premise: logan tries to find the right place and the right time to apologize to you. but before he has the opportunity to talk with you, he learns why you're back in the state.
category: enemies (exes) to lovers, some fluff in the middle, heavy angst
word count: 4.2k
content/trigger warnings (these are spoilers, but for your own wellbeing, please please please read this): mention of hospice, parental sickness (cancer). the next part is going to be much heavier. please do not read if any of these topics are triggering for you. please lmk if there are any other warnings that i have missed.
author/context notes: thank you guys again for the engagement on this series! i realized how disorganized my taglist was, and i counted how many people asked to be tagged...118 accounts. i can't even begin to express how honored i feel. thank you so much for reviving my love of writing again. i've been in a slump for so long and it feels so fucking good to be passionate again about my longtime hobby. and if you want to be added to the taglist, you can comment on this post or message me! AND because i got my taglist disorganized, i forgot to tag some of y'all in earlier parts, so i'm tagging you again in these parts from now on (so sorry about that). also, if i previously tagged you in an earlier chapter and now you do not want to be tagged anymore, please lmk. if you don't, i will assume that you still want to be tagged. ALSO if i forgot to tag you, PLEASE lmk! i might have either misspelled your account or forgot to copy and paste it from my notes. i've had a lot of asks to be on the taglist, so i broke it down in the comments below. i don't know WHY tumblr can't allow me tag more than 5 accounts per comment, so if someone knows how to bypass that, please lmk. not proofread as of 07/11/26.
important note: someone on tuesday, 06/30 sent me an ask requesting to be added to the taglist and i didn't write down their account name before replying. their account name started with a K. i apologize and please let me know if i forgot to add you! (also, if you didn't read the trigger warnings, please go back and read them).
Garrett wastes no time in questioning Logan as soon as the party ends.
“So, why were you talking to Y/N earlier?”
Logan’s movements fully halt, and he stops his hand from picking up another red solo cup from the floor. Everyone else in the house also freezes, heads turning to eagerly listen to whatever Logan has to say. Ever since the boys stood as eyewitness to his cruel behavior towards you a few weeks ago, they now have no idea what to expect from Logan.
Right now, he feels like a foreign specimen placed under a microscope for his friends to closely scrutinize. Surprisingly, he believes that he actually deserves it.
“I was gonna apologize,” Logan says quietly, eyes scanning over the streamers lying on the ground. “But Kendall interrupted us.”
For a while, everyone stays quiet, as if they’re absorbing Logan’s words, before Dean breaks the silence.
“Really?” He scoffs, blue eyes narrowing towards Logan, but he drops the judgy tone when seeing the look on Logan’s face. “Uh…well, that’s interesting.”
His reply irritates Logan, who just goes back to picking up trash and shoving them forcefully in the garbage bag. Luckily, everyone else notices the sudden change in his demeanor, so Tucker suggests that they step out and start tidying up the backyard.
Dean and Beau follow him out, but Garrett stays behind, leaning against the arm of the couch. He doesn’t even continue picking trash from the floor. He just watches at Logan with crossed arms.
Garrett’s stare only unnerves Logan even more.
“G, what do you want to say?” Logan sighs, garbage bag falling onto the floor as he rakes his hands through his hair. “What, do you not want to ‘poke the bear’ now or something? Just fucking say it.”
Sometime over the past few weeks, John quickly became aware of his friends’ newfound sentiment of him. It didn’t take a genius to detect their frustration. One time, he opened up the kitchen cupboard to find that someone had finished his cereal without telling him. And when he calmly asked his roommates if they’d finished the box, Dean retorted with an incredibly jackass answer.
“Shit, guys. I don’t think we should tell him who ate from his precious little cereal box. We don’t wanna accidentally poke the bear and make us his prey.”
John immediately stepped out of the kitchen before he could punch the fuckass smirk off of Dean’s face at seven thirty in the morning.
But in this moment, Logan’s surprised by the apparent lack of animosity in Garrett’s expression.
“Nothing, Logan,” Garrett states, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know, man. I guess I wanted to make sure you two were alright.”
Both Logan and Garrett have somewhat repatched their relationship. When Logan admitted that he wasn’t fully over you, Garrett knew that his best friend was being sincere. Now, he knows that Logan is actively trying to let go of his pride.
“I mean, we’re definitely not alright,” Logan groans, his body dropping dropping onto the lounge chair across from Garrett. “Is it bad to say that…I don’t know, that I’m kind of glad that I didn’t apologize to her tonight? She was pretty drunk. It doesn’t feel right to have that conversation while she’s not sober.”
“Dude, that’s the most sane thing you’ve said in fucking ages.”
For the first time in a while, Logan lets out a small, but genuine laugh, which elicits a slight smile out of Garrett.
“So, I’m not going crazy anymore?”
“I fucking hope not,” Garrett quips, and Logan feels a tiny, featherlight weight being lifted off his chest. It feels good to finally joke around with his best friend.
He hates that his friends are treading lightly around him. But in a twisted yet ironic sort of fashion, the feeling is mutual. Logan himself is also walking on eggshells around his friends, because these past few weeks have turned him into a person that he no longer recognizes in the mirror.
Because every time you were brought up in a conversation, his skin would burn to a hundred degrees, regardless of the context. Whenever you were casually mentioned, even in the most neutral way possible, his mouth immediately shriveled up, and he always had to excuse himself from the room.
Anything and everything would trigger Logan, transporting him back to the night when you stared into his eyes and declared, with a ghastly level of certainty, that you had stopped loving him.
“When do you want to apologize to her?”
“Before the semester ends, at least. I don’t know where to meet her, though,” Logan admits, gnawing on his bottom lip. Initially, he planned on speaking with you after one of your home meets, but he doesn’t want to startle you.
You also haven’t been attending some of your competitions, which admittedly sets off a few alarms in his mind. You were never one to miss this many of your meets. In high school, he diligently attended as many meets as he could’ve, and he knows how seriously you take your craft. You were even selected for the Olympic trials in junior year.
However, Logan knows your “high school Y/N” better than “Briar University Y/N.” He doesn’t know how much he has missed over the past two years, and despite failing to process his hostility for the majority of that time, the lack of insight into your life has killed him.
Who knows how much you have changed since then?
“When working on our group project, Y/N told me that she’s still living at her old house in Munsen,” Garrett brainstorms out loud, his hand rubbing behind his neck. “I would suggest that you go there, but I don’t know if that’s going to be too much.”
The same one-story, brick walled bungalow with the tattered rocking chair on the front porch? The same house with your dad’s flourishing vegetable garden, along with the gazebo lined with fairy lights?
The same house where John planned his proposal to you?
His stomach painfully churns when the image of your house pops in his head. There’s no way that he could meet with you there.
“Yeah, I don’t think that’d be good for either of us,” Logan says with a crack in his voice that Garrett definitely hears. “Too much history there. But I really need to think of a place soon. I need to apologize for how I behaved towards her recently…and how I acted to her a few years ago, too.”
The sudden confession surprises both Logan and Garrett. The latter notices Logan’s downturned eyes and the deep frown on his face, and pushes himself off the arm of the couch, stepping closer towards his best friend.
“John, if you ever need to talk about what happened, I’m here,” Garrett asserts, voice rougher than usual. “You’re always welcome to talk to me about what she did.”
And Logan, failing for the millionth time this semester to control his emotions, lets out a mournful chuckle, feeling that familiar aching pressure on his heart.
“It’s not about what she did, actually. It’s about what she didn’t do.”
The following night, he dreams of you.
He swears on his mother’s life that he genuinely felt you lying down next to him. But unlike his other dreams, you were in his current full-size bed, and not his dingy childhood bedroom. Unlike what he initially believed, you were his present, and not his past.
“I’m sorry for everything,” You had whispered into his ear, your left palm tenderly brushing over his cheek. He shamelessly leaned into your touch, his face finding shelter in your hand. “I was stupid and I should’ve told you earlier. I hated walking away from you that night.”
Logan had instantly wrapped a protective hand around your waist, pulling you impossibly close to him. He felt your heartbeat vibrating against his chest. He wanted to physically imprint that sensation on his body, marking himself as yours for life.
“Don’t worry about that, Y/N,” He murmured, moving his lips to your neck and relishing in the way you held your breath each time his kisses landed on your skin. “We’re together now. That’s what matters.”
Your signature playful grin had surfaced yet again, and Logan smiled when seeing the light in your eyes.
“So, I guess that means we have some missed time we have to make up for, huh?”
“Oh, I think I like the sound of that,” He saw the goosebumps trailing down your arms when his raspy voice tickled your skin. The teasing look in your eyes only spurred him on even more.
“I’m sorry, you ‘think’ you like the sound of that? Wow, so are you not sure—”
Logan had pressed his mouth to yours, savoring the sweet moan that emerged from your throat. He had no idea how long he stayed with his lips on yours, and he forced himself to pull away.
He had the audacity to smirk at how breathless you became.
“Baby, I’m pretty damn sure.”
He wakes up shortly afterwards, hands grasping his sheets as he searched for you. His eyes dart around his room to find a trace of you. Maybe he could find one of your diving one pieces, or your Padmé costume, or even a hair tie. Anything would suffice.
After a couple of minutes of searching for you in vain, Logan’s head slumps into his palms, elbows digging into his knees. He pulls at his hair as he chastises himself, wondering why he thought you would be in his bedroom of all places at 2:30 AM on a Monday.
His body suddenly carries himself to his closet, and once he opens the door, his eyes fall upon the cardboard box below him. Your full name, written clumsily by Logan with a black sharpie, stares right back at him, practically taunting him to just open the box.
With trembling hands, he rips a part of the cardboard.
He sees the small velvet box nestled cozily in the corner.
No.
Logan fiercely shoves the box away from him, shutting his closet door with a “thud” so loud, it could’ve awoken his roommates.
With erratic breaths and weak legs, he forces every muscle in his body to return back to his bed, desperately wanting to go back to sleep without dreaming of you.
But he automatically reaches for his phone, and naturally, as the self-proclaimed masochist that he is, he types your number on his keypad. Even though he immediately deleted your contact after you broke up with him, he still knows your phone number like the back of his hand. The ten digits are forever engraved in his brain. Hell, he memorized it as soon as you agreed to go on a date with him on the first day of ninth grade. And six years later, he continues to carry your number with him like a security blanket he refuses to go of.
Now, the number on his screen glares at him. He analyzes every digit, eyes squinting over the 508 area code that he also shares in his number.
The screen fades to black, showing a the logo of a dead battery. He makes no move to charge it.
On the Friday before Thanksgiving break, Tucker invites everyone over for a chill Friendsgiving before his roommates and friends leave Hastings to spend the break with their families. When Logan hears that Tucker invited you, he feels an overwhelming sense of both relief and dread. He finally has an opportunity to speak with you.
“You’re cool with Y/N now?” Tucker casually asks as he pulls some freshly baked bread from the oven, immediately swatting Dean’s hands away. The four roommates are around the kitchen island, assisting Tucker with his chef duties.
Logan stills on the counter, his knife pausing in place on top of the cutting board. But surprisingly, he recovers quite quickly.
“I guess. I want to make amends with her, at the very least,” He confesses, instinctively waiting for Dean to retort back at him. Shockingly enough, the blond only nods at him.
“That’s good. She’s a great person to talk to,” Garrett says, elbows leaning on the counter. “But, Kendall told me that Y/N hasn’t been hanging out with her and the rest of the team for the past few weeks. I don’t know, I guess I’m surprised that she agreed to come to Friendsgiving.”
That piece of information also unsettles Logan. In high school, you were the one dragging him to social events, repeatedly convincing him to let loose and “just have a little fun, John.” Even with your family struggles, you always said “yes” to every invite, always ensuring someone’s birthday party or pre-game into your busy schedule. To this day, Logan doesn’t know how the fuck you balanced it all.
“If there’s anything that this past year has shown me, it’s that life is so fucking short, Johnny. I never want to take anything for granted,” You had explained to him at a party your classmate had thrown to celebrate the end of the tenth grade school year. “It’s up to ourselves to make the most out of our shitty lives. How else can we continue to keep on living?”
“Wow, babe, you should put that on a Hallmark card,” He had joked, taking a sip of his beer. He waited for you to give him a smartass response. But the sincerity in your voice proved him otherwise.
“I mean it, John. I’m sick of surviving. I’m only sixteen and I just want to live. And I have the best person by my side to do it with.”
Your words completely melted him.
Logan still holds a lot of admiration for you. A pit grows deeper in his stomach after hearing how much you have changed since then.
“She’s been going to her meets, though. Right, Garrett?” Tucker asks, beginning to slice the bread. Logan still hasn’t picked up his knife yet.
“Yeah, she has. She’s gone to all of them in November, so that’s good.”
“It’s not like her to have missed this many in a row,” Logan mutters quietly to himself, forgetting that he isn’t alone in the kitchen. Garrett slides closer to him.
“It’s definitely strange, but it seems like she’s back on track. We haven’t been to her meets in a while, though. There’s one coming up against Eastland after the break.”
“Oh, we’re definitely going,” Dean chimes in, swiftly stealing a slice of bread when Tucker’s back is turned away. “Beau also told me that there’s some Olympic coaches going to that meet in particular. Something about selecting divers for the Olympic trials.”
“If she’s selected, then it’ll be her second time making it to the trials,” Logan says, allowing himself to feel some sort of pride for you. “She wasn’t selected for the Olympic team that year, but she was only sixteen.”
“Still, that’s impressive as fuck,” Dean emphasizes, and for maybe the first time in their years of knowing each other, Logan finally agreed on something with Dean. “We should go.”
“Are you going to bring Allie with you as well?” Garrett smirks at the blond, and Logan feels that familiar, wonderful sensation of satisfaction crawling up his spine whenever Dean blushes in front of the guys.
He stumbles over his words for a good minute, and Logan’s smile only widens. He missed engaging in this banter with his roommates, especially when the banter comes at Dean’s expense.
“I mean, I don’t know if that’s appropriate,” Dean shrugs, beginning to walk away from the kitchen. “I asked Y/N out. I don’t know how Allie would feel knowing we’re going not to see the other divers, but to see Y/N specifically.”
“Bro, I cannot believe those words fell out your mouth,” Garrett laughs, shaking his head at Dean. Logan joins in on the laughter, and he’s secretly proud of himself that he didn’t freak out at the mere mention of Dean asking you out several weeks ago.
“Yeah, I think we entered another dimension or something,” Logan quips, to which Dean responds by raising both of his middle fingers.
Meanwhile, Tucker stands near the cutting board, clearly frustrated with how Logan just abandoned his incredibly simple task of slicing the carrots.
“Gentlemen! Get back to work, for fuck’s sake. Our guests are arriving in two hours,” Tucker yells at them, and before turning back towards the counter, he narrows his eyes at Dean. “And blue eyes, I know your greedy ass stole a fucking slice from my Sourdough loaf.”
Logan spends the following two hours submitting to Tucker’s demands, scouring his closet for a decent shirt to wear, and pacing his room at a hundred miles per hour. He’s been waiting to talk to you, to apologize to you, but he can’t seem to get any of his thoughts together. He wrote some of his thoughts down on a notepad, but scratched every single one of them out.
Y/N, I don’t think I’m completely over you.
When Dean said that he wanted to ask you out, I debated on slicing his head open with a guillotine. I still might. Just give me the word.
I’m so fucking sorry for how I treated you. That was so fucking fucked up. I’m such a fuck up. But you fucked me up first—
Yeah, Logan was clearly struggling on how to word his apology in a way that was fair both to you and to him. He wants to acknowledge the hurt he caused you while also tending to his own wounds.
“Where the fuck is everybody?” He hears Tucker shout from downstairs. “People are coming over now, so you better get your asses down—oh fuck, someone’s at the door.”
Logan’s heart drops when hearing Tucker’s last sentence, glaring at himself in the mirror. His hair is messy. His shirt is wrinkled. His eyebags are atrocious.
But he would hate to keep you waiting downstairs, so he pulls on a simple flannel and heads down before Tucker could yell at him again.
His chest pounds with an unbearable ache as he walks down, preparing himself to see you for the first time since Halloween.
But amidst everyone, he doesn’t see you.
“Logan! What’s up?” Kendall goes to give him a side hug, which he reciprocates, but his eyes are locked on the front door the entire time.
“Hey, Kendall. Wasn’t Y/N coming with you guys?”
“Oh, um,” She stutters, which increases Logan’s anxiety tenfold. “She called me an hour ago saying she had to take care of an emergency, and that she’ll try to make it later.”
“Shit, that doesn’t sound good,” Dean says from behind her, pointedly looking at Logan to gauge his reaction.
Logan tries to keep his face from falling, but he fails, miserably. Kendall notices, and tilts her head at him.
“Um, was there something you needed to talk to her about?”
His eyes widen, and he begins to stumble over his words, because while all of his roommates know about his past with you, he still doesn’t know if Kendall is in the loop as well.
“Yeah, it’s kind of a personal matter,” Logan finally manages to say, voice dropping at the end of his sentence. Luckily, Kendall doesn’t persist, only giving him a certain look that he can’t understand.
Thirty minutes pass, and you still haven’t showed up. Logan is trying his best to engage in the conversations on the couch, but he often wanders off mid-sentence, his head occupied with thoughts of you.
Why is she not here?
When he ambles towards the kitchen to grab a much-needed bottle of beer, his body freezes when seeing Garrett and Beau huddled closely together, whispering intensely.
He swears he hears your name.
“Everything good here?”
His voice clearly startles both of them as they jump apart from each other, fervently shaking their heads.
Logan clears his throat. “You sure? Also, when did you get here, Beau?”
“Oh, I just came here a bit before the girls to help Tuck with the cooking,” The brunet quickly clarifies, eyes wandering over the place. Garrett’s glancing at the ground, which confuses Logan even more.
“G, what’s going on?”
“It’s nothing,” Garrett contends, using his captain voice. Logan’s hands feel numb as he grips the kitchen counter.
“Are you sure? Because I swear I heard—”
“Jesus, Logan, it’s nothing. Drop it,” Garrett repeats with a stony look in his eyes, walking out of the kitchen. Logan exchanges a look with Beau, who only raises his hands in defense.
Tucker’s voice abruptly booms across the house as he announces that “y’all, dinner is finally fucking ready.”
Everyone clusters around the dining room table, commenting and praising Tucker at the absolute fierce he’s prepared. Garrett and Beau join in on the conversation, but Logan’s still glaring at both of them. Unfortunately, the two boys ignore his stares. He taps his fingers restlessly on his plate.
What is going on?
Everything begins to fall apart before dinner even starts.
As Nour is scrolling on her phone before eating, she gasps loudly, and everyone whips their heads towards her.
“Oh my God,” She mutters under her breath. Lexi, another one of your diving teammates, glances at Nour’s screen, and her eyes widen in response. “Holy shit.”
Garrett and Beau visibly stiffen, shoulders as rigid as boards. Sweat slowly drips down on Logan’s neck, despite it being almost winter in Massachusetts.
“What’s happening?”
Nour looks up from her phone, voice shaky as she tries to reply to Logan. “Y/N—”
“No,” Garrett asserts, drawing in a sharp inhale from his nose. “Don’t say anything.”
“Say anything about what?” Logan snaps at Garrett, fingers still trembling.
“It’s none of our business,” Beau states in a calmer voice, trying to ease some of the tension. “Guys, just stay off of Instagram.”
Naturally, Logan reaches for his phone, which Garrett swipes from his grasp. Logan’s jaw drops before his hands curl into fists.
“Garrett, if you don’t fucking tell me what’s going on, I swear to God—”
“Okay!” He yells, pinching the bridge of his nose. Garrett then grabs his arm, and turns to the rest of the group. “I’m talking to him privately. Beau, update the others.”
Everyone at the table ogles at the two of them. Logan doesn’t see them, though, because Garrett drags him upstairs. As soon as the door shuts in Garrett’s bedroom, Logan tears himself off of Garrett’s grasp, face practically murderous.
“You have to talk to me privately? Are you guys scared of my reaction or something? I thought we were fucking past that—”
“John, shut up and listen to me,” Garrett spits out, hands pressed on his hips. “This is serious. We were going to tell you after dinner, I swear.”
Logan backs away until his back forcefully hits the door, his chest heaving. He leans his body against the wood and his fingers dip crescents into his scalp.
“Just tell me, G.”
“We know why she’s back here.”
Logan’s breath escapes him, his right hand clutching the doorknob. The finality in Garrett’s voice terrifies Logan more than the words he uttered.
“Her dad has cancer.”
The ringing in Logan’s ears fades, leaving him stuck in a nauseating silence.
Oh my God.
“Again?”
Logan’s reply drains the color out of Garrett’s face. “What do you mean ‘again?’”
There’s no way.
And when Logan’s grip on the doorknob loosens, his best friend rushes to clutch his shoulders before he hits the ground.
“John, what do you mean by ‘again?’”
His bottom lip is shaking uncontrollably, and he blubbers as he tries to get the words out.
“The summer before tenth grade. He, um…he had pancreatic cancer. Stage III,” The words come out as a whisper as Logan’s head hangs down, and if Garrett wasn’t actively holding his best friend right now, he wouldn’t have heard him at all. “But, he…God, he pulled off a miracle recovery. He was in remission. He was doing great.”
Garrett remains quiet as he watches the tears swarm violently down Logan’s cheeks, noticing how he shakes his head “no.”
I’m such an asshole.
“I guess it came back and got worse,” Garrett mutters, his grip unwavering on Logan’s shoulders.
Suddenly, Logan lifts his head back up, bloodshot eyes meeting Garrett’s.
“Wait,” He gasps, trying to get just a sliver of air, and whimpers miserably. “Why do you know this? How do you know this?”
Garrett draws his lips into a thin line, his hand letting go of Logan to drag a hand over his face.
“Yeah, that’s the reason I wanted to tell you after dinner,” He explains, clearing his throat. “Before I show you, I want to you to know that we’re handling the situation. We reported the post and some tech specialist in Beau’s frat is working to take down the post as quickly as possible—”
Logan’s veins are about to burst from his neck.
“What post?”
Garrett sighs, unlocking his phone and showing Logan a screenshot of an Instagram post.
Logan immediately spots the “Munsen Hospice Center” sign at the top of the building. He recognizes you outside of the building, pushing a wheelchair with your dad inside it.
The scream he lets out is loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear.
“When Dean said that he wanted to ask you out, I debated on slicing his head open with a guillotine. I still might. Just give me the word.”
waitttttt omg that was so—
i’m so normal about them give me a minute!!!
glad he came to his sense and realized that there was in fact something a foot that impacted her to the point of ending their relationship.
and while i’m well aware i sound like a broken record i just have to kiss up on garrett rq. he is the loml aside from john logan because i can’t be normal when it comes to jl he’s literally flynn rider reimagined and that’s all it takes for me LOL.
however, garrett and the way he approached the entire situation is so beautifully written and incredibly realistic to friendships in real life.
watching him go from being r’s no.1 hater to bragging about her to hannah and defending her side against logan has truly been so fun to read. i just love him idk. i haven’t re read the briar u series in a hot second so this is all just reminding me how fanned out i was over garrett when i first got into off campus 😭
on another note!
her dad having cancer!!!!
i hate this for my girl omg and logan saying “again” Is actually crushing me because all i can think about is her almost losing her dad the first time and having him as a support system to now having no one because of their breakup ….
and i’m mad again
he was so mean to her!!!
also can we talk about her career as an athlete like she’s literally amazing!!
i love that they both are athletes and i know he can relate to carrying everything on his shoulders given how he’s portrayed in the show. working multiple jobs and having his mom be in rehab.
ugh my bearsssss
😔 i guess I forgive him
———————————————
me reading the beginning because we got jealous logan and he’s was finally going to make things right
then getting to the end and realizing it’s about to get even more angsty from here w her dad …
choso fics | a lil story inspired by anolog horror choso <3, doesn't follow the canon plot this is mainly just off the dome, giving a little bit of "monster in paris" vibes at first
choso kamo x reader
Synopsis: Choso has never known human kindness other than that of his brother. A spectacle, stuck between something not quite human and not quite a monster, he's long struggled to fit in anywhere outside of his own company. It isn't until the elusive being meets you, the only human being who's ever bothered to be decent to him.
to sum it up: choso falls for you the second he meets you, but the only way he knows how to pursue you is to watch you from afar...
WC: 10,166
Warning(s): our baby's a little creepy in this one, stalking mentioned, he has absolutely no social skills but c'mon he loves you so much
Something vile and merciless as it yanked at his essence, dragged his core from a warmth he can't quite remember. Can't quite name.
In the inky, chilling exposure of darkness, hands reached out from a slimy mass, a burst of blood and life shaking abruptly through the being's veins, pumping like the very red clots would jump out from his skin to serve a life of its own.
And suddenly, light. Harsh, piercing through his retinas, flickering red amidst hues of violet that have only now begun to see the sun as its golden rays peel eyes open impatiently.
Choso shied away, backing into the shadows that were once meant for him, that remain the encapsulation of his only comforts.
The dark haired Death Painting never asked for life, not in such a way. A severed connection once held between two other life forms ached terribly, sending pangs of grief through his chest that were enough to make him realize that light, joy, those human concepts of happiness under the sun were not meant for him. He's not a human after all. He exists somewhere in between consciousness and a nightmare, a monster and the narrowly acceptable.
A heart as big as Choso's fails to match his appearance. Dark, sunken eyes, circles beneath that drag them further into his skull. A haunted quality about his piercing gaze as he stares, observes from afar, undetected, unheard, unseen. Scraggly, brown strands of hair that sprout over his forehead and poke high into the air from a pair of cropped pigtails. An exhaustion that never quite leaves his expression, dragging down curved, pale lips upon ghostly pale skin. Marks that morph and warp with his technique, stamped like a stain of blood across his nose and beneath his eyes.
And a height... a height that intimidates, mimicing that of mythical creatures from a far off land - a curve of lean shoulders and muscle that hunches over its very own shadowy imprint on the pavement, a mass of cloth that seems to pool from the very ground as it drapes around Choso's big, ghoulish frame.
With no connections and no warmth, Choso lives his life in the crevices overlooked by mankind, in the forgotten wastes of what society leaves behind. A wandering half curse with no family to name except for a salmon haired boy that he protects from a distance, surveys, and ensures the wellbeing of from where he thinks he goes undetected, but Yuji always knows when his strange big brother is around, the one he only recently discovered he even had when he was walking to his dorm late one night and felt like he was being followed.
When the fifteen year old whipped his head around, he saw them. Two pale, shining circles at the end of the block, peering out from around the corner of an alleyway, an aura of gloom twirling about his head, sending shivers down Yuji's spine.
Once he got through the eeriness of it all, Yuji felt a hint of pity toward the creature. Beneath that dizzy unsettling countenance about him, beneath his severely lacking social skills and perpetual grey overcast that follows him, Yuji discovers that his habit of staring and... following him around (stalking is the term he is looking for, but he doesn't want to paint Choso in any more of a bad light than others already do) derives strictly from a place of desire to be close, from an instinct to care that Choso himself has failed to identify.
The very small hint of humanity that Choso comes to display is fully at the orchestration of Yuji and his friends. The brown eyed boy attempts to teach Choso the ways of the world through some of the planet's best films, or at least what Yuji deems to be the best films.
Long after Yuji has fallen asleep on the couch with his head tossed back and drool dribbling down his chin, Choso leans closer into the television with his knees to his chest. Lavendar eyes stare wide as colors flash across his fair skin, and the scene cuts in the midst of the rampaging action to a man and a woman - the great hero and the girl he fights for, watching the monstrous opponent lay siege to the city from a nearby cliff. Wind whips through their perfectly styled hair, they turn to each other as fire roars, and their eyes meet amidst a catalysmic crescendo of flames a blaring string instruments.
Choso's breath catches in the back of his throat as something... intimate is exchanged. His head tilts at a perfect angle, mimicing the behaviors of an owl, and his pupils reflect the pinnacle of the movie. The moment of broken tension: a desperate kiss.
The great hero grasps his lover's arms tight and brings her in to share breaths, to mold skin, to join lips passionately. The corners of Choso’s lips tug down with inquisition, his alien mind whirring as he processes the unfamiliar display. The music swells, the camera pans to the woman's brows curling with ferver as she throws her arms around the man's neck as if it will be the last time she sees him.
A goodbye?
After a few moments, the music settles and the protagonist pulls away. He gives her one last emotional look before daringly taking off into the direction of chaos, leaving the weeping woman to wave after her stud.
It is a common theme Choso identifies in these strange films. The one persistent thing in all the confusion of Yuji's favorite series. The complication and intensity of human connection. Siblings, friends, parents, lovers - an inseperable bond is shared with various ways of communicating each different relationship. Nevertheless, the motivations behind each behavior remains the same - sacrificing lives, intercepting to take the bullet, promising the land, moon, and stars. Love.
No matter what kind. It drives everything.
Choso's head swivels to look at Yuji as the movie continues on in the background as he snoozes. Blinking, the messy haired half curse looks down at the blanket that pooled to the floor. He cranes over to grab it, and awkwardly fumbles, turning stiffly to stretch the fabric over the fifteen year old's frame, blanketing him in warmth the way he saw a woman do her child in one of the earlier movies of the night.
Choso leans back, cautious, uncertain, bunching himself back into the corner of the shared couch. His arms wind around himself again as he stares at his brother, waiting for some outburst, like the ones gifted pedestrians have when they accidentally catch a glimpse of him in the wee hours of the night, prowling about vacant corners. The screams. The panic. The blood curdling fear ringing out high into the stars. The running.
But instead, Yuji twitches, snorting loudly, then nestles back into the comfort of the blanket, cheek squishing over the pressure of his propped palm.
Love. Choso ponders it. It feels... familiar somehow. Like it was the only thing aside from darkness engrained into his way of being when he manifested into truth.
Is that what ached so much when his other brothers were killed? Is that what keeps him tied to Yuji despite his responsibility for the former deaths?
It must be.
It's the only kind of love Choso truly knows. When he thinks of origins... of a mother, there's nothing. Choso was born into this world with no predecessors, no friends. As though he was destined to be a void.
And that special love? That love between two people, christened by the touch of one another's lips, by glittering gazes, and an urge to fight through hell in order to protect the other?
It’s a completely foreign notion. He wonders what such things feel like. He wonders how people know when the time is right, when the sentiments are shared, when the unspoken words lingering in the air are filled with a kiss, with a mute declaration.
Choso turns back to the screen. He watches a bit longer before looking down at his own hands, bringing them to vision before his knees. His eyes note the blue veins that course over the back of them and down his forearms. He notes the alarming width of his palms, the greying of his slender finger tips as if he is decaying. The sheer lack of color in his complexion.
His eyes flicker back up to the shiny, tan bodies decorating the screen. The human quality of life sparkling in the characters eyes.
He wonders if love like that, that makes women cry and men run off to fight, is a luxury reserved for those born completely human. Those born to a name. To an identity rather than a curse.
Choso returns to the shadows when he is not needed by his brother. In spite of Yuji's best efforts to integrate him, the brunette feels uneasy in human company. Not because he doesn't like it, but because he feels the judgment in everyone's eyes when they regard him, when his little brother introduces him as his sibling, and lips curl, or eyes dart over his figure in discomfort.
Choso knows he's not the prettiest. He's not the most ordinary. He's large, and inky, and macabre, and silent. Those who look like him are often portrayed as the villains of the heroes' stories, and he has long accepted that. He's okay with that.
The only thing he asks of this existence is for it to grant Yuji's safety. And though the boy tells him he doesn't need to stalk about from a far distance any time Yuji leaves his house, Choso persists. It's the only way he knows how to look out for his baby brother. His only family. His only ties to the human world.
So when Yuji's friends murmur about how his new big brother is creepy, Choso doesn't let it eat him up inside. He stays out of their path, not keen on frightening his brother's schoolmates, allowing him the normal life that Choso has never known.
One night, after Choso has watched Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara walk back into their dorms safely after a late night out, the half curse turns to meander the dark streets pensively. With his gaze to the ground, his mind subconsciously numbing out his surroundings, he does not see the figure in his way when he turns a corner. Emerging like some apparition from the darkness, his eyes eventually lift and he freezes.
The brunette's sunken eyes go wide.
His stomach drops. His breath catches.
There you are, crouched by the side walk, planted on the side of the road in front of the sewer. You stare, anguised, into the sewer crate, knees bent as you lock in on something lost to you now. You're angry, it seems.
Choso backs away into the shadows again, peering out from the corner to observe you.
You release a frustrated groan, one unweighted due to the lack of company you believe yourself to have. You crane your head forward, squinting your (e/c) eyes to get a better look into the darkness and murmuring frustrations to yourself that Choso can't quite understand from the distance.
The brunette leans in to get a better look at you. His mind is clouded as he watches you like you're a spectacle, eyes glassy and blown.
(S/c) skin. Big (e/c) eyes, full of life, full of humanity, full of emotion. The curve of your jaw, so pleasant upon the eyes when you clench down angrily on your teeth. The warm quality of your cursed energy, of what Choso interpets as the very essence of your soul. Your aura, bright, full, clean. Perfect (h/c) hair. Perfect chipped teeth. Perfect faded scars across your arms, perfect chipped black paint on your fingernails.
You are entrancing.
Yet, you seem so upset.
Choso looks around. The street is vacant save for you crouching there, and you aren't doing well to pay attention to your surroundings. Whatever's got you distracted is surely jeopardizing your safety. Why is someone like you all alone in the middle of the night like this?
You're angling your body awkwardly to stretch an arm through the open space leading into the ground. You tilt your head upward, face on display for Choso to examine, and you grunt with a wince. The muscles in your face tighten as you stretch and strain, skin wrinkling aesthetically by your eyes and the corners of your lips.
You dropped something down there. Is that it? You're trying to get it out?
Choso's right foot moves to step forward, his slender fingers poking out to help, but he stops himself as echoes of terror flash across his memory. He retracts slowly, dejectly, careful to avoid scaring you off.
After a few minutes of watching you switch between your right and left arm to no avail, you rip your arm away with another groan and rise to your feet. Overcome with agitation, you kick at the concrete, only to regret so immediately and whimper as you hop on your unharmed foot with a hiss.
Your shoulders drop, your countenace shifting to crestfallen and tired. You press your lips hard together, glaring down at the sewer as you stand on your two feet again. A shuddering exhale leaves your parted lips, and you duck your head in shame, moving to plop down on the side of the curb and bury your face in your hands.
Choso feels himself frown. You appear so... sad.
Is it because of whatever you dropped?
He observes that way your shoulders tremble, and soon the muffled huffs of breath rise into the still air as you sniffle into your palms.
He wants to help you. Badly.
In the midst of Choso's thoughts, his foot shuffles across the ground once more, knocking a complacent rock out of place and stirring up a small commotion.
The rock rolls out from the alleyway, into the street. Choso panics, ducking further into darkness as you lift your head with sudden urgency.
Tears stain your cheeks, your eyes tinged a light pink, and you sniff hard, lowering your hands into your lap when you catch wind of the rock. You swipe the back of your hand over your nose and go to stand up, having the sense to now have your guard up since something is evidently nearby.
"H-Hello?" you croak out, rising to your feet cautiously as you stare into the direction of the rocks origins. You know someone is there. You sense the energy now, bubbling like some inky mass in the shadows. You frown, for of course you would run into some kind of threat tonight, of all nights.
You sniff again, harder this time, dropping your shoulders with a huff. "I know you're there," you call out, voice echoing throughout the street.
Choso swallows hard, his heart suddenly lurching forward in his chest. He has to leave, before you see him. Before you take one look at him and deem him some sort of monster.
"If you're trying to scare me, it's not gonna work. Nor is robbing me. Everything valuable I own is -" you point to the sewer grate beside you with pursed, irritated lips. "- right down there, so. And trying to kill me won't go so well for you either. Just so you know."
