summary: When you confessed your love to the idiot on the hockey team and he rejected you like a coward… only to write you 22 letters later, ignore your silent treatment, and confess everything to you in the rain like he’s in a Nicholas Sparks movie. Because of course, talking like a normal person is too hard, but declaring eternal love while soaking wet is totally reasonable.
warnings: Prepare yourself for some angst with a happy ending, fueled by heavy pining and absolute emotional constipation. This story features miscommunication (but make it dramatic) and, yes, literal kisses in the rain. Expect Logan being a simp in denial, lots of crying in aprons and on shoulders, and friends who consistently give much better advice than the main characters actually listen to. Fair warning: you will experience severe secondhand embarrassment, endure excessive dramatic monologues, and encounter plenty of swearing along the way.
a/n: hey guys, I’m back! I hope you like it. You have no idea how fucking much I love kisses in the rain. Sending you a kiss — I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. xoxo
part one.
'Cause all I know is we said, "Hello"
And your eyes look like comin' home
All I know is a simple name
And everything has changed
(Guys, you lost me.)
I don’t know what to do with this. With all this love I have for him. I don’t know where to put it now.
The world kept spinning like nothing had happened. And I hated it a little for that.
Every morning I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror of my room with that question stuck somewhere inside me, unanswered, with nowhere to go. Love doesn’t disappear just because you want it to. It doesn’t work like that. There’s no switch, no drawer where you can stash it and lock it away. It was just there, huge and useless, taking up space that no longer had anyone to belong to.
When was the last time I actually slept?
I couldn’t remember.
I wasn’t trying to be dramatic, but fuck, not talking to him had hit me hard.
I washed my face with ice-cold water until my cheeks burned to bring down the swelling, then I put on concealer under my eyes and a little blush so I wouldn’t look so dead. War paint, I told myself. As if calling it that turned it into something that required courage instead of just the small, sad act of trying to look like a functional person.
Today I finally decided to leave my cave—my incredible, comfortable bed—to dignify myself with going to work. One of the perks of your mom being the owner is that she really doesn’t care if you miss work. I think she’s even at peace when I’m not at the café. It must be exhausting to see me moving around like a ghost in an apron.
The walk was twelve minutes. Janis was still at the car wash, so I had no choice. I usually didn’t mind walking, but now I couldn’t stand those twelve minutes alone with my thoughts. Before, I’d spend them with music or my phone in my hand, answering Logan’s messages like a dumb teenager. Now I just wore the headphones without playing anything. Just the dead weight of them as an excuse for no one to talk to me. So I could be, for those twelve minutes, exactly as broken as I was before having to pretend I wasn’t.
I’d been replaying the same moments all weekend. The feeling of his lips against mine. His big, warm hands closing around my hips. The way he looked at me right before he kissed me, like he’d been holding back for years. The hoarse sound that escaped his throat when I kissed him back. Everything played on loop, sharp, cruel, perfect.
And then came the memory of the next morning. His voice in the kitchen.
“I fucked everything up.”
“I need you to leave.”
I shook my head and picked up my pace, as if I could leave the memories behind on the sidewalk.
“The only thing I learned that night,” I muttered, dropping my forehead onto the table with a dull thud, “was that I should’ve stayed home.”
We were sitting at one of the outdoor tables in the central courtyard at Briar, under a sun that felt way too cheerful for my mood. I had a coffee that had already gone cold between my hands. Sarah was nibbling on an apple with a bored face, and Alison was stirring her chocolate milkshake with a straw while listening to me repeat the weekend story for the thousandth time.
Sarah let out a snort and ran her hand down my arm in a caress that was supposed to be comforting but mostly looked like she was holding back laughter.
“What if he’s gay and just hasn’t realized it yet?” she whispered mischievously, leaning toward me.
Alison let out a short, dry laugh.
“Men,” she said ironically, clinking the ice in her drink. “Tell them you love them and you’ll never see them again. They disappear faster than my patience on a Monday morning.”
“God, my life sucks,” I lamented, letting out a pitiful groan against the cold wood of the table.
The silence lasted barely two seconds before Sarah leaned in closer.
“For God’s sake! You’re twenty-two years old, what do you know about life?” she exclaimed, though her voice had that protective tone she always used when she saw me like this. “You’re beautiful, smart, and never apologize for feeling things, for setting boundaries, or for having ambitions, babe. Got it?”
I lifted my head enough to look at her. Sarah had that kind of confidence I envied with all my soul: short hair, sharp gaze, and a tongue that could destroy male egos in less than ten words. Alison was the same, only more cruelly funny. Both of them were like a man’s ego put into the bodies of beautiful, fearless women. The exact opposite of me right now.
“Besides,” Alison continued, pointing at me with her straw, “if John ‘Eat Me’ Logan is dumb enough to let you go after you told him you loved him, then fuck him. There are more guys at Briar. Most of them are worse, but at least some know how to use their mouths for something more useful than babbling excuses.”
I tried to smile, but it only came out as a crooked grimace. I knew they were saying it to cheer me up. I knew their words came from a good place. But none of that took away the weight I felt in my chest.
“Who needs therapy when I have you guys? Hooray…” I said in a tired but sincere voice.
But then I saw him.
Logan was walking along the path that crossed the courtyard with that stride of his I knew by heart—not too fast, not too slow, that way of moving that had always felt somehow inevitable. Tucker was beside him talking about something, hands in his pockets, and Logan had his head slightly tilted toward him with no expression at all.
And then he looked up.
I don’t know if it was instinct or bad luck, but his eyes went straight to mine. Without searching. Without hesitation. Like he already knew exactly where I was before he looked.
His brown eyes locked onto mine.
And I saw everything on his face in the space of a second: the impact of finding me there, the tension that rose up his jaw, something that could have been relief or pain or probably both at the same time. He had dark circles. A tight line between his eyebrows that I hadn’t seen before, or maybe I had and just didn’t know what it meant at the time.
Now I did.
He stopped dead.
Tucker took two more steps before realizing and turning around. I saw the exact moment he processed the situation—his eyes going from Logan to me and back to Logan—and something in his face closed off with an expression that wasn’t exactly pity but was too close for my comfort. Logan watched me with a mix of pain, regret, and something else I didn’t dare name. He took an involuntary step toward our table, like his body reacted before his brain. Tucker, beside him, noticed immediately and grabbed his arm firmly, stopping him.
Logan didn’t even look at him.
His eyes moved quickly over mine, my mouth, the line of my jaw, scanning my expression with an urgency that almost hurt.
He didn’t even like me. Why was he torturing me like this?
His lips parted slightly and then closed. I could see him working inside, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers briefly clenched into a fist and then opened. His entire posture was a question. Almost a plea.
Give me something. Anything.
I felt my heart rise to my throat and stay there, huge and inconvenient, pulsing with a force that I’m sure showed on my face.
No. I’m not going to be the one who does it this time.
I can’t be the one again.
I looked away with effort, breaking the contact like I was tearing off a piece of my own skin. I lowered my head and tightened my fingers around my coffee cup until my knuckles turned white.
“I’m not taking the first step,” I whispered, more to myself than to them, though the words came out loud enough.
“Bravo girl, Bravo” Sarah said proudly, giving me a gentle pat on the back. “Let him crawl this time.”
----
J.L
I sat on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands, feeling like my chest was going to explode. In my head, the same image played on loop without stopping: the way her eyes filled with pain. And then she looked away. Like looking at me burned her. Like I was something she could no longer stand.
Like I was something she could no longer stand.
The three of them looked at me in silence. It was weird seeing the guys so quiet. Disturbingly weird. Normally Dean would’ve already said some shit to lighten the mood, but even he didn’t dare. Garrett had his arms crossed and his jaw tight, staring at the floor. Tucker was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, looking at me… with a lot of pity.
How fucked up was I?
“…I ruined everything,” I muttered, my voice hoarse.
Dean let out a dramatic sigh and threw himself onto my bed like it was his.
“Yeah, we already know that. The question is: what the hell are you going to do about it?”
I stayed quiet for a long time. The knot in my throat was choking me. I ran my hands through my hair, pulling harder than necessary, as if the physical pain could organize the chaos inside me.
“I’m in love with her,” I admitted almost angrily. “I love her eyes… fuck, I love the way she looks at me like I’m someone decent. I love her hair, the way it falls in her face when she’s focused. I love her smile when she hears the stupidest thing that comes out of my mouth… like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to her.” My voice was shaking by the end. I stood up without really knowing why. I needed to move, I needed to do something with my body because if I stayed still I was going to explode. I stood in the middle of the room like an idiot. “She confessed everything to me… and I told her I couldn’t. What kind of son of a bitch does that? After what happened that night?”
Dean, for the first time in a long time, didn’t make a joke. He just looked at me seriously.
“Bro… you’re really fucked.”
Garrett moved.
He’d been silent the whole time, staring at some point on the floor, and that silence from Garrett was what had me the most nervous since they arrived.
He leaned forward. Looked straight at me.
“So what are you going to do now? Because avoiding her and looking at her like a lost puppy isn’t working.” He said it without cruelty, but without softening it either. “Listen to me, Logan. You’re a mess, I know. But you can’t go dump all of this on her at once.” He paused, choosing his words. “She’s hurt. Really hurt. If you go now and tell her everything you’re feeling, she’s going to think it’s pity or that you’re confused. You have to take it slow… but don’t drag your feet. Do it right. Approach her little by little. Start by asking for forgiveness. Be honest, but gentle. Give her room to breathe.”
Garrett continued:
“You know where she works. You should go. Not like an ambush, just you. Order a coffee, sit down… and talk to her. On her turf. No pressure.”
Tucker pushed off the wall. He nodded slowly.
“Fast, but careful. Show her with actions that it wasn’t a mistake.” His voice was calmer than Garrett’s, quieter, but just as firm. “That she wasn’t a mistake.”
-
-
-
I stood in front of the café door for almost ten minutes, hands in the pockets of my jeans, my heart pounding against my ribs like it wanted to get out. The smell of fresh coffee and sweet bread reached me from inside, but it didn’t calm me. It did the opposite. It reminded me of her. Of her hands moving with that calm motion behind the counter, of how she bit her lower lip when she focused on making a latte.
Breathe, Logan. Don’t fuck this up again.
I pushed the door open and the little bell sounded way too loud in my ears. There weren’t many people. A couple of occupied tables and her behind the counter, cleaning the espresso machine. She was wearing the black apron she always wore, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail with some strands falling in her face. God… she looked beautiful.
I approached the counter with heavy legs. She looked up for a second, her eyes passing over my face without stopping, like I was just another customer. No surprise. No pain. Nothing. Just cold indifference.
Ouch. I deserve that.
“A black coffee, please,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended.
She nodded without meeting my eyes and turned toward the machine. Her shoulders were tense. I knew that body language. She was holding herself back.
Say something, John. Now.
“…I need to talk to you,” I murmured, lowering my voice so only she could hear. “Alone. Please.”
She didn’t respond. The sound of the espresso machine filled the silence between us. She served the coffee with precise movements, placed the cup in front of me, and wrote something on the order slip like I hadn’t said a word.
“That’ll be four fifty,” she said, looking at a point over my shoulder.
“Hey… please,” I insisted, leaning a little over the counter. “Just five minutes. I know I don’t deserve even that, but…”
She took the bill I held out without brushing my fingers. She gave me the change with the same empty expression, like she was serving a stranger. Her eyes didn’t meet mine even once. It was worse than if she had screamed at me. That indifference was destroying me inside.
She’s hurt. Really hurt. Shit, Garrett was right.
“I understand that you don’t want to see me,” I continued, almost in a whisper. “But I can’t keep going like this. What I did… was shitty. I was shitty. I need to explain…”
“Here’s your change,” she cut me off in a neutral voice, placing the coins on the counter. Then she turned back to the machine and started cleaning again, giving me her back.
The knot in my throat tightened so much I thought I was going to choke. I stood there like an idiot, the coffee burning my hand and my chest on fire. I wanted to jump over the counter, grab her by the arms, and force her to look at me, to see everything that was eating me alive inside. But I couldn’t. Not after what I’d done to her.
I took the coffee and sat at one of the tables in the back, where I could see her. I wasn’t moving from there. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not for as long as it took.
I’m not giving up on you. Even if you ignore me. Even if you look at me like I no longer exist. I’m going to prove to you that you weren’t a mistake. That you never were. That you’re the only thing I want in this fucking life.
-
-
-
“Hey, kid!”
A strong, decisive voice snapped me out of my sleep. I blinked, confused, my cheek stuck to the table and a trail of drool that didn’t even embarrass me. The café was empty. The chairs were already up on the tables and the main lights were off. Only the dim light from the counter remained.
In front of me was her mom. And fuck… she was just as pretty as her daughter. The same expressive eyes, the same way of tilting her head when she was half amused and half serious, the same hair falling softly over her shoulders. Seeing her was like seeing a more mature, confident version of her. It hurt my soul.
“What, you think this is a hotel?” she said in a half-mocking, half-annoyed tone. “You’ve been sleeping there for like three hours, drooling on my table. We closed a while ago.”
I sat up quickly, wiping my mouth with my sleeve, my face burning. I looked around desperately.
“Did she… already leave?” I asked, my voice thick.
She let out a soft, almost maternal laugh and shook her head while picking up a rag.
“My daughter left a while ago. She said she had things to do.” She looked at me for a second longer, with that warmth she’d always had toward me. “You okay? You look… tired.”
Ma’am, I’m trying to prove to your daughter that I’m not a complete son of a bitch.
“Yeah, I’m… I’m fine,” I lied, standing up. My neck hurt like hell. “I just wanted… to talk to her for a bit.”
She pointed at the door with the mop. “Come on, out. I have to open early tomorrow and I’m not leaving you here as decoration.”
I got up unsteadily, still half-asleep and with a sore neck. I tried to keep some dignity, but it was hard with the table mark on my cheek and my hair a mess.
She took the mop and gave me a gentle but firm push toward the door, like she was shooing out a big, clumsy dog that didn’t want to leave.
“Ma’am, I just—”
“Out, out,” she cut me off playfully, opening the door. “I open early tomorrow and I’m not tripping over you drooling on my tables. I don’t know what happened between you and my daughter, but I hope you can fix it soon. It kills me to see her walking around like a ghost. Good night.”
The cold of the night hit me as I stepped out. The door closed behind me with that cheerful little jingle that now sounded like mockery.
I stood there on the dark sidewalk, running my hands over my face.
How pathetic. Ugh.
---
“Hi…” The low, close voice startled me so much I let out a small scream and nearly dropped the cup from my hands. I spun around, heart hammering in my throat.
Tucker took a step back and clutched his chest with one hand, eyes a little wide.
“Fuck… you scared me,” he muttered, breathing deeply, clearly surprised by my reaction. “Got a minute?”
I didn’t answer. Instead I stood there, pressing the cup against my chest like a shield. My pulse thundered in my ears.
He ran a hand over the back of his neck, uncomfortable, and looked down for a second before speaking. “I’m sorry,” he said simply, with that calm but heavy voice. “I’m sorry about what happened.”
I looked at him in silence. Tucker had always been the quietest. Seeing him here apologizing squeezed something in my chest.
“It’s not your fault, Tucker,” I answered quietly, forcing a weak smile. “Really. You didn’t do anything. You don’t have to apologize for something that wasn’t your responsibility.”
He frowned slightly, like he didn’t fully agree, and still insisted, but before he could say anything I beat him to it:
“It’s okay,” I added, trying to sound firmer than I felt. “I’m fine. I don’t need anyone carrying this. Not you… not anyone.”
What a huge lie. I’m not fine. Nothing is fine. But what else can I say?
Tucker nodded slowly, still with that pitying look I hated so much. He stayed one more second, like he wanted to add something, but in the end he just murmured:
“How are you feeling?” he asked quietly. “Don’t lie to me.”
Crack.
I couldn’t hold it anymore.
The knot that had been tightening in my throat for days, weeks, broke all at once. Tears flooded my eyes and I started crying uncontrollably, right there. Everything came out in a shaky, broken torrent.
“I really… I really didn’t want to like him,” I sobbed, covering my face with one hand. “I didn’t want to, Tucker. I tried not to… but it just happened. And now I miss him so much it hurts to breathe. I miss his stupid voice, the way he looks at me… I miss feeling safe with him. But he told me he couldn’t and… and I had to walk away. I needed to walk away. I don’t know how to keep pretending I’m okay when everything reminds me of him. He’s been coming nonstop, leaving these stupid letters I haven’t even bothered to open, and fuck, it complicates everything when I see him on campus… I’m drowning. I regret going to that stupid party. I regret confessing my feelings. If only… if only I’d held back a little.”
The tears kept falling, soaking my cheeks and my apron. I felt pathetic, exposed, but I couldn’t stop.
Tucker walked around the counter without saying anything. His steps were quiet, steady. Suddenly his arms wrapped around me carefully, pulling me against his chest in a warm, protective hug. I tensed for a second, but then I collapsed against him, crying harder into his sweatshirt.
“Shh… it’s okay,” he murmured against my hair, rubbing my back with slow, comforting strokes. “Cry as much as you need. You don’t have to be strong all the time.”
I felt pathetic. I admit I really tried not to cry, but I just couldn’t hold it back anymore.
When will this suffering end?
I had to rip it out by the roots.
Maybe not right now. When I’m ready.
“Eight days!?”
They said it at the same time. Both of them. With the same incredulous face that made the lady at table three look up from her newspaper and stare at me like I was the problem.
“Shh, lower your voices.” I leaned on the counter with my arms crossed and waited for the echo to fade. “Eight days in a row,” I confirmed, lowering my voice.
Alison and Sarah were sitting on the high stools in front of the counter, their half-finished milkshakes in front of them and that look on both their faces that meant they weren’t letting me out of this conversation easily. The café was quiet at that hour, only four tables occupied and my mom in the kitchen making muffled clattering noises from the back. It was the kind of afternoon I normally liked. Calm. Manageable.
Until they showed up.
“And what does he do?” Sarah asked, raising an eyebrow while pointing at Logan’s table with her straw.
“He writes.”
“He writes?” Alison repeated, like the word didn’t quite fit, looking at me with a “Seriously?” face.
“He sits down, takes out paper, and writes. At first I thought he was studying, taking notes, whatever. Something normal.” I grabbed the rag from the counter and unfolded it, wiping the drops of chocolate Sarah’s straw had left. “But then on the third day he slipped a folded letter into the tip jar when he left.”
Both of them looked at the jar. It was there in its usual spot next to the register, completely innocent.
“In the tip jar?” Sarah pointed out, still not believing it.
“In the tip jar.”
“Why there?”
“Because I was giving him the silent treatment and every time he tried to talk to me I found something super urgent to do in the kitchen.” I folded the rag. Unfolded it. “So he stopped trying and found another way.”
Alison turned her stool slightly toward Sarah. Then looked at me.
“And what do the letters say?” Sarah asked.
“I don’t know.”
Silence.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Alison said slowly, her voice showing that something didn’t add up.
“That I haven’t opened them.”
“None of them?”
“None.”
Alison stared at me. Then at Sarah. Then back at me.
“How many letters total?” she asked, and something in her tone told me she was already bracing for the answer.
I wiped a part of the counter that was already perfectly clean.
“Twenty-two.”
The silence lasted exactly two seconds.
“Twenty-two,” Alison repeated, toneless.
“Sometimes he leaves me three in one day. He sits, writes, folds the paper, puts it in the jar, and starts again. Like he always has something more to say.”
“But why?” Sarah frowned, not in judgment but with the genuine confusion of someone trying to solve a puzzle. “I mean, what’s the point of him writing you letters if he’s the one who told you no?”
“Exactly what I keep asking myself.”
“And you have no idea what they might say?”
“None.” I shrugged, though the gesture came out a little forced. “Maybe it’s an apology. Or he wants us to stay friends and doesn’t know how to tell me in person. Or he just feels guilty and this is how he’s dealing with it. I don’t know.”
“Or maybe,” Alison said finally, measuring her words, “they say something that has nothing to do with any of those things?”
“Alison.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Well, don’t say it.” I grabbed the rag again. “He made it pretty clear where things stood. The letters will be what they are, probably something I don’t need to read, and when I get the courage I’ll open them and that’s it.”
Sarah rested her chin on her hand and looked at me with that calm of hers that always felt slightly destabilizing.
“Do you have them on you?” she asked.
Of course I had them on me. I’d been carrying the wad folded in my apron pocket since Monday, but I had no explanation that made me look good. I took them out and placed them on the counter between the two milkshakes.
Alison and Sarah looked at them.
“Can we take a look?” Alison asked.
I glanced sideways at the table in the back. Logan was sitting with Dean Di Laurentis, a ridiculously hot blond who had always seemed almost unfairly attractive. They both had muffins they’d ordered a while ago in front of them. Logan was saying something with his elbows on the table and Dean was listening, leaning back in his chair with that half-smile of his, like he found the world generally entertaining. Neither was looking at me.
I shrugged.
“Whatever you want,” I said, and turned to clean the coffee machine. “They’re probably just apologies or something. I don’t think they’re a big deal.”
I heard the rustle of paper unfolding.
Silence. More silence.
The kind of silence you notice because there should be some comment and worryingly there isn’t. There should’ve been an “aw how sweet” or “look at his handwriting” or anything, but there was nothing, and that nothing started to itch somewhere I tried to ignore.
I turned around.
Alison had the letter in her hands and an expression I’d never seen on her. It wasn’t exactly surprise. It was something quieter, deeper, something that had settled on her face while she read and hadn’t moved when she stopped. Her eyes were still fixed on the paper.
“Oh,” she said.
Just that.
Oh.
Oh?
She passed the letter to Sarah without looking at her, pointing to a specific spot with her finger. Sarah read. I saw the exact moment she reached that part because her shoulders dropped a centimeter, she let out a very slow breath through her nose, and then she looked at me with an expression that was half tenderness and half something pretty close to “oh, sweetie.”
“This…” she started.
“What?” I said.
“This is pretty…”
I leaned over the counter without realizing it.
“Pretty what?”
The two of them looked at each other like accomplices and let out a small laugh.
“Give it to me,” I said.
Alison picked up the letter from Sarah’s hands.
“No.”
“Alison.”
“Nope.”
“Come on, it’s probably just a long apology—”
“It’s not an apology.” She said it without thinking and then closed her mouth like she’d said too much. Sarah pinched her.
I stayed still for a moment.
“What do you mean it’s not an apology?”
“Nothing, forget it.”
“Alison, if it’s not an apology then what—”
“When you’re ready you’ll read it and that’s it.” She leaned on the counter with a firmness that left no room for negotiation. “And don’t look at me like that, I’m serious. This is something you have to read alone and at the right moment, not here in the middle of your shift because we pressured you.”
“But I didn’t even want to know—”
“And now you do, right?”
I shut up. She was right. Damn it, she was right, because ten minutes ago I was perfectly convinced those letters were probably some elaborate apology or a request to stay friends and I didn’t need to read them to know they’d hurt anyway. And now I was leaning over the counter with my heart doing weird things because Alison had said “it’s not an apology” in that voice and—
A shadow fell over the counter.
The three of us looked up at the same time.
Dean Di Laurentis was standing on the other side of the counter. He didn’t say anything. He simply reached out, took the letter from Alison with a calmness that left no room for argument, grabbed another from the stack still on the counter, and placed them in front of me with startling ease.
I looked at him.
He held my gaze for a second, nodded slightly like he’d just done the most reasonable thing, then turned his head toward Alison.
And winked at her. Slowly. With total and absolute premeditation.
And he walked back to his table with his hands in his pockets like he hadn’t just dropped a grenade, leaving calmly.
The silence he left lasted exactly three seconds.
Sarah and I looked at each other.
Alison’s cheeks were flushed. Alison, who had once told a guy trying to hit on her at a party that his technique was conceptually deficient. Alison, who in the three years I’d known her had never lost a millimeter of composure in front of any male human being.
She had flushed cheeks.
She picked up her milkshake. Took a long, absolutely deliberate sip while looking out the window.
“Don’t even think about it,” she muttered.
Sarah opened her mouth.
“Don’t. You. Dare,” Alison repeated without looking at her, with a calmness that didn’t match someone with cheeks that color.
Sarah closed it. But no one could wipe the smile off her face.
I looked down at the two letters in front of me on the counter. White paper, folded in three, nothing written on the outside. Just the paper. And underneath all of that, that phrase spinning nonstop: it’s not an apology.
If it wasn’t an apology, then what was it?
I didn’t want to know. Lies. Yes, I did.
It was past midnight. I was sitting on the floor of my room in my pajamas, with the twenty-two letters spread out on the rug around me in roughly chronological order of when Logan had left them in the tip jar. They formed a semicircle that completely surrounded me. From the outside it probably looked pretty bleak, but there was no one watching so it didn’t count.
I’d taken them out of the drawer where I’d been saving them one by one, with that weird mix of care and denial that didn’t make much sense if you analyzed it. I’d organized them. I’d been staring at them for a while, convincing myself that as soon as I opened them I’d find something manageable. An apology. Maybe several apologies, one per letter, with different wording because Logan had always been that meticulous when he wanted to be. Something that would hurt a little but that I could fold back up, put in the drawer, and move on with my life.
It’s not an apology.
Damn Alison.
I picked up the first letter.
I held it for a moment without opening it, fingers on the fold of the paper, staring at it like I could read through it. Logan had spent eight days sitting in the café writing things I didn’t understand why he needed to write.
He had told me no. He had chosen to reject me. Those were concrete, verifiable facts and there was no reason for any of this to mean something different from what I had already assigned it.
No reason.
I unfolded it.
Logan’s handwriting was exactly as I remembered, a little careless at the edges with some words crossed out and rewritten.
I read the first line.
I froze completely. This can’t be real.
“Oh, shit,” I said out loud.
Hockey.
I wasn’t really into hockey until I met Logan. Before, it was just that sport they showed on TV that my dad sometimes watched and that I completely ignored. Noise, ice, guys crashing into each other at speeds that made no sense. I didn’t get the appeal.
Now I know exactly how many points the team needs to advance to the next round. I recognize the plays. I can tell for sure when a referee is calling too many penalties and when a defenseman is being deliberately dirty. Which says a lot—and nothing good—about what John Fucking Logan does to a person’s critical judgment.
I sighed and sank deeper into my seat.
The stadium smelled of popcorn and that weird mix of sweat and excitement that exists in sports venues. The stands were full, Briar colors everywhere, and the noise was that constant, dull kind that after a while just becomes pressure. Sarah was gripping her soda cup with both hands like it was the only thing anchoring her so she wouldn’t lose her mind, while Alison had been taking pictures of a certain player wearing number sixty-six for twenty minutes.
Meanwhile, I just couldn’t stop looking at player number twenty-two.
You’re an idiot.
My conscience scolded me. We’ve hurt each other and I’m still sighing and staring at him like an idiot. Why can’t feelings have an off button? What’s the point of loving him if he doesn’t feel the same about me?
“You okay?” Alison leaned toward me with genuine concern that, in the three years I’ve known her, had never once fooled me.
“Perfect.”
“Sure,” Sarah said from my other side, without taking her eyes off the ice. “That’s why you have that face.”
I didn’t answer because I didn’t have a response that didn’t incriminate me. Technically, it was the idiot with number twenty-two skating on the ice who had unfinished business with me. Though “unfinished business” was a very generous way to describe a situation that basically boiled down to: I had made the huge mistake of feeling things I shouldn’t, he had told me he simply couldn’t (or didn’t want to) be with me, and since then I’d been trying to disappear from my own life as discreetly as possible.
I shouldn’t have come.
I knew it since this morning. I knew it the exact moment I opened the reminders app to see what I had pending and found “Briar Game — 8pm” marked in red. I’d written it down weeks ago, in another life almost, when Logan and I were still whatever we were before I ruined everything by being honest. And then, without meaning to, without looking for it, with that masochistic tendency I have and should probably work on with a professional, I went to the messages.
Just to see. Just to remind myself why what happened was the right thing.
And there it was, among three unanswered messages I had left on read with absolute cowardice. One that simply said: Hope to see you tonight.
The message that made me want to check my reminders list and the reason I was here tonight.
I should have ignored it. I should have stayed home with a movie, a pack of cookies, and some dignity intact.
Instead here I was, in the stands at Briar’s stadium, flanked by Alison and Sarah who were pretending—not very effectively—not to monitor me every thirty seconds, with my stomach in knots and my eyes fixed on one spot on the ice so I wouldn’t keep unconsciously searching for number twenty-two.
Because I was searching for him. That was the worst part. That despite everything, despite the days avoiding him and the speeches I’d given myself and the times I’d repeated that I was fine, my eyes found him on their own. Like they had their own memory. Like no one had told them the memo.
Logan skated well. That was the fundamental problem—that he was really good and knew it without being arrogant about it, and when he moved on the ice there was something about him that settled, that relaxed.
I looked away.
The scoreboard was two to one in favor of Briar and the atmosphere had that electricity of the final minutes of a close game. Alison had put her phone down and was standing without realizing it. Sarah was muttering something under her breath.
And then it happened.
Logan intercepted the puck in the offensive zone. He dodged the first defenseman with a turn that seemed physically impossible, the second with an acceleration that made the whole crowd collectively hold its breath, and shot.
Score.
The stadium exploded.
I stood up with everyone else. I clapped without thinking. Alison grabbed my arm screaming something I couldn’t hear over the shouts. Sarah whistled with her fingers in her mouth.
Then Logan raised his hockey stick.
He turned toward the stands with a smile—that smile I knew by heart and that right now was doing damage to me that had no name—and I saw it before I could prepare myself.
He pointed at me. What the fuck is that supposed to mean.
Straight. Unmistakable. With his arm extended and his eyes locked exactly where I was standing, like there weren’t three hundred other people in the stadium, like there was no chance he was pointing at anyone else, like he wanted to make sure there was absolutely no doubt.
The stands made that collective sound. That “oooh” people make when they smell drama from afar. And the commentator, the damn commentator, didn’t miss the moment:
“Looks like one of our favorite guys had his heart stolen tonight, ladies and gentlemen. Don’t cry all at once, girls—there are still more players on the ice—”
Heat shot up my neck to my ears in about half a second.
Alison let go of my arm.
Sarah turned her head toward me very slowly, still looking stunned at what had just happened.
They both looked at me. They didn’t say anything. They didn’t need to. And thank God they didn’t.
“No,” I said.
I grabbed my jacket from the seat. I put it on wrong, one arm inside out, and fixed it with more violence than necessary. My stomach was in a tight knot, my cheeks were burning, and my ears were ringing. I needed to get out of there.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I lied.
“Sure,” Alison said, glancing sideways at Sarah, who returned a worried look.
Neither of them made a move to follow me.
I went down the stands almost tripping twice, dodged three groups of people still celebrating, pushed the exit door with both hands, and the cold air hit me in the face the second I stepped out. Honestly, it was a relief. I needed that hit. I needed something to remind me that it was real, that I was real, that what had just happened inside that sweaty, noisy stadium had also been real.
He had pointed at me. In front of everyone. What the fuck.
I’m overthinking this.
I shouldn’t let it affect me. I shouldn’t let it break my decision to stay away from him.
I closed my eyes for a second and the commentator’s voice came back like a horrible echo: “Looks like one of our favorite guys got shot by Cupid tonight, don’t cry ladies—”
I wanted to die. For real. Not metaphorically. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole and not even spit out the bones.
I started walking fast. Then faster. The parking lot was dark and the streetlights made those blurry orange spots that multiplied on the wet asphalt, and I was only thinking about getting to the car, getting inside, and crying with dignity where no one could see me. I had parked Janis in the fifth circle of hell because I arrived late and there were no spots nearby, so when I finally found her I was going to be completely soaked.
Good. Perfect. Great. And it was raining.
Not just raining. Pouring. Like the entire universe had decided that tonight wasn’t humiliating enough and needed a little more drama. The water soaked my hair in seconds, ran down my neck, my shoulders, got into my shoes. Good. Perfect. Great.
I kept walking.
I had spent entire days convincing myself that what we had was just a friendship I had misinterpreted, that I had seen things where there was nothing, that when he told me no—when he simply told me he couldn’t give me what I wanted—it was the most honest truth anyone had told me in a long time. I had forced myself to accept it. I had forced myself to keep functioning.
And then he scored and pointed at me. Son of a bitch.
“Wait!”
I stopped.
I didn’t want to have stopped. It was a reflex, a betrayal by my own body recognizing that voice before my brain could tell it no, to keep walking, to pretend to be deaf, to die a little.
I turned slowly.
Logan was running toward me. With his hair completely stuck to his face and still in his team uniform darkened by the water, and his eyes—God, his eyes—searching for me with an urgency I didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand. Didn’t want to understand.
Wait.
Did he just leave his game? Just to talk?
“Stop,” he said when he reached me, breathing hard. “Please, stop.”
I looked at him. I tried to make my face say nothing. I tried to be a wall. I swear.
“Logan.” My voice sounded calmer than I felt. That was the only miracle of the night. “Seriously, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to apologize or explain anything, okay? It was me. I misread things, I was stupid, and—” I swallowed. “And when you told me about Hannah and I felt this bad, that was my problem. Not yours. So really, seriously, you can go back inside and—”
“For God’s sake, shut up.”
I blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“Shut up.” He didn’t say it cruelly. He said it with something like desperation, jaw tight, eyes bright, rain running down his face like it didn’t exist. “Don’t regret anything. Please. Don’t.”
“Logan, I just—”
“I realized too late that she wasn’t you.” His skin was wet from the rain too (obviously), and one drop hung from the tip of his nose, about to fall. His brown eyes traced my face, moving over my eyes, my cheeks, and my mouth, before he said in a hoarse voice:
“I ruined everything.” He ran a hand through his soaked hair, a nervous, desperate gesture, like he didn’t know what to do with his own body. “I didn’t want Hannah. I never did. I just wanted someone to love, someone to spend the rest of my days with, and I was such an incredibly idiot, so completely blind, that I didn’t realize the person I actually loved was standing right in front of me.”
“Logan, stop—”
“It’s you.”
Oh God. My heart stopped. Literally. I swear it stopped.
“Stop—”
“And if your feelings are still the same, if you still love me, then right now—” his voice cracked a little there, just a little, but I heard it, I heard it clearly over the rain—“right now I’m telling you I want to spend the eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours, the five hundred and twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes of every one of the three hundred and sixty-five days with you.”
The rain was starting to get heavier. The parking lot lights became orange and white spots behind him and I didn’t know if what was running down my cheeks was water or tears and honestly it didn’t matter anymore because no one was going to notice anyway.
“Don’t pity me,” I said, and my voice was no longer calm. “Don’t. You don’t have to—” I bit my lip. I was nervous, mostly because I really wanted to tell him how I felt and what I wanted. I took a deep breath and he cut me off instantly.
“Every single one,” he continued, like he hadn’t heard me, or like he had heard me perfectly and decided to ignore it. “No exceptions. No conditions. If I stay quiet, if I let another day go by without telling you that you’re the only thing that has made constant sense, I’m going to spend the rest of my life unable to forgive myself.”
“Stop, Logan, seriously, stop—”
“And I’m not going to let you give this story that ending.”
He took one step closer. Just one. But I felt it in my chest like he had closed miles.
“Nor will I allow myself to give our story an ending.” His voice had something broken and something completely certain at the same time and I didn’t understand how those two things could coexist. “A story that hasn’t even begun and that I’m already anxious to know the next chapter of. I’d rather die tomorrow knowing I loved you than live a hundred years wondering what it would’ve been like to be with you.”
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
“Even it would be an honor if you broke my heart. Over and over, as many times as it took. Because even broken, even in pieces—” he paused and looked at me, and in his eyes there was something I had never seen before, something I recognized because it was exactly what I had felt all these months—“my heart would come back to you. Thirsty. Without conditions. Without holding anything back.”
My hands were shaking.
“I’ve always been a better person when I’m near you.” He said that lower, almost to himself, and it was what hurt me the most because I believed him. I believed him without wanting to. “And that’s something I haven’t told anyone until now. Because my heart is yours. Not from today. From way before I had the courage to admit it.”
He closed the last few feet between us.
“Forgive me. I’m asking you please.”
I shook my head. I tried to articulate something coherent.
“Don’t… don’t do this to me.” It came out broken, fuck. “Don’t do this to me now that I had already… that I had already…”
“What do you want me to do?” he cut in, and there was something urgent in his voice, something bordering on a plea. “Do you want me to pull the fucking moon down for you? I’ll become an astronaut for you. Tell me. Tell me what you want and I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.”
The rain pounded my shoulders.
“But I love you,” he said. “And that’s not going to change.”
I don’t know how long I stood there without saying anything. It could have been ten seconds or ten years and neither would have surprised me. I only heard the rain and my own breathing and the beating of something I had been trying to kill for weeks by ignoring it.
It was still there.
Stubborn. Damn stubborn heart. Damn body that doesn’t listen. Damn it.
I threw myself at him, wrapped both arms around his neck, and pressed my lips to his. The smell of his cologne mixed with the rain and completely intoxicated me. John froze for a second, motionless while my mouth was pressed against his. I thought, too late, that maybe he didn’t.
Shut up. He literally just bared his heart to you.
But then, as if lightning had struck him, John took a breath and cupped my face with his hands. He was kissing me back. I was kissing John Logan and he was kissing me. I went from being scared and breathless to a fire burning inside me in an instant.
John tilted his head and kissed me the way John was supposed to kiss—wild, and sweet, and entirely too confident in himself, all at the same time. He knew exactly what he was doing when his big hands slid into my hair, but it was the shudder in his breath and the slight tremble in his hands that drove me crazy. The fact that he had lost control as much as I had.
John pulled me even closer until we were pressed together, chest to chest. For the first time in my life, I understood why people said they could forget where they were, and he gave me a little bite on my lower lip, and then I touched his face, felt the rigid solidity of his jaw, and he kissed me like it was his job and he wanted a raise. He made a sound when I sank my fingers into his hair, like he liked it, and I wished it would keep raining like this forever, and never stop. Until he said my name, until he whispered it against my lips three times, I didn’t come back to reality.
“Huh?”
I opened my eyes, but my vision was unfocused.
Logan laughed. Softly, with his forehead almost resting against mine, his thumbs still on my cheeks, he laughed in that way of his that crinkled his eyes and that I had secretly collected for months like they were worth something.
They were. God, how much they were worth.
“Your name,” he said, his voice still hoarse. “I was calling you by your name.”
“Yeah.” I blinked. “I know. It’s just…”
“What?”
I looked at him. With his hair completely soaked and stuck to his forehead and that expression on his face I had never seen and now couldn’t stop looking at. The rain kept falling on both of us with that absolute indifference water has, that doesn’t distinguish between the most important moment of your life and any other Tuesday.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“Look,” I said, “I’m not… I mean, I’m not good at this. At saying things. The important things, I mean, the ones that really…” I made a vague gesture with my hand that meant nothing concrete. “You just told me a bunch of really big things and I’ve spent weeks convinced that this was all in my head and that you didn’t… that there was nothing and…” I breathed. “And right now my brain is completely fried and the words aren’t coming out in the right order.”
Logan didn’t say anything. He just looked at me.
“But I love you,” I blurted out, all at once, without elegance, without the firm voice I would have wanted. “I mean, I love you a lot. Too much, probably. For longer than I think is smart to admit out loud. And I tried to let it go, I really did, but it turns out I’m pretty bad at letting go of things that matter to me and you matter to me an amount that frankly seems excessive for my own well-being and—”
“Hey,” Logan said.
“What?
“Shut up.”
And he kissed me again. And for the first time I was glad I had parked Janis so far away.
𖦹 welcome to the grimoire.
a soft little library of my works
stories written under sleepy moons,
fueled by too much caffeine and the right amount of obsession.
𖦹 requests are currently open.
if you have a scene on your heart or a prompt buzzing in your head, feel free to send it my way. just be sure to read the guidelines and navigation first — they’re charmed for both your safety and mine.
most stories require age to unlock — enter with care
⛧ crafted for witches who’ve bled, loved, and lost.
young spellcasters (minors) are kindly asked to close this book until their moon has turned a few more times.
dividers by @uzmacchiato and @cafekitsune
stories marked 𖤓 are my favorites, stories marked ✴︎ are yours!
happy reading 🕯️✨
GARRETT GRAHAM
⋆˚࿔ The Art of Breaking Garrett [smut, fluff, angst] - 1, 2 ✴︎
garrett graham x dilaurentis!fem!reader
summer is the time to let go, to explore, to get closer with the friends you just met. that’s why dean had decided to bring his hockey teammates to his lake house. the problem? his sister is staying there too and the little heathen just loves guys exactly like garrett graham. tall, charming, annoyingly hot. what a lovely time it’ll turn out to be for poor dean.
⋆˚࿔ Loser's Reward [smut] 𖤓
garrett graham x fem!reader
naked. frustrated. still under the shower spray. garrett graham’s team has just lost the last game when the football captain’s girl shows up to rub salt in the wound. should he just ignore her or show her who the real loser is?
⋆˚࿔ Room 412 [smut]
garrett graham x girlfriend!reader x dean di laurentis
adrenaline can be difficult to shake off after a game like the one they just had. maybe that's why garrett is being careless and taking care of his girl while dean is right in the bathroom. and maybe that's why dean doesn't immediately run away from the hotel room as he should.
⋆˚࿔ Burn the Couch [fluff, smut]
john logan x dilaurentis!reader x garrett graham
you should receive a medal for keeping your relationship with john logan a secret for six whole months. you’ve grown skilled at stealing moments and hiding cuddles. that’s why you didn’t expect someone to walk in on you while your boyfriend is having the time of his life between your legs. what happens when that someone is garrett graham and seeing him walk aways isn’t at all what you want?
⋆˚࿔ Don't Do This to Us [angst, smut]
garrett graham x best friend!fem!reader
garrett graham has always been her sunshine, her protector, her best friend, the only one who was always there for her. is he going to be there when she asks him to fuck her?
DEAN DI LAURENTIS
⋆˚࿔ Bounce on It [smut] ✴︎
dean di laurentis x coachesdaughter!reader
dean di laurentis is deep inside the only girl he's forbidden to touch. that should make it more exciting, right? except her dad is calling and he just has to pick up the phone. too bad she has no intention of stopping anytime soon.
⋆˚࿔ No Hockey Boys! [smut] ✴︎
dean di laurentis x coachesdaughter!reader
only one rule: no hockey players. and you tried soooo hard to stick to it. but dean di laurentis has a way, a way that includes his tongue and fingers and a dreaded phone call.
⋆˚࿔ Room 412 [smut]
garrett graham x girlfriend!reader x dean di laurentis
adrenaline can be difficult to shake off after a game like the one they just had. maybe that's why garrett is being careless and taking care of his girl while dean is right in the bathroom. and maybe that's why dean doesn't immediately run away from the hotel room as he should.
⋆˚࿔ The One I Run To [fluff, angst]
exhusband!dad!dean di laurentis x fem!mom!reader
when your car breaks on the side of the road, late at night and in the middle of a rainstorm, you don't really have any other options but to call him. your ex-husband. the one who’s about to see you helpless after a terrible date and for whom you still have some... feelings.
JOHN LOGAN
⋆˚࿔ Burn the Couch [fluff, smut]
john logan x dilaurentis!reader x garrett graham
you should receive a medal for keeping your relationship with john logan a secret for six whole months. you’ve grown skilled at stealing moments and hiding cuddles. that’s why you didn’t expect someone to walk in on you while your boyfriend is having the time of his life between your legs. what happens when that someone is garrett graham and seeing him walk aways isn’t at all what you want?
DEAN WINCHESTER
𖦹 Canon Divergent
⋆˚࿔ Burn, Mark, Heal [smut, fluff, angst] 𖤓 ✴︎
dad!tattooartist!dean x fem!ex-wife!reader, 13k+
Dean Winchester doesn’t hunt anymore. He inks scars now, on strangers, on himself, trying to bury the past one line at a time. His shop’s quiet, but his life isn’t. Not with a kid who worships him, an ex he can’t outrun, and a town that never forgets. Change isn’t clean. But he’s trying.
⋆˚࿔ Legs on Leather [smut] ✴︎
dean winchester x brothersbestfriend!fem!reader, 3k
Sam told her not to do anything stupid with his brother. He really did. But when Dean Winchester shows up to Stanford in a leather jacket and a cigarette in his mouth, there's little she can do to resist him. Really, it's not her fault she's in the backseat of his car, mouth on him, his hands in her hair. It's on Sam this time, he should've never left those two alone.
