pairing: john logan x girlfriend!reader
words: 2.6k words
synopsis: You and Logan's relationship slowly falls apart at the seams, until a quiet night in leads to a revelation that changes everything.
a/n: angst, emotional cheating kinda, not a happy ending (yet. maybe there will be a part 2 ;)
You didn't believe in jinxes or curses. Always believed whatever made the most sense to you by logic. Until, of course, the only possible explanation you could muster for whatever happened between you and Logan was evil eyes. That's what it had to be, right? Because everything was perfect. Perfect. How did it go so wrong?
It's hard to place the exact moment when you started to pull away from each other. You got busy with classes and working part-time; he got busy with hockey now that he was the interim captain.
Meeting whenever you could find time every single day became barely seeing each other four times a week. Phone calls started to grow shorter, messages started to sound less enthusiastic, and it felt like all the colour in your life was slowly draining.
The fights started shortly after.
They were never about anything in particular, really. Sometimes it was a simple comment that one of you blew out of proportion, someone mad that the other cannot magically read minds and understand what they were thinking, and other times it was misplaced grief at losing someone who was right in front of you.
It was fucking exhausting. And it always ended the same way. One of you at the other's doorstep, begging, apologising, making up, and starting all over again in a couple of days. You were getting tired. So was he.
The breaking point came after the most mundane thing ever.
Despite going through the roughest of rough patches, you still loved him. Of course, you did. You didn't think twice before agreeing to have a movie night at his place. Part of you hoped this would smooth things over with him. To your credit, so did he; that was his intention when he invited you, anyway.
You couldn't have been more wrong.
The movie might as well have been a plain screen with brown noise, the way you were not paying attention to it. The guy on the screen could've been Logan himself, and you wouldn't know. Your focus was completely elsewhere.
You were curled up on the couch against him, his arm around your shoulder. His eyes were on the screen, but you could tell he wasn't listening to a word either. You'd steal glances when he wasn't looking, and other times, you could feel his eyes on you.
Sad part was, this didn't feel like the times you'd look at each other and turn away before the other did and smile to yourselves at the close call, eyes full of love, nerves, and adrenaline. This time, it felt loaded and sorrowful, almost like pity even. Like you were both hesitant.
About halfway through the movie, the door to the house opened, and Garrett and Hannah stumbled in, laughing. They looked at each other and shushed each other at the same time. They were tipsy, evidently, and suddenly the entire world was hilarious to them. His arms wrapped around her, trying to drag her upstairs to his room the best he could, but she had spotted you on the couch with Logan, and her eyes lit up with excitement. She had to come say hi.
Even if a million things go wrong in your life, you would always be grateful you got to meet Hannah. She was a ray of sunshine, a breath of fresh air when you needed it the most. You, Hannah, and Allie had been inseparable from freshman year, but you'd always had more of a soft spot for Hannah. You had told her this once, drunk out of your mind, and made her pinky swear not to tell Allie. This was two days after you had met.
Eventually she made it to the couch, only tripped twice in the process, and threw her hands around you from behind, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek. She slurred your name and gave you a huge smile before kissing you again.
"Good to see you too, Han," you laughed, holding her bicep that was still around your neck with your hand. She closed her eyes, pressed her cheek to yours and swayed.
"Garrett, look who's here!" She waved him over, and he was just as excited to see you. He gasped when he saw you and pointed a finger at you, like he couldn't believe his eyes. He clapped Logan on the shoulder before hopping over the couch to sit next to you.
"What are we watching?" he asked as he grabbed the bowl of popcorn from the coffee table.
You opened your mouth to answer, but nothing came out. You genuinely had no idea. Garrett looked at you. Then at Logan. Then back at you.
"...Seriously?"
You glanced at Logan, expecting him to answer. He didn't, obviously. It's not like he knew either.
"You know... the one with the guy," Logan finally said.
Garrett barked out a laugh. "Solid answer, buddy."
"Oh my God," Hannah whispered, sounding horrified. "They're having a date night." Garrett's grin immediately dropped.
"Oh."
"Yeah, oh," she hissed, trying and failing to be discreet.
"Hey, so uh, we're just gonna go upstairs to uh," she started, clearly having no idea where the rest of that sentence was going. She just waited for words to find her. They didn't.
"Yeah, we're just gonna go."
She dragged Garrett this time, who was hot on her trail, filled with minor embarrassment from having committed a social blunder. Hannah nearly missed a step. Garrett caught her. Both of them dissolved into another fit of laughter. You watched them until they reached the landing.
Then your attention shifted back to the couch.
Back to Logan.
The entire time Hannah had been wrapped around you, messing up your hair and smearing lipstick onto your cheek, you'd barely noticed. Strands had fallen loose, hanging in front of your eyes now.
Normally, Logan would've fixed it without thinking. He always did. A hand against your jaw. Fingers brushing your temple. Your hair tucked carefully behind your ear.
Such a stupid little thing.
But it was one of those habits he'd picked up early in your relationship and never stopped doing. If you were talking, he'd do it. If you were studying together, he'd do it. If you woke up beside him with your hair in your face, he'd do it before saying good morning.
He always wanted to see you.
And maybe it was ridiculous, but some desperate part of you was waiting for it now. Waiting for proof. Proof that underneath all the arguments and frustration and distance, he still looked at you and saw the person he loved.
The strands kept falling into your eyes every time you moved. They brushed against your cheek and caught on your lashes, and still, you left them there.
You waited for his hand to find your face. For his fingers to brush your temple. For him to tuck them away like he'd done hundreds of times before.
He didn't.
Your eyes drifted to him. His weren't on you at all. They were fixed on the staircase. On the spot that Garrett and Hannah had disappeared from just moments ago.
You followed his gaze without really thinking about it. Maybe he was annoyed they interrupted the movie. Maybe he was wondering if Garrett would let Hannah fall down the stairs before they made it to his room. Maybe he wasn't thinking anything at all.
You tried not to think about it.
Logan let out a long sigh and leaned back into the couch. His attention returned to the television.
You looked away before he could catch you staring.
Something unpleasant settled in your chest. It wasn't anger. It wasn't even sadness, really. It felt more like the sinking realisation that you'd been waiting for something that wasn't coming.
The movie continued to play in front of you. Someone on screen was talking. Another person answered. There was dramatic music somewhere in the background.
You couldn't hear any of it.
The lump in your throat appeared so suddenly it caught you off guard. The room was closing in. Everything was warm. The ceiling was getting lower and lower. Breathing felt manual. You could feel the clothes on your skin.
You sat up fast. Immediately, Logan glanced over.
"You okay?"
You grabbed your bag from where you'd dropped it beside the couch.
"I don't feel very good."
"What do you mean?" His eyebrows pulled together.
"I think I'm gonna go home."
"What?" He turned toward you completely now. "You were fine two seconds ago."
"I know."
"Did something happen?" The concern in his voice almost made it worse.
You shook your head and stood.
"No. I just..." You swallowed hard. "I can't do this right now."
A look flashed across his face. Confusion, mostly.
"Can't do what?" he asked, turning his head slightly.
You didn't answer. Because how were you supposed to explain it without sounding insane? You just shook your head in defeat.
"I just can't."
You were already moving away from him, past the front door, onto the porch. Your cheeks were already damp with tears, but you didn't make an effort to wipe them away. The cool night air hit your face.
A second later, the door opened behind you.
"Baby."
That was the last straw.
You stopped in your tracks and let out an incredulous laugh. You dropped your bag on the ground. You were doing this now.
"You have some nerve, John Logan. Calling me baby like you did nothing wrong," you spat, all your sorrow now taken over by rage.
His face immediately twisted in confusion.
"What are you talking about?"
"Oh, no, no, don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Act like you don't know."
"I genuinely don't."
You laughed. The sound was ugly.
"Oh, you don't know?"
"No."
"Then let's start there."
Logan stared at you from the porch. You stared right back at him. Months of frustration, distance, apologising and pretending were threatening to explode. You were so tired. You let it.
"You don't call me anymore."
His brows furrowed like he wasn't expecting that to be the reason for your anger.
"What?"
"You. Don't. Call," you enunciated each syllable like you were explaining how to pronounce something complicated.
"You're one to talk, you don't call me either."
"Oh, honey, that's because every time I do, you're busy."
"I am busy," he argued.
"As opposed to me, who is fucking free all the time? Is that what you're saying?"
His jaw clenched.
"Jesus, that is not what I said!"
"Well, then, give me one good reason why you never call me, Logan."
"You think you're the only one making sacrifices here?"
The question caught you off guard.
"What?"
"I said, do you think you're the only one making sacrifices?"
Something in your chest cracked. You hoped it wouldn't get to this point, but unfortunately, there it was. The resentment.
"You know what?" you laughed bitterly. "Maybe you're right."
"Don't."
"No, no, maybe you're right."
You wiped your face angrily.
"Maybe I should've just accepted seeing my boyfriend three times a week. Maybe I should've accepted the fact that every conversation feels like I'm inconveniencing you."
His expression darkened.
"That's not fair."
"Fair?"
You couldn't believe what you were hearing.
"You want to talk about fair, Logan?"
"Yeah."
"Fair would've been you telling me when you stopped loving me."
Logan looked like you'd slapped him. You didn't mean to say that. You really didn't. He looked down at the ground like it had answers that he was looking for. Neither of you said anything for a while.
For the first time in a while, he called your name.
"I never said that."
"You didn't have to."
"Jesus Christ." He ran a hand through his face, exasperated and done.
"What the fuck does that even mean?" He got off the porch to stand closer to you. You immediately took a step back. Neither of you acknowledged it.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about."
"I assure you, I don't."
"Don't fucking lie to me, John," you laughed.
He sighed loudly and stepped closer.
"I don't know what is going on in your head right now, but clearly you are not in the right headspace for this conversa—"
"Tell me you love me."
"What?"
"Either you love me, and I'm wrong, or you're a hypocrite. Let's settle this. Tell me that you love me."
You stared at him. Waiting.
When he didn't answer, something clicked.
You thought about the staircase. You thought about the way his eyes followed her. You thought about every strange feeling you'd been trying to ignore for months. Every instinct you'd convinced yourself was insecurity. Every moment you'd told yourself you were imagining things.
Suddenly, you weren't so sure.
"No."
The word left your mouth before you could stop it. Logan looked terrified. He wasn't angry or confused, just in shock and pure horror.
"No way."
"Don't."
Your heart started pounding.
"Logan."
"Please don't," this time, he begged.
"Oh my God."
His eyes squeezed shut. Somehow that was worse than anything he could've said. You took a shaky step backward.
"Look me in the eye and tell me you don't like Hannah."
YOu watched him and waited as the colour drained from his face.
"Tell me."
"It's not like that."
You laughed, and it sounded more defeated than you wanted it to be.
"Logan."
He looked away and you felt your stomach drop physically. Like you were geting down the stairs in the dark and missed a step.
"Look me in my eyes."
His jaw tightened. He averted his gaze, but never quite met yours. He couldn't. The silence stretched long enough until it became an answer of its own.
"Wow."
His head snapped up.
"Baby—"
"No."
You took another step back. The tears were falling so hard now you could barely see him.
"Stop right there, Logan."
"It's not what you think."
"Then what is it?"
"I...," he couldn't find any words that would make this okay. He decided not to say anything. You just watched him.
Despite his height and stature, he looked small right now. And even though you were impossibly mad at him right now, it broke your heart. Unfortunately, not even falling in love with your best friend can make you hate John Logan.
"You know, Logan? For the longest time, I thought it was my fault. That there was something wrong with me." He didn't say a word. He just listened.
"I thought I was insecure. I thought I was needy. I thought I was asking for too much. Turns out, I was just naïve and miserable!" you laughed, humourless and tired.
"You are not naï—"
"Then why am I standing here begging for scraps from someone who's in love with somebody else?"
"I'm not in love with her."
You laughed through your tears, because for the first time all night, he sounded unsure, and it hurt you like daggers.
It was getting harder by the minute to be composed. You bent down and grabbed your bag. You looked at him one last time. At the boy you loved so much it scared you.
"Please don't do this."
Your eyes burned.
"Do what, Logan?"
"Leave."
You laughed at the irony.
"You left long before I did."
Before he could answer, or apologize, or make you some promise that you know would break your heart eventually, you started to walk away.
You stopped for a second like you remembered something.
dean’s chain swinging back and forth in your face… 18+ mdni. contains smut.
another grunt tore from deans throat, his head dipping down and eyes following down to where your bodies were connected. your legs wrapped tighter around his waist, keeping him planted deep inside you. sweat was beading in his forehead, damp locks of blonde hair sticking to his forehead. the air was thick, your bodies sticky and slick with sweat. you had lost track of how long you two had been at this and to be fair, it’s because you were under a spell.
dean’s gold necklace swung back and forth with each of his movements, completely mesmerizing you as he fucked into you. his heavy breathing matched yours, his breath mingling with yours. the pendant glistened in the LED lights dean had glued to the wall, which only mesmerized you more. of course you could feel him inside you. the way he reached all the way into your tummy, stretching you out… but you were also completely hypnotized by a stupid little chain.