A sorcerer? Or some member of the jujutsu world? You must be. He can tell by the way your stature adapts a specific stance, one he sees many of the students take on the field when they are preparing to spare. You don't seem to be completely in it though. You're movements are lackadasical, tired, like you just want to get whatever you're about to encounter over with so you can go back to wallowing in pity.
Choso's confused. He doesn't want to hurt you. Or steal from you. He just... doesn't want you to see him.
But after a few more seconds of his silence, you march over to the alleyway boldly. Choso backs away on instinct as you come in close, your hand rising to grip the brick as you peer into shadows and nothing. You squint, angling your head differently. "Hello?"
Then you make them out. Two glowing, hollowed purple orbs floating about in the near distance, and the soft ruffle of clothing as the owner of said eyes retreats further.
You scrunch your brows together, something uneasy settling in your stomach. The silence, the eyes, the darkness, it makes you shudder.
"I can see you," you eventually whisper, your tone evening out. Choso freezes, stuck.
You can see him?
No, not fully. You couldn't possibly, or else your reaction would have been less calm.
Because you're so close. Wafts of your perfume float into his confined space, intoxicating his senses and tickling his nose. It twitches, his hand going to paw away at it, as if he has the power to rid himself of your enticing presence.
And you, well, you're at a loss. You can tell, now that you've shrunk the distance, that whatever is out there doesn't want to come near you, let alone hurt you or take anything from you. It's hiding away, you assume, but from what? Why? What's so bad about it that needs to be hidden?
"Are you following me?" you ask.
No. No, he's not. Not now. He didn't mean to find you here like this.
"...Can you... speak?" you try once more for a response, but to no avail. You palm at your damp eyes again, ridding the saltiness from your gaze so you can see and focus properly. There's another shuffle back, and something sympathetic blooms in you. You aren't exactly sure why. Perhaps it's because of the shitty day you've been having. "Are you some kinda harmless curse?" you ponder aloud. Still nothing.
You stretch out a hand, and it reaches into darkness blindly. Choso looks down at your soft, small palm turned upwards, and your pretty eyes searching through nothingness with something desperate in your gaze.
"Look, see?" you offer. "I won't hurt you. I'm off duty, anyway," you half chuckle something sweet and hypnotic and... defeated. "As long as you don't hurt me too. Promise."
Tear dropped lashes blink and a sad, comforting smile rises to your lips.
"I probably sound insane trying to talk to you, but... if you don't mean any harm, I really wouldn't mind the company right now," your voice drifts off at the end of your sentence as if you are humiliated, leading Choso to stop backing away from you instinctively.
A human being is asking for him to show himself, asking for his company, and all he can do is stand frozen in place, as this is incredibly unfamiliar territory.
He wants to go. He wants to listen to you, to believe that you truly mean what you say. But fear grounds him until your next soft phrase.
"Please?"
You hear slow footsteps approach, and you lower your hand the closer you feel him getting to you. A soft, pathetic smile graces your features, and gradually, a head peaks out from the blanket of darkness.
But when your eyes go up, they land first on chest.
Your expression slowly wilters as your eyes trail up and up and up slowly, and after what seems like an eternity, they finally find stunned violet hues that peer down at you from overhead. He emerges cautiously, a similarly pathetic expression on his face, circling those strange eyes of his. Your arms completely drop to your sides, your brows lifting, your lips parting to release a soft breath of stun.
A spooky sight greets you. Over six feet of astonishing mass blending into the shadows of the darkness, a frozen face of what you would name as fear written across his empty eyes. You aren't quite sure what he is. He looks like some kind of curse, but the way he stares, the way he watches with a breath held is far too human for you to tell.
Wild strands of dark brown, dark enough to be black, sprawl over his forehead and into his wide eyes. His chest rises and falls slowly like he's waiting for the shoe to drop, waiting for your outburst, for your cruelty.
But instead of your cruelty, instead of fleeing in a terror-stricken haze, you just return his gaze and stare in awe. Perplexed. Intrigued. Surprised.
Choso stares at you, awaiting your rejection with lips clamped tight together. You just watch, lips parting and jaw dropping slightly.
You don't know what you were expecting, but it certainly wasn't him.
Though, despite his frame and offputting nature, there's that humanness swirling in his gaze like he is ashamed of himself, like he wants to rerteat at any given moment.
Your heart lurches with empathy.
"Oh..." you start, unable to find the right words. Subconsciously, you take a step back and Choso notices immediately. His adam's apple bobs, and he keeps himself half submerged in shadows. "...You're..." you breathe out.
Disgusting? Horrifying? A wretched sight?
"Tall," is what you elect to say, nodding slowly to yourself in your stupor. Choso's shoulder slump slowly in surprise.
You don't run. You didn't throw things at him. You don't even yell.
You just look at him as though you're amazed.
Choso feels something strange bite at the apples of his cheeks, the manipulation of his blood no longer under his control but his own body's. He blinks once, long and hard, as pink swirls over pale skin - his cheeks and the tip of his nose. His nose and lips curl, now crooked as he adjusts to the heat of his face as he stands before you.
"Sorry, um- I'm kinda a mess right now," you blink your own eyes repeatedly, snapping yourself out of your daze. Your hands slap at your sides, and you stretch your hand back out again. "I'm... (Y/n). Do you... do you have a name?"
You didn't run.
Choso is utterly frozen, a fish out of water.
The shock of your amiability despite having just seen his face is sending him reeling. And now, having stepped into the flickering luminescents of the street lights with you, his breath has been knocked away with the shock of your... your...
"Hello?" you wave, hesitantly taking a step closer to examine him with skeptical eyes. Your eyes narrow, your brows draw together, and your lips curve - not with distaste, but with curiosity. "Can you hear me? Or... even understand what I'm saying?"
Beauty.
That's what it is. That's what Yuji called it. Something so nice to look at, it can't be named as anything but such.
As you lean in to examine him closely, carefully, Choso names it. Feels it. Sees it. You're beautiful. The most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
You tilt your head, releasing your arm to prop a hand on your hip. "...Are you okay?"
Is he?
No human has ever asked.
He feels his heart jerk in his chest, and he jolts slightly. His hand abruptly flies to the very spot, and he looks down in alarm as though his own body has betrayed him.
You frown, suddenly believing that this being, this man - whatever he is, is hurt somehow. Or at the very least, having a psychotic break.
Your hand instinctively reaches out, and the moment Choso detects it, he pulls away swiftly, owlish eyes finding yours again. You deflate. "Do you need any help? Can I take you somewhere?" you ask, voice softening.
What a pretty sound.
No one has every spoken to him so casually. No one other than Yuji.
Why aren't you afraid? Don't you see his face? The way it absorbs all light to reflect only bleak darkness? Don't you see the marks of a killer, of a blood curse user? Of something strange and offputting and unfamiliar?
His eyes detail your red ones, then fly to the sewer opening.
Lifting a slender finger, he points.
"...Did you lose something?"
His voice slithers out low, yet smooth, a bass you are surprised to hear. There's something monotonous and robotic to the sound, like he has no idea how to speak to someone like you, or to anyone for that matter. His tone is also thick with lack of use, as if these are the first words he has spoken in days.
Your eyes follow his finger, still confused, and slightly taken aback by his speech. You gulp and locate what he is talking about you look back up at him in question. "Oh, yeah," you sigh, suddenly remembering why you're out here in the first place. "I... um... dropped my phone down there. And it has my ID and credit card in the case..." you trail off to turn back to him with questions in your eyes.
"Can I... help?"
You blink. "Um, I mean... if you can? If you really want to?"
Choso doesn't waste any time. You watch as his bulking, inhumane frame steps fully out of darkness and moves toward the sewer with a determined expression.
When he stands in the street, you see his full frame much more clearly from afar, and you ogle him. He's certainly a curse, or someone hybrid between that and a human being. His face, his hair, his ten fingers and two hands are enough to signify the workings of another human, but the lack of color on his skin, his size, his bulkiness, the sharpness of his jaw, the way he speaks, the way his eyes stare. Those traits of his are all quite unique, and while you think he should scare you, he doesn't.
Choso locates your phone. He sees the screen facing upward just a few feet below the crate. His head tilts as he studies the predicament, and before you can tell him not to worry about it, you watch him lurch forward, hook his fingers into the grate, and yank it out with one forceful tug. Your eyes widen as he tosses the metal crate over his shoulder like it weighs nothing, and it lands with a loud clanging. He then hops down into the hole without a second thought. You hurry over to check on him.
But what greets you upon arrival is a large hand stretching out from the sewer, your phone clasped in his dark fingers. You gasp, light catching your eyes as you bend over. Choso looks up at you sheepishly, waiting patiently for you to take your belonging as he stands still.
"Holy shit, you actually got it?" you exclaim, reaching to retrieve your phone, brushing his cold hand. Choso retracts it, swallowing hard as his face warms even more. You check to make sure nothing is cracked or wet as Choso climbs his way out, pressing his palms to the pavement and pushing forward with his seemingly impressive strength. He clambers back to his feet before you, uncaring of the grime smudging his robes, and awaits your next reaction, your next words like an eager puppy.
You heave a sigh of relief when you find no damage to your device and hug it to your chest. No longer full of sadness, your (e/c) eyes find his and you grin wide, all teeth on display and your eyes squinting with gratitude.
"Thank you so much! You're a life saver."
Thank you. You're thanking him - him. A human being is thanking Choso, and he can't even operate his brain quickly enough to say you're welcome. He just nods stiffly, staring.
"You must be really strong, huh?" you pipe up, your voice now chipper and free. Choso doesn't say anything, and you chuckle slightly with a nod toward the discarded sewer grate. "You yanked that thing like it was nothing."
"Oh. I am strong. Yes," Choso says awkwardly, for it is a fact. It's true. He possesses remarkable physical prowess, much like his little brother, but you still giggle upon hearing his answer. His ears burn. He's never made it this far in conversation with someone before. Is he supposed to laugh? Is he saying the right things?
"Yeah, I can see that," you say warmly, tucking your phone back into your pocket. With another spirited exhale, you smile. "So you were watching me back there, weren't you?"
Choso's face flushes a deeper pink. "U-Um-"
"I only ask because... well, you were here long enough to see that I lost something. You saw me have a meltdown, right?" Choso stares. "You saw me crying and stuff," you clarify.
The half curse clears his throat. "Yes," he croaks. "I did. I was watching you. I saw you hurt your foot, too. Sorry," Choso hastily rushes out, stiff and peculiar, like the word was tangled on his tongue and he didn't know how to get it out. All he knew was that you needed to hear it. "Sorry," he says again, this time quieter.
You quirk a brow. "Why? Were you watching me, I mean?"
He doesn't know how to respond.
"It's okay," you say after a moment of silence, having taken in his countenance and his tone and deduced that he isn't a threat. "I'm not upset. Just wanna... make sure you aren't a secret threat to me or something."
"I'm not," he swears. "I don't want to hurt you. I would never hurt someone without reason."
"Okay..." you drawl. "I believe you. So then, why?"
"I was... walking," he starts.
You nod. "Right."
"Then I saw you, so I stopped walking."
"...To watch me?"
"Not at first," Choso admits, incapable of lying. "I didn't want to... scare you. So I stayed in there."
You turn and look back at the dark alley, and something suddenly tugs at your chest. "I see."
"Do I scare you?"
You whip your head back around to look up at the being before you. You tilt your head, soaking in the image of him, detailing the submission behind his dominating, foreign physique. You smile again.
"No. I've seen much scarier. Trust me," you wink. Choso's heart spasms again, and his body jerks. You stifle a laugh at his odd nature. "I appreciate your concern, really. But it might've been less creepy if you'd just come up to me in the first place. I don’t bite."
There's that word again. Creepy. Choso scratches the side of his jaw, pensive. "Normally, people run away."
"What? They run away? From you?" you ask, and Choso nods solemnly. Your heart aches. "Sure, you're a little unique, but that's no reason to run from you. That's kinda harsh, no?"
Choso frowns. "Unique?"
You hum. "I've never seen anyone or anything like you before. But that's not a bad thing."
"It's not?"
"Of course not," you giggle. "You should own it. You're the only one of your kind out there, just like I'm the only one of myself out there," you sing happily, your mood having been healed.
You don't know how deeply your words impact Choso as he listens to you, watches you. "So... you don't think I'm gross? Or - or ugly?"
"God no. I actually think you're really sweet. You wanted to help me without even knowing me," you beam. "It's a shame people haven't stuck around long enough to see that."
Suddenly, flowers bloom in Choso's mind. Warm colors and fragrances drift into his imagination and surround you as he stares, and as you grin up at him like he's any other man.
You think he's unique. And sweet. No one has ever used such words to describe him.
You're pretty, and unjudging, and kind.
Little hearts bloom in Choso's dead eyes as he starts to imagine what life could be like with you in it, suddenly struck by Cupid’s arrow.
"I think you're sweet too," he suddenly blurts, having grown confident under your compliments. "And... um... beauty - beautiful. Beautiful."
Caught off guard by his compliment, your smile fades slightly. You notice the reddened state of his face and the cute way his dark brows curl. Flattered, heat burns at the back of your neck as you chuckle nervously, out of your depth. This was the very last thing you would have expected him to say.
“You think I’m beautiful?” you ask.
Choso gulps, rethinking his words. The last thing he wants to do is offend you. So he doesn’t say anything again, tongue tied and beet red.
“T-Thank you. I guess,” you murmur. “I don’t look… the best right now. But you’re sweet for thinking so,” you laugh again.
Befuddled by your statement, Choso speaks again. “I do think so,” he asserts.
“Okay. Thank you,” you nod shyly.
You are just so pretty, Choso doesn’t know what to do with himself.
An awkward silence breezes by as Choso stares at you, and you quickly determine that he’s got absolutely no social skills. You breathe in sharply. “So what’s your name?”
“…Choso.”
“Choso?” you echo, and the said man feels chills curl up his spine at the sound of his name rolling off your tongue. “That’s a nice name. It’s nice to meet you.”
You thrust your hand out to him again, and Choso studies it. He’s seen this before. Handshakes. People do them with one another as a formality when introducing themselves.
He can’t believe you want to shake hands with him.
Cautiously, Choso lifts his large hand out and slowly his fingers clasp around yours. His hand is cold, the sheer size of it dwarfing your own.
And your hand is so warm and soft, like a cushion of cotton or the surface of a cloud.
You giggle slightly, looking up at him. “Now we shake.”
Choso clenches his jaw in embarrassment and carefully shakes your hand, allowing you to guide the up-and-down motion.
You smile triumphantly. “Good… you can let go of my hand now.”
Choso does, ripping it away when he notices he’s been holding onto you for too long.
"So, Choso," you start kindly. "Where were you heading tonight?"
"Um. Nowhere," he says. "I was leaving my brother-"
"Brother? You have siblings?" you inquire, intrigued.
"Y-Yeah. A little brother."
"Wow, how old?"
"Fifteen."
"Awww, how sweet," you grin. "I have a little sister. She's not so little though. She's nineteen. Real pain in my ass."
Choso perks up. "Are you the eldest?"
"Unfortunately," you joke.
Choso's heart flips yet again. How could you get any better?
"So after you left your brother, where were you going?" The brunette shrugs. You hum, looking over his now tattered, dirtied robes.
The poor guy is all alone out here, hiding away from the public because people have grown frightened of his appearance without bothering to learn what lies beneath. And though he is a bit grim looking, he isn't all that bad. At all, actually.
He's got a kind face. And dare you say, eerily handsome features. He didn't ask to be born this way, and even after having burdened humanity's cruelty, it seems that he still seeks humanity's approval.
There's nothing ugly or monstrous about the pink face looking back at you now. You've had a particularly trying day yourself too, and the only inkling of kindness that the universe had to offer is the being towering over you in the empty street.
He's lonely. And you just so happen to be too.
You look all around you, then mentally question if you are truly about to do what pops into your head. "Your clothes are dirty," you observe.
Choso looks down at his robes. "Oh. Yeah."
"...I think I have some spare clothes from my dad somewhere in my closet. You look about..." you note his height and the width of his body with a curved smile. "...his size?" you guess. "He’s a big guy. Do you maybe... wanna come to my house and get cleaned up? I'll wash your robes for you. You can consider it a thank you for helping me get my phone."
The violet eyed half curse is silent as he processes your offer in a daze. You tilt your head and raise your brows with a smile, and that is enough for Choso to follow you blindly, happily to your home.
Your scent clings to the air of your small apartment, and Choso has to duck his head to enter through your front door. His once dull eyes shine as he takes in the coziness of your space, your snug furniture and the earthy tones that accentuate the environment. You're talking as you lead him through the living room and head into your room to sort through your closet, but Choso lingers behind as he takes in his surroundings.
Pictures of waterfalls and winding green trails litter your fridge, stuck to the surface with little magnets naming far off places and national parks. There's dishes piled in your sink, unwashed, and an apron hangs on the pantry door that reads: kiss the cook.
There are fairy lights strung up on all of your walls, encasing the space in a soft, dim glow. Plants decorate your kitchen table, your coffee table, the corners of the floor.
And when he follows your voice into your room, he is mute with admiration as he looks around. You stand on the other side of your bed at your closet door, rifling through articles of clothing. The lights in your room are even softer, with hues of orange and pink warping the ceiling from a little projector. There are little knicknacks sprawled over your nightstand and desk, and a big shelf piled full of books right next to it.
Choso steps into the space slowly, entranced, his eyes floating to a frame propped up by your bed. He bends over, reaching for it to examine. There you are, pictured in the middle of some rainforest, your arms spread wide above you and a heart stopping grin on your face.
So pretty.
"A-ha! These should work!" you exclaim, whipping around with a big grey shirt and black sweatpants stretched in your hands. Choso panics, hastily putting your picture frame back into place. In his rush, it fumbles from his grasp and drops onto the carpeted floor. He winces, fumbling once more to pick it up and put it back. You laugh. "Relax, Choso. It's okay. That picture's actually from when I went to Costa Rica last year. It was a really awesome trip."
"You like to travel," he observes, stepping away from your nightstand to stand stiffly with his arms at his sides, afraid of causing any more commotion.
"I love it. And nature. It helps - I don't know - ground me I think. I’m not the most social person out there, so I go away to center myself," You move forward to lay out the clothes on the bed next to him. "Here, why don't you go shower and freshen up. You can use whatever's in the bathroom."
Choso blinks, eyes following you. "Shower? Here?"
"I promise I don't mind."
Somehow, Choso ends up cramped in your shower, his robes discarded on the floor as his nose brushes the showerhead. He sorts through every single one of your soaps and shampoos curiously, gingerly, flipping the lid to smell each one. Some are more sugary, others fruity, and all of them carry some piece of you that Choso engrains into his mind. He uses every one.
He's in there so long that you have to knock and check to make sure he's okay. Only then does he put everything carefully back in place and finish up.
Choso emerges with steam clinging to his body and hair damp, loose over the frame of his face as unfamiliar, clean clothes cling to his skin. You do a double take when you look up at him from where you sit at your desk in front of your laptop, and he awaits your reaction, his robes piled in his arms with that sheepish look on his now brighter features.
"Oh wow, look at you," you turn in your chair to admire him with a grin. "How do you feel?"
"Wet."
You snort, looking up at his dripping hair free from its ponytails. "Here, gimme your robes. I'll throw them in the wash then help you with your hair."
Once again, Choso finds himself in foreign territory as you stand on a step stool in the bathroom mirror with a blow dryer clutched in your hand. Choso stares at you through the reflection of the glass as you gingerly dry his hair, hot gusts blowing his dark strands to and fro. Your gentle fingers separate strands after asking permission, and you're careful to avoid tangles as you work with crisp focus.
Choso's skin buzzes. His entire body is vibrating as he hunches in your little bathroom, letting you care for him as if you aren't a stranger he only met a couple of hours ago. He thinks he might be sick when his rapid heart rate and warm cheeks persist over a long period of time in your company.
When you finish blowdrying, you laugh slightly and lower the device to unplug it. Choso's hair is now fluffy and full of volume, sitting atop his head like a thick helmet of shoulder length locks. A mop of bangs hides his eyes, and you lean over to curve the strands out of the way gently so he can see. He flushes, eyes finding yours. “Hi,” you chuckle.
“H-Hi,” he murmurs back.
After a bit of combing and maintenance, you finally hop off of the step stool and stand beside his large frame. "There. All done."
The pale skinned man observes himself in the mirror and almost doesn't recognize what stares back. His hair feels soft, looks neat, as his bangs curve around his ears and his hair filters gracefully down his neck. The outline of his broad shoulders is visible against the fabric of your dad's old tee, his biceps bulging against the sleeves. He feels refreshed. Renewed. Warm and fuzzy.
"Better?" you ask.
Choso turns to look at you and is overcome with a rush of emotions he can't name. "Yes," he exhales, whipped.
As Choso's robes hang to dry, and you retreat to your bed having offered up your couch for Choso to sleep on, the half curse elects, instead, to stand over you in the darkness of your room as you sleep.
The clock reads three in the morning, and piercing through the night, Choso studies your unconscious form. You lay on your side with fists bawled up under your chin. Your eyes roll beneath your lids, lashes fluttering as your lips part with gentle breaths.
Choso feels his heart hammering heart again. He presses his palm to his chest.
Is this the feeling the movies speak off? The intensity? The heat?
When Choso returns to Yuji the next day, still wearing the clothes you gave him and carrying his robes in a spare tote bag that you let him borrow, the salmon haired teen's eyes bulge out of his skull and his jaw drops to the floor.
"Bro, what the heck happened to you?!" Yuji exclaims. "You look so - like - well, you look great!"
Now, with the approval of Yuji, Choso puffs his chest and closes his eyes with great emotion. "I met a woman."
Thus begins the unhealthy habits, the toxic patterns that Choso knows no better but to follow. He can not get you out of his head, the way your fingers threaded through his damp hair. The way your hand felt in his when he shook it. The way your house smells, the way your soap and scent clung to his body. The way your eyes lit up when he helped you retrieve your phone, and the way you never feared him.
His heart skips beats when he thinks of you, when your name rings through his head like a melody. He learns from Yuji that he is in fact not sick, but that he has exhibited signs of yearning, signs that he is romantically interested in you.
Choso begins to chase the feeling day in and day out. Whenever he has the opportunity, he's seeking you out in secret. Tracking you down, trailing behind you throughout your days, watching you through a window from across the street, lingering to ensure that you make it home safely at night.
You're a Jujutsu librarian. You keep a collection of important documents at Kyoto Jujutsu High, the rival of Yuji’s school. You lay low, linger in absences, keep to yourself. You're far more isolated than Choso would have believed you to be, given your bright personality, but you seem content to be so. You like to read, he finds. You like the simple things about life. You stop to take pictures of trees and pay extra for limited edition copies of books. You feed birds and sit in park benches, just existing. Being. Alone.
Weeks go by of Choso following you around, all the while meeting you in person once every week to stroll through town at night and talk. He can't help but to look after you, the same way he does Yuji. You've bled into his life, you've left a lasting impression, and Choso can not quit the way his body reacts to your voice alone. He can't quit the precious way your eyes catch the glimmer of the moon, or the way the corners of your lips curl with an impending smile.
He's grown obsessed with you. With your very life.
And one day, he decides he'll do something about it. With a rather questionable pep talk from Yuji buzzing in Choso's ears and a bouquet of hand picked flowers in his trembling hand, he goes to head to your apartment when he catches you inside a restaurant on the way there.
He stops, heart jerking when he sees you, confusion rising, as he expected you to be in your house by now. Normally you are. It’s pretty late.
Choso takes a step closer in the dusk, only to find that you aren't alone. His heart drops to his stomach as you sit there across from some guy, cozied up in a booth, surrounded by warm lighting. Your shoulders hunch and your eyes crinkle as you laugh, and Choso frowns. He thought he was the only one who made you laugh like that.
Nausea rises as the man across from you smiles, and you smile back. He's pretty and perfect, like the heroes in Yuji's movies. Perfect straight teeth and smooth skin, bagless eyes and hands that don't scare. Light cropped hair and bright eyes. Everything, everything, that Choso is not.
A lump builds in the back of Choso's throat as he glares at the two of you. He doesn't know how long he stands there, heartbroken, flowers falling to his side and eyes darkening.
Did you want someone 100% human after all?
You return home that night rather drained. You'd forced yourself to go on yet another date set up by Utahime, who swears up and down that you would be less lonely if you put yourself out there more. You sigh, tossing your keys to the ground and shuffling off your shoes at the door, shutting it tight behind you.
It's not as though the guy was bad. He was nice, you suppose. A little drab, but otherwise, not a monster. Even so, you couldn't bring yourself to be interested in him beyond that. The conversation was stifling, and the entire time, your mind kept trailing off to other places, other worlds, to... to Choso.
You groan, rubbing your temples as you go plop down on your couch in the dark with a weighted sigh. You know you're a little strange, as most people in the Jujutsu world are, but you can't help the things that stimulate you. You can't help but to be interested in the things overlooked, the things no one cares to see, the things others write off as unnoteable.
But Choso is anything but to you.
With his strange way of speaking and moving, his strange eyes, and strange, strange behavior, he's unveiled passion. The kind that comes easily to him, the kind that certain people are merely born with. He will talk for hours about his brother, then listen to you talk for hours about your interests and occupation. And he'll watch you when you speak... like a hawk, like he's afraid of missing any second.
And you like it. You like the way he makes you view the world unintentionally. You like his mystique. You like his unique quality. You like him.
But it's irrational. Choso hardly exists during the daytime. You only see him once a week, and he's... well, he's different. Though you enjoy his differences, you realize that liking him could pose some complications with your job. Unless you kept him a secret. But Choso doesn't deserve such treatment. He deserves someone who fully embraces him.
And you do. You want to. You're just... scared.
Your head leans to the side, your eyes darting across the space when you catch a shadow just behind you in the connected kitchen. You scream out, jumping up from your couch to throw yourself against the wall.
With a trembling hand, you reach out for the lights, and flick them on to reveal Choso standing there before you behind your kitchen counter.
You pant erratically, your heart hammering into your chest. "Choso?!" you shout. "What the fuck?! What are you doing here?"
In typical fashion, he doesn't answer. But he is void of the warmth and kindness you ordinarily associate with him. You furrow your brows in concern as you press yourself further against the wall, taking in his intrusive stature.
That sheepish gaze is nowhere to be found. The light that once trickled into his violet hues is gone. Instead, the Choso that stands before you is silent with resentment, betrayal. His lips are curved down, his eyes sharp on you as he stares. His gaze feels stern, hard, unforgiving, and his brows are angled down. The shadows encompass him, helping him to blend into darkness much like how he did when you first met him. But this is different.
He looks angry. With you.
You swallow thickly, unfamiliar with this side of the sweet man you've come to know.
"Cho..." you start slowly in a shuddering whisper. "Why are you in my house?" He doesn't reply. Your nose flares. "W-What's wrong?"
Nothing.
"How long have you been here?"
Still nothing.
You heave out, attempting to calm yourself with a hand to your abdomen. "Jesus Christ. You scared me."
This, this, elicits a response.
"I scared you. Huh."
His deep voice rumbles out into the dimness. You gnaw on the inside of your lip, startled by the bass in his tone, by the severity with which he speaks to you now.
"Y-Yes, Choso. You're standing in my kitchen in the dark. How did you even get in here?"
"The same way I always do."
"The same way y- what?"
He doesn't even bother to correct himself. He makes it known that he'd been here, that this is his territory, not anybody else's. It's supposed to be just you and him.
Your blood runs cold. He's snuck into your house before? More than once?
"Why are you so far away?" he asks suddenly.
You stare like a deer in headlights, unaware of how tightly you press yourself away out of instinct. Your nervous system is still reeling from the scare, and you're desperately trying to process everything that Choso just said - trying to process why he's in your house like this, why he's looking at you that way.
You watch as he starts to move, slow steps padding against your floor toward you. You stare with wide eyes as he approaches, stepping into the dim light, moving across your carpet to stand before you.
You inhale and exhale slowly, eyes glued to his as he stops just a couple of feet away from you. He studies you so closely, you feel he can read every thought in your mind with those eyes of his. You see something wrecked in his gaze, something broken that urges his eerie, solemn state. Your frown deepens, your confusion intensifying.
He takes one more step forward. "Are you scared of me now?"
A crease dents the space between your brows. "I'm more confused than anything right now, Cho," you tell him in a hushed voice. "How often do you sneak into my house?"
"A couple times a week," he says casually.
You twitch. "Why? Why wouldn't you just - just ask to come over?"
"Do you not like me anymore?"
"Wha...?" your face scrunches. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm really confused. I don't-"
"Do you prefer someone more normal than me?"
You squint. "What do you mean?" you ponder his words, thinking back to your date. Then it dawns on you, rather fast. "Were you... have you been watching me?"
"I always do," he confesses earnestly, eyes pointed. You clamp your mouth shut, eyes widening as Choso takes another step closer. "I always want to know what you're doing and make sure you're okay. And tonight, I saw you with him. With a normal guy. I didn’t like it."
He doesn't have a filter. Not a single one. Choso acts and speaks on impulse, and his impulses after having met you have drawn him closer and closer, have placed him into the center of your life, and he wants you to have him. He wants you to want him there, but he needs to know if this is all for nothing. If he even has a chance with someone like you.
"Choso..." you start, slightly alarmed and overwhelmed.
"Who is he?" he asks coldly, something torn in the back of his voice. His brows twitch, his chest tightening. "Were you on a date?"
"You can't just-"
"Is he what you prefer? Over me?"
Your face falls.
You don't know what to say.
If you were to answer him truthfully, you would have said no. Of course he's not. You don't even know the guy, and he's hardly even half of what Choso is, half of what he makes you feel.
But you are reeling with shock at these sudden revelations, at the intensity of Choso's feelings that you can not deny you knew he had. It was always so telling in the way he clung to you when the two of you went out. The color that always swirls in his cheeks when he's with you. The way he just can't stop staring.
But you didn’t know it would get this bad.
You should have known. Choso isn't like ordinary people. He's a half curse with hardly any experience with other human beings aside from his brother, and he's even mentioned how he would follow Yuji around during the day to ensure his safety.
Choso is a passionate person. He feels more than the ordinary being. He acts on his emotions, which likely feel foreign to him, far differently than anyone else would, and you should have known. You should have known that bringing him into your house upon first meeting would have bridged a connection that deluded him into thinking he's entitled to your space at all times.
You should have known that a little crush wouldn't be just a little crush to him.
And Choso is desperate. Desperate for you. For your answers. For a sliver of the attention you gave that guy at your date. Desperate for your love, love which he's never gotten to experience before you.
Looking into his eyes now, your instinct is to comfort him through your discomfort. Choso's always been so honest, so unapologetically himself, and he's looking to you for something, anything. And you want to give it to him, but you can't overlook what he's telling you now. What you're seeing.
The eeriness of it all.
"Choso," you say his name firmly, and something in him shifts slightly. "You can't stalk me like that. That's not okay. You can't follow me around when I'm unaware. That's an invasion of my privacy. I'd never do that to you. You understand?"
The brunette falters, his brows twitching again and his lips curling down. "You don't like me anymore?" he asks again, this time lower, more fragile.
Your heart aches against your best judgment. "I do like you, Choso," you say, hesitantly bringing your hands up to cup his face to calm him. You feel the half curse jerk under your touch, and like the fool he is for you, he melts into your palms, shoulders slumping as he hunches over, lavender eyes softening into something oh so pathetic. "I do. Okay? I like you a lot."
He's sap, his sternness crumbling. "You do?"
"I do," you assure him.
“I like you a lot too. I like you very much. As more than a friend.”
“I know, Cho. I know,” you say tenderly. “And I’m happy to hear that, but I don't like you sneaking around me. That's weird, okay? You can't just come into my house whenever you want or follow me like that. I don't like that. At all."
Choso grimaces. "But I just want to protect you."
"I can protect myself."
"I want to help."
"You can help by respecting my space."
"But you won't want to see me otherwise."
"That's not true," you sigh. "You just have to ask."
"What about your date?"
"I don't prefer him over you, Choso. It was one date. And it wasn't that good," you tell him.
“Why did you go out with him in the first place?”
“I don’t know - it doesn’t matter. I was thinking of you the whole time.”
Choso's lips twitch into a crooked half smile, cheeks dusting with color. "Oh."
"Yeah. Oh," you roll your eyes, dropping your hands from his face much to Choso's chagrin. "You're fucking weird, Cho," you exhale with a slight laugh, shaking your head.
"I know," he mumbles. "I'm sorry."
"I'm not your fifteen year old brother, okay? There's this thing called phone calls. You can talk to me and ask to see me whenever you want. Just ask. No more sneaking around or breaking in. Or I'll be really upset."
Choso slumps. "Okay," he mumbles. He peers at you through thick lashes. "Are you going to see him again?"
"That's kinda the least of my concerns right now."
He takes in your edged tone and deflates. "You're mad at me."
You pout, quirking a brow and crossing your arms. "A little bit. You freaked the hell out of me just now,” you say. “But that doesn't mean I don't... still like you. Or think you’re scary. I'm just adjusting. Processing."
Choso suddenly takes the energy of a kicked puppy. "I'm sorry."
"So you said."
You gasp as Choso drops down to his knees before you, reaching forward to cling to your thighs. He wraps his burly arms snug around your legs, pressing his face to your stomach. You raise your arms in shock, face flooding with heat. "Choso, what are you doing?"
"Don't see him again," he muffles into your clothes. You feel his voice vibrate against your skin, and you shiver. "Don’t see any other man. Please. Pick me. I want it to be me instead."
You go to say something, but he holds you tighter, pressing himself to you pathetically, burying himself in your scent and warmth. You can be mad at him, if that's what you need. You can put boundaries in place, much to his chagrin, and he'd eventually deal. But he sincerely hopes, prays, that you won't abandon him for this. That you won't take back all the wonderful things you said about him, that you won't leave him for clinging too intensely, for offending you, for invading your space.
He just wants to be near you. That's all. He can't function when he's not near you.
And as strange as Choso is, you know that you are no better the moment you feel your heart flutter and skin tingle under his touch, when his desperate plea flushes against you. He's pitiful. Addictively, attractively, pitiful.
You exhale, lowering your hands to rest atop his thick hair. He whimpers, pushing in close, a great contrast to how he appeared to you only moments ago. You doubt he was even trying to scare you then. You assume that intensity is merely a part of him, a subconscious reaction when you are involved.
Choso's lashes flutter as you stroke over his hair, his face nuzzling closer. You look down at him with tired eyes.
"I do pick you, Cho," you say, despite his stalking. Despite his unwarranted presence in your home. "I pick you every time."
john logan x f! reader | part i, part ii, part iii
premise: you miss a couple of classes and meets, and your absence becomes increasingly apparent. garrett invites you to the boys' halloween party, and you have an unexpected encounter with logan.
category: enemies (exes) to lovers, more fluff in this one than usual, still ends with angst
word count: 5k
content/trigger warnings: cursing, random man being creepy and intrusive at the party towards reader, mention of hospice. lmk if there are any other warnings that i missed.
context/author notes: we're about halfway through the series (it will have 7-8 parts). you get the tiniest hint of foreshadowing about their breakup, and you get a little bit more info at the very end about why she's back. thank you guys so, so much for reading. i appreciate every single like and reblog and comment. y'all are all so amazing, and i hope you enjoy this part. and if you want to be added to the taglist, you can comment on this post or message me! also, if i previously tagged you in an earlier chapter and now you do not want to be tagged anymore, please lmk. if you don't, i will assume that you still want to be tagged. ALSO if i forgot to tag you, PLEASE lmk! i might have either mispelled your account or forgot to copy and paste it from my notes. i've had a lot of asks to be on the taglist, so i broke it down in the comments below. i don't know WHY tumblr can't allow me tag more than 5 accounts per comment, so if someone knows how to bypass that, please lmk. not proofread as of 07/03/26 (i will proofread all of my shit this weekend i promise).
important note: someone on tuesday, 06/30 sent me an ask requesting to be added to the taglist and i didn't write down their account name before replying. their account name started with a K. i apologize and please let me know if i forgot to add you!
