Alexis

 

[gonkdrd]

I been thinking. "Do You Miss me?"

word count: 3,762

ship: john logan x reader

pt.2 to telephone busy

Summary: Logan thinks he's safe from consequences after the Maddison incident. He soon learns you don't make things easy for him.

Smut at the end. 18+

Malones. 10 am tomorrow. Don't be late!

Those were the words Logan woke up to this morning. No good morning. No snarky wit. No, I love you. The memories of the night before run through his mind—Maddison, the jerseys, the sex ban. It all comes rushing in. The panic starts to set in. 

The two of you had talked after leaving the party; he thought you two had smoothed things over, but now this text has made him reevaluate his entire life. He checks his phone one more time before rushing to get ready for practice. Though he doesn't know if he'll get through it scot free with this constant nagging at the back of his mind.

—————

You arrived at Malones at 9:30.  Determined woman. You came dressed sharply in a suit, wearing the glasses you thought you'd lost earlier this semester, relying purely on your contacts. A briefcase sits next to you.

Malone's is the kind of place that's been a staple for Briar students since before any of you were born—cracked vinyl booths, a counter with chrome stools, a jukebox that only plays the same forty songs on a loop. The windows are steamed up from the cold, and the air smells like bacon grease and burnt coffee. Hannah and Allie sit behind the counter with a knowing grin, sending you their support from behind. 

Dean arrives at 9:45 dressed sharply in a suit that sends Allie into a drooling frenzy. He reaches the table before sending you a smirk, then feigns seriousness. "Alright, counselor, you know the plan. We settle for our terms or nothing." He states, sliding into the booth right next to you. The two of you are facing the door.

Allie comes to take your order. "Well don't you both look sharp. You make him sweat girly." 

"Okay I need some those birthday cake pancakes for strength with a coffee." You smile up at her."  Oh and breakfast plate for Logan. Eggs over easy, bacon, hash brown. And a coffee as well."

She laughs at the order before turning to Dean. "And you hotshot?"

"I'll have the same breakfast plate, Allie cat.  A breakfast of champions, before we bury Logan." Dean slides the menus back to Allie, throwing in a wink that leaves her flustered as she walks away.

The coffee comes first, black and strong, and you wrap your cold hands around the mug. The door jingles every time someone comes in, and each time your eyes flick up, expecting dark curls and a sheepish grin.

"Relax, he'll be here soon." Dean reassures you. "It's just like we practiced."

The pancakes arrive, golden and caramelized, sprinkles baked within. The cream cheese syrup runs down the sides. You dig in immediately, the rich flavor enveloping you. Logan's plate sits across from the two of you, steam still rising.

5 minutes pass. The door jingles again. You look up, and this time—it's him.

You watch as he stares back and forth between you and Dean. Confusion etches his face before he makes his way over and slides into the booth. 

"Dig in, it's starting to get cold." You leave no further explanation before you resume your attention to these gloriously fluffy pancakes. You hear a snicker from the counter but choose not to turn your head, for fear of laughing. 

He's in a faded grey hoodie, hair still damp from a shower, dark circles under his eyes that suggest he didn't sleep much better than you did. He looks at the plate, then at you, then at the coffee you ordered for him, black, the way he takes it. Dean sits beside you, watching the exchange silently, the grin he tries to hide says it all.

"You ordered me breakfast," he says. Like it's a revelation.

"Don't make it a thing."

He picks up his fork. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Allie refills your coffee, throwing a subtle wink your way before making heart eyes at her boyfriend. She disappears, just as the jukebox shuffles into something upbeat and energetic.

Logan takes a bite of eggs, chews, and swallows. Set his fork down.

"I—uh— thought this would be just the two of us." He catches your eye before giving a curious glance to Dean. "I didn't realize my best friend would be joining us."

"I bet you didn't." You smirk at him. "Relax, babe, it's just breakfast."

"So." You take a bite of your pancakes, letting the sweetness melt on your tongue before looking up at him. "How's your morning been?"

Logan blinks, clearly thrown by the normalcy of the question. He picks up his fork, sets it down, and picks it up again. "Uh. Fine. Good. I Woke up early, actually." A pause. "Couldn't sleep."

"Pity." You spear another forkful of pancake. "The pancakes here are better when you're rested.'

Dean hides a smile behind his coffee mug, and you see Logan register the way Dean's suit fits, the leather portfolio sitting beside him like a threat. He clears his throat. "So, uh—you two are dressed like you're going to a deposition."

"We are." Dean sets his mug down. "A deposition of character."

Logan's fork freezes halfway to his mouth. "What?"

"Eat your eggs, John." You gesture with your fork, all innocence. "They're getting cold. And you're going to need your strength for the conversation ahead.'

He looks between you and Dean, the briefcases resting beside you. His jaw works. "You're really going to make me wait, huh."

"All good things come with time." You answer sweetly.

Hannah drifts past, refilling your coffee. "Everything good over here?" She's trying so hard not to laugh.

