[things-that-are-not-true]

i got mugged by all 7 members of bts individually on seperate occasions

[angelsuecult]

willing and able | s. crosby

"the world belongs to you they all say you're a light; all I see is a shadow"

warnings: language. mentions of sexual relations. underage relationship. teen pregnancy. abandonment.

summary: you're sure you'll never forgive him for what he did to you, he'll do anything to make it right with you.

request: yes

song: willing and able - noah kahan

word count: 6.2k

a/n: well here's part one!!!!! i hope you guys like it and i hope it makes up for the two month absence :((( i missed you guys and will be back to posting regularly!!! also i won't upload the request for this one yet because it'll spoil the build up and the ending!

part one | next part (soon)

—

You were fifteen when you first thought you experienced love. He was fifteen too, and you both seemed so sure. You'd met at a rink, because of course you did. Cole Harbour wasn't that big, and everyone knew everyone, and Sidney Crosby was already the boy everyone talked about. The one who was going somewhere. The one who was special.

But when you were fifteen, he wasn't Sidney Crosby future NHL superstar. He was just Sid. The boy who held your hand during movies and bought you hot chocolate after his games. The boy who’d talk about hockey for hours if you let him. And you'd let him, because you loved watching him love something that much. You thought maybe one day he'd love you like that too.

Then you were sixteen, and you felt it was love. He'd kiss you goodnight on your parents' porch, and you'd go inside and giggle about him on the phone with your friends like some lovesick idiot. Your friends would tease you about it and you didn't even care. You went to every single one of his games, screamed yourself hoarse in the stands, and he'd find you afterward and pull you into a hug that made everything else just vanish.

Then you were seventeen, and you knew it was love. Because seventeen was the year you were really put to the test. He'd gotten drafted into the QMJHL, was playing for Rimouski, and suddenly there was distance between you. Not just physical distance, but he was chasing something bigger then and sometimes you felt like you were fighting for scraps of his attention. But when he came home, god, when he came home it was like nothing else mattered. He'd show up at your door at odd hours and you'd sneak him up to your room and just lie there with him. He'd tell you about the games, about the pressure, about how scared he was sometimes that he'd mess it all up. And you'd tell him he wouldn't, that he was brilliant, that he was going to do incredible things. You believed it with your whole heart.

You also started having sex that year. Clumsy teenage sex that was so awkward and also so amazing. You tried to be safe, you really did. Condoms most of the time, pulled from his wallet or your bedside drawer with shaking hands. But sometimes you got careless. Sometimes you didn't think, didn't stop, just fell into it like you were drowning and didn't care. And it felt like love, it felt like forever, so what did it matter?

And then you were eighteen, and you knew it was all make believe.

You were barely an adult and fully 100% pregnant. The test sat on the edge of your bathroom sink, those two pink lines unforgiving against the plastic. You'd taken three of them just to be sure and they all said the same thing. Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant. The word didn't even feel real at first.

Sidney was in Ottawa. The draft was happening and you were home staring at a positive pregnancy test. The timing couldn't have been worse. You knew that. You knew you should wait, should tell him in person, should give him time to process before dropping a bomb on him. But you were eighteen and terrified and you needed him. You needed him to tell you it was going to be okay, that you'd figure it out together, that he still loved you.

So you texted him from your clunky little phone. You don't even remember exactly what you said. Something like, "We need to talk. It's important. Call me when you can." And then, because you couldn't help yourself, because the fear was eating you alive, you sent another one. "I'm pregnant."

You watched the draft with your parents that night. They sat on the couch and you curled up in the armchair. You heard Sidney's name called, first overall to the Pittsburgh Penguins, and your dad whooped and your mom clapped and you smiled and said something about how exciting it was. And the whole time, your phone sat silent in your pocket.

He didn't call or text that night. You told yourself he was busy, that it was the biggest night of his life, that of course he couldn't drop everything to call you. But a cruel voice in the back of your head told you that maybe he just didn't want to. That maybe you'd finally asked for too much.

The text came two days later. You were lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about the nausea that had been plaguing you all morning. Your phone buzzed, and your heart leapt. Finally. Finally, he was going to call, going to tell you he loved you, that you'd get through this.

But it wasn't a call. It was a text. And it was the meanest thing you'd ever read in your life.

Sid: Do not do this to me.

Sid: I'm not ready to be a dad. 

Sid: You need to take care of it.

Sid: Don't contact me again. We're done.

The words didn't make sense. They couldn't make sense, because this wasn't Sidney. This wasn't the boy who held your hand and kissed your forehead and told you he loved you. This was some stranger, some cold unfeeling stranger who didn't give a shit about you or the baby you were carrying.

You tried to call him. Of course you did. But it went straight to voicemail. You called again. And again. And again, until your hands were shaking so badly you could barely hold the phone. Nothing. He didn't pick up. Didn't call back. Didn't send another text.

You tried to convince yourself he was just freaking out. That he was overwhelmed, that the draft and the pressure and everything had gotten to him, and he'd come around. He'd apologize, and you'd probably make him beg for your forgiveness, and then you'd figure it out together. You had to believe that.  But the days turned into weeks, and your phone stayed silent. 

It was like you'd ceased to exist. Like the last three years, all those nights whispering secrets in the dark, all those promises of forever, had meant absolutely nothing. You knew that it was over. That it should have been over the second he sent you that text. But you were eighteen and heartbroken and you kept hoping. Kept making excuses for him. Maybe his phone was broken. Maybe he lost your number. Maybe someone else had sent that text as a joke. Stupid, desperate thoughts that you clung to. You knew what you'd done was stupid. You knew you should have been more careful, should have used protection every single time, should have been smarter. But you'd thought it was love. You'd thought love was enough.

On the night of September 21st, the night of Sid's first preseason game with Pittsburgh you had this moment of clarity. You were sitting in your room, ten weeks pregnant and entirely alone, and you finally let yourself admit the truth. It was over. He'd left you pregnant and in the dust for his career. He truly cared so little about you that he couldn't even be bothered to call, to check if you were okay, to ask what you'd decided. You were nothing to him. You'd never been anything to him.

You pulled out your phone and read those last messages over and over again until you memorized the words.

Then you took the phone apart, you pried out the SIM card, and destroyed it. You used a hammer from your dad's toolbox, smashing it against your bedroom floor until it was nothing but tiny, unrecognizable pieces. He'd never get in touch with you again. Ever. You'd made sure of it.

Then you gathered up everything. Every single thing he'd ever left in your room. His Rimouski hoodie that you slept in. The stuffed penguin he'd won for you at a carnival. The pictures of the two of you, grinning and happy and so fucking naive. The mixtape he'd made you, full of songs that would probably make you cry now. The phone, then a useless piece of shit. All of it went into a garbage bag that you shoved into the back of your closet where you wouldn't have to look at it.

That was the night you told your parents.

You found them in the living room, your dad reading the paper and listening to the radio coverage of the game, your mom watching some cooking show. They looked up when you came in, and you must have looked like hell because your mom's face immediately shriveled with concern.

"Sweetheart? What's wrong?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. The words felt like shards of glass in your throat. "I need to tell you something."

Your dad put down his paper. "Okay."

"I'm pregnant."

Your mom's hand flew to her mouth. Your dad just stared at you. They said nothing to you for what felt like 10 minutes but you could feel how disappointed in you or maybe ashamed of you they were.

"How far along?" your mom asked finally.

"Ten weeks."

"And Sidney?" your dad said, and there was something in his voice you'd never heard before.

You swallowed hard. "He doesn't want anything to do with it. With me. He told me to... to take care of it. And then he blocked my number."

"That goddamn kid," he muttered, and then louder, "I'm going to kill him."

"Dad... Please. It doesn't matter anymore."

"It does matter," your mom said, and she was crying then. "Oh, baby. I'm so sorry. This is... are you keeping it?"

Were you? You hadn't let yourself think that far ahead. But now, with your parents looking at you you realized you didn't have a choice. Not really.

"I um," you said. "I think so."

Your dad was the quietest he'd ever been in your life after that. The radio, the one that had been a constant presence in your house for as long as you could remember, never turned on again. Not for hockey games, not for anything. He shut it off and that was that.

Your mom, on the other hand, was convinced it was all just a big misunderstanding. "Maybe he didn't get your texts," she'd say. "Maybe his phone really is broken. Maybe someone's doing this. You should try to reach out again, sweetie. I'm sure he'd want to know."

But you didn't because deep down, you knew. He knew. He just didn't care.

Those nine months might have been the worst of your life. You were so lonely. So, so lonely. You had no one. Your friends had all left for college, scattering across the country to start their new lives, and you were stuck in Cole Harbour with a growing belly and a broken heart. You didn't go out. You couldn't stand the thought of people seeing you, of them whispering about you, about how Sidney Crosby got you pregnant and left. About how stupid you'd been to think he'd actually stay.

So you stayed home. You did the appointments, the ones your mom drove you to because you didn't trust yourself behind the wheel when the nausea was that bad. You took the prenatal vitamins she handed you every morning with a glass of orange juice. You did all the prenatal fuckery, the classes and the breathing exercises and the reading about what to expect. All of it. No matter how fucking embarrassed and terribly sad you were.

Embarrassed because you were pregnant by the community hero. By the kid everyone in Cole Harbour was so proud of, the one who'd made it, who was living the dream. And he got to continue on his merry way, playing hockey and winning games and being celebrated, while you were stuck, growing his baby and trying not to lose your mind. Embarrassed because you'd thought you meant more to him than you did. You'd thought you were special, that what you had was real. But you were just another girl.

And sad. God, you were so sad. Sad for the college you were supposed to go to, the acceptance letter you'd gotten to that turned into just a piece of paper in a drawer. Sad for all the games you were supposed to root for Sidney in, all the times you'd imagined yourself in the stands, wearing his jersey, cheering him on. Sad for all the calls and texts you were supposed to share, the late night conversations and the "I love yous" and the plans for the future. Sad for the life you were supposed to have, the one where you weren't a teen mom struggling to figure out how to even change a diaper. Sad for the fact that you'd fucked it all up by being a reckless teenager who thought love was enough.

You gave birth on a rainy afternoon in April. Your mom was there, holding your hand and whispering encouragements, and your dad was in the waiting room because he couldn't handle seeing you in pain. The labor was brutal and by the time they placed the baby on your chest, you were so exhausted you could barely keep your eyes open.

"It's a boy," the nurse said, smiling. "Congratulations, mama."

A boy. You had a son. You looked down at him, at his tiny scrunched up face and his dark hair, and the worst part was that it all felt like it was for nothing. You didn't feel the rush of love everyone had promised you. You didn't feel that overwhelming maternal instinct, that immediate connection. You just felt empty. And then guilty for feeling empty.

"Have you thought of a name?" your mom asked, smoothing your hair back from your sweaty forehead.

You had. You'd thought of a hundred names, written them down in a notebook and crossed them all out. But there was one that kept coming back, one that Sidney had thrown out there once. You'd been lying in his bed, his hand on your stomach even though there was no baby there yet, and he'd said, "If we ever have a kid, we should name him Beau. It means handsome in French, right? And he'd be handsome, just like his dad."

You'd laughed and told him he was ridiculous. But now, looking at your son, you couldn't think of him as anything else.

"Beau," you said quietly. "His name is Beau."

Your mom smiled, though her eyes were wet. "That's perfect, sweetheart."

But it didn't feel perfect. Nothing felt perfect. You were a teenager with a baby on your hip, living in your childhood bedroom, and you were so angry all the goddamn time. Angry at Sidney for abandoning you. Angry at yourself for being stupid enough to get pregnant. Angry at Beau, which made you feel like the worst person in the world, but you couldn't help it. You couldn't help resenting this tiny, helpless baby who'd ruined your life.

You couldn't connect with him. You fed him and changed him and rocked him when he cried, but it felt like you were going through the motions. Your mom did most of the work, cooing over Beau and cuddling him and doing all the things you felt like you should be doing but couldn't. Your dad, who'd been so quiet during the pregnancy, came alive around Beau. He'd hold him for hours, talking to him in this soft voice you'd never heard before, and Beau became his best friend.

And you felt like you were drowning. Like you'd dug yourself into this hole and you couldn't claw your way out. You felt like a terrible mother like you were failing at the one thing you were supposed to be good at. You turned nineteen with a baby. Your mom made a cake, your dad sang happy birthday, and Beau slept through the whole thing. You blew out the candles and didn't make a wish, because what was the point?

Those first eleven months of his life were even harder. Harder than the pregnancy, harder than the labor, harder than anything. You were exhausted all the time, running on maybe three hours of sleep a night. Beau cried constantly, and you didn't know how to soothe him. You'd walk him around your room at two in the morning, bouncing him and shushing him and begging him to please, please just sleep. And sometimes you'd cry too because you didn't know what you were doing and you felt so alone.

But then Beau turned one. Your mom threw him a little party, just the four of you, and he sat in his high chair and smashed his face into a cupcake and laughed. And then he looked at you, frosting all over his face, and started babbling. "Mamamama."

It wasn't his first word. He'd been babbling nonsense for weeks. But this was different. This was on purpose. "Mamamama." He reached for you, his chubby little hands opening and closing, and somehow everything made sense.

You picked him up, and he wrapped his arms around your neck and buried his face in your shoulder, and for the first time since he was born, you felt that all consuming love everyone had told you about. 

"Hi, baby," you whispered, and your voice broke. "Hi, Beau."

He pulled back and grinned at you and you started crying. Just full on sobbing, holding your son and crying because you'd wasted so much time being angry when you should have been loving him. Because he was perfect. He was so perfect, and he was yours, and he looked at you with this pure adoration that you didn't deserve but were going to spend the rest of your life trying to earn.

That was when you knew you needed to get your life back on track. If not for yourself, then for him. For this little boy who looked at you like you hung the moon, even though you'd spent that first year barely holding it together.

You were twenty when you left Cole Harbour. Your parents were reluctant at first, worried about you being on your own with a toddler, but they did their best to support you. Your dad helped you move into a nice place in Halifax, carrying boxes up three flights of stairs while Beau toddled around getting in the way. Your mom stocked your fridge and your pantry, filling it with more food than two people could possibly eat.

"You call if you need anything," she said, hugging you tight. "Anything at all, okay?"

"I will, Mom. I promise."

And you meant it. But you also meant to prove that you could do this. That you could be a good mom, could build a life for you and Beau that didn't involve hiding in your childhood bedroom and drowning in regret.

Halifax wasn't far. Maybe a twenty minute drive from home, close enough that your parents could visit all the time, but far enough that you felt like your own person. You got a job at a salon, starting as a receptionist and then slowly picking up skills. You watched the other stylists, asked questions, practiced on mannequin heads. You got certified, took the classes and passed the tests, and suddenly you had a career. You were making your own living. A good living, enough to pay rent and buy groceries and put a little aside for savings. You and Beau had your own place that you decorated with secondhand furniture and pictures of the two of you.

By the time you were twenty one, you had it mostly figured out. You had your job, your apartment, your little support system. Beau had his daycare, this bright, cheerful place where he made friends and learned his ABCs and came home covered in paint and glitter. You had your coworkers, who became friends, who invited you out for drinks and listened when you needed to vent. You had your parents, who visited every weekend and spoiled Beau rotten. You had a routine. Drop Beau off at daycare, work your shift at the salon, pick him up, make dinner, give him a bath, read him a story, tuck him in. Wake up and do it all over again. It was exhausting but it was what you made of your life.

Of course, sometimes you had to field questions about Sidney. It was inevitable, growing up in the same community. People would see Beau, this little boy with dark hair and color changing eyes and a smile that was just a little too familiar, and they'd ask. "Is his dad from around here?" Or, "He looks just like Sidney Crosby. Are you two related?"

You learned to lie. It was easier than the truth. "Nope, no relation. Just a coincidence." And you'd smile and change the subject, and most people let it drop. Pretending not to know Sidney was easier than admitting what you truly felt. Easier than explaining that yes, Sidney Crosby was Beau's father, and no, he didn't give a shit.

But Beau. God, Beau didn’t make it easy on you. When he started walking he started picking things up and using them as hockey sticks. Anything long and vaguely stick shaped became a stick. Wooden spoons, brooms, wrapping paper tubes. He'd whack at rolled up socks or balled up pieces of paper, giggling and narrating his own play by play in toddler gibberish.

You couldn't exactly take it away from him. What were you supposed to say? "No, baby, you can't play hockey because your dad's a piece of shit and it makes Mommy sad"? That would make you sound insane. This was Canada. This was a community of little kids who grew up loving hockey, who wore Habs jerseys and dreamed of playing in the NHL one day. You couldn't single your son out because of a grudge, no matter how justified that grudge was.

Your dad fucking hated it. Every time Beau picked up a stick, your dad's jaw would clench and he'd find an excuse to leave the room. But he never said anything, because what could he say? Beau was just a kid. Your mom loved it. She'd cheer Beau on, clapping and telling him what a good job he was doing, and you'd stand there feeling like you might be sick.

By the time Beau was two, he had a real mini stick. Your mom bought it for him and he used it like he'd been born holding one, like it was an extension of his body. He'd spend hours in the living room, slapping a foam puck around and laughing.

When he was three, you put him in skates. You didn't want to. God, you really didn't want to. But all his friends from daycare were starting hockey, and Beau begged. "Please, Mama. Please, I wanna play hockey!"

So you signed him up for a learn to skate class, bought him the smallest pair of skates you could find, and watched him wobble around the rink with the other toddlers. He fell. A lot. But he always got back up, always grinning like it was the best thing in the world.

You were both twenty-one. And while you were raising your son, teaching him to tie his skates and reminding him to wear his helmet, Sidney was living out his wildest dreams. He'd just won the Cup, the youngest captain in NHL history to do it, and the whole country was celebrating. You'd seen it on the news, seen the pictures of him hoisting the trophy over his head, seen the interviews where he talked about how incredible it felt.

You tried not to think about it. You tried not to compare your life to his, tried not to wonder what things would've been like if he'd responded differently to that text. If he'd said, "We'll figure it out," instead of, "I don't want anything to do with it." It was hard not to. Especially when Beau started asking questions. "Mama, who's my dad?" And you'd say, "It's just you and me, buddy. That's all we need." And he'd accept it, for now, but you knew eventually that wouldn't be enough.

