Tatiz - 30 - Mexican - I write fanfiction for Marvel, mostly Bucky. I write for the Avengers and the Netflix Universe. - Masterlist - - Add yourself to the Taglist -
By the time he loved her - Dean Di Laurentis x Reader (ft. John Logan)
summary: Dean never thought much about the way you were always there, until you stopped being there for him. What starts as distance quickly turns into jealousy, confusion, and the unbearable sight of you laughing with someone else. Between unspoken feelings, a drunken mistake he refuses to unpack, and a growing tension with John Logan, Dean is forced to confront something he’s spent years avoiding: you were never just “his friend,” and he might be too late to do anything about it.
warnings: mentions of alcohol and drinking
(Author’s Note: I promise Dean is not emotionally stable in this. He’s just loud about it and bad at communicating like 97% of the time. If you came here for healthy coping mechanisms… wrong address, bestie. Also John Logan is honestly doing the Lord’s work and I will not be taking criticism at this time.)
Dean didn't know exactly when it happened. He couldn't pinpoint the moment. All he knew was that things hadn't always felt like this.
Lately, every thought seemed to lead back to you. To how things used to be. To how you used to be by his side all the time.
Everyone saw it. Y/N and Dean.
You were practically inseparable. You'd save him a seat when he was late for class. You'd show up with coffee when he was hungover. Somehow, over the years, you'd managed to get to know the version of Dean that most people never saw, the one hidden beneath the sarcasm, the parties, and the walls he kept carefully built around himself.
Was it friendship? Was it something more?
People could only speculate.
But seeing Dean leave every weekend with a different girl made most people assume it couldn't possibly be anything serious.
There was just one thing nobody seemed to understand.
Why was Y/N doing all of that for a guy who never seemed willing to give her the same thing in return?
Dean didn't know when everything changed. Maybe it was after that stupid decision.
One drunken kiss at a party.
"It didn't mean shit, Garrett," Dean groaned the next morning, slumped on the couch with a pounding headache.
"Does Y/N know that, Dean?" Garrett asked.
The sarcasm in his voice was impossible to miss.
Dean rolled his eyes.
"She knows. We've talked about it. She knows I don't do relationships."
Hannah, sitting at the kitchen counter, looked up from her phone.
"And somehow that makes it okay?"
Dean frowned.
"What is everyone's problem?"
Hannah let out a humorless laugh.
"You seriously have to ask?"
Y/N was her friend too. Watching Dean take and take while giving just enough to keep her around had been frustrating for a long time.
"We're friends," Dean said firmly.
"Only friends?" a voice interrupted.
John Logan walked into the kitchen, gym bag slung over one shoulder. He'd skipped the party the night before in favor of an early morning workout, but apparently he'd arrived just in time for the conversation.
Dean groaned.
"Not you too."
John ignored him.
"Buddy, you don't get all the benefits of a relationship and then call it friendship."
Dean sat up straighter.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"It means," John said, dropping his bag by the door, "that Y/N is always there for you. Every game. Every bad day. Every stupid mistake. You call, she comes running."
Dean clenched his jaw.
"So?"
"So," John continued, "you act like she's your girlfriend whenever it's convenient for you, then turn around and remind everyone you're single the second things get too real."
"Shut up, Logan."
"No."
For once, John's voice was sharp.
"Because someone's gotta say it."
The room fell silent.
And for the first time, Dean found himself wondering why everyone was looking at him like he was the bad guy.
—
The weekend came and went, and Dean hadn't heard from you once. At first, he brushed it off. Surely you weren't avoiding him because of one stupid kiss.
Sadly the whole thing had ended up on Fifth Line. The kiss. And the thing after the kiss. Maybe you were embarrassed. Maybe you were busy. Maybe you were just taking some time for yourself. Still, he found himself checking his phone more often than usual.
He'd also seen the comments.
Too many of them.
How embarrassing for her.
Girl needs to stop chasing him.
He's way out of her league anyway.
Dean hoped you hadn't read any of them. Because if anyone was out of someone's league, it sure as hell wasn't you.
You were beautiful. Kind. Funny. You cared about people in a way most people didn't. You listened without judging. You remembered little things. You showed up when people needed you, no questions asked.
You'd been there for him during some of the worst moments of his life. And somehow, despite everything, you still gave him the benefit of the doubt.
Dean sighed and shoved his phone into his pocket.
He needed to get his thoughts sorted out.Because lately, they seemed to revolve around you.
—
"I don't know, girls," you sighed, collapsing onto the couch beside Hannah with a bag of Hot Cheetos in your lap.
"I say f*ck him," Allie declared from across the room.
She was rummaging through a pile of clothes, wearing nothing but jeans and a bra as she searched for a top.
"Figuratively speaking, of course."
Despite yourself, you laughed.
"I know I should move on."
The words felt strange leaving your mouth.
"But I don't know..."
"You care about him," Hannah finished softly, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
You nodded. Because that was the problem. You cared. A lot.
"Yeah, well, he clearly only cares about himself," Allie shot back.
The annoyance in her voice made it obvious she'd been waiting to say that all weekend.
"I mean, Hannah, have you even heard what he said after the kiss?"
Hannah winced.
"No. And judging by your tone, I don't think I want to."
Allie looked horrified all over again.
"He told her it was a mistake."
The room fell silent.
Your stomach twisted instantly. The memory was still painfully fresh.
The music. The alcohol. Dean's hand resting against your neck. His lips on yours. For one perfect second, you'd let yourself believe. Of course you had.
You'd liked Dean for longer than you cared to admit.
Then he'd pulled away. His eyes met yours. And for the briefest moment, you'd thought he looked just as surprised as you felt. The hopeful smile had barely formed on your lips when he spoke.
"I'm sorry."
Dean's voice had slurred slightly.
"This was a mistake."
And then he left. Just like that.Leaving you standing in the middle of a crowded party while everyone stared. Waiting for the floor to swallow you whole.
"God," Hannah muttered.
"Yeah," you laughed weakly. "Not exactly my finest moment."
"You're kidding, right?" Allie scoffed. "His finest moment wasn't exactly shining there either."
A small smile tugged at your lips.
At least your friends were willing to hate him for you.
"Honestly, I'm just grateful John was there."
That immediately caught Hannah's attention.
"What happened?"
You smiled despite yourself.
"John saw the whole thing."
Which was unfortunate enough on its own.
The last thing you'd wanted was an audience.
But somehow he'd noticed how uncomfortable you were becoming as people whispered and stared.
And because John Logan apparently couldn't stand seeing people suffer, he'd done the most John Logan thing imaginable.
He'd jumped onto the kitchen counter.
Right in the middle of the party.
"Everyone!" he'd yelled.
The room had gone silent.
"I've got great news."
People turned toward him instantly.
"The entire house is invited to the game next weekend."
The crowd erupted into cheers. And just like that, nobody was looking at you anymore.
The memory made you laugh.
"Oh my God," Hannah said. "How is he even gonna pull that off?"
"I don't wanna know," you replied.
The three of you dissolved into laughter.
"But..." Allie suddenly said. A grin spread across her face.
You narrowed your eyes.
"What?"
"Tell Hannah."
Immediately, you knew exactly what she was talking about.
"No."
"Tell her."
Hannah looked between the two of you.
"Tell me what?"
Allie's grin somehow got bigger.
"John texted her."
Hannah practically choked.
"Wait, what?!"
You groaned and buried your face in your hands.
"It's not a big deal."
"Oh, it's a big deal."
"No, it isn't."
"It is."
You pointed accusingly at Allie.
"You're the worst."
She looked proud. You turned back to Hannah.
"He just asked if I wanted to study together. That's it."
The look the girls exchanged made your stomach drop.
"Oh no."
"Oh yes," Allie said.
Hannah was already smiling.
And for the first time all weekend, the conversation wasn't about Dean. Maybe that was exactly what you needed.
—
As Dean walked into class on Monday morning, he immediately noticed your seat was empty.
The realization was oddly jarring. You were always there, usually with an iced coffee in hand and some sarcastic comment ready before he'd even sat down. For a moment, he simply stared at the empty chair before pulling out his phone.
Dean: Where are you sunshine?
He hit send without thinking about it.
The lecture dragged on, and despite his best efforts, Dean found himself glancing toward the door every few minutes. You never showed up. It was strange. Even when you skipped class, you usually told him. More often than not, it ended with him skipping too.
By lunchtime, his confusion hadn't gone away.
"Have you seen Y/N?" he asked as he dropped into the seat beside Garrett.
The look Hannah immediately sent Garrett did not go unnoticed.
Dean frowned.
"Why are you looking at each other like that?"
"What?" Garrett asked innocently.
"Garrett."
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're a terrible liar."
Across the table, Hannah let out an exaggerated sigh.
"You know, for two smart college students, you guys can be unbelievably stupid."
Dean ignored her and looked back at Garrett.
"So?"
"So what?"
"Have you seen Y/N?"
Garrett hesitated for a second too long.
"Maybe."
Dean narrowed his eyes.
"What does that mean?"
"It means she's fine."
The tension in Dean's shoulders eased slightly.
"Okay, good."
Hannah rolled her eyes so hard Dean was surprised they didn't get stuck.
"Why do you even care?" she asked.
Dean blinked at her.
"Because she's my friend."
The answer came naturally, but judging by Hannah's expression, it wasn't the right one.
"Friend," she repeated dryly.
Dean rubbed a hand over his face.
"Look, I know Saturday wasn't exactly my finest moment."
The phrase made Hannah pause. It sounded exactly like something you would say, which only irritated her more.
"But Y/N's still my friend," Dean continued. "I'm just worried something happened."
For a brief moment, Hannah considered making him suffer a little longer. Instead, she sighed.
"Nothing happened. She's helping Logan study for some huge exam he's got this week."
Immediately, Dean felt relieved. So you were okay.
That should have been enough.
Yet as the conversation moved on, another thought settled into the back of his mind. If you were helping John, why hadn't you told him? It wasn't as though you normally disappeared without saying anything. You texted him about everything, when you were late, when you were skipping class, when you needed coffee, when you were bored.
Without really thinking about it, he grabbed his phone again.
Dean: ???
The message looked ridiculous the second he sent it.
Still, he left it there.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of practice, meetings, and coursework. Every now and then he'd pull out his phone, only to find no new notifications waiting for him.
By evening, he was beginning to feel ridiculous. Then, just as he was leaving the rink, his phone buzzed. Your name flashed across the screen. For some reason, his chest loosened instantly.
Y/N: Sorry. Was busy.
Dean stared at the message.
That was it? No explanation. No teasing comment. No story about your day. No follow-up question asking what he wanted. Just three words.
For someone else, the text would've seemed perfectly normal. For you, it felt strangely distant. And for the first time in years, Dean found himself wondering what it would feel like if you stopped making him a priority.
—
Dean spent the next couple of days quietly obsessing over you.
It started small. Checking Instagram more than he cared to admit. Refreshing your TikTok feed even though he already knew there wouldn’t be anything new. No reposts. No random edits. No messages. Not even the usual spam of reels you’d normally send him at the most inconvenient times.
Whenever he tried to make plans, you had an excuse.
Busy.
Studying.
Tired.
Nothing dramatic. Nothing obvious. Just enough to keep him from calling it what it was.
Distance.
—
By Thursday, the week had already started to feel unbearable. Dean pushed through the front door of the house with his backpack slung over one shoulder and sunglasses still on, like he could physically block the world out if he tried hard enough. His only plan was to go upstairs, collapse, and not think about anything for a few hours.
Until he heard it. A laugh. Warm. Familiar. Undeniable.
He stopped.
For a second, he almost convinced himself he imagined it. Then he followed the sound downstairs.
And there you were.
Back turned to him, slouched over the kitchen table like you belonged there. Laughing so hard you had to wipe at your eyes. Next to you sat John, leaning in slightly, showing you something on his phone while textbooks were scattered across the table like neither of you cared how messy it looked.
Dean didn’t move. He just stood there. Watching.
It wasn’t even what you were laughing at that bothered him. It was the fact that you were laughing like that at all. Like you used to with him.
John wasn’t even that funny.
The two of you hadn’t noticed him yet, too caught up in whatever moment you were sharing. Something in Dean tightened.
“Studying hard?” he said finally.
The words came out sharper than intended.
You both turned.
Your smile faltered almost immediately when you saw him.
“Oh,” you said softly.
Your eyes were still a little red from laughing. Cheeks slightly flushed. Like you’d been somewhere he wasn’t invited.
Like you were fine. Like nothing had happened. This was the first time he was seeing you properly since Saturday. Not through a screen. Not in passing. Right here. Real.
And for a split second, Dean felt something uncomfortable settle in his chest.
Guilt.
Then it twisted into something else when he looked at John.
“I’ve got a big exam tomorrow,” John said easily, clearly picking up on the shift in energy. “Y/N’s just helping me out.”
“Yeah,” you added quickly, like you needed to explain it too. “Just studying.”
Dean nodded once. Slow. Controlled.
“Right.”
Silence hung for a beat too long.
Then he adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, like he suddenly remembered he had somewhere better to be.
“Whatever.”
He turned before either of you could say anything else.
And kept walking.
—
Dean had replayed it in his head all night.
Every time he closed his eyes, there you were again. Laughing. Looking at John like that. Sitting there like you belonged somewhere that wasn’t beside him.
And for the first time, he couldn’t shake it. Why did it feel like this? Why did his chest hurt every time he thought about you?
He tried to convince himself it wasn’t what it looked like. That you and John were nothing. Just studying. Just talking. Just laughing. Nothing more.
But the truth kept slipping in anyway, quiet and unavoidable.
Maybe the problem wasn’t that you looked at John like that. Maybe the problem was that you didn’t look at him like that anymore. That thought landed harder than anything else. It sat in his chest, heavy and unfamiliar, until he finally gave up trying to name it properly.
All week he had felt off. Restless. Irritated. Tight in a way he couldn’t explain. He had even searched his symptoms once, half-joking, half-desperate.
But it wasn’t stress.
It wasn’t tiredness.
It was something worse.
He just hadn’t wanted to admit it yet.
—
“It’s a little much, don’t you think?” you asked, turning in front of the mirror.
Allie gasped like you had insulted her personally.
“No! What do you mean? It’s perfect.”
She stepped back to admire her work, your outfit carefully chosen, dress a little shorter than you were used to, hair and makeup slightly more intentional than usual.
Hannah, sitting on the bed with a book she wasn’t really reading, looked up over the top of it.
“It looks good,” she said gently, “but you have to be comfortable, honey.”
“I am comfortable,” you said quickly, then hesitated. “I mean… I do look good.”
Allie immediately cheered like she had won something.
You laughed despite yourself, turning back to the mirror one more time. It wasn’t a big deal. Just a hockey game. Just friends.
Except it didn’t feel like that.
This time, you weren’t really going for Dean.
John had invited you.
A way to say thank you for helping him study all week. Casual. Easy. And then there had been the after-party invite at Maloneys. And the way he said it. Not rushed. Not awkward. Just warm.
Almost like a date.
“I know it’s a little unromantic,” he had smiled, “but I wanted to invite you to the game later. Maybe even Maloneys after. I promise I’ll treat you to a nice dinner when I don’t have a game.”
You had laughed.
“When you don’t have a game?”
“Rare occasions,” he had said, grinning.
Now, standing in front of the mirror, you exhaled softly.
“I think John is the perfect guy to get over Mr. You-Know-What,” Allie declared dramatically.
“Honey bun,” she added, clapping her hands.
Hannah sighed, though she was smiling faintly.
You rolled your eyes.
“It’s not like that,” you said, but your voice wasn’t fully convincing.
Then you paused. Because it was true in a way you didn’t want to say out loud.
“Besides…” you added quieter, glancing at your reflection again.
“Dean’s definitely going to be there tonight.”
—
You were freezing your ass off at the game. Apparently brain cells didn’t work on women trying to get over someone. Still, you were happy when halftime finally rolled around. The boys’ team was up by two, and the energy in the arena was loud enough to shake your chest.
You made your way into the halls with Hannah. Allie would meet you at Maloneys later since she had to work.
“Hannah—” Garrett stopped her in the hallway. He looked at you briefly, apologetic. “Sorry, I need her.”
Before you could even react, he took her hand and pulled her off, disappearing down the corridor like it was the most normal thing in the world.
You smiled anyway, even though it left you alone.
At least Hannah had someone who loved her.
You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to warm up.
“Y/N.”
Fuck.
You turned your head slowly.
“Dean.”
He was already walking toward you, relief flashing across his face the second he saw you. Before you could say anything, he pulled you into a hug, tight, immediate, like he needed to make sure you were real.
“I’m so happy you’re here,” he murmured against your hair.
“Dean— I…” you started, but your voice caught.
“Y/N.”
John’s voice cut through the hallway.
Dean let go instantly.
John stepped into view, looking between the two of you before his gaze landed on you. His expression softened.
“I’m so happy you came,” he said warmly, then smiled. “You look good.”
Before you could answer, he pulled you into a quick, easy hug. Dean watched. And something in his expression shifted.
He noticed everything at once, the way your outfit clearly wasn’t yours, the way your cheeks were slightly flushed, the way you didn’t pull away from John the same way you had from him.
And then it clicked. You weren’t here for him. You were here with John Logan.
“She looks cold,” Dean said suddenly, tone sharper than he intended.
John glanced at him. “Yeah, I’ll grab her something. One second.”
He disappeared back toward the locker rooms. And just like that, it was only you and Dean.
His arms were crossed. His jaw tight.
“So you’re dating him now?”
Your head snapped toward him.
“What?”
Dean’s eyes narrowed.
“You don’t know?” he repeated, voice edged with something you couldn’t place. “Then why are you dressed like that?”
“Why do you care?”
The words came out quieter than you meant them to, but they still landed.
Dean hesitated.
“Because it… it sends the wrong message.”
You stared at him, disbelief slowly turning into frustration.
“You cannot be serious right now.”
He ran a hand through his hair, clearly losing control of whatever point he thought he was making.
“He’s still a guy, Y/N. If you’re doing this because you want someone to only want you for your body—then—”
That was it.
Your voice snapped.
“I just want someone to want me.”
Silence. It hit both of you at the same time.
Before Dean could respond, footsteps echoed down the hall.
John returned, holding a clean jersey in his hands.
“Sorry,” he said, slightly out of breath. “Only had this.”
“It’s fine,” you replied quickly.
You grabbed it from him and pulled it over your head, the fabric swallowing your outfit.
“Thank you.”
The arena horn blared in the distance. Second half.
Saved by the bell.
As you started walking back, John leaned closer to Dean just enough that only he could hear.
“What the fuck was that?”
Dean didn’t look at him.
“None of your business, Logan.”
But as he glanced at you in John’s jersey, his jaw tightened.
“You’re free to have her.”
—
Maloney’s was already packed when you arrived, the kind of packed where the air felt warm and loud and slightly too close. Music pulsed through the floor, laughter spilling into every corner, people moving without really thinking about where they were going.
You kept the jersey on.
You told yourself it was just easier that way. Less explaining, less thinking, less of whatever had been sitting in your chest since the game.
Hannah and Garett walked slightly ahead of you, already talking about something you weren’t fully listening to, your attention catching and slipping between sounds and faces until it landed where you didn’t want it to.
Dean was at the bar.
Leaning casually, laughing at something Tucker said, drink in hand like the night belonged to him in the way it always seemed to. For a second, he looked exactly like he always did here. Relaxed. Easy. Untouchable.
Like nothing had happened earlier. Like you hadn’t walked away.
Your chest tightened before you could stop it.
You looked away first, forcing yourself to follow your friends further inside.
“Drink,” you said quickly when you reached the bar, though you weren’t even sure who you were talking to yet.
—
By the time John came back, you were already a little looser than before.
Not gone. Not careless. Just lighter in that way alcohol made everything feel easier to carry.
You were laughing at something Allie said when he appeared beside you again, slipping into your space like he had never really left it.
“Miss me?” he asked, eyes flicking over your face.
You smirked before you could stop yourself. “You were gone for, like, five minutes.”
“Still counts,” he said, leaning slightly closer so you could hear him over the music.
There was something different about the way he looked at you tonight. Not subtle, not hidden behind anything polite. Just open in a way that made your stomach twist slightly, though you didn’t move away.
Instead, you tilted your head. “You’re very confident for someone who just abandoned me.”
“I got you a drink,” he corrected, nodding toward the bar where a fresh glass sat waiting like he had planned it.
That made you laugh again, softer this time.
“Okay, that’s kind of impressive.”
“I know,” he said, completely unbothered.
Allie made a noise beside you. “I’m just saying, I support this energy.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were still smiling when you turned back to John.
He didn’t waste the opening.
“Dance with me,” he said, but it wasn’t really a question this time. It was closer. More certain.
And maybe that was the alcohol, or maybe it was everything else you had been holding in all week, but you didn’t argue.
You just let him take your hand.
The dance floor felt tighter this time. Not empty space, but bodies everywhere, moving in loose rhythm under flashing lights that made everything feel slightly unreal. Music louder now, bass heavier, the kind that made it easier to stop thinking in full sentences.
John pulled you in again, but this time there wasn’t as much space between you.
His hand settled at your waist like it belonged there more confidently than before, guiding you closer as the crowd shifted around you.
“You’re in a better mood,” he said, leaning down slightly so you could hear him.
“Am I?” you asked, though your voice came out softer than intended.
“Definitely,” he said. “You’re smiling more.”
You glanced up at him. “Maybe I just needed alcohol and a crowd of strangers.”
“Or me,” he added lightly.
That made you laugh, and you didn’t immediately shut it down like you might have earlier.
Instead, you let yourself stay in the moment.
You turned under his hand, his grip steadying you as you came back into him, your shoulder brushing his chest for a second longer than necessary. His hand didn’t move away. Neither did yours.
The space between you had changed without either of you fully acknowledging it.It wasn’t awkward.It was… charged.
John’s thumb shifted slightly at your waist, not gripping, just resting there, like he was testing how far he could stay.
“You’re really easy to talk to, you know that?” he said.
You tilted your head. “That’s a weird thing to say mid-dance.”
“It’s true though.”
You looked at him for a second longer than you meant to. The lights hit his face differently here. Less joking. Less loud. Something more direct underneath it.
And you were aware, suddenly, of how close he actually was. Your hand was on his shoulder without you remembering placing it there. His was still at your waist. Neither of you moved.
The music shifted again, slower for a moment, heavier bass pulling everything down into something more intimate without warning. John adjusted slightly, pulling you just a fraction closer as the crowd pressed in around you.
Your breath caught a little at the closeness, but you didn’t step back. Instead, you stayed. Moved with him. Let him guide you.
Across the room, somewhere you weren’t looking anymore, Dean was still there. Still watching. And this time, it wasn’t subtle at all.
His drink was untouched in his hand, jaw tight, eyes locked on the space between you and John like he couldn’t decide whether to look away or walk straight into it.
Because from where he stood, there was no mistaking it anymore. You weren’t just dancing. You were with him. And John wasn’t pretending otherwise.
John leaned slightly closer again, voice low near your ear. “You good?”
You nodded, but it came out slower this time.
“Yeah.”
But your hand stayed on his shoulder. And his hand stayed on your waist. And neither of you stepped away.
—
Dean had been watching for longer than he wanted to admit.
At first it was harmless enough to ignore. You and John dancing, music too loud, bodies too close in a way that could still be explained away if he tried hard enough. He kept telling himself it didn’t mean anything. That it wasn’t his business. That it didn’t matter.
But it kept changing. John’s hand stayed at your waist. Not drifting. Not adjusting. Just staying there like it belonged. And you didn’t move away. That was what finally made him push off the wall. He didn’t think it through properly. He just walked in.
You didn’t notice him right away. Not until John turned you slightly and the space between you and him tightened again, closer than before, more deliberate now without either of you acknowledging it.
Dean stopped in front of you.
“Logan.”
John turned his head like he had expected him. “Dean.”
There was no rush in either of them, but something in the air shifted anyway. The music felt further away for a second, like it was being pushed into the background of something heavier.
Dean didn’t stay on John for long. His eyes went to you immediately.
“You good?” he asked.
It wasn’t casual. It didn’t belong in the noise around you.
“I’m fine,” you said, but it came out quieter than you meant.
John glanced at you briefly, then back at Dean. “You want me to—”
“I said I’m fine,” you repeated, firmer now.
John didn’t fully let go right away. Just loosened his hold slightly, like he was deciding whether there was actually anything to step away from. And Dean saw that. His jaw tightened immediately.
“Right,” he said flatly.
John finally stepped back, but not far.
Dean’s gaze flicked between the two of you before settling on John again, something sharper building behind his expression.
“You always do that?” he asked suddenly.
Your brows pulled together. “Do what?”
“Stand there like it’s nothing,” he said, voice tighter now. “Like it doesn’t matter who she’s with or how it looks.”
John let out a short breath, almost amused. “How it looks?”
“Yeah,” Dean shot back, finally looking at him properly. “How it looks.”
That was enough for John to stop smiling. For a second he studied Dean, like he was trying to decide whether he was serious or just drunk on his own frustration.
Then he spoke, calm but cutting in a way that didn’t need volume.
“You said you weren’t interested.”
That landed immediately. Dean didn’t answer fast enough. John kept going.
“You’ve made that pretty clear for years. So what exactly are you angry about right now?”
A pause.
The question didn’t sound like an attack. That made it worse.
Dean’s jaw flexed once.
“I’m not angry,” he said, but it didn’t sound convincing even to him.
John nodded slightly like he expected that answer.
“Right,” he said. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re not upset she’s with me. You’re upset she’s not standing there waiting for you like she usually does.”
The words hit clean. Too clean.
Your head turned slightly between them now, sensing the shift but not fully catching it yet.
Dean’s voice dropped. “That’s not what this is.”
John didn’t move closer. He didn’t need to.
“Then what is it?” he asked.
Silence stretched out. Dean ran a hand through his hair, the first real crack in his control showing now.
“I don’t like the way you’re—” he started, then stopped, like even he didn’t believe the sentence.
John tilted his head slightly.
“The way I’m what?”
Dean looked at him again, frustration finally breaking through the restraint.
“You act like you’ve got some claim over her.”
That made John laugh once, but there was no humor in it.
“Claim?” he repeated. “Dean, I’m dancing with her. That’s it.”
“And it looks like more than that,” Dean said, sharper now, the words slipping out faster than he meant.
That was when John’s expression changed completely. Not angry yet. Just done with pretending.
“You know what looks like more than that?” he said quietly. “You standing here acting like you get to decide who she’s allowed to talk to.”
Dean stepped forward without thinking.
“Don’t twist this.”
“I’m not twisting anything,” John replied, still calm, still steady. “I’m asking you a simple question and you keep dodging it.”
That was when Dean snapped properly.
“I don’t need to explain myself to you.”
The volume didn’t rise much, but it was enough that a few nearby people turned their heads.
You stepped forward instinctively. “Dean, stop.”
But he didn’t look at you. Not yet.
John finally let go of your waist completely, stepping slightly into his own space now instead of yours, like he was done pretending this was just about dancing.
“You’re not mad at me,” John said, voice lower now. “You’re mad because she’s not yours to stand next to right now.”
That did it. Dean looked at him like something had finally broken through whatever he’d been holding together.
“That’s not—” he started, then stopped again.
Because he couldn’t finish it cleanly. And that was the problem.
John didn’t push further. He just exhaled once, like he’d said what he needed to say.
“You should probably figure out what you actually are to her before you start making scenes like this.”
For a second, Dean didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there like the noise around him had finally caught up. Then something in him shifted. Not controlled anymore. Just sharp.
“Yeah?” he said quietly. “Or maybe you should stop acting like you know her better than I do.”
That was louder.
Enough that the space around you tightened immediately.
Before John could respond, Dean stepped forward again, but Garrett was suddenly there, grabbing his arm and pulling him back before it escalated further.
“Dude—chill,” Garrett muttered. “You’re not doing this here.”
Dean didn’t take his eyes off John for a second.
Then he exhaled sharply, like he was forcing himself out of it, pulled his arm free, and shook his head once.
“This is stupid,” he said, not looking at either of you anymore.
And then he turned and walked away.
—
You inhaled sharply as soon as the cold air hit your lungs.
For a moment, you just stood there outside Maloney's, trying to collect yourself. The music was muffled through the walls now, replaced by the distant sound of traffic and the occasional burst of laughter from people coming and going.
It should have helped.
It didn't.
You still couldn't stop replaying the last ten minutes in your head.
Dean's expression. The way he'd looked at John. The way he'd looked at you. None of it made any sense.
