summary: in which one rooftop party, one car ride, and one too many mentions of another guy forces dean to confront just how tired he is of pretending you're not his.
notes: hi! i hope you're all well! this fic is based on this request. i wasn't too sure whether i executed this idea properly, but nevertheless i hope you all enjoy!! this felt like a pretty significant and necessary conversation for dean and y/n to have going forward <3 💌
ˋ°•*⁀➷ read part 1 here!
ꪆৎ
by the time the four of you leave the rooftop bar, the city has started settling into that strange hour where everything feels softer.
the music is quieter, the crowds are thinner.
the air has cooled enough that summer pulls her jacket tighter around herself while beau fishes his keys from his pocket.
"thank god," he mutters. "i am absolutely not paying manhattan uber prices."
summer laughs in response, you smile, and dean says absolutely nothing.
it's the first moment you know something is genuinely wrong.
dean always says something, whether it be a joke, a comment, or some absurd observation that makes everyone roll their eyes. instead, he follows everyone towards beau's car, hands shoved into his pockets, gaze fixed somewhere ahead of him.
not rude. not cold.
just quiet. completely unlike him.
by some unspoken agreement, you and summer end up in the backseat while dean slides into the passenger seat, leaving beau to drive.
the city blurs past outside the windows, skyscrapers melting into streaks of gold and white beneath the glow of streetlights. at first, you tell yourself you're imagining it. it's late, everyone's tired, the rooftop had been loud, maybe dean was just exhausted.
every few minutes, your eyes instinctively drift toward the front seat, settling on him.
dean usually occupies space effortlessly. even when he's quiet, he's present. one hand hanging out the window, a sarcastic comment tossed over his shoulder, an arm stretched lazily across the back of his seat while he argues with beau about something completely irrelevant.
tonight however, he seems impossibly far away.
his elbow rests against the door. his jaw stays tight. his attention remains fixed on the scenery slipping past outside.
it's as though he's deliberately avoiding looking anywhere else.
deliberately avoiding looking at you.
the thought settles heavily in your stomach.
for several minutes conversation drifts easily between beau and summer. something about one of summer's classes, a story from beau's practice and plans for tomorrow before you all head back to briar.
normally, dean would've jumped in, inserting himself into the conversation without a second thought. tonight though, he barely speaks, offering only the occasional hum of acknowledgment and short answers whenever beau addresses him directly, nothing more.
the longer it goes on, the harder it becomes for you to ignore.
then your brother says the worst possible thing.
"so."
you already know where this is going. summer does too judging by the way she immediately closes her eyes.
"ethan."
you groan, "oh my god."
"what?" beau laughs. "he seemed nice."
"he was nice."
"there you go."
"beau."
"i'm serious, y/n!" he glances at you briefly through the rear-view mirror.
"you should really give guys more chances."
you watch as dean's shoulders immediately stiffen. the movement is tiny, almost invisible, a slight tightening through his shoulders, hand flexing once against his thigh.
nobody else would've caught it.
except you've spent months learning him. learning the difference between annoyed and frustrated. between tired and upset. learning the tiny changes in his expression, the ones that appear so briefly most people miss them entirely.
which is why you recognise the exact moment he stops listening to the conversation and starts enduring it.
"i'm not interested."
"you don't know that."
"actually i do."
summer sinks lower in her seat, looking like she'd rather throw herself from the moving vehicle than endure another minute of beau dragging the conversation out.
"beau," she warns.
"what?" he glances at her briefly before returning his attention to the road.
"let it go" summer says, her voice laced with irritation.
"i'm just saying." he pauses. "he bought you a drink, y/n."
already beginning to lose patience, you lean your head back against the seat. "he bought everyone drinks, beau."
"he spent half the night talking to you."
you sigh. "he was being friendly."
"he was flirting."
"he was-"
"he was flirting."
the certainty in beau's voice makes summer cough suspiciously into her hand. you glance towards dean again. he hasn't moved, hasn't even looked away from the window. the passing streetlights cast intermittent flashes of light across the side of his face, illuminating his expression for only a second at a time.
it's enough.
enough to see the way his jaw is visibly clenched, enough to know he's not nearly as unaffected as he's pretending to be.
"anyways" beau continues obliviously, "i just think it'd be good for you to get back out there."
something inside your chest sinks and you find yourself at a loss for words. instinctively, your eyes lift toward the front seat again.
waiting.
hoping.
for him to finally say something.
anything.
a joke. a disagreement. some sarcastic comment about beau inserting himself into everyone's lives. instead dean just keeps staring out the window.
like he's somewhere else entirely.
the conversation slowly dies after that. summer eventually gives up trying to redirect beau who quickly gets distracted by traffic, and the rest of the drive passes in a blur of streetlights and growing unease.
you wait for dean to look at you.
just once.
he never does.
-
back at the apartment, summer disappears towards the spare room almost immediately. not because she's tired, but because she's giving you the opportunity to talk to dean, alone.
beau makes a beeline for the kitchen in search of water, leaving dean to slip out onto the balcony. you follow him a few seconds later, sliding the door shut behind you.
the city stretches endlessly beyond the railing. thousands of lights, thousands of windows. the distant hum of traffic drifts upward from the streets far below.
new york is never quiet, yet somehow, standing here now, it feels unbearably silent.
dean stands near the railing with both hands gripping the metal, his back turned toward you, tension etched into the line of his shoulders beneath his jacket.
for a second you simply stare at him.
because this isn't dean.
dean talks.
dean fills silence before it has a chance to settle.
dean reaches for you whenever he can; a hand settling against your back, his knee finding yours beneath a table, fingers grazing yours in passing.
you take a hesitant step forward.
then another.
instinct urges you closer and your hand almost lifts, almost settles between his shoulder blades, the gesture so familiar it feels automatic.
then you stop yourself.
because through the glass door you can still see beau moving around the kitchen. you can hear cupboards opening and the sound of running water. one glance outside and he would see his little sister touching his best friend in a way she absolutely shouldn't.
the realisation of your reality makes something ache deeply inside your chest, and instead your hand falls uselessly back to your side.
"dean."
his shoulders shift slightly and you step closer.
"talk to me."
silence.
"please."
the desperation in your voice is painfully obvious. he eventually exhales, slowly, like he's exhausted. his shoulders rise and fall, still facing away from you, still refusing to look at you.
somehow this hurts far more than if he'd just gotten angry.
"you're upset with me."
"no."
the answer comes immediately. too quickly, too automatically, and you feel your heart sink because he is a terrible liar when it comes to you.
"dean."
you move closer, close enough that if circumstances were different your fingers would've found his. close enough that normally he'd already be reaching for your waist.
instead there's still careful space between you, a gap neither of you wants to exist.
"is this because of ethan?"
a hollow laugh leaves him, and the sound makes something twist painfully in your chest because there isn't any humour in it.
"not ethan."
you frown.
"what does that mean?"
dean finally turns, and your heart immediately drops. he looks tired, not angry, not annoyed, just tired. the kind of tired that comes from carrying something for too long.
"you know i wasn't interested."
"i know."
"i was being polite."
"i know."
"i was trying to protect us."
"i know."
the words come out sharper now, his composure finally cracking around the edges and suddenly you realise that none of this is about tonight.
tonight was just the catalyst, the final push, the moment that finally sent months of frustration to spill over. dean drags a hand across his jaw, looking away briefly, then back to you.
"i know all of that, y/n."
his voice softens immediately, regret flashing across his features because the last thing he wants is for you to think he's blaming you.
"i know exactly why you did it."
the hurt in his face is somehow worse than anger would've been, because if he was angry you could fix it.
this is different. this is sadness.
you swallow. "then why are you upset?"
he stares at you, really stares, like he's deciding how much honesty he can survive, then something finally breaks inside him. "i hate it."
your chest physically aches because of how quietly he says it, like he's admitting something he wishes wasn't true.
"i hate sitting there while another guy flirts with you." his gaze drops briefly before returning to meet yours.
"i hate pretending I don't care."
the wind shifts between you, cold against your skin.
"i hate watching somebody put their hand on your back and having to act like it doesn't bother me." he laughs again, but it's short and completely humourless.
"i hate having to sit there while beau practically plays matchmaker for you."
the whole drive home makes sense. every moment of silence. every glance out the window. every answer that never came.
"and the worst part is i know none of it's your fault."
his eyes close briefly. "you did everything right."
"dean-"
"no." his voice softens, gentle in the way it always is with you.
"you were protecting us."
the words hurt because they're true.
"you were careful."
his jaw tightens.