~

He was twenty-one and winning the Cup was all he ever wanted. Really. To hold those thirty-five pounds of silver and metal over his head after seasons of heartbreak, after being the youngest captain in league history and feeling the weight of an entire franchise on his shoulders. After the think pieces about how maybe he couldn't do it, that maybe he was too young, too inexperienced. After 08 in Detroit when they'd been so close he could taste it, only to have it ripped away. After making it to Game 7 in Detroit again when everything had felt impossible, when his body ached and his lungs burned and he thought maybe this was it, maybe this was the year they fell short again.

But they hadn't. They'd won. He'd won. He wasn't sure he'd ever be as happy as he was in that moment.

But maybe that wasn't the truth.

Because even in the middle of the celebration, even with the Cup in his hands and his teammates screaming his name and the entire city of Pittsburgh losing their minds, there was something missing. Someone missing.

When his guys kissed their girlfriends and their wives, when little ones were in their fathers' arms and spun around, when fiancées jumped into their partners' arms and caught like they weighed nothing, Sidney felt sick. Not jealous, exactly. Hollow was the word for it. Like there was this gaping hole in his chest that no amount of champagne or celebration could fill.

You never left his mind. Even after nearly four years. 3 years, 10 months, and 13 days to be exact, but who was counting? Even after all this time, all this distance, all the silence between you. You were always in his mind. Always in his heart. Always his, even if you weren't anymore.

He wasn't sure what ever happened between you. That was the worst part, the not knowing. His last memory of the two of you was a happy one. He'd been nervous about the draft, about going to Ottawa, about the pressure and the expectations. But you'd been so happy for him, so excited, your eyes bright and your smile wide. You'd kissed him goodbye at your front door, your hands cupping his face, and you'd promised to watch. To cheer for him. To be proud of him no matter what.

And he'd promised to call you. As soon as it was over, as soon as he knew where he was going, he'd call and tell you everything.

He never even got the chance.

He wasn't ever good with his phone. Even now, his teammates gave him shit for it, for leaving it in his locker or his hotel room or the pocket of his suitcase. But it was worse back then, when he was eighteen. He'd gone to Ottawa with his parents, with his rep, with this whole entourage of people who all wanted something from him. And at some point between the airport and the hotel and the extra stuff afterward, he'd just lost it. He wasn't sure if he'd left it at home, if someone had taken it by mistake, if it had fallen out of his pocket in the car. He just knew he couldn't get in contact with you.

And he was wanted everywhere all at once. Interviews, photoshoots, meetings with the Penguins' front office. His camp had a schedule planned down to the minute, and there was no time for anything else. No time to go back home, no time to find a payphone and call you, no time for himself at all.

He told himself he'd make it up to you. That as soon as things calmed down, as soon as he had a second to breathe, he'd find a way to reach out. You'd understand. You always understood.

But if he was being completely honest maybe his pride was a little hurt too. Because you didn't make the effort either. You didn't call him, didn't leave a message with his parents, didn't show up in Pittsburgh when the season started. And a bitter part of him wondered if maybe you'd decided he wasn't worth it. That the distance, the lifestyle, the constant travel and the media attention, was too much. That you'd realized you could do better than some hockey player who was never going to be home.

He couldn't exactly hold it against you. You were both eighteen, just kids really. What did either of you know about long-distance relationships, about the kind of commitment it would take to make it work when he was living in a different city, playing eighty-two games a season plus playoffs, barely keeping his head above water?

And yet.

All he could remember was your mom asking him not to call again.

It had been before his very first NHL game. October 5, 2005. He'd been a mess of nerves, pacing around the Lemiuex family's house in Pittsburgh, trying to remember everything his coaches had told him, trying not to think about how badly he wanted to prove himself. And all he'd wanted, more than anything, was to hear your voice. To know that you were okay, that you were proud of him, that you still cared.

He'd borrowed the landline, dialed your home number with shaking hands, and waited. One ring. Two. Three. And then your mom had picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Mrs.–" He'd barely gotten the words out before she cut him off.

"Sidney."

Her voice had been cold. Colder than he'd ever heard it. Your mom always liked him, had always welcomed him into your house with a smile and a plate of cookies. But that day, she'd sounded like she hated him.

"I, uh, I was wondering if I could talk to–"

"No."

"I just want to make sure she's okay. I haven't heard from her in a while and I–"

"She's fine, Sidney. I think it's best if you don't call here again."

His stomach had dropped. "What? Why? Did I do something? If I did, I can–"

"Goodbye, Sidney."

And she'd hung up. That was the last time he ever even got close to you. He'd tried a few more times over the next couple of weeks, but your mom always answered, always told him the same thing. Don't call again. And eventually, he stopped trying. Because what else could he do? You clearly didn't want to talk to him. And Sidney had a season to focus on, a team that was counting on him, a city that expected him to be their savior.

So he moved on. Or at least, he tried to.

He still kept a photo of you in his wallet. It was stupid, probably. Pathetic, even. But his mom had given it to him during his first real week in Pittsburgh, when he'd been homesick and ready to quit. She'd thought it might remind him of all the good things he still had at home. Thought it might keep him grounded, keep him connected to the person he was before all of this. Thought it might help when he missed you too much.

The photo was from the summer before the draft. The two of you at the beach, your hair windblown and your smile bright, his arm around your shoulders. You were wearing his t-shirt over your swimsuit, an Océanic one, and you looked so happy. So beautiful. So completely, utterly his. He'd meant to take it out at some point. Meant to move on, to date other girls, to let go of whatever the two of you had been. But he never did. Even after all these years, the photo stayed tucked behind his driver's license, creased and worn from how often he looked at it.

He didn't know what else to do.

It was painful keeping it. That love he had for you never faded, never waned. It should have. Four years was a long time. He should have met someone else, fallen for someone else, built a life with someone who was actually there. But he hadn't because every girl he met, he compared to you. Every date felt like a pale imitation of what he'd had. And none of them measured up.

It made him dream the silliest of dreams for a guy his age. Dreams of a life the two of you had talked about when you were young and dumb and he was dumb enough to hope for. You'd lie in his bed in his parents' house, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm, and you'd talk about the future like it was a guarantee.

"When you make the NHL, I'll come to every home game," you'd said once.

"Just the home games?"

"Okay, fine. Every game. I'll be your biggest fan."

"You already are."

"And we'll get a dog," you'd continued, ignoring him. "A big one. A golden retriever, maybe. Or a husky."

"Can we name it something cool? Not, like, Spot or Buddy."

"We'll name it something ridiculous. Like Mr. Pickles."

He'd laughed so hard he'd almost choked on his spit. "Mr. Pickles?"

"Or we could go the other way. Something tough. Like Killer."

"Killer the golden retriever."

"Exactly."

"I love you," he'd said, and he'd meant it with his whole heart.

"I love you too, Sid."

Now he didn't know anything about you. If you'd gone to school like you'd planned, if you were still in Nova Scotia or if you'd moved somewhere else. If you'd found someone else to love, someone who could actually be there for you, who didn't spend half the year on the road. He mostly hoped that you were happy. That whatever had happened between the two of you, you'd landed on your feet. That you were living the life you deserved.

But selfishly, bringing the Cup home, he maybe hoped that he'd see you somewhere in the crowd of people. He knew it wasn't realistic. Cole Harbour wasn't that small, and you'd probably moved on, probably didn't even think about him anymore. But still. 

Like he had this big shiny thing he wanted to show you. Look, he wanted to say. Look what I did. Look what we dreamed about, and I made it happen. Aren't you proud?

And he had his dog, Samantha. Sam. He'd gotten her a couple of years ago, this sweet, goofy yellow lab who went everywhere with him in the off-season. She wasn't Mr. Pickles or Killer, but she was perfect. He thought you'd like her. Thought maybe you'd laugh at the way Sam got excited over nothing, the way she'd bring him her toy and drop it at his feet and lick his knee until he threw it.

Honestly, he had nothing else to offer you but those two things. The Cup and Sam. His entire world, condensed into thirty-five pounds of metal and sixty pounds of dog. It felt like nothing. But it was all he had.

He thought maybe you'd want to hold the Cup. Everyone did. It was tradition, passing it around, letting people drink out of it and take pictures with it. He could see it so clearly in his mind, you standing next to it, your hand on the silver, your smile soft. Maybe you'd want to know what it felt like, to hold something he'd worked his whole life for.

Maybe you'd like how long his hair was now. It was longer than it had been when he was a teenager, curling at the ends, brushing his ears. You'd always liked it a little longer, used to run your fingers through it when you kissed him, tugging gently when he'd kiss down your neck. "Don't cut it too short," you'd say, and he never did.

Maybe you'd surprise him at his parents' house for the get-together. They were throwing this thing for him, inviting half of Cole Harbour, it seemed like. Friends, family, neighbors, people he barely knew but who wanted to celebrate with him. His mom had been planning it for weeks. And Sidney kept thinking that maybe you'd show up. That someone would invite you, or you'd hear about it and decide to come, and he'd turn around and there you'd be.

Maybe you could catch up. He'd ask you about school, about work, about your life. And you'd ask him about Pittsburgh, about the season, about what it felt like to win. And maybe, if he was really lucky, you'd smile at him the way you used to. Like he was the only person in the room. Like he mattered.

Maybe you could make up. He didn't even know what you'd be making up for, what had happened to drive you apart, but he'd apologize anyway. For not calling, for losing his phone, for not trying harder. For whatever he'd done to make you walk away.

Maybe he could just do something. Anything. He’d fix it, he was sure of it.

~

part one | next part (soon!)

[alierecss]

Don't let me down | John Logan

summary: You've been filming John Logan for many months. Forty seven saved clips, only eleven of them for work. You know his tells, his angles, his best light. You know him better than you probably should for someone who is just the social media girl. What you don't know is that the night he finally asked you out, there was a check involved. A thousand dollars. And three months of the most real thing you've ever felt sitting on top of a secret that was always going to cost someone.

notes: hii i'm back!! after a week of writing between breaks this one finally came to life and i really hope you guys enjoy it, also i've been informed that puck flying accidents are not very common but we're all going to pretend together, also may contain some hockey inaccuracies, i love the game but i'm definitely not a pro. as always thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think, your comments genuinely keep me writing!!

warnings: swearing, a bet that was a terrible idea, one thousand dollars, dean being dean, forty seven saved clips, angst with a happy ending.

word count: 12.2k

When you started working on the social media position for the hockey team at Briar U, you didn't understand how it was possible for people to take you even less seriously than you already took yourself. But then there would come the moment that they needed you, and things would change, and you would think oh, how the tables have turned.

You understood this in the first week. The girl who came before you, Liana, had walked you through everything: cameras, angles, schedules, the way the athletics department liked their content formatted. But had failed to mention that the players would not look at you so much as look through you at first. Like you were part of the furniture. A tripod with a heartbeat.

In a way, that was fine. Being invisible was a perfectly good way to do the job. Players acted more naturally when they forgot the camera was there, and natural content was always better than posed content. This was something you had understood instinctively from the beginning.

You had been doing this job since the beginning of fall semester. It had come to you not accidentally but not exactly sought either, you had always followed the team, always been a genuine fan. Liana, the former social media girl, was a friend from a very boring Thursday morning class you had both suffered through together. When she came close to graduating she recommended you for the job. You had been working the library circulation desk before that. When the athletics department called it had seemed like a no-brainer.

A few months in, you knew the inner workings of the team the way you knew the layout of your own apartment. Their training schedule, their game schedule, the subtle social architecture of a group of people who spent most of their waking hours together. You knew which players were camera shy and which ones had a natural appeal and actively enjoyed being filmed — cough Dean cough — and by now you knew everyone's best angle, best light, best moment.

Which brought you to Logan.

You were also, which was a separate and entirely unrelated issue, completely down bad for one of the players.

It had not happened all at once.

You had known who John Logan was before you got the job, everyone who followed Briar hockey knew who he was, which was most of the campus, but knowing of someone and being in the same building as them four times a week were different things entirely.

You had known about his escapades too. His romantic history was the kind of thing that Olivia, your friend and a woman of genuinely exceptional gossip quality, had mentioned more than once with the relish of someone who considered this information a public service. Before the job, you had laughed about it the way you laughed about things that had nothing to do with you.

Now that you actually knew him, not knew knew him, but saw him daily, which was its own specific category, you thought about his former, and hopefully past, escapades and felt something uncomfortably close to jealousy.

The crush had consolidated gradually and against your will, the way water finds its way through things. A practice here. A post-game there. The specific way he looked when he was focused on something, the way he talked to his teammates, the way he sometimes looked directly into your camera with an expression that suggested he had briefly forgotten it was there and was just looking.

And then there was the other thing, which was honestly the worst part: he was so unfairly polite. He said good morning and good afternoon. He smiled when he caught you filming something. He said goodbye when he left and apologized if the puck flew in your direction, which it occasionally did, and each time he said sorry about that with the specific sincerity of someone who actually meant it.

You knew you had a crush on him. Obviously. That part was not new information.

What was new information was the following Tuesday, late after practice, the rink mostly empty, you sitting in the stands with your laptop open and the tiredness of someone who had been on their feet for three hours. The players were filtering out through the doors and you were reviewing footage on autopilot, not really watching, when you looked up without thinking about it.

You were looking for Logan before you had decided to look for him.

When you found him, he was at the boards, removing his helmet and pushing a hand through his hair.

Fuck me, you thought.

And then it seemed like he had heard you, because he lifted his eyes and looked straight at you across the empty rink and smiled.

You smiled back and closed your laptop.

Time to go home and think about John Logan in bed.

You reached for your camera on the tripod — force of habit, you always checked the last few shots before packing up — and opened the gallery.

Logan drinking water. Logan laughing at something Garrett said. Logan tying his skates. Logan high-fiving Tucker after a good drill. Logan making a face directly at the camera, having clearly just noticed you filming him, looking entirely unbothered about it.

You stared at the screen.

Oh.

Oh no.

The real problem came later.

The game was at Harvard, which meant the bus, which meant a situation you had been successfully avoiding for six months. You never took the team bus, too much male energy, too many large people occupying space in a way that made you feel like you had accidentally wandered into someone else's environment. You usually went with the student bus, which was fine, which was your preferred option.

The student bus had a mechanical issue and couldn't make the drive in time.

So you, along with the other team staff, boarded the team bus with approximately forty hockey players and the quiet resignation of someone who had lost a negotiation they hadn't known they were in.

The game itself went fine, nothing groundbreaking, but Briar won, which was all that mattered. You packed up your equipment and joined the line filing back onto the bus, looking for the same seat you'd had on the way there.

You were making your way down the aisle when you spotted Logan sitting alone.

You slowed down. Made the calculation. Gave yourself approximately four seconds of internal encouragement.

A freshman defenseman sat down next to him before you could finish the thought.

You did not pout. You were a professional.

"Aw, look who it is." Dean's voice came from the seat directly behind Logan. He was sitting in the aisle seat, legs stretched out, watching you with the expression of someone who had seen everything. "You can sit with me."

"Sure," you said.

"Geez, don't look so happy about it." He pulled his legs in so you could slide past. "I even let you have the window."

"What a gentleman," you said, settling in and pulling your laptop from your bag.

"Are we watching a movie?" Dean pointed at the laptop.

"No. I'm working."

"Bummer," he said, shifting in his seat to get comfortable. Dean was a broad person and the seats were not designed with broad people in mind, which meant that when you sat down you were immediately, unavoidably in contact, arms pressed together, shoulders touching. You had briefly considered putting the armrest down for some personal space, but Dean seemed completely unbothered by the proximity, which somehow made it easier to be unbothered yourself.

This was the thing about Dean that had surprised you most when you first started the job: there had never been an awkward phase. No stiff introductions, no careful professional distance, no period of working out who you were to each other. He had simply decided you were friends and proceeded accordingly, and somehow six months had passed and it felt like you had known each other much longer than that.

You connected your camera to the laptop and started pulling up photos from the game. Selected the best ones. Started uploading them to the shared drive.

"Uh oh," Dean said, leaning over. "That's not my best angle."

You looked at the photo. He was facing almost entirely away from the camera.

"Shut up," you said, lightly slapping his hand away from the screen. "What do you mean not your best angle? Are you not proud of your very nice backside?"

This was a callback, and Dean knew it. He had said something similarly direct about you at a party two months ago in the shameless way that Dean said most things, and you had decided that the only appropriate response was to give the same energy back.

 "I am," he said, "but the front is much better. You should check it out sometime."

"Are you referring to your face as the front of your backside?"

Dean repeated the question back to you in a mocking tone.

You opened the photos and started scrolling through them, and approximately three seconds later you noticed the pattern and began praying, quietly and sincerely, that Dean would not notice it too.

Too late.

"Why do you have so many pictures of Logan?" He was looking at the screen with his eyebrows raised. "There are like ten Logan pictures for every one of anyone else."

"Logan just photographs well."

"He photographs well."

"Yes."

"That's your explanation."

"That's my explanation."

Dean looked at you with the expression of someone assembling a conclusion. "You have the hots for Logan."

"The hots? Dean, what is this, a Disney Channel movie? And no. I don't."

"Yeah? Explain the hundred photos of him drinking water. Sorry, but you can't use those for Instagram." He paused. "Unless you're using them for something else. Like, I don't know. Your spank bank."

You gasped and punched his arm. "Shut up."

"Admit it."

"I plead the fifth."

"That's not how that works."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You have to. I'm your best friend."

"No you're not. It's Olivia."

"On the team, I meant."

"It's probably Tucker."

"Tucker?" Dean looked genuinely wounded. "Tucker? Don't try to change the subject."

You closed the laptop.

"Go to sleep, Dean."

"This conversation is not over."

"Yes it is."

"No it's not."

"Yes it is."

"No it's not," he said, adjusting himself against the seat with the decisive energy of someone settling in for a nap. You let your head fall back against the window. A moment later his head dropped onto your shoulder with the comfortable weight of someone who had decided this was acceptable.

"Do not drool on me," you said.

"I bet if it was Logan you wouldn't mind," he said, eyes already closed. Of course not.

"Don't be disgusting."

"And by the way —" he opened one eye "— he has the hots for you too."

"Oh my god," you said. "Stop talking like this is iCarly."

He closed his eye again.

The bus moved through the dark and you sat there with Dean's head on your shoulder and the laptop closed on your knees and tried very hard not to look at the back of Logan's head in the row in front of you.

Oh no, you thought, again, for the second time that week.

