[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ team effort.

pairing – garrett graham x reader summary – everyone keeps asking for too much. garrett has a very simple solution. warnings – fluff, established relationship, people-pleasing, boundary issues, garrett being protective, strong language, alcohol mention notes from me – based on this ask!! so so cute, thank u babe! word count – 2.1k

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Garrett notices it first at Malone’s, which is annoying because Malone’s is loud, sticky, crowded, and absolutely not the sort of place where he should be having emotional realisations over his girlfriend’s inability to say no.

She’s tucked into the booth beside him, one knee pressed against his thigh under the table, her drink sweating a wet ring onto the wood in front of her. The place is packed in the usual Friday-night Briar way, all flushed faces and hockey jackets and girls laughing too loudly over music. 

Dean’s somehow acquired a tray of shots no one asked for. Logan’s flirting with a girl at the bar. Tucker sits across from them, calm as ever, eating fries.

Garrett has one arm stretched along the back of the booth behind her shoulders, his fingers idly playing with the ends of her hair.

She looks pretty tonight in that slightly dangerous way she gets when she’s made herself look casual on purpose. 

Little skirt. Sweater slipping a little off one shoulder. Gloss on her mouth that he’s been trying not to stare at too obviously because she gets shy when he looks at her like that in public, even though she had been in his lap thirty minutes before they left, kissing him stupid in his bedroom while wearing that exact same gloss and making very few arguments about public decency then.

That’s the thing, she isn’t shy with him. Not when it’s just them and his door is closed and she’s stealing his shirts and talking shit from the middle of his bed like she owns both him and the mattress.

She can be bossy, ridiculous, soft in that greedy sleepy way after sex when she tucks herself under his chin and mumbles half-formed complaints about his cold feet even though his feet aren’t anywhere near her.

But out here, with everyone watching and liking her and wanting a piece of her, she gets quieter. She makes herself easy to need. Easy to ask. Easy to lean on. She smiles before she’s decided if she means yes. She nods while her fingers have already gone tense around her straw.

And Garrett, unfortunately for everyone, has started noticing. It happens three times before he says anything.

First, a girl from one of her classes slides up to the booth and asks if she can send over her notes from Tuesday because she missed half the lecture and you always write everything down so neatly, babe, you’re literally a lifesaver.

Garrett feels her knee press a little harder into his under the table. She smiles, quick and sweet, and says, “Yeah, of course, just text me,” even though she’d told him in the car she hadn’t even finished her own summary yet because the week had been brutal.

Second, some guy from a group project appears beside them holding a beer and a sheepish expression that Garrett immediately doesn’t like. “Hey, sorry, I know you’re out, but could you maybe fix the slides before Sunday? You’re just better at making them look, like, less shitty.”

Her mouth opens. Closes. Garrett watches the pause happen in her body before anyone else would catch it. The tiny lift of her shoulders. The way her thumb rubs once over the condensation on her glass. Then she says, “Yeah, I can look at them,” and the guy grins like he’s just successfully outsourced guilt.

Garrett’s jaw clicks. Dean’s eyes flick to him. Because Dean, for all his crimes against taste and door-knocking etiquette, has predator-level instincts for upcoming drama. His mouth twitches around the rim of his drink.

“Don’t,” Garrett mutters.

Dean lifts both hands. “Didn’t say anything.”

The third one is the one that makes Garrett set his beer down a little too carefully. A puck bunny named Kelsey, who’s sweet enough in a mostly harmless, very shiny way and has been around the hockey house enough to know better than to flirt with Garrett anymore, bounces up with her phone already in her hand. 

“Oh my God, there you are. Can you please help me with something? My roommate’s birthday thing is tomorrow and I told her you’d probably make those little cupcakes you brought to Tucker’s party because they were so cute, and I know it’s last minute, but you’re so good at that stuff.”

Tomorrow is Saturday. Tomorrow she has a paper to finish, a brunch with her friends she already tried to cancel once, and plans with him that he has been looking forward to with what he would personally consider a normal, chill, masculine amount of anticipation. 

He hasn’t been mentally organising the entire day around keeping her in bed until noon and then taking her to that diner she likes where she steals his hash browns. That would be insane. He’s very normal about his girlfriend.

She smiles anyway. “Um,” she says, soft enough that Garrett’s attention sharpens around it. “Yeah, maybe. I can probably–”

“Nope,” Garrett says.

The table goes quiet in the satisfying way a table does when the captain voice comes out without warning.

She turns her head toward him, eyes widening. “Garrett.”

He doesn’t look at her yet because he knows if he does, she’ll do that thing where she says his name like she’s embarrassed and fond and mortified all at once, and he’ll be tempted to soften before the point lands. So he looks at Kelsey instead and gives her his nicest, most public-facing smile, the one that has made professors extend deadlines and girls forgive him for sins he’d absolutely committed.

“She’s not making cupcakes tomorrow,” he says easily. “She’s busy.”

Kelsey blinks. “Oh. I mean, it’s totally fine if–”

“She’s busy,” he repeats, still pleasant. “Sorry, Kels.”

Kelsey looks a little surprised, then shrugs and laughs it off with a, “No, yeah, totally, sorry, babe, don’t worry about it,” before drifting back into the crowd with her phone still in hand, probably already searching for another girl with a functioning oven and weaker boyfriend security.

But beside him, his girlfriend has gone very still.

Dean’s grin spreads slowly across the table. “Wow.”

Garrett points at him without looking. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying. Very brave. Very feminist of you, speaking over a woman like that.”

“Dean,” Tucker says mildly.

“What? I’m processing.”

Logan appears at the edge of the booth, because the scent of Garrett doing something emotionally revealing has summoned him from the bar. “What’d I miss?”

“Garrett just became her secretary,” Dean says.

Garrett leans back, arm still behind her. “I became her union rep.”

Tucker nods like this is fair. “Better benefits.”

She makes a tiny sound then. She looks down at her drink, and Garrett feels the heat of her embarrassment without needing to see her face properly. It moves through her in little tells he knows too well now: fingers to the straw, mouth pressing together, knee shifting away and then back again like her body can’t decide whether to hide from him or lean into him.

Garrett’s humour softens before his mouth does. He ducks his head closer, voice dropping under the noise. “Baby.”

She gives him a look from under her lashes. “You can’t just say no for me.”

“I can, actually. Felt pretty natural.”

“Garrett.”

“What?” He lets his fingers slide from her hair to the back of her neck, thumb rubbing once under the edge of her sweater where her skin has gone warm. “You were about to spend your Saturday making cupcakes for some girl’s roommate because she called them cute.”

“She was being nice.”

“She was asking for free labour.”

Her mouth twitches before she can stop it, which feels like a personal win.

“I could’ve said no,” she says, but there’s not enough force behind it to convince either of them. Her gaze drops again, softer now, landing somewhere near his collar. “I just didn’t want to make it awkward.”

Garrett looks at her for a second. The whole bar keeps moving around them, bodies and noise and sticky light, but the booth seems to pull inward a little, shrinking down to the line of her shoulder against his ribs and the careful way she’s not looking at him too directly.

“Babe,” he says, low enough that Dean’s nosy ass has to pretend very hard not to listen. “You are allowed to make things awkward.”

She snorts, quiet and reluctant. “Easy for you to say. You make everything awkward on purpose.”

“Yeah, and look at me. Thriving.”

“You’re not thriving. You got banned from the student union coffee cart for arguing about oat milk.”

“That was a misunderstanding.”

She actually laughs, small but real, and some of the tightness leaves her shoulders. Garrett’s hand stays at the back of her neck, warm and steady. He watches her fight with the smile on her mouth like she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction, which is fine. He has plenty of satisfaction. He’s rich in it. Obnoxiously wealthy, really.

He bends closer, lips brushing her temple because he can get away with that in public and because he likes the way she tilts into him even when she’s trying to be cross. “Let me be the asshole sometimes.”

She turns her face slightly, just enough that her cheek brushes his jaw. “You’re already the asshole sometimes.”

“Exactly. I have experience.” His thumb moves again, slow over the delicate knobs at the top of her spine. “You don’t have to say yes to everybody just because they like you.”

She stares at the table for a second too long, at the fries, the damp glasses, the little chaos of napkins Dean has somehow shredded into a pile. When she speaks, her voice comes out quieter. “I know.”

Garrett doesn’t push. He’s learning that with her. The same way he’s learned that she gets overwhelmed at parties before she admits it, that she says I’m fine in a tone that means please notice but don’t make me explain this in front of people, that she can be the girl everyone loves and still go rigid when too many expectations hook into her at once.

So he keeps it simple. Keeps it warm and a little teasing because that’s where she can breathe. “Here’s the system,” he says. “You look at me. I say no. They get mad at me because I’m a huge dick. You stay perfect and beloved.”

She rolls her eyes, but her shoulder settles more fully into his side. “That’s not a system.”

“It’s a great system.”

Across the table, Tucker lifts a fry. “For what it’s worth, I support the system.”

Dean nods gravely. “Same. Mainly because watching Garrett politely tell people to fuck off is one of the few joys he provides.”

Logan slides into the booth beside Tucker with a fresh beer. “Wait, are we weaponising Garrett’s resting captain face? Because I’ve been saying we should do that for years.”

She groans and covers her face with one hand, but she’s laughing now, soft and helpless behind her fingers. Garrett feels it against his ribs and smiles down at her like an idiot, though he would deny the idiot part in court.

“See?” he murmurs, kissing the side of her head again. “Whole team effort.”

She drops her hand and looks up at him at last, eyes warm and slightly embarrassed and full of something that makes his chest go a little stupid. “You’re annoying.”

“Yeah,” he says, grinning. “But you picked me.”

Her mouth curves. “I did pull Garrett Graham.”

Dean gags immediately. “Please don’t say his full name during couple foreplay. Some of us are eating.”

Garrett flicks a fry at him without looking away from her. “You did,” he says, smug and soft at the same time because with her, apparently, he can be both and survive it. “So use me.”

Her eyebrows lift.

“Not like that,” he says, then pauses because, false advertising helps no one. “Also like that. But right now I meant for saying no.”

She laughs again, brighter this time, and tucks herself closer under his arm, her hand finding his knee beneath the table and squeezing once. Her fingers stay there afterward, warm through the denim, like some part of her has put down a weight she didn’t realise she’d been carrying.

A few minutes later, when the group project guy circles back and starts with, “Hey, sorry, one more thing–” she doesn’t answer right away.

She looks at Garrett. 

Garrett smiles. “Nope,” he says, cheerful as hell. “She’s off the clock.”

The guy blinks. “Oh. Okay. Yeah, no problem.”

He leaves.

She stares at Garrett for a second, then bites her lip around the smile trying to happen. “You enjoyed that way too much.”

He leans in, brushing his mouth over hers once, soft and quick and shameless enough to make her cheeks go pink. “Baby,” he says, voice low, grin right there against her lips. “You have no idea.”

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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[shortnspidey]

PILATES PRINCESS

Dean Di Laurentis X Female!reader || WC: 4K

SUMMARY: Dean has been dying to know why you keep sneaking out at 6 a.m. every single morning. Convinced there's a story behind it, he decides to tag along, expecting just about anything, except a Pilates class. Suddenly, the hockey star finds himself way out of his comfort zone and questioning every life choice that led him there.

WARNINGS: Pure fluff! Dean is down bad for reader, cursing, dramatic hockey boys, suggestiveness but no actual smut, probably some inaccurate Pilates descriptions (sorry)!

A/N: Once again this is PURELY self indulgent! Inspiration struck by watching a Quinn interview between Mika and Stephen talking about how he “accidentally” bailed on their Pilates class! Hope y’all enjoy!! Divider by @sc3ptre <3

➩ main masterlist

➩ dean di laurentis masterlist

Dean was naturally curious. Actually, that wasn't entirely true. Dean was nosy. There was a difference. Curiosity was casually wondering about something. Nosiness was noticing a pattern and becoming mildly obsessed with figuring it out. And for the last three weeks, he'd been trying to figure out where the hell you kept disappearing to every morning at six o'clock.

Every. Single. Morning.

Without fail, his bedroom door would creak open just enough for him to hear the soft shuffle of your footsteps. Half-asleep, he'd crack open one eye and catch a glimpse of you moving through his bedroom like some sort of fitness-obsessed ghost. Always dressed in workout clothes. Always carrying that absurdly large water bottle that was practically the size of a small child.

Where the hell were you going?

Because nobody willingly woke up at six in the morning unless they were being paid, chased, or clinically insane. Yet there you were. Every day. Gone before sunrise. By the time Dean finally dragged himself out of bed at a reasonable hour, you’d already returned. Usually flushed from exertion, a light sheen of sweat still clinging to your skin as you tossed your keys onto the counter.

Your leggings and fitted tank top would be slightly damp, strands of hair escaping your ponytail and sticking to your temples. And always, always, you had that weird green drink in your hand. The thing looked radioactive, Dean swore it practically glowed. "What the hell is that?" He'd asked one morning, staring suspiciously at the cup in your hand. "Matcha." You muttered taking a sip through the straw, eyebrows raised.

"It looks like liquid grass."

"It's tea, Dean."

"It's toxic waste, babydoll."

A laugh escaped you as you shook your head, completely unbothered by his judgment while taking another sip. Sometimes you'd head out alone. Other mornings, Dean would hear even more movement in the hallway before dawn. Additional doors opening. Muffled voices. The unmistakable sound of people who should absolutely still be asleep. Then later that day, Garrett would stumble into the hockey house looking personally victimized.

"Wellsy left at six this morning." Dean barely glanced up from his phone. "Tragic." He teased, lips quirking up in his well-known cocky smirk. "I woke up and she was gone, all I know is that she took Grace and Y/N with her." Now that got Dean's attention. "Where?" Garrett groaned dramatically and collapsed down onto the couch. "I don't know." Across the room, Logan snorted into his coffee cup. "Join the club, G."

"Grace ditched you too?" Garrett pointed accusingly as Logan nodded. "Six fifteen," Logan confirmed darkly dropping down onto the couch beside Dean with all the suffering of a man personally betrayed, scrubbing a hand down his face. "I woke up because she kissed my forehead like she was shipping off to war." Dean looked between them, then slowly lowered his phone.

"Wait," Both men turned toward him, brows raised in silent question. "You both don't know where they're going either?" Both hockey players exchanged a look. Then Logan shrugged as Garrett shook his head. Dean stared at them, then started laughing. Because suddenly this wasn't just his mystery anymore, it was a goddamn conspiracy. Three women. Three clueless boyfriends. Zero explanations.

And suddenly the fact that all of them were somehow managing to sneak out before dawn without providing answers made Dean's curiosity became an obsession and made him even more determined to figure out what the hell was going on. Whatever was dragging you out of bed at six in the morning had to be really fucking important. Or incredibly weird. Either way, he was determined to find out.

Which is why on Friday afternoon after multiple rounds of hot, mind blowing sex, is when he finally found the courage to ask. The two of you were sprawled across his bed, tangled in rumpled sheets that had long since been kicked down to your waists. The room smelled faintly of sweat and his cologne, what was left of the evening sunlight streaming through the partially closed blinds and painting lazy golden stripes across the mattress.

“Babydoll?” He asked, his hand halting from tracing absent-minded shapes on your bare back. You hummed softly in response, lifting your head from where it rested on his naked chest. Your chin settled on top of your folded hands as you peered up at him, still looking pleasantly dazed and entirely too comfortable. Dean shifted so he was facing you more directly, propping himself up on one elbow.

"Where do you go every morning?" You blinked, expecting anything but that question. "Six a.m.," He stated matter-of-factly. "Every day." The fact that you looked entirely too pleased with yourself made him even more suspicious. The corners of your mouth twitched as if you'd been expecting this conversation for weeks. "See? That right there, that's the face of someone hiding something." Dean pointed a finger at you.

"I'm not hiding anything." You caught his hand before he could continue accusing you, lowering it to the mattress between you. "You absolutely are." You laughed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear while trying to pull off an expression of complete innocence. Unfortunately, Dean knew you far too well. Dean's gaze narrowed further, there it was again. That smug little smile.

The one that usually meant you knew something he didn't. And Dean hated not knowing things. Especially when those things involved you. "You leave before sunrise," He continued dramatically. "You come back sweaty carrying that suspicious green drink and you've even somehow convinced Wellsy and Grace to join your secret society." At that, you actually snorted. "A secret society?" Your eyebrows shot upward in amusement.

"That's currently my leading theory." You folded your arms across your chest, trying, and failing, not to laugh. The smile threatening to break free gave you away instantly. Dean took that as encouragement. "Either that or you're all secretly training for the Olympics or preparing for some kind of a heist." He delivered the line with complete seriousness, making it impossible for you to hold back any longer.

You finally lost the battle and laughed outright, the sound filling the room. Dean tried not to smile but ultimately failed miserably. Because he loved making you laugh, even when you were laughing at him. "Dean, it's not a secret." Your voice carried the familiar warning that always appeared whenever he was being ridiculous. "The tell me.”He practically whined, green eyes narrowing. You bit your lip in response, a sure sign you were debating whether or not to answer.

However, instead of speaking, though, you reached over and patted his cheek. "Babydoll." His eye twitched. God, how you loved riling him up. "Yes?" You smirked, batting your eyelashes flirtatiously. "You're testing my patience." Your grin turned positively wicked. Then you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his lips, making sure to linger and slip in some tongue just long enough to be distracting. And the worst part? It almost worked.

Almost.

Dean caught your wrist before you could pull away completely, his fingers wrapping loosely around it as he shook his head. "Nice try." Your laughter softened, fondness replacing some of the mischief in your expression. "You're really that curious?" He groaned dramatically, dropping his head back against the pillow. "At this point? It's consuming my life." You stared at him for a second, studying his expression as if trying to determine whether he was serious.

The answer was obvious, he absolutely was. With a small shake of your head, you finally relented. "Fine." Dean immediately perked up, his head snapped back up so fast it nearly gave you whiplash. “If you’re so curious, just come with me tomorrow. Find out for yourself." For a moment, Dean just stared. Then a slow grin spread across his face. After weeks of wondering, interrogating, and developing increasingly ridiculous conspiracy theories, he was finally going to get answers. He had no idea what he was walking into, but he was about to find out.

The following morning, Dean was drooling on his pillow when he felt you shift. The room was still dark, the early morning sunlight barely beginning to creep through the gap in the curtains. His brain hadn't fully booted up yet, leaving him somewhere between sleep and consciousness as he instinctively reached for the warm body beside him. Letting out a groan, he tried to pull you back into his chest, burying his face deeper into the pillow.

But it was no use.

"Up and at 'em, Di Laurentis." He could practically hear the smirk in your voice. Dean responded with another groan, dragging the pillow over his head in protest. For a brief moment, he considered pretending to be dead. Unfortunately, you knew him too well. A second later, the pillow was yanked away. "Don't make me get the spray bottle Tucker keeps in the kitchen." His eyes cracked open. "You wouldn't." The grin on your face told him otherwise.

With a sigh worthy of an Oscar, he finally pushed himself upright, rubbing a hand down his face. That was when his eyes nearly bulged out of his head. You were bent over tying your shoes, already dressed and ready to go. The fitted workout set left very little to the imagination, the leggings hugging every curve while your matching top disappeared beneath one of his old hockey hoodies.

Your hair was already pulled back into a ponytail, looking far too awake and put together for an hour that should've been illegal. Dean stared, brain completely short-circuited. He was half tempted to drag you right back into bed and forget this entire mystery existed. Curiosity, however, was the only thing stronger than his desire to go back to sleep or have hot morning sex.

Barely.

Sluggishly rolling out of bed, Dean shuffled toward the bathroom. The floor was cold, his eyes burned, and his soul hurt. Five minutes later, after splashing water on his face enough times to resemble a functioning human being, brushing his teeth, and throwing on a pair of gym shorts and a fitted black t-shirt, he emerged from the bathroom looking considerably more awake. Not happy, but awake.

You looked up from screwing the lid onto your giant water bottle, your gaze traveling slowly. Dean immediately noticed. The tight black shirt stretched across his shoulders and defined the muscles in his chest and back, while his shorts sat low on his hips, exposing powerful thighs built from years of hockey practices, conditioning drills, and games. You blinked. Once. Twice.

"You're droolin', babydoll." The smug grin that followed was absolutely insufferable. Snapping out of your thoughts, you rolled your eyes and grabbed your freshly refilled water bottle from the counter. "Please. Your ego doesn't need any more encouragement." Dean gasped dramatically. "That was rude." You simply headed toward the door. "Come on, Dean." You coaxed, hand firmly on your hip leaving absolutely no room for discussion.

He followed behind with another exaggerated sigh, shoving his feet into a pair of sneakers as quickly as possible. "They'll charge us if we're late." That made him pause. One hand still on his shoe, Dean slowly looked up. "Hold on." You were already opening the apartment door. "What do you mean they'll charge us?" A suspicious feeling settled in his stomach. For the first time all morning, Dean wondered if maybe, just maybe, following you had been a terrible idea.

Sure enough, when you led him through the doors of The Pilates Lab, Dean knew he was fucked. The realization hit the second he stepped inside. The studio was bright, spotless, and somehow intimidating despite the soft instrumental music drifting from hidden speakers. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined one wall, reflecting rows of sleek reformer machines arranged with military level precision.

Natural light poured through massive front windows, illuminating polished hardwood floors and cream-colored walls that somehow made the place feel both welcoming and terrifying. Terrifying mostly because every person inside looked like they belonged there. Dean, however, did not. The scent of eucalyptus and expensive cleaning products hung in the air. A small reception desk sat near the entrance beside shelves stocked with water bottles, protein bars, grip socks, and enough workout accessories to bankrupt a small nation.

You, meanwhile, looked completely at home. "Morning!" The receptionist greeted cheerfully as you approached. "Morning, Claire." Dean glanced around while you checked in. Women. Everywhere. A few men too, but mostly women. All of them looked suspiciously fit and flexible. Very, very flexible. One woman was casually stretching with her leg resting on a barre at a height Dean was pretty sure violated several laws of physics.

His hockey injuries hurt just looking at her. Then to make matters worse, he noticed the reformers. Rows and rows of reformers. Metal frames, straps, springs, moving platforms. They looked less like exercise equipment and more like devices designed specifically for torture. Dean pointed toward one. "The hell is that?" You followed his gaze, biting back a smile. "A reformer." You replied nonchalantly. "It looks dangerous." The smile at your lips widened at his tone which oozed discomfort.

"It's really not."

"You hesitated."

"I didn't."

"You absolutely did."

You laughed, reaching for his hand and tugging him farther inside to where you usually worked out. Only the deeper you ventured into the studio, the worse his feeling became. As you set your water bottle down beside your reformer and tugged off his sweatshirt, revealing your fitted workout top underneath, Dean stood there questioning every decision that had led him to this moment.

Then his gaze landed on the instructor, the woman looked approximately five feet tall, and somehow absolutely terrifying. The kind of terrifying that came from smiling too much while planning your demise. "Good morning, everyone!" Her voice carried easily across the room as the class immediately began moving toward their reformers. Around him, people adjusted springs, grabbed resistance bands, and clipped straps into place with the confidence of seasoned veterans.

Meanwhile, he was still trying to figure out what half the equipment even did. You noticed the shift in his demeanor next to you as you offered his forearm a reassuring squeeze. His eye twitched, which nearly made you laugh again. "You're going to be fine, Dean." The confidence in your voice wasn't nearly as comforting as you intended. Dean looked around the studio one more time. At the springs. The straps. The weights. The machines. The terrifyingly cheerful instructor. Then finally back at you.

"Babydoll, I think we have very different definitions of fine." It's not like he could leave. Not now. Not when half the class had realized a six-foot-two hockey player was standing in the middle of their Pilates studio looking like he'd accidentally wandered into enemy territory. Huffing, he turned towards the rack of weights lining the mirrored wall, barely hesitating before reaching for the heaviest pair available. The movement immediately caught your attention.

"You're gonna regret that." Dean scoffed, looking personally offended by the suggestion. "Babydoll, please, I bench two-thirty. I can easily handle twenty-pound hand weights." As if to prove his point, Dean was too busy rolling his shoulders and casually curling one of the dumbbells, looking far too pleased with himself. You looked at the weights, then at him, trying, and failing, to hide a smug smile since you already knew exactly how this was going to end for him.

The first five minutes weren't terrible. At least, that's what Dean told himself. The instructor began with slow, controlled movements that looked deceptively simple. Around the room, springs clicked softly against metal frames while reformers glided back and forth with smooth precision. Dean found himself settling into the rhythm quickly enough, or so he thought. Then, the shaking started. It began in his thighs. A subtle tremble at first, barely noticeable.

Then came the burn. The kind of deep, relentless burn that didn't make any sense. He was a Division I hockey player. He spent hours in the gym. He could squat absurd amounts of weight. Yet somehow a tiny movement performed on a sliding carriage had his legs vibrating like he'd just skated three periods back-to-back. Across the room, you looked annoyingly graceful. Dean, meanwhile, was fighting for his life.

Thirty minutes in, the black t-shirt clinging to his back was soaked through. His hair stuck to his forehead. Every muscle seemed to have discovered entirely new ways to suffer. The instructor floated around the room like an executioner disguised as a yoga mom, offering gentle corrections that somehow made every exercise twice as difficult. Whenever Dean thought a set was ending, another variation appeared.

Another hold. Another pulse. Another ten seconds.

Those ten seconds felt like years. At one point he became convinced time itself had stopped moving. The mirrors surrounding the studio only made things worse. Everywhere he looked he could see himself struggling. See the tremor in his arms. The shake in his legs. The tightening of his jaw. And every time he considered lowering a weight or taking a break, his gaze inevitably landed on you. You looked focused. Determined. Completely in your element.

There was a concentration on your face he rarely got to see outside of moments that truly mattered to you. That alone kept him going. That and his pride. Mostly his pride. Because there was absolutely no chance he was quitting before any of the women around him. By the forty-five minute mark, however, Dean was beginning to reconsider several core beliefs. Including his understanding of physical fitness. And maybe even reality itself.

The studio had grown warmer as class progressed, bodies moving continuously beneath the bright overhead lights. Sweat rolled down the back of his neck, his shirt felt suffocating. Eventually he gave up. During a brief transition between exercises, he grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head before tossing it toward the cubbies lining the wall. A few heads turned. Not many. Most people were too busy suffering.

However, your attention certainly did, so much so that for the briefest moment, your focus slipped. Your eyes tracked across his broad tanned shoulders, defined abs, and muscles earned through years of hockey training. The sight was familiar, yet somehow still distracting. Heat immediately crawled up your neck, luckily Dean didn't notice seeing as he was far too busy trying not to collapse. The distraction lasted only seconds before the instructor was directing everyone into another movement.

The class continued and somehow got harder. The final thirty minutes became a blur of shaking muscles, controlled breathing, and pure stubbornness. At that point, Dean's arms trembled. His core burned. His legs felt like overcooked noodles. Several times he caught you sneaking amused glances his way. Several times he returned them with a look that promised revenge. By the final series, every movement required concentration. The studio had fallen quieter now seeing as no one had energy left for anything else.

When the instructor finally announced the last stretch, a collective sigh swept throughout the entire room. Dean nearly collapsed onto the machine. His entire body felt spent. Not the satisfying exhaustion of hockey. Not the familiar ache of lifting. Something entirely different. Every muscle felt worked. Even muscles he hadn't known existed. As everyone began cleaning equipment and gathering their belongings, Dean remained exactly where he was for a few extra seconds, staring at the ceiling.

Humbled. He was completely, utterly, humbled.

Humiliated by a workout he'd walked into thinking would be easy. Yet despite himself, despite the suffering, despite the shaking, despite the fact that he probably wouldn't be able to sit down tomorrow, a reluctant grin tugged at his mouth. Because somewhere between the torture, the challenge, and stealing glances at you throughout the last ninety minutes, he'd actually had fun. Only he would never admit that part to you out loud.

As a chorus of applause rang out throughout the studio, Dean stayed flat on his back atop the reformer, bare chest glistening with sweat as he fought to catch his breath. The bright overhead lights blurred slightly above him while every muscle in his body protested the simple act of existing. Around the room, people began climbing off their machines, gathering water bottles and towels while chatting casually as if they hadn't just endured ninety minutes of pure torture.

Dean genuinely didn't understand how they were all standing. "You did it, babe." Your smile was warm and impossibly proud as you leaned down, pressing an encouraging kiss to his sweaty forehead. The simple gesture somehow felt more rewarding than surviving the class itself. You handed him your water bottle and for once, Dean didn't make a single joke about it. He simply took it immediately, drinking like a man who'd just crossed a desert. Cold water hit his throat as he gulped down several desperate mouthfuls.

"I'm so proud of you, baby, you completed your first Pilates class like a pro." He was almost certain you were fucking with him. There was absolutely no way he'd looked professional while shaking like a newborn deer for an hour and a half. Yet despite knowing that, he still preened under the praise. Because it was coming from you. And Dean was embarrassingly weak when it came to anything involving you. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he finally accepted your outstretched hand, fingers wrapping around yours while you helped haul him upright.

"So," You grinned, raking your nails through his sweaty blonde curls, pushing them away from his forehead. "Have I officially turned you into a Pilates princess?" Dean scoffed, yet his hands on your waist tightened as he pulled you closer, refusing to surrender what little dignity he had left. "Not a fucking chance, babydoll." He shook his head firmly, yet the look on his face made it clear he wasn't finished. "But, I wouldn't be opposed to seeing you in tight workout clothes more often." You instantly swatted his shoulder, which made his sore muscles jump.

The motion lacked any real force, mostly because you were trying not to laugh. Dean's grin immediately grew knowingly. The post-workout flush coloring your cheeks wasn't helping his concentration either. Not that he'd been concentrating much to begin with seeing as he made absolutely no effort to hide the way his gaze lingered. Not when you looked this good. Not when you were smiling at him like that. Not when you were still standing close enough for him to loop an arm around your waist and pull you closer.

You made no effort to move away as he dipped his head, pressing a playful kiss against your neck before blowing a raspberry against your damp skin. The sound echoed loudly enough that your laughter filled the studio as you swatted him again, the bright sound instantly pulling his attention back to you. And just like that, he realized something. He'd willingly gotten out of bed before sunrise. He'd survived ninety minutes of what could only be described as organized suffering. His entire body hurt. Tomorrow would probably be far worse.

The boys were absolutely going to roast him alive when they found out he willingly attended a Pilates class. Yet somehow? He didn't care, not even a little. Because throughout the entire class, every time he'd wanted to quit, he'd looked over and seen you. Smiling. Laughing. Thriving. Happy. And apparently that was enough to make him push through burning muscles, wounded pride, and an instructor who was definitely some kind of sadist in brightly colored workout clothes.

As you gathered your things and reached for his hand, Dean intertwined your fingers without hesitation, thumb brushing across your knuckles as you walked toward the exit together. Maybe he'd never admit that he'd actually enjoyed Pilates. But if it meant spending mornings with you? Dean would survive the teasing, the early alarms, hell, he'd even drink your radioactive green juice. Because when it came to you, Dean was hopelessly, irrevocably gone. And honestly, he wouldn't have it any other way.

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[sunnydilaurentis]

sunset skies | found family au ⋆˚࿔

summary: in which allie, y/n, sabrina and grace chase a sunset from the hockey house roof, only to end up stranded while the boys swing wildly between panic, frustration, and overwhelming relief trying to get them down safely.

notes: hi!! thank you so much for your request, this was such a fun idea to write! i love incorporating moments where the girls are completely unfazed and oblivious while the boys are losing their minds trying to keep them safe. i hope you all enjoy!! 💌

✩.* found family fics!

✩.* found family masterlist

ꪆৎ

the sunset idea had sounded significantly smarter forty minutes ago.

back when the four of you were tipsy on cheap wine, sprawled across the living room floor while grace insisted the sky looked too pretty to waste from ground level.

“we should go on the roof,” allie had declared immediately from where she was sat on the couch. which, looking back now, should’ve concerned everyone a little more.

instead, grace had gasped dramatically.

“oh my god, yes!”

you had already started grabbing blankets from around the hockey house before anyone could question the plan, and suddenly all four of you were climbing out through the upstairs bedroom window.

the roof was perfect for sunset.

warm summer air brushed softly against your skin as the sunset stretched pink and orange across campus, the sky painted in streaks of gold that reflected against the windows of the dorm buildings nearby.

grace's speaker played quietly beside you, music low enough that your laughter still carried loud across the roof.

grace lay flat on her back with one arm thrown across her eyes, her half-empty wine glass balancing dangerously against her stomach.

sabrina sat cross-legged beside her trying to tell a story that kept getting interrupted because she physically could not stop laughing at her own retelling.

allie lay beside you, curled beneath a blanket while animatedly talking about how some girl in her tutorial thought dean was 'intimidating'. you smiled softly to yourself, knees tucked beneath your chin while the skyline glowed around you.

there was something so peaceful about being with your people. the kind of closeness that only existed when friendships had crossed so far beyond casual that they’d become something permanent.

your cheeks hurt from laughing, your body pleasantly heavy from alcohol and summer heat, the sunset so pretty it almost didn’t look real.

it felt warm.

safe.

which was probably why none of you noticed the window sliding shut behind you. not until nearly twenty minutes later.

sabrina was the first one to realise.

she’d leaned backwards toward the window to refill her drink from the wine bottle that had been sitting just inside the bedroom, before stopping abruptly.

“…guys?”

allie looked up immediately, “yeah?”

sabrina frowned slightly, pushing at the window once, then harder. to her dismay, it didn't budge and a strange silence settled over you all.

grace slowly sat upright, “why are you making that face?”

“the window’s locked.”

another pause.

“what do you mean locked?” grace asked slowly.

sabrina laughed uncomfortably, her eyes widening in realisation.

“i mean it's shut...it doesn't want to open”

allie crawled over immediately, “let me have a go.” she grabbed the handle, pulling on it, but nothing happened.

the window didn't budge.

her expression shifted almost instantly.

“…oh shit.”

you stared at her, your eyes widening in realisation. “allie, what exactly do you mean by ‘oh shit’?"

she looked back at the four of you and despite the situation, started laughing.

“i think we’re stuck up here.”

you weren’t sure if it was the alcohol coursing through your body or the way the moment felt too warm to properly hold onto, but before you could say anything, laughter spilled from your lips.

because of course this had happened, of course you had somehow found yourselves locked out from the house and stuck on the roof.

the boys were going to kill you.

“okay,” you managed eventually. “it's okay we'll just call one of them”

silence.

grace checked her pockets first.

“…i left my phone downstairs.”

“mine too,” sabrina admitted weakly.

allie slowly grimaced, she had too.

you reached into the pocket of your hoodie before stopping.

“…no.”

grace immediately collapsed backward onto the blankets again.

“oh guys.”

-

the boys knew something was wrong almost immediately, mostly because the house was quiet.

far too quiet.

logan walked through the front door first carrying takeout bags in one hand before immediately narrowing his eyes. “why does it feel haunted in here?”

“y/n?” garrett called out behind him.

nothing.

dean dropped his bag beside the stairs with a frown, noticing allie’s purse abandoned on the kitchen table.

tucker glanced slowly around.

“…why can i hear faint screaming?”

everyone stilled.

logan paused.

“wait.”

there it was again.

distant yelling somewhere above them.

then-

“we're stuck!"

all four boys whipped their heads upward simultaneously.

“…what the fuck?” dean muttered.

they moved immediately.

garrett took the stairs two at a time while logan nearly dropped the takeout trying to keep up. it wasn’t until they rushed into the upstairs bedroom that garrett spotted movement outside the window.

his entire face drained instantly because there you were, sitting on the roof wrapped in a blanket, a small smile gracing your features.

“what the-" logan starts, before garrett quickly cuts him off.

"why are you all on the fucking roof?”

“before you get mad-” you started carefully.

“we got locked out!” allie yells from behind you.

dean physically freezes at the window, his eyes wide in shock. “how does that even happen?”

grace points vaguely towards all of you. “group decision.”

“that does not make it better!"

tucker’s stomach drops the second he notices how close sabrina is to the edge.

“okay no, seriously” he said immediately. “move back, sweetheart.”

“tucker, relax-"

“absolutely not.”

sabrina blinked at him.

“you guys are being dramatic" allie states, a glint of humour evident in her eyes, clearly amused by the situation.

four male voices answer instantly.

“no we are not!”

tucker already has both hands gripping the sides of his head. “you’re all drunk on a roof.”

dean narrows his eyes, focusing on the piece of blue fabric near the gutter.

“…why is there a blanket hanging off the gutter?”

everyone slowly looks down before grace visibly hesitates. “that might’ve been my attempt at making a rope.”

there was a moment of complete silence before dean covers his face with both hands.

“jesus christ-"

“i’m actually getting grey hairs.”

logan looks horrified as realisation crosses his features, “you guys were going to climb down?!”

“well we weren’t planning on living up here permanently,” sabrina points out.

“sabrina.”

“i’m kidding!”

“you’re not funny right now.”

which only makes her burst into laughter.

garrett’s attention snaps back towards you the second you shift closer to the window.

“baby,” he says carefully, in the kind of controlled voice that meant he was significantly more stressed than he wanted to sound.

"i need you to stop moving around up there.”

you blinked at him innocently in response. “i’m literally sitting.”

“exactly. stay sitting.”

“you sound stressed.”

“because my girlfriend is trapped on our roof”

a slight grin tugs at your lips. “trapped feels a bit dramatic, don't you think graham?"

“you guys made a blanket rope, y/n”

you pressed your lips together hard to stop yourself from laughing.

eventually, after twenty minutes of yelling over each other while dean attempted to figure out how the window had managed to lock in the first place and tucker actively debated whether breaking it would somehow make the situation worse, they finally managed to force it open from the inside.

dean was first to help allie climb back through the window while actively lecturing her at the same time.

“you climbed onto the roof drunk.”

“tipsy,” allie corrected immediately, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

“that is not the part of the sentence i’m concerned about.”

once safe, logan had both hands on grace’s face like he genuinely couldn’t decide whether to kiss or yell at her.

“you could’ve fallen.”

“i didn’t though.”

“grace.”

“logan.”

tucker looked genuinely stressed beside sabrina, hands rubbing over his face. “you guys seriously didn’t bring your phones?”

that somehow made all four boys visibly more upset.

“oh my god,” dean muttered. “you are all impossible.”

you were climbing carefully back through the window when garrett’s hand settled instinctively against your waist to steady you. the contact felt firmer than usual, protective in a way that immediately made your chest ache slightly.

because he still looked rattled.

his jaw was tight, eyes scanning over you again like he still wasn’t fully convinced you were okay.

“hey,” you said softly once the two of you were standing properly inside again.

garrett looked down at you immediately and something in his expression shifted the second your voice softened.

less frustration.

more relief.

you reached carefully for his wrist, “we’re okay, we were being safe.”

his hand moved instinctively higher against your waist then, pulling you closer without even seeming to realise he was doing it. he exhaled sharply against the top of your head like he’d been holding his breath ever since he saw you up there.

“how long were you guys stuck out there for?”

the question comes out sharper than he intends it to, his hands settling against your arms like he needed physical confirmation that you were fine.

“not that long,” you said carefully.

“define not that long.”

“…maybe forty minutes.”

he exhales, pressing a delicate kiss to your forehead.

“you scared the shit out of me, you know that?” his voice is quieter than before, the honesty in it hitting significantly harder than you expected.

he sounded genuinely shaken.

you tilted your head back slightly to look up at him.

“but did we die?”

all of the boys groaned simultaneously in response before dean points accusingly at all four of you.

“normal people watch sunsets from the ground.”

“boring,” grace says immediately.

“you are all exhausting.”

✩.* taglist; @05gwyn | @alwaysclassyeagle | @casiiopea2 | @nexisphere | @imstressed17 | @legendarychrattgirl | @ethanthequeefqueen | @wiishies | @legendarychrattgirl | @tabisswag | @corvusmorte | @mariiibash | @stevesxwhore | @choppedpartymuffinwinner | @flannelshirts-and-fingerguns | @leilareads58 | @nikfigueiredo | @archxve

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ slow laps.

pairing – garrett graham x figure skater!reader summary – rehab is ugly, slow, and humiliating. garrett graham, annoyingly, makes it feel a little less lonely. warnings – sports injury, rehab/physio, knee injury, recovery anxiety, fear of reinjury, crying, emotional vulnerability, strong language notes from me – thank u for the request, anon!! such a cute idea 🥹 tried to write this !reader as a lil more anxious & shy than my others, it was fun!! <3 word count – 5.5k

navigation – masterlist | taglist

By the second week of physiotherapy, she’s started recognising the rehab room by smell before she even gets through the door.