This particular dive feels rougher than usual. When your body first makes contact with the water, waves of shock jolt and jump through your veins. But you welcome the pain, allowing the harsh resistance of the water to engulf you while your limbs sink to the bottom of the pool floor. In a way, the pain actually grounds your mind, giving yourself a much needed reprieve from your daily mental torment.
Because when you’re under the water, time stops. It practically freezes, and your mind goes numbingly silent. And as you plummet towards the floor, you leave behind everything and everyone. You forget about the history essay that you haven’t even started. You forget about the nightly drives to the hospice center. You forget about John and the sheer furor raging a storm in his brown eyes that you love—no, that you used to love.
John.
His indignant face bursts in like an intruder in your mind. Suddenly, your survival instincts remember that you’ve been underwater for a while, and that you can’t breathe.
I lied, John. I never stopped loving you. I’m still in…
You don’t allow yourself to finish that thought as you break through the surface, gasping for air. The choked breaths scratching your throat are the only sounds you hear, and you remember that you’re the only one in the Aquatic Center.
And that it’s past 11:00 PM. Probably.
After regaining your breath, you swim towards the ladder on the edge of the pool, tightly gripping your callused hands on the metal bars to pull your body back onto the surface. And as you’re drying yourself off with your shammy, the faint click of a door opening and closing sends panic throughout your body.
You can’t think of anyone else who would be here at this hour. On a Thursday.
However, you recognize the face approaching you, and his unexpected presence relieves some of the alarm bells ringing through your head.
“Uh, hey,” You say nervously, still wringing out the water and chlorine in your hair as the hockey player approaches you. “What are you doing here?”
“Kendall told me where you’d be,” Garrett shrugs, slipping his hands into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels.
You raise your eyebrows at him in confusion, and his lips contort into an “O” shape once he registers the puzzlement on your face.
“Oh, Kendall and I know each other. We used to…like, see each other, I guess?” He winces, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. “She’s also a big hockey fan. She comes to a lot of our games and supports us, even when I acted kind of like an asshole towards her.”
“Wow, hockey players being assholes. I would’ve never thought,” The words tumble from your mouth before you could stop them, but Garrett smirks at your deadpan voice. “Seems to be a trend these days.”
“Oh, for sure. You should research the correlation between hockey players and assholeness.”
“I’ll pitch the idea to my stats professor,” You joke, and the both of you chuckle, and your chest lightens a tiny bit before an awkward silence comes along. After all, Garrett still didn’t answer your question.
Luckily, he reads your mind.
“Um, I wanted to check in on you. We didn’t get to talk after we finished our work,” He explains, alluding to the fact that you left the groupchat as soon as you submitted the project.
Your throat closes up when hearing his words, and you can only bring yourself to nod as you look down at the floor. You knew you had to take yourself off the groupchat. You were clearly imposing on John’s life. You were imposing on everyone’s lives.
“I still have your contact saved, but you haven’t responded to my messages. Or to Beau’s. But in any case, I wanted to talk to you in person,” He continues, but your eyes still fix themselves on a misplaced tile near the side of the pool. “I wanted to thank you, for everything.”
That sentence makes your head lift up. No, you must have surely misheard what he said. Why would he thank you?
“Uh, for what?”
“You were super helpful in the project. Seriously. Beau and I never understood a single word from Professor Rezkin’s mouth, and we never made the time to go talk to the TA about all the shit we didn’t understand. But you explained everything so clearly. And you were always so patient whenever we screwed something up. I know how to write a semi-decent literature review because of you,” Garrett adds with a laugh. “You definitely carried us. And I didn’t want to say all of that over text. I wanted to tell you face-to-face. So, thank you, Y/N.”
As usual, you feel the familiar pressure of tears sitting behind your eyes, the same tears that emerge whenever you receive a genuine compliment. You hurriedly blink them away before giving him a small smile.
“I appreciate it, Garrett. But you and Beau also put in a lot of effort,” You bite your lip, preparing yourself for what you’re about to say next. “And I really appreciate you guys meeting with me virtually after, um…”
“After Logan slithered his way from Hell and swapped identities with fucking Lucifer? Yeah, I don’t blame you for not wanting to meet us in person. God, he was such a maniac.”
Your eyes widen with every sentence, completely shocked with the level of Garrett’s exasperation. You never thought he would talk about his best friend that way, especially to you of all people. Shouldn’t Garrett view you as an enemy in his eyes?
“Yeah. I mean, he has every right to be mad at me. I just…wasn’t expecting that.”
“Trust me, none of us were. And that’s another reason why I wanted to speak with you in person, Y/N. I was rude when I first met you, and you didn’t deserve that. I’m really sorry.”
Well, you’re even more shocked by that apology.
You realize just now that you never received a formal apology from Garrett about his own behavior. You remember how small and insignificant you felt under his gaze in the private study room. And you certainly remember the startling question he asked.
“Why are you back here?”
However, you never expected an apology from Garrett. Your ex’s comments hurt way more than any of Garrett’s words.
“I thought you were ‘staying away from me,’ huh?”
The fact that Garrett Graham, an acquaintance whom you only met a few weeks ago, is apologizing to you before your ex-boyfriend is fucking comical.
“Thanks, Garrett,” You say quietly, fiddling with the loose threads of your shammy. “I mean, I understand why you’re wary of me, though. You’re his best friend, and my breakup with John was horrible.”
“Sure, but I don’t think you’re intentionally bothering or pestering him. You’re keeping your distance, which is all you can do,” Garrett counters, still somehow coming to your defense. “It was just a coincidence that we ended up in the same group project together. And also, I’m not wary of you.”
You scoff, playfully raising your eyebrows at him. “I’m not sure I believe that.”
“Well, I’m not wary of you anymore,” He clarifies, raising his palms in surrender. “And I shouldn’t have been in the first place. That was unfair to you.”
Giving him a tight-lipped smile, you nod, not knowing what else to say.
You haven’t exactly processed what Logan said to you. You don’t even have the time to process your ex’s words in the first place.
What happened that night at his house was not even the worst thing that happened to you this semester. And everything is only going to get worse.
“Um, I’m gonna head out. I’ve been here for hours. Thanks for stopping by,” You rush your words, starting to turn away from him to walk towards the lockers.
Maybe that’s an abrupt way to end the conversation, but for your sake, you don’t think you can talk to Garrett anymore without thinking about Logan.
“Oh, wait a second! I also wanted to see if you are down to come to our Halloween party at the house this Saturday,” Garrett calls out, and your body freezes as you halt your steps. “I’m pretty sure Kendall told you about it, right?”
Yup, Kendall did inform you about the Halloween party. A few days ago, she sent a photo of the flyer in the groupchat you have with your teammates, and everyone instantly texted her back, saying that they were “sooo excitedddd” to attend the party. When you didn’t respond, Kendall texted you personally, checking to see if you were planning on going, and that the girls would love for you to pregame with them.
Though these past few weeks have been absolutely horrendous, you somehow managed to form a solid friendship with Kendall. You still hang out with the rest of your teammates, but you see Kendall more often than the others. You appreciate all of the study sessions, coffee dates, and late night drives that you spend with her.
And if it were any other party, you would go. In fact, you’ve been waiting to go to a party. You haven’t gone out at all this semester, and you deserve to have a fun night.
But you can’t go back to that house.
“Yeah, she did,” You reply to him, preparing to give the same answer that you gave to Kendall. “I’ve been busy, though, and I want to unwind a bit this weekend. So I’m sorry, I can’t go.”
“You sure? There’s no pressure, obviously, but we would love to have you. I know Beau definitely wants to catch up with you. We haven’t seen you in class for a bit. We’ve also been coming to your home meets so that we could see you, but you were absent in the past three ones, right?”
Right again, Mr. Graham.
Also in the past month, you have spent several nights over at the hospice center, and you have forgotten to let people know about your absence. After missing practice for the third time, Coach Alvarez pulled you into her office, bluntly warning you that if you have another unexcused absence again this semester, she will consider suspending you from the team.
Her tone scared the absolute shit out of you, and finally, you knew you had to tell someone about your home life, and about why you came back to Briar.
“You won’t tell anyone, right?” You pleaded with her as your nails dug into your skin. “Please, Coach, I can’t have anyone know.”
“Of course not, Y/N,” She relieved you in a tone so gentle that you thought you were dreaming. She took her hand out for you to hold, which you graciously took.
“I’m sorry that you’re going through this. And you shouldn’t go through it alone. I won’t tell anyone else about it, I promise. But I do encourage you to talk with the Dean of Student Affairs. If you explain your situation to them, they can grant you some Emergency Absences. Your professors will have to abide by those rules, and they wouldn’t know the specifics of your situation.”
You nodded, and when she squeezed your hand tighter, you broke down in tears.
Other people have certainly noticed your absence. Briar’s weekly student newsletter has even reported on it. An editor had asked students attending the meets about the diver they most looked forward to seeing, and the responses overwhelmingly titled in your favor.
And apparently, Garrett has also observed your decline in attendance.
“I would love to catch up with Beau, too. I just…” You stop, wondering how to phrase the next part. “With all due respect, I don’t feel comfortable coming to your house.”
Garrett’s expression is completely unfazed, as if he was expecting that response.
“That’s totally fair, and I don’t want to push you. I just wanted to let you know that we’d love to see you,” He reassures you, but the ease on his face quickly drops when he mutters the next few sentences. “And for your information, we all confronted Logan for how he treated you right after you left our place. We don’t condone his behavior at all. He also told everyone that you were his ex-girlfriend, but he didn’t elaborate.”
The floor feels unsteady beneath your feet. “So, you guys all know about our relationship?”
But the question you’re implicitly asking is different. So, you guys still want to see me?
“We do. We don’t know what happened, but that’s between you guys. I understand that you don’t want to see Logan, but if you choose to come to the party, we’ll have your back. And if he acts out, we’ll lock him in up his room. Put him in his kennel.”
You laugh when hearing his assurance, and your heart swells at the sincerity in his tone. “Like a dog?”
Garrett smirks, confidently nodding his head. “Precisely.”
You think that your eardrums rupture as soon as you enter their house.
Somehow, after enduring some of the most incessant pleading from your teammates, you decided to go to the boys’ Halloween party. Even though Kendall’s puppy dog eyes were particularly persuasive, it was the conversation that you had with Garrett two days ago that ultimately led you to put on some white bike shorts and a tank top to form a makeshift Padmé Amidala costume. Nour was kind enough to lend you some holsters and toy guns to complete your outfit. And honestly, with all of the shit you’ve suffered through these past few weeks, you’re excited to have a fun night out with your teammates. You desperately needed a break.
Luckily, the house is packed to the brim, so you don’t see your ex-boyfriend immediately. And, if the universe finally decides to grant some of your wishes, you hope that you never see him at all tonight. A girl could only dream.
“Shot time!” Kendall hollers, and suddenly she’s dragging you to the kitchen, leading you through hordes of Briar students. When you stop by the kitchen counter, you hear a friendly voice call out your name.
“Y/N!” Tucker blurts out, wearing what you can only guess to be an Indiana Jones costume. “I’m glad you made it! Garrett told us that you weren’t sure about coming.”
“Yeah, I just…had some reservations, I guess,” You shrug, vaguely alluding to what happened last time you were in this house.
Tucker gives you a reassuring nod, whereas Kendall’s looking at you with puzzled eyes. Her focus then quickly deviates to the vodka in front of her, and she begins to pour some shots.
“Understandable,” Tucker says, and you’re thankful that he doesn’t air out your business for the other partygoers to hear. “It’s been a stressful semester. But we always host a Halloween party, no matter how busy we get.”
“Amen,” Kendall chimes in, giving both you and Tucker some shots. “And you guys deserve to throw a party after finally getting a win. Those losses were painful to watch. I don’t know what was up with fuckin’ Logan, but I’m glad he got his head back in the game.”
Your body involuntarily freezes at her words, and Tucker notices. As you stare into your shot glass, you have no idea what to respond, but Tucker fills in the silence.
“Yeah. It’s been a rough few weeks for him, I guess,” He responds with a grimace. “But hey, we’re back now. And I’m gonna drink to that.”
“Hell yeah!” Kendall yells, and you chuckle as she pushes her tiara back, still maintaining her Princess of Genovia costume. “It’s shot o’clock, baby!”
“Whoa! Who’s taking shots without me?” A familiar voice shouts through the kitchen, and your heart warms when seeing his matching Zoolander costume with Dean. “Y/N! You’re here!”
“In the flesh,” You can’t help but smile when Beau stumbles on his feet and clumsily goes to hug you. Already, you can tell that he’s definitely a few drinks in.
“Dude, I never got to thank you for all of your help with that fuckin’ project. You rescued us from what would’ve been a shitshow.”
“They were always complaining about that class,” Dean jokes, his long wig about to fall off at any moment. You can’t take him seriously in his Hansel costume. “I’m just glad I don’t have to hear any more complaints now.”
You laugh with the rest of the group. “Where’s Garrett?”
“Sucking Hannah’s face, per usual,” Dean rolls his eyes, before going to mock Garrett. “‘Oh, she’s just my Philosophy tutor, guys.’ Shitty ass liar. Makes me sick.”
Kendall had told you that Garrett was seeing a girl named Hannah. After everything you heard from your teammate about Garrett’s love life, you’re surprised that he seems serious about his ‘Philosophy tutor’. But even though he was an asshole to you in the beginning, you now know deep down that he was a genuinely nice person.
“Jesus, can we take a shot now?” Kendall sighs impatiently, and the whole group raises their glasses, and you gladly take your shot with them, chuckling when the vodka spills all over Beau’s costume.
The rest of the night goes quite smoothly. After you catch up with Beau in the kitchen, you mingle with Kendall the majority of the time, before Garrett sees you from the air hockey table and gestures for you to come over, a short brunette by his side.
“This is Hannah,” He motions between the two of you, and she smiles at you while shaking your hand. “And this is Y/N, aka the Sociology G.O.A.T.”
“It’s so nice to meet you! I’ve always wanted to go up to you after your meets,” She says enthusiastically, and you can’t help but blush at her comment.
“You’ve been to my meets before?”
“Of course! All of Briar was talking about you when you transferred here in August. I’ve also wanted to finally meet the person that helped him go from a C- to a B in Rezkin’s class,” She jokes, and the smile that Garrett gives her is so full of love.
The three of you talk before going over to the dining table to play some beer pong with some other students and hockey players. You’re on a team with Garrett and Hannah, and at some point in the game, you forget that your ex even lives here.
When you throw the winning shot, you then hear a fanfare of whistling and clapping.
“Awesome shot,” A tall man to your left smirks at you, and you awkwardly smile back, trying to figure out if you knew this guy at all.
“Thanks. It’s been a while since I played.”
“Really? You looked like a natural. I need you on my team next time,” He winks, and you try your best not to cringe at his tone. When you turn to look on your right, you realize that Garrett and Hannah have disappeared into the crowd. Fuck.
“Uh, sure,” You hesitantly shrug, at a loss for words. “I’m sorry, have I met you before?”
“No, we haven’t met. I’m Tom,” He introduces himself, and you don’t miss how his eyes scan your body. “I’ve been to every single one of your home meets. You’re a fantastic diver. When I heard that Briar’s diving team was coming tonight, I knew I had to pull up.”
You try to ignore the sirens wailing in your hand, so you grip your palms on the table, trying to subtly dart your eyes around the room to find someone who could get you out of this situation.
Tom keeps on talking.
“I remember reading about you in high school. You grew up in Munsen right? You were some sort of child prodigy. You won first place eighteen times in a row back in 2021. That meet against Arlington was legendary.”
Shit, you don’t even know that statistic yourself. You can’t help but wonder how much this guy has researched about you, and your stomach immediately twists into knots.
“Oh, yeah, I don’t even remember that meet,” You respond with the fakest smile known to man, before you try to turn away to go to the living room. “Um, it was nice to meet you—”
A rough hand wraps around your wrist.
“Whoa, what’s the rush, Y/N? We’re not done talking. We haven’t even talked about why you’re back here,” Tom’s eyes darken and fixate onto your face, and when you register his last sentence, you stumble over your words.
“I-I’m sorry, what? What did you just ask me? That’s none of your business.”
“Oh, come on, Y/N. Now’s not the time to be fucking coy,” He laughs as if he’s told the funniest joke in the world, and your knuckles whiten against the table. “Why would someone transfer to Briar after winning almost every meet at Berkeley for two years straight? After being trained by former Olympic athletes? That’s absurd. You’re hiding something.”
His words hit you like a slap to the face, and you’re left completely dumbfounded. Your mouth dries up as you try to snap back at him, but your mind goes blank, surrendering to Tom’s line of questioning.
Wow, Y/N. You can’t even defend yourself? What’s wrong with you?
“Just admit it. You’re not telling us something. What is it?”
Right before the tears could fall down your cheeks, a voice you unfortunately know all too well joins the conversation.
“Tom! What’s up? It’s been ages, man.”
A firm hand clasps onto Tom’s shoulder, practically jolting the man away from your body. You’re certain that your eyes are deceiving you. They must be.
Because not only is this person helping you out of an alarming situation, but he is also conveniently dressed as Anakin Skywalker. Of course he is.
“Hey, Logan. Yeah, it’s been a while,” Tom replies back in an incredibly dull voice, his tone lacking all the enthusiasm that it had thirty seconds ago. “I didn’t think I’d see you.”
“Well, you’re in my house, aren’t you?” John grins at the man as if it’s physically hurting him, his jaw visibly clenching. Your eyes widen when you notice the death grip that he has on Tom’s shoulder.
Finally, he turns his head and lays his eyes on you. Your legs feel impossibly heavy, as if they’re about to fall to the ground in any second.
“Y/N, you wouldn’t mind if I borrow this guy for a convo real quick, right?” John asks, voice eerily controlled.
“Actually, Y/N and I were in the middle of—”
“Not at all,” Your breath shakes as you interrupt Tom, trying your best to keep your own voice as level as your ex’s. “Please, go ahead. Take your time. Catch up.”
After dating Logan for four years, you knew all of his facial expressions. Even though the two of you haven’t seen each other in two years, you still know his tells. And unfortunately, you recognize the angry look at on his face. It’s the same one you saw a few weeks ago when rushing out of his house.
But, fortunately for Tom, John has the decency to be somewhat restrained, holding himself from unleashing his full wrath.
“Ah, you’re the best,” Your ex still has the most dangerous of smiles on his face, and he begins to drag Tom away by the shoulder, walking towards the living room. “Come on, man, I’ll get you a beer.”
You waste no time in running away.
The night air feels refreshing on your skin. Pop music continues to play in the background. You vaguely recognize the lyrics to “Teenage Dream” playing in the background, hearing all the partygoers sing along in unison.
You have no idea how long you’ve been sitting out here. You’re not sure if you even want to go back inside. As much as you want to dance with Kendall and down more shots with Beau, there’s no way you can continue to keep up a façade. You also snagged a vodka bottle from the kitchen before heading outside, and now, the bottle is almost entirely empty.
You shouldn’t have come to this party. If only Kendall’s puppy dog eyes weren’t so powerful.
Sighing, you fish another cigarette out of your pack. As you look down at the pack, you see that it’s almost done. It was full when you first came to the party.
Ever since you started to compete professionally, you’ve been met with intrusive questions, especially from men. You thought you grew used to them. But there was something so cruel about Tom’s presence that he quickly suffocated you, leaving you with no room to breathe.
And after that interaction, you’re not sure if you’re more shocked at Tom’s questions, or the fact that John, out of all the people in that house, came to bail you out. You wonder how much he overheard before stepping in.
You take a drag out of you cigarette, hazily staring at the moon above. You don’t hear the sound of a door closing behind you.
“When did you start smoking?”
Somehow, you don’t jump at the sudden presence of a voice. And surprisingly, you don’t jump when hearing his voice in particular.
The chuckle that falls from your lips is devoid of any humor. He pauses in his footsteps, giving you enough space.
“You want the fake answer or the real answer?”
Clearly, the alcohol has lowered your inhibitions. And as he stutters, you can tell that he didn’t expect that reply.
“Uh, I don’t know. Whichever one you’re most comfortable with, I guess.”
You clumsily stand up, cigarette still clad in your left hand as you wipe off some grass on your shorts with your right hand. You stare down at the ground, involuntarily letting out some giggles, as if this situation was fucking hilarious.
“Fake answer? Uh, I just started tonight,” You leisurely walk over to him, still refusing to look him in the eyes. “But the real answer? Ever since we broke up, actually.”
Logan carefully scans your face, brown eyes looking at you with an emotion you can’t quite pinpoint.
His silence unnerves you. Looking at his Anakin costume only makes it worse.
“Why are you talking to me, Logan?” You whisper, and the name feels so unfamiliar in your mouth. You’ve always said John, never Logan. You look up to see the color drain from his face immediately.
When you think that you detect a hint of concern in his eyes, that’s when you know that the alcohol has taken over.
He opens and closes his mouth a few times, and you’re beginning to think that you will die of impatience if he won’t answer you soon. But before you could turn away, his voice holds you in place.
“Tom’s a dick. He shouldn’t have pestered you like that,” Logan mutters, looking down at his fists that he keeps clenching and unclenching. His breath hitches as he fixes his gaze back onto you. “I kicked him out afterwards.”
You scoff, shaking your head in disbelief, because why would he do that? Why would your ex-boyfriend, the guy who openly berated in front of his friends just weeks ago in house, help you out?
“Okay,” You mumble, not knowing what else to say to him as you throw your cigarette to the ground. “Cool, I guess. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Listen, Y/N, I’m really—”
Your focus breaks when someone opens the front door and urgently calls your name.
“Y/N! Nour’s been throwing up and wants to leave. We’re gonna Uber back to my place,” Kendall tells you from the porch. Her suddenly eyes lock onto Logan’s body, confused as to why he’s standing so close to you. “Is everything good here? What’s going on?”
“All good,” You blurt out, using every muscle in your body to move your wobbly legs towards Kendall. Judging by the shocked look on Kendall’s face, you figure that Logan is watching your every move. But he remains silent as you go to the front door, and you see your other teammates hold Nour’s body steady.
“Uber’s a minute away,” Kendall mutters, and you help to safely get Nour’s body down the steps of the porch.
Garrett suddenly walks out as well, Hannah right by his side. He calls out to your group, telling all of you to get home safe. And as you get into the Uber, you briefly overhear remnants of his conversation with Logan. You’re pretty sure Garrett asks him something along the lines of “What did you say now?” but the car drives off before you could make out a response.
The rest of the night consists of watching over Nour, making sure she drinks enough water and that she sleeps on her side. Kendall graciously let all of you stay the night at hers. Though, she keeps on glancing over at you to check if you’re okay. She hasn’t asked about why you were talking with Logan out there, but you could tell she was curious. Luckily, as the solid friend she is, she doesn’t pry.
After she wishes you a good night, you try to fall asleep on her incredibly comfortable couch, but you can’t help but wonder what Logan was going to tell you.
“Listen, Y/N, I’m really—”
Your mind explores all the possible options. Was he really angry? Really upset? Really sad? Those are the only combinations that make sense to your inebriated brain at the moment.
Whenever you close your eyes, you see him in his stupid Anakin robe, pulling Tom away from you.
You stay up the entire night.
And you realize that you haven’t slept at all until your phone buzzes with a text that completely wrecks you.
(6:14 AM) Jennifer/Dad’s Night Nurse: Y/N, I’m sorry for texting you so early in the morning. But you should come over as soon as possible. He got worse overnight.
i adore garrett and his relationship with characters in this story!! he’s so likable it’s insane.
logan is definitely coming around more. he obviously feels regret for how he handled things with her and his immediate reaction of jumping to conclusions.
hannah being introduced!!!
my girl i love her so much.
she’s such a sweetheart and i love how it’s not just logan who has his suspicions on why she’s back but other background characters like tom.
it’s clear she has a lot riding on her being known as somewhat of a prodigy. hannah mentioning wanting to meet her makes me feel like her family issues being a public spectacle not only would jeopardize her career in a sense that her priorities would seem elsewhere and with people trying to publicize a story about a star athlete it might harm her reputation.
(tom stressed me out ngl … because what do you mean you’ve been to all her meets ???? stalker much)
tucker, dean, and beau love them.
everyone is so found family here.
ALSO, kendall!!
one of my favorite aspects of the off campus adaptation is how they didn’t villainize the “puck bunnies” or side characters like kendall who had past relationships with the boys. she honestly became one of my favs while watching the show as someone who kinda disregarded her in the book.
so i love love love how she’s a nice girl here and how genuine their friendship is! trying to reach out and include her when she’s obviously going through a hard time.
୨ৎ summary .ᐟ.ᐟ dr. brendon park had earned the notorious title ‘park the shark’ for reasons besides his chiseled facial structure and razor sharp eye contact. his bites aimed to make his victims bleed without warning or apology. everyone awaited his retribution to come. the last person he expected to humble him was his do-good third-year resident.
୨ৎ tags/warnings .ᐟ.ᐟ female reader, no use of y/n, no physical descriptions, grumpy x sunshine trope, hurt/comfort, slowburn, work-place tension, park being a bully & ass (but he's hot), park being territorial/possesive (if you squint hard enough), night shift (because I love them!!), competence kink, blood/gore & other reoccurring medical topics in 'the pitt', medical inaccuracies (i've only graduated from google med school),
୨ৎ authors note .ᐟ.ᐟ y’all i genuinely foam at the mouth every time a shark fic on this app. there’s nothing that brings me more joy than fantasizing about dr. brendon park, so here’s my interpretation of this sexy man. also this is inspired by the song 'kill me' by hayley williams !! (i love that woman soooo much y'all)
୨ৎ word count .ᐟ.ᐟ 13.6 K
If you were in the comfort of your own apartment and bed, wrapped in the sheets you had personally endeavored yourself to splurge on, you would probably be in a better mood. Even though you had racked up enough student loan debt to achieve the satisfaction of ‘following your dreams’ to the point of living scraping by, you’d consider your bed a prized possession.
If they had warned you about the lack of commodities as a resident while working an overnight shift, you may have reconsidered your career choices.
While this wasn’t your first night shift, it was definitely the roughest one yet. Lack of energy, constant back pain, and absolute discomfort in the resident on-call room did nothing to satiate your grumpiness.
You no longer could count the times you had tossed and turned on the bed. At the end, you had resorted to sitting on the office chair, with your head thrown back. It did nothing for your back, but it was less annoying than attempting to lay on the sad excuse of a bed. You caught a couple of hours of sleep, with your sweatshirt providing some comfort, but not enough to pass as high functioning.
Right as you had fluttered your eyes close; there was a ping from a phone. You shook awake, flustered and alarmed from the noise.
Shit. You stared down at the watch. 7:23 AM.
You immediately jumped from the chair, tripping over your own feet to your backpack placed by the corner of the bed. Your hands fished for the phone in the side pocket, and when the screen illuminated your face, your blood pressure dropped.
SULLY 1 min ag0
The shark is looking for his next meal.
Where the fuck are you?
There was no hesitation. Your hands moved like lightning. Backpack, water bottle, random protein bar you scavenged from the resident lounge. Slipping out of the on-call room, everyone saw you jogging down the hallways, towards the resident lounge where no doubt, Dr. Park was expecting you to hand-off the night shift.
Your futile attempt to reverse the dark spot under your eyes landed you right in the middle of the ocean. The ‘Jaws’ theme song played in your mind, and you knew he could smell your blood pumping from across the hospital. It was a sixth sense of his, able to detect a puny resident from a mile away.
The thumping of your heart rose to your throat, like a boulder you couldn't swallow down. Your breathing was caught each time you tried to pull it down to your lungs. You were a dead man walking. That much was certain when you saw the wide eye stare from Sully, your senior resident. The two of you had bonded from being your attending’s personal meals.
‘Park the Shark’ was how you all had met him when onboarding the PTMC’s orthopedic surgery program. It didn’t make sense to you how the simple mention of a name could make everyone’s back shiver, until you tried to introduce yourself, hand out a stretched and wide smile to the hunk of muscle of your attending.
“This isn’t kindergarten. Don’t waste your breath on first impressions. To be clear, there’s nothing you can do to impress me.” Park deadpanned, staring down at you as he brushed past, leaving your hand floating.
The same frown must have crossed your face as you halted, fixing your badge into the waistband of your plum scrub pants. Holding your breath, you tossed your backpack to the nearest available chair, dragging your hands down your face. Time to face the music.
Your senior resident sat at one of the workstations, eyebrows raised as recognized the unease of your shortcomings. Sully leaned forward, arms crossed as he stared at you. “Where the hell were you?”
“Trying to catch some sleep so I don’t snore my way through the rest of my shift.” You gritted back, tucking your stray hairs away. There wasn’t time to doll yourself up in a mirror and you were praying that you didn't appear as restless as you were.
This was the second double shift you were pulling, and your third year had just started. If you were being honest, you didn’t understand why you were the one doing it.
Park had come up to you during one of your lunch breaks a couple of weeks ago, and dropped a physical copy of the newly printed schedule. In the colored blocks, you found your name under two of the 12-hour blocks. You had stopped chewing the sandwich in your mouth, looking up at your attending with wide eyes.
“There’s been some changes. Your cooperation is assumed, so memorize the changes.”
You barely uttered a word until he stalked off as if this was scutwork he was dreading to get done. Safe to say, you weren’t pleased with the sudden change of schedule for the month.
Right now, you are suffering the repercussions of it.
“You should be glad Dr. Park got distracted by Walsh’s morning jabs.” Sully scoffed, standing up with a smug slump. “He’s feeling particularly hungry this morning and Walsh is only going to make it worse for the rest of us.”
You shrugged menially, rushing over to the fridge in the room, digging for the collective energy drink collection. The crack of the seal echoed in the room. “It’s about time Park dishes what he eats.”
Earnestly, you got along with Walsh—and most of the other surgical attendings and residents. You had worked around enough of them to garner a likable reputation, but working under Dr. Park worked against your favor socially.
It was different in the night shift without Park. There wasn’t a certain tension when answering consultations or in the operating rooms. Albeit, everyone was a bit looser during the nights, but it opened a space where you could take charge more freely without worry of consequence or doubt in your decisions.
“And you think Walsh is the one to do that?”
The bass in the voice was unique to one person only in which everyone in the surgical department recognized from the other end of a call or down the hallways. Unamused in his tone that never changed while his lips remained stiff and straight.
You almost choked on the acidic liquid you had started gulping down. Whipping your head to the point of stabbing into your muscles from the speed, Dr. Park stood at the doorway with his arms crossed. If you were a bigger idiot than you were now, you would’ve pretended he didn’t hear what you said.
To try to spare yourself, you quickly shook your head. “Dr. Park—“
“Save it, pipsqueak.” Park dismissed, barely paying you any mind as he stared down at his watch. With his head bowed the reflection of the gel-cast over his light brown hair shined right in your eye. Perfectly combed back, chiseling his piercing bone structure. “You missed pass over. I had to hear from a second year resident.”
Glancing at Sully, he shrugged his shoulders, eyebrows down turned. Quickly recovering, your hand gripped onto the can tighter. “Jones? He’s a bit overzealous—“
“Which in your case, wouldn’t hurt.” Park dryly interrupted, staring at you with hooded eyes. The ‘clean shaven’ look he typically had pronounced every twitch in his mandible and the other parts of his jaw. It was a good way of telling when Dr. Park had lost his patience.
You blubbered, your fingers numbing from the cold can as you refused to let it go. “I don’t want to see you dragging your feet.”
“Of course not—“
“Don’t tell me.” Park dismissed, stalking passed you over to the fridge. He occasionally stole from the resident stock; everyone assumed it was a test to see who would stop him.
No one dared.
He didn’t have to finish the saying for you to get the message. He needs to see it. As of now, you weren’t helping your case as you tried coming up with deflections of your mistake. If there was something Park hated more than mere incompetence, it was weaponizing it with the false hope it worked on someone as sharp as him. Acting a fool and being a fool were two different things, and regardless of what angle you chose to play, it was always a lose-lose situation for yourself.
And you still needed to survive another 12 hours around him.
You should’ve known you weren’t going to last the day. If accidentally sleeping through your alarms and missing hand off told you anything, it should’ve been a sign things were going to go astray.
While pushing through a pair of double doors, having scrubbed out of an open tibia-fibula fracture surgery, a yawn escaped you. Shaking your head and rubbing your eyes, you hardly noticed what was coming ahead. Head bowed and senses incoherent, you only lifted your head once you ran into a form of mass, sending you tripping backwards.
When you looked up, the heavy stare of Park shadowing over your entire body, you shrank into yourself more than you already had earlier. It was a miracle that Sully roped you into the surgery, long enough to endure half your shift and to avoid Park the Sharks current disfavor of you.
Sully did not intend to stay once his residency was up. He knew he didn't have the courage to battle up against Park over executive decisions, even if Park carried the ‘Chief’ title. He had other goals to look forward to that didn't include staying at PTMC.
You, on the other hand, were yearning for an attending spot. Upon matching into Orthopedic Surgery, especially at a trauma-1 hospital like PTMC, you knew you would fight vigorously to outperform the others. What you didn't expect was to be soul-crushed by an attending like Dr. Brendon Park.
In the three years you had worked under him, you had seen enough residents fizzle out with time. Half of them moved across the country for fellowships and attending positions, while the other stayed just far enough to refrain from having to mutually work with him again. No one dared curse his name, but he was the type of person you only wanted to meet once in your life.
Your plans of moving into a lively city like Pittsburgh and settling into the comfortable life of an orthopedic surgeon no longer felt like an achievable dream, and you were falling into the conveyor-like cycle as the rest of his former residents.
When you finally closed your slack mouth, you registered something clattered against the linoleum floor. Your eyes darted to the ground noticing his phone had fallen from his grasp. Immediately, your body bent down, examining the phone with anxious precision before holding it out again.
“I am so sorry, Dr–”
“ER needs an ortho consult.”
His words clipped your sentence again, the apology ignored. He brushed past you, and the cold brush of his arm brought shivers to your exposed skin. You stood dumbfounded, unsure how to interpret his stoic statement. Spinning in your heels, you watched his taunt, muscular back walk further from you.
He pushed the double doors with his back, sticking his phone in his pocket. The subtle sigh he let out didn’t go amiss. “What did I say about dragging your feet?”
You dashed over in his direction, pushing the door back as Park let it fall toward you.
The elevator ride down was nothing short of awkward. Park was never one for small talk. He found it a waste of air, especially when he considered most pleasantries as disingenuous. While standing behind him, your hands fiddled in front of you; grasping and releasing your fingers with easy rhythm, you chewed the inside of your cheek. You weren’t a talkative person necessarily, but you were now silently reminding yourself to request for some elevator music for ambiance later.
As soon as the elevator halted, Park wasted no time, briskly exiting the elevator once the sleek doors split open. You followed in his suit to Trauma 1 in the ED, slipping in behind Park.
When you first walked in, you saw the small bustling group of nurses and ED staff surround a gray-haired African-American woman. You could make out that much from the corner of the room as you stood back and watched. Although you had been in this room many times, you didn't always make yourself known while Park was around. Why would anyone trust a thing to slip out your mouth with someone like Dr. Park present?
With the fogginess of the lack of sleep and the last surgery you barely made out of, you hardly noticed the debrief occurring anyways. Words about the patient's vitals and chief complaints were being tossed from a resident off to the side. You were internally imploring Park to not dismiss him as he had you practically the entire morning.
Your hands fell in their customary position in front of you, folding into a ball as a form of self-soothing. Briefly closing your eyes, taking in a deep breath, you tried to call upon some energy to hit you like a wave. You still had the second half of your morning shift to go, and you barely got through half the energy drink you cracked open to sustain you. Don’t get in his way, and maybe he won’t sink his teeth into you–
“I see you dragged one of your pups, Park.” A deep voice ribbed from the opposite end of the room.
