ifa 🍰

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[honeylesshaze]

“I DON'T GO LOOKING FOR TROUBLE, TROUBLE FINDS ME" 🥲

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ifa🍰 (@hazylessarchives)

"I DON'T GO LOOKING FOR TROUBLE, TROUBLE FINDS ME" 🥲 Previously known as "karimcoded" 𝗢𝗣𝗘𝗡 | �...

𝗢𝗣𝗘𝗡 | 𝗙𝗥𝗘𝗘

🇸🇩 🇱🇧 🇸🇾 🇨🇩 🇵🇸🇳🇬

𝚆𝚁𝙸𝚃𝙴𝚁.

𝗠𝗔𝗚𝗜𝗖 𝗜𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗚𝗜𝗡𝗦.

𝙳𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙼𝚂 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚈 𝚄𝙽𝚂𝙰𝙸𝙳.

𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗨𝗗𝗟𝗬 𝗜𝗡𝗗𝗜𝗔𝗡. 🇮🇳

ACCOUNTANCY STUDENT.

MATH LOVER.

𝙿𝙾𝚃𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙳 — 𝙰𝙻𝚆𝙰𝚈𝚂.

𝗪𝗘𝗗𝗡𝗘𝗦𝗗𝗔𝗬 • 𝗟𝗢𝗖𝗞𝗪𝗢𝗢𝗗 & 𝗖𝗢.

KDRAMAS • SQUID GAME

𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗩𝗘𝗟 • 𝗝𝗨𝗥𝗔𝗦𝗦𝗜𝗖 • CHAOS

𝙿𝙾𝚆𝙴𝚁 𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙶𝙴𝚁𝚂

𝙵𝙸𝙲𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻𝚂 𝚂𝙰𝙵𝙴𝚁.

𝗣𝗘𝗢𝗣𝗟𝗘 𝗗𝗢𝗡’𝗧.

[honeylesshaze]

"she's my kid too"

Garett Graham x sister oc

The call came halfway through Briar's home game.

The arena was loud, packed with students and fans dressed in Briar colors, the energy crackling through the building like electricity. The hockey team was in the middle of the second period, battling for possession, while up in the stands, Phil Graham sat watching with the intense focus of a man who treated every hockey game like it was the Stanley Cup Finals.

His daughter, however, was nowhere near the arena.

She was currently standing beside Garett's truck on the side of a road twenty minutes away, staring at the crumpled front bumper with growing horror.

"Oh my God."

The words left her mouth for the hundredth time.

She had only borrowed the truck for the day.

Just one day.

Garett had tossed her the keys that morning without even asking why.

"Bring it back with gas in it."

That had been the only condition.

Now the front end was dented, one headlight was shattered, and she was pretty sure Garett's beloved truck looked like it had lost a fight.

Her hands shook as she stared at her phone.

The accident itself hadn't even been terrible.

A distracted driver had stopped suddenly in front of her and she'd slammed the brakes, but not fast enough.

Nobody was hurt.

The other driver was fine.

She was fine.

But Garett's truck definitely wasn't.

She could already imagine the disappointment.

The lectures.

The yelling.

The—

Her phone suddenly rang.

"Dad."

Her stomach dropped.

Of course.

Of course somehow Phil Graham already knew.

The man possessed supernatural abilities when it came to discovering things he wasn't supposed to know.

Slowly, she answered.

"Hello?"

"What happened?"

She immediately winced.

Yep.

He knew.

"Dad—"

"What happened to the truck?"

His voice was sharp.

Cold.

The same voice Garett hated.

"The accident wasn't my fault—"

"You crashed Garett's truck?"

She closed her eyes.

"I didn't mean to."

"You didn't mean to?" Phil repeated. "Do you have any idea how irresponsible—"

Her shoulders instinctively curled inward.

Even at her age, that tone still made her feel twelve years old.

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't fix a truck."

Her throat tightened.

"I know."

"Where are you?"

She hesitated.

Wrong answer.

Phil's voice immediately hardened.

"Where are you?"

She gave him the location.

"I'm coming."

The line disconnected.

And suddenly she wished she'd been hit by a meteor instead.

Forty minutes later, she found herself standing beside the damaged truck while Phil examined it like a detective investigating a crime scene.

The look on his face wasn't helping.

Neither was the fact that he kept sighing.

Or muttering.

Or shaking his head.

Each reaction made her feel worse.

"I said I was sorry."

Phil turned toward her.

"You should be."

The words landed harder than she expected.

Her eyes immediately dropped to the ground.

Phil continued.

"Do you know how hard Garett works for things like this?"

"I know."

"You borrow someone's vehicle and this is what happens?"

Her chest tightened.

"I know."

"You should've been paying attention."

"I was paying attention."

"Clearly not enough."

Her fingers clenched into fists.

The guilt had already been eating her alive all afternoon.

Now every word felt like someone digging the knife deeper.

"I said I was sorry."

"And that changes what?"

The sharpness in his voice made her flinch.

Phil noticed.

And somehow that only seemed to irritate him more.

"You need to learn responsibility."

"I know."

"You need to start thinking before you—"

"That's enough."

The voice came from behind them.

Both of them turned.

Garett was standing there.

Still wearing part of his hockey gear.

His jersey hung loose over his shoulder pads, his hair damp with sweat from the game.

And judging by the expression on his face, he'd arrived at exactly the wrong moment.

His eyes immediately landed on his sister.

Then on Phil.

Then back on his sister.

The way her shoulders were curled inward.

The way she refused to look up.

The way her eyes looked suspiciously glassy.

His jaw tightened.

"What happened?"

Phil answered first.

"She crashed your truck."

Garett blinked.

Then looked at his sister.

Then at the truck.

Then back at her.

A pause.

A long one.

She waited for the explosion.

The anger.

The disappointment.

Instead Garett walked directly toward her.

"Are you hurt?"

She stared.

"What?"

"Are. You. Hurt?"

The question sounded almost impatient.

Like he couldn't understand why nobody had answered it yet.

"No."

"Any injuries?"

"No."

"Did you hit your head?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

She nodded.

Garett visibly relaxed.

Actually relaxed.

Like a giant weight had just fallen off his shoulders.

His hand immediately landed on the back of her head.

A familiar gesture.

Protective.

Comforting.

"You scared the hell out of me."

She blinked.

"What?"

"You crashed."

"The truck crashed."

"You were in the truck."

She stared at him.

Still confused.

Meanwhile Phil looked annoyed.

"The truck is wrecked."

Garett finally glanced toward it.

"Huh."

That was it.

Just...

Huh.

His sister looked between him and the truck.

"You aren't mad?"

Garett laughed.

Actually laughed.

"Why would I be mad?"

"Because I crashed your truck."

"You crashed my truck."

She nodded.

Garett shrugged.

"Can fix a truck."

The words came so casually that she almost wanted to cry.

Phil clearly wasn't impressed.

"You spent a lot of money on that truck."

"Yep."

"And she damaged it."

"Yep."

"And you're not upset?"

Garett looked at him like he'd asked whether water was wet.

"No."

Phil folded his arms.

Garett folded his.

The resemblance between them was impossible to miss.

The difference was everything else.

"Garett."

"What?"

"She needs to understand consequences."

Garett's eyes narrowed.

"Consequences for what?"

"Being irresponsible."

The silence that followed felt heavy.

Dangerous.

His sister immediately recognized the look on Garett's face.

The one that appeared whenever Phil started pushing too hard.

Garett stepped slightly closer to her.

Not enough to be obvious.

But enough.

A shield.

A barrier.

A big brother placing himself between her and the storm.

"The accident wasn't her fault."

"She still crashed the truck."

"And?"

Phil stared.

Garett stared right back.

Then he pointed toward the dented bumper.

"Dad."

"What?"

"It's metal."

Phil frowned.

"It's a truck."

"Garett—"

"It's replaceable."

His voice remained calm.

Steady.

"But she isn't."

The words hit harder than anyone expected.

Even his sister.

Garett looked at her.

Really looked at her.

And his expression softened immediately.

"If I'd gotten a call saying she'd been seriously hurt, do you think I'd care about a bumper?"

Nobody answered.

Because everyone knew the answer.

Garett sighed.

Then gently squeezed her shoulder.

"I don't care about the truck."

She swallowed.

The guilt she'd been carrying all day suddenly felt heavier.

"Garett..."

His attention immediately shifted toward her.

"You okay?"

The concern in his eyes was genuine.

Completely genuine.

No anger.

No disappointment.

Just worry.

That somehow made everything worse.

Because now she really wanted to cry.

"I ruined your truck."

"You dented my truck."

"I ruined it."

"You absolutely did not."

"I feel awful."

His expression softened even more.

Without hesitation he pulled her into a hug.

A big one.

The kind only Garett could manage.

The kind that felt like being wrapped in a weighted blanket.

She buried her face against his chest.

And finally the tears came.

Not because of the accident.

Not because of Phil.

But because she'd spent the entire day terrified Garett would be furious.

And instead he'd shown up worried about her.

Garett rubbed her back.

"Hey."

She sniffled.

"Hey."

"I'm okay."

"I know."

"I'm really sorry."

"I know."

"I didn't mean to."

"I know."

She laughed weakly through her tears.

Garett smiled.

Then pressed a kiss against the top of her head.

"You know what?"

"What?"

"Next time you borrow my truck..."

She groaned.

"Garett."

"...try not to hit anything."

A surprised laugh escaped her.

Garett grinned.

"There she is."

The truck didn't matter.

Not to Garett.

Not compared to her.

And maybe that was the thing about Garett Graham.

For all his recklessness.

For all his sarcasm.

For all the trouble he caused.

When it came to the people he loved, there was never any hesitation.

The truck could be repaired.

Money could be earned again.

Parts could be replaced.

But standing safely in his arms was his little sister.

And as far as Garett was concerned, that meant the only thing that truly mattered had survived the crash.

_____________________________________

The atmosphere somehow managed to become even more tense after Garett pulled her into that hug.

She remained tucked against his side, wiping at her eyes while Garett kept one arm draped across her shoulders. It wasn't even a conscious gesture anymore. The second she looked upset, Garett's protective instincts kicked in automatically.

Unfortunately, Phil wasn't done.

The older man crossed his arms and looked between the damaged truck and his daughter.

"Six months."

Garett looked up.

"What?"

Phil's expression remained firm.

"No allowance for six months."

The words hung in the air.

His sister immediately froze.

Garett blinked.

Then blinked again.

Like he genuinely thought he'd heard wrong.

"What are you talking about?"

"Actions have consequences."

"Dad."

"No allowance for six months."

His sister's stomach sank.

Six months.

That wasn't a small punishment.

And judging by the look on Phil's face, he wasn't joking.

"You damaged property."

Garett's arm tightened around her shoulders.

"She was in an accident."

"An accident she caused."

"That's not what happened."

Phil ignored him.

"You need to learn responsibility."

The irony almost made Garett laugh.

Almost.

Instead, his expression darkened.

His sister felt it immediately.

That subtle shift.

The one that happened whenever Garett was genuinely angry.

Not hockey angry.

Not irritated angry.

Protective angry.

The dangerous kind.

"Dad."

Phil looked at him.

Garett looked right back.

"No."

The single word was calm.

Very calm.

Too calm.

Phil frowned.

"No?"

"No."

"You don't get to decide that."

"The hell I don't."

His sister immediately looked between them.

Uh-oh.

This was escalating.

Fast.

Phil folded his arms.

"I am her father."

"And?"

The word came out sharper than intended.

Phil's jaw tightened.

Garett didn't back down.

Not even slightly.

"She made a mistake."

"A costly mistake."

"Nobody got hurt."

"That doesn't matter."

Garett laughed once.

A humorless sound.

"It matters to me."

The silence that followed was uncomfortable.

His sister wished she could disappear.

Maybe crawl into the damaged engine compartment.

Maybe live there forever.

Anywhere but here.

Then Phil made the mistake.

The very big mistake.

"Maybe if she actually faced consequences for once—"

Garett immediately stepped forward.

His arm never left her shoulders.

Not once.

"You don't get to do that."

Phil frowned.

"Do what?"

"Talk about her like she's standing ten feet away."

The older man stared.

Garett stared right back.

His sister suddenly felt very small standing between them.

Or rather, behind Garett.

Because somehow she'd ended up behind Garett.

Again.

Like her brother had subconsciously positioned himself there.

Shielding.

Protecting.

Blocking.

Phil sighed heavily

"Garett."

"No."

"You're not helping."

"I am helping."

Phil shook his head.

"You keep babying her."

That did it.

His sister physically felt Garett stiffen.

The air around him seemed to change.

"Babying her?"

"Yes."

Garett laughed.

A short disbelieving laugh.

Then he pointed toward her.

"She spent the entire day terrified I'd be angry."

Phil didn't respond.

"She nearly cried herself sick worrying about my stupid truck."

Still silence.

"And now you're standing here trying to make her feel worse?"

"She should feel bad."

Garett's eyes narrowed.

"She already does."

The words came out instantly.

Without hesitation.

Without thought.

Because he knew.

He'd seen her face.

Seen the guilt.

Seen the tears.

Seen the way she'd been shrinking into herself every time Phil raised his voice.

And he'd had enough.

For a long moment nobody spoke.

Then Phil crossed his arms.

"The punishment stands."

Garett stared at him.

Then something shifted in his expression.

Something fierce.

Something stubborn.

Something undeniably Graham.

"Not happening."

"Garett."

"No."

"She is my daughter."

The response came immediately.

"So?"

Phil looked stunned.

Garett took a step forward.

His voice was steady.

Controlled.

But underneath it was something powerful.

Something protective.

"You may have given birth to her."

His sister's eyes widened.

Garett pointed toward himself.

"But she's my kid too."

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Even the traffic nearby seemed quieter.

His sister simply stared at him.

Because Garett wasn't joking.

Not even a little.

He meant every word.

Every single one.

For years he'd been the one helping with homework.

The one picking her up.

The one showing up.

The one making sure she ate.

The one answering late-night calls.

The one protecting her whenever things got hard.

The one who always stood between her and the world.

And in Garett's mind?

That made her his kid.

Maybe not legally.

Maybe not biologically.

But in every way that mattered.

Phil looked completely speechless.

Garett took advantage of that.

"Come on."

His sister blinked.

"What?"

"You're hungry."

The abrupt change nearly gave her whiplash.

"What?"

"You haven't eaten."

"Garett—"

"You cried."

She frowned.

"So?"

"So crying burns calories."

That was not how science worked.

At all.

But Garett was already grabbing her hand.

"Let's go."

"Garett."

"Nope."

"Garett."

"Nope."

"Garett."

"Food."

And just like that he started dragging her away.

Literally dragging her.

She stumbled after him while Phil called his name behind them.

"Garett."

No response.

"Garett!"

Still nothing.

The hockey player simply raised one hand without looking back.

A universal not today gesture.

Then continued walking.

His sister couldn't help laughing.

"You're going to get in trouble."

"I play hockey."

He shrugged.

"I'm already in trouble."

Twenty minutes later they were sitting inside Malone's.

The familiar restaurant buzzed with conversation and music.