It’s always the same: rubber mats, disinfectant, stale coffee from the travel mug Cam leaves on the little desk by the wall, the faint clean plastic smell of resistance bands and ice packs and the weird foam balance pads that look harmless until you’re standing on one leg on top of them, sweating through a university-issued t-shirt, trying not to make eye contact with your own reflection in the mirror.

The room isn’t big enough for how humiliating it is. That’s what she decides somewhere around the seventh time Cam tells her to keep her knee tracking over her toes and not let her hip drop, as if any part of her body has retained a functional management structure since the injury. 

It’s not big enough for the amount of trying happening in it. Not big enough for lacrosse girls doing hamstring bridges, a baseball player walking around with one of those compression sleeves on his elbow, a freshman swimmer crying silently through shoulder mobility in the corner while pretending she is absolutely not crying. 

It’s not big enough for all the little griefs athletes drag in with their water bottles and their taped joints and their faces set carefully into the shape of being fine.

She used to think of her body as something she could ask things of.

Not nicely, always. Figure skating had never been gentle, no matter what people thought from the stands when the dresses were pretty and the music swelled and everybody politely forgot that most of the sport was just girls repeatedly hurling themselves at the ice until one day the hurling started looking graceful. 

Her body had always hurt somewhere. Ankles, arches, hip flexors, the backs of her knees, the little bruises on her thighs from falls she’d stopped counting years ago. 

Pain had been background noise. A language, almost. Something she could interpret and bargain with and, on good days, ignore.

This is different. This is her body becoming a locked door.

“Again,” Cam says.

She looks at him through the mirror. He has the clipboard tucked against his chest and the calm, mildly sympathetic face of a man who has chosen professionally to ruin people’s afternoons through controlled movement. “Cam.”

“One more set.”

“You said that last set.”

“I lied.”

She lets out a breath that’s too close to a laugh to count as actual protest and steps back onto the little foam pad. It dips under her weight. Her ankle wobbles. Her knee, traitor, considers doing something stupid. She fixes it fast, jaw tightening before her face can give too much away.

Cam notices anyway, because Cam is awful.

“Good,” he says. “That’s better.”

“It feels bad.”

“It’s supposed to feel hard.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I know.”

She hates that tone. Cam is one of those deeply inconvenient medical professionals who knows exactly when not to give you the easy reassurance, which means she can’t even be properly irritated with him without feeling immature about it. 

He doesn’t say you’ll be back before you know it. He doesn’t say you’re young, you’ll heal fast, as if youth is a warranty and not just another thing that can get snapped in half during a bad landing. 

He just says again, and better, and not yet, and lets the rest of the room sit there around it.

She finishes the set with her hands hovering slightly away from her sides like she might be able to balance through prayer, then steps off the pad and pretends the relief doesn’t go all the way through her.

Cam scribbles something down. “That’s enough for today.”

Her breath leaves her in one piece. “Thank God.”

“Don’t sound so grateful.”

“I’m trying to make you feel valued.”

“That was your version?”

“It was implied.”

He smiles faintly and reaches for the roll of athletic tape on the table. “Ice tonight if it gets cranky. Don’t push the stairs. And don’t go on the ice.”

She looks down at her bag too quickly. Cam pauses. The silence is horrible.

She lifts her eyes back to him with as much blank innocence as she can assemble while sweaty and standing in one shoe. “What?”

He gives her a look.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Good.”

“I know I’m not cleared.”

“Great.”

“I’m not an idiot.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You were thinking it in your Cam voice.”

“My Cam voice?”

“The one where you sound nice while accusing me of crimes.”

That gets a small laugh out of him, which she counts as a win even though he immediately ruins it by pointing at her with his pen. “No ice.”

The words land flatter than the joke leaves room for. She nods, because nodding is easier than speaking when the answer has gone somewhere tight under her ribs. 

No ice. Two tiny words. Perfectly reasonable. Clinically correct. Devastating in the way small, practical sentences often are when they’re the ones standing between you and the only place your body has ever made proper sense.

She sits on the bench to change back into her other sneaker, unwrapping the brace strap with careful fingers. There’s a damp patch at the collar of her shirt and another under the elastic of the brace, and she can feel the dull, complaining warmth in her knee beginning to spread now that the session is over and adrenaline has stopped being useful.

The door opens while she’s shoving her water bottle into the side pocket of her bag, and Garrett Graham steps in.

He comes in the same way he always seems to come into rooms, even injured. He just has that stupidly natural presence that takes up space before he’s done anything to earn it, all broad shoulders and damp dark curls and Briar Hockey hoodie with one sleeve pushed higher than the other. 

His gym bag is slung over one shoulder, his phone in his hand, and there’s a strip of white tape disappearing under the edge of his shorts near his thigh, which she tries very hard not to look at for too long.

She knows him, technically, Briar ice athletes overlap. They know the same rink schedule, the same sharp smell of resurfaced ice, the same ugly fluorescent tunnel between the locker rooms. 

She knows Garrett Graham because everyone knows Garrett Graham, but she also knows him in the more specific way of someone who has seen him skate when he thinks only hockey matters. Fast, controlled, mean in the cleanest possible way. Good hands. Good edges, for a hockey player, which she had once made the mistake of saying near one of the other figure skaters and had been accused of sounding weirdly horny about crossovers.

She wasn’t. Mostly.

He knows of her too. She knows this because he’d said her name once in the rink hallway last semester when she’d nearly collided with him coming around the corner with her skate bag, and because he’d watched the last ten minutes of one of her practices from the boards with Logan and Tucker a few months ago, both of them still in half their gear, while she ran the footwork section of her short program three times in a row until her lungs burned and her coach finally stopped looking like she might start throwing things. 

Garrett had leaned his forearms on the boards and said something she couldn’t hear. Logan had laughed. Tucker had looked politely impressed in the way nice men look when women do difficult things they understand enough not to interrupt.

So, first-name basis. Vague orbit. Mutual ice awareness.

Not whatever this is, which is Garrett walking in right as she’s sweaty and sore and trying to get her sneaker on without making the tiny injured-person grunt she has grown to hate in herself.

Cam looks over his shoulder. “One second, Garrett. I won’t be long, man.”

Garrett nods, easy. “All good.”

His eyes move from Cam to her, and she braces, because she’s been doing a lot of that lately, bracing. For pity. For questions. For the little sympathetic wince people do when they’ve heard about the injury but don’t know what to say after sorry, that sucks, so they fill the air with optimism until she wants to bite through her own tongue.

Garrett doesn’t wince. He gives her one of those small, quick smiles instead. 

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi.”

He shifts his bag higher on his shoulder, glancing once at the brace and then back at her face so quickly she almost appreciates the politeness of it. “I heard you got hurt. That’s… yeah. Fucking sucks.”

It shouldn’t help, except it does. The bluntness. The lack of inspirational packaging. The fact that he says it like someone who knows exactly how unhelpful it is when people try to make being benched sound like a spiritual growth opportunity.

She nods and looks down for half a second at the zipper on her bag, pulling it closed even though it’s already closed. “Yeah. It’s pretty shit.”

His mouth moves, not quite a smile. “Yeah.”

“I heard about yours too,” she adds, because it’s only fair and also because looking at him directly for too long feels slightly like standing too close to a heater. “I’m sorry.”

He makes a small shrugging motion. It’s casual, but not quite enough to hide the little tightness that passes across his face when the movement pulls at something. “Could be worse.”

She looks at him. Garrett looks back.

Then he huffs a quiet laugh. “Sorry. That’s such an asshole thing to say to someone injured.”

Her mouth lifts before she can stop it. “It’s okay. Everyone says it.”

“I know. I keep wanting to fight them.”

“Have you?”

“Not yet. Cam said it would slow my recovery.”

“He’s very anti-violence for someone who hurts people for a living.”

Cam, from the cabinet, says, “I can hear both of you.”

Garrett’s grin appears then, quicker, brighter, and for one strange second it makes the rehab room feel less ugly. 

Cam comes over with his clipboard tucked under one arm and gives Garrett the tired look of a man who has known hockey players long enough to consider them a hazard. “Ready?”

Garrett nods, but his eyes flick back to her. “See you.”

It’s a small, stupid, future-tense thing. See you. Like it’s already assumed there will be another time. Like she’s not just passing through the doorway of his appointment with her bag on her shoulder and her knee taped into submission, but someone who exists in the shape of his week now.

She nods. “Yeah. Bye.”

Then she leaves before her face can do anything unhelpful.

After that, they keep seeing each other. That’s the whole problem with schedules. They make coincidences stop being coincidences and start becoming routines before anyone has to be brave enough to choose them. 

Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Her appointment first. Garrett after. The first few times, it’s only hey and how’s it going and Cam making deeply unimpressed noises when Garrett leans in the doorway instead of waiting properly outside like a normal person.

By the following Wednesday, Garrett’s sitting on the bench in the hallway when she comes out, elbows on his knees, hoodie sleeves shoved up, one hand wrapped around an iced coffee that looks mostly melted. 

He glances up as the door opens, like he’s been reading something on his phone and not listening for it, which is a performance she respects enough not to challenge.

“You survive?” he asks.

She shifts her bag higher on her shoulder. “Barely.”

“Bad?”

“Cam made me do step-downs.”

Garrett’s face changes with immediate, serious recognition. “Oh, Jesus.”

“Right?”

“No, those are evil.”

“They look so stupid. That’s what makes it worse. Like, I’m standing there trying not to die on a four-inch box.”

“Yeah, and Cam’s like, great, now control the descent.”

She laughs, and then looks down because the laugh comes out too easy. Too relieved. “He says it like that too.”

“Of course he does. He has a script.”

From inside the rehab room, Cam calls, “I still hear you.”

Garrett raises his coffee vaguely toward the door. “We’re bonding through shared suffering. It’s part of the process.”

“It’s not billable,” Cam says.

Garrett looks back at her, and there’s that little curl at the corner of his mouth again, but softer than she expects. “You got class after this?”

She blinks. “Yeah.”

“Where?”

“Psych. Levin.”

He pauses. “Wait, the eleven-thirty?”

“You’re in that class?”

His expression shifts into something almost sheepish, which is such a strange look on him that she forgets for a second to be awkward about her own surprise. 

“I sit in the back,” he says. “Very engaged. Quietly academic.”

“I have literally never seen you.”

“That feels like a you problem.”

“It feels like an attendance problem.”

Garrett presses a hand to his chest like this has wounded him. “I’m injured and you’re attacking me.”

She laughs. “You started it.”

“I asked about class.”

“Menace behaviour.”

He laughs at that, quick and low, head ducking for half a second. Then he stands because Cam calls him in, and he’s suddenly very close in the narrow hallway, close enough that she has to tilt her face a little to keep looking at him. 

His smile stays, but the volume of it drops. “See you in Levin, then?”

She should say maybe. Or sure. Or something easy and noncommittal that keeps the moment from feeling too visible.

Instead she says, “If you show up.”

His eyebrows lift. “That a challenge?”

“No.”

“Sounded like one.”

She doesn’t know what to do with that, so she adjusts her bag again, which has become a humiliating little habit around him. 

Her hands always need a task before her face gives her away. “Go do your step-downs, Graham.”

He smiles properly then, pleased. “Yes, ma’am.”

She walks away before Cam can witness the way her mouth betrays her.

Garrett does show up to class that day. He comes in two minutes late, because punctuality would have damaged the brand, and slides into the seat beside her with his laptop under one arm and a coffee in his hand. 

There’s a row of empty seats behind them. Several, actually. He ignores all of them.

She looks over as he sits. “Subtle.”

“What?”

“You could have sat literally anywhere.”

He opens his laptop. “This seat has a good view.”

“Of the lecture?”

He glances at the front of the room, where Dr. Levin is fighting with the projector and slowly losing. “Sure.”

She looks down at her notebook because smiling at her paper is less incriminating than smiling at him. 

Garrett doesn’t push it. That surprises her a little, though by then maybe it shouldn’t. He jokes, yes. He has the kind of natural charm that makes silence around him feel almost rude. 

But he’s not constantly filling space just to hear himself in it. He seems to know when to let a moment breathe, which is worse, somehow. Much worse. Because it means the attention is not accidental.

He takes notes badly. Not because he’s stupid, she learns that very quickly. Garrett isn’t stupid in the way some people like to assume athletes are stupid when they would rather not admit physical talent can exist alongside a working brain. 

He just takes notes like a man who believes future him will remember the context through sheer confidence. Half sentences. Arrows to nowhere. One bullet point that just says dopamine??? and then, underneath it, ask her.

She catches it while he’s typing and looks at him.

He doesn’t look back, but his mouth moves. “Don’t judge my system.”

“That’s a system?”

“It works.”

“It says ask her.”

“Yeah.” Now he glances over, and his eyes are warm enough that her stomach does something small and deeply unhelpful. “See? Efficient.”

She lets out a breath through her nose and turns back to her own notes. “You’re ridiculous.”

After that, the talking becomes easier because it has somewhere to go. Rehab into class. Class into walking halfway across campus. Walking into texts, eventually, though the number exchange happens in the most Garrett way possible, which is to say he makes it sound practical even while looking far too pleased with himself.

They’re leaving psych one afternoon, the sky low and grey over campus, both of them moving slower than the stream of students around them because neither of them can walk at full speed without paying for it later. 

Garrett has his hood up against the cold and his bag slung over one shoulder. She has one hand wrapped around the strap of her own, the other holding her phone, thumb hovering over a message from her coach she hasn’t opened because she can see the first line in the preview and already knows it will make her feel like peeling her skin off.

Garrett notices. 

“Coach?” he asks.

She looks over. “What?”

He nods toward the phone. “I know the face.”

She looks down at the screen again. The preview says, no pressure, just wanted to check in about competition timeline, which is exactly the kind of text people send when there is pressure and everyone knows it but nobody wants to be rude enough to name the animal in the room. Her thumb locks the phone before she can read the rest.

Garrett doesn’t say anything for a few steps. He doesn’t immediately try to fix it. Doesn’t ask if she’s okay in a tone that makes okay feel like a performance. 

He just walks beside her, slower than campus wants him to, shoulder occasionally close enough to brush hers when the path narrows.

Finally, he says, “I hate those texts.”

She glances at him.

“The check-in ones,” he says. “Like they’re being nice, and they are, but it’s also like… hey, just wondering if your body has stopped ruining the plan yet.”

Her throat tightens so quickly she has to look away.

Garrett’s voice stays even, low enough that the people passing them don’t get any of it. “The hockey staff keep doing it too. Not in a shitty way. They’re trying to be normal. But every time someone asks how recovery’s going, I’m like, I don’t know, man. I miss my life and my hip feels fucked up. You want the official answer or the weird one?”

She laughs, but it comes out thin. Still, it comes. “My knee feels fucked up.”

They walk a little farther. The cold air catches under the hem of her sweatshirt and sneaks up her back. Somewhere across the quad, a group of boys are laughing too loudly near the library steps. A bike bell rings. The world continues in its very rude way, all motion and noise and healthy knees.

Garrett clears his throat. “You can send me those, if you want.”

She looks up at him.

“The annoying texts,” he says, and now he does seem a little more careful, eyes flicking to hers and away again. “Or just, like… complain. If you don’t want to answer normal people nicely.”

Something in her chest shifts. “Normal people?”

“You know.” His mouth tips. “Healthy civilians.”

“That’s dark.”

“It’s accurate.”

She looks at her phone. Then at him. “Are you giving me your number so I can forward you texts from my coach?”

He shrugs, but his ears go just slightly pink from the cold or the question. “I mean, when you put it like that, it sounds weird.”

“It is weird.”

“You want it or not?”

She does. Immediately. Stupidly. Enough that she has to make herself take a second before answering. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” She opens a new contact and hands him the phone before she can overthink the fact that her fingers feel too warm. “For fucked up knee purposes.”

Garrett takes it, smiling down at the screen while he types. “Obviously.”

He saves himself as Garrett, then, after one tiny pause she absolutely notices, adds a hockey stick emoji. When he hands it back, she looks at it and raises her brows.

“Subtle.”

Her first text to him, sent that night after staring at her coach’s full message for eleven minutes and then lying face-down on her bed in a silence so complete her roommate had paused in the doorway and then wisely kept walking, is just a screenshot.

Garrett replies three minutes later.

Garrett: jesus. “no pressure” should be illegal.

She types, right????

Garrett: they put it at the front like a tiny little lawyer.

She laughs into her pillow hard enough that the pressure behind her eyes changes shape.

After that, it’s embarrassingly easy.

She’s slower to warm, more cautious, more likely to tuck herself back inside her own head the second a feeling starts getting too large to hold naturally. 

Garrett seems to understand that without making her explain it. He doesn’t crowd. He doesn’t demand a constant version of her that knows how to be charming back on command. 

He sends her a picture of Logan asleep sitting up on the couch with an ice pack balanced on his shoulder. 

Garrett: warrior down. 

She sends back, is he alive? 

Garrett: unclear. tucker says we should wait and see.

Sometimes they talk a lot. Sometimes it’s only a stupid photo, a class complaint, a how’s the knee? sent at nine p.m. that makes her chest go warm because he remembers which days hurt more. 

Sometimes she doesn’t answer for hours because the whole day has been too much and she’s gone quiet in that way that makes even typing feel strangely exposed. 

Garrett never punishes the delay by getting weird about it. He just picks the conversation back up wherever she left it, like the space is allowed.

He’s not always gentle. She wouldn’t like him as much if he were. Garrett’s gentleness works because it’s threaded through the rest of him, through the easy confidence and the dry little comments and the occasional captain voice that slips out when Cam tells him to stop overdoing it and he says, “I’m not,” with the exact expression of someone absolutely overdoing it. 

He still chirps Logan across the room. Still gives Dean shit when Dean swings by the rehab hall one afternoon and announces, loudly, “Damn, this is where they keep all the broken hot people,” before Tucker drags him back by the hood and says, “Don’t flirt with the injured. It’s unethical.”

Garrett, sitting beside her on the hallway bench with an ice pack on his thigh, doesn’t even look embarrassed. He only rubs a hand over his mouth and mutters, “I’m so sorry.”

She presses her lips together to keep from laughing. “Are they always like that?”

“No,” Garrett says. Then, after half a second, “Yes.”

Dean, from down the hall, calls, “She seems nice, G!”

Garrett closes his eyes briefly.

Tucker says, “Keep walking.”

Logan’s voice drifts back too, amused and bright. “Garrett made a friend!”

Garrett opens his eyes and looks at her with an expression so tired and resigned that she actually does laugh then, full and surprised and too loud for the hallway. His face changes when she does. Only for a second. It softens, almost helplessly, before he covers it by looking down at his ice pack.

“Yeah,” he says. “They’re always like that.”

By the second month, Cam starts pairing them for parts of rehab because, as he puts it, “You both complain less when you’re trying to look normal in front of each other.”

Garrett looks offended. “I always look normal.”

Cam doesn’t even glance up from the clipboard. “You asked me yesterday if your hip mobility was ‘giving washed-up uncle.’”

She bites down on a smile.

Garrett points at her. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“I was not.”

“You were thinking it.”

She looks down at the resistance band looped around her ankle, cheeks warm. “I mean. A little.”

Garrett’s mouth twitches. “Unbelievable.”

Rehabbing together is both better and worse. Better because Garrett makes the room less lonely without trying to fill it too brightly. Worse because now she has to be perceived while doing the ugliest exercises known to sports medicine. 

There’s nothing romantic about hip bridges. There’s nothing elegant about controlled lunges when your knee is shaking like it’s received bad news by telegram. 

There’s  no world in which she wants Garrett Graham to watch her do glute activation with a yellow band around her thighs while Cam says, “Good, hold that,” in the background like a man actively trying to end her life.

Garrett, to his credit, doesn’t make it weird. He makes other things weird, obviously. He’s still Garrett. When she wobbles on the balance pad, he says, “Very artistic,” and when she glares at him, he lifts both hands and says, “I’m appreciating the performance.” 

When Cam tells Garrett his form is getting sloppy, she murmurs, “Washed-up uncle,” under her breath and Garrett looks at her like he can’t decide whether to laugh or throw a towel at her. 

When she has a bad pain day and goes quiet halfway through, Garrett stops joking entirely and starts matching her pace so subtly she doesn’t realise until later. He finishes his reps slower. Takes longer between sets. Asks Cam a question he probably already knows the answer to, giving her thirty extra seconds to breathe without anyone looking directly at her.

That one stays with her for a while. It’s easier to let someone flirt with you than it is to let them notice you’re struggling and not make you feel small about it.

Garrett is cleared for the ice before she is. He tells her after a Friday session, standing outside the athletic building with his hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie, campus cold moving around them in little grey gusts. 

He looks happy, but it’s careful happiness. Muted. Like he knows the news is good and still doesn’t want to set it down too loudly between them.

“Cam said I can start controlled skating next week,” he says.

Her heart does something complicated.

“Oh,” she says, and hates immediately that it comes out too small. So she fixes it fast, or tries to. “Garrett, that’s great.”

“Yeah.”

“No, really. That’s… that’s so good.”

His eyes stay on her face. “I know.”

“You don’t sound like you know.”

“I do.” He looks away for a second, toward the parking lot, where a bunch of hockey guys are piling into someone’s car and yelling about food. “It’s just weird.”

She nods before he has to explain. Being allowed back into the place you’ve been aching for isn’t cleanly joyful when someone else is still outside the door. Especially when that someone has been sitting beside you for weeks, teaching you through sheer proximity that your particular kind of misery is not as uniquely embarrassing as you thought.

“I’m glad,” she says.

Garrett looks back at her, and the softness in his face makes her wish she had phrased it better, or maybe worse. “You’ll get there.”

She nods. “Yeah.”

“I know you know that. Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“I just–” He stops, rubs one hand over the back of his neck, and for once the confidence seems to snag on something real before it can make the sentence smoother than it should be. “It sucks being the one still waiting. I know.”

Her throat tightens. She looks down at the crack in the pavement between them. “I hate that I’m jealous.”

Garrett’s quiet for half a second, in a surprised-by-her-honesty way. Then he says, “Yeah.”

She winces. “That was not my best quality.”

“It’s not a crime.”

“It feels ugly.”

“A lot of this feels fucking ugly.”

She looks up at him then, and his face is open in that simple, steady way of his that keeps undoing her. 

“Yeah,” she says. “It does.”

He nods once, like they’ve agreed on something important and awful. Then his mouth shifts, small and careful. “I’ll tell you if it sucks.”

She huffs a laugh. “Your first skate back?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s comforting.”

“I’m offering solidarity.”

It does suck, apparently. He texts her after the first session. 

Garrett: felt good for ten seconds then my body filed a formal complaint.

She stares at the message for a long time, then replies, rude of it.

Garrett: yeah. HR nightmare.

She sends, did it feel nice though?

The typing bubbles appear. Disappear. Reappear. The finally he replies.

Garrett: yeah. too nice. kind of wanted to stay out there forever and also throw up.

Her eyes sting so fast it embarrasses her, even alone in her room. She types, yeah. i get that.

Garrett: i know.

When her clearance comes, it’s a Saturday morning in the third month of rehab, and she almost doesn’t believe Cam when he says it.

Controlled ice work only. Edges. Slow laps. Nothing clever. Nothing she would describe later as just seeing how it felt, because that sentence has been the downfall of many athletes before her. She nods through all of it with her hands folded tightly in her lap.

Cam stops talking. Her eyes are fixed on the corner of his clipboard.

“You okay?” he asks.

She nods, once. Too fast.

He waits. A laugh comes out of her, tiny and breathless and nothing like humour. “Sorry. I just… yeah. I’m good.”

Cam’s face softens. “You’re ready for this part.”

She gets to the parking lot before she texts Garrett.

cleared for controlled ice work.

He calls her. 

She stares at the screen for one full ring, startled enough that she almost drops the phone, then answers with a voice that comes out much quieter than planned. “Hi.”

“Holy shit,” Garrett says, and the happiness in his voice is so immediate and unfiltered that she has to close her eyes for a second. “That’s huge.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s really fucking good.”

“I know.” She laughs softly, but it shakes. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Also valid.”

“Cam said I can go tomorrow morning. Just controlled stuff.”

“I’ll come.”

The answer is so quick she doesn’t know what to do with it. She sits in her parked car with the keys still in her hand and looks out through the windshield at the athletic building, the brick and glass blurred slightly by the cold. “You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

“You probably have… hockey things.”

“Can’t do hockey things yet.”

“Team things.”

“They’ll survive one morning without me standing there being inspirational in a hoodie.”

She smiles despite herself, and because he can’t see it, she lets it happen properly. “You’re very important.”

“Thank you.”

“I was joking.”

“I wasn’t.”

That gets a real laugh out of her, and Garrett is quiet for the smallest beat after it, like he’s letting himself hear it. 

Then his voice lowers a little. “Seriously. I’ll come. If you want.”

She swallows. The car is cold. Her knee aches faintly from the session. Her phone is warm against her ear.

“Yeah,” she says. “I want.”

The rink is almost empty the next morning. It’s early enough that the building still has that half-asleep feeling, the lobby lights too bright over the old carpet, the vending machines humming like they’ve been up all night thinking about their choices. 

Someone has left a stack of orange cones by the boards. The ice is clean from a fresh resurface, glossy and unmarked under the white lights, and the sight of it hits her so hard she stops walking halfway down the tunnel.

Garrett notices after two steps and turns back. He’s in a Briar hoodie and dark athletic pants, skates dangling from one hand, hair curling damply near his forehead because he’s showered before dawn like a lunatic. 

He looks less like campus Garrett here. Less like the guy everyone waves at in the dining hall, less like the captain with half the hockey program orbiting him. In the rink, he’s quieter. Familiar with the cold. Part of the architecture in the same way she is, or was, or is trying very hard to become again.

“You good?” he asks.

She looks past him at the ice. “Yeah.”

It’s very obviously not convincing.

Garrett doesn’t call her on it. He only nods and shifts his skates to his other hand. “We can sit for a minute.”

“I’m fine.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t.”

She looks at him then, and the gentleness of his face makes something in her twist. Garrett, thankfully, seems to understand that pity would make her walk directly into traffic. This is something else. Space, maybe. Offered without making her ask for it.

So they sit. Long enough for her to lace her skates with fingers that feel strangely clumsy. Long enough for Garrett to tie his own and then pretend very hard not to watch her checking the tension of hers twice, then three times, then pressing her thumb along the side of the boot like it might offer reassurance if handled correctly.

“Do you want me to say something helpful or shut up?” he asks eventually.

The question startles a laugh out of her. It comes out small, but real. “I don’t know.”

“Okay. I can do medium.”

“Medium?”

“Yeah. Light talking. No motivational speech. No silence so intense it feels like a funeral.”

She looks over at him. “You’ve thought about this.”

“I’m a thoughtful guy.”

“You’re something.”

His smile appears, quick and warm, but he doesn’t chase the joke. “I know it’s weird.”

Her hands go still on the laces.

“I mean, I don’t know exactly,” he says, looking out at the ice now instead of directly at her, which helps. “It’s different for you. But I know the part where you miss it so much that getting it back even a little feels…” He pauses, searching for the word and apparently deciding not to dress it up. “Fucked.”

“It feels like if I step wrong, everything starts over,” she says.

Garrett nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“And I know that’s not how it works. Like, technically. I know Cam wouldn’t have cleared me if he thought I’d immediately explode.”

“Probably not.”

“Probably.”

“I mean, I don’t want to overstate his kindness.”

She laughs again, and this one stays longer. Garrett’s mouth softens at the sound, but he looks down to adjust his skate before she can catch too much of it.

They step onto the ice together. At first, all she can feel is terror. The blade settles under her weight. The ice takes her. Her knee doesn’t collapse, doesn’t scream, doesn’t turn into the moment it all went wrong. It only exists. Present and warm and strange inside the brace, part of her and not part of her, a little guarded corner of the body she used to trust without needing to narrate the trust to herself.

Garrett steps on beside her and turns with the easy balance of someone who’s been on skates since before he had any say in the matter. He doesn’t reach for her immediately. His hands are there, ready but not assuming, and the restraint of it makes her want to cry more than if he had grabbed her.

She takes one small push. Then another. It’s awful. It’s fine. It’s the most familiar thing in the world and completely foreign.

Her breath catches, and Garrett moves in closer without crowding her. “There you go.”

“Don’t say it like I’m a toddler.”

“I was saying it like you’re someone doing something hard.”

She glances at him, caught by the simplicity of it.

He gives her a tiny smile. “But if it helps, I can say it like you’re a toddler.”

“Please don’t.”

“Cool. Good note.”

She looks back at the ice and manages another slow stride. Her shoulders are too high. She can feel that. Her arms don’t know where to go with none of the old choreography to place them, none of the speed, none of the music. 

She's spent years making skating look like instinct, and now every movement has to be discussed internally before it happens, which is both boring and humiliating and almost funny if she gets far enough away from wanting to scream.

Garrett skates beside her, slightly behind, matching the tiny pace without comment. A hockey player skating slowly is a strange thing. Like seeing a dog heel when you know it wants to run. 

Garrett is all contained energy, all strength kept deliberately soft at the edges. Every so often she catches him adjusting to her without making the adjustment visible enough to feel like management. He doesn’t hover, he just stays close enough that the air seems to know where he is.

After half a lap, he says, “For what it’s worth, you still look like you know what you’re doing.”

She lets out a shaky breath. “That’s because you’re used to hockey players.”

“Rude.”

“You guys do look like you’re being chased a lot of the time.”

“We are. By other hockey players.”

They make it once around the rink. Then again. The second lap isn’t easy, but it’s less impossible. Her breath begins to settle into the cold. The first hard spike of fear loosens by degrees and leaves something else behind, raw and bright and almost worse. 

The ice under her blades. The sound. That delicate scrape she used to know better than her own alarm clock. Her body, cautious but moving. Her knee, not perfect, not forgotten, but holding.

She doesn’t realise she’s started crying until the cold hits the wet under one eye. Garrett sees it, but he doesn’t stop abruptly or make a face or ask if she’s okay in that terrible alarmed voice people use when crying becomes an event.

He only slows with her and says, “We can take a second.”

She laughs once, embarrassed, wiping under her eye with the heel of her hand. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“It’s stupid.”

“It’s really not.”

She looks at him, and the rink lights catch in his eyes. He’s close enough now that she can see the rough edge of stubble he probably missed shaving, the way his hair has started curling more as the cold gets to it. He looks like Garrett, but not the campus version. Just a boy on skates, injured and healing and kind enough not to make her crying about a slow lap into something she has to survive on top of everything else.

“I missed it,” she says, and it comes out barely above a whisper.

His face changes. “Yeah.”

“I know I’ve said that. But I don’t think I knew how much until right now.”

Garrett nods once, slow. “Yeah,” he says again, and there is so much understanding in it she has to look away.

They stand there near the boards for a while, the quiet rink around them, her hand resting lightly on the rail. Garrett doesn’t touch her. He just stays beside her while she gets herself back into her body.

Eventually, she breathes in and lets it out. “Okay,” she says.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

They start again. It goes better for maybe seven minutes. She’s still too careful, still too aware of every shift and edge and tiny correction. But there are moments now, little flashes where the fear drops half a step behind the movement and something older comes through. 

A turn of the ankle. A cleaner glide. Her body remembering a thing before her brain can interfere. Each one lands small and huge at the same time.

Garrett notices those too. He doesn’t cheer. Thank God, if he cheered, she might actually skate into the wall on purpose. 

He only smiles a little and says, “That one looked nice,” or “Yeah, that was better,” in the same low voice he uses when he’s telling her something true and not trying to make a moment out of it.

Maybe that’s why she gets stupid. A little more confident than she was three minutes earlier, enough that she lets herself push into a slightly longer glide coming out of the curve. Barely anything, nothing she would once have even counted as skating. Her blade catches anyway.

It’s tiny. The smallest wrongness. But her body doesn’t know the difference between small and catastrophic yet. Her stomach drops, knee locking in fear before pain can even arrive, and suddenly the whole rink tilts in one bright, awful flash.

Garrett catches her before she falls. One second he’s beside her, and the next his hands are on her waist, tugging her in with a controlled little scrape of blades that brings her straight against him.

Her hands land on his chest, fingers grabbing at the front of his hoodie. The impact is soft because he makes it soft, knees bending with hers, one arm braced properly around her back before she has even fully processed the fact that she’s upright.

“Hey,” he says, breath close. “I’ve got you.”

Her heart is punching so hard she can feel it in her palms where they’re pressed to him. “I’m okay,” she says automatically.

“I know.”

“I just slipped.”

“I know.”

“It was small.”

“I know.”

She lets out a breath that shakes on the way out and hates it, then hates that she hates it because Garrett is looking at her like the shaking is allowed, like none of this is embarrassing enough to require apology.

For the first few seconds, there’s only the aftershock. Ice, fear, the violent little replay of what if. Then the world begins to come back in pieces, and Garrett comes back with it. His chest under her hands. The warm line of his arm across her back. His face closer than it has ever been without the excuse of class or rehab or a crowded hallway. The smell of him, cold air and clean laundry and something faintly minty from gum.

His gaze drops to her mouth. It’s so quick she almost thinks she invented it. Then he looks back at her eyes, and the air between them changes so completely it feels like the rink’s gone quiet on purpose.

She should move. That would be the normal thing. Step back. Laugh it off. Say thanks. Return to the careful, slow lap. Keep everything in the safe category it’s technically belonged to for months, even as the edges have gotten less and less believable.

She doesn’t move. Garrett doesn’t either. His thumb shifts once at her waist. Small. Barely there. But she feels it through the layers anyway.

“You good?” he asks, and his voice is lower now.

She nods. His eyes move over her face with that same checking look, except now there’s something else threaded through it. Something less clinical. Less controlled. 

He’s still giving her an out. She can feel that. It’s in the stillness of him, the way his hand doesn’t pull her closer even though it could, the way his mouth is soft but not smiling, for once, like even Garrett knows this is not a moment to be smoothed over with charm.

She looks at his mouth. This time, neither of them can pretend he doesn’t notice.

His breath changes. Just slightly. “Careful,” he murmurs.

Her fingers tighten in his hoodie. “I’m not doing anything.”

Her face feels warm despite the rink. Everything does, actually. Her hands, her throat, the place under her ribs where fear had been sitting all morning and has now made room for something much more dangerous.

Garrett dips his head a fraction, then stops. The restraint of it is the thing that finally makes her brave. She lifts up on her toes, just barely, because they’re on skates, and kisses him.

He kisses her back, soft at first, because of the ice, because of her knee, because of the months of carefulness that have led them here. His mouth is warm in a way that feels almost shocking against the cold. 

She makes a small sound, and Garrett’s hand slides more securely around her back as the kiss deepens by degrees, still careful but less polite now. Like something in him has unclenched. Like every hallway conversation, every text, every slow walk to class, every time his hand almost touched and didn’t, has found the same narrow place to go.

Her arms go up around his shoulders before she thinks about it and he smiles against her mouth.

She feels it and pulls back an inch, breathless. “Are you smiling?”

Garrett’s eyes open, bright and warm and closer than seems legal. “No.”

“You are.”

“No, I’m being very serious.”

“You’re not.”

“I am.” His mouth brushes hers again, once, because he’s already become comfortable enough with this to be unbearable about it. “This is an important rehab milestone.”

She stares at him, and then she laughs, properly this time, startled and light and so relieved by the sheer stupid Garrettness of it that it breaks the last of the fear in her body loose. He laughs too, she feels it under her hands.

“You’re so annoying,” she says.

“I know.”

“I can’t believe you just said rehab milestone.”

“Was it too much?”

“It was awful.”

“Okay.” He nods like he’s accepting professional notes, but his hands are still at her waist and his face is still soft in a way that makes the joke land somewhere tender instead of sharp. “I’ll workshop it.”

“Please don’t.”

“Got it.”

They stand there smiling at each other like idiots, and she hates how much she likes it. Hates, a little, how easily the rink has shifted around them. The ice is still under her blades. Her knee still exists, still healing, still not ready for everything she wants. But Garrett’s hands are on her body and his mouth is kissed-soft and he’s looking at her like the morning has done something to him too.

Then he glances down at their skates, back up at her, and says, quieter, “You scared?”

She doesn’t know which thing he means. The ice. The kiss. The way those have somehow become tangled enough that the answer fits both.

She nods once.

Garrett’s face doesn’t fall. He only nods back, thumb moving once over her side. “Yeah. Me too, a little.”

That surprises her enough that she looks at him properly. 

He huffs a breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. “Don’t look so shocked.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I just…” She swallows, eyes flicking over his face. “You don’t seem scared of much.”

Garrett looks at her for one more second. Then he kisses her again. This one is easier. Warmer. Still careful, but with laughter caught at the edges now, his mouth curving every time she makes the smallest noise because clearly he’s going to be deeply smug about kissing her, which she should have anticipated. 

He keeps one arm around her waist and lets the other hand come up to her cheek, thumb brushing near her jaw, and her whole body goes strangely loose and awake at the same time.

When she presses closer, he makes a soft sound under his breath and shifts them without thinking, turning just enough that his body blocks hers more fully from the open rink, as if there is anyone there to see them besides the empty seats and the unbothered scoreboard.

She pulls back because she’s smiling too much to keep kissing properly.

Garrett looks very pleased with himself. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a suspicious nothing.”

“You look smug.”

He shrugs. “I feel a little smug.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“You kissed me first.”

Her mouth falls open. “Barely.”

“Still counts.”

“I was emotionally vulnerable.”

“I know.” His smile softens before it can become too much of a tease.

She looks down, overwhelmed in a way that’s not bad but still requires a second. Garrett lets her have it. Then, because he’s Garrett and because tenderness with no escape hatch would probably kill them both, he says, “For the record, I had a very cool plan to do that eventually.”

She looks up again, grateful despite herself. “Did you?”

“Yeah.”

“What was the plan?”

His nose scrunches. “Still developing.”

“So... no plan.”

He tilts his head. “A flexible plan.”

“Right.”

“Probably would’ve walked you to class. Said something devastatingly charming. You would’ve swooned.”

“I don’t think I swoon.”

“You might have. We’ll never know.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

“There she is,” he says softly, and then seems to realise he’s said it in a way that gives too much away.

She glances toward the boards, then back at the stretch of ice ahead of them. The fear is still there, but quieter now. Less teeth. Her body feels wrung out and bright, like it’s survived two separate kinds of firsts before breakfast and does not know where to put the information yet.

Garrett follows her gaze. “You want to keep going?”

“Yeah,” she says. “But maybe…”

He’s already holding out both hands before she finishes. She looks at them, then at him.

He shrugs, casual and not casual at all. “Just for a bit.”

She puts her hands in his, and they start slow again. His fingers lace with hers this time. His hands are warm around her cold ones, and he skates backward at a careful pace, eyes mostly on her face, checking without hovering. The rink is still too bright. Her knee is still not perfect. Cam would probably have a clipboard-related opinion about the emotional developments currently occurring during controlled ice work.

But she’s upright. She’s moving.

Garrett’s thumbs brush once over her knuckles. “Good?” he asks.

She looks at him, at the ice, at the long clean stretch of it opening ahead. And for the first time in months, the answer does not feel like a lie.

“Yeah,” she says, a little breathless, a little shy around the smile she can’t fully stop. “Good.”

Garrett’s grin is small, real, and absolutely devastating. “Yeah?”

She nods.

His hands tighten lightly around hers, and he keeps moving backward, slow and steady, like he has nowhere else to be and no reason in the world to rush her. “Okay,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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earned it!

*⁀➷john logan x fem!reader

➷ summary: after plowing down john logan during one of your volleyball games, you catch the man’s eye. and, to be totally honest, he caught yours, too. but you know you can’t give in that easily; you’ve got to make him earn it, and during that process, you discover that through getting to know and understand john logan, you’ve unlocked a whole new chapter of your life that you didn’t even know was possible to exist.

pt.2 of plowed down

➷ word count: 5919

➷ warnings: cursing, little bit angsty during one part (just about family stuff, nothing to do with their relationship so don’t worry), you’re the main character (sure me, idc), definitely inaccurate volleyball references. also, i know that with ncaa championships, they’re typically like a few days after the semifinals BUT FOR THE PLOT, we’re gonna pretend it’s like two weeks after (again, sorry, just bear with me).

omg also guys thank you so fucking much for the love that i received on plowed down!!! like it was genuinely bonkers waking up to all those notifications, so thank you so much!!!!

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

You weren’t exactly sure what you had going on with John Logan.

It had been two weeks since you plowed the man down– two weeks since you made out against your apartment door, since you told him you didn’t do casual; that you didn’t do hook-ups.

Two weeks since the guy started practically worshipping the ground you walked on.