A couple of weeks later, Dean found you setting up the tripod in the corner of the film room before pre-game interviews.

"So," he said, appearing at your elbow with the energy of someone who had been waiting for the right moment. "I saw that you didn't RSVP to the invitation for mine and Beau's birthday bash. And it's tomorrow."

You winced. You had been avoiding this topic.

"I have a thing," you said, very casually, adjusting the tripod height without looking at him.

"A thing." He repeated it back with the tone of someone who found this deeply insufficient. "What thing could possibly be more important than my birthday?"

"They painted a new wall in the hallway of my apartment so —"

"Shut up," he said, moving closer. "You're coming. Also —" he said it with the specific energy of someone deploying their strongest argument "— Logan is going to be there."

You kept your eyes on the tripod. "I would assume so. Since you live together."

"You know what I mean."

"I really don't."

"Yes you do."

"I'm working tomorrow night," you said.

"It's a Saturday."

"Content doesn't take weekends off."

"You literally schedule everything in advance and you know it." Dean leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. "Come to the party. Talk to him. He's going to be right there."

"I talk to him all the time. It's my job."

"Yeah, but when you talk to Logan you do the thing."

You looked up for the first time. "What thing."

"The thing." He gestured vaguely at your face. "The thing where you forget to be normal."

"I am always normal."

"You called his assist last Tuesday 'genuinely cinematic.'"

"It was a good play."

"To his face."

"As a professional observation —"

"He smiled about it for the rest of practice." Dean looked at you steadily. "Come to the party."

You turned back to the tripod.

"I don't think Logan has the hots for me, you know," you said. "He's like a hot athlete. And I'm like the social media nerd."

Dean stared at you with the expression of someone who had just heard something that offended him on multiple levels simultaneously.

"Geez," he said. "You're not the girl in every romcom who doesn't know she's pretty." He paused. "Also you may be a nerd but — with all due respect to you and to my buddy Logan — you're pretty hot."

You pushed his shoulder and muttered a low stop.

"I'm being sincere!" He caught himself on the wall, laughing. "Party. Tomorrow. Eight o'clock. Logan will be there." He pointed at you one more time. "You will also be there."

He walked away before you could respond.

You looked at the camera. The camera looked back at you.

Genuinely cinematic, you thought, mortified.

You were definitely not going to that party.

The thing about watching two people be completely oblivious to each other was that it was, at first, entertaining.

Dean had found it genuinely funny in the beginning, the way you would track Logan across a room without realizing you were doing it, the way Logan would find reasons to be wherever you were without announcing that was what he was doing. It was like watching a nature documentary.

It had been funny for approximately three weeks.

It was now week seven and Dean was losing his mind.

It was a Thursday practice, nothing special about it. Dean was on the ice going through drills with Tucker when he caught it, the peripheral awareness of someone who had been watching a situation develop for too long.

You were in your usual spot in the stands, laptop open, camera on the tripod, doing the thing you always did where you looked like you were reviewing footage but were actually, if you knew what to look for, tracking Logan across the ice without moving your head.

Logan, for his part, was doing the thing he always did where he skated past your section of the stands more than was strictly necessary for any drill that had been assigned.

"He's done that four times," Tucker said, appearing at Dean's elbow.

"Five," Dean said. "You missed one while you were talking to the coach."

Tucker watched Logan complete another unnecessary loop near the boards. "Are they ever going to do something about that?"

"Apparently not," Dean said.

On the ice Logan slowed near the boards not stopping, that would have been too obvious, just slowing and said something up toward the stands. You looked up from your laptop and said something back. Logan smiled. You looked back at your laptop immediately, in the specific way of someone using a screen as a shield.

Logan skated away looking slightly more cheerful than he had thirty seconds ago.

"It's painful," Tucker said.

"It's excruciating," Dean agreed.

"Wow, that's a big word" Tucker said mocking Dean and skating away.

After practice Dean was still thinking about it in the locker room.

He was unwrapping his tape when Garrett sat down across from him.

"You have a face," Garrett said.

"I'm thinking."

"About what."

"Logan and the social media girl, or as I call her, (Y/N)"

"So her name—" Garrett replied.

Garrett looked at him with the mild, steady expression he used when he was waiting for someone to either say something sensible or stop talking. "And?"

"And they've been doing this for like seven weeks and nothing is happening and I'm tired of watching it."

"So tell him to do something about it."

"I've told him." Dean had, in fact, told Logan approximately six times in varying tones of directness. "Telling doesn't work. Logan needs a push."

"A push," Garrett repeated.

"A significant push."

Garrett looked at him for a long moment. "What kind of push."

"A financial one," he said.

"Dean —"

"Hear me out."

"I don't think I want to."

"A thousand dollars," Dean said. "I bet him a thousand dollars that he won't ask her out. He needs the money, he likes her, this solves both problems simultaneously. It's elegant."

Garrett stared at him. "It's really not."

"It gets him to do the thing he already wants to do."

"By paying him."

"By incentivizing him."

"Those are the same thing."

"Garrett," Dean said, in the tone of someone who had considered the counterarguments and dismissed them. "They have been doing this for weeks. At this rate they'll still be doing it at graduation. I'm helping."

Garrett looked at the ceiling briefly. "You shouldn't do this," he said finally.

"Noted," Dean said.

He did not change his mind.

Logan came in from the showers to find Dean sitting on the bench across from his locker with an expression that meant something was coming.

Tucker was in the corner pretending to check his phone. Garrett was lacing his shoes with more focus than the task required.

"What," Logan said.

"I have a proposition," Dean said.

Logan looked at Tucker. Tucker looked at his phone. Logan looked at Garrett. Garrett looked at his shoes.

"What kind of proposition," Logan said.

"A thousand dollars," Dean said. "All you have to do is ask her out."

He didnt't have to specify who the her was.

The locker room was quiet.

Logan opened his locker. Got his jacket. "No."

"Logan —"

"No, Dean."

"You like her."

"That's not —"

"You've skated past her section of the stands five times today during drills that don't require you anywhere near the boards." Dean's voice was completely even. "I counted."

Logan said nothing.

"You check her posts before anyone else on the team," Dean continued. "You know her schedule better than your own. You said sorry to her last Tuesday when the puck went near her even though it didn't come close to actually hitting her." A pause. "You apologized preemptively."

"I was being polite."

"You were being in love with her," Dean said, simply. "Which is fine. Great, actually. And fixable. With one conversation and a thousand dollars."

Tucker made a small sound that was not quite disapproval and not quite agreement.

Garrett said nothing, which was its own kind of answer.

Logan looked at his jacket in his hands. He thought about the time that had passed, the practices and bus rides and the specific way you closed your laptop when you were trying to hide something. He thought about his bank account, which was having a difficult semester. He thought about the rent that was due. The equipment he needed.

He thought about asking you out, which he had been meaning to do, which he had been telling himself he was going to do, which he had not done.

I was going to do it anyway, he told himself. The money doesn't change what I was going to do anyway.

"Fine," he said.

Tucker made the sound again, slightly louder.

Garrett looked up from his shoes for the first time. His expression was not angry, not exactly. More like a person watching a decision being made and knowing already how it was going to cost someone.

Dean produced a check from somewhere — written on the back of a receipt, which was so Dean that Logan almost laughed — and held it out.

Logan took it.

He folded it once and put it in his jacket pocket and did not look at Garrett again.

I was going to do it anyway, he thought.

He almost believed it.

The subject of the party was a sore one.

Part of you wanted to go and part of you didn't, and the two parts had been arguing since Dean walked away from the tripod, and by the time you got back to your apartment you had resolved nothing except that you needed to talk to Olivia about it.

Olivia listened to the full recap of the Dean conversation with the focused attention of someone taking notes. When you finished she was quiet for approximately three seconds.

"We're going," she said.

"I said I wasn't sure —"

"I've made up my mind. You were invited so you need to go, and I'm coming with you because—." She looked at you with the expression of someone who had already decided the fun they were going to have and was simply waiting for logistics to catch up. "What's the theme?"

"Dynamic duo."

"Perfect for us." She was already opening her laptop. "I know exactly what we're wearing."

"I don't even know what to wear," you breathed out, dropping flat onto your bed and staring at the ceiling. "What kind of theme even is that? Dynamic duo? That's so vague."

"It's not vague, it's versatile." She turned the screen to face you. "Clueless. Cher and Dionne. The plaid."

You looked at the screen. You looked at Olivia.

"Obviously," you said.

You walked into the party in matching plaid ,short skirt, blazer, the whole thing and felt immediately, objectively, like you had made the right costume choice. Olivia walked in beside you with the confident energy of someone who had never had a bad entrance in her life.

The house was full and warm and smelled like every college party you had ever been to. You did a quick scan of the room in the completely professional way of someone who was not looking for anyone specific.

You found him in approximately four seconds.

Logan was in the kitchen with Dean, drink in hand, laughing at something. He was wearing a sleveless gray shirt with a pair of wings.

You gave a small wave in their direction. Dean spotted you first and his face did something immediately, and then he clapped a hand on Logan's back and pushed him in your direction with the subtlety of a person who had never heard the word subtle.

Logan crossed the room.

"Hey —" His eyes moved over you and something in his expression shifted slightly. "Clueless?"

"Yeah," you said, nodding perhaps a few more times than necessary.

Beside you, Olivia made a sound that she converted, barely, into a cough. She had been documenting your inability to form complete sentences in Logan's presence for approximately three months and found it genuinely hilarious.

"You look very pretty," Logan said.

"Oh — thanks." The blush arrived before you could do anything about it. Compose yourself.

Logan seemed to remember that you were not alone. "You too, Olivia."

"Yeah, right," Olivia laughed. "I'll go get a drink."

She disappeared into the crowd. As she passed behind Logan she turned to face you and mouthed make a move with the enormous unsubtle energy of someone who had been waiting three months to say it.

You looked back at Logan.

"I'm glad you came," he said. "Dean mentioned you weren't sure."

"I had some content to edit," you said.

"This is more important," he said, lightly, like a joke, but with something underneath it that wasn't entirely a joke.

"Yeah," you said.

And then you were both just standing there. Drinks in hand, the party moving around you, talking the way you had discovered you talked when you were alone together, which was easily, which was the specific ease of two people who had been in the same orbit long enough to have figured out each other's rhythms without officially acknowledging it.

"So what are you supposed to be anyway?" you asked, taking the opportunity to look at him properly. The gray shirt. The wings. The arms, which were — you looked at his face instead. "Jacob Elordi in Saltburn?"

Logan laughed — a real one, surprised and warm. "Bird and the bee. I'm the bird. Tuck's the bee."

"Oh," you said. "That tracks."

"Does it."

"The bee has better energy," you said. "No offense to you."

"I'll tell Tucker you said that."

"Please don't."

Dean chose this exact moment to appear between you.

"Hello, you two." He looked between you with barely concealed delight. "What are we talking about?"

"The birds and the bees," you said, and watched Dean's eyebrow go up in real time.

"Oh, I like where this is headed."

"No — I mean his costume," you said quickly. "What are you supposed to be?"

"Maverick." He pointed across the room to where Beau was talking to a very beautiful brunette. "Beau's Goose."

You considered this. "Was there not a dynamic duo where one of them didn't have a tragic ending? You could have been Ice."

"Ice and Maverick hated each other," Dean said.

"No they didn't! In your own words they had the hots for each other."

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Pointed at you. "That is actually a fair point."

"Thank you."

"You're insufferable," he said, smiling. He looked between you and Logan one more time. "I'm going to go find Beau. You two —" he gestured vaguely at the space between you "— continue."

He disappeared back into the crowd.

You looked at Logan. Logan looked at you.

"He's not subtle," you said.

"No," Logan agreed. "He really isn't."

The party continued around you. At some point you had moved slightly closer together. Neither of you had announced it. At some point his hand had found the small of your back, briefly, when someone pushed past in the crowd. It had stayed there a moment longer than strictly necessary. You had not moved away.

At some point Olivia had caught your eye from across the room and given you a look of such unrestrained triumph that you had been forced to look at the floor to keep from laughing.

"So —" Logan started. He stopped. Tried again. "I've been thinking. For a while actually." He looked at you with the expression of someone abandoning a rehearsed script entirely in favor of just saying the thing. "Would you like to go out? With me. On a date."

Inside your chest, something that had been very carefully managed for months made a sound like:

YESYESYESYESYESYESYESYES —

"Yes," you said, with great composure. "I'd like that."

Something settled in his expression warm and certain. "Good. I was hoping you were going to say that."

"I was hoping you were going to ask," you said.

He smiled. Not the polite one, not the team-photo one the real one, the one you had forty-seven saved clips of and only eleven of them were for work.

Across the room, completely uninvited into this moment, Dean let out a noise of triumph loud enough that Tucker turned around to look.

You and Logan both looked at Dean.

Dean pointed at both of you, then at himself, then gave two thumbs up with the energy of a man who had absolutely no shame about any of this.

"He planned this," you said.

"Obviously," Logan said.

You looked at Dean, who was now saying something to Beau that was making Beau look confused and Dean look extremely pleased with himself.

"I'm going to delete all his content," you said.

"Probably," Logan said. "But maybe tomorrow."

You looked back at him.

"Yeah," you said. "Maybe tomorrow."

What you did not know — what you would not know for three months — was what had happened two hours before that conversation.

The first date was a Tuesday.

Logan had asked on a Saturday and then spent the intervening three days being completely normal about it, which meant he had checked his phone approximately forty times and suggested three different restaurants to Dean who had not asked for his opinion and had given it anyway.

He picked you up at seven. You had worn something simple and he had looked at you the way he sometimes looked into the camera, direct, unhurried, like you were something worth paying attention t, and said you look great in the specific voice he used when he meant things, and you had said thanks, so do you and meant it, and the evening had been easy in the way that things were easy when they had been building for a long time and had finally found the right outlet.

You talked for three hours. Not about anything important about the team, about your job, about the things you had noticed about each other without ever saying so. He told you about the preemptive puck apology before you could bring it up and looked slightly embarrassed about it, which you found endearing in a way you did not make him aware of. You told him about the forty-seven saved clips and watched his expression do something warm and complicated.

He walked you back to your dorm. He kissed you at the door — soft and unhurried, the specific patience of someone who had been waiting a while and had decided that arriving was enough for now.

You went inside and stood in the hallway for a moment.

Oh, you thought. Not oh no this time. Just — oh.

What followed was three months that assembled themselves quietly and completely, the way good things tended to do when you stopped trying to manage them.

You learned the specific rhythm of being with Logan, which was different from the rhythm of being near Logan, which you had spent seven months memorizing from behind a camera. Being with him was easier. Less careful. The things you had noticed from a professional distance — the way he focused, the way he was with his teammates, the particular quality of his attention when he was genuinely listening were the same up close, just without the glass between you.

He remembered things. That was the detail that accumulated the most weight over three months small things you had said once, in passing, that he filed away and produced later in the specific way of someone who had been listening more carefully than you knew. The coffee order. The fact that you hated the overhead lights in the film room. The name of the professor whose class you had shared with Liana.

You told Olivia about the coffee order detail on a Thursday night and she looked at you with an expression that said everything she was choosing not to say out loud.

"Don't," you said.

"I'm not saying anything," she said.

"You have a face."

"I have my normal face."

"Olivia."

"I'm just glad," she said simply, and went back to whatever she was doing, and you sat with that for a moment and found that you were too.

Logan was also, three months in, still thinking about the check.

Not constantly. Not the way he had in the beginning, when it had surfaced at inconvenient moments, the first dinner, the first time you laughed at something he said, the first time you fell asleep on his shoulder watching something neither of you were paying attention to. Those early weeks it had been a persistent background noise, a low-level static of something he should have said and hadn't.

But the weeks had passed and the static had gotten quieter, the way noise does when you choose not to listen to it long enough. He had paid his rent. He had replaced the equipment. He had told himself, again and again, that he had been going to ask you out anyway, that the money had been incidental, that what they had built in the three months since was real regardless of how it started.

All of that was true.

The part that was also true, the part he didn't let himself look at too directly, was that you didn't know. And not knowing was its own kind of thing, a thing that existed in the space between you without you being aware of it, that he was aware of every time you said something honest to him, every time you looked at him the way you looked at him.

He had meant to tell you. In the beginning. There had been a window, early on, when it would have been a small thing — by the way, Dean made a bet, it's a whole thing, I was going to ask you anyway—. He had rehearsed it. He had not said it. The window had closed, and then it had been a week, and then a month, and then three months, and now saying it felt like dropping something large into a quiet room.

So he didn't say it.

He told himself it didn't matter because it hadn't changed anything real.

He was getting better at believing that.

It was a Saturday afternoon in February, the specific grey-white quality of a winter afternoon that had given up pretending it was going to improve, and you were in Logan's room doing nothing in particular.

This had become one of your favorite things — the doing nothing in particular. You had a tendency, left to your own devices, to fill time with productivity, with scheduled content and edited footage and the general sense that unoccupied time was time being wasted. Logan had, over three months, introduced you to the concept of lying on a bed on a Saturday afternoon and simply existing, which you had resisted and then accepted and now found genuinely necessary.

He was on his back, one arm behind his head, reading something on his phone. You were beside him, legs tangled, working your way through a Cosmopolitan from 2003 that you had found at the thrift store the previous weekend when you had gone with Allie. It had a younger Jennifer Lopez on the cover and approximately forty pages of advertisements for perfumes that no longer existed, and you had bought it for fifty cents because something about it felt like an artifact.

"Listen to this," you said.

"Mm."

"It's a quiz." You held up the magazine. "Is your relationship ready for the next level? I feel like we should take it."

"I feel like that magazine is older than some of our teammates."

"That's what makes it valuable." You turned back to the page. "Okay. Question one. When you picture your future, does your partner feature prominently? Options are: always, sometimes, or only when I'm feeling optimistic."

"Always," Logan said, without looking up from his phone.

You looked at him sideways. He was still reading, expression neutral, like he had answered a question about the weather.

"Okay," you said, and looked back at the magazine, and did not make anything of it, because making something of it would have required acknowledging that it had landed somewhere specific and stayed there.

You worked through several more questions — about communication, about conflict, about shared values — Logan answering in the same unhurried, matter-of-fact way, like the answers had already been decided and he was simply reporting them.

And then you got to the last one.