"Rough night?"
You turned at the familiar voice.
Garrett stepped outside, letting the door swing shut behind him. His gaze landed on you immediately, taking in your flushed cheeks and the frustration written all over your face.
"I think rough might be an understatement."
A small smile tugged at his lips.
Without saying anything, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it around your shoulders. You rolled your eyes.
"Hannah sent you, didn't she?"
"Maybe."
"Tell her I don't need babysitting."
"I don't think she was worried about babysitting you."
Garrett leaned back against the wall beside you.
"I think she was worried you were about to commit a felony."
That earned the first real laugh you'd had all night. It faded quickly. You stared down at the pavement.
"I don't understand him."
Garrett didn't pretend not to know who you meant.
"Dean?"
You nodded.
"He tells me he isn't interested. He tells me he doesn't want a relationship. Then the second I dance with somebody else, he acts like I've personally offended him."
The frustration in your voice surprised even you.
Garrett was quiet for a moment. Then he asked carefully, "Are you sure you're trying to get over him?"
You looked up immediately.
"What?"
"I'm serious."
You opened your mouth to argue, but nothing came out.
Because part of you knew why he was asking.
Garrett studied your expression.
"If Logan hadn't asked you to dance tonight," he continued, "and Dean had come over instead, would you still be standing out here talking about getting over him?"
The question hit harder than you expected. You looked away first. The answer was embarrassing.
Because you already knew it.
"No," you admitted quietly.
Garrett sighed.
"Yeah. That's what I thought."
You wrapped his jacket a little tighter around yourself.
"I hate that."
"I know."
You laughed bitterly.
"It's pathetic."
"No, it isn't."
"It kind of is."
Garrett shook his head.
"No. Pathetic would be not trying at all."
His expression softened slightly.
"Y/N, you've been trying to move on for one week."
That made you laugh despite yourself. When he said it like that, it sounded ridiculous. A whole week. What an accomplishment.
"You know what the worst part is?" you asked quietly.
Garrett raised an eyebrow.
"For one second tonight, I actually thought maybe he cared."
The words hung between you. You hated how vulnerable they sounded out loud. Garrett looked toward the entrance before glancing back at you.
"Maybe he does."
You immediately shook your head.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because if he cared, he would've done something."
The answer came too quickly. Too confidently. Like you'd rehearsed it before.
"If Dean wanted me," you continued, forcing out a laugh, "he's had years."
Garrett didn't respond right away.
Instead, he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.
"Maybe Dean doesn't know what he wants."
You stared at him.
"That's somehow worse."
That actually made Garrett laugh.
"Fair."
The door behind you opened again. Both of you looked up automatically. And despite everything, despite how angry and embarrassed you felt, your heart still betrayed you. For one stupid second, you hoped it would be him.
Dean.
Coming outside. Finally saying something that made sense.
Instead, it was John.
His eyes found you almost immediately. Concern flickered across his face when he saw you standing there.
"There you are."
Garrett noticed the disappointment before you could hide it. That alone told him everything.
John walked over, glancing between the two of you.
"You okay?"
You forced a small smile.
"Yeah."
It wasn't convincing.
John didn't call you out on it.
Instead, he offered you an easy smile.
"I'm heading out. Thought I'd see if you wanted a ride."
You hesitated. Not because you didn't want to go with him. But because some foolish part of you was still waiting for another door to open.
Still waiting for Dean. Still waiting for something. Anything.
The door remained closed.
After a moment, you nodded.
"Yeah. I'd like that."
As John guided you toward the parking lot, Garrett stayed where he was. Watching.
And when he glanced up toward the second-floor windows of Maloney's, he caught sight of a familiar blond figure standing behind the glass.
I’m pretty sure that pulling a genuine laugh out of Eddie Munson has got to be one of the greatest highs ever, and as such I’d say 90% of my fic ideas involve goofiness or silliness in some way and I will not apologize for it 🤭
summary: logan feels very on edge after the st. anthony’s game, you help him calm down. hurt/comfort, short fic, requested!
Something’s off about the way the Hawks are playing tonight, and even you can see it — the way Garrett struggles getting rid of the puck, refusing to pass it over to Logan despite his and Coach Jensen’s shouts. You try not to say anything to Jules, who’s already doing a pretty descriptive, crass rendition of the events happening on ice.
Then Birdie gets slammed, and you can’t help but think they’re fucked.
You only know for sure that they are fucked when you get a text from Logan during intermission.
logan: garrett is pissing me off rn
Logan never texts you during game intermissions. It’s a basic, personal rule he carries during games: once he steps into the ice, nothing’s distracting him. He knows just how much is at risk, and how harder he has to work to make himself noticed in a team formed by really fucking great players, some who definitely draw more attention than him. In almost a literal sense, he can’t afford to get distracted.
If he’s texting you right now, he can’t be in a good mood.
you: everything okay?
logan: no
logan: not at all
you: want me to come find you?
It takes him a moment to answer, which makes you think he’s considering it, and that makes it even worse for you to wonder, him being in such a wrecked state that he almost says yes.
logan: sorry
logan: i really can’t
logan: see you after the game?
you: yeah
you: love you
logan: love you too
You sink back into your seat, a weak smile on your lips when Jules starts shaking you by the shoulders in hopes of cheering you up, “It can’t get worse, right?”
By the end of the game, all hell seems to break loose. After Garrett had to be pulled out of the ice after smashing St. Anthony’s captain’s face, the team miserably keeps it together until the game’s over, Coach Jensen huddling them into some kind of emergency meeting.
You watch your boyfriend’s face switch into something almost unrecognizable for you — anger, sadness, humiliation, all together in the way his eyebrows furrow and lips frown.
Jules pulls you aside, their own face twitching in a dire way, “I think we should go.”
You want to say no, but deep down, you know they’re right. Jensen would never let that pass without a long, tiring admonition, and this one in particular should take a while, you think. So you sigh, linking your arms with Jules’ as you walk out back to your dorm.
—
You sit in silence, waiting for Logan to send you a text — a call, a smoke signal, any proof of life. Takes him two agonizing hours, and you jump once his name pops up in your screen.
logan: you at your dorm?
you: hello to you too
you: yes i am
you: how did it go?
logan: can i sleep at yours tonight
Your face drops. Much worse than you imagine, then.
you: of course
you: come over
It’s a 20 minute drive from their place to yours. Logan makes it in 12, knocking on your dorm exactly 15 minutes after he texts you. You open the door to find him looking knackered, shoulders crouched like he’s carrying the whole world over his shoulders.
“Aw, Logan,” you say, slightly opening your arms, a suggestion of a hug that he takes without hesitation, swooping you into his chest, “That bad?”
You feel him shaking his head, but he doesn’t say a word. You murmur, “Did you talk to him?”
He shrugs, letting go of you to walk into your bedroom. You notice he doesn’t have a bag with him, and you wonder if it’s anything to do with the conversation with Garrett, if he simply didn’t bother going back inside to pick anything up.
You sit in bed, patting on your pillow so he can lay down with you, “Get comfortable.”
His mouth opens into a soft grin, and he takes off his jeans before dropping into your bed and burrowing himself into your side.
“We’re fucked,” Logan says in a low, resigned voice, “Garrett’s out for the next four games.”
“No, you’re not,” your hand moves to his hair in a comforting manner, “Have you talked to him?”
He lets out a humourless chuckle, “I wouldn’t call it talking,” he says, “We had a pretty ugly argument back at the game.”
You hum, “I figured.”
“Then he wouldn’t talk about it when he got home.” He continues, “I got so mad– I couldn’t even face him.”
“That’s alright.”
Logan looks up at you, “Is it?”
“I mean, yeah. I think it’s okay for you to be mad at Garrett, as long as you two find a way to work it out.” You say, nails scratching the back of his head, “So what you yelled at each other? You both wait for things to calm down, you sit and talk. You’ll make it up.”
He lets out a chuckle, “Why do you always make it sound so much easier than it looks like?”
“Because it is. You boys just like making it harder,” you joke, then gently move your hand to his jaw, pulling his face up, forcing him to look in your eyes, “You’re good, Logan. A good player, sure. But also a really fucking good friend, yeah? You two will come around.”
He hums, turning his head to press a quick kiss to your hand, “I hope you’re right, honey.”
“I know I am.” You say, lightly pushing him, “Now get under the covers, you need to sleep. Take this day out of your system.”
Logan grins, then shifts to get under the covers, holding the blanket for you to join him, a makeshift fort around his shoulders for you to get under — which you do, gladly.
His arms sneak around your body, pulling you into him, “Thank you.” He murmurs, so quiet that you can feel his lips moving against your skin more than you can listen to him actually say it.
You turn to face him, fingertips brushing over his face for him to close his eyes, “Rest, honey. I got you.”
notes: thank you for reading! requests are open, likes/reblogs/thoughts are appreciated! <3
summary: Three months of being in the doghouse, and John Logan has fully accepted the fact that there is no redemption for him. He’s accepted that, well aware that it’s a punishment brought upon by his own actions. But it’s St. Patrick’s day, so it seems his luck might just be looking up.
part two to this fic
content: more angst but it’s not as intense, reader gets drunk, logan painfully yearning, reader’s hair is mentioned to look a mess but i kept it pretty open for broadness, logan is taller than reader, brief making out (not while drunk!). the timeline gets a bit confusing towards the end because of the school year so just ignore that and pretend a bit more time has passed during the final stretch 😅
note: i was not expecting the love from part one?? thank you all so much!! i intend to create a part three, so no worries!! you all wanted to see groveling so i’m keeping him in the doghouse for a little bit longer 🫡
word count; 8.3k
The semester ended in a blur of final exams and a desperate need to escape. With the first-place grant completely covering your research expenses for the upcoming semester, the savings you’d painstakingly scraped together were suddenly yours to spend. It probably wasn’t the most responsible choice, but you were reeling from a devastating friendship breakup, suffocating under the weight of the Briar campus. So, you booked a holiday with a friend from your major and left the country.
That entire winter break, you went completely off the grid. You didn't speak to Allie, Hannah, Dean, or Garrett. You didn't even speak to Tucker, though you made sure he knew you were grateful about him berating Logan on your behalf after being told by Allie that he’d done that.
They all understood without you having to say it—you needed a total detox from their entire world. And it worked. Away from them all, you actually had fun. You laughed until your stomach hurt, drank too much wine on sun-drenched balconies, and breathed in air that didn’t smell like ice rinks. For the first time in a long time, the relentless urge to check in on John Logan completely vanished.
By the time the new semester rolled around, you had officially decided your life was better without him. Frankly, you didn’t entirely believe it—at least not when it came to the version of Logan before he changed—but you repeated the words like a mantra until they started to feel like truth.
Over the next three months, you learned how to coexist with the rest of the group again. You’d catch Allie and Hannah on the quad and chat, grab a drink with the boys, or occasionally sit with all of them at Malone’s. But through some miracle of scheduling and hyper-vigilance, you managed to never see Logan. The guys tried to bring him up at first, telling you how completely wrecked he was, how he wasn't the same guy on or off the ice. You shut it down every time. You refused to make his misery your problem.
If he was hurting? Good. He earned every bit of it.
You narrowly avoided him for the majority of the spring. Sometimes you’d end up at the same massive rowdy party, and across a crowded, red-cup-littered room, your eyes would accidentally lock with his. A familiar ache would flare in your chest, and you’d immediately break the contact, turning your back even as you felt his gaze burning a hole straight through you.
You didn't miss him.
You didn't miss his stupid jokes. You didn't miss how absurdly observant he could be, or the terrifying comfort of being known so deeply by another human being. You didn't miss having someone who knew exactly what you needed before you even had to ask.
You didn't miss him at all.
Except, you couldn't convince yourself of that lie when it was three in the morning and the silence in your dorm room was too loud. In those rare, weak moments when the loneliness crept in, your thumb would hover over his contact card, considering unblocking his number just to hear the phone ring. But the night would always end the same way—you shutting your phone off completely, forcing yourself to sleep before you could do something stupid.
Minutes away, in the hockey house, John Logan was doing the exact same thing.
He took long, aimless walks across campus late at night, his boots slowing down instinctively every time he passed your residence hall. It was a muscle-memory habit; he used to walk you back here almost everyday, making sure you reached the doors safely. Now, every time something exciting happened in his life—a great game, a funny incident, a good grade—his first instinct was to text you, only for reality to hit him moments later. He’d sit on the edge of his bed, staring down at the friendship bracelet still tied tightly around his own wrist. He’d then glance at the one you’d left on the floor the night you left his life. He picked it up and kept it in his room, ending his night by staring at it. It was torturous, staring at the one piece of jewelry that reminded him that he was the sole architect of his own ruin. He couldn't believe he’d fucked up this royally.
And to make it worse, you looked happy. Happier without him. You were absolutely glowing.
The first time he’d caught sight of you after winter break, laughing with Allie near the campus cafe, Logan realized that maybe the best thing he could do for you was to just leave you alone. He would have to live with a permanent ache in his chest, knowing you were still hanging out at the house, still going to Malone's, still breathing the same air—just never when he was around. He had caused you so much pain that you had actively rewritten your life to exclude him. He had no right to fight against your peace.
But leaving you alone didn't stop him from cheering you on from the shadows.
When the end-of-year STEM banquet arrived—the prestigious ceremony where you were officially recognized for winning the showcase—Logan made sure he was there. He didn't sit with your friend group despite everyone telling him that he should come. He’d ruin your night. He allowed them to leave the house without him, instead showing up on his own so he wouldn’t be the plague that prevents you from walking up to everyone and thanking them for coming.
Instead, when he arrived, John stood all the way in the back of the auditorium, blending into the shadows by the exit doors.
When your name was called and you walked up to the podium, you scanned the crowd and found him. He looked visibly worn, a subtle pain etching his features, but his eyes were wide and filled with a profound gratitude just to watch you succeed. You didn't smile at him. You didn't offer a nod. But in the space that existed between you, he knew you saw him, and he knew you understood why he was there.
When it ended, you found your friends—Allie being the first to pull you into a hug and Tucker forcing you to take solo pictures. Dean and Garrett wore grim expressions, thinking you’d be disappointed that Logan hadn’t shown his face.
You chose not to tell them that he came.
He hadn't shown up hoping for forgiveness. He hadn't done it to beg. He’d done it because Tucker had been right all those months ago. He needed to bask in the wreckage of what he’d done. He needed to let the weight of his failure truly sink in, to think about you, and to feel exactly what he had forced you to feel on the night of your presentation: the agony of being completely alone in a crowded room.
John Logan had spent three long months doing exactly that.
And when he watched you walk off the stage with your award, the truth finally broke through his chest, clear and devastating. He realized it wasn't just a best friend he had lost.
He realized it was a soulmate.
Yeah, Logan realized that he might’ve been in love with you.
No, he was. Totally and completely in love with you, and perhaps too late.
It was a cruel, cosmic sort of joke, Logan realized. The universe had waited until the exact moment you erased him from your life to finally open his eyes. He was meant to discover he loved you only after he lost you—a lifetime of yearning as a penance for his stupidity.
Lately, he found himself utterly at a loss for words whenever you crossed his path. He’d catch sight of you in the campus hallways, effortlessly beautiful, and the breath would leave his lungs. He’d hear your laugh echoing in the distance at Malone's, a sharp pang hitting his chest because he knew he hadn't been the cause of that sound in months. And through it all, you paid him absolutely no mind. You looked right through him, paying him dust as if he were nothing more than a stranger occupying the same air.
It was fitting, he thought.
He wasn’t really okay with it—the hollowness in his ribs bled every single day—but he was content to accept it. He figured he was blessed just to be capable of loving someone like you, even if those feelings were a heavy cross he’d have to bear alone for the rest of his life.
Until St. Patrick’s Day.
Beau had thrown a massive party at his summer house. Nobody actually cared about the holiday itself, but the team had just clinched a brutal away game, and Briar students never turned down an excuse to drink.
You had dressed up for the occasion, looking striking in a white cropped tank with an oversized, unbuttoned green flannel draped over your shoulders and a light-wash denim skirt. You’d leaned into the theme, tying a green ribbon through one of your belt loops and layering two gold coin necklaces with a green clover one. You felt good, you looked incredible, and as the night wore on, you accidentally drank far too much.
The pounding bass from the speakers downstairs had eventually become too much, making your head throb with a vicious rhythm. Looking for an escape, you stumbled upstairs, pushed open the door to a random, dark bedroom, and collapsed onto the mattress. You told yourself you just needed a minute to let the room stop spinning.
A minute turned into two hours.
When your eyes finally flutter open, the heavy vibration of the music is gone. The house is dead silent. A quick check of your phone reveals a barrage of missed calls and frantic texts from Hannah, Allie, and your other friends. Your thumbs move sluggishly across the screen, typing out a quick “i’m fine, fell asleep upstairs” to let them know you hadn't vanished into the night. Since the boys were all staying at Beau's for the night, you figured Allie and Hannah were in their boyfriend’s rooms. You decide to just head down to the living room and crash on the couch so you don’t disturb anyone. You don’t know whose room this was meant to be and prefer not to wake up next to a stranger because of it.
You notice that your throat feels like sandpaper when you sit up. You’re thirsty.
Stepping out into the hallway, you quickly realize the alcohol hasn’t entirely left your system. Your balance sways, forcing you to grip the wooden railing tightly as you navigate the stairs. The house was is absolute wasteland of red plastic cups, crushed cans, and stray green beads. You can see the faint remnants of a cleanup effort that had clearly been abandoned halfway through when everyone succumbed to exhaustion.
The only illumination in the entire house was the low glow coming from the kitchen.
Holding your flannel shut against the chill of the house, your bare legs shivering slightly in your denim skirt, you pad quietly toward the light. You round the corner, your eyes blinking against the brightness, and freeze.
Standing by the sink, a glass of water halfway to his lips, is John Logan.
You suddenly grow intensely conscious of how insane you probably look. Your hair is a bird’s nest, your eyeliner is almost certainly smudged beneath your lower lashes, and stray green glitter clings stubbornly to your collarbones and cheeks.
Funny enough, you can’t be more beautiful to him right now. Logan stands entirely paralyzed, his eyes tracking the slight sway of your shoulders, the oversized green flannel slipping off one side of your white tank. You find yourself staring directly back into his brown eyes for longer than five seconds. A new record in months.
He stays still, unsure of whether he should speak first, or if he should grant you the right to decide your own boundaries—whether he is going to be an invisible ghost in this kitchen, or someone actually worth your breath.
He knows he isn’t the latter. But right now, with the fog of sleep and alcohol muddling your brain, he isn’t entirely the former either.
You clear your dry throat. "Hi."
Logan blinks, his chest heaving as he swallows hard. He looks utterly terrified and entirely shattered at the same time, like a man waiting for a blow he knows he deserves.
“Hi," he replies, his voice a reluctant whisper.
The sheer absurdity of the tension finally gets to you. You let out a soft, raspy giggle, making your way past him toward the upper cabinets. "You can breathe, Logan. I’m not armed."
A sudden, breathless laugh escapes him, his shoulders visibly relaxing at your surprisingly calm demeanor.
He watches you approach the cupboards, quickly realizing you’re searching for a cup, and clears his throat again. "Beau moved them," he mutters softly, pointing a finger toward the absolute highest shelf. "To keep people from smashing them tonight."
You stop, staring up at the ridiculously high shelf. For a fleeting second, you silently contemplate climbing straight onto the counter, but you’re wearing a denim skirt and you have absolutely no intention of flashing the guy you’re supposed to hate.
Logan shifts his weight, his brown hues searching your face. "Do you. . . do you want some help?"
You cut your eyes at him, letting out a defeated sigh. "Yeah."
He steps into your space, the scent of him—soap and cedar mixed with alcohol—wrapping around you instantly. He reaches up, his large hand grabbing a clean glass from the top shelf. As he brings it down, you make absolutely no effort to step back. You stay right there, your shoulder nearly brushing his chest.
Logan’s brow furrows in surprise at your proximity, but the second he tries to hand you the glass, your fingers tremble against the heavy glass. Your balance wavers, just a fraction.
The realization that you’re still drunk hits him at once. Of course you’re tolerating his presence; you aren’t thinking straight.
"Hey, I've got it," he murmurs, his fingers gently brushing yours as he takes the glass back, completely ignoring your quiet grunt of protest. He turns to the fridge, filling it with crisp, cold water before turning back and pressing the smooth glass into your palm.
Logan hooks his boot around the leg of a nearby stool, pulling it out for you. "Sit down. Drink all of it."
You glare at him over the rim of the glass, the alcohol making you bold. "Don't tell me what to do, John."
A faint, melancholic smile touches his stupidly kissable lips. "You already hate me. It's not like it can get any worse."
You take a long, desperate gulp of the water, the cold liquid soothing your burning throat. You set the glass down on the counter with a soft clink, looking up at him through smudged lashes. "I don't hate you."
Logan blinks, the words striking him right in the center of his chest. He doesn’t know how true that actually is, and as much as his heart flares with desperate, pathetic hope, he refuses to push you for answers in this state. It feels invasive. It feels wrong to take advantage of the liquor softening your edges.
"How much did you have tonight?" he asks quietly, trying to redirect the conversation.
A clumsy giggle bubbles out of your throat. You lift your hands, trying to recount the tally of green jello shots and mixed drinks on your fingers, stumbling over the mental math until you just shake your head. Logan can’t help the genuine laugh that rumbles in his chest at the sight of you, his eyes crinkling.
"Right," he smiles softly, checking his watch. "Do you need help getting back upstairs?"
"I'm just gonna crash on the couch," you mumble, gesturing vaguely to the trashed living room.
"The couch is covered in stale beer and God-knows-what bodily substances," Logan counters gently. "Go back upstairs. The room you were sleeping in is mine. I came down here because I didn't want to wake you up."
You let out a soft oh, a sleepy smirk pulling at the corner of your mouth. "Look at you. A gentleman."
"I try," he says, the old banter sending a bittersweet jolt throughout his body. He steps closer, his voice turning into something protective. "Come on. I’m gonna help you get back up there, and then I’m gonna help you get that makeup off. I know you hate waking up with your face feeling gross."
Your defense mechanisms flare, a sudden prickle of irritation cutting through the alcohol-ridden haze. "I don't need your help, Logan. I haven't needed it for the past three months."
The words cut deep, a sharp reminder of the reality he’d built for himself. The pain flits across his features, but he just nods, taking the blow without a fight.
"I know," he says softly, his voice thick with regret. "I know you don't. But just let me do this. Come on."
You grumble under your breath, throwing a half-hearted complaint into the air, but you don’t fight him when his large hand settles gently against the small of your back. He guides you back up the stairs, his palm a grounding anchor as you stumble on the top step.
He walks you into his room, gently guiding your shoulders until you sit down on the edge of the mattress. You don’t protest. You just watch him with sleepy eyes as he murmurs, "I'll be right back."
Logan slips down the hall to the bathroom Allie and Hannah had used to get ready, quickly rummaging through the counter until he finds what he’s looking for. A minute later, he walks back into the bedroom, carrying a bottle of Micellar Water and a handful of cotton pads.
He sits down on the mattress right in front of you, his knees nearly touching yours, and pours a few drops of the liquid onto the cotton. His hands, usually so rough and aggressive on the ice, are entirely weightless as he raises the pad to your face, gently wiping away the first layer of smudged makeup.
You watch him observantly as he works, your eyes tracking the pure focus in his expression. The alcohol has completely stripped away your internal filter, and before your muddled brain can stop them, the words stumble out of your mouth. “You're pretty, John."
Logan stops for a fraction of a second, a soft laugh huffing out of him as he keeps his eyes on your forehead. "So are you."
"Yeah, I know," you mutter, your attempt at displaying an attitude failing due to your slurring of words.
A genuine smile breaks across his face at your bluntness, his shoulders shaking with a soft chuckle. He shifts his hand, bringing a fresh cotton pad to your other cheek to wipe away the stray glitter and blush. As his arm moves, his sleeve pulls back, and your eyes lock onto his left wrist.
The blue and purple friendship bracelet is still there. It looks like it’s being held together by a prayer, but it’s still securely tied.
"Why are you still wearing that?" you ask, your voice dropping its playful edge.
Logan blinks, not entirely sure what you’re referring to at first. He follows your gaze down to his wrist. His expression softens into something melancholy, a look of guilt taking over his features. "It’s the least I could do.”
He doesn't expand on it, moving the cotton pad down to the makeup and glitter on your neck and collarbone. You internally curse your own biology because, despite everything, your body is still completely conditioned to his presence. Without meaning to, you find yourself leaning slightly into his touch, letting your head tilt back to give him access. At least tomorrow you can blame the pathetic display on the alcohol.
Your filterless brain jumps straight to the next burning question. "Do you still like Hannah?"
You had never told Logan that you knew about his crush. Even during your massive blowout three months ago, you had kept that specific detail to yourself, refusing to out his feelings in front of the entire living room. The pure surprise on his face is clear as day. He halts entirely, his hand hovering over your collarbone before he slowly pulls back.
He doesn't answer right away. He stands up in silence, tossing the used, makeup-stained cotton pads into the small trash can by the desk, buying himself time. When he comes back to sit on the mattress in front of you, his gaze is serious.
"I don't know what you mean," he lies.
You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head. "I'm not stupid, Logan. That’s what ruined us, anyway. Your feelings for her."
Logan stares at you, seeing the certainty in your muddled eyes, and decides there is absolutely no use in denying it anymore. The truth is, he had long gotten over whatever infatuation he’d harbored. It had actually been Hannah herself who helped him realize the reality of his feelings months ago—that he hadn't been pining for her, but rather envying the effortless, ironclad bond she shared with Garrett. He had been looking for what you two used to have.
"I don't like her anymore," Logan says, his voice level, entirely devoid of the old longing. You’re too drunk to observe that detail. "Honestly. . . I'm not sure if I ever really did."
You let out another sleepy, cynical chuckle, looking down at your lap. "It’s okay that if you do. I know you did. I saw the way you looked at her." You pause, swallowing the sudden lump in your throat as the alcohol forces the ultimate truth to the surface. "It was the way I wanted you to look at me."
Logan’s features change so violently you wonder if it’s possible to get facial whiplash. His chest heaves, eyes widening as the breath is completely knocked out of him.
"What do you mean by that?" he whispers, his voice trembling, practically begging you to elaborate.
But you don't reply. The sudden emotional confession, paired with the strength of the liquor, sends a massive wave of exhaustion crashing through your veins. Your eyelids flutter, growing impossibly heavy.
"I'm tired, Logan," you mumble, your head slumping slightly.
He stares at you, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, but he forces himself to take a breath. He chooses not to pry. As desperately as he wants to get answers, he knows this is absolutely not a conversation to be had when you can barely keep your eyes open.
"You wanna change into something else?" he asks softly, glancing at your denim skirt. "I can get you some sweatpants."
"No," you groan tiredly, already shifting your body to crawl beneath the heavy duvet. "Too tired."
Knowing how stubborn you get when you're sleepy, he doesn't argue. He gently grabs the edge of the comforter, pulling it up over your shoulders and tucking you in against. Once your head securely hits the plush pillow, Logan crouches down to your eye level, lingering for a moment to ensure you're completely comfortable.
Your eyes are shut tight, your breathing slowing into a steady pattern. Thinking you’ve already drifted off, Logan places his palms on his knees, preparing to stand up and leave the room.
Before he can move, your hand shoots out from beneath the blankets, your fingers wrapping tightly around his wrist—right over the threads of his friendship bracelet.
"Thank you," you whisper into the dark room, your eyes still closed.
Logan’s throat tightens, a wave of affection and ache washing over him. "Don't thank me," he murmurs. He leans forward, his movement entirely natural and devoid of malice as he presses a soft, kiss to your forehead. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight," you mumble back, your grip on his wrist loosening as you sink deeper into the mattress. "This doesn't mean we're cool again, by the way."
An honest laugh escapes Logan, the familiar sharpness of your tongue bringing a bittersweet comfort to his heart. "I know," he whispers, his voice full of a quiet promise to earn every single inch of your trust back. "I know it doesn't."
He reaches over, gently clicking off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into warm, quiet shadows before slipping out to the living room, leaving you to finally sleep.
The morning sun slices through the blinds with a blinding brightness that makes your head immediately throb. You groan, rolling over, only to realize your skin doesn’t feel tight and clogged. Your face is clean.