⋆˚࿔ NSFW Alphabet [smut]
season3!dean winchester x demon!fem!reader, 6k+
A very detailed rendition of Dean Winchester's sex habits when it comes to his little demon. And, oh, he's going to Hell in a few months. That's bound to end well, right? Right?
⋆˚࿔ Sea of Love [fluff] 𖤓
dad!dean winchester (x mom!fem!reader), 719
Dean records a video for his son on a quiet summer beach. There’s too much sand in his beer, laughter in the wind, and a ring burning a hole in his pocket. He’s not sure he’ll get the words right when it counts. But maybe his son, one day, will tell him.
⋆˚࿔ Tied to Trouble [smut] ✴︎
dean winchester x fem!reader, 1.2k+
A witch’s curse leaves you and Dean magically bound together in the middle of a dark, empty barn. The only way to break it? Shared heat. Which, in Dean Winchester’s mind, is obviously just permission to pin you against him and make you ride his thigh until the magic snaps.
⋆˚࿔ Post Scriptum (drip for me) [smut]
fwb!dean winchester x fem!reader, 3.2k+
Dean Winchester is the worst. A week without touching you, and now he’s glued to his stupid case notes while you stand there naked and trembling. But if Dean’s going to ignore you, fine. You’ll make him pay for it. Except the only one paying is you, rutting helplessly against his thigh until you’re soaked through and begging for him to finally give you what you need.
⋆˚࿔ I'd Lie to You (Except I Can't) [smut]
dean winchester x fem!reader, 4.6k+
Dean Winchester gets cursed with the worst kind of magic: the truth. You put down the witch before she can bleed him dry, but the spell sticks. It claws at his throat, drags out every secret he’s spent a lifetime burying. And back in the motel, there’s no stopping it. You saved his life, and he’s hell-bent on showing you just how badly he’s been needing you. One truth at a time.
MINI SERIES
⋆˚࿔ Ain't Supposed To (3/4) [fluff, suggestive]
18!dean winchester x 18!fem!singer!reader
it's not love, not exactly, not yet. but it's louder than it should be. they fall in the cracks between seasons: halloween kisses, winter birthdays, spring that comes too fast, summer that overstays. bobby’s daughter and the boy she was never supposed to touch. and maybe it ends the way all stories like this do, but for a while, it’s everything.
looked at me like i was summer
trick or treat and she chose me
the frosting melted, so did i
𖦹 Alternate Universe(s)
⋆˚࿔ Desire, Directed [smut, fluff, angst] 𖤓
actor!dean x actress!reader, 20k+
She's pure chaos wrapped in heels and sunshine, he's a brooding mess with a clenched jaw and a bad reputation. Dean Winchester did not ask for this. Their fake relationship was supposed to fix both their careers. Staged desire before the World Premiere of their last movie. Except she makes him laugh for real and he kisses her like he means it. Looks like they forgot the first rule of pretending: don't believe your own lies.
⋆˚࿔ Best Served Bare [smut, angst]
bi!bestfriend!dean x fem!reader (x moc), 7k+
She didn’t plan on falling apart in her best friend's hands. Not tonight. Not in her boyfriends... ex's apartment. But heartbreak has sharp edges, and Dean’s always known how to bleed for her, with his mouth, with his hands, with the kind of heat that feels suspiciously like salvation. It’s all about revenge, until it isn't. It’s just what happens when she's tired of being quiet, and Dean's the only one who ever saw her loud.
⋆˚࿔ High Tide [smut]
dbf!dean winchester x fem!reader, 704
You are a good girl, always have been, always will be. Your dad's best friend says so himself, even now, with your toes digging into the wet sand and his hips pressed tight to yours. The waves crash against your calves, the bonfire crackles twenty yards away, and he’s got one hand gripping your hip, the other low between your thighs, telling you what a good girl you are for taking him so well where anyone could see if they looked over.
SAM WINCHESTER
𖦹 Canon Divergent
⋆˚࿔ Varsity Crush [smut]
stanford!sam x cheerleader!fem!reader, 1.2k+
Tutoring sessions with Sam Winchester are supposed to be about psych notes and study guides. But you’re sooooo bored, and determined to break his calm, good-boy exterior.
⋆˚࿔ Red Handed, Full Thrusted [smut] ✴︎
sam winchester x fem!reader, 1.2k+
Sam is focused when he fucks, possessive, obsessive, hand-on-your-back, mouth-in-your-ear focused. You're face-down and loud and not even trying to be quiet. Everything's going great until Dean walks in. Mid-thrust. Mid-you. He freezes. You don’t. Sam definitely doesn’t.
pairing: john logan x dilaurentis!reader x garrett graham
synopsis: you should receive a medal for keeping your relationship with john logan a secret for six whole months. you’ve grown skilled at stealing moments and hiding cuddles. that’s why you didn’t expect someone to walk in on you while your boyfriend is having the time of his life between your legs. what happens when that someone is garrett graham and seeing him walk aways isn’t at all what you want?
words: 3k+
disclaimer: english is not my first language!
warnings: secret relationship. smut. fluff. p in v (unprotected). second person, no use of Y/N, no physical descriptions, the pictures are just for aesthetic purposes. dom!reader at one point. THREESOME!!! oral (f and m receiving), fingering. dom!logan(?). just dance with tucker and dean! garrett is kinda sick… but not really. awkward!garrett. not proofread, as usual.
chye's corner: i’ve been working on this since last week, i didn’t know honestly how to make this work. hopefully this is what @pinkpantheris wanted… this was honestly soooo fun and cute to write, just gave me a headache. i just want to remind you that REQUESTS ARE OPEN!! pls consider a reblog, a like, or a comment! thank you for choosing to read my words (((:
chye's grimoire (masterlist)
requests are open!
The off-campus house buzzed with the bass from the TV speakers thumped through the living room as the Just Dance menu glowed brightly on the screen. The lights were dimmed low, pizza boxes and drinks scattered across the coffee table, and the whole place smelled like popcorn, cologne, and the faint trace of Garrett’s cough medicine drifting down from upstairs.
You were in the middle of it all, laughing as you stood in the cleared-out space between the sectional and the TV, controller in hand. Logan was right beside you, both of you still in comfy sweats and hoodies. Dean and Tucker, on the other hand, were fully hyped, already half-dressed for the party they were heading to later, shirts unbuttoned, hair styled, smelling like fresh body spray.
“Yo, next song!” Tucker yelled, bouncing on his toes. “I’m about to destroy all of you.”
Dean smirked, spinning his controller like a microphone. “Big talk for someone who didn’t get a single perfect last round.”
“You two are literally getting ready to leave,” you teased, adjusting Logan’s oversized hoodie on your frame. “Why are you even playing?”
“This is absolutely your fault,” Dean shot back, pointing at you. “I need to embarrass my baby sister one more time before I dip.”
Logan chuckled beside you, his shoulder brushing yours. Under the noise and flashing lights of the game, his fingers grazed your lower back for a second, in a quick and secret, gesture. Six months of sneaking around, and that little touch still made your stomach flutter.
The song started, Candy by Robbie Williams (who even choose that?), and the four of you launched into it. Tucker was fully committed, hitting every move with dramatic flair, while Dean kept trying to sabotage him by bumping hips. You were laughing too hard to be graceful, but Logan stayed close, mirroring your steps with that effortless grace he possessed. Every time you spun, he’d catch your eye, his brown gaze soft and amused, lips curved like he was enjoying this way more than the game.
“Get it, sis!” Dean hollered mid-dance, nearly tripping over the rug.
“You suck at this!” you fired back, breathless and grinning.
Halfway through, Logan “accidentally” stepped behind you during a turn, his chest brushing your back as he whispered near your ear, “You look so cute when you’re laughing like this.” His hand squeezed your waist under the cover of the chaotic movements, hidden from the others.
Your cheeks heated. “Behave, J,” you whispered back, but you leaned into him for half a second anyway.
From upstairs came a raspy, miserable groan. “Can you animals keep it down? Some of us are trying to die in peace.”
“Sorry, captain!” Tucker shouted without missing a beat, still dancing. “We’ll send up some soup after this song!”
“Fuck all of you,” Garrett called weakly, making everyone crack up.
The song ended and the scores popped up. Tucker won by a ridiculous margin. Dean threw his hands up dramatically. “Rigged. I demand a rematch.”
“No rematch,” Tucker laughed, already buttoning his shirt properly. “We gotta bounce soon. That party’s not gonna pregame itself.”
“Aww, come on, one more song!” Dean begged, giving his best pout. “Please? Just one. I need redemption before I leave. I’m not walking out of here a loser. Aaaand, I’m your driver, you better listen to me.”
Tucker groaned but gave in with a laugh. “One song, Di Laurentis. Then we’re gone.”
Dean cheered and selected ‘Feel this Moment.’ The house music blasted through the living room again as the four of you jumped back in. Dean was going full dramatic mode, throwing his whole body into the choreography while Tucker hyped him up and tried to out-dance him.
Halfway through the song, Garrett’s raspy voice called down weakly. “Soup… I’m dying up here. Someone take mercy on me.”
“I’ll heat some up, you big baby!” you called out, setting your controller down.
Logan immediately put his down too. “I’ll help her. You two keep destroying the dance floor,” he said casually, flashing a grin at the boys.
Dean didn’t even look over, too busy hitting the moves. “Absolute legends! Don’t burn the house down!”
The second you stepped into the kitchen, Logan was right behind you. The moment you were out of sight, he grabbed your waist from behind and spun you around playfully, backing you against the counter with a mischievous grin.
“Logan!” you laughed, trying to sound stern but failing miserably. “Stop, they’re right there!”
He didn’t stop. Instead, he crowded you closer, hands planted on the counter on either side of you, brown eyes sparkling with that signature charm of his that he only let slip with you. “Oh come on, love,” he teased, voice low and flirty. “They’re too busy being idiots to notice. You know how hard it is to ignore you in my hoodie, shaking your ass to Just Dance? Cruel and unusual punishment, if you ask me.”
He leaned in and nipped at your jaw, then pressed a loud, playful kiss right below your ear, making you squirm and giggle. “J, I swear…” you whispered, half-laughing as you gently pushed at his chest. “They’re literally twenty feet away. Stop!”
But your protest was weak, and he knew it. He grinned wider, that cocky, charming smile that always got him in trouble. “Make me,” he murmured before capturing your lips in a flirty, teasing kiss. It started playful, quick and smiling, but quickly turned warmer as he tilted his head and kissed you deeper, one hand sliding down to squeeze your hip. He pulled back just enough to whisper against your mouth, “I love it when you call me J, you should do it more often.”
You were breathless, cheeks flushed. “You’re going to get us caught, you idiot,” you scolded playfully, even as your fingers curled into his hoodie.
“Worth it,” he said with a wink. He stole another quick kiss, then one on the tip of your nose, then your forehead, being extra annoying and adorable about it. “Can’t help it. My girl looks too cute when she’s all flustered.”
You rolled your eyes fondly and turned back to the soup, trying to focus on pouring it into a bowl. Logan refused to give you space. He stayed glued to your back, arms wrapped around your waist, chin on your shoulder as he pressed lazy, teasing kisses along the side of your neck.
“Logan,” you warned again, giggling softly. “Dean’s literally there”
“Mmm, but you’re here,” he hummed playfully against your skin. “Priorities.”
With Dean and Tucker finally gone, the had house settled into a deep, peaceful quiet. Logan had been building an elaborate lie about a huge project for one of his classes due on Monday for the entire week. Just to have an excuse to have some time with you, undisturbed. The only sounds were the soft crackle of the old leather couch, the low murmur of the movie soundtrack, and the occasional gentle creak of the house as it cooled down for the night. Garrett was sound asleep upstairs, door closed, leaving the entire living room to you and Logan.
You were curled up on the massive sectional, wrapped together under a thick, fluffy blanket that smelled faintly of laundry detergent and the faint trace of woodsmoke from the last time they’d used the fireplace. You wore only Logan’s oversized hoodie and some shorts, the fabric soft and well-worn against your skin, carrying his masculine scent, clean body wash, a hint of cedar, and that unmistakable Logan warmth that made you feel completely safe.
Logan had pulled you flush against him the second the front door shut. Now you were half-draped over his chest, your cheek pressed to the steady thump of his heartbeat, strong and rhythmic beneath the thin cotton of his t-shirt. His body radiated heat like a furnace, perfectly warming you from the inside out. One of his strong arms was wrapped tightly around your waist, fingers slowly slipping under the hem of the hoodie to trace lazy, feather-light patterns across the bare skin of your lower back, warm fingertips against cool skin, sending pleasant shivers racing up your spine with every slow stroke.
His other hand held yours, fingers intertwined, his thumb brushing slow, tender circles over your knuckles. Every now and then he’d give your hand a gentle squeeze, and you’d squeeze back, your secret little code.
The living room glowed in soft golden lamplight mixed with the cool, shifting blue hues from the TV screen. The faint buttery aroma of popcorn still lingered in the air, mingling with Logan’s cologne and the subtle menthol cough-drop scent drifting down from upstairs.
“You feel so good like this,” Logan murmured, his voice low and husky, vibrating through his chest into your cheek. His breath was warm against the top of your head as he pressed a slow kiss into your hair, lips lingering.
You nuzzled deeper into him, inhaling the comforting scent of his skin at the collar of his shirt. “Mmm… you’re so warm,” you whispered, your fingers tracing the firm planes of his chest through the fabric.
Logan shifted slightly, pulling you even closer until your legs were fully tangled with his. The coarse hair on his legs brushed against your smooth thighs under the blanket, a delicious contrast in texture. His hand slid higher under your hoodie, palm broad and slightly calloused from hockey, gliding slowly up the curve of your spine and back down again in long, soothing strokes that left trails of heat everywhere he touched.
He tilted his head down and captured your lips in a slow, deep kiss. You tasted the faint sweetness of cherry cola on his tongue, warm and addictive. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, noses brushing, sharing the same heated breath.
“I love having you all to myself like this,” he whispered, voice rough with affection. His fingers continued their gentle exploration under the hoodie, mapping every inch of your back like he couldn’t get enough of the feel of your skin. “No sneaking around. Just us...”
You melted further into him, letting out a contented sigh as his heartbeat thrummed steadily beneath your ear. The blanket trapped your combined body heat, creating a perfect little cocoon. Logan’s hand eventually settled on your hip, fingers gently kneading the soft flesh there in a rhythmic, soothing motion while his lips kept finding you, pressing slow kisses to your temple, your cheekbone, the sensitive spot just below your ear, each one sending tiny sparks across your skin.
Outside, a cold wind whispered against the windows, but inside everything felt impossibly cozy, the weight of his strong body beneath you, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his breath against your hair, and the quiet, intimate sounds of the movie playing softly in the background. “God, I wish we didn’t have to hide”
You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone. “Well, have now and I’m not moving.”
Logan let out a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrated through his chest. “Good. Because I’m not letting you.”
He shifted beneath you, strong hands gripping your waist as he smoothly rolled you onto your back. The blanket slipped down to your hips, and suddenly he was hovering over you, bracing himself on his forearms. His middle-length dark hair fell messily around his face, framing those deep, stormy brown eyes that had gone darker with want. The golden lamplight caught in the strands, making them look almost black.
“Hi,” he whispered playfully, a wicked little grin tugging at his lips before he dipped his head and kissed you.
This kiss wasn’t slow or sweet like the ones before. It was hungry. His mouth moved against yours with purpose, tongue teasing the seam of your lips until you opened for him. He tasted like cherry cola and heat, and the soft groan he let out when your tongues met sent a rush of warmth straight between your legs.
Logan settled more of his weight on you, pressing you deliciously into the soft couch cushions. One of his hands slid under your hoodie again, palm hot against your ribs as he pushed the fabric higher, exposing your stomach to the cool air. His fingers explored greedily, brushing the undersides of your breasts before cupping one fully, thumb circling your nipple until it pebbled under his touch.
“J…” you breathed, arching into him.
He smirked against your mouth. “What’s wrong, baby? Thought you weren’t moving.” His voice was husky.
Before you could answer, he rolled his hips forward, grinding his growing hardness against your core through the thin layers of fabric separating you. A low, rough moan escaped his throat at the contact, deep and needy. He did it again, slower this time, dragging himself against you with deliberate pressure.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned, burying his face in your neck. His lips and teeth grazed your skin as he kissed and nipped his way down your throat, sucking lightly at your pulse point. Every roll of his hips was accompanied by another quiet, gravelly moan that made your stomach tighten.
You clutched at his shoulders, fingers threading through his thick, dark hair as he rocked against you again, harder this time. The friction was perfect, teasing and maddening all at once.
“Look at me,” he murmured, lifting his head. His eyes were nearly black now, heavy-lidded with lust. He braced himself on one arm and used his free hand to push your hoodie all the way up, exposing your breasts to his hungry gaze. “So fucking pretty under me like this.”
He leaned down and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently while his hips kept up that slow, sinful grind. The wet heat of his tongue combined with the steady pressure of his cock rubbing against your clit through your shorts had you whimpering beneath him.
Logan pulled back just enough to grin down at you, playful and cocky even as his breathing grew ragged. “Been thinking about this all night,” he confessed, voice low. “Knowing I couldn’t touch you the way I wanted… drove me crazy.”
He kissed you again, deep and messy, while his hips continued their teasing rhythm, slow rolls turning into more purposeful thrusts, grinding against you like he was already inside you. Another deep moan vibrated from his chest into your mouth as he rocked harder, one hand sliding down to grip your thigh, pulling your leg higher around his waist.
“Oh J…” you gasped, tugging at his hair.
“Yeah?” He nipped your bottom lip, then soothed it with his tongue, eyes sparkling with mischief even as they burned with desire. “You want me to stop teasing, baby?” He rolled his hips in a particularly slow, filthy circle, pressing right where you needed him most. “Or should I keep going until you’re begging?”
You let out a shaky breath, fingers tightening in his thick, dark hair. The weight of him on top of you, the relentless heat of his body, and the delicious friction between your legs were driving you crazy.
“Logan…” you whispered, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt. “Get rid of your shirt. I want to feel you.”
A wicked grin spread across his face. “Yes, ma’am.”
He sat up just enough to reach behind his neck and yank the t-shirt off in one smooth motion, tossing it somewhere onto the floor. The sight of him shirtless above you made your mouth go dry. His toned chest and abs were illuminated by the soft golden lamplight and flickering TV glow, every ridge and muscle shifting as he moved. His brown hair fell messily over his forehead, and his eyes locked onto yours.
The second the shirt was gone, he dropped back down onto you, skin to skin. The heat of his bare chest pressed against yours was intoxicating. He felt so warm, so solid, the light dusting of hair on his chest brushing teasingly against your breasts as he settled his weight over you again.
“Better?” he asked, voice low and teasing, before capturing your mouth in another deep kiss. You could feel every inch of his warm skin, the hard planes of his muscles, and the way his heart hammered against yours. Logan groaned softly into your mouth, then began kissing a slow, deliberate path down your body.
He pushed your hoodie higher, bunching it just below your collarbone so he could trail wet, open-mouthed kisses between your breasts, down your stomach, and over the soft skin of your lower belly. His hair tickled your skin as he moved lower, those stormy eyes flicking up to meet yours with a wicked, playful glint.
“I don’t know how I survived without you,” he murmured, voice husky. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts, slowly dragging them down your thighs along with your panties in one smooth motion. He left them tangled around one of your ankles, too impatient to remove them completely.
Logan settled between your spread thighs, broad shoulders keeping your legs open for him. He pressed a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another higher up, teasing you with the heat of his breath against your soaked core.
“J…” you breathed, fingers threading through his dark hair.
He looked up at you with a cocky little smirk, eyes nearly black with lust. “Yeah, baby? Just like that”
Without waiting for an answer, he leaned in and dragged his tongue slowly up your slit, groaning deeply at your taste. The wet heat of his mouth was overwhelming. He licked you again, slower this time, savoring every inch before circling your clit with the tip of his tongue.
“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he rasped against you, the vibration sending sparks through your body. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open as he buried his face deeper between your legs.
Logan ate you out like he had all the time in the world, and luckily, he supposedly did. He was completely focused on your pleasure. He alternated between long, slow licks and flicking his tongue rapidly over your clit, occasionally sucking the sensitive bud into his mouth with just the right pressure. Every moan he made vibrated through you, low and filthy.
One of his hands slid up your body to cup your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers while his mouth continued its delicious assault. His dark hair brushed against your inner thighs as he moved his head, occasionally glancing up at you with heavy-lidded eyes, clearly enjoying the way you were falling apart beneath him.
“You're so sweet,” he groaned, voice muffled against your pussy. He pushed his tongue inside you, fucking you with it for a few moments before returning to your clit, sucking harder this time. The absolutely filthy sounds of his mouth on you filled the quiet living room, mixing with the soft soundtrack of the forgotten movie and your own shaky moans.
Logan kept one arm draped over your hips, holding you down as you squirmed, while his other hand stroked your thigh soothingly. He was relentless but playful, pulling back to kiss and nip at your inner thighs whenever you got too close, only to dive back in with renewed hunger.
“J, fuck, I hate you,” you gasped, tugging at his hair.
He chuckled against you, the sound sending fresh waves of pleasure through your core. “That’s it, baby. Let me hear you,” he murmured, before sucking your clit into his mouth again and flicking his tongue fast and steady, determined to push you right to the edge.
Your thighs were starting to shake when the creak on the stairs made you both freeze.
“I feel a so much better, thank fuck.” Garrett’s voice carried down as he descended. “That soup actually helped and…”
He stopped dead at the bottom of the stairs.
Garrett stood there shirtless, sweatpants low on his hips, staring at the scene in front of him. Logan still between your spread thighs, your hoodie shoved up, shorts and panties hanging off one ankle. The silence was deafening. “Jesus Christ,” Garrett muttered, eyes wide. He dragged a hand down his face, but he didn’t immediately turn away. His gaze lingered on your flushed skin, on Logan’s glistening mouth, on the way you were still breathing hard.
Logan lifted his head slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His dark hair was messy, eyes still heavy with lust. Instead of panicking, he smirked. “Timing’s a bitch, huh, captain?”
Garrett let out a rough laugh, but it sounded strained. “You two really couldn’t take it upstairs?” His eyes flicked back to you, and this time they stayed, darkening as they traced over your body. “Dean’s sister. On our fucking couch.”
You quickly tugged your hoodie down, embarrassment burning your cheeks, but the heat in Garrett’s stare made your stomach flutter. “You know what, I’m going back to bed. Pretend I saw nothing. Burn the couch later.” He turned and started heading back up the stairs, muttering under his breath, “Fucking animals…”
“Wait,” you called out, your voice breathy and slightly trembling as you sat up on the couch, the blanket pooling around your waist.
Garrett stopped midway up the stairs, his broad, shirtless back going rigid. Logan’s head snapped toward you so fast his messy dark hair fell into his eyes, wide with genuine shock.
“Baby?” Logan said, completely thrown off, his voice low and rough. “What the hell are you doing?”
You looked at Logan first, his flushed face and dark, lust-filled eyes, then let your gaze drift to Garrett’s tense, muscular back, the defined lines of his shoulders and spine illuminated by the warm lamplight. “Well… you told me you wanted a threesome, right?” you said softly, your voice laced with teasing mischief even as your heart pounded wildly in your chest.
Logan let out a stunned, breathless laugh, running a hand through his messy dark hair. “Holy shit. You’re actually calling me on that right now?”
Garrett finally turned around slowly, one large hand still gripping the railing tightly. His expression was a turbulent mix of disbelief, conflict, and unmistakable hunger. “No. Absolutely not,” he said firmly, though his heated gaze kept drifting down your barely covered body. “This is Dean’s sister, man. On our fucking couch! I’m not… I’m going back to my room.”
You tilted your head, biting your lower lip as you looked up at him through your lashes. “Garrett… come here,” you coaxed, your tone sweet but dripping with invitation.
He shook his head, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped. “You two are crazy. I’m not getting in the middle of whatever this is.” But he didn’t take another step up the stairs either, rooted in place.
You smiled teasingly and let the blanket slip further down your thighs, deliberately exposing more soft, flushed skin. “You sure about that? You were staring pretty hard before you tried to run away.”
Garrett’s eyes darkened with lust, his breathing visibly heavier, but he stayed stubbornly resistant. “I was sick. My brain isn’t working right. This is a terrible fucking idea.”
Logan watched the entire exchange with growing amusement and raw arousal, his warm hand slowly stroking higher up your bare thigh, fingers teasing the sensitive skin.
You sat up a little more, voice dropping into a soft, coaxing whisper. “You’ve been locked in that room for days feeling miserable… Don’t you want to feel better?” You parted your legs just slightly, teasing him. “I can see how hard you are, Garrett. You really want to go back upstairs all alone?”
Garrett exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face as he fought an internal battle. “You’re evil,” he muttered, but his feet carried him one hesitant step closer anyway. “Dean would fucking kill me.”
“He doesn’t have to know,” you whispered, holding his gaze with heated confidence. “Just come here… Let us take care of you tonight.”
He stood there for another long, agonizing second, clearly warring with himself, chest rising and falling rapidly, before he cursed low under his breath and finally walked over to the couch. “Fuck… alright,” he finally groaned, dropping to his knees in front of you. “But if this blows up, I’m blaming both of you.”
Logan grinned wickedly, pulling you back against his bare chest. “That’s my girl,” he murmured proudly against your ear, voice thick with lust. “You’re a gem.”
Garrett looked up at you with dark, hungry eyes as he slowly pushed your thighs further apart with his big hands. “You’re really okay with this?” he asked one last time, his voice rough and strained with need.
Instead of answering with words, you reached down and gently threaded your fingers through his hair, guiding his mouth closer to where you needed him most.
Garrett groaned in defeat, the sound deep and guttural, and finally gave in. He dragged his hot, broad tongue slowly up your soaked pussy with a filthy, appreciative moan. “Goddamn… you taste too fucking good,” he rasped against your sensitive flesh, before diving in properly.
His mouth was relentless. He licked long, slow stripes from your entrance to your clit, savoring every drop of your arousal like he’d been starving for it. When he reached your swollen clit, he wrapped his lips around it and sucked gently, flicking the tip of his tongue in fast little strokes that made your hips jerk.
“Oh my god..” you moaned loudly, fingers tightening in his hair.
Logan’s deep chuckle vibrated against your back as he held you firmly against his chest, one arm banded around your waist. “No, baby, that’s just Garrett,” he murmured hotly in your ear, voice thick with arousal. “You like having his tongue on you, baby?”
You whimpered in response, unable to form words as Garrett moaned loudly against your cunt, the vibrations shooting straight through your core. He pushed his tongue inside you, fucking you with it in slow, deep thrusts while his nose brushed against your clit.
“Fuck, she’s so wet,” Garrett growled, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips shiny with your juices. “She’s dripping down my chin.” He dove back in, sucking harder on your clit as two thick fingers slid inside you, curling instantly against that perfect spot.
Logan’s hand slid up to cup one of your breasts, pinching your nipple roughly as he kissed and bit along your neck. “That’s it, Graham. Make her squirm. She gets so fucking loud when you hit that spot.”
You cried out, back arching hard against Logan’s chest as Garrett’s fingers pumped faster, his mouth sucking and licking your clit in perfect rhythm. The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth filled the living room, mixing with your desperate moans and the low hum of the forgotten movie.
“Garrett, fffffuck” you gasped, thighs trembling around Garrett’s broad shoulders. “J, this is incredible.”
Logan grinned against your ear, his hard cock pressing insistently against your lower back. “Hear that, captain? She’s moaning both our names already.” He tugged your nipple again, rolling it between his fingers. “You wanted this, didn’t you, baby?”
Garrett pulled back for a second, lips glistening, and looked up at you with dark, lust-drunk eyes. “She’s clenching so fucking tight around my fingers,” he rasped, voice hoarse. “You close already, beautiful?”
Before you could answer, he lowered his mouth again and attacked your clit with fast, merciless flicks of his tongue while his fingers curled relentlessly inside you. Logan’s free hand slid down your stomach, spreading your folds wider for Garrett’s mouth.
“Come on, baby,” Logan coaxed, biting your earlobe. “Let Garrett taste how hard you cum. I want to feel you shaking against me.”
The combination of Garrett’s skilled mouth and Logan’s filthy words and rough hands pushed you over the edge fast. Your orgasm hit you like a wave, crashing through your body as you cried out, hips bucking wildly against Garrett’s face. Garrett groaned loudly, licking you through every pulse and flutter, refusing to pull away even as you trembled violently.
Logan held you tighter, whispering praise against your neck. “That’s my good girl… soaking Garrett’s tongue like that. So fucking pretty when you fall apart for us.”
Garrett finally pulled back, breathing hard, lips and chin shiny with your release. He looked up at you with a dazed, hungry expression and licked his lips slowly.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “I need more.”
You were still sitting on Logan’s lap, back pressed against his bare chest, legs spread wide over his thighs. His hard cock was straining heavily against the front of his sweatpants, trapped between your ass and his body.
You lifted your hips, reached back between your legs, and tugged urgently at the waistband of his boxers. Logan helped you push them down just enough to free his thick, throbbing cock. The moment it sprang out, you lined him up and slowly sank back down onto him with a long, shuddering moan.
“Yeah, baby,” Logan groaned deeply, his head falling back against the couch as your tight heat enveloped every inch of him. His hands gripped your hips hard, fingers digging into your skin. “So fucking soaked… ride me just like that.”
You started rolling your hips in deep movements, fucking yourself on his cock in reverse cowgirl while leaning back against his chest. The position let him fill you completely with every grind and got him the seats with the best view of the house.
Garrett stood up tall in front of you, his bulge now directly in your face. You looked up at him with lust-drunk eyes and eagerly tugged his gray sweatpants and boxers down his hips. Garrett’s cock was impressive, easily one of the thickest you’d ever seen. The shaft was flushed a deep, angry red, with a prominent vein running along the underside. At full hardness, it looked almost intimidating in its size and weight, bobbing heavily in front of your face.
“Fuck…” you whispered, impressed and aching even more.
Garrett let out a low, strained chuckle. “Like what you see?”
You didn’t answer with words. You wrapped your hand around the thick base, your fingers barely able to close around his girth, and guided the fat head to your lips. You swirled your tongue around the leaking tip, tasting the salty precum, before stretching your mouth open and taking him in. Garrett groaned deeply, his hand gently resting on the back of your head. “Shit… that’s it, beautiful. Good girl.”
At the same time, you rolled your hips again, fucking yourself deeper onto Logan’s cock. The dual sensation, Logan’s thick length stretching your pussy while Garrett’s even girthier cock filled your mouth, made you moan loudly around him.
Logan groaned beneath you, thrusting up hard into your soaked cunt. “Goddamn, listen to you moaning on his cock,” he rasped, voice rough with lust. His hands squeezed your hips tighter, helping you bounce on him. “Take him deeper, baby. I want to feel you choke on him while you ride me.”
You pushed forward, trying to take more of Garrett’s thick cock into your throat, your lips stretched obscenely wide around his impressive girth. The weight of it on your tongue, the way it pulsed and throbbed, had you dripping even more around Logan.
“Fuck, that’s hot,” Logan growled behind you, his voice strained as he bucked his hips up sharply, driving his cock deep into your soaked pussy. “You’re making me real proud, baby.”
Garrett’s grip tightened slightly in your hair, not pushing, but clearly fighting the urge to fuck your face. “Easy, beautiful… you don’t have to take it all… shit!” His words cut off in a deep groan as you relaxed your throat and forced another inch down, your nose getting closer to his pelvis.
Tears pricked the corners of your eyes from the stretch, but the fullness in both your holes made you delirious with pleasure. You started moving faster, bouncing harder on Logan’s cock while sucking Garrett with sloppy, wet enthusiasm. Saliva dripped down your chin and onto his heavy balls as you worked him.
Logan reached around and rubbed your swollen clit in fast, messy circles, his other hand slapping your ass with a sharp crack. “That’s my dirty fucking girl,” he praised, panting. “Taking two cocks like you were made for it. Your pussy is gripping me so tight, you love this, don’t you?”
You moaned loudly around Garrett’s cock in response, the vibrations making him curse and twitch in your mouth. Garrett’s hips jerked forward involuntarily, pushing another inch down your throat before he pulled back slightly, breathing hard. “Jesus Christ… your throat feels too good,” Garrett groaned, staring down at you with dark, blown-out eyes. “Look at those pretty tears. You’re drooling all over my cock like a desperate little slut.”
The filthy words only turned you on more. You started riding Logan with purpose, rising until just the tip of his cock was inside you, then slamming back down, your ass slapping loudly against his thighs with every bounce. The wet squelching sound of your dripping pussy taking him was obscene.
Logan’s head fell back against the couch, a broken moan leaving his lips. “Fuck… I can feel you getting wetter. You’re gonna cum again, aren’t you, baby? Gonna soak my cock while Garrett fucks your throat?”
Garrett started rocking his hips gently, fucking your mouth in shallow thrusts that matched your rhythm on Logan. “You want us to fill both your holes tonight?” he rasped, voice deep and rough. “Want us to take turns stretching this greedy pussy after you cum?”
You whimpered desperately around his thick shaft, nodding as best you could, eyes watering as you looked up at him. The pressure was building fast, Logan’s cock hitting that perfect spot deep inside you with every hard thrust, his fingers rubbing your clit relentlessly, and Garrett’s heavy cock sliding over your tongue.
Logan suddenly pinched your clit and thrust up hard at the same time. “Then cum for us, baby. Right fucking now.”
Your orgasm slammed into you like a freight train. You screamed around Garrett’s cock, body shaking violently as your pussy clenched and gushed around Logan. Your thighs trembled, juices dripping down his balls as you came hard.
“Fuck yes… my perfect girl,” Logan groaned, fucking you through it. “Milk my cock just like that.”
Garrett pulled out of your mouth with a wet pop, letting you gasp for air as you rode out the intense waves, stroking his glistening cock slowly while watching you fall apart.
Logan’s grip on your hips became almost bruising as your pussy clenched and fluttered wildly around him. “Fuck, baby, I’m so close,” he groaned, voice rough and desperate. “You’re squeezing me so fucking tight.”
You kept bouncing on him through your orgasm, riding him hard even as your legs shook. Logan suddenly slammed you down onto his cock and held you there, burying himself as deep as possible. “Shit, I’m cumming,” he growled against your shoulder.
You felt his cock throb violently inside you, then the hot, powerful rush of his release as he came hard. Logan let out a guttural moan, hips jerking up as he pumped rope after rope of thick, warm cum deep into your pussy. His whole body tensed beneath you, muscles flexing, dark hair sticking to his forehead with sweat as he filled you up. You could feel every pulse, every spurt of his load coating your walls and leaking out around his cock as he kept grinding into you slowly, savoring it. “Fuck… take all of it,” he panted, still buried inside you. “Such a good girl letting me fill this pretty pussy.”
You were still trembling on top of him when Garrett stepped closer, his thick cock hovering right in front of your face. He was stroking himself fast, hand slick with your saliva, eyes dark and locked on you. “Look at me,” Garrett rasped, voice strained.
You tilted your head up, lips parted, cheeks flushed, eyes watery from earlier. The sight seemed to push him over the edge.
“Mhm, gonna cum on that pretty face,” he groaned.
Garrett’s cock twitched hard in his fist. With a deep, broken moan, he came. Hot ropes of cum splashed across your face, the first landing on your cheek, the next across your lips and chin, some even catching on your eyelashes. He kept stroking himself through it, painting your flushed skin with his release until it was dripping down your jaw and onto your chest.
“Goddamn,” Garrett breathed heavily, staring at the mess he’d made of your face. “You look so fucking filthy like that.”
Logan let out a low, satisfied chuckle from behind you, still buried deep in your cum-filled pussy. He reached up and smeared some of Garrett’s release across your bottom lip with his thumb, pushing it gently into your mouth.
You licked it off teasingly, making both of them groan.
Garrett’s face turned bright red as the reality of what just happened seemed to hit him all at once. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking equal parts satisfied and mortified. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, eyes darting away from your cum-streaked face. “I can’t believe I just… on Dean’s sister’s face. What the hell is wrong with me?”
You giggled, still breathless and glowing. Logan laughed behind you, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as he slowly pulled out. “Relax, captain,” Logan teased, voice lazy and amused. “You look like you’re about to have a panic attack.”
“I might,” Garrett admitted, his cheeks still flushed as he quickly pulled his sweatpants back up. He grabbed Logan’s shirt and handed it to you, avoiding direct eye contact. “I literally came downstairs for water and ended up… doing that. I’m never drinking soup again. It’s cursed.”
You smiled sweetly as you wiped your face, still sitting comfortably in Logan’s lap. “You seemed pretty happy about it two minutes ago.”
Garrett groaned, covering his face with both hands. “Don’t remind me. I’m gonna have to bleach my brain. And, like I said, probably burn this couch.”
Logan wrapped the big fluffy blanket around your naked body and pulled you closer, chuckling. “You’re such a drama queen when you’re embarrassed. It was hot, man. Own it.”
“Easy for you to say,” Garrett mumbled, still looking flustered. “You’re not the one who just… did that.”
You reached out and gently tugged at Garrett’s hand until he looked at you. “Hey… I liked it,” you said softly, giving him a playful smile. “A lot.”
That only made him redder. He let out an embarrassed laugh and shook his head. “You’re both dangerous. I’m going upstairs before I do something even stupider.” He paused at the bottom of the stairs, glancing back at you two with a shy, awkward smile. “Uh… thanks? I think? Fuck, I don’t know how to end this conversation.”
“Night, Garrett,” you called sweetly, waving at him with the blanket tucked under your chin.
“Night,” he mumbled, practically fleeing up the stairs.
The second he was out of earshot, Logan burst out laughing and nuzzled into your neck. “Poor guy is dying inside. That was adorable.”
summary: Three months of being in the doghouse, and John Logan has fully accepted the fact that there is no redemption for him. He’s accepted that, well aware that it’s a punishment brought upon by his own actions. But it’s St. Patrick’s day, so it seems his luck might just be looking up.
part two to this fic
content: more angst but it’s not as intense, reader gets drunk, logan painfully yearning, reader’s hair is mentioned to look a mess but i kept it pretty open for broadness, logan is taller than reader, brief making out (not while drunk!). the timeline gets a bit confusing towards the end because of the school year so just ignore that and pretend a bit more time has passed during the final stretch 😅
note: i was not expecting the love from part one?? thank you all so much!! i intend to create a part three, so no worries!! you all wanted to see groveling so i’m keeping him in the doghouse for a little bit longer 🫡
word count; 8.3k
The semester ended in a blur of final exams and a desperate need to escape. With the first-place grant completely covering your research expenses for the upcoming semester, the savings you’d painstakingly scraped together were suddenly yours to spend. It probably wasn’t the most responsible choice, but you were reeling from a devastating friendship breakup, suffocating under the weight of the Briar campus. So, you booked a holiday with a friend from your major and left the country.
That entire winter break, you went completely off the grid. You didn't speak to Allie, Hannah, Dean, or Garrett. You didn't even speak to Tucker, though you made sure he knew you were grateful about him berating Logan on your behalf after being told by Allie that he’d done that.
They all understood without you having to say it—you needed a total detox from their entire world. And it worked. Away from them all, you actually had fun. You laughed until your stomach hurt, drank too much wine on sun-drenched balconies, and breathed in air that didn’t smell like ice rinks. For the first time in a long time, the relentless urge to check in on John Logan completely vanished.
By the time the new semester rolled around, you had officially decided your life was better without him. Frankly, you didn’t entirely believe it—at least not when it came to the version of Logan before he changed—but you repeated the words like a mantra until they started to feel like truth.
Over the next three months, you learned how to coexist with the rest of the group again. You’d catch Allie and Hannah on the quad and chat, grab a drink with the boys, or occasionally sit with all of them at Malone’s. But through some miracle of scheduling and hyper-vigilance, you managed to never see Logan. The guys tried to bring him up at first, telling you how completely wrecked he was, how he wasn't the same guy on or off the ice. You shut it down every time. You refused to make his misery your problem.
If he was hurting? Good. He earned every bit of it.
You narrowly avoided him for the majority of the spring. Sometimes you’d end up at the same massive rowdy party, and across a crowded, red-cup-littered room, your eyes would accidentally lock with his. A familiar ache would flare in your chest, and you’d immediately break the contact, turning your back even as you felt his gaze burning a hole straight through you.
You didn't miss him.
You didn't miss his stupid jokes. You didn't miss how absurdly observant he could be, or the terrifying comfort of being known so deeply by another human being. You didn't miss having someone who knew exactly what you needed before you even had to ask.
You didn't miss him at all.
Except, you couldn't convince yourself of that lie when it was three in the morning and the silence in your dorm room was too loud. In those rare, weak moments when the loneliness crept in, your thumb would hover over his contact card, considering unblocking his number just to hear the phone ring. But the night would always end the same way—you shutting your phone off completely, forcing yourself to sleep before you could do something stupid.
Minutes away, in the hockey house, John Logan was doing the exact same thing.
He took long, aimless walks across campus late at night, his boots slowing down instinctively every time he passed your residence hall. It was a muscle-memory habit; he used to walk you back here almost everyday, making sure you reached the doors safely. Now, every time something exciting happened in his life—a great game, a funny incident, a good grade—his first instinct was to text you, only for reality to hit him moments later. He’d sit on the edge of his bed, staring down at the friendship bracelet still tied tightly around his own wrist. He’d then glance at the one you’d left on the floor the night you left his life. He picked it up and kept it in his room, ending his night by staring at it. It was torturous, staring at the one piece of jewelry that reminded him that he was the sole architect of his own ruin. He couldn't believe he’d fucked up this royally.
And to make it worse, you looked happy. Happier without him. You were absolutely glowing.
The first time he’d caught sight of you after winter break, laughing with Allie near the campus cafe, Logan realized that maybe the best thing he could do for you was to just leave you alone. He would have to live with a permanent ache in his chest, knowing you were still hanging out at the house, still going to Malone's, still breathing the same air—just never when he was around. He had caused you so much pain that you had actively rewritten your life to exclude him. He had no right to fight against your peace.
But leaving you alone didn't stop him from cheering you on from the shadows.
When the end-of-year STEM banquet arrived—the prestigious ceremony where you were officially recognized for winning the showcase—Logan made sure he was there. He didn't sit with your friend group despite everyone telling him that he should come. He’d ruin your night. He allowed them to leave the house without him, instead showing up on his own so he wouldn’t be the plague that prevents you from walking up to everyone and thanking them for coming.
Instead, when he arrived, John stood all the way in the back of the auditorium, blending into the shadows by the exit doors.
When your name was called and you walked up to the podium, you scanned the crowd and found him. He looked visibly worn, a subtle pain etching his features, but his eyes were wide and filled with a profound gratitude just to watch you succeed. You didn't smile at him. You didn't offer a nod. But in the space that existed between you, he knew you saw him, and he knew you understood why he was there.
When it ended, you found your friends—Allie being the first to pull you into a hug and Tucker forcing you to take solo pictures. Dean and Garrett wore grim expressions, thinking you’d be disappointed that Logan hadn’t shown his face.
You chose not to tell them that he came.
He hadn't shown up hoping for forgiveness. He hadn't done it to beg. He’d done it because Tucker had been right all those months ago. He needed to bask in the wreckage of what he’d done. He needed to let the weight of his failure truly sink in, to think about you, and to feel exactly what he had forced you to feel on the night of your presentation: the agony of being completely alone in a crowded room.
John Logan had spent three long months doing exactly that.
And when he watched you walk off the stage with your award, the truth finally broke through his chest, clear and devastating. He realized it wasn't just a best friend he had lost.
He realized it was a soulmate.
Yeah, Logan realized that he might’ve been in love with you.
No, he was. Totally and completely in love with you, and perhaps too late.
It was a cruel, cosmic sort of joke, Logan realized. The universe had waited until the exact moment you erased him from your life to finally open his eyes. He was meant to discover he loved you only after he lost you—a lifetime of yearning as a penance for his stupidity.
Lately, he found himself utterly at a loss for words whenever you crossed his path. He’d catch sight of you in the campus hallways, effortlessly beautiful, and the breath would leave his lungs. He’d hear your laugh echoing in the distance at Malone's, a sharp pang hitting his chest because he knew he hadn't been the cause of that sound in months. And through it all, you paid him absolutely no mind. You looked right through him, paying him dust as if he were nothing more than a stranger occupying the same air.
It was fitting, he thought.
