For a literal tech genius, it was a shame your father couldn’t design faster elevators.
This was the longest trip to the 4th floor ever.
You stood beside Bucky openly fidgeting, not caring to hide your impatience and discomfort. Your mouth was dry and your mind was foggy with sleep. All you wanted to do was to escape the shit-show you created. You wiped your sweaty hands on your thighs just thinking about it.
You haven’t spoken a word since you arrived at the compound, too embarrassed to even look in his direction. Any energy you gained from your little nap soured like old milk when you watched Bucky grab the overflowing shopping bags from the backseat. Your heart tugged. You didn’t deserve the crap he bought you. You didn’t deserve his kindness. You wondered how long Bucky waited at the cash while you were off trying to pull a Houdini. You wondered how he felt when he figured it out. Some part of you wondered if he was disappointed in you. An even deeper part wondered how bad you hurt his feelings.
You kept your eyes glued to the ground when the elevator dinged, signaling your arrival to the residential wing. You strummed your fingers against your thighs, following Bucky as he moved towards the common area. You’re throwing the towel in– he’s won this round. You can put the defiance away until he drops your bags, then it’s full steam to your room. You couldn’t wait to hide out and be miserable.
You were so deep in your head, planning your grand night of avoidance, you didn’t realize you’d walked straight into the lion’s den until it was too late.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
Apparently things have changed since the last time you were here. The Avengers must have put their differences aside and sang kumbaya after they brought everyone back. The common area buzzed with the type of ease you never thought you’d see again.
Sam and Uncle Rhodes were sitting by the library, locked in a friendly debate. Bruce sat alongside them pretending not to listen, but you could see the hint of a smile on his face as he stared into his book.
Clint had his back to you, draped across the oversized couch, talking endlessly to no one in particular and picking at a fruit salad that clearly wasn’t his. Your father stared at an episode of Storage Wars, doing his best to ignore him, but the tension in his expression made it clear he wasn’t succeeding.
You would have giggled if your freedom wasn’t one truth away from perishing.
In a way the scene before you felt reminiscent of your childhood at the tower. It reminded you that your life wasn’t as bad as you remembered it.
You remembered joking around with Thor as he struggled to understand your Midgardian humor and adolescent quirks. You remembered sketching with Steve after a rough day at school; bullies picking on you for not being the genius your new last name said you were supposed to be. You even remembered all the days after that, faking sick to stay home from school.
You would lay in bed, complaining about a stomachache too severe to even sit up. Only orange juice and a day off of school could save you. You expected your father to march right into your room, give you a once over and send you right off to school. It’s what your mother would have done, nothing gets past her BS detector.
Got.
Nothing got past her BS detector.
Instead it was Pepper Potts, your dad’s sometimes girlfriend, that would sit by your bedside.
“You don’t look sick,” she said gently.
You shrugged, pulling the blanket higher up your chest. “Must be fibromyalgia or something.”
You averted your eyes from her observant gaze, feigning a cough to try and sell your act.
“Right,” Pepper murmured. “Well, I’ll let the school know you won’t be in today.”
You nodded into your blanket. A new wave of unease came over you as you watched her leave. This is a moment better suited for a parent, not the girlfriend.
“Pepper, where’s my dad?”
She paused, fingers turning white on your doorknob.
“He’s in the lab,” she always said, “Been there since last night.”
“Oh.”
A lump quickly formed in your throat, the priorities of Tony Stark clear to you. He’d rather play with robots than check up on his sick daughter. You quickly turned on your side and pulled your covers over your head, not wanting to let Pepper see you cry.
“Thank you Pepper, I’ll let FRIDAY know if I need anything,” you dismissed, your voice ever watery.
You heard a sigh and Pepper whisper good wishes to you before your door carefully shut.
You openly sobbed into your pillow. You curled in on yourself, pulling the blanket tighter as a chill ran through you, sharper this time.
Fake or not, you felt sick to your stomach now.
A voice that could only be described as nails on a chalk board snapped you out of your head.
“If it isn’t the Pacifier and co. How was the city?” Your father asked as he turned from the couch, a small, satisfied smile tugging at his mouth.
Sometimes you dreamt of a world where the snap took your father’s vocal cords instead of his right arm. You think it would boost common morale by 20%.
In any other circumstances, you would have bit back a snarky quip to try and shut him up. You would have rolled your eyes and stalked off to your room, not giving him the time of day.
But you fucked up. So your feet stayed cemented to the floor, preparing yourself for whatever confession was about to spill from Bucky’s lips. You bit your lip and held your breath as you waited for him to get it over with and expose you to the team as the good for nothing addict you were.
You were already mourning the sunlight. It would be years until you would be allowed freedom again. Hopefully you got schizophrenia from all the drugs you’ve taken. Then the voices could keep you company as you served your sentence.
Tony looked between the two of you, expectantly. Someone coughed in the background.
Seeing you weren’t going to say anything, Bucky huffed and dropped your bags on a side table.
“She got what she needed.”
That’s it?
You stared at Bucky incredulously. Did he just cover for you?
You carefully let out the breath you were holding and made a move to grab your bags. You were painfully aware of just how sweaty your pits were and made a move to your bedroom right away. You can thank Bucky later, it wasn’t like you weren’t going to see him again. If your dad had his way he would have made him move into your bedroom too.
“Wait.”
Fuck.
Your dads voice stops you in your tracks.
“What,” you snapped, arms crossed, already exasperated with him. At that moment, you wanted nothing more than to lie down in your room. Emotions are exhausting.
Tony raised an eyebrow at your attitude that you almost scoffed at. Was he expecting a warm reception?
“Nothing. Just noticed you decided to pick up the paint brush again. Good for you. Honestly, nothing says emotional growth like splattering your angst on a canvas. Adrian Hill would be so proud. Or was it Naumburg? I can never remember, psychology’s more up your alley.” He tilted his head, waiting for a reaction that never came. “It’s good, though. Channeling your frustration into creativity. Therapeutic, even. Dr. Newman will be proud when you tell her. You know, science says—well, me, mostly—that expressing yourself like this can stave off… existential dread and impulsive decision-making.”
God, does he ever stop talking?
You squinted at him. “Wow. You need to get off TikTok. And I'd be a lot better if I had some space to breathe around here, do you know who I can talk to for that?”
Tony blinks, studying your face for a second before completely ignoring everything you just said, “We missed you, you know. And you may not see it now, but I'm doing this all for your benefit. You’ll thank me later.” He takes a breath before continuing, averting his gaze as he does so, “I know the last few years have been pretty rocky, but we’re here to help you. I know you’re angry, but it takes two to make a thing go right. Let me help you help yourself. I only want the best for my first born.”
You held back your scoff for his sake. The sincerity of his words killed the formation of any snarky comeback you had in your mind.
“Thanks, but you’re a few years too late. I have everything under control, you just caught me at a bad time. I’m doing fine. Always have been, always will be.”
You stared at him for a beat more before moving to leave again, “The best way you can help is to back off. I want to go back to school. I want my life back. That’s what would help me right now. Maybe I’ll send you a postcard.”
With that, you turned your back to the seven pairs of eyes on you, ready for the day to be over with. Who knew the Avengers were the biggest snoops? We need another extraterrestrial threat to deal with, they have too much time on their hands.
“Your sister asked about you today,” Tony rushed out, the words spilling out of his mouth so fast they sounded like one.
You stiffened and stopped in your tracks.
“She misses her big sister. Wanted to know when you’d be around.”
You snorted and kept walking. You wouldn’t dare give him the satisfaction of seeing your reaction, “Yeah? Tell her I’m busy.”
You finally stormed down the hall to your room, slamming your door in anger and frustration.
What a way to ruin the moment. You dumped the memories of everything your father said 5 seconds ago into your mental recycling bin. Waste of schematic space.
You dropped your bags and face planted on your bed, growling into a pillow.
Morgan Stark.
To an outsider, being jealous of an 8-year-old kid is absurd. Being jealous of your kid sister who looks up at you with nothing but admiration in her eyes is worse.
Growing up, you always begged your mom for a sibling. A little brother or sister who you could play with. Being an only child was lonely.
So when you finally got the chance to be the big sister you always wanted to be, it should have felt special, like kismet.
But when you look down at Morgan, in all of her glory and the love she’s so clearly surrounded by, all you feel is bitter resentment.
Morgan wasn’t your sister. She was your replacement. A second-chance for your father to do fatherhood on his own terms.
You were 16 when you were blipped. You remembered that day all too well.
Despite your favoritism to the social sciences and arts, Your father had enrolled you in the infamous Midtown School of Science and Technology in hopes of continuing the Stark legacy. That, and being classmates with his lackey Peter Parker, made it easier for him to keep tabs on you.
Peter was an annoying pest you couldn’t seem to get rid of. Despite being in opposite social circles, he was always around, popping in at the worst times and ruining your fun. It took you breaking down from stress and crying to him drunk after going too hard at one of Liz’s parties before you two sat down and created some boundaries. Peter was a pretty good listener and surprisingly reasonable. No snitching or you would snitch back 10x harder, as well as breathing room when you needed it, and a promise to text him immediately if anything was wrong. After that, he was tolerable to be around. You would never admit it, but you considered him to be one of your truest friends. He was the only person you felt you could be honest with and was one of the few people who didn’t treat you differently because of your last name.
Keeping his promise, he didn’t tattle when you skipped out on the infamous class field trip to MoMA. You elected there were better things to do with your time, like getting high in a parking lot with a cute girl from the arts school 3 blocks down. You had put your phone on silent, deciding to deal with the consequences of your actions after getting some action. You were too consumed in the smell of her coconut shampoo to see that Pepper had been spamming your phone, calling you at least a dozen times before you realized what was happening.
By the time whatsherface opened instagram and filled the two of you in on what was going on, it was too late.
The smell of coconut was the last thing you remembered before it all went dark.
It’s hard, being dead one second and then brought back to life 5 years later the next.
A lot can change in 5 years.
Everything was different. Everyone tried to move on– some did so easier than others.
Years later, you still couldn’t explain the feelings you felt reuniting with your family.
You were flown out to Georgia where your dad and Pepper finally sealed the deal and settled down to no one's surprise. No, that wasn’t the sucker punch. The real blow landed when you found out how easily your dad filled the space you left behind.
Meeting Morgan for the first time was a cruel kind of tenderness.
It hurt more than you let on. She was his perfect baby. The apple of his eye, the final piece in his puzzle.
Your heart tore and broke into pieces you didn’t think was possible. Your dad finally got the perfect daughter he always wanted. His ultimate redo.
You spent that trip crying in the lifeless room they saved for you, heart fragmenting every time you heard the squeal of Morgan’s giggles and the loud bass of your dad’s laughter.
Why couldn’t he be that father to you?
Sadness turned to anger as you thought harder. You were a kid when he took you in. Why couldn’t he play with you like that? Love you like that? If anything, you needed it more than her. You watched your mom die in front of you. From a situation that he caused. The least he could have done was be there.
You ignored all the knocks and the attempts to talk. There was no more room in your life for him anymore. You were given a second chance at life. The world sat in your hands, a newfound fire growing in your chest.
When you have nothing left, you still have a choice.
You didn’t say goodbye when you left.
By the time you were back in New York, your decision had already been made.
Graduating early wasn’t hard. You’d always been smart—you just never cared enough to prove it. Turns out, spite was a pretty effective motivator.
NYU was an easy choice. Far enough to get away. Close enough to your heart that no one could accuse you of running.
You were exactly where you wanted to be.
Being alone allows you to think more introspectively.
All your life you dreamt of death.
You dreamt of reuniting with your mother and living the life you should have had.
Real life is nothing like your dreams.
In real life death is nothing. It’s a void of eternal darkness that haunts your memories and wakes you up at night.
You once tried looking up the girl you were with that day, to see if she was blipped too. Your quick google search told you she survived initially, but died 2 years before from bumping a laced line.
Being left alone with your thoughts is scary. So you spent your second chance doing whatever you could to avoid it.
You spent your days partying and messing around. You avoided your fathers phone calls and attempts to check in. You avoided your sister and anything that reminded you of her, of the life you could have had.
You didn’t realize you were crying until you moved to cover yourself on your bed, wiping your tears with your blanket.
Maybe this could be your third chance at life. You just needed to know where to start.
You fell asleep dreaming of nothing that night.
Your brain felt like mush and your fingers cramped, begging for rest.
Half a dozen pages of your sketchbook and two drying canvases later, you called it a day. Bitterly, you thought of your fathers words and how he was right, splattering your angst on canvas did make you feel slightly better. Not that you would ever tell him that.
You haven’t left your room since your little escapade to the city. You were starving and bored out of your mind, but you were too head strong to come out and face the music.
You knew no one would even care when they saw you. You and your father fought enough in your youth for your spat last night to be as insignificant as a snowflake in a winter storm.
It wasn’t the team you didn’t want to face, it was Bucky. Despite being an everpresent thorn in your father’s ass for years, you knew nothing about him. They only reconciled after the blip, to which you were long gone by then. Normally, you could read people like a book, but not this guy. He kept his cards to his chest and didn’t spill. It frustrated you to not have control, to not know what to expect or what he was thinking.
You knew your time was up soon anyways, your phone dinged with a reminder, letting you know your first session back with Dr. Newman was scheduled for tomorrow morning. Damn you Tony Stark.
You told your stomach to shut up when it let out a particularly loud and nasty growl. What a drama queen, I guess those Stark genes don’t stop at the brain. Begrudgingly, you stood up from where you sat on the floor, your vision blurring and your head light as a feather. You stumbled and took a deep breath, regaining your balance.
Okay, maybe I should listen to my stomach.
With gritted teeth, you pushed open your door and made a bee-line to the kitchen. You grabbed a tote bag that hung from your wall, planning to fill it up with snacks.
Your mouth watered as you slugged closer to the kitchen, the rich smells of Italian food putting you in a trance.
You expected the team to be in the middle of dinner but instead found yourself pleasantly surprised to find Bucky alone in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, manning the stove. He didn’t look up right away, but you knew he clocked you the second you walked in.
Appreciative of his silence, you kept your head down and rummaged through the cabinets, stuffing granola bars and anything remotely edible into your tote. You tried—really tried—to ignore him and whatever Michelin-star nonsense he had going on behind you, but your stomach, ever the traitor, let out a long, pathetic whine the second the smell hit again.
Mortified, you moved to leave only to have your eyes met with two plates of what appeared to be the creamiest chicken pasta sitting on the island in front of you.
You looked up only to find Bucky already staring at you. You stared back, wide-eyed and confused. Your stomach growled again.
You might be bordering on delirium because you think you saw a hint of a smile on his face as he slid a plate in your direction, “Eat.”
You blinked.
“…I was just gonna take my stuff to my room.”
“Yeah,” he said flatly. “I figured.”
Your grip tightened around the tote bag. “God forbid I eat in peace.”
No reaction, because of course.
You grabbed the plate closest to you and turned, ready to leave.
“If you’re going to eat my food you’re eating here, not in your room.”
You let out a short, humorless laugh, “you’re joking, right?”
He leaned back against the counter, arms crossing, gaze steady but not sharp.
Woah.
Something low in your stomach fluttered at the sight.
Without a second thought, you chose a chair at the table and sat down. You reminded yourself that it costs zero dollars to not be a bitch for 5 minutes.
You stared at the plate before you. You were so hungry it was beginning to look unappetizing. You pushed the food around with your fork, not quite bringing yourself to take a bite.
Dejected, you bit the inside of your cheek and looked up at him. “Thanks for not snitching.”
He didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he pushed himself off the counter and moved around the island, grabbing his own plate before taking the seat across from you.
“Not my job to,” he said simply.
The words hit wrong.
You frowned. “Wow. That almost sounded like you care.”
“I didn’t ‘snitch’,” he continued, ignoring you completely, “because Stark doesn’t need another reason to lock you in here.”
Your jaw tightened.
“Right,” you muttered, dropping your gaze back to your plate. “Glad we’re on the same page.
Silence stretched between you.
You stabbed a piece of pasta and brought it to your mouth, hesitating just a second before forcing yourself to take the bite. An involuntary moan left your mouth at the taste but you were too lost in the sauce to care.
Goddamn that was good.
You chewed slowly, savouring the rich flavours. It suddenly hit you that you haven’t had a good home cooked meal in years, a typical dinner to you was whatever had the fastest delivery time on uber eats and a rip of the bowl.
“Why’d you run?” he asked suddenly.
You froze.
Here we go.
“‘Cause I wanted to get high,” you shot back through a mouthful of pasta, not looking up.
“You know I’m the most prolific spy in history, right.”
Your fork clinked a little too hard against the plate. “I didn’t ask for a side of history with my meal, thanks.”
An empty laugh escaped his lips, “You Starks are all the same. You gonna keep deflecting, or actually answer me?”
That made you look up.
His expression hadn’t changed. Calm. Steady. Unreadable in the worst way possible.
Your gaze dropped again, shoulders tightening as you pushed your food around your plate.
“I just wanted five minutes,” you muttered, quieter now. “Without someone breathing down my neck.”
Another beat of silence.
“Bullshit.”
You swallowed. You weren’t lying, but you weren’t telling the full truth. You squirmed in your seat, feeling naked in Bucky’s gaze. You hated it.
“You want to know what I think?”
Not really, but let me guess– you’re going to tell me anyways, right?
You stared at him expectantly, wishing you had just starved in your room.
“I think you make bad decisions like you’re trying to get caught. You don’t even realize you’re doing it.”
Your brows pulled together and your jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”
“You’re a smart girl. You graduated high school at 16 and are working on your second college degree at 20. So when you make choices like this?” He spoke slowly, like he wanted you to comprehend everything he said, “that’s evidence of someone playing dumb.”
Your throat tightened.
You stared at your plate, vision blurring just slightly at the edges.
“That’s not—” you started, then stopped. “You don’t know me.”
“I know patterns.”
You scoffed, but there was no bite left in it. “Oh, so I’m a case study now?”
“No,” he said. “You’re predictable.”
That stung more than anything else he’d said.
Your fork clinked against the plate as you dropped it.
“Wow,” you muttered. “That’s… really comforting. Thanks.”
“You’re making this harder than it needs to be.” He exhales quietly. “I’m trying to keep you from killing yourself. This act? It’s not gonna hold up.” There was a beat as he took a breath, “and for someone who wants nothing to do with Stark, you’re walking a pretty similar line.” His gaze stays on you. “You’ve got help in front of you. Use it.”
The room went very, very quiet.
You swallowed hard, your chest tightening like something had just locked around it.
“That’s dramatic,” you said, but your voice came out weaker than you intended.
“Is it?”
You didn’t answer. You knew he didn’t expect you to anyways.
You finished a few more bites before standing abruptly, grabbing your tote and tossing it over your shoulder in one motion.
“I’m done.”
He nodded once. No commentary. No smug look. Nothing.
You hesitated for half a second, fingers tightening around the canvas strap of your bag.
“…Thanks for the food,” you muttered, barely audible.
You didn’t wait for a response.
You turned and walked out before he could say anything, before you could take it back.
Back in your room, the quiet felt different. Your chest felt tight in a way you couldn’t explain.
You laid in your bed, letting the tears from your eyes fall freely down your temples.
They weren’t sad tears, no. They were… different.
You hated that you couldn’t immediately label it.
You felt different. You felt seen.
Bucky had looked and dissected you in a way no one else had before.
For the first time in a long time, someone had the courage to tell you the truth to your face. Had the courage to truly look at you, the whole you.
That was new.
You didn’t know how you felt about the feeling it blossomed in your chest.
ahhh my life has been so crazy as of late sorry if this is mediocre, i pushed this out at 4am haha ♡ + ↻ if u like the series! the constant notifications motivate me to get off my ass and onto google docs
hiiii I love your fics with as the brother and I have one
So it’s a Garrett x sister reader and they don’t have a good relationship cause Garrett left her in that house, so know she’s sixteen still living with her father and Garrett and Hannah come over for thanksgiving? You can decide what happens
Thanksgiving
Garett Graham x little!sister!reader (y/n)
Summary: Garett reunites with his sister during Thanksgiving. The family holiday brings Garett to the realisation that his father has never stopped hurting y/n.
TW: Phil Graham
Word Count: 2.6K
The closer they got to Phil’s house, the quieter Garrett became.
Hannah noticed almost immediately.
He’d barely spoken in the last twenty minutes, one hand gripping the steering wheel while the other drummed an uneven rhythm against his jeans.
She reached across the center console and intertwined their fingers.
“You okay?”
Garrett forced a smile.
“Yeah.”
“Liar.”
He let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.
“I hate coming back here.”
“I know.”
Thanksgiving could’ve been spent with friends at Briar.
Anywhere but here.
But Phil had called.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Eventually Garrett had answered.
“Just one dinner, Garrett. Cindy wants to meet you.”
Cindy. His father’s fiancée. The woman somehow willing to marry Phil Graham.
Garrett still couldn’t understand that part.
“I’ll be fine,” he murmured.
Hannah squeezed his hand.
“I’m here.”
He looked over for just a second before pulling into the long driveway.
Nothing about the house had changed. Same white siding. Same perfectly trimmed hedges. Same porch where he’d once sat for hours after hockey practice because going inside felt worse than the cold.
His stomach tightened.
“I hate this place.”
Hannah quietly unbuckled her seatbelt.
“I know. I’m here with you, okay?” She smiled reassuringly and squeezed his hand.
—
Phil opened the front door before they’d even reached it.
“Garrett.”
“Dad.”
No hug. No handshake. Just two men staring at each other.
“You made good time.”
“Traffic was light.”
Another silence. Then Phil stepped aside “Come in.”
The house smelled like roasted turkey and cinnamon.
Everything looked… normal. Like one of those picture-perfect homes in holiday commercials. Garrett had always hated how convincing the act was.
“Garrett!”
A woman appeared from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel. She looked to be in her early forties with kind eyes and a nervous smile.
“You must be Hannah.”
Hannah smiled politely.
“You must be Cindy.”
“It’s so nice to finally meet you both.”
She pulled Hannah into a brief hug before looking back at Garrett.
“I’ve heard so much about you.”
Garrett doubted that. Phil rarely spoke about him unless it involved hockey.
“Thanks,” he said simply.
“Oh!”
Cindy turned toward the hallway.
“Y/N!”
Garrett hadn’t realized how tense he’d been until he heard her name.
Footsteps echoed against the hardwood floor.
Then she appeared.
She’d grown.
The last time he’d seen her regularly she’d barely reached his shoulder.
Now… She looked sixteen. Still smaller than him. Hair pulled back into a loose braid. An oversized sweatshirt swallowing her frame.
For one ridiculous second, Garrett only saw the little girl who used to steal his hockey sticks and insist she could beat him one-on-one in the driveway.
Then reality settled back in.
She stopped a few feet away.
Neither of them spoke.
“Hi,” Garrett said quietly.
She looked at him for a long second.
“Hi.” Her voice was soft. Almost careful.
Hannah smiled warmly.
“It’s really nice to meet you.”
Y/N looked at her. “You too.”
The conversation seemed too polite, respectful, and distant. Garrett hated how formal it felt.
“You’ve…” He searched for something to say. “…grown.”
A tiny shrug. “I guess.”
Silence settled awkwardly.
Cindy clapped her hands together. “Well!” She smiled too brightly. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
“I’ll help,” Y/N said immediately.
Before Garrett could ask another question, she disappeared into the kitchen beside Cindy.
He watched her go.
“She seems nice,” Hannah whispered.
Garrett nodded absently. “Yeah.”
But something felt off. Not wrong exactly. Just different. He remembered a little sister who never stopped talking. Who followed him everywhere. Who begged to sit in the garage while he taped his hockey stick.
This girl barely looked him in the eye.
—
From the dining room, Garrett watched Y/N move quietly around the kitchen.
Without being asked, she grabbed plates from the cabinet. Set the table. Refilled drinks before anyone noticed they were low.
When Cindy reached for the gravy, Y/N was already handing it to her. Like she’d memorized exactly what everyone needed before they asked.
Hannah noticed it too.
“She helps a lot.”
Garrett nodded. “Yeah.”
“Does she always…?”
He didn’t answer. Because he honestly didn’t know anymore.
At one point Cindy accidentally dropped a serving spoon.
The clang echoed through the kitchen.
Y/N visibly jumped. Not dramatically. Just enough that Garrett caught it.
She immediately bent to pick it up.
Garrett frowned slightly. Something about that exchange lodged itself in the back of his mind.
Before he could think about it any further, Phil’s voice cut through the room. “Dinner.”
Everyone gathered around the table. Garrett pulled Hannah’s chair out. Phil sat at the head. Cindy beside him. Y/N quietly took the remaining chair. The spread looked almost too perfect.
Turkey. Mashed potatoes. Stuffing. Green beans.
The kind of Thanksgiving dinner people put in magazines.
Phil folded his hands together. “Let’s say grace.”
Around the table, everyone reached for the hand beside them.
Garrett took Hannah’s. Then reached automatically toward Cindy. She smiled gently and slipped her hand into his.
As she did, the sleeve of her cardigan slid back just enough for Garrett to catch a glimpse of dark purple blooming across the inside of her wrist.
His breath caught.
The room suddenly felt much, much colder.
Garrett’s fingers went numb.
For a split second, all he could see was the bruise.
Dark purple.
Finger-shaped.
Old enough to have faded around the edges. New enough that it hadn’t healed.
His stomach dropped.
No.
His eyes flicked from Cindy’s wrist to Phil. Who sat calmly at the head of the table, hands folded as though nothing in the world could possibly be wrong.
Garrett stopped hearing the room.
“…Lord, thank You for bringing us together…”
Phil’s voice faded into static.
The bruise blurred.
Suddenly he wasn’t twenty-two anymore. He was eleven.
His mother kneeling beside the washing machine, hurriedly tugging the sleeve of her sweater down before answering the front door.