"Okay, last question." You shifted onto your side to face him. "If your partner made a serious mistake — something that hurt you — what would it take to make things right? Option A: a heartfelt conversation and genuine apology. Option B: time, space, and proof of change. Option C —" you paused, because option C was very 2003 "— a grand romantic gesture. Flowers, candlelight, the whole thing."

You said it like it was funny. You said it with the lightness of someone reading from an old magazine on a Saturday afternoon.

Logan put his phone down.

He looked at the ceiling for a moment. Then he turned his head and looked at you with an expression that was doing something complicated underneath the surface.

"What would you pick?" he said.

You considered it. "Honestly? C, but private. Like not in front of everyone. Just — showing up. With flowers, or peonies, they are my favorite. And meaning it." You paused. "The meaning it is the important part."

Logan looked at the ceiling again.

"Many flowers," he said. His voice was even. Carefully even.

"Like an unreasonable amount," you said. "Like someone made a decision about it."

"Right," he said.

He was quiet for a moment. You looked at him — at the careful evenness of his expression, the specific stillness of someone sitting with something — and almost asked what he was thinking about.

Then he turned back to you with the warm unhurried expression you knew, and kissed your temple.

"Good to know," he said.

You looked back at the magazine. Jennifer Lopez looked back at you, unbothered.

You did not know, lying there on a grey February Saturday, that you had just handed him the exact shape of something he was going to need.

Logan knew.

He stared at the ceiling after you looked away and thought about a check written on the back of a receipt and a conversation in a locker room and the specific, settling weight of something that had been waiting a long time to be said.

Too many flowers, he thought. Private. Meaning it.

He closed his eyes.

I have to tell her, he thought.

He did not tell her.

Allie had not been looking for information.

She had been in the kitchen at the off campus house on a Wednesday evening, waiting for Dean to finish getting ready so they could go to dinner, scrolling through her phone with the patience of someone accustomed to waiting for Dean to finish getting ready. She was not listening. She was not paying attention to anything except the particular injustice of being told seven-fifteen and it being seven-thirty-two.

And then Dean's phone rang on the counter.

She glanced at it automatically. Logan.

Dean came out of the bathroom still pulling on his jacket and picked it up. "Hey. What's up."

Allie went back to her phone.

"What do you mean you need to tell her." Dean's voice had shifted into something lower, more careful. "What's — Logan. Logan, have you not told her yet?"

Allie looked up.

Dean had his back to her, one hand pressed to the counter, the specific posture of someone having a conversation they hadn't prepared for. "It's been three months, man. How have you — okay. Okay, calm down. Just — tell me what happened."

A pause. Dean listening.

"So tell her," Dean said. "Just — tonight. Call her and tell her. It's been long enough, she'll —" another pause "— Logan, I know it's not going to be easy but you can't just — yes I know you actually love her, that's not the — okay, listen —"

Allie set her phone down on the counter very carefully.

"What," she said.

Dean turned around.

The expression on his face moved through several things in quick succession — surprise, recalibration, and then the specific, flattening look of someone who understood exactly what had just happened.

"Allie —"

"What did you do," she said. Not a question.

Dean lowered his phone slowly. On the other end Logan was saying something, unaware.

"Dean." Her voice was very even. "What did you do."

He told her.

He told her all of it — the bet, the thousand dollars, the locker room — and Allie stood in the kitchen and listened with the stillness of someone who was getting progressively more furious in a way that had not yet found its exit.

When he finished she said nothing for a moment.

"She's my friend," she said finally.

"I know —"

"She is my friend and you let her date him for three months without telling her."

"It wasn't supposed to —"

"Dean." She picked up her keys from the counter. "Do not follow me."

"Allie, please just —"

"I have to tell her," she said. "She's my friend. I'm not going to —"

"Please," Dean said, and his voice had lost all its usual confidence, stripped down to something that was just — asking. "Please just give me a chance to fix it. I'll tell Logan to tell her tonight. Just give me —"

"You had your chance to fix it three months ago," Allie said. "And two months ago. And last month." She looked at him for a long moment. "I love you. And you did something really wrong. And she needs to know."

She left.

Dean stood in the kitchen alone and listened to Logan's voice still coming from the phone in his hand.

He put the phone to his ear.

"She already knows," he said.

You were in your aparment when Allie knocked.

She told you everything standing in your doorway, quickly and directly, the way Allie did things — no preamble, no softening, just the facts arranged in order. The bet. The thousand dollars. The locker room. Three months.

You stood very still while she talked.

When she finished you said nothing for a long moment.

"Get your keys," you said.

"(Y/N) —"

"Get your keys, Allie."

The drive to the off campus house took four minutes. You did not speak. Allie drove and you looked at the road ahead and felt cold clarity of someone who had moved past the part where things hurt and into the part where they simply had to be dealt with.

The lights were on when you pulled up. Of course they were.

You didn't knock.

You walked in and Logan was already in the hallway, like he had heard the car, like some part of him had known — and the expression on his face when he saw you was the expression of someone who had been waiting for this and was still not ready for it.

Dean was behind him. Tucker and Garrett further back, in the doorway of the living room, with the expressions of people who understood the room and had decided to stay very still.

"Hey —" Logan started.

"Did you take a bet," you said, "to ask me out."

The hallway was very quiet.

"Yes," Logan said.

The word landed.

"How much," you said.

"A thousand dollars."

You looked at him. This person. This person whose coffee order you knew, whose preemptive apologies you had found endearing, whose smile you had forty-seven saved clips of and only eleven of them were for work.

"You had to be paid," you said. Your voice was very quiet. "Someone had to pay you. To ask me out."

"It wasn't —"

"A thousand dollars," you said. "That's what it cost. That's what asking me out was worth to you. A thousand dollars and someone else's idea."

"That's not —"

"I told you I loved you." The words came out steadier than you expected. "Three weeks ago. In your room. I told you I loved you and you said it back and the whole time —" you stopped. Started again. "The whole time there was a check. There was a check and you knew and you said it back anyway."

"I meant it," Logan said. "I mean it. I love you, that has nothing to do with —"

"It has everything to do with it." Your voice cracked slightly and you pushed past it. "Because maybe you do. Maybe you actually do love me. But I will never know that now. Do you understand that? I will never know which part was real and which part was a thousand dollars because you didn't tell me. You had three months to tell me and you didn't."

"I was going to —"

"When?" you said. "When were you going to tell me? After another month? After a year? Were you ever actually going to tell me or were you just going to keep it and hope I never found out?"

He said nothing.

"That's what I thought," you said.

You turned to Dean.

Dean was standing very still with an expression that had none of his usual ease in it, stripped down, uncomfortable, genuinely ashamed in a way that you recognized as real and that made it worse rather than better.

"I thought you were my friend," you said. Your voice was different now, not cold, something more broken than cold. "I thought — you were supposed to be my friend. I told you things. I told you how I felt about him and you used it. You turned it into a transaction and then you watched me fall in love with him and you said nothing."

"I know," Dean said. His voice was very quiet. "I know."

"I taught you how to use the camera," you said, which was not what you meant to say but came out anyway, and somehow it was the most honest thing — the small specific intimacy of it, the way you had shown him the angles and the settings and he had been genuinely interested and you had thought this is what a friend looks like. "I showed you everything. I thought you were —"

"I was," Dean said. "I am. I'm so sorry."

"Don't." You picked up your bag. "Don't apologize right now. I can't — I need you to not talk to me right now."

You looked at Logan one more time. He was standing in the hallway with his hands at his sides and the open, devastated expression of someone who had run out of words and knew it.

"Please," he said. Just that. Just the word, quiet and without any of the composure he usually wore like a second skin.

"I have to go," you said.

"Please just let me —"

"Logan." Your voice broke on his name, just slightly, and you steadied it. "I have to go."

You walked to the door. Behind you you heard him take a step.

You opened the door.

"You two fucking suck," you said, to the hallway, to both of them, to the three months of Tuesday practices and bus rides and magazine quizzes and I love you said and meant and received by someone who was keeping a check in his jacket pocket the whole time. "Never talk to me again."

You walked out.

Allie was waiting by the car. She took one look at your face and said nothing, just unlocked the doors, and you got in, and she drove, and the campus moved past the windows dark and quiet and entirely indifferent.

You did not cry until you got back to your aparment.

And then you did, for a while, with Olivia sitting beside you saying nothing because there was nothing to say, just being there the way people who actually loved you were there when things went wrong.

You had to be paid, you thought, in the dark.

A thousand dollars.

The house was very quiet after you left.

Tucker and Garrett had retreated to the living room. Nobody was saying anything.

Dean sat on the bottom step of the stairs and put his head in his hands.

Logan stood in the hallway where you had left him and looked at the closed door and thought about everything — the check, the locker room, the first dinner, the magazine quiz on a grey February Saturday, too many flowers, private, meaning it — and underneath all of it, constant and quiet, the thing he had known for three months and had managed to convince himself didn't matter:

You had deserved to know.

You had deserved to know from the beginning and he had chosen not to tell you and you stood in his hallway and said I will never know which part was real and he had had no answer because there was no answer that fixed that.

Garrett appeared in the doorway of the living room. He looked at Logan for a long moment.

"I told you not to," he said. Not unkindly. Just said.

"I know," Logan said.

"From the beginning. I told you."

"I know, Garrett."

Garrett looked at him for another moment. Then he went back to the living room without saying anything else, which was somehow the most devastating response available.

Logan sat down on the floor of the hallway with his back against the wall and stared at nothing.

I have to fix this, he thought.

He had absolutely no idea how.

The email to the athletics department went out the following morning.

It was professional and brief — you cited personal reasons, thanked them for the opportunity, offered to train your replacement, gave two weeks notice. You sent it before you could think about it too hard, before the part of you that loved the job could talk the other part out of it.

You were not going to sit in that rink anymore. You were not going to film those practices or those games or stand in that corridor outside the locker room with your tripod and your equipment bag and pretend that everything was the same as it had been before.

Your phone had messages from Logan and Dean by noon. You read none of them.

The football team's social media coordinator reached back out by the end of the day.

You started the following Monday.

The football team was different from the hockey team in ways that were both obvious and unexpected. Louder, in some ways. Different rhythms, different energy. The guys were nice and the work was interesting and you were good at it, because you were good at this, that had never been in question.

You were fine.

You were getting finer by the day, which was either progress or a very convincing impression of it.

Allie texted. Garrett texted — I'm sorry, for what it's worth I told him not to — which you appreciated more than you could say. Tucker sent a single text that just said I tried to talk him out of it and you believed him and told him so.

You did not respond to Logan.

Logan's days had a new shape to them and he hated it.

Practice was the same, same drills, same ice, same team, but the stands were wrong. The spot where you always sat, third row back on the left side, was empty now, and he knew it was empty without lookin. He looked anyway. Every practice, every morning skate, every film session, he looked, and the spot was empty, and he looked away.

Logan texted you every three days. Not long messages, just checking in, just your name sometimes, just I know you don't want to hear from me right now but I'm sorry. He did not expect responses. He sent them anyway because not sending them felt worse.

He watched your football content. Every post, every reel, every behind-the-scenes clip. He watched the way you filmed the new team — the same eye, the same instinct for the right moment, the same ability to make something look like something worth watching — and felt the specific, particular ache of someone who understood what they had lost because they had been paying attention to it the whole time.

He had always been paying attention.

That was the thing that made it so much worse.

Three weeks after you left, the hockey team got a new social media person.

Her name was Jade. She was a sophomore, enthusiastic, slightly overwhelmed, and she had asked you to walk her through the setup on a Tuesday morning when the team had a late practice, which meant you were in the rink, with your old equipment, showing someone else how to use the angles you had spent seven months learning, when the team came off the ice.

You had not planned for this. You had assumed they would be gone by the time you were done.

They were not gone.

You heard them before you saw them, he familiar noise of the team coming out of the locker room corridor and then Tucker saw you first and stopped walking so abruptly that Garrett walked into him.

"What —" Garrett looked up. Saw you. His expression did something complicated.

The rest of the team filtered out around them, and then Dean, and then Logan, and the corridor went through a specific collective recalibration.

You kept your face completely neutral. "Hey," you said, to the general group. "This is Jade. She's taking over the social media. I'm just showing her the setup."

Jade waved cheerfully, unaware of the atmospheric pressure of the corridor.

"Taking over?" Tucker said slowly.

"Yes," you said. "I moved to football." You said it simply, like it was information and not anything else. "Jade is great, she's going to do a really good job."

The team was looking at you with various expressions. Tucker looked pained. Garrett looked like he was doing math.

Dean was looking at the floor.

Logan was looking at you with the expression of someone watching something leave that they had already lost and were only now understanding the full shape of. You could feel it without looking directly at him. You had spent seven months learning the specific weight of his attention.

"You're actually leaving," Tucker said. "Like permanently."

"I already left," you said. "This is just the handover."

"But —" Tucker started.

"Tuck," you said, gently. "It's fine. Jade is great."

Jade smiled again.

"We kind of made you leave," Tucker said, in the specific tone of someone who had been holding something for three weeks and had finally said it out loud.

"Tucker —"

"No, like —" he stopped. Looked at Dean. Looked at Logan. Looked back at you. "We made you leave. That's what happened. And I just — I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say but I'm sorry."

The corridor was very quiet.

"You didn't make me leave," you said carefully. "You tried to talk him out of it. I know that."

Tucker nodded. Still pained.

"Right," Garrett said finally, in the tone of someone deciding to be graceful about something painful. "Good luck with football."

"Thanks," you said.

You turned back to Jade and kept going with the walkthrough, and the team filed past, and you did not look at Logan as he walked by even though you could feel him slowing down, even though you could feel him wanting to say something.

"Hey," Logan said. Very quietly. Just that.

You kept your eyes on the camera settings you were showing Jade.

He stood there for a moment. Then his footsteps continued down the corridor.

You exhaled very quietly and kept talking to Jade about angles.

Behind you, fading, you heard Dean say something low and urgent to Logan that you couldn't make out. And Logan's response, quieter still:

"I know."

Logan started showing up.

Not to you, he respected the never talk to me again enough not to push himself into your space. But he started showing up in the ways that were available to him.

He fixed the tripod mount in the storage room that had been broken since October — the one you had mentioned once, months ago, in passing, because it made the camera angle slightly off and you had learned to compensate for it. He left a note on it that said finally fixed it. sorry it took so long. No signature. He didn't need one.

He started showing up to the football team's games.

Not every game. Not in a way that was dramatic or obvious. Just there, in the stands, with the quiet patience of someone who had decided that if the mountain wouldn't come to him he would go to the mountain and sit in the stands and watch from a respectful distance.

Olivia told you the second time it happened.

"He was there again," she said carefully.

You said nothing.

"He's not doing anything," she said. "He's just — there. Watching."

You said nothing.

"I thought you should know," she said.

You knew.

You knew because you had clocked him the first time — third row back, left side,— and you had kept filming and not said anything and thought about it for three days.

He texted you after the third game.

logan: you got a good shot of the QB in the third quarter. the one right before the play call. it was good.

You stared at the message for a long time.

yn: how would you know

logan: i was there

A long pause.

logan: i'll keep coming if that's okay. i won't bother you. i just want to be there.

You put your phone down.

You picked it up.

yn: it's okay

Dean did not sleep the night you found out.

He lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling and thought about the specific expression on your face when you said I thought you were my friend — not angry, which would have been easier, but broken, which was not easier at all.

At four in the morning he picked up his phone.

dean: allie

allie: i'm awake

dean: i know i really messed up

allie: yes

dean: i don't know how to fix it

A long pause.

allie: you start by not trying to fix it. you start by just being sorry.

dean: i am

allie: i know. she needs to hear it from you. not a text. not through anyone else. you.

dean: she said never talk to her again

allie: i know what she said. give her time. and then go.

Dean put his phone down.

He stared at the ceiling until it got light outside.

You took your own sweet time.

Not to feel better, you were not operating under the illusion that time fixed everything, but to feel what you needed to feel without an audience. You went to classes. You went to work. You filmed the football team's Tuesday practice and focused on the angles and the light and the professional satisfaction of a job done well, and you did not think about hockey, and you did not look at your phone when certain names appeared on the screen, and you let Olivia bring you food and watch bad television with you without making you talk about it.

On the fourteenth day Dean was waiting outside your lecture hall.

He looked terrible. Not dramatically terrible — Dean was constitutionally incapable of looking terrible — but tired.

You stopped when you saw him.

He held up both hands. "I'm not here to make excuses," he said. "I know you said never talk to me again. I know. I just — five minutes. And then I'll go and I won't bother you again if that's what you want."

You looked at him for a long moment.

You stepped to the side of the path, out of the flow of people. He followed.

"Say what you have to say," you said.

Dean looked at you with the expression you had never seen on him before, no performance, no charm deployed at the right moment, nothing managed. Just a person who had done something wrong and knew it and was standing in front of the person he had done it to.

"I've never had a friend like you before," he said. "Like — actually. I have guy friends. I have girls I've hooked up, almost dated or whatever. But I've never had a girl who was just — a friend. Who I talked to and who talked to me and who I could be around without it being anything else." He paused. "And I took that and I made it into a scheme. And I told myself I was helping and maybe part of me was but part of me just — didn't think far enough ahead. Didn't think about what it would mean to you if you found out. Didn't think about you at all, honestly, which is the thing I'm most sorry about." He held your gaze. "I thought about Logan being in love with you and I thought about the bet being clever and I didn't think about you being a person who deserved to know the truth. And I should have. You should have been the first thing I thought about."

The path had mostly emptied. A bird somewhere was doing something aggressively cheerful.

"I miss my friend," Dean said. "I know I don't get to just say that. I know. I just needed you to know that it's real. You are actually my friend and I actually miss you and I'm actually sorry, not sorry like I feel bad, sorry like I understand what I did."

You looked at him.

You thought about the bus and his head on your shoulder and on the team, I meant and the way he had looked genuinely wounded when you said Tucker was probably your better friend on the team.

"It's going to take time," you said finally.

Something in his expression shifted — careful, not quite hope yet.

"I know," he said.

"You don't get to just be normal yet. We have to rebuild that."

"I know."

"And you have to actually be different," you said. "Not just sorry. Different."

"I will be," he said. "I already am. Or I'm trying to be." He paused. "Is that enough to start with?"

You looked at him for a long moment.

"It's enough to start with," you said.