You aren’t sure what you did to warrant this; you had quite honestly been playing hard to get after making out with him. Partly because you were maybe a little bit embarrassed by how easily you gave into his charm, but also partly because you knew how guys like John Logan worked. They were athletes who had sex with different girls every few days, who were texting multiple girls at once. Guys like John Logan were players, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing when they were honest about it. 

But you didn’t like to engage with players more than once, because, again, casual didn’t work for you. It was just something you swore off on in your sophomore year of college because for you, flings and hook-ups came with too much emotional baggage.

It was your own fault, quite honestly.

To you, intimacy was much more than a quick fuck. It always meant more to you. It had to be with someone you trusted, someone you had gotten to know over a certain amount of time. You learned that through a messy situationship, which is what created your personal rules.

That is why you tried to let John Logan down the easy way. With a playful grin, you had whispered the words, “I don’t do hook-ups. Or casual.”

And John Logan had fucking grinned.

Like he understood– like he was on the same page, which you knew he wasn’t.

Or, at least, you thought you knew.

But apparently you didn’t, because after you had said those words, he backed off you, his fingers lingering on your hips. He had still been smiling as he looked at you with gentle eyes and nodded, “Okay. Nothing casual, no hooking up. I can do that.”

“What?”

You blurted out the question, and you’re positive your face revealed how fucking shocked and baffled you were, because John had laughed, the sound warming your chest in the scariest way for a man you had only known for a few hours. He was dangerous, and yet you still felt the urge to dip your fingers into his flames.

He shrugged, and then said, “I can do that.”

“Okay, no.”

“No?”

“No! Isn't it your thing, to like, hook up with girls at parties?”

“I haven’t done that for weeks now–”

“Oh, how tragic,” you drawl, but you’re still smiling despite yourself. You let your hands trail up his arms and to his shoulders. You give them a quick squeeze, and then nod, “Well, this was fun.”

Now he looks baffled.

“So we’re done?”

“I don’t do hook-ups.”

“I won’t either.”

“That’s a lot of commitment for a girl you just met.”

He sighs, and he looks down at you, as if he’s searching your eyes for something, anything– and, you don’t know how, but the motherfucker seems to find what he’s looking for, because he nods, grins, and says, “Can I get your number, then? You should get to know me before you decide to get rid of me completely.”

“We’re following each other on Instagram now.”

“This is different.”

You’re slightly shocked by his words, but you’re watching his face, and you can’t help the way your lips quirk up. But you don’t nod, and you don’t give in. You smile and watch as his eyes glimmer when you respond.

“You’ve gotta earn it, Logan.”

As you said those words, you figured he’d get bored of you within a couple days. Forget about you completely, be a failed sexual encounter in the back of his mind, who he would forget about in a few months time.

Yeah, that absolutely did not happen.

Not even two days later the man somehow found your practice schedule– you had deep suspicion Jade was his source– where he had waited outside for you to finish up, standing on the cold with not even an ounce of exasperation.

“... You waited for me to finish practice?” You question, your practice bag slung over your shoulder. You stared at John Logan, dumbfounded. He was standing outside of the Briar gymnasium where your practice was held, hands shoved in the pockets of his Carhartt jacket, a happy smile on his face.

“You said if I wanted your number, I’d need to earn it. Here I am, earning it.”

“You’re being serious?” You question, and you look back to your teammates, all of whom had stopped in their tracks, watching the scene with a mixture of expressions. Some shocked, some giddy. The only part of the expressions that stayed consistent was how everyone was smiling from ear to ear.

“Yes.”

You falter– stammer, quite honestly– and you feel like your head is about to explode, because you never expected that John Logan would take you to your word. You stand there for about thirty seconds, baffled into silence, when Louisa finally nudges you in the ribs, knocking your thoughts back into your head. 

“I mean, a deal’s a deal,” you say after leaving the poor guy standing in silence for far longer than necessary. You don’t miss the way his face lights up, and you watch as he hurries over to you, digging out his phone from his pocket. 

He unlocks it, passing you the phone, and you go to his contacts, creating your own. 

You look back up at him, face held with faux seriousness, “What number should I be? Girl thirty-five? Thirty-six?”

“Number one works.”

You snort, “Number one? Be serious.”

“I am,” he says with a playful grin. “I’m not a total player. Anymore, at least.”

“Mhm,” you nod. “Well, you’re number fourty-seven in my phone, so–”

He snorts at that, a loud laugh escaping him, and his smile is still wide on his face as you hand him his phone back. He looks down at the screen, clicking onto your contact. You’ve written your name and put a little volleyball emoji next to it, which has him looking up at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Just so I won’t get lost in your sea of girls,” you elaborate.

“It’s more like a plastic fair bag now, but okay.”

For whatever reason, that had you seeing hearts because holy shit he was funny. But you compose yourself enough to not tackle him to the floor with a frenzied kiss. 

In fact, ever since that encounter, you’ve learned to compose yourself in many ways. Basically whenever you guys hang out. Because, despite wanting to kiss the ever-loving shit out of him every time you guys were together, you had composed yourself with major difficulty. In the two weeks he’d had your number– the two weeks that you guys had been doing random, stupid shit together– you had only made out with John Logan three times. And each time, it had only been making out. Nothing more.

As it turned out, John Logan really was a man of his word. He had no expectations for whatever the fuck was going on between you two. During the three times you two had made out, it had caught him by surprise each time. Not that he wasn’t into it; he was extremely into it. He just hadn’t been expecting any kissing. 

You had been the one to initiate it each time, and he was there to happily oblige. 

Which, unfortunately for you, only made him hotter.

Still, most of your hangouts would be what many would deem as boring. He’d pick you up from your practice most nights, and then you guys would get food; always your choice, even when you tried to make him choose. You’d sit in his car and talk about whatever– you had even gone on a rant one time on how a block of cheese was technically a loaf of milk, and the guy had nodded along with full seriousness as if you had just said the most logical thing he’d ever heard.

You’d also gone over to his house a few times, gotten to know the teammates that he lives with (his best friends). And their girlfriends, of course. As it turn outs, Allie and Hannah were fun as fuck. The number of times you guys had played Just Dance on the guys’ TV was astronomical for the limited amount of time you’d known the group; you had become fluent with the Rasputin dance. And, God, you didn’t even want to calculate the number of late nights you had stayed at the house, beating the absolute shit out of Tucker and Dean in Mario Kart with Allie. 

You swore sometimes you had more fun with John’s friends than him. 

You had even told John that to his face once; his response was to give you the most dramatic pout he could muster, which, in turn, caused you to make out with him for the third time. He was smiling after that.

Out of all your hangouts, though, most of them were dedicated to you doing something of importance while he just sat beside you and watched.

Such as right now.

You were in the Briar U library, flipping through one of your textbooks as you took notes for an upcoming midterm. You weren’t all that worried about it since the class was relatively easy, but you still wanted to study. Just in case.

You would’ve been nearly done with studying had a little leech not been bothering you the entire time.

You side-eyed Logan as he flipped through your stack of notecards, watching as he let out a bored breath of air. He then reached over, grabbing your pencil pouch, where he opened it, grabbing an orange sparkly pen from inside. 

Instantly, you snatch it from his grip.

“Absolutely not.”

“What?” He asks, eyes wide in a playful manner. His boredom was swept away in a matter of seconds, and he straightened up, leaning closer to you.

“That’s my lucky pen, and I swear to everything if you took away its luck with your grubby hands–”

“Grubby?”

“– I will kill you.”

He smiles, something he can’t seem to stop doing around you, and sinks back into his chair. “Fine.”

“Good,” you say, returning to your notes. But not before you lift your eyes to look at him, where you mutter, “Just sit there and look pretty.”

“You think I’m pretty?”

“Why else would I have kept you around?”

He laughs quietly, “So my looks are all I’m good for?”

“That and your friends.”

“Wow.”

This time it’s you who smiles and you can’t stop yourself as you lean over, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. 

You’re quick to get back to the task at hand– studying– because if you don’t, you know you’ll see the dopey expression on John’s face. If you see that, you know that three make-out sessions will immediately turn into four. And you know that can’t happen in the middle of a fucking library where people are studying, so you distract yourself instantly, flipping back through the pages of your textbook.

It’s silent for a couple minutes as he watches you, completely content with where he’s at. But he sits up suddenly, seemingly remembering something, and then he says, “You should come over tonight.” His fingers were tapping against the wood of the table as he spoke, his eyes watching your hands as you paused on a page, a flash of confusion corrupting your expression. His eyes soften as a result, “Tucker said he’s trying out a new dish. You’d like it.”

“I can’t,” you respond without much thought, furrowing your brows as you flip back a few pages in your textbooks, and then in your notes. You’re trying to find a specific concept that you remember reading, but for some reason, you can’t find it anywhere; it’s the pure source of your confusion and it will stay that way until you find what you’re looking for. “The fuck?” You mumble, and then you look at John when he lets out a little snort, “Sorry– what’d you say?”

“You should come over,” he repeated, this time with a soft grin as he watched you. His eyes flickered over your face, scanning. It was something he always did when you spoke, like even the tiniest change in your facial expression was a portal to something holy.

“Oh, right,” you nod. You shake your head immediately after. “Can’t.”

“I heard.”

“Sorry,” you apologize, but your tone isn’t very sincere. Not as you flip a few more pages in your textbook, looking for the concept that seems to have vanished off the face of the earth. John doesn’t seem to care, his pretty smile still on full display.

“Why can’t you?”

“Late practice tonight,” you say, and then you turn to look at him, finally smiling at the softness in his eyes. “Y’know, for the championship in a couple days.”

“After, then. Come over. I’ll pick you up.”

“I won’t get out of practice until after 9. I’ve been sloppy with my saves these past few practices, and Coach Peters is really getting worried, so–”

“God, I love it when you talk volleyball to me,” he interrupts, to which you lose your smile and shoot him a harsh look because he knows what that does to you. 

It was the reason for the other two times you had made out with him. And, fuck, it was about to be the fourth, because the man was unreasonably hot. You shake your head, deciding to scoot your chair away from his. Your self-restraint is quickly wavering, especially after you glance him over, allowing you to really absorb how good he looks in the sweatshirt he’s wearing. And, watching as you scoot away from him, he lets out a small sigh, scooting his chair closer. You give him a look, and he grins, scooting even closer, the side of his knee pressing against yours. Your eyes turn annoyed, and he innocently asks, “What?”

“You’re distracting me, and you know it,” you answer. “You do this on purpose.”

He hums, “So you’ll come over?”

“Yeah,” you say, as if it was the most obvious answer. When he smiles, you quickly add on, “only for the meal, though.”

“Obviously,” he nods with fake seriousness. “Why else would you?”

“Don’t get any ideas.”

“No ideas are coming to mind.”

“Good. Because I’m just coming over to eat.”

“Yep.”

“So no kissing.”

“No kissing?” He whines, completely dramatic and not at all serious. You can see him fighting to keep the smile from his face, “Why not?”

“Keep it in your pants, Logan.”

“Oh, it hasn’t left my pants. My pants have remained perfectly intact, thank you.”

You laugh, covering your mouth with your hand before you piss off the librarian. You shake your head, and you look at him with a level of affection that is far stronger than it should be with how little time you have known the hockey boy.

“You’re insufferable,” you whisper with a big smile.

“I think you love it.”

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

You get out of practice at 9:34 p.m.

It’s later than you had been expecting, and you’re absolutely exhausted as you trudge over to John’s truck. You pull open the passenger side door, and he looks up from his phone with a soft smile as you toss your back to the floor, pulling yourself into your seat with a long sigh.

“You okay?”

“Sleepy,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes before turning your head to look over at him.

“You want me to take you back to your apartment?” He asks, his tone gentle as he watches you buckle your seatbelt. “You don’t need to come back to mine if you’re too tired. We can hang out another time–”

You shake your head, “No, I’m starving, and all I’ve been imagining for the past two hours is Tucker’s food.”

He laughs softly and nods, “Okay.”

When you finally get to the house that’s situated off campus, John cuts his engine, exits the vehicle, and walks around the front of his truck. He opens the passenger side door before you can even unbuckle, and you smile softly as he reaches over you, unbuckling the seatbelt for you.

“I could’ve done that myself, y’know?” You say, taking the hand that he held out for you. “I’m perfectly capable.”

He gave your hand a short squeeze as you hopped out of his truck, and he nodded, “I know. But you’re tired.”

Your eyes follow as he grabs your practice bag and slings it over his shoulder, using his foot to shut the passenger. His hand remains threaded with yours, and you him softly, “You’re playing gentleman tonight?”

“I’m always a gentleman. Get it straight.”

You laugh softly, giving him a slight nudge with your shoulder as you guys reach the front door. John opens it, and you walk in alongside him, instantly greeted with the delicious smell of whatever the hell Tucker cooked. Your stomach growled as a result, and your hand– still linked with John’s– squeezed his as you tugged him along to the kitchen, where his entire friend group was gathered, hanging out casually as they usually did.

Hannah notices you first, and she smiles softly, “How was practice?”

“Tiring,” you respond, finally releasing John’s hand. You slip into one of the island chairs next to Allie, and you thank Tucker quietly as he slips a bowl of fancy looking pasta in front of you. You grab your fork, twirl some pasta onto the prongs, and bite into it with a satisfied hum, “This is so fucking good, Tuck.”

He grins happily, “Logan said you would like it. It has parsley!”

“It’s delicious,” you nod, taking another bite. And as you do, you feel Logan come up behind you, his arms snaking around your front, his chin resting on the top of your head. You promptly ignore the warm feeling that flutters in your chest, eating more of the amazing pasta dish. 

After finishing up the food, you and the rest of the group somehow migrate to the living room. You’re sitting on the couch beside Logan, tucked beneath his arm, your head resting against the crook of his shoulder as you watch Dean and Garrett play the worst game of silent charades that you had ever seen. Allie seemed borderline aggravated as she yelled out words that she thought aligned with the movements of the men only to then be pissed off because ‘Dean, what the fuck even was that?’.  

You had to admit, it had been the funniest thing you’d witnessed in awhile.

And, you’re not sure when you fall asleep, all you know is that you’re woken sometime later in the evening by the soft touch of Logan, his eyes gentle as he carefully shifts you awake. You blink your eyes open, only to realize that all the others are heading to bed, and reach over Logan, grabbing his phone from his lap. You tap on the screen, checking the time; 12:17 a.m.

“Want me to drive you home?” He asks, using his thumb to swipe an eyelash from your cheek. 

You groan in response.

“No?” He laughs, the hand that’s around your shoulders rubbing up and down your arm. 

“Can I just stay here tonight?”

“Absolutely.”

He says the words immediately, and you’re caught entirely off guard as he stands from the couch, scooping you up in his arms with a scary amount of ease. Your eyes widen, arms scrambling to latch around his shoulders as you let out a quiet sound of panic, voice rushed as you breathe out, “John, what the fuck–”

“You’re tired.”

“Yeah, but I can still walk, you idiot. Oh my God, put me down–”

“We’re half way up the stairs and you want me to drop you?”

“If you drop me I’m never speaking to you again.”

He laughs again, this time filled with pure amusement as he continues scaling the stairs with you in his arms. Your arms stay hooked around his shoulders as he walks in the direction of his room, and carefully opens the door, stepping inside. Still, he doesn’t bother to put you down just yet. He holds you as he shuts the door behind him, his grip on you steady while he walks over to his desk, switching on the lamp.

When he finally sets you down, he plops you onto his mattress, not giving you much time before he’s draping himself over you with a satisfied sigh, and you can’t help the smallest giggle that leaves your chest, your hands pressing against his front.

“You’re crushing me.”

“Whoops.”

He makes no attempt to move, and again, you push against his shoulders, “You’re comfy, but I’m still in my volleyball clothes, and I want to change–” You stop suddenly, groaning with dismay. 

Instantly, he pushes himself off you.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, eyebrows furrowed with concern.

“I have no clothes to change into.”

“Just wear my stuff,” he says, pulling himself from you completely. He stands with a stretch, and you watch as the bottom of his sweatshirt rises just enough for you to see a sliver of his stomach. Fuck, you were going to go feral.

You clear your throat, and clap your hands once, “Then chop chop, hockey boy.”

It only takes him a few seconds to grab you something to wear; he comes up with a pair of plaid boxer shorts and a Briar hockey sweatshirt with the number 22 on the back. As you take the clothing, you raise your eyebrow, “No other sweatshirts?”

“Nope, that’s my only clean one. Sorry.”

And the man’s a fucking liar because behind him, where is closet is just partially open, you can see at least four more regular sweatshirts hanging, completely clean.

“Huh,” you mutter. “You must be blind.”

“That’s the only clean one,” he repeats. “So, better go ahead and change into it.”

You laugh, shaking your head. Standing, you clutch the clothing in your hands, and as you pass him, you press a soft kiss to his lips– which, holy shit, it’s the first time you’ve ever done that as if it were second nature– and you mumble, “You really are insufferable, Logan.”

He hums against your lips, his hand going to your jaw as he presses a couple more soft kisses to you. You can’t help but smile, and you lean back, gazing up at him. You don’t say anything, just run a hand through his hair, and your smile turns giddy as you pull back fully, your bottom lip tucking beneath your teeth as you try to bite back your grin.

You point to the bathroom that’s connected to his room, “I’m gonna go change.”

He nods with a happy smile, responding in that soft voice that you realized he only uses with you, “Okay.”

Once changed, you exit the bathroom, finding John already in his bed, wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt. You walk over to his bed, not saying a thing as you plop down on his mattress, stretching out across his mattress.

“Cozy?” He asks as he turns on his side to face you.

“Yeah. It’d be better if we were cuddling, though.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Not that I expect you to do that, though,” you say the words playfully. “I mean, I’ve never watched you play, but I assume you’re the same on and off the ice.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re not good at taking the shot, if you get what I mean–”

“Shut up,” he laughs, and he grabs your arm, gently tugging you to him. You grin, getting situated against his body, one of your legs draped across his while your arm rests over his torso, your head settled comfortably on his chest with your ear pressed right over the beating of his heart.

And you stay like this for a while, just until you’re on the brink of falling asleep. But before you can slip into that peaceful state of bliss, a question you had been meaning to ask– a question you had been too nervous to ask– comes to mind.

You’re not able to stop yourself from asking it.

“You wanna come to the championship and watch me play?” You question from where your head is still tucked against his chest, your voice whispers into the fabric of his sweatshirt and against his skin that lies beneath it. “It’s a three hour drive away.”

You feel him let out a soft breath of air, his fingers dancing gently along the fabric of his sweatshirt that covers the dip of your back. His voice is low and gravelly as he speaks, coated with a layer of sleepiness, “I want to, and I tried to find tickets, but they’re all sold out. Even Allie tried to find some and she couldn’t, which means I’m shit out of luck.”

“I’ve got tickets,” you say. “My teammates and I each got six tickets. Thought you might want them. You and your friends can go. They’re good seats.”

You can practically feel the frown in John’s expression as he asks quietly, “You’re not gonna give them to your family?”

“No,” You swallow thickly and do your best to keep your eyes shut because you know John’s looking at you now. His fingers stopped trailing along your spine as a result of the change in your tone and your body language, and you sigh against him. Might as well get it out of the way. “I just– I did everything I could to get out of my house as a teenager. To get away from my parents and the rest of my family. I don’t really feel like giving them a straight ticket back into my life, y’know?”

He’s quiet for a second before he nods, speaking softly, “Yeah, I know. I get it.”

“I’ve never had anyone in any of the seats during my games,” you continue. “I just thought it would be kinda nice to have that for once. You don’t need to, though. I know it’s really last minute, and–”

“No, I’ll go,” John interrupts you before you can finish. “We all will. Me and the guys. And Hannah and Allie. The six of us will go.”

“You sure?”

He laughs softly, tiredly, and nods, “Yeah, baby, I’m sure.”

Oh my God, you were going to fucking implode. But you hold in the desperate need to squeal like a dumbass, and instead bite the inside of your cheek to fight against the wide grin that wants to break out on your face. 

After composing yourself enough to not make a complete and utter fool of yourself, you nod, and tilt your head up, pressing the softest kiss to his jaw. 

He smiles as a result, the smallest shade of pink flushing his cheeks.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’m excited.”

“Me too.”

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

John Logan was your goodluck charm.

The guy had to be, because this was the best fucking game you had ever played in your life. Sure, the first set wasn’t the best for Briar U, but that was okay given you guys were playing against Penn State. The team had won every single game so far this season, so, in short words, they were good as hell. They’d also won the NCAA Championship for the past five years, which was devastatingly nerve wracking knowing you were against the best team D1 volleyball currently had.

Still, tonight, you and your teammates came with a mission; you were going to win.

And, fuck, was it looking promising.

Despite Penn State winning the first set, Briar U had won the other two.

They weren’t wipeouts, but that didn’t matter, because you had won them.

That meant that if you and your teammates somehow managed to win this fourth set, you’d place Briar as the fucking NCAA Women’s Volleyball Champions for the first time in over ten years. It’d be an insane feat, and you had to fight from getting too excited about the possibility, especially because right now, it was looking very likely.

So far, you’ve saved every stray ball, hitting it back to your teammates or over the net with ease. As you played, your smile never left your face. Not even as you dove for the ball, saving it as you slid across the polished wood floor.

That didn’t mean Penn wasn’t doing good, though. Because they absolutely were.

They were playing with a fierceness of a team who wanted this win just as badly as you did; it felt like an even playing field, and while that could be fun, tonight it was terrifying.

Right now, the score was 22 to 23. The set was almost over, and it was in Briar’s favor. If you guys got two more points, you were winning the match. If you won, you’d be the first captain in over ten years to lead Briar to a volleyball victory and that’s exactly what you were planning on doing. 

No way did you fight this hard only to lose.

You were hovering near the back of the court, watching as Jade surged forward, tapping the ball over to the right of the court. Instantly, your teammates rallied toward the ball, leaving the left side of the court completely unguarded, and your eyes lingered on the ball, watching as Louisa sprinted forward, feet fast as she jumped up, spiking it over the net.

The middle hitter on the Penn State team hurried forward, blocking the spike with a bump of her arms, and you watched as the ball practically hovered over the net.

Right to the spot that was unguarded.

You’re not sure how you moved as fast as you did– one second, you were at the back right of the court, and the next, you were flying in the upper left, body in the air as you threw yourself forward, your right hand bumping the ball back to your teammates just before it hit the ground on your side of the net.

Your body hit the floor with a thud, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care, because the moment you had successfully executed the move, your side of the room erupted in loud cheers. It shook the floor as you stood up, and you didn’t waste any time as you sprinted back to the center of the court.

Just in time, too, because the setter of Penn State sent a lethal spike in your direction, and you dropped to a knee, forearms out as the ball bounced from your skin and back over the net. Two saves in a matter of seconds, and you could literally see your coaches losing it from pure happiness in the corner.

You probably looked like a cocky motherfucker, your lips upturned in the smallest of smiles as you shuffled backward, and then dove sideways, saving yet another ball from being spiked into the ground.

And yeah, you were definitely right– John Logan was totally your lucky charm tonight because holy fuck, you were even impressing yourself.

More cheers sounded throughout your side of the room, increasing tenfold as Liliana jumped, spiking the ball down to the back corner of Penn State’s side, earning Briar U their 24th point of the fourth set.

It was an exhilarating sound, and you laughed with pure joy as you ran over to Liliana, the rest of the girls on your side of the court meeting halfway. You huddled with pure glee; one more point, and you guys were winning. 

All you needed was one more point.

Leaving the huddle, you guys got back into your positions. You watched as Macey served the ball, starting what would hopefully be the final round of the night.

The Penn girls were quick to rally on the ball; they moved it over the net with ease, and you watched as Jade ran, hitting it back over the net. It went back and forth for a bit, the round intense. It felt like it was purely silent save for the cheers from supporters that erupted when either side had a good save or hit.

You watched as the libero for Penn bump the ball with her wrist, causing it to go over the net. And then you see as the entire team moves away, going near the back of the court, like they knew what the next play was going to be; a spike ball.

Except it wasn’t that at all.

No, it’s the complete opposite, because you’re in the exact spot that you’re meant to be in for this current play. You’re close enough that the ball clearly belongs to you at this moment, and you run up, arms carefully bumping the ball over the net.

It barely catches the top before it topples over to Penn State’s side.

The girls hadn’t been expecting it; they’re unable to move fast enough from where they had migrated to the back of the court with the expectation that Liliana or Louisa were going to spike the ball over the net, a move that had earned you guys many wins this season.

They hadn’t been expecting you to run up and hit the ball with your forearms in such a way that it only just made it over the net.

You watched as the volleyball hit the floor on Penn’s side.

Holy fuck.

You’d scored the winning point.

You can’t even process the fucking thing, because you’re instantly bombarded by your teammates– ones both on and off the court– as they swarm into a pile around you, the deafening cheers of the crowd blocking out the cheers from your own teammates who stood around you. 

You guys are jumping up and down, and you’re not even sure when you stop, because one moment you’re celebrating with your teammates and coaches, and the next you’re following after your teammates, running towards the people who had come to watch you in the stands.

And you find him instantly.

John Logan is standing in the front row– because, yes, the seats were great– with his friends next to him, all of them grinning ear to ear as they cheered for you. 

Your feet moved like they had a mind of their own; you’re sprinting to John like he’s the only thing you’re even capable of thinking about at the moment, and that’s because he is.

When you finally reach him, you practically leap into John’s arms, your hands threading around the back of his neck with a tight grip, and you have the widest smile on your face as you press your lips firmly against his. 

He reciprocates the kiss instantly, hands clutching your waste as he leans down to match your lips.

It’s soft, not anything over the top, but fuck does it have you wanting more.

As you pull away, you stare up at John with an excited spark in your eye.

“So kissing’s a thing we do regularly now?” He asked, the happiest grin you’d ever seen on his face. “That’s okay now?”

“Yeah,” you nod, your grin matching his. “I’d say so.”

“Yeah?”

You laugh gleefully.

“I think you’ve earned it.”

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

[seafoammm]

plowed down!

*⁀➷john logan x fem!reader

➷ summary: you’re the captain of the briar girl’s volleyball team, leading your team through the ncaa volleyball semifinals in the hopes of reaching the championship. and you do achieve that, but not after experiencing the most insane introduction with john logan, a man you hadn’t known to exist until now

➷ word count: 5464

➷ warnings: cursing, sexual references kind of (no smut), probably inaccurate volleyball because i literally have never played and don’t know anything about it (i was researching as i wrote this, so i'm genuinely so sorry if it’s completely wrong. also, for the sake of plot making sense, we’re gonna say the ncaa volleyball tournaments take place in march because i want hannah and garrett, and allie and dean to be together)

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

It was nearing the end of the 5th set, and yet, still, both Briar U and Harvard’s girl’s volleyball teams were tied. Fucking 24 points each, both having two winning sets beneath their belts. Meaning, whoever got the last two points– the points that both teams desperately needed– would get a ticket straight to the NCAA Championship.

And you, the libero on the team, the captain, were fucking livid.

Your team, as well as yourself, had been playing sloppy– or at least, it felt like you had– and you really had no clue why. You guys had been perfect during practice, together as one team. Hell, the first two sets had been great, too. Wipeouts. 

But then, of course, because it was fucking Harvard, they won the third set. And then the fourth.

And now you were on the fifth and final set of the NCAA Semifinals, tied 24 points each.

It had to be the most intense game you had ever played in your 15 years of volleyball. 

It didn’t help that Harvard was absolutely, 100%, targeting your ass. You guess it made sense– since your freshman year, you’d been talked about. A prospect that sports sites couldn’t stop talking about. Your name had been in their mouths since your first game at Briar U, and it hadn’t left since.

And that’s because you– to be totally, completely humble– were a really fucking amazing libero. 

Your defensive moves and tactics were the highlights of many games, the Briar U volleyball account literally reposting edits that fans have made of your best saves. You didn’t let it get to your head, of course. You couldn’t, even if you had tried. You weren’t like that– you could never be like that, because in all honesty, you knew the only reason you had gotten as good as you had was because of past coaches and teammates. As well as current ones.

So yeah, you were good, maybe even great as some of the sports sites put it, but it was all through the effort of others.

And, to be honest, right now, you didn’t feel great.

Or good.

You felt completely, utterly, horrible, because during this set– despite it being in the beginning– you had failed to save two hits, the spikes from the opposing team smacking the center of your side of the net. This meant that Harvard had earned two points because you couldn’t get your shit together, and it was driving you fucking nuts.

You felt like you had the pressure of this win on your shoulders, and it really didn’t help that the stands were filled to the brim with students. Harvard students, yes, but mostly Briar students, since it was ‘Briar Blackout’ tonight, a term coined for any sports event when they were wanting to fill the stands, especially now, since it was semifinals, which were held in an arena very close to campus. And boy, were they filled. Which made this all that much worse. God, did it feel like you were letting them down right now. It was embarrassing. Every time Harvard got a point, the disappointed groans of your supporters met your ears, and the usual smile that you wore on your face as you played had been completely wiped from your features during the third set. Because genuinely what the fuck?

This game had been disappointing on so many levels to the point that you were now actively listening to the chants from fellow students and supporters, something you never did. You always tried to block them out, to focus on yourself, but right now, you needed the support.

And it helped a bit, hearing the chants of your name, as well as the other names of girls on your team, shouting how you guys totally ‘got this’.

The people sitting in the courtside seats were the loudest.

In the chairs to your right sat people who had actually bought tickets, while the courtside seats to your left was the Briar boys volleyball team. And, in the courtside seats directly behind you sat the Briar U boys hockey team. Which was new.

You’re pretty sure it was because they had won nationals, so they were here to support the girls volleyball team as they fought for their place. Which you were dreading may be coming to a dead-end tonight.

But you couldn’t be thinking about the hockey boys right now– you couldn’t be thinking about any of this, not when you watched as Luisa Elliot, your best friend, your outside hitter, stumbled as her hands tapped the ball, sending it in the completely wrong direction. Instead of it going back over the net like it was meant to, it had been hit completely off course.

It flew over your head, and was heading straight for the stands directly behind. 

That was no good.

You sprint with not an ounce of hesitation towards the ball, following its movement with your eyes and legs, and you knew there was no way in hell you were going to make it– not when you were coming horribly close to the hockey boys. And, if you ran into them before you sent that ball back where it was meant to go, then you might not get the point, or, worse, Harvard could get the point.

And, fuck, you really couldn’t have that.

So you did what you always did– you leaped, quite literally throwing yourself forward in a dive, right arm pointed straight out, desperate to hit that ball back to your teammates. And you felt it, the ball smacking against the fleshy part of your hand below the knuckle of your thumb. 

You figured it went as planned, your eyes watching as the ball went back over your head– and, when a loud, collective, deafening cheer sounded from your side of the stands, you were positive that your play had gone perfectly, the ball going exactly where it was supposed to be.

However, you were not where you were supposed to be.

No, you were currently dangling over one of the Briar hockey boys.

In the save that may have kept Briar in the game, you had sacrificed your dignity, because here you were, body pressed against and over a man you had never once spoken to– hell, you didn’t even know which hockey player was beneath you. All you knew was that you could feel his face pressed into the fabric that covered your stomach, the rest of your upper body draped over the top of his head. The only reason why you hadn’t flipped completely over the man was because his right arm had instinctively secured itself around the back of your thighs, keeping you in place.

To your left, you heard the loud cackle from one of the boys, and to your right, you heard another one of the guys react with a shocked, “Oh, shit!”

You tried to move quickly, hearing the game continuing behind you as the ball was passed between the Harvard girls. Your hands, which had previously been held out in front of you, trying to balance yourself, now were being grabbed by the two other hockey players beside you, who helped tug you to an upright position as quickly as they could.

As they do this, you feel the arm of the guy that you are currently straddling slide away from your thighs, and he holds his hands back, palms facing you as if he was surrendering to something.

You only get a quick glance of the guy’s baffled– but heavily amused– eyes before your left hand quite literally presses against his face, using it as leverage to push yourself off him, where you start at a sprint back towards the game that had your entire focus. And, it’s lucky you did that, because just as you were about to make it back to the court, the middle hitter of the Harvard team had spiked the ball straight to the floor on your side of the court. 

Again, you dove to the ball, slamming your hand down on the polished wood floor just in time. Instead of the volleyball making contact with the planks of wood, it ricochets off the back of your right hand, moving upward where another one of your teammates– Liliana Amato– bumps it up and over to Louisa.

Louisa, the fucking amazing hitter that she is, spikes the ball with the palm of her hand, sending it straight to the back corner of Harvard’s side of the net. 

Their libero isn’t fast enough. 

No one on their team is fast enough, because the ball hits the wood with a loud smack, resulting in the entire room to vibrate with the loud cheers and screams of Briar students and fans.

You jump up quickly when you hear the whistle from the referee, and you swear you could cry from pure glee when the ref announces that, yes, the point did count, despite the Harvard team trying to claim that your pancake move hadn’t actually saved the ball. 

This causes another wave of loud cheers to erupt in the room, and you move to Louisa and Liliana, a giant grin on your face as you three high five, but not before each of you took a running headstart, jumping as you met in the middle, your shoulders colliding in a celebration of glee. It was something you always did, the three of you, because, as fate had it, you three were the ‘big three’. You guys moved with an efficiency like no other, and as it turned out, sports websites loved it.

All you needed now was one point.

One point, and you would be two points ahead, and then you’d win.

If you guys got this point, you’d make it to the NCAA Championship, something that Briar girls volleyball hasn’t been to in over ten years.

The arena gets quiet again as the two teams get ready, and from the corner of your eye you watch as Macey Cameron, your team's setter, tosses the ball up into the air, using her palm to serve it to Harvard.

And, like that, another intense battle ensues. You swear to God you’ve lost at least twenty pounds through this game because the Harvard girls really were putting you to work– the ball had gone over the net and back three times in the last thirty seconds, and each time, you’ve had to dive to save the ball from one of the girls' vicious spikes.

Like now.

You had just gotten to your feet again when Harvard’s middle hitter sent a completely fucking lethal spike your way. It was going down and over your head with a speed you didn’t even know was possible, and you tossed yourself backwards, right hand out to save the ball from hitting the floor. As it flies up, your body rolls on top of itself, and you’re pretty sure you’ve done some sort of fucking backward sumersault, because one second you’re on your back, and the next you’re on your knees, panting as you rise back to your feet, watching as Liliana sends the ball back over the net.

You watch as the ball flies near the back of the court, hitting the polished wood planks before any of the girls can get it.

But the room stays deathly silent because was that out?

It couldn’t be out.

There was no way you guys just did all that shit for the fucking ball to go out.

Everyone’s eyes are on the ref, who’s talking to the other referees. They’re huddled in a group, and after thirty seconds, they step apart. You watch, and you feel like it’s in slow motion as the man points to your team, nodding.

It had gone in.

The ball had gone in, meaning that Briar had just won the second point needed.

Meaning you were going to the fucking NCAA Championship.

In an instant, the room erupted in cheers so loud that it vibrated through the ground, reaching your feet as you and your team jumped up and down, your coaches– who have yelled at you more times than you could count this game– joining in. You’re so ecstatic that you don’t even think to apologize to the hockey boy that you had run down just minutes prior.

The hockey boy that is now watching you as he cheers, a soft, intrigued smile on his face.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Typically after volleyball games, you went straight home, where you would take a shower and then slump into bed, passing out before you could even question if you were comfortable. It was a ritual at this point; you play a game, you go home and sleep immediately after.

But tonight was different.

Tonight, you and your team had made it to the fucking NCAA Volleyball Championship, which Briar hadn’t done since you were still in elementary school. So, yes, you would fight through your exhaustion for one night, and head to Malone’s for a late night meal with three of your teammates– your best friends– and you would have a great time despite desperately wanting to get comfy in your bedsheets.

Which is how you found yourself now, at 10:30 p.m., entering Malone’s with Louisa, Lililiana, and another girl on the team, Jade, at your side, the four of you walking through the doors of the popular diner. 

You were chatting with Louisa who walked directly next to you, and you laughed at something she said, the soft sound carrying through the diner over the group you had yet to notice. The group you had yet to ever meet.

“Holy shit, it’s her!” Dean hissed, leaning across the table to nudge Logan in the shoulder from where he sat beside Garrett. “She’s literally right there–”

“Yeah, I have fucking eyes and ears, man,” Logan responded back quickly, voice terse as his eyes sideglanced you and your group, watching as the four of you walked past the table that currently held six people, including himself, without any knowledge that you were being watched. He looked back to Dean, eyes narrowed, “Can you be quiet?”

“Why?” Dean asked with a smirk, leaning back against the booth chair, his arm still hung comfortably around Allie, who was grinning with Hannah. “You’ve been aware of this girl for four hours now, and it’s obvious you already have a massive crush on her.”

“I don’t–”

“You’ve been stalking her Instagram since the game ended,” Garrett interrupted with a snort. “I’m pretty sure you’ve scrolled down to her sophomore year of high school.”

Hannah laughs into her drink at that, sharing a look with Tucker who had been snacking on the basket of fries that sat in the middle of the friend group. 

Logan feels his face heat up at that, and he promptly shuts off his phone, pressing it face down onto the table. Then, he picks up his drink, taking a large sip as he shrugs, speaking into the glass, “She’s interesting.”

“Yeah, interesting because she practically gave you a lap dance mid-game,” Tucker snickered, which, as a result, caused Hannah and Allie to erupt into fits of laughter. 

Logan glared harshly at Tucker, “That’s not why I find her interesting.”

“Sure,” Dean drawls out.

“Dude, I’m serious,” Logan huffs, taking a fry and chucking it at the blonde’s head. Then, he leans back against his seat, crossing his arms over himself, “She’s good at her sport. It's fun to watch."

“I think he’s so intrigued because she has no idea who he is,” Hannah butts in with a grin, laughing as Garrett nods along, his arm resting firmly around her, his fingers rubbing against the fabric of her cardigan. “And that’s new for any Briar hockey boy.”

“Oh, definitely,” Garrett agrees.

Logan only stays quiet with a sharp roll of his eyes. But he doesn’t deny it. He can’t deny it, because it’s true. 

Just hours ago, after your amazing win, you had been asked for a post-game interview by Briar’s sports media team. And you had said yes, because why would you not? It was better than having to deal with the glares and snarky comments from exiting Harvard fans.

Now, one thing about you was, you didn’t do hockey. Like, at all. You’ve never been to a game before. You didn’t understand how the stupid little ice game worked. Which, very fucking embarrassing for you, was discovered by the entire internet just hours prior.

It was discovered by John Logan hours prior.

The questions had been basic; they always were. Just repeats of the same things, such as certain plays, how you felt winning, yada, yada, yada. However, tonight, the last question had been different, directly tied to the man you had plowed down hours ago. The man who you didn’t know a fucking thing about, because you seriously didn’t do hockey.

“Alright,” the reporter, Sammy, had said, moving onto the next question. “Now, kinda venturing off… we actually wanted to talk about a specific save tonight.”

You smiled your practiced smile, the type that was sweet and polite and all the right ways, “Oh yeah?”

“John Logan. How are you feeling about that?” The reporter stated the question like you were supposed to know who the fuck that was. And maybe it was because your brain was practically mush from the brutal game, paired with the fact that you were running on pure adrenaline post game, but you couldn’t for the life of you connect that the guy you had run down was John Logan. Again, whoever the hell he was.

“Sorry, who?”

Yeah, you couldn’t have picked a worse fucking response.

But, in John Logan’s eyes, that was the perfect fucking response. When he watched the interview on the way to Malone’s after the game– because he was intrigued with volleyball, that was the only reason– he couldn’t help the amused but giddy smile that laced his face.

The reporter’s smile faltered, and she looked back to the camera that was videotaping the entire thing for the school’s media, before her gaze returned back to you like you guys were in an episode of The Office, “Uh… John Logan?”

“Yeah, um... I’m really sorry, I have no clue who that is.”

“The guy you ran into. When saving one of the passes.”

“Oh,” you respond. And because for some fucking reason you can’t help but embarrass yourself tonight, the situation finally clicks in your head, and you say the worst thing humanly possible: you smile, and say, “Hockey boy.”

Like a fucking idiot.

Or, in John Logan’s eyes, like a fucking angel.

“...Right. He plays right wing for Briar men’s hockey,” she explains. And then, she looks back at the camera as she asks, “You didn’t know the hockey team was behind you, watching tonight?”

And, of course, because for some reason your brain’s goal is to get you to make a complete fool out of yourself, you answer an even worse answer.

But, no, you weren’t a fool in Logan’s eyes. Not even close. You were the complete opposite and it had his heart going like a freight train was headed straight for him.

“I knew they were here. I just don’t have a clue who they are.”