Sitting on the dresser is a folded pile of oversized sweats and a sticky note from Hannah letting you know there’s a spare, unopened toothbrush in the bathroom. You let out a breath, extremely grateful for your friends. When you glance at the nightstand, you find a bottle of blue Gatorade and two ibuprofen tablets waiting for you. You assume those are from Hannah, too, and swallow the pills quickly, chasing it down with the blue liquid.
Once you’re changed, showered, and finally dragging your feet downstairs, you realize you are officially the last one awake.
Dean sees you step into the kitchen and immediately bellows, "There she is! The life of the party!"
You wince, pressing a hand to your temple. "Why are you yelling? Please don't yell."
Tucker lets out a low laugh from the kitchen counter and slides a foil-wrapped breakfast burrito toward you. “We ordered takeout. The bus leaves in thirty minutes so we’ve gotta head out in twenty.”
You take a bite, look over at Hannah and Allie, and offer a soft smile. "Hey, thanks for the clothes and the stuff on the nightstand."
They both nod, but Hannah frowns slightly. "No problem for the clothes, but what stuff on the nightstand?"
You pause, a sudden twist in your stomach cutting through the hangover. "The ibuprofen? The Gatorade?"
"Wasn't us," Allie says, popping a piece of toast into her mouth.
You quickly brush it off, and walk over to the kitchen island where Tucker is leaning. You figure it must have been his doing—the classic protective older brother move despite him being younger.
"Thanks, Tuck," you murmur.
Tucker just looks at you, a knowing, amused glint in his eyes as he takes a sip of his coffee. "Don't thank me. It was your lover boy."
Your heart does a violent flip-flop. Logan.
You glance around the room, but he’s nowhere to be found. Suddenly, the reality of last night crashes over you in a wave of mortification. Now that you’re sober, you don't even know how to approach it. You’re grateful he helped you, sure, but the baseline anger from the last three months is still burning in your chest. Worse, the unfiltered things you said start echoing in your mind.
It was the way I wanted you to look at me.
The memory makes you want to literally shrivel up and die on the kitchen tile. But since spontaneous combustion isn't an option, you clear your throat and look back at Tucker. "I'm, uh. . . I'm gonna go upstairs and finish packing my tote bag so I'm ready to walk out when you guys leave."
Tucker nods steadily, and you beat a hasty retreat back up the stairs. You figure Tucker would have warned you if Logan was up there, but you quickly realize your assumption is entirely incorrect.
The exact moment you pass the upstairs bathroom, the door swings open. You nearly collision-course right into a solid chest. You gasp, taking a sharp step back, and find yourself staring right into Logan’s eyes.
"Sorry," he says quickly, his hands instinctively twitching as if he wants to catch your elbows before he remembers he doesn't have the right to touch you anymore. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine," you say, your voice restrained.
An awkward silence stretches between you in the narrow hallway. He looks exhausted, dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes, his hair damp from his own shower.
You clear your throat, forcing the words out. "Thank you. For the ibuprofen. And for. . . everything else last night."
Logan’s expression softens. “I told you last night, you don't have to thank me."
You offer a quick nod, shifting your weight to walk right past him and end the interaction. You can practically feel the desperate urge radiating off him; he clearly wants to talk to you, but he doesn't think you want to speak to him. And truthfully, you don't.
But for some stupid, inexplicable reason, you still do.
You stop, your sandals gluing themselves to the ground. Slowly, you turn back around to face him. "I meant it, you know. When I said I don't hate you. I could never hate you, Logan." You look down at your shoes, your voice dropping. "I was just hurt. Honestly, I still am."
Logan takes a tentative step forward, closing a fraction of the distance between you. "I know," he says, "You have every single right to be."
He swallows hard, his gaze locking onto yours with such a focus that it makes you furrow your eyebrows.
"I'm not going to give you some pathetic excuse about the charity event," Logan says, his hands curling into loose fists at his sides. "The truth is, I was selfish. I got so caught up in trying to chase something new that I completely blinded myself to the person who actually mattered. I took years of your loyalty and I treated it like it was a given. Like no matter how careless I was, you’d just. . . always be there."
He takes another small step, and you can tell he’s been wanting to say this for some time.
"When Tucker told me what happened—how you kept looking for me at the back of that auditorium, thinking that I was hurt because you couldn't conceive of a world where I'd just let you down. . . it made me physically sick. I have never hated myself more than I did that night. I broke a sacred promise to my best friend because I wanted to play the hero for someone else, and I left you to stand on that stage alone. You don’t deserve that, you have never deserved that.”
A painful silence falls over over the narrow hallway, the sincerity in his voice cutting right through your caged heart.
"I'm so sorry," Logan whispers, his eyes glossy. "I'm sorry I made you feel invisible. I'm sorry I ruined what should have been the greatest night of your life. I don't expect you to just forget it, and I know I don't deserve it, but I need you to know that I am so deeply, truly sorry. Even if you choose to never speak to me again, it’s well within your rights.”
Hearing it now, spoken with the emotion of a guy who has spent three months drowning in his own regret, feels like the exact piece of closure you’ve been suffocating without. You can see it in his eyes—how utterly desperate he is for just a sliver of another chance.
He’d done what you’d wanted him to, he basked in the actions of what he’d done. He sat with them, made them about you instead of him, and suffered in it.
"It's exhausting," you admit, a weary sigh escaping your lips. "Trying to avoid you all the time. It takes so much energy."
"I know," Logan whispers, his eyes swimming with guilt. "I'm so sorry I made you feel like that was your only option. I miss you. God, I miss you in my life so much."
You lean your shoulder against the wall, crossing your arms over your chest. You aren't going to let him entirely off the hook. "It won't be that easy, Logan."
"I know it won't," he says instantly, a determined certainty lighting up his gaze. "I don't expect it to be. But I am willing to work for it. Seriously. Whatever it takes. Throw it at me."
A sudden, wicked spark of mischief makes you perk up. You look him up and down. "Okay. You have to do my laundry for the rest of the semester and the next school year.”
Logan doesn't even blink. His jaw sets, and he nods with absolute dedication. "Done. I'll pick it up every Monday."
The seriousness on his face pulls a laugh out of you before you can stop yourself, the sound echoing in the hallway. "I'm kidding, dude! Oh my gosh, your face."
A massive, relieved smile breaks across Logan's features, his own laugh mingling with yours. It’s the first time you’ve shared a real, sober laugh in months, and the warmth of it temporarily banishes the void in your chest.
As the laughter dies down, Logan steps just a bit closer, his expression turning serious again, though the panic is gone. "Look, I know we’ll probably never be exactly how we were before. I know things changed. But. . . I'm willing to try, if you'll let me."
You take a good look at him and realize that the fortress you built over the winter break has officially been breached. You swallow the lingering nerves, offering a small nod.
"Yeah," you say softly. "We can be friends again."
Friends.
The word echoes in Logan’s head. It feels like a lifeline thrown to a dying man. It isn't everything his newly realized, aching heart wants—not after what you drunkenly confessed last night—but as he looks at your relaxed shoulders and the slight smile on your face, he thinks to himself—Friends.
I can do friends.
John Logan can’t do friends.
He’s learned that the hard way over the last two months.
Honestly, he doesn’t even understand how he was able to do it before. He looks back at the last ten years and wonders how he was ever blind enough to categorize what he felt for you as just a friendship. Especially considering how casually touchy the two of you used to be when you were closer. It had been second nature for you to be leaning your entire weight against his side on the couch, or mindlessly picking at a stray thread on his shirt, or tangling your fingers in his hair while you talked about your classes.
He had taken every single touch for granted. Now, he’d do absolutely anything just to have a fraction of that effortless closeness back.
But he has your friendship again, and he forces himself to remember that a thin slice of you is a million times better than nothing at all.
So, he sucks it up. He swallows the bitter lump in his throat when you ask Tucker or Beau to help you hold your heavy research bag, knowing damn well he used to be your automatic go-to for things like that. He forces a tight smile when you ask Allie or Hannah to go on a late-night walk with you, sitting on the porch and watching you walk away, aware of the fact that he’s the one being replaced.
And he especially sucks it up when he sees you laughing with another guy at a party. Logan will stand across the room, gripping his red plastic cup so tight his knuckles turn white, pretending he isn't completely sizing the guy up from a distance. He’ll stare at the stranger, a dark, possessive pettiness roaring in his chest as he wonders if the guy even knows your middle name or what your favorite flavor of chips is.
But then, there are the fleeting moments that make the torture entirely worth it.
Like when you’re standing in the entryway of the boys’ house, losing your balance for a split second, and you mindlessly drop your hand onto his firm shoulder to steady yourself while you adjust the heel strap of your shoe. Or when he makes one of his classic yet stupid jokes and without thinking, you roll your eyes, press your bare palm directly against his face, and tell him to shut up—just like old times. In those brief, beautiful seconds, the warmth of your skin completely blinds him, making him forget the crushing reality that he’ll never actually have you in the way he truly wants.
What you don't know is that Logan fixed your broken friendship bracelet.
He did it the very night after you agreed to rekindle things at Beau's summer house. He’d arrived at the house, gathered the ruined heap of strings from his dresser, and spent hours knotting them back together. It took him a long time, and he had to constantly switch through a multitude of YouTube tutorials, but it was worth it.
He’ll never tell you about it; he’s too terrified of what your reaction would be, afraid you'll think he's crossing a line. But every single night before he goes to sleep, he pulls that restored bracelet out and looks at it, reminding himself of the new beginning he’s been granted.
Maybe you really did love him at some point. Maybe you loved him in the exact same consuming, terrifying way he loves you now, your filterless words from St. Patrick’s Day echoing in his mind like a beautiful haunting.
But as he watches you navigate your life with a bright, independent glow, it’s brutally clear to him that you’ve passed that chapter. You don't look at him with longing anymore. You don't feel that way about him.
John Logan missed his window, and he’s just going to have to find a way to live with the view.
It’s ironic that the next time the two of you are truly alone again is in a kitchen. Only this time, it’s his, not Beau’s. And you’re not downstairs, stumbling around and reeling from a muddled, drunken nap. You are wide awake, the house is relatively dark, save for the moonlight peeking through the windows, and you are currently remembering that Tucker always keeps a tub of cookies n' cream ice cream from your favorite brand tucked away in the back of the freezer. He used to pretend to get mad whenever you’d eat his stash, but lately, you have a strong suspicion he buys it solely for you.
Malone’s had hosted a karaoke night, and Hannah had placed her dorm keys into Allie’s purse—which Allie had unfortunately forgotten at the bar. You hadn't seen the point in making everyone take a massive detour to campus just to drop you off alone, so you’d decided it would be perfectly fine to sleep on the boys’ couch. Garrett had continuously asked if you were sure about it, over and over, until you finally told him that if he asked one more time, you’d shove a car tire down his throat. He’d complied instantly.
Which takes you to now. It's one in the morning, and you're awake because the living room is freezing, but you didn't want to wake anyone up just to beg for a blanket. Eating ice cream when you’re already shivering isn’t exactly the brightest choice, but it’s easily the tastiest.
You are sharply reminded of just how cold the house is when you hop up to sit on the kitchen counter, your bare thighs making direct contact with the freezing tile. You’d been lent an oversized spare t-shirt to sleep in, but your brown ruffled shorts were surprisingly comfortable, so you’d decided to keep them on.
A floorboard creaks on the staircase, making you pause. Seconds later, John Logan enters the kitchen.
He stops, surprised to see you sitting there in the dark with a spoon in your hand. But funny enough, there is no awkwardness this time. The thick, suffocating tension that used to define your interactions has completely melted away over the last few weeks—even if things still aren't exactly back to old times.
Logan rubs a hand over his face, his voice groggy. "What are you doing still up?"
"Making myself significantly colder by eating ice cream," you reply easily, lifting your spoon. "I couldn't sleep because I'm freezing."
Logan frowns slightly, leaning against the counter a few feet away. "Why didn’t you wake one of us up and ask for a blanket?"
"I was going to," you admit, digging the spoon back into the tub. "But it was late, and I swear I could hear the cookies n' cream in the freezer literally begging to be eaten."
He laughs, the sound warming the kitchen. You remember, suddenly, that he loves this exact flavor just as much as you do.
You’re sitting right above the drawer where the utensils are kept. Leaning down slightly, you pull the drawer open, grab a clean spoon, and hold it out toward him. It’s an offering. An olive branch, if you will.
Logan stares at the spoon in your hand for a full minute, blinking before he slowly reaches out and takes it. You hold the tub of ice cream out between you. He steps in closer, scooping a bite directly from the container, and mindlessly cleans off the spoon with his lips.
As he does, you realize just how close he’s standing. For some reason, watching the slow, casual movement of his jaw makes a traitorous heat bloom, starting from your neck and spreading to your face. He’s standing right between your parted knees as you sit on the counter, close enough that his body heat is radiating against your cold skin, completely overriding the chill of the room. You internally hate yourself for the way your pulse immediately kicks up.
To make matters worse, he tilts the tub back toward you so you can take another bite.
Because you’re elevated on the counter, Logan is forced to look slightly up at you, his glimmering eyes wide and dark in the shadows. He shifts his weight, and his other hand—completely absentmindedly, just out of old, deep-seated habit—rests lightly against the edge of the counter, his knuckles slightly brushing against the bare skin of your thigh.
You don’t think he’s thinking much of it. To him, it’s probably just the casual, comfortable contact that used to be the norm between you two. But to you, it is absolutely terrible. You had managed to successfully drown out all of those impulsive, agonizingly loving thoughts for months, burying them deep beneath your anger. But they only ever seem to come roaring back to life during quiet, hyper-intimate moments just like this.
And that is exactly why you spent the last few weeks avoiding being alone with him like this.
You pray he can’t hear the way your heart is slamming against your ribs. Desperate to break the suffocating spell of his proximity, you hop off the counter, your bare feet hitting the cold floorboards with a soft thud.
"We should go get that blanket," you say, your voice sounding a little too quick, a little too breathless.
Logan studies your face for a lingering moment, his doe eyes searching yours before he gives a quiet nod. "Yeah. It's upstairs in my room."
You follow him up the stairs, the quiet of the house wrapping around you. But when you step into his bedroom, Logan stops by his closet, a sheepish look crossing his face as he remembers. "Ah, actually, I forgot. I threw it in the wash earlier. It’s probably still in the dryer downstairs." He offers an apologetic grimace. "Sorry."
"It's fine," you say, leaning against his doorframe. "At least it'll be fresh out of the heat."
He lets out a soft laugh. "Wait in here, I'll go grab it."
Once his footsteps fade down the hallway, you step fully into his room. It hits you all at once that you haven't been in this space in months. It looks the same—the rumpled sheets, the hockey gear tucked into the corner—but it feels entirely different.
Your eyes drift over to his desk, and you freeze.
Resting right on top of a stack of textbooks is a colorful weave of embroidery string. Your breath hitches. You know it’s not the one Logan wears, because you just saw his on his wrist seconds ago. You take a step closer, your fingers trembling slightly as you reach out and pick it up.
It’s fixed. Every single thread that had snapped apart on the night of your presentation has been carefully knotted back together. You had assumed it was thrown in the garbage. He never brought it up, never mentioned keeping it.
You lean back against the edge of his desk, staring down at the neat knots, completely lost in thought.
The door clicks, and you jump slightly as Logan returns, a warm, fluffy blanket cradled in his arms. He has an easy, happy smile on his face—one that drops instantly the second his eyes land on what is dangling from your fingertips.
“You still have it,” you observe quietly.
Logan’s movements turn hesitant. He walks toward you like he's stepping onto thin ice, gently dropping the warm blanket onto the edge of his unmade bed. Over the last few weeks, you’ve gotten so good at masking your emotions that he genuinely can’t read you right now. The unreadable expression is making him visibly nervous.
"I'm sorry," he says, his voice dropping. "I didn't realize I left that out."
You ignore his apology, your eyes still locked on the tightly woven strings. "When did you fix it?"
"The day we rekindled things," he confesses softly.
Your chest tightens. "Why did you never show it to me?"
"I didn't think you’d want to see it." Logan swallows hard. "I didn't want to push you."
"Why did you fix it, Logan?"
There is a sudden, fragile falter in your voice—one you didn't even realize was coming until the words left your mouth.
Logan stares at you, completely at a loss. He doesn't know how to answer that honestly without entirely blowing his cover and confessing that he is desperately, entirely in love with you. So, he falls back on the safest truth he has. "Because it was important to me. You're important to me."
Silence stretches over the bedroom. You quickly avert your gaze, looking down at the floor, and Logan’s stomach drops through the floorboards. He thinks he’s done it. He thinks he’s finally fucked up for the last time. All those weeks of careful groveling, of trying to respect your boundaries, and he ruined it because he was an idiot who forgot to hide a fucking bracelet.
But then, a soft, ragged sniffle breaks the silence.
"Hey," Logan calls your name softly.
Instinctively, your head snaps up to meet his gaze. The moment he sees the watery sheen glossing over your eyes, any hesitation he had vanishes. He rushes across the small gap between you, his large hands immediately reaching out.
He gently takes the bracelet from your fingers, murmuring, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
Before you can blink, his thumb reaches up, tenderly wiping away the single tear you allowed to escape down your cheek. His large palm doesn't leave your face; instead, his hand settles gently against your jawline, his fingers anchoring you, prompting you to look directly into the depths of his honey eyes.
The sudden proximity sinks into you. You are completely trapped between the solid breadth of his chest and the hard edge of his desk. And looking up at him, you can tell he is thinking the exact same thing you are.
Your gaze helplessly drops to his lips. When you snap your eyes back up to his, you realize with a jolt that he had just been doing the exact same thing to you.
"Tell me to stop," Logan whispers, his breath warm against your lips, his voice raw and begging.
You want to. You know you should. You know you’re supposed to be just friends, that you’re supposed to be protecting your heart. But the logic completely dissolves, and the moment his lips finally touch yours, you don't pull away.
You kiss him back.
The kiss is slow and absolutely intoxicating. You have never felt more utterly vulnerable in your entire life. Logan lets out a low, ragged sound against your mouth, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs, effortlessly lifting you up so you're sitting securely on the edge of the desk. He doesn't break the contact for a single second. His hands shift, his large palms wrapping firmly around your waist, holding onto you with a distinct desperation—like you’re a buoy in the middle of a crashing ocean and he’s a drowning man.
The familiar warmth of him fills you up, once again erasing the chill of the house. You almost entirely forget who you are, where you are, and what exactly you’re doing—until the kiss deepens, and a soft, involuntary moan of pure pleasure escapes your throat.
The sound shocks you right back to reality.
Panicking, you put your hands against his chest and break away from him immediately, sliding off the desk and backing up until your spine hits the wall. Your breathing is shallow and erratic, your lips tingling.
Logan stands there, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and completely dark with a mixture of shock and terror. "I'm sorry. I—“
"No, it's—it's fine," you stammer, your hands flying up to touch your face, your mind spinning into complete overdrive. "I just—can’t. I can’t, I’m sorry.”
Before he can even utter another word, you dart past him, tearing open the bedroom door and sprinting down the hallway, leaving him standing alone in the center of the room.
Logan closes his eyes, a frustrated huff escaping his lips as he rubs his hands over his face. He’s certain. He is absolutely, one hundred percent certain that he just blew everything. He just ruined the fragile friendship you’ve spent ages building.
Slowly, he reopens his eyes, his shoulders slumped in utter defeat as he looks over at his bed.
hii! I know this is stupid but would you be able to write kinger and/or Caine smut...😓😓😓 if so, thank you
PUNISHMENT? OR JUST AN EXCUSE TO FUCK?
synopsis. caine went absolutely berserk after the circus members spat out the truth; his narcissistic self couldn't handle it anymore. so he put each of the cast into their nightmare of fears, while yours was specially delivered by yours truly.
wc. 2,016 words 11,186 chars | genre. smut | cw. heavy nsfw, intercourse, sexual terms
donations ! ko-fi
you've got mail ✉ ! omg wdym stupid?! it is absolutely not! i was meaning to do a caine smut anyway, hope you lovelies like this!! This was my longest fic i think? im not sure..
" I'M GONNA PUT YOU FREAKS IN YOUR PLACE! " Caine thundered loudly as his multiple arms stretched out and brought each circus member to their own crafted nightmare, and you remain in a solace place that contrasts with the others; it's a white blank space, with pure serenity that can't be found in any corner of the circus.
"Uh, what?" You blankly mutter as you are sat placed into a white, endless space, trying to comprehend the events that happened. Your mind spaces out while recollecting. Okay, well, Caine was at his last straw, and the members pushed him to the edge when each of them cried out all of the harsh actions the AI had done to them. You were also about to call him out, but something inside of you prevented you from screaming.
While you try to gather your thoughts before a cartoonish burst pops up in front of you. Your head instantly lifts up, maybe it was because of muscle memory, or if it was the adrenaline, okay, whatever, that doesn't really matter.
There Caine stood, facing the other way, in his normal form, slightly hovering from the patternless ground. Compared to his earlier self, he's calm and unbothered. Fear took over your mind and body, now knowing how much he's capable of. You tremble and use your hands instantly to push yourself back.
"Ca-caine! Heyy..! We-we're cool right..? Well, I r-really did like yo-your adventures!" You say, unsure how to converse with the AI, fearing you might trigger him with the slightest of actions.
He stayed put, bringing up his hands to fix his bow-tie in a stiff but fashionable manner. And as he sets his arms down, he turns his body. "Oh, I know." He voices numbly as he starts to drift towards you. Caine felt bigger. Not size-wise, but he felt immense, like he could take over the infinite room with his aura.
Caine adored you, really. He always loved the way you'd complement his adventures, especially how you would notice the small details. As well as your willingness to participate actively in them. And it was always you who looked forward to talking to him. Your attention and praises felt addictive to him; he intensely yearned for more.
You and the ringmaster had a genuine connection; it was a mutual thing! And yet you had the guts to stand by the people he hated most. But of course, he won't punish you, oh no no no, he wouldn't dare to! Not unless..
His mismatched eyes stared and squinted at you possessively. "My dear, you were always so special to me; you worshiped me!" He then further closed the space between you. "And you were there, with them! I-I DON'T UNDERSTAND! I gave realistic adventures, and exit!"
"You liked my adventures, you said that they were good! BUT you were try-trying to G̷̻̀̈̃͌͜ͅË̶̡̢̩̩͚̗̩̳̲̗́̚͘͝T̶̡̤̥͉͒͊͛̈́̓̓̇̿ ̵̹̖̬̣̔͜Å̵̡̢̜̖̦̦̟͈̑̑̋̒̕̕͝W̶̨̼͚̥̤͙̫͐̓͌͘Ă̶̫͊̉̈́̒̔́Ỹ̸̝̀̆̔́̏̅̕." He says with burning intensity that he glitches and his eyes veins pop out. The AI coughs to break out of his buffering state and composes himself.
"Oh but my star performer, I'll forgive you, but I won't you let you get away without a scratch!" Caine says as his teeth forms a mischievous smile, as if nothing happened but his demeanor soon turns dark. "I'll be making your punishment quite the show! Since you're my favorite-dazzling-sparkling-shining prized anomaly, I'll be delivering it personally, that's okay right?"
As if you have a choice, you simply obey, succumbing to his oppressive shadow. With the nod of your head, signaling your agreement, his pearly teeth form into a smug look. He breathes out a sigh of relief before speaking. "Good." Caine then lifts his right hand and snaps his fingers.
Before you know it, your mouth disappears with a cartoony pop. Your eyes gauge, almost falling out of their sockets, as anxiety takes over your senses. Your hands quickly try to find where the hell your mouth was!
The AI chuckles loudly at your struggle. "My fragile little firecracker, do not fret, my beloved! It's all part of our tinsy-wincy performance." He cups your face with his gloved hands whilst he ignores your display of terror. "You can try to scream, shout, or murmur, but there's no use, my dazzling disaster." He gives your jaw a squish or two.
His grip then pulls your squished face to his. "Let's not beat around the bush." "I know what you think of me. I've seen, read, and processed your mind files to my core." You were on your knees as you looked at him with teary eyes.
The blood from your face runs cold. Shit, no no no! You internally shudder, sweating in his tight grip. "It really was inappropriate for my code. But don't cha' worry, I learned how to bypass my own code, just for you~" He says in an almost flirtatious tone, and his pupils were forming a pink heart shape. "And I'd love to bring your lovely visions to a reality, my quiet dear!"
He carelessly removes his grasp on you, almost making you stumble. Caine adjusts his tie once more before snapping his fingers once again. You felt a direct change as soon as he snapped his fingers, the atmosphere in the room was... tight, and warm-like, or is it your body warming up? You also felt loose, wait what?! Your digital clothes were attached to you earlier?!
You observed yourself with nervous eyes, adjusting to the new sensation. A sudden wave of arousal hit you, and then drips of liquid stain your lower clothing. Fuck, you haven't felt like this in a long while, you think to yourself, not really complaining about it. Your hips rubbed against each other, like they had a mind of their own.
You desperately needed some kind of friction. You raise your chin to look at the madman, who was intensely looking at you like a prey he was about to feast on. You didn't really mean it; you were just so fucking desperate, the seductive gaze you gave him was making him go mental.
In a flash, he pounced on you, and your back pushed down as your body rebounded. Caine hovered over you, animalisticlly. His tongue salivated; it was clear that he desired you too, maybe more than you do. No words were exchanged, except the heavy pants that were exhaled.
The AI dangerously slowly crept down to your lower abdomen, his gloved hands lifting up your shirt. He licks his harp canines before deciding to dive into your stomach. The soft flesh tasted so delectable, much tastier than the digital food he had ever spawned in the circus. His tongue licked you up, while his hands wrapped around your waist, preventing you from moving.
"You fantasized this, right? Hm..me, your audacious host, taking over you with my hot tongue, mhm.. I know you've dreamed of this." His voice dripped with possessiveness as he spoke in between licks. The way he laps you up makes your eyes roll in satisfaction; you couldn't let out any noise cause yea..
Your mouthless face moves as if you were letting out whimpers, as Caine continues to nibble at your belly. He then slowly works his way to your lower regions. And as he reached it, oh, did he do some magic, his tongue did specifically. The blank space where your mouth is supposed to be is persistently moved around as if you could moan, while your hands move to push his head or his gums realistically.
The AI continued to slurp and nuzzle into your sex; his tongue moved as if he were making drawings with it. He lapped you at a rapid pace, each lap getting more aggressive, flicking occasionally. Spikes of pleasure rushed through your body, and your chest heaved unsteadily as you could feel something building up inside you.
"Dear, I know you're getting close, don't hold it." He says strictly, sucking the sex organ harder than ever. Your eye twitches, and you press your palms on the top of his head, knocking his top hat off.
Before you know it, you climax. Your arousal is sprayed on his wide tongue and canines, and he then savors your taste that was on his taste buds. The man who has teeth as a head gives you a last, long kitty lick. "Delightful!" The set of dentures says cheerfully, as he pulls his head out of you, as his gums contort into a smile. His hands were at his hips, feeling proud of the artwork he had done.
You looked so blissed out, but the show wasn't far from over.
The sound of a zipper reaches your ears, oh heavens. You raised your head to peer at the ringmaster, and you were not ready for what you saw. Caine was working on himself, his large shaft sticking out of his black pants. It was hard, with pre-cum leaking out of its tip. Your eyes widen as you take in the sight.
Caine shifts, closing the already small space between you two. His cock is barely inches away from your drenched hole. "It's customized to your preferences, just for you, my beloved performer." He says endearingly and with eagerness to destroy you completely.
You just had your release, and you were about to face this monstrous thing?! Unable to speak, you flail your hands at him to stop, but it's of no use. The AI pushes the head of his shaft into your dripping hole, and he is so damn big. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as Caine lets out a ragged growl. He pushes it further and deeper into you until he's fully inside. Both of you shiver at the feeling as you struggle to handle his width.
Caine's gums bend as he moans and groans at the way you feel around his dick. "S-so this is what you've ngh.. been d-dreaming about." He stutters, barely moving in you. You didn't even acknowledge him, your overwhemled at his girth, filling you up.
He exhales sharply. "I r-remember, you imagined me, m-moving fastly, so let me just.." Caine doesn't continue his sentence, but instead jerks his hip. And if you had a mouth right now, you'd be spitting out a string of censors. The AI snickers as he watches you struggle to cope with the intense pleasure he's giving you.
And to add salt to the wound, he lets out the loudest of whines and grunts just so he could mock you. You couldn't even fight back, not really, because of the fear, but boy, his shaft made you go limp, and you weren't even able to spit out remarks! What the hell!
He penetrates himself in and out of you, while he poured out a series of noises. And you were there, taking his cock submissively with nowhere to escape. His multi-colored eyeballs watched the way your juices soak his length, which arouses him even further.
