A/n: don’t mind my reblogs, that’s the stuff for me to read later:D
I AM CULLEN'S WIFE, this is simply my new blog as I deleted that one due to a depressive episode in life❤️English is my second language
(y/n) finding out her boyfriend Uzui Tengen cheated on her he did not
Catching your boyfriend Uzui Tengen with another woman mid-action shattered your heart into pieces and made you leave him without hesitation. But is what you've seen the whole true?
Yoriichi saving you just in time before getting killed by a demon
Your job takes you to the poor Kamado family, who are expecting their first child. But instead of a joyful birth, you are greeted by the cruel claws of a demon. What luck that an extraordinary swordsman shows up on this fateful evening.
Yoriichi saving his pregnant wife and unborn child just in time
You never expected to face a demon ever again, especially not when you are about to deliver your child while your beloved husband Yoriichi is in search for a midwife. Will you and your child be alright? Will your husband make it back on time?
Kyojuro Rengoku taking you on a date to a light festival
Even though Kyojuro never saw more than a kind comrade in you, he decided to take you to the light festival he arranges every year for his beloved mother. All it takes is one evening for him to realize that you are way more than just a comrade to him...
(y/n) sparing Kokushibo's life for him to save her
You find yourself standing in front of none other than the upper moon one. And while you know your chances are low and that your life might end in the dusk of day, you are able to cage Kokushibo into the upgoing sun. Until his eyes are filled with sorrow, until you make a decicion that might cost your life...
Kokushibo meeting another moon breather and falling hard
You were supposed to be another killed demon slayer on his list, nothing but a girl he stumbled upon in the woods at night. But something about you is different. Something stops him from ending your life.
Giyu Tomioka stopping you from killing Nezuko with his own methods
When you were assigned to assist Shinobu and your former master and secret crush Giyuu, you never imagined to find him saving a demon. How is he supposed to stop you from fulfilling your duty, from hating him?
Sanemi saving your ass even if you don't want to
You knew what you got yourself into when you let a demon capture you instead of your beloved friend. Little did you know that help already arrived, viewing you as nothing but a damsel in distress until suddenly, you turn into much more...
Sanemi Shinazugawa standing up for you
You are used to no one believing in you, to get picked on by other corps member because you're a girl. Until one of them crosses the line and starts a fights. Until a certain someone stands up for you when no one else does.
Saving Genya from his big brother only to make out with Sanemi
It was never an easy job, being the only one who's able to calm the wind hashira down. There was never more than respect and understanding between both of you. Until you bodly decided to stand up for Genya, until Sanemi finally reveals his true feelings...
Getting caught while checking Sanemi out
Sanemi losing what is left of his patience when you get injured by a demon
Despite the fact that your husband is the opposite of your quiet and kind self, you love him dearly while Sanemi treasures you in a purely unique way. But even though you learned to love his rough side the way it is, you can't stop tears from falling when your husband loses it after you get injured by a demon
Sanemi finding out you pretended to be a boy in order to get trained properly and him falling head over heels for you
If there's one thing you always hated, it was being underestimated. Because you're nothing but a petite girl in the eyes of every other demon slayer you stumbled upon with even the sound hashira going easy on you. They left you no choice but to pretend that you're a boy in order to finally get the training you deserve. Little did you know it will be the wind hashira himself who uncovers your dirty secret...
Sanemi Shinazugawa pulling you out of misery with his own methods
What a kind and tender soul you are, loved by everyone around you. Until you get into a fight. Until the only person who is able to pull you back to reality is the wind hashira coming to safe you.
Reader and Sanemi going from hating to marrying each other + meeting up with the Kamado family post infinity castle
Gosh, you hated that guy. Just the way the wind hashira talked to you pushed you over the edge far too often. Little did you know that you'll feel different about that hot-tempered man after everything is over, that you'll find yourself convincing your husband to meet the Kamado family... - SPOILER FREE
Sanemi Shinazugawa falling hard for his polar opposite but is too subborn to confess until he finally does
Sanemi was never the type of guy who falls for something stupid as love. Especially not when it comes to his polar opposite, especially not with such a kind and gentle girl like you... Right?
Sanemi lashing out on his pregnant wife only to beg her for forgiveness later
Like every week, you find yourself on your way back from Shinobu's estate and your pregnancy check-up. Little did you know what horror awaits you at your own home with your husband almost killing two kids...
Love at first sight
Sanemi losing it completely when you're out drinking
Sanemi's wife giving birth during the infinity castle battle
You were so sure your husband will guide you through the delivery of your triplets until the fight between Muzan and the demon slayer corps - including Sanemi. Will you make it all on your own? And will your husband return to your side in time?
Tanjiro realizing his feelings for you after you risk your life to protect Nezuko
Despite being well-composed and never deciding without thinking twice, you find yourself recklessly risking your life in order to protect Nezuko from getting hurt by Daki. Little do you know what an impact your second impulsive choice will have...
Hashira reader smacking Zenitsu and sending him straight to her crush Iguro to teach him a lesson
Beneath the serpent's mask
Despite you always staying soft and thoughtful, it seemed like Iguro Obanai hated you more than anything else. Until you risk your life for him. Until your nearly die.
Meeting Sabito again after you thought he died
You were meant for each other, the most promising upbringings of the demon slayer corps. Everyone knew it, no one ever doubted you'd make it back from the final selection. But when Sabito lost his life during this cursed night, you left without ever returning. Little do you know that you are still meant for each other, that you will find your way back together...
How kny men treat their pregnant wife
ft. Obanai, Rengoku and Sanemi
Sharing a bed with kny men
ft. Yoriichi and Sanemi (18+)
Seeing kny men shirtless for the first time
ft. Rengoku, Gyomei, Sanemi and bonus with all hashira men
Reader falling obsessively in love with kny men after getting poisoned
ft. Rengoku, Sanemi, Giyu and Genya
Touching kny men's frogs by accident
ft. Sanemi, Giyu, Rengoku and Tengen
kny men doing the knee thing
ft. Sanemi, Tengen and Rengoku
Getting pinned against a wall by kny men
ft. Akaza, Gyomei, Rengoku and Sanemi
kny men saving you
ft. Sanemi, Obanai and Rengoku
kny men being "forced" to kiss you
ft. Sanemi, Rengoku and Tengen
Falling for Giyu (literally)
Kokushibo finding out his wife is pregnant
Giyu stumbling his way through a love confession
Reader going berserk after comments against Obanai
Sanemi trying to confess in the most awkward way
reader's feelings for Rengoku getting exposed by accident
(The best of this post and its reblogs, but with links that work)
Here is a website where you can scroll down to all the different levels of the ocean
Here is a website where you can see the future of the universe
Here is a website where you can press a ‘make everything okay’ button, over and over, until things really are okay
Here is a website that you can read if you feel like a burden
Here is a website where you can look at strobe illusions (TW strobe/flashing)
Here is a website where you can cut stuff up (TW blood/sh)
Here and here are websites where you can play with sand
Here is a website where you can draw with macaroni and other fun foods
Here is a website where you can paint someone’s nails
Here is a website where you can grow a garden with emojis
Here is a website with hundreds of videos of people hugging you (rightfully dubbed ‘the nicest place on the internet’ because it really is, y’all, it made me cry)
Here is a website that will take you to other useless websites
Here is a website where you can make a tiny cat play bongo drums (and other instruments!)
Here is a website to help give you gentle reminders <3
Here is a website where you can grow a tiny farm
Here is a website where you can take a bunch of scientific personality tests
Summary: Logan’s sister moves in with him and his best friends a.k.a to live with four overgrown hockey players.
The only problem?
You walk in on one of them having a spicy moment the very first day.
Friendship blooms, tempers fray, in a banter you call his skills in bed a solid one—
Well, now he’s up to show you just how much of a ten he’s at eating cherry pies.
A/n: Sneak peek into my new idea for a fic, this is gonna be a one-part deal though. I’m also working on part 2 for Good luck, babe, soooo.. hehe, you don’t know what’s coming:>
Let me know if you wanna be added to the tag list!
Warnings: English’s not my first language, cursing, kinda angsty, yearning, fluff, banter, but mostly yearning, LOVE TRIANGLE (girls want a harem too)
Summary: Dean's been your best friend since freshman year, so why does it hurt to see him with other girls? You say you're fine, you're not. One night with too many drinks leads to decisions you'll come to regret later because in the drunken haze you blurt out you love his teammate, not him.
Or
How to say you love Dean without ending up saying it's Logan you're in love with.
A/n: this is part 1 and so far my best work. Can't stop giggling at the masterpiece i wrote (humbly). Please leave comments on whatever you think and let me know you if wanna be added into a tag list. Also REQUESTS ARE OPEN
“You’re spiralling.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Look— not everyone has a rich ass family ready to pay for education in any uni you want.”
“First of all— rude. Second—“
Dean flashes you a dimpled grin that’s absolutely devoid of any hint of offence and oh so full of smugness.
“Got lucky being born into that rich ass family, y’know?”
His hand runs through his ridiculously too messy to be looking good hair before flopping back on your bed with a huff.
“If it comes to worst and you fail the semester test— which is as likely as me going celibate—“
Never then.
He opens his mouth before closing it and tilting his head with a warmer look on his face.
“I’ll pay for your studies.”
You quirk a brow cuz— no. You got here on your own. Got the scholarship. Got the grades. Got into the uni most dreamt about but worried that now would fail it because of a dumb test on macroeconomics. Who even put economics in a humanist major syllabus?
A sigh escapes you. Because for whatever it’s worth, his suggestion warms up your insides. You don’t wanna be in debt to anyone, too afraid that it constricts the freedom of your behaviour— gotta keep up the smile for someone who helped you out, right? Of course Dean wouldn’t hold it against you, you know that. But it’s still not what you’re used to. Yet his offer is sweet. Because you know that no matter how much of an empty head he seems— he is genuine in the ways that matter.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Negative.”
“Fucking positive.”
“Dean.”
He mimics you and calls out your name in the same tone but with a teasing tilt that has everything to do with the power of nature born in no other than Dean himself — natural charm you think you could never master.
“Deanie, we have democracy. That means you gotta get my consent.”
“Oh, I am a consent king, just not when ladies refuse a good deal.”
You try not to let your mind wander to the implication but— fuck, that again. His flirtatious remarks that keep making your heart skip a beat every time.
The worst thing? Dean does it on instinct. Flirt with anyone, strings to no one.
“Look— I just need my best friend okay and sane—… as much as a nerd can be.”
You throw him a half-annoyed look but it doesn’t hold weight because you’re sighing heavily. You’re so tired of trying to mold your brain into understanding how the formulas work that you don’t bother arguing.
“C’mon. One evening out— no studying, no tasks, no work.”
“Being your friend is pretty hard work though.”
“Jeez, easy with my heart here.”
He pulls his lips in a mock pout that looks so out of place on his gorgeous face before chuckling and abruptly standing up from your bed. He claps his hand as if finishing negotiating some business deal rather than trying to get you to get some fresh air.
“Guys are already preparing for the hang-out.”
“As in— a full blast party hangout?”
“You know me too well.”
He flashes you a smirk before turning his head back to studying your dorm room as if he’s seeing it for the first time. He’s not.
“Wait, why aren’t you helping them?”
“I’m busy.”
“Busy how?”
A wince escapes him as he picks up sunglasses from your vanity that were too small for his head but still end up perched on his nose. He strikes a pose leaning back against the vanity, his legs crossed, hand reaching to fix his hair in the way that a girl trying to pick a guy would do.
“Playing the cool bitch friend.”
A huff of laughter escapes you and that’s his cue to stand up with a smirk.
“It’s done, you’re coming.”
***
How did you meet Dean?
Freshman year. First marketing lecture. And a very awkward-filled moment when you think it couldn’t be more awkward.
You walk up the stairs in the lecture hall to find a free seat.
Despite it being just a few days since the start of the semester, a few cliques had already formed. Or maybe they’d known each other before the uni?
You see the girls with the kind of makeup that makes them look like models sit on the third row, actively chatting about something you don’t really catch. And somehow that gnaws at you cuz no matter how beautiful you think you look trying to dress up and stuff— the moment you turn your gaze from the mirror to the outside world, the pretty image of yourself cracks.
A few bulky guys— you’d say jocks but university seems the kind of place you gotta start avoiding cliches— on the second row. Closer to the desk. But not to listen- to keep snorting just as loudly cuz they don’t care. Or at least pretend not to too busy asserting dominance over the room simply by their hunky existence.
You gaze quickly scans the rest of the room— nerds on the first row, nervous kids in the back and then there are— you.
It’s kinda lame how someone can doubt if they’re good enough just because others don’t squeal at the sight of them.
But that’s how you feel.
You choose a seat on the fourth row. Not close enough to be noticed, not far enough to be forgotten.
The first lecture’s not the most difficult. At least- it’s not supposed to be. But as much as everything unknown seems daunting— it is too.
You know you’ll eventually pull in, maybe make friends, get familiar with Briar U and will remember the first day as something funny—
You hope you will. But one look at the “cool kids” and you doubt it all ever again.
Enough pessimistic thinking.
Breath in, breath ou—
DANG.
The door opens almost as if someone tried to rip it open— you flinch at the sound, so do a few others, the professor turning her head at the sound with an indignant look.
But the one standing there isn’t some angry kid slamming doors to show off some generational trauma—
Broad shoulders, tall, confident stride and—
It’s a gorgeous blonde with a smile that makes your heart beat in the way that goes through the whole body.
And not only yours, it seems.
You see everyone look up.
He saunters in the room with such a nonchalant look that you almost think his level of “don’t give a damn” could be the 8th wonder of the world.
“Sorry, Mrs.—“
He paused to quickly glance at the board with the name scribbled on it.
“—Clark. Got caught up in a—..”
You can swear he didn’t even try to come up with the excuse before coming inside as the rest would do. He snaps his fingers as if finally done sorting through the list of plausible excuses in his head.
“—in a jam. Yeah, right. ”
A few let out snickers. You feel a smile pull up at your lips too.
Everyone knows it’s a ten-minute walk from the frat houses and dorms to the campus. Let alone drive.
Mrs. Clark’s not amused though.
“You’re late on the very first week of college—“
She looks up at him expectantly but he doesn’t wait for her to ask. Claiming the room with as much as his presence. And his name.
“Dean. Dean Di Laurentis.”
“Well, mister Di Laurentis, make sure not to get into jams anymore. You won’t be able to write it on your midterm test. Take a seat.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He nods gravely, but his face is far from bearing a hint of remorse or awkwardness from the display that drew everyone’s gaze to him.
He finally turns to the rows of students and you almost regret having him in your class. How the hell can you focus with someone like that breathing the same air?
The girls on the third row think the same, apparently. Because the moment he starts walking up they shuffle to make it seem as if they have the free seat beside them. And they do.
He gives them a once-over, a smirk pulling at his lips and— did he just wink at them?
Yeah, of course he would.
No way in hell or heaven he’d be a virgin with that body.
But he doesn’t stop there.
One step upwards.
He’s not pausing by your desk and it’s not the fact that he doesn’t look at you— he does. But it’s so brief as the wind in a Sahara desert could be because his eyes glide forward and he passes your row like nothing happened.
And that’s what girls like you hate. It’s not the fact of your invisibility— it’s the fact that you fade like grey in the eyes of someone who’s looking at the bright colours around him.
For a moment, that does it.
Because yeah. He’s a prick.
A pretentious douche with a body like Apollo, fucking gorgeous genes and perhaps even worse ego.
Easier to dismiss him as one that admit a part of you would like to get him look at you for a second longer.
Just as you huff to yourself turning back to the few notes you’d taken so far, a heavy thump emanates right to your left.
Dean.
You blink in surprise— hoping that you don’t look like a gaping Dori but he is there.
But you don’t want to stare— not that it saves you from him noticing that and flashing a dimpled tight-lipped grin at you.
Up close he looks like one of the tv show’s perfect California life savers.
“Hey.”
Oh. He can talk.
“Hey.”
You turn back to writing— or at least pretending you’re writing someone intelligent when a much larger hand comes into view picking up one of the spare pens on your desk.
“You mind?”
“No.”
You watch him for a second but he doesn’t get gown to writing simply because there’s nothing to write on.
So— this guy didn’t even bring backpack or whatever to his lectures.
He takes his time patting his pockets maybe in search of paper or whatever but comes up only with a piece of small crumpled paper.
You notice some numbers on it— someone’s number more like it but he doesn’t even glance twice crumpling it even harder in his hand and letting it fall on the desk with a soft thud.
He instinctively turns his head towards you again and you quickly look away staring at the blackboard.
You wait that he’ll ask for paper but he doesn’t.
Maybe that’s the longest two seconds in your life before he turns his head away and leans back in his chair with a sigh.
The borrowed pen— your pen is placed back on the desk, if only sometimes he twirls it between his fingers from boredom.
Devil-may-care should be Dean-may-care now. Legit.
The professor drones on and you almost focus on something other than the breathing of the guy beside you— or some woodsy cologne with a fresh minty note that makes your nose tingle yet inhale more with each breath. The type of scent you think is overwhelming at first and then can’t get enough of breathing in.
But almost sleeping with eyes open isn’t what focus is, is it?
“Think she knows she has chalk on the elbow?”
The sudden whisper into your ear makes you flinch from the drowsy slumber you were in. You blink away the sleepiness before turning your head to look up at him with a quirked brow.
“What?”
The reaction makes his half-smile widen slightly as if he’s watching some Instagram reel with an adorable but dumb koala. Cute but clumsy as hell.
“The chalk. She looks like she went through war with it and shed some blood.”
You blink again before glancing back at Mrs. Clark who indeed has some chalk on her elbow and half of the jacket she maybe didn’t even notice yet.
“Oh.“
You don’t know what to say to that.
Is he joking? Maybe. Is he bored? Damn yeah. Did he strike up the conversation because sharing glances with the girls who were ready for a quickie during the break grew boring after ten minutes? Also fucking true.
So you don’t. Just hum and study the notes in front of you. Again.
Dean’s not the one to back off. Simply because he’s too fidgety to sit quietly. So he does what he can to kill that boredom until he can leave and find something that looks like actual fun to him— party, hockey, girls.
“What’s your name?”
And just because he knows someone like you will give a one-sentence answer like before he adds.
“No, let me guess. Um— Natalie? Kate? Jessica-with-K? You look like Jessica-with-K.”
You don’t even notice how you let a huff of confusion escape you.
“What does that even mean?”
His lips press into a small pout before he clicks his tongue.
“Not Jessica then.”
An amused smirk pulls at your lips.
“No.”
“Damn bad, you looked like one.”
Your brows furrow again. What does Jessica even look like? But otherwise, thank God, it’s not Bella or some shit.
“Damn bad indeed. You don’t look like a Di Laurentis either.”
Up to this point Dean humoured this convo because yeah— nothing better to do, actually no. Nothing fucking to do while surviving a lecture on how to make people buy stuff. You just make it good and tell the people to buy. No strategy, duh.
But he doesn’t dwell on it because suddenly this quiet girl can speak.
His brows rise a little.
“And what does a Di Laurentis look like?”
You pause.
You didn’t even mean to say it, the professor could notice and give you an earful but now that he’s noticed you—
“Like— a tall, dark-haired macho with a crooked nose? An Italian.”
That makes him crack a smirk.
“So the hair’s at fault.. and the nose, I have a fricking gorgeous nose”.
He does. Your eyes trace his features, the jawline that could cut, almost translucent blue eyes, perfect lips, light brows and— a nose. A tiny crook no one would notice if not watching closely but he still looks handsome.
“Debatable.”
“What, the hair or nose?”
“Both.“
“Cruel.”
An amused grin escapes him again before he tilts his head watching you with an unabashed interest now. You think he looks like a cat— no, like a puppy that’s watching its owner hinting at a walk or snack.
“What do I look like?”
Like a freaking model on some sandy beach with red trunks on and sweat gliding down your six pack—
“Malibu?”
“Ma—“
He doesn’t finish as a loud snort interrupts the lecture. He’s not even trying to hide it fast enough before letting it fade into a fist.
The professor gives him a glance— a few other students do too. Especially the girls, so you do your best and stare at your notes as if you could never be caught as an accomplice to whatever it was.
The moment passes.
His interest doesn’t.
“You just called me Malibu?”
You hate a rush of embarrassment to your cheeks.
“…Yeah.”
“I’m a New York cookie, peaches”.
“I’m not pea—“
You sigh cuz it came out on instinct and honestly, you’re not used to the weird nicknames people give each other. So why peaches?
“You are. All sweet and stuff. And you haven’t told me your name while you know mine. I feel exposed.”
“Exposed?”
“Yeah. Name’s like— the mirror to the soul, y’know?”
It’s the eyes, actually but you don’t say it. Finally, you mutter your name back half convinced he’d forget it by tomorrow.. no, way too optimistic. By the next period.
But he doesn’t.
Not by the next period. Not in a week. Not in two years you spend together as best friends.
***
The sound of booming laughter and ear-splitting loud music greets you right from the porch of the frat house.
It’s familiar.
The way you don’t bother to knock because the door’s not locked is familiar too.
So is the sight of a crowded living room literally infested by people from all over the campus. Some of them already hitting it on the makeshift dance floor, others not drunk enough for that so they stand in line for the whiskey shots off the table.. or bodies.
A few guys play the TV hockey game almost outshouting the music whenever one of them scores or loses.
And then there’s that small crowd already off to upstairs to enjoy the life pleasures you’d never had the courage to pursue but secretly were dying too. Not that the location is the factor though— a few couples are already throwing a full on OnlyFans shooting worth makeout session right under the staircase.
All of that is familiar.
So why do you pause as if shocked by the sight of Dean making out with a brunette on the kitchen counter like there’s no one watching?
His large hands grip her hips as she arches forward into his frame, hands tangled in his blonde hair before trailing lower to graze his back. He’s clad in a graphite t-shirt tonight unbuttoned halfway down and that random girl can touch any inch of that tanned skin now. It must feel so good.
You know it does.
Because even looking at him sets your blood on fire. Along with the bitter feeling licking its way out but you quash it. As you always do.
They keep exchanging saliva and whatever you really don’t wanna think about— cuz you do know that’s definitely not innocent kisses kids share in middle school.
You quickly look away and then walk back to the living room only to realise you’d actually have a drink now. If it weren’t for the couple turning the kitchen into a minefield by making out.
A sigh escapes you at the lameness.
You two aren’t anything.
He doesn’t owe you anything.
Neither do you owe him anything.
But perhaps the heart hasn’t heard of friendzone? It’s not ears, not supposed to hear, after all.
You shake your head because at first you thought it was a crush.
Yeah. A crush on someone who looked like a dream from some teen magazine.
Then it passed. Novelty wears off— everything and everyone has their expiry date.
But friendship remained.
Between hangouts at his house, his energetic nature against your not quite but— less frantic one, you understood that he was the kind of person you didn’t wanna lose.
Warm, supportive and unbearably kind at times.
Only a few months prior you started noticing that the warm feeling grew into a molten lava every time you saw him, heard his voice or, for God’s sake, caught on his cologne.
Lots of self-denial, bargaining, suppressing the feelings that brew under the skin like poison— all of that fruitless as the reality came crashing down.
You’re in love.
And it’s not romantic as it sounds when the object of your desires is the infamous fuckboy on the campus.
You swore you’d never let a guy make you feel small but you always feel a hint of insecurity.
Maybe you’re not the girl he’d kiss like that on the counter?
Maybe he’s not the type you’d kiss openly in front of half the hockey team?
Maybe that’s it.
Match made in hell to drive you crazy and him away.
“You look— like you’re about to cry.. and even if I’m not sexist, I don’t think girls should cry.”
The sound of a melodious voice rips you out of your overthinking; it’s deep and warm, with a bit of a rasp— nice, in short.
So are those brown eyes that you could call molten chocolate or the fluffy hair you think someone styles every day but wouldn’t admit it.
John Logan.
“I’m not crying.”
He tilts his head down to look up at your face from underneath as if looking for something there, expression mockingly grave—before standing upright again with a grin.
“Yeah, false alarm.”
A small grin pulls at your lips.
“Did I look so bad you thought I was ready to spill tears?”
“No. I mean— you looked so good I was ready to spill my tears if it’s any comfort—“
That makes you chuckle. Dean’s friends were always just as friendly to you. Light-hearted. Easy-going.
Tucker always had something delicious whenever you stopped by for a visit. Logan stepped in to help with the leaking tap in the dorm kitchen once and offered a grin every time you passed each other on campus— which wasn’t often but still. Garrett was more closed off but still taught you to play TV hockey to, citing, “beat Dean’s sorry ass”.
And you did. Much to Cinderella’s dismay.
Seeing my smile makes him smile too— an easy one, the one that makes you think everything’s easy and good just because he’s smiling.
“Really, though. You good?”
“Yeah. Peachy.”
It’s visible on his face that he knows what Dean’s up to in the meantime and feels a hint of pity for someone left to wander on their own at the party. Or maybe I did seem so pathetic too busy contemplating about life choices and boys that he decided it was ruining the general mood?
“Then you don’t mind if I steal you from—“
He presses his lips, brows furrowed as he steps closer to look over your shoulder— then another as if expecting someone there. The proximity making your breath hitch for a moment and well, you could catch his scent too, it’s subtler than Dean’s, but warmer? As if cocooned in a blanket on some winter night?
Fuck, what’s with all the scent metaphors as if you’re a sniffing dog?
His soft lips pull up into a crooked grin as his gaze flickers down to yours.
“—no one.”
Maybe you’re stuck studying the flickers of gold in his brown orbs that you don’t notice his hand draping around your shoulders to lead you to the centre of the mayhem.
“What?”
“Play with us. There’s an air hockey contest tonight.”
“Air hockey? Really?”
“You’ll be less sarcastic when you see how much us hockey dudes suck.”
A huff of laughter erupts from your chest— easy, the kind you don’t gotta force as you indeed see a few players on the Briar U team go at it with the most serious faces.
He picks up your laugh with a chuckle of his own, arm still around your shoulder.
Dexter loses by two points and throws a dramatic shout at the end asking for a revanche that’s not coming because there’s someone else standing forward to the center to make everyone look up.
“Listen you— mere mortals. Your pathetic existence is but a speck of dust compared to the records of eternal fame in such a callous sport as—… air hockey.”
A few snicker at the tone Beau uses to speak with.
“Therefore we shall hereby declare—“
Dean steps up readily clapping his best friend’s back once before shouting.
“-.. PAIR CONTEST.”
“What’s a pair contest?”
Logan meets your inquiring gaze with a small smirk.
“Pair. Contest. Two against two.”
You huff a grin at the absurdity. How’s that even comfortable to play with three other people?
But once you turn your head back, Dean’s eyes are already set on you— something you couldn’t ever read in them. For a moment, you think he notices the hand draped over your shoulder and feel the need to explain but— explain what? Nothing? To someone who’s practically no one in a romantic sense? Wasn’t he tonguing the girl in the kitchen just a few minutes ago?
His mischievous grin returns just as quick as he closes the distance between you two, his large hand outstretching on instinct.
“You, my fair lady— are playing with me.”
Before you have the time to laugh off the ridiculous idea, Logan steps up with a smirk of his own.
“I’m afraid she’s already been taken, good sir. Find another partner in crime.”
Logan’s eyes flicker to mine for a moment as if making sure that’s what I want— do I?
