simply lovely

she-her 🇮🇹 23 🏎️ 🎞️ 📚

[valenschmidt]

This wasn't the three Peter Parker hugging for me

This was Tom, Andrew and Tobey hugging happy and excited for getting this once in a lifetime opportunity to work together as the three Spider-Man. I truly believe they became really good friends after filming this movie

The three generations of Spider-Man hugging... Don't touch me I'm emotional

[loveyoubunchies]

Right Answers Only

John Logan x fem!reader

Summary: John Logan thought he was competitive, being an athlete and all. That was until his girlfriend brought him to weekly trivia, leaving him both fearing for his life and hopelessly in love after the night was over.

Warning: None! Pure fluff

A/N: Very indulgent but thought it would be a funny concept. Thought you all might want something different from the Bitch to Me Briar series

Main Masterlist

“Are you doing anything tonight?” you said over the phone with your boyfriend, Logan.

“No what’s up baby?” he asked.

“Perfect I need you to be my partner in trivia at Trident tonight.”

Logan was aware of your weekly trivia nights with your roommate, Grace. It was a special time just for the two of you which he did not interfere with.

“I’m finally invited to trivia after three months of dating?” he chuckled.

“Do you wanna come or not? Gracie is ditching me for a first date and I need a partner.”

“Sure, since you want me there so badly babe,”he answered sarcastically, “What time should I come over?”

“Like now,” you huffed, “We need to discuss strategy and prep you since you’re a novice.”

“Hey I’m not just a dumb jock.”

“Never said you were,” you sang, “Love you and come over quick!”

Logan got to your place around ten minutes after. It only took one knock on the door for you to quickly pull him inside. You guided him to the couch where he sat and you stood holding your iPad with notes scribbled on.

“What no kiss?” Logan pouted as you were too focused on the competition tonight.

“You can get a kiss if we place tonight,” you said firmly.

So Logan decided to pull you by the belt loops so that you would fall into his lap. You squirmed in protest but his hands stayed on your waist to keep you anchored. He hadn’t seen you all week aside from a brief lunch two days ago. He had an away game last weekend and you were just finishing up your midterms. So no he was not going to apologies for being clingy.

“You’re sexy when you’re passionate,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Whatever,” you scoffed, adjusting yourself on his lap so that you can show him the iPad display.

“There’s seven rounds and seven questions per round,” you began lecturing, “One minute per question.”

“Is this like themed trivia?”

“Just general but each round will have a theme. They are some of the most random categories so I really need you to use that memory of yours,” you said, tapping his head lightly which made him chuckle.

You wished he’d stop laughing as this was no laughing matter. This was trivia night!

“I’ll put my thinking cap on,” he smiled.

“I’ll admit this stuff is kinda hard. Grace and I have only gotten podium maybe five times and we’ve been playing for two semesters now,” you said a bit sad.

“Don’t worry babe,” Logan gave you a squeeze, “If there’s a hockey or video game category I’ll bring home gold for you.”

You gave him a shy smile. Three months of dating this man and you firmly believed that he would do absolutely anything for you. Fixing the drain in your apartment, carrying your shopping bags, making you soup when you’re sick. You had this man wrapped around your finger and you didn’t know how you got so lucky.

When the school worshipped your boyfriend like a Greek god, you were the one he came to immediately after the game. You were the reason he was skipping drinks with the team to support your trivia night.

Logan was thinking the same thing as he watched you babble about strategy and being confident. He also heard you say that you really only wanted to beat one team tonight because the girl was in your class and she’s super rude. Logan remembered her as the girl who bothered you at some party so now he was ready for vengeance tonight.

Logan thought back to how you both met. It was at a random party and Logan had found you outside looking up at the stars. The way the moonlight hit your face, you were the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. Once you started pointing out constellations, that’s when Logan knew he was a goner.

Now his days are filled with you curled up by his side reading while he played video games. Or date nights that were equal parts romantic and spontaneous. And there was no better feeling seeing you wear his jersey for the first time at a home game.

“Ugh I really don’t like her,” you huffed, twisting Logan’s hoodie strings between your fingers, “She also plays with her boyfriend at trivia so we need to show them we’re the better couple.”

“Shouldn’t be hard,” he said, pulling your faces closer, “I think the majority of couples at Briar wish they were us.”

“Yeah we are pretty great,” you grinned.

That’s when Logan took the opportunity to kiss you. He leaned in to softly press his lips against yours which you melted into instantly. One hand moved to cup your jaw while your own tangled in his soft hair. God you could kiss this man forever.

When Logan tried to depend the kiss, fingers creeping under your shirt, you pulled away teasingly watching his body naturally lean in to chase you.

“We have to go,” you announced, hopping up from his lap, “If we don’t get there early all the spots in the front will be taken and our chances of winning will significantly decrease.”

Logan just shook his head as we follows you out the dorm.

—

Logan couldn’t help but smile as you were happily waving to the employees and other patrons at the establishment. Trident was actually a coffee shop but every Thursday they turned it into a bar and trivia night.

You squealed, grabbing his hand to pull him to a small table tucked in the front left.

“This is the spot when Gracie and I got first,” you explained, “It must be a good sign.”

“And you were making fun of me for my game day superstitions,” he joked, shrugging off his jacket.

“Cause your superstitions are stupid,” you said, “I don’t know how having sex 24 hours before a game is bad luck. Wouldn’t that actually improve your performance?”

“Everyone on the team swore a vow and I’m not about to fuck over playoffs.”

“Not even to meet your girlfriend’s needs,” you huffed. You were only joking. Logan performed well above satisfactory in bed.

“Really know how to make your boyfriend feel good,” he laughed, “Do you wanna a drink?”

You gave him a nod while the waitress brought over trivia paper and markers for the table. You gazed over at Logan as his body leaned against the counter. He was wearing a backwards cap and a grey long sleeves that hugged his muscles deliciously. He was a lot larger than the rest of the people around, definitely a new face.

You could see the bartender flutter her eyelashes at Logan as he paid for the two beers. That was the one downside of having the perfect boyfriend. Seemed like everyone wanted a piece of him.

Before you could get jealous, a familiar figure walked in. You already it was Jessica from class from her obnoxiously loud voice that was bossing her boyfriend around. Poor guy.

Jessica and you had mild beef after you called out her not so subtle racist comments she made during your film studies class. That weekend she made a point to spill beer on you by “accident” which had Grace holding you back before you threw a punch. She was also always so loud and rude during class always causing your professor to furrow their brows in impatience. And

She sauntered over to where you were sitting to give an acknowledgement but after noticing the seat was empty she made a point to gloat.

“Sucks that Grace isn’t here,” she said, “I heard one of the categories is serial killers.”

You rolled your eyes not giving her the satisfaction of a response.

Just in time your knight in shining armor was walking back with two beers in hand. His brows raised up in confusion to the couple standing in front of your table.

“Here you go pretty,” he said, sliding a glass over and then taking a seat.

Jessica’s smug smile turned into an expression of shock as she realized who was now sitting across from you.

“Hey you’re John Logan right?” Jessica’s boyfriend asked, “Dude you’re crushing it.”

“Thanks man,” Logan smiled and then looked to you.

“Jessica this is my boyfriend,” you said, trying not to sound too smug.

You were aware she used to have a thing for him after hearing her gossip so loudly about it in class. Little did she know that he was all yours.

There was no response as Jessica quickly stormed off with her boyfriend trailing behind.

“Was that her?” Logan asked, reaching over to pull you seat closer.

He did it with such ease that you felt your cheeks heat up once you were sat close enough he could throw an arm across the back of your chair.

You were not going to be able to focus. You should’ve asked Allie to come instead.

“Yeah doesn’t matter cause we’re gonna beat them,” you grumbled.

“Damn right,” Logan pressed a quick kiss to your cheek before you exclaimed,

“What should our team name be?”

By your frantic tone Logan thought you forgot your phone or keys. He loved how passionate you were about well, everything.

Logan always had a hard time expressing his emotions while you wore them on your sleeve proudly. Since you’d been dating he’s been better at opening up. Only because you were so easy and patient.

“What’s the name you and Grace have?”

“Bikini Bottom,” you said, ignoring his snicker, “But that’s reserved for Gracie and I, so we need another.”

“Can’t we just put our initials?”

“And be boring,” you groaned.

“You’re right,” Logan agreed, “Umm who’s a power couple maybe can do something like that?”

“I like that,” you nodded, “Any ideas?”

“Romeo and Juliet?”

“Logan! They both die,” you chide, “Hardly a power couple if they can’t even stay alive in their universe.”

“I thought it was romantic,” he mumbled, “Star wars? Han Solo and Leia.”

“They were toxic. Both on and off screen.”

Logan huffed in frustration but you were making good points. The room was getting crowded, he looked to the clock to see they were going to start soon.

“How about Mr. And Mrs. Smith? They try to kill each other but then they team up. Kinda like us?”

“I never tried to kill you. It was an accident I ran into on my bike on the way to our first date,” you said, “But I do like that movie.”

“Done,” Logan said, quickly scribbling down the name before you had doubts.

---

Soon trivia began with the host of the explaining the rules and timing of the night. Logan watched as you bounced eagerly in your seat, waiting for the first category to be announced.

"Landmarks"

The first question was "The Hollywood sign originally spelled out which word"

Logan was lost, as you tapped your chin to think.

"I have no clue babe," he said.

"Logan that's not helpful," you grumbled, "I'm trying to think of a reasonable answer. Maybe Los Angeles?"

"Hollywoodland? Like Greaseland?" Logan tried.

"That's actually not a bad idea," you said, writing it down. You leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.

If that's what it took to impress you he would've stop trying to show off on the ice and pulling his muscles. Although it was always worth seeing you clap eagerly in the crowd whenever he skated by.

-

The game continued and each category got more and more absurd. Luckily you scored with romance novels.

"Four Weddings and a Funeral is a much better British rom-com than Notting Hill," you mumbled as you jotted down your answer to which actress starred opposite to Hugh Grant and played an actress in the movie.

"Lets watch it next date night," Logan said before you hushed him because the next question was announced.

You literally shrieked in excitement when the 5th category was hockey history. Logan easily got every question right.

"How do you know all this?" you said, watching him quickly check over all the answers. "Like I know hockey is your thing but there's no reason for you to be knowing draft history from the 70s."

"I can ask the same about your random knowledge about all the countries of the world."

"I like looking at maps," you shrugged.

-

By the next hour both you and Logan were fairly happy. The announced the rankings at the end but you were still pretty confident. You looked over your shoulder to see Jessica scolding her boyfriend while Logan went to get you refills.

The last category was guessing whether the word was a disease or Pokemon name.

"Ugh I only know the cute ones," you groaned but when you turned to Logan he had a wicked grin on his face.

"Lucky for you I still have my collection tucked under my bed," he said with a wink.

You couldn't help but press a kiss to his lips which he was quick to react to.

"Best boyfriend ever," you grinned.

-

"In third place we have Mr. and Mrs. Smith!"

"EEEEEK!" you shrieked grabbing Logan's arm. "We placed! This is insane!"

You were grinning so wide now that your cheeks hurt as Logan mirrored the same smile.

"Does that mean I get that kiss?" he whispered.

You wasted no time pulling his lips to yours, tugging the strands of his hair while. he cradled your jaw. You only pulled away after realizing you were in public but Logan's hands never left your body as you went up to claim your prize.

“I can’t believe we got third!” you exclaimed, skipping on the sidewalk, “What are the odds that there’s a hockey category!”

Logan just chuckled and watch you celebrate. You were waving around the envelope like it was a Stanley Cup, beaming at him.

“And did you see the look on Jessica’s face! Best trivia ever!” you squealed.

That’s when Logan wrapped you up in his arms making you shout in delight while he peppered kisses all over your face. You were smiling so hard your face hurt as Logan look down at you with those adoring eyes.

“Proud of us babe,” he said, “Glad I could be a worthy partner.”

“You did a lot better than I expected,” you said causing Logan to playfully tickle you.

“Absolutely no faith in your boyfriend,” he sighed, hands not leaving your body as you continued your walk to campus.

“I had some faith,” you said weakly.

“I hope Gracie’s date went well cause then we could do trivia double dates,” you pondered, “4 times the brain power we’d be unstoppable!”

God you were so cute, Logan couldn’t help but give you another squeeze.

“My little nerd,” he said making you bark out a laugh.

“You’re also a nerd,” you teased, “No business knowing all those Pokémon.”

Instead of firing back, Logan just scoped you up bridal style making you scream, wrapping your arms around you neck.

"You're cute when you're competitive," he said, kissing your nose. "Thank you for inviting me tonight."

"Yeah yeah," you shrugged playfully. "You're a pretty great partner. In all aspects I guess."

Logan laughed at your dry humor and just spun both you around as the two of you enjoyed the fall night. Hell Logan would read every atlas and scroll all the wikipedia pages if it meant to keep you smiling as much as you were tonight.

[rosiewrites28]

“Five Times Logan Almost Said I Love You” (And the One Time He Finally Did)

Summary: five moments where Logan nearly confesses his feelings — and the one time he finally does.

wc: 1528

Pairing: John Logan x Reader

A/N: first fic on this account (and in a really long time), it's probably really bad and I'm sorry, i'm just getting back into writing

Masterlist

#1

The first time John Logan almost said ‘I Love You’, he was half-asleep. It was late October, freezing outside, and y/n was buried against his side on the battered couch in the hockey house while some terrible horror movie played in the background. Logan wasn’t watching it though, mostly because y/n kept laughing at the wrong moments. 

“You’re actually evil,” he mumbled as she giggled through a decapitation scene.

She tilted her head up. “This is just so unrealistic. Besides, You screamed ten minutes ago. ”

“I did not scream.”

“You absolutely screamed.”

“I made a small noise.”

“A small—” she broke off laughing again.

God.

That laugh.

Logan looked down at her curled against him in his sweatshirt, warm and sleepy and comfortable like she belonged there.

Like she belonged with him.

The words rose so fast in his chest it nearly scared him.

I love—

Then Garrett burst through the front door yelling about losing fifty bucks to Dean in a poker game, and the moment shattered instantly.

Y/N startled awake. Logan leaned back hard against the couch cushions, heart pounding for no reason he wanted to examine.

“You good?” she asked softly.

“Yeah,” he lied.

Because he wasn’t.

Not even close.

#2

The second time was during winter break. Logan hated going home, y/n realized that approximately six hours after arriving. The house was freezing. His dad was drunk before sunset. His younger brother barely spoke at dinner.

And Logan—

Logan smiled through all of it like he was trying to hold the entire house together with sheer force. 

That night, she found him sitting outside on the front steps in a hoodie despite the snow. “You’re gonna freeze to death.”

He shrugged without looking at her. “Maybe.”

She sat beside him anyway, for a while neither of them spoke.

Then quietly, she said, “You don’t have to pretend around me.”

That nearly broke him. Everyone else let him play the clown, the flirt, the easygoing guy.

Y/N looked at him like she saw every ugly, exhausted part underneath it and stayed anyway.

Logan swallowed hard. “You should go back inside.”

“No.”

“You’re stubborn.”

“You’re deflecting.”

A laugh escaped him unexpectedly.

Then she reached over and threaded her cold fingers through his.

Simple and casual, but Logan felt it everywhere. He turned toward her before he could stop himself. Her face was close enough to kiss. Close enough to confess things he didn’t know how to survive saying out loud.

I think I’m in love with you.

Instead he squeezed her hand once and whispered, “Thanks for coming with me.”

Her smile was soft enough to ruin him permanently.

#3

The third time almost happened after a game.

Briar had won in overtime and the entire arena exploded.

Logan scored the winning goal.

Normally that would’ve been the best part of his night, until he spotted Y/N in the crowd and suddenly nothing else mattered. He found her outside the locker room afterward, still wearing his jersey.

His jersey.

Which did something deeply embarrassing to his heart.

“You were incredible,” she said the second she saw him.

Logan grinned, adrenaline still buzzing through him. “You see that goal?”

“I literally screamed.”

“You screamed for me?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.”

She rolled her eyes, smiling.

And without thinking, Logan grabbed her around the waist and spun her once down the hallway. She laughed loudly, arms around his shoulders for balance, the sound hit him harder than the roar of the crowd had. He stopped spinning but neither of them stepped back. His forehead brushed hers accidentally or maybe not accidentally.

Everything slowed.

The noise.

The people.

The post-game chaos.

Just her.

Her hands on him.

Her smile fading into something softer.

More vulnerable.

Logan looked into her eyes and thought with terrifying certainty:

There it is.

This was it.

This was love.

Not hookups.

Not attraction.

Not temporary.

Her.

Only her.

“I think I—”

“LOGAN!”

Dean slammed into the hallway at full volume with three teammates behind him.

The moment vanished immediately.

Logan nearly killed him on sight.

Dean blinked between them slowly. “...Did I interrupt a sex thing?”

“Yes,” Logan snapped.

Y/N burst out laughing.

And Logan loved her too much to even be annoyed anymore.

#4

The fourth time happened when they fought.

A real fight.

Not teasing.

Not playful arguing.

The ugly kind.

“You can’t just shut people out every time things get hard!” Y/N yelled.

Logan stared at the floor of her apartment kitchen, jaw tight. “I didn’t ask you to fix it.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to do!”

“Then what are you trying to do?”

“I’m trying to care about you!”

The words hung between them sharp and raw.

Logan looked wrecked.

Which only made her angrier.

Because he always did this; acted like he had to carry everything alone until he practically collapsed under it.

“I don’t know how to help someone who refuses to let me in,” she whispered.

That hit harder. Logan dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once through the tiny kitchen.

Then finally, “I let you in more than anyone.”

“You still hide when you’re hurting.”

“Because if I start talking about it, I don’t know if I’ll stop.” His voice cracked slightly on the last word.

Y/N’s anger disappeared instantly.

Logan looked terrified.

Not of her.

But of himself, of needing too much, of loving too much.

He stepped closer slowly.

“I just…” His eyes met hers. “You matter so much to me that sometimes it freaks me out.”

Her breath caught.

He almost said it then.

She knew he almost did.

But once again, fear won.

Instead Logan pressed his forehead against hers and whispered, “I’m trying.”

And because she loved him too, she let that be enough for now.

#5

The fifth time almost happened the night before graduation.

Everyone was drunk except Y/N and Logan.

Dean was dancing terribly on a table.

Garrett was filming it for blackmail purposes.

Music shook the walls of the hockey house one last time.

And Logan suddenly hated all of it.

Not because he wasn’t happy. Because he was. He was too happy. The kind of happy that felt fragile, Temporary, Tomorrow everything changed.

Different cities.

Different careers.

Real life.

The thought made something ache violently in his chest.

Y/N found him outside on the back porch staring at the stars, “There you are.”

Logan smiled tiredly. “Needed air.”

She moved beside him, shoulder bumping his. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

Lie.

She always knew.

“You’re scared,” she said softly.

He laughed once under his breath. “That obvious?”

“To me? Yeah.”

For a second he just looked at her. Really looked. At the girl who had become home so gradually he never even noticed it happening. Suddenly he couldn’t imagine a future that didn’t have her in it. That was something that terrified him more than hockey ever had.

“Y/N,” he started quietly.

Her eyes lifted to his.

The words sat right there.

Right there.

I love you.

But what if saying it changed things? What if it made the future real? What if she didn’t say it back?

So instead, like a coward, Logan kissed her. Slow, careful, like he was trying to say everything without words.

She melted into him instantly and somehow that made it worse.

Because kissing her felt too much like coming home.

+1

The one time Logan finally said it wasn’t dramatic.

There was no crowd, no grand gesture, no perfect movie moment. 

It happened three months later after his first preseason NHL game.

He’d played terribly, missed calls from coaches piled up on his phone. Media criticism was already starting. By the time he got back to his apartment, he felt wrung out completely.

And there was Y/N sitting cross-legged on his kitchen counter eating cereal at midnight like she lived there. She looked up immediately. “Hey.”

And just like that—

Everything inside him unclenched.

Logan stood frozen in the doorway.

Tie loosened.

Exhaustion sitting heavy on his shoulders.

Y/N frowned slightly. “Bad game?”

“Pretty bad.”

She held out the cereal box toward him silently.

Logan laughed weakly.

Then crossed the apartment in three steps and pulled her into him so hard she squeaked.

“Logan—”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For taking this long.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him properly. “Taking what long?”

His hands tightened at her waist.

And suddenly he wasn’t scared anymore.

Because losing her would always be worse than saying it.

“I love you,” he said.

Y/N went perfectly still and Logan’s heart nearly stopped.

Then her entire face softened in the most beautiful way he’d ever seen.

“Oh,” she whispered.

Panic immediately kicked in. “Okay, wow, that sounded terrifying out loud, you don’t have to say it back right now, I just—”

She kissed him hard enough to shut him up.

When she finally pulled away, she smiled against his mouth.

“I love you too, hockey boy.”

And for the first time in his life, John Logan stopped feeling afraid of the future.

[alierecss]

I can see you | John Logan

summary: Three months ago, you and Logan quietly became something. You forgot to tell anyone. That was fine, it was yours, and you liked it that way. Then you found out your friends had started a betting pool on when you'd finally get together, and suddenly keeping the secret became a lot more fun.

or: four times someone almost caught you, and one time someone did.

notes: hii i'm back!! okay so this one is a little different from my usual so no angst, no parking lot confessions, no rain. also this pic of antonio is just so boyfriend that i had to write something. thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think!!

warnings: swearing, implied intimacy, a missing bra, hannah being a terrible secret keeper and fluff.

word count: 6k

You and Hannah were not often scheduled to work the same shift at Malone's, for the simple reason that you two were dangerously prone to a severe case of the giggles that management had clocked early and worked around. But today was different, another server had called in sick and your manager had called you in a tone that left very little room for negotiation. You said yes, of course. You always said yes.

Arriving, you spotted Hannah immediately, weaving between tables with three plates balanced on her arm. You passed her on your way to the staff locker room and gave her arm a quick squeeze. She grinned at you over her shoulder.

The lunch rush was the particular kind of brutal that didn't leave room for anything except moving, table to table, order to order, the focused blur of a busy service. By the time it slowed down your feet ached and your ponytail had developed a life of its own.

Hannah found you at the counter, mechanically polishing glasses.

"So busy we couldn't even talk today," she said, sliding in beside you and stealing a glass to polish.

"It was genuinely awful," you agreed. "My feet are going to file a formal complaint."

Hannah laughed. And then the door opened.

Logan, Garrett, Tucker, and Dean came in with the energy of people who had just finished practice and were extremely confident about their right to exist in any space they chose. Garrett made a beeline for Hannah with the focused intention of a man who had one priority. Behind him, Logan drifted toward the counter, casually, like he just happened to end up there, and leaned against it, watching you serve a customer with an expression that was doing nothing for your professional composure.

You almost dropped the bag the customer was reaching for.

"Hi, Logan." You kept your voice completely neutral. "Do you mind not staring at me? I'm working, you know."

He laughed, low and unhurried. "No, I don't think I can manage that."

"You could try."

"Not when you look this pretty."

"This pretty?" You gestured at yourself. "My hair is dirty and I didn't even have time to put on makeup."

"Still the prettiest," he said, and winked, and wandered back to the table where his friends had settled in like they owned the place.

You looked back at the counter. The glass you had been polishing was now somehow less clean than when you started.

Hannah had materialized at your elbow with the expression of someone watching something inevitable unfold.

"When," she said reverently, "are you two just going to date like normal people?" She sighed. "I hope it's soon. I kind of want to win that betting pool Tucker made."

You put the glass down. "What betting pool?"

Hannah's expression cycled through several things in rapid succession.

"No betting pool," she said. "I meant a real pool. Tucker said something about you guys and a real pool. Can't think of what it actually was. Because it was so long ago."

You looked at her.

"Hannah Marie Wells."

"That's not my middle name."

"Tell me the truth right now."

She looked left. She looked right. She found no exits. She exhaled.

"All right. Tucker organized a bet where everyone has to guess when you two will finally become a couple. I said three weeks from the day the bet was made, which is actually — tomorrow — so if you two could maybe just —"

"I cannot believe you guys would bet on something like that." You shook your head. "Actually, I can believe them. But you, Hannah. I expected better."

"Allie too," Hannah offered, as though this was helpful.

"What does the winner get?"

"Pride and glory. Also we each put in twenty dollars."

You set down the glass and made a direct line for the boys' table. Logan spotted you coming and started to smile, that smile, the one that was specifically for you.

"Logan," you said pleasantly, "can you help me with something? The door on one of the staff lockers is jammed. Do you mind taking a look? Your bill will be on the house if you fix it."

He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, sure." He pushed back from the table, nodded to the others, and followed you toward the back.

Dean watched you go with an expression of mild suspicion. Tucker didn't look up from his menu.

The staff locker room smelled like industrial cleaner and someone's forgotten lunch, which was not exactly the atmosphere you would have chosen, but it would do.

"So where's the door?" Logan said, looking around.

"There's no door."

He turned. "What?"

"There's no door. I needed to get you alone." You crossed your arms. "Your friends are running a betting pool on us."

"What do you mean there's no door?" He looked genuinely betrayed by the architecture. Then: "And they're your friends too."

"Not when they're betting on us. There's no door, Logan, I made it up. Focus."

He laughed and crossed the small room toward you, his hands finding your waist and pulling you in with the unhurried ease of someone who had been doing it for a while, not long enough that it felt ordinary, long enough that it felt inevitable.

"It's not a big deal, you know," he said. "The bet. They're just nosy."

"I know." He was very close, which made it difficult to maintain the appropriate level of outrage. You found yourself pressing small kisses to his lips almost without deciding to, punctuating your words between them. "I just — don't want — to make it — a whole thing yet."

Logan pulled back far enough to look at you properly.

"Yeah?" he said. Not pushing. Just asking.

"It's ours," you said, which came out simpler and more honest than you had intended. "For a little while longer. I just want it to be ours."

Something in his expression settled, warm and unhurried, the specific look of someone who understood completely and wasn't going anywhere.

"Okay," he said.

"Okay?"

"Yeah." He tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. "Okay."

You pulled him in by the front of his shirt and kissed him properly this time, the locker room and the betting pool and Hannah's guilty face all receding into irrelevance.

Logan pulled back.

"Wait," he said. "So no bill on the house, then?"

one — tucker

The thing about Logan's shirts was that they were extremely comfortable.

This was not a controversial observation. They were soft and worn-in and smelled like him which was a feature rather than a bug on cold Sunday mornings when getting dressed felt like an unnecessary commitment.

You had not planned to be at the house on a Sunday morning. You had planned to be at your own place, in your own bed, wearing your own clothes, like a person who had their life together. What had actually happened was that Saturday night had turned into Sunday morning in the way that it sometimes did around Logan, and now it was nine-fifteen and you were in his kitchen in his grey shirt making coffee while he was still asleep upstairs.

Which was fine. Which was completely normal and fine.

The house was quiet. Tucker's door had been closed when you passed it. Dean and Garrett weren't home, Logan had said. You were alone with the coffee machine and a comfortable Sunday silence and absolutely no reason to think anyone was going to come downstairs for at least another hour.

You had just found the good mugs when you heard footsteps on the stairs.

Tucker appeared in the kitchen doorway in a hoodie and the expression of someone who had not yet fully committed to being awake. He was looking at his phone. He walked to the refrigerator. He opened it. He stared into it with the vacant focus of someone hoping food would appear through willpower alone.

Then he turned around and saw you.

The silence that followed had a very specific quality.

Tucker looked at you. He looked at the shirt. He looked at the coffee you were making, looked at the two mugs, and something moved across his face that went through approximately six stages before landing on stunned comprehension.

"Hey," you said, with the casual energy of someone who was not wearing their boyfriend's shirt in his kitchen on a Sunday morning. "Coffee?"

Tucker opened his mouth.

"I stayed over," you said pleasantly. "The couch is really comfortable actually."

Tucker looked at the shirt. He looked at the mugs. He looked at the shirt again.

"...Right," he said slowly.

"He let me borrow this because my top had a thing. A stain. From last night." You gestured vaguely. "Very embarrassing, actually. Pasta related."

Tucker was still looking at the mugs.

You picked up both mugs, tucked them against your chest in what you hoped was a casual gesture rather than an incriminating one, and smiled at him.

"I'm just going to bring this up," you said. "You should have some. There's plenty."

You walked past him and up the stairs before he could say anything else.

Logan was sitting up in bed when you came back, hair doing something architecturally ambitious, squinting at the light.

"Tucker's awake," you said, handing him his coffee and sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed.

Logan processed this. "And?"

"And I told him I slept on the couch because my shirt had a pasta stain."

Logan looked at you for a long moment.

"Did he believe you?"

"Absolutely not," you said cheerfully, and drank your coffee.

Downstairs, Tucker stood in the kitchen for another full minute. Then he took out his phone.

tucker: i just saw (Y/N) in the kitchen wearing logan's shirt

tucker: making TWO coffees

tucker: and she said she slept on the couch because of a pasta stain

dean: WHAT

garrett: what

tucker: I THINK I JUST WON THE BET

hannah: you didn't win the bet tucker. it was clearly just a pasta stain situation

tucker: HANNAH

allie: omg omg omg

tucker: do i win?? does the pasta stain story count as them getting together???

dean: i don't think pasta counts as confirmation tucker

tucker: I WILL NEVER FINANCIALLY RECOVER FROM THIS

two — hannah

The thing about Malone's on a Friday night was that it had exactly one staff bathroom and one customer bathroom, and the customer bathroom had been out of order since Wednesday, which meant that the staff bathroom had become public property by necessity, which meant the line for it snaked along the back wall and required a wait time that was genuinely unreasonable.