Dr. Robby stood with his arms crossed at the foot of the gurney, staring back at you with no shame. He cocked his head to one side, glazing at you with amusement, hiding in the corner like some meek fish. Some of the other doctors had finally noticed you, sparing you a smile that came off more like a grimace.
Your attention drifted to your attending, who glanced over his shoulder, back at you. So much for not being noticed. Your entire body tensed up, and the bored expression from Park secured another stamp of his disapproval.
“What does the X-ray show?” Park questioned, his tone even and bass-y while echoing in the sterile room.
Eyebrows lifted with a quick hum coming from you was the only sound that came from anyone breathing in the room. His piercing blue eyes didn't move from you, and you weren't sure whether to keep looking or to turn to somebody else he might have referred to.
Someone called your name in the distance. As if on a swivel, your head moved toward the direction of the call. Dr. Langdon scratched the side of his head, subtly nodding his head to the X-ray machine.
Suddenly aware the question was directed to you, a cold chill ran down your spine. Embarrassment and fear of reprimand for acting like an idiot while being a third-year resident clouded your mind as your feet shuffled to the machine. Peering down at the screen, your eyes distinctly measure every inch of the image.
Lifting your head, you looked to the side. A front-view of the patient, an older patient dressed in khaki capri pants and a blue, flowery blouse. She sat uncomfortable, and you noticed her left leg, shortened and externally rotated. Based on the current needles poked in her, she was sedated from feeling most of the pain she should be experiencing.
“What’s your name ma’am?” You asked politely, with a soft smile.
She let out a shaky breath, mustering up a quivering smile. “Mrs. Perry.”
“It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Perry.” You mused, straightening your posture and walking over to Dr. Park’s side, leaving enough space to not brush against one another. From up close, you could see Park pressing the hip area on the left side of her body, arms flexing with the movement. She’d visibly flinch, but withheld from yelping. “How did this happen?”
“I tripped over my living room carpet.” She scoffed, annoyed from the incident while shaking her head. Park removed his hands, reaching down to hyper-extend her leg. The reaction then was a hiss. “I should’ve listened to my daughter when she told me that old things might kill me.”
There was a slight grumble released beside you. When peering from the corner of your eye, Park was stretching his neck uncomfortably after finishing a physical examination he’d typically have his resident perform. His words ringed in your ear. Don’t tell me.
Turning your body to face him, you awkwardly avoided his pointed stare. “X-ray shows a displaced femoral neck fracture. Based on the pattern, a Hemiarthroplasty might be necessary.”
You saw the slight twitch in his face. Moving around you, he advanced towards the machine, needing to see the images himself. You filled the void he left as Mrs. Perry bedside. Smiling down at her shaken expression glued onto Dr. Park, you leaned forward to capture her attention. “The surgery is a very common one. Mostly recommended in cases like this. You’ll have a greater likelihood of being able to stand and move after 48-hours.”
“What is the healing process like?” She asked, the slight tremor in her voice resonating too deeply within you.
Carefully reaching over the gurney, you grabbed her cold frigid hand resting on the edge. She sucked in a breath, staring at your eyes as if they held in some precious jewel for her to find. “You’ll probably need physical therapy afterward, possibly at an inpatient rehab facility. Mrs. Perry, many patients before have recovered beautifully from this, with mobility returning to their standard before this injury.”
You noticed the brimming of tears in her eyes, nodding her head vigorously along with your words. Her frail hands found strength to squeeze yours, and you couldn't help but beam wider at her. You could hear Park speak with Robby and the other doctors, but you didn’t pay them much mind.
“Thank you.” She whispered, the air hitting your face. She lifted her other hand to grasp at her chest, as if you lifted a weight from her. “Bless your soul, sweet girl.”
“We will book the OR for the procedure.” Dr. Park spoke louder, stopping at the foot of the bed. When you turned your head in his direction, he nodded to Robby. “We’ll need blood work and an EKG done to plan accordingly.”
“Already on it.” Robby nodded, he glanced from Park to you. He tried to hide the subtle skeptical look in his eye after listening to you speak with Mrs. Perry with tenderness.
You certainly didn’t learn that from Park the Shark.
Park didn't utter anything more as he sauntered behind you. The snapping of his gloves as he pulled them off concluding your business in the ED. You spared Mrs. Perry one last look, before ushering yourself out of the trauma room. When the door sealed shut, Park had already pressed the up arrow for the elevator. You halted a couple of feet behind him, standing to the side like some kid in trouble.
Clearing your throat, you rocked on the balls of your feet. “Was I right about the Hemiarthroplasty?”
If you were Sully, or any other resident with much more confidence in their diagnosing skills, you’d assume you made the right observation. But you weren’t—especially with Park present—and with a patient's life on the line, you didn’t pretend to be either.
The elevator dinged, doors opening wide for the two of you. Park who settled himself in the center of the elevator box while you slipped around him. Once the button lit up for the surgical floor, the box rattled to move up, forcing you to grasp onto the railing.
“Do you really have to ask?” He asked, not concerned to see your reaction. His voice seemed almost annoyed by the need to ask.
You fumbled on words, mouth agape as you considered how to redeem yourself without sounding overtly desperate for his approval. He slightly shook his head, squaring his shoulders. “Next time I ask for you to do your job, I assume you won’t dally like you did now.”
You weren’t dallying.
If anything, you were trying to comprehend what injury Mrs. Perry had. Apart from the X-ray, there were still elements you could learn talking to the patient. Maybe your teachers in med-school were too ‘soft’ for Dr. Park's animalistic taste, but you found the traditional-method worked.
You furrowed your brows. “It’s all for the sake of patient-care.”
“Reacting promptly and avoiding delay is patient-care.” Park corrected, you saw the slight maneuver of his chisel jaw, now able to see your figure from over his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have to teach my third year residents this.”
If you were paid every time he threw that insult, you’d have your student debt paid two-times over. There weren't enough fingers on your hands to count the amount of times he directed those words to you. It was profoundly glued into every fold of your brain, haunting you even in your sleep. The utter lack of gratification you gave him as his resident didn’t need words with the way he’d dismiss you like a prey not worth the hunt.
It wasn’t like you didn’t try. You’d be wasting your time and his if you sat around lulling, but sometimes the insults bordered on cruel.
“It’s his teaching methods. Be glad he even addresses you by name.” Sully painfully attempted to remedy the slight heartache you had a couple of months ago—sulking over the fact Park had ripped you a new one.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, or whatever Nietzsche said.
Except, you weren’t sure that philosophy helped anyone who worked under the control of Dr. Park.
That much was assured once Mrs. Perry was moved into an OR after her necessary tests were conducted almost three hours later. You were half hoping you wouldn’t have to perform the surgery, finally running to your wits end after the double shift. There wasn’t anything to liven the zombie-like shuffle of your feet down the halls through consultations and pages. Your body was running on autopilot, and the connectivity with your brain no longer attached.
You hadn’t realized you fell asleep while supposedly “resting your eyes” from documenting patient charts. Without much thought, your brainpower fizzled and shut off at the first taste of silence and peace. You were only thankful there wasn't anyone else trying to cram in charting time.
With your body succumbing to the small grace, you hadn’t a clue of your surroundings and the last thing you expected to disrupt your REM cycle was the booming sound of a door slam shut. You shook awake, turning your head in either direction to find the source of the noise. When your eyes shot open in the direction of the door to the dictation room, you saw a grouchy Dr. Park standing at the doorway with his hands on his hips.
You tried to act like you hadn’t been sleeping, blinking reverently to shake off the drowsiness. Dr. Park wasn’t convinced. Humming you braced one hand on the desk, spinning the chair slightly. “Were you looking for me?”
“You’d know that if you’d answer your pages.” His stolid stare of your face was aware of exactly the position he caught you.
Your hands wandered to the pager on your belt. When you saw all the unanswered responses, you groaned, too aware of the fact you had managed to fail your attending, again. Refusing to lift your head, you shut your eyes in defeat. “I’ve been trying to catch up on—“
“Sleep?” Park interrupted, bracing his arms over his chest.
Blinking at him like a dog with its tail between its legs, you could see something beyond general annoyance over you sleeping on company time. You hadn’t exactly expected him to handle it nicely, but a pit was forming in your stomach. It felt like awaiting a death sentence.
Park ticked his head to the side, snarling like a shark tempted by insatiable fury. Too wild and ferocious to wait for his next meal to come. That didn’t make him forget his control, staring at you with the starching glare. “Mrs. Perry is ready for surgery.”
His hand gripped open the door, stalking out as quickly as he came in. You sat there frozen, unsure what to make out of the reaction. He wasn’t the type to yell. His icy demeanor and hooded stare said enough without an elevation in vocal volume. Yet, he didn’t elaborate more on the obvious inappropriate state he found you in.
Could it be a dream? Maybe your brain hasn't fully booted to life. There was no way Dr. Brendon Park would let your mishap slide, right?
After surgery, you walked around with less eagerness than you did before (if you had any). You downed half a pot of coffee you found in the break room before scrubbing in. It was no shocker Dr. Park had led the entire operation up until the end, where he left you alone to finish up the entire procedure after he removed the hip-ball to replace it with something durable,
When you left the surgical wing, you noticed you put in over an hour of overtime. Sully was more than likely settled at your shared apartment. When you glanced at the lock screen of your phone, you noted the missed message.
SULLY 1 hr ago
Bought thai and dessert. I know you’re going to need it after tonight.
The exhale that left you might’ve sounded like you had received the best news of your life. In hindsight, it was as luxurious as your life got.
You were mostly grateful you had managed to avoid Park since finishing the surgery. Some part of you dreaded that he’d be waiting out the double doors to hand you the list of all your faults within the one shift. When you found the halls empty, you thanked whatever higher authority there was that it wasn’t the case.
As you stood in the desolate, quiet elevator, your hands hovered over the buttons. You were desperate to run out of the hospital and forget the shift like a bad nightmare. Instead, your finger reached for the post-op floor.
Maybe it was in everyone’s nature to linger instead of pulling away without turning back.
You didn’t think the hospital could get any colder. You tugged your fleece jacket to wrap over your body as you walked over to where most of the patients were sedated and asleep. The nurse at the desk recognized you, waving her hand at you before turning back to the paperwork she was attending to.
Mrs. Perry's room was diagonal from the desk, even with her face turned away, you knew her from afar. Quietly pulling the door open, you slipped in, gauging her body for any sudden movements of her shifting awake. When you saw the soft fall and rise of her chest continued without lapse, you grabbed the marker on her patient-board.
She was a lovely lady overall, resembling a grandmother from childhood. You scribbled a small note to tell her surgery went well and wishing her a speedy recovery, finalizing with your name. When you slipped out, you made no more delay, hurrying to the directions of the elevators, typing away in response to Sully’s message.
You didn’t lift your head up when the door slid open, side stepping to the panel to click to the floor to the hospital parking garage. Too busy staring at your phone, awaiting a response from your roommate; you didn’t acknowledge the presence lingering behind you. Just another hospital staff trying to make it home.
The buzz of the elevator filled the silent atmosphere. You hummed lightly to a song you had stuck in your head, watching the three dots light up the opened message.
“How’s the patient?”
You jumped back, your head turning ninety degrees in an impossible speed that would leave a kink in your neck no doubt. The grip on your phone was ironclad as you stared wide-eyed at Park, leaning against the railing with one arm. Staring at him with a frightened look, no doubt the same look of surprise from earlier, your mouth clamped shut.
He raised his eyebrows at you, and with a careful step, back you nodded. “Mrs. Perry is resting in post-op. I’m sure she’ll make a nice recovery with some therapy.”
Park only gave you a firm nod. He didn’t need you to reaffirm that thought. He had looked at all the pre-op tests and results. She was an ideal patient for her age, low-risk of infections and complications. He knew everything about his patients. Therefore, his nonchalant and dispirited expression reminded you of that.
You peeled your eyes away, hoping the elevator would somehow move faster, so you didn’t die of shame. As the elevator continued to descend, you grimaced, choosing your next words carefully, “I’m sorry about missing the pages. There is no excusing my ignorance of my responsibilities. I just—“
Your words fell flat. How were you supposed to excuse the fact you fell asleep while charting, especially to an attending like Dr. Park? Anyone would have a better time wrestling an actual shark then to be forgiven by Dr. Park.
“All residents should be able to adapt to their schedules.” Park reminded you, like you were an intern who had yet to learn to struggle on a shift. You had worked double and overnight shifts before. Today just happened to be one of the tiring ones yet. “Do you think a patient wants you drooling over them while in surgery?”
He shook his head, which was the most you had seen him emote. After the face you had made some mistakes you should've grown out of. “I gave you one task today, and somehow you were incapable of managing that.”
You shrunk within yourself, hands clamming around your phone. The sharp inhale must have caught in your throat from the constricting chords. It was as if the air had thickened with the rising density of Park’s sudden reprimand. Of course, you couldn’t save yourself from drowning into the depths of the ocean, where most of the curious sharks lived. You were bound to be another fallen soldier in Park the Shark’s list of students who fell too short of the expectation.
“I need competent third-year residents on my staff. Ones who don’t need me to hold their hands and coddle them their entire way through this program.” He took one-step closer, and you wondered what was taking the elevator so long. “I won’t risk my patient’s life for your irresponsibility.”
The elevator dinged and the metal doors slid open. You held your breath the entire time Park stared down at you, like scum under his shoe. Without uttering another word, he walked out the doors, placid and unfazed by the confrontation, compared to you. Feet glued to your stationary position and blood running cold over your entire body.
Was that how Park saw you? Some liability he tried to tolerate, even when he preferred you separated from the patient with a ten-foot pole. The shaky breath you finally let out shook your core. Maybe all he saw you was the ‘pipsqueak’ of the group. Too mousy and self-deprecating unlike the rest.
God, you were a fool thinking you could impress anyone with your confident persona, impersonating a skilled ortho-surgeon instead of training to be one.
You stuck your hand through the sliver between the closing doors, activating the sensor once more. Stepping out into the fresh breeze, you caught the headlights of some luxury car flash in your direction. With one hand hovering over your eyes, you traveled to the side, remaining close to the edge away from the pathway. Right as the car passed by, you caught a glimpse of Park speeding away without turning back.
It sounded naïve to hope you could change his opinion of you. Didn’t mean you’d stop trying. He could stir the waters into a whirlpool, but you made your travel home planning to fight against it. If there was something you wanted Dr. Park to recognize most was you weren’t going to stand for the tyranny—even if he was the living impersonation of an apex predator in your habitat.
Some animals were made to be preyed on, and you’d climb the food-chain if you had too.
The animosity from Dr. Park had stopped in the shifts after. You made an effort to be assertive. Taking charge of consultations while instructing the interns. You weren’t doing it just to earn Park’s respect, but to also prove to yourself what you wanted to be capable of. If he happened to change what objective opinion he had settled on about you, then that was just a plus.
Thankfully, it had worked well enough to have Park only mutter the tame sarcastic remarks, which announced to everyone he wasn’t a fan of redundancy. He nodded at you when he ‘liked’ what you had to say about a patient and their diagnosis. Never cracking a smile, but whenever he'd examine you up and down once exiting a patients room, you knew he had no critiques.
It was nearing the end of the day shift. You had paid your farewells with most of your closest colleagues. Sifting through the fridge in the break room, you heard the door click open. Lifting and peeking around curiously, you assumed other residents were packing to leave.
Instead, Dr. Emmick, the night shift attending that relieves Park, greeted you with a casual smile. You had worked with her previously, enjoying her calm, playful nature. She had her black hair tied in a braid, framing her face. You always admired her youthful look, tanned color and clear skin.
She smiled at you while holding her packed lunch. The sweet ring of your name followed as she approached, “it’s nice seeing you around.”
“Likewise,” You mused, extending a hand out as you politely put the container into the fridge. She gratefully handed it to you, mouthing a small ‘thank you.’ Before closing the fridge, you grabbed the last of your energy drink, tapping the seal.
“I hope Dr. ‘Shark’ is treating you well.” She joked, and you caught the playful chaste in her words. She flashed a grin as she spun around towards the kitchenette.
You scoffed, shaking your head with a nervous smile. “As well as he treats all of his residents.”
She laughed at that, her cheeks swelling as her smile widened. She moved around, grabbing a mug from the cabinet. She rustled around the sweeteners and sugar for a minute. “I find it hard to believe you haven’t charmed your way into his cold heart.”
Squinting your eyes at her, you chuckled awkwardly, gripping the can tighter. “What do you mean?”
You froze as she poured the warm liquid in her mug. She moved around casually as if what she said hadn’t been news to you. While she shook her head, you continued to stare at her back with a crinkled nose. “I haven’t met a single person who didn’t have a single good thing to say about you.”
She shortly paused to take a brief sip of the coffee before she rustled with more of the sugar packets. “You have been monikered the most liked resident of the entire hospital.”
“That’s a lie.” You countered. When the tone came out more combative than intended, you retracted your head a bit, pressing your lips together.
“Don’t believe me?” she mused, glancing over her shoulder as she mixed the coffee with a stirrer. The grin on her face made you feel like you shouldn’t have doubted the observation.
‘Most liked’ must have been an exaggeration. Of the entire hospital? Impossible. Sure, you played nice with the surgical attendings and the doctors down in the Pitt, but they couldn’t have all thought that way. Not when Park found a way to rip up your efforts every shift. It is unbelievable that any of the attendings could like you if Park found flaws.
“Which begs the question as to why you stay on the day shift.”
When you lifted your eyes to level at her face, she was leaning back onto the counter cradling the mug. One foot crossed over the other and she smiled sincerely. “I know many here on the night shift who would appreciate you a little more. I know I would.”
“I could use a resident with your maturity.” She shrugged, pushing off the counter. You continued fiddling with the can, trying to ground yourself as she continued finding new ways to praise you. “Would take a lot off my plate.”
You hadn’t realized how silent you were until she raised her eyebrows at you expectantly. Shaking your head, you waved one hand in dismissal. “I’m sure you’re just saying that. I know most of my co-residents are moving once they finish residency and the hospital is in need of some positive turnover.”
She narrowed her eyes at you, like your observation was a point-of-view she hadn't been exposed to. With the slight shake of her head, she blew out a sigh, eyebrows raised. “Truth is it’s a lot harder to stay than it is to get in. It’s definitely not for lack of trying. But, I think if anyone has a solid chance, it's you.”
Before you could politely disagree, the sound of a phone ringing bounced off the wall. Reaching into her scrub pocket, Dr. Emmick pulled out her on-call phone, skimming the ID. She lifted her head, offering an apologetic smile. “Just consider it, at least.”
She swiftly answered the call, announcing her name. You waved her a small goodbye, which she returned, before you excused yourself out. Dr. Emmick was a good mentor from the times you had worked the night shift. She was swift with an edge of personality people felt Park lacked with all his glaring. She played music roulette while doing surgery, remaining the champion of the ongoing ‘guess that tune’ game.
It was hard to deny her forwardly when she charmed everyone with such ease.
You walked down the halls, towards the elevator where Sully stood by waiting, scrolling through his phone. He glanced up when he heard the footsteps, “What took you so long?”
“I was talking with Dr. Emmick,” You sighed out, leaning over to press the down arrow button. He stared at you skeptically, noticing the small shrug of your shoulders. “She tried to convince me to move to the night shift.”
He scoffed, stuffing his phone and hands in his pockets. He bounced on his feet, staring up at the ceiling. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”
Your head spun to stare at him with down turned eyebrows and pursed lips. He stared down at you with a puzzled expression, “What? You’re not a morning person, whatsoever, and you hate working with Park.”
“I don’t hate working with Dr. Park.” You neglected, offended by the insinuation. ‘Hate’ was a strong four-letter word you disliked using.
‘Hating’ Dr. Park insinuated the one thing you didn’t want to relent to: that he was under your skin. If he was able to obliterate the part of you that made up the person enduring his personality, then you’d have to resign. There was no way you could objectively work with him—or anyone similar—without it affecting patient care. It wasn’t a justifiable means to an end; it was a disservice to the patients.
Sully mockingly nodded his head, pretending to believe your words. You noted the small eye roll as he scoffed, “Either way, I won’t be here to cover for you next year, and you could use someone like Dr. Emmick in your corner.”
When the doors opened to the elevators, Sully slipped in first, holding the door open for you to follow. You bowed your head, still fiddling with the tab of your energy drink, no longer needing to satiate the craving. All you felt was the small shake of the elevator as it began its descent. Sully stood diagonally, watching you stare at your feet.
His small huff caught your distracted attention, “If you're so determined on staying here, you better learn to play offensive with Park. Don’t the big sharks always dominate the small ones?”
You refrained from laughing, dropping your gaze to hide the crack in your expression. Once Sully got over the shark-induced fear, he played around a lot more than he should’ve. The others thought it was like dropping his blood in a tank of sharks. Sully had read up on all the shark facts he could, and during every hand-off while Park was present, he’d share it with him.
He swore that Park patted him in the back once, hiding the small curve on the corner of his lip.
“Wouldn’t turning over to the night shift just confirm what he already thinks of me?” You questioned, rolling your head to the side as the words rang in your head again. All you were was incompetent and juvenile anyways.
“Maybe,” Sully shrugged, readjusting the singular strap of his backpack hanging off his shoulder. “Or maybe he won’t care at all. If he feels that strongly about you, then why should it matter to him?”
Sully was usually right, which was why they titled him chief resident. He had made the last three years with Park more than bearable. If you hadn’t gone to introduce yourself to him in the parking lot, he probably wouldn’t have chosen you to assist him throughout most of his cases. He always noted that you were smarter than the rest. When they’d all make performances of them kissing ass, you’d do it in silence, without the need of recognition.
You thought he was being nice when he offered his spare bedroom. In reality, you were the only one he could fathom spending time with outside the hospital.
When the elevator halted, Sully gave you a grin. “I hope I wasn’t wrong about you, pipsqueak.”
“Seriously?” You groaned, dragging your feet through the lobby as you two wandered out the doors as all the other day-shift staff.
Sully led the way with more energy than when he came in. You didn’t know how he wasn’t drained from the work, or the bustling of Park pushing him in every direction. He was meant to be the right-hand man, after all. When the two of you made your way out, the sun was close to gone.
There was a chilly breeze and you shivered as it kissed your cheeks. “What is that supposed to mean anyway?”
“I just hope that all the hints I’ve been dropping Park isn’t for nothing.” He shrugged, trotting up steps to the parking garage elevator.
“What do you mean?” You pushed, letting out a sigh once the two of you made it to the elevator. Your hands landed dramatically to your sides, head tilted as you stared expectantly.
He shrugged first. Once he caught wind of your raised eyebrows, he chuckled. “Look, I get we’re friends, roommates, and honestly, we work on more cases together than with Shark combined.”
“Get to the point.”
He raised his hands, as a form of retaliation, while you deadpanned him. “But, you are more than a decent resident.”
Scoffing with an offended and jarred gaped mouth, you prepared to fire equally backhanded remarks. Sully put his hands on your shoulders, guiding you into the elevator first, leaning into your ear. “I’m messing with you.”
He let go once inside, and clicked the fourth floor. He turned to you with a sincere smile, crooked and charming. You had lost track of the amount of times other residents asked if he was single or in a relationship with you. “But, I don’t think I’ve seen Park so interested in anyone as much as he is with you.”
Throwing your head back gently, it thumped the elevator wall, trembling as it glided upward. “People say the same about you.”
“My point is if I see it, so does Park.” Sully redirected with a casual smile. Professional and honest, in the same manner he talked to patients. “So give him reasons he needs to be wrong.”
“And If it doesn’t pan out, I’ll hold you a spot in Chicago.” He winked at you and as if on cue, the elevator dinged and the doors revealed the dark parking garage .Walking backward, he widened his smile, all teeth. “Then he’ll regret ever doubting you, shark pup.”
You tried to keep Dr. Emmick and Sully's words in mind. It had started to feel like an omen you meant to keep an eye on. It never occurred to you that some people had formed strong opinions about you. Dr. Emmick had asked subtle questions about your consideration of the last conversation the two of you had. Sully had noticed, and even began to inquire about your next steps.
It had never dawned on you that the invitation was serious.
Not until you worked the next night shift block on your schedule. You had walked into the dictation room, zipping on your fleece sweater when you ran into Dr. Emmick. She looked up from her watch, stating your name with a smile. “Didn’t realize you were scheduled tonight.”
You nodded politely, offering a closed mouth smile in return. “I switched with another resident. It was a last minute thing.”
“Well, happy to have you here.” She somehow smiled wider. You tried to hide the sudden tightness in your chest. It was weird to be openly invited and welcomed into your shift by an attending. Park would have barely looked in your direction if this were the day shift.
She stood with her hands in her pocket, examining you up and down. “Have you done the hand off yet?”
“Just got back from that,” You point your thumb behind you, motioning to the door you came in from seconds ago. “Seems like a manageable workload.”
“For now,” Dr. Emmick chuckled, readjusting the pager on the waistline of her scrub pants. “Give it a few hours to liven up. The next trauma is yours.”
You should’ve known by now to take her words seriously.
While assisting her in a surgery that was when the call came in from the charge nurse. Trauma via ambulance. Motorcycle accident. Left leg deformity with obvious bone exposure. Dr. Emmick only hummed as she glanced at you from across the surgical table.
That’s what landed you in the elevator, gloves and gown doffed while now only sporting your scrub cap. When you landed on the basement floor, walking straight off the elevator and looking into Trauma-2, you saw the chaos within the glass. Pumping hand sanitizer and pushing the door open with your back caught the attention of most in the vicinity.
Walsh lifted her gaze across the room, a small smirk on her face as she announced your name amusingly. “Dr. Park’s shark pup. You finally turned to the dark side?”
You shook your head, grabbing a pair of gloves from the wall. “Hello to you too, Dr. Walsh.”
Approaching the gurney, your eyes immediately went to the splint holding his left leg in place. That when you saw the exposed bone from an open wound on the anterolateral shin. An intern was sitting, irrigating the debris into a pan. You then looked up to see the young, male patient, sedated on the bed. He was scattered with other wounds in his face.
“Present, please.” You proposed, eyes darting to the staff wearing black scrubs.
“A please? Are you sure you're one of Park’s?” Jack hummed from beside you leaning over the patient as he and Walsh worked on putting a chest tube and alleviating some internal bleeding near the liver. When you looked at him, you scoffed, shaking your head.
“Motorcycle accident. Flew almost ten meters away from the crash per paramedics. No knee fracture or joint surface misalignment.” Nazely spoke up from your other side, continuing to irrigate gently, looking much smaller as she donned her gown.
“Jesus” You mumbled, hands behind you back as you leaned in to examine the open wound with precision. “Did he come in unconscious?”
“Morphine and fentanyl will do that for you.” Walsh mumbled as she began to stand up straight. She tossed the small strands of hair that fell around her face back looking in your direction.
She watched as your hand traveled along the bone in his knee, then lowered as you felt the tissue. Nazely had retracted her hands, looking around anxiously as you stared at the leg like some prey on the hunt. “Keep irrigating. It’s looking like a subtype B and we don’t want to risk infection.”
“Subtype B?” Nazely questioned softly, looking up at you with her widen sunken eyes. She glanced around to try to understand the silent understanding everyone else had.
You nodded at her, a soft smile as you made your way around to where she was, stopping close enough to brush against her arms. “Gustilo-Anderson Type III.”
“Good old Ramon and John.” Walsh joked, shaking her head with a small huff. Jack glanced at her, an amused smile on his face.
The movement continued as you examined the patient in silence. Nazely kept cautiously peeking at you from the corner of her eye. She was paranoid of whether she was doing it correctly, adjusting her arms rhythmically. Your mind and body acted on your training, sensations alarmed from the previous cases you can recall that imaged the patient’s current situation.
When you turned to Nazely, she tensed up a bit, suddenly alarmed. “Was his upper leg always this swollen?”
Her eyes followed where you were pointing nervously. She furrowed her eyes, a bit panicked while shaking her head. “It looks worse than when he came in.”
“Before the medication he was in severe pain, even with passive stretching.” Jack informed, now stoic as he followed what you and his intern were concerned. He moved around the nurses and techs to assist with other continuous care in his upper extremities. “Felt numbness in his toes and pain continued up to the ankle.”
“Can I see imaging?” You called out, retracting yourself to step over to the machine where the radiologist tech stood with the blue vest still on. Peering down, you drowned out the sudden rise of noises.
Voices followed with consistent reports of heart rate and pressure, moving into a position that was no longer safe for comfort. Even while focused on your area of expertise, you could recognize the plan of care Walsh and Jack were announcing. Ischemic. Stiffness, swelling, and pain in the left leg. Tibia fracture.
“Acute compartment syndrome.” You called out, turning your head over to Jack and Walsh.
The trauma surgeon tsked as she busied herself with Jack looking over her shoulder. She lightly jerked her shoulder, pushing Jack back to block space between them. Jack lifted his head over Walsh, looking at the small intern sitting on the stool, attempting to shrink impossibly smaller. “What are the four compartments, Nazely?”
She blinked rapidly, pausing with her mouth open as her attending addressed her. While shutting her eyes, she took a deep breath out. “Anterior, Lateral, Superficial, and Deep posterior.”
“500 to Dr. Toomarian.” You joked, walking back to her side. She gazed up at you offering a trembling smile as she gathered her bearings again, focusing on her one task. You sighed, shaking your head. “He’s going to need a fasciotomy and reconstruction if we can salvage all the compartments. Hope he doesn’t lose his leg.”
“Any attending’s available in ortho?” Walsh questioned, finally taking a step back to speak directly at you.
You ripped off the gloves you were wearing, tossing them in a bin before sanitizing. While rubbing your hands you sighed, “Dr. Emmick will be stuck in a spinal surgery for the next couple of hours. I will proceed as primary ortho after checking in with her.”
“Without supervision?” Walsh clarified, an eyebrow raised. You could tell she had reservations, not of the work, but the ethicality of the procedure.
You shrugged, before crossing your arms and holding her attention. “You’d rather the patient lose his leg, Dr. Walsh?”
Jack snickered from across the trauma room. He shook his head, “Now I see it.”
Walsh followed your previous actions, doffing the PPE attire. Once she ripped off the gloves, she clapped her bare hands, an amused smile on her face. “You’re up, shark pup.”
When you finally scrubbed out of the surgery, it was nearing sunrise. Before walking into the OR, you kept repeating the case in your head, going over the steps you had done previously before. You weren't exactly secure until stepping into the sterile environment. Standing at the surgical table, along with Walsh and the other surgical techs, it was coming to you as easy as breathing.
Taking control of the entire narrative in a different capacity felt strange. There wasn’t the lingering presence of Emmick or Park, who typically didn’t refrain from giving direction, guiding your hands like molding clay. There was steadiness in your hands you didn’t think would be present without either attending.
You could hear Park’s constant reminders not to get too conceited. Cockiness never suits a wide-eye resident still learning to stand; he huffed out after assisting in your first major reconstruction surgery. He had surprisingly relied mostly on your directive than his own, asking questions and staring at your work.
There was still a buzzing sensation throughout all your nerves, like an adrenaline rush you didn’t want to come down from. It didn’t help that when Dr. Emmick did step into the OR, to check in with how the operation was progressing, she gave no criticism. The nod and approving hum that escaped her while wearing the mask, listening intently to you break down the steps you’ve taken, made it hard to not be proud of yourself.
Instead of gloating though, you sat in the break room, nibbling on the lunch Sully had prepared for you two for the week. You leaned back in the plastic chair, scrolling through your phone. You heard the door click open, but made no effort to turn your head to the sound.
When you saw a figure move around from where you were sitting, you caught Walsh looking down at you, much cleaner from the last time you saw her. She grinned at you, stopping across the table, “The patient was moved to the ICU for monitoring. Good job back there.”
“Thank you.” You replied, putting your phone down gently. Sitting up straighter, your braced both hands on the seat, smiling coyly. “Is it bad to say I was afraid of messing it up?”
“Don’t let Brendon hear you say that.” Walsh snickered, turning her back to scavenge the fridge. She pulled out a gray can, immediately cracking the seal and gulping down the cold liquid. “He’d have a gall if he knew you did the operation with no attending supervision.”
“You were there.” Your chin motioned to where she stood, one hand now braced on the kitchenette counter.
“I’m not your attending.”
Her grin widened as you playfully rolled your eyes. There was a beat of silence as you finally sensed the temptation to steal another nibble of your food. Walsh stared at you, taking another swing of her drink. “I heard you’re bored with the day shift. Is Park not living up to the hype?”
With down turned brows and a shaky laugh, you tipped your head to one side. “What are you talking about?”
Walsh looked back at you as if she had shared a secret she wasn’t supposed to let slip. Readjusting her back, she pursed her lips. “Marla said you were moving to the night shift with the rest of us nocturnal mammals.”
Dr. Emmick. Ardent to assume one good half-shift was enough to have you turning your current schedule upside down. Although, you could say pretty confidently you had never been as validated as you had this shift than any day shift, you still were considering the proposition. It wasn't entirely a decision you could rationally make with this one experience. You had yet to find out what struggling with the night shift entailed.
“I’ve yet to decide on such a big change.” You corrected, earning a hooded look from Walsh. “I promised her I’d consider it.”
Walsh booed, rolling her neck to glare at you with amusement. The playful grimace on her face eased the small worry in your chest. Has it really been that big of a disappointment?
She pushed herself off the counter, sauntering in your direction. “Here I thought I’d be able to rub in his face how we stole his greatest protégé.”
There was that word. Along with the ‘shark pup’ nickname some of the residents had heard a handful of times answering consultations. They were meant to learn from the quiet, calculated Dr. Park, and find some way to honor him with their skill, but Park wasn’t the type to look at that. He didn't care much for individuality either, but he preferred neither of you to paint yourself in an image that only suited him.
“Why do you guys keep saying that?” You questioned genuinely. Walsh stopped in her tracks, raising her eyebrows at your question. “I’m nothing like him, and if anything, he probably has a scroll full of things I could work on.”
For a minute, you thought Walsh might actually pull you into the insider information that every surgical staff knew–except you. A part of you wondered whether Park was secretly feeding into the ongoing perception as well. Walsh scoffed, the corner of her lips curling upward, pronouncing her cupid's bow. “I’m not going to spell it out for you. Takes away the fun.”
“Besides, if it keeps you from coming over to nights, I don’t think I want to.” She admitted, leaning in closer to come off as mischievous. You only nodded, defeated that you were left out.
She sighed, “You’ve got potential. I’d hate for ‘Park the Shark’ to be the reason you don’t explore that.”
She rolled her eyes at the title Park had been known for since you joined. Now you understood why Park always seemed to have a scowl after talking with Walsh. If she jabbed at him in his face as much as she was right now, that would explain everything. She straightened herself, sparing you one last smile.
“See you around, daredevil.”
To say Dr. Park was a tough person to impress was an understatement. You didn’t expect him to sing your praises the following shift after Dr. Emmick had prematurely gloated on your behalf. The only reaction you got was a huff of some sort, his head tilting to the side as he saw you checking in on the patient and mutterings of ‘doing your job.’
By that point, you knew Park was grateful the patient had survived long enough to offer you his gratitude.
It did get him off your back a bit.
He still picked on you to accompany him on the major trauma surgeries, but he stopped hounding over you. Most consultations in the ER were yours to attend, with the junior residents to teach and guide. The word must have traveled, because even a hunk of a chief like Dr. Robby had respected your professional opinion.
They knew to trust your opinion when packed under the pressure of a MVA, including up to five vehicles and six pedestrians. Some of them were as young as 12, just riding their bike on the sidewalk by a park, blindsided by the speeding cars. It was chaos in the ED, and the trauma alarms up in surgery didn’t go missed by anyone.
Gowns and gloves flew on with quick ease and stained with the crimson blood of those involved just as quickly. Right as you were working on the hip fracture of a 72-year-old woman, a passenger to one of the affected vehicles, Park had immediately switched you out with Sully to stabilize a 32-year old man's leg.
