Dirty Little Secret | Peter Parker x Fem!Stark!Reader
Summary: Tony Starks daughter, Wanda’s powers (but purple), dating the new intern in secret. What could possibly go wrong when Clint falls through the vents right after you sneak in your secret boyfriend?
Peter Parker one shot inspired by the song, Dirty Little Secret by The All-American Rejects!
Warnings: None
WC: 1.9K
Masterlist!
“I’ll keep you my dirty little secret”
You dating the new intern was your biggest secret.
Your father was the one and only, infamous, genius, billionaire, Tony Stark, aka Iron Man.
Of course, you somehow managed to be kidnapped by Hydra and experimented on, giving you powers that, oddly enough, were just like Wanda’s, but purple.
Due to this, your father was the most over protective person in your life.
You went to Midtown High, and tried to live a semi normal lifestyle. Everyone knew you were Tony Stark’s daughter. Who didn’t?
What they didn’t know was that you had super powers.
That was just one of your secrets.
Your biggest secret was that you were dating the new intern at the tower.
You were shocked to see the boy in your chem class at the tower one morning. Your father introduced you two and made it clear to the Parker boy that you were ‘off limits’.
But, oh boy, could Peter not resist you.
It didn’t take long for him to find any excuse to be around you.
He was officially an Avenger now. Of course he had to check your room for any potential threats.
He was totally failing science. Of course he needed to study with you.
It didn’t take long for you to take a liking to the boy. But, you couldn’t date him. Your father would kill you. The rest of the team wouldn’t live it down. Your first boyfriend and it was the intern?
What you could do, was date him in secret.
You were perched on the edge of your bed, in your pajamas, rock music playing from one of your speakers.
You were busily tinkering with one of Peter’s web shooters. He accidentally broke it and totally couldn’t fix it on his own.
He’d have to come by your room that night to pick it up from you.
You jumped and gasped at the sound of something hitting your window.
You rose to your feet and drew back the curtain to reveal your boyfriend in his spider suit.
“Hi!” he beamed from outside, clinging to the window.
You chuckled and opened the window, shushing him. “Someone might hear!” you whisper shouted.
Your heart beat in excitement. There was something exhilarating about doing something you knew you’d be crucified for.
Peter climbed into your room with ease, shutting the window behind him. “No one ever hears,” he replied, taking his mask off.
His hair was an absolute mess. His eyes were bright and full of love. He placed a kiss to your check and smiled down at you. “Did you finish fixing the web shooter?” he asked curiously.
“No,” you sighed dramatically. “This is sooo hard to fix,” you said sarcastically.
Peter hummed and his hands found your waist. “Guess I’ll have to stay then.”
You looked up at him with loving eyes. “I guess so.”
Peter giggled as he pulled you in close for a kiss.
His lips were warm and soft against yours.
Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer.
You pushed him back gently, he stumbled back, legs hitting the edge of your bed. He sat on your bed, pulling you on top of him.
His hands roamed your hips and back as your lips moved in perfect harmony.
He pulled away briefly to admire your face. “Gosh, I love you,” he breathed out.
You smiled and ran your fingers through his hair. “I love you too.”
He smiled and pulled you in for another kiss.
Your hands found his chest and you pushed him back, so that you were both now lying down, you on top of him.
One of his gloved hands held your waist while the other roamed through your hair.
Suddenly, you swore you heard the sound of something in your ceiling.
You pulled away and Peter gave you a confused look. “Did you hear that?” you asked.
Peter blinked. “No. Just the music,” he replied.
“Edith, turn the music off, please,” you asked the artificial intelligence.
“Turning the music off Stark Jr.”
The music turned off and the room fell silent.
“Maybe it was the song,” Peter suggested, pulling you back in for another kiss.
You hummed against his lips, ignoring whatever it was you thought you heard.
Thud
You gasped at the loud thud in your room. You pulled away and looked to your bedroom floor.
None other than Clint was on the floor looking at you with a petrified expression.
“Clint?!” you shouted, nearly flying off of Peter. “I told you to stay out of the vents!”
Clint had a bad habit of hanging out in the vents, and of course he had to just fall out of the vent in your room.
Where you were making out with your super secret boyfriend.
Peter jumped out of your bed and stood beside you, looking guilty as hell.
Clint looked between you and Peter with his jaw dropped. “You’ve been kissing on the new intern?!” he exclaimed. “Ooo, I’m telling your daddy!”
Your eyes, as well as Peter’s, widened in horror. “No!” you both shouted.
Clint looked at you, amused. “Give me one good reason to not.”
“He’s gonna kill me!” you exclaimed. “Please, Clint! Be the cool uncle you are!”
Your father was the last person you needed to know about Peter.
Clint, sure.
Tony Stark? No way.
Clint shrugged. “That’s not a good reason. I don’t really care.”
Your jaw dropped, but before you could say anything, there was a knock at the door.
“Everything okay in there?” Natasha asked from outside.
Your eyes widened as Clint raced to the door to open it and show Natasha the scene that was unfolding. “No!” you exclaimed, sticking your hand out to throw Clint back, a purple mist covering him.
“Hey! Don’t use your powers on me you little witch!” he shouted, sliding across the floor.
Natasha furrowed her brows from outside. “Clint? What’s going on in there?”
“Nothing!” you told her.
“I’m coming in there,” she said, barging through the door.
The door flew open and she looked to see you, face flushed with embarrassment, and Clint lying on the floor.
No Peter in her eyesight.
“What is happening?” she asked, confused. “Why are you yelling?”
“Because he won’t stay out of the vents!” you said, pointing a finger at him.
Clint rose to his feet with a laugh. “Tell her what really happened.”
“It’s true!”
Clint shook his head. “No, she was making out with some boy,” he told Natasha dramatically.
You swallowed, hard, eyes darting to Natasha who blinked. “What boy? There’s no one in here.”
Clint furrowed his brows and looked around your room.
Peter was gone.
“What?!” Clint exclaimed. “He was just here!”
Clint ducked to look under your bed, marched to your closet and opened the door, even checked your bathroom.
No Peter.
You looked up at your ceiling slowly.
There, Peter clung to it, putting a finger to his lips.
Your eyes widened, praying no one would look up.
“He was here!” Clint defended himself. “I swear!”
Natasha looked at you with raised brows. You pulled your lips into a tight line. “Right…” she trailed off.
You screamed and jumped back, as Vision phased through the wall. “Vision! Use the door!” you ridiculed.
“My apologies Tiny Stark,” he said sheepishly. “I heard yelling. I was concerned.”
Clint marched over to Vision. “Hey, check this place out. She just had a boy in here.”
“Clint!”
Vision blinked in shock. “A boy? Who?”
“No one!”
“It was that-”
Clint couldn’t finish his sentence before Loki walked in with a loud, dramatic, groan. “Can you mortals stop bickering? It’s awfully annoying.”
“You!” Clint beamed, pointing a finger at Loki. “You use magic. Find the boy!”
Loki furrowed his brows. “What boy?”
“The one she snuck in here,” Clint replied.
Loki looked at you, knowing exactly where Peter was. Your eyes were full of worry as your shook your head at him, a silent plead to not expose you.
Loki smirked at you.
“You mean the intern on the ceiling?”
“Loki!!!” you shouted at him.
Everyone in the room looked up at the ceiling to see Peter clung to the wall, eyes wide in horror.
“Ha!” Clint exclaimed. “Told you!”
Vision tilted his head slightly. “Peter?”
“You’re dating the intern?!” Natasha asked excitedly.
“Did someone say that Parker kid’s name?”Footsteps in the hallway approached your room.
Sam and Bucky.
Just your luck.
“Aye!” Sam exclaimed. “Get your ass down!” he yelled at Peter.
Peter flipped off of the ceiling, landing on his feet. His face was red with embarrassment. This was not the way he wanted your family to find out you were dating him.
Bucky sucked his teeth, giving you a disappointed look. “The spider guy? Really?”
Sam shook his head and crossed his arms. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” he lectured Peter. “Sneaking in here at night. I always knew he was a bad influence,” he muttered under his breath.
You groaned and threw your head back. “Sam, please leave him alone.”
Louder footsteps boomed down the hallway, Thor appeared in the doorway with a box of Poptarts. “Hey, why didn’t anyone invite me to this party?”
His eyes scanned the room and he hummed in thought. “Why’s he here?” he asked, looking dead at Peter.
“He snuck in,” Bucky explained. “I say we kill him for it.”
“What?!” Peter exclaimed. “Kill me?” he repeated in horror.
Sam nodded slowly. “Yeah! Kill you!”
“No!” you shouted. “No killing people! No nothing! How about,” you proposed, voice leveled. “How about, we all leave my room and pretend none of this ever happened?”
“Or,” Loki proposed. “We tell your father. I’m sure he’d love to hear you snuck in the intern he forbade you from dating.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Or,” you began. “We kill you instead!”
“What happened to no killing?” Sam asked with a laugh.
Seconds later, Bruce and Wanda wandered in. “What the…” Bruce trailed off.
“Oh, hi, Peter,” Wanda waved at the boy.
Peter awkwardly put his hand up, keeping his head low sheepishly.
This was too awkward.
It was only a matter of time before your father found out.
“So…” Clint trailed off. “Who’s gonna tell Tony?”
“No one! Please!” you begged. “I’ll do extra chores for a month! A year! I’ll never move out for college! I’ll never play my music loud again! I’ll do anything, just don’t tell him!”
Clint raised his brows up in shock that you were willing to do such things. “Okay,” he agreed. “Extra chores for a month.”
“And you won’t tell my dad?”
Clint nodded. “I won’t. I pinky promise.”
“I’ll tell him,” Sam spoke up.
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Why?”
“I just don’t like him,” he said, pointing a finger at Peter.
“What did I do?” Peter asked, genuinely confused as to the one sided beef between him, Sam, and Bucky.
“Because,” Bucky replied.
“That’s not even a reason!”
“Look,” Natasha spoke up. “No one is telling Tony anything. This stays between us. She’s old enough to kiss boys, who cares. If anyone says anything to Tony, you’re dead.”
You let out a sigh of relief.
Everyone feared Natasha.
Your father wouldn’t know.
“Too late, I already know.”
You all turned to your window, the curtains wide open.
Your father was in his suit, floating right in front of your window.
“Mr. Stark!” Peter exclaimed. “I can explain!”
“No,” Stark interrupted. “No need,” he said calmly.
Peter swallowed hard. “Does this mean I’m fired?”
“No,” Tony chuckled. Peter let out a sigh of relief. “It means you’re dead!”
He lifted his hand and aimed it at the window. He fired his repulsor right at the widow, Peter dodging it just in time.
You were going to need a new window, and maybe, a new boyfriend, by the end of this.
synopsis: the world as you knew it is gone, replaced by a deadly game of guessing who’s human and who’s not. then she knocks—confident, alluring, and far too calm to be trusted. and yet, against all reason, you find yourself unlocking the door for her.
warnings: mentions of gore. horror-ish. dark themes like death and the end of the world. adult themes. manipulation. metaphorical cannibalism. blood. corruption. munch!p. fingering (r!receiving). scissoring. predatory desire. dom!paige. sub!reader. idk what else
word count: 18k
note: the way this took 5 years off my life… anyway i’ve never attempted writing anything creepy or eerie so i hope y’all fw this. reblogs and feedback are highlyyy appreciated
It had been exactly three weeks since the world as you once knew and trusted it, began to unravel. Twenty one days of confusion and disbelief, of trying to stay sane when sanity had no currency anymore. Fourteen days of staring into the static, wondering when the shift began—was it the broadcasts? The power outages? The first time someone knocked and didn’t sound quite human? You’d stopped trying to answer that. It didn’t matter now. Nothing did, except survival.
It had been Thirteen days since you last stepped outside. Thirteen days of stale air clinging to the corners of the house, of half empty cans stacked on the counter, of curtains nailed shut so tightly not even sunlight could beg its way in. You’d let a few people inside during the first days. The crying ones, the shaking ones, the ones who swore they were safe, but you’d learned quickly that mercy was a luxury. That trust had teeth.
Ten days of silence, broken only by the hum of your breath and the slow, metallic ticking of the clock that no longer kept real time. Ten days of speaking to yourself in whispers just to remember the sound of a voice.
The televisions had gone dark on the Seventeenth day. Before that, the channels had been full of screams and flickering news anchors, their faces pale and frantic. They warned about the Visitors, about how they looked like us, talked like us, even begged like us—but their eyes never quite met the camera. And then one by one, the screens went white. You left them that way. You couldn’t bear to see your reflection staring back at you through the screen.
Now, you were in the living room again, crouched beside the wall. A rag clutched in your hand, damp with bleach and something darker. You scrubbed in circles, over and over, though most of the blood had already faded into the paint—thin, rust colored ghosts that wouldn’t leave, no matter how much you tried to erase them. The smell had almost gone too. Almost.
The last one hadn’t gone quietly. They never did. But at least they didn’t linger long. The convenient thing about Visitors, if convenience could still exist in a world like this, was that their bodies didn’t stay. They faded. One moment, there was the ruin of a body on the floor, a grotesque stain of what used to be human. The next, there was nothing but the echo of it. Like they were never there at all. Like you’d imagined it.
You’d turned down two more since then, two people at the door, their knocks too steady, their smiles too wrong. You’d watched them through the peephole until they left, slow and patient, their shadows stretching across the porch long after the sun had disappeared.
Still, you couldn’t help but think: maybe you shouldn’t rely on looks. Because sometimes, the eyes lied. And sometimes, the monsters looked more human than you did.
You were nearly finished scrubbing when the knocks came. Two sharp raps, quick and confident.
You froze, the damp rag dripping pink water down your wrist. The sound vibrated through the hollow quiet of the house and for a moment, you thought you’d imagined it—another trick of a tired mind too long without real voices. But then it came again.
Knock. Knock.
You let out a breath that trembled at the edges. Of course. Another one.
You were already frustrated. Two others had shown up earlier, disturbing you while you were trying to erase the last of that crimson red from your wallpaper. Their knocks had left a ringing echo behind, long after you’d sent them away. You didn’t have patience for a third.
Still, seeing as the stains were mostly gone and you’d reached the point where bleach couldn’t help anymore, you dropped the rag into the bucket and stood.
The house groaned faintly with your movement. Outside the windows, the light was that same green yellow hue the sun had taken on since the world began to turn wrong. Through the slats, you could still see the silhouettes of the FEMA agents out back—or what was left of them. Their bodies had begun to stiffen, lying half buried in the dry grass like halloween decorations you couldn’t bring yourself to remove. They were proof that you’d made the right choices. Or something close enough to it.
You walked to the door, every step creaking under your weight. Another knock came, slower this time, almost polite.
Through the peephole, you didn’t see what you expected.
A woman. Young, maybe your age. Blonde hair tied back in a bun that looked too deliberate for this world. Clothes not quite clean but not ruined either. A little dirt on the fabric, a faint sheen of sweat on her temple, and that was it. No bruises. No frantic eyes. No trembling hands.
She was composed. Attractive, even. That alone made your pulse pick up.
“Do you want me to knock some more to get your attention?”
Her voice came through muffled but clear enough to feel. Confident, even light, like she’d rehearsed it.
You hesitated, pressing your forehead lightly to the cold door. “Well, you got it now,” you said after a pause. “What do you want?”
The woman smiled. It was small, just a ghost of a smirk that made you wish she’d keep talking.
“What do you think?” she said. “Shelter. Same as everyone else who’s knocked before. I’d prefer not to die out here, you feel me?”
Her voice—low and smooth, that soft rasp around the edges—slipped through the door like warm smoke. It wasn’t exactly deep, but it carried weight, resonance. There was something quietly husky about it, a closeness that made it sound like she was right behind you instead of outside.
It distracted you. More than it should have.
“And how do I know you’re not a visitor?” you asked finally. “You don’t exactly look like someone in distress, you feel me?”
Her smirk deepened as she dipped her head, trying—and failing—to suppress a quiet laugh. The sound prickled the air.
She didn’t look desperate. She didn’t act like someone who’d been running or hiding. That alone was reason enough to keep the door shut.
“How long have you been out there?” you asked, rubbing at a spot on your wrist that wouldn’t come clean.
“Like a day or two,” she said with a shrug. “Hard to tell now with the sun doing whatever it’s doing.”
Her tone was even and casual. Too casual.
You studied her a little longer through the fisheye lens, eyes tracing the clean line of her throat, the dirt smudged collarbone that disappeared into her shirt. You swallowed.
“Who were you with before you came here?”
“No one. That’s why I left.” She shifted her weight, resting one hand against the doorframe. “The area I was in was too dangerous for anyone to come knocking on my door. Can’t let them catch you alone, remember?”
The way she said ‘them’ made your stomach twist. There was something rehearsed about it, like a line learned by heart. You couldn’t tell if that made her more or less convincing.
She tilted her head slightly. “So… you home alone?”
Her voice lowered as she said it, softer and slower, like she knew it was an intimate question. It felt like she was staring straight through the door, through the peephole, through you.
“Maybe. Maybe not,” you said. “Who knows.”
You tried to sound nonchalant, but your pulse had started to pound. Something about her presence was getting under your skin.
“I would know,” she said, her smirk returning, “if you’d just open the door.”
You forced a scoff, trying to regain control. “I don’t think I will. How do I know you’re human?”
“You keep asking questions,” she said, her voice a quiet hum, “but your hand’s already on the lock, ma.”
Your brow furrowed and you looked down.
She was right. Your hand was on the lock. You didn’t even remember moving it there. Your fingers clutched the cold metal so tight your knuckles had turned white.
A chill ran down your spine. “How do you know that?” you whispered.
“If you’re so sure I’m not human…” she paused, her voice dipping lower, almost tender, “then why do you sound so tempted to let me in?”
You couldn’t answer. The question hung in the air between you like static.
You exhaled slowly and turned the lock. It clicked, soft and final. You told yourself you were just tired of the silence. That it was safer to have someone—anyone—inside than risk facing another night alone.
The door creaked open, just enough to let the light catch her eyes. They were blue. Clear, unsettlingly so.
“‘Cause I need someone inside with me, I guess,” you muttered.
That seemed to be good enough for her.
Paige smiled—small, knowing, almost kind.
And as she stepped forward into the sliver of light, the air in the house shifted.
It wasn’t colder. Just… alive again.
You led her inside, slow steps, eyes never leaving her back. The door clicked shut behind her, the sound almost too final for comfort. You made sure to stay close enough to watch her movements, far enough that she couldn’t reach you first if she turned. Your hand hovered near the gun tucked at your waistband, the safety off, and bullet ready. You didn’t plan to shoot, but the plan never mattered when it came to the Visitors.
She didn’t hesitate. Not once.
Paige walked through your home like she’d been there before—each step steady and unafraid. She didn’t scan her surroundings like most survivors did. She didn’t whisper or tremble or stare at the boarded up windows.
She just knew where to go.
You followed her into the living room. The air there was stale, mixed with bleach and something copper underneath. Paige stopped in the middle of it, hands in her pockets, tilting her head slightly like she was listening to the house breathe. Then she dropped herself onto the couch, sprawled out, legs open, and completely at ease.
“Might as well just rip that bit of wallpaper off,” she said casually, chin tipping toward the faded stain you’d been scrubbing for hours. “Smell won’t go away.”
Your grip on the gun tightened. She hadn’t even looked at it.
“How’d you know it was there?” you asked quietly.
Paige finally looked up at you, blue eyes meeting yours in a way that felt wrong. They were soft and cold at the same time, too steady to belong to someone human. There was something hungry in the stillness of her gaze.
“Lucky guess.” Her lips curved up again into that faint, lazy smirk.
You didn’t respond, because you didn’t trust your voice not to shake. You wanted to break eye contact, to move, to breathe—but you couldn’t. She looked at you like she was peeling your skin away layer by layer, and part of you wanted her to keep going.
“Paige,” she said after a long silence, her voice low and rough around the edges.
Your brow furrowed. “What?”
“My name.” She leaned back slightly, still staring up at you from the couch. “It’s Paige.”
You blinked. Of course it was. That should’ve been obvious, but somehow, your brain lagged. You couldn’t tell if it was exhaustion or something she was doing to you.
“Cool,” you murmured, voice flat, trying to sound unaffected. But she was still watching you, pupils dilated just enough to make you uneasy.
You wondered, for one awful second, what her skin felt like. If it’d be warm. If she’d flinch at your touch.
You shook the thought off hard enough to make your jaw ache. No. You couldn’t want anything right now. Not when wanting got people killed.
She tilted her head again, like she could hear your thoughts knocking around inside your skull. “You’re not gonna test me?”
Your pulse stuttered. She said it too easily, too sure of herself, like she already knew the answer.
You kept your face blank, forcing your voice into something cold. “Don’t get too excited about it. Or too comfortable.”
Her grin widened just enough to show a sliver of teeth. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You turned away before she could say anything else, your fingers twitching near your gun again. The hallway light flickered overhead. You stopped by the radio, twisting its knob, smacking the side and hoping for a voice, static, something. But there was nothing. Just that endless, pulsing hum beneath the silence.
You could feel her gaze still on you from the couch. Heavy. Like hands pressing against your back.
Your throat felt dry when you finally slipped into your bedroom and locked the door behind you.
For a long time, you just stood there, staring at the handle, half expecting it to turn on its own. But it didn’t. Not yet.
You exhaled slowly and let yourself collapse onto the bed. The sheets were warm. The world was quieter than usual, and still you could swear you heard her voice under your skin.
You pressed your palms against your eyes, trying to shake it off. Trying not to think about her, about her voice, her eyes, her smirk. But it didn’t work.
You didn’t know if you’d ever sleep again.
And deep down, you weren’t sure if you even wanted to.
You didn’t expect to wake up the next morning, if you were being fully honest with yourself. You weren’t even sure what you expected. An attack in the dark? A stranger’s breath against your neck? The sound of your front door swinging open to the things outside?
But it definitely wasn’t waking up to your clock blinking 12:38 PM in a lazy, casual way. Like the world wasn’t ending. Like everything was normal.
Your brain was groggy, like you’d been drugged. You rarely slept deeply anymore—your dreams were usually too violent, too loud. Lately, every time you closed your eyes, the Visitors showed up. Sometimes they watched. Sometimes they spoke. Sometimes they smiled.
But today? Nothing. Just blankness and a faint ache behind your eyes.
You pressed your palm to your forehead as you sat up. You tried to search your mind, forcing it to rewind the night, but all you found were flashes. White teeth, blue eyes, fingers wrapped around your wrist. A laugh. Or a growl. Or breathing. You weren’t sure.
It made your chest tighten.
You stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom. The faucet sputtered before releasing a cold, biting stream of water. You splashed your face repeatedly until your skin stung.
When you finally looked into the mirror, your breath snagged in your throat.
Your reflection wasn’t wrong, but it wasn’t right either.
Your eyes were bloodshot and glossy.
Your skin drained of warmth, like light reflected off porcelain instead of flesh.
You leaned closer and noticed the way your pupils looked a fraction too dilated. Like prey.
Or like something nocturnal.
Your tongue felt thick in your mouth as you finished brushing your teeth and stepped out into the silent hallway.
Silent, except for the soft creak of the house breathing around you.
You forced your feet to carry you past the living room and past where you last saw her.
You slowed.
She was still there. Exactly as you left her—same posture, same casual sprawl, same hands loosely resting on her thighs like she had nowhere else to be. Her focus was fixed dead ahead at the wide open window.
A window you were certain you’d latched last night.
Your heart crawled up into your throat. You didn’t want to look outside, didn’t want to risk seeing them… The ones that scanned houses for movement and begged in voices that mimicked people they’d devoured.
So you kept your gaze locked on Paige.
“Good morning.” Her voice drifted out smooth and quiet—too quiet—like she didn’t need volume to reach you.
“Did you sleep well?”
You froze, body angled halfway behind the doorframe like a child hiding from a ghost. You didn’t reply. Couldn’t. You just hummed a weak, unsure noise that barely qualified as communication.
She didn’t look at you, her attention stayed on the sunlit horror beyond the glass.
Were you missing something? Was she seeing movement? Shadows? Someone staring back?
Your fingers twitched.
Then, slowly, she turned her head.
When her eyes met yours, every muscle in your body seized. Blue. Too blue. Unblinking.
Like she wasn’t looking at you, but into you, carving your secrets out from the inside.
“Oh, I’m sure you did.” Her tone curled at the edges in a knowing, delighted way.
It felt like a pressure wrapped around your ribs, squeezing so tight your next breath came out as a shaky exhale. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up one by one.
The room was warm, but you suddenly felt cold.
You backed away before you even realized you were moving, retreating step by slow step until the living room disappeared from your view. Paige didn’t follow. She didn’t need to.
Her gaze still clung to you.
You pressed your shoulders against the wall and tried to calm your breathing, but clarity refused to come. Something about her was wrong. Too sure of herself, too calm, too comfortable in the nightmare your home had become.
You knew you should test her. You knew you should be ready to kill her. You knew you should never, ever turn your back on her.
And yet, despite the dread going down your spine, you couldn’t shake the twisted comfort that came with her presence. Like if something terrible tried to break in, she’d already be waiting for it.
Whether to protect you—or to join it—you still couldn’t tell.
You sat at the kitchen table with a glass of wine on one side and your loaded gun on the other, lined up perfectly to your dominant hand in case survival demanded speed again. You stared at the gun as though you were seeing it for the first time, even though it had been your closest companion these past weeks. Your heartbeat counted the moments you had used it and the number of times you wished you hadn’t.
If someone had told you a month ago that you’d be using it to blow ‘people’s’ brains out—watching blood and something more metallic splatter across your walls and into the carpet threading like spilled ink—you would’ve laughed. Maybe even offered to walk them into a psych ward yourself.
But here you were three weeks later. Too many dead. Most were visitors, but two had still been human. Just as breakable and just as terrified. Warm blood, warm eyes, warm voices. They haunted your dreams, or they had, until today. Maybe they were grateful now. Maybe freeing them from this nightmare was the closest thing to mercy left. It was the *‘Thank you’*s that scared you the most.
“You seem like you’re having fun.”
Her voice—uninvited, too casual for the apocalypse—rang through your kitchen.
You jerked violently at the sudden voice. Paige’s voice. Your hand flew for the gun, knocking the wine glass over with a sharp crack. Dark red splashed across the table and floor like spilled blood. The stem shattered, pieces glittering like tiny teeth.
Your pulse hammered against your throat.
She didn’t flinch.
Instead, she leaned against your doorway with an almost bored amusement, eyes dropping to the spill and the shattered glass, studying the scene like a painting.
“Fuck…” The word left you in a whisper only loud enough for you to hear. Yet her lips twitched like she’d heard every atomic vibration of it.
She stepped further in, every pace deliberate, almost predatory in its calm. Then she crouched before you, kneeling right at your feet as if she belonged there, and began examining the mess.
“It’s okay. Accidents happen,” she murmured. “At least you’re not hurt.” She looked up at you through her lashes, voice soft and warm with something like kindness.
And suddenly your lungs forgot how to work.
You looked down at her. Too close. Too calm. Her head tilted up, eyes locking onto yours. That stare hit you like a hand around your throat—gentle enough to soothe, firm enough to own.
Intimidation, heat, fear, curiosity, and something unnamed and feral braided itself around your spine. Her blue eyes were too vivid, too hungry, and that’s when you noticed how red the whites were. Strained, sleepless, and feverish. It didn’t automatically make her a visitor right? Yours looked the same by now.
Then her cold hand, impossibly cold for weather this hot, for a sun still scorching outside, closed around your bare knee. But the chill wasn’t what you fixated on. It was the softness. The tenderness. As if you could shatter under the slightest pressure. A touch meant to reassure, but it felt like she was staking a claim.
“Are you feeling alright, pretty?” she asked, voice light and almost sing song , like someone practicing affection rather than feeling it. Was she flirting? Or was she simply the type who made endearments sound like threats wrapped in silk like those comforting southern women you loved so much?
You nodded without realizing you’d forgotten to breathe. Though you didn’t remember deciding to nod.
Her fingers tightened—painfully and possessively—as her gaze swallowed you whole. You felt skinned open beneath it.
“Breathe for me,” she murmured, unconcerned and commanding. “I don’t want you turning purple.”
Your whole world narrowed to her. Her voice, her eyes, her face. The way she spoke as if you were fragile and she was the only thing keeping you from falling apart. Your lungs obeyed before your brain did. Inhaling sharply and exhaling slowly, because logic had drowned somewhere between her pupils.
She smiled. A small, sharp curl of lips, satisfaction disguised as something kind.
“Good girl,” she cooed, quiet and intimate, before withdrawing her hand and calmly picking up shards of glass with her bare fingers, collecting them like precious stones. She didn’t bleed.
She rose, tossed the shards into the trash, and wandered out of the kitchen without another word.
Only when she vanished did you look down at your knee. Her grip had left a blooming red imprint—a perfect ghost of her hand.
So much for not wanting you to turn purple.
The day slipped by in fits of avoidance. You kept your distance from Paige, not because she moved much—she didn’t—but because proximity made your head fog and your pulse stutter. She sat in the same places, watched the same corners, said almost nothing. One thing nagged at you all afternoon though: she hadn’t eaten. Not once. She hadn’t asked for a thing. It should have alarmed you, but you swallowed that alarm because you needed her there. You needed a body inside the house, a voice that answered when you spoke. Needed someone who hadn’t yet learned to kneel at the door and beg for mercy.
Then the knocks came again. Not loud, not frantic—just the pattern you had learned to dread. You’d memorized his rhythm like a warning sign carved into your bones. Three short. Pause. Two long. Pause. A single, final rap. The sound cut through the house, and the silence folded up around it until everything felt smaller.
Your heart turned into a fist of ice in your chest. You’d never had only one other person inside when he chose to call. Your feet moved of their own accord, each step heavy with dread, and sweat slicked yoir palms as you pressed your eye to the peephole. The backyard beyond the glass was the same ruined picture it always was. brown grass and the useless silhouettes of bodies, but he was there too, waiting in the ruin, pale as paper under the sick sun.
“So, you’re still holed up here I see,” he said, his voice sliding through the door like something made to unsettle. It always did. It hit at a frequency that didn’t belong in human throats. “I was outside your window last night. Wanted to show you something, but you weren’t looking.”
You felt the memory in your bones. Last time you’d peeked, he’d stood like a statue for hours, knife in his hand and a head dangling over the other like a grotesque trophy. You could still picture the way the jaw had flopped. The way the eyes seemed to blink when the wind hit them. The thought curled low in your belly and you were grateful you’d slept so hard that night. If you’d been awake, you knew you’d have looked. You would have seen.
“What a shame. Maybe next time,” you managed, keeping your voice steady if not steady feeling.
“A shame indeed.” He flashed that grin—wide, too white, dolphin teeth catching the greenish hue of the evening. The light painted him as something carved of bone and hunger. You could see the shallow rise and fall of ribs beneath stretched flesh or whatever had once been skin. There were hollows under his eyes where sleep had not been welcome for a long time, but his grin made you colder than any lack of rest.
He leaned into the dramatics then, dragging his next word on purpose, a deliberate mocking hum of air. “Listennn. You alone?”
You closed your eyes and let the world press in for a second. He only had the power you gave him. Breathe. Name your ground. “No. I’m not alone. Sorry to disappoint.” Your voice didn’t sound like a threat. It sounded almost small.
The grin dropped. The light left his face and something flat and staring replaced it. He spoke like a judge with nothing but years of cruelty to recommend him. “You know things will never go back to the way they were, right? Life’s changed. You’ve changed. Just give up already.”
You didn’t dignify him with an answer. Silence felt like better armor than words.
“Next time we meet, you might not be as lucky,” he said, and then his silhouette receded. He walked away with a predator’s slow, deliberate gait. The yard swallowed him.
You let the breath you hadn’t known you were holding out, a sound that was half curse and half release. “Stupid fucking cunt,” you spat into the quiet as if the house itself had offended you.
When you turned back to the room, Paige was inches from you. She’d moved without sound. For a moment you thought you’d blinked and she’d moved that close, and the suddenness of it made you gasp. Your shoulder hit the door as she stepped forward, and instinct—hot, metallic—rose up like bile.
“Who was that?” Her voice was too casual, low and almost playful. You couldn’t tell if she was asking because she didn’t know, or because she already knew everything he did.
“Don’t worry about it,” you said, cutting the question off. You tried to slide past her, to create space, to make the walls between you feel thicker, safer.
Her hand firmly closed around your wrist and rhe pressure stopped you like a clamp. It wasn’t a rough hold. It was a possessive one.
Everything snapped back into survival mode. Your fingers found the gun so fast it felt like muscle memory on autopilot. You pulled it free and, without thinking beyond the immediate need to make her release you, pressed the barrel under her chin. The cold metal kissed sensitive skin. There was a second—nothing but the small mechanized click of your breath—that felt like the last possible moment between deciding and acting.
“If you don’t let go of me right now, I will literally paint this door with your fucking blood and brains,” you said. Your voice was steady. It had to be. You had to sound like any hesitation would be lethal. “Okay?”
She did not blink in fear. She did not crumble. If anything, the expression that slid across her face was amusement edged with something darker. Your brain supplied explanations for weeks of sleep deprivation, hormones, fatigue, and the way grief rewires hunger but you also felt the prick of something else, an edge of arousal or approval in the way she held herself under the threat.
“My bad, ma.” She let go as if releasing a leash, palms lifted, the grin in place like a secret. The grin did not falter when the cold of the barrel rested at her jaw. She seemed to inhale the steel and your skin tightened at that sight.
You pressed the gun until the metal pressed hard enough to numb the skin, watching her reactions like someone monitoring a live experiment. Her pupils didn’t dance, they dilated in a slow, patient way that looked indulgent. She did not flinch from the threat. She seemed to enjoy the proximity as much as she enjoyed watching you try to be cruel.
Your eyes challenged ans hers dared. The room held both of you taut, a wire tuned to snap. It felt like being observed by something both animal and scholar at once. Curious and amused.
For a breath, you wondered whether you wanted to pull the trigger. Not to hurt her. Not yet. The thought was obscene and electric and half terrifying. You could feel the weight of what killing did, how it would stain the walls again, how it would cost something inside you until nothing remained. You also felt that awful, parentless loneliness and the knowledge that this man outside would be back. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps with more. The calculus told you to keep her alive.
She held your gaze and smiled, like a tutor who’d been watching you solve an equation and was curious to see if you’d do it on your own. Then she stepped aside, fluid and calm , leaving the space between you humming with unsaid things.
You lowered the gun slowly, your hands shaking with the effort of restraint. Her imprint on you, both literal and otherwise, burned like a brand you hadn’t agreed to.
Outside, the house settled. The night covered the yard. He disappeared into the ruin and the sound of him walking away carved out a hollow that no noise could fill.
Inside, Paige watched you with the faintest slant of hunger in her eyes. The night had grown heavy with threats and near consequences and you were exhausted from being expected to choose between them. You thought about the headaches, the dream choked nights, the faces of those two people who’d been unmistakably human until the moment you had stupidly decided they weren’t. You thought about mercy and survival and whether the two were even words that belonged in the same language now.
You sat there, palms damp, and felt the house close around you. She had not moved to comfort you. She had not promised protection. She had simply been there, as if closeness were a right she’d always held.
You could not tell if she was protecting you, testing you, or simply hungry in the way that had nothing to do with dinner.
Either way, you were running out of choices.
You felt like you were rotting from the inside out. Not the sudden, cinematic kind of fear, but a slower decay. Doubts eating at you the way soil eats a body left to itself. Paranoia didn’t arrive as a burst. It was a small, persistent worm behind your thoughts, gnawing at instincts until they blurred.
There was something off about her. Then there wasn’t. The longer you stared, the less the pieces fit together. Her presence made your rules look like riddles written in a language you no longer spoke.
Goosebumps prickled across your arms. Your foot tapped a nervous rhythm against the bedroom floorboards as you sat hunched on the vanity chair. The mirror before you caught half your room and all your unraveling: a messy scatter of papers pinned with notes, diagrams, timelines, survival protocols in your handwriting. Everything you thought could keep the world organized. Patterns. Signs. Names. You read them as if they might translate the stranger sitting in your living room. They offered nothing.
You lifted your head and watched your reflection. When had your face stopped belonging to you? Your eyes, once wide and incandescent with stories, stared back smaller, rimmed with red and glassy with exhaustion. Your lips, once soft and full, had cracked and lost color as if the blood itself had thinned and fled. Dark crescents pooled under your eyes like ink spilled overnight. The apocalypse had been an unkind mirror.
You could not stand it any longer. You needed to know. You needed proof you could point to when instinct screamed otherwise.
The chair legs scraped the floor with a sound that felt too loud in the quiet. You grabbed your gun and yanked the bedroom door open, the snap of wood echoing. The hallway swallowed you as you moved fast, boots thudding, breath short. Your hands were steadier than you felt.
“Get up. I wanna test you.” The words left your mouth with a force you barely recognized.
She looked at you the way someone inspects an insect through a glass jar. Paige’s blue eyes lifted slowly. the bloodshot whites framed them like bruises. A small smirk played at one corner of her mouth. She let her arm fall off the back of the couch before sliding up to her feet, coming toward you like a tide.
She was too tall up close. The air contracted around you in her shadow. You should have felt in control. You did not.
“Yeah? What you wanna test?” she said, voice low and amused, as if you’d invited a game.
You gripped the gun with practiced care, forcing your tone to steel. “Show me your hands.” You pointed the barrel lightly, not aiming to kill yet, just to command.
Paige cocked a brow like the request entertained her. She held her hands out without hesitation. They were unnaturally clean and oddly cold to the touch. No dirt trapped under the nails, no scrapes or splinters, no telltale signs visitors often carried. They might have been washed minutes ago, or they might have never touched the ground. You couldn’t tell which made you feel worse.
You probed her palms, fingers mapping planes of skin that didn’t betray work or travel or suffering. The cold seemed to sink through your glove and into bone. For a second you wondered if you were the one who had been outside too long, if your temperature had become unreliable.
“You happy?” she teased when you finally let go, a lazy challenge wrapped in a grin. “Or you want to touch my hands some more? Maybe something else?”
You rolled your eyes, the sound of it hollow even to yourself. People made jokes in the face of dying, it was the most human thing she’d shown so far. You wanted to be angry, to call her out for the ease with which she toyed with the edges of your patience. Instead you barked, “How about you touch some grass.”
She shrugged, casual and unnerved. “I would, but I can’t really go outside, you know?” The shrug was effortless. Her nonchalance irritated and terrified you in equal measure.
You felt the tug of exhaustion hardening into something more like resignation. Sleep had seemed a gift last night—you’d never slept more soundly in weeks —and you wanted that shelter again. You turned away, each step back to your room a small surrender, the gun still heavy at your side.
Maybe you’d sleep like a baby again, you thought absurdly, as if last night were proof you could trust the world for a few hours. As the door clicked shut behind you, the house settled into its usual thin breathing. Outside, the ruined day folded away. Inside, you could still feel the echo of her hands against your skin and the cold press of her gaze through the walls.
You lay down with the gun on the nightstand and tried to will your eyes to close. The mirror in your head replayed her hands, her smirk, the way she had not flinched. Somewhere under the exhaustion, something deeper and quieter had shifted. You could no longer tell if you feared her because she was dangerous, or because she was altering the shape of you, softening edges you had sharpened for survival.
Either way, you were tired. You let darkness take you, and for a moment thought you might sleep.
Sleep had finally dragged you under after nearly an hour of tossing and turning, the heat suffocating, sweat sticking your tank top to your back. The blanket—usually your nightly armor—lay abandoned at your feet. A month ago, you couldn’t even think about sleeping without it tucked up to your chin. Now? A flimsy sheet meant nothing. Your gun was the real comfort.
Or it used to be.
You’d rolled onto your back, another new habit you never liked, but exhaustion didn’t leave room for preferences. What woke you wasn’t noise, or a nightmare, but the air. Warm. Too warm. And breathing against your skin.
You tried to ignore it, tried to sink deeper into sleep. Tried to pretend there wasn’t something in the dark with you.