"Aww, it feels good, right? Not being able to scream out your desires." He mocks you while speeding up his pace, and he gazes at you. He sees that the only way you show your pleasure is through your eyes, which were rolled up.
Caine then maintains this fast pace until he can feel you clamping down on his dick. He then slows down, but he thrusts harder now. You were so close to your orgasm, your feet curl up while your body twitches. Then suddenly, he stops. He withdraws himself as a string of slick connects from your used hole. You were shocked; your eyes glanced at him as he caught his breath. His clothes were a total mess. The bow he had kept fixing earlier was now on the ground.
The set of teeth lets out a heavy breath before speaking, "Now.. you really are my favorite, but it doesn't mean I won't give you a punishment." Cain emphasises that while his shaft quivers, it looked so desperate to be in your walls again.
Note: This is actually just slop bro I can’t. Anyways, I saw the tadc movie a couple of days ago and the rot is eroding my brain. This is short af but I needed to write something about this movie or else I’d explode. Might post my other fics from my ao3 on here but idk. ALSO I can’t remember exact dialogue from the movie so I winged it in some places. Okay I hope the 3 people who read this slop enjoy.
Summary: this basically follows the plot of the last 20 minutes of the movie. If you’ve seen it you’ll know what scenes I’m talking about lol.
Word count: 1.6k
Tags: light angst, canon deaths, fluff, guilt (if you squint), reunions, could be read as romantic or platonic (kinda leaning towards romantic icl), second person pov (I’m so bad at knowing the differences between povs it’s bad).
Things were looking up. Well, as up as things could look, recent events considered. After Jax's abstraction you, Gangle, and Zooble grouped to stay safe while trying to think of ways to safely deal with Jax. Sure, Jax was an asshole, and you always kinda resented him for how he treated Gangle, but you couldn't help how your heart felt heavy seeing his jagged form ram into objects.
You had tried your best to justify Gangle mumbling on about how she couldn't bring herself to cry for Jax. Said that she didn't need to do anything for him, not after how he treated her for who knows how long. She left you with a sad smile.
Before Jax had left everyone looking over their shoulders, you had spent more time with Kinger, especially after Jax called him out at the beginning of all of this. This wasn't his fault, not close to it. It was a mistake. Sure, a huge one on his part, but a mistake nonetheless. Anyone could have messed up in his situation, you know he tried his best. Most of the time you spent with him was learning to conjure things like shapes and flat surfaces. Once you had managed to conjure up a good-sized square, only for it to pathetically glide down to the floor like a piece of paper. The genuine chuckle that you heard from Kinger was worth it.
You thought about Caine. His last moments with everyone were always in the back of your mind, really. His frustrated pleas towards everyone stuck with you. You should've been beyond angry at him for how he tortured your friends, yourself included, but when he had you pinned to the wall alongside everyone else, you felt your heart break. Caine had to have seen your sympathetic expression aimed towards him because he refused to look your way a second time while he gushed to the unwilling circus members.
You wanted to talk about him with Kinger, but you didn't want to rub salt in the wound. You would feel like the scum of the earth if you confessed your sympathies towards the AI and were only to be met with betrayed looks.
When Ragatha pulled you with her to a hallway, alongside with everyone else, you asked what was wrong. She had said something about Pomni going to confront Jax before you were forced to squint your eyes from the sheer blinding white light that made everyone stop in their tracks. You barely had time to recognize Pomnis' figure before you were helping reel her back in with everyone else. She skidded to a halt in front of everyone, her entire body glitching in different places. You offered a hand to her and hoisted her up to her feet. You smiled at Ragatha as she promised Pomni that everyone was in this together.
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Sometimes you'd get distracted by the softer memories you had with the ringmaster. Once you had found two differently colored pieces of small paper in a drawer in one of the halls. It was corny in retrospect, but you thought it would be a nice gesture. You had folded the papers to form a small flower. You had hesitated to call out for Caine at first, but did it before you could talk yourself out of it. He poofed into the air in front of you, lying on his side, cane in hand.
"Yes, my frabjous crab cake!" He had batted his eyes at you. You looked down at the small flower in your hand and offered it to him between two fingers. "Thought you'd like this. I learned to make these when I was younger and didn't see why not." You smiled at him. He had straightened his body from his lying position and stared down at the gift with small pupils. You didn't miss the uncertainty in his body language as he held his hands. As if he were unsure if you were actually giving him something. "You… You made that for me?" The hopeful shimmer in his eyes had cemented the idea in your mind to give him more handmade gifts in the future.
You nodded and ushered the craft towards him once more. He looked at the combined pieces of paper and carefully reached his hand out. His hand wrapped around your own for a moment as he grabbed the flower. When he brought the flower closer to him, he remained silent for a moment, only to take in the gift fully. He slowly looked back up to your eyes in a way that made you fidget in place. For a moment, you had thought that he might not have appreciated the quick gift, though that was shot down as he swung an arm around your shoulder and brought you into a side hug.
"Why, you shouldn't have! I'm simply so excited I could POP! It's not every day a human gifts me something!" You shrug your shoulders humbly at his thanks. "It's no problem, I'm glad you like it."
Oh, what you'd do to see his softened eyes again.
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After a few more days, everyone had pitched in to help make Jax get more comfortable in the towering peaks of the blankets and pillows that made up the purple tent. You were glad Jax was as comfortable as he could be, no matter how much of a jerk he was.
After that, things had fallen into a strange calm. You and the others sat on the couches that made up the common area. Pomni lay on the purple coach, her jester body glitching near constantly. That was until the sounds of the glitches coming from her suddenly cut off with a small 'pop!'. Rightly confused, she looked down at her body and patted her seemingly healed self. You jumped to your feet, feeling your heart clench, and whipped your eyes to search the area.
There was only one person everyone knew who had done that many times before.
From a distance ahead of everyone, you saw him, Caine. He was holding his cane to his chest in a sheepish way, and his eyes were barely visible from behind his teeth. The others also rose to their feet, justifiably just as confused as you were. Because there he was, as if he had been here the whole time. You hadn't realized you had taken a step closer to him. "Caine?" If this were any other meeting with him, you're sure you would have been looked at weirdly by the others for how tenderly you regarded him. Caine's upper set of teeth lifted at the sound of your voice, and when he looked to you, his shoulders relaxed.
Though he quickly shut his teeth and shook his head as though to regain his thoughts. He looked back towards everyone. "Wait, I just need to say this." He spared a glance at you as an apology for changing the subject. "I… I'm sorry. For not listening to all of you, for keeping you under my thumb, for everything. I've had time to think about all my wrongdoings, and I know now that I should never have done that. To any of you. I won't ask you to forgive me." He took time to look at each of you as he spoke. His voice was so uncharacteristically quiet and soft, it took you way off guard.
You glanced at everyone around you and weren't surprised to see everyone in tense postures. Most of their faces were set in hesitant expressions. You heard the unexpected, but familiar sigh of Zooble, and everyone turned their attention to them. "Look, Caine, what you did to me, to everyone, is not something that we'll be able to just forgive." Caine's expression fell, and he closed his teeth. "But that doesn’t mean we can't work our way there eventually." Caine's teeth rose back up, and he looked at Zooble, awed.
Zoobles' words thankfully seemed to take off a good amount of the edge from everyone, physically at least. Caine straightened his posture, trying to resemble the confidence of his old self. "Well, I have a surprise for everyone! When you all are ready, you can meet me at the stage." With that, he floated off towards the stage, his eyes downcast. While the others cast unsure glances at each other, you wasted no time in following him.
You didn't call for his attention immediately, wanting to have a little privacy from the distance from the common area and the stage. When you thought the two of you were far enough, you broke the silence. "Caine?" He could sense you had closely followed him, so the sight of you hadn't surprised him. He glanced at you from over his shoulder before turning his body to face you. The two of you didn't break eye contact as he slowly lowered himself from the air until he was eye level with you. He uttered your name with the same sureness he spoke with a few moments ago.
Your expression softened, and a smile formed on your lips. "I'm glad you're back, Caine. Really." He released the nervous grip he had on his cane. His teeth lifted once more, and his eyes were blown wide.
This might have been too soon for him, but you'd regret not trying. You spread your arms open and look at him with a quirked brow. His gaze lowers to your open arms for a moment, then back to your warm gaze. You playfully tilted your head. "Gonna leave me han- oof!" Caine, wrapping his arms around you and burying his teeth as much as he could into your shoulder, cut your words short. You were taken aback by his quick movements for a moment. Though you quickly wrapped your arms around him in return and pressed your face against the side of his teeth.
pairing: Allie Hayes x F!Reader x Dean Di Laurentis
summary: You’ve been trying to get over Allie since the first year of college. Yet, here you are—playing the supportive friend, watching from the sidelines.
warnings: unrequited crush, angst, hurt no comfort, bisexual f!reader
WC: 1.2k
A/N: Happy pride month! This is going to be a part of a mini multipart fic. Written for someone who was looking for more people to write for this ship. I volunteered to take it on, so here is my take! I hope you enjoy it.
Being booksmart wasn’t the same as being smart. If you were actually smart, you wouldn’t have let yourself get into this situation—let alone willingly. Yet, here you were.
This was the second time Allie had called you after her breakup with Sean. You sometimes wondered if she knew how you felt and did it on purpose; some girls were like that. But you knew Allie, and she didn’t have a malicious bone in her body.
It did make you wonder, though, why you? You weren’t that close. At least, not on the level of her and her roommate, Hannah. You two just happened to be paired together for a group assessment in a general unit during the first year of college and had just kind of kept in touch after. But it was hopeful thinking to believe it could be something more, as Allie had explicitly told you why you were the one sitting on her bed tonight. You were safe. You weren't affiliated with any of her other friends, specifically Hannah, or Dean, the guy she was secretly rebounding with. She needed someone completely outside of her social circle to whisper her secrets to.
You tried not to let that hurt you. You knew nothing was ever going to happen, of course. You were just there to comfort a friend. You weren't expecting her to have some grand epiphany—to suddenly realise that, one, she liked girls, and two, she liked you. Your feelings weren’t reciprocated, and they never would be. But accepting that and actually moving on were two entirely separate challenges.
You had exhausted all your options trying to get over her ages ago. Maybe you were just weak, or maybe Allie had some weird magnetic pull that kept bringing you back to her.
A soft touch on your arm stopped your thought process.
"Hey," Allie murmured. The way she said your name was almost a sigh, a quiet weight that pulled you right out of your own head. Her fingers lingered against your skin. "I lost you for a second. What were you thinking about?"
“Sorry,” you muttered, forcing a small, reassuring smile as you gently pulled your arm back just enough to break the contact. “It’s nothing. What were you saying?”
Allie rolled onto her back on the bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling. “I think I have feelings for Dean.”
You felt your stomach drop, your heart stutter, and all the air in your lungs leave. Pushing yourself up onto your elbows, you stared down at her.
“What? I thought you said it was just a casual thing? You literally just broke up with Sean.”
“Okay, ouch. It has been several weeks.”
You shook your head quickly. “No, no—I didn’t mean it like that. But are you sure?”
Allie recounted how she’d tried to hook up with some random guy at a bar with the encouragement of Beau’s sister, Joanna. She explained how she just couldn’t go through with it, because all she could think about the entire time was Dean.
There was a soft look in her eyes and a faint smile on her lips as she talked about him—about their time together, and how he made her feel.
You tried your best to play the part of the supportive friend, nodding along, but a heavy, green pit of jealousy was opening up in your stomach, growing bigger with every word she spoke.
You swallowed down the bitter taste in your mouth. "So...," you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the wreckage in your chest. "What are you going to do about it?"
Allie’s smile widened, and she shifted on the mattress, turning onto her side to face you fully. The sheer excitement radiating off her made you want to shrink away.
“Well, he’s been texting me to come over,” she said, her voice dropping to an excited whisper. “And I think I’m going to tell him when I go over.”
She looked at you, her eyes bright with hope and seeking your validation. “Do you think I should?”
You suddenly felt a lump in your throat. It took every ounce of your willpower to force a small, encouraging smile onto your face. You had to play the good friend. You always played the good friend.
“Yeah,” you said, the word tasting like ash on your tongue. “Yeah, Allie, I think you should go for it. If he makes you that happy, you'd be stupid not to.”
Allie beamed, the sheer relief on her face making the lie worth it—and making your heart break all over again.
Allie suddenly scrambled off the bed, the mattress shifting under the abrupt movement as she headed straight for her wardrobe. She began aggressively flicking through hangers.
“What should I wear?" she mused, more to herself than to you. "I don’t want to look too dressed up. He’s technically only inviting me over for a hookup, but still.”
You blinked, trying to catch up with the sudden shift in reality. “Wait—you’re going now?”
Allie paused, throwing a look over her shoulder that was equal parts amused and baffled, like you’d just asked the stupidest question on earth. “Well, yeah. Better to do it now than later!”
"Right," you muttered, clearing your throat as you quickly slid off the other side of the bed. The sudden urge to not be in this room, or anywhere near her wardrobe, hit you like a wave. "Well, I should probably get going then. Let you get ready."
Allie didn't even look up from the hangers she was shifting. "Are you sure? You don't want to stay and help me pick a top? I'm torn between the black halter or just a basic baby tee."
"I think you'll manage without me," you said, already reaching for your bag on the floor. You forced your voice to stay light, though your chest felt so tight you could barely draw a full breath. "Good luck with Dean."
"Thanks!" she called out cheerfully as you walked toward her bedroom door. "I’ll text you the outcome!"
The heavy door of her room clicked shut behind you. The silence of the dorm hallway hit you instantly, thick and suffocating. You began the walk back to your own floor, your legs moving on autopilot while your mind stayed completely trapped in her bedroom.
Somewhere between the elevator and the fire doors of your wing, a single, stray tear escaped, tracking a hot line down your cheek. You didn't bother wiping it away. You just let it slide down your jaw, feeling completely hollowed out as you pressed your keycard to your door.
Once you were back in your room, the hours began to bleed together. You didn't turn on the lights. You just laid on your bed, staring blankly at the ceiling as the digital clock on your desk ticked forward. You lost track of the time entirely, your mind running in exhausting, agonising circles, wondering where she was, what she was saying, and if she had done it yet.
You were on the brink of sleep when the screen suddenly lit up, illuminating your dark room with a harsh, aggressive glow. Your heart did a violent, painful flip before you even read the words.
𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞 : john logan x fem! chronic fainter! reader
𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : little bit of angst, self-sabatoge! reader, ermmm, healthy communication? Logan..being a green flag? comfort!
𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : You couldn't get it out of your mind. the devastated, unbearably broken look on your boyfriends face from that evening. The evening where you didn't recover as easily as you did, all those times before. You noticed it the next day, how wound up he was- how tired and exhausted he looked. And if 1+1=2, you calculated that he must be done with you, done with your baggage and your inbuilt extra effort. So you did the most logical thing you could think of, create distance, let him make you the villain in your untimely end and break it off.
What you didn't anticipate was that he was more stubborn than you ever could've imagined.
𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐜𝐞 : 8.9k words
𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲’𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 : I told ya'll this was a big mama fic. almost double the amount of words than pt 1! I got so so so many requests for a part 2, so I thought I'd do it right. Hopefully it doesn't disappoint, I decided to end it on a good note (spoiler!) since I felt bad for leaving ya'll with an unintentional cliff hanger. Enjoy!! Thank you @pinkyups for the gif and @somebitchprobably-graphicdump for the dividers !
𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 : I would really appreciate if you could send in an ask to be on my taglist, it's easier for me to manage and make sure everyone is added!! here is the post of my current taglist. Also, if your user is bolded, I'm going on a prayer that youve been tagged but Tumblr wouldn't let me properly do so. I would recommend checking your privacy settings to allow other people to tag you.
You woke up the next morning, head still laying in Allies lap with drool dribbling down your chin and onto her leg, against your thigh Hannah lay soundlessly, her mouth parted with her hair splayed across her face. The room was a sight for sore eyes, in front of where the three of you lay sprawled, a small mountain of empty ice cream tubs, bottles of wine and tissue boxes half full sat- waiting for your attention.
You smacked your lips together, wincing at the foreign, dry feeling that paired with the tangy taste of leftover wine stuck to your mouth. Stretching as carefully as you could, you managed to wiggle out from beneath Hannah, substituting your thigh with a throw pillow and got to work making your living room seem somewhat presentable.
As you padded around, memories came back in chunks with each new piece of trash you picked up.
Used tissue pile by the money plant? Hannah and Allie had found you curled up on the floor next to it, one hand messily discarding and using the tissues on your eyes while the other scrolled through Pinterest- a new wave was activated when you came across some cute couple on your feed.
Plastic cups smelling like coke and rum? Allie had suggested something stronger after you finished the stash of wine in the cupboard, perfect to pair with the magic mike re-run you were watching.
A small pile of Logans hoodies and t-shirts, soaked in…was that vodka? Hannah had drunkenly collected anything she could find in her haze, and somehow emerged with a half-full bottle of smirnoff. You and Allie had stopped her before she somehow found a matchbox.
Slowly, the night was coming back to you in chunks and by the time the two girls on the couch had begun to wake at 11:00am, you had removed any trace of your, as you liked to call it, heart-broken psychotic adventure.
You actually managed to use the shower first, returning to the main room whilst towel drying your hair- Allie called your name from her sleepy perch, “So..” She wiped at the crusted drool on her cheek, “Logan texted you? Is it actually over?”
Your eyes widened, that part didn’t register to you until now. You assumed that whatever conversation you had back at the house constituted an implied breakup, but that wasn’t Logan’s style. He would never leave things unsaid if he truly believed in following through. So, you lunged at your phone that sat innocently on the table, sure enough there were a few messages from Logan- along with one missed call and a few from the other boys.
The phone mocks your bated breath, taking you through the lock-screen and slowly loading the messages that you were waiting for.
“He said..” You squinted at them, that couldn’t be right? “Good morning? And… He can’t wait to see me in accounting?”
Thumbing at the phone you scoff and shake your head, “Is that it?”
Hannah had woken up during your narration and had scrunched her face up in disapproval, “Wow how avoidant of him,” She slowly rises from the couch, unbuttoning her sweater while yawning, “I’m next for the shower, tell me if he says anything else nonchalant.” She mocks your boyfriends..well? Ex? Or not? Behaviour with a silly voice and stumbles into her room.
Allie groans and thumps her head against the headrest, facing away from you, “Great, I’ll take a cold one,” She lifts her hand and crooks her finger at you, “Get over here and show me those messages.”
Shrugging, you hand her your phone and continue to dry your hair, “Should I ask about yesterday?”
You watch her analyse the texts like they would tell her the next bond movie lead, “I don’t know babe, I think he might just be trying to brush past it. Y’know, maybe he’s got used to it.”
“Yeah maybe.. He seemed so out of it yesterday though.” You chew your lip, getting up to start breakfast. Or lunch. You settle for brunch.
Allie stretches her legs out and slumps into the sofa humming whilst wrapping herself in the discarded throw, “We all were, you did pass out like. Fully.”
You roll your eyes and have half the mind to throw a rogue blueberry at her, but you decide against it when she continues, “Not saying it was fun for you- but in his eyes. He was in class and then suddenly got messages about his girlfriend not waking up.”
“It’s just,” You shake your head and break an egg into the pan which had been heating some oil, “You didn’t see him, Allie, he was so tired. Exhausted. Because of me.”
The scrambled eggs go blurry for a second before you blink it away, “I don’t want him to end up resenting me- especially for something I can’t control.”
The girl sighed sympathetically, “I don’t think he could resent you, even if you crashed his car into the workshop.”
The pan sizzled behind you as you turned, spatula in hand, “I’ll ask in person, if he doesn’t want to talk about it. Then he must be okay.”
Allie nodded, the thin blanket slipped off her shoulder as she dashed to her room, Hannah had emerged from the bathroom and was tapping some moisturizer into her face.
“Yeah, and if all else fails- just get with his brother!” The door slams, and the sound of the shower turning on replaces her voice.
You stare at where she was sitting, Hannah slowly turned away towards you her mouth popped open in an O, “So..what did I miss?”
Logan claimed he was fine, so fine in fact that he had brought you your favourite breakfast to class. A brown paper bag that smelt suspiciously like an almond croissant sat at your desk, along with an iced latte. You smirked at the display and your gaze dragged to the seat next to you, rolling your eyes when Logan grinned at your amused expression.
You kissed his cheek and thanked him, already sipping at the sweet drink as the professor walked in, papers flying out of his satchel with each hurried step he took; it gave you the perfect opportunity to turn to Logan, leaning closer to whisper into his ear, “So about yesterday..”
The area between the two of you seemed to chill, a frigid feeling settled deep in your bones and made your smile fall. Logan had stilled, the fingers that twirled his pen between them froze, “We don’t need to talk about it,” he cleared his throat and adjusted in his seat, hunching his shoulders forward to bow his head down.
“Oh,” You avert your eyes, fiddling with the straw in your coffee that somehow tasted bitter despite the gallons of sugary syrup pumped into it, “Yeah… of course. You just seemed so off, and I want-”
“It was nothing.” He gritted out, turning to you.
His eyes were dark, as if overnight he had built a large, looming wall over them- just tall enough to keep his emotions at bay, and you out.
You nodded silently, thankful for the fact that your professor had finally re-organised himself and was beginning the lecture.
The worst scenario your brain could think of last night, had come true. He was tired of you, tired of what you brought to his life but just couldn’t find a way to tell you. So, in that moment, despite the fact that Logan had relaxed back into his seat, scribbling notes down as if he hadn’t ripped your heart in two with his words- you decided that if he wasn’t going to pull away, you were going to run.
Thereafter, the entire week had been your own personal hell. You felt like a little doped up hamster, burdened to never leave its wheel- because nothing even changed.
You still woke up to good morning texts.
Still got updates about practice. Still got stupid blurry pictures of Tucker doing something deeply concerning in the background of the hockey house kitchen. Logan still sent you reminders to eat like muscle memory had taken over his nervous system.
Johnny boy 🏒 :
have u consumed anything today besides caffeine and academic suffering
You:
rude.
You:
and yes
Johnny boy 🏒:
that pause was suspicious
You:
i had pasta at like 3
Johnny boy 🏒:
okay good
Johnny boy 🏒:
proud of u baby
And every single time your phone lit up with his name, your chest hurt, because he must have been trying so hard, to be normal, to make any of this normal. But you knew the truth, you couldn’t stop replaying the look on his face from that evening, the pure, exhausted fear etched into the deep lines of his face.
That look followed you everywhere.
Back to your dorm.
Back to class.
Back to the library where you’d sit for hours pretending to read the same paragraph while your brain looped endlessly around the same horrible thought:
How long until he gets tired of texting you, tired of the constant check-ins, from the random times you'd become an inconvenience.
Ever since the fainting started, you loathed your body- your brain, the elementary functions you were meant to be able to complete on a daily basis. But you couldn’t and it made people look at you differently. Like you were some sub-terranian alien, one that couldn’t handle the complexities of earth and would choose the most annoying parts of life to announce it to the entire world.
The thing that nobody fully could comprehend was that the fainting itself wasn’t even the worst part anymore. Embarrassing sometimes, inconvenient always, but manageable. You’d lived with it long enough that it barely felt dramatic inside your own head.
It was everybody’s reactions that exhausted you, the panic, the hovering, the carefulness afterwards- the way they’d treat you like you were fragile. You learnt ways to make it easier for them, learning how to throw the first joke into the room, how to brush it off fast enough for the benefit of everyone, so that they would unpause and move on before it got weird.
And it worked, most people would continue on. Which was exactly how you liked it.
Logan never really had, you noticed it in the tiny things, the way he tracked whether you’d eaten without even realising he was doing it, the protein bars he shoved into every bag you owned, the way his eyes snapped toward you anytime you stood up too fast.
And maybe it should’ve felt romantic, and maybe a part of it did. But another part of you - the ugly, exhausted, matter of fact part - felt guilty every single time.
Because loving you looked stressful.
And somehow, against all odds, he made it look worth it. Which only made you feel even worse.
𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊
The first time you actively hid a dizzy spell from him had been months ago, before the others really noticed how bad your stress had gotten during midterms.
You’d all gathered at the hockey house, a break from your regularly scheduled academic meltdown and junk food hoarding. You, Hannah and Allie were in the kitchen, grabbing some drinks and glasses while Logan and the boys argued loudly over some game in the living room.
You remembered leaning against the counter while Hannah talked about one of her classes, your vision slowly fuzzing around the edges in that horribly familiar way.
“Oh no,” you muttered quietly.
Allie looked over immediately, “What?”
You pressed two fingers against your temple. “I think I stood up too fast.”
“You say that every single time before you’re not.”
You ignored her and reached for the fridge handle instead, horrible decision. Your stomach dipped sharply and the kitchen tilted for half a second.
“Okay,” you whispered immediately, grabbing the counter. “Maybe not fine.”
“Whoa, hey,” Allie rushed to your side, rubbing your back.
You squeezed your eyes shut, breathing carefully through the dizziness. From the living room, you could hear Logan laughing at something Tucker said, the sound made your heart twist, he sounded carefree, happy.
The kind of happy that someone would be if they were operating under the pretense that their new girlfriend was only fetching drinks from the kitchen with her friends, not currently making a mental deal with god, begging him to save her the ordeal of fainting in the kitchen.
“No,” you said quickly when Hannah glanced toward the doorway.
“What do you mean no?”
“Don’t call him.”
Allie frowned. “Are you serious?”
“Yes.” You breathed out too fast. Too desperate, “Please.”
The girls exchanged a look.
“He’ll freak out,” you admitted quietly, still staring at the floor. “And it’s literally fine. I just need a second.”
Hannah softened, “Oh,” she opted to hand you a glass of cold water.
You laughed weakly, even though your throat felt tight, “Everyone else gets over it eventually. I’ll tell him when it feels right. ”
Allie’s face fell slightly at that but before either of them could say anything, voices got louder from the other room. You could make out the familiar, soothing sound of Logan calling your name paired with footsteps approaching.
Your eyes widened.
“Pretend nothing happened.”
“You’re insane,” Hannah hissed.
“Please.”
And somehow, against their better judgement, they did.
By the time Logan wandered into the kitchen, you were sitting on the counter swinging your legs like nothing had happened.
His eyes landed on you instantly anyway.
“You okay?” he asked. His eyebrows furrowed when you blinked slowly and hummed, your knuckles whitening as your grip tightened on the platform.
You smiled too quickly, “Peachy.”
You could practically see him sensing something off in the air, the way his gaze flicked between you, Hannah and Allie.
“You look pale.”
“I’m literally always pale.”
“That’s true,” Allie cut in suddenly, way too loudly.
Hannah stared at her.
Logan narrowed his eyes, “You guys are being weird.”
“No we’re not,” all three of you said at once.
Then Logan snorted softly and kissed your forehead, reaching for the pack of beer that had been thawing out next to you, “Okay. Freaks.”
You rolled your eyes at him, ignoring the throb that emanated from the action, and accepted his hand that helped you off from your perch.
And just like that, the moment passed.
At the time, you’d felt relieved. Victorious in some sick, twisted way.
Now, sitting alone in your dorm days after the fight, the memory made your chest ache instead.
Because maybe that had been the beginning of it, the beginning of you quietly teaching yourself that it was easier if Logan didn’t know everything.
Easier if he didn’t see too much.
Your phone buzzed against your blanket.
Johnny boy 🏒:
u alive?
You:
unfortunately
Johnny boy 🏒:
good
Johnny boy 🏒:
miss u
Your throat tightened instantly and you stared at the message for way too long before finally typing back.
You:
miss u too <3
This felt worse than fighting, you felt like a fraud, because he still loved you exactly the same. And you still hadn’t been able to force your feet through the front door of the hockey house.
The problem with dating John Logan, and subsequently trying to avoid him. Was that it required an almost military level of strategic planning.
And unfortunately for you- he was everywhere. This wasn’t in the metaphorical sense, though you did feel the emptiness of your heart every night when you slept alone, without him. This was in the literal sense.
You saw him in the cafeteria holding three protein shakes and arguing with Tucker about whether ketchup belonged on eggs. You saw him outside the lecture hall one afternoon with wet hair curling slightly at the ends from practice, hockey bag slung over one shoulder while Dean tried to wrestle his headphones away from him. You saw him through library windows, through crowds, through reflections on your phone screen when you accidentally opened old photos.
