25. Writer. She/Her. Pisces. Slytherin (in a FUCK that loser jkr way). Directioner. Conrad Fisher Defender. Musician. Mother. Avid fangirl. Just a girl. Perpetually sad. Hurt/no comfort's final boss.
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Summary: Stanford was the dream. Your dream. And that’s exactly what it has become. You have a great life, a good job, three semesters left, and a best friend in the unlikely form of Conrad Fisher. The two of you are still trapped in love with people you can’t have, so when he asks you to spend the summer with him in Cousins while the love of his life marries his brother? The obvious answer is yes. What could you possibly have to lose?
Pairing: Conrad Fisher x Reader
Trope: Fake Dating
Word Count: 9.3k
Masterlist My Masterlist
Moving all the way to California on a whim after getting dumped by your high school boyfriend and deciding at 3 am that you were going to apply to a school across the country wasn’t your smartest decision, you could at least admit that.
Sure, Stanford has always been on your radar. It is for anyone who dreams of going to a big school with a big names list of schools to apply to, but it’s called a dream school for a reason. You had chosen to go to your state school for your bachelor’s, claiming that it was smarter financially, but the real reason being you were stupidly in love with someone who wanted to stay at home and work for his dad.
Which was fine. You were totally fine with going to med school way closer to home if it meant that you could stay in your six year old relationship with Jake because you loved him.
You loved him.
He apparently loved the daughter of his father’s oldest client a little bit more because practically the minute you stepped off the stage, he was clearing out your apartment with some dragged out bullshit excuse about how he never got to find himself after high school and that the two of you needed to branch out to see if you were really meant to be together.
Two weeks later, he’s hard launching his new girlfriend on a boat off the coast of Florida still wearing the watch you bought him while you were crying over his favorite song coming up on your shuffled playlist.
You had sent out the application fifteen minutes later.
Nearly three years later and about $60,000 in the hole, you could admit to yourself that the decision had been a little irrational. Do you regret it?
Absolutely not.
You have great grades. An internship that actually interests you. A new apartment that doesn’t smell like stale cigarettes or make strange noises when you step on certain spots on the floor. Two roommates who always paid their rent on time, cleaned up after themselves, and were actually non-creepy enough that you have slowly devolved into a trio of sorts.
Agnes had been in your original shared apartment when you had moved out to California, answering a random flyer for a request for a fourth roommate. The apartment was cheap enough that you could afford it, but you quickly found out that your luck had run out after that.
The other roommates were messy. Like leaving pizza boxes out, random bottles all over the floor, toothpaste in the sink messy. The kind of mess that you weren’t quite sure how they hadn’t attracted any bugs in your stay. Lexi always paid her portion of the rent four days late at the earliest. Simon had his girlfriend and his girlfriend’s best friend over way too many late nights that you wanted to sue whoever thought the headphones you had shoved over your ears were actually noise cancelling.
It was a nightmare.
An actual living, breathing nightmare that you couldn’t wait to wake up from.
So, when Agnes told you she was moving out and her and her new roommate were looking for a third, you decided right then and there you didn’t care what organ you needed to sell on the black market, you were getting the hell out of that apartment.
Luckily for you, the rent came out to just about the same as what you were paying (the perks of moving in with two adults who have good credit and actual jobs) and you no longer had to deal with the constant thumping against your bedroom wall at hours of the night you aren’t sure have actually been invented yet.
Enter Conrad Fisher, somehow your knight in shining armor before the two of you had officially even met. A role that you quickly learned he had practically been born to play throughout the twisted tales of him and his brother being in love with the same girl.
Two kids with dead moms in love with someone who you both knew wasn’t going to love you back. What could make for a better recipe for best friends?
While Agnes was insistent upon nights out and trying to drag you two out of what she had deemed the apartment was “Yearnville: Population Two”, both of you were perfectly content with just trading stories at the bar or bickering about movies while Agnes was passed out in the cab between you.
Being friends with Conrad was incredibly easy.