“You don’t know Garrett Graham?”

“Uh… nope? I don’t think so.”

“Dean Di Laurentis?”

“Not ringing a bell, sorry.”

“John Tucker?”

“The guy I ran into?”

Logan had laughed at that, making up a quick excuse to Tucker, who had been sitting next to him in the car back when Logan had first seen the video.

“What? No– no, that was John Logan.”

“Right.” You shake your head and you laugh, “Too many John’s, am I right?”

The reporter was watching you like you had grown another head; she did not laugh. You felt a swell of embarrassment creep up in your chest, but you pushed it away, trying to finish the interview as quickly as possible. And you had.

Jesus Christ, Logan practically ate the thing up. He’d played it back, telling himself it was for educational volleyball purposes, when really it was to watch as your eyebrows furrowed in confusion when asked who he was.

And not caring when finding out who he was.

Which is how he ended up searching your name on Instagram, scrolling through your feed, post by post like some weird stalker, according to his friends. Who, presently, were watching him, because he had turned on his phone yet again, eyes flickering down to the screen, watching an old volleyball practice video you had posted.

“Just go talk to her, dude,” Garrett finally said after another thirty seconds of watching Logan silently yearn at your Instagram profile. “She’s two tables down.”

Logan followed Garrett’s gesture, his head turning a fraction, his eyes catching your form as you hovered over a laminated menu, talking pleasantly with the girl who sat beside you. You pointed at something on the menu, wiggled your eyebrows at the girl across from you, and then snorted at what you had said while your three friends gave you bored expressions.

God, he hadn’t even spoken to you and he was positive he was in love.

“No,” he finally says, twisting his head back to his friends.

“Okay, this is painful,” Dean finally said, throwing his hands up. “Give me that–”

Dean had reached forward, plucking Logan’s phone from his loose grip.

“What– dude, stop– give it back–” 

But Dean had stood in the booth, holding Logan’s phone out of reach, and he scrolled all the way back up to the top of your Instagram. He wasted no time, clicking the follow button with a sigh of content before shutting off the device and tossing it back to Logan.

And, oh, if looks could kill.

“Are you fucking–”

“Shhhh, thank me later.”

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

“No way.”

“What?” Louisa had said, smiling at the waitress as she brought out the four Cokes that you guys had ordered. She took a long sip, staring at you from over the rim, “What’s up?”

You silently turn your phone, showing your three best friends your most recent notification.

John Logan has requested to follow you.

“Holy fuck,” Jade gapes. Then, she snatches your phone from your grip, and you reach forward, trying to snatch it back. However, she’s already leaning far away from you, “Oh, we are accepting this right now–”

“No! No, we are not,” you respond, voice stern as you stand to try and reach for your phone again. “He literally just followed me. If I accept now, he’ll think me plowing into him was intentional or something, so give–”

“And, accepted! Alrightly, follow back… and look at that, he already approved it!”

“I hate you,” you groan.

“Bro,” Liliana said, gesturing to your phone, “he was the one who followed you first. Which means that after you ran him down, he looked you up on Instagram. Which means he has been debating following you for four hours now. Which means he has the hots for you.”

“You guys are all delusional,” you respond, but not before quickly thanking your waitress, who brings over the four burgers and fries you guys had ordered just a bit ago. The food had come quickly, and you know it’s because Malone’s is relatively empty tonight. Only three tables are taken, including the one that you and your friends occupy.

“I don’t think you’re grasping the severity of this situation.”

“‘The severity of the situation’?” You repeat Jade’s words. “The hell does that mean?’

“That you have one of the hottest guys at Briar, a hockey player, following you almost immediately after you straddled him–”

You feel your face burn, “I did not straddle him.”

“Babe,” Louisa interjects, “you absolutely straddled him. Wanna see a video?”

You groan, “They already posted it?”

“Girl, they posted it three minutes after it happened,” Liliana said. She grabbed her phone, typing quickly, and then slid her phone across the table. You steadied it in front of you, leaning over to watch. And, yeah, you definitely straddled the guy. But not after you fucking launched yourself at him like a rabid squirrel, nearly flinging over his shoulder– you only hadn’t because he had held you against him. 

“Oh,” Louisa says from beside you, pointing to the phone. “So that’s Garrett Graham,” she points to the guy who was on your right, the one who had vocalized his surprise when it had happened, “and that’s Dean Di Laurentis,” and then she points to the guy who had cackled. You watch as her finger points to the man next to Dean, “That’s John Tucker. The other John. They all live together. They throw the best parties, too, out of all the hockey boys.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Literally everyone does except you, apparently.”

“Okay, whatever.”

Jade groans loudly, “Can we return to the issue at hand here? John Logan thinks you’re hot.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Girl, look at his smile after you push your hand against his face.”

Jade leans over, using two fingers to zoom the video on the guy’s face, and sure enough, after you push off against his face, sprinting to save the volleyball once more, he watches you with what looks to be a dazed grin, his bottom lip tucked beneath his teeth.

Fuck, it was kinda hot.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” you choose to say instead.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Jade groans. “Look, whatever. Do you at least find him attractive?”

You shrug, lying, “I dunno. Didn’t get a good look at him.”

“Alright, Liliana, pull up the edit.”

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘the edit’?” You question, absolutely baffled. “This guy has edits made for him?”

“He’s a college hockey player, and he’s fucking amazing. And really fucking hot. So, yeah, he’s got edits– but this one is like, top tier. Really gets you going, if you know what I mean–”

“You guys are disgusting.”

“Here,” Liliana says, clicking a video in her liked posts. She shifts her phone towards you, turning up the volume with the pad of her thumb, and you watch as the song “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys sounds through her phone, an extremely well crafted edit of John Logan both on the ice and in interviews playing before you.

“Okay,” you say once the edit finishes, “he’s hot. I get it.”

“See!” Jade grins, “He’s hot, and he’s definitely interested in you after tonight, which means that–”

But you all pause. All four of you freeze, because two tables down, you hear the sound of your voice on full blast, coming from someone’s phone. It’s you answering a question after a relatively successful game, followed by a song. Meaning that somewhere in this fucking diner, someone was watching edits of you.

“Shit! Dean, turn it down–”

It was too late, though.

You and your friends’ heads snapped in the direction of the noise, only to be met with the eyes of six others– five who seemed absolutely thrilled that you had noticed, while the sixth definitely looked like a deer in headlights.

The sixth being John Logan.

You can’t even react accordingly, because Louisa is grinning like a madman, shaking your shoulder and pointing very obviously at the group that’s only two tables away, “Holy shit, he’s right there, oh my God–”

“I can see that, Louisa,” you hiss, pushing her hands off you. Then, you turn back to John Logan, watching as he whispers heated words to his friends before standing. And holy fuck, he’s making his way over to you. Before he even reaches the table, Liliana, Louisa, and Jade are standing, gathering their things and food, and your eyes widen with an alarmed expression, and you hurriedly whisper, “Where the fuck are you guys going?”

“To a different table so we don’t block his cock.”

“Oh my–”

You can’t even finish your words, because your friends are gone. And John Logan is standing right in front of you, a small, gentle smile on his face as he watches your friends scurry over to the table he had just come from. They shove themselves into the booth next to Logan’s friends, acting as if they knew the people they now sat with, which they did not.

Logan’s friends didn’t seem to care, though. They looked just as eager, making room so your three obnoxious teammates could sit comfortably.

You fight the urge to audibly sigh, looking back at the man in front of you. You match his smile, and you really don’t know what’s with your fucking head today, but the first words that leave your mouth aren’t something sweet. They aren't cute. They make you look like a dipshit.

“My victim.”

You immediately want to get up and leave, because genuinely what the fuck were you on today?

But you don’t leave, not when John’s smile widens, and you can see his pretty teeth. He looks thoroughly amused, excited even, and he nods along with your words as he responds, “My attacker.”

“I wouldn’t call it an attack–”

“What would you call it?” He asks with his gentle grin, and he pulls out the chair where Jade had just been, sitting directly across from you.

“A collision on the playing field,” you offer with a hint of playfulness, which he catches onto instantly. “I’m sure you’re used to those. With hockey and everything.”

“So you know who I am now?” He asks, his eyes sparkling with something exciting.

“Hard not to when our video is already making its way through social media. Have you seen it?”

“Absolutely,” he says with a nod, and his tone is serious in a joking way. He’s got his arms now on the table, leaning forward as he speaks to you. He’s still grinning, and you conclude now that this guy is insanely good at keeping eye contact. It's really hot. “You tackling me, me catching you–”

“Straight out of a sports romcom,” you conclude. Then, you shake your solemnly, “What a waste, am I right? If we had some good dialogue, we would’ve gotten a ticket straight to the Oscars!”

“Oh, I know,” he says, and he throws his hands up dramatically. “We’ve been snubbed.”

Fuck, he was fun to banter with.

All the nerves you felt when you first realized he was walking over had vanished into thin air, because you guys got along good. You clicked instantaneously, falling into an easy back and forth that had you leaning forward as you spoke to him, words playful as he nodded along, eyes wide in a way that showed he was having just as much fun as you were.

You guys had been so invested in your many conversations about literally whatever the fuck came up that you didn’t even realize when your friends left. Or when his friends left. Or when you two were the only people left in Malone’s, except for the staff.

And, through the long, witty, playful conversations you were having with John, you two somehow ended up staying at Malone’s until close. It was late out, just past 2 a.m., and John offered to walk you home, which you refused at first, worried about keeping him out too late. But the man pouts dramatically, a playful expression as he told you there's nothing else he'd rather do, and you can’t help but agree.

Which is where you found yourself now.

Pushed up against the front door of your apartment, lips pressed against his, hands threaded through his hair while his fingers held your waist, thumbs rubbing over your hipbones with the type of gentleness that made your heart ache. 

He presses more kisses to your lips. They’re firmer, eager, and it’s now that you know you have to break the news to him.

“Wanna know another thing about me, John?” You grin, tilting your head back as he presses kisses down your neck.

He hums against your skin, sucking gently at your pulse point before smoothing it over with his tongue, pressing once final kiss to the skin. He moves his way back up your neck and jaw with soft kisses, pressing one final kiss to the softness of your lips, “What?”

“I don’t do hook-ups. Or casual.”

You expect him to falter, to pull back with a face of disappointment. You figured that’s what would happen, but you didn’t necessarily care. Sure, it was going to suck, having to end this short-lived thing with the hottest guy you ever met, but you weren’t going to change your rules for a guy you had just met. 

But, no, Logan doesn’t react how you were expecting at all.

No frown, no hint of irritation. He does something else, something that catches you off guard in the best way possible.

He grins. 

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

[fezrus]

Seven steps, one word

John Logan (Off Campus) x Reader

from an irritated "oh, fuck!" to a confident "fuck it", your entire relationship with John Logan can be mapped out in seven specific exclamations of his favorite four-letter word.

word count : 6.1k (sorry) — enemies to lovers, kind of — logan is moody — SMUT, minors DNI — Enjoy and please tell me what you think !

One — "Oh, fuck!"

The music wasn’t just loud; it was vibrating through the old floorboards and thumping directly against your ribs. You’d only been there for twenty minutes, entirely dragged along by Hannah, who was currently tucked under Garrett’s arm near the doorway. Watching them was sweet—almost nauseatingly so—but it left you feeling like a ghost drifting through a sea of oversized jerseys, loud hockey players, and the thick scent of cheap beer. For the most part, the rest of the boys were incredibly welcoming; even though you'd just met them tonight, they were already loud, inherently kind and easy to be around.

​Except for John Logan.

You hadn’t actually been introduced to him yet, but you’d felt his suffocating vibe the moment he walked through the door. He looked like absolute thunder. Briar had dropped a frustrating, tight game that evening, and while Garrett was channeling his nervous energy into playing the charismatic host, Logan was wearing his irritation like armor. Leaning against the kitchen counter with a dark scowl that practically screamed at people to stay away, his knuckles were white around his glass, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for a reason to snap.

​Navigating that crowded, chaotic kitchen with a brim-filled, sticky mixed drink was your first mistake. Your second was catching the rubber toe of your sneaker on the lifting edge of a rogue anti-fatigue mat near the sink.

​You stumbled forward, your arms flailing wildly in a desperate, ungraceful bid for balance. You didn’t fall, but your cup did a violent, mid-air flip, slipping from your fingers. A torrential wave of sticky, dark rum and cola splashed directly across the pristine gray fabric of Logan’s Henley shirt, soaking through the chest, darkening the material instantly and dripping down the front of his dark jeans.

​​Logan froze. His head snapped down slowly, looking at the huge, dark stain spreading across his clothes, and then his gaze lifted to yours. His eyes were blazing, a dangerous brown, entirely unamused and dripping with venom. "Oh, fuck!" he snapped, his voice cutting right through the ambient noise like a knife. He pulled the wet, heavy fabric away from his skin with two fingers, a look of pure annoyance twisting his features. "Are you serious right now? Watch where the hell you're going."

​The sheer aggression in his tone caught you completely off guard, instantly sparking your own deeply ingrained, stubborn nature. You had been about to apologize profusely, the words of remorse already forming on your tongue, but the bite in his words choked them right out of your throat. You squared your shoulders, refusing to back down under his glare. "It was an accident," you retorted, pulling a few crumpled, napkins from the counter and shoving them toward his chest. "You don't have to be a complete dick about it. It’s just a shirt, I'm pretty sure you'll survive."

​"It's a wet, sticky shirt at the end of a terrible, exhausting fucking day," he growled, his voice dropping an octave as he batted your hand away with a harsh flick of his wrist. He didn't take the napkins; they fluttered uselessly to the floor. Instead, he leaned down slightly, giving you a long, icy glare that made you feel about two inches tall, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle tick. "Next time, look up from your feet." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and storming down the hallway toward the stairs, muttering curses under his breath.

​You stood there rooted to the spot, your cheeks burning with a toxic mixture of intense embarrassment and sudden, deep-seated dislike. Garrett materialized at your side a split second later, a sympathetic, slightly apologetic grimace on his face as he patted your shoulder gently. "Hey, don't sweat it," Garrett reassured you quietly, glancing warily toward the stairs where Logan had disappeared. "Logan’s just in a brutal mood because of the game, and he hates losing more than anyone. He's usually a great guy, I swear. He’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow morning."

​You forced a tight, fake smile and nodded, but as you looked down at your empty, sticky hands, a bitter taste lingered in your mouth. Spoiler alert: he wouldn't forget. and neither would you.

Two — "Fuck you"

A few weeks later, the initial friction hadn’t dissolved; it had hardened into a permanent, icy chill. You tried your best to play nice for the sake of Hannah and Allie, but Logan made it incredibly difficult. You saw how he was with the rest of their circle—fiercely loyal, easygoing, and warm. He was the kind of guy who quietly made sure Allie and Hannah got home safe from their late shifts and spent his free afternoons helping Jules with media stuff. He was patient with the entire world. But the exact millisecond you walked into a room, his posture stiffened and his jaw set. You hated being the sole exception to his good nature, so you simply stayed out of his way.

​The breaking point came on a gray, rainy Tuesday afternoon. You and Hannah had walked over to the hockey house to help Tucker untangle a massive, soul-crushing history assignment he was drowning in. The three of you were spread across the dining table, surrounded by a chaotic mess of highlighters, laptop cords, and heavy library textbooks.

​The back door clicked open, and Logan walked in. He was wearing his Briar athletic gear, a damp towel slung over his shoulders from a post-practice shower, his hair messy and wet. He looked exhausted, his shoulders tense, carrying the unmistakable hangover of a brutal morning practice. Instead of walking past to the kitchen, he paused by the table, leaning over Tucker’s shoulder to scan the open pages. He let out a heavy, deliberate sigh. ​"You’re using the wrong primary sources for that era, Tuck," Logan said, his voice dropping into that effortless, uninvited authority. "You need the economic logs from the eastern front, not these political manifestos. You’re going to tank your thesis statement with those."

​Tucker blinked up, looking miserable. "Wait, really? I thought—"

​"We checked those, Logan," you interrupted, keeping your voice level and calm as you kept your eyes on your notebook. "We've got it handled," you smiled, trying to remain polite.

​Logan didn't move. His eyes slid slowly down to the side of your face, unamused. "Right. Because you're an expert on 20th-century economic trade?"

​"No," you said, your pen pausing on the page. "But I can read a syllabus. If you're so worried about Tucker's academic results, you could have sat down and helped him yourself already."

​Logan’s jaw tightened, a sharp spike of tension instantly replacing his usual easygoing demeanor. He took his hands out of his pockets and leaned forward, bracing his palms on the edge of the table, firmly invading your space. Tucker shot Hannah a wide-eyed, panicked look across the textbooks, both of them suddenly bracing for impact.

​"I gave him my old notes weeks ago," Logan shot back, his voice dropping into something smaller, tighter. "But sure, ignore the guy who actually passed the class because you're too stubborn to take a note from me."

​"I'm not being stubborn, you're just being a patronizing prick," you retorted, leaning back in your chair. "You’ve been hovering over this table for five minutes just looking for a problem because you had a bad day and want to take it out on someone."

​Logan let out a harsh, dry laugh, though there was a flicker of genuine frustration in his eyes—the look of a good guy who couldn't understand why he kept letting you bait him. "Take it out on someone? Trust me, if I wanted to take anything out on someone, I wouldn't waste my time on you. I'm trying to keep my friend from bombing a midterm because he made the mistake of letting you organize his thoughts."

​"My thoughts are perfectly fine, Logan," Tucker muttered quietly under his breath, his eyes glued to his laptop screen, desperately trying to dissolve into the background.

​"They're fine when you're left alone, Tuck," Logan said, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring his teammate's plea. "Not when you're letting someone drag their own contrarian agenda into your coursework."

​"A contrarian agenda?" You stood up, your chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. Hannah flinched at the sharp noise, withdrawing her hands from the table and motioning for Tucker to leave the potential future crime scene. They both complied quickly, knowing you both well enough to understand that trying to reason with you in that moment would be pointless. "Are you actually insane? I'm sorry that anyone else having a brain in this house threatens your need to micromanage every single thing that happens under this roof."

​"It doesn't threaten me at all," Logan said, standing up straight and towering over you, using his height to crowd your space until his shadow completely blocked out the light from the window. The sheer, uncharacteristic anger rolling off him was suffocating; Tucker actually slid his chair back a few inches, completely done with trying to intervene at this point. "It annoys me. You annoy me, actually. I'm not going to walk on eggshells in my own dining room because you can't handle a basic correction."

​"I can handle a correction if it's respectful," you shot back, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you refused to take a step away from him. "You don't want to help Tucker. You just want to feel like the smartest guy in the room and that is annoying."

​"I dont—," Logan started, a nervous scoff escaping his lips. "You don't know anything about me. Please let's keep it this way, since you clearly can't stand me anyway."

​"You're the one who treats me like an absolute inconvenience the second I breathe in your direction!" you yelled, the weeks of being ignored, brushed off, and glared at finally boiling over into raw, unadulterated anger. "If you hate me being here so much, just say it. But stop acting like I'm the one bringing the venom into this house when you're the one dripping it."

​The air between you turned completely volatile, thick enough to choke on. A strange, angry electricity snapped between you, the argument completely detached from history or homework now, exposed and raw. Logan stared down at you, his breathing heavy and uneven as he tried to swallow down the sheer frustration rolling off him in waves. ​He leaned down slightly, bringing his face inches from yours, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle violently ticked in his cheek.

"Fuck you," he whispered.

​The words hit with a cold, deliberate weight that vibrated in the dead-silent room. ​Before you could fire back, Tucker's voice boomed from the kitchen archway, stern and completely done with both of you. "Enough! Both of you, cut it the hell out."

​But the damage was done. The look in Logan's eyes made something tight and painful twist in your chest. You refused to sit there and breathe the same air as him for another second. Blindly turning around, you grabbed your laptop and notebook, shoving them into your backpack with rigid, uncooperative hands.

​"I'm leaving," you muttered, keeping your eyes glued firmly to the floor as you pushed past Hannah’s reaching hand on the way out. You grabbed your jacket from the hook and left through the front door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the frame, stepping out into the pouring, cold rain with the echo of his voice looping in your head like a curse.

Three — "Fuck off"

​For the next month, you became an absolute expert at avoiding John Logan. You turned it into an art form. If he was at a crowded house party, you stayed firmly in the kitchen or on the opposite porch. If the entire group gathered at Malone's, you ensured you sat on the exact opposite end of the long table, hidden behind Dean's loud gestures.

Because of this, you never saw the way his eyes silently followed you when you entered a room, or the almost guilty look that crossed his face whenever your name came up in conversation. He knew he'd crossed a line by cursing at you like that—but your unbreakable silence gave him absolutely no room to apologize, and his own stubborn pride kept him from forcing the issue.

​There were small signs of his guilt, though. One random Thursday afternoon, he showed up at the place you shared with Hannah and Allie, claiming he was just dropping off a spare hockey hoodie Garrett had left in his truck. You had stayed in your room with the door cracked just an inch, watching through the tiny gap as he lingered by the entrance, his eyes constantly drifting toward your door,  silently checking to see if you'd come out. You hadn't moved an inch, holding your breath until he finally left.

​Eventually, Hannah and Allie staged a full-blown intervention. A brand-new club had opened downtown, and they absolutely refused to let you stay home and rot in your room, even though they openly admitted the boys were all coming along. You finally relented, numbing your spiking anxiety by pouring yourself two heavy pre-game vodka crans before leaving the house.

​The club was a massive sensory overload—flashing neon lights, artificial fog, and heavy, chest-thumping bass that made communication impossible. By midnight, everyone was comfortably, heavily drunk. You were leaning your back against the sticky mahogany bar, sipping a gin and tonic, when you finally caught sight of him through the pulsing crowd.

​Logan was laughing at something Beau said, a dark red bandana tied tightly around his messy hair, looking effortlessly, devastatingly handsome in a black fitted t-shirt. As if sensing the weight of your gaze, his head turned. His dark eyes locked directly onto yours across the smoky crowded room. He didn’t look away. He held your stare for a second, then two, then three — a strange, intense, unreadable heat settling over his features before a group of dancers blocked your view.

A few minutes later, a guy from one of the campus fraternities slithered up next to you on the edge of the dance floor. He was loud, sweaty, and smelled entirely too much like cheap cologne and whiskey — but a little bit of dancing could help taking your mind off of a certain hockey player, you thought. You enjoyed it at first, moving along, focusing on the music, the stranger getting closer and closer as the playlist progressed. But then, just as you started to feel good - just the right amount of alcohol in your veins to feel lighter and relaxed - he tried to grind his hips against yours. You tried to step back, laughing it off politely at first, pushing his hands away, but he didn't take the hint. His hands came down on your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you flush against him with a grip that was far too tight and aggressive.

​Before you could even raise your hands to shove his chest, a massive shadow loomed over both of you.

​A now familiar hand gripped the frat guy’s shoulder, spinning him around with enough force to make his sneakers squeak on the floor.

​"Fuck off," Logan snarled, his voice a low, lethal vibration that cut right through the heavy bass of the music. He leaned in until he was nose-to-nose with the guy. "Get your fucking hands off her and fuck off right now."

​The guy looked at Logan and wisely raised his hands in surrender, backing away rapidly into the foggy crowd without throwing a single punch.

​Logan’s breathing was heavy, his chest heaving, his fists still clenched tightly at his sides as his eyes scanned the immediate area like a wild animal looking for another threat. He looked ready to tear the entire club apart with his bare hands. Anxious that he might actually chase the guy down for a fight, you stepped directly into his line of sight, capturing his attention.

​"Logan," you breathed, your voice soft and entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. Without thinking about the consequences, you reached out, your bare fingers wrapping around his forearm.

​The exact millisecond your skin met the warm, rock-hard muscle of his arm, Logan froze entirely. It was the first time the two of you had ever willingly, gently touched, and the effect was instantaneous. The blinding anger seemed to drain out of him in a single breath, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of air. He looked down at your small hand resting on his arm, his skin tingling where you touched him, and then he slowly, deliberately lifted his gaze to your eyes.

​The noisy club, the flashing strobe lights, the roaring bass, the alcohol—it all faded into irrelevant background noise. You stood face-to-face on the crowded dance floor, completely motionless, just looking into each other's eyes. Your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, not from fear of the frat guy, but from a sudden, dizzying, terrifying realization. Looking into his wide, intensely focused eyes, you realized you didn't hate him. Not even close. And from the soft, almost vulnerable parting of his lips, he didn't hate you either. You weren't close to being friends yet, but the ice had officially shattered into a million pieces. 

Four — "What the fuck"

The shift between you was subtle, but it was absolutely undeniable. The sharp hostility was gone, completely replaced by a quiet, lingering, heavy awareness that neither of you knew quite what to do with.

​A week later, you were sitting in a sunlit corner booth at Malone’s. You were completely, entirely absorbed in a brutal, multi-chapter study session for your finals, a pair of heavy over-ear headphones clamped securely over your ears. The sweet, nostalgic melody of American Pie was playing through the speakers, and without even realizing it, you were softly humming along to the chorus, tapping the cap of your yellow highlighter rhythmically against the open pages of your textbook.

​You were so deeply focused on your notes that you didn't hear the diner's front door chime, nor did you see Logan walk in. He was there to finalize the last-minute details for the upcoming Hockey Fundraiser with Hannah and Della. But the exact moment his eyes scanned the room and spotted you sitting alone in the corner booth, he stopped dead in his tracks.

​He didn’t approach right away. He just stood near the counter, watching you. A soft, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he listened to your faint, slightly off-key humming.

​Prickled by the sudden, distinct sensation of eyes on you, you blinked and lifted your head from your textbook. Logan instantly wiped the smile from his face, clearing his throat roughly and pretending to read a missing cat flyer on the bulletin board.

​You pulled your headphones down, a small smirk playing on your lips. "You know, if you stare any harder, you're going to burn a hole right through my skull, Logan."

​Instead of snapping back with a sarcastic, biting retort like he used to, Logan let out a soft chuckle. He walked over to your booth and, to your surprise, slid into the bench by your side, his knee almost touching yours.

​"Just making sure you weren't torturing the rest of the innocent customers with your singing," he teased gently, his shoulder brushing against yours in the tight space.

​You rolled your eyes, but there was no spite left in your expression. "I happen to have the voice of a literal angel, thank you very much. You're just jealous."

​The playful banter slowly subsided into a comfortable silence. Logan looked at you, his expression turning a little more serious, his eyes softening as his voice dropped to a much quieter register. "Hey… are you doing okay?" Since what happened the other night, obviously implied by the way he looked at you right now, concern written all over his face.

You felt a warm flush creep up your neck and settle into your cheeks. "I'm okay, thank you" you smiled and he nodded, both silently agreeing not to discuss this unpleasant event anymore. You paused, looking down at his large hands resting on the table before forcing yourself to look back up. "How are you doing ? With the fundraiser and everything, I mean. You look like you haven't slept in a week."

​He seemed genuinely surprised that you were asking about him. Really, truly asking. He leaned back against the vinyl booth, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he completely opened up to you. He talked about the immense stress of managing the team's high expectations, his constant worries about Jules’ upcoming exams, and the suffocating pressure of the NHL scouts attending the next three games. You listened intently, never interrupting, offering gentle encouragement and a few dry, sarcastic jokes that had him laughing quietly into his palms. For a full hour, the two most stubborn, argumentative people at Briar University just… talked.

​"Well," you finally said, checking the diner clock and reluctantly packing your laptop into your bag. "I have to get to my shift at the library. Don't let Della bully you into paying extra for the tableware."

​"I won't," Logan said, his eyes tracking your every movement, lingering on your face. "See you around?"

​"See you around." You gave him a small, genuine smile—the first real one he'd ever received from you—and walked out into the crisp afternoon air, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks.

​Inside the booth, Logan sat completely still for a long, agonizing moment. He watched your retreating figure through the glass window until you turned the corner and disappeared from view. Slowly, he let out a shaky exhale, burying his face entirely in his hands. He rubbed his palms over his eyes, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

​"What the fuck," he whispered into the empty diner booth, his voice laced with a mixture of absolute awe and sheer, unadulterated panic. He was screwed. He was completely, utterly, hopelessly screwed, and he knew there was no turning back.

Five — "Well, fuck"

​The night of the Briar Hockey Fundraiser at Malone’s was a chaotic, high-energy, glittering success. The entire diner had been completely transformed for the evening—the regular tables had been pushed to the far perimeter to create a makeshift dance floor, strings of warm fairy lights hung across the ceiling, and a massive turnout of wealthy alumni, boosters, and students kept the bar utterly slammed.

​You had dressed up significantly for the occasion, wearing a form-fitting, emerald green silk dress that Allie let you borrow from her closet - of course. You spent the first half of the night talking to Hannah near the punch bowl, but your eyes kept unconsciously tracking a certain someone across the room.

Logan was entirely in his element—charming the older donors, laughing easily with his teammates, and looking entirely too edible for your own good.

​Around midnight, the formal event finally dissolved into a proper, rowdy college party. The DJ cranked up a heavy, slow, rhythmic pop song, the bass echoing through the floor, and the dance floor filled up with couples. You were navigating the edge of the sweaty crowd, trying to find Allie when a sudden, firm, yet gentle pull on your wrist guided you backward.

​You spun around on your heels, your chest bumping right into Logan’s broad torso. "You've been actively dodging me all night," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating right against your skin as his large hand settled naturally around yours. The casual, unhesitating intimacy of the gesture sent a fierce, blinding jolt of electricity straight down your spine.

​"I wasn't dodging you, I was letting you do your official host duties," you shot back, a wicked, playful smile spreading across your lips. The alcohol gave you a surge of confidence, and you looped your arms slowly around his neck, stepping closer into his personal space until there was absolutely no air left between you. "Besides, I didn't think you could actually handle me dancing with you."

​Logan’s dark eyes lit up instantly, a dangerous, competitive challenge flaring in his pupils. He pulled you a fraction of an inch closer. "Oh, really? Try me, sweetheart."

​You didn't hesitate. As the heavy beat of the music dropped, you shifted your weight, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, and sinfully against his. You leaned in close, your lips brushing the warm shell of his ear as you whispered, "You're all talk, John Logan. Let's see if you can actually keep up with me."

​You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding down his chest to grip the crisp fabric of his shirt, tugging him rhythmically, tightly against your body. The friction was immediate, heavy, and intoxicating. Logan’s breath hitched audibly in his throat. A dark, intense flush crept up his neck, coloring his sharp cheekbones as his hands settled on your waist, his fingers digging firmly into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress. He swallowed hard, his eyes dropping helplessly to your parted lips, entirely overwhelmed and undone by the sudden confidence of your movements. He could feel exactly how much you were affecting him, his body reacting instantly to the touch of your hips.

A breathless, desperate laugh escaped him. He jerked his head back for a split second, fighting a losing battle for self-control. "Well, fuck," he muttered, his voice raw, completely devoid of its usual composure.

​"Did I break the big, tough hockey player already?" you cooed, tilting your chin up tauntingly, your noses almost touching as you continued to sway against him.

​"You wish," he groaned, his thumbs stroking the bare skin of your lower back where your dress dipped low. He didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled you even tighter against his lower body, matching your sinful rhythm perfectly, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a burning intensity that made it very clear the playful teasing was rapidly turning into something much more dangerous and inevitable. When the night finally forced you apart, it didn't feel like a goodbye — it was a promise.

Six — "Fuck"

Some things are bound to reach a breaking point, and the agonizing tension building between you for months was no exception. Three nights later, Briar won a massive game and the ensuing after-party at the boys' house was pure chaotic madness. The house was packed to maximum capacity, a sweaty, pulsing mass of drunken celebration, loud music, and screaming students.

​But you and Logan weren't paying any attention to the party. For the past two hours, you had been moving around the house like two high-powered magnets — constantly drawing closer, stealing long, heated glances across the crowded rooms, the unspoken, heavy weight of the fundraiser hanging between you.

​Seeking a brief moment of quiet to cool down your flushed skin, you headed down the dark back hallway toward the upstairs bathroom. Just as you reached out for the brass doorknob, the door swung open from the inside.

​Logan stepped out.

You nearly crashed straight into his chest, cutting your breath short as you ground to a halt mere inches from him. The hallway was swallowed by shadows, save for the frantic strobe lights bleeding in from the living room. Logan stared down at you, wide-eyed, his chest rising and falling in sync with the thick, suffocating heat pulsing through the house.

​Neither of you said a single word. The months of toxic banter, the vicious, screaming arguments, the desperate avoidance, and the agonizing teasing all converged into a single, breathless, breaking second.

​Logan reached out with lightning speed, his large hand wrapping around your waist, and shoved you backward into the bathroom, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind you and twisting the lock with a sharp, echoing click.

​Before the sound of the lock could even fade, his mouth crashed onto yours.

​It was an absolute explosion. The kiss was passionate, borderline feral, a violent release of pure, pent-up, crazy frustration. You let out a muffled gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to rip into his dark hair, pulling him down toward you out of sheer desperation. He groaned deep in his throat, a sound of pure hunger, pinning your body flat against the heavy wooden door, his thick thighs crowding tightly between yours. His hands were absolutely everywhere—clutching your face, tracing the line of your throat, gripping your hips with a bruising, desperate force that felt incredibly, entirely right.

​"Logan," you whimpered against his mouth as he tore his lips away to kiss your jawline, your neck - his hands sliding down to frantically bunch up the silk fabric of your dress.

​With a sudden burst of strengh, he hooked his large hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly into the air. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist as he deposited you onto the cold marble edge of the bathroom sink counter. He didn't waste a single second. His hands slid all the way up the bare, warm skin of your thighs, finding the edge of your underwear. His fingers quickly found your slick, burning, over-sensitized core, rubbing against you through the damp fabric with a rhythm that made your head tilt back and earned a large grin from him.

​You arched your back off the counter, a loud sob escaping your lips, your fingers digging deep into his shoulders.

​"You like that?" Logan growled against your neck, his voice dripping with lust. His fingers moved faster, driving you up a steep, agonizing cliff. "Tell me you want it."

​"Logan," you breathed out, "please," you cried out, your head tossing back against the large bathroom mirror. Your hands flew down to his waist, frantically, blindly fumbling with the button of his jeans. You shoved the denim down his hips until his length snapped free—thick, heavy, and pulsing with heat. The moment your fingers wrapped tightly around him, moving in a fast, desperate stroke, Logan’s eyes rolled back.

His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his neck. He couldn't endure the exquisite torture for long, his quiet moans matching your own, before his large hand clamped over yours, freezing your movement. "Stop, stop," he panted, his chest wild, his forehead pressing against yours. "I'm going to come right now if you keep doing that. I need to feel you, right now."

With trembling, frantic hands, he reached into the small drawer next to the sink—Dean’s emergency stash—and ripped open a foil condom wrapper, spitting the plastic away and rolling it onto himself in one fluid, desperate motion.

Then he stepped back between your open thighs. His hands gripped your hips with an iron hold, dragging you to the very edge of the marble counter. He aligned himself against you, waiting just long enough for your frantic nod of approval. With one heavy, unyielding, possessive thrust, he buried himself completely inside you.

The sheer, overwhelming pleasure of that sudden fullness hit you both at once, fracturing the quiet of the bathroom with a sharp, mutual gasp. Instead of slowing down, the friction only stoked the fire, drawing a long, ragged, shattered exhale from deep in Logan's chest. His pupils were completely dilated, dark and wild with pure lust as his forehead dropped heavily against your shoulder.

"Fuck," he groaned into the crook of your neck, his voice a raw, visceral prayer vibrating against your collarbone.

His hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like an anchor as he immediately established a rhythm. The restraint dissolved into pure instinct. He pulled you flush against him, his thrusts becoming powerful, deep, and utterly relentless from the very start. Every heavy drive forced a breathless cry from your lips, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. You rocked together on the cold edge of the marble sink, your bodies generating a feverish heat that defied the chilly stone beneath you.

The bass from the after-party still thudded through the floorboards, a distant, muffled reminder of the chaotic world outside, but within the locked walls of the bathroom, that world was entirely forgotten. There was only the slick, friction-heavy slide of skin against skin, the frantic tangle of your fingers in his hair, and the hot, primal rhythm consuming you both.

The friction was dizzying, driving you both toward a precipice that neither of you could fight anymore. Logan’s pace turned frantic, his breath coming in harsh, ragged stabs against your ear as his hips slammed against yours with an undoing, desperate urgency. Every stroke sent a white-hot wave of pleasure straight to your core, tightening the coil inside you until it was agonizing.

You choked out a breathless, broken sound, your hands clamping onto his biceps as your head thrashed back against the mirror once more.

He didn't need words to know you were right there. He buried his face in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he delivered three more devastatingly deep, relentless thrusts.

That was the final breaking point. Your walls clamped down around him tight and pulsing, fracturing your breath into a loud, ruined cry as your entire body shattered into a blinding, head-to-toe release.

Hearing you break completely ruined him. Logan let out a guttural, unhinged groan that vibrated deep in his chest. His jaw locked, his body rigid and trembling as he gave one last, deeply possessive shove, throwing his weight into you as he came violently inside the condom. He held himself deep within you, his hips shuddering against yours as he rode out the waves of his own release, the two of you panting heavily in the quiet aftermath, entirely spent.

Seven — "Fuck it"

Roughly thirty minutes later, the two of you finally emerged from the bathroom. You had tried your absolute best to fix your chaotic appearance in the mirror—re-applying a bit of smudge-proof lip gloss, smoothing down the wrinkled fabric of your dress, and trying to tame your wildly tangled hair with your fingers—but the physical evidence of what had just occurred was written all over your faces. Your skin was flushed a deep unmistakable pink, your lips were incredibly swollen and red, and Logan was walking with a loose, stupidly contented, proud stride, his hair completely disheveled and sticking up in directions where your fingers had repeatedly torn through it.

​The exact moment you stepped back onto the floor of the crowded living room, a loud, piercing whistle cut through the air.

Dean was leaning against the back of the sofa, a beer dangling from his fingers and a knowing smirk plastered across his face. His eyes darted from you to Logan, zeroing in instantly on the faint trace of your lip gloss smeared along Logan’s jawline.

​"Well, well, well," he said, loud enough to be heard over the music. "Must have been a pretty intense plumbing emergency in there. Either that, or you two just went ten rounds with a blender. You might want to wipe your face, Logan."

Your cheeks instantly burned. You took a step back. "Dean, shut up, we were just—"

But Logan didn't let you finish the lie. He looked down at you, catching the slight panic in your eyes, and then looked over at Dean, who was practically vibrating with smug satisfaction.

Instead of getting defensive, Logan just let out a short, quiet laugh. The stubbornness, the secrecy, the remnants of your old feud—it all suddenly felt completely irrelevant. He was tired of hiding it.

"You know what? Fuck it," Logan muttered.

Before you could process the words, his hand slid around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your jaw as he pulled you flush against his chest. Right there by the sofa, he leaned down and kissed you.

Dean threw his arms up in a dramatic, sweeping gesture. "About damn fucking time! Graham, you owe me twenty bucks!"

When Logan finally pulled back, his eyes were bright, a relaxed, genuinely happy smile playing on his lips as his thumb brushed your cheek. You looked up at him, the noise of the party fading into the background, finally realizing that the long, argumentative journey of seven dirty words had brought you exactly where you were supposed to be.

just posted a new John Logan fic <3

[puckingcuckbunny]

𝐣𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐥𝐲 ✪

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞 : john logan x fem! di Laurentis!reader

𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : points of tension? but not angst, secret relationship

𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : Being Dean di daurentis' little sister came with many...features, hundreds of eyes would be trained on the both of you- a dynamic pairing that was sure to breathe life into a party just by blinking at the venue, lavish lives of comfort and quiet luxury, it didn't help you had killer genes on top of it all. With those abilities came challenges, such as, your personal lives being the literal talk of the town.

Meaning you'd be willing to do just about anything to protect the one good thing you had kept to yourself since you lied to your parents about getting drunk for the first time. That included, a bunch of brain rotting dates with the most eligible bachelors at Briar, which, fair warning- will lead to your boyfriend not being the happiest man on earth.

𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐜𝐞 : 7k words

𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲’𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 : What can I say for this one. I just hope you guys think I still have a life. I do, it's just a bit lost at the moment. I swear. I'm also on break right now- so I have alot of free time haha. catch me not uploading anything when teaching starts again. Anyway, just goes to show that when I get requests I don't half ass them haha. Thank you @pinkyups for the gif and @onyxdaze for the dividers !

𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 : I would really appreciate if you could send in an ask to be on my taglist, it's easier for me to manage and make sure everyone is added!! here is the post of my current taglist. Also, if your user is bolded, I'm going on a prayer that youve been tagged but Tumblr wouldn't let me properly do so. I would recommend checking your privacy settings to allow other people to tag you.