"Perfect." You raise your cup to her. "Thanks, Hannah."

You let the silence stretch as Logan eats—watching him take each bite, swallow, glance between you and Dean like a man waiting for the other show to drop. The pancakes are gone by the time he sets his fork down, and you take your time finishing the coffee.

"You done?" you ask.

He nods slowly, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Yea. That was…really good, actually."

"Good." You set your cup down and slide the contract across the table. It glides over the worn wood and stops in front of him, the linen paper catching the diner light, Dean's calligraphy curling across the header in elegant ink.

THE Y/LN-LOGAN RECONCILIATION AGREEMENT. A contract of terms and conditions governing the reinstatement of boyfriend privileges.

Logan stares at it. His eyes travel down the page—past the legal jargon, past the numbered clauses, past the signature lines with their little "X" marks. His lips move as he reads something. His brow furrows. He looks up at you.

"Black roses?"

"Rare. Symbolic." You shrug. "You'll manage."

"Tiramisu pancakes from the diner forty minutes away. Every morning for a week." \

" With a penalty clause if you miss one." Dean taps the page with one finger, all business. "Clock resets. Non-negotiable."

Logan's eyes scan further. His face cycles through disbelief, horror, and something dangerously close to amusement. "Say 'yes, ma'am' for twenty-four hours?"

"You asked me to make it fair." You smiled sweetly. "This is me, being fair."

He opens his mouth—and then closes it, looking down at the contract in his hand.

Dean clears his throat and straightens his tie, all business. "If you'll direct your attention to Article One." He smooths the contract flat on the table. "Section A: Public Acknowledgment. You will deliver a written apology, composed by you, read aloud in front of the entire team. No notes. No reading off your phone."

Logan's head shoots up. "The whole team?"

"Every single one." Dean's voice does not waver. "Coach too, if you can get him in the room. Section B: Symbolic Gesture. One dozen black roses. Not dyed, not spray-painted. Genuine black roses. They're grown in Turkey, so you might want to start calling florists now."

Logan stares at him. "You can't be serious."

"Section C." Dean ignores him completely, turning the page. "Nutritional Penance. One order of tiramisu pancakes from Patty's Diner - that's the one on Route 9, forty minutes east - delivered to Ms. Y/N's residence every morning at 8 am sharp for seven consecutive days." He looks up. "There's a penalty clause. Miss a day, the clock resets. Also there's a surcharge for cold pancakes, which you'll be able to detect because they'll be checked upon arrival."

Hannah appears at the table with a coffee pot, refilling Dean's mug. "Everything going well here?" She's not even trying to hide her smile anymore.

"Perfectly," Dean says. "Section D: Deference Protocol. For twenty-four consecutive hours, beginning at the moment of signature, all responses to Ms. Y/N shall be prefaced with 'yes, ma'am. No exceptions, no loopholes." He slides a pen across the table toward Logan. "Initial each page at the bottom, please. And sign on the final line."

Logan looks at the pen. Then at you. Then, back at the contract, the single red rose was still sitting unclaimed between you.

“Y/N." His voice is hoarse. "This is... this is a lot."

You let the words hang in the air like smoke, watching him over the rim of your coffee cup.

"We could always go our separate ways. See other people?"

The table goes still. Dean's pen stops mid-air. Even the diner noise seems to dim around your booth.

Logan's face does something complicated - surprise first, then something rawer underneath. He doesn't look away. His hand, resting on the contract, curls into a loose fist.

"You don't mean that," he says quietly.

"I don't bluff, Logan." You set your cup down.

"You know that about me. If I walk out that door, I'm not coming back. So you have a choice to make." You gesture at the contract, the coffee, and the witnesses. "This? Or that?"

The silence stretches long enough that Allie stops pretending to wipe down the counter. Dean's holding his breath.

Logan looks at you for a long, aching moment. Then he picks up the pen.

No words. No arguments. He turns to the first page and initials it - sharp strokes. Page two. Page three. The final signature line, right beneath the clause about the tiramisu pancakes, and he presses down hard enough to leave an indent in the linen paper.

He sets the pen down and slides the contract back across the table to you.

"I'm not going anywhere, Y/N." His voice is rough, but steady. "I'd rather earn my way back for a thousand mornings than lose you."

He picks up a red rose, you hadn't noticed that he walked in with it, and holds it out to you, waiting.

You take the rose from his hand - and instead of letting it sit on the table, you lean across it, past the contract, past the empty plates, and kiss him.

It's not a small kiss. It's the kind that makes Dean look away, that makes Allie pause mid-pour at the counter, that makes the whole diner feel like it's holding its breath. Logan's hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, and for a moment, everything else falls away - the contract, the doghouse, the black roses.

When you finally pull back, he's got that dazed look, the one he gets after a hard win. His thumb traces your jaw like he's checking you're real.

"So." His voice is rough. "Does this mean the contract's void?"