You had done the same procedure alone. When you watched Park walk out to dictate another surgery, a sigh of relief escaped you. It was hours before the hospital found a steady rhythm. Most of your shift had passed by with the blink of an eye, and patients transferred in and out like a manufacturing company. Now, most of the interns and second-years were attending to follow calls about surgery while you sat in the dictation room to finish charting.
Sully sat across from you, speaking quietly as he recounted the steps of his pelvic stabilization of a 45-year-old patient, waiting to follow up with the acetabular reconstruction. You preferred to type your way through the chart, even if you could barely keep your eyes open enough to see the words.
What did liven you up was the sound of your pager beeping. You groaned lightly, earning a scowl from Sully who didn’t falter with his words. When you glanced down at your pager, you read the room number feeling some sort of dread following.
The last thing Sully heard was the scraping of the chair as you walked out the dictation room.
You wandered up to the post-surgery wing, wandering towards the room number with alerted ears. Right as you were approaching the sliding doors, you halted as nurses were pushing the patient bed out of the room. Pushing yourself aside by a wall, you watch with slight horror as Jones, the small blonde second-year resident, walks out like a wounded puppy, followed by an infuriated Park.
Despite being the least expressive person in the entire hospital, there was an eerie distinction between his typical crabbiness and his frenzied authoritative side. This was the latter.
When Park’s eyes landed on you, he scoffed. The disgust was evident when he brushed past you with little acknowledgment. You tried to ask a question that fell short when Dr. Park finally spoke up with his back turned to you. “Nice of you to finally act upon your responsibilities,”
With a huff, you followed closely behind him, eyeing at Jones who departed down a desolate hallway. “What happened?”
“Your lack of concern for patient care is what.” He retorted, and from the angle, you caught him in, it was as if he was snarling his teeth with a low grumble. “Mr. Stevenson was your patient, and your lack of consideration for him has resulted in compartment syndrome.”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. From the trauma interventions, the lack of fuel keeping you standing, and the endless work you still had yet to finish in the last two hours of your shift had all blurred together. The patients handed off from the night before had been lost in your memory, and when Park uttered his name with the sharp punctuation, it was like the thought was aimed straight for the center of your brain.
“Jones agreed to cover while we attended the incoming MVA patients.” You said breathlessly, now matching his pace. He still didn’t bother to look at you, which should’ve been the least of your concerns, but right now, it made you feel insignificant. Undeserving of a moment of his precious time.
“So I heard,” he reported sourly, shaking his head. The nurses lead the hospital bed in the direction of the elevator and if your body weren’t caught off guard, you would’ve realized exactly where they were heading in the first place. “I’ve already reprimanded him for his dismissal of the nurse's report of his increased pain after the intramedullary nailing and refusing to consult with a senior staff member.”
He paused, turning to stand right in your tracks. You stumbled back with a startled expression, craning your neck back to look at him. The bones in his jaw ticked as he clamped down. The shadow over his eyes made his crystallized stare sharper, like a pair of knives pointed straight at you. You finally had a moment to catch your breath, but hardly anything was traveling to your lungs.
“But with your seniority, it was your responsibility to supervise his actions and your patients, regardless of everything else going on.” He affirmed a finger point at your chest as he emphasized his point. “You learn to accept the workload. Do you think they care whether you’re tired or busy with their limb on the line?”
His voice was echoing now through the halls. The last thing the nurses saw was his muscles contracting under his plum scrubs before the elevator doors sealed shut. It left you in shallow waters, helpless under the unrestrained hunger of his wrath. You stood with both hands resting at your side, eyes fluttering with every stab of his words.
It was your responsibility, and you stupidly pushed it aside like scutwork.
“Now he might lose his leg.” Park pointed behind him, motioning to the elevator box the patient disappeared too. That reality was dawning on you with the emergency-surgery taking place.
Your body deflated; mouth agape as you attempted to reel in some courage to face him with dignity. The last thing you needed was for him to bully you over your lack of thick skin. That didn’t stop the wetness accumulating on your waterline. Accept the consequence of your inaction, god dammit.
“I can scrub in.” You pleaded, like a last attempt to beg for some form of life saving intervention. A boogie, life jacket, floating ring, something to pull you out of the depth of your despair.
With a flat palm right in your face, he snarled. “Don’t be an idiot. Don’t you think you’ve done enough?”
“I will fix your mistake for you, since you appear too absorbed by other duties.” His detached and swift examination of your diminished position tossed aside any ounce of consideration he had for you. The match he struck on you overturned all the micro-trivial actions you confused for tokens of his appreciation. Now, he was turning away as you burned and fizzled alone.
“Word of advice? Don’t waste my time if you don’t plan to take every challenge this program entails seriously.” The lash of his words didn’t need to be filled with profanities to make an impact, nor the heighten of volume like some may assume.
He was filled with quiet precision. A sniper with a scope and steady aim. “I’m not going to waste my time teaching a resident whose absurdity gets the best of them during dire moments. It’s not worth my effort and you’re not worth the aggravation.”
You were stunned, stapled into your position in front of him. It was like watching a bad accident unfold. Park was intact, emotionally stunted, but able to move on with his life without having to rerun the event. You were coming from the wreckage with all types of breaks and fractures. Your stability wiped from under you and recovery was a concept you were not sure could happen with due process.
Therefore, when Park turned around without so much of a glance in your direction as he stood alone in the elevator. You swore you saw the interaction slide off him, taking literally the last thing he muttered to you.
You’re not worth the aggravation. A third-year resident who needed to be coddled and instructed step-by-step on how to do their job properly, like you were a med student. Reprimanded and shunned all at once.
It was an embarrassment to yourself when you locked the door to the private bathroom, leaning against the door with a shaky hand covering your mouth. Truth was, you were frightened Mr. Stevenson would lose his leg after you incautiously neglected him. Not only would you have ruined an innocent man's life (along with yours), but Dr. Park might’ve used it for grounds of terminating your participation in the well-accredited program.
It wouldn’t have been unjustified, but you would never recover.
When you crawled back to the dictation room, night shift was making its way in. You looked around for Sully. Something familiar and safe to fall on to. As you were walking in, Dr. Emmick was walking out, alongside a night-shift resident. She smiled when she caught your eye. If she noticed the hesitation in your response, she didn’t mention it out loud, but she did furrow her brows in question.
Sully lifted his gaze, slight alarm when his eyes peeled from the desktop to the sudden sunken look in your face that was beyond the exhaustion of the shift.
“What happened?” He questioned, hands braced on the desk to push himself up.
You made your way over to him, sinking in the chair beside him. He turned to lean his body toward you, ear burning with anticipation. The subtle shake of your head and the wobble of your chin. He knew exactly what look that was.
Before he could ask a follow up, you sighed, “You’re right. I hate Dr. Park."
A week had passed. You let the dust settle for a week. You weren’t the idiot Dr. Park assumed you were. It didn’t settle because you were overly upset. Refusing to cry in your place of work, you saved the self-pity for your couch, a rom-com too sad to be comedic, and a tub of ice cream in the dark to self-indulge. It worked, because you came in for your next shift, coherent enough for Sully to understand you.
You let it settle to think clearly of the decision you conferred with your roommate about.
It only took you a week to decide with profound confidence because you didn’t want to cave into Dr. Park’s not-so-subtle mark of inferiority for you. Giving in to his brashness meant letting him win. If there was one thing you had decided against was losing the opportunity to prove yourself.
That’s what had you walking down the hall with the sheer determination of someone scorned. At least, you were pretending to be. Steadying your breathing and keeping your chin held high, you were confident enough to confront the current source of your uneasiness.
It was the end of your shift, hand-off concluded and Sully was currently waiting for you in his Prius. He had offered to stick around for moral support, but this was one challenge you had to endure alone.
As you rounded the corner, where most of the offices were, you felt the air thin too short to breath. You couldn’t turn back now—certainly not ten feet away from where Dr. Park was. So mumbling the affirmations, you spoke two feet from the mirror in the morning; you knocked on the door of the office.
“Come in.”
When you pushed open the door, Park sat in a comfortable office chair, desktop resting on a polished, and dark oak wood desk. His finger hovered over the keyboard, and when you met his eye, there was an unmistakable twitch from his nose.
Somehow, his gel combed hair shined brighter under the office light than that of the fluorescence in the OR and the ED. It was a visible recall of discipline and order. Nothing went unnoticed by him and he acted appropriately per his standard.
In the past week, he couldn’t ignore the fact you acted passive compared to your usual friendly demeanor. The very few consultations the two of you wounded up in, you were curt in your evaluations. You no longer sweet-talked conscious patients, and suddenly your reports were too concise. It was as if you were trying to wrap up any form of conversation with him as rapidly as possible.
He knew better than to assume the monologue he gave you hadn’t stung. That was the intention, after all.
You closed the door behind you, opting to respect him and your professional relationship to not blow this into departmental news to gossip about. Hands folded in front of you, it was like being in elementary school all over again. Addressing a teacher or principle with the dignity of an adult, that at the age of 12, was a foreign concept.
Clearing your throat, you offered a tight smile. “I wanted to tell you I have made the decision to transition to night-shift until the end of my residency.”
The glare he spared in return was still razor sharp, but once the words left your mouth, you instinctively searched for there to be something to deceive him. He peeled his arms away from the desk, folding them in his lap. “Admin will want a formal address as to why.”
“Dr. Emmick specializes in spinal and musculoskeletal orthopedics. She’s agreed to mentor me in those sub-specialties.” You explained with no hesitation. Once it landed, you noticed how rehearsed the statement sounded. You tried to seal it with a shaky smile, despite the stiffness in your posture betraying you.
Park examined you. His eyes narrowed and you silently pleaded he’d just accept the lame excuse, tell you to leave, and never have to face him again until the rare chance you’d have to work the dreaded day shift again. The last thing you expected was for him to stand, coming to stop on the other end of the desk. He sat on the edge, bicep muscles curling as he folded his arm over his chest.
If he weren’t so insufferable, you could see yourself drooling over them like some of the nurses did.
“You aren’t interested in spinal or musculoskeletal orthopedics.” He spoke directly. As if he had the faintest idea what you were interested in. You almost opened your mouth to derail his confident theory, before he shook his head. “You love pediatrics. You told Sullivan that in the first week.”
It was scarily true. The first pediatric case you worked on was a scared 7-year old girl who was going to need an amputation. She had strangely accepted the fact she would be missing part of her leg from above the knee and lower. That is what sold pediatric orthopedics for you. Except, Park hadn’t worked that case. He remembered that.
“Is this about last week?” Park sighed out, slight dismay in his tone.
You pursed your lips, hardening your stare. “If it was?”
“I’d tell you not to act so immature.” He remarked, like he was astonished by the fact you even asked the question. “You messed up. It will happen. I will chew you up about it. Grow up and just accept it.”
You dryly laughed at that. Grow up. What a concept?
Had you not matured in the three years from working under his supervision? He molded you under his guise, so much, so the other attendings only saw him in your image. Even with the tenderness you held on to. Meanwhile, he was stubbornly trying to beat it out of you, like a bad habit.
“What’s so funny?” He questioned, although he knew the laugh wasn't amusement. He wasn’t sure he had seen this reaction from the furrow in his brows. Somehow, his eyes were more hooded than before with that tick.
“Everyone seems to mistakenly think I’m your protégé or as they endearingly call me ‘shark pup’” You air quoted the last part, and the various voices utter that name brought upon a distaste in your mouth.
The name was a bag of weights resting on your shoulders. Without intending to, they constantly reminded you of who you were meant to be serving, as if patients weren’t the top priority. It had you running in circles, finding some way to remain impressive and shine enough to be memorable. Dehumanizing the charity of your work for the sake of appeasement.
“Like I want to follow in the footsteps of ‘Park the Shark.’”
Park scoffed. He had never approved the name per se, but he didn't discourage the usage. You saw pride in the shimmer of his eyes as people used it to praise him. All it did for you was remind yourself how negligible you were in his shadow.
You sighed with resignation, your body tired from the neglect on your own behalf. The backpack hanging on your shoulder weighed heavier. “I’m going to be frank Dr. Park; I want to be nothing like you.”
“Is that so?” He proposed, barely flinching from the implication.
“Yes.” Your breathy voice trembled, but you nodded with assurance. “All I want is to be someone honorable enough to treat the people who come in here during their worst moments.”
“I can’t do that with you disparaging me with every mistake or browbeating me around every corner.” Your hands motioned out to the very hospital Park reigned. With his designated office and cushy salary, he’d always terrorize your waters. “Especially when you don’t trust my skill as your resident.”
Maybe this was giving in. You were aspiring to have the same pride in yourself that Park did swimming into the ED or any surgery he led. If you were meant to fail to become great, why did it always feel like Park worked only in perfection?
“I happen to like to connect with my patients as much as I want to treat them and see them recover positively.” Your hand pointed to yourself, emphasizing the obvious difference between his bite and your heart.
The tiny sadness in your eye made Park shift uncomfortably. With his attitude, he must have made dozens of female residents cry. He probably went home satisfied if he crashed and burned the dreams of his students with the daunting reality that life could always get tougher.
“I don’t need you invalidating that method because you’d rather we operate in mechanical-like processes, like we are all just cogs in the machine.”
There was a beat of silence. You wholeheartedly awaited him to laugh in your face. Tell you this was ridiculous, you were too emotional, or even that you just weren’t cut out for the medical profession at all. That was everything you had heard in med-school and more. Yet, here you stood barring yourself clean, no life preserver to fish you out.
“Being emotional costs patients’ lives.” He stoically retorted, as if it had been obvious.
“I don’t see it that way.” You shook your head, lips forming a thin line. This was the final act of whatever the two of you had going on. Whether he appreciated you in silence at all or not, it couldn’t make up for the moments that ruined the illusion of his knowledge.
Too brilliant to apologize.
“Which is why I cannot have you as my attending,” You concluded, as if the argument was always clear.
He straightened his posture, shoulder falling back like a soldier hearing his command. He must have felt some way. Rejected by a resident must have been first, not that it was some record to feel proud of accomplishing. You had mixed feelings. It was all wrong, yet, there was comfort in knowing you had enough of a spine to say something.
Your hands brushed away the small hair tickling your face, “I’m afraid your judgment may hinder mine, and I need to trust in myself if I want to be good enough to be considered for the next attending position.”
That did it. You’d never outwardly said that you sought out an attending offer once your residency was up. If you had, maybe Park would’ve been much harsher than he already was. That certainly would’ve had you considering withdrawing all together.
Park's hands moved to the edge of the desk, gripping on to it as he pursed his lips slightly. Sourness or disbelief in a future where you were making the executive decision matched what you saw in his eye. “We will have to work together. Regardless if you leave the day-shift and especially if you apply for any attending position at PTMC.”
“Together. As colleagues.” You clarified, “Equals. Where I am not just some student you’re expecting to roll over at every word and waiting upon a treat blessed by you.”
There was something snarky in the comment. His nose flared lightly as he bit his tongue. For once, he was speechless, in a way that was aware, you had a score to settle, and he was at a disadvantage. Your hands fell to your side, lightly hitting your thighs. “I’ve already spoken with the program and staffing coordinator. This was mostly a courtesy.”
Then, one curt nod. No fondness of a goodbye, no devastation of your tender disappointment, or resentment for finding some unique way of disappointing him once more. It was bittersweet to terminate what you had come to know, even if it was your form of preservation. This would be your test on whether you could survive without the oh-so-wise knowledge only Park somehow had.
Maybe you could be a good surgeon without him yet.
With one hand on the door, you nodded, as if he spoke enough with his silence. Turning your body slightly, you paused with the door ajar. When you turned halfway, you offered him a tight smile, “I hope by then, you will have accepted I’m not like you, Dr. Park, nor will I ever be.”
When the conversation concluded with a click of the door, a relief shored into your chest. Your muscles released its iron-stiffness that weighed like stones in your pockets. You worried you’d regret the decision, but, how would you know who you are if you weren’t acting as you?
When you peeled your hand away from the handle, you finally noticed the small tremble gone. It was the calm after the storm, huddling in shelter as your world rattled around you. There was work needed to be done to find stability and normalcy again, but you started favoring the future more and more.
Sitting under your own tree and basking in the fruits of your own labor. Sighing in the idea of no longer standing under a man impersonating a territorial shark on dry land. And you’d finally outgrow the ‘pup’ term, once and for all.
thinking about dunk having a pretty woman on his arm, and no one can quite believe she’s actually his, nor that she is so in love with him and pursued him first
everyone’s confused at how a blubbering fool like dunk got a girl like her
Everyone always looked at the pair funny when they arrived into towns and villages seeking a room for the night, the owners offering them two rooms, only for Dunk to bashfully tell them that 'no, one will be fine'. They would look between the two curiously, taking in the look of adoration in her eyes.
It's worse at the tourney when all these well-respected, fine Knights see a pretty maiden trailing behind a hulking figure of a man with rope as a belt, a little bald boy at her side. It has them blinking, unsure if they've perhaps conjured up the image in their minds.
And then they see her tugging on his tunic, pulling him down for a kiss, and their jaws drop. Her... and him? Him... and her?
Even Raymun gathers the courage to ask Dunk about her, and Raymun's stunned when he tells him of how she pestered him on the road until she simply kissed him one day. He'd be a fool for her ever since, he tells Raymun.
premise: the boys confront logan for how he treated you, and he deals with the aftermath. in a heart-to-heart with garrett, he realizes his true feelings for you.
category: enemies (exes) to lovers, heavy angst
word count: around 3.3k
content/trigger warnings: everyone says "fuck" wayyy too much (sorry), a lot of yelling. lmk if there are any other warnings that i missed.
context/author notes: can you tell the writer's block was hitting me when i was writing this part? lol i was struggling. not my best writing, so please bear with me. thank you guys again for the engagement, i appreciate all of you!! as always, feedback is much appreciated. and if you want to be added to the taglist, you can comment on this post or message me! also, if i previously tagged you in an earlier chapter and now you do not want to be tagged anymore, please lmk. if you don't, i will assume that you still want to be tagged. ALSO if i forgot to tag you, please lmk!! i might have either mispelled your account or forgot to copy and paste it from my notes. not proofread as of 06/27/26.
A few days ago, when Beau giddily informed the whole house of his new groupmate, Garrett immediately noticed how Logan’s entire body stilled, shoulders rigid and eyes glued on the marble etched in the kitchen counter. Logan even paid no attention to Dean, who joked that Beau “got her number” before the blond did. So, while the rest of the boys drifted towards the living room to play video games, Garrett remained in the kitchen, standing next to sink, carefully scanning Logan’s face for any changes in his expression.
He planned on telling Logan about the group project, but he wanted to do it privately. Garrett knew that his reaction would be anything but rational.
“Beau already said it, but I want you to hear it again,” Garrett started, walking towards his best friend with arms firmly crossed on his chest. “We were all randomly assigned into groups. I didn’t even know that she was in the same class as us.”
The fact that he even had to clarify that had set off a few alarm bells in Garrett’s hand. When the hockey captain first met you, he expected you to be some sort of…monster. He remembers like it was yesterday the time that Logan drunkenly broke down into tears in the backyard after a party sometime during sophomore year. Everyone else was inside, either trying to fall asleep or hooking up with some random girl in the bathroom. It was just him and Logan.
Nobody dared to ever ask Logan about what happened between the two of you. He placed a very firm boundary to his friends, making it explicitly clear that he would rather skate for twenty-four hours straight than talk about you.
But Logan tore that boundary to shreds that night.
“I was gonna propose, G,” He whispered into his bottle, bloodshot eyes shooting daggers into the grass. “At our high school graduation. Like in Boy Meets World, you remember that? When Topanga proposes?”
Garrett awkwardly let out a chuckle to release some tension, still staring at Logan with unease. They both sat on the lawn chairs, elbows resting on their knees. “Yeah, I do. My mom and I loved watching that show. I seriously thought I’d graduate with a fiancée by my side. Cory and Topanga really set the bar.”
Logan stayed eerily quiet after his response, and Garrett wished he didn’t say anything at all. His regret increased when he heard short, frantic gasp followed by a guttural sob.
“Fuck, that was supposed to be us,” His voice broke as he sobbed, head falling to his knees while his entire body shook. “Cory and Topanga. John and Y/N. But she ruined me. Y/N fucking ruined me.”
Obviously, the image of you that Garrett drew in his head that night was…less than favorable.
But when you confronted him for his crass behavior in the first study session, he realized that he was basing his opinion of you off of very limited information. He knew that you broke Logan’s heart, but Logan never elaborated on what had happened between the two of you. At the same time, Garrett has always been quite patient, understanding that it might take Logan some while to open up about you.
Out of loyalty to Logan, Garrett did not try to become close with you, like Beau did. He interacted with you from a distance.
But he didn’t have to be a fucking prick.
And he knew that he pushed his limits when he suddenly asked you why you were back here. The pain in your eyes stuck with Garrett the entire study session. It was similar to the pain he identified in Logan’s face that night in sophomore year.
Thus, as Garrett leaned against the counter, a small part of him feared Logan’s response.
“She’s never coming here,” Logan finally spoke, spit falling out of his mouth from overenunciating the words, leaving an acidic taste in his throat. “She’s never, ever coming to this house. I don’t give a fuck if you have no place to study. Find one. Study in the goddamn alleyway behind Malone’s, for all I care. I never want to see her in this house.”
Garrett almost flinched at Logan’s harsh words, knuckles gripping the counter. Even though he knew that the malice in Logan’s tone was entirely directed towards you, Garrett’s chest tightened at the anger plastered across his best friend’s face.
Initially, the hockey captain didn’t want to believe anything coming out of your mouth. Logan’s voice would echo powerfully throughout Garrett’s head, repeatedly telling him that “she’s a liar.” But he witnessed the way your body shrunk into itself as you practically surrendered under his gaze.
“You don’t have to like me. Hell, you can even hate me.”
The absolute last thing Garrett wanted was to make anyone feel bad to the point that they have to shrink in front of him. He already knew damn well what that felt like.
But Garrett knew that this moment was not the time to voice his concerns. He had stick behind the man on his right.
“She won’t. I’ll make sure of it,” Garrett affirmed, resolute in his tone. The sound effects of the video game that the boys were playing filled the silence that came afterwards.
Logan only nodded as a response, walking away as his body still remained uncanilly stiff.
Now, on a late Sunday night, Logan comes back to the house, completely exhausted after having to go back to the car shop to replace the brake pads on a family friend’s car. When he walks through the door, the last thing he’s expecting is to see is you, the woman who he spent six months crying over, sitting on his fucking couch. Like it was normal.
And as the heat agonizingly crawls to his chest, slithering all the way up to his neck, he fails to keep his composure in front of everybody. His pathetic attempt at maintaining this façade completely slips.
Garrett’s unusually scathing yell snaps him out of his outburst.
“What the fuck, Logan?” Garrett demands, eyes narrowed at him in exasperation. “What is wrong with you? We were just working on our project, for fuck’s sake.”
At that same moment, Logan’s brain finally registers the stunned looks he’s receiving from his friends. Everyone, except for Garrett, has taken a step back from Logan, staring at the man with such intensity, you’d think he had grown another head on his shoulders.
They’re looking at him as if he’s a wild animal. As if he’s deranged.
He might as well be.
And it’s now that he also realizes that you’re no longer sitting on the couch. You’re not in the living room. You’re not even in the damn house. But Logan’s eyes are unwavering as he ogles at the worn cushion that you were sitting on just a minute ago.
But even when his closest friends are clearly disturbed by his cruel words, he bites back at Garrett.
“What’s wrong with me?” Logan scoffs in disbelief, unforgiving eyes shifting to Garrett, his hand immediately pointing towards him. “I fucking told you that I never want to see her in this house. Or did you forget that?”
“Whoa, Logan—” Tucker starts, but it’s pointless. Logan doesn’t stop. It would be naive to even consider that he would stop.
“You guys seriously couldn’t study anywhere else? I don’t care that this was the ‘best option.’ Don’t hit me with that bullshit,” He snarls, genuinely looking at his best friend in betrayal, as if the act of bringing you into their house was a heinous crime.
Everyone’s eyes drift towards Garrett, anxiously awaiting his response. Even though Garrett is prone to losing his temper, he’s so appalled by the unabashed cruelty laced in Logan’s words, that he stays silent, choosing to process his words instead of speaking immediately.
“Wow,” Garrett mutters, mirthlessly laughing as he looks down to the wooden floors. “Jesus, you’re fucking delusional.”
No one could ever anticipate Logan’s next reaction.
“The fuck did you just say to me?”
And he charges towards Garrett, chest heaving violently and hands curling into fists. Dean and Tucker immediately launch forward to hold him back, gripping onto his shaking body and yelling at him to just “calm down,” even when he’s taunting Garrett to “say it again, I fucking dare you.”
“Okay, what the fuck is going on?” Beau exclaims, head swiveling as he looks between Logan and Garrett. “What’s your problem? Do you know her or something?”
Dean and Tucker continue to hold Logan back, even when his breaths have slowed down just a tad bit.
Logan peers down at his trembling hands, his vision getting hazier by the second. He looks up expectantly to Garrett, who only raises his hands in defeat.
“You’re the one that knows her, Logan,” He sighs, body falling back onto the couch. “Not my story to tell.”
While everyone is staring at him, Logan squeezes his eyes shut, wishing that he stayed at the shop for longer. And that he had never met you.
“Y/N is…She’s my ex-girlfriend from high school,” He quietly admits, and instead of feeling like a colossal weight has been lifted off his chest, his body only feels heavier. “My ex-girlfriend who fucking destroyed me. Who should be halfway across the country and suddenly she’s back here—”
“Wait, what? She’s that ex?” Dean interrupts, abruptly letting go of Logan’s bicep. “You’re fucking with us, right? It’s six weeks into the semester, and you haven’t said shit about any of this.”
Logan feels his pulse pounding in his ears, like an alarm incessantly blaring at him.
“Garrett only knows because I stupidly told him her name when I was drunk off my ass one time. It’s nobody’s business.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Beau scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “We all went together to that diving meet because she impressed us. And now we’re working on a group project with her—a project that determines forty percent of our grade. You don’t have to tell us what happened, but you could’ve given us a warning, don’t you think?”
Before Logan can snap back at him, Dean’s rambunctious, obnoxious laugh reverberates through the living room. The sound infuriates Logan.
“Oh my God, I knew something was off with you,” Dean blurts out, still laughing at Logan incredulously. “You’ve been a moody piece of shit for weeks. You always looked at us like we were crazy whenever we brought Y/N up. Were you ever gonna tell us?”
Logan clenches his jaw so tightly that his teeth begin to ache, and he exhales sharply through his nose. Just burn me at the stake, will you?
“Dean, let it go.”
“Dude, I asked her out, for fuck’s sake. I would’ve stayed away from her if you told me about it,” Dean continues to push, green eyes practically piercing Logan’s soul. “You kept on looking at me with this look of disgust. She’s your high school ex and you’re still mad at her? She seems like a perfectly fine person—”
And, to everyone’s surprise, John Logan, a role model who usually exemplifies control and calmness to his teammates, pounces towards Dean and fists at his shirt.
“Fuck you, Dean! You don’t know her!” Logan yells ferociously in his face, and for the second time tonight, his enraged body needs to be held back by two of his friends again.
“Jesus, Logan, just back off!” Garrett jumps from his spot on the couch, pushing him away from Dean, practically hurdling him towards the wall. “I’m gonna say this for the last fucking time. We were just here working on the project. Beau can attest to that, Tucker can attest to that. You’re being ridiculous.”
At last, Logan shakes his head at his friends, clenched hand pulling back strands of his hair. He then pushes past his friends and heads up the stairs without uttering another word, shutting his door before he could make out whatever Dean shouted at him from downstairs.
His mind begins to race as he paces around his room, trying his best to calm himself down. He harshly blinks back his tears, desperately trying to pull himself away from a neurotic spiral.
Logan knows he’s being irrational, and he’s trying so damn hard not to hate you. But whenever someone utters your name, his body immediately transports him back to that dreadful night. It’s instinctual, practically a reflex.
He still feels the bitter twinge in his throat after engaging in that brutal screaming match with you. He still feels the throbbing inside his chest when you walked away from him. And he still feels the weight of the velvet box sinking into his pocket, wanting to reach for it like a phantom limb.
His brain tries to escape you, but his body keeps all of the memories.
Logan’s limbs crumple onto his mattress. He sobs into his hands until he can no longer breathe.
He plays horribly in the game against Suffolk.
He misses all of the passes, scores zero goals, and stumbles on the ice. He feels like a baby giraffe learning how to walk for the first time. And that’s a generous description.
Garrett shouts at him several times, Tucker gives him many disappointed looks, and Coach Jensen yells at him, relegating him to the bench for the rest of the game.
The game ends in a draw, and everyone is pissed. “Fuck, it was supposed to be an easy game,” he hears Birdie mutter when the referee blows the final whistle. Dean glares at him on his way to the locker room, Tucker immediately ignores him, and Garrett just wanders off to talk to this one girl in the stands that he can’t shut up about. If Logan overhears “Hannah did this” or “Hannah did that” one more time, he’ll move out of the damn house. At this point, he doubts that his housemates would mind.
It has been more than a week since Logan’s outburst. Garrett, Dean, and Tucker barely exchange any words with him, only talking to him about potential game strategies or broken pipes around the house.
You also never come back to the house. In fact, the boys don’t even mention your name around him. They talk about you in the backyard, in someone’s room, or in a corner in the living room, all far way from him. A few days ago, he pathetically eavesdropped on Beau’s conversation with Dean.
“She only wants to meet virtually,” Beau said, casually passing the blunt to Dean. Logan stood near the entrance to the backyard, away from the two of them. “We use Zoom or FaceTime or whatever.”
“Shit, you guys don’t even meet at the library?” Dean asked, taking a hit from the blunt.
“Nah, she doesn’t want to see us in person anymore. She hasn’t even been to class for the past week. Something about a family emergency, I think.”
With each passing day, the guilt chips away pieces of his heart. After the hell you put him through, he never thought he’d feel bad for sending you out of the house.
It all comes to a head on the following weekend, when he overhears Garrett’s words to Tucker while the two sit on the kitchen counter.
“We got a 97. I never thought we’d get a score that high,” Garrett tells Tucker in amazement, even chuckling a little bit. “Y/N gave such a good explanation on anomic suicide. She really saved our asses.”
Logan walks into the kitchen immediately while Garrett’s in the middle of talking, and it’s way too late to walk away acting like he didn’t hear his words. His body freezes, and Garrett instantly narrows his eyes at his best friend.
“Don’t worry. She’s ‘never’ coming back here again. Pretty sure you banished her for life,” He rolls his eyes at Logan, walking over to the sink where he stands.
Logan’s mouth runs dry, failing to find the right words to respond with. In his two and a half years of knowing Garrett, he’s never felt intimidated by him. But now, he feels like a child underneath his gaze.
Garrett scoffs at the dazed look on Logan’s face, turning away to head to the stairs. Tucker stays silent the entire time, pretending to scroll on his phone to escape the tension.
Naturally, Garrett Graham doesn’t exit the conversation without leaving one last sucker punch.
“Oh, and by the way, she also immediately took herself off the groupchat once we turned it in,” He pointedly looks at Logan from the stairs. “I was going to text her to congratulate her on the grade, but I’d thought I’d run it by your royal highness first, of course.”
And once Garrett disappears off the stairs, Logan stands motionless for a few seconds, knuckles turning white as he grips the counter.
A minute later, Logan surprises himself when he rushes up the stairs, heading towards Garrett’s room. His door is wide open, and Logan clears his throat when he knocks on the door.
Garrett looks up at him from his desk chair, lips pulled into a thin line, and shrugs.
“What do you want?”
Logan bites his bottom lip, body slumping on the doorway. He breathes in a deep inhale.
“I just…” He trails off, and Garrett raises his eyebrows, looking at him impatiently. “Sorry. Sorry, I know I’m being ridiculous with all of this. I don’t know, I just never wanted you to take her side.”
“Do you hear yourself?” Garrett scoffs, shaking his head. “Is this fucking middle school? I’m not ‘taking sides.’ We had to work together for a group project. We were polite to each other. We never talked about anything else besides the project, even when Beau invited her to hang out with us several times.”
Logan gulps, parting his lips to reply. But Garrett beats him to it.
“When we first met up for the project, I was on the lookout for you. Making sure she didn’t say or do anything bad. And I acted like a complete asshole, asking her why she’s back here even though it was only my second time talking to her. For fuck’s sake, she told me that I could ‘hate’ her for what she did to you. She just asked that we work together professionally, and that’s what we did.”
“So, I’m not going to act like a dick to someone I have to work with, especially when I don’t know why she’s such a horrible person to begin with,” He enunciates, making sure that Logan actually hears him. “You constantly allude to Y/N ‘destroying’ but you have never told me what she did. I understand that it takes time open up about this kind of stuff, and I do want to be your own side. But it’s hard when I witness you berate her and she just takes it and rushes out the door.”
Logan visibly flinches at Garrett’s last sentence, placing his left hand on the doorway to center himself. Garrett’s words were a wake-up call.
Fuck, I really did berate her.
When Logan remains silent, Garrett turns away, thinking that their conversation has clearly ended.
“I’ve been lying to myself for two years, thinking that I was over her because I hated her,” Logan quietly confesses, voice so low that Garrett barely registers what he’s saying. “But, I never got past what she did to me.”
For the first time in twelve or so days, Garrett truly looks at him like he’s found his best friend again. The lump grows in Logan’s throat.
“I mean, if you were over someone, you’d be indifferent. You wouldn't give a shit,” Garrett says softly. “You are definitely not over her.”
Logan’s mind ruthlessly takes him back to the day he confronted you after the meet. He remembers the pure agony etched on your face when you pleaded with him to stay away from you. Hell, he still replays that moment before he goes to sleep.
“so, i’m not going to act like a dick to someone i have to work with, especially when i don’t know why she’s such a horrible person to begin with,”
wack him again garrett!!!!!
because that’s exactly what i was thinking in part two.
he has every right to feel upset and uncomfortable around the fact that his ex girlfriend now goes to his school and is involved in his friend group.
BUT he can’t just start spazzing out at her for simply existing. breakups are never easy but instead of acknowledging his hurt he’s only making things worse.
glad he’s coming to his senses.
i love how you can really feel the friendship between john logan and garrett too. because despite not having any context he still was looking out for his friend. and when he obviously was in the wrong he came to him about it and wouldn’t let him just go on acting like berating her in front of the whole house was okay.
dean hitting on her was soooo 😭😭
typical dean behavior lmao
and tuck trying figure about what was going on like omg
love the guys in this!! they didn’t just let the situation go they made john know he needed to get his shit together.
bakugou finds a list you made before you dated him
“one. big cock and knows how to use it. two and it’s in all caps. EATER.”
you rest on your forearms on your sofa, looking across the living room to your boyfriend who has appeared from your bedroom. he’s reading a crumpled sheet of paper from god knows where with a massive grin on his face.
“did you get the fan from my room? katsuki, it’s hot!” you whine petulantly. you've got your thin shorts and bralette on, trying to fight the heatwave that has taken over your city.
the heat has beat you down, left you stranded in your living room with three ice lolly packets in your path and skin sticky. you can feel the sweat trickle down your spine, you can see it gathered on katsuki’s exposed forehead, yet he still stands there reading.
“hold on, i’m lovin’ this,” he says, gold tooth shining as his mouth stretches wider, “three. rich and generous with it. is that right? you with me for my cock and money?”
you blink at him a few times, trying not to get distracted by his shirtless bare chest or the black headband he’s got on to push his unruly blonde locks back. he’s handsome, deliciously so. still, you think back to why everything he’s saying is so familiar.
“four. handsome. deliciously so. body and face. rare,” bakugou laughs, boyish and booming, “thanks, babe.”
you feel uncomfortable, perspiration dribbling between your breasts, limbs heavy with exhaustion.