The hockey house was always, somehow, loud. Loud in that pre-party way on a Friday night that made your head spin and bring a giddy smile to your face. The warm-up stage, if you will. Everyone half-distracted and talking over each other while deciding what the night was actually going to become.

Which was exactly why Dean had decided it was the perfect time to ruin your life.

“No seriously,” your brother insisted from across the kitchen island, pointing his beer bottle at you like he was presenting a business proposal to investors instead of actively setting his sister up on a date, “this guy is perfect for you.”

You stared at him flatly and leaned on your elbows, the stool you were sat on tipped dangerously.

“Every time you say that, I suffer.”

“That’s because you keep picking emotionally unavailable weirdos.”

Everyone partially ignored Dean, he was always doing this- offering to set you up with the next eligible bachelor that he had scouted in his classes, or mutual friends, one time he set you up with one of his ex-hookup’s hookup. That one didn’t go as well as the majority of your brother’s matchmaking pursuits.

From the couch, Logan’s ears perked up and he choked slightly on his drink; he glanced around hoping nobody noticed, and it didn’t seem like they did.

Except Garrett.

Garrett glanced up from his phone, eyes moving from Logan to you and then back to Logan again with the expression of somebody who had just noticed a bomb underneath the dining table.

Your eyes flicked to Logan, a secret twinkle in them before you steeled and ignored him. Dean, fortunately for you didn’t even notice and continued talking.

“He’s pre-law,” he said proudly.

Logan rolled his eyes and scoffed before he could stop himself. He didn’t even recognise the noise that he made, but he stilled when he felt the group’s eyes on him.

Allie frowned from where she sat cross-legged on the floor. “Why did you react like that?”

Logan shrugged quickly, leaning further back into the couch cushions beside Tucker. “I didn’t.”

“You literally scoffed.”

“I breathed.”

“That was a judgmental breath.”

“It’s pre-law,” Logan muttered, finger running along the rim of his beer bottle.

Dean narrowed his eyes immediately, “What’s wrong with pre-law?”

Logan took another sip of his drink like he hadn’t just entered the conversation voluntarily. “Sounds evil.”

Tucker barked out a laugh from beside him. “Bro, weren't you considering law for a bit?”

“We don’t about that dark time of my life,” Logan muttered, he nodded silently as the yeasty alcohol slipped down his throat- his eyes flicked to you but he refocussed on the conversation at hand.

You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to stop yourself smiling.

The two of you had agreed on the secrecy together.

Mostly because your friends were all deeply nosy and incapable of minding their own business for longer than six consecutive minutes, but also because you and Logan had somehow slipped into dating without fully meaning to and then panicked slightly once you realised how serious it had become.

Now here you were.

Four months deep into a relationship that you couldn’t reveal, unless you wanted to bring about the next Dean-meltdown. The last one almost ended with him moving to Australia and making a life with the kangaroos. 

Which meant that every time somebody tried setting one of you up with another person, you both had to sit there pretending it was completely normal.

You liked to think that you had been handling it significantly better than Logan.

“All I’m saying,” Dean continued, oblivious to the psychological warfare occurring three feet away from him, “is that he’s smart, he’s tall, he cooks-”

“That’s manipulative,” Logan interrupted.

The room went quiet.

You looked at him.

Dean looked at him.

Even Hannah slowly lowered her phone.

“What?” Dean said eventually.

Logan blinked once like he had only just realised he’d spoken aloud.

“What?” he repeated.

“You think cooking is manipulative?”

Logan shifted slightly in his seat. “Sometimes.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Neither does pre-law.”

Allie turned fully toward him now, deeply suspicious. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, “You seem weirdly invested.”

“I’m not invested.” He quickly replied. 

Garrett spoke without looking up from his phone.

“You wanna explain why you’re reacting like a divorced father who just found out his ex-wife is dating again?”

Tucker physically folded over laughing.

Logan pointed at Garrett immediately. “See? This is why nobody likes you.”

“People love me.”

“Your own girlfriend looks tired.”

Hannah snorted into her can of coke and ran her hand through her boyfriend’s hair, who was staring daggers at Logan until he melted into her touch.

You looked away before you snorted at Logan’s antics, which probably in hindsight wasn’t the best idea, because the second your attention drifted away- you could feel him boring holes into the side of your face, like he was trying to telepathically communicate his annoyance across the room.

Your phone buzzed against the counter and you grabbed it quickly before someone noticed the way you grinned to yourself, biting down on your lip you checked the notifications; even though you already knew who it was.

Hockey boy 💗 stop smiling at dean about another guy before i lose my mind

Across the room, Logan stared at his own phone with the deeply concentrated expression of someone trying not to commit homicide.

You typed back carefully, intentionally slower so as not to alert your brother- who was now chattering with his girlfriend across the room. 

You: you are being unbelievably dramatic rn

Hockey boy 💗 he said the guy cooks

You: so…do you?

Hockey boy 💗 yeah but i do it sexier

You physically had to cough to disguise the laugh that escaped you.

Hannah looked over instantly.

“What?” she asked suspiciously.

“Nothing.”

“You just giggled at your phone.”

“I did not.”

“You literally did.”

Dean pointed at you accusingly. “Wait. Is there already another guy?”

You jumped so hard that your knee hit the island and you hissed. Logan had sat up straighter, fast enough that it alarmed Tucker, who was sunken into the couch next to him.

“No,” he said immediately.

The entire room turned toward him.

A beat passed.

Logan slowly leaned back again, cringing and half hoping the universe would grant him reprise in the deepest black hole it could create.

“I mean,” he added poorly, “how would I know?”

Garrett finally looked up fully now, staring directly at Logan with open fascination, his eyes widening as he properly studied the both of you. His mouth popped open in an O shape.

Your heart launched into your throat as you met the captain’s eyes, half pleading that he was as slow as his stereotype allowed him to be. But before Garrett could elaborate further, Dean steamrolled right over the moment.

“Whatever,” he said dismissively, already pulling out his phone again, “look at this guy and tell me I’m wrong.”

He shoved the screen in your direction, you squinted and slumped forward, hitting your older brother with a dead look.

You hated how attractive the man was.

Tall. Dark hair. Nice smile.

One of those annoyingly clean-looking corporate boys that somehow always smelled expensive.

Before you could stop yourself, your eyes flicked instinctively toward Logan. If there was a bigger mistake you could've made, it would be murder. Because he was already looking at you, his eyes inquisitively blinking between you and Dean.

Waiting.

You raised one eyebrow slightly, teasing him and Logan narrowed his eyes immediately. Then, because apparently self-preservation had abandoned him entirely tonight, he muttered,

“He looks like he moisturizes too much.”

Dean stared at him, baffled that this was coming from the same man who probably owned 500 different types of skincare. What Dean didn’t know is that each time a new product would pop up on his sink, it was actually yours. 

“All humans should moisturize.”

“Not that much.”

“John,” Hannah said slowly, “you own more hair products than me.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Logan opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“It just is.”

“You are such a fucking hater,” Tucker wheezed.

Logan looked genuinely offended, looking at the group, whipping around like a broken spinning top, “I’m not a hater.”

“You’re beefing with a man none of us have met.”

“I’m not beefing with him.”

“You called his face moisturized in a derogatory way.”

Logan rolled his eyes and slumped again, tapping at his phone. Yours buzzed against your thigh- it seems secrecy had flown out of the window tonight. Four months of perfect sneak-ins, disguised dates and unknown sleepovers flushed away.

Hockey boy 💗 if he touches you im transferring schools

You stared at the text for a full three seconds before looking up, Logan was already messing with his hair absently, jaw tight, eyes narrowed at absolutely nothing.

God.

He was unbelievable, you tried not to gape at him while tapping on your phone,

“He wants to meet tonight?” You ask Dean, feigning interest as you squinted at the phone over the lip of your cup. 

Dean perked up and texted this guy, Ethan, Evan? You didn’t care, “He says…” Dean held the room still with his hands outstretched, “He’ll be over in an hour!” Your brother jumped triumphantly into Beau, who had missed the entire debacle when he disappeared into the toilet.

That gave you the perfect window to meet Logan’s gaze, which had flared considerably. You shrugged and winked at him, biting your cheek when he blushed and huffed, turning away to down the rest of his drink. 

You managed to escape upstairs under the guise of getting ready for this date- far away from Tucker, who had gotten into the habit of critiquing your outfit choices like he was one planned ensemble away from Vogue.

You slipped into the bathroom, starting to wash your face with products that Logan had shamelessly claimed as his, just so you could keep more of your stuff over on his shelf. 

You towel dried your face when the door to the bathroom cracked open with a dull knock. You didn’t turn around immediately, mostly because you already knew who it was.

“Baby.”

There it was, you huffed, hands barely pausing their circular movements of rubbing moisturizer into your skin. You glanced over bemused with the puppy act that Logan was currently playing at the doorway. That tone is exactly the tone he used on you when he was not happy about what your secret relationship brought along with it- it was low, annoyed in a way that immediately made warmth crawl up your spine despite your best efforts

Adjusting one of your earrings in the mirror and pressing your lips together with a new layer of lipgloss, you watched him click the door behind him and lean against it- bashfully looking at you from below his eyelashes

“You know following me upstairs while I’m getting ready for another guy is objectively making this situation weirder.”

He crossed his arms over his chest as you adjusted your skirt.

“Another guy,” he repeated flatly.

You met his eyes through the mirror.

Your boyfriend looked deeply unimpressed by the entire concept of tonight, which was slightly ironic considering he’d spent the last few months allowing Allie to continuously set him up with girls under the assumption he was still hopelessly into Hannah.

“You’ve literally gone on three dates this month,” you reminded him.

“They barely count.”

You turned around fully then, eyebrows lifting. “One of them took you mini golfing.”

“She talked about her ex for forty minutes.”

“That’s still a date.”

“It was psychological warfare.”

You snorted and planted your hands on your hips, your resolve barely holding when his eyes softened slightly at the sound, that was part of the reason you both worked. No matter how irritated he got, no matter how jealous or grumpy or territorial he became, there was always this underlying tenderness to him around you that completely gave him away if you paid attention for long enough.

And you were always paying attention to him. 

His gaze dragged over you slowly now. Taking in the dress, your hair, the shimmer of your lipgloss that he interrupted the application of. Your eyes widened when his jaw tightened

“Oh my god,” you laughed quietly, shaking your head, “you’re actually jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You compared his moisturizer usage to shooting puppies.”

“He looks slippery.”

“That is not a real critique.”

“It could be.”

You laughed again, properly this time- Logan’s expression immediately worsened, as if he couldn’t believe that you were going to look like that for a guy that wasn’t him.

“You look too pretty for this,” he muttered.

Your stomach flipped, your laugh settling to a soft smile. Logan always spoke like that, somehow injecting sincerity into everything he said even when he was irrationally possessive.

You tried very hard not to melt visibly.

“Well unfortunately,” you said lightly instead, stepping closer to him, “our friends are insane and think you’re still in love with Hannah.”

“I haven’t liked Hannah in like 6 months.” Your eyebrows lifted slightly with a grin

“6 months?”

Logan realised his mistake immediately.

“Don’t do that,” he warned.

You cheekily bit your tongue, “Do what?” 

“That thing where you look smug.”

“I’m not smug.”

“You’re literally smirking.”

You were doing the mental maths, because if Logan stopped liking Hannah almost 6 months ago.. Well. 

You’d started sleeping together six months ago and got together two months after that.

Interesting timeline.

Your boyfriend stepped closer before you could weaponize that information further, hands finding your waist automatically like muscle memory. Like he physically couldn’t stand within arm’s reach of you without touching you somehow.

“You better not actually like this guy,” he muttered.

You blinked once. Twice. Then brought your arms to his shoulders- comfortingly rubbing the soft flannel

“John Logan,” you said slowly, “are you trying to establish rules for a date I didn’t even want to go on?”

His hands tightened slightly against your waist.

“No.”

“Yes you are.”

“No I’m not.”

“You’re literally pouting.”

“I don’t pout.”

You reached up immediately and pressed your thumb against his lower lip, his eyes darkened. 

“There,” you whispered sweetly. “That. That’s pouting.”

Logan grabbed your wrist before you could pull away, dragging you flush against him in one smooth movement that made your breath catch embarrassingly fast.

“You think this is funny,” he said quietly.

“A little bit.”

“That’s concerning.”

“You’re being insane.”

“I’m being reasonable.”

“You called him slippery.”

“He is slippery.”

You dissolved into laughter again, forehead dropping briefly against his chest. Logan exhaled heavily above you, one hand sliding up your spine slowly - exposed from the cutout of your dress. His fingers curled at the back of your neck.

“Don’t let him kiss you,” he murmured.

You tilted your head back immediately and grinned at him- as if you would ever consider the ridiculous idea.

“Oh my god.”

“I’m serious.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“I mean it.”

Your amusement faded slightly then, into something gentler that settled underneath your expression, beneath all the jealousy and dramatics and weird comments about moisturizer, you knew what this actually was.

Logan wasn’t angry, he was scared. Not of you cheating- you’d threatened him enough that you’d need to be held at gun point for the thought to even breach your mind. He was worried that someone better would come along, someone more charming, someone who was a part of your world. The world that Dean and you shared along with the ultra elite trust-fund babies.

Your expression softened.

“You know I’m yours, right?” you asked quietly.

The change in Logan's face made your chest hurt ever so slightly- he sighed and dropped his forehead against yours,

“Yeah?” he asked softly.

You swallow away the knot in your throat and kiss his nose, “Yeah.”

Logan smiled at the feeling of your lips on his face, grinning at the triumphant look on your face. And for a second, neither of you moved, just basking in the feeling of each other's closeness. Then his hand slid properly into your hair and he kissed you, and just like every time this man kissed you, your knees felt weak and you leaned into him.

His mouth moved against yours slowly at first, careful and lingering and familiar enough to make your sigh slightly before he deepened it with the quiet sort of desperation that always seemed to sneak into him around you, you hum softly into his mouth, fingers curling into the front of his hoodie.

“John,” you whispered when he kissed down your jaw.

“Hm?”

“If you leave a mark on me before my date I’m actually going to kill you.”

Logan kissed your neck again deliberately then started nipping at the skin purposefully, you whacked his head, groaning when he soothed over the stinging skin with his tongue.

“You asshole.”

“You said no marks,” he murmured smugly against your skin, “these are just... friendly reminders.”

You were seconds away from shoving him when Dean’s voice suddenly echoed up the stairs.

“HEY!”

You gasped and jumped apart violently, his hands tightened on your waist and you could feel his heartbeat thumping wildly below your hand.

“IS MY SISTER READY YET OR IS SHE MAKING THIS GUY WAIT ON PURPOSE?”

Logan inhaled sharply, squeezing his eyes shut . You bit down on your smile and turned to fix your makeup, your lipgloss smudged to your chin and all over his mouth. You usher him towards the mirror to wipe it off.

Then Dean yelled again,

“AND LOGAN WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU GO?”

The two of you stared at each other, a short moment of silence passed, then you both had to stifle laughs against the other, your mouth pressed into his shoulder as he cradled your head and pressed a hand to his lips. 

Logan dragged one hand down his face. “I hate everyone in this house.”

“You live here.”

“Don’t remind me.”

You grinned and reached up, gently fixing the collar of his shirt where you’d wrinkled it. His eyes softened again immediately and he smoothed out your hair,

“Go on your stupid date,” he muttered, rubbing away the last of the lipgloss from your chin.

“You’re adorable when you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You followed me upstairs.”

“I was stretching my legs.”

“Through my tonsils?”

Logan rolled his eyes and kissed your forehead

If you were to be objective about the situation your brother had put you in- you’d have to say that he did an annoyingly good job. You’d never tell him that of course, you’d prefer to use Logan’s pliers to rip your teeth out individually. 

But the guy sitting across from you was genuinely perfect on paper.

Ethan was funny in that easy, socially polished way corporate aspirants somehow always were, where every joke sounded rehearsed enough to land properly but natural enough that you couldn’t call him out on it. He opened doors without making a huge deal out of it, remembered details from previous conversations Dean had apparently told him about you, and somehow managed to make expensive restaurants feel casual instead of pretentious.

Worst of all. He was genuinely attractive. You could think of at least 5 of your girlfriends who would happily take the inconvenience out of your hands.

Dark hair slightly messy in that intentional way rich men cultivated, broad shoulders underneath a fitted black sweater, stupidly nice hands that looked like they belonged in a watch advertisement.

You hated how much Dean would enjoy being right about this.

“And then Di Laurentis told me,” Ethan laughed lightly, leaning back in his chair, “that if I hurt you he’d apparently feed my body to the hockey team.”

You snorted into your drink. “Yeah, that sounds like my brother.”

“He’s weirdly intimidating for a guy that owns that many tank tops.”

“He weaponizes confidence.”

Ethan grinned and held eye contact with you while he sipped from his whiskey glass. And you stumbled into the same feeling you had been experiencing the entire evening, everytime Evan smiled- your brain automatically compared it to Logan.

Ezra’s smile was clean, polished and pristine. You’d go as far as to say it was pretty under most lighting.

You couldn’t help the comparison. Logan’s smiles made your stomach flip and consciousness flutter in a way only he could manage. Split lips after hockey games- stretched into victorious laughter, crooked smirks when he was about to say something unbelievably annoying and your favourite, the devastatingly soft grin he got only around you, like his entire body was tuned to your reactions. 

Your throat dried and you worked hard to keep an uncomfortable grimace at bay.

“So,” Eli said, resting his chin against his hand slightly, “Dean says you practically live at the hockey house.”

You nearly choked on your drink.

The statement itself wasn’t inaccurate, you did spend a lot of time at the house. But if Elijah knew how much of that time you’d spent in John Logan’s bedroom, you’re pretty sure he would evaporate on the spot.  

“Yeah.. They’re my brother’s teammates, we all just ended up becoming friends,” you said carefully.

“You and Logan seem close.”

Your heart skipped once at the mention of his name and you fought against the natural instinct to bite back a smile, instead you kept your expression neutral with the kind of effort that deserved academic recognition.

“Logan?”

“Yeah.” Everett shrugged lightly. “He looked like he wanted to kill me earlier.”

You laughed too quickly, waving off the notion that Logan would be anything but jealous.

“He’s just weird.”

Eric nodded thoughtfully, studying your face in a way that made you send an impromptu prayer up to God that he wasn’t putting the badly veiled pieces together, then he grinned and shrugged.

“I figured.”

The waiter arrived then, setting down your desserts while Edward thanked him politely. You mentally facepalmed, again, this guy was objectively perfect. But you had to stop yourself from recoiling away when his hand brushed yours, gentle and hesitant across the table.

Your mind flashed back to the most recent date Logan took you on, a small, independent coffee shop outside of the Briar locality- away from prying, gossiping eyes. He had grimaced as he paid for your drink and stifled his love for it when you made him take a sip, your hands were intertwined the entire time, a carefree momentum settled in your conversation whilst he played with the rings on your fingers, openly, unabashedly. 

The memory hit you so suddenly you almost laughed. Dean had hit gold with this guy, you could read Erik like an open book, and the entire time he had been nothing but sweet, smart at points and attentive nearly the entire length of the date. Your friends would probably start planning a big, upper-east side wedding by next week.

But still your mind drifted back to the only man you could see yourself marrying, and how much he would absolutely hate this restaurant. The excess of cloth napkins would make him tense, the dim lighting irritating him enough to make his entire face scrunch up and the lack of fries would be considered diabolical. 

But you knew, with absolute certainty, that if you wanted to dine in a restaurant like this, he would suffer an eternity in these four walls if it meant he was with you.

Your phone buzzed against your lap, breaking your chain of thought. 

Hockey boy 💗: Are you home yet?

You stared at the carousel of messages prior to this, and the timestamps

9:14 PM. 9:26 PM. 9:41 PM. 9:57 PM.

Four separate messages.

Your lips twitched helplessly, all of them were as performatively nonchalant as the others.

Hockey boy 💗 If this Egbert guy touches you, I'm keying his daddy’s jeep. 

Hockey boy 💗 Don’t ask how i know this but his linkedin is not very impressive- not good enough to date my girl that’s for sure. 

Hockey boy 💗 I miss you.

Ethan noticed immediately, the way your eyes softened and a huff made your lips part in a ghost of a smile.

“Boyfriend?” he asked casually.

Your head snapped up.

“What?”

He smiled, cocking his head slightly, “You’ve checked your phone every five minutes since we got here.”

Heat crawled up your neck instantly and you furrowed your brows in apology,

“No,” The lie felt bitter on your tongue, but you silenced your phone and set it down face first on the table.  Eran hummed like he didn’t fully believe you, but thankfully let it go.

The rest of the date shifted slightly after that, not awkward since poor Edmund hadn’t let the clarifying moment put a dent in his enthusiasm. It just meant that his hand hadn’t touched yours since you replied to Logan.

You wanted to apologise to him, to say that it wasn’t working out for any reason that didn’t involve Logan. But you opted for polite, self-explanatory silence on the matter. Letting Edwin slip on your jacket for you and engaged in a cursory side hug that made you both cringe a little, but it was easier than explaining to him that instead of his simple affection, you wanted the idiot currently losing his mind back at the hockey house over a pre-law major named Elton.

Logan would honestly rather take a hundred slapshots straight to the ribs without pads than listen to Dean brag about what a 'good guy' he’d set his sister up with.

It started with a passing comment, then a phone lighting up on the coffee table which led to Dean half-paying attention to the loud conversation being had in the living room while scrolling. This cumulative, slow motion train crash in front of Logan’s eyes, meant he had gone suspiciously quiet in the midst of the heated debate between Allie and Tucker and was now focussing on his friend who was grinning like a Cheshire cat at his phone.

Dean eventually spoke, stretching back into the couch like he owns it, a triumphant look spread across his face. The group quietens when they notice the smug expression, which either meant he was about to announce something gross or he was going to be an ass about being right. 

“She just got dessert,” he casually reports, looking around the room, like a king would look at his subjects- pompous and on the highest horse possible.

Logan does not respond immediately. He just leans forward slightly, fiddling with the loose thread fraying from the cuff of his sleeve, when he does decide to grace Dean with an answer- it takes everything in him to keep his voice steady and flat in a way that should come across as disinterested. 

“That’s nice.” His tone was clipped, a stark difference from his usual charismatic demeanor. The rest of the group makes up for his lack of enthusiasm, the girls giggled and congratulated Dean on finding such a catch, the guys laugh and speculate that in the dating world- getting dessert is equivalent to a perfectly timed, public, flash-mob proposal. 

Logan prayed for it to end there. It normally would’ve, Dean hadn’t said anything that would invite continuation. You had ordered dessert and that meant Logan would need to become a world class pastry chef as soon as possible. Case closed. Goodnight. 

“And he says she’s laughing a lot.” 

A badly stifled suffering sigh escapes Logan’s lips, his body briefly pauses, as if it had forgotten how to act normal and instead decided to shut down.

He recalibrated, ignoring the ugly, curling sensation that lurched in his stomach and instead, rather stiffly, managed to say,

“Good for her,” he says. Perfect. His voice was still intensely calm, still controlled and his answer invited no follow-up.

Across the room, Tucker glances up from his seat with the vague expression of someone who is only half following the conversation but is starting to sense that the topic was sprinting full speed down an unexplored path . Hannah leans toward Allie, lowering her voice.

“Why is he talking like that?” she asks.

Allie glances between them. “Like what?”

Hannah thinks for a second, “Remember the time he walked in on you and Dean?”

Allie sighs dreamily at the memory, obviously not remembering the avoidant, distasteful tone that Logan had adopted for the rest of that night.

“Ohhhh,” Allie nodded slowly, the specifics hazy in her mind, but she could clearly remember Logan looking like he would let Garrett shave off the outer layer of his eyeballs with his skates.

Dean hears this and instead of doing the smart thing for everyone in the vicinity, he contributes to the analysis,

“That’s what it is!,” he snaps his fingers and points at Logan, who glanced at the perky blonde out of his periphery and slapped his outstretched fingers with his palm. 

Garrett in the middle of the exchange has stopped pretending entirely that he is not listening. He doesn’t dare react, but his attention splits between Logan and Dean regularly, as if he was the first to picture something that everyone else had not yet realised. 

Dean’s phone vibrates in his hand, “Oh,” he says after a moment, like he is remembering another detail. “He also says she’s really pretty when she’s concentrating.”

Logan exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, and finally looks down at his hands as if the table in front of him has suddenly become more interesting than anything else in the room, focussing more on the worn out grain and the used fibres of the carpet beneath it. When he speaks again, his tone is still even, but it takes slightly longer to form the sentence.

“That’s… nice.”

Hannah slowly sits up a little straighter, her brows knitting together in mild confusion rather than concern.

“Am I crazy,” she mutters, “or does this feel weird?”

“You are always slightly crazy,” Tucker replies automatically but he shares the same, puzzled look.

“That is not helpful.”

Allie is also watching Logan, like she is trying to decide whether this is something she is allowed to comment on or whether it falls into the category of things that will resolve themselves without intervention.

Garrett still says nothing, opting to sit with his discovery in unparalleled superiority. 

The room continues as if it is trying to behave normally around something that it does not fully understand yet. Dean scrolls again, far too unaware of the pressure building in the man beside him.

“Oh,” he adds, like he has found another harmless detail. “She keeps fixing her hair when she laughs.”

Logan stills, properly this time. A eerie calm settles over his body, because he was internally cursing himself for being in this situation, damn his friends and their nosey tendencies and damn you for being the sister of his teammate.

He ruminates on the choices that brought him here today, coming to the conclusion, that he'd rather be trapped in an endless, no-whistle bag skate at five AM than endure these idle, cheerful updates. A bag skate ended eventually. This felt like it never would.

But Tucker leans slightly toward Hannah and whispers, “Is he doing okay?”

Hannah whispers back, “I think we are all missing something.”

Allie does not take her eyes off Logan, morbidly fascinated at the fact that the world’s most suave person, had his lips pressed against his hands and had managed to end up with a raincloud over his head in the middle of July. “Something is definitely happening.”

Garrett shifts against Hannah, still choosing to be an idle spectator in Logan’s ruin, but even he could muster up a sympathetic grimace when Dean chose to continue the narration. 

Logan finally cuts in.

“Can you stop reading that out loud.”

Dean looks up, “Why?”

A pause.

“Just tired. Honestly, I’d rather coach put us through a three-hour gauntlet drill right now than hear any more details about your sister’s love life. It’s weird, man.”

Dean’s eyes widened by a fraction, “Woah, is everything alright?” He looks genuinely concerned and that just makes Logan want to run into a wall at full speed. Because the whole room was staring at him, blinking like a flock of owls that were studying their latest choice of prey.

He scratches the back of his neck, hoping that nobody notices the nervous tick, “Sorry..” Logan grabs his hoodie as he takes his leave, “My coursework has been killer lately, must not be getting enough sleep. My bad man.” He pats Dean’s shoulder once and moves towards the staircase.

The entire house seemed to be suspended in awkward confusion- and Logan was prepared to add homicidal undertones as he reached the top step and Dean’s voice fluttered after him,

“Allie-cat what kind of girls have you been setting him up with? Maybe I should take over his matchmaking”

Logan groans and flops into his bed the minute the door creaks shut behind him, too dejected to glance up when his comforter vibrates beneath him.

The window is not the traditional avenue to enter a room, you realised that throughout the entirety of your senior year of highschool. It always requires a small negotiation with physics, a bit of careful balance, and the kind of confidence that suggests you have done this before and will probably do it again.

Which you admittedly have, given that you had memorised the best notches in the brick to wedge your foot into and where not to grab unless you wanted to end up face to face with a view directly into your brother's window.

When you finally reach your destination and fiddle with the window enough to coax it open, a soft creak permeates in the summer breeze- which you immediately curse because you had dedicated a solid 20 minutes to convince yourself that you were being quiet and the window very clearly disagrees.

You pause with your knee digging into the frame, listening as your heartbeat hammers in your ears. The night answered you, a dainty chirp of a cricket paired with the whirring of traffic further away in the city made you relax, continuing your journey into the room.

Inside, the lighting is low in a way that makes everything feel softer than it probably is in reality.

A desk lamp glows in the corner, throwing warm light across the room, and Logan is sitting on the edge of his bed like he has been doing exactly that for a while without moving very much at all.

Logan looks up when he hears your pants replace the faint buzz of the house, he doesn’t startle- just rushes over as silently as possible to grab your waist before you nosedive into his bedside table.

“Woah.” He steps back whilst keeping his hands firmly planted on your waist, watching you topple slightly on your heels, “What are you doing here?”

You look up at him, your lips downturning in a confused smile, “Hello to you too,” a peck to his lips interrupts your answer, “You said you missed me, so I'm here.”

The dress you had on stretches in tandem with your movements, stepping out of his loose hold to flop onto his bed- which protested slightly with a pained squeak, “You could say the feeling was mutual” You grinned up at him, leaning back onto your hands in the process.

He purses his lips, trying to hide a smile- which he does worryingly well. The neutrality in his eyes makes your spine rigid.

“You used the window,” he says, glancing at his curtains that now flitter along the wall.

You blink at him. “Yeah… Like I’ve done since we started hooking up”

Logan exhales through his nose, but it doesn’t fully commit to being a sigh.

“You could’ve used the door,” he clarifies.

“I didn’t want to wake anyone,” you reply, finally swinging your leg onto the duvet leaving your heel to topple uselessly to the floor with a dull thud. 

Logan stays where he is for a second longer, watching you like he is trying to decide whether to stay where he is or act like a normal person and come closer. You match his gaze cheekily, shrugging off your bag while taking the room in, “God I love your room baby, it's so you.”

He stands up from where he was leaning against his desk, and crosses over to you in that slightly controlled way he gets when he is pretending he is not emotional, while very obviously being emotional in a quiet, annoyed-at-himself kind of way.

“You were gone longer than you said,” he mutters.

You pause mid-unzip of your dress.

“I said I’d be out for a bit.”

“That is not a time.”

You finally look at him properly.

There it is, a signature Logan pout. You’d gotten used to every version of them, since he knew how to use his artillery- but this one wasn’t one that sat well with you, it buried its way into your chest and blossomed into a pang of anxiety.

“Oh my god,” you say mainly to yourself, pushing up so you could stand chest to chest with him, inspecting his face.

Logan barely tilts his head to meet your scrutiny, “What?” he asks, like he already knows he is about to lose this conversation.

You shake your head, “You’re pouting.”

“I’m not pouting.”

“You are absolutely pouting.”

“I’m not-”

He stops mid-sentence, watching your hands come up to his face and gently squish his cheeks just enough that his expression breaks in a way that is immediately unfair to him.

“There,” you say softly. “That one.”

His brows knit together.

“This is not-”

You lean in and press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He pauses.

You do it again, slightly higher this time, like you are correcting the unhappy crease of his lips. His hands hover for a second like he is deciding whether to be annoyed or affectionate and then, predictably, choose neither and both at the same time as they settle lightly at your waist.

“I don’t like it,” he says finally.

You hum.

“What part?”

His eyes flick to yours properly now.

“The part where you go out with someone else and come back smiling like it’s normal.”

You blink once, then your expression softens in a way that is very deliberately not taking him seriously, even though you absolutely are.

“Logan,” you say, gently.

He looks at you like he is bracing for impact, the undeniable pain of defeat, of losing you to the suave guy who apparently was very focussed on your dessert choice. You lean your forehead against his chin. 

“I was thinking of you the whole time,” you say simply, biting the inside of your cheek when you feel his shoulder drop just a fraction. 

His voice, when he speaks again, is quieter.

“That’s not fair.”

You smile.

“Why?”

“Because I had to be normal about it in front of everyone,” he mutters.

You laugh softly at that, genuinely amused now, and he immediately looks offended by your amusement, which only makes it worse.

“You were not normal about it,” you say.

“I was.”

“You were sitting here brooding like a Victorian man in a tragic novel.”

“I was not brooding.”

“You were brooding.”

He opens his mouth to argue again, but you cut him off by pulling him closer by the front of his hoodie. His protests die unspoken on his lips, as they always do whenever you pull that move.

“There,” you say, softer now, kissing his cheek, then his jaw, deliberately unhurried. “Better?”

Logan exhales, arms coming up to wrap around your shoulders, pressing you tightly against him.

“You’re distracting,” he murmurs into your hair.

You snort against his neck, “That’s kind of the point.”

A short pause takes over the conversation, a lull in his displeasure as you dig your fingers into the plush material that stretched over his back.

Then, Logan sighs and very quietly, in the dark of his room admits, “I didn’t like imagining you laughing at someone else’s jokes.”

You pull back slightly just to look at him, hes looking down at nothing in particular, half of his face glowing a soft amber in the pool of light spilling out from his lamp, the other half hides in the shadows- he turns his head fully into the darkness when you cup his cheek and rub placating lines with your thumb against his stubble. 

“Oh,” you whisper. “You were jealous, jealous.”

“I was not-”

He stops, because you kiss him again a quick, gentle press of your lips against his- barely anything but enough to make him smile slightly and shake his head.

“You’re annoying,” he says again, but there is no heat in it.

You hum, watching how his caramel curls wrap around your fingers as you brush your hand through them. 

“You likeeeee me.” You tease, your voice barely a hushed whisper, “Baby, I don’t even have a way to contact that guy- he could tell I wasn’t into the date.”

Logan blinks at you, “Wait, what?”

“I mean- I made him swear not to tell Dean, but I think it was somewhere between me replying to you every five minutes and the fact I flinched when he tried to hold my hand” You bite your lip sheepishly, “Great guy though! I might have a friend for him.”

He finally smiles properly, small and unwilling, like it slipped out by accident, “Yeah? He can date all your friends,” His hands press against your spine, curving you into him at last. 

Logan ghosts his lips over yours, turning his head out of the shadows and back into the light. Your fingers hover over his jaw, studying the new look in his eye- a twinkle of affection that makes you melt completely into him as he whispers into your mouth, “as long as he doesn’t dare to look at you.”

𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

You woke up to the morning light personally burning your eyelids open, which probably serves you right for not bothering to shut the curtains last night. But you were slightly pre-occupied, which was evident at the string of clothes that littered the floor, you blinked sleepily whilst tracing the journey the different articles went on, leading up to the bed. 

Your bra and his shirt were intertwined by his desk while your dress lay pooled at the foot of the bed along with his sweatpants and boxers, the only thing you couldn’t account for were your underwear. 

Strange.

The birds chirped in a messy orchestra by the window, the sharp sound made you groan and stretch lazily, wincing at the delicious ache that licked down from your thighs to your toes and up through your arms. The perpetrator of these pains was still sound asleep, tucked into your shoulder with an arm flung over your bare middle, fingers twitching slightly as you rubbed your eyes and intertwined your legs with his beneath the covers. 

Logan mumbled into the pillow, or your hair, perhaps both since he was face first into the area that had been taken over by the thick fan of wispy strands, “g’morning baby,” His hands tightened on your waist, holding you still as you looped your arms around his neck. He pecked your shoulder, then the curve of your neck and ended up stifling a deep laugh against your jaw when you smacked his arm.

“I will literally snap in half if you start something mister.” You scolded softly, your words not matching your actions entirely, since your fingers had began to scratch his neck softly, grinning when he all but purred at your touch. 

“I didn’t hear you complaining last night.” He mumbled, play-biting your dewy skin. You had wiped up the obvious mess in a sleepy haze, but the dampness of sex still clung to your pores like a condensation on a can. 

You gasped theatrically and flipped the pair of you over, so you were now resting your face on his sternum, “I don’t think you would've heard much since you had me pressed into the pillow.” Your fingers traced the splattering of hair that tickled your face,

Logan smirked down at you, stroking your hair, “Once again I fail to hear a complaint.”

“You-”

“YO LOGAN!” The both of you jumped at the interruption.

“Shitshitshitshitshit” you began whispering hurriedly, your gaze whipping around the room for possible escape plans that involved leaving the premises immediately. 

It was not looking good to say the least, since Logan would probably prefer to get caught than for you to consider sneaking out of his window sans clothes. 

Dean pounded on the door, “HAVE YOU SEEN MY SISTER AROUND? I WANTED TO ASK HER ABOUT THE DATE.”

Logan groaned and was close to petulantly kicking his legs like a toddler reminded about their bedtime, “Dean I think I have more knowledge about bird sphincters than I have about your sister or her sex life.”

You gape incredulously at him and mouth, “Bird sphincters?”

Logan silently stutters and shrugs his shoulders, his hands settling on your bare hips,

You heard Dean thump his head against the door, jiggling the handle but the lock held well against his attempts, “WELL ADAM HASN’T SAID ANYTHING HAPPENED AFTER THE DATE, SO IT MUST'VE GONE BADLY.”

A beat passed where you and Logan stared at each other, “His name was Adam?”

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @harls-sturn, @https-dandelion, @watergirl85, @brianna28483, @irishone11, @anyasthoughts, @kmc1989, @norrisidous, @glorveina, @zophiathefirst, @outpostsworld, @yomamaslays4lyfe, @babblegumgirl101, @itmekelpy, @strengthandstay, @run-for-the-hills

[g0ldendesiree]

Hideaways in Hallways | Garrett Graham

summary: when garrett gets clingy it’s clear he isn't up for hiding you anymore.

request: yes/no

warnings: drinking, swearing

word count: 2.02k

authors note: hi guys!! here is part 2 of problem, obviously don't have to read it as such like it can be a stand alone. but I know you guys wanted to see deans reaction so I thought I'd write it for you all.

It was never meant to go on as long as it did.

What started off as Garrett simply being a good partner to have in bed quickly became more than that when your meet-ups started happening at any time of the day. 

At first it was just Garrett coming to keep you company in the library as you studied, but then he started coming over with take-outs and the promise of being good company before he’d spend the night. 

By the time 3 months had gone by, you had seen him more than you had seen Dean. 

Which was partially because he had been starting to see some mystery girl, but it was also because the blonde was sending you messages asking if you were free, whilst you were literally wrapped in Garrett’s arms “remind me to kill him.” Garrett grumbled as he heard your ringtone that you had for Dean play. 

It was womanzier by Brittney Spears “you know you can’t do that.” You laughed as you pressed a kiss into Garrett’s cheek before you answered your phone. 

You could hear the sounds of Logan and Tucker in the background, “please tell me you’re coming to the party tomorrow Squeak.” Dean borderline begged you as he leaned back into the couch. 

It made you smile as you felt Garrett nip at the skin on your neck “of course I will.” You promised him as you sent the brunette boy a glare.

His lips grazed your sweet spot on your neck “I will drag you out of your apartment if you don’t.” He warned making Garrett smirk into the crook of your neck. 

The blonde went to carry on but you cut him off “I promise I will be there now I will see you tomorrow, goodbye.” You practically threw your phone across the room once you knew you had hung up on him “I actually hate you.” You murmured as you pulled Garrett’s face up to yours so that you could kiss him. 

On the other side of campus Dean sat in the living room with the boys “so is she coming?” Logan asked, not bothering to look up from the TV as he was playing against Tucker. 

Dean nodded as he ran his fingers through his hair “she is but I think she’s seeing someone.” His words made both boys freeze. 

In their entire time of knowing you, you had never once kept a single thing from Dean. So for him to have a theory about you, meant that it was something pretty big that you were hiding “you don’t think.” Tucker trailed off as he looked at the empted space where Garrett usually sat. 

The blonde was quick to laugh “oh god no.” He shook his head “he gets under her skin like all the time she’d never.” Dean didn’t want to say it but he had a strange suspicion that the boys might have been right, even if he tried his hardest to believe otherwise.

The next day the party came and of course you were there, just like you had promised Dean. 

But as the blonde hadn’t arrived yet, you were enjoying your peace and quiet in the hall. 

Some guys spilled their drinks on the floor, Beau could be heard screaming the lyrics to some early 2000s song with other members of his frat as Logan and Tucker were in their very own game of beer pong where they just seemed to be drinking. 

“Well there you are.” 

You looked up from your solo cup to see Garrett grinning at you. 

And unfortunately for you, the boy you swore you wouldn’t touch in public was looking really good in that moment.

You raised your cup “here I am.” You nodded as you leaned against the wall behind you. 

Garrett stepped closer “you disappeared.” He mumured, shoving his phone into his pocket. 

“I was avoiding getting beer on me.” 

It made a laugh slip from his lips “smart.” He continued moving closer to you, until he was almost too close. 

You immediately glanced around the hallway even though nobody was paying attention, “that nervous look should be offensive.” It made your eyes go back to the boy “you should be nervous too if we can’t find Dean.” You whispered back as you shook your head. Garrett shrugged lazily “he’s always somewhere.” It was the truth, Dean had this ability to slip in and out of environments and atmospheres as if it were nothing.