You laugh, pressing the rose to his chest. "No. It means I'm giving you a signing bonus." You slide back into your seat, picking up your coffee like nothing happened. 

"The terms still stand, Logan. All of them."

Dean clears his throat loudly. "If we're done with the PDA, I'd like to note for the record that this contract is now officially binding." He taps the signature line. "And I'm available for future litigation."

Allie calls over from the counter, "I saw that whole thing, you know. Witnesses. I could be called to testify."

Logan groans, but he's smiling. "I'm in trouble, aren't I?"

']" The most trouble," you confirm.

You lean back in your seat, twirling the rose between your fingers, and let the sweetest smile spread across your face. "Wonderful! You ever want to get laid again, then you must complete the contract."

Logan chokes on his coffee. Dean's composure finally cracks, a laugh escaping into his fist.

Allie's got both hands over her mouth at the counter, shoulders shaking.

"You can't just-" Logan sputters, wiping his mouth. "That's not a clause in the-"

"Amendment." You shrug, all innocence.

"Signed and notarized. Verbal agreements are binding in this jurisdiction." You point the rose at him. "So I'd get started on those black roses if I were you."

His ears are red. His jaw works. And then he laughs — a real one, head tipped back, the tension of the whole morning breaking at once.

"You're gonna make me work for it, huh."

"I already told you that." You stand, sliding the contract into your bag like it's the most precious thing you own. "And I meant every word."

Dean rises too, straightening his suit jacket.

"For the record, Ms. Y/N, my fees are non-negotiable." He grins. "I accept payment in pancakes."

"Noted." You loop your arm through Logan's, tugging him up from the booth. "Come on, contract-breaker. We've got a presentation to sabotage and a reputation to restore."

Logan stumbles after you, still half-laughing, half-dazed. The rose stays in your hand - his promise, now yours.

—————

The weeks blur by in a rhythm of small victories and hard-won courtesies.

Clause by clause, Logan works through the contract like a man on a mission. The black roses arrive exactly at eight AM on the third day - three dozen of them, dark as ink, wrapped in tissue paper, a note in his handwriting folded beneath the stems: The first clause was the hardest. Everything after this is easy.

Allie and Hannah bear witness to each task with theatrical gravity. The public apology happens in the team's film room, with Dean presiding in a suit and Tucker filming on his phone "for the archives." Logan reads it straight from the page he wrote the night before, voice cracking once, and by the end, every guy on the team is either tearing up or losing it laughing.

The tiramisu pancake runs happen every morning, rain or shine. He shows up at your door before your first class, coffee in one hand, pancakes in the other, and says "yes, ma'am" to every absurd thing you ask. On day three, you make him wait in the rain for ten minutes just to see if he'd leave. He didn't.

He cooks you dinner from scratch — a disaster of burned garlic and a sauce that somehow recovered - and does the dishes after, sleeves rolled up, no complaints. He watches your favorite rom-com without touching his phone and delivers his review ("the lighting in the third act really made it for me") with the smug pride of a film critic.

And one morning, two weeks in, he shows up with the jersey - laundered, folded, smelling like fabric softener and nothing else. He holds it out to you like a treaty.

"It's yours," he says. "Clean. Like the whole thing never happened."

You take it, and you can tell from the way his shoulders drop that he's been terrified of this moment all along.

"Sit down, Logan." You fold the jersey over your arm. "We need to talk about what happens when this is over."

You set the jersey aside on the couch, keeping his eyes in yours, and let the moment just long enough to make him sweat. Then you reach into your bag and pull out the contract - worn at the edges, coffee-stained, every clause initialed, the final signature line at the bottom.

"Logan." You tap the page. "As of this morning, every clause has been fulfilled to my satisfaction."

His breath catches. He doesn't say anything, just watches you with those brown eyes, waiting.

"You delivered the roses. You did the pancake runs. You said 'yes, ma'am' for twenty-four hours without a single eye roll - I checked." A corner of your mouth lifts. "You made me dinner, did the dishes, and gave a truly terrible film review that I'm going to quote at you for the rest of our lives."

He exhales, half-laugh. "It was a good movie, okay?"

"The contract is complete." You slide the page across the coffee table toward him. "And this is what you've earned."

He picks it up, eyes scanning the familiar ink, and goes still when he sees the final page.

Beneath his signature, in your handwriting, a single line he didn't write there before:

Contract fulfilled. Boyfriend privileges reinstated, effective immediately.

His head snaps up. "Wait - does this mean—"

"It means the doghouse is officially vacated."

You lean forward, slow, giving him time to read the rest of the note. And the tiramisu pancakes were never about the pancakes. It was about watching you show up. Every morning. For me. I hope you keep proving how much you love me.

Logan looks at you like you've handed him the championship trophy. His voice comes out rough. "Y/N. I promise I'll never let anyone come between us again. It's been hell wondering if you'll suddenly decide to quit and just end things." He holds your hands in a firm grip, almost afraid to let them go. "I will spend the rest of my life proving how much I love you. I'm sorry I ever let it get this bad—but I promise you'll never have to worry about this again."