The careful-not-quite-hope became something more than that.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"Don't thank me yet," you said. "We have a long way to go."

"I know," he said. "I'll go as slow as you need."

You looked at the path ahead.

"I have class," you said.

"I know. Go."

You went.

It was a start.

Logan was harder.

Not because you were angrier at him — you were, if you were being honest, angry at both of them in equal measure, just differently. Dean had betrayed a friendship. Logan had betrayed something larger, something that had your name on it, something you had handed him on a grey February Saturday when you said I love you and meant it with everything you had.

You saw him at the football games. Third row back, left side, every time. Not looking at you directly, just there, present, with the quiet patience of someone who had decided that showing up was the only thing available to him and had committed to it without reservation.

He sent you a text after every game. Not about him, not about them, about your work. Good shot in the second half. The one where you caught the receiver right before the snap. The slow motion reel you posted was really good. The timing was perfect. Small specific things that said I was paying attention without saying anything else.

You read them all.

You responded to some of them.

Small things. Thanks. I almost didn't post that one. Nothing that opened a door, just acknowledgment. The acknowledgment of someone who was not ready and was not pretending to be and was also not entirely gone.

He was not pushing. That was the thing you noticed most. He had shown up to three football games and fixed a broken tripod mount and sent careful specific texts about your work and he had not once asked for anything in return. Had not once said I think we should talk or please give me a chance or any of the things that would have made it easier to keep the door closed.

He was just — there.

Being different.

The grand gesture arrived on a Thursday, five weeks after the fight.

You were in the football team's equipment room going through footage on your laptop when someone knocked on the door. One of the managers looked in.

"There's someone outside asking for you," he said, with the specific expression of someone who had seen something and found it notable.

You went outside.

The path outside the athletics building was where you found him — Logan, in the cold, with flowers. Not a bunch. Not a normal amount. An amount that represented a decision — sunflowers and peonies and something small and white, wrapped loosely in paper, assembled with the specific intention of being too many, more than one person could reasonably carry, held in both arms with the careful energy of someone who had thought about this and decided it was not enough and added more anyway.

You looked at the flowers. You looked at him.

He looked tired in the same way he had looked tired since the night you left — not dramatic, not performing it, just genuinely worn down in the way of someone who had been carrying something for five weeks without putting it down.

"You said private," he said. "Too many flowers. Someone made a decision." He paused. "I made a decision."

Your throat did something inconvenient.

"Logan —"

"I'm not asking you to forgive me today," he said. "I just you said meaning it was the important part. And I needed you to see that I mean it. That's all. I'm not asking for anything."

You looked at the flowers. Peonies. He had gotten peonies specifically.

"You remembered the peonies," you said.

"You mentioned them once," he said. "A long time ago."

"You were paying attention," you said.

"I was always paying attention," he said quietly. "That was never the problem."

You stood there in the cold outside the athletics building and thought about I will never know which part was real and the third row left side and the texts about your work and five weeks of him being different without being asked to prove it.

"This isn't enough," you said.

Something flickered in his expression.

"I know," he said.

"I need more than flowers."

"I know," he said again, steadily. "Tell me what you need. Whatever it is. I'll do it."

You looked at him for a long moment.

"I need time," you said. "Real time. Not rushing. Not us going back to how things were because it was comfortable and we missed each other. Actually starting over and doing it right."

"Okay," he said.

"I need you to keep showing up," you said. "Not just when it's easy. When it's hard and uncertain and you don't know if it's working. You keep showing up anyway."

"I will," he said.

"And I need you to understand that I might get angry again," you said. "Even after I've forgiven you. It might come back and I might need to say something and you have to let me say it without shutting down."

"I will," he said. "I'll listen. Every time."

You looked at him.

"The texts," you said. "About my work."

"Yeah."

"You were at every game."

"Yeah."

"Third row back. Left side."

He looked at you quietly.

"I know," you said. "I noticed."

Something in his expression shifted.

"I was always going to ask you out," he said. "I need you to know that. Not as an excuse. Just as a true thing. The money didn't change what I felt. It just — it gave me a reason I shouldn't have needed and I took it and I'm sorry. But what happened between us was real. Every single part of it was real."

"I know," you said, which surprised you slightly, because you hadn't known you knew until you said it. "I know it was real. That's what made it hurt so much."

He nodded.

"Give me the peonies," you said.

He carefully extracted the peonies from the arrangement and held them out. You took them.

"The rest you can take home," you said.

"Okay."

"And Logan —" you paused. "The showing up. Don't stop."

Something broke open in his expression — not dramatically, not loudly, just quietly and completely, the expression of someone who had been holding something for five weeks and had finally been given a place to put it down.

"I won't," he said. "I promise."

You looked at him for one more moment.

"Slow," you said.

"As slow as you need," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

You went back inside.

You stood in the equipment room with the peonies and thought about everything — the check and the bet and the fight and five weeks of third row left side and too many flowers on a Thursday afternoon in the cold.

You were not okay yet.

But you were standing with peonies, which was somewhere.

It was enough to start with.

The getting back together did not happen all at once.

It happened the way the crush had happened — gradually, against nobody's will this time, the way things did when they had been building for a long time and had finally found the right conditions.

The first time you went back to the rink it was not for work.

It was a Saturday game, mid-March, the kind that mattered for standings, and you had told yourself you were going because Allie and Hannah were going and Olivia was going and it was a group thing and had nothing to do with anything else.

You brought your camera.

Not the work camera your personal one, the smaller one you used when you were filming for yourself rather than for a content schedule. You told yourself it was habit. You told yourself you just liked having it.

You sat third row left side.

The thing about watching hockey when you actually knew what you were looking at was that it was a completely different experience from watching hockey when you were just there for the atmosphere. You knew the plays. You knew the patterns. You knew which moments were about to become something before they became something, the specific pre-motion stillness that preceded a good play, the way certain players telegraphed their intentions without knowing they were doing it.

You knew Logan's tells better than anyone.

Which was why you had your camera up and ready when he got the puck in the second period the slight shift of his weight, the way his head came up a half second before anyone else's, and then the play unfolding exactly the way you had known it would, clean and fast and entirely worth watching.

You got the shot.

Forty-three seconds of it, actually.

You lowered the camera and looked at what you had captured and felt something settle in your chest that was warm and quiet and entirely familiar.

Genuinely cinematic, you thought, and smiled at the ice.

Briar won.

The team filtered out of the locker room in the usual way in ones and twos, loud and post-game, spilling into the corridor where the usual group had gathered. Allie found Dean. Hannah found Garrett. Tucker found someone to complain to about a call in the third period.

You were reviewing footage on your camera when you felt someone stop beside you.

You looked up.

Logan was still in half his gear, hair damp, and he was looking at you with the expression you had forty-seven saved clips of — the real one, the one that had nothing managed about it — except that now you were allowed to look at it directly, which was still something you were getting used to.

"You came," he said.

"I came," you confirmed.

"You brought your camera."

"I brought my camera."

He looked at it. He looked at you. "Did you get anything good?"

You turned the camera around and hit play. The second period play unfolded on the small screen — the weight shift, the half second of stillness, the clean fast movement of something that knew exactly where it was going.

Forty-three seconds of it.

Logan watched it. Something in his expression went soft in the specific way it did when he was actually feeling something and had decided not to manage it.

"That's —" he started.

"Genuinely cinematic," you said.

He looked at you.

You looked back at him.

And then he kissed you right there in the corridor.

It was warm and certain and tasted like relief of something that had been a long time coming and had finally, simply, arrived.

When you pulled back he was smiling the real one, the one you had been filming without quite admitting why for seven months.

"So," he said.

"Yeah," you said. "We're back together." You pointed at him. "Don't fuck up."

Logan laughed a real one, surprised and warm, the kind that carried down the corridor and made Tucker laugh too without knowing why.

"I won't," he said.

"I mean it."

"I know you mean it."

"Good." You tucked your camera back into your bag. "Buy me food. I've been at a hockey game for two hours and I'm starving."

"Done," he said immediately.

You started walking and everything was different from before, which was the whole point, which was exactly what you had asked for.

Better. Not the same. Better.

Behind you, fading, you heard Tucker say something to Garrett.

"Called it," Tucker said.

"You called nothing," Garrett said.

"I said they'd get back together —"

"You said that last week —"

"Which was a call —"

"Tucker —"

You and Logan kept walking.

"Do they ever stop?" you said.

"No," Logan said.

"Good," you said. "I missed it."

He looked at you sideways. That expression.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Me too."

[lushfruit]

you’re losing me - john logan

Pairing: John Logan x fem!reader

summary: Being in love with your childhood best friend was no easy feat, but it was manageable. Until it wasn’t. When John Logan breaks a crucial promise, he’s forced to confront what’s been standing in front of him all along.

based on this request! i hope i did it justice <3

content: so.much.angst. like, so much. unrequited love, reader is a stem major. the characters are more accurate to their book counterparts occasionally, namely tucker. oops. some things may be ooc but it is for the sake of the plot. logan is unknowingly an asshole.

note: i may or may not do a part two, my motivation fluctuates! hope you enjoy because this was super sad to write.

He’s looking at her.

His arm rests along the back of the couch, the sensation of it familiar enough that you barely notice it anymore. Every few minutes, when someone says something particularly funny, his hand shifts and his fingers brush against the exposed skin of your shoulder blade. It’s casual, absent-minded contact. It means nothing to him and everything to you.

Around you, the boys’ house is lively. Tucker is arguing with Birdie about the game they’ve been at for hours on the TV. Every once in a while, someone tells them to shut up. They do that for a total of five minutes before someone inevitably raises their voice, leading the other to do the same.

You should be finishing up your story. It was a stupid tale, one about falling asleep during a lecture.

Instead, you’re watching him.

Or rather, you’re watching where he’s looking.

His gaze drifts across the room so often that you’ve begun anticipating it, finding yourself following the path before he’s even finished turning his head. It happens during conversations. During periods of silence. During moments when he’s supposed to be paying attention you.

His eyes always find the same person.

You wonder if anyone else notices.

Maybe they don’t. Maybe they haven’t spent nearly ten years studying every version of John Logan.

Ten years.

Long enough to remember the cracked sidewalks of your hometown and the suffocating certainty that neither of you belonged there. Long enough to remember sitting on the roof of his garage at thirteen years old, passing back and forth what was always bag of Hot Cheetos while making promises far too big for kids your age.

You had been determined to leave.

And somehow, against every odd stacked against two middle-schoolers with seemingly unattainable dreams and no real plan, you did.

You earned your place through a STEM scholarship that had consumed countless nights and enough caffeine to raise alerts towards your cardiovascular system. He earned his through hockey, through early mornings and bruises and a relentless dedication that you supported him all throughout.

Different roads, same destination.

For nearly a decade, the two of you had existed side by side.

And for six of those years, you’ve loved him.

You weren’t sure when you realized it, but once you did, it felt as though things finally clicked into place. There had always been that speculation from others that you two were something beyond a mere friendship—but there was no weight to it. Not while it wasn’t true, anyway.

You thought it may have been the puberty. John was no longer a scrawny kid who you hovered over. He’d grown into himself as the years passed—taller, stronger, more confident. It was a simple crush that came as a result of change, you told yourself.

But you had began to think it was more than that, that it always had been. Once the feeling arrived, it made no effort to fade—settling into the empty spaces between inside jokes and late-night phone calls, between shared victories and devastating failures. It lodged itself so deeply within your bond that you stopped looking for where friendship ended and something else began.

Maybe that was your mistake.

Across the room, Hannah laughs.

The sound is soft enough that most people would miss it beneath the chatter, but John hears it.

Of course he does.

Hannah Wells has a way of drawing attention effortlessly. Her smile comes easily, brightening her entire face like a Christmas tree. Honey-brown hair spills over one shoulder as she speaks. Her deep cerulean eyes crinkle when she laughs. Hearing her sing for the first time made it no better.

And she is so kind.

She remembers your birthday, she asks you questions on a subject you think had long been over. She makes you feel seen.

It’s impossible to blame him for looking.

The problem is that lately, he hasn’t seemed capable of looking anywhere else.

His fingers brush your shoulder again, mindlessly.

Across the room, Hannah says something to Allie that you can’t quite make out.

Logan smiles.

And suddenly, despite his arm around you and his knee pressed lightly against yours and nearly ten years of friendship sitting comfortably between the two of you, you’ve never felt further away from him.

Tucker notices your shift in mood before Logan does. You like Tuck the most out of all of Logan’s friends. He’s a year below the rest of you, though you like to say he’s the most mature out of all of them. He’s observant, you learned.

He tilts his head at you, silently asking if you’re okay. You send him a half-hearted thumbs up. Something clicks for him and he accepts your answer, redirecting his attention to the game.

You think Tucker knows about your crush on John. A part of you hopes he doesn’t, but another part of you knows that he does.

At some point, Logan notices you’ve stopped talking. By the time he has, you’re fiddling with your bracelet. He frowns, glancing at his own matching one on his left wrist. You were both surprised they had never broken. Logan enjoyed referring to it as a testament to your long-standing friendship. The blue and purple embroidery of both your bracelets have become a halo of fuzz, but they remain intact nonetheless.

Logan glances back at you, studying you once again—knit eyebrows, lip tucked between your teeth. You’re upset.

“What’s wrong?”

You meet his doe eyed gaze and hate yourself for thinking about drowning in them. He knows you as well as you know him. So much so that you can’t lie and pretend you’re okay. He’s read you and he’s decided that you’re not.

So you do the next best thing.

“It’s just stuffy in here,” you reply passively, maintaining a poker face when you push off the couch and his fingertips leave your shoulder blades. “I’m gonna get some air.”

The cool evening air hits you the second the front door clicks shut, but it does nothing to clear the sudden suffocating weight in your chest. You walk over to the edge of the porch, gripping the wooden railing just to have something solid to hold onto.

Behind you, the front door opens and shuts. Familiar footsteps thud against the wood. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him, you’d know the specific cadence of his stride anywhere.

"Hey," Logan says softly, stepping up beside you, jacket in his hand. He leans his forearms against the railing, his large frame blocking out the slight breeze. "You left your jacket inside. It’s freezing out here."

You make no effort to retrieve the coat from his grasp. You don’t look even at him. Instead, your eyes fixate on a tiny, industrious spider crawling across the top of a plastic patio chair a few feet away. It is small, frantic, and entirely unaware of the shifting plates of your universe, completely consumed by the monumental task of weaving a web between two cheap slats of faux-wicker. You envy it. You want to be anything else—a spider, a piece of dust, a thread on your frayed bracelet—anything but the girl standing under the porch light, slowly unraveling.

"I'm fine," you tell him, the words slipping out easily, rehearsed from a decade of practice.

"You're not fine," he insists softly. It’s not an accusation. It’s a statement of fact.

"I am fine," you repeat, but your voice is uneven.

You always are, somehow. It’s a reflex by now. Burn the midnight oil until your vision blurs, crash through exams on three hours of sleep, watch the boy you’ve loved for six years slip through your fingers like water—the answer is always the same: I’m fine.

"Don't do that," Logan mutters, turning his head to look at you. His eyes are swimming with an earnest yet frustrating concern that always makes you want to spill your guts. "We don't do that. Talk to me. Did someone say something inside? Did I do something?"

You let out a breath that cuts like a laugh, though there’s no humor in it. You look out at the dark front yard, at the dead leaves scattering across the pavement.

You finally turn your head to look at him. You note the exact way the yellow porch light catches the bridge of his nose, the slight shadow of stubble along his jawline. You know every iteration of this face. You know the childhood version, the teenage version, and this current, devastatingly handsome collegiate version.

And yet, looking at him right now, he feels like a stranger wearing your best friend's skin.

"That's just it, Logan. You haven't done anything." Your voice drops, stripped of its usual warmth. "You haven't been doing anything. Not with me, anyway."

He blinks, a small, defensive crease forming between his eyebrows. "I don’t understand.”

“I know you don’t,” you murmur.

“Then explain it to me.”

"It means you’re pulling away," you say directly, the words tasting like copper in your mouth, but you force them out anyway. You don't mention Hannah. You don't have to bring up the way his eyes track her, or the way his laugh sounds higher when she’s in the room. This isn't about her. This is about him. This is about the space where your best friend used to be. "You’re always somewhere else. I talk to you, and it’s like I’m throwing words into an empty room. You look right through me lately. You’re right here, and it feels like there’s a thousand miles between us."

Logan stiffens. For a second, his mouth opens to deny it, the knee-jerk reaction of a guy who prides himself on being loyal. But as he looks at you—at the tight line of your jaw, at the way you're holding onto your own arm like you’re trying to keep yourself from falling apart—you can see the fight slowly leave him.

The silence stretches, punctuated only by the joyous yells of your friends inside.

"I didn't. . .” Logan starts, his voice dropping an octave. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, looking down at his shoes. "I didn't realize I was making you feel like that. I swear to God, I didn't."

"Well, you are." Your voice trembles just a fraction, and you hate yourself for it, pulling your shoulders back to overcompensate. "I know that friends drift. But I don’t wanna be background noise in your life.”

Logan steps closer, closing the small physical gap between you. He reaches out, his large hand wrapping around your forearm—right over the frayed threads of your bracelet. You pray he doesn’t notice the hitching of your breath.

"You're not background noise," he says sincerely, his desperate eyes searching yours. "You could never be. I'm sorry. Seriously. I've had. . . I’ve just had a lot on my mind lately, and I’ve been distracted. I’ve been a shitty best friend, and there’s no excuse for it. I’m so sorry."

You look at his hand on your arm. You look at the genuine regret pulling at the corners of his eyes. He doesn't know that the distraction is killing you for an entirely different reason. He just knows he hurt his person, and he wants to fix it.

You swallow the ache in your throat, nodding slowly. You let the anger go, because holding onto it hurts worse than forgiving him does.

"It’s okay," you assure him. "Just don’t forget about me, dork.”

"Never," he promises, squeezing your arm before letting go. A small, relieved smile tugs at his lips, the tension leaving his shoulders. He makes no effort to back away from you. It’s all the more suffocating. "I promise. Hey, you still have that big winter showcase coming up in two weeks, right? For your department?"

"Yeah," you say, a genuine spark of nervousness lighting up your stomach. "It’s the Friday after this upcoming one."

"I'll be there," Logan says instantly, his voice full of the certainty that usually makes you feel safe. "Front row. I'll even wear a stupid button-down shirt so your professors think I'm respectable. Deal?"