You had been waiting for four minutes when you remembered that you knew where the staff entrance was.

The staff hallway was quiet and dim, the sounds of the bar muffled behind the door. You had worked here long enough to know the code, and the bathroom was unlocked, and you were inside and washing your hands within ninety seconds, feeling extremely smug about the whole thing.

You were just reaching for a paper towel when the door opened.

Logan slipped inside, pulling the door shut behind him, and looked at you with the expression of someone who had just made the same efficient calculation.

"Oh," he said. "You had the same idea."

"Staff entrance," you confirmed.

"Smart."

"I know."

He crossed to the sink beside yours and turned on the tap, and for a moment you were just two people washing their hands in a small staff bathroom, which was either extremely romantic or extremely unromantic depending on how you looked at it. His shoulder was warm against yours in the small space. You handed him a paper towel.

"Tucker's texts have been unhinged this week," you said.

"The pasta shirt thing really broke him," Logan agreed, the corner of his mouth lifting.

"He texted me three times yesterday asking if I wanted to talk about my feelings."

Logan laughed. You loved the sound of it in small spaces, the way it filled them. You turned toward him and he turned toward you and you were very close, and he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear with the absent, habitual tenderness of someone who had been doing it long enough that he didn't think about it anymore, and you went up on your toes and kissed him quickly.

"Separate," you said against his mouth. "We should go back separately."

"Separate," he agreed, not moving.

You kissed him again, less quickly this time, his hands finding your waist, the paper towel entirely abandoned.

The door opened.

Hannah stood in the doorway.

The three of you looked at each other.

"The customer bathroom is out of order," Hannah said, very carefully, "so I used the staff code."

"Same," you said. You and Logan had separated with the practiced efficiency of people who had been interrupted before. "Just washing our hands."

"Both of you."

"It's a two sink bathroom," Logan said.

Hannah looked at the two of you. She looked at the very small bathroom. She looked at the single paper towel that was inexplicably on the floor.

"Right," she said. "Of course. I'll just —" she pointed at the toilet. "I'll just use this."

"We were just leaving," you said.

You and Logan filed past her. You did not look at each other in the hallway.

Behind you, you heard Hannah take out her phone.

hannah: ok so i just walked into the staff bathroom at malone's and (Y/N) and logan were BOTH in there

allie: WHAT

tucker: I TOLD YOU ABOUT THE PASTA SHIRT

hannah: they said they were just washing their hands

dean: both of them. in the staff bathroom. together.

hannah: there were two sinks

garrett: hannah

hannah: i mean it's a completely reasonable explanation!!

tucker: HANNAH YOU ARE LITERALLY DATING GARRETT YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS

hannah: i mean. yes. but also. two sinks.

allie: hannah i love you but two sinks is not an explanation

hannah: i just think we should give them the benefit of the doubt!!

tucker: hannah you literally have twenty dollars on this

hannah: ...i said three weeks

hannah: from a month ago

hannah: i may have already lost

three — allie

Allie considered herself an observant person.

This was not arrogance, it was simply a fact, documented over years of being the person in any given group who noticed things. Who left early. Who had argued with whom. Who liked whom. The small social architecture of any room was, to Allie, essentially readable at a glance.

Which was why she could not understand why no one else was seeing what she was seeing.

It was a random week night, the kind that had somehow evolved from a study session into a full group hangout without anyone formally announcing it, and now there were seven of them spread across the living room , Logan and Dean on the floor with Tucker's terrible taste in television providing background noise, Garrett and Hannah on the armchair that was technically too small for two people but they had been making work for months, and you and Allie on the big couch with your respective laptops.

Normal. Fine. A completely normal Tuesday.

Except.

Allie had been reaching for her water bottle when she saw it.

Logan had said something to Tucker, something quiet, barely audible over the television, and Tucker had responded, and then Logan had looked across the room at you. Just looked. For maybe two seconds.

And you had looked back.

It wasn't a loaded look, exactly. It wasn't the dramatic eye contact of a romantic comedy. It was quieter than that, it was the almost imperceptible look of two people who were sharing a private thought from across a room. Easy. Habitual. Like a conversation conducted entirely without words by people who had been having it for a long time.

Allie's water bottle missed the table entirely.

"You okay?" you asked, looking at her.

"Fine," Allie said. "Totally fine."

She looked at Logan. He had gone back to whatever Tucker was saying. Completely normal. Nothing to see.

Allie looked back at you. You were typing something on your laptop. Also completely normal.

I saw that, Allie thought. I absolutely saw that.

She leaned over to you. "Hey," she said, very casually. "What was that?"

You looked up from your laptop. "What was what?"

"That —" she gestured vaguely between you and Logan. "That look."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You and Logan just —" she did the gesture again, which in retrospect was not a very descriptive gesture.

"Allie," you said pleasantly, "I genuinely don't know what you're referring to."

You went back to your laptop. Allie stared at the side of your head.

I saw it, she thought. I definitely saw it.

She turned to the room. She needed a witness.

"Dean," she said.

Dean looked up from the floor. "What."

"Did you just see —" she started. But Dean had already looked back at the television. Tucker was saying something about the episode. Logan was responding. You were typing. Nothing was happening. The moment was completely gone, absorbed back into the ordinary texture of a Tuesday night, leaving absolutely no evidence.

Allie sat back on the couch.

I know what I saw, she thought.

Twenty minutes passed.

And then Logan got up to refill his water bottle in the kitchen, and on his way back he passed the couch, and his hand dropped briefly to your shoulder, barely a touch, a graze really, the kind that lasted less than a second and you didn't even look up from your laptop, just tilted your head toward it slightly, like a plant toward light, like the most natural thing in the world.

Allie's laptop slid off her knees.

"I SAW THAT," she said.

Everyone looked at her.

"Saw what?" Tucker said.

"Logan's hand — and her shoulder — they just —" she pointed. Logan was back on the floor. You were looking at Allie with an expression of polite confusion. "He touched her shoulder and she —"

"Are you okay?" Dean said.

"I'm fine, I just —" Allie looked around the room. Six faces looked back at her with varying degrees of concern. "Did anyone else see that?"

"See what?" Logan said.

"You touched her shoulder," Allie said, pointing at him.

"I was just walking past," Logan said.

"She leaned into it!"

"I have a stiff neck," you said.

"YOU HAVE A STIFF —" Allie stopped. Took a breath. "I know what I saw," she said, with dignity.

"Allie," Dean said carefully. "Have you had enough water today?"

"I've had plenty of water, Dean, I'm not —"

"Sometimes dehydration causes —"

"I am not dehydrated!" Allie said. "I know what I saw and what I saw was —" she looked at you. You were looking back at her with an expression of patient concern. She looked at Logan. He was also looking at her with patient concern. Both of you at the same time, with the same expression. "— you know what, never mind," she said. "Never mind. I'm fine."

She picked up her laptop.

Across the room, completely undetected, Logan looked at you.

You looked back.

The corner of your mouth moved. His did too.

Allie, who had her eyes fixed resolutely on her screen, did not see this.

She was choosing not to look anymore. For her own mental health.

allie: OKAY SO

allie: I JUST SAW SOMETHING

tucker: WHAT

allie: logan touched (Y/N)'s shoulder while walking past and she LEANED INTO IT

allie: and before that there was A LOOK

dean: allie we were all in the same room

allie: YOU WEREN'T PAYING ATTENTION DEAN

hannah: what kind of look

allie: the kind that MEANS SOMETHING

garrett: i mean they're friends

allie: garrett

garrett: what

allie: i love you but you have the observational skills of a golden retriever

garrett: ...fair

tucker: ALLIE YOU MIGHT HAVE JUST WON THE BET

allie: i can't win on a shoulder touch and a look tucker i need more evidence

tucker: THE PASTA SHIRT WAS EVIDENCE

allie: the pasta shirt was circumstantial

dean: none of us are going to win this bet are we

three and a half — garrett

It was a Wednesday afternoon, the house quiet in the way it got between practice and evening, and you had let yourself in with the key Logan had given you two weeks ago, casually, like it was nothing, tucked it into your palm and gone back to whatever he had been saying, and you had put it on your keychain without making a thing of it either.

You were in the kitchen making tea when Garrett came downstairs.

He was in sweats, hair still damp from the shower, moving with the unhurried ease of someone with nowhere to be. He went to the refrigerator, opened it, considered it, closed it. Then he leaned against the counter across from you and looked at the mug situation with the mild, unreadable expression that was, you had come to understand, just his face.

"Logan's still at the rink," he said. "Film session ran over."

"I know," you said. "He texted."

Garrett nodded. He picked up an apple from the fruit bowl. He looked at it. He looked at you.

"You should tell him about the Boston thing," he said.

You looked up. "What?"

"The conference. The one your professor forwarded you." He bit into the apple with the casual certainty of someone stating something obvious. "You've been sitting on it for two weeks. You should just tell him."

You stared at him.

The Boston conference was something you had mentioned exactly once, in passing, weeks ago, in the middle of a conversation about something else entirely. You had said three sentences about it and then moved on. You had not mentioned it since. You had not mentioned it to Logan because you hadn't figured out how yet because Boston was four days in February and it was a good opportunity and you didn't know what it meant for the thing that was still, technically, just yours.

"How did you —" you started.

Garrett shrugged. "You got quiet when someone mentioned February plans at dinner last week." He took another bite of the apple. "Logan noticed too. He just didn't want to push."

The kitchen was very quiet.

"He'll be fine with it," Garrett said, simply, like that was the part you needed to hear. "He's not going anywhere." He pushed off the counter and headed toward the living room. "Tell him about Boston."

He disappeared around the corner.

You stood in the kitchen holding your mug, looking at the space he had just occupied.

You had not told anyone about Boston. You had not told Hannah, who told you everything. You had not told Allie, who noticed everything. You had mentioned it once, in passing, and Garrett who had the observational skills of a golden retriever, according to Allie, according to everyone had filed it away and waited until you were alone to say the thing you needed to hear.

You looked down at your mug.

Then you took out your phone and texted Logan.

can we talk tonight? nothing bad. just something i've been sitting on.

His response came back in under a minute.

yeah. i'll bring food. what do you want?

You smiled at your phone in the empty kitchen.

surprise me.

four — dean

You weren't really supposed to be there.

You had come over earlier in the afternoon with the genuine intention of spending a couple of hours with Logan and then going home like a responsible person. What had actually happened was that Logan had been very convincing about the staying part convincing in the specific way that involved kissing you before you could finish your sentence and pulling you back against the mattress until leaving felt like a genuinely unreasonable idea.

So now it was late, and you were sprawled across his bed while he kissed your neck, his hands finding the hem of your shirt and pulling it over your head.

"I missed them," he said, with complete sincerity, cupping your chest in both hands, unclasping your bra with an easiness that frankly made you jealous.

You giggled and pushed his shoulders. "You idiot."

He kissed you again slow and soft, his tongue lazy against yours, the unhurried quality of someone with absolutely nowhere to be. You were certainly not going home now. You reached up and pulled his shirt over his head, and your fingers found a purple mark spreading across his stomach.

"What's this?" you said, tracing it gently.

"Practice got tough."

"Oh, my poor baby." You shifted, pressing a line of soft kisses across his stomach. You felt him shiver underneath you. "My poor, poor baby —"

The knock on the door made you both freeze.

"Logan?" Dean's voice, from the other side. Another knock. The sound of the handle being tried. "You in there, man?"

You and Logan looked at each other with the wide-eyed, frantic energy of two people who had absolutely no good explanation for the current state of the room.

Logan started moving toward the door.

"No," you whisper-screamed.

"Hide," he said, at the same volume.

"Where?"

You looked around the room in rapid, increasingly desperate assessment. The bathroom — no, what if Dean needed it. The wardrobe what if Logan opened it. The only viable option was under the bed, the duvet long enough to reach the floor and conceal the gap completely.

You rolled off the mattress and slid underneath it in one graceless motion. You heard Logan muffle a laugh by converting it unconvincingly into a cough. In your frantic scramble you had grabbed your shirt, clutched against your chest, but your bra was somewhere out there discarded, incriminating, absolutely in the middle of the room.

Fuck, you thought.

Logan opened the door.

Dean walked in. There was a brief silence of the kind that meant someone had immediately spotted something they were not expecting to see. From your position on the floor you had a very clear view of Dean's socks stopping in the middle of the room.

Then not moving.

You watched Dean's socks stand very still for approximately eight seconds.

"I need to borrow your charger," Dean said.

His voice was extremely, carefully normal. The voice of a man making a decision in real time.

Logan turned and retrieved the charger from the bedside table. "Here."

A pause. Dean's socks did not move.

"Leave, Dean," Logan said.

Another pause.

Dean's socks backed slowly toward the door.

He stood in the hallway for a moment, you could hear him through the door, just standing there, processing, and then his footsteps retreated down the hall. You waited until you heard his door close before sliding out from under the bed, pulling your shirt back on and looking at Logan, who was leaning against the wall with his hand over his mouth doing an extremely poor job of not laughing.

"Your bra," he managed.

"I know."

"It was just — right there —"

"I know, Logan."

He was fully laughing now, silent and shaking, and you threw a pillow at him, which did nothing to help.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

dean: dude…

logan: say nothing

You watched him type it, one eyebrow raised. His phone buzzed back almost immediately.

dean: i have twenty dollars on the line

logan: dean

dean: i'm just saying

logan: goodnight dean

dean: does tucker know

logan: GOODNIGHT DEAN

Logan put his phone down. You looked at him. He looked at you.

"He's not going to say anything," Logan said, with the confidence of a man who was not entirely sure of this.

His phone buzzed again.

dean: for what it's worth i called it from the beginning

Logan turned his phone face down.

You looked at him for a moment longer.

Then you retrieved your bra from the corner of the room where it had been sitting like evidence at a crime scene, and you got back into bed, and Logan pulled you against him with the easy, unhurried certainty of someone who had won the argument about staying a long time ago.

Down the hall, Dean lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, charger plugged in, feeling extremely vindicated about everything.

He did not tell Tucker.

He did not tell Garrett.

He did not tell Allie, who sent him three texts the following morning about the shoulder touch that he left on read.

He did not tell Hannah, which was the hardest one, because Hannah asked him directly at breakfast if he had noticed anything and Dean had looked her in the eye and said no.

He was, he decided, a good friend.

He was also, he decided, definitely going to win that bet.

five — garrett

The hit happened in the second period.

It wasn't malicious, just the particular physics of two large bodies in a confined space moving fast, the kind of collision that happened in every game, that everyone who had ever watched hockey understood to be part of it. Logan went into the boards hard and stayed down for a moment longer than usual, and the arena went quiet in a collective way that meant everyone was holding the same breath.

You were on your feet before you had decided to stand up.

"He's fine," Allie said, grabbing your arm. "He's moving, look, he's moving."

He was moving. He was getting up, slowly, with assistance from a teammate, skating to the bench under his own power. The arena exhaled. You sat back down.

Your heart was doing something extremely inconvenient.

"You okay?" Hannah said, from your other side.

"Fine," you said. "Totally fine."

She looked at you for a moment. You looked at the ice.

Logan was on the bench. The trainer was with him. He was talking, responding, doing all the things that meant he was okay, and you sat in the stands and watched with the stillness of someone who was doing a very good impression of a person who was just watching a hockey game and not mentally composing hospital directions.

He came back in the third period.

You exhaled properly for the first time in forty minutes.

After the game the group filtered down to the corridor outside the locker room the way they always did. You went because you always went, because it was a group thing, because it meant nothing in particular.

The players came out in ones and twos. Garrett first, immediately absorbed by Hannah. Tucker departing with a couple of the other guys. Dean getting into a conversation with someone near the exit.

Logan came out last.

He had a bruise forming along his jaw and he was walking with the slightly careful gait of someone who had taken a hit, and when he saw you he smiled, that specific smile, the one that was yours, and something in your chest did the thing it always did, except louder tonight, turned up by forty minutes of sitting in the stands holding your breath.

You crossed the corridor and hugged him, which was normal, everyone hugged after games, that was a completely normal thing to do.

Except then you pulled back and looked at him, at the bruise, at the careful way he was holding himself, and you said his name, quietly, in the way that was only for him, and he looked back at you in the way that was only for you, and the thing you had been keeping quietly for months was right there at the surface, obvious and warm and entirely done being kept.

You kissed him.

Not a quick kiss. Not an ambiguous one. A real one, his hand coming up to your jaw, yours finding the front of his jacket, the kind that had three months of ordinary Tuesday nights and Sunday mornings and staff bathroom detours in it.

The corridor went quiet.

You pulled back.

The group was looking at you.

Tucker's mouth was open.

Garrett had an expression cycling through several things very quickly , and then it landed on something that looked, more than anything, like quiet relief. Like someone who had been waiting for a particular thing to resolve and was glad it finally had.

Hannah was smiling in the particular way of someone who had known something for a while and was very glad to finally be allowed to show it.

Dean looked, more than anything, deeply smug.

"Wait," Tucker said. "Are you two — have you been —"

"Three months," Logan said, still looking at you, the corner of his mouth doing the thing.

"THREE MONTHS?"

"We forgot to mention it," you said.

"YOU FORGOT TO —"

"Tucker," Logan said.

"I HAD TWENTY DOLLARS ON THIS." Tucker pointed at you both. "I HAD — the pasta shirt! I KNEW about the pasta shirt! Does the pasta shirt count? When was the pasta shirt? If the pasta shirt counts then I —"

"Who won?" Allie said. "Technically who —"

Everyone looked at each other. A rapid, chaotic calculation passed through the group.

"Garrett," Hannah said slowly. "Garrett said —"

"After a game," Garrett said, with the equanimity of someone who had never been particularly worried about it. "I said after a game."

"You said after a game," Dean confirmed.

Tucker made a sound that had no letters in it.

"So Garrett wins?" Allie said.

"Garrett wins," Hannah confirmed, and immediately turned to Garrett with an expression of pure delight. "You won, baby."

Garrett looked at Logan. Logan looked back at him.

"You've been together for three months," Garrett said.

"About that," Logan confirmed.

"And you didn't tell anyone."

"We wanted to keep it for a while," you said, which was the simplest and most accurate version of it. "It was ours. We just wanted it to be ours for a bit."

Garrett looked at you for a moment. Something in his expression was entirely unsurprised. He nodded once, like a thing confirmed, and then looked at Logan with the small, easy smile of someone who had never doubted the outcome.

"Okay," he said. "Good."

Tucker pointed at both of you. "I want my twenty dollars back."

"You didn't win," Dean said.

"I KNEW ABOUT THE PASTA SHIRT."

"Tucker —"

"THE PASTA SHIRT WAS EVIDENCE AND NO ONE LISTENED TO ME —"

Logan looked at you. You looked back at him.

"Worth it?" he said quietly.

You looked at Tucker, who was now gesturing with both hands. You looked at Allie, who was consoling him with the resigned energy of someone who had expected this outcome. You looked at Hannah, who was collecting twenty dollars from Dean with the serene satisfaction of a person who had always known. You looked at Garrett, who was watching all of it with the calm, unhurried expression of a man who had called it months ago in a quiet kitchen on a Wednesday afternoon and had simply waited.

"Completely worth it," you said.

Logan kissed your temple.

Tucker made the sound with no letters in it again.

tucker: I WANT IT ON THE RECORD THAT I KNEW

tucker: THE PASTA SHIRT WAS REAL EVIDENCE

tucker: I CALLED IT FROM DAY ONE

dean: garrett won tucker

tucker: GARRETT WASNT EVEN PAYING ATTENTION

garrett: i was paying attention

tucker: YOU HAVE THE OBSERVATIONAL SKILLS OF A GOLDEN RETRIEVER

garrett: allie said that first

allie: it's true both times

allie: okay fine. garrett wins. i respect it.

tucker: I DO NOT RESPECT IT

tucker: TWENTY DOLLARS. GONE.

garrett: worth every penny honestly

allie: okay fine it was very cute

allie: i still saw the look though

allie: i want that acknowledged

dean: acknowledged allie

allie: thank you

tucker: I WILL NEVER FINANCIALLY RECOVER FROM THIS

[sunnydilaurentis]

late night | john logan ✶

summary: in which a drunk y/n arrives home after a night out and logan is forced to endure the torture of helping her take off her jewellery and dress while she looks far too pretty, far too affectionate, and far too tempting for his own sanity - only for him to prove, once again, that he’ll always put taking care of her before anything else.

pairing: john logan x fem!reader

note: my first fic request!! oh how i love sweet john logan. i hope you enjoy <3

ꪆৎ

you were standing in front of the bathroom mirror when logan found you.

well-

“standing” was generous.

you were leaning heavily against the marble counter in your tiny satin dress, one bare shoulder pressed lazily against the mirror while you squinted furiously at your own reflection with the sort of concentration only drunk people seemed to possess.

your fingers fumbled uselessly with the tiny clasp of your necklace for what was probably the sixth time in the last minute.

“stupid fucking-”

your tongue poked slightly against the inside of your cheek as you tried again, brows pinching together in frustration before the delicate chain slipped straight through your fingers once more.

you groaned dramatically.

the sound made logan bite back a laugh from the bathroom doorway.

he’d been halfway through pulling off his hoodie when he noticed the bedroom light still on beneath the cracked bathroom door, and now he was completely frozen there instead, broad shoulder leaning against the frame while he took you in properly for the first time tonight.

and christ.

the sight of you nearly knocked the air straight from his lungs.

your makeup was slightly smudged beneath your eyes from hours of dancing and laughing, lips glossy and swollen from sugary cocktails, cheeks warm and flushed from the cold night air outside.

your hair was messy too.

not ruined.

just soft around the edges now, like you’d spent the entire night running your hands through it absentmindedly.

and the dress-

fuck.

the tiny satin dress hung off your body in a way that felt genuinely unfair.

the thin straps slipped low against your shoulders every few seconds, exposing warm skin logan knew too well, while the silky material clung to every curve of your body like it had been specifically designed to test his self-control.

especially paired with the sleepy frustration written all over your face.

“need help there, baby?” he asked finally, voice rougher than intended.

you looked over immediately at the sound of him.

and the second your eyes landed on him, your entire expression softened.

“logan.”

just his name.

but the way you said it, warm, relieved, slightly drunk, made something tighten painfully in his chest.

you turned back toward the mirror with a dramatic sigh, lifting the necklace helplessly.

“it won’t come off,” you informed him accusingly. “i think it’s broken.”

logan huffed out a quiet laugh before pushing himself away from the doorway and walking toward you slowly.

“yeah?” he murmured. “gimme a second.”

the second he stepped behind you, his hands settled instinctively against your hips.

firm.

warm.

steadying.

and you immediately relaxed back against him like it was muscle memory.

that alone almost ruined him, because it happened so naturally.

like your body knew his before your brain even caught up.

logan lowered his head slightly, eyes focusing on the tiny clasp resting at the back of your neck while your hands came to rest lazily over his forearms.

he could smell your perfume this close.

sweet and expensive and familiar enough now that it clung permanently to the hoodies tossed around his room. his fingers brushed lightly against the warm skin at the nape of your neck while he carefully worked at the chain.

you shivered instantly.

logan’s eyes flickered upward toward yours through the mirror.

“cold?”

you shook your head softly. “your hands are just cold.”

“sorry, baby.”

“don’t be.”

your voice came out quieter this time.

sleepier.

softer.

logan swallowed hard. there was something dangerously intimate about moments like this. not the big dramatic ones, not parties or kisses or sex.

this.

standing half-drunk in his bathroom at two in the morning while he carefully untangled your jewellery for you.

it was domestic, comfortable.

a moment that was just yours.

finally, the clasp loosened beneath his fingers.

“got it.”

you let out a tiny victorious hum as logan carefully slid the necklace away from your skin before placing it gently beside the sink.

“there.”

you smiled at him through the mirror immediately.

god, that smile.

sleepy and warm and entirely for him.

“thank you.”

logan’s mouth twitched upward without him meaning it to.

“you got any more jewellery that’s personally attacking you tonight?”

you held your wrist up toward him sadly.

“bracelet.”

he barked out a quiet laugh under his breath before reaching for your hand. his fingers engulfed your wrist completely as he turned it carefully beneath the bathroom light, eyes narrowing in concentration at the tiny clasp.

his large hockey-player hands looked almost ridiculous against something so delicate.

but he was still careful.

you watched him openly now through half-lidded eyes while he concentrated, tongue dragging briefly across his lower lip the way it always did when he focused too hard on something.

your stomach tightened immediately.

because john logan genuinely didn’t understand the effect he had on you half the time. he didn’t realise that small things like this destroyed you more than anything else ever could.

the way his brows furrowed slightly, the warmth of his hands, the quiet patience in every movement of his. the fact that he treated you gently even when you were being objectively annoying.

“you’re staring,” he murmured without looking up.

your lips curved lazily.

“can you blame me?”

his mouth twitched again. “you’re drunk.”

“mhm.”

“and trouble.”

you grinned sleepily.

“you love me.”

logan finally slipped the bracelet free before setting it carefully beside the necklace, both hands settling automatically against your waist afterward like he physically couldn’t help himself.

then his eyes lifted fully to yours in the mirror and the entire mood shifted.

because the second he really looked at you, at your flushed cheeks, heavy-lidded eyes, glossy lips, something in his expression darkened.

the straps of your dress had slipped lower along your shoulders while you leaned against him, the thin satin clinging softly to your skin, and logan’s grip tightened almost imperceptibly against your waist as his gaze dragged slowly over you. you noticed immediately and your expression softened into something teasing.

“hi.”

“don’t,” he warned quietly.

“don’t what?”

“look at me like that.”

you turned slowly in his arms then until you were facing him fully, fingertips sliding lightly up the front of his t-shirt. the thin cotton stretched warm and soft beneath your hands.

“like what?”

logan exhaled slowly through his nose.

because fuck.

you had absolutely no idea what you looked like right now.

or maybe you did.

your fingers curled lightly against his chest before drifting lower, smoothing absentmindedly over the hard planes of his stomach beneath the fabric. logan’s hands tightened instinctively at your waist.

“y/n,” he said carefully, almost in warning.

“mhm?”

“stop playin’ games with me.”

you smiled innocently.

“i’m not playing games.”

“bullshit.”

a soft laugh escaped you and the sound alone nearly did him in.

logan’s eyes dropped briefly toward your mouth before dragging themselves upward again like it physically pained him to do it.

then your fingers found the hem of his shirt once more and logan nearly lost his fucking mind.

“okay,” he muttered immediately, catching your wrist gently before you could keep going.

“absolutely not.”

you tried not to smile.

“what?”

“you know what.”

instead of answering, you stepped closer until your bodies pressed together fully. logan’s jaw clenched instantly.

because suddenly he could feel all of you.

the satin shifting softly against his sweatpants, the warmth of your thighs brushing his, the curve of your waist beneath his palms, especially when the neckline of the dress dipped lower from the movement.

and especially when he caught the first glimpse of black lace beneath the satin.

fuck.

his eyes flickered downward for half a second before immediately dragging back up to your face.

you caught it.

of course you did.

your smile softened then, less teasing this time, more wanting.

“logan,” you whispered quietly.

and that nearly killed him more than anything else had tonight, because suddenly you weren’t just messing with him anymore.

you were looking at him like you wanted him.

really wanted him.

and god, he wanted you too.

so fucking badly.

his hand slid carefully upward along your spine before stopping at the zipper resting against the small of your back.

“can i?” he asked softly.

you nodded immediately.

logan’s fingers curled lightly around the zipper before slowly dragging it downward. the sound filled the quiet bathroom. the dress loosened inch by inch beneath his hands.

and logan’s breathing visibly slowed.

because beneath the satin was soft black lace stretched against warm skin and enough exposed shoulder to completely derail every coherent thought left in his brain.

the straps slipped lower down your arms as the dress loosened, exposing more skin with every passing second. you leaned forward slightly until your forehead rested against the centre of his chest, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt.

logan shut his eyes briefly.

“jesus christ.”

you laughed quietly against him, the sound warm and muffled.

“that bad?”

“baby,” he muttered, voice rough now. “you gotta stop asking questions you already know the answer to.”

your fingers slipped beneath the fabric of his shirt slightly then, nails brushing warm skin along his stomach.

logan physically inhaled sharply, every muscle in his body tensing immediately. then he caught your hand gently before you could keep going.

not roughly.

just steady.

careful.

grounding.

his forehead dropped against yours while his fingers wrapped loosely around your wrist.

y/n,” he said quietly. “you know i want you.”

your teasing faltered slightly at the sincerity in his voice.

logan’s hand stayed warm against your waist, fingers flexing faintly like he was physically restraining himself from pulling you even closer.

“but you’ve been drinking” he murmured softly.

“i know.”

“and i know you’re okay,” he continued quietly, thumb brushing slowly across your cheek.

“but you've had enough that i'm not gonna take advantage of it.”

his forehead rested lightly against yours as he exhaled shakily.

“trust me,” he muttered softly, almost sounding frustrated with himself.

“this is killing me.”

despite everything, a small smile pulled at your lips.

“yeah?”

his eyes flickered down toward your mouth for a split second before forcing themselves back up again.

“yeah” he said hoarsely.

“you have absolutely no idea.”

your chest tightened painfully at the sincerity in his voice.

because even now, even with his breathing uneven. even with his hands gripping your waist hard enough to betray exactly how badly he wanted you, logan was still making sure you felt safe first.

still making sure you were okay.

still putting you before himself.

you looked up at him quietly for a long second before your expression softened completely. a warm and achingly fond look settled across your features.