So easy that you hadn’t even realized how close the two of you had become until you were on the verge of tears because you had a nasty customer at the store you worked at and the second you stepped out of the building, his phone was already ringing.
You couldn’t remember a single person that you knew you could call after any minor inconvenience to make you feel better. Even Jake, who despite his best attempts never could figure out what the right thing to do was when you were crying.
And somehow, you can’t remember a time where Conrad’s phone has even rung more than three times before his voice comes through on the other line with an offer to go to some museum or watch some dumb movie.
The two of you were so entwined with each other that you can finally understand why in movies people make such a big deal about their best friend moving away or getting a new job. You’re not sure how you survived in your life without someone being in your corner simply because it’s you asking.
You swear you could tell by the way he breathes how he is feeling, and you know he feels the exact same way. Judging by the way a bag of Goldfish crackers shows up on your bed before every exam you take or how he learned how to make a terrible lasagna after your ex-boyfriend had commented under your latest Instagram post, you’re not sure anyone has ever truly understood you without you even having to say a word like he does.
So, when you unlock the door after the most ridiculous French class of your life, ready to launch into a ridiculous story of how some guy had accidentally asked if he could lick a toilet seat to find him standing by the kitchen island flipping a piece of paper in his hand, you know immediately that something is undeniably wrong.
There’s no way for you to make out what the paper says before you close in the distance, fingers digging into the front pocket of your bag as you slide into the stool across from where he stands and place a shiny penny heads up on the tile.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
He offers you a smile, one that doesn’t quite reach the corners of his eyes as he reaches out his finger and taps the coin on the counter, silently telling you to keep it. The first time he had done it, you had received your yearly Christmas card from Jake’s mom, telling you how much she missed you.
The two of you have been passing back and forth the same line ever since.
The paper isn’t really a piece of paper, but thicker. More like what your dad had sent your graduation announcements on in high school or-
The envelope on the counter has his name in smooth, cursive writing with a heavy blue wax seal embedded on the back. There are like five stamps in the corner, one of them a bald eagle and the others differing American symbols after the first stamp, which houses a picture of pretty blue flowers in the corner.
Like someone had been trying to send out an aesthetic card before they realized how heavy their envelope truly was.
When Conrad had returned after his mom’s memorial, he had told you that Jeremiah had proposed to Belly. Everyone, including yourself if you’re being honest, had warned them that it was a really bad idea. A horrible idea, considering they were barely adults and one of them was under threat of having to repeat their senior year, but who were you to judge? You hardly knew them apart from the stories Conrad had told you.
Both of you had thought that with everyone being so against the wedding, the two of them would reconsider. That if they realized nobody thought it was a good idea, they would sit back and ask themselves why.
Instead, it’s been two weeks and the girl who your best friend has been in love with for nearly his entire life has sent him a wedding invitation.
It had been hard enough to convince him to go back for the memorial. You couldn’t blame him for not wanting to return to the place where he had seemingly lost everything.
His mom.
His brother.
His girl.
Since you had moved out to California, you had gone back home once for your dad’s Christmas party before both of you decided that he would just have to come visit you for the holidays instead. Walking through the same town where everyone knew you as the other half of someone else wasn’t exactly easy when he still lives there.
If there was anyone who understood how hard it was to go home, it was you.
But you also knew how much it would eat him up inside to not be there for the memorial.
It took you weeks to convince him, and he narrowly missed it still trying to convince you that it was the wrong idea. You reminded him that this wasn’t about him. It was about his mom, and this was for her. He could struggle through the ceremony and then hop on a plane the next morning to come home without anything going horrifically wrong.
You hadn’t expected an engagement announcement at dinner because how could you?
He was on a plane back that night, you surprising him at the airport despite him telling you that it was perfectly fine and he would see you in the morning. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t checking his location the entire night, trying to make sure he didn’t just drive his rental car off of a bridge.
You’re not sure how he was even standing up right when he caught your eye. You had been torn up for months after seeing Jake with someone else. Even more so as time went on and you receive the occasional call to check up on you, the delusion in both of your minds heavy as you think this is just you two branching before you come back together.