The second they'd walked through the door, Garett had immediately claimed a booth in the corner.

Now his sister sat across from him surrounded by enough food to feed a small army.

Three baskets of fries.

Burger.

Mozzarella sticks.

Milkshake.

Garett's logic was simple.

Sad equals food.

Food equals happy.

Therefore:

More food.

His sister stared at the table.

"Garett."

"What?"

"This is ridiculous."

"You almost died."

"I absolutely did not."

"You could have."

"I didn't."

"Still counts."

She rolled her eyes.

Garett shoved fries toward her.

"Eat."

She took one.

Then another.

Then another.

Eventually Garett noticed the color returning to her face.

The tension slowly leaving her shoulders.

The guilt easing.

The tears gone.

Good.

That was the entire goal.

He leaned back in his booth.

Mission accomplished.

For now.

A few minutes later she glanced up.

"You're really not mad?"

The question was quiet.

Small.

Garett immediately softened.

There it was.

The real issue.

The thing she'd been carrying all day.

He reached across the table and stole one of her fries.

"I'm gonna tell you something."

She waited.

"If I had to choose between my truck and you..."

He popped the fry into his mouth.

She rolled her eyes.

"That's not a fair comparison."

"It is."

"No."

"It absolutely is."

He pointed at her.

"You win."

She smiled slightly.

"Every time?"

"Every time."

The answer came so fast it wasn't even funny.

Garett leaned forward.

His expression turning serious.

"The truck is a truck."

She looked down.

Garett continued.

"You're my sister."

That was it.

Just four words.

Simple.

Honest.

True.

And somehow they meant more than any speech ever could.

A moment later Garett ruined the emotional atmosphere entirely.

"If you do crash my next truck though..."

She groaned.

"Oh my God."

"...at least pick something cooler than a bumper."

She threw a french fry at him.

Garett laughed so hard he nearly choked on his milkshake.

And for the first time since the accident, she laughed too. The kind of laugh that loosened the knot in her chest.

Because the truck could be repaired.

The bumper could be replaced.

But Garett Graham had made one thing very clear.

No matter how angry the world got.

No matter who was yelling.

No matter what mistakes she made.

Her big brother would always be standing right beside her, ready to throw himself between her and the storm, then drag her to Malone's afterward and force-feed her fries until she smiled again.

[andy-15-07]

The Letter

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis  x Reader

Word Count: 930

Request open!

Off campus masterlist

 Dean Di Laurentis found the letter by accident.

That was how all dangerous things started.

He was helping you look for a charger in the drawer beside your bed,your room, not his,and was mostly digging through random papers and old receipts when he pulled out a folded sheet of notebook paper with his name written across the front in handwriting he immediately recognized.

He stopped.

Then, very slowly, he looked at the paper again.

“Why do you have this?” he asked.

You turned from where you were sorting through a pile of clothes and froze for just a second too long.

“Because that’s my drawer?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “That is not an answer.”

You stared at him. “Dean.”

He looked at the paper, then back at you. “Is this about me?”

You reached for it immediately, but he lifted it out of your reach with one lazy movement that was far too familiar and unfair. “Nope.”

“Dean, give that back.”

Now he was interested.

“You wrote me a letter?”

“It’s old.”

He looked at the folded page again, then slowly unfolded it.

Your face went hot instantly. “Dean.”

He was already reading.

You crossed your arms and made a noise of protest, but he held up one finger without looking away from the page, the kind of silent “wait” that would have been ridiculous on anyone else and somehow was not on him.

Then his expression changed.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

He read the whole thing in silence, and the longer he read, the quieter the room became.

When he finally lowered the page, he looked at you with an expression so soft and stunned that it made your chest tighten immediately.

“You wrote this before we dated?”

You groaned and covered your face. “I hate you.”

Dean was still holding the letter. “No, seriously. You kept this?”

“It was private.”

“It has my name on it.”

You peeked through your fingers. “I know.”

He looked down at the page again, then back at you. “You wrote that I was ‘annoying in a way that makes the room better’?”

You made an agonized sound. “Please stop reading it out loud.”

Dean’s mouth twitched. “You also said I looked ‘ridiculously pretty when I’m pretending not to care.’”

You dropped your hands. “Okay, you know what? I am leaving.”

He caught your wrist before you could move. “No, you’re not.”

“I am so embarrassed.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“Yes, it is.”

He held the letter loosely in one hand and your wrist in the other, looking at you with far too much amusement now. “You liked me.”

You glared at him. “Obviously.”

He laughed under his breath. “You liked me so much you wrote a secret letter about it.”

“It was not secret.”

“It was in your drawer.”

You pointed at him. “You invaded my drawer.”

He lifted a brow. “I was looking for a charger.”

“That doesn’t help your case.”

Dean smiled, but the teasing had gone softer around the edges now. He looked down at the letter again, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter.

“You thought all that before I asked you out?”

You hesitated.

Then nodded.

He studied you for a second. “You really meant it?”

You blinked. “Dean.”

“No, I’m serious.”

Your expression changed a little. “Yes, I meant it.”

He was quiet after that, gaze moving over your face like he was trying to decide whether to keep teasing you or say the thing he actually wanted to say.

Eventually he folded the letter carefully and set it on the bed beside him.

Then he stepped closer.

“You know what’s unfair?” he asked softly.

You looked up at him. “What?”

“You thinking I didn’t notice you before we got together.”

Your heart gave a hard little thump.

Dean’s hand came to rest at your waist, warm and certain. “You think I was the only one pretending not to feel anything?”

You stared at him.

He smiled a little, but it was gentler now. “I kept telling myself not to ruin it.”

Your brows drew together. “Ruin what?”

“This.” He shrugged, the motion smaller than usual. “Us. Whatever was happening before we made it official. I was afraid if I said anything too soon, I’d lose you.”

That made your throat tighten immediately.

You looked at him carefully. “You were?”

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

Then, because he apparently wanted to make your entire evening emotionally complicated, he added, “You had no idea how hard it was to read that and realize you liked me the whole time.”

You swallowed hard. “You’re not allowed to be that sincere after reading my embarrassing letter.”

He smiled, warm and crooked. “I’m  Dean Di Laurentis. I can be sincere and annoying at the same time.”

You laughed despite yourself.

Then he kissed your forehead, the letter still sitting on the bed between you like evidence of how long the two of you had been orbiting each other before you finally gave in.

And when he pulled back, he looked at you with that same soft expression.

“For the record,” he said, “I’m keeping it.”

Your eyes widened. “Absolutely not.”

He grinned. “Absolutely yes.”

“Dean.”

He laughed and slipped the folded page into his jacket pocket. “Too late.”

You stared at him, horrified. “You are impossible.”

He leaned down and kissed you once, quick and smug. “And you wrote me a love letter before we were even dating.”

“That was not a love letter.”

Dean smiled against your mouth. “Sure, babe.”

And honestly, at that point, there was no recovering from it.

[g0ldendesiree]

Out of Your Head | Dean Di Laurentis

summary: when girls keep on trying to get Deans attention, you can’t help but get into your head about it.

request: yes/no

warnings: drinking, swearing

word count: 1.86k

authors note: hey you lot! I have just finished uni for the semester so the updates will be back to a more regular schedule!

The first time you met Dean, you assumed he was flirting as a joke.

Because guys like Dean Di Laurentis didn't look at girls like you.

Not really.

And definitely not twice.

But most certainly not in the way he was looking at you.

You were standing in line at a campus coffee shop, bundled into an oversized sweater, trying very hard not to notice the hockey players who had just walked in.

Then one of them stepped beside you “hey." That voice made the hair on the back of your neck stand.

You looked up.

Dean smiled.

Not a smirk.

Not some cocky grin.

Just a smile that, if you didn’t know any better felt genuine "hi?" You looked behind you as if he was looking through you, only to stupidly be faced with his teammates.

"I've seen you around."

Your immediate thought was that he was either blind or just s

Your second thought was that he was making fun of you.

But then he asked for your name.

And remembered it.

Because he showed up again a few days later.

And then again.

And somehow, against all logic, Dean kept choosing you.

Which six months later, left you still trying to understand why.

Not because Dean gave you any reason to doubt him. It was exact opposite, actually.

He was the most affectionate boyfriend you'd ever seen.

Which for a man that lived and breathed casual, it felt like you were waiting to wake up from this always.

Always touching you.

Always pulling you into his lap.

Always kissing your forehead.

Always looking at you like you were the prettiest girl in every room.

The problem was that your brain refused to let your heart accept it.

Years of insecurity didn't disappear because one beautiful hockey player loved you.

So most of the time they crept back in.

Like tonight.

You and Dean were at a team party.

The house was packed.

Music thumped through the walls.

Girls crowded around the hockey players.

And every few minutes you caught someone staring at Dean.

A blonde near the kitchen.

A brunette by the stairs.

Another girl who literally laughed and touched his arm while he was talking.

You knew Dean wasn't encouraging it because you knew he loved you.

But the little voice in your head was being particularly cruel tonight.

Look at them.

Look at you.

Of course they'd want him.

Why wouldn't they?

You found yourself drifting toward a quieter hallway.

Just for a minute.

Just to breathe.

Your feet carried you up to his room, the place you found yourself most nights.

A few minutes later you heard footsteps.

Then Dean's voice "thought I’d have to get some missing posters up soon.” You looked up to see him holding two drinks.

One for him.

One for you.

You forced a smile as your fingers dropped your bracelet “hey.” Dean immediately narrowed his eyes.

He knew you too well. In the few short months that you had been together, this man could read you like a book "what’s wrong?" He cocked his head as he shut the door behind him.

Dean handed you your drink as you frowned “it’s nothing.” You shook your head.

The boy crouched down in front of you “liar." He rested his hand on your knee as you looked away.

You knew it was one of those things that shouldn’t have been picking at your heart but it rang in your ears "it’s stupid." You pursed your lips together as you sucked at your teeth.

Deans fingers traced random shapes on the inside of your thigh "tell me anyway." You twisted the cup in your hands, clearly letting the mental coin toss play in your head.

He waited.

Patiently.

Eventually you sighed.

Tugging your fingers through your hair "I just-" You sipped at your drink as if it could buy you time.

Because you hated saying it out loud "I don't know." You shrugged almost wishing that he hadn’t caught you upstairs.

Dean stayed quiet.

So you continued "I look around at girls at these parties and they're all gorgeous." Your voice got smaller trying not to look stupid “then there's me."

Dean's entire face fell.

Not in annoyance.

In heartbreak.

Like hearing that hurt his soul “baby.” His hands pulled away from you.

As if he was walking on a tight rope trying to avoid hurting you.

You shrugged "it’s fine." You tried to convince yourself that it was normal to feel that way.

Dean was quick to disagree with you “it is absolutely not fine." You laughed weakly as you picked at the edge of your nail.

"It's not your problem."

The words didn’t get a chance to hang in the air before Dean decided that he had enough "the hell it isn't." Dean set his drink down on the floor and turned fully toward you.

His hands rested on your thighs "look at me." You hesitated and it made him repeat himself.

"Look at me."

So you did.

His expression was unbelievably serious "you think I settled for you?" He cocked his head as you almost looked annoyed.

Your eyes widened "what? No-" you went to explain yourself but he cut you off.

Dean wasn’t trying to argue with you but he really wanted to make sure that you got what he was saying “that's what you're saying." The hockey player sucked at his teeth “you think I looked at every girl on campus and somehow ended up with you by accident?"

You blinked as Dean leaned closer "I chose you." His words were both sweet and somehow effortless at the same time.

Your heart throbbed “Dean,” you couldn’t help it when you cracked a small smile.

His voice was barely a whisper “please listen to me.” His hand found yours as his squeezed.

It was as if you could hear a pin drop in here that’s how quiet Deans room was around you both "I like the way you laugh." Another finger intertwined with yours.

Still your heart pounded in your chest "I like the way you get excited when you're talking about something." All of the guys were used to listening to your tangents about what meats go on a sandwich or why the boys picked the wrong star in whatever Real Housewives collection they let you put on.

He licked his lips before he continued "I like that you snort when something's actually funny." You groaned knowing that it was something that he really wouldn’t let you live down.

Dean smiled as he nodded "I like every inch of you." Heat flooded your face as you scrunched your nose.

You sounded like a teen boy that had just been smothered in kisses by their grandmother "Dean." Your eyes rolled trying to act like you didn’t feel like you were drowning in love.

If you gave him the chance he’d kiss every inch of your body he’d do it "I do." Dean brought your hand up to his lips as he kissed your fingers.

His thumb brushed over your knuckles "you’re beautiful." You shook your head automatically.

Dean immediately caught it "nope." He narrowed his eyes at you like he had all the time in the world to deal with this.

"Dean-“

"No." He poked your cheek cutting you off "you don't get to argue with me about my own girlfriend." You laughed despite yourself.

"That's not how that works."

He stuck his tongue out at you "it is,” as he nodded.

"It isn't."

The two of you sounded like children "it absolutely is." His arm wrapped around your waist.

Strong.

Secure.

Like there was nowhere else he'd rather be.

"Besides."

He lowered his voice “do you know how obsessed I am with you?" His words sent shivers down your spine, shooting straight to your core.

You covered your face "oh my God." You shook your head as it was buried in your hands

"I'm serious."

You held back a laugh "you're ridiculous." Your cheeks were sore as you wanted his bed to swallow you.

Dean pulled your hands away as he wanted to see you "I am." He kissed your nose.

He had that smug look on his face as he had your total attention “but I'm also right." It was the truth.

Then your forehead.

Then your cheek.

Then finally your lips.

Slow.

Soft.

Patient.

The kind of kiss that felt like being wrapped in a blanket on a cold winters morning.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours “you know what I see when I look at you?" You swallowed almost nervous about what you’d hear.

"What?"

His eyes dropped to your stomach before they quickly went back to your eyes “the girl I want to come home to." Your chest tightened as you knew all about how he wanted three kids.

His thumb drew circles against your wrist “who I want in my jersey at every game." Getting to see you sat in the crowd was almost just as good as getting to get you out of the jersey.

Another kiss on your lips.

He stopped as he took the chance to really look at you, "the girl I can't stop thinking about." His voice was soft as if he was worried he’d scare you.

And just like that he was ready to hit what felt like the nail in the coffin "the girl I love." Your eyes immediately filled and Dean noticed instantly.

"Oh no."

You laughed.

You raised your hand to stop him "don’t." You blinked rapidly to avoid tears falling.

He was quick to tease you "oh, she's crying." You sniffled as you shook your head.

"I'm not crying."

The hockey player laughed as he shook his head "she’s definitely crying." You shoved his shoulder.

Dean grinned as he sat down next to you, quickly pulling you onto his lap.

The moment you settled against him, he wrapped both arms around your middle and squeezed.

Tight and protective.

Like he was proud to be holding you.

Like he wanted the entire world to know you were his “you know," he murmured into your hair, "those girls at the party?" You groaned, shoving your head into the crook of his neck.

The boy grinned as he ran his fingers through your hair “they can look." If anything he enjoyed getting the chance to show you off.

He didn’t stop there, no he was actually convinced he was going to be the most insufferable boyfriend that day “they can stare." It made him smirk how you squirmed.