“you’re really good to me.”

logan’s entire face gentled instantly at that. his thumb brushed lightly beneath your jaw before he leaned down enough for his forehead to rest properly against yours.

“i'm always going to be good to you.”

[garrettgrahamswhore]

🏒 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐄

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 — john logan x gf!reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 — logan brings you to the rink on his day off, determined to teach you how to skate. you’re terrified of falling, but he doesn’t seem to mind giving you something to hold onto.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — pure fluff, established relationship, boyfriend-coded logan, rink date, reader is scared of falling, hand holding, kissing.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 — 5,294.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 — based on this request 💌 this is exactly why logan is my favourite, he’s so boyfriend-coded it hurts. now i need him to teach me how to skate too. i hope you like it <3 also, i’m still trying to figure out a new aesthetic for my page, tell me what you think

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⟶ you can find my taglist here!

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ⟶ you can find my masterlist here!

─── ⋆⋅🏒⋅⋆ ───

You should’ve known Logan was up to something the second he told you to wear something warm. Not something nice, not something cute. Warm.

Suspicious. Even more suspicious was the way he smiled when he picked you up, leaning against his car with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, looking far too pleased with himself for a man who’d refused to tell you where you were going.

You stopped on the sidewalk, narrowing your eyes at him.

“No,” you said immediately.

Logan’s brows lifted, all fake innocence. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“You have a face,” you pointed out.

“I do, yeah,” Logan agreed.

“A guilty face,” you corrected.

His grin widened, clearly pleased with himself. “I think you mean a handsome face.”

“I mean a face that says I’m about to regret trusting you.”

He pushed off the car and stepped closer, still smiling like he was trying not to laugh. “You trust me?”

“I’m currently reconsidering.”

“Too late,” he said, reaching for your hand and pulling you in gently before pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “You’re already here.”

“I’m standing on a public sidewalk,” you reminded him. “I can still run.”

“You wouldn’t get far.”

You gasped. “Rude.”

“You’re wearing boots with absolutely zero grip.”

You looked down at your shoes, deeply offended to find that he was right.

Logan laughed, opening the passenger door for you. “Come on, dramatic. You’ll like it.”

“That’s exactly what people say right before ruining my afternoon.”

“I’m not going to ruin your afternoon.”

“Logan,” you warned slowly, “where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” he answered.

“I don’t like surprises.”

“You told me last week that you loved surprises.”

“I like surprises when they involve flowers or coffee or you showing up with fries because I had a bad day. I don’t like surprises that start with you telling me how to dress.”

His expression softened at that, just for a second, like the memory caught him off guard in the best way. Then he kissed your hand before letting you climb into the car.

“You’re going to like this one,” he promised.

You didn’t believe him, not fully. But after six months of Logan looking at you like that — soft around the edges, all playful mouth and careful hands — you’d learned that trusting him was usually easier than pretending you didn’t.

So, despite your better judgment, you got in.

The drive didn’t take long. Almost too short, really. Long enough for Logan to keep glancing at you like he was waiting for you to figure it out, but not long enough for you to collect enough evidence to start a real argument. He hummed along to the radio, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel, one hand occasionally drifting over to squeeze your knee.

That should’ve been another warning sign. Logan was always affectionate, but this felt different — almost nervous, like he cared a little too much about whether you liked whatever he’d planned.

You turned in your seat to look at him. “Are you taking me somewhere illegal?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “No.”

“Somewhere dangerous?”

“No,” he assured you.

“Somewhere embarrassing?”

“That depends entirely on how good your balance is.”

Your eyes widened as realization hit, and Logan’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.

“No,” you said at once.

“You don’t even know what I mean yet.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“John Logan,” you warned.

“Oh, full name.” He pulled into the parking lot, still trying not to smile. “Serious.”

You looked out the window, already dreading what you were going to see, and then you saw it.

The rink.

The arena sat quiet under the afternoon light, the parking lot nearly empty and familiar in a way that made your stomach dip. Of course, you’d been here before — for games, mostly, practices sometimes, loud nights full of cheering and whistles and bodies slamming into the boards while Logan flew across the ice like he’d been born there.

But now, it looked different. Almost still. Almost private. Waiting.

Slowly, you turned toward him.

“Absolutely not,” you said.

Logan turned off the car. “You haven’t even heard my pitch.”

“I don’t need to hear your pitch. Your pitch involves putting me on ice, and I happen to enjoy having unbroken bones.”

“I’m going to teach you,” he assured you.

“That’s not as comforting as you think it is.”

“It should be,” he informed you. “I’m very good.”

“At hockey,” you corrected. “Not necessarily at keeping your girlfriend alive.”

Logan placed a hand over his chest. “You wound me.”

“You’re about to wound me physically.”

His laughter softened when he looked at you, and for a second, the teasing faded into something warmer.

“I got the rink for an hour,” Logan said, softer now. “Just us.”

You blinked, caught off guard, and your panic quieted a little.

“Just us?” you asked.

“Yeah.” He shrugged, suddenly looking almost shy, which was rare enough to make your heart squeeze. “I thought it could be fun. You come to games and everything, but that’s different. It’s loud, everyone’s there, and I’m usually trying not to get my teeth knocked out.”

“You make almost getting your teeth knocked out sound very romantic.”

His smile softened. “I wanted you to see it like this.”

The words landed softly, right in the place your panic had been a few minutes ago.

You looked back toward the rink.

This place belonged to Logan in a way you’d never fully understood before. Not all of it, maybe, but a big piece.

The ice.

The boards.

The sound of skates cutting across the surface.

The place where he was confident, fast, and completely impossible to look away from.

You’d watched him here from the stands so many times.

But Logan was right. This was different.

From the stands, Logan had always belonged to the noise.

To the team.

To the game.

To everyone cheering his name.

Today, he’d brought you here in the quiet.

Just you. Just him.

You swallowed, trying very hard not to show how much that touched you.

“I’m still going to fall,” you reminded him.

Logan’s smile returned, entirely unhelpful. “Probably.”

You smacked his arm.

He laughed, catching your hand before you could pull away and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“But I’ll catch you,” he promised.

“You sound very confident,” you said.

“I’m extremely confident,” Logan replied.

“In yourself?” you asked.

“In us,” he said.

That was deeply unfair.

You stared at him, your argument fading under the weight of the way he was looking at you. You sighed dramatically, because apparently that was the closest thing to winning you were going to get.

“If I die, I’m haunting you,” you declared.

“Fair.”

“And I want it on record that I was manipulated.”

“I’ll tell everyone you were brave,” Logan said, like that was generous and not deeply insulting.

“I’ll be dead, Logan,” you pointed out.

“Beautiful and brave,” Logan announced.

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling by the time he got out of the car.

Inside, the rink felt completely different without the crowd. Your footsteps echoed down the empty hallway, and the air smelled cold and clean, carrying that sharp, frozen scent that always clung to arenas. Logan walked beside you, your skates in one hand and his in the other, looking more relaxed with every step.

You noticed it immediately — the way his shoulders loosened. The way his gaze moved around the rink was like he was greeting something familiar. The way he seemed quieter here, but not sad.

Peaceful.

You bumped your shoulder against his, smiling a little. “You like it when it’s empty.”

He glanced down at you, his smile small. “Yeah.”

“Why?” you asked.

He was quiet for a moment, thinking about it.

Then he answered, “It’s quiet. I don’t have to think about anyone watching.”

That made you look over at him again.

He gave a small shrug, keeping his eyes ahead. “During games, everything feels loud. The crowd, Coach, the boys, my own head. I love it, most of the time. But sometimes it’s a lot.”

You nodded.

Logan looked toward the rink entrance, voice softening. “When it’s empty, it’s just the ice.”

Something about that made your chest ache softly.

In six months, Logan had let you see plenty of versions of him. Flirty Logan. Sleepy Logan. Cocky post-win Logan. Frustrated Logan, after bad games, dropped onto your bed and complained into your pillow until you ran your fingers through his hair.

But this felt like another version of him, one he didn’t share with everyone, and the fact that he wanted you here to see it made your chest ache.

You reached for his free hand, and Logan looked down just as your fingers slipped between his, closing his hand around yours without hesitation.

“Well,” you said, because being sincere for too long made your heart feel too exposed, “the ice and your girlfriend’s soon-to-be-concussed skull.”

Logan laughed and squeezed your hand. “You’re not getting concussed.”

“That sounds like a promise you’re not legally allowed to make.”

“I’m not going to let you fall that hard.”

“So you admit I’m going to fall.”

“Baby,” he said, gentle enough to make it worse, “you’re definitely going to fall.”

You stopped walking immediately. Logan made it one more step before turning back to you with a grin.

“I hate you,” you told him.

“No, you don’t,” Logan replied.

“No, I don’t,” you admitted, irritated by how little hesitation there was.

His smile softened at that.

You sat together on the bench near the boards before Logan crouched in front of you, your rental skates in his hands.

“Oh, so we’re doing this now?” you asked.

“That’s usually how skating works,” Logan said.

“I thought maybe we’d admire the ice from a safe, non-life-threatening distance.”

“You can admire it from up close,” Logan offered.

“I can admire it from the floor once I inevitably collapse.”

Logan shook his head, laughing under his breath as he slipped one of your boots off, but he went quiet while helping you into the skate.

The simple intimacy of it caught you off guard, how careful he was with something so small.

His hands were careful around your ankle, his fingers steady as he tightened the laces. You watched him focus, brows slightly drawn together and mouth relaxed in a way that made him look softer than usual. He tugged the laces once, checked the fit, and then looked up at you.

“Too tight?” he asked.

You shook your head, still watching him. “No.”

“Tell me if it hurts,” he said.

“I will,” you promised.

“You say that, but you have a habit of pretending you’re fine.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

Logan kept his gaze on yours, and there was no teasing in it this time.

You looked down at his hands instead, suddenly unable to hold his gaze. “You noticed that?”

“I notice a lot of things about you,” he said softly.

Your heart did something embarrassing.

“Unfortunately for you, skating is going to make it very obvious if I’m not fine.”

“Good,” he said, tying the second skate. “Then I won’t have to guess.”

You were quiet for a moment before you said, “You’re being very boyfriend right now.”

He looked up at you, grinning. “I’m your boyfriend.”

“I know,” you told him. “But you’re being extra boyfriend right now.”

“Is that supposed to be a complaint?”

“No,” you admitted.

His smile softened at that. “Good.”

Once your skates were tied and Logan had his own on, you tried to stand carefully, but the second your blades touched the rubber flooring, your legs betrayed you.

You grabbed Logan’s arm with both hands, immediately abandoning any pretense of dignity.

“No,” you protested.

Logan laughed immediately.

“Don’t laugh at me,” you blurted.

“I’m not,” Logan lied.

“You’re literally laughing.”

“You’re just cute when you panic,” he teased.

“I’m absolutely not panicking.”

“You tried to sit back down before you were even fully upright.”

“That was self-preservation.”

“Come on,” he coaxed, holding both your hands as he stepped backward toward the gate. “Small steps.”

“I’m going to die before we even make it to the ice.”

“You’re not going to die.”

“You don’t know that,” you argued, taking one step forward.

“I do,” he said, as that settled it.

“You’re alarmingly calm for a man leading his girlfriend to her doom.”

His grin widened, but his hands stayed steady around yours. “I’ve got you.”

That shouldn’t have worked as well as it did.

But Logan said it as he meant it, his hands steady around yours, and that made it harder to keep pretending you were scared of anything except how much you trusted him.

So you moved slowly, dramatically, and with a lot of complaining.

By the time you reached the open gate and saw the ice up close, your stomach had dropped. It looked impossibly smooth and impossibly hard, like it’d been waiting all afternoon for the chance to betray you.

Logan stepped onto the ice first, easy as breathing, and the second his blades touched the surface, something in him changed. He became fluid, lighter somehow, at home in a way that felt almost unfair.

Your grip tightened on the boards.

“Absolutely not.”

Logan turned back, skating backward a few easy feet. “You haven’t even stepped on yet.”

“And that’s exactly why I’m still alive.”

He held out both hands, steady and waiting. “Come here.”

You stared at him like he’d lost his mind.

He waited with his hands still outstretched, not impatient or mocking, just there, and you hated how much it helped.

With a deep breath and what you considered heroic bravery, you placed one skate on the ice, only for the blade to slide immediately.

You made a noise that wasn’t your proudest moment, grabbing Logan so fast that his eyes widened before he laughed.

“I’m sorry,” he managed, though he was very clearly not sorry at all.

“I hate ice,” you muttered.

“You’re doing great,” Logan said gently.

“I have one foot on the ice, Logan.”

“And that foot is doing great.”

You glared at him, and he only looked more delighted.

Eventually, with Logan holding you steady and offering encouragement that was only occasionally interrupted by laughter, you got both feet onto the ice.

You didn’t move, but you were on the ice. That counted.

“Okay,” Logan said, standing in front of you with both your hands held securely in his. “Bend your knees a little.”

“My knees are locked because they’ve correctly identified danger.”

“Bend them for me, baby.” You did, but barely. “Good,” he praised.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t use that voice.”

“What voice?” he asked.

“The soft coach voice,” you accused.

“You don’t like it?” Logan murmured, still smiling.

“I like it too much,” you admitted. “Which is irritating when I’m trying to be mad at you.”

His smile softened into something fond. “Noted.”

He started skating backward slowly, pulling you with him.

The second your skates shifted under you, your entire body tensed.

“Logan,” you warned.

“I’ve got you,” he said, hands steady around yours.

“Logan,” you repeated, grip tightening.

“Look at me,” he said gently.

“I’m looking directly at imminent death.”

“Look at me,” he repeated, his voice softer this time.

You dragged your gaze away from your feet and up to his face.

His eyes caught yours, steady and warm, and despite yourself, some of the panic loosened in your chest.

When you looked down, all you could focus on was the ice, the blades, the strange pressure in your ankles, and the terrifying lack of friction. But when you looked at Logan, there were his hands around yours, his eyes on your face, his body moving backward smoothly like guiding you was the easiest thing in the world.

You moved barely an inch, but it still counted.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, staring at him as he’d just performed a miracle.

Logan’s smile widened, proud and entirely too pleased. “See?”

“I’m skating,” you whispered, like saying it too loudly might ruin it.

“You are,” Logan said, smiling like he was proud of you.

“I’m incredible,” you declared.

“You’re extremely humble,” Logan teased, still guiding you backward.

“I’m basically ready for the Olympics.”

“Let’s maybe get you to the blue line first,” Logan suggested.

You looked down at the ice.

Mistake.

Your skate wobbled, your balance tipped, and a tiny scream slipped out as your arms flailed.

Logan caught you before you could fall, one hand at your waist and the other around your back, pulling you against him before you could hit the ice. Suddenly, your face was pressed to his chest, his laugh soft above you — not loud, not mean, just warm and happy as his arms stayed secure around you.

“I told you,” he murmured, his arms still secure around you. “I’ve got you.”

Your heart was pounding, and not entirely because of the almost-fall.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” you grumbled into his jacket.

“I’m enjoying holding you,” he murmured.

You lifted your head just enough to glare at him, but Logan only smiled down at you, warm and pleased in a way that made the glare hard to maintain.

That was the problem with Logan.

Sometimes it was impossible to stay annoyed with Logan when he looked at you like that, all soft eyes and quiet amusement, like your fear of ice was something precious he’d been trusted to hold.

You swallowed, trying very hard not to melt. “This is very manipulative.”

“What is?” Logan asked, looking far too innocent.

“You being cute while I’m vulnerable.”

His brows lifted, his smile already starting. “You think I’m cute?”

“I regret saying that,” you muttered, because Logan had clearly found a weak spot.

“No, no,” he said, holding you a little closer. “Let’s go back to that.”

“Absolutely not,” you muttered.

“You called me cute,” he reminded you.

“I was briefly concussed,” you replied.

“You didn’t fall,” Logan pointed out.

“I was emotionally concussed,” you replied, like that was a valid medical defense.

He laughed, kissing your forehead before letting you find your balance again.

For the next twenty minutes, Logan tried to teach you how to move.

You learned how to push off gently, keep your knees bent, and stop staring at your feet, even though they felt deeply untrustworthy. You learned that Logan was more patient than you’d expected, repeating himself without getting frustrated, catching you every time you stumbled, and praising even the smallest bit of progress as it mattered.

“That was good,” Logan praised after you managed three tiny glides without clinging to him.

“That was barely movement.”

“That was good,” Logan insisted.

“I moved approximately four inches,” you argued, like the measurement alone proved your point.

“Six, at least,” he corrected.

“Wow,” you deadpanned. “Alert the press.”

He skated a small, effortless circle around you, looking annoyingly beautiful while he did it. “You’re improving.”

“You’re showing off,” you accused.

“Maybe a little,” Logan admitted.

You watched him move, all easy bend in his knees and smooth shifts of weight, as the ice knew him as well as he knew it. He looked different here, not like he belonged to hockey exactly, but like this was one of the places where he could finally breathe.

It was beautiful, and a little intimidating.

Your smile faded before you could stop it, and Logan noticed immediately.

He slowed beside you, his voice gentler now. “Hey.”

You looked down at your skates, avoiding his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Nope,” Logan said softly.

You sighed, still avoiding his eyes. “What?”

“That’s your fake fine,” Logan pointed out.

You looked up at him, and his face was open, concern softening it in that quiet way he got when he wasn’t trying to turn everything into a joke.

“It’s nothing,” you tried, but Logan’s expression made it clear he didn’t believe you for a second.

“It’s nothing if it made your face change like that.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly, and you hated that.

The day had been sweet and funny and light, and suddenly your eyes were threatening to do something dramatic.

“I just…” You looked past him, toward the empty stands. “You’re so good here.”

Logan blinked, like that wasn’t where he’d expected your mind to go.

“And I know that’s obvious,” you continued quickly, suddenly feeling silly, “because it’s literally your thing. But seeing it up close is different. You look so comfortable here, like this whole place makes sense to you.”

His expression softened at that.

“And I’m standing here like a baby deer with knives strapped to its feet.”

His lips twitched, but he managed not to laugh.

“Don’t laugh,” you warned.

“I’m not,” Logan lied.

“You want to,” you accused, because the corner of his mouth was giving him away.

“A little,” he admitted, the smile fading into something softer. “But keep going.”

You exhaled, suddenly embarrassed. “I don’t know. I guess I hate being bad at something you love.”

Logan went still, as that’d hit somewhere he wasn’t expecting.

And there it was — the small truth you hadn’t meant to say out loud.

It felt ridiculous as soon as you said it. This was skating, not some life-changing test, and Logan was your boyfriend, not someone waiting to judge you. Still, you felt exposed, unsteady in more ways than one.

“I know it’s stupid,” you rushed out. “I just don’t want you to regret bringing me here because I’m terrible at this and scared and—”

“Baby,” Logan said softly.

You stopped, and Logan skated closer until the tips of his skates nearly touched yours. Then he reached for your hands.

“I didn’t bring you here because I needed you to be good at it,” Logan said, his hands steady around yours. “I brought you here because I wanted you here.”

Your chest tightened at that.

His thumbs brushed gently over your knuckles.

“I don’t care if you fall every five seconds,” he said, thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “I don’t care if we spend the whole hour by the boards. I just…” He glanced around the rink, then back at you. “This place is a big part of me. And you’re a big part of me now, too. I wanted those things to overlap a little.”

You stared at him, too full of feeling all at once to know what to say.

Logan’s mouth curved into a faint, self-conscious smile. “Too cheesy?”

“A little.”

“Good cheesy or bad cheesy?” he asked, still looking a little unsure.

You squeezed his hands, smiling despite the ache in your chest. “Devastating cheesy.”

The teasing faded from Logan’s face. “I’m serious,” he said. “I like having you here.”

You swallowed, hating how small your voice sounded. “Even if I’m bad?”

“Especially if you’re bad,” Logan said gently.

Your eyes narrowed at him.

He laughed, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “Because then I get to hold your hands.”

“You’re impossible,” you murmured, but your hands tightened around his anyway.

“You love me,” Logan said, entirely too pleased with himself.

You froze for half a second, and Logan’s smile faltered like the words had caught up to him too late.

It wasn’t the first time either of you had used the word casually. You loved plenty of things — fries, sleep, the way Dean got offended when nobody laughed at his jokes. But this time, it landed differently.

It slipped out softly, easily, too close to something real for a relationship that was still new enough to make you both careful.

Six months was long enough to know his favorite breakfast order, the way he liked his hair touched when he was tired, and all the little things that made him feel familiar. But it was still new enough that some words felt too big to throw around carelessly.

Logan’s expression shifted, a little panic flickering at the edges, and you squeezed his hands before he could take it back.

“I do,” you said quietly, and his breath caught like he hadn’t expected you to let the words stay.

The whole rink seemed to go impossibly still around you.

Your cheeks warmed immediately. “I mean, I do love you,” you rushed out. “Not just because you’re holding me upright, though that’s definitely helping your case.”

Logan stared at you, and for once, John Logan had absolutely nothing to say.

You gave him a nervous smile. “You’re supposed to say something now.”

His mouth opened. Closed. Then he laughed under his breath, soft and a little wrecked.

“I was trying not to say it first,” he admitted.

Your heart stumbled.

“What?” you breathed.

He looked down at your joined hands before looking back up, his eyes softer than you’d ever seen them.

“I didn’t want to scare you.”

“You thought loving me would scare me?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged, suddenly bashful in a way that made you want to kiss him until he stopped looking unsure. “Six months is still new, and you’re careful with stuff like that.”

“I’m careful because you’re terrifying,” you told him.

“I am?” he asked, looking genuinely confused.

“You’re John Logan,” you said.

“That explains absolutely nothing,” Logan said.

“You’re charming, and flirty, and everybody likes you, and sometimes you say things so easily, like they don’t mean anything, but they feel like something to me. I never know if I’m allowed to keep them.”

Something in his face changed, the softness there deepening until it almost hurt to look at.

“You’re allowed,” he whispered, and your throat tightened before you could stop it. “With me, you’re allowed.”

For a second, you stood together in the middle of the ice, hands linked, the quiet rink around you seeming to hold the moment carefully.

Then Logan looked at you and whispered, very softly, “I love you.”

There was no dramatic lead-up, no big speech, no smirk to soften it. Just Logan, standing in the place that felt most like him, giving you something he’d apparently been holding back out of fear.

You smiled, wobbly and helpless. “I love you too.”

His face broke into the sweetest smile, and then your skate slipped, because apparently romance and balance were too much for your body to manage at once.

Logan caught you before you could fall, laughter warm against your hair as you clutched at his jacket.

“Seriously?” Logan laughed.

“I was emotionally compromised,” you defended.

“You used that excuse already.”

“It keeps happening,” you argued.

He kept his hands at your waist, still smiling like he had no intention of ever letting this go.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, still a little breathless. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he murmured, and then he kissed you right there on the ice.

It was soft at first, his hands steady at your waist while yours fisted in the front of his jacket. Cold air brushed your cheeks, but Logan was warm against you, his mouth gentle and smiling, and you felt the curve of it when he kissed you again, slower this time, like he had all the time in the world and nowhere else he wanted to be.

When he pulled back, your eyes stayed closed for a second.

“Still hate skating?” he whispered.

You cracked one eye open, like even that took too much effort. “I’m considering tolerating it.”

“Look at you. Big progress.”

“Mainly because there’s kissing involved.”

“Yeah, I can definitely work with that.”

You laughed, and he leaned in to kiss you once more, quick and sweet.

After that, you managed to make it a little farther across the ice, and while no one would’ve called it graceful or impressive, it still felt like progress. You even made it halfway around the rink with Logan skating backward in front of you, his hands holding yours as he smiled every time your eyes found him instead of the ice.

“Look at you,” he said, like he was proud enough to make your cheeks warm.

“Don’t hype me up,” you warned. “I’ll get cocky and die.”

“You’re doing great.”

“I’m doing okay.”

“You’re doing great,” he reassured you, his hands steady around yours.

You tried to glare at him, but the smile tugging at your lips ruined it.

Eventually, your legs got tired, and your ankles started to complain, so Logan guided you toward the bench. You nearly fell as soon as you stepped off the ice, but he caught you with a smile and claimed it didn’t count since you technically weren’t skating anymore.

He helped you sit before crouching in front of you again, his hands already moving to untie your skates.

You watched him work in silence, your fingers still cold, your cheeks still warm, and your chest still full from the kiss and the way he’d looked at you when he said he loved you.

“Thank you,” you murmured, watching his hands work at your laces.

Logan looked up from your skates. “For what?”

“For bringing me here,” you said, watching his smile soften. “Even though I complained the whole time.”

“Especially because you complained.”

“You’re too fond of me,” you said, like that was the problem.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “I am.”

You leaned forward and pressed your hand to his cheek. Logan turned into your palm without thinking, and the smallness of it almost undid you.

“You really wanted me here?” you asked.

Logan looked up at you, his expression soft. “I always want you where I am.”

Your heart gave a painful little squeeze.

“Stop being romantic,” you whispered, like your voice wasn’t already giving you away. “It’s embarrassing for both of us.”

He grinned, like he already knew the answer. “You love it.”

“I love you,” you corrected.

His expression softened all over again, like he still wasn’t used to hearing it and needed to hear it a hundred more times before he believed it.

He stood before sitting beside you on the bench, close enough that your shoulders brushed. You leaned into him without thinking, and Logan wrapped an arm around you, pulling you into his side.

The rink stayed quiet around you—no crowd, no whistles, no teammates yelling from the boards. No pressure. Just Logan, the ice, and you.

After a while, Logan pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“So,” he started, his voice light, “second rink date?”

You let out a groan. “Logan.”

“What?” he asked, grinning. “Too soon?”

“I barely made it through the first one.”

“You did more than survive,” he said, smiling down at you.

“I nearly died three times.”

“I caught you three times, so really, you’re welcome.”

“Exactly,” you said. “Dangerous.”

He laughed and gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze.

You tipped your head back to look at him. “Maybe.”

His brows lifted. “Maybe?”

“Maybe we could do this again.”

His smile went soft, though there was no hiding how victorious he looked. “Yeah?”

“If you promise you’ll keep holding my hands.”

Logan looked at you like there was nothing easier in the world to promise.

“Always,” he promised.

He leaned down and kissed you again, soft and slow, while you sat there beside the rink with your skates untied and your fingers curled into his jacket.

You still weren’t sure skating was for you, but you loved the way Logan looked at you every time you tried.

─── ⋆⋅🏒⋅⋆ ───

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[folkloure]

⭑.ᐟ tender loving care

john logan x reader

summary: reader gets a minor head injury when logan is not around and everyone jumps to help. core characters mentioned but mostly dean and allie. short fic, genuinely not as dramatic as the summary makes it sound like lol. requested!

Logan’s phone won’t stop buzzing on his backpocket as he’s elbows deep in Professor Walsh’s car engine. He grabs the rag over his shoulder and does his best in cleaning the oil from his fingers before fishing the phone out of his pocket, only to find a bunch of texts from Dean.

dean: before you say anything dean: it was an accident okay dean: and she really really wanted to play with us :(

That, followed by a picture of you laying down on their couch, ice pack over your forehead, is enough to make Logan mumble a stream of apologies to Professor Walsh, something akin to “sosorryigottagoseemygirlfriend” and a promise of checking his engine another day as he literally runs back home. 

He finds you in that very same resting place, except your head is on Allie’s lap while she holds the ice pack for you. Dean, who’s bandaging your ankle on the end of the couch, immediately stands up and walks over to Logan’s direction,

“Dude, I swear to god that it was an accident.”

Logan takes a look at you over Dean’s shoulder, “What the fuck happened?”

“Me and Garrett were playing soccer when she got here looking for you.” Dean starts talking, “Then she asked us if she could join and I obliged, of course, ‘cause– Well, I wouldn’t I? Can you imagine how misogynistic that sounds if–”

“Dean, get to the fucking point!”

“Right, sorry– She tripped on my foot while we were playing and hit her head. It wasn’t too bad, I managed to catch her. But–” Dean motions his head to you, awake and murmuring something to Allie neither the boys can hear. 

Logan moves in your direction, kneeling by the couch, “Hey, honey. How you feeling?”

You can’t see him, ice pack covering your eyes as well as your forehead. Still, your lips quiver up when you listen to his voice, “I’m good. They’re all being dramatic.”

He looks up at Allie, gesturing for him to take her place on the couch. Allie carefully holds your head as she moves from under you, letting his hands hold you instead before she let go. You lay your head on Logan’s thigh, nuzzling as he presses a gentle kiss on the corner of your mouth. There’s a small cut on your chin, covered by a pink band-aid. His hands move to your cheek, drawing circles as he caresses your face, “You hurt your chin?”

You hum, and Allie speaks up, “Her arms are a bit scratched too. But we already cleaned them, and Garrett is on his way to the rink with Hannah. He said you guys keep a full first aid kit in the locker room.”

Logan hums, “Did you eat anything?” he murmurs to you. 

“Tucker made me a smoothie.” You answer, then your hand moves to remove the ice pack. Logan sees a purple-tinted bump on your forehead, but your eyes are shiny and smiling, “Baby, I’m fine. Really. Don’t get too worried, handsome. Hannah and Allie patched me up, and Dean said he’s sorry a thousand times already.”

Your boyfriend looks up, watching Dean’s apologetic face turn into a pout. Logan rolls his eyes at him, a tiny smile on his lips as he feels disarmed. He’s a little ashamed now, being so ready to pick an argument with his friends a second ago for letting you get hurt, yet there you are, laying all pretty on his lap, tended and smiling as Logan’s heartstrings pull a little.