“Don’t scream.”
The whisper grazed the edge of your ear, a breath hotter than the room, and your eyes snapped open.
Paige hovered over you in the darkness—a silhouette with sharp features and red rimmed eyes glowing faintly like something not meant to see daylight. A strangled scream jumped from your throat but was crushed beneath her palm before it could live. Her other hand pressed into the mattress beside your head, caging you completely.
Your heart slammed painfully, like it wanted to punch free of your ribcage.
When did she get in here? Why didn’t you hear her move? How long had she been watching you sleep?
“Shhhh…” she breathed, voice threaded with a disturbingly tender cadence.
“You’re okay. Just stay quiet for me, mama.”
Your skin burned where her body brushed yours—too close, too intentional. You nodded, because what else could you do with her weight pinning you down?
That’s when the tapping started.
Soft. Sharp. Rhythmic.
Tap… tap… tap…
Against the window and against your sanity.
You flinched, your entire body seizing up, but Paige didn’t so much as blink.
Her lips curled. Amused.
“He said he brought you a present,” she murmured, like sharing a secret.
“Wanna see?”
Your lungs froze mid breath and the bile in your throat tasted metallic. You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.
Paige removed her hand only to slip her arms under you, one beneath your knees, the other behind your back, and lifted you like your fear weighed nothing. Your arms clung around her neck automatically, your body acting purely on survival instinct.
She carried you toward the window.
The curtains loomed like a sealed tomb.
“I’ve got you,” she whispered, her breath brushing your cheek. “All you have to do is look. Then it’ll be over.” A lullaby wrapped in a threat.
Your trembling fingers reached for the fabric .A slow drag… a hesitant parting…Eyes squeezed shut because maybe you weren’t ready. Maybe you would never be ready.
Her voice was soft, yet commanding.
“Open them.”
Your eyelids obeyed, but your mind regretted.
Outside stood him—the pale man.
That grotesquely familiar smile stretched wider than human skin should allow.
In his hands, dangling like a grotesque trophy. Your neighbor’s head. Mouth frozen in a silent scream. Blood dripping in slow, syrupy lines.No eyes left to cry for help.
The tap… tap… tap…was the head knocking against the glass as he proudly lifted it higher.
A sound ripped from your chest—not quite a scream—a sharp inhale that punctured your lungs like knives. You buried yourself into Paige’s neck, face pressed to her cold skin, needing to hide from the world, from him, from everything.
“Shhhh…” Her hand slipped into your hair, stroking. “So good. It’s over now.
You’re safe with me. He can’t hurt you.”
You hated that it helped. Hated that her voice made the terror ease. Hated that she was the only thing between you and a nightmare wearing human skin.
“Why are you doing this?”
The words were muffled into her collarbone, small and fragile.
Paige shifted you in her arms, cradling you closer like a child clinging to their monster.
“To show you he can’t touch what’s mine.”
She walked you back to the bed and sat down, keeping you in her lap like you were an extension of her body, like letting you go wasn’t an option she’d ever consider.
Your fingers fisted the back of her shirt.
You weren’t clinging for affection — you were clinging for survival.
“You’re safe,” she whispered, chin resting atop your head. “See? Nothing can get to you while you’re with me, pretty.”
Her arms wrapped around you like protection. Like restraint. Like a promise. And for the first time since the world fell apart, you weren’t sure which one you wanted.
You woke up like someone had just pulled you out of a nightmare by the throat, gasping and sitting up so fast that your vision spun. For a second, you didn’t even realize where you were. The ceiling above you looked warped in the half light seeping through your curtains, your chest heaving, lungs fighting for air that didn’t seem to reach all the way down. Sweat clung to your back and gathered at the base of your neck, slicking the tiny hairs there until they stuck to your skin. The sheets were a tangled mess around your legs. You could feel the faint tremor in your own hands when you pushed yourself upright.
Everything seemed normal. Your eyes darted around the room, frantically scanning every corner, every shadow, every faint outline that could’ve been her. But Paige wasn’t there. The curtains were still drawn. The window still closed. No blood. No sound. Just the low hum of the refrigerator somewhere beyond the walls and your own pulse hammering against your ribs.
For a fleeting moment, you let yourself believe it. Maybe last night really had been a nightmare, maybe sleep deprivation and paranoia had finally blurred the line between real and unreal. The thought almost made you laugh—almost.
You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, the floorboards cold beneath your feet as you pushed yourself to stand. Every muscle in your body felt wired, your nerves still buzzing from something you couldn’t see. You hesitated before leaving the room, every step toward the door slower than the last, and when you finally peeked into the living room, the empty couch made your stomach twist. The blanket you’d tossed to her the night she arrived was folded neatly on the armrest. The indentation where she usually sat was gone.
She wasn’t there.
Maybe she’d finally left. Maybe you’d wake up tomorrow and it would be like none of it ever happened.
“Looking for someone?”
You froze. The voice came from behind you, quiet but heavy enough to stop your breath. The air in the room shifted instantly, and you turned, too fast, too clumsy. Paige stood in the hallway, leaning against the doorframe like she’d been there for a while, watching you.
She looked different. Her eyes weren’t as red as before, though the veins around them still lingered faintly. Her skin had a strange glow, not like health but like light bouncing off polished marble—unnatural, too clean. Her hair looked softer, like it had just been brushed, and for one absurd second, you wondered if she’d been standing in front of your mirror this whole time, staring at herself.
You couldn’t speak. Your voice felt caught somewhere between your throat and your chest, so all you did was shake your head, your breath coming out uneven.
Her gaze was steady, patient, unnervingly calm. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said softly, her lips twitching into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Relax. You’re safe.”
You didn’t believe her, but the words still had that low hum of comfort that made your brain want to listen. She stepped closer—too close—and your instinct was to move back, but she only brushed past you with the faintest touch at your arm, warm and deliberate, her fingers grazing your skin long enough to make your stomach clench. “C’mon,” she murmured, her tone laced with something almost playful. “You need food. You haven’t eaten.”
Her hand pressed gently against the small of your back, guiding you forward. You told yourself to shrug it off, to resist, to step away, but you didn’t. Somehow, your body didn’t listen. There was something in her touch that rooted you in place, like fighting it would only make it worse.
The smell hit you first. Not strong, but enough to jolt you. Pancakes. Sweet, faintly burnt, mixed with the bitter aroma of coffee. The table was set with a plate, a fork, and a mug. It looked wrong. It looked like a scene from a life that wasn’t yours anymore.
“Sit,” she said, pulling the chair out for you as if this were some casual morning in a world that hadn’t ended. “You need to eat something.”
You sat because you didn’t know what else to do. The chair creaked softly under your weight, and the smell of the food—too normal, too human—made your stomach churn with both hunger and suspicion. Paige sat opposite you, resting her elbows on the table, her posture lazy but her eyes sharp. She didn’t blink much, just watched as you hesitantly picked up your fork and began cutting into the pancakes, the edge of the knife scraping against the plate.
Her attention was suffocating. You could feel her gaze dragging across every small movement. Your hands, your throat, the way you chewed too quickly.
After a moment, she tilted her head slightly. “Anything on your mind?”
You stopped mid-cut, knife hovering over the pancake. The question felt loaded and too casual to be harmless. You swallowed hard before answering, voice low and uncertain. “Last night… why did you do that?”
Her brow furrowed, and the change in her expression was subtle but calculated. The confusion she wore looked almost genuine. “What do you mean?” she asked, her tone light. “What did I do?”
Your heartbeat picked up again, the unease crawling back up your spine. “When came into my room,” you said slowly, each word deliberate, like you were testing how real they sounded out loud. “You know what happened, don’t make me retell it.” You continued , the memory flashing sharp and cold.
She blinked at you. Then that faint, amused smirk curved her lips again. “Why would I come into your room at night?” Her voice softened, mocking affection lacing through it. “Were you having a wet dream about me?”
The sound you made wasn’t quite a laugh, but not quite denial either. “What? No. What the fuck.” You meant to sound offended, but it came out shaky. Her smirk deepened slightly, satisfaction flickering behind her eyes. The air between you tightened. She didn’t have to say anything else, you could already feel her winning whatever silent game she was playing.
Maybe you were wrong. Maybe the nightmare had just been that—an ugly, feverish dream. You were tired. You hadn’t eaten. You hadn’t slept properly in days. Maybe this was what losing your mind felt like. “Nevermind,” you muttered, forcing a small laugh as you dropped your gaze back to the plate. “I probably just imagined it.”
Paige hummed, low and pleased, before leaning back in her chair. “That happens sometimes,” she said, almost kindly. “Dreams can feel real when you’re running on empty.”
You stabbed another piece of pancake, this time bringing it to your mouth quickly, pretending the conversation hadn’t scraped open the back of your mind. She kept watching you though, silent and still, eyes glimmering with something you couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t hunger for food. It wasn’t even lust, exactly. It was closer to ownership, the way a collector looked at something rare.
After a while, you tried to fill the silence. “Why didn’t you make any for yourself?”
Her grin widened slightly, the faintest glint of teeth showing as her tongue darted across her lower lip. “I already ate,” she murmured, voice velvet soft.
You nodded absently, but the words sat wrong in your head, echoing. Something about the way she said it—slow and casual, but deliberate—made you feel like she wasn’t talking about breakfast at all.
Evening fell like a blackout curtain.
You sat curled up on the couch, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like it could hide the shaking in your hands. The gun rested beside your thigh, silent and useless unless your instincts decided to wake up again.
Paige lounged across the room, leaning against the wall as though she were posing for a painter. She flipped lazily through one of your notebooks—the ones filled with warnings and timelines and desperate ideas for survival—smiling faintly like she was reading a romance novel instead of your unraveling sanity.
“Your handwriting is cute when you’re scared,” she mused without looking up.
Before you could snap at her you heard three knocks. Calm and polite. Too normal for this world.
Everything inside you froze.
A male voice followed.
“H-hello? I… I heard someone inside. Please, I’m just looking for somewhere to stay for the night.”
Your breath hitched. He sounded like a real person. Normal and reasonable. You were already halfway to the door when Paige’s voice cut through the air like a wire tightening around your throat:
“Don’t.”
It wasn’t loud, nor was it forceful, but it made you stop nonetheless.
Paige pushed off the wall and approached like she had all the time in the world. Her fingers brushed your elbow as she came to stand behind you.
The voice outside spoke again, tired and hopeful.
“Please. I’m clean. I haven’t seen anyone in days. I won’t be any trouble.”
Your chest constricted. You swallowed hard, eyes flicking toward the lock.
“See?” you whispered. “He’s human.”
Paige leaned down, her breath ghosted across the back of your neck, warm and intimate in a way that felt wrong.
Wrong because you leaned into it.
“You’re smart,” she whispered. “Your instincts kept you alive this long.” Her hand slid down your arm, fingers tracing the tendons of your wrist. “So why aren’t you listening to them now?”
You blinked. Confused. “What—?”
“You’re shaking,” she murmured. “Not because of him… but because of the idea of trusting him.”
You looked down, your hand on the lock trembled violently.
She was right. She was right—wasn’t she?
Another knock. Softer this time.
“I’m not dangerous,” the man said, voice cracking. “I just—I’m so tired. You don’t even have to let me stay around you. Just… just a roof.”
Your heart ached. God, you knew that kind of tired.
Paige moved closer—her chest pressed to your back now, one hand gently closing over yours on the lock. Her touch was cold and tender at the same time, like a soft shackle.
“That’s the problem,” she whispered.
“They always say the right things.”
You stared into the peephole.
A man stood there, mid 40s, worn jacket, dirt streaked face. Panting like he’d been running for miles. He didn’t look like a monster. He looked like a school teacher. A dad. A neighbor.
Your voice was barely audible. “He just needs help.”
Paige’s fingers slowly interlaced with yours on the doorknob.
“And what about you?” Her tone sharpened, a whispered blade. “Who helps you when you let in the wrong person? Who saves you if he decides you’re just another meal?”
Your lungs stuttered and your hand slipped off the lock.
Paige hummed a pleased little sound behind you—almost affectionate—as she slid her arm around your waist and pulled you back against her, guiding you away from the door like you were something fragile made of wet paper.
Outside, the man sighed, the sound heartbreakingly human.
“…Okay,” he murmured. “I understand. I’ll keep moving.”
You listened to his footsteps fade into the dark.
Paige nuzzled her chin into your hair, her voice velvety sweet as she spoke. “You made the right choice. You trusted me.”
Her grip tightened—not painfully, but like she was securing ownership. “See how safe you are, when you listen?”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because the truth hit you. You didn’t know if you were safe from the world outside or from the woman holding you so close.
Paige smiled against your skin, feeling that thought run through you like a shiver.
“There we go,” she cooed. “It’s just us now.”
And God help you, a part of you felt relieved.
You sat in front of your vanity, the soft glow of the dim lamp barely reaching the edges of the room. Your fingers closed around the handle of the hairbrush, lifting it to your tangled strands. Slowly, you pulled it through your hair, and with each stroke, more and more strands clung to the bristles like fragile threads slipping away. You watched them fall, limp and lifeless, and a sharp stab of panic fluttered in your chest.
Your eyes, rimmed red and sunken from sleepless nights and endless tears, locked on your reflection in the mirror. The face staring back at you was a stranger—pale, hollow, lips cracked and dry, the faint shadows under your eyes like bruises no one else could see. The skin was dull, sallow, and even your once favourite silky nightgown couldn’t make you feel anything but exposed.
You sighed, shaky and defeated, trying to find a trace of the pretty girl you used to be. The one who loved this ritual, who smiled at her own reflection with hope and light in her eyes, but she wasn’t there anymore. Just a ghost trapped behind glass.
Your hand lifted and smeared cold and heavy foundation onto your skin like armor— uneven and thick, like war paint against a battle no one else could fight for you. Eyeliner, mascara, lip gloss, blush… you did everything just like before, forcing the motions out of muscle memory. But the reflection didn’t change. It only highlighted how far you’d fallen from the girl you knew.
Tears pricked at your eyes and stung, but you blinked them back. Your fingers reached for a makeup wipe, hovering over your face as if it might erase the pain beneath. But you hesitated, staring hard at your own reflection, memorizing every cracked line and hollow cheek. You wanted to be you again. You wanted normal and you wanted to stop feeling like you were unraveling thread by thread, slipping into a darkness that you could no longer fight.
The quiet pressure of those emotions swelled inside, rising like a storm threatening to break free. Before you knew what you were doing, you stood abruptly, grabbed the empty glass from the nightstand, and with a scream that came from deep inside your soul—raw and ragged—you hurled it across the room. The glass shattered against the wall near the door, shards scattering across the floor like fragments of your fractured self.
Paige appeared quietly in the doorway, watching you with that unnervingly calm expression of hers. You didn’t notice her at first, pacing back and forth like a caged animal, hands running frantically through your hair, tugging and pulling as if trying to rip the confusion and pain from your mind.
Her voice finally broke through the chaos, soft and measured, as if she were soothing a child instead of the storm that raged within you.
“Hey, hey. Calm down, it’s okay,” she said, stepping fully into the room with deliberate grace.
Your breath hitched, tears streaming down your cheeks, eyes bloodshot and wild. Your hands trembled uncontrollably as you nibbled on your nails, searching desperately for something solid to hold onto, some last sliver of sanity.
Paige moved forward, reaching out to rest her hands gently on your shaking shoulders, guiding you towards the bed like you were a fragile thing made of glass. You stumbled slightly and sank down onto the mattress, knees hitting the frame with a hollow thud. Your breath was ragged, chest heaving.
Her hands slid behind your head, fingers threading through your hair, stroking slow and possessive. The touch should have comforted you—maybe it did—but there was something else beneath it. Something like ownership.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, voice soft but with an edge that demanded honesty. Not curiosity. Not kindness. Just ownership.
You clutched at her arms, desperate to anchor yourself to something real, your voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t do this anymore, Paige. I fucking can’t. I can’t.”
Her brows knit together in a show of concern, eyes softening as if she truly felt for you. But you knew better. It was a performance, a calculated tenderness that only made you more vulnerable.
“Can’t do what?” she murmured, voice like honey, coaxing.
You panted through your nose, lips trembling as you finally met her gaze, eyes raw with exhaustion and defeat.
“Living like this. I’m not me. This isn’t me, okay? Do you understand that? I’m not me anymore.” Your voice cracked, the words spilling out like a confession to a lover or a crime to a judge.
“I used to be pretty. Sweet. Kind. I was full of life. And look at me now,” you said, a choked sob wracking your body as your fingers tightened on her arms. “I’m wilting away. I don’t even look human anymore. I don’t feel human.”
Paige’s hands came up to cup your face, cold yet eerily soft, gentle enough to soothe but firm enough to remind you she was in control. Her gaze locked onto yours, her small smile curling at the edges—sympathy and something darker entwined.
“That’s good,” she said, voice low and velvety. “Humans are weak. You’re evolving.”
Her thumbs traced slow paths down your cheeks, wiping away the mascara-streaked tears with deliberate care. “And you’re still pretty, baby. So, so fucking gorgeous.”
You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Because somewhere between the exhaustion and the brokenness, between the need to resist and the hunger for comfort, a part of you began to listen. To fall. To lean in.
And Paige was there, always there, ready to catch you.
Paige slid behind you on the bed without a sound, the mattress dipping beneath her weight. Her knees came up on either side of your hips, closing you in place like she’d been waiting for this exact position. Her chest pressed against your back, not fully—she was savoring the inches she hadn’t claimed yet.
Her hand wrapped around your jaw, gently but with direction, turning your face toward the mirror as if you didn’t deserve to look away from what you were becoming.
“Look at you,” she whispered into your hair, her breath threading through the strands. “You can’t tell me that’s not beautiful.”
She brushed your hair to the opposite side with slow, deliberate fingers. The gesture was caring to anyone else, but to you, it felt like preparation. Her face hovered over your shoulder, cheek almost touching yours as she inspected the reflection like it was her masterpiece.
“Why would you want to look human?” Her voice dropped, low and darkly proud. “You look so much better like this.”
Your eyes—once warm, once full of sunlight—looked almost glassy under the dim lamp glow. Lighter. Sharper. Foreign. You hadn’t noticed it happening, you’d been too busy falling apart everywhere else.
Her lips ghosted the tender skin beneath your ear.
“This is who you’re meant to be, pretty,” she murmured, each syllable sliding down your spine. Then with a kiss against your cold neck, “Mine.”
A shiver raced through you, not entirely fear.
Her mouth moved up your throat in patient ascension. The soft pressure of each kiss carried a silent threat. She could devour you if she wanted to. And she did want to.
Her hands glided down your arms, her fingertips leaving goosebumps in their wake until she reached your wrists. She lifted them, placing your hands gently on your thighs—palms down, fingers spread—as if arranging a porcelain doll she owned.
Her thumbs stroked the inside of your wrists once… A reminder that all she had to do was close her fingers to make escape impossible.
Then she rose gracefully, lifting her weight from the bed only to reposition herself in front of you. The mirror vanished behind her. Only her existed now, her eyes, her breath, and her hunger.
She caught a tear on her thumb, smearing mascara like war paint across your cheek. Her gaze ignited with something triumphant.
“You’re exhausted,” she said, voice velvet and poisonous. Her hands cupped your cheeks, holding you steady, holding you still. “Let me think for you.”
Her eyes dropped to your lips—raw from weeks of chewing on your own panic—then back to your eyes, locking you in.
“Just give in.”
Your chest rose and fell too fast. Your pulse thundered beneath your skin. Every warning instinct in your body screamed at you.
But you nodded.
Because you were too tired to fight.
Because a terrifying part of you wanted this.
Paige’s grin was slow, predatory, and victorious. She leaned in, lips brushing yours, almost nothing, almost everything. “Good girl.” Her mouth finally met yours, soft at first. Testing. Tempting. Your lips moved without hesitation, like your body already belonged to her even if your mind refused to admit it. Her hand slid to the base of your throat, fingers resting lightly as if measuring your pulse. Not squeezing. Not yet. Just reminding you how easily she could.
It made your breath hitch and it made her smirk against your lips.
Her other hand found your bare thigh, fingertips dragging upward, slow enough to make you shake. She nipped at your bottom lip, coaxing your mouth open and when her tongue slid against yours, you melted, every defense collapsing into heat and want.
You kissed her like she was oxygen.
She kissed you like she was claiming territory.
Your hands—still placed obediently on your thighs—twitched with the urge to grab her, hold her, cling to something. Paige noticed. Paige loved it.
“You’re so adorable,” she breathed, swallowing your quiet, desperate sounds like they were her new favorite melody. Her tongue tasted fear and surrender and a hunger you didn’t know you had.
Then—just when you thought she would pull back—her teeth sank into your lip. Hard. Sharp. Breaking skin. A bloom of pain burst, metallic warmth following.
You gasped, but didn’t pull away.
She exhaled a shaky, delighted laugh against your mouth. Then licked the blood from your lip like it was something earned.
“God,” she whispered, voice raw with restraint she was losing by the second. “You taste like you were made for me.”
Her grip on your throat tightened—not enough to hurt, just enough to promise she could.
And you didn’t flinch. You leaned into it.
That was all she needed to break.
Her mouth crashed back to yours, harder and hungrier, every kiss a command, every touch possession.
You were gone and Paige finally let herself enjoy it.
Paige kissed you like she was drinking you, deep and greedy, her tongue claiming space that wasn’t hers but she took anyway. Every needy breath that slipped from your mouth, she swallowed like a reward.
Your self control snapped.
Your hand left your thigh and slid over hers, not pushing her away, but inviting. Encouraging. Begging without words. Your other hand slipped up into her hair, fingers threading through soft blonde strands as you tugged her bun loose. It fell around her shoulders in pale waves, a wild halo that made her look more dangerous. More unreal. More like the creature she was becoming.
And she let you.
A low, practically feral sound rumbled from her chest as she leaned into you, guiding you back until your back hit the mattress and your head sank into the pillow. The room tilted, the world narrowed, but she stayed in focus. Always her.
Her hand never left your throat, thumb resting over your pulse like she was counting how fast she was ruining you.
She broke the kiss only to hover above you—her cocky, devastating smirk curving at the corner of her mouth. Her blue eyes, glowing faintly with that same eerie light from the night before, dragged over your face like a caress.
The reminder struck you fast and cold. That wasn’t a nightmare. None of this was a nightmare. It was worse, and better than that.
Her grip eased from your throat, palm trailing down your chest in slow circles, slipping under your nightgown with a confident, possessive slide. Her fingertips traced your hipbone, claiming skin inch by inch.
“Tell me you need me,” she murmured, mouth brushing yours again but not quite kissing. Her voice was velvet and knives, soft enough to melt you, sharp enough to cut into the last of your resistance. “Tell me you want me to take care of you.”
Her hand squeezed your thigh, urging them apart just a little. Not enough to be explicit, but enough to make you shake. Her lips skimmed your cheek, then your jaw, then your throat, teeth grazing where her hand had been moments before.
“You’ve been so strong,” she whispered against your skin, tone dripping with dark sweetness. “So stubborn.” Her tongue flicked the edge of your pulse. “It’s cute.”
Her free hand slid into your hair, pulling just enough to expose more of your neck, her mouth trailing down greedily. “But you’re done fighting, aren’t you?” A kiss. “You want someone to take over.” Another. “You want me to take over.”
Her hand on your hip drifted inward, dangerously close to where you trembled for her. She didn’t touch—she hovered —letting the anticipation ache. Her nose brushed yours as she returned to your lips, eyes locked on yours like she was inside your head, answering thoughts before you could think them.
“That’s why you opened the door.”
Her thumb pressed lightly beneath your chin. “That’s why you almost begged when I kissed you.” Her smirk grew. “That’s why you’re under me right now… so fucking desperate.”
Your back arched as she finally— finally—let her body settle against yours fully, the heat between you snapping like electricity.
“Say it,” she coaxed, voice lower, darker, undeniably aroused. “Say you need me.”
Her fingers toyed with the hem of your nightgown, her mouth ghosting the corner of your lips, close enough to drive you insane and far enough to deny satisfaction.
“I wanna hear it,” she purred. “Wanna hear you give yourself to me.”
You could feel her smile against your cheek.
“Be a good girl…”Her hand slipped just a bit higher, enough to make your breath stop.“and admit you’re mine.”
Your lips parted, but the words that tried to crawl out of you weren’t the ones she wanted. “Paige, I—” you started, voice trembling and thin from everything pressing down on you. But she didn’t let you finish. Her mouth crashed onto yours again, swallowing the syllables before they could take shape. The kiss was hotter this time— hungry, claiming, like she wanted to eat every protest straight from your tongue. Her hand at your thigh pushed upward with intention, fingers flexing into skin she clearly wanted to bruise.
The sound that escaped you was embarrassment disguised as a gasp, and it made her smile into the kiss. She drank you in like you were something sweet she’d earned. When she pulled back, just barely, your heart chased her lips without permission and you moved before you even realized you were doing it.
Paige noticed. Oh, she noticed. Her hand slid higher still, brushing the softest part of you through the thin fabric of your nightgown. You jerked beneath her, breath catching in your throat, but she only tightened her hold around the back of your neck, guiding your gaze to hers.
Those impossibly blue eyes held you in place like a hand around your heart. “Aw, look at you,” she whispered, words curling into your mind like a possession spell, “you’re clinging to me like I’m the only thing keeping you alive.” Her nose brushed yours as she nudged your legs further apart, taking what she wanted without force—just the certainty she’d be obeyed. “‘Cause I am,” she added, soft but deadly, sealing it like a truth you were never allowed to question.
You opened your mouth again, maybe to fight, maybe to beg—you didn’t even know anymore—but the only thing that came out was her name. “Paige…” It wasn’t a plea or a warning. It was a submission dressed up like fear.
Her fingers finally slipped beneath the hem of your nightgown, skin to skin now, the heat of her palm burning into your hip like a brand. She tilted your chin up with her other hand, forcing you to hold her stare. “There she is,” she murmured, voice thick with dark satisfaction. “My pretty girl. My exhausted girl.” Her thumb pressed beneath your jawline, just shy of your pulse. “You’re tired of being human, aren’t you? Tired of pretending you don’t want this.” She leaned in, her lips brushing your ear, breath hot and possessive. “Just say it.”
You swallowed hard, chest rising sharply against hers. It felt like breathing through wire. Your body betrayed you — arching, seeking, desperate. Every inch of you screamed yes while your mind scrambled for something to hold onto and found nothing left. Not even yourself.
Her lips trailed from your ear back to your mouth, a slow drag that sent your stomach dropping like a stone. “Say you need me,” she repeated, voice almost gentle now, like a reward waiting to happen. “Say you want me.” She pressed a soft, unbearably slow kiss to your lips, one that felt like permission to fall apart. “Say you’re mine.”
Your last bit of reason cracked under the weight of desire and exhaustion and loneliness. You exhaled her name again— softer, broken—and nodded against her mouth as tears warmed your cheeks. “ I need you,” you whispered, and it sounded like confession and surrender in the same breath. Paige smiled. Not kind but not cruel, just certain. Because she had you now.
“Good girl,” she breathed, before kissing you again, deeper and harder, like she intended to keep that promise.
Paige’s hands began their descent like she was mapping a territory she intended to conquer. Her palms glided along your throat first—not squeezing, but measuring, feeling the flutter of your pulse, counting each beat that belonged to her. She dragged her thumbs down the line of your collarbones, over the swell of your chest, circling lazily around each hardened peak just to feel the way you gasped and arched up into her touch.
Your nightgown clung to her knuckles as she moved lower. Over your ribs, one by one, like she was checking what was still breakable. She paused briefly beneath your sternum, her hand flattening against the trembling rise and fall of your breathing. Savoring the panic. The want.
Then she reached your stomach—her fingertips dipping into the soft give of skin there—until finally, *finally*, she gripped your hips like she was claiming a meal.
The whole time, her mouth was fused to yours. The kiss was messy and consuming, all tongue and teeth and hunger. She pulled tiny, helpless sounds straight from your lungs and swallowed every one like she was starving for them. By the time she pulled away, your lips felt bitten, used, and bruised.
She pushed your nightgown up, slow and with purpose, until cool air brushed the purple lace panties you’d put on hoping to feel like a normal girl again. But under her stare, you felt anything but normal.
Paige looked down at you through her lashes, lips slick and parted, and the smirk that curled there was pure appetite.
“God…” she breathed, desire dripping from the word, “aren’t you just the cutest thing ever.”
Her thumbs pressed into the dips of your hips before sliding out to squeeze the soft flesh there, greedy and admiring at the same time. She alternated between kneading and stroking, watching the way your stomach jumped with every touch, how your thighs tensed and tried not to move.
Your eyes couldn’t leave her. She looked so painfully human like that—flushed cheeks, tousled hair, parted lips—yet every instinct in your body screamed that she was not. Something in those too bright eyes, that edge of hunger just below her skin… it called to you. It promised that if you gave up humanity for her, she would devour the parts of you that hurt.
Her mouth returned to your skin, lower this time. She kissed the place just under your jaw, slow and soft for a moment before her teeth sank in with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. She sucked a mark there, pulling heat to the surface in a bruise that felt like a brand.
Her hand drifted down, exploring again. Your stomach, the waistband of your lace amd lower.
She cupped you through the fabric.
You gasped, quiet and soft, and Paige’s lips split into a pleased smile against your neck. She pressed more firmly, testing how soaked the lace already was, humming when she found her answer.
“Got you this wet already?” she murmured into your skin, voice vibrating where her mouth pressed. She licked the new bruise slowly, savoring the taste of you like it was a delicacy. “Just for me.”
Then her knee slid between your thighs and nudged—not gentle, not tentative—forcing you open like a door she had every right to walk through. The muscles in your legs melted around her instinctually, granting her the access she wanted. Needed. Her thumb slid along the damp lace again, slow circles that made your hips chase the pressure without thinking. Paige’s breath hitched too, a low, involuntary sound like your need was feeding her.
Her teeth scraped down your neck, each nip more desperate, like she was trying to keep herself from biting deep enough to change everything too fast.
You felt her smile against your throat , sharp and hungry, right before she whispered against your pulse, voice trembling with restraint, “Just let me have you, pretty girl…”
Not a demand. Not even a question. Just a promise she was starving to fulfill.
Her thumb traced slow, taunting circles over the damp fabric covering your core while her mouth devoured your neck. Lips, then tongue, then teeth, as though she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to worship or ruin you.
Eventually the restraint snapped.
She bit down, not enough to break skin, but enough that the sting radiated deep and hot, electric in a way that made your back arch. You knew that mark would be there for days. She wanted it there for days.
All you could do was whimper, breath catching. You didn’t push her away. You didn’t dare. The pain was sharp, intoxicating, and a reminder that she was real and here and touching you exactly how you needed.
“F-fuck…” you breathed, lungs tight like she’d stolen all your air. “Do something.”
Paige lifted her head slowly, almost lazily, like a predator indulging a helpless little thing beneath her. Hovering over you, she looked down with a seriousness you’d never seen in her before, her expression carved from hunger and command.
“Ask nicely.” No smile. No warmth. Just power wrapped in a beautiful face.
Your throat tightened. Tears clung to your lashes from the overwhelming mix of arousal and sensation, but you forced your voice to steady, even if it only came out as a fragile whisper.
“Please…” Your fingers curled in the sheets, voice small and desperate. “Please, Paige. I need you. I need something. Anything. Please.”
Desperation tasted sweet on your tongue and she savored it. Satisfaction curled at the corner of her lips, a private little smirk that said she could do unspeakable things to you if she really wanted to. And she did. Just slowly.
She eased back, sitting on her heels, studying you with a calm intensity, as though she were deciding which part of you to consume first. Her gaze moved down your body like a hand, stripping you layer by layer even before her fingers reached the waistband of your panties.
You expected a slow slide. A tease.
Instead she ripped them.
The lace tore apart between her fists like nothing. The sound alone sent heat rushing through your veins. Your gasp hadn’t even finished leaving your throat before she was on you again, crushed lips against yours, stealing your shock and turning it into a mess of need.
When her fingers slipped lower, brushing your entrance, you could tell how embarrassingly wet you already were.
“You’re soaked, mama,” she murmured against your mouth, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You need it that bad?”
All you could do was nod—quick, eager, shameless. Your lower lip jutted out in a silent plea that only made her chuckle darkly.
She didn’t answer, she simply acted. The nightgown was tugged up and off you entirely, tossed aside like it offended her by existing between you and her hands. Then came her own shirt—over her head in one swift motion—leaving her in a sports bra and the loose shorts you’d given her earlier. They looked better on her than they ever had on you.
You stared. It was impossible not to. The smooth planes of her stomach, the toned lines of her arms, freckles scattered like constellations across shoulders you wanted to memorize with your mouth. She looked so human… frighteningly human. And yet, something deep inside you knew she wasn’t.
She crawled up your body again, and before you could brace for it—
Two long fingers pushed into you.
A stretch that bordered that thin line between pain and pleasure. You sucked in a long breath through your nose, eyes squeezing shut, everything in your body tightening around her.
The reaction only fed her more.
“You’re so gorgeous when you’re in pain,” she whispered, curling her fingers just slightly, enough to make your hips jump toward her. “Like an angel.”
The smirk on her lips said she knew exactly how untrue that word was to you, and how badly you wanted to believe it when she said it.
Her rhythm started slow, deliberate, learning every gasp you gave her. She watched you like a study, eyes tracking every shift, every flutter of your lashes, every breath that stuttered when she changed the angle.
She drank in your pain like it was pleasure. And maybe it was for both of you.
Your nails dug into her back without thought, dragging down her skin, leaving angry red trails. A thin line of blood welled under one. Paige hissrd, not in pain, but in satisfaction. She liked it. She wanted more.
You had never felt anything like this.
And she looked at you like you were the closest thing to divine she’d ever seen. Hair fanned around you like a halo, lips swollen from kisses that bordered on bites, your neck and chest marked by her possessiveness. She wanted to take her time. To savor every inch she claimed. To make sure you never forgot who made you feel like this. She wanted to ruin you, slowly and beautifully, until nothing in the universe could compare.
Her fingers never faltered, slick, sure, and ruthlessly patient as she worked you open. A third joined the others, stretching you further, and the shocked whimper that tore out of you made her pupils blow wide. It was like she needed to witness every twitch of your body, every stutter of your breath. Like she fed on it.
Paige curled her fingers again, deeper this time, angling just right as they hit that spot, and the sound that escaped you wasn’t pretty or controlled. It was raw and iInstinctive. A confession torn right from your chest.
She smiled like she owned that sound. Owned you.
Her thumb found you too, drawing slow, circling patterns over your throbbing clit that mocked the frantic hunger of her fingers. Pleasure and pain clashed and tangled until you couldn’t separate one from the other. She was savoring you—dissecting your reactions, playing with your limits—as though she had all night to dismantle you piece by trembling piece.
Your head tipped back into the pillow, neck bared like prey offering itself up. Paige’s mouth descended immediately, claiming the vulnerable column of your throat. Her tongue soothed over bruised skin for a fleeting second before her teeth sank in again, staking another claim. You cried out, legs jerking, thighs instinctively trying to clamp around her wrist, but her free hand was already there, spreading you wider, keeping you open for her.
A low purr of satisfaction vibrated against your skin.
“You’re perfect,” she murmured into the heat of your neck, reverent and dangerous all at once.
Then she lifted her head, slow and predatory, forcing you to meet her gaze. Her eyes locked on yours with a hunger that felt like drowning. Like she was pulling the soul right out of you with nothing but eye contact.
“So fucking good for me,” she breathed, her voice softening the way a storm calms just before lightning hits. “Taking it so well, mama…”
You couldn’t speak—couldn’t think —just clung to her, nails dragging furrows down her back. Every thrust of her hand pulled the tightening cord in your abdomen closer to breaking, heat building fast and blinding.
She moved faster.
Something wild snapped loose in you. You needed to anchor yourself, needed to stop floating away , so you buried your teeth into her shoulder, biting down hard. A claim. A marking. Pure instinct.
Paige gasped, but the sound was ecstasy, not pain. Her smile spread slow and sharp, like she’d been waiting for this exact moment. Her hand fisted in your hair, pulling your lips from her skin just enough so she could speak against your mouth, jer voice low and possessive.
“Mine.” Her kisses trailed up your cheek, her breath hot at your ear as she delivered the final blow. “Only mine.”
That did it.
The rope snapped violently, pleasure crashing over you so fast your body couldn’t keep up. Your vision blurred white, muscles locking as you came apart underneath her, a trembling mess of heat and relief and desperate, broken sounds you couldn’t swallow back. You tried to muffle them by hiding your face against her shoulder, burying yourself in her scent, but your whimpers still escapedd. Every one of them claimed by her ears, her hands, her teeth.
Paige held you through the fall, fingers still deep, still guiding, still owning, like she wanted to make sure your pleasure didn’t just crest, but destroyed you.
Like she wanted this moment carved into you forever.
You were still shaking.
Not the pretty kind of trembling—no, this was the full body, bone deep shiver that came after being pulled apart too fast and too perfectly. Paige didn’t withdraw immediately. Her fingers stayed buried inside you for a lingering moment, like she wanted to feel every final pulse of your orgasm against her skin. Like letting go meant giving up control, and she wasn’t ready for that.
Only when your whimpers softened into heavy breaths did she finally slip her hand away, slow and possessive. She lifted her fingers between you both, slick and shining, and looked at them like they were something sacred. Something hers.
The sight alone made your breath catch.
Paige’s expression softened, though hunger still licked behind her gaze, and she brushed her knuckles along your hipbone, grounding you. “There you are…” she murmured, voice low and strangely gentle, like she was soothing something wild inside you. “Back with me?”
You tried to speak, but your throat felt too tight to form words. All you managed was a nod, small and shaky, but it pleased her anyway. She leaned forward, capturing your mouth in a slow kiss, not claiming this time but consuming in a different way. Addiction. Devotion with sharp teeth.
Her free hand slid up your ribcage, fingers splayed wide, as if she needed to feel every breath you dragged in. “You did so well for me,” she whispered against your lips. “So beautiful when you fall apart.”
You should’ve been exhausted, done, and spent. But the way she looked at you… it reignited something molten under your skin. Like one climax had only teased awake a hunger you hadn’t felt in years.
Paige noticed.
Of course she did.
She always noticed the things you didn’t want to admit.
Her palm drifted lower again, fingers ghosting over the bruises she’d given, the marks she’d left. “Look at you,” she said softly, almost in awe. “All of this… and you’re still letting me touch you.”
She traced the inside of your thigh, light amd almost teasing, spreading warmth through your trembling muscles. Your breath hitched, and Paige smiled against your cheek, lips brushing the damp track of your tears.
“That’s my girl.”
The praise landed like another claim, right over your heartbeat.
She shifted downward, her body moving with a certainty that made your pulse stutter. Her kisses trailed after her, down your jaw, down your neck, down your collarbone like she was mapping where she would bite next.
You felt her settle between your thighs, not touching yet, just breathing there. The anticipation alone had your hips lifting off the bed, chasing more.
Paige’s hands held your hips down, gentle but immovable. “Easy,” she whispered, voice roughened by want. “I’m not done with you.”
Your stomach dropped.
She said it like she meant it..
Her lips pressed to the inside of your knee, slow and reverent, before she began her path upward, a pilgrimage toward the heat she’d already ruined once tonight. When she looked up at you from between your thighs, she didn’t look human at all.
And god—you wanted her anyway.
“God, it’s so pretty,” Paige murmured against your pussy, voice a wrecked whisper. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen… other than your face.”
Her teeth grazed sensitive skin, leaving new marks to match the constellation she’d already mapped across your chest and throat. Every slow drag of her breath over you sent another shiver spiraling down your spine. Your hands twisted into the sheets, searching for anything to ground you before she unmade you all over again.
And she was absolutely savoring the power of that.
You forced your eyes open, looking down through the haze, and the sight nearly stole the air from your lungs. Red and purple bruises blooming over your thighs, each one shaped by her mouth, her possession. Paige looked up briefly, tongue wet against her lips, looking devastating with her lashes low and her hair falling like silk around her sharp cheekbones and sculpted shoulders.