You lean forward, and the answer is in the kiss before either of you can say a word. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw. Still, there's nothing gentle about it - it's hungry, desperate, two weeks of "yes, ma'ams" and folded towels and tasting like patience. 

The kiss deepens, and you feel the shudder that runs through him when your fingers curl into the collar of his shirt.

The word yes dies in his throat. Clothes go flying - his shirt over the armchair, your top somewhere by the door, the sound of fabric and breath and skin filling the room. He maneuvers you toward the couch, hand splayed on your lower back, trying to find his footing, to take control the way he always does.

Your hand presses flat against his chest, stopping him.

He freezes. Looks at you, pupils blown, breath ragged.

"Uh-uh." Your voice is low, steady. "Last clause, Johnny."

Something flickers in his eyes - surprise, then a slow-burning heat as the understanding lands.

He swallows. And then he lets you push him down onto the couch, settling between his thighs, his hands fisting at his sides like he's fighting every instinct to reach for you.

"See how well you follow instructions," you say, "without a contract to tell you how."

His throat works. "Yes, ma'am."

The words hit you low and sweet, and you lean in, close enough to feel his breath. His hands stay where you put them. Waiting.

You hold his gaze a moment longer, letting the weight of that "yes, ma'am" hang in the air between you. Then you lower yourself over him, hands braced on his chest, and set the pace yourself - slow, the way you've been wanting to for two weeks.

"Then earn it," you say, and the words land like a starting gun.

His hands stay fisted at his sides, knuckles white, every muscle in his body taut with the effort of not reaching for you. You savor it - the heave of his chest under your palms, the way his jaw goes tight when you drag yourself against him, the broken sound he makes when you take your time.

"Good boy," you breathe, and he shudders, hips bucking up before he catches himself.

You work him slowly, methodically, the way you work everything - like you have all the time in the world and you're spending every second of it on him. His head falls back, throat bared, and you lean in to drag your mouth along it, feeling the pulse hammering under his skin.

"Y/N," he chokes out, half plea, half praise, and the sound of his voice breaking on your name is sweeter than any contract clause.

His restraint finally snaps — but not into control, into surrender. He presses his forehead against yours, hips finding yours in a rhythm you set, hands still where you left them, giving you everything and asking for nothing but you.

"Is this earning it?" he asks, rough and wrecked.

"Keep going," you say, "and I'll let you know."

You take exactly what he's been holding back for two weeks - and you take it slow, dragging it out like you've got all night and no intention of rushing. Every press of your hips is measured, teasing, working him open with a patience that makes him shake beneath you.

"Look at you," you say, thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "So good for me."

He's a wreck beneath you - forehead sheened with sweat, hands still fisted at his sides where you left them, the tendons in his neck straining as he holds back every instinct to grab you.

"Y/N, please-"

"Please what?" You still your hips, and he makes a sound like he's been gutted.

"Please." His voice cracks. "Just- please."

You reward him with the slowest roll of your hips, and his head falls back, a broken breath escaping him. You set a rhythm that's yours - unhurried, savoring every tremor that runs through him. His eyes are glassy, locked on yours, and he's whispering your name like a prayer, over and over.

'Tell me what you are," you say, leaning down until your lips brush his ear.

"Yours." The word comes out wrecked, immediate. "I'm yours, Y/N."

"Good boy," you breathe, and the praise undoes him completely.

He shatters beneath you, pulling you with him, and afterward, you stay tangled on the couch, his forehead pressed to yours, breathless and spent. His hands finally find you, cradling your face like you're something precious. "That was—"he starts, and stops, and just kisses your forehead instead.

The jersey sits folded on the armchair. The contract lies forgotten on the coffee table. And for a long moment, the only thing in the world is the two of you, breathing together.

[gonkdrd]

telephone busy

word count: 4,137

ship: john logan x reader

summary: Logan gets partnered up someone for a ECOn project. This. turns out to be a nightmare when suddenly your boyfriend becoems oblivious towards his partners advances.

notes: not proof read

Can’t make dinner tonight, babe. Project ran late. Rain Check?

That was all it said. The third cancellation this week. The familiar sting of rejection swirling through your chest as your boyfriend cancels on you again. 

At first you understood. Logan had been paired up with her for a big Econ project that was worth half his grade. The first cancellation came in a week in while you were getting dressed for the date night you two planned. You told yourself you understood how stressful group projects are. The second time was after class, Logan was supposed to pick you up to take you to an appointment but a last minute project session came up.

The pattern kept repeating itself. Then came the lingering touches from her, Maddison Blair, her hands would purposely find a reason to remain on him at all times. A brush of his hands, a comforting hand on his back during long sessions, strewn across his arm as she explained the topics.