"and i appreciate that." you can hear the conflict tearing through him. the guilt. the frustration. the love.
all colliding at once.
"but i'm so tired of pretending you're just beau's little sister, y/n."
the words hit like a punch and dean looks away. you watch as his eyes fix out onto the city, on anything other than you because saying it out loud somehow makes the reality of your situation more real.
"i hate not being able to touch you."
you feel your eyes begin to sting with tears.
"i hate not being able to hold your hand." his voice grows quieter, more vulnerable.
"i hate that every time somebody asks if you're seeing anyone i have to stand there pretending i don't already know the answer."
the space between you both suddenly feels impossible, artificial, like neither of you belong on opposite sides of it.
"and i know why we're doing it." his eyes find yours again.
"beau is my best friend, he has been for years." the words settle heavily between you.
"he trusts me."
you nod, "i know."
"and i would never do anything to hurt him."
your throat tightens, because you know that's the truth too. dean loves beau, he always will, which is exactly why this is so hard.
"but tonight..."
he shakes his head, a frustrated breath leaving him. "i looked over and saw some guy making you laugh."
his eyes soften, immediate, because even now he's not angry at you.
never you.
"and all i could think was that i wanted to walk over there and put my arm around you."
your eyes immediately sting with tears. you suck in a short breath, desperately trying to blink them away before he notices.
"i wanted everyone in that fucking room to know that we're together."
the confession hangs between you. raw, terrifying. dean looks away like he regrets saying it out loud, like some part of him thinks he shouldn’t have said anything at all.
the distance between you suddenly feels unbearable, not because it's large, it's only a few feet, but it's a stupid few feet that neither of you are allowed to close.
not while beau is still inside, not while your secret still exists.
you can see exactly how much this is costing him. the exhaustion, the frustration, the hurt. all of the things dean usually keeps buried beneath easy smiles and sarcastic remarks. all of the things he works so hard to hide from everyone else.
everyone except you.
your throat tightens. "dean..."
his eyes lift, his expression softening instantly when he looks at you, and that's what does it. the tears you've been fighting finally spill over.
just one, it slides down your cheek before you can stop it.
dean's expression changes instantly, every trace of frustration disappears, being replaced immediately by concern.
"hey."
his words come out quietly.
gentle.
before either of you can think better of it, he takes a step forward. not enough to pull you into his arms, not enough to risk beau looking through the glass and seeing something he shouldn't.
but enough for you to draw the smallest amount of comfort from him.
his hand lifts carefully and his thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching the stray tear before it can fall any further. dean swallows, looking at you like you're something precious. something he's terrified of breaking.
"c'mon, baby."
"i didn't tell you all that to make you cry."
a shaky laugh escapes you, "i know."
his thumb lingers for half a second longer and neither of you move away. you stare at him, noticing the way he's standing before you, looking as though losing you would ruin him, and suddenly you're tired too. tired of waiting, tired of hiding, tired of watching him carry all of this alone.
"we'll tell him."
everything in dean's face stills. his eyes search yours immediately as though he's trying to figure out whether you actually mean it or whether you've only said it because he's upset.
"you don't have to say that because i'm upset."
"i'm not."
you lift a hand, resting it lightly against his jaw, making sure to wait until he's looking at you properly.
"we'll tell him together, soon."
for a second dean just stares, then something shifts across his expression. relief, disbelief, hope, all at once.
like he'd prepared himself for this conversation to end differently. like he'd prepared himself to keep carrying this for another few months. another year. another however long it took.
suddenly he doesn't have to.
"you mean that?" the question comes out quieter than everything else. more vulnerable.
you nod immediately, "yeah."
dean exhales slowly, the tension visibly leaving his shoulders. for the first time all night, he looks less like he's enduring something and more like himself.
a small laugh escapes him, disbelieving, almost exhausted.
"jesus christ."
you feel your own smile tug slightly, "what?"
he shakes his head, looking down briefly before meeting your eyes again. "you have no idea how badly i needed to hear that."
your chest tightens instantly because neither of you are really talking about beau anymore, not entirely.
you're talking about the last few months. the secrecy. the hiding. the pretending. the constant balancing act between being careful and wanting more.
for a second neither of you say anything, simply taking in the weight of the words that had just been spoken, before dean glances towards the apartment.
the kitchen sits empty. dark. no movement, no beau, no reason to keep standing so far apart.
when his eyes return to yours, something inside him finally gives out. the restraint. the patience. the distance.
"c'mere."
the word comes out rough, almost helpless, and before you can react he's already moving. one hand finds your waist while the other settles gently against your back.
he pulls you into him firmly, like he's spent the entire night wanting to do exactly this.
the breath leaves your lungs. dean exhales at the exact same time. the sound almost painful.
like relief.
your arms slide around him automatically, holding him just as tightly. his forehead drops against your hair as his eyes close. neither of you speak, you simply stand there, wrapped around each other, the city glowing around you.
dean's heartbeat is steady beneath your cheek. his arms refuse to loosen, as though he's making up for every touch he denied himself tonight. you feel him shake his head slightly as a quiet laugh falls from his lips.
"fuck."
his grip tightens.
"i missed you."
the words are ridiculous, you'd spent the entire evening together, but your chest aches anyway because you know exactly what he means.
you tighten your arms around him.
"i missed you too."
"i hated that." his voice is muffled against your hair.
"every second of it."
you smile, "i did too."
without warning the balcony door slides open and both of you jump apart so quickly it's almost embarrassing. dean immediately turns toward the skyline and you stumble backwards toward the railing.
summer would have laughed herself unconscious.
except unfortunately it isn't summer, it's beau.
again.
he stands there holding a glass of water, looking entirely unsuspecting.
"why are you both standing out here looking depressed?"
you and dean exchange the quickest glance in human history. panic. pure panic.
then dean recovers first, thankfully. "she's stressed about exams."
you immediately latch onto it. "yep."
beau groans. "oh my god, are we still talking about exams?"
"unfortunately."
"i thought law students enjoyed suffering."
you point directly at him, "that's med students."
"same thing."
you laugh, and dean does too. a real laugh this time. small, but real.
beau doesn't notice anything. not the red around your eyes, not the fact that dean had been holding you thirty seconds earlier, and not the look that passes between the two of you when he starts complaining about tuition fees.
for now, the secret remains safe, but for the first time all night, neither of you feels quite so trapped by it.
FIRST DATE
━━╋━ fluff, nervous clark being sweet as ever, awkward n cute, flowers, compliments, he's just grossly perfect...
“you look gorgeous.”
clark mumbles quietly staring up at you from down on your porch in a sleek suit. he's smiling all excited and proud whilst leaning against the side of his little car. his eyes are wide with awe, taking you in, how you got all dolled up for him in that smooth silky dress that matched your eyes perfectly and the delicate jewellery that made you look absolutely darling.
you're giddy as ever, practically bouncing on your feet as you pad towards him as if presenting yourself.
“you think so?”, you tilt your head up at him prettily, beaming up at him with a shy smile.
“mhm— beautiful.”
clark nods with his usual confidence letting his gaze run over you, your hair, your outfit, your skin. it was all so perfect to him. he could feel himself getting lost in the thought of you.
“c'mon gimme a spin, pretty—”, he smiles, taking your hand softly, so delicately, as if you'd shatter with a harsh touch. clark spins you around, watching your dress flare out and how happy you looked, listening closely to your little giggles. you steady yourself against him, little hands on his big arms. it felt like a movie, some cheesy rom com that you would grimace and cringe at but with clark it just felt different. it felt right.
“what a gentleman…”, you joke fluttering your lashes up at him, feeling a little shy with all the tension.
“only the best for you.”, now he's taking in all the little details, the things most people wouldn't notice, how you matched your heels with your dress, the pinky gloss that adorned your plush lips and how you must've manicured your nails as well as the light flush across your cheeks, or that could've just been him. its like he has to restrain himself from brushing his knuckles across you face, grazes your skin with his, wanting to feel that warmth.
“oh yeah—”, he shakes his head letting out a deep chuckle as he brings himself back to reality.
“got you these.”
he produces a bouquet of lilies from the open window of his car, perfect and pink, in the prime of their bloom, holding them out to you with a hint of nervousness on his face that shatters as soon as you perk up with a smile widening across your pretty face, clasping at them with a little gasp.
“they're perfect clark.”, you nod softly, admiring them.
“yeah— yeah, i'm glad.”, he lets out another nervous laugh scratching at the back of his neck as he shifts on his feet.
“thought roses would be overrated…”, he mumbles out quietly watching you hover over the flowers and prodding gently at the petals.
you look like heaven, an angel. he wonders how he even scored this date.