You couldn’t imagine the love of your life being in love with your sister.
You’d have run your car off a bridge.
He doesn’t look as lost now, the look on his face more confused than hurt as his eyes run over the words for the hundredth time. He’s not going to stop looking at it until he has the whole thing memorized because that’s how his brain works.
He loves to internalize everything until he can’t anymore.
You pluck the paper out of his hand, eyes roaming over the paper now in front of you. It’s not actually a wedding invite, much to your surprise, but something that somehow makes you feel worse.
A formal invitation to be Jeremiah’s best man.
“You don’t have to go.”
You catch his eye again, tossing the invitation down on the counter like it’s just another piece of junk mail being sent to the wrong address. There’s not a doubt in your mind that he would have been conflicted if it had been an invitation sitting in his hand, but this?
A somewhat makeshift olive branch that is seemingly extended just at the right time when it feels like the entire world is against Jeremiah and Belly getting married?
He’s going to think he has to go. You can tell by the look on his face that he is already trying to wrap his mind around venturing back out onto the same beach where that is seemingly set out on breaking his heart in every way imaginable.
“He’s my brother,” He says like you need the reminder, pinching the bridge of his nose to let out a deep breath.
“Literally nobody thinks this is a good idea,” You point out, resting your elbow on the counter so you can rest your chin on your hand. “Like actually nobody. You think you can handle being the entire wedding party and the only guest?”
He drops his head back, rubbing both of his hands over his face before he drops his attention back to you with a look that you know all too well.
As much as this wedding might make him want to die inside, he’s still the older brother.
Being Jeremiah’s brother comes first.
Always.
Even if it means he is the only person standing with them to witness them throwing their lives away at each other, he’s going to do it because that’s his younger brother. The very person that he was put on the planet to look out for.
“Are you honestly going to be able to watch him marry her?”
The words come out as gently as you can possibly make them. You know he doesn’t need the reminder, but you’ve got to give him one anyway because once he has his mind set, there isn’t going to be any changing it.
You can see it flicker over his face, the thought springing back to the front of his mind that this isn’t just a case of his brother running off and marrying his college girlfriend on a whim. This is Jeremiah marrying Belly.
Conrad’s Belly.
The only person he has ever been in love with. The girl he has never been able to get over.
As noble as it may be for him to fly out there to play hero for his brother, he needs to remember that it’s not just Jeremiah who will be saying ‘I do’.
You’re not sure you would ever be able to stomach your ex marrying anyone, much less a family member.
“I can’t let them have nobody there,” He replies in a quiet tone. “My mom-”
His face scrunches up for a moment, and you’re damn near positive he’s going to cry. Your heart aches for him because you get it. You know why he feels like he has to do this.
You just wish he didn’t.
“She would be there. I can’t let him do it alone.”
And that’s that. He’s made his decision, so the only thing you can really do is be there for him.
You hop up out of your chair, grabbing the invitation off of the counter and moving around the counter to tack it on the fridge with a magnet. Front and center, like a beacon from a lighthouse that you’re sure is going to blind you for the next week.
“You’re a better brother than me, Connie,” You bump your hip against his as you step back to admire your handiwork. “And it’s black tie? The hits just keep on coming.”
That earns you a chuckle, and judging by the eye roll he gives you, you have successfully dragged him out of mopey boy land and back into reality where the only problem he has until he leaves is the fact that one of his roommates beat him out for an internship and the other definitely plans on making fun of his suit when the pictures inevitably end up on Instagram.
“I don’t know how black tie an outdoor wedding can be in August, but-”
“Okay, if you end up in one of those little kid suits with the shorts and I don’t at the very least get a FaceTime,” You put your finger up in warning. “I will sue you for everything you’re worth, Fisher.”
You have to giggle to yourself at the thought, especially when you watch his face scrunch up as he tries to pick himself in the ensemble that has already captivated your mind.