“going silent on me already?” dean teased softly, eye scanning over your face, watching the way you eyes follow the necklace. your lips curled into a cheesy little grin, biting your lip as you had been caught red handed. your hands left dean’s scratched up back, his movements slowed as he watched you carefully. your finger hooked around the chain hanging from his neck, tugging it down towards you. dean leaned down, chasing the necklace as you guided it, and him, closer to you. he knew what you were doing, now and it made him smile, his dimples making your heart melt.
now, dean’s lips were hovering above yours, his nose brushing against yours softly. your heart was racing, thumping like a drum in your chest. you loved being this close, and intimate, with dean. finally, his lips pressed to yours, your arms wrapping around his neck to keep him pinned flush against you. he was still moving his hips, just much more slow and deliberate now.
he pulled away, just enough to really look at you, and there your eyes again. lain right on his chain again. he figured since you were already distracted by the little movements of it, he’d really make it with your time. dean picked up the pace, his lips slamming into yours, the bedroom flooding with the sound of his skin slapping against yours. your back arched, eyes rolling back as he desperately gripped at his flexing biceps. you felt like your body was ascending and gripping him was your only way to stay right here on the bed with him.
“don’t look away now, baby. keep your eyes on that chain, okay?” dean’s voice was soft, sweet, fucking innocent. he leaned down again, his nose rubbing yours. “open your eyes, baby. keep watching that chain.” he cooed, his voice so soft, it was melting and turning your insides to goo. turned your brain to goo too. your eyes slowly shifted back to his chain that was swinging back and forth directly above you. dean couldn’t help but smile as he noticed you finally looking at the pendant again. “good girl.”
within seconds, you were pretty much gone. completely hypnotized by the chain in your face, looking so pretty… on an even prettier man. the bedroom reeked of dean’s expensive cologne and sex, but neither of you cared. dean’s hips rocked into your yours, each thrust making your tits bounce. “fuck, you feel so good, baby. like an angel on earth. my angel.”
your eyes were trained on the metal still rocking in time with dean’s hips, a moan falling from your lips at how good he felt. his large hand splayed out on your outer thigh as he hitched your thigh up on his hip, giving him access to a slightly different angle. an angle that let him go deeper. “got a little drool.” dean teased, wiping the corner of your mouth though there was nothing there. okay, maybe you did have a little drool there. you leaned up, opening your mouth and gently biting down on the pendant swaying, your eyes locked on dean’s.
“shit, just like that, sweetheart.” dean groaned, the sound music to your ears. he wasn’t going to last much longer and he could tell you were close too by the way your pussy was gripping his cock. with just a few more thrusts, dean’s cock hitting your cervix, both of you came. hard. your body shuddered and jerked beneath him, toes curling and back arching. dean had let out this primal roar, his cock twitching as he filled you, painting your walls white. he gently brushed some hair from sweat slicked face, his fingertip lingering on your skin as he looked down at you.
after several moments of both of you just trying to catch your breath and come down from your fierce highs, you finally spoke. “i want that chain dangling in my face 25/8. not 24/7, that’s not enough. sun up to sun down. life or death.” too dramatic? dean let out an amused chuckle. he was definitely, absolutely, not opposed to that plan. whatsoever.
𝗢𝗥 𓈒 𓈒 logan finds out that calling your drunk girlfriend jealous means instant tears
contains : established relationship fluff angst? dramatic and drunk reader she’s a mess but he loves it 𝘄 ｡ 710
“You were talking to her! And you were smiling!” You shouted, your words coming out slurred from all the alcohol you had consumed throughout the night with your friends. You had your arms crossed, and you were swaying on your feet as you tried your best to glare at your boyfriend, who was standing across from you in his dorm room. Your glare was more adorable than angry.
“I was being polite! She was asking for suggestions on how to get her and her girlfriend home,” Logan voiced loudly, emphasizing the girlfriend part. The whole ride back from Malone’s, you were giving the silent treatment, leaving Logan to sit there as he tried not to let it affect him, reminding himself that his adorable and dramatic girlfriend was very much drunk.
The two of you had been at Malone’s with your group of friends for karaoke night. You had been dancing with Allie and Hannah when you noticed your boyfriend talking to another girl at the counter. You didn’t like how close she stood to him, and you hated even more that he had a smile on his face. Your mind was too clouded with all the fruity drinks you had with Hannah to notice how it was just him being polite.
Now the two of you stood in his dorm room, your clothes and shoes thrown over his floor as you wore one of his shirts that was definitely on backwards, you swore that you didn't need his help to change. Logan nearly had a heart attack at the sight of you almost tripping over your own feet as you pulled off your shirt, too drunk to stand still. Logan was still in the clothes he wore out, too focused on defusing the situation to change.
“She stood too close to you, and you didn't even care.” Your voice was much softer this time, your throat hurting from all the screaming and singing you had done tonight with your friends. You blame it on Allie. Your clearly altered mind started to play tricks on you as your imagination went wild; you couldn’t help but tear up.
“You’re the most jealous woman I know!’ Logan threw his head up as he shook his head in disbelief before resting his hands on his hips. He wasn't upset with you by any means; he was just tired and strangely very entertained. How did he get himself into this situation? Logan clearly didn't notice your watery eyes because if he did, he would never have raised his voice.
“You know other women?” Your whisper came out small and pitiful, tears slowly rolling down your face and mixing with your mascara as your arms fell at your sides in dramatic defeat.
Logan’s shoulders sank as he sighed. His poor girl was just way too drunk to fully understand what was happening and her feelings. He stepped towards you and was quick to pull you into his arms for a hug that both of you desperately needed. “Aw, baby.”
“Pretty, you are the only woman for me,” Logan whispered sweetly as he held you close to his chest. He felt you melt into your arms at his reassuring words, wasting no time to wrap your arms tightly around his waist.
“Promise?” You sniffled, your voice coming out muffled from your face being pressed against his chest, but Logan heard you just fine. You closed your eyes, you felt so tired all of a sudden, and the safety and warmth of your boyfriend's arms were not helping you want to stay awake.
“I promise pretty.” He promises as he rubbed your back softly, a small smile forming back on his lips when he notices your sniffles quiet down and stop. After a couple of minutes, you lift your head up to look at him, your chin resting on his chest. Logan smiled fondly and leaned down to softly peck the tip of your nose before placing a soft kiss on your lips.
His thumbs softly wiped away your tears and traces of mascara on your pretty face. He spoke quietly with a grin, seeing the tiredness in your eyes. “Now, let's go to the bathroom, you forgot to take your makeup off on your left side.”
┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my…. 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 ❜❜
Ი𐑼 there’s just something about the concept of logan taking care of his drunk girlfriend that absolutely drives me insane 😻 okay this was short but sweet , please tell me your thoughts and opinions , feedback means everything mwah 💖
᧔᧓ if this seems familiar it’s because I’ve taken it from my old blog and rewrote it with someone new !
Sipnosis: You are in love with your best friend and you really think you can have a chance until he gradually starts to slip away thanks to a fake relationship.
MDNI, swimmereader!, childhood best friends, one sided crush, garrett is oblivious, jealousy, insecure!reader, heavy angst, pet names, kinda romcom, fingering, oral (fem rec), hurt/comfort, friendship changing, garrett and hannah canon relationship, may be a sad ending guys :( Part 1/3.
“Can you not move so much? Jesus, Garrett.”
Whenever you and Garrett were together, you two had the worst ideas.
It went back to the old days when you only had each other at the sophisticated—and way, way too boring—social gatherings where your families got together. Growing up in the same circle meant you both knew each other when you were just brats with scraped knees and mischief that ended with your parents forbidding you from playing together at the next gathering.
And every single one of those times, you disobeyed orders. As always.
You met Garrett when he was just a lonely, quiet kid sitting at the far end of the social hall, with those puppy-dog eyes that caught your attention from across the room the very first minute—framed at that time in glasses that looked too much like Harry Potter’s, which you teased him about his whole life—and from that moment on, you knew he was the missing piece to your monotonous and boring life.
"How am I supposed to not move when it hurts like hell, shrimp?"
Oh yeah, of course it hurt.
But who in the hell thinks of trusting you, of all people, to give him a damn tattoo on his back?
Only the beautiful idiot that is your best friend, Garrett Graham.
You set the tattoo kit down on the small side table, feeling cold sweat begin to prickle at the back of your neck. The hum of the machine, which just a few minutes ago had sounded exciting and professional, now rang in your ears like a warning of impending disaster.
"I told you this wasn't a good idea," you muttered, running a hand through your hair in frustration. "I warned you that my hand isn't exactly that of a surgeon, Garrett."
He let out a muffled grunt, burying his face deeper into the couch cushion. Despite the pain, you could see his shoulders tense up—not just from the discomfort, but from that stubborn attempt of his to maintain his composure. As if.
"Shut up," he growled, though without a trace of real malice. "Just finish the letter. If I’m going to have a permanent disaster etched into my skin, I at least want it to be a complete disaster."
You stepped closer, observing the black ink on his back. It was a small design, an impulsive choice he’d made that very afternoon after a few too many drinks, convinced it was "modern art." Now, looking at the half-finished result, you realized you had slightly veered off the line at the very end.
You bit your lower lip, torn between panic and the hysterical laughter threatening to break free.
"You know this is one hundred percent your fault, right?" you said, picking the equipment back up with slightly shaky hands. "If you end up with a doodle that looks like it was done by a five-year-old, it’s because the great Captain of the hockey team doesn't know when to stop pushing his luck."
Garrett let out a raspy laugh that ended in another groan.
"That’s the charm, isn't it?" he replied, turning his head slightly to look at you out of the corner of his eye. "You make the mess, and I’m the one who has to live with it. It’s the perfect balance of our friendship, shrimp.”
Despite the fear of ruining his back forever, you couldn't stop a small smile from tugging at your lips. At the end of the day, you were right: you had always been this way, and you probably always would be.
Your eyes traced the tense lines of his back while your hand moved as steady and firm as possible, ignoring the soft grunts escaping your friend’s lips beneath you.
Your legs were straddling his waist, pinning him face-down on the old couch in the boys' attic; the sound of the party upstairs was the only thing confirming this was real. That you were actually permanently screwing up your best friend’s back.
"And do you even know what it means?" you asked, leaning in a little closer to touch up the curve of one of the 'U's. "Since when do you speak Latin? You barely understand English."
"I recall it wasn't me who stuttered at ten years old," he replied mockingly, earning himself a stray, shaky line that made him let out a groan of pain sharper than the others. "Fucking hell, you evil labubu."
That made you laugh, and you continued with the design.
"It means that everything in this life has a price."
The meaning hit you harder than you anticipated. You knew it was probably some philosophical phrase he’d accidentally seen on Pinterest and liked, but it went beyond that; it was a window into his soul that only a few people knew existed. He hated that everything was handed to him because of his last name, though the reason behind that disdain was darker and heavier than anyone imagined.
Everyone thought of him as an ungrateful brat trying to act important by denying the benefits of his nepotism. His father included.
But you knew him. You knew the broken, damaged, ready-to-snap Garrett that lived so tightly locked inside his stubborn chest.
"Nullum Gratuitum Prandium."
"It sounds pretty when you say it, shrimp, not like the ultimatum that it is."
That made the butterfly that lived in your stomach flutter its wings for him. Always for him. How you hated it for that.
You cleared your throat, relaxing your hand a little when you felt it tingle, turning off the hum of the machine in your hands.
"And why on the back? They always say it hurts more here," you added, grateful that he couldn't see your small frown as you looked at how red and abused the tattoo area looked.
It looked like it hurt like hell.
You almost wanted to kiss the pain away. Almost.
"Girls are into it."
Yeah, that killed the butterfly in your stomach like a hunter to a poor deer.
"You're almost as bad as Dean," you said, disgusted—a perfect mask for the knot forming in your stomach at the mere thought of the countless "bunnies" who had already had him.
"Ouch, that hurts coming from you, shrimp."
Oh, how you hated that silly, stupid nickname he’d christened you with since you were kids. You didn't even find any sense in it.
"Don't call me that," you complained, but he only let out a nasal laugh, getting more comfortable beneath you; he didn't seem to be in as much pain as he was minutes ago. "It doesn't make sense. Shrimp are ugly."
"They aren't ugly," Graham replied. Was he seriously defending shrimp? You watched him eat a shrimp cocktail two weeks ago at that seafood restaurant Tucker loves so much. "You look like them."
"I'm going to hit you."
"Why?! With those big, black eyes," he began, his eyes shining with mockery and that warm glint that made you want to count the reflections in his tired eyes. "And you turn just as red as one."
"Just shut up!" you said, exasperated, actually turning red with embarrassment. You climbed off his back as if it were burning you. "Your tattoo is done, you can let me go back to the party now."
"You're not staying here with me?"
Your eyes didn't dare turn to look at him too quickly, but your body betrayed you, glancing out of the corner of your eye as he sat up like a king on the couch. His chest was still bare. His shirt was discarded on the floor like an afterthought, and he didn't seem to want to put it on anytime soon.
"It's hurting, you know? You're not planning on leaving me here all alone and in pain, are you? Is there really that much evil in that little heart of yours, shrimp?"