You brought it up to him on multiple a occasions but you’d always be left with a kiss on the forehead and a simple “She’s just friendly, you have nothing to worry about”.

The phone goes face down, and you’re already walking, the word murder burning a path from your chest to your tongue.

The living room smells like Allie’s aroma therapy candles, and lingering smell of red wine that Hannah spilt by accident a couple weeks ago. Allie is sprawled across the couch, script in hand, legs kick dover the arm rest. Hannah sits cross-legged on the armchair, a notebook resting on her knees as she works out lyrics for a new song.

“I’m going to murder my boyfriend.” You plant your self in the middle of the room , arms crossed.

Hannah looks up from her notebook as Allie sit’s up, script falling to her lap. “Um, what?”

“He cancelled on me AGAIN.” The Words come out flat, controlled, the wya they do when you’re  upset about something. “That’s the third time this week. I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve seen him in the last month.”

Hannah exchanges a look with Allie—the kind that says they’ve been waiting for this conversation. 

“Does this happen to have anything to do with a certain blonde puck bunny that takes Econ?” Allie slowly draws out.

“Yes. I’m so close to throwing hands with the girl.”

The words come out hot, you realize you mean them—every syllable. Allie’s eyes light up like she’s watching a show she’s been waiting to see. She swings her legs off the armrest, sitting up fully.

“Okay, okay. Before we plan a prison sentence, talk to me. What’s she actually doing?”

Hannah sets her notebook aside, leaning forward with her elbows resting on her knees. “Because there’s a difference between her being a problem and Logan being the problem.”

“He’s canceled on me three times this week to work with her.” You hold up three fingers in an exaggerated display of annoyance. “Every time we have plans, she conveniently calls with some emergency project situation. She’s in his DMs—I saw her comment on his story at midnight. And every time I see them together, she’s practically in his lap.”

Hannah winces. “Okay, that’s… a lot of proximity.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust him.” You say, voice lowering into something more vulnerable. “It’s that I’m tired of feeling like the third wheel in my own relationship.”

The room goes quiet. Hannah and Allie share a look of understanding.

“I need to stop spiraling.” You blow out a breath, letting the tension drain from your shoulders. “I’ll be in the kitchen baking.”

Allie blinks. “Girl, you just threatened to throw hands and now you’re going to bake?”

“Baking is cheaper than bail,” you say, already preheating the oven. 

Hannah’s laugh follows you. “That’s the most y/n response possible.”

The kitchen welcomes you like an old friend—the evening sun lighting across the granite, the familiar weight of the apron hook. You tie the strings behind your waist and pull get lost in the familiar rhythm of the kitchen. 

——————

The breaking point comes on a Friday. The Briar Hawks had just won against Eastwood and the Hawk’s are hosting a party to celebrate— the whole campus shows up. Bass thumps through the walls of the boy’s house before you’re even at the door. Red cups, bodies pressed together in the kitchen, someone’s already spilled beer on the couch. 

You push through the crowd, scanning for Logan’s messy brown hair, ready to congratulate him properly on scoring the winning goal. You find him by the hallway—laughing at something, easy and relaxed.

And then you see her.

Maddison, wearing his jersey. Number 22, the fabric hanging loose on her small frame, like it belongs there. She’s pressed up against his side, hand on his chest, tilting her head up at him with a smile that’s all teeth. His arm around her waist.

The bass thuds in your chest. The room feels suddenly, violently small.

For one long beat, the party noise fades to a dull roar in your ears. Maddison’s fingers trail down the of his shirt—his shirt, the one you’ve slept in a hundred times—and Logan laughs at something she says, his head tilting down toward hers like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Then he looks up.

His eyes find your across the room, and his face does something ugly—guilty, panic, the arm around her waist dropping like she’s on fire. “Y/n—“

Maddison turns, slow, a smile carving across her face when she sees you. She doesn’t move away from him. Doesn’t step back. Just stands there in his jersey, one hand still resting on his chest, watching you with those innocent eyes.

The bass thuds. The hallway’s packed. Every instinct in your body goes sharp and cold.

“Y/n” Logan says again, stepping toward you, hands out. “It’s not—she was cold, O just–“

His voice is drowned out by the crowd, the music, the heat of a hundred bodies. Maddison’s smile widens, just a little, as she watches him stumble over his excuses.

“No worries,” you say, the words landing almost too soft in the space between the bass thumps. “She was just cold.”

Logan’s mouth opens, the beginning of relief flickering across his face—and Maddison’s smile falters, just barely, because your tone isn’t forgiveness. It’s a chess move she hasn’t seen coming yet.

You turn on your heel and walk.

The crowd parts for you, or maybe you just stop caring about them. You cut through the living room, past the beer pong table, past Hollis mid-cheer, until you spot Garrett and Hannah by the kitchen doorway—mid conversation with that annoyingly sweet lovestruck look on their faces.

“Hannah, Graham.” You stop in front of them, chin up. “I need a favor, can I, respectfully, borrow your Jersey.”