“Oh my god, you could be the ring bearer!” You exclaim, clapping your hands together like this is your greatest idea of all time. “We could get you one of those little embroidered pillows and you wouldn’t have time to think about anything except how ridiculous you look-”
The rest of the taunt dies in your throat when you look up to find him giving you a strange look, his eyebrows pushed together like he is seeing you for the first time.
Or like the time neither he nor Agnes decided to tell you that you had gotten chia seeds all over your cheek right before a presentation.
You start wiping at your face, glaring at him and muttering how ridiculous they are for never telling you these kinds of things when his fingers reach out and pull your wrist down to your side before letting go.
“You should come with me.”
“Pardon?”
You know what he said. You heard him say it, but for some reason you’re not entirely sure why he would say that. He tried to keep his lives very separate from each other.
He needed to keep them separate.
It was the only way he could actually live his life without having a panic attack every day. He finally had something that was just his. Something that didn’t belong to his dad or his mom. An apartment. Friends. A life.
Going to Cousins means you would actually witness his emotional turmoil rather than having to hear about it afterwards on the phone.
“You should come,” He breathes out like he is scared he won’t be able to get the words out if he takes a moment to think. “To the wedding. To Cousins. I think you being there is the only way I’ll make it out alive.”
You almost want to laugh at the idea, but one look tells you that he is completely serious. This is his worst nightmare coming true, nobody has to tell you that. Every single piece of this is out of his control, and it’s not going to get any better once he is out there in the belly of the beast for lack of better words.
“Okay.”
The answer tumbles out of your mouth without much thought because it’s the easiest one you’ll probably ever give. He’s your best friend. He’s been there through pretty much all of the worst parts of your life since he breezed his way in and he has never really asked for anything in return.
Surely, you can find it in yourself to sit with him through the worst day of his life.
“You don’t have to if-”
“Oh no, my rich friend has invited me to his family beach house in a nice summer town with pretty flowers and I’m sure a huge selection of booze,” You shut him down immediately when you notice he thinks he is forcing you into something you don’t want to do. “Talk about my worst nightmare. Who would ever want to do that? You’re really twisting my arm, Fisher.”
The smile you’ve been fighting for returns to his face, shaking his head like he has ever been able to find himself unamused by your sarcasm. You roll your eyes at him with a wink, leaning back against the counters and crossing your arms.
“When do we leave?”
Even with having three days to pack, you somehow managed to bring only one of your sandals and your laptop charger without the actual laptop itself. That leads to your current situation of wearing Conrad’s flip flops which are too big for you and have you constantly tripping anytime you try to go up or down the stairs in the past 20 hours since you arrived at the house.
You practically break your neck once again as you stumble down the back steps and slam into the door frame, hands reaching out and grabbing the wall before you are kicking the shoes off of your feet with a frustrated yell.
“Okay, I’m over it!” You call out, reaching down and picking the shoes up in your hand. “Where the hell are your keys? I can’t-”
In every single embarrassing moment of your life as far back as you can remember, you have never once wanted the earth to open you up and swallow you whole. Not when you fell walking up the steps of your 8th grade orchestra performance.
Not when you threw up all over both of your friends because you had one too many shots and everything smelled like the broccoli you had with your dinner for two days.
But stepping into the kitchen and watching not one but two heads flying up from the couch in the room next door to realize that not only do you have company, but the company is a) the other owner of this house and b) you currently look like you got in a fight with a raccoon and lost makes you wish that you were suddenly below the terrain never to be seen again.
“I told you you don’t need to wear shoes in the-”
Conrad appears through the other side of the kitchen, amusement evident on his face as he sees you standing there holding the shoes he loaned you in your hand before the look flickers to something else when he notices the panicked look on your face.
He follows your eyes over to the couch where the two intruders you have already been locked in a staredown with are currently scrambling to get up.
“Hey, um-”
“Hi.”
Jeremiah and Belly speak at the same time, awkwardness practically jumping out of their throats as their eyes dart between the two of you. Conrad just gives them a slight nod, pressing his lips together in a look that you aren’t too fond of.
