’t that. Logan isn’t an idiot. He knew. He knew you had a crush on him, knew the only reason you showed up time and time again was just to spend time with him. Why else would you come? He knew families like yours had their own repairmen at fancy dealerships who could fix any problem. You didn’t need to come into his family’s garage.

Yet, you did.

Logan figured it out by week 4. But truth be told, he never mentioned it because a part of him liked being around you too. He liked hearing your upbeat voice, the familiar tap of your heels, the sound of your laugh. So he stayed quiet, he fixed your tires, and refilled your car’s oil. He went along with it. Because he liked your company just as much as you liked his.

Unable to lie to him, you lifted your head and met his eyes. “I did those things to my car on purpose.” You confessed quietly.

Logan blinked. His stance eased at your admission and he looked at you with soft eyes.

“I watched a YouTube video on how to drain AC coolant,” you added. “And drove around until my tires lost some of its pressure, and—”

“Y/n,” he held your chin with his hand. “You didn’t have to do all that to see me.”

Your eyes widened as you stared at him. He smiled gently, “I…like seeing you. With or without Nebula.”

“You do?” You asked.

He nodded, “I do.”

He leaned in slowly, giving you the chance to pull away. But you stayed. His lips met yours in a gentle kiss. Not hungry or desperate, just a soft sealing; a mutual understanding—I like you and you like me.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. You looked at him with a honeyed, dazed expression. He smiled down at you and pecked your lips once more. You weren’t a spoiled, rich girl to him. Not clueless or ditzy. You were just…you. A sweetheart with a crush on a cute guy who would do anything to see him. You were Lottie.

He glanced behind you at your car. He pulled away with a reluctant sigh, “What did you do to her this time?”

You smiled sheepishly, “I jammed my gearshift…”

He chuckled softly, both amused and fondly exasperated by you. “Okay…let me take a look.” He said, lacing his hand with yours and bringing it up to his lips to press a kiss.

omg first off campus post, i’m nervy xx