He gives you a grin, “Do you want paracetamol or something?”

Dean raises his hand and gives his most prideful look, “Already had her take one, boss.”

“Alright. You’re good, man.” Logan says before adjusting your ice pack back to its place, pressing a quick peck on your cheek, “And you keep icing your head, there’s a bump right under your hairline. Allie, take my place?”

You stir, “I can lay on the couch just fine by myself.”

“No, no. We’re keeping someone by your side for the next twenty four hours.” Allie says, already taking Logan’s seat, “We gotta make sure you don’t have a concussion and choke on your own vomit.”

“Geez,” you sneer, “So dramatic.”

He stands from the couch, moving in Dean’s direction, “And you are helping me make dinner,” he drops his arms over his friend’s shoulder, muttering, “Thanks for helping take care of her.”

Dean beams at his friend, “That was nothing. The least I could do for almost killing her, really.” He jokes, squeezing Logan’s shoulder, “She’s all yours now, dude. And I’d say a little TLC is much needed.”

He looks back at you, giggling with Allie on the couch, “I think she’s in good hands.”

“I meant for you.” Dean says, “I know you love when you get to fuss over her, you softie.”

“Well, yeah. Like you said,” Logan shrugs, “Who am I to deny some tender loving care over my oh so hurt and in need of care girlfriend?”

“I can hear that,” you shout from the couch.

“And I don’t hear you complaining, babe.”

notes: thank you for reading! requests are open! likes/reblogs/thoughts are appreciated! <3

john logan masterlist

[minminn22]

Sorry, Wrong Number | John Logan

Summary: When Briar University's infamous right wing, John Logan, accidentally texts the wrong number, he expects a quick apology and a dead end. Instead, he finds a witty, sarcastic girl who isn’t afraid to put him in his place.

John Logan x F!Reader

Off Campus Masterlist

[ Incoming Message from Unknown Number ]

Unknown: If you don’t show up to morning skates tomorrow, Coach is going to have us doing suicides until our lungs collapse. Get your ass out of bed.

That text popped up at 6:12 on a Tuesday morning while it was still dark outside. Half awake, you stared at it for a second before answering.

Y/N: Bold of you to assume I have an ass, a desire to skate at dawn, or any idea who you are. Unknown: Tucker? quit screwing around man Y/N: Not Tucker. But tell Coach I said hi. Unknown: Shit. Wrong number. My bad. Y/N: Clearly. Next time, double-check the digits before you threaten someone with involuntary cardio. Unknown: Idk, you handled the threat pretty well most people would’ve blocked me. Y/N: Honestly this is the most interesting thing that’s happened all week.

Somehow, texting him became part of your routine. A stupid comment during class. A complaint while studying. A “you alive?” text at 1 a.m.

Unknown became Hockey Boy, and you became Wrong Number. You didn't exchange names, ages, or swap photos. It was nice talking to someone who didn’t expect anything from you. In the real world, you were suffocating under the weight of a brutal pre-law workload, surrounded by competitive Briar U students you couldn't stand. But texting him felt like a weirdly perfect escape.

When your coursework became too much, you poured it out to him.

Y/N: im actually going to lose my mind. if this man assigns one more 20 page case study im dropping out to become a hand model. Hockey Boy: hey, breathe. your hands are probably too pretty for manual labor anyway just take it one page at a time. You're too smart to quit. Y/N: You don't even know if I'm smart. Hockey Boy: let's be honest. you’re absolutely the kind of person who color-codes notes.

You’d blush, hiding your face in your pillow, and vent back when he needed it most. Because as arrogant as he could be, Hockey Boy carried a lot of weight on his shoulders. He never talked about family, but the sheer pressure of his own future seemed to consume him.

Hockey Boy: Scouting reports are out again. The draft talk is getting loud, and everyone's looking at me to carry the line. It’s just a lot of noise. feels like if i screw up one game, everything i’ve done for the last four years doesn't matter. Y/N: You’re the one putting blood on the ice, not the scouts. You play for you tomorrow. Block out the noise. You wouldn't be in this position if you weren't incredible. Hockey Boy: Don't know what I'd do without you, Wrong Number.

Meanwhile, your actual, daily existence was being thoroughly ruined by one very real, very tangible person: John Logan. He sat exactly two rows away from you in your advanced ethics seminar, looking infuriatingly handsome in his Briar hockey jersey, usually spinning a pen between his fingers or whispering jokes to his teammates. You were bitter academic rivals, constantly fighting for the top spot on the grading curve, and you despised his effortless charm.

When the professor called out your name on a rainy afternoon, asking for a counter-argument on a complex case, you stood up and delivered a flawless, razor-sharp critique. As you sat back down, you caught Logan’s eye. He smirked, leaning back in his chair, and mouthed, 'Damn, killer. Chill.' You rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw your own brain, turning your back to him. God, he was insufferable.

It happened on a Friday afternoon. You were sitting in the campus coffee shop, aggressively typing out a text to your anonymous confidant (pen pal? I don’t know at this point) to complain about your day.

Y/N: I am literally going to murder the hockey golden boy in my ethics class. He just eye-rolled his way through my presentation and then had the audacity to ask for my notes. I hate him.

A few tables over, a distinct, familiar text tone went off. You didn't think much of it until you watched John Logan pull out his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen.

Your phone buzzed in your hand.

Hockey Boy: Let me guess. Arrogant? Thinks his jersey exempts him from reading the syllabus?

Your breath hitched. You looked up from your screen, your eyes locking onto Logan. He was still staring at his phone, a soft, genuine smile on his face—the kind of look he never used in class. You slowly typed a reply, watching him like a hawk.

Y/N: Yeah. His name is Logan. He’s a menace.

Across the room, Logan froze. He didn't just look at the message—he stared at it, his thumb hovering over his screen. Then, his head slowly tilted back, eyes narrowing as he started scrolling up. Fast. Past the rants about the 20-page case study. Past the complaints about the rainy afternoon presentation.

Logan’s head snapped up. His blue eyes scanned the coffee shop until they landed directly on you. You were frozen, holding your phone like it was a live grenade. He just stared at you, the cocky look dropped his face as the dots finally connected.

Because the worst part was realizing he knew that look on your face.

He’d spent months texting the person who complained about him nightly.

You stuffed your phone into your bag, bolted out of the coffee shop, and ignored his texts for the next twenty-four hours.

The next Monday, you walked into the ethics seminar with your guard fully up, fully expecting Logan to mock you, or worse, use your texts against you. Instead, when you got to your usual seat, you found a large iced caramel macchiato sitting on your desk. Sticky-noted to the side was a hand-written message: 'For the future hand model. Don't drop out just yet.'

You looked up. Logan wasn't sitting two rows away anymore. He was sitting in the empty desk right next to yours, and he didn't have his usual cocky smirk.

He looked nervous, which was somehow worse.

"Logan," you hissed, keeping your voice low as the professor started setting up. "What is this?"

"A peace offering," he murmured, his brown eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your stomach completely drop. "And an apology. For being an idiot in person."

"You lied to me," you whispered.

"About what though? I didn't know it was you! We never talked about US like that" Logan defended softly, leaning in closer. "But now that I do... God, Y/N, it makes so much sense. You're just as terrifyingly brilliant over text as you are when you're destroying me on the grading curve."

"I don't do cocky hockey players, Logan."

Logan smiled, but it was soft, vulnerable—the exact tone of the boy you had grown to depend on. He reached out, his fingers hovering just an inch away from yours on the desk.

"Then forget the hockey part for a second."

He glanced down at your coffee. “I’m still the person you text at 2 a.m.”

You stared at him, your heart hammering against your ribs. The arrogance you usually hated was entirely gone, replaced by the boy who had stayed up until 2 AM comforting you through your midterms. Slowly, you reached out and pulled the coffee toward you.

"You're still an idiot," you muttered, though a tiny, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

Logan’s entire face lit up, a triumphant, breathtaking grin breaking across his face. He leaned back in his chair, pulling out his phone under the desk.

A second later, your phone buzzed.

Hockey Boy: I know. But I'm your idiot. Let me take you to dinner tonight? No hockey talk. Just us.

You looked over at him, and he gave you a slow, hopeful wink. Biting your lip, you slid your phone out to type back.

Y/N: Only if you're paying, Hockey Boy.

[puckmegirl]

UPTOWN GIRL (ft. John Logan)

blurb: a rich uptown girl with car issues keeps visiting the small garage off the highway where the owner’s super hot son works.

warnings: fem!reader, fluff, lowk ditzy!reader but not really, yummy mechanic!logan.

Logan heard you before he saw you.

He memorized the sound of those heels clicking against the rough pavement like a second heartbeat. After all, not many girls around this side of town wore vintage Prada pumps to an off-highway garage.

And even if they did, they most certainly did not own a BMW 6er f12 convertible.

Logan’s older brother Jeff was leaning against the workshop desk and sipping on a can of Coke when he saw you strut in. He sighed, “Here comes Lottie.”

The nickname was a running joke between the brothers. Jeff had muttered it under his breath when you first visited the shop and asked a question about diesel gas. He took one look at you and knew you were a clueless, rich girl who shouldn’t be visiting garages such as theirs.

Logan hadn’t entertained the nickname so much. He thought it was unnecessarily mean. Besides, Lottie was always a sweetheart in Princess and the Frog.

Jeff turned on his heels and disappeared into the garage’s office, leaving Logan to deal with you on his own.

Logan put down a spare part he was working on and turned around, leaning back against the counter.

You waved excitedly with a cheerful grin. “Hi, Logan!”

He smiled politely, “Hey…”

“Did you save my girl?” You asked, batting your lashes.

Logan nodded, “She’s all fixed up for you,” he said, walking over to the wall of car keys hung on hooks to retrieve yours.

You clapped your hands, “Yay!”

He chuckled whilst shaking his head. You got happy over the simplest of things. He thought it was endearing.

You walked over to your car. Nebula, as you called her. A fitting name for a sleek, black convertible with dark purple leather upholstery and shiny silver rims.

Logan came over and handed you your keys. “You wanna try her out?”

You nodded and unlocked your car before opening the driver’s side door. No beeping. Perfect.

You beamed at Logan. “You did it!”

He smiled with an easy laugh, feeling proud of his work. In reality, your car issue was a minor one; the door sensor just needed a replacement. Nothing about it required a lick of rocket science, and yet you looked at him as if he hung the stars in your galaxy.

You put your designer bag into your car and bent over to fish out your wallet. Logan stared at your body for a second before he caught himself, clearing his throat and looking away respectfully.

You stood up straight, holding your leather wallet between both hands, looking at him with a doe-eyed expression.

He scratched the back of his neck and gestured for you to follow him to the counter. The gritty sounds of his boots crunching the gravel below and the rhythmic click click click of your heels echoed through the garage.

Logan went around the counter and pulled out a receipt and wrote down the service you needed with the price. He slid the piece of paper to you but you just kept looking at his face with a smile. He blinked before realizing you didn’t care for the price. Right, he thought. Rich girls don’t worry about those things.

“Cash or card?” He asked.

You held up your metal black credit card.

Logan pursed his lips and nodded as he pulled out a card reader. You tapped your card without even glancing at the screen and clapped your hands when the machine beeped in satisfaction.

“Thank you, Logan,” you told him kindly.

He shrugged politely, “It’s no problem.”

You smiled at him. He returned it, “Do you want your recei—“

Before he could even hand you your proof of service, you were walking back to your car. He nodded to himself and stuffed the receipt into the cash register.

He watched as you exited the garage, waving at him enthusiastically as you drove by. He gave a small wave back.

+

A week later, your BMW pulled into the garage whilst Logan was working under a car.

He didn’t hear the sound of your heels this time as he had headphones in, blasting a classic rock song. He felt a shadow looming nearby so he turned and saw your heels appear. He paused and rolled out from under the car, meeting the sight of your broad smile peering down at him.

“Hi, Logan!”

“Hey…” He sounded confused. His eyebrows furrowed and he glanced around, “Didn’t you pick up your car last week?”

You nodded. “Yep. But my AC is broken now…” You pouted.

Hm, Logan thought. He sat up, “Oh, I didn’t see that when I did the diagnostic last week—“

“Must be a new issue, then. These foreign cars are all funny,” you replied, tilting your head.

He cleaned his hands with a rag before standing up. He had oil stains on his shirt and just a little smudge on his face. You thought he looked so ruggedly handsome.

“Let me take a look,” he said and you stepped out the way for him to crank open your hood and inspect the situation.

As he got to work, you leaned against your car and watched. After a moment, you asked, “How was your weekend?”

People don’t usually talk to Logan when he repairs their cars. Especially not pretty, rich girls like you.

“It was good, played hockey, worked here in the shop,” he responded casually.

You nodded along even though he couldn’t see you.

“Did you win?” You asked.

He laughed, an amused sound. “Yeah…yeah, we won.”

You clapped your hands, “Yay!”

Logan laughed again. It was cute, he thought, how you always clapped at good news.

“You like hockey?” He asked, looking over your hood to meet your eyes.

You hummed, “I only recently got into it. My family prefers watching polo, golf, or tennis.”

Rich people sports, he wanted to say. That made sense.

“Recently, huh?” He said instead, ducking his head to keep working. “Who should I thank for putting you onto hockey?” He joked.

You smiled shyly and said, “You…”

His hand paused. The parts of your car suddenly looking like alphabet soup moving in jumbled letters. He lifted his head to meet your gaze again. But before he could manage a reply, you changed the subject. “Is it broken beyond repair?” You asked, turning your attention to your car parts.

He snapped out of his daze and shook his head. “Uhh, no. No, you just need AC coolant.”

“Is that an easy fix?” You asked.

He nodded, “Yeah, the easiest.” He said.

You smiled in relief. “Thank goodness I have you fixing my car,” you told him.

He smiled at that.

He fixed your car, you chirped out a “Thank you, Logan!”, you paid without looking at the bill, and waved goodbye as you left.

“That the BMW girl again?” Logan’s dad asked as he stepped out the office.

“Yeah,” Logan replied, wiping his hands.

“Lottie back again so soon?” Jeff teased. Logan rolled his eyes at the jab.

“You overcharge her?” His dad asked.

Logan looked at him, “Why would I do that?”

His dad shrugged, “Luxurious car fee?”

Logan squinted his eyes, “We don’t do that.”

Jeff piped in, “We could. She doesn’t even check her receipts.”

Logan looked between his dad and brother, “So what? We charge her fair and square.”

His dad shared a looked with Jeff before he went back inside the office.

+

Week after week, you came by to the garage. First it was an oil change, then a rim replacement, then a loose window ribbon, then a tire with low air, and so on.

By week 7, Logan had had enough. It’s not that he didn’t like seeing you, no. Far from it. He actually enjoyed your company. He often looked forward to when you’d come by and say Hi, Logan! in that sing-song voice of yours, your joyful smile, and innocent questions.

But now he was noticing a pattern.

So when you rolled in that Thursday night like clockwork, he didn’t go up to you. He stayed by the workshop desk and watched you with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Hi, Logan!” You beamed with a gleeful wave.

But upon meeting his stern expression, your smile faltered and your hand slowly dropped back to your side. You looked around the empty garage before walking over to him in hesitant steps. The sound of your heels filled the space between the two of you. You stopped in front of him and flattened down your skirt, a nervous tic of yours that you never noticed before.

“Y/n,” he said, his tone serious. “This is the seventh time you’ve come to the garage.”

You nodded, “Nebula keeps acting up—“

“No, she doesn’t.”

You looked at your feet. No smile, no lively clapping.

His arms uncrossed and he stepped closer. He wasn’t angry. No, it wasn’t that. Logan isn’t an idiot. He knew. He knew you had a crush on him, knew the only reason you showed up time and time again was just to spend time with him. Why else would you come? He knew families like yours had their own repairmen at fancy dealerships who could fix any problem. You didn’t need to come into his family’s garage.

Yet, you did.

Logan figured it out by week 4. But truth be told, he never mentioned it because a part of him liked being around you too. He liked hearing your upbeat voice, the familiar tap of your heels, the sound of your laugh. So he stayed quiet, he fixed your tires, and refilled your car’s oil. He went along with it. Because he liked your company just as much as you liked his.

Unable to lie to him, you lifted your head and met his eyes. “I did those things to my car on purpose.” You confessed quietly.

Logan blinked. His stance eased at your admission and he looked at you with soft eyes.

“I watched a YouTube video on how to drain AC coolant,” you added. “And drove around until my tires lost some of its pressure, and—”

“Y/n,” he held your chin with his hand. “You didn’t have to do all that to see me.”

Your eyes widened as you stared at him. He smiled gently, “I…like seeing you. With or without Nebula.”

“You do?” You asked.

He nodded, “I do.”

He leaned in slowly, giving you the chance to pull away. But you stayed. His lips met yours in a gentle kiss. Not hungry or desperate, just a soft sealing; a mutual understanding—I like you and you like me.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. You looked at him with a honeyed, dazed expression. He smiled down at you and pecked your lips once more. You weren’t a spoiled, rich girl to him. Not clueless or ditzy. You were just…you. A sweetheart with a crush on a cute guy who would do anything to see him. You were Lottie.

He glanced behind you at your car. He pulled away with a reluctant sigh, “What did you do to her this time?”

You smiled sheepishly, “I jammed my gearshift…”

He chuckled softly, both amused and fondly exasperated by you. “Okay…let me take a look.” He said, lacing his hand with yours and bringing it up to his lips to press a kiss.

omg first off campus post, i’m nervy xx

[g0ldendesiree]

Things Unsaid | John Logan

summary: you're in love with logan, but what happens when you think he doesn't feel the same way?

request: yes/no

warnings: swearing, drinking

word count: 2.80k

authors note: the amount of people that requested this concept acc shocked me like I have like another thing like this coming out soon because so many people love this concept. hope you all enoy it though and I really don't have much more to say beyond that.

For someone as smart as Logan could be, he could also be the stupidest man alive. 

Because as Hannah went up after Beau for karaoke, all Logan could focus on was the girl singing. 

The look he gave her made your stomach churn as it was the same look you often gave him. 

It was one full of love and hope, not for the person in front of them but for what the two of them could become together.

You had been Logan’s best friend since your first day in your freshman year. 

He needed a pen and when you offered up several different colours to him, something just clicked for the two of you. Leaving you inseparable ever since. The puck bunnies always asked why you had never done anything with Logan as his friends always asked if he was hiding that you were more to each other than the rest of the world knew. 

While you were always left being forced to smile and nod along when those questions came your way as you swore you two were just friend, you had to admit that it was starting to hurt you. 

Somewhere along the way you stared to like John, as more than just a friend. 

At first you played it off as something silly, but by the time you actually decied to rip off the bandaid and tell him how you felt. 

It was too late, not because Logan was taken but instead because he was looking at Hannah like she already had his heart. 

And tonight just reminded you of that as you were forced to sit there and watch as Logan looked at her like she was performing to a room of just him and her “I hate love.” You grumbled as you shook your head when you felt the seat next to you get taken.

Beau went to comfort you “shit,” he yelped as he drunkenly fell off of his chair. 

Your hand immediately clasped over your mouth “you good?” Your words were muffled as you tried to hold your other hand out to help him back up. 

The boy laughed, finally making you break too “ow.” He groaned as he stood back up. 

You shook your head “idiot.” You elbowed the boy who sent you a grin “at least I wasn’t just complaining about a guy.” He stuck his tongue out at you. 

A laugh left your lips again as your cheeks turned red “watch it or else I’ll push that chair.” Your warning made Beau grin as he sat on his chair again. 

When your eyes went back to Logan you saw him looking right back at Hannah. 

From that night you decided that you needed a break. 

A chance to pull yourself out of the situation. 

A moment to gaslight yourself into thinking that maybe you were wrong and Logan wasn’t in love with Hannah. 

And the only way you knew how to do that was to avoid him entirely. 

So that was exactly what you did.

And Logan realised something was seriously wrong when you stopped coming to the house entirely.

At first, it had just been smaller things.

Skipping movie nights. Leaving group chats on read. Suddenly always “busy” when the boys invited you over.

But now?

Now it had been almost two weeks since he’d properly seen you.

And Logan hated how much he noticed.

The house felt off without you in it.

Too quiet.

Nobody stealing fries off his plate. Nobody yelling at Dean for putting empty milk cartons back in the fridge. Nobody curled into the corner of the couch in one of his hoodies while pretending not to fall asleep during movies. Yet always ending up with a blanket wrapped around you

It irritated him more than it should have “she’s avoiding me,” Logan muttered finally one night when he walked from a run.

He thought the fresh air would clear his mind, but instead, he just found himself craving your company even more.

The boys all looked up from the living room at the exact same time.

Dean paused mid-scroll on his phone.

Garrett blinked slowly.

Tucker looked like he was trying not to laugh “what?” Logan asked immediately.

Dean stared at him for a long moment “you’re kidding.” He looked at the other guys to see if anyone else found it so funny.

“About what?”

Garrett physically set his drink down “oh my god, he actually doesn’t know.” He brought his hand to his mouth.

“Know what?”

Tucker laughed under his breath, “this is painful.” He mumbled making the blonde nod in agreement.

Logan frowned harder “can one of you just explain what the hell you’re talking about?”

Dean pointed at him dramatically “she likes you, idiot.” He was done waiting for Logan to get on the same page as everyone else.

Logan blinked.

“What?”

The room went dead silent.

Then Dean actually threw his head back laughing as Garrett looked personally offended “no way.” Logan stared at them. 

“No she doesn’t.”

All three of them groaned simultaneously as they hit their heads with their hands “yes she does,” Dean said immediately as he knew Logan was on a losing side of this battle.

What made it sad was that Logan was unaware of it all “massively,” Tucker added.

Garrett leaned forward “it is genuinely impossible to miss.” He pointed out as he rolled his eyes.

Logan looked between them almost nervous, “you’re messing with me.” He didn’t want to believe that they were all right.

Dean barked out a laugh “Logan, she literally follows you around this house like a lost puppy.” He didn’t even mean it in a bad way, it was just the truth. You just loved being around Logan.

“She does not.”

“She absolutely does,” Dean cut in.

Logan opened his mouth to argue again, but Garrett beat him to it “she sits beside you every single time we watch movies.” Without fail, your legs always landed up in his lap.

“That doesn’t mean-”

The blonde pointed his finger into the air “she does it because she loves getting a chance to cuddle you!” Dean interrupted as he shook his head.

Logan frowned slightly.

Beau pointed out as he walked into the house, “she also laughs at jokes that are objectively not funny when you make them.” Logan felt like the most unamusing person in that group half the time.

“That’s not true.”

One of the boys threw something at Logan as if it would knock some sense into him “dude,” Garrett deadpanned as he sent Logan an unimpressed look“you made a joke about a burnt grilled cheese last week, and she laughed so hard she cried.” Logan hesitated because maybe that one was fair.

Dean was already on a roll now.

“She brings you a thing of berries because she thinks of you.”

“She remembers your practice schedule better than you do.”

“She knows your coffee order.”

“She looks at you like you’re the only dude in this house half the time.”

Logan stared at the blonde, who continued to list things off

His stomach was starting to feel weird “she does not look at me like that.” He shook his head as the three of them exchanged a look.

Then Dean leaned back against the couch cushions dramatically “oh my god he’s stupid,” he muttered as he rubbed his face with his hand.

“Hopelessly stupid,” Garrett corrected.

Dean pointed toward the kitchen “last month you walked in wearing that grey hoodie she likes, and she genuinely forgot how to use a microwave.” Logan blinked as he swore that he never had that effect on you.

“What?”

Tucker nodded solemnly “tragic, honestly.” Not knowing if he was talking more about you or Logan in that moment.

Garrett laughed as he thought back to his favourite memory of you trying to hide your crush “and every time you touch her,” he did his best to hold back a laugh, “she goes completely silent for like ten seconds.”

Logan frowned harder, trying to think back.

Little moments suddenly started replaying differently.

You getting flustered when he threw an arm over your shoulders. How pink your face got whenever he complimented you. The way you always seemed to brighten the second he walked into a room “oh,” Logan said quietly.

Dean pointed at him again “there it is.”

Logan looked genuinely stunned now, like his world had stopped in that moment.

“She-”

“Yep,” Beau interrupted him immediately, not giving Logan a chance to come up with something wrong.

Silence quickly fell over the room as the boys waited for Logan to say something, “for how long?” Logan asked, his cluelessness made everyone else laugh.

Garrett shook his head “months, man.” Dean nodded in agreement as he ate his food.

Logan sat back slowly against the couch cushions.

And suddenly, karaoke night replayed in his head, too.

A switch had flipped in your brain, and you were stoic towards him after Hannah’s song. The way you barely looked at him afterwards. How you’d practically vanished from his life the next day.

Logan looked back at them “she stopped coming around because she likes me?” It was as if the penny dropped for him in that moment.

Dean’s expression softened slightly “she stopped coming around because she thought you liked Hannah.” Logan and Garrett all made awkward eye contact.

Logan blinked as he cocked his head “yep.” The boys all nodded in agreement before Logan had a chance to question it.

Logan ignored him completely as he stood up “oh, you are an idiot,” Garrett words were so quiet but still Logan heard everything he said.

Because the boys were right.

Days later, you didn’t know how you ended up at the boys place after a win. 

Well that was a lie, Beau and Dean practically dragged you out of your dorm after believing that you were becoming a decoration within your own room.

It was hard to say no to either of them when they started guilting you “I should go home.” You announced at the front door when the boys tightened their hands on your shoulders. 

Dean shook his head “look just have fun with us.” Beau mumbled into your ear. 

You sighed as they walked you into the house. Music echoed in your ears as people flooded around the first floor “we’ve got your back.” Beau added as he watched your eyes land on the boys. 

More specifically, Logan. 

The boy looked tired as he listened to Tucker recount a story that had him being overly expressive with his hands. 

His under eyes were dark as Logan looked almost like he wasn’t there anymore, at least not mentally. 

But when he finally saw you, he smiled. It was this soft, sweet one that almost looked delicate, like he was worried if he gave you anything more, that he was worried you’d run away. 

Your eyes drifted somewhere else in the room as you felt your heart throb.

It was killing you to not talk to Logan, but when you saw how Hannah smiled at something that Garrett said, you knew it was all because you could think about was what you didn’t have “c’mon let’s get you a drink.” Dean patted your shoulders as he pushed you in the direction of the kitchen. 

The boys kept on replacing your drinks every time you finished them. 

And you were doing a good job of throwing each newly refilled cup back like it was nothing. 

Song after song. 

Drink after drink. 

Every effort to avoid Logan went successfully. 

Time slipped away and the night grew older.

And before you knew it, you were drunk. 

Not the cute kind of giggly that wine got you. 

But the stubborn and determined drunk that tequila got you. And that’s when you decied that you had enough.

The air was cold when you finally left the party. 

You had decided that avoiding Logan was getting too much, so you left. 

The fall weather should have left your cheeks cool when the night breeze drifted past you, but instead, you felt like you were on fire. 

All your focus was on putting one foot in front of the other so that, by the time you made it to the sidewalk, the front door opened. 

You had created enough distance between you and the house “are you fucking serious right now?” Logan scoffed when he let the door shut with a slam behind him. 

Footsteps pounded behind you as you kept on walking fast. Which for someone who was as drunk as you were, wasn’t very fast at all “don’t,” you grumbled, knowing that he was steps behind you. 

Your fists clenched “what the hell is that supposed to mean?” Logan almost laughed as he furrowed his eyebrows. 

“It means just leave me alone!” 

Logan finally reached for you as you stumbled over your feet “I won’t.” He ended up in front of you forcing you to stop. 

A harsh sigh escaped from your lips “I’m fine.” You slurred, feeling your head spin. 

Alcohol tainted your tongue as Logan could smell it, “you’re so far gone.” He shook his head when he frowned. 

Your lips formed a pout “well aren’t you observant?” You stuck your tongue out at him as he laughed. 

You tugged your body back “so let me go home.” Your voice came out harsher than intended, and you were so drunk that you didn’t notice. 

He glared at you and you glared right back. 

And somehow that little moment sent the two of you over the edge “you know you have been avoiding me for damn weeks.” Logan was hurt and even if he tried to hide it, it still seeped through his voice. 

You rubbed your cheeks with your hands “not this shit again.” You groaned as you shook your head. 

“Yes, this again.” 

Logan wasn’t going to stop until he had a reasonable answer from you “you disappeared and acted like it was nothing!” He tugged his fingers through his hair. 

You finally looked at the boy’s eyes “look you didn’t even notice.” Your voice was barely above a whisper. 

It made the boy frown “of course I noticed when you weren’t around.” Logan clicked his tongue “hell you’re the first person I always look for in a room, even if I know you won’t be there.” His confession made your stomach churn. 

You shook your head “you don’t get to do this.” You raised your hand to stop him “look it’s bad enough you don’t like me back but don’t lie to me.” 

Logan crossed his arms “I am not lying jesus,” he scoffed as if he was offended that you even thought it. 

You looked up at the sky as you licked your lips “you love Hannah-” he tried to cut you off but you stopped him. 

Your hands wrapped around yourself, “and I need to learn to accept that you just don’t love me how I love you.” Your words came out and it was as if you had opened a can of worms. 

“In a way that makes me fine when you eat the last cookie or wait at the rink after games just so that I can be the first one to congratulate you or hug you, and god it’s in an unfortunate way that makes me hate you for not seeing me how I see you.” 

Silence followed your words as you felt your throat constrict, “oh god.” You groaned as you pushed Logan away from you, leaning into the dirt next to him. 