You hated him. You hated him so much that you couldn't stop thinking about him in a way you shouldn't. You hated being the typical cliché of a girl in love with her best friend—how much more pathetic could you be?
“Surely Kendall will be more than happy to come and take the pain away.”
The mere mention of Kendall soured your night, your week, your whole damn existence. You didn’t have anything against the girl—other than the fact that she had exactly what you wanted from him: his attention and his desire—she was a good girl. You had interacted a couple of times; all the girls who crossed paths with Garrett took the liberty of seeking you out, perhaps to score points with him by being friends with “the best friend.”
Graham just raised an eyebrow, looking curious about your choice of words.
“Nobody takes the pain away like you do.”
Those words were a little too serious for such a comical and relaxed moment. Your eyes rose from where you had them fixed to look at him, and he seemed almost as surprised as you were by his own confession. Although it shouldn't have been a confession; to him, you had always been his North Star. Always. And that would never change.
“Why do you want to go back so soon?” he asked, changing the direction of the conversation, but there was an intense stillness in his gaze now.
He rested his arms on his knees, sitting up straighter. Sometimes you forgot how big and tall he was, even sitting down.
“Do you want to keep listening to Maxwell’s awkward compliments?”
It was your turn to raise one of your eyebrows. Why bring up Beau so suddenly? It made you remember the abrupt way Graham had appeared, like a shadow, grabbing your waist and telling you he needed you for some mischief. Now that you thought about it, it sounded pretty bad.
“Now that you mention it, thanks for cockblocking me.”
"Cockblocking? Princess, if I wanted to cockblock you, I would've let Beau think he had a chance," he mused, leaning down just slightly to meet your eye level, that somehow icy brown gaze flickering with amusement. "Then again, you wouldn't have made it five minutes with him before running to me or Dean to complain."
His fingers twitched, half-tempted to ruffle your hair like he used to when you were younger—just to mess with you. But then he noticed the stubborn pout on your lips, the way your arms were crossed defensively. Oh. You were actually pissed.
He straightened, rolling his shoulders lazily. "Look, if you really wanna get railed by some rando who can't tell the difference between a clit and a speed bump, be my guest." He jerked his chin toward the exit. "I won't stop you next time."
“Eww, Garrett. Pervert.”
Liar.
He wouldn’t even have to think about it. The moment some guy got handsy, he’d be there—just like always. But he sure as hell wasn’t about to admit that.
He quirked a brow. "Unless you’d rather admit you like when I chase 'em off, shrimp?"
There it was. The teasing lilt in his voice, the way his smirk widened just enough to be insufferable. He was baiting you—daring you to say something stupid, something that would give him ammunition to tease you for weeks.
“I don’t need a guard dog, thank you very much,” you said reluctantly, turning to occupy yourself with something better than just standing there taking everything he said.
You started to put away the mess on the wooden table next to the couch, feeling his gaze on you.
Hmph. Brat.
"Aw, c'mon, don’t walk away pissed," he called after you, hands still on his knees, but he seemed to be a second away from standing up. "Who else is gonna save you from the speed bump enthusiasts?"
The sarcasm dripped from his voice, but his steps didn’t stop. Damn it. Why did you always have to make him chase?
He reached out, fingers curling around your wrist—not tight, not harsh, just enough to tug you to a halt. His thumb pressed lightly against your pulse point, feeling the way it jumped under his touch. Huh.
His grip loosened, but he didn’t let go.
Not yet.
"You wanna be mad at me? Fine. But don’t act like you actually wanted Beau." A smirk. "We both know your taste’s always been shit.”
Faced with your silence, he couldn't hold back anymore. He knew he had struck a nerve when you didn't even defend yourself or insult him like you usually do.
“You know I only worry about you.” His voice sounded behind you, causing your stomach to do that little irritable flip.
You felt his heat more vividly now, with his bare chest almost pressed against your back; the scent of cheap beer, his cologne that you loved so much, and the soft scent of ink reached your nostrils, and you dropped the machine in your hands.
“I’m not angry,” you clarified, sounding convincing even to your own ears. “You act like Beau would hurt me. It’s just Beau. He’s the nicest guy.”
That made him arch an eyebrow in confusion, even though you weren't looking at him. “The nicest guy?”
“Yes, he’s kind and funny, he wouldn’t hurt me.” You continued speaking, and you swore you felt him move even closer, until you were cornered between the wooden table and his body. “But we were just talking about Little Shop, the play we like, remember? I told you I’m going to New York to see a show for my birthday.”
“You’re going with him?”
That made you let out a laugh, feeling the ghost of his touch where his hands were suspended at your hips.
“No, silly, I’m going with my sister. Jesus, I told you that a few days ago, you have the memory of a fish.”
“Hmm. Memory of a fish,” he murmured, his mind not seeming to be there.
Suddenly, one of his hands reached out, tugging on your pants to spin you around, causing you to bump rather ungracefully against his chest.
“Of course I didn’t forget. Your birthday is my favorite date on the calendar.”
He gently took one of your hands, raising it to the height of his face, burying his nose softly against your pulse. You stayed as still as a statue; you didn't trust yourself not to melt right there when you felt a soft kiss from his lips land on the inside of your wrist.
“What was that for?”
“For the tattoo,” he answered, his lips grazing your wrist before he pulled away just enough. “Now I’m marked by you for life.”
The air between you felt thick, heavy with an electric charge that left your skin humming, when the fragile silence of the attic was violently shattered by a sharp, rhythmic pounding against the heavy wooden door.
"Hey! Are you two going to stay up there playing tattoo artist all night or what?" Tucker’s voice boomed through the thin wood, animated and blissfully, infuriatingly oblivious to the suffocating bubble you had just been trapped in. "Get your asses down here! Dean is currently letting himself get humiliated in the shot competition. If some backup doesn't show up right now, we’re going to end up being the laughingstock of the fraternity. Move it!"
Garrett didn’t even flinch at the intrusion. His dark, smoldering eyes remained locked onto yours, and his thumb lingered on the skin of your wrist, a ghost of the heat where his lips had just pressed a lingering, burning brand. However, as the name 'Dean' registered, the familiar mask of the indifferent, untouchable golden boy slid back over his features—though his jaw remained clenched tight, betraying the turmoil underneath.
"You heard him," Garrett murmured, his voice dropping an octave, raspy and raw. He pulled his hand away with agonizing slowness, letting a sudden, sharp coldness rush over your arm where his warmth had just been. "Seems like Dean needs someone to save him from his own spectacular stupidity."
You turned away immediately, needing the distance to suck in a sharp breath. Your cheeks had to be burning with a heat that felt like a fever. Without saying a word, you scrambled to gather the scattered tattoo equipment, your hands shaking so violently that the metal clattered against the wood, a chaotic soundtrack to the way your heart was hammering against your ribs like a caged animal.
He snatched his shirt from the floor, pulling it over his head with a swift, efficient movement. But before he crossed the threshold of the attic, he stopped right beside you.
"Don't think this is over, shrimp," he whispered, his voice so close to your ear that his warm breath sent a shiver cascading down your spine. “We need to talk about Beau.”
Before you could muster a stinging retort or a clever defense, he was already striding toward the exit, moving with that effortless, infuriating arrogance that usually drove you mad—but tonight, it left you weak-kneed and breathless.
You stumbled after him into the hallway, the pulsing bass and chaotic roar of the party downstairs hitting you like a physical wave of reality.
"About time!" Tucker exclaimed, waiting by the stairwell. He slapped your shoulder, oblivious to the fact that you looked like you’d just been through a war. "Dean is about to lose his dignity and his last two brain cells. What on earth were you two doing up there for an hour?"
summary: Being in love with your childhood best friend was no easy feat, but it was manageable. Until it wasn’t. When John Logan breaks a crucial promise, he’s forced to confront what’s been standing in front of him all along.
based on this request! i hope i did it justice <3
content: so.much.angst. like, so much. unrequited love, reader is a stem major. the characters are more accurate to their book counterparts occasionally, namely tucker. oops. some things may be ooc but it is for the sake of the plot. logan is unknowingly an asshole.
note: i may or may not do a part two, my motivation fluctuates! hope you enjoy because this was super sad to write.
He’s looking at her.
His arm rests along the back of the couch, the sensation of it familiar enough that you barely notice it anymore. Every few minutes, when someone says something particularly funny, his hand shifts and his fingers brush against the exposed skin of your shoulder blade. It’s casual, absent-minded contact. It means nothing to him and everything to you.
Around you, the boys’ house is lively. Tucker is arguing with Birdie about the game they’ve been at for hours on the TV. Every once in a while, someone tells them to shut up. They do that for a total of five minutes before someone inevitably raises their voice, leading the other to do the same.
You should be finishing up your story. It was a stupid tale, one about falling asleep during a lecture.
Instead, you’re watching him.
Or rather, you’re watching where he’s looking.
His gaze drifts across the room so often that you’ve begun anticipating it, finding yourself following the path before he’s even finished turning his head. It happens during conversations. During periods of silence. During moments when he’s supposed to be paying attention you.
His eyes always find the same person.
You wonder if anyone else notices.
Maybe they don’t. Maybe they haven’t spent nearly ten years studying every version of John Logan.
Ten years.
Long enough to remember the cracked sidewalks of your hometown and the suffocating certainty that neither of you belonged there. Long enough to remember sitting on the roof of his garage at thirteen years old, passing back and forth what was always bag of Hot Cheetos while making promises far too big for kids your age.
You had been determined to leave.
And somehow, against every odd stacked against two middle-schoolers with seemingly unattainable dreams and no real plan, you did.
You earned your place through a STEM scholarship that had consumed countless nights and enough caffeine to raise alerts towards your cardiovascular system. He earned his through hockey, through early mornings and bruises and a relentless dedication that you supported him all throughout.
Different roads, same destination.
For nearly a decade, the two of you had existed side by side.
And for six of those years, you’ve loved him.
You weren’t sure when you realized it, but once you did, it felt as though things finally clicked into place. There had always been that speculation from others that you two were something beyond a mere friendship—but there was no weight to it. Not while it wasn’t true, anyway.
You thought it may have been the puberty. John was no longer a scrawny kid who you hovered over. He’d grown into himself as the years passed—taller, stronger, more confident. It was a simple crush that came as a result of change, you told yourself.
But you had began to think it was more than that, that it always had been. Once the feeling arrived, it made no effort to fade—settling into the empty spaces between inside jokes and late-night phone calls, between shared victories and devastating failures. It lodged itself so deeply within your bond that you stopped looking for where friendship ended and something else began.
Maybe that was your mistake.
Across the room, Hannah laughs.
The sound is soft enough that most people would miss it beneath the chatter, but John hears it.
Of course he does.
Hannah Wells has a way of drawing attention effortlessly. Her smile comes easily, brightening her entire face like a Christmas tree. Honey-brown hair spills over one shoulder as she speaks. Her deep cerulean eyes crinkle when she laughs. Hearing her sing for the first time made it no better.
And she is so kind.
She remembers your birthday, she asks you questions on a subject you think had long been over. She makes you feel seen.
It’s impossible to blame him for looking.
The problem is that lately, he hasn’t seemed capable of looking anywhere else.
His fingers brush your shoulder again, mindlessly.
Across the room, Hannah says something to Allie that you can’t quite make out.
Logan smiles.
And suddenly, despite his arm around you and his knee pressed lightly against yours and nearly ten years of friendship sitting comfortably between the two of you, you’ve never felt further away from him.
Tucker notices your shift in mood before Logan does. You like Tuck the most out of all of Logan’s friends. He’s a year below the rest of you, though you like to say he’s the most mature out of all of them. He’s observant, you learned.
He tilts his head at you, silently asking if you’re okay. You send him a half-hearted thumbs up. Something clicks for him and he accepts your answer, redirecting his attention to the game.
You think Tucker knows about your crush on John. A part of you hopes he doesn’t, but another part of you knows that he does.
At some point, Logan notices you’ve stopped talking. By the time he has, you’re fiddling with your bracelet. He frowns, glancing at his own matching one on his left wrist. You were both surprised they had never broken. Logan enjoyed referring to it as a testament to your long-standing friendship. The blue and purple embroidery of both your bracelets have become a halo of fuzz, but they remain intact nonetheless.
Logan glances back at you, studying you once again—knit eyebrows, lip tucked between your teeth. You’re upset.
“What’s wrong?”
You meet his doe eyed gaze and hate yourself for thinking about drowning in them. He knows you as well as you know him. So much so that you can’t lie and pretend you’re okay. He’s read you and he’s decided that you’re not.
So you do the next best thing.
“It’s just stuffy in here,” you reply passively, maintaining a poker face when you push off the couch and his fingertips leave your shoulder blades. “I’m gonna get some air.”
The cool evening air hits you the second the front door clicks shut, but it does nothing to clear the sudden suffocating weight in your chest. You walk over to the edge of the porch, gripping the wooden railing just to have something solid to hold onto.
Behind you, the front door opens and shuts. Familiar footsteps thud against the wood. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him, you’d know the specific cadence of his stride anywhere.