You look at him, wanting so badly to trust the boy who used to share bags of Hot Cheetos on a garage roof.

"Deal," you agree.

The fluorescent lights of the auditorium are blinding. It is 5:30PM. The STEM showcase had officially kicked off at five, the culmination of sleepless semesters, data sheets that blurred into meaningless code by three in the morning, and enough stress to permanently alter your brain chemistry.

Your phone sits completely dark and powered down in the bottom of your tote bag. You hadn't sent Logan a reminder text today. You hadn’t wanted to seem needy, and besides, you figured he’d remember.

He knew what this meant to you. He’d been the one to hold you on the floor of your bedroom a week ago ago when the overthinking caught up to you, his large hands rubbing slow circles into your back while you sobbed into his chest, terrified that it wouldn’t be enough. He’d promised then, just like he’d promised on the porch, that he’d be here.

Last night, you had even swung by the hockey house, your presentation slides printed out and shaking in your hands, just looking for a final bit of reassurance to quiet the jitters. But Logan wasn't there. He’d been at Malone’s, helping Hannah setup tables and banners for the upcoming weekend showcase she offered to host for music majors.

It was fine, you told yourself. It really was. He was trying to be better, and you could see the effort. The crush was still a persistent ache in your ribs, but he hadn't let it bleed into your friendship the way he had before. You understood what it was like to be at someone’s beck and call—hell, you’d been at his for six years. You couldn't blame him for falling under Hannah’s gravitational pull.

Logan hadn't been there last night, but Tucker had.

Tucker had stopped chopping vegetables, wiped his hands on a dish towel, and sat you down at the kitchen island. He listened to you stumble through your abstract, giving you a supportive nod when you finished. When you told Tucker he didn't have to worry about coming tomorrow since it was so last minute and Logan would be there anyway, Tucker had just given you an easy smile.

“Then you’ll have two of us cheering you on," he’d promised.

Now, standing by your trifold and your laptop, the nerves are a sickening weight in your stomach. You’ve just finished presenting to the final round of judges. Your mouth is dry, your throat tight, but you’d gotten through it just fine.

Tucker had slipped into the back of the room right before your time slot, his broad shoulders cutting a reassuring silhouette against the crowded aisle. Seeing his familiar face had kept your knees from buckling.

But Logan’s seat in the front row—the one he’d promised to occupy in a stupid button-down shirt—remained completely empty.

It hurts. A sharp, localized sting right beneath your breastbone. You hadn't told anyone else in your life about the showcase because public speaking made you feel entirely naked, meaning Logan and Tucker were your only safety nets.

Everyone else would most likely be at Malone’s. You didn’t want them to choose between you and Hannah, because you knew they’d try to compromise, complicating things. You didn’t want a whole crowd, you were okay with just one person being there.

But you swallow the lump in your throat and smooth down the fabric of your slacks. It’s fine. Logan probably just got caught in campus traffic, or he had a handyman gig that kept him late. He missed the actual presentation, yeah, but there’s still time. The showcase goes until eight.

As long as he shows up before the winners are announced, it’ll be fine. He’ll still be there to celebrate with you. He has to be.

Two hours later, the auditorium is a blur of echoing applause and bright flashing cameras.

When the department head speaks your name into the microphone, announcing you as the first-place recipient of the showcase, the room erupts. Your peers are cheering, clapping you on the back as you walk up the stage, but the sound feels like it’s happening underwater.

Even the heavy glass they hang around your neck and the oversized novelty check—grant money that will entirely fund your next semester of research—do nothing to lift the leaden weight in your chest.

Tucker maneuvers through the crowd as soon as you’ve left the stage, a massive, proud smile lighting up his face as he pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. He hoists you slightly off your feet, laughing, telling you he always knew you had it in the bag.

But when he pulls back, his smile falters. He looks at your eyes, watery and strained, and the pride in his expression softens into a deep concern. He knows. He can tell exactly how badly you're hurting.

But even now, with a first-place medal heavy against your sternum, you find yourself building a fortress of excuses for John Logan.

You give him the benefit of the doubt, because the alternative is unendurable. He’d never do this intentionally. Not after last week. Not to you. Something had to have happened. A family emergency with his mom. Something with Jules. Maybe he’d taken a brutal hit at practice and was sitting in the training room with a concussion, his phone locked away. He had to be hurt. He had to be incapacitated.

"Let's get you out of here," Tucker says softly, his hand settling on the small of your back, shielding you from the lingering crowds as you pack up your laptop. "I can walk you back to your dorm."

"Actually," you say, your voice tight as you zip your tote bag, "can you take me back to the house? Honestly, after the day I’ve had, I’m dying for a home-cooked Tucker special. I need some real comfort food."

You try to make it sound like a casual request, but Tucker’s hand goes entirely still against your back. He doesn't laugh it off. Instead, an uncomfortable hesitation washes over his features. He looks away, his jaw tightening as he stares out at the emptying auditorium.

In that single beat of silence, a cold and sickening realization dawns on you.

Perhaps Logan isn't sick. Perhaps he isn't hurt. He isn't in a hospital or dealing with a family crisis. Tucker knows exactly where he is.

He forgot.

The thought devastates you, a physical blow that leaves you in theoretical agony, but right on the heels of the sadness comes a sharp, blistering wave of fury. You’re a winner. You just secured your future for the next semester. This should be one of the greatest nights of your life, and yet Logan has latched himself so deeply into the fabric of your existence that he can still ruin it without even being in the room. You hate yourself for letting him have that much power over you.

"You sure you want to go to the house right now?" Tucker asks, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, laced with a warning he isn't entirely voicing.

You stop, staring at him. Your chest heaves. "Why? Is he there?"

Tucker looks at you, his brown eyes full of a grim, reluctant pity. He stays silent. He doesn't say a word, but his silence tells you everything you need to know. He's there. He's perfectly fine, at the hockey house while you were standing on a stage alone.

A hot, dangerous spark ignites in your blood.

"Take me there," you say, your voice dropping all the compliance, hard as flint. He begins to say your name, but you don’t allow him to. "Tucker. Take me to the house."

The ride to the hockey house is quick, though you believe that’s a product of the heavy thrum of your own pulse. Tuck keeps one hand on the steering wheel, your grim mood proving itself to be contagious.

Every few minutes, his voice breaks through the quiet of the truck, telling you to take a breath, telling you to try to calm down. But you can hear the sharp undercurrent of his own anger fueling the engine. He’s pissed on your behalf, but you don't have the capacity to appreciate it right now. You just stare straight ahead.

When the truck comes to a stop in the driveway, you don't wait for Tucker to kill the ignition. You throw the door open and march up the steps, completely ignoring him as he calls your name.

You push the door open, not so much that it was disruptive, but it was noticeable nonetheless.

The warmth of the house hits you first, along with the loud, easy cacophony of a Friday night wind-down. The TV is on, and everyone is scattered across the living room. Allie, Garrett, Dean, and Hannah.

And Logan.

The sheer normalcy of the scene feels like a slap to the face. You stand in the entryway, the first-place medal swinging slightly against your chest, dressed in the gray slacks and blouse you’d picked out so carefully. For a fraction of a second, looking at their relaxed posture and happy faces, you feel entirely microscopic. Like an ant on the back of someone’s boot, completely insignificant to the world revolving around them.

Then, the room goes quiet.

Dean is the first one to look up from the couch. His eyes take in your sharp posture, the formal attire, and finally, the heavy piece hung around your neck catching the ambient light. A grin breaks across his face, completely ignorant of the storm cloud rolling off your shoulders.

"Look at that," Dean announces, raising his cup in a mock toast. "The prodigal daughter returns!"

He’s trying to be supportive. Under any other circumstance, you’d smile, you’d thank him through narrowed eyes. You know he doesn't know. He has no idea what Logan promised, or what it cost you to stand on that stage alone.

But you don't look at Dean. You don't look at Garrett or Allie or Hannah.

Your eyes lock onto Logan.

He’s sitting on the edge of the cushions, and the exact moment your gaze finds his, the color drains completely from his face. It’s like watching a man realize he’s stepped off a cliff. His eyes drop to the medal on your chest, then snap back up to your face, wide and absolutely crushed. The realization of what he’s done hits him in a ton of bricks.

Usually, that look on his face would undo you. Usually, seeing John Logan look that miserable would trigger every protective instinct you’ve harbored for him, making you want to soften the blow, to tell him it’s fine, to smooth it over.

But tonight, you feel absolutely nothing.

The reservoir of sympathy has completely dried up, replaced by a fury that has been bubbling beneath the surface for months.

He hadn't just missed a presentation. He had broken a promise. He had lied to your face on the porch, sworn he was back, and then willfully chose to be somewhere else.

You stare at him, the silence in the room turning suffocatingly loud as the others finally catch onto the tension, and the only thought roaring through your mind is how completely invisible you’ve been to him.

That look of shame is enough gratification for you. If he can feel only a fraction of the pain you’d allowed yourself to endure these past few years, that was good for you. You couldn’t stand staring into the eyes of the man you once thought you knew anymore.

You turn your heel against the floorboards, every instinct screaming at you to walk out that door, to erase John Logan from your life, and to leave him standing in the wreckage of a ten-year friendship.

"Wait," his voice cracks through the silence of the room as he calls your name. "Please wait. I’m sorry. Just—please, just wait!”

You halt entirely. Your flats glue themselves to the floor, the medallion thudding against your chest like a pendulum swinging into a dead stop.

Sorry?

The word tastes rancid just hearing it bounce off the walls of the hockey house. You hadn't known what you wanted him to say when you walked through that door.

You hadn't known if there was a combination of vowels and consonants in the English language that could possibly fix this. But hearing his apology serves as nothing other than gasoline thrown directly onto a grease fire.

Slowly, you turn back around.

Your friends look horrified. You almost feel bad that they’re forced to witness this. You almost want to turn around and leave, leaving this argument for when you’re less heated, less hurt.

But you can’t. He needs to hear you. If not last week or the week before that, now.

Logan takes a step toward you, his hands raised slightly as if approaching a wild animal. "I lost track of time. The showcase at Malone’s—"

"Shut up," you say quietly.

The words aren't screamed. They are quiet, sharp, and dripping with an edge that makes Logan freeze in his tracks.

"Just. . . shut the hell up, Logan." You take a step forward, your shoes clicking against the hardwood. "Don't you dare use that as an excuse for being a pathetic, spineless coward."

He glances at the group that has gone dead silent. You don’t know if what he says next is for your sake or his, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Let’s go outside,” he offers, his tone resembling something of a plea. “We can—“

“No!” you spat harshly. “You’re gonna listen to me.”

You’d never spoken to him this way. Not in such a venomous tone, stripped from all warmth. For once, Logan does exactly what you’ve asked of him—to listen. His lips part but no words escape them.

"You sat on the porch two weeks ago," you continue, your voice rising now, the heat finally breaking through the ice. "You held my arm, and you looked me in the eyes and promised me you’d change. Do you have any idea what today was?"

Logan swallows hard, his brown hues welling with a desperate, pathetic panic. "It was the department showcase."

"It was the biggest night of my academic career!" you explode, the anger tearing out of your throat. "I have spent months working on this! I broke down sobbing over this because of how tired I was, and you were the one who held me! You knew exactly how terrified I was. You knew I didn't invite anyone else! What would’ve happened if Tuck wasn’t there?"

You gesture wildly to the medal around your neck.

"I stood on that stage alone, John. I scanned that auditorium for two hours, giving you the benefit of the doubt. I thought something had happened. I thought you were lying in a ditch somewhere or bleeding out in a hospital, because that is the only reason the John Logan I grew up with would ever miss this!"

A tear escapes his eye, rolling down his tanned cheek. "I messed up. Fuck, I know I messed up. Let me make it up to you, please—"

"You didn't mess up, you chose!" you hiss, stepping right into his space, forcing him to look down at the fury burning in your eyes. "You’ve made it perfectly clear where I rank on your list of priorities."

"I am wearing a first-place medal," you continue, your voice trembling with a devastating mix of triumph and agony. "I just won enough grant money to pay for my entire next semester of research. This should be the happiest night of my life. But all I can think about is how my best friend couldn’t show up when I needed him.”

"Please," Logan chokes out, reaching a trembling hand toward your shoulder, his fingers twitching to make that familiar, absent-minded contact. "Just—“

You snap your shoulder back, avoiding his touch as if his hand were coated in acid.

But as you jerk away, the zipper of his jacket catches on the frayed, fuzzy threads of your embroidered bracelet. There is a sudden rip. The threads give out all at once, unraveling in a split second as the broken token of your childhood slips from your wrist and flutters uselessly to the floor.

Logan freezes, his eyes dropping to the colorful, ruined heap of strings resting on the hardwood between you two.

It’s symbolic, you think.

"Don't touch me," you say, your voice dropping into a flat, dead register. You stare at him, washing away every ounce of the six years of love, every ounce of the ten years of friendship, until there is absolutely nothing left between you but a void.

"Don't talk to me. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever. You’re dead to me, John."

You turn on your heel and march straight out the front door into the freezing night air.

Logan doesn’t even think before stepping forward to follow after you, but Tucker shuts the door, preventing him from doing so.

He doesn't yell. Instead, he steps into Logan’s space, grabs a fistful of his shirt right at the collar, and shoves him backward into the hallway leading toward the bedrooms. Logan doesn't even try to fight it—he stumbles back, his eyes wide and vacant, completely numb from the fallout.

Tucker slams the door of his room shut, but he doesn't bother locking it. He doesn't need to.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Tucker demands, his voice a growl that vibrates through the walls. He isn’t screaming, but he’s not exactly whispering. “Because right now, I’m having a hard time recognizing one of my best friends.”

“Tuck, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen—”

“You made her a promise, man!” Tucker cuts in sharply. “You told her you’d be there. You looked her dead in the eye and gave her your word. Do you have any idea what today was like for her?”

“I lost track of time. Hannah—”

“Don’t do that,” Tucker says, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t make this about Hannah. This is about you. You screwed up. You’ve been taking that girl for granted for long enough, and she’s been in your corner through every stupid decision you’ve made. Last night, I was the one sitting with her while she practiced that presentation because you were too busy being handyman.”

“She stood on that stage tonight. Every time those judges walked up to her, she checked those doors. Every damn time. She thought something happened to you, because that’s the only reason she could come up with for why you’d break your word to her. And the whole time, you’re moving tables at Malone’s? That’s your excuse?”

“I know I messed up,” Logan chokes out. “I know. I’ll fix it. I’ll talk to her—”

“No, you won’t,” Tucker says immediately. “Not today. Not anytime soon.”

He takes a step back, folding his arms across his chest.

“She told you to stay away. So for once, stop thinking about what you want and listen to what she asked for. You made this mess. If you actually want a shot at fixing it, give her some space and hope she decides you’re worth talking to when she’s ready.”

“Tuck—”

“I’m serious, Logan. Leave her alone. The last thing she needs right now is you showing up trying to make yourself feel better.“

@itmekelpy

[ceruleanheaven]

[looking at people younger than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at people older than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at myself] its over

[tteokdoroki]

big fan of bakugou wrapping his big arms around you when he’s standing behind you whilst you wait in line for something. rests his chin or his cheek on top of your head as your fingers curl into his bicep around your shoulder. he’s humming a random tune or grumbling about the wait, swaying you from side to side.

“we almost to the front yet?”

[tteokdoroki]

think if you tell him “no, just a few more people.” bakugou gets super stroppy and flops all his weight on you almost like a child trying to find entertainment. chuckling when you struggle to stand straight ‘cause he’s just a block of muscle. you start pouting and prepping scold him but his blonde hair tickles your neck — his warm plush lips pressing kisses along your cheeks and jawline.

“are you twelve, kacchan?” you huff. “get off’a meeee,”

“‘m boreeeed,” bakugou complains, voice gruff but still sort of whiny. “just playin’…”

you roll your eyes, squeezing his arm sitting comfortably at your neck. “play with something else.”

his rough palms pinch at your waist and you shuffle forward with the crowd. “nah,” his voice drops to a teasing baritone octave, sending a subtle shiver down your spine and heat to the surface of your cheeks in front of the crowd. “i’d rather play with you, sweetheart.”

[starlord-s]

the first time you see tommy shelby in years, he’s forcing a grenade down someone’s chest in the middle of the pub you’ve worked in since you were sixteen.

you should be horrified, an ordinary person would be, but the corners of your lips tilt up in an amused smile.

“alright, tom?” you ask and his eyes rake over your figure, as if he’s remembering a time when the two of you were younger and more foolish. when it didn’t feel like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, and the only thing he had to be worried about was your dad finding out you were sleeping with a man old enough to be your own father.

“get me a drink will you, darlin’?” he asks, and you don’t miss the looks of horror from the regulars in the pub as they realise the legend that’s standing in front of them.

you make tommy his drink, and try to ignore the way your heart picks up when his fingers brush against yours when he takes the glass.

“so, do you know where the fuck i can find my son?” he takes a sip from his glass and you try not to focus on the way his throat bobs.

“what makes you think i’d know that?”

“(y/n),” he laughs lightly, even though it’s far from funny. “you don’t have to pretend like you aren’t lifting your skirts for him. you always did like a shelby.”

your slap rings throughout the pub, the crowd of onlookers watching in surprise.

tommy’s tongue caresses his lower lip and a ghost of a smirk crosses his features.

“there she is.” he says softly.

[m9yaa]

⤷ neteyam x fem!human!scientist!reader

- cw: lower case intended, aged up!neteyam, smut, p in v, humans can breathe the air, virgin!reader, mention of masturbation, neteyam keeps talking about his imagination, fingering, oral (fem receiving), cum eating, dirty talk, size difference (not explicitly mentioned but reader is human soo), neteyam’s kinda possessive, slight belly bulging. let me know if i missed anything!

- an: apologies if this seems rushed. also, so sad we only got glimpses of neteyam in the third movie, i miss my mannn.

- wc: 4.5k

- summary: you and neteyam were inseparable as children. like spider, you were a human left behind, raised among the omatikaya, growing up with pandora as the only home you ever truly knew. when quaritch and the recoms forced jake sully and his family to flee, neteyam disappeared with them, leaving you behind for years of silence and unanswered feelings.

that is, until he returns.