“Mom?”
“It’s nothing, sweetheart.”
“Did Dad—”
“Garrett.”
A shaky smile.
“Please don’t.”
The memory disappeared as quickly as it came.
Another one took its place.
Him.
Thirteen years old.
Looking down at the purple marks wrapped around his own wrist after Phil had grabbed him before practice.
“Coach is going to ask.”
“Then tell him you fell.”
Back to the present.
Garrett’s breathing had become shallow.
“…Bless this food…”
His eyes remained locked on Cindy’s wrist.
His heart pounded louder.
Too loud.
Too familiar.
No.
No.
No.
His chair scraped loudly against the hardwood floor.
“Stop.”
Phil paused mid-prayer.
The entire table looked at Garrett.
He was already standing.
His voice came out louder this time. “I said stop.”
Silence crashed over the dining room.
Cindy looked confused.
“Garrett?”
His eyes never left her wrist. “Your sleeve.”
She frowned and instinctively covered her arm with her free hand.
“It’s fine.”
“No.” His voice shook. “It isn’t.”
Phil leaned back in his chair.
“What exactly do you think you’re doing?”
Garrett ignored him.
“Cindy.”
His tone softened immediately.
“Can I see your wrist?”
She looked uncertain.
“It’s really nothing.”
Garrett laughed once. A short, broken sound.
“That’s exactly what people say when it isn’t.”
Across the table, Hannah stared between everyone, completely lost.
“Garrett?”
He finally looked at Phil. “What happened?”
Phil’s expression didn’t change.
“She bumped into the counter.”
Garrett’s jaw tightened.
“Really.”
“Yes.”
“Funny.”
He nodded toward the bruise.
“Because that looks exactly like someone’s hand.”
The room went completely still.
Phil’s eyes darkened. “You’ve got a lot of nerve making accusations in my house.”
Garrett took a step around the table.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve pretending I don’t know what your hands leave behind.”
Nobody moved.
Nobody breathed.
Cindy’s face had gone pale.
Phil’s voice turned sharp. “Sit down.”
“No.”
“I said—”
“I heard you.”
Garrett’s own voice rose.
“I’m not sitting at a table with a man who—”
“Garrett.”
Hannah reached for his arm. He barely noticed. His chest rose and fell unevenly.
Then a movement. Tiny. Almost impossible to notice. Except Garrett noticed.
Because he’d spent years making himself notice. At Phil’s raised voice Cindy flinched. Small. Instinctive. Her shoulders curled inward for less than a second.
Garrett felt sick.
No…
His gaze shifted automatically toward the other side of the table. Toward his sister. Y/N. She’d flinched too.
Not because Garrett had shouted. Not because of the argument. Because Phil had.
It wasn’t even a conscious reaction. Her shoulders tightened. Her fingers immediately dropped from the table into her lap. Her eyes lowered to the plate in front of her. Like she was trying to disappear.
Garrett stared.
No.
No.
No.
His voice came out barely above a whisper.
“…Y/N?”
She looked up slowly.
And what Garrett saw on her face stole the air from his lungs.
Fear.
Not confusion.
Not annoyance.
Fear.
Directed at him.
Like she thought… Like she thought he was going to lose his temper next.
His heart shattered. “…Hey.”
His voice immediately softened. “It’s okay.”
She didn’t answer. She just kept staring. Wide-eyed. Waiting.
Garrett looked at her for another long second before something inside him broke.
“…Really?” The word came out almost pleading. “Y/N…”
His throat tightened painfully. “…You think…” He couldn’t even finish.
She instinctively shrank farther into her chair. The movement was tiny. Barely noticeable. But Garrett saw it.
God.
She was afraid of him.
Not because of anything he’d done.
Because she had learned that when a man stood up and raised his voice the next thing that happened was always pain.
Garrett’s eyes burned. “Oh, sweetheart…”
The words escaped before he could stop them.
Y/N blinked. Confused.
He shook his head slowly.
“You think I’m him.”
Silence.
She didn’t say yes.
She didn’t have to.
Her silence answered for her.
Garrett’s chest physically hurt.
All these years.
He’d convinced himself that leaving had protected her.
Instead…
His little sister had learned to fear raised voices so deeply that she’d looked at her own brother like he might become their father.
Garrett turned his head toward Phil. Slowly. His expression had changed. The shock was gone. The grief remained. But underneath it was fury. A quiet, controlled kind that somehow felt far more dangerous than shouting ever could be.
He looked back at Y/N.
Then spoke the words that would change everything.
“Go pack a bag.”
The room fell silent.
Y/N blinked. “…What?”
Garrett didn’t take his eyes off her. “I said go pack a bag.”
She looked from him to Phil then back again. Like she genuinely couldn’t understand what he was asking.
Garrett’s voice softened. “You’re leaving with me.”
Her mouth parted slightly. “What?”
“Go upstairs.”
She didn’t move.
“I…” Her voice barely came out. “I can’t.”
“You can.”
She looked toward Phil without meaning to.
The movement was tiny. Automatic. Like checking for permission had become second nature.
Garrett noticed. Something inside him twisted painfully. He took one step closer.
“You don’t have to ask him.”
Y/N’s eyes widened. Garrett held her gaze.
“You hear me?”
Still nothing.
“So go.”
Silence stretched between them.
Finally she pushed her chair back. Slowly. Almost cautiously. Like she was waiting for someone to tell her no.
She stood. Looked once more toward Phil. He hadn’t moved. His face remained calm. Almost amused.
“Go ahead,” Phil said evenly. His smile never reached his eyes. “I know you’ll be back.”
The words sent a chill through the room.
Garrett’s jaw tightened.
Y/N hesitated only a second longer before turning and hurrying upstairs.
The sound of her footsteps disappeared into the second floor.
The second she was gone, Garrett rounded on his father.
“I spent years convincing myself she was okay.” His voice shook. “I told myself leaving meant she wouldn’t have to go through what I did.”
Phil shrugged.
“You always were dramatic.”
Garrett actually laughed. A broken, disbelieving laugh.
“You know…” He nodded slowly, noticing Cindy look down at her lap, tears quietly slipping onto folded hands.
His anger shifted. It wasn’t just Y/N. It had never been just Y/N. Phil had simply found new people to control.
“You deserve better too,” Garrett said quietly to Cindy. She looked up in surprise.
Phil scoffed. “Don’t fill her head with nonsense.”
Garrett ignored him. “Leave before it’s too late. Our mom couldn’t… but I know you can.”
Cindy stared at him, “It’s complicated…”
As Garett was about to say something, hurried footsteps echoed down the staircase. Y/N appeared clutching an old navy duffel bag. It wasn’t very full. A few clothes.
Garrett frowned. “That’s it?”
She looked embarrassed. “I didn’t know what I was allowed to take.”
The sentence hit everyone differently. Hannah’s eyes immediately filled with tears. Garrett just stared.
Allowed.
Not wanted.
Not needed.
Allowed.
He walked over and took the duffel from her shoulder. “You don’t have to ask anymore.”
She looked uncertain. “…Really?”
He nodded once. “Really.”
She followed him toward the front door. Every step seemed hesitant. Like she expected someone to stop her.
Halfway there, Garrett reached back and instinctively took her hand. She stiffened. He immediately loosened his grip.
“It’s okay.”
Then he saw it. A faint yellowing bruise wrapped around the inside of her wrist. His breath caught. Slowly, very carefully, he turned her hand over. His thumb barely brushed the edge of the fading mark.
“…Y/N.”
She quietly tried to pull her hand back.
“It’s nothing.”
His eyes closed for just a second. When he opened them again, they were glassy.
“You know me.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
She looked at him. Really looked at him. For what felt like the first time all evening.
“I know.”
“No.” He shook his head gently. “I don’t think you do.” His thumb squeezed her hand once “So let me remind you. I’m your brother.” His voice cracked. “I should’ve come back sooner.”
The admission hung between them. Y/N swallowed hard.
“I thought…” She couldn’t finish.
“What?”
“I thought you left because…” Tears welled in her eyes. “…because I wasn’t enough of a reason to stay.”
Garrett looked like someone had punched him. He stepped forward without thinking and wrapped his arms around her. For a heartbeat she stayed completely stiff.
Then she hugged him back.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into her hair. “I am so unbelievably sorry.” His grip tightened.
Y/N’s words were muffled against his chest with her quiet cries. Garrett shut his eyes.
“I thought getting away from him meant I was protecting both of us.” His voice broke. “I never realized I left you to survive him alone.”
Neither of them noticed Hannah quietly wiping tears from her cheeks. Or Cindy watching from the dining room doorway with heartbreak written across her face.
The front door clicked open.
Cold November air drifted inside.
Phil remained seated at the table. Calm. Collected. As though this were nothing more than an inconvenience.
“You enjoy your little vacation,” he called after them.
Y/N froze.
Phil’s eyes settled on her. “You’ll be back.”His voice remained smooth. “You always come back.”
For a moment the sixteen-year-old girl looked like she might believe him.
Then Garrett stepped beside her. He didn’t let go of her hand. He looked directly at Phil.
“No.”
Just one word. Quiet. Certain.
“You don’t get her back.”
Phil smiled.
“We’ll see.”
Garrett didn’t answer.
Instead, he looked at his sister. “Ready?”
She looked at the open door. Then at the house she’d spent years believing she’d never escape.
Finally she nodded.
Garrett smiled, a real one this time, small but steady. “Good.”
Keeping hold of her hand, he led her across the threshold.
The door closed behind them with a solid click.
For the first time in a very long time, Y/N walked away from that house.
Bigger than the whole sky | Maxwell!Reader (part 3)
Dean has gone m.i.a. since Joanna’s call. The next time you see him is at Beau’s funerals
Blueberry pancakes
Dean wakes up to you making pancakes for the house. Breakfast turns into making out in the kitchen…and Logan and Tucker are not having it
The call | Maxwell!Reader * (part 2)
You and Dean were together when you got the call
Drunk karaoke Graham!Reader
Garrett’s sister makes questionable decisions during karaoke night and sort of exposes her and Dean’s secret
Favorite crime
Dean gets arrested after punching Hunter Davenport at Malone's
I get wet at the thought of you | Graham!reader (part 2 coming soon)
Garrett’s sister makes questionable decisions during karaoke night and sort of exposes her and Dean’s secret
Running back to you
You and Dean broke up. You get in another relationship in the hope of getting over him, but when The Fifth Line announce that Dean gets injured at a game, you run to him
The girl from New York
Dean's New York girlfriend is at Briar to see a Hawks game
Yes, Coach | Jensen!Reader
Coach Jensen’s daughter interns at Briar as the Hawks’s assistant coach.
Womanizer | Maxwell!Reader * (part 1)
Dean finds out what song you set as his ringtone
John Logan
Cat Daddy Logan
You have car problems and call Logan to your rescue
I'm gonna get you back | Ice skater!Reader
You broke up with Logan...but you want him back
Winning goal reward *
Logan gets a reward after scoring the winning goal
summary: when dean neglects you at a party, you decide to remind him just why you are the true president of his little fan club.
request: yes/no
warnings: sexual themes, oral (fem receiving!), swearing, drinking.
word count: 3.65k
authors note: okay I am well aware that this is not a standard characterisation of Dean, but I asked, and you guys didn't stop me. lmao anyways I did enjoy writing this a lot more than I should have. never leave me with face riding again cause I acc don't know what I was on.
You had been fine at the start of the night.
That was the lie you were sticking to.
Now, three hours later, you were perched on the edge of the couch in the hockey boys house watching him like he was the main event and every other girl in the room had agreed.
Which, unfortunately, they kind of had.
It wasn’t obvious at first Dean Di Laurentis was always friendly. That was the problem. He smiled too easily, laughed too quickly, leaned in when people talked like he actually cared what they were saying. Which he did. But tonight, it was weaponised.
A girl in a red dress had been hovering near him for twenty minutes. Another one had ‘accidentally’ brushed his arm twice while laughing at something he said that wasn’t even that funny. Someone else had asked him to ‘help explain a drink’ like she didn’t have two functioning eyes and free access to Google on her phone that was definitely in her pocket.
Hell, she could have even asked Tucker and he would have been far more help to the girl, than your boyfriend.
But Dean? Dean just… answered everyone.
Warm. Easy. Unbothered.
Like you weren’t sitting right there.
You took a slow sip of your drink, jaw tightening, “you good?” Tucker asked from beside you, clearly amused.
Your eyes didn’t leave the sight in front of you “yeah,” you said immediately.
Tucker snorted as he softly elbowed you “that was fast. Must be really fine then.” The boy turned his attention to you as he genuinely felt worried about you.
You shot him a look “I said I’m fine.” Tucker had always been your favourite of Deans friends and seeing as Beau was the reason you met your boyfriend, it said a lot.
Across the room, Dean laughed at something the girl in red said, head tilted slightly like she was fascinating.
Your grip on the cup tightened “uh-huh,” Tucker said, leaning back against the counter “totally fine. Not at all staring holes into his skull.”
Your hands clenched as you sent him a harsh glare “I am not-” you sucked your teeth “jealous.”
Garrett cut in from behind you, way too casually “she’s jealous.”You whipped around, sending him a scoff.
You rolled your eyes “I am not jealous.” You argued back seeing Logan join the three of you.
Logan raised his hands innocently, “didn’t say anything.” He shook his head not wanting to end up in your war path.
You pinched the bridge of your nose “you didn’t have to,” you muttered.
Tucker grinned, “this is actually kind of impressive. Dean’s out there collecting admirers like Pokémon and you’re just-” you cut him off before the you get boy had a chance to speak any further.
Because if he carried on then you probably would have hit Tucker soon “I’m just sitting here,” you snapped “like a normal person.”
Garrett spoke, smiling into his drink “a normal person who looks like she’s about to commit a felony.”You turned back around, refusing to give them any more of your attention.
Because if you did, you might actually admit what was sitting uncomfortably in your chest.
It wasn’t even that you thought Dean would do anything.
That wasn’t it.
It was that he didn’t seem to notice anything at all.
Not the way the girls leaned in too close. Not the way they touched his arm too long. Not the way their voices went softer when they spoke to him.
Or maybe he did notice.
And just didn’t care enough to change it.
That thought sat worse than anything else.
By the time the kitchen was quieter, you were already done.
Dean was leaning against the counter, sleeves pushed up, talking to someone behind you.
Truth be told, you didn’t even care who anymore. You walked in, grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and tried to ignore the way his voice wrapped easily around the room like he owned it.
Then he turned.
And finally looked at you properly, “hey,” he said, smiling a little “you okay?”There it was, there was that tone.
Like you were just, an ornament on the shelf “I’m fine,” you set the glass down a little harder than necessary.
Dean blinked “okay,” he turned back to whatever he was saying.
Something in you snapped so cleanly it almost felt calm.
You leaned against the counter, arms folded “you’re really good at that, you know.” You pursed your lips as you glared at him.
Dean glanced at you again “good at what?” He furrowed his brows as he turned his body towards you.
“Acting like I’m not in the room.”
The conversation behind him died instantly.
Dean straightened slightly “why?” His eyes widened as he hadn’t expected to see you pissed off.
You let out a short laugh, sharp and humourless, “it’s fine. You’re busy, obviously.” You waved him off as your nose scrunched.
His brows pulled together now “I’m not ignoring you.” He scoffed as he tugged his fingers through his hair.
You tried to make yourself not sound overly needy “you literally haven’t looked at me in an hour unless I was walking away.” It stung when you first thought it and it stung even more when you said it aloud.
Dean almost laughed as this had never happened with you before “that’s not-” he stopped himself, exhaling through his nose “okay, what is going on with you tonight?”
That did it.
You stepped closer, lowering your voice, “what is going on with me?” You pointed your finger at him.
Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly now, defensive flickering in “yeah. You’ve been off all night. Snappy. Barely talking to me. I’ve been trying to figure it out.”You stared at him.
Because for a man so hot and so intelligent most of the time.
He genuinely didn’t get it.
That was the worst part “you don’t get it,” you said slowly.
“I don’t get what?”
Your laugh came out again, but this one cracked a little at the edges “nothing. Forget it.” You didn’t know if you had the strength to fight him tonight.
Not when each conversation felt like a blow to you.
So you moved to walk past him.
Dean caught your wrist, not hard, just enough to stop you “don’t do that,” he said quietly.
You looked down at his hand on you, then back up at him “do what?” You cocked your head as your eyebrows raised.
“Walk away and act like I’m supposed to just read your mind.”
Your eyes flashed “oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise I had to spell it out while you were busy collecting your fan club!” You grumbled as you practically snarled.
His expression shifted instantly.
“What?”
That pause.
That little dawning confusion.
It made something ugly twist in your stomach.
You pulled your wrist free “forget it, Dean.” He may have let your hand go but he wasn’t going to let this topic go.
Dean didn’t care that people were now watching the two of you “no,” he said, sharper, “don’t ‘forget it’ me. What fan club?” He looked genuinely confused and somehow that pissed you off more.
You gestured vaguely toward the living room “all night. You’ve been.” You licked your lips as your hands pressed against your temples “I don’t know, smiling at everyone like it’s your job. You don’t notice anything.”Dean stared at you for a second.
Then he blinked once.
Then again “oh,” that single syllable made your chest tighten harder.
“Oh?”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “You’re jealous.” He smirked as his voice was barely above a whisper.
Your eyes narrowed instantly “I am not-” “you are,” he cut in, but not in a mean way.
More like he’d just figured out a puzzle and couldn’t believe he missed it “you’re actually jealous.” He swallowed a laugh as he shook his head.
Your face went hot “I’m not jealous. I’m annoyed.” You corrected him as you sent him a glare.
Dean’s mouth twitched.
That made it worse “oh my god,” you said, stepping back “don’t smile at me like that.”
“Like what?”
He practically taunted you “like this is funny.” If you didn’t look like you were close to hitting him, he would have laughed.
“It’s not funny,” you wanted, but you were absolutely failing to look serious.
Dean rolled his eyes “you’ve been mad at me all night because people were talking to me?” He pointed out as you groaned.
Your fists clenched “you were encouraging it!” You felt your face redden as you felt sick.
“I was being polite.”
You shook your head as crushed your solo cup “you were being-” you stopped, gesturing vaguely again as winced “you were being you.”
That finally made him pause.
Then his expression softened “oh,” he said again, quieter this time “you thought I was into it.”You hesitated answering him as both of you knew of his reputation before you.
People joked that you were the one who tamed the beast that was Dean.
Yet that was the wrong answer.
But it was also the honest one.
Dean stepped closer now, voice dropping. “I wasn’t even thinking about them like that.” It was meant to make you feel better but in reality it really did the opposite.
You scoffed “sure,” you rolled your eyes as you sniffled, almost feeling embarrassed that you cared.
He frowned “hey.” His tone shifted to be gentler now, but firmer “look at me.”
You didn’t want to.
You did anyway.
His eyes were steady on yours, annoyingly sincere “I’m with you,” he said honestly “not them. I’m not entertaining anything.”
Your throat tightened slightly, which made you angrier, which made everything worse “I don’t care,” you lied.
Dean let out a slow breath “yeah, you do.” Silence stretched between the two of you
Then you shoved past him again. “I’m going upstairs.” As you remembered why you were annoyed with him in the first place.
The boy steadied himself against the counter “of course you are,” he muttered as you froze.
Turned back.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Dean crossed his arms “it means you get mad, refuse to talk about it properly, and storm off.” He knew how to cut deep in a way that made your eyes screw shut.
You sucked at your teeth “you’re being really annoying right now.” You knew that you were being childish but in that moment you didn’t care.
Dean didn’t seem to share your sentiment as he carried on “and you’re being really jealous right now.”You glared at him for a beat longer refusing to admit that he was right.
Then you left.
His room was exactly how you’d left it earlier, messy in a way that somehow still felt comfortable. You kicked the door shut behind you harder than necessary and paced once, twice, before sitting on the edge of his bed.
You were still angry.
Mostly.
Footsteps came up the stairs.
Of course they did.
The door opened without a knock.
Dean leaned against it for a second, watching you like he was trying to decide whether to laugh or argue again “you done?” He asked as he licked his lips.
“No.”
Part of Dean had to admit that he was almost enjoying this “cool.”He walked in anyway.
You crossed your arms. “I don’t know why you’re following me.” You grumbled making him laugh.
Dean tilted his head “because you’re in my room.” He ran his fingers along his jaw like he had a knot in his skin.
“Your room I was already in.”
Your correction made him laugh “yeah,” he said, stepping closer slowly now, “and you were mad then too.”
You huffed as you brought your knees to your chest “you’re unbelievable.” You grumbled as you shook your head.
Dean crossed his arms “I think I’m pretty normal.” He argued back as he wriggled his eyebrows.
You couldn’t help it when you sighed fixing the collar of his shirt that one of those girls must have messed up “you let girls flirt with you all night and didn’t even notice.” Dean frowned hearing your voice waiver.
He wanted to put his hands on your waist but he stopped himself fearing that you may still want to hit him“I noticed,” he said simply.
That made you pause.
Dean shrugged slightly. “I just didn’t care.” There it was again.
That casual certainty.
Like it was obvious.
Like you were obvious.
You looked away first.
Dean moved closer until he was standing right in front of you now, voice quieter “you’re kind of hot when you’re mad,” he said innocently.
Your head snapped back toward him instantly “don’t try and distract me.” Your finger pressed into his chest.
Dean twirled the ends of your hair in his fingers “I’m not trying to distract you,” he said, but there was a faint smile now “I’m pointing out facts.”
You stared at him.
Still annoyed.
Still burning.
Still very aware of how close he was “I hate you,” you muttered.
Dean laughed as he shook his head “no you don’t.”That should’ve ended it.
Instead, he reached out, gently hooked a finger under your chin, forcing you to look at him properly.
His voice dropped “I’m not interested in anyone else,” he vocalised the way he had felt all night.
His lips pressed a kiss against your cheek“not tonight. Not any night that you’re mine.” Your breath caught slightly annoyingly, traitorously obvious.
Dean’s gaze flicked over your face like he was reading every shift in expression.
Then softer, almost teasing again “you just have to tell me when you’re in your feelings instead of plotting my murder in silence.”You let out a small, frustrated sound.
But you didn’t move away.
And neither did he.
His fingers ran down your arms “you gonna let me show you that I’m sorry or are you still trying to kill me?” His question lingered on your mind for longer than you wanted to admit.
Your body shivered as you stayed quiet “please.” Dean sighed as his head dropped to your neck.
His lips grazed your skin “you’re an ass.” You could feel how he smiled.
Dean nodded as he looked up at you again “I’m sorry, really.” You could tell that he was being sincere and that made you sigh.
Because in that moment you realised that you couldn’t be mad at him anymore “there’s my pretty girl.” Your boyfriend cheered as he pulled you into his lap as he fell back onto his bed.
You kissed Dean letting your tongue swipe across his lower lip as your thighs ground into his hips “shit.” Dean whistled as his fingers caught at the fabric of your dress.
He always loved the blue material against your skin.
But he loved it best when it was off of your body.
It was almost dangerous how your body almost felt on fire when you smirked “and guess what?” Your mouth grazed over his earlobe.
Deans hands bunched at the fabric of your hips “what is it,” the boy’s eyes rolled as he cleared his throat.
You had a new wave of power “you almost didn’t get it all focused on your fan club.” He whined as you sucked at his earlobe.
He swore it was a cruel and unusual form of punishment “I swear I wasn’t,” he swallowed his words as your hands rested on his shoulders.
A smile danced on your lips as you could feel his boner against the inside of your thigh “you enjoyed watching me get all pissed off tonight?” You asked as his eyes fluttered.
Your lips ghosted over his neck “I need an answer pretty boy.” You stopped your hips against him.
Dean swore in that moment he could have cum on the spot “you looked so hot,” he pursed his lips as he wanted you to kiss him.
But still, you shook your head “flattery won’t get you this tonight.” You took his hand and cupped your clothed cunt.
He could feel your soaked core through the fabric of your panties “please baby I’m sorry.” His cock throbbed under you.
Your boyfriend wasn’t above begging and in that moment he was so close as he watched your fingers travel into your panties. He watched in awe as your eyes rolled back.
Your fingers lapped at your wetness in your cunt “fucking hell.” Dean never thought that he could be jealous of your fingers, but in that moment boy did he envy the slender digits.
You smirked as your eyes locked onto his, you pulled your damped fingers from your cunt, tapping them on his lower lip. Dean didn’t even give you a chance to instruct him.
His lips wrapped around your fingers as he practically turned them into a lollipop. His mouth sucked at your release as his eyes fluttered.
He let your fingers drop from his mouth “fuck baby please.” He pleaded as you shook your head trying to tell him that you weren’t gonna fuck him tonight “I need you up here.”
Dean tapped his lips as you swallowed hard.
You had to admit that in all of your sexual adventures with Dean, you had never gotten the chance to ride his face “you mean it?” It was as if all the power and strength that you held that night had been knocked out of your sails.
Your boyfriend nodded as he pecked your lips “you’re in control tonight.” He smiled as he watched you stand up.
As you hooked your fingers into the sides of your panties, Dean lay down flat.
His hardon stood like a pitched tent in his jeans. It was hard for your mouth not to water as you crawled back onto his bed once you dropped your panties to the floor “up here baby.” Dean reached for you when he felt you stop at his hips.
The smile he gave you reminded you of every reason why you had fallen in love with him “I promise you won’t break me.” His words came as you pulled your dress over your head.
Deciding that it was going to be too much for you to hold yourself up while you focused on holding your dress up.
So your life was easier with the fabric now lying on the floor. Dean pressed a kiss against the inside of your thigh “I’ve got you.” His promise came as he wrapped his arms around your thighs.
Your hands clutched at his headboard as you steadied yourself.
He blew air against your soaked cunt as you sent him a glare “don’t fuck with me Di Laurentis.” Your warning made him nod before he pulled your hips onto his face.