“right, I got us those reservations you were talking about—”
“what?”, you gasp out, this wasn't just any restaurant you were talking about the other day, it was some five star, michelin type shit, you couldn't even imagine yourself there let alone how he got them.
“clark— wha— how?”, you blink up at him, mouth agape, watching him sheepishly shrug and flash a grin of those perfect teeth.
“i have my ways.”
it was official, clark kent was your dream man. this dorky journalist with a mess of dark curls and thick glasses had your brain running overtime.
“got us a pretty good table.”
he holds out his arm for you with a little smirk at the look of awe that adorned your face.
you let out a little giggle taking his arm as he walked you around the car to the passenger seat.
“yeah you better have.”
eventually you're both in the car, he's driving coolly and you can only stare at him, watching his every move like he was an alien or something. you thought to yourself that there was no way this man was from earth, you'd never been treated so nicely, so preciously. clark knows you're staring, he can feel it, your gaze lingering over his jaw and down to his collar and over his big hands that gripped at the wheel.
“y'know you're something else clark.”
“is that something you like?” he asks carefully, glancing over at you.
you can only nod happily. giddy and awestruck as your heart thrums against your ribs. he glances at you from the road as he turns the corner to the restaurant parking, smiling right back at you.
“and you're happy with tonight— so far at least?”
“of course i am— don't go all journalist on me.”, you let out a precious laugh that has clarks stomach doing flips.
“right—”
he parks up and the little car suddenly feels very warm, like you're both realising what this is.
“i like this— like a lot, i like you a lot...”
you feel yourself flush, it felt so simple, almost childish, like some high school crush. a break from reality allowing you to lose yourself in the rosy haze that clark brought with his flowers and chocolates and fancy dinners. he was a classic romantic.
short summary: where working out at the hawks house seemed like a good idea until you found yourself losing a battle against the pull-up bar. fortunately for you, dean di laurentis is determined to help.
pairing: boyfriend!dean x reader
word count: 1.1k
warnings: mild swearing, gym/workout setting, strength difference, physical touch, teasing, suggestive jokes, shirtless dean, excessive flirting, brief fear of falling, partner-assisted pull-ups, dean being an insufferable show-off, excessive use of “baby”, this turned out fairly dialogue-heavy, let me know if i missed any!
all characters in this story are adults.
english is not my first language, so please forgive me for any errors.
a/n: first fic! this is dedicated to everyone who has ever been personally victimized by a pull-up bar. also, dean absolutely did not need to turn helping into an opportunity to show off, but unfortunately nobody informed dean about that.
what's kai listening to: so american by olivia rodrigo.
18+; mdni.
There was something so infuriating about working out with Dean.
You stood in the corner of the gym, one hand on your hip, chest heaving as you alternated between glaring at the pull-up bar that had bested you once more, and your boyfriend, who was benching your bodyweight like it was nothing more than lifting a stack of books.
When Dean heard that your regular gym was closed for repairs—something about someone accidentally flinging a kettlebell through the window—he had offered to let you workout at the home gym the boys had set up at the Hawks House. The space had every conceivable piece of gym equipment required for a good workout—including the rage-inducing pull-up bar mounted to the back wall of the house.
There were three very specific problems you kept running into in your attempt at achieving the perfect pull up—first, the fact that the bar was mounted a little too high up for your comfort. Though that was no surprise, considering that the boys were all well over six feet tall, and the bar was fixed at a height that would be comfortable for them. For you, however... The footstool you'd dragged into the backyard from the kitchen was evidence enough.
The second problem was the fact that you simply could not seem to pull yourself up. Normally, you'd have no problem with this particular exercise, but the sheer height of the bar, coupled with the fact that should you lose your grip, there were no cushy padded mats to break your fall, but rather cold, hard ground, was creating more than a small issue for you.
And thirdly, most annoyingly, was Dean. That man was nothing if not a distraction. A beautiful, blond-haired, bare-chested, sweat-drenched distraction who was currently smirking at you, sitting up on the bench.
"Shut up," you grumbled.
Dean's smirk only widened. "I didn't say anything, baby."
"I know what you're thinking, Di Laurentis."
"And what would that be?"
You raise the pitch of your voice, mocking Dean. "What's wrong baby? Can't even do a simple pull-up?"
Dean's smirk only widened, green eyes fixed on you as he rose to his feet. All six feet and two inches of him—all hard muscle and rugged good looks. He strode toward you slowly, raising an arched eyebrow.
"What's wrong baby?" he asked, coming to a halt right in front of you. "Can't even do a simple pull-up?"
You opened your mouth to reply, but Dean gripped your waist in both hands, lifting you almost effortlessly to the height of the bar. You squealed in surprise, hands instinctively coming to rest on his shoulders.
"Hold on the bar," Dean instructed.
"I can't do it, Dean," you protested, even as you proceed to do exactly as he asked. Your gloved hands wrapped around the padded surface of the bar, holding on to it with the same sure grip that Dean held on to you with. "I can't pull myself up."
"Trust me," Dean muttered. "I'm gonna let you go now. Can you keep holding on for me, baby?"
You nodded, tightening your hold on the bar as Dean gently let go of your waist. Your shoulders tensed as he eased you into a dead hang, but only for a second.
A moment later, Dean's large hands wrap around the bar, holding on with a grip only slightly wider than yours. "Wrap your legs around me."
"Dean!"
"What?" he asks, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"You know exactly how that sounds," you chastised.
Dean laughed, the sound warm and easy. "Baby, unless you've figured out a way to do pull-ups with no support, you're gonna have to trust me."
Heat crept into your cheeks. With a muttered complaint, you hooked your legs around his waist. Instantly, the tension eased from your shoulders as Dean's strong form supported half your weight.
"There you go," he said, leaning close, his voice soft against the shell of your ear. "I've got you."
Your chest warmed at his words.
"Now," he continued, pulling away slightly to look at you. "Engage your shoulders."
"My what?"
"Your shoulders, baby. Pull them down and back."
You attempt to do as instructed, and Dean's warm voice immediately filled your senses again. "Good."
You raise an eyebrow. "I barely moved half an inch."
"Half an inch more than before."
You rolled your eyes. Dean shifted his grip slightly, getting a little more comfortable on the bar, still holding up both his own body weight as well as yours against the incessant tug of gravity as he instructed, "Now pull."
You gritted your teeth and tried. And... nothing.
Well, almost nothing. Your arms trembled. Your face scrunched up. A pathetic noise escaped your throat. And Dean's shoulders shook with barely contained laughter.
"Fuck off, Di Laurentis," you grumbled.
Dean's voice was teasing as he said, "I'm admiring your technique."
You released one hand from the bar long enough to point accusingly at him. "This is harassment."
"This is coaching." Dean caught your wrist before you could lose your balance, guiding your hand back onto the bar. "One more."
"Dean, I can't—"
"You pull as much as you can. I'll help with the rest."
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously, grumbling under your breath as you steadied your grip on the bar.
"Ready, baby?" Dean asked, his mouth still quirked into a teasing smile.
"No."
"Perfect."
And Dean pulled. The movement was so smooth you almost missed it—one moment you were hanging, and the next you were rising.
His back and shoulders flexed as he lifted the both of you upward, your legs around his waist guiding your body through the motion, instinctively making sure you pulled, too—not nearly enough to contribute much, but just enough to feel your muscles engage.
"See?" Dean said, unable to hold back a smile at the way your eyes widened, surprised by how easy it suddenly felt.
You were already halfway up. "Oh, this is cheating."
Dean laughed, and a moment later your chin cleared the bar. "I DID IT."
"We're still going up."
"What do you mean we're still—"
Dean continued the pull until his own chin rose comfortably above the bar, carrying you right along with him. The sheer ridiculousness of it made you burst out laughing.
"Pretty impressive, huh?" he asked, eyes softening at the way you were laughing, head thrown back, the setting sun turning your skin gold.
"That's not the word I'd use," you said. Dean's grin only widened as he slowly, carefully lowered both of you back down.
When your arms straightened once more, he held the position effortlessly. Your forearms, meanwhile, were already on fire. You narrowed your eyes, glaring at him. "I hate you."
"No, you don't."
Unfortunately, he was right, a fact you were sure he knew as he asked, "Again?"
You groaned, already knowing that Dean was going to be insufferable all through the rest of the set. "Again."
And despite all your complaining, you couldn't help smile as he pulled the both of you upward once more.