“I actually don’t think I wanna play at all…”
Dean huffs in amusement first, hands on hips as if ready to prove a point in an argument.
“You either play with me— the victorious legend or the lil’ cane over here. It’s a yes or yes situation, peaches.”
“You call losing four times in a row victorious?”
Logan huffs amused tilting his head.
“You’re the only one who remembers that.”
“Yeah, and I will forever.”
“Fuck your Dori memory, dude.”
They share a laugh— you laugh too before a hand on your small back gently pushes you to the table in the centre. Logan.
You step forward unsurely, sending a glance over your shoulder at Dean who was left standing with hands on the hips and brows slightly raised in surprise.
He’s not dormant for long because it’s him and some over-energetic party girl with a deep cleavage against you and Logan.
He places the puck on the centre, picks up the paddle with a slow grin, gaze set on you— then Logan.
So does Logan. Both already competitive. On alert. You think it’s a bit too much testosterone for the poor air hockey table but it’ll manage. Cuz suddenly you feel competitive too. Beat Dean’s sorry ass— Garrett said.
You will.
***
“It’s like— 25$ per hour. Fixed the TV set and all the plumbs in the house.”
“Damn— only.. tenty-five?”
“Yeah. Could get myself a Ferrari in like— ninety years.. from the dump, though.”
You crack a drunk laugh leaning back the head against the cool wall of the house. The porch is empty unlike the mayhem inside— that’s gotten worse with the amount of drinks taken.
Logan can’t quite suppress a grin whenever you speak slurring the words and blinking at him like a content house cat. Who knew you were such a lightweight?
“Mm—- you’d be a handsome driver. Like— 101 level of hotiness.”
He snorts again.
“You don’t say.”
“I do! It’s like.. like— uh..”
You blink again trying to think of a metaphor with a stubborn frown at the words that keep eluding you.
“Oh yeah— uh.. pro max hot but with pro maxness of a rocket.”
He hums suppressing an amused grin but you could swear his eyes light up in the dim light, frame leaning against the porch railing and turned to face you better.
“..Specific. What am I without the pro max hot Ferrari from the dump?”
“You—“
You sigh again, brain working overtime because thinking really seems harder than usual.
“Bestest air hockey player?”
“Not without my partner.”
“You got a partner?”
A laugh escapes him as you stare at him dumbfounded— as if it wasn’t you who won it 7:4 with him just an hour ago against Dean and Rachel.. was it Rachel?
“Think it’s time to get you some water.”
He moved to carefully wrap an arm around you and lead inside when you groan in frustration.
“I already drunk— water.. it’s not tasty..”
“It’s not supposed to be, I guess.”
“But why? Why even drink it— if it’s not.. sweet?”
“To stay hydrated.”
You’d be embarrassed by how calmly Logan handled you in a drunken state, leading you inside the house towards the kitchen without a hint of annoyance.
“Hydra— like.. hydrate like fish?”
You nearly stumble over your own feet— clumsily gripping the back of the couch and Logan’s arm to keep steady.
Although it’s him reaching to catch you by the waist— not that you can tell.
“Easy.”
He pauses not making a move to lead you further to the kitchen in search of water.
You head bobs tiredly to glance around you— did you even get this drunk in.. ever? Maybe not. Because it was always about a beer or two. Nothing more. And enough to remember boys’ drunken antics when no one else did. Would you remember your own in the morning?
Couples are swaying in the centre of the room, only a few— others have left for the fun part in any room with and without a lock they could find.. some are playing beer ping pong, others are animatedly arguing about the relation of Brie to Briar U, Logan’s on his knees between your legs—
LOGAN WHAT?!
You stagger back in a fit of shock, feet tangling at themselves successfully sending you flying back on the floor.
You land with a loud thud and a groan.
“The fuck..?”
It comes out as a whine because your drunken mind can’t take the dull ache on the back of the head calmly—
Logan reaches to help you up, hands quickly checking your head for an injury— there’s nothing.
He sighs— certainly regretful of humouring you with drinks earlier.
You send him a bewildered glare.
“What were you—?”
He has the grace to look sheepish, cracking a small grin, head jerking in the direction of your feet.
“Laces.”
It takes solid ten seconds before you realise that you’d stumbled because of them twice already and he was just trying to help by kneeling down to tie them up.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Good to go?”
You are. You think so, at least but he glances at the kitchen and speaks up again.
“Actually— I’m good to go. Let me get you some water. You wait here, deal?”
“Pinky deal.”
“Pink—?“
He’s not even surprised by the drunk talk now and simply flashes you a grin before walking off to the kitchen.
You lean back into the couch with a sigh— a bit of peace would be great now.. but no.
“Peaches. Didn’t know you were such a touch cookie. A hidden talent at destroying 6’4 men and I didn’t even know.”
You see a smirk Dean sends your way lazily sauntering over.
“I didn’t.. too.”
“Where’s the bodyguard?”
“Who? Uh— off to get me water.. not sweet.”
He huffs lightly turning his head to glance in the said direction and that’s enough for you to see the stains on the otherwise perfectly tanned skin even in the dim light of the house.
Lipstick stains.
Hastily wiped off in the corner of his mouth, more leading down his neck to where the graphite T-shirt hides just enough.
Another girl in one night? Second? Third?
Your heart breaks yet again.
Maybe it’s the drinks and haze of them that clouded over your mind.
Maybe it’s the dull ache in the back of your head.
Maybe it’s the noise and music and that overwhelming ambience of the party aftermath.
You take a breath—
Air’s not coming into your lungs.
And his perfectly rugged features blur as moisture gathers in the corners of your eyes.
You bite your lip to keep it in because for God’s sake, to cry at a party over a boy?
“Hey— peach—“
His hands cup the sides of your face gently tilting up to look down at the tears with a frown. He’s defiantly not drunk enough not to notice them.
“What’s wrong?”
His eyes dart frantically looking for a sign for what could make his best friend, the girl who basically swept the floor clean with him at air hockey an hour ago tear up.
“You okay?”
“Head..”
“Head?”
He almost tilts your head to watch where but you don’t let him.
“You fell?”
In love?
“Yes.” Hard.
“Logan didn’t look after you?”
“He did—- he..”
“He what? Up and left?”
“No- he was.. on the knees and—“
“He was what?”
His hand snaps in the kitchen’s direction.
“He—.. what he— you’re crying ‘cuz Logan did something?”
“No!”
You shake off his hands with a sniffle taking a step back, feet thankfully not sending you on the floor this time.
“Then what?”
“I—“
You. You are the reason. To smiles. To heartbreaks. To the warmth and fire, the reason’s you.
“Nothing.”
“There is something.”
“No-“
“Yes.”
He steps closer with a firmer expression.
“I know how drunken tears look, these aren’t them.“
Then as if knowing how sensitive I could get even more he lowers his voice, voice softening.
“What’s wro—“
“I’m in love.”
A beat of silence follows. It’s as silent as it gets with the music pumping around you but the hollowness in your ears is deafening.
The expression on his face is too.
His mouth opens, then closes as he tilts his head.
“You what?”
You don’t take a breath— you know you’ll break down and won’t be able to utter a word if you do.
“In love..”
He waits for you to crack up with “gotcha, Deanie!” but it doesn’t come.
Is this the time familiar becomes unfamiliar? Because his eyes are the same, his lips are the same, the hair’s the same but you feel that once you say it, all of it won’t be. Yet you open your mouth.
“I love—“
You can’t. It just doesn’t leave your mouth. Even if you try hard enough because no amount of booze is enough to make the fear of losing him make you speak.
“Who?”
A loud crack interrupts them.
You turn to see Dexter raise his hands in a surrender at the broken glass at his feet.
Broken bottle’s shards lie around— and that is to be expected at a party with such an amount of alcohol. Yet it’s the sight of Logan stepping around it quickly with the very promised glass of not sweet water in hand, avoiding the shards. He quickly places the glass on the counter and tells something that makes others step away before crouching to pick up the big pieces of broken glass.
Just like your heart, was it?
All this time though Dean didn’t turn away.
Too busy watching you.
And finally it dawns on him..
“Him?”
No—
He turns his head to do a double take at Logan who’s already handling it like a pro not to let anyone cut themselves in a drunken haze.
You and Dean take your three year old son, Addison-Maxwell, skating for the first time.
snuggling with dean on a rainy day | @deansbrat
FORBIDDEN LINE | @darkkdamsel00
Hockey player Dean Di Laurentis, falls for his teammate’s sister
HIS JERSEY | @goldsainz
you’re officially dating dean, which means wearing his jersey to his hockey games and having him go crazy for it.
PAYBACK | @/goldsainz
dean tries to act unbothered by the growing relationship between you, so you kiss his best friend as payback.
I told you so, part 2 | @railingsofsorrow
Dean is there for you, even when you think he shouldn’t be.
What, like it’s hard? | @alierecss
Dean Dilaurentis has been the only person in your class who comes close to your grade. You’ve been pretending not to notice him for three months. Then a professor pairs you together for a semester project, and suddenly you have no choice but to sit very close to him in a library for five weeks and figure out what to do about that.
All This Time | @yvaineseleneposts
dean di laurentis x retired figure skater!reader | @daystarpoet
you know how to skate?! | @/daystarpoet
dean di laurentis was being serious about a girl for the first time in his life. the final stage of his plan was taking you ice-skating, where you would fall for him—for good.
Truth or Dare? | @vampysuccubus
It’s your first week in college when Hannah drags you to the Kappa Chi house party when you are playing truth or dare you are dared to kiss Dean.When you are on the way to your dorm you received a message from who can it be and what will happen next?
The Alchemy | @starksrealdaughter
you are the new social media manager for the hockey team of briar university. and you catch someone's eye...
Oblivious | @pinkfairydreamgirl
You know Dean Di Laurentis to be loud, a player, and a bit of a meathead. Basically your exact opposite. So why is he talking to you all of a sudden? Why is he dramatically inserting himself into your life? He can’t be interested in you romantically. Right?
Three times is a pattern | @newobsessionweekly
You transferred to Briar U to become a ghost, desperate to outrun your controlling ex. When your past finally catches up to you in the middle of a lecture hall, Dean Di Laurentis makes one thing perfectly clear: you are under his protection now.
Pucks and Pilates | @mattsmadness
When the Briar hockey team dismisses pilates as an easy workout, she stages a surprise conditioning session that leaves the elite athletes sweating and completely dismantled.
A LOT MORE TO LOVE | @melwnst
being plus size means talking down on yourself when you think every outfit makes you look terrible. Allie and Hannah are here to remind you look beautiful, while Dean has other interesting ways of showing it.
SHE’S SITTING WITH ME ! | @worldimaginedreaming
When Dean gets unexpectedly jealous at a Briar party and pulls you onto his lap in front of everyone, the line between friendship and something more suddenly disappears.
It Was Just A Kiss | @berrychaivibe
You and Dean never crossed path until tonight
sugar talking | @p1stach-io
you’re done being dean di laurentis’ favourite secret.
You’re Losing Me | @munsonsmixtapes
It’s New Year’s Eve, and after not seeing Dean for weeks after hooking up for months, you each have some news for each other.
BF!DEAN WHEN HE’S JEALOUS | @lacyydollette
Missing shoe | @xxmmandyxx
She Always Won. | @sasaririri
you dressed like a princess for him. turns out the kingdom was never yours to begin with.
Intervention | @/sasaririri
the aftermath doesn’t get easier. one week of silence, one unexpected visit from logan, and dean showing up outside your door with reasons he should’ve said a long time ago. but is it too late?
More than something | @momoxluv
The morning after an eventful night with Dean, you overhear him talking with Tucker...
Off the Record, part 2, part 3 | @finalgirlfiction
you're hopelessly in love with Garrett whose your best friend's boyfriend, so when you were cornered about your love life you came up with a lie that eventually started everything.
Sorry, Wrong Number | @minminn22
When Briar University's infamous right wing, John Logan, accidentally texts the wrong number, he expects a quick apology and a dead end. Instead, he finds a witty, sarcastic girl who isn’t afraid to put him in his place.
Legendary Lovers | @vampysuccubus
After Johns hard training you and him want to have intimacy but you need to admit that you can’t finish during… And theres when things change to a better way.
Imagine | @burgundysnow
THE LOVE ADVICE | @messylxve
the 3 times he got love advice + the 1 you did
too pretty to keep secret, part 2 | @rinvvii
Dating John Logan in secret would be easier if he knew how to act normal around you. Unfortunately, Logan is hopelessly in love, terrible at hiding it, and one affectionate comment away from exposing your entire relationship.
the boyfriend in row three | @/rinvvii
you have a competition, and logan and the boys show up to support you in their own chaotic way. with logan quietly by your side before you skate and the others cheering way too loudly from the stands. You perform under pressure and don’t win first place but you leave the ice feeling like you didn’t lose anything that matters.
Skating on the edge | @schinug
Secretly learning to ice skate, partying with my friends, and having a huge crush on John—it was just bound to go wrong.
we had it all. | @toonice113
Logan realizes his crush for Hannah isn't actually a crush, but is it too late? or, you realize that Logan has a crush on Hannah through little interactions and decide to distance yourself only for Hannah to make Logan realize his mistake and try to get you back before it's too late.
does it hurt? | @uwtloml
in which everyone knows that john logan is head over heels with you, and it’s not like you don’t feel the same way, so what’s the issue?
off limits, part 2 | @chanelnara
Logan knows better than to fall for his best friend’s little sister.
game misconduct, part two | @pucksandpower
one random night. No names. No consequences. Except three weeks later you’re standing outside a locker room and the guy who had you pinned against a door is introduced as your fiercely protective older brother’s best friend. The same brother who makes his teammates promise to treat you “like a sister.” The same brother who will absolutely commit murder if he finds out. So obviously the only logical solution is to keep sneaking around behind his back. What could possibly go wrong?
Five Times Logan Almost Said I Love You | @rosiewrites28
five moments where Logan nearly confesses his feelings — and the one time he finally does.
she looks so perfect | @qtjohnlogan
john logan was your best friend and the guys, allie, and hannah were your family. everyone knows that you had liked logan for forever but you knew that he didn't feel the same way about you. logan was with grace and you respected it. you couldn't even hate her for it - she's perfect and she's perfect for him. it's okay though, your family's got you.
Friends | Looking after you | @drunk-on-melancholy
Slipping in the shower leads to you calling your oldest friend John to help, but for the first time you see him as more than a friend.
Tiny Librarian | @dilaurentispuckbunny
You were stranded at the library in the pouring rain, the last shuttle bus had left just as you got there, you text your brother, Garrett Graham, if he could pick you up after practice. You'll never guess who he sends instead.
one of many days | @utopeian
You’re avoidant, Logan’s anxious. Somehow, you both make it work.
Toxic | @sunnydilaurentis
in which your brother’s best friend, john logan, helps you find yourself after a toxic breakup.
Savior By Night | @dreamsdump
Picture Me in the Trees | @queensunshinee
Please Stop The Music. | @sasaririri
She’s been in love with her best friend for longer than she’d like to admit. He’s been hung up on someone he can’t have. One Halloween party later — everything falls apart in the best and worst way possible.
Noise | @sanguineterrain
John Logan smells like apples and lends you pencils and tells you it’s okay to wear your headphones in his car. He brings you to Dean and Beau’s party after you misunderstand who’s invited. He’s your friend now, apparently. You’re starting to think that maybe you don’t just want him as your friend, though.
plowed down!, part 2 | @seafoammm
you’re the captain of the briar girl’s volleyball team, leading your team through the ncaa volleyball semifinals in the hopes of reaching the championship. and you do achieve that, but not after experiencing the most insane introduction with john logan, a man you hadn’t known to exist until now
Clinical notes on loving him incorrectly | @puckingcuckbunny
They were never casual enough to survive pretending they were.
Falling for ya | @/puckingcuckbunny
two times John Logan watched you faint, and the one time he realised loving you meant learning how to be scared without letting it consume him.
Jealousy is best served secretly | @/puckingcuckbunny
Being Dean di daurentis’ little sister came with many…features, hundreds of eyes would be trained on the both of you- a dynamic pairing that was sure to breathe life into a party just by blinking at the venue, lavish lives of comfort and quiet luxury, it didn’t help you had killer genes on top of it all. With those abilities came challenges, such as, your personal lives being the literal talk of the town.
I pucking love you | @/puckingcuckbunny
Dating John Logan came with many benefits, great sex, cute puppy dog eyes, free coffee and an eternal study buddy. But the one thing that you couldn’t align on- hockey.
⤿ JOHN LOGAN was a firm believer that love at first sight was fake, then he saw you get checked into the boards at full strength. That was enough to convince him you were his soulmate.
!! wc: 4.5k. fluff. fem!reader. yearner!logan. hockey player!reader. dean and tucker cameos of course. should i make a mini series about logan x hockey reader. taglist open. ENJOY. COMMENTS ENCOURAGED.
The rink smelled like cold air, sweat, and freshly resurfaced ice, the familiar combination settling heavily into your lungs every time you pushed off the bench and stepped back onto the surface.
Your legs already ached.
The game had turned aggressive halfway through the second period after one shitty call spiraled into another, and now every shift felt sharper around the edges. Faster. Meaner. The kind of game where players stopped caring about penalties and started caring about pride instead.
You preferred games like that, if you had to be honest.
Your ponytail stuck damply to the back of your neck beneath your helmet while you skated toward center ice, adjusting your grip against your stick as the referee dropped the puck between you and the opposing center.
The collision happened almost immediately after that.
Sticks clashed. Skates carved violently against the ice. Somebody shouted from the bench behind you while bodies slammed together hard enough to rattle the boards, but your focus narrowed the way it always did during games until the rest of the rink became background noise.
You stole the puck cleanly and pushed forward.
A defender cut toward you from the left.
You dipped your shoulder, trying to slip around her.
Instead, she drove straight into your side.
The impact sent you hard against the glass with a crack loud enough to echo through the arena, pain blooming sharply along your ribs as the boards shook beneath you.
The crowd reacted instantly, and so did your teammates.
But you barely had time to register any of it before irritation outweighed the pain completely.
You shoved off the glass immediately, stealing the puck back before the defender could recover properly, and skated straight down the ice with enough force behind your strides to make your thighs burn.
Somewhere behind the opposing bench, somebody yelled, “Holy shit.”
The puck left your stick seconds later, and the goal light flashed red.
You barely had time to breathe before gloves slammed against your helmet and arms wrapped around your shoulders, the team crowding around you near the bench while the arena noise swelled louder overhead.
“You’re insane,” your captain laughed breathlessly against the side of your helmet.
You grinned despite yourself, adrenaline still racing violently through your system.
The celebration around you lasted only a few seconds before the line changed again and everybody scattered back into position, skates carving sharply across the ice while the energy in the rink climbed even higher after the goal.
You pushed a hand briefly against your ribs while skating backward toward center, testing the ache already beginning to settle beneath your padding.
It hurt.. not enough to matter, yet.
Across the arena, Logan still had not looked away from you.
He sat forward in his seat slowly, forearms resting against his knees while the rest of the crowd blurred into noise around him. The game continued moving at full speed beneath the arena lights, players shouting over one another while the referees reset the faceoff, but his attention stayed fixed entirely on you.
Dean noticed first, because of course he did.
“You good, bro?” he asked, glancing sideways from his seat beside him.
Logan barely blinked. “Who is that?”
Dean followed his line of sight toward the ice where you were circling near center.
“The defenseman?”
“The one that just got launched into the glass.”
Tucker snorted from Logan’s other side. “That doesn't narrow it down at all. They've been nasty tonight.”
Logan ignored him completely.
You pushed your helmet back slightly while talking to one of your teammates, visibly unfazed by the hit you had taken less than a minute earlier, and something about that seemed to irritate Logan further.
He wasn't irritated with you.
At the fact that nobody else on the ice appeared nearly as bothered by it as he was.
“She’s fine,” Dean said casually, mid bite of his overpriced arena pretzel. “Women’s team plays mean as hell.”
“That wasn’t a casual hit.”
Dean shrugged. “She got back up.”
“Not the point.” Logan groaned, leaning back in his seat and letting his legs spread a bit.
Tucker looked over slowly then, eyebrows lifting slightly as realization started creeping into his expression.
“Oh my God,” he muttered. “You’re obsessed with her.”
Logan finally tore his eyes away from the ice long enough to glare at him.
“I’m not obsessed.”
“You looked ready to fight somebody for checking her.”
“She hit the glass hard.”
“She also scored immediately after.” Dean piped up with a shrug and a wink.
Logan’s jaw tightened slightly.
The game resumed again before Dean could say anything else, but Logan’s attention kept drifting back toward you no matter how hard he tried to focus elsewhere. Every shift you played seemed sharper than everyone else’s. Faster. More aggressive.
You didn’t hesitate.
Most players slowed right before impact without even realizing they were doing it, bodies instinctively bracing against pain before collisions happened.
You didn’t.
You kept driving forward like fear genuinely never occurred to you.
Halfway through the third period, you slammed another player into the boards hard enough that Tucker actually winced.
“Jesus Christ,” he laughed. “She’s terrifying.”
Logan said nothing.
Your helmet turned slightly while backing away from the boards afterward, and for a brief second the arena lights caught the side of your jersey clearly enough for him to see the number stretched across your back.
Twelve.
Before he could make out the name above it, you skated off toward the bench again.
Logan leaned forward immediately.
“Twelve,” he repeated.
Dean stared at him. “What?”
“Her number.”
Dean burst out laughing. “You’re actually trying to identify her right now?”
Logan reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled his phone out without answering.
“Oh, this is bad,” Tucker said, grinning openly now. “He’s gone.”
Dean leaned over slightly while Logan opened the Briar women’s hockey roster, scrolling quickly with his thumb while the game continued in the background.
“Twelve,” Logan muttered quietly to himself.
The roster loaded slowly.
Tucker watched him with open amusement. “You don’t even know this girl.”
Logan’s eyes stayed fixed on his phone. “Working on it.”
Dean laughed under his breath. “You got all this from one hit into the boards?”
Logan finally looked back toward the ice.
You were standing near the bench listening to your coach, one glove hanging loosely from your hand while you nodded along absently, cheeks flushed from exertion and baby hairs sticking damply to your forehead beneath your helmet.
Then you smiled at something one of your teammates said.
Five minutes ago you had looked vicious enough to start a fight in the middle of the rink. Now you looked warm and relaxed. The contrast was something that Logan understood and admired.. something that was also making him constantly reconnect his wifi in the hopes that it would load faster.
Logan looked back down at the roster immediately.
“There,” Dean pointed suddenly, leaning closer. “Number twelve.”
Logan’s thumb stopped scrolling.
Your name sat there on the screen beneath your player photo.
Defense. Junior. The same number stitched across your jersey.
For some reason, finally knowing your name only made the strange tight feeling in his chest worse.
Tucker looked between Logan and the phone before laughing again.
“You’re done for, bro.”
Logan barely heard him.
Down on the ice, you stepped back into play again, completely unaware that a man several rows above the rink had just memorized your name like it was something important.
By the final stretch of the third period, Boston College had stopped looking organized and started looking frustrated.
Every pass they attempted felt rushed, every hit carried just a little too much irritation behind it, and Briar only seemed to feed off the shift in energy. The game had become brutal in the way rivalry games always did once pride got involved, fast and physical and loud enough that the sound of skates carving into the ice blended together with the roar of the crowd overhead.
Your lungs burned every time you pushed off into another sprint, exhaustion settling heavily into your legs beneath the adrenaline, but it barely registered anymore. The ache in your ribs from earlier pulsed every time you twisted too sharply, yet even that felt distant compared to the rush of momentum building around your team.
The scoreboard hanging above the rink read 5–1.
Boston looked furious about it.
You stole another pass near center ice before one of their forwards could recover properly, intercepting it so cleanly that she nearly lost her footing trying to turn around after you. The crowd reacted immediately, noise erupting through the arena while you accelerated down the ice with one of your teammates racing alongside you.
A defender moved toward you.
You waited until the very last second before sliding the puck across the ice.
Your teammate buried it immediately.
The red goal light flashed, and before you fully registered it, the arena exploded.
By the time you reached the boards again, your teammates were already swarming you, gloves smacking against your helmet and shoulders while somebody nearly crashed hard enough into your back to knock you forward.
You were laughing before you realized it, adrenaline making everything feel sharp and electric beneath your skin while the Boston goalie snapped her stick against the post in frustration somewhere behind you.
Several rows above the glass, Tucker stood abruptly from his seat with the kind of dramatic excitement only hockey players seemed capable of.
His hands coming together with immense force as his claps echoed alongside the rest of the cheers in the arena.
Dean laughed immediately beside him, though his attention shifted toward Logan a second later once he realized there had been absolutely no reaction.
Logan had not looked away from the ice.
Not once.
His forearms rested against his knees while his eyes tracked you, a small grin tugging at his lips despite the intent behind his eyes.
Dean noticed it first.
Or maybe he had noticed earlier and only now found it entertaining enough to comment on.
“Y'know,” he said slowly, “most people blink occasionally.”
Logan barely reacted.
“You’re staring at her like you’re scouting for the NHL,” Tucker added, dropping back into his seat.
“She’s good,” Logan answered simply.
It came out quieter than either of them expected.
Not dismissive. Not casual. He was just certain.
Dean glanced sideways at him then before looking back toward the ice again where you were circling near the bench waiting for the next line change.
“That is not a normal amount of interest for someone you’ve watched exactly one game of.”
Logan didn’t answer immediately.
The truth was he had stopped paying attention to the rest of the game almost twenty minutes ago. Every time you stepped onto the ice, his focus shifted toward you without thinking. The speed, the aggression, the complete lack of hesitation every time another player came near you. You played like somebody who trusted herself completely, and there was something about that confidence that had rooted itself beneath his skin almost instantly.
The final buzzer sounded not long after.
Briar won 7–1.
The entire team spilled onto the ice immediately afterward while music blasted through the arena speakers and students crowded harder against the glass cheering. Your helmet disappeared during the celebration at some point, leaving your hair flattened messily around your face while one of your teammates jumped against your side hard enough to throw both of you off balance.
You caught her automatically, laughing hard enough that Logan could see it even from the stands.
Dean leaned back in his seat slowly.
“Oh, you are fucked,” he muttered.
Logan finally dragged his attention away from the rink long enough to frown at him slightly. “Fuck off." He shoved Dean's shoulder while the two of them laughed as Logan's eyes wandered back to the ice.
You were standing near the bench now talking to your coach, your gloves tucked beneath one arm while you nodded along absently. The arena lights reflected faintly against the sweat still shining along your forehead, and even exhausted, you still looked completely awake somehow. Alive in a way that made it difficult to stop looking at you once he started.
After a short victory lap, the team slowly started disappearing through the tunnel beneath the stands while the energy in the arena softened into postgame noise. You lingered near the ice longer than most of your teammates, still talking to someone through the glass while tossing a puck over for a kid with a little Briar hockey jersey on.
Then your head turned slightly toward the stands.
Toward him.
Logan went still.
Even from this far away, he could see the brief flicker of awareness cross your expression as your eyes passed over the crowd and paused for half a second too long in his direction.
It wasn't recognition, despite the fact that he wanted it to be. It was really just awareness.. like you had felt someone watching you.
Before either of you could hold the moment long enough for it to become anything real, one of your teammates grabbed your arm and dragged your attention away again, pulling you toward the tunnel with the rest of the team.