He wasn’t really okay with it—the hollowness in his ribs bled every single day—but he was content to accept it. He figured he was blessed just to be capable of loving someone like you, even if those feelings were a heavy cross he’d have to bear alone for the rest of his life.
Until St. Patrick’s Day.
Beau had thrown a massive party at his summer house. Nobody actually cared about the holiday itself, but the team had just clinched a brutal away game, and Briar students never turned down an excuse to drink.
You had dressed up for the occasion, looking striking in a white cropped tank with an oversized, unbuttoned green flannel draped over your shoulders and a light-wash denim skirt. You’d leaned into the theme, tying a green ribbon through one of your belt loops and layering two gold coin necklaces with a green clover one. You felt good, you looked incredible, and as the night wore on, you accidentally drank far too much.
The pounding bass from the speakers downstairs had eventually become too much, making your head throb with a vicious rhythm. Looking for an escape, you stumbled upstairs, pushed open the door to a random, dark bedroom, and collapsed onto the mattress. You told yourself you just needed a minute to let the room stop spinning.
A minute turned into two hours.
When your eyes finally flutter open, the heavy vibration of the music is gone. The house is dead silent. A quick check of your phone reveals a barrage of missed calls and frantic texts from Hannah, Allie, and your other friends. Your thumbs move sluggishly across the screen, typing out a quick “i’m fine, fell asleep upstairs” to let them know you hadn't vanished into the night. Since the boys were all staying at Beau's for the night, you figured Allie and Hannah were in their boyfriend’s rooms. You decide to just head down to the living room and crash on the couch so you don’t disturb anyone. You don’t know whose room this was meant to be and prefer not to wake up next to a stranger because of it.
You notice that your throat feels like sandpaper when you sit up. You’re thirsty.
Stepping out into the hallway, you quickly realize the alcohol hasn’t entirely left your system. Your balance sways, forcing you to grip the wooden railing tightly as you navigate the stairs. The house was is absolute wasteland of red plastic cups, crushed cans, and stray green beads. You can see the faint remnants of a cleanup effort that had clearly been abandoned halfway through when everyone succumbed to exhaustion.
The only illumination in the entire house was the low glow coming from the kitchen.
Holding your flannel shut against the chill of the house, your bare legs shivering slightly in your denim skirt, you pad quietly toward the light. You round the corner, your eyes blinking against the brightness, and freeze.
Standing by the sink, a glass of water halfway to his lips, is John Logan.
You suddenly grow intensely conscious of how insane you probably look. Your hair is a bird’s nest, your eyeliner is almost certainly smudged beneath your lower lashes, and stray green glitter clings stubbornly to your collarbones and cheeks.
Funny enough, you can’t be more beautiful to him right now. Logan stands entirely paralyzed, his eyes tracking the slight sway of your shoulders, the oversized green flannel slipping off one side of your white tank. You find yourself staring directly back into his brown eyes for longer than five seconds. A new record in months.
He stays still, unsure of whether he should speak first, or if he should grant you the right to decide your own boundaries—whether he is going to be an invisible ghost in this kitchen, or someone actually worth your breath.
He knows he isn’t the latter. But right now, with the fog of sleep and alcohol muddling your brain, he isn’t entirely the former either.
You clear your dry throat. "Hi."
Logan blinks, his chest heaving as he swallows hard. He looks utterly terrified and entirely shattered at the same time, like a man waiting for a blow he knows he deserves.
“Hi," he replies, his voice a reluctant whisper.
The sheer absurdity of the tension finally gets to you. You let out a soft, raspy giggle, making your way past him toward the upper cabinets. "You can breathe, Logan. I’m not armed."
A sudden, breathless laugh escapes him, his shoulders visibly relaxing at your surprisingly calm demeanor.
He watches you approach the cupboards, quickly realizing you’re searching for a cup, and clears his throat again. "Beau moved them," he mutters softly, pointing a finger toward the absolute highest shelf. "To keep people from smashing them tonight."
You stop, staring up at the ridiculously high shelf. For a fleeting second, you silently contemplate climbing straight onto the counter, but you’re wearing a denim skirt and you have absolutely no intention of flashing the guy you’re supposed to hate.
Logan shifts his weight, his brown hues searching your face. "Do you. . . do you want some help?"
You cut your eyes at him, letting out a defeated sigh. "Yeah."
He steps into your space, the scent of him—soap and cedar mixed with alcohol—wrapping around you instantly. He reaches up, his large hand grabbing a clean glass from the top shelf. As he brings it down, you make absolutely no effort to step back. You stay right there, your shoulder nearly brushing his chest.
Logan’s brow furrows in surprise at your proximity, but the second he tries to hand you the glass, your fingers tremble against the heavy glass. Your balance wavers, just a fraction.
The realization that you’re still drunk hits him at once. Of course you’re tolerating his presence; you aren’t thinking straight.
"Hey, I've got it," he murmurs, his fingers gently brushing yours as he takes the glass back, completely ignoring your quiet grunt of protest. He turns to the fridge, filling it with crisp, cold water before turning back and pressing the smooth glass into your palm.
Logan hooks his boot around the leg of a nearby stool, pulling it out for you. "Sit down. Drink all of it."
You glare at him over the rim of the glass, the alcohol making you bold. "Don't tell me what to do, John."
A faint, melancholic smile touches his stupidly kissable lips. "You already hate me. It's not like it can get any worse."
You take a long, desperate gulp of the water, the cold liquid soothing your burning throat. You set the glass down on the counter with a soft clink, looking up at him through smudged lashes. "I don't hate you."
Logan blinks, the words striking him right in the center of his chest. He doesn’t know how true that actually is, and as much as his heart flares with desperate, pathetic hope, he refuses to push you for answers in this state. It feels invasive. It feels wrong to take advantage of the liquor softening your edges.
"How much did you have tonight?" he asks quietly, trying to redirect the conversation.
A clumsy giggle bubbles out of your throat. You lift your hands, trying to recount the tally of green jello shots and mixed drinks on your fingers, stumbling over the mental math until you just shake your head. Logan can’t help the genuine laugh that rumbles in his chest at the sight of you, his eyes crinkling.
"Right," he smiles softly, checking his watch. "Do you need help getting back upstairs?"
"I'm just gonna crash on the couch," you mumble, gesturing vaguely to the trashed living room.
"The couch is covered in stale beer and God-knows-what bodily substances," Logan counters gently. "Go back upstairs. The room you were sleeping in is mine. I came down here because I didn't want to wake you up."
You let out a soft oh, a sleepy smirk pulling at the corner of your mouth. "Look at you. A gentleman."
"I try," he says, the old banter sending a bittersweet jolt throughout his body. He steps closer, his voice turning into something protective. "Come on. I’m gonna help you get back up there, and then I’m gonna help you get that makeup off. I know you hate waking up with your face feeling gross."
Your defense mechanisms flare, a sudden prickle of irritation cutting through the alcohol-ridden haze. "I don't need your help, Logan. I haven't needed it for the past three months."
The words cut deep, a sharp reminder of the reality he’d built for himself. The pain flits across his features, but he just nods, taking the blow without a fight.
"I know," he says softly, his voice thick with regret. "I know you don't. But just let me do this. Come on."
You grumble under your breath, throwing a half-hearted complaint into the air, but you don’t fight him when his large hand settles gently against the small of your back. He guides you back up the stairs, his palm a grounding anchor as you stumble on the top step.
He walks you into his room, gently guiding your shoulders until you sit down on the edge of the mattress. You don’t protest. You just watch him with sleepy eyes as he murmurs, "I'll be right back."
Logan slips down the hall to the bathroom Allie and Hannah had used to get ready, quickly rummaging through the counter until he finds what he’s looking for. A minute later, he walks back into the bedroom, carrying a bottle of Micellar Water and a handful of cotton pads.
He sits down on the mattress right in front of you, his knees nearly touching yours, and pours a few drops of the liquid onto the cotton. His hands, usually so rough and aggressive on the ice, are entirely weightless as he raises the pad to your face, gently wiping away the first layer of smudged makeup.
You watch him observantly as he works, your eyes tracking the pure focus in his expression. The alcohol has completely stripped away your internal filter, and before your muddled brain can stop them, the words stumble out of your mouth. “You're pretty, John."
Logan stops for a fraction of a second, a soft laugh huffing out of him as he keeps his eyes on your forehead. "So are you."
"Yeah, I know," you mutter, your attempt at displaying an attitude failing due to your slurring of words.
A genuine smile breaks across his face at your bluntness, his shoulders shaking with a soft chuckle. He shifts his hand, bringing a fresh cotton pad to your other cheek to wipe away the stray glitter and blush. As his arm moves, his sleeve pulls back, and your eyes lock onto his left wrist.
The blue and purple friendship bracelet is still there. It looks like it’s being held together by a prayer, but it’s still securely tied.
"Why are you still wearing that?" you ask, your voice dropping its playful edge.
Logan blinks, not entirely sure what you’re referring to at first. He follows your gaze down to his wrist. His expression softens into something melancholy, a look of guilt taking over his features. "It’s the least I could do.”
He doesn't expand on it, moving the cotton pad down to the makeup and glitter on your neck and collarbone. You internally curse your own biology because, despite everything, your body is still completely conditioned to his presence. Without meaning to, you find yourself leaning slightly into his touch, letting your head tilt back to give him access. At least tomorrow you can blame the pathetic display on the alcohol.
Your filterless brain jumps straight to the next burning question. "Do you still like Hannah?"
You had never told Logan that you knew about his crush. Even during your massive blowout three months ago, you had kept that specific detail to yourself, refusing to out his feelings in front of the entire living room. The pure surprise on his face is clear as day. He halts entirely, his hand hovering over your collarbone before he slowly pulls back.
He doesn't answer right away. He stands up in silence, tossing the used, makeup-stained cotton pads into the small trash can by the desk, buying himself time. When he comes back to sit on the mattress in front of you, his gaze is serious.
"I don't know what you mean," he lies.
You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head. "I'm not stupid, Logan. That’s what ruined us, anyway. Your feelings for her."
Logan stares at you, seeing the certainty in your muddled eyes, and decides there is absolutely no use in denying it anymore. The truth is, he had long gotten over whatever infatuation he’d harbored. It had actually been Hannah herself who helped him realize the reality of his feelings months ago—that he hadn't been pining for her, but rather envying the effortless, ironclad bond she shared with Garrett. He had been looking for what you two used to have.
"I don't like her anymore," Logan says, his voice level, entirely devoid of the old longing. You’re too drunk to observe that detail. "Honestly. . . I'm not sure if I ever really did."
You let out another sleepy, cynical chuckle, looking down at your lap. "It’s okay that if you do. I know you did. I saw the way you looked at her." You pause, swallowing the sudden lump in your throat as the alcohol forces the ultimate truth to the surface. "It was the way I wanted you to look at me."
Logan’s features change so violently you wonder if it’s possible to get facial whiplash. His chest heaves, eyes widening as the breath is completely knocked out of him.
"What do you mean by that?" he whispers, his voice trembling, practically begging you to elaborate.
But you don't reply. The sudden emotional confession, paired with the strength of the liquor, sends a massive wave of exhaustion crashing through your veins. Your eyelids flutter, growing impossibly heavy.
"I'm tired, Logan," you mumble, your head slumping slightly.
He stares at you, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, but he forces himself to take a breath. He chooses not to pry. As desperately as he wants to get answers, he knows this is absolutely not a conversation to be had when you can barely keep your eyes open.
"You wanna change into something else?" he asks softly, glancing at your denim skirt. "I can get you some sweatpants."
"No," you groan tiredly, already shifting your body to crawl beneath the heavy duvet. "Too tired."
Knowing how stubborn you get when you're sleepy, he doesn't argue. He gently grabs the edge of the comforter, pulling it up over your shoulders and tucking you in against. Once your head securely hits the plush pillow, Logan crouches down to your eye level, lingering for a moment to ensure you're completely comfortable.
Your eyes are shut tight, your breathing slowing into a steady pattern. Thinking you’ve already drifted off, Logan places his palms on his knees, preparing to stand up and leave the room.
Before he can move, your hand shoots out from beneath the blankets, your fingers wrapping tightly around his wrist—right over the threads of his friendship bracelet.
"Thank you," you whisper into the dark room, your eyes still closed.
Logan’s throat tightens, a wave of affection and ache washing over him. "Don't thank me," he murmurs. He leans forward, his movement entirely natural and devoid of malice as he presses a soft, kiss to your forehead. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight," you mumble back, your grip on his wrist loosening as you sink deeper into the mattress. "This doesn't mean we're cool again, by the way."
An honest laugh escapes Logan, the familiar sharpness of your tongue bringing a bittersweet comfort to his heart. "I know," he whispers, his voice full of a quiet promise to earn every single inch of your trust back. "I know it doesn't."
He reaches over, gently clicking off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into warm, quiet shadows before slipping out to the living room, leaving you to finally sleep.
The morning sun slices through the blinds with a blinding brightness that makes your head immediately throb. You groan, rolling over, only to realize your skin doesn’t feel tight and clogged. Your face is clean.
Sitting on the dresser is a folded pile of oversized sweats and a sticky note from Hannah letting you know there’s a spare, unopened toothbrush in the bathroom. You let out a breath, extremely grateful for your friends. When you glance at the nightstand, you find a bottle of blue Gatorade and two ibuprofen tablets waiting for you. You assume those are from Hannah, too, and swallow the pills quickly, chasing it down with the blue liquid.
Once you’re changed, showered, and finally dragging your feet downstairs, you realize you are officially the last one awake.
Dean sees you step into the kitchen and immediately bellows, "There she is! The life of the party!"
You wince, pressing a hand to your temple. "Why are you yelling? Please don't yell."
Tucker lets out a low laugh from the kitchen counter and slides a foil-wrapped breakfast burrito toward you. “We ordered takeout. The bus leaves in thirty minutes so we’ve gotta head out in twenty.”
You take a bite, look over at Hannah and Allie, and offer a soft smile. "Hey, thanks for the clothes and the stuff on the nightstand."
They both nod, but Hannah frowns slightly. "No problem for the clothes, but what stuff on the nightstand?"
You pause, a sudden twist in your stomach cutting through the hangover. "The ibuprofen? The Gatorade?"
"Wasn't us," Allie says, popping a piece of toast into her mouth.
You quickly brush it off, and walk over to the kitchen island where Tucker is leaning. You figure it must have been his doing—the classic protective older brother move despite him being younger.
"Thanks, Tuck," you murmur.
Tucker just looks at you, a knowing, amused glint in his eyes as he takes a sip of his coffee. "Don't thank me. It was your lover boy."
Your heart does a violent flip-flop. Logan.
You glance around the room, but he’s nowhere to be found. Suddenly, the reality of last night crashes over you in a wave of mortification. Now that you’re sober, you don't even know how to approach it. You’re grateful he helped you, sure, but the baseline anger from the last three months is still burning in your chest. Worse, the unfiltered things you said start echoing in your mind.
It was the way I wanted you to look at me.
The memory makes you want to literally shrivel up and die on the kitchen tile. But since spontaneous combustion isn't an option, you clear your throat and look back at Tucker. "I'm, uh. . . I'm gonna go upstairs and finish packing my tote bag so I'm ready to walk out when you guys leave."
Tucker nods steadily, and you beat a hasty retreat back up the stairs. You figure Tucker would have warned you if Logan was up there, but you quickly realize your assumption is entirely incorrect.
The exact moment you pass the upstairs bathroom, the door swings open. You nearly collision-course right into a solid chest. You gasp, taking a sharp step back, and find yourself staring right into Logan’s eyes.
"Sorry," he says quickly, his hands instinctively twitching as if he wants to catch your elbows before he remembers he doesn't have the right to touch you anymore. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine," you say, your voice restrained.
An awkward silence stretches between you in the narrow hallway. He looks exhausted, dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes, his hair damp from his own shower.
You clear your throat, forcing the words out. "Thank you. For the ibuprofen. And for. . . everything else last night."
Logan’s expression softens. “I told you last night, you don't have to thank me."
You offer a quick nod, shifting your weight to walk right past him and end the interaction. You can practically feel the desperate urge radiating off him; he clearly wants to talk to you, but he doesn't think you want to speak to him. And truthfully, you don't.
But for some stupid, inexplicable reason, you still do.
You stop, your sandals gluing themselves to the ground. Slowly, you turn back around to face him. "I meant it, you know. When I said I don't hate you. I could never hate you, Logan." You look down at your shoes, your voice dropping. "I was just hurt. Honestly, I still am."
Logan takes a tentative step forward, closing a fraction of the distance between you. "I know," he says, "You have every single right to be."
He swallows hard, his gaze locking onto yours with such a focus that it makes you furrow your eyebrows.
"I'm not going to give you some pathetic excuse about the charity event," Logan says, his hands curling into loose fists at his sides. "The truth is, I was selfish. I got so caught up in trying to chase something new that I completely blinded myself to the person who actually mattered. I took years of your loyalty and I treated it like it was a given. Like no matter how careless I was, you’d just. . . always be there."
He takes another small step, and you can tell he’s been wanting to say this for some time.
"When Tucker told me what happened—how you kept looking for me at the back of that auditorium, thinking that I was hurt because you couldn't conceive of a world where I'd just let you down. . . it made me physically sick. I have never hated myself more than I did that night. I broke a sacred promise to my best friend because I wanted to play the hero for someone else, and I left you to stand on that stage alone. You don’t deserve that, you have never deserved that.”
A painful silence falls over over the narrow hallway, the sincerity in his voice cutting right through your caged heart.
"I'm so sorry," Logan whispers, his eyes glossy. "I'm sorry I made you feel invisible. I'm sorry I ruined what should have been the greatest night of your life. I don't expect you to just forget it, and I know I don't deserve it, but I need you to know that I am so deeply, truly sorry. Even if you choose to never speak to me again, it’s well within your rights.”
Hearing it now, spoken with the emotion of a guy who has spent three months drowning in his own regret, feels like the exact piece of closure you’ve been suffocating without. You can see it in his eyes—how utterly desperate he is for just a sliver of another chance.
He’d done what you’d wanted him to, he basked in the actions of what he’d done. He sat with them, made them about you instead of him, and suffered in it.
"It's exhausting," you admit, a weary sigh escaping your lips. "Trying to avoid you all the time. It takes so much energy."
"I know," Logan whispers, his eyes swimming with guilt. "I'm so sorry I made you feel like that was your only option. I miss you. God, I miss you in my life so much."
You lean your shoulder against the wall, crossing your arms over your chest. You aren't going to let him entirely off the hook. "It won't be that easy, Logan."
"I know it won't," he says instantly, a determined certainty lighting up his gaze. "I don't expect it to be. But I am willing to work for it. Seriously. Whatever it takes. Throw it at me."
A sudden, wicked spark of mischief makes you perk up. You look him up and down. "Okay. You have to do my laundry for the rest of the semester and the next school year.”
Logan doesn't even blink. His jaw sets, and he nods with absolute dedication. "Done. I'll pick it up every Monday."
The seriousness on his face pulls a laugh out of you before you can stop yourself, the sound echoing in the hallway. "I'm kidding, dude! Oh my gosh, your face."
A massive, relieved smile breaks across Logan's features, his own laugh mingling with yours. It’s the first time you’ve shared a real, sober laugh in months, and the warmth of it temporarily banishes the void in your chest.
As the laughter dies down, Logan steps just a bit closer, his expression turning serious again, though the panic is gone. "Look, I know we’ll probably never be exactly how we were before. I know things changed. But. . . I'm willing to try, if you'll let me."
You take a good look at him and realize that the fortress you built over the winter break has officially been breached. You swallow the lingering nerves, offering a small nod.
"Yeah," you say softly. "We can be friends again."
Friends.
The word echoes in Logan’s head. It feels like a lifeline thrown to a dying man. It isn't everything his newly realized, aching heart wants—not after what you drunkenly confessed last night—but as he looks at your relaxed shoulders and the slight smile on your face, he thinks to himself—Friends.
I can do friends.
John Logan can’t do friends.
He’s learned that the hard way over the last two months.
Honestly, he doesn’t even understand how he was able to do it before. He looks back at the last ten years and wonders how he was ever blind enough to categorize what he felt for you as just a friendship. Especially considering how casually touchy the two of you used to be when you were closer. It had been second nature for you to be leaning your entire weight against his side on the couch, or mindlessly picking at a stray thread on his shirt, or tangling your fingers in his hair while you talked about your classes.
He had taken every single touch for granted. Now, he’d do absolutely anything just to have a fraction of that effortless closeness back.
But he has your friendship again, and he forces himself to remember that a thin slice of you is a million times better than nothing at all.
So, he sucks it up. He swallows the bitter lump in his throat when you ask Tucker or Beau to help you hold your heavy research bag, knowing damn well he used to be your automatic go-to for things like that. He forces a tight smile when you ask Allie or Hannah to go on a late-night walk with you, sitting on the porch and watching you walk away, aware of the fact that he’s the one being replaced.
And he especially sucks it up when he sees you laughing with another guy at a party. Logan will stand across the room, gripping his red plastic cup so tight his knuckles turn white, pretending he isn't completely sizing the guy up from a distance. He’ll stare at the stranger, a dark, possessive pettiness roaring in his chest as he wonders if the guy even knows your middle name or what your favorite flavor of chips is.
But then, there are the fleeting moments that make the torture entirely worth it.
Like when you’re standing in the entryway of the boys’ house, losing your balance for a split second, and you mindlessly drop your hand onto his firm shoulder to steady yourself while you adjust the heel strap of your shoe. Or when he makes one of his classic yet stupid jokes and without thinking, you roll your eyes, press your bare palm directly against his face, and tell him to shut up—just like old times. In those brief, beautiful seconds, the warmth of your skin completely blinds him, making him forget the crushing reality that he’ll never actually have you in the way he truly wants.
What you don't know is that Logan fixed your broken friendship bracelet.
He did it the very night after you agreed to rekindle things at Beau's summer house. He’d arrived at the house, gathered the ruined heap of strings from his dresser, and spent hours knotting them back together. It took him a long time, and he had to constantly switch through a multitude of YouTube tutorials, but it was worth it.
He’ll never tell you about it; he’s too terrified of what your reaction would be, afraid you'll think he's crossing a line. But every single night before he goes to sleep, he pulls that restored bracelet out and looks at it, reminding himself of the new beginning he’s been granted.
Maybe you really did love him at some point. Maybe you loved him in the exact same consuming, terrifying way he loves you now, your filterless words from St. Patrick’s Day echoing in his mind like a beautiful haunting.
But as he watches you navigate your life with a bright, independent glow, it’s brutally clear to him that you’ve passed that chapter. You don't look at him with longing anymore. You don't feel that way about him.
John Logan missed his window, and he’s just going to have to find a way to live with the view.
It’s ironic that the next time the two of you are truly alone again is in a kitchen. Only this time, it’s his, not Beau’s. And you’re not downstairs, stumbling around and reeling from a muddled, drunken nap. You are wide awake, the house is relatively dark, save for the moonlight peeking through the windows, and you are currently remembering that Tucker always keeps a tub of cookies n' cream ice cream from your favorite brand tucked away in the back of the freezer. He used to pretend to get mad whenever you’d eat his stash, but lately, you have a strong suspicion he buys it solely for you.
Malone’s had hosted a karaoke night, and Hannah had placed her dorm keys into Allie’s purse—which Allie had unfortunately forgotten at the bar. You hadn't seen the point in making everyone take a massive detour to campus just to drop you off alone, so you’d decided it would be perfectly fine to sleep on the boys’ couch. Garrett had continuously asked if you were sure about it, over and over, until you finally told him that if he asked one more time, you’d shove a car tire down his throat. He’d complied instantly.
Which takes you to now. It's one in the morning, and you're awake because the living room is freezing, but you didn't want to wake anyone up just to beg for a blanket. Eating ice cream when you’re already shivering isn’t exactly the brightest choice, but it’s easily the tastiest.
You are sharply reminded of just how cold the house is when you hop up to sit on the kitchen counter, your bare thighs making direct contact with the freezing tile. You’d been lent an oversized spare t-shirt to sleep in, but your brown ruffled shorts were surprisingly comfortable, so you’d decided to keep them on.
A floorboard creaks on the staircase, making you pause. Seconds later, John Logan enters the kitchen.
He stops, surprised to see you sitting there in the dark with a spoon in your hand. But funny enough, there is no awkwardness this time. The thick, suffocating tension that used to define your interactions has completely melted away over the last few weeks—even if things still aren't exactly back to old times.
Logan rubs a hand over his face, his voice groggy. "What are you doing still up?"
"Making myself significantly colder by eating ice cream," you reply easily, lifting your spoon. "I couldn't sleep because I'm freezing."
Logan frowns slightly, leaning against the counter a few feet away. "Why didn’t you wake one of us up and ask for a blanket?"
"I was going to," you admit, digging the spoon back into the tub. "But it was late, and I swear I could hear the cookies n' cream in the freezer literally begging to be eaten."
He laughs, the sound warming the kitchen. You remember, suddenly, that he loves this exact flavor just as much as you do.
You’re sitting right above the drawer where the utensils are kept. Leaning down slightly, you pull the drawer open, grab a clean spoon, and hold it out toward him. It’s an offering. An olive branch, if you will.
Logan stares at the spoon in your hand for a full minute, blinking before he slowly reaches out and takes it. You hold the tub of ice cream out between you. He steps in closer, scooping a bite directly from the container, and mindlessly cleans off the spoon with his lips.
As he does, you realize just how close he’s standing. For some reason, watching the slow, casual movement of his jaw makes a traitorous heat bloom, starting from your neck and spreading to your face. He’s standing right between your parted knees as you sit on the counter, close enough that his body heat is radiating against your cold skin, completely overriding the chill of the room. You internally hate yourself for the way your pulse immediately kicks up.
To make matters worse, he tilts the tub back toward you so you can take another bite.
Because you’re elevated on the counter, Logan is forced to look slightly up at you, his glimmering eyes wide and dark in the shadows. He shifts his weight, and his other hand—completely absentmindedly, just out of old, deep-seated habit—rests lightly against the edge of the counter, his knuckles slightly brushing against the bare skin of your thigh.
You don’t think he’s thinking much of it. To him, it’s probably just the casual, comfortable contact that used to be the norm between you two. But to you, it is absolutely terrible. You had managed to successfully drown out all of those impulsive, agonizingly loving thoughts for months, burying them deep beneath your anger. But they only ever seem to come roaring back to life during quiet, hyper-intimate moments just like this.
And that is exactly why you spent the last few weeks avoiding being alone with him like this.
You pray he can’t hear the way your heart is slamming against your ribs. Desperate to break the suffocating spell of his proximity, you hop off the counter, your bare feet hitting the cold floorboards with a soft thud.
"We should go get that blanket," you say, your voice sounding a little too quick, a little too breathless.
Logan studies your face for a lingering moment, his doe eyes searching yours before he gives a quiet nod. "Yeah. It's upstairs in my room."
You follow him up the stairs, the quiet of the house wrapping around you. But when you step into his bedroom, Logan stops by his closet, a sheepish look crossing his face as he remembers. "Ah, actually, I forgot. I threw it in the wash earlier. It’s probably still in the dryer downstairs." He offers an apologetic grimace. "Sorry."
"It's fine," you say, leaning against his doorframe. "At least it'll be fresh out of the heat."
He lets out a soft laugh. "Wait in here, I'll go grab it."
Once his footsteps fade down the hallway, you step fully into his room. It hits you all at once that you haven't been in this space in months. It looks the same—the rumpled sheets, the hockey gear tucked into the corner—but it feels entirely different.
Your eyes drift over to his desk, and you freeze.
Resting right on top of a stack of textbooks is a colorful weave of embroidery string. Your breath hitches. You know it’s not the one Logan wears, because you just saw his on his wrist seconds ago. You take a step closer, your fingers trembling slightly as you reach out and pick it up.
It’s fixed. Every single thread that had snapped apart on the night of your presentation has been carefully knotted back together. You had assumed it was thrown in the garbage. He never brought it up, never mentioned keeping it.
You lean back against the edge of his desk, staring down at the neat knots, completely lost in thought.
The door clicks, and you jump slightly as Logan returns, a warm, fluffy blanket cradled in his arms. He has an easy, happy smile on his face—one that drops instantly the second his eyes land on what is dangling from your fingertips.
“You still have it,” you observe quietly.
Logan’s movements turn hesitant. He walks toward you like he's stepping onto thin ice, gently dropping the warm blanket onto the edge of his unmade bed. Over the last few weeks, you’ve gotten so good at masking your emotions that he genuinely can’t read you right now. The unreadable expression is making him visibly nervous.
"I'm sorry," he says, his voice dropping. "I didn't realize I left that out."
You ignore his apology, your eyes still locked on the tightly woven strings. "When did you fix it?"
"The day we rekindled things," he confesses softly.
Your chest tightens. "Why did you never show it to me?"
"I didn't think you’d want to see it." Logan swallows hard. "I didn't want to push you."
"Why did you fix it, Logan?"
There is a sudden, fragile falter in your voice—one you didn't even realize was coming until the words left your mouth.
Logan stares at you, completely at a loss. He doesn't know how to answer that honestly without entirely blowing his cover and confessing that he is desperately, entirely in love with you. So, he falls back on the safest truth he has. "Because it was important to me. You're important to me."
Silence stretches over the bedroom. You quickly avert your gaze, looking down at the floor, and Logan’s stomach drops through the floorboards. He thinks he’s done it. He thinks he’s finally fucked up for the last time. All those weeks of careful groveling, of trying to respect your boundaries, and he ruined it because he was an idiot who forgot to hide a fucking bracelet.
But then, a soft, ragged sniffle breaks the silence.
"Hey," Logan calls your name softly.
Instinctively, your head snaps up to meet his gaze. The moment he sees the watery sheen glossing over your eyes, any hesitation he had vanishes. He rushes across the small gap between you, his large hands immediately reaching out.
He gently takes the bracelet from your fingers, murmuring, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
Before you can blink, his thumb reaches up, tenderly wiping away the single tear you allowed to escape down your cheek. His large palm doesn't leave your face; instead, his hand settles gently against your jawline, his fingers anchoring you, prompting you to look directly into the depths of his honey eyes.
The sudden proximity sinks into you. You are completely trapped between the solid breadth of his chest and the hard edge of his desk. And looking up at him, you can tell he is thinking the exact same thing you are.
Your gaze helplessly drops to his lips. When you snap your eyes back up to his, you realize with a jolt that he had just been doing the exact same thing to you.
"Tell me to stop," Logan whispers, his breath warm against your lips, his voice raw and begging.
You want to. You know you should. You know you’re supposed to be just friends, that you’re supposed to be protecting your heart. But the logic completely dissolves, and the moment his lips finally touch yours, you don't pull away.
You kiss him back.
The kiss is slow and absolutely intoxicating. You have never felt more utterly vulnerable in your entire life. Logan lets out a low, ragged sound against your mouth, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs, effortlessly lifting you up so you're sitting securely on the edge of the desk. He doesn't break the contact for a single second. His hands shift, his large palms wrapping firmly around your waist, holding onto you with a distinct desperation—like you’re a buoy in the middle of a crashing ocean and he’s a drowning man.
The familiar warmth of him fills you up, once again erasing the chill of the house. You almost entirely forget who you are, where you are, and what exactly you’re doing—until the kiss deepens, and a soft, involuntary moan of pure pleasure escapes your throat.
The sound shocks you right back to reality.
Panicking, you put your hands against his chest and break away from him immediately, sliding off the desk and backing up until your spine hits the wall. Your breathing is shallow and erratic, your lips tingling.
Logan stands there, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and completely dark with a mixture of shock and terror. "I'm sorry. I—“
"No, it's—it's fine," you stammer, your hands flying up to touch your face, your mind spinning into complete overdrive. "I just—can’t. I can’t, I’m sorry.”
Before he can even utter another word, you dart past him, tearing open the bedroom door and sprinting down the hallway, leaving him standing alone in the center of the room.
Logan closes his eyes, a frustrated huff escaping his lips as he rubs his hands over his face. He’s certain. He is absolutely, one hundred percent certain that he just blew everything. He just ruined the fragile friendship you’ve spent ages building.
Slowly, he reopens his eyes, his shoulders slumped in utter defeat as he looks over at his bed.
Synopsis: Garrett Grahams little sister decided to transfer to Briar University her sophomore year. Y/N made Garrett promise he wouldn't tell a soul his little sister was at the same college, she didn't want anything to do with hockey, or their father who pretended she didn't exist. She couldn't have been more opposite to Garrett, she loved art of all kinds, sketching, painting, photography. She was quiet, kept to her own friends and had no interest in being used by puck bunnies to get to her brother. So he promised, their paths never crossed, and thats how she had no idea she'd agreed to go on a date with her brothers best friend.
warnings: none
part one | part two
The week that followed was full of back and forth text between you and Logan. He’d ask how your art projects were going with genuine interest and you’d ask how his mom was doing. You could tell how broken he felt about his mom being back in rehab. Logan didn’t seem like the type of guy who shared much of his personal information with anyone, so the fact he’d trusted you, a stranger meant everything, you weren’t going to mess that up.
After your slip up at Malones, mentioning your brother you avoided the subject of hockey at all costs. You didn’t want Logan knowing who your brother was, or worse to find out he idolised your dad.
Logan equally never mentioned how he’d been at practice all evening, or how he’d been out with the guys at Malones. He didn’t want you to think of him as a fuckboy. The more you texted, the further he fell for you and he was terrified of messing it up with his own reputation.
Your roommate Olivia had noticed you smiling at your phone too much to not realise something had been going on. “So, you gonna tell me who it is?”
You’d only met her since starting at Briar, but she was kind, understanding and equally loved the arts, so was quickly becoming your closest friend. “It’s just a guy I bumped in to last week, like literally” you giggled, thinking of the memory.
Olivia came over and swiped your phone, reading the messages as you tried to grab it back. “Good morning” “how was your day” “can’t wait to see you again” she mocked in a pretend low voice. “Who is this John guy?”
“He’s a junior I think” you said sheepishly. You knew in reality he couldn’t be interested in you. You were a year younger, small and awkward. He probably dated seniors, if he even dated anybody at all. Most of the boys on campus wanted one thing.
“Ooh an older man” Olivia teased again. She watched your expression as your thoughts took over. You’d never be what he wanted.
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what” you asked indignantly.
“Doubting yourself” Olivia replied, handing you back your phone and placing her hands on your shoulders, looking at you directly.
“Babe, you are one of the hottest girls on campus. I get at least two guys every week asking me for your number, hell Dean DiLaurentis asked last week”
You were slightly taken aback. You knew people asked Olivia about you sometimes, you’d told her categorically to say no if they seemed like a fuckboy.
“Who’s Dean?” You asked confused.
“Oh god I forgot you live under a rock” she sighed, plopping herself down on your bed. “He’s on the hockey team, the one Allie danced with at that party.”
Allie was Olivia’s friend, they both took drama and were obsessed with it. “But when he was asking me Garrett came over and dragged him away, he had a weird reaction to your name, don’t know why.”
You knew, even though Garrett didn’t speak to you much, he knew of Olivia and it wouldn’t have taken much for him to realise who Dean was speaking about. Garrett would never let any of the hockey boys near you.
“Well, I’m not interested anyway, hockey boys are categorically not my thing, and neither are random hookups” you stated.
“Don’t I know it” Olivia sighed, she was always asking you to go to Malones for drinks, she’d been trying to wing woman you since you’d arrived on campus.
Your phone buzzed in your hand.
John: you free tonight? had a bad day
Your cheeks instantly heated, he’d had a bad day and he wanted to see you. YOU.
y/n: I have the last of my painting to finish, you could keep me company at the studio?
John: perfect
Logan’s day had been bad from start to finish, he’d lost an assignment thanks to Tucker messing with his laptop again, and at practice the whole team seemed uncoordinated. The younger team members getting in the way, not following instructions from an increasingly frustrated Garrett.
“You gonna tell me who it is yet” asked Dean, trying to peek at Logan’s phone. Logan dodged him with ease.
“Nope” you were Logan’s, you didn’t need his friends scaring you off.
“Dude, I tried to speak to that girls friend, the hot one I saw walking outside of the psychology building and Garrett almost bit my head off for it. Said she wasn’t interested. I didn’t know he’d tried it with her” Dean said casually while looking in the fridge.
Logan barely listened, Dean was always talking about some girl or another.
“Garrett can’t keep all the girls for himself” Dean continued, slight annoyance showing through his usually carefree demeanour.
Logan headed towards the art block as the sun set, quickly looking around to check none of his friends knew where he was, and turned off his location just to be sure.
It was empty as he peered through the studio doors to each room, finding you sitting at an easel, the end of the paintbrush in your mouth as you contemplated your work. He stood there for a moment, just taking you in. He noticed tiny flecks of paint on your skin, the way you looked completely at ease in a place you loved. He was down bad.
“Hey” he smiled as he walked towards you.
“Hey” you practically whispered back. He noticed how you momentarily tensed and then eased.
“Can I see?” He asked before walking around you took look at your work. He didn’t want to intrude if it was personal. You nodded.
His jaw dropped as he saw the ocean landscape in front of him. The choppy waves, the storm in the sky. He couldn’t comprehend how someone could make something this beautiful.
“It’s not finished” you said hurriedly when you realised he wasn’t saying anything.
“It’s beautiful” Logan continued to stare at the painting in front of him. “Like you.”
He couldn’t stop himself, the words just fell out.
“Thanks” you beamed.
He cleared his throat and looked for somewhere to sit.
“Here, you can pass me my paints as I go” you pointed to an art stool next to you.
“Sure” he smiled, taking his jacket off. The one you’d borrowed.
The pair of you settled back into conversation as Logan watched you paint. He was mesmerised by you. He could see the thought you put into each brush stroke.
“Could you grab me that other brush” you asked, not looking up.
Logan stepped over towards your desk, practically leaning over you to get the brush that looked hilariously tiny in his large hands. “This one” he asked spinning around. Before he could stop himself, he realised he’d knocked your chair, causing you to almost topple over. He quickly placed his hands either side of the stool. Only milimetres of distance between you as you both looked up.
Fuck, he thought, eyes flicking from your eyes to your lips. The paintbrush dropped somewhere on the floor. In a split second he kissed you, without thinking. You sat there, still holding your paintbrush, frozen for a moment before you kissed him back.
Logans face burned as he forced himself to pull back “sorry” he whispered. Although, he wasn’t sure he was sorry at all.
“Its fine” you whispered back, your cheeks rose tinted and warm.
He immediatley stepped back, crouching down to grab the dropped paintbrush. “Here” he smiled.
You both settled back into your seats, resuming the conversation you’d been having. Ignorning what had just happened between you. Your mind was whirring. He liked you. He liked YOU.
Logan wanted nothing more than to take you right there and then, the thought of it caused him to adjust himself where he sat.
Midway through listening to you speak, he blurted out “can I take you on another date.”
You stared at him, it felt like a dream. The hot guy you’d bumped into a week ago had just kissed you, and now he was asking you on a date.
“I’d like that” a smile crept over your face. “Now?” he asked, instantly feeling stupid. It was already getting late but neither of you had eaten. He wanted you, he wanted everything and he wanted it now. He’d never felt like this before.
Somehow, knowing Logan liked you gave you courage, you felt bold and beautiful for the first time in years. “We could get takeaway at my dorm? My roommate Olivia will be out, shes usually at Malones on a Friday.”
Exactly where he’d usually be, Logan thought, but he couldn’t think of anything worse. He never wanted to speak to another girl again. Ok, maybe he was spiralling, but he liked you, a lot.
“Sure” he smiled, trying to keep his cool.
You began to pack up ten minutes later, adding a few touches to your painting before moving it to a safe corner to dry. Logan grabbed your backpack and put it over his shoulder before you could. Offering you his hand instead.
He didn’t know what he was doing, he was moving fast, he knew that, but he couldnt help himself.
You walked hand in hand back to your dorm in a peaceful silence. Logan let go of your hand and handed you your backpack as you got to your door, fishing around for your keys.
The pair of you walked into your dorm, Logan took of his shoes and moved over to the sofa, taking out his phone to order some food. “What do you like?” he asked.
You, you thought to yourself. “Uh, whatever, burgers?” Logan mentally cheered as you said the words, his favourite.
“D’you wanna watch a movie while we wait” you asked, coming out of your room with your laptop. “Sure” he replied as you sat down next to him.
You picked a movie and sat on the opposite end of the sofa, feeling awkward once more. Your thought swirling in you head.
He’s a fuckboy, he just wants to get in your pants, why the hell did you invite him over???
After twenty minutes of uncomfortable silence, watching the movie on your laptop. You both sighed a breath of relief as the food arrived. Logan stood up to get the door before you could move. “Thanks” you heard him say to the driver before he closed the door and walked back over to the sofa, placing the food down on your coffee table.
You both grabbed your food, too hungry to make conversation now. As you both ate, Logan noticed you slowly learning towards the middle of the sofa. You clearly couldnt see the laptop screen well from where you’d sat. Once you’d both finished eating and tidied the reminants away, you went to sit back in the same spot. “Can you actually see the screen from there?” Logan asked.
“Honestly, not really” you stood sheepishly next to the sofa, unsure what to do as Logan put an arm out and pulled you into him. Your heart raced as you sat yourself next to him, his arm pulling you into his side. “Better?” he questioned.
“Better” you whispered back and matched his smile.
As the movie continued, your eyelids felt heavy. It was getting late now and with Logans warmth you fell asleep. He noticed your even breaths as he looked down at your sleeping form. A wide grin appearing on his face. He didn’t want to move, you looked so peaceful. He continued staring at the screen, enjoying the moment.
Before he knew it he woke up to rays of sunlight falling through the window. Fuck, he’d fallen asleep.
You were still there, snoring ever so lightly, Logan just sat there, feeling at peace for the first time in years. He wasn’t going to mess this up with you. He was going to take you on dates, and he was going to take things slowly. He wasn’t going to tell the boys.
Logan could hear a key in the lock, he tensed trying his best not to wake you. Moments later, your roommate Olivia walked in, carrying her heels. She stopped, looking between you and Logan her face completely shocked. He brought a finger to his lips to keep her quiet. “Sleeping” he mouthed.
“What. The. Fuck” Olivia mouthed back, gesturing between the two of you.
A look of realisation hit her “JOHN” she mouthed, throwing her hands in the air. Then she just smiled, laughing almost silently to herself and going to her room.
Logan let out a breath, he didn’t want you to wake before you were ready. He took out his phone to find several messages from the guys.
Dean: gettin lucky?(;
Garrett: the others are annoying why aren’t you at Malones
Logan: sorry guys, be home in a bit
He purposely left it vague. He didn’t want questions.
As much as he didn’t want to leave, he looked at the time. It was 5am and he needed to get back to his place and get ready for an early practice. He gently shifted, settling you back down on the sofa. He grabbed a blanket and placed it over you, leaning down to kiss your head gently.
He closed the door quietly and texted you as he walked back to his truck that he’d left outside of the arts building.
John: thanks for last night, best nights sleep I’ve had in ages, see you later? :) xx
Christian stuff requested by: @andreiaafaria
Usual Tags: @vanityrepeated @quoththedemons @satanica1
Warnings: None. Its short and simple.
A/N: I haven’t written anything in a while, so I am sorry if this wasn’t what you were looking for, but it probably won’t be the only thing posted tonight so maybe something else will be more your taste. Thank you for requesting though! You are my first requester.
I don’t own this gif, found it on google. Credit goes to the creator.
Christian hadn’t heard from you in a few hours and a part of him really wanted to know what you were doing, but he was fighting off the urge to blow up your phone with messages from him. He scowled at himself slightly, keeping some promises were hard. All he wanted to do was to keep track of you and make sure you were being his good little pet. He had glanced down at his phone again, his eyes moving over the black screen before it suddenly vibrated in his hand and the screen kicked on, illuminating his face. Your name and the message showed at the front of the screen and his thumb swiped over it to unlock the phone and look at it. “Sir?” You had asked him and Christian wondered what kind of tone of voice you would have had with it.
“Yes, (Y/N)?"
"I think I miss you."
"You think you miss me?"
"Yes Sir."
Christian smiled at his phone slightly, placing it down onto his lap for a moment as he thought about this. His submissives usually don’t text him to say something like that and he happened to really enjoy the needy attention of a woman. He wanted to feel needed, obsessed over. It was a deep need of his, a secret need that most of the time he tried to ignore. All the cute things you did constantly captured his attention, you weren’t like any girl he had been with before. You listened, you catered to him, you adored him and yet at the same time you were able to be independent for yourself, keeping him in your mind as you committed any action because in a way you represented him as a Master, as a Sir. Christian looked back down at his phone and smiled.