۶ৎ paper rings, picture frames & dirty dreams. | j. logan
welcome to the dollhouse, dear reader!
short summary: where john logan wants to propose. unfortunately, the engagement ring is expensive, your future apartment is expensive, life is expensive, and he's slowly losing his mind.
pairing: boyfriend!john logan x fem!reader
word count: 6.2k
warnings: angst with a happy ending, misunderstandings, emotional hurt/comfort, secret engagement planning, financial insecurity, discussions of money, reader thinking logan is cheating, emotional repression, crying, proposal anxiety, mild swearing, mentions of grief/loss of a parent, lots of kissing, dean di laurentis being aggressively unhelpful, garrett and tucker being the voices of reason for once, paper ring proposal, excessive use of "babe", tooth-rotting fluff at the end, reader is referred to as a she & as a woman, let me know if i missed any!
all characters in this story are adults.
english is not my first language, so please forgive me for any errors.
a/n: full disclosure, i was bawling my eyes out writing this. i love logan so much. also, dean deserved at least three separate concussions for his behavior in this fic. also, i was very inspired by this.
what's kai listening to: paper rings by taylor swift.
18+; mdni. likes, comments and reblogs are always and forever appreciated <3
The place was perfect.
You stood in the middle of the empty apartment, taking in the floor to ceiling windows, the marble of the breakfast bar, the pretty little notch in the kitchen island you couldn't wait to turn into a coffee bar. You could almost see it, almost smell the coffee brewing as the early morning sunlight filtered into room, caressing Logan's face with its golden fingers as he made breakfast. You could almost feel the way his mouth would curl against yours in a soft smile as you kissed him good morning, could almost hear his voice—
"Babe?" Logan's footsteps were soft against the hardwood floors as he rounded the corner with the realtor who was showing you the apartment. His dark hair was falling onto his forehead, blue eyes immediately finding you standing in the middle of the empty room. "What do you think?"
You meet his gaze, melting into him as he wraps an arm around your waist—casual, sweet. You loved that about him, loved that he wasn't a grand gestures, in-your-face romantic. He was steady, calm, the harbor in a storm. "I love it, Logan. It's beautiful."
He smiles at you, squeezing your waist before turning back to the realtor, Anna, taking off to follow her as she continued with the tour of the house. The property was honestly lovely—the kind of apartment you could see yourself living in after the two of you graduated college in a few months.
Senior year had been blissful, to say the least. After you and John finally—finally—began dating toward the end of your freshman year, life at Briar had transformed into something you never would've pictured for yourself. Weekends spent with the boys at the Hawks House, hanging out with Hannah and Allie on game days, parties that somehow always ended with you and Logan sneaking off to the firepit to sip beer and look at the stars. It was honestly hard to believe that you had been dating for only a couple of years—it felt like a lifetime.
And now, with finals, and graduation, and Logan being a shoo-in for the Bruins alongside Garret, you were excited to start the rest of your lives together. Most conversations these days between you and Logan were about apartments, where you guys would live after graduation. You were excited to move out of New Hastings and into Boston, where you'd been offered a job that was honestly, your dream since the day you walked into Briar U.
As Anna wrapped up the tour, you slipped your hand into Logan's, his palm rough, calloused against yours. Anna smiled as she handed you one of the brochures for the apartment. "So, the apartment would be around $3,900 a month. Utilities are not included, of course. I'll need the first and last month's rent if you decide to take the unit. The amount for the security deposit, as well as my fee is at the back of the brochure. If you have a few minutes, I'd recommend taking a walk around the block, familiarizing yourself with the neighborhood. I think you'd really like it."
You felt Logan's arm tense. Not too much—slight enough that you were sure you'd imagined it at first. But then, as you slipped the brochure into your purse, walking down the stairs, you noticed the slight crease in his brow, looking down at his phone. "Is everything okay?"
His gaze snapped up to yours instantly, his face softening the way it always did when he looked at you. "Of course it is, babe. Wanna take a walk around the block, see what's around?"
The two of you stepped out into the evening sun, hand in hand. The apartment was located in Beacon Hill, in a charming old brownstone. The cobblestone streets were lined with little luxury boutiques, antique stores, and gorgeous art galleries.
You passed several such stores in blissful silence, glancing idly at the displays in the windows, until—
"Oh, my God."
Logan was nearly yanked off-balance as you stopped short in front of the window of a jewelry store, mouth agape, staring at a pair of gorgeous diamond earrings. You turned to Logan. "These are exactly like the ones my mom had when I was a kid!"
Logan's face softened immediately. "Yeah?"
You turned back to the window display, pressing closer to the glass, close enough that your breath began to fog up the pane. The earrings were beautiful—simple diamond studs surrounded by a delicate halo of smaller stones. They were elegant, timeless.
"When I was little, my mom had a pair exactly like these. She wore them everywhere. To work, to date nights with my dad, even grocery shopping." A laugh escaped you, your gaze still fixed on the display, unable to tear your eyes away. "I used to sneak into her room and try them on when she wasn't looking."
Logan smiled faintly. You missed the way it didn't quite reach his eyes. "They're nice."
"Nice?" you repeated in mock offense. "John Logan, these are stunning."
"Right." Logan cleared his throat. "Stunning."
You finally dragged your attention away from the display to look at him properly. You couldn't seem to shake the feeling that something was off. You couldn't quite put your finger on it, but he hadn't been himself lately.
It had been happening more and more often—little moments where he seemed to disappear into his own head, where his smile seemed forced, where his eyes got this distant, faraway look in them, like he wasn't quite in the moment with you.
The crease between his brows was back.
Before you could even open your mouth to ask him about it, his phone buzzed, startling him. His hand immediately to his pocket, pulling out the lit up screen. Logan angled it away from you before you could even catch a glimpse of the caller ID, but you could see the look on his face—something between panic and relief.
Logan cleared his throat. "Sorry babe, I gotta take this."
"Everything okay?" you asked, trying to ignore the sickening sinking feeling blooming in the pit of your stomach.
"Yeah." The words spilled out of his mouth a little too quickly. Almost as if he could see the wheels in your head turning, Logan curled the corner of his lips into a smile—that familiar smile that usually settled every worry in your chest.
This time, it didn't.
Logan didn't seem to notice. "I'll be right back," he said, stepping away before you could say anything else, already lifting the phone to his ear.
You watched him retreat down the sidewalk, broad shoulders tensing underneath his jacket. You watched as his free hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing the spot at the top of spine like he always did when he was stressed.
Your stomach knotted itself further. Maybe it was hockey, maybe graduation, maybe apartment hunting. God knew the two of you had enough going on lately to make anyone lose their mind.
But somehow, you couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else.
You forced yourself to let it go, instead you turned back toward the jewelry store window. The earrings sparkled underneath the warm display lights—and before you could talk yourself out of it, you were reaching for the door handle.
A small bell jingled overhead as you stepped inside. The store was lovely. Crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, casting soft light over glass display cases. You felt like a kid in a candy store.
A saleswoman was by your side almost immediately. She looked to be in her fifties, dressed impeccably in black. "Welcome, dear. Can I help you with anything?"
You smiled, pointing toward the window. "Could I see those diamond earrings, please?"
"Excellent choice," the woman said, her face brightening.
A few moments later, she was placing them carefully on a velvet tray. Up close, they were even more beautiful. Gently, delicately, you lifted one. The diamond caught the light, scattering a million tiny rainbows across the glass.
Your mother's face flashed through your memory—helping you zip up your prom dress, teaching you how to curl your hair, laughing so hard tears rolled down her cheeks at Thanksgiving dinner. A sudden warmth bloomed in your chest, but it had nothing to do with the earrings and everything to do with the woman who raised you.
"Would you like to try them on?" the saleswoman asked.
You swallowed the lump of emotions in your throat as you nodded, lifting the stud to your ear. The woman stepped forward, helping you fasten them.
Slowly, you turned your head to the side, glancing in the mirror. Your face immediately cracked into a smile. "Oh."
"I take it that's a yes?" the saleswoman laughed.
You turned your head to the other side, watching them sparkle. They really were almost identical—close enough that your mom would've loved them. Without thinking too hard about it, you asked, "How much are they?"
The saleswoman named the price.
They were expensive—definitely expensive. But not impossible.
You'd been saving aggressively ever since accepting your job offer in Boston. Between that and the graduation gifts from family, you could afford them quite easily.
You looked at yourself one more time, thinking about your mother, about all the milestones waiting just around the corner—graduation, moving to a new city, a new life. "Can I give them gift wrapped?"
The saleswoman smiled knowingly. "Of course."
Twenty minutes later, you stepped back onto the sidewalk carrying a small, cream-colored shopping bag tied with a pink satin ribbon.