So unfairly beautiful, like temptation built a body just to test you.
She hooked her arms beneath your thighs and dragged you closer until you were exactly where she wanted you—your legs thrown over her shoulders, body at her mercy, pussy close to her face. Then her gaze lifted, pinning you there. Her head didn’t move, but her mouth did, until she was finally right where you needed her most.
Her tongue traced a long, deliberate stripe up your folds, and Paige swore she could taste something holy in the pleasure she pulled from you. The soft whine that slipped out of you was all the confirmation she’d ever need.
She hadn’t even truly begun, and your thighs were already trembling.
She lingered close, nose brushing your inner thigh as she looked at you with that look—the one that always robbed you of breath and reason and dignity.
The heat between you thickened the air, a slow burn that felt like it could swallow you whole.
“Damn,” she teased, voice low and pleased. “Shaking already? You love this, huh?”
Her grip tightened just enough to remind you who was in control before she dove back in, tongue finding the exact rhythm that made your pulse stutter. From where she knelt, she looked like both worship and sin, lips and devotion and wicked intention.
“Use your words,” she demanded, breath hot against your cunt. “Tell me what you want.”
Your whisper cracked, but it was enough.
“You.”
Her grin curled, hunger licking at the edges of her self control. “Yeah?” she breathed, lips grazing you as she spoke. She shook her head with almost affectionate disbelief. “You’re so easy to corrupt.”
Then she truly devoured you.
Her mouth sealed around your clit, tongue teasing through your folds, savoring, and tasting like she’d finally found her favorite sin. She held you firmly in place, as if she didn’t trust your body not to flee from the pleasure she was determined to drown you in.
Your hips chased her on instinct, needy and thoughtless, your hand sliding into her hair just to ensure she stayed exactly where you both needed her.
“Just breathe,” Paige mumbled against you, voice somehow steady despite the chaos she was causing. “I’ve got you.”
It wasn’t about control anymore. It was about ownership. Mind. Body. Soul. Maybe even the heart you tried so hard to guard.
Your vision warped at the edges as she worked you with expert precision—your world collapsing into heat and mouth and Paige. Your head tipped back, a choked curse breaking free.
“Fuck—feels so good. You’re so good, oh my God—”
Every breathless praise only stoked the fire in her, drove her deeper, hungrier. Her face was buried in you, like she had been starved for too long. Like the taste of you wasn’t just pleasure. It was life.
When you actually thought about it…
this was Paige’s first meal since you met her.
And she was ravenous.
It didn’t take long for your orgasm to rise up and ambush you, it was sharp and overwhelming, ripping right through your core before you even had the chance to brace for it. Your thighs clamped and shook around Paige’s head, your mouth falling open on a cry that sounded dangerously close to a scream as pleasure tore through you like a live wire.
But Paige? She didn’t stop.
Her tongue kept working you, relentless and precise, like she’d never learned the concept of mercy. Like the taste of you was her lifeline. If she were mortal in this moment, her jaw would ache, her neck would burn, her lungs would beg for air. But she was possessed by something stronger than pain could ever challenge.
She worked you through that climax like she was dragging it out by hand, not for your sake. For hers.
The overstimulation slammed into you and panic fluttered in your stomach. Your body tried to retreat, hips twitching away from her mouth. You reached for her head, fingers trembling, trying to pry her off just long enough to breathe again.
But Paige wasn’t having it.
Her hand shot up with lightning speed, wrapping around your wrist and slamming it into the mattress, next to her head. The grip was unforgiving, bruising, a stark reminder of who owned this moment.
“Take your fucking hands off,” she growled against your soaked pussy.
The vibration of her voice against your clit dragged a broken sound out of you, something primal and pleading and barely human.
She didn’t even look up. Didn’t need to.
Her mouth sealed back over you while her free arm locked you still, her forearm pressing into your hip, holding you open while she devoured you. Every lick, every suck was fueled by hunger so deep it bordered on obsession.
“I’m not done.”
Her voice was low and vicious, like the warning of a predator that delighted in the chase. She treated your second orgasm like a challenge, like she wanted to break the part of you that still thought you could resist her. She feasted on every stutter in your breath, every twitch of retreat you tried to make. She chased you ruthlessly, greedy for every drop of pleasure that spilled out of you—her tongue moving with expert, almost feral rhythm.
“I could keep you like this all night.”
She meant it. You could feel the truth of it—felt her teeth scrape lightly against you like a threat.
Your body was a live current under her, too sensitive to survive the intensity, too addicted to run from it. You tried to speak, to beg or curse or warn her,
but the words died in your throat as pleasure detonated again.
Harder. Deeper. Like your nerves were snapping under her mouth.
Stars burst behind your eyes, white hot and merciless. The sound that ripped out of you was high and panicked and raw, your back arching almost painfully as you came for her a second time, louder, messier, with no control left to pretend dignity.
Paige didn’t just push you over the edge.
She dragged you there and and threw you over.
And she only tightened her grip on your wrist like she was just getting started.
Your lungs were still catching up as Paige climbed over you, breaths sharp and uneven, but even in your haze of aftershocks you refused to let her have every ounce of control forever. Your hand came up to her jaw, not rough, not gentle, just decisive. The kind of touch that demanded her attention.
Paige stilled instantly.
Her eyes flicked up to yours, pupils blown wide, lips still glossy with your cum. God, she looked like she was starving and finding restraint was physically hurting her.
You leaned in, teeth catching her lower lip and the taste of yourself before you whispered into her mouth.
“Wanna feel you.”
It wasn’t a plea. It was a promise.
Your tongue brushed hers, bold and claiming, shocking a low sound out of Paige’s throat that she tried—and failed—to swallow down. She kissed you harder, like she thought maybe she could distract you out of taking control.
But your hands had already moved, gliding down her throat, over the curve of her chest, sliding lower until your fingers caught the waistband of her bra. You tugged slowly, deliberately, letting the friction speak for you.
Paige pulled back just enough to breathe out a small, breathless laugh, more air than
Her smirk twisted into something darker, impressed and hungry as she raised her arms without a second thought.
You peeled the fabric up and over her head, tossing it aside carelessly. Paige didn’t break eye contact once. She just watched you watching her, like your attention alone was enough to unravel her. Then your hands were at her waistband, and this time, she helped. Lifting her hips just enough for you to drag the shorts and boxers down her legs and toss them aside with the rest of your clothes.
Now both of you were bare. Skin on skin.
In one smooth shift, you pushed her back into the mattress and straddled her hips. Paige’s hands immediately found your thighs, fingers digging in like she needed the reminder that you were real and here and hers.
Her voice dropped to something low and possessive. “Look at you…” Her thumbs stroked slow up the sides of your legs.
You leaned down, your nose brushing hers as you stole another kiss, messy, deep, and a little dizzying. Her hands slid up your back, urging you closer like she wanted to feel every breath you took.
Paige’s forehead pressed to yours, her lips barely brushing yours when she spoke again. “I want you everywhere,” she murmured. “Take whatever you want.”
Her tone wasn’t mocking this time.
It was reverent and ruined and ready to be undone a second time. Her nails traced up your spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake as her voice dropped just for you:
“Put that pretty pussy on mine,” she whispered, eyes blazing with something dangerously close to devotion. “Let me feel you lose yourself again.”
And you could feel it—the shift. The hunger was still there, sharp and feral, but now it was wrapped in something intimate. Something that felt like the beginning of worship.
Your breathing was still uneven when you caught Paige’s face in your hands, steady enough to make her focus, and unsteady enough to show how much she affected you. Not soft. Not rough. Just a command.
“Wanna feel you,” you murmured against her mouth, lips brushing, tongues barely touching like you were daring her to take it further.
Paige didn’t bother with words. She just kissed you deeper, like she was answering with her mouth instead of her voice.
When you broke the kiss, your gaze dropped, and it was hungry and unapologetic. You caught your bottom lip between your teeth without meaning to as the heat began rising beneath your skin.
One of her eyebrows lifted, amused and turned on. Her hands slid to your hips, fingers digging just enough to hold you in place.
“C’mere” she murmured, low and warm and smug, like she already knew you would.
You didn’t even pretend to hesitate. You kissed her again, slower but deeper, until you could taste the air leaving her lungs. Then your lips wandered her jaw, the edge of her throat, each kiss a little more open, a little more claiming.
Her grip on your hips tightened, guiding you against her thigh in a slow, steady drag you hardly registered because you were too focused on the way her skin felt beneath your mouth. You finally lowered yourself to her chest, kissing wherever you wanted, lips wrapping around her hardened nipples, and hands moving with the kind of certainty that came from wanting, not asking. It wasn’t for her reaction. It was because you needed it.
Paige’s fingers threaded through your hair, gentle but possessive, and when you dared to glance up, her eyes were fixed on you like you were something she planned to devour later.
She whispered, voice almost ruined. “So pretty when you want me.” Your hands were everywhere. So were your lips. And Paige looked like she’d let you take anything you wanted.
You eventually dragged yourself up her body, slow and debauched, stealing one more kiss from her lips before leaning back, chest rising and falling, breath still uneven from the last time she ruined you. Your thigh pressed between hers as you shifted until your hips aligned—wet heat sliding against wet heat—and Paige didn’t breathe a word. She just watched. Eyes dark. Lips parted. Like she’d been waiting her whole life for you to take exactly what you wanted.
A shaky sigh escaped you. Relief, hunger, and anticipation all tangled into one sound.
Paige’s hands stayed at your hips, not guiding, just holding. Letting you steer. Letting you feel powerful—the tiniest illusion she’d allow before she’d drag it all back and own every piece of you again.
You rolled your hips forward, slow and testing at first, a glide of slick friction that made your entire body tighten when your clit brushed hers. Your palms braced against her abs and her thigh, grounding yourself as pleasure licked up your spine. And then instinct took over, need took over and your hips moved faster, smoother. You were soaked and unable to think, every rational thought burned away the second Paige’s skin pressed against yours.
“Yeah… that’s my good girl,” she rasped, grip tightening in a way that felt like possession. “Show me how bad you need it.” Her voice dropped lower, unbearably confident. “Make me cum.”
That single sentence hit like electricity.
Your fingers dug into her thigh harder as you shoved her legs apart wider, grinding down with purpose, deeper angle, more pressure, and more access. Everything. The air thickened, humid with sex and heat and competition. Your sounds, soft whimpers and choked moans, tangled with Paige’s heavy breathing. Her pupils had blown so wide they swallowed the blue. She looked at you like she wanted to break you open and worship whatever spilled out. Like she needed you in a way that bordered on dangerous. Something primal and animalistic.
Her nails carved into your hips deep enough to sting and deep enough to claim, helping you drag yourself against her harder. Every drag of your pussies together felt filthy and perfect at once.
“God—please don’t stop,” you breathed, a noise caught between a whine and prayer.
Paige didn’t even pretend to hide her smirk.
“I’m not doin’ anything,” she murmured, voice rough and hungry. “This is all you.”
Your hand left her thigh and slid up her torso, finding her chest — squeezing and touching one of her breasts, taking every inch she offered like it belonged to you. Everything was slick and wet. Skin on skin, sweat and arousal making every movement glide.
“You sound so pretty, mama…” Paige’s words slurred a little with want. She bit her bottom lip, eyes locked on where your bodies met. “Don’t look away—”
Her hand shot up to your jaw, fingers firm, forcing your gaze back to hers.
“Look at me.”
You did and the intensity in her eyes nearly knocked your orgasm loose right then.
“I’m— fuck— I’m so close,” you managed, voice cracked open and honest.
Paige nodded once — slow, sure — like she already felt you shaking around the edges. Like she needed you to know that she was close too.
“Good. Cum with me,” you breathed, pleading, dizzy. “Please—want you to cum with me.”
Her nails dug deeper, sharp enough to draw thin trails of blood she didn’t even notice because you were too far gone.
“That’s it,” she growled, hips finally meeting yours, chasing the rhythm you’d started. “Go ahead, mama. Cum for me—I’m right behind you.”
Your climax hit hard—a sharp, overwhelming snap that ripped a broken, high moan straight from your throat before sound itself disappeared. Every nerve lit up, every muscle locked tight as the pleasure poured through you, violent and consuming.
Paige followed instantly, like the sight of you falling apart dragged her right over the edge with you, and a low, breathless sound ripping from her chest as she came underneath you.
You barely registered anything beyond the dizzying rush, not even the way her grip had broken your skin, and blood curling down your hips like another mark she’d given you. All you knew was her.Her body. Her breath. Her nails still in your skin. Her eyes still pinned to yours.
And the stunning realization that neither of you was anywhere close to done.
You barely remembered falling asleep—the world had blurred into heat and lips and the tight press of Paige’s body wrapped around yours. At some point the frantic breathing slowed, the urgency dulled, and you melted into her like she was the only thing tethering you to what was left of reality. Her quiet whispers had been the last thing you heard. Soft, possessive praises brushed against your shoulder, promises murmured like spells meant to sink beneath your skin. You didn’t have the strength to fight it, or the will.
Morning—or what used to be morning—arrived too quickly. When you opened your eyes, the light wasn’t sunlight. It was a violent, searing white, crawling across the ceiling like a warning. You blinked against it, and your chest tightened with disappointment, the sky was still wrong. No stars. No moon. Just that blinding, endless sun, hanging above a world that should’ve burned.
You wondered how long it had been since you’d last seen night.
Paige’s arms were still around you in an iron lock disguised as an embrace. You turned in the cage of her warmth and found her asleep. Really asleep. Her chest rose and fell peacefully, her features softened into something deceptively harmless. For a moment you almost convinced yourself she could be human too. Almost.
Then you noticed the marks you’d left on her, proof of last night, proof of hunger and want, fading like they had never been there at all. Skin turning perfect again. Untouched.
Your stomach dropped. It wasn’t fair, you wanted them to last. You wanted reminders. You wanted ownership, the same way she claimed you.
You slipped from her grasp carefully, your body reluctant to leave but your mind buzzing with a quiet alarm. You grabbed the thin nightdress from the floor and slipped it on, breath uneven as the room felt too small, too warm, and too alive. Something pulsed under your skin. Something not yours.
The house was silent as you made your way to the front door. You told yourself you just wanted fresh air—any air—even if it burned. Your fingers hesitated only a second before unlocking the door.
The second it cracked open, everything inside you froze.
Bodies. Dozens. Mangled beyond recognition. Your lawn soaked in a deep, slick red that glistened beneath the sun like fresh varnish. Limbs discarded like toys. Faces crushed, torn, twisted, and all of them laid out neatly and deliberately at your doorstep.
Not any other house.
Just yours.
Your breath shook as you stepped outside. Not because of the carnage, but because you felt nothing. No scorching heat clawing at your skin. No prickling burn as the light touched you.
Instead a breeze kissed your cheek.
A breeze. A kindness this world hadn’t shown you in weeks. And that’s when you realized that world wasn’t getting better.
You were getting worse.
Panic surged up your spine as you stumbled back inside, slamming the door shut and locking it like that would keep the truth out. Your feet carried you straight to the bathroom, muscle memory from when you still trusted mirrors.
The moment the lights flickered on, you stared. Waiting. Hoping.
At first, everything looked familiar.
Then you leaned closer.
The bruises on your neck were already fading. The split in your lip was gone. The exhaustion that used to cling beneath your eyes was replaced with veins dark and sharp, your irises washed out to an eerie pale shade that didn’t feel like yours at all.
You opened your mouth. Teeth too white. Too perfect. Too sharp at the edges.
Your breath hitched. Your heart pounded so violently you thought your ribs might shatter around it. You didn’t look like someone surviving this nightmare.
You looked like something made to live in it.
“Look at youuu…”
Paige’s voice slid into the room like smoke, curling around your spine. You flinched, because you hadn’t heard her approach. You hadn’t even seen her reflection behind yours until she moved, stepping into view with that calm, patient smile.
She looked flawless again. Hair smooth, posture regal, skin unmarked. A monster dressed in perfection.
Her arms slipped around your waist, holding you firm, not a hug, but a claim. Her lips brushed your shoulder in a slow kiss that made your knees weaken even as fear twisted deep in your stomach.
“You’re changing,” she murmured, eyes locked with yours in the mirror. “Just like you’re meant to.”
You tried to speak, tried to find one word that made sense, but your voice wouldn’t come out. Paige’s fingers pressed harder into your waist, reminding you she could break you in half without effort and maybe you wouldn’t even feel pain anymore.
Her smile spread, sweet and wicked and undeniably triumphant.
“You’re almost mine, baby,” she whispered against your skin, the warmth of her breath making your reflection blur for a second. “You were made for this.”
For her.
And as terrifying as that truth was, the part that scared you most, was how deeply you wanted to believe it.
You leaned forward, staring deeper into the mirror. Your face looked normal for a second—flushed and shaken—but then your reflection shifted. Its lips stretched into the faint curve of a smile. A cruel one. A hungry one. But you weren’t smiling. You felt your own mouth, slack and horrified, but the mirror insisted on showing a version of you who wanted this. Who was already gone.
Paige’s chin settled on your shoulder, her eyes meeting yours through the reflection. She looked proud. Possessive. Like everything unfolding was exactly how she planned it. “Don’t fight it.”
where reader deals with really bad insomnia and nightmares
can't go to sleep intill like 5 or 6 am even with sleeping aid
and maybe you can write something about paige reacting to that
when the whole world sleeps. 💤
pairing: paige bueckers x reader
summary: reader has always been good at hiding how bad her insomnia really gets, but paige starts noticing the little things — the late-night texts, the tired eyes, the way y/n acts like sleeping until sunrise is normal. when a nightmare finally catches up to her, paige refuses to let her deal with it alone.
tags / warnings: insomnia, nightmares, trouble sleeping, mild anxiety, mentions of sleeping aids. comfort, flufffffff, soft paige, flirty teasing, established-ish feelings, uconn paige, late night talks, sleep-deprived reader,
a/n: hiiii your wish is my commandddd. this was such a soft request and i loved writing it so bad. insomnia is so exhausting and can feel so lonely sometimes, so this is basically paige being annoying, sweet, protective, and secretly so down bad while trying to make reader feel safe enough to rest. hope u like it <3
word count: around 4.2k
The worst part about insomnia was that the world made it feel like a personal failure. Like sleep was this easy thing everyone else could do without thinking, a light switch they flicked off at the end of the day, while you lay in bed staring at the ceiling like it had answers written across it. You knew all the advice. You had heard it from everyone. No caffeine after noon. Put your phone away. Try tea. Try melatonin. Try white noise. Try sleeping on your side. Try not thinking so much, which was always the funniest one, because if you knew how to stop thinking, you probably would’ve done it years ago.
By now, you had a whole routine. A sad little bedtime performance for an audience of nobody. You washed your face, changed into soft shorts and an old oversized shirt, plugged your phone in, took whatever sleeping aid you were allowed to take, turned off the lights, and pretended like this time would be different. Like this time, your body would understand the assignment. Like this time, you would close your eyes around midnight and wake up like a normal person.
Instead, most nights went the same.
One a.m. became two. Two became three. Three became that horrible quiet hour where even the hallway outside your dorm seemed to stop breathing. Then five or six would creep in, soft blue light leaking through the curtains, and your brain would finally decide it was safe to shut down just as everyone else was starting their day.
You hated that part too. The way morning felt like losing.
And because you hated it, you got good at hiding it.
At UConn, everyone was busy enough that tiredness blended in. People were always running on too little sleep, too much schoolwork, too many practices, too many lifts, too much pressure, too much everything. So when someone asked why your eyes looked heavy, you shrugged and said you stayed up studying. When you zoned out during lunch, you blamed an assignment. When you yawned through a movie night, you made a joke about being secretly ninety years old.
It worked on most people.
It did not work on Paige Bueckers.
Paige noticed things in the most irritating way. She had this whole casual act, like she was just floating through life with her slides on and her hood up, joking around, talking trash, acting like nothing ever stuck to her. But she noticed everything. She noticed when someone changed their shot pocket. She noticed when a teammate was quiet at breakfast. She noticed if the energy in a room shifted even half an inch. And, unfortunately for you, she noticed the exact kind of tired you were.
Not regular tired. Not college tired. Not practice tired.
The kind of tired that sat behind your eyes.
The first time she called you out, it was after a late team hangout in one of the common rooms. You weren’t on the team, but you were close enough with some of the girls that you ended up around them often, half because you had friends there and half because Paige had made it extremely difficult not to be around her. She had a way of dragging you into things without really asking. A text that said come watch this movie, followed by another that said don’t be lame, followed by a third that said i saved you a seat, which was her version of being sweet without admitting she was being sweet.
You were sitting beside her on the couch, your knees tucked to your chest, trying to focus on whatever movie KK had insisted was “actually good” even though half the room was talking over it. Paige had one arm stretched along the back of the couch behind you, not touching you, but close enough that you were painfully aware of it. Her hoodie sleeve brushed your shoulder every time she shifted, and each time it happened, your brain reacted like a loser.
You told yourself it was because you were sleep-deprived.
Everything felt dramatic when you were sleep-deprived.
Paige leaned closer sometime near the middle of the movie, her voice low enough that only you could hear. “You good?”
You blinked, turning your head slightly. “Yeah. Why?”
“You’ve watched like twenty minutes of this movie and I don’t think you processed a single thing.”
“That’s because the movie is bad.”
Paige’s mouth opened immediately, offended on behalf of a movie she had not even chosen. “See, that’s crazy, because you can’t even say that. You not even watching it.”
“I’m spiritually watching it.”
“Oh, spiritually?” she repeated, amused. “My fault. Didn’t know we had a film critic in the building.”
You rolled your eyes, but you smiled despite yourself. Paige smiled back, all smug and pretty, like she knew exactly what she was doing. Then her expression softened just enough to make your stomach twist.
“You look tired for real, though,” she said.
“I’m always tired.”
“Nah.” Paige shook her head. “Different.”
You looked back at the TV, pretending the conversation didn’t land the way it did. “What are you, my sleep doctor?”
“I could be.”
“You would be so bad at that.”
“Cap. I’d be great.” Paige shifted, her knee bumping yours. “First prescription, stop acting like you fine when you not.”
You gave her a look. “Very professional.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m fine, Paige.”
She watched you for a second too long. That was another thing about Paige. She could be loud and ridiculous and cocky, but when she went quiet, it was dangerous. Her attention felt too direct, like she was seeing more than you wanted to show.
Finally, she leaned back, but her arm stayed behind you. “Aight,” she said, like she didn’t believe you at all. “But I’m just saying. You been looking like you fighting demons.”
You huffed. “That’s so dramatic.”
“Am I wrong?”
“You’re annoying.”
“Still not wrong, though.”
You didn’t answer because she wasn’t.
The thing was, Paige didn’t push that night. She went back to joking with the others, yelling at the TV, laughing when KK said something dramatic, acting like the conversation had already left her mind. But later, when everyone started leaving and you stood to go back to your room, Paige walked beside you without asking.
“You don’t have to walk me,” you said, glancing over at her.
She had her hands in her hoodie pocket, shoulders relaxed, hair pulled back messily from her face. “I know.”
“My dorm is literally not far.”
“I know.”
“So why are you walking me?”
“Because I want to.”
You stared at her, and Paige stared back like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like she hadn’t just said something that made your chest feel weird.
“You always this difficult?” you asked.
“Only when I’m right.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet you still walking next to me.”
You tried not to smile. Failed. Paige noticed, of course, because Paige noticed everything, and her grin widened like she had just won a game nobody else knew you were playing.
At your door, you turned, expecting her to say goodnight and leave. Instead, she rocked back on her heels, looking at you with that same too-careful expression from earlier.
“You gonna sleep?” she asked.
You snorted softly. “That’s the plan.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
You looked down at your keys, turning them over in your hand. “I’ll try.”
Paige nodded slowly. “Text me if you can’t.”
Your eyes flicked up. “What?”
“Text me,” she repeated. “If you can’t sleep.”
“Paige, you have practice.”
“And?”
“And you need sleep.”
“You need sleep too.”
“That’s kind of the problem.”
For a second, the teasing faded. Paige’s face went serious in a way that made you feel exposed, but not judged. Never judged. Just seen.
“I’m up late sometimes anyway,” she said. “So text me.”
You wanted to make a joke. You wanted to say something light enough to escape the warmth gathering in your chest. But Paige was still looking at you, waiting, and the hallway was quiet, and you were too tired to pretend you didn’t want someone to care.
“Okay,” you said softly.
Paige nodded once, satisfied. “Good.”
“Bossy.”
“Helpful.”
“Annoying.”
“Pretty.”
You froze.
Paige grinned, eyes bright with trouble. “What? We just naming true things now, right?”
You felt heat rush to your face so fast it was embarrassing. “Goodnight, Paige.”
She laughed as you opened your door, but before you could disappear inside, she said, “Night, ma.”
You hated how much that one little word followed you into your room.
You really hated that it made you smile.
For the next week, Paige became part of your nights in a way you did not know how to explain. It started small. You didn’t text her the first night because you felt weird about it. You lay awake until almost six, phone face-down beside you, her message thread sitting there untouched like a dare. The second night, you typed something, deleted it, typed it again, deleted it again, then gave up and stared at the ceiling until sunrise.
The third night, at 3:17 a.m., your phone buzzed.
paige: u sleep?
You stared at the message, then smiled despite the ache behind your eyes.
you: obviously not
paige: knew it
you: creepy
paige: observant
you: annoying
paige: pretty
you: oh my god go to bed
Her response came almost immediately.
paige: can’t. someone told me to text if i couldn’t sleep
you: that was YOU telling ME
paige: same difference
You ended up texting for almost an hour. Nothing deep at first. Paige complained about class. You complained about your professor giving feedback that made no sense. She sent you a blurry photo of her ceiling fan with the caption “this thing loud as hell,” and you laughed quietly into your pillow, the sound feeling strange in your dark room. At some point, she asked what you usually did when you couldn’t sleep, and your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long time before you answered.
you: nothing really
you: just wait it out
paige: every night?
you: most nights
The little typing bubble appeared, disappeared, appeared again.
paige: damn
paige: that’s lonely
You swallowed.
Because yeah.
It was.
You didn’t know why that hit harder than advice. Maybe because she didn’t try to fix it right away. Maybe because she didn’t ask why, didn’t make you explain your entire brain at four in the morning. She just named it. Softly. Simply.
you: yeah
you: kinda
Paige called you two seconds later.
You almost dropped your phone.
When you answered, whispering, “Paige?” her voice came through low and sleepy and warm.
“Hi.”
“Why are you calling me?”
“Because texting is slow.”
“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”
“So are you.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m bad at it.”
Paige laughed quietly, and the sound settled something in you. “That’s crazy. You competitive about everything except sleeping.”
“I am not competitive.”
“You are.”
“I literally am not.”
“You arguing right now.”
You pressed your face into your pillow. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
No. You didn’t.
You really, really didn’t.
After that, the calls became a thing. Not every night, because Paige was busy and you refused to let your insomnia become her responsibility, but often enough that you started expecting her name to light up your phone when the hours got too quiet. Sometimes she talked until her voice got heavy. Sometimes you listened to her breathe on the other end while she fought sleep like she had something to prove. Sometimes she told you random stories from practice, about Geno saying something dry, about Nika being Nika, about KK and Ashlynn acting like they had been placed on earth specifically to cause chaos. Sometimes she asked you about your day, and because it was dark and late and her voice made everything feel softer, you told her the truth more often than you meant to.
She learned little things.
That sleeping aids helped your body feel heavy but didn’t always shut your mind off. That nightmares made it worse because even when you did sleep, you sometimes woke up feeling like your heart had been dragged out of your chest. That you hated naps because waking up confused in the middle of the day made you feel worse. That you were embarrassed by how much it affected you. That sometimes, when people joked about “pulling an all-nighter,” you wanted to laugh because they had no idea how different it felt when it wasn’t a choice.
Paige listened.
Really listened.
And then, because she was still Paige, she also started sending the most ridiculous goodnight texts you had ever seen.
paige: close ur eyes challenge
paige: if u sleep before 3 u get a prize
paige: prize is me saying good job
paige: actually that’s a fire prize idk why u not motivated
You told her she was insane.
She told you she was inspiring.
The flirty part was harder to survive.
Because Paige flirted like she breathed. Casual, confident, half-joking until it wasn’t. She called you pretty too easily. Told you your morning voice was cute the one time she called too early and you answered half-asleep. Said “miss me?” every time she walked into a room you were in, even if she had seen you twenty minutes earlier. When you got annoyed, she looked delighted. When you blushed, she looked victorious.
But she was also careful. More careful than people gave her credit for.
She teased you about being stubborn, about refusing help, about acting like you were allergic to being taken care of. But she never made fun of the insomnia. Never made you feel dramatic for having nightmares. Never acted like your tiredness was annoying or inconvenient. If anything, she got gentler with it over time.
One night, after a home game at Gampel, you stayed behind with some friends while the arena slowly emptied. Paige had played well, all sharp passes and smooth confidence, the kind of game where she looked like she could see the floor two seconds before everyone else. You had cheered until your throat hurt, bundled in a UConn hoodie that definitely was not yours even though Paige kept pretending she had “no idea” how it ended up with you.
Afterward, when she came out from the locker room, her hair still damp from a quick shower, she found you leaning against the wall scrolling on your phone. She looked tired but pleased, her bag slung over one shoulder, slides on, that familiar cocky tilt to her mouth appearing the second she saw you.
“You see me hoop?” she asked.
You looked up. “Unfortunately.”
“Unfortunately is crazy.”
“You were okay.”
Paige stopped in front of you, eyebrows lifting. “Okay?”
“Decent.”
“Decent?”
“Like, you know. You had some moments.”
She stared at you, then leaned closer, lowering her voice. “You lucky you cute.”
Your stomach did something deeply embarrassing. “You say that to everyone who insults your game?”
“Nah.” Her eyes flicked over your face. “Just you.”
You forgot how to be normal for a second.
Paige noticed. Obviously. Her smile softened into something less teasing, and she tugged lightly at the sleeve of the hoodie you were wearing. “You look good in my stuff.”
You glanced down like you had somehow forgotten what you were wearing. “Your stuff?”
“That’s my hoodie.”
“You said you didn’t know.”
“I lied.”
You laughed. “Wow. Role model behavior.”
“Don’t steal from me then.”
“You literally gave it to me.”
“Borrowed,” she corrected. “But you can keep it for now.”
“For now?”
“Yeah.” Paige’s fingers were still holding the sleeve, thumb brushing once against the fabric near your wrist. “Looks better on you anyway.”
The hallway felt louder suddenly. Or maybe your heartbeat was just being annoying.
You cleared your throat. “Are you flirting with me after a basketball game?”
“After I won a basketball game,” Paige corrected. “Context matters.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re wearing my hoodie.”
You tried to roll your eyes, but your smile ruined it. Paige’s face softened again, and for one tiny second, neither of you said anything. The team noise echoed faintly behind her, voices and laughter from down the hall, but she kept looking at you like the world had narrowed to just this.
Then her gaze sharpened slightly.
“You sleep last night?”
The question caught you off guard. Your smile faded before you could stop it.
Paige saw that too.
“Some,” you said.
“How much is some?”
“Enough.”
“That’s not a number.”
“You’re so nosy.”
“Yeah.”
You looked away.
She let the silence sit for a second, then nudged your shoe with hers. “Bad night?”
You shrugged, trying to make it smaller than it felt. “Just couldn’t sleep.”
“Nightmare?”
You didn’t answer right away.
Paige’s expression changed, not dramatically, not in a way anyone else would notice, but you did. Her jaw tightened a little. Her eyes softened. She shifted closer, enough to block you slightly from the busy hallway without making it obvious.
“You don’t gotta tell me here,” she said quietly.
Something about that almost hurt. The way she understood the difference between asking and asking in front of people. The way she gave you privacy without making a show of it.
You nodded. “Okay.”
“Come with me?”
“To where?”
“Walk.”
“Paige, you just played a whole game.”
“And I’m still faster than you.”
“Rude.”
“True.”
But she smiled when she said it, and you followed her because of course you did.
The walk was short, just around campus, cold air brushing your cheeks while Paige kept close beside you. She had changed into sweats and a hoodie, her hands tucked in her pockets, shoulders relaxed. Every now and then, your arms brushed. She didn’t rush you into talking. She told you about one of the freshmen messing up a play in practice, about Nika yelling something dramatic from the bench, about how she swore Ice had stolen one of her snacks even though Ice denied it with her whole chest.
You laughed at the right parts. Paige smiled like that was the point.
Eventually, when the campus got quieter and the cold made your fingers numb, Paige glanced at you. “You wanna come chill for a little? Not sleep. Just chill.”
You knew what she was doing. Making the offer casual so it didn’t feel like a big deal. Giving you an out. Giving you a place to be that wasn’t your room and your ceiling and the long stretch of night ahead.
“You sure?”
Paige gave you a look. “Y/N.”
“What?”
“You always ask that like I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“I just don’t wanna bother you.”
“You don’t.”
“You have practice tomorrow.”
“Yup.”
“And class.”
“Sadly.”
“And you need rest.”
“So do you.”
“I’m not your responsibility.”
Paige stopped walking.
You stopped too, turning toward her.
The teasing was gone now. Her face was serious, but not angry. Just steady.
“I know that,” she said. “I’m not here because I think you’re my responsibility.”
You swallowed.
“I’m here because I care about you,” Paige continued, voice low. “There’s a difference.”
The cold air pressed around you. You looked at her, at the way the streetlight caught the side of her face, at the softness in her eyes that she never tried to hide from you as much as she probably thought she did.
“You can’t say stuff like that and expect me to be normal,” you whispered.
Paige’s mouth twitched. “Who said I want you normal?”
“Paige.”
“What?” She stepped a little closer, cocky spark returning just enough to make your heart trip. “You cute when you nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“You lying.”
“You’re annoying.”
“You say that a lot for someone who keeps hanging out with me.”
You groaned, pushing lightly at her arm. She laughed, catching your wrist for half a second before letting go, her touch warm even through the cold. It wasn’t a big moment. Not a confession. Not a kiss. Not anything you could name properly. But it stayed with you anyway.
That night, you ended up in Paige’s room.
It wasn’t the first time you had been there, but it felt different after midnight. Softer. More private. Azzi was out, sleeping elsewhere after making some joke you didn’t fully process because you were too busy trying not to overthink the fact that you were sitting on Paige’s bed wearing Paige’s hoodie while Paige moved around the room like it was completely normal.
She tossed you a blanket. “Here.”
You caught it. “Bossy.”
“Cold people don’t get to complain.”
“I didn’t say I was cold.”
“You rubbing your hands together like a cartoon character.”
You looked down at your hands. “I hate that you notice everything.”
“No, you don’t.”
You pulled the blanket around yourself, settling against the pillows near the wall. Paige grabbed her laptop and climbed onto the bed beside you, leaving a respectful bit of space that somehow made you feel more insane than if she had sat closer. She opened Netflix, scrolling through options.
“You want something funny? Boring? Comfort show? Documentary that’ll put you out?”
“Are you trying to bore me to sleep?”
“I’m trying to win.”
“Win what?”
“Against your insomnia.”
You laughed softly. “That’s not how it works.”
“I know.” Paige glanced at you. “But I’m competitive.”
Something warm spread through your chest.
You picked a comfort show you had seen too many times, something familiar enough that you didn’t need to focus. Paige set the laptop between you, but as the episode played, neither of you really watched. Your body was tired in that awful wired way, heavy and restless at the same time. Paige sat with one knee bent, shoulder against the headboard, occasionally looking over to check on you.
You could feel it every time.
Eventually, she said, “Can I ask you something?”
You kept your eyes on the screen. “Depends.”
“When the nightmares happen… is it like, you wake up and can go back to sleep? Or you’re up after?”
Your throat tightened.
You appreciated the question, weirdly. She wasn’t asking what they were about. Not forcing details. Just trying to understand the shape of it.
“Usually up after,” you said. “Sometimes I’m scared to go back to sleep. Sometimes I’m just… awake. Like my whole body thinks something happened even though nothing did.”
Paige nodded slowly. “That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
“Do you tell anybody?”
You gave her a look.
She sighed. “Yeah. Dumb question.”
“I don’t like worrying people.”
“Mm.”
“What?”
“That’s your favorite line.”
“It’s true.”
“Still don’t mean you gotta deal with everything by yourself.”
You looked down at your hands in the blanket. “I know.”
“Do you?”
You didn’t answer.
Paige shifted closer, just a little. “Y/N.”
The way she said your name made your eyes sting, which was unfair and rude and entirely not your fault.
“I don’t want people thinking I’m dramatic,” you said quietly.
Paige’s expression softened so much it almost undid you. “Ma, you can’t sleep and when you do, you get nightmares. That’s not dramatic. That’s hard.”
You blinked fast.
“And you still show up to class and games and hangouts and act like you fine,” she added. “Which, honestly, kinda pisses me off.”
You looked at her, startled. “Why?”
“Because you shouldn’t have to be that good at hiding it.”
The room went quiet except for the low sound of the show. Paige looked away after she said it, like maybe she thought she had said too much. Like maybe vulnerability scared her too, just in a different way.
You leaned your head back against the wall. “You’re being really nice.”
“I’m always nice.”
“You are absolutely not always nice.”
“I’m nice to you.”
“That’s different?”
Paige looked back at you. “Yeah.”
Your heart felt too big for your chest.
She held your gaze for a second, then cleared her throat and reached for the laptop like she needed something to do. “Anyway. We need a game plan.”
“A game plan?”
“Yeah. For tonight.”
“This is not basketball.”
“Everything is basketball if you’re smart enough.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Made sense to me.”
You laughed, and Paige smiled like she had been waiting for it.
Her “game plan” was simple. No pressure to sleep. No staring at the clock. No pretending you were fine if you weren’t. You could stay as long as you wanted. You could talk, watch something, sit in silence, whatever. If you got tired, you could rest. If you didn’t, that was okay too. Paige made it sound so easy that you wanted to believe her.
For a while, it worked.
You watched another episode. Then another. Paige got up at some point to grab water, handing you a bottle with a pointed look until you drank. She complained that you were “hardheaded as hell” when you refused the granola bar she offered, then looked way too pleased when you eventually took half. She dimmed the lamp without asking, making the room softer around the edges.
Little by little, your body started to loosen.
You didn’t realize you had leaned against her until Paige went still.
Not stiff. Just aware.
Your shoulder was touching her arm, your head tilted close enough that if you moved another inch, you’d be resting against her. You froze, about to pull back, but Paige spoke before you could.
“You good.”
Two words. Quiet. Certain.
So you stayed.
Paige shifted carefully, giving you an easier angle, and your head ended up on her shoulder. Her hoodie was soft beneath your cheek. She smelled like laundry detergent and something clean and warm, and you hated how safe it made you feel because safety was dangerous. Safety made you want things. Safety made you soft.
Paige’s voice came low near your temple. “You comfortable?”
“No.”
She laughed under her breath. “Liar.”
You smiled faintly. “Shut up.”
“Make me.”
Your eyes opened.
Paige seemed to realize what she said at the same time you did, because the air changed immediately. Not uncomfortable. Just charged. Warm. Her shoulder shifted under your cheek, and when you looked up, her face was closer than you expected.
She looked down at you, eyes flicking briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes.
Your breath caught.
Paige smiled, slow and unfair. “You nervous again.”
“Maybe you’re just annoying again.”
“Mm.” Her voice dropped slightly. “That what it is?”
You should have moved. You did not move.
The laptop kept playing some scene neither of you were watching. Paige’s gaze stayed on you, soft but confident, teasing but careful. Like she would keep going if you wanted, and stop the second you didn’t.
But then a yawn caught you off guard, sudden and deep, ruining the entire moment.
Paige blinked.
Then she started laughing.
You groaned, hiding your face against her shoulder. “Don’t.”
“Nah, that was crazy timing.”
“I hate my body.”
“Your body said wrap it up, lover girl.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why? You blushing?”
“I’m tired.”
“And blushing.”
You pinched her arm lightly.