“what is that? what are you reading?”
still bakugou ignores you and continues reading from the paper, “five. successful and ambitious. six. good friend even though he pretends he’s not. protective!! seven. so gentlemanly, holding open doors, paying for dates, very clear on why he likes me.” ruby pupils flicker over to you, “that last one is bare minimum.”
then it clicks, about seven points too late. your head snaps over to him robotically, eyes about to fall out of your head. “where the hell did you find that! stop reading it! stop katsuki!”
you hop up from your seat on your sofa, speed like no other taking over you as you run across the room to grab at the paper in bakugou’s hands. his laugh only booms louder, holding the flimsy sheet in the air over your head as you jump like a child.
“seriously, don’t read anymore!” you shout, trying to hoist yourself up his larger body, using his arms and shoulder as a climbing frame.
nothing about bakugou budges, he just continues reading with the paper in the air.
“it’s getting good, baby!” he laughs, ignoring your jumps and furrowed brows, “eight. listens to me. really listens. makes me feel heard and remembers what i say.”
he looks down at you, whose fingertips are slapping the bottom of the paper. you recognise it all too clearly now. the pink ruled lines, the edges ripped out from one of your old notebooks. your handwriting. “that’s cute. i still listen to you, don’t i?”
“you’re not now! give it back!”
“i’m almost done, two more,” bakugou says, hooking his arm behind your back to keep you locked close to him. you’re both sweaty and sticky. you’ve got no choice but to listen, “nine. cooks. such a good cook! you added five exclamation marks there. ten. fulfils some of my love languages. some?”
“now stop.” you urge. he can’t turn the paper around. he can’t.
bakugou pecks your forehead, his cheeks blushed with all the compliments. he continues skimming the list, rereading it.
“so this is why you chose to date me, huh?” he looks down at you, pouts his lips, “c'mon gimme a kiss.”
if you just grab it out his hands, he won’t see the other side. with pros always comes—
he stops pouting at you.
“give me the paper. i wrote this all a few years ago!”
“if these are the pros, where’s the cons? you must have done a cons list.”
you shake your head, side to side. he holds the paper away from you. the opposite side, the list of all your cons, written back at you. you loop out of his arm, trying to reach for it.
he notices you staring, eyes fixated and that’s when he flips the paper around. CONS in big red capital lettering.
“this is private! you weren’t meant to see this, you shouldn’t be snooping in my room!” you squeak but bakugou’s already half down the page, pupils running across every line like he’s in a race.
“one. WILL choose his job over me—,”
“well obviously, your job is to save the world!”
“two. odd relationship with his mother? but apparently it’s better than before.”
“it’s so much better now!”
bakugou’s eyebrows drop now, voice getting lower as he continues, “three. argumentative. argues with EVERYONE. his agency workers, the media and his friends.”
“i understand why you argue with them all now! it makes sense!”
“three. his job is terrifying.”
bakugou looks over to you, solemn narrowed eyes and you don’t have a positive word to say about that.
“it is, sometimes i don’t know if you’ll come home.”
“four. he doesn’t do much else besides work. all his friends are from work.” bakugou pinches his nose bridge, “really? you think that?”
“now i don’t! and i know they’re childhood friends and… and we do things together all the time. i know you love to read, game, you’ve got your lego. i didn’t know all of that then.”
“five. don’t know if my friends and family will understand.” bakugou steps away from you, “the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
you huff on the spot, “this was from when i met you! all they’ve seen of you is shouting and yelling on the television. they didn’t know how lovable you are. how well you treat me.”
bakugou looks at you, then back at the paper. scratches his head. “six. inexperienced with sex but it’s really cute. has never had a girlfriend?”
“but number one pro is that you know how to use it. obviously we’re experienced now, we know everything about each other,” you flick your finger between you and your boyfriend.
“and the girlfriend comment? i can’t help the fact you’re my first.”
“no, i mean yes i know that. it was just a question as to why. it doesn’t mean anything to me now.”
“but it was a factor in whether you wanted to be my girlfriend,” he states.
“well, yeah,” you drawl, “i thought maybe there was a reason as to why. that’s all.”
bakugou raises his eyebrows, looks back at the sheet, “seven. doesn’t always have time for me. travels a lot for work.”
“that hasn’t changed.” bakugou grunts. it’s something he knows you struggle with while dating him. it’s even been a conversation you’ve had a few times throughout your relationship. quality time. you want to spend more time with him but he simply can’t.
you sigh, grabbing his chin between your fingers so he looks directly at you. his eyes are half lidded, cheeks red and exhausted from the negativity and heat. “we’ve been through this. i’m still gonna stick by you, everything i love about you means more than all the things i find difficult.”
he takes your palm away from your face and squeezes it. but you can tell he’s feeling off. “the last one. eight, he’s surrounded by beautiful women all the time.”
“you’re with celebrities, pro heroes, socialites a lot,” you shrug, “that was jealousy on my part, nothing to do with you.”
“i don’t give a fuck about any of that.”
you nod sharply, “i know! i wrote this a while ago, two years even? a lot has changed.”
bakugou sighs from the pit of his stomach, then flings his head back in a huff. “fuck, baby.” he groans.
then he looks down at you, looking up at him.
“just wanna put it out there, that was private, you weren’t meant to see that, my opinions have now changed and i’m sure you had a mental pro con list for me. i just wrote mine down.”
bakugou folds the paper, “yeah, yeah, i get it. you hate my job that much, huh? it covered half of the fuckin’ cons.
“i also said i liked you were successful and ambitious.” you sit on the back of the sofa, crossing your arms.
bakugou mirrors you standing, crossing his arms too. “but nothing about my job has changed since we’ve got together.”
you groan, leaning your head on your shoulder, “katsuki, i think you’re making problems out of nothing here.”
“you made a list of the problems with datin’ me.” he frowns, holding the folded paper between two fingers.
“and a list of the reasons why i wanted to date you. obviously the good reasons won if i’m with you now.” you glare at him with a sharp tone.
he begins to pace around the room, paper still in hand. a terrible sign. you watch as sweat trickles down his skin, body flush with heat.
“but, babe. the problems you’ve had with me from before we were dating are still problems now. i still don’t have time for you, you still are terrified every time i’m minutes late from a mission, you don’t think i’d choose you over my job and you don’t think i do anything but work.”
you moan aloud, “and i still want you despite that all. i get the world needs you, heck, i need you if i come across a villain. i don’t hate you for being a hero.”
he stops behind you, on the other side of the sofa, “i don’t want you to resent me when you realise you could have been with someone who does have more time for you, isn’t obsessed with their job, can put you first and doesn’t scare you.”
you hop off the sofa. leaning your forehead on his collarbone. “katsuki. i wouldn’t be here if i didn't want to be. i love you. i choose you everyday. i don’t want to argue with you.”
bakugou doesn’t touch you. there’s a shake to his voice, “i’m sorry i’m not better. i’m gonna try to be. just wait for me, fuck, maybe when i’m slower and the younger lot take over, they’ll need me less. it’s just now—,”
“it’s okay. you have time for me right now but you wanna argue with me," you pout up at him.
“you did put that i’m argumentative,” he looks away from you as your hands link around his neck.
“look at me.”
shiny lava red pupils find you. you ground him, takes him out of the what ifs and the failures of his past and places him in the present with you.
“i have dated bakugou katsuki for two years and i love him so much. i love how kind and generous he is, always putting his loved ones first. how he dedicates his life and body to saving the world. how even if he’s tired from a long week of working, he still comes over to cook me a three course meal because he wants to see me eat his food. who was so open and willing to change for me. to change his routines and learn my body. who is argumentative because he wants to make things right. who wanted so hard for my family and friends to love him and manages to see his mother once a week just to check up on her.”
you search in both his eyes and he’s listening, he always is.
“i can write an updated list for you, if you want.”
he shakes his head, stuffs his forehead into your neck and slowly pushes you down into the sofa. you laugh, his hands plastered into your waist as his body crushes you in the plush cushions ever so slightly.
“‘m sorry. i shouldn’t have read it. even though i enjoyed the pros.” he muffles, lips tickling your skin.
you tap his shoulder. “you shouldn’t have but it’s okay. i still need you to get my fan. it’s hot.”
“promise you’ll tell me if you want somethin’ to change between us. i’m not wakin’ up one day to you leavin’ me for a reason right under my nose.” he urges and you can see him pleading. the desperation for you to agree.
“promise. now you promise me.”
“course i promise. i couldn’t even fill out ten reasons as to why i hate you.”
“i didn't say i hate you. and sure you can. you hate my cold feet. you hate how i moan about my job. you hate how i hate your job. you hate how i always want a massage. you hate how i wait until the last minute when you’re tucked up in bed for you to get me a glass of water. you hate how i’m indecisive for what i want for my birthdays and—,”
bakugou sits up, “i don't hate any of that shit. love listenin’ to you and half that shit is cute as hell.”
you pout, “you hate when i wear low cut tops out—,”
he frowns, “that’s foreplay, baby. you let me suck your tits after to make me happy. couldn’t give a shit what you wear.”
“how about how protective my friends are? and the fact i tell them everything?”
bakugou shrugs, “you deserve friends that love you that much and that you can tell everythin’.”
“i get snappy when i’m running late or too much is going on or i’m hot.”
with that bakugou gets up. your fan. though not without hovering over you to give you a peck. then another. you press your soft lips against his though you don’t open up because then you will get even hotter and snappy.
he pulls off you and rises from the sofa, “that makes sense, baby. you’re stressed and uncomfortable.”
you roll your eyes, “stop being so understanding!”
he walks towards your bedroom, but not without turning around to look at you. his fingers grip the door frame, “i love you.”
summary: in which dean notices the quiet, suspicious intimacy growing between beau and his sister.
pairing: beau maxwell x fem!dilaurentisreader
notes: hi!! thank you so much for your request. i hope i've done your idea justice <3 💌
ˋ°•*⁀➷ in other words, four times dean notices moments between beau and y/n that feel a little too intimate to ignore, and the one time he finally catches on.
ꪆৎ
the car ride
the thing about cape cod was that it had always felt like tradition.
same beach house, same salt-heavy air, same worn wooden deck that creaked under bare feet, same maxwells, same di laurentis family.
for as long as you could remember, summers were spent in cape cod. beach days, late-night bonfires, shared dinners, too many drinks, too much laughter.
it was familiar in the kind of way that felt permanent, except this summer, everything had changed. somehow, somewhere between classes at briar and now, beau maxwell had stopped being just your brother’s best friend and started becoming yours.
secretly, quietly, completely.
which meant one thing.
dean could absolutely never find out.
the first time dean nearly catches on, it happens before you even reach the holiday house, which in hindsight, should've been a clear warning. luckily, he brushes it off as nothing.
dean drives, claiming it’s because he knows the route better, but really, it’s because he has control issues, deeply mistrusting anyone else behind the wheel.
you sit in the backseat, legs tucked beneath you, sunglasses pushed up into your hair, one hand wrapped around an iced coffee.
beau sits in the passenger seat. too close, yet too far all at once.
he looks unfairly good for someone who’d been awake since six that morning, like he hadn’t spent half the night before in your dorm room, his hands warm against your waist as he kissed you breathless against the wall until you’d both lost track of time.
his hair is still damp from a shower, one arm resting against the open window, tanned skin catching the late morning light. every now and then, his gaze flicks to the rearview mirror, meeting yours.
never long enough for dean to notice, but always long enough to make your pulse jump.
“so,” dean says, one hand loose on the wheel. “ground rules for the week.”
you immediately groan from the backseat. “oh my god.” beau’s mouth twitches in amusement.
dean glances at you in the mirror. “don’t start.”
“we haven’t even arrived and you’re already lecturing me.”
“because i know you.”
“you know nothing.”
“i know enough to know you make questionable decisions near large bodies of water.”
you sit forward slightly. “that was one time.”
“you fell off a paddleboard while it was still tied to the dock, y/n.”
"i was nine years old!"
beau coughs into his hand, attempting to hide his laughter. you narrow your eyes, gaze landing on the back of his head. “don’t laugh.”
he glances back at you, eyes warm. “i didn’t say anything.”
“your shoulders moved.”
beau turns to look out the window, still smiling, feigning innocence.
you hate him a little for how easily he can do that. how easily he can sit in the front seat, acting as though nothing is happening. like he hadn’t slipped his fingers around your waist for one fleeting second while dean loaded the cooler into the trunk. like he hadn’t whispered, “i miss you,” even though you had been standing two feet apart.
dean keeps talking. something about not getting lost, not swimming too far out, and not letting joanna convince you to jump off the dock after midnight.
you hear maybe half of it, because beau’s hand has shifted. casual, at first, resting near the centre console, then lower. closer to the gap between the seats.
your eyes drop instantly. his fingers hang loosely there, hidden from dean's direct line of sight.
an invitation.
you stare at his hand for a second too long before reaching forward, pretending to grab something from the cupholder. your fingers brush his gently. the action so brief, yet enough for beau to react.
you notice the smallest flex of his hand, like he wants to catch yours and hold it.
“you listening, y/n?” dean asks suddenly.
your head snaps up. “yes.”
your brother looks at you in the rearview mirror. “what did i just say?” you blink. beau turns his face towards the window once more.
traitor.
“you said...” you start slowly, buying time. “to make good choices.”
dean stares at you. “that is the vaguest answer you could’ve possibly given.”
beau loses the internal battle he must've been having with himself, laughing under his breath.
dean glances at him briefly, “what?”
beau shakes his head in response. “nothing.”
dean's eyebrows furrow temporarily, looking at his best friend for a few seconds more. not suspicious yet, just watching. you feel beau’s hand pull back instantly, and the absence of it makes your chest ache.
-
an hour later, somewhere after the second gas station stop, dean brings up a topic that almost ruins everything.
“oh y/n,” he says casually, like he hasn’t just lit a match in the middle of the car. “someone asked about you last week.”
you look up from your phone. “me?”
“yeah.”
beau’s body stills, not much, but enough that you notice. dean reaches for his drink. “a guy from hockey. matthews.”
your face blanks slightly. “who?”
“exactly,” dean says. “which is why i told him no chance.”
you frown. “you told him no chance?”
“obviously.”
“dean.”
“what?”
“you can’t just police every interaction that may come my way.”
“i absolutely can.”
beau stays facing forward, but you catch the way his jaw ticks, fingers tightening briefly where his arm rests against the window. it's subtle, small enough that dean misses it entirely, however you don’t, of course you don’t.
“he asked if you were seeing anyone,” dean continues, completely unaware of the way your pulse had started to climb. “i told him no, and that he should probably leave it there.”
you stare at him. “that’s insane.”
“that’s brotherly.”
“that’s overstepping, dean.”
“same thing.”
beau joins the conversation before he seems to think better of it. “you told him she wasn’t seeing anyone?”
the car goes quieter, not silent, but quieter.
dean glances sideways at him. “yeah.”
beau keeps his gaze on the road. “right.”
your fingers tighten around your phone, anxiety coursing throughout your body. dean’s brows pull together slightly. “why?”
beau shrugs, attempting to be casual. “just asking.”
“since when do you care who my sister’s dating?”
there it is, the first crack.
you feel yourself almost stop breathing. beau doesn’t look at you, doesn’t move, doesn’t panic. he just leans back against the seat and says, “i don’t.” a beat passes, then he adds. “i just think maybe y/n can answer for herself.”
your heart twists. dean’s eyes narrow slightly, caught somewhere between amused and confused. “wow,” he says. “that's very noble of you."
you kick the back of his seat. “shut up.”
dean laughs, and the tension breaks, barely, but not completely. beau looks in the rearview mirror a few seconds later, and this time, when your eyes meet, there’s something there.
something possessive, something frustrated, something almost apologetic.
dean sees just enough of that glance to go quiet, only for a second, but you notice, so does beau.
2. the annual di laurentis & maxwell beach volleyball match
the second time dean nearly catches on, it happens during the annual beach volleyball match, which is ridiculous, because the annual match is usually the least romantic event of the entire summer.
the teams change every year, mostly because dean insists on drafting like he’s building an olympic roster instead of playing barefoot volleyball with relatives and family friends on a beach. this year, you end up on a different team to beau. which is both a blessing and a curse.
a blessing because standing beside him would have been dangerous. a curse because standing across from him somehow turns out to be worse.
he's shirtless, which shouldn't matter, because you've seen him shirtless before, many times.
recently, privately.
with your hands against his chest, his mouth at your throat, his voice soft in your ear telling you to stay quiet. you should have been immune. unfortunately, you're not, not even close.
beau stands on the opposite side of the net beside joanna, sunlight catching on his shoulders, hair pushed back messily from the ocean.
you’re wearing a bikini you had almost talked yourself out of wearing. dean had barely glanced at you before immediately pointing at the sunscreen bottle, “don't make me remind you again.”
you had thrown a towel at his head.
beau, on the other hand, had looked once, only once, then very deliberately looked away, which told you everything.
the game starts messy.
dean is competitive in a way that makes everyone want to either laugh or throw something at him, joanna cheats shamelessly, and beau keeps failing at pretending he isn’t watching you, his attention drawn to you like instinct.
then the guys arrive. not your guys, not anyone’s guys.
just a group from a nearby beach house. loud, sunburnt, carrying beers they definitely should have finished slower. they linger too close to the edge of the game, watching. mostly you.
you feel it before you see it. that prickling awareness of eyes staying too long. one of them says something under his breath to another, and they both laugh.
you miss the ball, dean notices immediately. “you good?” he calls from beside you.
“yeah,” you say, shaking it off. “sun got in my eyes.”
beau’s gaze has already shifted. not to the ball, not to dean, to them.
his expression changes so subtly most people probably would have missed it. his shoulders square slightly, jaw tightening. the warmth in his face completely gone.
you feel your stomach dip, because beau can’t do anything, not really. not without making it obvious, not without stepping into a role nobody is supposed to know he has.
that might be the worst part of keeping something secret. it's not the sneaking around or the lying, it's the consistent restraint. the way love has to sit quietly inside your chest even when every instinct tells it otherwise.
the next serve comes hard, and you dive for it, sand scraping your knees as you manage to bump the ball up. dean shouts something triumphant, joanna yells that it doesn't count.
you laugh breathlessly, pushing yourself up onto your hands. following your action one of the guys whistles. low, obvious, clearly directed at you. your smile falters.
beau hears it, everyone hears it, but he reacts first.
“you wanna keep your eyes on the game?” he snaps.
the beach stills slightly. your head lifts, dean turns. the guy raises his hands, laughing. “relax, man.”
beau doesn’t smile. “then stop being fucking weird.”
beau is usually easy, relaxed, charming when he wants to be. this is different. this is sharp, personal.
dean looks between beau and the guys, then back to you. you can practically see the pieces moving in his head. you stand quickly, brushing sand from your thighs.
“beau,” you say softly, too softly. his eyes cut to you immediately, not like a family friend, not like someone who has known you forever. more like someone who belongs to you, like he forgot, for one second, that he wasn’t allowed to.
dean sees that too, his expression shifting, just slightly.
“you okay?” beau asks.
you swallow. “yeah.”
dean’s brows lift. “why wouldn’t she be okay?”
beau’s eyes flick towards your brother, and for one terrifying second, you think he might say something stupid. something honest. instead, he shrugs.
“because those guys are being assholes.”
dean stares at him, then slowly turns towards the guys. “he’s right,” dean says, and just like that, big brother dean takes over.
which should be helpful.
except now beau looks like he wants to murder someone, dean looks like he’s trying to understand why beau cares so much, and you're standing between them in a bikini, wishing the ocean would swallow you whole.
3. 'one double chocolate chip ice cream with sprinkles, please'
the third time dean nearly catches on, it happens because of double chocolate chip ice cream. by now, he knows he's not just simply imagining it
the afternoon starts on the boat. everyone spends hours out on the water. your skin feels warm from the sun, salt drying in your hair, laughter carried away by the wind.
beau looks incredibly good it almost feels painful.
he sits near the back of the boat, sunglasses on, one arm stretched along the seat behind him, t-shirt abandoned somewhere near the cooler. every time the boat cuts over a wave, his stomach tightens slightly, and you have to pretend very hard that you're looking out at the horizon.
you're of course not looking out at the horizon. you're looking at your boyfriend, from beneath your sunglasses, like a coward, like a girl undeniably in love.
later that evening, beau docks the boat. everyone wanders into town for ice cream.
the shop is crowded, sticky floors and bright menus, families packed shoulder to shoulder, kids running around with melting cones already dripping onto their hands. before you can order, joanna tugs you back outside, insisting she needs your opinion on a bracelet in the little store next door.
which leaves dean and beau inside, alone, with your order.
it should mean nothing.
however, when you and joanna finally meet them outside, beau is already holding two cones. one mint chocolate for himself, one double chocolate chip for you.
complete with rainbow sprinkles. your favourite order. exactly.
dean’s gaze drops to the cones in beau’s hands before settling on his best friend, an unreadable expression on his features.
“how’d you know that?”
beau looks at him. “know what?”
“y/n's order.”
you step forward quickly. “everyone knows my order.” dean turns to you. “no, i know your order.”
“congratulations?”
“why does he know your order?”
beau’s face remains calm, infuriatingly calm. “she gets it every year.”
dean points at him. “i do not like how reasonable that answer was.”
joanna laughs from behind you. “dean, you’re being insane.”
“am i?”
“yes.”
dean looks at you again as you take the cone from beau carefully.
your fingers brush his. a mistake, another one. beau’s thumb moves, not much, just a small, instinctive stroke over your knuckle before he lets go.
dean’s expression goes blank. not angry, not yet. just very, very still.
you immediately shove the ice cream toward your mouth like that can somehow undo the last three seconds.
“good?” beau asks quietly. too quietly.
you nod. “yeah.”
dean stares, his gaze moving between you and beau, something unreadable settling over his features.
for the rest of the afternoon, he watches, and once he starts noticing, he can’t seem to stop.
he notices the way beau instinctively walks behind you on the crowded sidewalk, one hand briefly brushing your back to steer you away from a cyclist. the way you pass him your water bottle without even looking, and he takes it without question, like it’s something you’ve done a hundred times before.
dean isn’t entirely sure what he’s seeing yet, but he knows enough to realise this isn’t nothing.
4. jealousy, jealousy
the drinks night is supposed to be casual, which in hindsight, is exactly why it becomes a problem.
it’s just you, beau, dean and joanna at your favourite beachside bar in town, tucked around a small table beneath warm string lights, the air sticky with salt, and music low enough that everyone still has to lean in slightly to hear each other.
dean is, predictably, thriving.
he’s halfway through a beer, leaning against the back of his chair with that stupidly charming smile on his face while some girl at the next table over keeps glancing at him.
joanna notices first.
“oh my god dean" she mutters into her straw. “she’s been looking at you for ten minutes.”
dean’s brows lift. “has she?”
you snort. “don’t act humble. it doesn’t suit you.”
dean's gaze shifts to yours as a smirk graces his features. “what can i say...i’m naturally magnetic, y/n.”
“you’re naturally annoying.”
beau laughs quietly beside you, the sound brushing over you in the way it always does. low, familiar, private even when everyone else can hear it.
you don’t look at him. you can’t.
his knee is pressed lightly against yours beneath the table, hidden by the shadows and the angle of joanna's chair. it has taken every ounce of self-control in your body not to lean into him properly.
dean catches the girl’s eye and smiles. that’s all it takes, within five minutes, she’s at the table. pretty, confident, already laughing at something dean says before he’s even finished saying it.
then, because apparently the universe has decided to punish you personally, two of her friends follow suit.
one of them looks directly at beau and you feel your stomach drop.
she’s tall, sun-kissed, wearing a white linen dress. she has the kind of easy smile that comes from knowing it’s almost always returned.
“hi,” she says, leaning slightly towards him. “i’m natalie.”
beau glances at her politely, tipping his head in greeting. “beau.”
“beau,” she repeats, like she’s testing how it sounds. “that’s cute.”
your fingers tighten around your glass. joanna's eyes flick to you immediately. she knows, of course she does.
dean is too busy flirting to notice anything yet, but joanna sees the way your smile stills. the way you look down at your drink instead of across the table. the way beau’s knee presses a little more firmly against yours, like he feels the shift before you even say a word.
“are you here for the summer too?” natalie asks.
“just the week,” beau says.
polite, short, safe.
not rude enough to raise questions, not warm enough to invite anything. still, it burns.
she doesn’t know he’s yours.
she doesn’t know that his hand had been at your waist fifteen minutes ago in the hallway outside the bathrooms, thumb brushing beneath the hem of your shirt while he whispered that you looked beautiful.
she doesn’t know anything, and you hate that she’s allowed to look at him like she might.
“you should come by our place later,” natalie says, smile widening. “we’re having people over.”
beau pauses and you feel your throat tighten instinctively. dean, finally tuning back in, glances over with lazy amusement. “look at that, maxwell. making friends.”
your nails press lightly into your palm beneath the table.
beau doesn’t look at dean. he looks at you, just for half a second, too quick for anyone else, long enough for your heart to twist.
he turns back to natalie. “thanks, but we’ve already got plans.”
your chest loosens slightly. natalie tilts her head. “all of you?”
beau’s mouth lifts faintly, but his voice stays steady. “yeah.”
dean narrows his eyes slightly. “do we?”
joanna immediately kicks him under the table.
“ow.”
“yes,” she says brightly. “we do.”
you take a sip of your drink to hide your smile. natalie lingers for another second, clearly not used to being dismissed that gently, then shrugs and lets one of her friends pull her back towards the bar.
the moment she’s gone, dean looks between all of you.
“why are you guys being so weird?”
joanna rolls her eyes. “because you make everything weird.”
you stand suddenly, grabbing your drink. “i’ll be back, i'm going to grab some water.”
you slip through the crowd towards the bar, heart beating too fast for something so small, because it is small. you know it’s small. beau didn’t flirt back, he barely even smiled, but secrecy makes everything feel sharper.
every glance someone gives him feels like a reminder that the world still thinks he’s available.
you’re waiting at the bar when he appears beside you. not touching, not close enough to be obvious, but there.
“y/n,” he says quietly.
you keep your eyes on the counter. “you didn’t have to follow me.”
“yeah,” he says softly. “i did.”
you swallow. for a second, neither of you speak.
beau leans one elbow against the bar, studying your expression. “talk to me.”
your grip tightens slightly around your drink. “it’s silly, beau.”
his voice stays gentle. “i don’t think it is.”
you exhale slowly, trying to put words to the feeling. “it’s not even about her.”
beau stays quiet, letting you speak.
your voice softens, “it’s just… hard sometimes.” finally, you look at him. “having to sit there and act like i don’t care.”
something in his expression shifts immediately. understanding, softness, guilt.
he glances down briefly, then back at you. “i’m sorry, y/n.”
you blink. “for what?”
“for putting you in that position.” his voice is low, steady. “for making you feel like you have to pretend none of this matters.”
your chest tightens, “beau-”
“because it does matter.”
his gaze doesn’t leave yours. “you matter.”
your expression softens. his hand shifts on the bar, close enough that his fingers brush yours for half a second. quick. hidden.
“she didn’t matter.”
your breath catches.
his voice stays quiet. “i knew exactly who i was leaving with tonight.”
emotion lodges somewhere in your throat. you look down, a small smile finally pulling at your lips once more.
“i’m sorry.”
beau’s brows pull together slightly. “don’t apologise.”
“i know she didn’t mean anything,” you say softly. “i just… had a moment.”
his expression turns impossibly gentle. “you’re allowed to.” silence settles between you again, but it feels softer now, steadier. “are we okay?” he asks quietly.
this time, your smile comes easier. small. warm.
“yeah.”
some of the tension leaves his shoulders. “okay.”
he says it so softly it almost sounds like relief.
back at the table, dean watches the two of you standing side by side at the counter, not touching, not too close, nothing obvious.
yet, something about it feels strangely intense, serious. your expressions are soft but focused, like you’re having a conversation that matters.
beau says something quietly. you look down, then back up. dean narrows his eyes slightly. he can’t hear a word, can’t see anything concrete, but something about the whole thing feels… off.
a series of tiny moments that finally stop feeling explainable.
nothing obvious, nothing he can actually point to.
yet, enough to leave dean with the quiet, unsettling feeling that he’s missing something.
5. uh oh...
back at the house, you find beau in the kitchen, alone. finally.
the whole house is loud around you, music plays from the living room, parents drink wine on the deck, dean somewhere outside arguing with joanna about whether he cheated at cards.
beau stands by the sink, sleeves pushed up, rinsing sand out of a cooler. you pause in the doorway, he looks up. everything in his face softens, quietly, instantly.
“hi,” he says.
your heart aches. “hi.”
for a moment, neither of you move. “dean’s watching us” you whisper.
beau huffs softly, turning off the tap. “yeah.”
“you noticed?”
“it's pretty hard not to.”
you lean back against the counter, a small smirk gracing your features. “you were the one who knew my ice cream order.”
“i do know your ice cream order.”
“that’s the problem.”
his mouth curves faintly. “i'm sorry for paying attention to you.”
you give him a look. he steps closer, not touching, not yet, but close enough that the air shifts.
“i’ve been thinking about what you said earlier.”
your gaze lifts to his. the bar, about how hard this had become.
beau’s jaw tightens slightly. “i hate that you feel like you have to sit there pretending none of this matters.”
your chest tightens. “beau-”
“i mean it.” his voice is calm, steady. “watching you walk away earlier because you felt like you couldn’t react… it sucked.”
your expression softens. "it did for me too.”
“not being able to just…” he exhales, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth before lifting again. “be normal with you.”
your chest pulls tight. “beau.”
his gaze doesn’t leave yours. “i know why we’re doing this,” he says quietly. “i do. dean’s your brother. he’s my best friend. i understand why this is complicated.”
his voice drops. “but i’m starting to hate pretending.”
your throat tightens, you look down. “dean’s already noticing.”
“yeah.”
“he’s smart.”
a faint smile touches beau’s mouth. “unfortunately.”
you let out a small laugh, your face softening once more. “that’s what scares me.”
the words sit between you, honest, fragile. beau’s hand lifts slowly, giving you enough time to pull away. you don’t. his fingers brush your wrist, then settle there gently, hidden below the counter.
beau goes quiet. when he speaks again, his voice is gentler.
“dean finding out doesn’t scare me.”
your brows lift slightly. “it doesn’t?”
he shakes his head. “no.”
you laugh softly despite the seriousness of the conversation. “it should."
he stifles a small laugh before shaking his head. “what scares me is losing this.”
your breath catches, his eyes lock on yours.
“losing you, y/n.”
everything in you stills. beau’s expression shifts, suddenly more vulnerable than before, like the words came out before he could stop them.
he swallows. “i’m serious, baby i-”
dean’s voice sounds down the hallway, growing louder as he nears the kitchen. beau steps back quickly, the action alone looking suspicious. dean appears in the doorway two seconds later, his eyes move from you to beau, then to the space between you, then back again.
“what’s going on?”
you grab the nearest object off the counter. a spoon, for no reason.
“nothing.”
dean looks at the spoon in your hand, then at you. “why are you holding that like a weapon?”
you look down. “because you scared me.”
dean's eyebrows furrow. “by entering a kitchen?”
“aggressively.”
beau coughs. dean’s eyes flick to him.
“something funny?”
beau shakes his head. “nope.”
dean stares at him for one long second. then points between you. “you two are being weird.”
your stomach drops. “we’re not.”
“you are.”
“you think everyone is weird.”
“because lately everyone is being weird.”
he holds your gaze for another moment, and for a second, you think that’s it. that he knows, that he’s about to say it.
but then joanna yells from outside, accusing dean of hiding the cards, and he backs out of the doorway with one last suspicious glance. “this conversation isn’t over.”
you wait until he disappears. then exhale. beau looks at you.
“we’re terrible at this.”
-
the following day
the time dean actually catches you, it’s the last night, which feels unfair and inevitable at the same time.
the kind of thing summer had been building towards all week.
the house is full of noise behind you. music, laughter, screen doors opening and shutting, someone yelling about missing marshmallows, the distant clink of bottles being moved across the deck.
you slip away after dinner, simply needing some fresh air.
the dock is quiet when you get there, the water black and silver beneath the moon, the old wood still warm from the day’s heat beneath your bare feet. you sit at the edge with your knees pulled up, chin resting against them.
for a few minutes, you're alone, then the dock creaks behind you.
you don’t turn around, already knowing who had come to join you. beau sits beside you without speaking, shoulder brushing yours.
for a moment, neither of you say anything. tomorrow everyone goes home, and cape cod becomes another distant memory, until next year.
“you disappeared,” he says quietly.
“so did you.”
his mouth curves faintly. “followed you.”
you look at him then, bad idea. the moonlight softens him. his hair is messy from the wind, sweatshirt sleeves pushed to his elbows, eyes fixed on you like the rest of the world had become background noise.
“dean’s inside,” you whisper.
“i know.”
“someone could come out.”
“i know.”
you should move away, you don’t. instead, beau’s hand finds yours, his fingers threading slowly through yours like he’s giving you every chance to pull away.
not rushed, not hidden this time.
“i’m tired of pretending i don’t want to do that,” he says.
your eyes sting suddenly. “beau.”
“i don’t want to spend the whole year only looking at you when no one else is paying attention, y/n.”
your fingers tighten around his. “i don’t either.”
he turns more fully toward you. “then we tell him.”
you laugh once, nervous and soft. “you say that like it’s easy.”
“it won’t be.”
“he might kill you.”
“probably.”
you huff a small laugh in response. he smiles faintly, but his eyes stay serious. “i’d rather deal with him than keep making you feel like something i’m hiding.”
that gets you, completely. this is exactly what you had been too afraid to say out loud.
you look down at your joined hands. “you don’t make me feel like that.”
“sometimes this does though, y/n”
you hate that he’s right. you hate that you love him for noticing. the word arrives in your chest before you can stop it.
love.
maybe it had been there for longer than you realised, waiting patiently for you to stop looking away. beau reaches up slowly, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. you close your eyes for half a second, savouring the moment.
“we should go back,” you whisper.
“yeah.”
neither of you moves. his hand stays on your cheek. your eyes open, and then he kisses you. softly at first, careful, like even now, even after everything, he’s giving you the chance to change your mind.
you don’t.
you lean into him, one hand curling into the front of his sweatshirt. beau makes a quiet sound into the kiss like the week had finally caught up with him all at once.
his arm slides around your waist, yours around his neck. for once, there is no pretending, no careful distance, no stolen almost-touch hidden behind towels or car seats or kitchen counters.
just beau.
warm and solid and yours beneath the summer night.
“you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”
you tear apart so fast you nearly lose your balance. beau’s hand catches your waist instinctively, which, unfortunately, does not help your case.
dean stands at the start of the dock. still, silent. your heart drops through your stomach.
“dean,” you breathe.
he doesn’t look at you first, he looks at beau.
to his credit, he doesn’t move away from you completely. beau lets go of your waist, but he stays close. close enough that dean notices. close enough that you do too.
“how long?” dean asks, his voice calm, too calm.
you stand slowly. “dean-”
“how long?”
beau answers. “a few months.”
dean’s jaw tightens. “months,” dean repeats.
you wrap your arms around yourself. “we were going to tell you.”
he laughs once, humourless. “when? at your wedding?”
“that’s not fair.”
“isn’t it?”
his eyes finally move to you, and the anger cracks just enough for hurt to show underneath. that is worse, so much worse. “you lied to me.”
your throat tightens. “i know.”
“both of you.”
beau’s voice stays low. “that’s on me.”
dean turns on him instantly. “do not do that.”
beau stills.
“don’t stand there and try to take all of it like that fixes the fact that you’ve been sneaking around with my sister behind my back.”
“i’m not trying to fix it.”
“good, because it doesn’t.”
you step forward. “dean, please.”
his face softens for half a second at your voice, then he looks away, dragging a hand through his hair. for a while, nobody says anything. the water moves quietly beneath the dock. the house hums behind you, distant and unaware.
finally, dean exhales, long, tired.