The evening sun was beginning to dip lower between the brownstone buildings. Down the block, you could see Logan, still on the phone. His back was turned you, one hand shoved into the pocket of his jeans, the other pressed tightly to his forehead.
Your smile faded. The call had clearly lasted longer than expected.
As if sensing your gaze, Logan looked up, his entire expression changing the moment he saw you. The tension vanished, the crease on his forehead smoothening out. His smile returned, easy, warm, and familiar.
But this time, you were almost certain it wasn't real.
His gaze dropped to the shopping bag in your hand. Something flashed across this face so quickly you nearly missed it. It wasn't annoyance, wasn't surprise—it was something heavier.
Before you could figure out what it was, it was gone, and Logan was walking toward you. "Ready to keep walking?"
You slipped your hand into his, the shopping back swinging lightly from your wrist. "Yep."
Logan squeezed your hand—one, two, three times.
Together, you continued down the cobblestone street, neither of you noticing that the things you weren't saying were beginning to pile up between you.
At first, you told yourself you were imagining things.
Logan had a lot on his plate—he really did. Graduation was only a few months away now, and the Bruins had practically been circling him for over a year now. Between practice, games, classes, apartment hunting, and preparing for an entirely new chapter of your lives, it would've been strange if he wasn't stressed.
That was what you told yourself, anyway.
It was becoming a lot harder to believe, now that three weeks had passed and nothing had changed. In fact, if anything, you were afraid they'd gotten worse.
The first thing you noticed were the late nights. Logan had always been the kind of person who could fall asleep practically anywhere—on the couch, during movies, in the passenger seat of your of your car on the trips home for Thanksgiving.
But now? You woke up at two in the morning to find his bed empty.
The first time it happened, you found him sitting at the table in the Hawks House' kitchen, his tired face bathed in the blue light of his open laptop.
When he noticed you, he slammed it shut so quickly that you jumped. "Jesus, Logan."
"What're you doing awake at this hour?" he asked, his eyes widening.
"I could ask you the same thing."
You could've sworn he looked almost guilty as he looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just couldn't sleep."
At the time, you'd accepted the explanation... until it happened again. The second time, he was sitting on the balcony, the third time, in the living room. The fourth time he was on the living room couch, claiming he was reviewing paperwork for the Bruins.
Every answer felt reasonable, but every answer somehow made you feel worse—because none of them explained why he looked so nervous, so guilty every time you caught him, or why he hid whatever was on his laptop, or why his phone suddenly never left his side.
You noticed the last part one Thursday afternoon, when the two of you were sprawled across the couch, your head in his lap, his fingers twisted in the ends of your hair as he watched a hockey game.
His phone buzzed on the coffee table, and Logan lunged for it so quickly you were nearly thrown off his lap. The movement was so abrupt that both of you froze.
A tense silence settled over the room. You had that feeling again—that strange, sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach like the day he got that phone call outside the jewelry store. It was stronger now, more potent, almost tangible.
Logan stared at you, forcing a laugh. "Sorry, babe."
Nothing—no explanation. You tried not to think about it, but once the thought entered your head, it became impossible to ignore, because there other things, too. Tiny, insignificant things that probably meant nothing... except they didn't feel like nothing.
You started noticing how often he stepped away to answer incoming calls, how frequently he angled his phone away from you. How many texts arrived late at night. How distracted he became whenever you asked him if everything was okay.
One evening, you were brushing your teeth in his bathroom when his phone lit up on the counter.
You weren't trying to snoop—genuinely. Your eyes simply caught the notification as his phone screen lip up with an incoming text. Your chest tightened—no name, just an unsaved phone number.
The screen darkened before you could read the message. Your fingers itched to reach out and hit the power button, to see what the text was, but no. You trusted Logan—you trusted him with your life.
A moment later, Logan entered the bathroom, almost as if he heard the distinct ding of the incoming text from where he lay on his bed. His gaze immediately found the phone, then you.
The tension in his shoulders materialized instantly. "What?"
You flinched at how sharp the word came out. "Nothing."
His face softened immediately. He stepped inside, reaching around you to pick up the phone, planting a soft, gentle kiss on your temple. "I'm sorry, babe."
You gave him a tight-lipped smile, but the damage was already done. That night you lay in bed next to him, staring at the ceiling. Try as you might, you couldn't fall asleep.
It was ridiculous. Logan loved you, you knew that. You'd never doubted it for a second, not once in almost three years.
John Logan wasn't a cheater. He wasn't.
So why did it suddenly feel like he was hiding something? The question followed you everywhere—to class, to work, to lunch with Hannah and Allie.
Which, unfortunately, spending time with Hannah and Allie only made things worse, because apparently, you were terrible at hiding your emotions.
"You okay?" Hannah asked, setting her coffee down.
You looked up from the drink you'd absentmindedly been stirring. "What?"
"You haven't heard a single thing we've said for the last ten minutes," Allie frowned. "Is everything okay with you and Logan?"
You immediately forced a smile, even as the concern in her voice made your stomach twist. "Yeah. Yeah, everything's okay."
The silence stretched as neither of them looked convinced. Then, Hannah's eyes narrowed. "Oh, my God."
"Hannah, no—"
"You think Logan's cheating on you."
The words came too fast out of your mouth. 'I do not."
Allie and Hannah exchanged a look that you could read all too well. It was a look you knew meant they didn't believe you.
"Oh, my God," Allie echoed.
You groaned. "I don't think he's cheating."
"Okay," Hannah said slowly. "Then why do you look like you're about to throw up every time somebody says his name?"
You opened your mouth, then closed it. Nothing came out—because saying it out loud would somehow make it real. It would make the the late nights, the secretive phone calls, the hidden laptop screens, the weird tension, the distance, the uncertainty—all of it would become far too real.
Suddenly, your coffee tasted like battery acid. Allie's face softened. "Oh, honey."
"I know how this sounds," you whispered, wrapping both hands around your cup. "I know Logan would never—"
The words caught in your throat. Would he?
The awful little voice in your head whispered something ugly—you'd trusted people before, you'd been wrong before. And lately, every time you looked at Logan, it felt like he was standing just a little bit farther away than he used to. Not physically, but emotionally, like there was an entire conversation happening inside his head that you weren't allowed to hear.
The thought made your chest ache, because the worst part wasn't the possibility that he was cheating.
The worst part was that for the first time since you'd fallen in love with John Logan, you weren't completely sure what was going on inside his heart.
John Logan had never thought buying an engagement ring would make him feel like he was losing his mind.
And yet, somehow, here he was—three P.M. on a Saturday afternoon, surrounded by his teammates, staring at a spreadsheet. A fucking spreadsheet. He stared at the screen, already able to feel a headache building as he fiddled with an old receipt from Malone's.
"You know," Dean said from where he was sprawled across the couch, "most people use computers for porn."
Logan didn't even look up. "Shut up."
"No, seriously. Every time I see you lately, you're glaring at that thing like it personally offended your family."
Across the room, Tucker glanced over from his phone. "What's on it?"
"Nothing."
"That's a lie," Garrett said immediately.
Logan finally looked up only to see that all three of them were staring at him, judging him. And honestly, fair. He'd been acting like an asshole for weeks. He knew that, but the worst part, he couldn't seem to stop.
Every time he thought he had things under control, something happened that sent him spiraling all over again—like the earrings.
Jesus Christ, the earrings.
He'd watched you walk into that jewelry store and nearly had a heart attack—not because you'd bought something, but because you'd looked so happy, so excited. He couldn't forget the way your entire face had lit up, and
all he'd been able to think was that the earrings probably cost more than the ring he could currently afford. The thought had followed him home, into bed, into practice the next day, into every waking moment since then.
Logan rubbed a hand across his face. "I need a drink."
"It's three o'clock," Tucker pointed out.
"I need several drinks."
Dean sat up. "Okay, that's it."
Logan frowned, his fingers folding and unfolding the scrap of paper he was still holding on to. "What?"
Dean pointed at him. "You've been weird for a month. Like, you look like you're about to be executed."
"Pretty fucking accurate," Garrett snorted.
Logan glared at both of them in vain—neither of them seemed even remotely intimidated.
Eventually, Garrett sighed. "Dude."
The single word carried enough weight that Logan meet his watchful eyes, studying him carefully. "You gonna tell us what's going on?"
The silence stretched out between them. Logan looked away first, and that, unfortunately, that answered the question.
Three seconds later, Dean practically launched himself off the couch. "Holy shit."
Tucker sat up straighter, meeting Dean's widened eyes. "Holy shit."
Garrett groaned. "Oh, for fuck's sake., what?"