His hands immediately went to your hair as you threw up “let it out.” He cooed, rubbing your back as you whined. 

“I’m gonna die.” You groaned weakly, making him laugh “no you won’t.” 

You looked up at him in betrayal “I told you I love you and you are laughing at me?” You grumbled as you sent him a scowl. 

He shook his head “absolutely not.” He forced his lips shut “okay maybe a little bit.” 

Logan went back to rubbing your back “for the record I love you too.” The words slipped from his lips making you stand up. 

Your eyes were wide “you do?” Your voice was barely a whisper. 

He nodded “I was trying to stop it because I wanted to keep you as a friend rather than lose you altogether.” Logan let his hands fall to your hips. 

You melted into his touch “now please never leave me like that again.” Logan pressed a kiss against your forehead as you nodded. 

Logan smiled as he could smell your perfume on you again and not just on his clothes “can we go back to your room?” You asked as he let his hand slot into yours.

[rosiewrites28]

"Hockey Jackets Lead To Bad Decisions"

Summary: John Logan can flirt with anyone for fun, but the second y/n ties his hockey jacket around her waist, it starts feeling dangerously less casual. Between stolen touches, teasing confessions, and a growing inability to keep their eyes—or hands—off each other, one night at Malone’s turns into the beginning of something neither of them is prepared for.

wc: 2870

Pairing: John Logan x Reader

A/N: I was going to split this into two parts but then changed my mind. Formatting is kind of everywhere. Not edited.

Masterlist

The bass at Malone’s was loud enough to vibrate through the floorboards. 

Every surface in the place felt sticky, humid from too many students packed together under flashing lights, and the air smelled like cheap beer, perfume, sweat, and something aggressively fried from the kitchen. Which normally would have been my cue to leave after thirty minutes. 

But Hannah and Allie had cornered me before I could escape. 

So now I’m trapped in the middle of the dance floor while Allie screamed the lyrics to a JLo directly into my ear. 

“If you elbow me one more time, I’m reporting you to the authorities,” I yelled over the music.

“You look too hot to complain!” she shouted back immediately.

“That’s because this dress is cutting off circulation to my legs!”

Hannah burst out laughing beside us, dark curls bouncing as she danced. “Worth it!”

Easy for her to say.

The black dress looked incredible in my bedroom mirror two hours ago. Sleek. Tiny. Dangerous in a fun way.

Now?

Now it had decided it couldn't stay down on my thighs and kept trying to ride up. Every thirty seconds I had to yank the hem back down while trying to preserve what little dignity I had left. 

“I swear to God,” I muttered, tugging at the fabric again, “this dress is one wrong move away from becoming a crop top.”

Allie nearly choked laughing.

“You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m fighting for my life.”

“You’re winning, though,” Hannah assured me. “Half the bar has been staring at you since we got here.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It should be.”

Unfortunately, Hannah wasn’t wrong. I could feel eyes following us every time we moved through the crowd. And one pair in particular was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

Because leaning against the bar in a fitted grey Henley—with sleeves pushed up to his forearms like he personally wanted to ruin my mental stability—was John Logan.

He was currently talking to Garrett Graham. Laughing at something Dean said. Looking unfairly good doing literally nothing. I made the mistake of glancing over again. Big mistake. Huge.

Because Logan happened to look up at the exact same moment. Our eyes locked across the crowded bar. Then he smiled, not a polite smile, not a casual hey-I-know-you smile either. A slow, knowing smile like he’d caught me doing something I shouldn’t be. Heat immediately crawled up my neck.

“Oh my God,” Hannah said beside me. “You’re staring again.”

“I am not.”

“y/n,” Allie deadpanned, “you literally stopped dancing.”

I immediately started moving again out of pure embarrassment, nearly sloshing my drink onto the stranger beside me.

“I hate both of you.”

“You wanna know the worst part?” Hannah asked.

“No.”

“He keeps looking over here too.” 

I nearly choke on air. “Excuse me?”

But before Hannah could answer, the dress betrayed me again. Aggressively. I gasped, grabbing the hem before disaster struck. “That’s it. I’m taking this thing out back and setting it on fire.”

Allie doubled over laughing. “You brought extra clothes though, right?”

“Yes,” I said obviously. “Because unlike you two, I believe in preparation.”

Honestly, being roommates with Hannah and Allie meant always carrying backup options.

Backup makeup, shoes, advil, dignity. 

“My bag’s at the table,” I said, pointing toward the back booth where Tucker and Dean sat.

Hannah nodded sympathetically. “Go change before you accidentally traumatize the hockey team.”

“Excellent idea.”

I shoved my way through the crowd, muttering apologies. Heat clung to my skin from dancing, and by the time I reached the booth, I was already annoyed enough to change into sweatpants and never speak again. 

Tucker looked up first. “There she is,” he announced dramatically. “The only responsible person at this school.”

Dean snorted into his drink. “That’s a low bar.”

I laughed softly and bent down to grab my tote bag from beside the booth—Only for another hand to reach it first. Long fingers wrapped loosely around the strap. My stomach immediately did something humiliating. Slowly, I looked up.

Logan sat sprawled comfortably against the booth seat, one arm stretched along the back behind Dean. Up close he somehow looked even broader than he had across the room, shoulders straining the soft grey fabric of his Henley. His hair looked slightly damp at the ends and his eyes were absolutely full of amusement. 

“You leaving already?” he asked. His voice was rough from the noise in the bar, low enough that I felt my heart skip.

“No,” I replied. “My dress is trying to humiliate me.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I noticed.”

My entire body heated instantly. “You noticed?”

Dean made a choking sound into his beer while Tucker physically covered his face.

Logan looked completely unashamed. “It’s hard not to,” he said. “You’ve been fighting with that thing since you got here.”

I pointed accusingly at him. “You are a terrible person.”

“Nah.” He stood up from the booth in one smooth movement. “Just observant.”

Standing this close to him felt unfair. He was tall enough that I had to tilt my head slightly to keep eye contact. Then Logan glanced down toward my legs again. A slow grin spread across his face. “You know,” he drawled, already shrugging off his hockey jacket, “there’s a pretty obvious solution here.”

Before I could answer, he held the jacket out toward me. Navy blue with ‘Briar Hockey’ stitched across the chest. It was still warm from his body.

“You’re offering me your jacket?”

Logan lifted one shoulder casually. “Seems safer for the general public.”

Tucker laughed so hard he almost dropped a fry.

I should’ve said something smooth. Something flirtier than standing there staring at him like an idiot. But of course my brain had become occupied by the sight of Logan holding the jacket. Dear God. “You okay there, y/n?” he asked, clearly entertained now.

“Yes,” I lied immediately. “I am perfectly fine.”

His grin widened. “That’s good news for me.”

I blinked. “Why?”

“Because I’ve been flirting with you for the last ten minutes.”

My heart nearly stopped.

Dean made a loud gagging noise. “Jesus Christ, Logan. Buy us dinner before you start confessing feelings.”

“Shut up,” Logan muttered automatically. But he never looked away from me once.

And suddenly the noise of Malone’s felt farther away somehow., like the entire bar had blurred around us. Then Logan stepped closer, close enough that my pulse jumped stupidly hard.

“C’mere,” he said softly.

My brain short-circuited again.

Before I could respond, he took the jacket gently from my hands and moved behind me.

Every nerve ending in my body immediately became aware of the fact that John Logan was standing directly behind me.

I could feel heat radiating off him.

Could smell his cologne more clearly now—clean and warm and dangerously comforting.

Then his fingers brushed lightly against my hips as he wrapped the sleeves around my waist.

Not lingering.

Barely there.

Still enough to make my stomach flip violently.

“You’re freezing,” he murmured near my ear.

I swallowed hard. “It’s winter.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Oh.

Oh, that was flirting flirting.

His knuckles skimmed my waist one last time as he tied the sleeves securely in front.

“There,” Logan said quietly behind me. “Problem solved.”

I turned around slowly.

Big mistake.

Because now he was even closer.

Close enough that I could see the tiny scar near his eyebrow.

Close enough that I noticed his eyes weren’t just brown—they had these stupid gold flecks in them under the bar lights.

Close enough that my brain started making deeply unhelpful observations about how nice his mouth looked.

“You’re very smug for someone lending me a jacket,” I managed.

“Can you blame me?” His gaze dragged slowly over me, entirely unapologetic. “You look really good in my clothes, y/n.”

That should not have affected me that much.

And yet.

I crossed my arms mostly to give myself something to do. “Do you flirt with every girl like this?”

“Nah.”

His eyes held mine steadily.

“Only the ones who stare at me from the dance floor like they wanna climb me.”

My jaw dropped open.

Dean lost it completely beside us.

“Oh my God,” I laughed, horrified. “You saw that?”

“Baby,” Logan said, grinning now, “everyone saw that.”

I groaned and covered my face instantly while Tucker cackled loud enough to attract attention from nearby tables.

“This is my villain origin story.”

Logan laughed too then.

Not the cocky teasing laugh from before.

A real one.

Warm and low and ridiculously attractive.

Then his hand closed gently around my wrist.

The touch surprised me enough that I looked up immediately.

“Don’t hide now,” he murmured, tugging my hand away from my face.

The teasing edge in his voice softened just slightly.

And somehow that felt even more dangerous.

“I kinda like when you look at me.”

My stomach flipped so hard it was honestly concerning.

For one suspended second neither of us moved.

The lights flashed blue and gold across his face. Music pounded through the floor beneath our feet. Around us, Dean was still laughing at something Tucker said, people shouted over drinks, glasses clinked behind the bar—

But Logan’s attention stayed completely, entirely on me.

Like I was the only interesting thing in the room.

Then his gaze flicked briefly to the jacket tied around my waist before returning to my face.

“Plus,” he added casually, “now everybody knows you’re wearing my jacket.”

I blinked. “And why exactly does that matter?”

His grin turned lazy again.

“No reason.”

Liar.

And judging by the look in his eyes—

he knew I knew it too.

By the time I realized John Logan was still holding my wrist, it was already becoming a problem.

Not a real problem.

A dangerous problem.

Because his hand was warm, his thumb rested lazily against the inside of my wrist, and the look in his eyes was doing deeply irresponsible things to my nervous system.

Around us, Malone’s was still loud and chaotic—music blasting, people yelling over each other, glasses clinking behind the bar—but somehow the space directly around us felt weirdly smaller.

Focused.

Like the rest of the room had blurred at the edges.

Logan tilted his head slightly, watching me with obvious amusement. “You always get this quiet when a guy flirts with you?”

I narrowed my eyes immediately. “I’m not quiet.”

“You were staring at me like you forgot your own name two seconds ago.”

“That’s a medical condition.”

Dean nearly fell out of the booth laughing.

Tucker pointed a fry at me. “Honestly, y/n? Respect.”

“Thank you,” I said with dignity. “At least someone here supports women.”

Logan’s mouth twitched.

Still holding my wrist.

Still entirely too close.

“You okay there, hockey boy?” I asked sweetly. “You seem attached.”

His gaze dropped briefly to where our hands were touching before lifting back to my face.

“Nah,” he said easily. “Just making sure you don’t run away.”

My stomach flipped.

Which was ridiculous.

Absolutely ridiculous.

Because John Logan flirted with everyone. That was practically part of his personality. He was charming and hot and knew exactly how to look at someone like they were the center of the universe for five minutes at a time.

I knew that.

Unfortunately, knowing it did absolutely nothing for me when he smiled like that.

“You think I’d run away?” I asked.

“I think,” Logan said slowly, “you’ve been pretending not to notice me staring at you all night.”

Heat crawled up my neck instantly.

“Oh my God,” I muttered.

“That’s not a denial.”

“Please stop being observant. It’s ruining my life.”

He laughed softly, finally letting go of my wrist.

I immediately missed the warmth.

Which felt pathetic.

Before I could spiral about that too much, Logan leaned one hip against the edge of the booth beside me.

“So what’s in the emergency backup bag?” he asked.

“Gym shorts. Oversized T-shirt. Snacks.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Snacks?”

“I’m a woman in STEM. Survival is important.”

Dean pointed at me dramatically. “See? This is why she’s my favorite.”

“You told Hannah last week I looked like I’d poison someone for fun.”

“You do.”

“That’s just the eyeliner.”

Logan laughed again, shaking his head.

God, he laughed a lot around me.

That felt… nice.

Dangerously nice.

“What kind of snacks?” he asked.

I stared at him. “Are you flirting with me or trying to rob me?”

“Can’t it be both?”

I snorted despite myself and finally crouched to dig through my tote bag. “Goldfish crackers. Granola bars. Sour candy.”

“y/n,” Tucker said solemnly, “marry me.”

“No.”

“That’s fair.”

I pulled out the folded pair of black athletic shorts I planned on changing into and tossed the bag onto the booth seat.

Logan looked personally offended.

“You’re replacing the dress?”

“The dress betrayed me.”

“But the dress is winning.”

“That sounds fake.”

“No seriously.” His eyes dragged over me again, slower this time. “It’s a really good dress.”

My brain fully malfunctioned for half a second.

The confidence in his voice was what got me.

Not teasing now.

Not joking.

Just honest.

And somehow that was worse.

“You are aggressively good at this,” I informed him.

“At flirting?”

“At making people forget basic motor functions.”

A grin spread slowly across his face. “Yeah?”

“Unfortunately.”

Dean groaned loudly. “I can literally feel the sexual tension from here.”

“Then leave,” Logan said without looking away from me.

Tucker clutched his chest dramatically. “He’s in deep already.”

“I’m not in deep,” Logan shot back automatically.

I raised an eyebrow. “Interesting choice of wording.”

He looked at me for a second.

Then smirked.

“You catch everything, huh?”

“Occupational hazard.”

“What occupation?”

“Judging people.”

“Damn,” he said. “And here I thought it was pharmacy.”

I laughed before I could stop myself.

And Logan’s expression shifted immediately when he heard it.

Softer somehow.

Like he liked making me laugh.

That realization hit me right in the chest.

“You know what’s weird?” he asked suddenly.

“What?”

“You’re way less scary than Hannah made you sound.”

I gasped dramatically. “Excuse me. I worked very hard on my terrifying reputation.”

“She told Garrett you once made Dean reconsider his entire personality.”

“I did.”

Dean pointed at me. “She looked me dead in the eyes and asked if I had hobbies besides being loud.”

Logan barked out a laugh.

“To be fair,” I said, “you didn’t have an answer.”

“That’s not the point.”

The music switched songs, bass vibrating through the floor harder now as more people crowded onto the dance floor.

Across the room, Hannah spotted me and wiggled her eyebrows obnoxiously.

I immediately flipped her off.

She looked delighted.

Logan followed my gaze toward the dance floor. “You gonna keep dancing?”

“Eventually.”

“You were having fun before your dress declared war.”

“I was having fun until somebody noticed.”

“y/n,” he said, looking genuinely amused, “you were staring at me like you were conducting scientific research.”

“In my defense, your arms are upsetting.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Tucker made a strangled noise.

Dean physically bent over laughing.

And Logan—

Logan looked so pleased with himself it was unbearable.

“My arms?” he repeated carefully.

I immediately realized my mistake.

“Oh my God.”

“y/n likes my arms,” he announced to the table.

“I actually need everyone here to die.”

He laughed outright now, head tipping back slightly, and the sight hit me with embarrassing force.

Because Logan was pretty.

Like offensively pretty.

Especially when he laughed.

“You know,” he said casually, flexing one arm against the table edge just enough to be annoying, “most people compliment my face first.”

“You don’t need compliments about your face. You already know about your face.”

“That’s true.”

“Horrific answer.”

He grinned.

Then leaned closer suddenly, voice dropping lower.

“But for the record,” he murmured, “I noticed your legs first too.”

My entire train of thought derailed.

Completely.

Gone.

Dean slapped the table hard enough to rattle the drinks. “Jesus Christ, just kiss already.”

“Dean,” I said weakly, still staring at Logan, “I’m trying to have a nervous breakdown in peace.”

Logan’s eyes flicked down briefly to my mouth.

Just for a second.

Still enough to make my pulse jump.

Then he looked back up slowly.

“Would it help,” he asked softly, “if I told you I’ve been trying not to kiss you since you walked in?”

I forgot how breathing worked.

Actually forgot.

Logan noticed immediately too, because his grin turned lazy and unbearably smug.

“There she goes again,” he murmured.

“Shut up.”

“You get all wide-eyed every time I flirt with you.”

“Maybe because you flirt like you’re trying to cause structural damage.”

That earned me another low laugh.

And before I could recover from that either, Logan reached out and adjusted the collar of his hockey jacket where it sat tied around my waist.

His fingers brushed bare skin just above my thigh.

Tiny touch.

Barely there.

My stomach flipped violently anyway.

His eyes lifted back to mine.

“You keeping the jacket on?” he asked.

“Maybe.”

“Good.”

“Why?”

His gaze held mine for one long second.

“Because I like seeing my stuff on you.”

Oh.

Oh, he was dangerous.

[puckingcuckbunny]

𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐚 ✪

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞 : john logan x fem! chronic fainter! reader 𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : angst, mentions of fainting, breakup implied or atleast taking a break implied, dizziness, medical inaccuracies for the plot. 𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : Being a chronic fainter was a little annoying. but you learnt how to manage and by junior year at Briar, everyone around you had adapted to it too; Hannah and Allie knew how to catch the signs before you hit the floor, Garrett keeps electrolyte packets in his backpack, and the hockey house has practically developed an emergency response system.

Everyone adapts except John Logan.

Because no matter how many times you wake back up smiling and insisting you’re okay, Logan never quite learns how to treat it like something ordinary. And when one particularly bad fainting spell leaves you unconscious long enough to genuinely terrify him, the careful balance the two of you have built between normalcy and fear finally begins to crack.

Or: two times John Logan watched you faint, and the one time he realised loving you meant learning how to be scared without letting it consume him.

𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐜𝐞 : 5.7k words 𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲’𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 : First time fulfilling a request, I hope you like it anon, im sorry that it probably isn't the fluff you are looking for but I hope you like it nonetheless. thank you @mieluno & @kthice for the text dividers

fainting had always been a little bit inconvenient.

not dramatic enough to be cinematic, not predictable enough to properly prepare for - just inconvenient in the kind of way that slowly embeds itself into every aspect of your life until you stop noticing how abnormal it actually is. It all started in high school, the first time it happened was arguably horrifying- 3rd period math class, and your crush had just offered you a pen and flashed you a crooked smile. Your heart raced, like a hummingbird wild and erratic and before you knew it, one minute you were bashfully giggling at his jokes about quadratic equations- the next you were face first in your notebook. The doctors told you Vasovagal Syncope, which in your opinion sounded like a hard metal rock band, but you took their blood pressure medicines from that day onwards. 

Over time, you learnt how to live with it. Sometimes it was manageable. Sometimes it was just dizziness and blurry vision making you sit down on the nearest surface before your body decided to humble you publicly. Sometimes it was waking up to panicked faces hovering over you while you tried to convince everyone around you that no, seriously, this happened all the time.

which, unfortunately, was true.

Allie and Hannah learned the quickest, being roommates would do that to you. The boys learned soon after. By junior year, there was practically a system in place for it - water bottles shoved into your hands, someone grabbing your bag before you hit the floor, Garrett texting Logan before you were even fully conscious again.

Logan, however, never quite adjusted to it the way everyone else did.

he tried to.

God, he tried.

but there was something uniquely horrifying about loving someone whose body could go slack in your arms without warning. Something deeply unsettling about the way you always laughed it off afterwards, brushing it aside with flushed cheeks and a quiet, "I'm okay,” while his heart was still somewhere near his throat.

because to you, fainting was normal.

to John Logan, it never would be.

But here are the two times he dealt with it..somewhat normally. And the one time he didn’t

𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝟏

The library at Briar had a very specific kind of silence.

Not actual silence - that would’ve been impossible considering half the student population seemed physically incapable of existing without aggressively whispering every thought that crossed their mind - but the sort of hushed atmosphere that made every dropped pen sound like a gunshot.

You were currently trying very hard not to contribute to that atmosphere by murdering John Logan with a highlighter.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Logan muttered from across the table, long legs nudging yours beneath it.

You didn’t look up from your notes, underlining a sentence in your physiology textbook hard enough to nearly tear the page. “Because,” You whispered sharply, “you’ve tapped your foot against mine for the last fifteen minutes.”

“That’s because my feet are freezing.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“It became my problem when you shoved your icy ass converse under my legs.”

A snort came from beside you. Hannah quickly disguised it as a cough when you glared at her over your laptop screen.

Across from her, Garrett looked deeply unbothered by the entire interaction, lazily flipping a page in his philosophy textbook while Hannah slowly collapsed into silent laughter against his shoulder.

“You two are disgusting,” Allie informed you quietly from the end of the table.

You blinked. “We’re literally studying.”

Logan hummed, not even pretending to pay attention to the stats worksheet in front of him anymore, “Yeah baby, real filthy behaviour.”

Heat crawled up your neck instantly.

The word baby wasn’t exactly new. Logan had been throwing it around for months now, slipping it into conversations with such casual ease that you’d stopped reacting outwardly somewhere around week three, despite the fact every single time still felt like someone plugging your nervous system directly into a live wire.

“You’re staring again,” You muttered.

“I’m allowed to stare at my girlfriend.”

Allie gagged dramatically.

“Oh my god,” She whispered loudly, “he’s gotten even more annoying.”

“Impossible,” Hannah replied solemnly.

Garrett barely glanced up from his book. “Give it a week. They’ll become one organism.”

“We already basically are,” Logan said casually.

You finally looked up at him then.

That was the problem with Logan. The reason you’d fallen for him so spectacularly despite your better judgement.

He said things like that so easily. Like it was obvious.

obviously he’d started keeping protein bars in his backpack because you forgot to eat when you were stressed. obviously he waited outside your exam halls even when he had practice. obviously your legs ended up over his lap every time you sat together for longer than ten minutes.

Your chest tightened softly.

And because apparently the universe enjoyed humiliating you whenever you got too emotionally comfortable, your vision blurred slightly at the exact same moment.

You frowned. That was… inconvenient timing.

The words on your laptop screen swam for half a second before sharpening again. Your heartbeat fluttered unpleasantly.

Not enough to panic over yet. You subtly shifted in your seat, rolling your neck and readjusting your posture- hoping to god that it would be enough, trying to ignore the familiar lightheadedness curling at the edges of your body.

“Hey.”

Logan’s voice dropped quieter instantly.

You looked over.

His brows had pulled together slightly, eyes scanning your face with terrifying precision.

“How long?” He asked softly.

Damn him.

Most people didn’t notice until you were actively halfway unconscious.

“I’m okay,” You whispered automatically.

A look crossed his face. Because he knew that tone. Knew what it meant when you said I’m okay in that specific careful voice. Your boyfriend leaned back slightly in his chair, completely ignoring the fact that Garrett was now openly watching the interaction over the top of his textbook.

“When was the last time you ate?”

You blinked once.

Logan sighed immediately. “Baby.”

“I had coffee?”

Allie dropped her pen onto the table. “Oh my god.”

“You can’t survive on caffeine and academic validation,” Hannah hissed.

“I literally can though.”

“No,” Logan said flatly, “you literally cannot. That’s the whole issue.”

Despite yourself, you laughed quietly.

Wrong decision.

The movement sent dizziness crashing through you harder this time, your stomach dipping sharply as black spots burst across your vision. Logan was moving before you could even process it properly. One second you were upright, the next his hand was wrapped around your wrist while the other steadied your shoulder.

“Hey,” He said immediately, voice calm enough that someone who didn’t know him wouldn’t notice the tension underneath it, “look at me.”

Your body felt frustratingly floaty all of a sudden.

“I’m fine,” You murmured weakly.

“Yeah, sweetheart, that sentence is losing credibility.”

Garrett was already standing.

“I’ll get water.”

Hannah reached for your bag without needing to ask while Allie shoved your laptop aside to make room.

The horrifying thing was how practised everyone looked doing it.

Like this had become routine.

Which, unfortunately, it kind of had.

“I hate all of you,” You mumbled as Logan carefully crouched in front of your chair.

“You love us deeply,” Allie corrected.

“Stockholm syndrome maybe.”

“You literally chose to date one of them,” Hannah pointed out.

“That weakens your argument significantly,” Garrett called over his shoulder.

Logan ignored all of them.

His thumb pressed lightly against your pulse point while he watched your face with that same concentrated expression he got before hockey games. Like he could somehow prevent your body from betraying you if he paid enough attention.

Your chest ached.

“Hey,” You whispered softly once your vision finally started stabilising again.

Logan looked up immediately.

You reached out without thinking, fingers brushing against the crease between his eyebrows. The tension sitting there.

“I’m okay.”

He closed his eyes for half a second. Then he turned his head slightly and pressed a quick kiss into the centre of your palm before standing back up.

The library collectively chose that exact moment to become aware of the fact that the hockey team’s second line centre was looking at you like you personally held his heart hostage.

“Oh my god,” Allie whispered dramatically.

Hannah looked emotional.

Garrett looked disgusted.

“Suddenly we’re all trapped in a Nicholas Sparks novel,” he muttered.

Logan didn’t even glance away from you.

“Shut up,” He said absentmindedly, still watching your face carefully, “she almost passed out.”

“I did not almost pass out.”

“That’s not medically valid.” Logan shot.

You flicked his forehead, “You’re not medically valid,” 

You stared at him for two seconds before bursting into startled laughter.

And just like that, some of the fear eased out of his shoulders.

𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝟐

The thing about the hockey house was that it never really felt like anyone was visiting it.

It felt like everyone was always a part of this little ecosystem, even if half of them technically still had their own places and the other half only owned two plates and a concerning number of energy drinks that nobody could fully account for.

Tonight was one of those nights where everything blurred into something almost domestic in a way you loved. Garrett and Hannah were folded into each other on the armchair in the corner, Hannah scrolling absently while Garrett spoke over her shoulder in low, easy comments about something on his screen that she kept pretending not to care about but clearly did. 

Dean and Allie were on the floor near the coffee table, Allie leaning against him in that casual way that somehow always ended with her stealing his hoodies and Dean acting like he was personally offended by affection while still adjusting her position when she shifted too much.

And then there was Tucker, occupying the remaining space , talking at a volume that suggested he had forgotten walls existed.

You were on the couch.

Logan was on the couch too, your legs resting across his lap, your head resting on the back of the couch. His hand had found your ankle at some point during the evening and had simply stayed there, like it had decided that was where it belonged and saw no reason to reconsider.

“Have you eaten today?,” Logan murmured into your ear, not looking up from his phone.

You didn’t look away from the conversation Dean was having with Allie about whether cereal could be classified as a personality trait. “Hmm?”

“Did you eat today baby?” He dropped his phone into his lap and caressed your hair.

“I think so.”

A pause.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“It does if you really think about it.”

Hannah glanced over from the armchair. “She’s lying.”

“I am not lying.”

Garrett didn’t look up. “You had toast and emotional distress.”

“I had toast and a very normal amount of stress.”

Logan’s thumb pressed lightly against your ankle once, absent and automatic, but his attention had shifted to you properly now. Not fully concerned yet, but already recalibrating the room around your answer the way he always did when he thought something might be off.

“Baby,” he said quietly, like it was a habit more than a warning.

You finally turned your head slightly toward him. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything.”

“You’re absolutely starting something.”

Across the room, Allie made a sound of exaggerated disgust without even looking up. “I can feel the health lecture forming.”

Dean nodded. “It’s in the air.”

Logan ignored them completely. “You said you had toast this morning.”

“I did.”

“And then what.”

You hesitated.

Which was apparently answered enough.

Hannah sighed. “Oh my god.”

“I had coffee,” you admitted finally, because there was no point pretending anymore.

Garrett closed his eyes briefly like he was praying for patience. “That’s not food.”

“It has beans in it.”

“That’s not how nutrition works,” Logan said, though his voice was still calm, still even, like he was trying very hard not to make it into a bigger thing than it already was.

You shifted your legs slightly on his lap, rolling your eyes. “You’re all obsessed with me.”

“Yes,” Allie said immediately.

“That’s not-”

“Yes,” Dean repeated, “we are.”

You opened your mouth to concede and hop to the kitchen, go grab whatever tucker had made and stored in the fridge, but the words didn’t come out as smoothly as they should have.

It wasn’t immediate. It never was, much to your annoyance. It was subtle in the way your body always was about these things, like it preferred to give you enough time to be pissed before it betrayed you properly.

A slight softening at the edges of your vision first, like the room had decided to lose definition without informing you. The low hum of conversation didn’t change, but it felt slightly further away, like you were listening to it through water.

You frowned. This was inconvenient.

You shifted your weight on the couch instinctively, trying to ground yourself without drawing attention to it, but Logan noticed anyway. Of course he did.

His hand tightened slightly around your ankle.

“You good?” he asked, quieter now.

You nodded automatically. “Yea,” pushing off the sofa, hoping the movement would reboot your brain,”... yeah im fine.”

It came out too fast. Logan’s expression changed imperceptibly, the way it always did when he didn’t believe you but hadn’t yet decided whether to challenge it in front of everyone.

“Hey,” he said again, softer, his hand wrapped around your wrist- following you away from your seat.

You tried to laugh it off, but it didn’t quite land properly even in your own ears. “I’m finally listening to you guys, just going to grab something to eat.”

You pushed yourself to step away.

That was when it hit properly. Your body simply decided that it was no longer participating in the conversation. The room loosened, like the edges stopped agreeing with each other and in between the gaps your brain filled with black spots.