Your cheeks reddened as you whined, "stop." He laughed as he shook his head.

His fingers danced over the waist of your pants "because at the end of the day?" His lips brushed your temple as he let out a soft breath.

Dean let his fingers rest under your chin as he forced you to look at him "I get the girl I want." That was more than any public claim mattered.

And somehow, tucked safely against his chest while he held you like the most precious thing he'd ever touched, you almost believed him when he said it.

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ tan lines.

pairing – garrett graham x petal!reader summary – no rink, no party, no briar noise. just garrett, a towel full of sand, and five more minutes that somehow turns into twelve. warnings – fluff, beach day, established relationship, bikini mention, kissing, mild sexual references, teasing notes from me – combined a couple asks to write this lil blurb <3 an insight into petal!reader & garrett's relationship (the first time lol) word count – 1.2k

navigation – masterlist | taglist

The beach is quiet enough that she can hear Garrett breathing. There’s no rink. No game. No party where six different girls know his name with too much confidence. No theatre rehearsal where Dexter’s yelling about emotional truth through blocking and Allie’s threatening someone with a prop vase. No Briar noise at all, really, except for Garrett himself. Right now, though, he’s quiet.

He’s stretched out on a towel that’s already half buried in sand because he’d shaken it out with the lazy confidence of a man who assumed nature would simply cooperate.

It hadn’t. 

Sand’s in the corner of the towel, under his calf, stuck to one forearm, and probably in places he’ll complain about later. His board shorts sit low on his hips, navy and damp at the waistband from where he’d gone into the water earlier and then come back out looking so unfairly good she had considered, briefly and sincerely, pushing him back in.

The sun has caught on his chest now, warm over the broad solid stretch, over the faint dusting of hair there, the hard line of his stomach, the muscle in his arm where it’s bent behind his head. 

His curls are a mess from saltwater and his own hand, drying darker at the ends, and there’s a stripe of sunscreen along one shoulder he definitely hasn’t rubbed in properly because Garrett Graham can manage a power play under pressure, but clearly needs supervision with SPF.

She’s taking this supervisory role very seriously from where she’s sprawled halfway across him in a bikini that had made him go silent for one extremely satisfying second when she walked out of the bathroom that morning.

Tiny little thing. Soft pink, because she’s predictable and also because Garrett’s eyes had dropped to the ties at her hips like he’d briefly forgotten how language worked, which felt like excellent value for money. 

Now the fabric is warm from the sun, the little strings pressing faint marks into her skin, one leg tangled over his, her cheek tucked into the damp-warm place where his shoulder meets his neck.

His hand moves slowly over her back. Up, then down. Fingertips dragging from the clasp of her bikini top to the curve of her waist, then back again, not with any real agenda beyond touching because he can. Every pass makes her feel heavier in the nicest way, like her bones have quietly resigned from holding her up and decided Garrett’s chest can handle it.

“You’re gonna get bad tan lines,” he murmurs, voice low and rough from sun and not moving much.

She doesn’t open her eyes. “Don’t care.”

“You say that now.”

“Mhm.”

“Then tonight you’re gonna stand in front of the mirror and blame me.”

She smiles against his neck, nose brushing the warm salt of his skin. “That does sound like me.”

“It does.” His fingers pause at the middle of her back, then scratch lightly, slow little lines that make her shoulders loosen. “I’m just saying, I can already hear it. Garrett, you let me nap like this. Garrett, my back looks insane. Garrett, you’re a terrible boyfriend.”

“You’re a terrible boyfriend,” she lies.

He huffs, and she feels it under her cheek more than hears it. “Baby, I brought you to the beach.”

“You forgot snacks.”

“I bought you breakfast.”

“That was hours ago.”

“It was forty minutes ago.”

“Mhm. Neglect.”

Garrett’s laugh comes out soft and warm, one of the little ones he does when he’s too relaxed to make it a whole performance. His hand slides up her spine again, slower this time, then over the back of her neck, his thumb finding the place just under her jaw. “You’re dramatic.”

She lifts her head barely enough to look at him, chin still close to his shoulder. “You knew that before you made me your girlfriend.”

His eyes soften in a way that makes the joke catch somewhere between them. Dark and amused and too handsome under all that beach light, with the corner of his mouth tilted like he’s trying not to look as pleased as he is. “Mmm,” he says. “I did.”

The gulls scream somewhere down the sand. A family packs up near the access stairs, umbrellas collapsing, towels being snapped out, kids whining with the specific devastation of people being removed from water before they’ve become fully amphibious. 

After they leave, the beach goes even quieter. Half-empty and sun-bleached, waves folding in low and lazy, the air smelling like salt and coconut sunscreen and chips that she hadn't stopped thinking about.

Garrett’s hand comes to her jaw properly, his fingers warm and sandy at the edge of her face. “C’mere.”

“I’m here.”

“Closer.”

“I really don’t think that’s possible.”

He grins, lazy and golden and so Garrett it makes something in her stomach do an extremely annoying little flip. “Try.”

She rolls her eyes, but she lets him guide her anyway, lets his hand tip her face up until his mouth finds hers. The kiss is slow because there’s nowhere to be. Because no one’s waiting on him. Because nobody in the world needs Garrett Graham for anything right now except her, and she only needs him in this soft, greedy, sun-warmed way.

His lips are warm, a little salty, his mouth curved for the first second like he’s still smiling. Then she hums against him and he stops smiling enough to kiss her properly, tongue brushing hers in a lazy little stroke that makes her fingers curl against his chest. 

His hand stays at her jaw, thumb tucked near her cheek, the other sliding down to settle at the bare skin of her waist like he has to hold her there even though she’s very clearly not going anywhere.

She kisses him until the sun feels hotter behind her closed eyes, until her breath gets mixed up with his, until the whole beach becomes the sound of waves and Garrett’s hand and the slow drag of his thumb along her skin. 

Then she pulls back just enough to brush her nose against his, mouth still hovering near his. “This is nice,” she murmurs.

Garrett’s eyes stay half-lidded for a second. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She shifts a little higher on his chest, her knee pressing into the towel beside his hip, not caring that sand is absolutely getting everywhere. “You’re less annoying when there’s no one around to witness you.”

He smiles. “That’s not true.”

“It is. You’re, like, almost peaceful.”

“Almost?”

“I don’t want you getting cocky.”

“Too late.” His hand moves over her back again, palm broad and warm between her shoulder blades. “But yeah. We should do this more often.”

Something about the way he says it makes her look at him properly, like his life has room in it for a quiet beach and her body tucked against his and an afternoon where nobody has to compete for space.

Her chest goes a little soft around the edges. She hides most of it by dropping her face back into his neck. “Mhm,” she murmurs, lips brushing his skin. “We should.”

Garrett’s arm closes around her, firmer now, pulling her in until she’s fully draped over him and he can tuck his mouth against her hair. “You still hungry?”

She smiles into his throat. “Starving.”

“Neglected,” he says solemnly.

“Deeply.”

“Alright.” He makes no move to get up. His hand keeps scratching gently at her back. “Five more minutes, then I’ll feed you.”

She melts heavier against him, eyes closing again. “Ten.”

“Eight.”

“Twelve.”

“That’s not how negotiating works.”

“It is when you love me.”

She feels his smile press into her hair, soft and private and unbearably warm. “Guess it is,” he murmurs. 

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ tan lines.

pairing – garrett graham x petal!reader summary – no rink, no party, no briar noise. just garrett, a towel full of sand, and five more minutes that somehow turns into twelve. warnings – fluff, beach day, established relationship, bikini mention, kissing, mild sexual references, teasing notes from me – combined a couple asks to write this lil blurb <3 an insight into petal!reader & garrett's relationship (the first time lol) word count – 1.2k

navigation – masterlist | taglist

The beach is quiet enough that she can hear Garrett breathing. There’s no rink. No game. No party where six different girls know his name with too much confidence. No theatre rehearsal where Dexter’s yelling about emotional truth through blocking and Allie’s threatening someone with a prop vase. No Briar noise at all, really, except for Garrett himself. Right now, though, he’s quiet.

He’s stretched out on a towel that’s already half buried in sand because he’d shaken it out with the lazy confidence of a man who assumed nature would simply cooperate.

It hadn’t. 

Sand’s in the corner of the towel, under his calf, stuck to one forearm, and probably in places he’ll complain about later. His board shorts sit low on his hips, navy and damp at the waistband from where he’d gone into the water earlier and then come back out looking so unfairly good she had considered, briefly and sincerely, pushing him back in.

The sun has caught on his chest now, warm over the broad solid stretch, over the faint dusting of hair there, the hard line of his stomach, the muscle in his arm where it’s bent behind his head. 

His curls are a mess from saltwater and his own hand, drying darker at the ends, and there’s a stripe of sunscreen along one shoulder he definitely hasn’t rubbed in properly because Garrett Graham can manage a power play under pressure, but clearly needs supervision with SPF.

She’s taking this supervisory role very seriously from where she’s sprawled halfway across him in a bikini that had made him go silent for one extremely satisfying second when she walked out of the bathroom that morning.

Tiny little thing. Soft pink, because she’s predictable and also because Garrett’s eyes had dropped to the ties at her hips like he’d briefly forgotten how language worked, which felt like excellent value for money. 

Now the fabric is warm from the sun, the little strings pressing faint marks into her skin, one leg tangled over his, her cheek tucked into the damp-warm place where his shoulder meets his neck.

His hand moves slowly over her back. Up, then down. Fingertips dragging from the clasp of her bikini top to the curve of her waist, then back again, not with any real agenda beyond touching because he can. Every pass makes her feel heavier in the nicest way, like her bones have quietly resigned from holding her up and decided Garrett’s chest can handle it.

“You’re gonna get bad tan lines,” he murmurs, voice low and rough from sun and not moving much.

She doesn’t open her eyes. “Don’t care.”

“You say that now.”

“Mhm.”

“Then tonight you’re gonna stand in front of the mirror and blame me.”

She smiles against his neck, nose brushing the warm salt of his skin. “That does sound like me.”

“It does.” His fingers pause at the middle of her back, then scratch lightly, slow little lines that make her shoulders loosen. “I’m just saying, I can already hear it. Garrett, you let me nap like this. Garrett, my back looks insane. Garrett, you’re a terrible boyfriend.”

“You’re a terrible boyfriend,” she lies.

He huffs, and she feels it under her cheek more than hears it. “Baby, I brought you to the beach.”

“You forgot snacks.”

“I bought you breakfast.”

“That was hours ago.”

“It was forty minutes ago.”

“Mhm. Neglect.”

Garrett’s laugh comes out soft and warm, one of the little ones he does when he’s too relaxed to make it a whole performance. His hand slides up her spine again, slower this time, then over the back of her neck, his thumb finding the place just under her jaw. “You’re dramatic.”

She lifts her head barely enough to look at him, chin still close to his shoulder. “You knew that before you made me your girlfriend.”

His eyes soften in a way that makes the joke catch somewhere between them. Dark and amused and too handsome under all that beach light, with the corner of his mouth tilted like he’s trying not to look as pleased as he is. “Mmm,” he says. “I did.”

The gulls scream somewhere down the sand. A family packs up near the access stairs, umbrellas collapsing, towels being snapped out, kids whining with the specific devastation of people being removed from water before they’ve become fully amphibious. 

After they leave, the beach goes even quieter. Half-empty and sun-bleached, waves folding in low and lazy, the air smelling like salt and coconut sunscreen and chips that she hadn't stopped thinking about.

Garrett’s hand comes to her jaw properly, his fingers warm and sandy at the edge of her face. “C’mere.”

“I’m here.”

“Closer.”

“I really don’t think that’s possible.”

He grins, lazy and golden and so Garrett it makes something in her stomach do an extremely annoying little flip. “Try.”

She rolls her eyes, but she lets him guide her anyway, lets his hand tip her face up until his mouth finds hers. The kiss is slow because there’s nowhere to be. Because no one’s waiting on him. Because nobody in the world needs Garrett Graham for anything right now except her, and she only needs him in this soft, greedy, sun-warmed way.

His lips are warm, a little salty, his mouth curved for the first second like he’s still smiling. Then she hums against him and he stops smiling enough to kiss her properly, tongue brushing hers in a lazy little stroke that makes her fingers curl against his chest. 

His hand stays at her jaw, thumb tucked near her cheek, the other sliding down to settle at the bare skin of her waist like he has to hold her there even though she’s very clearly not going anywhere.

She kisses him until the sun feels hotter behind her closed eyes, until her breath gets mixed up with his, until the whole beach becomes the sound of waves and Garrett’s hand and the slow drag of his thumb along her skin. 

Then she pulls back just enough to brush her nose against his, mouth still hovering near his. “This is nice,” she murmurs.

Garrett’s eyes stay half-lidded for a second. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She shifts a little higher on his chest, her knee pressing into the towel beside his hip, not caring that sand is absolutely getting everywhere. “You’re less annoying when there’s no one around to witness you.”

He smiles. “That’s not true.”

“It is. You’re, like, almost peaceful.”

“Almost?”

“I don’t want you getting cocky.”

“Too late.” His hand moves over her back again, palm broad and warm between her shoulder blades. “But yeah. We should do this more often.”

Something about the way he says it makes her look at him properly, like his life has room in it for a quiet beach and her body tucked against his and an afternoon where nobody has to compete for space.

Her chest goes a little soft around the edges. She hides most of it by dropping her face back into his neck. “Mhm,” she murmurs, lips brushing his skin. “We should.”

Garrett’s arm closes around her, firmer now, pulling her in until she’s fully draped over him and he can tuck his mouth against her hair. “You still hungry?”

She smiles into his throat. “Starving.”

“Neglected,” he says solemnly.

“Deeply.”

“Alright.” He makes no move to get up. His hand keeps scratching gently at her back. “Five more minutes, then I’ll feed you.”

She melts heavier against him, eyes closing again. “Ten.”

“Eight.”

“Twelve.”

“That’s not how negotiating works.”

“It is when you love me.”

She feels his smile press into her hair, soft and private and unbearably warm. “Guess it is,” he murmurs. 

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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[honeylesshaze]

Not built for soft things

She met Dean Di Laurentis at a party she didn’t even want to attend.

That was usually how these things happened.

Loud music. Cheap alcohol. Bodies pressed too close together in overheated rooms. Someone dragging her there because “you seriously need to stop isolating yourself.” Then eventually some guy would look at her a little too long, she’d smirk back, and for a few hours neither of them would have to think too hard about anything.

Easy.

Temporary.

Safe in the way detached things always were.

Dean noticed her because she looked bored.

Not shy. Not awkward. Not trying too hard to look cool like half the girls there. She stood against the kitchen counter wearing an expression that practically screamed this is beneath me, slowly stirring melting ice around in her cup while people shouted over each other around her.

Dean liked difficult things.

So naturally he walked right over.

“Tell me you’re judging everyone here.”

Her eyes lifted toward him lazily. “Including you?”

Dean grinned. “Especially me.”

That got the smallest twitch of amusement out of her. Barely there. But enough to make him interested.