"Hey," Logan says softly, stepping up beside you, jacket in his hand. He leans his forearms against the railing, his large frame blocking out the slight breeze. "You left your jacket inside. It’s freezing out here."
You make no effort to retrieve the coat from his grasp. You don’t look even at him. Instead, your eyes fixate on a tiny, industrious spider crawling across the top of a plastic patio chair a few feet away. It is small, frantic, and entirely unaware of the shifting plates of your universe, completely consumed by the monumental task of weaving a web between two cheap slats of faux-wicker. You envy it. You want to be anything else—a spider, a piece of dust, a thread on your frayed bracelet—anything but the girl standing under the porch light, slowly unraveling.
"I'm fine," you tell him, the words slipping out easily, rehearsed from a decade of practice.
"You're not fine," he insists softly. It’s not an accusation. It’s a statement of fact.
"I am fine," you repeat, but your voice is uneven.
You always are, somehow. It’s a reflex by now. Burn the midnight oil until your vision blurs, crash through exams on three hours of sleep, watch the boy you’ve loved for six years slip through your fingers like water—the answer is always the same: I’m fine.
"Don't do that," Logan mutters, turning his head to look at you. His eyes are swimming with an earnest yet frustrating concern that always makes you want to spill your guts. "We don't do that. Talk to me. Did someone say something inside? Did I do something?"
You let out a breath that cuts like a laugh, though there’s no humor in it. You look out at the dark front yard, at the dead leaves scattering across the pavement.
You finally turn your head to look at him. You note the exact way the yellow porch light catches the bridge of his nose, the slight shadow of stubble along his jawline. You know every iteration of this face. You know the childhood version, the teenage version, and this current, devastatingly handsome collegiate version.
And yet, looking at him right now, he feels like a stranger wearing your best friend's skin.
"That's just it, Logan. You haven't done anything." Your voice drops, stripped of its usual warmth. "You haven't been doing anything. Not with me, anyway."
He blinks, a small, defensive crease forming between his eyebrows. "I don’t understand.”
“I know you don’t,” you murmur.
“Then explain it to me.”
"It means you’re pulling away," you say directly, the words tasting like copper in your mouth, but you force them out anyway. You don't mention Hannah. You don't have to bring up the way his eyes track her, or the way his laugh sounds higher when she’s in the room. This isn't about her. This is about him. This is about the space where your best friend used to be. "You’re always somewhere else. I talk to you, and it’s like I’m throwing words into an empty room. You look right through me lately. You’re right here, and it feels like there’s a thousand miles between us."
Logan stiffens. For a second, his mouth opens to deny it, the knee-jerk reaction of a guy who prides himself on being loyal. But as he looks at you—at the tight line of your jaw, at the way you're holding onto your own arm like you’re trying to keep yourself from falling apart—you can see the fight slowly leave him.
The silence stretches, punctuated only by the joyous yells of your friends inside.
"I didn't. . .” Logan starts, his voice dropping an octave. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, looking down at his shoes. "I didn't realize I was making you feel like that. I swear to God, I didn't."
"Well, you are." Your voice trembles just a fraction, and you hate yourself for it, pulling your shoulders back to overcompensate. "I know that friends drift. But I don’t wanna be background noise in your life.”
Logan steps closer, closing the small physical gap between you. He reaches out, his large hand wrapping around your forearm—right over the frayed threads of your bracelet. You pray he doesn’t notice the hitching of your breath.
"You're not background noise," he says sincerely, his desperate eyes searching yours. "You could never be. I'm sorry. Seriously. I've had. . . I’ve just had a lot on my mind lately, and I’ve been distracted. I’ve been a shitty best friend, and there’s no excuse for it. I’m so sorry."
You look at his hand on your arm. You look at the genuine regret pulling at the corners of his eyes. He doesn't know that the distraction is killing you for an entirely different reason. He just knows he hurt his person, and he wants to fix it.
You swallow the ache in your throat, nodding slowly. You let the anger go, because holding onto it hurts worse than forgiving him does.
"It’s okay," you assure him. "Just don’t forget about me, dork.”
"Never," he promises, squeezing your arm before letting go. A small, relieved smile tugs at his lips, the tension leaving his shoulders. He makes no effort to back away from you. It’s all the more suffocating. "I promise. Hey, you still have that big winter showcase coming up in two weeks, right? For your department?"
"Yeah," you say, a genuine spark of nervousness lighting up your stomach. "It’s the Friday after this upcoming one."
"I'll be there," Logan says instantly, his voice full of the certainty that usually makes you feel safe. "Front row. I'll even wear a stupid button-down shirt so your professors think I'm respectable. Deal?"
You look at him, wanting so badly to trust the boy who used to share bags of Hot Cheetos on a garage roof.
"Deal," you agree.
The fluorescent lights of the auditorium are blinding. It is 5:30PM. The STEM showcase had officially kicked off at five, the culmination of sleepless semesters, data sheets that blurred into meaningless code by three in the morning, and enough stress to permanently alter your brain chemistry.
Your phone sits completely dark and powered down in the bottom of your tote bag. You hadn't sent Logan a reminder text today. You hadn’t wanted to seem needy, and besides, you figured he’d remember.
He knew what this meant to you. He’d been the one to hold you on the floor of your bedroom a week ago ago when the overthinking caught up to you, his large hands rubbing slow circles into your back while you sobbed into his chest, terrified that it wouldn’t be enough. He’d promised then, just like he’d promised on the porch, that he’d be here.
Last night, you had even swung by the hockey house, your presentation slides printed out and shaking in your hands, just looking for a final bit of reassurance to quiet the jitters. But Logan wasn't there. He’d been at Malone’s, helping Hannah setup tables and banners for the upcoming weekend showcase she offered to host for music majors.
It was fine, you told yourself. It really was. He was trying to be better, and you could see the effort. The crush was still a persistent ache in your ribs, but he hadn't let it bleed into your friendship the way he had before. You understood what it was like to be at someone’s beck and call—hell, you’d been at his for six years. You couldn't blame him for falling under Hannah’s gravitational pull.
Logan hadn't been there last night, but Tucker had.
Tucker had stopped chopping vegetables, wiped his hands on a dish towel, and sat you down at the kitchen island. He listened to you stumble through your abstract, giving you a supportive nod when you finished. When you told Tucker he didn't have to worry about coming tomorrow since it was so last minute and Logan would be there anyway, Tucker had just given you an easy smile.
“Then you’ll have two of us cheering you on," he’d promised.
Now, standing by your trifold and your laptop, the nerves are a sickening weight in your stomach. You’ve just finished presenting to the final round of judges. Your mouth is dry, your throat tight, but you’d gotten through it just fine.
Tucker had slipped into the back of the room right before your time slot, his broad shoulders cutting a reassuring silhouette against the crowded aisle. Seeing his familiar face had kept your knees from buckling.
But Logan’s seat in the front row—the one he’d promised to occupy in a stupid button-down shirt—remained completely empty.
It hurts. A sharp, localized sting right beneath your breastbone. You hadn't told anyone else in your life about the showcase because public speaking made you feel entirely naked, meaning Logan and Tucker were your only safety nets.
Everyone else would most likely be at Malone’s. You didn’t want them to choose between you and Hannah, because you knew they’d try to compromise, complicating things. You didn’t want a whole crowd, you were okay with just one person being there.
But you swallow the lump in your throat and smooth down the fabric of your slacks. It’s fine. Logan probably just got caught in campus traffic, or he had a handyman gig that kept him late. He missed the actual presentation, yeah, but there’s still time. The showcase goes until eight.
As long as he shows up before the winners are announced, it’ll be fine. He’ll still be there to celebrate with you. He has to be.
Two hours later, the auditorium is a blur of echoing applause and bright flashing cameras.
When the department head speaks your name into the microphone, announcing you as the first-place recipient of the showcase, the room erupts. Your peers are cheering, clapping you on the back as you walk up the stage, but the sound feels like it’s happening underwater.
Even the heavy glass they hang around your neck and the oversized novelty check—grant money that will entirely fund your next semester of research—do nothing to lift the leaden weight in your chest.
Tucker maneuvers through the crowd as soon as you’ve left the stage, a massive, proud smile lighting up his face as he pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. He hoists you slightly off your feet, laughing, telling you he always knew you had it in the bag.
But when he pulls back, his smile falters. He looks at your eyes, watery and strained, and the pride in his expression softens into a deep concern. He knows. He can tell exactly how badly you're hurting.
But even now, with a first-place medal heavy against your sternum, you find yourself building a fortress of excuses for John Logan.
You give him the benefit of the doubt, because the alternative is unendurable. He’d never do this intentionally. Not after last week. Not to you. Something had to have happened. A family emergency with his mom. Something with Jules. Maybe he’d taken a brutal hit at practice and was sitting in the training room with a concussion, his phone locked away. He had to be hurt. He had to be incapacitated.
"Let's get you out of here," Tucker says softly, his hand settling on the small of your back, shielding you from the lingering crowds as you pack up your laptop. "I can walk you back to your dorm."
"Actually," you say, your voice tight as you zip your tote bag, "can you take me back to the house? Honestly, after the day I’ve had, I’m dying for a home-cooked Tucker special. I need some real comfort food."
You try to make it sound like a casual request, but Tucker’s hand goes entirely still against your back. He doesn't laugh it off. Instead, an uncomfortable hesitation washes over his features. He looks away, his jaw tightening as he stares out at the emptying auditorium.
In that single beat of silence, a cold and sickening realization dawns on you.
Perhaps Logan isn't sick. Perhaps he isn't hurt. He isn't in a hospital or dealing with a family crisis. Tucker knows exactly where he is.
He forgot.
The thought devastates you, a physical blow that leaves you in theoretical agony, but right on the heels of the sadness comes a sharp, blistering wave of fury. You’re a winner. You just secured your future for the next semester. This should be one of the greatest nights of your life, and yet Logan has latched himself so deeply into the fabric of your existence that he can still ruin it without even being in the room. You hate yourself for letting him have that much power over you.
"You sure you want to go to the house right now?" Tucker asks, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, laced with a warning he isn't entirely voicing.
You stop, staring at him. Your chest heaves. "Why? Is he there?"
Tucker looks at you, his brown eyes full of a grim, reluctant pity. He stays silent. He doesn't say a word, but his silence tells you everything you need to know. He's there. He's perfectly fine, at the hockey house while you were standing on a stage alone.
A hot, dangerous spark ignites in your blood.
"Take me there," you say, your voice dropping all the compliance, hard as flint. He begins to say your name, but you don’t allow him to. "Tucker. Take me to the house."
The ride to the hockey house is quick, though you believe that’s a product of the heavy thrum of your own pulse. Tuck keeps one hand on the steering wheel, your grim mood proving itself to be contagious.
Every few minutes, his voice breaks through the quiet of the truck, telling you to take a breath, telling you to try to calm down. But you can hear the sharp undercurrent of his own anger fueling the engine. He’s pissed on your behalf, but you don't have the capacity to appreciate it right now. You just stare straight ahead.
When the truck comes to a stop in the driveway, you don't wait for Tucker to kill the ignition. You throw the door open and march up the steps, completely ignoring him as he calls your name.
You push the door open, not so much that it was disruptive, but it was noticeable nonetheless.
The warmth of the house hits you first, along with the loud, easy cacophony of a Friday night wind-down. The TV is on, and everyone is scattered across the living room. Allie, Garrett, Dean, and Hannah.
And Logan.
The sheer normalcy of the scene feels like a slap to the face. You stand in the entryway, the first-place medal swinging slightly against your chest, dressed in the gray slacks and blouse you’d picked out so carefully. For a fraction of a second, looking at their relaxed posture and happy faces, you feel entirely microscopic. Like an ant on the back of someone’s boot, completely insignificant to the world revolving around them.
Then, the room goes quiet.
Dean is the first one to look up from the couch. His eyes take in your sharp posture, the formal attire, and finally, the heavy piece hung around your neck catching the ambient light. A grin breaks across his face, completely ignorant of the storm cloud rolling off your shoulders.
"Look at that," Dean announces, raising his cup in a mock toast. "The prodigal daughter returns!"
He’s trying to be supportive. Under any other circumstance, you’d smile, you’d thank him through narrowed eyes. You know he doesn't know. He has no idea what Logan promised, or what it cost you to stand on that stage alone.
But you don't look at Dean. You don't look at Garrett or Allie or Hannah.
Your eyes lock onto Logan.
He’s sitting on the edge of the cushions, and the exact moment your gaze finds his, the color drains completely from his face. It’s like watching a man realize he’s stepped off a cliff. His eyes drop to the medal on your chest, then snap back up to your face, wide and absolutely crushed. The realization of what he’s done hits him in a ton of bricks.
Usually, that look on his face would undo you. Usually, seeing John Logan look that miserable would trigger every protective instinct you’ve harbored for him, making you want to soften the blow, to tell him it’s fine, to smooth it over.
But tonight, you feel absolutely nothing.
The reservoir of sympathy has completely dried up, replaced by a fury that has been bubbling beneath the surface for months.
He hadn't just missed a presentation. He had broken a promise. He had lied to your face on the porch, sworn he was back, and then willfully chose to be somewhere else.