Logan kept looking toward the empty space you had left behind long after you disappeared from sight.
The next morning felt painfully slow after the energy of the game the night before.
Campus had settled back into its usual rhythm by the time Logan crossed the quad toward his lecture hall, students moving in uneven streams through the cold while coffee cups steamed between gloved hands and backpacks bumped against shoulders in crowded walkways.
He barely noticed any of it, all he could think about was crawling back into his bed after his classes wrapped up.
Not because anything was wrong, which honestly only irritated him more, but because every time he closed his eyes he kept replaying flashes from the game in frustratingly vivid detail. The sound of skates against the ice. Your laugh during the postgame celebration. The way you kept getting back up after every hit like it genuinely offended you to stay down.
Dean had called him pathetic three separate times already that morning.
Logan still wasn’t entirely convinced he was wrong.
He pushed open the door to the lecture hall a few minutes before class started, stepping into the familiar low buzz of conversation and keyboards tapping. The room smelled faintly like coffee and winter air dragged in from outside, students already settling into seats while the projector glowed dimly against the front wall.
Logan started down the steps automatically, his hands settled in his pockets while he made his way towards the usual row he sat in.
Then, his steps came to a screeching halt.
Three rows from the front sat a navy blue Briar athlete backpack slouched beside one of the seats.
Women’s hockey was embroidered, and small along the top of the front pocket.
His eyes caught on the small keychain hanging from the zipper almost instantly.
#12.
For a second, he just stared at it. Then his gaze lifted higher.
You sat half turned in your seat talking quietly to the girl beside you, one sleeve pulled over your hand while you absentmindedly highlighted something in your notebook with the other. Your hair was perfect, and despite being beneath a helmet earlier that morning for practice, he was sure it smelled like vanilla.
Without all the gear and arena lights around you, you looked softer somehow. Still pretty enough to make his chest tighten annoyingly hard. Just… real now. Close enough to touch.
Logan stood there long enough that somebody behind him had to awkwardly step around him to get down the stairs.
He moved automatically after that, though his attention stayed fixed on you the entire way down the aisle.
You still had not noticed him.
Part of him almost preferred it that way, because now that he was actually standing in the same room as you instead of watching from the stands, he realized he had absolutely no idea what to say.
Which was new.
Logan was not usually nervous around women. Confident, relaxed, occasionally arrogant if Dean was being honest, but never nervous.
Yet suddenly he was hyperaware of everything. The sound of his shoes against the lecture hall floor. The fact that his heartbeat felt stupidly loud. The way your fingers tapped absently against your pen while reading over your notes.
He passed your row. Kept walking. Then, immediately regretted it and pretended to take a phone call to abort back up a few rows.
By the time he dropped into a seat a few rows higher, Dean — who had walked in behind him at some point — looked close to losing his mind laughing.
“Holy shit,” he whispered while sitting beside him. “You panicked.”
“I didn’t fucking panic.”
“You literally walked past her like a Victorian dude seeing an ankle.”
Logan stared straight ahead. “Shut up.”
Dean leaned back in his chair, visibly delighted. “You’re down horrendous.”
Logan ignored him, though not very successfully considering his attention had already drifted back toward you again.
You were still focused on your notebook completely unaware of the crisis currently happening several rows behind you.
Then, as if sensing it somehow, you glanced over your shoulder.
Your eyes landed on him immediately with a flicker of recognition swiping across your face almost instantly.
Logan watched the exact second you noticed him noticing you. You looked away first, and that was enough to make warmth crawl unexpectedly up the back of his neck.
Dean saw the entire interaction and looked ready to combust.
“You made eye contact,” he whispered dramatically, his eyelashes batting in a playful fashion.
“Please be quiet.”
“Are you in love?”
Logan rubbed a hand slowly over his face.
Class started before Dean could keep talking, though that honestly did not help much, considering Logan spent the first twenty minutes hearing absolutely none of the lecture.
His focus kept drifting. He noticed how you chewed lightly on the end of your pen while reading. The way you fidgeted with your necklace while listening to the professor. You wrote quickly, confidently, barely ever crossing things out or hesitating before moving onto the next line.
At one point, you stretched slightly in your seat and winced.
Subtle and quick. But Logan noticed immediately, of course he did, he was noticing everything you had done for the past 30 minutes.
Your ribs.
The hit from yesterday had clearly bruised you worse than you’d acted like it did. The thought of that was enough to bother him for the rest of class.
When the lecture finally ended, students started gathering their things immediately, backpacks zipping loudly while conversations picked up around the room.
Logan watched you zip your backpack shut carefully before standing. Then he watched two different guys notice you at exactly the same time.
One of them moved before he was able to finish fumbling to put his laptop away.
Of course he did.
Tall, confident-looking business major type. The kind of guy that was probably in a frat with a snap score of at least 2 million.
Logan felt irritation spark instantly.
The guy smiled at you while adjusting the strap of his backpack. “Hey, you’re on the hockey team, right? You played last night?”
You looked up politely. “Oh-.. uh, Yeah.”
“You were really good.”
Logan hated how genuine the compliment sounded, he was expecting this douche to be superficial and just ask for your snap to add to his roster.
You smiled softly anyway. “Thank you.”
The guy opened his mouth again, clearly gearing up to continue the conversation.
Then Logan stood.
Dean looked up immediately with the kind of excitement usually reserved for live sporting events.
“Ho-ly shit,” he muttered.
Logan ignored him completely before heading down the stairs.
He wasn’t entirely sure what his plan was, only that the idea of walking out of this room without talking to you suddenly felt impossible.
The guy was still talking by the time Logan reached the bottom of the stairs.
Something about study groups, or maybe coffee. Logan honestly was not listening closely enough to tell the difference.
Your attention stayed politely fixed on him while you adjusted the strap of your backpack higher onto your shoulder, though there was something slightly distracted about your expression, like your mind was already somewhere else entirely. Exhaustion lingered faintly beneath your eyes from the game the night before, softened only slightly by the fact that you still looked unfairly pretty standing there in your Briar hockey sweatshirt and sweatpants.
The small keychain hanging from your backpack zipper knocked lightly against the fabric every time you moved.
#12.
Logan’s eyes caught on it again before he could stop himself.
“You play unbelievable, by the way,” the guy continued. “That goal in the third period was insane.”
You smiled politely, surprised that this guy actually had gone to the game, and wasn't just using it as an excuse to hit on you. “Thanks, Boston's never an easy opponent.”
The conversation should have ended there.
You clearly wanted to end it there.
But the guy kept standing in front of you anyway, lingering just enough that Logan recognized the strategy immediately. Stretch the interaction out long enough and eventually it becomes something else.
Normally he wouldn’t have cared.
Except now he did, annoyingly so, at that.
Before he could overthink it, he stepped closer.
“You should probably ice your ribs.” The words came out naturally, low and calm, though the moment they left his mouth, you turned toward him immediately.
Recognition crossed your face faster, and it wasn't just vague familiarity, but rather memory this time.
You had seen him in the stands last night, and Logan got to watch the exact second it clicked for you.
“The guy from the game,” you smiled before seeming to realize you had spoken out loud.
Your voice sounded rougher than he expected, slightly worn at the edges from yelling over rink noise the night before.
Something about it settled heavily in his chest.
“Yeah,” Logan answered quietly.
For a brief second, the other guy still standing beside you looked deeply confused by the interaction happening in front of him.
“You know each other?” he asked.
“No,” both of you answered at the exact same time.
That seemed to catch you off guard a little because your mouth twitched faintly afterward, like you were trying not to laugh.
Logan felt warmth spread unexpectedly through his chest at the sight of it.
The other guy looked between the two of you again before apparently deciding he was suddenly no longer part of the conversation.
“Well,” he said awkwardly, adjusting his backpack strap, “I’ll see you around.”
You smiled politely again. “See you.”
The second he disappeared into the crowd of students leaving the lecture hall, silence settled briefly between you and Logan.
Up close, he noticed details he hadn’t been able to see clearly from the stands. A faint bruise near your jaw partially hidden beneath your hair. The exhaustion lingering beneath your eyes. The slight stiffness in your posture every time you shifted your weight too quickly.
You were definitely hurting more than you wanted people to notice.
“You really should ice those ribs,” he repeated more quietly this time.
Your eyebrows lifted slightly. “You could tell?”
“You flinched during class.” The answer seemed to surprise you, no one besides your roommate paid enough attention to notice when you had an injury you were insistent on downplaying.
Heat crawled faintly into your expression before you looked away for half a second, adjusting the sleeve pulled over your hand.
“It’s fine,” you murmured. “Just bruised, at least nothing's broken. ”
Logan frowned slightly. “That hit looked bad.”
“It was bad.”
“Yet, you got right back up. Scoring after nearly breaking the glass is some insane shit.”
Something softer flickered briefly across your face then.
“Kind of have to in hockey.” You shrugged in amusement, a smile tugging at your lips that was much more genuine than with the frat guy from a few moments ago.
And Logan was taking that as a win.
Students continued filtering loudly around the two of you while the lecture hall slowly emptied, but Logan barely registered any of it anymore. His attention stayed fixed entirely on you, on the way you shifted your backpack higher against your shoulder or how your fingers tapped absently against the strap while thinking.
“So, you came to the game? There was more turnout than usual for our game's last night, it was fun.” you asked after a second.
The question sounded casual, though curiosity lingered beneath it.
Logan nodded once. “Yeah, I went with some of my roommates, we decided last minute because one of them wanted a fucking pretzel.”
“And now you’re giving medical advice to strangers?”
A smile tugged unexpectedly at his mouth. “You don’t really feel like a stranger.” The sentence slipped out before he could stop it, and immediately his eyes squinted a bit in regret, and his brows furrowed.
Your eyes lifted back to his immediately.
For one horrible second, Logan considered the possibility that he had just sounded insane, but your expression softened instead in a very subtle way.
“Well,” you hummed quietly, “you still don’t know me.”
“I know your name.”
The moment he said it, your eyebrows lifted again.
“I-... uh, looked up the roster.” Logan had the decency to look slightly guilty as the words left his mouth.
You stared at him for half a second longer before laughing softly under your breath, and the sound hit him with the same force it had the night before in the arena.
It was soft and warm, to anyone else it would be like music to their ears, but to Logan? It was dangerous.
“That’s a little insane,” you told him, playfully putting on a disapproving face that quickly dissolved into a smile.
“Yeah, no, for sure.”
The honesty of the answer seemed to catch you off guard enough that you laughed again, shaking your head while starting toward the aisle leading out of the lecture hall.
Logan naturally fell into step beside you without thinking about it. From across the aisle, Dean held up two thumbs-ups and mouthed 'Fuck yeah,' which Logan was happy to drown out with the conversation that was slowly building between the two of you.
from an irritated "oh, fuck!" to a confident "fuck it", your entire relationship with John Logan can be mapped out in seven specific exclamations of his favorite four-letter word.
word count : 6.1k (sorry) — enemies to lovers, kind of — logan is moody — SMUT, minors DNI — Enjoy and please tell me what you think !
One — "Oh, fuck!"
The music wasn’t just loud; it was vibrating through the old floorboards and thumping directly against your ribs. You’d only been there for twenty minutes, entirely dragged along by Hannah, who was currently tucked under Garrett’s arm near the doorway. Watching them was sweet—almost nauseatingly so—but it left you feeling like a ghost drifting through a sea of oversized jerseys, loud hockey players, and the thick scent of cheap beer. For the most part, the rest of the boys were incredibly welcoming; even though you'd just met them tonight, they were already loud, inherently kind and easy to be around.
Except for John Logan.
You hadn’t actually been introduced to him yet, but you’d felt his suffocating vibe the moment he walked through the door. He looked like absolute thunder. Briar had dropped a frustrating, tight game that evening, and while Garrett was channeling his nervous energy into playing the charismatic host, Logan was wearing his irritation like armor. Leaning against the kitchen counter with a dark scowl that practically screamed at people to stay away, his knuckles were white around his glass, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for a reason to snap.
Navigating that crowded, chaotic kitchen with a brim-filled, sticky mixed drink was your first mistake. Your second was catching the rubber toe of your sneaker on the lifting edge of a rogue anti-fatigue mat near the sink.
You stumbled forward, your arms flailing wildly in a desperate, ungraceful bid for balance. You didn’t fall, but your cup did a violent, mid-air flip, slipping from your fingers. A torrential wave of sticky, dark rum and cola splashed directly across the pristine gray fabric of Logan’s Henley shirt, soaking through the chest, darkening the material instantly and dripping down the front of his dark jeans.
Logan froze. His head snapped down slowly, looking at the huge, dark stain spreading across his clothes, and then his gaze lifted to yours. His eyes were blazing, a dangerous brown, entirely unamused and dripping with venom. "Oh, fuck!" he snapped, his voice cutting right through the ambient noise like a knife. He pulled the wet, heavy fabric away from his skin with two fingers, a look of pure annoyance twisting his features. "Are you serious right now? Watch where the hell you're going."
The sheer aggression in his tone caught you completely off guard, instantly sparking your own deeply ingrained, stubborn nature. You had been about to apologize profusely, the words of remorse already forming on your tongue, but the bite in his words choked them right out of your throat. You squared your shoulders, refusing to back down under his glare. "It was an accident," you retorted, pulling a few crumpled, napkins from the counter and shoving them toward his chest. "You don't have to be a complete dick about it. It’s just a shirt, I'm pretty sure you'll survive."
"It's a wet, sticky shirt at the end of a terrible, exhausting fucking day," he growled, his voice dropping an octave as he batted your hand away with a harsh flick of his wrist. He didn't take the napkins; they fluttered uselessly to the floor. Instead, he leaned down slightly, giving you a long, icy glare that made you feel about two inches tall, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle tick. "Next time, look up from your feet." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and storming down the hallway toward the stairs, muttering curses under his breath.
You stood there rooted to the spot, your cheeks burning with a toxic mixture of intense embarrassment and sudden, deep-seated dislike. Garrett materialized at your side a split second later, a sympathetic, slightly apologetic grimace on his face as he patted your shoulder gently. "Hey, don't sweat it," Garrett reassured you quietly, glancing warily toward the stairs where Logan had disappeared. "Logan’s just in a brutal mood because of the game, and he hates losing more than anyone. He's usually a great guy, I swear. He’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow morning."
You forced a tight, fake smile and nodded, but as you looked down at your empty, sticky hands, a bitter taste lingered in your mouth. Spoiler alert: he wouldn't forget. and neither would you.
Two — "Fuck you"
A few weeks later, the initial friction hadn’t dissolved; it had hardened into a permanent, icy chill. You tried your best to play nice for the sake of Hannah and Allie, but Logan made it incredibly difficult. You saw how he was with the rest of their circle—fiercely loyal, easygoing, and warm. He was the kind of guy who quietly made sure Allie and Hannah got home safe from their late shifts and spent his free afternoons helping Jules with media stuff. He was patient with the entire world. But the exact millisecond you walked into a room, his posture stiffened and his jaw set. You hated being the sole exception to his good nature, so you simply stayed out of his way.
The breaking point came on a gray, rainy Tuesday afternoon. You and Hannah had walked over to the hockey house to help Tucker untangle a massive, soul-crushing history assignment he was drowning in. The three of you were spread across the dining table, surrounded by a chaotic mess of highlighters, laptop cords, and heavy library textbooks.
The back door clicked open, and Logan walked in. He was wearing his Briar athletic gear, a damp towel slung over his shoulders from a post-practice shower, his hair messy and wet. He looked exhausted, his shoulders tense, carrying the unmistakable hangover of a brutal morning practice. Instead of walking past to the kitchen, he paused by the table, leaning over Tucker’s shoulder to scan the open pages. He let out a heavy, deliberate sigh. "You’re using the wrong primary sources for that era, Tuck," Logan said, his voice dropping into that effortless, uninvited authority. "You need the economic logs from the eastern front, not these political manifestos. You’re going to tank your thesis statement with those."
Tucker blinked up, looking miserable. "Wait, really? I thought—"
"We checked those, Logan," you interrupted, keeping your voice level and calm as you kept your eyes on your notebook. "We've got it handled," you smiled, trying to remain polite.
Logan didn't move. His eyes slid slowly down to the side of your face, unamused. "Right. Because you're an expert on 20th-century economic trade?"
"No," you said, your pen pausing on the page. "But I can read a syllabus. If you're so worried about Tucker's academic results, you could have sat down and helped him yourself already."
Logan’s jaw tightened, a sharp spike of tension instantly replacing his usual easygoing demeanor. He took his hands out of his pockets and leaned forward, bracing his palms on the edge of the table, firmly invading your space. Tucker shot Hannah a wide-eyed, panicked look across the textbooks, both of them suddenly bracing for impact.
"I gave him my old notes weeks ago," Logan shot back, his voice dropping into something smaller, tighter. "But sure, ignore the guy who actually passed the class because you're too stubborn to take a note from me."
"I'm not being stubborn, you're just being a patronizing prick," you retorted, leaning back in your chair. "You’ve been hovering over this table for five minutes just looking for a problem because you had a bad day and want to take it out on someone."
Logan let out a harsh, dry laugh, though there was a flicker of genuine frustration in his eyes—the look of a good guy who couldn't understand why he kept letting you bait him. "Take it out on someone? Trust me, if I wanted to take anything out on someone, I wouldn't waste my time on you. I'm trying to keep my friend from bombing a midterm because he made the mistake of letting you organize his thoughts."
"My thoughts are perfectly fine, Logan," Tucker muttered quietly under his breath, his eyes glued to his laptop screen, desperately trying to dissolve into the background.
"They're fine when you're left alone, Tuck," Logan said, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring his teammate's plea. "Not when you're letting someone drag their own contrarian agenda into your coursework."
"A contrarian agenda?" You stood up, your chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. Hannah flinched at the sharp noise, withdrawing her hands from the table and motioning for Tucker to leave the potential future crime scene. They both complied quickly, knowing you both well enough to understand that trying to reason with you in that moment would be pointless. "Are you actually insane? I'm sorry that anyone else having a brain in this house threatens your need to micromanage every single thing that happens under this roof."
"It doesn't threaten me at all," Logan said, standing up straight and towering over you, using his height to crowd your space until his shadow completely blocked out the light from the window. The sheer, uncharacteristic anger rolling off him was suffocating; Tucker actually slid his chair back a few inches, completely done with trying to intervene at this point. "It annoys me. You annoy me, actually. I'm not going to walk on eggshells in my own dining room because you can't handle a basic correction."
"I can handle a correction if it's respectful," you shot back, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you refused to take a step away from him. "You don't want to help Tucker. You just want to feel like the smartest guy in the room and that is annoying."
"I dont—," Logan started, a nervous scoff escaping his lips. "You don't know anything about me. Please let's keep it this way, since you clearly can't stand me anyway."
"You're the one who treats me like an absolute inconvenience the second I breathe in your direction!" you yelled, the weeks of being ignored, brushed off, and glared at finally boiling over into raw, unadulterated anger. "If you hate me being here so much, just say it. But stop acting like I'm the one bringing the venom into this house when you're the one dripping it."
The air between you turned completely volatile, thick enough to choke on. A strange, angry electricity snapped between you, the argument completely detached from history or homework now, exposed and raw. Logan stared down at you, his breathing heavy and uneven as he tried to swallow down the sheer frustration rolling off him in waves. He leaned down slightly, bringing his face inches from yours, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle violently ticked in his cheek.
"Fuck you," he whispered.
The words hit with a cold, deliberate weight that vibrated in the dead-silent room. Before you could fire back, Tucker's voice boomed from the kitchen archway, stern and completely done with both of you. "Enough! Both of you, cut it the hell out."
But the damage was done. The look in Logan's eyes made something tight and painful twist in your chest. You refused to sit there and breathe the same air as him for another second. Blindly turning around, you grabbed your laptop and notebook, shoving them into your backpack with rigid, uncooperative hands.
"I'm leaving," you muttered, keeping your eyes glued firmly to the floor as you pushed past Hannah’s reaching hand on the way out. You grabbed your jacket from the hook and left through the front door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the frame, stepping out into the pouring, cold rain with the echo of his voice looping in your head like a curse.
Three — "Fuck off"
For the next month, you became an absolute expert at avoiding John Logan. You turned it into an art form. If he was at a crowded house party, you stayed firmly in the kitchen or on the opposite porch. If the entire group gathered at Malone's, you ensured you sat on the exact opposite end of the long table, hidden behind Dean's loud gestures.
Because of this, you never saw the way his eyes silently followed you when you entered a room, or the almost guilty look that crossed his face whenever your name came up in conversation. He knew he'd crossed a line by cursing at you like that—but your unbreakable silence gave him absolutely no room to apologize, and his own stubborn pride kept him from forcing the issue.
There were small signs of his guilt, though. One random Thursday afternoon, he showed up at the place you shared with Hannah and Allie, claiming he was just dropping off a spare hockey hoodie Garrett had left in his truck. You had stayed in your room with the door cracked just an inch, watching through the tiny gap as he lingered by the entrance, his eyes constantly drifting toward your door, silently checking to see if you'd come out. You hadn't moved an inch, holding your breath until he finally left.
Eventually, Hannah and Allie staged a full-blown intervention. A brand-new club had opened downtown, and they absolutely refused to let you stay home and rot in your room, even though they openly admitted the boys were all coming along. You finally relented, numbing your spiking anxiety by pouring yourself two heavy pre-game vodka crans before leaving the house.
The club was a massive sensory overload—flashing neon lights, artificial fog, and heavy, chest-thumping bass that made communication impossible. By midnight, everyone was comfortably, heavily drunk. You were leaning your back against the sticky mahogany bar, sipping a gin and tonic, when you finally caught sight of him through the pulsing crowd.
Logan was laughing at something Beau said, a dark red bandana tied tightly around his messy hair, looking effortlessly, devastatingly handsome in a black fitted t-shirt. As if sensing the weight of your gaze, his head turned. His dark eyes locked directly onto yours across the smoky crowded room. He didn’t look away. He held your stare for a second, then two, then three — a strange, intense, unreadable heat settling over his features before a group of dancers blocked your view.
A few minutes later, a guy from one of the campus fraternities slithered up next to you on the edge of the dance floor. He was loud, sweaty, and smelled entirely too much like cheap cologne and whiskey — but a little bit of dancing could help taking your mind off of a certain hockey player, you thought. You enjoyed it at first, moving along, focusing on the music, the stranger getting closer and closer as the playlist progressed. But then, just as you started to feel good - just the right amount of alcohol in your veins to feel lighter and relaxed - he tried to grind his hips against yours. You tried to step back, laughing it off politely at first, pushing his hands away, but he didn't take the hint. His hands came down on your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you flush against him with a grip that was far too tight and aggressive.
Before you could even raise your hands to shove his chest, a massive shadow loomed over both of you.
A now familiar hand gripped the frat guy’s shoulder, spinning him around with enough force to make his sneakers squeak on the floor.
"Fuck off," Logan snarled, his voice a low, lethal vibration that cut right through the heavy bass of the music. He leaned in until he was nose-to-nose with the guy. "Get your fucking hands off her and fuck off right now."
The guy looked at Logan and wisely raised his hands in surrender, backing away rapidly into the foggy crowd without throwing a single punch.
Logan’s breathing was heavy, his chest heaving, his fists still clenched tightly at his sides as his eyes scanned the immediate area like a wild animal looking for another threat. He looked ready to tear the entire club apart with his bare hands. Anxious that he might actually chase the guy down for a fight, you stepped directly into his line of sight, capturing his attention.
"Logan," you breathed, your voice soft and entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. Without thinking about the consequences, you reached out, your bare fingers wrapping around his forearm.
The exact millisecond your skin met the warm, rock-hard muscle of his arm, Logan froze entirely. It was the first time the two of you had ever willingly, gently touched, and the effect was instantaneous. The blinding anger seemed to drain out of him in a single breath, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of air. He looked down at your small hand resting on his arm, his skin tingling where you touched him, and then he slowly, deliberately lifted his gaze to your eyes.
The noisy club, the flashing strobe lights, the roaring bass, the alcohol—it all faded into irrelevant background noise. You stood face-to-face on the crowded dance floor, completely motionless, just looking into each other's eyes. Your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, not from fear of the frat guy, but from a sudden, dizzying, terrifying realization. Looking into his wide, intensely focused eyes, you realized you didn't hate him. Not even close. And from the soft, almost vulnerable parting of his lips, he didn't hate you either. You weren't close to being friends yet, but the ice had officially shattered into a million pieces.
Four — "What the fuck"
The shift between you was subtle, but it was absolutely undeniable. The sharp hostility was gone, completely replaced by a quiet, lingering, heavy awareness that neither of you knew quite what to do with.
A week later, you were sitting in a sunlit corner booth at Malone’s. You were completely, entirely absorbed in a brutal, multi-chapter study session for your finals, a pair of heavy over-ear headphones clamped securely over your ears. The sweet, nostalgic melody of American Pie was playing through the speakers, and without even realizing it, you were softly humming along to the chorus, tapping the cap of your yellow highlighter rhythmically against the open pages of your textbook.
You were so deeply focused on your notes that you didn't hear the diner's front door chime, nor did you see Logan walk in. He was there to finalize the last-minute details for the upcoming Hockey Fundraiser with Hannah and Della. But the exact moment his eyes scanned the room and spotted you sitting alone in the corner booth, he stopped dead in his tracks.
He didn’t approach right away. He just stood near the counter, watching you. A soft, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he listened to your faint, slightly off-key humming.
Prickled by the sudden, distinct sensation of eyes on you, you blinked and lifted your head from your textbook. Logan instantly wiped the smile from his face, clearing his throat roughly and pretending to read a missing cat flyer on the bulletin board.
You pulled your headphones down, a small smirk playing on your lips. "You know, if you stare any harder, you're going to burn a hole right through my skull, Logan."
Instead of snapping back with a sarcastic, biting retort like he used to, Logan let out a soft chuckle. He walked over to your booth and, to your surprise, slid into the bench by your side, his knee almost touching yours.
"Just making sure you weren't torturing the rest of the innocent customers with your singing," he teased gently, his shoulder brushing against yours in the tight space.
You rolled your eyes, but there was no spite left in your expression. "I happen to have the voice of a literal angel, thank you very much. You're just jealous."
The playful banter slowly subsided into a comfortable silence. Logan looked at you, his expression turning a little more serious, his eyes softening as his voice dropped to a much quieter register. "Hey… are you doing okay?" Since what happened the other night, obviously implied by the way he looked at you right now, concern written all over his face.
You felt a warm flush creep up your neck and settle into your cheeks. "I'm okay, thank you" you smiled and he nodded, both silently agreeing not to discuss this unpleasant event anymore. You paused, looking down at his large hands resting on the table before forcing yourself to look back up. "How are you doing ? With the fundraiser and everything, I mean. You look like you haven't slept in a week."
He seemed genuinely surprised that you were asking about him. Really, truly asking. He leaned back against the vinyl booth, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he completely opened up to you. He talked about the immense stress of managing the team's high expectations, his constant worries about Jules’ upcoming exams, and the suffocating pressure of the NHL scouts attending the next three games. You listened intently, never interrupting, offering gentle encouragement and a few dry, sarcastic jokes that had him laughing quietly into his palms. For a full hour, the two most stubborn, argumentative people at Briar University just… talked.