"Well Little Girl, either you miss me or you don’t. Which is it?”
"I miss you Sir. I wish you were here.“
He smiles, gazing down at his phone as he read the sentence over and over again. This thing, whatever this was needed to be rewarded. He wanted you to do it again and again, but first he wanted something out of it, out of you. He was going to see how much you really missed him and in this long and boring car ride, he knew exactly what he wanted. Christian pressed his tongue against his bottom lip, dragging it across as his face insistently focused on the phone screen and his fingers tapped away at it.
"Show me how much you miss me babygirl.”
“What do you want, Sir?"
"Get the toy I bought you from your nightstand, strip down and video call me."
Christian knew it would be a few moments before you were ready, assuming you were home, where you were supposed to be tonight. The more time passed the more he wondered if you were there and as he went to send a text to check in with you and how much time you were taking, his phone rang for a video call. He smiled warmly and accepted the call, looking onto your beautiful face and his eyes lit up.
”My good girl. Are you ready to show sir how much you miss him?“
"Yes Sir." You smile at him and he smiles back as he licks at his bottom lip.
You’d always wanted to work in a bookstore, although it didn’t bring in much money, you loved it.
As usual, you got up, kissed Logan goodbye after saying the night in the hockey house and headed off to the small bookstore across campus, but today, your head was pounding.
You don’t know where it came from, but you could feel yourself getting sick, feeling dizzy and exhausted for no apparent reason.
After an hour at work that morning, your boss had sent you home, insisting that you rest and let Logan take care of you.
“Sally, I’m fine, besides Logan is busy, he can’t take time off from hockey for just a stupid cold” you argued.
“Home!” She insisted, pointing at the door.
Sally was your mother’s age, kind and caring, but also blunt when she needed to be.
You made your way back to your car as your headache worsened, luckily the drive to your dorm wasn’t far.
As you arrived to your dorm, exhaustion overtook your body, you dropped your things by the door and made your way to the sofa, snuggling up in blankets.
A couple of hours passed before you awoke, pain and dizziness circling in your head as you opened your eyes.
You knew you should call Logan, he’d want to know, you were always his priority, but he’d been so busy this week you didn’t want to worry him, knowing he’d come home instantly to look after you. They had a big game coming up and you didn’t want to be a distraction.
After several deep breaths, you managed to sit up slowly, letting your eyes adjust to the light.
It had been hours since you’d eaten anything, your stomach reminded you, the emptiness making you feel sick.
Step by step you made your way towards the makeshift kitchen you shared with your roommate, which was actually just a kettle and microwave, trying to think of the easiest meal you could make.
However, halfway to the kitchen your vision started to go blurry, black spots dotted your view and before you knew it, you’d passed out.
Logan had been incredibly busy at practice, he checked his phone for any messages from you, letting him know if you’d be staying at his tonight or he’d come to you. He frowned when he saw you hadn’t texted, instantly worrying. He checked your location seeing you’d been at your dorm for hours, when you should have only finished your shift half an hour ago.
On his way to your dorm he stopped to grab your favourite flowers and snacks, incase you’d had a bad day. It didn’t happen often now, but sometimes your anxiety would get the best of you and you’d finish a shift early, needing a break from the overwhelm.
“She’s a lucky girl” the cashier commented, Logan smiled, still jittering with worry at why you were home so soon.
“She deserves it.”
It had only been minutes since you’d fainted, you came to hearing the door open, feeling the light prick your eyelids painfully.
“Baby!” You heard Logan shout with worry, hearing the thud as he dropped whatever he was carrying.
“Baby, oh my god, what’s happened?”
You could only grumble in response.
He quickly scooped you up, gently re wrapping the blanket around you as he carried you up to your room.
He noticed how pale you were as he realised you must have been sent home sick. Guilt filled his stomach, you hadn’t told him, probably because you didn’t want to disturb him when he’d been so busy. It was all his fault. You could’ve been seriously hurt, or left there for hours.
Logan placed you down gently, taking off his jacket and shoes before cuddling up to you. He knew all you wanted when you were sick was cuddles.
After a few minutes, you began to feel normal again and he insisted on getting you a glass of water and something sugary. Although he was terrified to leave your side, he knew you needed food and water to recover.
“Don’t leave me” you whimpered, finally feeling better in his arms.
“I’ll be right back” he kissed your forehead and practically ran down the stairs.
He brought up a water, energy drink and the snacks he’d brought for your cozy night in. “Here, sit up for me angel” he spoke softly as helped you sit against your plush pillows, bringing the glass of water to your lips as you attempted to drink.
“You gave me a scare, why didn’t you tell me you felt sick?” He asked, stroking your head as you tried to look away. This was exactly what you didn’t want, him having to drop everything to care for you.
“I didn’t want to disturb you, you have that game coming up and I was gonna wait until you got back” you mumbled, realising how stupid it was for you not to call him.
“Oh angel, you are the most important thing, nothing comes before you and your health, you know that” he reassured you, kissing your forehead gently as tears fell from your eyes.
“I know” you sniffled.
“Shhh come here” he engulfed you in a hug once more as he knelt beside your side of the bed.
“Now, eat something for me and have some medicine”
You nodded slowly as Logan instantly got up, making sure you were okay and comfortable before getting back into bed himself.
The rest of the afternoon was spent in his arms, letting the medication kick in as you napped. You couldn’t have asked for a better boyfriend.
Description: Things between you and Azriel had been going great, until he comes home from a mission wrapped around another. Realizing it wasn't as serious to him, you run. Just intending to take a walk, things go south when you realize you're in trouble... and the shadowsinger might just not care.
Tags/ Warnings: Angst, injury, hurt/comfort, Azriel is a meanie, Cassian being Cassian.
Smoothing the skirts of your gown, your gaze couldn't help but fall on the necklace you hadn't taken off in weeks. Azriel had gifted it to you for solstice, the blue of the gem looking suspiciously similar to that of his siphons.
You wouldn't say you were courting, per se. Your relationship had simply bloomed on its own into something neither of you had ever bothered to name.
Your fingers drifted over the stone's surface, and for the first time all day, the tightness in your shoulders began to ease. Azriel was meant to be home tonight.
It was no surprise to you that Rhysand had deemed Azriel's mission over the same night he intended to host a feast for the inner circle and outside friends. According to your High Lord, Azriel was due back any moment now, the details of his mission unbeknownst to you. You were just excited to see him.
Azriel had gone on a few missions since this relationship had intensified, the male always seeking you out the second his feet touched down on the balcony of the house of wind.
You hadn't intended to miss him so much. Things were still fairly new, and to feel this attached to him was almost alarming. You weren't used to having someone to wait for, unsure if you should act overly joyful at his return or a little more nonchalant.
Shaking your head for some clarity, you let your gaze fall upon your figure one last time. You had chosen the best getup you had available for the occasion, something in you itching to see the reaction of the shadowsinger. The dark fabric and intricate lace might have been on purpose to reference his shadows, but that was insignificant.
He always took you in appreciatively, whether in a nightgown or training leathers, his gaze slowly dropping to your feet before rising to your face. You felt your cheeks heat at the memory of the way his eyes darkened when landing on you.
Finally tearing your gaze from the mirror, you cleared your throat from the intensity before making your way out of your bed chambers.
The violins grew louder as you neared the party, your shoes clicking lightly against the stone of the ground beneath you. Finally catching sight of a few guests, you sighed in relief when your eyes fell on Mor already chatting up a familiar looking couple.
Timidly approaching her, you let your hand meet her arm before she turned to look at you, her gaze lighting up immediately at the recognition.
"Finally! I was starting to think you weren't coming!"
You giggled as her arms wrapped around your neck, her stance slightly wobbly likely from the wine glass already clutched in her fire red nails.
"I see someone has already cracked open the wine..."
She lightly smacked at your still outstretched hand, the glass sloshing lightly at her movements. Pulling entirely away from the couple she was previously speaking to, she wrapped her arm around yours before leading you deeper into the party.
"Ha. Ha. Very funny. I know you're just itching for a glass yourself." She huffed, heels clacking along as she kept her pace beside you.
An hour or two later, you were three glasses in, watching amusedly as Cassian reenacted an interaction he had in the market earlier this week.
"I don't understand why it's so laughable that I, warlord and killer of men, would be interested in personal hygiene?! You should've seen the females giggling from the stall over!"
A content laughter settled among the few fae around him, his expression exaggerated as if waiting for someone to answer his rhetorical question. Just when he seemed ready to continue, his posture stiffened at something he was seeing behind your back.
Furrowing your brows in confusion, you went to look behind you when Cassian's hand suddenly landed on your shoulder.
"Hey! Why don't we- uh- would you like to come get a drink with me?"
You could see the nervous gulp trail down his throat as his gaze searched yours, his eyebrows lifted almost in a plead as he gently pulled you toward him. Glancing down at your almost full wine glass, you lifted your gaze back to him confused, raising it slightly to catch his attention. It would have almost been comical if he didn't look so close to soiling his trousers.
"Not you, silly! Me! I need a drink, you know, all this 'working the crowd' has really dried out my thr-"
His plead was interrupted by a few gasps from the fae around you, your attention quickly snapping back to the situation at hand. Just as you went to turn around a second time, Cassian quickly pulled you again, your wine splashing over the rim and onto your fingers.
"Hey! What is going on with you? What is everyone starting at-"
Just as the words passed your lips, your gaze finally landed behind you. Across the party, an unmistakable spymaster was stood in the crowd. Feeling your pulse increase at his presence, you let your body fully turn in his direction, eager to greet him.
You were stopped in your tracks as your gaze lowered, your feet coming to an abrupt halt when you noticed a manicured hand wrapped around his bicep. Eyes quickly shooting to his right, you felt your heart stop entirely as your eyes fell on a beautiful fae woman. His eyes were on her as she laughed, her gaze more than friendly as she looked up at him.
All you could manage was a small "Oh." as Cassian appeared at your side, his hand finding your arm and tugging again.
Letting him steer you away from the sight, the gears in your mind began turning as you walked with him to his unknown destination. Voices invaded your mind, whispers from the party guests. Statements along the lines of "Azriel never brings a female" or "I wonder if he has found his mate". You only snapped out of your spiral momentarily when you heard a door shut behind you.
"Look y/n. I know what it looks like. Just listen to me-"
You raised your hand abruptly, cutting him off.
"What it looks like? Cass, it's what it is. You don't have to try and spare my feelings."
Cassian ran a hand through his hair, a frustrated sigh leaving his lips.
"No y/n seriously. Let me explain."
You took in his devastated features, matching his look with your own. How awful that Cassian would have to be the one to let you down easily, his own brother too occupied to reject you himself.
"No Cass. It's fine. You don't have to explain for him."
You quickly turned away from him, dropping your glass on a nearby table. You didn't realize you were crying until you caught your reflection in the mirror above it, tears trailing through the makeup you had spent hours perfecting.
Steeling yourself in the reflection, you didn't let Cassian speak another word before you were gone. The rage and utter betrayal in your mind blending into one tainted landscape. Where the winds matched the ice you felt in your veins, the temperatures as brutal as the thrum in your heart.
Landing on your knees, you didn't even have to look up to know where you had landed. The snow cushioned your fall, pooling around the skirts of your gown. Your chest rose and fell rapidly as you stared, watching as a thin layer of sleet covered your lap almost instantly.
Letting your hands fall to your sides, your fingers didn't even flinch as they came in contact with the freezing sludge beneath you. You just sat there, letting your body become one with the elements and bring you back to reality.
It didn't take long before you felt the biting chill racing across your skin, your gown not doing anything to shield from the biting winds. It was refreshing.
This place was not unfamiliar. You had been here before, many times. When you had nightmares, when you were so overwhelmed with emotion you couldn't escape, your mind always conjured you here. You don't know why, but the place that once seemed to frighten you was now calling with open arms. The one place nobody knew. The place of your deepest fears, now becoming your sanctuary.
Nobody would be crazy enough to follow you out here. Even if they somehow knew where you were.
It felt like hours had passed when you finally stood. Body uncontrollably jerking with the cold, you forced yourself onto unsteady feet. Letting your gaze fall on your destination, you took in the twisted black trees and steady downpour of sleet. The hairs on the back of your neck immediately stood. Something was watching from the darkness.
Whipping around at a cracking twig beside you, your hands immediately raised in defense, body tightening with anticipation. Feeling your breaths tumble past your lips, you couldn't help the jumps in your muscles from the freezing temperatures. As you squinted through the snowfall, you made out a large figure twisting its' way through the forest.
You jumped when you heard another sound behind you, forcing you to take your eyes off the first creature and check your blindspot in case of an ambush. Not seeing anything, you quickly whipped your head back to the original threat, but were shocked into a gasp when the creature appeared right in front of you. Tripping over your own feet, you gathered your skirts in your hand and ran.
Jumping over roots, ankles twisting and bending at awkward angles, you ran through the snow as fast as you could. Your toes were numb as the snow soaked through your slippers, making it even harder to measure your steps. You checked behind you every few steps, anguish crawling up your throat in a scream as you realized it was gaining on you faster than you anticipated.
Deciding running wasn't going to save you, you swallowed your fear and stopped your steps. Whipping around, you prepared to strike at the monster on your heels. A shudder crashed through you at the sight of it.
It was nothing you had ever seen before. A large reptile-like head rested on an even larger body, the moon glinting off of massive claws digging into the slush before you. It's long serpent-like neck twisted and turned as it looked at you, teeth baring and tongue lashing curiously as it sized you up.
You didn't even have a chance to take in the creature before it was pouncing, teeth chomping at the space your head was just in. Dodging, you tucked and weaved as quickly as you could to dodge its' blows. As you danced around the creature, you could hear its' voice in hissing whispers, and one of them made you stop dead in your tracks.
"The Ssssspymasssterssss mate!"
You could only stare as its' tongue flicked with each 'S', a pang of confusion almost knocking you back harder than one of the creature's blows.
Your moment of pause would cost you.
Before you could even utter a word, one of the creatures scaled legs soared, its claws sinking right into your side. You could feel as each claw pushed through your ribs, nothing but a small wheeze escaping as you held the intense eye contact. The searing pain was nothing compared to the memory you'd have of those eyes, holding your own like it never wanted you to forget. Your body had no choice but to collapse where you stood, the world blurring until you were looking up at the sky above you. You could barely make out a scaled tail whipping above you as the creature slipped into the night.
Your hand clutched your side, white hot pain shooting through you. You sucked in a ragged breath, only for it to catch as fluid invaded your lungs. A harsh cough wracked your body, your body convulsing and warm liquid spilling out onto your face.
Trying and failing to suck in a full breath, your battered body jerked and pulsed with the pain, your vision becoming hazy for a moment before focusing back on the night sky. You could feel the sleet hitting your face harshly, forcing your eyes to blink rapidly.
The wind howled around you, the once still trees looking alive as the rays of the moon slipped between their branches. You could hear the whistle of the wind through them, creaks and groans echoing around you at the pressure pushing against them.
Just as your vision blurred a second time, you thought you heard something. Your fae ears twitched, straining against the raging winds around you. Hope bloomed in your chest, fragile, as you listened.
There it was.
Faint at first, then louder.
"Y/n!" a voice bellowed through the trees. "Answer me, sweetheart!"
Your heart lurched.
Azriel.
Every instinct urged you to call out, to let him know you were here and you needed him. You opened your mouth, but only a weak broken gurgle escaped past the blood on your lips. Pain ripped through your chest.
You didn't realize you were crying until you felt the shrill trail of tears down your temples, the realization that Azriel wouldn't find you in time bringing a rough cry past your lips.
Your heart lurched a second time as another shout cut through the trees.
"Y/n?" His voice cracked with panic. "I hear you, baby."
Footsteps thundered through the forest, growing closer with every passing second, branches snapping beneath his steps. Shadows stirred between the trees, racing ahead of their master.
"I'm coming." he called, breathless. "Hold on for me. I'm coming."
Your blurry gaze catches a movement in the tree line before you, branches separating and snow falling as a tall figure bursts through. Before you can even orient yourself Azriel has landed on his knees beside you, the glow of his siphons drawing your focus to his chest.
Hands come up to cradle your face, your eyes flickering to his own as his head blocks your line of sight to the sky above. You can feel the trail of blood running down your chin when you attempt to smile up at him.
You can feel his hands leave your face as he assesses your body, another gurgle coming from you when his hand comes in contact with the wound on your side.
“I know, baby. I’m sorry.” he coos, his free hand coming back up to wipe at the tears rolling down your temple.
Your hand comes up to grab at his resting on your hair now, your own blood coating your fingers visible in your peripheral.
A broken sound leaves his lips as you choke once again, an almost feral growl you had never heard from him before.
His shadows slowly start to surround you, and before you can attempt another breath, his face steeles into one of resolve.
“I’m going to winnow you. I have to get you back to Velaris so Madja can help.” his hands automatically start moving to hold your body to his, one sliding beneath your back and the other cradling the back of your head.
At the movement, you can’t help the wince that tumbles past your lips.
“I know it hurts, sweetheart. But you have to stay with me, okay? Can you do that for me?” his eyes are pleading when he locks them with your own, his breaths trembling.
With as much of a nod as you can muster, you brace yourself for the pain about to consume you.
Azriel brings your body to his, tucking your face into the crook of his neck. You watch in awe as the shadows surround you fully. You had never been surrounded by such complete and utter darkness.
You can hear Azriel talking to you, a repeated “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry” passing through your ears as the world around you disappears.
With the warp through time, you can feel your entire being teetering over the edge of life and death. The pressure on your limbs is so strong you can do nothing but hold your breath, praying to the mother that you make it to the other side.
Azriel might love another, but you still have friends, a family waiting for you. Even though your heart was on the verge of breaking, you still had hope. Hope for happiness and a future where you didn’t feel like this.
Just as a bright white began taking over your vision, Azriel clutching to you like he would never let go again, the shadows dissipated. You could feel the coolness of their embrace leave you suddenly, before your consciousness began to fade.
Muffled in the background, you could hear Azriel yelling. “Get Madja! She doesn’t have much longer. She can’t breathe.” tore through his lips as your body transferred from his to a softer surface. You finally could let your mind relax.
The first thing to return to you was sound. You could hear the faint crackling in the hearth, a soft sound coming from the fae lights around you. Letting your ears tune into the new environment, your fingers began searching of their own volition.
A soft, familiar texture smoothed under your fingertips, the warmth of the comforter feeling foreign after so long in the cold.
Clearing your throat, your eyes immediately popped open when you realized that there was no longer anything interfering with your breaths.
It took a moment for your vision to clear, almost as if the sleet had to clear away before you could fully take in your surroundings. Slowly sitting up, you winced at the pinch in your side.
Your brows furrowed as you realized that this was not your room. The dark bedding and wall of daggers gave you a good idea of whose bed you were occupying, but you weren’t sure why.
Realizing you were alone in the room, you forced your legs to swing over the side of the bed, the grunt of effort an added reminder of the trauma your body had gone through.
You didn’t even stop to take in your appearance, which you were sure had been cleaned up by some form of magic, before tiptoeing through the cracked bedroom door.
It took a couple of stops against the wall before you began hearing muffled voices in the dining room. Your fae healing had gotten you this far, but you weren’t entirely confident in your own movements.
Steeling yourself and taking a calming breath, you prepared yourself to see the Illyrian you were sure held your broken heart in his own two, scarred, hands. Right as you were about to round the corner, you stopped again when you heard the smooth timbre of his voice rumbling through the room.
“And nobody thought to fucking tell her that?”
Realizing you were the topic of discussion, you decided to stop the inevitable and make your presence known. You only made it two steps into the room before every head snapped in your direction, and another two before your body was brutally crushed into an embrace.
“Oh, thank the mother! I am so glad you’re alr- wai- what are you doing out of bed?!” Mor’s voice screeched against your ear. You could only wince as she bombarded you, her arms immediately pulling back as she jerked herself away from you.
You only smiled apologetically at her as her expression filled with guilt. It only took two seconds before that look turned into one of gratitude, her body coming in to hug you a lot more gently the second time around.
A round of agreements and scolds met you as Mor finally released you, your gaze jumping around the room to take in the entire inner circle. Out of nerves, your eyes purposely avoided the darkest corner of the room.
You could feel the cool drag of shadows as they assessed your frame, only steeling yourself further until they were content and sliding back to their master.
As all eyes stayed locked on your form, you finally cleared your throat once more before letting out a scratchy “Anyone got any water?”
After what felt like hours, you had finally finished explaining every detail of your mishap with the serpent like creature. Leaving out the tidbit about your rescue, everyone seemed content enough to begin parting for their own duties. With an order to rest and hydrate, you also turned to leave the dining room when a deep voice stopped you in your tracks.
“Can we talk?”
Your body felt frozen as you took in his voice. A mixture of exhaustion and sadness finding you from across the room.
Keeping your back turned to him, you let everybody else pass you by before swallowing your nerves and turning to face him.
You could only bring yourself to look at his chest, his fighting leathers now traded for a black shirt and trousers. You could see the daunting outline of his wings behind him, your fingers immediately coming to twist in front of you.
You tucked a stray hair behind your ear, gaze dropping as you waited for him to break the silence.
It took a few long moments, but the first words to leave him almost had your mouth dropping in shock.
“Can you look at me please?”
Your eyes immediately lifted to his own, a frown of confusion painting your face when you took in the sight of him.
His hair was disheveled as if he had been vigorously running his fingers through it, his under eyes dark and a shadow forming on the lower half of his face.
Just as you went to blurt out something, anything, his form crossed the room. He looked almost afraid to get too close to you, choosing instead to stop with a good yard of distance between you.
Your eyes flickered between his own as you processed your thoughts, unsure what you were really supposed to say. Before you could get out a word, his rough voice stopped you again.
“How are you feeling?”
You were a bit taken aback by his question. A few embarrassing stutters leaving you before you finally coughed up a quick “Good. I feel pretty good.”
Your fingers kept violently twisting as he eyed you up and down, your brain bouncing a million different questions around before it finally settled on one.
You didn’t even have a moment to second guess before the words were forcing past your lips.
“Am I your mate?”
A look of certain shock passed over Azriel’s face before he steeled himself again, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. His hand came up to run through his hair as his face portrayed the inner turmoil clearly a jumbled mess in his brain.
“I only ask because before that… snake thing… attacked me it hissed out something along the lines of ‘the spymaster’s mate’ and it really confused me because after the party I’m not really sure what’s going on. I understand if you were planning to reject the bond for that female but why string me along before then, you know? I thought something was forming between us but now I think I might have just been exaggerating things in my own mind- I mean, that woman was beautiful, and I understand why you would choose her over me but-“
You only stopped to take a breath as Azriel roared a growl, your body flinching back as he whirled towards the dining table. He looked as if he was about to break something before his hand came up to rub at his chest.
Your shocked gaze stared at his back as his shoulders heaved, his wings twitching wildly before pulling tightly back into their normal position.
A sigh that carried the weight of the world left him before he whirled back around, his legs taking two more steps toward you. His hand reached out as if to touch you before he seemingly thought better of it and brought it back to pinch at the bridge of his nose instead.
“Reject you? Y/n, please, you’re killing me.” his face held nothing but anguish as he brought his gaze back up to meet yours. “Rhysand asked me to escort that female to the party. She was linked to some Illyrian’s we’ve been monitoring and he wanted me to get more intel. Fuck, I would’ve never- I never- Cassian was supposed to tell you. He was supposed to tell you before the party started but he was too busy following Nesta around like a lost pu- oh fuck this.”
He seemed to decide against the last part of his explanation before he closed the rest of the distance between you. Your breath caught at the proximity when his hands came up to cradle your jaw, his eyes piercing yours as a confused furrow took over your brow.
Without realizing, your hands came up to grip his forearms, your eyes fleeting between his own as you processed his words.
His body only pressed closer to yours as you hesitated, the gears running a mile a minute in your mind.
“I swear to you, y/n. There is no one else in this galaxy I would’ve rather been with than you. I hate that you even questioned my feelings for you. I’m yours. I have been since the day we met.”
His eyes only intensified his words as you searched them, the gold flecks throughout his orbs almost glowing as they locked with yours.
You felt the trail of a tear before you could stop it, your lip wobbling for a reason unbeknownst to you. Azriel was quick to wipe it away, his forehead coming down to rest against yours. His voice lowered to a whisper as he continued.
“I almost lost it when I heard you were missing. I don’t even remember leaving the party or how I knew where to find you. I would tear this world apart inch by inch if it meant keeping you safe, sweetheart. I promise you that.”
Your breath shuddered through a gasp as more tears made their way down your cheeks. Letting your eyes fall closed, you shook your head against his before meeting his gaze again.
“So basically you’re saying that my disappearance was a slight overreaction?” you whispered, your teeth finding your lip as you waited for his reaction, a smile threatening to break out on your face.
Azriel shuddered a laugh of disbelief, his hands pulling you fully into his embrace. You could’ve sworn you saw a slight wetness in his eyes before your face was tucked firmly into his neck.
You and Azriel had reluctantly split after your embrace caused a sudden twinge in your side, his warmth immediately turning into panic at the wince that left your lips.
You had parted with the promise that you would get some rest before finding him in the morning to finish your conversation.
Flipping harshly onto your other side, you sighed in frustration as sleep continued to evade you. Every time you closed your eyes you saw manicured nails, serpent like eyes, and the look on Azriel’s face as it assessed your form on the floor of the woods. Also, the mantra of mate, mate, mate playing on a loop in your mind didn’t help.
Kicking the blankets off of your legs, you didn’t give yourself time to rethink your movements as you tiptoed out of your bedroom and towards Azriel’s. Pausing at his door, you let your knuckles lightly tap the surface before you heard a quick “Come in”.
Pushing past the threshold, you let the door close behind you before you made yourself as small as possible in his doorway. Wringing your fingers again, you slowly gazed up at Azriel, sitting wide awake in bed with a book resting on his chest.
You twisted your mouth in contemplation before letting out a small “I can’t sleep.”, your gaze dropping to your bare feet before snapping back up at the sound of rustling blankets.
Azriel had lifted his duvet, his body sliding further into the bed as he gestured for you to join him.
Shyly stalking towards his bed, you gently climbed into the open space next to him before his hands immediately made contact and brought you into his embrace.
The position almost ended up being a horizontal hug, your head tucked under his chin. One arm was wrapped around your waist as the other rested under your head, his hand coming up to twist a strand of your hair. His wing folded over the both of you, the lights instantly dimming into a soft glow through the membrane.
You slowly tilted your head back to meet his eyes, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you took in his features. Letting it out as a whisper, you started with “I’m sorry for bothering you..” only to be immediately cut off.
Azriel tucked your head back into his neck, his chest rising with a deep inhale before he whispered back.
Description: Life at college was supposed to be about making memories... late night parties, games, cheap beer, and maybe even a few bad decisions. Determined to break out of your shell after a promise to your friend, you throw yourself into the Briar social scene. The last thing you expect is to cross paths with Briar U's most notorious playboy. Charming, cocky, and impossible to ignore, Dean Di Laurentis might just turn your college experience upside down... and make you question everything you thought you wanted.
Tags/ Warnings: Mentions of drugs, alcohol, and parties.
Note: I have randomly been feeling really inspired to write, and it probably has something to do with all of the fresh inspo feeding me lately... This accidentally got way longer than I expected, so I will most likely be writing a part two to this in the next few days. If there's anything specific you'd like to see in the next part, please let me know! Thanks for reading! Feedback would be greatly appreciated! <3
Tv shows didn't always accurately portray the college experience. That was clear to you as you pushed through the crowd, the bass from the speakers making every cell in your body vibrate.
If college parties were supposed to be so fun, why were you so ready to leave?
Your shoes pinched, your head was fuzzy, and your "go-getter" attitude was fading fast. Allie had conveniently failed to mention this part of a college party. The suffocating heat, the inability to walk anywhere without fighting through a crowd, and the desperate need for a moment to yourself.
She had drug you along to the Briar University men's hockey party, the team celebrating a big win against Harvard. Your friend Hannah had just begun officially dating Garrett Graham, the starting forward/center for the team. You had inadvertently begun hanging out with some of his teammates in your desire to spend time with Hannah, and honestly they weren't too bad. Most of them made you feel like you fit right in, so coming to the party hadn't been that dreadful for you.
Finally spotting a break in the sea of people, you slipped into the kitchen with a sigh of relief. The music dulled just enough to ease the pounding in your head, and the pressure of the crowd eased off of your shoulders.
You steeled in determination. You had one mission and one mission only.
Find a glass.
Find the sink.
Water.
A movie-like "target acquired" sounded in your mind when your gaze fell on what you had been searching for. A tall, fat stack of red solo cups.
Your feet pulled you in the direction of the stack, nothing else more important than one of those perfect red cups finding its way into your outstretched hand.
You faintly registered your toes bumping into what must be discarded cans and bottles, your mind solely set on the mission at hand.
Reaching for a cup at the top of the stack, your heart nearly lurched out of your chest when another, much larger, hand got to it first.
Your movements froze as you watched the cup ascend from the counter, making it's way toward an even larger body. Turning your head towards your opponent, you were immediately transported out of mission mode.
Standing right next to you, the most attractive man you'd seen all night- scratch that- maybe even all year, let his eyes fall upon yours. You found yourself caught in the gaze of the greenest eyes you'd ever seen.
"Looks like we've got the same idea. Shots?"
It took you a second to realize he was speaking, his body turning casually to lean against the counter next to you. Finally finding your voice, you redirected your focus back to the stack of cups.
"Oh- no. Just water." you let out a chuckle to accommodate for the awkwardness, finally bringing a cup into your own grasp. Realizing the sink was on the other side of your opponent, you turned back to face him.
His eyes were unmistakably taking you in, so you figured it was only fair to return the favor. Messy blonde hair had been pushed back from his forehead, looking as though he'd spent the night running a hand through it. A worn Briar t-shirt stretched comfortably across broad shoulders, the sleeves a little tight around his biceps, hinting at an athletic build.
You suddenly felt self-conscious of your own appearance, hair most likely a mess and posture rigid at the intensity of the night.
Before you could fall down that rabbit hole, a smirk took over the stranger's face before he was speaking again. "I don't think we've met. I'm Dean."
His hand reached out between you, and after a moment's hesitation, you took it. His grip was warm and firm, and the simple touch sent an embarrassing flutter through your stomach. Heat bloomed across your cheeks as he held your gaze.
Oh.
Right. He was waiting for your name.
You managed to stammer it out before looking back up at him, only to find the corner of his mouth twitching into an amused smile.
Before you could react, his hand was leaving your outstretched one to pluck the empty cup out of your other, his gaze determined as he placed both yours and his onto the counter before him.
His gaze swung back to you over his shoulder, assessing your reaction as his hand reached out to grab a bottle of liquor tucked further onto the counter. You went to protest, but decided against it when you realized you were indeed at a party, and your buzz had pretty much faded.
Deciding you'd need some liquid courage to continue this interaction, you let a small smile grace your features before you managed a quick nod at his silent question.
You weren't even sure what kind of liquor he had chosen, too enamored by watching his hands work the cap off of the bottle and pour a practiced amount into each cup.
You gasped when he quickly spun back around, your cup now hovering between you, outstretched in his steady grasp.
Grabbing the cup from him, you pretended not to notice the tingle that shot up your arm as your fingers grazed. Looking down into your cup, you felt a cringe already forming at the clear liquid sloshing in the bottom. You let your concerned gaze fall on him once again when you decided to ask, "Isn't there like... a routine for this?"
Dean chuckled at your question, bringing his gaze to your own. He lifted his cup, bringing it to tap against your own. His face turned into one of determination as he licked his lips and began explaining.
"Something like that." he muttered, a smirk forming on the corner of his mouth. "After we cheers, we tap the cup on the counter. Then you can take the shot."
You felt yourself nodding along to his explanation, palm suddenly becoming slick at the fear of the burn you were about to experience.
"Well, then. Cheers... I guess." you muttered, a slight shrug in your shoulders.
Your cups clinked again before you followed his movements and tapped your own on the counter, simultaneously with his.
Bringing the plastic to your lips, you scrunched your eyes and downed the liquid, the taste immediately taking over your senses.
Letting the cup fall back to your front, you shook your head as a grimace took over your features, tongue sticking out and one eye closing at the sour taste.
If you weren't already feeling the buzz travel through your body, you probably would've been embarrassed by the look on your face.
You glanced a look out of the corner of your eye at Dean, his expression mirroring your own before blowing out a breath and licking his lips once again.
"Wow. That was rough." he chuckled, reaching to grab the cup from your hand once again.
You almost paled when you thought he was pouring another, but relaxed when his body led to the sink instead. He rinsed out both cups before filling them each with water.
Once he came back to stand in front of you, you didn't give him the chance to reach his hand out before you were taking the cup from his grasp and taking a slow sip.
Dean just chuckled before doing the same, his eyes staying locked with yours over the rim of his cup.
You were momentarily pulled from his gaze at a loud cheer coming from outside the kitchen, reality reminding you to the fact that you were here with Allie and had been in this kitchen for a while.
You looked back to Dean with a small smile on your face, your hands coming to cradle the cup carefully in front of you. "Well, thank you for the shot, but I should probably go find my friend."
Dean nodded, his gaze dropping to your grip on the cup before coming back up to your face. "What's your friends name?"
You tucked a hair behind your ear before responding, a quick "Allie" tumbling past your lips. You realized he might actually know her, and added on "We're good friends with Hannah, Garrett's girlfriend."
He let out a strange "huh" before tilting his head and mumbling "I know Allie. I just want to know why I've never seen you before."
You let out a small giggle as your gaze fell back to your cup before raising your head once again. "I don't really go to parties."
Just as he went to respond, your name echoed off the walls of the kitchen. Allie had burst through the doorway, drink in hand as she shot her gaze accusingly between you and Dean.
Looking at it from an outside perspective, you were standing pretty close.
She quickly marched over to you, huffing in frustration at something you weren't entirely sure of. She latched onto your arm and began dragging you back towards the party, leaving you no time to react as you fell into step behind her, the drink sloshing in your cup.
Glancing over your shoulder, you took one last look at Dean, his hand running through his hair and eyes following your every step. He smirked as he let a small "Bye, y/n" fall past his lips.
You gave him a sympathetic smile before you rounded the doorway, the sight of him replaced by the crowd of people as you kept moving.
Kicking your shoes off at the door, you let Allie's grumbling voice fade as you made your way into the kitchen.
Deciding she wasn't done with you, she followed you into the room, throwing herself down into one of your barstools before continuing on.
"When I said you needed to get out there, I didn't mean to find the biggest man-whore on campus. You're lucky I saved you."
Ruffling through the freezer, you pulled out a bag of pizza rolls and let them fall on the counter with a thud. Turning back to your friend, you let your hands fall on the counter before sarcastically responding, "Jesus. I wasn't having sex with him Allie! We were just talking."
She rolled her eyes in annoyance before shooting back a quick "Talking turns into sex, y/n. And that's the last thing you need from Dean Di Laurentis."
You could hear the sneer in her voice at his name, turning back to place a handful of the pizza rolls on in the microwave.
Setting the timer, you shot a small "Message received Allie. No more Dean." over your shoulder at your friend.
You heard her deflate at your words, her body spinning in the stool before she stood. "Thank you. Now I'm going to crash on the couch. Goodnight."
At the fade of her footsteps, you let your eyes watch the ticking clock on the microwave, your fingers tapping along on the countertop.
Strangely, you felt a little disappointed at the thought of 'No more Dean'.
Almost a week had passed when you decided to meet up with Hannah and the boys at Malone's. You had been growing more comfortable with the group since Hannah began dating Garrett, and decided one night of getting out of your dorm wouldn't hurt.
Classes had been a nightmare this week, the next assignments falling into your lap before you could even finish the first ones. You were getting a drink, and that was decided.
Pushing through the glass door, you smiled at the familiar bell ringing at your entrance. Wow, the place was packed. Your eyes surveyed the booths before falling on Hannah, her arm quickly raising to wave you over.
You let an appreciative look fall over your face at her actions, your feet beginning their path to her table. Halfway there, you almost paused.
Across the booth from Hannah, with his back turned to you, sat an unmistakable head of blonde hair. Not letting yourself falter, you continued walking, your mind filling with regret at your choice of a Briar baby-tee and worn out jeans.
Finally making it to the table, you immediately slid into your seat as Hannah pushed her way further into the booth. Her arms came to wrap around you, the scent of her cherry perfume wrapping you in comfort. She lowly murmured "Someone was excited you were coming." before shooting her gaze towards Dean, bringing a shocked expression to your face. She just raised her eyebrows suggestively before giggling, letting her hands fall back to her drink.
Once she released you, you let your eyes fall on each other face at the table in silent greeting, your nerves building as you made your way to the final one.
Locking eyes with Dean, his green eyes captured yours from the first glance. You knew he had watched you sit down, the tingle on your profile alerting you to his stare.
Before either of you could say anything, the server approached right next to you, moving your attention to her introduction. She asked for your drink order and, feeling bold, you rambled off your choice of cocktail before she nodded and disappeared.
"Long week?" Hannah asked, her hand coming to rest on your shoulder with a friendly laugh.
You dramatically dropped your head into your hands, a muffled "Don't even get me started." coming from you before conversation picked back up again.
You found yourself following along with Garrett's dramatic story re-telling, a small smile on your lips as everyone laughed. Once again, the server approached your table, sliding your drink to you. You gave her a small 'thank you' before taking a heavy sip.
About to turn back to the conversation, you froze when you felt something graze against your foot. Shooting your gaze to the culprit, you gulped when you found Dean looking intently at you, leaned on his arms halfway across the table.
Feeling bold, you mirrored his movements, crossing your arms the same way as him before leaning in. You thought you saw his gaze following your mouth as you closed the distance.
His signature smirk took over his face as he took you in, and your heart stalled at the small "Hi" he sent your way.
Hoping he couldn't see the flush taking over your face, you mumbled back an even smaller "Hi" before bringing your lip between your teeth.
It felt like minutes had passed before he spoke again, the seconds filled with each of you sizing the other up.
Dean took a sip of his beer before he whispered, his tone playfully secretive, "Allie doesn't like me talking to you."
You giggled at that, your eyes dramatically falling around the booth before landing back on his. Leaning in even closer, you let your voice drop to match his. "Well, it's a good thing Allie isn't here, isn't it?"
His eyes lit up at your response, his tongue shooting out to moisten his lips before he leaned back in the booth once again. "Let's play a game."
You should've known better than to partake in any game Dean had come up with. You were on your third drink, your mind becoming delightfully fuzzy as the night went on.
It was some twisted form of 21 questions, but instead of just asking and answering like normal people, each time one of you answered the other had to take a sip. The rules led to some pretty deep questions, and you were feeling confident enough to give honest responses knowing it lead to him tipping back his bottle.
Your cheeks were hurting from how much you were smiling, Dean taking the time to animatedly dive into your answers. When you admitted you had a hidden tattoo, that remained the subject of conversation for a while.
"You can't tell me that and not tell me what it is. Now I'm intrigued." he had said, his eyes narrowed from across the table. You only shrugged and pointed at his drink smugly. "That wasn't the question. Drink, Di Laurentis."
By drink four and the 21st question, you were on top of the world. The others had joined in on the game, the rules now accommodating for everyone at the table. Now each player got to choose who they asked about, and well... the drinking basically turned into everyone sipping after every question.
You didn't fail to notice how Dean had continued only asking you questions, though.
The game had come to an end and everyone was happily chatting, laughs buzzing around the booth. Your mind kept drifting to the blonde across from you, curious why Allie had made such a point to keep you away from him. He seemed great, even if you weren't considering a hook-up. Sadly, that was not the case.
Your stomach fluttered at the thought, the drinks coursing straight to your core with the images flashing through your mind. Clenching your thighs together, you almost shot out of the booth when you felt another brush against your leg.
Dean was looking at you again, a tilt to his head and a suggestive look on his face. Had you said something out loud?
Just as you went to defend yourself, he cut you off, rising from the booth and offering you his hand. "Get a drink with me?"
Letting your fingers fall into his grasp, you rose out of the booth. You didn't realize the place had become even more crowded, your anxiety rising at the crowd you were about to have to navigate... while heavily tipsy.
Before you could begin to panic, you felt Dean tug on your hand, bringing himself in front of you to push through the crowd. His hand never left yours, his head turning every few seconds to make sure you were still behind him.
Once you made it to the bar, your cheeks heated instantly when he placed himself behind you, his arms falling on either side of your waist to grip the bar counter. He communicated something with the bartender over your head, the only thing you picked up being the bartender's quick nod and shuffle to the other end of the bar.
Turning around to question him, you gasped when you realized how close he was to you, his chest practically pressed against your own. Dean didn't falter, instead it felt like he moved even closer, his gaze finding your own.
"What did you get us?" you almost yelled, the band's volume causing you to strain your voice. Dean angled his ear towards your mouth before smirking. He simply shrugged, a teasing grin spreading across his face.
Your breath caught as he wrapped himself around you, your face coming close to the juncture of his neck. Your brain short-circuited before he leaned back again, two small shot glasses in his hand. The scent of his cologne lingered, a dark woodsy scent you knew you'd be dreaming about.
Lifting one of the glasses to you, you gave him a suspicious look. He just laughed before leaning into your ear, slightly yelling "It's our tradition, baby."
You just scoffed before grabbing the glass from his grip, holding it up between you before a moment of confidence overtook you. Wrapping your hand around the back of his neck, you brought his ear down to your mouth before questioning "Any special routines this time?"
Letting yourself fall back onto your heels, you took in the look on his face. His eyes had darkened, and his gaze was jumping between your own. After a second of hesitation, he snapped back to reality, bringing his forearm to wrap around your own. He leaned down closer and signaled to the shot in your hand. You only nodded before bringing it to your lips, him doing the same.
You realized as soon as the fluid hit your tongue that he had ordered the same shot you took at the party, the burn hitting instantly. Downing it quickly, you felt your body take a screenshot at the intensity of it. Scrunching your face, you vigorously shook your head, your hair flying all around you.
Dean laughed from somewhere in front of you, your closed eyes keeping his location unknown. You felt his hand come down onto your hair to smooth it as his chest vibrated against your own.
Letting your eyes fall back open with a scarred look on your face, you muttered "That was almost worse than last time."
Dean just laughed again before licking his lips, your eyes locking in on the movement of his tongue. He started yelling something back to you, but the fog in your brain made his voice blend in with your surroundings. Gaze still locked on his mouth, he brought his hand up to your chin and raised your head to look at him properly.
A blush took over your face as you realized he was waiting for a response, but all you could do was look at him in confusion. He brought his mouth toward your ear, his hand falling from the bar top to land on your hip. Your breathing stuttered as he lowly teased "You're staring."
Letting your gaze meet his once again, a flushed "Sorry" fell past your lips as he took you in. His eyes had darkened again.
Before you could ask him to repeat himself, his mouth fell to your ear for the second time in a minute, heat rushing straight to your core at his words.
"I really like it when you look at me."
Flopping back into the booth, you turned to find Hannah giving you a questioning look, her eyes shooting from yours to Dean and back again. Before you could manage a word, Dean shouting from beside the booth brought your attention elsewhere.
"Beau! What's up man?" he yelled, quickly taking a few steps away to greet what you assumed was his friend. Hannah didn't let you forget about her, her hand pulling you back to the silent question.
You managed a small shrug before a simple "He's cute." fell from your lips. She just laughed and wrapped her arm around you, dropping a friendly peck to the side of your head.
Getting back into conversation with the table, you slowly realized how late it was. Your eyes began drooping before yawns started forcing their way past your lips every few seconds. Turning to Hannah, you leaned in to ask her if she had plans for a ride home.
"I'm staying at Garrett's but we can drop you off at your dorm. We were just about to leave anyways." she assured, her hand falling to Garrett's to signal it was time to go.
Dean hadn't returned to the booth by the time the three of you were standing to head out, your eyes discretely searching the crowd for him. Your heart fell to your stomach when you finally spotted his blonde hair, but not in a good way.
Tucked under his arm in a booth across the bar sat a beautiful blonde girl, her hand on his chest as she whispered something into his ear. Your eyes burned at the sight, choosing to quickly look away before he caught you staring.
Gulping down the last sip of your drink, Hannah grabbed your arm to lead you to the door, the fluttery feeling you'd had all night staying behind at the booth as the bell dinged above your head.