“Ow,” Paige said, even though you barely touched her. “Assault after I opened my home to you.”
“Your home is a dorm room.”
“My sacred space.”
“You’re so annoying.”
“And yet…” She let the sentence trail off, her cheek brushing lightly against the top of your head. “You still here.”
You were still there.
And somehow, against all odds, you started to fall asleep.
It didn’t happen quickly. Sleep never came to you like that. It approached slowly, suspiciously, like a stray animal deciding whether your hand was safe. You drifted, woke a little, drifted again. Each time your body startled itself back toward awareness, Paige was still there. Sometimes scrolling quietly on her phone. Sometimes watching the show. Sometimes murmuring something stupid just to make you smile without fully waking.
At some point, you felt her hand touch the blanket near your arm.
Not grabbing. Not trapping. Just there.
“Paige?” you whispered, barely awake.
“Yeah?”
“If I fall asleep… wake me if I’m bothering you.”
“You not bothering me.”
“But—”
“Y/N.”
You went quiet.
Her voice softened. “Sleep.”
And because she said it like she meant it, because the room was warm and the blanket was heavy and Paige was steady beside you, you did.
For maybe forty minutes.
Then the nightmare came.
It wasn’t always the same, but it always felt the same. Panic with no clean edges. A dream made of running and not moving, speaking and no sound coming out, reaching for something that kept getting farther away. You woke with a sharp inhale, body jerking like you had been dropped back into it. For a second, you didn’t know where you were. The room was dark. The laptop had gone quiet. Your heart was pounding so hard it hurt.
Then Paige sat up beside you.
“Hey,” she said immediately, voice calm but alert. “Hey, you’re okay.”
You couldn’t answer. Your breathing was wrong, too fast, too shallow, and embarrassment crashed in almost as quickly as fear. You tried to pull away, but the blanket tangled around your legs.
Paige didn’t grab you. She moved into your line of sight, careful and steady. “Y/N, look at me.”
You tried.
“There you go,” she said softly. “You’re in my room. You’re safe. It was a dream.”
Your hands were shaking. You curled them into fists, trying to hide it, but Paige saw.
Of course she saw.
“Can I touch you?” she asked.
The question almost broke you.
You nodded.
Paige reached for your hand, slowly enough that you could pull away if you wanted. When you didn’t, she wrapped her fingers around yours and squeezed once. Her hand was warm. Real. Anchoring.
“Breathe with me,” she said.
“I can’t.”
“You can. You are.” Paige shifted closer, eyes locked on yours. “In through your nose. Slow. I got you.”
You followed her because it was easier than following yourself. In. Hold. Out. Again. Paige did it with you every time, patient in a way that made your chest ache. She didn’t look scared. She didn’t look annoyed. She didn’t look like she regretted letting you stay.
She just looked there.
After a while, the room came back. The shape of the desk. The hoodie thrown over a chair. The water bottle on the floor. Paige’s thumb moving gently over your knuckles.
Your breathing evened out.
Shame came next.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
Paige frowned. “Don’t do that.”
“I woke you up.”
“I wasn’t really asleep.”
“Still.”
“Y/N.” Her voice was firmer now. Not harsh. Just enough to stop you. “You had a nightmare. You don’t gotta apologize for that.”
You looked away, eyes burning.
Paige squeezed your hand again. “Look at me.”
You did, reluctantly.
Her face softened. “I’m serious. You don’t scare me. You don’t bother me. And I’m not sitting here thinking you’re too much.”
Your lips pressed together.
“I know that’s probably where your head goes,” she said, quieter. “But don’t put that on me. Let me tell you what I think.”
You swallowed. “What do you think?”
“I think…” Paige looked at you for a long second, and when she spoke again, her voice was gentle. “I think you’re tired. I think you been trying to handle something really hard by yourself for way too long. And I think I really wanna hold you right now, but I’m trying to be respectful and not make you pass out from stress.”
A laugh broke out of you before you could stop it, shaky and small.
Paige smiled. “There she is.”
“You’re so dumb.”
“Made you laugh.”
“I had a nightmare.”
“And I’m still funny.”
You wiped at your face, embarrassed when your fingers came away damp. Paige pretended not to notice in the kindest way possible, looking down at your joined hands instead of your tears.
After a moment, you whispered, “You can.”
Paige looked up. “I can what?”
“Hold me.”
Her expression changed.
Softened. Warmed. Went so open that you had to look away again.
“You sure?” she asked.
You nodded.
Paige moved slowly, giving you every chance to change your mind. She sat back against the pillows and opened one arm, and you shifted into her before you could overthink it. Your head found the space beneath her chin, your body tucked against her side, and Paige wrapped her arm around you like she had been waiting to do it all night.
Maybe longer.
For a few minutes, neither of you spoke.
Her hand moved gently up and down your back, slow enough to calm you but not so soft it tickled. Your ear rested near her chest, close enough to hear her heartbeat. It was steady. Strong. You focused on it until your own started to match.
“You okay?” Paige murmured.
You nodded against her hoodie. “Better.”
“Good.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What did I just say?”
You sighed. “I know.”
“Do you?”
“I’m trying.”
Paige’s hand paused, then continued. “That counts.”
You smiled faintly.
Outside, the world was still asleep. Or maybe waking up. You had no idea what time it was, and for once, you didn’t want to check. The clock always made you feel like you were failing. Paige’s room didn’t. Paige didn’t.
After a while, you said, “You’re weirdly good at this.”
“At what?”
“Comforting people.”
Paige made a thoughtful sound. “I mean, I got siblings. Teammates. Been through stuff. You learn.”
“That was a real answer.”
“My bad.” Her voice turned teasing again. “I’m also just naturally gifted.”
You laughed into her hoodie. “There it is.”
“Can’t stay humble too long. Bad for my brand.”
“Your brand is being annoying?”
“And pretty. And elite.”
“And humble.”
“Exactly.”
You tilted your head up to look at her. It was a mistake. Paige was already looking down at you, face close in the dim light, hair messy, eyes soft in a way that made your brain go quiet for once. Her hand had stilled against your back.
“What?” she asked, barely above a whisper.
“Nothing.”
“That’s never nothing.”
“I just…” You hesitated. “Thank you.”
Something flickered across her face. “You don’t gotta thank me.”
“I want to.”
Paige’s gaze dropped again, just briefly, to your mouth.
Your heart remembered how to be annoying.
She looked back at your eyes. “You always this sweet after nightmares?”
“Don’t ruin it.”
“I’m not.” Her smile was small. “I’m just asking.”
“You always flirt with emotionally vulnerable people?”
Paige huffed a laugh, but her cheeks looked a little warmer. “Only when they cute and wearing my hoodie.”
You smiled. “So specific.”
“I got standards.”
You should have looked away.
You didn’t.
Paige’s hand moved slightly on your back, fingers flexing once like she was holding herself in place. “Y/N.”
“Yeah?”
“You gotta stop looking at me like that if you want me to behave.”
Your breath caught.
“Who said I want you to behave?” you whispered.
For once, Paige looked genuinely caught off guard.
It lasted half a second.
Then her smile turned slow, pleased, a little cocky. “Oh, okay.”
You hid your face immediately. “Forget I said that.”
“Nope.”
“Paige.”
“Nah, stand on it.”
“I was sleep-deprived.”
“You been sleep-deprived for weeks. That’s not a legal defense.”
You groaned into her chest while she laughed quietly, her arm tightening around you. The laughter helped. The teasing helped. Paige helped. She made the nightmare feel less like a monster and more like something that had happened, something you had survived, something that did not get to own the whole night.
Eventually, the room settled again.
You didn’t know how long you stayed curled against her. Long enough for your breathing to slow. Long enough for the last bits of panic to drain from your body. Long enough for Paige’s hand on your back to become familiar.
“I don’t think I can sleep,” you admitted quietly.
“That’s okay.”
“I want to.”
“I know.”
“It’s frustrating.”
“I know.”
You lifted your head slightly. “You keep saying that.”
“Because I do.”
“How?”
Paige looked at you for a moment, then shrugged. “Not the same way. But I know what it’s like when your body don’t trust peace. Like even when everything’s good, you still waiting for something.”
That landed somewhere deep.
You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
“So we don’t force it,” she said. “We just chill. And if sleep happens, cool. If not, I’m still here.”
Your throat tightened again, but this time it wasn’t from panic.
“You’re gonna regret saying that when I keep you up until six.”
Paige smirked. “Ma, I’ve played overtime. I’m built for this.”
“This is not overtime.”
“You right. This harder. You way more stubborn than any defender I’ve seen.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“And you’re still smiling.”
You were.
She looked proud of that too.
The second time sleep came, it was softer. No dramatic fade. No sudden heaviness. Just Paige talking quietly about nothing, her voice low and familiar, her fingers tracing absent shapes over the blanket near your arm. She told you about a shot she should’ve taken. About how she missed being able to eat cereal at weird hours without someone judging her. About how she was absolutely convinced one of the managers was hiding the good snacks. You answered less and less until your replies became hums.
At some point, Paige whispered, “You falling asleep on me?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“Shut up.”
“You want me to keep talking?”
You nodded against her.
So she did.
You didn’t remember what she said after that.
When you woke again, the room was pale with early morning. Not bright yet, but close. Your first instinct was fear, that automatic check for panic, for nightmare residue, for the heavy dread that usually came with morning. But this time, you were warm. Wrapped in a blanket. Tucked into Paige’s side, her arm still around you, her head tilted back against the pillow, mouth slightly open as she slept.
You stared.
Then smiled so hard it hurt.
Paige Bueckers, loudest person alive when she wanted to be, looked ridiculously peaceful asleep. Softer. Younger. Still unfairly pretty, which was annoying, honestly. One of her hands was resting near your waist over the blanket, loose and careful even in sleep.
You tried to move without waking her.
Failed immediately.
Paige stirred, blinking slowly. “You good?”
Her voice was raspy with sleep, and it did something terrible to your stomach.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
She frowned, eyes barely open. “You okay?”
“I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
She studied you for a second through half-lidded eyes, then seemed satisfied. “You slept.”
“A little.”
“That’s a dub.”
You smiled. “A dub?”
“Big dub.” Paige shifted, pulling the blanket more securely around you like she wasn’t even thinking about it. “Might hang a banner.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You slept in my room one time and already disrespecting me in the morning.”
“I disrespected you before that.”
“True.” Her eyes opened a little more, and she smiled lazily. “Consistency. I like that.”
You were quiet for a moment.
Then you said, “Thank you for staying.”
Paige’s expression softened, sleep still clinging to her features. “Told you I would.”
“Most people say stuff like that and don’t mean it.”
“I’m not most people.”
“That was very humble.”
“I’m serious.”
You looked at her.
She looked back.
And yeah. She was.
“I know,” you whispered.
Paige’s gaze moved over your face, slower now, morning-soft and unguarded. “You scared?”
“Of what?”
“This.” Her thumb brushed lightly over the blanket near your side. “Me being here. You letting me.”
You thought about lying. You almost did. Then you remembered her voice in the dark, telling you not to pretend.
“A little,” you admitted.
Paige nodded. “Me too.”
That surprised you. “You?”
She gave you a look. “What, you think I’m just out here fearless?”
“Kinda.”
“Good. My image working.”
You laughed softly.
Paige smiled, but it faded into something more honest. “I don’t wanna mess it up,” she said. “With you.”
Your heart went very, very still.
“You won’t,” you said.
“You don’t know that.”
“No,” you agreed. “But I know you try.”
Paige watched you like that meant more than you realized.
Then, because she apparently couldn’t handle sincerity for too long, she said, “So… does this mean I’m officially part of your sleep routine?”
You groaned. “Paige.”
“What? I’m asking important questions.”
“You are not a weighted blanket.”
“I could be.”
“You have practice.”
“I also have elite cuddling potential.”
“Elite?”
“Everything I do is elite.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You keep saying that like you not literally still cuddled up with me.”
You looked down and realized she was right, which was deeply unfortunate for your pride.
Paige grinned. “Caught.”
“I’m leaving.”
“No, you not.”
“I should.”
“You should rest.”
“I already slept.”
“For like, what, two hours?” She gave you a pointed look. “Don’t start acting brand new.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re bossy in the morning.”
“I’m bossy all day.”
“True.”
Paige’s smile softened. “Stay a little longer.”
There it was again. That gentle honesty tucked beneath the teasing.
You felt yourself melt. Just a little.
“Okay,” you said.
Paige looked pleased but tried not to show it. Failed badly.
You settled back down, not quite as anxious this time. Your head found her shoulder again, and Paige adjusted like it was natural, like you belonged there, like her body had already learned the shape of yours. She pulled the blanket up, then rested her cheek lightly against your hair.
For a while, neither of you talked.
The sky outside got brighter. Somewhere down the hall, a door opened and closed. The day was beginning, whether you were ready for it or not. But for once, morning did not feel like proof you had lost the night.
It felt like you had made it through.
With Paige.
“You know,” Paige murmured after a while, voice still rough with sleep, “you really are pretty when you’re not fighting for your life at four a.m.”
You lifted your head. “That is the worst compliment I’ve ever received.”
“What? I said you’re pretty.”
“You added trauma.”
“Context.”
“You’re so bad at this.”
“I’m actually great at this.” Paige’s eyes dropped to your lips again, quicker this time but not quick enough to miss. “You just picky.”
You went quiet.
Paige did too.
The air shifted for the second time in that room, but this time, neither of you hid behind a yawn or a joke. Paige’s hand was still around you. Your faces were close. Close enough that you could see the tiny details of her expression, the hesitation beneath the confidence, the question she wasn’t asking out loud.
You could have answered it.
Maybe you would have.
But then Paige’s phone alarm went off, loud and violent, making both of you jump.
You burst out laughing first.
Paige grabbed her phone with a groan, shutting it off. “I hate that thing.”
“That was so romantic.”
“Don’t play with me. I can recover.”
“Oh, can you?”
“Absolutely.”
She turned back to you, still half-asleep, hair messy, eyes warm, and somehow more charming because of how unpolished she looked.
Then she leaned in and kissed your forehead.
It was soft. Slow. So gentle it made your laughter disappear in your throat.
When she pulled back, her cheeks were faintly pink, but her expression was steady.
“There,” she said quietly. “Recovered.”
You stared at her.
Paige looked smug for about two seconds before nervousness flickered across her face. “Was that okay?”
Your heart squeezed.
“Yeah,” you said, smiling softly. “That was okay.”
“Good.”
“You’re still annoying.”
“And you still like me.”
You should have denied it.
You didn’t.
Paige’s smile grew, bright and sleepy and beautiful.
“Yeah,” she whispered, like she already knew. “Thought so.”
Later, you would still have bad nights. The insomnia would not magically disappear because Paige held you once. The nightmares would not suddenly decide to be kind just because someone cared. You knew that. Paige knew it too. There would still be nights where sleep felt impossible, where your body fought rest, where the ceiling became too familiar again.
But something had changed.
Because now, when the world went quiet and lonely, your phone would light up.
paige: u awake?
paige: don’t lie
paige: i can feel u being stubborn from here
And sometimes, when the nightmares were bad, you would call before you could talk yourself out of it.
And Paige would answer.
Always with that same sleepy, steady voice.
“Hey, ma. I’m here.”
Not a cure. Not a fix.
But a hand in the dark.
A voice reminding you that morning was not a failure.
A person who stayed.
And maybe that did not make sleep easy.
But it made the night less lonely.
And for now, that was enough.
ps: when did u get hot part 2 coming soon. <3 love yall
➷ 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.
Summary (implied spoilers for The Score): you stop on a dark highway for a stranger you have never met. He wakes up days later not knowing your name. What follows is a love story that starts with blood-stained scrubs, a neck brace, and the single worst pickup line ever delivered in an ICU. Aka … the fix-it fic where Beau lives
Warnings: descriptions of a car accident and critical injuries
The night stretches cold and endless along Route 2, the kind of February darkness that settles into your bones. You’re driving on autopilot, your mind still churning through pharmacokinetics and drug interactions, when the world explodes into motion ahead of you.
Metal screeches. Glass shatters. A black SUV careens off the road, spinning once, twice, before slamming into a massive oak with a sound that punches through the quiet night.
Your foot hits the brake before your brain catches up. Your car fishtails slightly on the slick road before coming to a stop thirty feet from the wreckage. For exactly three seconds, you sit there, hands still gripping the steering wheel, heart hammering against your ribs.
Then you’re moving.
You grab your phone, your emergency kit from the trunk — thank god for your mother’s paranoia — and run toward the smoking vehicle. The smell hits you first: gasoline, burnt rubber, something metallic that might be blood.
“Hello?” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Can anyone hear me?”
A groan from the driver’s side. You circle around, your boots crunching on broken glass and scattered debris. The driver’s door hangs open at an odd angle. A man in his fifties sits slumped against the steering wheel, a gash above his eyebrow bleeding sluggishly.
“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”
His eyes flutter open. Blue eyes. Dazed but focusing. “I—what happened? Where’s-” His head jerks toward the passenger side, and pure terror floods his face. “Beau! BEAU!”
He tries to unbuckle his seatbelt, but you put a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, please don’t move. You might be injured-”
“My son!” He shoves your hand away, stronger than he looks. “My son is in the passenger seat!”
Ice floods your veins. You circle to the other side of the vehicle, and that’s when you see him.
The passenger door is crumpled inward, the metal twisted like paper. The window is completely gone. And in the seat, surrounded by a spider web of cracks in what’s left of the windshield, is a young man about your age.
There’s so much blood.
“Oh god,” you whisper. Then louder, forcing yourself into action: “I’m calling 911 right now!”
Your fingers shake as you dial, but your voice comes out clear when the operator answers.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Motor vehicle collision, Route 2 westbound, approximately two miles past the Lexington exit. Two victims. Driver appears stable with minor head trauma, but passenger has severe injuries-” You’re moving as you talk, assessing with your eyes what you can’t yet touch. “Possible cervical spine injury, significant hemorrhaging from upper extremity, penetrating chest trauma. We need paramedics and ALS immediately.”
“Ma’am, are you a medical professional?”
“Second-year medical student. I have BLS and Stop the Bleed certification.”
“Paramedics are en route. ETA eight minutes. Can you provide care until they arrive?”
“Yes.” You set the phone down, speaker on, and force yourself to breathe. Eight minutes. You can do eight minutes.
You turn back to the passenger. The father is now standing beside you, swaying slightly.
“Sir, I need you to sit down-”
“That’s my son.” His voice breaks. “Please, you have to help him. Please.”
“I will. But I need you to sit down before you fall down. Can you do that for me?”
He nods shakily and lowers himself to the ground, never taking his eyes off his son.
You lean into the destroyed passenger compartment, and your medical training wars with your human instinct to panic. The young man — Beau, his father called him — is unconscious. His head lolls at an angle that makes your stomach drop. Not a natural angle. Not even close.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay, think. C-spine precautions. Don’t move him unless he’s in immediate danger.”
But he is in immediate danger. You can see it in the way his neck bends, the way his head threatens to fall further forward. If his cervical spine isn’t already severed, any more movement could do it.
You look around frantically. The car is stable. No fire. But you need to stabilize his neck now.
Your emergency kit. You dump it on the ground, hands moving fast, grabbing the rolled-up fleece blanket your mom insisted you carry. You carefully roll it into a tight cylinder and maneuver it around Beau’s neck, trying to provide support without moving him any more than absolutely necessary.
“Talk to me,” you call to the father. “What’s his name? Full name?”
“Beau. Beau Maxwell.” The man’s voice is thin with shock. “He’s twenty-two. He’s healthy, no medical conditions, no allergies. He’s—god, he’s the quarterback. He has a game next week. He has-”
“Okay, Mr. Maxwell, that’s good, that’s helpful.” You’re assessing as he talks. The makeshift cervical collar is in place. Now the bleeding. “I need you to keep talking to me. Tell me what happened.”
“A deer. There was a deer in the road, and I swerved, and-” His voice cracks again. “I felt the ice. I felt us sliding. I couldn’t stop it.”
You’re barely listening now, all your attention on Beau’s arm. There’s a shard of glass — thick, wickedly sharp — embedded in his right bicep. Blood pulses around it in rhythmic spurts. Arterial. Brachial artery, most likely.
“Fuck,” you breathe. “Dispatch, update — patient has arterial hemorrhage from upper extremity. I’m applying a tourniquet now.”
Your coat. You’re already shaking from the cold, but you strip off your heavy winter coat without hesitation. You need fabric, need pressure, need to stop the bleeding before he loses any more blood.
The glass shard is still embedded. Leave it or take it out? You run through your training in microseconds. In the field, with no surgical backup, no way to clamp the artery — leave it. But you need pressure above and below.
You wrap your coat around his upper arm, using the sleeves to tie it as tight as you can manage. Your fingers are already going numb, but you pull harder, watching the rhythmic spurting slow to a steady seep. Not perfect, but better.
You’re about to check his other injuries when you see it: a thick branch, maybe three inches in diameter, has punched through the windshield and embedded itself in Beau’s chest. Just left of center. Through the sternum, or maybe just missing it. Either way, it’s deep.
Your hands hover over it, trembling. Every instinct screams at you to pull it out, but you know that branch is the only thing preventing him from bleeding out right now. If it’s hit any major vessels, removing it without a surgical team standing by would kill him.
“Please,” Mr. Maxwell says from behind you. “Please tell me he’s going to be okay.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you lean back slightly, taking in Beau’s face for the first time.
Even like this — pale, covered in blood, unconscious — he’s striking. Dark hair matted against his forehead, strong jaw, features that would be more at home on a movie screen than a car wreck. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, minor compared to everything else, and his lips are slightly parted, each breath shallow and labored.
You find yourself reaching out, your fingers — cold and blood-stained — brushing against his cheek.
“Hey,” you whisper. “Beau. I know you can’t hear me, but I need you to hold on, okay? Help is coming. Just hold on.”
His skin is cooling rapidly in the February air. You grab the emergency blanket from your kit with your free hand and drape it over as much of him as you can without disturbing the branch or the makeshift collar.
“Six minutes out,” the dispatcher says through your phone speaker.
Six minutes. Six minutes for his brain to be without adequate oxygen if his breathing gets any worse. Six minutes for that branch to shift. Six minutes for his neck to-
No. You push the thoughts away.
“Mr. Maxwell, is anyone else hurt? Was anyone else in the car?”
“No. Just us. We were coming back from dinner. In the city. His grandmother’s birthday.” The man is crying now, quietly. “I told him I’d drive so he could relax. Have a few drinks. I told him-”
“This wasn’t your fault,” you say firmly. “The deer, the ice — this wasn’t your fault.”
You check Beau’s pulse again. Thready. Too fast. Shock, almost certainly. Blood loss, head trauma, possible internal injuries — the list spirals in your mind.
“His pupils,” Mr. Maxwell says suddenly. “Shouldn’t you check his pupils?”
You should. You know you should. But part of you is terrified of what you’ll find. Unequal pupils would mean increased intracranial pressure, brain herniation, things you cannot fix on the side of a dark highway.
Still, you pull out your phone flashlight and gently lift one of Beau’s eyelids.
Blue. His eyes are the same startling blue as his father’s, even closed like this. You shine the light across. The pupil constricts. Sluggish, but it constricts. You check the other side. The same.
“Equal and reactive,” you report to dispatch, relief flooding through you. “Sluggish but responsive.”
“Paramedics are three minutes out,” the dispatcher responds.
Three minutes. You can see lights in the distance now, hear the wail of sirens cutting through the night.
You check the tourniquet again — still holding. Check his breathing — still shallow but present. Your hand finds its way back to his face, and you realize you’re talking to him, a steady stream of words you’ll never remember later.
“They’re almost here. You’re doing great. Just keep breathing, okay? Keep breathing.”
Behind you, Mr. Maxwell is on his own phone now, his voice breaking as he talks to someone. His wife, probably. Telling her something no parent should ever have to say.
The ambulance screams to a stop, and suddenly there are people everywhere. Paramedics in dark blue, moving with practiced efficiency.
“We’ve got him, ma’am. We’ve got him.”
But you don’t move. Not until one of them — a woman with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair — gently touches your shoulder.
“You did good,” she says. “Really good. But we need you to step back now so we can work.”
You stumble backward, and Mr. Maxwell is there, catching your elbow.
“What do we have?” the lead paramedic asks.
Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Twenty-two-year-old male, restrained passenger in head-on collision with tree. Patient found unconscious, significant cervical spine angulation — I’ve placed a soft collar for support. Penetrating trauma to chest, large foreign object still in situ. Arterial hemorrhage from right upper extremity, tourniquet applied. Pupils equal and reactive but sluggish. Respirations shallow, approximately 20 per minute. Pulse thready at approximately 120. Obvious signs of shock.”
The paramedic’s eyebrows raise slightly. “You a doctor?”
“Med student. Second year.”
“Well, med student, you probably saved his life.” She’s already moving, her team swarming around Beau with practiced precision. C-collar. Backboard. IV access. They work with a choreography born of countless traumas.
You watch as they carefully extract him from the vehicle, maintaining spinal precautions, keeping the branch stable. Watch as they load him onto the stretcher. Watch as they cut away his blood-soaked shirt, revealing more of the damage underneath.
“We’re taking him to Mass General,” one of the paramedics calls out. “Trauma one.”
“I’m riding with him,” Mr. Maxwell says, but he’s swaying again, and now that the adrenaline is fading, you can see he’s not as okay as he first appeared.
“Sir, you need to be evaluated too,” another paramedic says, approaching with a second gurney. “We’ll take you both.”
“But-”
“We’ve got him, sir. We’ve got your son.”
You watch as they load Mr. Maxwell into a second ambulance. Watch as both vehicles pull away, sirens wailing, lights painting the dark road in red and blue.
Then it’s just you, standing on the side of Route 2 in just your scrubs and thin long-sleeve shirt, shivering violently as the adrenaline finally crashes. A police officer is talking to you — when did the police arrive? — asking questions you answer automatically.
Your coat is gone. Still wrapped around Beau Maxwell’s arm, probably being cut off by the trauma team right now. Your emergency kit is scattered across the asphalt. Your hands are stained rusty brown with blood.
“Miss?” The officer touches your shoulder. “Miss, are you okay? Do you need medical attention?”
“I’m fine,” you hear yourself say. “I’m fine.”
But you’re not fine. You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter. Your mind keeps replaying the angle of Beau’s neck, the branch in his chest, the feel of his cooling skin under your fingers.
The officer wraps a shock blanket around your shoulders and guides you to sit in your car, heater blasting. He’s still asking questions — your name, your address, what you saw. You answer them all, but part of you is still on that roadside, watching Beau’s chest rise and fall in shallow, struggling breaths.
“You’re a hero, you know,” the officer says after he’s finished taking your statement. “That young man — you probably saved his life.”
You nod numbly. All you can think is but what if it wasn’t enough?
The officer helps you collect your scattered supplies, guides you through the process of leaving the scene. Your car is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.
Except it’s not.
As you drive home, your hands won’t stop shaking on the wheel. You keep seeing Beau’s face, keep feeling the cold of his skin, keep hearing Mr. Maxwell’s broken voice. That’s my son. Please, you have to help him.
You make it to your apartment building, into your unit, into your bathroom before you finally break down. You sit on the cold tile floor, still in your blood-stained scrubs, and sob.
Because you’ve spent two years studying medicine, learning about trauma and emergency care, practicing on mannequins and in simulations. But nothing prepared you for the reality of holding someone’s life in your hands while their blood soaks into your coat and their father begs you to save them.
Nothing prepared you for looking into the face of a dying stranger and desperately, irrationally, needing him to survive.
You cry until you have no tears left, until the shaking finally subsides, until you can breathe without feeling like your chest is caving in. You peel off your ruined scrubs, scrub the blood from your hands, and sit on your couch in the dark.
Then you pull up Google on your phone, your hands steadier now, and type in a name. Beau Maxwell.
The results flood your screen. Articles about football, highlight reels, statistics. Briar University’s star quarterback. Twenty-two years old. Junior year. Dark hair, blue eyes, a smile that could sell toothpaste. Projected first-round NFL draft pick.
You scroll through image after image of him — in uniform, in interviews, at press conferences. Healthy. Whole. So full of life it seems impossible that just an hour ago you were watching him bleed out on a dark highway.
You close your phone and lean your head back against the couch, staring at your ceiling in the darkness.
“Please,” you whisper to no one, to everyone, to whatever forces govern life and death. “Please let him be okay.”
Outside your window, Boston sleeps on, unaware. Somewhere across the city, in Mass General’s trauma bay, a team of surgeons fights to save the life of a quarterback you’ve never met but will never forget.
All you can do is wait.
And hope.
And pray that your desperate, fumbling first aid was enough to give him a chance.
***
The weight room smells like sweat and rubber, the familiar clang of metal on metal providing a rhythm Dean has known since he was twelve. It’s barely seven in the morning, but he’s already on his third set of deadlifts, Garrett spotting him while Logan and Tucker argue about last night’s game on the bench press across the room.
“I’m just saying,” Tucker calls over, “if you’d passed to me in the third period instead of trying to be a hero-”
“If I’d passed to you, you would’ve whiffed it like you did in the second,” Logan fires back.
“Fuck off, I was screened-”
“You were too busy checking out that blonde in the third row-”
Dean tunes them out, focusing on his form. Up. Hold. Down. Controlled. His phone sits on the bench beside his water bottle, face down. It buzzes once — probably his mom checking if he’s coming home this weekend — but he ignores it.
He’s pulling the bar up for his fourth rep when the phone starts ringing. Properly ringing, not just buzzing. The specific ringtone that means it’s someone from his favorites list.
“Dude, your phone,” Garrett says.
Dean sets the bar down carefully and picks up the phone, expecting to see his mom’s contact photo. Instead, it’s Coach Jensen.
At seven in the morning.
On a Saturday.
“That’s weird,” Dean mutters, answering. “Coach? Everything okay?”
There’s a pause. Too long. Dean’s stomach does something uncomfortable.
“Di Laurentis.” Coach Jensen’s voice is careful in a way Dean has never heard before. Careful like he’s handling glass. “Where are you right now?”
“Weight room. With the guys. What’s going on?”
Another pause. Dean can hear something in the background — voices, maybe a TV.
“Is Garrett there? Logan? Tucker?”
“Yeah, they’re all here. Coach, what-”
“I need you to sit down, son.”
The weight room goes very quiet. Dean realizes his teammates have stopped talking and are now watching him. He doesn’t sit down.
“What happened?”
Coach Jensen takes a breath. Dean can hear it through the phone. “I got a call this morning from Coach Deluca. He called because he knows a lot of our guys are friends with players on his team.”
Dean’s hand tightens on the phone. “Okay?”
“It’s about Beau Maxwell.”
The world tilts slightly. “What about him?”
“There was an accident last night. A car accident. Dean, he’s-” Coach Jensen’s voice catches. “He’s in critical condition at Mass General. His father was driving them back from dinner in the city, and they hit ice, crashed into a tree. His dad’s okay, but Beau-”
Dean doesn’t hear the rest. The phone slips from his hand, clattering against the concrete floor. The sound echoes, distant and wrong, like it’s coming from underwater.
Beau.
Critical condition.
The words don’t make sense. They can’t make sense. Because Dean just saw Beau yesterday. They grabbed lunch between classes, argued about whether the Packers or the Patriots were going to make it to the playoffs, made plans to hit up a party tonight. Beau was fine. Beau was fine.
“Dean?” Garrett’s hand is on his shoulder. “Dean, what’s wrong?”
Dean opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His knees feel strange, like they might not hold him. The weight room spins slightly, or maybe he’s spinning, he can’t tell.
“Shit, he’s going down-” That’s Logan, suddenly on his other side, propping him up.
Tucker grabs the phone from the floor. Dean watches him lift it to his ear, watches his face go pale as he listens to whatever Coach Jensen is saying.
“Oh fuck,” Tucker whispers. “Oh fuck, oh fuck-”
“What?” Garrett demands. “What happened?”
“It’s Beau.” Tucker’s voice sounds hollow. “He’s—there was a car accident. He’s in critical condition.”
The words hit the room like a physical force. Garrett’s hand tightens on Dean’s shoulder. Logan makes a sound like he’s been punched.
Dean still can’t breathe right. Can’t think right. Critical condition. That means bad. That means really bad. That means-
No. No, he’s not going there.
“We need to go,” Dean hears himself say. His voice sounds far away. “We need to go to the hospital.”
“Dean, maybe we should-” Garrett starts.
“Now.” Dean pulls away from his friends, stumbling slightly. His legs feel like water. “We’re going now.”
“Okay,” Logan says quickly. “Okay, yeah. My car’s out front. Let’s go.”
Dean doesn’t remember the walk to the parking lot. Doesn’t remember climbing into Logan’s beat-up pickup. One minute he’s in the weight room, and the next he’s in the back seat, Tucker beside him, watching the familiar streets of Boston blur past the window.
Garrett is in the passenger seat, on his phone. “Yeah, Wellsy, it’s—yeah, it’s really bad. We’re going to Mass General now. Can you—yeah. Thanks, baby.”
The city passes in a haze. Dean stares out the window without seeing anything. His mind keeps trying to process the information and failing. Beau. Car accident. Critical condition.
They’re brothers. Not by blood, but by choice, which Dean has always thought means more.
Beau is the guy who stayed up with Dean all night when his grandfather died, never saying much, just being there. The guy who taught Dean how to throw a spiral when some girl Dean was into invited him to throw a football around. The guy who knows Dean’s coffee order and brings him one without being asked when he’s had a rough day.
Beau is his brother.
And Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do if-
No. Stop. Don’t think it.
“We’re here,” Logan announces, pulling into the hospital parking garage with slightly too much speed.
They practically fall out of the truck, running for the entrance. The hospital is massive, gleaming glass and steel, and Dean has no idea where to go.
“Trauma wing,” Tucker pants, pulling out his phone. “Coach sent me directions. This way.”
They follow him through automatic doors, past a reception desk, down a hallway that smells like antiseptic and fear. Dean’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. His workout clothes are still damp with sweat. He should have changed. Why didn’t he change?
They round a corner, and Dean sees them.
The waiting room is full of Maxwells.
Beau’s mom, Debbie, sits in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, her face buried in her hands. Beau’s dad is standing by the window, a white bandage visible above his eyebrow. Beau’s grandmother is there too, being comforted by what looks like Beau’s aunt. There are others Dean recognizes from family gatherings and football games, all wearing the same expression of shock and grief.
They all look up as four hockey players in workout gear burst into the waiting room.
His moml’s eyes land on Dean, and her face crumbles.
“Dean,” she chokes out, and then she’s standing, crossing the room in three steps, pulling him into her arms.
She’s shaking. Or maybe he’s shaking. He can’t tell anymore.
“I’m so sorry,” she’s saying into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, honey, I know you two—I know-”
That’s what breaks him.
Dean Di Laurentis, who prides himself on being smooth, charming, always in control, shatters. His knees give out, and if Beau’s mom wasn’t holding him up, he’d be on the floor. A sob tears out of his throat, raw and ugly and completely beyond his control.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers, even though she’s the one who should be comforted, even though it’s her son in critical condition. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
Dean can feel his teammates behind him — Logan’s hand on his back, Garrett’s voice saying something he can’t make out. But mostly he feels the weight of grief trying to crush him, the terror of possibly losing the person who knows him better than anyone.
“What happened?” He manages to gasp out. “Coach said—but he didn’t—what happened?”
Debbie pulls back, her hands still on his shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “You should tell them.”
Beau’s dad turns from the window. He looks like he’s aged ten years overnight. The bandage above his eyebrow is stark white against his pale skin.
“We were driving back from dinner,” he says, his voice rough. “In the city. For my mother’s birthday. It was late, almost midnight. I was driving because Beau had a few drinks. We were just—we were talking about the game next week. About his classes. Normal stuff.”
He stops, his jaw working. Beau’s grandmother reaches over and takes his hand.
“There was a deer,” Beau’s dad continues. “It came out of nowhere. I swerved, and the road—there was black ice. I felt the car start to slide, and I couldn’t—I tried to correct, but we just kept sliding. We hit a tree. Driver’s side hit first, then passenger side slammed into it.”
Dean’s stomach churns. He can picture it too clearly.
“I woke up a few seconds later. I was okay, just disoriented. But Beau-” Beau’s father takes a moment to gather himself. “He wasn’t moving. There was blood everywhere. And then this young woman appeared. Out of nowhere. She’d seen the crash and stopped.”
“She called 911,” Beau’s mom picks up the story, her voice steadier than her husband’s. “She was a medical student. She—god, the paramedics said she saved his life. She stabilized his neck, stopped the worst of the bleeding, kept him alive until they could get there.”
“What are his injuries?” Garrett asks quietly. He’s moved to stand beside Dean, solid and steady.
Beau’s dad closes his eyes. “Cervical spine trauma. The paramedics said his neck was bent at an angle that should have killed him. Should have severed his spinal cord. But this girl, she somehow stabilized it. Kept it from snapping completely.”
Dean tastes bile. He swallows hard.
“He also had a penetrating chest wound,” Beau’s dqd continues. “A tree branch went through the windshield and-” He makes a gesture toward his own sternum. “She knew not to pull it out. Knew it was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.”
“And his arm,” Beau’s mom adds, wiping her eyes. “Severe laceration from broken glass. She used her own coat as a tourniquet.”
The waiting room is silent except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant beep of monitors.
“Is he going to be okay?” Tucker asks. His voice is small, younger than Dean has ever heard it.
“They’ve been in surgery for four hours,” Beau’s mom says. “We don’t know yet. They said-” Her voice wavers. “They said the next few days are critical. That even if he survives the surgery, there could be complications. Infection. Brain damage from oxygen deprivation. Paralysis.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp, definitive. Dean doesn’t realize he’s the one who said it until everyone looks at him. “No, that’s not—Beau’s going to be fine. He has to be fine. He’s-”
He can’t finish the sentence. Can’t articulate what Beau means, what a world without him would look like. Can’t.
“We’re praying, honey,” Beau’s mom says softly. “That’s all we can do right now.”
Dean wants to scream that prayer isn’t enough. That there has to be something, anything, they can do. But he just nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat.
More people arrive over the next hour. Beau’s teammates, guys from the football team who Dean knows from parties and the occasional shared class. They fill the waiting room with whispered conversations and shell-shocked expressions. A few of them break down crying. Most just sit in stunned silence.
Dean ends up in one of the plastic chairs, his head in his hands. Logan sits on one side, Garrett on the other. Tucker paces by the window, unable to sit still.
“He’s going to make it,” Logan says quietly. “You know Beau. Stubborn as hell. He’s not going anywhere.”
Dean wants to believe that. Wants to believe that sheer force of will can overcome arterial bleeding and spinal trauma. But he’s seen enough hockey injuries to know that sometimes will isn’t enough.
“Did you know,” Dean says suddenly, his voice hoarse, “that his first word was ‘ball’? He told me that freshman year. Not ‘mama’ or ‘dada.’ ‘Ball.’ His parents said he was obsessed with any kind of ball from the time he could sit up. They knew he’d be an athlete before he could walk.”
“Yeah?” Garrett’s voice is soft, encouraging.
“And he-” Dean’s throat closes up. He forces himself to continue. “He wants to go pro. Obviously. But after that, he wants to coach. High school kids, specifically. He says college and pro players already have all the resources. He wants to work with kids who might not have anyone believing in them.”
“That sounds like Beau,” Logan says.
“He’s going to do it, too,” Dean insists, looking up. “He’s going to play in the NFL and then coach high school ball and probably turn some underfunded program into a state championship team because that’s what he does. He sees potential in people and brings it out of them.”
“Dean-” Garrett starts.
“I mean it.” Dean’s voice cracks. “That’s who he is. So he can’t—he has to-”
The doors to the surgical wing swing open.
The waiting room falls silent immediately. Every head turns. A surgeon walks out, still in his scrubs, pulling off his surgical cap. He looks tired. So tired.
Beau’s parents are on their feet instantly, crossing to meet him. Dean stands too, his teammates flanking him. His heart pounds so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs.
“Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell,” the surgeon says. His voice is neutral, professional, impossible to read.
“How is he?” Beau’s mom asks in barely a whisper. “How’s my son?”
The surgeon takes a breath. Dean holds his own, feeling like the entire world is balanced on whatever words come next.
“The surgery was successful,” the surgeon says, and the relief that floods the room is almost tangible. “We’ve stabilized the spinal trauma, repaired the vascular damage to his arm, and removed the foreign object from his chest. The object missed his heart by less than two centimeters. Any further to the right, and-”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
“But he’s alive?” Beau’s dad asks. “He’s going to live?”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “He’s in critical condition, and the next seventy-two hours will be crucial. There’s still risk of infection, of complications from the spinal trauma. But he made it through surgery, which given the extent of his injuries, is remarkable.”
“Can we see him?” Beau’s mom asks.
“He’s being moved to the ICU now. You can see him once he’s settled, but he’ll be sedated. We need to keep him as still as possible to let the spinal repair begin to heal.”
“His spine,” Beau’s dad says. “Will he—is there paralysis?”
The surgeon’s expression is carefully neutral. “We won’t know the full extent of any nerve damage until he wakes up and we can do a thorough neurological assessment. The spinal cord itself wasn’t severed, which is extraordinarily fortunate. Whoever stabilized his neck at the scene saved his life and likely saved him from permanent paralysis.”
“The girl,” Beau’s mom says. “The medical student. Do you know her name? We want to thank her.”
The surgeon shakes his head. “The paramedics didn’t get her information. Just that she was a Good Samaritan who stopped to help.”
“We have to find her,” Beau’s mom says, turning to her husband. “We have to-”
“We will,” Beau’s dad promises. “We will.”
The surgeon continues, “I need to be clear with you. Your son’s injuries were catastrophic. The fact that he’s alive is nothing short of miraculous. But the road ahead is going to be long. Months of recovery, likely. Multiple surgeries. Intensive physical therapy. And there are still no guarantees.”
“But he’s alive,” Beau’s mom repeats, like it’s a prayer. “He’s alive.”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “You should be very proud of him. He’s a fighter.”
After the surgeon leaves, the waiting room erupts. Quiet at first — no one wants to celebrate when Beau is still critical — but there’s a shift. From hopeless to hopeful. From grief to cautious relief.
Dean sits down hard, his legs finally giving out completely. He drops his head into his hands, and this time when he cries, it’s different. Still scared, still shaken, but there’s something else mixed in.
Gratitude.
“He made it,” Logan says, his own voice thick. “Holy shit, he actually made it.”
“Seventy-two hours,” Tucker says. “That’s what the doctor said. Three days. He just has to make it three days.”
“He will,” Garrett says firmly. “You heard the doc. Beau’s a fighter.”
Dean lifts his head, scrubbing at his face. His eyes feel swollen, his throat raw. He probably looks like hell. He doesn’t care.
“I need to see him,” he says. “I need to see him.”
“Family only in the ICU, probably,” Logan says gently. “At least at first.”
“I don’t care. I need-” Dean’s voice breaks again. “I need to see him.”
Beau’s mom appears in front of him, crouching down so they’re at eye level. She takes his hands in hers.
“As soon as they let us bring visitors, you’ll be the first,” she promises. “I swear. But right now, I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“I need you to take care of yourself. Go home, shower, eat something. Because when Beau wakes up — and he will wake up — he’s going to need you strong. Can you do that?”
Dean wants to argue. Wants to plant himself in this waiting room and refuse to move until he can see his brother. But her eyes are pleading, and she’s asking so little when she’s going through so much.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, but you’ll call me? The second anything changes?”
“The absolute second,” she promises. “You’re family, Dean. You know that.”
Family. The word cracks something open in his chest. He pulls Beau’s mom into another hug, holding on tight.
“Thank you,” he says. “For calling me. For letting me know.”
“Oh honey,” she says, pulling back to look at him. “There was never a question. You’re his brother.”
Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak.
His teammates drive him back to campus in silence. The shock is starting to wear off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Dean’s muscles ache from his workout, which feels like it happened years ago instead of hours.
They end up on the couch, the four of them, not talking. Just being there. At some point, Tucker orders pizza. At another point, Hannah and Allie show up with half the football team, bringing food and offering quiet support.
Dean’s phone buzzes constantly. Texts from teammates, from friends, from people he hasn’t talked to in months, all asking about Beau. He doesn’t answer any of them.
Instead, he pulls up his photos. Finds the album labeled “Best Bro.” Hundreds of pictures spanning three years. Beau throwing a touchdown. Beau at a party, arm slung around Dean’s shoulders. Beau asleep in the library during finals week, drooling on his American History textbook. Beau grinning at the camera, blue eyes bright, completely alive.
“He’s going to be okay,” Dean whispers to the photo. “You’re going to be okay.”
He has to believe it. Because the alternative — a world without Beau’s terrible jokes and unwavering loyalty and ability to light up any room he walks into — is unthinkable.
His phone buzzes again. They’ve settled him in the ICU. He looks peaceful. Still sedated. Doctors say next 12 hours are critical. Will update you in the morning. Try to get some sleep, honey. He needs you rested.
Dean stares at the message for a long time. Tell him I’m here. Tell him his brother is here and waiting for him to wake up.
Dean sets his phone down and leans back against the couch. Around him, his friends have settled into quiet conversation. Someone turned on a movie at some point, something mindless playing on low volume.
But Dean isn’t watching. He’s thinking about a girl he’s never met. A medical student who stopped on a dark highway and saved his brother’s life. Who thought quickly enough to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to give him a fighting chance.
Whoever she is, wherever she is, Dean owes her everything.
“We have to find her,” he says suddenly.
Garrett looks over. “Who?”
“The girl. The medical student. She saved him, and she just disappeared. Didn’t even leave her name.”
“Dude, Boston has like five medical schools,” Logan points out. “That’s thousands of students.”
“I don’t care,” Dean says. His voice is stronger now, steadier. “We’ll check every single one if we have to. But we’re going to find her.”
Because whoever she is, she gave Beau a second chance at life.
And Dean is going to make damn sure she knows how much that means.
***
The world comes back in pieces.
First, there’s sound — a steady beeping, rhythmic and insistent. Then sensation — something soft beneath him, something constricting around his neck. Then smell — antiseptic, that particular hospital smell that’s somehow both sterile and cloying at once.
Beau tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.
“-vitals are stable, Mrs. Maxwell. We’re going to start decreasing the sedation now-”
That’s a voice he doesn’t recognize. Professional. Clinical.
“How long until he wakes up?” That voice he knows. Mom. She sounds exhausted.
“It varies. Could be a few hours. His body’s been through significant trauma, so we’re taking it slow.”
Beau wants to tell them he’s right here, that he can hear them, but his mouth won’t cooperate. The darkness pulls him back under.
***
The next time consciousness surfaces, it stays a little longer.
The beeping is still there. But now there are other sounds too — quiet conversation, the rustle of fabric, footsteps in the hallway.
“-told you, you can’t give him solid food yet-” Mom again, but this time she sounds amused.
“I’m not giving it to him. I’m just … having it ready. For when he can.” Dean. That’s definitely Dean.
“You brought Dunkin’ Donuts to a hospital ICU?”
“Munchkins. They’re small. It doesn’t count.”
Despite everything — the pain starting to register in various parts of his body, the confusion, the way his neck feels completely immobilized — Beau almost smiles.
“Beau?” A different voice. Dad. “Beau, can you hear me?”
He tries to respond. Manages something between a grunt and a groan.
“Oh my god.” Mom’s voice cracks. “Oh my god, he’s—get the nurse. Get the nurse!”
Footsteps. Fast.
Beau forces his eyes open. The light is too bright, everything blurry. He blinks, and slowly the world comes into focus.
White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The edge of what looks like a massive amount of medical equipment.
“Beau?” Mom’s face appears above him, and she’s crying. “Oh, baby. You’re awake. You’re really awake.”
“Hey, Mom.” His voice comes out as barely a rasp, his throat raw and painful.
“Don’t try to move, sweetheart. Your neck—they had to stabilize your neck. You’re in a brace.”
That explains the constricting feeling. Beau tries to turn his head instinctively and immediately regrets it as pain shoots through him.
“Easy, easy.” That’s a new voice — a nurse, he realizes, as a woman in scrubs appears on his other side. “Welcome back, Mr. Maxwell. I’m Theresa. Can you tell me your name?”
“Beau Maxwell.” It hurts to talk, but he manages.
“Good. Do you know where you are?”
“Hospital.” Duh.
“Do you remember what happened?”
Beau tries to think. His memory is … foggy. Disjointed. “Car. We were in a car. Dad was driving.” He looks around, spotting his father standing near the foot of the bed, bandage still visible on his forehead. “Dad. You okay?”
His dad laughs, the sound wet and relieved. “I’m fine, son. I’m fine. You’re the one who-” His voice breaks. “You scared the hell out of us.”
“Language,” Mom chides, but she’s smiling through her tears.
The nurse runs through more questions — what year it is, who the president is, can he feel his fingers and toes. Everything checks out, apparently, because she smiles and says, “Looking good, Mr. Maxwell. The doctor will be by soon to do a full assessment.”
After she leaves, Beau takes stock. He can see Mom and Dad, both looking exhausted and relieved. And there, slouched in a chair by the window, is Dean, holding a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and grinning like an idiot.
“You look like shit,” Beau rasps.
Dean laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical. “Says the guy in the ICU. Welcome back, man.”
“How long was I out?”
“Two and a half days,” Mom says, stroking his hand gently. “They had you heavily sedated while you healed.”
Two and a half days. Beau processes this slowly. “What … what are my injuries?”
His parents exchange a look.
“Son,” Dad starts, “you had—it was pretty bad. Cervical spine trauma. They had to operate. And there was a branch, through your chest-”
“A branch?”
“Missed your heart by less than two inches,” Mom says quietly. “And your arm—there was a lot of glass. They had to repair the artery.”
Beau stares at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this information with the fact that he’s alive and apparently mostly functional. “How am I not dead?”
“Because someone saved you,” Dad says. “There was a woman, a medical student. She saw the crash happen and stopped to help. She stabilized your neck, stopped the bleeding, kept you alive until the paramedics arrived.”
A medical student. Random Good Samaritan. Beau tries to remember, but there’s nothing. Just darkness and then waking up here.
“The surgeon said if she hadn’t stabilized your neck, one more wrong movement and-” Mom can’t finish the sentence.
“We’ve been trying to find her,” Dean interjects, standing up and moving closer to the bed. “To thank her. But she didn’t leave her name, and the hospital doesn’t have her information. Just that she was a medical student who stopped to help.”
“I want to thank her too,” Beau says. His throat is killing him, but this seems important.
“The police have her contact information from the accident report,” Dad says. “We’re working on tracking her down. But for now, you need to focus on healing.”
A doctor arrives shortly after, running through a battery of neurological tests. Can Beau move his fingers? Yes. Toes? Yes. Feel pressure on his arms? Legs? Yes, yes. The doctor looks cautiously optimistic.
“The fact that you have full sensation and motor function is excellent news,” the doctor says. “But you’re not out of the woods yet. The next few weeks are critical. Any wrong movement could jeopardize the spinal repair.”
“So I’m stuck in this neck brace?”
“For at least eight weeks. And then extensive physical therapy.”
Eight weeks. Beau’s season is over. His entire junior year, gone. He closes his eyes against the wave of disappointment.
“Hey.” Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder. “One step at a time, yeah? You’re alive. That’s what matters.”
Beau nods minutely, the brace making even that small movement awkward.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of doctors, nurses, medications, and family. His grandmother comes by and cries all over him. His aunt brings flowers that the nurses say aren’t allowed in ICU but no one has the heart to remove. His uncle brings an embarrassing amount of Packers gear “for morale.”
Dean never leaves. He’s a permanent fixture in the chair by the window, occasionally trying to sneak Beau a munchkin when the nurses aren’t looking, even though Beau still can’t eat solid food.
“Dude, stop,” Beau finally says. “You’re going to get kicked out.”
“Worth it,” Dean says, but he puts the bag away.
It’s late afternoon on the third day post-accident — technically only a few hours since Beau woke up — when there’s a knock on the door.
“If that’s another neurologist, I swear to god-” Beau starts.
“Language,” Mom says automatically, but she’s already turning toward the door. “Come in!”
The door opens, and everyone looks up expecting another doctor or nurse.
Instead, a young woman steps in.
She’s around Beau’s age, maybe a year or two older, wearing jeans and a Harvard hoodie, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks nervous, clutching a worn messenger bag and hesitating in the doorway like she might bolt at any second.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know you probably weren’t expecting visitors, but I—the reception desk said that—I asked how the patient from the accident was doing, and they said the medical student who helped at the scene was on the approved visitor list, so I thought-” She’s rambling, talking faster with each word. “I can leave. I should probably leave. I just wanted to check-”
“Oh my god.” Dad is on his feet. “You’re her. You’re the medical student.”
She nods, looking even more uncertain. “I’m—yes. I was the one who—I saw the accident, and I-”
She doesn’t get any further because Dad crosses the room in three strides and wraps her in a hug.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice thick. “Thank you for saving my son. Thank you, thank you-”
You stand frozen for a second, clearly startled, before awkwardly patting his back. “I—you’re welcome. I just did what anyone would-”
“No.” Mom is there now too, and as soon as Dad releases you, she pulls you into an equally tight embrace. “No, what you did — the surgeon said you saved his life. That if you hadn’t stabilized his neck, he wouldn’t have made it. You saved our boy.”
Beau watches from the bed, unable to turn his head much but able to see enough. The woman — the medical student who saved him — looks completely overwhelmed, her eyes suspiciously bright.
“I’m just glad he’s okay,” you manage. “I’ve been checking the news, looking for updates, but I couldn’t find anything, and I was worried-”
“He’s going to be okay,” Mom assures you, finally releasing you. “Thanks to you.”
Then Dean is there, and he pulls you into a hug that actually lifts you off your feet slightly.
“I don’t know who you are yet,” Dean says, “but you saved my brother’s life, so you’re stuck with me now. Fair warning, I’m a hugger.”
You laugh, the sound slightly watery. “I can tell.”
“What’s your name?” Mom asks, steering you gently toward the bed.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” you say. “I’m a second-year at Harvard Med.”
“Y/N,” Dad repeats. “That’s a beautiful name.”
You smile, still looking nervous, and then your eyes land on Beau.
Beau, who has been staring at you since you walked in.
Because holy shit.
You’re beautiful. Like, devastatingly beautiful. Even in casual clothes with no makeup and looking slightly anxious, you’re the most stunning person Beau has ever seen. There’s something about your eyes, warm and genuine, and the way you move, and-
Is this heaven? Did he actually die and this is some kind of afterlife? Because that would explain a lot.
“Hi,” you say softly, moving to his bedside. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a tree,” Beau rasps, then immediately winces. “Sorry. That was—I’m apparently still working on the whole talking thing.”
You laugh, and the sound does something strange to his chest. “The tree definitely won that round. But I’m so glad to see you awake. When I left the scene, I-” You pause, taking a shaky breath. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Your injuries were severe.”
“Apparently you’re the reason I did make it,” Beau says. He wishes he could sit up properly, look at you without the weird angle the neck brace forces. “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for stopping. For helping.”
“Of course.” You look genuinely confused by the gratitude. “I couldn’t just drive past.”
“Most people would have,” Dean interjects. He’s back in his chair but watching you with open fascination. “Most people would’ve called 911 and kept going.”
“I had training,” you say simply. “And someone needed help. It wasn’t—I mean, I just did what needed to be done.”
“You did a lot more than that,” Dad says. “The surgeon told us you stabilized his neck. That you thought quickly enough to prevent further damage. That you used your own coat to stop the bleeding.”
You duck your head, embarrassed. “I had an emergency kit in my car. My mom’s paranoid about me driving alone at night. The coat was just the closest thing I had.”
“Did you get it back?” Beau asks. “Your coat?”
“Oh.” You blink at him. “No, I—I assume they had to cut it off you. It’s fine, though. It was just a coat.”
“Just a coat that saved my life,” Beau says. “Along with you. So, not really just a coat.”
You smile at him, and Beau’s heart does something complicated in his chest. The monitors beside his bed beep slightly faster, and he desperately hopes no one notices.
“How are you really feeling?” You ask. “Pain levels? Range of motion? Are you experiencing any numbness or tingling?”
“Did you just go into doctor mode?” Dean asks, amused.
“Sorry.” You look sheepish. “Occupational hazard. I’ve been worried about—I mean, cervical spine injuries are serious, and I was so scared I’d made the wrong call at the scene-”
“You made exactly the right call,” Mom assures you. “Every doctor we’ve talked to has said so.”
You nod, but you still look anxious. Beau recognizes the expression — it’s the same one he wears after a bad game, replaying every mistake.
“Hey,” he says, waiting until you look at him. “I’m alive. I can move everything. The doctors say I’m going to make a full recovery. You did good. Better than good. You were amazing.”
You hold his gaze for a moment, and something passes between them. Something Beau can’t name but can definitely feel.
“I’m really glad you’re okay,” you finally say, your voice soft.
“Me too,” Beau replies. “Though I’m pretty sure I have the worst concussion in history because there’s no way someone as beautiful as you is real.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Dean bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, did you just use a pickup line while in a neck brace in the ICU?”
“It’s not a pickup line if it’s true,” Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you.
You’re blushing now, a pink tinge spreading across your cheeks. “I think your brain is working just fine,” you manage.
“That’s what I said!” Dean crows. “The boy’s got game even half-dead.”
“Dean,” Mom says warningly, but she’s smiling.
You laugh again, shaking your head. “I should probably go. Let you rest. I just wanted to check—to make sure you were okay.”
“Wait,” Beau says quickly. Too quickly. The movement makes pain shoot through his neck, and he grimaces.
You step closer instinctively, your hand hovering near his shoulder. “Are you okay? Should I get a nurse?”
“No, I’m fine. I just-” Beau takes as deep a breath as the chest wound allows. “Can I get your number? To, uh, keep you updated on my recovery. Since you saved my life and all.”
Dean makes a noise that’s probably supposed to be a cough but sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
You’re definitely blushing now, but you’re smiling too. “Sure. That—yeah. Let me write it down.”
Mom, bless her, immediately produces a pen and paper.
You write quickly, your handwriting surprisingly neat, and hand the paper to Beau. “Text me anytime. I mean it. I want to know how you’re doing.”
“I will,” Beau promises. He wishes he could take the paper himself, but his arm is still heavily bandaged and moving it is a production. Dean takes it for him, setting it on the bedside table with a knowing smirk.
You linger for another moment, looking like you want to say something else. Finally, you speak. “You know, I have to tell you something.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m a Harvard fan,” you say, and there’s a hint of mischief in your eyes now. “Which means I’m technically rooting against Briar. So you need to make a full recovery so we can beat you fair and square next season.”
Beau stares at you. Then he laughs, the sound rough and painful but genuine. “You save my life and then threaten to destroy me on the field?”
“Not a threat,” you say cheerfully. “A promise. We’re coming for that championship.”
“I love her,” Dean announces. “Beau, I love her. Can we keep her?”
“I’m working on it,” Beau mutters, which makes you laugh again.
“Okay, I really do need to go,” you say, backing toward the door. “But it was wonderful to meet you all. And Beau, heal up fast, okay? The rivalry isn’t fun if you’re not playing.”
“Yes ma’am,” Beau says, giving you a slight salute that his injuries allow.
You wave and slip out the door, closing it softly behind you.
The room is silent for exactly three seconds.
“Dude,” Dean says.
“Not now,” Beau replies.
“You just flirted with your guardian angel.”
“Dean-”
“In the ICU. While in a neck brace. While your parents were standing right there.”
“I was perfectly respectful-”
“You told her she was too beautiful to be real!” Dean is grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Your game is unreal, man. I’m actually impressed.”
“You asked for her number,” Mom says, and she sounds amused too. “That was certainly … forward of you, sweetheart.”
“I need to thank her properly,” Beau says defensively. “It’s only right.”
“Uh-huh,” Dean says. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Beau continues, ignoring him. “Which means she’s smart but has terrible taste in football teams. Someone needs to educate her.”
“Someone being you?” Dad asks, his lips twitching.
“I mean, I feel like I owe her that much.”
Dean is full-on cackling now. “You’re going to date the girl who saved your life. That’s some romance novel shit right there.”
“I’m not—we just met. I’m just going to text her. To say thank you.”
“Sure,” Dean says, not even trying to hide his grin. “Just thank you. Nothing else.”
“Dean, I swear-”
“Boys,” Mom interrupts, but she’s smiling. “Beau needs to rest.”
“I’m fine,” Beau insists, even though he’s exhausted just from the conversation.
“You nearly died three days ago,” Mom says firmly. “You need rest. Dean, stop riling him up.”
“Yes, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says dutifully.
After his parents leave to grab dinner, it’s just Beau and Dean in the room. Dean is back in his chair, finally eating the munchkins he’s been carrying around.
“She was amazing,” Beau says quietly. “Not just—I mean, yeah, she’s gorgeous. But she saved my life, Dean. She stopped on a highway in the middle of the night and saved my life.”
“I know,” Dean says, and all the teasing is gone from his voice now. “I know, man. We owe her everything.”
“I was so close,” Beau continues. His throat is tight. “Dad said my neck … one more movement and that would’ve been it. And she fixed it. Some random medical student who happened to be driving by.”
“Not random,” Dean says. “Right place, right time. Some people would call that fate.”
“You believe in fate?”
“I believe in you,” Dean says simply. “And I believe you’re here for a reason. So yeah, maybe fate had something to do with putting her on that road at that exact moment.”
Beau thinks about you — your nervous smile, the way you brushed off the gratitude like it was nothing, the competitive spark in your eyes when you mentioned Harvard football.
“I think I was saved by an angel,” he says.
“Probably,” Dean agrees.
“And I think I’m in love.”
Dean nearly chokes on his munchkin. “What?”
“I’m in love,” Beau repeats. It sounds insane. It is insane. He just met you twenty minutes ago. But there’s something — a pull, a connection, something he can’t explain.
“Beau, buddy, I say this with love — you’re high as hell on pain meds right now.”
“I’m serious.”
“You just woke up from a medically induced coma like six hours ago.”
“I know what I feel.”
Dean studies him for a long moment. Then he sighs. “Well, shit. You really mean it.”
“I really mean it.”
“You’re going to marry the girl who saved your life, aren’t you?”
“If she’ll have me,” Beau says, completely serious.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “This is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed or the pain meds talking. I’m not sure which.”
“Maybe both,” Beau admits. “But I don’t care. I’m going to thank her properly. And then I’m going to get to know her. And then-”
“Then you’re going to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset?”
“Something like that.”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Dean points out. “You know that’s going to be a problem.”
“I’ll convert her.”
“She literally told you she is waiting for Harvard to beat you.”
“She’s competitive. I like that.”
Dean laughs, shaking his head. “You’re insane. But okay. I’m here for it. Team Beau and his angel.”
“Her name is Y/N.”
“That doesn’t have the same ring to it.”
Beau doesn’t care. He’s already thinking about what to text you. How to thank you properly. How to convince you that stopping on that highway was the beginning of something, not just an isolated act of heroism.
His body is broken. His season is over. His recovery is going to be long and painful.
But for the first time since waking up, Beau feels hopeful.
Because somewhere out there is a girl who saved his life.
And he’s going to spend his recovery figuring out how to deserve her.
“Dean?” He says.
“Yeah?”
“Help me figure out what to text her.”
Dean grins. “Now we’re talking.”
They spend the next hour crafting the perfect message, with Dean offering increasingly ridiculous suggestions that Beau keeps vetoing. By the time visiting hours end and Dean is forced to leave, they’ve settled on something simple and genuine.
After Dean leaves, Beau stares at the piece of paper with your number, at your neat handwriting, and allows himself to smile.
Three days ago, his life nearly ended on a dark highway.
Today, looking at your number, it feels like it’s just beginning.
***
The physical therapy room smells like sweat and determination, which Beau has decided is just a nicer way of saying it smells like pain.
“Five more, Maxwell,” his PT says in that annoyingly cheerful voice that all physical therapists seem to possess. “You’ve got this.”
Beau grits his teeth and pulls himself up on the bar, his neck muscles screaming in protest. Four months ago, he couldn’t lift his head off the pillow. Three months ago, he couldn’t walk without assistance. Two months ago, he couldn’t turn his head more than thirty degrees.
Now, he’s doing pull-ups.
“One,” he grunts.
“Good. Keep that form.”
“Two.”
“Breathe through it.”
“Three.”
“Two more. You’ve got it.”
“Four.” His arms are shaking.
“Last one. Make it count.”
Beau pulls himself up one final time, holding at the top for a three-count before lowering himself down. His muscles feel like jelly, but he’s grinning.
“Hell yeah!” His PT claps him on the shoulder. “That’s what I’m talking about. Four months ago, you were in a neck brace wondering if you’d ever play again. Look at you now.”
“So I can play?” Beau asks hopefully.
“Nice try. That’s a question for your surgeon and your coach, not me. But I will say, physically you’re progressing faster than anyone expected.”
It’s not a yes, but Beau will take it.
After the session, he checks his phone. Seventeen texts in the group chat with the guys, mostly Dean sending increasingly absurd memes. Three texts from his mom checking in. One from Coach Deluca asking about his PT progress.
And one from you.
Y/N: How was PT? Did he make you cry today?
Beau smiles, typing back quickly.
Beau: Only a little. Mostly manly tears of triumph though.
Y/N: Sure. I believe you. Completely.
Beau: I did five pull-ups.
Y/N: FIVE? Beau, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!
Beau: Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without my guardian angel believing in me.
Y/N: Stop calling me that. I’m just a person who happened to be in the right place.
Beau: A person with a hero complex and really good instincts under pressure. AKA an angel.
Y/N: You’re impossible.
Beau: You love it.
There’s a pause.
Y/N: Maybe a little.
Beau’s grin widens. Over the past four months, texting you has become his favorite part of recovery. You check in daily, asking about his PT sessions, his pain levels, his progress. You send him terrible medical jokes. You quiz him on anatomy when you’re studying, claiming he’s helping you prepare for exams when really he’s just learning more about the exact ways his body almost failed him.
You’re funny and smart and competitive and kind, and Beau is more convinced every day that he’s in love with you.
The only problem? You’re still treating him like a patient. A friend, yes, but a friend you saved, which apparently puts him in some kind of off-limits category in your mind.
He’s been trying to change that. Slowly. Carefully.
Not carefully enough, according to Dean, who keeps telling him to “just ask her out already, you coward.”
But Beau wants to do this right. You saved his life. You deserve more than some half-assed attempt at romance from a guy who still can’t turn his head all the way without wincing.
His phone buzzes again.
Dean: Emergency. Get to the house ASAP.
Beau: What’s wrong?
Dean: Just get here. It’s important.
Beau’s heart kicks up. Dean doesn’t do “emergency” unless something is actually wrong. He grabs his bag and heads out, making the drive back to campus in record time.
He bursts through the door of the house he shares with Dean and half the hockey team, expecting — he doesn’t know what. Fire? Flood? Someone dying?
Instead, he finds Dean standing in the living room surrounded by streamers, balloons, and a banner that reads I LIVED, BITCH.
“Surprise!” Dean spreads his arms wide, grinning. “We’re throwing you a party.”
Beau stares. “You said it was an emergency.”
“It is an emergency. You’ve been back on campus for a week and we haven’t properly celebrated your return from the dead.”
“I wasn’t dead.”
“You were close enough that it counts.” Dean starts hanging more streamers. “Party’s tonight. Eight PM. Everyone’s invited.”
“Everyone?”
“The team. The guys. Some of the football players. Allie and her friends. That kid from your econ class who kept asking about you-”
“Dean-”
“And Y/N.”
Beau freezes. “What?”
Dean’s grin turns shit-eating. “I invited Y/N. She said yes, by the way. She’ll be here around nine.”
“You invited—without asking me-”
“You’ve been texting her for months and haven’t made a move. I’m helping.”
“By ambushing me?”
“By creating the perfect opportunity.” Dean hangs the last streamer and steps back to admire his work. “Come on, man. Party atmosphere, some drinks, you finally see her in person again — it’s romantic.”
“It’s manipulative.”
“It’s efficient.” Dean throws an arm around Beau’s shoulders. “Trust me. This is going to be great.”
***
The party is, objectively, insane.
By nine PM, the house is packed. Music thumps through the speakers. Someone has set up a beer pong table. Tucker is already three drinks in and teaching a group of freshmen the rules of some drinking game that definitely doesn’t have any rules.
Beau is nursing a beer and trying not to look at the door every five seconds.
“Dude, relax,” Logan says, appearing at his elbow. “She’ll be here.”
“I’m relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to throw up.”
“That’s just my face.”
“That’s not your face. I know your face. This is your ’I’m freaking out’ face.”
Garrett joins them, holding two beers. “Is he doing the thing where he stares at the door?”
“He’s doing the thing,” Logan confirms.
“I hate both of you,” Beau mutters.
“You love us,” Garrett says cheerfully. “And you love Y/N, which is why you’re doing the door-staring thing.”
“I don’t—we’re friends.”
“Right,” Logan says. “Friends who text every day.”
“Friends who have inside jokes,” Garrett adds.
“Friends who he calls his guardian angel-”
“Okay, yes, fine, I like her.” Beau takes a long pull from his beer. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Dean says, materializing out of nowhere. “And you’re going to tell her tonight.”
“I’m not-”
“You are. Because life is short, Beau. You nearly died. You got a second chance. Are you really going to waste it being chicken about asking out the girl who saved you?”
Beau opens his mouth to argue. Then closes it. Because damn it, Dean has a point.
“What if she says no?” He asks quietly.
“Then she says no,” Dean says. “But what if she says yes?”
Before Beau can respond, the front door opens.
And there you are.
You’re wearing jeans and a simple black top, your hair down instead of in the ponytail you usually wear, and Beau forgets how to breathe.
“She’s here,” Logan whispers unnecessarily.
“I can see that,” Beau hisses back.
You spot them and wave, smiling as you make your way through the crowd. Allie intercepts you halfway, pulling you into a hug and saying something that makes you laugh.
“Go talk to her,” Dean says, giving Beau a shove.
“I am talking to her.”
“You’re standing here like a statue. Go.”
Beau takes a breath and crosses the room. You look up as he approaches, and your smile gets wider.
“Hey!” You say, and then you’re hugging him. It’s brief, casual, but Beau’s heart still does something stupid in his chest. “I can’t believe Dean threw you an I Lived, Bitch party.”
“I can,” Beau says. “Subtlety isn’t really his thing.”
“I brought you something.” You dig in your bag and pull out a small wrapped package. “I was going to give it to you later, but here.”
Beau takes it, curious. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“Just open it.”
He unwraps it carefully. Inside is a keychain — a small football with the Briar University logo engraved on it and proof that miracles happen on the other side.
Beau stares at it, his throat tight. “Y/N-”
“I know it’s cheesy,” you say quickly. “But I saw it at this little shop near campus and thought of you. Because you are a miracle. You know that, right? The odds of you surviving what you survived, of recovering the way you have-”
“Hey.” Beau sets the keychain carefully on the nearest table and takes your hand. “Thank you. Really. This is—it’s perfect.”
You squeeze his hand, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in the crowded room.
Then Dean’s voice booms over the music. “EVERYONE! CAN I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?”
The music cuts off. Everyone turns to look at Dean, who’s standing on the coffee table with a beer raised.
“Oh no,” Beau mutters.
“Oh no,” you echo, but you’re smiling.
“Three months ago,” Dean announces, “my best friend nearly died. Car crash, black ice, the whole dramatic scene. And while I was sitting in a hospital waiting room having a complete breakdown, there was someone else on a dark highway saving his life.”
The crowd is silent, watching.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” Dean continues, finding you in the crowd. “Stand up. Come on, don’t be shy.”
You look mortified. “Dean-”
“Stand up!”
Reluctantly, you stand. The crowd turns to look at you.
“This woman,” Dean says, “stopped on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Could’ve driven past. Could’ve just called 911 and left. But she didn’t. She stopped. She used her medical training to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. The surgeon told us that if she hadn’t done what she did, Beau would have died at the scene.”
Beau can see your eyes are shiny. His are probably the same.
“So this party isn’t just about Beau living, though that’s obviously the main event,” Dean continues. “It’s about Y/N. About the fact that there are still people in the world who stop to help strangers. Who run toward danger instead of away from it. Who save lives because it’s the right thing to do.”
He raises his beer higher. “To Y/N. Beau’s guardian angel. The reason we still have our quarterback. The reason I still have my brother.”
“TO Y/N!” The crowd roars.
You’re definitely crying now, wiping at your eyes with your free hand. Beau pulls you into a hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder.
“I hate your best friend,” you mumble into his shirt.
“I know,” Beau says, grinning. “Me too.”
Dean, having successfully made everyone emotional, declares that the situation requires shots. Multiple shots. A truly irresponsible number of shots.
“I don’t think this is medically advisable,” you protest as Dean lines up shot glasses on the kitchen counter.
“You’re not on duty,” Dean says. “And we’re celebrating. Celebrating requires shots.”
“That’s not-”
“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Tucker starts chanting. The crowd joins in.
You look at Beau helplessly. He shrugs. “When in Rome?”
“Rome didn’t have vodka.”
“Rome would’ve had vodka if they’d survived a near-death experience.”
You laugh and grab a shot glass. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when I regret this tomorrow.”
Dean passes out shots to everyone in the kitchen. “To Beau!” He shouts.
“To Beau!” Everyone echoes, and the shots go down.
One shot turns into two. Two turns into three. By shot four, you’re leaning against the counter, cheeks flushed, giggling at something Tucker is saying about his disastrous history midterm.
Beau stays close, not drinking as much because his tolerance is shot after months of not drinking, but enough that he feels warm and loose and brave.
“Having fun?” He asks, appearing at your side.
You beam up at him. “The most fun. Dean is insane. I love him.”
“Don’t tell him that. His ego can’t take it.”
“Too late!” Dean calls from across the room. “I heard! She loves me, Beau!”
“You’re the worst!” Beau calls back.
“You love me too!”
“Debatable!”
You laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Beau wants to bottle it. Wants to keep it forever.
“Come on,” he says, taking your hand. “Let’s get some air.”
He leads you through the crowd, out the back door to the porch. The April night is cool but not cold, the first real hint of spring in the air. The noise from the party is muffled out here, just the bass line thumping through the walls.
“This is nice,” you say, leaning against the railing. “Quieter.”
“Yeah.” Beau stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. “You okay? Dean didn’t overwhelm you too much?”
“Are you kidding? That toast was-” Your voice catches. “That was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”
“You saved my life. You deserve a lot more than a toast.”
“I was just doing what anyone would do.”
“No,” Beau says firmly. “You weren’t. You did something extraordinary. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for it.”
You turn to face him, leaning your hip against the railing. “The rest of your life, huh? That’s a long time.”
“Not long enough,” Beau says. His heart is pounding, but whether it’s from the alcohol or your proximity, he can’t tell. Probably both. “Y/N, I-”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been wanting to tell you something. For months, actually.”
You tilt your head, curious. “What is it?”
“I-” He stops. Starts again. “Do you remember what you said to me in the hospital? About Harvard beating Briar fair and square?”
“Of course. And I meant it. You guys are going down next season.”
“See, that’s the thing.” Beau takes a small step closer. “I’ve been thinking about that. About you being a Harvard fan and me playing for Briar. And I realized I don’t care.”
“You don’t care about football?” You sound skeptical.
“I don’t care that we’re rivals. I don’t care that you’re rooting against my team. I don’t care about any of it because-” He takes a breath. “Because I like you. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount for someone who’s supposed to be playing it cool.”
Your eyes widen slightly. “Beau-”
“I know we’ve been friends,” he continues quickly. “And if that’s all you want, I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. But I need you to know that I think about you constantly. I look forward to your texts more than anything else in my day. When I was in PT, struggling through the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, the thought of texting you after kept me going.”
“Really?” Your voice is soft.
“Really.” He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, tentative. “You saved my life, Y/N. And then you kept saving it, every day, just by being you. By making me laugh when I wanted to give up. By believing I could recover when I wasn’t sure I could.”
“I always believed in you,” you whisper.
“I know. I felt it. Every text, every terrible medical joke, every time you called me out for pushing too hard or not hard enough — I felt it.”
You’re staring at him now, your eyes bright in the porch light. “I like you too,” you say. “I have for months. But I didn’t—you were recovering, and I didn’t want to take advantage-”
“Take advantage?” Beau laughs. “Y/N, I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you out since I woke up in that hospital bed and saw you for the first time.”
“You were on a lot of pain meds.”
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
You bite your lip, and Beau tracks the movement. “So what now?”
“Now,” Beau says, stepping even closer, “I’m going to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
“Can I kiss you?”
Your breath catches. For a moment, you just stare at him. Then you smile — that brilliant, beautiful smile that he’s dreamed about for months.
“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”
Beau cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and leans in.
The first touch of your lips is electric. Soft and sweet and perfect. You make a small sound and melt into him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt.
Beau kisses you like he’s been wanting to for months, which he has. Kisses you like you’re precious, which you are. Kisses you like he’s afraid you might disappear, which part of him is.
You kiss him back just as intensely, your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.
Someone starts whooping from inside. “YES! FINALLY! GET IT, MAXWELL!”
Beau flips him off behind your back without breaking the kiss, which makes you laugh against his mouth.
“Your friends are watching,” you mumble.
“Don’t care,” Beau says, kissing you again.
“They’re cat-calling.”
“Still don’t care.”
You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Your lips are kiss-swollen, your cheeks flushed, and Beau has never seen anything more beautiful.
“This is really happening?” You ask. “We’re really doing this?”
“If you want to,” Beau says. “I mean, I know it’s complicated. The rivalry thing-”
“Is football,” you finish. “Just football. This is more important.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You smile. “Besides, it’ll make beating you next season even sweeter.”
Beau laughs and kisses you again. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it,” you say, echoing your earlier text.
“I do,” Beau agrees. “I really, really do.”
From inside, Dean is now leading a chant of “KISS! KISS! KISS!” that’s quickly spreading through the party.
“We should probably go back in,” you say, not moving.
“Probably,” Beau agrees, also not moving.
You stay like that for another moment, just looking at each other, before you finally step back and take his hand.
“Come on,” you say. “Before your best friend has an aneurysm.”
You walk back into the party together, hands linked, and the entire room erupts into cheers.
Dean tackles Beau in a hug, nearly knocking you both over. “FINALLY! Do you know how hard it’s been watching you pine for four months?”
“Get off me,” Beau laughs, shoving him away.
“I’m the best wingman ever. Admit it.”
“You’re the worst.”
“But I’m your worst,” Dean says, grinning. Then he turns to you. “Welcome to the family, Y/N. You’re stuck with us now.”
“I can think of worse fates,” you say, smiling.
Logan and Tucker appear, both looking entirely too pleased with themselves.
“So,” Logan says. “Are you guys like, official? Is this a thing?”
Beau looks at you. You look back.
“It’s a thing,” you say.
“It’s definitely a thing,” Beau confirms.
“Well fuck,” Garrett says, joining the group with Hannah. “Because Hannah bet me twenty bucks you’d get together before summer, and I bet after. So thanks for costing me money, Beau.”
“My pleasure,” Beau says dryly.
The party continues late into the night. Beau stays by your side, your fingers laced with his, and for the first time since the accident, everything feels right.
Better than right.
Perfect.
Later, when the crowd has thinned and it’s just the core group sitting around the living room, Dean raises his beer one more time.
“To second chances,” he says.
“To guardian angels,” Tucker adds.
“To love,” Hannah says, making everyone groan.
“To football rivalries,” you contribute, which makes everyone laugh.
“To all of it,” Beau says, looking at you. “To whatever brought you to that highway at that exact moment. To whatever made you stop. To whatever led us here.”
You lean your head on his shoulder. “To fate,” you say softly.
“To fate,” Beau agrees.