"Well," you finally said, checking the diner clock and reluctantly packing your laptop into your bag. "I have to get to my shift at the library. Don't let Della bully you into paying extra for the tableware."
"I won't," Logan said, his eyes tracking your every movement, lingering on your face. "See you around?"
"See you around." You gave him a small, genuine smile—the first real one he'd ever received from you—and walked out into the crisp afternoon air, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks.
Inside the booth, Logan sat completely still for a long, agonizing moment. He watched your retreating figure through the glass window until you turned the corner and disappeared from view. Slowly, he let out a shaky exhale, burying his face entirely in his hands. He rubbed his palms over his eyes, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
"What the fuck," he whispered into the empty diner booth, his voice laced with a mixture of absolute awe and sheer, unadulterated panic. He was screwed. He was completely, utterly, hopelessly screwed, and he knew there was no turning back.
Five — "Well, fuck"
The night of the Briar Hockey Fundraiser at Malone’s was a chaotic, high-energy, glittering success. The entire diner had been completely transformed for the evening—the regular tables had been pushed to the far perimeter to create a makeshift dance floor, strings of warm fairy lights hung across the ceiling, and a massive turnout of wealthy alumni, boosters, and students kept the bar utterly slammed.
You had dressed up significantly for the occasion, wearing a form-fitting, emerald green silk dress that Allie let you borrow from her closet - of course. You spent the first half of the night talking to Hannah near the punch bowl, but your eyes kept unconsciously tracking a certain someone across the room.
Logan was entirely in his element—charming the older donors, laughing easily with his teammates, and looking entirely too edible for your own good.
Around midnight, the formal event finally dissolved into a proper, rowdy college party. The DJ cranked up a heavy, slow, rhythmic pop song, the bass echoing through the floor, and the dance floor filled up with couples. You were navigating the edge of the sweaty crowd, trying to find Allie when a sudden, firm, yet gentle pull on your wrist guided you backward.
You spun around on your heels, your chest bumping right into Logan’s broad torso. "You've been actively dodging me all night," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating right against your skin as his large hand settled naturally around yours. The casual, unhesitating intimacy of the gesture sent a fierce, blinding jolt of electricity straight down your spine.
"I wasn't dodging you, I was letting you do your official host duties," you shot back, a wicked, playful smile spreading across your lips. The alcohol gave you a surge of confidence, and you looped your arms slowly around his neck, stepping closer into his personal space until there was absolutely no air left between you. "Besides, I didn't think you could actually handle me dancing with you."
Logan’s dark eyes lit up instantly, a dangerous, competitive challenge flaring in his pupils. He pulled you a fraction of an inch closer. "Oh, really? Try me, sweetheart."
You didn't hesitate. As the heavy beat of the music dropped, you shifted your weight, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, and sinfully against his. You leaned in close, your lips brushing the warm shell of his ear as you whispered, "You're all talk, John Logan. Let's see if you can actually keep up with me."
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding down his chest to grip the crisp fabric of his shirt, tugging him rhythmically, tightly against your body. The friction was immediate, heavy, and intoxicating. Logan’s breath hitched audibly in his throat. A dark, intense flush crept up his neck, coloring his sharp cheekbones as his hands settled on your waist, his fingers digging firmly into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress. He swallowed hard, his eyes dropping helplessly to your parted lips, entirely overwhelmed and undone by the sudden confidence of your movements. He could feel exactly how much you were affecting him, his body reacting instantly to the touch of your hips.
A breathless, desperate laugh escaped him. He jerked his head back for a split second, fighting a losing battle for self-control. "Well, fuck," he muttered, his voice raw, completely devoid of its usual composure.
"Did I break the big, tough hockey player already?" you cooed, tilting your chin up tauntingly, your noses almost touching as you continued to sway against him.
"You wish," he groaned, his thumbs stroking the bare skin of your lower back where your dress dipped low. He didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled you even tighter against his lower body, matching your sinful rhythm perfectly, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a burning intensity that made it very clear the playful teasing was rapidly turning into something much more dangerous and inevitable. When the night finally forced you apart, it didn't feel like a goodbye — it was a promise.
Six — "Fuck"
Some things are bound to reach a breaking point, and the agonizing tension building between you for months was no exception. Three nights later, Briar won a massive game and the ensuing after-party at the boys' house was pure chaotic madness. The house was packed to maximum capacity, a sweaty, pulsing mass of drunken celebration, loud music, and screaming students.
But you and Logan weren't paying any attention to the party. For the past two hours, you had been moving around the house like two high-powered magnets — constantly drawing closer, stealing long, heated glances across the crowded rooms, the unspoken, heavy weight of the fundraiser hanging between you.
Seeking a brief moment of quiet to cool down your flushed skin, you headed down the dark back hallway toward the upstairs bathroom. Just as you reached out for the brass doorknob, the door swung open from the inside.
Logan stepped out.
You nearly crashed straight into his chest, cutting your breath short as you ground to a halt mere inches from him. The hallway was swallowed by shadows, save for the frantic strobe lights bleeding in from the living room. Logan stared down at you, wide-eyed, his chest rising and falling in sync with the thick, suffocating heat pulsing through the house.
Neither of you said a single word. The months of toxic banter, the vicious, screaming arguments, the desperate avoidance, and the agonizing teasing all converged into a single, breathless, breaking second.
Logan reached out with lightning speed, his large hand wrapping around your waist, and shoved you backward into the bathroom, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind you and twisting the lock with a sharp, echoing click.
Before the sound of the lock could even fade, his mouth crashed onto yours.
It was an absolute explosion. The kiss was passionate, borderline feral, a violent release of pure, pent-up, crazy frustration. You let out a muffled gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to rip into his dark hair, pulling him down toward you out of sheer desperation. He groaned deep in his throat, a sound of pure hunger, pinning your body flat against the heavy wooden door, his thick thighs crowding tightly between yours. His hands were absolutely everywhere—clutching your face, tracing the line of your throat, gripping your hips with a bruising, desperate force that felt incredibly, entirely right.
"Logan," you whimpered against his mouth as he tore his lips away to kiss your jawline, your neck - his hands sliding down to frantically bunch up the silk fabric of your dress.
With a sudden burst of strengh, he hooked his large hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly into the air. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist as he deposited you onto the cold marble edge of the bathroom sink counter. He didn't waste a single second. His hands slid all the way up the bare, warm skin of your thighs, finding the edge of your underwear. His fingers quickly found your slick, burning, over-sensitized core, rubbing against you through the damp fabric with a rhythm that made your head tilt back and earned a large grin from him.
You arched your back off the counter, a loud sob escaping your lips, your fingers digging deep into his shoulders.
"You like that?" Logan growled against your neck, his voice dripping with lust. His fingers moved faster, driving you up a steep, agonizing cliff. "Tell me you want it."
"Logan," you breathed out, "please," you cried out, your head tossing back against the large bathroom mirror. Your hands flew down to his waist, frantically, blindly fumbling with the button of his jeans. You shoved the denim down his hips until his length snapped free—thick, heavy, and pulsing with heat. The moment your fingers wrapped tightly around him, moving in a fast, desperate stroke, Logan’s eyes rolled back.
His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his neck. He couldn't endure the exquisite torture for long, his quiet moans matching your own, before his large hand clamped over yours, freezing your movement. "Stop, stop," he panted, his chest wild, his forehead pressing against yours. "I'm going to come right now if you keep doing that. I need to feel you, right now."
With trembling, frantic hands, he reached into the small drawer next to the sink—Dean’s emergency stash—and ripped open a foil condom wrapper, spitting the plastic away and rolling it onto himself in one fluid, desperate motion.
Then he stepped back between your open thighs. His hands gripped your hips with an iron hold, dragging you to the very edge of the marble counter. He aligned himself against you, waiting just long enough for your frantic nod of approval. With one heavy, unyielding, possessive thrust, he buried himself completely inside you.
The sheer, overwhelming pleasure of that sudden fullness hit you both at once, fracturing the quiet of the bathroom with a sharp, mutual gasp. Instead of slowing down, the friction only stoked the fire, drawing a long, ragged, shattered exhale from deep in Logan's chest. His pupils were completely dilated, dark and wild with pure lust as his forehead dropped heavily against your shoulder.
"Fuck," he groaned into the crook of your neck, his voice a raw, visceral prayer vibrating against your collarbone.
His hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like an anchor as he immediately established a rhythm. The restraint dissolved into pure instinct. He pulled you flush against him, his thrusts becoming powerful, deep, and utterly relentless from the very start. Every heavy drive forced a breathless cry from your lips, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. You rocked together on the cold edge of the marble sink, your bodies generating a feverish heat that defied the chilly stone beneath you.
The bass from the after-party still thudded through the floorboards, a distant, muffled reminder of the chaotic world outside, but within the locked walls of the bathroom, that world was entirely forgotten. There was only the slick, friction-heavy slide of skin against skin, the frantic tangle of your fingers in his hair, and the hot, primal rhythm consuming you both.
The friction was dizzying, driving you both toward a precipice that neither of you could fight anymore. Logan’s pace turned frantic, his breath coming in harsh, ragged stabs against your ear as his hips slammed against yours with an undoing, desperate urgency. Every stroke sent a white-hot wave of pleasure straight to your core, tightening the coil inside you until it was agonizing.
You choked out a breathless, broken sound, your hands clamping onto his biceps as your head thrashed back against the mirror once more.
He didn't need words to know you were right there. He buried his face in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he delivered three more devastatingly deep, relentless thrusts.
That was the final breaking point. Your walls clamped down around him tight and pulsing, fracturing your breath into a loud, ruined cry as your entire body shattered into a blinding, head-to-toe release.
Hearing you break completely ruined him. Logan let out a guttural, unhinged groan that vibrated deep in his chest. His jaw locked, his body rigid and trembling as he gave one last, deeply possessive shove, throwing his weight into you as he came violently inside the condom. He held himself deep within you, his hips shuddering against yours as he rode out the waves of his own release, the two of you panting heavily in the quiet aftermath, entirely spent.
Seven — "Fuck it"
Roughly thirty minutes later, the two of you finally emerged from the bathroom. You had tried your absolute best to fix your chaotic appearance in the mirror—re-applying a bit of smudge-proof lip gloss, smoothing down the wrinkled fabric of your dress, and trying to tame your wildly tangled hair with your fingers—but the physical evidence of what had just occurred was written all over your faces. Your skin was flushed a deep unmistakable pink, your lips were incredibly swollen and red, and Logan was walking with a loose, stupidly contented, proud stride, his hair completely disheveled and sticking up in directions where your fingers had repeatedly torn through it.
The exact moment you stepped back onto the floor of the crowded living room, a loud, piercing whistle cut through the air.
Dean was leaning against the back of the sofa, a beer dangling from his fingers and a knowing smirk plastered across his face. His eyes darted from you to Logan, zeroing in instantly on the faint trace of your lip gloss smeared along Logan’s jawline.
"Well, well, well," he said, loud enough to be heard over the music. "Must have been a pretty intense plumbing emergency in there. Either that, or you two just went ten rounds with a blender. You might want to wipe your face, Logan."
Your cheeks instantly burned. You took a step back. "Dean, shut up, we were just—"
But Logan didn't let you finish the lie. He looked down at you, catching the slight panic in your eyes, and then looked over at Dean, who was practically vibrating with smug satisfaction.
Instead of getting defensive, Logan just let out a short, quiet laugh. The stubbornness, the secrecy, the remnants of your old feud—it all suddenly felt completely irrelevant. He was tired of hiding it.
"You know what? Fuck it," Logan muttered.
Before you could process the words, his hand slid around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your jaw as he pulled you flush against his chest. Right there by the sofa, he leaned down and kissed you.
Dean threw his arms up in a dramatic, sweeping gesture. "About damn fucking time! Graham, you owe me twenty bucks!"
When Logan finally pulled back, his eyes were bright, a relaxed, genuinely happy smile playing on his lips as his thumb brushed your cheek. You looked up at him, the noise of the party fading into the background, finally realizing that the long, argumentative journey of seven dirty words had brought you exactly where you were supposed to be.
summary: the rules are strict—you must date for two months, you must act convincingly in public, and whoever catches feelings first automatically loses.
pairing: john logan (off campus) x fem!reader
warnings/tags: 18+ content (read responsibly!) fake dating trope, enemies to lovers if you squint, mild swearing, emotional constipation, sexual tension/suggestive banter, basically the deal but make it john logan with a few changes (requested by anon who asked for a fake dating trope)
The bass vibrating through the floorboards of the hockey house felt less like a party and more like a localized seismic event.
Standing in the corner of the living room, a red plastic cup of lukeward beer held loosely in your hand, you observed the chaos with the detached scrutiny you usually reserved for your political science seminars.
It was only eleven on a Friday night, but the house was already operating at maximum capacity. Bodies pressed together in the dim ligthing, moving to a track that threated to shatter the windows.
"You're doing the thing again," Hannah said, appearing at your shoulder. She smelled like expensive vanilla and whatever fruity drink Garrett had given her.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," you replied.
"That glare," Hannah clarified, bumping her shoulder against yours. "The one where you look at this party like it's something worth writing a thesis on. Relax, babe. It's Friday. Your debate briefs are done, just have fun."
"I am having fun," you said midly. "I just watched a guy try to open a beer bottle with his teeth and fail."
Hannah sighed, shaking her head, though a fond smile played on her lips. At the age of twenty, Hannah Wells was one of the few people at Briar you genuinely liked.
She was grounded, observant, and possessed the patience of a saint—which she needed, considering she was dating Garrett Graham, a man who took up entire too much oxygen in any given room.
Speaking of, your eyes tracked Garrett as he navigated through the sea of drunk undergraduates, making a beeline straight for Hannah.
"Hey, beautiful," Garrett said, sliding an arm around Hannah's waist and pressing a kiss to her temple that was too domestic for a frat party.
He looked over her head at you. "Thrilled as always to see you radiating sunshine."
"I try to keep the moral high, Graham," you replied dryly.
"Where's the rest of your circus?" Hannah asked, leaning comfortably against Garrett's chest.
"Dean is currently trying to convince two freshmen that he's investigating the economics of the campus weed supply for school purposes," Garrett said, sounding entirely unbothered.
"Tucker's in the kitchen making a charcuterie board out of Ritz crackers. And Logan's somewhere. Probably flirting his way into a girl's pants."
Logan.
That name alone felt like a minor inconvenience. He was perpetually restless, hiding an objective sharp mind beneath layers of obnoxious frat-boy humor.
He was the kind of guy who couldn't stop moving—tapping cups, spinning cups, drumming his fingers against tables. His main flaw, as far as you could tell, was his absolute refusal to be genuine for more than three seconds.
"Don't tell me he's right behind me," you said, detecting a sudden shift in the air behind your back.
"He's right behind you," a voice drawled near your ear.
The heat radiating off his chest was immediate, creeping through the thin fabric of your top. You turn slowly, tilting your head back to meet Logan's eyes.
He was tall, his broad shoulders practically blocking the strobe lights from the makeshift dance floor.
"Sweetheart," Logan said, a lazy, infuriating smirk curving his mouth. "You're at my house. Drinking my cheap beer. Looking aggressively judgmental. It's like my birthday came early."
"If it were your birthday, I would've brought a gift," you shot back. "Like a dictionary. Or perhaps a book on basic social etiquette."
Garrett snorted loudly, burrying his face in Hannah's neck to muffle his laughter.
Logan didn't flinch. Instead, he took half a step closer. He did this all the time—invaded personal space, trying to rattle people with his presence. He smelled like beer and an underlying male musk that was very distracting.
"A dictionary?" Logan feigned hurt, placing a hand over his heart. "I passed my comms paper last week. Got a B-plus. Care to issue an apology for implying I'm illiterate?"
"A B-plus?" You arched an eyebrow. "Let me guess. The prompt was a three-page analysis of team dynamics, and you just described the plot of The Mighty Ducks."
Logan's eyes darkened, a flash of genuine amusement sparking in the dim light. "First of all, it was Miracle. Have some respect for the classics. Second of all, my work was flawless. You're just mad because you actually study for that class and I can bullshit my way into the same bracket."
"You don't bullshit, Logan, you distract," you corrected, your voice dropping an octave as you leaned in just a fraction. Two could play this game.
"Your arguments have zero structural integrity. You win debates by being loud and charming, forcing the opposition to give up out of sheer exhaustion. It's a cheap tactic."
"If it works, it's not cheap," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a split second before returning to your eyes. "It's effective. You'd know that if you didn't argue like a politician who hates people."
"I don't hate people," you replied smoothly. "I just set high standards."
"Oh, snap!" A new voice interjected cheerfully.
You glanced sideways to see Dean materializing out of nowhere, dragging a very tired-looking Tucker behind him.
"Look who it is," Dean grinned, tossing an arm around Logan's shoulders and gesturing wildly at you with a solo cup. "Briar's premier academic terror."
"Hello, Dean. Did you solve the economic crisis of the campus weed supply?"
Dean blinked, genuinely taken aback, before pointing a finger at Garrett. "You told her? That was supposed to be a covert op, Graham!"
"You were shouting it at two freshmen in the kitchen!" Tucker sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He looked at you apologetically. "Good to see you. Sorry about... all of this."
Logan let out a low huff of laughter, stepping closer again. His arms brushed yours, sending an unbidden, sharp thrill of heat straight up your spine.
"So what are we aggressively debating tonight?" Dean asked eagerly, looking back and forth between Logan and you like you were a tennis match.
"Last week it was the geopolitical implications of Batman. Which for the record, you won. Logan sounded like an idiot."
"I was making a valid point about vigilante infrastructure," Logan protested loudly. "And I'm not doing this again. I was just pointing out that she hates fun. She thinks sports superstitions are dumb."
"I didn't say they were dumb," you corrected, turning your body fully toward Logan. "I said they were pathetic. Tapping a hockey stick against the post does not appease the 'hockey gods.' It's just you, a grown man, relying on magic because you can't shoulder the burden of a random outcome."
The entire circle went dead silent.
Even the thumping bass of the track seemed to fade into the background as Garrett, Dean, and Tucker all stared at you in horror. Superstitions in a hockey house were effectively a religion.
You had basically just walked into the Vatican and insulted the Pope.
Hannah covered her face with her hands. "Oh, God."
Logan didn't look mad. If anything, the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth grew sharper.
"Say that again," he dared you, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sent a flush of heat creeping up your neck.
"I don't repeat myself for the stubbornly ignorant," you whispered back, holding his gaze fiercely.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Logan was overwhelming up close, the scent of his cologne curling into your lungs. He was staring at you like you were a puzzle he firmly intended to break apart.
The physical awareness between you was suddenly deafening. The rise and fall of his chest, the slight flex of his jaw, the way his thumb rubbed absently against the seam of his jeans.
It was heavy, heated, and entirely inappropriate considering you were fundamentally incompatible.
"You guys flirt like divorced parents," Dean announced loudly, shattering the tension.
You stepped back instantly. "I'd rather die, Di Laurentis."
"Seriously," Garrett chimed in, leaning against the wall with a delighted grin. "The sexual tension is ruining my high. Just make out already so Logan stops acting like a rabid dog every time you walk into a room."
"I do not act like a rabid dog," Logan snapped. He glanced at Garrett before shooting a defensive look at you. "And for the record, I don't flirt with her. Having a civil conversation with her is like trying to pet a cactus."
"A cactus?" You crossed your arms. "Your metaphors are weak as shit."
Logan stepped into your space again. "My metaphors are elite. You couldn't handle dating me anyway. I'm exhausting."
"Please," you scoffed. "I'd win."
Logan blinked, momentarily thrown off-balance. "You'd... win dating me? That doesn't even make sense."
"It means," you said, stepping right up into his space. "That if we dated, I would be completely unbothered. You, on the other hand, would crack in a week. You need vaildation too much. The moment I didn't laugh at your stupid jokes, your ego would implode."
"Is that right?" he asked, his voice dropping into a dangerously smooth register.
"That's a hypothesis," you whispered, holding his stare. "Backed by evidence."
"Alright, that's it," Garrett shouted, clapping his hands together like a referee ending a play. "Bet."
You tore your eyes away from Logan to look at Garrett. "What?"
"I'm calling the bluff," Garrett announced, stepping into the center of the circle. "Two months."
"Garrett, no," Hannah warned, grabbing his arm. "This is such a bad idea. They'll kill each other."
"No, let him speak," Logan interrupted, his eyes never leaving your face. There was a reckless, arrogant light in his gaze now. "What are you proposing, G?"
"A fake relationship," Garrett declared grandly. "Two months. Exclusive. Here are the terms: You two have to publicly pretended to be wildly, obnoxiously in love. You go to parties together. You sit in the cafeteria. You do all the gross couple shit."
"Absolutely not. You're the one to talk about fake relationships, Graham," you said immediately.
"Let him finish," Dean rubbed his hands together like a villain. "This is getting good."
"If you quit early, you lose," Garrett continued, counting on his fingers. "If you make it obvious to anyone outside this circle that it's fake, you lose. And the most important rule: whoever catches feelings first, loses."
Logan let out a bark of laughter. "Catch feelings? For her? I'd rather drink bleach."
"The feeling is mutual," you shot back smoothly.
"Excellent," Tucker said mildly, folding his arms. "Then this should be effortless for the both of you."
"If you both survive two months without losing," Dean added hastily, clearly inventing the stakes on the spot, "the three of us will cover Logan's share of the rent for the semester. And for the lady... we'll pay for your prep courses for the LSAT."
You froze. LSAT prep courses were expensive. You had been working extra shifts at the campus library just to save up for the basic packages.
Your secret, the one you closely guarded beneath your tailored clothes and sharp remarks, was that you constantly, exhaustingly stressed about money. Your parents weren't footing your tuition like the rest of the kids in this house.
You glanced at Logan.
He looked entirely unbothered, practically vibrating with the arrogant certainty that he could beat you. He probably thought it would be easy money. He probably thought he could charm his way through two months of fake dates, annoy you into quitting, and walk away victorious.
"Two months," you verified. "Exclusive public dating. Must appear convincing. Catching feelings results to an automatic forfeit."
"Those are the terms," Garrett confirmed, looking far too pleased with himself.
"Babe," Hannah whispered, leaning into your ear. "Do not do this. Logan is an idiot, but he's a very aggressively charming idiot. You're voluntarily putting yourself in the line of fire."
"Hannah," you murmured back, eyes fixed on Logan. "I'm going to ruin his life."
You stepped forward, extending your hand toward Logan.
"Deal."
Logan looked at your outstretched hand for a moment. A muscle ticked in his jaw. Then, slowly, he reached out and wrapped his calloused hand around yours. His palm was warm, rough from years of handling a hockey stick, and the sheer size of his grip swallowed your hand completely.
The moment your skin made contact, a violent, unexpected jolt of heat shot straight up your arm, setting low and heavy in your stomach. Logan's eyes snapped up to yours, widening just a fraction as if he had felt the same shock.
"Two months," Logan murmured, his voice suddenly sounding lower, rougher than it had a moment ago. "Try not to fall in love with me."
"Don't worry, Logan," you said, stepping back, desperately ignoring the tingling warmth still radiating across your skin. "I prefer men with actual reading comprehension skills."
As you turned away, dragging Hannah toward the kitchen to refill your beer, your mind was racing. You had a 3.9 GPA. You had destroyed professors in debates. You were composed, rational, and immune to college boy bullshit.
What are you doing with your life?
What happens after you agree to a fake-dating bet with John Logan is not a smooth, cinematic transition into romance. It is a controlled massacre of your entire existence.
By Monday morning, Briar University had done what Briar always did with total campus chaos: it weaponized it into gossip.
The exact moment you knew your carefully, ordered, highly academic life had collapsed was when you walked into your first class. Three people you had never seen before in your life turned in perfect, horrifying unision said, "Hey, Logan's girlfriend."
You didn't correct them. Not because it was true, but because correcting them would imply that you cared enough to use your vocal cords. And you absolutely refused to give the entire hockey house the satisfaction of knowing they've got you riled up.
Logan was waiting outside the lecture hall. As soon as he saw you, he pushed the wall with a lazy smirk. "Morning, sweetheart."
"Don't call me that in daylight. I feel like I'm being slaughtered."
"That's the whole point," he replied easily, not missing a beat.
Before you could step past him, he moved directly into your personal space. Logan didn't understand the concept of a normal human boundary.
Or, more accurately, he understood it perfectly and just liked seeing you try to calculate the physics of how much trouble you'd get into for shoving him into the nearest trash can.
He held out a coffee cup. You paused. "...Is that for me?"
"No, it's an experiment. I'm conducting a study on what happens when your cold, robotic, cynical heart accepts a basic act of human kindess. Do you melt? Do you hiss? I need to know."
You snatched it from his hand with a glare. You took a sip, fully prepared to criticize his taste, but stopped mid-swallow. It was exactly how you liked it.
You hated that he knew that. You hated that he had apparently paid attention to your order exactly once three weeks ago and cataloged it away.
By noon, your little arrangement has entered phase two.
When you sat down in the crowded dining hall with your laptop open, ready to get some actual work done, Logan didn't take the empty seat across from you.
He slid right onto the bench next to you. His thigh pressed casually against yours, the heat of his body radiating through his jacket. He acted like it was completely accidental, totally ignoring the fact that your entire nervous system was actively trying to exit your body through your ears.
Dean slid into the seat across from you a second later, immediately grinning like a hyena. "Oh, this absolute disgusting. Look at you two. You're doing the couple lean already. My stomach is turning, I love it."
"We're not leaning," you said, stiffening your posture until you were straight as an ironing board.
Logan immediately leaned his entire upper body weight into your shoulder, resting his chin almost directly on your collarbone to look at your laptop screen.
"What are we studying, baby?"
You shifted away, your face burning.
He followed.
You shifted back toward the edge of the bench.
He followed again, nudging his shoulder against yours with a quiet chuckle that vibrated right against your side.
"If you don't move three inches to the left," you whispered to Logan, "I'm going to stick this fork in your knee."
"Threatening me with bodily harm?" Logan beamed, completely unbothered. "Write that down, G. It's out one-week anniversary."
By the second week, the cracks in your defense strategy started small. Annoyingly, frustratingly small.
The real issue was Logan remembering things. Not grand, cinematic, romantic things. That would've been easy to ignore. It was worse. It was the mundane, everyday things.
On Tuesday, a freak afternoon thunderstorm hit right as your statistics seminar let out. You stood in the lobby of the building, staring gloomily at the pouring rain, fully prepared to ruin your favorite shoes and your mood.
Then the heavy glass doors swung open, bringing in a gust of cold air, and there was Logan. He was soaking wet, his hair blasted blasted by the wind, holding out a massive umbrella.
"What are you doing here?" you asked. "Don't you have practice?"
"Canceled," he lied smoothly, though you knew for a fact hockey practice was never canceled unless the arena literally froze over from the outside.
"C'mon, I'm not letting your stuff get damaged. I'd never hear the end of it."
On Thursday, after you spent six straight hours in the computer lab and forgot that human beings require food to stay alive, he casually walked past your desk.
Without saying a word, he dropped a bag of chips, a sandwich, and a protein bar right on top of your keyboard. He didn't even linger for a thank you; he just flashed you a smile and kept walking.
Then he started walking you home from the campus library. Every single night.
"You don't have to do this, you know," you told him one chilly night. "I'm perfectly capable of walking without security."