You reached out without thinking, fingers brushing the back of the couch as your knees went weak in a way that didn’t feel like anything at first, until it did.

“Hey-”

Logan’s voice cut through immediately, sharper now, closer than it had been a second ago, but it was already too late for clarity.

There was so much movement all at once.

Someone swearing.

A water bottle being cracked open.

The shuffling of sneakers and socks against the floor.

Coming back was always the worst part.

Because there was always a moment where you could hear everything before you could properly exist inside it again. Voices layered over each other, closer this time, less casual.

“I’ve got her,” Logan’s voice said, low and controlled in a way that didn’t quite match the tension underneath it.

“She’s out cold?” Dean asked, like he was trying not to panic but also deeply failing.

“She’s not- don’t say it like that,” Allie snapped immediately.

“Water,” Garrett said somewhere to the side, already moving.

And then your vision finally returned in pieces.

Ceiling first.

Then faces.

Then Logan.

He was closest.

Crouched in front of you, one hand steadying your shoulder, the other still holding your wrist like he hadn’t fully decided whether letting go was allowed yet. His expression wasn’t dramatic in the way people expected panic to be.

He was focussed on you, in a way that made your chest tighten before you even fully remembered why. You blinked slowly.

“Oh,” you muttered. “That was annoying.”

Relief flickered across Allie’s face instantly. “She’s alive.”

“Barely,” Dean said.

“I heard that,” you murmured.

Logan didn’t smile, “you scared me,” he said finally. You swallowed, trying to sit up, but his hand immediately steadied you again, firmer now.

“Don’t,” he said softly.

“I’m fine,” you replied automatically, accepting the water from garrett with a smile, you reach over to your bag and search for an energy bar. You hated the nutty torture snacks, but Logan insisted on you carrying them around for emergencies.

Everyone around you had relaxed, Hannah, Garrett and Tucker went to the kitchen, animatedly chatting about dinner whereas Allie and Dean went back to their places on the floor, already scrolling through her phone. 

Logan hadn’t moved, his fingers drumming against your knee. Your fingers moved without thinking, brushing lightly against his sleeve.

“I’m okay,” you said again, softer this time, like it might mean something more if you said it gently enough.

Logan exhaled through his nose, eyes flicking briefly shut like he was trying to steady something in himself. He shook his head, as if the movie had been unpaused and he had momentarily lost the plot. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝟑

Logan got the message in the middle of something he would not later be able to reconstruct properly, not because it wasn’t important, but because everything that happened immediately after replaced it so completely that the original context never stood a chance of surviving in his memory.

His phone buzzed incessantly on his desk breaking his concentration from whatever his professor was droning about ,to the group chat notifications exploding on his phone screen. It was Hannah’s name first, then Garrett’s, then Allie’s, all stacked on top of each other in a way  that made him unlock his phone and scroll through hurriedly. 

you fainted. properly. you're awake now. come back.

He read it once without reacting in any visible way, which was what made it worse in hindsight, everything else that he had been doing was irrelevant, as though the idea of continuing it belonged to someone else entirely, and he was no longer that person.

By the time he got back to the house, his hoodie was half-zipped because he had started putting it on properly and then stopped halfway through, his cap still backwards and slightly uneven like he had forgotten it was there at all and his hair underneath it flattened in places that suggested his hand had been through it more times than he had noticed.

Logan shut off his ignition and ran up the stairs, two at a time until he was bursting through the front door- his bag hanging from one shoulder as he scanned the scene in front of him. Garrett stood near the kitchen counter with a glass of water he had clearly forgotten to drink from, Hannah sat on the couch angled slightly forward in a posture that suggested she had not yet decided whether she was allowed to relax, Allie hovered somewhere between the hallway and the living room in a way that made it clear she had been going back and forth between checking on you and giving you space, and Dean existed in that familiar state of pretending not to be paying attention while absolutely paying attention.

And you were on the couch. Your eyes were open but not fully anchored yet, blinking slowly in that delayed way that made it clear your body was still catching up to where you were. Your shoulders were slightly hunched forward as if you were trying to find the correct posture for being awake again and your hands were loosely folded in your lap before you noticed him properly.

The moment you did, everything in you shifted in a way that was immediate and familiar, like muscle memory rather than thought. You sat up, twisting over the couch to meet his eyes and smile with your hand outstretched- that was when the collective inhale happened, like even the house was waiting to see what he would do.

His eyes stayed on you without breaking, taking in the fact that you were sitting there, awake, conscious, present, and yet his brain still hadn’t stopped running like a hamster on a wheel, rotating again and again through all the scenarios he had plagued himself with on the drive over- a broken movie reel that fluttered between bad, worse and catastrophic.

You saw him, the way his eyes darted all over your face, how his hand was tightening and loosening against his bag strap. 

“Hey,” you said, your voice slightly rough, but it jumpstarted him to begin slowly approaching you, like a wounded animal. Your first instinct whenever he looked like that, as if you could smooth the edges of his expression back into something manageable by making yourself smaller within it, which was something you did without hesitation, like it was part of a pattern you had both already agreed to without ever discussing it.

He let you. 

Let you intertwine your fingers with him and pull him closer next to you. Let you kiss his hands, then knuckles and then the side of his wrist. He let you ground him before he could process anything.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, already aware of how the room was still holding itself slightly tense, and your voice tilted into something apologetic without fully meaning to, “I’m sorry guys, I must not have realised how stressed I was. I didn’t mean to scare anyone, I just didn’t eat properly and I got a bit dizzy and I didn’t realise it would turn into anything, it won’t happen again, I promise.”

Around you, the room began to release itself in pieces.

Garrett exhaled and shifted his weight like he had been waiting for permission to stop bracing, Hannah leaned back into the couch again as her shoulders loosened, Allie moved a step closer to you and immediately started talking in that half-joking, half-relieved tone about electrolytes and how she was “putting you on a schedule if this ever happens again,” and Dean, finally, contributed something about how he shouldn’t have asked about how your paper went, and he’ll let you run him over with his car to relieve stress next time, which was unhelpful but normal in a way that helped everyone else reset.

You leaned into Logan without thinking, still holding his hand, your body molding into his as you rubbed circles on his knuckles and pressed your hand into his thigh

You looked up at him, already softer, already slipping back into the version of the evening where everything was normal again. But what you couldn’t see was the way his emotions swirled thunderously in his mind, how he couldn’t begin to relax like everyone else did- in fact he was baffled they were so normal so quickly. He barely heard you ask about his class, or notice when you peppered soft kisses to his jaw and say that you missed him- how boring it was when he wasn’t there. As though the structure of his day mattered more than anything.

He tried to answer at first, his words bubbling to the tip of his tongue, but it didn’t take long for him to realise they wouldn’t come out in a smooth, caramelised way that would flow into the calm atmosphere of the room. He gently let go of your hand, in a decisive way that made you furrow your brows and scan his face.

“Logan?” you said, quieter now, not fully alarmed but already sensing the direction this was going.

He rubbed his hands together, throat working thickly as his adams apple bobbed. Everyone else had noticed the shift, conversations slowed. Dean stopped mid-sentence. Allie’s expression changed slightly as she looked between the two of you. Hannah went still in a way that suggested she was no longer sure whether to intervene or wait.

Logan turned to you, his hair falling in specks along his forehead, “I need a minute.” He got up and went upstairs, footsteps heavy along the ceiling of where you all stayed frozen until his bedroom door clicked closed; you blinked a few times, looking at your friends who met you with confused, concerned shrugs and shakes of their heads.

Your expression tightened and you pushed yourself up to follow him, ignoring whatever advice your friends were half-heartedly giving you. 

When the door creaked open under your hand, you found him sitting on the edge of his bed, hands braced on his knees and holding his head, as though he needed something solid to hold the weight of his thoughts. His cap lay discarded on the floor, shoulders slightly lifted in tension that he was not releasing, and when you entered the doorway he did not look immediately, as if he already knew what would happen if he looked at you too quickly.

When he did meet your eyes, it was not anger that you saw first, but something more difficult to place because it did not sit cleanly in any single emotion. It looked like a strain held in place for too long.

“You shouldn’t apologise like that,” he said, and you frowned slightly, stepping inside and shutting the door behind you. Trapping whatever conversation you were about to have within these four walls.

“I wasn’t- I just didn’t want everyone worrying,” you said, still trying to smooth it over in the same way you had in the other room, still trying to keep it within something manageable. The bedframe creaked under you, as if warning you from crossing your legs and sinking into this situation.

But he shook his head once, not dismissive but overwhelmed, and when he spoke again his voice had shifted into something quieter but sharper at the edges, “You were apologising for being unconscious.”

That made you stop, properly stop, because it didn’t match the version of the moment you had been holding onto, and he saw that in your face immediately.

“I wasn’t here,” he said, and there was something in the way he said it that made it clear that time had not been abstract for him in the same way it was for you. “You were just gone, and I found out from my phone blowing up, messages that had sat there for god knows how long because…” He grit his teeth, “I just had to turn it on silent for class. And I get back to everyone telling me it was fine, that you’re fine, like that changes anything.”

You try to re-anchor him in proximity the same way you always did, your hand finding his again, your voice softening as you said, “You can’t always be there Logan, I don’t want you to always be on edge. I’m okay.”

But when he looked at you this time, there was something in his expression that did not settle with that reassurance.

“I know,” he said quietly, and it came out with more restraint than anything he had said earlier, like it was something he had been holding back for a long time and could no longer keep contained in the same shape. “I just don’t know how to stop thinking about what it looked like when you weren’t.”

You cup his cheek, turning him towards you, “I’m right here baby,” You kiss him, imprinting the taste of you onto his mouth, the feel of your lips together as a way to tell him that you’re still there with him, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Logan held your wrists, his fingers shaking against your skin, “I..” his eyes were wide, pupils flicking between yours, “I never know when you aren’t going to be here.”

He tugged at your hands and you let him, nails digging into the bedsheet uselessly next to you. Your breath caught in your throat, face quaking and crumbling at the edges, eyelashes fluttering- beating away the bubbling tears forming on your lashline. 

“I think I’ll sleep at the dorm tonight,” you said eventually, and your voice was softer than it had been before, tired in a way that didn’t fully belong to the moment.

Logan looked up at that, but he didn’t stop you, just watched with a shattered look in his eyes, his lips pursed and pressed against his hands that were clasped together. You collected your things as seamlessly as possible, and given that you’d stayed over for the entire weekend, it was proving to be harder than you thought. But you huffed and puffed with each new article that got shoved into the shoulder bag until the room looked as if you’d never stepped foot in there. 

You’d already begun to calculate how many trips it would take to empty out the clothes from his dresser and toiletries from his bathroom. 

Logan still hadn’t said anything, his eyes widening by a fraction when he realised just how much you had erased from his space, but he stayed silent when your fingers hesitated against the door handle and didn’t dare to say anything when you turned back to him- eyes begging him to stop you, to cradle you in his arms and work it out. He ignored it all, looking through you and barely flinching when you shut the door harder than necessary. 

You adjusted your bag strap over your shoulder with careful hands, stilling when you realised everyone was staring at you as you emerged from the stairwell, “I’m heading home guys..” 

Your throat tightened but you shook your head and forced a smile onto your face, it felt plasticy and fake to force the expression over your eyebrows that tightened together and nose that burned with each deep breath you took. 

You added lightly, “I’ve got that test tomorrow anyway, and it’s probably better if I just- yeah. I’ll head back.”

Allie and Hannah both turned slightly, breaking out of the pitying trance when you grabbed your keys and headed for the door. 

Neither of them said anything at first, because there was a specific kind of silence that settles when two people are trying very hard to behave like nothing irreversible has happened only a floor above them.

“Okay,” Allie said finally, careful but not pushing, “Text us when you get in?”

You nodded quickly.

“Yeah, of course.”

Hannah’s eyes lingered on you a little longer, not interrogating, just observing, like she was storing away the way you were holding yourself more tightly than usual, the way Logan wasn’t following you to the door, barely letting you out of his hold with attacks of kisses and whispers in your ear. 

But neither of them asked.

Because to everyone else in the house, it still looked like something that could be explained away by stress and timing and too much noise and not enough food.

You said goodbye in a way that was deliberately light, stepping out with your usual version of composure stitched back together over something slightly less stable underneath it.

Back in the living room, the energy eventually returned in fragments, Logan had rejoined the group nearly an hour after the girls had left. 

Allie and Hannah left together not long after you, mumbled goodbyes were exchanged and worried whispers about Logan along with promises to update them over text had gotten them out the door, and back to you .

And once the door closed behind them, the house settled into a quieter version of itself.

Dean was the first to fully break the tension, dropping onto the couch with the kind of exaggerated movement that only made sense when someone was actively trying to remind a room how normal they were allowed to be. Tucker followed soon after, already halfway into a joke about how “Briar parties are medically unsafe environments” that no one really responded to but still helped reset the tone anyway.

Logan stayed silent for a moment too long in the doorway before eventually sitting down on the arm of the couch, not fully joining the group, just occupying space near it without integrating into it. The others kept talking for a while, but their volume softened slightly in the way it does when people unconsciously recognise that something heavier is still present in the room.

Eventually, Dean stretched and yawned in an overly theatrical way.

“Right,” he said, pushing himself up. “I’m calling it before I start thinking about my own mortality again.”

Tucker followed immediately, clapping Logan on the shoulder on his way past like nothing meaningful had just been discussed at all. “Don’t overthink it, man,” he added lightly, already heading upstairs. “She’s been doing that since high school apparently. She’s fine.”

Garrett didn’t follow them right away.

Logan just exhaled once, slow, like something had tightened in his chest at the phrasing.

Once the footsteps disappeared upstairs and the house settled properly, Garrett stayed behind in the spot next to Logan, leaning against the couch and pretended not to be boring holes into the side of his best friend's face. Logan was still on the arm, staring somewhere that wasn’t really the room.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

“I can’t imagine it,” Garrett broke the silence, voice quieter now, stripped of the earlier group energy, “loving someone and knowing that at any point they might just not respond.”

Logan’s jaw tightened slightly at that, but he didn’t interrupt.

Garrett looked down at his hands briefly before continuing, “I know everyone’s saying she’s used to it and it’s normal for her or whatever, but… that’s not really the part that sticks, is it?”

That landed differently.

Logan looked down finally, his hands loosely clasped together, and when he spoke his voice came out lower than before, less controlled in the way it had been earlier.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said, and there was no performance left in it now, no attempt to hold anything in place. “I love her so much it actually hurts, and I can’t… I can’t keep doing that thing where I pretend I’m okay when she’s-”

He stopped. Swallowed slightly and pressed his fingers to his eyes. Logan exhaled again, slower this time, like the words were physically difficult to keep forming.

“But I also can’t go on like this,” he finished, quieter.

That silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable in the way earlier ones had been. It was just heavy with the absence of an answer. Garrett nodded once, slowly, like he understood that there wasn’t a clean solution sitting anywhere in reach.

“I think,” Garrett said carefully after a moment, choosing each word like he was placing it somewhere fragile, “it might actually be harder to let her go than it is to keep reminding yourself she wakes up every time.”

Logan turned to Garrett, and nodded slowly- a row of tears fell from his chin and onto the soft cashmere beneath him, “I just don’t know how many times I can do it.”

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @harls-sturn, @https-dandelion

[briarafterdark]

Twelve Hours

Part 2

John Logan x Reader

Synopsis: Three weeks ago at Hannah's Halloween party, John Logan almost kissed you in a hallway. You panicked. You laughed. You stepped back. Neither of you has talked about it since. Now you're trapped in the hockey house during the worst snowstorm of the year — just you, just him, just twelve hours and nowhere to go.

Word count: ~7k

Content / Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI. Explicit sexual content. Forced proximity (snowstorm). Slow burn. Best friend's best friend dynamic. Near-kiss flashback (steamy). Heavy emotional tension. Mutual avoidance into mutual confession. Praise kink (light). Pet names ("baby"). Garrett Graham mentioned. Hannah, Allie, Dean, Tucker mentioned. Reader is part of the friend group through Hannah and Allie.

---------------------------------------------------------

You only stopped by the hockey house to drop off Garrett's stupid jacket.

That's it. That's all. Hannah had texted you an hour ago — babe can you do me the biggest favor in the world he forgot his blue jacket at my place again and he needs it for the away trip tomorrow and I'm already in PJ's i literally cannot — and because you love Hannah and because you live a few blocks away and because you owe her approximately a thousand favors, you said yes.

The drive over is fine. Easy. It's snowing — soft little flakes, the kind that make you feel like you're in a Hallmark movie — but the roads are clear and you've got the radio on and you've been singing, and the snow is the kind of snow you can ignore.

Garrett isn't home. You let yourself in (you've had a key for years, every Graham sibling-adjacent friend does), drop the jacket on the couch with a sticky note that says YOU OWE ME ETERNALLY, and turn to leave.

You don't make it to the door.

"Y/N?"

You freeze.

Because John Logan is standing at the top of the stairs in a hoodie and sweatpants, hair a little messy like he was halfway through doing something when he heard the front door, and your stomach does a stupid traitorous flip that you immediately try to crush.

"Logan."

"Hi."

"Hi."

"I didn't know you were coming over."

"I was just — Hannah asked me to drop off Garrett's jacket—"

"Right."

"Yeah."

"Cool."

He's not coming down the stairs. You're not moving toward the door. The two of you stand there, suspended in the entryway and the staircase, and you have not been in a room alone with him for three weeks and now here you are and the air is doing that thing where there's no oxygen in it—

Both your phones go off at the same time.

The sound is deafening. That alarm-bell emergency-alert buzz, the kind that overrides your ringer settings, the kind that makes everyone in a public space grab their phone at the same time. Both of you flinch. Both of you reach for your pockets.

You stare at your screen.

⚠️ EMERGENCY WEATHER ALERT A severe winter storm warning has been issued for your area. Heavy snow and high winds expected. Travel is strongly discouraged. Stay indoors. Roads will be closed within the hour. ⚠️

"...oh," you say.

"Yeah," Logan says, from the stairs.

You look up. He's already looking at you.

He looks at the window. You follow his gaze.

The world outside has changed.

The snow is no longer Hallmark-movie snow. The snow is a wall. The wind is hitting the porch in solid sheets that hadn't existed twenty minutes ago. The street you drove in on is gone — just white, in every direction. You can't even see your car at the curb. The snow has already buried the bottom of the porch steps. The streetlight at the end of the block is just a fuzzy yellow smudge in a sea of white.

"Oh my god," you whisper.

"Yeah," Logan says again.

Your phone buzzes.

Mom (Hannah, you renamed her this when you were drunk): BABE Mom (Hannah): DON'T DRIVE Mom (Hannah): THE ROADS ARE A NIGHTMARE Mom (Hannah): I JUST SAW IT ON THE NEWS Mom (Hannah): YOU ARE NOT DRIVING HOME I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU SAY

You stare at your phone. You look up at the snow. You look back down at your phone. You look up at Logan.

Logan is already coming down the stairs.

"You're not driving," he says.

"Logan—"

"You're not driving, Y/N."

"I—"

"Take your shoes off."

You take your shoes off.

---------------------------------------------------------

The hockey house is suspiciously quiet.

"Garrett's at Hannah's," Logan says. "Tucker's at his parents'. Dean's been at Allie's all week. It's just me."

"...so it's just you."

"It's just me."

"Cool."

"Cool."

"Cool."

He stares at you. You stare at the floor. The wind hits the window so hard the glass rattles.

"You're stuck here," he says, finally. "Until the storm passes. There's nothing we can do about it."

"Right."

"...so."

"So."

You stare at each other.

The thing about not-talking-about-something for three weeks is that, when you're suddenly in a room together with no one else and a snowstorm raging outside and the lights flickering ominously above your head, the not-talked-about thing fills up all the air in the room. There's no oxygen left. Just the thing.

The thing being: a Halloween party three weeks ago. A hallway. Logan's hand at your jaw. The way he'd leaned in. The way you'd both stopped, half a breath away. The way you'd laughed, and made some stupid joke, and stepped back. The way he'd nodded — yeah, yeah, of course — and walked away. The way neither of you had said anything about it since.

The way you've been deliberately, carefully not being in the same room with him for twenty-one days.

The way that is now physically impossible.

"I'm gonna go get a blanket," you announce, way too loudly. "I'm gonna — go get a blanket. From the couch."

"Okay."

"Cool. Okay."

You bolt.

You spend the first hour of your unwilling sleepover doing an absolutely incredible job of pretending Logan is not in the same house as you.

He's in the kitchen. You're in the living room. He's making something — you can hear pans, smell something garlicky. You're curled up on the couch under the world's softest blanket, scrolling your phone, watching the snow pile up against the bay window. You are fine. You are completely fine. You are an adult woman who is not affected by the proximity of John Logan. You are thriving.

You scroll the same three Instagram stories four times.

The lights flicker. You jump.

"You good?" Logan's voice from the kitchen.

"Fine!"

"You sure?"

"Fine, Logan."

"Cool."

A beat. Then, quieter, from the kitchen doorway: "I made grilled cheese. If you want one."

You look up. He's leaning in the doorway in his hoodie, holding a plate, looking at you like he's not sure if he should come closer. There's a smudge of melted cheese on the side of the plate. He's standing there with a grilled cheese. For you.

Something in your chest goes very soft. Very fast.

You hate it.

"You made me a grilled cheese?"

"I made two grilled cheeses. One of them is for you if you want it."

"You hate cooking."

"I do not hate cooking."

"You literally told me last month that you, quote, do not have the patience to be a person who cooks—"

"Are you going to interrogate me about the grilled cheese or are you going to eat it."

You hold out your hands. He crosses the room slowly — like he's not sure how close he's allowed to get — and hands you the plate. Your fingers brush. You both flinch, just a little. He pretends he didn't.

He sits on the other end of the couch. Not next to you. Not close. A whole cushion of space between you.

You can still feel him there. Vividly.

"Thank you," you say to the grilled cheese.

"Mhm."

You eat. He eats. The wind howls. The TV is off because Logan said earlier we should probably save the power in case it goes out, which felt cinematically ominous and also accurate. The fire in the fireplace — of course the hockey house has a working fireplace, of course tonight is the night Logan apparently knows how to light a fire — crackles softly. The light catches the side of his face.

You look away before you can think about that.

"This is good," you say.

"Thanks."

"Surprisingly good."

"Thanks, Y/N."

"Like — like concerningly good. You should grilled-cheese professionally."

"You're being weird."

"I'm being normal."

"You're being weird."

"You're being weird."

"I'm being quiet. You're being weird."

You stuff the rest of the grilled cheese into your mouth so you don't have to answer.

---------------------------------------------------------

By hour three, the power has flickered so many times you've stopped jumping at it, and you have both, without saying anything to each other, migrated to closer ends of the couch. Not touching. Just — closer. The middle cushion is no longer between you. Just half of it.

You are aware of this. You are very aware of this. You are pretending you are not.

Logan put on a movie an hour ago. He picked it. You don't know what it is. You are not watching it. You are watching the way the firelight moves across his throat when he swallows.

"What."

"Huh?"

"You're staring."

"I am not."

"You are."

"At the movie, Logan."

"The movie's on the TV, Y/N. I'm not on the TV. You are staring at me."

"I was zoning out."

"On my face."

"In the general direction of your face."

He's smiling now. Small. Faint. He's not looking at you, he's looking at the TV, but the corner of his mouth is doing that thing where it's pretending not to do anything. You watch his mouth. You make yourself stop.

"Logan."

"Mm."

"Can I ask you something."

"You're gonna anyway."

"Why are you being so nice to me."

He goes still.

Like, visibly still. Like the air around him has frozen for a second. He turns his head, slowly, to look at you. The firelight is doing something to his eyes that you do not want to think about right now.

"What?"

"You're being. Nice. Right now."

"...okay."

"You haven't been nice to me for three weeks."

"Y/N."

"You've been polite. You've been polite the way you'd be polite to, like, a postal worker. And now I'm trapped in a snowstorm with you and suddenly you're making grilled cheese and lighting fires and—"

"I have always been nice to you."

"You've been avoiding me."

"You've been avoiding me."

"I haven't—"

"You have, Y/N."

You stop. He stops. You both stare at the TV. The TV is playing some kind of car chase. You don't know what's happening in the car chase. You don't think Logan does either.

The lights flicker.

They don't come back on.

It takes you a second to realize. The TV blinks black. The hum of the fridge in the kitchen cuts out. The whole house drops into a deeper kind of quiet — just the fire, and the wind, and the radiator clicking somewhere down the hall.

"...oh," you say.

"Yep."

"Power's out."

"Power's out."

"How long do you think—"

"No idea."

"Cool."

"Cool."

The fire pops. The room is much darker now. Just the orange glow of the flames on the floor, on the couch, on his hands, on yours.

You are very aware that his hand is six inches from yours.

You are very aware that you can fix that.

You don't.

---------------------------------------------------------

You close your eyes for a second.

Just a second. Just to stop looking at his hand. Just to stop counting the inches.

It's a mistake.

Because the second you close your eyes, you're not on the hockey house couch anymore. You're three weeks ago. You're in Hannah's apartment. You're in a black dress with little devil horns clipped into your hair — the cheap kind, from the drugstore, the kind that pinch your scalp by hour two — and the apartment is loud, so loud, music thudding through the floor, somebody's speaker turned up too high, the smell of cheap beer and cinnamon candles.

You'd been in the kitchen for an hour. You'd been avoiding the kitchen for an hour, actually — because Logan had been in the kitchen, leaning against the counter in his stupid flannel, holding a beer he'd barely touched, claiming to be a lumberjack with the energy of a man who'd put zero effort in and somehow still looked—

(You're not thinking about how he looked. You weren't thinking about how he looked. You absolutely were thinking about how he looked.)

Hannah, in her angel costume, had pushed you toward him at one point. Go talk to him, she'd hissed, he's been looking at you all night, go—

You hadn't gone.

You'd done laps around the apartment instead. Living room. Hallway. Bathroom. Living room. Hallway. Bathroom. Avoiding the kitchen. Avoiding the kitchen. Avoiding the—

And then, somewhere around midnight, you'd found yourself in the hallway looking for the bathroom because someone had locked themselves in the one off the living room, and the hallway was darker, quieter, the music muffled through the wall. And the door at the end of the hallway had opened. And Logan had stepped out.

He'd stopped.

You'd stopped.

He was holding a glass of water. You don't know why you remember that specifically. He was holding a glass of water and he was wearing that stupid flannel and his hair was a mess and his eyes had locked on yours and stayed there.

"Hi," he'd said.

"Hi."

"You hiding?"

"Looking for the bathroom."

"It's right behind me."

"...okay."

You hadn't moved.

He hadn't moved either.

The hallway was narrow. You don't know if you remember that accurately or if your brain has been editing it for three weeks, making it smaller, making him closer, but you remember that he was close enough that you could smell his cologne under the cinnamon and the beer, and you remember that the hallway light was that warm orange kind that makes everyone look like they're in a movie, and you remember—

You remember he set the glass of water down on the little side table in the hallway.

You remember he didn't break eye contact when he did it.

You remember thinking oh, in a way that had no follow-up sentence. Just oh.

"Y/N."

"Yeah."

"Can I ask you something."

"Yeah."

"Have you been avoiding me tonight."

You'd swallowed. You don't think you'd meant to swallow audibly. You think you did anyway.

"...maybe."

"Why."

"I don't know."

"You don't know."

"I don't know."

His head had tilted. Just a little. The hallway light catching his cheekbone. You remember his cheekbone specifically, because at the time you'd been having a small private crisis about it.

He'd taken one step closer.

You'd taken a step backward. Your back had hit the hallway wall. You don't think he was advancing on you — you think you'd just moved, automatically, the way your body does when you don't know what else to do with it. He'd seen you move. He'd hesitated.

"I can go back to the party," he'd said, quietly.

"...don't."

He hadn't.

He'd taken another step.

And another.

And by the time he was close enough that you could feel his breath on your face, your hands had found the front of his flannel and you hadn't even realized you'd grabbed it. You remember the texture. You remember it was soft — of course his flannel was soft, of course his stupid lumberjack costume was actually a comfortable shirt he wore all the time, of course of course — and you remember that he'd reached up and brushed his thumb against your jaw and that his hand had been warm, warmer than it had any right to be, and his eyes had dropped to your mouth and lingered there for one full second—

And he'd leaned in.

Slowly.

So slowly that you had a thousand chances to stop him.

And he'd stopped, the way he stopped tonight, a breath away from your mouth, and he'd waited.

You can still feel his breath on your lips. Three weeks later. You can still feel it.

You can still feel the way your chest had cracked open with wanting it.

You'd laughed.

You'd laughed because you panicked. You'd laughed because your brain had short-circuited and the only thing it could do was bail. You'd laughed and said something — you can't even remember what, something stupid, something about him being very into character as a lumberjack, something — and you'd ducked under his arm and gone back to the party and you hadn't looked at him for the rest of the night.

You hadn't looked at him for three weeks.

You hadn't let yourself think about the way he'd nodded — that one small, defeated nod — and stepped back. You hadn't let yourself think about the way the warmth had drained out of his eyes. You hadn't let yourself think about any of it, except you have. You have. You've been thinking about it every single night for twenty-one nights and now you're trapped in a snowstorm with him and his hand is six inches from yours and—

You open your eyes.

The fire is still crackling. The wind is still howling. Logan is still sitting on the other end of the couch, looking at the dead TV like it might still come back on if he stares at it long enough.

His hand is still six inches from yours.

His thumb is doing slow, absent little circles on the couch cushion.

You are going to lose your mind.

---------------------------------------------------------

By hour five, you have run out of small things to talk about.