A yelp escaped from your lips as your eyes went wide, feeling his nose graze your clit.
There was a pornographic moan that escaped your lips feeling his hand reach up behind you as he snapped your bra with one hand.
That part of his skillset had always been hot but particularly more so when he was doing it while you were sat on his face.
You pulled your bra off, letting your hand cup your boob. You rolled your fingers over your nipple as you looked down to see Dean.
He winked making you clench around nothing.
Your hips rocked back and forth as the sensation lulled you “shit this is so good.” You whimpered as your thighs pressed against the sides of his head.
Dean continued to suck and slurp at your clit while he let you use his mouth in all the ways you needed.
It was as if you were his last meal. Your moans mixed with his grunts, causing your skin to grow warm.
Pleasure shot through your body and you actually forgot all about the fight that brought the two of you up there.
His tongue was rough against your clit as you rolled your eyes letting soft whimpers and gasps fall from your lips.
You didn’t care that down below the party carried on, as you had only one thing on your mind “fuck baby please.” You whined as you tugged your fingers through his hair.
His response of a grunt sent shiver through your body as you continued to fuck yourself on his face.
His tongue lapped at your cunt, continuing to swirl his focus around your sensitive bud “I’m gonna-” you cut yourself off as your eyes screwed shut.
The boy tapped your thigh as your movements were erratic as pins and needles shot through your body “dear god I’m cumming!” You cried out as your toes curled.
Your body shook as your head fell back. Your cunt throbbed as Dean continued to take in all of your release.
Your breathing was rough as your hands tugged at his hair “enough,” you called out making him listen.
Dean let you remove your cunt from his lips with a pop as your body shook again. He was quick to lower you down onto his bed.
Your head rested against the pillow as you let out a soft laugh “think I should get jealous more often if this is how you’re gonna act.” The joke didn’t land as Dean hooked his fingers under your chin.
He forced you to look at him as his free hand ran along the side of your body “I was serious when I said that you are the only girl for me.” Dean pressed a kiss on your lips, letting the taste of your release linger on his tongue.
You nodded as you pulled away “doesn’t mean that it won’t hurt to remind them of that.” Mischief danced in your eyes as you leaned your head down to his neck.
Your lips sucked at his skin, sure to leave your mark in more places than one.
It was safe to assume that the two of you weren’t getting any sleep tonight.
⌯⌲ SYNOPSIS: Dean tries to prove to himself that he’s not that into you, but it doesn’t quite work out in his favor when he sees you step into the hockey house and those feelings slap him in the face.
⌯⌲ CONTENT: dean tries to make reader jealous. puck bunny mention. yearner!dean. feelings confession.
You’d always had an on again, off again type of relationship with Dean.
It started both of your freshman years at Briar, you’d met him at a party for the incoming freshman. You remembered walking up to him instantly, just naturally gravitating towards him and the good vibe he gave off.
It helped that he was attractive for sure too. Tall and built, perfect smile, messy blond hair that you wanted to run your fingers through, plump, pink lips. He was gorgeous, and he was kind. How could you not gravitate towards him?
You’d fallen into his bed that night, because, how could you not? Dean had a way with words, and you’d let him sweet talk you underneath him that night.
It wasn’t all too bad though, he was consistent with wanting to see you. He had always called you when he was wanting someone to come keep him company.
The bad part of it all though?
You’d caught feelings, and he was insistent that he wasn’t ready for a relationship. He claimed over and over that he wasn’t the relationship type.
But you knew he was lying. You knew he wanted you just as badly as you wanted him, so, you waited him out. Pretended you didn’t care.
That fucked with Dean more than anything. Thinking you didn’t care? Yeah, that truly was a blow to his ego, and definitely a stab to his heart, because even though he wanted you to believe he wasn’t ready for a relationship, he wanted you to want him, to chase him.
That’s why he’s walking into the hockey house with one of the puck bunnies tonight. His lame attempt at making you jealous.
But also, really just his big attempt to prove to himself that he didn’t feel anything for you.
“Why the fuck is Dean walking in here with Lauren?” your best friend asks, disgust lacing her tone, her narrowed eyes following Dean and Lauren as they make their way towards Dean’s group of friends.
You laugh, bringing your red solo cup to your lips, biting on the rim before sipping the jack and coke. “Another lame attempt to prove he doesn’t have feelings for me, or to make me jealous, who knows, but he’s hilarious if he thinks a puck bunny will make me jealous.”
Your best friend lets her eyes drift to you, concern etched in her features as she tries to read you for any sign of jealousy.
It’d be a lie if you said seeing Dean with any girl didn’t bother you, but you refused to let him know that. Fuck him and his games.
Grabbing your best friend’s hand, you drag her out to the middle of the living room, which is currently a makeshift dance floor. You down the rest of your jack and coke, setting the red solo cup on the side table and begin swaying your hips to the beat of the music.
“Trust me, I’m fine! Dean will soon enough realize I’m the girl for him. We’ve been at this for two years, he can’t run from his feelings forever, right?”
As if he’d heard you say his name over the loud thump of the music, over the distorted sound of voices conversing around you, you feel Dean’s piercing blue eyes land on you.
Looking up, you make eye contact with him, giving him a sensual wink, biting your lip and continuing to move your hips to the song that was currently playing.
A set of hands wrap around your waist, splaying out on the exposed skin of your stomach. You smile, looking back to find Nolan Beckham, one of Dean’s teammates, standing behind you. His deep green eyes shine, his smile bright as he looks down at you.
“You look good tonight.” Nolan says, pulling you back into him more.
You smile back at him, grinding your ass into him, ignoring the burning stare you know is coming from Dean.
“You don’t look too bad yourself, Becks.”
Nolan opens his mouth to respond, but a pair of hands is ripping him away from you, shoving him back onto the couch that’d been pushed up against the back wall.
“Don’t touch her.” Dean seethes, his chest heaving, the anger evident in his eyes.
You scoff, turning to help Nolan up but Dean grabs you by your elbow, pulling you back.
“Let. Me. Go.” you say, tone firm.
Dean shakes his head, his blue eyes burning into yours.
“Let’s go talk.”
“No.”
Dean’s eyes plead with you, his grip on your elbow not loosening in the slightest.
You sigh. “What is this, Dean? You tell me you don’t want me, you bring Lauren here, then get mad when you see me dancing with Becks? It makes zero sense, you’re giving me whiplash.”
“Look, let’s just… Let’s just go talk about this somewhere that everyone isn’t listening and watching us.”
Your eyes scan the length of the living room and kitchen area, noting every single pair of eyes in the room on you and Dean, including Lauren, the puck bunny who Dean had brought as his date and ditched the second your attention wasn’t on him and you weren’t jealous over her on his arm.
“Fine. You get five minutes Di Laurentis, then I’m coming back out here.”
Dean’s smile comes back, a sigh of relief falling from his lips. He lets his hand slide down your arm until it meets yours, his fingers lacing through your fingers. He drags you up the stairs and all the way down to his bedroom, pulling you inside and shutting the door behind him, locking it.
“No need to lock that, Dean. We’re not doing anything other than talking.”
He smirks, that cocky, knowing smirk. “Right, right, we’ll see about that.”
You roll your eyes, taking a seat on the edge of his bed, legs slightly opened, giving Dean a teasing peak at your lacey white underwear. You knew what you were doing, teasing him with what you wouldn’t let him have tonight…
Or at least, you were going to try and avoid giving into him so easily.
“I know what you’re doing.” Dean groans, taking a step towards you.
You quickly close your legs, pulling them up onto the bed and crossing them beneath you.
“What do you want to talk about, Dean? You’ve wasted two minutes already.”
Dean steps directly in front of you, dropping himself to his knees so he’s face to face with you now. You bite your lip at the sight of him in front of you, on his knees, pupils dilated and that needy as fuck look on his face.
“Wow, who knew I could bring the Dean Di Laurentis to his knees.” you joke, your eyes never leaving his, even when he rolls those pretty blue eyes.
His hands find your thighs, gripping them tightly beneath his palms. “I- What do you need from me? I know bringing Lauren here tonight was a big mistake, but I was hoping to see some sign that you were jealous, and when you didn’t show it and instead let Nolan Beckham put his hands on you, I… it made me realize I really do want you, but I need to know what you want from me? What you need from me. Please.”
You place your hand on his, rubbing your thumb over the tops of his knuckles. “I just need you to stop running from your feelings, Dean. Period. You know how I feel about you, you’ve known for years, yet, you keep running from it. Why?”
He sighs. “I’ve never had a serious relationship, so when I started realizing I had feelings for you, I won’t lie, it scared the shit out of me. But I’d rather be honest about how I feel and have you as mine, than keep running and having to deal with seeing you let other men touch you. It kills me to see that.”
Your eyes soften. You knew Dean had problems showing his heart, had problems opening up to girls, you were truly the only female that he’d slept with and kept around.
That’s how you knew he liked you more than just sex. It wasn’t just sexual attraction and the fact that you knew his body and he knew yours so well that he kept you around. It was more, and you’d always known it, now, Dean was admitting it.
“What’re you saying, Dean?” you say, a teasing tone in your words. “You saying you like me, like me?”
Dean huffs out a laugh, his eyes rolling again. “I’m saying I like you, like you, brat.”
You laugh at that. You were a brat, and you wouldn’t apologize for it. Dean made you wait on this long enough, it was only right you teased him about it and made him work for the relationship you know is inevitable.
“Awww, Dean, I’m flattered. I kinda, sorta like you too.”
Dean leans forward, his lips chasing yours, but you turn your head, dodging his kiss.
“Not so fast, buddy.”
Eye brows furrowed, Dean frowns. “What? Did I fuck this up running from how I felt too long?”
You laugh, a full on belly laugh that makes your sides hurt. Dean couldn’t fuck up his chances. Even if the two of you played this cat and mouse chase game together for years, you’d still give into him when he was ready. Did that make you slightly pathetic over him? Maybe. But you didn’t care. You knew this thing would come to a head and you’d be together.
“No, I just… If we give this thing a chance, I need to know you’re serious, Dean.”
Dean’s hands move to the back of your head, holding tightly as he leans in and kisses you hard. His lips move quickly against yours, his tongue sweeping against yours before he gently kisses your lips and pulls back, those pretty eyes on yours again. “Listen, I’m more serious than I’ve ever been. I’ve wanted you for about a year and a half now, and I don’t think I can go another second without you,” his eyes flick down to your lips, nostrils flaring when he sees your bottom one tucked between your teeth. His thumb gently runs across your mouth, pulling your lip from between your teeth. “So, what do you say? Give the desperate hockey player a shot?”
You roll your eyes at him calling himself desperate, but deep down, you know he is. Dean is a lowkey yearner and lover boy, and you truly love that about him.
“Fine, I’ll give it a shot Mr. Desperate Defenseman.”
The smile on his lips grows, his eyes shining as he lets out a relieved breath. “Thank God, because I was hyping myself up to beg some more, but you folded just as quickly as I did earlier after seeing Nolan with his hands on you.”
Kissing his lips again, you push him back, standing from his bed and helping him up off his knees. “Shut up, Dean, or I’ll take it back.”
His hand laces with yours, dragging you toward his bedroom door. He stops dead in his tracks, free hand wrapped around the knob but the burning question that’s been lingering in the air finally slips from his lips.
“So, you’ll be my girlfriend right? That’s what we meant by that?”
You smile a teasing smile. “Dean, are you asking me to be your girlfriend?”
“Uh, duh. So will you? Be my girlfriend?”
A very satisfied smile on your lips, you agree, but not without teasing him a little more as you do. “I mean… I guess, you’re not too bad looking, pretty good in bed, hot as fuck in your hockey uniform… I think I can deal with you as my boyfriend.”
“Oh fuck you.” Dean groans, unlacing your hands and slinging his arm over your shoulder.
He pulls the door open, dragging you to the stairs and stopping at the top so he can announce very loudly. “She said yes, boys! My girl is officially my girl!”
summary: when garrett started fake dating hannah, the last thing he expected was to fall for her roommate.
request: yes/no
warnings: nothing?
word count: 2.74k
authors note: so this idea was actually so much fun to bring to life but lowkey there is like zero detail in the beginning as I didn’t want to make it seem like reader liked her best friends boyfriend or like garrett was “cheating” on hannah
It started as a deal that was supposed to be simple.
Hannah needed Justin Kohl to finally notice her.
Garrett Graham needed to pass Philosophy or risk Coach ending his life before midterms.
So they made a bargain after class when he knew she did well on the assignment Garrett had leaned back, unfazed by the fact that he had gotten her name wrong “fake dating. We make people think we’re together. Justin notices. You win.” Garrett pointed at Hannah who furrowed her eyebrows.
She cocked her head “and what do you get?” She knew that it was a two way street so she didn’t know what he was meant to get from it.
Garrett motioned to his paper “an A,” he spoke in a duh tone as Hannah had stared at him for a long moment.
Then, against all better judgment, she’d agreed.
Neither of them realised what they were actually agreeing to.
Sure they knew it was going to be real to the world.
With everyone’s eyes on them as the fifth line page as they were the newest and hottest topic.
What Garrett didn’t expect was that he would actually want to be in a relationship with someone after this.
What made it complicated was that it wasn’t Hannah, that he learnt to care for.
It was you.
The girl that was Hannah and Allie’s roommate.
Hannah’s best friend.
The person she trusted with everything.
And the first time Garrett saw you, he completely forgot how to act like a functioning human being.
It was supposed to be a quick visit.
He’d knocked on the door expecting Hannah with her bag ready to go and study.
Instead, you opened it.
Your hair was messy and you were in one of your old band hoodies.
Garrett stopped breathing for a second.
Just one.
But it was enough “hi there,” your fingers wrapped around the door as you cocked your head.
And he’d replied, far too late “hi,” his cheeks reddened and he swore he was in some cruel play teaching him about feelings.
You smiled and he somehow felt lighter “Han, your boy is here!” You called out to her door where she burst out of her room.
Hannah noticed immediately how Garrett was rattled.
Of course she did.
Because Garrett Graham was many things, but subtle was not one of them.
Hannah giggled over her book“you know you were staring at her,” she said later that night.
Garrett scoffed as he shook his head “I was looking at the girl that opened the door.” He argued as he looked at his water bottle.
The girl grinned as she shook her head “you are,” she shot back, enjoying how she clearly she was pushing Garrett’s buttons.
The hockey player rolled his eyes “I met her once.” He pointed out as he didn’t even know your name.
Hannah just smiled into her drink “all I’m gonna say is that love at first sight is a real thing.” He didn’t answer as he flipped to a different page in the notebook that he held.
Which was answer enough.
What made it worse in the way that felt almost unbearable was that Garrett never acted on it.
He couldn’t.
Because the fake relationship was still going.
Because everyone thought he was Hannah’s boyfriend.
Because you were Hannah’s best friend, and he wasn’t about to turn your world into a mess.
So he stayed careful.
Polite.
Friendly.
He helped you carry things when your arms were full.
He remembered your coffee order once and then never forgot it.
He asked questions about you that he pretended were casual.
And every time, you told yourself the same thing: that he was dating Hannah and that you had to drown yourself in male attention until you could fully accept in your heart that he was off limits.
End of story.
Except it never felt like the end of anything.
What you didn’t know, and what you couldn’t know was that you weren’t totally invisible in the way that you intended to be.
You thought Garrett belonged to someone else.
You intended to take how you felt about hockey captain to your grave before anyone found out about it.
So every time your heart tripped over itself when he smiled at you, you shoved it down.
Every time he leaned in too close, you stepped back.
Every time he looked like he wanted to say something more, you convinced yourself you were imagining it.
Because you couldn’t do that to Hannah, and you sure as hell assumed that her boyfriend was smart enough not to cross that kind of boundary with you.
So you made yourself small in all the places it mattered.
The breaking point, for you, came in October.
Garrett asked you to get coffee.
Just you.
Not Hannah.
Not a group.
Just you.
It was meant to be something so simple that you shouldn’t have been phased.
And for half a second, something bright and impossible flared in your chest.
Then reality snapped it in half, “oh,” you said carefully.
His expression shifted immediately “oh?” It felt like a slap to his face as he clenched his fist.
You cocked your head “why?” Your eyebrows furrowed as you felt like you were dancing on a tightrope.
Garrett actually let out a soft laugh “because I want to spend time with you.” He shrugged as he let his words hang in the air.
The silence that followed was sharp enough to hurt “it’s probably best I don’t,” you added quickly, forcing your voice steady.
Garrett looked like he’d been physically hit “right,” he said quietly as he licked his lips “okay.”
And then he walked away with his hands shoved into his hoodie.
And you stood there hating yourself for the rest of the day without really knowing why.
That night, he showed up at Hannah’s dorm looking like something had gone wrong in his chest “she said no,” he muttered he knew you were out on a date because Hannah had told him earlier that week that you were planning on going out with some guy from a class of yours.
So the dorm was technically a safe, you free space.
Hannah didn’t even look up “no to what?” Hell, part of her didn’t even know who he was talking about.
“Coffee.”
Now she looked up as a grin formed on her face when everything clicked into place “you asked her out?” She pushed onto her knees as she clasped her hands together.
“I asked her for coffee.”
Garrett’s correction came with a scoff from Hannah “that’s asking her out.” She pointed out in a duh tone.
“It wasn’t supposed to be.”
Hannah studied him for a long moment “oh my god!” She clasped her hands over her mouth as she gasped.
“What?”
Garrett’s eyes went wide as he watched the girl “you like her,” the announcement came as Hannah pointed at him.
“I don’t.”
She laughed as he shook his head “you do,” it was clear to her now that you were the reason why Garrett was getting soft; she had nothing to do with it.
It made him finally snap “I can’t.” The captain’s tone was harsh as he tugged his fingers through his hair.
In that moment Hannah was ready to go marching down the quad to find you and announce that the boy who liked you was in fact very single “Garrett-” or at least force Garrett to accept that he clearly did like you.
Garrett shook his head as he got up “I can’t,” he repeated, quieter this time.
Because you were on a date with another guy.
Because the fake relationship still existed.
And the media frenzy that would follow from him for going for two best friends was bound to be uncomfortable.
Because he wasn’t supposed to want anyone.
And because, worst of all, he didn’t think you wanted him back.
The weeks that followed were a slow unravelling.
You noticed him pulling back.
Less teasing.
Less lingering.
Less of whatever you’d been imagining before you convinced yourself it was never real.
And it hurt more than it should have.
You told yourself it was relief.
That it was better this way.
That you were just being dramatic.
But it felt like a loss.
Everything broke on an ordinary afternoon in November.
You came home from a morning lecture when Hannah asked to talk.
Her tone made your stomach churn “sit down,” she said gently when you dropped your bag.
That alone made your heart drop.
You started walking towards the bench as she exhaled.
And then she said it.
“We never dated.”
You blinked “what?” You dropped onto the bench next to her as your ears rang.
Hannah tucked her hair behind her ears “Garrett and I. It was fake.” You swore in that moment that the world stopped.
Like a record got scratched when the needle pushed off of it.
For a second, your brain simply refused to process the words “fake,” you repeated.
“Yeah.”
You cracked your knuckles as you ducked in your teeth “how long?” You ran your fingers along your arm.
She felt like she was setting off a live wire“the whole time,” her expression was blank as if she was waiting for you to respond first.
It felt like something inside your chest cracked open all at once “the whole time?” you whispered as you frowned when she nodded.
Your fingers pinched the bridge of your nose “so I’ve just been avoiding him for months for no reason?” You almost laughed as you couldn’t believe this.
Your body felt like it was drowning and your head was barely able to stay above water.
Hannah argued back “it wasn’t for no reason because you didn’t know.” she said quickly as she shook her head.
“But I did,” your voice broke “I thought I was being respectful. I thought I was being a good friend. I thought-” your throat tightened, suddenly everything collided at once.
Every moment you’d stepped back.
Every time you’d stopped yourself from wanting.
Every time you’d felt guilty for even thinking about him.
Every moment you swore you were the worst friend alive for letting Garrett take up too much space in your brain.
And none of it had been necessary.
None of it had been real.
Your breath hitched, “oh my god,” you said again, but this time it didn’t sound like disbelief.
It sounded like overwhelm.
Hannah stood up, alarmed, “hey-” she reached for your hand
You shook your head as you raised your hand to stop her “I need a minute.” Your brain felt like it had been going a mile a minute and you were desperate to slow it down.
But there wasn’t a minute.
Because there was never a minute when you wanted time to be on your side.
Because the door opened.
And Garrett walked in.
The moment he saw your face, everything in him stopped “what happened?” he asked immediately seeing how your expression was teary-eyed.
You looked at him like you didn’t know where to put all the emotion in your body “Hannah told me.” You blurted it out as you sniffled still wishing that the ground had swallowed you whole.
His expression changed instantly.
Tension. Realisation.
Then guilt “what did she tell you?” Garrett had come up with a whole speech to tell you how he felt, and this really wasn’t it.
Hell he had literally made John Logan ask you out so that Garrett could come and see you in a place that wasn’t the library or the dorm.
Your voice shook when you answered “that you two weren’t real.” He exhaled slowly, careful to not be the one to break the silence.
Behind him, Hannah quietly grabbed her jacket “I’m going to- I got nothing I’ll leave you two to this,” she said, already backing away so fast that neither one of you could argue.
He scoffed as he shook his head “traitor,” Garrett muttered, not looking away from you.
The door closed.
And the room felt too small “you thought we were together,” he said softly as he placed his bag on the floor.
You laughed once, but it came out broken “everyone thought that.” You shook your head as you brought your knees to your chest.
“That’s not an answer.”
You sighed as you looked out of the window “it was real to me,” you said, quieter now “and that was the problem.”
Something in his expression shifted “I didn’t know,” he said as he took a space on the bench next to you.
“I know.”
Garrett reached for your leg “I didn’t mean for you to-” he cut himself off as you shifted your legs away to block his hands.
Your hand wiped your cheer fearing that it was still damp from your previous tears “I know,” you repeated, sharper this time, then immediately softer.
“I know. That’s not what I’m upset about,”
Garrett cocked his head “then what is it?” Your breath shook as your body felt numb.
You pinched your fingers together in an attempt to steady yourself “everything I stopped myself from feeling,” you admitted feeling like an idiot.
You didn’t want to admit the truth but when he looked at you, it was as if you’d lost your filter“because I thought I was respecting something that didn’t even exist.” The words landed between you like something fragile breaking.
Garrett went still.
Then, carefully, “you stopped yourself?” It made you roll your eyes.
You let out a shaky breath “don’t make me say it again.”A beat and then his voice dropped.
“Did you like me?”
Your eyes burned because the slight change in tense had you thinking that you were the biggest idiot of all “yes.” You nodded, your voice came out barely above a whisper.
Something in him broke open at that.
Because he had been so careful.
So patient.
So convinced he was the only one falling.
Like you were the person his mom promised him was out there since he was a kid “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that,” he said, almost letting out a laugh
Your breath hitched as you felt sick his laugh was quiet, almost disbelieving, “since the first day I met you.” He carried on when you didn’t speak.
That made your chest ache harder “I thought you were with Hannah,” you said with a sigh as you finally looked at him.
“I wasn’t.”
You nodded as you licked your lips “I know that now,”he turned his body to fully face you, slower this time, like he was giving you every chance to stop him.
Garrett hated how much he felt the need to care in this moment, hell he hated how you made him feel so many emotions he didn’t think he was capable of experiencing “I was trying not to mess anything up,” Garrett brushed his fingers through his hair.
“That’s why I didn’t- I never intended on crossing any lines.”
It should have comforted you that you both had the same moral compass in this “you already did,” you whispered your brain shouldn’t have felt this annoyed still.
Like there was hurt in your heart that your mouth was having to figure out how to mask in real time.
His gaze flickered to your mouth.
Then back to your eyes.
“Yeah,” he admitted quietly “I think I did.”
The air between you felt charged now. Fragile or maybe real.
“Can I-” he started, then stopped.
You nodded before he finished the question.
That was all it took.
Garrett closed the distance carefully, like he still didn’t fully trust it.
Like you might disappear if he moved too fast.
His hand lifted to your cheek, warm and steady.
And when he finally kissed you, it wasn’t rushed or uncertain.
It was like something that had been held back for too long finally giving in.
Soft at first.
Then deeper.
Like relief.
Like relief you didn’t realize you’d been waiting for.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
Neither of you spoke for a moment.
You just breathed the same air.
And for the first time all semester, nothing about it hurt.