"I know," he replied simply, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
That was it. No cocky comeback. No punchline to ease the tension. Just complete, unbothered certainty. And that was the exact problem. John Logan didn't do anything without intent.
Later that weekend, the hockey house threw a massive party that you were forced to attend to 'keep up the act.' You were standing with Logan by the crowded kitchen island when Dean loudly announced to a group of girls.
"Just so you all know, Logan hasn't even looked at anyone's way ever since she came. The man is practically a monk."
The girls laughed, looking at Logan expectantly, waiting for him to play along or make a joke.
Logan didn't deny it. He didn't even laugh. He just took a slow sip of his cup and said, "No time. I've been busy."
And he looked directly, intensely at you when he said it.
The heat in his gaze made your face feel like it was on fire. You came very, very close to throwing your cup of beer straight at his beautiful, stupid forehead. Almost.
By week three, the rest of the house began to notice that something was seriously off with the atmosphere.
It wasn't that you were acting like a couple in public (That was the literal objective of the bet). The actual problem was much worse: it was starting to look real when absolutely no one was watching.
Hannah cornered you in the kitchen on a Sunday afternoon while you were trying to make tea.
"You're aware you're softening, right?" she asked, leaning her hip against the counter and eyeing you.
"I am not softening," you said keeping your voice entirely flat and monotone.
Hannah gave you a long, knowing look that made you want to crawl under the floor. "You're not losing the bet," she said quietly, her tone softening. "But something's happening."
She patted your shoulder in a way that felt entirely too sympathetic and walked away before you could come up with a brilliant counterargument to save face.
The following week was the week everything completely shifted, because Logan stopped performing.
The flirting didn't disappear, but it changed into something unrecognizable. There was less showmanship, less playing to the crowd. He stopped making the rest of the campus his audience.
Instead, he started making you his sole focus.
One chilly Friday night, he walked you back to your dorm after a grueling study session that had left you wishing for a quick death.
"You don't have to come up to the door," you said. "I have my keys anyway."
"I know."
But he didn't move. He just stood there, his breath turning to white mist in the cold night air. His dark hair was slightly messy from the wind, and he looked incredibly human.
The silence stretched between you, growing longer and heavier by the second. Usually, this was the part where he'd make a sarcastic comment, flash his signature grin, or try to steal a fake kiss to get a reaction out of you so he could tease you about it.
But he just looked at you.
Then quieter than you'd ever heard him speak, Logan said, "You ever think about what happens after this?"
You frowned, "We win. Obviously. You and I get the satisfaction of annoying the boys and not pay for anything. Life continues exactly as it did before we started this."
"That's not what I meant."
You studied his face. The streetlights threw sharp shadows across his jawline. He wasn't smirking, or teasing, he looked incredibly still. It made your stomach tighten in a way that you really, really did not appreciate.
"I don't think about the after," you said carefully, your voice barely above a whisper.
Logan nodded once. Like that was a completely acceptable answer. Like it was for now.
"Goodnight," he said softly, turning to walk down the path toward his car.
Naturally, the first real breakdown happened during a completely stupid, unromantic moment.
It was a Thursday night in the absolute deepest basement of the campus library. It was past 2:00 AM. Your notes looked like ancient hieroglyphics, your brain felt like wet cement, and your very last remaining nerve was hanging on by a single, fraying thread of caffeine.
Out of nowhere, a familiar shadow fell over your messy desk. Logan slid into the wooden chair directly across from you. He looked entirely too awake for two in the morning.
“You look like you’re about to commit a felony,” he said, eye-level with your massive stack of textbooks.
“I am studying.”
“That’s worse.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose, feeling a massive headache blooming behind your eyes. “Why are you even here, Logan? Don't you sleep?”
He reached out and lightly tapped the edge of your open laptop. “Because Hannah told me you haven’t eaten anything since lunch. And because you’re stubborn.”
“I’m fine.”
“Your hands are shaking.”
“I’m just highly focused. It’s an adrenaline rush.”
“You’re going to pass out on a public desk and some freshman is going to steal your notes.”
“I said I’m—”
The words caught in your throat. Logan reached across the table, his large hand wrapping around the top edge of your laptop, and gently but firmly closed it shut.
“Come on,” he said.
It wasn't a command. He wasn't teasing your or trying to be funny. His voice was just filled with a quiet, undeniable certainty that completely disarmed me.
You stared at him, your stubbornness trying to flare up one last time. “I’m not done.”
“You are for tonight,” he said. He paused, looking at you with an expression that was so soft, so genuinely sweet, it scared me more than any test ever could. Quieter, he added, “I’m not asking.”
And for some horrific reason, that was what broke you. It wasn't him trying to control the situation; it was the fact that he was disguising genuine, protective care as control. My throat felt tight.
Once you got outside into the cool, crisp night air, he pulled a warm, wrapped breakfast sandwich out of his jacket pocket—he must have gone to the 24-hour diner down the street—and handed it to you.
“You’re really not supposed to be good at this,” you whispered, your voice cracking slightly.
“At what?”
“Whatever this is. Being nice. Taking care of me. It’s messing with everything”
Logan leaned his back against the brick wall of the library, looking down at you with a soft, steady expression. “I’m not trying.”
And that, right there, was the ultimate problem. He wasn't trying to act like a good boyfriend for the bet. He just was.
By week six, Garrett called an emergency house meeting. In the hockey house, a formal house meeting meant disaster was not just imminent—it had already arrived, unpacked its bags, and moved into the guest room.
“You guys are failing,” Garrett announced, pointing a finger at you and Logan from across the living room coffee table like a disappointed coach.
“We are literally not failing,” you shot back instantly, crossing your arms defensively. “Everyone on campus thinks we’ve been dating for a month and a half. The dean literally asked me how Logan was doing yesterday.”
“You’re not winning, though,” Dean corrected, leaning over the back of the couch with a piece of leftover pizza in his hand.
Tucker nodded from the armchair, not looking up from his phone. “There is a distinct difference between surviving and winning.”
Logan leaned back in his seat, looking completely unbothered as he stretched his long legs out across the rug. “We’re fine. The bet is intact. No one doubts us.”
Hannah didn’t speak at all. She just sat in the corner armchair, watching the two of you with a look that made you incredibly nervous.
Garrett stood up and started pacing, pointing between the two of you. “You’re supposed to be acting. That was the deal. Fake dating. But right now, Logan looks like he’s thinking way too much about what he's doing, and she looks like she’s actively trying not to look at him. It’s weird. The vibe is off.”
“I don’t think,” Logan scoffed, rolling his eyes. “It’s against my brand.”
Without thinking, your brain completely bypassing your filters, you blurted out, “He absolutely thinks. He thinks more than all of you combined. He’s incredibly observant, and just because he doesn't shout his thoughts doesn't mean he's empty-headed.”
The entire room went dead silent. Garrett stopped mid-pace. Dean froze with the pizza halfway to his mouth.
They all stared at you. Then you realized what you had just done: you had just fiercely, reflexively, passionately defended Logan John’s honor in front of his best friends.
That was entirely new. That was not in the script. You hated myself a little bit in that moment, your cheeks burning a bright, undeniable crimson.
It was exactly eleven forty-five on a Friday night, which meant there were fifteen minutes left on the clock.
Fifteen minutes until the wager expired. Sixty days of holding hands in public corridors, sixty days of leaning close enough to share breath but never a kiss, and sixty days of you telling yourself you were fundamentally immune to John Logan.
The bass of the off-campus house party rattled through the worn wooden floorboards, vibrating against the soles of your boots. Red and purple strobe lights sliced through the humid, crowded room, illuminating the exact moment Logan broke through the throng of sweaty bodies.
He moved with that infuriating, effortless grace he always possessed—broad shoulders easily parting the crowd, his dark leather jacket slipping past red plastic cups and uninhibited dancers.
His eyes were locked on you from across the room. There was no trademark smirk tonight. No lazy, arrogant tilt to his jaw. He looked deadly serious.
Your heart did a violent, terrifying stutter against your ribs. Don't lose your nerve.
The bet had been simple: fake date for two months to get your respective meddling friends off your backs, and whoever caught feelings—whoever tapped out first—lost. It was an exercise in ego. A test of pure, stubborn willpower.
He knew exactly where to touch your lower back to make your breath hitch. You knew exactly how to angle your neck when he whispered in your ear so that he would lose his train of thought. It was mutually assured destruction disguised as a joke.
But as he stopped right in front of you, the joke was violently dead.
He took your hand, wrapping his large, warm fingers around your wrist, and pulled you out of the kitchen. You followed blindly, letting him navigate you down a narrow, shadowed hallway away from the crush of the party. The noise muffled slightly, swallowed by the heavy coats piled on a nearby bench.
Logan turned to face you. The shadows carved sharp angles into his cheekbones. His chest was rising and falling a little too fast, his dark eyes entirely devoid of their usual playful challenge. He took a single step into your space, trapping the air between you.
"Time's almost up," he murmured, his voice a low, rough scrape against the thrumming music from the other room.
"I know," you breathed. Your throat felt incredibly dry. You fought the urge to step back, but the wall was already pressing against my shoulder blades. "You ready to concede?"
"No," he said flatly. Then, his gaze dragged down to your mouth, heavy and dark and starving. "I'm ready to change the rules."
Your logical brain told you that you should find a flaw in this plan. Your old survival instinct told you to run away before you got hurt.
But instead, you looked up into his eyes and said, “This is probably going to ruin our entire reputation for being sensible.”
Logan smiled, that beautiful, real smile that didn't have a hint of a smirk in it, his eyes wrinkling at the corners. “Probably.”
He squeezed your hand tightly, pulling you just an inch closer until your chest was pressed against his jacket. “Worth it?”
You looked at him. Really, truly looked at him—the boy who brought you umbrellas in the rain and remembered how you took your coffee.
You ignored the loud music behind him, the crazy bet behind you, and all the overthinking in your own head. For the first time in two solid months of calculating every move, you didn’t care about the outcome.
“…Yeah,” you whispered, reaching your free hand up to grip the lapel of his jacket. “Definitely worth it.”
Logan exhaled a massive breath, like he’d been holding it underwater for weeks, a look of pure relief washing over his face. “Good,” he said.
And this time, when he stepped closer and leaned his head down, you didn’t move away at all—you reached up to meet him halfway.
The second your lips touched, a violent, desperate shockwave tore through you. It wasn’t a soft, exploratory first kiss. It was an absolute collision.
Logan groaned, a deep, helpless sound in the back of his throat, and immediately dropped his hands to your hips, hauling you flush against his hard body.
He kissed you like he was starving. Like the last two months had been a physical torture he was finally allowed to end. His tongue swept into your mouth, possessive and hot, tasting every corner while his hands gripped your waist tight enough to bruise.
"Baby," he breathed raggedly against your lips, peppering hot, frantic kisses down the corner of your mouth to your jaw. "Christ, I've wanted to do this since week one."
"Then why didn't you?" you gasped, letting your head fall back against the wall as his lips dragged down your neck, his stubble scraping deliciously against your sensitive skin.
"Because you're stubborn as hell," he growled, biting lightly at your collarbone. "And I needed you to be sure. Let's get out of here. Now."
There was no conversation. No goodbye to your friends. You practically sprinted out the back door, stumbling into the sharp chill of the autumn night. His hand was locked in yours, pulling you toward his car parked down the block.
The entire drive to your apartment was a blur of thick, agonizing tension. Logan kept one hand on the steering wheel, his knuckles white, while his right hand rested heavily on your thigh.
His thumb dragged slow, torturous circles against the denim of your jeans, sending jolts of heat pooling directly between your legs.
By the time you shoved your way through your front door, the final remnants of restraint shattered.
The heavy wooden door hadn't even clicked shut before Logan pinned you against it. His mouth crashed down on yours again, deeper and dirtier this time.
He tasted like desperation. Your hands scrambled at the zipper of his jacket, shoving the cool leather off his broad shoulders so it dropped uselessly to the floor.
"Fuck, baby," he mumbled roughly, his hands already sliding up under the hem of your sweater. His large, warm palms met the bare skin of your stomach, and you threw your head back with a sharp gasp. "Tell me to stop if this is just the adrenaline."
"Logan," you said, your voice shaking with pure need. "If you stop right now, I'll never forgive you."
He let out a low, feral sound that sent a shiver straight down your spine. In one fluid motion, he grabbed the hem of your sweater and pulled it over your head, tossing it aside.
You stood before him in a bra, chest heaving, entirely exposed to the searing heat of his gaze. Every muscle in his jaw feathered as his eyes took you in.
"You have no idea," he whispered, his voice thick, his hands trailing down your sides. "You have no fucking idea what it's been like. Pretending I wasn't obsessing over you. Holding your hand and having to let it go."
"Show me, then," you challenged softly, your fingers reaching for the buttons of his shirt.
He didn't need to be told twice. He stripped off his shirt with brutal efficiency, revealing a broad chest and a torso cut with hard lines of muscle.
You barely had a second to appreciate the view before he was backing you down the short hallway into yout bedroom. The mattress hit the backs of your knees, and you tumbled down into the comforter, Logan following you down instantly.
His weight settled over you, caging you in, heavily masculine and exquisitely overwhelming. He kissed you again, his thigh parting your legs as his hips pressed flush against you.
Even through the layers of denim between you, you could feel exactly how hard and thick he was for.
A desperate, wet heat flooded your panties. You arched blindly against him, seeking friction, and he groaned into your mouth.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he rasped, his warm breath fanning over your collarbone.
His hands moved with practiced, urgent purpose. He unclasped your bra in a single deft motion, sweeping the lace aside to expose you.
The cool air hit your flushed skin for only a second before Logan lowered his head. His mouth closed over one hard peak, hot and wet, his tongue laving the sensitive center while his teeth scraped lightly.
A loud, embarrassing whimper tore out of your throat. Your hands dove into his hair, gripping tightly as a heavy, twisting coil of pleasure tightened deep in your belly.
He suckled you unapologetically, drawing hard enough to make stars burst behind your eyes, while his hand moved lower, fumbling with the button of your jeans.
You tore at each other’s remaining clothes. It wasn't graceful; it was chaotic, driven by two solid months of pent-up starvation.
"You're perfect," he breathed, tracing a path down your stomach with one long finger. He followed the trail with a string of open-mouthed kisses, lower and lower, until he reached the juncture of your thighs.
Before you could brace yourself, he settled between your legs, hooking your knees over his shoulders.
"Logan—" you gasped, reaching for him, but he just smirked—a dark, wicked version of his usual smile.
"I have two months of making up to do," he murmured against you. "Keep your hands in the sheets, baby.”
And then his mouth was on you. He found my clit instantly, his tongue sweeping over the sensitive bundle of nerves in a long, relentless drag.
Your back arched completely off the mattress. You screamed his name, your fingers twisting violently into the heavy fabric of the sheets as he devoured you.
He knew exactly what he was doing. He was thorough, patient, and ruinously skilled. He alternated between deep, rhythmic laps and tight, focused flicks of his tongue, teasing you right to the edge and then backing off just enough to make you beg.
"Please," you sobbed out, thrashing helplessly against his mouth. "Logan, please baby, I need—"
"I know," he soothed, sliding two thick fingers deep inside you while his mouth continued its assault.
you were completely dripping for him, embarrassingly slick, but he only seemed emboldened by how wrecked you were.
The orgasm hit you like a freight train. It ripped through your body in violent, shivering waves. You cried out, legs clamped tightly over his shoulders as you broke apart under his mouth.
You were still gasping for breath, chest heaving, when Logan rose over you. His face was flushed, his jaw tight, his dark eyes dilated with pure, predatory need.
He settled his weight back between your thighs, propping himself up on his forearms. He nudged the blunt, hot head of his length against your heat, stopping right on the verge.
He looked down at you, his expression softening into an aching vulnerability that made your heart hammer in your throat.
"I need you to know," he said, his voice entirely wrecked in the quiet room. "Before I do this. You have to know it wasn't a game to me. Not for a single goddamn second."
Tears stung the corners of your eyes at the raw sincerity in his tone. "I know. It wasn't a game to me either."
He let out a broken breath, leaning down to press a deep, bruising kiss to your mouth. As your lips locked, he drove his hips forward, burying himself fully inside you.
You both cried out. He was massive, thick and blazingly hot, stretching you open and filling every empty ache you hadn't let yourself acknowledge.
"Okay?" he whispered, his hips instinctively trembling against yours.
"Don't wait," you begged him, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist to lock his hips to you. “Don't hold back anymore."
That was the only permission he needed. Logan began to move, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in to the hilt with a heavy, wet slap of skin on skin.
He established a deep, punishing rhythm. Every thrust was accompanied by a harsh grunt, his hips snapping forward to hit the deepest, sweetest spot inside you over and over.
Your nails dug half-moons into his back, your hips rising off the mattress to meet him halfway, desperate for deeper friction.
"Fuck," he ground out, the pace accelerating. The bed frame let out a heavy rhythmic squeak, echoing the wet sounds of your bodies colliding. "You feel—god, you feel better than I imagined."
"John… baby…” you whimpered, the syllables falling from your lips entirely broken.
He shifted his grip, sliding one hand under your hips to angle you perfectly against him, while his other hand reached between your bodies. His thick thumb found your swollen clit, pressing down right as he drove deep inside.
The pleasure was too dense, too sudden. You let out a sharp cry, your head thrashing on the pillows as the second orgasm rushed up your spine.
"That's it," he praised hoarsely, his grip tightening violently on your hips. "Come for me. Let go."
You shattered around him, your walls clenching tightly over his cock. The sensation tipped him right over his own edge.
Logan let out a deep, guttural shout, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he drove completely to the hilt. His entire body went rigid, cording with strain as he pulsed deep inside you.
For a long time, the only sound in the room was the ragged tear of your breathing. Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel the vibration echoing in his chest, pressed completely flush against yours.
Slowly, the adrenaline ebbed, leaving a sprawling warmth in its wake. Logan pressed a soft, damp kiss to the side of your neck before gently rolling to the side, pulling me flush against his side.
He wrapped a thick arm around your waist, tucking your head securely under his chin. His hand smoothed down the messy tangle of your hair, his thumb beginning a slow, possessive stroke along your spine.
"So," he murmured, his voice rumbling pleasantly beneath your ear. The tension was gone from his shoulders, replaced by a profound, immovable contentment. "I tap out. You win."
You tilted your head up, resting your chin on his bare chest to look at him. His dark hair was a ruined mess, his lips were swollen, and his eyes were soft and incredibly bright in the dim light of the bedroom.
The smug arrogance of his fake dating persona was completely burned away, leaving only the real boy underneath. The one you were hopelessly, irrevocably in love with.
"I don't think either of us actually lost, Logan," you said softly, tracing the line of his jaw.
A lazy, brilliant smile finally spread across his face, lighting up the corners of his eyes. "Yeah," he whispered, pressing his lips firmly against your forehead. "I think you're right."
You lay there in the quiet aftermath of the storm, the neon digits on his nightstand clock finally flipping past midnight.
Day sixty was officially over. The wager was dead and buried. And as his fingers gently laced with yours in the dark, tying your hand to his, you realized the terrifying truth.
The fake romance was easy. Now you had to wake up tomorrow, walk out into the real world, and start playing for keeps.
The bass from the speakers downstairs was vibrating right through the floorboards of John Logan’s bedroom, but up here, the air was finally cool enough to breathe.
Logan leaned against the doorframe of his room, a half-empty red solo cup dangling from his fingers. He loved the guys, and he loved a good Briar University hockey house party, but tonight, the heat and the sheer volume of people were grating on his nerves. He was just about to head back down to find Tucker and Garrett when a flash of movement at the end of the hallway caught his eye.
You were trying to navigate the corridor, but your shoulder slammed heavily into the drywall.
Logan frowned, straightening up. He knew what a drunk college student looked like—hell, he looked like one most weekends—but something about the way you were moving set off immediate alarm bells. Your head was lolling, your knees buckling as if they were made of water, and your hands were scraping uselessly against the wall to keep yourself upright.
Before he could even take a step toward you, a guy emerged from the stairwell. Logan recognized him vaguely—some frat guy who frequented their parties but wasn't part of their inner circle. The guy had a tight, predatory grip on your waist, dragging you forward a little too forcefully.
"Come on, babe," the guy muttered, his voice slick. "Let's find somewhere quiet. You’re fine. Just a little more."
You mumbled something completely incoherent, your head dropping against his shoulder. You weren't hugging him back; your arms were hanging limply at your sides.
Logan’s hockey instincts—the ones that told him exactly when a hit was dirty—kicked into overdrive. He dropped his solo cup onto a nearby table and covered the distance between himself and the pair in three long, commanding strides.
"Hey," Logan said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that usually made opposing players back off the crease.
The guy blinked, looking up, trying to mask his sudden panic with a cocky grin. "Oh, hey, Logan. Great party, man. Just taking my girl upstairs to lie down."
Logan looked at you. Your eyes were open, but they were completely glassy, pupils dilated, unfocused on anything in the room. You looked beautiful, but terrified—trapped inside a body that wasn't responding to your commands.
"She's not your girl," Logan said flatly. He stepped directly into the guy's personal space, using his massive frame to completely cut him off. "And she's not going anywhere with you."
"Bro, chill, she's just had a few drinks—"
"I know exactly what a girl who’s had 'a few drinks' looks like, and this isn't it," Logan snarled, his jaw clenching. He noticed the slight tremor in the guy’s hand, the way he kept glancing toward the stairs. Logan reached out, his grip like a vice as he wrapping his fingers around the guy's wrist, forcing him to let go of your waist. "What did you put in her cup?"
"Nothing! Look, man, I don't want any trouble—"
"Then move." Logan didn't raise his voice, but the sheer menace in his tone was enough.
The guy let go completely, raising his hands in surrender, backing away toward the stairs. "Whatever, man. She's a buzzkill anyway." He turned and practically bolted down the steps, disappearing into the crowded living room.
The moment the guy's support vanished, your knees gave out entirely.
"Whoa, whoa, I got you," Logan breathed, catching you before you could hit the hardwood floor. He scooped you up into his arms effortlessly, lifting you against his chest. You were heavy, a dead weight, confirming his worst fears. You’d been roofied.
He didn't hesitate. He carried you straight into his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him and turning the lock. The sudden dampening of the party noise downstairs felt like a relief.
He walked over to his bed and gently laid you down on top of the covers. You groaned softly, your eyes rolling back as you tried to blink him into focus.
"Logan..." you slurred, the syllable barely escaping your lips. You didn't really know him—everyone at Briar knew who John Logan was—but seeing his familiar, handsome face seemed to cut through the terrifying fog in your brain just enough to make you feel safe.
"Yeah, it's me. You're safe, okay?" His voice transformed instantly, losing all of its harsh aggression and turning incredibly soft. He sat on the edge of the mattress, gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. Your skin was clammy. "I’ve got you. That asshole is gone."
A tear slipped down the side of your face, soaking into his comforter. "Can't... can't move right. Everything's heavy."
"I know. It's okay. It’s going to wear off," he promised, his heart aching at how vulnerable you looked. It made his blood boil all over again thinking about what would have happened if he had stayed downstairs by the keg. "Just breathe. I'm right here. I'm not leaving you."
Logan got up for a brief moment to grab a clean washcloth from his adjacent bathroom, running it under cold water. He came back, sitting on the edge of the bed again, and gently pressed the cool cloth to your forehead and then the back of your neck.
You let out a soft sigh, your eyes closing. "Thank you."
"Don't worry about it," he murmured. He grabbed a bottle of water from his mini-fridge, setting it on the nightstand. "I'm going to text Garrett to make sure that piece of shit gets thrown out of our house, alright? But I'm staying right here."
Logan pulled out his phone, typing a quick, furious text to his roommates:
G, guy in a grey hoodie and snapback just tried to slide something in a girl's drink upstairs. He's heading down. Throw his ass out and break his nose if he argues.
A second later, Garrett replied: On it.
Logan tossed his phone aside and looked back down at you. You had managed to curl slightly onto your side, your breathing shallow but steady. The cold cloth had helped a little, but he knew you just had to ride out the worst of the drug.
He didn't try to touch you inappropriately, didn't try to take advantage of the fact that a gorgeous girl was lying in his bed. Instead, John Logan—the smooth-talking, confident hockey star—just pulled a chair up to the side of the bed. He took your limp, cold hand in his own large, warm one, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
"Just sleep it off, beautiful," he whispered into the quiet room, keeping watch like a guardian line-man. "I've got the night shift."
Summary: John Logan smells like apples and lends you pencils and tells you it's okay to wear your headphones in his car. He brings you to Dean and Beau's party after you misunderstand who's invited. He's your friend now, apparently. You're starting to think that maybe you don't just want him as your friend, though.
Pairing: John Logan x fem!reader
Word count: 3.5k
Warnings/tags: drinking, a guy harasses reader. reader being a little weird (affectionate). maybe a little ND coded <3 misunderstandings. reader is friends w/ hannah. logan being a sweetie pie.
Notes: hi hello i am writing for off campus apparently (?) we'll see. i love u john logan
the divider
“That was so good!” Hannah says in your ear, her arm around you. “Wasn’t it?”
“It was,” you say, your smile a little strained.
She’s flushed from the excitement of the game. She cheered and clapped almost the whole time. You did a little. It’s not that Briar didn’t do well—they crushed Eastwood, in fact, 6-2. But you’re a little overwhelmed by all the noise. You’d like to leave as soon as you can.
“Are you sure you don’t wanna come?” Hannah asks as you go down the bleachers.
“I’m okay. I have a paper to write.”
She pouts. You don’t know why—after all, you weren’t invited. You couldn’t attend Dean and Beau’s birthday party even if you wanted to.
“Okay,” she says, finally acquiescing. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Sure. Good luck with your hard launch.”
Hannah bites her lip, her eyes shining. “Yeah, we’ll see what Garrett has planned. Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you to the dorm?”
“I’m alright, really. I can take the shuttle.”
She’s not happy about it. Something you like about being friends with Hannah Wells is that she wears almost every emotion on her face. Once you deciphered her expressions, it was easy enough to figure out from there what she’s feeling. It makes everything much simpler. You wish everyone were as easy to read as Hannah.
She lets you go with one last affectionate goodbye. You start walking, not sure where you’re supposed to go to find the shuttle from the stadium. Part of you doesn’t really care as much about that. Mostly, you want to get away from the noise. Tonight was just a cacophony of buzzers and slammed pucks and chants and shouts. Players getting shoved against the glass was the worst. You jumped every time.
You pull out your phone. It feels like you’ve gone in a circle. The stadium is a maze.
“Hi.”
You look up. John Logan—everyone calls him Logan, which throws you off—is about ten feet away, and he’s coming closer. He’s still in uniform, even his skates. You’re always impressed when you see players walk on skates. His hair is damp with sweat and at its curliest. Usually, it’s in fluffy waves.
“Hey, are you coming to the party?” he asks, coming to a stop in front of you.
“I wasn’t invited,” you say.
He tilts his head, eyebrows scrunching. You focus, trying to figure his face out. A look like that usually means you’ve said something that doesn’t make sense, but you can’t imagine what that would be. You don’t even talk much with Logan, so how can he already be confused by you?
“You’re friends with Hannah, right?” he asks. “And Hannah’s bringing her friend Allie?”
You nod. “Yes, they were invited.”
“It’s a campus-wide invite,” Logan says. “No one got invited specifically—Dean and Beau posted the details expecting the entire student body to show up.”