You stare at him, the silence in the room turning suffocatingly loud as the others finally catch onto the tension, and the only thought roaring through your mind is how completely invisible you’ve been to him.
That look of shame is enough gratification for you. If he can feel only a fraction of the pain you’d allowed yourself to endure these past few years, that was good for you. You couldn’t stand staring into the eyes of the man you once thought you knew anymore.
You turn your heel against the floorboards, every instinct screaming at you to walk out that door, to erase John Logan from your life, and to leave him standing in the wreckage of a ten-year friendship.
"Wait," his voice cracks through the silence of the room as he calls your name. "Please wait. I’m sorry. Just—please, just wait!”
You halt entirely. Your flats glue themselves to the floor, the medallion thudding against your chest like a pendulum swinging into a dead stop.
Sorry?
The word tastes rancid just hearing it bounce off the walls of the hockey house. You hadn't known what you wanted him to say when you walked through that door.
You hadn't known if there was a combination of vowels and consonants in the English language that could possibly fix this. But hearing his apology serves as nothing other than gasoline thrown directly onto a grease fire.
Slowly, you turn back around.
Your friends look horrified. You almost feel bad that they’re forced to witness this. You almost want to turn around and leave, leaving this argument for when you’re less heated, less hurt.
But you can’t. He needs to hear you. If not last week or the week before that, now.
Logan takes a step toward you, his hands raised slightly as if approaching a wild animal. "I lost track of time. The showcase at Malone’s—"
"Shut up," you say quietly.
The words aren't screamed. They are quiet, sharp, and dripping with an edge that makes Logan freeze in his tracks.
"Just. . . shut the hell up, Logan." You take a step forward, your shoes clicking against the hardwood. "Don't you dare use that as an excuse for being a pathetic, spineless coward."
He glances at the group that has gone dead silent. You don’t know if what he says next is for your sake or his, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
“Let’s go outside,” he offers, his tone resembling something of a plea. “We can—“
“No!” you spat harshly. “You’re gonna listen to me.”
You’d never spoken to him this way. Not in such a venomous tone, stripped from all warmth. For once, Logan does exactly what you’ve asked of him—to listen. His lips part but no words escape them.
"You sat on the porch two weeks ago," you continue, your voice rising now, the heat finally breaking through the ice. "You held my arm, and you looked me in the eyes and promised me you’d change. Do you have any idea what today was?"
Logan swallows hard, his brown hues welling with a desperate, pathetic panic. "It was the department showcase."
"It was the biggest night of my academic career!" you explode, the anger tearing out of your throat. "I have spent months working on this! I broke down sobbing over this because of how tired I was, and you were the one who held me! You knew exactly how terrified I was. You knew I didn't invite anyone else! What would’ve happened if Tuck wasn’t there?"
You gesture wildly to the medal around your neck.
"I stood on that stage alone, John. I scanned that auditorium for two hours, giving you the benefit of the doubt. I thought something had happened. I thought you were lying in a ditch somewhere or bleeding out in a hospital, because that is the only reason the John Logan I grew up with would ever miss this!"
A tear escapes his eye, rolling down his tanned cheek. "I messed up. Fuck, I know I messed up. Let me make it up to you, please—"
"You didn't mess up, you chose!" you hiss, stepping right into his space, forcing him to look down at the fury burning in your eyes. "You’ve made it perfectly clear where I rank on your list of priorities."
"I am wearing a first-place medal," you continue, your voice trembling with a devastating mix of triumph and agony. "I just won enough grant money to pay for my entire next semester of research. This should be the happiest night of my life. But all I can think about is how my best friend couldn’t show up when I needed him.”
"Please," Logan chokes out, reaching a trembling hand toward your shoulder, his fingers twitching to make that familiar, absent-minded contact. "Just—“
You snap your shoulder back, avoiding his touch as if his hand were coated in acid.
But as you jerk away, the zipper of his jacket catches on the frayed, fuzzy threads of your embroidered bracelet. There is a sudden rip. The threads give out all at once, unraveling in a split second as the broken token of your childhood slips from your wrist and flutters uselessly to the floor.
Logan freezes, his eyes dropping to the colorful, ruined heap of strings resting on the hardwood between you two.
It’s symbolic, you think.
"Don't touch me," you say, your voice dropping into a flat, dead register. You stare at him, washing away every ounce of the six years of love, every ounce of the ten years of friendship, until there is absolutely nothing left between you but a void.
"Don't talk to me. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever. You’re dead to me, John."
You turn on your heel and march straight out the front door into the freezing night air.
Logan doesn’t even think before stepping forward to follow after you, but Tucker shuts the door, preventing him from doing so.
He doesn't yell. Instead, he steps into Logan’s space, grabs a fistful of his shirt right at the collar, and shoves him backward into the hallway leading toward the bedrooms. Logan doesn't even try to fight it—he stumbles back, his eyes wide and vacant, completely numb from the fallout.
Tucker slams the door of his room shut, but he doesn't bother locking it. He doesn't need to.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Tucker demands, his voice a growl that vibrates through the walls. He isn’t screaming, but he’s not exactly whispering. “Because right now, I’m having a hard time recognizing one of my best friends.”
“Tuck, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen—”
“You made her a promise, man!” Tucker cuts in sharply. “You told her you’d be there. You looked her dead in the eye and gave her your word. Do you have any idea what today was like for her?”
“I lost track of time. Hannah—”
“Don’t do that,” Tucker says, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t make this about Hannah. This is about you. You screwed up. You’ve been taking that girl for granted for long enough, and she’s been in your corner through every stupid decision you’ve made. Last night, I was the one sitting with her while she practiced that presentation because you were too busy being handyman.”
“She stood on that stage tonight. Every time those judges walked up to her, she checked those doors. Every damn time. She thought something happened to you, because that’s the only reason she could come up with for why you’d break your word to her. And the whole time, you’re moving tables at Malone’s? That’s your excuse?”
“I know I messed up,” Logan chokes out. “I know. I’ll fix it. I’ll talk to her—”
“No, you won’t,” Tucker says immediately. “Not today. Not anytime soon.”
He takes a step back, folding his arms across his chest.
“She told you to stay away. So for once, stop thinking about what you want and listen to what she asked for. You made this mess. If you actually want a shot at fixing it, give her some space and hope she decides you’re worth talking to when she’s ready.”
“Tuck—”
“I’m serious, Logan. Leave her alone. The last thing she needs right now is you showing up trying to make yourself feel better.“
premise: you're in a "casual" relationship with logan, but you continuously refuse to spend the night at his place. in fact, you force yourself to never fall asleep in his bed. falling asleep next to him risks exposing him to your demons. and the last thing you want to do is place a burden on the man you're deeply in love with.
category: super super super light smut (minors dni), mostly fluff and yearning (incoming hurt/comfort in part ii)
word count: around 3.5k
content/trigger warnings: the lightest smut ever at the beginning (again, minors dni), vivid description of a night terror (brief mentions of blood, gunshots, screaming, suffocation in the night terror, but no other mention outside of it).
context notes: reader works at Briar's tutoring center. i originally was only going to make her a Psych major, but i added Bio because i wanted her majors to reflect her interest in figuring out how night terrors work (i never explored this angle in part i, but i will in part ii)
author notes: i've been in a creative writing rut for two years and off campus has pulled me out of it. sooo there's definitely room for improvement, please bear with me :) i'm also super inexperienced in writing smut, which is why you can barely consider the smut scene "smut" in the first place lmao. i originally wanted to write this fic all in one go, but i'm having some writer's block with the latter half, which is why i'm publishing it in two parts. feedback is much appreciated! (also very lightly proofread as of 06/02/26)
The afternoon sun slowly filters into his bedroom, basking your bodies in a soft, gentle glow. Though the entirety of Briar’s student body is still recovering from the brutal winter storm, you found shelter in his arms, feeling nothing but warmth while pinned beneath his body. As the end of February approaches, the promise of Spring weather reinvigorates Briar students as they deal with the exhaustion brought on by their grueling midterms. After all, the new season brought blooming flowers, brilliantly sunny days, and new beginnings.
Perhaps, the onset of Spring could mark a new beginning for you as well. Maybe you could experience a fresh start in your life by ending this bizarre arrangement that you have with this dazzling hockey player. Ending this “casual” relationship would be good for the both of you.
But ever since you stumbled into his bed on one October night during some Halloweekend festivities, Logan quickly became your comfort zone. And right now, as you restlessly writhe between his sheets, you have absolutely zero desire to leave this comfort.
“Fuck,” the man of the hour rasped and grunted, his head dropping unceremoniously onto the crook of your neck. He breathes frenzied exhales into your shoulder, hot air drifting towards the bottom of your ears. His body weight practically crushes you, leaving you with just the tiniest slot of air to supply your lungs. But you’re not complaining. You’re exactly where you want to be.
You gasp into his brown curls as his thrusts quicken, your hands desperately fisting and grabbing onto the fitted sheet as some sort of pathetic attempt to anchor yourself. Watching you twist underneath him with heavy-lidden eyes, Logan grasps your hands, carefully interlocking your fingers with his, your palms firmly sealing against each other. Like the satisfying connection of the final pieces of a puzzle.
The loving gesture tugs at your heart. This “casual” intimacy is too much to bear, but you can’t bring yourself to let go.
“Y/N,” He rasps into your skin, his frantic breaths imprinting themselves like love bites onto your neck. You know that he’s close, and judging by the tension breeding underneath your belly that’s threatening to release itself, you know that you’re not that far off either. With your elbows digging into his mattress, you arch your back, slightly lift your hips just a tad higher, and the sound that emerges from your throat reverberates off the walls of his bedroom. Logan immediately finds his own release as he moans your name into your neck, his stubble etching a mark onto your skin, and his own body shaking from head to toe.
After he takes off the condom, Logan’s chest makes its way on top of yours as you sink into his bed, trying to catch your breath as he lazily draws circles on your thigh. Though your mind flinches at the “casual” nature of your relationship with Logan, your heart eventually learns to return to slow resting state while around him. He’s a steady presence, and his company is much needed as you try to navigate around the various stressors in your life.
Already, your tortuous coursework and demanding work-study stint are clearly draining you. Hannah frequently points out the dark bags under your eyes and the sluggish, lethargic nature of your gait as you force yourself to attend class.
But you had another stressor that completely robbed the last morsels of life clinging on to your body. A hidden, yet dangerous stressor that you kept snapped shut in the corners of your mind, only giving the key to your therapist for her to unlock.
The reason why you always refused to sleep at Logan’s place.
“So beautiful,” Logan’s voice pulls you from your reverie, his hoarse whisper tickling your collarbone. He kisses over the hickeys he proudly implanted near your breast, admiring his view. “All for me.”
You bite your bottom lip at his comment, pressing down so hard that you’re sure blood will ooze out any minute now. You’re technically not “all for him.” Even though he skips hockey practice to help jumpstart your car on the side of the road. Even though he now uses a fragrance-free laundry detergent because his sheets would irritate your sensitive skin. Even though he looks at you with those eyes that compel you to answer his text every single time. Even though his bed feels so comfortable right now.
Control yourself.
“Back at ya,” You awkwardly laugh, delivering a very nervous and spur-of-the-moment reply. So smooth, Y/N. Did you flirt this badly when he tore your Tinkerbell costume off?
Chuckles rumble from his chest, pressing down onto your heart. You could play his laugh on repeat. Hell, even set it as your ringtone. “Still not used to receiving compliments, I see.”
You don’t offer a response. Suddenly, the bed feels way too warm and way too inviting. As his pillow swallows your head, your eyes start to close.
But you quickly force yourself to wake up, remembering that you do not, in any circumstance, want to fall asleep in his bed. You will not make that mistake.
Instead, you lean over to check the time on your phone. 4:09 PM.
“I need to get going to my shift,” You slide out from underneath him, removing yourself from his grap. The sudden loss of warmth feels like whiplash.
His dark eyebrows furrow as you grab the haphazardly laid clothes on the wooden floor. “Doesn’t it start at 5:00? You still have some time,” He pats your unofficial side of his bed, watching you shimmy yourself into your jeans. “Come ‘ere. Stay a ‘lil longer.”
You bite your lip even harder, using it like a stress ball, and you try to forget that your situationship remembers that tiny detail of your work schedule. Of course he does.
“I like getting there early, though. It’s much better than arriving five minutes before a session starts,” You zip up your jeans, chuckling softly when he flashes his signature sad puppy eyes at you. “I like to quickly refresh myself on the content beforehand.”
“As if you would need any refreshing, Mrs. Bio and Psych Double-Major,” He teases, and yep, you’re pretty sure that’s blood you’re tasting right now.
“Trust me, I don’t always remember the ins and outs of signal transduction.”
Logan tilts his head to the side, staring at you with those confused eyes that you find so absolutely endearing. “And what the hell is ‘signal transduction?’”
You sigh, kneeling onto the floor and tying your shoes. “That’s a story for another time. I better get going.”
“Wait, I’ll walk you down,” He says as he jumps out of the bed, rapidly putting on his sweatpants and grabbing a random flannel from his desk chair.