Besides now you’ve got to give Garrett the job of telling John Logan that realistically… You wouldn’t be making your first date with him next week.
pairing: john logan x fem!reader (garrett's sister)
warning: this will include mentions of physical abuse (visible bruising & alluding to physical abuse about to happen), verbal & mental abuse, abusive relationships, and mild discussion of child abuse, accidental cut (cooking accident) & blood
word count: 1.4k
summary: you had always been someone loud and confident. the kind of person who is so magnetic that it's hard not to be drawn into you. it's hard not to love you, to not want to be loved by you. that was the first thing that any of the hockey boys noticed when garrett graham introduced them to his "annoying" twin sister. you fell into step with them easily, just as you fell into step at briar easily. the popular graham sister with a heartstopping smile and magnetic personality. you met your boyfriend quickly into your freshman year, a st.a's hockey player who slid into your dm's after the first game of the season. it's been about two years now, and everyone thinks you are perfectly in love. you lead them to believe, truly. what you don't show is what lies underneath, a secret begging to be exposed; a girl screaming for help.
author note: it's kinda short, but thats bc i thought this part & the next part needed their own separate parts and individual focus instead of it being combined!! i'll be working on the next part shortly!
time blurs as you sit there, his arms wrapped tightly around you while you sob into his chest. the sobs come out hard, and wrack through your entire body with a force that you don't recognize. it feels unfamiliar to you, the strength that the sobs seem to hold. a strength that you didn't know your body held. even still, the sobs come and they don't stop. as if the dam had been broken and all the emotion you were holding in came flooding out. tears that you didn't know you had now dampening his shirt as he holds you close, rubbing small circles into your back. every now and again gentle i'm sorry's would fall from your lips, the sound mixed in with the sobs that escaped you. each time, the pressure from his had got heavier on your back, a grounding that you didn't know you needed.
you body slowly comes to a shuddering stop. the sobs tapering off as you find that you have no more tears to cry. you go limp against his body, which causes him to only tighten his hold on your body. his arms tightening as they press you closer to his chest, his hands being the only thing that were holding you up. if it weren't for your body pressed to his chest, you likely would have collapsed completely from the exhaustion.
a silence falls between you then. the kind of silence that settles deep into the crevices between your bones. it consumes you completely, replacing all sound with a roaring in your ears. a roaring that only seems to get louder with each moment that passes you by. the roaring is consuming, and you wonder how good it might feel if it takes you over completely. if it swallowed you whole, taking you away from this world.
then he is moving, pulling away from you just far enough so that he can see your face. a hand, soft and delicate reaches up to move a piece of hair that stuck to your face. his eyes search yours then, soft and tender as if he was trying to find something there. "let's get you in the shower," he says gently then, eyes looking up and down as he speaks, "because you are still wearing last nights clothes."
your eyebrows crease together then as you pull away even closer and look down at your clothes. then, completely unprompted and very inappropriately, you begin laughing. laughing so hard that you stomach begins to hurt as you take in the state of yourself. "i'm still wearing last nights clothes," you say, the laugh breaking up the sentence as you say it out loud.
concern and confusion overtake him, as he looks at you under furrowed brows. there is a stillness in his body as if he isn't entirely what to do in this moment, and you don't blame him. you also wouldn't know how to respond if someone went from sobbing in your arms to laughing like a maniac. yet, you can't seem to help the way that the laughter bubbles out of you. as if your emotions had gained a mind of their own, and you no longer had control over them.
"and my makeup is still on," you add, the laughter still bubbling through you as you speak, "i'm a fucking mess," you add then. your laughter then seems to twist then, tears beginning to roll down your face as the laughter starts to mix with a collection of sobs, "i'm a mess," you say again, but there is a sadness melting into your tone as you speak it out loud.
the emotion on his face shifts then, and the crease in his eyebrow deepens as he watches you speak. his hand reaches up then, delicately pressing a thumb against your cheek to wipe a stray tear away, "come on," he says softly, "the shower will help."
he helps you to the bathroom, but you push him out the door ensuring him that you can shower on your own. logan is hesitant to leave you, but he was raised better than to ignore a woman's boundary. thus, he left you to the shower and went back out to the living room.
once in the shower, you find yourself instinctively turning the shower the hottest that it can go. the water stings your skin as you stand motionless under the stream. for a moment, you don't move to clean your body. you just stand there under the burning heat of the water, and let it soak in as if the very heat of it could cleanse your body of the harm that was done to it.
eventually, you move to wash yourself. the movements are slow and deliberate. you scrub aggressively at your skin, as if it would remove the feeling that had settled underneath. the heat still seeps into you, enough to the point that you had grown completely numb to it.
when you step out of the shower, your skin is beet red and your damp hair sticks to the back of your neck. slowly, you find a pair of leggings and a comfortable sweater to pull onto your body then. once clothed, you sink onto your bed and stare into the distance for a moment, the exhaustion finally catching up to you. your hands grip loosely at the edge of your bed, and your eyes fix heavily on the wall in front of you.
you stare blankly, silence seeping in, until his voice comes from the other side of the door when he says your name and snaps you out of it. you let out a soft quiet sound in return, giving him permission to open the door then.
your bedroom door opens, and he finds himself leaning against the frame as he takes you in. his hands are crossed in front of his chest, and when you look past him you can see that the living room doesn't look at wrecked as it had before. "how are you feeling?," he asks, his tone soft and gentle as he speaks.
there is a fuzzy feeling that was taking over your mind, causing your response to come out slower than you had intended, "fine."
the word causes his eyebrows to furrow a bit, and a cloud to form behind his eyes. there is a beat of silence that falls between you before he says soft yet stern, "we have to call garrett."
clarity snaps into you then, and your face gains a mask of momentary anger, "what? no," you say almost automatically, "he can't see me like this." there is an irritation that is laced in your tone, because you had told him that he couldn't tell garrett. "it would crush him to see me like this, he can't."
logan sighs then, taking a step into the room and running a hand through his hair. "we have to," he says again, "because you can't stay here, and i can't bring you back to the house like this without any explanation."
"why the fuck can't i stay here?," you asks, the words coming out with an annoyed snap.
his eyebrows are knitted together, and his eyes bore into yours as he explains, "because he will come back," another step closer, "and i can't stay here all day to protect you, even if i want to." there is a tug on heart when he says it. "you will be safer at the house."
you ignore the tug on your heart and the warmth in the pit of your stomach, "i can't stay at the hockey house until the day i die, john."
his eyes roll in response, "it's just until we can all figure it out," he explains plainly, "which we will do later, but first we have to call garrett." then there is a momentary pause before his voice goes lower, "because he is your brother and he loves you, and he is my best friend and i can't keep this from him." the first explanation didn't convince you, but this one did. especially given that you knew it would be unfair to ask him to lie to someone he loved so much.
"fine," you say softly, and a sigh escapes you, "can you..." your voice trails off, all the confident leaving you then. "can you--" and it's like you can't seem to get the words out. "i just don't know if i--" every time you try to ask or explain there is this lump that forms in your throat, and you can't swallow it down.
however, he seems to understand right away, and his face softens as he says, "i'll call him."
Summary: you don’t tell him your last name. By the time Dean finds out, he’s too far gone to do anything but brace for impact. Falling for the ice-cold, vodka-drinking Russian freshman is one thing. Falling for Ilya Rozanov’s little sister is a death wish. Dean decides he doesn’t care
Warning: 18+ content
Read part one here
The last agonizing tremor of your climax finally fades, leaving your body entirely boneless against the tangled sheets of Dean’s bed.
You are staring blindly at the ceiling, your chest heaving as you drag oxygen back into your lungs. Your mind feels completely blank, blissfully scrubbed clean of everything except the heavy, throbbing ache between your thighs and the lingering heat of Dean’s mouth.
Dean shifts his weight at the foot of the bed. He pulls away from your wet center with a soft, indecent sound, resting his cheek against your inner thigh for a long second to catch his own breath. His blond hair is a messy, sweat-dampened halo, and his broad shoulders rise and fall rapidly.
Slowly, he pushes himself up, crawling up the length of the mattress until he is hovering over you.
He looks completely wrecked in the best possible way. His lips are slick and slightly swollen, his green eyes dark and blown wide. He drops down onto the mattress beside you, flopping heavily onto his back and letting out a long, exhausted groan.
He doesn’t give you any space. He immediately rolls onto his side, throwing one heavy arm across your stomach and pulling you flush against his warm, sweat-slicked chest. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, tasting you on his own lips.
“Jesus,” Dean murmurs into the quiet room. “You taste so fucking good, Y/N.”
“You are …” you start, but your voice comes out as a weak, raspy croak. You clear your throat, trying to summon a shred of your usual dignity. “You are very enthusiastic.”
Dean chuckles, the sound vibrating against your ribcage. “Enthusiastic. That’s one word for it. I was going for ’life-changing,’ but I’ll take it.”
You let your eyes slip shut, resting your head against the pillow and enjoying the heavy, comforting weight of his body against yours. The room is quiet, the only sounds the faint hum of the heating vent and the synchronized rhythm of your breathing. It is peaceful. It is perfect.
Which is exactly why your instincts tell you to ruin it.
Ilya’s voice echoes in the back of your mind. Men like that, they get attached. They get possessive. You shift slightly, trying to put an inch of space between you so you can clear your head, but Dean’s arm immediately tightens like a vise around your waist, locking you in place.
“Don’t move,” Dean says quietly. The playful, post-coital banter is suddenly gone from his voice. It is replaced by a low, serious tone that makes your heart give a hard, erratic thump.
“I am sweating,” you complain, though you make no further effort to move. “Your body heat is excessive.”
“Tough. You’re staying right here.” Dean props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you. The dim light from the bedside lamp casts sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the firm, resolute set of his jaw. “We need to talk.”
Your stomach drops. You hate talking. Talking leads to feelings, and feelings lead to a loss of control.
“If this is about your performance on the ice yesterday,” you deflect smoothly, keeping your expression perfectly blank, “I already told you that your gap control was acceptable. Not great, but acceptable.”
“It’s not about hockey, Y/N,” Dean says, refusing to take the bait. He reaches up, brushing a damp strand of hair off your forehead. His touch is incredibly gentle, completely at odds with the intense, unwavering look in his eyes. “It’s about us.”
“There is no us, Di Laurentis,” you remind him, clinging to the rules you established on day one. “This is an arrangement. It is mutually beneficial. It is casual.”
“Right. Casual,” Dean repeats. He lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “I have a toothbrush in your bathroom. I know your coffee order by heart. You know my stats better than my head coach does. And I just spent the last twenty minutes making you scream my name in two different languages.”
He leans down, his face inches from yours. “Tell me again how casual this is.”
You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. “Those are just details.”
“Bullshit,” Dean fires back. He isn’t angry, but he is completely uncompromising. “It’s not casual for me. Not anymore. I’m not doing this halfway, Y/N. I want you.”
“You have me,” you point out, gesturing vaguely to your naked body trapped beneath his.
“You know what I mean,” Dean says, his voice dropping an octave, turning raw and gravelly. “I want all of you. I don’t want you going on dates with other guys. I don’t want you looking at anyone else. Hell, I barely want you looking at my teammates.”
“You are being ridiculous.” You push against his chest, finally managing to sit up slightly, though Dean simply shifts his weight to keep you pinned to the mattress. You pull the sheet up to cover your breasts, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed. “I do not go on dates with other men. I do not have the time or the patience.”
“But you could,” Dean presses, his green eyes locking onto yours. “You could walk out of here tomorrow and hook up with some finance bro from Harvard, and I wouldn’t have the right to say a damn thing about it.”
“And you could hook up with a sorority girl,” you counter, lifting your chin. “That is the point of being casual. We are both free to do as we please.”
“I haven’t even looked at another girl since the night you insulted my backhand,” Dean admits bluntly. The raw honesty in his voice actually makes you flinch. He doesn’t hide behind a smirk. He just lays his cards on the table, completely vulnerable. “I don’t want anyone else. I just want you. I want to be your boyfriend.”
The word hangs in the air between you, heavy and terrifying.
You stare at him, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You came to America to escape the suffocating control of the men in your family. You promised yourself you wouldn’t get tied down. You promised yourself you would always hold all the cards.
“Dean,” you say, your voice tight, your Russian accent slipping out heavily. “You do not want this. I am difficult. I am demanding. My brother is a literal psychopath who will probably put you in the hospital when he finds out.”
“I don’t give a fuck about Ilya,” Dean says instantly. “Let him try. I’ll take a beating if it means I get to keep you.”
“It is not just him,” you argue, shaking your head. Your chest aches. You hate how much you want to say yes. “We are entirely different. You are … you are Dean Di Laurentis. You are the party guy. You do not do commitment.”
“I do now,” Dean says simply.
“People do not change that fast.”
“Watch me.”
“I cannot do this,” you say, a genuine edge of panic creeping into your voice. You try to scramble backward against the headboard, desperate to put physical distance between you so you can think straight.
But Dean is faster.
He shifts forward, following you up the bed. Before you can retreat, his hands come up, gripping your wrists firmly but gently, pulling them away from the sheet you are clutching like a shield. He pins your hands flat against the mattress on either side of your head.
“Don’t run away from me,” Dean murmurs, his face hovering just above yours.
“I am not running,” you lie, your breathing turning shallow. “I am simply concluding this conversation.”
“The conversation isn’t over.”
Dean leans down, and instead of kissing your lips, he presses his open mouth against the pulse point just below your jaw.
You let out a sharp, involuntary gasp.
“Dean,” you warn him, though your voice lacks any real authority.
He ignores you. He traces the line of your jaw with his tongue, his breath hot against your skin. “You talk too much when you’re scared, Y/N.”
“I am not scared.”
“Yes, you are,” he whispers against your skin. He trails a line of soft, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, lingering on the sensitive spot right at the base of your throat. “You’re terrified. You like being in control, and right now, you realize you don’t have it. Because you want me just as much as I want you.”
“Arrogant,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut as his teeth lightly scrape against your collarbone. A violent shudder rips through your body.
“Honest,” he corrects.
He shifts his weight, sliding his knee securely between your thighs, forcing your legs apart. You are completely pinned beneath him, completely at his mercy, and the terrifying truth is that you don’t want to be anywhere else.
Dean releases one of your wrists, using his newly freed hand to slowly, deliberately trace a path down your stomach. His rough calluses drag against your soft skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He dips his fingers just below your navel, pressing lightly against your lower abdomen.
You arch your back instinctively, a soft moan escaping your lips. You are still so incredibly sensitive from your earlier climax, and his proximity is short-circuiting your brain.
“Tell me this is casual,” Dean challenges, his voice dark and raspy. He moves his mouth to the swell of your breast, his tongue swirling around the tight peak.
“Dean,” you gasp, your fingers curling into the sheets. “Stop playing fair.”
“I’m playing to win,” he mumbles against your skin, lightly sucking the sensitive flesh into his mouth.
You cry out, your hips bucking up against his thigh. Your defenses are crumbling. They are completely, utterly disintegrating under the sheer, focused intensity of his attention. He knows your body perfectly. He knows exactly how to dismantle you.
He slides his hand lower, his long fingers finding your wet, aching center. He doesn’t enter you. He just traces the slick folds, pressing firmly against your clit with his thumb.
“Look at me,” Dean commands softly.
You force your eyes open. The cocky, easygoing college boy is gone. The man hovering over you is lethal, focused, and entirely devoted to you. His green eyes are burning into yours, completely stripping away every wall you have ever built.
“Be mine,” Dean whispers, his thumb slowly, agonizingly circling your most sensitive spot. “Just mine, Y/N. Say yes.”
“If I say yes,” you grit out, your accent thick, your body trembling under his touch, “you are going to regret it. I will ruin your life.”
Dean smiles. It is a devastating, triumphant smile.
“Ruin it, then,” he says. “But you’re doing it as my girlfriend.”
He presses his thumb down harder, and you shatter.
“Fine!” You gasp out, the word tearing from your throat as pleasure spikes sharply in your core. “Fine, yes. I am yours. We are exclusive.”
Dean stops moving his hand. He freezes, staring down at you, his chest heaving. The triumph in his eyes is so bright it’s almost blinding.
“Say it again,” he breathes.
“Do not push your luck, Di Laurentis,” you groan, turning your head against the pillow to hide the flush creeping up your cheeks.
Dean laughs, a sound of pure joy. He releases your other wrist, using both hands to cup your face, forcing you to look at him. He kisses you — hard, deep, and impossibly sweet. It isn’t a demanding kiss. It is a promise. It tastes like victory and relief.
“My girl,” Dean murmurs against your lips. “God, I love the sound of that.”
“Do not get used to it,” you warn him weakly, though you kiss him back, your hands tangling in his thick blond hair. “If you do anything to annoy me, I am breaking up with you.”
“You can try,” Dean grins, pulling back slightly to look down at you. His eyes darken, the playful energy suddenly shifting back into something entirely carnal. He looks at your flushed skin, your bruised lips, your dark hair spread wildly across his pillows.
“And now,” Dean says, his voice dropping into a rough, gravelly purr that makes your stomach clench. “For being such a good girl and finally admitting the truth, I think you deserve a reward.”
You raise an eyebrow, trying to summon your haughty persona, but it’s completely ruined by the way your chest is heaving. “A reward? You think you are training a dog?”
“I think,” Dean says, sliding his hand down your stomach to grip your hip firmly, “I’m going to fuck you so hard you forget how to speak entirely.”
Your breath hitches.
Dean doesn’t hesitate. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing a foil packet. He rips it open with his teeth, his eyes never leaving yours, and rolls it on with quick, practiced efficiency.
When he settles back over you, the air in the room feels thick enough to cut with a knife. He hooks his hands under your knees, dragging your legs up high and hooking them over his broad shoulders. The position completely opens you up to him, leaving you entirely exposed and deeply vulnerable.
“Dean,” you whisper, your eyes widening slightly at the intense, predatory look on his face.
“I’ve got you,” he promises softly.
He aligns his hips with yours, the thick, blunt head of his length resting against your slick opening. He doesn’t thrust right away. He just lets you feel the size of him, the heavy, pulsing heat waiting at your entrance.
“Tell me who you belong to,” Dean demands, his voice a low, rough rumble.
“I belong to myself,” you fire back stubbornly, even as your hips instinctively tilt up, silently begging him to enter you.
Dean chuckles darkly. He pushes forward just an inch, stretching your tight entrance, and then pulls back.
You let out a frustrated whine, your hands gripping the sheets. “Dean. Please.”
“Say it,” he insists, repeating the agonizingly slow, teasing motion. “Who are you exclusive with, Y/N?”
“You,” you gasp, your resistance completely snapping. “You. Just you.”
“That’s right.”
Dean grips your hips tight enough to leave bruises and drives forward in one long, brutal thrust, burying himself inside you to the hilt.
You scream, your head throwing back against the mattress. The feeling of him filling you completely, stretching you so deeply, is overwhelming. It is painful and pleasurable and incredibly intense. You are so wet from his mouth earlier that he glides in smoothly, but the sheer size of him makes you completely breathless.
Dean groans, his jaw clenching as he forces himself to hold still for a second, letting your body adjust. His chest is heaving, a sheen of sweat coating his skin.
“Fuck,” he grates out, his eyes squeezed shut. “You are so perfect. So tight.”
“Do not stop,” you beg, your accent thick and heavy. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his chest down flush against yours. You need the friction. You need him.
Dean opens his eyes, looking down at you with a gaze that is pure, unfiltered fire. “I’m not stopping until the sun comes up.”
He starts to move.
The first few thrusts are slow and incredibly deep. He pulls almost all the way out, letting the sensitive head drag against your entrance, before slamming his hips forward and burying himself inside you again. The skin-on-skin slap of his body meeting yours echoes loudly in the quiet room.
You sob out a breath, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Dean … oh my god.”
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice tight with his own strain.
You open your eyes, meeting his intense green gaze. He wants you to see this. He wants you to see exactly what he is doing to you, exactly who is making you feel like this.
He speeds up, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, and more punishing. The angle is devastating. With your legs hooked over his shoulders, every single stroke hits deep, striking that bundle of nerves that sends blinding sparks behind your eyelids.
The room spins. The only things anchoring you to reality are the heavy weight of Dean’s body, the burning heat inside you, and the relentless, driving rhythm of his hips.
“Are you mine?” Dean asks, his voice harsh as he pounds into you.
“Yes,” you gasp, entirely broken down.
“Just mine?” He thrusts harder, the head of the bed frame banging rhythmically against the wall.
“Yes!” You cry out.
“Good.” Dean shifts his grip, sliding one hand under your lower back to angle your hips even higher. The penetration becomes impossibly deeper. “Because I am completely fucking obsessed with you.”
The dirty, possessive words act like a match to a powder keg.
Your entire body goes rigid. The pleasure spikes so sharply it steals your vision. You feel the climax building in the pit of your stomach, tightening like a coiled spring, hot and frantic.
“Dean,” you sob, the syllables fracturing. You try to push back against him, chasing the friction, completely desperate.
“I know,” he rasps, reading your body perfectly. He leans down, capturing your lips in a messy, bruising kiss, swallowing your moans as he increases his pace to a frantic, relentless sprint.
He is relentless. He doesn’t give you a single second to catch your breath. He just keeps driving into you, deep and hard, pushing you higher and higher until you are completely teetering on the edge.
“Pozhaluysta,” you beg wildly against his mouth.
“Come for me, Y/N,” Dean growls, tearing his mouth away to look at your face. “Let it go.”
You shatter.
Your climax rips through you with violent force, a massive, overwhelming wave of pure ecstasy. You scream his name into the quiet room, your inner walls clamping down hard and fast around his thick length.
Dean shouts, a raw, guttural sound of triumph. He drives his hips forward two more times, impossibly deep, and completely falls apart with you. He empties himself inside the condom with heavy, shuddering groans, his entire body trembling as he collapses against you.
He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his weight crushing you into the mattress. His chest heaves against yours, his heart hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm directly over your own.
For a very long time, neither of you moves. The only sound in the room is the ragged, desperate panting of two people completely wrecked by each other.
Slowly, the adrenaline begins to fade, replaced by a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion.
Dean stirs first. He pulls out of you with a soft sound, disposing of the condom before crawling right back into bed beside you. He doesn’t give you a chance to retreat to your side of the mattress. He wraps his arms around you, pulling your back flush against his chest, and tangles his legs with yours.
He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your neck.
“Mine,” Dean whispers into the dark room, his voice completely satisfied.
You let out a soft sigh, too tired to argue, too happy to care. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of his body envelop you. You know you are going to have to deal with Ilya eventually. You know your perfectly controlled life is completely off the rails.
But as Dean’s hand rests heavily over your heart, keeping you grounded, you smile into the darkness.
Let the game begin.
***
The arena is absolutely deafening on a Friday night in early December.
You are sitting in your usual spot in the lower bowl, your heavy winter coat unzipped, the collar of your dark sweater pulled up against the chill of the rink. The air smells exactly the same as it always does — cold ice, stale popcorn, and the sharp, metallic tang of sweat and adrenaline.
Down on the ice, game is tied 2-2 in the middle of the second period against a viciously aggressive opponent. The play is fast, sloppy, and heavily physical.
“I still don’t understand icing,” Morgan says loudly, leaning close to your ear to be heard over the roar of the student section behind you. She is clutching a massive pretzel and shivering, despite wearing three layers. “Like, why can’t they just hit it to the other side?”
“Because it slows down the pace of the game and rewards lazy defensive zone breakouts,” you explain automatically, your eyes tracking the puck as it cycles behind the Briar net. “It forces the team to skate the puck over the red line before dumping it.”
“Right. Obviously.” Morgan takes a bite of her pretzel. “Are you going to Dean’s house after this?”
You don’t look away from the ice. “Maybe.”
“That means yes,” Morgan singsongs. “You guys are, like, practically married now. It’s actually kind of gross how obsessed he is with you.”
You finally tear your gaze away from the game, shooting your roommate a flat, unimpressed look. “We are not married. We have been exclusive for exactly one month. And he is not obsessed.”
“He literally brought you a coffee in the middle of a blizzard on Wednesday just because you texted him that the dining hall espresso machine was broken,” Morgan points out dryly. “He treats you like a queen.”
“I am a queen,” you say smoothly, turning back to the game. “He is simply acting accordingly.”
Before Morgan can argue, a sudden, massive shadow falls over your row.
The overhead arena lights are blocked out. The people sitting in the row behind you suddenly go dead silent. You feel a distinct, heavy shift in the air, followed by the undeniable scent of expensive Tom Ford cologne and a hint of winter frost.
“Move over,” a deep, booming voice commands in heavily accented English.
Morgan jumps, her eyes going completely wide. She scrambles to the left, practically throwing herself into the empty seat beside her to clear the space.
You turn your head slowly.
Dropping down into the newly vacated plastic seat next to you, completely unannounced and looking like a mob boss, is your older brother.
Ilya stretches his long, powerful legs out, resting his forearms on his knees as he peers down at the ice. He is wearing a dark, tailored wool peacoat over a black turtleneck, a dark beanie pulled low over his forehead. He looks entirely out of place in the sea of drunk college students wearing cheap synthetic jerseys, and yet, he looks like he owns the entire building.
“Ilya?” You ask, your voice dropping perfectly into Russian. “What are you doing here?”
“The Bruins have a home stand,” Ilya replies in Russian, not taking his eyes off the ice. “We played last night. We play again on Sunday. I was bored. And you were not answering your texts.”
“I am watching a hockey game.”
“You are watching boys chase a piece of rubber like blind dogs,” Ilya corrects, gesturing vaguely toward the ice as the opposing team fumbles a pass. “Look at this. The neutral zone is completely wide open. It is a tragedy.”
You sigh, rubbing your temples. “You cannot just show up to my university unannounced, Ilya. You are going to cause a riot.”
It’s true. Whispers are already breaking out in the surrounding rows. People are pointing. The Briar student section is heavily populated by hockey fans, and the Boston Bruins’ star center sitting casually in Section 104 is not going unnoticed.
“Let them riot,” Ilya says dismissively, switching back to English for Morgan’s benefit, shooting her a devastating, perfectly charming smile that makes her blush furiously. “Hello, Morgan. Are you learning about hockey?”
“H-hi, Ilya,” Morgan stammers, completely starstruck. “Yes. I mean, Y/N is trying to teach me.”
“Good luck,” Ilya snorts. He leans forward, resting his chin on his fist. His eyes narrow as he begins to analyze the play with ruthless, surgical precision. “Look at this power play. It is pathetic. The umbrella formation is too flat. The center is not moving his feet.”
You cross your arms, sinking slightly lower in your seat. “They are college students, Ilya. Not professionals.”
“They are pretending to be hockey players,” Ilya grumbles. “Ah, look. Number … sixty-six.”
Your breath hitches slightly.
Down on the ice, Dean receives a pass at the point. He looks incredibly sharp tonight, his skating fluid and effortless. He drags the puck along the blue line, walking it away from a diving defender, and snaps a crisp, perfect pass right into the slot for a waiting forward.
“Number sixty-six,” Ilya repeats, his eyes tracking Dean’s movement. “He is fast. I will give him that. Good edge work. But he is arrogant.”