And as he sits there, surrounded by his friends, his arm around the girl who saved his life in more ways than one, Beau can’t help but think that Dean was right.
Life is short. Second chances are rare.
And he’s not going to waste a single moment of his.
***
The Briar University athletics facility smells like sweat and ambition at seven AM on a Saturday, which is exactly why Dean loves it. That, and the fact that most people are still asleep, leaving the weight room gloriously empty.
Well, mostly empty.
“Come on, Maxwell, one more set!” Dean calls from his spot on the bench press. “Or are you going to let your girlfriend out-lift you?”
Beau, currently doing bicep curls while watching you on the treadmill, flips him off without looking away from you. “She’s not trying to out-lift me. She’s doing cardio.”
“I can hear you both,” you call from the treadmill, your ponytail swinging as you run. “And I absolutely could out-lift Beau if I wanted to.”
“Oh, fighting words!” Dean sits up, grinning. “Beau, you gonna take that?”
“Yes,” Beau says immediately. “Have you seen her deadlift? It’s terrifying and hot.”
“It’s medical student grip strength,” you explain, not breaking stride. “Years of studying have given me callouses of steel.”
“And here I thought it was just natural perfection,” Beau says.
Dean makes gagging noises. “You two are disgusting. It’s been five months. The honeymoon phase should be over by now.”
“Never,” Beau says cheerfully, setting down his weights and grabbing his water bottle.
Dean watches as Beau wanders over to your treadmill, leans against it, and says something that makes you laugh mid-stride. You nearly trip, smacking his arm, but you’re grinning.
Five months. Nearly half a year since that party. Half a year of watching his best friend fall more in love every single day.
It’s been an adjustment, Dean will admit. Suddenly having to share Beau with someone else, having to accept that he’s no longer the most important person in Beau’s life. But watching Beau now — healthy, happy, whole — Dean can’t begrudge it.
Especially because you’re pretty fucking cool.
You finish your run and hop off the treadmill, breathing hard but not winded. “Okay, what’s next? Weights? Core? Please say core. I need to work off the stress of this week.”
“Just long,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “Twenty-hour shifts don’t leave a lot of time for self-care. Hence why I’m here at seven AM on my one day off instead of sleeping like a normal person.”
“It’s the endorphins,” Dean says knowingly. “You’re chasing that dopamine high.”
“Exactly,” you agree quickly. “Purely scientific. Nothing to do with-”
“With wanting to see Beau shirtless and sweaty?” Dean finishes, smirking.
You turn red. “I—that’s not—I mean-”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Beau says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “I am pretty great to look at.”
“Your ego is showing,” you mutter, but you’re definitely staring.
Dean laughs. “Okay, lovebirds, let’s actually work out. Beau, you’ve got full medical clearance now, right?”
“As of last week,” Beau confirms, and there’s an edge of excitement in his voice that Dean recognizes. It’s the same excitement that’s been building since the doctors finally, finally said he could return to full contact practice. “Coach wants me back in peak condition before the season starts.”
“Which is three weeks,” Dean adds. “So we’ve got to get you whipped into shape.”
The effect is immediate and bizarre.
Beau and you lock eyes across the weight room. Something passes between you — some kind of silent communication that Dean has seen before but never understood. It’s like you share a brain sometimes, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.
Then, in perfect unison, you both gasp dramatically.
“Did you just say-” you start.
“Whipped into shape?” Beau finishes.
“Oh no,” Dean says, recognizing the gleam in both your eyes. “No. Whatever you’re thinking-”
But it’s too late.
You sprint to the corner of the gym where someone has left a pile of equipment. You emerge triumphantly holding two jump ropes.
“Where did you even—when did you-” Dean sputters.
“Shhh,” you say, tossing one rope to Beau, who catches it with a grin that can only be described as maniacal. “Let us have this.”
“Have what?” Dean asks, genuinely concerned now.
You and Beau exchange another look. Then you hold up one finger and suddenly you’re both jumping rope and singing.
“I WANT YOU WHIPPED INTO SHAPE!” You belt out, your voice surprisingly strong for someone who just ran three miles.
“WHEN I SAY JUMP, SAY ‘HOW HIGH?’” Beau joins in, jumping rope with enough enthusiasm to be concerning given that he had spinal surgery less than a year ago.
Dean stares. Just stares.
“YOU KNOW YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT,” you continue, now doing some kind of complicated jump rope move that involves crossing your arms.
“WHEN YOU START TO CRY!” Beau adds, attempting the same move and nearly tripping over the rope.
“IF YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD,” you both sing together now, jumping in sync, “YOU’VE GOT TO-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!”
You finish with a flourish, both of you breathing hard, jump ropes held high like you’ve just won Olympic gold.
There’s a moment of silence.
Then you and Beau collapse into laughter, dropping the ropes and leaning on each other for support.
“What,” Dean says slowly, “the actual fuck was that?”
“Legally Blonde: The Musical,” you gasp out between giggles. “Brooke Wyndham is an icon.”
“And when you said whipped into shape-”
“We just had to,” you finish together.
Dean continues to stare. “You two are insane.”
“Probably,” Beau agrees, still grinning.
“Definitely,” you add, not looking remotely apologetic.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned that you both knew all the words.”
“Be impressed,” Beau says. “We also know the choreography to ‘Omigod You Guys.’”
“We do NOT need to see that,” Dean says quickly.
“Your loss,” you say cheerfully. “It’s iconic.”
Beau wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. You lean into him naturally, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’ve been doing it for years instead of months.
And Dean …
Dean has a moment.
He’s been Beau’s best friend for years. Has seen him date casually, has seen him hook up at parties, has seen him in relationships that lasted a few months before fizzling out. But this thing with you … it’s different.
It’s in the way Beau looks at you, like you hung the moon and stars. It’s in the way you know what he’s thinking before he says it. It’s in the stupid inside jokes and the synchronized musical numbers and the fact that Beau drove to your apartment in Cambridge just to bring you coffee before a tough rotation.
It’s in the way you saved his life, yes, but also in the way you keep saving it, every day, just by existing.
And Dean realizes, standing in a weight room at seven AM on a Saturday, watching his best friend and his girlfriend be ridiculous together, that you’re soulmates.
The thought hits him with unexpected force. He’s never believed in soulmates before — always thought it was romantic nonsense, something people made up to explain compatibility. But looking at you and Beau now, he can’t think of another word for it.
Whatever happened that night last February — the deer, the ice, the crash, the fact that you were on that exact stretch of highway at that exact moment — it wasn’t just coincidence.
It was fate.
It had to be.
Because the odds of everything aligning the way it did? Of you having the exact training needed to save him? Of you stopping when most people wouldn’t? Of Beau surviving injuries that should have killed him?
The odds were astronomical.
And yet here you both are.
“Dean?” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. “You okay? You look weird.”
“I’m fine,” Dean says. His voice comes out rougher than intended. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous,” Beau jokes, but he’s looking at Dean with concern now. “Seriously, man, what’s up?”
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. How does he even put this into words?
“I just-” He stops. Tries again. “You two are it for each other, aren’t you?”
The question hangs in the air.
You and Beau look at each other. Something passes between you again — that silent communication that Dean’s starting to understand is just how you two operate.
“Yeah,” Beau says finally, turning back to Dean. “Yeah, we are.”
“I love him,” you add simply. “Like, scary amount. Forever amount.”
“I’m going to marry her,” Beau says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Probably not today, because I think she’d kill me if I proposed in a gym-”
“I absolutely would,” you confirm.
“-but someday. Definitely someday.”
Dean feels his throat get tight. “Good,” he manages. “That’s good.”
“Are you crying?” You ask, peering at him.
“No,” Dean says. He’s definitely about to cry. “Shut up.”
“Oh my god, you are!” Beau looks delighted. “Dean Di Laurentis, notorious womanizer and emotionally unavailable hockey player, is crying over our relationship!”
“I’m not crying. It’s allergies.”
“That’s not-”
Dean crosses the gym and pulls both of you into a hug, one arm around each of them. “I’m really glad you didn’t die,” he tells Beau.
“Me too, man,” Beau says, returning the hug. “Me too.”
“And I’m really glad you stopped,” Dean says to you. “That night. I’m really glad you stopped and saved him. Because I don’t know what I would’ve done if-” His voice cracks.
You squeeze him tighter. “I’m glad I stopped too.”
“You’re stuck with us now,” Dean continues. “You know that, right?”
“I can live with that,” you say softly.
You stand there for a moment, the three of you, holding onto each other in an empty weight room while early morning sunlight streams through the high windows.
Finally, Beau pulls back, wiping at his eyes. “Okay, enough emotions. We’re supposed to be working out.”
“Right,” you agree, also suspiciously misty-eyed. “Working out. Building strength. Whipping into shape.”
“Don’t,” Dean warns.
“We’ve got to-”
“No-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!” You and Beau shout together, dissolving into laughter again.
“I hate you both,” Dean says, but he’s grinning.
“No you don’t,” Beau says, slinging an arm around Dean’s shoulders.
“You love us,” you add, linking your arm through Dean’s other arm.
“Unfortunately,” Dean admits. “Now come on. If you two are done with your Broadway moment, Beau actually does need to get whipped into shape before camp starts.”
“I’m in great shape,” Beau protests.
“You’re in good shape,” you correct. “Great shape requires more work. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not my doctor.”
“I could be. Want me to check your reflexes?”
“That sounds like innuendo.”
“It wasn’t, but I like where your head’s at.”
Dean makes a strangled sound. “I did NOT need that mental image.”
“Then stop listening to our conversations,” Beau says reasonably.
“You’re having them three feet away from me!”
“Sounds like a you problem,” you say cheerfully.
The workout continues, but the energy has shifted. There’s something lighter about it now, something that feels like the future rather than the past.
Dean watches as Beau spots you during squats, his hands hovering near your waist, ready to catch you if needed. Watches as you correct Beau’s form on shoulder presses with the clinical precision of someone who knows exactly how bodies work. Watches as you both take a water break and Beau pulls you in for a kiss that’s probably too long for a public gym but that no one’s around to complain about.
And someday — maybe years from now, maybe at that wedding Dean is already planning in his head — he’s going to tell this story.
He’s going to tell everyone about the night Beau almost died. About the medical student who stopped to save him. About the months of recovery and the I Lived, Bitch party and the first kiss and the musical numbers in the gym.
He’s going to tell them about soulmates, about fate, about second chances.
And he’s going to tell them that he knew.
He knew from that moment in the weight room, watching them be ridiculous together, that you were forever.
And Dean allows himself to feel grateful. Grateful for black ice and bad timing and good Samaritans. Grateful for medical training and quick thinking and jump ropes in gyms. Grateful for musicals and inside jokes and the way love can find you in the darkest moments.
Synopsis: What starts as a simple repair turns into late-night diner runs, coffee deliveries to the garage, and a growing attachment neither of you expects. Logan likes that you talk too much when you're nervous. You like that Logan becomes softer when nobody’s watching.
But as pressure mounts with Logan's hockey career and real life starts pulling at you from opposite directions, you begin to wonder if you’re just a temporary stop in Logan’s fast-moving future.
And Logan realizes far too late that somewhere between oil stains and midnight drives, you became the closest thing he’s ever had to home.
Behind Closed Doors ~ John Logan x Fem!Reader - (Part One)
Synopsis: Behind closed doors, Logan kisses you like you're the only thing he wants.
The problem is, being private feels a little too much like being hidden.
When you unexpectedly show up at a Briar athlete house party, and Logan suddenly acts like he barely knows you, every insecurity you've tried to ignore comes crashing down at once and Logan is forced to realize your relationship stopped being casual long before either of you admitted it.
Pairing: John Logan x reader
A/N: Was going to write a one-shot but it got long, so it's a two-parter!
PART ONE
The first thing you became aware of was warmth.
Not the blanket, not the weak gray light slipping through the curtains in John Logan’s room.
It was Logan. He was warm everywhere.
His chest pressed against your back, one heavy arm wrapped around your waist beneath your shirt, his face buried against the back of your neck like sometime during the night he’d unconsciously decided breathing you in was necessary for survival.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
Mornings made it impossible to pretend this was casual in the same way Logan kept insisting it was.
Casual didn’t feel like waking up in a hockey player’s bed with his bare chest against your spine and his lips brushing sleepily across your shoulder before he was even fully awake.
Casual definitely didn’t feel like the quiet little noise he made when you shifted carefully, trying not to wake him up.
His arm tightened immediately. “You can’t leave.”
You laughed softly. “I have class.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I literally do.”
“Drop out.”
You rolled your eyes even as warmth spread through you and turned over to face him. He finally lifted his head enough to look at you, hair a mess, eyes still heavy with sleep. He looked so unfair in the mornings. Soft in a way nobody at Briar ever really got to see.
His gaze dropped to your mouth immediately.
“Come here,” he said, his voice raspy.
Before you could say anything else, he kissed you. Slow, sleepily, and warm. It was the kind of kiss that made you feel like you were being melted into the mattress beneath you.
Your fingers slid into the hair at the back of his neck automatically. He made that quiet, satisfied sound again and deepened the kiss lazily, pulling you fully onto your back beneath him.
It still startled you sometimes how affectionate he was in private. It seemed impossible for him to stop touching you while you were alone.
His thumb rubbed softly against the side of your waist while he kissed you again and again, like he had nowhere to be.
You had dated other men before, but no one had ever kissed you like Logan did. It was like every kiss accidentally turned into five more because he kept forgetting to stop.
The room was quiet, but you could hear distant movement downstairs, probably his teammates waking up. His hand slipped back up under your shirt just for skin contact, his warm palm flattening against your stomach.
Your chest tightened painfully because this was the problem. You were absolutely, hopelessly, falling in love with him. And that was the problem, because Logan still called whatever this was, casual.
A loud yell downstairs broke through the quiet. He groaned dramatically and dropped his forehead against your collarbone.
“They’re ruining my life.”
You laughed, your fingers sliding through his dark brown curls again. “It’s their house, too.”
“They should stop.”
Another voice could be heard downstairs, just a little bit louder now. It had gotten closer.
Reality started to creep back in. You felt the shift in him almost immediately. It was subtle, and tiny, but it was there. Logan lifted his head, glancing toward the bedroom door.
Suddenly, he wasn’t kissing you anymore. He wasn’t curled around you the same way, and his hand disappeared from under your shirt. It was small enough that maybe another girl wouldn’t have noticed it. But, you did. You always noticed him.
He looked back at you quickly, like he knew you’d felt it too.
“You should probably sneak out before they all start barging in here and getting me up for practice.”
There it was. The reminder. Everything was private and hidden.
You forced a smile anyway. “Wow, you really know how to make a girl feel special.”
His expression softened instantly. “Come here.”
Before you could dodge him, he caught your wrist and pulled you back into him, kissing you hard enough to steal the breath from your lungs.
You melted despite yourself. This was the problem, too. Even when he confused you, even when he accidentally hurt your feelings, he kissed you like you were something precious.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“You know I like having you here,” he said, his big brown eyes staring up at you.
Your chest hurt a little at how sincere he sounded.
“I know,” you said softly, as you looked back down at him.
The thing was, you did know. At least, privately. That was never the issue.
--
You ended up being ten minutes late to class because Logan refused to let you leave without another kiss, which turned into three, which then somehow turned into him pinning you against the bedroom door while you laughed breathlessly into his mouth.
“You’re the actual worst,” you told him.
He only grinned, his smile taking over his entire face, as his hands were warm against your waist beneath one of his old generic Briar University hoodies.
“You like me,” he said, knowingly. You swatted at him as he stole another kiss.
By the time you finally escaped his place, your lips were swollen, your hair was more tangled than normal, and Logan’s sleepy grin was still burned into the inside of your skull.
As you walked into your midday lecture, your roommate, Cassie, immediately narrowed her eyes.
“You stayed over again.”
You slid into your seat, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, you didn’t come home last night, and you’re wearing his hoodie.”
You looked down. Right.
The giant gray Briar University hoodie that Logan had tugged over your head that morning because you’d complained about being cold.
“I forgot to give it back.”
Cassie snorted, “Sure.”
You tried to focus on class after that, but it was impossible, because every five minutes your phone buzzed.
Logan: thinking about your mouth still
Heat rushed to your face instantly. You glanced around before typing back quickly.
You: I hate you
Three dots appeared immediately.
Logan: liar
Logan: also you left your book here
Her annotated copy of Pride and Prejudice.
The one filled with highlighted passages and sticky notes and embarrassing margin comments.
You: DO NOT TOUCH IT
A picture arrived seconds later. Logan was sprawled across his bed shirtless, her book balanced against his chest.
Your stomach flipped traitorously.
Beneath the image, sat another text.
Logan: too late
Logan: your annotations are intense
This was another thing about him. He quietly noticed everything, like he genuinely paid attention to you. He remembered what coffee you liked, which fantasy series made you cry, that you got easily overwhelmed in crowded places and preferred corners of rooms, and he listened when you rambled about books he’d never read but somehow remembered details weeks later.
Last week, he’d given you a little gold bookmark because “It reminded me of that dragon book you like.”
You had almost died on the spot.
Your phone buzzed again.
Logan: come over tonight?
You bit your lip.
Then another message appeared.
Logan: after practice
This was how it always happened lately. You’d tell yourself that you needed space. That you needed to stop letting this become so relationship-like when he still insisted you were ‘keeping things easy.’
Then, he’d look at you. He’d touch you, and kiss you, and suddenly, you were back in his bed again, pretending that your feelings weren’t becoming catastrophic.
Cassie leaned over to you, “You’re smiling at your phone.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re literally blushing.”
You shoved the phone face down onto the desk. Unfortunately, your roommate only looked more smug.
“So are you finally going to admit you’re basically dating John Logan?”
Your stomach tightened automatically.
“Shhh!” you said as you looked around, “It’s casual.”
Cassie stared at her for a long moment.
Later, walking across campus alone, the words lingered uncomfortably in your head, because privately? Nothing about John Logan felt casual anymore.
--
Practice ended late. You knew because Logan texted you an update when he had a small break.
Logan: coach is trying to kill us. If I die tell Garrett he still owes me twenty bucks
About a half an hour after that, you received another text.
Logan: miss you. Get over here.
This is how you found yourself climbing the stairs at his place just after ten, the tote bag heavy against your shoulder and your stomach still full of nerves that you couldn’t seem to control around him.
The house was quieter than usual for once. He had told you to let yourself in because no one else was home.
You slipped into his room without knocking. He looked up immediately from where he was sprawled across his bed in gray sweatpants, his hair still damp from the shower.
He smiled at you. Not a polite smile, not casual, that smile. It was the one that always hit you in the chest.
“There’s my favorite nerd.”
You rolled your eyes automatically even as warmth flooded through you.
He moved to the edge of the bed and held out a hand immediately. You took it before he even fully closed his fingers.
He tugged you between his knees until you stood directly in front of him, your hoodie-clad body fitting easily between his legs. His hands slid beneath the hem of the hoodie automatically, finding your waist.
“Did you eat?” you asked him.
“Mhmm.”
“You lying?”
A grin appeared on his face.
“Maybe.”
You sighed, “I brought food.”
“See? This is why I keep you around.”
You tried to glare at him, but it would’ve probably worked better if he hadn’t immediately tilted his head up and kissed you. It was slow at first, then deeper when you melted into him.
His grip tightened against your waist, pulling you flush against him until you could feel the warmth of his skin.
This right here is why you kept losing perspective around him. These little moments of when Logan kissed you like someone who genuinely wanted you.
His mouth softened against yours when you made a quiet sound into the kiss, and suddenly, he was smiling against your lips.
“What?” you whispered.
“You make that noise every time I kiss you for more than ten seconds.”
You immediately covered his mouth with your hand. “I hate you.”
He laughed into your palm before pulling it away and kissing the inside of your wrist casually enough to make your stomach flip.
You took out the food you brought him, and the two of you talked for a bit while you ate. After you finished, he handed you the copy of your book before tugging you down onto the bed beside him.
You barely got settled before he stretched out and dropped his head directly onto your lap like it belonged there.
You looked down at him, and you pulled out your book to read it as he closed his eyes, half-dozing against you. One of his hands lazily hooked around your stomach.
Sometimes, he’d open his eyes and interrupt just to ask questions about whatever you were reading, despite insisting romance novels were “overrated”.
Tonight, though, he just looked tired.
Your fingers drifted into his damp hair, playing with his curls. The reaction was immediate, and he practically melted.
A soft exhale left him as he tilted his head more firmly into your touch. Your chest tightened painfully because you became more aware that this was relationship behavior; it was terrifyingly intimate.
Logan acted like this only when you were alone. That’s what scared you the most.
As if sensing a shift if your mood, he opened one eye slightly.
“What’s that face?”
“What face?”
“The thinking-too-much face.”
You looked back down at your book quickly, “I’m literally reading.”
Before he could respond, voices erupted downstairs. They were loud and excited.
Then, you heard Garrett yelling, “Party Friday! Nobody trash the kitchen this time.”
You stilled slightly, and Logan noticed immediately. His hand tightened around your stomach.
“You don’t have to come,” he said.
You looked down at him. “I wasn’t invited.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She nodded.
You tried not to think about Friday after that, but it was difficult because Logan kept making it impossible to think about anything else.
After the conversation died off, he’d sat up just enough to tug you into his lap, stealing lazy kisses between pages of your book while mumbling complaints about practice into your skin.
And you? You were weak, especially when he was affectionate like this. At one point, he’d gently pulled the book from your hands altogether and dropped it onto the floor beside the bed.
“Logan.”
“You’re not paying attention to me.”
“You’re literally attached to my body right now.”
“Still.”
You laughed softly before he kissed you again, slower this time. The kind of kiss that made you forget what you’d been saying halfway through it.
His hands settled at your waist, thumbs rubbing lazy circles against the skin just above your jeans while he tipped his head slightly to deepen the kiss. Your hands slid across his jaw, which elicited a moan from him, before making your way to his hair and lightly tugging on it.
The smile Logan gave her then was small, real. It was dangerous.
--
Friday came too fast. You spent a stupid amount of time staring at your closet, which was ridiculous.
You never cared this much about parties because you usually avoided them entirely. Cassie had been invited to the party by a football player, Beau, and she’d told him the only way she would go was if she could bring her friend. So, you decided to go so that Cassie could be with Beau.
Cassie appeared in the doorway holding up two tops.
“Wear the black one.”
You looked down at your oversized sweater.
“I was thinking this.”
Cassie blinked slowly. “To a party?”
“I like this sweater.”
“Babe, you look like you’re about to alphabetize a bookshelf.”
“That’s not an insult to me.”
“It is tonight.”
The girls who went to these parties always looked effortless in ways that you never managed to be. Tiny dresses, with loud confidence and perfect hair. They fit naturally into the world orbiting Briar athletes.
You usually felt like you’d wandered into the wrong building by mistake.
And now there was the added problem of secretly sleeping with one of the star hockey players.
Twenty minutes later, you stood in front of the mirror feeling deeply unlike yourself in a black top that showed more skin than you normally preferred.
You tugged awkwardly at the hem. “I look like I’m trying too hard.”
“You’re literally dating John Logan.”
“Cassie, we’re not dating, and no one even knows so you have to be quiet about it.”
“Mhmm.”
--
The boys’ place was already loud when you arrived.
Music was vibrating through the walls, and you could see through the windows as you walked up that the house was packed. You immediately regretted coming.
“You’ll be fine,” Cassie yelled over the music, already dragging you inside.
You barely had time to adjust before you saw him. Logan stood across the living room, talking to Garrett and Dean, a drink in hand, and gray long-sleeves shoved up his forearms.
Your breath caught stupidly. Even now, even after weeks of being with him and sleeping in his bed, looking at him still felt unfair.
As if sensing it, Logan glanced up, and your eyes met instantly.
You watched the exact moment recognition hit his face, followed by immediate surprise, then something else.
It was small, and it was quick, but you recognized that look. It was panic.
Your stomach tightened. Instead of smiling, instead of coming toward you, instead of looking anything like the boy who made you moan his name two nights ago, he just froze.
He gave a small nod.
“Didn’t know you were coming,” he mouthed, as he took a drink.
“Last minute thing,” you mouthed back.
He nodded once, and then turned back to Garrett and Dean.
You stood there for another second longer than you should have, just waiting. You were waiting for him to look back. For him to wave you over. Something.
But he kept talking to Garrett and Dean like nothing happened.
Cassie leaned toward you immediately, “Okay, he’s being weird.”
You forced out a laugh, “He’s just talking to his friends.”
“Babe, he looked like you caught him committing a crime.”
You tried to smile, but discomfort was already crawling slowly up your spine. Logan wasn’t usually weird with you, at least not privately. Privately, he couldn’t stop touching you. But now? Now, he looked almost… careful.
Heat flooded your face as you suddenly felt painfully aware of yourself. The black top you already regretted wearing, the loud music, the girls draped effortlessly across the hockey and football teams like they belonged here naturally. Unlike you.
“You want a drink?” Cassie asked.
“Yes,” you said immediately.
Mostly because it gave you something to do besides stand there, wondering why Logan suddenly looked uncomfortable acknowledging your existence.
You ended up in the kitchen, which somehow felt even worse. It was more crowded, hotter, and there was nowhere to hide.
You leaned against the counter while Cassie asked you if she could go talk to Beau, and you, wanting to be a good friend, told her you’d be fine.
Every few minutes, despite yourself, your eyes drifted back toward the living room. Toward him. You caught him looking at you a few times, and that was the worst part. He kept glancing over at you like he wanted to come talk to you, but every time you were able to meet his eyes, he’d look away first.
Your stomach twisted harder every single time.
A girl slid next to him near the couch. Blonde, a tiny dress. Pretty in the effortless way that you never managed. She leaned close to say something in his ear over the music. Logan answered absently, his gaze drifting toward you again. But, he still didn’t move.
You looked away first this time as humiliation burned hot beneath your skin. It wasn’t long ago that he’d held you against his bedroom door and kissed you goodbye like you were something precious to him. And now? You felt like you were some awkward girl who misunderstood everything.
“Hey.”
You looked up quickly. A guy you vaguely recognized from one of your elective classes stood beside you.
“Cassie said you were abandoned over here.”
You laughed softly, “That obvious?”
“A little. I’m Connor, by the way.”
“Y/N.”
“I know. You answered a question in class once and made the professor look stupid.”
You groaned and covered your face, “Please don’t remind me.”
Connor grinned. “No, it was impressive.”
The conversation was easy after that. It was easy in a way that you desperately needed right now. Connor looked directly at you when you spoke. He seemed genuinely happy you were there.
You found yourself relaxing despite everything. The knot in your chest loosened a little with every passing moment you stayed in the kitchen. For the first time since arriving at the party, you stopped thinking about Logan for almost thirty full seconds.
Then, you made the mistake of looking up. Logan was already looking at you from across the room. It wasn’t casual, either. He was staring.
Your stomach flipped hard enough to make you angry. Now he looked interested. Now he noticed you. Heat crawled up your neck.
Fine. If he wanted to act like you were just another girl at the party, then she could act that way, too.
So, you looked back at Connor.
“What’s your major again?”
“Pre-med,” he said with a dramatic sigh, “Unfortunately.”
You laughed softly. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Logan shift abruptly and break off from his group.
Your pulse skipped traitorously. Don’t look at him. Don’t.
You forced yourself to keep listening while Connor talked about one of your professors, but suddenly, you could feel Logan somewhere nearby without even seeing him.
“You hiding in the kitchen?”
You turned. There he was.
He still had a drink in his hand, and he was looking unfairly good in the low lighting. However, there was something tight in his expression now.
Connor glanced between them, “You guys know each other?”
You opened your mouth automatically, but then hesitated. You had no idea what Logan wanted you to say.
Logan answered first.
“Yeah,” he said casually, “she hangs around the house sometimes.”
The words hit like a slap. You actually felt your expression falter before you caught it.
She hangs around the house sometimes.
Like you were random, temporary. Just some girl floating around hockey parties instead of someone who’d spent nights in his bed with his mouth against your throat whispering for you to stay.
Connor nodded easily, “Oh, cool.”
You couldn’t breathe suddenly.
Logan’s eyes flickered toward you briefly, like maybe even he heard how wrong it had sounded after it left his mouth. But then someone across the room shouted his name, and he looked away, just for a second.
You stepped back immediately, it was all too much for you.
“I’m gonna get some air,” you said quietly.
Neither of them stopped you. The cold outside hit your skin hard enough to sting.
You wrapped your arms around yourself as the back door shut behind you, muffling the music from inside.
Your chest hurt, which felt ridiculous. Technically, Logan hadn’t done anything wrong. You weren’t official, you weren’t public. You’d agreed to keep things casual.
So, why did you suddenly feel so humiliated? The answer came immediately, cruel, and honest. Because privately, Logan never treated you casually.
Privately, he kissed you like he missed you after one day apart. He fell asleep wrapped around your body. And then the second other people were around? She hangs around the house sometimes.
You laughed under your breath once, miserable. The back door creaked open behind you a minute later, but you didn’t turn around.
“Hey.”
It was Logan.
You stared out into the dark. “Your party misses you.”
There was silence for a second. Then, “What’s wrong?”
That almost made you laugh again, because if he genuinely didn’t know, that somehow hurt worse.
You turned and looked at him suddenly.
“John, you’ve been ignoring me.”
Logan blinked. “What?”
“You saw me walk in and acted like I was interrupting your life.”
“That’s not—”
“And then you introduce me as somebody who hangs around the house sometimes?”
His face changed immediately. You saw the exact moment realization hit him.
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Oh.”
“Y/N—”
“No, it’s fine.”
“It’s obviously not fine.”
You swallowed hard. You hated this. You hated feeling needy, and how much power he suddenly had to hurt your feelings without even trying.
“You know what the worst part is?” you asked softly. “Privately, you act like…” you stopped yourself.
Logan stepped closer automatically. “Like what?”
You looked away. “Like I matter.”
The words landed between them heavily.
Logan went still.
“And then we get around other people and suddenly it’s like you don’t know what to do with me anymore.”
“That’s not true.”
“It kind of is, though, John.”
Your throat tightened painfully.
“Do you know how crazy it makes me feel?” you whispered. “Because two nights ago you touched me like you couldn’t stop, and the next morning you practically begged me to stay in your bed longer and then tonight—”
Your voice cracked slightly. You looked down, mortified.
“Tonight, I felt stupid for thinking that any of that actually meant something.”
The words hung between them in the cold air. You hated how vulnerable they sounded out loud. You saw his face fall immediately.
“Y/N.”
Suddenly, you couldn’t do this anymore. You couldn’t stand there letting him look at you with those soft, conflicted eyes while your chest cracked open in real time. You stepped back before he could touch you.
“I should go.”
His brow furrowed instantly, “Wait.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s obviously not fine.”
You laughed once under your breath. “That’s kind of the problem, Logan. I don’t think you realize how not fine it is.”
You saw him reach for you again, but you stepped back before he could. The hurt that flashed across his face almost made you stop.
Almost.
But if he touched you right now, you’d cave immediately. You knew yourself well enough to know that.
So instead, you shook your head once.
“I can’t keep feeling like your secret until it’s convenient, if ever, for you not to hide me anymore.”
He went still. You swallowed down the lump in your throat.
Then, you turned and walked away before he could say anything else.
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 had adapted to it too; Hannah and Allie knew 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 wild 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 making you sit 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 my 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.
obviously he’d started keeping protein bars in his backpack because you forgot to eat when you were stressed. obviously he waited outside your exam halls even when he had practice. obviously 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.
you fainted. properly. you're 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 catastrophic.
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 whispers 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 pretended 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.”
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Warnings: SMUT (oral sex- F receiving), fake dating, reader is kinda sad all the time :(
Word Count: 6.9k
Note: It’s been a really long time since I wrote anything, especially outside the Challengers fandom. English isn’t my first language. Please be KIND.
To the edge of the earth
Someone spilled their drink on you and didn’t apologize, just chuckled and kept walking. Who acts like that?
You decided you were more pissed at Becca than at that complete stranger. Becca was the one who dragged you to a party at the Briar University hockey players’ house, Becca was the one who threw a mini skirt at you along with the white shirt that had turned see-through because of the orange stain that was starting to look more like puke than the drink that random idiot had been drinking.
For the next fifteen minutes, you wander around looking for an empty bathroom in this maze, it honestly makes no sense that anyone even lives here. Fucking college athletes. A bunch of privileged assholes.
Unlike them, you live in the dorms, sharing a room with two other girls, and your floor has one microwave and one mini fridge for twenty people. Thanks a lot for the bare minimum.
On the top floor, you walk into a room that for a second you thought was the bathroom because of the line next to it, which apparently was for the room across from it, but instead you find yourself in someone’s bedroom. In any other situation, you would’ve walked out as fast as you walked in, but your head had started hurting from the whole situation and the silence pulled you in more than the chaos outside. Maybe it wasn’t okay, but no one was here, and ten minutes on some athlete’s carpet wouldn’t kill him.
You sat down on the floor and decided to use the base of his bed as a wall, just so you could lean your head against something. The silence made you close your eyes and not notice the exact second the door opened and the light turned on, causing both you and the guy standing in front of you to jump.
“Fuck,” he muttered and you found yourself jumping to your feet.
“Oh,” you mumbled, trying to think of an excuse for your presence in someone’s bedroom while dressed in clothes that suggested the complete opposite of your intentions.
“This is a really shitty hiding spot, sweetheart,” he says a second after calming down.
“I’m not hiding.” You feel your defensiveness rising and creating a dam between the two of you, nothing he says can hurt you once that imaginary dam goes up, kind of a decision you made when you were little and realized people could be more cruel than kind way too often. “I was looking for the bathroom,” you added.
“Please tell me you didn’t decide my carpet was the bathroom,” he looks more amused than angry as he closes the door behind him.
You just roll your eyes in response.
“Don’t worry, I’m leaving, sorry about that.” You shrug, because you did walk into the room of a guy you don’t know, and if the roles were reversed it would piss you off way more than it was clearly pissing him off right now.
“Do you need a shirt?” he asks before you can reach the door. “I don’t mean to interfere but it looks like you need a shirt,” he adds too quickly and his hand runs over the back of his neck fast enough to make you suspect he didn’t fully think through the words that just came out of his mouth.
“I didn’t throw up,” you say faster than expected. And there it is, the uncontrollable rambling you spit out without thinking twice whenever you realize you’re standing in front of a hot guy.
“I didn’t think you threw up.” His hand drops back to his side, just like his amused smirk does. God, he’s gorgeous. He’s not even hot as much as he’s just beautiful. What a frustrating thought.
“Someone spilled their drink on me and I think he was drinking vodka with Red Bull but it’s not puke,” you explain, and the sentence comes out clumsy and too fast, did you just swallow half your words? Why would you swallow your words? Get it together. He’s just a guy and you’re just in his room.
“I don’t really care,” he snapped his fingers like he was trying to remember something.
“(Y/N?),” you found yourself saying with a question mark.
“(Y/N),” he repeated after you with a smile, like he was testing how it sounded when he said it. God, it sounded way too good. “So, do you want a shirt?” he added, already walking to his closet without waiting for an answer.
“I’m okay,” you mumbled, not knowing what to say.
“You’re soaked in something that looks like puke.” He turned to you from his closet for a second and raised an eyebrow.
“I told you it’s not puke-” you started a speech you had no idea how to get out of, and saw his smug smile return a second before he turned back to the closet to find you something to wear.
“Here,” he walked over to hand it to you, the smile still there, like he thought this whole situation was cute while you were suffering through it. He’s so fucking beautiful. The thought of how beautiful he is won’t leave you alone. There’s one curl falling over the front of his face, like it’s begging for someone to move it away, but you avoid touching a guy you don’t know on the face, no matter how every part of him practically pulls you in like a magnet.
“Thanks.” You bite your lip and hate the fact that you sound shy because of the intimate situation you somehow ended up in. “I’ll wash it and give it back to you, John,” You mumble and take the shirt. He looks pretty surprised.
“That’s refreshing.” The surprise is replaced by a smile as he takes a few steps back and turns around. You look at him through the mirror with a raised eyebrow of your own, waiting for him to close his eyes because turning around changes absolutely nothing with this giant mirror. He closes them the second your gazes meet through it.
“What’s refreshing?” you ask while pulling the soaked shirt off yourself.
“People don’t call me John.” You can picture him shrugging.
“Isn’t that your given name?” you ask, pulling on the t-shirt he gave you. It’s huge and smells masculine. Something mixed with citrus and oak. A distinct scent that for a second makes you scared of getting addicted to it.
“Everyone calls me Logan,” he mumbles.
“Do you hate your name or something?” you keep asking.
“No, it’s just been like that since I was little. My family calls me John, friends call me Logan,” he explains.
“And what do people who break into your room in the middle of a party call you?” You both hear the amusement in your voice, and you’re almost willing to admit you’ve relaxed a little. Maybe it’s the shirt that’s way too soft. Maybe it’s the smell. Maybe John Logan looks harmless when he closes his eyes like a little kid just so you’ll feel safe enough to change your shirt in his room. “You can look now,” you add, because this was bordering on cruelty.
“You can call me John if you want,” he says nonchalantly, like his name carries no meaning at all.
“I don’t see a reason to call you anything at all,” you answer, and he rolls his eyes.
“Are you always this mean?” he asks, again without any bite to it, while walking past you and sitting down on his bed.
“I’m not mean, just practical. We have four classes together and you didn’t know my name. I don’t think we’ll see each other again after I give your shirt back.” You smile politely, but also kind of feel like you won the debate.
“We have four classes together?” he looks confused.
“If we start counting from freshman year, then even more.” Your smile widens, feeling victory more than the humiliation that comes with being invisible. “Thanks for the shirt, I’ll wash it,” you repeat what you said a few minutes ago. Not finding anything else to add before you head back out into the chaos of the party.
Only when you get back to your room and look at yourself in the mirror do you realize it covers your skirt too, and every corner of the shirt has the number 22 printed on it.
.
.
.
To say Logan is frustrated would be understating the severity of the situation.
He spends his days at hockey practice, doing handyman jobs worth way more than what he gets paid for them, and avoiding Garrett and Hannah.
That whole list demands way too much energy from him. He finds himself fucking too many puck bunnies, spending too much money on alcohol, being afraid of what too much alcohol means, ending nights alone in his room while having to listen to Garrett and Hannah fucking in the room next door.
And then there’s you.
A week has passed since he found you in his room, and you went from someone he hadn’t noticed at all for three years to someone he sees everywhere. You’re the first person he sees in the cafeteria, he saw you in the hallways, he saw you in every one of the four classes you share. He saw you sitting on the grass with a girl he’s pretty sure Dean fucked once, but with Dean there’s really no way to know.
How could someone so noticeable disappear under his radar? It occupies his mind almost more than anything else that occupied him this week.
He didn’t appreciate the fact that one of the days he wasn’t at the apartment, you stopped by and dropped off a bag with his shirt folded inside and a note that said ‘Thanks, John’ in the prettiest handwriting he had ever seen in his life. Logan writes like a caveman who learned how to write two days ago.
The shirt smelled sweet, like you soaked it in cherry syrup. He wondered if he pressed his nose against you, if that’s what he would smell. There are so many details he’s missing.
“That was a horrible practice,” Garrett says in the locker room, pulling him out of the mental fog he got stuck in.
“All our practices are horrible, G, the team’s not connecting,” Logan answers in frustration. There’s no doubt the team is missing key players, and when Logan’s or Garrett’s head isn’t in the game, the team doesn’t stand much of a chance in the league.
“What’s going on with you, Logan?” Garrett sighs. If there’s one conversation Logan has no interest in having right now, it’s this one. The conversation with Garrett. The conversation about what sits between them so blatantly that sometimes Logan wants to slam his head into a wall.
The thing is, Logan would never make a move on Hannah.
She and Garrett are perfect together. She and Garrett look at each other like each of them is saving the other from themselves. He hates it. The feeling that by the time a girl interests him like that, she belongs with Garrett. He can’t even try because it’s fucking Garrett, and he knows how good-hearted Garrett is and that he would never hurt Hannah.
Logan needs a drink, and fast.