Garrett blinks. Hannah eyebrows climb before the realizations creeps forward. Smile slowly peeking out. “My jersey,” Garrett repeats, slowly, glancing at Hannah to see if she understands what’s going on. She simply laughs and nods. “For what, exactly?”

“Logan’s project partner is wearing his number twenty-two like it’s a promise ring.” You tilt your head towards the hallway. “I want to remind him what he’s about to lose.”

A beat. Then Garrett’s mouth curve into something slow—amused, impressed, and just petty enough to love this. He sets his cup down, grabs the collar of his #44 jersey, and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion.

“Don’t get beer on it,” he say, handing it over. “It’s Lucky.”

Hannah laughs at his request then wishes you luck.

The fabric is warm from his body, heavy on your shoulders, the number 44 riding across your back like armor.  You let it hang.

You start walking.

The kitchen first—you cut through the cluster by the keg, slow. Tucker spots you, opens his mouth, and you watch the gears turn as he registers the jersey. He doesn’t say anything, just grins like he’s front row as a championship game.

The living room next. You pass the beer pong table, and. Girl with a red cup does a double, take, elbow-nudging her friend. Whispers bloom behind you like a wake.

“Is that Logan’s girlfriend.?’

“That’s Graham’s jersey—“

“Who’s she wearing?”

You let the murmurs trail you. Somewhere behind you, you catch Dean’s voice, low and delighted: “Oh she’s good.”

You take your time. One lap. Two. The crowd parts and reassembles, and every pair of eyes that lands on the #44 does the math in real time. By the time you circle back toward the hallway, the word’s already moving through the party like a current.

Logan’s still where you left him—but Maddison’s hand had dropped from his chest, and he’s looking around, scanning the room, like he can feel the shift in the air. His eyes find you.

The #44 hits him like a slap. His mouth opens, closes, and something raw crosses his face—hurt, shock, the beginning of understanding.

Maddison follows his gaze. Her smile’s gone.

You let his stare wash over you like it belongs to someone else. The #44 rides your shoulders, and you keep walking—past the hallway, past the whispers, past the sound of maya’s voice going thin behind you.

The kitchen door swings shut behind you, and the bass drops to a dull thud through the walls. The back porch is dark, strung with a few cheap lights, mostly empty. Cool night air hits your face, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“Lose someone?” It’s not Logan’s voice.

It’s Dean, stepping out with a bottle of vodka, a grin already splitting his face. He hands you the bottle and leans against the railing, eyes bright with mischief. “He’s tearing the house apart looking for you. Maddison’s practically vibrating. This is the best party I’ve been to all year.”

You hand the bottle back after taking a swig. You watch as he lifts it. “To petty, brilliant revenge.”

“Come on,” you say, already moving toward the side of the porch.”Let’s go hide on the roof and wait to see how long it takes him to find us.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, a slow grin spreading across his face as he follows behind. “You’re my favorite person tonight. You know that?”

The fire escape ladder is rusted and creaky, tucked around the corner where the porch light doesn’t reach. You climb first, Garrett’s jersey riding up your back. Dean follows, the vodka bottle tucked into his chest, hands steady as you both reach the flat stretch of the roof overlooking the backyard.

The party sounds muffled from up here—just the bass and the occasional whoop drifting up through the gaps. String lights glow below, and the night air is cool abasing your face.

Dean drops down beside you, legs dangling over the edge, and gestures at the bottle. “Alright, evil mastermind. What are we drinking to.?”

You twist the cap off. Below, you hear the back door slam open and Logan’s frustrated voice, sharp and frustrated: “Y/n? Y/N!”

Dean’s grin widens. He doesn’t say a word—just hold out his hand for the bottle. You sniffle a laugh as you hand it over.

He offers you a mock cheers before shotgunning a good portion of the drink. As he hands it back you bring it up to your lips and take a long sip. The vodka burns going down, smooth and warm, settling in your chest like a second heartbeat.

From below, Logan’s voice cuts through again, closer now, edged with frustration. “Y/n? Where’d she go?”

A pause. Then back door bangs shut.

You pass the bottle back to Dean without a word, fingers brushing his in exchange. He takes a sip, slow, and the two of you sit in the quiet, watching the yard below.

Dean’s voice is barely a murmur. ‘You could end this whole thing in about two seconds, you know. Just say the word.”

“But where’s the fun in that?”

Dean barks a quiet laugh, muffled behind his fist. “There she is.” He takes a sip then passes he bottle back, eyes glinting in the string-light glow. “You know he’s going to find you eventually, right? He’s got that dogged Minnesota thing going on. Man’s probably checking the basement by now.”

Down below, the porch steps creak. Logan stands, hands still shoved in his pockets, and he does another slow sweep of the yard. His phone buzzes in his pocket—he pulls it out, glances at the scree, and his jaw tighten before he shoves it back.

Maddison’s voice drifts through the open door, sweet and carrying: “John, come back inside, it’s cold—“

He doesn’t turn around.