“You are calling someone arrogant?” You ask dryly. “That is rich.”
“I am arrogant because I am the best,” Ilya states, entirely serious. “This boy, he plays with a chip on his shoulder. Look at his gap control. It is … acceptable.”
Coming from Ilya, the word ‘acceptable’ is essentially a glowing endorsement. It takes everything in your power not to smile.
“He is the leading scoring defenseman in the conference,” you point out casually, playing devil’s advocate.
“Because he plays against children,” Ilya counters immediately. “But he has good hands. And he hits hard.”
As if on cue, an opposing forward tries to enter the Briar zone with his head down. Dean steps up, dropping his shoulder, and delivers a clean, crushing open-ice hit that sends the forward flying into the boards.
The crowd erupts into cheers. You offer a small, proud clap.
Ilya nods slowly, a grudging look of respect crossing his face. “Okay. That was not terrible. He has decent timing.”
You turn your head to hide your smirk. Ilya is literally analyzing your boyfriend, completely unaware that the “acceptable” defenseman currently dominating the ice is the exact same boy who has been leaving bruises on your hips for the last month.
For the rest of the game, Ilya provides a running, highly critical commentary. He complains about the coaching. He complains about the referees. He loudly predicts every single play before it happens, much to the awe of the frat boys sitting three rows back who are currently taking notes.
When the final buzzer sounds, securing a 4-2 victory for Briar, the arena explodes with noise.
“Finally,” Ilya sighs, standing up and stretching his massive frame. “I was beginning to lose brain cells.”
“You only have three left to lose,” you tease, grabbing your purse. You look up at him. “So, are you taking me to dinner? Or did you just come here to complain?”
“I am taking you to dinner,” Ilya confirms, wrapping a heavy arm around your shoulders and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “But first, I want to see the locker room. I want to see where these boys pretend to be athletes.”
Your stomach drops. “You want to go to the locker room?”
“Why not?” Ilya smirks, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “I am Ilya Rozanov. I go where I want.”
You look at Morgan, who gives you a wide-eyed, terrified look. You promised to wait for Dean outside the locker room after the game. It’s part of your routine. Dean comes out, fresh from the shower, pulls you into a dark corner, kisses you senseless, and then drags you to his car.
Now, you are going to be waiting outside the locker room with the most overprotective, terrifying player in the NHL.
The game is officially up.
“Fine,” you say, your voice perfectly calm despite the frantic hammering of your heart. “Let us go.”
***
The hallway outside the locker room is usually heavily guarded, restricted to team personnel and family. But when a six-foot-four Russian tank with a multi-million dollar NHL contract walks down the corridor, the security guards practically stumble over themselves to hold the doors open.
You stand with your back against the cinderblock wall, arms crossed, trying to look completely unbothered. Ilya stands next to you, taking up half the hallway, looking around with a deeply unimpressed expression.
“It smells like wet dog,” Ilya observes loudly.
“It is a hockey locker room, Ilya,” you remind him.
The heavy double doors swing open.
The first person to walk out is Garrett. The Briar captain is dressed in a sharp suit, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, chatting over his shoulder to Logan.
Garrett steps out into the hallway, turns his head, and freezes.
He stops so abruptly that Logan literally crashes into his back.
“What the hell, G?” Logan complains, rubbing his shoulder. “Keep walking-”
Logan looks up. He sees you. Then, his eyes track to the right, and he sees the massive, brooding figure standing next to you.
Logan’s mouth drops open.
Garrett looks like he is going to faint. He is staring at Ilya with the wide, terrified, awestruck expression of a man who has just met God.
“Holy shit,” Garrett whispers.
Ilya raises an eyebrow. He looks Garrett up and down, his gaze heavily calculating. “You are the captain. Graham. Yes?”
“Y-yes,” Garrett stammers. His voice actually cracks. The captain of the Briar hockey team, the guy who fights defensemen twice his size on the ice without blinking, is currently sweating through his suit jacket. “Yes, sir. Garrett Graham.”
“I have seen your tapes,” Ilya says casually, though his tone is terrifyingly flat. “Your face-off percentage is acceptable. But you rely too much on your wingers to dig the puck out of the corners. You need to use your body more.”
“I will,” Garrett says immediately, nodding so fast he looks like a bobblehead. “I’ll do that. Thank you, Mr. Rozanov. Sir.”
“Do not call me sir,” Ilya grunts. “You make me sound old.”
Tucker walks out next, stops dead in his tracks, and slowly backs away until he is pressed against the opposite wall, trying to make himself entirely invisible.
And then, the doors swing open one last time.
Dean steps out into the hallway.
His blonde hair is damp from the shower, pushed back in a messy, effortless style. He is wearing a tailored grey suit jacket with the collar open, no tie, looking entirely too cocky for his own good. He is laughing at something one of the assistant coaches said inside.
He turns the corner, his green eyes scanning the hallway. They find you instantly.
A massive, devastatingly handsome smile breaks across his face. He takes a step toward you, his entire body language softening, lighting up with that intense, focused devotion he saves entirely for you.
“Hey, beautiful,” Dean says, closing the distance. “Sorry I took so long, I had to-”
Dean stops.
He is exactly three feet away from you. He finally realizes that the massive, dark-coated wall of muscle standing right next to you is not a security guard.
Dean’s eyes slowly travel up from the expensive black combat boots, over the tailored peacoat, and finally lock onto the dark, lethal face of Ilya Rozanov.
The silence in the hallway is absolute.
Garrett is holding his breath. Logan is slowly inching toward the exit, ready to call an ambulance. Tucker has closed his eyes, preparing for the gore.
You stand perfectly still. You look at Dean, and then you look at your brother.
“Ilya,” you say, your voice ringing clearly in the dead-silent corridor. “This is Dean Di Laurentis. Dean, this is my brother, Ilya.”
Ilya slowly turns his head to look at Dean. The casual, slightly bored older-brother aura completely vanishes. His posture straightens, his shoulders expanding, taking up every inch of available space. He looks down at Dean with eyes so dark and cold they could freeze the Charles River.
“Ah,” Ilya says softly. The Russian accent is suddenly much, much thicker. “Number sixty-six.”
Dean swallows. You can literally see the Adam’s apple bob in his throat. But to his absolute credit, he doesn’t take a step back.
He squares his own shoulders. He pulls himself up to his full height, refusing to cower. He meets Ilya’s terrifying gaze head-on, the cocky, playful college boy completely melting away, replaced by the stubborn, unyielding defenseman who refuses to give up his blue line.
“It’s an honor to meet you,” Dean says, his voice steady, offering his hand.
Ilya looks at Dean’s outstretched hand for a long, agonizing five seconds. He does not take it.
Dean slowly lowers his hand, entirely unbothered, tucking it into the pocket of his slacks. He holds Ilya’s stare.
“You are dating my sister,” Ilya states. It is not a question. It is an accusation, heavy with the promise of violence.
“Yes,” Dean says simply. “I am.”
“She is nineteen years old,” Ilya says, taking a single, slow step closer to Dean. He is invading his space, using his size to intimidate. “She is brilliant. She is perfect. And she is the only family I have that matters.”
“I know,” Dean replies, his jaw tightening slightly. “She talks about you all the time.”
“Then she has told you what I do to people who cross me,” Ilya murmurs, his voice dropping so low it’s almost a growl. “She has told you that I do not play games, Di Laurentis. I end them.”
“She mentioned it,” Dean agrees, his green eyes flashing with a sudden, dark challenge.
“Let me make this very clear,” Ilya says, leaning down slightly so he is perfectly eye-level with Dean. “If you make her cry, you will not have to worry about a career in the NHL. Because they will not find enough of you to bury in a matchbox. Do you understand me?”
Garrett actually whimpers.
You cross your arms tighter, watching Dean closely. Most men would apologize. Most men would stammer, back away, and promise to be perfect.
Dean just stares right back into the eyes of the most dangerous man in hockey.
“If I make her cry,” Dean says, his voice low, steady, and vibrating with absolute certainty, “you can have a free shot. You can break both my legs. But it won’t happen.”
Ilya’s eyes narrow to slits.
“Because I’m not going to hurt her,” Dean continues, leaning in a fraction of an inch himself, refusing to back down. “I’m keeping her.”
The tension is so thick you could carve it with a steak knife. The two men stare at each other, neither blinking, neither giving an inch. It is an absolute standoff of alpha male ego and fierce, unyielding protectiveness.
And then, suddenly, the ice breaks.
Ilya lets out a sharp, barking laugh.
He lifts his massive hand and claps Dean on the shoulder. The force of the hit is so hard it actually makes Dean stumble half a step, but Ilya grips his shoulder tightly, hauling him back up.
“I like this one!” Ilya booms, turning to look at you, his eyes sparkling with genuine amusement. “He has spine! He is stupid, but he has spine!”
The collective exhale from Garrett, Logan, and Tucker sounds like a punctured tire.
Dean blinks, totally caught off guard by the sudden shift in energy, but a slow, cocky smirk immediately begins to form on his lips. “I prefer the term confident, but I’ll take stupid if it means you aren’t going to murder me.”
“Oh, I might still murder you,” Ilya says cheerfully, releasing Dean’s shoulder. “We will see how the season goes. Your backhand is still weak.”
“It’s getting better,” Dean fires back effortlessly, leaning casually against the wall. The fear is completely gone, replaced by his usual, charming swagger. “Y/N runs drills with me. She’s a brutal coach.”
“She learned from me,” Ilya points out, puffing out his chest slightly. “The Russian system is superior.”
“I don’t know,” Dean argues playfully, crossing his arms. “The North American system focuses more on creativity. Let the players make plays.”
“Creativity is an excuse for a lack of discipline,” Ilya scoffs, waving a hand dismissively.
“Discipline doesn’t score the game-winner in overtime.”
“I scored the game-winner in overtime last night!”
As you watch them argue, a strange, creeping realization begins to settle over the hallway.
You watch Dean lean against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, a completely arrogant, completely self-assured smirk on his face. He is talking with his hands, completely relaxed, verbally sparring just for the fun of it.
Then, you look at Ilya. He is leaning against the opposite wall, one ankle crossed over the other, wearing the exact same arrogant, self-assured smirk. He is talking with his hands, arguing just to hear his own voice, completely thriving on the friction.
They have the exact same posture.
They have the exact same cocky, infuriating grin.
They radiate the exact same possessive, fiercely loyal energy hidden beneath layers of playboy swagger and ego.
You look over at Garrett, Logan, and Tucker.
The three Briar players are staring at Dean and Ilya with wide, horrified eyes. Logan slowly turns his head, making eye contact with you.
“Do you see this?” Logan whispers, his voice trembling slightly. He points a shaking finger between the two men. “They are … they are the exact same person.”
“It’s like looking at a multiverse variant,” Tucker mutters, completely disturbed. “Same font, different languages.”
“She’s dating the American version of her brother,” Garrett says, looking like he might actually throw up. “This is a psychological nightmare. Freud would have a field day with this.”
“Shut up, Garrett,” you hiss, your cheeks flushing violently.
But as you look back at them, you can’t deny it. Dean laughs at something Ilya says, throwing his head back in that rich, booming way that echoes down the hall. Ilya claps him on the shoulder again, offering a sharp, sarcastic insult that Dean immediately deflects with a perfectly timed chirp.
They are getting along flawlessly. They are practically speaking their own language — a language built entirely on hockey stats, trash talk, and massive egos.
And the scariest part? Neither of them seems to realize it.
“So,” Ilya says, pulling a sleek black card case out of his coat pocket. “You boys are hungry? I am buying dinner. The steaks in this town are acceptable. Come, Di Laurentis. You will sit next to me and explain why your power play is so predictable.”
“It’s not predictable,” Dean argues, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside Ilya as they start walking down the hall. “We run a one-three-one. It’s designed to open up the half-wall.”
“It is designed for lazy wingers,” Ilya corrects loudly.
They walk down the corridor together, completely ignoring the rest of you, deeply engrossed in an argument about special teams tactics.
You stand in the hallway, watching them go.
“Well,” you sigh, rubbing your temples again. “That went better than expected.”
Garrett slowly walks up next to you, his eyes still glued to Ilya’s retreating back. “Y/N.”
“Yes, Garrett?”
“Can you ask your brother to sign my chest at dinner?”
You close your eyes. “I am going to pretend you did not just ask me that.”
“Please,” Garrett begs, sounding entirely pathetic. “I have a sharpie in my bag.”
“We are leaving,” you announce, grabbing Garrett by the sleeve of his expensive suit and dragging him down the hall after Dean and Ilya. Logan and Tucker follow silently behind, both looking like they are still trying to process the sheer psychological horror of what they just witnessed.
As you catch up to them, Dean glances over his shoulder. He spots you, stops walking for a second, and waits for you to reach his side.
When you do, he doesn’t say a word. He just reaches out, sliding his large, warm hand around your waist and pulling you flush against his side. He presses a soft kiss to your temple, right in front of your brother.
Ilya stops talking. He looks at Dean’s arm around your waist. He looks at the way you lean into Dean’s side, completely relaxed.
For a second, the dangerous, protective older brother flares up in Ilya’s eyes.
But then, he looks at Dean’s face. He sees the absolute devotion there. He sees the way Dean looks at you like you are the only thing in the entire arena that matters.
Ilya huffs a soft breath, shaking his head. He turns around, shoving his hands into the pockets of his peacoat.
“Come on, children,” Ilya calls out, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. “Dinner is on me. And Di Laurentis?”
“Yeah?” Dean asks.
“If you order your steak well-done,” Ilya warns over his shoulder, “I will revoke my approval.”
Dean laughs, pulling you a little tighter against his side.
“Don’t worry, old man,” Dean calls back playfully. “I like it raw.”
You let out a long, exasperated sigh, hiding a smile against Dean’s shoulder as you all walk out into the freezing Boston night.
One arrogant, hockey-obsessed idiot was hard enough to manage. Now, you officially have two of them.
You really are going to need more deadbolts.
***
The Ottawa winter is absolutely brutal, the kind of biting, deep-freeze cold that makes your lungs ache the second you step outside.
“I don’t understand how people survive here,” Dean complains, his teeth actually chattering as he parks his sleek SUV in the sprawling, snow-covered driveway of the massive luxury estate. “It’s negative twelve degrees, Y/N. Negative twelve. The air hurts my face.”
“You play a sport that takes place entirely on a sheet of frozen water,” you point out dryly, unbuckling your seatbelt. “You should be used to the cold.”
“Arena cold is different from Canadian tundra cold,” Dean argues. He kills the engine and turns to look at you.
The dashboard lights cast a soft glow across his face. He is older now, his jawline sharper, his shoulders broader from years of NHL conditioning. He has a tiny, faded scar above his left eyebrow from a high stick three seasons ago, but he is still, undeniably, the most devastatingly handsome man you have ever seen. And the heavy platinum band resting on his left ring finger — matching the diamond currently sparkling on your own — is still the best decision you have ever made.
“Besides,” Dean says, reaching across the center console to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “Your brother chose to sign with Ottawa just to punish me. I know it. He wants me to freeze to death during the holidays.”
“Ilya did not sign a massive, eight-year contract with the Senators to punish you,” you laugh, leaning into his touch. “He signed it to be closer to Shane.”
Dean smiles, a soft, incredibly fond expression that he saves entirely for you. “Yeah, yeah. The greatest love story in the NHL. Come on, Mrs. Di Laurentis. Let’s go freeze.”
You brave the frigid air together, jogging up the salted stone steps to the massive mahogany front door. Before Dean can even ring the bell, the door swings open.
Shane stands in the entryway, wearing a soft grey cashmere sweater and looking every bit the golden boy of the NHL. He holds a can of ginger ale in one hand, his wedding band flashing in the warm foyer light.
“Y/N! Dean! Get in here before you let all the heat out,” Shane laughs, stepping back to let you both inside.
“Shane,” you smile, stepping into the sprawling, gorgeously decorated house and pulling him into a warm hug. “It is good to see you. Smells incredible in here.”
“Ilya’s making my mother’s brisket,” Shane says, rolling his eyes fondly as he claps Dean on the shoulder. “Good to see you, man. Rough game against Tampa on Thursday.”
“Don’t remind me,” Dean groans, shrugging out of his heavy wool coat. “Our penalty kill is a disaster right now.”
“Whose penalty kill is a disaster?” A booming, heavy Russian accent echoes from down the hall.
A second later, Ilya rounds the corner. He is wearing a dark apron over a black t-shirt, a wooden spoon in one hand, and a massive grin on his face. Years of professional hockey have only made him wider and more intimidating, but the sheer joy on his face when he looks at Shane, and then at you, softens his entire demeanor.
“Little bird!” Ilya drops the wooden spoon on a side table and crosses the foyer in three massive strides, scooping you up into a bone-crushing hug. He spins you around once before setting you back on your feet, kissing the top of your head. “You look beautiful. Marriage is treating you well.”
“I am managing,” you reply in Russian, smiling up at him.
Ilya turns his attention to Dean. He looks his brother-in-law up and down, his eyes narrowing in that familiar, hyper-critical way.
“Di Laurentis,” Ilya greets, his voice dropping into a flat, unimpressed drawl. “Your plus-minus this month is embarrassing. You are pinching too high in the offensive zone. Have you forgotten everything I taught you?”
“I play top-pairing minutes for a Cup-contending team, old man,” Dean fires back without missing a beat, a cocky smirk instantly appearing on his face as he shakes Ilya’s hand. “I can afford to take risks. Some of us actually have a reliable defensive partner to cover for us. Not all of us are busy staring at our own husbands across the ice.”
Ilya lets out a sharp, barking laugh, pulling Dean into a rough, one-armed hug. “You are an idiot. Come into the kitchen. The team is here. They want to meet the American liability.”
You follow the boys down the wide hallway, the sound of loud, overlapping voices and clinking glasses growing louder. Ilya and Shane’s house is an architectural masterpiece, completely open-concept, and right now, the massive kitchen and attached living room are overflowing with professional hockey players.
Half the Ottawa Senators roster seems to be lounging around the kitchen island, drinking beers and eating appetizers. When you and Dean walk in, the conversation stutters to a halt.
“Boys,” Ilya announces loudly, gesturing with his wine glass. “This is my little sister, Y/N. And her husband, Dean Di Laurentis. If any of you hit him on the ice next month when we play them, I will buy you a Rolex.”
A chorus of laughter breaks out. You recognize a few of the younger players staring at Dean with wide eyes.
Dean isn’t just a college player anymore. He is a bona fide NHL star, known for his lethal backhand, his punishing hits, and his absolute refusal to back down from a fight. To the young Ottawa players, seeing Dean standing casually in their captain’s kitchen is a surreal experience.
“Nice to meet you guys,” Dean says, leaning against the marble counter and effortlessly sliding into his charismatic, playboy-turned-superstar persona. “Don’t listen to Ilya. If you hit me, he’ll actually cry. He loves me.”
“I tolerate you because my sister likes your face,” Ilya corrects loudly, handing you a glass of white wine.
“Sure you do,” Shane murmurs, stepping up behind Ilya and wrapping his arms casually around his husband’s waist. Ilya immediately leans back against Shane’s chest, the massive, terrifying Russian practically melting into the Canadian. It’s a sight that the hockey world is finally used to — the league’s first openly queer, married power couple — but it still warms your heart every time you see it.
“So, Di Laurentis,” LaPointe asks nervously, holding a beer. “Is it true you guys run a completely fluid neutral zone trap in Boston? Because our coach showed us tape of your game against Florida, and your transition speed is insane.”
Dean’s eyes light up. Hockey is his second favorite topic in the world, right after you.
“It’s not entirely fluid,” Dean says, gesturing with his hands as he launches into a highly technical breakdown of his team’s defensive systems.
You stand back, sipping your wine, and watch the room.
Ilya naturally jumps into the conversation, loudly arguing with Dean about the merits of aggressive forechecking versus positional defense. They are standing mirroring each other — both holding their drinks in their left hands, both gesturing wildly with their right, both wearing identical, arrogant, infuriatingly handsome smirks.
“They are exactly the same,” a voice whispers next to you.
You turn your head to see Haas, the young forward, watching Ilya and Dean with a look of absolute awe and mild terror. He doesn’t realize he spoke out loud until you raise an eyebrow at him.
“Sorry! I mean, ma’am—Y/N—sorry,” Haas stammers, his face flushing bright red. “It’s just they’re both so … intense.”
“You can say cocky, Luca,” Shane laughs, joining you on the outskirts of the hockey debate. “We all know they’re cocky.”
“They’re assholes,” Boodram chimes in from the other side of the counter, keeping his voice low so his captain doesn’t hear. “But, like, in a good way? Like, they know they’re the best players in the room, and they want everyone else to know it too. It’s crazy.”
“It is a carefully cultivated brand,” you say dryly, taking another sip of wine.
“You disagree?” Ilya suddenly calls out, spinning around to point an accusing finger at Dean. “You think a drop pass on the power play entry is a good idea? It is a coward’s move! It slows the momentum!”
“It creates space, Ilya!” Dean argues back, his competitive streak fully ignited. He starts pacing back and forth in front of the island. “If you drop the puck to the trailer, you force the defense to step up, which opens the wings! It’s basic geometry!”
“It is basic stupidity!” Ilya roars, throwing his hands in the air. He turns to the Ottawa rookies. “Do you hear this? This is why the American system is flawed. They rely on tricks instead of brute force.”
The Ottawa players look terrified to be brought into the crossfire.
Shane sighs, setting his empty wine glass on the counter. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t yell. He simply looks at his massive, raging husband and says, very calmly, “Babe. Inside voice. And pass the salad.”
The transformation is instantaneous.
Ilya stops shouting mid-sentence. His chest heaves once, his eyes completely dial back from murderous enforcer to devoted husband.
“Yes, malysh,” Ilya murmurs softly. He picks up the salad bowl and hands it to Shane, the argument completely forgotten.
Across the kitchen, Dean is still pacing, completely fired up. “I’m telling you, the drop pass is statistically proven to increase zone entries by forty percent! It’s not a trick, it’s-”
“Dean,” you say.
Your voice isn’t loud, but it cuts through the noise of the kitchen with absolute, undeniable authority.
Dean stops pacing instantly. His head snaps toward you, his green eyes wide and completely focused on you.
“Yes, sweetheart?” He asks, his entire posture softening.
“Stop waving your hands around,” you tell him smoothly. “You are making me dizzy. Come here and eat your protein.”
You slide a small plate of sliced brisket across the marble island.
Dean doesn’t hesitate for a single second. The superstar defenseman, the cocky, arrogant NHL playboy, obediently walks over to you, wraps an arm around your waist, presses a kiss to your temple, and spears a piece of meat.
“Sorry, Y/N,” Dean murmurs against your hair. “Got carried away.”
“You always do,” you reply fondly, running a hand through his blond hair.
You look across the island.
LaPointe and Haas are staring at you, and then at Shane, and then back to the two massive, highly dangerous hockey players happily eating their respective bread and carrots.
LaPointe leans over to Haaa, his voice a barely audible whisper of pure disbelief.
“They walk them like dogs,” LaPointe breathes. “It’s insane.”
“Terrifying,” Haas agrees in a hushed, reverent tone. “I want a marriage exactly like that.”
You catch Shane’s eye across the kitchen. The Canadian raises his ginger ale toward you in a silent, perfectly synchronized toast. You raise your wine glass back. The rookies are right, of course, but neither you nor Shane would ever admit it out loud.
***
Dinner is a loud, chaotic, incredibly warm affair.
Ilya’s brisket is perfect, the wine flows freely, and the dining room echoes with laughter, old hockey stories, and ruthless chirping. Dean fits in flawlessly with the Ottawa players, trading insults with Ilya that sound vicious to an outsider but are actually layered with deep mutual respect.
It wasn’t always easy. Those first few years after college were a brutal adjustment. Dean getting signed, the long-distance strains, Ilya’s terrifying protective streak flaring up every time Dean’s name was in the tabloids. But Dean proved him wrong. Every single time, Dean proved that his devotion to you wasn’t just a college phase, it was the defining anchor of his life.
By the time the Ottawa players finally clear out around midnight, retreating into the freezing snow to head home, the massive house is finally quiet.
You, Dean, Ilya, and Shane migrate to the sprawling living room. A fire is cracking in the massive stone fireplace, casting a warm, flickering glow over the leather furniture.
Shane is curled up on the sofa, his head resting in Ilya’s lap. Ilya is absently running his large, calloused fingers through Shane’s hair, looking completely at peace.
You are sitting on the oversized loveseat, your legs draped across Dean’s lap. He is gently massaging your calves through the fabric of your jeans, his thumb pressing into the muscles with practiced ease.
“Good dinner, old man,” Dean says quietly, staring into the flames.
“Yuna’s recipe,” Ilya replies softly, his eyes closed. “It is foolproof. Even you could not ruin it.”
Dean chuckles. He leans his head back against the sofa, his green eyes catching the firelight. For a moment, he is quiet, a rare, reflective look crossing his face.
“You know,” Dean says, his voice losing all its usual sarcastic armor. “Dykstra was asking me earlier about how I got signed m. About how I climbed the undrafted free agent projections.”
Ilya opens one eye, looking at Dean across the room. “You fixed your gap control.”
“Yeah. I did.” Dean’s hand rests heavily on your knee, his thumb stroking your skin. He looks at Ilya, the tension between them completely replaced by a deep, unspoken brotherhood. “But that’s not what got me there. I told him the truth.”
“Which is?” Shane asks gently.
“I wouldn’t be playing in this league if it wasn’t for you guys,” Dean says. He looks down at you, his eyes incredibly soft, and then back to Ilya. “If Y/N hadn’t torn my game apart that night in the lobby … if Ilya hadn’t spent that entire summer in Boston physically beating my ass on the ice … I would have coasted. I would have been a good college player, and then maybe played beer league.”