He obviously wasn't planning on them being here until next week. He’s had no time to get his head in the game.
“We didn’t see the car outside, otherwise we-” Jeremiah coughs mid sentence, trying to break up the nervousness in his voice. “I would’ve called. We didn’t know you were coming in this early.”
It’s the same tone you had heard when Conrad had called him from the airport, fresh off the two of you bickering when he had gone behind your back and upped your seat to first class on the notion that someone needed to pay for the pain and suffering you were about to witness, so why not him?
The two of them speak to each other like the other is a monster in their closet. Nervous that one wrong move and the other is going to bite.
“I parked around the side to bring the bags in and everything,” Conrad’s voice trails off, waving his hand toward the point in the yard where he had parked the car yesterday. “I noticed some things in December that needed some work, so I thought we would come out before Dad sent over that same idiot who locked the frog in the pool filter.”
You can’t help but glance at Belly at the reminder of Conrad’s time in town over the holidays. He had texted you freaking out the moment he arrived, terrified that he was somehow going to fuck everything up.
Something had happened over Christmas. Even though he didn’t think so. Or maybe he just didn’t want to, but you see the flicker of remembrance wash across her face at the reminder.
The same can’t be said for the other Fisher, who currently looks like he too wants the earth to swallow him whole.
Interesting.
Silence can only take up the space for so long before it turns into someone thinking way too hard about things they shouldn’t. You watch Jeremiah’s eyes dance between his fiance’s face and his brother’s, a weird look flashing through his eyes that jerks you out of whatever trance you had been in.
Maybe it’s the way the two of them avoid eye contact, both sets of cheeks flushing slightly anytime they get close enough. You almost feel bad for both of them, wanting to offer the girl in front of you a reassuring smile to tell her it’s okay to not be sure of what to do, but you're not here for her right now.
Your concern is getting Conrad back to California in one piece with as little drama or fighting with his brother as possible. Judging by the look his younger brother is giving him, you are already teetering on the edge of an accusation that neither one of them looks like they can fight.
So, you do the first thing that pops into your mind, stepping forward with the flip flops still dangling from your fingers as you wave your hand at the two you haven’t actually met in person yet.
“Sorry for the staring, I just wasn’t expecting to see anyone but this freak down here,” You tell them after giving them your name.
Belly forces a smile at your introduction, the awkwardness of the moment still seeping in at the seams.
“You’re the roommate, right?” Jeremiah asks, motioning his hand in the air like he is trying to grab at the memory of Conrad mentioning you. “The one with the turtle.”
Oh, he is so lucky you love him.
You give your friend a death glare over your shoulder at the mention of Benjamin, the turtle you had thought you were saving from the flea market before he had somehow managed to escape his cage and find himself swimming in your toilet.
You had a hard enough time believing that he had mentioned you to his brother at all, the two of them talking on the rarest of occasions, but this? Oh, you were going to kill him.
All he can do is give you a smile that is almost a grimace, whispering a sorry as he tries to hold down the laugh in his throat at the reminder of you screaming at the top of your lungs because you had just wanted to go pee at 2am but instead found your pet doing laps like he owned the place.
“That would be me,” You reluctantly confirm. “Unfortunately, Benjamin couldn’t make it. Not a huge market for turtle tuxes these days.”
Jeremiah snaps his fingers, sucking his teeth like that’s the worst news he has gotten in his life.
“We could’ve squeezed him in one of Connie’s, I’m sure.” Jeremiah quips back, finally deciding to step around the couch instead of using it as a barrier. “The tie at least.”
You laugh, watching Conrad flex his fingers at his side as he takes a deep breath. The tension isn’t the air isn’t gone, but it is certainly getting way easier for him to breathe. One step at a time.
“That would have unfortunately derailed my plans for tricking your brother into being the ring bearer because hello, cute turtle? Broody dude in a bow tie?” You weigh your hands like a scale, tipping them heavily in favor of your pet being somehow involved in the wedding. “It’s not even a competition.”