You roll your eyes as you open his bedroom door, hearing the noises of his roommates from downstairs. “I’ve been here plenty of times, Logan. I know my way around the house.”
He shrugs, buttoning up his flannel. “So? God forbid a guy wants to be a gentleman.”
“A gentleman?” You stifle a laugh, and he has the gall to put on a mildly offended face.
“Of course, my lady. I’m always on my best behavior for you.”
More blood seeps from your lip. You give him a playful shove on his shoulder, but he brandishes that signature crooked "John Logan smile" at you, and fuck, you’re in deep.
As the both of you walk downstairs, your peer at the living room and say a goodbye to the rest of the boys. Tucker and Dean were sitting on the couch, pouring over a textbook that you knew all too well. By the looks of it, Garrett wasn’t home. He was probably hanging out at Hannah’s dorm, per usual.
“Good seeing ya, Y/N,” Tucker smiles at you, lifting his head from the textbook.
“Yes, very good seeing ya,” Dean drawls, suddenly jumping up from his spot on the couch and making his way over to you. “And we are in desperate need of your guidance. This bio class is killing us.”
All of the boys knew you already. Though you and Logan weren’t “serious” by any means, neither of you kept your situationship a secret from others. At least Logan spared you the hurt and discomfort that comes from sneaking around.
Then again, all of his charming, boyfriend-coded compliments haven’t made the situation any better either.
You shake your head jokingly at Dean. “You guys have Professor Ragner, right? He’s chill. You’ll be fine.”
Dean gasps in fake shock, puting a hand to his heart as if he were in a melodramatic soap opera. “Wow, so you’re just leaving us to drown with no support? I see how it is, Y/N.”
You scoff. “No offense to y’all, but I don’t have time for free tutoring. I’m getting paid minimum wage, which is practically nothing to begin with, to tutor jocks like y’all in the first place. I’m sure as hell not doing any unpaid labor.”
“I can pay you in a different way,” Dean unabashedly flirts, blond waves falling over his eyes, voice dropping to a lower tenor. You raise an eyebrow in amusement, knowing that he’s joking.
Then someone behind you loudly clears their throat. You turn around to Logan, who is adorning an expression that you can’t quite decipher.
“Jesus, relax, Johnny,” Dean comes around and pats him on the back, which Logan rejects in fake disgust, pretending to flinch. “I was just suggesting an alternative method of payment.”
“Uh-huh, sure you were," Logan replies with a chuckle, though his smile doesn’t reach all the way to his eyes.
Tucker rejoins the conversation. “I don’t know about cash, but I’ll pay you back with free meals. I make a mean pasta carbonara.”
“Now that, I can get behind,” You point finger guns towards Tucker. “Well boys, I’m off to work. I’ll see y’all later.”
Tucker and Dean say their goodbyes. With a light touch of his hand on the small of your back, Logan leads you to the porch. He opens the door, and as you step outside, he wraps a hand around your wrist, wanting to say one last thing before you leave.
“Have a good shift,” He presses a kiss to your forehead. You force yourself to not bite your lip for the hundredth time. Control. “I’ll see you on Friday, yeah?”
You don’t know what to say. You knew that the team was throwing a party before their game on Saturday. A sharp inhale exits your nose.
“Yeah, sure,” You smile at him, starting to walk to your car. “See you, Logan.”
As you drive to the tutoring center, you chastised yourself for how close you were to falling asleep in his bed. This pathetic attempt at a situationship was going to tear you apart. And if you need to distance yourself from those warm eyes and beaming smile, then so be it.
Friday was two days away. You decided to not come over to the hockey players’ house for their party before playing Eastwood. Not only did you want some space between you and Logan, but you also had an upcoming midterm that made up a good chunk of your grade for your Psych class. You thus planned on devoting your entire weekend to studying for it.
So when Friday night came along, giving excuses to Logan felt easy. Somewhat easy.
(9:21 PM) Logan: Hey, I haven’t seen you yet. Are you on the way?
(9:46 PM) Y/N: I have a huge midterm on Monday. I need to study. Sorry, I forgot to tell you :/
(9:48 PM) Logan: Ahh I see, no worries.
(9:51 PM) Logan: I looked forward to seeing you.
(9:52 PM) Logan: I’ll see you after the midterm? Good luck, you got this.
(10:23 PM) Y/N: Thanks, good luck with the game.
A twinge of guilt spread through your chest and hammered at your heart when you didn’t confirm the rendezvous. You always came to the boys’ parties before their games, even though you continuously stuck by your rule of never sleeping over, which definitely took Logan a little bit of time to get used to. During Halloweekend, you surprised him when you slipped out of his bed at 3:00 AM, grabbing your car keys and opening his bedroom door.
“You don’t want to stay the night?” You recall his gravelly voice, utterly rattled with sleep, as he watched you put on your shoes. “It’s kinda late.”
“I have an early morning. And I didn’t drink at all, so…” You explained, giving him a tight smile before closing the door so that you didn’t have to stare any longer at his bare, toned chest. “See ya.”
Starting with a clean slate was necessary. After all, you needed to keep your commitment to both your grades and your job. Logan would only serve as a distraction.
That’s what you kept repeating to yourself as you went to bed later that night, putting your phone on the other side of your room in order to stop checking it.
The first thing that you notice is that you can’t speak.
You bring a palm up to your mouth, but your face feels completely numb. Anything you say just comes out extremely muffled, as if you never had a mouth in the first place. You gaze around your environment with blurry eyes, looking at the four corners of the dingy room. You try to touch one of the walls, but as soon as your hand comes into contact, the wall becomes translucent, your hand just floating around in open space. But as you pull your hand back, the wall comes up again, inching closer and closer to your face.
Your breath hitches as you try to find an escape—a trapdoor, a window, just anything will do. But the room starts to resemble a box the more you look at it, as if you were an inanimate object shoved inside a carton to never be seen again. The lump in your throat grows as your vision subsides with each passing second, complete murk and darkness clouding up your eyes.
You try to bang on the walls, but your balled up fists just fall into air. You try to scream for help, but you feel chains wrapped around your mouth, silencing your cries and greedily swallowing up any remaining shred of air needed for your survival.
The sound of falling objects tears your gaze away from the walls. You eyes widen as you watch clumps of your hair disintegrating into the floor and massive droplets of blood emanating from your fingertips. You frantically search your whole body for any sign of a cut, a wound, an injury, but your hunt is fruitless.
And that’s when the walls start closing in, devouring every inch of space that’s not covered by your trembling body.
You sink to the floor as your knees helplessly buckle, crawling up into a ball as a fresh flow of tears sprint down your cheeks. Soon those tears also turn to blood, drowning your limbs in a sea of red. And the ceiling feels so fucking close to you, you’re certain that it’s going to collapse.
Sounds of whining sirens and howling wind and quick gunshots and terrified screaming all fuse and merge tightly together in perfect storm, a cacophony where you can hear each individual occurrence happening at once. The walls are up to your nose, and you try so hard to scream. To cry for help.
The sound of a door slamming shut finally wakes you up.
You’re heaving as you sit up in your bed, your fists rapidly unclenching to rest your palms on your chest. Your body feels so unbearably hot, outlines of your sweat etching themselves onto your sheets. A fearful whimper tears out of you, and you wrap your hands around your curled-up body as you begin to frantically rock yourself back and forth on your bed. The sobs pour out of you in an instant, breaths clawing themselves up your throat in such a sharp, stiniging manner that you’re sure there’s clawmarks scarred across your trachea. You’ve had night terrors ever since elementary school, but you’ve never really adjusted them.
The tears completely wreck you. You move your hands from your body to the sheets, fists digging into the fabric, helplessly searching for security. What a stark contrast to your time with Logan, where you desperately fisted at his sheets while waves of pleasure cascaded through your body.
Both times, however, you were looking for control.
Nevertheless, as your sobs gradually begin to subside, you inhale shaky breaths to center yourself back to reality. When your vision starts to clear up, you go back to the 5-4-3-2-1 coping technique that your therapist suggested to ground yourself.
Five things you can see. Four things you can touch. Three things you can hear. Two things you can smell. One thing you can taste.
As you slowly list through the four things you can touch, your mind goes back to the hockey player you’re trying so desperately not to think about. But all you desire is to feel his callused palm on your cheek, his long arm around your waist, and his mouth trailing kisses on your neck.
And you hate how much you yearn to be in Logan’s arms right now. You ache for his comforting presence, but you know you can’t place this trouble on him, this overwhelming burden to bring you back to Earth after a night terror. He already has enough on his plate.
Sighing, you make your way to the bathroom to splash some water on your face. On your way there, you grab your phone, looking at the date and time. 2:38 AM, Monday, February 23rd.
So you had a night terror the morning of your big exam. Great.
At least you can thank your neighbors’ rowdiness for pulling you out of your dream. They loved to slam the door after a night out, and unfortunately for you, they seemed to go out every fucking night. You kindly asked them to close their door more gently, but clearly, your words had zero effect.
After wiping your face and staring too long at your bloodshot eyes in the bathroom mirror, you walk to your desk, deciding to fit in a last-minute study session now that you’re awake. You definitely don’t want to go back to sleep now.
After five minutes of flipping through some flashcards, you make the mistake of scrolling through the notifications on your phone. Your eyes immediately lock on to some notifications from Instagram. Specifically, some DMs from Logan.
When your trembling fingers open your message thread with him, the slight shaking in your body stops when you browse through his messages. All of them were either the silliest of reels or the stupidest of memes. And under each and every one of them, he wrote a message: This made me think of you; or you definitely need to watch this; or even this is so stupid, but it made me laugh so hard that I had to send it you.
As you laugh while watching cat videos and overplayed vines, the desire for Logan seeps through your veins. He has no idea of the effect you have on him.
But you’re still going to keep your distance. You have to, even when you watch all of the reels he sends you, despite telling yourself that you need to go back to studying any minute now.
WILDEST DREAMS || DEAN DI LAURENTIS X GRAHAM!READER
“no one has to know what we do.. his hands are in my hair, his clothes are in my room” 𐔌❤︎ ͡𐦯
໑ৎ ׁ ׅ♡ PAIRING: graham!reader x brothersbsf!dean
໑ৎ ׁ ׅ♡ BLURB: Dean Di Laurentis was never supposed to want her.
Not when she’s Garrett Graham’s little sister. Not when crossing that line could cost him one of the most important friendships he’s ever had.
But some people become impossible to resist. Hidden away in whispered moments and carefully kept secrets, what exists between them grows into something neither of them knows how to name. Something real.
The only problem is that Dean can’t give her what she truly wants. And no matter how desperately they reach for one another, some things were never meant to be held without breaking.
໑ৎ ׁ ׅ♡ CONTAINS: swearing, arguing, angst, mentions of sexual acts and drinking, garrett graham’s sister, abuse, violence
AUTHOR NOTE: first off campus fic! i hope i did the characters justice.. but pleaaase feel free to request anything & everything!!!
- also written mainly for mai&sami <3 also sami i took pins from u to make this.. sorry i love u
Dean Di Laurentis should have known Garrett Graham was up to something the second he walked into the hockey house kitchen and found his friend waiting for him with folded arms.
“Uh-oh,” Dean said, reaching into the fridge for a beer. “That look usually means I clogged the shower with a condom again.”
He winked at a puck bunny who was in his bed a couple hours prior to the party.
Garrett didn’t smile. That should’ve been the first warning sign.
The second came when Garrett followed him out onto the back deck, where Beau Maxwell was currently arguing with several teammates about whether birthday shots counted if he had taken some the day before as well.
The house was already packed. Music rattled the walls. People streamed through the front door in clusters, carrying cases of beer and cheap liquor. Tonight was Dean and Beau’s shared birthday party, which meant the entire campus had apparently received an invitation.
Dean twisted the cap off his beer. “What the hell is going on?”
“Okay, and why are you telling me that like it’s a fucking threat?”
Garrett stared at him.
Dean sighed.
“Oh. Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah. Exactly.”
Dean lifted his hands. “G, I have no interest in your sister.”
The statement came easily enough. Mostly because it was true. At least for now.
Dean had a slight idea of what Garrett’s sister looked like based on how he would describe her. But his little sister existed firmly inside the category labeled Absolutely Not.
The same category that included dating teammates’ exes and sleeping with professors.
Garrett didn’t look reassured.
“If I hear you even looked at her—”
Dean barked out a laugh. “You cannot be fucking serious.”
“I’m serious.”
“You mean I can’t even look at her?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“That’s psychotic, man.”
Suddenly Dean wasn’t laughing anymore.
Because underneath the irritation in Garrett’s voice sat something else. Something sharper.
The expression crossed Garrett’s face so quickly Dean almost missed it.
“She’s been through enough,” Garrett said quietly.
Dean frowned.
Garrett wasn’t usually the overprotective brother type. Annoying? Yes. Bossy? Absolutely. But this felt different.
This felt personal.
The problem was that Garrett’s expression made it abundantly clear that further questions would not be welcome.
“Fine. I’ll stay away from her.”
“Fine?”
“Yeah, fine. I said I’d stay away from her. I swear on my incredible fucking good looks.”
“No fuckin’ jokes.”