“Wanna go out for a beer tonight?” he changes the subject and looks at Garrett with tired eyes but a smile. Hoping Garrett gets the hint and drops it.
“Sure, I’ll text everyone,” Garrett answers. “Hannah will be happy, her new internship is killing her,” he adds.
Logan is God’s personal joke, he’s sure of it.
And tonight too, the first person he sees when he walks into Malone's is you.
There are dozens of people sitting there but out of all of them, his eyes land on you. Wearing a simple t-shirt and surrounded by the two friends he saw you with earlier. You don’t notice him staring and he takes advantage of the moment to study your face. You’re not the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, or the sexiest girl he’s ever seen. Nothing about you should be catching his attention the way you are. So why can’t he look away from you?
Even after he and the guys -and Hannah- sat down, he chose a seat that overlooked your table in the least suspicious way possible.
“Who are you staring at?” Hannah asks quietly, making him turn toward her.
“Huh? I’m not staring,” he responds quickly. Hoping she’ll stop talking to him. He can’t have interactions with Hannah, especially not quiet ones that feel like they share a secret. Not when he’s fucked up enough to want her.
“Tell me, I won’t tell Garrett.” She sounds amused.
“It’s nothing, just some girl I study with,” he hopes that’s enough to end this conversation.
“You want a girl? Show me.” She looks happy. Fuck, he’s an asshole. Of course she knows about his crush. Of course she knows he wants her and is happy because she thinks he found someone else to be interested in.
“Yeah, her name’s (Y/N), it’s really new, she’s sitting over there with her friends, we’re taking things slow. I didn’t want to bother them,” he mumbles. Hating himself for how easily the lie slips out of his mouth.
“Why are we talking about the girl who returned your shirt on Monday?” Dean asks quietly, like there’s some conspiracy going on.
“Your shirt?” Hannah asks, clapping excitedly.
“She returned his shirt folded in a bag with a note, ‘Thanks, John,’” Dean says like it’s any of his business. Asshole.
“John? She calls you John?” Hannah asks.
“Who calls him John?” Garrett asks, joining the conversation.
“His girlfriend,” Hannah answers, the excitement still clear in her voice. Fuck, what kind of mess did Logan just get himself into here exactly, and why isn’t he rushing to correct them? Maybe because he can see the relief in Garrett’s expression.
“DUDE, how are you hiding the fact that you have a girl from me?” Garrett asks.
“She’s sitting at that table,” Hannah cuts into his words.
“Okay, I don’t have a girl. It’s new. We’ve met a couple times. We’re figuring it out. She studies marketing with me,” he mumbles. Embarrassed by this entire situation.
“So that’s why you wanted to go out? Because you knew she’d be here too?” Garrett asks.
“No- you know what? Yeah, whatever. Sue me.” Logan gives in to the conspiracy he feels building around him.
“Well, why are you sitting here then, dude? Go say hi to her, don’t be a douche. Doesn’t matter if it’s just the beginning.” Hannah decides, basically pushing him off the couch that suddenly feels way too comfortable.
Logan’s steps are awkward and small, he doesn’t want to reach your table. Especially not when all his friends are watching him, convinced he’s about to go talk to his girlfriend. God, he’s pathetic.
“Hey,” he mumbles, looking at you with a gaze trying to hide the distress filling him.
“Hey, John.” You smile at him.
“So you decided to stick with John after all.” Your voice grounds him for some unclear reason and he almost doesn’t regret coming to your table anymore.
“I still don’t know if you prefer Logan,” you answer, and he can’t figure out at what point he thought you weren’t beautiful or special. You have so many freckles, he wonders if anyone’s ever tried counting them.
“Can I talk to you for a second?” he asks, not missing your surprised expression. One of your friends at the table is sitting there with her mouth hanging open while the other looks completely unimpressed. “I’m Logan,” He introduces himself to the table.
“We know who you are,” the unimpressed friend answers. “Becca,” she introduces herself, “and that’s Kylie,” she adds about the friend who temporarily lost the ability to speak.
“So, Becca and Kylie, can I steal her for a few minutes? I’ll bring her back fast, promise.” He smiles at them with the kind of charm he knows he still has.
“You can steal her for as long as you want,” Kylie, slowly recovering, says. “We’re not doing anything important anyway,” she adds.
“K, he could be a really bad guy,” Logan vaguely hears Becca scolding her friend and chuckles to himself when the other girl answers her:
“Maybe that’s exactly what (Y/N) needs,” like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
.
.
.
“So you want me to do… what now?” Your face is operating on its own at this point. You can’t tell if you’re blushing or surprised or embarrassed or if all the answers are correct.
“Go on like one or two dates with me that won’t be real in any way whatsoever just so my friends get off my back,” he speaks quickly, like he realizes while saying it how ridiculous this plan sounds.
“I’m gonna need more words than that, John,” you say.
You’re sitting on a bench outside Malone's and he pulls out a cigarette while breathing heavily, like he understands he walked into a battle he already lost.
“I accidentally have a crush on someone I absolutely should not have a crush on and now she thinks you and I are a thing,” he says while lighting the cigarette.
“Can you not smoke around me, please?” you ask. “I did two plus two and somehow got five from that sentence you just said. How is your crush on someone connected to me?” you add another question when he blows the smoke to the side. God, he’s still so beautiful. You can’t stop thinking about it. You can’t stop seeing it. You can’t stop remembering the dream you had-
“She’s Garrett’s girlfriend,” he suddenly says.
“Holy shit,” you mumble. Everyone knows Garrett. You’d have to live under a rock, or not go to Briar-U, not to know Garrett.
John Logan’s best friend.
John has a crush on his best friend’s girlfriend.
“Holy shit pretty much sums it up right,” he answers you. “I just need like two dates or for us to sit next to each other in a lecture and then in a week I’ll say things didn’t really work out between us, but they’ll already think I moved on from Hannah.” He sighs. Running a hand over the back of his neck, you’re already almost sure that’s his stress tic. “Look, I know how pathetic this sounds, but they both know I’m into her, I realized that just now. I hide it about as subtly as an elephant in a china shop. They looked relieved when they thought I was interested in someone else. I’m sorry it ended up being you-” he rambles.
“Oh.” Of course he’s sorry it’s specifically you. The girl no one’s really interested in, Becca’s best friend. Becca, who’s always surrounded by people. People who don’t see her as ‘cute’ or ‘sweet’ or ‘a good friend.’ People who actually want her.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he probably notices your expression and you hate the fact that your emotions are always so obvious to everyone. “I meant I didn’t want to complicate your life, you seem like a great girl and-” he tries to dig himself out of the hole but every word sounds more platonic than the last, like the way people talk about a little sister or a childhood friend you met when she still had braces.
“Obviously, two dates. Fuck it, why not, Logan?” your voice sounds foreign as you smile. Building another floor onto the dam you reminded yourself you built when you met him in his room a week ago. John Logan is just another guy you study with, no matter how beautiful he is.
You’ll do him this favor the same way he did you a favor with his shirt and then each of you will go your separate ways and you’ll never have to interact again.
At least that’s what you thought would happen.
.
.
.
Logan came to the conclusion that you hate him.
Or at least don’t actually want to be around him. Which is kind of driving him insane. Every time he sits next to you in a shared lecture, your entire body language stiffens, your smile doesn’t come close to the smile you threw his way when you first met in his room, you do everything you can not to make eye contact with him and the cherry on top? You call him Logan.
He noticed it the first time it happened, and he also noticed that he didn’t like it.
It’s weird how much of a stranger you are in his life and yet in three days you managed to dig deep enough into him that he wants to crawl under your skin and understand every nuance you have to offer.
“So where are we going?” you ask quietly.
“You’ll see,” he smiles at you with one of his familiar smiles. Trying to soften the silence filling the car with music from the radio, but every station plays a sadder song than the last until he decides to turn it off completely, which pulls a chuckle out of you. What an addictive sound. That’s the only thought running through his head from the second he hears it. He feels like it’s a new goal he has in life.
To play professional hockey, not work in a garage forever, make you laugh.
When and how did this happen?
He stops near a small empty cliffside, pulling a few things out of the trunk while you stay inside the car.
“Are you planning on getting out at some point?” he asks.
“Are you planning to murder me or something? Because this would be a really good place to do it,” you answer and he smiles, shaking his head side to side. It’s cute. Everything about you is cuter than he planned on thinking.
“Too many people know I’m with you, I don’t have an alibi, sweetheart,” he says, way too amused while opening the door for you and watching you climb out of his car.
He can’t stop himself from staring at your ass for one second longer than socially acceptable. The jeans you’re wearing shouldn’t be legal with curves like yours. Tiny hearts are stitched into the green sweater you’re wearing and he hates the warmth everything about you makes him feel. Especially when he’s still convinced you hate him.
You walk side by side in silence, not saying anything. He doesn’t let you carry a thing, but he’s secretly glad you offer. Something about you calms him down. He knows he chose the right partner in crime. He knows you won’t tell anyone how pathetic he is.
“We’re here,” Logan mumbles, looking at you instead of the view.
Everything around you is green in every direction, overlooking a small lake that from this angle looks endless.
“Wow, John. This is so beautiful,” you say with unmistakable wonder.
“So beautiful,” he agrees in a murmur, but what you don’t see is the fact that he isn’t looking at the scenery he’s seen dozens of times. He’s only looking at you right now, at your sparkling gaze and slightly parted lips. You look around so quickly like you’re scared the view will slip away from you.
“How do you know about this place? How are there no other people here?” you ask while he pulls a blanket out of the basket he carried. He planned a picnic. He told everyone he was planning a romantic picnic and that it would be your second date, even though you’ve never actually been on a date until now.
He did sit next to you in lectures and walk you from class to class. Sit with your friends in the cafeteria. Do everything a fake boyfriend is supposed to do. He should’ve signed up for theater classes, if you ask him. And the amazing thing about this whole plan was that it kept him busy enough not to think about Hannah at all. She didn’t interest him even when she was standing right in front of him. John Logan was busy. He had schemes to plan. He had charm to practice and puck bunnies to avoid making out with, not that he was interested in any of them no matter how much they threw themselves at him over the past few days.
“My mom used to take Jules and me here when we were kids. We didn’t have money for too many outings so we’d sit here and she’d tell us to imagine everything we wanted to come true, like the lake would somehow make our dreams happen.” He hates how melancholic he sounds at this moment.
“That sounds nice of her,” your voice isn’t filled with pity but it also doesn’t dismiss the bitterness definitely slipping out of him.
“It would’ve been a lot nicer if she’d bought me new skates instead of making me imagine them,” he says sarcastically, shaking his head like he’s trying to disconnect from the moment.
Your hand lands on his. Which surprises him and makes him scared to move. He wonders if you even realize your hand is there. But you squeeze twice and look at him. Not letting the moment dissolve.
“She gave you this place, I think that’s a beautiful gift.” Your voice still isn’t filled with pity. Just warmth. It makes him smile and makes you pull your hand away quickly like you suddenly realized how intimate the touch was. “Did you make food or are we gonna spend half an hour starving out here?” you change the subject quickly and your cheeks turn pink.
Logan just smiles.
The food Tucker helped him make did an amazing job.
You weren’t there for half an hour, you spent four hours together. You don’t seem to notice it, but Logan learned so many new things about you.
You’re from New York. Your parents are disgustingly in love, according to you. You have a little brother named Michael, you don’t celebrate Christmas, you celebrate Hanukkah. So much information and at the same time not enough.
“So, how’s your plan going? Do Garrett and Hannah believe you’re not interested in her anymore?” you ask when he drops you off at your dorm and stands in front of you, fighting the urge to move the bangs out of your eyes.
“Yeah,” he smiles, feeling like you just dumped ice water over him with that reminder.
This is just a means to an end. You’re doing him a favor.
But the truth he’s almost ready to admit is that for more than four hours, all he could think about was you.
.
.
.
You’re so fucked.
Royally fucked.
Because a month has passed. You and Logan have been pretending to date for a month. He remembers how you drink your coffee. He called your mom to wish her a happy birthday. He walks you to your classes and calls after practices. He texts you in the morning and before bed. Everything is genuinely excessive and stupid and you’re completely fucked.
I mean not physically, because John Logan did everything possible to trap you in his web except actually fucking you.
You constantly remind yourself that he isn’t really interested in you, that any second now he’ll tell you everyone’s seen enough to believe he’s moved on and doesn’t desperately want Hannah anymore, desperately enough for this embarrassing act.
What John Logan doesn’t know is that all you think about during the day is him.
Pathetic on a level you’d laugh at in romantic comedies. Pathetic on the level of a girl who forgot her place in this world. A girl he didn’t even notice for three years. A girl the only reason he talks to at all is to show everyone he isn’t in love with someone else.
You’re supposed to sleep over tonight.
You know perfectly well he won’t do anything because he’s made it clear more than once how unattracted he is to you. Every time you were around people and stood too close, his head moved and you ended up kissing his cheek. Every time his hand slipped into the back pocket of your jeans to pull you closer, he made sure to pull it away within seconds so it wouldn’t linger too much.
The guy did everything he could to show you he isn’t attracted to you. Just like everyone always shows you they aren’t attracted to you. And it’s pathetic to think John Logan -the John Logan- would be any different from anyone else you ever wanted in your life.
The dam was supposed to be stronger but you can feel the cracks. You hate all the information he gathered about you like some skilled spy. You hate the calm he brings you. The security you feel when his gaze meets yours. The moments after he finishes a game and searches the crowd until he lands on you and smiles. You hate the fact there’s no escaping the feeling that you’re fucked. That you feel things for John Logan you have no right to feel.
“That’s the same shirt I gave you the first time we met,” he mumbles while you lie beside each other in his huge bed, not touching you inappropriately and keeping a respectful distance. Respectful, AKA, Annoying.
“I recognize it,” you mumble. Hating your voice right now.
“Hey, it’s just me.” His hand shakes your shoulder lightly, a forced laugh slipping out of both of you. You notice the worried crease between his confused eyes. He doesn’t understand why you’re so tense.
“Hannah told me today she’s happy you have me,” you say, your voice quiet, thoughtful.
“Hannah’s smart,” he answers with that same characteristic cheerfulness while moving the hair off your forehead.
“If only she knew we haven’t even kissed,” you chuckle, but it sounds bitter. You hope John doesn’t hear the bitterness.
“You want us to kiss, Peaches?” He started calling you that because he claims your scent reminds him of peaches. You hate how amused he sounds when he says it.
“Logan,” you mumble and his face changes instantly. It turns serious in a second.
“I hate when you call me that. It’s such bullshit,” he mutters. “Why do you have to make everything like this?” he asks.
“How do I make everything?” You sound shocked by where the conversation is going.
“Heavy, Peaches. That was a question we both know the answer to. So why do you make it sound like you don’t want to be here?” he sighs. Running a hand over his nose for a second, another tic you learned to recognize over the past month.
“What’s the answer to it?” you ask. Wondering if you’re angry or if your voice is shaking. It feels like someone else is asking it.
“You want me to kiss you, exactly the way I want to kiss you.” You don’t know when he got so close to you, but your breaths are heavy and tangled together. The air starts with you and ends with him. Maybe the opposite.
“You don’t mean that,” you manage to mumble.
“Don’t tell me what I mean.” You feel him scolding you a second before his lips press against yours, determined. Almost punishing. Proving a point. Like you offended him by even wondering if he wanted you.
The kiss deepens within seconds. There’s nothing gentle about it. It’s hungry and full of restrained sexual tension. Of feelings you definitely feel and don’t want to know what he feels. He’s above you faster than you expected him to be there. His hand slips under your shirt while his gaze never leaves you, checking that it’s okay.
“You need to tell me if I should stop.” His voice is rough, like restraining himself right now would be the hardest thing he’s ever done in his life.
“You’re okay,” you whisper and his lips are on yours again, his fingers playing with one of your nipples under the shirt that quickly ends up on the floor.
You’re far more naked than you ever thought you’d be around him, but his head is between your legs like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted. The sounds coming out of both of you should honestly be illegal.
“John, fuck, I’m close,” you manage to say, which makes him let out a groan that sends vibrations through your clit like that was the only thing missing.
And after way too many minutes of that torture, of John holding you on the edge and not fully letting you come, just waiting a little before going back to eating you out again, you felt the orgasm flood through you. Straight onto his face. And it was sudden and surprising and John acted like it was his birthday and this was the prettiest gift you could give him. The soft words he whispered against your trembling thigh - “I got you, sweetheart,” he mumbled, and it was incoherent and sweet and unbearably sexy.
All the feelings you have for this guy came loose with that orgasm.
The dam broke and you don’t think you’ll manage to stay afloat without drowning.
The only thing you want is for John Logan to look at you forever the way he’s looking at you right now.
It’s also the one thing you know is impossible to have.
.
.
.
Logan is pissed.
So fucking pissed he could burn the world down.
You’ve been avoiding him for three days.
Not only did you leave in the middle of the night while he was asleep, now you’re avoiding him too. Your texts are evasive. Today in your shared lecture you sat between two people he’s pretty sure you don’t even know just so you wouldn’t have to sit next to him. You don’t look for his gaze during the day and the highlight was when you didn’t show up to tonight’s game. His hair is still half wet when he bangs on the door of your dorm, he doesn’t care at this point if he wakes up your roommates or people from the floor. You’re going to talk to him. Even if you don’t want to talk to him.
God, you never want to talk. Not about the things that matter.
“Do you know what time it is?” Becca crosses her arms under her chest when she opens the door.
“Nice seeing you too, Becs, is (Y/N) here?” He walks past her like the room belongs to him just as much as it belongs to her and you.
“You can’t just barge in here-” she starts a speech when you walk into the room with a bowl of popcorn he assumes you heated up in the floor microwave.
“Oh,” you mumble.
“We need to talk.” Logan leaves no room for argument and grabs your upper arm, not hard in any way, but enough for you to follow him outside the building because he might raise his voice and he doesn’t want to make a scene in front of people you need to see on a daily basis.
“What’s going on, Logan?” you ask quietly and he wants to shake you hard enough for that whole bowl of popcorn to end up on the floor.
“Logan,” he repeats his own name, almost to himself. Adding a bitter chuckle. It sounds so foreign when you say it. When you call him what everyone else calls him. He likes being John for you. He likes that you specifically see John in him. He feels lucky when he gets to be Johnny. He hates Logan when Logan comes from you.
“You’re avoiding me,” he states, seeing no reason to go around it. He looks at you and your gaze almost flickers. He pities you for a second, you look like an animal being hunted. Does he make you feel like an animal being hunted? No. He knows he doesn’t. He knows that’s not true.
“I’m not avoiding you,” you try to sound believable but he hears right through it.
“Bullshit, (Y/N), you know it’s bullshit so just say it already. Say whatever it is you want to say so we can be done with this.” He hates the anger in his voice, but you’ve been driving him crazy for three days.
“I don’t have anything to say, I’ve just been busy.” You shrug like it’s not a big deal. Like he doesn’t know you. Like he didn’t spend the last month following you like a puppy looking for approval from its owner.
Sometimes he looked at you and hoped so badly that you saw what he saw. He knows you don’t. He knows you aren’t kind to yourself. That you belittle yourself far more than he’s willing to let happen. Far more than he’s going to allow you to belittle yourself in the future. Because if there’s one thing John Logan is sure of, it’s that his future is completely tied to yours.
“Try again,” he says, the sharpness still in his voice. Just like the piercing stare. The kind that won’t let you go.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you mumble.
“Okay, let’s start with why the hell you left while I was asleep?” He hates how hurt he sounds asking that, but it’s the truth. You left and he got hurt and it’s about time you talked about it already.
“I didn’t want it to be awkward in the morning,” you say quietly and for once lift your gaze to him.
“Why would it be awkward in the morning, (Y/N)?” he asks, stopping himself from rolling his eyes. How could a night that physically made him finish in his pants from seeing you come on his tongue be awkward in the morning? How did they take part in the same experience and come out of it with such different conclusions?
“You know why.” You try not to look at him again but he moves into the direction your eyes drift toward, over his dead body is he letting you avoid him now.
“I went down on my girlfriend for the first time, what the fuck is so awkward about that, I’m begging you to enlighten me here.” He hates the sarcasm dripping out of him.
“Don’t do that,” you say, and he feels you starting to get angry too. Good, finally.
“Don’t do what?” he asks.
“Don’t call me your girlfriend when nobody’s around, it’s not fair,” you say and he feels his jaw tighten.
“What the fuck do you think you are to me, (Y/N)?” he asks. “Because there’s no fucking way you believe I’ve been spending every free second with you around campus for a month so someone who knows me like the back of his hand would think I’m interested in you while I actually want his girlfriend,” he adds, hoping you hear how absurd that sounds.
“That’s exactly what you said you needed from me.” You shrug.
“But life is dynamic, for fuck’s sake, (Y/N). You see the way I look at you. You see the texts. You see me. I know you see me because you look at me like that too and I also know it has nothing to do with me, I know it’s some fucked up belief you have that there’s no way anyone could want you, but I want you. Me. From the second I saw you I wanted you. From the very first fucking moment I saw you wearing my shirt, standing in my room, looking at me with that tortured look in your eyes, I wanted you. You’re all I want. I want you more than I want anything else. That night was the best thing that happened to me in a long time. I fucking came in my pants like I’d never had sex before, fuck, I don’t know how to prove it to you. I really don’t know.” He sounds desperate and he doesn’t care. If you need him on his knees, he’ll do it.
“John,” you mumble and your voice is broken, he notices the tears in your eyes and immediately hates himself for putting them there.
“I need you the way I need air to breathe. Don’t do this to me, (Y/N). I need you to believe me right now and I’ll prove to you every day that you’re the only thing I want. I know you’re scared, but give me a chance here. You know you want to trust me,” he says while pulling you into a hug. The popcorn bowl has been on the ground for a while now.
“I love you,” you say into his chest and he takes a step back. “I love you and I don’t know what to do with it.” You sound so broken but he just smiles because it’s more than he hoped to hear.
“You’re everything, Peaches. You’re everything and you’re mine and when it gets too much and overwhelms you, let it overwhelm me too, okay? I’m not going anywhere.” He says it and his arms are around you again. Steady, warm.
“I love you,” he mumbles above your head, like an insurance policy. “We’re gonna be okay,” he adds.
.
.
.
For once, you believed it.
-----------------------------------
Hey guys, how are we all feeling?
It’s honestly been such a long time since I wrote anything, but I had to get this out of my system. I know there isn’t too much happening in the story and I really hope you didn’t suffer through it. I’d obviously love to hear what you thought 💙
I said "I love you". You say nothing back | John Logan
summary: the arrangement was simple: keep it casual, don't catch feelings, don't ask for more than what's on the table. 338 days later, you're starting to think simple was never really an option with john logan.
notes: hii, i'm back!! i was genuinely so overwhelmed by the response to my first one shot. you guys are so kind and it inspired me to keep writing. so here we are, back with more yearning, more angst, and more logan being an idiot about his feelings. my requests are open if you have any ideas or characters you want to see i'd love to hear from you. thank you so much for reading and enjoy ❤️❤️
warnings: swearing, alcohol, light angst, situationships, a puck bunny accusation and a confession in the rain.
word count: 8k
The thing with Logan had started exactly 338 days ago. Almost one year. One full lap around the sun. You knew because you had been counting, the days and the hours and even the minutes since this situationship from hell, as your dear friends had taken to calling it, had installed itself in your life like an antivirus app you hadn't downloaded and couldn't figure out how to delete.
It had started on Halloween, and at the time it hadn't seemed like a bad idea. It was just past eleven and the house off campus that your friends had dragged you to smelled like dry ice and weed, and you were tired and ready to leave, which was an anomaly. You were usually the last one standing, your friends had given you the nickname ending antagonist for a reason. In hindsight, that probably should have been a warning sign. The one night you wanted to go home early was the night everything started.
Though to be fair, things with Logan are not bad. That's the thing people don't understand when they hear situationship from hell. On the contrary, things with Logan are very good. Too good. Too good to look at directly without feeling something inconvenient shift behind your ribs, which is precisely why it's bad. Because he had been so genuinely, almost aggressively nice about the whole thing. He had found you at the edge of that party and sat next to you and talked to you for hours like you were the most interesting thing in the room, and he had made a real effort not to look at your boobs while you were talking, which in that particular environment was either extremely respectful or a sign that he was raised correctly, and either way it had done something to you.
And then you had woken up on his chest the next morning. His warm skin and steady heartbeat, the sort of light that meant it was too early to be awake, and done the awkward post-hookup shuffle of words, and heard: I'm not really looking for anything serious.
A bucket of cold water dropped directly on your head would have been less effective. More merciful, probably.
What else could you have done except agree? For god's sake, he was sitting there in black boxers holding a cup of coffee, extending it toward you like a peace offering, brown eyes looking at you with an expression that was genuinely, unfairly soft for seven in the morning. You took the cup. He readjusted against the headboard and looked at you with those eyes and said, simply: "So?"
So. So what? What were you supposed to say?
"Sure," you heard yourself say. "I'm interested in that too."
Sure. I'm interested in that too. Your internal voice repeated it back to you with the tone of a younger sibling trying to get a rise out of you. That was, objectively, the least true thing you had ever said out loud. You had been raised on Bridget Jones and every famous rom-com ever committed to film. You believed in love, in its inconvenience and its necessity and its complete refusal to be reasoned with. Casual did not cut it for you. It never had.
But god. If Bridget could have seen John Logan in that particular light, with that particular bed head, she would have understood completely.
So you agreed. And after that came the encounters.
At first they were private, almost secretive, you telling your friends you were going for a run and then actually running, just in the wrong direction entirely. Logan telling his that he was going to study somewhere, which was technically true, depending on your definition of anatomy. It gave everything a specific kind of thrill, the pleasant urgency of something that existed slightly outside the normal rules, and for a while that was enough.
But time has a way of dissolving things like that. Gradually, without either of you deciding to, you stopped hiding. And that was when the real problem arrived.
You and Logan became friends.
Not the convenient, surface-level kind, the real kind, the kind that builds without you noticing until one day you look around and realize that this person has become load-bearing in your life. You were always at the house. You knew the full taxonomy of Dean's recent romantic encounters, the specificity of Garrett's current problems, the ongoing narrative of Tucker's various endeavors. You didn't just know about them, you helped. You were involved. You had opinions and history and context, and they knew it, and they came to you with things.
And it went the other way too. Logan had gotten so close to your friends that he would voluntarily drive Marissa to her therapy appointments in Boston without being asked, would send Benny reels about topics they'd talked about the week before, remembered details that even you sometimes forgot. He had threaded himself into the fabric of your life so completely and so quietly that you could no longer locate the seam.
And finally, finally, things had started to feel like they were moving in the right direction. The direction they probably should have been heading since the morning after Halloween. Maybe the casual arrangement had just been a detour — a scenic route to the same destination. All's well that ends well.
And then you and Logan would go to Malone's, and a waitress would glance between you with a smile and say what a nice couple you made, and Logan would laugh in that easy, noncommittal way of his and say: we're just friends.
And there it was. Bucket of cold water. Every time, without fail, like a reset button neither of you had agreed to keep pressing.
Every single time.
Which brings you to now.
You are sitting on Logan's couch, draped over him, legs intertwined, peppering kisses down his neck while he makes a valiant and increasingly unsuccessful effort to tell you about the new episode of some reality show he has gotten inexplicably invested in. Something about traitors in a castle. Who cares. Not you. Not when Logan smelled like that and the house was quiet and his hands were doing that thing where they moved without him seeming to notice.
You sank further into him. The kisses started to linger. His words got sparse.
"Are you even listening to me?" Logan murmured, his voice coming out considerably less steady than he had probably intended.
You hummed against his pulse point by way of answer.
The front door opened.
You both startled, pulling apart with the practiced efficiency of people who had been interrupted before, but the moment you registered it was Dean you settled back into exactly the position you'd been in. Dean didn't care about PDA. He actively encouraged it.
He dropped onto the opposite couch, looked at the ceiling briefly, then at you.
"Okay, I have a question," he said. "Logan, dude, this is for science, please don't be weird about it."
At this point you were sitting upright, Logan's arms still looped around you, his chin finding your shoulder, using you as a very comfortable shield against whatever Dean was about to say.
"Shoot," you said.
Dean took a breath with the energy of someone preparing to say something they had already decided to say regardless of the response. "Do you think I should buy a vibrator for a friend of mine?"
Logan laughed against your neck. You shivered slightly at the warmth of his breath.
"Are you the friend?" you asked. "Are you buying a vibrator for yourself?"
"What? No. I'm a man."
"That doesn't mean anything. Men are allowed to have vibrators."
"I know that. It's not for me."
"I really think you should get one though. For yourself. If you want to be the Samantha of the group you have to commit to the bit."
"I am the Samantha," Dean said, with genuine offense. "And it's not for me."
"Have you even watched Sex and the City?"
"Yes. I'm from New York, for god's sake and you're being such a Carrie right now."
You settled back against Logan's chest, his arms tightening around you automatically, like a reflex, like something he did without thinking about it anymore.
Yes, you thought. And my own Mr. Big is currently holding me on this couch.
Garrett and Hannah came down the stairs in what you assumed were their stay-at-home outfits: sweatpants, hockey jersey, the specific comfort of two people who had stopped performing around each other. The moment they came into view you felt Logan's hand still. Not move away just still. And then he shifted from behind you to sitting beside you, technically still touching but the warmth of it had changed completely. It was less person you are tangled up with and more person you happen to be sitting next to on public transport.
You knew that shift. You had felt it before.
The first time, you had told yourself you were imagining things.
It was a Tuesday, nothing special about it, the kind of evening that had become completely ordinary, you at the house, Logan beside you on the couch, his thumb making absent circles on your knee while Dean argued with Tucker about something that didn't matter. Hannah had stopped by to pick up something she'd left there the week before, and the moment the door opened Logan's hand had stilled. Not moved away. Just stilled. Like an animal that had heard something.
You hadn't said anything. You'd filed it away in the part of your brain reserved for things you weren't ready to look at yet.
The second time was at one of Garrett's games. You had been standing with Logan at the edge of the rink afterward, his jacket half around your shoulders the way it always ended up, and Hannah had appeared through the crowd. Logan had straightened. Subtly, almost imperceptibly, but you felt it the slight shift in his posture, the way his jacket had slipped back off your shoulders without him seeming to notice he'd let it go.
You'd picked it up off the floor and handed it back to him without a word.
The third time you stopped counting.
Malone's on a Friday night had a particular energy loud enough to feel festive, familiar enough to feel like home. Your usual table was in the corner, the big one that fit all of you without anyone having to pull up an extra chair, and the evening had been good. Genuinely good, the kind that reminded you why you had agreed to this arrangement in the first place, Logan's knee against yours under the table, his arm finding the back of your chair sometime around the second round of drinks, the easy warmth of being somewhere you belonged.
You were mid-story , a good one, the kind that had the whole table leaning in and you could feel it landing, the timing was right, and Garrett was already laughing before you got to the punchline and Dean had that look on his face that meant he was going to steal this story and tell it as his own later, and Tucker was—
You glanced at Logan.
He wasn't laughing.
He was looking across the table at Hannah with an expression you recognized because you had spent the better part of a year learning every single detail of his face, and what was on it right now was something soft and slightly helpless the expression of someone watching something they had decided they couldn't have.
The story finished without you. Somewhere far away, the table laughed.
You picked up your drink. Set it down. Picked it up again.
"I'm going to step outside," you said. "Just — smoke a bit."
"You don't even smoke, (Y/N)!" Tucker replied, laughing, and it killed you because all of Logan's friends had come to know you so well.
"You okay?" Garrett asked.
"Fine. Just air."
You were already standing. Already reaching for your jacket. Logan was on his feet before you made it two steps.
"I'll come with you," he said.
The parking lot outside Malone's was cold and poorly lit. You got about twenty feet from the door before you stopped walking. The noise from inside filtered out muffled and distant, everyone still laughing, completely unaware.
Logan stopped beside you. Waited. He had always been good at waiting, which was one of the things you had loved about him and one of the things that had slowly, quietly driven you insane.
"Don't," you said.
"Don't what?"
"Don't do the thing where you stand there and wait for me to calm down." You turned to face him. The cold air hit your face and you were glad for it. "I'm not going to calm down. So just talk to me. Tell me the truth. Please. Don't bullshit me right now, Logan, I am asking you to not bullshit me right now."
"Baby—"
"Don't baby me, Logan. Not right now"
He looked at you with that steady, unhurried patience of his, which tonight felt less like a quality and more like a weapon.
"What do you want me to say?" he asked.
"I want you to tell me if you have a crush on Hannah." The word crush felt absurdly small for the moment but you couldn't bear the weight of the more accurate alternatives.
Something shifted in his face. Not guilt exactly, something deeper than that. The specific expression of someone who had been quietly hoping a question wouldn't arrive and had known, somewhere underneath the hoping, that it always was going to.
"It's not—" he started.
"Logan."
He exhaled. Looked at the ground briefly. Looked back at you.
"It's not serious," he said. "It's nothing. She's with Garrett. It's not like I would ever—"
"Oh my god." The laugh that came out of you had nothing to do with anything being funny. "Oh my god, you actually do. You actually have a crush on her."
"It's not a big deal—"
"You have a crush on your best friend's girlfriend and it's not a big deal." You repeated it back to him slowly. "I have been right here, Logan. For almost a year I have been right here, and you have a crush on Hannah."
"It's just a feeling. It doesn't mean anything." His voice had an edge to it now, something defensive sharpening underneath the calm. "And you don't get to be mad at me for it."
"Excuse me?"
"You don't get to be mad at me for having feelings." The words were coming faster now, the composure cracking in a way you almost never saw from him. "We said casual. That was the agreement. I can't be accountable to you for things I feel when you are not my girlfriend."
The word landed like a slap.
Girlfriend.
"Right," you said. Your voice had gone very quiet. "I'm not your girlfriend."
"That's not what I—"
"No, you're right. I'm not." You looked at him. Really looked at him — this person whose coffee order you knew by heart, whose nightmares you had talked him through at two in the morning, whose hand had reached for yours in his sleep so many times you had stopped counting. "Can I ask you something? And I need you to actually answer me. Not just wait until I stop talking."
He said nothing, which you took as a yes.
"What did you think this was?" Your voice was still quiet. Controlled. "Not what we agreed on in the beginning. What did you think it was last week? Last month? What did you think it was tonight when you had your arm around me at that table? When you picked me up from my house and kissed me in your truck?" You took a breath. "Because I need to understand how you look at what we have been doing and see something casual. I genuinely need you to explain that to me."
"It's complicated—"
"It's not complicated. It's actually very simple. I just need you to say it out loud."
"You knew what this was when we started—"
"I know what it was when we started. I'm asking what it is now." You crossed your arms against the cold. "Because from where I'm standing it looks a lot like a relationship. It looks like you drive my friends places and remember things about them they never told you twice, and I know every single thing about your life, and we spend more nights together than apart, and you reach for me when you're asleep like I'm something you don't want to lose." Your voice cracked slightly and you pushed past it. "So you'll have to forgive me for being confused about the casual part."
"I can't—" He stopped. Started again. "It's not about not wanting to. It's about what I can actually give right now. Hockey takes everything. My family, my mother, I don't have money, I don't have stability, I don't have any of the things that—"
"I'm not asking you for stability. I'm not asking you for money." Something in your chest had cracked open and you were past the point of closing it. "I'm asking you to admit what this already is. That's all."
"I am being honest—"
"Then be more honest." Your voice broke on the last word and you kept going anyway. "Because I'm in love with you."
The parking lot went completely silent.
Logan stared at you. The words sat between you in the cold air like something that had changed the temperature.
"What?" His voice came out barely above a breath.
"I'm in love with you." Steadier the second time. "I have been for a long time. And I know that's not what we agreed on. But I can't stand here and pretend I don't while you tell me it's not a big deal that you have feelings for someone else." You looked at him. "We are already a couple, Logan. In every single way that actually matters, we already are. The only thing missing is you admitting it."
Something moved across his face — something large and unguarded and almost frightened.
"It's not that simple," he said, quieter now, the defensiveness gone out of it.
"I know it's not simple. I know about hockey. I know about your mom. I know all of it, Logan, because you told me, because that's what we do. But none of that changes what I just said." You took a breath. "So just tell me. Do you have feelings for me? Yes or no. That's all I'm asking."
Logan looked at you.
And said nothing.
The silence stretched between you, long and terrible. His jaw was tight. His eyes moved across your face like he was looking for something he either couldn't find or couldn't say, and the longer the silence went on the more clearly you understood that the silence was itself an answer.
"Wow," you said finally. Very quietly. "Okay."
You picked up your bag. Straightened your jacket. Looked at him one more time this person you had spent 338 days loving in whatever form he would accept.
"Don't follow me," you said.
He didn't.
You walked back toward the warm light spilling out of Malone's windows, past your friends still laughing, past the table that an hour ago had felt like home, and you kept walking. Past the door, past the window, down the street, into the cold.
Too angry to cry. Too tired to pretend. Too done to look back.
Behind you, in the parking lot, Logan stood very still and said nothing which was the thing he was best at, and the thing that had finally cost him everything.
It had been a hard couple of days. But the upside of a not-breakup in college was that you didn't get to wallow, no watching rom-coms until the wee hours, no doing the Bella, watching the months pass from your bedroom window. Life was as it had always been, minus the space Logan had occupied in your weekly schedule. Not a metaphysical space, a literal one. When you opened your Google Calendar you found his game days still blocked out in blue, his training days still marked, everything still there like a calendar that hadn't gotten the news yet.
Pathetic, you thought, and deleted them.
Your days now belonged entirely to yourself, which should have felt like freedom and mostly felt like a lot of unscheduled Tuesday afternoons. No more disappearing in the middle of the day, no more make-out sessions in the library during lunch break. Just you and your own company and the slow, unglamorous work of being fine.
You weren't fine. You were something adjacent to fine that required daily maintenance and the careful avoidance of certain songs.
Marissa had noticed, she called it being under the weather, which was such a specific and old-fashioned way of putting it that in the beginning you had found it strange and now found it completely endearing. Your own personal nanna, showing up with iced coffee and terrible ideas at exactly the right moments.
The terrible idea this time was an underground bar in Boston she had found, which was a surprise since Marissa was fundamentally a sports bar person. You had a strong suspicion the entire excursion was engineered entirely for your benefit and the benefit of your appetite for expensive, colorful drinks, and you loved her for it and didn't say so.
The drive took exactly long enough to hype yourself up.
I'm pretty. I'm smart. I'm a catch.
The bar was dimly lit in a way that felt intentional rather than neglected, all low ceilings and good music and the general atmosphere of a place that didn't need to try. You, Marissa and Benny settled into a corner booth and approximately ninety seconds later Benny's elbow was in your ribs.
"Cute guy. Nine o'clock," he said, in what he apparently believed was a whisper.
You glanced toward the bar. Tall, white jacket, the kind of easy posture that meant he wasn't thinking about his posture at all.
"I'm not really looking for anything," you said.
"You're single. He's cute. The bar has drinks. What exactly is the problem?" Benny tilted his head. "Go order our drinks and make some poor decisions. You've earned it."
"I didn't bring my ID."
Benny stared at you. "You came to a bar without your ID?"
"I forgot." You shrugged.
"(Y/N)." His voice had the specific tone of someone choosing their words carefully. "What is wrong with you. Go. Drinks. Now. The ID thing is a you problem, figure it out."
You slid out of the booth before he could say anything else.
The guy at the bar was, up close, even more irritatingly attractive than he had been from across the room. He glanced over when you appeared beside him, and then glanced again in a way that was not subtle and didn't try to be.
"You look like you're deciding something," he said.
"Whether to admit I forgot my ID at a bar."
He looked at you for a moment. Then he smiled easy and genuine. "Hunter," he said, and held out his hand.
"((Y/N))."
"I'll vouch for you," he said. "If you tell me what you're drinking."
You told him. He ordered both without being asked, which was either presumptuous or exactly right, and you decided it was exactly right.