“Garrett-”

The boy let his hands fall onto either side of you, locking you into the spot that you were in “we’ve been careful so relax.” His voice was soft as he reminded you that he was right. 

Because the two of you had become experts at sneaking around, late night drives, locked bedroom doors and pretending not to sit too close together in public.

The only problem was that Garrett had started pushing the boundaries recently. 

Touchier, looking at you for far too long when people were around. 

And the problem was that you were just as bad “relax.” He mumbled as he tucked your hair behind your ear “you look really pretty tonight.” Your stomach flipped as he nodded. 

“You can’t say things like that in public!” 

Your cheeks were reddened as you turned away from him “we aren’t in public.” He pointed out as you sent him a glare “oh you know what I meant!” Garrett grined as he shook his head. 

He apparently loved ruining your life because he leaned down to kiss you. 

It was quick and soft, almost innocent even.

But it was enough to make your brain completely short-circuit “you’re insufferable,” you mumbled against his mouth.

“And you’re not complaining.”

Unfortunately, he was right.

You barely had time to shove lightly at his chest when voices echoed from the front door.

Dean laughed when Beau announced his arrival “oh my god,” you hissed, immediately ducking away from Garrett.

Garrett looked amused as he shook his head “you act like we’re committing crimes.” He crossed his arms as he smirked.

“We may as well be.”

Before he could answer, Dean’s voice carried through the house “you said Squeak was here?” He asked making your eyes widen “saw her in the kitchen last.” Logan answered.

You immediately straightened your clothes while Garrett leaned casually against the wall beside you like he hadn’t just been kissing you seconds ago.

Dean appeared around the corner, still laughing at something Tucker said.

Then he saw you.

Then Garrett.

Then his eyes landed on the fact that Garrett’s hand was still resting suspiciously low on your waist.

And suddenly Dean stopped as his eyes widened “oh shit.”Logan matched his react as he realised what the other boy was looking at. 

You closed your eyes briefly as if you were bracing for impact.

Garrett, somehow still calm, lifted his cup “hey, Dean.” Dean looked between the two of you slowly.

As if his brain was buffering, struggling to process what was going on in front of him.

“What,” he said carefully “is happening here?”

“Nothing,” you answered way too fast.

At the exact same time Garrett said “we were talking.” And you swore you could have killed him.

Dean narrowed his eyes immediately “you two can’t even get your story straight.” He pointed between the two of you as your heart started pounding.

Around you, the party somehow continued, blissfully unaware of what the members of the house and you were dealing with.

Garrett’s thumb brushed against your waist absentmindedly.

Dean noticed.

And that was the moment everything completely fell apart as his eyes widened, “no.” You immediately stepped away from Garrett.

Dean rubbed his face with his hand “no!” He whined as he shook his head.

“Dean-”

“How long?”

Silence.

Which was apparently the worst possible response.

Dean stared at Garrett as he’d personally betrayed his entire bloodline. 

In that moment, you actually wondered what would happen if he caught Summer in your position “you’re hooking up with my best friend?” Dean groaned as he scrunched his face in disgust.

Garrett rubbed the back of his neck “when you say it like that-” he trailed off as his eyes focused on the roof.

Dean laughed, like actually laughed “how else would you say it?” He crossed his arms as if there was a better way for this to end.

Beau had joined the group as he laughed, pointing between you and Garrett “you were right!” Beau patted the blonde boy’s shoulder as he let out a snort.

Dean turned to the brunette next to him “not the time.” He shook his head making Beau raise his hands in surrender. 

Logan and John both laughed “knew we made the right call not betting on this.” It was now your turn to scoff, realising that you two may not have been as subtle as you once thought.

Dean turned back toward you, looking genuinely offended now “you kept this from me?” He pointed at Garrett as he cringed. Garrett opted to stay quiet until he was called in to be a part of the conversation.

You crossed your arms defensively, “because you’re reacting exactly like this.” You shot back as you knew that he was doing it because both of you were his friends.

“Because this is Garrett!”

Garrett looked insulted “I’m standing right here.” He reminded you both as he rested his hand on your shoulder.

Dean ignored him completely “he flirts with everything!” He whined as he didn’t want to think about this anymore, “so do you!” Garrett shot back as he pulled a face.

Tucker motioned to Logan and Beau to leave, but neither boy followed him.

Bastards.

You pinched the bridge of your nose “Dean can we please not act like he forced me into this?” You sighed as you begged the boy to remember that this was a mutual relationship.

Dean blinked, “wait.” He stopped you as he raised his hand to stop you.

He looked between the two of you again.

Then focused on Garrett and then looked back at you “oh my god,” he sounded like he wanted to wake up from this nightmare.

You and Garrett both gripped each other’s hands as if Dean was about to blow, “you actually like each other.” Neither of you spoke.

Garrett’s expression softened just slightly as he glanced at you, and honestly that made everything worse.

Because Dean saw that too “you’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered as he threw his head back.

Beau leaned toward Logan nearby, careful not to speak loudly “this is kind of sweet.” He mumbled as he nodded, almost giving you his blessing. 

Like it mattered.

Dean whipped around as he scowled “nobody asked you!” If looks could kill Beau would have been dead.

Then he looked back at Garrett with narrowed eyes “if you hurt her, I will ruin your life.” Dean knew that he couldn’t put his foot down because you and Garrett already seemed too far gone.

Garrett nodded once “that’s fair.” He knew that the threat was bound to come eventually.

Dean didn’t stop there though “and if I ever walk in on something traumatic, I’m transferring schools.” You burst out laughing despite yourself.

Dean looked exhausted already “why are you laughing?” He pinched the bridge of his nose as he swore he was in his own hell.

“Because,” you grinned, “you’re being dramatic.” You teased the blonde boy who stuck his tongue out at you.

Dean rolled his eyes “I’m not dramatic. My best friend and my teammate have apparently been secretly in love behind my back.” He shot back like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb.

The words hung in the air.

Silence.

Your face heated instantly.

Garrett choked on his drink.

Dean’s eyes widened slightly “oh my god, I was joking.” Nobody answered him, leaving him feeling like he was going to burn up.

Beau screamed somewhere behind him as he hit Logan’s back “Jesus christ kill me no!” Dean whined as he walked off, leaving the two of you next to each other. 

“That went better than I thought.”

[puckingcuckbunny]

𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐚 ✪

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞 : john logan x fem!reader 𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : angst, mentions of fainting, breakup implied or atleast taking a break implied, dizziness, medical inaccuracies for the plot. 𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : Being a chronic fainter was a little annoying. but you learnt how to manage and by junior year at Briar, everyone around you has adapted to it too; Hannah and Allie know how to catch the signs before you hit the floor, Garrett keeps electrolyte packets in his backpack, and the hockey house has practically developed an emergency response system.

Everyone adapts except John Logan.

Because no matter how many times you wake back up smiling and insisting you’re okay, Logan never quite learns how to treat it like something ordinary. And when one particularly bad fainting spell leaves you unconscious long enough to genuinely terrify him, the careful balance the two of you have built between normalcy and fear finally begins to crack.

Or: two times John Logan watched you faint, and the one time he realised loving you meant learning how to be scared without letting it consume him.

𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐜𝐞 : 5.7k words 𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲’𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 : First time fulfilling a request, I hope you like it anon, im sorry that it probably isn't the fluff you are looking for but I hope you like it nonetheless. thank you @mieluno & @kthice for the text dividers

fainting had always been a little bit inconvenient.

not dramatic enough to be cinematic, not predictable enough to properly prepare for - just inconvenient in the kind of way that slowly embeds itself into every aspect of your life until you stop noticing how abnormal it actually is. It all started in high school, the first time it happened was arguably horrifying- 3rd period math class, and your crush had just offered you a pen and flashed you a crooked smile. Your heart raced, like a hummingbird wile and erratic and before you knew it, one minute you were bashfully giggling at his jokes about quadratic equations- the next you were face first in your notebook. The doctors told you Vasovagal Syncope, which in your opinion sounded like a hard metal rock band, but you took their blood pressure medicines from that day onwards. 

Over time, you learnt how to live with it. Sometimes it was manageable. Sometimes it was just dizziness and blurry vision and sitting down on the nearest surface before your body decided to humble you publicly. Sometimes it was waking up to panicked faces hovering over you while you tried to convince everyone around you that no, seriously, this happened all the time.

which, unfortunately, was true.

Allie and Hannah learned the quickest, being roommates would do that to you. The boys learned soon after. By junior year, there was practically a system in place for it - water bottles shoved into your hands, someone grabbing your bag before you hit the floor, Garrett texting Logan before you were even fully conscious again.

Logan, however, never quite adjusted to it the way everyone else did.

he tried to.

God, he tried.

but there was something uniquely horrifying about loving someone whose body could go slack in your arms without warning. Something deeply unsettling about the way you always laughed it off afterwards, brushing it aside with flushed cheeks and a quiet, "I'm okay,” while his heart was still somewhere near his throat.

because to you, fainting was normal.

to John Logan, it never would be.

But here are the two times he dealt with it..somewhat normally. And the one time he didn’t

𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝟏

The library at Briar had a very specific kind of silence.

Not actual silence - that would’ve been impossible considering half the student population seemed physically incapable of existing without aggressively whispering every thought that crossed their mind - but the sort of hushed atmosphere that made every dropped pen sound like a gunshot.

You were currently trying very hard not to contribute to that atmosphere by murdering John Logan with a highlighter.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Logan muttered from across the table, long legs nudging yours beneath it.

You didn’t look up from your notes, underlining a sentence in your physiology textbook hard enough to nearly tear the page. “Because,” You whispered sharply, “you’ve tapped your foot against mine for the last fifteen minutes.”

“That’s because your feet are freezing.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“It became my problem when you shoved your icy ass converse under my legs.”

A snort came from beside you. Hannah quickly disguised it as a cough when you glared at her over your laptop screen.

Across from her, Garrett looked deeply unbothered by the entire interaction, lazily flipping a page in his philosophy textbook while Hannah slowly collapsed into silent laughter against his shoulder.

“You two are disgusting,” Allie informed you quietly from the end of the table.

You blinked. “We’re literally studying.”

Logan hummed beside you, not even pretending to pay attention to the stats worksheet in front of him anymore, “Yeah baby, real filthy behaviour.”

Heat crawled up your neck instantly.

The word baby wasn’t exactly new. Logan had been throwing it around for months now, slipping it into conversations with such casual ease that you’d stopped reacting outwardly somewhere around week three, despite the fact every single time still felt like someone plugging your nervous system directly into a live wire.

“You’re staring again,” You muttered.

“I’m allowed to stare at my girlfriend.”

Allie gagged dramatically.

“Oh my god,” She whispered loudly, “he’s gotten even more annoying.”

“Impossible,” Hannah replied solemnly.

Garrett barely glanced up from his book. “Give it a week. They’ll become one organism.”

“We already basically are,” Logan said casually.

You finally looked up at him then.

That was the problem with Logan. The reason you’d fallen for him so spectacularly despite your better judgement.

He said things like that so easily. Like it was obvious.

Like of course he’d started keeping protein bars in his backpack because you forgot to eat when you were stressed. Like of course he waited outside your exam halls even when he had practice. Like of course your legs ended up over his lap every time you sat together for longer than ten minutes.

Your chest tightened softly.

And because apparently the universe enjoyed humiliating you whenever you got too emotionally comfortable, your vision blurred slightly at the exact same moment.

You frowned. That was… inconvenient timing.

The words on your laptop screen swam for half a second before sharpening again. Your heartbeat fluttered unpleasantly.

Not enough to panic over yet. You subtly shifted in your seat, rolling your neck and readjusting your posture- hoping to god that it would be enough, trying to ignore the familiar lightheadedness curling at the edges of your body.

“Hey.”

Logan’s voice dropped quieter instantly.

You looked over.

His brows had pulled together slightly, eyes scanning your face with terrifying precision.

“How long?” He asked softly.

Damn him.

Most people didn’t notice until you were actively halfway unconscious.

“I’m okay,” You whispered automatically.

A look crossed his face. Because he knew that tone. Knew what it meant when you said I’m okay in that specific careful voice. Your boyfriend leaned back slightly in his chair, completely ignoring the fact that Garrett was now openly watching the interaction over the top of his textbook.

“When was the last time you ate?”

You blinked once.

Logan sighed immediately. “Baby.”

“I had coffee?”

Allie dropped her pen onto the table. “Oh my god.”

“You can’t survive on caffeine and academic validation,” Hannah hissed.

“I literally can though.”

“No,” Logan said flatly, “you literally cannot. That’s the whole issue.”

Despite yourself, you laughed quietly.

Wrong decision.

The movement sent dizziness crashing through you harder this time, your stomach dipping sharply as black spots burst across your vision.

Logan was moving before you could even process it properly.

One second you were upright, the next his hand was wrapped around your wrist while the other steadied your shoulder.

“Hey,” He said immediately, voice calm enough that someone who didn’t know him wouldn’t notice the tension underneath it, “look at me.”

Your body felt frustratingly floaty all of a sudden.

“I’m fine,” You murmured weakly.

“Yeah, sweetheart, that sentence is losing credibility.”

Garrett was already standing.

“I’ll get water.”

Hannah reached for your bag without needing to ask while Allie shoved your laptop aside to make room.

The horrifying thing was how practised everyone looked doing it.

Like this had become routine.

Which, unfortunately, it kind of had.

“I hate all of you,” You mumbled as Logan carefully crouched in front of your chair.

“You love us deeply,” Allie corrected.

“Stockholm syndrome maybe.”

“You literally chose to date one of them,” Hannah pointed out.

“That weakens your argument significantly,” Garrett called over his shoulder.

Logan ignored all of them.

His thumb pressed lightly against your pulse point while he watched your face with that same concentrated expression he got before hockey games. Like he could somehow prevent your body from betraying you if he paid enough attention.

Your chest ached.

“Hey,” You whispered softly once your vision finally started stabilising again.

Logan looked up immediately.

You reached out without thinking, fingers brushing against the crease between his eyebrows. The tension sitting there.

“I’m okay.”

He closed his eyes for half a second. Then he turned his head slightly and pressed a quick kiss into the centre of your palm before standing back up.

The library collectively chose that exact moment to become aware of the fact that the hockey team’s second line centre was looking at you like you personally held his heart hostage.

“Oh my god,” Allie whispered dramatically.

Hannah looked emotional.

Garrett looked disgusted.

“Suddenly we’re all trapped in a Nicholas Sparks novel,” he muttered.

Logan didn’t even glance away from you.

“Shut up,” He said absentmindedly, still watching your face carefully, “she almost passed out.”

“I did not almost pass out.”

“That’s not medically valid.” Logan shot.

You flicked his forehead, “You’re not medically valid,” 

You stared at him for two seconds before bursting into startled laughter.

And just like that, some of the fear eased out of his shoulders.

𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝟐

The thing about the hockey house was that it never really felt like anyone was visiting it.

It felt like everyone was always a part of this little ecosystem, even if half of them technically still had their own places and the other half only owned two plates and a concerning number of energy drinks that nobody could fully account for.

Tonight was one of those nights where everything blurred into something almost domestic in a way you loved. Garrett and Hannah were folded into each other on the armchair in the corner, Hannah scrolling absently while Garrett spoke over her shoulder in low, easy comments about something on his screen that she kept pretending not to care about but clearly did. 

Dean and Allie were on the floor near the coffee table, Allie leaning against him in that casual way that somehow always ended with her stealing his hoodies and Dean acting like he was personally offended by affection while still adjusting her position when she shifted too much.

And then there was Tucker, occupying the remaining space like a problem nobody had successfully solved yet, talking at a volume that suggested he had forgotten walls existed.

You were on the couch.

Logan was on the couch too, your legs resting across his lap, your head resting on the back of the couch. His hand had found your ankle at some point during the evening and had simply stayed there, like it had decided that was where it belonged and saw no reason to reconsider.

“Have you eaten today?,” Logan murmured into your ear, not looking up from his phone.

You didn’t look away from the conversation Dean was having with Allie about whether cereal could be classified as a personality trait. “Hmm?”

“Did you eat today baby?” He dropped his phone into his lap and caressed your hair.

“I think so.”

A pause.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“It does if you really think about it.”

Hannah glanced over from the armchair. “She’s lying.”

“I am not lying.”

Garrett didn’t look up. “You had toast and emotional distress.”

“I had toast and a very normal amount of stress.”

Logan’s thumb pressed lightly against your ankle once, absent and automatic, but his attention had shifted to you properly now. Not fully concerned yet, but already recalibrating the room around your answer the way he always did when he thought something might be off.

“Baby,” he said quietly, like it was a habit more than a warning.

You finally turned your head slightly toward him. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything.”

“You’re absolutely starting something.”

Across the room, Allie made a sound of exaggerated disgust without even looking up. “I can feel the health lecture forming.”

Dean nodded. “It’s in the air.”

Logan ignored them completely. “You said you had toast this morning.”

“I did.”

“And then what.”

You hesitated.

Which was apparently answered enough.

Hannah sighed. “Oh my god.”

“I had coffee,” you admitted finally, because there was no point pretending anymore.

Garrett closed his eyes briefly like he was praying for patience. “That’s not food.”

“It has beans in it.”

“That’s not how nutrition works,” Logan said, though his voice was still calm, still even, like he was trying very hard not to make it into a bigger thing than it already was.

You shifted your legs slightly on his lap, rolling your eyes. “You’re all obsessed with me.”

“Yes,” Allie said immediately.

“That’s not-”

“Yes,” Dean repeated, “we are.”

You opened your mouth to concede and hop to the kitchen, go grab whatever tucker had made and stored in the fridge, but the words didn’t come out as smoothly as they should have.

It wasn’t immediate. It never was, much to your annoyance. It was subtle in the way your body always was about these things, like it preferred to give you enough time to be pissed before it betrayed you properly.

A slight softening at the edges of your vision first, like the room had decided to lose definition without informing you. The low hum of conversation didn’t change, but it felt slightly further away, like you were listening to it through water.

You frowned. This was inconvenient.

You shifted your weight on the couch instinctively, trying to ground yourself without drawing attention to it, but Logan noticed anyway. Of course he did.

His hand tightened slightly around your ankle.

“You good?” he asked, quieter now.

You nodded automatically. “Yea,” pushing off the sofa, hoping the movement would reboot your brain,”... yeah im fine.”

It came out too fast. Logan’s expression changed imperceptibly, the way it always did when he didn’t believe you but hadn’t yet decided whether to challenge it in front of everyone.

“Hey,” he said again, softer, his hand wrapped around your wrist- following you away from your seat.

You tried to laugh it off, but it didn’t quite land properly even in your own ears. “I’m finally listening to you guys, just going to grab something to eat.”

You pushed yourself to step away.

That was when it hit properly. Your body simply decided that it was no longer participating in the conversation. The room loosened, like the edges stopped agreeing with each other and in between the gaps your brain filled with black spots.

You reached out without thinking, fingers brushing the back of the couch as your knees went weak in a way that didn’t feel like anything at first, until it did.

“Hey-”

Logan’s voice cut through immediately, sharper now, closer than it had been a second ago, but it was already too late for clarity.

There was so much movement all at once.

Someone swearing.

A water bottle being cracked open.

The shuffling of sneakers and socks against the floor.

Coming back was always the worst part.

Because there was always a moment where you could hear everything before you could properly exist inside it again. Voices layered over each other, closer this time, less casual.

“I’ve got her,” Logan’s voice said, low and controlled in a way that didn’t quite match the tension underneath it.

“She’s out cold?” Dean asked, like he was trying not to panic but also deeply failing.

“She’s not- don’t say it like that,” Allie snapped immediately.

“Water,” Garrett said somewhere to the side, already moving.

And then your vision finally returned in pieces.

Ceiling first.

Then faces.

Then Logan.

He was closest.

Crouched in front of you, one hand steadying your shoulder, the other still holding your wrist like he hadn’t fully decided whether letting go was allowed yet. His expression wasn’t dramatic in the way people expected panic to be.

He was focussed on you, in a way that made your chest tighten before you even fully remembered why. You blinked slowly.

“Oh,” you muttered. “That was annoying.”

Relief flickered across Allie’s face instantly. “She’s alive.”

“Barely,” Dean said.

“I heard that,” you murmured.

Logan didn’t smile, “you scared me,” he said finally. You swallowed, trying to sit up, but his hand immediately steadied you again, firmer now.

“Don’t,” he said softly.

“I’m fine,” you replied automatically, accepting the water from garrett with a smile, you reach over to your bag and search for an energy bar. You hated the nutty torture snacks, but Logan insisted on you carrying them around for emergencies.

Everyone around you had relaxed, Hannah, Garrett and Tucker went to the kitchen, animatedly chatting about dinner whereas Allie and Dean went back to their places on the floor, already scrolling through her phone. 

Logan hadn’t moved, his fingers drumming against your knee. Your fingers moved without thinking, brushing lightly against his sleeve.

“I’m okay,” you said again, softer this time, like it might mean something more if you said it gently enough.

Logan exhaled through his nose, eyes flicking briefly shut like he was trying to steady something in himself. He shook his head, as if the movie had been unpaused and he had momentarily lost the plot. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝟑

Logan got the message in the middle of something he would not later be able to reconstruct properly, not because it wasn’t important, but because everything that happened immediately after replaced it so completely that the original context never stood a chance of surviving in his memory.

His phone buzzed incessantly on his desk breaking his concentration from whatever his professor was droning about to the group chat notifications exploding on his phone screen. It was Hannah’s name first, then Garrett’s, then Allie’s, all stacked on top of each other in a way  that made him unlock his phone and scroll through hurriedly. 

she fainted. properly. she’s awake now. come back.

He read it once without reacting in any visible way, which was what made it worse in hindsight, everything else that he had been doing was irrelevant, as though the idea of continuing it belonged to someone else entirely, and he was no longer that person.

By the time he got back to the house, his hoodie was half-zipped because he had started putting it on properly and then stopped halfway through, his cap still backwards and slightly uneven like he had forgotten it was there at all, and his hair underneath it flattened in places that suggested his hand had been through it more times than he had noticed.

Logan shut off his ignition and ran up the stairs, two at a time until he was bursting through the front door- his bag hanging from one shoulder as he scanned the scene in front of him. Garrett stood near the kitchen counter with a glass of water he had clearly forgotten to drink from, Hannah sat on the couch angled slightly forward in a posture that suggested she had not yet decided whether she was allowed to relax, Allie hovered somewhere between the hallway and the living room in a way that made it clear she had been going back and forth between checking on you and giving you space, and Dean existed in that familiar state of pretending not to be paying attention while absolutely paying attention.

And you were on the couch. Your eyes were open but not fully anchored yet, blinking slowly in that delayed way that made it clear your body was still catching up to where you were. Your shoulders were slightly hunched forward as if you were trying to find the correct posture for being awake again, and your hands were loosely folded in your lap before you noticed him properly.

The moment you did, everything in you shifted in a way that was immediate and familiar, like muscle memory rather than thought. You sat up, twisting over the couch to meet his eyes and smile with your hand outstretched- that was when the collective inhale happened, like even the house was waiting to see what he would do.

His eyes stayed on you without breaking, taking in the fact that you were sitting there, awake, conscious, present, and yet his brain still hadn’t stopped running like a hamster on a wheel, rotating again and again through all the scenarios he had plagued himself with on the drive over- a broken movie reel that fluttered between bad, worse and the worst.

You saw him, the way his eyes darted all over your face, how his hand was tightening and loosely against his bag strap. 

“Hey,” you said, your voice slightly rough, but it jumpstarted him to begin slowly approaching you, like a wounded animal. Your first instinct whenever he looked like that, as if you could smooth the edges of his expression back into something manageable by making yourself smaller within it, which was something you did without hesitation, like it was part of a pattern you had both already agreed to without ever discussing it.

He let you. 

Let you intertwine your fingers with him and pull him closer next to you. Let you kiss his hands, then knuckles and then the side of his wrist. He let you ground him before he could process anything.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, already aware of how the room was still holding itself slightly tense, and your voice tilted into something apologetic without fully meaning to, “I’m sorry guys, I must not have realised how stressed I was. I didn’t mean to scare anyone, I just didn’t eat properly and I got a bit dizzy and I didn’t realise it would turn into anything, it won’t happen again, I promise.”

Around you, the room began to release itself in pieces.

Garrett exhaled and shifted his weight like he had been waiting for permission to stop bracing, Hannah leaned back into the couch again as her shoulders loosened, Allie moved a step closer to you and immediately started talking in that half-joking, half-relieved tone about electrolytes and how she was “putting you on a schedule if this ever happens again,” and Dean, finally, contributed something about how he shouldn’t have asked about how your paper went, and he’ll let you run him over with his car to relieve stress next time, which was unhelpful but normal in a way that helped everyone else reset.

You leaned into Logan without thinking, still holding his hand, your body molding into his as you rubbed circles on his knuckles and pressed your hand into his thigh

You looked up at him, already softer, already slipping back into the version of the evening where everything was normal again. But what you couldn’t see was the way his emotions swirled thunderously in his mind, how he couldn’t begin to relax like everyone else did- in fact he was baffled they were so normal so quickly. He barely heard you ask about his class, or notice when you peppered soft kisses to his jaw and say that you missed him- how boring it was when he wasn’t there. As though the structure of his day mattered more than anything.

He tried to answer at first, his words bubbling to the tip of his tongue, but it didn’t take long for him to realise they wouldn’t come out in a smooth, caramelised way that would flow into the calm atmosphere of the room. He gently let go of your hand, in a decisive way that made you furrow your brows and scan his face.

“Logan?” you said, quieter now, not fully alarmed but already sensing the direction this was going.

He rubbed his hands together, throat working thickly as his adams apple bobbed. Everyone else had noticed the shift, conversations slowed. Dean stopped mid-sentence. Allie’s expression changed slightly as she looked between the two of you. Hannah went still in a way that suggested she was no longer sure whether to intervene or wait.

Logan turned to you, his hair falling in specks along his forehead, “I need a minute.” He got up and went upstairs, footsteps heavy along the ceiling of where you all stayed frozen until his bedroom door clicked closed; you blinked a few times, looking at your friends who met you with confused, concerned shrugs and shakes of their heads.

Your expression tightened and you pushed yourself up to follow him, ignoring whatever advice your friends were half-heartedly giving you. 

When the door creaked open under your hand, you found him sitting on the edge of his bed, hands braced on his knees and holding his head, as though he needed something solid to hold the weight of his thoughts. His cap lay discarded on the floor, shoulders slightly lifted in tension that he was not releasing, and when you entered the doorway he did not look immediately, as if he already knew what would happen if he looked at you too quickly.

When he did meet your eyes, it was not anger that you saw first, but something more difficult to place because it did not sit cleanly in any single emotion. It looked like a strain held in place for too long.

“You shouldn’t apologise like that,” he said, and you frowned slightly, stepping inside and shutting the door behind you. Trapping whatever conversation you were about to have within these four walls.

“I wasn’t- I just didn’t want everyone worrying,” you said, still trying to smooth it over in the same way you had in the other room, still trying to keep it within something manageable. The bedframe creaked under you, as if warning you from crossing your legs and sinking into this situation.

But he shook his head once, not dismissive but overwhelmed, and when he spoke again his voice had shifted into something quieter but sharper at the edges, “You were apologising for being unconscious.”

That made you stop, properly stop, because it didn’t match the version of the moment you had been holding onto, and he saw that in your face immediately.

“I wasn’t here,” he said, and there was something in the way he said it that made it clear that time had not been abstract for him in the same way it was for you. “You were just gone, and I found out from my phone blowing up, messages that had sat there for god knows how long because…” He grit his teeth, “I just had to turn it on silent for class. And I get back to everyone telling me it was fine, that you’re fine, like that changes anything.”

You try to re-anchor him in proximity the same way you always did, your hand finding his again, your voice softening as you said, “You can’t always be there Logan, I don’t want you to always be on edge. I’m okay.”

But when he looked at you this time, there was something in his expression that did not settle with that reassurance.

“I know,” he said quietly, and it came out with more restraint than anything he had said earlier, like it was something he had been holding back for a long time and could no longer keep contained in the same shape. “I just don’t know how to stop thinking about what it looked like when you weren’t.”

You cup his cheek, turning him towards you, “I’m right here baby,” You kiss him, imprinting the taste of you onto his mouth, the feel of your lips together as a way to tell him that you’re still there with him, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Logan held your wrists, his fingers shaking against your skin, “I..” his eyes were wide, pupils flicking between yours, “I never know when you aren’t going to be here.”

He tugged at your hands and you let him, nails digging into the bedsheet uselessly next to you. Your breath caught in your throat, face quaking and crumbling at the edges, eyelashes fluttering- beating away the bubbling tears forming on your lashline. 

“I think I’ll sleep at the dorm tonight,” you said eventually, and your voice was softer than it had been before, tired in a way that didn’t fully belong to the moment.

Logan looked up at that, but he didn’t stop you, just watched with a shattered look in his eyes, his lips pursed and pressed against his hands that were clasped together. You collected your things as seamlessly as possible, and given that you’d stayed over for the entire weekend, it was proving to be harder than you thought. But you huffed and puffed with each new article that got shoved into the shoulder bag until the room looked as if you’d never stepped foot in there. 

You’d already begun to calculate how many trips it would take to empty out the clothes from his dresser and toiletries from his bathroom. 

Logan still hadn’t said anything, his eyes widening by a fraction when he realised just how much you had erased from his space, but he stayed silent when your fingers hesitated against the door handle and didn’t dare to say anything when you turned back to him- eyes begging him to stop you, to cradle you in his arms and work it out. He ignored it all, looking through you and barely flinching when you shut the dare harder than necessary. 

You adjusted your bag strap over your shoulder with careful hands, stilling when you realised everyone was staring at you when you emerged from the stairwell, “I’m heading home guys..” 

Your throat tightened but you shook your head and forced a smile onto your face, it felt plasticy and fake when your eyebrows tightened together, nose burning with each deep breath you took. 

You added lightly, “I’ve got that test tomorrow anyway, and it’s probably better if I just- yeah. I’ll head back.”

Allie and Hannah both turned slightly, breaking out of the pitying trance when you grabbed your keys and headed for the door. 

Neither of them said anything at first, because there was a specific kind of silence that settles when two people are trying very hard to behave like nothing irreversible has happened only a floor above them.

“Okay,” Allie said finally, careful but not pushing, “Text us when you get in?”

You nodded quickly.

“Yeah, of course.”

Hannah’s eyes lingered on you a little longer, not interrogating, just observing, like she was storing away the way you were holding yourself more tightly than usual, the way Logan wasn’t following you to the door, barely letting you out of his hold with attacks of kisses and whispered in your ear. 

But neither of them asked.

Because to everyone else in the house, it still looked like something that could be explained away by stress and timing and too much noise and not enough food.

You said goodbye in a way that was deliberately light, stepping out with your usual version of composure stitched back together over something slightly less stable underneath it.

Back in the living room, the energy eventually returned in fragments, Logan had rejoined the group nearly an hour after the girls had left. 

Allie and Hannah left together not long after you, mumbled goodbyes were exchanged and worried whispers about Logan along with promises to update them over text had gotten them out the door back to you .

And once the door closed behind them, the house settled into a quieter version of itself.

Dean was the first to fully break the tension, dropping onto the couch with the kind of exaggerated movement that only made sense when someone was actively trying to remind a room how normal they were allowed to be. Tucker followed soon after, already halfway into a joke about how “Briar parties are medically unsafe environments” that no one really responded to but still helped reset the tone anyway.

Logan stayed silent for a moment too long in the kitchen doorway before eventually sitting down on the arm of the couch, not fully joining the group, just occupying space near it without integrating into it. The others kept talking for a while, but their volume softened slightly in the way it does when people unconsciously recognise that something heavier is still present in the room.

Eventually, Dean stretched and yawned in an overly theatrical way.

“Right,” he said, pushing himself up. “I’m calling it before I start thinking about my own mortality again.”

Tucker followed immediately, clapping Logan on the shoulder on his way past like nothing meaningful had just been discussed at all. “Don’t overthink it, man,” he added lightly, already heading upstairs. “She’s been doing that since high school apparently. She’s fine.”

Garrett didn’t follow them right away.

Logan just exhaled once, slow, like something had tightened in his chest at the phrasing.

Once the footsteps disappeared upstairs and the house settled properly, Garrett stayed behind in the spot next to Logan, leaning against the couch and pretending not to be boring holes into the side of his best friend's face. Logan was still on the couch arm, staring somewhere that wasn’t really the room.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

“I can’t imagine it,” Garrett broke the silence, voice quieter now, stripped of the earlier group energy, “loving someone and knowing that at any point they might just not respond.”

Logan’s jaw tightened slightly at that, but he didn’t interrupt.

Garrett looked down at his hands briefly before continuing, “I know everyone’s saying she’s used to it and it’s normal for her or whatever, but… that’s not really the part that sticks, is it?”

That landed differently.

Logan looked down finally, his hands loosely clasped together, and when he spoke his voice came out lower than before, less controlled in the way it had been earlier.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said, and there was no performance left in it now, no attempt to hold anything in place. “I love her so much it actually hurts, and I can’t… I can’t keep doing that thing where I pretend I’m okay when she’s-”

He stopped. Swallowed slightly and pressed his fingers to his eyes. Logan exhaled again, slower this time, like the words were physically difficult to keep forming.

“But I also can’t go on like this,” he finished, quieter.

That silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable in the way earlier ones had been. It was just heavy with the absence of an answer. Garrett nodded once, slowly, like he understood that there wasn’t a clean solution sitting anywhere in reach.

“I think,” Garrett said carefully after a moment, choosing each word like he was placing it somewhere fragile, “it might actually be harder to let her go than it is to keep reminding yourself she wakes up every time.”

Logan turned to Garrett, and nodded slowly- a row of tears fell from his chin and onto the soft cashmere beneath him, “I just don’t know how many times I can do it.”

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @harls-sturn, @https-dandelion

[abbycoded]

oh this is evil

[puckingcuckbunny]

eheh I'm giggling in my lair of badly written smut and angst

thank you for the support <33

[g0ldendesiree]

Last Time | Dean Di Laurentis

summary: when dean ends up in a fight on the ice, it leaves words to be said between you both.

request: yes/no

warnings: swearing

word count: 2.71k

authors note: this was kind of written as a second part to the offer however both pieces can be read as stand-alones. honestly i eat up every dean request espeically when we have a chance to make him a little jealous/protective

It had been weeks since the two of you started seeing each other.

Stolen kisses in the treatment room, sneaking you into the house late at night.  As much fun as the two of you had been having, you were starting to grow tired of it.

But you had to keep it to yourself, not because you didn’t think you could share. But because you knew what Dean was like, and a long term ride wasn’t something that he wanted. 

Not in the same ways that you did.

Dean laughed as he pulled you into his room, helping you jump over his desk, “took you damn long enough.” He mumbled into your mouth as the two of you fell onto his bed. 

You scoffed as you rolled your eyes “if I was able to walk through your front door I wouldn’t have taken so long.” You shot back making the boy pinch your side. 

It made you gasp, allowing him to kiss you “it’ll be easier next time.” He promised as he rolled on top of you. 

He nipped at your neck “yeah cause this is the last time.” 

It seemed to be a phrase that got used often between the two of you. 

When your parents went to England for Thanksgiving, you ended up in New York with Dean “I promise they didn’t see you.” He threw his phone to the side as he looked at you “so come back over here.” Dean stood up so that he could kiss you. 

You sighed as you dropped the bedsheet from around your body “what?” He asked as he kissed you. 

Your lips were soft “this has to be the last time.” The blonde never argued with you because he knew how you felt. 

Dean never argued with you, not because he didn’t think it was a fight worth making. But because you seemed to repeat this every few days yet lo and behold, you’d still end up right back in his room like nothing had happened, kissing his lips as you complained about what you were doing.

So Dean should have known something was wrong the second you stopped arguing with him.

Normally, when you said things like “this has to be the last time,” there was still warmth behind it.

There was still banter.

Still that look in your eyes that told him you didn’t mean it nearly as much as you were pretending to.

But tonight? No tonight you sounded tired.

And Dean hated it immediately “you say that every week,” he murmured against your neck, trying to pull you back into whatever this was before it became something heavier.

Something real.

You let him kiss you for a second longer before gently pushing at his chest “that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

Dean leaned back slightly, blonde hair falling into his face as he looked down at you “we’re good right?” He gave you a look like if you went to tell him the truth, he would have let you open Pandora’s box like it was nothing.

Your eyes scanned his as you nodded “we’re fine.” That word nearly made you laugh.

Fine.

As if sneaking into his room after midnight and pretending not to care about each other outside of it counted as fine.

As if the way Dean looked at you when you walked into a room didn’t confuse the hell out of you.

As if you weren’t starting to want things you knew he’d never give you.

Like you were starting to want more than what he could give you.

You pushed your hair out of your face “you don’t get it,” you said quietly.

Dean’s expression shifted slightly at your tone “then explain it to me.” He sat up as you almost felt sick.

Because you almost did and that was the dangerous part.

Because Dean was looking at you in that soft way again, the one that made your chest ache.

The one that made you forget he’d never promised you anything.

Instead, you shook your head and slipped out from underneath him “I should go.” You announced as you reached for your shirt that had found its way onto his floor.

Dean sat up immediately “seriously?” He groaned as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Yes.”

“It’s one in the morning.”

You looked out, knowing that it was going to start raining again soon “and?” You were more focused on getting back to your dorm so that you wouldn’t end up soaked.

Dean tugged at the ends of his hair “and you snuck through my damn window,” he said, watching you slide into your shoes “least you can do is stay.” He wanted to reach for you, to pull you into his grasp and keep you there all night.

You laughed softly despite yourself “you should get a good sleep before Saint A’s.” You knew the big game was the next day and you were using that as your excuse. 

Dean grinned “you know I do better when I’ve had you the night before.” Dean clicked his tongue as he wanted to hold you.

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your mouth ruined the effect.

Dean noticed instantly, “there she is,” he said quietly.

Your stomach tightened and that was the problem with him.

Dean always noticed everything.

When you skipped meals.

When you were stressed.

When your smiles were genuine versus when you forced them.

And now he was going to know what you were like before you pulled away, “I was serious about you getting some sleep,” you muttered instead.

Dean watched you carefully “you gonna come to the game tomorrow?”

You paused “kind of my job.” You reminded him as you raised your eyebrows.

His eyes softened slightly, reaching for your hand “still nice to hear you say it.” As his fingers grazed your palm, it hurt more than it should have.

Because he wasn’t yours, not in the way you needed him.

So you went home and hadn’t spoken to him since you left his. The game had already been aggressive before the second period even started.

Big hits.

Shoving matches.

Everything you expected from this game as you were expecting a long night to clean up the bruises and cuts that were bound to come.

A near fight in the first that Garrett had dragged Dean away from by the back of his jersey while Tucker laughed himself sick on the bench.

Your eyes never left the ice. They never left Dean. 

Forcing a comforting smile on your face whenever he looked at you, on the off chance that you could calm him down.

Because he moved differently when he was pissed off.

Sharper.

More reckless.

You noticed it immediately when he slammed another player into the boards hard enough to make the crowd erupt. It was the comeback that you guys were desperate for.

The other player shoved him back when Dean smiled as if he was eating it all up.

That was never a good sign “oh god,” Garrett muttered from beside the bench. Unsure almost if he should jump in to say something.

The opposing player said something.

You didn’t hear it, but Dean did. And whatever it was made his entire posture change instantly.

Not annoyed.

Not cocky.

Furious.

Before anyone could react properly, Dean dropped his gloves.

The crowd roared knowing that one of the roughest teams in the conference was now getting a taste of their own medicine “Dean!” Coach Jensen yelled as it fell on deaf ears.

Too late.

He launched himself at the guy so fast the refs barely had time to react before both of them hit the ice, throwing punches.

You felt your stomach drop immediately.

Because Dean didn’t fight like this normally.

Things didn’t feel like it was personal usually, but now they crossed that boundary.

There was no grin on Dean’s face.

No chirping and nothing playful about it.

Just anger, pure anger “holy shit,” Tucker breathed as he sat in front of you.

The other player managed to get a punch across Dean’s cheekbone before Dean shoved him back onto the ice hard enough for the refs to finally drag them apart.

Blood streaked down Dean’s mouth and he still looked ready to kill him “you wanna say it again?” Dean snapped while Logan held him back.

The other guy laughed through a split lip “what? About your little girlfriend?” Your heart stopped when the older player’s eyes landed on you.

Garrett’s head whipped toward you instantly “oh,” Tucker said slowly.