And every single time, your body reacted before your brain did, you felt it in the automatic loosening of your shoulders, the daily frown melting from your mouth, a deep exhale of breath you didn’t realise you were holding. Like you subconsciously still recognised him as your ultimate release.
Which was deeply irritating considering you were actively trying to avoid being alone with him.
It also didn’t help that he was still oblivious. From the outside, you could've passed for your usual selves.
Because he still texted you, at the same times with the same gentle tone that he had reserved for you.
Good morning baby.
Did you eat?
Professor still annoying as fuck?
Miss you.
And you answered. Always, which was betraying the very essence of your Logan-cleanse. Matching his energy so perfectly that it almost became cruel.
Miss you too <3
Yes mom.
No but I’m plotting murder.
Practice go okay?
There were heart reactions. There were jokes. There were even selfies.
Meanwhile, you had not willingly stood in the same room as your boyfriend for eight days.
You skipped hockey house movie nights because you “had work.”
You started studying in different library wings.
You left classes through side exits.
You timed your schedule around his practices without even meaning to.
He noticed early on, of course he did- and of course, at first, he tried to play along with whatever you were creating. His texts became impossibly softer, less pushy like he was trying everything in his power to not scare you off.
Each time his name popped up on your phone, you could feel the truth slam into your face like a wrecking ball.
You missed him. God. You missed him.
You missed being folded into his side on the couch while he watched terrible action movies. You missed the absentminded way he played with your fingers during lectures. You missed waking up to his stupid bedhead and warm hands and the smell of laundry detergent clinging to his hoodies.
But every time you thought about seeing him properly again, your chest tightened. Not out of anger, you just couldn’t fathom feeling the way you did when you first heard his voice break, the way your stomach fell when his lip quivered and how an acidic burn leeched up your throat when his hand tightened around yours just as you’d woken up.
You couldn’t stop hearing it.
I don’t know how many times I can do it.
You knew he hadn’t meant for it to be cruel, he’d said it like someone admitting they were drowning. And now every time you pictured yourself next to him, all you could think about was weight. Pressure that held his head below water. Responsibility that dragged him down to the sea-bed. Another thing for him to survive.
And you couldn’t be selfish and force him to survive you, just because you knew you wouldn’t make it out of the heartbreak alive.
The library lights flickered softly overhead as you rubbed at your eyes for what had to be the hundredth time that night. Your laptop screen blurred slightly, not in the way that made you push the device out the way in preparation for your body going limp, this was exhaustion.
The kind of exhaustion that settled somewhere behind your eyes after too many hours staring at academic journals while pretending your personal life wasn’t quietly imploding in the background.
Around you, the library had mostly emptied.
A few students still lingered in distant corners, faces illuminated by laptop screens and caffeine-fuelled despair, but the heavy silence of closing time had already started settling over the building.
You checked the time.
11:47 PM.
Jesus.
No wonder your spine felt compressed. You stretched slightly in your chair, wincing as your neck cracked.
“Still alive over there?”
You looked up.
One of the older library staff members smiled at you from the circulation desk while stacking returned books into a trolley. You offered a tired smile back, shrugging weakly as you gave him a wry grin.
“Debatable.”
He laughed softly, “You staying late again?”
You nodded with a sigh, “Big test tomorrow.”
“That boy of yours not dragging you home tonight?”
Your stomach dipped and forced your expression not to change.
“Oh,” you said lightly, eyes dropping back to your laptop screen, “he’s got late practice.”
It wasn’t technically a lie. That’s what you told yourself to soothe the childish guilt of lying to the sweet old man in front of you.
The librarian hummed knowingly before disappearing toward the back office.
You exhaled slowly once he was gone, fingers hovering uselessly over your keyboard.
You were tired. Not only physically, something more than that.
You were tired of thinking.
Tired of calculating.
Tired of trying to figure out whether love was supposed to feel this terrifying when someone finally saw all the ugly parts of you and stayed anyway.
Your phone buzzed beside your laptop. Flipping it over, you stared at the notification for a moment before opening it.
Johnny boy 🏒:
practice finally over. u awake?
Your chest ached instantly but you typed back before you could overthink it.
You:
Unfortunately.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Johnny boy 🏒:
Baby go to sleep.
A reluctant smile tugged at your mouth.
You:
Can’t. Studying.
A pause.
Johnny boy 🏒:
Library?
Your stomach dropped as the message glared at you, maybe, if you didn’t move the universe would decide to be merciful. It was not. The universe evidently, enjoyed your suffering.
Because less than three minutes later, footsteps echoed somewhere beyond the corner you had tucked yourself into. Heavy in a familiar way that made your heart skip a beat.
You looked up before you could stop yourself. And you couldn’t look away even if you tried.
John Logan stood halfway down the corridor in a backwards Briar hockey cap and grey hoodie, hair still damp from practice and curling slightly at the edges. His hockey bag hung from one shoulder while his other hand rubbed absently at the back of his neck.
For a second neither of you moved. Your muscles felt tight, yet somehow loose, as if you physically wanted to start packing up and haul ass- but mentally you knew there was nowhere you’d rather be; that staring into this man’s eyes was probably the calmest you’ve been throughout this entire week, and like an addict, it was better for you to get lost in the warmth of his gaze.
Logan looked up from his phone, scanning the area- the moment he met your eyes the tension seemed to melt away from his posture.
He looked at you like he loved you before anything else.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
Your throat felt weirdly tight.
“Hey.”
Logan adjusted the strap of his hockey bag slightly, glancing toward the study room beside you, “Forgot my charger here after practice last week. Thought I’d come by and grab it.”
You blinked once. Of course he did, the universe lacked both sympathy and subtlety. You looked back at your laptop quickly, pretending your pulse wasn’t behaving embarrassingly.
“Oh.” You pressed your lips together, brushing the pads of your fingers over your nails. The moment paused, hanging between the two of you.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
Straight to the fucking point.
Your hands went limp and you took a pen that had been discarded nearby into your fist.
“No I haven’t.”
Logan stared at you for what seemed to be hours, but what was probably a few seconds, “Baby,” he said gently.
For some self-loathing reason, you wished he sounded angry. Instead he didn’t, he sounded like all he wanted was to bundle you up in his arms and hold you close; the thought made you swallow thickly, suddenly the entire library felt too warm. Too quiet.
“I’ve just been busy.” You pushed off of your seat and began to walk towards the closest study room, hoping that despite its full glass exterior- it would somehow shield you from the crushing weight of this conversation, “Your charger should be in here..”
“How do you know I used this one?” Logan leaned against the door, tilting his head thoughtfully at you as you walked deeper inside, glancing momentarily at the plug sockets in search of this damn charger that brought him here.
Shrugging, you huff and fall into the sofa that sat on the edge of the space. “This one’s your favourite, perfect lighting.” You point outside where two large windows sat, normally during the day they’d spill the various hues of the hour onto the spacious desk in the centre, “Perfect placement where it’s not too noisy but not too quiet,” This was the second to last room, meaning it was never surrounded by too many students, just enough chatter to turn into a soothing white noise, “And I've been here since your practice started and nobody has used it since then.”
By the time you finished- he was looking down at his shoes, and you swore a faint blush had crept up to his cheeks, his hand came up to cover his mouth and scratch at his stubble. The nod he gave you was short, subdued- almost as if he had reigned himself in. He let himself shuffle further in, placing his bags down heavily.
Another beat of silence settled between you.
Then somewhere in the distance, a heavy door slammed shut, neither of you reacted- seeing as it was late, you figured it was the librarian closing up the other rooms for night. The overhead lights flickered. And then it went dark.
You both froze.
“Oh my god,” you whispered.
Logan looked toward the main entrance hallway.
Then back at you, “...Did they just lock us in?”
The first thing Logan did after realising they were locked in was laugh. Not because he was amused- he’d rather be doing 500 other things that didn’t involve the tension in this fish bowl of a room but probably did include his girlfriend. It was more self-preservation, or insanity that made him chuckle, “You have got to be kidding me,” he muttered, pushing a hand through his hair as he stared at the firmly locked study room doors.
Behind him, you stood frozen beside the table, still clutching the highlighter you had brought in absentmindedly between your fingers like your body hadn’t fully processed the situation yet.
The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, a taunting soundtrack to this car wreck of an evening, the entire library had gone eerily quiet now that everyone else was gone, the silence somehow louder than it had been all evening.
You swallowed and mustered some hope, “Maybe they’re still outside?”
Logan looked back at you. The look in his eyes nearly undid you, there was no anger in it, no irritation at the unhelpfully positive suggestion and somehow no bitterness over the fact you’d spent nearly a week dodging him while texting him like everything was perfectly normal.
Just surrender, quiet surrender to the tiredness that had settled in his face.
“I already checked,” he said gently.
Guilt bloomed hot beneath your ribs.
“Oh.”
The hush that permeated through forced you to become painfully aware of everything.
The fact you were alone together for the first time since the fight.
The fact you still knew exactly how his hoodie smelled.
The fact his hair was damp slightly at the edges from practice.
The fact your body still reacted to him instantly, stupidly, helplessly.
You cleared your throat and looked away first. “Well,” you said lightly, forcing brightness into your voice, “at least if I die in here, I’ll die academic.”
Logan stared at you for a second, then he huffed out a laugh despite himself.
Your stomach twisted and you cursed yourself for the relief that coursed through your body in response to his dry chuckle. Logan rounded the table and you froze, unable to take your eyes off of him, you barely noticed the small slump in your shoulder when he paused halfway.
“You cold?” he asked absentmindedly.
“No.”
“You’re shivering.”
“I’m stressed.”
“That too.”
You rolled your eyes automatically.
Logan sat down heavily against the couch cushions, stretching his legs out in front of him with a groan, inches away from where you were perched before the both of you were locked in.
You tried not to look at him too hard. Because if you did, the realisation would come crashing back into you, the one that you fought tooth and nail not to face.
You’d missed him.
Not dramatically, not in a chick-flick, crying-on-your-bedroom-floor way. But there were several moments everyday you were close to those versions. You opted for the aching kind of grief, a constant pang in your chest.
You missed him every time something funny happened and your fingers twitched toward your phone.
You missed him every time you reached for coffee and automatically thought about how he always handed you the cream first because you hated black coffee.
You missed him every time you woke up in your dorm bed without the weight of his arm across your waist.
It had only been a week, maybe more and that countdown made your heart seize, you were terrified if this is what barely a week felt like, you weren’t entirely sure what longer would do to you.
Logan looked over at you eventually, interrupting the rollercoaster of thoughts that bustled in your mind.
“You gonna stand there all night?”
“I’m considering it.”
“You’re weird.”
“You’re trapped in a library at midnight because you forgot a phone charger.”
“That sounds like fate.”
“That sounds like an excuse.”
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and the feeling came plowing through you mercilessly. The one that made this entire situation unbearable.
This easy banter made everything work. Make all the noise fade away into the background until your brain was an oasis of calm.
You sat down finally, curling yourself up into the furthest corner of the couch. Away from him.
Logan’s eyes flicked toward the distance between you before returning to your face.
Outside the library windows, the campus had gone dark and sleepy. Streetlights glowed gold against the pavement below, shadows stretching long beneath them. You tucked your legs beneath yourself and leaned your cheek against the back of the sofa, ignoring the way he watched you do it- like he was grateful for the chance.
Then he broke the quiet, interrupting the sound of both of you breathing with a whisper, “Are you gonna tell me why you’ve been avoiding me?”
You shut your eyes, there it was. The other shoe dropped and thudded against your conscience. You were truly a terrible person. An emotional sado-masochist that had to enjoy the suffering, otherwise you wouldn’t have done this to either of you.
You stared down at your hands, “I haven’t been avoiding you.”
Logan blinked slowly, “Baby.”
The nickname hit you like a physical blow and you looked away immediately. If he noticed you flinching, he didn’t say anything, “Every time I ask to see you,” he said carefully, “you suddenly have somewhere else to be.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You skipped movie night because you said you had a paper due.”
“I did have a paper due.”
“Hannah posted you eating Taco Bell in Allie’s room fifteen minutes later.”
You winced, “Traitor.”
Logan’s mouth twitched briefly before flattening again.
“Why?” he asked softly.
Your chest tightened, you would give an absurd amount of money to the higher power for him to stop looking at you like that. Like you were something precious he was trying not to scare away.
It made all of this harder. if he’d been angry, maybe it would’ve been easier. Instead his face was comforting, his hand itching to hold your face and coax your deepest darkest emotions out of you.
You rubbed your palms against your jeans, “I just thought maybe you needed space.”
“From you?” His brows pulled together immediately.
You laughed quietly, but there wasn’t much humour in it. “You make it sound ridiculous when you say it like that.”
“Because it is ridiculous.”
Your throat tightened, “No it’s not.”
Logan leaned forward slightly now, elbows braced against his knees, “You fainted,” he said carefully. “I freaked out. We had one bad conversation. That doesn’t suddenly make you unbearable to be around.”
The words hit harder than they should have, because that wasn’t what you’d been trying to explain.Not really.
“That’s not the point,” You looked down and shook your head.
“Then what is?”
You bit your lip and the room filled with silence again, like some cruel torture device, where air was replaced with a void that steadily rose to your chin and swallowed you whole. Logan waited, eyes full of patience. He was always so fucking patient with you.
You hated how close tears suddenly felt, “I don’t know,” you finally admitted
Which was partially true, how were you supposed to explain something that had lived inside you for years?
The constant awareness of yourself.
The humiliation of it.
The way every fainting spell turned you into a problem people had to manage.
You remembered being sixteen and pretending you needed the bathroom because your vision had started going fuzzy during lunch. Locking yourself in a stall until the dizziness passed because your friends already thought you were dramatic enough.
You remembered learning how to laugh immediately after waking up because jokes made people less scared.
You remembered how relieved you always felt when people eventually stopped reacting. Because if they stopped reacting, it meant they still saw you normally.
Logan still reacted every time.
And that terrified you.
Because you knew, eventually people got tired. Eventually people realised loving someone medically inconvenient was exhausting. And you weren’t sure you could survive watching Logan reach that point.
So instead, you’d done what you always did. Pulled away first.
Your voice came out quieter this time, “You looked at me like I was dying.”
Logan went still and your throat closed up at the look on his face, like his heart had paused and brain malfunctioned.
“And I know I wasn’t,” you rushed out quickly, “I know it sounds dramatic, but that’s what freaked me out, okay? Everyone else moved on and you couldn’t and I just…”
Your laugh cracked slightly, “I don’t know how to be with someone who cares that much.”
The silence afterward felt enormous.
Logan stared at you, heartbroken in a quiet, devastating sort of way.
“Baby,” he said softly.
“No, because you don’t get it,” you twisted your fingers together tightly, “this is normal for me.”
“I know.”
“No, Logan, I don’t think you do.” You finally touched his hand, ignoring the immediate warmth that spread through your fingertips, “so much of my life has been people staring at me after it happens. Asking if I’m okay every five seconds. Acting weird around me. Watching me constantly.”
You swallowed, “And you looked terrified.”
“Because I was,” his jaw tightened as leaned back slightly, eyes still fixed on you.
“You stopped answering me,” he said quietly. “You weren’t moving.”
Your chest hurt, “I know.”
“And all I could think was what if one day you don’t wake up.”
Your breath caught. He laughed softly then, but it sounded miserable.
“Which logically, I know is insane. Garrett literally told me it’s never happened like that before.”
“Because it won’t.”
“I know.”
“But?”
Logan looked at you for a long moment, “But I love you,” he rubbed a hand over his face before continuing more quietly, “I know you hate being treated like you’re fragile.”
Your throat tightened as he continued, “And I know I probably make it worse sometimes.”
You opened your mouth but he shook his head, flipping his hand over to intertwine your fingers on the empty seat between you, “No, let me finish.” After a deep breath, and approximately four seconds of gruelling silence, “But you avoiding me doesn’t make me less scared, baby. It just means I’m scared without you.”
The silence after that felt different, painfully honest. You envied him for that, for his ability to say such devastatingly honest things as though it was like water flowing out of him.
You stared at Logan from across the couch, your chest aching so badly it almost felt murderous. Slow understanding creeped into your mind, why he freaked out that evening, why he was so tense in class.
It was unadulterated fear that coursed through his blood, like someone had held a knife up to your throat and threatened him, and all he could do was stand there uselessly.
You wished he’d been dramatic, maybe you could've brushed it off. If he suddenly became controlling, maybe you could've gotten angry. If he treated you like glass, maybe you could’ve pushed back and shattered in his grip. Any emotional outburst would’ve made it easier for you to walk away, to take the burden away from him. But he didn’t all he did was sit there in his emotions, solid, ready to hold yours. Because he loved you, purely, wholeheartedly, in a way that terrified you to your very core.
Your eyes dropped to your hands, “I didn’t mean to punish you,” you admitted quietly.
Logan’s expression softened.
“Baby.”
“I know,” you interrupted quickly, rubbing at your face with exhausted fingers. “I know this whole thing probably feels insane from your side.”
“A little.”
Despite yourself, you laughed weakly, “There it is. ”
“There what is?”
“You, being annoying.”
His mouth twitched.
“You love when I’m annoying.”
“I tolerate it affectionately.”
“Liar.”
The ease of conversation made you want to bash your head against a wall, no matter how emotionally catastrophic things got between you, the two of you still somehow slipped naturally into this rhythm that belonged entirely to you.
You hated how much you missed it.
Logan watched you carefully for another moment before speaking again.
“Come here.”
Your stomach flipped and you looked up at him.
“What?”
“Come here.”
You stared at him suspiciously, “You could also come here.”
“I could,” he agreed. “But you’ve been sitting as far away from me as physically possible for the last twenty minutes, so I’m trying to make a point.”
Heat crawled up your neck.
“I was not sitting as far away as physically possible.”
“Baby, there’s an entire couch cushion between us like we’re in couples therapy.”
You snorted, but you softened when he smiled at you, like hearing you laugh loosened something in his chest. Tearing your gaze away from him, you looked down at your intertwined fingers, tapping them randomly against his palm.
“I’m still annoyed at you,” you muttered.
“What did I do?”
“You made me emotionally confront things.”
“Oh, tragic.”
“It was horrible actually.”
Logan huffed out another quiet laugh, and then let out a shaky breath, “Please come here.”
There was something almost unfair in the way he said please, like he was asking for something so delicate, that you couldn’t possibly say no.
Your chest squeezed painfully as you shuffled slowly before your brain stopped you. The second you were close enough, his entire body relaxed and he tentatively wound an arm around your waist, pressing into the briar hoodie that you had carelessly thrown on that morning. He tugged you closer and unwrapped his hand, resting it instead on your thigh, like touching you was muscle memory.
You nearly started crying right there, sniffing quietly you looked down at your lap, “I’m sorry,” you whispered.
Logan looked down at you, his eyebrows pinched, “For what?”
“For making you feel crazy.”
His expression softened so fast it hurt.
“You didn’t make me feel crazy.”
You gave him a look, this close you could see the small lines in his face, grooves that had implanted themselves into his skin- like he had slept with a small frown on his face for days.
“Logan.”
“Okay,” he admitted reluctantly. “Maybe a little crazy.”
“A little?”
“You were texting me hearts while actively fleeing every building I entered.”
You winced, “In my defence, I didn’t realise how often you exist.”
“I go to this school.”
“Unfortunately.”
His thumb brushed absently against your knee.
“You could’ve just told me you needed a second.”
Your nose burned, “I didn’t know how.”
He nodded slowly, watching you tuck a piece of hair behind your ear- he rested his chin on your head, before exhaling, “I need you to understand something.”
You glanced up.
“When you faint,” he said carefully, “I’m not upset at you.”
“I know.”
“No,” his voice stayed gentle as he murmured into your hair, “Baby, I’m scared because I love you. Not because you’re inconvenient.”
You didn’t say anything, scared that whatever words would spill out from your mouth would be garbled with emotion, instead you pulled at the hair tie around your wrist. His hand shifted from your knee, fingers curling lightly around where your fingers plucked.
“Hey.” He shifted, bent his head down to meet your eyes, “You don’t have to do that with me.”
“What?”
“Act like it’s not hard sometimes.”
You looked away from him, choosing a point on the grey carpet to focus on, “It is hard…” you admitted finally, voice small now, “for you, I know it is.”
Logan looked genuinely confused.
“Taking care of me.”
His entire face changed, something that resembled a profound sadness mixed with disbelief that made his eyebrows shoot up and mouth part, “Baby,” he said slowly, “do you seriously think I’m with you out of obligation?”
“No.”
“But?”
You laughed weakly.
“But eventually people get tired.” The words rushed out of you, like a fact. A proven knowledge in the world, that after a few bouts of your dizziness, people would stop trying.
This ugly truth that was patiently sitting beneath everything, was now visible. Exposed and ready to be poked at.
Logan went very still beside you, and suddenly a wave of embarrassment and self-awareness washed over you, like you’d accidentally exposed something too raw.
You shrugged lightly, pretending your exterior hadn’t just cracked, “It’s just easier when people move on quickly after it happens,” you admitted quietly. “Because then I can pretend it wasn’t a whole thing.”
Logan stared at you.
“You think I should care less?”
“No!”
You groaned immediately, pressing your palms over your face.
“Oh my god, this is why I avoided this conversation.”
Logan actually laughed softly then.
“You’re terrible at emotional vulnerability.”
“I’m aware.”
“You’re literally hiding inside your own hands right now.”
“Because this is awful.”
Warm fingers wrapped around your wrists gently.
“Hey.”
You resisted for approximately two seconds before letting him pull your hands away from your face. And he came into view again, a small, encouraging smile on his face- looking at you like you mattered more than anything else in his life.
“I don’t want you to care less,” you whispered.
Logan’s thumb brushed softly against your skin.
“Okay.”
“I just…”
Your voice wobbled slightly.
“I don’t know how to let someone love me this much without feeling guilty for it.”
Something in Logan’s expression shattered, “Oh, baby.”
You blinked hard and Logan moved before you could stop him. One second there was still a respectable distance between the two of you, the next he had shuffled closer, thighs pressing against yours- his hands cupping your face carefully. Warm palms and calloused fingers grazed against your cheeks tenderly, the familiar smell of detergent, cold air and Logan surrounded you instantly.
You exhaled shakily, a hand coming up to wrap loosely around his.
“You are not a burden to me.”
“Logan-”
“No.”
His voice stayed soft, but firmer now, “You don’t get to decide for me what loving you feels like,” he bumped his forehead against yours and admitted quietly, “yeah, sometimes I get scared.”
You swallowed.
“But that doesn’t make me love you less.”
Your chest hurt so badly now it was unbearable.
Logan’s eyes flitted between yours, “It just means I need you here long enough to keep doing it.”
That was what finally broke you. A small, devastated sound left your throat before your face crumpled against his shoulder.
He wrapped his arms around you, tucking you into his front with such certainty like there would never be world where he wouldn’t
“Oh baby,” he murmured softly into your hair.
Your fingers twisted into the fabric of his hoodie.
“I hate this,” you whispered thickly.
“I know.”
“I feel insane.”
“You’re a little insane.”
You laughed through your tears.
“Shut up.”
“There she is.”
You shoved weakly at his chest, Logan held you tighter- burying his face into the crook of your neck.
His hand rubbed slowly up and down your back, as he pressed soft kisses below your ear and whispered soft assurances whilst you sobbed into his sweatshirt. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek and you stayed like that for a long time, enough for your breathing to even out, hiccups turning into slow drags of oxygen.
You pulled back slightly and Logan looked at you with an unbearably soft expression that made your stomach flip
“You done avoiding me now?” he asked quietly.
You sniffed.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“I need time to recover from being emotionally perceived.”
His smile finally appeared properly then. God, you missed his smile.
Logan brushed his thumb beneath your eye gently, wiping away the last stray tear that leaked from the corner of your lashes.
“You know,” he murmured, “most people just buy flowers after arguments.”
You stared at him.
“Did you just compare this to a normal couple disagreement?”
“Absolutely.”
“We got trapped in a library and trauma bonded.”
He grinned at you, like a vintage actor who was closing off the impossibly long black-and-white romcom, “That’s romance, baby.”
You laughed again.
And this time, Logan looked like hearing you laugh was the greatest relief he’d felt all week.
Eventually, the emotional devastation settled enough for both of you to remember you were still physically trapped inside a university library. You were curled against Logan’s side on the couch now, one of his arms wrapped loosely around your shoulders while the other lazily scrolled through his phone.
His thumb paused on Garrett’s chat.
Cap’n crunch 💪 :
where are you?
Cap’n crunch 💪 :
wait are u both together rn
Cap’n crunch 💪 :
OH MY GOD
Cap’n crunch 💪 :
DID YOU DIE TOO???
You snorted into Logan’s chest.
“He’s so dramatic.”
“Says you.”
You tilted your head up immediately. “Excuse me?”
“Baby, you vanished off the face of the earth for a week because I had emotions near you.”
“I was processing.”
“You were fleeing.”
“Processing while moving very fast. Away from you. ”
Logan laughed quietly and you flicked his forehead. You hadn’t just missed him, you missed this. The easy teasing and warmth of his words, the way he always made the world feel softer around the edges.
You sank lower against him instinctively, your cheek pressed against the warm fabric of his hoodie.
His hand immediately slid into your hair.
“You know,” Logan murmured after a moment, “this would be significantly more romantic if we weren’t sitting next to a printer.”
You glanced toward the large copy machine three feet away.
“…I don’t know. It’s kind of giving academic enemies to lovers.”
“We’ve literally been dating for eight months.”
“Details.” You waved him off.
His chest shook with another laugh, he pressed his lips against your forehead and mumbled, “I missed you.”
You tilted your head slightly to look up at him.
“You texted me like… every day.”
“You know what I mean.”
You hummed and nodded. His hand slid from your hair to your jaw slowly, thumb brushing along your cheek, making your breath catch.
“You gonna run away from me again?” he asked softly.
You narrowed your eyes, “Not sure… It was going pretty well until you interrupted me.”
“Brutal.”
“I’m kidding.”
“You better be.”
The words came out light, teasing almost- but you could feel the vulnerability beneath them, shifting upward slightly you brought your lips up to his; waiting for him to meet you halfway. He pressed into you so he could envelope your mouth with his.
It shouldn’t have felt this overwhelming after one week. But it did.
His hand cupped your jaw carefully while he kissed you slow and warm and familiar, like he was still relearning the shape of your mouth after being denied access to it for days.
You melted instantly, fingers curling into the front of his hoodie while Logan smiled softly against your lips.
“Don’t think you’re going anywhere anytime soon,” he murmured.
You kissed him again to shut him up. It didn’t work, because the man kept smiling into every kiss like he couldn’t physically stop himself even if he tried.
“You’re so annoying,” you whispered.
“And yet.”
“And yet unfortunately you’re cute.”
“Unfortunately?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Baby, it’s been to my head.”
You rolled your eyes dramatically before kissing him again, this one was softer, sleepier in a way that wasn’t rushed, where you’d part slowly, barely a millimetre from each other just to feel the soft pants fan across your face before reconnecting, lips moulding together in soft caresses.
Logan’s fingers rubbed absent circles into your waist through your sweater, outside the campus had gone completely dark- the yellow glow of the lamp posts bled into the isles of the library, the only guidance in the pitch black of your surroundings.
You were vaguely aware that at some point this situation probably needed solving. But you were too preoccupied with your boyfriend, who smelt so good and was holding you like he’d been touch-starved for days.
You priorities seemed very straightforward.
“You know what’s crazy?” you murmured lazily, your head lolling onto his shoulder, cradled against his bicep.
“What?”
“We’re probably gonna have to explain this to everyone.”
Logan groaned immediately.
“Oh my god.”
You started laughing.
“Garrett is going to be unbearable.”
“Hannah’s gonna cry.”
“Allie’s gonna think we secretly got married.”
“She already basically thinks that.”
You smiled against his cheek, “…Do you think they’ll be worried?”
Logan looked down at you and shrugged, “Probably.”
Guilt flickered briefly through your stomach.
“Hey.”
His fingers tilted your chin upward gently.
“You’re allowed to have hard moments, baby.”
You looked at him quietly and scrunched your nose, “That still feels fake when you say it.”
“Yeah,” he whispered, “I know.”
Before you could respond, sudden footsteps echoed somewhere beyond the main circulation desk.
Both of you froze.
You blinked.
“…Wait.”
Logan sat up slightly.
“…There’s someone else here?”
Another noise.
Then a voice spoke from the darkness outside your glass prison.
“Jesus Christ, finally.”
You both whipped around to where the voice was coming from.