༻༺

you don’t remember a time before pandora.

the forest has always been there in your memories. the hum of insects at dusk, the way the leaves glowed beneath your bare feet, the smell of rain clinging to everything. you learned the paths before you learned to read, learned which branches could hold your weight, which plants to avoid, which ones neteyam swore were “harmless” right before you proved him wrong.

neteyam had always been there too, along with kiri, lo’ak, tuk and spider of course.

you grew up at his side, trailing after him and his siblings like it was the most natural thing in the world. he taught you how to climb when your human hands slipped, how to keep quiet when the forest went still, how to laugh when you fell instead of crying. sometimes he carried you on his back when you got tired, grumbling the whole time but never once leaving you behind.

you were different, you always knew that, smaller, softer, human. but with him, it never felt like something that mattered. you belonged because he said you did. because the sullys said you did.

those days feel impossibly distant now.

you remember the tension creeping in before everything changed. the way the adults spoke in hushed voices, the way neteyam stopped laughing so easily. you didn’t understand gravity of it then, only that something was wrong. that the forest felt heavier. that goodbye came too fast.

one day, they were there.

the next, they were gone.

the forest felt wrong after that. too big. too quiet. you still walked the same paths, still slept beneath the same stars, but everything felt tilted, like pandora itself had shifted without him in it. you told yourself you were fine. you had to be.

norm and max stayed.

they became your anchors in a way you hadn’t expected. the lab, once overwhelming, all blinking lights and foreign sounds, slowly turned into something familiar. safe. you still visited the clan occasionally, although no way near as much as you once had. you learned how to calibrate equipment, how to catalogue samples, how to keep your hands steady even when your chest felt tight with missing someone you weren’t sure you were allowed to miss this much.

you grew up between microscopes and memory.

years passed like that. quietly. you traded scraped knees and borrowed na’vi clothes for data pads and human fabric that felt strange against skin used to vines and leaves. you still visited the forest, pandora was home, always would be, but you were changing, just as much as everything else.

and then one day..

“they’re back!”

the words didn’t register at first.

your hands stilled over the lab bench. the hum of machinery faded into a dull roar in your ears. they’re back. which meant..

no. you didn’t let yourself think it. not yet.

when they arrived, it was chaos. voices overlapping, na’vi gathering, the air thick with emotion and relief and something heavier underneath. you hung back near the edge, heart pounding so hard you were sure everyone could hear it.

and then you saw him.

neteyam stood just behind his father, taller than you remembered, broader, scarred in ways that made your chest ache. the boy who you remembered to be, was gone. in his place stood a warrior, quiet, alert, eyes sharper than before.

his gaze swept the crowd.

and then it landed on you.

for a split second, something cracked in his composure. not enough for anyone else to notice, but you did. you always had. his eyes widened, just barely, like he was seeing a ghost.

you weren’t the same either.

you saw it in the way his gaze lingered, uncertain, like he was trying to reconcile who you were now with the memory of the human kid who used to sit beside him, legs swinging, asking too many questions.

too much time had passed. too many things left unsaid.

but he was here.

he was here and it felt surreal.

you couldn’t move, feet rooted to the ground and you observed the surroundings. around you, people moved, embraces, voices, relief spilling out in bursts but all of it blurred at the edges. all you could see was him.

however, you broke eye contact first.

it wasn’t dramatic, no rush, no stumble, just a quiet decision made. this wasn’t your moment. it shouldn’t be. he’d just returned from years of hiding, fighting, surviving. his family was there, his clan, people who had mourned him as much as they’d waited. whatever this tight, aching thing was in your chest didn’t get to come before that.

so you stepped back.

you slipped through the edge of the crowd, boots soft against the forest floor, the sounds of reunion fading behind you. laughter, choked voices, someone crying openly. it felt wrong to intrude on it with everything you didn’t know how to say. you told yourself you were being sensible. kind, even. he deserved time. space.

you didn’t want to be selfish. and even more, maybe those feelings you felt years ago were one sided. maybe neteyam didn’t feel the same way you did.

the lab welcomed you back with sterile light and familiar hums. too quiet compared to the forest, but steady. you busied yourself with anything you could reach, data logs, recalibrations, a half-finished report you’d already rewritten twice. your hands worked on muscle memory alone, because your mind kept drifting back to the way his eyes had widened when he saw you.

hours passed.

max and norm both questioned why you hadn’t gone to greet them all yet, but you didn’t have a proper answer.

you were bent over a console, pretending very hard to read numbers that refused to make sense, when a shadow crossed the doorway.

you didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

the air shifted, subtle, instinctive, the way it always had around him.

“you didn’t come say hi,” neteyam said.

his voice was deeper now. rougher. it sent a warm feeling through your body.

you turned slowly, schooling your expression into something neutral, professional. safe. “you just got back,” you said, like it explained everything. “i figured you’d want to be with your family… your clan.”

for a moment, he just watched you. really watched you. not like before.

“i looked for you,” he said quietly.

“you had a lot of people looking for you,” you reply casually. “i thought… you’d want time with them first.”

neteyam exhales through his nose, something between a huff and a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. he steps closer, careful, like he’s not sure if you’ll bolt if he moves too fast.

neteyam eyes flicker over you, slow, deliberate, taking in the way you’ve changed. his tail twitches behind him, restless.

"you’re taller," he blurts out, voice rough. his gaze lingering on your legs, your waist, the curve of your lips.

you swallow hard.

“taller.” that’s all he says? after years? your fingers tighten around the edge of the console, grounding yourself. "and you’re… broader." the words slip out before you can stop them, your traitorous eyes skimming over his chest, the new scars mapping his skin like stories he never got to tell you.

a beat of silence.

his lips quirk. just barely. "you noticed."

your face burns. “damn him”

neteyam steps closer, the scent of him curling around you. too close. your pulse stutters when his tail sways, brushing your thigh. accidentally? you doubt it.

"you left," you blurt, hating how small your voice sounds.

his amusement fades. "i didn’t have a choice."

"You could’ve sent something, tried to communicate with me.” you muttered.

“it was hard when you all left, the only family i felt like i had.”

"i tried." his jaw tenses. "messages got intercepted. people got hurt."

you bit your lip.

neteyam exhales, running a hand through his braids. "you cut your hair." he changes the subject.

you resist the urge to reach for the shorter strands. "it got in the way."

he hummed, his gaze drops to your neck, exposed now. "i liked it long."

“it’s not that much shorter.” you replied.

the air between you thickens, is it awkwardness or just tension? you really can’t tell.

just then, lo’ak swings through the door unceremoniously, his carefree attitude cutting through the thick tension in the air. he takes a moment to take in the scene. neteyam and you are standing close, conversation halted in its tracks. lo’ak lifts an eyebrow, noticing something is off, but his usual smirk remains intact. "you two look serious." he quips, leaning against the console with ease.

neteyam takes a subtle step back, his expression guarded. "we’re just talking." his voice is casual, but there's a hint of irritation.

lo'ak chuckles, his gaze flickering between them. "just talking? looks like it was getting a little heated in here."

“not really.” you butted in, “he was just mentioning my hair.”

lo’ak’s smirk widens at your response, clearly not buying what you said. "right," he drawls, crossing his arms.

neteyam shoots him a glare, tail flicking in annoyance.

lo'ak just shrugs, unfazed. "anyway, dad wants you. something about perimeter checks." he glances at you again, then back at neteyam. "unless you're busy…?”

neteyam exhales sharply through his nose. "i'm coming."

as he moves to follow lo'ak, his fingers brush against yours deliberately, before he pulls away completely. the brief contact sends a wave of heat to your cheeks.

it was innocent enough, but being human on pandora, you never really received any sort of attention from boys, let alone contact.

lo'ak, oblivious to the silent exchange, claps neteyam on the back. "great! because dad’s in one of his moods..”

the door slides shut behind them, leaving you alone in the lab.

later that night, you couldn’t sleep.

your bedroom felt suffocating, so you slipped outside, letting pandora’s night air cool your skin. the glowing flora pulses softly underfoot as you wander deeper into the trees, trying and failing not to think about neteyam.

you felt like you were a kid again, before the events unravelled.

just you and the forest.

the only difference being you in your human pyjamas, rather than the loincloth and top you used to wear.

a twig snaps behind you, pulling you out of your thoughts.

you turn, pulse jumping. only to find neteyam standing there, his silhouette haloed by bioluminescence.

“you followed me," you accuse.

he steps closer, his gaze dark. "yeah." no excuses. no pretenses.

it caught you off guard.

“i was heading over to see you, then saw you leaving so i followed behind.” he replied.

you simply observed.

it made sense.

he made his way over to you, ducking through branches and other greenery.

his fingers trace the edge of your jaw, his touch feather-light, maddening. “i thought about you, you know?” “every damn night under those same stars. wondering if you still looked up at them. if you… missed me."

you gulp as you watch him.

his thumb presses against your bottom lip, dragging it down just slightly. his pupils are blown wide, dark with something raw.

"and when missing you got too much?" he leans in, his next words whispered against your skin, “ i touched myself imagining it was your hands on me."

your stomach clenches, heat pooling low.

neteyam’s words hung thickly in the air, the intensity of his gaze making you shiver. you were short for words, shocked at his sudden confession.

your heart hammered in your chest, a mixture of desire and uncertainty swirling inside you. you swallowed hard, trying to collect yourself before responding. "neteyam, i..." your voice trailed off, uncertain of what to say, but he took another step closer, his tail wrapping around your waist almost possessively.

his hand slid up to cradle your face, his touch sending sparks across your skin.

"sometimes..." his thumb traced the shape of your bottom lip, his voice low and raspy. "sometimes i’d close my eyes, pretend you were with me."

His eyes moved over you, the intensity of his gaze making your heart skip a beat.

"and i’d think about you in those moments... how I would touch you, if you were there."

his breath warmed your neck as he leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “i’d imagine you here… like this… under the stars we both looked up at.”

a shiver raced down your spine as his lips brushed the shell of your ear.

“remember that hollow in the cliffs? where we used to hide from lo’ak during games?” his voice was rough, low. “i’d imagine me lying there at night and picture you beside me.. under me.”

your breath hitched.

“i’d imagine pushing your shirt up slow,” he murmured, one hand sliding along your waist, fingers teasing beneath the fabric, “feeling how soft your skin is, how warm. i used to wonder if you'd arch into my touch like this…” he pressed his palm flat against the small of your back and pushed, just enough to make you gasp.

“and i always imagined,” he whispered against your jaw, “that when I finally kissed you here, really kissed you.. you’d taste even sweeter than i imagined.”

his hips shifted forward, the slightest grind, and a low sound escaped him.

“that’s when i would of slipped my hand down,” his thumb hooked into the waistband of your pyjamas, “you wouldn’t stop me.”

you let out a small whimper.

“i dreamt about feeling how wet you get for me,” he admitted hoarsely. “wondered if those quiet little noises would be enough to drive me wild after years of waiting.” he nuzzled into the crook of your neck.

"you kept me up late," he murmured, teeth grazing your skin.

his mouth moved lower, along your collarbone, nipping at it teasingly.

“teyam..” you whined quietly.

"shhh," he hushed, voice thick with want. his hips pressed firmer against yours, letting you feel every hard inch of him. "my little scientist... finally letting me taste what's been mine all along?"

his hand slid lower, past your hips, down to the back of your thigh and hooked it up around his waist. you gasped as he lifted you effortlessly, pinning you against the tree.

"i imagined this too," he growled into your ear. "you wrapped around me, just like that night by the waterfall when we were younger.”

you bit your lip as the memory came flooding back in, you forgot about that.

"i dreamed about making you cum under these stars," he whispered raggedly, tail curling tighter around your waist like a promise. "with my mouth on you.. my name on your lips..”

he finally dipped his hand beneath the hem of your pyjamas, soft fabric sliding aside and brushed one fingertip over damp heat.

he groaned low in his chest.

“shit.. no panties?”

“i.. i don’t wear any to bed.” you replied sheepishly.

he let out a rough, pleased noise. half-growl, half-laugh.

“good,” he breathed. “means I don’t have to tear anything off you.”

his finger dragged through your folds slowly, once, twice, making you whimper and arch against him. “you’re already so wet…”

“you made me wait years,” you gasped, fingers clutching at his shoulders. “of course I’m..” you let out a mewl, “ready for you..”

he smirked, adding pressure just where you needed it. “i used to dream about how tight you’d feel around my fingers… my cock.” he slid one deep inside with no warning, slow, deep, and your head fell back against the tree as a moan tore from your throat.

“like that?” he purred.

you nodded ferociously as his thumb found your clit, circling with torturous precision. "tell me," he murmured, voice thick, "how many nights did you lie awake thinking of me?"

you cried out, hips jerking forward. "n-neteyam!”

"answer me." he added pressure, relentless. "did you touch yourself? imagine it was my hand? my mouth?"

a broken sob escaped you. "yes!..” you whined. “almost nightly!..” you followed up.

he continued pumping his fingers in, out, in, out, for a good few minutes.

his fingers curled inside you just right and suddenly, the world shattered. a sharp cry ripped from your throat as heat exploded low in your belly, waves of pleasure crashing through you as you came hard around his fingers, wet and trembling, your knees nearly giving out.

neteyam didn’t pull away. didn’t stop.

he held you through it, thumb still circling the bud gently as the tremors faded, watching your face with fascination.

he slowly slid his soaked fingers free, and without breaking eye contact, he brought them to his lips and sucked them clean.

your breath caught at the sight, the raw hunger in his eyes, as dropped to his knees in front of you.

his glowing eyes locked onto yours as he hooked your pyjama shorts around his fingers and yanked them down over trembling hips.

his nose brushed your inner thigh.

his hands slid up the underside of you knees, spreading your legs wider.

“look at her.. perfect.” he mumbled under his breath as he looked almost star-struck.

you watched, breath heaving, as he pressed light, worshiping kisses up the inside of your thigh, his eyes locked onto yours.

he looked wrecked, just from watching you cum.

his breath was hot against your skin. "you’re so beautiful," he murmured.

then he exhaled low, like a prayer, and lowered his mouth to your cunt, still pulsing from your release. he lapped up at your cunt with slow, deep strokes of his tongue.

"you taste even better than I dreamed," he groaned against you.

your fingers fisted into his hair as he circled your clit with his tongue, before he moved further down and began teasing your entrance.

he didn't let up. just held you steady with strong hands on your hips and drank from you like a starved man.

he groaned against your heat, the sound vibrating through you. “so sweet… mine.”

every flick of his tongue was deliberate. slow at first, savoring, like he had years to make up for. then deeper, hungrier. his nose brushing your clit as he devoured you with quiet desperation.

you gasped, back arching off the tree as his thumbs spread you wider and ‘yes..’ “there!” that wicked swirl right over your most sensitive spot.

“you gonna come again?” he murmured between licks, voice rough with need. “right on my face?”

You could only whimper in return, but it was enough.

because neteyam growled low in his chest and dove back in like a man possessed, licking deep into your folds, circling your clit with maddening precision before sucking it gently into his mouth.

stars blurred above you. the forest pulsed beneath. and all that existed was this, him between your legs, the way his name broke from your lips like a prayer..

“neteyam… i’m.. i’m gonna..”

his ears twitched at the sound, and he redoubled his efforts, tongue swirling faster, sucking gently as one hand slipped beneath to cup your ass, pulling you even closer.

"again," he growled against you. "let me feel it baby..”

and when you came, shuddering violently against his mouth with a choked cry, he didn't stop.

he just moaned like it was him being rewarded.

the vibrations sent another shockwave through your oversensitive nerves, making your legs tremble.

finally, slowly, he pulled back, but only enough to press one soft kiss to your inner thigh.

then looked up at you, eyes glossy, swollen lips glistening with you..

"still not enough," he whispered, voice raw.

he rose in one fluid motion, closing the space between you again, your back to the tree, his body against yours.

you could feel him now. hard, thick, straining against his loincloth, pressed right where your body still pulsed from his mouth.

his lips found your neck, biting gently. "wanna be inside when you come again."

your breath hitched. "neteyam..."

"i know," he murmured, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip. "too much? too fast?"

you shook your head desperately.

“no..”

he exhaled sharply through his nose, the closest thing to losing control you'd ever seen from him.

"good." his hand slid down to cup you possessively between your legs, one finger teasing at your entrance again.

he swiftly took off your top

your bare skin prickled as the cool night air caressed your chest.

he leaned in, lips skimming the shell of your ear. "you ever been with anyone else?"

your stomach fluttered nervously. "no..”

he smiled against your skin, satisfaction and relief pouring off him.

"good…" he whispered, his hand skimming up the front of your bare torso, creeping upwards towards your breasts.

"no one else got to touch you like this... did they? only me."

"only you…" you confirmed.

he groaned low, his mouth moving along your jaw, claiming more territory. "that’s right. you’re mine. only mine."

his hand found your thigh again. "put your leg around me."

you wrapped your leg around his hip, drawing him closer.

your heart stuttered as you felt just how hard your touch made him. neteyam inhaled sharply, his fingers digging into your thigh.

"that's it," he murmured, voice rough. "hold onto me."

you obeyed, grasping onto his shoulders, holding him tight. your body hummed with anticipation.

he pulled you even closer, grinding his hips against yours almost involuntarily with a shaky exhale. you could feel just how much you had affected him.

"missed you…" he murmured between kisses, his lips trailing along your neck. "all these years, i… imagined this. over and over again."

"i did too..." you whispered back.

he kissed you, slow and deep, it made your chest ache. not just desire, something more.

when he pulled back, his eyes searched yours under the soft glow of pandoran night.

his hands moved to the ties of his loincloth and in one smooth motion, freed himself.

you gasped at the sight. thick, proud, already glistening at the tip.

he guided himself to your entrance slowly.. teasingly.. letting just the head slide in as his thumb found your clit again.

"look at me," he demanded softly.

you obeyed as you held his gaze.

with a low groan that vibrated through both of you, he pushed forward inch by inch.. filling you completely until there was no space left between you.

you cried out, part pain, part overwhelming fullness as he stretched you for the first time, your body clenching around his girth.

he froze instantly. "hey… hey, look at me," he murmured, voice thick with concern and restraint. his thumb brushed your cheek as he stayed buried deep inside you, motionless, letting you adjust.

tears pricked your eyes.

"you're okay," he whispered against your lips. "i’ve got you. just breathe… for me."

you nodded shakily and took a breath in and then another, feeling yourself slowly relax around him.