“Oh. That’s confusing.”
He shrugs. “It’s usually the same group of people who go to the parties, so I guess people don’t think about it. But uh, you know, if Hannah and Allie are going, it’s safe to say that you can go too.”
People don’t think about a lot of things. They tell you even less, which makes you feel stupid and lonely sometimes. But you don’t say any of this, because your mother would say those are inside thoughts. Instead, you shove your hand in your pocket and play with a silica gel packet that came in your new camera box.
You like to roll the beads inside the packet, and you’ve discovered that if someone asks what you’re fiddling with, it’s acceptable if you show them the silica gel. You used to fiddle with a ball of plastic wrap, but that made too much noise in class.
“Okay, well, congratulations on your game,” you say when Logan says nothing else. “Bye.” You turn to leave the stadium.
“Wait!” Logan jogs around to face you again. “Uh, wait. Did Hannah not invite you?”
“She asked me to go, but I declined because I have a paper due next week, and because I wasn’t invited. It’s rude to go to parties you aren’t invited to.”
That’s a rule that took a few times to learn in middle school, but you’re very proud that you know it now. Except apparently it doesn’t apply in college. Rules are always changing, and sometimes it makes you so frustrated, you could spit.
“Well, what if I asked you to go? Invited you officially. I live with Dean, and I helped set up the party. Is that enough of an authority?”
“I don’t really know what constitutes an authority to invite people to parties,” you say. “Why do you want me to go?”
“Uh, well…” Logan steps forward, bowing his head a little. One thick curl falls into his eyes. He has such beautiful hair. You wonder what conditioner he uses. A few times you’ve sat next to him in class, and he smells like apples. “I feel like we’re kinda friends now.”
“We are?”
He winces. “I mean, kinda? Is that okay for me to say? We’re in class together, and you stop by with Hannah.”
“I stopped by once because she left her bag. I didn’t come inside.”
“True, fair enough. You can come in though, you know? Like that’s totally okay. Just for the future.”
You doubt you’ll stop by the Hawks House again. You have no reason to. But you nod anyway.
“Plus we compared notes that one time,” Logan says, snapping his fingers. “That’s a friend thing to do, right?”
You let his words wash over you. John Logan says you’re kinda friends. You like Logan. He’s nice to you, and to Hannah. You haven’t spoken much, but he lent you a pencil a few weeks ago in your developmental psychology class. And he always waits and holds the door for you, even if you’re a few people behind him. He doesn’t scare you like athletes often do. He isn’t loud, and he doesn’t say rude things about women, or make fun of how clumsy you are. When you tripped on a step in class, he didn’t snicker like other students—he reached out to catch you, and asked if you were okay.
Then again, you’ve hardly hung out together. There’s always time for him to change his mind, show a different side. Plenty of people have done that.
But you like making friends. You’re not good at it. You want to be.
“Okay,” you say. “We can be friends.”
Logan grins. “Awesome.”
“You have nice teeth.”
He grins wider. “Thanks. I think that’s the first time anyone’s complimented my teeth.”
“That surprises me,” you say. “I don’t have a costume. Can I still enter the party, or will I be banned for life?”
Logan laughs. You squint. What’s funny?
“Normally, you’d get banned, but as an official party planner, I can get an exception made.”
Your eyes widen. “Oh…”
“I’m kidding,” he says gently, nudging your shoulder. It’s a soft nudge because of his padding. “You don’t need to wear a costume, but if you want, I have an extra pair of wings. You can be a bird with me. Tuck’s a bee.”
You’ve never been a part of a group costume. “I thought it was supposed to be costumes for two people.”
“We make our own rules. I’ll drive you there, okay? I don’t think you’ll wanna be on the party bus. It gets loud.”
You’re relieved. “Yes. Thank you.”
“No sweat. I’ll be out in a sec.”
You watch him disappear into the men’s locker room. You sit on a nearby bench. People are still filing out of the stadium. You put your headphones on, lean your head against the wall, and close your eyes.
Seven minutes later, a hand on your elbow makes you jump, eyes flying open. You tear off your headphones.
“Sorry,” is the first thing Logan says. He’s in a gray sleeveless shirt and dark jeans. Water drips from his hair onto his shoulders. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s okay.”
People don’t really touch you, mostly because you don’t care for it. Hannah and Allie like hugs, and sometimes you give them one, especially if they’re sad, because that’s what you do for sad friends. But mostly, you avoid it. People hug too hard, or too long, or they’re sweaty or smell funny. Logan doesn’t smell bad—he smells like orange Dial soap and his apple shampoo or conditioner, and you realize he must’ve showered.
“Tuck is waiting for us in the car,” he says. “The wings are in the trunk.”
You follow him outside, into the mild night. His curls are even curlier when wet. You want to reach out and tug one, watch it spring back into place, but that’s definitely not an appropriate thing to do. You shove your hands in your pocket and squeeze the silica.
“What were you listening to?” he asks.
“Brown noise.”
“Is that a band or a song or…”
“No, it’s like white noise, but softer.”
He nods slowly, eyebrows knitting. “Oh. Huh.”
“There’s also pink noise and black noise, which I listen to at night to sleep. White noise feels like needles in my ears.”
“So you don’t listen to music?”
“I love music,” you say. “But sometimes it’s too much. The arena was loud, and sometimes I need something quiet to reset my brain, you know?”
“I definitely get that. I’m gonna check those out.”
“Will you really?”
Logan looks surprised. “Yeah, I will.”
You meditate on that, trying to figure out how that makes you feel, Logan meaning what he says.
Tucker greets you happily, and says that more’s the merrier when you tell him about Logan’s idea to join their costume. He has a girl named Kayla with him, and they sit in the backseat on the ride over, kissing and giggling. So you sit in the front with Logan, who keeps the radio turned low.
“If you wanna wear your headphones, I don’t mind,” he says.
You don’t, but the offer makes you beam at him.
Before you go inside, Logan gives you a pair of glossy black bird wings to wear. He steps back, smoothing the feathers, and looks at you.
“You look good. Those really suit you,” he says, and you wonder if he means that too. You’re not brave enough to ask.
The party is already in full swing by the time you arrive, which astounds you, considering the game officially ended less than an hour ago. Dean and Beau are at the center of the party, doing shots. Everyone cheers when they finish. Tucker and Kayla go to greet Dean, but Logan hangs back with you. He leans in to talk in your ear.
“Do you want a drink?” he asks.
You shake your head. “I don’t like drinking.”
“That’s cool. I’m gonna get a beer. Do you want to come with me?”
You eye the swell of people in the kitchen and grimace. “No, that’s okay. I’ll be here.”
He smiles, dark eyes warm. Your stomach flips. “Okay. Be right back.”
As he goes, you scour the room for food. If you’d known you were going to the party, you would’ve eaten before the game. But you find an untouched plate of pizza rolls, which is probably the most exciting thing that’s happened tonight, besides Logan telling you that you’re friends.
You put three on a napkin and stand to the side, watching people dance. Allie’s in a beautiful green dress, and you see Dean dance with her. Jealousy strikes you—not because you want Dean, but because you wish you were adept at all of this. Dancing, talking, making friends. Making a boyfriend. Going to college. Living. Hannah understands your struggle a little, but even you can see how well she and Garrett are hitting it off, fake relationship or not.
You finish your pizza rolls and fold the napkin, bouncing your head in time to the music. You don’t like parties, but this isn’t so bad, you suppose. It’s certainly reasonable enough to withstand in the name of friendship, and that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?
“Can I refresh that for you?”
You squint at your now empty napkin, where your pizza roll crumbs now lie. Then you look at the guy who asked. He might be a hockey player, you’re not sure. You pretty much only know Logan and Garrett, because Hannah’s your friend. You know Tucker, you suppose, since you’ve now ridden in a car with him. You know of Dean, because it’s impossible to go to Briar U without learning Dean Di Laurentis’ name and seeing his bleach blond head of hair on campus. But you couldn’t pick any other player out of a lineup.
“It's a napkin,” you say. “It had food, not a drink.”
He holds up his hands and laughs. “Yeah, duh. It was an opener. I wasn’t being literal.”
Opener to what? You don't ask. He keeps talking, evidently not needing you to participate in the conversation.
“I’m Ben Pembroke. I just tried out for the team, but I’m pretty much a shoo-in. My dad played for Briar. Do you come to a lot of games?”
“No,” you say. “I came to this one because Logan asked me to.”
Ben frowns. “Are you together?”
“He drove me here in his car.”
He rolls his eyes. “I mean, are you dating?”
“No,” you say. “I'm not dating anybody.”
His smile returns. It looks wrong on his face. He has nice teeth too, but they don’t look as nice as Logan’s. “Good.”
“Why is that good?”
“Because.” Ben suddenly creeps a hand up your back. “It means you're available tonight. You're cute.”
You push his hand off. “Don't touch me. I don't like strangers touching me.”
Ben scoffs. “C'mon, enough with the ‘hard to get' act. I get it, you're ‘not like them.’ You're a nice girl. Whatever.”
“I don't know what you're talking about, but whatever it is, I want no part of it. Leave me alone.”
Ben gets closer to you. You flinch. He's tall and he's angry. You think so, anyway.
“The fuck? You were sending me signals. You want me.”
Definitely angry. You ball up your empty napkin in your fist. You hate arguing. You usually have to get loud to make people take you seriously, and shouting gives you a headache.
“I was not sending you signals,” you say, voice rising. “I don't want anything to do with you. You came over here.”
Ben smiles again, full of ice. “Look, babe, it's cool, okay? None of your nerdy little friends will know we were together.”
“Together for what? Sex?”
Ben winks. You make a noise of irritation.
“I did not send you sex signals, you creep. I don't like you! Go away!”
Ben reaches for you again. You yell, throwing your napkin on the ground.
“Get away from me!” People start to look at you. You scream without words, so angry you feel like you might die. “Go away, go away!”
“Fuckin’ weirdo,” Ben snaps, but you ignore him. You don’t care what he calls you as long as he leaves.
“Hey.”
Logan’s wings are suddenly in front of you. He glances at you.
“You okay?” he asks, holding out his hand behind him. He doesn’t touch you—you think his hand might be an offer, if you need it.
You chew the inside of your cheek. You don't feel okay, but you don't know if this is one of those times when you should lie. Sometimes lying makes things easier, but you never know when that is.
Logan turns back to Ben after you take his hand. “What the fuck, Pembroke? You're harassing women?”
“Man, she wanted me, I swear—”
“I did not send you sex signals,” you shout. “I don't like you!”
Ben's face spasms. Logan puts a hand on Ben's chest.
“Take it somewhere else. She's not interested.”
Ben flings a finger at you. “But she—”
“Get. The fuck. Out.” Logan's hand curls in Ben's shirt. A warning. Jules said that in one of their videos about Briar’s games. When John Logan touches people and gets in their faces, he “means business.”
Ben scowls at you. Logan steps back so he can block you from Ben's face.
“Fine. Fucking whatever.”
He stomps away. You squeeze the silica gel so hard, the beads dig into your palm. You fear the packet might burst. Your brain aches with the fight and the anger and anxiety that accompanied it. You promised yourself you wouldn't make a scene like you always do. It's why you can't keep friends, and you brace yourself for Logan to tell you something similar.
He leans in so you can hear him over the music. “Let's go outside. It's too loud here.”
Relief softens your body, even if Logan’s only taking you somewhere quieter so he can tell you off. “Okay.”
You pick up your napkin and throw it away. Then you follow him to the backyard. It's big too, and you're glad everything is well-lit and marked. It'd be too easy to get lost in this house. Logan takes you to two chairs on the deck where there's less people. Most of the guests are inside since Beau didn't fill the pool.
You sit. People hate it more when you defend yourself, but Logan has to know that you really did try not to make a scene. You care about things that your friends like, and you want to keep Logan as a friend. You like him, especially after tonight.
“I tried to tell him I wasn't interested in my quiet voice,” you say. “So many times. I didn't want sex. I swear I didn't send him signals, Logan, I didn't even approach him firs—”
“Whoa, hey.” He pushes his hair back, leaning in. “Hey, hey. I know you don't like Pembroke, and you don't have to try to convince me that he started it. He was a total jerk.”
You’re miserable. “People don't like when I use my loud voice, but sometimes they just won't listen to me. I had to.”
“Is it okay if I take your hand?” Logan asks softly.
You nod. Logan takes your hand in both of his, resting them on his knee. He’s quiet for a moment.
“You didn't do anything wrong,” he finally says. “When someone is harassing you, you have the right to be as loud as you want. It fucking sucks, and I’m sorry he did that. I’m gonna tell the guys and make sure he doesn’t make the team next year. He’s a shit player anyway.”
You fiddle with the silica gel again. “I wanted to be good at the party. You like parties, and a video I watched about making friends in college said that I should do things that other people like to become their friend.”
“Oh,” he says gently, rubbing your knuckles. “We’re already friends. You don't have to go to any parties to be my friend. Parties are fine, yeah, but they aren't the only thing I like. I'm not Dean.” He rolls his eyes and laughs.
You smile, pleased to catch onto his joke. “He was dancing with Allie.”
“Yeah, I think we may have witnessed a historical event: Dean Di Laurentis not getting what he wants.”
“Because she didn't kiss him?”
Logan snorts. “Exactly. Look, do you wanna ditch this party and do something else? There's a guest house on the property if you just wanna chill. I would drive you home, but I’m still a little tipsy.”
He's still holding your hand. You like it. You like how rough his palms are, his cool skin against your warmth. You link your fingers with Logan's. He looks down, then looks back up at you.
“I'm hungry, actually,” you say.
He hums. “Good.”
“How is that good?”
“No, I mean, it's good you're being honest with me and telling me what you want. Don't force yourself to go to any more parties, okay?”
“Okay, Logan. Is there a Taco Bell nearby?”
****
“You’re a genius,” Logan says, his mouth full of Crunchwrap. He chews, then swallows before speaking again. “Taco Bell should be a post-game tradition. Garrett’s a health nut, but I think I could convince him.”
The Taco Bell is only a few blocks away from the house, so you and Logan walked here. He paid for your food even though you have money. He said it was to make up for the shitty party. You told him he didn’t need to do that. He said he wanted to.
“It’s my favorite fast food,” you say, working on your potatoes. You stick a fork into one, then carefully dip one corner in sour cream and the other in the nacho cheese.
“I thought they put the sauces on top,” he says.
“Normally they do, but I ask for them on the side because otherwise all the potatoes don’t get an equal distribution of sauce.”
It’s quiet, and you find Logan staring at you as you chew. You swallow, frowning.
“What?”
He shakes his head, grinning. He does that a lot. “Nothing, just… you’re different.”
“Oh.” You pull your food closer to you, shoulders curling in.
“Not in a bad way! I like it. You know what you want.”
“Not really.” You suddenly remember Allie and Dean dancing. “Or if I do, I don’t know how to get it.”
“I think that’s pretty common,” Logan says, resting his chin in his hand. “I’ve been in that situation plenty of times.”
“What did you do?”
“Hmm.” He takes a long sip from his coke. “Depends on what I wanted. For the most part, I just went for it. No one else is gonna give it to you, you know?”
“I guess so.”
“What do you want?”
It strikes you now that Logan’s eyes are not just brown; they’re speckled gold, like spattered sunlight on tree bark. They’re lovely even in the harsh fluorescent light. He’s like some kind of fantasy novel angel with the wings and his swoopy curls. His lashes are long and thick. He licks his lips, and now you can’t stop staring at his mouth. Your heart starts to pound, the longer he looks at you.
Oh no, you think. Oh no. I don’t want to be his friend.
Yet another thing you’ve misunderstood.
“I don’t know,” you say hoarsely. You clear your throat. “I really don’t know.”
“Well,” Logan says. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. And whatever it is, it’ll be there for you.”
You can hardly speak. You twirl the silica gel between your fingers. You do that the whole car ride home. Logan leaves the radio on low again. He gets out and opens your door after he pulls up to your dorm. Again, he offers his hand, and again, you take it.
“You look really pretty in those wings,” he says, like he’s telling you a secret, even though he already told you that earlier. He must really mean it.
It’s just you two here; campus is pretty much dead because almost everyone else is at the party.
“So do you.”
He laughs, and you think you’d really like it if he gave you a hug right now. But you’re not a hugger. You don’t know how to ask for such a thing from John Logan.
“You played really well,” you say.
Logan hums. “Thanks. I’m really glad you came.”
He’s still holding your hand. He squeezes it.
“Well, um, bye,” you say, letting go.
“Goodnight,” he says after you.
It’s only after you get to your room that you realize that you’re still wearing Logan’s wings.
she looks so perfect (part 2) | john logan x reader
summary: john logan was your best friend and the guys, allie, and hannah were your family. everyone knows that you had liked logan for forever but you knew that he didn't feel the same way about you. logan was with grace and you respected it. you couldn't even hate her for it - she's perfect and she's perfect for him. it's okay though, your family's got you.
warnings: nothing really - but angst, sad!!! and yearning!! drinking? swearing, John logan and Garrett fighting :(
author's note: thanks for all the love!!! here is part 2!! let me know your thoughts!!!
Series:
Part 1
Part 3
Part 4
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It had been a few days since the party and you made it your sole mission to avoid John Logan at all costs. You couldn't face him. It was embarrassing enough that he didn't want you, let alone the fact that all of your friends knew about your feelings - except him. You'd think that spending so much time with someone you cared about would make him have some sort of feelings towards you, but he's so oblivious it hurt.
So, you did what you’ve always done when things get too serious or too heavy: you pulled the disappearing act. It was a coping mechanism you inherited from your dad. He’d taught you, without ever saying a word, that if a problem gets too loud, you just walk out of the room until it goes quiet. If you don't let anyone in on what’s actually going on with you, they can't see you breaking. You avoid, you ghost, you bury it.
You can't help but compare yourself to her. The worst part was that she was absolutely, undeniably magnificent.
She was a walking, talking Euro-summer princess—all sun-kissed skin, linen dresses, and effortless grace. When she laughed, it sounded like wind chimes and sunshine. When she looked at Logan, her eyes lit up, and when Logan looked back at her, his entire rugged, hockey-player posture softened. You wanted to hate her. God, you tried to find a flaw, just a tiny crack in the porcelain, so you could justify the bitter ache in your chest.
But she was lovely. She was sweet to you. Grace Ivers was sweet to everyone.
And that just made the guilt you felt feel like a disease.
After watching Logan press a soft, lingering kiss to Grace’s temple at a party on Friday night, something inside you finally snapped. You couldn't do it anymore. You vowed to yourself to not be in any way associated with your feelings for john logan. Grace didn’t deserve it. You had to push him away.
Starting Saturday morning, you were unreachable.
By Sunday, your phone was blowing up with notifications. Logan texted you multiple times.
{John Logan 🤠🚙🎠} Saturday @ 3:27pm: hey, want to go play pool with gar later tonight?
{John Logan 🤠🚙🎠} Saturday @ 3:52 pm: Garrett said he could pick you up
my phone reminded me your final is tomorrow. Good luck 🤞
---- No answer. ----
{John Logan 🤠🚙🎠} @ 7:09pm :
dude, what’s going on? let me know where you are okay. Why is your location off?
———————-
On Monday, he tried calling. It had gone to voicemail after 3 rings. You knew he had gone to Allie and Hannah to ask where the hell you were, but you had already sworn them to secrecy. They didn't budge, though you knew they hated being caught in the middle.
Then came Tuesday afternoon, and the group chat blew up.
briar fam 🏒🎸❄️🍕🍻 -- groupchat
Garrett: Yo, who is down for dinner tonight? Tacos at our place? We have practice till 8. It’s firm review day so it’ll go over.
Tucker: we live together Gar so yeah
Hannah: meee!! :)
Allie: Dean and I are in.
Garrett: @[y/n]?
Garrett: Hellooo??
Logan: She’s not answering her texts.
Garrett: @[y/n], I know you’re seeing these. Stop being a brat.
Garrett: Seriously, it’s been four days. Don't make me come hunt you down. I know where you live. You're acting weird. Answer your phone.
The texts stopped coming after that.
You locked your screen, shoving the phone face-down on the wooden table. A heavy sigh escaped your lips as you stared at your laptop screen.
You were sitting in a corner booth at Malone’s. During the night, it was a loud, sticky-floored college bar, but during the day and early evening, it transformed into a cozy, dimly lit haven for students. It smelled like roasted coffee beans and old wood. It was the perfect place to hide. You had two coffees already, you were so tired.
Most importantly, it was Tuesday night. The Briar hockey team had a mandatory late-night practice and film review right now. Logan was safe behind a sheet of ice on the other side of campus. He couldn’t look at you with those perceptive, stormy eyes. Your heart could finally just rest, tucked away in the dark where it belonged.
You took a sip of your lukewarm coffee, trying to focus on your ethics essay.
Ding!🛎️
The front door of Malone’s opened, letting in a gust of chilly evening air. You didn’t look up. Students came and went constantly.
Suddenly, a heavy, leather Briar hockey duffel bag dropped onto the bench across from you.
Your breath hitched. Your eyes flew up.
There he was. John Logan. He was wearing his blue team hoodie, his dark hair still damp from the post-practice shower, smelling faintly of ice, mint, and that distinct, intoxicating scent that belonged entirely to him. He didn’t look angry; he looked exhausted, frantic, and entirely too focused on you.
"You're supposed to be at practice," you whispered, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.
"Skipped the film review," Logan said, his voice a low, rough rumble. He slid into the booth, effectively trapping you in your corner. "Garrett said you weren't answering. Hannah and Allie are the worst liars when I asked about you. But I knew you’d be right here."
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, forcing you to look at him.
"I know you. You can’t hide from me."
"I'm not hiding," you lied, pulling your cardigan tighter around your shoulders, retreating into yourself. "I've just been busy. I'm studying." You gesture to the pile of papers and books on the table.
"Bullshit." Logan’s eyes narrowed, scanning your face, reading the exhaustion in the dark circles under your eyes, the tension in your jaw. He knew you too well. That was the terrifying part. He could read your shifts in weather better than anyone else. "You've been totally ghosting me since Friday. Did I do something? Did someone say something to you? Did something happen with your dad?”
The genuine concern in his voice was a physical ache in your chest. He was totally, completely oblivious. He thought he was being a good best friend. He had no idea that every time he checked on you, he was tearing the wound wide open.
"Logan, seriously, it’s fine. I’m just stressed," you said, your voice cracking slightly. You began packing your notebook into your bag, your hands shaking. "I have to go—"
"Hey. No...stop." Logan reached across the table and caught your wrist. His grip wasn't tight, but it was firm, warm, and entirely grounding.
A jolt of electricity zapped straight to your core. You froze, staring down at his broad hand wrapped around your wrist. You pulled your hand away and you couldn’t look him in the eye.
"Just talk… to me," he pleaded softly, he pulled his hand away.. "You always do this. Whenever something is wrong, you shut down and run away. You've been doing it since I've known you. But you don't have to do it with me. Whatever it is, we can fix it. Just let me in."
I can't let you in, you thought wildly, the tears burning the backs of your eyes. Because if I let you in, you’ll see that I’m drowning in you. You’ll see that every time you talk about Grace, it kills me. And I can’t ruin your happiness.
"I can't," you said blankly. The loss of his touch felt like ice. Why did he have to do that?
Logan looked at you, a pained, utterly confused expression crossing his handsome face. He wanted to help, he wanted to be your anchor, but he didn't realize he was the storm.
"Why?" he whispered.
You looked away, staring out the window of Malone’s into the dark Tuesday night, wrapping your arms around yourself to keep from falling apart. "Because some things can't be fixed, Logan. Just... let it go. Please. It’s nothing. You can’t fix it. It’s also not your business,” you said, your tone biting and sharp, a defensive wall thrown up to force him away.
Logan blinked, looking like he’d just taken a hard hit to the chest. “Uh—okay. What does that even mean? Your business is my business...isn't it?”
He was so confused. It was written all over his face—the furrow of his brow, the slight parting of his lips, the utter helplessness in his gray eyes. He legitimately didn't get it. To him, you were his person, the one who was supposed to be by his side through everything. He didn't know that his proximity was suffocating you.
Since you wouldn’t budge, he tried to pivot - he faked a small smile and changed the subject “Okayy, come on, how much longer are you studying?” Logan sighed, shifting in the booth and trying to steer things back to normal. “Everyone’s coming over for dinner after film review ends. Which I skipped by the way!” He made a point to poke at the fact that he did that for you. It annoyed you.
You just stared at him. You didn't blink, didn't nod, didn't offer a single word. You just let the heavy, tense silence stretch between you, hoping the vacuum of it would finally force him to get up and leave.
Instead, Logan just sighed again, a sound full of stubborn resignation.
“I’ll drive us over. I can wait,” he said softly.
He didn’t push anymore. "Okay then." He didn't demand an explanation for your attitude or throw a tantrum. Instead, he unzipped his heavy duffel bag, reached inside, and pulled out his own laptop. He set it on the wooden table, opened the screen, and plugged in his phone to charge.
He was staying, apparently.
“What are you doing?” you asked blatantly. “What’s it look like? You’re studying, so I’m studying too. You won’t leave so I’m not leaving yet either.” He said it so matter a fact, he didn’t look at you - he just stated it like it was completely obvious.
You ignored him. You didn’t respond. You just stared back down at your notes.
He was bothering you. That’s what he was doing. He was sitting right across from you, taking up all the air in the booth, his broad shoulders practically filling your entire line of sight. Every time he shifted, his knee brushed yours under the cramped table, sending a sickening, beautiful jolt of adrenaline straight to your heart.
You stared down at your ethics essay, but the words blurred into a meaningless jumble of black ink. You could hear the faint, steady click-clack of him typing. You could smell the lingering scent of his body wash.
He was trying to be your protector, your steady ground, completely oblivious to the fact that his presence was a beautiful, agonizing torture. And you were trapped, forced to sit in the quiet ache of your own making, watching the boy you loved wait for a version of you that you couldn't afford to be anymore.
He peeked up at you above the eye line of his laptop a few times. He didn’t say anything, but you could feel his gaze—heavy, observant, and completely annoying. Every time his eyes flicked toward you, it felt like he was picking at a scab you were desperately trying to keep covered.
Finally, the pressure in your chest became too much to bear.
“Can you just leave, Logan? I’m not going to dinner.”
Logan lowered his laptop screen a fraction of an inch, his brow furrowing. “What? Why? I don’t get it. Whats happening? You get into a fight with Garrett or something?”
“I said—I’m not going.” The lid on your emotions finally blew right off. “Why do you have to be so fucking annoying?”
The words sliced through the quiet hum of Malone’s like a knife.
As soon as they left your mouth, the air in the booth turned to ice. You had never talked to him like that. Ever. Even in your worst moods, Logan was always the one exception, the person you treated with absolute softness.
The immediate flash of hurt in his gray eyes made your stomach drop. Instantly, guilt flooded your features, washing away the anger. You hadn't meant to snap like that. You didn’t want to hurt him—you just wanted to push him far enough away so he couldn’t see how badly you were hurting.
“Sorry, I shouldn't have sai-” you whispered, looking down at your hands, your voice thick and trembling. “I... I just don’t feel like going today, okay? I need to study.”
Logan didn't snap back. He didn't get angry. He just slowly closed his laptop, the quiet thud of the screen sounding like a gavel dropping. He stared at you, really stared at you, looking past the defensive wall, past the harsh words, straight into the raw vulnerability you were trying so hard to hide.