You feel a tight, warm ache in your chest. You reach out, lacing your fingers through Dean’s.
“You did the work, Dean,” you tell him softly. “We just pointed out your flaws.”
“You pointed them out very aggressively,” Dean grins, though the emotion in his eyes is entirely genuine. He looks at Ilya. “Seriously. Thank you. Both of you. For not letting me settle.”
“You are a good man, Di Laurentis,” Ilya says, his voice thick and sincere. “You are arrogant, and you talk too much, but you take care of my sister. And you are a hell of a defenseman. You earned your spot.”
Dean swallows hard, his jaw tightening as he nods. Coming from Ilya Rozanov, there is no higher praise on earth.
“But don’t think this means I’m not going to put you in the boards next month,” Ilya adds quickly, the gruffness returning to his voice. “If you try that drop pass in my zone, I will end your career.”
“I look forward to seeing you try, grandpa,” Dean fires back instantly, the cocky grin returning in full force.
Shane laughs, sitting up and stretching. “Alright, that’s my cue. If you two start drawing up plays on napkins, I’m going to bed. Goodnight, kids.”
“Goodnight, Shane,” you smile as Ilya stands up, pulling his husband to his feet.
“Sleep well, little bird,” Ilya says, pressing a final kiss to your forehead. He points two fingers at Dean, pointing them back at his own eyes in an I’m watching you gesture, before following Shane down the hallway toward the master suite.
The living room falls quiet again, save for the crackle of the fire.
Dean turns his attention entirely to you. He slides his hands up your thighs, gripping your hips, and pulls you effortlessly across the sofa until you are straddling his lap.
“Hi,” Dean murmurs, his hands resting warmly on the small of your back.
“Hi,” you reply, resting your forearms on his broad shoulders. “You are feeling very sentimental tonight.”
“Can you blame me?” Dean asks, his eyes tracing the line of your jaw, down your neck, and back up to your eyes. “I’m sitting in a mansion in Ottawa, playing in the NHL, holding the most incredible, terrifying, beautiful woman in the world. I’m a lucky guy.”
“You are,” you agree, completely unabashed. “But you earned it.”
Dean smiles, that devastating, million-dollar smile that still makes your heart skip a beat all these years later. He leans in, capturing your lips in a slow, incredibly deep kiss. It tastes like expensive wine, woodsmoke, and years of absolute devotion.
You kiss him back just as fiercely, your fingers tangling in his thick blonde hair. The heat between you flares instantly, burning just as bright and desperate as it did in that tiny college bedroom years ago.
Dean breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead against yours, his breathing slightly elevated.
“You know,” Dean whispers, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs. “The guest room is all the way on the other side of the house. Soundproof walls, too. I checked.”
You raise an eyebrow, your old, haughty confidence returning in full force. “You checked the acoustics of my brother’s guest room?”
“A good player always scouts the arena before the game,” Dean murmurs, his voice dropping into that rough, gravelly register that completely short-circuits your brain. He kisses the sensitive skin just below your ear. “What do you say, Mrs. Di Laurentis? Ready for puck drop?”
You let out a soft, helpless laugh, leaning your head back as his lips trail down your neck.
Some things never change. He is still arrogant, he is still incredibly demanding, and he is still, without a doubt, exactly the game you want to play for the rest of your life.
“Take me upstairs, Di Laurentis,” you whisper into the quiet room.
Dean doesn’t hesitate. He stands up effortlessly, carrying you in his arms as he walks toward the hallway, a triumphant, wicked smirk on his face.
You rest your head against his shoulder, entirely safe, entirely loved, and completely in control.
The Ottawa winter rages outside, but inside, you have never been warmer.
tw: talks of suicide, wanting to die, money issues, heavy drinking to the point of blacking out
next | prev
Logan POV
I think I was drunk. Well, no, I knew I was drunk. I was thinking back to the conversation Jules and I had earlier after Jeff has called.
.
"You're not telling me what's actually going on with dad—I deserve to be a part of the conversation too." They said, making me sigh.
"Everything is fine, okay? Stop worrying. It's on Jeff and I's account, you have your own."
"That doesn't mean the debt falls entirely on you, you have to let me help—"
"I don't have to let you do shit! It's dad's debt! Jeff and I are gonna pay it off, you're gonna keep going to school and get your fucking degree, and get a good job! You're gonna get out." I say, watching their jaw clench.
"I want to help, why won't you let me help?"
"Because, it's not on you."
"It's not on you either! Or Jeff!"
"Jules, it's not that simple, it's—" The door flew open and I shut my mouth immediately as Dean walked in.
"She swing by or anything?"
"Nah, man."
.
I needed to go home, my head was killing me, I'd definitely drank too much. Numbing the pain was definitely not what my old man had cracked it up to be. I looked around, trying to find the door but finding her instead. She looked like she was dressed for fashion week rather than a college party but I found that a little endearing.
I was so out of it, I didn't even ask her name. Somehow, we ended up upstairs and just talking. I was half asleep, just yapping away, I kinda felt bad for her. She probably expected me to fuck her, not tell her how fucked up my family was and how bad in debt we were. But then she returned the favor and told me how much she wished she'd died throughout times in her life, how much she hated herself and how everyone else did too, which I thought was weird since she seemed chill enough.
.
Reader POV
The party was way too loud. I tried to befriend a few girls there but the conversations usually went like;
"Hi, I'm Y/n!"
"Oh, Dean's sister?! I slept with him one time!"
"Oh-! Um..congratulations?"
"Was that sarcasm?"
"No?" And then they left, so. I didn't know how to respond to that, to be fair. Anything would be awkward. 'Was it good?' Gross, didn't need to know that. 'Ew,' then I was bitchy.
So, I resorted to drinking away my problems. I got a vodka soda, 90% vodka and 10% soda, drowning myself as I chugged three cups practically immediately.
I don't exactly remember how I ended up upstairs with a hot guy, who was vaguely familiar, but that I couldn't remember the name of. We weren't really doing anything other than slurring our words as we bitched about our problems.
His family was having money problems, something about a dad in a zoo. No—a rehabilitation center. Wait no, just rehab, I'm pretty sure calling it a center was just for animals. Or not. I can't fucking think.
"Logan," I murmur, finally recognizing him.
"Uhuh?" He lifted his head, groaning and falling right back onto the bed.
"If you knew that your life would be perfect, money would be taken care of, a steady job, etcetera, would you leave your family behind?"
"No," he said it so quickly it surprised me. "I love them. I'd rather die than leave them behind." He turned to me. "Would you?"
"I think my family would be better off if I was dead." I said honestly.
"That's a little dark." He murmured, eyes closing.
"Guess so, not any less true though."
"You want to kill yourself?"
"Not really, I'm too scared to. I hope I'd be taken by sickness or some kind of crash, quick, painless."
"Ah. Makes sense."
"Have you ever wanted that?"
"Not in the dying way, more just in the..peace way. I just wish everything was quiet for once."
"Star gazing is like that."
"You like stars?"
I hesitate before realizing he's too drunk to remember any of this, so I let my walls down. "I used to sneak on the roof in the city I lived in to feel closer to them, I slept out there so much that I used to get colds often. My parents thought it was an immune system thing but it was me being an idiot." He smiles at that.
"When did you stop?"
"Huh?"
"You said 'I used to.'" He was a perceptive drunk, I'll give him that.
"Oh. I dunno. I guess in my junior year? I just...I guess I just stopped liking things."
"Everything?"
"Not everything, just...most things. It's hard to like anything when no one around likes you."
"Well, I like you. So, you can like the stars again." He was quiet after that and I laid down next to him, a bit of space between us as we both stared at the ceiling.
"How much debt is there?" I ask.
"$21,763.81, as of checking this morning." He sighed, a hand running down his face. I felt bad that I hadn't flinched, the first playhouse my parents paid to have built for me and Summer to play in was around that.
"So, you're leaving hockey to work at your dad's shop."
"Wh—I never said I played hockey."
"You look like you do, so I assumed."
"Oh." He shrugs. "Yeah. I am. Sucks, 'cause I kinda did want to go pro."
"Well, I think you should still apply." I say, remembering him saying 20 minutes ago that he ignored the email from the NHL when it came.
"Why should I? I'd only make myself more upset. I can't go." He sighed, rolling over. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight." I said to him, eyes flickering to the wallet that had slipped out of his jeans. Should I? No, no that's—well, he might like it. And if he likes it, it'll make him happy and maybe we'll be friends. Maybe Dean will see that and then we'll get close again too. And then maybe Summer.
I grab the wallet, taking pictures of his cards before silently putting it back.
"Odd question, sorry."
"Hnmg?"
"I'm trying to uh, make a statistic. On what color cards people have."
"That's a weird statistic."
"Oh, it's very interesting, some people have pictures on their cards too."
"Mm."
"Which color is your credit card?"
"Uhh...like a blue? I guess. Dark blue." I scroll through the pictures, finding the one.
"Ah, is that the one that your dad's stuff is on?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Okay, thanks. Goodnight." I say, leaving quickly, getting on the phone with one of my family's bankers.
.
Logan POV
That girl was so odd—but I did deflate a bit when she left—I also checked my wallet because that was a weird ass conversation. Everything was there though so I relaxed. When she left, I noticed the scent leaving too, her perfume had been so comforting, I didn't even realize it was there until it was fleeting. Something floral, orchid? But with something citrus, tangerine, maybe.
I managed to get myself out of the bed that certainly wasn't mine and go downstairs. I don't remember getting home but I do remember Garrett holding me up as we walked to a car. Other than that, my mind was blank.
Once I was in my bed, I fell right asleep, only awoken the next morning by my phone buzzing under my cheek.
part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 8.5, part 9
pairing: john logan x fem!reader (garrett's sister)
word count: 2.1k
summary: you have known john logan since you first came to briar u. he became a constant in your life, as he was a constant in your brother's life. developing a crush on him felt easy, perhaps the easiest thing that you had ever done. however john logan was two things: your brothers best friend, and plainly not interested in you. at least, you don't think he is? it's easy to pass off the flirting and lingering stares as it simply being who he was. was it though? or was there something more.
author note: ok i FINALLY locked in for this part! it's a little short, but!! i have some big plot points coming up soon <3
the truth was, you didn't know what to expect from lunch with garrett. part of you expected him to be angry, and start yelling at you for daring to be with his best friend. there would be some sort of long tangent about crossing a line, and you would have explain that it just happened. that you didn't mean for it to, but it did and there was no going back now that you loved him.
however, none of that happened. garrett just ordered his mountain of food, and sat quietly across the booth from you. which, honestly, was worse. you would take him yelling at you and scolding you over this painful, stifling silence.
it was the kind of silence that consumed you, and made your skin feel itchy. it felt like you were under a microscope, and every layer of you was being exposed in that moment. like your heart was being dissected by your brother, and it caused this deep discomfort to wedge itself between your ribs, restricting your ability to breathe.
finally, you can't take it anymore and your hands fall onto the table as you say, "okay, i can't do this anymore."
his eyes shift up to you, mid bite as he replies, "i'm not talking about this right now."
this illicit's a glare from you, something that bores into him with a fiery intensity. "i don't care," you state then, the words coming out annoyed and harsh, "we are talking about it, because i can't handle this silence for a second longer."
a sigh falls from his lips then as he straightens up, and levels you with an annoyed look on his face, "fine." when the word reaches you, you can't help the way that your body stills. this is the conversation that you wanted, but now that it was happening you suddenly wished that it wasn't. that you could crawl under the table and disappear.
even still, you push down all those feelings and try to focus on what little courage you had left in your body, "i'm not breaking up with him," you establish rather quickly. "we didn't mean for it to hurt you, and we were going to tell you," you go on to explain, "but we wanted to make sure this was serious before we dealt with all of this, okay?"
his eyes stay focused on you then as a silence falls between you for a beat. garrett clears his throat then, arms reaching up and crossing in front of him, "okay." then he pauses again, and your eyebrows furrow in response. that's it? a simple okay?
then, as if he read your mind, he adds "i'm not upset about you two being together." there is a pause before he clarifies, "okay, i am a little annoyed about that, but that's not all of it." at least he was being honest. though, he was always honest with you. "i'm upset that you lied to me," he goes on to explain, the crease in his brow deepening, "you promised that you would never lie to me."
right, that.
"i know, garrett, and i didn't mean to lie to you," you explain, a sigh escaping your lips as you do, "but i didn't think you would allow it and i..." your voice trails off, because it seems selfish. as you go over the words in your head, it is selfish. though, this whole thing had been selfish. you had spent the whole time thinking about what you wanted without any consideration to what garrett might feel.
"you?," he says, eyebrow raising as he looks at you.
"i just liked him so much, and i never thought he could like me back, so when he told me that he did...," it sounds even more selfish as you say it out loud. "when he did, i didn't know how to say no."
there is something that softens on his face then, as if he gets it in some way. "you didn't have to lie to me," he says then, arms uncrossing from in front of him as his hand reaches down for a fry. "i'm not blind. i knew that you both liked each other, and if you were going to hook up with any of my friends, i'd rather it be him." which was definitely one way of putting it.
your voice goes softer then as you say, "but you seemed so angry after the game..."
another sigh escapes him as he says, "because i realized that i was being played," then he rolls his eyes before adding, "and i guess there was some initial annoyance at the fact that he was with you, but i'm not mad about it."
there is a hope that blossoms in your chest then, and it is mirrored by the smile on your face, "so it's okay?"
there is another roll of his eyes, "i guess." which is as much of a yes as you figure that you would ever get. especially given that he is quick to change the topic, and his tone shifts to something unsure as he states, "you looked scared of me..."
it takes you a moment to put the pieces together and you remember the way your face scrunched together when he got angry with you outside the stadium. you remember the look of recognition and emotion on his face when he saw it. "oh," you say then, "i wasn't scared of you, gar... i was caught off guard, but i was also panicked thinking about you being mad at me." then you pause and a serious expression takes over your face, "i never want you to be mad at me."
relief overtakes him then, and he lets out a sigh before saying, "i was mad at you." which isn't all that reassuring, but at least it was the truth, "but i'm not anymore. i just want you to be happy, okay?"
a smile takes over your face before you reach out to rest a hand over his, and you softly say "i am happy."
✿ . ˚ . ˚ ✿
the two of you walk through the door of the hockey house, laughing over some stupid story that garrett was telling you. it was strange how much could happen after three days of no contact. how he could have so much to tell you, but it makes sense. you update each other daily when anything interesting or funny happens.
you had told him in the car that it was movie night with john, so he doesn't question it when the you split away from him in the living room and let him walk to the kitchen on his own. "hi," you say softly as you move around the couch and settle into the spot next to john. he leans forward to kiss you then, gentle and chaste. when you pull apart you smile and say, "i think everything is good now."
which is something that is only solidified when garrett walks back out to the kitchen holding two beers and a coke. he hands the beer to john then, before asking, "so what are we watching?" and moving to settle into a chair.
you watch the way that john's facial expression changes. how there is a relief that watches over him, and all the tension he was holding had just left his body. you know he won't say it, but he had been waiting for this. he had been so worried about losing his best friend, that it was eating away at him even if he wouldn't say it to you. even if he was too busy being focused on you and being too manly to ever say it out loud, but he missed his best friend. he missed garrett.
"i wanted to watch top gun, but she has conned me into the notebook," john explains with a sigh.
garrett visibly scowls before saying, "fuck that, i vote top gun." which is followed by both dean and tucker yelling in agreement. "four against one, i guess we are watching top gun tonight."
you look at him with a scowl before stating, "excuse me?," then you look to john and he just smiles with a shrug before taking a drink from his beer. "this is so not far, you guys can't just crash our movie night and make me watch top gun!"
dean laughs as he walks into the room, tucker splitting off into the kitchen to make popcorn. "this is our house, lil grahamsy, we can do whatever we want," he explains with a shrug as he plops down on the other side of john, "not even your boyfriend can stop us, he's outvotted too."
you are so swept up in the fact that dean had called john your boyfriend loudly for everyone to hear, that you completely forget the fact that your movie night was being crashed by the rest of them. honestly, you figured that you may not even mind it all that much.
for it meant that, for the first time, you get to be his girlfriend in the light of day for everyone to see.
"fine, whatever, i concede," you say with a soft laugh before you fling your legs over john's and grab a hold of his hand. this was nice, and it was definitely something you could get used to.
✿ . ˚ . ˚ ✿
you had left the boys right after the first top gun movie had ended, and they began discussing starting the second. it wasn't that you didn't want to watch this movie with them, but your head had started to hurt. it likely had to do with the fact that you had gotten up early that morning for a study group, and the night was getting rather late.
so, you excused yourself and made your way upstairs to john's room. it wasn't lost on you the slight, mocking look of digust that garrett gave the two of you when you had kissed before john had mentioned how he would be up later. though, you chose not to think about it all that much. especially given that you knew the guys would make fun of john the moment you left the room.
by the time that john had made his way to his room, you had already changed into one of his shirts and was laying under the covers on your phone. the door opens slowly, and you look up then and a slow smile creeps onto your face as you see him, "how as the movie?"
"i think it's still going," he explains with ease as he makes his way over to the bed, wrapping you in his arms as he lays down. "i decided i missed you too much, and just had to get up here," he explains then before leaning down and kissing you gently.
when he pulls away, your head tilts to the side slight before you ask, "and garrett didn't say anything about you coming up here? no 'ew gross'?" you shouldn't be wondering, but the curiousity got the best of you. especially given how you were still having a hard time wrapping your head around the fact that he was okay with it.
there is a laugh that escapes john then, soft and low as it fills your head, a melody that you would never forget. "worse then that," he says with with a scrunch of his nose, "i got the entire 'treat my sister right' talk as soon as you left the room," he goes on to explain, "and he promised to kill me if i didn't. then dean and tucker also said they would kill me."
a hand scrubs over your face, and you can't help the laugh that escapes your lips, "i hate them all so much."
his hand captures the one that you had pulled over your face, and he holds them up between you before interlocking your fingers and letting your arms fall to the side. "well," he starts, "they love you," and then he gets a little bit closer as he adds, "and so do i, i guess."
a look of offense flickers across your face then, and you stifle out a sharp laugh, "you think?". he then smirks at you before pulling you closer to your body and pressing a hot, passionate kiss against your lips. one that makes it almost hard for you to breathe.
when you do come up for air, there is a content smile that crosses your face before you roll your eyes and say, "i love you too, i guess."
Summary: Logan knows better than to fall for his best friend's little sister.
wc: 7.10k not sorry; graham!reader; figure skater!reader; brother’s best friend; best friend's sister; hockey player x figure skater; tw: underage drinking (for americans)
Part I | Part II
The music was already loud before Y/N even made it up the front steps.
It blasted through the walls hard enough to shake the windows while bodies crowded the porch, half the campus apparently determined to celebrate Briar’s hockey team latest win like they’d personally scored the goals themselves.
Y/N adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder and glanced back at the three girls behind her. “This,” she said dryly, “is exactly how people get diseases.”
Her friend Chloe laughed. “Oh my God, stop acting like you’re above this. Your brother literally lives here.”
“Exactly,” Y/N replied. “I know what kind of diseases exist inside this house.”
Another girl, she didn’t even know beside her nudged Y/N’s shoulder excitedly. “Still can’t believe your brother’s Garrett Grant.”
“Graham,” Y/N corrected automatically.
“Whatever. The point is your family tree is carrying our social lives.” Y/N rolled her eyes, but she was smiling a little as she pushed the front door open.
Instant chaos. Bodies everywhere. Beer spilled on the floor already. Music too loud. People shouting over beer pong in the dinner table.
Home, basically.
“Baby G!”
Dean appeared first from the living room already drunker than he should. “There she is,” he announced dramatically. “My favorite Graham.”
“You say that every time just to piss Garrett off.”
“But I mean it every time.” he winked at her.
Dean immediately threw an arm around her shoulders and started pulling her through the crowd while her friends looked one second away from passing out from excitement.
Y/N heard one of them whisper: “Oh my God, that’s Dean Di Laurentis.”
She rolled her eyes. Poor girl.
“They are all freshman, Dean,” Y/N warned. “Behave.”
“I’m always behaving.”
The kitchen erupted into cheers suddenly as several hockey players stumbled in carrying cases of beer. And right in the middle of them. Logan.
Hoodie sleeves shoved up his forearms, curls messy under a backwards cap, and that lazy, effortless kind of confidence that made it seem like he belonged everywhere he stood. The warm glow from the kitchen lights softened the sharp edges of his face while he laughed at something one of the upperclassmen said, easy and unguarded for once.
Unfortunately for Y/N’s sanity, Logan always looked unfairly good without even trying.
Y/N’s friend beside her went completely silent. Then: “…holy shit.” one of them said.
Y/N snorted. Because ‘Yeah… holy shit.’ She thought
That was usually people’s reaction to Logan.
He looked up a second later, eyes scanning the room automatically before landing on her. And immediately smiled, walking towards them.
“Well, well,” he called over the music. “Graham brought friends.” His mouth curved into a smirk. He wasn’t interested in the girls at all, he just knew the comment would earn him an reaction from her, and for some reason, he never got tired of them. Like a boy annoying his crush on school because he doesn’t know how get her to notice him.
Y/N flipped him off instantly. “They’re innocent freshmen. Leave them alone.”
“I don’t want to be left alone,” one of her friends whispered weakly.
Dean and Logan chuckled. And Y/N rolled her eyes, but her gaze drifted back to Logan anyway. He looked different tonight.
Not physically, though the messy dark hair, flushed cheeks, and post-game confidence weren't helping.
No, it was something else.
Confidence was natural to Logan, but tonight it seemed different somehow. Brighter. Real. Not made up. Like he was carrying the energy of the entire arena with him.
Which, to be fair, he practically was. He'd scored a hat trick. The crowd had spent half the game chanting his name. The team had won because of him.
The worst part? He wore real confidence disgustingly well.
Y/N liked to think she knew better than most that Logan hid behind a smile. Behind the flirting, the confidence, the constant jokes, and sarcasm there was always something he kept carefully out of reach. A part of himself he rarely let anyone see.
But hockey? Hockey was different.
Hockey was the one place where nothing about him was rehearsed. There was no mask and not a carefully crafted version of John Logan. Just him. It was obvious in the way he moved on the ice. In the way his entire face lit up after a goal, a assist. In the pure, almost boyish excitement he could never quite hide after a win.
Whatever insecurities he carried, whatever demons he kept locked behind that easy smile, they disappeared the second he stepped onto the rink.
And maybe that was why Y/N enjoyed watching him play so much. Because for a few hours, she got to see the real version of him. The one who wasn't pretending to be anything at all.
As if sensing her staring, he glanced over.
"Careful, Graham," he said, pointing lazily at her with someone else's beer. "Keep looking at me like that and I'm gonna start thinking you're impressed."
Y/N snorted.
"It’s easier for me to walk barefoot through this kitchen.” she said sarcastically “You scored three goals and somehow became even more arrogant."
Logan grinned. Actually grinned. Like he'd been waiting for her to bring it up. And suddenly he looked pleased. Not because of the game. Because she'd noticed.
"So... you saw that?" He said, trying and failing to sound casual. The question slipped out before he could stop it.
Y/N stared at him and blinked.
"Logan."
"What?"
"My brother was playing."
Logan immediately regretted it. His smile melted instantly.
Of course she saw it. Her brother was the fucking captain of the team. Why the hell had he gotten excited in the first place? She watches practically every game. Like she'd been sitting in those stands watching him.
Idiot.
The stupid little spark in his chest fizzled out instantly. There it is, reality. He should've known better.
"Right," he said, taking a sip of his beer. "Yeah sure."
But then Y/N tilted her head slightly.
"and," she added, "you played really well."
Logan looked up surprised.
"What?"
"You did." She shrugged. "Three goals is kind of incredible, Johnny !"
For a second, he just stared at her.
Y/N fought the urge to smile but tried to hold it, keeping the cool girl character. Then break the character and finally smiled, when she saw his face light up again the exact moment the compliment landed.
He play it cool and was able to recover quickly.
"Well," he said, suddenly looking far too pleased with himself, "I am kind of incredible."
Y/N laughed and flipped him "Fuck off. I'm never complimenting you again"
Logan chuckled softly under his breath too. Too softly and naturally. Her friends exchanged looks and Y/N changed the subject.
“Where’s Garrett?” she asked.
“Somewhere upstairs with Hannah”
“Sounds right.”
As if summoned by the mention of his name, Garrett suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs.
He spotted Y/N instantly. Then spotted the freshmen girls behind her.
“Well,” Y/N sighed. “Speaking of the devil”
Garrett pointed directly at Logan before even reaching the bottom step.
“You.”
Logan blinked innocently. “Me?”
“Don’t try anything” throwing back to the conversation they had days ago in his room.
Y/N laughed innocently.
And Logan… Logan just grinned slowly like Garrett’s threats had become background noise years ago. Before he could say anything to defend himself Y/N spoke.
“Relax, Johnny wasn’t flirting with them…” Y/N said innocently. Then she paused. “…yet.”
Dean chuckled somewhere behind them while Garrett looked one second away from developing a stress-induced migraine. Y/N ignored all three of them.
“Anyways,” she continued, turning toward the girls beside her, “come meet my brother since apparently he’s, like, a celebrity or something.”
“Oh my God,” Chloe whispered, panicking instantly.
Garrett groaned. “Y/N—”
Too late. Y/N grabbed his wrist and physically pulled him forward into the circle of freshmen girls despite his resistance.
“This is Garrett Graham,” she announced dramatically, like some kind of sports commentator. “Team captain, future NHL star, and unfortunately for you girls, very much taken, so let’s all be respectful and keep your crushes to yourselves.”
Garrett deadpanned. “I’m leaving.”
“No you’re not.” she held his arm keeping him in place.
Her friends looked fascinated. Which happened a lot around Garrett.