Dean’s voice drops to something almost serious. “He’s not going back in.” A pause. “You know that right?”

The night air is cool on your shoulders, Garrett’s jersey still loose around you. Logan’s still standing on the steps, staring into the dark, and for the first time tonight he looks less like the guy who had his arm around another girl and more like someone waiting to be found.

“Did the bitch just call him John?” The words come out low, sharp, cutting through the quiet. “He only lets me call him that.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, and a slow grin spreads across his face. “Oh, that’s the thing that breaks you? Not the jersey, not the hand on his chest—the name.”

“Names are personal,” you say, the bottle hanging loose in your grip. “Anyone can wear a jersey. Maddison’s probably been practicing that name in the mirror for a week.”

Down below, Maddison’s voice drifts out the door again, syrup-sweet. “John, come back inside—“

Logan still hasn’t turned around. He’s planted at the bottom of the porch steps, shoulders tight, staring into the dark like he’s waiting for something to appear.

Dean takes the bottle from you, tips it back, and wipes his mouth. “You know, most girlfriends would be down there screaming right now. You’re up here cataloguing his pet names like a lawyer building a case.”

He pauses. “I mean that as the highest compliment.”

Below, Logan’s phone buzzes again. He pulls it out, glances at it, and this time he doesn’t just shove it back—he silences it. Drops it in his pocket. Stays right where he is.

“Please you’ve known me two years. I’m petty and I don’t like to lose.” You tilt you head toward the yard below, where Logan still stands planted on the porch steps, Maddison’s silhouette hovering in the doorway. “Plus, I already talked to him. Gave him the full conversation, the understanding girlfriend, the whole thing. He didn’t listen.”

Dean takes a sip, watching you over the rim. “So now he suffers.”

“Now he suffers.” You shrug, easy. “Let his dog follow him around. Let her call him John and touch his chest and wear his jersey. He’s out here on the steps in the cold, looking for me, while she’s inside trying to warm him up with her voice.” A pause. “He knows where I am. He knows what he did. He can sit with that.”

Dean’s quiet for a moment. Then a low whistle. “I’ve seen you petty before. I’ve seen you hold grudges for a decade.” He gestures at the scene below. “But this? This is art.”

Below, Logan’s head snaps up, like he’s heard something— some instinct. He scans the roofline again, slower this time. His eyes sweep past you, then stop, then come back.

He’s looking right at you. You grin and lift the bottle. A. Slow toast, the neck lifting toward him, the string lights catching the glass. A clean and unmistakable gesture: I see you. I’ve been here the whole time.

Dean whistles low under his breath. “That’s a power move and a half.”

Below, Logan’s whole body goes still, The tension in his shoulder shifts into something else—relief, maybe, or the first crack in the stubborn set of his jaw. He takes a step off the porch, toward the side of the house where the fire escape ladder hangs.

Maddison’s voice follows him out the door, sharper now. “John, where are you goin—“

He ignores her as s treks across the yard, reaches the rusted ladder, and start climbing.

Dean nudges your shoulder, grinning. “You got thirty seconds to decide if you’re gonna make him work for it or let him off the hook.” He pauses, then adds, quieter: “I’m rooting for making him work for it, obviously.”

You turn and grin at him before rushing  off towards the other side of the roof. You use the ledge to scale down towards Tuckers open window and propel yourself inside giggling.

You rush through the house and head to the front of the house towards the porch and throw yourself on the bench out front while you wait for him to catch up.

You hear the front door creak open a few minutes later, the familiar sent of sandalwood and grease hitting you. 

He stands still, almost as if he’s afraid you’ll run off again. The silence stretches. Somewhere inside, a song shifts, and the bass drops out.

“Come sit, John. Let’s talk about your girlfriend.”

The words carry across the porch, easy and unhurried, like you’re inviting him to dinner. The string lights buzz. The bass from inside thumps, oblivious.

Logan steps forward hesitantly, as a prey does when testing the waters, waiting for the attack.

He stops a few feet from the bench, hands shoved in his pockets, jaw tight. “She’s not my girlfriend, you are.”

“She’s wearing your jersey,” you say, crossing your ankles. “Called you John. Had her hand on your chest in front of half the party. I don’t know what you call that, but around here we call it a claim.”

“It’s not—“ He runs a hand through his hair frustrated. “She grabbed it off the couch. I didn’t give it to her. I didn’t put my arm around her, she—“

“She,” you repeat, tilting you head. “Everything’s what she did. Where are you in that sentence, Logan?”

The front door opens. Maddison steps out, voice thin and bright. “John? Everything okay out here?”

“She’s asking if you’re okay, John.” You say loud enough to carry, eyes holding his, chin tilted just so. “Are you?”

Logan’s jaw tightens. Behind him, Maddison’s frame got still in the doorway, caught mid-step, her bright voice dying in her throat. The question wasn’t for him—not really. It was for her. He’s mine to check on. Not yours.