“that’s it," he praised softly, kissing away a tear that slipped free. "take all of me."

and when you rolled your hips slightly, a quiet signal, he exhaled like it was agony and began to move.

slow at first, one deep thrust that made stars burst behind your eyelids, then another just as deliberate.

each one sent waves of pleasure spiraling through you until the line between pain and ecstasy blurred.

"neteyam…" your voice called out

he kissed you hard as his rhythm picked up, one hand gripping your hip to pull you onto him deeper with each stroke, the other tangled in yours above your head.

"i’m here," he muttered against your skin. "feel me?" he said as he pushed his much bigger hand against the bulge, disappearing and reappearing in your stomach with each thrust.

"i feel you... all of you," you gasped, nails raking down his back as he rolled his hips harder.

each thrust drove a moan from your throat, deeper, fuller than before. he was so deep inside you it felt like he was touching your soul.

"yeah? you take me so damn well," he growled, shifting slightly, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every powerful stroke. "mine.. only mine.."

you sobbed out his name as the pressure built again, tighter this time, hotter.

"that’s it," he whispered against your neck, his lips on your pulse point. "come for me, baby. i want to feel you.” he pulled back, looking down at you both, watching his cock slip in and out of your cunt.

“look at us,” he rasped, voice thick with awe and hunger. “you’re taking every inch..”

his thrusts turned shallow, rhythmic, just enough to grind against your clit with each roll of his hips. you whimpered, back arching as the pleasure coiled tighter, unbearable now.

“neteyam.. i’m.. i’m..”

one hand slid between you, rubbing firm circles over your swollen bud. “come on my cock. let me feel it.”

and when you shattered, your body clamped down around him in pulsing waves. he groaned like it was salvation.

“yes.. yes.. that’s it..” he panted against your neck as you trembled through the release.

but he didn’t stop moving.

just kept thrusting, deeper now, as if your pleasure had only fueled his need.

"i’m not gonna last..” he groaned, his mouth finding yours again. "not gonna last..”

you could feel his control slipping, his rhythm turning erratic, his breath coming rougher now as he chased his own release.

“then don’t,” you whispered against his lips, nails digging into his back. “i want you to cum inside me.. want to feel it..”

his hips stuttered at your words, like you'd stripped the last of his restraint away.

"shit..” he choked out, burying his face in your neck as his body tensed. "you're gonna make me..”

with a deep, guttural groan, he thrusts into you hard, once, twice and then stilled completely.

you felt it, he came inside you, each wave shuddering through his body and into yours.

he collapsed against you slightly, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breathing ragged and raw.

for long moments, there was only the sound of the forest breathing around you and your hearts beating in sync.

finally, he lifted his head just enough to look at you, eyes soft now.

he cupped your face, thumb brushing your sweaty forehead. "you okay?" he whispered, still out of breath.

you managed a nod, too spent to form words just yet.

he huffed a small laugh, lips finding your temple.

he pulled out slowly, gently and immediately wrapped his arms around you as your legs finally gave way. his warmth didn't leave you, not even for a second, as he lowered himself to the soft moss beneath, pulling you on top of him with care.

he sat with your back pressed to his chest, legs cradling yours, tail curling snugly around your waist.

one hand smoothed damp strands of hair from your face, the other rested low on your stomach, possessive and tender all at once.

"you're incredible," he murmured into your ear, pressing a kiss just behind it.

you leaned into him completely.

his voice dropped lower. "i should've done this years ago."

༻༺

hiii! i hope you guys enjoy this one of neteyam! as always, reblogs, likes and comments are very helpful and i appreciate all of you guys who choose to support my work!

hope you have a great day! - maya 🪼

[joshuasmullet]

MARK WITH NCT 127 ♡

[livelaughghoul]

Seth Jarvis should be allowed to hunt c*rter h*rt for sport.

[aerishines]

Ningning | 'Lemonade', 260529.

[fic-dumpster]

[thankyou-taeyeon]

giselle 260515 whole different animal (WDA) | kbs music bank

[stormsies]

Baby, It’s Cold Outside

summary: Seth doesn’t really mind that his game is cancelled, especially when it means spending more time with you.

wc: 1.7k

a/n: my first hurricanes fic w/ one of my fav hurricanes guys! this is a lil self-indulgent but oh well. inspired by the real storm thats about to hit half of the u.s., everyone pls stay warm & safe!

જ⁀➴જ⁀➴જ⁀➴જ⁀➴જ⁀➴જ⁀➴જ⁀➴જ⁀➴જ⁀➴જ⁀➴

“Cancelled?” Your disbelief cuts through the otherwise peaceful lull of Seth’s apartment, which was a rarity with him.

He chuckles, squints his eyes at you. “Yeah—well, moved to a later date anyway. To be decided or whatever,” He hurriedly thumbs at the joystick of the controller he’s holding, guiding the virtual version of himself across the ice to attempt a wrist shot on Ottawa's goalie.

The shot bounces off the post and Seth groans. Since he couldn’t play his actual match against the Senators, he had settled for recreating it in NHL 26. To you, he seemed just as frustrated by the video game as he got in a real life hockey game.

“Huh. Well, that makes sense, I guess I didn’t realize they could just…do that.” You hum thoughtfully, fiddling with the hem of his sweatshirt. Your legs were comfortably draped across Seth’s lap, the rest of you nestled into the cushions of his comfy couch. He kept you pinned there, leaning into your legs as he played, like they were a seatbelt keeping him strapped into a rollercoaster. In between games, he’d sneakily inch his hand toward your foot until you felt a soft wiggle of his fingertips along the arch of your foot, causing you to swat his hand away. What? Seth would say, feigning innocence, I didn’t do anything!

Outside his apartment window, clouds loom over the Raleigh skyline, gray and threatening to spill over with the snow that was responsible for cancelling the Hurricanes’ game. 

The storm was all anyone had been talking about for the past week—meteorologists doing their best to predict the snowfall, local schools advertising their delays and cancellations, grocery stores picked clean of bread and milk.

“Yeah well, you southerners go crazy over a little snow.” Seth smirks, putting on an over-the-top southern drawl, mimicking your own. As much as he liked teasing you for your frequent use of “y’all” and the way you pronounced certain words like “tire” you knew he was a sucker for your accent. He leans forward off the couch, as if inching closer to the TV would help him to make this next shot.

“Nuh uh,” you chirp childishly, “It’s not just snow. It’s an ice storm.” 

Seth didn’t really get it. Being from Canada, he was actually used to dealing with more than his fair share of snow and ice. Down here, it just wasn’t the same. Down here, it was much rarer to get battered with winter weather. And as much as you liked the snow flurries, you were less than prepared to deal with its after effects.

“And,” you huff while attempting to shimmy your legs off his lap, “I should really get going before it rolls in.”

“What?” Seth swiftly pauses his game, latching onto your legs to keep you close to him. He all but launches his controller onto the coffee table, turning towards you with puppy dog eyes. 

You laugh lightly, falling back into the pillows. “Yeah, I don’t wanna be on the roads when it starts snowing. May get stuck at home for a while.”

You watch as the gears slowly turn in your boyfriend’s brain, a lightbulb flickering on from above his head. 

“Soooo…” Seth drags out, rubbing slow soft circles into your kneecap, “Just stay here.”

“Really?” You ask, quirking up an eyebrow in surprise. You and Seth had been seeing each other for a couple of weeks now, but you had yet to spend the night at either one’s apartment. For one reason or another—your nerves, his late games, your work schedule, his long stretches on the road—always got in the way. 

“Yeah, really!” He laughs, as if what you said was hilarious. “Like you said, you may get stuck in the house. So get stuck here, with me. I don’t want you to be alone in this mess. I mean, what if you lose power?”

“Oh, so now it’s gonna be a mess? Thought it was just a liiiittle snow?” You tease, pinching your fingers together and moving to sit up. You scooch closer to Seth, your legs still swung over him.

He rolls his eyes playfully, “Hey, I’m just sayin. You’re the one who said it’s supposed to be an ice storm. I’m just lookin’ out for my girl.” Seth says, throwing his hands up in mock surrender, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth.

You rub at your cheek, as if that would erase the heat blooming across your cheek from hearing Seth call you his girl. You’d be lying if you said an extended sleepover with him didn’t sound like a dream come true. In fact, it was what you’d been waiting for.

But a small part of you couldn’t help but feel nervous. Scared even.

“But…I don’t have any of my clothes here.” You squeak out, pressing your cheek to the couch.

“Just wear my clothes.” Seth quickly responds, like he’d been waiting for you to bring that up. Eager to offer up his wardrobe to you, the mere thought of seeing you strut around the apartment in his clothes had his brain short-circuiting.The blush returns to your cheeks, and you lean into the couch harder.

“I don’t have my toothbrush or toothpaste. Or my shampoo, or my conditioner, or my hairbrush, or my facewash, or my favorite pillow—”

Seth’s laugh cuts you off. “Well baby, get in the car real quick and we’ll swing by your apartment. You can pick up some clothes and all your little,” he wiggles his fingers in front of your face, “essentials.”

He drags his thumb across your warm cheek, his touch featherlight. You hum, not daring to speak aloud just yet.

“Unless you don’t wanna stay over? That’s okay too.” He questions, his tone not hurt, rather understanding. Seth had wondered why you hadn’t asked to stay over yet, but never pressed. He liked what the two of you already had, and had no intention of pressuring you to do anything you weren’t comfortable with.  

“No, no,” You quickly rush out, grabbing at his hand to keep it smushed against your face, “I really do. I guess I’m just…nervous?”

“Nervous?” Seth snickers, brows raised incredulously, “Of what?”

You shrug, suddenly self-conscious, “I don’t know, like…maybe you don’t want to spend that much time with me. Like you’ll get tired of me, or—”

“Okay, I’m gonna stop you right there,” Seth presses a finger to your lips to shush you, causing you to smile, “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough time spent with you. And I could never, ever, EVER, get tired of you.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he’s quick to interrupt again, “In fact, I couldn’t think of a better way to end my night than getting into bed next to you, and a better way to start my morning than waking up with you next to me. If anything, you’ll be the one getting tired of me.”

His confession makes your heart stutter. You don’t know exactly what to say---can’t put into words just how much hearing Seth, (who’s usually so casual with his spoken affection) say that means to you. Instead, you show your gratitude through the kiss you plant on his lips, soft and lingering. Seth melts into the kiss, matching your fervor.

“Okay,” You say simply, resting your forehead against his.

“Okay?” He smiles, pulling away to look at you, “Go get in the car babe, let’s go get your stuff.”

જ⁀➴જ⁀➴જ⁀➴જ⁀➴જ⁀➴જ⁀➴જ⁀➴જ⁀➴જ⁀➴જ⁀➴

Seth watches you from his spot in the bathroom, leaning against the door frame as he brushes his teeth. You’re nestled in his bed (which looks infinitely more comfortable with you in it) watching the wintry mix fall from outside the window, clad in nothing but a pair of panties and one of his oversized shirts, despite the fact that you’d packed enough clothes to last an entire week.

Not that he was complaining. Far from it, in fact.

He quickly finishes brushing his teeth—much earlier than he should, no way that his teeth were entirely clean—spits out the froth of toothpaste and water and practically jumps into bed. 

You giggle, shifting over slightly to make room for him. Seth only scoots closer into your space, desperate to feel your skin against his. 

“It’s really coming down out there,” You remark, gaze still fixed on the flurries of snow and sheets of sleet that tumble against the window. 

“Aren’t you glad you decided to sleep over?” Seth mumbles against your neck. He was spooning you now, your back flush against him, arms wrapped around you tightly. Sometimes you wondered how his teammates would react if they knew how much of a teddy bear Seth was behind closed doors. Some of them, like Jesperi, would surely give him hell for it.

“Aren’t you glad I did?” You deflect, rolling over to face your boyfriend. He gives you a toothy grin as you throw a leg over his waist, effectively entangling yourself with him under the sheets, “Damn right I am.”

That makes you giggle, as most things Seth says tend to do. It’s effortless with him. You nuzzle into the crook of his neck, the scent of him and the faint pattering of freezing rain against the window pain making your eyes grow heavier.

Seth brushes a hand through your hair slowly, “You know,” He says quietly, hesitant to interrupt the peace, “I could get used to this.”

“Hmm? And what would that be?” You hum into his chest, raising a brow as if pretending to consider his words.

“You, wearing my shirt—that’s like, two sizes too big on you. In my bed. Next to me, with no plans tomorrow except whatever we want.” He’s whispering now, mouth tickling your ear.

If Seth wasn’t holding you against him, you’d swoon. “Careful,” You tease, “You’re going to get spoiled.”

“Welp,” He says, popping the P, “Too late!”

You smile to yourself, and for a moment, neither of you speak. The room is filled with the soft patter of ice against glass, the low hum of the heater kicking on, Seth’s steady breathing against your collarbone. His hand rests at your waist, warm and grounding, thumb tracing absent little arcs like he’s memorizing you.

“I could get used to this too.” You murmur quietly, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

Seth’s grip around you tightens, drawing you closer into him, if that were even possible. He’d need to hold you close all through the night, he convinced himself. 

It was cold outside, after all.

[thankyou-taeyeon]

not ningning

[moonlight-in-the-sea]

colt meeting ryland's girlfriend!reader — ft. coltland twins au

Ding-dong!

The loud ring of the doorbell startles you awake.

Having barely registered the noise yet somehow fully alert, you peek your head out from the covers, eyes fixating on the general direction of the door like a cat that locked onto a bird sitting on the windowsill.

It's Sunday. You have no prior knowledge of receiving any visitors. Neither you or Ryland have any packages you have been waiting on. Speaking of Ryland, he would knock on the door to avoid waking you up even if he had gone out and realised he forgot to take his keys. Then again, there is the faint sound of the shower running, so it can't be him.

... Maybe it's someone who got the door wrong, and will eventually realise their mistake and go away. Maybe it's a neighbour who wants to complain about something, or maybe it's a scammer.

Either way, it's not something you feel like dealing right now. They should just take the hint and go away if you pretend you don't exist.

Ding-dong! .... Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong—!

Exhaling harshly, you kick the blankets away with newfound rage, throwing yourself off the bed and stomping over to the door with full intention of chewing them out, though not immediately, as it could still be a relatively innocent person despite their lack of thoughtfulness.

Just to be on the safe side, you yank the door open with a tight smile on your face and hiss out as neutrally as possible, "Can I help you?"

"... Oh." The smug smirk drops from the man's face.

You blink.

The man leaning against the doorframe, and was casually abusing your doorbell until a second ago is a carbon copy of your boyfriend.

".... No."

Shaking your head, you shut the door, the small chain locked into place, palm covering the peephole just in case.

From the split-second look you got, the resemblance is uncanny. The eyes, the jawline, down to the curl of their lips when they are sporting a lopsided smile. There are some differences such as the stranger having slightly coarser facial hair and a more rugged style — though even the silhouette of sporting a jacket is similar.

Scam calls of people imitating your elderly parents or your friends or partners are common. Likewise, accounts getting hacked and sending malicious links to people's inboxes pretending to be the owner are common.

Not whatever this— this Mandela Catalogue, this No I Am Not Human, this Among Us, Imposter situation—

"Uh, Ma'am..?" The Doppelganger awkwardly clears his throat, tapping on the door from the other side to get your attention, "Terribly sorry if it's wrong, but there's supposed to be a Ryland Grace living here..?"

... Okay. The fact that he knows Ryland's full name means good. ... Probably.

".......Ry..!" you yell as you approach the bathroom, and a muffled One sec! accompanies the sound of shuffling before Ryland opens the bathroom door, hair still sopping wet, the bathrobe barely halfway closed. "... There's a clone of you at the door."

"Clone..?" Ryland tilts his head, and it takes a fraction of a second before realisation dawns on him. "Oh! Can you let him in? I'll get dressed super quick!"

... Okay. So he knows the guy, great!

You slammed the door in the guy's face. .... Not-so-great.

Swallowing your nerves, you crack the door open, hesitantly peeking your head out to meekly offer, "... Come in, please. He'll be with you in a moment."

The Not-Ryland closes his eyes for a second before he gives you a thankful nod as he steps in, but the way his lips are pursed and his shoulders shaking slightly is proof enough of how hard he's trying to hold in his laughter.

It makes laughter bubble up in your own stomach, honestly. The entire situation is ridiculous.

"So," you start, "Since Ryland is apparently wrestling his wardrobe and will take a while, I suppose introductions are in order," extending your hand for a handshake, you offer him your name, "... The girlfriend," you tack on the title.

"Colt Seavers," A calloused hand takes yours in a firm handshake, mimicking your format "...The twin brother."

"Ugh, figures!" you chuckle, running a hand through your messy hair, "I don't know my first thought was some kind of clone version of Ry, I really need to lay off sci-fi movies for a while—"

It dawns on you that you're still in your pajamas. Hell, you're standing in front of your boyfriend's unknown-until-now brother freshly rolled out of bed.

"I should get dressed!" you turn on your heel towards the bedroom, only to turn back around again at the thought of leaving a guest unattended in the arguably messy (you now realise) living room, without a beverage, no less. "Actually— can I get you anything? Coffee, tea—?"

"I'm good, sweetheart, no need to worry," He waves you off, moving to the kitchen himself. "Sorry for the scare. My dear little brother forgot to mention he has a girlfriend. I mean, I know our communication is a bit spotty sometimes, but sheesh!" He reaches for a mug from the cabinets, seemingly knowing his way around.

"Funny, he also forgot to mention he has a twin brother to me."

"Don't blame him too much. Things sometimes slip his mind — you know how he gets." Colt gives you a non-committal shrug as he waits on the coffee machine, "You can go change. Cute pajamas though." He points to your fluffy pajamas, decked in panda prints.

"Shut up," you half-heartedly swat at his direction, already halfway through the room before he finishes his sentence. "Cool jacket! I'll be back in a jiffy."

Whipping around suddenly, you support yourself on the doorframe, leaning in to whisper; "Do you have some embarrassing childhood stories to share?"

Colt barks out a short laugh, giving you a double thumbs up. "Thousands."

"Booyah!"

"I did not just hear the two of you plotting against me." Ryland comes up from behind you, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Of course you didn't!"

"Propestrous."

[yawnzshit]

glasses are the sluttiest thing a man can wear.