Everything clicked into place at once.

The fight.

Dean losing control.

The fact that the player was now smirking directly toward your side of the rink.

Dean nearly broke free from the refs trying to get back to him “Dean!” Garrett barked, watching him skate towards the locker room as he was now ejected.

The blonde finally looked away, chest heaving. And then his eyes found you immediately.

Like he was checking if you’d heard it too. As if he wanted to protect you from something, you had a front row seat to watch.

Once he got his concussion clearance, you were left cleaning up his cuts as Coach Jensen wanted to talk to him after you cleared him “you are such an idiot.” Dean sat on the treatment table while you cleaned blood from the cut above his eyebrow.

He winced slightly “easy.” As he tried to pull away.

You rolled your eyes as you were annoyed “you started a fight during a conference game.” You reminded him how stupid this was.

Dean shrugged as he leaned against the wall behind him “he deserved it.” His words almost set you off.

You let your fingers grip his chin, “you got punched in the face.” Many many times he had been hit.

“Worth it.” Dean looked entirely unbothered despite the bruise forming across his jaw, “You should’ve heard what he said.”

You mentally cringed as you thought back to what he said “I know what he said.” You were also annoyed that Dean didn’t think that you could handle it yourself.

Dean’s eyes scanned yours “then you know why I hit him.” He shrugged as he knew he’d do it again if he needed to.

You sighed sharply and reached for more gauze.

The room had gone quieter after the game ended. Most of the team had already filtered out, leaving just muffled voices somewhere down the hallway.

Dean watched you move around him carefully “you’re mad,” he said finally.

You laughed once, short and humourless, “no, Dean,” you said softly “I’m tired.”

That got his attention immediately.

His expression changed.

The cockiness faded slightly as if  a penny dropped in his brain “what’s that supposed to mean?” He sucked at his teeth.

You tossed the bloody gauze into the bin harder than necessary “it means I can’t keep doing this thing where it just stays in this state of limbo.” You blurted the words out as you shook your head.

Dean frowned, “what?” He asked as pulled back, almost as if you were going to burn him if he got too close.

You puffed out your cheeks “you fought someone over me tonight.” You hated how you felt this level of possession when he did that for you.

“Yeah,” he said immediately “because he talked about you like you were some-”

You groaned “that’s not the point.” You pointed your finger at him.

You finally looked at him properly “then what is?” His split lip caught your attention when he spoke. 

The bruise was already forming and the way he looked genuinely confused right now, “you can’t act like this and then pretend we’re just hooking up.” You were scared that Dean had feelings. 

Because he wasn’t meant to, that wasn’t what he was known for.

Dean stared at you “you think that’s what this is to me?” You swallowed slightly “isn’t it?” For the first time since you met him, Dean looked honestly offended.

He looked hurt “seriously?” Dean chewed at the inside of his cheek.

“You never want to talk about us.”

He shook his head as he was genuinely feeling frustrated now, “because every time we do,” he said, sliding off the treatment table, “you tell me it’s the last time.” Your breath caught slightly.

Dean pulled you closer.

Not teasing now.

The room felt hot “You sneak out before breakfast,” he continued “you act like I’m gonna wake up one day and decide you’re inconvenient.” His final sentence made you feel sick. 

“That’s not-”

Dean cut you off “you think I fought a guy because I casually hook up with you?” It seemed like the world stopped in that moment.

His voice wasn’t loud, which somehow made it worse “I fought him because he talked about you like you didn’t matter.” Dean looked down at you for a second before shaking his head slightly.

“You really don’t get it.”

You stopped as if you had all the time in the world “then tell me.” You bit the inside of your cheek.

He pulled you closer.

Close enough that your hands instinctively grabbed lightly at the strings of his shorts “I’m trying to,” he said quietly.

And suddenly you realised something horrifying.

Dean looked nervous.

The Dean Di Laurentis was nervous “you drive me insane,” he admitted “I mean you’re in my room every night.” He almost let out a laugh.

Dean didn’t stop there “half my hoodies are in your dorm. Garrett calls you my girlfriend already cause apparently, I talk about you too much.”

You blinked at his confession “you talk about me?” Felt your heart throb as your throat constricted.

Dean gave you a flat look “constantly.” His voice was soft and honest. 

His shoulders felt lighter when he got it off of his chest “that’s embarrassing.” Your words made him roll his eyes.

He shook his head as he puffed his chest out “you’re embarrassing.” Despite everything, a tiny laugh escaped you at his rebuttal.

Dean’s expression softened immediately at the sound “there she is,” he murmured again.

Your eyes dropped briefly to his split lip “still think getting punched was worth it?” Dean’s hands slid carefully onto your waist.

He nodded “yeah,” he said quietly, “But you being upset with me kinda sucks.”

You frowned “I wasn’t upset with you.” That was the truth; you were mad at the situation above all else.

“You like me reckless.”

You knew he wasn’t wrong, you loved the way he would pull you into the supply closet at the stadium without thinking twice, “you were stupid tonight.” You sighed as you knew he was going to look like he had been on the wrong side of a fight with Tyson Fury in the morning.

Dean smiled slightly, “you gonna kiss it better or keep yelling at me?” His hands rested on his sides as he bit his lip.

If he wasn’t shirtless looking at you like that, you swore you should have hit him “you are unbelievable.” Your fingers ran over his bruising cheek.

Dean smirked, seeing your strength starting to waver again “and you’re still here.” There it was again.

That stupid sentence that always undid you.

You shook your head softly before finally leaning forward and kissing him.

Carefully this time, almost mindful of the cut on his lip.

Dean melted into it immediately anyway, one hand sliding up your back as he pulled you closer between his legs “I think Garrett owes me fifty bucks now.” He murmured against your mouth.

You blinked “why?” You put the wipes back on your tray.

Dean grinned lazily despite the bruise on his face “he bet you’d be the one to freak out about feelings first.” Your jaw dropped as your eyes went wide.

“I don’t know if I should be offended about that or the fact that I was discussed like a conference pool?”

He shook his head “correction,” Dean said smugly as he pointed between the two of you “they discussed us.”

You shoved lightly at his shoulder, and he laughed.

Then immediately hissed in pain from the movement.

You pointed at him, “good suffer.” Dean just pulled you back in anyway as he pressed a kiss against your cheek.

[folkloure]

⭑.ᐟ good luck charm

john logan x reader

summary: logan looks really fucking hot in a suit and it just makes you a little unhinged. short fic, requested!

warnings: hornyyy but no actual smut! reader is described wearing a dress and laced panties

It takes Logan almost two weeks of constant phone calls and at least a dozen meetings with Coach Jensen, but he finally manages to do it: he gets the Briar board into sponsoring their next Hurricanes event.

Out with cheap venues or karaoke nights – Briar U is now throwing a proper gala, sending out invitations for every member of the Council, arranging a next-level campaign that’s truly more than Logan could’ve dreamed of for a Hurricanes fundraising.

And he’s so close to putting it all at risk inside this tiny fucking fancy bathroom.

“You gotta stop this.” he says, his entire face blushing.

You smile meekly at him, “I’m sorry,” you say, moving towards him, “You just look really, really good right now.”

John Logan is a beautiful man, you’ve always known that. But ever since you’ve met there have been very few opportunities where you got to see him in anything other than casual or gym clothes (or, you know, no clothes at all), let alone wearing a suit. When he shows up to your door that evening, his shirt half unbuttoned, suit jacket over the shoulder and asking for help with his tie, you feel like a woman possessed. You try bringing his face down to yours, planning on kissing him stupid as for as long as humanly possible.

Logan, however, gives you nothing but a quick peck before urging you to get dressed.

“We can’t be late for the reception, you know?” he says, an apologetic smile on his pretty face and hands on your shoulders gently pushing you back, “So let's get moving, yeah? Want me to zip up your dress?”

Quick pecks and long introductions is all you've been getting throughout the night. Logan talks to sponsors, introduces you to the Council, goes up the stage and preaches about the fundraising, talks about how the Hurricanes youth program changed his life and he wants to pass it on for future generations of hockey players, and so it goes. And it’s hot, plain and simple, seeing him move so professionaly and inviting, shaking hands with sponsors, every so often throwing you a smile or, god forbid, a wink.

You’re seated for dinner when you decide you’ve had enough. 

Logan sits right next to you, chatting with Coach Jensen and his wife from across the table, hand holding yours. You stare your joined hands for a moment before drop his , pretending to check for something in your purse in hopes no one will notice your sneaky moves, allowing your hand to rest over Logan’s knee, hiding a giggle when you feel him immediately stiffen. You don't test your waters for a little something more — you're not trying to get risky, nor you’re to embarrass him. You’re just sending him signs as you squeeze his thigh three times, “I need you.”

Logan clears his throat before speaking up again, “I, um, need to use the restroom,” he says, voice higher than usual as he tries to focus again, pushing himself out of the table rapidly.

You and wait two full minutes before excusing yourself and going after him, quiet like a mouse as you stand on the corridor. Logan opens the door and you block his way out, immediately pushing him back inside, the small of his back hitting the countertop, “Wow, hey.”

“Hi, handsome.” 

Your hands go up to the back of his neck, fingertips curling through his hair just the way you know he likes. Logan sighs, eyes fluttering closed, “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” You say, pulling him in for a kiss on the corner of his mouth, then another one on his lips. 

There’s only so far Logan can go resisting when you’re actively trying to seduce him. His lips part, allowing you to deepen the kiss, hands moving to his face and dragging him closer like you’re trying to swallow him, encouraged by his quiet moans against your open mouth. He loves when you get like this — desperate, needy, tempting. It takes everything in him to stop you.

He is, after all, still a man of senses, and having you kissing his jaw and dragging your teeth down his neck is enough to make him well aware of where this is quickly going. Logan slips out from where he stands, pinned between you and the sink, and moves to the door, locking you both in. 

Logan turns to you, “You gotta stop this.” he says, his entire face blushing.

You smile meekly at him, “I’m sorry,” you say, moving towards him, “You just look really, really good right now.”

“Baby, I’m serious. The entire Council is outside. Coach Jensen would tear me a new one if he ever–” He turns away from you, leaning on the counter. Your lips curve in a tight-lipped smile, thinking he sounds like he's trying to convince himself more than anything. Logan quickly runs his hands over his face and through his hair, “I have to give a final speech.”

You feel deliciously bad, seeing him so frustrated for denying you and himself of this.

You sneak in between his legs, his bright, sulken eyes on you. “Don’t look so distressed,” you say, fingers pushing his hair back, this time in a much softer manner, “You’re right, we can't do that. I’m sorry for messing with you.”

Logan shakes his head, “You always mess with me. Look at you,” he stares you up and down, hands going to your sides, “You look like a dream tonight.”

“Well, let me tell you how it goes, then.” you get closer to him, mouth so close to his ear as you whisper, “You go up that stage, you make a goddamn perfect final speech, and I’ll make all your dreams come true tonight, okay?”

Logan lets out a low noise, something in between a pained whimper and chuckle, resting his forehead on your shoulder, “Yeah, okay.” He looks up at you again, “Kiss for good luck?”

You curve your lips into a smirk, “I’ll do you one better.” 

Pulling back from him, you lift up your dress below your knees, just enough for your hands to travel up from your calves up to your hips without revealing him anything. You watch his eyes fixated on your legs as you pull down your black laced panties. Logan’s unmoved as you unbuttons his jacket suit, carefully dropping it into his inside pocket.

“A good luck charm for you to keep,” You press an innocent kiss to his face, “Wait a few minutes before leaving, okay? Or they’ll think we’re being perverts and doing it on the bathroom counter.”

You move towards the door, turning the lock, “I’ll tell Coach Jensen you got caught in conversation with a potential sponsor. Man’s gonna think you’re a saint, baby.”

Logan thinks he might just be one, for it takes a fucking miracle for him not to follow you like a leashed dog as you walk out the door.

notes: thank you for reading! requests are open, likes/reblogs/thoughts are appreciated! <3

[finelinevogue]

spin me in circles

summary - it's your birthday and your boyfriend won't stop kissing you for more than a minute. safe to say, he's obsessed with you.

pairing - garrett graham x gf!reader

word count - 2.3k

You felt the slight pressure from Garrett's fingers squeezing the back of your neck as he continued to kiss you.

There was a reason you carried around chapstick all the time - because Garrett was the world's No. 1 needy boyfriend and never went more than two hours without kissing you.

Garrett kissed you in a series of short pecks, allowing you both to catch your breaths momentarily. You could feel the small smile form on his lips as he kissed you again.

"God, do you two ever stop?" Allie laughed, dumping two jugs of beer on the table for everyone.

You were all at Malone's to celebrate your birthday. Well, you were meant to be celebrating with the girls by dancing and the guys each offered you a birthday shot of tequila, but instead had been cornered to the end of a booth by your boyfriend who genuinely couldn't seem to stop kissing you. As Allie pointed out moments ago.

"No."

Garrett said at the same time as you said, "Yes."

Just to prove his point, Garrett kissed you again. You swore you could hear Allie spew out an 'ugh' before walking away.

Your hand slid underneath the table to Garrett's thigh, squeezing it a little as he kissed you hard. Garrett licked his bottom lip as he pulled away, looking over your swollen-looking ones with a glint in his eye.

"I swear I've done nothing but kiss you today." You said, licking your own lips. Garrett looked eagerly at them as you did, but made no move to lean in.

You felt his arm move from cupping your neck to just draping over the back of the booth behind you.

"Sounds like a good birthday to me."

"Okay. No need to look so smug with yourself." You rolled your eyes and let your head fall onto his shoulder.

Garrett kissed your forehead, letting you rest neatly tucked up against him.

"Didn't even get a kiss from Dean this year." You pouted.

"Going to pretend I didn't just hear my girlfriend say that." He pretended to sound offended, but he knew what you meant.

Every year Dean has kissed you on the cheek for your birthday, because before your relationship with Garrett you were trying to make him jealous with the help of your best friend Dean. One night, at a house party, things came to a heat when you asked Dean to kiss you, informing him it was just to make Garrett jealous, and he barely made it to a kiss on your cheek before Garrett shoved him out of the way and kissed you instead.

"Can't believe it's been a whole two years since that house party."

"Still think you could have just talked to me, rather than try and kiss my best friend in front of me."

"Really? And what would I have said?" You picked your head up from his shoulder to look up at him, "'Oh hey Garrett. By the way, even though you could literally have any girl on this campus, of which six of them have already thrown themselves at you tonight, I think you should actually be with me.'"

"Baby, it was always gonna be you."

Before you could respond, Dean plated a round of shots on the table.

"Right. I've had enough of you two... Canoodling." Dean, already quite drunk, pointed between you and your boyfriend.

"Canoodling?" You laughed.

"Yeah, are you 85 years old?" Garrett teased, feeling accomplished when it earned another laugh from you.

"Fuck off, Graham." Dean snarled, "This is for the birthday girl." Dean handed you a shot at the same time Garrett took one for himself.

"Thanks, Dean."

"Happy motherfucking birthday, Y/N!"

The surrounding people cheered as Dean shouted.

You swung back the shot of what genuinely tasted like pure methanol, your whole body shivering to try and get rid of the awful taste in your mouth. Dean wasn't phased at all, but he was probably already five shots in.

"You didn't even bring a chaser?" Garrett asked, offended.

"You've got your girlfriend for that." Dean patted Garrett's shoulder before meandering off to the next willing participant of doing shots with him.

"He's so drunk."

"Yeah and you don't want to be kissed by a drunk-Dean."

"Oh really?" You raised your eyebrows at your boyfriends logic, "And what about a drunk-Garrett?"

"That, I think is acceptable."

Garrett leaned forwards, attempting to kiss you again. His arm curling tighter around your neck again to bring you as close as possible to him. No distance between you was the goal apparently.

"No! Absolutely not. Enough of this." Hannah's voice appeared before Garrett could fully commit to kissing you.

"What?" Garrett asked innocently.

"You've been hogging the birthday girl all day. Enough."

"Yeah, but she's my birthday girl. I have a right to hog." Garrett argued. Was it a red flag that your insides melted over that comment? Oh sue you - Garrett Graham can get away with saying anything when it comes to you.

"Um, I'm sat right here." You perked up.

"Yeah, yeah," Hannah brushed you off and crossed her arms over her chest to seem much - much - bigger than she was. "She's coming to dance with us. End of."

"And if she doesn't?"

"Again... Right here..."

Hannah gave a smug smile, clapped her hands twice and made Tucker and Logan appear from nowhere. They instantly grabbed onto Garrett's body, pulling him from the booth as best they could.

The move was not smooth at all.

In fact, you'd had to stop thanks to a short-circuit in your brain when Garrett's top accidentally lifted up to reveal a dark dusting of hair running down from his belly button.

Fuck.

"Quick, quick." Hannah brought you back to the moment.

You successfully shuffled out of the booth with a large protest from Garrett, who looked like someone had just stepped on his favourite toy.

You raised your hands in the air as Disturbia by Rihanna played loud throughout Malone's.

Hannah, Allie, Sabrina and Grace all cheered as they formed a little circle around you. Allie pretended to throw fake money at you as you swayed your hips from side-to-side, bringing your hands down your body.

You laughed as you held out your hand for Hannah to take. She twirled you around in a circle before you returned the gesture.

The girls closed the circle then, all of you joining to form one dancing pack.

Malone's was hot now, no doubt from the endless dancing.

Your neck was sweaty and you couldn't remember that last time that you had a drink.

"I'm going to get a drink." You told Grace, who you knew would pass on the information to the rest of them.

Dispersing from the group as the music changed to play Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! by ABBA, you took note of your boyfriend watching you from across the room with a sulk on his face. His expression brightened when he realised you weren't dancing anymore, but his interested visibly peaking more when you didn't come over to him.

"Vodka cranberry please!" You asked the bartender.

He nodded and got to work, whilst your body still danced to the music. Malone's was playing good music tonight.

Your breath hitched when you felt Garrett's hand snaked around the skin of your waist, beneath your top, to place on either side of your stomach. His front was pressed firmly against your back and you couldn't help but groan at the contact.

Your head rolled back onto his shoulder, eyes closed, as you continued to sway to the music. Surprisingly Garrett swayed along with you.

He didn't miss the opportunity to kiss your neck, earning a small laugh from you.

You thanked the bartender as he deposited the drink on the bar in front of you, Garrett subtly nodding his head to the guy as if to say 'put this drink on my tab'.

"You know," His voice was husky as he spoke close to your ear, "ABBA gets me."

"Oh yeah?"

Garrett’s fingers spread wider against your stomach. “Pretty sure this song is about how devastating it is when your girlfriend abandons you to go dance with her girl friends.”

"Hmm. I thought it was about a group of girl friends going out to find a good-looking man." You took a sip of your drink.

"Well lucky for you, you found me."

You rolled your eyes, though your mouth betrayed you with a smile.

"So humble."

"I try."

Garrett’s chin settled on your shoulder as the two of you swayed absentmindedly to the music. His fingers drummed lazily against your stomach, almost in time with the beat.

"You know," you said, turning slightly in Garrett’s arms, "most boyfriends would probably let their girlfriend dance with her friends on her birthday without acting like they’re being personally victimised."

Garrett gasped softly against your neck. "That’s crazy. Name one."

You laughed again and Garrett visibly brightened at the sound, like he physically couldn’t help it.

Just as you were about to fully turn around in Garrett's arms, Hannah appeared beside you both grabbing onto your arm.

"Photobooth! Now!"

"She's always at the scene of the crime." You heard Garrett sigh as you were once again pulled from him.

"Get over it," Hannah told him. "You’ve spent the entire night attached to her like a backpack."

"A very handsome backpack."

You looked over your shoulder just in time to catch Garrett watching you go with the same wounded expression from earlier.

Honestly, it was a little ridiculous how much your chest warmed at the sight.

Because Garrett Graham - campus hockey star - looked genuinely miserable every time someone stole you away from him for longer than five minutes.

The photobooth is far too small to fit all five of you and your friends in, but you somehow make it work.

You all pose with a bunch of stupid poses; kissing and squishing each other's cheeks, trying to create finger hearts with each other and just generally laughing so much that you were all worried you might pee yourselves.

Sabrina had recorded the entire time in the photobooth on her phone, which was going to be so funny to watch back later.

They all fell out of the photobooth one at a time. Grace and Sabrina decided they were going to get another round of drinks for everyone, whilst Allie and Hannah decided to the bathroom together.

You were looking at the photo strip that had been printed, when the curtain was pulled across the entrance again and you were being pinned back against the wall of the photobooth.

"You're never beating the backpack allegations, you know?" You teased as you smiled up at Garrett.

A little curl fell down over his forehead and you reached up to fix it instantly - almost like it was second nature at this point.

"Missed you."

"Missed you too." You replied, "Want to take some photos?"

"Yeah, okay."

"Come sit here." Garrett moved and patted his lap, already sat down on the small bench inside the photo booth. He pulled on your hand, forcing you to sit on top of his thighs.

You tried not to focus on how strong and sturdy they felt beneath you.

You settled comfortably sideways on his thighs, wrapping your arms around his shoulders so that you didn’t slide off.

Garrett made sure that his arms were firmly around your waist so he could keep you sat where he wanted.

It said ‘pay to start’ on the screen, you opened your phone to open up your bank app and caught sight of you lock screen.

It was a pretty picture of your boyfriend, sitting on a beach with an ice-cream. He was laughing at something you had said and as a result had gotten ice-cream on the tip of his nose. It had been one of your favourite days ever, so you just had to keep it as your lock screen.

“You changed your lock screen.” Garrett said.

“Yeah, I did.”

“What happened to the picture of us two?” He asked.

“Preferred this one of you.” 

Instead of saying anything to you, he leant in and gave you a few kisses on your neck whilst your phone payed for the machine to start working.

“Stop. You’ll give me a hickey for these photos.”

“And?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to hide your smirk. Two seconds later you had to shove his face away as he started to kiss you in the same spot again.

The photobooth screen started to count down from five seconds and you positioned yourself better in front of the camera.

Garrett tightened his arms around your waist and brought you closer in to him.

The first photo was both of you just smiling into the camera. Your heads just laying on each other and squeezing each other tight, your smiles just showing how happy you both were.

The second photo Garrett looked at you so you turned to face him, his eyes sparkling at you with so much love. You rested one of your hands on his cheek and kept on looking at him as the photo clicked.

The third photo was entirely candid, after Garrett had made a joke. You laughed so loud you nearly fell backwards and it only made the entire situation funnier. The photo was captured of the both of you without you even noticing.

The last photo Garrett took the lead and kissed you.

"I love you." You whispered against his lips.

"I love you too." He mumbled against your lips.

Garrett stopped kissing you long enough to reach over your shoulder and grab the photo strips as they printed. You smiled instantly at the sight of them.

"Oh my god, the third one..."

Your laugh caught in your throat slightly as you looked closer.

In every single photo, Garrett was looking at you.

Even the first one. Even when you’d both been smiling at the camera, his eyes were tilted slightly toward your face instead.

"What?" Garrett asked softly, noticing you staring at the strip of photos intensely.

"Nothing."

His hands rubbed absently up and down your waist, "Tell me."

"You're not looking at the camera in any of these."

"Why would I?"

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ one shot.

pairing – garrett graham x reader notes from me – i know i usually only write rafe/drew but i'm on my second rewatch of off campus and i couldn't help myself!! warnings – alcohol, drunken silliness, soft/protective garrett, party chaos, mild innuendo word count – 4.1k

navigation – masterlist

The thing about Garrett Graham being on a one-drink limit was that it made him unbearably observant.

Usually, at parties like this, Garrett was loud in the easy way he always was when the room already liked him. Leaning against the kitchen island with a red cup in one hand, shoulder knocked against Logan’s while Tucker said something dry enough to make both of them laugh through their noses, still getting pulled into conversations every two minutes by guys who remembered Briar had a game tomorrow and thought “bury those assholes” counted as both analysis and encouragement.

He was still doing that, still smiling when somebody slapped his shoulder on the way past. Still nodding along when a freshman he vaguely knew started talking at him about the power play with the intense glassy-eyed sincerity of a man who had consumed too much cheap vodka and exactly one hockey podcast. Still charming people mostly by accident, because Garrett had never once walked into a room and thought maybe he should make himself smaller for everybody else’s sake.

But sober Garrett had range. Unfortunately for her, sober Garrett noticed things.

He noticed when Logan’s cup went from beer to something stronger. Not his problem. He noticed Dean talking with both hands while Allie stood tucked under his arm, laughing like she knew whatever came out of his mouth next was going to be either stupid or actionable. Also not his problem.

He noticed Tucker quietly moving somebody’s drink away from the edge of the counter before it got knocked onto the floor, because Tucker had always possessed the exhausting dignity of a man born already tired of everyone’s shit.

And he noticed the exact second his girlfriend put one hand on the kitchen bench again. That was his problem.

He’d already stopped this exact mission twice in the last ten minutes, which felt excessive for a girl who kept insisting she was literally fine while blinking a little too slowly and smiling at him like the lights had all gone soft around the edges.

The first time, he’d caught her by the waist and set her back on the floor with a calm, captainly, “Nope,” said close to her ear. The second time, he’d stepped between her and the counter like a very attractive barricade while she pouted at him like he'd personally cancelled fun.

Now she was trying again, because, apparently, the second a vodka cranberry and an Ariana Grande song got into the same room, her ability to retain recent history collapsed entirely.

Her skirt was too short for climbing. It was probably too short for several forms of normal standing, if Garrett was being honest, but that was between him, God, and the part of his brain currently doing threat assessment on behalf of her underwear.

Her heels were tall enough that Allie had called them hot but fucking dangerous when they arrived, and now one of them scraped against the cabinet front as she lifted her knee with absolutely no concern for balance, modesty, or Garrett’s long-term cardiovascular health.

Dean, from the other side of the kitchen, had been waiting for this. Garrett could feel it in the air. The man had made three separate comments about keeping her away from elevated surfaces and then looked personally enriched every time Garrett told him to shut the fuck up.

Garrett moved before the room really had time to understand what was happening. One second he was beside Logan, cup loose in his hand. The next he was behind her, cup abandoned somewhere near the sink, palm landing firm and warm against the back of her thigh as he tugged the hem of her skirt down with the grim focus of a man handling something highly flammable.

“Yeah, nope,” he said, low against her shoulder, his voice amused even as his hand stayed where it was. “Not doin’ that.”

She turned around like she'd been caught doing something cute instead of deeply stupid, her face bright with that pleased, unfocused warmth she got when the room had started moving a little faster than she could keep up with and Garrett was suddenly close enough to touch.

Her hands went straight to his chest, fingers sliding up the front of his shirt with drunken affection and absolutely no subtlety, and she beamed at him like she hadn't seen him in months. “Baby!”

Garrett looked down at her hands, then back at her face, his mouth twitching. “Hi.”

“Where were you?”

“Right there.” He nodded vaguely over his shoulder, where Logan had turned to watch them with the exact expression of a man who would rather die than become useful. “Saw you, like, ten seconds ago.”

“Oh.” She seemed to consider this very seriously, brows knitting for one whole beat before her face opened again, delighted by the rediscovery. “Hi.”

“Yeah, we did that part.”

She smiled anyway, her hands still sitting flat against his chest like she had every right to keep them there. Which she did. That was becoming a problem, actually. The newness of it. The fact that they were together enough now for people to know, for her to touch him without pretending it was accidental, for him to stand in a crowded kitchen the night before a game with one beer in his system and her skirt in his hand like this was a normal responsibility a man could acquire through dating.

She swayed into him. A small tilt of her weight, the kind someone else might have missed if they were drunker or less embarrassingly tuned to her. Garrett’s hand tightened at her waist before she seemed to notice she’d moved at all.

“Okay,” he said, dragging the word out in warning. “Bar stool. Right now.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re beautiful.”

Her eyes narrowed at him, suspicious and visibly pleased. “That’s not what I said.”

“No, but it worked better.” He turned her neatly by the hips before she could decide the counter still had unfinished business with her. “Sit.”

She made a noise of offence, but she let him guide her onto the stool, mostly because it was already there and because Garrett’s hands were warm and annoyingly sure and doing that thing where they seemed to make decisions for her body a full second before her brain managed to file an objection.

The room tilted pleasantly when she sat. The bass pushed through the kitchen floor and up into the bones of her legs. Someone had spilled beer near the fridge and the tile caught lightly under the heel she kept tapping against the stool rung. Across the room, Allie was tucked into Dean’s side, laughing at something Tucker said while Dean looked over her head with the bright, vicious joy of someone watching Garrett suffer a romantic inconvenience in real time.

Garrett went to the sink and filled a plastic cup with water. He came back holding it out like evidence.

She reached for it.

He lifted it just out of range.

She blinked at him.

His face went blank in that innocent way that always meant he was about to become deeply irritating. “What?”

“Gimme.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m trying.”

She pouted. “You’re being mean.”

“I’m providing medical care.”

“You’re making me work for water, Garrett.”

His laugh came out before he could stop it, quick and real, his head ducking for half a second as if he was genuinely annoyed with himself for enjoying her this much. He lowered the cup again. She reached. He moved it left. Her fingers closed around absolutely nothing.

“Garrett.”

“Reflexes are a little rough tonight, huh?”

“I will break up with you.”

“No, you won’t.” He brought the cup close again, then jerked it back when she lunged, and she burst into giggles so hard her knee knocked against his thigh.

“Baby, this is bleak. This is like watching a kitten lose a fight with a shoelace.”

“I hate you.”

He finally let her take it, but only after wrapping his hand around hers to steady the cup because she came in too fast and almost sent half of it down her front. “Slow. Drink it like you’ve used a mouth before.”

She glared at him over the rim while she drank, which would have worked better if he hadn’t still been holding the cup with her. The water was cold enough to make her teeth ache, cutting through the sugary film of whatever Allie had mixed earlier and landing hard in the warm, spinning centre of her stomach.

Garrett watched her with his head tipped slightly, all amused mouth and attentive eyes, and she hated, immediately and deeply, how much she liked it. Not the fussing, she would deny enjoying the fussing until the end of time. But the way he did it. Like he could tease her without making her feel stupid. Like the joke was never that she was embarrassing him. Like he had simply accepted that she was drunk, pretty, badly behaved, and his to keep upright for the next hour.

His hand settled on her thigh while she drank, thumb resting just under the edge of her skirt, not doing anything much except being there. The contact was casual enough to look like nothing from the outside. From inside her body, it had weight. A small, steady point in a room full of noise.

Someone yelled his name from the living room. “Graham!”

Garrett turned his head. “What?”

A couple of hockey guys were waving him over, one of them yelling something about the line changes tomorrow and another immediately shouting over him that they were not talking strategy at a party because some of us actually know how to live.

Garrett’s attention shifted for barely two seconds. Barely. His hand left her knee. His shoulders angled away. And then the opening presented itself. It wasn't her fault. It really wasn’t. Because Ariana came on.

The song that reached into the middle of her chest and hit whatever drunk, glittery emergency button existed in girls at parties. The one that made Allie gasp from across the room and point at her because Allie understood. Allie knew. This was not about Garrett and his very boring anti-countertop agenda anymore. This was bigger than him. This was practically civic duty.

She set the water down very carefully, which felt mature enough to balance the scales of whatever happened next, and slid off the stool.

Dean noticed first. Dean noticed anything with potential for either nudity or injury, especially if both were being offered at once.

His whole face lit up. “Wooo!” he shouted, lifting his cup. “Get up there!”

Allie smacked him in the stomach, laughing even as she did it. “Don't encourage her.”

“What? I’m supporting women.”

“You’re supporting Garrett committing murder.”

Dean’s grin widened.

Garrett turned.

The timing was, unfortunately, beautiful. Her knee was already on the counter. One hand braced against the surface. Her skirt was doing its absolute best in conditions no garment that short should ever have been expected to survive.

She looked back over her shoulder at the exact moment Garrett’s expression shifted from distracted amusement to flat, immediate disbelief.

His cup was gone again. Nobody knew where he kept putting them. One second his hands were empty; the next they were on her waist.

“Alright,” he said, hauling her backward before the second knee could get involved. “We’re done here.”

She made a sound that was half laugh, half protest, her feet finding the floor with such minimal commitment to the task that he had to catch more of her weight.

“We’re done.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You were halfway to a public incident.”

She furrowed her brow, glaring up at him. “I was dancing.”

“You were climbing furniture.”

“For art.”

“For urgent care.” He bent a little to look into her face, and fuck, he was so annoying like this. So sure of himself. So warm around the edges of his authority that it made arguing with him feel less like resistance and more like foreplay’s better-behaved cousin. “Up we go.”

Her eyes widened. “Where?”

“Anywhere that isn’t this kitchen.”

“Garrett, no–”

But she was already laughing, because he had that look. The one that said he had made a decision and her role in the next thirty seconds was mostly decorative. His arm slid around the backs of her thighs, the other braced firm at her waist, and before she could do anything more strategic than clutch at his shirt, the whole kitchen flipped.

Light, ceiling, cabinets, Logan’s deeply entertained face, Dean’s open-mouthed delight. All of it went upside down in one warm, dizzy rush as Garrett threw her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing and he had reached the end of negotiations.

She shrieked.

Everyone cheered.

“Garrett!”

“Yup.” He adjusted his hold like this was a normal thing to be doing in somebody’s kitchen, one hand firm across the backs of her thighs, the other keeping her skirt decent. “That’s my name.”

She smacked his back, badly, mostly because she was laughing too hard to aim. “Put me down!”

“No.”

“I’m serious!”

“You’re drunk and upside down. You’re not serious.”

Dean was losing his mind across the room, bent halfway over Allie’s shoulder while she tried and failed to look disapproving. Logan lifted his cup with solemn respect. Tucker, because he had chosen betrayal, called, “Honestly, I think this is the safest option available.”

“I hate all of you,” she announced to the kitchen, though it came out wobbly with laughter because Garrett had started walking and every step made her bounce lightly against his shoulder.

Garrett paused in the doorway and turned just enough for the room to see her dangling there, hair falling toward the floor, cheeks hot, both hands planted uselessly against his back while her skirt remained under the firm jurisdiction of his palm.

“Say goodnight, everyone,” he said.

She lifted her head with great effort, spotted Allie first, then Dean, then Logan, then the blurry, bright collection of cups and boys and bad decisions behind them, and waved with both hands like she was leaving a pageant. “Goodnight, everyone!”

The kitchen erupted again. Dean actually clapped. Allie blew her a kiss. Logan yelled, “Hydrate!” with the confidence of a man who had not had water since Thursday.

Garrett carried her through the house, past the crush of bodies in the hallway, past two people making out badly against the wall by the stairs, past somebody’s abandoned jacket and an open front door letting in a thin slice of cold night air.

The music followed them out in pieces, bass first, then voices, then the muffled whole of the party dropping behind them as Garrett stepped onto the porch and the night came up around her bare legs.

The air sharpened everything at the edges. Damp grass. Car exhaust. The metallic bite of early spring. Garrett’s cologne caught in the cotton of his shirt where her cheek had ended up pressed against his back.

For a few seconds she kept wriggling on principle, because it seemed important for the record that she hadn't gone quietly. Then the path dipped slightly and the world swung with it, and she decided stillness had a lot going for it.

Halfway down the walk, she stopped struggling altogether and just hung there, arms loose, one heel slipping lower on her foot.

“Babe,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“You have a nice butt.”

Garrett did not miss a step. “Thanks, baby.”

“Like, really nice.”

“I know.”

She gasped, offended despite having introduced the subject herself. “You’re so cocky.”

“You’re upside down staring at my ass and giving live commentary. I feel like the confidence is evidence-based.”

She giggled again, softer this time, the sound spilling out into the cold. Garrett’s hand shifted against the backs of her thighs, careful with her balance, careful with the hem of her skirt, careful in a way that shouldn't have been noticeable when she was upside down and full of vodka and openly objectifying him, but was.

He could have made a thing of it. Could have rolled his eyes harder. Could have acted like taking care of his drunk girlfriend was some massive inconvenience being inflicted on him by the universe and Ariana Grande.

But Garrett just carried her like it was easy. Like she was funny. Like she was his problem, and he was, privately and embarrassingly, kind of pleased about it.

At his car, he set her down slowly, both hands at her waist until her heels found pavement and stayed there. The world rushed upright too fast, porch light blurring behind his shoulder, and she grabbed his forearms while her stomach took a second to remember where it lived.

Garrett watched her face, his smile fading into something more focused. “Good?”

She nodded, then immediately leaned forward until her forehead touched his chest because nodding had been a little ambitious. “Mhm.”

“That was wildly convincing.”

“I’m graceful.”

“You tried to climb a kitchen counter because Ariana Grande told you to.”

“She did.”

“She didn't personally tell you shit.”

She pointed one finger up at him. “You don’t know our relationship.”

His mouth curved again, and he brushed her hair back from her face, knuckles grazing her cheek in a touch so light it made her eyes want to close. “Your relationship with gravity is a little unstable right now.”

She looked up at him. The kitchen light was still on him somehow, caught in the angles of his face, in the dark sweep of his lashes, in the small amused pull at the corner of his mouth. He was close enough that she could see the faint scrape near his jaw from shaving, the tiredness tucked under his eyes from practice, the way his attention kept moving over her in pieces. Eyes. Mouth. Balance. Mood.

He was still teasing her, still Garrett, still unfairly pleased with himself, but under it sat the thing he did without announcing it. The checking. The steadiness. The hand already there before the fall happened.

She slid her hands up his chest again because it was the easiest place to put them, fingers curling loosely in his shirt. “Are you mad?”

Garrett looked genuinely insulted by the question. “At you?”

“Mm.”

“For trying to flash half the hockey team and die on a countertop?” He pretended to consider it. “Nah.”

Her mouth turned down. “That sounded judgy.”

“That was the edited version.”

“You’re mean.”

“I’m driving you home, giving you water, and preventing you from becoming a cautionary tale. I’m a hero.” His hands settled at her hips again, thumbs warm through the thin fabric at her waist. “A hot one, apparently. Nice butt. Heard that somewhere.”

She groaned and dropped her forehead back against his chest, and his laugh moved under her ear, low and pleased.

For a few seconds they just stood there beside his car while the party carried on without them, muffled and distant now, her body still buzzing with music and alcohol and the delayed embarrassment of nearly becoming a story Dean would tell until graduation. Garrett’s hand moved once down her back, then up again.

When she tipped her face up, he was already looking.

“What?” she asked, suspicious.

“Nothing.”

“You’re doing a face.”

“That's because I have a face.”

“A smug one.”

“Yeah, that’s genetic.” He opened the passenger door and guided her toward it, one hand hovering near her head so she didn’t knock it against the frame. “In.”

She sat with less dignity than she would have preferred, knees bumping together, one heel catching awkwardly on the floor mat. Garrett crouched before she could fully process the problem, fingers closing gently around her ankle as he straightened the shoe and set her foot flat. The intimacy of it caught weirdly in her stomach.

“There,” he said. “Both shoes accounted for. Huge night for us.”

She stared down at him. “You’re really pretty from this angle.”

He looked up, one brow lifting. “From the floor?”

“Mhm.”

“Good to know.” He reached across her for the seatbelt, and she took the opportunity to press a messy kiss to his cheek, catching more jaw than anything else. Garrett paused with the belt pulled across her lap, mouth twitching like he was trying very hard not to smile too obviously. “You missed.”

“I didn’t.”

“That was my jaw.”

“I know what I did.”

“Terrifying sentence.” He clicked the belt into place and tugged once to check it, then braced one hand on the roof of the car and looked down at her. “You gonna puke in my car?”

She considered lying, then made a face. “No.”

“Very long pause.”

“I was thinking.”

“That’s what scared me.”

She laughed, head falling back against the seat, and Garrett’s smile went helpless for half a second. There and then mostly gone, swallowed back under the usual cocky tilt of his mouth before she could do anything devastating with it, like point it out.

But she saw it. The fondness. The stupid, pleased little crease near his eye, like this – her drunk and difficult and half-asleep in his passenger seat, mascara probably doing something unfortunate, skirt riding high enough on her thighs that he reached in and tugged it down again with a muttered, “Jesus, baby,” – was somehow not a nuisance to him.

Somehow, it was worth smiling about.

He shut the door and walked around the front of the car, and through the windshield she watched him shake his head to himself, still grinning.

When he got in, the party disappeared almost completely. Door closed. Engine on. The car filled with the low blue glow of the dashboard and the clean, familiar smell of Garrett’s hoodie thrown in the backseat.

He handed her a half-full water bottle from the backseat. “Drink.”

She took it with both hands. “You’re bossy.”

“You like it.”

She hummed into the rim, then looked over at him with her cheek pressed against the seat. “Maybe.”