He had that effect naturally. Big presence, sharp stare, the kind of confidence that made people straighten unconsciously when he walked into a room.
Y/N, didn’t see him like that at all. Mostly because she’d spent her entire childhood bullying him.
“Hi,” one girl squeaked nervously.
Garrett softened almost immediately. Not by much, maybe two percent, but for him that was practically warmth. The girls standing behind Y/N didn't look like the kind of people she usually spent time with. If he were being honest, he wasn't even convinced most of them were real friends. They seemed far more interested in the house and the hockey players than in Y/N herself. But he knew that she was trying to branch out beyond the skating world, trying to fit in with normal college girls for once, and Garrett wasn't about to make it harder for her.
So he slipped easily into the role they were all expecting: Briar's captain, friendly, polite, approachable. If making a good impression helped Y/N feel a little more comfortable, then he could play the part for a few minutes. Besides, it was nice seeing her with people outside the rink for a change. "Hey," he said politely.
Y/N looked smug. “See? He’s house trained.”
“Shut up”
Behind them, Logan watched the entire interaction with amusement tugging at his mouth. His eyes stayed on Y/N a second longer than necessary as she laughed again, and as she walked around introducing her friends to different guys on the hockey team, head tipping slightly toward her friends, arguing with Garrett about something stupid.
Most people looked at Y/N and saw confidence. The loud laugh, the quick comebacks, the way she could walk into a room full of strangers and somehow end up talking to all of them within ten minutes. She moved through their house like she lived there, stealing drinks, insulting people affectionately, making herself comfortable wherever she went.
But Logan had always thought there was something a little misleading about that version of her. Not because it wasn't real. Y/N was genuinely funny and talkative and ridiculously easy to like. The thing was, people assumed that meant she was easy to get to know. She wasn't.
Growing up with their dad she had, she'd learned early how to smile through discomfort, how to hide pain behind politeness, how to make difficult things look effortless. Figure skating had only reinforced it. Years of performing had taught her how to stay graceful when she was exhausted, how to make every movement look intentional, how to let people see exactly what she wanted them to see.
It was almost funny, really. For someone who was such a social butterfly, Y/N kept her world surprisingly small. Most friendships drifted in and out of her life without ever getting particularly deep. The people she truly let in could be counted on one hand: Garrett, the boys, Hannah and Allie. That was it. And whenever anyone pointed it out, she'd just shrug and insist she already had everything she needed.
And she meant it.
For them everything with Y/N felt easy. And Logan still hadn’t realized yet that maybe that was his problem. And why it was so hard to push whatever weird thought was going through his head away.
Y/N was halfway through introducing another girl to one of the denfesemen when a girl appeared beside Logan near the couch.
“Congratulations on the game” she said with an already flirty undertone, leaning against the side of the couch beside him.
He ignored her for some seconds. Eyes still clued toward Y/N across the room. She was laughing at something Garrett said, one hand gripping his forearm while he looked deeply unimpressed by her existence.
Then the girl said “So... you’re Johnny?”
That made him finally look back at the girl beside him. He reconized the girl as one of Y/N’s friends. Pretty. Blonde. Smiling at him.
“…don’t call me that.” he said quite rude without even noticing.
She blinked. “What?”
“Johnny.” He took another sip of beer. “Don’t call me that”
The girl laughed awkwardly. “Oh. Sorry. Y/N talks about you guys all the time, so I guess it stuck.”
That made something strange settle low in his chest. Y/N talks about you guys all the time. Not just Garrett. But also not just him. But them.
And really, why wouldn't she talk about them?
Y/N spent so much time at their house that half her college memories probably happened within these walls. Movie nights, team dinners, study sessions, late-night food runs, stupid inside jokes that somehow never died.
Somewhere along the way, she'd stopped being Garrett's little sister who occasionally stopped by and simply become part of the group.
Logan wasn't sure any of them had even noticed when it happened and hadn’t really thought about it. But apparently Y/N had. And apparently it was an important subject for her.
“You don’t like it, huh?” the girl teased lightly.
Logan was lost in his thoughts and realized a second too late she was still talking to him.
“What?”
“The nickname,” she said. “You hate it that much?”
“No,” he answered automatically. Then quieter: “Just sounds weird from other people.”
Because he didn’t hate it. Not really. He complained every time Y/N called him Johnny, but half the time he was just pretending. When she said it, it sounded natural. When someone else did, it felt like they were using something that wasn’t theirs.
Her smile shifted slightly then, like she finally noticed he wasn’t really paying attention to her.
His attention kept drifting back across the room. Y/N had moved closer to Garrett again, still talking animatedly with her hands while her friends listened. Garrett pretended to look annoyed, but Logan knew him well enough to catch the tiny things underneath it.
The way Garrett stayed turned toward her automatically in crowded rooms. The way his eyes tracked her without thinking. The way Y/N leaned into him casually because somewhere deep down she’d never doubted he’d be there.
Protective. Constant. Safe
It made him think.
Maybe because ever since Garrett had finally told them the truth last year, Logan hadn't been able to completely stop wondering about it. Not about Garrett, about Y/N.
Garrett's stories had always revolved around bruises, shouting matches, slammed doors, and a father who seemed determined to turn every room he entered into a battlefield. Logan knew enough to understand why Garrett carried some of the things he did. Knew enough to understand where the anger came from. But Y/N had always been the missing piece of that story.
He'd never asked her. It wasn't his business. Garrett had trusted them with his memories, and Logan wasn't about to start digging for details that hadn't been offered. Still, he couldn't help wondering where Y/N fit into all of it. Where she'd been during those years. What she'd seen. What she'd heard through bedroom walls. How much of it she remembered, and how much of it Garrett had managed to shield her from.
Because sometimes Logan looked at her and saw someone who seemed completely untouched by that kind of childhood, bright, confident, quick to laugh. Then other times, he'd catch small things that made him think the opposite. The way she avoided conflict she couldn't joke her way through. The way she brushed off things that should probably bother her more. The way she seemed determined to carry every problem by herself rather than ask for help.
Like somewhere along the way she'd learned the same lesson Garrett had. Just in a different form. Hide the damage. Keep smiling. Make sure nobody notices.
Garrett had spent most of his life protecting Y/N. Which made this… Whatever this weird thing inside Logan’s chest was… feel worse somehow. It felt wrong in a way he couldn’t fully explain. Because standing here watching them, it was impossible not to see how much trust existed there. How much love.
And Logan was suddenly terrifyingly aware that he was looking at Garrett’s little sister too long again.
The girl beside him tried one last time anyway.
“So,” she smiled, letting her fingers brush lightly against his arm, “are all hockey players this antisocial or just you?”
Normally, Logan would've flirted back without thinking. Easy smile. Easy charm. Easy conversation. The girl was pretty. She was standing right next to him, clearly interested, practically handing him an opening. Usually, that would've been enough.
Instead, he barely reacted.
Because his attention kept drifting across the room.
Y/N was near the middle of the living room now, laughing as Hannah wrapped an arm around her shoulders. A second later, the two girls grabbed Garrett from opposite sides and started trying to drag him toward whatever disaster counted as dancing tonight.
Garrett immediately looked annoyed. Or at least he tried to. His mouth was already twitching before they even managed to pull him away from the wall, the corner of it betraying him as Hannah laughed and Y/N nearly doubled over from her own success.
The idiot was enjoying himself.
Logan felt a soft smile tug at his mouth before he could stop it.
The girl beside him followed his gaze.
Watched Y/N and Hannah continue harassing Garrett while he complained the entire time, letting them pull him farther into the crowd anyway.
Then she looked back at Logan. And suddenly went very quiet. “Oh,” she said.
For the first time all night, Logan actually looked at her and he realized exactly what she'd been seeing.
Understanding flashed across the girl's face almost instantly. Then came sympathy. Which was somehow worse. The girl looked back at Logan and laughed softly.
Logan frowned. "What?"
"Nothing," she said, still smiling. Then her eyes flicked toward Y/N again.
Before Logan could come up with a response, she shook her head, amusement replacing whatever disappointment she'd felt.
"Good luck with that… Logan." she said sarcastically and he noticed she avoided the nickname.
"With what?" he asked immediately.
But she was already backing away into the crowd.
"You'll figure it out."
And then she was gone.
No teasing. No accusations. No chance for him to explain that she had the wrong idea.
Logan stared into his beer for a moment.
Good luck with that, hockey boy.
Good luck whit what exactly?
He almost rolled his eyes. The girl didn’t even know them and had spoken like she’d uncovered some life-changing secret after one small interaction.
Please.
She didn’t know what she was talking about.
Y/N was just… Y/N.
Of course he looked at her. Half his friends were currently orbiting around her. Garrett was over there. Hannah too. Dean had practically appointed himself her personal bodyguard for the night.
Anybody would be looking in that direction. The girl had just misread the situation.
Completely.
Logan took another sip of beer.
Then, without thinking, looked across the room at Y/N again.
———————
The party kept moving around.
Music louder now. More bodies packed into the house. The heat unbearable from too many people dancing too close together.
And somewhere in the middle of it all that, Y/N.
She’d abandoned her jacket hours ago, now down to a cropped Briar U shirt and jeans, hair messy from dancing while Hannah and Allie screamed lyrics around her. Her "friends" were nowhere to be seen anymore, and honestly she felt way better around Hannah and Allie anyways.
She looked happy. Not polite-smiling happy. Not teasing-the-boys happy. Actually happy.
Free in a way Logan didn’t think he’d ever really noticed before. And maybe it was because this place felt safe to her. Their house, Garrett and the boys. She moved through the crowd without hesitation, laughing freely, accepting drinks from Tucker without checking them first, throwing her head back when her friends dragged her into another terrible dance circle.
Comfortable. Because she trusted that nothing bad would happen here. And that somebody would take care of her if it did.
Logan watched her spin badly with Hannah and Allie to some early 2000s song while Dean nearly fell over beside her and Tucker recorded the whole thing laughing.
A smile tugged at Logan’s mouth despite himself.
Logan huffed quietly into his beer and leaned back further into the couch cushions.
Conversation started around him, hockey schedules, classes, some argument about playoffs, but it all blurred together after a while.
Because every few minutes his eyes found her again.
Y/N stealing somebody’s drink. Y/N laughing so hard she doubled over. Y/N dancing terribly on purpose just to make everyone laugh harder. Every glance lasted a little too long. Every time he looked away, his attention drifted right back. He never noticed her like that before. And the more he noticed it the worse it felt.
Because Garrett trusted him.
Hell, Y/N trusted him. She was not only her best friend’s sister, she was his friend too.
She walked into this house without thinking twice. Safe enough to steal their drinks, fall asleep on their couches, and trust that nobody would ever see more of it.
The thought settled heavily in Logan's chest.
Because he'd always hated when people said men and women couldn't just be friends. Hated the idea that every friendship secretly came with an expiration date, that eventually one person always wanted more. And yet, watching Y/N laugh her way through the crowd, made Logan feel like an asshole.
Because as far as she knew, he just another one of the boys.
Then suddenly—
“Jooooohnny.”
A body dropped onto the couch beside him hard enough to make him jolt slightly. Followed by Garrett, Tucker, Dean, Hannah and Allie walking in the living room.
Y/N grinned at him lazily, very obviously drunk.
Her cheeks were flushed pink from dancing, her eyes bright and unfocused as she made a grab for the beer in his hand.
Logan dodged easily.
Drunk Y/N had terrible reflexes.
“People’s princess,” Dean said sitting on the armchair. “Finally tired of entertaining your subjects”
Y/N pointed at him dramatically. “It’s just a break… I’ll be right back”
“You spilled vodka on my shoes twenty minutes ago.”
“And yet you forgave me because I’m cute.”
“No,” Garrett muttered, appearing behind the couch suddenly. “he forgave you because you’re five seconds from falling over.”
Y/N gasped softly. “I’m not even that bad”
She leaned further into Logan’s side as she said it, completely unbothered. Logan went still instantly.
“Hi,” she said suddenly, squinting up at him. “Why do you look depressed?”
“I’m literally just sitting here.”
“Yeah,” she nodded seriously. “But, like… depressing.”
The boys chuckled
Y/N ignored tem completely and kept staring at Logan with drunken concentration like she was genuinely trying to solve a puzzle.
Then she narrowed her eyes.
“…you’re boooring. You just scored 3 goals in a important game, and spend the night sitting on this couch… you are no fun”
Logan looked down at her and suddenly realized just how close she was.
Close enough to see her melted make up and the faint glitter still stubbornly clinging near the corners of her eyes. Close enough to smell alcohol mixed with her perfume. Close enough that if she leaned even a little more—
Y/N blinked up at him slowly with heavy, sleepy eyes, still waiting for an answer to whatever nonsense accusation she’d just made. Completely unaware of the effect she was having on him. His throat tightened. Logan swallowed hard before he caught himself.
Then immediately leaned back, giving her shoulder a light shove.
“Shut up,” he muttered with a nervous chuckle. “You are dead-ass drunk.”
Y/N gasped dramatically like he’d deeply insulted her.
“I’m not drunk.”
“You almost walked into my lamp ten minutes ago.” Tucker accused
“The lamp moved.” she said dramaticlly
Dean nodded solemnly from the floor. “Honestly? I saw it too.”
“Thank you.”
Garrett looked exhausted. “I’m surrounded by idiots.”
Y/N ignored him entirely and stole Logan’s beer again before he could stop her.
“Hey—”
“You share,” she informed him.
“You’ve had, like, four drinks already.” he took his beer back
“And?” She tilted her head lazily against the couch cushion. “I want to have five" she pouted
And suddenly Logan felt hyperaware again of the fact that she was practically folded against his side.
This felt dangerously wrong. Not because she was doing anything inappropriate. Y/N was just being Y/N. Comfortable, loud, affectionate when drunk, the problem was that she didn’t know the effect this suddenly had on him.
“You are,” she insisted, poking his ribs weakly. “You are all weird and quiet.”
Logan nearly choked on his beer. “No, I’m not.”
Y/N chuckled again, soft and tired this time, until she suddenly dropped her head onto Logan’s shoulder like gravity simply gave up on her. Everything in Logan’s body locked instantly.
Y/N was already half asleep.
“She’s done,” Tucker announced from the other couch.
“No shit,” Garrett muttered.
Y/N made a small annoyed sound without lifting her head. “I’m literally awake.”
“Congratulations,” Logan said dryly, staring very hard at the opposite wall instead of the warm weight resting against him. “Do you want a medal?”
“…yes. the golden one, in the olympics” she said sleepy
Tucker lost it laughing. Honestly, that was probably a sign he was drunker than he should’ve been, because it wasn’t even that funny.
And Logan smiled despite himself. Which was exactly the problem.
“Damn it,” Garrett muttered.
Logan glanced up.
Across the living room, Hannah and Allie were fully passed out on the opposite couch, tangled together next to Tucker.
And Dean suddenly disappeared , probably with the brunette he was hooking up with twenty minutes ago.
Garrett took a long breath and pinched the bridge of his nose like the entire party was personally attacking him. “This is why I hate throwing parties,” he muttered. “Everybody has fun, then somehow the house is destroyed, the beer's gone, and we're the ones cleaning up tomorrow.”
"That's leardship Gare" Y/N mumbled
Garrett ignored her and continued “And don't even get me started on freshmen who discover alcohol for the first time and immediately forget how to function.”
“Love you too,” Y/N mumbled sleepily against Logan's shoulder.
Garrett pointed at her immediately.
“You are exactly who I'm talking about."
“No, I'm not.” She cracked one eye open. “I'm your favorite.”
“You're currently drooling on Logan."
Logan nearly inhaled his beer wrong. Y/N lifted her head just enough to look offended "Liar ! I don't drool."
Then she dropped right back onto his shoulder anyway.
Logan was painfully aware of: Y/N curled into his side. His arm resting along the back of the couch behind her. The fact that he hadn’t moved away once.
Garrett sighed heavily.
“Hey,” he said finally, looking directly at Logan. “I gotta take Hannah and Allie home before it gets too late”
Logan blinked once.
“And?”
“And Dean disappeared.” Garrett jerked his head toward Tucker. “Tucker’s drunk off his ass.” Then finally: "So do you mind taking care of Y/N?”
The room seemed to go strangely quiet for a second. Garrett trusted him. And Logan felt like the world’s worst person suddenly. Because Garrett asked the question so easily.
No suspicion. No hesitation.
“Yeah,” Logan answered automatically, voice rougher than intended. “Course.”
Garrett nodded once like that settled it completely.
“Just make sure she drinks water before she passes out.”
Y/N lifted one finger into the air dramatically without opening her eyes. “Hydration is important for high performance athletes.”
“You had vodka mixed with an energy drink.”
“Balance.”
Garrett rolled his eyes and chuckled lightly shaking his head. Then he moved toward the couch, crouching briefly in front of Y/N.
“Hey,” he said quieter this time. “I’m taking Hannah back to campus.”
Y/N blinked slowly at him. “Kay.”
“You staying here tonight?”
She nodded immediately, not even thinking about it. “Mhm.”
“Okay.” Garrett brushed messy hair back from her forehead automatically. “Lock the upstairs bathroom door this time if you shower in the morning.”
Y/N looked offended. “That happened one time.”
Garrett laughed under his breath despite himself, kissed her forehead before standing again. Then he looked toward Logan one last time.
“Text me if she gets worse.”
Logan nodded once.
And just like that, Garrett handed over the most important person in his life without a second thought.
“I’m not even that drunk,” Y/N complained immediately after Garrett disappeared toward the front door with Hannah and Allie barely conscious behind him. “I don’t need a babysitter”
Her words blended together just enough to completely destroy her argument. Logan looked down at her incredulously.
“You can barely keep your eyes open.”
“I’m just relaxing.”
“You called the lamp hostile earlier.”
“Because it was.”
Y/N rolled her eyes dramatically before letting herself fall backward against Logan’s shoulder again with absolutely no concern for personal space.
“He’s so dramatic, I swear,” she mumbled. “Like, oh no, Y/N had fun at a party, somebody alert the authorities.”
Logan huffed out a laugh despite himself.
“G is just protective.”
Y/N groaned instantly. “He’s insane.”
“He worries"
“Too much.” she added.
She shifted again until she was practically folded into Logan’s side, one leg thrown lazily across the couch cushion beside him. Logan was trying very hard not to think about the fact that her face was tucked against his neck now. He swallowed once and stared straight ahead at the crowded living room like it personally offended him.
Y/N snorted softly against Logan’s shoulder, clearly amused. Then she tilted her head up suddenly to squint at him.
“You smell nice.” Everything in Logan’s body stopped functioning for a full second. Y/N blinked slowly, still completely serious. “Like laundry detergent,” she informed him.
Logan dragged a hand down his face. “You are never drinking again.”
Y/N smiled sleepily then, small and lazy and entirely too comfortable against him. Her fingers absentmindedly curled into the sleeve of Logan’s hoodie like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And maybe for her, it was. That was the problem. Because for Y/N, this probably meant nothing. She wouldn’t even remember.
Meanwhile Logan was sitting there hyperaware of every point where she touched him while guilt slowly ate through his bloodstream.
Tucker noticed. Of course he did. His drunk eyes narrowed slowly between the two of them. Logan looked up noticing Tucker's eyes on them and stomach dropped immediately.
“I’m gonna take her upstairs,” Logan announced to nobody in particular.
Mostly because he desperately needed to get out of this couch before Tucker’s drunk ass accidentally developed observational skills.
Y/N barely protested when Logan stood and took her hand, helping her up from the couch carefully. The second she got to her feet, she swayed slightly. He reached out quickly and steadied her.
“Wow,” she said, sounding genuinely impressed. “So quick.”
Logan laughed. “You're a figure skater. You're supposed to have better balance than this.”
Y/N squinted at him. “I can skate backward.”
“You can't walk forward.”
“Details.”
She stumbled toward the stairs with all the confidence of someone who absolutely should not be walking unassisted. Logan followed automatically, one hand hovering near her elbow just in case.
Halfway to the staircase, she faltered. Not from the alcohol this time. A small wince crossed her face before she could hide it, her hand briefly brushing her knee. Logan noticed immediately.
"You okay?" he rushed to her side "Something hurts?"
"Nothing."
"That wasn't a nothing face."
"My knee's being dramatic." she said as if it was nothing.
"You mean injured?"
"I mean dramatic."
Y/N blinked at him. Then shrugged.
"Yeah. Probably danced too much."
"You dance for an hour and injure yourself?"
"I skate for six hours and injure myself," she corrected.
Logan narrowed his eyes.
She ignored him. Then she looked up at the staircase. And stopped completely. A look of deep suspicion settled on her face. "There's more of them than before." brushing the subject.
Logan stared. "The stairs?"
"Yeah... and they are moving."
"They are literally the same stairs."
Y/N squinted harder. "and multiplying."
"Jesus Christ."
Before she could attempt climbing again and accidentally throw herself backward down the staircase, Logan exhaled sharply and bent slightly to lift her instead.
One arm under her knees. The other around her back. Easy and effortless.
Y/N let out a startled laugh immediately as he picked her up bridal style. Her head tipped backward dramatically while her arms looped loosely around his neck for balance.
Logan rolled his eyes as he started upstairs carefully “You’re impossible.”
“No,” Y/N sighed dreamily. “I’m amazing”
Logan laughed quietly under his breath before he could stop himself. Y/N looked up at him then, smile softer now, eyes heavy and unfocused in the dim hallway lighting.
And God. That was dangerous. Very dangerous.
Then suddenly she spoke again.
“Did you know,” Y/N slurred thoughtfully, “I quit pairs when I was little?”
Logan looked down at her. “Yeah?”
He wasn’t really paying attention anymore, just giving her enough responses to keep up with whatever drunk train of thought she was currently riding. Most of her words had blended together into background noise by now.
She nodded against his shoulder.
“Uh-hu. My partners could never lift me properly.”
Y/N just kept going. “I hated pairs, honestly. Being thrown around, being caught, trusting somebody not to drop you.” She wrinkled her nose. “None of my partners were ever very good at it. I hit my head a lot. Then she laughed softly. “One of them told me I was too heavy.”
The hallway suddenly felt very quiet. Logan stopped walking.
“What? Does Garrett know about this?”
The look of horror on her face was immediate. “Oh my God, no. He would murder a second grader.”
Logan considered that for a second. “Maybe he should have.”
Y/N blinked up at him. “We were like seven.”
“I don't care.” The answer came so fast it almost surprised him.
A smile tugged at her mouth. “He was seven too, Johnny.”
“Then he was a seven-year-old asshole.”
That actually made her laugh.
Y/N yawned and rested her head against his shoulder again.
“Besides,” she mumbled sleepily, “it worked out. I was always better on my own anyway.”
Logan looked down at her for a moment. He had a feeling she wasn’t talking just about skating anymore. The worst part was that she sounded like she believed it.
Logan tightened his jaw and started walking again. "Sounds like your partners sucked."
Y/N laughed softly. "Most of them did."
"They had one job. To catch you."
She laughed softly. "That's not technically how pairs works."
"Maybe not." He glanced down at her. "Still. If somebody's trusting you enough to throw themselves into the air, you don't get to screw that up."
The words settled between them. For a second, Y/N just stared at him.
Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the way he said it. But suddenly it didn't feel like they were talking about skating anymore too.
There was something strangely earnest in his voice. Something simple and solid. Like he genuinely couldn't understand how anyone could be trusted with something precious and then choose to let it fall.
A sleepy smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“That's a very nice thing to say, Johnny."
Logan huffed a quiet laugh. Y/N kept looking at him for another second, studying him like she'd discovered something unexpected.
Then her smile widened.
"You would've been a great partner."
Logan snorted. "I'm pretty sure figure skating requires grace and coordination. I'd be kicked out on day one."
That made her laugh. And he smiled to himself proud of it "Probably” Her gaze dropped to his arm where it was holding her effortlessly. "But at least I would've known you were gonna catch me."
The words were casual. The effect they had on him wasn't.
As she said them, her fingers tightened absentmindedly around his bicep where her arm rested. Logan nearly missed a step. Y/N blinked down at her own hand, then squeezed experimentally once more.
"...wow."
Oh no.
"I never realized how fit you were," she mumbled, squeezing again as if this were a perfectly normal thing to do. "This is insane."
"Y/N." he warned
"What?" she asked innocently, looking up at him while continuing her completely unscientific investigation.
"Jesus Christ." he groaned
She laughed softly, still completely unaware of the fact that she was actively shortening his lifespan. Or maybe she knew… Drunk Y/N was difficult to read.
Logan tightened his grip under her knees slightly and pushed Garrett’s bedroom door open with his shoulder. The room was dark except for the lamp near the desk.
Y/N immediately sighed dramatically once they entered. “Oooh my kingdom.”
“It’s your brother’s room.” he said unpatient.
Logan walked toward the bed carefully while Y/N kept talking nonsense against his shoulder.
“You hockey boys are weirdly muscular,” she informed him seriously. “Like… is concerning.”
“You are never drinking vodka again.”
“Okay but” she poked his chest weakly “your arms are ridiculous.”
Logan exhaled sharply through his nose. This was torture. Actual torture. Because Y/N sounded completely casual about it. Meanwhile Logan’s brain was actively trying to kill him. His body was betraying him. He lowered her carefully onto Garrett’s bed, expecting her to let go.
She didn’t.
Her arms stayed looped lazily around his neck while she looked up at him from the mattress with heavy eyes.
Too close. Again. Logan swallowed hard.
“Alright,” he said roughly. “You gotta let go now.”
Y/N frowned slightly like she genuinely needed a second to process the request.
Then finally “Oh. Sorry” she chuckled and slowly, she loosened her arms.
But instead of fully letting go, her hand caught the collar of his shirt lightly before he could pull away.
Logan froze instantly. Y/N squinted at him with sleepy concentration.
“You’re pretty,” she informed him very seriously.