The silence stretches. A laugh burst from inside the house, muffled by the bass.

“I’m fine,” Logan says finally, and his voice is steadier than it’s been all night. He doesn’t around. Doesn’t glance at the door. His eye’s stay locked on you. “I’, right where I want to be.”

Maddison’s face scrunches up in annoyance. She huffs before turning on her heel and walking back inside.

The door closes with a slam. Like she’s trying to remind him of her attention.

Logan takes a step toward the bench. Then another. The string lights catch the mess of his hair, the tight line of his shoulders, the way his hand stay shoved in his pockets like he’s holding himself back from something. He stops at the armrest of the bench, close enough that you can smell the cold on him, the faint traces of whatever he was drinking.

“I didn’t give her the jersey,” He says, low. “I had put it down on the couch and she took it not long after arriving. But I should’ve taken it off her the second I saw her in it.” A pause. “I should’ve walked her to the door the second she showed up tonight.”

The silence sits between you like a held breath. The string lights buzz overhead, and somewhere inside the house someone whoops, oblivious to the two of you out here.

Logan’s throat works. He looks down at you, at the #44 loose across your shoulders, and something in his face cracks open—not the panic from earlier, but something quieter. Something that looks like shame.

“I should have taken her hand off me,” he says, slow, like he’s saying it for himself. “The second she put it there. In front of anyone.” A pause. “In front of you.”

He sinks down onto the wooden floor in front of the bench, elbows on his knees, lookin up at you. The string lights catching the exhaustion in his face.

“I’ve been so caught up in my own head—my dad, the scouts, hockey, school—that I let her get comfortable.” He hold your gaze. “That’s on me. Not her. She can throw herself at whoever she wants. I’m the one who should’ve shut it down.”

He doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t try to touch your knee or take your hand. He just sits there kneeling on the floor, messy hair falling into his eyes, waiting.

“And what happens the next time she puts her hand on you?”

Logan’s eyes hold yours. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t reach for an easy answer. The string lights buzz, and a car passes somewhere down the street, headlights sweeping across.

“I take it off,” he says. “I take her hand off tee, and I tell her to back up. In front of whoever’s watching. A pause. “I don’t care how it looks. I care about it looks to you.”

He shifts on the floor, closer, still not touching you. “I should’ve done it the first time. I should’ve done it a hundred times, and I didn’t, because I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to notice I was letting someone treat me like I was available.” His voice drops. ‘That’s the part I can’t take back.”

A door opens somewhere but neither of you look up.

“Next time she shows up at the rink, I’ll tell her to study somewhere else. Next time she tags me at midnight, I won’t answer. Next time she’s at the house, I’ll walk her out.” He hold you gaze, steady. “I’m done being oblivious. That’s a promise, not a line.”

“Good boy.” You let the words land, slow and deliberate, watching the way his jaw ticks. “Now get that stupid jersey off her and walk her out. Or I’ll find another jersey to permanently occupy my wardrobe.”

Logan stares at you for half a second. Then something shifts in his face—a corner of his mouth twitching, the tension bleeding out of his shoulder. “You’d wear it to bed wouldn’t you?”

He pushes up off the floor, brushes the dirt off his palms, and looks down at you with that crooked thing he does when he’s trying not to smile. “Stay here, I’ll be two minutes.”

He turn and walks through the door towards the house, and you watch him go—the set of his shoulders, the easy stride. The front door closes softly behind him. You get up and slip off Garrett’s jersey then head inside to hand it back.

You find Garrett and Hannah on the couch talking to Justin Kohl. Hannah’s eyes find you first, a knowing smirk gracing her lips. “Did you make him sweat?”

“He better have learned his lesson, because I’m not doing this again.”

A laugh escapes Garrett as you hand him back the jersey. “No beer, just as I promised.”

Them you head up to Logan’s room and throw yourself on the bed. A few minutes late you hear a familiar set of footsteps as you watch as the door opens. Logan looks relieved as he finds you on his bed, no longer wearing the #44 jersey. He crosses the room in quick strides.

The jersey hangs loose under his arms. He grabs hold of it and extend his arm out handing it to you. “Yours,” he says. “Always was.”

“Nope. You better wash it first. I’m not wearing something someone else had on less than five minutes ago.” You say deadpan, already sinking further into the bed. Logan;s mouth opens and closes in front of you with a sound caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Y/n-"

You stare at him with the most serious face you can muster, before pulling him down towards the bed. You take the stupid jersey and throw it across the room before settling into his arms.

“I hope you know your punishment for all this neglect is no sex for a month.” You say, latching further into the crook of his neck, the words coming out muffled.

“wait what?–"

[thcrin]

[that-phat-chic-deactivated20200]

Reblog to have a Din Djarin protect you from all those nasty vibes this new year

[pedropascalonline]

🤍

[x-wingwarriorbbpoe8-deactivated]

Protect me daddy.