Dean pointed toward Logan. "He's proposing."
Logan froze as the room fell silent, Garret's jaw dropping, Tucker's eyes widening. Then—
"HOLY FUCKING SHIT."
"Keep your voice down, Di Laurentis!" Logan snapped, rubbing an exasperated hand over his face.
Dean looked personally offended. "No."
"Tucker?"
"Nah, dude."
Logan looked over at Garret, who was already laughing. "Come on man, you too?" he groaned, dropping his head into his hands. This was a mistake—a massive mistake.
"I don't even have a ring yet." The words slipped out before he could stop them. Immediately, all three guys went quiet.
Garret frowned. "What do you mean?"
Logan let out a slow breath. If he was already talking, he might as well finish. "The ring I want is too expensive, and every cheaper option feels wrong." Neither of them seemed particularly impressed, but Logan pushed forward anyway. "She deserves something nice."
"She deserves you," Tucker said.
Logan ignored him. "She loves jewelry." The memory of the earrings flashed through his head again—the way your eyes had lit up, the excitement in your voice, the sheer joy.
Dean groaned. "Oh my God." He was looking at Logan like he was an idiot—all three of them were. That annoyed him, because he was already very well aware of the fact that he was being an irrational idiot. "You think she cares about how much the ring costs?"
Logan opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. Before he could force his brain to string the words together, Garret beat him to it, staring pointedly at the piece of paper Logan was still messing around with. "She'd say yes if you propose with a Ring Pop."
"That's not the point," Logan sighed.
"That's exactly the point."
The front door opened before Logan could argue, the sound instantly drawing everyone's attention. A second later, a lilting, beautiful laugh floated into the house—a sound Logan would recognize anywhere. Your laugh.
His stomach tightened, eyes immediately looking for you as Hannah and Allie entered the house. You followed close behind, and immediately, every ounce of progress he'd made disappeared. Because there—shopping bags. Everywhere.
Bright little logos, gold embossing of luxury brands, of little boutiques, of department stores. Logan could feel his pulse spike. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean tensing, muttering under his breath, "Oh, for the love of God."
Logan shot him a warning look. Dean rolled his eyes so hard Logan was almost genuinely impressed.
He saw your sift through the room, landing on Logan, and for a moment, a flash of emotions flickered across your face—relief, followed by uncertainty, then settling into something colder, emptier, something that made his stomach drop.
"Hey." Your voice was soft, polite and distant.
Logan hated it with every ounce of his being. "Hey, babe."
You smiled, the look never reaching your eyes. A moment of tense silence enveloped the living room. Logan could feel every single pair of eyes zeroed in on the two of you, and apparently, you could too, because you shifted uncomfortably. "I think I'm gonna put my stuff away."
Before Logan could respond, you disappeared up the stairs. The silence that followed was deafening, everyone's eyes trained on Logan until Dean let out an exasperated sigh, smacking the back of his head.
"Ow!" Logan groaned. "What the fuck?"
"Go."
Logan was up on his feet immediately, slipping the folded paper object into his back pocket before Hannah and Allie could get a good look at it.
And for once, nobody argued. Nobody joked about him being whipped, nobody teased him for being wrapped around your finger—because even they could feel the tension, the distance, the way something had shifted between the two of you.
Logan found you in your bedroom, the shopping bags sitting on the floor next to the bed. You stood on the far end, unpacking them carefully, methodically, like you were trying really hard not to think about something.
The look on your face made his chest hurt. "Babe?"
You glanced up, eyes sliding over his face before going right back to what you were doing. "Hi."
The polite distance in your voice was killing him. Logan stepped closer, words tangling in his throat. He needed to explain, needed to tell you. Except, as it always did in any important moment, his words failed him.
You stared at him expectantly for a moment, then sighed. "I got you something."
"What?" Logan blinked, confusion clear on his face as he accepted the small box you were holding out to him. His emotions knotted tight in his throat as he opened it, because something made you think of him.
Inside, on a delicate velvet cushion, sat a Bruins keychain—a simple, unremarkable trinket that brought him to the forefront of your mind while shopping. Undeniable proof that you were thinking of him, even when you were out with Hannah and Allie, even when you were clearly vexed with him.
His throat tightened. "Babe—"
"I thought you'd like it," you said softly. The smile that accompanied the words was small, sad.
Logan hated it, but more than that, he hated the realization that he'd brought that expression on your face. Because the weeks of stress, of secrecy, of acting like a complete asshole had clearly taken a toll on your relationship, and now—now you were looking at him like you weren't sure what to do with him anymore.
Logan cleared his throat. "I think I owe you an explanation."
You met his eyes, and for the first time all day, he saw something other than distance—hope. It was tiny, fragile, almost undetectable, but it was there.
"Okay," you whispered. The word had barely left your mouth when his phone rang. Logan froze. No. No, no, no.
He glanced down at the caller ID, his heart sinking, and sure enough, it was the jeweler—the custom jeweler he'd been working with for weeks, the one he'd been desperately waiting to hear from.
Before his very eyes, your expression changed. The hope vanished, replaced by the same cold indifference as before. Logan's pulse quickened. "Babe—"
"It's fine."
"I just need a minute."
You waved your hand dismissively, stepping back to create physical space between the two of you. "It's fine, Logan."
His phone continued to ring as he realized this was all his doing. All this distance between the two of you was his creation. The realization hit him like a punch in the ribs, gutting him almost as thoroughly as you brushing past him with the words, "I'll see you downstairs."
And just like that, the conversation was over.
His phone rang again, demanding his attention once more. Logan stared at the screen, then out the bedroom room at the empty hallway you'd disappeared into, and for the first time in weeks, a terrifying thought entered his mind: maybe the ring wasn't the thing he should've been worried about losing.
The call lasted several minutes—several long, agonizing minutes.
Logan barely heard half of what the jeweler was saying, his mind barely registering the words. Custom setting. Center stone.
Any other day, it would've been exactly the conversation he'd been waiting for, but instead, all he could think about was the look on your face when you walked out of the room.
By the time he hung up and headed downstairs, he felt sick.
The house was louder downstairs, Dean arguing with Garrett about something while Hannah laughed. A hockey game was playing on the television like background noise.
Life was continuing exactly as normal, which somehow made everything worse—because nothing felt normal.
Logan found you sitting alone in the lawn chairs by the firepit in the backyard. The sun was beginning to set, painting the yard pink and gold.
You were curled up on the chair, knees tucked against your chest. For a minute, he stood there, just outside your line of sight, wondering how he'd managed to screw up so fucking royally.
The floorboard of the back stoop creaked beneath his weight as he took a step toward you. You lifted your head, your face closing off the second you saw him—and that was the moment Logan truly knew that whatever was happening between the two of you wasn't something he could smooth over with a kiss and an apology. "Can we talk?"
You stared at him for several seconds, then nodded slowly. "Sure."
He lowered himself into the chair next to you, a heavy, uncomfortable silence settling between the two of you—the kind that hadn't ever existed before.
Finally, you spoke. "Are you cheating on me?"
The question hit him so hard he physically recoiled. "What?"
Your laugh was humorless, boken. "I asked if you're cheating on me."
"Babe—"
"Because I don't know what else I'm supposed to think anymore." The words were spilling out faster now, like they'd been trapped inside you for weeks. "You won't talk to me. You leave the room to answer phone calls. You hide your laptop every time I walk in."
Logan's stomach dropped. He opened his mouth to speak, but you kept going.
"You barely look at me lately." Your voice cracked—just slightly, just enough that the sound tore straight through him. "And every time I ask what's wrong, you tell me you're fine."
And suddenly, Logan could see it, could see the weeks of secrecy, of distance, of unexplained behavior through your eyes. God.
Of course you'd think that.
Your eyes were shining now. "You know the worst part?" you whispered, looking away. "I would've rather had you tell me the truth."
The sentence shattered something inside him, because you genuinely believed it. You genuinely thought there was another woman. That after everything—after three years, after every promise, every late night conversation making plans for your future together, you thought he was capable of hurting you like that.
And it wasn't because you didn't trust him, but because he'd given you every reason to question him, to harbor these thoughts.
The realization hit him like a freight train.
"Baby, no," he whispered, his voice cracking. "No."
You blinked. "What?"
"No." The words stumbled out of his mouth broken, desperate. "I'm not cheating on you. God, no."
You stared at him, hurt and uncertainty written all over your tear stained face. He'd done that. He'd put that doubt there. The realization made Logan drop his head into his hands.
For a second, neither of you spoke. Then everything he'd been carrying for months finally spilled out, summed up in eight simple words. "I was trying to buy you a ring."