By the time you made it back to the booth with four drinks and Hunter's number in your phone, Benny was looking at you with the expression of someone who had orchestrated something and was very pleased about it.
You didn't tell him he was right. But you didn't have to.
The thing about Hunter Davenport was that he was genuinely, irritatingly likeable.
You had not been thinking about Logan when you said yes to Hunter's suggestion of getting coffee. You had not been thinking about Logan when the coffee turned into a walk, and the walk turned into two hours of easy conversation that asked nothing from you and gave something back.
That was the point.
You had gotten very good at not thinking about Logan in the weeks since Malone's. It was a skill, like any other, it required practice and the occasional forcible redirection of your own brain, but you were nothing if not disciplined when the situation called for it. You had been showing up to things. Laughing at the right moments. Sleeping through the night, mostly.
You were fine. You were getting finer by the day, which was either progress or a very convincing impression of it, and right now you weren't examining the difference too closely.
Hunter was easy. That was the thing about him. He was warm and uncomplicated and he looked at you like you were worth looking at, which was something you had apparently needed more than you realized.
It was nothing serious. You had been very clear about that with yourself. You were not ready for serious. But his hand was warm when it found yours walking back from the coffee place, and you let it stay there.
You were almost believing it.
The team was at the rink for an open practice, one of the informal ones that sometimes drew a small crowd of friends and the generally affiliated. You had come with Marissa, which gave you plausible deniability about why you were there, and you had sat in the third row and watched without watching, which was a skill you had also been practicing.
Hunter had waved at you from the ice. You had waved back.
You had not looked at Logan. You had been extremely disciplined about not looking at Logan, which meant you were also extremely aware of exactly where he was at every moment without technically looking at him, which was its own kind of exhausting.
After practice, Hunter had come off the ice still in half his gear and found you immediately, easy and unhurried, and said something that made you laugh. Your hand had gone to his arm the way hands do when you're laughing at something someone said, and it had stayed there for approximately four seconds.
Four seconds.
You knew it was four seconds because you had counted them, which meant some part of you had been paying attention to something you were pretending not to pay attention to.
The locker room door swung shut behind Logan without him looking back.
You found a quiet corner of the rink lobby while Hunter went to get his bag. You were looking at your phone, not reading anything on it, when you heard footsteps and looked up.
Logan.
He had changed out of his gear. His jaw was doing the thing: the tight, controlled thing that meant something was happening underneath the composure that the composure was working very hard to contain. His eyes moved from your face to the door Hunter had gone through and back.
"Hey," you said carefully.
"You and Hunter," he said. Not a question.
"That's not really your business."
"You're spending a lot of time with him."
"Logan—"
"I'm just making an observation." His voice was very even. The voice he used when he was the least controlled.
"Make it somewhere else."
He laughed short and humorless. "Right. Okay." He looked at the floor. Looked back at you. "I just didn't think you were the type."
You went very still. "The type to?"
"To go after a guy because of who he plays for." Quiet. Measured. Like he had chosen this version of the sentence carefully. "I didn't think that was your thing."
The lobby was very quiet.
You looked at him for a long moment. Long enough to make sure you had heard what you thought you'd heard. Long enough to see something flicker in his expression, the immediate, unmistakable recognition that he had gone too far.
"Say that again," you said softly.
"I didn't mean—"
"No." Your voice was calm in a way that had nothing to do with being calm. "Say it again. I want to make sure I understood you. Are you calling me a puck bunny?"
Logan said nothing. The flicker had become something closer to horror.
"Because that's what you just said." You tilted your head slightly. "After everything. That's what you went with."
"I didn't — that's not what I meant—"
"Then what did you mean?" You took a step toward him. "Because I have been patient, Logan. I have been so patient with you. I said the most honest thing I have ever said to anyone in that parking lot and you said nothing back, which I am trying. I am actively trying to make my peace with. But you do not get to say that to me. You don't get to do that."
"I know." His voice had lost all its evenness. "I shouldn't have—"
"Why did you say it?"
He looked at you.
"Tell me why." Your voice cracked slightly and you kept going. "Because it wasn't an observation. So tell me why."
Something moved across his face the composure fracturing in a way you had only seen once or twice in all the time you had known him.
"Because I can't—" He stopped.
"Can't what?"
"Because I can't watch you with him and not—" He stopped again. Pressed his mouth shut. Looked at the ceiling briefly.
"Not what?" Your voice was barely above a whisper.
He looked at you. Right at you. And for one unguarded, terrible second you could see everything, all of it, the whole enormous weight of everything he hadn't said in the parking lot outside Malone's, sitting right there on his face with nowhere left to hide.
And then he looked away.
"I'm sorry," he said. "It was wrong."
You looked at him for a long moment.
"Yeah," you said. "It was."
You picked up your bag. Hunter had reappeared at the far end of the lobby, jacket on, easy smile, completely unaware of the wreckage he had wandered back into. You walked toward him and did not look back at Logan.
But you heard him the sharp exhale of someone who had just watched something leave that they weren't sure was coming back.
Good, you thought.
And hated that you thought it.
Here was the thing about being called a puck bunny: it wasn't the word itself that got to you.
Puck bunnies weren't the worst thing a person could be.
Men were allowed their types, allowed to prefer blondes or brunettes or redheads, to have spent their teenage years watching anime and grown up to exclusively pursue Asian women, to want someone tall or short or with a specific laugh, or say things like "I have never been with a Brazilian before". They were allowed to say these things out loud, to Tinder-filter by height, and if it was possible they would do by weight too, to have opinions about bodies that they shared freely and without apology.
But god forbid a woman had a type. God forbid a woman found hockey players attractive or musicians, or academics, or anyone with a specific quality she was drawn to. Then she was something to be named and categorized and looked down upon. Then she was a bunny.
You were not offended by the word.
You were offended that Logan, who had been silent while you poured your heart out in a cold parking lot, who had said nothing when you asked him the most direct question you had ever asked another human being , had found his voice again specifically to say that. That of all the things he could have finally said to you, after all the silence, this was the one he chose.
That was what got to you.
Not the word. The timing. The source. The specific, devastating irony of a man who couldn't say I have feelings for you finding it very easy to say something that small.
You didn't tell anyone what he said.
That was the first decision you made, walking out of that rink lobby with Hunter's hand in yours and Logan's exhale still somewhere in your chest. You were not going to tell Dean, who would say something devastatingly accurate about it. You were not going to tell Marissa, who would want to talk about it for three hours. You were not going to tell anyone, because telling someone meant turning it over, examining it, and you were not ready to examine the specific shape of what Logan had said to you and what it meant that he had said it.
You knew what it meant. That was the problem.
You had known the moment you saw his face, that flicker of something before the composure reassembled itself, the way his eyes had moved to Hunter and back to you with an expression that had nothing casual about it. You had spent 338 days learning the map of Logan's face and you knew exactly what that look was. You had just also heard what came out of his mouth immediately afterward, which meant that what Logan felt and what Logan was willing to do about it were, as always, two completely different countries.
You were done trying to travel between them.
The week that followed was quiet and it felt different from the other times you had gone quiet. Before, the silence had always been temporary, a held breath. This felt more like an exhale. Like something had finally, after a very long time, finished.
You went to class. You had coffee with Hunter on Tuesday, which was easy and warm and asked nothing from you. You went to Marissa's on Thursday and watched something forgettable on her laptop and fell asleep on her couch, and she put a blanket over you without waking you up, which was the kindest thing anyone had done for you in recent memory.
You did not go to the house off campus. You did not text Logan. You did not check if he had texted you, which required leaving your phone face-down on your desk for approximately four days straight, which was its own kind of discipline.
You were fine. You were getting finer.
You were also absolutely not fine.
Dean found you on a Wednesday.
Not dramatically, he just appeared at the coffee shop near your building where you went on Wednesday mornings, which you had mentioned to him exactly once four months ago, which meant he had remembered it and filed it away and was now using it, which was such a Dean thing to do that you almost smiled.
He sat down across from you without asking if it was okay and stole a sip of your coffee before saying anything.
"He told me what he said," Dean said, without preamble.
You looked at your coffee. "Okay."
"He feels terrible."
"Good."
"I mean genuinely terrible. Like, I've known Logan for three years and I've never seen him—" Dean stopped. Seemed to decide something. "He's not sleeping. He's barely eating. He showed up to practice yesterday and coach pulled him aside after because his head wasn't in it, which has never happened, not once in three years."
"Dean." You looked up at him. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you deserve to know that it cost him something." His voice was straightforward, without manipulation. "I'm not asking you to forgive him. What he said was awful and he knows it. I'm just, you spent a long time showing up for him and I don't want you to think that none of it landed. It all landed. It's landing right now. It's just landing a little late."
You were quiet for a moment.
"A little late," you repeated.
"Okay, very late."
"Dean." You wrapped your hands around your cup. "He called me a puck bunny."
"I know." Dean had the grace to look genuinely pained. "He said it because he was jealous and scared and he handled it in the worst possible way and there is no defense for it. I'm not here to defend it."
"Then what are you here for?"
Dean looked at you across the table, this person who had been in your corner since before you had any idea how much you would need someone in your corner, and his expression was very honest.
"I'm here because he's my best friend and he's falling apart," he said. "And you're also my friend. And I hate watching both of you be miserable when I know exactly why you're miserable." He paused. "I'm not asking you to do anything. I just wanted you to know."
You looked out the window. The street outside was grey and unremarkable, the specific flatness of a Wednesday in November.
"How long has he known?" you asked quietly. "That he has feelings for me. How long has he actually known?"
Dean was quiet for a moment.
"A while," he said carefully.
"How long is a while, Dean."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Since pretty much the beginning," he said.
You closed your eyes briefly. Opened them.
"Okay," you said.
"(Y/N)—"
"I'm not angry." And you weren't, which was almost surprising. You were something quieter and more tired than angry. "I just needed to know." You picked up your coffee. "Tell him I said he needs to sleep."
Dean looked at you. "That's it?"
"That's it." You met his eyes. "I'm not ready for anything else right now. But tell him to sleep."
Dean nodded slowly. He finished stealing your coffee and stood up and put his jacket on, and then he stopped with his hand on the back of the chair.
"For what it's worth," he said. "The Hannah thing. It was never real. He told me that too. He said he thinks he latched onto it because it was safer than admitting what was actually happening."
You didn't say anything.
"Okay," Dean said. "I'll see you around."
He left. You sat there with your cold coffee and the grey Wednesday street outside and the specific, exhausting weight of loving someone who had known the whole time and chosen, over and over, to say nothing.
Since pretty much the beginning.
338 days. And he had known since pretty much the beginning.
You sat with that for a long time.
It had been raining since noon.
Not the dramatic, cinematic kind of rain that arrived with thunder and purpose, just the steady, grey, unrelenting kind that soaked through your jacket in the first thirty seconds and didn't apologize for it.
You were on your way back from the library, hood up, head down, thinking about nothing in particular, which you had gotten very good at recently. The art of thinking about nothing. Occupying your own brain with the immediate and the logistical the paper due Thursday, the coffee you were going to make when you got home, the question of whether you had remembered to charge your phone.
You had not been thinking about Logan.
You were almost at your building when you heard him.
"(Y/N)."
You stopped walking.
He was standing at the bottom of your building's front steps, which meant he had been waiting in the rain for some amount of time, which was evident from the state of him soaked through, hair flat, jacket dark with water. He looked like someone who had arrived with a plan and abandoned it somewhere on the walk over and was now operating on something more basic and less manageable.
He looked, for the first time in all the time you had known him, completely unguarded.
"Logan." Your voice came out carefully. "What are you doing here?"
"I need to talk to you."
"It's raining."
"I know."
"You're soaked."
"I know." He took a step toward you. "I've been standing here for forty minutes trying to figure out what to say and I still don't know, so I'm just going to say it badly and hope that counts for something."
You looked at him. The rain came down steadily between you.
"You have two minutes," you said.
He exhaled. Ran a hand through his wet hair. Looked at you with the expression of someone stepping off a ledge they had been standing on for a very long time.
"I have been in love with you," he said, "since pretty much the beginning."
The rain was very loud suddenly.
"I knew it when we agreed to casual. I knew it when we stopped hiding. I knew it every time I reached for you in my sleep and every time a stranger called us a couple and I laughed it off, and I knew it in that parking lot outside Malone's when you told me the truth and I stood there and said nothing back." His voice was steady but only barely, the steadiness of someone gripping something very hard. "I said nothing because I was terrified. Not of you. Never of you. Of what it meant. Of what I would owe you if I said it out loud. Hockey takes everything I have and my family situation is a disaster and I don't have money or stability or any of the things that a person is supposed to have before they ask someone to—" He stopped. "But Dean said something to me last week. He said that I was losing you anyway. That all my careful management of the situation had achieved was losing you slowly instead of all at once, and somehow I had convinced myself that was the better outcome."
You said nothing. The rain soaked through your hood and you didn't move.
"And then I said what I said to you at the rink." His jaw tightened. "I have replayed that moment every day since it happened. There is no version of it that I can make okay. I said it because I saw you with Hunter and something in me just broke. Not a good break. Not the kind that leads anywhere useful. Just — I broke, and I said the cruelest thing I could think of, and I aimed it at you, and I have hated myself for it every single day since." He looked at you. "I'm not telling you that to make you feel sorry for me. I'm telling you because you deserve to know that it was never about you. It was never about who you are. It was about me being terrified and handling it in the worst possible way, and I'm sorry. I am so sorry."
The rain fell between you, steady and indifferent.
"You knew since the beginning," you said finally. Your voice came out quieter than you intended.
"Yes."
"A year."
"Yes."
"And you said nothing."
"Yes." He didn't flinch from it. "I said nothing, and I let you carry it alone, and I told myself I was protecting you from the complications of my life, but I think I was just protecting myself. From having to be as brave as you were in that parking lot." Something moved across his face. "You were so brave. You said the true thing and I just stood there. And I have thought about that every day since. About what it cost you to say it and what it cost me to say nothing back."
You looked at him. This person. Soaked through and unguarded and finally, finally saying the thing he had been not saying for 338 days.
"The Hannah thing," you said.
"Wasn't real." Immediate. Certain. "I think I needed it to be real because it was safer than admitting what was actually happening. She has what you and I have, what you and I were and I think I confused wanting that with wanting her. It was never her." He held your gaze. "It was always you. It has only ever been you."
The rain had soaked through your jacket completely now. You were cold in a way that had stopped being uncomfortable and become simply the condition of the moment.
"I'm not asking you to forgive me tonight," Logan said. "I'm not asking you to do anything. I just needed you to know that I heard you in that parking lot. I heard every word. And I should have said this then, and I'm sorry that I didn't, and I'm saying it now because Dean was right, I am losing you anyway, and I would rather lose you having finally told the truth than keep you at a distance by staying silent." He paused. "I love you. I have loved you for a long time. And I'm sorry it took me this long to be brave enough to say it."
The street was very quiet under the rain.
You looked at him for a long moment. Long enough to turn it over. Long enough to feel the full weight of 338 days, of every almost-conversation and loaded silence and reset button and bucket of cold water. Long enough to remember his hand going still when Hannah walked in, and the parking lot, and the rink lobby, and the specific sound of his exhale when you walked away.
Long enough to remember, underneath all of it, a Halloween party and a wall and two people waiting out the night from the edges of it, talking like they had nothing to prove to each other.
The beginning, before it got complicated. Before it got careful.
"You're an idiot," you said.
Something shifted in his expression. Not quite hope. Something more tentative than hope.
"I know," he said.
"You made everything so much harder than it needed to be."
"I know."
"I carried that alone for a very long time, Logan."
"I know." His voice broke slightly on it. "I know you did. I'm sorry."
The rain came down. You looked at him this soaked, unguarded, finally honest person standing at the bottom of your steps and felt something in your chest that had been braced for a very long time slowly, carefully release.
"You should have just said it," you said. "In the beginning. You should have just said it."
"I know." He took a step closer. Close enough that you could see the rain on his face, the wet dark of his hair, the expression underneath all the composure that had finally run out of places to hide. "I know. I'm saying it now."
You looked at him.
"Say it again," you said quietly.
"I love you." No hesitation. No composure. Just Logan, standing in the rain, finally saying the true thing. "I love you. I have loved you since pretty much the beginning and I am done pretending I don't."
The rain fell between you and neither of you moved and the street was quiet and everything was very still.
Then you closed the distance.
You kissed him in the rain, which was cold and slightly impractical and nothing like the careful, managed version of Logan you had spent 338 days trying to navigate. This was different. This was him kissing you back with both hands and no hesitation and none of the holding back, and it felt finally, finally like the true thing. Like the version of this that had been waiting underneath all the other versions the whole time.
When you pulled back you were both soaked and breathing slightly unsteadily and his forehead dropped to yours in the rain.
"I'm still mad at you," you said.
"I know." His arms tightened around you. "I know you are."
"The puck bunny thing is going to take a while."
"I know. Whatever it takes."
"And you have to tell me things." Your voice was muffled against his jacket. "When you're scared, when it gets complicated, when your brain does the thing where it decides silence is the safe option. You have to tell me instead."
"I will." He said it simply, without qualification, which was how you knew he meant it. "I will."
You stood there in the rain outside your building, soaked through and slightly ridiculous, and you thought about Halloween and 338 days and parking lots and rink lobbies and all the long, complicated distance between the beginning and right now.
Synopsis: What starts as a simple repair turns into late-night diner runs, coffee deliveries to the garage, and a growing attachment neither of you expects. Logan likes that you talk too much when you're nervous. You like that Logan becomes softer when nobody’s watching.
But as pressure mounts with Logan's hockey career and real life starts pulling at you from opposite directions, you begin to wonder if you’re just a temporary stop in Logan’s fast-moving future.
And Logan realizes far too late that somewhere between oil stains and midnight drives, you became the closest thing he’s ever had to home.
now pretty baby i’m running back home, frank langdon
frank langdon x fem!reader (5k words)
in which frank is back from rehab, trying to act like nothing’s changed — but the tension between you says otherwise. you quietly make his first day easier, even as he starts noticing just how much you care.
warnings: frank’s addiction and back pain, reader and langdon had a love-hate relationship, fluff, sweet and touchy langdon, kissing
<𝟑 .ᐟ<𝟑 .ᐟ
Your mood is lighter than usual as you walk through the doors of the ER. Way lighter than it should be considering the fact that the 4th of july is no celebration in an emergency department. So you hold your excitement in for no one to see, only thing left being the feeling on your stomach.
Frank is coming back today. Everyone knows it, the information being a hot topic going around for the whole week. It leaves you wishing you had heard it from him.
You don't blame him, it's not like you were the closest friends ever when he left. If anything people thought you hated each others guts, always bickering and making everything a competition. But it was comforting in way, because it felt way easier to tease him than to tell him you actually just hated the effect he had on you.
And you still remember how didn't feel like you were antagonists at all the day he left, when he gave you his most genuine smile through the frustration he felt as you kissed his cheek and told him to get better.
So it's safe to say you have no idea what you're going to say to him once you're confronted with it. Should you act like nothing happened? You don't want to come off as mean. But can you act like his best friend all of the sudden? That seems like a bit too much.
You think you have enough time to think about it until walk into the locker hallway and he's standing right there, letter in hand as he reads it carefully.
He looks good, is the first thing you can think about. Casual clothes look good on him, making you wish you had more opportunities to see that side of him. Hair covered by the sports cap, bomber blue jacket hugging his torso and jeans that fit him just right. The bag slung over his shoulder tells you he's in here for the same reason as you.
"Langdon." The name slips easily from your tongue. Not Doctor Langdon, not Frank — just Langdon and exactly like you'd call him before. "You're back." As if it's some kind of surprise.
Frank looks up, and you're surprised by the way his lips stretch into a wide smile. You're too used to the roll his eyes that's followed by a smirk, not a warm smile.
“Hey.” His voice is unusually gentle, and to add up to your shock he steps in for a hug. “It’s so nice seeing you.”
His hands find your upper back, head almost against yours. It takes you a moment too long to react, hands moving from their awkward place at your sides to rest on his waist rather uneasily.
"Am i the first to see you?" You ask once he pulls away, as casually as possible.
"Oh no, there was big 'welcome back' sign when i walked in." He jokes, though you catch an undertone to it.
You notice how subconscious he seems to suddenly be, like he feels that no one has paid any mind to his absence. Which is a lie, because you didn't realize how his antics with you were a big part of your day until he was gone. And you find yourself talking about him with Mel without even realizing.
So instead of feeling like rolling your eyes at his smug remark, all you want to do is be nice to him.
"It's good that you're back." You settle truthfully.
"Couldn't let you steal my thunder for too long." He playfully remarks, though it's obvious he doesn't mean it.
"Sure." You snort, having to busy yourself with opening your locker to hide how warm you feel.
Frank stands there for a second, still looking at you like he wants to say something but doesn't in the end. You pretend not to pay attention as the locker doesn't open when he clicks on the numbers, huffing in frustration once he looks over at the letter in his hands.
He kneels down to where is new locker now is, and you now feel bad for having a top shelf one as if you're superior to him.
Then you see it from the corner of your eyes, the way his face contorts with pain once he bends forward before quickly masking it away. It makes your stomach sink with realization, and you think about how he probably feels like it's mockery that suddenly his locker is at the bottom. A little reminder of the pain on his back that got him here.
The gears turn on your head as your next words come out impulsively, "Would you mind trading lockers with me?"
Langdon shoots you a confused look before you rush to explain.
"It's not that high up but i struggle to reach the back sometimes." You wave your hands towards your locker, hoping the excuse doesn't sound too made up.
Because if he were to inspect it, he'd realize it's a complete lie. Sure, you'd rather have a locker one row down but you can still reach just fine with little effort.
"Yeah, sure." He seems to take it, seemingly unaware of the true meaning behind.
His ears turn a little pink as he gets up, face slightly angled away and making you have to fight back a wince at the sight.
You pull the few things you keep in you locker out, transferring them into the new one as you trade codes.
"Sorry for the bother." You give him a small smile of appreciation, as if he's the one doing you a favour. You want him to think that, because the last thing you wish is for him to feel like you're pitying him.
"It was no bother." He murmurs as he pulls out some scrubs from his backpack before stuffing it inside the locker. His expression being free of pain brings relief to you.
A sense of protectiveness washes over you and you decide that if there's anything you can do to make this easier for him, you'll do it. Not because you think he needs coddling, but because that's a friend would do. At least that's what he seems to want to be.
You make way to the break room for your first coffee of the day, sipping on it a while later as Robby does a short debriefing before the shift starts. You watch as Frank's face falls at being told to take over triage, though you suppose it has some fairness to it — but you still throw him a sympathetic glance.
Your paths don’t cross much again until you’re midway through the morning, looking forward for a second coffee as you catch a small break.
And you’re surprised by his presence for the second time. Frank is sitting on one of the chairs of the break room, fingers playing with the bracelet in his wrist as he looks ahead.
“Oh, hey.” You greet, not wasting any time as you pull a cup and pour the brown liquid into it. “Want one?” You question politely once you realize he doesn’t have one.
His only answer is a nod, stance a little anxious. You don’t ask him about it, settling for making him the coffee the way you remember him liking before quietly placing it in front of him.
“Thanks.” His smile is tight.
You turn your back to leave, stopping on your tracks once he calls your name. “Do you have a second? Kinda wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Course.” You soften, pulling the chair beside him to sit. To be truthful, you’re not sure if you do have a minute but you’re praying no one interrupts it.
“I wanted to say that i’m sorry.” He starts, voice steady to make it clear he means it. “For a lot of things, really. Mostly for abandoning and disappointing you, none of it was your fault and i ended up just putting it out on you and making your time here a bit more miserable.”
Your heart tightens in your chest, and although you don’t agree with a lot of what he’s just said it’s still nice to know he’s acknowledging it. That he’s put thought into this and is trying to improve his communication.
“You didn’t abandon us. And you sure as hell didn’t disappoint me.” You retort with a reassuring look, even when you know he doesn’t believe it. “I was worried if anything.”
“I’m still sorry.” He clears his throat, sitting up straight in his seat. “I was addicted and made it everybody else’s problem. That’s not fair— even if our whole thing was being mean to each other.”
“You’re forgiven, then.” Your hands reaches to squeeze Frank’s, a small smile pulling at his lips.
“I kept like— meaning to text you.” The doctor cringes as the words come out, “Just didn’t know what to say. Felt weird.”
“It’s okay.” You chuckle.
But knowing that he had felt the same as you all these months brings relief to you.
“Missed you.” Frank breathes, vulnerable.
“Don’t go growing sweet on me, Langdon.” You huff, but the squeeze you give to his fingers tells him it’s okay.
You feel giddy once his cheeks turn slightly rosy at your words, a smile that shows teeth on his mouth. The roles would’ve been turned a few months ago, his flirty remarks thrown at you as you huffed in frustration when your skin grew as hot as a flame.
“You’re different.” You assert gazing at him.
“Good different?” He inquires softly, thumb tracing your knuckles timidly.
“Still under observation.” You shrug your shoulders, soft under the attention that he gives you.
You feel different around him now, more comfortable. Knowing him felt different before, all the ocasional intimate moments you shared with him didn’t come close to what this one feels like.
“So mean.” He gasps in false offense.
A laugh bubbles out of your throat, as gentle as you feel. You notice his eyes flicker to it but don’t think much of it.
The door opening has you pulling apart from his hand, as if being caught red handed. You’re not quite sure why you do it, because friends can hold hands.
Dana eyes you both with raised eyebrows before focusing on you without making any comment on it. “Mckay needs you on trauma 2.”
“Yeah, i’ll be right there.” You get up in a jump.
The nurse is out before you know it, already busing herself with something else.
The moment turns awkward and you avoid making it worse by heading towards the door with slight regret. Before your hand touches the handle, you turn back.
“You can still text me, you know? Just— about whatever if you need to.” Your suggestion is clear, hopeful look in your eyes.
“Yeah, i will.” He nods before picking up the coffee you made.
You leave the room feeling lighter, the weight on your shoulders finally off. Maybe it was meant to go this way. All you needed to start again was a little push.
The interaction has you feeling like a teenager, giddy and emotional. Your stomach tingling even more than used to when he’d brush his fingers against yours for more than needed.
Maybe different is good.
<𝟑 .ᐟ<𝟑 .ᐟ
The keyboard clicks under your fingers as you type fast, something you've gotten better at over the years of charting that piles up if you don't learn to be organized.
It's always a nice short moment to rest your legs before getting back to running back and forth, from patient to patient. So you've started looking at it as a relaxing period.
You roll your neck as it starts to feel a little stuck from being in the same position for long, tapping your finger victouriously against the table as you finish what feels like enough for now.
"Think fast." Langdon appears on your right, throwing you a packet that you manage to catch successfully.
It becomes familiar once you turn it, your favourite chocolate. And maybe it was a hunch because you don't remember ever mentioning it to him.
"Thank you." You shoot him a grateful look, it has been a few hours since you last ate. "I'll pay you back later."
"Don't worry about it." He brushes your idea off, standing in front of the big screen to take a look at the patient list. "Choose your next patient yet?"
"Nope." You manage through a mouthful.
"There's a guy who thinks he got bitten by an exotic spider, has it in a jar and everything." He brings up before suggesting, "That could be cool. You should check it out."
You find yourself unable to hold back the amused glance you throw him. "I might."
The doctor's answer is a hum, hands behind his head as he stretches. You pretend not to pay attention to the skin that peaks from under his scrubs shirt.
With a sigh, Langdon bends on one knee to tie the laces of his snickers that seem to be undone.
You're about to reach for an ipad when you hear him groan, caught midway through getting back up for a second. It's obvious that the sound comes out without his permission, teeth coming to bite on his lower lip.
"Fuck." He curses, hand pressing against his lower back and neck red from either embarrassment or pain.
You rush to get up from your chair, thorn between doctor and friend mode. "Langdon," Your call is careful as you approach him with worried eyes.
"M'fine." He mumbles, not looking you in the eye. An immediate lie that you can see is reflexive.
"I didn't even ask if you were." Your words are soft, somehow proving a point. You watch him exhale, eyes shutting for a second longer from what you think is probably his ache flaring.
"Just got up too fast, don't worry about it." He brushes it off, still his teeth are gritted.
You touch his arm with your hand, "Are you in pain? You can sit for a bit, i'll cover--"
"I don't need help." Frank interrupts sharply and fast, taking a step back so your hands falls.
You chuckle nervously, "I didn't say you do."
The tension builds in your chest as he starts to build a wall between the two of you, refusing to let you see any vulnerability that comes from prickling on his back. You try not to let it get to you, maybe he's not ready to acknowledge it yet and would react like this with anyone else.
But are you anyone?
"You insinuated it." He crosses his arms with a huff, blue eyes set on anything but you.
You fight back a scoff, about to say something when he steps in again.
"Look, just don't tell anyone about this." It's almost a beg, though the way he looks towards you makes you sure he's mad at you.
Now you just feel frustrated, because you don't think you've given him reason to think you go around telling things about him. Or that he can't trust you. The frown on your face probably tells him exactly how hurt you feel, because he steps away again before you get a chance to speak.
"Gotta go check on a patient." He shoves his hands in his pockets awkwardly before practically running from you.
You watch him walk away until he's out of your sight, aware of how stupid you look standing there like you were stood up on a date.
"Trouble in paradise?" Dana questions with a sly grin when you finally go back to your chair.
"Dunno how this ER is ever a paradise." You ignore what she's so obviously hinting at, doing your best to look like it's not affecting you.
"Is there something i should know about,?" She asks more seriously now, tucking her glasses on the collar of her scrubs.
"There's no something." You huff, unaware of the scrunch of your eyebrows.
"Right." She snorts sarcastically. "You seemed to be at his throat a few months ago. And now you're actually nice to him. So there is something, honey."
"I just know when to stop, he doesn't need that right now." You refer to the dynamic you had before. Though you can feel it building back up after the last interaction.
"He sure as hell still looks at you like the sun shines out your ass." The nurse's smile is teasing as she says, but her look tells you she's being honest.
"He doesn't" You wish he did. "Besides, he used to hate me too." You prompt.
"Cause it was the only way you'd pay him attention." She retorts with raised eyebrows before adding, "That boy is head over heels for you."
You remember how your first impression wasn't the best, the way he immediately eyes you up and down and acted confident, way too confident. As if you had no option but to already be charmed by him.
Yet you barely spared him a glance, even when he looked taken aback. And from then on the bickering started. You pretended to hate him, he did too. That was the easiest way through the path you didn't want to go into in the first place.
You catch yourself almost believing Dana's words, having to shake yourself out of it when you notice her knowing stare.
"I need to stop listening to you." You declare, getting up from your chair with the intention of distracting yourself with a patient.
"Kids these days." Is the last thing you hear her mumble.
<𝟑 .ᐟ<𝟑 .ᐟ
You make it your task to not be gloomy over one interaction for the rest of the day. Try to distract yourself with seeing as many patients you can, consequentely not having to see Frank again without having to look like you're avoiding him.
This not to mean that you're angry at him, you just have no idea how to act after that. Maybe tomorrow you can come back and pretend that it didn't happen, exactly like he wants.
So you get through your shift just as if it's just another one without him — like the many others in the past few months.
By the time it’s over you’re grouchy, bag thrown messily over your shoulder and earphones on as you make your way outside. The bus station is the last place you want to be right now and you feel like you might just take the long walk home.
The timing feels perfect, the 4th of july fireworks erupting through the sky when you’re making your way through the parking lot. It has you stopping for a moment, eyes looking up at the sparkling.
Hands stuffed on your jean’s pockets, you feel a little relieved at the fresh air hitting the back of your neck over the humid weather. A sigh leaves your nose, shoulders slumping as the tension of work leaves your body.
A hand touching your arm has you jumping, finding Langdon staring at you with an apologetic but tempting smile.
“Didn’t mean to scare you.” He’s now beside you on the sidewalk, back on his casual clothes.
“It’s fine.” You shrug, turning your attention back to the fireworks.
The silence between you goes slightly unnoticed by them, but becomes evident once the noise starts dying down.
“Heard about your closed cervical reduction.” You prompt, chewing slightly on the inside of your cheek in a nervous antic.
“Yeah.” He perks up, excitement in his voice. “I think i’m still shaking.” His hand lifts in the air, you try not think too much about how attracted you are to it.
“That must have been pretty cool.” You reply, a little regretful of not having been there to witness.
“Didn’t know i still had it in me.” Frank admits, self doubt all over the frown on his eyebrows.
“Of course you do.” You retort immediately, like it’s obvious. Because it is.
His whole expression softens at your words, big blue eyes staring right into yours and you think of how much he looks like a kicked puppy right now. It makes you want to smile.
“I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier.” His apology is genuine. And he looks regretful for having to do it for the second time today.
Your reflex is to want to say that ‘it’s fine’. But you don’t. Because it actually feels good to know that he is sorry. So you nod slowly, accepting but not leaving space for anything else.
“It’s still a little bit of a— sore subject? My back.” Langdon tries, grimacing at the way his words come out. “I’m working on it, i promise.”
You let your lips pull into a sympathetic smile, “I understand. Didn’t mean to make it seem like you’re weak or in need of help.”
“You didn’t.” He asserts with a shake of his head. “It was hurting. It hurts even more today because of how long i haven’t worked for.”
Your shoulders brush and you feel a shiver on your arms, even over how warm it feels. “Is there anything i can do to help?”
“Are you by any chance a good massager?” The doctor jokes with a teasing smile.
But you take it in consideration, fingers moving before you get to rethink your actions.
His eyes widen once he realizes what you’re doing. “I was just joking, you don’t—”
“I can do it.” You interrupt.
Your hand reaches for his lower back, moving closer as you press your fingers into the muscles there to try to bring some tension down. You use your thumb to make slow circles on the muscles on either side of his spine, pleased when he lets out a sigh.
“You forget i’m a pretty good doctor too.” You play, voice lower.
“You are.” He hums, a little distracted by the touch of your fingers even if over his shirt.
The realization of the intimate moments has your heart pounding against your ribcage, almost jumping out of your throat in the process. You’re glad he can’t feel how hot your skin right now.
“Does that help?”
“Yeah.” Frank breathes, air puffing out of his lips slowly — you can’t help but look at the way his throat looks good as it does, not even when he adverts his eyes back to yours.
You wish you had the courage to slip your fingers inside his shirt and feel his skin that radiates with warmth over the shirt.
With sudden embarrassment you pull away, breathing in a little too hard as you try to make yourself look composed. But the man next to you seems just as flustered, hand running through his hair like it became messy for no specific reason.
“Hey.” He calls after another moment. “Wanna go out for dinner?” It comes off casually, his lips pressed together in a line of an awkward smile.
You chuckle in surprise, “As celebration for your successful return?”
Something flickers in his eyes, “Sure.”
As much as you want to, it could get too late really quickly and you don’t have the will to walk all the way home late at night. “I’d love to, but i’ll have no way to get home after.”
“I can drop you off.” He says simply.
“Are you sure?” You ask with uncertainty, feeling a little like a bother.
The look Langdon throws you tells you he’s offended you’re even asking, eyebrows raised because the answer is obvious. “Never been more.”
“Okay.” Your words are sheepishly, “Thanks.”
“C’mon.” He motions with his head towards the street, arm reaching out for a moment like he’s going to wrap it around your shoulders before he drops it back on his side.
You end up getting take away, finding an empty bench on the park and making yourself as comfortable as possible with boxes scattered all around.
The hum that leaves your throat is honest as you have your first bite, stomach finally happy after not having a real meal for hours.
“I don’t know how you like those.” Frank grimaces as you stuff a french fry inside your mouth.
“They’re perfect.” You shrug with indifference, more interested in the food in front of you.
“They’re soggy.” He points with a bite of his own burger, sauce on the corner of his lips in an adorable way.
“More for me.” You retort happily.
Langdon can’t help but it set his eyes on you for longer than needed, taking in your tired expression and wrinkly clothes. Your untied shoes and the way you curl into yourself, eyelids closing and opening slowly. He could look at you like this forever, vulnerable and sweet.
“What?” You frown as you notice his staring, napkin coming up to your mouth in attempt to clean the reason of it.
“Nothing.” He shakes his head with a small smile. “‘S just weird. Us not arguing all the time.”
You cock your head to the side in confusion, “I guess.”
What you don’t know is that he’s scared you liked him better before. Because what you said about him being different is true and your words have stuck on his brain like a vine. He’s just hoping you mean it in a good way.
“Do you miss it?” The vulnerable question comes out before he gets to stop it, voice small.
“Miss what?” You ask after a sip of soda, still unaware of his distress.
“Our bickering.”
You pretend to think for a moment. “A little.” You answer teasingly, smirk on the corner of your lips.
Frank’s stomach drops just a little, “Wow. So rude.” He tries to joke back, but the way his chuckle comes out force has you looking at him.
“Frank.” You bump your shoulder with his as reassurance, “I like different.” I like this version of you. Although you don’t say it.
He takes it, relaxed at your words.
Conversation flows easily between you, and he feels like an absolute idiot for taking so long to finally get to know you and what you like. He’s wasted too much time. So he listens to you talking your mouth off about a movie you watched a week ago, paying attention like it’s the most important thing you’ve ever told him.
You talk about whatever comes to mind, work swirling into the conversation as you talk about your first day at work.
“I don’t even know why you hated me so much!” He quips in as you go on about how meeting everyone was.
“To be fair, you came off as quite cocky. Y’know, with your whole—” You gesture with your hands. “Perfect tidy hair and bluest eyes ever thing.”
Your defence has him grinning widely. "You think my hair is perfect?"
And the worse is that you truly do, eyes catching the strand that falls across his forehead in the most perfect pattern. You’d be stupid to say he’s not beautiful as hell. You’re sure a lot of girls think the same, it has brought a certain green eyed monster way too many times.
“Jerk.” You huff, not denying.
“I was trying to impress you, by the way.” He adds as if it’s an obvious thing.
You’re hot at the compliment, food discarded as you clean your hands with a napkin just to have something to do other than looking embarrassed.
His fingers come to grab at yours, pulling your attention back to him and making it impossible to avoid his words. “Honest.” They squeeze your skin.
You can almost hear your heart as his eyes trace every inch of your face, stopping for an extra second once they land on your lips. The urge to lean in is stronger than you, only until you almost get to feel his breath against your skin.
Frank angles his body towards yours back, hand dropping from yours to rest on your knee. His thumb brushes over your jeans, tentatively eyeing you as to make sure you’re okay with whatever is happening. You don’t seem to hate it at all, your own eyes glued to his lips.
He clears his throat gently, “I want to do this right, i promise. I’m not screwing up this time. And i-“
“Frank.” You stop him.
“Yeah?” He’s almost waiting for your rejection.
“Shut up.” You mumble, holding back a smile at the way his eyes look a little glassier when he’s up close.
“Okay.” He nods vigorously, letting you take charge as you pull him into a kiss.
Fingers immediately reach into his hair, leaving it messy as you run them through it like you’ve always dreamed about doing. He hums at the gesture, free hand coming to rest against your ribs.
You’re sure he can probably feel your heart beating wildly against them, moving closer on the bench so his hand slips down to the slot of your waist more comfortably.
The soft squeeze he leaves there has you melting against him, fingers wondering down to his bicep and squeezing it in retribution. His muscles flex under your touch, pulling you flush against him with gentleness. His nose presses to yours with a sigh, intoxicating taste invading your mouth and having you never want to kiss anyone else again.
He’s the one to pull away after a few minutes, pressing a wet kiss to your cheek for good measure and keeping you close even without his mouth on yours.
“Everyone’s betting on this at work.” You sigh at his mouth against your jaw. “We should pretend to hate each other and make them all lose.”
“They’re all betting on us getting together?” He asks unfocused.
“Yeah.” Before adding with a tease, “Wonder where they got that idea from.”
He hums with a pinch on the softness by your hip, “Don’t think i’m gonna be able to pretend i don’t wanna kiss you all the time.”
You could be okay with that. You think as he pulls you into a warm hug, pressing one last long kiss to the top of your head.
And now that he knows what’s at stake he’s not risking losing you again.
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