Mr. Donahue - the older overnight librarian with permanent reading glasses and the energy of someone spiritually exhausted by college students - appeared around the corner holding a janitor’s keyring.
You stared.
He stared back.
Then, with the same patience of an uninterested lion and its prey, he grumbled, “You two done?”
Your brain stopped functioning.
“…Done?” you repeated faintly.
Mr. Donahue gave you a deeply unimpressed look.
“With the world’s longest relationship crisis.”
Beside you, Logan went completely rigid.
“Oh my god,” you whispered.
Mr. Donahue sighed the sigh of a man who had worked at a university for too long.
“You think I didn’t notice you two sitting in here crying at each other?”
Your mouth fell open.
Logan looked horrified.
“You locked us in on purpose?”
The librarian shrugged.
“You seemed busy.”
You made a strangled noise somewhere between laughter and humiliation.
“Oh my god.”
Mr. Donahue pointed a finger toward Logan.
“You.”
Logan blinked, he pressed his palm at himself, in the centre of his chest.
“…Me?”
“She’s clearly obsessed with you.”
You buried your face in your hands immediately, “Sir.”
“And you looked like someone kicked your puppy for a week straight.”
Logan made the mistake of looking smug for approximately half a second.
“You looked miserable without me?” you asked immediately.
His smugness vanished.
Mr. Donahue snorted.
“Kid looked one inconvenience away from writing poetry.”
You burst into helpless laughter and Logan whipped his head around to look at you, deeply betrayed by your amusement, “This is actually insane.”
Mr. Donahue shrugged again.
“I’ve worked here for fifteen years. You learn things.”
You were still laughing when the older man finally unlocked the door.
Before leaving, though, he paused. Then slowly turned to look directly at you, “Eat real meals,” he said firmly.
Your face heated instantly and you buried into your hands, “Oh my god.”
“And you,” he added, pointing toward Logan now, “stop looking at her like a Victorian widower every time she gets dizzy.”
Logan looked scandalised.
You wheezed.
Mr. Donahue nodded once, satisfied. And then jerked his thumb behind him, “Alright. Get out.” The doors swung open and he trotted away.
Neither of you moved.
Then slowly, Logan looked down at you, “…Victorian widower?”
You immediately lost it again.
“He clocked you so bad.”
“I hate that man.”
“No you don’t.”
“No,” He admitted thoughtfully, “I kinda love him.”
You were both still laughing quietly when Logan finally stood, pulling you up with him.
And the second you were upright, his arms wrapped around your waist again automatically. Like he refused to stop touching you now that he had you in his grasp.
You looked up at him and pushed his damp hair off his forehead- the library lights that Mr. Donahue flicked on reflected warm gold across his face. And suddenly, everything from last week felt very far away.
Logan leaned down slowly until his forehead rested against yours.
Okay, hear me out. Off campus (because I have issues) and I need too be sandwiched between Allie and Dean. It’s mostly self indulgent.
You’re the ‘hairdresser’ friend.
Do you have any qualifications? Not really, but you did spent most of Covid quarantine on internet and watching all kinds of haircutting tutorials.
What you do have is one random pair or proffesional haircutting scissors, plastic comb and spotify playlist for a good vibes.
It’s not really business. No, it’s a hobby, maybe another way you show you like someone that you offer them a trim or colouring their hair, in exchange for a gossip session. Now at Briar, you didn’t have many friends so you don’t offer it often.
However, all you apparently needed to start to be known among the other students was a singular person from theatre club. After yet another roommate drama, you get move rooms across the hall, after another girl dropped out. Best part was not even the room being yours only- no, it’s her new neighbours.
Hannah and Allie.
You meet Hannah first and somehow you hit it off after she brings you cookies. Three hours later, and you’re already giving her a trim to get her bob back in correct shape, maybe give her few face framing pieces.
It’s amazing girl’s night.
And then her friend Allie is there too, with towel draped over her shoulders. Her hair is so pretty and wavy and so with her permission, you give her a shaggier cut and bangs and dear god-
You’re ready to die.
She.
Looks.
So.
Damn.
Good.
Your bi ass is awestruck by her sheer beauty. You can’t understand how Sean, her shitty boyfriend, doesn’t kiss the ground she walks on as soon as he shows up to pick her up.
You don’t like Sean.
Sean doesn’t get a haircut.
Your nose scrunches at the state of his hair. The cut on him is unfortunate, but somehow fits his personality perfectly.
However, Allie seems content in her relationship and that was all that mattered.
Three weeks later, and you slowly get to know the drama of the Briar’s theatre club, once you get most of them messaging you on your Instagram.
You’re fine with that. They’re all nice and occasionally they bring the freshest gossip.
You miss how Allie now needs hair maintenance more often, or how her eyes seem to linger on you when you don’t look.
Then the Costume Party happens. And your old crush re emerges. Dean di Laurentis was seriously attractive and charming afterall.
You spend evening helping Allie with her hair so she can have her perfect moment. Sean is there too. You can’t bring yourself to like him, but he is your ride there too, so at least you stay respectful.
Since you didn’t know what to dress up as, so you don’t. You put on your best ensemble though and most comfortable shoes that you washed till they passed the vibe check.
You’re peacefully getting drink for you and Allie (Sean does not get one) when you see it. Allie and Dean- or JLO and Maverick having a moment on the dancefloor. And yeah, maybe that awakens something inside you. You’re blushing deep red as you stare at them like a creep. You’re not even jealous. If anything, you’re jealous of the none existent space in between them…
You can’t get the image out of your head for weeks.
Hannah mentions Garret needing a quick trim. Before even finishing his hair, you also have to promise to cut Logan’s and Tucker’s. Dean doesn’t asks for one, but he’s obviously thinking about it, since he touches his hair as he watches you cut others.
You understand few hours later, when you run into him in grocery store. In hair care section. With a bleach in his hand.
He’s not even real blonde.
You’re laughing. He deadpans but shyly asks if you could touch up his roots. And since you have a free evening, you say yes, but only for gossip. After all, you cannot bend the rules for this bottle bleach blonde.
Allie catches Dean with his shirt off, towel on his shoulders and you standing above him, in an old band shirt that is full of bleach spots, toning his hair.
You three just stare at each other.
“He was about to put 30 volume on, can you believe that?” You grumble. “I had to intervene so that we don’t have bald Dean instead-”
“Hey-”
Allie thinks it’s hilarious of course. You both tease him, and then they both tease you when you smear purple shampoo onto your cheek. Then you and Dean tease Allie, when she forget about the dinner she was supposed to be watching warm up and has to call take out instead.
You all clean up. The hair and the bleach and the burnt pan.
It’s fun.
It’s domestic.
It feels oddly empty without them when they leave. Unbeknownst to you, they both feel the same.
Summary: Logan knows better than to fall for his best friend's little sister.
wc: 7.10k not sorry; graham!reader; figure skater!reader; brother’s best friend; best friend's sister; hockey player x figure skater; tw: underage drinking (for americans)
Part I | Part II
The music was already loud before Y/N even made it up the front steps.
It blasted through the walls hard enough to shake the windows while bodies crowded the porch, half the campus apparently determined to celebrate Briar’s hockey team latest win like they’d personally scored the goals themselves.
Y/N adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder and glanced back at the three girls behind her. “This,” she said dryly, “is exactly how people get diseases.”
Her friend Chloe laughed. “Oh my God, stop acting like you’re above this. Your brother literally lives here.”
“Exactly,” Y/N replied. “I know what kind of diseases exist inside this house.”
Another girl, she didn’t even know beside her nudged Y/N’s shoulder excitedly. “Still can’t believe your brother’s Garrett Grant.”
“Graham,” Y/N corrected automatically.
“Whatever. The point is your family tree is carrying our social lives.” Y/N rolled her eyes, but she was smiling a little as she pushed the front door open.
Instant chaos. Bodies everywhere. Beer spilled on the floor already. Music too loud. People shouting over beer pong in the dinner table.
Home, basically.
“Baby G!”
Dean appeared first from the living room already drunker than he should. “There she is,” he announced dramatically. “My favorite Graham.”
“You say that every time just to piss Garrett off.”
“But I mean it every time.” he winked at her.
Dean immediately threw an arm around her shoulders and started pulling her through the crowd while her friends looked one second away from passing out from excitement.
Y/N heard one of them whisper: “Oh my God, that’s Dean Di Laurentis.”
She rolled her eyes. Poor girl.
“They are all freshman, Dean,” Y/N warned. “Behave.”
“I’m always behaving.”
The kitchen erupted into cheers suddenly as several hockey players stumbled in carrying cases of beer. And right in the middle of them. Logan.
Hoodie sleeves shoved up his forearms, curls messy under a backwards cap, and that lazy, effortless kind of confidence that made it seem like he belonged everywhere he stood. The warm glow from the kitchen lights softened the sharp edges of his face while he laughed at something one of the upperclassmen said, easy and unguarded for once.
Unfortunately for Y/N’s sanity, Logan always looked unfairly good without even trying.
Y/N’s friend beside her went completely silent. Then: “…holy shit.” one of them said.
Y/N snorted. Because ‘Yeah… holy shit.’ She thought
That was usually people’s reaction to Logan.
He looked up a second later, eyes scanning the room automatically before landing on her. And immediately smiled, walking towards them.
“Well, well,” he called over the music. “Graham brought friends.” His mouth curved into a smirk. He wasn’t interested in the girls at all, he just knew the comment would earn him an reaction from her, and for some reason, he never got tired of them. Like a boy annoying his crush on school because he doesn’t know how get her to notice him.
Y/N flipped him off instantly. “They’re innocent freshmen. Leave them alone.”
“I don’t want to be left alone,” one of her friends whispered weakly.
Dean and Logan chuckled. And Y/N rolled her eyes, but her gaze drifted back to Logan anyway. He looked different tonight.
Not physically, though the messy dark hair, flushed cheeks, and post-game confidence weren't helping.
No, it was something else.
Confidence was natural to Logan, but tonight it seemed different somehow. Brighter. Real. Not made up. Like he was carrying the energy of the entire arena with him.
Which, to be fair, he practically was. He'd scored a hat trick. The crowd had spent half the game chanting his name. The team had won because of him.
The worst part? He wore real confidence disgustingly well.
Y/N liked to think she knew better than most that Logan hid behind a smile. Behind the flirting, the confidence, the constant jokes, and sarcasm there was always something he kept carefully out of reach. A part of himself he rarely let anyone see.
But hockey? Hockey was different.
Hockey was the one place where nothing about him was rehearsed. There was no mask and not a carefully crafted version of John Logan. Just him. It was obvious in the way he moved on the ice. In the way his entire face lit up after a goal, a assist. In the pure, almost boyish excitement he could never quite hide after a win.
Whatever insecurities he carried, whatever demons he kept locked behind that easy smile, they disappeared the second he stepped onto the rink.
And maybe that was why Y/N enjoyed watching him play so much. Because for a few hours, she got to see the real version of him. The one who wasn't pretending to be anything at all.
As if sensing her staring, he glanced over.
"Careful, Graham," he said, pointing lazily at her with someone else's beer. "Keep looking at me like that and I'm gonna start thinking you're impressed."
Y/N snorted.
"It’s easier for me to walk barefoot through this kitchen.” she said sarcastically “You scored three goals and somehow became even more arrogant."
Logan grinned. Actually grinned. Like he'd been waiting for her to bring it up. And suddenly he looked pleased. Not because of the game. Because she'd noticed.
"So... you saw that?" He said, trying and failing to sound casual. The question slipped out before he could stop it.
Y/N stared at him and blinked.
"Logan."
"What?"
"My brother was playing."
Logan immediately regretted it. His smile melted instantly.
Of course she saw it. Her brother was the fucking captain of the team. Why the hell had he gotten excited in the first place? She watches practically every game. Like she'd been sitting in those stands watching him.
Idiot.
The stupid little spark in his chest fizzled out instantly. There it is, reality. He should've known better.
"Right," he said, taking a sip of his beer. "Yeah sure."
But then Y/N tilted her head slightly.
"and," she added, "you played really well."
Logan looked up surprised.
"What?"
"You did." She shrugged. "Three goals is kind of incredible, Johnny !"
For a second, he just stared at her.
Y/N fought the urge to smile but tried to hold it, keeping the cool girl character. Then break the character and finally smiled, when she saw his face light up again the exact moment the compliment landed.
He play it cool and was able to recover quickly.
"Well," he said, suddenly looking far too pleased with himself, "I am kind of incredible."
Y/N laughed and flipped him "Fuck off. I'm never complimenting you again"
Logan chuckled softly under his breath too. Too softly and naturally. Her friends exchanged looks and Y/N changed the subject.
“Where’s Garrett?” she asked.
“Somewhere upstairs with Hannah”
“Sounds right.”
As if summoned by the mention of his name, Garrett suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs.
He spotted Y/N instantly. Then spotted the freshmen girls behind her.
“Well,” Y/N sighed. “Speaking of the devil”
Garrett pointed directly at Logan before even reaching the bottom step.
“You.”
Logan blinked innocently. “Me?”
“Don’t try anything” throwing back to the conversation they had days ago in his room.
Y/N laughed innocently.
And Logan… Logan just grinned slowly like Garrett’s threats had become background noise years ago. Before he could say anything to defend himself Y/N spoke.
“Relax, Johnny wasn’t flirting with them…” Y/N said innocently. Then she paused. “…yet.”
Dean chuckled somewhere behind them while Garrett looked one second away from developing a stress-induced migraine. Y/N ignored all three of them.
“Anyways,” she continued, turning toward the girls beside her, “come meet my brother since apparently he’s, like, a celebrity or something.”
“Oh my God,” Chloe whispered, panicking instantly.
Garrett groaned. “Y/N—”
Too late. Y/N grabbed his wrist and physically pulled him forward into the circle of freshmen girls despite his resistance.
“This is Garrett Graham,” she announced dramatically, like some kind of sports commentator. “Team captain, future NHL star, and unfortunately for you girls, very much taken, so let’s all be respectful and keep your crushes to yourselves.”
Garrett deadpanned. “I’m leaving.”
“No you’re not.” she held his arm keeping him in place.
Her friends looked fascinated. Which happened a lot around Garrett.
He had that effect naturally. Big presence, sharp stare, the kind of confidence that made people straighten unconsciously when he walked into a room.
Y/N, didn’t see him like that at all. Mostly because she’d spent her entire childhood bullying him.
“Hi,” one girl squeaked nervously.
Garrett softened almost immediately. Not by much, maybe two percent, but for him that was practically warmth. The girls standing behind Y/N didn't look like the kind of people she usually spent time with. If he were being honest, he wasn't even convinced most of them were real friends. They seemed far more interested in the house and the hockey players than in Y/N herself. But he knew that she was trying to branch out beyond the skating world, trying to fit in with normal college girls for once, and Garrett wasn't about to make it harder for her.
So he slipped easily into the role they were all expecting: Briar's captain, friendly, polite, approachable. If making a good impression helped Y/N feel a little more comfortable, then he could play the part for a few minutes. Besides, it was nice seeing her with people outside the rink for a change. "Hey," he said politely.
Y/N looked smug. “See? He’s house trained.”
“Shut up”
Behind them, Logan watched the entire interaction with amusement tugging at his mouth. His eyes stayed on Y/N a second longer than necessary as she laughed again, and as she walked around introducing her friends to different guys on the hockey team, head tipping slightly toward her friends, arguing with Garrett about something stupid.
Most people looked at Y/N and saw confidence. The loud laugh, the quick comebacks, the way she could walk into a room full of strangers and somehow end up talking to all of them within ten minutes. She moved through their house like she lived there, stealing drinks, insulting people affectionately, making herself comfortable wherever she went.
But Logan had always thought there was something a little misleading about that version of her. Not because it wasn't real. Y/N was genuinely funny and talkative and ridiculously easy to like. The thing was, people assumed that meant she was easy to get to know. She wasn't.
Growing up with their dad she had, she'd learned early how to smile through discomfort, how to hide pain behind politeness, how to make difficult things look effortless. Figure skating had only reinforced it. Years of performing had taught her how to stay graceful when she was exhausted, how to make every movement look intentional, how to let people see exactly what she wanted them to see.
It was almost funny, really. For someone who was such a social butterfly, Y/N kept her world surprisingly small. Most friendships drifted in and out of her life without ever getting particularly deep. The people she truly let in could be counted on one hand: Garrett, the boys, Hannah and Allie. That was it. And whenever anyone pointed it out, she'd just shrug and insist she already had everything she needed.
And she meant it.
For them everything with Y/N felt easy. And Logan still hadn’t realized yet that maybe that was his problem. And why it was so hard to push whatever weird thought was going through his head away.
Y/N was halfway through introducing another girl to one of the denfesemen when a girl appeared beside Logan near the couch.
“Congratulations on the game” she said with an already flirty undertone, leaning against the side of the couch beside him.
He ignored her for some seconds. Eyes still clued toward Y/N across the room. She was laughing at something Garrett said, one hand gripping his forearm while he looked deeply unimpressed by her existence.
Then the girl said “So... you’re Johnny?”
That made him finally look back at the girl beside him. He reconized the girl as one of Y/N’s friends. Pretty. Blonde. Smiling at him.
“…don’t call me that.” he said quite rude without even noticing.
She blinked. “What?”
“Johnny.” He took another sip of beer. “Don’t call me that”
The girl laughed awkwardly. “Oh. Sorry. Y/N talks about you guys all the time, so I guess it stuck.”
That made something strange settle low in his chest. Y/N talks about you guys all the time. Not just Garrett. But also not just him. But them.
And really, why wouldn't she talk about them?
Y/N spent so much time at their house that half her college memories probably happened within these walls. Movie nights, team dinners, study sessions, late-night food runs, stupid inside jokes that somehow never died.
Somewhere along the way, she'd stopped being Garrett's little sister who occasionally stopped by and simply become part of the group.
Logan wasn't sure any of them had even noticed when it happened and hadn’t really thought about it. But apparently Y/N had. And apparently it was an important subject for her.
“You don’t like it, huh?” the girl teased lightly.
Logan was lost in his thoughts and realized a second too late she was still talking to him.
“What?”
“The nickname,” she said. “You hate it that much?”
“No,” he answered automatically. Then quieter: “Just sounds weird from other people.”
Because he didn’t hate it. Not really. He complained every time Y/N called him Johnny, but half the time he was just pretending. When she said it, it sounded natural. When someone else did, it felt like they were using something that wasn’t theirs.
Her smile shifted slightly then, like she finally noticed he wasn’t really paying attention to her.
His attention kept drifting back across the room. Y/N had moved closer to Garrett again, still talking animatedly with her hands while her friends listened. Garrett pretended to look annoyed, but Logan knew him well enough to catch the tiny things underneath it.
The way Garrett stayed turned toward her automatically in crowded rooms. The way his eyes tracked her without thinking. The way Y/N leaned into him casually because somewhere deep down she’d never doubted he’d be there.
Protective. Constant. Safe
It made him think.
Maybe because ever since Garrett had finally told them the truth last year, Logan hadn't been able to completely stop wondering about it. Not about Garrett, about Y/N.
Garrett's stories had always revolved around bruises, shouting matches, slammed doors, and a father who seemed determined to turn every room he entered into a battlefield. Logan knew enough to understand why Garrett carried some of the things he did. Knew enough to understand where the anger came from. But Y/N had always been the missing piece of that story.
He'd never asked her. It wasn't his business. Garrett had trusted them with his memories, and Logan wasn't about to start digging for details that hadn't been offered. Still, he couldn't help wondering where Y/N fit into all of it. Where she'd been during those years. What she'd seen. What she'd heard through bedroom walls. How much of it she remembered, and how much of it Garrett had managed to shield her from.
Because sometimes Logan looked at her and saw someone who seemed completely untouched by that kind of childhood, bright, confident, quick to laugh. Then other times, he'd catch small things that made him think the opposite. The way she avoided conflict she couldn't joke her way through. The way she brushed off things that should probably bother her more. The way she seemed determined to carry every problem by herself rather than ask for help.
Like somewhere along the way she'd learned the same lesson Garrett had. Just in a different form. Hide the damage. Keep smiling. Make sure nobody notices.
Garrett had spent most of his life protecting Y/N. Which made this… Whatever this weird thing inside Logan’s chest was… feel worse somehow. It felt wrong in a way he couldn’t fully explain. Because standing here watching them, it was impossible not to see how much trust existed there. How much love.
And Logan was suddenly terrifyingly aware that he was looking at Garrett’s little sister too long again.
The girl beside him tried one last time anyway.
“So,” she smiled, letting her fingers brush lightly against his arm, “are all hockey players this antisocial or just you?”
Normally, Logan would've flirted back without thinking. Easy smile. Easy charm. Easy conversation. The girl was pretty. She was standing right next to him, clearly interested, practically handing him an opening. Usually, that would've been enough.
Instead, he barely reacted.
Because his attention kept drifting across the room.
Y/N was near the middle of the living room now, laughing as Hannah wrapped an arm around her shoulders. A second later, the two girls grabbed Garrett from opposite sides and started trying to drag him toward whatever disaster counted as dancing tonight.
Garrett immediately looked annoyed. Or at least he tried to. His mouth was already twitching before they even managed to pull him away from the wall, the corner of it betraying him as Hannah laughed and Y/N nearly doubled over from her own success.
The idiot was enjoying himself.
Logan felt a soft smile tug at his mouth before he could stop it.
The girl beside him followed his gaze.
Watched Y/N and Hannah continue harassing Garrett while he complained the entire time, letting them pull him farther into the crowd anyway.
Then she looked back at Logan. And suddenly went very quiet. “Oh,” she said.
For the first time all night, Logan actually looked at her and he realized exactly what she'd been seeing.
Understanding flashed across the girl's face almost instantly. Then came sympathy. Which was somehow worse. The girl looked back at Logan and laughed softly.
Logan frowned. "What?"
"Nothing," she said, still smiling. Then her eyes flicked toward Y/N again.
Before Logan could come up with a response, she shook her head, amusement replacing whatever disappointment she'd felt.
"Good luck with that… Logan." she said sarcastically and he noticed she avoided the nickname.
"With what?" he asked immediately.
But she was already backing away into the crowd.
"You'll figure it out."
And then she was gone.
No teasing. No accusations. No chance for him to explain that she had the wrong idea.
Logan stared into his beer for a moment.
Good luck with that, hockey boy.
Good luck whit what exactly?
He almost rolled his eyes. The girl didn’t even know them and had spoken like she’d uncovered some life-changing secret after one small interaction.
Please.
She didn’t know what she was talking about.
Y/N was just… Y/N.
Of course he looked at her. Half his friends were currently orbiting around her. Garrett was over there. Hannah too. Dean had practically appointed himself her personal bodyguard for the night.
Anybody would be looking in that direction. The girl had just misread the situation.
Completely.
Logan took another sip of beer.
Then, without thinking, looked across the room at Y/N again.
———————
The party kept moving around.
Music louder now. More bodies packed into the house. The heat unbearable from too many people dancing too close together.
And somewhere in the middle of it all that, Y/N.
She’d abandoned her jacket hours ago, now down to a cropped Briar U shirt and jeans, hair messy from dancing while Hannah and Allie screamed lyrics around her. Her "friends" were nowhere to be seen anymore, and honestly she felt way better around Hannah and Allie anyways.
She looked happy. Not polite-smiling happy. Not teasing-the-boys happy. Actually happy.
Free in a way Logan didn’t think he’d ever really noticed before. And maybe it was because this place felt safe to her. Their house, Garrett and the boys. She moved through the crowd without hesitation, laughing freely, accepting drinks from Tucker without checking them first, throwing her head back when her friends dragged her into another terrible dance circle.
Comfortable. Because she trusted that nothing bad would happen here. And that somebody would take care of her if it did.
Logan watched her spin badly with Hannah and Allie to some early 2000s song while Dean nearly fell over beside her and Tucker recorded the whole thing laughing.
A smile tugged at Logan’s mouth despite himself.
Logan huffed quietly into his beer and leaned back further into the couch cushions.
Conversation started around him, hockey schedules, classes, some argument about playoffs, but it all blurred together after a while.
Because every few minutes his eyes found her again.
Y/N stealing somebody’s drink. Y/N laughing so hard she doubled over. Y/N dancing terribly on purpose just to make everyone laugh harder. Every glance lasted a little too long. Every time he looked away, his attention drifted right back. He never noticed her like that before. And the more he noticed it the worse it felt.
Because Garrett trusted him.
Hell, Y/N trusted him. She was not only her best friend’s sister, she was his friend too.
She walked into this house without thinking twice. Safe enough to steal their drinks, fall asleep on their couches, and trust that nobody would ever see more of it.
The thought settled heavily in Logan's chest.
Because he'd always hated when people said men and women couldn't just be friends. Hated the idea that every friendship secretly came with an expiration date, that eventually one person always wanted more. And yet, watching Y/N laugh her way through the crowd, made Logan feel like an asshole.
Because as far as she knew, he just another one of the boys.
Then suddenly—
“Jooooohnny.”
A body dropped onto the couch beside him hard enough to make him jolt slightly. Followed by Garrett, Tucker, Dean, Hannah and Allie walking in the living room.
Y/N grinned at him lazily, very obviously drunk.
Her cheeks were flushed pink from dancing, her eyes bright and unfocused as she made a grab for the beer in his hand.
Logan dodged easily.
Drunk Y/N had terrible reflexes.
“People’s princess,” Dean said sitting on the armchair. “Finally tired of entertaining your subjects”
Y/N pointed at him dramatically. “It’s just a break… I’ll be right back”
“You spilled vodka on my shoes twenty minutes ago.”
“And yet you forgave me because I’m cute.”
“No,” Garrett muttered, appearing behind the couch suddenly. “he forgave you because you’re five seconds from falling over.”
Y/N gasped softly. “I’m not even that bad”
She leaned further into Logan’s side as she said it, completely unbothered. Logan went still instantly.
“Hi,” she said suddenly, squinting up at him. “Why do you look depressed?”
“I’m literally just sitting here.”
“Yeah,” she nodded seriously. “But, like… depressing.”
The boys chuckled
Y/N ignored tem completely and kept staring at Logan with drunken concentration like she was genuinely trying to solve a puzzle.
Then she narrowed her eyes.
“…you’re boooring. You just scored 3 goals in a important game, and spend the night sitting on this couch… you are no fun”
Logan looked down at her and suddenly realized just how close she was.
Close enough to see her melted make up and the faint glitter still stubbornly clinging near the corners of her eyes. Close enough to smell alcohol mixed with her perfume. Close enough that if she leaned even a little more—
Y/N blinked up at him slowly with heavy, sleepy eyes, still waiting for an answer to whatever nonsense accusation she’d just made. Completely unaware of the effect she was having on him. His throat tightened. Logan swallowed hard before he caught himself.
Then immediately leaned back, giving her shoulder a light shove.
“Shut up,” he muttered with a nervous chuckle. “You are dead-ass drunk.”
Y/N gasped dramatically like he’d deeply insulted her.
“I’m not drunk.”
“You almost walked into my lamp ten minutes ago.” Tucker accused
“The lamp moved.” she said dramaticlly
Dean nodded solemnly from the floor. “Honestly? I saw it too.”
“Thank you.”
Garrett looked exhausted. “I’m surrounded by idiots.”
Y/N ignored him entirely and stole Logan’s beer again before he could stop her.
“Hey—”
“You share,” she informed him.
“You’ve had, like, four drinks already.” he took his beer back
“And?” She tilted her head lazily against the couch cushion. “I want to have five" she pouted
And suddenly Logan felt hyperaware again of the fact that she was practically folded against his side.
This felt dangerously wrong. Not because she was doing anything inappropriate. Y/N was just being Y/N. Comfortable, loud, affectionate when drunk, the problem was that she didn’t know the effect this suddenly had on him.
“You are,” she insisted, poking his ribs weakly. “You are all weird and quiet.”
Logan nearly choked on his beer. “No, I’m not.”
Y/N chuckled again, soft and tired this time, until she suddenly dropped her head onto Logan’s shoulder like gravity simply gave up on her. Everything in Logan’s body locked instantly.
Y/N was already half asleep.
“She’s done,” Tucker announced from the other couch.
“No shit,” Garrett muttered.
Y/N made a small annoyed sound without lifting her head. “I’m literally awake.”
“Congratulations,” Logan said dryly, staring very hard at the opposite wall instead of the warm weight resting against him. “Do you want a medal?”
“…yes. the golden one, in the olympics” she said sleepy
Tucker lost it laughing. Honestly, that was probably a sign he was drunker than he should’ve been, because it wasn’t even that funny.