“Garrett, come on.”
“Dean.” Then he walked away.
Leaving Dean standing on the deck with a beer in his hand and a strange feeling lodged somewhere beneath his ribs.
Because Garrett hadn’t sounded protective. He’d sounded afraid.
And Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Garrett Graham afraid of anything.
—
Y/N Graham hated college parties.
Not because she disliked people.
Not because she disliked drinking.
And definitely not because she disliked fun.
She hated them because they reminded her that everyone else seemed to understand how to exist effortlessly.
Meanwhile, she spent most of her life feeling like she was constantly waiting for something bad to happen.
Old habits died hard. Especially the ones carved into you during childhood.
The thought surfaced uninvited as she climbed the porch steps of the hockey house.
Music blasted from inside and laughter spilled through open windows.
Some drunk idiot was already butchering a song at the top of his lungs.
Tonight was about Garrett.
Her brother had been pestering her for weeks to attend the birthday party.
His exact words had been: You spend too much time hiding in your apartment.
She’d informed him that reading books and avoiding idiots wasn’t hiding.
He’d called her antisocial.
She’d called him obnoxious as hell.
The argument had ended with Garrett threatening to physically carry her to the party.
Which, unfortunately, sounded like something he’d actually do.
The front door opened before she could reach for the handle.
“Holy shit,” a guy exclaimed.
Y/N recognized him instantly.
Beau Maxwell. Birthday boy number two.
“Garrett’s sister?”
She laughed. “Is that my official title now?”
“Pretty much. I don’t think anybody knows your actual name.”
“Good to know?” She says playfully.
Beau stepped aside dramatically. “Welcome to the party. Try not to die.”
“I’ll do my best.”
The music intensified the second she stepped inside. Bodies crowded every available inch of space.
People danced.
Shouted.
Laughed.
Someone nearly ran into her carrying a bottle of vodka. A familiar hand landed on her shoulder.
“There you are.”
She smiled immediately.
Garrett.
“Happy now?” she asked.
His answering grin was quick.
“Ecstatic. I was about five minutes away from sending out a search party.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“So I’ve been told.”
His gaze swept over her.
Checking. Making sure she was okay.
Y/N pretended not to notice.
“I’m fine,” she said softly. “You can stop looking at me like I’m about to get attacked. He’s not here, G.
Garrett’s expression shifted. Just slightly.
“Yeah,” he replied. “Good.”
Before Y/N could respond, somebody shouted Garrett’s name from across the room.
His teammates.
Garrett groaned.
“Duty calls.”
“Go.”
“You sure?”
She snorted.
“I’m twenty years old, Garrett. I think I can survive a damn party.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Y/N rolled her eyes. “Yes, I’m sure.”
Then he disappeared into the crowd.
And from across the room, Dean Di Laurentis looked up from the girl that was currently kissing down his neck.
Their eyes met. Only for a second.
Meaningless.
But not to him.
Dean immediately looked away and immediately turned back towards the puck bunny.
Because he remembered exactly what he’d promised Garrett.
The problem was that he found himself looking back.
Just once. Or maybe twice. He’s lost count by the end of the night.
—
That was just the beginning.
A few weeks became a month.
A month became two.
And somehow, despite every reason they had to stay away from each other, neither of them ever did.
The deception grew easier with time.
Or perhaps they simply grew accustomed to carrying it, letting the weight of the lie settle onto their shoulders until it felt like something they could no longer put down.
There were countless nights spent in Dean’s room, hidden from the rest of the world. Times where they’d both attend a party and spend the entire time wishing they were alone together rather than pretending to hate one another.
Nights filled with laughter, arguments over ridiculous movies, and conversations that stretched far beyond midnight. Moments that felt perilously close to normal, close enough that they could almost pretend none of the complications existed.
Normal people didn’t have to pretend they hated each other in public.
Normal people didn’t have to carefully monitor every glance across a crowded room.
Normal people certainly didn’t have to worry about one of their closest friends discovering a secret capable of detonating their entire lives.
“Y/N, could you help with table six? I’ve got my hands full!” Hannah asks, holding three plates.
Y/N is pulled out of her thoughts immediately. She nods toward Hannah and begins to help clean up table six.
The bell of Malone’s door dings.
She looks up and her eyes meet another pair that she has recently begun to memorize.
Dean pulls his phone out and without hesitation, Y/N does as well. She already knew he was about to send her a text.
Mr. Six Flags: want me 2 tell the guys to sit at one of ur tables?
Y/N: im cleaning table six. come sit here and i’ll serve u guys in a second!
Mr. Six Flags: got it, babydoll. come over tonight? u don’t need to sneak in since the guys are gonna stay out late tonight ;)
Y/N: can’t wait <3
After Y/N sends her text, they both look up and make eye contact. She catches herself before smiling.
She walks over to the table she had secretly told Dean to sit at.
“Hey guys, how was the game?”
She tries her hardest not to glance at Dean, who is doing an awful job at pretending he hates her. She can feel his gaze burning into her skin.
“We won! You should’ve been there, Graham!” Logan exclaims.
She laughs softly. “Next time, I guess. I can’t miss any more of my brother’s wins or else he’ll murder my ass.”
After taking their order, she walks over to put it in, but she pauses when she notices her phone vibrating.
Dad.
She hangs up immediately, but that doesn’t stop him from texting.
Dad: you can’t ignore me forever, Y/N.
Her face drops and she puts her phone on silent. Her breathing becomes heavier as she can feel panic seeping through her bones.
Out of instinct, her eyes try to find Dean’s immediately.
Of course, his were already on her, but his expression was now covered by worry.
Dean was aware of her past with her dad before moving out for college, but she never told him details. He knew she could come to him whenever she was ready.
In only two months, Y/N had become his number one priority. She’d become under his radar 24/7. She was under his protection now whether he wanted it or not. But he knew he wanted it.
His eyes furrowed before sending her another text.
Mr. Six Flags: you ok?? you need me?? we can go outside
The hardest part wasn’t fooling her brother.
For her, it was fooling Dean. It was pretending that she was alright with only hooking up.
For the first time in a while, there had been one person in her life that truly understood what was underneath the act she put up for everyone else. He saw the true nature of her.
Because somewhere along the way, Y/N Graham had ceased being Garrett's little sister.
She had eventually became his favorite part of his day and the realization should’ve terrified him.
Instead, it ruined him in ways he hadn't anticipated, unraveling carefully guarded pieces of himself he had spent years keeping under control.
Dean had spent years constructing his life around certainty. Hockey. His future. Everything existed in neat, manageable compartments.
Y/N obliterated every single one.
She slipped beneath his defenses with alarming ease, settling herself into places he hadn't realized were empty until she occupied them.
The sound of her laugh lingered in his thoughts long after she'd gone home.
And God help him, he was beginning to crave her presence with a dependence that bordered on pathetic.
Dean Di Laurentis, Briar U’s well-known fuck-boy had officially been tied down by one girl who hadn’t even been his girlfriend yet.
The problem was that none of it changed reality.
No matter how badly he wanted her, no matter how much of himself seemed to belong to her now, reality remained stubbornly unchanged.
He knew what she truly wanted. What she truly needed.
The only problem? He also knew he couldn’t give her it.
Every time that thought surfaced, a bitter taste settled in the back of his throat.
Because for the first time in his life, Dean wasn't entirely sure he wanted to be the guy who walked away first.
But the idea of losing the girl he now couldn’t imagine his life without or one of his best friends is what terrified him.
—
Y/n’s fingers traced along Dean’s bicep. Lately, it didn’t take sex to get them to spend time together. Hookups turned into hangouts, but she had no complaints.
She'd spent years building walls sturdy enough to survive anything life threw at her. Years teaching herself that dependence was dangerous and expectations were even worse.
Then Dean Di Laurentis looked at her like she was something worth protecting.
Like she was worth choosing.
“Will you come to the game again tomorrow?”
She smiled softly. “I can’t wear your jersey number again. Garrett almost caught us last time.”
Dean groaned. “Too bad. You looked fuckin’ marvelous in it. I can’t imagine you wearing anyone else’s.”
“Not the point! He spent ten minutes interrogating me!”
“Well.. what did you say?”
“That your jersey was comfortable and I found it in his laundry”
“It is comfortable.”
“Whatever. Moral of the story, I can’t go tomorrow.”
He lifts a brow. “What, because you can’t wear my number? Come anyway. You know I always play better when you’re there, baby.”
A blush creeps onto her cheeks. “I guess, but you can’t point at me after scoring again. You have the survive instincts of a rock.”
He scoffs, but still grinning widely. He pushes the hair out of her face slowly and grips her face with both hands, then placing a kiss on her forehead.
“I have the best survival instincts, for your information.”
She roll my eyes playfully. “You’re secretly dating Garrett Graham’s little sister. He’d beat your ass”
Dean was smiling until he realized what she had said. “Dating?”
The idea of dating her warms his soul more than he’d like to admit, but the more he feels himself fall for her, the more he thinks about Garrett. Girlfriends are a distraction from his future. They never work out and he always ends up accidentally hurting their feelings.
What’s worse than Garrett finding out that Dean’s hooking up with his sister? Garrett finding out he had hurt his sister. He can’t risk that because it would hurt his own heart more than a physical punch from her brother would.
“Are we not?” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Her nervousness is shown through her eyes instead.
“I spend more nights in your bed than my own, Dean. I know you’re opposed to telling Garrett, but—“
“You.. you know I don’t have much I can offer right now, Y/N”
“Well, yeah. I genuinely like you, Dean. I just thought maybe—“
୨୧ ― military!rafe cameron when you spend your own money
“what’s this?”
you glance up from the couch. “a package?”
rafe stands in the kitchen holding the little shopping bag you’d left on the counter, one brow raised. still in uniform, sleeves rolled to his forearms, dog tags glinting under the light.
“i can see that,” he says dryly. “when did you order it?”
“last week.”
“with whose card?”
you stare at him. “mine?”
that makes him pause. “your money?” he repeats slowly, like the concept genuinely catches him off guard.
“yes, rafe. i have a job.”
he exhales a laugh through his nose, shaking his head as he walks toward you. “baby, i know you have a job. i just didn’t think you were actually spending your own money on stuff you wanted.”
“why not?”
“because you’ve got me.”
you snort. “that is not how finances work.”
“kinda is for us.” he drops onto the couch beside you, tugging you into his side automatically. “what’d you buy?”
you hesitate. “…boots.”
“boots?”
“the expensive kind.”
his eyes narrow immediately. “how expensive.”
you mumble the number. rafe goes silent for two full seconds before tipping his head back dramatically. “jesus christ.”
“don’t start.”
“i’m not starting, i’m impressed.” he looks at you again, half amused. “you really saw the price tag and went yeah, absolutely?”
“i wanted them.”
“and you didn’t think to ask me first?”
you give him a look. “ask permission?”
“no,” he says quickly, already grinning because he knows how bad that sounded. “ask me to buy them for you.”
you roll your eyes so hard he laughs. “seriously,” he says, nudging your knee apart so he can pull you closer. “you don’t have to spend your money on things like that anymore.”
“rafe, they’re my boots.”
“mhm. and you’re my girl.” his hand slides around your waist. “which means i should be spoiling you properly.”
“you’re ridiculous.”
“you love it.”
you try not to smile. “they haven’t even arrived yet.”
his grin turns lazy. “good. if they’re ugly, i’m returning them and buying you better ones.”
summary: will has always picked on y/n for as long as she’s known him and she’s always brushed it off but eventually he takes it too far.
pairing: will smith x reader
word count: 2.1k
song of the fic: afterglow - taylor swift
it starts small enough that no one really clocks it. it’s little comments, the kind of thing that could pass as jokes if you didn’t sit with them too long. except people do notice; because will isn’t like that with anyone else. he’s sarcastic, yeah. he jokes, messes around, gives people shit but it’s always well balanced.
with you, it isn’t.
“you’re late again,” he mutters when you walk into macklin’s place, shrugging off your jacket. you blink, caught off guard. “i said i’d be here around three.”
“yeah, and it’s twenty minutes past that.”
“relax,” macklin cuts in immediately from the couch, “she’s here now.”
you give macklin a small smile, and move to sit beside him. will just huffs, leaning back in his chair like he’s already over it. and that’s kind of how it always goes.
you never snap back.
and that’s the thing that confuses everyone. because you’re not weak. not quiet, not shy, not the type to just sit there and take shit. but when it comes to will, you just let it slide.
you always have, even when it gets worse.
-
“are you seriously wearing that?” he says one night when you show up in a off the shoulder sweatshirt and sweats.
you glance down at yourself, then slowly back up at him. “yeah?”
he shrugs. “just didn’t know we were doing ‘let’s dress up like i just rolled out of bed’ fits tonight.”
“okay, dude,” macklin says immediately, “what is your problem?”
“what?” will scoffs. “i’m just saying.”
“no, you’re just being a dick.”
you laugh softly like it doesn’t matter, brushing it off as you drop your bag on the floor. “it’s fine.”