You've covered: the snow. The grilled cheese. Logan's classes. Your job. Hannah and Garrett (an easy subject, beloved). Allie and Dean (also easy). The hockey team's various ailments. A weird podcast Logan listens to. A book you've been reading. Whether or not the dog two doors down is technically a husky or a malamute (Logan says malamute, you say husky, you've agreed to disagree).

You have not covered the Halloween party.

You have not covered any of it.

It is becoming a problem.

You're lying on the couch now — actually lying down, your head on the armrest, your legs tucked up. Logan is sitting at the other end with your feet in his lap. You don't know how this happened. You don't know when this happened. At some point you stretched out and he didn't move and now your feet are tucked under his thigh and his hand is resting absently on your ankle and you have no idea how to address this.

So you don't.

You stare at the ceiling.

"Logan."

"Yeah."

"Can I say something."

"Yeah."

"And can you not — can you not be weird about it."

"...okay."

"Promise."

"Y/N, I'm not gonna be weird, just say it."

You take a breath. You take another breath. You think about all the ways to start this sentence and none of them feel right and then you think fuck it and you just—

"At Hannah's Halloween party."

He goes very still.

His hand on your ankle stops moving. You didn't realize it was moving. It had been, apparently, drawing slow little circles with his thumb. It stops.

"Y/N."

"I just — I just want to say something about it. Just once. And then we don't have to talk about it again."

He's quiet for a long moment.

"Okay."

You stare at the ceiling so you don't have to stare at him.

"I didn't laugh because I didn't want you to," you say.

The silence after is huge.

He doesn't say anything. You can hear him breathing. You can feel his hand on your ankle, not moving, not pulling away. You can hear the fire. You can hear your own pulse in your ears, loud.

"...what?" he says, finally. Quietly.

"I laughed. At the party. When you — when we — I laughed and I made a joke and I made it weird and I want you to know that I didn't laugh because I didn't want you to. I laughed because — because I — "

"Because you what."

"Because I panicked, Logan."

You sit up.

You sit up because you can't keep saying this to the ceiling. You sit up and pull your knees up to your chest and you look at him and he is looking at you with the exact expression he had in that hallway three weeks ago. The same one. Exactly the same one. The one that had made you laugh and step back. The one that has been living in the back of your head, rent-free, for twenty-one days.

"Y/N."

"And I've been thinking about it for three weeks and I've been ignoring you for three weeks because I didn't know what to do with it and now I'm — I'm here, and you're being nice to me with grilled cheese, and the power is out, and you're—"

"Y/N."

"And I just — I needed to say it. I needed you to know."

The fire pops.

He looks at you for a long, long moment.

Then he, very slowly, very deliberately, turns to face you fully. His knee bumps yours. He doesn't move it. And he turns. To face you fully. His knee bumps yours. He doesn't move it.

"You panicked," he says.

"I panicked."

"Because you wanted me to."

"Because I wanted you to."

"At the party."

"At the party."

"And you've been avoiding me for three weeks."

"...yes."

"Y/N."

"What."

"I've been avoiding you for three weeks because I thought I made you uncomfortable."

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

The fire crackles. The wind hits the window. The world outside is white and quiet and very, very far away.

"Logan."

"What."

"You absolute idiot."

"I'm the idiot?"

"You — yes! You're the idiot! I've been losing my mind for three weeks—"

"You laughed! In the hallway! You laughed, Y/N!"

"I PANICKED."

"I DIDN'T KNOW THAT."

"WELL I DIDN'T KNOW THAT YOU DIDN'T KNOW—"

You're both laughing now. You don't know when it started. He's got a hand pressed over his face and you've got both hands over yours and the laughter is the slightly-hysterical kind, the relief kind, the oh my god we are such idiots kind. He pulls his hand down. His eyes find yours.

His eyes are doing the thing. The thing from the hallway. The thing you've been thinking about.

He's not laughing anymore.

Neither are you.

"Y/N."

"Yeah."

"Come here."

You don't say anything. You can't. You just — move. You shift across the couch and his hand comes up to cup your jaw and you can feel him shaking a little, just a little, because he's been waiting three weeks and he doesn't quite trust this is real, and his thumb brushes your cheek and he leans in slowly, slow enough that you could stop him, slow enough that the room narrows down to just this, just him, just—

He stops.

A breath away.

Right where you stopped him last time.

Except this time he's not laughing. This time you're not laughing. This time the fire is the only sound in the room and your nose is brushing his and you can feel his breath on your mouth and his eyes flick down to your lips and back up to your eyes and—

"Tell me to," he whispers.

"What?"

"Tell me to, Y/N."

"You're really gonna make me say it."

“After three weeks? Yeah. I really am going to make you say it.”

You close the half-inch between you.

The first touch of his mouth is soft.

Softer than you expected. Softer than you've been imagining for three weeks. Just his lips brushing yours, tentative, like he's still not sure you won't pull away. Like he's giving you one more chance to laugh, to step back, to run.

You don't run.

You press closer.

And something in him breaks.

His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, fingers threading through it, tilting your head back just slightly, and the kiss deepens. Slow. Deliberate. His mouth moves against yours like he's been thinking about this, like he's memorized exactly how he wanted to do this, and you make a sound — small, involuntary — and you feel him smile against your lips.

"Yeah," he murmurs, so quiet you almost don't hear it. "Yeah, baby."

Your brain short-circuits.

Your hands find the front of his hoodie and you pull him closer, and he comes willingly, his other hand finding your waist, his thumb pressing against your hip through your shirt. The firelight flickers across his face when you open your eyes for half a second — gold on his cheekbone, shadow under his jaw — and then you close them again because you can't think and look at him at the same time.

He kisses you like he's been starving for it.

Slow, then deeper. Then slow again. His tongue brushes your bottom lip and you open for him and the taste of him floods your senses — something warm, something faintly sweet, something that makes you forget there's a world outside this couch. His hand tightens in your hair. Not rough. Just — anchoring. Like he needs to hold onto you. Like he's afraid you'll disappear.

You won't disappear.

You're not going anywhere.

Your fingers twist in his hoodie and you pull, and he makes a sound low in his throat that you feel more than hear, and then his hands are on your hips and he's pulling you into his lap.

You go.

God, you go so easily.

Your knees bracket his thighs and his hands slide up your sides, slow, like he's memorizing the shape of you, and you're kissing him harder now, less tentative, more desperate. Three weeks of wanting this. Three weeks of lying awake at night thinking about the way he'd looked at you in that hallway. Three weeks of convincing yourself it didn't matter.

It matters.

It matters so much you can't breathe.

"Y/N," he says against your mouth, and his voice is wrecked. Absolutely wrecked. "God, I've been waiting for this."

"Me too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark in the firelight, pupils blown, and his lips are red and his hair is a mess where your fingers have been in it and he looks — he looks —

You kiss him again before you can finish the thought.

This time it's you who deepens it. You who licks into his mouth. You who makes him groan, low and rough, his hands gripping your hips hard enough that you'll feel it tomorrow. The fire crackles behind you. The wind howls outside. The world is a snowstorm and you are here, in his lap, in his hands, and nothing else exists.

His mouth moves to your jaw. Then your neck. Slow, open-mouthed kisses that make your breath catch, that make your hands tighten in his hair.

"Logan—"

"I know," he murmurs against your throat. "I know, baby."

You don't know what he knows. You don't know what you were going to say. You just know that his mouth is on your skin and his hands are sliding under the hem of your shirt, fingertips brushing the bare skin of your waist, and you are on fire. You are burning. The fireplace has nothing on this.

You pull at his hoodie.

He helps you.

It comes off in one smooth motion and you have half a second to appreciate the fact that he's in a t-shirt underneath — a soft, worn t-shirt that clings to his shoulders — before you're kissing him again. Your hands find the hem of his shirt and slide underneath, palms flat against his stomach, and he sucks in a breath.

"Y/N."

"Yeah?"

"You're killing me."

"Good."

He laughs. It's breathless and a little bit desperate and it makes something in your chest crack wide open. He catches your mouth again, kisses you slower this time, deeper, his hands sliding up your back under your shirt. His palms are warm. Everything about him is warm. The fire is warm and he is warm and you are warm and the cold outside doesn't exist.

Time moves differently here.

You don't know how long you kiss him. It could be minutes. It could be hours. His hands map your spine. Your fingers trace his shoulders. His mouth moves back to your neck and you tilt your head back and his name falls from your lips like a prayer.

"That's it," he murmurs against your collarbone. "Just like that."

Your shirt is rucked up. His is halfway off. You don't remember taking it off. You don't remember him taking yours off. You just know that there's less fabric between you now and his chest is pressed against yours and you can feel his heartbeat, fast and hard, matching yours.

He pulls back.

Just enough to look at you.

His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek, and his eyes are so soft. So unbearably soft.

"Hi," he says.

You laugh. It comes out shaky. "Hi."

"You okay?"

"I'm—" You don't have words. You shake your head. "Yeah. Yes. I'm—"

"Good." He kisses you again. Soft. Sweet. "Good."

You kiss him back. Slower now. The desperation has ebbed into something gentler, something that aches in a different way. His hands are careful on your waist. Your fingers are gentle in his hair. The fire pops and a log shifts and the orange light flickers across both of you.

When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard.

His forehead drops to yours.

You close your eyes.

His hand is still in your hair. Your hand is still fisted in his shirt. You're half in his lap, half on the couch, tangled together in a way that should be uncomfortable but isn't. His thumb strokes slow circles against your scalp. Your fingers loosen, smoothing out the wrinkles you've made in his shirt.

Outside, the wind howls.

Inside, the fire glows.

You are here. He is here. You are both here.

"I've got you," he murmurs, so quiet you almost miss it.

You open your eyes.

He's already looking at you.

"Yeah," you whisper. "You do."

His mouth curves. Small. Soft. He kisses your forehead. Then your temple. Then, very gently, your mouth.

You sink into him.

The storm can wait.

The world can wait.

This, this is all that matters.

---------------------------------------------------------

A/n: look. I'm not saying I wrote 7k about Logan and a snowstorm and a couch. But I am saying you should read it.

follow for more — I have a lot more where this came from 👀 reblogs and comments mean everything!

[fezrus]

Seven steps, one word

John Logan (Off Campus) x Reader

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

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

One — "Oh, fuck!"

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

​Except for John Logan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two — "Fuck you"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

​Logan’s jaw tightened, a sharp spike of tension instantly replacing his usual easygoing demeanor. He took his hands out of his pockets and leaned forward, bracing his palms on the edge of the table, firmly invading your space. Tucker shot Hannah a wide-eyed, panicked look across the textbooks, both of them suddenly bracing for impact.

​"I gave him my old notes weeks ago," Logan shot back, his voice dropping into something smaller, tighter. "But sure, ignore the guy who actually passed the class because you're too stubborn to take a note from me."

​"I'm not being stubborn, you're just being a patronizing prick," you retorted, leaning back in your chair. "You’ve been hovering over this table for five minutes just looking for a problem because you had a bad day and want to take it out on someone."

​Logan let out a harsh, dry laugh, though there was a flicker of genuine frustration in his eyes—the look of a good guy who couldn't understand why he kept letting you bait him. "Take it out on someone? Trust me, if I wanted to take anything out on someone, I wouldn't waste my time on you. I'm trying to keep my friend from bombing a midterm because he made the mistake of letting you organize his thoughts."

​"My thoughts are perfectly fine, Logan," Tucker muttered quietly under his breath, his eyes glued to his laptop screen, desperately trying to dissolve into the background.

​"They're fine when you're left alone, Tuck," Logan said, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring his teammate's plea. "Not when you're letting someone drag their own contrarian agenda into your coursework."

​"A contrarian agenda?" You stood up, your chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. Hannah flinched at the sharp noise, withdrawing her hands from the table and motioning for Tucker to leave the potential future crime scene. They both complied quickly, knowing you both well enough to understand that trying to reason with you in that moment would be pointless. "Are you actually insane? I'm sorry that anyone else having a brain in this house threatens your need to micromanage every single thing that happens under this roof."

​"It doesn't threaten me at all," Logan said, standing up straight and towering over you, using his height to crowd your space until his shadow completely blocked out the light from the window. The sheer, uncharacteristic anger rolling off him was suffocating; Tucker actually slid his chair back a few inches, completely done with trying to intervene at this point. "It annoys me. You annoy me, actually. I'm not going to walk on eggshells in my own dining room because you can't handle a basic correction."

​"I can handle a correction if it's respectful," you shot back, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you refused to take a step away from him. "You don't want to help Tucker. You just want to feel like the smartest guy in the room and that is annoying."

​"I dont—," Logan started, a nervous scoff escaping his lips. "You don't know anything about me. Please let's keep it this way, since you clearly can't stand me anyway."

​"You're the one who treats me like an absolute inconvenience the second I breathe in your direction!" you yelled, the weeks of being ignored, brushed off, and glared at finally boiling over into raw, unadulterated anger. "If you hate me being here so much, just say it. But stop acting like I'm the one bringing the venom into this house when you're the one dripping it."

​The air between you turned completely volatile, thick enough to choke on. A strange, angry electricity snapped between you, the argument completely detached from history or homework now, exposed and raw. Logan stared down at you, his breathing heavy and uneven as he tried to swallow down the sheer frustration rolling off him in waves. ​He leaned down slightly, bringing his face inches from yours, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle violently ticked in his cheek.

"Fuck you," he whispered.

​The words hit with a cold, deliberate weight that vibrated in the dead-silent room. ​Before you could fire back, Tucker's voice boomed from the kitchen archway, stern and completely done with both of you. "Enough! Both of you, cut it the hell out."

​But the damage was done. The look in Logan's eyes made something tight and painful twist in your chest. You refused to sit there and breathe the same air as him for another second. Blindly turning around, you grabbed your laptop and notebook, shoving them into your backpack with rigid, uncooperative hands.

​"I'm leaving," you muttered, keeping your eyes glued firmly to the floor as you pushed past Hannah’s reaching hand on the way out. You grabbed your jacket from the hook and left through the front door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the frame, stepping out into the pouring, cold rain with the echo of his voice looping in your head like a curse.

Three — "Fuck off"

​For the next month, you became an absolute expert at avoiding John Logan. You turned it into an art form. If he was at a crowded house party, you stayed firmly in the kitchen or on the opposite porch. If the entire group gathered at Malone's, you ensured you sat on the exact opposite end of the long table, hidden behind Dean's loud gestures.

Because of this, you never saw the way his eyes silently followed you when you entered a room, or the almost guilty look that crossed his face whenever your name came up in conversation. He knew he'd crossed a line by cursing at you like that—but your unbreakable silence gave him absolutely no room to apologize, and his own stubborn pride kept him from forcing the issue.

​There were small signs of his guilt, though. One random Thursday afternoon, he showed up at the place you shared with Hannah and Allie, claiming he was just dropping off a spare hockey hoodie Garrett had left in his truck. You had stayed in your room with the door cracked just an inch, watching through the tiny gap as he lingered by the entrance, his eyes constantly drifting toward your door,  silently checking to see if you'd come out. You hadn't moved an inch, holding your breath until he finally left.

​Eventually, Hannah and Allie staged a full-blown intervention. A brand-new club had opened downtown, and they absolutely refused to let you stay home and rot in your room, even though they openly admitted the boys were all coming along. You finally relented, numbing your spiking anxiety by pouring yourself two heavy pre-game vodka crans before leaving the house.

​The club was a massive sensory overload—flashing neon lights, artificial fog, and heavy, chest-thumping bass that made communication impossible. By midnight, everyone was comfortably, heavily drunk. You were leaning your back against the sticky mahogany bar, sipping a gin and tonic, when you finally caught sight of him through the pulsing crowd.

​Logan was laughing at something Beau said, a dark red bandana tied tightly around his messy hair, looking effortlessly, devastatingly handsome in a black fitted t-shirt. As if sensing the weight of your gaze, his head turned. His dark eyes locked directly onto yours across the smoky crowded room. He didn’t look away. He held your stare for a second, then two, then three — a strange, intense, unreadable heat settling over his features before a group of dancers blocked your view.

A few minutes later, a guy from one of the campus fraternities slithered up next to you on the edge of the dance floor. He was loud, sweaty, and smelled entirely too much like cheap cologne and whiskey — but a little bit of dancing could help taking your mind off of a certain hockey player, you thought. You enjoyed it at first, moving along, focusing on the music, the stranger getting closer and closer as the playlist progressed. But then, just as you started to feel good - just the right amount of alcohol in your veins to feel lighter and relaxed - he tried to grind his hips against yours. You tried to step back, laughing it off politely at first, pushing his hands away, but he didn't take the hint. His hands came down on your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you flush against him with a grip that was far too tight and aggressive.

​Before you could even raise your hands to shove his chest, a massive shadow loomed over both of you.

​A now familiar hand gripped the frat guy’s shoulder, spinning him around with enough force to make his sneakers squeak on the floor.

​"Fuck off," Logan snarled, his voice a low, lethal vibration that cut right through the heavy bass of the music. He leaned in until he was nose-to-nose with the guy. "Get your fucking hands off her and fuck off right now."

​The guy looked at Logan and wisely raised his hands in surrender, backing away rapidly into the foggy crowd without throwing a single punch.

​Logan’s breathing was heavy, his chest heaving, his fists still clenched tightly at his sides as his eyes scanned the immediate area like a wild animal looking for another threat. He looked ready to tear the entire club apart with his bare hands. Anxious that he might actually chase the guy down for a fight, you stepped directly into his line of sight, capturing his attention.

​"Logan," you breathed, your voice soft and entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. Without thinking about the consequences, you reached out, your bare fingers wrapping around his forearm.

​The exact millisecond your skin met the warm, rock-hard muscle of his arm, Logan froze entirely. It was the first time the two of you had ever willingly, gently touched, and the effect was instantaneous. The blinding anger seemed to drain out of him in a single breath, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of air. He looked down at your small hand resting on his arm, his skin tingling where you touched him, and then he slowly, deliberately lifted his gaze to your eyes.

​The noisy club, the flashing strobe lights, the roaring bass, the alcohol—it all faded into irrelevant background noise. You stood face-to-face on the crowded dance floor, completely motionless, just looking into each other's eyes. Your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, not from fear of the frat guy, but from a sudden, dizzying, terrifying realization. Looking into his wide, intensely focused eyes, you realized you didn't hate him. Not even close. And from the soft, almost vulnerable parting of his lips, he didn't hate you either. You weren't close to being friends yet, but the ice had officially shattered into a million pieces. 

Four — "What the fuck"

The shift between you was subtle, but it was absolutely undeniable. The sharp hostility was gone, completely replaced by a quiet, lingering, heavy awareness that neither of you knew quite what to do with.

​A week later, you were sitting in a sunlit corner booth at Malone’s. You were completely, entirely absorbed in a brutal, multi-chapter study session for your finals, a pair of heavy over-ear headphones clamped securely over your ears. The sweet, nostalgic melody of American Pie was playing through the speakers, and without even realizing it, you were softly humming along to the chorus, tapping the cap of your yellow highlighter rhythmically against the open pages of your textbook.

​You were so deeply focused on your notes that you didn't hear the diner's front door chime, nor did you see Logan walk in. He was there to finalize the last-minute details for the upcoming Hockey Fundraiser with Hannah and Della. But the exact moment his eyes scanned the room and spotted you sitting alone in the corner booth, he stopped dead in his tracks.

​He didn’t approach right away. He just stood near the counter, watching you. A soft, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he listened to your faint, slightly off-key humming.

​Prickled by the sudden, distinct sensation of eyes on you, you blinked and lifted your head from your textbook. Logan instantly wiped the smile from his face, clearing his throat roughly and pretending to read a missing cat flyer on the bulletin board.

​You pulled your headphones down, a small smirk playing on your lips. "You know, if you stare any harder, you're going to burn a hole right through my skull, Logan."

​Instead of snapping back with a sarcastic, biting retort like he used to, Logan let out a soft chuckle. He walked over to your booth and, to your surprise, slid into the bench by your side, his knee almost touching yours.

​"Just making sure you weren't torturing the rest of the innocent customers with your singing," he teased gently, his shoulder brushing against yours in the tight space.

​You rolled your eyes, but there was no spite left in your expression. "I happen to have the voice of a literal angel, thank you very much. You're just jealous."

​The playful banter slowly subsided into a comfortable silence. Logan looked at you, his expression turning a little more serious, his eyes softening as his voice dropped to a much quieter register. "Hey… are you doing okay?" Since what happened the other night, obviously implied by the way he looked at you right now, concern written all over his face.

You felt a warm flush creep up your neck and settle into your cheeks. "I'm okay, thank you" you smiled and he nodded, both silently agreeing not to discuss this unpleasant event anymore. You paused, looking down at his large hands resting on the table before forcing yourself to look back up. "How are you doing ? With the fundraiser and everything, I mean. You look like you haven't slept in a week."

​He seemed genuinely surprised that you were asking about him. Really, truly asking. He leaned back against the vinyl booth, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he completely opened up to you. He talked about the immense stress of managing the team's high expectations, his constant worries about Jules’ upcoming exams, and the suffocating pressure of the NHL scouts attending the next three games. You listened intently, never interrupting, offering gentle encouragement and a few dry, sarcastic jokes that had him laughing quietly into his palms. For a full hour, the two most stubborn, argumentative people at Briar University just… talked.

​"Well," you finally said, checking the diner clock and reluctantly packing your laptop into your bag. "I have to get to my shift at the library. Don't let Della bully you into paying extra for the tableware."

​"I won't," Logan said, his eyes tracking your every movement, lingering on your face. "See you around?"

​"See you around." You gave him a small, genuine smile—the first real one he'd ever received from you—and walked out into the crisp afternoon air, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks.

​Inside the booth, Logan sat completely still for a long, agonizing moment. He watched your retreating figure through the glass window until you turned the corner and disappeared from view. Slowly, he let out a shaky exhale, burying his face entirely in his hands. He rubbed his palms over his eyes, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

​"What the fuck," he whispered into the empty diner booth, his voice laced with a mixture of absolute awe and sheer, unadulterated panic. He was screwed. He was completely, utterly, hopelessly screwed, and he knew there was no turning back.

Five — "Well, fuck"

​The night of the Briar Hockey Fundraiser at Malone’s was a chaotic, high-energy, glittering success. The entire diner had been completely transformed for the evening—the regular tables had been pushed to the far perimeter to create a makeshift dance floor, strings of warm fairy lights hung across the ceiling, and a massive turnout of wealthy alumni, boosters, and students kept the bar utterly slammed.

​You had dressed up significantly for the occasion, wearing a form-fitting, emerald green silk dress that Allie let you borrow from her closet - of course. You spent the first half of the night talking to Hannah near the punch bowl, but your eyes kept unconsciously tracking a certain someone across the room.

Logan was entirely in his element—charming the older donors, laughing easily with his teammates, and looking entirely too edible for your own good.

​Around midnight, the formal event finally dissolved into a proper, rowdy college party. The DJ cranked up a heavy, slow, rhythmic pop song, the bass echoing through the floor, and the dance floor filled up with couples. You were navigating the edge of the sweaty crowd, trying to find Allie when a sudden, firm, yet gentle pull on your wrist guided you backward.

​You spun around on your heels, your chest bumping right into Logan’s broad torso. "You've been actively dodging me all night," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating right against your skin as his large hand settled naturally around yours. The casual, unhesitating intimacy of the gesture sent a fierce, blinding jolt of electricity straight down your spine.

​"I wasn't dodging you, I was letting you do your official host duties," you shot back, a wicked, playful smile spreading across your lips. The alcohol gave you a surge of confidence, and you looped your arms slowly around his neck, stepping closer into his personal space until there was absolutely no air left between you. "Besides, I didn't think you could actually handle me dancing with you."

​Logan’s dark eyes lit up instantly, a dangerous, competitive challenge flaring in his pupils. He pulled you a fraction of an inch closer. "Oh, really? Try me, sweetheart."

​You didn't hesitate. As the heavy beat of the music dropped, you shifted your weight, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, and sinfully against his. You leaned in close, your lips brushing the warm shell of his ear as you whispered, "You're all talk, John Logan. Let's see if you can actually keep up with me."

​You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding down his chest to grip the crisp fabric of his shirt, tugging him rhythmically, tightly against your body. The friction was immediate, heavy, and intoxicating. Logan’s breath hitched audibly in his throat. A dark, intense flush crept up his neck, coloring his sharp cheekbones as his hands settled on your waist, his fingers digging firmly into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress. He swallowed hard, his eyes dropping helplessly to your parted lips, entirely overwhelmed and undone by the sudden confidence of your movements. He could feel exactly how much you were affecting him, his body reacting instantly to the touch of your hips.

A breathless, desperate laugh escaped him. He jerked his head back for a split second, fighting a losing battle for self-control. "Well, fuck," he muttered, his voice raw, completely devoid of its usual composure.

​"Did I break the big, tough hockey player already?" you cooed, tilting your chin up tauntingly, your noses almost touching as you continued to sway against him.

​"You wish," he groaned, his thumbs stroking the bare skin of your lower back where your dress dipped low. He didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled you even tighter against his lower body, matching your sinful rhythm perfectly, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a burning intensity that made it very clear the playful teasing was rapidly turning into something much more dangerous and inevitable. When the night finally forced you apart, it didn't feel like a goodbye — it was a promise.

Six — "Fuck"

Some things are bound to reach a breaking point, and the agonizing tension building between you for months was no exception. Three nights later, Briar won a massive game and the ensuing after-party at the boys' house was pure chaotic madness. The house was packed to maximum capacity, a sweaty, pulsing mass of drunken celebration, loud music, and screaming students.

​But you and Logan weren't paying any attention to the party. For the past two hours, you had been moving around the house like two high-powered magnets — constantly drawing closer, stealing long, heated glances across the crowded rooms, the unspoken, heavy weight of the fundraiser hanging between you.

​Seeking a brief moment of quiet to cool down your flushed skin, you headed down the dark back hallway toward the upstairs bathroom. Just as you reached out for the brass doorknob, the door swung open from the inside.

​Logan stepped out.

You nearly crashed straight into his chest, cutting your breath short as you ground to a halt mere inches from him. The hallway was swallowed by shadows, save for the frantic strobe lights bleeding in from the living room. Logan stared down at you, wide-eyed, his chest rising and falling in sync with the thick, suffocating heat pulsing through the house.

​Neither of you said a single word. The months of toxic banter, the vicious, screaming arguments, the desperate avoidance, and the agonizing teasing all converged into a single, breathless, breaking second.

​Logan reached out with lightning speed, his large hand wrapping around your waist, and shoved you backward into the bathroom, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind you and twisting the lock with a sharp, echoing click.

​Before the sound of the lock could even fade, his mouth crashed onto yours.

​It was an absolute explosion. The kiss was passionate, borderline feral, a violent release of pure, pent-up, crazy frustration. You let out a muffled gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to rip into his dark hair, pulling him down toward you out of sheer desperation. He groaned deep in his throat, a sound of pure hunger, pinning your body flat against the heavy wooden door, his thick thighs crowding tightly between yours. His hands were absolutely everywhere—clutching your face, tracing the line of your throat, gripping your hips with a bruising, desperate force that felt incredibly, entirely right.

​"Logan," you whimpered against his mouth as he tore his lips away to kiss your jawline, your neck - his hands sliding down to frantically bunch up the silk fabric of your dress.

​With a sudden burst of strengh, he hooked his large hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly into the air. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist as he deposited you onto the cold marble edge of the bathroom sink counter. He didn't waste a single second. His hands slid all the way up the bare, warm skin of your thighs, finding the edge of your underwear. His fingers quickly found your slick, burning, over-sensitized core, rubbing against you through the damp fabric with a rhythm that made your head tilt back and earned a large grin from him.

​You arched your back off the counter, a loud sob escaping your lips, your fingers digging deep into his shoulders.

​"You like that?" Logan growled against your neck, his voice dripping with lust. His fingers moved faster, driving you up a steep, agonizing cliff. "Tell me you want it."

​"Logan," you breathed out, "please," you cried out, your head tossing back against the large bathroom mirror. Your hands flew down to his waist, frantically, blindly fumbling with the button of his jeans. You shoved the denim down his hips until his length snapped free—thick, heavy, and pulsing with heat. The moment your fingers wrapped tightly around him, moving in a fast, desperate stroke, Logan’s eyes rolled back.

His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his neck. He couldn't endure the exquisite torture for long, his quiet moans matching your own, before his large hand clamped over yours, freezing your movement. "Stop, stop," he panted, his chest wild, his forehead pressing against yours. "I'm going to come right now if you keep doing that. I need to feel you, right now."

With trembling, frantic hands, he reached into the small drawer next to the sink—Dean’s emergency stash—and ripped open a foil condom wrapper, spitting the plastic away and rolling it onto himself in one fluid, desperate motion.

Then he stepped back between your open thighs. His hands gripped your hips with an iron hold, dragging you to the very edge of the marble counter. He aligned himself against you, waiting just long enough for your frantic nod of approval. With one heavy, unyielding, possessive thrust, he buried himself completely inside you.

The sheer, overwhelming pleasure of that sudden fullness hit you both at once, fracturing the quiet of the bathroom with a sharp, mutual gasp. Instead of slowing down, the friction only stoked the fire, drawing a long, ragged, shattered exhale from deep in Logan's chest. His pupils were completely dilated, dark and wild with pure lust as his forehead dropped heavily against your shoulder.

"Fuck," he groaned into the crook of your neck, his voice a raw, visceral prayer vibrating against your collarbone.

His hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like an anchor as he immediately established a rhythm. The restraint dissolved into pure instinct. He pulled you flush against him, his thrusts becoming powerful, deep, and utterly relentless from the very start. Every heavy drive forced a breathless cry from your lips, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. You rocked together on the cold edge of the marble sink, your bodies generating a feverish heat that defied the chilly stone beneath you.

The bass from the after-party still thudded through the floorboards, a distant, muffled reminder of the chaotic world outside, but within the locked walls of the bathroom, that world was entirely forgotten. There was only the slick, friction-heavy slide of skin against skin, the frantic tangle of your fingers in his hair, and the hot, primal rhythm consuming you both.

The friction was dizzying, driving you both toward a precipice that neither of you could fight anymore. Logan’s pace turned frantic, his breath coming in harsh, ragged stabs against your ear as his hips slammed against yours with an undoing, desperate urgency. Every stroke sent a white-hot wave of pleasure straight to your core, tightening the coil inside you until it was agonizing.

You choked out a breathless, broken sound, your hands clamping onto his biceps as your head thrashed back against the mirror once more.

He didn't need words to know you were right there. He buried his face in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he delivered three more devastatingly deep, relentless thrusts.

That was the final breaking point. Your walls clamped down around him tight and pulsing, fracturing your breath into a loud, ruined cry as your entire body shattered into a blinding, head-to-toe release.

Hearing you break completely ruined him. Logan let out a guttural, unhinged groan that vibrated deep in his chest. His jaw locked, his body rigid and trembling as he gave one last, deeply possessive shove, throwing his weight into you as he came violently inside the condom. He held himself deep within you, his hips shuddering against yours as he rode out the waves of his own release, the two of you panting heavily in the quiet aftermath, entirely spent.

Seven — "Fuck it"

Roughly thirty minutes later, the two of you finally emerged from the bathroom. You had tried your absolute best to fix your chaotic appearance in the mirror—re-applying a bit of smudge-proof lip gloss, smoothing down the wrinkled fabric of your dress, and trying to tame your wildly tangled hair with your fingers—but the physical evidence of what had just occurred was written all over your faces. Your skin was flushed a deep unmistakable pink, your lips were incredibly swollen and red, and Logan was walking with a loose, stupidly contented, proud stride, his hair completely disheveled and sticking up in directions where your fingers had repeatedly torn through it.

​The exact moment you stepped back onto the floor of the crowded living room, a loud, piercing whistle cut through the air.

Dean was leaning against the back of the sofa, a beer dangling from his fingers and a knowing smirk plastered across his face. His eyes darted from you to Logan, zeroing in instantly on the faint trace of your lip gloss smeared along Logan’s jawline.

​"Well, well, well," he said, loud enough to be heard over the music. "Must have been a pretty intense plumbing emergency in there. Either that, or you two just went ten rounds with a blender. You might want to wipe your face, Logan."

Your cheeks instantly burned. You took a step back. "Dean, shut up, we were just—"

But Logan didn't let you finish the lie. He looked down at you, catching the slight panic in your eyes, and then looked over at Dean, who was practically vibrating with smug satisfaction.

Instead of getting defensive, Logan just let out a short, quiet laugh. The stubbornness, the secrecy, the remnants of your old feud—it all suddenly felt completely irrelevant. He was tired of hiding it.

"You know what? Fuck it," Logan muttered.

Before you could process the words, his hand slid around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your jaw as he pulled you flush against his chest. Right there by the sofa, he leaned down and kissed you.

Dean threw his arms up in a dramatic, sweeping gesture. "About damn fucking time! Graham, you owe me twenty bucks!"

When Logan finally pulled back, his eyes were bright, a relaxed, genuinely happy smile playing on his lips as his thumb brushed your cheek. You looked up at him, the noise of the party fading into the background, finally realizing that the long, argumentative journey of seven dirty words had brought you exactly where you were supposed to be.

just posted a new John Logan fic <3

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

i’m dyingggg for some john logan x reader smutt!!! please gimmee anything

I got SO MANY requests for Logan smut. Here you go! (idk if I like this smut to be honest...)

Summary: Logan gets a reward for scoring the winning goal

Warnings: 18+, smut, oral (m receiving), 

—

Last night’s game would have ended in a tie if it wasn’t for Logan’s last minute goal. The winning goal. When the siren went off, the whole team huddled around him in celebration. In the stands, you and Jules were jumping and cheering, proud of him. 

He may not be a star player like Garrett, but Logan always gave everything he had to every game. He stayed behind after practice and worked twice as hard, yet his efforts were often left unnoticed. Growing up in the middle-class, nothing had ever been handed to him. Hockey wasn’t just a passion — it was his way out. Without his scholarship, there was no way he could’ve afforded going to Briar.

Tonight, it was in his name the team was drinking to. 

‘’To Logan!’’ Dean called, raising his shot glass. 

Logan’s face immediately flushed pink at the toast — his version of a full-blown blush. He ducked his head, suddenly very interested in the beer bottle in his hands, but you could see the pride shining through.

‘’To Logan,’’ you echoed, kissing his cheek instead of taking a sip of your drink. 

He smiled and pulled you closer, his arm around your waist.

‘’Our boy’s finally becoming famous,” Dean teased, slapping Logan’s shoulder harder than necessary.

‘’Shut up,’’ Logan muttered, shaking his head.

‘’No, seriously,” Garrett cut in. ‘’That goal was insane. Even I was impressed.’’

Logan snorted. ‘’Wow. I should frame that compliment.’’

The captain laughed in response and Logan just shook his head, smiling softly as he looked at you. There was still disbelief in his expression, like he couldn’t fully process that tonight was about him. That people were chanting his name instead of someone else’s.

‘’You deserve this, baby,’’ you said quietly, thumb brushing against his stubbly jaw before kissing him. 

More people filled the kitchen, raising their cups and congratulating Logan on his goal. He smiled back at them, taking in the good words, then let himself be pulled away to a quieter corner of the house. 

Was it selfish of you that you wanted to have him to yourself for a moment? 

To your surprise, the couch was empty. You sat down and snuggled up to Logan, smiling when he instinctively pulled you closer as he took a sip of his beer. 

‘’Did you see my victory move after I scored? I aimed right at you.’’

Of course you did. ‘’I hope to see that victory move again,’’ you replied before kissing him, tasting the beer he was holding. ‘’You might get another reward.’’ 

Logan pulled back slightly and raised an eyebrow at your mischievous grin. 

Without saying anything, you began unbuttoning the top buttons of your shirt, giving him a glimpse at the light blue lace bra you had underneath. Logan’s eyes lowered to your chest as his grip tightened slightly on his beer bottle. He’s never seen you in this bra before — other than when you sent him a picture from the store’s dressing room, which he went feral over. 

‘’Is that..?’’

You hummed.

Setting his beer down on the table, he leaned in closer, one hand gliding up your side, thumb brushing just beneath the delicate lace at the edge of your bra cup as he tilted your chin up to meet his lips again. The kiss was slow at first — until you nipped at his lower lip and he groaned, your fingers tangling in his hair as Logan deepened it.

Somewhere in the background, the party noise faded into a distant hum, just the two of you and the couch creaking under the shift of Logan’s weight as he pulled you even closer, gliding one hand up your body to cup your left breast over your shirt. 

‘’Let’s go upstairs,’’ you declared, standing up. 

Once you made it to Logan’s room, you shut and locked the door behind. 

Gripping the front of his shirt, you pressed him against you and kissed him hard and deep, almost desperate. The sudden intensity caught him off guard for half a second, but then he melted into it as desire grew below the belt, his hands finding your waist and reaching to unbutton the rest of your shirt. 

‘’Looks even better in person,’’ Logan complimented, focusing on the lace and beaded details as his fingers traced the delicate fabric. His voice was low, rough with want, and it sent a shiver down your spine. 

You smirked, sliding your hands under his shirt to feel the taut muscles of his abdomen. ‘’I bought the matching set.’’ 

‘’Fuck.’’ 

The revelation of your matching lingerie set sent an electric thrill through Logan's senses. One thing no one knew about John Logan was that he was a sucker for lingerie. Nothing overly fancy. Just pretty bras and panties. He let out a low, appreciative growl, his gaze roaming over you with a hunger that was becoming increasingly hard to resist. 

He reached to lift your skirt, but you pushed his hands away and grabbed his belt instead, shaking your head. Once you unbuckled it and pulled his pants down to his mid-thighs, you dropped to your knees and wasted no time with getting him in your mouth. You swirled your tongue around the head a few times before sliding your lips down the whole length. Slowly, you hollowed your cheeks and started bobbing your head, the tip of Logan's cock hitting the back of your throat.

‘’Fuck, baby…’’ 

You looked up as you kept sucking him, eliciting a grunt of pleasure from your man above, low and deep in his throat. 

‘’You know I can’t last when you look at me like that.’’ 

His eyes darkened with a combination of desire and anticipation as he watched you on your knees, the lace of your bra peeking out from under your shirt, a tantalizing peek of something just for him. The sight of you like this, looking up at him with those pretty eyes and shiny lips, was nearly too much.

Logan’s breath hitched as your tongue swirled just the way he liked it, his hand falling to your hair. His hips jerked forward slightly — just enough to let you know he was close — before he forced himself to hold still, letting you take control and grip his thick thighs.

A ragged groan tore from his throat as he came, fingers tightening reflexively in your hair before he immediately loosened his grip, his other hand coming up to brush your cheek. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. 

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand while looking up at him.

Raking a hand through his hair, Logan let out a breath. ‘’If that’s the reward I get when I score a goal, I better score more goals.’’ 

‘’I want a hat trick next.’’  

‘’Hat trick?’’ He repeated. ‘’This is college hockey. It rarely happens.’’ 

You shrugged. ‘’Make it happen.’’

══════════════════

Off Campus taglist: @f1rewhiskey @formula1-motogpfan @schinug @skyesthebomb @mads-writes-vibes @harls-sturn @fangirl93 @parker-barnes-af @thedarkqueenofavalon @kootiestillidie @taliescapes @kmc1989 @glndacore @aestramjackson @ilocuras24

[rinvvii]

too pretty to keep secret; john logan

summary: Dating John Logan in secret would be easier if he knew how to act normal around you. Unfortunately, Logan is hopelessly in love, terrible at hiding it, and one affectionate comment away from exposing your entire relationship.

pairings: john logan x FIGURE SKATER!reader

RIN'S NOTE: i watch the show for dean and garret. but the one who caught my heart? John the freaking logan, he is such a yearner!! Ugh.

【WC 2k】

The first rule of dating John Logan was simple.

Never let him hold your hand in public. Not because he wouldn’t.

God, if it were up to Logan, he’d probably walk around campus announcing it with a megaphone.

The problem was that John Logan was impossible to miss. Hockey star. Campus heartthrob. Professional flirt. Owner of an unfortunately charming smile that seemed capable of making half the female population lose their minds.

And you?

You preferred quiet.

You liked empty skating rinks before sunrise, oversized sweaters, and slipping through campus unnoticed. Attention made your skin crawl in ways you could never properly explain, and being publicly attached to someone like Logan sounded less like romance and more like a nightmare.

So your relationship stayed private.

Mostly.

Which was harder than it sounded when your boyfriend was John Logan.

Because John Logan loved loudly. Even when he tried not to.

“Logan.”

“No.”

You sighed, adjusting the strap of your skate bag over your shoulder while Logan leaned casually against your dorm room doorway.

“You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”

“Yes, I do.” Logan grinned lazily. “You’re about to tell me not to kiss you goodbye in the hallway.”

“…Because the hockey team is literally downstairs.”

“Counterargument.”

He stepped forward suddenly, large hands sliding around your waist before you could escape. You immediately hissed, “John.”

His grin widened.

“You only use my first name when you’re stressed. It’s adorable.”

“Some of us value survival.”

“Some of us,” he murmured dramatically, “are being denied affection.”

Despite yourself, a laugh escaped you. Logan looked unbearably pleased about it.

God. That was another problem.

He looked at you like every smile was something he personally accomplished.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered.

“And yet,” Logan said thoughtfully, leaning closer, “you’re still dating me. Curious.”

Before you could respond, voices echoed faintly from downstairs. Hockey players. Your eyes widened immediately.

“Logan.”

“I hear them.”

“Then MOVE.”

He laughed under his breath but finally stepped back, hands lingering at your waist for one last second before letting go.

And even then, he still looked offended.

“This relationship is so hard for me,” he informed you solemnly.

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re withholding public boyfriend privileges.”

“That is not a real thing.”

“It should be.”

A knock suddenly sounded somewhere downstairs. Then Garrett’s voice. “Logan! Are you alive or did you finally die flirting?”

You slapped a hand over your mouth to stop your laugh.Logan looked deeply betrayed. “You know,” he said quietly, “the lack of support in this relationship is devastating.”

“Go downstairs.”

“You wound me.”

“Logan.”

“Okay, okay.”

But before leaving, he leaned in quickly and pressed a soft kiss against your forehead. Gentle. Automatic. Like he couldn’t leave without doing it.

Your chest tightened immediately. And Logan completely unfairly noticed. That smug grin appeared again.

“There she is,” he murmured. You narrowed your eyes.

“Go away.”

“See you tonight, sweetheart.”

He lean again to kiss your lips this time.

Then he disappeared downstairs like nothing happened. Meanwhile you stood frozen in your dorm doorway trying not to smile like an idiot. Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.

Logan was trying very hard to respect your boundaries. Really. He deserved credit for that.

Because keeping your relationship private might’ve been physically painful for him. Not because he was embarrassed.

The opposite, actually.

He liked you so much it was becoming a legitimate issue. And Logan had never exactly been subtle about his feelings. Unfortunately for him, subtlety was now required.

Which meant he had to settle for smaller things.

Watching your skating practices from the highest row in the rink where fewer people noticed him. Sneaking you coffee before your early morning sessions. Texting you terrible pickup lines during class. Current favorite:

Are you made of ice? Because you make me fall constantly.

You had responded with:

I’m blocking your number.

Which, to Logan, translated directly into marriage.

“Dude.” Logan blinked, dragged abruptly back to reality. Garrett was staring at him from across the cafeteria table.

“…What?” Logan asked.

“You’re smiling at your phone like a divorced dad learning Facebook.”

Dean snorted into his drink. Logan immediately locked his phone. “Mind your business.” Garrett narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“No, seriously. What’s going on with you lately?”

“Nothing.”

“You disappeared for three hours last night.”

“I have hobbies.”

“Tinder doesn’t count as a hobby.”

Logan looked offended.

“For your information, I’m deeply emotionally unavailable now.”

Dean blinked once.

“…That sounded weirdly sincere.”

Shit.

Logan grabbed his drink quickly. Too quickly. Because Garrett suddenly sat up straighter.

“Oh my god.”

Logan froze internally.

“You’re dating someone.”

Dean nearly choked laughing. “No way.” Logan scoffed immediately.

“You guys are insane.”

“Logan,” Garrett said slowly, “you’ve checked your phone fourteen times in two minutes.”

“That’s called having friends.”

“You hate people.”

“Valid point.”

Garrett leaned forward dramatically.

“Who is she?”

“Nobody.”

“AHA.”

Logan groaned.

“You sound like a conspiracy theorist.”

“Because you’re acting suspicious!” Garrett accused. “You keep disappearing at night, smiling at your phone, and wearing actual cologne to class.” Dean pointed at him immediately.

“The cologne thing is huge.” Logan rubbed a tired hand down his face.

The worst part? He wanted to tell them.

He wanted to talk about you constantly. Wanted to mention how pretty you looked after skating practice when your cheeks turned pink from the cold. Wanted to brag about how talented you were. Wanted to tell people about the way you laughed when you got sleepy.

But he also knew how anxious public attention made you.

So instead, he shrugged lazily.

“You guys are dramatic.”

Garrett stared at him.

“…You’re in love.”

Logan nearly spit out his drink.

“WHAT?”

Dean started wheezing.

“Oh my god, he totally is.”

“I hate both of you.”

“Who is she?” Garrett demanded.

Logan stood abruptly.

“Enjoy your lunch.”

“LOGAN.”

Too late. He was already leaving.

Mostly because if he stayed another minute, he might accidentally start talking about you.

And once Logan started talking about you, he genuinely wasn’t sure he’d ever stop.

The ice rink was nearly empty by the time your evening practice ended. Only a few overhead lights remained on, casting soft reflections across the ice. You glided toward the rink barrier slowly, exhausted but satisfied after landing your final combination successfully.

Then you spotted him immediately. Of course.

John Logan sat sprawled dramatically across the bleachers wearing a backward baseball cap and Bruins hoodie, one arm stretched behind his head while the other held a cup carrier from the campus café.

The second he noticed you looking, his entire face lit up. Like you were the best thing he’d seen all day.

Your heart did that stupid little thing again. “You’re late,” you called lightly while stepping off the ice. Logan gasped. “I bring beverages and this is the thanks I get?”

“You’re ten minutes late.”

“I was fighting for my life in line.”

“You literally play hockey.”

“Exactly. I’m fragile.”

You laughed softly while walking toward him. Logan’s expression changed instantly at the sound. Softer. Warmer.

God.

Sometimes the way he looked at you felt unfair. You dropped your skate guards onto the bench beside him.

“Did you watch the whole practice?”

“Obviously.”

“You had practice too.”

“I escaped early.”

“John.”

“What?” he defended immediately. “My girlfriend was doing cool spinny things.”

“That is not figure skating terminology.”

“It should be.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. Logan handed you one of the drinks. “Hot chocolate,” he announced proudly. Your expression softened immediately.

“You remembered.”

“Sweetheart, I remember everything about you.”

And just like that, your brain stopped functioning. The worst part was that he said things like that casually. Like he had no idea the effect they had on you. Meanwhile Logan was busy watching your expression change with obvious satisfaction. Cute. Ridiculously cute.

He loved making you flustered. Probably too much.

You sat beside him carefully, shoulders brushing. Logan relaxed instantly at the contact. Small things affected him embarrassingly fast when it came to you. He took a sip of his coffee before speaking again.

“You looked incredible out there tonight.”

You stared down at your cup. “I messed up the landing during the second pass.”

“You landed it the next time.”

“Still.”

Logan frowned slightly. He hated when you did that. Minimized yourself. Because from where he sat every single practice, you looked unreal. Beautiful. Focused.

Completely in your element. Sometimes watching you skate actually stole the words out of his mouth.

Which was saying something, considering he normally never shut up. “You know,” Logan said slowly, “normal people would just accept compliments.”

“I do accept compliments.”

“No, you politely fight them.”

“That’s not true.”

“Last week I called you gorgeous and you said, ‘probably the lighting.’”

You looked embarrassed immediately. Logan grinned.

“There it is.”

“You’re annoying.”

“And yet deeply lovable.”

“That remains unconfirmed.”

Logan placed a dramatic hand against his chest. “You say the cruelest things to me.”

Another laugh. God. I love it so much.

He’d do literally anything to keep hearing that sound. The rink settled into comfortable silence afterward. Your head rested lightly against Logan’s shoulder while he absentmindedly played with your fingers.

No audience. No hiding. Just the two of you.

This was his favorite version of your relationship. The quiet parts. The moments nobody else saw.

“You know,” Logan murmured eventually, “I still think it’s insane nobody knows about us.” You tensed slightly beside him. Immediately, Logan regretted bringing it up.

“Hey.” His voice softened.

“You know I don’t care, right?”

You looked down at your hands.

“I know.”

“No, seriously.” Logan turned toward you more fully now.

“I’d date you in secret forever if that’s what makes you comfortable.”

Your chest tightened painfully. Because he meant it. There wasn’t even hesitation in his voice.

“You don’t ever get tired of hiding?” you asked quietly. Logan blinked.

“Hiding you?”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Baby, I’m barely succeeding.”

You laughed softly.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Logan’s thumb brushed gently across your knuckles.

“Yeah, I wanna tell people sometimes,” he admitted. “Mostly because I think you’re amazing and I have absolutely zero self-control around you.”

“That’s the most honest thing you’ve ever said.”

“Thank you.”

“But…”

His expression softened again. “If being private makes you feel safe, then that matters more.”

You stared at him quietly. And Logan, poor guy, immediately started overthinking.

Too much?

Too cheesy?

Then suddenly you leaned forward and kissed him. Soft. Quick. But enough to completely derail his brain. Logan blinked after you pulled away.

“…Whoa.”

You laughed immediately. “What?”

“I just had a religious experience.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’m serious.” He pointed at you accusingly. “You can’t just do that without warning.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And deeply in love with you.”

The words slipped out naturally. Effortlessly. Like breathing. And Logan froze the second he realized what he said.

Oh. Shit.

Your eyes widened slightly. The rink suddenly felt very quiet. Logan opened his mouth immediately.

“I mean—not that I—well, obviously I do, but I wasn’t trying to—”

You started laughing. Actually laughing. Logan looked deeply offended.

“I’m emotionally vulnerable right now.”

“You’re rambling.”

“You make me nervous.”

That only made you laugh harder. Hopelessly in love. That’s what this was doing to him.

And honestly?

Logan didn’t mind one bit. Eventually your laughter softened into something gentler.

You reached over and fixed the brim of his backwards cap carefully.

Cute. Everything you did was cute. It was becoming a serious condition.

“You know,” you said quietly, “I think being private is easier because this feels… ours.”

Logan’s expression softened instantly. The teasing disappeared. Just sincerity left.

“Yeah?” You nodded.

“No pressure. No people watching. Just you and me.” Something warm settled heavily in Logan’s chest.

God. He loved you. Hopelessly. Ridiculously. Completely.

And maybe someday the rest of the world would know. But for now?

This was enough. The empty rink. Your hand in his. Your head against his shoulder.

And the way you smiled at him like he was already home.

© 2026 rinvvii

[andy-15-07]

jealous!Logan!!!!! jealous!Logan!!!!

He Doesn’t Like It

Pairing: John Logan  x Reader

Word Count: 1658

Request open!

Off campus masterlist

 John was not the kind of jealous boyfriend who made a scene.

That was the problem.

If he had been loud about it, if he had gotten obviously possessive or shoved himself between you and whoever was talking to you, it would have been easier to deal with. You could have rolled your eyes, laughed at him later, maybe even teased him until he admitted he was being ridiculous.

But John did not do ridiculous very often.

John got quiet.

And quiet John was dangerous.

You noticed it at the party in Garrett and Dean’s house, when you wandered into the living room with a drink in your hand and found yourself stuck in conversation with one of John’s old teammates. He was nice enough, probably. He was also talking to you with a little too much interest, standing a little too close, smiling a little too long.

You were already halfway through a polite laugh when you caught sight of John across the room.

He was watching.

Not glaring. Not scowling. Just watching with his drink in hand and that still, unreadable expression he got when something had his full attention. His jaw was set. His eyes were locked on the two of you.

The moment your eyes met, something flickered in his face.

Then he took a slow drink and looked away.

Your stomach tightened.

The guy beside you kept talking. “And then I realized I had the wrong study guide the whole time, which was honestly embarrassing.”

You smiled politely. “That sucks.”

“It really did.” He laughed, then leaned in just a little. “You’re easy to talk to, though.”

Before you could answer, a hand settled at the small of your back.

You almost jumped.

John’s voice came from directly behind you, calm and even and somehow worse than if he had sounded annoyed. “There you are.”

You turned your head. “Hi.”

His eyes flicked briefly to the guy beside you, then back to your face. “Hey.”

The silence that followed was immediate and awkward in all the obvious ways.

The guy looked between the two of you, then smiled. “Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realize you were,”

“Not a problem,” John said.

It wasn’t rude.

That somehow made it colder.

The guy cleared his throat. “Right. Yeah. I was just talking to her.”

John nodded once. “I can see that.”

You could practically feel the tension under your skin.

You gave John a small look that said what are you doing?

He ignored it.

The guy shifted his weight, suddenly less confident. “Well, I should probably find my roommate.”

“Probably,” John said.

That was it. Just that.

The guy gave you an awkward smile and disappeared into the crowd.

The second he was gone, you turned fully toward John. “What was that?”

John took another sip of his drink. “What was what?”

“You know exactly what.”

He looked at you, and his expression was too neutral by half. “I came to get you.”

You crossed your arms. “From a conversation?”

John glanced in the direction the guy had left, then back at you. “A very long conversation.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “He talked to me for maybe four minutes.”

John’s mouth twitched. “Felt longer.”

That was when you knew.

You tried not to smile. You really did. “Are you jealous?”

He didn’t answer right away.

He just looked at you.

That should have been answer enough.

You tilted your head, trying to hide your amusement. “John.”

“I’m not jealous.”

You blinked. “That was the least convincing thing you’ve ever said.”

His jaw moved once, like he was fighting the urge to say something sharp. “He was standing too close.”

You stared at him for a beat.

Then your smile spread before you could stop it. “You are jealous.”

John gave you a flat look. “I said I’m not.”

“You walked over here like you were claiming territory.”

“That’s not what I did.”

“You put your hand on my back.”

“I was guiding you.”

“You interrupted my conversation.”

“He was rambling.”

You laughed softly. “Oh my God.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t start.”

“I can’t believe this.”

He leaned in a fraction, lowering his voice. “Believe it.”

Your face warmed instantly, because of course it did. He had that tone. That low, steady, very John tone that made teasing him feel a lot more dangerous than it should have.

You bit back a grin. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Don’t call me cute.”

“That’s not a no.”

John set his drink down and stepped closer, close enough that your back was nearly against the wall beside the hallway. “You think this is funny.”

You looked up at him, trying very hard to stay composed. “A little.”

He stared at you for a long second, then said, “He was flirting.”

You blinked.

The words were so direct that your smile faltered.

John’s expression stayed steady, but there was tension in his shoulders now, a quiet kind of possessiveness he usually kept better hidden. “I don’t like it.”

That hit different.

Not because it was dramatic. Because it wasn’t.

John wasn’t making a scene. He wasn’t accusing you of anything. He was just telling you the truth, plainly, like he always did when something mattered.

Your teasing softened automatically.

“John,” you said, a little quieter, “he was just talking to me.”

“I know.”

You frowned. “Then why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because I don’t like him looking at you like that.”

Your heart gave a stupid little jump.

You studied him for a second, the jealousy still there but now mixed with something warmer, something protective and almost shy underneath the surface. John was trying very hard not to turn it into a bigger deal than it was, which somehow made it more endearing.

You reached up and touched his arm. “You know he meant nothing, right?”

John’s gaze dropped briefly to your hand, then back to your face. “I know.”

“Then what’s the issue?”

He hesitated.

That alone made your chest tighten a little.

Then he said, very quietly, “I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

The honesty of it made you go still.

There was no performance in his voice. No ego. Just that low, straightforward truth that always got past your defenses before you had time to stop it.

You softened immediately. “Okay.”

John studied your face like he was trying to decide whether you were laughing at him.

You weren’t.

You were looking at him with a fondness that only made him more alert.

His voice dropped another notch. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” You shifted closer and let your fingers slide lightly into the front of his shirt. “I get it.”

John’s expression changed a little at that. The tension in his jaw eased, though he still looked guarded.

“You do?”

You smiled. “You got jealous.”

“I did not,”

“You did.”

He stopped.

You gave him a soft, knowing look. “And for the record, it was kind of hot.”

That did it.

John stared at you for half a second, then his hand came to your waist and pulled you closer in one smooth motion. Your breath caught, but he didn’t kiss you right away. He just looked at you with that quiet, intense expression that always made your knees forget their job.

“Don’t say things like that if you don’t mean them,” he murmured.

Your pulse jumped. “I mean it.”

His thumb brushed once against your side. “Yeah?”

You smiled. “Yeah.”

John leaned in, his forehead almost touching yours. “Then tell me why I had to watch some guy stand there acting like he had a chance.”

You blinked, then laughed softly despite yourself. “You really are jealous.”

“I already admitted that.”

“No, you didn’t.”

His mouth twitched. “I’m admitting it now.”

That made your smile widen.

He stared at you for a second longer, then added, quieter, “I don’t like sharing your attention.”

That hit you right in the chest.

Because John said it like it was a simple fact. Not dramatic. Not needy. Just true.

You reached up and touched his cheek. “You have my attention.”

He looked at you.

All the tension in his face eased by degrees.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

You brushed your thumb along his jaw. “And for the record, nobody else is getting it like you do.”

Something in his expression softened completely then.

His hand at your waist pulled you in just enough that your bodies lined up, and his mouth brushed your temple in a quick, almost absent kiss.

It was such a small gesture, but it made your stomach go warm.

John rested his forehead briefly against yours. “Good.”

You smiled, a little breathless now. “You still being jealous?”

He was quiet for a second.

Then, very dryly, he said, “A little.”

You laughed. “That is so obvious.”

“I’m trying.”

“You’re failing.”

His eyes narrowed, but there was no real heat in it. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“A lot.”

John huffed a small laugh and kissed you properly this time, slow and steady and just possessive enough to make his point without actually making one. When he pulled back, his hand stayed at your waist.

You looked up at him, grinning now. “So. We’re done pretending you’re not jealous?”

John held your gaze for a beat, then said, “I never said I wasn’t.”

You laughed, soft and delighted, and he finally looked a little less tense.

Then his mouth curved, barely there but unmistakable.

“You coming back to the couch,” he said, “or do I need to keep rescuing you from bad conversation all night?”

You smiled and slipped your hand into his. “Depends. Are you going to keep glaring at everybody?”

He squeezed your hand once. “Only if they deserve it.”

And the way he said it made it very clear that, apparently, John Logan was willing to be jealous for as long as it took.