Complete silence. Logan turned his head toward you to see your brows furrowed. "What're you talking about?"
Logan laughed, a miserable, exhausted sound. "The phone calls, the laptop, all of it. I wanted it to be perfect. The proposal, the dream, everything."
He could see your mouth parting slightly in surprise, but he couldn't stop the words from tumbling out anymore, couldn't stop the tears blurring his vision as he continued in messy, unfiltered sentences. "You love beautiful things,"
"Logan—"
"No, listen. You do." A helpless smile tugged at his mouth. "You stop at every jewelry store window."
You laughed softly despite yourself. "I do not."
"You absolutely do."
A tiny ember of warmth flickered between the two of you, then disappeared. Logan swallowed hard. "The earrings."
Your smile vanished. "The earrings?"
"That day in Boston. Babe, you were so happy."
You stared at him, completely lost, and suddenly Logan felt absolutely ridiculous, but he continued anyway, pushing through the discomfort of laying his heart bare, because where else would he be safe if not with you? "I couldn't stop thinking about how much you loved them."
"Because they reminded me of my mom."
"I know," Logan's voice dropped. "I know, babe. That's what made it worse. Because all I could think about was that if those earring made you so happy, your engagement ring should make you even happier."
He laughed shakily. "And every ring I could afford felt wrong. I kept looking at our apartment options, at budgets, at our future."
His eyes met yours, voice choking as a single tear finally escaped the confines of his long lashes. "I want to give you everything, my love. I want you to have the life you deserve."
"John."
"And it's—it's killing me that I can't do it. It was killing me that I couldn't afford the ring I wanted for you."
You hand flew to your mouth, the tears in your eyes mirroring his.
"And then I started thinking maybe I should wait." Logan shook his head. "But I don't want to wait."
A tear slid down your cheek. "John."
He barely noticed. "I want to marry you."
The words landed heavily between you—simple, honest, terrified.
Logan looked away, unable to hold your gaze anymore. "I know its stupid. I know how insane I sound." Silence, for a moment. Then, quietly: "But you deserve so much better than what I can give you right now."
The sound of your chair scraping as you stood up made Logan finally lift his eyes up off the floor. You crossed the space between the two of you without hesitation. Your hands found his face—warm and familiar and feeling like coming home.
"So let me get this straight." Your thumbs brushed beneath his eyes. "You thought I cared more about a ring than I care about you?"
Logan winced. "When you put it that way—"
"John Logan." The fondness in your voice made his heart stutter. "I like jewelry. I like sparkly necklaces and expensive dress. I like shiny things—but none of those things are you."
His breath caught in his throat as you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his. "I don't care about a large sparkly diamond."
"You don't mean that."
"I do."
'You d—"
"I'd marry you with paper rings, John Logan," you whispered, as his arm wrapped around your waist, holding you to him like you'd disappear if he let go. "I'd marry you with a twist tie. I'd marry you with nothing at all. You're the one I want, and nothing's ever gonna change that."
Logan's vision blurred again, because suddenly, all those nights, all those spreadsheets, all the fears—they all felt so small compared to this, compared to what he had with you. Compared to the certainty in your eyes—the certainty he'd been too stupid to trust.
Something in Logan's chest stuttered, because suddenly, he remembered the folded receipt, still sitting in his pocket. He'd been folding and refolding it between his fingers while Garrett and Dean gave him hell earlier, creasing the paper absentmindedly, and before he could think, his hand was moving.
You frowned as he dug into his back pocket. "What're you doing?"
Logan looked down, letting out a watery laugh.
"Jesus." Carefully, he pulled out the crumpled strip of paper. The receipt had been folded and twisted so many times that it barely resembled what it once was.
Except somehow, he'd managed to fold it into a ring.
A crooked, terrible ring—the saddest excuse for jewelry in human history.
You stared. "Oh my God."
Heat flooded Logan's face. "I was nervous."
A laugh escaped you. "What does that have to do with—"
"I don't know." He was laughing now, too, half-hysterical, half-relieved. "I just kept folding the damn thing."
The ring sat trapped between his fingers, somehow more important than any diamond he'd spent months obsessing over. There was no diamond, no grand romantic gesture. Just you—just the love of his life.
Logan knelt, and despite all the words spilling out of him only moments before, the only word that parted his lips was, "Please."
"Are you serious?"
Logan's voice shook. "I don't have the ring yet. I don't have the proposal I wanted to give you. I don't have it all figured out right now. But I know I want forever, and I don't want it with anyone but you."
A tear tracked it's way down your cheek. "John."
"I know it's not much, but—"
"It's perfect."
"It's literally made out of a receipt."
You laughed through your tears. "So?" The sound nearly stopped his heart. "So was our first grocery list."
Logan laughed—a real laugh this time, the first one in weeks. "Please, babe? Will you marry me?"
"Yes. Yes, you big idiot, of course I'll marry you."
You stared the paper ring from his hand as though it were made of diamonds, holding out your hand for him to slide the ring onto your finger.
It fit terribly. You loved it.
And just like that, every spreadsheet, every budget, every sleepless night, every fear he'd carried for months disappeared.
Because standing in front of him was the woman he'd been trying so desperately to impress, the woman who loved sparkly things, who deserved the world.
The woman wearing a paper ring like it was the most beautiful piece of jewelry she'd ever owned.
summary. After Beau’s hard day at practice, he only wants two things. A hot shower and your arms to crawl right into. Thankfully, you’re not one to complain when he gets clingy.
⭑.ᐟ thanks for the request :) this is super short but super sweet. Let’s pretend this doesn’t make me sad Kay?
masterlist
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Beau’s pretty sure his body is about to give out.
His legs feel like jelly, his hands hurt right underneath his bones, his heart hasn’t stopped beating out of his chest and his rib is starting to bruise.
He just wants a hot shower and warm arms to crawl right into.
That’s you.
His face is more sunken than usual—you can tell by the way he stands in the doorway after you respond to his signature three knocks.
‘Rough day?’
‘You can’t even imagine.’ He sighs dropping his bag onto the floor, and doesn’t waste a second before hugging you the way he’s thought about it all day.
‘I missed you.’ He mumbles in your neck.
‘I saw you at breakfast.’ You laugh lightly.
‘Too long. Don’t like it.’ His voice is barely a whisper.
‘You need a shower, Beau. You’ll feel better.’
‘Gee thanks. I thought you’d be nice to me after seeing my state, guess not.’ He jokes with a soft tone pulling his head away from your neck.
‘Ah-ah. I mean it- you’re exhausted. It’ll help.’
‘Can you be my guest of honor?’ He takes your hands in his and sways them together.
‘Is that an invitation Mr.Maxwell?’ You tease.
‘It’s more me begging.’
Beau’s favorite time with you might just be showering together.
Not the sexual aspect.
More the intimacy.
He feels closer to you that way.
Washing your hair, you washing his.
Admiring the way you stick to your routine.
The bed creeks under his tired body as he jumps on it.
‘Come here.’ He says with his eyes close.
‘Yes sir.’
That makes him smile a little.
‘What do you want to do?’ You ask because it’s still early.
‘I just want you.’ He snuggles closer, pulls the covers over you both and his head finds its place between your shoulder and your jaw.
‘No dinner?’
‘You can be my dinner.’
‘Jesus. Now you’ve lost it.’ You laugh and beau’s heart swells as he feels the rumble from your laugh under his head.
‘Can’t a guy make a joke?’
‘Baby you do a lot of things, but this is not something you joke about. Unless you hit your head?’ You tease.
‘Nope. Conscious and very, very hungry.’ His hand travels up to lay under your left breast.
‘Very tired, too.’ One of your hands travels to his hair, slightly pulling.
‘You’re dangerous.’ He mumbles leaving a kiss on your collarbone, very grateful for the tank top with very thin straps you decided to wear.
‘Mmh.’
‘So… dinner?’ His head perks up with a smile while asking the question.
‘I hate you.’ You roll your eyes with a laugh.
‘No you don’t.’
‘You’re lucky.’ You say sarcastically.
‘Yeah- i am.’ He’s not referring to what you’re referring to.
He’s talking about you.
You know him too well to know that he gets sappy when he’s tired.
And hungry, apparently.
The rest of the night happens as planned.
‘Dinner’, cuddles, movie, actual food, warmth at his side he needed so badly.
And he’d do it all over again, every day for the rest of his life.
The shitty practices.
The pain of the sport.
The love for it.