Most girls reacted to him immediately. They laughed too hard at his jokes or rolled their eyes while secretly enjoying the attention. Dean knew exactly how to handle those situations. Flirting was easy. Familiar. Like muscle memory.

But this girl looked at him like she could take him or leave him.

It drove him insane.

“You always flirt with girls who look emotionally unavailable?” she asked.

“Only the pretty ones.”

“Tragic for you then.”

He laughed loudly at that, genuinely surprised, and she finally looked at him properly. Tall. Hockey player build. Stupidly attractive in the irritatingly effortless way rich boys often were. But there was something lighter about him than she expected. Less arrogant than people described.

Still dangerous though.

Boys like Dean always were.

She should’ve walked away then.

Instead she stayed.

One drink turned into two. Two turned into sitting on the back porch steps together while the party blurred into noise behind them. Dean talked easily, comfortably, like silence didn’t scare him. He told stupid stories about his teammates and terrible hookups and things professors had yelled at him for. She mostly listened, occasionally throwing in dry comments that made him laugh harder than necessary.

He noticed quickly that she never talked about herself unless directly asked.

Even then, her answers were short.

“What about your family?”

“They exist.”

“Ouch.”

“What? You wanted a slideshow?”

Dean smirked, but he noticed the way she shut down after questions like that. Like every personal detail cost something.

Interesting.

Complicated.

His favorite kind of person.

Eventually he kissed her because of course he did.

And she kissed him back like she was trying not to feel it.

That was the first thing he noticed.

No hesitation. No nervousness. She clearly knew what she was doing. But there was something detached about it too, like she’d perfected the art of giving people just enough without actually giving them anything real.

Dean should’ve recognized it immediately.

He was good at casual too.

So when she pulled away afterward and said, “Just so we’re clear, I don’t date,” he only smirked.

“Who said anything about dating?”

Her shoulders visibly relaxed.

That should’ve warned him.

Because girls usually got disappointed when Dean didn’t want more.

She looked relieved.

It became a thing after that.

Not official. Not exclusive. Not anything, really.

Sometimes she showed up at his apartment at midnight wearing one of his hoodies she’d stolen weeks ago. Sometimes Dean found her sitting in the back row of hockey parties looking bored until he sat beside her. Sometimes they spent entire nights together and she disappeared before morning without leaving a note.

No expectations.

No questions.

No vulnerability.

At first Dean genuinely didn’t mind.

She was fun. Sharp-tongued and clever and impossible to embarrass. She challenged him constantly, insulted him creatively, and somehow made him work for attention in a way nobody else did.

But slowly, without meaning to, he started noticing things.

Little things.

Like how she froze whenever someone touched her unexpectedly.

How she laughed things off whenever conversations got emotional.

How she never stayed asleep beside him for long.

Dean would wake up at three in the morning and find her sitting against his headboard staring at nothing in the dark.

“You okay?” he asked once, voice rough with sleep.

“Fine.”

“You always lie this casually?”

She looked over at him then, expression unreadable.

“You always ask questions people don’t want to answer?”

He should’ve dropped it.

Instead he lifted the blanket silently in invitation.

For a second she just stared at him like she didn’t understand what he was offering.

Then slowly, carefully, she laid back down beside him.

Not close.

Just beside.

Dean didn’t touch her after that.

But sometime during the night she shifted toward him in her sleep anyway.

The problem started when Dean realized he was looking for her.

At parties.

In class.

Around campus.

His mood changed depending on whether she texted back.

It was pathetic.

Worse, Garrett noticed.

“You like her.”

Dean scoffed immediately. “I like lots of girls.”

“Not like this.”

Dean threw a hockey tape roll at his head.

But Garrett was right.

Because Dean started paying attention in ways he never had before.

He noticed she never talked about exes.

Never mentioned childhood memories.

Never called anyone when things went wrong.

Everything about her screamed self-reliance so aggressively it stopped looking healthy.

And then there were the hookups.

Or rather, how weirdly disconnected she became afterward.

The first time Dean really understood it, they were lying in bed after another night together. She was sitting against the headboard pulling her clothes back on immediately while Dean watched her quietly.

“You know,” he said carefully, “most people hang around for at least ten minutes before fleeing the scene.”

“I’m not fleeing.”

“You literally have one shoe on already.”

She shrugged.

It should’ve been funny.

Instead Dean felt something uncomfortable settle in his chest.

“Hey,” he said softer this time.

She glanced up.

“You don’t have to leave every single time.”

For a moment her entire expression changed.

Not angry.

Not annoyed.

Panicked.

Gone almost instantly, but Dean saw it.

“I know,” she said quickly.

Then she left anyway.

After that, he started seeing the pattern everywhere.

Whenever Dean did something soft, she didn’t know how to react.

When he brought her coffee before class, she stared at it suspiciously.

When he remembered small details about her, she changed the subject.

When he casually kissed her forehead one morning, she went completely still.

Dean pulled back immediately. “Was that weird?”

Her eyes flickered away from his. “Why’d you do that?”

“Because I wanted to?”

People didn’t look confused by affection unless affection was unfamiliar.

That realization hit Dean harder than he expected.

Because underneath all the sarcasm and casual confidence, she genuinely seemed convinced that closeness came with conditions. Like care was temporary. Transactional.

Like eventually everyone got tired of her.

Dean hated that.

More than he should’ve.

The fight happened two months later.

Not screaming. Not dramatic.

Honestly, that made it worse.

She had disappeared for nearly a week without answering texts. Dean finally found her at a campus café studying like nothing happened.

“There you are,” he said, irritation slipping through immediately.

She barely looked up. “Hi.”

“That’s it?”

“What do you want me to say?”

Dean stared at her. “Maybe explain why you vanished?”

Her jaw tightened instantly. “We’re not dating, Dean.”

“I know that.”

“Then stop acting like I owe you explanations.”

The words landed sharper than she intended.

Dean leaned back slowly, hurt flashing across his face before he hid it behind frustration.

“I was worried.”

Something flickered in her expression again.

That same panic.

“You shouldn’t be.”

“Why?”

“Because people who worry end up expecting things.”

Dean frowned. “What does that even mean?”

She laughed quietly, but there was nothing amused about it. “It means eventually you’ll realize I’m too much work for something that was supposed to stay easy.”

Dean went silent.

And suddenly he understood.

This wasn’t someone avoiding relationships because she wanted freedom.

This was someone convinced she was fundamentally impossible to keep.

His anger disappeared almost instantly.

“Hey,” he said gently.

She looked away.

Dean moved closer anyway, lowering himself into the seat across from her.

“Who taught you that?"

Her face shut down immediately.

“No one.”

“Bullshit.”

The words came out softer than usual. Careful. Like he already knew pressing too hard would make her run.

She swallowed hard and stared down at her coffee.

Dean had never seen her look small before.

“I just…” Her voice cracked slightly, frustrating her immediately. “I don’t do soft things, okay? People always want more eventually and I can’t—” She stopped abruptly.

Dean waited.

“I can’t be the person they want.”

The honesty in that sentence nearly wrecked him.

Because she sounded so certain.

Like this wasn’t insecurity anymore. It was fact in her mind.

Dean reached across the table slowly, giving her enough time to pull away if she wanted.

She didn’t.

His fingers closed gently around hers.

“You know what I think?” he said quietly.

She shook her head once.

“I think somewhere along the line, somebody made you feel hard to love.”

Her eyes immediately filled with tears she clearly hated.

Dean felt his chest physically ache at the sight.

“And I think,” he continued softly, thumb brushing across her knuckles, “you got so used to people leaving that now you leave first before they get the chance.”

Silence.

Then finally, barely above a whisper:

“You make it sound so sad.”

Dean looked at her for a long moment.

“It is sad."

That was the moment she broke.

Not loudly.

No dramatic sobbing.

Just this tiny shattered sound before she covered her face with both hands like she was embarrassed to be seen hurting at all.

Dean moved without thinking.

One second he was across the table.

The next he was kneeling beside her chair pulling her carefully against his chest while she trembled.

And what destroyed him most was how shocked she looked by the comfort.

Like she genuinely expected him to leave once things became real.

Dean held her tighter.

“You don’t have to earn softness,” he murmured against her hair. “You know that, right?”

She cried harder after that.

Not because of the words.

Because some part of her wanted to believe him.

[honeylesshaze]

"Black Cat" 🐈‍⬛

The party had started out exactly the way everyone expected it to.

Loud music. Too many people crammed into the hockey house. Someone had already broken a lamp. Dean was arguing with Tucker about something completely ridiculous. Garrett was somehow winning every drinking game despite barely paying attention. Hannah and Allie were sitting on the kitchen counter watching the chaos unfold like they were observing a wildlife documentary.

And then there was her.

The one person in the entire house who looked like she belonged absolutely nowhere near a party.

John Logan's girlfriend had a reputation.

Quiet.

Reserved.

Intimidating.

The kind of woman who walked into a room and instantly made people sit up straighter without even trying. She wasn't rude. She wasn't cold.

She was simply... calm.

Controlled.

Dangerously composed.

The hockey team often joked that she was basically a black cat in human form.

Sharp stares.

Dry sarcasm.

Zero tolerance for nonsense.

Meanwhile Logan was a golden retriever who somehow woke up every morning excited to exist.

Nobody understood how they worked.

Yet somehow they were perfect together.

At the beginning of the night she sat beside Logan on the couch, nursing a single drink and occasionally smiling whenever he leaned over to tell her something.

Normal.

Completely normal.

Then somebody handed her another drink.

Then another.

Then a mystery punch that nobody should have trusted.

And everything changed.

At first nobody noticed.

She seemed exactly the same.

Quiet.

Relaxed.

Maybe slightly pink around the cheeks.

Then Logan felt something poke his side.

He looked down.

His girlfriend was staring at him.

Not unusual.

The problem was that she was staring at him with the biggest smile he'd ever seen.

A ridiculously happy smile.

The kind that looked completely foreign on her face.

Logan blinked.

"You okay?"

She nodded aggressively.

Then she grabbed both of his cheeks.

"You're so pretty."

The room went silent.

Dean nearly dropped his drink.

Garrett choked on his beer.

Allie's eyes widened.

Hannah looked delighted.

Logan looked like he'd just won the lottery.

His girlfriend never said things like that in public.

Ever.

She continued squishing his face.

"So pretty."

Logan grinned.

"Yeah?"

"Very."

Then she kissed his forehead.

Everyone froze.

Then she kissed his cheek.

Then his other cheek.

Then his nose.

Then his jaw.

Then his forehead again.

"Oh my God," Dean whispered.

"She's broken," Garrett said.

Logan was practically glowing.

His girlfriend continued peppering kisses all over his face like she had suddenly forgotten how to stop.

Every few seconds she would pull back.

Look at him.

Smile dreamily.

Then kiss him again.

"You're my favorite person."

Logan looked seconds away from proposing.

Dean gagged dramatically.

Nobody paid attention.

A few minutes later she wandered into the kitchen.

The team watched nervously.

Like researchers observing a rare animal.

Dean happened to be eating a blueberry muffin.

She stared at it.

Dean stared back.

"Do you want some?"

She nodded.

Dean tore off half and handed it over.

She accepted it.

Took one bite.

Then immediately wrapped both arms around him.

Dean froze.

The entire kitchen froze.

His eyes widened in absolute horror.

"Guys."

Nobody moved.

"Guys she's hugging me."

His voice cracked.

The hug tightened.

"Dean."

"What?"

"You're nice."

Dean looked genuinely emotional.

"Nobody's ever said that to me before."

Then she kissed his cheek.

The room exploded.

Everyone started shouting.

Dean screamed.

"LOGAN SHE KISSED ME."

Logan nearly fell off his chair laughing.

His girlfriend looked completely unbothered.

She simply finished her muffin and wandered away.

A few minutes later she discovered Garrett's truck keys sitting on the counter.

Her eyes lit up.

"You let me drive your truck that one time."

Garrett nodded carefully.

"Yeah."

"I liked your truck."

"Thanks?"

Before Garrett could react she launched herself at him.

Full hug.

Both arms.

Maximum affection.

Garrett stood there looking absolutely terrified.

The hockey team immediately pulled out their phones.

"No."

"Take pictures."

"Absolutely not."

"Garrett is getting hugged."

"Delete that."

His girlfriend squeezed him tighter.

"You're nice too."

Garrett looked deeply uncomfortable.

Which only made everyone laugh harder.

Eventually she released him and wandered off again.

Like a very affectionate ghost.

The next victims were Hannah and Allie.

She found them sitting together on the couch.

Immediately pointed at them.

"You."

Allie looked concerned.

"Me?"

"You both bought ice cream."

Hannah burst out laughing.

This had happened months ago.

A random midnight ice cream run when she'd been stressed about exams.

Apparently drunk her never forgot.

"You bought me chocolate ice cream."

Allie nodded.

"You deserved ice cream."

Her expression softened instantly.

Then she practically collapsed onto both of them.

Wrapping her arms around them.

Allie laughed.

Hannah laughed harder.

The three of them ended up tangled together on the couch while she repeatedly informed them how much she loved ice cream.

And how much she loved them.

And how nice they were.

And how everyone should eat more ice cream.

The speech lasted nearly ten minutes.

Nobody interrupted.

It was too entertaining.

By now the entire party had become dedicated to watching Logan's girlfriend.

Nobody cared about the music anymore.

Nobody cared about the games.

The intimidating woman everyone knew had vanished.

In her place was a clingy, affectionate sweetheart who seemed determined to hug every person she'd ever liked.

Logan eventually found her curled up between Hannah and Allie.

Her eyes were drooping.

Her words were becoming slower.

She spotted him immediately.

"Logan."

His heart melted.

"Hey, baby."

She stood up.

Wobbled.

Then marched directly toward him.

The crowd watched.

Waiting.

She reached him.

Grabbed his hoodie.

Pulled him down.

And kissed his cheek.

Then his other cheek.

Then his forehead.

Then his chin.

Then his nose.

Then his cheek again.

Logan was laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

"Sweetheart."

"Hm?"

"I think you're drunk."

She frowned.

"No."

"You kissed Dean."

Her eyes widened.

Then she nodded seriously.

"He shared his muffin."

The room erupted.

Even Logan doubled over laughing.

Her logic seemed perfectly sound.

She ignored everyone.

Instead she pressed her face into Logan's chest.

Wrapped her arms around his waist.

And sighed contentedly.

The laughter slowly faded.

Because suddenly she looked exhausted.

Comfortable.

Safe.

Logan stroked her hair.

"You tired?"

"Mhm."

"Wanna go home?"

"Mhm."

She didn't move.

Logan smiled.

"Baby."

"Mhm."

"You have to stand up."

"No."

He laughed softly.

"Why?"

"Comfortable."

A chorus of groans echoed through the room.

The couple was disgustingly cute.

She mumbled something unintelligible.

Then snuggled closer.

Then closer.

Then somehow even closer.

A few seconds later Logan realized she wasn't responding anymore.

He looked down.

She was asleep.

Completely asleep.

Curled against him.

Arms still around his waist.

Face buried in his chest.

The entire house went quiet.

Dean looked shocked.

Garrett looked shocked.

Hannah smiled.