"Hey," he said, his voice dropping into a register so quiet and gentle it made your throat ache. "Look at me."
You forced your eyes up to meet his. You didn’t cry. You wouldn’t. The prickle of hot tears burned behind your eyelids, but you swallowed them down, locking your jaw so tight it ached. You weren’t letting him in. If you let even one tear slip, the whole dam would break, and he’d see every single messy, pathetic piece of your shattered heart.
“I can drive us over,” he repeated, his voice laced with a desperate kind of patience.
“Honestly, I’d rather walk," you said under your breath.
Logan scoffed, a bitter, disbelieving sound. “Jesus, [y/n]. God forbid you actually want to… I don’t know—talk to me?”
The patience evaporated, replaced by the raw frustration of a guy who had reached his absolute limit. He began stuffing his laptop back into his duffel bag, his movements jerky and aggressive. He zipped the bag with a sharp, loud snap.
“I don’t know what your damage is,” he said, slinging the heavy strap over his shoulder. He stood up from the booth, towering over you, looking down with a mixture of hurt and anger. “But you’d never speak to me like that. So either someone’s like possessed my best friend or some bizarre shit, or you, for reasons that are unknown to me, suddenly hate me?" He stares at you. You say nothing back.
He looks around at Malone's. Just confused as hell, "...I don’t even know which is worse, honestly.”
He rubbed a hand over his face, looking suddenly exhausted. “But figure it out. You know I’m tired too, okay? Garrett’s right about you being a brat sometimes. I skipped film review to come here, specifically to find you. Because I was worried about you.”
The word worried twisted the knife even deeper. He was worried about you as a friend. He was losing sleep over you as a friend. And it was infuriating how much he didn’t get it.
You leaned back against the vinyl booth, coldness masking the agony inside you.
“I didn’t ask you to do that,” you said, your voice flat, devoid of the warmth he was used to. “Do you want me to thank you, Logan?”
Logan flinched as if you’d slapped him. The anger in his eyes hardened into something cold and distant, a look he usually reserved for opponents on the ice, never for you. He stared at you for three long, agonizing seconds.
“No --,” he snapped, his voice was sharp. “I don’t want you to thank me, y/n. I just wanted to check in on you. But clearly, you’re too busy pushing everyone away.”
He grabbed his duffle off the booth seat with a strong force that almost startled you. He was about to leave, and he stopped, "You know you can talk to me. Whatever it is, we'd figure it out." He voice trailed off, he sounded like he was in pain and he almost reached out to place his hand on your arm, but he stopped himself. Then he walked out of Malone’s. Guess he learned that one from his dad too. The heavy glass door swinging shut behind him with a dull thud with the bell dinging again.
The silence he left in his wake was deafening. You sat completely still in the corner booth, staring at the empty seat across from you. The scent of him still lingered in the air, mocking you. Your hands were shaking so badly you had to fist them into your cardigan.
You had won. You had successfully pushed him away. You had protected your secret.
Hot tears brim up to your eyes, "Of course I like you, Logan. You’re a good guy." You thought in your head. It’s better this way, the further you were away from him is the further you are from being hurt by him not loving you - it kills you either way.
Summary: when the pre-med girl with the perfect GPA meets the hockey player with the far from perfect reputation, neither of you expects to become each other’s biggest distraction. You’ve got your whole life planned out. He’s never planned anything past Friday night. But somewhere between study sessions and split lips, you discover that the scariest thing isn’t falling, it’s admitting you want to
Read part two here
The bass is so loud you can feel it in your chest, and you’re pretty sure that’s not supposed to be a good thing.
“This was a terrible idea,” you shout over the music, but your roommate Maggie just laughs and pulls you deeper into the chaos that is The Boy’s House.
“You literally never go anywhere!”
“I go to the library!”
“That doesn’t count!” Maggie’s still dragging you through a sea of bodies, past the kitchen where someone’s doing a keg stand, past a couple making out against the wall with such enthusiasm you have to look away. “You need to live a little. Have fun. Maybe even-”
“Don’t say it.”
“-talk to a guy.”
You stop walking, forcing Maggie to stop too. “I didn’t come here to talk to guys. I came here because you said, and I quote, ’If you don’t come with me I’ll tell Professor Lawrence you’re the one who accidentally broke his microscope.’“
“Blackmail is just another word for effective persuasion.” Maggie grins, completely unrepentant. “Come on, let’s get you a drink. A non-alcoholic one,” she adds quickly when she sees your face. “I know, I know. 4.0 GPA. Pre-med. Future doctor. You’ve mentioned it.”
“Once or twice,” you mutter, but you follow her anyway.
The kitchen is somehow even more crowded than the living room. Red Solo cups litter every surface, and there’s a girl sitting on the counter who looks like she’s about three seconds from passing out. You make a mental note to check on her in a few minutes — instincts already kicking in, apparently.
“Maggie!” A tall guy with dark hair and an easy smile pushes through the crowd. “You made it!”
“Logan, hi!” Maggie lights up in a way that makes you wonder why she really wanted to come to this party. “This is my roommate, Y/N. Y/N, this is Logan.”
“Nice to meet you,” Logan says, and he seems genuinely friendly. “Want a drink? We’ve got beer, jungle juice — which I don’t recommend unless you want to hate yourself tomorrow — or there’s probably some Coke in the fridge.”
“Coke sounds perfect,” you say, grateful.
Logan grins. “A woman who knows what she wants. I like it.” He turns to rummage in the fridge, and Maggie elbows you.
“See? This isn’t so bad.”
You’re about to respond when a burst of laughter from the living room makes everyone turn. Through the doorway, you can see a guy sprawled on the couch — not just any guy, you realize, but the guy. Even you, with your library-heavy social life, know who Dean Di Laurentis is. Member of the hockey team. Walking, talking definition of “big man on campus.” And currently, very occupied.
There are two girls with him. One blonde, one brunette, and they seem to be taking turns kissing him and occasionally each other, which — okay, you definitely need to look away from that.
“That’s Dean,” Logan says, handing you a Coke. He doesn’t sound judgmental, just matter-of-fact. “He’s, uh … he’s having a good night.”
“He has a lot of good nights,” Maggie says, and you catch something in her tone — not jealousy, exactly, but maybe a kind of weary resignation that this is just how things are.
You take a sip of your Coke and try very hard not to look at the couch again.
You fail.
***
Dean’s having a great time. Or he should be having a great time. Rachel — or is it Rochelle? — is doing this thing with her tongue that’s usually his favorite, and the other girl (he definitely didn’t catch her name) has her hand in his hair, tugging just right, and yeah, this is exactly how Thursday nights are supposed to go.
Except.
Except he can’t stop looking at the girl in the kitchen.
She’s not his usual type. She’s wearing jeans and a sweater that looks like it came from the clearance rack at Target, and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail that’s starting to come loose. She’s not trying to catch his attention. She’s not trying to catch anyone’s attention. She’s just standing there, looking vaguely uncomfortable, holding her Coke like it’s a life preserver.
And Dean can’t look away.
“Dean?” Rachel-or-Rochelle pulls back, pouting. “Where’d you go?”
“Nowhere, babe,” he says automatically, flashing the smile that usually works. “Just thought I heard something.”
But his eyes drift back to the kitchen. The girl’s talking to Logan now, and she’s smiling — really smiling, not the practiced, flirty smile he sees at these parties, but something genuine and a little shy. Logan says something that makes her laugh, and Dean feels something weird in his chest.
Huh.
“I need a drink,” he announces, extracting himself from the tangle of limbs with practiced ease. “Be right back.”
“Dean!” Both girls protest, but he’s already moving.
Logan spots him first. “D! Good party, man.”
“Yeah, it’s alright.” Dean’s looking at the girl now, really looking. She’s got these eyes — he can’t tell what color they are in the shitty lighting, but they’re watching him with something that might be wariness. “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Y/N,” Logan says. “Maggie’s roommate. Y/N, this is-”
“Dean Di Laurentis,” you finish, and your voice is different than he expected. Clear and direct. “I know who you are.”
“Good things, I hope,” Dean says, turning on the charm. It’s automatic, like breathing.
“That depends on your definition of good.”
Logan chokes on his beer. Maggie looks like she’s trying not to laugh. Dean just stares at you for a second, genuinely thrown.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “That’s fair.”
You take another sip of your Coke, and Dean notices your hand is steady. Not nervous. Just unimpressed.
“Are you having fun?” He tries again.
“Not particularly.”
“Want me to show you around? Give you the grand tour?”
“I think I can navigate four rooms on my own, thanks.”
Maggie makes a strangled noise. Logan’s grinning so wide it looks painful. Dean can feel his own smile shifting into something more genuine, more interested.
“You’re not a fan of parties,” he observes.
“You’re very perceptive.”
“So why are you here?”
You glance at Maggie. “Effective persuasion.”
“That sounds like a story.”
“It’s really not.” You set your Coke down on the counter. “Maggie, I’m going to check on that girl who looks like she’s about to fall off the counter. Then maybe get some air.”
“Want company?” Maggie asks, but you shake your head.
“I’m good. You stay, have fun.”
You move past Dean, and he catches a whiff of something clean and simple — not the heavy perfume most girls wear to these things, just soap, maybe? Shampoo? Whatever it is, it’s driving him crazy.
“Nice meeting you,” you say to Logan. To Dean, you just nod. Polite. Distant.
And then you’re gone, navigating through the crowd with single-minded determination toward the drunk girl on the counter.
“Dude,” Logan says.
“Yeah,” Dean agrees.
“She just …”
“Yeah.”
“That never happens to you.”
“I know.”
Logan’s laughing now. “Oh man, this is beautiful. This is the best thing I’ve seen all semester.”
“Shut up.” But Dean’s watching you help the drunk girl off the counter, watching the way you’re gentle and efficient, getting her to sit down, checking her pupils. “Who is she?”
“I literally just met her five minutes before you did.”
“Maggie!” Dean turns to your roommate, who’s watching him with undisguised amusement. “Tell me about Y/N.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I’m asking nicely?”
Maggie snorts. “That’s not as compelling as you think it is.” But she relents, maybe because she’s a good friend, or maybe because she’s curious about what’ll happen. “She’s pre-med. Crazy smart. Like, scary smart. She has a 4.0 and she’ll probably keep it all four years. She studies constantly. She’s literally never had a boyfriend.”
“Never?” Dean’s eyebrows go up.
“Never. She went to all-girls schools before Briar. I don’t think she’s even been kissed.”
Logan whistles low. “And you brought her here? To our party?”
“I thought it would be good for her! You know, broaden her horizons.”
“Pretty sure her horizons just got an eyeful of Dean and the twins making out on the couch,” Logan points out.
Maggie winces. “Okay, yeah, that might have been poor timing.”
Dean’s not really listening anymore. He’s watching you crouch down next to the drunk girl, talking to her in a low, calm voice. Someone hands you a water bottle and you help her drink it, supporting her head like you’ve done this before. Like you know exactly what you’re doing.
“She’s going to be a doctor,” he says, more to himself than anyone else.
“That’s the plan,” Maggie confirms.
“Huh.” Dean tilts his head, still watching. “I like her.”
“Dude, she shut you down in like thirty seconds flat.”
“I know.” Dean’s grinning now, a real grin, not the practiced one. “It’s amazing.”
Logan and Maggie exchange a look.
“This is going to be a disaster,” Logan predicts.
“Oh, absolutely,” Maggie agrees.
But Dean’s already moving.
***
You manage to get the drunk girl — her name is Amy, apparently — to drink some water and eat a few crackers someone scrounges up from somewhere. Her friends finally surface from whatever corner they’ve been in and promise to take care of her. You make them promise to take her back to her dorm, not let her drink any more, and check on her every few hours.
“Are you a doctor?” One of them asks.
“Pre-med,” you say. “But still, seriously. Keep an eye on her.”
“We will. Thank you so much.”
You escape to the backyard before anyone else can need medical attention. The air is cold — it’s early October in Massachusetts, and you can see your breath — but it’s a relief after the heat and noise inside. There are a few people out here, but they’re mostly in clusters, talking and laughing. You find a spot on the porch steps and sit down, pulling your phone out of your pocket.
Three new emails. One from your advisor about next semester’s schedule, one from your organic chemistry professor about the exam next week, and one from your mom with the subject line “Just Checking In!” which means she’s worrying about you again.
You’re composing a response in your head when someone sits down next to you.
“You’re good at that,” Dean says.
You don’t jump, but it’s close. “At what?”
“Taking care of people.” He’s got a fresh beer in his hand, but he doesn’t look drunk. Just comfortable, like he owns the space he’s in. Which, technically, he kind of does. “That girl looked rough.”
“She’ll be fine as long as her friends actually watch her.” You pocket your phone. “Shouldn’t you be inside? With your … company?”
“They’ll survive without me for a few minutes.” He takes a sip of his beer. “You don’t like me very much, do you?”
The question catches you off guard. Not because it’s rude — it’s not, really — but because it’s direct. Honest.
“I don’t know you,” you say carefully.
“But you know of me.”
“Everyone knows of you.”
“And what does everyone say?”
You look at him properly for the first time since he sat down. He’s objectively attractive — you’re not blind — with the kind of face that probably gets him whatever he wants. Blond hair that looks like he’s been running his hands through it, sharp jawline, eyes that are actually kind of distracting in the porch light. And he’s looking at you like he’s genuinely interested in what you’re about to say.
“They say you’re a great hockey player,” you offer.
“True.”
“That you’re charming.”
“Also true.”
“That you go through women like most people go through socks.”
He laughs, and it’s a real laugh, surprised and genuine. “Okay, ouch. But probably fair.”
“You asked.”
“I did.” He’s still smiling, though. “What else?”
“That you’re rich. That your family owns hotels or something.”
“My mom’s family. Hotels, some restaurants, a few other things. But that’s them, not me.”
“Isn’t it, though?” You tilt your head. “You live in this house. You throw these parties. You don’t exactly seem to be struggling.”
“No,” he admits. “I’m not. I’m lucky as hell. But I also work my ass off on the ice. I’m getting a degree in political science that I’ll actually use. And my parents would kill me if I turned into some trust-fund asshole who thinks money solves everything.”
There’s something in his voice that makes you think he’s being honest. Or at least, honest about this.
“Why do you care what I think?” You ask.
“I don’t know,” he says, and he sounds almost surprised by his own answer. “You’re different.”
“Different how?”
“You looked at me like I was just some guy. Not the captain of the hockey team, not Dean Di Laurentis, just … some guy.”
“You are just some guy.”
“See?” He grins. “That. Nobody talks to me like that.”
“Maybe they should.”
“Maybe.” He takes another sip of his beer, looking out at the backyard. There’s a group of guys playing beer pong, and someone’s playlist is drifting through an open window. “Maggie says you’re pre-med.”
“She talks a lot.”
“She’s a good friend. Trying to hype you up.”
“I don’t need hyping up.”
“No,” Dean agrees, looking at you again. “You really don’t.”
There’s something in the way he says it that makes your heart do a weird little flip, which is annoying. You don’t do heart flips. You do studying and lab work and carefully planned career trajectories.
“I should go,” you say, standing up. “I have studying to do.”
“It’s Thursday night.”
“So?”
“So don’t you ever take a break?”
“This was my break.” You gesture vaguely at the house. “Party attendance: checked off the list. Now I can go back to my regularly scheduled programming.”
Dean stands too, and you’re reminded that he’s tall. Taller than you expected. “Can I get your number?”
“Why?”
“So I can text you.”
“Why would you text me?”
“To ask you out.”
You blink. “No.”
“No, I can’t have your number, or no, you won’t go out with me?”
“Both.”
“Can I ask why?”
“Because I’m not interested in being another notch on Dean Di Laurentis’s bedpost.” The words come out sharper than you intended, but you don’t take them back.
Something flashes across his face — surprise, maybe, or hurt — but it’s gone quickly. “That’s not what I-”
“Yes, it is.” You’re not angry, just tired suddenly. Tired of this conversation, this party, this whole night. “Look, I’m sure you’re used to girls falling all over themselves for a chance with you. And that’s fine. That’s their choice. But I have plans for my life, and they don’t include getting my heart broken by a guy who’s just looking for his next conquest.”
“You think that’s all this is?”
“Isn’t it?”
He opens his mouth, closes it again. Runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know,” he finally says, and points for honesty again. “Maybe. Probably. But I’d like to find out.”
“Well, I wouldn’t.” You pull your phone back out. “I’m going to call an Uber. Have a good night, Dean.”
“Let me at least walk you to the front-”
“I’m fine.”
“Y/N-”
“Seriously. I’m fine.” You soften slightly, because he does look genuinely concerned, which is almost worse than if he were just annoyed. “Thank you for the conversation. It was … enlightening.”
You make it to the front of the house before Maggie finds you.
“Hey, where are you going?”
“Home. I’m Ubering.”
“Already? We just got here!”
“You just got here. I’ve been here for an hour and I’ve already hit my social quota for the week.” You show her your phone screen. “Car’s three minutes away.”
Maggie looks back toward the house, then at you. “Did something happen? Did someone-”
“No, nothing like that. Everyone was fine. I’m just tired.”
“Dean was talking to you.”
“Dean talks to everyone.”
“Not like that, he doesn’t.” Maggie’s eyes are bright with curiosity. “What did he say?”
“He asked for my number.”
“And?”
“And I said no.”
Maggie’s mouth falls open. “You said no? To Dean Di Laurentis?”
“Is that really so shocking?”
“YES!” Maggie’s practically shouting now. “He never asks for numbers! He doesn’t have to! Girls just throw themselves at him!”
“Well, I didn’t throw myself anywhere except toward the door.” Your Uber’s pulling up. “Look, stay, have fun with Logan. He seems nice. Text me when you get home so I know you’re safe.”
“You’re really leaving.”
“I really am.”
Maggie hugs you suddenly, fierce and quick. “You’re crazy. But I love you.”
“Love you too. Be safe.”
You slide into the Uber, give the driver your address, and lean back against the seat. Through the window, you can see the house, still bright and loud and full of people having the time of their lives.
And standing on the front porch, watching your car pull away, is Dean.
***
“So let me get this straight,” Garrett says the next morning over breakfast. He’s making pancakes, which is the only reason Dean’s awake before noon on a Friday. “You asked for her number, and she said no.”
“Yep.” Dean’s nursing his coffee like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. He didn’t sleep well. Kept thinking about eyes he still can’t quite place the color of.
“And then you asked her out, and she said no to that too.”
“Correct.”
“And then she called an Uber and left.”
“You’ve got it.”
Tucker wanders in, looking even more hungover than Dean feels. “Who left?”
“You’ve mentioned her thirteen times since I woke up.”
“I have not.”
“You literally started the conversation with ‘So there’s this girl.’”
Tucker perks up slightly. “A girl turned down Dean? This I have to hear.”
“There’s nothing to hear. She’s just … different.”
“Different how?” Tucker’s pouring himself coffee now, settling in.
Dean tries to explain it. The way you looked at him like he was just another guy. The way you handled drunk Amy with competence and care. The way you called him out without being mean about it, just honest. The way you smiled at Logan’s joke, genuine and unguarded.
The way his chest did something weird when you walked away.
“Oh man,” Tucker says when he’s done. “You’re screwed.”
“I’m not screwed.”
“You’re so screwed,” Garrett agrees. “This is amazing.”
“This is not amazing. This is annoying.” Dean drops his head to the table. “Why can’t I stop thinking about her?”
“Because she’s the first girl who’s ever said no to you,” Logan says, appearing in the doorway. He’s somehow showered and dressed already, looking fresh and put-together in a way that makes Dean want to throw his coffee at him. “It’s basic psychology. We want what we can’t have.”
“It’s not just that.”
“Then what is it?”
Dean doesn’t have an answer. Or rather, he has too many answers, none of which make sense.
He’s attracted to you, obviously. But he’s attracted to lots of girls, and he usually stops thinking about them approximately five minutes after they leave his bed.
He’s intrigued by you. Your intelligence, your focus, your complete lack of interest in impressing him.
He’s challenged by you. You saw through his charm in about thirty seconds and called him on his shit without being cruel.
And he wants to see you again. Not just hook up with you — though yeah, okay, he wouldn’t say no — but actually see you. Talk to you. Figure out what color your eyes are. Learn what makes you laugh.
“I’m in trouble,” he says to the table.
“Finally figured that out, did you?” Garrett slides a plate of pancakes in front of him. “Eat. You’ll need your strength.”
“For what?”
“For winning over the first girl who’s ever seen right through you.”
Dean picks up his fork, but he’s not really thinking about pancakes.
He’s thinking about you in the library, probably. Studying. Focused on your 4.0 and your medical school dreams and your carefully planned future.
A future that apparently doesn’t include him.
Well.
Dean Di Laurentis has never backed down from a challenge in his life.
He’s not about to start now.
***
You don’t think about Dean at all on Friday.
(That’s a lie. You think about him three times during organic chemistry, twice during your shift volunteering at the campus health center, and once during dinner when Maggie asks how you’re doing and gives you a look that suggests she knows exactly what you’re not saying.)
You definitely don’t think about him on Saturday.
(Another lie. You think about him when you see a hockey jersey in the bookstore. When someone in the library mentions the game tonight. When you’re trying to fall asleep and your brain helpfully replays the conversation on the porch, the way he looked at you when you walked away.)
By Sunday, you’re annoyed with yourself.
“I met him for like twenty minutes,” you tell Maggie, who’s watching you with barely concealed amusement. “Why is he taking up this much space in my head?”
“Because he’s hot and rich and into you?”
“He’s not into me. He’s into the challenge.”
“Okay, but what if he’s into both?”
“Maggie.”
“Y/N.” She mimics your tone perfectly. “Would it kill you to consider that maybe, just maybe, you made an impression on him too?”
“It doesn’t matter if I did. I have a plan. Medical school, residency, building a career. No time for distractions.”
“You sound like a robot.”
“I sound focused.”
“You sound scared.”
That stops you. “I’m not scared.”
“No?” Maggie tilts her head. “Then why are you so determined to write him off before you even give him a chance?”
“Because I know how this story ends. Girl meets charming hockey player. Girl falls for charming hockey player. Charming hockey player gets bored and moves on to the next girl. Girl is left with a broken heart and ruined GPA.”
“That’s one possible ending,” Maggie allows. “But it’s not the only one.”
You don’t have a response to that.
Your phone buzzes. Unknown number.
Unknown: hey, it’s dean. got your number from maggie (don’t be mad at her, i can be very persuasive). just wanted to make sure you got home okay thursday night.
You stare at the screen.
“Did he just text you?” Maggie leans over, reading. “Oh my god, he texted you!”
“You gave him my number?”
“He asked very nicely! And he seemed genuinely worried about you!”
You read the text again. And again.
You: I got home fine. Thank you for checking.
You hit send before you can overthink it.
Three dots appear immediately.
Dean: good. i was worried you might have gotten lost in the library and been shelving yourself with the medical textbooks
You: That’s not how libraries work
Dean: you sure? you seem like the type who’d be very organized about it. probably alphabetized by author
Despite yourself, you smile.
You: I’m more of a Dewey Decimal girl
Dean: knew it. so listen, i know you said you’re not interested, and i respect that. but i was thinking
Dean: what if we were friends?
You blink at the screen.
You: Friends?
Dean: yeah. no pressure, no ulterior motives. just friends. we could study together, grab coffee, whatever friends do
You: You want to study with me
Dean: i’m taking business finance as an elective this semester and it’s kicking my ass. you’re smart. seems like a win-win
You: And this has nothing to do with trying to change my mind about going out with you?
Dean: scout’s honor
You: Were you even a scout?
Dean: no but i’m honest when it counts. so what do you say? friends?
You look at Maggie, who’s reading over your shoulder and nodding frantically.
This is a bad idea. You know it’s a bad idea.
But there’s something about the way he texts — casual, funny, not trying too hard — that makes you want to say yes.
You: Fine. Friends. But if you try anything-
Dean: i won’t. promise. when are you free?
You: Tuesday afternoon. Library, 2pm
Dean: it’s a date. i mean a friend date. a friend meeting. a platonic gathering of two people who are definitely just friends
You: You’re ridiculous
Dean: you’re smiling though aren’t you
You are. You don’t respond.
Dean: see you tuesday, friend
You put your phone down and find Maggie grinning at you.
“Don’t,” you warn.
“I’m not saying anything.”
“You’re thinking it very loudly.”
“I’m just thinking that this is going to be interesting.”
“We’re just friends.”
“Uh huh.”
“We are!”
“Okay, babe. Whatever you say.”
But as you go back to your studying, you can’t quite shake the smile off your face.
And in a house across campus, Dean is grinning at his phone like he just won the championship.
“Friends?” Garrett asks, reading over his shoulder.
“Friends,” Dean confirms.
“Right. Because that’s going to work out exactly as planned.”
“It will.”
“Dean, buddy. You’re already gone.”
Dean doesn’t argue.
Because Garrett’s probably right.
But as far as Dean’s concerned?
This is only the beginning.
***
Three weeks of “friendship” with Dean Di Laurentis has taught you several things.
One: He’s actually smart. Not just hockey-smart or street-smart, but genuinely intelligent. Your Tuesday study sessions have evolved into genuine collaboration, and he’s helped you understand financial models for your Healthcare Economics elective while you’ve kept him from failing Business Finance.
Two: He’s funnier than you expected. Not in a trying-too-hard way, but in a quick, observational way that catches you off guard and makes you laugh when you’re supposed to be studying.
Three: He’s a terrible liar.
“So, as my friend,” Dean says, drawing out the word in a way that tells you he’s about to ask for something, “you should come to my game Friday night.”
You don’t look up from your organic chemistry notes. “Should I.”
“Yes. Friends support friends. It’s in the friendship handbook.”
“I don’t cheer loudly.” You flip a page. “I barely cheer quietly.”
“You could learn.” He leans back in his chair, and you can feel him watching you. “Come on, Y/N. You’ve never been to a game.”
“I’ve never been to a lot of things.”
“Which is exactly why you should come. Broaden your horizons. Live a little.”
“You sound like Maggie.”
“Maggie’s a smart woman.” He pauses. “I’ll buy you nachos.”
Now you look up. “Are you trying to bribe me with stadium food?”
“Is it working?”
You consider. You’ve been to the library every Friday night since school started. You’re ahead on all your reading. And there’s something in the way Dean’s looking at you — hopeful and a little uncertain — that makes your resistance crack.
“Fine,” you say. “But I’m not wearing a jersey.”
His face lights up. “You don’t have to wear anything-” He stops, recalibrating. “That came out wrong. You can wear whatever you want. Just come.”
“I’ll come.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You try to sound casual about it, like this isn’t a big deal. Like your heart isn’t doing that annoying flutter thing again. “As friends.”
“As friends,” he agrees, but his smile suggests he’s already won something.
***
Friday night, and Garrett is giving Dean a look.
“You know she’s going to see right through whatever you’re planning, right?”
They’re in the locker room, suiting up. The game starts in forty-five minutes, and Dean’s been checking his phone every three seconds like you might cancel.
“I’m not planning anything,” Dean lies.
“Dude, you’ve been weird all week.”
“I’m focused.”
“You’re distracted.” Logan pulls his jersey over his head. “Which is going to get you checked into the boards if you’re not careful.”