And Logan smiled despite himself. Which was exactly the problem.
“Damn it,” Garrett muttered.
Logan glanced up.
Across the living room, Hannah and Allie were fully passed out on the opposite couch, tangled together next to Tucker.
And Dean suddenly disappeared , probably with the brunette he was hooking up with twenty minutes ago.
Garrett took a long breath and pinched the bridge of his nose like the entire party was personally attacking him. “This is why I hate throwing parties,” he muttered. “Everybody has fun, then somehow the house is destroyed, the beer's gone, and we're the ones cleaning up tomorrow.”
"That's leardship Gare" Y/N mumbled
Garrett ignored her and continued “And don't even get me started on freshmen who discover alcohol for the first time and immediately forget how to function.”
“Love you too,” Y/N mumbled sleepily against Logan's shoulder.
Garrett pointed at her immediately.
“You are exactly who I'm talking about."
“No, I'm not.” She cracked one eye open. “I'm your favorite.”
“You're currently drooling on Logan."
Logan nearly inhaled his beer wrong. Y/N lifted her head just enough to look offended "Liar ! I don't drool."
Then she dropped right back onto his shoulder anyway.
Logan was painfully aware of: Y/N curled into his side. His arm resting along the back of the couch behind her. The fact that he hadn’t moved away once.
Garrett sighed heavily.
“Hey,” he said finally, looking directly at Logan. “I gotta take Hannah and Allie home before it gets too late”
Logan blinked once.
“And?”
“And Dean disappeared.” Garrett jerked his head toward Tucker. “Tucker’s drunk off his ass.” Then finally: "So do you mind taking care of Y/N?”
The room seemed to go strangely quiet for a second. Garrett trusted him. And Logan felt like the world’s worst person suddenly. Because Garrett asked the question so easily.
No suspicion. No hesitation.
“Yeah,” Logan answered automatically, voice rougher than intended. “Course.”
Garrett nodded once like that settled it completely.
“Just make sure she drinks water before she passes out.”
Y/N lifted one finger into the air dramatically without opening her eyes. “Hydration is important for high performance athletes.”
“You had vodka mixed with an energy drink.”
“Balance.”
Garrett rolled his eyes and chuckled lightly shaking his head. Then he moved toward the couch, crouching briefly in front of Y/N.
“Hey,” he said quieter this time. “I’m taking Hannah back to campus.”
Y/N blinked slowly at him. “Kay.”
“You staying here tonight?”
She nodded immediately, not even thinking about it. “Mhm.”
“Okay.” Garrett brushed messy hair back from her forehead automatically. “Lock the upstairs bathroom door this time if you shower in the morning.”
Y/N looked offended. “That happened one time.”
Garrett laughed under his breath despite himself, kissed her forehead before standing again. Then he looked toward Logan one last time.
“Text me if she gets worse.”
Logan nodded once.
And just like that, Garrett handed over the most important person in his life without a second thought.
“I’m not even that drunk,” Y/N complained immediately after Garrett disappeared toward the front door with Hannah and Allie barely conscious behind him. “I don’t need a babysitter”
Her words blended together just enough to completely destroy her argument. Logan looked down at her incredulously.
“You can barely keep your eyes open.”
“I’m just relaxing.”
“You called the lamp hostile earlier.”
“Because it was.”
Y/N rolled her eyes dramatically before letting herself fall backward against Logan’s shoulder again with absolutely no concern for personal space.
“He’s so dramatic, I swear,” she mumbled. “Like, oh no, Y/N had fun at a party, somebody alert the authorities.”
Logan huffed out a laugh despite himself.
“G is just protective.”
Y/N groaned instantly. “He’s insane.”
“He worries"
“Too much.” she added.
She shifted again until she was practically folded into Logan’s side, one leg thrown lazily across the couch cushion beside him. Logan was trying very hard not to think about the fact that her face was tucked against his neck now. He swallowed once and stared straight ahead at the crowded living room like it personally offended him.
Y/N snorted softly against Logan’s shoulder, clearly amused. Then she tilted her head up suddenly to squint at him.
“You smell nice.” Everything in Logan’s body stopped functioning for a full second. Y/N blinked slowly, still completely serious. “Like laundry detergent,” she informed him.
Logan dragged a hand down his face. “You are never drinking again.”
Y/N smiled sleepily then, small and lazy and entirely too comfortable against him. Her fingers absentmindedly curled into the sleeve of Logan’s hoodie like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And maybe for her, it was. That was the problem. Because for Y/N, this probably meant nothing. She wouldn’t even remember.
Meanwhile Logan was sitting there hyperaware of every point where she touched him while guilt slowly ate through his bloodstream.
Tucker noticed. Of course he did. His drunk eyes narrowed slowly between the two of them. Logan looked up noticing Tucker's eyes on them and stomach dropped immediately.
“I’m gonna take her upstairs,” Logan announced to nobody in particular.
Mostly because he desperately needed to get out of this couch before Tucker’s drunk ass accidentally developed observational skills.
Y/N barely protested when Logan stood and took her hand, helping her up from the couch carefully. The second she got to her feet, she swayed slightly. He reached out quickly and steadied her.
“Wow,” she said, sounding genuinely impressed. “So quick.”
Logan laughed. “You're a figure skater. You're supposed to have better balance than this.”
Y/N squinted at him. “I can skate backward.”
“You can't walk forward.”
“Details.”
She stumbled toward the stairs with all the confidence of someone who absolutely should not be walking unassisted. Logan followed automatically, one hand hovering near her elbow just in case.
Halfway to the staircase, she faltered. Not from the alcohol this time. A small wince crossed her face before she could hide it, her hand briefly brushing her knee. Logan noticed immediately.
"You okay?" he rushed to her side "Something hurts?"
"Nothing."
"That wasn't a nothing face."
"My knee's being dramatic." she said as if it was nothing.
"You mean injured?"
"I mean dramatic."
Y/N blinked at him. Then shrugged.
"Yeah. Probably danced too much."
"You dance for an hour and injure yourself?"
"I skate for six hours and injure myself," she corrected.
Logan narrowed his eyes.
She ignored him. Then she looked up at the staircase. And stopped completely. A look of deep suspicion settled on her face. "There's more of them than before." brushing the subject.
Logan stared. "The stairs?"
"Yeah... and they are moving."
"They are literally the same stairs."
Y/N squinted harder. "and multiplying."
"Jesus Christ."
Before she could attempt climbing again and accidentally throw herself backward down the staircase, Logan exhaled sharply and bent slightly to lift her instead.
One arm under her knees. The other around her back. Easy and effortless.
Y/N let out a startled laugh immediately as he picked her up bridal style. Her head tipped backward dramatically while her arms looped loosely around his neck for balance.
Logan rolled his eyes as he started upstairs carefully “You’re impossible.”
“No,” Y/N sighed dreamily. “I’m amazing”
Logan laughed quietly under his breath before he could stop himself. Y/N looked up at him then, smile softer now, eyes heavy and unfocused in the dim hallway lighting.
And God. That was dangerous. Very dangerous.
Then suddenly she spoke again.
“Did you know,” Y/N slurred thoughtfully, “I quit pairs when I was little?”
Logan looked down at her. “Yeah?”
He wasn’t really paying attention anymore, just giving her enough responses to keep up with whatever drunk train of thought she was currently riding. Most of her words had blended together into background noise by now.
She nodded against his shoulder.
“Uh-hu. My partners could never lift me properly.”
Y/N just kept going. “I hated pairs, honestly. Being thrown around, being caught, trusting somebody not to drop you.” She wrinkled her nose. “None of my partners were ever very good at it. I hit my head a lot. Then she laughed softly. “One of them told me I was too heavy.”
The hallway suddenly felt very quiet. Logan stopped walking.
“What? Does Garrett know about this?”
The look of horror on her face was immediate. “Oh my God, no. He would murder a second grader.”
Logan considered that for a second. “Maybe he should have.”
Y/N blinked up at him. “We were like seven.”
“I don't care.” The answer came so fast it almost surprised him.
A smile tugged at her mouth. “He was seven too, Johnny.”
“Then he was a seven-year-old asshole.”
That actually made her laugh.
Y/N yawned and rested her head against his shoulder again.
“Besides,” she mumbled sleepily, “it worked out. I was always better on my own anyway.”
Logan looked down at her for a moment. He had a feeling she wasn’t talking just about skating anymore. The worst part was that she sounded like she believed it.
Logan tightened his jaw and started walking again. "Sounds like your partners sucked."
Y/N laughed softly. "Most of them did."
"They had one job. To catch you."
She laughed softly. "That's not technically how pairs works."
"Maybe not." He glanced down at her. "Still. If somebody's trusting you enough to throw themselves into the air, you don't get to screw that up."
The words settled between them. For a second, Y/N just stared at him.
Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the way he said it. But suddenly it didn't feel like they were talking about skating anymore too.
There was something strangely earnest in his voice. Something simple and solid. Like he genuinely couldn't understand how anyone could be trusted with something precious and then choose to let it fall.
A sleepy smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“That's a very nice thing to say, Johnny."
Logan huffed a quiet laugh. Y/N kept looking at him for another second, studying him like she'd discovered something unexpected.
Then her smile widened.
"You would've been a great partner."
Logan snorted. "I'm pretty sure figure skating requires grace and coordination. I'd be kicked out on day one."
That made her laugh. And he smiled to himself proud of it "Probably” Her gaze dropped to his arm where it was holding her effortlessly. "But at least I would've known you were gonna catch me."
The words were casual. The effect they had on him wasn't.
As she said them, her fingers tightened absentmindedly around his bicep where her arm rested. Logan nearly missed a step. Y/N blinked down at her own hand, then squeezed experimentally once more.
"...wow."
Oh no.
"I never realized how fit you were," she mumbled, squeezing again as if this were a perfectly normal thing to do. "This is insane."
"Y/N." he warned
"What?" she asked innocently, looking up at him while continuing her completely unscientific investigation.
"Jesus Christ." he groaned
She laughed softly, still completely unaware of the fact that she was actively shortening his lifespan. Or maybe she knew… Drunk Y/N was difficult to read.
Logan tightened his grip under her knees slightly and pushed Garrett’s bedroom door open with his shoulder. The room was dark except for the lamp near the desk.
Y/N immediately sighed dramatically once they entered. “Oooh my kingdom.”
“It’s your brother’s room.” he said unpatient.
Logan walked toward the bed carefully while Y/N kept talking nonsense against his shoulder.
“You hockey boys are weirdly muscular,” she informed him seriously. “Like… is concerning.”
“You are never drinking vodka again.”
“Okay but” she poked his chest weakly “your arms are ridiculous.”
Logan exhaled sharply through his nose. This was torture. Actual torture. Because Y/N sounded completely casual about it. Meanwhile Logan’s brain was actively trying to kill him. His body was betraying him. He lowered her carefully onto Garrett’s bed, expecting her to let go.
She didn’t.
Her arms stayed looped lazily around his neck while she looked up at him from the mattress with heavy eyes.
Too close. Again. Logan swallowed hard.
“Alright,” he said roughly. “You gotta let go now.”
Y/N frowned slightly like she genuinely needed a second to process the request.
Then finally “Oh. Sorry” she chuckled and slowly, she loosened her arms.
But instead of fully letting go, her hand caught the collar of his shirt lightly before he could pull away.
Logan froze instantly. Y/N squinted at him with sleepy concentration.
“You’re pretty,” she informed him very seriously.
Logan actually choked a little on air. Grabbing her hand on his shirt and pulling it away “Okay,” he said quickly. “Goodnight.”
Y/N started laughing again as he immediately tried stepping backward out of reach.
“Relax, Johnny,” she teased softly, falling sideways into Garrett’s pillows. “You look scared.”
Scared wasn’t exactly the word for it. Terrified felt more accurate. As he organized the pillows on the bed for her to sleep in. Y/N looked like she considered something for a moment before finally speak.
“So did you?”
Logan, halfway through pulling the blanket over her, looked up in confusion.
“I did what?”
Y/N shifted onto her back dramatically, squinting at him with a teasing little smile.
“Hook up with Chloe.”
Logan blinked once honestly confused “…who?”
“My friend,” Y/N clarified with an exaggerated eye roll. He still looked confused so she added “The blonde one.”
“Oh.”
“She wanted to hook up with you,” Y/N continued casually. “Has been talking about it all week.”
Logan snorted softly despite himself. Y/N looked deeply unimpressed. “Really annoying, by the way.” She threw herself harder into Garrett’s pillows like the entire situation personally offended her. “Acting like you guys are celebrities or something,” she muttered. “It’s stupid.”
Logan crossed his arms lightly, leaning against Garrett’s desk now and looking at her smirking.
“You literally introduced your brother like he was royalty downstairs.”
“That was ironic.”
“Sure.”
Y/N ignored him.
“She kept begging me to introduce you guys,” she continued. “I told her I wouldn’t, but then she was like, ‘I’ll just talk to him myself.’”
Her voice changed mockingly on the last sentence. Logan laughed quietly under his breath. Then Y/N looked back at him again.
“So?” she asked. “Did you?”
There was something oddly focused about the question despite how drunk she was. Curious and genuine watching him carefully.
Logan shrugged once. “No.”
Y/N blinked. “No?”
“No.”
“…why not?”
The question came too fast. Like she asked before thinking about it. Logan noticed immediately. Y/N noticed too, judging by the way her expression shifted slightly afterward. But instead of backing off, she doubled down.
“She’s pretty,” she said defensively. “Like... a lot”
“Never said she wasn’t.”
“She literally spent two hours fixing her hair before coming here.”
“Really? Didn't notice” he said crossing his arms.
Y/N narrowed her eyes at him from the bed. “You flirt with everyone.”
“That’s not true.”
“Johnny,” she deadpanned. “I’ve seen you flirt with the library lady.”
Logan laughed. Actually laughed. And Y/N hated for one brief second how good he looked doing it. Drunk thoughts. Dangerous territory.
“She wasn’t really my type,” Logan said finally. Find a reasonable explanation.
Y/N tilted her head slightly against the pillow.
“And what exactly is your type?”
You are
The room got quieter somehow. Suddenly Logan could hear every small sound in Garrett’s room: the muffled conversations dowstairs through the walls, Y/N’s breathing, his own heartbeat being deeply unhelpful.
Because Y/N was looking at him now. Really looking at him. Drunk curious eyes soft in the low light. Logan forced himself to shrug casually.
“Don’t know,” he lied.
Y/N hummed sleepily like she didn’t believe him for a second. Then, after a pause:
“Yeah... maybe blondies not your thing.”
Logan’s breath caught so subtly he almost thought he imagined it himself. Y/N, meanwhile, was already sinking deeper into the pillows, eyes half closed again. Completely unaware of the damage she was causing.
Logan walked away and stayed still near the doorway for a second, hand already on the light switch.
Y/N’s breathing had evened out. Her eyes were closed. And for one dangerously peaceful moment, he thought she’d finally fallen asleep.
Good. Because he needed distance. Cold water. Maybe psychological intervention. He reached for the switch.
Then—
“Don’t leave, please.”
The words were so quiet he almost didn’t hear them. Logan turned immediately. Y/N was still curled into Garrett’s blankets, eyes barely open now, voice rough with exhaustion and alcohol. But the teasing was gone.
“I don’t like being alone like this,” she admitted softly.
Something in Logan’s chest tightened painfully. Because suddenly she didn’t sound drunk anymore. She sounded vulnerable. Young. And underneath the sleepiness and slurred words, there was something deeper there too. Something sad enough that Logan felt it instantly without fully understanding why.
Y/N shifted slightly against the pillow, blinking toward the dark hallway behind him.
“Where’s Gare?” she asked quietly. Not Garrett. Gare. Like small. Childlike. Old habit.
Logan leaned against the doorframe slowly. “He took Hannah back to campus, remember?”
Y/N frowned weakly. “Oh.” she said in relization.
Silence stretched for a second. Then quieter:
“He always stays.”
And there it was. That deeper thing again. Logan knew enough about Y/N and Garrett’s childhood to understand what she wasn’t saying out loud. Garrett always stayed because growing up, somebody had to.
Somebody had to stand between her and the yelling and slammed doors and bruises Garrett pretended nobody noticed. Somebody had to make sure she felt safe. And apparently even now, drunk and exhausted, part of Y/N still searched for her brother first when she felt vulnerable.
Logan’s throat tightened unexpectedly.
“Hey... it's okay. I can stay.” he said softly before he could stop himself.
Y/N looked at him sleepily. Logan hesitated only half a second longer before walking back toward the bed. The mattress dipped slightly as he sat carefully on the edge beside her.
Y/N relaxed almost immediately. Like his presence alone settled something anxious inside her. That should not have affected him as much as it did.
“You gonna stay?” she asked quietly.
Logan looked down at her for a long moment. Then sighed softly through his nose.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”
Y/N’s eyes closed again almost instantly after that. Trusting him without hesitation.
And Logan sat there in Garrett Graham’s room beside the girl he absolutely should not be thinking about this way, while guilt and something dangerously close to tenderness twisted together inside his chest.
an: i got a little carried away with this chapter and somehow it ended up way longer than i planned 😭 i really hope you enjoyed it! let me know what you think, i love reading your comments and ideas, also... should i make a taglist? if you'd like to be added, let me know! this fic somehow turned into an 18-chapter monster in my drafts (and it's still growing, which is honestly concerning). meanwhile i'm tagging: @archxve @mcueveryday
new chapters every thursday ♡
summary: When you confessed your love to the idiot on the hockey team and he rejected you like a coward… only to write you 22 letters later, ignore your silent treatment, and confess everything to you in the rain like he’s in a Nicholas Sparks movie. Because of course, talking like a normal person is too hard, but declaring eternal love while soaking wet is totally reasonable.
warnings: Prepare yourself for some angst with a happy ending, fueled by heavy pining and absolute emotional constipation. This story features miscommunication (but make it dramatic) and, yes, literal kisses in the rain. Expect Logan being a simp in denial, lots of crying in aprons and on shoulders, and friends who consistently give much better advice than the main characters actually listen to. Fair warning: you will experience severe secondhand embarrassment, endure excessive dramatic monologues, and encounter plenty of swearing along the way.
a/n: hey guys, I’m back! I hope you like it. You have no idea how fucking much I love kisses in the rain. Sending you a kiss — I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. xoxo
part one.
'Cause all I know is we said, "Hello"
And your eyes look like comin' home
All I know is a simple name
And everything has changed
(Guys, you lost me.)
I don’t know what to do with this. With all this love I have for him. I don’t know where to put it now.
The world kept spinning like nothing had happened. And I hated it a little for that.
Every morning I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror of my room with that question stuck somewhere inside me, unanswered, with nowhere to go. Love doesn’t disappear just because you want it to. It doesn’t work like that. There’s no switch, no drawer where you can stash it and lock it away. It was just there, huge and useless, taking up space that no longer had anyone to belong to.
When was the last time I actually slept?
I couldn’t remember.
I wasn’t trying to be dramatic, but fuck, not talking to him had hit me hard.
I washed my face with ice-cold water until my cheeks burned to bring down the swelling, then I put on concealer under my eyes and a little blush so I wouldn’t look so dead. War paint, I told myself. As if calling it that turned it into something that required courage instead of just the small, sad act of trying to look like a functional person.
Today I finally decided to leave my cave—my incredible, comfortable bed—to dignify myself with going to work. One of the perks of your mom being the owner is that she really doesn’t care if you miss work. I think she’s even at peace when I’m not at the café. It must be exhausting to see me moving around like a ghost in an apron.
The walk was twelve minutes. Janis was still at the car wash, so I had no choice. I usually didn’t mind walking, but now I couldn’t stand those twelve minutes alone with my thoughts. Before, I’d spend them with music or my phone in my hand, answering Logan’s messages like a dumb teenager. Now I just wore the headphones without playing anything. Just the dead weight of them as an excuse for no one to talk to me. So I could be, for those twelve minutes, exactly as broken as I was before having to pretend I wasn’t.
I’d been replaying the same moments all weekend. The feeling of his lips against mine. His big, warm hands closing around my hips. The way he looked at me right before he kissed me, like he’d been holding back for years. The hoarse sound that escaped his throat when I kissed him back. Everything played on loop, sharp, cruel, perfect.
And then came the memory of the next morning. His voice in the kitchen.
“I fucked everything up.”
“I need you to leave.”
I shook my head and picked up my pace, as if I could leave the memories behind on the sidewalk.
“The only thing I learned that night,” I muttered, dropping my forehead onto the table with a dull thud, “was that I should’ve stayed home.”
We were sitting at one of the outdoor tables in the central courtyard at Briar, under a sun that felt way too cheerful for my mood. I had a coffee that had already gone cold between my hands. Sarah was nibbling on an apple with a bored face, and Alison was stirring her chocolate milkshake with a straw while listening to me repeat the weekend story for the thousandth time.
Sarah let out a snort and ran her hand down my arm in a caress that was supposed to be comforting but mostly looked like she was holding back laughter.
“What if he’s gay and just hasn’t realized it yet?” she whispered mischievously, leaning toward me.
Alison let out a short, dry laugh.
“Men,” she said ironically, clinking the ice in her drink. “Tell them you love them and you’ll never see them again. They disappear faster than my patience on a Monday morning.”
“God, my life sucks,” I lamented, letting out a pitiful groan against the cold wood of the table.
The silence lasted barely two seconds before Sarah leaned in closer.
“For God’s sake! You’re twenty-two years old, what do you know about life?” she exclaimed, though her voice had that protective tone she always used when she saw me like this. “You’re beautiful, smart, and never apologize for feeling things, for setting boundaries, or for having ambitions, babe. Got it?”
I lifted my head enough to look at her. Sarah had that kind of confidence I envied with all my soul: short hair, sharp gaze, and a tongue that could destroy male egos in less than ten words. Alison was the same, only more cruelly funny. Both of them were like a man’s ego put into the bodies of beautiful, fearless women. The exact opposite of me right now.
“Besides,” Alison continued, pointing at me with her straw, “if John ‘Eat Me’ Logan is dumb enough to let you go after you told him you loved him, then fuck him. There are more guys at Briar. Most of them are worse, but at least some know how to use their mouths for something more useful than babbling excuses.”
I tried to smile, but it only came out as a crooked grimace. I knew they were saying it to cheer me up. I knew their words came from a good place. But none of that took away the weight I felt in my chest.
“Who needs therapy when I have you guys? Hooray…” I said in a tired but sincere voice.
But then I saw him.
Logan was walking along the path that crossed the courtyard with that stride of his I knew by heart—not too fast, not too slow, that way of moving that had always felt somehow inevitable. Tucker was beside him talking about something, hands in his pockets, and Logan had his head slightly tilted toward him with no expression at all.
And then he looked up.
I don’t know if it was instinct or bad luck, but his eyes went straight to mine. Without searching. Without hesitation. Like he already knew exactly where I was before he looked.
His brown eyes locked onto mine.
And I saw everything on his face in the space of a second: the impact of finding me there, the tension that rose up his jaw, something that could have been relief or pain or probably both at the same time. He had dark circles. A tight line between his eyebrows that I hadn’t seen before, or maybe I had and just didn’t know what it meant at the time.
Now I did.
He stopped dead.
Tucker took two more steps before realizing and turning around. I saw the exact moment he processed the situation—his eyes going from Logan to me and back to Logan—and something in his face closed off with an expression that wasn’t exactly pity but was too close for my comfort. Logan watched me with a mix of pain, regret, and something else I didn’t dare name. He took an involuntary step toward our table, like his body reacted before his brain. Tucker, beside him, noticed immediately and grabbed his arm firmly, stopping him.
Logan didn’t even look at him.
His eyes moved quickly over mine, my mouth, the line of my jaw, scanning my expression with an urgency that almost hurt.
He didn’t even like me. Why was he torturing me like this?
His lips parted slightly and then closed. I could see him working inside, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers briefly clenched into a fist and then opened. His entire posture was a question. Almost a plea.
Give me something. Anything.
I felt my heart rise to my throat and stay there, huge and inconvenient, pulsing with a force that I’m sure showed on my face.
No. I’m not going to be the one who does it this time.
I can’t be the one again.
I looked away with effort, breaking the contact like I was tearing off a piece of my own skin. I lowered my head and tightened my fingers around my coffee cup until my knuckles turned white.
“I’m not taking the first step,” I whispered, more to myself than to them, though the words came out loud enough.
“Bravo girl, Bravo” Sarah said proudly, giving me a gentle pat on the back. “Let him crawl this time.”
----
J.L
I sat on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands, feeling like my chest was going to explode. In my head, the same image played on loop without stopping: the way her eyes filled with pain. And then she looked away. Like looking at me burned her. Like I was something she could no longer stand.
Like I was something she could no longer stand.
The three of them looked at me in silence. It was weird seeing the guys so quiet. Disturbingly weird. Normally Dean would’ve already said some shit to lighten the mood, but even he didn’t dare. Garrett had his arms crossed and his jaw tight, staring at the floor. Tucker was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, looking at me… with a lot of pity.
How fucked up was I?
“…I ruined everything,” I muttered, my voice hoarse.
Dean let out a dramatic sigh and threw himself onto my bed like it was his.
“Yeah, we already know that. The question is: what the hell are you going to do about it?”
I stayed quiet for a long time. The knot in my throat was choking me. I ran my hands through my hair, pulling harder than necessary, as if the physical pain could organize the chaos inside me.
“I’m in love with her,” I admitted almost angrily. “I love her eyes… fuck, I love the way she looks at me like I’m someone decent. I love her hair, the way it falls in her face when she’s focused. I love her smile when she hears the stupidest thing that comes out of my mouth… like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to her.” My voice was shaking by the end. I stood up without really knowing why. I needed to move, I needed to do something with my body because if I stayed still I was going to explode. I stood in the middle of the room like an idiot. “She confessed everything to me… and I told her I couldn’t. What kind of son of a bitch does that? After what happened that night?”
Dean, for the first time in a long time, didn’t make a joke. He just looked at me seriously.
“Bro… you’re really fucked.”
Garrett moved.
He’d been silent the whole time, staring at some point on the floor, and that silence from Garrett was what had me the most nervous since they arrived.
He leaned forward. Looked straight at me.
“So what are you going to do now? Because avoiding her and looking at her like a lost puppy isn’t working.” He said it without cruelty, but without softening it either. “Listen to me, Logan. You’re a mess, I know. But you can’t go dump all of this on her at once.” He paused, choosing his words. “She’s hurt. Really hurt. If you go now and tell her everything you’re feeling, she’s going to think it’s pity or that you’re confused. You have to take it slow… but don’t drag your feet. Do it right. Approach her little by little. Start by asking for forgiveness. Be honest, but gentle. Give her room to breathe.”
Garrett continued:
“You know where she works. You should go. Not like an ambush, just you. Order a coffee, sit down… and talk to her. On her turf. No pressure.”
Tucker pushed off the wall. He nodded slowly.
“Fast, but careful. Show her with actions that it wasn’t a mistake.” His voice was calmer than Garrett’s, quieter, but just as firm. “That she wasn’t a mistake.”
-
-
-
I stood in front of the café door for almost ten minutes, hands in the pockets of my jeans, my heart pounding against my ribs like it wanted to get out. The smell of fresh coffee and sweet bread reached me from inside, but it didn’t calm me. It did the opposite. It reminded me of her. Of her hands moving with that calm motion behind the counter, of how she bit her lower lip when she focused on making a latte.
Breathe, Logan. Don’t fuck this up again.
I pushed the door open and the little bell sounded way too loud in my ears. There weren’t many people. A couple of occupied tables and her behind the counter, cleaning the espresso machine. She was wearing the black apron she always wore, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail with some strands falling in her face. God… she looked beautiful.
I approached the counter with heavy legs. She looked up for a second, her eyes passing over my face without stopping, like I was just another customer. No surprise. No pain. Nothing. Just cold indifference.
Ouch. I deserve that.
“A black coffee, please,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended.
She nodded without meeting my eyes and turned toward the machine. Her shoulders were tense. I knew that body language. She was holding herself back.
Say something, John. Now.
“…I need to talk to you,” I murmured, lowering my voice so only she could hear. “Alone. Please.”
She didn’t respond. The sound of the espresso machine filled the silence between us. She served the coffee with precise movements, placed the cup in front of me, and wrote something on the order slip like I hadn’t said a word.
“That’ll be four fifty,” she said, looking at a point over my shoulder.