Texting Hannah you'd made it in the dorm safe, you left your phone on the nightstand charging before heading to the bathroom to get ready for bed. You stared at yourself as you brushed your teeth, your eyes losing focus as you took in the events of the night.
He likes it when you look at him? Well he seemed to like it when that other girl did, too. Allie was right. It took Dean all of five minutes to forget your presence, while you were itching for his return like a desperate schoolgirl. Letting out a sigh you rinsed your mouth before heading back to your room. Chucking on whatever oversized shirt you could find you flopped into bed.
Staring at the ceiling contemplating for a while, you felt your eyes burn at the sting of rejection you were feeling. You were not going to cry over Dean Di Laurentis, no matter how bad you wanted to.
Just as your blinks were getting longer, a harsh buzz on your nightstand almost sent you flying out of bed. Grabbing your phone and squinting at the brightness, you felt your brow furrow at the unsaved number on your phone.
The message read "No goodbye?" before a second one rolled in, a simple "It's Dean" popping up beneath the first.
Feeling petty, you typed and sent a quick "You seemed busy"
You unconsciously began biting at your nails, watching as his typing bubble appeared and disappeared repeatedly. Realizing you were craving his attention again, you let out a frustrated huff before turning your phone completely off and slamming it onto the nightstand.
Sure, you'd had boyfriends while in college, but none of them had made you feel the way Dean already has. The relationships were very vanilla, and none of them lasted more than a handful of months. Dean had made you feel more alive in a week than the last guy had in sixteen of them. Maybe that's just apart of the playboy charm Allie had warned you about.
When you awoke the next day, you had no new messages waiting for you. He hadn't even had the decency to respond. Deciding you were over it, you closed out of the messenger app before deciding to see if Hannah wanted to grab breakfast. You were definitely feeling the after effects of the alcohol you'd consumed last night.
You and Hannah ended up talking for a good 15 minutes, you her and Garrett (from the background of the call) had decided to eat at Waffle House in an hour.
Throwing your hair in a clip, brushing your teeth, pulling on a sweat set, and plopping the largest pair of sunglasses you owned over your eyes... you were ready to face the day.
Garrett's jeep was parked in front of the dorm when you stepped out, both of them greeting you as you slid into the backseat. Garrett quickly whipped out of the lot before you were on your way, your stomach growling at the thought of food.
You had just placed your order when Garrett's voice caught your attention. "What happened with Dean last night?" tumbling past his lips as he glanced at you. Your mouth went dry at the question, a quick "What do you mean?" passed back to him before you were chugging your water.
"He came home not long after us saying something about 'fucking everything up' before he started begging us all for your number. I finally gave it to him to get him to calm down, but when I did he just stormed up to his room and shut the door. I was just curious if something happened between you two."
You let your mind wander at his admission, the gears turning in your head at what you were hearing. Finally clearing your throat, you thought about your response before carefully stating "Nothing really. I thought we were kind of hitting things off but when we went to leave Malone's I saw him cuddled up with some girl across the room. I figured it was just the 'playboy' Dean finally making his appearance."
You added on an unbothered shrug, hoping that what you'd just said hadn't exposed how hurt you were by the situation. Thankfully, with the monstrous glasses on your face the couple couldn't see the dampness in your eyes.
Hannah let out a "huh" at your explanation, her fingers curling the straw wrapper around repeatedly before she was adding her own opinion into the conversation.
"That's really shocking to me because he hasn't stopped talking about you all week. It took me three days to realize every time he said y/n he was talking about you and not a different person. I don't know how it started but he definitely seemed enamored by you. I'm surprised he would be willing to ruin it like that."
Twisting your fingers under the table, you let out a soft sigh before bringing an end to the conversation, deciding to brush off the intensity with a snap back to reality.
"Well, it's not like we were dating or anything so I can't really be upset. I should've known what I was getting myself into."
Hannah just gave you an apologetic look before changing the topic, bringing up something Logan had said at the bar last night instead.
Your mind raced as you scarfed down your food, confusion and agitation blending in your chest. You would definitely be over analyzing this conversation later.
Flipping through Netflix documentaries, your mind was still racing hours after breakfast. You had decided to have a chill day, wrapped in a matching pj set and face mask applied as you lounged on the couch. You had come home and immediately exfoliated all of your regrets in the shower before deciding to have a full spa moment.
You had just pressed play on a submarine documentary when there was a knock at the door. Realizing it was Saturday and your roommates were all out on the town, you huffed before marching toward the door, expecting the visitor to be your RA or another girl down the hall.
Your heart stopped beating when you swung open the door to find none other than Dean Di Laurentis on the other side.
Description: Seeing Dean slip so easily into the behavior he's known for leaves you questioning everything between you. Maybe everyone was right about him. Maybe you were just another girl who got caught up in his charm. But Dean isn't willing to let you walk away without a fight, even if earning back your trust means changing his entire college persona.
Tags/ Warnings: Mentions of drugs, alcohol, and parties.
Note: This is part 2 to "Special Girl" recently posted to my page! I hope you enjoy! I am loving this dynamic, and will most likely be turning this into a full series. Let me know what you think! <3
The palm you had wrapped around the door handle instantly turned slick as you took in Dean's sudden appearance. Your heart galloped in your chest as you gasped out a quiet "Dean? What are you doing here?"
He was standing rigidly in the hall, his hands tucked into the pockets of his sweats. His eyes took in your form, mouth opening and closing as he battled with what to say.
"Can I come in?" he managed, a hopeful look taking over his features. Letting loose a sigh, you pulled the door further open and stepped aside. As he passed the threshold, his eyes shooting around your dorm, you realized you still had a bright pink face mask stuck to your skin and muttered out a quick "I'll be right back." before your slippered feet began shuffling to the bathroom.
Shutting the door behind you, you let your mind race as you worked to remove the glittery goodness from your face. What was he doing here? How did he even know where you lived?
You weren't naive. You realize that nothing had actually happened between the two of you, just a few flirty moments and aloootttt of desire. He had no obligation to you, and his actions last night weren't going to send you into a spiral. They just left you hurt and ready to leave whatever was blooming between the two of you in the past.
Drying your face with a towel, you took in your flushed appearance in the mirror before taking a deep, relaxing breath. Here we go.
Dean was standing awkwardly in the living room when you reappeared, hands still in his pockets and gaze following you as you came to stand a few feet in front of him. Deciding to lead the conversation you crossed your arms across your chest, sending him a curious "What's going on, Dean?"
The blonde let out a sigh, his hands leaving his pockets to rake through his hair before he began speaking.
"I- I don't even know why I came here. I just need to explain myself."
The cocky, charming attitude you'd come to know was gone, replaced by a meek, almost nervous, one. You raised one eyebrow to signal him to continue, his throat working a swallow before he sighed again.
"I don't know how to do this. I've never- I don't. Fuck."
His hands raised to scrub at his face, his shoulders rising and falling with labored breaths. Out of pity, you took a few steps closer, your gaze becoming one of concern. Clearly he was upset, but you weren't entirely ready to write-off the hurt still looming in your heart.
He sighed for a third time before his hands fell from his face, his eyes fleeting between each of your own. He let out a shaky breath, his gaze dropping to the floor before finding yours again.
"I'm sorry."
His words were quiet, simple.
"I'm sorry for what you saw. I know what it looked like."
"Then explain it." you said softly.
He nodded immediately, like he'd been waiting for the chance.
"Beau is my good friend, he's the quarterback for the football team. Usually, when we meet up at Malone's, girls find their way to our table and we just don't really... say no."
You just stared at him.
"That's not exactly helping."
"I know." Dean's jaw tightened immediately, as if he'd expected that response. His gaze dropped to his shoes for a second before finding yours again.
"I know."
The room fell silent.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the movement restless.
"The thing is, I didn't think anything of it."
A humorless laugh escaped him as he shook his head.
"Which is kind of the problem."
You remained quiet, fingers pulling at the fabric of your sleeve.
"That girl sat down. We were talking. She got a little handsy."
"A little?"
Your eyebrows raised, causing him to squeeze his eyes shut briefly.
"Okay. More than a little."
Dean looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
"I'm not going to stand here and pretend it wasn't a bad look." he muttered.
"Good." you quickly replied. You shifted your weight to one hip, crossing your arms tighter.
"Because it was."
His immediate agreement took some of the satisfaction out of your irritation.
"You saw exactly what I would've seen if the situation were reversed."
His voice had softened slightly, and the honesty in his tone caught you off guard. Dean scrubbed a hand down his face before letting it fall heavily to his side.
"I guess what I'm trying to say is..." He paused, exhaling slowly. "That wasn't me trying to make some statement."
"What statement?"
His gaze lifted to yours.
"That I wasn't interested."
The words settled heavily between you. You looked away first, your eyes drifting toward the documentary still playing lowly on the tv. Dean swallowed.
"We've hung out twice, Dean. It's not that big of a deal."
"I know." his response came immediately.
"I know we've only hung out twice." He shoved both hands into his pockets, shoulders hunching slightly.
"But I've been looking forward to hanging out with you again."
The admission sounded reluctant, like he'd argued with himself about saying it on the drive over. Your chest tightened despite yourself.
"Then why do that?" you questioned, head tilting a little at your confusion.
For a moment, Dean seemed stumped.
His mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
"Honestly?"
You nodded, urging him to continue.
"I'm an idiot."
The answer came so quickly that it almost made you laugh. Dean noticed the way your lips twitched.
"I'm serious."
His shoulders slumped.
"That whole thing has been so normal for so long that I didn't even think about it." he stammered, frustration flashing across his face.
"And then you left."
Something in the way he said it made your stomach knot.
"I didn't even get the chance to make sure you were gonna make it home safe... you were just gone."
The confession was quiet.
Simple.
Real.
Dean shook his head and let out a breath through his nose.
"I spent the rest of the night debating what I should text you."
You scoffed, a humorless laugh falling from your lips. Meeting his eyes, you let out a small "Yeah. Thanks for ghosting me"
His head tipped back slightly.
"What was I supposed to say? 'Hey, sorry about the blonde hanging off of me. Totally not what it looked like.'"
His hands flew up in exasperation.
The corner of your mouth betrayed you, the humor of the situation the only thing registering in your mind.
Dean noticed immediately, his expression softening.
"There she is..."
He stopped himself. A broken cough following his words. Clearing his throat, his face looked painfully awkward as he continued.
"My friend."
Your eyebrows shot up, something about the way he was struggling almost forcing a loud cackle out of you.
Dean rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.
You couldn't help the small laugh that escaped you, your hands falling to your sides.
"You're making this so much worse."
Dean's own mouth tilted, a crease forming in his cheek at your admission. He just chuckled before letting out a small "I know."
Letting his words cycle through your head for a moment, you finally came up with a response to his whole... apology? You weren't really sure what to call it at this point.
"Look, Dean. I appreciate you... explaining?" you shifted your weight. "But, I don't really trust that this won't just happen again if we continue 'hanging out' you know? I don't expect you to just completely change yourself because I came along."
He immediately let out a frustrated sigh, his hands tugging at his hair once again.
"I know what Allie's told you about me. Hell, I know what the entire campus says about me."
He paced a few steps away before turning back around.
"Honestly, as much as I hate to admit it, most of it's true."
You stayed quiet.
"And screw everyone else, but I hate that that's what you're thinking when you look at me."
His gaze dropped to the floor before landing on you again.
"I'm not asking you to trust me. I don't think I've earned that yet... obviously."
The admission hung between you, you doing nothing to deny his statements.
"I just..." He laughed softly, shaking his head. "I'd like the chance to prove them wrong... with you, if that's okay."
You didn't answer right away. Dean nodded, as if he had expected that, moving to come stand right in front of you. Your eyes fell as you watched his hand come between you, his face hopeful.
Really taking a second to think about it, you realized you kind of didn't have anything to lose. Yeah, you could get your heart broken. Or, you could be the happiest you'd been since enrolling at Briar. Whatever happened, accepting this offer was going to take you on a wild ride... and you were kind of excited.
Letting a shaky breath blow past your lips, you found his eyes before sliding your hand into his. His face immediately lit up, eyes bouncing between your own.
"I don't think we've met before. I'm Dean."
A flush took over your face at his words, a small laugh coming from you without your control. Staring into his eyes, the corners of your mouth pinched as you fought a smile.
"Y/n."
After your 'introduction', Dean had broken the spell you were in by flashing his gaze to the tv. "What are we watching?" he'd asked, hand holding yours as he pulled you over to the couch.
Embarrassed by your selection, you muttered a small "Oh. I don't know. I wasn't really paying attention." before plopping yourself onto the cushion, a few feet between you and the large man beside you.
If he was upset at the distance, he didn't let it show. Instead, he began commenting on the documentary, both of you adding in your own opinions and discussions as the show continued on.
Once the show came to an end, the sun had entirely set. Dean had ordered a pizza once the show hit its' halfway point, the after effects of the alcohol and full stomach almost sending you to sleep.
When the credits rolled, you were barely hanging on, head propped on your hand and blinks getting increasingly long. You faintly registered a movement on the couch, Dean sliding closer to your side before letting his hand fall on your head.
"Hey." he whispered, head dropping down to meet your gaze. "I'm gonna head out, okay?"
You tiredly nodded, body falling to lay where he had once been sitting as he stood. You heard him chuckle above you, his hands grabbing the blanket thrown over the back of the couch before laying it across your form.
You forced your eyes open as he squatted in front of you, his hand gently brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. He had a small smile on his face as he stared at you, your own forming to match.
"Get some sleep. I'll see you tomorrow." he whispered, hand still brushing lightly through your hair.
Your brows furrowed at his statement, but the confusion quickly disappeared as his fingers worked their magic in your hair. You felt yourself nod before whispering a quiet "Bye, Dean."
You were out before the door even closed, Dean letting it fall shut gently as he stepped out into the hallway.
Leaning against the wall with a sigh, he couldn't contain the smile erupting on his face. He debated clicking his heels as he made his way down the hallway, but decided against it when a group of girls passed him with a strange look.
He was not going to mess this up, no matter what he had to do to prove himself to you. He hadn't felt this way about a girl since... well, forever. And no matter how he tried to explain it to himself, he couldn't deny that the three times he'd gotten to be around you, the desire to see you just grew even stronger. Even if it was to watch submarine documentaries on your couch.
Dean Di Laurentis was a man on a mission. The mission? Prove to you and the rest of the Briar U student body that he had found his girl, and nothing was going to stop him from claiming her.
A/N: before we get into it, yall have just been so sweet in the comments and my messages that i burnt the candle all night for you on this part. it’s a lil different, but i think it’s an important part to the story and was a bit of a challenge to write. so if it sucks pls pretend it doesn’t lmao. just know this part comes with a lil forehead kiss 💋 please enjoy (mostly) a logan POV (also yes, there will be a part 4 and it will be the final part and the pop showcase)
summary: in which john logan realizes just how deeply things run between you two and that pushing it down and pretending something’s not there leaves it with nowhere to go unless he takes a chance
pairing: john logan x bestfriend!reader
wc: ~7.1k
tw: mentions of alcoholism, family dynamics, swearing, insecurity, doubt, angst, at this point i fear they may be idiotstolovers
Part One Part Two
Logan POV (hehehe)
John Logan was completely fucked. And he knew it.
Ever since he saw you and Tucker in the kitchen, touching hands in the slightest way, he knew he was a jackass because his first instinct was to threaten Tucker to never touch you again lest he wanted to taste the boards during every hockey practice from now until the end of time.
Jealousy surged within him, flaring up and rearing its ugly head as he realized that that was not a normal reaction. Logan could feel his heart rate pick up, his eyes widening at the feeling and his breathing hitched for a moment as he tried to rationalize.
You were his best friend. Tucker was also one of his best friends, one of his teammates even.
You were allowed to like whoever, it was technically none of Logan’s business. In his head he knew that. He understood that there were boundaries and he had absolutely no right to dictate your personal business and who you chose to spend time with.
However, that did very little to stop the pang in his heart as he watched you two in the kitchen. Little by little, realizations had started to trickle into his mind, his thoughts began racing and reeling and making him practically dizzy as too much started making sense too fast.
You never talked about guys, like ever. Not that Logan wanted you to start talking about other guys, he just never really quite knew for certain where he stood with you.
Logan didn’t want to think about another guy with you, it made his jaw tick and a vein in his left temple start to throb at the mere thought of anyone else doing the things he liked doing for you.
The things he liked doing for you.
You never asked a lot of him, something that Logan had figured out pretty early into the friendship. You would feel bad and try and make it up to him despite him reassuring you over and over again that he didn’t mind, he liked being there for you when you needed him.
He could remember there was a time last summer when the weather had an unexpected heat wave for so early in the season. The air conditioning in your apartment had decided that it had enough and just stopped working, making your apartment a live-in sauna that you’d become unable to tolerate any longer. And Logan being the gentleman he was, encouraged you to come stay with him in the hockey house with him after he had declared the A/C to be busted, and something he supposedly didn’t have the tools or knowledge to fix.
Flashback
Both of you had decided to stay at Briar over the summer, neither one of you was super eager to go home to your families and Logan conveniently had summer conditioning. Meanwhile, you had a paid internship working with one of your favorite Music Comp professors. You chose to stay because it was a great networking opportunity as well as a chance to work on some of your compositions.
Logan was leaving the weight room one day and reading through his messages for any handyman requests when your caller ID popped up on his screen.
He smiled down at his phone before pressing the ‘accept’ button and lifting it to his ear.
“Hey superstar, what are you up to?”
“John Logan,” your voice came through the speaker, a bit too serious for his liking.
“Whoaa, the full name. Whatever I did, it wasn’t me it was Dean,” Logan joked, adjusting his backpack over his shoulder as he approached the parking lot.
“Well then tell Dean I am coming for his ass for breaking my air conditioning during the week hell found a home in Briar,” your tone was exasperated, Logan could tell you were at your wit’s end even over the phone.
“You have such a way with words. I will however not be telling Dean that because he’d probably get excited,” Logan laughed as he reached his truck.
He switched his phone to the other ear as he grabbed his keys from his pocket and threw his gear in the backseat, checking to make sure his toolbox was in the bed of his truck before sliding into the front seat to drive over to your place.
“Logannnnn,” your whine came through as he put his phone on speaker, and set it down on his console so he could shift his truck into drive.
“I’m already on my way over, superstar. Try not to melt in the mean time.”
Your soft giggle filled the silence, the melodic sound filling his ears and putting a wide grin on the man’s face. On the days that it felt like nothing was going right, Logan wished he could put the sound on repeat.
Not that he’d ever admit that.
———
Upon walking into your apartment, Logan realized two things immediately.
1. It was somehow hotter in here than it was outside.
2. You were actually probably seconds away from melting.
When you greeted Logan at the door, he could see the sweat forming on your forehead, one little drop dripping down onto your cheeks which were flushed from the heat. Your eyes even seemed brighter than usual, whether that was because of the warmth permeating the air or just because you were you were on the verge of absolutely losing your mind, Logan wasn’t sure. Despite this, you looked absolutely radiant, something Logan secretly tucked away into the back of his mind.
“Well, I have good news and bad news,” Logan stated as he pulled away from your apartments air-conditioning unit.
“Logan, I swear to god-“ your head was in your hands, clearly frustrated and completely over the whole situation.
Logan turned to look at you completely as he leaned his shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms as he continued to speak.
“So the bad news is, your landlord is going to have to replace a part and it’s not something I can just fix at the moment for you,” Logan stated plainly.
You groaned and threw your head back in mounting frustration, something Logan could only smile at as he shook his head.
“But the good news is, until it gets fixed I have a solution. Come stay at the house, our air conditioning is working perfectly fine and the rest of the guys are are in and out for the summer so it’s mostly just me there,” Logan finished.
“You can’t be serious, John,” you scoffed.
Damn did he love how it sounded when you used his first name.
“I am dead serious. I’m in and out for jobs and training, you’ll have your internship. Then we can hang out when we’re free. It’s not that different from usual. Think of it like a sleepover,” Logan grinned.
You let out a full laugh, Logan’s eyes flicking to your mouth and memorizing the way you brightened and lit up the room around you.
In that moment, Logan vowed to himself that he wanted to be the main reason you laughed like that.
“John Logan did you seriously just invite me for a sleepover in your big manly hockey player house?” You asked playfully, shifting slightly closer to where Logan stood.
Logan could’ve sworn the room got impossibly warmer.
Must’ve been that damn A/C.
“Is that a yes?”
You rolled your eyes but the way your smile spread so wide Logan was sure your cheeks would start to hurt if they stayed like that betrayed you.
“Fine, help me pack a bag.”
It was Logan’s turn to grin as he sat on your bed, not actually helping but cracking jokes as you giggled and packed a few days worth of clothes into your bag. Logan could feel some kind of warmth in his chest spreading and igniting every fiber of his body down to his toes. He couldn’t quite place the feeling.
Definitely that damn A/C.
By the time you were packed and ready to leave, Logan was sure he had sweated enough to warrant an extended and nice, cold shower. He could only imagine how you felt, having been stuck in your oven of an apartment longer than he had. He waited for you in the hallway, as you set your bags and guitar case down to lock your door before leaving.
Not willing to give you a second to protest, Logan quickly swept in and grabbed both your bags and guitar case and swing them over his shoulder.
Something like betrayal flickered over your features as you noticed.
“John.”
“Nope.”
“John Logan.”
“Better luck next time.”
“I swear to god.”
“Let me know if he answers.”
You smacked his chest lightly.
“Let me carry my shit,” you whined.
Logan grinned and turned to keep walking down the hall.
“Not happening, superstar.”
“Logan, you are such a stubborn ass! I swear-“ you chased after him.
You and Logan bickered all the way down to his truck and on the drive to the house and especially when he insisted that you take the bathroom for a shower first.
You stood there defeated as Logan insisted he would refuse to shower until after you had the chance and would continue to sit in body odor and post-training sweat. You begrudgingly grabbed a towel from his closet and gave him the finger as you all but stomped into the bathroom, the door clicking behind you and barring you from witnessing Logan staring at the door you disappeared behind. A small, lazy upturn of his lips grew wider as he shook his head and set out one of his hockey t-shirts for you on the bed.
He headed downstairs to start making dinner, no where near Tucker’s aficionado for cooking but not entirely hopeless either. He was so busy preparing something he hoped wasn’t terrible that he didn’t hear the shower shut off upstairs or the quiet patter of your feet downstairs until you came up behind where he stood stirring pasta at the stove.
He also definitely did not expect the way your arms tenderly wrapped around him, encircling his waist and the way you tentatively leaned your head against his back, as if unsure if it was okay. Logan could feel his shoulders soften instantly, reveling in the feeling as he was sure you’d be able to hear how fast his heart was beating out of his chest and would pull away before he was ready for you to let go.
“Thank you, John. You know you don’t always have to come to my rescue every time I call,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.
“You hardly ever call and we have this conversation every time, Y/N. You know if you call, I’ll always answer. Besides, I couldn’t leave you in that absolute oven you call an apartment,” came Logan’s low reply.
You let out a light laugh, your chest rumbling where it was pressed into Logan’s back. He closed his eyes briefly, wanting to commit that feeling to memory so that he could replay that moment every day for the rest of his life.
Setting down the spoon, Logan gently turned around so you were facing each other. His breath hitched in his throat as he caught sight of you wearing his t-shirt, something so beautiful he’d hang it in a museum if he wasn’t so unwilling to let other people see it. He gazed into your eyes, noting the way every color and fleck of light blended into each other and mixed beautiful hues, barely noticing the way your pupils dilated slightly. He brought his arms up to wrap around your shoulders, pulling you closer to him as his faced settled naturally into your neck. He inhaled deeply, the scent of your vanilla body wash and honey conditioner permeating his senses so thoroughly he thought he may become addicted forever.
“You smell nice, not like sweat anymore,” he teased.
You giggled.
“That’s good, because you stink.”
His chest reverberated deeply, reluctantly letting you go so he could go take his turn in the shower while you insisted on finishing the pasta.
Logan was grateful that your A/C broke that day, those few days you stayed in the hockey house with him while your landlord fixed your air conditioning were some of the best days he swore he ever lived.
In the days after you had texted Logan that your landlord said it was an easier fix than expected, you just needed a new filter.
Of course, Logan knew that, it was a relatively easy fix with a trip to the hardware store.
He just didn’t think you needed to know that part.
—————
While Logan cherished those few days you stayed with him in the summer, he had also convinced himself it was just a fluke. He had considered several times over the past year if what existed between you two could go beyond the ‘friend’ label it currently sat at.
There were times he wanted it so bad. He would catch whiffs of vanilla scents and remember you, freshly showered and standing in his kitchen. Nights that he couldn’t sleep because every time he closed his eyes, the only image he could see was of you in his t-shirt and the way you clung to him in a way that he never wanted you to let go. He had a video he kept on his phone from a karaoke night at Malone’s that Garrett had taken of the two of you together. He was trying and failing to sing his part of the duet so badly that you stopped singing because you couldn’t catch your breath from how hard you were laughing. Little memories that he kept so close to his chest because it felt like he had so much to lose.
And that scared him.
There were so many times that he almost asked if you felt like there could be something more. But he never did. And it wasn’t necessarily for fear of rejection, he had known failure and rejection intimately across his lifetime and knew it was always a possibility. Instead, he was absolutely beyond any means he could put into words, terrified that he could lose you forever.
If he put a name to these feelings that bubbled up into his chest and left him incapable of breathing, he might lose you.
If he admitted not just to himself but also out loud just how you tilted his world on it’s axis, he might lose you.
If he let himself have even just a brief moment where for once he allow himself to have what stood in front of him and felt so real and so right and like it could for just once be his, he. might. lose. you.
So he pushed it down, he distracted himself and used a million different excuses to convince himself that he was wrong and misinterpreting his own feelings.
Every little touch of yours where sparks ignited the flesh up his arm? His imagination. Every glance you gave that left him vulnerable and perceptible in ways he never allowed anyone to get that close to notice before? He was overthinking it. Every little breathless sound you made that built heat inside him until he was sure he might combust? The weather, the flu, or whatever bullshit he could use to convince himself that he was fine just being friends.
Still, there were nights that Logan spent tossing and turning in his bed, staring up at the ceiling and just wishing you were beside him, that he couldn’t help but wonder about the possibilities.
You never talked about dating but maybe that was because it wasn’t a part of yourself you wanted to share with him. Maybe that was something he wasn’t privy to because you never saw him in that way. Logan knew that you were guarded with your emotions, that it took until the end of sophomore year to open up to him and let him in more than you did most people. You were cautious, you didn’t just let anyone get to know you. And Logan could understand that.
He could be rather guarded himself too. And as you had pointed out to him before, he had a bad habit of going ghost on everyone whenever it started to feel like it was too much. You would always give him his space to deal but when the time apart started to encroach on too far apart for too long, you would come find him.
You always came and found him no matter what.
Whether it was a fight with Jules or his brother.
Or his mom going back to rehab.
You had been there for all of that.
Flashback
Logan had had enough.
All the family drama. The stress from school. Figuring out how in the goddamn hell he was going to pay for school. Working twice as hard as some of the guys on the team, only to end up stuck at the starting line time and time again.
For every two steps forward he took, it felt like three steps back.
He was tired of it all.
His mother re-entering rehab that week had been just the icing on the cake. Logan didn’t know the exact details, just that Jules had mentioned it and that they were hopeful this would be the time.
This would be the time it would finally stick.
And really, Logan knew he shouldn’t have reacted the way he did. He was admittedly, an ass to Jules about the whole thing. He was up to his neck in midterms he didn’t have time to study for, bruised and aching from being slammed into the boards more times than he could count this week, and coach had just been on him relentlessly to pick up the pace if he wanted to keep his position in the starting line up. Everything he tried to do, he was getting his ass handed to him.
So when Jules came to him with hope written in their face and announcing to him that, “Mom is going back, for real this time,” Logan couldn’t help but scoff.
He had bitterly spit back at Jules, “If you stopped believing everything she said then maybe you wouldn’t be so fucking disappointed all the time. She’s going to let you down like she always does and then you’re going to look stupid for believing her.”
It was harsh and Logan knew it. He regretted it the second he said it and he watched hurt etch into Jules’s face.
Jules was silent for a moment, scanning their brother’s face for a glimpse of remorse or anything other than the pure frustration and resentment he seemed to radiate.
“You know, sometimes you’re just a little too much like dad,” Jules had said before stomping off.
The comment had landed deeply in Logan’s chest. It stung at first but quickly morphed to regret. It was all just too much and he felt like he couldn’t do anything right.
And as a result, John Logan did what he did best when shit got too real.
He disappeared.
Well, disappeared as best as he could given the responsibilities he didn’t have within himself to walk away from. There were times he wanted to, for sure. He wanted to just leave and never look back. Move across the country, move to where no one knew him and where no one had expectations of what he should or shouldn’t be and where no one could just let him down every time he got his hopes just a little too high. Just leave and make a new name and new family for himself. But of course if he did that, then he’d hate himself for it. Because then he’d really be like his dad.
Instead he put his phone on do not disturb, he took any odd job he could find, he put in extra hours in the weight room or on the ice, or he’d reserve a private study room for a few hours. He was the first one into practice and the last one to leave the showers. He’d hardly seen his roommates except at practice and they’d all shared a look when Logan forcefully rocketed pucks at the net as if it had personally offended him.
It’d all come to a head when a freshman rookie was scared to guard the net during drill because Logan was making crazy shots. Coach had pulled him off the ice and told him to sit out for a minute before the JV team needed an underwear change.
He stared at the ice, thinking about everything that had happened over the past week and just went to war with himself inside his mind. He had hardly noticed when practice ended, only brought back to reality when Garrett patted him on the shoulder.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you, but Y/N has been looking for you. She’s crazy worried about you, dude,” was all Garrett said before giving Logan a pointed look and walking off to the showers.
Logan stared at the ice, guilt swirling in his conscious as he thought about you trying to chase him down.
Logan hated disappearing on you but there was a part of him that felt like he had to be his best for you, that it was his only shot of ever deserving you.
And he was not at his best right now.
Seeing the last of the guys leaving the ice, Logan stood from where he sat on the bench and hopped over the boards to find a stray puck that didn’t get picked up from practice. He knew he only had a limited time before they came to smooth the ice, so he was going to take advantage of that time while he could.
Logan took to the ice and skated a couple laps, picking up speed as he went and concentrating the best he could. Sweat had begun dripping down his face, his hair clinging to his forehead as he pumped the puck from left to right. He wanted momentum, somewhere to put this energy he was holding. He had been pushing the puck around for a bit trying to find his rhythm and getting frustrated when he gave up and took a long shot down the center and absolutely sent the puck flying into the net.
“Y’know if you launch that thing any harder you might actually break the puck.”
A voice broke his concentration from across the rink. He looked up to find you standing by the penalty box, your hands in your pockets to keep warm and your eyes instantly finding Logan’s.
“Y/N?” Logan whispered.
“You wanna come talk or you gonna make me come out there?” You called out.
Logan shook the hair out of his face, skating a bit closer as he stared at you in disbelief.
“You’re not wearing skates, do not walk out on the ice. You will fall,” Logan shouted back.
“You say that like I don’t know ice is slippery,” you retorted.
You had already started moving to step out on the ice, Logan quickly began picking up pace and lunging over to you as fast as possible. Logan knew you may be stubborn, but you were also extremely clumsy.
You had taken all but four steps onto the ice before you slipped and went falling backwards.
“Oh shi—”
Logan reached you just in time, his arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you close into his chest, finding balance as his eyes frantically searched over you to make sure you were okay. His heart was beating out of his chest, he could only try and catch his breath as his hands held you tightly.
“You don’t listen well, Y/N,” Logan’s tone came out rough.
“It got your attention though, didn’t it?” you grinned up at him.
Rolling his eyes and having finally caught his breath, Logan skated the few feet back over to set you firmly on solid ground.
“Y/N what are you doing here?”
“Well, my best friend turned into a ghost and the boys said you were overextending yourself during practice so it was pretty easy to put two-and-two together.”
“It’s nothing,” came Logan’s short reply.
Not giving him a chance to skate off, you grabbed his arm and stared up into his eyes, a warm feeling spreading through his body and softening the tension that had lived in it all week.
“What happened?” Your voice a soft presence tethering him back to earth.
Logan stayed quiet, fixating his gaze downwards to where his skates met the ice.
“I was an ass,” Logan started.
“More so than usual?” You had gently teased, your hand finding his and rubbing gentle circles into it.
Logan let out an airy laugh, his eyes looking into yours and not finding judgment. Just concern and your ever-present stubbornness to face the difficult questions head on instead of just letting it go.
“Yeah, more so than usual. It’s been a shit week and Jules came to tell me that our mom is going back to rehab and was so just…hopeful like we haven’t seen this so many times before. So I snapped at them for believing her, called them stupid and I hurt their feelings,” Logan’s eyes shifted to the ground again.
You nodded, letting him speak and listening intently.
“And then Jules said I was just like our dad, and god. I don’t want to be like that, I don’t want to be like him. I need to fix things but I don’t know how,” Logan finished.
Silence grew between the two of you, the gentle circles you rubbed into Logan’s hand and the slight drift of a sweet vanilla scent being the most comfort he’s had all week.
“I don’t think you’re like your dad, John,” your voice soft.
Logan scoffed.
“Would your dad have felt guilty about hurting Jules like that? Would your dad feel the need to try and fix things?” You gently prodded.
Logan’s shoulders relaxed slightly.
“No,” he said quietly.
“Exactly, John. I know you want to fix everything for everyone…but you can’t fix people. You have to give them the chance to do it themselves, even if that means they might let you down. You have to let them try and you have to let others be hopeful. Expecting the worst doesn’t change the outcome, but it does make it harder on yourself to accept anything other than disappointment,” you said while moving to play with his fingers before fully entwining them with yours.
A quiet calm settled between you two, Logan staring down at where your hand gently intertwined with his, your words giving him more hope than he’d had in a long time. He looked into your eyes, the ones he always tried to find in every room, and let that hope wash over him completely.
Everything else from the rest of the week began to creep in at the edge of his mind, his free hand moving to rub his temple.
“I’m also behind in homework and I don’t know if the jobs are going to be steady enough for next semester and—”
You tightened your grip on his hand.
“John, focus on what can you fix right now.”
Logan gripped your hand back and gave a terse nod.
“I need to find Jules and apologize.”
You smiled up at him.
“That’d be a good start.”
—————
PRESENT
You had been a constant in Logan’s life, providing him with hope and advice at moments everything going on started to feel like too much. You gave him clarity and made him feel seen in ways he never had before. You helped him bridge the gap with Jules and he was still working on it with his mom, but he was trying.
From where Logan sat, watching you in the kitchen with Tucker he began to realize something that he had been avoiding for a long time. He never wanted to put a name to it because that would’ve made it real and the potential loss so much greater. But if he never allowed himself the chance to have what was right in front of him, he may never get the chance to know what it felt like to know anything other than the disappointment he always accepted.
It had dawned on Logan slowly, and then all at once as he reminisced on those moments and the feelings he always pushed down, his eyes widening as he came to terms with everything as it swirled around his mind.
He was fully in love with his best friend.
He was in love with you.
“Logan, is there a reason you look like you’re staring at Tucker like you’re about to bite his head off?” You standing next to the couch, a bowl of popcorn in your hand and an eyebrow raised to your hairline.
Logan didn’t realize he had been staring like that.
“No sorry, I was zoning out.”
You looked like you didn’t believe him.
“You’ve been biting your nails again, John Logan.”
Logan was bewildered that you had noticed that.
“What? No I haven’t,” he countered.
“Yes, you have. You always do when things start to get too much. Is it because of that fight you broke up between Garrett and the guy from St. A’s in the game the other day?” You tossed a piece of popcorn in your mouth.
Logan let out a deep sigh.
“Yeah, things have been kind of weird between me and him lately. I don’t know where his head is at right now but I was just trying to kinda just give him space.”
“Wow, that sounds like something awfully close to maturity. Didn’t think you had it in you,” you teased.
You smiled and grabbed Logan’s hand, your soft touch sending sparks shooting up his arm and into his spine. Logan was positive, at this point, that everything you did set him on fire.
You had thoroughly, efficiently, and permanently found your way under his skin and beyond the layers of wall he had built around his heart. You made him believe in hope, and in that one touch you made Logan’s heart swell and realize that he was willing to take the risk of losing you if you didn’t feel the same. For you, he would bear the weight of that loss because right now the idea of never having you the way he’s never allowed himself to dream possible was suffocating him. There had been feelings all along and he had been too dumb to realize it.
He knew he wanted you badly. He wanted you in every single way you’d let him have you. He wanted your mornings and evenings. He wanted you when you woke up hungover and hangry after a night out at Malone’s. He wanted you when you cussed him out for getting injured during games with nothing but that sweet, concern-laced tone. He wanted you when you needed him, and he wanted you when you wanted nothing to do with him. He wanted your good, bad, ugly, and everything in between. He wanted every phone call, every text message, every silly video of cats that made you cry. He wanted your Monday mornings where you complained because the week was already kicking your ass and he wanted every Sunday night where you’d complain about having to do it all over again. You had altered the very fabric of his existence, weaving yourself right in so intrinsically that he would never be able to remove you if he tried.
The depth of these things was everything and a thousand times more than whatever mirage he’d entranced himself into with Hannah. She was a great person, for sure.
But she wasn’t you.
And you were what he had wanted all along, ever since you cracked a joke about desiring the fates of star-crossed lovers to escape your English Lit professors seemingly eternal monologues. You were it for him, and if you’d have him he’d spend the rest of his life making sure you saw yourself the way he saw you.
For the first time in his life, John Logan was sure of what he wanted. Now he just had to figure out how to bring up that he was actually in love with you.
———
Y/N POV
Logan was zoning out again, you had noticed.
You were still playing with his fingers, a habit you both would fall into when one needed a bit of reassurance from the other.
You didn’t think it was just the fight during the game with Garrett, you knew things were sort of rocky between the two since the Hurricanes fundraiser but this seemed more than just a fight between them. You were certain it was largely to do with Hannah, and whatever was happening between her and Graham causing distance.
Maybe Logan was finally about to make his move and take the shot.
Just the thought of that made you nauseous and your throat close up.
You glanced back across at him again.
Logan had been zoning out, occasionally staring at you with a soft look in his doe-like eyes and coming back to reality only when you gripped his hand a little tighter. You shivered as you felt a draft come across the living room. The older house didn’t always do well against the bitter cold that had started to settle in at apex of changing seasons.
“Logan, do you care if I borrow a hoodie? It’s a little chilly,” you asked.
“Sure, I can go grab one for you,” Logan moved to stand.
“Don’t worry, I can grab it. Stay here,” you got up instead.
“But—,” Logan protested.
“Logan. I will be gone for like 2 seconds, it’s fine.”
You were already taking off before he could argue any longer.
You had just barely turned the corner upstairs into the hallway when a fumbling noise and swearing caught your attention. There was a figure coming through the hallway window. Survival instincts weren’t at the forefront of your mind as you crept closer, realizing you recognized them as they crashed onto the ground in front of your feet.
“Wrong window, Dean. Fuc—”
“You’re Allie, Hannah’s friend right? You work at Malone’s?”
Allie looked up at you like a deer caught in headlights. She definitely didn’t have the right window and she definitely didn’t plan to run into you.
“Shit. Yes, but for the record, I’m not here right now,” she hurriedly said.
“You’re not?”
“No I am but I’m also not. I’m not supposed to be here but I am so for everyone’s sake I’m not,” Allie breathed out.
“Got it, so if hypothetically you were here, it definitely wouldn’t have anything to do with a loudmouth blonde would it?” The pieces were starting to connect in your mind.
“Nope, definitely not,” Allie rubbed her hands across the top of her jeans nervously.
You let out a light laugh, “Understood. I won’t say anything.”
“Thank you,” Allie sighed in relief.
Turning to leave and get your sweater, you softly called over your shoulder, “For what it’s worth though, if you run across a loudmouth blonde anywhere other than here, just know despite the show he puts on is just that. He’s actually a really great guy.”
Allie made eye contact with you and gave a small smile before she nodded.
“Thanks, Y/N right?”
“Yeah, how’d you know that?” You raised a quizzical brow.
“You come in to Malone’s with that guy every Tuesday. Logan, I think? The one who looks at you like you hung the moon and stars.”
You felt like a bucket of ice water had just been dumped on you.
What?
“Oh, I don’t think he feels that way about me,” you awkwardly force out.
“Girl, he totally likes you. I wished forever for my ex to look at me like that. You’ve seriously never noticed?” Allie said like it was just common sense.
You were speechless, utterly baffled.
There was no way, Logan liked Hannah, right? He looked at her like she hung the moon and stars, not you. He always tried to make her laugh, fixed her car for her, gave her those sweet, doe-eyes of his and practically worshipped the ground she walked on. There was just absolutely no way, it was impossible.
“I gotta go but it was nice formally meeting you!” Allie turned and dipped out the window she came from, unaware of the complete psychological spiral she had just put you in.
You stood in the hallway, trying desperately to collect your thoughts as you shut down what Allie had just said. You couldn’t fathom that John Logan would ever look at you like that.
“Y/N, you coming back down?”
Logan’s voice reminded you of why you originally came upstairs, your voice strained as you hollered down to him, “Yeah, I’ll be right there!”
You’re heart raced out of your chest and you thought you might get dizzy. Scratching your neck you slowly made your way down the hall and paused right inside Logan’s room.
You grabbed the hoodie hanging on Logan’s door, hesitating briefly before raising up and inhaling his scent. The smell of Logan’s soap, amber, and leather overtaking your senses and settling your nerves.
You could do this.
You could pretend you weren’t in love with your best friend, John Logan.
You could pretend it didn’t rip your heart into a million pieces when he looked at Hannah.
You could pretend this was nothing.
You could pretend you were fine.
You inhaled once more before walking down those stairs and sitting right next to Logan, treasuring the smile he gave you as he pulled your legs back across his lap and adjust the blanket across you. You ignored the dizziness and breathlessness that had rattled you when you unexpectedly ran into Allie. You forced down the pangs that plagued your body and wreaked havoc on your heart every time your best friend looked at you.
“You look good in my hoodie,” he said sweetly.
Shit, you thought.
This was going to be hard.
———
Logan POV
After you had left movie night that night, Logan found himself more restless than usual. Everything with realizing his feelings actually resided for you and not Hannah, upcoming finals, and the distance between him and Garrett had started to weigh heavily on him. He had spent the night tossing and turning, unable to even consider sleeping until he eventually gave up and went downstairs to find something to keep his hands busy. While he was in the kitchen, Garrett had come in and sat at the counter and started explaining the last few days and the tension between them. Logan learned a lot about his friend and gained a new respect for him as well. He understood someone not wanting to be like their father. Logan also understood that maybe there was a little bit more to that fight he broke up on the ice in their last game, when Garrett went
“For awhile there, I was a little bit jealous. Not just because of the hockey thing but I thought I liked Hannah,” Logan stated slowly.
“Hannah,” Garrett repeated.
“Yes.”
“As in my girlfriend?”
“As in your girlfriend,” Logan confirmed, preparing to be murdered.
“You can’t be serious,” Garrett started.
“Listen no I know, I figured out that I didn’t like her like that I just wanted to think I did. I don’t know, man. I just…there was someone else I couldn’t have and so I tried to want her instead,” Logan finished lamely.
The pieces finally all clicked together in Garrett’s mind.
“Logan, you didn’t want my girlfriend. You wanted Y/N. You wanted my relationship, but with Y/N instead,” Garrett
“Yeah, something like that,” Logan offered plainly before continuing, “it kinda took me a while to figure it out.”
Garrett had a dumbstruck look on his face.
“Dude, you can’t be this dumb. She’s been there in front of you this whole time. How did you not know you had feelings for her?”
“Did our lover boy here finally realize he was madly in love with Y/N?” A shirtless Dean came down the stairs and joined the two at the counter.
Logan grimaced.
“How obvious was it?”
“I’ve known since last spring, Garrett?” Dean turned to his captain.
“Since you brought her around to the house for the first time,” Garrett nodded.
“And you guys just never said anything?” Logan was incredulous.
“Your head was indeed pretty far up your ass. I even told Y/N that at my birthday party,” Dean grabbed a drink from the fridge.
“Wait, you told Y/N I had feelings for her?”
“Finally you admit it, jeez dude I was beginning to think you were never going to get the girl,” Tucker called out as he came into the kitchen, grabbing the drink Dean had in his hand.
“Tuck what the—“
“You ate my fruit babies,” Tucker pointed at Dean.