“i kind of figured.”
you blink. beau’s head lifts slightly. dean looks at you both like you’ve personally exhausted him. “i’m not an idiot.”
you say nothing. he points towards the house. “the car ride? weird.”
“the volleyball thing? very weird.”
beau looks down.
“the ice cream?” dean continues. “please. beau knew about the rainbow sprinkles, y/n.”
“lots of people know i like rainbow sprinkles,” you mutter weakly. dean gives you a flat look, you take it as a sign to stop talking.
“and the kitchen,” he adds. “you were holding a spoon like you’d been caught redhanded”
beau presses his lips together. wrong time to laugh, dangerously wrong.
“something funny, maxwell?”
beau shakes his head. “no.”
“good.” silence again. dean’s shoulders drop slightly, not forgiveness, not completely, but something less sharp.
“i’m not mad because it’s you,” he says, looking at beau. that surprises you, it seems to surprise beau too.
dean’s jaw works once. “honestly, if it had to be someone…” he stops, annoyed with himself for even saying it. “whatever. that’s not the point.”
your voice comes out small. “what is the point?”
dean looks at you, really looks at you, and suddenly he’s not angry in the loud way anymore.
he’s your brother.
the boy who used to carry your beach bag because he said you packed like you were fleeing the country. the boy who scared off guys before you even knew they were interested. the boy who pretended he wasn’t protective while being the most protective person alive.
“the point is you’re my sister, y/n” he says, softer now. “and he’s my best friend. and both of you decided i was the last person who got to know.”
your chest aches. “we were scared.”
“of me?”
you hesitate. dean’s expression shifts, that hurts him too.
“not like that,” you say quickly. “not because we thought you’d be horrible. just because it mattered. because you matter. because beau matters. and i didn’t want everything to change before we even knew what this was.”
dean looks at you for a long moment, then his gaze flicks to beau. “do you know what this is?”
beau doesn’t look away. “yeah.”
your breath catches. dean studies him carefully. “yeah?”
beau nods once. “i love her.”
everything stops. you turn towards him. for a second you forget dean is there, forget the dock, forget the entire summer sitting around you.
beau’s eyes meet yours, steady despite the nerves in his face. “i didn’t want to say it like this,” he says quietly.
your eyes burn. a small, helpless laugh escapes you. “on a dock while my brother plots your murder?”
beau’s mouth lifts faintly. “yeah. not exactly how i pictured it.” dean makes a strangled sound. “i’m literally standing right here.” you look back at him, wiping quickly beneath one eye.
“sorry.”
dean stares at you, then at beau. he sighs like the universe has personally wronged him.
“unbelievable.”
his voice is different now. still annoyed, still protective, but not furious. not anymore.
he steps closer, pointing directly at beau’s chest. “you.” beau straightens immediately. “don’t fuck this up.”
“i won’t.”
“i’m serious.”
“so am i.”
dean’s eyes narrow. “she’s my sister. don’t forget that.” beau’s face softens, but his voice stays firm.
“i never have.”
dean looks away, jaw tight, before pointing vaguely between you both.
“and no more sneaking around.”
you nod quickly. “okay.”
“no more lying.”
“okay.”
“and absolutely no making out on docks while everyone else is inside eating dessert.”
you frown. “that feels very specific.”
“because it just happened.”
beau looks down, hiding another smile. dean points at him again. “wipe that look off your face.”
beau immediately does, you bite your lip. dean turns to you, eyes narrowing. “and you. don’t think you’re getting out of this because you look emotional.”
you blink up at him. he lasts three seconds, maybe four, then his expression breaks. “come here,” he mutters. you step into him immediately.
dean wraps his arms around you, tight and familiar, one hand pressing briefly to the back of your head the way he used to when you were younger, crying over things you didn’t want to explain.
your throat closes. “i’m sorry,” you whisper.
he sighs into your hair. “yeah. you should be.”
his arms tighten. “i just didn’t want to lose you,” you admit quietly.
dean stills, pulling back enough to look at you. “you’re not losing me because you fell for my idiot best friend, y/n.”
beau mutters, “fair.”
dean doesn’t look away from you. “you’re stuck with me.”
your mouth trembles into a smile. “unfortunately.”
“watch it.”
you laugh softly, and dean’s face eases a little at the sound.
he looks over your shoulder at beau. “you can walk her back.”
beau blinks. “i can?”
“don’t make me regret saying it.”
“i won’t.”
dean starts walking backward towards the house, still pointing.
“door stays open.”
“dean.”
“i don’t care if we’re outside right now, the door stays open.”
you groan. “you’re so annoying.”
he turns finally, heading back toward the house, but stops halfway. for a second, he looks back. not at beau this time, at you.
his expression softens. “for what it’s worth,” he says, quieter. “i’m glad it’s him.” he disappears into the noise of the house before either of you can answer.
you stand there for a moment, stunned. beau steps closer beside you. careful now. respectful of the fact that everything has changed, and yet nothing at all.
“you okay?” he asks. you look at him, really look at him. the boy you had spent the whole summer loving in glances, in almost-touches, in quiet corners and stolen seconds. the boy who had just told your brother he loved you without flinching.
you nod slowly. “you love me?”
his face softens. “yeah.”
your heart turns over. “that’s inconvenient.”
beau laughs quietly, stepping close enough for his fingers to brush yours. “very.”
you slip your hand into his, openly, for the first time. “i love you too,” you whisper.
beau’s entire expression changes. he leans down, then stops, glancing towards the house.
you laugh softly. “dean said no sneaking around.”
“this isn’t sneaking.”
“no?”
his thumb brushes over your hand. “not anymore.”
so you kiss him again, softly, briefly. smiling against his mouth when someone from the deck yells, “door stays open!”
dean, obviously.
beau drops his forehead to yours, laughing under his breath. for the first time all summer, you don’t pull away.
₊ ֹ ˖ JOHN LOGAN MAKES YOU WANNA CRY . . IN A GOOD WAY ᱺㅤㅤ ୨౿
he’s got like ten tabs full of assignments waiting for him at home. a comfy bed that’s screaming his name. a hungry stomach he’s forgotten to feed after having a granola bar in the morning. in deep need of a shower post a really long and hard practice.
but there he is in his brother’s garage at eleven at night, shirtless, so goddamn patient, bent over the hood of your car, dealing with a fizzy, angry battery that could explode and kill him, while you stand in the corner biting your lip, so fucking guilty for calling him to help because your car was producing a really weird smell after you came back from driving a friend home from one of those frat parties.
you had to stop by the curb and wait for thirty minutes, the soonest he could come get you after you called, and he picked up after one ring, worried.
without a single complaint. oh god, your boyfriend was too selfless for his own good when it came to you.
your week had already been really emotional for no reason, and seeing logan just being his sweet self doesn’t help but let fat drops of tears run down your face silently as you stare at him.
ten minutes have passed, and logan has to move to clean something quickly with a rag he has over his shoulder, and while discarding it to grab another one, he can’t help but see his pretty girl crying.
“woah, woah, woah, what’s wrong, gorgeous?” he frowns, leaving his work behind, quickly striding over to you, pulling you into a bone-crushing hug, hands curling around your neck.
his sweaty chest be damned.
“i’m sorry i ruined your night,” you sniffle as you pull away, looking up at him, your hands by your side, not knowing what to do with them.
“oh baby, you didn’t ruin anything. that thought didn’t even occur to me when i rushed to come get you,” he gently moves his hands to cradle your face, kissing your tears away. “i was actually kinda giddy that you called me for help.” he flashes you that pretty smile that makes you melt, trying to make you feel better.
“but you’re—you’re all tired from practice and you need a shower.” he chuckles, and even despite that, you lay your face into his chest as he holds onto your waist, gently rocking both of you side by side. “and you need to eat.”
logan thinks he could genuinely marry you right now.
“how about this,” he says gently, brushing his thumb across your cheek, wiping the last of your tears. “give me ten more minutes to finish this—it’s basically done anyway.”
his tone is light, reassuring, like he’s easing you back down piece by piece.
“and then we go home,” he continues, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a second longer than necessary. “and you help me do all that, yeah?”
his nose nudges yours slightly when he pulls back, his smile small but warm.
“does that sound good?” he knows he’s satisfied when you nod and wipe your eyes with the back of your hands.
“there she is,” he murmurs, softer now, leaning in to press one last gentle kiss to your lips—slow, reassuring, meant to settle you more than anything else.
he shakes his head with a small smile as he turns back to the car, grabbing his rag again, finishing up the last few things.
like you didn’t just cry over something so stupid.
john logan really bagged a girl way too sweet for his own good.
premise: after he confronted you at your first diving meet, you managed to successfully avoid logan for a few weeks. it becomes harder to stay away from him when your professor puts you in a group project with his best friend.
category: enemies (exes) to lovers, pure angst
word count: around 4.7k
content/trigger warnings: cursing, yelling, garrett's a dick at the beginning but he learns his lesson, logan's still an asshole (for now). brief mention of a hospice. brief mention of hoarding. brief mention of feeling suffocated (reader is panicking in that moment.). i can't think of any other warnings, but please let me know if there are any that i missed.
context/author notes: thank you guys for the engagement on the previous part, i really appreciate it! this chapter sets up the foundation for this story imo. there's not a lot of interaction between the reader and logan, but it will build after this. slowly foreshadowing why reader had to come back to massachusetts. we'll get more details about their breakup later on. as always, feedback is much appreciated. and if you want to be added to the taglist, you can comment on this post or message me! also, if i previously tagged you in an earlier chapter and now you do not want to be tagged anymore, please lmk. if you don't, i will assume that you still want to be tagged. not proofread as of 06/19/26. sorry for the typos.
When you manage to execute four horrible dives in succession, you’re surprised that Coach Alvarez is not tearing your head off in front of your teammates. Maybe she took pity on your disastrous form and decided to grant you some mercy, considering it’s only 6:00 AM on a Monday. Nobody wanted to be here.
Instead, as one of your teammates practices their forward somersault, your coach gently pulls you aside to a small corner of the Aquatic Center where nobody else could hear you.
“You good, Y/L/N?” Her eyes are lasers as they scan over your face, and you feel exposed uner her gaze. But you also detect the underlying tenderness in her tone. “You’ve been off since the meet against Northeastern. And the one against Georgetown. And the one against Eastwood.”
You tap your fingers restlessly against your thigh as she lists off the schools. You hate that she’s right.
Even though you’ve been consistently scoring in the top three in your category, you’ve been making silly, rookie mistakes at each single meet. Whether you rushed your entrance, or you didn’t pull your knees in all the way, you always received some deduction in your score.
But during your time at Berkeley, you never made any of these mistakes.
Sure, you were always anxious at meets. Even though you’ve been participating in diving competitions for more than ten years, the glaring stares from both the crowd and the judges continue to distract you.
Additionally, as if you needed another distraction, some blonde guy named Dean tried hitting on you after the Georgetown meet. He was attractive and charming, but the cockiness exuding from his presence was suffocating. You weren’t going to go out with him anyways, and you were trying to figure out a way to let him down nicely.
But as soon as he mentioned that he was hockey player, you immediately shut him down with a terse, “I don’t date hockey players. Sorry.”
Dean was left slack-jawed at your curt response, and how briskly you walked away from him afterwards.
When Coach Alvarez clears her throat, you bring your attention back to her, eyes focusing on the whistle hanging from her neck.
“Yeah, it’s just been hard coming back here,” You pause, trying to figure out the best possible way to convey your emotions. “I don’t have the greatest memories of Massachusetts.”
Understatement of the fucking year.
A wildfire burns throughout your body, heating up your skin and sending flames straight to your chest, almost reaching your heart.
It’s been five weeks since the start of the semester and three weeks since your ex-boyfriend shook you to your very core. His words echo in your brain every time you close your eyes at night.
“Of course!” The pure animosity in his eyes is forever seared into your memory. “Walk away, it’s what you do best.”
The wildfire swells and grows, quickly and ruthlessly scorching your heart into a pile of ashes.
“I see. I’m sorry to hear. We can set you up with a counselor if you would want,” Coach Alvarez offers. “But you do need to get your head in the game. You can’t be making these rookie mistakes as a junior.”
You restrain yourself from flinching at the harsh words, but you know that she ultimately has good intentions. Even then, you’ve heard much worse from your high school coaches.
“Understood, Coach.”
“Good,” She sighs, before gesturing at you to follow her back to the pool. When the two of you head back, she directs the team to the weight training room next door, ordering everyone to do their cool down and stretching routines before leaving for class.
Luckily, all of your teammates have been nice and welcoming to you so far. You’ve even hung out with some of them after practices and meets. However, after weeks of analyzing all of their interactions from the sidelines, you can clearly see that the girls have such a tight-knit bond formed after years of going to Briar together. You awkwardly smile at their inside jokes and remain silent whenever one of them brings up a cherished memory. Since the start of the school year, a pit has slowly developed in your stomach, growing wider and deeper with each passing day.
Maybe you are an intruder. One person already seems to think so.
“Could’ve given me a warning at least, you know. Before you fuck up my life for the second time.”
You don’t want to fuck up his life. Or anyone’s life. You didn’t even want to come back, but you had to—
“Hey, Y/N!” A friendly voice snaps you out of your trance, grasping your attention. Gorgeous blonde hair shrouds your vision. “Hey, Y/N, you good?”
You look up to your teammate, stretching your lips into a fake smile. She must have been calling your name for a while. “Oh, sorry. I have a lot on my mind.”
“I feel you. Midterms are coming up and everyone’s on edge,” She reassures you, propping a towel behind her back. “All of us are in need of a fucking break, so the girls and I are thinking about going to some other Briar games this weekend. You know, take our minds off diving for a bit.”
Her kindness overwhelms you, especially after spending however many minutes convincing yourself that you don’t belong here. You swallow a lump in your throat, pushing away the tears that are already welling in your eyes.
Kendall has stuck by your side since day one, and you’re incredibly grateful for her.
“That would be great,” You shakily reply, and your teammate beams at you. “I heard there was a soccer game against Emerson coming up on Saturday, if you guys were planning on going to that.”
“Actually, we were planning on going to the hockey game against Brandeis! Nour and I go to pretty much every game, we’re such big hockey fans…”
You tune her out after she mentions the hockey game, hoping your face doesn’t reveal the panic rushing through your body. God, you thought your time at Berkeley would’ve desensitized you to that word, but your nerves still send you into fight-or-flight mode whenever someone mentions hockey.
You have nothing against the sport itself, of course. But after four years of attending every single one of his games and buying him Bruins jerseys and tending to the injuries on his chest, your brain automatically associates hockey with John Logan.
Hockey reminds you of the times you fooled around in his truck before practices, or the times you went to sleep wearing his high school jersey, his arm arms protectively wrapped around your waist, never wanting to let you go.
And hockey also reminds you of the time when you yelled and cried and pleaded with him to just fucking listen to you. It reminds you of his heartsick eyes and tear-stained face.
It reminds you—no, it taunts you with the last text he sent you two years ago.
I fucking hate you.
“Does that work with you?” Kendall’s question brings you back to your present setting, where you’re sitting with her in the locker room benches and not bawling your eyes out in your childhood bedroom.
Judging by the worried look on her face, you suspect that you failed at hiding your emotions. But you take a deep breath in, nodding and giving her a tight-lipped grin.
“That might work,” You spur out a lie, having no fucking clue what she said to you in the past minute. “I’ll let you know.”
“Great. I’m heading to the shower now,” She gets up, and before she leaves, she places a gentle hand on your shoulder, soft brown eyes full of sincerity. “And let us know if you need anything, okay? We got your back.”
Despite only knowing you for a few weeks, Kendall really knows how to tug at your heartstrings.
You haven’t yet told the girls the reason why you had to come back. You were planning to, though. And all of them were more than understanding, encouraging you to take your time warming up to them.
“Thanks. Same goes for you, Kendall,” You give her a small, but genuine smile, and she moves her hand to her forehead in a mock salute before leaving you alone in the locker room.
There is no way in hell that you are going to that hockey game.
Later in the day, your TA in Sociology hands back your exam from last week. Your eyes light up when seeing the 94 on the top of the paper, allowing yourself to take some pride in your hard work.
Your good mood instantly dampens when your professor announces that your next assignment will be a group research project.
And she has already assigned the groups.
In a way, you’re a bit thankful that she assigned the groups beforehand, given that you don’t know anybody in this class. However, you’re also terrified, and you hope that your groupmates are solid.
Your professor sent an email to the entire class listing out the groups. You finally see your name, along with two unfamiliar names written right under yours.
Garrett Graham
Beau Maxwell
Yup. As you expected, you have no idea who these people are. Fortunately, your professor also wrote down every one of your classmates’ email address next to their names.
You’re about to draft an email when you suddenly hear your name being called out.
“Y/N! Hey!” Turning around, you notice two guys walking down the stairs to meet you at your seat. One of them has a wide smile on their face, and the other one has…a bit of frown?
“Hi?” You ask as they come closer to you, trying to subtly look at them up and down to see if you recognize them. “Do I know you guys?”
“Oh, no. But we know you,” The smiley one explains, friendly eyes remaining in contact with yours. “We went to your meet against Northeastern a few weeks ago. You fucking killed it.”
You weren’t expecting those words to come out of his mouth, but you’re pleasantly surprised. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”
“We first heard about you from Dean, if you remember him? He was super impressed by you. He dragged us all to the Northeastern meet. I think he asked you out.”
Of course you remember Dean.
“Yeah, I remember him,” You chuckle nervously, trying to forget how fucking awkward your interaction felt with him. “And he did ask me out, but I’m just…I’m just not looking for anyone else at the moment. He’s cool.”
There’s a moment of silence after you utter those words. You wish there was a trapdoor underneath your feet.
Luckily, the smiley one breaks the silence.
“We’re athletes as well, actually,” He says, gesturing to himself and his friend. “I play football.”
“And we’re your groupmates,” The other one finally speaks, responding in a rather low, sharp voice.
“Ah yeah, I should’ve started with that. I’m Beau,” The smiley one courteously extends his hand out for you to shake, and you eagerly offer your hand as well.
“Nice to meet you. And I assume you’re Garrett? Do you play football too?”
“No, I’m a hockey player.”
Beau clasps a hand on Garrett’s back. “He’s the captain, actually. Pretty fucking cool, isn’t it?”
No. It’s pretty fucking awful.
Now, at least you have some inkling as to why Garrett is staring at you with a stony expression. You list a series of premises in your head.
The logic thus presents itself simply:
Premise one: Garrett is the captain of the hockey team. He knows his teammates well.
Premise two: Hockey teammates are like brothers. You know that from high school.
Premise three: Your ex is on the hockey team. He definitely knows Garrett.
Premise four: Your ex hates you.
Conclusion: Garrett, by association, hates you.
Not to mention the fact that Garrett most definitely knows Dean. And who knows what Dean told him about you.
However, Beau is nothing but cordial with you. Though he's not on the hockey team, you assume that Dean also told Beau about how you rejected him. Yet, he's still treating you with kindness.
“That’s awesome,” You bring yourself to utter a weak response, hoping that Garrett does not see the dread plastered across your face. “Anyways, we should start this thing soon. Maybe this week?”
“Works for me,” Beau replies, and Garrett nods. “What’s your number? I’ll make a groupchat.”
You list off a series of digits to Beau while Garrett just scrolls on his phone. You’re thankful for his shift in focus, especially since you weren’t sure how long you could continue to stand upright under his intense glare.
“Anyways, I need to head to my next class,” You walk towards the door, giving them both a small smile. “I’ll text you guys.”
You don’t stay to hear their responses, intent on leaving the lecture hall as quickly as possible.
Finding a time that worked with all of your schedules was challenging. Eventually, the three of you decide to meet at the library on Wednesday night.
As you make your way to one of the private study rooms, your phone buzzes with a text from your groupchat.
(7:04 PM) Beau: Sorry guys, running late. Practice went on for fucking forever. Be there in 15.
Your heart pounds in your chest as you register Beau’s message. So far, you felt comfortable with Beau. He was nice and always sent a barrage of memes in the groupchat.
But Garrett continued to intimidate the fuck out of you.
And when you enter the study room, you see that the broody hockey player is already seated. He doesn’t even look up from his laptop when you come in.
You would rather reject Dean for a million times than be in this claustrophobic room with Garrett.
“So, uh, Beau’s running late,” You attempt to strike up a conversation, sitting down and taking out your laptop.
“Yeah, no shit,” He mutters, and your heart drops even more. “He texted both of us, you know.”
The smartass comment tips you over the edge. Now, you’re not hurt anymore. You’re fucking annoyed.
Because why is this man treating you like the devil when he barely fucking knows you in the first place?
“Jesus fucking Christ,” You blurt rather loudly, and he turns to look at you, finally deeming you worthy enough of his attention. “I’m sorry, did I do something to offend you? What’s your problem—”
“Logan’s my best friend,” Garrett cuts you off with a straight face. You can’t exactly pinpoint the emotion displayed in his tone. “He’s the closest person I have to a brother.”
Logan, right. You forgot that he usually used his last name to introduce himself. You always referred to him as John. You still think of him as John.
“Logan” just feels like a stranger.
You let out a much-needed exhale, shaking your head. “Well…I’m glad you guys have that bond.”
He doesn’t offer a reply, his face pointedly turning away from you and back to his laptop.
You chuckle, self-deprecation and sarcasm dripping in your tone. “I assume you know all about me, then.”
“I don’t, actually,” He retorts, stony eyes suddenly staring back at you. “Logan refuses to tell me anything about your breakup. He just says that he never wants to see you again and that you’re the worst person he knows.”
Ouch.
“Yeah, I mean…I don’t want see him either,” You sigh, dropping your head into your heads, feeling a familiar ache start to invade your chest. “It’s a long story.”
The question comes out of absolutely nowhere.
“Why are you back here?”
A volcano suddenly erupts in your chest. Pure anger flows like lava through your blood. You rub your temples to calm yourself down, but it’s useless. And besides, Garrett needs a taste of his own medicine.
You’re done trying to be nice.
“Excuse me?” You snap back in a dangerously low voice, forcing yourself to keep your voice level.
You take pride in how your self-composure visibly shocks Garrett. His eyes widen, and his expression softens. And as you continue to stare daggers into his soul, the 6’1” arrogant hockey player begins to stammer.
Good.
“I…I guess I don’t know you well enough to ask that.”
“No, you really don’t,” You clench your jaw, your harsh gaze unwavering. “I mean this respectfully, but it’s none of your business. I came back for personal reasons that do not involve my ex whatsoever.”
As you try to start working on your project, he continues to sneak glances at you. Suspiciously. As if you’re hiding something.
However, his glare doesn’t hold the same animosity as it used to a minute ago.
“Look, you don’t have to believe me. I know that I broke John’s heart. I know that the breakup was hard on him. It was hard on me, too,” You choose your words carefully, ignoring the sharp thumping in your chest. You’re trying your very best to not sound annoyingly defensive. But you need to stand your ground.
After all, Garrett Graham doesn’t know the whole story.
“You don’t have to like me. Hell, you can even hate me. But we were assigned to be in the same group, so I think we should treat each other with basic human decency. We will never interact outside of this project again, anyways,” You say to him plainly, still keeping eye contact with him.
Finally, his shoulders relax, and he nods at you, biting his lip. “Yeah. That’s fair.”
“Cool,” You sigh, grabbing your textbook from your bag. “Once Beau’s here, we can start sifting through secondary sources.”
Luckily, by the grace of the gods, Beau walks in a minute later, apologizing for his tardiness. Afterwards, the three of you start working, and the rest of the night goes surprisingly well. Everyone completes their designated task, and you guys plan to meet again on Sunday night.
When you walk out of the study room, Beau asks if you want to hang out with them afterwards. You don’t even bother to look at Garrett’s face. You politely decline, saying that you needed to catch some sleep before your early morning practice the next day.
Initially, you think that you handled the entire night with composure and civility. But as soon as you collapse into the driver’s seat of your car, tears furiously gush down your cheeks. Sobs wrack your entire body, and your throat closens in on you, exhausting your entire air supply.
You didn’t want to come back to Massachussetts. You never wanted to come back to Massachussetts.
Maybe John and Garrett and the rest of his friends don’t believe it, but you’re not here to see him again. Or to ruin his life.
The sudden ringtone blaring from your phone physically jolts you, interrupting your breakdown. Even with the tears clouding your vision, you can make out the caller ID.
Munsen Hospice Center.
You grab a pair of tissues from the glovebox, trying to collect and prepare yourself before you hear the bad news coming from the other line.
Early Sunday morning, everyone at Briar receives the same email from the Dean of Student Affairs. The pipes had burst on the second floor of the library, causing widespread water damage. The renovation will take at least a week or two.
Thus, you have no idea where to study as soon as the sun sets.
The three of you meet outside the library, debating on where to go. Most cafés are closed. Ironically, most study halls are too loud for you, especially on the weekends. You don’t know where else to go.
Obviously, you can’t invite Beau and Garrett to your house in Munsen. Even though you’ve been back for six weeks, you’re still working on clearing up the space. Books and laundry baskets and trash bags and cereal boxes shroud every inch of the walls. No one had come by to clean up the hoarding mess. The responsibility was left on you, as usual.
Beau couldn’t offer up his place either, insisting that his frat house was always in a state of chaos.
Finally, you see Garrett physically hesitate to say the following words. His eyebrows furrow, and he grits his teeth.
“Let’s just work at mine.”
Garrett notices how you sulk your shoulders and retreat into your body. Ever since your conversation on Wednesday, he’s actually been a bit nice.
Well, that’s exaggerating. He’s been decent. You’re not going to give the man that much credit.
Beau immediately agrees, waving goodbye and heading to his car. Garrett turns back to you, sighing and rubbing a hand over his wrinkled forehead.
“I’ll tell him that we’ll be studying in the living room, so he knows,” He says in a relatively soft tone.
Your eyes narrow at him in confusion.
“Wait, you told him that we’re working together on a project?”
“I didn’t. Beau did. Told the whole house, actually,” He clarifies, and judging by the way he’s biting his lip, you know he feels uneasy about what he will say next. “Dean also lives with us, by the way.”
Of course he does. A giant lump grows in your throat. “Oh, okay.”
“I’ll send you the address, it’s only a five minute drive,” Garrett comments, suddenly looking down at his phone and avoiding eye contact with you. This whole situation is so fucking awkward to the point that Mr. Garrett Graham can’t even hide his feelings behind an icy expression.
“Sounds good. I’ll see you,” You say under your breath, walking away from him and towards your car.
Your hands tremble on the steering wheel as you drive to the house. They continue to shake as you lock your car and slowly make your way up to the steps, trying to prolong the inevitable. Garrett’s waiting for you at the entrance, silently opening the door and gesturing for you to come in.
“Thanks,” You mutter, and your eyes can’t help but dart around the house.
The cool-toned walls, adorned with various pictures and random road signs, provide a sense of calm to the environment. The wooden staircase and ceiling beams pair well with the sprawling trees covering the house that you saw when parking your car. The sofas and chairs in the living room look neat but lived-in as well, different blankets and throw pillows scattered across them. And of course, you immediately notice the fluorescent lights emanating from the air hockey table, which adds to the liveliness of the house. Surprisingly, all of the different elements compliment each other, and you feel somewhat at ease while standing in front of the staircase, a heavy weight disappearing from your chest.
However, as Garrett continues to lead you in, your eyes lock in on the various accessories and knickknacks around you. You see car keys, hockey sticks, duffel bags and winter coats all over the living room.
And you can’t help but wonder which key, which stick, which bag, and which coat belongs to John. Everything reminds you of him.
As if the tattoo he personally imprinted on your thigh isn’t enough of a reminder.
You awkwardly stand in the middle of the living room, wondering where you should sit. Being in here already feels like an imposition. You do not want to make any more mistakes.
“Oh, sit anywhere you want,” An unfamiliar voice speaks to you, as if he’s reading your thoughts, and you suddenly register the man standing in front of you. Like Beau, he also has a friendly smile. “I’m Tucker.”
You smile back at him, watching as he moves around the living room and picks up dirty dishes. “I’m Y/N.”
“Yes, I remember! You were one of the divers at the Northeastern meet,” Tucker mentions, walking backwards towards the kitchen. “You were awesome. I don’t know how you could do those crazy flips in the air.”
Judging by Tucker’s approachable nature, you assume that, like Beau, he doesn’t know that you’re Logan’s ex-girlfriend. At least, not yet.
You are about to reply to him when Garrett walks towards Tucker in the kitchen, shoulders raised in apprehension.
“Where’s Logan?” He questions in a low voice, but loud enough for you to hear. You can detect a slight unease in his tone. You ignore the sweat beginning to form on your palms. “He didn’t answer my text.”
“He had to go back to the shop, I think,” Tucker replies, clearly confused by Garrett’s furrowed eyebrows.
Beau arrives to the house a few minutes later, joking about how he had to do an “emergency detour” to grab a Red Bull before the grocery store closes. Garrett joins you as well, and the three of you continue with completing your project.
While working, you faintly hear some commotion upstairs. A man singing rather loudly in the shower. Garrett rolls his eyes at the noise, telling you to just “ignore him.” By “him,” you figure he means Dean.
For about an hour, the three of you work quite efficiently in the living room while Tucker quietly cooks in the kitchen. And surprisingly, you actually have a bit of a good time with them. Tucker gave you a glass of water (even though you never asked for one), Beau continued to make jokes about how he’s becoming an “academic weapon,” and at some point, Garrett even complimented you.
“Wow, you explained Durkheim’s theory way better than Professor Rezkin,” He comments, and for a good minute, you’re certain that you misheard him.
Everything was going well. You weren’t even thinking about John.
Until the front door abruptly opens, and you hear the familiar sound of his boots against the wooden floor.
You stop typing, forcing yourself to look at the laptop screen in front of you and not turn around to face him.
“Hey, you guys need to check the mailbox more often, we have so many…” His gravelly voice echoes throughout the house, and the sound of cardboard boxes quickly falling to floor makes you jolt from your seat on the couch.
Fuck.
The sharp intake of his breath renders you immobile.
“What are you doing here?” Logan demands, and you still haven’t turned around to face him. You don’t think that’s physically possible. You then assume that he directs the next question at Garrett.
“What is she doing here?”
The brutal emphasis on she completely rattles you, sending goosebumps down your skin. You feel an imaginary hand wrapping around your throat, mercilessly squeezing you until you pass out.
You immediately start packing your stuff.
“I texted you,” Garrett tells him in a controlled, even tone. “The library was closed. Working here was the best option.”
Meanwhile, Beau remains silent, staring at the three of you with wide eyes. Tucker also emerges from the kitchen, shock plastering his features.
“I thought you were ‘staying away from me,’ huh?” He snarls in your direction, and you’re still hunched over the couch, trying to fit everything into your bag with shaking hands. Luckily, Beau helps you, wordlessly handing you your textbook, kind eyes staring at you in concern.
When you don’t answer, he turns back towards Garrett, irritation clear in his tone. You’re undeniably certain that the vein in his neck is protuding. “You guys seriously couldn’t find another place to work?”
Logan’s only greeted with silence. When you look up in front of you, you notice the tense expression on everyone’s faces. The three boys remain motionless in front you, clearly surprised by Logan’s attitude.
Then, to increase your humiliation, Dean walks down the stairs, whistling without a care in the world. His eyes widen with pleasant surprise when he sees you.
“Y/N! Nice seeing you…” His cheerful voice quickly dies down when he quickly looks at everyone’s faces. “Uh, what’s going on?”
Garrett sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s late. The cafés are closed. Study halls are noisy. This was the best place.”
Even though you are fixing your gaze on the scruff marking your shoes, you feel his eyes burning holes into your head, stare completely unforgiving. “Bullshit.”
With burning eyes, you stand up and carefully lock eyes with Garrett. “I’ll send you guys the rest of my edits.”
While turning to leave, you accidentally bump into his chest, and you don’t even dare to look at him in the eyes. Facing him alone after the Northeastern meet was humiliating enough. This was fucking purgatory. You feel his chest furiously rumble before you immediately walk away.
“For fuck's sake Garrett, you know damn well that she’s not welcome here—”
“John!” Garrett yells, his commanding voice booming over Logan’s. “Knock it off!”
Before you could stomach anything else, you rush out of the house, slamming the front door shut.
premise: at the end of high school, you ended your relationship with logan, and the breakup was devastating for the both of you. as a collegiate diver, you got an offer from california, and moved away from massachusetts, completely intent on never seeing him again. when you suddenly transfer to briar in your junior year, logan goes through a second round of heartbreak, torn between loving and hating you.
category: enemies (exes) to lovers, a lot of angst, a lot of yearning
word count: around 3.4k
content/trigger warnings: brief mention of throwing up right before the first line break, description of a panic attack (mentions of faint, rapid heart rate), super super super light allusion to smut in the second section of the fic (it's from a dream and it's barely smut to begin with, but to be safe, minors dni), a pretty intense but short argument at the end (cursing).
context notes: i read ali hazelwood's deep end last month and i'm still obsessed with it. that's why reader is a diver in this fic :) i apologize for getting any diving terminology wrong, i'm still learning it! and you might think that logan is kinda out of character in this, but he's only acting this way out of heartbreak, i swear. plus he continues to yearn after her, too. yearner!logan is always activated. also pretend that your name is a common name in this fic lol (it'll make sense when you read it, it adds to logan's denial). i do not possess a common or an "American" name (if that even exists in the first place) but i pretended to while i was writing it. and from what i know 10 meters = 33 feet, roughly, right?
author notes: this will be a multi-part fic. i'll try to update once or twice a week, depending on any changes with my workload. we're also going to learn why reader transferred to briar as we advance through this fic. i also plan on doing alternating POVs too! this part is focused on Logan, next part will be focused on the reader. feedback is always appreciated :) and this was slightly proofread as of 06/12/26, so there still might be some errors/typos.
Logan is wholeheartedly convinced that he’s hallucinating when he hears your name casually slip out of Dean’s mouth.
A name that hasn’t crossed his mind in over two years.
“We were watching them practice yesterday, and dude, he couldn’t take his eyes off of her,” He hears Beau say to Tucker, and Logan’s chest begins to ache. Even though half of his upper body is stuck under the kitchen sink as he tries to fix another broken pipe, he continues to eavesdrop. He has to.
Maybe it’s another Y/N.
“Wait, Briar has a diving team?” Tucker asks in confusion, and Logan’s grip tightens on the pipe. He inhales sharply through his nose, forcing himself to pause as he listens to his friends.
He doesn’t have all the details yet. Perhaps there’s another Y/N who just also conveniently turns out to be a diver. If Logan retained anything from his statistics class last semester, it’s that there are an infinite amount of possibilities out there. 8 billion people exist on this Earth. 342 million people live in the U.S. We’re all bound to intersect somewhere in the Venn diagrams of our lives.
“Yup. They haven’t been doing well, though. Everyone’s saying that Y/N will make a difference on the team,” Dean explains, and Logan fixes his gaze on the towel he’s holding in his gloved hand. “She just transferred from California. Berkeley, I think.”
And that’s all it takes for the dam of Logan’s tightly wound emotions to burst. Internally, of course.
He squeezes his eyes shut, forcing himself to gently crawl out from under the sink to avoid hitting on his head on the wooden surface above him. Slow and steady.
“And she’s so fucking hot,” His body freezes once he registers Dean’s voice. “I’m gonna ask her out after the meet tomorrow.”
Bam.
Logan abruptly hits his head against the wood, groaning and letting out a loud “fuck!” as he slides out from under the cabinet. Before he can even stand up, Tucker rushes over.
“Shit, dude, are you okay?” He looks at his housemate in concern as Logan pinches his eyes shut yet again, wishing he was anywhere but here.
When he opens his eyes, he sees that Beau and Dean have made their way over as well. Logan lets out a loud huff as he hurriedly walks away from the kitchen, pushing away Tucker’s helping hands.