Allie looked like she might cry from how adorable it was.

Logan stared down at his sleeping girlfriend with the softest expression anyone had ever seen on his face.

Carefully he brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead.

Then kissed the top of her head.

"Best party ever," Dean whispered.

Nobody disagreed.

Because for one hilarious, unforgettable night, the house had gotten to see the impossible.

The black cat had become a golden retriever.

And Logan looked happier than he'd ever been.

The next morning began with a headache.

Not a terrible one.

Not the kind that made her want to throw up.

Just enough to make her regret every life decision that had led her to this exact moment.

A low groan escaped her as she buried her face deeper into the pillow.

Sunlight filtered through the curtains.

The room was warm.

Comfortable.

Safe.

Unfortunately, her brain was beginning to wake up.

And with it came memories.

Scattered at first.

Fragments.

Pieces.

A party.

Music.

A drink.

Logan laughing.

Then—

Her eyes flew open.

She sat upright so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash.

"No."

Her voice came out hoarse.

"No."

A horrifying image flashed through her mind.

She remembered kissing Logan's cheek.

Then another.

Then another.

Then another.

Then another.

Her stomach dropped.

"Oh no."

More memories surfaced.

Dean.

The muffin.

The hug.

The kiss on the cheek.

She stared blankly at the wall.

"No."

Garrett.

His truck.

The hug.

"Oh God."

Allie.

Hannah.

Ice cream.

Another hug.

Possibly multiple hugs.

A speech about ice cream.

Why had there been a speech about ice cream?

Why?

WHY?

She slowly lowered herself back onto the mattress and pulled the blanket over her face.

Maybe if she stayed there long enough she would cease to exist.

A moment later she felt movement beside her.

Logan.

Of course.

The worst possible witness.

He shifted and blinked awake.

Then he looked at her.

Then he immediately started smiling.

That smile alone told her everything she needed to know.

"No."

Logan's smile widened.

"No what?"

She dragged the blanket higher.

"No talking."

His shoulders started shaking.

"Sweetheart—"

"No."

"You don't even know what I was gonna say."

"I know enough."

At that point Logan lost the battle.

A laugh escaped him.

Then another.

Soon he was practically wheezing.

She wanted the earth to open beneath her.

She wanted a meteor.

An alien invasion.

Anything.

Anything except this.

The blanket suddenly disappeared as Logan pulled it away.

She immediately covered her face with both hands.

"No eye contact."

"Oh, we're definitely making eye contact."

"No."

"Absolutely yes."

She groaned.

Long and dramatic.

Logan looked completely delighted.

Which was honestly rude.

"You were adorable."

She made a sound somewhere between a scream and a dying whale.

"Stop."

"You called me pretty."

"Stop."

"You kissed my face approximately—"

"STOP."

"—forty-seven times."

She dropped backward onto the mattress.

Face first.

"I am never leaving this room."

Logan laughed harder.

A pillow hit him in the chest.

It did absolutely nothing.

"You also informed me that I was your favorite person."

The pillow hit him again.

This time harder.

"Go away."

"No."

"Please."

"Nope."

"Logan."

"No."

His grin was impossible.

Absolutely impossible.

The kind of grin that belonged on a man who had just witnessed the greatest event of his entire life.

Which, judging by his expression, he apparently had.

Then came the knock.

She froze.

Logan froze.

A voice sounded from outside.

"Rise and shine, Muffin Kisser."

Silence.

Pure silence.

Then her soul left her body.

Dean.

Dean was outside the door.

She closed her eyes.

Maybe if she didn't move, he would go away.

The door opened.

He did not go away.

"Morning."

She didn't look up.

"Leave."

Dean walked farther into the room.

"Can't."

"Why?"

"I came to relive one of the greatest moments of my life."

She pulled a pillow over her face.

Dean ignored her.

"Did you know I've never been kissed because of baked goods before?"

Logan immediately started laughing again.

"Dean."

"Yes?"

"Leave."

"No."

"Please."

"No."

She wanted to cry.

Dean sat on the edge of the desk chair.

Looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"You hugged me."

Silence.

"You called me nice."

More silence.

"You kissed my cheek."

Silence.

"You know what?"

She groaned.

"What?"

"I haven't washed that cheek."

The pillow flew across the room.

Dean barely dodged it.

Logan nearly fell off the bed laughing.

A second knock came.

Then Garrett appeared.

She immediately covered her face again.

"No."

Garrett looked amused.

Which somehow felt worse.

Much worse.

"Morning."

"Leave."

"Can't."

"Why are all of you here?"

Garrett shrugged.

"You hugged me."

She made a strangled noise.

"I know."

"You told me I was nice."

"I know."

"You thanked me for letting you drive my truck."

"I KNOW."

Garrett looked completely satisfied.

Dean looked equally pleased.

Logan looked like he was having the time of his life.

This was a nightmare.

A genuine nightmare.

Then Hannah appeared.

Followed by Allie.

"Oh no."

"Oh yes," Hannah said.

Allie was already laughing.

Her cheeks burned instantly.

"No."

Hannah sat beside her.

"You gave a very passionate speech about ice cream."

The room erupted.

She considered jumping out the window.

The fact that they were on the second floor suddenly seemed irrelevant.

"You also told us we were angels."

She buried her face in the mattress.

"I hate all of you."

"No you don't," Allie said.

"You're right."

A pause.

"I hate myself."

That only made everyone laugh harder.

The next hour was torture.

Pure torture.

Every single person seemed determined to recount a different embarrassing thing she'd done.

Every story was somehow worse than the last.

Apparently she had followed Logan around for half the party.

Apparently she had called him pretty at least twenty times.

Apparently she'd spent five straight minutes holding his face.

Apparently she'd hugged nearly everyone she liked.

Apparently she had become physically incapable of existing more than three feet away from Logan.

The horror never ended.

By the time everyone finally left the room, she was prepared to move to another country.

Possibly another planet.

The door closed.

Silence returned.

She remained face-down on the bed.

Motionless.

Defeated.

Logan sat beside her.

His hand gently rubbed her back.

For a few moments neither of them spoke.

Then she finally muttered into the pillow.

"I'm never drinking again."

He laughed softly.

"I believe you."

"I mean it."

"I know."

A pause.

Then she rolled onto her back.

Looking up at the ceiling.

"I kissed Dean."

"You kissed Dean."

"I hugged Garrett."

"You hugged Garrett."

"I gave an ice cream speech."

"You gave an ice cream speech."

She groaned again.

Longer this time.

Logan couldn't stop smiling.

Eventually she turned her head toward him.

His expression softened immediately.

The teasing faded.

Replaced by something warmer.

Something affectionate.

"You know," he said quietly, "I liked seeing that side of you."

She frowned.

"Seeing me embarrass myself?"

"No."

His fingers brushed through her hair.

"Seeing how much you love people."

Her expression softened slightly.

"You already know that."

"I do."

His smile became gentler.

"But they didn't."

She blinked.

Logan continued.

"They always see the intimidating version of you."

She rolled her eyes.

"I'm not intimidating."

Logan actually laughed out loud.

"Sweetheart."

"I'm not."

"You made Tucker apologize once by looking at him."

"That's different."

He shook his head.

"My point is everyone finally got to see how big your heart is."

The room fell quiet.

Because beneath all the teasing—

Beneath all the embarrassment—

There was truth in what he said.

She cared deeply.

She just wasn't always good at showing it.

Not the way Logan was.

Not the way sunshine people were.

Yet somehow one night and a little too much alcohol had stripped away every filter she'd ever had.

And apparently all that remained was affection.

An alarming amount of affection.

She sighed.

"I'm still mortified."

Logan grinned.

"I know."

"I'm going to think about this at three in the morning for the next ten years."

"I know."

"I might actually die."

He leaned forward.

Pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"You'll survive."

She narrowed her eyes.

"Easy for you to say."

"Why?"

"Because you weren't the one kissing people for muffins."

At that, Logan laughed so hard he nearly fell off the bed again.

And despite herself—

Despite all the embarrassment—

Despite wanting to disappear into a hole and stay there forever—

A reluctant smile finally tugged at her lips.

Because unfortunately for her, everyone seemed to think drunk her was adorable.

Especially John Logan.

And judging by the way he was looking at her now, she suspected she'd never hear the end of it.

[honeylesshaze]

Locked Out

It was objectively not her fault.

That was the argument she planned on sticking with.

Because technically speaking, if Dean hadn’t distracted her by yelling from the kitchen that Tucker nearly lit a towel on fire again, she wouldn’t have walked outside in the first place.

And if Tucker hadn’t panicked dramatically afterward, she wouldn’t have forgotten the door locked automatically behind her.

So really?

This entire situation traced back to male incompetence.

Unfortunately none of that helped her now.

Because currently she was standing outside the hockey house at midnight in the middle of winter wearing:

fuzzy pajama shorts

mismatched socks

Logan’s oversized hoodie

and rapidly deteriorating dignity

Snow crunched beneath her slippers while freezing wind slapped against her face aggressively.

She stared at the locked front door in betrayal.

Then rattled the handle again anyway.

Locked.

“Are you kidding me?"

No response.

Of course not.

The idiots inside were asleep.

She groaned loudly and pressed her forehead against the freezing wood.

Okay.

Think.

Her phone?

Inside.

Keys?

Inside.

Human rights?

Apparently also inside.

She considered ringing the doorbell.

Then remembered Tucker once threatened violence after being woken up at two in the morning because Dean “wanted emotional support garlic bread.”

Absolutely not.

So naturally her sleep-deprived brain came up with the worst possible solution.

Logan’s window.

Now, in her defense, Logan specifically told her once:

“If you ever need anything, wake me up.”

Technically this counted.

Probably.

The snow continued falling softly around her while she marched around the side of the house dramatically clutching the sleeves of Logan’s hoodie over her freezing hands.

By the time she reached beneath his bedroom window, she was genuinely shivering.

“This is how Victorian women died,” she muttered to herself. “Consumption.”

Her breath puffed visibly in the freezing air while she stared upward at Logan’s dark window.

No lights.

No movement.

Dead to the world.

Wonderful.

She bent down and scooped up snow.

Formed a terrible little snowball.

Then launched it upward.

THUNK.

Nothing.

Another one.

THUNK.

Still nothing.

A third.

This one hit harder.

THWACK.

A muffled sound came from inside immediately.

Success.

“Rise and shine, pretty boy,” she whispered dramatically.

A few seconds passed.

Then the curtain jerked open violently.

Logan appeared looking half dead.

Hair a complete disaster. Hoodie thrown on crookedly. Eyes barely open with deep sleep exhaustion written all over his face.

He squinted outside.

Confused.

Then his brain slowly processed what he was seeing.

A girl standing in the snow beneath his window.

Wearing his hoodie.

At midnight.

Throwing snowballs at his room.

His expression changed instantly.

Pure horror.

The window flew open.

“WHAT THE HELL?!”

She looked up innocently.

“Good evening.”

“Why are you OUTSIDE?!”

“I’ve been abandoned by society.”

“BABY.”

He disappeared from the window instantly.

She heard loud crashing sounds inside.

Then yelling.

Then someone screamed:

"WHY ARE YOU RUNNING?!”

“TUCKER MOVE.”

A second later the front door burst open hard enough to slam against the wall.

Logan sprinted outside wearing sweatpants and one sock.

One singular sock.

He looked genuinely panicked.

“Oh my God, sweetheart!”

Before she could even explain, Logan grabbed her face between freezing hands.

“You’re ice cold!”

“It’s called winter.”

“Why are you standing out here?!”

“I got locked out.”

“How long ago?!”

“…Not long.”

His eyes narrowed immediately.

“How long.”

“…Twenty minutes?”

“TWENTY MINUTES?!”

“Okay in my defense I was trying to preserve everyone’s sleep.”

“I WOULD RATHER WAKE UP THAN FIND MY GIRLFRIEND FROZEN TO DEATH IN THE YARD.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“You’re wearing SHORTS.”

“To be fair they’re fuzzy shorts.”

Logan stared at her in disbelief.

Then without another word he yanked her directly against his chest.

Warm.

Immediately warm.

She melted instantly against him with a pathetic relieved sigh.

“There she is,” Logan muttered, wrapping both arms around her tightly. “Jesus Christ.”

His body heat felt heavenly after the freezing air.

She buried her face against his chest dramatically.

“I saw my ancestors.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“I nearly died.”

“You absolutely did not.”

“The snow whispered secrets to me."

Logan laughed despite himself, the sound breathless with lingering panic.

Then he suddenly frowned harder.

“Wait. Why didn’t you knock?”

She hesitated.

“…I didn’t wanna wake everyone up.”

For a second Logan just stared at her.

Then his expression softened so fast it nearly hurt.

“Oh baby.”

Because she genuinely stayed outside freezing trying not to inconvenience them.

God.

His idiot girl.

He immediately tugged her back toward the house while keeping one arm tightly around her shoulders.

The second they stepped inside, chaos greeted them.

Dean stood in the hallway holding a lamp like a weapon. Tucker looked prepared to call emergency services. Garrett sat halfway down the stairs looking deeply unimpressed.

Silence hit instantly when they saw her.

Then Dean blinked.

“…Why is she dressed like a Dickens orphan?”

“She got locked out,” Logan answered flatly.

Tucker gasped dramatically.

“YOU LEFT HER OUT THERE?”

“I didn’t leave myself anywhere!”

Garrett rubbed tiredly at his face.

“How long?”

“Twenty minutes,” Logan said darkly.

All three boys reacted immediately.

“T W E N T Y?!” “WHAT?” “Are you insane?”

She pointed accusingly.

“I was being considerate!”

Dean looked horrified.

“You stood outside freezing instead of waking us up?”

“She was throwing snowballs at my window,” Logan muttered.

That silenced everyone.

Then Tucker started laughing so hard he physically folded forward.

“Oh my God.”

Dean wheezed instantly.

“Like a tiny Victorian ghost.”

“She looked like she was about to ask for porridge,” Garrett added.

She glared at all of them.

“You people are horrible.”

Logan kept one arm firmly around her waist while shutting the front door.

Then he frowned down at her again.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re literally vibrating.”

She opened her mouth to argue again but Logan simply scooped her into his arms suddenly.

She yelped immediately.

“Logan!"

“Nope.”

“I can walk!”

“You’ve lost outside privileges.”

Dean nodded seriously.

“That’s fair.”

Tucker pointed.

“She can’t survive in the wild.”

“I HATE ALL OF YOU.”

Logan ignored the chaos completely while carrying her upstairs bridal-style.

Her frozen legs instinctively pressed closer against his warmth while she buried her face against his neck to hide her embarrassment.

“You’re enjoying this power trip too much,” she muttered.

“You scared the hell outta me.”

That softened her instantly.

Because his voice still carried traces of genuine panic underneath the teasing.

When they reached his room, Logan sat her directly on the bed before immediately wrapping blankets around her like she was recovering from war.

Then he disappeared briefly and returned with:

fuzzy socks

another hoodie

tea

and approximately seventeen blankets

She blinked at the pile.

“Are we preparing for hibernation?”

“You’re never going outside again.”

“That seems excessive.”