“I’m fine.”
“Is she actually coming?” Tucker asks, lacing his skates.
“She said she would.”
“And you believe her?”
Dean does, actually. In three weeks of friendship, you’ve been nothing if not reliable. If you say you’ll be somewhere, you show up. Usually with coffee for both of you and color-coded notes that make his business homework actually make sense.
“She’ll be here,” he says.
And right before the game starts, when he skates out for warm-ups and scans the crowd, he sees you.
You’re in the student section, sitting next to Maggie, wearing jeans and a navy blue sweater, looking simultaneously interested and slightly overwhelmed by the chaos around you. Your hair is down tonight, and even from the ice he can see you’re taking it all in with those analytical eyes.
Then you see him looking, and you wave.
It’s a small wave, almost shy, but it does something to his chest that makes him nearly miss the puck Garrett sends his way.
“Focus!” Garrett yells, skating past.
Right. Focus. Hockey. Winning.
He can think about you later.
***
Hockey is violent.
This is your main takeaway fifteen minutes into the first period. You’ve seen clips before, obviously, but watching it live is different. The speed, the impact, the way bodies slam into the boards with a sound that makes you wince.
“Is this legal?” You ask Maggie over the roar of the crowd.
“What, the checking? Yeah, totally legal.”
“Someone’s going to get a concussion.”
“Probably!” Maggie’s grinning, completely unbothered by this fact. “That’s hockey, babe!”
You watch Dean skate backward, cutting off an opposing player with casual efficiency. He’s good — even you can tell that. Fast and smart, always seeming to know where the puck is going before it gets there. And when he steals it and sends it flying up the ice to Logan, who scores, the arena erupts.
“LET’S GO BOYS!” Maggie’s screaming, and you find yourself clapping, caught up in the energy despite yourself.
Dean skates past your section during the celebration, and even with his helmet on, you can tell he’s looking for you. When he finds you, he taps his stick on the ice.
“Was that for you?” Maggie demands.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“That was totally for you!”
“We’re friends.”
“Uh huh. And I’m the Queen of England.”
You don’t answer, but you’re smiling.
The game is close — tied 2-2 going into the third period. You’ve started to understand the rhythm of it, the strategy. Dean’s not a flashy player, but he’s essential. He breaks up plays, protects the goal, makes the kind of smart, unglamorous decisions that keep the other team from scoring.
“He’s really good,” you say to Maggie during a stoppage.
“One of the best defensemen in college hockey,” she says proudly, like she had something to do with it. “NHL scouts come to watch him play.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. There’s talk he might sign with a team. Go pro.”
This information sits strangely with you. The idea of Dean leaving, going off to some NHL team in some other city. Not that it matters. You’re friends. And friends can be happy for each other from a distance.
Right?
With two minutes left, Logan scores again. The arena goes insane. Briar wins 3-2, and the team piles on each other in celebration, sticks raised, the student section chanting “HAWKS! HAWKS! HAWKS!”
And you’re on your feet with everyone else, cheering for reasons you’re not entirely ready to examine.
***
Dean’s high lasts through the handshake line, through the initial celebration, right up until they get back to the locker room and he remembers his plan.
His stupid, impulsive, absolutely terrible plan that he’s been thinking about all week.
“Okay,” he says to Garrett, who’s the only one he’s told. “I’m going to do it.”
“Don’t do it.”
“I’m doing it.”
“Dean, this is the dumbest thing you’ve ever thought of, and you once tried to longboard down the library steps.”
“That was Tucker’s idea.”
“You still did it!” Garrett grabs his shoulder. “Dude, just ask her out like a normal person.”
“I’ve tried that. She said no.”
“So try again!”
“I need an edge. Something that’ll-” He stops. “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.”
“I understand you’re about to give yourself an actual injury to fake an injury, which is literally insane.”
But Dean’s mind is made up. He’s been thinking about this since Tuesday, when you mentioned your volunteer shift at the campus health center. How you’d patched up a guy who’d split his lip playing basketball, how you’d been gentle and efficient and completely in your element.
He wants to see you like that. Focused on him. Those careful hands on his face. Just the two of you, without the “friendship” buffer.
Is it manipulative? Maybe.
Is it ridiculous? Definitely.
Is he going to do it anyway?
Absolutely.
He waits until most of the team is in the showers. Then, before he can think better of it, he grabs his stick and-
CRACK.
“JESUS CHRIST!” Logan appears from around the corner just in time to see Dean lower his stick, blood already dripping from his lip. “DID YOU JUST HIT YOURSELF IN THE FACE?”
“Maybe,” Dean says, tasting copper.
“ON PURPOSE?”
“Keep your voice down-”
“GARRETT! TUCKER! DEAN JUST SMASHED HIMSELF WITH HIS STICK!”
So much for subtlety.
Within seconds, he’s surrounded by half the team, all staring at him like he’s lost his mind.
“Why?” Tucker asks, genuinely baffled.
“It’s not that bad,” Dean says, even though his lip is throbbing and there’s definitely blood on his jersey now.
“You’re bleeding everywhere!” Garrett’s looking at him with something between horror and reluctant admiration. “This is about that Y/N, isn’t it?”
“What?” Logan asks.
“Y/N! He’s trying to make her go all Meredith Grey on him!”
“By giving himself an actual injury?” Logan looks impressed despite himself. “That’s … that’s actually kind of genius?”
“It’s psychotic,” Tucker corrects.
“It’s both,” Garrett decides. “Dean, you’re an idiot.”
“Noted.” Dean grabs a towel, pressing it to his lip. “Now can someone go tell her I need medical attention?”
“You need psychiatric attention,” Garrett mutters, but he’s already moving.
***
You’re waiting outside the locker room with Maggie and a handful of other girlfriends and friends when Garrett emerges, looking harried.
“Y/N? Dean’s asking for you.”
Your stomach drops. “Why? What happened?”
“Took a stick to the face during the game. His lip’s split. He’s bleeding pretty good.”
You’re already moving. “How bad? Is he dizzy? Nauseous? Did he lose consciousness at any point?”
“Uh-”
“Never mind, I’ll check myself.” You push past him into the locker room, medical training overriding any sense of propriety.
Dean’s sitting on the bench in his hockey pants and undershirt, holding a rapidly reddening towel to his mouth. When he sees you, he lowers it, and — yeah, that’s a decent split. Upper lip, maybe half an inch long, still bleeding freely.
“Hi,” he says, and it comes out mushy because his lip is already swelling.
“What happened?” You’re already kneeling in front of him, tilting his head toward the light. Your hands are gentle but firm on his jaw, and Dean’s trying very hard to focus on not revealing that this is exactly what he wanted and not on how close you are or how good you smell or-
“Took a high stick in the scrum in front of the net,” he lies. “Didn’t even feel it until after.”
“Adrenaline,” you murmur, examining the cut. “You’re lucky it didn’t get your eye. Did you bite through? Let me see your teeth.”
He opens his mouth obediently.
“Okay, no tooth damage. That’s good.” You look around. “Do you guys have a first aid kit in here?”
“There’s a full medical setup in the training room,” Logan offers. He’s watching this with undisguised amusement, and Dean makes a mental note to murder him later.
“Show me.”
Five minutes later, you’ve got Dean sitting on a training table, supplies laid out with the kind of organization that makes him smile despite the pain. You’ve washed your hands twice and put on gloves, and now you’re back between his knees, carefully cleaning the wound.
“This is going to sting,” you warn.
“I can handle—OW.”
“I warned you.” But your voice is soft. “Stay still.”
He stays still.
“You know,” you say, working carefully, “hockey is incredibly dangerous. Repeated head trauma, chronic traumatic encephalopathy, not to mention acute injuries like fractures and lacerations-”
“Are you giving me a lecture right now?”
“Yes.” You don’t look up from your work. “Someone needs to. You’re all insane, throwing yourselves into walls and each other for fun.”
“It’s not for fun, it’s for glory.”
“Glory isn’t going to help you when you can’t remember your own name at forty.”
“Wow, you really know how to make a guy feel better.”
“I’m not trying to make you feel better, I’m trying to make you be smarter.” You lean back, examining your work. “You might have a scar.”
“Chicks dig scars.”
You give him a look. “Did you seriously just say that?”
“I’m concussed, I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“You’re not concussed. I already checked.” But you’re fighting a smile. “Though I’m starting to think you have a different kind of brain damage.”
“Ouch.”
“Hold still, I’m not done.” You’re applying something to the cut now, some kind of adhesive. “You’re going to need to keep this clean. No kissing anyone for at least a week.”
“There’s only one person I want to kiss anyway,” he says before he can stop himself.
Your hands pause. Just for a second. Then you continue working. “Dean.”
“Sorry. Friends. I know.”
“I’m serious about the kissing thing. If this gets infected-”
“It won’t.”
“You can’t know that.”
“Then you’ll just have to check on me. Make sure I’m being good.”
You step back, pulling off your gloves. “You’re never good.”
“I’m good at hockey.”
“You just got hit in the face.”
“Occupational hazard.” He touches his lip carefully. “How bad does it look?”
“Like you got hit with a hockey stick.” You’re packing up the supplies now, not looking at him. “Which you did. Because you play a violent sport with no regard for your personal safety.”
“You’re really worried about me.”
“I’m worried about anyone who voluntarily puts themselves in danger repeatedly.”
“But especially me.”
Finally, you look at him. Really look at him. And there’s something in your eyes that makes his heart race faster than any game ever has.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Especially you.”
The moment stretches. Dean’s very aware that you’re still standing between his knees. That your face is close enough that he could lean forward and kiss you if his lip wasn’t split open. That you’re looking at him like you’re trying to figure out a particularly complicated equation.
“Y/N-”
“I should go.” You step back quickly. “Keep it clean. Ice for the swelling. If you develop a fever or the pain gets worse, go to the health center.”
“Will you be there?”
“Dean.”
“What? It’s a legitimate question. I want to make sure I see a qualified professional.”
“Any of the nurses can handle a split lip.”
“But you handled this one.”
“Because Garrett came and got me.”
“Lucky me.”
You shake your head, but you’re smiling. “You’re impossible.”
“You like it.”
“I tolerate it. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
You’re saved from answering by Garrett sticking his head in. “Everything okay in here? Dean still alive?”
“Barely,” you say. “He needs to be more careful.”
“Good luck with that,” Garrett says. “He’s the least careful person I know.”
“I’m careful,” Dean protests. “I’m very careful.”
“You just got hit in the face with a stick.”
“That’s—yeah, okay, fair point.”
You gather your bag. “I really should go. Maggie’s waiting.”
“Let me walk you out,” Dean says, hopping off the table.
“You should stay here and rest.”
“I’m fine.”
“Dean-”
“Y/N.” He matches your tone exactly, and you huff out a laugh.
“Fine. But if you pass out, I’m leaving you where you fall.”
“That’s fair.”
He walks you out of the training room, past his teammates who are all very obviously pretending not to watch, through the locker room and out into the hallway where Maggie’s waiting.
“Oh my god,” Maggie says when she sees his face. “That looks painful.”
“It’s not that bad,” Dean says.
“It looks awful,” you correct. “He needs to rest and ice it.”
“I need to take you home first.”
“We have an Uber-”
“Cancel it.” He’s already pulling out his phone. “I’ll drive you.”
“Dean, you just played a full game and took a stick to the face. You should not be driving.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine, you’re-”
“Stubborn?” Maggie suggests. “Determined? Completely gone for you?”
“Maggie!” You elbow her.
But Dean’s grinning now, despite the pain it causes. “All of the above.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you say, but you don’t argue when he leads you to the parking lot.
His car is exactly what you’d expect — a sleek black Audi that probably cost more than your entire college tuition. He opens the passenger door for you, which makes Maggie practically swoon in the back seat.
“Such a gentleman,” she stage-whispers.
“Shut up,” you whisper back.
The drive to your dorm is short, but Dean takes the long way, which doesn’t escape your notice.
“You missed the turn,” you point out.
“Did I?”
“Dean.”
“I’m concussed, remember? No sense of direction.”
“You’re not concussed!”
But you’re laughing, and he counts that as a win.
When he finally pulls up to your dorm, Maggie tactfully announces she needs to “check the mailroom” and disappears, leaving you alone in the car with Dean.
“Thank you,” you say. “For driving us. And for inviting me to the game. It was … actually really fun.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Even though you scared me with the whole bleeding thing.”
“Sorry about that.”
“No, you’re not.”
He grins. “No, I’m not.” He pauses. “So, would you come to another game? As friends?”
You’re quiet for a moment, looking at him. His split lip, his hopeful eyes, the way he’s trying so hard to be patient when patience is clearly not his strong suit.
“Dean,” you say carefully. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“This. The friendship thing. The study sessions. Tonight. Why?”
He could lie. Should lie, probably. Keep up the pretense that this is all casual, all friendly.
But he’s tired of pretending.
“Because I like you,” he says simply. “I’ve liked you since the moment you told me I go through women like socks. I like how smart you are. How focused. How you don’t take any of my shit. I like that you see me as just some guy, not the hockey captain or Dean Di Laurentis. Just me.”
You’re staring at him.
“And I know you have plans,” he continues. “Medical school and saving lives and all that. And I know you think I’m just going to break your heart and mess up your GPA or whatever. But I’m not asking you to change your plans. I’m just asking for a chance to be part of them.”
“Dean-”
“I know. You want to just be friends. And if that’s all you can give me, I’ll take it. But you asked why I’m doing this, and that’s why. Because you’re worth it.”
The silence that follows is the longest of Dean’s life.
Then you unbuckle your seatbelt.
“Your lip,” you say.
“What about it?”
“I said no kissing for a week.”
“You did say that.”
“So this is a terrible idea.”
“Probably.”
“It could get infected.”
“I’ll risk it.”
You lean across the console, and Dean stops breathing.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” you whisper, your lips inches from his.
“Okay,” he whispers back.
“We’re still just friends.”
“Whatever you say.”
“I mean it, Dean. This is-”
He kisses you.
Or you kiss him.
Honestly, he’s not sure who moves first, but suddenly your hand is in his hair and his hand is on your waist and you taste like mint chapstick and something sweet and he never wants to stop.
You pull back after a moment, breathing hard.
“Your lip,” you gasp.
“Don’t care.”
“It’s going to start bleeding again.”
“Still don’t care.”
You kiss him again, softer this time, mindful of the injury. It’s gentle and sweet and somehow more intense than anything Dean’s ever felt.
When you finally pull away, you’re both flushed.
“I should go,” you say, not moving.
“Probably.”
“Maggie’s waiting.”
“Definitely.”
Neither of you moves.
“This was a one-time thing,” you say.
“Sure.”
“I’m serious, Dean. This doesn’t change anything.”
“Of course not.”
“Stop smiling.”
“Can’t help it.”
You kiss him one more time, quick and impulsive, then scramble out of the car before he can pull you back.
“Ice your lip!” You call back. “And text me if anything changes!”
“Yes, doctor,” he calls after you.
He watches you disappear into your dorm, probably to face Maggie’s interrogation. Then he touches his lip — which is definitely bleeding again — and grins so wide it hurts.
Worth it.
Completely, absolutely worth it.
His phone buzzes.
Garrett: so did your insane plan work?
Dean: better than i could have imagined
Garrett: you’re an idiot
Dean: yeah but I’m an idiot who just kissed y/n
Garrett: WHAT
Tucker: WHAT
Logan: FINALLY
Dean’s still grinning when he drives home, still grinning when he gets into bed, still grinning when he finally falls asleep.
And in your dorm room, you’re lying in bed, fingers touching your lips, trying to convince yourself that this was a mistake.
Trying.
Failing.
“So,” Maggie says from her bed. “Just friends, huh?”
“Shut up.”
“That’s what I thought.”
You don’t answer. You’re too busy replaying the kiss in your mind. The way Dean looked at you. The way he said you were worth it.
The way you’re starting to think he might be worth it too.
Your phone buzzes.
Dean: for the record, that was the best worst idea you’ve ever had
You: I told you it was a terrible idea
Dean: terrible ideas are my specialty
You: I’ve noticed
Dean: so … still friends?
You stare at the message for a long time.
You: we’ll see
Dean: i’ll take it
Dean: sweet dreams, friend
You: goodnight Dean
You put your phone on your nightstand and stare at the ceiling.
What have you gotten yourself into?
And why does it feel so much like exactly where you’re supposed to be?
***
The shift from library to living room happens gradually.
First, it’s just one Tuesday when the library’s too crowded and Dean suggests his place. “It’ll be quieter,” he says, which is a lie because Tucker and Logan are playing video games at top volume, but his room is quiet, and you get more done than you have in weeks.
Then it becomes a regular thing. Tuesdays and Thursdays at The Boy’s House, sprawled across Dean’s bed with textbooks scattered around you, his desk chair pulled close so he can see your notes.
“This is dangerous,” Maggie says when you tell her.
“We’re studying.”
“In his bedroom.”
“It’s more comfortable than the library.”
“Uh huh. And how long before ‘studying’ becomes something else?”
“We’re taking things slow,” you say, which is true. Since the kiss in his car three weeks ago, there’s been more kissing. A lot more kissing. But always with boundaries. Always with you pulling back when things get too intense, and Dean letting you, patient in a way you didn’t know he was capable of being.
“You’re falling for him,” Maggie observes.
“I’m not falling for anyone. I’m focused on my goals.”
“You can do both, you know.”
“Can I?”
Maggie just looks at you, and you don’t have an answer.
***
Dean’s failing at the whole “just friends” thing spectacularly.
“You’ve got it bad,” Garrett says, watching Dean reorganize his desk for the third time. You’re coming over in twenty minutes, and he’s acting like the President is visiting.
“I’m just cleaning.”
“You never clean.”
“I clean.”
“You literally have a service that comes once a month to clean because you never clean.”
Dean throws a pillow at him. “Get out of my room.”
“Gladly. This is painful to watch.” But Garrett pauses at the door. “You know you’re going to have to actually talk to her about what you are, right? This weird limbo thing can’t last forever.”
“We’re taking it slow.”
“You’re taking it glacial. And one of you is going to crack.”
Dean knows this. Feels it every time you bite your lip in concentration, every time you absently touch his arm while explaining a concept, every time you look at him like you’re trying to solve an equation that doesn’t have an answer.
But he’s trying to be good. Trying to be what you need, which apparently is a friend who kisses you sometimes but doesn’t push for more.
Even if it’s killing him.
The doorbell rings — you always ring the doorbell instead of just walking in like everyone else — and Dean takes the stairs two at a time.
You’re standing on the porch in leggings and an oversized sweater, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair in a messy bun. You’re not wearing makeup. You look tired.
You look perfect.
“Hey,” you say.
“Hey.” He steps aside to let you in. “Rough day?”
“Organic chem exam. I think I aced it, but my brain feels like mush.”
“Want to reschedule?”
“No, I need to focus on something else or I’ll obsess over every answer.” You’re already heading up the stairs to his room, comfortable now in a way that makes his chest tight. “Please tell me you have coffee.”
“Made a fresh batch ten minutes ago.”
“You’re a saint.”
“I’m really not,” he mutters, following you up.
***
Two hours later, you’ve made significant progress on Dean’s Business Finance case study and your Healthcare Economics paper. You’ve also consumed an entire pot of coffee and are now lying across Dean’s bed on your stomach, ankles crossed in the air, reading an article on your laptop.
Dean’s at his desk, supposedly working on his own assignment, but mostly just watching you. The way you scrunch your nose when you read something confusing. The way you absently twist a strand of hair around your finger. The way you’ve made yourself completely at home in his space.
“I can feel you staring,” you say without looking up.
“Can’t help it. You’re very watchable.”
“That’s not a word.”
“Sure it is. I just used it.”
You finally look at him, and you’re smiling. “You’re distracting me.”
“Sorry.” He’s not sorry.
“No, you’re not.”
“You’re right, I’m not.”
You shake your head, but you’re still smiling. You go back to your article, and Dean goes back to pretending to work.
Ten minutes later, he notices you’ve stopped scrolling.
“Y/N?”
No answer.
He turns in his chair. You’ve fallen asleep, face pillowed on your arms, laptop still open beside you. Your breathing is deep and even, and there’s a small crease between your eyebrows like you’re concentrating even in sleep.
Dean stands slowly, carefully. He should wake you. Let you go home. But you look so peaceful, and he knows you’ve been running yourself ragged with classes and volunteering and somehow still making time for him.
He gently closes your laptop and sets it on his nightstand. You don’t stir.
He should really wake you.
Instead, he finds himself carefully pulling the throw blanket from the foot of his bed and draping it over you. You make a small sound, shifting slightly, and his breath catches. But you just burrow deeper into his pillow.
Dean stands there for a long moment, just watching you sleep in his bed, and something in his chest cracks wide open.
He’s in love with you.
The realization should terrify him. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t do love. He does fun and casual and uncomplicated.
But you’re none of those things, and he doesn’t care.
He’s in love with you.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
You sleep on, oblivious.
Dean grabs his spare pillow and a second blanket. He should sleep on the floor. Or in the living room. But the thought of being away from you, even just downstairs, is impossible.
So he lies down on top of his covers, careful not to jostle you, keeping a respectful distance.
He’ll just close his eyes for a minute.
Just a minute.
***
You wake up warm.
That’s the first thing you register. Warm and comfortable and-
Your eyes fly open.
Dean’s bedroom. Dean’s bed. And Dean is-
Oh god.
Sometime in the night, you’ve migrated together. Your back is pressed against his chest, his arm is wrapped around your waist, and his face is buried in your hair. You can feel his breath on your neck, slow and steady.
He’s still asleep.
You should move. Extract yourself carefully. Pretend this never happened.
But he’s so warm, and you’re so comfortable, and when was the last time you felt this safe?
“Y’wake?” Dean’s voice is rough with sleep, and you feel it rumble through his chest.
“Yeah.”
“What time is it?”
You crane your neck to see his alarm clock. “Six thirty.”
“In the morning?”
“Yeah.”
He groans, but his arm tightens around you. “Too early.”
“I should go.”
“Why?”
“Because I fell asleep here. In your bed.”
“So?”
“So that’s not … we’re not …”
“We’re not what?” His thumb starts tracing absent circles on your hip, and you’re pretty sure he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
“Dean.”
“Hmm?”
“We should talk about this.”
“About what? Two friends having a sleepover?”
“Friends don’t usually sleep like this.”
“Maybe they should. It’s very comfortable.”
Despite yourself, you laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“You say that a lot.”
“Because it’s consistently true.”
He shifts, and suddenly he’s propped up on one elbow, looking down at you. His hair is a mess, and there’s a crease on his cheek from the pillow, and he’s looking at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
“You drool when you sleep.”
“I do not!” You swat at him, but he catches your hand.
“Okay, you don’t. But you do make these little snoring sounds.”
“I don’t snore!”
“They’re cute. Everything about you is cute.”
Your heart does that annoying flutter thing. “Dean-”
“I know. Taking it slow. Being patient. I’m being good.”
“Are you?”
“I’m trying.” His eyes drop to your lips. “It’s really hard when you look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to kiss me.”
“I-” You stop. Because he’s right. You do want to kiss him. You want to do more than kiss him. You’ve been wanting to for weeks now, and the wanting is starting to override the carefully logical reasons you’ve built up for why this is a bad idea.
“Can I kiss you?” Dean asks, and his voice is soft. Careful.
“We’re in your bed.”
“I noticed.”
“If we start kissing in your bed, it’s going to lead to other things.”
“Not if you don’t want it to.”
“That’s the problem. I’m starting to think I do want it to.”
Dean goes very still. “Y/N-”
“I should go,” you say quickly, sitting up. “I have a class at nine and I need to shower and-”
“Hey.” He catches your hand again. “Don’t run.”
“I’m not running.”
“You’re definitely running.” But he lets go, giving you space. “I’ll drive you.”
“You don’t have to-”
“I want to.”
The drive back to your dorm is quiet. Not uncomfortable, just weighted. Like you’re both thinking the same thing but neither of you knows how to say it.
When he pulls up to your building, you unbuckle your seatbelt but don’t get out.
“Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“Last night … it was really nice.”
He turns to look at you, and something in his expression makes your breath catch. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You lean over and kiss him, quick and soft. “I’ll see you Thursday?”
“Thursday,” he confirms.
You make it halfway to the door before he calls your name.
“Y/N?”
“Yeah?”
“You can fall asleep in my bed anytime you want.”
You smile. “Good to know.”
And you definitely don’t spend the entire day thinking about the way he held you. The way you fit together. The way you’ve never felt safer than you did waking up in his arms.
Definitely not.
***
Thursday becomes a repeat of Tuesday. You study, you talk, you laugh. And when you start to fade around eleven, Dean just hands you a t-shirt.
“You can’t sleep in jeans,” he says. “They’re not comfortable.”
“Dean-”
“I’ll turn around. I promise.”
He does, facing the wall while you change quickly, and when you climb into his bed wearing his shirt and your underwear, he doesn’t comment. Just lies down on top of the covers again, maintaining that careful distance.
Until you wake up tangled together anyway.
It becomes a routine. Study sessions that run late. You, falling asleep in his bed. Dean, sleeping above the covers. Both of you waking up intertwined.
“This is ridiculous,” you say one morning, still wrapped in his arms. “You’re sleeping on top of the covers.”
“I’m being respectful.”
“You’re being uncomfortable.”
“I’m fine.”
“Dean.” You turn to face him. “Just get under the covers. We’re going to end up cuddling anyway.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
That night, when you start to fade, Dean just lifts the covers.
“Come here,” he says, and you do.
You fit against him like you were designed for it. His arm around your waist, your head on his chest, legs tangled together.
all my off campus fics, one shots, blurbs & extras gathered in one place.
𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐡𝐚𝐦
one shots –
❄︎ one drink limit
garrett tries to keep his drunk girlfriend hydrated, upright, and away from kitchen counters.
↳ garrett graham x reader
❄︎ good practice
a post-game hookup turns into painkillers, antiseptic wipes, and feelings neither of them planned for.
↳ garrett graham x nursing student!reader
❄︎ secret mission
a secret hookup with garrett graham turns into four close calls, one locker room scandal, and feelings neither of them are hiding very well.
↳ garrett graham x reader
❄︎ line?!
drunk shakespeare turns into old feelings, bad decisions, and garrett graham onstage where he absolutely does not belong.
↳ garrett graham x reader
❄︎ mountain lion
garrett graham doesn’t do girlfriends. the hockey house disagrees.
↳ garrett graham x kitty!reader
❄︎ no funny business
after a brutal day on placement, garrett offers a movie, pizza, and a place to cry without making it weird.
↳ garrett graham x nursing student!reader
blurbs –
❄︎ study buddy
garrett offers his arm for science and accidentally catches feelings in the library.
↳ garrett graham x nursing student!reader
❄︎ clinical observation
garrett discovers he has a thing for scrubs. unfortunately, tucker notices.
↳ garrett graham x nursing student!reader
❄︎ off the clock
garrett doesn’t do girlfriends. though, apparently, he does do hospital pickups.
↳ garrett graham x nursing student!reader
❄︎ concussion protocol
logan ends up in the ED after a hit at hockey training, and garrett gets a front-row seat to nursing student mode.
↳ garrett graham x nursing student!reader
𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
nursing student!reader –
study buddy | good practice | clinical observation | off the clock | no funny business | concussion protocol |
kitty!reader –
mountain lion |
taglist –
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