“Dude, you good?” He hears Dean’s infuriating voice merge with the incessant pounding in his head, and he can’t tell which sound is worse. Logan can only grunt in response, rushing up the stairs.
“I’m gonna lie down,” Logan then offhandedly announces to the house as he reaches his bedroom and slams the door shut. He’s undeniably positive that Dean’s calling him a “moody bitch” right at this very moment, but he can’t bring himself to give a fuck.
Instead of falling onto his bed, he collapses onto his desk chair, pushing the palms of his hands into his eyes as his leg restlessly begins to shake. His heart rattles incessantly against his chest as if he’s been skating suicides around the rink for hours.
And of course, his brain immediately starts to fuck with him. Maybe he misheard. Maybe he imagined the whole conversation. It wouldn’t be the first time his mind had wandered off while repairing a pipe.
But as his eyes drift to his closet, thinking about the box of your things that’s been collecting dust over the past few years, he has a sinking feeling in his gut that Dean’s words are probably true. That you are probably back in Massachussetts. At Briar. In the same vicinity as him.
And that this isn’t some sort of awful nightmare, and that the announcement of your presence is enough to send this man into a hysterically sickening spiral of denial and disbelief.
But his mind continues to propel him into a self-destructive rumination, conjuring up the most absurd of thoughts about how selfish you are to come back into his life, that you surely came back with the sole purpose to ruin his life for the second time, as if the breakup itself wasn’t devastating enough.
The boys all know about the mysterious woman who broke high school Logan’s heart. They jokingly tease him over her, making nonchalant comments about how he supposedly lost “the love of his life.” But they don’t know the extent of the torment and pain that he suffered.
Well, Garrett actually knows a little bit about you. He’s the only one out of the all of the guys who knows your first name. One time in sophomore year, Logan drunkenly let your name slip, and Garrett never forgot the way his best friend’s eyes turned glassy immediately upon muttering your name.
Now, Logan turns his head away from the closet, settling his gaze onto the chipped wood of his desk. He can’t bear to open that box. He vehemently refuses to.
While exhaling a shaky breath, he feels the familiar pressure of the tears lingering behind his eyes, but he furiously blinks them away. He forces himself to grab his Econ textbook to start his homework, desperately trying to shove the image of you in his mind into a deep dark hole.
When he opens his laptop to take notes on the Keynesian market theory, he receives a notification from his inbox. An email from Briar’s weekly student newsletter.
And because this cruel universe wants to add fuel to the blazing fire burning in Logan’s heart, the headline just happens to be a reminder about the diving meet tomorrow. Despite every bone in his body telling him not to scroll, he does anyway, because he must be some goddamn mascochist, he mutters under his breath.
He sneaks a peek of the very top of the photo underneath the headline. And as soon as he gets the tiniest glimpse of your hair and your forehead and your eyebrows, he immediately slams his laptop shut, feeling the churn intensify in his stomach and grabbing the trashcan beside him when he tastes the bile crawling up his throat.
The bastards make him attend the meet as well. Of course they do.
Logan knew about Briar’s Aquatic Center, since some guys in Beau’s frat were on the swimming team, but he has never actually step foot into the place. And his friends have the nerve to be fucking giddy when they walk into the center, seeing the colors of both Briar and Northeastern embroidering the bleachers.
He truly believes that he’s been masking his emotions successfully so far. However, even though some of the boys (i.e., Dean) have no idea, he can feel Garrett’s eyes stealthily watching him on the back of his head.
As they sit on the bleachers with the rest of student crowd, Garrett finally breaks the silence, looking at his best friend with furrowed eyebrows and utter confusion.
“You good?” He casually asks, elbows going to rest on his knees, his question practically getting muffled by the cheers of zealous Briar students. “You’re acting weird.”
The question punches Logan hard in the chest, but he conceals his emotions with a sarcastic scoff, shaking his head. “I’m fine. Didn’t sleep well last night.”
His first sentence? Definitely false.
But his second sentence? Absolutely true.
The hockey player tossed and turned in his sheets last night as he tried to fall asleep without thinking about you. But that task proved totally impossible.
Because as soon as he closed his eyes and drifted into a deep slumber, his subconscious immersed him into a dream of your high school selves, sneaking around in the back of his truck between class periods. He felt your arms wrapped around his neck, your ankles crossed on his back, and your frenzied breaths as he pushed himself into you, wanting more and more. He moaned into your neck, saying your name over and over, and as he looked down at your bare chest littered with his bite marks and hickeys, he couldn’t help but think about how much he fucking loved you.
But suddenly, you disappeared underneath his arms, much like how you disappeared from his life. And instead of making love to you in the back of his truck, he woke up heaving and panting all alone in his bedroom with the digital clock practically mocking him as it displayed “3:01 AM” at him.
He couldn’t go back to sleep afterwards.
Logan’s mind wanders away from you and comes back to the present when he watches Garrett sigh and shake his head, as if non-verbally telling him “you’re a shitty liar, Logan.” His bloodshot eyes definitely do not help his case, either.
As he watches some student workers pass out brochures listing out the rosters of both teams, a wave of denial crashes into him for the hundredth time.
Even though he overheard Dean’s raunchy comments, and even though he saw the tiniest peek of your forehead in the email yesterday, he refuses to believe that you’re back until his eyes confirm it for him. He needs the visual verification before allowing himself to go completely mad. As if he hasn’t been tearing at his hair in a fit of hysteria for the past twenty four hours already.
“Oh look, she’s from Munsen,” Tucker casually notices as he reads your player profile on the brochure, nudging Logan’s shoulder. “Your hometown, right?”
Logan feels like he has to work every muscle in his body in order to give a response. “Yeah, that’s crazy.”
And he wasn’t lying. This whole situation was fucking insane.
He doesn’t realize how fast his leg is bouncing until Dean lightly shoves at his head, pointing to the rest of the bleachers. “Dude, knock it off. Your leg is shaking up this entire section.”
On a regular day, Dean’s comment wouldn’t even affect him. But today, the blood swells and boils in Logan’s veins as he restrains himself, desperately wanting to tell the blond bastard to “fuck off.”
But before he can ever get a word out of his mouth, an announcement blares over the speaker, broadcasting to everyone that Northeastern’s team is about to walk out from the tunnels behind the center.
His body is present enough to register the cheers from the crowd opposite of him whenever the speaker announces the name of each diver from Northeastern. And then the music changes, and it’s time for Briar’s team to walk out. Logan has to subtly check his pulse on his neck vein to ensure he’s still alive.
After all, he’s this close to running out of the center.
He feels physically sick as he watches each diver walk out, anticipation coursing through him, as if he’s watching a horror movie and anxiously waiting for the jumpscare.
When the fourth diver walks out, Logan stupidly feels a sudden wave of relief through his body. You haven’t walked out yet. Maybe this whole thing is a prank. A figment of his imagination.
“And now, let’s welcome our new platform diver, transferring fresh from Berkeley, California, Y/N Y/L/N!”
Everyone around him screams once the new diver comes into view, and his hand clutches against the metal of the bleacher, knuckles rapidly turning white.
It happens in slow motion.
His eyes lock onto the one piece hugging your body. His gaze then carries over to your hands that wave out to Briar’s crowd, and to your devastatingly gorgeous smile that both excites and destroys him. Whenever he scored a goal, or pressed slow kisses to your neck, or jumped into his arms after a long day, you flashed that beautiful smile at him.
Fuck. You’re actually here. Logan feels like he’s going to faint, or explode. Or both.
He doesn’t realize that he hasn’t teared his eyes away from you until Garrett forcefully lifts him up by the elbow, looking down at him as if it’s his first day on Earth. The national anthem had begun playing and he was still sitting down, spiraling into complete panic. He places a hand over his racing heart, and he knows that Garrett’s getting suspicious.
The meet begins shortly afterwards and you sit on side while the rest of your teammates go before you. You still haven’t noticed Logan in the crowd yet, even though his gaze never leaves your body.
Later, when it’s finally your turn, you walk your way up the stairs to the platform standing thirty-three feet above the pool. Since his seat directly faces the platform, Logan also conveniently has a good view of you as well. You’re much closer now to him.
And when his eyes linger down to the top of your left thigh, he feels the familiar burning coming back behind his eyes.
It’s small, but he recognizes it immediately.
It’s still there.
The stick and poke that Logan drew on you in junior year. The #22 proudly blazoned on the top of your thigh. He remembers tattooing it on you like it was yesterday—the way you squirmed underneath the needle, the way you dug your fingers into his curls and caressed his scalp, the way your laugh reached his ears when he joked that “you’re tied to him for life.”
You never got it removed.
He doesn’t know if he should be relieved or horrified.
The speaker blasts your name once again before you take your position. In high school, your signature dive was a simple but sharp backwards tuck. At every single meet, you absolutely dominated in your category, coming home with new medals and trophies practically every week.
Now, your signature dive is different. It’s become an armstand, a dive that always terrified the fuck out of Logan. Holding a handstand while on the edge of an awfully high platform was enough to cause nightmares. He never understood how you did it.
You hold your armstand flawlessly before flipping through the air, and Logan physically feels the crowd collectively hold their breath as you dive into the water from ten meters above.
“Woo!” He hears Dean holler among the rest of the cheers of the Briar crowd. Logan senses the tiniest bit of possessiveness sinking into his body. “Now that’s fucking sick!”
At your high school meets, a part of Logan was always irrationally scared that one day, you wouldn’t get out of the water. Sure, playing hockey came with pretty bad injuries, but so did diving. So as you take your sweet time getting out of the pool, Logan feels like he’s going even more insane. A trace of protectiveness still runs through his blood, even when the sight of you breaks his heart.
You climb yourself out of the pool, giving an unusual tight-knit smile before walking over to your coach. It’s not your usual wide, radiant, “I just demolished that dive” smile. It’s tense. Restrained.
Even though his eyes continue to inspect you, his focus is broken when Garrett claps a hand on Logan’s shoulder, physically jolting him from his trance.
“That’s Y/N, isn’t it?”
Garrett’s an asshole, but at least he has the decency to lower his voice, which Logan is immensely grateful for.
Logan wordlessly nods his head, shoulders slumping in defeat after getting caught by his best friend.
Garrett takes a moment to respond, letting the information truly set in, before shaking his head and looking at him with a mix of disbelief and concern.
“John, you’re fucked.”
To no one’s surprise, you score first place in your category.
And because of your accomplishment, hordes of people come rushing over to you once the meet is over. Since all of these excited fans and NCAA coaches immediately crowd you, Dean quickly gives up on getting your number.
At least Logan gets one win today.
Once the boys are ready to head out, Logan lies and says that he needs to go to the library to pick up a book. Garrett looks at him suspiciously, but the rest bid him goodbye as they head off to the house.
Is it a bit strange that he waited outside the center for more than an hour? Maybe. But his denial and disbelief have transformed into anger, and he needs to get some thoughts off of his chest.
Finally, as the sun is setting and all the other divers are walking out, he sees you.
Your back is facing him, but you could be a thousand feet away and he would still know that it’s you. He watches as you push open the door, sneakers bouncing against the grass as you walk further away.
But his voice catches you before you could put your earbuds in.
“You’re back,” He breathes out, and watches as you immediately halt your steps. “You’re back in the state and you didn’t even tell me.”
You remain frozen in place, back still turned to him. You recognize that voice immediately. You say nothing for at least thirty seconds, torturing Logan with your silence.
He already regrets his decision to speak to you.
“And why the fuck would I do that?”
And when you turn around, he feels the ground sway underneath his feet.
You look the exact same. You’re the same girl who would doodle and draw little sketches of him in your 9th grade biology class. The same girl who would bring a new poster of him to every single hockey game, cheering him on whenever he dedicated his goal to you.
The same girl who would lend him extra blankets and coats during the winter because his mother frequently forgot to pay the electric bill.
But in a bizarre sort of paradox, you also look entirely different. The bags under your eyes are pronounced. There’s a slight hunch to your shoulders as you carry your duffel bag. And he’s trying to find the same radiance in your eyes that you had two years ago, but that light has been completely extinguished.
He simultaneously wants to wrap you into a bone-crushing hug and sprint away from you.
“I think it’s basic human decency. Could’ve given me a warning at least, you know,” So that I could avoid you around campus, he thinks to himself. “Before you fuck up my life for the second time.”
You scoff, stepping closer to him, almost sending him into cardiac arrest. “Wow. Who the fuck do you think you are? God forbid I don’t cater to you. I don’t factor you into my decisions. I stopped doing that a long time ago.”
“Yeah, clearly,” He barks out a mirthless laugh, his heart sinking at the words you spewed out to him. “You stopped thinking about me even before our relationship ended.”
You let in a deep inhale, eyes narrowing him. He clenches his jaw, undoubtedly certain that the anger is rolling off of him in monstrous waves at this very moment.
“I’m not doing this right now,” You mutter, starting to back away from his space.
“Of course!” He snarls, bringing his hands up, practically shooing you away. “Walk away, it’s what you do best.”
You whip your head at him, and suddenly you’re a mere few inches away from him, your chest heaving at a dangerous pace. He gets a small whiff of your perfume, a scent that you’ve never changed and one that he’ll always, until the end of time, associate with you. After all this time, he hates that his first instinct is to hold you. But he can’t bring his arms to reach out to you, or his hands to touch your waist.
“Fuck you, John,” You snap at him, your body shaking to the very bone as you utter those painful words. “I walked away because you didn’t listen.”
“To your bullshit? Listening would be a waste, anyways,” He looks you dead in the eyes, and to his surprise, you remain silent, your head tilting downwards to fix your gaze on the grass.
And when he sees the tears welling up in your eyes when you finally lift your head to look at him, he’s completely startled. You close your eyes immediately.
“Just…stay out of my way, John,” You whisper to him in a shaky voice, eyes still closed as you pull your trembling hands to your chest, showing your empty palms to him as an act of surrender. The way your voice breaks when saying his name sends an ache throughout his chest. “And I’ll stay out of yours.”
Before his brain even registers it, you turn around and walk away, your body slowly disappearing into the night.
Garrett’s right. Logan’s completely fucked.
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alright, i'll be the one to say it. ao3 and tumblr becoming "mainstream" did so much damage to the community and the writers. i have seen loads of videos and posts about:
1. people hating on writers and fics. writing is something we do for free and for fun. if you stumble upon a fanfic that isn't necessarily your cup of tea or you just don't like, scroll. dont read it. literally leave their page. you don't know if this could be the author's first work that they're so excited about, you dont know if the language they're writing in isn't their first language, you dont know that the writer could be a literal teen and loads of other reasons. fanfictions don't HAVE to be perfect. you write what you want to write because we do it for fun and enjoyment and we want to share that to the world. seriously, what is the wrong with that?..
2. x reader consumers getting WAY too entitled. the number of tiktoks i've seen that say "i run a strict program when it comes to reading fanfics." girl you aint running shit. this is FAN FICTION you're reading. F A N F I C T I O N. there is no denying that most fanfiction writes are beyond talented but just because you read one fanfic that exceeds your expectations doesn't give you the right to talk down on others that don't. people have their own personal writing style, their way of doing things and you talking shit on that isn't right.
at the end of the day, we are all humans, reading and writing is what we do and what we're meant to do. and for you to talk shit about a person WRITING is so insane. we are humans. not some robots that you can tell what to do so you can consume it.
i've seen so so many authors take down their fanfics and losing all motivation to write because of a hate comment. DONT LIKE DONT READ‼️
and to every author reading this, this community values your work and your contribution. we love u and, please, never let anyone's negative words have an effect on you.
Summary: Bruce hasn't seen Jason in over a week, and he's concerned. Tracking him down, Bruce expects to find his son either dead or up to something no good. Instead, he finds Jason living happily with a family Bruce never knew he had.
AN: I don't know if I'll do a part three for a while, but I do have an idea for it. So, maybe soon???
Part Two
Jason closes the door before turning to you.
You stand there, your brows drawn up together and arms folded over your chest. At first, he’s going to say something, but he can’t. His mind is a tangle of grief and fear, making his mouth feel like it’s full of cotton.
“Hey,” you say softly, stepping toward him. As your hands touch his cheeks, Jason remembers how to breathe again. “It’s okay. We can talk about it later.”
“Thank you,” Jason manages. He leans his forehead against yours, smiling as you take the chance to steal a sweet, chaste kiss. His hands anchor themselves on your soft hips, pulling you flush against him. Oh, it feels too good to have you so close.
A whine cuts through the tender moment. “Dad!”
Jason looks down at his son, who is pressed up against the side of his leg, and sees eyes entirely his own. Green with that tinge of blue, but his boy’s eyes are big and wide—Ready to soak in the world with sweet excitement.
Jason wonders, just for a brief moment, if he had once looked like that.
“Alright, buddy,” Jason bends over and picks up the boy with a grunt. “Let’s play, then it’s time for a bath.”
“I hate baths,” your boy cries as Jason carries him off toward your shared bedroom, where there's a soft whine of his baby girl.
He chuckles, kissing the boy’s cheek, before turning to you, who’s following close behind, and kissing your lips. Taking a deep breath, Jason remembers that Bruce is gone, Batman is gone, and, for right now, he can focus on his family.
—
When the kids are down, Jason meets you in the kitchen. You’re in one of his shirts, one that’s even too big on him, leaning against the counter as you scroll through your phone while mindlessly stirring a cup of coffee. At the sound of his feet shuffling, you look up and smile, putting your phone down. Almost instantly, Jason crosses the kitchen to you. He takes you in his arms, pressing you against his body as his nose buries itself in your neck.
You smell like the vanilla lotion on your nightstand, mixed with the flowery perfume he bought you a couple of months ago. He groans, pressing kisses into your neck as his hands squeeze your ass. He doesn’t want to think about Bruce or any of his family for a couple more minutes.
You reciprocate the affection by giggling into his mess of curls and scratching his back. “My Jason,” you whisper, and his eyes nearly roll back into his head.
“Oh, baby,” he whines into your neck. When Jason pulls back, he feels colder, so he moves his hands to your hips to keep you close. “This day started so well.”
“I know,” you say, reaching up to tuck away a curl. “How’re you feeling?”
Jason sighs. “Angry. Anxious.”
“Ah, a double ‘a’,” you remark with a smile.
Jason tries to return it, but fails. He lets you go so he can wander around the kitchen. You don’t move, just lean back against the counter and watch him.
“I should have been more careful,” Jason says, more to himself rather than to you.
“He was going to find out eventually, Jay,” you say. And, you’re right. This was Batman—it was a miracle that it took him two years to figure it out.
His chest is tightening as he remembers all the times Bruce looked at him with nothing but dread. Jason had tried to suck up every qualm and angsty issue he had to fit in with the bats. He played by their rules and their games, but they spurred him even then.
In their eyes, all he’d ever be was Robin. The sweet, dead bird that couldn’t sing anymore. Or, the Red Hood fuck-up who jumped first without thinking.
“I don’t want him over again,” Jason finally says.
You cross the kitchen and grab hold of his biceps, almost like you want to shake him out of this fog of anxiety. “Then he won’t be allowed over.” You lean closer. “Jason, this is your home—”
“Our home,” he corrects, eyes finding yours. You made it a home. At the very least, Jason wants to acknowledge it.
The smile that graces your face is so sweet and pretty that he thinks about kissing you for a brief moment. “Fine. It’s our home, but you’re entitled to ban people you don’t want over.”
Jason shakes his head like that wasn’t enough. Saying that Bruce couldn’t come over wouldn’t do anything. Batman always found a way to get in, whether he was welcomed or not.
Jason closes his eyes and clenches his fists. An image of Bruce stares back at him, wearing that same disappointed expression Red Hood had seen countless times. Only now, he’s in Jason’s home instead of the cave. Shaking the image out of his head, Jason blinks back tears.
When he was with you and the kids in your suburban, peaceful neighborhood, Red Hood stayed in Gotham. The bats stayed in Gotham. All that shit that had plagued him for years, followed him around like a second shadow, stayed in that god-awful city.
Even when you first got together, Jason made it clear he couldn’t just give up being Red Hood. Too many people depended on him, and, luckily, you understood that. You loved him more because of it, not despite it. In turn, Jason swore to keep that part of his life away from you and, especially, the kids.
Jason couldn’t let the bats in his home. Not even Bruce. Because wherever Bruce went, Batman had no choice but to follow.
Yet, he couldn’t forget the way Bruce seemed so excited to see the kids. Jason could see the man whom he had once called ‘Dad’. It made him hope against his better judgment.
“What should I do?” Jason breaths, ignoring the tears on his face. He wouldn’t acknowledge them even if he was sobbing.
You look away from him, thinking. Then, you say softly, “Jason, I can’t tell you what to do. He’s your dad. All I can do is have your back, whatever you decide.”
“You’re right,” he says. “I just—I don’t know what to do.”
“It’s nothing you need to decide right now,” you reply. “Babe, take a breath.”
Jason keeps his eyes on you as he tries to match his deep breaths to yours. It doesn’t really help, but focusing on you does. He notices the subtle things, like your smudged mascara and the way your nose crinkles when you think. He can’t help but see just how much your daughter takes after you.
His mind drifts back to just over a week ago, when he was in the hospital holding his newborn girl—this tiny, alien-looking sweetheart he helped bring into the world. He remembers thinking the same about your son, how squished and pink he looked in his arms. How small he was, and how fast he grew. He remembers promising to protect them both for the rest of his life.
Suddenly, Jason can think a lot more clearly. It makes him realize just how much he misses his dad. Both Willis and Bruce. He wants to be held in strong arms again and be told that nothing in the world can hurt him.
Jason wants to truly believe that nothing in the world can hurt him like it once did.
“I want my dad,” Jason confesses, looking down between you.
You wrap your arms around him and pull him close. As one of your hands caresses his back in slow circles, the other scratches his scalp. Jason cries then, feeling so exhausted and unburdened at the same time.
Summary: Bruce hasn't seen Jason in over a week, and he's concerned. Tracking him down, Bruce expects to find his son either dead or up to something no good. Instead, he finds Jason living happily with a family Bruce never knew he had.
Jason hasn’t been seen in over a week.
His absence isn’t entirely surprising. Jason has always had a habit of disappearing when it suits him. Usually, though, he leaves some sort of sign of life behind. Whether it was a blood trail, a gang war on the verge of exploding, or a text telling Bruce to fuck off.
But this time, there was nothing. He’s vanished into thin air. Nearly.
This disappearance feels off, not like the other times. Jason has been avoiding Bruce and the others more than usual these past few weeks. Whenever he was brought up on it, Jason brushed him off with the same dismissive irritation he always uses.
At first, Bruce assumed it was just another way to hide something illegal or bloody so the family wouldn’t interfere with whatever he was planning. But, this feels deliberate, too much so. If there was a blood trail, Jason’s long since cleaned it up.
Bruce hasn’t felt this nervous since that day in Ethiopia nine years ago. The memory comes to him abruptly, the one where he’s digging through debris to find his son’s lifeless body. An image of a boy too small for his age, bloodied, bruised, and broken.
Bruce closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Focus, he tells himself.
More so since Jason’s made it clear on multiple occasions that he wants very little to do with his family. Still, Bruce opens the tracking program he designed specifically for the kids. Red lines scatter across the map of Gotham, zig-zagging and crossing over one another. Each line is a confirmed sighting of Red Hood over the past few weeks.
There’s nothing new; all the tracks are old and useless to him. So, Bruce takes a shot in the dark and zooms out, not really expecting to find anything. Jason leaves Gotham from time to time for places like Bludhaven, New York, or Trenton, so it’s nothing unusual. Most of them are old.
Save for one. A blue line, not connected to Red Hood at all, but, rather, Jason’s civilian phone. Bruce stares at the line, genuinely puzzled. It’s the number and phone that Jason used when he was Robin, and Bruce had been so sure that it had been disconnected.
More concerning, it’s pinging in an area akin to the suburbs. It’s the type of place that families and older folks live to get away from the inner city.
“What are you planning, Jason?” Bruce mutters to himself. He knows there’s no better way to find out than going there himself.
—
Bruce has narrowed it down to an apartment building. It’s a great place; there’s a park and a gym, which make for nice amenities.
It’s the complete opposite of Jason’s warehouse in Gotham, a shabby place that’s dank and cold. There’s little there to show life beyond the necessities of food rations and a cot. The only thing plentiful in that warehouse is the amount of weapons that irk Bruce to no end.
The normalcy of this place makes him feel uneasy.
It’s a little past six, so it’s quiet; there’s no one really around except for a family enjoying a nice evening on the playground not far away. Even the security guard at the front desk is relaxed, his feet kicked up with a magazine in his hand. He's the perfect guy to get past easily.
He slips through the door when a couple, oblivious to the world beyond just them, walks out. As Bruce climbs the stairs, he pulls out his phone and activates the tracking app. The pinging from it grows louder the closer he gets. By the time he’s on the third floor, his phone is going wild.
When the sound can't get any crazier, Bruce stops. He's in front of a dark blue door with a doormat that says ‘hello’ in pretty cursive letters. For a brief moment, the thought that his phone or the program might not be working crosses his mind.
Shutting the tracker off, he shoves his phone into his pocket with one hand as the other knocks on the door. There’s the sound of a woman’s voice and a baby’s whine before he hears the peephole cover scrape against the wood.
Before the door opens, there's the sound of someone muttering, and there you are with a baby in your arms. Bruce is speechless for a moment, not anticipating meeting a mother and her baby. The tracker must be wrong, or maybe you stole Jason’s phone?
He can’t think long on the possibilities as you ask, “Can I help you?”
Your question is worded kindly, but there’s a tiredness to your tone that makes it clear Bruce needs to get to the point. He does, because the last thing he wants is to bother an exhausted mom. Just as he opens his mouth, there’s a call of “mommy” that rolls through the house. Bruce can’t see the source of the voice, but he can guess it’s a little boy.
You turn and call back, “One second, lovebug!”
When you look at Bruce again, you huff and cock an eyebrow, ready for him to go on. He clears his throat and asks, “Does a man named Jason Todd live here?” Bruce forces one of his charming smiles in hopes it’ll deter you from slamming the door in his face.
Your brow furrows, and your hand goes up to cover the back of the baby’s head. Taking a partial step back from the door, you turn half away from him. “Babe, there’s someone at the door for you,” you call to someone further in the apartment.
Babe. Okay, this was a new development.
Then, Bruce hears Jason’s voice. “For me? Who the hell—”
When Jason steps into the doorway, his eyes widen, and his mouth falls open slightly in shock. “Bruce,” He breathes. Then, after a moment, he shakes his head. “How did you find—You know what, I have a feeling I already know. What’re you doing here?”
“I was worried,” Bruce admits as he shifts his weight a bit. He feels uncomfortable now, like he’s tumbled through a door he shouldn’t have.
“Worried,” Jason repeats, cocking an eyebrow like he doesn’t fully believe him.
Bruce swallows. “Yes, worried.”
Before Jason can make the smartass retort Bruce can feel him about to spit out, a boy, no older than two or three, appears in the doorway. The sight of the little boy leaves him speechless. He's an exact clone of Jason, right down to the little black cowlick at the top of his head and the bright, hopeful look in his green eyes.
For a moment, Bruce is brought back to Ethiopia, seeing Jason, not much bigger than the toddler but still so much older, bloodied and beaten. He snaps back to reality when the boy loudly whispers to his father, asking who “that man” is.
Bruce realizes that Jason has never mentioned him, and that feels far worse than death.
Jason doesn’t answer, but picks up the toddler and brings him further into the apartment, leaving the door open so Bruce can follow or leave. He steps in, taking in the scene before him.
It’s a warm, lived-in space. Nothing special or big, but it’s just enough. As he makes his way into the living room, Bruce notices paper plates shaped like animals with remnants of what he assumes must have been a good, hearty meal on the coffee table. On the TV, a kids’ show plays, momentarily catching the attention of the toddler.
Then, Bruce sees you again. You’re settling the baby in a pink baby bouncer, trying to get the infant to calm, but it’s clear she’s about to wail. By the small swell of your stomach, Bruce guesses that you’re recently postpartum.
Jason motions Bruce further inside, telling him to sit down in the cushioned chair opposite the couch, where he sets the squirming toddler. “As you can see, I’m fine,” Jason says as he picks up the plates left on the coffee table before momentarily disappearing into the kitchen.
You take the time to introduce yourself, reaching a hand out to shake Bruce’s. After telling you his name again, it finally seems to register who he is by your quiet, surprised, “oh”! At the very least, Jason has mentioned him to you.
“Well, what now?” Jason says as he rounds the couch to sit on the other side of the little boy. Almost instantly, the toddler is all over Jason’s lap, but he hardly reacts as if it’s something that happens all the time.
Clearing his throat, Bruce says, “You have a nice home.”
“Thank you,” you say, sounding much sweeter than when you first answered the door. He can’t blame you for being wary. In Gotham, or anywhere else for that matter, you can never be too careful. After a moment of prolonged silence, you add, “We moved in a couple of months ago! It’s a wonderful place. It even has a daycare a block or two away. Perfect for our babies.”
You pinch your boy’s cheek before moving him over to sit. Your daughter is making whining noises in her bouncer, which pulls Bruce’s gaze to her. She’s the perfect combination of you and Jason, with her father’s nose and curly black hair; everything else is you.
“How old are they?” Bruce asks quietly, as it had simply slipped from his mouth.
Jason crosses his arms, looking like he’s trying to seem protective. Yet, there’s a bit of a wane in his tough demeanor by the way his eyes gaze pitifully at his father.
“Our boy here is two, and our girl is just over a week and a half.” The smile that graces your face is the only one that can come from a mother who adores her children. “They both already have Daddy wrapped around their fingers, huh?”
You take the boy into your lap and press kisses to his black hair. He giggles and kicks about for a moment before Jason settles a hand on his legs.
Bruce watches as his boy looks fondly at you and your son, like a proud father and partner. He doesn’t know what to do or say. There are so many questions to ask. Many he can probably answer himself, though he doesn’t want to. All the answers Bruce wants, he wants from Jason.
“She’s beautiful. They both are,” Bruce manages to say.
Jason mutters, “Thanks.”
You, on the other hand, take the praise more personally: “Our boy is just the spitting image of his dad, so no argument there. But, Jason says our girl looks like a little alien.”
“She did look like an alien the first day. All smooshed and red-faced. She’s cute now,” Jason replies, leaning over to take the baby into his arms.
When Bruce opens his mouth to speak, Jason’s smile falls a little. “Beautiful. That’s the word you’re looking for, Jay.”
Jason snickers but corrects himself. “Beautiful. More than, really. Angelic. Spitting image of her mama.”
A blush crosses your cheeks, and you wave him off. “Oh, stop it—”
A sharp cry cuts you off as the baby’s discomfort now fully boils over. Jason tries bouncing her before checking her diaper for any accidents, but that doesn’t seem to be the problem. Your boy is covering his ears, angrily looking at his little sister, and it seems like he’s about to tell her to shut up.
You sense the growing agitation and hold out your arms. “Give her here, babe. Oh, she’s hungry.”
Jason’s gentle as he hands over the baby, his eyes full of hurt at the sounds of his crying girl. Luckily, the moment she settles against you, her cries turn into little whimpers, and her hands blindly grip your shirt. Excusing yourself, you walk down the hall to nurse the baby in your room. You look back and call after your son, who hops off the couch with a grin as he toddles after you. He pauses when he notices Jason isn’t following.
A rueful smile crosses Jason’s face, and he reaches out to run a hand through his son’s black curls. “I’ll be there in a second, go watch cartoons with Mama and your sister.” The boy hesitantly leaves, glancing over his shoulder at his father.
It dawns on Bruce far too late that Jason has lived a whole life separate from the one in Gotham. A life that was never meant to involve him or any of the others.
Jason leans back against the couch and rubs a hand over his face. “Don’t go telling everyone about this. I don’t need any fucking bats in my business.”
“I won’t, but I think Dick, at the very least, would like to know you’re alright,” Bruce says.
Jason shakes his head and laughs to himself. “Dick can go fuck himself.”
“Jay—”
“No. Don’t—” Jason cuts in. He exhales and looks away, trying to hide the way his eyes are glassy now. “Don’t give me some bullshit that you guys miss me or want me back. What did you expect when you came here tonight, hm?”
Bruce didn’t know how to answer. He knew that he couldn’t because Jason would be right. He’d come here, to his son’s home—to your home—expecting to find plans to conquer Gotham or, worse, finding Jason dead. Because obviously, it couldn’t have been anything good. You, two kids, and a nice, comfortable home were the last thing on his mind.
“You can’t even fucking look at me,” Jason spat. “Which, I guess, proves my point.”
“I’m sorry.”
When Bruce looks at Jason again, he’s blinking back tears and looking at the ground. Sniffling, Jay stands and wipes his hands down the front of his sweatpants, his eyes going to the hallway where you disappeared before going back to Bruce. It’s a good minute of going back and forth before Jason finally figures out what he wants to do.
“Sorry isn’t good enough anymore, Bruce.” There’s a pause before he goes on. “It hasn’t been for a while. A long while.”
“I understand, Jason.” Bruce stands, holding his jacket tighter around him, and takes a step. When he does, you come back out of the room with just your son on your hip and a baby monitor in your free hand.
“Are you leaving?” You ask, and there’s not an ounce of contempt in your face. In fact, Bruce could have sworn you sounded a bit disappointed.
Jason answers for him, “Yes, he is.”
You must be able to understand the stress because you don’t ask for any more information. The boy in your arms squirms until you let him down, and he trots over to his father, who happily picks him up.
“Hey, baby,” Jason coos, pressing kisses into the boy’s hair. “Let me walk my friend out, and I’ll come play with you, how’s that?”
“Okay,” the boy mumbles joyfully. Jason gives the boy one more kiss before putting him down.
My friend. Bruce has the near urge to yell a correction at Jason, but can’t. The last thing he wants to do is yell at Jason in his home. It wouldn’t make the situation better, especially considering Bruce wants to be allowed back.
Bruce turns to you and gives a forced smile. “Thank you for letting me in. I’m sorry to have shown up unannounced.”
You open your mouth, then shut it, your eyes flickering over to Jason for a split second. No doubt, you don’t know what to say, and you certainly don’t want to say the wrong thing. You manage to find something and reply with, “It’s no trouble. It was nice meeting you.”
As Bruce turns towards the door, he notices Jason giving you a passing kiss that’s too sweet not to be filled with love. A home full of love—a foreign concept in Wayne Manor. He looks away, thinking about how he assumed everything wrong, and tries to comb through the excuses to show up again. Bruce wants to know the man his son has turned into and to know the mother of his grandchildren
Selfishly, he doesn’t want to be known as Jason’s ‘friend’, either. No, Bruce wants to be ‘grandpa’.
Jason corrals him out the door, nearly pushing him, before stopping just before the threshold. Bruce takes in the hallway again, not at all happy with the sight of long rows of doors—Jason’s family should be in a house with a yard for the kids to play in, he thinks. Just for a moment, Bruce considers buying a house for Jason in hopes that it might bridge the gap between them.
Knowing Jason, he'd set it on fire before even considering moving in.
“I’ll see you around?” Bruce says, hopeful.
Jason looks like he’s going to say no—in fact, it looks like he wants to say it, but there’s the sound of the boy inside giggling. It sounds just like the little boy who used to think Robin was magic. And Jason suddenly looks hesitant.
“Maybe,” He says before he shuts the door.
Bruce stands there for a second, staring at the welcome mat, as he listens to a loud, high-pitched laugh seep through the door.
One day, he told himself, he’d be invited into the little apartment full of love.
Can I request an smau where the reader is in a friends with benefits situation with the boys and the reader becomes distant and pulls away? Just hurt/comfort where the boys miss their baby and want to know what’s wrong so they can fix it.
Talk to me, baby
IN WHICH... You begin to doubt the connection you share with the boys because you're not technically together
warnings: hurt/comfort, a bit angsty but fluffy at the end, f!reader, y/n used, lots of pet names :))
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