“You were one snowflake away from becoming a Hallmark tragedy.”

She laughed softly.

Logan knelt in front of her then and carefully rubbed warmth back into her freezing hands between his palms.

His expression stayed slightly tense still.

“You really should’ve just woken me up.”

“I know.”

“Sweetheart, I mean it.”

His thumbs brushed gently over her knuckles.

“I don’t care what time it is. If you need me, wake me up.”

Something soft tugged painfully in her chest.

Because he sounded so sincere.

So certain.

Like helping her was never a burden.

“I didn’t wanna bother you.”

Logan looked genuinely confused by that.

“Baby,” he said softly, “you standing outside alone in the freezing cold bothers me a lot more.”

Her heart melted instantly.

God.

This stupid boy.

She leaned forward slowly until her forehead rested against his shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

Immediately Logan wrapped his arms around her again.

“No, honey. No apologizing.”

His lips brushed softly against her hair.

“Just don’t scare me like that again.”

She smiled against his chest.

“No promises.”

He groaned dramatically.

“You’re gonna kill me one day.”

“Probably.”

“Yeah,” Logan muttered while pulling her impossibly closer. “Still worth it.”

[honeylesshaze]

Quidditch Good Luck

The Slytherin changing rooms were alive with that restless pre-match buzz — the clatter of brooms against the walls, the chatter of teammates trading last-minute strategies, and the sharp scent of broom polish hanging in the air.

She wasn’t technically supposed to be back here.

But Mattheo never cared much for “technically,” especially when it came to her.

“Oi, Riddle, your girlfriend’s here to distract you!” one of his teammates called from across the benches, smirking.

Mattheo didn’t even look up from lacing his gloves. “Not a distraction. My secret weapon.”

That got a round of laughter, but his attention was already shifting toward her as she wove through the crowd of players. His curls were slightly messier than usual, sticking out from where he’d tugged his jersey over his head, and the deep green of his Quidditch robes made his eyes look even sharper — and more dangerous — than normal.

“You know I’m not supposed to be in here,” she murmured when she reached him, leaning casually against the locker beside his.

“You love breaking rules,” he said with a smirk, standing and resting one hand against the locker just above her shoulder.

“You’ve got a match to focus on,” she reminded him, glancing toward the doorway that led to the pitch.

“I know,” he said, leaning in slightly. “But I don’t go out there without my good luck first.”

Her brow arched. “You mean that ridiculous superstition?”

“It’s not ridiculous,” he said, his tone mock-serious. “Every single game I’ve won, I’ve gotten a good luck kiss beforehand. Every time I didn’t—”

“You still won,” she interrupted.

He grinned. “Coincidence. I’m not risking it.”

She tried to step sideways, but his arm dropped casually in front of her, blocking her path. “Mattheo…” she warned, though she couldn’t quite hide the smile tugging at her mouth.

“Just one,” he said, leaning closer.

“You said that last time and you took four.”

“That was me being restrained.”

She laughed softly, but before she could fire back another quip, his lips brushed hers — warm, quick, and entirely deliberate.

“That’s it?” she asked when he pulled back.

“Not nearly enough,” he murmured, tilting her chin up with his fingers before kissing her again, slower this time, deep enough that she momentarily forgot the smell of broom polish and the sound of boots clattering against stone.

When he finally pulled away, his smirk was shameless. “Better. Now I’ll win for sure.”

Before she could retort, he pressed another kiss to her forehead, then her cheek, then the tip of her nose. She tried to shove him back, laughing, but he caught her around the waist just long enough to steal one more quick kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“Alright, Riddle, save it for after the game!” someone yelled from across the room.

Mattheo didn’t even glance over. “I’ll be collecting more after the game,” he said in a low voice meant only for her, making her cheeks warm.

He grabbed his broom, giving her hand a quick squeeze before jogging toward the tunnel that led to the pitch. Just before disappearing into the light, he glanced back, caught her watching, and shot her a wink that made her stomach flip.

And she knew, without a doubt, that whether it was superstition or not, he’d play just that little bit harder — because of her.

Post-Match

The roar of the crowd was still echoing around the pitch when she made her way down from the stands. Slytherin had won by a comfortable margin, and from the way Mattheo was grinning when he pulled off his helmet, she knew he’d be insufferable about it for the rest of the day.

He spotted her before she even reached the players’ tunnel. Tossing his broom into the arms of a teammate, he jogged toward her, curls damp with sweat, cheeks flushed from the cold wind.

“Told you,” he said, a little breathless. “Good luck kiss works every time.”

Before she could answer, he leaned down and kissed her — no hesitation, no care for the fact that half the team was filing past them. His lips were warm despite the chill in the air, his hands bracketing her face like he’d been thinking about this the entire match.

“You’re disgusting,” Theo’s voice cut in, and she pulled back just enough to see him standing a few feet away, holding his broom over one shoulder and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Mattheo didn’t even glance at him. Instead, he kissed her cheek. Then her forehead. Then the tip of her nose, grinning when she laughed and tried to push him back.

“Seriously?” Theo muttered, wrinkling his nose. “She’s my cousin, Riddle.”

“Yeah,” Mattheo said, completely unapologetic, “and she’s my girlfriend. Which means—” he kissed her again, right on the corner of her mouth “—I get to do this whenever I want.”

Theo groaned like he was in actual pain. “Merlin, I’m going to be sick.”

“You’ll survive,” Mattheo said easily, finally stepping back — though his arm slid around her waist possessively as he did. “Besides, you should be thanking her. She’s the reason we won.”

Theo gave her a look. “You’re enabling him.”

She only smiled. “Maybe.”

Mattheo smirked, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “Definitely. Now, if you don’t mind—” he tugged her toward the changing rooms “—I have more victory kisses to collect. Privately.”

Theo groaned again, muttering something about switching teams next year as they walked away.

And she couldn’t stop smiling, because as ridiculous as his superstition was, Mattheo had played that match like the entire outcome depended on her kiss — and maybe, in his mind, it really did.

By the time they made it back to the Slytherin common room that evening, the celebration was still going strong. Music from a charmed gramophone filled the air, the fire crackled brightly, and the tables were covered in leftover pastries from the victory feast.

Mattheo, however, had zero interest in joining the chaos.

The second they stepped inside, he tugged her toward one of the big leather sofas near the fire and all but collapsed onto it, pulling her down with him.

“You’re heavy,” she said with a laugh, trying to push his arm off her so she could sit properly.

He just tightened his hold. “Shh. The good luck hasn’t worn off yet.”

She blinked. “That’s… not how it works.”

“It is if I say it is,” he murmured, his curls brushing her cheek as he leaned his head against hers. “Can’t risk you wandering off and taking it with you.”

She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t actually try to move again. “So what happens when it does wear off?”

“Then I get another one,” he said, completely matter-of-fact, before tilting his head to kiss her temple. “Maybe two, just to be safe.”

Across the room, Theo walked in, took one look at them curled up together, and immediately turned back toward the dorm stairs. “Nope. Not doing this again today.”

Mattheo grinned against her hair. “He’s so easy to wind up.”

“You’re terrible,” she said, but she was smiling too.

“Maybe,” he agreed, kissing her cheek this time. “But you love me anyway.”

And she didn’t bother denying it — because the truth was, he was right.

[honeylesshaze]

“There’s my girl,”

At 3:07 a.m., she stared at Dean Di Laurentis’s contact for a full thirty seconds before pressing call.

The room around her was completely dark except for the dull glow from her phone screen. Her roommate was gone for the weekend, leaving the dorm painfully quiet in a way that made everything worse. Normally she liked being alone.

Tonight it felt unbearable.

The day had been awful from start to finish. A failed exam she’d studied weeks for. A fight with her mom that ended with tears she refused to cry until after hanging up. Then finding out her internship application got rejected in the middle of an already miserable evening.

By midnight she’d convinced herself she was fine.

By two in the morning she was sitting on her bathroom floor trying to breathe through the overwhelming feeling that everything in her life was suddenly too much.

And somehow, despite all her attempts to avoid it, her brain kept circling back to Dean.

Which was stupid.

Dean was fun. Bright. Easy. The opposite of whatever emotional breakdown this was.

He’d probably be asleep anyway.

Still, her thumb pressed call before she could stop herself.

The phone rang once.

Twice.

Then immediately:

“Hey.”

No irritation.

No sleepy annoyance.

Just Dean’s voice, rough with exhaustion but instantly alert.

Something in her chest cracked a little at that alone.

For a second she couldn’t even speak.

Dean sat up in bed immediately on the other end.

“Hey,” he repeated softer this time. “What happened?”

That nearly did her in.

Because he sounded worried instantly.

Not confused about why she was calling at three in the morning. Not irritated she woke him up. Just worried.

She swallowed hard. “Did I wake you?”

“I don’t care.” Sheets rustled on his end as he moved around. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

“Baby.”

Two syllables.

Gentle. Quiet. Concerned.

Her eyes burned immediately.

Dean heard the shaky breath she failed to hide and cursed softly under his breath.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

That was worse.

Way worse.

She pressed her hand over her eyes. “I’m sorry. Forget it. I shouldn’t have called—”

“No.” His voice sharpened instantly. “Don’t do that.”

Silence.

Then more softly:

“Talk to me.”

And she tried.

Really.

But the second she opened her mouth, all the exhaustion and stress from the day tangled together in her throat. Suddenly she was crying quietly into the darkness of her room while Dean stayed on the phone listening.

Not interrupting.

Not trying to immediately fix everything.

Just listening.

“I feel stupid,” she whispered eventually.

“You’re not stupid.”

“I cried over pasta earlier.”

Dean was quiet for exactly one second.

“What kind of pasta?”

A startled laugh escaped her through the tears.

“There she is,” he murmured softly, sounding relieved just to hear her laugh at all.

She wiped quickly beneath her eyes. “It was bad pasta.”

“Okay, then your reaction was justified.”

Another tiny laugh.

Dean exhaled slowly on the other end of the line like that sound physically relaxed him.

“Can you open the front door for me?”

She frowned immediately. “What?”

“The dorm entrance.”

Her brain lagged behind.

“…Dean.”

“I’m outside.”

She sat upright so fast the blanket tangled around her legs.

“What?”

“I’ve been driving this entire call.”

Sure enough, through the phone she suddenly heard a car door shut.

Her chest tightened painfully.

“You drove here?”

“You sounded sad.”

Like that explained everything.

Like crossing campus at three in the morning wasn’t even a question once he heard her cry.

Something unbearably soft moved through her chest.

She hurried downstairs in oversized sweatpants and one of Dean’s hoodies she’d stolen weeks ago. The dorm lobby was empty and silent at this hour, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead as she pushed open the main doors.

Dean stood outside beneath the yellow glow of the streetlamp.

Gray sweatpants. Black hoodie. Hair messy like he’d barely bothered fixing it before leaving. His car still running behind him.

And the second he saw her face properly, his entire expression changed.

Gone was the sleepy softness from the phone call.

Now he just looked concerned.

“There’s my girl,” he said quietly.

That almost made her cry again.

Dean noticed immediately too because his face softened with alarm.

“Oh no,” he murmured, stepping closer. “C’mere.”

The second his arms wrapped around her, she completely fell apart.

Not dramatic sobbing.

Just exhausted, overwhelmed tears pressing into the front of his hoodie while Dean held her tightly against his chest.

One hand slid into her hair instantly.

“I got you,” he whispered. “You’re okay.”

The warmth of him felt unreal after hours of feeling miserable and alone.

She could feel his heartbeat beneath her cheek. Steady. Calm. Grounding.

Dean didn’t rush her.

Didn’t tease her.

He just stood there in the middle of the cold night holding her like there was nowhere else he needed to be.

Eventually her breathing evened out enough for embarrassment to creep in.

“You really drove across campus because I was crying?”

Dean pulled back just enough to look at her.

“You called me at three in the morning,” he said gently. “You never do that.”

The simple honesty of it hit hard.

He knew her enough to recognize this wasn’t normal.

Dean brushed his thumb carefully beneath one of her eyes, wiping away leftover tears.

“Rough day?”

“The roughest."

“Wanna talk about it?”

She hesitated.

Then shook her head slightly.

Dean nodded immediately like that was completely fine.

“Okay.” He squeezed her waist lightly. “Then we won’t.”

No pressure.

No forcing.

Just understanding.

God.

She was in so much trouble with this man.

Dean glanced toward the dorm entrance. “Can I come upstairs or are we getting arrested tonight?”

That finally pulled a real laugh out of her.

“There’s technically a rule against visitors this late.”

“Sweetheart, I play hockey. Rules are suggestions.”

She rolled her eyes, but warmth spread through her chest anyway as she led him upstairs.

The dorm room was freezing when they entered.

Dean frowned immediately.

“Why is it cold enough in here to preserve human organs?”

“The heater sucks.”

“Criminal.”

She closed the door quietly behind them while Dean looked around sleepily, hands shoved into his sweatpants pockets.

Then his eyes landed on her bed.

“Get in.”

She blinked. “What?”

Dean pointed firmly. “Bed. Now.”

“You drove here in the middle of the night just to boss me around?”

“Yes."

Despite herself, she obeyed.

Dean kicked off his shoes and climbed in beside her without hesitation, pulling the blanket around both of them before immediately tugging her against his chest like he belonged there.

The familiarity of it nearly melted her on the spot.

One strong arm wrapped securely around her waist while she tucked herself against him automatically.

Warm.

Safe.

Dean smelled like laundry detergent and sleep and faint traces of cologne.

“You comfortable?” he murmured against her hair.

“Very.”

“Good.”

Silence settled softly after that.

Outside, rain tapped lightly against the dorm windows. Somewhere down the hallway, a door shut faintly before quiet returned.

Dean’s fingers traced slow patterns against her back underneath the blanket.

Not sexual.

Just soothing.

The kind of touch that said I’m here without needing words.

“You know,” he murmured eventually, voice quieter now with exhaustion creeping back in, “I kinda like that you called me.”

Her chest tightened slightly.

“Yeah?”

“Means you trust me.”

She went still.

Because that was the terrifying part.

She did trust him.

Completely.

More than she probably should.

Dean must’ve felt her tense because he tilted his head slightly to look down at her.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

She smiled weakly into his chest. “I just…” Her voice softened. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

Dean looked genuinely confused by that.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Like the answer was obvious.

Like there was never a version of tonight where he left her alone hurting.

Emotion clogged painfully in her throat again.

Dean noticed instantly.

“Oh, sweetheart, no more crying.” He tightened his arms around her dramatically. “I’m too handsome to be cried on this much.”

A laugh burst out of her before she could stop it.

“There you are,” he whispered again softly.

The room grew quieter after that.

Her body slowly relaxed against him for the first time all day while Dean kept holding her without complaint despite the awkward dorm mattress and uncomfortable position.

Sleepiness tugged at her finally.

Right before drifting off, she felt Dean press a gentle kiss against the top of her head.

“Get some sleep, baby,” he murmured into her hair. “I’ve got you.”

And for the first time that entire horrible day—

She believed it.

[honeylesshaze]

“he’s really pretty.”