“it’s not fine,” tyler mutters from across the room.
but you just shake your head, smiling faintly. “i’m comfy and i’m chilling that’s all i care about.”
will watches you for a second longer than necessary then looks away.
macklin notices everything, he pretty much always has. so, of course he notices the way you gravitate toward him whenever you all hang out, sitting close, leaning into his side when you laugh.
and of course he notices the way will watches that, the way his jaw tightens and body tenses. the way his comments get sharper on nights when you and macklin are especially close. it doesn’t take two to connect the dots.
but macklin waits.
because it’s not his place to say anything yet.
not until it starts affecting you, and little did you both know it was coming up. your breaking point was a party.
-
“you’re coming,” macklin says as he takes another sip from his gatorade.
you raise your eyebrows in confusion. “am i?”
“yes.”
“she doesn’t even like parties,” will cuts in from the other side of the room.
you glance at him, “i like some parties.”
“not this kind.”
“and what kind is that?”
“the kind where you’d actually have to talk to people.”
macklin groans. “my guy, please for once in your life shut up.”
“what? i’m being honest.”
“no, you’re being annoying.”
you exhale softly already tired of it. “i’ll think about it, okay?”
“no, don’t think about it,” macklin pleads. “just come. please?”
you hesitate and that’s when will laughs under his breath.
“why are you begging her? she’s not gonna go.”
“i said i’d think about it.”
“yeah, and we all know what that means.”
macklin sighs loudly, now clearly irritated. “what is your deal, man?”
“i don’t have a deal.”
“you do when it comes to her.”
will rolls his eyes, “not everything is about her.”
you look down at your hands, picking at your sleeve wishing you could just disappear from the situation right now.
“whatever,” you mumble quietly, “i actually can’t go.”
macklin frowns. “what? why?”
you hesitate for half a second, then you say it.
“i have a date.”
silence fills the room at the words that left your mouth. macklin blinks slowly, “you have a—wait, what? since when?”
“just recently.”
he looks surprised, but not upset just curious. “with who?”
“his name’s dylan.”
“who?”
both yours and macklin’s eyes flick to will now, surprised at his sudden question. his expression has changed completely. he no longer has that smirk on his face. his voice no longer sounding amused and laced with sarcasm, just something sharp almost stern.
“you heard me.”
“yeah, i did,” he says, leaning forward. “i’m asking who he is.”
“why do you care?”
“i don’t,” he snaps. “just wondering.”
“you don’t seem like you’re just wondering.”
macklin looks between you both like it’s the most entertaining show he’s ever watched.
“he’s just someone i met,” you say, turning back to macklin instead. “it’s not a big deal.”
“you’re skipping the party for him?”
“yeah, and?”
will lets out a dry laugh. “must be some guy.”
you ignore him but macklin doesn’t.
“okay, that’s enough seriously.”
will leans back again, hands going up in surrender.
“what? i didn’t say anything.”
but his eyes are still on you and you can feel it.
-
the night of the party comes faster than expected. you almost back out and text dylan to cancel but you don’t because maybe it’s time you stop putting your life on hold for people who don’t treat you right. besides how bad could it go?
your first impression about dylan actually surprised you. he was nice, the kind of guy that was easy to talk to; relaxed and funny in a quiet, comforting way. he picks you up even when you insist on meeting him there and compliments you without making it weird. it’s almost refreshing in a way.
“so,” he says as he drives, glancing over at you. “you ever been to this place before?”
“no, actually.”
“me neither. i just know a couple guys who are going.”
“oh?”
“yeah, not super close. just mutual friends, i guess.”
you nod, not thinking much of it.
until you walk in and your heart skips a beat when you look across the room.
your eyes land on him.
will.
he’s already looking at you; like he knew you’d walk in at that exact moment.
like he’s been waiting.
your stomach drops.
“you okay?” dylan asks quietly.
“uh yeah,” you lie, forcing a smile. “just a lot of people.”
but you can still feel it. will’s gaze locked onto you.
it only gets worse from there.
everywhere you go, you feel him watching. you laugh at something dylan says, and you catch will staring. you lean in to hear dylan better over the music, and will’s jaw tightens.
you try to ignore it because for once, you just want a normal night.
—
“hey,” dylan says after a while, “you wanna head out? it’s getting kinda loud.”
you nod, relieved. “yeah, okay.”
you don’t even look for will as you leave, you don’t want to. you just want to go without the hassle. but of course, he doesn’t let that happen.
you’re halfway to dylan’s car when his familiar voice stops you both in your tracks.
“seriously?”
you freeze.
your eyes close for a second before you turn around. will’s walking toward you, hands shoved in his pockets, watching you with an expression you couldn’t exactly read.
“what?”
he looks between you and dylan.
“this is him?”
dylan clears his throat, eyebrows raising in confusion. “uhh yeah. do i know you?”
“not really,” will says flatly, eyes never leaving yours.
and immediately, you know shits about to go down.
dylan shifts beside you, clearly picking up on it. “okay well, we were just heading out—”
“—yeah,” will cuts in, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “probably for the best.”
“will.”
“what?” he shrugs, like he’s harmless. like he hasn’t been staring holes through you all night. “just saying.”
dylan glances between the two of you again, slower this time. “is everything okay here?”
“yeah,” you say quickly. “he’s just being difficult per usual.”
“she does this thing, you know.”
your stomach drops, you turn your head sharply. “don’t.”
but he’s already going.
will tilts his head slightly, like he’s studying you. almost like he’s deciding just how far to push it.
“she gets bored, finds someone new, acts all sweet, all interested and then disappears when it’s not fun anymore.”
“is that true?” he asks quietly.
you felt sick to the stomach.
“no,” you start shaking your head. “no, that’s not—he’s making it up.”
“i’ve literally watched her do it more than once.”
“what are you talking about?” your voice cracks slightly.
“you don’t even like parties,” he continues, talking over you. “you almost didn’t come tonight. what, he convinced you? give it a week, man.”
dylan rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes now. “i just, i don’t really do drama like this.”
“it’s not drama,” you say, your chest tightening. “it’s him. it’s literally just him.”
“maybe,” he says gently. “but i think i’m just gonna head out.”
your heart drops. “dylan.”
“i’m sorry,” he adds quickly, already stepping back. “you seem great, i just can’t.”
and then he’s gone.
you stand there for a second trying to process what the hell just happened and then slowly, you turn back to will.
“what the hell is wrong with you?”
will opens his mouth, but nothing comes out at first. because now that it’s done; now that dylan’s gone, now that you’re looking at him like that? it doesn’t feel as good as he thought it would.
“i was just—”
“-no,” you cut him off, voice shaking. “no, you don’t get to brush this off. you don’t get to act like that whole thing was nothing.”
“i didn’t—”
“why do you hate me?”
will shakes his head, “i don’t hate you.”
“bull fucking shit will!”
“that’s not what this is.”
“then what is this? because i’ve been nothing but nice to you always. even when you make those stupid comments, even when you go out of your way to make me feel small.”
“i don’t—”
“what did i ever do to you? seriously will, what did i do that makes you think it’s okay to treat me like that?”
there’s a long heavy silence now and for once, will doesn’t have anything to say.
your eyes start to fill with tears, as you look up blinking hard to keep the tears from falling and trying to keep it together like you always do.
but this time, you can’t.
“i don’t get it,” you whisper, your voice breaking as the first tear slips down your cheek. “i really don’t.”
will’s entire expression shifts to concern and guilt.
because he’s never seen this before.
not from you.
“hey.” he steps forward instinctively, his voice softer now. “hey, i didn’t mean—”
you step back fast, cutting him off mid sentence.
“don’t.”
that word hits harder than anything else you’ve said.
will freezes in his tracks.
“don’t what?”
you shake your head, wiping at your face even though more tears are falling. “don’t do that. don’t suddenly act like you care.”
“i do care.”
“no, you don’t!” you snap, your voice breaking again. “you don’t get to say that after everything you just did!”
he runs a hand through his hair. “i messed up, okay? i know that.”
“you always mess up, and i always let it go but i’m not doing that anymore.”
you take a deep breath, wiping away at your tears.
“just leave me alone, will.”
“what?”
“i mean it.” you take another step back. “i don’t want to do this with you anymore. i don’t want to sit there and pretend it doesn’t hurt, i don’t want to laugh it off, i don’t want to see you.”
“you don’t mean that,”
“i do.”
you turn around, wrapping your arms around yourself as you start walking in the opposite direction, your vision blurred, your chest aching in a way you can’t even describe.
“hey, what happened?”
you look up and see macklin, jogging up to you, confusion written all over his face until he sees yours and that’s when he sees the tears and everything in him shifts instantly.
“woah hey,” he says, his voice softening as he reaches you. “what happened?”
you try to speak but the second you open your mouth, another sob breaks through instead.
macklin doesn’t hesitate as he pulls you into him immediately, one hand coming up to the back of your head, pressing you gently against his chest.
“hey, hey it’s okay,” he murmurs, even though it clearly isn’t. “i’ve got you. you’re okay.”
you shake your head against him, clutching onto his shirt. “i’m not mackie, i’m really not.”
“i know, i know.”
his jaw tightens as his eyes flick up and across the lot, he spots will standing there and watching.
“i’m gonna kill him,” he mutters under his breath.
you tighten your grip slightly, shaking your head. “no, don’t please.”
“he doesn’t get to do this to you.”
and for the first time on the other side of the parking lot, will stands there quietly. no snarky comments or dirty looks. just silence, and guilt knowing he’s the reason you’re crying.
Ngl our fandom has some of the most miserable and jealous people that i’ve ever seen. Praying on Ponton’s downfall and rooting for Joe to treat her badly is kinda weird and gross.
Just because you’re on the internet doesn’t mean that you should channel your inner mean girl towards a woman who doesn’t even know you 😅 You don’t have to be a fan of her, remember we’re all here for Joe in the first place.
If my fav is into her, then i hope all goes well for them🙏
hiiiii! can you write something about reader reacting to joe cutting his hair short again?
thank you!!!!
You stopped dead in the doorway.
Joe was leaning against the kitchen counter, phone in one hand, glass of water in the other. He glanced up when you walked in, casual as anything, like the entire top of his head hadn’t been desecrated.
“What,” you said flatly, “did you do?”
Joe blinked. Took a sip of water. “Got a haircut.”
“A haircut.” You dropped your bag on the floor, not caring where it landed. “Joe. That’s not a haircut. That’s a crime scene.”
He set the glass down slowly, the corner of his mouth already twitching in a way that told you he’d been waiting for this. “It’s hair.”
“It was hair.” You crossed the kitchen, both hands already reaching for his head like you needed to confirm the damage with your own fingers. He let you—stood perfectly still while you ran your fingers through the top, searching for the curls that used to catch between your knuckles. Gone. All of it cropped short on the sides and swept back smooth on top, neat and polished, like someone had come along and tamed him without your permission. “Oh, my God. The curls. They’re actually gone.”
“They’ll grow back.”
“When, Joe? When?”
He caught your wrist gently, thumb pressing against your pulse point. “Are you seriously upset right now?”
“I’m in mourning.” You pulled your hand free and combed through the top again, the strands sliding smooth between your fingers instead of tangling the way they used to. Something about how different it felt made your stomach flip, which you absolutely were not going to acknowledge right now because you were making a point. “I used to grab those curls, you know.”
“I’m aware.”
“During very important moments.”
His eyes darkened just a fraction. “I said I’m aware.”
You dropped your hands and stepped back, crossing your arms. “And you—what—flew your barber out to California for this?”
“He knows what he’s doing.”
“You flew a man across the country to destroy something I loved.”
Joe’s lips pressed together—the way they did when he was trying very hard not to laugh at you. “It’s a haircut. Not an assassination, babe.”
“It feels like both.” You pointed at him. “You could’ve at least FaceTimed me first. Let me say goodbye.”
“To my hair?”
“Yes, Joe. To your hair. I deserved a proper farewell.”
He leaned back against the counter again, arms folded, looking far too comfortable for someone who had just committed follicular homicide. The thing was—and you hated this—he looked good. The shorter cut sharpened everything. His jaw looked more defined. His cheekbones caught the light differently. The whole shape of his face had changed—cleaner, older somehow—and the way the cut tapered along his neck was doing something to you that you were absolutely not ready to admit.
Joe tilted his head slightly, reading you the way he always did—like he already knew what you were going to say before you said it.
“You like it,” he said. Not a question.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” He pushed off the counter and stepped into your space, hands finding your hips. “You’ve been staring at my jaw for the last thirty seconds.”
“I have not.”
“You have.” His voice dropped, that low register that never failed to short-circuit whatever point you were trying to make. “And you touched my head four times in the first minute.”
“I was assessing the damage.”
“Mm.” He ducked his head, mouth brushing the spot just below your ear. “So what’s the verdict?”
Your hands were already on his neck—traitorous, useless hands—fingers sliding up into the short hair at his nape. It was soft and clean under your fingertips and it felt different, new in a way that made your breath catch before you could stop it.
You exhaled. “I hate you.”
Joe smiled against your skin. You felt it—that slow, self-satisfied curve he saved for moments when he knew he’d won.
“No, you don’t.”
You didn’t. You really, really didn’t.
But you were absolutely going to keep complaining about the curls for at least another week.
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