Logan actually choked a little on air. Grabbing her hand on his shirt and pulling it away “Okay,” he said quickly. “Goodnight.”
Y/N started laughing again as he immediately tried stepping backward out of reach.
“Relax, Johnny,” she teased softly, falling sideways into Garrett’s pillows. “You look scared.”
Scared wasn’t exactly the word for it. Terrified felt more accurate. As he organized the pillows on the bed for her to sleep in. Y/N looked like she considered something for a moment before finally speak.
“So did you?”
Logan, halfway through pulling the blanket over her, looked up in confusion.
“I did what?”
Y/N shifted onto her back dramatically, squinting at him with a teasing little smile.
“Hook up with Chloe.”
Logan blinked once honestly confused “…who?”
“My friend,” Y/N clarified with an exaggerated eye roll. He still looked confused so she added “The blonde one.”
“Oh.”
“She wanted to hook up with you,” Y/N continued casually. “Has been talking about it all week.”
Logan snorted softly despite himself. Y/N looked deeply unimpressed. “Really annoying, by the way.” She threw herself harder into Garrett’s pillows like the entire situation personally offended her. “Acting like you guys are celebrities or something,” she muttered. “It’s stupid.”
Logan crossed his arms lightly, leaning against Garrett’s desk now and looking at her smirking.
“You literally introduced your brother like he was royalty downstairs.”
“That was ironic.”
“Sure.”
Y/N ignored him.
“She kept begging me to introduce you guys,” she continued. “I told her I wouldn’t, but then she was like, ‘I’ll just talk to him myself.’”
Her voice changed mockingly on the last sentence. Logan laughed quietly under his breath. Then Y/N looked back at him again.
“So?” she asked. “Did you?”
There was something oddly focused about the question despite how drunk she was. Curious and genuine watching him carefully.
Logan shrugged once. “No.”
Y/N blinked. “No?”
“No.”
“…why not?”
The question came too fast. Like she asked before thinking about it. Logan noticed immediately. Y/N noticed too, judging by the way her expression shifted slightly afterward. But instead of backing off, she doubled down.
“She’s pretty,” she said defensively. “Like... a lot”
“Never said she wasn’t.”
“She literally spent two hours fixing her hair before coming here.”
“Really? Didn't notice” he said crossing his arms.
Y/N narrowed her eyes at him from the bed. “You flirt with everyone.”
“That’s not true.”
“Johnny,” she deadpanned. “I’ve seen you flirt with the library lady.”
Logan laughed. Actually laughed. And Y/N hated for one brief second how good he looked doing it. Drunk thoughts. Dangerous territory.
“She wasn’t really my type,” Logan said finally. Find a reasonable explanation.
Y/N tilted her head slightly against the pillow.
“And what exactly is your type?”
You are
The room got quieter somehow. Suddenly Logan could hear every small sound in Garrett’s room: the muffled conversations dowstairs through the walls, Y/N’s breathing, his own heartbeat being deeply unhelpful.
Because Y/N was looking at him now. Really looking at him. Drunk curious eyes soft in the low light. Logan forced himself to shrug casually.
“Don’t know,” he lied.
Y/N hummed sleepily like she didn’t believe him for a second. Then, after a pause:
“Yeah... maybe blondies not your thing.”
Logan’s breath caught so subtly he almost thought he imagined it himself. Y/N, meanwhile, was already sinking deeper into the pillows, eyes half closed again. Completely unaware of the damage she was causing.
Logan walked away and stayed still near the doorway for a second, hand already on the light switch.
Y/N’s breathing had evened out. Her eyes were closed. And for one dangerously peaceful moment, he thought she’d finally fallen asleep.
Good. Because he needed distance. Cold water. Maybe psychological intervention. He reached for the switch.
Then—
“Don’t leave, please.”
The words were so quiet he almost didn’t hear them. Logan turned immediately. Y/N was still curled into Garrett’s blankets, eyes barely open now, voice rough with exhaustion and alcohol. But the teasing was gone.
“I don’t like being alone like this,” she admitted softly.
Something in Logan’s chest tightened painfully. Because suddenly she didn’t sound drunk anymore. She sounded vulnerable. Young. And underneath the sleepiness and slurred words, there was something deeper there too. Something sad enough that Logan felt it instantly without fully understanding why.
Y/N shifted slightly against the pillow, blinking toward the dark hallway behind him.
“Where’s Gare?” she asked quietly. Not Garrett. Gare. Like small. Childlike. Old habit.
Logan leaned against the doorframe slowly. “He took Hannah back to campus, remember?”
Y/N frowned weakly. “Oh.” she said in relization.
Silence stretched for a second. Then quieter:
“He always stays.”
And there it was. That deeper thing again. Logan knew enough about Y/N and Garrett’s childhood to understand what she wasn’t saying out loud. Garrett always stayed because growing up, somebody had to.
Somebody had to stand between her and the yelling and slammed doors and bruises Garrett pretended nobody noticed. Somebody had to make sure she felt safe. And apparently even now, drunk and exhausted, part of Y/N still searched for her brother first when she felt vulnerable.
Logan’s throat tightened unexpectedly.
“Hey... it's okay. I can stay.” he said softly before he could stop himself.
Y/N looked at him sleepily. Logan hesitated only half a second longer before walking back toward the bed. The mattress dipped slightly as he sat carefully on the edge beside her.
Y/N relaxed almost immediately. Like his presence alone settled something anxious inside her. That should not have affected him as much as it did.
“You gonna stay?” she asked quietly.
Logan looked down at her for a long moment. Then sighed softly through his nose.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”
Y/N’s eyes closed again almost instantly after that. Trusting him without hesitation.
And Logan sat there in Garrett Graham’s room beside the girl he absolutely should not be thinking about this way, while guilt and something dangerously close to tenderness twisted together inside his chest.
an: i got a little carried away with this chapter and somehow it ended up way longer than i planned 😭 i really hope you enjoyed it! let me know what you think, i love reading your comments and ideas, also... should i make a taglist? if you'd like to be added, let me know! this fic somehow turned into an 18-chapter monster in my drafts (and it's still growing, which is honestly concerning). meanwhile i'm tagging: @archxve @mcueveryday
new chapters every thursday ♡
Summary: Somehow you find yourself co-parenting with the biggest manwhore in all of Briar U.
⋆˚࿔ tina's note 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ welcome to the series that will hopefully become something! taglist is open!
College Baby masterlist
Hockey house - Thursday afternoon.
"Yo, whoever flushed the blue package baby wipes when they clearly say do not flush next time you're the one's unclogging the toilet" Logan wipes his sweat covered forehead with his forearm and points at his two teammates sitting in the living room "And where the hell is Dean?"
"Seb emergency" Garrett answers without looking up from his textbook "Apparently he lost his ducky and wouldn't stop crying"
"I will never get over you saying the word ducky" Tucker snickers.
"Dude, you've been singing the itsy bitsy spider for days" Garrett shoots back.
"She's a ver determined spider" The curly haired guy almost looks offended at the quip.
"I'll take the itsy bitsy spider over baby shark any day" Logan's putting his toolbox away in the cabinet under the sink when he notices the bright yellow plush he's all too familiar with "Hey I found ducky!" He lifts it up with a triumphant smile.
The baby's cries are loud against his ear when he calls Dean "Fuck you want?" The clearly stressed dad answers the phone, in the background Logan can hear you yelling at him for swearing in front of the baby.
"Now, that's no way to talk to your savior" Logan frowns.
"I stopped going to church when I was 12" Dean snaps back "But maybe I need to take this kid in for an exorcism"
"Stop talking about our son like that!" You complain, probably taking the crying baby out of his arms because Logan notices the cries are more distant now.
"Anyways, I found ducky" Logan says.
"I fucking love you" The blonde sounds so relieved, already moving to get his car keys "Seriously, this weekend, drinks on me and you get first dibs"
When you, Dean and Seb show up at the house a little while later you look like you've been in combat for weeks. Both your hair desheveled, your clothes crumpled and faces flushed and if it wasn't for the milk stain on your shirt and the crying child in Dean's arms, your friends would be sure that you had been fooling around in Dean's car before walking in.
"Hey bud" Logan regards the squirming kid belting his little heart out "Look what your favorite uncle found for you"
"You're not the favorite shithead" Garrett says from the couch.
"Neither are you" Tucker adds.
Sebastian stops crying when he notices the yellow duck plushie in Logan's hands, instead of loud wails he just hiccups with big wet blue eyes as he's handed the stuffed animal.
"I would so get mad at you for cursing in front of him but I'm too tired for that" You tell Garrett already on your way upstairs to Dean's room, probably for a well deserved nap.
"Here" Dean plops the now calm child into Tuckers lap ignoring the laptop he was working on "You're the least likely to let him die" And walks away "He's due for a feeding in like an hour"
"So when do you think mom and dad will realize they're soulmates?" Logan asks the sleepy baby over the couch.
Malone's - Saturday morning.
"You know, you could always just bring him in with you" Della offers, you're going over your new job as a waitress.
"That won't be necessary" You tell her "He's going to the campus daycare and Dean's looking after him when he's free, but thank you so much"
"Of course hon, just know the option is there if you ever need it. As long as you do your job I have no problem with the little dude joining you" She sends a smile your way and walks away leaving you at the counter with your breakfast.
"Here you go, sorry for the wait" Hannah, who you've learned you're going to be sharing many shifts with places a glass of orange juice in front of you.
"Thanks" You say back.
The bell on top of the door dings and you hear the rowdy hockey players that have become your baby's family and therefore your family walk in.
"Hey mama" Dean plops down next to you, Seb strapped into that ridiculously expensive baby carrier he insisted on buying "What are you doing here so early?" He steals your glass of juice and drinks it whole in one big gulp, you give him an annoyed look.
"I was coordinating everything with Della" He looks confused "The job? As a waitress? I told you about it last night when I dropped Seb off?"
"I was half dead by the time you dropped by" He admits "I woke up at 4 am for the roadie and didn't get to nap at all in the bus, sorry" He then waves Hannah over "Can I get the big daddy breakfast with extra sausages and another orange juice please? Oh and a coffee, one cream two sugars"
"You got it" Hannah mumbles.
Dean turns back to you at the same time as he grabs Seb's hands that are outstretching towards the napkins in front of you "Anyways, why the hell are you getting a job?"
"Because I have things to pay?" You deadpan "I also have a meeting with the financial advisor in 40 minutes, the school agreed to let me hold onto my scholarship but even then, the rest of the money is still a little too much and I don't want to drain all my savings like that so… job" You motion to the place.
"Thanks" He tells Hannah when she places the three big plates, orange juice and coffee cup in front of him "Why didn't you tell me you needed money?"
"Because I don't need money from you" You shrug "Don't worry, Seb's getting all he needs, this is just for my stuff"
"You know I've gotchu whatever you need" He says, your mom reflexes save his breakfast from Sebastian's curious hands smashing into it.
"Thanks but I'm good" He doesn't like this, but he knows he's not going to win the argument so he just hums already planning how he's going to increment the money he sends you for Sebastian in a way that you won't instantly notice "Hand him over so you can eat before he faceplants into the eggs"
Your apartment - Monday night
"So I was thinking" Dean starts, he's on the floor doing tummy time with Sebastian.
"Oh no"
"Shut up" He shakes his head "I was thinking, if we make it to the frozen four this year, this little guy will be old enough to come see daddy play"
You make a face "I don't know"
"Oh come on, we can get him those huge earmuffs and get the puck bunnies to bodyguard" See, the thing about the puck bunnies is you shouldn't like them, but you can't help it. Sure, they are known for sleeping with the hockey players, but if you really think about it, they have a type and a limited dating pool in the school but they really don't harm anyone and they are nice once you get to know you. Oh and they love your kid because he is Dean's kid so really, you have no problem with them.
"How about this" You sit next to him with a yogurt cup that will most likely be stolen from your hands in just a few seconds "If you make it to the finals and the trip is not too long we'll make it"
"Great, going to order the ear muffs now" You know he's being truthful because he's already pulling up Amazon on his phone, the season is barely halfway through.
The Hockey House - Tuesday afternoon
"Dean if you don't pick your shit up I will throw it away" Tucker's yelling up the stairs when you walk into the house with Seb in your arms "Oh hey guys!"
"Hey Tuck" You give him a tired smile, at only six months old, Seb's decided that sleep is no longer something he's interested in.
"You look like you're about two seconds from collapsing" He frowns taking both the baby and baby bag from you.
"Feel like it too, he's decided he's allergic to sleeping more than 20 minutes at a time" You drop onto the couch with a sigh.
"I can watch him for a bit if you wanna nap" You throw up a thumbs up, your eyes already closed "Okay bud, today you're learning how to make a peach cobbler"
A while later you wake up to find Tuck cleaning the kitchen whit the baby strapped into his chest while humming a country song you don't recognize, the surprising thing? Seb's totally asleep, mouth open, little snores, drooling all over Tucker's chest asleep.
"Holy shit" You whisper making your way to the kitchen "You are magical Tuck"
"Huh?" He looks confused, then notices your gaze on the baby "Oh! He's been asleep for a while, I was explaining how to pick the perfect peaches to him and he just conked out" He shrugs as if it's nothing.
"John Tucker I think I might be in love with you" Of course that's the moment your baby's father decides to walk into the room, furrowed brows in annoyance at your words because although you two are not together he's not sure how he feels about you saying those words to one of his best friends.
"What the fuc-" He doesn't get to finish his sentence though because you practically throw yourself into him to cover his mouth, he catches you by your waist pressing you flush against him, frown still present in his face.
"Shut up" You whisper shout at him "I've been trying to get him to sleep for forever and he wouldn't settle now look at him"
Econ 201 - Wednesday morning
"Dude I have a problem" Dean's sitting next to his new friend, Beau, in class.
"You have a lot of those" Beau keeps taking notes of the board "It's the reason you're a hockey player"
"This is serious" Dean insists.
"What level of serious?"
"Camille tried sexting me last night and I didn't text back" Beau's pen basically drops from his hand and suddenly he's not into class at all becuase his buddy needs serious help if this problem is stopping him from sexting Camille freaking Green back.
"You have my undivided attention" The brunette says, his whole body turned to the blonde.
When your name comes out of Dean's mouth Beau gasps, yes, this is very clearly a serious problem if you're involved.
"Yesterday she told Tuck she was in love with him" Beau's eyes go impossibly wide at Dean's words "And it's been bugging me ever since"
"No bro like that's totally valid" Beau nods "If my baby mama said she was in love with my best friend I would go crazy too. So what happened next?"
"She told me to shut up because the baby was sleeping" Dean continues with his story "And then the other guys got home and we had dinner and then she left so we didn't get to talk but-"
"Gentlemen" The professor called, the class eerily quiet around them, all their classmates staring at the two "Anything to share with the class?"
Malone's - Wednesday night
"So" Garret plops down next to Tucker in the booth, throwing his arm around him "How's it feel to be a step dad?"
"Fuck you talking 'bout?" Tucker asks confused.
"It's all everyone on campus is talking about, John Tucker, the dad that stepped up" Logan says teasingly sitting on the other side of the booth, Tucker's still confused.
"Word on the street is that you'r dating Dean's baby mama" Garrett finally explains making the curly haired guy choke on his water.
"Where the hell is that coming from?" He asks "Wait, is that why everyone's been giving me weird looks?"
Dean arrives then with Beau by his side, the quarterback dapping him up before joining his own teammates leaving Dean to find his roommates.
"Why do you two look like you've pulled the prank of the year?" He asks Logan and Garrett who can't help but to cackle.
"Hey Tuck, I can give you a baby of your own if you want" A girl walking by winks at the Texan who gives his friends a mortified look.
Dean gives the table a questioning look "Apparently someone's been saying Tuck's dating your baby mama and has become" Garret starts, Logan joins with a big smile and at the same time they both say "The dad that stepped up"
"Wait… what?"
"Dean!" You barrell towards their table "What the hell did you do?"
"I didn't do anything" The blonde raises his hands.
"Then why is the whole campus thinking I'm in love with Tuck?" That's when it dawns on Dean.
"Beau you motherfucker!" The named looks up with confusion and then fear when he sees you by his friend's side "I'm going to break both your legs!"
A/N: i haven’t written in such a hot minute, this may be actual garbage. will probably be a part 2, based on the olivia rodrigo song i love to cry to. typos are probable, i’m trying lol.
summary: in which you are in love with your best friend, John Logan. but he’s got feelings for Hannah, your competition in the pop showcase. feelings may arise.
pairing: john logan x bestfriend!reader
wc: ~1.7k
tw: angsty, feelings of doubt, discussions of insecurity
Part 2 Part 3
—————
You were incredibly, 100% without a doubt, obvious to everyone but him, in love with your best friend John Logan.
Problem was, your best friend, John Logan, was 100% without a doubt, obvious to everyone including yourself, in love with someone else.
Your friend from class, Hannah.
And you’re competing against her in the pop showcase for a scholarship you both really, really needed.
You couldn’t even blame Logan, not really. Every time you looked at Hannah, you saw everything that in your mind you weren’t. Flaws and insecurities came to the surface and picked at the front of your mind until your conscious echoed the harshest criticisms. Things you could never say about someone else, but so frequently iterated inside your own mind. You couldn’t help but draw comparisons to her.
She’s prettier.
More talented.
Smarter.
Kinder.
She seemed to float on air, her energy absolutely magnetic.
Who wouldn’t be drawn to her?
Hell, you could be in love with her from the way he talked about her. His eyes lit up every time he saw her, lingering every time she crossed his path until she was out of sight. When Logan saw Hannah he stood straighter, he was easygoing, he was being a gentleman every chance he got all while hoping she would notice him just once.
Hannah couldn’t harm a fly but she could probably make friends with a fence post. She was everything you weren’t. And you were abundantly aware of it every day.
Today was no exception.
You were sat across from Logan at Malone’s in the afternoon, eating loose fries and trying to come up with a song for the showcase. Trying and failing to get Logan’s attention or opinion.
“I just don’t know that I like this melody, it doesn’t feel like it has anywhere to go until the bridge.”
“Yeah, no for sure.”
Logan wasn’t paying attention. You looked up, eyes darting to your oblivious best friend and his googly eyes that never saw you. Your gaze softened, heart in vice grip as you realized what—or rather who—had caught his attention.
He was staring at Hannah, whose section you were seated in.
You remained silent for a few moments, collecting your thoughts and trying to rein in your emotions as you desperately attempted to swallow the lump that threatened to stop your ability to breathe completely.
Inhaling deeply, you focus on Logan’s hands sitting on the table in front of you to try and refocus before the storm brewing beneath the surface took over. You had memorized every freckle and scar, every callus from the years of playing hockey, and how he had a nervous habit of biting his nails when he was extremely stressed, something he was extraordinarily good at hiding. It was one of the only tells you had to when things were really starting to weigh him down and that he was moments away from going ghost mode until he figured his shit out. He was tapping his thumb on the table top, a soft rhythm thumping away, pulling you back into the moment and out of your reverie.
“Earth to Logan, hello,” you said, waving a hand in front of his eyes.
“Sorry, what?” Logan’s eyes shot back to you, looking at you for the first time since you had sat down in the booth.
“You didn’t listen to a word I said in the last 15 minutes did you?” you asked.
“I was listening, I promise,” Logan argued back.
“You were drooling, more like,” you teased. The smile you hoped was convincing didn’t quite meet your eyes.
“Y/N,” Logan drew out your name as he winced at being caught in the moment.
“Logan.”
“To be fair, it took you 15 minutes to notice I wasn’t listening,” Logan joked, laughing airily as he threw his hands up in mock-surrender.
“You’re such an ass, John Logan” you tossed a fry at his face, forcing a laugh.
“No I’m kidding, I was listening. I promise I was.”
You tilted your head towards him to ask, “Really?”
“Well, mostly,” he smiled sheepishly.
You rolled your eyes and lowered your gaze to stare at the pages on the table filled with scratched out lyrics and ideas for different chord progressions, rhythmically tapping your pencil to match Logan’s beat from earlier.
“You’re stressed about your song, you don’t like the melody. You can’t decide how full of a production to make it or at what point is too much too much, and you wrote the last lyrics of the song but now you feel like you have to back track to the beginning because you don’t like any of the original lyrics you wrote a few days ago.”
You leaned back against the booth, cool vinyl pressing into your skin as warmth crawled up the back of your neck.
“Wow, so he can listen while he gawks. Who knew a man could be capable of multitasking like that,” you tease, a genuine laugh escaping despite the pangs you feel in your heart every time Logan steals a glance back at the counter.
It was Logan’s turn to throw a fry at your face, laughing lightly with a lopsided grin.
“I listen to you, dork. But I don’t know how much help I could be to you unfortunately.”
“That’s okay, I’ll make something work. I didn’t expect you to have the answer to all my problems.”
Logan went silent again for a brief moment, glancing back at the counter and contemplating his next thoughts. He was tapping his thumb along to your pencil, pausing as suddenly an idea sprang into his mind.
“Hey why don’t you ask Hannah, she’s doing the showcase too right? Maybe she can help you and give you some ideas,” Logan suggested, his eyes flickering to you.
Right. There it was.
Hannah, Hannah, Hannah.
Everything she was, everything you weren’t.
His grand idea felt like a stab to the heart and an echo of the evil voice inside your conscious. A reminder of how you felt about yourself, and how Logan felt about Hannah.
Silence passed between you and Logan, for one beat. Then two.
“I’m not sure how that would go over, asking her to help me compete against her,” you drew out your words slowly, trying not to dwell on the underlying feelings.
Logan was quiet for a minute, and then he nodded as he considered your words.
“Fair enough, I suppose that’s true. I look forward to hearing your song though, once you figure it out,” Logan said.
You put your best smile on, albeit a small one.
“I’ll do my best,” you offered limply.
“That’s my girl.”
Your heart involuntarily fluttered.
My girl, he had said.
If only.
Logan stood up abruptly from the table, “Hey, I gotta get going. I’ve got practice so I’ll text you later. We good for our movie night Friday?” Logan hovered nearby as he asked.
“Of course, I’ll see you then,”
“Great, see you later.”
Logan was gone before you could say your farewell, you stared at his retreating figure as he paused at the counter and talked to Hannah. He was smiling at something she said, eyes crinkling as she giggled in return.
It felt as though someone had carved the heart out of your chest, stomped on it, and tossed it around the ice like a hockey puck.
Logan’s specialty, you supposed.
You looked down at your notes as corners of your vision blurred with tears threatening to escape. You had been best friends with Logan since your freshman year at Briar University. You sat next to each other in your English Literature general elective class and became fast friends as you poked fun at that professor’s drawling monologues about Shakespearean love and tragedies. Rather ironic, you couldn’t help but think, looking back at the memories now.
A voice interrupted your daydreaming.
“Hey, were you still doing okay or did you need anything?”
Hannah was staring at you now, her question hanging over as you startled out of your reminiscing.
“Yeah sorry, I was spacing out for a second. I’m all good, Hannah. Thanks for checking. How much was the bill?” You asked, reaching to grab your wallet from your bag.
“Oh no worries, Logan paid already at the counter. You’re all good,” Hannah said with her usual radiant smile.
“Ugh he did? Damn, it was my turn to pay,” you groaned.
“He’s really sweet, you guys would be pretty cute together,” Hannah winked at you, letting out a small giggle.
The grip around your heart squeezed impossibly tighter.
“I’m just saying, Y/N. You’re so stunning and smart, you could pull any guy. You’re a total catch! Besides, I think he’s a little bit into you,” Hannah wiggled her eyebrows at you.
She meant well, you knew she did. But Hannah’s compliments feel more like bullets pointed at your deepest hurt.
“Yeah, I don’t see that happening,” you couldn’t help but scoff.
You were trying to be as nonchalant as possible. It did absolutely nothing to help the war happening in your mind and the pain in your heart.
“Well, if you change your mind I will happily stand up as a day one supporter. I gotta go seat a couple people, let me know if you need anything,” Hannah beamed as she fluttered away to the counter.
You could only stare as she floated away, taking in everything about Hannah. You could smell the faint scent of her perfume in her wake, her hair bouncing as she strode along with a twinkle in her eye and an infectious smile that lit up the room.
A literal angel.
Maybe you weren’t what Logan wanted, that you could begrudgingly accept. You never expected him to return your feelings or to hold a candle for you when he was constantly surrounded by the most gorgeous girls to walk around Briar.
And you could see why he liked Hannah.
But that never softened the hurt or the pangs of longing.
You started tapping your pencil again, glancing over at Hannah once more as inspiration slowly crept into your mind, a melody forming for the first time in days. You put your pencil to the paper and began to write. You couldn’t tell Logan how you felt, but maybe you could put your feelings into this song.
Maybe that would be enough.
Maybe that could help tame the hurt.
Maybe.
————
A/N: if this is garbage pls close ur eyes. hope y’all like my late night inspo
Hey I lost a fic and asked Reddit but didn't get any hits.
Ilya is hit at a game similar to the Marleau/Marlow hit. The captain of that team (an OC?) feels terrible and hangs around the hospital to apologize. Shane and Ilya's team take over a family waiting area while they wait for news.
Thanks for all you do!
Hmmm I haven't read anything like this, so I tried searching. Here is what I found below:
they got no idea about me and you
What if Cliff Marlow had hit Ilya in a game against the Ottawa Centaurs and had to deal with the confusion that was his crazy former captain and best friend high on pain meds. At least those meds were hopefully the reason for his craziness. Why else would Rozanov be calling Shane Hollander his sweetheart?
Fallen from Grace
Ilya gets hurt on the ice, and Shane loses it.
it’s brutal out here
in an alternate universe, the 2018 All Star game takes place in Pittsburgh. Ilya gets hurt, and is treated by Dr. Robby
Does this fic sound familiar to anyone else? Please let me know x
Oscar Jack Piastri @oscar-j-pastry81 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