“Wait guys—” Garrett waved his hands to try and get them to focus.
“And you, looked like you were going to bite my head off earlier simply because Y/N grabbed my hand,” Tucker turned his attention back to Logan.
“I did consider slamming you into the boards during practice,” Logan mused.
“Exactly my point,” Tucker said.
“Alright point being, you’re in love with your best friend and I imagine she feels like shit because you were down bad for Graham’s girl,” Dean stated.
“You had a thing for Hannah too?” Tucker looked at Logan like he’d grown two heads and back to Garrett who shook his head.
“Focus, sweet Tuck.”
“My bad, keep going,” Tucker waved his hand in surrender.
Dean continued.
“Now Logan, listen close because here’s the big question.”
Dean laid his palms on the counter and leaned into them. He looked at Logan to make sure what he said next landed, because he was tired of seeing you hurting over the most oblivious dumbass he’d ever met.
“Y/N has sat and watched you pine over Wellsy to no end and made herself sad over and over again. She’s convinced you don’t want her. So,” Dean paused briefly to ensure Logan was thoroughly listening.
Logan intently locked eyes with Dean, nodding as though he was ready for whatever Dean said next.
“What are you going to do to get the girl, Logan?”
Summary: You dreamed of turning your fifth wheeling of Hannah and Allie's relationship into triple dates with the help of a certain brunette player. However at a party like any other, your object of desire might be feeling the same way. All it took was some many Jell-O shots.
Warning: Drinking, both reader and logan are really intoxicated but nothing happens (they’re just having a fun silly time) mutual pining, idiots in love, fluff!
Author’s Note: Wow this is so long but I really wanted to develop the relationship so sorry or you’re welcome. They’re supposed to be like having a carefree time at a party so some fluff and fun to start your week’ I’m starting summer classes soon so praying I still have time to write. Currently developing a part two for Patched Up. Also thank you for the crazy amount of likes and support on the posts!!!
Sometimes I seriously debate why I choose a school on the East Coast. As much as I fucking love the seasons and architecture, right now I’m trying to picture myself at the sunny UCLA while the rain pelts down with no mercy.
Allie, Hannah and I are huddled under Allie’s coat as a weak attempt to stay dry. Well I would’ve been perfectly dry if we were still in the apartment and not dressed in mini skirts and crop tops trying to navigate ourselves to a party during a small hurricane. It was literally the end of November, what was I thinking?
But Allie insisted. And now that Hannah is officially dating Garrett Graham. For reals dating this time, it was two against one in the debate to attend the hockey house party.
I don’t know why I agreed to come because I’m ninety percent sure I’ll have to walk home alone since both my roommates happened to bag two of the most sought after guys at Briar U. But Dean promised a good time and Jell-O shots and after the midterm I just took, it seemed like a reasonable weekend plan. Unfortunately, the forecast was not in our favor.
Allie opens the door with no thought as Hannah and I quickly run inside. The party is in full swing as the sound of house music rings through the chatter of people.
“Wow it’s coming down hard now,” Garrett greets with a smile.
Hannah’s face immediately lights up, greeting him with a hug and a peck on the cheek while Allie and I give an awkward wave.
“Uhh you might wanna go check on your boyfriend,” Garrett also adds, nodding towards where Dean is just finishing up a keg stand causing the house to shake with all the cheering.
Allie saunters off towards Dean, where his face morphs into a smirk seeing his girlfriend has now joined the party. They greet each other in a very passionate makeout which prompts me to go look for a drink.
I have to squeeze past the crowd to eventually make it to the kitchen island where Tucker has nicely laid out some snacks.
Then towards the left. Bingo! Jell-O shots. I eagerly reach for one when someone approaches me from behind and grabs their own cup.
“You finally made it,” they say, and when I turn it’s John Logan.
John Logan. Star defensemen of the hockey team and Briar U’s most fawned over bachelor.
Also the best friend of my best friends’ boyfriends.
Also the subject of my very very VERY small and insignificant crush.
He’s a lot of things.
“The weather was being unfriendly,” I say, playfully clicking our shots before consuming.
Thank you Dean is all I have to say. I reach out for a bottle of vodka to pour myself a proper drink before Logan nudges me.
“You gotta little something here,” he gestures, pointing to the corner of his mouth.
Fuck now I’m staring at his lips.
I must’ve reacted too slowly because now he is reaching out and swiping the stubborn Jell-O piece with his own thumb. His fingers are cold from the bottle of beer he’s holding but I don’t think that’s the entire reason a shiver runs through my body.
“Thanks,” I mumble, returning to my drink. I look into the cup and welp. Curse my heavy hand.
“Did you enjoy the game?” Logan asks, as I’m trying to balance out the drink with some fruit punch.
I take a sip and immediately start pouring more punch.
“Yeah,” I shrug, “I mean you won so that’s always nice.”
“You see the goal I scored.”
I give him a nod. I don’t tell him that my eyes almost exclusively track the number 22 every game. Hockey isn’t really my thing. But I can’t deny it’s really hot seeing Logan play.
I take another sip of my drink, finally satisfied with the taste. Logan is still lingering which is a bit of a surprise.
We’ve been hanging out a lot more in the past few weeks since I started to come around to the hockey house a bit more with Hannah and Allie. I use to feel weird tagging along, being the random third roommate that’s always around but the guys are always super welcoming. Which is really no help to my crush.
I’m well aware of Logan’s reputation on campus. Often seeing his game play out in real time. Not the one on the ice. But sometimes when our eyes meet during a group hangout, for a brief second I think I have a chance.
God I’m pathetic.
“You think you’ll win the championship this year,” I ask, forcing myself not to shy away. The alcohol is helping a lot with that.
His face twists in thought, and I try not to admire how handsome he looks tonight. He’s a bit more loose with the alcohol and the heat of the crowded house brings a cute pink flush to his tan cheeks. His hair is slightly tousled and his stubble is growing in.
“Teams pretty strong this year,” he muses, “I feel like we have a fair shot if some of the guys get their act together.”
“Oh is there drama?”
“Nah,” he shakes his head, taking another swing of his beer, “But you know we’ve been on a winning streak so you know. Confidence is turning into cockiness.”
“Weren’t you the one who suggested pregaming the game tonight since you knew it was gonna be a defiant win,” I ask.
He flashes me one of those signature smiles to which I immediately take a large gulp of my drink to hide the blush creeping onto my face.
“It was the fucking clovers,” he grins, playfully nudging me.
I give him a small smile, expecting Logan to leave and go mingle with the crowd. But he stays put.
“How did your midterm go?” Logan asks.
My brain tries not to react to the fact he remembers something about me. We’re just friends.
“Oh it definitely went,” I say glumly, finishing the last of my drink.
“I’m sure you did great,” he assures, “You’re literally the smartest person I know.”
“Well it’s over now so I’m trying to forget and enjoy the night.”
“Amen to that,” Logan grins, offering up another Jell-O shot.
Now I’m properly tipsy. Wow I’m so glad Allie dragged me out in the rain.
“Yo Logan!” Tucker yells from across the living room, “You’re up!”
I look over to see Tucker and Beau gesturing to the keg with an evil glimmer in their eyes. Glancing back up to Logan, he has a nervous smile on his face but I already know he’s game. He got the winning goal. He deserves a celebratory night
“Looks like you’re being summoned,” I tease.
He gives me a wink before walking over to where his friends are ready to hoist him up.
I take another Jell-O shot because my mind says I deserve it. My gaze scans the room for any familiar faces, landing on a group of girls from the publication I write for on campus.
I catch up with them and then end the conversation with a group shot. Then Birdie on the hockey team offered me a drink as we discussed the stupid midterm we just took. Then after that conversation I decide to get a refill of my strong homemade vodka and punch and pray that either Hannah or Allie aren’t too busy sucking face.
It must be my lucky night because I find Hannah and Garrett in a very PG position on the couch. Hannah is not the biggest fan of PDA but Garrett is slowly corrupting her.
I flop down on the opposite end, letting out a sigh.
“Having fun?” Hannah asks, reaching out a hand over the couch cushion. I interlock our fingers giving them a squeeze.
“Tons,” I say happily, giving them a smile feeling fun and floaty, ““Great party Garrett. I feel fabulous!”
Both of them give a laugh as chanting begins to fill the house as Logan is now being held up by Tucker and Beau (AGAIN), gripping onto the keg. My eyes can’t help but stare at his toned biceps, flexed as he keeps himself upright.
He’s done after 15 seconds which is shorter than the first time but Logan has a hazy smile when he returns standing.
“So when is that happening,” Garrett asks, snapping me out of my trance.
“Hmm,” I hum confused.
“You and Logan,” Garrett says, “You guys have been dancing around each other for the past week.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I quickly say.
“Don’t project your ideal triple date onto my friend,” Hannah chides to which my heart sinks a little.
“Wouldn’t it be awesome though,” Garrett grins, not letting up. I take a long sip of my drink.
“I don’t think Logan is into me like that,” I shrug.
“Are you into him though?”
“I mean,” my voice trails off, “He’s objectively hot.”
Also he’s the sexiest guy I know. Has the most perfect smile. Not to mention the body of a Greek god. Super talented at hockey. Able to carry intelligent conversation while making me laugh. Overall, my dream guy. But I don’t mention knowing Garrett is going to say something to Logan and then everything will be weird.
“Yeah ok. Well Logan might surprise you,” Garrett scoffs but decides not to press further. I fear he might’ve come to his own conclusion with that answer.
“Whatcha guys talking about?” Logan voices, hopping over and taking the spot next to me.
Both Garrett and I make eye contact before I decide to suggest, “I think it’s Garrett’s turn for the keg.”
Garrett gives me a pointed look but Hannah squeals eagerly, dragging him off the couch. Whipped for my roommate, he follows. Not before giving me a knowing look as Logan turns to face me.
“How ya feeling?” Logan says, his voice slightly slurring as he looks at me with hazy eyes.
I’m not drunk enough to not notice that his leg is pressed against mine so I decide to throw back the rest of my drink into my mouth.
“I feel fabulous,” I smile, shyly, “And yourself?”
“Perfect night to a perfect game,” he smiles.
I feel the alcohol fully pumping through my system now. The noise of the party is muffled and if I think too hard the room starts spinning. So I decide to focus all my attention on Logan.
We begin to talk about class and the semester. He’s a business student while I’m in international relations so we’ve had some overlapping coursework. The conversations drift from classes, to hockey, to friends, to life in general. He mentions his post grad plans, hoping to play for the Bruin farm team in Providence while I tell him my options for grad school. (Fingers crossed it’s in the East Coast cause I’m not ready to leave yet) I’m not sure how long we’ve been talking for but I feel like I could stay on this couch forever.
When I glance around I finally realize the party is over except for a few stranglers. Dean, Allie, Beau and Tucker are all in the kitchen talking and tidying up. I assume Hannah and Garrett called it in for the night.
“What’s a skill you wish you could have?” Logan mumbles. He’s been asking me the weirdest questions about hobbies, childhood memories, and of course I keep indulging him.
His hair is a mess falling in front of his hazy eyes. I don’t even hesitate brushing it out of his face to which he gives me a soft smile. Fuck.
“You know,” I hum drunkingly, “I don’t know how to ice skate.”
Logan’s face drops in surprise which makes me laugh. He comes closer as if to inspect my features to see if I’m lying or not.
“What do you mean?!” He exclaims, which makes me laugh again.
“I grew up in Florida, remember,” I tease, “Can’t really skate on the ocean.”
“But you’ve gone to Briar for three years now! Surely Hannah and Allie taught you.”
“I went once,” I say, glumly, “Fell almost immediately and have been too embarrassed to try again.”
“Oh baby,” he sighs, shaking his head.
My heart flutters at the nickname.
“I’m taking you skating,” he decides, “Monday after practice. The rink should be empty.”
Wow, plans are being made. Like one on one plans?
“I didn’t ask for lessons, Logan,” I tease.
“Yeah well how are we supposed to have cute winter dates if you can’t ice skate.”
I freeze, making sure it wasn’t just the alcohol causing me to imagine things.
“Dates?” I whisper.
Logan just smiles down at me. I think the alcohol has officially turned him into his super confident and charming alter ego, Jack. Even though Logan is always confident (main source of attraction for me) when he drinks, Logan genuinely believes he can and will do anything. I guess in this case it’s taking me out on a date (even though I had no clue that was in the cards for us)
“Yes. I’ve been wanting to take you on one for awhile now,” he says with the most serious face, “I was actually gonna ask you after the game but you had already left.”
“Oh?” is all I can respond with.
“Wait it’s okay if you don’t want to! I totally misread the vibe. Sorry I’m drunk right now,” he quickly adds, creating some space between us on the couch.
“No!,” I sit up so fast that the house starts to spin.
I have to inhale to steady myself and make sure I don’t mess this up.
“I want to! I just thought you weren’t into me like that.”
“Not into you? You’re like the main thing on my mind these days,” he says with genuine confusion.
Damn he’s so cute with those furrowed brows.
“Really?”
“Of course! You’re the cutest girl I’ve ever met. When you started coming around with Hannah and Allie more Garrett was being such an asshole because it was so obvious I was into you.”
I’m too tired to recall any previous interaction Logan and I have had but hopefully future sober me can drill him on this.
“I thought you were just being nice.”
“Baby I literally pointed to you when I scored today.”
That I do remember. The crowd stood up to applause the buzzer beater goal and there was number 22 on the ice looking up in my direction.
“Oh I thought you were gesturing to the crowd.”
Logan lets out a laugh which makes me giggle. We’re now completely cuddled against each other with his arm stretching along the back of the couch to wrap around my shoulders. My fingers begin to nervously fiddle with the hem of his Tshirt.
“If it makes you feel better, I thought I was really obvious about my crush,” I mumble.
“Not at first. I originally thought you were just shy.
He laughs at my confused look before explaining.
“Yeah well you never looked me in the eye and always sat the furthest away from me in group settings.”
“Well you make me nervous.”
He lets out another chuckle before lacing our fingers together and giving them a squeeze.
“What I was saying about you being so cute.”
“Stop it,” I whine, hiding my face in his neck, “I’m too drunk to process all of this.”
Logan lets out another soft laugh, stroking my hair back to reveal my flushed face. I really want to kiss him. I want to make up for the past few weeks where he could’ve been mine but I was too blind to see it.
“It’s still raining. What about you sleepover tonight?”
I must be awful at hiding my eager facial expression because he laughs.
“Just sleep. I think we both had one too many Jell-O shots tonight,” he teases, pinching my cheek.
I smile and nod at his offer but he doesn’t stop there.
“In the morning I’ll take you out on a proper breakfast date.”
“Can I kiss you if I like the date?” I ask sleepily.
“You can have whatever you want baby. I’ve always been yours but I’m glad to know you’re also mine.”
“Say that again,” I mumble, eyes growing heavy.
Instead I feel him press a kiss to my forehead before guiding me to stand. I lean against him for support even though he’s almost as drunk as me.
Logan and I manage to make it to his room which is quite the trek up those damn stairs. I don’t miss Dean’s hushed comment of “I told you so.”
Once we’re in his room, I quickly kick off my boots and make a beeline to the bed. I hope he doesn’t mind that I'm in my outdoor clothes.
Apparently not cause, he lets out a chuckle and flops right next to me. His arm wraps around my waist, not pulling me closer but just a reminder that he’s there.
I make a mental prayer hoping that tonight wasn’t just a dream before shutting down my brain for good.
summary: what started as a normal day ended with your bf being concussed and having lost his memory of you.
word count: 1,3k
warning: loss of memory, mention of violence, angst?
authors note: it’s our favourite briar boy yet again don’t we just love him. this is another random topic again, i’m not sure what you guys wanna see, if you want something specific don’t be shy to comment or send a request!! thank you for a 100 followers im so so grateful!
it started off as any other game day, you’d kiss logan goodbye, and wish him goodluck for the game
you would then rush back to your off campus apartment which you shared with your best friends, hannah wells and allie hayes.
logan, hannah’s boyfriend garret and allies boyfriend dean all play for briar and live together along with their friend tucker at the hockey house.
you and the girls would then get ready so you could all leave together.
you and the girls would cheer your boys on, if they won like they always did, they would celebrate by throwing a party at the hockey house.
this was like a game day ritual, always the same except today was different.
you were cheering on logan as you usually do, until logan got knocked down you swear you could hear his head hit the ice. the crowd letting out a chorus of ‘oohs’. you stood up from your seat along with a few others in the crowd waiting for him to get back up.
except he didn’t
it felt as if the whole arena had went still, you could feel your heart racing, at one point you swore you could even hear it.
hannah and allie keeping their hands over yours.
the quiet crowd beginning to murmur, talking among their friends as the athletic trainers brought out a stretcher. you stay standing watching the athletic trainers place him on the stretcher, garret looks to you and begins nodding as if he’s telling that you can follow the trainers.
as you’re making your way to the recovery centre, you can hear the game starting back up.
after the do checks on him they decide it would be better to transport him to a hospital, seeing as he’s still unconscious.
they let you know you’re allowed to drive with, your heart pounding as they carry him towards the ambulance. holding his hand while repeating ‘please be okay’ in your mind like a prayer.
when you arrive the nurses guide you to a waiting room while getting him to a room. “please wait here ma’am, the doctor will be here shortly”
giving the nurse a soft smile “thank you”
while you’re waiting you send a message to jules
you: doctor should be here soon
you: i’ll send updates!
jules: thank you
jules: i’ll be there as soon as i can
with that you switch your phone off resting it on your lap.
your legs shaking and your heart pounding anxiously in panic.
just as you’re about to check your phone for what felt like the 50th time, you see a doctor walking your way. you stand up to greet the doctor and hear about logans state.
“you’re here for mr. john logan?”
“yes” you say almost immediately after the question.
“mr. logan has a severe grade 2 level concussion”
“what does that mean for him?” you ask with fear in your eyes.
“possible headaches, dizziness, and loss of balance or coordination, some
moderate confusion, difficulty concentrating, and slowed thinking”
“so he’ll be okay?”
“yes and be well be monitored for atleast 24 hours for precaution purposes.”
“thank you doctor”
“when could i see him?”
“he’s ready now, we’ve done all his checks but he is on a drip for his pain which will cause him to be drowsy”
“thank you again doctor”
he guides you towards logans room nodding to let you know it’s okay to go in.
“i’ll be back tomorrow for another check”
you walk in slowly to prepare yourself, you see him sleeping peacefully, letting out a breath of relief you walk towards the chair besides his bed.
you gently move his hair out his face, making sure it’s not covering eyes, leaning slowly in and placing a gentle kiss on his forehead.
you grab his hand interlacing your fingers while using your free hand to get your phone out your pocket. you scroll through your contact list, stopping as you see jules name, pressing the call button and waiting for them to answer.
“hey, he okay?”
“yes he should be, doctor says he has a grade 2 level concussion but they did checks and he should be all good”
“that’s a relief, you okay?”
“yeah i’ll be okay now that i know he’s doing okay”
“well that’s good, the boys just finished up their game, they won so we’ll probably come after they freshen up”
“logan will be happy they won atleast” you say with a soft smile
“yeah but i’ll see you soon?”
“yes i’ll send you the room number”
“okay thanks bye”
with that the call falls dead
all of a sudden logan starts to stir, while letting out a few groans.
you move to sit on his bed
“it’s okay baby, relax before you hurt yourself”
as you say that his eyes slowly start to open, he looks at you with a disoriented and confused look while pulling away.
“logan?” you question with a frown
“what’s wrong baby?”
“who are you”
a cold knot twisted in your stomach, spreading through your chest until it became difficult to breathe normally. you stared ahead, hoping you had misunderstood, hoping there was some explanation that would make everything make sense again. but the longer the silence stretched, the heavier the feeling settled, sinking deep into your bones and leaving you with the sinking realization that nothing was about to go the way you’d hoped.
“logan it’s me” you say holding his hand even tighter
“why are you touching me, this has to be unprofessional”
you swear you felt a tug on your heart.
just as you’re about to reply a wave of footsteps approached, growing louder with each passing second.
dean pokes his head into the room and sees logan’s awake, he then turns around to your friends sending a nod to let them they can come in.
“hey man, how you feeling?”
with that logan lets out a breathy laugh, everyone turns to look at you but you feel frozen.
“i see what’s going on” logan looks at you and then turns back to dean
“dean put you up to this”
everyone looks to you in confusion,
tears start forming in your eyes
your throat tightening
allie looks at you, seeing the tears in your eyes
“oh babe” she says as she wraps her arms around your shoulders
logan diverts his gaze between you, allie and dean
“seriously dean, you got one of allies theatre friends to help you with your little prank”
“okay logan cut it out, you’re clearly making your girlfriend upset” garret says as he looks to you and allie
“girlfriend?”
“garret i may be concussed but i swear to you i’ve never seen this girl in my life”
with that tears start streaming down your face
“i’ll get a nurse” tucker says while running out
“looks like a slight case of amnesia” the nurse says
“i don’t understand” the nurse looks at him waiting for him to continue
“i know everyone in this room, i know exactly what happened on the ice before the concussion and i could probably tell you exactly what i did on this exact day last year, i just don’t know her” he says diverting his gaze from the nurse to you.
the nurse gives you a sympathetic smile and turns her attention back to logan.
“with your grade level of concussion, amnesia is not as uncommon as you would think, it usually lasts up to 24 hours”
“and if he still doesn’t remember?” you say finally finding your voice
“we can get him into contact with a traumatic events therapist”
“that won’t be necessary” he says with a blank expression.
authors note: i unfortunately have to make this a 2 parter, i promised a logan fic so this will just have to do for now, i have a big biology test that ive been studying for so i never had time to edit the one i originally wanted to post.
hey!! I can see you’ve written about off campus and f1 (and I’m obsessed with both) could you do a crossover where Logan x reader go to a race and she’s obsessed with Lando and they meet and Logan gets a bit jealous cause Landos her celebrity crush and seems kinda interested in her? tysm x
i’m right here! — john logan
(slightly lando norris :p)
The neon lights of the paddock club blurred against the night sky, but your focus was locked on exactly one thing. Or rather, one person.
"Logan, look! He's right there. Literally right there," you said, gripping Logan's forearm tight enough to cut off circulation.
John Logan—currently enjoying his life as a regular college student, blissfully free from the motorsports community—sighed, adjusting his jacket.
He loved you. He really did. But your absolute, unhinged obsession with Lando Norris was testing his limits tonight.
"I see him, baby. He looks about five-foot-three from here," Logan teased, trying to downplay the driver standing by the McLaren suite.
"He is a perfect, fast-driving angel, and you will respect him," you shot back, already dragging Logan by the hand toward the barriers.
Logan tags along, mostly to make sure you don't get tackled by security, but as you reach the edge of the VIP pen, fate decides to play a joke on him.
Lando finishes a conversation with a media rep, turns around, and his eyes land right on you. Who is currently wearing a vintage McLaren jacket and a look of pure awe.
Lando flashes that familiar, boyish grin and walks over.
"Nice jacket," he says, leaning against the rail, his accent thick and casual.
You look like you might evaporate into thin air. "Hi. Wow. Thanks. I—you drove amazing today. Seriously."
"Appreciate it," Lando smiles, his eyes lingering on you a second longer than Logan appreciates.
Lando shifts his weight, tilting his head. "Are you guys headed to the afterparty tonight? The one at the trackside lounge?"
"We were thinking about it," you said instantly, completely forgetting that five minutes ago you were complaining to your boyfriend about how bad your feet hurt.
"You should come," Lando says, his attention fully locked onto you now. He gives you a charming, playful wink. "I can get you guys past the line. It's a bit exclusive, but I think I can pull some strings for a dedicated fan."
Logan clears his throat, stepping just a fraction of an inch forward, slipping his hand naturally around your waist. A classic, unspoken she's with me gesture.
"Appreciate the offer, man," Logan says, his voice a little lower, a little cooler than usual. He offers a polite but tight smile. "We might check it out."
Lando's eyes drop to Logan's hand on your waist, then flicks back up to his face. The driver's grin turns slightly amused, recognizing the shift in the air.
He raises his hands in a mock-surrender, a competitive glint in his eye. "Just offering to show a pretty fan a good time. No pressure, mate."
He looks back at you, giving you one last smile. "Hope to see you there, yeah?"
As Lando walks away, swallowed up by a sea of PR handlers, you let out a breath you feel like you've been holding for a century.
"Oh my god. He talked to me. He winked at me. Logan, did you see that?"
"Yeah. I saw," Logan mutters, his jaw slightly tight. He looks down at you, a rare spark of possessive jealousy flaring up in his chest. "Seemed very friendly."
A slow, realization-filled smirk begins to firm on your lips. "Wait. Are you jealous?"
"No," Logan says too quickly, looking away.
"John Logan, you are totally jealous!" You laugh, looping you arms around his neck. "He's just a crush, baby."
"Crushes don't try to invite you to exclusive afterparties and look at you like you're a snack," Logan grumbles, though his hands find their way back to your hips, pulling you close.
"Hey," you soften, standing on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek, then his lips. "He might drive fast, but you're the one I'm going home with. Even if he is cute."
Logan lets out a rough laugh, shaking his head as he kisses you back, a bit harder this time just to erase any lingering thoughts of the McLaren driver.
"Fine. But we're skipping the afterparty. I'm taking you back to the hotel."
warnings: mentions of alcohol; reader wears a dress; reader’s highkey a manhater
main masterlist off campus masterlist
based off the song bloom from in pieces: a new musical
[“I’m not tryna play games, I know that you’re searching for a billion ways to boil it down to why this can only uphold doubt, but let me show you what I’m about and we’ll figure it out, we’ll figure it out”]
You don’t date, you don’t do romance, and you certainly don’t do men. You kept mostly to yourself because it was easier to keep your head down and steer clear from the chaos the universe was ready to throw at you.
As far as you were concerned, you were at Briar U to study, pass, and graduate. No need for hookups, or relationships, or even parties. You didn’t want any of it.
The only reason why you were even here in the first place, in these clothes that weren’t even yours, in a bar you had no business being in, was because of the world most meddlesome roommates, Hannah and Allie.
You could barely even remember what favor you owed or bet you lost that put you in this position, but now you were paying it back in the form of a blind date.
The worst part about it all is that you had no clue who it was which, yes, was exactly the point of a blind date, but it didn’t soothe any of your worries. All you knew about this mystery man was that he was good-looking, a hockey player, ‘good with his hands’. (Allie’s words), and his name was John Logan.
No part of you liked that description. No part of you liked any of this. You tugged the hem of your dress down lower, anxiously looking around until you laid your eyes on who could only be your blind date.
You weren’t sure exactly how you could tell. Maybe it was because he walked in with the confidence you expected from a hockey player, or the fact that you’ve likely seen him around Allie and Hannah, or just sheer intuition.
All thoughts of running out and ditching this whole event went out the window the moment he made eye contact with you. A smile flashed across his cheeks—boyishly charming in a way that rang alarm bells in your head—as he made his way over to you.
“Hey, y/n right?”
He held hand out for you and hesitantly, you met his. “Yeah…you’re John Logan?”
Despite the callouses across his palm, there was a warmth to his hold, as if he was made to draw you in.
“That’s me.” And he smiled a smile that had this rare quality to it; something that invited you in. “Hannah told me you were beautiful, but I don’t think words describe it enough.”
You let out a small huff of a laugh as you disconnected your hand from his. “You say that to all the girls you go out with?”
Yet he didn’t falter, didn’t even pause as he slid into the bar stool next to you. “I haven’t really been in the dating business for a while so if that means just you then yeah…I do.”
Ironic that it was you who faltered, your heart stuttering in your chest before you clamped your mouth shut and plastered on a smile.
“Charming,” you mused. “That’s dangerous, isn’t it?”
His brows dipped down in a moment of confusion, but that same smile still took his lips, even if it dimmed down just an inch. “How so?”
“Well I—” you stopped, feeling that burning embarrassment spread through your chest. “Never mind, it’s nothing.”
Your smile was tight as you turned towards the bar and away from him. You weren’t quite sure what to do—where to put your hands, where to look, how to sit. You hated all of it. All you wanted was to find the safety of your room.
In your room there was no judgment, no thick tension that left you awaiting what the next person would say.
“Did you already order yourself something,” he asked, leaning his arms against the bar top as he looked over to you.
Maybe it was just the lights of the bar, but his eyes seemed to shine with some unsaid something as he looked at you hopefully.
But you shook it off.
“No,” you responded, voice clipped as you looked away from him., wringing your hands from underneath the bar top. “I’m not much of a drinker.”
“All cool,” he responded, hardly even fazed. “I’ve gotta drive home tonight so I wasn’t gonna get anything either.”
“Really?” There was a trying air of sarcasm lacing your voice. “I thought you hockey boys were all about your drinking and parties.”
And for the first time that night, he was struck silent. It sat in the air for a moment before you looked back up at him, eyes widened as he looked back at you.
Yet, in his eyes there was annoyance or boredom or even agitation…
He was studying you.
You didn’t have a snappy reply or some snide comment you managed to mutter under your breath. You could only bring yourself to anticipate his next move.
“Was it something I said?”
Your jaw fell slack for just a moment, unsure of what to say as you opened and closed your mouth before finally forcing something out. “What?”
“Did I say something wrong? Because I feel like I said something wrong.”
“No, no,” you sputtered out, more expressive than you had been the whole night. “It’s…no, you’re fine.”
He looked at you quizzically, tilting his head off to the side. “You clearly have some sort of chip on your shoulder.”
He didn’t look mad and he didn’t look frustrated. If anything, he only seemed to be scooting closer to you, trying desperately to understand what went wrong. And something in that only threw you off even more.
“I don’t have a chip on my shoulder,” you laughed—-well, tried to laugh. “I’m just out of my element here. I don’t really go on dates, much less with guys like y—.”
You cut yourself off, clamping your mouth shut, but he already caught it. A feeling of horror seemed to cover you as you watched him.
“Guys like me? What are ‘guys like me’ like, then?”
You shook your head, rising out of your seat. “I’m sorry I shouldn’t have—-this was a mistake. Sorry for wast—-,”
“Nonono,” you heard him before you felt him, but when you did it made you freeze. You looked back at him, his hand wrapped around your wrist as he looked at you hopefully. “Please I just…I mean it. What do you mean by guys like me?”
You were so sure that this was the moment. The moment he’d scoff and leave. Or the moment he’d call you some sort of name and leave. Or even the moment he’d just laugh in your face.
But he didn’t.
And that was the hardest part.
He only looked understanding, reaching out with a gentleness in his grasp. Not forcing you to stay…but asking.
So, with a bit of hesitance, you returned back to your seat right in front of him.
“I shouldn’t have said that…it came out wrong.”
He still wore that same smile across his cheeks. “Tell me about it.”
A small smile sneaked across your cheek before you let it fall, ever so stubborn. You let out the softest of sighs. “I just…I just feel like it’s always the same game with,” you looked at him as you measured your words out cautiously, “men. Boys.”
You continued on. “It’s always some sort of ruse, right? A terrible pick up line and a charming smile all to what, ditch them the second they’re no longer interesting? I’d rather cut bullshit altogether.”
It wasn’t until you finished your entire ramble that you realized that was the most you had spoken the whole night.
And John hadn’t run away yet.
If anything, he was smiling and you weren’t sure what to make of it.
“That’s fair,” he started, his voice low as he processed your words with a hint of amusement underneath it. “And if I told you I’m not the type to play games?”
You could feel that heat burn across your face, yet it wasn’t like before. Not the embarrassment that would tear through your chest as you felt put on the spot, but something new.
He was leaned in close to you, yet not quite invading your space. Just enough that you could smell the cologne he wore wafting over to you. You couldn’t help but think about how you always thought men’s cologne smelt rancid yet something about his didn’t.
“I—,” your words came out buffered before you sucked in a breath and jut your chin up. “I’d say you have to prove it to me.”
It wasn’t meant to be a challenge, but he took it as one. You felt your heart stutter as he stood from his seat and offered his hand up to you to guide you down from your bar stool.
“Okay then,” he grinned. “Lets go then.”
“Wait, what? I don’t—,”
“You said you were out of your element right? And you don’t really drink?”
You stammered for a moment but he kept looking at you with those expectant brown eyes. “I mean, yeah…”
You took his hand with hesitance, lowering yourself back down to the ground.
“Okay then,” he smiled. “I want to take you somewhere you actually like. If you have any suggestions?”
You stood there for a moment, crossing your arms. Yet Logan could see the smallest of smiles slipping on your face the longer you stared at him.
“I like music,” you offered quietly, suppressing your smile. “There’s a record shop I go to not too far from here.”
He grinned brightly, only encouraging your own steadily growing smile. “Well that sounds more entertaining than whatever we’ve got going on here, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah,” you smiled. “It does.”
He let you take the lead, trailing close behind you as you made your way to the exit. A chill ran up your spine as the cold air hit you hard.
“You’re cold,” he noted, already beginning to shrug off his letterman. “Here, take my jacket.”
“Oh, I can’t ask that of….you.” But it was too late, he was already tossing it over your shoulders.
A small part of you, the part of you that had you following this man out of the bar, simply let it happen.
“Did you drive yourself here,” he asked, taking your side as the two of you stepped in the parking lot, acting as though nothing was strange or unusual about you wearing his jacket.
“No,” you murmured. “Allie dropped me off. Figured I’d either call or…” you trailed off, letting him fill in the gap. “…yeah.”
Logan laughed. “No worries. My truck seats two for a reason.”
He was a gentleman, embarrassingly so as you recounted the entire ramble you put him through about ‘boys like him’. Before you could even reach for the door handle, he was there, already opening the door for you.
“After you.”
You let out a soft hum as you climbed into the truck, eyes trained on him. “Y’sure you’re not playing at anything?”
“Only giving you the night you deserve.”
You couldn’t help but feel grateful that he closed the door when he did as that small smile stretched into a reluctant grin across your face.
When the night began, you thought you’d be horribly miserable. You thought that Allie and Hannah would pair you with a man you could hardly even be around and you’d be counting down the minutes until you could send them the S.O.S. text.
You surely weren’t expecting to be left in a fit of laughter as John Logan walked you all the way to your door, his letterman tossed over your shoulder while the two of you bumped arms as you walked.
“Wait,” he laughed. “So in order to get you to go on this date—,”
“Allie had to cash in a bet I lost back in sophomore year,” you finished, smiling from ear to ear. “Pretty much. I probably wouldn’t have come out under any other circumstances.”
“Wow,” he gasped, putting a dramatic hand over his heart. “I’m starting to understand 10 Things I Hate About You.”
“Well then what did they tell you when they set this whole thing up?”
There was a wander in Logan’s stepped as he looked from his feet to you. “That’s actually a funny story.”
You looked up at him quizzically with a hint of amusement in your eyes. “Humor me, then.”
You watched as let out a breath of air and came to a stop. You hadn’t even realized you were right there at your door until he did.
“They didn’t have to do much convincing because I was already going to ask you out. Well at least I was in the process of trying…”
It was like your face fell away in a fell swoop—-your eyebrows dug down as your eyes widened, barely processing his words. “Wait, what?”
A sheepish laugh fell past his lips as he scratched the back of his neck. “I’ve been wanting to get to know you for…a while now.”
“I—why didn’t you?”
This time his laugh was fully humored, the crinkle under his eyes returning. “You’d glare at me every time I even got close to you!”
A gasp escaped you as you tried to stifle your laughter. “No!”
“Yes,” he exclaimed. “Hannah said it was too painful to watch!”
“Oh my god,” you grumbled, burying your face in your hands in utter embarrassment. “I’m so stupid. You probably thought I was a bitch or something.”
“Hey hey,” he laughed softly, gently taking his hands and wrapping them around your wrists, pulling your hands away from your face as he came to your level. “Don’t say that. You’re just guarded. It’s not a terrible trait to have, you just need to…get out of your head sometimes. The world isn’t always out to get you.”
And there is was again—-those eyes of his. It wasn’t the bar lights and it wasn’t the lights surrounding you, it was 100% him. They made you suddenly forget how quiet the surrounding area was, how it was just you two in that hallway. It made you suddenly feel the way he rubbed his thumbs lightly over your wrists as he held them.
And then came that feeling. Not the burning embarrass but the fluttering in your chest as you realized you couldn’t look away. And that you didn’t want to.
“If I didn’t absolutely disappoint you tonight,” he began slowly, his voice running deep as he spoke only for you to hear. “I’d love to take you out again.”
For the first time that night, you moved without hesitation. You nodded your head, letting that smile take a hold of your face. “I’d like that.”
i did NOT mean to write this all in one but oh well, hope yall love it!!
Synopsis: an artist from a prominent family finds comfort in a quiet campus art studio, the one place where the suffocating expectations of her wealthy lineage fade away. there, she lets a protective hockey player into her orbit, finding a grounded peace that her high-society world could never provide. however, their sanctuary is shattered during a grand charity gala at her family's estate, what will happen then?
wc: 20.4k
Notes: this took me over a week to write lol thank god its summer break. before reading this is definitely patchwork plot but for the sake of this story we're j gonna pretend beau didnt… also i didnt read the books but i tried to make up for it through research so hopefully its not too ooc. this is definitely not proof read im also not american so sorry for any inaccuracies lol.
New York City is all you have ever known your whole life. Private schools, private planes, grandeur manors your world was entirely walled off by old-money luxury, historic brownstones, and an overarching silence. Your mother had passed away the day you were born, a tragedy that left your father, Charles Verplanck, entirely single-minded in his purpose: to protect you from anything that could ever cause you a moment of pain. He didn't just provide for you; he fiercely insulated you. To him, you weren't just his daughter; you were the only piece of your mother he had left in the world.
In that quiet, structured upbringing, you naturally developed an eye for the arts. It started small—silly, disproportionate sketches scribbled on expensive heavy cardstock that you would proudly hand to your dad after he returned from the corporate office. While other millionaires collected pieces from Christie’s auction house, your father treated your childhood doodles like invaluable relics. He kept every single one. As the years slipped by and your technique matured, those silly drawings evolved into complex, sprawling landscapes and deeply observant portraits. Your dad remained your most loyal patron. By the time you turned fourteen, he had pulled strings across Manhattan to host an exclusive gallery exhibition entirely dedicated to your work.
But old money brings an invisible, crushing weight. Every gala, every dinner, and every formal introduction carried assumptions based entirely on your last name. You grew weary of being viewed through the lens of a family bank account. You wanted to breathe. You wanted a fresh start where you could just be an artist, evaluated purely by what you put on a canvas rather than what was sitting in your trust fund.
When you announced your desire to transfer to Briar University—a school miles away from the tight-knit circle of New York high society, your dad was deeply reluctant. He hated the idea of his only child being out of his immediate protective reach. But his soft spot for your happiness was absolute; he could never firmly put his foot down when it came to you. In the end, you had your way.
Which brought you to the current passage of your life.
Your belongings were packed into sleek, unmarked suitcases, moved into an oddly spacious off-campus apartment located exactly twelve minutes away from the university quad. Finding your front door on Saint Paul Street was always a bit of a running joke. You lived in apartment 6 or 9—the little brass plaque on the wood hung lazily by a single, stripped screw, spinning dynamically depending on how hard the front door was closed. No one really knew which number it was supposed to be. Some of the drafty corridor doors down the hall had no numbers left on them at all, just pale rectangular outlines where the old adhesive had long since given up.
Inside, however, the space was entirely yours. It featured a towering window that overlooked a secluded, quiet garden downstairs. Your easel stood right beside the glass, currently holding an unfinished, heavy oil painting of a hazy scenery. It was a peaceful sanctuary
Ever since your arrival at Briar, you had practically vanished into your own world. While other transfer students spent their first weeks navigating campus parties, joining clubs, and frantically trying to build a social circle, you had done the exact opposite. You holed yourself up in the campus art studio, retreating into the familiar, comforting scent of turpentine and linseed oil. Day after day, you would sit at your easel for hours on end, letting the campus life hum past outside the heavy glass windows without you.
The only real exception to your solitude was Maya. She was a fellow art student who shared a couple of your studio blocks—a bubbly, incredibly sweet girl who had practically adopted you on your very first day. Maya was the one who showed you where the best brushes were kept and which coffee cart on the quad actually brewed an edible espresso. You liked her genuinely, and the two of you would frequently exchange small talk about assignments or lend each other a hand when carrying heavy canvases across the room. But despite her warmth, you hadn't really let her all the way in. The walls you’d built to protect your identity as a Verplanck were still firmly intact, and while Maya was a great studio companion, she wasn't a confidante. You remained a friendly, quiet enigma, keeping her and everyone else at Briar at a polite, safe distance.
The following afternoon, you sought out the campus art wing to truly begin your new routine.
The soft, crackly croon of Elvis Presley was the only thing filling the high-ceilinged studio. Logan stopped by the half-open door, his gaze catching on the canvas first, then sliding to the girl in front of it. She was completely tuned out from the world, a smudge of dark oil paint on the edge of her jaw, moving her brush in sync with the slow tempo of the music.
The door gives a sharp, metallic squeak as Logan shifts his weight. She blinks, the brush freezing an inch from the canvas. She turns, her eyes wide, shifting from startled surprise to quiet curiosity as she takes him in.
Clearing his throat, instantly rubbing the back of his neck, "Sorry. I didn't mean to creep. The door was… yeah. I just noticed the painting."
Tucking a stray hair behind her ear, leaving a faint streak of paint on her temple, "Oh. It's fine."
Stepping entirely into the room, his eyes darting back to the canvas, "It's really beautiful. The lighting you're doing on the trees—it looks real." A small breathless laugh escapes her, shoulders dropping slightly, "Thank you. But trust me, it's not. It's actually missing…a lot. I've been staring at it for two hours and it feels completely unfinished." Logan gives her a quiet, genuine smile, "Well from where I'm standing, the unfinished version looks better than anything else on this campus."
He gives her one last look, a quiet nod, and steps out, closing the door softly behind him. She stands there for a moment, the room suddenly feeling a little bigger, before she turns back to her canvas. But for the first time all afternoon, her focus is completely gone.
"Well… I'll let you get back to it. Don't overthink the trees. They look good," he says. A smile touches her lips, "I'll try not to."
The next day, a quiet anticipation builds inside you, wondering if the mystery man from yesterday will actually come back. By 1:55 PM, you find yourself glancing at the clock, meticulously picking out a nicer playlist to fill the room. Meanwhile, Logan is rushing across campus after his lecture, intentionally slowing his pace at the last second just so he doesn't look completely out of breath when he reaches the art wing by 2:00 PM.
By the fifth day, a new rhythm forms. Logan shows up holding two coffees, setting one down on your stool without a word, and in return, you slide a spare sketch pad toward him.
"Still no name?" he asks, leaning back against the windowsill.
You look up from your canvas, a playful smile touching your lips. "Names carry too many assumptions. Let's see how long we can go."
He chuckles, raising his coffee cup in a mock toast. "Deal."
Multiple afternoons spent talking, sharing quiet laughter, and telling stories had turned the chilly studio into your own private world. You had spent weeks piecing each other together through quick glances and comfortable pauses, learning the rhythm of each other's thoughts over steaming paper cups.
Until one gloomy afternoon, the steady, gray autumn downpour finally washed away the last of our carefully guarded boundaries.
The rain blurred the high, arched windows of the studio, creating a rhythmic, isolated hum that made the vast room feel incredibly small, safe, and entirely cut off from the rest of the campus. Usually, Logan spent his hour leaning back in his chair, quietly observing you paint with a steady, grounding presence. But today, the heavy silence in the room felt different. He was sitting at the desk he’d claimed, a textbook open in front of him, but his jaw was tight, his large shoulders tense, and his eyes were staring right through the pages, completely lost in a dark headspace.
You set your paintbrush down in the jar of water, the soft clink of glass breaking the quiet.
"You're going to burn a hole through those pages just by staring at them," you said softly, tilting your head.
Logan blinked, snapping out of his thoughts. He looked up from the textbook, letting out a low, tired breath that sounded less like a laugh and more like a sigh. He rubbed the back of his neck, his posture deflating.
"Yeah," he admitted, his voice a bit rougher than usual. "Sorry. Just... a lot on my mind today."
You hopped down from your stool, picking up your lukewarm coffee cup and walking over to lean against the windowsill near his desk. "Want to talk about it? Or do you want to keep intimidating your homework?"
Logan looked out at the rain, his fingers tracing the edge of the wooden desk. For a long moment, the only sound was the storm against the glass. He hesitated, a rare flash of raw exhaustion crossing his face before he finally looked up at you.