Garrett pulled away from the curb with one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over without looking to settle warm over her bare knee.

“Next party,” he said, “we’re putting you in pants.”

She made a horrified noise. “Absolutely not.”

“Fine. Longer skirt.”

“No.”

“Flats?”

She turned her head very slowly, giving him the full weight of her disappointment. “Garrett.”

He glanced over, and the grin came back. “Yeah, okay. That was too far.”

“Thank you.”

“But no counters.”

She sighed like he had asked her to give up art. “You’re ruining my brand.”

“Your brand almost gave Tucker a full view of your underwear.”

“Was he impressed?”

Garrett’s hand tightened on her knee. Enough that she felt the shift before she saw the look he kept aimed at the road. “Careful.”

Garrett Graham, competitive down to the bone. Still warm, still amused, but with that little edge in his voice that made her grin against the side of the cup because he was so easy sometimes. Pretty and cocky and gone for her in ways he kept trying to disguise as confidence.

She reached over and covered his hand with hers, fingers slipping between his. “I’m kidding.”

“I know.”

“You’re my favourite.”

His mouth softened before he could stop it. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” Her eyes were getting heavy now, the night stretching into something blurred and honey-warm around the edges. “Even when you’re mean and anti-Ariana.”

“I’m pro-Ariana. I’m anti-head injury.”

She hummed again, sinking lower in the seat, her thumb moving lazily over his knuckles. The car rolled through the quiet streets around Briar, past porch lights and parked cars and the occasional burst of noise from other parties spilling out over lawns.

Garrett drove slower than usual, glancing over every so often like she might attempt to climb something inside the car if left unsupervised.

Maybe she loved that. Just a little.

Maybe that was the problem with him. The dangerous part wasn’t the grin, or the body, or the fact that half the girls at every party seemed to know where he was without looking directly at him.

It was this. His hand steady under hers. His hoodie in the backseat. His voice still teasing because he knew she would hate being fussed over too seriously, even while he kept watch like it mattered.

She turned her face toward him, smiling sleepily. “Garrett?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Next time she plays that song, I’m getting on the bench.”

He laughed under his breath, eyes on the road, thumb brushing once over the side of her hand.

“Mm,” he said. “We’ll see about that.”

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

[andy-15-07]

Sleepy

Pairing: John Logan  x Reader

Word Count: 1478

Request open!

Off campus masterlist

John was clingy when he was tired in a way that was almost unfair.

When he was fully awake, he acted like he had his life together. He was calm, easygoing, a little too charming for his own good, and just smug enough to be annoying when he wanted to be.

But when he was half asleep, all of that disappeared.

What was left was soft, warm, and deeply attached to you.

You discovered this on a Sunday morning when you tried to get out of bed before he woke up.

The room was still dim, the blankets tangled around your legs, and John was sprawled out beside you in one of those ridiculous positions that somehow looked comfortable only to him. His hair was a mess against the pillow, his face turned toward you, one arm draped over your waist like he had been holding on all night without letting go.

You moved carefully, trying not to wake him.

It almost worked.

You had one foot on the floor when a hand caught the back of your shirt.

You froze.

“Where are you going?” John mumbled.

His voice was rough with sleep, low and thick and far too cute for someone who had already decided to ruin your escape plan.

You looked back at him. “I was getting up.”

His eyes were barely open, just a sleepy sliver of blue looking at you like you had personally offended him. “No, you weren’t.”

You blinked. “Yes, I was.”

John groaned and tightened his grip on your shirt just enough to make his point. “It’s too early.”

“It’s nine.”

“That is early.”

You tried not to smile. “You have practice in an hour.”

He made a sleepy sound that was halfway between a sigh and a complaint. “I know.”

“Then you should get up.”

John opened his eyes a little more, looked at you for one long second, and then shook his head against the pillow. “Absolutely not.”

You laughed quietly. “John.”

He reached for you with the hand that had been holding your shirt and hooked it around your waist instead, tugging you back toward the bed with slow, sleepy determination.

You let out a surprised sound as your balance shifted. “John, hey,”

But he had already succeeded.

He pulled you back against him until your back hit his chest and his arm settled across your middle like that was where it belonged. Then, without even opening his eyes all the way, he pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder.

It was so gentle and so absentminded that it nearly made you melt on the spot.

“Five more minutes,” he mumbled.

You let out a laugh. “You always say that.”

“Because it always works.”

“It does not always work.”

John hummed, clearly unconcerned by the truth of that statement. His hand slid over your stomach once, then settled there, warm and steady. “It works on you.”

You turned your head just enough to look at him over your shoulder. “That is manipulation.”

He smiled against your shoulder without opening his eyes. “That is love.”

You gave him a scandalized look that he absolutely did not see. “You are impossible.”

John’s answer was a sleepy kiss to the back of your shoulder blade.

You made a helpless noise, half laugh and half sigh, and he took that as permission to cling harder. One of his legs tangled with yours under the blanket, and suddenly there was no chance of getting up unless you physically fought him for it.

Which, judging by the way he was holding onto you, would have been a losing battle.

“John,” you said, trying for stern and failing a little, “you need to let me get up.”

He buried his face for a second against the top of your shoulder. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

You twisted a little in his arms so you could look at him properly. “You are acting like a giant sleepy baby.”

That got his attention.

John blinked at you, still very much half asleep, then frowned with all the seriousness he could manage while looking like he had just woken from the deepest nap of his life.

“I am not a baby,” he said.

“You’re pouting.”

“I’m not pouting.”

“You are absolutely pouting.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re mean in the morning.”

You laughed and reached up to smooth his hair back from his forehead. “You’re the one refusing to let go of me.”

He caught your hand before you could pull away and pressed a kiss into your palm, eyes still heavy with sleep. “You’re warm.”

That made your expression soften immediately.

John noticed, because of course he did. Even half asleep, he was still annoyingly good at that.

He tightened his hold around your waist again and added in a much smaller voice, “And you were gone.”

You paused.

Gone.

It was such a simple thing to say, but it landed in your chest with quiet force.

You looked at him. “I was just getting up.”

“I know.”

His thumb moved absently against your side. “Still.”

That made the teasing in your expression ease away. “Still?”

John opened one eye just enough to meet yours, and there was something so soft there it made your throat go a little tight.

“Yeah,” he said. “Still.”

You let yourself relax back into him then, your hand settling over his where it rested at your waist. For a moment the room was quiet except for the sound of breathing and the faint noise of the city outside the window.

Then John sighed dramatically and pulled you closer with both arms this time, like he had finally decided subtlety was overrated.

“Okay,” he muttered into your hair. “Maybe five more minutes.”

You smiled into the pillow. “Only five?”

He was quiet for a second.

Then, very seriously, he said, “Maybe ten.”

You laughed. “That is not what you just said.”

“I changed my mind.”

“You’re negotiating in your sleep.”

“I’m very persuasive.”

You turned your head again and glanced at him. “You are very sleepy.”

“That too.”

He kissed your shoulder once more, this one lingering a little longer than the others, and you could feel the warmth of it right through your skin.

There was something impossible about the way John got like this when he was tired. He was still John, still quietly funny, still handsome in that unfair way that made you stare at him when you thought he wasn’t looking, but the edges were softer. Needier. More honest somehow.

Like sleep took away the part of him that tried so hard not to need anyone.

You reached back and let your fingers run lightly through his hair. “You know you’re being clingy, right?”

His answer was a sleepy grunt. “Mm-hm.”

“And you don’t care?”

Another kiss landed against your shoulder.

“Nope.”

That made you grin.

You shifted a little, just enough to face him, and found him looking at you with one eye open and the most stubborn expression you had ever seen on someone who was technically barely awake.

“What?” he asked.

You smiled. “Nothing.”

He clearly did not believe you. “That means something.”

“I just think it’s cute.”

John stared at you for a beat, then went entirely still.

That was your first warning.

The second was the way his mouth twitched.

The third was when he suddenly reached out, grabbed you around the waist, and hauled you fully back into bed with him in one smooth motion.

You let out a startled laugh as he rolled closer, one arm pinning you gently against him while his face buried itself in the crook of your neck.

“John!”

“Too late,” he mumbled.

You were laughing harder now, trying and failing to push at his shoulder. “You are ridiculous.”

He made a low sleepy sound that was suspiciously close to a hum of contentment. “Mm. You love me.”

Your laughter softened.

You looked down at him, at the way his eyes had drifted shut again, at the way his arm stayed tight around your waist as if he was afraid the world might steal you away if he loosened his grip.

He was so obviously half asleep, and yet somehow he still managed to sound completely certain.

You brushed your fingers over his cheek. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “I do.”

John’s eyes opened just enough to catch your face, and something warm and lazy spread across his expression.

Then, because he was apparently determined to ruin every attempt you made at being coherent, he pressed one final kiss to your shoulder and sighed like he had finally found exactly where he wanted to be.

“Good,” he murmured. “Now stay.”

And with that, John closed his eyes again, held you tighter, and went right back to sleep like keeping you in bed was the most natural thing in the world.

[jacksabbotts]

. ⋆ ⁺₊ ❅ .   NO HOCKEY PLAYERS

━━ john logan x graham!reader ; wc 3.5k tw ; mention of parental abuse ( phil graham ) , secret relationship/brothers best friend , kissing , unedited

You should have been asleep. 

Honestly, you had every intention of staying asleep.

You'd barely stirred when Logan carefully untangled himself from around you a few hours earlier. The second Logan's warmth disappeared from around you, sleep had abandoned you completely. You remembered the sleepy press of lips against your temple, remembered him whispering something about emergency practice before disappearing back through the bathroom with more effort than a six foot hockey player should have needed to move quietly. 

You had laid there for nearly twenty minutes staring at the ceiling while cold air slowly replaced the heat his body had left behind. That had been the end of sleep.

Eventually, you gave up and grabbed your laptop instead. 

Which was how you ended up cross legged in the middle of your unmade bed at six in the morning, drowning in English literature notes while wearing one of Logan's old briar jerseys like a sleep shirt. 

The sleeves hung past your wrist, and the stitched hem brushed against your thighs whenever you shifted beneath the blankets. Your laptop sat balanced on your knees in front of you while color coded note card littered the comforter around your legs in chaotic little piles. 

The room smelled faintly like vanilla coffee creamer and Logan's cologne. The thought probably should have bothered you more than it did. Garrett would lose his fucking mind if he saw this. 

The thought flickered through your head so automatically it barely registered anymore. By now sneaking around with Logan had become muscle memory. You were half way through rereading your notes on gothic symbolism when the bathroom door connecting your room to his clicked softly. 

You barely looked up. That alone probably should have been alarming. But the only people who used that bathroom were you and Logan.

He paused halfway through the doorway, one hand still resting against the door knob as surprise crossed his face. His dark hair was damp from a rushed shower after practice, curling slightly at the ends, and he’d traded his gear for gray sweatpants and a black Briar Hockey hoodie that looked like he’d pulled it on without fully drying off first.

“You’re awake?" His hockey bag hit the bathroom floor softly behind him as he nudged the door shut with his foot.

You hummed absently, eyes still scanning the highlighted paragraph glowing on your laptop screen.

A beat of silence passed.

“Tell me I didn’t wake you when I left.”

That finally dragged your attention toward him.

You scrunched your nose automatically, guilt flashing across his face the second he saw it.

“Oh, baby,” he groaned quietly. 

You shrugged one shoulder, trying to dismiss it, but Logan already looked annoyed with himself as he crossed the room.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight when he dropped onto the bed beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours immediately. Warmth radiated off him in sleepy waves, carrying traces of cold winter air, clean soap, and lingering hockey equipment beneath it all.

“I’m sorry.”

"You're loud," you mumbled, teasingly. 

"I was not loud."

"You're, like, genetically incapable of being quiet."

"That is offensive."

“What’d they drag you guys in so early for anyway?” you asked, eyes drifting back toward your screen.

Logan rested his chin against your shoulder, close enough that his voice vibrated lightly through your skin when he answered.

“Cody got drunk at a frat and fell off a table. Dislocated his shoulder.”

You snorted softly.

“And you have a game tomorrow,” you murmured, piecing it together out loud. “Hence the emergency practice.”

He hummed against your shoulder in confirmation, the vibration making you shiver slightly before his mouth followed after it, pressing a lazy kiss against the fabric stretched over it.

Then another.

Then another higher up near your neck where the oversized collar slipped low against your skin.

Your fingers paused over the keyboard.

“Come on,” Logan mumbled against your throat. “Take a break?”

You ignored him on purpose.

It was almost impossible to study with Logan around. Not because he was obnoxious about it but mostly because he wanted your attention with the same attention he wanted ice time, and when John Logan wanted something, he tened to throw his whole body at it. 

Which, unfortunately for your GPA, usually worked. 

He sighed dramatically.

“Baby.”

“Logan.”

His mouth curved against your skin at the warning in your voice.

Logan lifted his head just enough to pout at you, and unfortunately for your concentration, he looked unfairly good like this—fresh from practice, slightly sleepy, soft around the edges in a way nobody else ever got to see.

He knew it too.

“I missed you,” he added, pouting still. You laughed quietly before you could stop yourself, turning your head enough to look at him properly. Logan immediately brightened like he’d won something. “You were at practice for like two hours.”

“Hey,” he said, nudging your knee with his. “Don’t be mean just because I like you.” The teasing grin lingered for only a second before something softer settled over his face.

His hand slid over your thigh absentmindedly, thumb brushing against the bare skin beneath the hem of his jersey. “I’m serious, though,” he said quietly. “I really like you.”

The words still did strange things to your chest no matter how many times he said them. Not because you doubted him. But because part of you still wasn’t entirely used to being wanted this gently.

You looked at him fully. “I know,” you said softly. “I like you too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His entire face changed.

It hit you suddenly sometimes, how different he was with you compared to everybody else downstairs. The version of Logan most people got was loud laughter, easy flirting, cocky one-liners, and chaotic energy spilling into every room he entered.

With you, he was soft in a way nobody would believe if they only knew him from hockey games and party stories and whispered puck bunny gossip around campus.

This version belonged only to you.

Before you could process the thought too deeply, Logan reached over and closed your laptop. “Hey,” you protested immediately. “I’m studying.”

“Nuh uh.” He grabbed the laptop before you could reclaim it and set it carefully on the nightstand. “Break time.”

“Logan.”

But he was already gathering your note cards into one messy stack, ignoring your increasingly offended expression entirely.

“You are the worst,” you informed him.

“Mm. Keep talking. Gets me all hot.” He tossed the final stack of cards aside before turning back toward you fully. Your pout barely lasted two seconds before he kissed you.

Heat crept into your face immediately. You hated how easily he could still do that to you. Logan was your first relationship.

Briar had been your first real school, your first time living around people your age instead of watching normal life through windows and secondhand stories from Garrett. 

Your first sememster had felt like everybody else had recived some invisible handbook you'd somehow missed entirely. Parties, flirting, hookups, dorm drama, it all seemed to come naturally to everyone exept you. 

Especially hockey culture. 

You still remember Garrett standing in the kitchen before the semester started, arms crossed while Dean snickered into a beer beside him. "No hockey players," Garrett had said flatly. 

You remember rolling your eyes so hard it hurt. Dean had immediately pointed at himself and Tucker. "What about us?"

"You especially," Garrett had laid the law. At the time, you'd thought it was stupid, embarrassing overprotective older brother bullshit. You'd assumed Garrett simply didn't want to hear locker room stories about his little sister from his teammates. 

Now, with Logan's mouth brushing yours softly while morning light spilled gold across your tangled bedsheets, it almost felt funny. 

Logans kisses were slow, not rushed the way your kisses sometimes became when you were sneaking around the house trying not to get caught.

This kiss felt like exactly what he’d said earlier.

I missed you.

Your fingers curled automatically into the front of his hoodie as he kissed you deeper, patient and unhurried as he pulled you closer across the mattress. 

Even now, months into sneaking around, it still caught you off guard sometimes—the way he touched you carefully without making you feel fragile, the way he held your waist like it belonged beneath his hands naturally, the way he kissed you like he genuinely missed you after only a few hours apart.

Your hands slid into his damp hair as he shifted closer, and suddenly your laptop and exam and notecards felt impossibly far away. “Missed you so much,” he mumbled again against your mouth.

You smiled helplessly into the kiss. “Needy.”

“For you? Yeah.”

Somewhere between one kiss and the next, you ended up in his lap.

One second he was beside you and the next his hands were spread warm against your waist, guiding you over his thighs while your knees pressed into the mattress on either side of him. The position pulled a quiet sound from him, one that made your pulse jump embarrassingly fast.

The jersey had ridden dangerously high up your legs by now.

Logan noticed. His hands slid carefully from your waist to your hips, fingertips brushing beneath the hem just enough to make your breath catch against his mouth.

The look he gave you afterward nearly unraveled you completely.

Your heart hammered hard enough to make your chest ache. Maybe this would be the moment. The thought arrived suddenly and stayed there.

Heat bloomed low in your stomach when Logan kissed you again, slower this time, one hand slipping up your spine while the other settled low against your hip.

The knock at your bedroom door barely registered. You froze. Neither of you had time to move before the door opened.

Garrett stepped inside.

For one horrible second, nobody moved.

His gaze swept across the room slowly. The abandoned study notes, Logan’s practice bag at the foot of the bed, your bare legs over Logan’s lap, his jersey hanging off your body, Logan’s hands still spread across your body.

The silence turned suffocating.

You scrambled off Logan immediately, yanking the jersey down your thighs as heat flooded your face. Garrett looked stunned until his expression twisted. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"

The words cracked through the room so sharply that it felt like the temperature dropped with them.

Garrett stood frozen in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the frame completely, hockey hoodie half-zipped. His eyes moved once more across the scene in front of him like he still couldn’t quite make sense of it.

You in Logan’s jersey.

Logan sitting on your bed.

His practice bag on your floor.

Your flushed face.

The way Logan’s hands had only just left your body.

You and Logan began speaking at the same time. "Garrett—"

"G—"

"No," Garrett snapped immediately, voice rough enough to cut skin. "Don't 'Garrett' me right now." Logan stood slowly from the bed to stand beside you. 

Garrett laughed once under his breath, but there was nothing amused about. "How long?" The question was simple enough but neither of you answered fast enough. 

Garrett looked at you then. Anyone else might have mistaken his expression for just pure rage, but you could see the fear in his eyes. "You promised me."

Your stomach twisted. Because you remembered it. You remember Garrett standing in this exact house, telling every guy under this roof to stay away from you and more importantly you had promised, no hockey players. 

"G, listen, man—"

"Do not call me that right now!" Garrett barked. The force of it made silence slam back into the room. Then Garrett looked at Logan fully for the first time since walking in, betrayal twisting ugly across his face. 

"Out of every girl at Briar," he started harshly, "you just had to pick my baby sister to get you fucking dick wet?"

"What the fuck, bro?" And again, you and Logan spoke simultaneously. "Garrett, back off!"

The second the words left your mouth, Garrett went still. Something flickered across his face so quickly most people probably wouldn't have caught it, but you knew Garrett too well not to. 

It was shock. Not because you had yelled but because you had defended Logan. And suddenly Garrett was looking at the two of you like a pissed off older brother anymore. 

Logan stepped forward slightly. "I swear it's not like that, man," his voice was strained now, confused and defensive all at once, "we haven't had sex."

You actually thought, for one horrible second, that maybe that would help. Maybe if Garrett understood that this wasn't just some reckless hookup, he'd calm down. Maybe if he understood that Logan cared about you, really cared about you, the situation would stop spiraling so fast. 

Instead Garrett covered his whole face with both hands. "Jesus fucking Christ."

You chest tightened, you hated what this secret had done. "I really care about her, G," Logan confessed. 

Garrett dropped his hands slowly, then he laughed. Not because anything was particularly funny, but because he knew he was on the brink of loosing control. The sound had come jagged and breathless and it had made a knot form in your throat. 

"You care about her?"

Logan frowned immediately, he was really trying to not get worked up. But his defensiveness got the better of him as he yelled, "Yeah," he shot back. "I really fucking do."

The volume of it bounced off the bedroom walls. You recoiled, but the only person who saw was Garrett because Logan stood in front of you. The motion had practically confirmed every fear that Garrett was trying to prevent. 

And then suddenly he wasn’t standing in your bedroom anymore.

You could see it happen in real time.

His eyes stopped focusing properly. His jaw locked so tightly a muscle ticked there. Whatever Garrett was seeing now wasn’t you and Logan anymore—it was memory layered over reality until he couldn’t separate the two.

“What happens after a bad game?”

“Garrett—”

“What happens when your pissed off and she the only one home?”

Your blood ran cold. Logan's brows furrowed in confusion. “Garrett.” You try to pull his attention to you, anything to get him to stop talking, but his sights are solely set on Logan. “What happens when you start drinking too much and she says the wrong thing—”

“Garrett!”

The shout ripped out of you loud enough to sting your throat.

Garrett sucked his top teeth with his tongue hard enough for you to hear it. It took him a second to drag his glare away from Logan and back toward you.

Beside you, Logan had gone very still.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

But Garrett wasn’t even looking at him anymore.

Your palms were slick with sweat now. Your heart hammered so violently it made your ribs ache. Logan was standing right there. Right there. And Garrett was too angry to stop talking and Logan was far too smart not to put the pieces together eventually.

One more sentence.

That was all it would take and the one person in the entire world you tried to shield this from, would know everything. 

“You think dad walked around acting like a monster all the time?” Your stomach dropped. “Stop it, Garrett!” You stepped forward until you were standing in front of Logan, closer to Garrett. You don't know what you were going to do, but some insane part of you wanted to shield Logan even though he probably already understood what was happening. 

“You think mom didn’t love dad once too?” 

The room tilted. You made the mistake of glancing toward Logan and immediately regretted it because there it was.

That look.

Your entire body flushed hot with humiliation so intense it almost made you dizzy.

“Fuck you, Garrett!”

“Woah, baby—” Logan started but he was quickly cut off by Garrett.

“Fuck me?” Garrett snapped, pointing at himself before swinging that same finger toward Logan. “No, fuck him!” If not for pointing at Logan, you might have thought the him he was refering to was your father. 

Your chest hurt.

You suddenly couldn’t stand the way Logan was looking at you. Couldn’t stand the fact that he knew now. Maybe not every detail, maybe not every ugly memory, but enough.

Enough to understand.

“I watched mom make excuses for him for years—”

“I know,” you fired back instantly, voice shaking now. “I was there too.”

Garrett’s expression cracked for half a second. Then hardened again. “Then why are you making the same mistakes she did?”

“Shut up!” The words tore out of you so violently they almost sounded broken. Silence crashed over the room. Nobody moved. Your breathing sounded too loud. So did Logan’s.

Garrett stared at you like he wanted to say more and knew he shouldn’t. Logan looked like somebody had knocked the air out of him entirely. You suddenly felt sick standing in Logan’s jersey.

Like your own skin didn’t fit correctly anymore. “Get out,” you whispered. Garrett hesitated.

“Get out!”

The shout echoed off the walls.

Something ugly flashed across Garrett’s face then, anger winning over reason for one disastrous second. He slammed his fist into the hallway wall hard enough to shake the framed picture hanging beside your bedroom door.

The sound cracked through you instantly. You flinched before you could stop yourself. Tears burned your eyes immediately afterward, humiliation following close behind them. Because Garrett saw it. You knew he saw it.

Garrett looked horrified for exactly half a heartbeat. Then he walked out. The bedroom door stayed open behind him. Silence swallowed the room again. 

Logan moved first, slowly and carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal. “Baby—” You stepped backward immediately.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, shaking your head before he could touch you. “Just please get out.”

He stopped a few feet away from you, chest still rising hard from everything that had just happened. His eyes flickered over your face quickly, like he was trying to figure out which version of this situation he was standing in now.

The girl he’d been kissing five minutes ago.

Or this one.

The one standing barefoot in the middle of her bedroom looking like the floor had dropped out from beneath her.

“Baby,” he said carefully, voice quieter than you had ever heard it. “Please just let me—”

“Get out!” Your breathing shook. Logan froze completely.

Heat crawled viciously up your throat. You suddenly couldn’t stand the feeling of the jersey against your skin anymore. Couldn’t stand standing there wrapped in something that belonged to him while he looked at you like that.

Before you could stop yourself, your fingers hooked beneath the hem of the oversized Briar jersey and yanked it harshly over your head.

Logan’s eyes widened instantly.

The cold air hit your skin all at once, leaving you standing there in nothing but your bra and underwear, chest heaving unevenly.

For one horrible second, nobody moved. Then you threw the jersey at him.

The fabric smacked against his chest before falling halfway down his arm, and Logan caught it automatically out of reflex more than anything else.

The expression on his face wrecked something inside you further. He was in complete and utter shock. Not because you were half-dressed, he’d seen you in less before.

Shock because he understood what you were doing.

Your eyes burned. “Take it,” you snapped, voice trembling despite your best efforts. “Take your shit and just go.”

“Baby—”

“No!”

Your gaze caught on the hockey bag sitting at the foot of your bed. Still sitting exactly where he'd dropped it after practice because he had come straight here. Like this room had become home to him too. 

The thought made something sharp twist painfully in your chest. Before you could think better of it, you grabbed the strap and hurled the bag toward him. It hit the floor beside his feet heavily with a dull thud, one skate shifting loudly inside the bag from the force.

Logan stared at it for half a second.

Then at you.

You hated how careful he looked now, how cautious. That look was exactly what you had spent your entire relationship terrified of.

Your throat tightened painfully. “Please,” you whispered this time, weaker now. “Just leave.”

Something else flickered across his face but it wasn't pity like you expected. God, somehow that would have been easier, you think. 

It was the look of pure heartbreak. Which was way way worse. Logan swallowed hard once before bending slowly to pick up his bag. He gathered the jersey after it, fingers tightening around the crumpled fabric for a brief second.

At the bathroom door, he hesitated but you couldn’t look at him anymore so you kept your gaze on the floor. 

A second later, the door shut softly behind him.

[dilaurentispuckbunny]

Baby Doll {Dean Di Laurentis x reader} Part 4

Summary: You were walking into the hockey house with your friends, Hannah and Allie. Your brother, Garrett Graham, lived here with his teammates and friends. John Tucker, John Logan and Dean Di Laurentis.You all attend Briar University (Briar U). The guys had won a game tonight, which meant that it was party time at the house, the house was packed with people. More specifically, Puck Bunnies.

Warnings: Phil Graham, anxiety/panic attacks mentioned and described, sex(not this part), abuse

The next morning, Dean is already awake and dressed, sitting on the edge of your bed with his elbows on his knees. He watches you stretch and yawn, his eyes roaming over your small frame in his large shirt.

You see him at the edge of your bed and smile, instantly regretting as you feel a sharp pain pulse behind your cheekbone.

His eyes narrow instantly at your wince, his protective instincts kicking into high gear. He’s off the bed in an instant, moving to stand in front of you. “Fuck… does it hurt?” He reaches out gently to touch your cheekbone, his thumb brushing lightly over the bruised area.

You nod, eyes filling up with tears again as everything from yesterday comes flooding back to your mind.

He doesn’t hesitate. He pulls you into his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head, shielding your bruised cheek from the fabric of his shirt. “Shh, I got you. I got you, baby doll.” His voice is rough, low, meant only for you. The other hand rubs soothing circles on your back as your body shakes against his.

You felt broken, out of place. You grip onto his forearm in pure need. You just needed his comfort.

Dean feels your desperate grip on his arm, and it makes his heart ache. He knows you’re not just crying about the pain right now-you’re crying about everything that happened. About feeling violated and scared and hurt.

Once you finally calm down, you realise that you probably had a lecture and he probably had hockey practice. “You need to go to practice Dean, thank you for watching over me but I don’t want to be the reason you get in trouble with coach!” You say frantically.

He shakes his head immediately, cutting you off with a stern look. There is absolutely no way he is leaving you alone right now, especially not looking like this-bruised, swollen, and terrified. “Practice can wait. Coach can wait.” He takes your hands in his, his expression serious. “I’m not leaving you alone in this state. End of discussion.” That makes you melt.

Dean has never been soft like this. He’s normally off sticking his tongue down a puck bunny’s throat or nailing drills at practice with Garrett, Logan and Tuck.

But instead, he’s here with you.

He knows it. He knows the reputation he has-arrogant, commitment-phobic, always chasing the next adrenaline rush or the next girl. But looking at you, battered and fragile in his oversized shirt, that version of him ceases to exist.

“I’m right here. Not going anywhere.” He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, his large hands grounding you.

Your heart flutters in your chest. You never thought you’d see this side of Dean. Ever. But low and behold, here he is, with me, not caring if he gets shouted at or chastised by coach.

Dean hears a buzz from his phone. He ignores it at first, keeping his focus entirely on you as he gently brushes your hair back. But when it persists, vibrating against the nightstand, he sighs heavily and reaches over. He glances at the screen-Garrett, Logan, and Tuck blowing up the group chat asking where he is. “It’s the guys.”

You feel guilty for keeping him here. “Seriously Dean, answer them and go to practice. I’ll be okay I promise.” You say grabbing his hand in yours, squeezing in reassurance.

Dean looks like he thinks hard. “Are you sure?” He says, looking in your eyes. He hates it but he really does have to go.

He hesitates, torn between his responsibility to his teammates and his overwhelming urge to stay here and protect you from your thoughts. After a few seconds of internal debate, he nods slowly, deciding that you’re right-he can’t skip practice. Not even for this, which he desperately wants to. “If you need anything, call me. Immediately. I mean it.”

“I will.” You nod, squeezing his arm. “Go before you get into more trouble.”

He smirks. “Trouble’s my middle name, baby doll.” That makes your face heat up.

He leans down quickly, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek before standing up. His smirk grows wider at your blush, enjoying the rare moment of vulnerability he sees in you. “I’ll be back as soon as practice is over. Don’t open the door for anyone but me.”

You nod. After he’s out the door, you lift your fingers to where he kissed your cheek. Then the silence hits you. You decide that staying here alone wasn’t enough, so you grabbed your bag and phone and headed out your dorm and towards your safe space.

You need music, not silence that allows your mind to wander back to yesterday’s horror. The walk across campus is quiet, students bustling around, but you keep your head down, hiding behind sunglasses despite the overcast sky.

When you reach the music building, you head straight for an empty practice room, closing the door behind you. For the first time in hours, you can breathe.

You see the piano in the corner of the room and smile softly. You walk over to it and sit down on the bench. You run your fingers over some of the keys and close your eyes, taking a deep breath in. You start to play; you just let your fingers move across the keys. Feeling serenity swell inside you. Pure peace.

Meanwhile, at practice, Dean’s mind keeps drifting back to you. He’s usually the life of the locker room, cracking jokes and showing off his skills on the ice. Today, he’s quiet, distracted. Coach notices and calls him out during a drill. “Di Laurentis! Head in the game!”

“Sorry coach!” He grunts, in frustration. He needed to get his head out of his ass.

‘She is fine.’

He shakes his head, physically forcing the thoughts of you away, locking them down in the box in his mind to deal with later. He slams his stick to the ice, channelling his aggression into the drill. He skates harder, faster, checking Garrett into the boards with a loud thud that echoes through the rink. “Focus, Dean.” He tells himself sharply.

Garrett gets up and puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder, “Dude, as your captain, I’m saying get your head in the game. I know yesterday was… tough but this is your chance to get some frustration out.”

“You’re right, I know.” Dean runs a hand through his sweaty hair, taking a deep breath. “I’m good, I promise.” Garrett studies him carefully but seems to buy it. Dean joins back into the play, scoring two goals in quick succession.

Meanwhile, melodic music flows through the practice room, you were in another world playing.

Practice goes on for another hour. Dean pushes himself harder than usual, taking out his frustrations on the ice. When it finally ends, he’s drenched in sweat and breathing heavily. He grabs his stuff quickly, ignoring the curious looks from his teammates. “See you guys back at the house.”

“What the hell is going on with him?” Logan asks rhetorically. Dean heads back to the house to shower and clean up.

He grabs his phone and checks in with you.

Dean: hey, how’re you holding up?

Your phone buzzes but you don’t hear it over the piano.

When you don’t answer immediately, anxiety spikes in his chest. He knows he told you to call if you needed anything, but silence scares him right now. He hops into the shower, scrubbing off the practice sweat in record time, throwing on fresh jeans and a hoodie. In the music room, you’re completely lost in the melody, your fingers dancing effortlessly.

He gets to your dorm room and knocks on the door, not hearing anything inside he realises the one place he thought you could be. The music building.

He strides across campus and starts to hear a beautiful sound coming from one of the rooms.

He follows the music, the melody pulling him like a magnet. When he finds the right room, he cracks the door open slightly and see you-sunk into the piano bench, eyes closed, completely immersed in the music. You look peaceful, the first real peace he’s seen on you since yesterday. He leans against the doorframe, watching silently.

As if you feel his presence, you look up and lock eyes with him. Your heart flutters with joy, comfort, relaxation. You smile at him softly.

“Hi.” You say timidly.

His heart literally skips a beat at your timid ‘hi’ and the soft smile that accompanies it. For the first time today-hell, for the first time since yesterday-he feels like he can actually breathe. He pushes off from the doorframe and walks over slowly, “Hey.”

As he gets closer, you feel the tension in the air grow thicker.

“Thank you. For yesterday. I wouldn’t have calmed down if it wasn’t for you.” You say sincerely, standing from the bench and stepping closer to him.

He stops right in front of you, his eyes softening. He looks at you, really looks at you, for the first time today. No ice rink distractions, no teammates, just… you. He swallows hard before speaking, “You’re welcome.” His voice is low, genuine.

You look up at him. Your heart beating rapidly against your rib cage. You lift a hand and place it on his chest and let out a content sigh.

He stills under your touch, his breath catching in his throat. His hands hover at his sides, fighting every instinct to pull you closer. He wants to-god, he wants to-but he also doesn’t want to scare you off. He covers your hand on his chest with his own, pressing it gently against him. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nod, lifting your other hand to run your fingers through his blonde hair. “Better now.” You lean in closer.

His eyes drop to your lips, his breathing growing heavier. Every rational thought in his head screams that this is a terrible idea-taking advantage, crossing lines, you’re clearly vulnerable. But then your fingers curl in his hair and he’s lost. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me right now.”

“Just shut up and kiss me, Dean.” You say breathlessly, getting impossibly closer to his warm body.

The words leave your lips in a whisper, but they crack through his resolve like a sledgehammer. He doesn’t need any more permission. He cups your face with one large hand, tilting your head back as he bends down, closing the final distance. The kiss is soft at first-tentative, reverent. Like he’s kissing something precious.

And then the hunger sets in. You both move frantically, hands grabbing onto clothes and caressing of hair. He walks you backwards towards the piano, gently lifting you onto it.

He hoists you effortlessly onto the polished wood of the piano, the instrument groaning softly under the added weight. He steps between your legs, his hands gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him as the kiss deepens, turning hungry and desperate. Every touch feels electric, a desperate need to feel, to claim, to reassure. He breaks away just long enough to breathe.

“Are you sure about this?” He asks breathlessly. Consent is key. Consent is sexy. You nod, “Never been so sure of anything before in my life.” Finally, you’ve given in.

He grins, “Me either, baby doll.” Immediately going back to kissing you.

He grins against your lips before diving back in, his hands sliding from your waist to your hips, lifting you slightly so he can step even closer. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting you deeply as his hands squeeze your hips possessively. He pulls back just enough to start trailing kisses along your jawline, “So fucking beautiful.”

You heart beats impossibly faster, you let out a tiny moan, which in hand makes him let out a guttural moan himself.

His guttural moan vibrates against your jaw, his hands squeezing your hips tighter as he hears the soft sounds coming from you. He kisses back up to your mouth, swallowing your moans greedily. His fingers start to walk upwards along your sides, teasingly brushing against your ribs. “Shh…”

You run your fingers over his back, feeling the muscles, you slip a hand under his hoodie and push it up to signal him to take it off.

He breaks away from the kiss briefly to pull off his hoodie in one smooth motion, revealing his toned chest and abs. He tosses the garment aside carelessly before pulling you flush against him again, his warm skin pressing against yours. His hands immediately go back to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.

His breath hitches as your fingers trace the happy trail leading down into his jeans. He captures your wrist gently but firmly, stopping your hand before it goes any lower. His forehead rests against yours, eyes dark with desire and a hint of warning. “Not yet, baby doll.”

As much fun as this was, he needed to stop before he took you right here on this piano. You deserved more than a dingy practice room.

His self-control is hanging by a thread, but the thought of treating you like some random hookup makes him pause. He kisses you softly again, his hands gripping your hips possessively. “Not like this… not here. You deserve better than a fuck on a piano.”

You feel adoration bubble up your chest. And jump down from the piano. “Thank you.”

“You need to quit thanking me. I haven’t done anything.” He says wrapping his arms around your waist.

He holds you securely against his chest, resting his chin on top of your head. Despite his denial, he knows he stopped things from going too far, protecting you in a moment where you were vulnerable. “I stopped us from making a mistake in a practice room. That the bare minimum, baby doll.” He presses a kiss to your hair. “C’mon.”

He picks up your bag after tugging his hoodie back on. He ushers you out the door. “Let’s go back to the house, the guys will be there which means Hannah will definitely be there.” He says leading you to his jeep.

He opens the passenger door of his jeep for you, tossing your bag into the backseat before helping you climb in. He rounds the front and slides into the driver’s seat, starting the engine. The atmosphere shifts from heated intimacy back to protective boyfriend-mode. “You okay?” He checks, glancing over as he pulls out of the parking lot.

You nod and sit contentedly the whole journey.

Once you arrive you get out and head to the front door with him. You had forgotten about the bruise on your face and realised that no one else knew apart from Garrett and Dean. So, you weren’t shocked when you entered the door and everyone stared in shock.

The conversation dies instantly when you and Dean walk in, everyone’s eyes widening as they take in the purple bruise on your cheekbone. Logan’s mouth actually drops open. Hannah gasps and covers her mouth. “Holy shit, what happened?!” She says quietly, moving towards you immediately.

You own eyes widen; you look at Garrett for some help.

Garrett’s jaw clenches but he stays quiet, giving you a slight nod-letting you know he trusts you to handle this. Dean steps forward automatically, his arm wrapping protectively around your waist as if daring anyone to ask questions.

Hannah is already pulling you into a gentle hug, careful not to squeeze too hard. “Did someone hit you?” She whispers in your ear.

You shake your head. “I tripped last night when I got out of bed to go to the bathroom.” You said lying expertly (Thank you Allie), no one batting an eyelid.

Hannah’s expression softens with concern, but she doesn’t doubt your story. Logan and the other teammates exchange sceptical glances, but no one calls you out on the lie.

Garrett releases a subtle sigh of relief that you handled this smoothly. “You okay?”

You nod. You look over at Tucker, “Ooo Tuck, what are you preparing today?” You walk over to the kitchen where Tucker was cheffing it up.

Tucker grins at you, clearly happy for the distraction from the tense atmosphere. He turns back to his cooking, stirring something that smells delicious. “Lasagna tonight.” He says over his shoulder. “With garlic bread and salad.” He glances at you with a warm smile. “You hungry?”

“Ooo I never thought you’d ask. I could never turn down a John Tucker 5-star meal.” You say grateful for the distraction. And it did smell amazing.

Tucker laughs softly, shaking his head as he continues to cook. The tension from earlier dissipates as the room fills with the aroma of lasagna and garlic bread. Dean stays by your side, his hand resting possessively on your lower back as he keeps a close eye on you. “You okay?”

“Mmhm.” You hum, subconsciously leaning into him.

He presses a kiss to your temple, his thumb rubbing small circles on your hip. The rest of the house slowly returns to normal-Logan bickering with Beau, Hannah whispering to Garrett, Tucker humming along to music. Just as the domestic peace settles, a knock sounds at the front door.

“I’ll get it.” Garrett says walking towards the door. It opens to reveal a girl.

The girl stands there for a moment, her eyes scanning the room until they land on Dean. She smiles brightly, her long blonde hair cascading down her back. “Dean.” She purrs, walking in without an invitation. She completely ignores everyone else; her gaze fixed on him.

You feel like you’ve been stabbed by a hot knife in your chest. Obviously, you know that Dean is the casual type but after the moment you shared earlier it hurts seeing one of his ‘puck bunnies’.

Dean goes rigid behind you, his hand tightening on your hip. His jaw clenches as the blonde girl strides past everyone like she owns the place, stopping right in front of him. She wraps her arms around his waist immediately, pressing herself against him. “Baby, I missed you,” she coos, not even glancing at you standing right beside him.

Thank you so much for all the love on this series so far, I have a lot of ideas so stay tuned :) <3

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