The music in the frat house was loud enough to shake the floorboards, bass vibrating through the walls while bodies crowded every room shoulder to shoulder. Someone had spilled beer near the kitchen island, people were yelling over each other in the living room, and the air smelled like cheap alcohol, sweat, and winter air drifting in every time the front door opened.

And somehow, in the middle of all that chaos, Garett Graham only had eyes for her.

Garett Graham leaned against the counter with a red plastic cup in his hand, laughing at something Logan said, but his attention kept drifting across the room toward his girlfriend. She was currently sitting on the arm of the couch with one of his hockey teammates beside her, talking with dramatic hand gestures that already told him she was definitely drunk.

Not messy drunk.

Not sad drunk.

Just ridiculously, adorably drunk.

The kind where her cheeks turned pink and every thought in her head immediately came out of her mouth.

“She keeps staring at you,” Logan muttered with a grin.

Garett smirked without looking away from her. “Yeah, I noticed.”

Right on cue, she caught him watching and immediately pointed at him from across the room like she’d discovered something groundbreaking.

“That’s my boyfriend,” she informed the people around her with complete seriousness.

One of the girls laughed. “We know.”

“No, but like…” she lowered her voice dramatically, even though everyone could still hear her perfectly, “he’s really pretty.”

Garett nearly choked on his drink.

The entire couch burst into laughter while she looked extremely pleased with herself, as though she’d shared a profound truth with the world.

“Oh my God,” Logan wheezed. “She’s gone.”

“She had like three vodka cranberries,” Garett said, already pushing off the counter.

“And half your drink,” Logan added.

Garett sighed. “Right. Forgot about that.”

By the time he reached her, she was mid-conversation explaining to someone why garlic bread was “emotionally important.” The second she noticed him standing there, her entire face lit up.

“There he is!” she announced happily.

His mouth softened into an automatic smile. “Hey, baby.”

Without warning, she wrapped both arms around his waist and buried her face against his chest like she hadn’t seen him in weeks instead of twenty minutes.

“You smell nice,” she mumbled into his hoodie.

The people nearby started grinning knowingly while Garett rubbed a hand down her hair, trying and failing not to look completely whipped.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

“Mhm.” She looked up at him with glassy eyes. “I love you.”

His expression immediately melted.

Drunk her was dangerously affectionate. Usually she got shy saying things like that in public, but once alcohol entered the system, every protective filter disappeared completely.

“I love you too,” he said softly.

She gasped dramatically. “You do?”

He laughed under his breath. “Yeah, sweetheart. Kinda been established already.”

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously like she was evaluating the honesty of his statement, then suddenly grabbed his face between both hands.

“You have very nice eyelashes.”

Logan, unfortunately still nearby, made a choking noise from behind them.

“Okay,” Garett muttered, trying not to laugh as he gently pulled her hands down. “I think we’re switching to water.”

“Nooo,” she whined immediately. “I’m having fun.”

“You can still have fun hydrated.”

“That sounds fake.”

He couldn’t stop smiling. Honestly, he adored her like this. She got softer when she drank, clingier too, constantly attached to him like she physically couldn’t stand more than two feet away. Every few seconds she’d touch his arm or rest her head on his shoulder or look up at him with this sleepy, affectionate expression that made him feel insane.

He guided her toward the kitchen, one hand steady on her waist so she wouldn’t trip over the crowded floor. She kept getting distracted halfway there.

“Oh my God,” she whispered suddenly, staring toward the snack table. “Mini cupcakes.”

“Yeah?”

“They’re so small.”

He bit back a laugh. “That’s usually how mini things work.”

She ignored him completely, already reaching for one before turning back to him with wide eyes.

“Can I have this?”

“You don’t need my permission to eat a cupcake.”

“I ask because I’m polite,” she informed him solemnly.

“You are extremely polite.”

“I know.”

By the time he finally managed to get a water bottle into her hands, she’d somehow ended up sitting on the kitchen counter swinging her legs while rambling about random things that barely connected together. Garett stood between her knees, listening with patient amusement while she talked.

“And then,” she continued seriously, “your coach looked at me weird yesterday.”

“He always looks at everyone weird.”

“I think he’s scared of me.”

“He should be.”

That earned him a delighted laugh, the kind that made her whole body shake slightly. She leaned forward until her forehead bumped lightly against his chest.

“You’re my favorite person.”

The words were slightly slurred but genuine enough to make his chest ache.

He brushed hair away from her face gently. “You’re drunk.”

“I’m right though.”

God.

She was going to kill him someday without even trying.

Around them the party kept moving loudly, music blasting, people shouting over each other, but the two of them felt weirdly separated from all of it in their own little bubble. Garett honestly would’ve stayed there all night if she hadn’t started blinking slower and slower.

“Tired?” he asked quietly.

“A little.”

“Want me to take you home?”

She considered it carefully for several seconds like he’d asked her to solve world peace.

“Only if you come too.”

He grinned. “Yeah, baby. I was planning on it.”

The drive back to the hockey house was quiet except for her sleepy mumbling from the passenger seat. She spent half the ride playing with his fingers whenever he shifted one hand off the wheel, tracing over his knuckles absentmindedly.

At one red light she suddenly looked over at him.

“You’re really handsome, you know.”

He snorted softly. “You already told half the party that.”

“I’m telling you specifically now.”

“Well, thank you specifically.”

She smiled lazily before resting her head against the window again.

By the time they got upstairs to his apartment, she was practically falling asleep standing up. Garett helped her kick off her shoes while she leaned heavily against his shoulder.

“I’m never drinking again,” she mumbled dramatically.

“You say that every time.”

“And I mean it every time.”

“Mhm.”

He grabbed one of his hoodies for her after she complained that she was cold, helping her into it while she stood there blinking sleepily at him. The sleeves swallowed her hands completely.

“There,” he said softly. “Better?”

She immediately wrapped herself around him like a koala.

“Much.”

Garett laughed quietly, holding her easily against his chest as he walked them toward the bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed with her still clinging to him, her face tucked into his neck now.

“You need water before sleep,” he reminded gently.

"No.”

“Yes.”

"You’re bossy.”

“And yet somehow still correct.”

She groaned dramatically but accepted the glass he handed her, taking tiny reluctant sips while glaring at him over the rim.

“You’re cute when you’re grumpy,” he told her.

“I’m not grumpy. I’m oppressed.”

“That’s rough, sweetheart.”

When she finally collapsed into bed a few minutes later, she immediately reached for him without even opening her eyes properly. Garett climbed in beside her and she curled against him automatically, legs tangled with his under the blankets.

The room was dark except for the dim light from outside the window, the distant sounds of campus nightlife muffled far away now.

For a while neither of them spoke.

Then, very quietly, she murmured, “Thank you for taking care of me.”

Something about the sleepy sincerity in her voice hit him harder than it should’ve.

He pressed a kiss gently into her hair.

“Always.”

[honeylesshaze]

Perfume

She didn’t even buy the perfume for him.

That was the funny part.

It wasn’t some dramatic attempt to impress him or drive him insane or become unforgettable.

She’d literally just walked past a small shop downtown after class, sprayed a sample on her wrist out of curiosity, and thought:

Oh. That smells nice.

That was it.

End of story.

Or at least it should’ve been.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, John Logan lost his actual mind over it.

It started subtly.

Too subtly for her to notice at first.

That evening she came back to the hockey house exhausted from classes with shopping bags hanging from her wrist and cold wind still clinging to her hoodie.

The boys were scattered around the living room in various states of laziness.

Dean yelled at the television. Tucker was upside down on the couch for some reason. Garrett looked one inconvenience away from murder.

And Logan—

Logan immediately looked up the second she walked through the door.

Normal.

That part was normal.

He always looked for her first.

But then his expression changed strangely.

Like his brain stalled halfway through functioning.

She blinked.

“…Hi?”

Logan stared.

Not creepy.

Just intensely confused.

Then slowly:

“Come here.”

Dean paused the game immediately.

“Oh no.”

She laughed softly.

“What?”

“Come here,” Logan repeated, already standing.

There was something oddly focused about him now.

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously but walked closer anyway.

The second she stepped within arm’s reach, Logan grabbed her hoodie sleeve gently and pulled her directly against his chest.

Then—

he buried his face into her neck.

Silence.

Complete silence.

Dean looked horrified immediately.

“TUCK HE’S SNIFFING HER AGAIN.”

“I AM NOT,” Logan argued against her skin.

Which unfortunately weakened his defense significantly.

She burst out laughing.

“Baby, what are you doing?”

Logan didn’t answer immediately.

Which was concerning.

Instead he inhaled again slowly like he was trying to solve a complex equation.

Then finally:

“…You smell really good.”

“Oh my God,” Garrett muttered without looking up from his phone. “It begins.”

She blinked in surprise.

“Oh. It’s probably the new perfume I bought.”

Logan pulled back slightly.

"New perfume?”

“Mhm.”

“What’s it called?”

She squinted suspiciously.

“Why?”

“No reason.”

“That sounded deeply like a reason.”

But Logan was already leaning in again.

Not even subtle this time.

His arms wrapped around her waist while he tucked his face against her neck and inhaled dramatically.

Dean gagged loudly.

“THIS IS INSANE.”

Tucker pointed at Logan in delight.

“He’s gone feral.”

“I hate all of you,” Logan muttered.

But he still didn’t let her go.

Not even slightly.

She laughed harder now, cheeks warming faintly.

“Pretty boy.”

“Hm?”

“You’re literally clinging to me.”

“No I’m not.”

Everyone stared.

Because he absolutely was.

Logan stood there attached to her like a koala while continuing to breathe in the perfume like it personally healed him emotionally.

Garrett finally looked up.

“Buddy.”

“What.”

“You’re acting weird.”

Logan frowned slightly like this was offensive.

“I’m hugging my girlfriend.”

“You’ve been hugging her for six straight minutes.”

“That’s called affection.”

“That’s called concerning behavior.”

She was nearly crying laughing now.

Mostly because Logan genuinely didn’t seem aware he was doing it.

He just kept absentmindedly pressing tiny kisses against the side of her neck while holding her close.

Then after a moment he muttered quietly against her skin:

“…Seriously though, what is that?”

“The perfume?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

He looked at her finally.

And she physically felt her stomach flip because his pupils looked ridiculously blown.

“You smell incredible.”

Dean made a dramatic choking sound.

“Oh he’s DOWN BAD bad.”

Logan flipped him off immediately without breaking eye contact with her.

Which somehow made it worse.

Because now she was suddenly very aware of:

his hands resting on her waist

his nose brushing lightly against her neck

how unfairly attractive he looked staring at her like that

Her voice came out weaker than intended.

“It’s not even expensive.”

“I don’t care if it came from a gas station.”

Tucker physically collapsed onto the couch laughing.

“This is the greatest day of my life.”

From that point onward, things rapidly spiraled.

Because apparently Logan developed a full emotional dependency on her perfume within hours.

Every time she walked into a room, his head turned immediately.

Like a bloodhound.

Actually worse than a bloodhound.

One evening she sat beside him on the couch and before she could even speak, Logan dragged her directly into his lap and buried his face against her shoulder with a content sigh.

Dean looked up from his phone.

“There he goes again.”

“I’m comfortable,” Logan defended.

“You look addicted.”

“I am addicted,” Tucker whispered dramatically.

She laughed helplessly while running fingers through Logan’s hair.

“You know normal people usually compliment perfume once and move on.”

Logan looked genuinely confused.

“But you smell good.”

“That is not a valid defense.”

“It is to me.”

Then he kissed her neck absentmindedly again.

Directly beneath her ear this time.

Her breath caught instantly.

Dean immediately stood up.

“Nope. Absolutely not. I’m too sober for this.”

The worst part?

Logan became clingier because of it.

Not intentionally.

Just instinctively.

He’d walk past her in the kitchen then suddenly stop and come back for another hug.

Movie nights became impossible because he spent half the time curled around her inhaling her neck like a lunatic.

At one point Garrett watched Logan physically leave a conversation midway because she walked downstairs wearing the perfume.

“Jesus Christ,” Garrett muttered. “He imprinted on her scent.”

“He’s like a giant emotionally unstable golden retriever,” Dean agreed.

Logan ignored both of them completely.

Because she’d just sat beside him.

Which meant his attention span disappeared instantly.

“You wore it again.”

She smiled innocently.

“Maybe.”

“You’re evil.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I haven’t known peace since you bought that bottle.”

Tucker looked fascinated.

“Can you smell colors now too?”

“Shut up.”

She laughed softly while Logan immediately wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her closer against his side.

Honestly?

She loved it a little.

Maybe more than a little.

There was something devastatingly sweet about how unconscious it all seemed.

Logan genuinely couldn’t help himself.

Like her perfume became permanently associated with comfort and affection in his brain.

One night she tested it intentionally.

Just to see.

The boys were downstairs watching a game while Logan argued loudly with Dean over something deeply stupid involving statistics.

She quietly disappeared upstairs.

Then twenty minutes later returned wearing one of Logan’s hoodies and a fresh spray of the perfume.

The reaction was immediate.

Logan stopped mid-sentence.

Dean noticed first.

“Oh no.”

Logan slowly turned his head toward her.

Then blinked.

Once. Twice. And immediately stood up.

Tucker screamed laughing before Logan even reached her.

“HE SMELLS IT.”

“YOU PEOPLE ARE INSANE,” she laughed while Logan walked directly over like he was hypnotized.

He reached her, grabbed her waist automatically, and pulled her against him with a deep sigh.

“There she is.”

Dean pointed dramatically.

“THIS IS PAVLOVIAN.”

Logan ignored him entirely.

Of course he did.

Because now he had his face buried against her neck again looking genuinely peaceful.

She tilted her head down toward him with a grin.

“You’re obsessed with me.”

“No,” he answered immediately.

Then after a pause:

“…Maybe a little.”

“A little?”

Logan finally looked up.

His cheeks were slightly pink now, probably realizing everyone was staring at him like a zoo exhibit.

But instead of getting embarrassed, he just shrugged once and tightened his arms around her.

“She smells nice. Mind your business.”

That somehow made her heart melt completely.

Because there was zero shame in it.

No hesitation.

He just liked her.

Liked holding her. Liked being close. Liked everything about her enough that even perfume became something he adored because it was attached to her.

Her expression softened without meaning to.

Logan noticed instantly.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

"Liar.”

She leaned down and kissed him softly before he could interrogate her further.

The second she pulled away, Logan chased another kiss automatically.

Then another.

Dean made the loudest fake vomiting noise imaginable.

“Oh my GOD.”

Tucker pointed accusingly.

She burst out laughing.

“He’s using the perfume for cuddles.”

“It’s psychological warfare,” Garrett agreed.

Logan didn’t even bother denying it this time.

Instead he just pulled her fully into his lap and rested his face against her shoulder again.

Comfortable. Content. Completely attached to her.

She smiled helplessly while wrapping her arms around his neck.

“You know,” she murmured softly near his ear, “I could stop wearing it.”

Logan immediately looked genuinely alarmed.

“…Don’t.”

And the idiot somehow looked offended she found him adorable.