"My dad called before I came here," Logan said quietly, his tone dropping into a flat, heavy register. "He was... drunk. Again. It’s usually a fifty-fifty shot whether he’s sober enough to hold a conversation, but today was bad." He let out a harsh, self-deprecating breath. "I spent twenty minutes on the phone making sure he hadn't burned the kitchen down or driven his truck into a ditch. It’s just... exhausting. Spending half your life playing parent to the person who’s supposed to be taking care of you."
Your heart ached for him. The image of this massive, confident hockey star being reduced to a worried, tired kid over a phone call hit you with a wave of fierce empathy.
"I'm sorry, Logan," you said softly, your voice carrying a deep, unhurried sincerity. "You shouldn't have to carry that. Especially not by yourself."
"It's just the fear, I guess," Logan murmured, looking down at his worn sneakers, a tight line forming along his jaw. "Watching someone destroy themselves and knowing that if I slip up—even a little bit—everything falls apart. I didn't grow up like most of the guys on the team, or the kids on this campus. My family didn't have money. There was no safety net, no savings account, no inheritance waiting for me."
He gestured vaguely toward the window, looking out at the sprawling, historic brick buildings of Briar University.
"The only reason I'm sitting in this room, the only reason I can afford to walk through these halls, is because of my athletic scholarship. Hockey is my only ticket," Logan admitted, his voice dropping to a vulnerable, raw whisper. "If I get a career-ending injury, or if my grades slip because I'm too busy worrying about whether my dad is conscious back home... the scholarship vanishes. And if that goes, I’m done here. I'm back to a small town with a broken father and zero options. It feels like I'm carrying the weight of my entire future on the blade of a skate every single night."
He shook his head, instantly looking apologetic. "Sorry. That’s heavy. I shouldn't be dumping that on you. You've got this peaceful life, and I'm out here ruining the quiet vibe."
"You aren't ruining anything," you countered gently, stepping a fraction closer. You looked down at your coffee cup, tracing the rim as you allowed your own guard to drop—something you rarely did with anyone on this campus.
"My life isn't perfect, Logan. It’s just... quiet," you admitted, a wistful smile touching your lips. "My mom passed away when I was young, so it’s just been me and my dad. And he is incredible. He supports everything I do, he protects me fiercely, and he has never, not once, placed an ounce of pressure on me."
Logan listened intensely, his dark eyes locking onto yours, sensing the underlying weight in your words.
"But because he’s so good, and because he gives me absolutely everything... I do it to myself," you whispered, looking up to meet his gaze. "The pressure doesn't come from him, Logan. It comes entirely from me. I look at how much he loves me, how hard he works to protect my world, and I construct this impossible standard in my own head. I feel this crushing, internal need to be flawless. To never make a mistake, to always hold myself with composure, and to be entirely worthy of everything he’s sacrificed. I moved a state from home just to try and escape my own head, but I’m still the one holding the rope tight around my own neck. I’m terrified that if I'm not perfect, I'll be the one who lets him down."
"But because he’s so good, and because I’m all he has left... the pressure is suffocating," you whispered, looking up to meet his gaze. "Every day, I feel this invisible, crushing need to be flawless. To never make a mistake, to never cause him a second of worry, to inherit this massive family legacy and carry it without tripping. I moved twelve minutes away from home just to breathe, but I still feel like I’m walking on a tightrope. I feel like I'm letting down the only person who matters."
You let out a small, breathless laugh, suddenly feeling exposed. "It sounds silly, I know. Sitting here accumulating my own internal panic over a family that loves me, while you're fighting just to stay here."
"Hey," Logan interrupted softly.
Before you could step back into your poised, guarded shell, he reached out. His large, warm hand closed gently over your forearm, his thumb resting against your skin with a steady, grounding pressure.
"It doesn't sound silly at all," Logan said, his voice incredibly thick with emotion as he looked up at you. "Internal pressure is just as heavy as external pressure. It doesn't matter where the weight comes from, it still cuts into your shoulders the exact same way. You're holding yourself to an impossible standard because you care so much. That doesn't make you spoiled. It just makes you human."
You looked down at his hand on your arm, the warmth of his touch radiating through your sweater, melting away the lingering chill of the rainy afternoon.
Logan smiled softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a deep, understanding tenderness. "I guess we both just need a place where we don't have to keep score against ourselves."
"Yeah," you breathed, a genuine, unburdened smile finally gracing your face. "I guess we do."
By the sixth week, he doesn't just linger by the door anymore. He claims a nearby desk, pulling out his homework or scrolling through his phone while you paint. The silence between you becomes a comfortable haven. Over these weeks, you gradually piece him together; you learn he plays hockey for Briar, and that every single afternoon before he heads off to practice, he chooses to spend his spare hour right here, with you.
The invitation didn’t come from a flyer or a massive group chat; it came in the quiet, low-lit printmaking studio on a Thursday afternoon.
You were meticulously cleaning an ink roller when your classmate, Maya, leaned against the heavy iron printing press, a mischievous look on her face.
"Dean Di Laurentis and Beau Maxwell are hosting a dynamic duo party tomorrow night for their birthday," Maya said, tapping a finger rhythmically against the metal. "The entire hockey team and half the student body is going to be there, and frankly, we've spent the last three weeks inhaling turpentine. We need to touch grass."
You had offered a faint, amused smile, initially inclined to decline. A loud party house was a far cry from the quiet galleries you preferred. But looking out the studio window at the autumn breeze, the thought of spending another weekend isolated in your spacious apartment felt a little too lonely. Besides, a small, quiet part of you wondered if a certain hockey player who frequented the studio at 2:00 PM might show up.
"One drink," you had negotiated with Maya, wiping your hands on a cloth with effortless poise. "And we leave the moment it gets too chaotic.
For the dynamic duo party, you and your classmate had opted for something that subtly nodded to your major: The Artist and the Masterpiece. Maya wearing overalls carrying a chisle, while your interpretation of the masterpiece was entirely high-fashion, like a sculpture—a beautifully draped, cream-colored silk midi dress that looked like wearable sculpture, your hair swept up into a loose, elegant twist secured by a vintage gold pin. It was understated, timeless, and effortlessly sophisticated.
Dean Di Laurentis’s off-campus house was a sensory overload of vibrating bass and cheap beer, a world entirely foreign to the quiet galleries and Manhattan brownstones you grew up with. You stood near the edge of the kitchen, observing the chaos with a detached, quiet amusement, holding a drink you had no intention of finishing.
That was when you spotted him across the living room.
The contrast was striking. In the art studio, he was a quiet, unassuming presence in dark hoodies. Tonight, he was surrounded by the loud, boisterous energy of the Briar hockey team, wearing a hawks shirt its sleeves cut off with a pair of metallic golden wings strapped over his broad shoulders. He looked entirely ridiculous, yet carried it with an easy, unbothered confidence.
Logan happened to glance toward the kitchen, his eyes scanning the crowd until they locked onto you. He stopped mid-sentence. A look of genuine relief crossed his face, and he immediately excused himself from the team, navigating the packed room with purpose until he stopped right in front of you.
Adjusting his costume, a self-deprecating smile pulling at his lips, "Please tell me you aren't going to hold this costume against me."
Amused, tilting your head slightly, "I don't know. Metallic gold is quite a statement outside of the art wing… Logan."
He stops, genuinely surprised, his eyes widening a fraction, "Wait—how do you know my name?"
A bit playful, taking a slow sip of your drink, "You play for Briar, and you're the star left wing. You're a little hard to miss on a campus this size. Besides, I do my research on the guys who steal my coffee warmth at 2:00 PM."
Logan gives a quiet laugh, a faint flush creeping up his neck as he rubs the back of his head, "Fair enough. Caught red-handed. As for the look... Tucker and I were supposed to be a dynamic duo. He went as a bumblebee, so I improvised. A hawk." He shakes his head, smiling. "We're calling it 'the birds and the bees' but honestly, it’s just a disaster."
His eyes trace the elegant drape of your silk dress, a look of genuine appreciation replacing his embarrassment. "You look incredible, by the way. What’s the duo theme?"
"The Artist and the Masterpiece. My classmate, Maya, has the chisle."
Logan looks down at you, his tone dropping into something soft and intensely sincere, "Masterpiece. Yeah. I can definitely see that."
Someone shoves past trying to get through, and Logan seamlessly shifts his weight, stepping in closer to shield you from the rowdy crowd. His focus narrows entirely to you.
"Look, the 'no names' rule was fun," he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours. "But since it's officially broken… I want to ask you properly. What’s your name?"
You offer him a small, genuine smile, extending your hand in a gesture that is entirely classic, poised, and polite.
"[Name]."
He takes your hand, his grip warm, large, and steady, reapeating it carefully as if committing it to memory, "[Name]. It's really nice to officially meet you. Honestly, I was wondering if you would go to the party tonight."
Before the moment can linger too long, Dean swagger-walks over, looking between you and Logan. "Yo, Logan. You skipped out right in the middle of my story. Who’s your friend?"
Logan turns to dean, his posture turning subtly protective as he introduces you, "Dean, this is [Name]. She's the artist from the studio."
Dean grins broadly, extending a hand, "Ah, the famous 2:00 PM appointment. I’m Dean. Welcome to the madhouse."
Before you could reply, a loud, booming laugh echoed from the living room, and a tall, athletic guy with an easy, commanding presence navigated through the crowd. Garrett Graham possessed the kind of effortless charisma that instantly marked him as the team captain. He had a gold medal prop looped around his neck—completely unbothered by the chaos around him.
Garrett slapping a hand on Logan's shoulder, "Don't let Logan bore you, [Your Name]. He’s been checking his watch all night waiting for you to walk through that door."
Shooting a warning glare at Garrett, a dark flush creeps up on Logan, "Shut up, Graham."
Right on Garrett’s heels was John Tucker, who looked remarkably too broad to be wearing a plush, striped bumblebee costume complete with bouncing antenna on a headband. He carried a plastic honey pot filled with punch, offering you a warm, southern, and genuinely polite smile that instantly made him feel approachable.
"Don't mind them, ma'am. I'm Tucker. And yes, before you ask, he’s the bird to my bee. We had a pact, though he clearly half-assed his end of the bargain."
You couldn't help the soft, genuine laugh that escaped your lips, the sheer absurdity of the hockey team completely contrasting with the stiff, formal galas you were used to. "It’s a pleasure to meet you all. The synchronization is... impressive, Tucker."
Logan, shaking his head, "Don't encourage him, please."
Finally, Beau Maxwell stepped up beside Dean, completing the core group. Beau possessed a sharp, discerning gaze, but it softened with an easygoing smirk as he took in your high-fashion silk dress and Maya's paint covered outfit nearby.
"The Artist and the Masterpiece. Clever. It’s definitely a massive step up from the usual crowd we get in this kitchen. I'm Beau. Happy to have you here."
As the guys fell into their natural, boisterous banter, a sharp, amused voice cut through the noise from the kitchen doorway.
"Oh, thank god. Someone with actual taste has finally entered this house."
You turned to see Hannah Wells walking in, holding a drink and looking at your draped silk dress with pure, unadulterated appreciation. Right behind her was Allie Hayes, who offered you an immediate, blindingly warm smile.
Hannah stepped past Garrett, who automatically looped a possessive arm around her waist. "I'm Hannah. And let me just say, your dress is spectacular. It's wearable art."
You smile, "Thank you. I'm [Name]. My classmate and I went as the Artist and the Masterpiece."
Allies eyes light up, "That is brilliant! I'm Allie. Honestly, [Name], please stay in this kitchen. If I have to listen to Dean talk about Top Gun flight trajectories for one more minute, I’m going to lose my mind."
Logan chuckling, though his posture remained subtly protective beside you, "Don't overwhelm her, ladies."
Hannah shooting a knowing and playful smirk to him, "Oh, please, Logan. We're rescuing her from you boys."
For the next twenty minutes, the initial barrier of the chaotic party completely melted away. Hannah and Allie effortlessly pulled you into the conversation, asking about your art major with genuine curiosity rather than the passive-aggressive scrutiny you usually feared from campus peers. For the first time since moving twelve minutes away from home, you felt a spark of true belonging.
But the dynamic shifted slightly when the kitchen crowd parted, and someone with a sharp, discerning gaze stepped up to the counter. Crossing their arms, eyes instantly sliding past Logan to lock into you with intense curiosity.
Sensing this, Logan cleared his throat, "Jules, this is [Name]. She’s the artist from the studio I told you—I mean, she’s from the art wing. [Name], this is my sibling, Jules."
You offered her a poised, elegant smile, extending your hand. "It's very nice to meet you, Jules."
Jules didn't just shake your hand; they took it, their sharp eyes taking in your beautifully draped, silk dress and your air of sophistication. They let out an appreciative hum.
"The costume suits you. Honestly, you're entirely too sophisticated for this house. And definitely too sophisticated for my brother."
Tilting your head, "Oh, I don't know. I think his golden bird wings are quite a statement."
Jules lets out a sharp, delighted laugh, "Oh, I like her. she's witty." She leaned her elbow on the counter, entirely disregarding Logan’s warning glare. "So, [Your Name]... give me the real story. What exactly is the nature of your relationship with my brother? Because Johnny here usually talks about hockey, hockey, and more hockey. But lately, all I hear about is a '2:00 PM appointment' and someone who apparently makes the absolute best coffee company on campus."
Logan groans out loud, rubbing a hand over his face, "Jules, please stop. Right now."
A burning blush hits your cheeks, but you maintain your quiet composure, a playful smile touching your lips) "We're just... breaking the rules of assumptions. No names until tonight, just coffee warmth and quiet sketching."
Jules’s eyes gave you a look of genuine, protective approval flashing in their expression. They tapped the back of their phone against their chin, giving you a playful wink.
"Well, if you can keep him quiet and compliant for an hour every day, you’re officially a miracle worker. I'll see you around campus." They say, quietly slipping back in to the crowd.
Eventually, the heat and noise of the kitchen grew a bit too suffocating. Sensing your subtle shift in posture, Logan leaned down, his voice a low, private rumble against your ear.
"Come with me. Let's get some air."
He guided you through the crowded hallway and out onto the quiet, shadowed wrap-around porch. The cool autumn air hit your skin like a relief, the heavy bass of the house instantly muffling behind the closed glass doors. You walked over to the wooden railing, looking out over the dark lawn.
Logan stepped up beside you, unstrapping the ridiculous metallic gold wings from his shoulders and setting them on a nearby bench.
"Much better," he sighed, running a hand through his hair, leaving it perfectly messy. "I love the guys, but they're a lot sometimes."
You tilt your head to look up at him, "I think they're charming. Especially Tucker's commitment to the bumblebee aesthetic."
Stepping a fraction closer, his large frame blocking the chilly breeze for you, "Yeah, well... Tucker is one of a kind. But honestly? I didn't bring you out here to talk about Tucker."
The playfulness in the air suddenly shifted, melting into something thick and magnetic. Logan’s eyes darkened, dropping down to trace the elegant slope of your jaw where the oil paint had been just days prior, before locking onto your lips.
His voice dropping a soft breathless whisper, "I meant what I said inside, You look absolutely breathtaking tonight."
Your breath hitched in your throat. The quiet confidence you usually carried around like armor suddenly felt fragile under the intensity of his gaze. He stepped in closer, his warmth radiating through his shirt. Slowly, intentionally, his hand rose, his thumb gently brushing against your cheekbone, tilting your face up just a fraction.
You leaned into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut as his head began to incline. The space between your lips vanished until you could feel the ghost of his breath—
SLAM.
The porch door flew open with violent force.
Tucker bursts out, completely oblivious, the bumblebee antenna on his head bouncing wildly, "Logan! Bro! Dean is about to do a keg stand into a bush and Garrett says you have to anchor him! Move, move, move!"
The spell shattered instantly. Logan froze, his eyes snapping open with a flash of pure, unadulterated frustration. He closed his eyes for a brief second, inhaling deeply as if praying for strength.
Logan, without looking at Tucker, his voice strained, "Give me a minute, Tuck."
Finally registering the atmosphere, Tucker's eyes widening, "Oh. Oh. Wow. I am an insect of bad timing. Carrying on! Buzzing away!" He scrambled backward, slamming the door shut again.
A small, breathless laugh escaped your lips, breaking the tension. Logan looked back down at you, utterly defeated smile pulling at his lips as he rubbed the back of his neck.
"I am going to kill him. I'm going to squash him."
Smiling softly, smooting down the front of your silk dress, "It’s fine, Logan. Duty calls. You should probably go make sure Dean doesn't break a bone."
Sighing, stepping back reluctantly, though his eyes remained intensely locked on yours, "Yeah, probably. But before I go..." He hesitated, a rare flash of nervousness crossing his features. "We have a home game this Friday. Against Harvard. It's going to be loud, and it's definitely not a quiet art studio... but I really want you there."
He reached out, his fingers briefly brushing yours.
Hannah and Allie always sit in the front section by the glass. If you come, you can sit with them. I'll make sure your name is on the list at the gate. What do you say?"
You looked at him—this broad-shouldered hockey star who spent his afternoons in a quiet studio just to be near you, now looking entirely vulnerable as he waited for your answer.
"I've never been to a hockey game before."
A smile breaks across Logan's face, "Then let me show you how it's done. Please?"
You offered him a small, sophisticated nod. "Alright, Logan. I'll be there."
His smile widening, taking a step toward the door backward, "I'll be looking for you on the glass. Don't overthink the trees tomorrow, okay?"
With a final, lingering look, he turned and jogged back inside to handle the chaos, leaving you on the quiet porch with your heart beating entirely out of rhythm.
Getting home after the party honestly filled with a buzz from the new friends made down to that moment with Logan. The heavy silence of your spacious apartment was a stark contrast to the thumping bass of the hockey house, but your mind was still racing, your heart doing a strange little flutter every time you pictured Logan’s eyes dropping to your lips on that porch.
The sharp ring of your phone abruptly disrupts your thoughts. Looking down at the caller ID, Dad it says.
You slide the screen to answer, a soft smile automatically gracing your face as you press the phone to your ear.
"Hi, Dad."
"There she is," his deep, familiar voice echoes through the line, instantly carrying the comforting warmth of Manhattan. You can hear the faint clinking of a crystal glass in the background—he’s likely winding down in his study. "I was starting to think my girl forgot about her old man. How is Briar treating you tonight? You aren't locking yourself away in that studio all weekend, are you?"
"Actually, no," you say, kicking off your heels and walking over to the large window, looking down at the moonlit garden. "I just got back from a party, believe it or not."
A brief pause hangs on the line, filled with genuine surprise. "A party? You? Who managed to drag my private little artist out into the wild?"
"A classmate from my major, Maya. We actually did a duo costume together," you explain, leaning against the window frame. "And it was actually... really nice. I met some great people. A girl named Hannah, and another named Allie."
"Well, look at you," your dad chuckles, the sheer relief and happiness in his tone palpable. He always placed your happiness above everything else in his universe. "I knew that campus wouldn't know what hit it. So, just a girls' night out, then? Or did some hotshot college boy try to sweep you off your feet?"
It was a standard, teasing dad question—one he’d asked a dozen times before over the years, usually met with your calm, indifferent dismissal.
Except this time, your throat completely locks up.
Logan's warm, steady grip on your hand flashes in your mind. Masterpiece. Yeah. I can definitely see that.
You open your mouth to give a smooth, poised reply, but nothing comes out. The silence stretches for one second. Two seconds. A sudden, burning blush creeps violently up your neck, coloring your cheeks in the darkness of your bedroom.
On the other end of the line, the clinking of his glass stops completely. Your dad’s voice drops an octave, the casual humor instantly melting into the hyper-alert sharpness of a protective millionaire father.
"Wait a minute," he says, his tone narrowing with sudden suspicion. "[Name]? Why are you quiet?"
"I'm not quiet," you squeak out, your voice a pitch higher than usual, completely betraying your carefully practiced composure.
"Oh, you are absolutely quiet. That is your 'I’m hiding something' quiet," he counters, his voice a mix of growing panic and fierce protectiveness. "Who is he? What’s his name? Is he one of those fraternity boys? Because I can look up his family records before sunrise—"
"Dad! No, please, stop," you interrupt, entirely flustered, burying your face in your hand as if he could see you through the phone. "It’s nothing like that. He’s... he’s just someone from the art studio."
Hearing the genuine panic in your voice, your dad sighs, softened by how fiercely he loves you. He knows he can never firmly put his foot down when it comes to you, especially when you sound this vulnerable. He lets out a breath, his tone turning incredibly gentle, persuasive.
"Sweetheart... you know you can tell me anything." He murmurs softly, a tender reminder of the bond the two of you shared since the day you were born. "If there’s someone making my daughter blush through a phone line twelve minutes away from campus, I think I at least deserve to know if he's a gentleman."
His gentleness completely disarms your guard. You look over at the canvas resting on your easel, a soft, helpless smile touching your lips as you decide to open up.
"His name is John Logan, but we call him logan" you admit softly, your voice barely a whisper in the quiet room. "He plays hockey here. And... we've been sitting in the art studio together every afternoon at 2:00 PM for the last three weeks. He brings me coffee."
There is a long silence on the line. You can practically hear your dad processing the words hockey player, wrestling with his internal protective instincts, before he sighs again, defeated by your happiness.
"A hockey player who frequents an art wing," your dad muses, a faint, reluctant amusement in his voice. "Well... at least he has good taste in coffee companions. Does he treat you right?"
"He's incredibly intentional, Dad. And observant," you say honestly, the memory of Logan shielding you from the rowdy crowd in the kitchen warming your chest. "He actually invited me to his game this Friday. He put my name on the guest list to sit with Hannah and Allie."
"Alright," your dad says quietly, though you can tell he's already mentally adjusting to this massive shift in your life. "You go to the game. Have your fun. But [Your Name]?"
"Yes, Dad."
"If he ever steps out of line, you tell me. I don't care how big he is on a skating rink."
You let out a soft, genuine laugh, the lingering tension from the party completely fading away. "I know, Dad. I love you."
"I love you too, sweetheart. Get some sleep."
As the call disconnects, you set the phone down, the apartment suddenly feeling a little warmer as you head to bed, the anticipation for Friday's game already building in your chest.
The morning after an account on instagram popped up on your feed named The fifth line in its post, a photo of you and logan at the party looking at each other eyes, him holding your hand.
The stadium was a towering cauldron of sound, vibrating with a chaotic, electric energy that was entirely foreign to the refined world you grew up in. Long before you even reached your seat, the deep, rhythmic thumping of student chants rattled through the concrete floors beneath your boots. The air inside the arena was a unique mixture of crisp, artificial cold and the heavy warmth of thousands of packed bodies. Bright, unyielding stadium lights reflected harshly off the pristine white sheets of the ice below, creating an intense, almost blinding glow.
You navigated the steep stairs of the arena, holding tightly to the railing as students in matching blue and white jerseys shouted over the blaring stadium speakers. It was a high-stakes rivalry game against Harvard, and the tension in the air was thick enough to taste.
True to his word, Logan had left your name at the gate. The security guard had scanned your ID, smiled warmly, and directed you straight down to the glass—the exclusive friends and family section.
"Over here! [Name]!"
You looked down toward the very front row to see Allie Hayes waving frantically, a bright smile on her face. Beside her, Hannah Wells was wrapped in an oversized Briar hockey hoodie, offering you an immediate, welcoming nod. As you slid into the row next to them, the immediate feeling of being an outsider completely vanished.
"You actually made it!" Allie beamed, pulling you into a quick, enthusiastic hug. "We were hoping Logan wasn't just hallucinating when he said you promised to come."
"I keep my promises," you said, offering a poised, genuine smile as you took your seat right against the thick plexiglass. "Though I have to admit, I have absolutely no idea what is happening."
"Don't worry," Hannah laughed, leaning over the back of her seat with an easy, comfortable familiarity. "Just watch the guys in blue. If they hit someone into the boards, you cheer. If Garrett scores, I scream. If Logan scores, you get to look smug."
Before you could ask what the 'boards' were, a deafening siren echoed through the arena, and the crowd erupted into a frenzied roar. The heavy metal doors of the home tunnel swung open, and the Briar varsity team flooded onto the ice. They looked massive, almost monstrous in their full pads and helmets, gliding across the ice with terrifying speed and precision.
Your eyes immediately began scanning the sea of jerseys, searching for a specific number.
And then you saw him. Number 22.
Logan looked entirely different out here. The quiet, gentle boy who sat sketching in the low-lit art wing was gone. On the ice, he was a force of nature. He skated with a lethal, effortless grace, his broad shoulders cutting through the air as he finished his warm-up lap.
As the team huddled around their goal for the final pre-game breakdown, Logan suddenly detached himself from the group. He skated backward toward your section of the glass, his eyes instantly tracking the front row until they locked onto yours.
Even behind the heavy cage of his helmet, you could see the exact moment his eyes softened. A brilliant, breathless smile broke across his face. He raised his heavy hockey stick, tapping the thick blade gently against the glass right in front of your hands—a private, incredibly intentional salute just for you in a room full of ten thousand people.
"Oh, wow," Allie teased loudly over the roar of the crowd, nudging your shoulder. "Look at that. Johnny is officially clocking in for duty."
A sudden, fierce blush rushed up your neck, warming your cheeks against the chill of the ice. You offered Logan a small, elegant wave, your heart doing that strange, rhythmic flutter it had been doing ever since the party. He gave you one last lingering look, a confident nod, and spun back around to face the center line.
The referee blew the whistle, the puck dropped, and the game began.
It was a brutal, dizzying blur of speed. You watched in absolute fascination as Logan commanded the left wing. He was terrifyingly fast, his skates throwing up sprays of ice as he shielded the puck with his massive frame, completely unbothered by the Harvard defensemen trying to crash into him. It was a violent, chaotic dance, yet from your vantage point on the glass, you observed it with the sharp eye of an artist, capturing the raw, powerful composition of his movements.
By the second period, the score was tied 2-2. The arena was deafening, the student section screaming for a breakthrough.
The puck was jammed in the far corner of the Harvard zone. Garrett Graham fought through a heavy check, somehow hooking the puck backward with his stick and blindingly centering it right into the slot.
Out of nowhere, a flash of blue jersey cut through the defense. It was Logan.
With a single, explosive motion, he caught the pass on his tape and unleashed a devastating, lightning-fast wrist shot. The puck vanished into the top corner of the net so quickly you barely saw it move.
A red light flashed behind the goal, the horn wailed with a piercing shriek, and the entire stadium exploded into pure pandemonium.
Logan didn’t go to the student section to celebrate. He didn't even high-five Garrett first. Instead, he skated hard straight toward your section of the glass, his teammates swarming after him. He slammed his gloved hands against the plexiglass right where you were sitting, laughing breathlessly, his eyes burning with a triumphant, electric adrenaline as he stared directly at you.
You stood up with Hannah and Allie, completely swept up in the roaring magic of the moment. Abandoning your usual guarded composure, a brilliant, unrestrained smile broke across your face as you tapped your hands against the glass, matching his energy.
Logan’s gaze trapped yours through the plastic barrier, his chest heaving as his teammates threw their arms around his neck, dragging him into a celebratory huddle. But even as he was pulled away, his focus never left you.
In that loud, chaotic, freezing arena, surrounded by thousands of screaming strangers, you realized your private little world was officially expanding—and you weren't sure you ever wanted to shrink it back down again.
The locker room was a chaotic sensory overload of spraying champagne, blasting music, and screaming hockey players. The adrenaline from the 3-2 victory over Harvard was still vibrating through the concrete walls. Coach had just finished a roaring, prideful speech, slamming his clipboard against the table to a chorus of cheers before the team began dismantling into the showers.
As Logan was stripping off his heavy shoulder pads, a heavy hand clapped down on his shoulder.
"Logan. A word in my office." Coach Jensen says, already walking towards the room.
Logan blinked, his heart instantly doing a nervous spike. On a athletic scholarship, being pulled into Coach's office right after a massive win usually meant something was wrong. He quickly tied a towel around his waist and walked into the quieter, fluorescent-lit office, the heavy thumping of the locker room music instantly muffled.
"Everything good, Coach? Did I mess up that defensive rotation in the third?"
Jensen, sitting back in his chair, a rare genuinely stunned expression on his weathered face. "Shut the door, son. And no, your rotation was fine. It’s not about the game." Coach picked up a piece of official university letterhead, staring at it before looking up at Logan. "I just got a call from the athletic director. An hour before puck drop, a private legal entity finalized a full institutional sponsorship for you."
Logan froze, his hand still resting on the doorknob. "A sponsorship? Like... gear?"
"No, Logan. A total financial package. They are covering your entire housing stipend, your meal plans, your training fees, and writing a blind check to cover the remainder of your tuition out-of-pocket. It removes you entirely from the standard athletic scholarship constraints. Even if you get injured tomorrow, your entire time at Briar is completely paid for."
The air left Logan’s lungs all at once. The room tilted slightly. He thought of his alcoholic father back home, the constant, suffocating fear of a single blown knee destroying his entire future, the absolute exhaustion of carrying his survival on the edge of a skate blade.
His voice barely a breathless whisper, complete baffled. "Who... Coach, who is it? Is it an agency? A scout?"
"They refused to give a name. The lawyers specified that the donor wishes to remain entirely anonymous. They just said it was an 'investment in raw talent.' I’ve been coaching twenty-two years, kid, and I’ve never seen a blind benefactor hand out a golden ticket like this."
Logan stood there, completely paralyzed by the sheer magnitude of the information. His mouth opened to say something—anything—but his brain couldn't process the sudden, overwhelming freedom. The invisible rope around his neck had just vanished.
Coach stood up, walking over to pat Logan’s soaked shoulder with a look of profound respect.
"Don't overthink it tonight, kid. Someone out there sees what you're doing, and they wanted to give you a level playing field. Go freshen up, get showered. You earned it."
Ten minutes later, Logan walked out of the varsity tunnel into the arena's quieter, chilly corridor. His hair was still damp from the shower, a duffel bag slung over his broad shoulder. He was completely numb, his mind spinning in a thousand different directions as he tried to comprehend the anonymous miracle that had just altered his entire life.
But the fog in his mind cleared the exact moment he saw you.
You were leaning against the concrete wall near the exit, your hands tucked into the pockets of your wool coat, looking entirely out of place in the sterile stadium hallway—yet completely, breathtakingly beautiful.
Hearing his footsteps, you looked up, an uncharacteristically wide, brilliant smile breaking across your usually calm face.
"There’s the star left wing. I believe you promised me a smuggler's look if you scored."
Logan stopped in front of you. He looked down at your face, your soft eyes, and the genuine happiness radiating from you. The urge to yell, to scream, to tell you that he was finally safe, that his future was secure, burned in the back of his throat.
But as he looked at your elegant composure, his pride—and the sheer, protective confusion of the anonymous gift—made him lock the secret deep inside his chest. He didn't want to ruin this perfect, unburdened night with heavy, complicated financial mysteries. He just wanted to be the guy who won the game for you.
A breathless, incredibly tender smile broke across his face as he stepped directly into your space, completely ignoring the lingering cold of the arena.
"Yeah, well... it’s easy to score when the prettiest girl in the stadium is standing right against the glass." He dropped his duffel bag to the floor, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. "Come here."
Before you could offer a witty reply, his large, warm hands cupped your jaw, tilting your head up as he brought his lips down to yours...
His lips were warm against yours, tasting like the faint chill of the rink and pure, unfiltered adrenaline. For a few short seconds, the sterile concrete hallway of the arena completely vanished. Your hands naturally found the fabric of his damp hoodie, anchoring you to his chest as his thumb swept gently along your jawline.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of your breaths coming out in short, ragged puffs.
Logan murmurs against your lips, "Yeah. I'm definitely never letting you miss a game again."
A soft laugh escaped you, your fingers lingering on his chest. But before you could reply, a harsh, synchronized vibration rattled through the corridor.
Bzzzzz.
It wasn’t just your phone. Inside his duffel bag on the floor, Logan’s phone let out the exact same heavy, rhythmic buzz. Then, down the hall, you heard two passing students gasp, their thumbs instantly flying across their screens.
A strange, sudden chill settled over your skin. You pulled your phone from your coat pocket, the bright screen illuminating a notification that made your stomach instantly drop.
@TheFifthLine: Spotted: Briar’s star left wing checking in for duty at the front row glass tonight. Looks like a budding romance is officially brewing between Number 22 and our resident studio recluse. But word around the quad is our mystery artist isn’t exactly what she seems on the surface. Looks like Ms. Shadow carries a very opulent, lengthy background. Is there a reason you left Manhattan behind, Verplanck? Who are you really hiding behind that canvas?
Your voice suddenly betrays you, cracking on the first syllable "I—Logan, it’s... the campus blogs, they just take random names and rumors to get clicks. They just..."
You stammered, your fingers tightening around your phone so hard your knuckles turned white. The sudden confrontation, combined with the paralyzing fear of being entirely exposed, sent a wave of pure panic through your veins. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't find the elegant, poised words you usually used to shield yourself.
Logan saw the exact moment the color drained from your face. He saw the slight tremor in your hands.
He didn't push. He didn't demand answers. Instead, he took a step closer, his large hands gently but firmly wrapping around your wrists, forcing you to lower the phone.
His voice dropping into a calm, steady directive. "Hey. Look at me. Breathe."
You looked up, your eyes wide and frantic, capturing his gaze.
The crowd is about to empty out into this hallway. Come on. Let’s get out of here."
The drive back to your apartment twenty minutes away from campus was entirely silent, save for the rhythmic, heavy swipe of the windshield wipers clearing the lingering rain.
You stared out the passenger window at the passing streetlights, your heart still hammering against your ribs. It wasn't that your identity was some dark, elaborate lie. Your last name had always been on the class rosters, and you'd never denied who your father was—you had just deliberately kept it down low. You didn't wear flashing logos, you didn't talk about Manhattan townhouses, and you let everyone simply assume you were just another art major struggling through midterms. You had finally found a place where you were liked just for you, not for your family’s checkbook. If he looked up the history of the Verplanck name tonight, would he look at you differently? Would he think you were just playing a game?
When the truck finally rumbled to a halt in front of your oddly spacious apartment building, Logan turned off the engine. The sudden quiet of the cabin was deafening.
He shifted in his seat, looking at your profile in the dim light of the dashboard.
"You're completely frozen," he said softly, his voice lacking any judgment, only carrying a deep, protective concern. "Whatever that post is talking about... it doesn't change anything for me tonight. You don't have to explain it right now if you aren't ready."
You finally turned your head, looking at his kind, honest eyes. The vulnerability of the moment made your chest tighten.
"Logan... I'm sorry I panicked. My family... it’s not a secret. I just never talk about it because I wanted a completely fresh start here. I wanted to be a normal student. I wanted to see what it felt like to exist outside the assumptions that come with my name."
Logan looked down at his own large hands, a small, slightly complicated smile touching his lips as he thought about his own massive, secret financial news from Coach.
I get it more than you think. Everyone on this campus wants to put you in a box based on a name or what you have. But I know who you are in that studio. That’s the only version of you that matters to me."
He leaned over the console, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering against your warm skin.
"Go inside, get some sleep. Let me worry about the hockey blogs. I'll see you tomorrow at two o'clock PM?"
A genuine, relieved breath escaping you. "two o'clock PM. Promise."
You offered him a soft, lingering smile before opening the truck door and stepping out into the cool night air. As you walked up the steps to your building, you felt a strange, dual sensation in your chest. You were completely, utterly safe in Logan's arms—but the storm brewing on at campus, on the student body, on the Fifth Line account was officially spinning out of your control.
Overnight, your privacy completely vanished.
The online discourse surrounding you rampaged across campus forums and social media threads. Some users were bewildered, a few were genuinely nice, but most comments carried a sharp, passive-aggressive sting that made your stomach turn.
"What’s a trust fund kid even doing at Briar lol," one comment read.
Another thread was filled with links to old Manhattan society pages and financial articles about your father’s corporate acquisitions. It was all out there now, laid bare in the worst way possible. Your background had never been intended as a dark, malicious secret—you had just always had a hard time introducing that part of yourself to new relationships. You didn't want to be put on a pedestal or treated differently. It was completely and entirely against the exact reason you had come to Briar in the first place. You just wanted to be an artist.
Now, the morning light filtered through your apartment windows, but you hadn't moved from your kitchen island. You sat staring at your laptop screen, reading the comments as more and more information was pulled from Google. Anxiety crept heavily into your chest, a suffocating weight that made it hard to draw a full breath. Your fingers fidgeted restlessly, picking at the skin around the sides of your nails until they were raw.
It wasn't that you weren't used to attention; growing up a Verplanck meant gala photographers and strict etiquette. But being scrutinized this publicly, this outright, and by the very peers you were trying to fit in with was a completely different kind of terrifying.
A sudden, loud knock at your front door made you flinch so violently your coffee spilled slightly over the rim of your mug.
Before you could even stand up to check the peephole, the door swung open. Hannah and Allie walked straight into your apartment, completely bypassing any formal greetings. Allie was carrying a massive brown paper bag that smelled strongly of greasy diner pancakes, and Hannah had three oversized iced coffees balanced precariously in her arms.
Hannah seting the coffees down on your counter with a loud thud, "Step away from the laptop, Verplanck. Seriously, close the lid right now or I'm throwing it off your balcony."
Allie—already opening your cupboards to find plates, "We brought carbs. Heavy carbs. Because when the campus anonymous boards go feral, the only logical solution is chocolate chips and whipped cream.""We brought carbs. Heavy carbs. Because when the campus anonymous boards go feral, the only logical solution is chocolate chips and whipped cream."
You blinked at them, completely stunned, your hand still frozen near your laptop. "How did you guys even get past the lobby gate?"
Hopping casually onto one of your barstools, looking around your spacious, beautifully styled apartment with an appreciative nod "Please. Allie smiled at the security guard, and I told him we were your personal emotional support team. Plus, this place is incredible. We are officially making this the designated Friday night pre-game spot. The lighting in here is way too good for you to keep it all to yourself." Hannah says.
Allie walked over, gently but firmly reaching across the marble counter and snapping your laptop lid shut. She looked down at your raw, picked-at cuticles, her expression instantly softening into something incredibly sweet and protective.
"Hey. We saw the Fifth Line post. And we saw the idiot comments."
Your throat felt tight, your defenses instinctively trying to build a wall around you. "I'm sorry I didn't explicitly tell you guys about my family. I didn't want you to think—"
Interrupting with a dramatic roll of her eyes, hannah says, "Oh, please. Do you think we care that your dad owns half of New York? Allie’s boyfriend is going to the NHL, and my boyfriend is Garrett Graham—who literally thinks he’s royalty. If anything, having a millionaire heiress in the group just solidifies our status as the most elite table at the diner."
Allie smiled, sliding a plate of pancakes in front of you. "Seriously. You're the girl who sits in the dusty art wing and lets Logan buy her cheap campus coffee every day. We know who you are. The rest of the school is just bored because it's a Friday."
A massive, crushing wave of relief washed over you, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest finally loosening enough to let you breathe. You looked at the two girls sitting in your kitchen, realizing that the fresh start you wanted hadn't been ruined by the leak at all. If anything, it had just brought the right people closer.
With a genuine smile, breathless laugh escaping your lips. "You guys are ridiculous."
Hannah replies. "We know. Now eat your pancakes. We have to get you ready for your 2:00 PM hot date in the art studio tomorrow, and I fully intend to raid your closet first."
The protective bubble Hannah and Allie had built in your kitchen lasted exactly until you stepped out and walked onto the campus quad.
Usually, the walk from the apartment to the art wing was an invisible, peaceful routine. You’d keep your head down, headphones in, blending seamlessly into the sea of oversized hoodies and backpacks. But today, the atmosphere was thick with a sudden, suffocating shift in gravity.
The moment your boots hit the brick walkway, you felt it—the weight of dozens of eyes pivoting in your direction.
A group of girls sitting on the stone steps of the library stopped talking entirely as you walked past, their heads huddled together over a phone before they all looked up to track your movement. You could hear the low, distinct hiss of whispering.
"That's her."
"The Verplanck girl?"
"Look at her coat. Yeah, that's definitely not from the campus bookstore."
A guy walking toward the athletic center nudged his friend, both of them blatantly staring at you with a mix of curiosity and amusement. Overnight, you had been stripped of your anonymity. You weren't just a quiet art major anymore; you were a walking headline, a spectacle, a piece of Manhattan elite dropped into a college town.
As you neared the student union, a girl from your art history lecture—someone who had never spoken a single word to you all semester—suddenly stepped directly into your path, a bright, overly enthusiastic smile plastered on her face.
"Oh, hey, [Name]! I just wanted to say, I absolutely loved your costume at the duo party. It was so chic. Hey, a few of us are heading to a gallery opening in the city next weekend, and we were wondering if you wanted to come? We could all totally carpool."
The sudden, transparent shift in her demeanor made your stomach turn. She didn't want to get coffee; she wanted an invitation into a world she thought you belonged to.
Forcing a polite, rigid smile, your composure automatically clicking into place like armor. "Thank you, that's very kind. But I'm actually going to be completely buried in the studio next weekend."
The smile faltering slightly, her eyes quickly scanning your face for any sign of weakness. "Oh. Right. Of course. Well, let me know if you change your mind! See you in class!"
As she walked away, you let out a slow, shaky breath, your fingers tightening around the strap of your shoulder bag. The passive-aggressiveness from the online comments was one thing, but firsthand, the treatment was dizzying. Some people looked at you with resentment, some with newfound awe, and others with opportunistic calculation. None of them were seeing you. They were just looking at a dollar sign.
By the time you reached the heavy wooden doors of the art wing, your heart was hammering against your ribs. You pulled open the door, practically escaping into the quiet, familiar scent of turpentine and old paper.
You hurried down the corridor toward the high-ceilinged studio, praying that the one room that had always felt like a sanctuary hadn't been compromised, too.
You pushed open the door to the studio, the clock on the wall ticking to exactly 1:59 PM.
Logan was already there.
Without a single word about the post, comments and the rumors, Logan stood up straight, picked up one of the coffees, and walked directly over to you.
Logan stopped just a foot away from you, the warm scent of the fresh hazelnut coffee cutting through the sharp sting of turpentine in the room. He didn't look at you like you were a headline, but as he handed you the paper cup, you noticed a slight tightness around his eyes that hadn't been there yesterday.
"Did you see them on your way in?"
Logan paused, stepping back to lean his hip against the edge of your painting stool. "See who?"
"Everyone," you said softly, looking down at your coffee. The composure you’d forced yourself to wear outside was completely cracking. "The girls on the library steps... people from my lectures. They're all staring, Logan. The Fifth Line post was right. My full name is [Name] Verplanck. My family has been in New York since the shipping boom. My dad is... incredibly successful, and I grew up in a world where everything is structured, expensive, and completely public."
You swallowed hard, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. "I didn't hide it to lie to you. I just wanted to see if I could be an artist first. Without a bank account attached to my introduction."
When you looked up, you expected his usual easy, reassuring smile.
But it wasn’t there.
Instead, Logan was staring at you, his dark eyes intensely searching your face. For a fleeting second, his expression was completely unreadable, a mix of caution, surprise, and a sudden, quiet distance. You could practically see his brain trying to reconcile the girl who sat on a dusty stool drinking cheap campus coffee with the historic, untouchable Manhattan dynasty of the Verplancks. To a guy who grew up with a scraping bank account and an alcoholic father, that name represented a world he couldn't even fathom.
The sudden silence stretched between you, heavy and uncertain. Your heart did a nervous flip. He’s looking at me differently.
Logan caught the flash of hurt on your face, and the defensive, brotherly instinct in him instantly overrode his own internal whiplash. He let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he stepped closer, closing the sudden distance between you.
"Sorry. It’s just... that’s a lot to take in. I’ve seen that name on news segments before." He looked down at his large, calloused hands, a slightly complicated smile touching his lips. "I’m not gonna lie to you and say it doesn't spin my head a little bit. We grew up on completely opposite sides of the track, [Name]."
You bit your inside lip, a wave of guilt hitting your chest. "Logan—"
"Hey, look at me," he interrupted softly. He reached out, his warm fingers gently wrapping around your wrist, his thumb brushing over the raw skin near your nails where you’d been picking at them. "I’m thrown off, yeah. But I’m not stupid. I know who you are in this room. I know you're the girl who stares at a canvas of trees for two hours. I know you're terrified of letting down a dad who loves you. None of those things change because your last name is on a building in Manhattan."
He squeezed your wrist gently, though his eyes still carried a trace of that lingering, cautious complexity.
"If people out there want to be fake, let them. But you don't have to carry that rigid posture in here. You don't have to be perfect for me. I’m still just the guy on a hockey scholarship, remember? We're still just us."