“Hey… please,” I insisted, leaning a little over the counter. “Just five minutes. I know I don’t deserve even that, but…”
She took the bill I held out without brushing my fingers. She gave me the change with the same empty expression, like she was serving a stranger. Her eyes didn’t meet mine even once. It was worse than if she had screamed at me. That indifference was destroying me inside.
She’s hurt. Really hurt. Shit, Garrett was right.
“I understand that you don’t want to see me,” I continued, almost in a whisper. “But I can’t keep going like this. What I did… was shitty. I was shitty. I need to explain…”
“Here’s your change,” she cut me off in a neutral voice, placing the coins on the counter. Then she turned back to the machine and started cleaning again, giving me her back.
The knot in my throat tightened so much I thought I was going to choke. I stood there like an idiot, the coffee burning my hand and my chest on fire. I wanted to jump over the counter, grab her by the arms, and force her to look at me, to see everything that was eating me alive inside. But I couldn’t. Not after what I’d done to her.
I took the coffee and sat at one of the tables in the back, where I could see her. I wasn’t moving from there. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not for as long as it took.
I’m not giving up on you. Even if you ignore me. Even if you look at me like I no longer exist. I’m going to prove to you that you weren’t a mistake. That you never were. That you’re the only thing I want in this fucking life.
-
-
-
“Hey, kid!”
A strong, decisive voice snapped me out of my sleep. I blinked, confused, my cheek stuck to the table and a trail of drool that didn’t even embarrass me. The café was empty. The chairs were already up on the tables and the main lights were off. Only the dim light from the counter remained.
In front of me was her mom. And fuck… she was just as pretty as her daughter. The same expressive eyes, the same way of tilting her head when she was half amused and half serious, the same hair falling softly over her shoulders. Seeing her was like seeing a more mature, confident version of her. It hurt my soul.
“What, you think this is a hotel?” she said in a half-mocking, half-annoyed tone. “You’ve been sleeping there for like three hours, drooling on my table. We closed a while ago.”
I sat up quickly, wiping my mouth with my sleeve, my face burning. I looked around desperately.
“Did she… already leave?” I asked, my voice thick.
She let out a soft, almost maternal laugh and shook her head while picking up a rag.
“My daughter left a while ago. She said she had things to do.” She looked at me for a second longer, with that warmth she’d always had toward me. “You okay? You look… tired.”
Ma’am, I’m trying to prove to your daughter that I’m not a complete son of a bitch.
“Yeah, I’m… I’m fine,” I lied, standing up. My neck hurt like hell. “I just wanted… to talk to her for a bit.”
She pointed at the door with the mop. “Come on, out. I have to open early tomorrow and I’m not leaving you here as decoration.”
I got up unsteadily, still half-asleep and with a sore neck. I tried to keep some dignity, but it was hard with the table mark on my cheek and my hair a mess.
She took the mop and gave me a gentle but firm push toward the door, like she was shooing out a big, clumsy dog that didn’t want to leave.
“Ma’am, I just—”
“Out, out,” she cut me off playfully, opening the door. “I open early tomorrow and I’m not tripping over you drooling on my tables. I don’t know what happened between you and my daughter, but I hope you can fix it soon. It kills me to see her walking around like a ghost. Good night.”
The cold of the night hit me as I stepped out. The door closed behind me with that cheerful little jingle that now sounded like mockery.
I stood there on the dark sidewalk, running my hands over my face.
How pathetic. Ugh.
---
“Hi…” The low, close voice startled me so much I let out a small scream and nearly dropped the cup from my hands. I spun around, heart hammering in my throat.
Tucker took a step back and clutched his chest with one hand, eyes a little wide.
“Fuck… you scared me,” he muttered, breathing deeply, clearly surprised by my reaction. “Got a minute?”
I didn’t answer. Instead I stood there, pressing the cup against my chest like a shield. My pulse thundered in my ears.
He ran a hand over the back of his neck, uncomfortable, and looked down for a second before speaking. “I’m sorry,” he said simply, with that calm but heavy voice. “I’m sorry about what happened.”
I looked at him in silence. Tucker had always been the quietest. Seeing him here apologizing squeezed something in my chest.
“It’s not your fault, Tucker,” I answered quietly, forcing a weak smile. “Really. You didn’t do anything. You don’t have to apologize for something that wasn’t your responsibility.”
He frowned slightly, like he didn’t fully agree, and still insisted, but before he could say anything I beat him to it:
“It’s okay,” I added, trying to sound firmer than I felt. “I’m fine. I don’t need anyone carrying this. Not you… not anyone.”
What a huge lie. I’m not fine. Nothing is fine. But what else can I say?
Tucker nodded slowly, still with that pitying look I hated so much. He stayed one more second, like he wanted to add something, but in the end he just murmured:
“How are you feeling?” he asked quietly. “Don’t lie to me.”
Crack.
I couldn’t hold it anymore.
The knot that had been tightening in my throat for days, weeks, broke all at once. Tears flooded my eyes and I started crying uncontrollably, right there. Everything came out in a shaky, broken torrent.
“I really… I really didn’t want to like him,” I sobbed, covering my face with one hand. “I didn’t want to, Tucker. I tried not to… but it just happened. And now I miss him so much it hurts to breathe. I miss his stupid voice, the way he looks at me… I miss feeling safe with him. But he told me he couldn’t and… and I had to walk away. I needed to walk away. I don’t know how to keep pretending I’m okay when everything reminds me of him. He’s been coming nonstop, leaving these stupid letters I haven’t even bothered to open, and fuck, it complicates everything when I see him on campus… I’m drowning. I regret going to that stupid party. I regret confessing my feelings. If only… if only I’d held back a little.”
The tears kept falling, soaking my cheeks and my apron. I felt pathetic, exposed, but I couldn’t stop.
Tucker walked around the counter without saying anything. His steps were quiet, steady. Suddenly his arms wrapped around me carefully, pulling me against his chest in a warm, protective hug. I tensed for a second, but then I collapsed against him, crying harder into his sweatshirt.
“Shh… it’s okay,” he murmured against my hair, rubbing my back with slow, comforting strokes. “Cry as much as you need. You don’t have to be strong all the time.”
I felt pathetic. I admit I really tried not to cry, but I just couldn’t hold it back anymore.
When will this suffering end?
I had to rip it out by the roots.
Maybe not right now. When I’m ready.
“Eight days!?”
They said it at the same time. Both of them. With the same incredulous face that made the lady at table three look up from her newspaper and stare at me like I was the problem.
“Shh, lower your voices.” I leaned on the counter with my arms crossed and waited for the echo to fade. “Eight days in a row,” I confirmed, lowering my voice.
Alison and Sarah were sitting on the high stools in front of the counter, their half-finished milkshakes in front of them and that look on both their faces that meant they weren’t letting me out of this conversation easily. The café was quiet at that hour, only four tables occupied and my mom in the kitchen making muffled clattering noises from the back. It was the kind of afternoon I normally liked. Calm. Manageable.
Until they showed up.
“And what does he do?” Sarah asked, raising an eyebrow while pointing at Logan’s table with her straw.
“He writes.”
“He writes?” Alison repeated, like the word didn’t quite fit, looking at me with a “Seriously?” face.
“He sits down, takes out paper, and writes. At first I thought he was studying, taking notes, whatever. Something normal.” I grabbed the rag from the counter and unfolded it, wiping the drops of chocolate Sarah’s straw had left. “But then on the third day he slipped a folded letter into the tip jar when he left.”
Both of them looked at the jar. It was there in its usual spot next to the register, completely innocent.
“In the tip jar?” Sarah pointed out, still not believing it.
“In the tip jar.”
“Why there?”
“Because I was giving him the silent treatment and every time he tried to talk to me I found something super urgent to do in the kitchen.” I folded the rag. Unfolded it. “So he stopped trying and found another way.”
Alison turned her stool slightly toward Sarah. Then looked at me.
“And what do the letters say?” Sarah asked.
“I don’t know.”
Silence.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Alison said slowly, her voice showing that something didn’t add up.
“That I haven’t opened them.”
“None of them?”
“None.”
Alison stared at me. Then at Sarah. Then back at me.
“How many letters total?” she asked, and something in her tone told me she was already bracing for the answer.
I wiped a part of the counter that was already perfectly clean.
“Twenty-two.”
The silence lasted exactly two seconds.
“Twenty-two,” Alison repeated, toneless.
“Sometimes he leaves me three in one day. He sits, writes, folds the paper, puts it in the jar, and starts again. Like he always has something more to say.”
“But why?” Sarah frowned, not in judgment but with the genuine confusion of someone trying to solve a puzzle. “I mean, what’s the point of him writing you letters if he’s the one who told you no?”
“Exactly what I keep asking myself.”
“And you have no idea what they might say?”
“None.” I shrugged, though the gesture came out a little forced. “Maybe it’s an apology. Or he wants us to stay friends and doesn’t know how to tell me in person. Or he just feels guilty and this is how he’s dealing with it. I don’t know.”
“Or maybe,” Alison said finally, measuring her words, “they say something that has nothing to do with any of those things?”
“Alison.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Well, don’t say it.” I grabbed the rag again. “He made it pretty clear where things stood. The letters will be what they are, probably something I don’t need to read, and when I get the courage I’ll open them and that’s it.”
Sarah rested her chin on her hand and looked at me with that calm of hers that always felt slightly destabilizing.
“Do you have them on you?” she asked.
Of course I had them on me. I’d been carrying the wad folded in my apron pocket since Monday, but I had no explanation that made me look good. I took them out and placed them on the counter between the two milkshakes.
Alison and Sarah looked at them.
“Can we take a look?” Alison asked.
I glanced sideways at the table in the back. Logan was sitting with Dean Di Laurentis, a ridiculously hot blond who had always seemed almost unfairly attractive. They both had muffins they’d ordered a while ago in front of them. Logan was saying something with his elbows on the table and Dean was listening, leaning back in his chair with that half-smile of his, like he found the world generally entertaining. Neither was looking at me.
I shrugged.
“Whatever you want,” I said, and turned to clean the coffee machine. “They’re probably just apologies or something. I don’t think they’re a big deal.”
I heard the rustle of paper unfolding.
Silence. More silence.
The kind of silence you notice because there should be some comment and worryingly there isn’t. There should’ve been an “aw how sweet” or “look at his handwriting” or anything, but there was nothing, and that nothing started to itch somewhere I tried to ignore.
I turned around.
Alison had the letter in her hands and an expression I’d never seen on her. It wasn’t exactly surprise. It was something quieter, deeper, something that had settled on her face while she read and hadn’t moved when she stopped. Her eyes were still fixed on the paper.
“Oh,” she said.
Just that.
Oh.
Oh?
She passed the letter to Sarah without looking at her, pointing to a specific spot with her finger. Sarah read. I saw the exact moment she reached that part because her shoulders dropped a centimeter, she let out a very slow breath through her nose, and then she looked at me with an expression that was half tenderness and half something pretty close to “oh, sweetie.”
“This…” she started.
“What?” I said.
“This is pretty…”
I leaned over the counter without realizing it.
“Pretty what?”
The two of them looked at each other like accomplices and let out a small laugh.
“Give it to me,” I said.
Alison picked up the letter from Sarah’s hands.
“No.”
“Alison.”
“Nope.”
“Come on, it’s probably just a long apology—”
“It’s not an apology.” She said it without thinking and then closed her mouth like she’d said too much. Sarah pinched her.
I stayed still for a moment.
“What do you mean it’s not an apology?”
“Nothing, forget it.”
“Alison, if it’s not an apology then what—”
“When you’re ready you’ll read it and that’s it.” She leaned on the counter with a firmness that left no room for negotiation. “And don’t look at me like that, I’m serious. This is something you have to read alone and at the right moment, not here in the middle of your shift because we pressured you.”
“But I didn’t even want to know—”
“And now you do, right?”
I shut up. She was right. Damn it, she was right, because ten minutes ago I was perfectly convinced those letters were probably some elaborate apology or a request to stay friends and I didn’t need to read them to know they’d hurt anyway. And now I was leaning over the counter with my heart doing weird things because Alison had said “it’s not an apology” in that voice and—
A shadow fell over the counter.
The three of us looked up at the same time.
Dean Di Laurentis was standing on the other side of the counter. He didn’t say anything. He simply reached out, took the letter from Alison with a calmness that left no room for argument, grabbed another from the stack still on the counter, and placed them in front of me with startling ease.
I looked at him.
He held my gaze for a second, nodded slightly like he’d just done the most reasonable thing, then turned his head toward Alison.
And winked at her. Slowly. With total and absolute premeditation.
And he walked back to his table with his hands in his pockets like he hadn’t just dropped a grenade, leaving calmly.
The silence he left lasted exactly three seconds.
Sarah and I looked at each other.
Alison’s cheeks were flushed. Alison, who had once told a guy trying to hit on her at a party that his technique was conceptually deficient. Alison, who in the three years I’d known her had never lost a millimeter of composure in front of any male human being.
She had flushed cheeks.
She picked up her milkshake. Took a long, absolutely deliberate sip while looking out the window.
“Don’t even think about it,” she muttered.
Sarah opened her mouth.
“Don’t. You. Dare,” Alison repeated without looking at her, with a calmness that didn’t match someone with cheeks that color.
Sarah closed it. But no one could wipe the smile off her face.
I looked down at the two letters in front of me on the counter. White paper, folded in three, nothing written on the outside. Just the paper. And underneath all of that, that phrase spinning nonstop: it’s not an apology.
If it wasn’t an apology, then what was it?
I didn’t want to know. Lies. Yes, I did.
It was past midnight. I was sitting on the floor of my room in my pajamas, with the twenty-two letters spread out on the rug around me in roughly chronological order of when Logan had left them in the tip jar. They formed a semicircle that completely surrounded me. From the outside it probably looked pretty bleak, but there was no one watching so it didn’t count.
I’d taken them out of the drawer where I’d been saving them one by one, with that weird mix of care and denial that didn’t make much sense if you analyzed it. I’d organized them. I’d been staring at them for a while, convincing myself that as soon as I opened them I’d find something manageable. An apology. Maybe several apologies, one per letter, with different wording because Logan had always been that meticulous when he wanted to be. Something that would hurt a little but that I could fold back up, put in the drawer, and move on with my life.
It’s not an apology.
Damn Alison.
I picked up the first letter.
I held it for a moment without opening it, fingers on the fold of the paper, staring at it like I could read through it. Logan had spent eight days sitting in the café writing things I didn’t understand why he needed to write.
He had told me no. He had chosen to reject me. Those were concrete, verifiable facts and there was no reason for any of this to mean something different from what I had already assigned it.
No reason.
I unfolded it.
Logan’s handwriting was exactly as I remembered, a little careless at the edges with some words crossed out and rewritten.
I read the first line.
I froze completely. This can’t be real.
“Oh, shit,” I said out loud.
Hockey.
I wasn’t really into hockey until I met Logan. Before, it was just that sport they showed on TV that my dad sometimes watched and that I completely ignored. Noise, ice, guys crashing into each other at speeds that made no sense. I didn’t get the appeal.
Now I know exactly how many points the team needs to advance to the next round. I recognize the plays. I can tell for sure when a referee is calling too many penalties and when a defenseman is being deliberately dirty. Which says a lot—and nothing good—about what John Fucking Logan does to a person’s critical judgment.
I sighed and sank deeper into my seat.
The stadium smelled of popcorn and that weird mix of sweat and excitement that exists in sports venues. The stands were full, Briar colors everywhere, and the noise was that constant, dull kind that after a while just becomes pressure. Sarah was gripping her soda cup with both hands like it was the only thing anchoring her so she wouldn’t lose her mind, while Alison had been taking pictures of a certain player wearing number sixty-six for twenty minutes.
Meanwhile, I just couldn’t stop looking at player number twenty-two.
You’re an idiot.
My conscience scolded me. We’ve hurt each other and I’m still sighing and staring at him like an idiot. Why can’t feelings have an off button? What’s the point of loving him if he doesn’t feel the same about me?
“You okay?” Alison leaned toward me with genuine concern that, in the three years I’ve known her, had never once fooled me.
“Perfect.”
“Sure,” Sarah said from my other side, without taking her eyes off the ice. “That’s why you have that face.”
I didn’t answer because I didn’t have a response that didn’t incriminate me. Technically, it was the idiot with number twenty-two skating on the ice who had unfinished business with me. Though “unfinished business” was a very generous way to describe a situation that basically boiled down to: I had made the huge mistake of feeling things I shouldn’t, he had told me he simply couldn’t (or didn’t want to) be with me, and since then I’d been trying to disappear from my own life as discreetly as possible.
I shouldn’t have come.
I knew it since this morning. I knew it the exact moment I opened the reminders app to see what I had pending and found “Briar Game — 8pm” marked in red. I’d written it down weeks ago, in another life almost, when Logan and I were still whatever we were before I ruined everything by being honest. And then, without meaning to, without looking for it, with that masochistic tendency I have and should probably work on with a professional, I went to the messages.
Just to see. Just to remind myself why what happened was the right thing.
And there it was, among three unanswered messages I had left on read with absolute cowardice. One that simply said: Hope to see you tonight.
The message that made me want to check my reminders list and the reason I was here tonight.
I should have ignored it. I should have stayed home with a movie, a pack of cookies, and some dignity intact.
Instead here I was, in the stands at Briar’s stadium, flanked by Alison and Sarah who were pretending—not very effectively—not to monitor me every thirty seconds, with my stomach in knots and my eyes fixed on one spot on the ice so I wouldn’t keep unconsciously searching for number twenty-two.
Because I was searching for him. That was the worst part. That despite everything, despite the days avoiding him and the speeches I’d given myself and the times I’d repeated that I was fine, my eyes found him on their own. Like they had their own memory. Like no one had told them the memo.
Logan skated well. That was the fundamental problem—that he was really good and knew it without being arrogant about it, and when he moved on the ice there was something about him that settled, that relaxed.
I looked away.
The scoreboard was two to one in favor of Briar and the atmosphere had that electricity of the final minutes of a close game. Alison had put her phone down and was standing without realizing it. Sarah was muttering something under her breath.
And then it happened.
Logan intercepted the puck in the offensive zone. He dodged the first defenseman with a turn that seemed physically impossible, the second with an acceleration that made the whole crowd collectively hold its breath, and shot.
Score.
The stadium exploded.
I stood up with everyone else. I clapped without thinking. Alison grabbed my arm screaming something I couldn’t hear over the shouts. Sarah whistled with her fingers in her mouth.
Then Logan raised his hockey stick.
He turned toward the stands with a smile—that smile I knew by heart and that right now was doing damage to me that had no name—and I saw it before I could prepare myself.
He pointed at me. What the fuck is that supposed to mean.
Straight. Unmistakable. With his arm extended and his eyes locked exactly where I was standing, like there weren’t three hundred other people in the stadium, like there was no chance he was pointing at anyone else, like he wanted to make sure there was absolutely no doubt.
The stands made that collective sound. That “oooh” people make when they smell drama from afar. And the commentator, the damn commentator, didn’t miss the moment:
“Looks like one of our favorite guys had his heart stolen tonight, ladies and gentlemen. Don’t cry all at once, girls—there are still more players on the ice—”
Heat shot up my neck to my ears in about half a second.
Alison let go of my arm.
Sarah turned her head toward me very slowly, still looking stunned at what had just happened.
They both looked at me. They didn’t say anything. They didn’t need to. And thank God they didn’t.
“No,” I said.
I grabbed my jacket from the seat. I put it on wrong, one arm inside out, and fixed it with more violence than necessary. My stomach was in a tight knot, my cheeks were burning, and my ears were ringing. I needed to get out of there.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I lied.
“Sure,” Alison said, glancing sideways at Sarah, who returned a worried look.
Neither of them made a move to follow me.
I went down the stands almost tripping twice, dodged three groups of people still celebrating, pushed the exit door with both hands, and the cold air hit me in the face the second I stepped out. Honestly, it was a relief. I needed that hit. I needed something to remind me that it was real, that I was real, that what had just happened inside that sweaty, noisy stadium had also been real.
He had pointed at me. In front of everyone. What the fuck.
I’m overthinking this.
I shouldn’t let it affect me. I shouldn’t let it break my decision to stay away from him.
I closed my eyes for a second and the commentator’s voice came back like a horrible echo: “Looks like one of our favorite guys got shot by Cupid tonight, don’t cry ladies—”
I wanted to die. For real. Not metaphorically. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole and not even spit out the bones.
I started walking fast. Then faster. The parking lot was dark and the streetlights made those blurry orange spots that multiplied on the wet asphalt, and I was only thinking about getting to the car, getting inside, and crying with dignity where no one could see me. I had parked Janis in the fifth circle of hell because I arrived late and there were no spots nearby, so when I finally found her I was going to be completely soaked.
Good. Perfect. Great. And it was raining.
Not just raining. Pouring. Like the entire universe had decided that tonight wasn’t humiliating enough and needed a little more drama. The water soaked my hair in seconds, ran down my neck, my shoulders, got into my shoes. Good. Perfect. Great.
I kept walking.
I had spent entire days convincing myself that what we had was just a friendship I had misinterpreted, that I had seen things where there was nothing, that when he told me no—when he simply told me he couldn’t give me what I wanted—it was the most honest truth anyone had told me in a long time. I had forced myself to accept it. I had forced myself to keep functioning.
And then he scored and pointed at me. Son of a bitch.
“Wait!”
I stopped.
I didn’t want to have stopped. It was a reflex, a betrayal by my own body recognizing that voice before my brain could tell it no, to keep walking, to pretend to be deaf, to die a little.
I turned slowly.
Logan was running toward me. With his hair completely stuck to his face and still in his team uniform darkened by the water, and his eyes—God, his eyes—searching for me with an urgency I didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand. Didn’t want to understand.
Wait.
Did he just leave his game? Just to talk?
“Stop,” he said when he reached me, breathing hard. “Please, stop.”
I looked at him. I tried to make my face say nothing. I tried to be a wall. I swear.
“Logan.” My voice sounded calmer than I felt. That was the only miracle of the night. “Seriously, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to apologize or explain anything, okay? It was me. I misread things, I was stupid, and—” I swallowed. “And when you told me about Hannah and I felt this bad, that was my problem. Not yours. So really, seriously, you can go back inside and—”
“For God’s sake, shut up.”
I blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“Shut up.” He didn’t say it cruelly. He said it with something like desperation, jaw tight, eyes bright, rain running down his face like it didn’t exist. “Don’t regret anything. Please. Don’t.”
“Logan, I just—”
“I realized too late that she wasn’t you.” His skin was wet from the rain too (obviously), and one drop hung from the tip of his nose, about to fall. His brown eyes traced my face, moving over my eyes, my cheeks, and my mouth, before he said in a hoarse voice:
“I ruined everything.” He ran a hand through his soaked hair, a nervous, desperate gesture, like he didn’t know what to do with his own body. “I didn’t want Hannah. I never did. I just wanted someone to love, someone to spend the rest of my days with, and I was such an incredibly idiot, so completely blind, that I didn’t realize the person I actually loved was standing right in front of me.”
“Logan, stop—”
“It’s you.”
Oh God. My heart stopped. Literally. I swear it stopped.
“Stop—”
“And if your feelings are still the same, if you still love me, then right now—” his voice cracked a little there, just a little, but I heard it, I heard it clearly over the rain—“right now I’m telling you I want to spend the eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours, the five hundred and twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes of every one of the three hundred and sixty-five days with you.”
The rain was starting to get heavier. The parking lot lights became orange and white spots behind him and I didn’t know if what was running down my cheeks was water or tears and honestly it didn’t matter anymore because no one was going to notice anyway.
“Don’t pity me,” I said, and my voice was no longer calm. “Don’t. You don’t have to—” I bit my lip. I was nervous, mostly because I really wanted to tell him how I felt and what I wanted. I took a deep breath and he cut me off instantly.
“Every single one,” he continued, like he hadn’t heard me, or like he had heard me perfectly and decided to ignore it. “No exceptions. No conditions. If I stay quiet, if I let another day go by without telling you that you’re the only thing that has made constant sense, I’m going to spend the rest of my life unable to forgive myself.”
“Stop, Logan, seriously, stop—”
“And I’m not going to let you give this story that ending.”
He took one step closer. Just one. But I felt it in my chest like he had closed miles.
“Nor will I allow myself to give our story an ending.” His voice had something broken and something completely certain at the same time and I didn’t understand how those two things could coexist. “A story that hasn’t even begun and that I’m already anxious to know the next chapter of. I’d rather die tomorrow knowing I loved you than live a hundred years wondering what it would’ve been like to be with you.”
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
“Even it would be an honor if you broke my heart. Over and over, as many times as it took. Because even broken, even in pieces—” he paused and looked at me, and in his eyes there was something I had never seen before, something I recognized because it was exactly what I had felt all these months—“my heart would come back to you. Thirsty. Without conditions. Without holding anything back.”
My hands were shaking.
“I’ve always been a better person when I’m near you.” He said that lower, almost to himself, and it was what hurt me the most because I believed him. I believed him without wanting to. “And that’s something I haven’t told anyone until now. Because my heart is yours. Not from today. From way before I had the courage to admit it.”
He closed the last few feet between us.
“Forgive me. I’m asking you please.”
I shook my head. I tried to articulate something coherent.
“Don’t… don’t do this to me.” It came out broken, fuck. “Don’t do this to me now that I had already… that I had already…”
“What do you want me to do?” he cut in, and there was something urgent in his voice, something bordering on a plea. “Do you want me to pull the fucking moon down for you? I’ll become an astronaut for you. Tell me. Tell me what you want and I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.”
The rain pounded my shoulders.
“But I love you,” he said. “And that’s not going to change.”
I don’t know how long I stood there without saying anything. It could have been ten seconds or ten years and neither would have surprised me. I only heard the rain and my own breathing and the beating of something I had been trying to kill for weeks by ignoring it.
It was still there.
Stubborn. Damn stubborn heart. Damn body that doesn’t listen. Damn it.
I threw myself at him, wrapped both arms around his neck, and pressed my lips to his. The smell of his cologne mixed with the rain and completely intoxicated me. John froze for a second, motionless while my mouth was pressed against his. I thought, too late, that maybe he didn’t.
Shut up. He literally just bared his heart to you.
But then, as if lightning had struck him, John took a breath and cupped my face with his hands. He was kissing me back. I was kissing John Logan and he was kissing me. I went from being scared and breathless to a fire burning inside me in an instant.
John tilted his head and kissed me the way John was supposed to kiss—wild, and sweet, and entirely too confident in himself, all at the same time. He knew exactly what he was doing when his big hands slid into my hair, but it was the shudder in his breath and the slight tremble in his hands that drove me crazy. The fact that he had lost control as much as I had.
John pulled me even closer until we were pressed together, chest to chest. For the first time in my life, I understood why people said they could forget where they were, and he gave me a little bite on my lower lip, and then I touched his face, felt the rigid solidity of his jaw, and he kissed me like it was his job and he wanted a raise. He made a sound when I sank my fingers into his hair, like he liked it, and I wished it would keep raining like this forever, and never stop. Until he said my name, until he whispered it against my lips three times, I didn’t come back to reality.
“Huh?”
I opened my eyes, but my vision was unfocused.
Logan laughed. Softly, with his forehead almost resting against mine, his thumbs still on my cheeks, he laughed in that way of his that crinkled his eyes and that I had secretly collected for months like they were worth something.
They were. God, how much they were worth.
“Your name,” he said, his voice still hoarse. “I was calling you by your name.”
“Yeah.” I blinked. “I know. It’s just…”
“What?”
I looked at him. With his hair completely soaked and stuck to his forehead and that expression on his face I had never seen and now couldn’t stop looking at. The rain kept falling on both of us with that absolute indifference water has, that doesn’t distinguish between the most important moment of your life and any other Tuesday.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“Look,” I said, “I’m not… I mean, I’m not good at this. At saying things. The important things, I mean, the ones that really…” I made a vague gesture with my hand that meant nothing concrete. “You just told me a bunch of really big things and I’ve spent weeks convinced that this was all in my head and that you didn’t… that there was nothing and…” I breathed. “And right now my brain is completely fried and the words aren’t coming out in the right order.”
Logan didn’t say anything. He just looked at me.
“But I love you,” I blurted out, all at once, without elegance, without the firm voice I would have wanted. “I mean, I love you a lot. Too much, probably. For longer than I think is smart to admit out loud. And I tried to let it go, I really did, but it turns out I’m pretty bad at letting go of things that matter to me and you matter to me an amount that frankly seems excessive for my own well-being and—”
“Hey,” Logan said.
“What?
“Shut up.”
And he kissed me again. And for the first time I was glad I had parked Janis so far away.