[honeylesshaze]

"My Girl"

The first rays of dawn wove their way through the partially drawn velvet curtains of the Gryffindor boys' dormitory, casting a golden glow on the rugged stone walls and the heap of robes scattered on the floor. In the distance, the Quidditch field twinkled faintly, dew clinging to the grass as if it mirrored the anticipatory tension of the day.

Inside Harry Potter's dorm, however, the only shimmering spectacle was his best friend, curled up on his bed, swathed in his oversized hoodie. "Are you sure you're allowed in here?" Harry inquired, for the third time that morning, as he laced up his Quidditch boots, and made a futile attempt to tame his unruly hair.

Turning her head slightly, she smirked playfully. "You ask me that every time. And every time I tell you — technically, no. But emotionally, yes." Harry chuckled lightly, despite the nervous knot forming in his chest.

She studied him for a moment longer, observing his fidgeting — the repeated checking and adjusting of his gloves and robes. His brow was furrowed a tad too much for comfort. "You alright?" she asked gently, finally disentangling from her cozy spot. "You're fussing."

"I'm not fussing," Harry protested, even as he fussed over the hem of his sleeves. She stepped closer, padding softly on the warm wooden floors. "Harry." His name rolled off her tongue, familiar and comforting, invoking a soft flutter in his chest.

"It's just—” he began, eyes darting away from her, “—this match is important. It’s Slytherin. And Malfoy’s been running his mouth all week. And if I mess up—"

“You won’t,” she interrupted.

He paused. She was now standing in front of him, gently cradling his face in her hands. Her thumbs swept across his cheeks, and he instinctively leaned into her touch. “You’ve trained for weeks. You’re the fastest, the most focused, and no one — no one — wants this more than you do,” she whispered, her gaze steady on his. “You are strong. You are ready.”

He swallowed hard, the knot in his chest loosening slightly under her gaze. “And hey,” she added playfully, running her fingers down his jaw. “If you win…”

He arched an eyebrow, curiosity twinkling behind his glasses. “Yeah?”

She stepped even closer until there was barely any space between them. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she promised, "I'll reward you."

His mind drew a blank. "W-what kind of reward?" he asked, his mouth suddenly dry.

“That depends,” she said with a grin. “Maybe a Butterbeer. Maybe a midnight stroll through the Astronomy Tower. Or…” — she traced a finger down the center of his chest — “maybe something else. Something better.”

Harry’s face turned a vibrant shade of red. “That’s not fair,” he mumbled, staring at her as if she’d put a spell on him.

She tilted her head innocently. “All’s fair in love and Quidditch." His heart skipped a beat at her words.

They stood there, lost in a timeless moment, where the outside world seemed to fade away. They weren't 'The Chosen One' and 'his best friend,' but just two ordinary people in a quiet room, mere inches apart. “I mean it, Harry,” she said, her voice heavy with sincerity, her fingers gently brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “You’ve already endured so much more than this. This game? You’ll fly circles around it. I believe in you.”

Overwhelmed by the early morning sunlight, the unwavering faith in her eyes, and the gentle touch that he had almost forgotten, he leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers. “Thanks,” he murmured.

“For the pep talk?”

“For being here.”

She smiled softly. “Always.”

A knock on the door made them both startle slightly. “Harry! Match starts in twenty minutes!” Ron’s voice echoed from behind the door. “Coming!” Harry responded, pulling away reluctantly.

She gave him one last look — a mixture of pride, mischief, and affection — and dramatically pulled his hoodie over her head. “Now go. Be brilliant.”

He hesitated by the door, then turned back with a lopsided smile. “You better be on the pitch.” She winked in response, "I'll be in the front row. Watching my favorite Seeker." His grin widened.

Just as he reached for the door handle, Harry paused. A warmth filled him — not nerves this time, but something softer. Something that made him turn back around. She was still standing there, in his hoodie, looking perfectly at ease leaning against his bed. He crossed the room in a few quick strides, pulling off his crimson Quidditch jersey. She blinked in surprise as he extended it to her.

“Here,” he said, his voice slightly shaky, eyes soft behind his glasses. She looked at the jersey — rich red fabric with the name Potter emblazoned in golden letters across the back, and just below that, the number 7. “Harry…” she began, her voice barely audible.

“I want you to wear it,” he said, his voice barely a whisper now. “I mean—only if you want to. I just… I’d love to see my girl wearing my jersey.”

Her breath hitched. My girl.

He looked slightly embarrassed after saying it — like he hadn't intended to speak those words aloud, but also... like he didn’t regret it. Slowly, she reached out and accepted the jersey from him, their fingers briefly touching. The fabric still retained his warmth, faintly smelling of broom polish and something distinctly Harry.

She clutched it to her chest and nodded, a shy smile playing on her lips. “I’ll wear it.”

He smiled — a genuine, radiant smile that lit up his whole face. Then, without another word, he leaned in and planted a soft kiss on the top of her head. His lips lingered there for a moment, providing a sense of grounding comfort. “I’ll win for you,” he whispered into her hair.

And then he left, his red robes billowing behind him, leaving her standing there in his hoodie and his name — heart pounding, cheeks flushed, and soul completely his.

The stands were a whirl of energy — students screaming, House banners waving, and enchanted confetti falling from the sky like golden sparks. Players darted through the air on broomsticks, their capes fluttering like battle flags against the perfect blue canvas of the sky.

She sat in the Gryffindor section beside Hermione, the crowd roaring around them, but her gaze was fixed on one person on that field — Harry. Clad in his crimson robes, he flew with a conviction that made every other Seeker look like mere pretenders. And there she was, in the front row, exactly where she’d promised — wearing his jersey. The name Potter stretched across her back in golden letters, the number 7 bold and proud. The jersey was still oversized on her, but she didn’t care. It felt like a protective shield. Like solace. Like Harry.

Hermione nudged her playfully. “You do realize you’ve been staring at him the entire match?” She laughed, her cheeks already a little warm. “I’m watching the match.”

“You’re watching Harry,” Hermione corrected with a knowing smile. “Specifically Harry, flying around like a love-struck Golden Snitch-chaser.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she muttered, trying to look away. But just then — as if on cue — Harry performed an aerial loop, turned toward the stands, and scanned the crowd. His gaze traveled across the sea of red and gold until it landed on her. His face brightened, even from across the pitch. And then, he winked. Her breath hitched.

Before she could even react, he mouthed two unmistakable words. My girl.

A rush of heat spread across her cheeks so rapidly it seemed to steam the cold air around them. She bit her lip, torn between hiding her face in her hands or grinning so wide her face might split. Hermione saw it all.

“Oh my god,” she gasped, nudging her playfully. “He did not just say that.” “Shut up,” she groaned, burying her face in the jersey’s neckline to hide her flaming cheeks.

“You’re his girl now? Should I start embroidering towels? ‘The Potters’?” Hermione teased, grinning like mad. “Hermione!” The older girl only laughed harder, tossing popcorn in her lap and cheering louder. “Well, you better root for your boyfriend harder, my girl, or he’s going to lose his rhythm.”

“I swear I’m going to hex you after the match,” she muttered, but she couldn’t keep the grin off her face. Even as the game raged on, bludgers whizzing past, chants rising from the crowd, and the tension escalating to a fever pitch — all she could feel was the warmth of his jersey on her skin. And the way he said my girl, like it was an undeniable truth.

The final whistle pierced through the stadium, and the stands erupted into a frenzy. “GRYFFINDOR WINS!”

As scarlet and gold fireworks lit up the sky, the atmosphere was electric. The Weasley twins' display had everyone in raucous celebration. Students hollered and roughhoused with uncontainable joy. But amidst the chaos, Harry felt a serene calm. His world was solely focused on one person in the stands.

As soon as he seized the Snitch, he looked straight to her. She was already making her way through the crowd with Hermione, rushing towards the pitch. His heart pounded uncontrollably. The moment she set foot on the grass, he dashed to her, broom in one hand, the other outstretched to her.

He scooped her into his arms, spinning her around in a joyful circle. Her laughter filled his ears, a symphony sweeter than any victory chant. Clad in Potter's number 7 jersey, she looked radiant, her cheeks glowing from the cold and the thrill of the moment.

He gently set her down, resting his forehead against hers, beaming with happiness. "Did you see?"

"I saw," she laughed, her hands cradling his face. "You were incredible, Harry. Truly amazing."

His grin was boyish, almost sheepish. "I had to win," he teased.

"Did you now?"

He leaned in closer, his voice a playful whisper. "You did promise me a reward."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Did I?"

"You did. And I take such things very seriously."

Hermione theatrically cleared her throat. "I’m just going to find Ron before I end up being the third wheel here."

"Bye, Hermione," they both said in unison, barely glancing her way.

As Hermione walked away, they were left alone amidst the celebratory cheers. She leaned closer, whispering, "Midnight."

Harry blinked in surprise. "What?"

"Meet me in the common room at midnight," she clarified, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

He grinned, bemused. "You're not going to tell me now?"

"What kind of reward would it be if it wasn't a little mysterious?"

Harry’s eyes briefly dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. "You're going to kill me before midnight even gets here."

She tilted her head playfully. "Worth the wait?"

His voice softened, filled with warmth. "Always."

And as the stars began to twinkle overhead, Harry stood victorious in the middle of the pitch, his biggest victory was not the match, but her.

Later, in the Gryffindor common room, Harry waited on the couch by the fire, still wearing his Quidditch trousers and a fresh hoodie. The silence was comforting, making him both tired and eager.

Then, she walked in, wearing his jersey. He was instantly on his feet, captivated by her appearance.

"Merlin... you don't even know what that's doing to me," he said, his voice filled with admiration.

"What is?" she asked, taken aback.

"You. In my jersey. Looking like you own this place - like you've always belonged here. With me," he confessed, stepping closer to her.

She was breathless. "Harry..."

"You promised me a reward," he reminded her, his voice warm and intense. "But I think you already gave it to me the second you showed up like that."

She blushed, her voice shaky. "You won the match. You earned it."

He pulled her closer. "Then give me what I really want."

She didn't need to ask what that was. She wanted it too.

He gently caressed her cheek, their eyes locked onto each other. And then, he kissed her. A passionate kiss, filled with pent-up longing and desire.

They sank onto the couch together, their bodies entwined. Their foreheads touching, their breaths mingling.

"That wasn’t very friendly of us," he teased, looking up at her.

"We haven't just been friends in a long time, Harry," she replied, her chest heaving.

His hands rested on her waist. "So what are we?"

She kissed him again, deeper this time. "Yours," she whispered against his lips.

His eyes closed, as if her words were a powerful enchantment. They stayed entangled, exchanging soft kisses and tender touches, their emotions finally set free.

As the fire dwindled, Harry held her closer, his nose buried in her hair. He whispered, "My girl," as though it was a sacred vow.

The next morning, Ron and Hermione found them, still entwined on the couch. They looked at them, felt a warm happiness at their friends' blossoming love.

"Good for him," Ron whispered. "Good for both of them."

Hand in hand, they retreated, leaving the couple to their peaceful slumber.

As dawn broke, Harry stirred in his sleep, his grip on her tightened. Even in his dreams, he was smiling.

[honeylesshaze]

"Flirting is not a distraction"

Lockwood x female reader

Written in third person

No use of Y/n

Lockwood is a menace

The hallway was eerily silent.

She noticed it first, a silence so profound it felt palpable, like a dense fog pressing against your ears. The chill in the air seemed to grow with each step they took, the sound of their boots echoing off the worn wooden floors. Deeper within the house, a subtle shift of something. Barely audible. Barely noticeable. Yet, it was enough to make her grip on her rapier tighten.

"Keep alert," she whispered, her eyes darting across the shadows.

"Always am," responded Lockwood, standing beside her.

Of course, he was. His stance was casual, almost too casual for such an ominous place, yet his eyes darted across doorways and ceilings with a practiced acuity. He moved as if he belonged here, as if danger was merely another room he was familiar with.

His confidence, however, only amplified her unease.

Exhaling slowly, she tried to center her focus. "This is the kind of place where something jumps out the moment you drop your guard."

"Well, it's a good thing I don't get distracted easily," he retorted.

She eyed him warily, "You flirt in the middle of fights."

There was a brief pause.

Then, without missing a beat, he tilted his head towards her, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Multitasking."

She stared at him, disbelief etched on her face. "We are in a potentially haunted death trap."

"And yet," he replied nonchalantly, moving forward to open the next door, "you're still talking to me."

Before she could retort, the door creaked open, revealing a room that was darker, colder. A room that felt heavy with a palpable presence.

Their joking banter disappeared, replaced by a razor-sharp focus. They moved as one, watching each other's blind spots, their movements harmonious. For a while, there were no distractions, just the silent signals and the mutual understanding that they had each other's backs.

But every so often, she could feel it.

His awareness of her.

She stumbled slightly.

It was a small misstep, not enough to endanger them but enough.

Enough for him to notice.

"Everything okay?" Lockwood asked, his tone smooth, lightly teasing.

"I'm fine," she responded quickly, adjusting her grip on her weapon. "Just thinking."

"Thinking can be risky," he replied.

She gave him a sharp look, but it didn't have its usual effect. He was already studying her, really looking at her, as if he had sensed something.

And suddenly, she became acutely aware of how close he was.

The hallway narrowed, forcing them to walk side by side. His shoulder brushed against hers, a fleeting touch that was enough to unsettle her.

Focus.

She took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure. "Can you, for once, not.."

"Not what?" He leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper.

She turned to reply, but he was already there.

Too close.

So close that she could see amusement melting into something more deliberate in his eyes. His gaze dropped to her lips, then back up again.

"Distract you?" he finished, his voice barely audible.

Her mind went blank.

He had caught her off-guard.

And he knew it.

A slow smile spread across his face, a smile of a victor who had just won a game she hadn't even realized they were playing.

"See?" he said, his voice even lower. "Effective."

She felt her cheeks grow warm and quickly looked away, pretending to scan the hallway ahead. But it was too late.

He had seen it.

And he was enjoying it far too much.

"Don't," she warned, her voice lacking its usual firmness.

"Don't what?" he asked, feigning innocence.

She turned back in time to see it..

The wink.

Quick. Effortless. Totally unfair.

She tried to mask her embarrassment with anger, "You're insufferable."

"And yet," he responded, walking past her with his usual confidence, "you're distracted."

She opened her mouth to argue but then stopped.

Because he was right.

And the worst part?

He knew it.

He didn't continue to tease. He just moved ahead, as if he hadn't just completely thrown her off balance during a mission.

But the small glance he threw over his shoulder?

The faint, satisfied smile?

Yeah.

He knew precisely what he was doing.

[honeylesshaze]

MASTERLIST

HARRY POTTER FANDOM

Harry James Potter

My Girl

Mattheo Riddle

Quidditch good luck

POWER RANGERS FANDOM

coming soon!!

LOCKWOOD & CO. FANDOM

Anthony lockwood

Flirting is not a distraction

WEDNESDAY FANDOM

coming soon!!

OFF CAMPUS FANDOM

John Logan

Perfume

Locked Out

"Black Cat" 🐈‍⬛

Garett Graham

"he's really pretty"

"she's my kid too"

Dena Di Laurentis

“There’s my girl,”

Not built for soft things