The love for you.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
Please let me know if you want to be tagged on my off campus fics for the future 🤍
summary: in which allie, y/n, sabrina and grace chase a sunset from the hockey house roof, only to end up stranded while the boys swing wildly between panic, frustration, and overwhelming relief trying to get them down safely.
notes: hi!! thank you so much for your request, this was such a fun idea to write! i love incorporating moments where the girls are completely unfazed and oblivious while the boys are losing their minds trying to keep them safe. i hope you all enjoy!! 💌
✩.* found family fics!
✩.* found family masterlist
ꪆৎ
the sunset idea had sounded significantly smarter forty minutes ago.
back when the four of you were tipsy on cheap wine, sprawled across the living room floor while grace insisted the sky looked too pretty to waste from ground level.
“we should go on the roof,” allie had declared immediately from where she was sat on the couch. which, looking back now, should’ve concerned everyone a little more.
instead, grace had gasped dramatically.
“oh my god, yes!”
you had already started grabbing blankets from around the hockey house before anyone could question the plan, and suddenly all four of you were climbing out through the upstairs bedroom window.
the roof was perfect for sunset.
warm summer air brushed softly against your skin as the sunset stretched pink and orange across campus, the sky painted in streaks of gold that reflected against the windows of the dorm buildings nearby.
grace's speaker played quietly beside you, music low enough that your laughter still carried loud across the roof.
grace lay flat on her back with one arm thrown across her eyes, her half-empty wine glass balancing dangerously against her stomach.
sabrina sat cross-legged beside her trying to tell a story that kept getting interrupted because she physically could not stop laughing at her own retelling.
allie lay beside you, curled beneath a blanket while animatedly talking about how some girl in her tutorial thought dean was 'intimidating'. you smiled softly to yourself, knees tucked beneath your chin while the skyline glowed around you.
there was something so peaceful about being with your people. the kind of closeness that only existed when friendships had crossed so far beyond casual that they’d become something permanent.
your cheeks hurt from laughing, your body pleasantly heavy from alcohol and summer heat, the sunset so pretty it almost didn’t look real.
it felt warm.
safe.
which was probably why none of you noticed the window sliding shut behind you. not until nearly twenty minutes later.
sabrina was the first one to realise.
she’d leaned backwards toward the window to refill her drink from the wine bottle that had been sitting just inside the bedroom, before stopping abruptly.
“…guys?”
allie looked up immediately, “yeah?”
sabrina frowned slightly, pushing at the window once, then harder. to her dismay, it didn't budge and a strange silence settled over you all.
grace slowly sat upright, “why are you making that face?”
“the window’s locked.”
another pause.
“what do you mean locked?” grace asked slowly.
sabrina laughed uncomfortably, her eyes widening in realisation.
“i mean it's shut...it doesn't want to open”
allie crawled over immediately, “let me have a go.” she grabbed the handle, pulling on it, but nothing happened.
the window didn't budge.
her expression shifted almost instantly.
“…oh shit.”
you stared at her, your eyes widening in realisation. “allie, what exactly do you mean by ‘oh shit’?"
she looked back at the four of you and despite the situation, started laughing.
“i think we’re stuck up here.”
you weren’t sure if it was the alcohol coursing through your body or the way the moment felt too warm to properly hold onto, but before you could say anything, laughter spilled from your lips.
because of course this had happened, of course you had somehow found yourselves locked out from the house and stuck on the roof.
the boys were going to kill you.
“okay,” you managed eventually. “it's okay we'll just call one of them”
silence.
grace checked her pockets first.
“…i left my phone downstairs.”
“mine too,” sabrina admitted weakly.
allie slowly grimaced, she had too.
you reached into the pocket of your hoodie before stopping.
“…no.”
grace immediately collapsed backward onto the blankets again.
“oh guys.”
-
the boys knew something was wrong almost immediately, mostly because the house was quiet.
far too quiet.
logan walked through the front door first carrying takeout bags in one hand before immediately narrowing his eyes. “why does it feel haunted in here?”
“y/n?” garrett called out behind him.
nothing.
dean dropped his bag beside the stairs with a frown, noticing allie’s purse abandoned on the kitchen table.
tucker glanced slowly around.
“…why can i hear faint screaming?”
everyone stilled.
logan paused.
“wait.”
there it was again.
distant yelling somewhere above them.
then-
“we're stuck!"
all four boys whipped their heads upward simultaneously.
“…what the fuck?” dean muttered.
they moved immediately.
garrett took the stairs two at a time while logan nearly dropped the takeout trying to keep up. it wasn’t until they rushed into the upstairs bedroom that garrett spotted movement outside the window.
his entire face drained instantly because there you were, sitting on the roof wrapped in a blanket, a small smile gracing your features.
“what the-" logan starts, before garrett quickly cuts him off.
"why are you all on the fucking roof?”
“before you get mad-” you started carefully.
“we got locked out!” allie yells from behind you.
dean physically freezes at the window, his eyes wide in shock. “how does that even happen?”
grace points vaguely towards all of you. “group decision.”
“that does not make it better!"
tucker’s stomach drops the second he notices how close sabrina is to the edge.
“okay no, seriously” he said immediately. “move back, sweetheart.”
“tucker, relax-"
“absolutely not.”
sabrina blinked at him.
“you guys are being dramatic" allie states, a glint of humour evident in her eyes, clearly amused by the situation.
four male voices answer instantly.
“no we are not!”
tucker already has both hands gripping the sides of his head. “you’re all drunk on a roof.”
dean narrows his eyes, focusing on the piece of blue fabric near the gutter.
“…why is there a blanket hanging off the gutter?”
everyone slowly looks down before grace visibly hesitates. “that might’ve been my attempt at making a rope.”
there was a moment of complete silence before dean covers his face with both hands.
“jesus christ-"
“i’m actually getting grey hairs.”
logan looks horrified as realisation crosses his features, “you guys were going to climb down?!”
“well we weren’t planning on living up here permanently,” sabrina points out.
“sabrina.”
“i’m kidding!”
“you’re not funny right now.”
which only makes her burst into laughter.
garrett’s attention snaps back towards you the second you shift closer to the window.
“baby,” he says carefully, in the kind of controlled voice that meant he was significantly more stressed than he wanted to sound.
"i need you to stop moving around up there.”
you blinked at him innocently in response. “i’m literally sitting.”
“exactly. stay sitting.”
“you sound stressed.”
“because my girlfriend is trapped on our roof”
a slight grin tugs at your lips. “trapped feels a bit dramatic, don't you think graham?"
“you guys made a blanket rope, y/n”
you pressed your lips together hard to stop yourself from laughing.
eventually, after twenty minutes of yelling over each other while dean attempted to figure out how the window had managed to lock in the first place and tucker actively debated whether breaking it would somehow make the situation worse, they finally managed to force it open from the inside.
dean was first to help allie climb back through the window while actively lecturing her at the same time.
“you climbed onto the roof drunk.”
“tipsy,” allie corrected immediately, her eyes sparkling with amusement.
“that is not the part of the sentence i’m concerned about.”
once safe, logan had both hands on grace’s face like he genuinely couldn’t decide whether to kiss or yell at her.
“you could’ve fallen.”
“i didn’t though.”
“grace.”
“logan.”
tucker looked genuinely stressed beside sabrina, hands rubbing over his face. “you guys seriously didn’t bring your phones?”
that somehow made all four boys visibly more upset.
“oh my god,” dean muttered. “you are all impossible.”
you were climbing carefully back through the window when garrett’s hand settled instinctively against your waist to steady you. the contact felt firmer than usual, protective in a way that immediately made your chest ache slightly.
because he still looked rattled.
his jaw was tight, eyes scanning over you again like he still wasn’t fully convinced you were okay.
“hey,” you said softly once the two of you were standing properly inside again.
garrett looked down at you immediately and something in his expression shifted the second your voice softened.
less frustration.
more relief.
you reached carefully for his wrist, “we’re okay, we were being safe.”
his hand moved instinctively higher against your waist then, pulling you closer without even seeming to realise he was doing it. he exhaled sharply against the top of your head like he’d been holding his breath ever since he saw you up there.
“how long were you guys stuck out there for?”
the question comes out sharper than he intends it to, his hands settling against your arms like he needed physical confirmation that you were fine.
“not that long,” you said carefully.
“define not that long.”
“…maybe forty minutes.”
he exhales, pressing a delicate kiss to your forehead.
“you scared the shit out of me, you know that?” his voice is quieter than before, the honesty in it hitting significantly harder than you expected.
he sounded genuinely shaken.
you tilted your head back slightly to look up at him.
“but did we die?”
all of the boys groaned simultaneously in response before dean points accusingly at all four of you.
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