Hearing him say we're still just us made the tight knot of anxiety in your chest finally loosen. A genuine smile broke through your panic.
"We're still just us."
A playful, familiar smirk returning to his face as he let go of your wrist. "Good. Now, pick up your brush. You're losing light, and I didn't walk all the way across campus to watch you stress over a blog post."
You let out a real, unburdened laugh, turning back toward your canvas. Logan reclaimed his usual chair, pulling out his textbook, but as he stared at the pages, his mind was privately drifting.
He was thinking about his father. He was thinking about his sudden, massive anonymous financial sponsorship from an hour ago. And now, he was thinking about your millionaire background. The fragile, silent boundary between your two worlds had officially been drawn.
By the third week of November, the campus was practically vibrating with the frantic, excited energy of the upcoming Thanksgiving break. Students were already dragging duffel bags across the quad, and the air smelled like crisp frost and impending woodsmoke.
Inside your apartment, the radiators hissed a steady, cozy warmth against the freezing glass. It was Sunday night, and your living room had officially been overridden by the hockey team. Allie and Hannah were buried under a faux-fur blanket on your plush sofa, while Garrett, Dean, and Tucker had completely taken over your floor and lounge chairs, analyzing a game tape on your TV while aggressively demolishing three large pizza boxes.
Logan was stretched out on the opposite end of the sofa, his massive frame taking up almost the entire length of the cushions, one of his legs draped casually over your lap as you sat on the carpet, your back resting against his shins. Your fingers were idly tracing patterns on the denim of his jeans while Tucker and Dean argued over a defensive play.
Suddenly, your phone lit up on the coffee table, vibrating against the wood. The screen read: Dad.
His voice carries that familiar, wealthy, yet deeply warm New York register over the line) "Hello, sweetheart. I’m just leaving the office. I wanted to check in before the holiday rush hits. You're still coming home directly on Wednesday for Thanksgiving, right?"
"Of course. I already have my bags packed. I'll be there before dinner."
"Good. Because right along the holiday, we have the annual Verplanck Charity Gala. The board has been frantic about the catering, but everything is finalized. It’s our biggest night of the year for up-and-coming artists who need the financial backing." He paused, his tone softening into something incredibly intentional. "...And you've sounded happier over the phone these past few months than you have in years. You always talk about this new circle of yours at Briar. Why don't you invite your friends to come to Manhattan with you? Tell them I’m reserving a private table for them at the gala."
Your breath hitched slightly. You looked up at the absolute chaos in your living room. Tucker was currently trying to put Garrett in a headlock over the last slice of pepperoni, Dean was checking his reflection in your glossy media console, and Logan was looking down at you, his dark eyes observing your expression with a quiet, curious intensity.
"Dad... are you sure? They're a bit... loud."
Letting out a chuckle "I think a little noise is exactly what that stuffy ballroom needs. And don't worry about commercial flights, sweetie. I'll have the pilot fly the private plane up to the regional airfield near campus on Tuesday afternoon to pick them all up. They can fly down to the city, enjoy the gala, and the plane can take them wherever they need to go for Thanksgiving on Wednesday morning. Invite them, [Name]. Safe travels tomorrow. I love you."
"Love you too, Dad."
You clicked the phone shut, the living room noise instantly flooding back into your ears. You cleared your throat, setting the phone down.
Dean without looking up from his phone, adjusting his collar "Tell the old man I say hello. If he needs any real-estate tips for his next Manhattan high-rise, Di Laurentis is available for consultation."
Garrett snorting, shoving Tucker away "Shut up, Dean. What did he say, [Name]?"
"He wants me to invite you guys to Manhattan. My family hosts the annual Verplanck Gala on Tuesday night right before break. It’s a massive charity event dedicated to sponsoring and funding up-and-coming artists who need financial backing. He’s... reserving a private table for the entire group."
Tucker groans. "Man, I’d love to, but my flight back to Texas leaves early Wednesday morning, and trying to get to New York and back to the airport during Thanksgiving traffic sounds like a nightmare."
Rubbing the back of your neck, standard Verplanck luxury still feeling slightly awkward to say out loud "Actually... my dad said he’s sending our private plane to the regional airfield on Tuesday afternoon to pick you all up. You’ll fly into New York for the gala, and then the pilot will fly you guys directly to your hometowns on Wednesday morning so you don't miss Thanksgiving."
Complete, utterly stunned silence fell over the room. Tucker stopped mid-chew. Garrett blinked. Even Dean looked up from his phone, his eyebrows lifting in genuine shock.
Hannah's jaw practically dropping as she sits up straight. "Shut up. A private jet? We are flying to a Manhattan gala on a private jet?!"
A massive grin spreading across Tucker's face as he drops his pizza "Wait, a private plane? Does that mean free high-end catering in the sky and at the party? Paid for by millionaires? I am one thousand percent in!"
"Hell yeah. I’ve never been on a private plane in my life. Let's go!" Garrett exclaims.
Dean smirks leaning back. "Finally, a form of transportation suited to my natural preferences. I'll have to get my tuxedo shipped immediately."
Amidst the loud, chaotic cheering of the boys planning their impromptu luxury trip, your eyes instinctively drifted up to Logan
He hadn't joined in on the shouting. He was just looking at you, his jaw slightly tight as the staggering weight of your reality fully settled in. To a guy like Logan, who spent his holidays worrying about his alcoholic father and scraping by on a strict athletic scholarship, a family that casually sends a private jet to pick up a college hockey team just for a Tuesday night charity party was entirely unfathomable. It was a stark reminder of the opposite tracks you both lived on.
But as he caught the vulnerable, hopeful look in your eyes, the protective sweetness in him won out. He let out a low breath, a small, incredibly tender smile breaking through his caution. He reached his large hand down, his fingers wrapping around the back of your neck to gently pull you against his leg.
"A private jet and a charity gala, huh? Does that mean I actually have to brush my hair so I don't look like a stray hitchhiker?"
"You're renting a tuxedo, Logan. And I am personally approving it so you don't embarrass us on the tarmac." Hannah says.
Chuckling, his thumb gently caressing the skin of your shoulder "Fine. If it means supporting the artist, I'll fly in style."
You rested your head against his shin, the warmth of his presence grounding you completely. The invites were accepted. You were all heading into the holiday week on a private flight awaiting you in the glittering ballroom of the winter gala.
The transition from the cramped airport shuttle to the Verplanck estate was enough to give anyone whiplash. As the black SUV rolled through the massive wrought-iron gates and up the winding, tree-lined driveway, the chaotic chatter of the Briar gang slowly died down into a collective, awestruck silence.
The house wasn't just a house; it was a sprawling stone manor that looked like it had been lifted straight out of a classic film.
"Holy hell," Tucker muttered, his forehead pressed against the glass. "Are we staying here or auditioning for a period piece?"
Logan sat next to you, completely rigid. His large frame seemed to shrink back into the leather seat, his eyes taking in the manicured lawns, the pristine fountains, and the sheer, overwhelming scale of your world. You reached over, sliding your hand into his. His palm was damp, his knuckles tense, but he squeezed back immediately, desperate for the anchor.
When the car finally idled to a stop in the grand courtyard, the front doors of the manor swung open. Stepping out onto the stone portico was your father.
Logan braced himself, his shoulders squaring into his defensive, protective posture. He was expecting a titan of industry—someone cold, calculating, and intimidating. Someone who would look at a guy from a broken home with a father in rehab and see right through him.
Instead, your dad broke into a wide, genuine smile, his arms spreading out as he walked down the steps.
"They're here!" he called out, his voice warm and booming. He immediately went to you, pulling you into a fierce, loving hug that smelled of expensive cologne and familiar comfort. "Oh, it's good to have you home."
When he pulled back, his eyes landed directly on Logan, who was standing a step behind you like a bodyguard waiting for a blow.
"And you must be Logan," your dad said. Before Logan could extend a polite, terrified hand, your dad closed the distance and clapped a heavy, warm hand onto Logan’s shoulder, pulling him into a brief, hearty half-hug. "It is an absolute pleasure to finally meet you, son. This one does nothing but talk about you."
Logan froze for a fraction of a second, completely caught off guard by the effortless warmth. "Thank you, sir. It’s... thank you for having us."
"None of that 'sir' nonsense under my roof. It's Charles," your dad insisted, giving Logan's shoulder one last, affectionate squeeze. "Look at you, you're built like a linebacker. We're going to get some proper food into all of you. Come on inside, the staff will grab your bags."
As your dad turned to welcome the rest of the gang, Logan stood entirely still on the gravel. You looked up at him, smiling, but the smile faded when you saw his face.
His jaw was clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. His dark eyes were glossy, fixed on your father’s retreating back. It wasn't the intimidation that had shaken him—it was the casual, easy kindness. The realization of what a father could be hit him like a physical blow, casting a long, painful shadow over the memory of the quiet lobby and the marshmallow on a paper plate from that morning.
He looked so fiercely conflicted, tearing himself apart internally, that you could see the faint glint of unshed tears in the corners of his eyes.
"Hey," you whispered, stepping closer to him, blocking him from the view of the others. "You okay?"
Logan blinked rapidly, swallowing hard as he finally looked down at you. He forced a thick, tight nod, his voice rough. "Yeah. Yeah, fine. Just... a lot of flight time. Let's go inside."
By the time the rooms were assigned and everyone had settled in, the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the estate in deep twilight shadows. Your dad had set the gang up in the guest wing, but you had managed to slip away to your personal suite in the west wing to unpack.
A soft, hesitant knock sounded at your door.
"Come in," you called out.
The door pushed open, and Logan stepped through. He had changed out of his travel clothes into a clean henley, but he still looked entirely out of place among the antique furniture, the plush rugs, and the sheer elegance of your bedroom. He closed the door behind him, the click of the latch sounding incredibly loud in the quiet space.
"Am I allowed in here?" he asked, a faint, tentative trace of his usual humor returning, though his eyes were still heavy.
"I make the rules in this wing," you smiled, walking over to him.
Logan didn't smile back. Instead, he just looked at you, then looked around the room, taking in the framed photos of your childhood, the massive canopy bed, and the fireplace. The air in the room suddenly felt incredibly thick, charged with an undeniable, heavy tension. The distance between his reality and yours was laid out bare, yet here he was, standing right in the middle of it.
"Your dad," Logan began, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register. He stepped closer, closing the gap between you until you had to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. "He's... he's really great."
"He liked you a lot, Logan. I told you he would."
"It's not that," Logan whispered. He reached out, his large hands anchoring gently on your waist, pulling you just an inch closer. The heat radiating off him was dizzying. "It's just... seeing him with you. Seeing how he looks at you. It made me realize how much..." He trailed off, his throat moving as he swallowed the rest of the sentence. He didn't need to finish it. You knew.
"You deserve that kind of warmth too, you know," you said softly, reaching up to cup his jaw. His stubble scratched against your palm, a grounding, raw sensation against the backdrop of the pristine room.
Logan let out a shaky breath, closing his eyes for a brief second as he leaned into your touch. When he opened them, the vulnerability was gone, replaced by a dark, burning intensity that made your breath hitch. The sheer contrast of him, this massive, powerful force of a man completely unraveled by a little bit of kindness sent a shiver down your spine.
"Right now," Logan murmured, his eyes dropping to your lips, his hands tightening on your waist just enough to pull your hips flush against his, "all I want is to be right here. With you. Away from all of it."
The space between you completely vanished. The tension that had been building since the morning, the weight of his family secret, the shock of your wealth, the emotional whiplash of the day narrowed down into a single, breathless point.
"Then stay," you breathed against his lips.
Logan didn't answer with words. He leaned down, his mouth catching yours in a deep, bruising kiss that felt less like a greeting and more like a man desperately claiming his only safe harbor in a storm
The heavy, grounding weight of the kiss stayed with you long after Logan finally slipped out of your room, whispering that he didn’t want to push his luck on the very first night under your father's roof.
But down the hall in the guest wing, Logan couldn’t sleep. The mattress was too soft, the sheets had too high a thread count, and the silence of the massive estate was deafening compared to the familiar, chaotic ambient noise of the Briar house. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the stark contrast: the sterile, clinical lobby of the recovery center from this morning, and the bright, effortless warmth of Charles Verplanck’s smile from this afternoon.
His chest felt tight, a restless, heavy knot of emotion he couldn't shake. Needing to move, Logan threw on a dark t-shirt and quietly stepped out into the dimly lit corridor, tracking his way back downstairs by memory to find a glass of water.
The sprawling manor was dark, illuminated only by the faint amber glow of the nightlights lining the baseboards. When he reached the massive, professional-grade kitchen, he expected it to be empty.
Instead, a single pendant light was turned on over the marble island. Sitting on a stool, nursing a mug of tea with a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose, was your dad.
Logan froze in the archway, his instinct telling him to turn around and fade back into the shadows. But the floorboard gave a tiny creak, and Charles looked up.
"Ah, Logan," your dad said, his voice a low, warm rumble that didn't carry the sharp authority Logan had spent a lifetime associating with older men. Charles pushed his glasses up onto his head and smiled genuinely. "Can't sleep either?"
"Sorry, sir—Charles," Logan corrected himself quickly, rubbing the back of his neck, looking massive and slightly awkward in the doorway. "I didn't mean to interrupt. Just wanted to grab some water."
"You're not interrupting a thing. Come on in," Charles said, gesturing to the empty stool beside him. He stood up, walking over to a sub-zero refrigerator and pulling out a chilled glass bottle of water. He poured it into a heavy crystal glass and slid it across the smooth marble. "The first night in a new place is always a tossing-and-turning match. Especially a place this quiet."
Logan took a seat, his large forearms resting on the island. He took a slow sip, the cold water soothing the dryness in his throat. "It's beautiful here. Really. Thank you again for letting all of us crash."
"It is my absolute pleasure," Charles said, leaning back against the counter, looking at Logan with a quiet, observant gaze. It wasn't a judgmental look; it was the look of a father trying to understand the man who held his child’s heart. "You know, when they talk about you, their eyes completely light up. I haven't seen them this grounded in a very long time. I have you to thank for that."
The praise was so simple, so freely given, that it made Logan's breath catch in his throat. He looked down at his glass, his fingers tracing the condensation.
"I don't do anything special," Logan muttered, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a sudden rush of emotion he was fighting desperately to suppress. "I just... I care about them. A lot."
"It's not nothing, son," Charles said softly. He stepped closer, his expression softening as he noticed the tight, strained line of Logan's jaw and the slight glint of the amber light reflecting in his eyes. Charles had lived long enough to recognize a young man carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. "You don't have to carry it all by yourself, you know. Whatever it is."
That was the breaking point. The sheer, unadulterated kindness of this man—a man who had every right to be protective, elitist, or cold, but chose instead to offer safety—fractured the last of Logan's defenses.
A single, hot tear escaped Logan's eye, tracking down his cheek into his dark stubble. He quickly swiped it away with the back of his hand, his chest heaving with a silent, shaky breath as he stared intensely at the marble countertop, utterly mortified to be breaking down in front of his partner's father.
"Hey," Charles said, his voice dropping to a fierce, protective whisper. He didn't pull back or act uncomfortable. Instead, he reached out and placed a heavy, reassuring hand firmly on Logan’s shoulder. "It’s alright. You’re safe here."
"I'm sorry," Logan choked out, his throat burning as he squeezed his eyes shut, a few more tears spilling over. "My dad... he's not... he's in a facility right now. For alcohol. We dropped something off for him this morning before the flight. And then I came here, and I saw you, and..." He swallowed hard, his voice cracking. "I just didn't know a dad could be like this. I didn't know it could be this easy."
Charles didn't say a word. He just tightened his grip on Logan's shoulder, anchoring the young man through the storm. He let the silence stretch, giving Logan the space to breathe through the heavy, suffocating grief of what he had missed out on his entire life.
"Your father’s struggles are his own, Logan," Charles said firmly but gently after a long moment. "They are not a reflection of your worth. And they certainly don't define the kind of man you are turning out to be. From what I see standing in front of me? You are doing an incredible job."
Logan let out a ragged breath, the tight knot in his chest finally loosening just a fraction. He opened his eyes, wiping his face properly this time, and looked at Charles.
Charles kept his hand on Logan's shoulder, his expression shifting from comforting to deeply earnest. "I mean it. I’ve watched them grow up, Logan. I've seen them navigate a lot of different people, a lot of different phases. But I have never seen them this happy with someone. Not like this. You give them a kind of peace they've been looking for."
Logan’s chest swelled, the raw weight of the compliment landing heavily in the quiet kitchen.
Charles squeezed his shoulder one last time, his gaze intense, a father's fierce love laying itself completely bare. "Take care of her, Logan. She's the only one I've got."
The vulnerability in Charles's voice struck a chord deep within Logan. It wasn't a threat; it was a sacred trust being handed over from one protector to another.
Logan met Charles's eyes evenly, his jaw setting with absolute, unwavering certainty. "I will," Logan whispered, his voice rough but steadier than it had been all night. "I promise you, Charles. I will."
"I know you will," Charles smiled, finally stepping back and giving the young man his space. "Now, drink your water. And if you ever need to talk, midnight or midday, my door is open. Understood?"
Logan nodded, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through his exhaustion. "Understood."
The gala was held in the estate’s grand ballroom, a breathtaking space of soaring ceilings, massive crystal chandeliers that cast a warm, diamond-like glow over the crowd, and a full live orchestra playing a sweeping, elegant waltz on the raised mezzanine. The room was a sea of New York's elite, moving smoothly amidst champagne towers and velvet drapes.
But your eyes weren't on the crowd; they were on the entrance, where your friends were making their official debut. To say they cleaned up well was an understatement.
Tucker actually looked civilized, wearing a classic black tuxedo with a crisp white shirt, though he had already managed to smuggle three bacon-wrapped appetizers into his breast pocket and was actively trying to figure out if the ice sculpture was real.
Garrett looked effortlessly suave in a sharp, tailored midnight-blue suit that perfectly matched his confident smirk, a glass of expensive champagne already held loosely in his hand.
Hannah was wearing a sleek, floor-length emerald green satin gown that turned heads the second she walked in, her usual go to footwear replaced by heels she was practicing walking in with hyper-focused concentration.
Dean, looking every bit the brooding counterpart to the rest of the loud group, cut a devastatingly handsome figure in a sharp, all-black tuxedo and a dark silk tie, managing to look entirely sophisticated despite the slight, reluctant scowl he wore as he adjusted his collar against the stuffy atmosphere.
Allie looked absolutely radiant, wearing a stunning, flowing blush-pink gown that perfectly complemented her bright energy, her hair swept up in an elegant style that made her look like she belonged in a high-society magazine, even as she playfully nudged Dean to stop scowling.
And then.
Standing just a step behind them all was Logan, and the sheer sight of him made your heart do a slow, heavy thud against your ribs. He was adjusting the cuffs of a perfectly fitted black tuxedo that accentuated every single inch of his broad shoulders and commanding height. His dark hair was neatly styled, and his jaw was cleanly shaven. He looked like an absolute prince—classic, powerful, and utterly breathtaking.
When he finally looked up and saw you approaching, his breath hitched audibly, his dark eyes widening as they swept over your stunning formal gown and the way the chandelier light caught the fabric.
"Wow," Logan breathed, a rare, completely captivated smile breaking through his usual caution as he closed the distance between you. "You look... absolutely incredible. I don't even have a word for it. Beautiful doesn't cover it."
A blush crept up your neck as you reached out, your fingers gently smoothing the lapel of his jacket. "Thank you," you smiled, looking up into his dark eyes. "And look at you. You look incredibly dashing, Logan. I knew you'd clean up well, but this is almost unfair to everyone else in the room."
He let out a soft, rough chuckle, his hand coming up to gently cup your waist, the heat of his palm burning through the fabric of your dress. "I'm just trying not to trip over my own feet in front of your dad's friends," he murmured, leaning down so only you could hear. "But seeing you? It's making it a lot easier to forget anyone else is here."
Before the crowd could swallow you both up, the live orchestra transitioned into a slower, deeply romantic, sweeping melody, and Logan looked toward the dance floor with a sudden, nervous flash in his eyes.
"I don't really know how to waltz," he admitted softly, "but if you're willing to guide me, I'm not letting anyone else have this dance."
Whispering for him to just hold onto you, you let him lead you out onto the polished hardwood floor, drawing the eyes of several onlookers as he placed one massive, warm hand securely on the small of your back and pulled you flush against him. As you began to move, his natural athletic instincts took over, his long strides easily matching your pace in a rhythm that was surprisingly, intoxicatingly smooth.
You rested your head close to his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring thud of his heart as the anxiety from the previous nights, the weight of his family secret, and the fear of your different worlds all vanished under the canopy of the music. Spinning slowly beneath the glowing chandeliers, Logan looked down at you with a dark, burning devotion, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as his grip tightened just a fraction.
"You have no idea what you do to me," he murmured, his voice thick with an emotion so raw it made your chest ache. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm completely stuck on you."
You smiled against his shoulder, closing your eyes as the music swept around you.
The high of the dance shattered an hour later in the crowded gallery just off the ballroom. Logan had stepped away to grab you both fresh drinks, but on his way back, he was cut off by a man in a flawless, bespoke charcoal suit—a man whose face Logan had stared at on sports network broadcasts and athletic press releases for years.
It was Thornton Vance, the majority owner of the professional hockey franchise Logan had been training his entire life to break into.
"John Logan, right?" Vance asked, a sharp, business-like smile on his face as he stopped Logan in his tracks. "I thought that was you. Charles told me you'd be here tonight."
Logan’s heart stopped, his grip tightening around the crystal glasses in his hands. "Mr. Vance. Yes, sir. I didn't expect to see you here."
"Well, when Charles Verplanck invites you, you show up," Vance chuckled casually, gesturing out toward the grand ballroom. "Charles Verplanck has been our leading financial backer for the last five years. When he called me personally yesterday morning to tell me he had a phenomenal young defenseman staying under his roof this weekend—someone he wanted me to keep a very close eye on—I told him I’d make it a point to connect. Then told me how he sponsored your stay at Briar. You've got a hell of a fairy godfather in your corner, son."
Vance kept talking, offering a card, saying something about rookie camp invites, but Logan couldn't hear a single word over the sudden, violent roaring in his ears.
Yesterday morning. Before the flight. Before they even arrived.
The warmth he had felt from your dad, the safe harbor he thought he had found in your room, the magical dance under the chandeliers it all twisted into something transactional, something toxic, in a matter of seconds. He wasn't here because he was wanted. He was a charity case. A project. You had lined his future up like a chess piece, pulling strings behind his back because you looked at his messy, broken life and felt sorry for him.
Logan didn't put the drinks down; he practically slammed them onto a passing waiter's tray. His chest was heaving, his face pale and his dark eyes burning with a sudden, defensive fury as he stormed back into the ballroom, tracking you down near the edge of the crowd.
When he caught your wrist, his grip wasn't gentle like it usually was. It was desperate, tight, and trembling. He didn't say a word as he pulled you out of the noise, dragging you into a secluded alcove near the heavy velvet curtains.
"Logan? What's wrong?" you asked, your heart dropping at the sheer agony and anger radiating off him. "You're white as a ghost."
"Did you orchestrate that?" Logan rasped, his voice a low, jagged whisper that cut through you like a knife. He looked down at you, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might shatter. "Thornton Vance is out there. He just told me your dad is the primary sponsor for the team. He told me your dad called him yesterday morning to secure me an in."
Your eyes widened in genuine confusion. "Logan, I—I didn't know—"
"Don't lie to me!" he snapped, a harsh, broken laugh escaping his throat. He stepped closer, towering over you, completely consumed by the crushing weight of his own pride and insecurity. "Is that what this is? Is this whole relationship just a charity project for you? You look at my dad in rehab, you look at my broken-down house, and you think, 'Oh, let me save the poor guy from Briar'. Was this all just pity?"
The word hit you like a physical blow. Your breath hitched, the sheer injustice of the accusation tearing through your chest. "Pity? Logan, how can you even say that?"
"Because it makes sense!" he choked out, his voice cracking as his defensive walls slammed shut, completely mischaracterizing every single thing you were. "You're a Verplanck. You have everything. I'm just a guy with a messed-up family trying to scrape by, and you decided to fix me. You pity me."
Tears immediately flooded your eyes, hot and stinging, blurring the sight of the man you loved completely turning on you. Your chest heaved, a sob threatening to break through your throat. Unable to look at the cold, defensive mask he had put on, you tore your wrist from his grip, turned on your heel, and ran.
You fled the ballroom, ignoring the curious glances of the guests as you pushed through the heavy glass doors at the back of the mansion. You ran blindly into the sprawling back garden, where the cool night air hit your bare shoulders and the distant, rhythmic lull of the stone water fountains filled the quiet darkness. The heavy bass of the orchestra faded into the background, replaced only by the sound of your own ragged breaths and the tears spilling down your cheeks.
"Hey! Wait!"
Logan’s heavy footsteps crunched violently against the gravel path as he pursued you, his tuxedo jacket open, his tie slightly crooked. He caught up to you near the center fountain, reaching out to stop you, but you spun around, backing away from him until the stone rim of the fountain pressed against the back of your gown.
"Don't touch me!" you sobbed, your words stumbling over each other as the tears choked you. "I didn't know! I swear to God, Logan, I didn't know anything about the sponsorship! I didn't know my dad called him!"
"Then why did he do it?" Logan demanded, though the fiery anger in his eyes was starting to crack, replaced by a desperate, panicked confusion as he saw you breaking down.
"Because he loves me!" you shouted, your voice cracking completely, a sob escaping as you defended your father. "He saw how happy I was! All he had was pure intentions! He wanted to help the person who makes his child smile! How could you take something so kind and twist it into something ugly?"
Logan froze, his chest heaving as the weight of your tears began to pierce through his defensive armor.
"I don't care if you're penniless, John Logan!" you wept, the raw truth pouring out of you as you gestured wildly between the two of you. "I don't care if you have the entire world at your fingertips or absolutely nothing! I liked you for you. I loved your observantness. I loved how you always read me like a book, how you always knew exactly what I needed and when I needed it before I could even say it out loud!"
You took a ragged, trembling breath, wiping aggressively at your wet cheeks, your voice dropping into a devastatingly broken register.
"But I guess I was wrong," you whispered, the betrayal cutting deep. "I thought you knew me. All I ever had for you was admiration. I never, ever pitied you. How could you think so lowly of me?"
Logan blinked, the harsh reality of what he had just done crashing down on him. The defensive anger completely vanished from his face, leaving him looking hollow, horrified, and entirely exposed. "Hey... no. I—I didn't mean—"
"No, you did," you choked out, stumbling over your words as you took a step back, completely shutting down. You looked at him through your tear-stained vision, your heart breaking into a million pieces in the quiet garden. "John Logan... never talk to me again."
Before he could move, before he could open his mouth to beg, you turned and ran past the fountains, disappearing into the dark shadows of the estate, leaving him standing completely alone in the cold night air.
Logan walked back through the heavy glass doors of the ballroom, but the music, the laughter, and the glittering light no longer felt like a dream—it felt like a mocking indictment. His tuxedo jacket was completely unbuttoned, his collar felt suffocatingly tight, and the hollow, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach was growing by the second. He moved through the high-society crowd like a ghost, his dark eyes fixed entirely on the far corner of the room where the Briar crew was clustered near the bar.
Garrett was mid-laugh, gesturing with his champagne glass, while Tucker was currently trying to explain something to Allie and Hannah. Dean was leaning back against a marble pillar, his arms crossed over his chest, his sharp eyes scanning the room.
As Logan approached, the laughter at the table died instantly. Garrett’s smile faded, his eyes narrowing as he took in Logan’s pale face and the absolute devastation radiating off his large frame.
"Logan?" Hannah asked, stepping forward first, her green gown rustling against the floor. "What happened? Where is she?"
"Man, you look like you just watched your own dog get run over," Tucker muttered, his usual humor dropping away into immediate concern.
Logan stopped a foot away from them, his hands shoving deep into his pockets just so they wouldn't see how violently they were shaking. He couldn't look any of them in the eye. He stared at the polished hardwood floor, his throat working hard as he swallowed the thick, suffocating lump of regret rising in his chest.
"I messed up," Logan choked out, his voice so rough and hollow it barely sounded like him. "I completely blew it."
Dean straightened up from the pillar, his brooding expression shifting into something intensely focused. "What do you mean, you blew it?"
"I ran into Thornton Vance out in the gallery," Logan said, the words spilling out of him in a desperate, ragged rush. He finally looked up, his eyes glassy and filled with a raw, agonizing panic. "He told me... he told me her dad is the primary sponsor for the team. He said Charles called him yesterday morning to get me an invite to rookie camp and my stay in briar was from his sponsorship."
Garrett blinked, shaking his head. "Wait you got a sponsor— wait—okay... and that's a bad thing? Logan, that's a massive hookup."
"I thought she set it up," Logan whispered, his voice cracking as the full weight of his mistake crashed down on him in front of his friends. "I thought... with my dad being where he is, and this place being what it is... I thought she looked at me and just felt sorry for me. I thought the whole thing was a charity project. I went crazy. I confronted her, and I accused her of pitying me."
A heavy, horrified silence fell over the group. Allie let out a sharp, quiet gasp, her hand flying to her mouth, while Hannah’s jaw dropped in disbelief.
"Logan, tell me you didn't," Hannah breathed, her voice a mix of anger and pity.
"I did," Logan said, a single, rough breath escaping him that sounded dangerously close to a sob. He rubbed a hand aggressively over his face, his broad shoulders shaking. "She didn't even know about it. She swear she didn't know. Her dad just did it because he saw how happy she was with me. And I... I twisted it. I told her she thought lowly of me. "
"She ran out into the back garden," Logan choked out, his dark eyes turning to Garrett, then to Dean, completely unraveled. "She was crying so hard she could barely get the words out. She told me she loved me because I was observant, because I always knew what she needed... and then she told me never to talk to her again. Guys, I've never seen her look at me like that. Like I was a stranger. I completely broke her heart because I couldn't handle my own stupid pride."
The remaining days of the Thanksgiving trip passed in a punishing, agonizing blur for Logan. True to your word, you completely vanished from his sight. He had spent the long hours staring out the guest wing windows, desperately hoping for a glimpse of you in the gardens, or lingering by the grand staircase hoping to hear the sound of your laugh. But your suite remained closed, and the crushing weight of your absence echoed through the massive halls of the manor.
Now, instead of leaving rejuvinated, the air was heavy unusual for Thanksgiving.
The Briar gang stood out in the grand courtyard, their bags piled neatly by the waiting vehicles. The lively, chaotic energy they usually carried was entirely subdued, everyone casting quiet, worried glances at Logan, who looked like a shadow of himself—hollow-eyed, silent, and carrying a reservoir of pure, unadulterated regret in his chest.
Charles Verplanck walked down the stone portico steps alone. Logan’s chest tightened painfully as he looked past your father, searching the grand front doors one last time. They remained firmly shut.
"The cars are packed and ready to take you to the tarmac," Charles announced, his voice carrying that same calm, booming warmth as the first day, though there was a distinct note of quiet somberness to it now. "The plane is fueled and ready to take you all straight back to Massachusetts."
Charles stopped right in front of the group, his eyes softening as he looked over the solemn faces of your friends. Then, he turned his gaze directly to Logan.
Logan braced himself, his jaw tight, fully expecting the righteous, defensive anger of a father whose child had been deeply hurt. He knew he deserved it. He deserved to be thrown out, to be yelled at, to be banned from ever breathing the same air as you again.
Instead, your dad just looked at him. There was no fury in his eyes, no elitist coldness. There was only a profound, quiet understanding, and a gentle sadness that felt like a physical blow to Logan’s ribs.
"She won't be coming back to Massachusetts with you on the plane today," Charles said softly, his voice steady. "She's decided to stay here at the estate for a little while longer."
The words felt like a final, devastating verdict. Logan closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, his throat burning as he forced himself to nod, swallowing the bitter taste of his own failure.
Charles stepped closer, closing the distance between them. He didn't pull back his warmth. He didn't revoke the safe harbor he had offered in the kitchen. He simply reached out and placed that same heavy, reassuring hand firmly on Logan's broad shoulder. It was a gesture of complete, unearned forgiveness that made Logan's eyes sting fiercely.
"Do right by her, son," Charles murmured, his voice a low, protective register meant only for Logan. He gave the shoulder a tight, encouraging squeeze, a reminder of the sacred trust they had spoken about at midnight.
Logan looked up, his dark eyes glassy, his voice incredibly rough and thick with emotion as he managed to choke out the words. "I will, Charles. I swear to you, I will."
Your dad offered a small, sad, but genuinely hopeful smile, giving Logan's shoulder one last pat. "Safe travels, everyone," Charles called out to the rest of the gang, waving a warm goodbye before turning on his heel and walking back up the grand stone steps, disappearing into the quiet sanctuary of the estate.
The air inside the Briar off-campus house was heavy, suffocatingly quiet compared to its usual chaotic energy. Outside, the Massachusetts winter was bleeding into the gray afternoon, but inside, Logan hadn't moved from the worn leather armchair in the corner of the living room for hours. His duffel bag was still sitting unpacked by the front door, a bleak reminder of the sudden, silent flight back from the Verplanck estate.
Logan stared blankly at the floorboards, his knuckles white as his fingers locked together. He was drowning in it—absolute, unadulterated regret.
Every single time he closed his eyes, he didn't see the glittering ballroom or the professional hockey scouts; he just saw your face. He saw the hot, stinging tears blurring your eyes, heard the devastating crack in your voice, and felt the sheer, agonizing weight of the hurt he had inflicted on you.
How had he let himself get so blind?
He had allowed his own deep-rooted insecurities, his pride, and his shame over his father to completely hijack his mind. He had spun a twisted narrative in his head where he was a charity case and you were just a wealthy savior looking for a project. In that moment of blind panic, he had gotten so caught up in his own head that he had completely forgotten who you actually were as a person.
Now, in the quiet of the living room, the memories he had buried under his defensive walls came rushing back with agonizing clarity, forcing him to reminisce on the real truth of you.
He thought back to that afternoon in the art studio—the soft, dusty light hitting your face, the quiet focus in your eyes, and the effortless comfort of just being near you. He remembered the exact day he had first found out about your wealthy background. There hadn't been an ounce of arrogance in you. Not a single trace of superiority, and most importantly, not a single drop of pity.
That was just who you were. You were the person who loved unconditionally, who was always entirely willing to help the people you cared about, never expecting a trophy or a transaction in return. Your dad’s phone call hadn’t been a calculated setup; it was a reflection of the same pure, generous heart you carried every single day. And he had thrown it back in your face. He had called it ugly. He had called it pity.
Across the room, the heavy silence was wearing thin.
Garrett was leaning against the kitchen counter, a half-empty sports drink in his hand, his eyes fixed worriedly on his roommate. Tucker was sitting at the dining table, uncharacteristically quiet, lazily spinning a hockey puck on the wood but keeping his gaze glued to Logan's rigid posture. Even Dean, who usually kept to himself, had wandered downstairs and was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, his brow furrowed with deep concern.
Logan was brooding so intensely, radiating a dark, hollow aura of self-hatred, that the guys were genuinely getting worried. He looked less like a fearsome athlete and more like a man who had completely broken his own soul.
"Hey," Garrett finally broke the silence, his voice unusually soft as he stepped into the living room, gesturing subtly to Tucker and Dean. "Logan. Man... you gotta breathe. You haven't blinked in ten minutes."
Logan didn't look up. He just let out a long, ragged exhale that sounded more like a fracture in his chest, the weight of your last words—never talk to me again—replaying on a merciless, agonizing loop.
A full week had passed since the disastrous night at the estate, classes at Briar resumed. Yet, your seat in the lecture halls had remained devastatingly empty. Logan had spent every morning scanning the campus crowds, his heart leaping at every glimpse of dark hair, only to be crushed by the reality that you still weren't there.
Until today.
When you finally walked down the quad, it felt as if a collective shift occurred in the air, but for Logan, the world simply stopped. You weren't hiding. You didn't look broken. Instead, you walked with an immaculate, chilling poise, your shoulders back and a beautifully constructed, polite mask firmly in place. Your eyes were entirely guarded, devoid of the bright, soft warmth that usually greeted the world. It was a terrifying sight for Logan; you looked exactly like the untouchable, high-society stranger you had been the very first day you met. The open, vulnerable person he had held in the ballroom was completely locked away behind iron gates.
He didn't dare make a scene in the courtyard. He knew he didn't have the right. So he waited, tracking your schedule by memory, until he knew you would head toward the old campus art studio, the place where the noise of the university faded, and where you had once shared an effortless, quiet peace.
The door to the studio gave a faint, familiar creak as Logan pushed it open. You were standing by an easel near the back windows, the pale winter light washing over your profile. You didn't jump or startle when he entered. You slowly paused your brush, your fingers tightening slightly around the wooden handle, but you didn't turn around to look at him.
Logan closed the door softly behind him, stepping into the room with none of his usual commanding, athletic stride. He looked entirely undone, his eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights, his face gaunt, his large frame looking almost defeated in a simple dark hoodie. He kept his distance, stopping a few feet away, terrified that if he took one wrong step, you would vanish again.
"Hey," he whispered, his voice so raw, hoarse, and broken it barely carried across the quiet room.
You took a slow, steadying breath, your shoulders rising and falling with that perfect, distant poise before you finally turned your head to face him. Your expression was completely blank. "I believe I asked you never to talk to me again, Logan."
The coldness in your voice cut straighter to his chest than any physical blow ever could. A visible flinch went through him, his jaw trembling as he looked at the sheer emotional distance between you.
"I know," Logan choked out, his dark eyes immediately filling with a desperate, stinging heat. He dropped his hands to his sides, completely defenseless, his broad chest heaving with a shaky breath. "I know I have absolutely no right to be in this room right now. I have no right to ask you for a single second of your time. But please... please, just let me speak. Then I'll go. I swear to God I'll go if you want me to, but I need you to hear me."
You didn't answer, your silence acting as a heavy, agonizing barrier as you simply watched him with guarded eyes
"I am so incredibly sorry," Logan rasped, the first tear finally spilling over his dark stubble, his voice cracking entirely. "I am so sick with myself for what I did to you. I let my own pathetic, ugly insecurities completely hijack my head. I was so terrified of where I come from, so ashamed of my dad, and so scared of losing you to a world I didn't think I belonged in, that I went completely blind."
"I don't expect you to forgive me today. I don't expect you to ever trust me again," Logan whispered, his voice cracking on every syllable as he looked back up at you, his eyes entirely bare and filled with an absolute, unwavering devotion. "But if you will have me, I will make up for it."
The winter chill of the Massachusetts campus became the backdrop for Logan’s absolute, unwavering undoing. The afternoon in the studio hadn’t magically fixed the deep fracture between you, and he didn't expect it to; he knew that words were incredibly cheap after the damage he had inflicted, leaving him with only one path forward—to prove himself brick by brick. He threw himself into doing every single "boyfriend thing" imaginable with a desperate, reverent humility, not because he assumed it would buy his way out of the doghouse, but because he was entirely
The afternoon in the studio hadn’t magically fixed the fracture between you, and Logan didn't expect it to. He knew words were cheap after what he’d done; he had to prove himself brick by brick with a desperate, reverent humility.
Every single morning, before early lectures, a heavy cream envelope would be waiting in your locker or on your desk. They weren't frantic text blocks, but beautifully penned letters where he poured his soul onto the paper—noting specific things he admired about your mind and making quiet, steady promises for the future. He never demanded a reply, just wanting you to wake up knowing you were loved.
You never knew when or where they would appear. A small bouquet of white hydrangeas left on the stool you sat on to paint, or a single, perfect peony waiting on the counter of your favorite campus coffee shop because he paid the barista in advance. There were no occasion cards—just small tags that read, "Thinking of you. Siempre. — L."
He paid attention with a hyper-focused intensity. One rainy afternoon, while sitting in the back of the studio just to be in your orbit, he noticed the tiny crease between your brows as you squeezed the very last ribbon of cobalt blue paint from your tube. You didn't say a word, throwing the empty tube away—but by the next afternoon, a brand-new, professional-grade set of blue acrylics and oils was waiting neatly on your stool.
His texts became a steady, protective constant. Every morning at 7:00 AM sharp: "Good morning. I hope you slept well. It’s freezing out today, please make sure you wear the heavy coat." Every night before bed: "Checking in to make sure you got home safe. You don't have to text back, just wanted to say goodnight." He never crowded your space, but he made sure you knew he was standing guard.
No matter how late your studio sessions ran, you would step outside into the freezing air to find Logan's massive frame waiting patiently. He wouldn't push himself near you; he would simply stand a respectful two steps behind, acting as a silent, protective barrier as he walked you back to your apartment, carrying your heavy canvas bags and shielding you from the biting winter wind.
When you finally agreed to a date, he didn't dare bring you to a loud college bar. He drove you forty-five minutes out of town to a quiet, dimly lit botanical conservatory you had casually mentioned months ago. He set up a private table tucked deep into the lush greenery, surrounded by the faint, soothing sound of running water, a gentle, intentional healing of the painful memory from the estate garden.
He spent the entire evening pulling out your chair, hanging up your coat, and looking at you as if you were the only living thing left in the universe, proving he was finally ready to hold the world for you.
The air inside the botanical conservatory was warm and heavy with the scent of damp earth and blooming jasmine, completely shutting out the freezing Massachusetts winter outside. Across the small candlelit table, Logan was watching you. He wasn't talking about himself, and he wasn't making excuses. He was just there, completely stripped of the defensive pride that had ruined that night at the gala, his dark eyes reflecting the flickering flame between you with an absolute, quiet devotion.
You looked down at your hands, then out at the lush green canopy surrounding you. You thought about the stack of handwritten letters sitting on your nightstand. You thought about the fresh tubes of cobalt blue paint waiting in your studio locker, and the freezing nights he had spent standing outside the art building just to ensure you walked home safely.
How could you resist a love that was willing to entirely rebuild itself from the ground up?
The anger that had kept your shoulders tight for weeks finally, beautifully melted away, leaving only the simple truth that you missed him. You missed him—not just the attentive boyfriend he had been trying so hard to be lately, but the boy who knew exactly how to read you like a book.
Slowly, you reached across the table, your fingers trailing over the linen cloth until your palm rested flat against the wood.
Logan’s breath hitched. His eyes dropped to your hand, tracking the movement as if he couldn't entirely believe what he was seeing. Slowly, tentatively, his massive, warm hand came up, his long fingers sliding over yours, his palm burning against your skin with that same intoxicating heat you had missed so desperately.
"You don't have to walk two steps behind me anymore, John Logan," you whispered, a soft, genuine smile finally breaking through your guarded expression.
Logan let out a long, ragged exhale, his entire chest heaving as the crushing weight of the last few weeks finally lifted. A breathless, relieved laugh escaped his throat, his grip tightening around your hand just a fraction, secure, protective, and completely unyielding.
"I'm right here," he murmured, his voice thick with an emotion so raw it made your heart do that familiar, heavy thud. He leaned across the table, his dark eyes shining with an absolute, burning promise. "Right beside you. For as long as you'll have me."
An hour later, the drive back to campus felt entirely different than the quiet, tense rides of the past weeks. The interior of Logan’s car was warm, the radio playing a soft, low melody that filled the space between you with an effortless comfort.
When he pulled up to the curb outside your apartment building, he didn't just let you slide out. He hurried around to the passenger side, opening the door for you and taking your hand to help you down onto the snow-dusted pavement. But instead of letting go, he drew you gently into his space, his large hands coming up to secure themselves gently on the small of your waist.
You looked up at him, the amber glow of the streetlights catching the sharp lines of his jaw and softening the usual brooding intensity in his eyes. Without the walls of his pride blocking the way, he looked happier than you had seen him in a very long time.
"Thank you," Logan whispered, leaning down so his forehead rested gently against yours, his warm breath mingling with the cold winter air. "For not giving up on me. For letting me fix it."
"Just don't make me run into any more gardens," you teased softly, your fingers coming up to gently smooth the collar of his heavy coat.
He let out a low, rough chuckle, pulling you flush against his chest until you could hear the steady, reassuring thud of his heart beneath his layers. "Never again," he promised fiercely, his lips brushing against your temple. "You're stuck with me now."
Smiling against his shoulder, you closed your eyes and wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, finally back where you belonged. "Good," you whispered into the quiet night. "Because I'm never letting you go."
written by 666eyed, do not repost anywhere else.
hyperfixation station
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