“You’re really coming?”
Belly’s voice snaps all of you out of your plan to turn this from awkward conversation into totally normal banter, the smile in her voice evident as she looks at the brother you had come with.
“You’re coming to the wedding?”
She asks again, voice a million times lighter like a boulder just dropped off her shoulders. There’s a hint of a smile on her face, as if him choosing to come finally makes everything less scary.
You’re sure it does. They’ve gone from no wedding attendants to two in a matter of minutes, and finally there is going to be someone there who is on their side. You can’t blame her for being happy because it’s exactly how you feel every time you find yourself ranting to him about why one of your professors just needs to get laid and stop taking it out on the class.
Having Conrad in your corner is infinitely better than thinking everyone in your life thinks you are just being stupid kids.
As quickly as you start dissolving the tension, it sucks the room back up as Jeremiah, who had been thrilled to see you and his brother just minutes earlier glances over at his fiance with a look that you’re not quite sure how to place.
Jealousy, maybe?
There’s a hopeful look on her face, and his brother is the one who put it there. That can’t be a fun thing to witness.
It’s not particularly fun for you right now, and you don’t have any stakes in the game.
You’re not the only one who notices it either, Conrad’s face shifting from awkward to downright nervous as you watch him try to figure out a way to get that look off of his brother’s face.
“Wouldn’t have dragged my girlfriend across the country for no reason.”
You feel like every ounce of air has been sucked out of the room as the words tumble out of his mouth so quickly you’re not even sure he knows he said them. With one look, you can tell that he hadn’t meant to. That he is two seconds away from taking it back when you watch the tension visibly drop out of his younger brother’s shoulders.
Girlfriend.
Girlfriend.
If you weren’t currently standing in the kitchen of his summer house where his brother plans to marry the girl currently sending him in the stupidest tailspin of his life, you would be giving him the dirtiest look of all time and immediately shooting down the idea that you are in any way, shape, or form romantically linked to anyone with the last name Fisher. You’ve done it enough with Agnes to have plenty of practice.
Except, it looks like the air that has rushed out of your best friend’s chest has found its way to his brother’s because Jeremiah looks- Well, he looks alive.
Like one word somehow ended years of pent up anger and confusion. As if the decades long competition between the two of them over everything under the sun has just been ended with one ten letter word.
If playing girlfriend is what it takes to make these two weeks go on without any brothers giving each other a black eye or poisoning anyone’s food, you can play girlfriend. You’ll be the best damn fake girlfriend the world has ever seen.
What are best friends for after all?
Without missing a beat, you turn back to the two in front of you, offering them the brightest smile you think you have ever created in your life as you watch Belly’s own falter and Jeremiah’s grow.
Girlfriend.
You can do that.
To make matters worse for yourself, you had offered for the younger pair to join you guys for breakfast, graciously offering your “boyfriend’s” wallet up as collateral as a way to get properly introduced to the two of them. In hindsight, it was probably the smartest thing you could’ve done because it meant you got to drag the boy in question upstairs under the guise of getting ready.
That’s how you end up pacing barefoot across the length of Conrad’s bedroom while he lays flopped across his bed, hands pressed to his eyes. You don’t want to yell at him because he’s clenching his jaw like it’s a heartbeat, but he has just made this entire trip so complicated that all you can think to do is scream.
Which you won’t.
Because you’ve got two complete strangers in this house who now think you are in love with the boy you had followed across the country to be here.
For better or for worse.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes out, fingers still pressing into his eyes. “I do stupid shit when I’m stressed and-”
And he was standing in front of the girl he has been pining after practically since he could walk who is marrying his younger brother, who is also not stupid. You were in the same room as Belly and Conrad for not even five minutes and you were practically drowning in the tension in the room.
You know he panics in situations like that. When he feels like there’s no control to be had and he thinks someone else is going to get hurt. That’s how he ended up stepping down and now the two of them are engaged.
It’s not his fault. You’re not mad. You just-
You hate surprises. Always have.
Now, not only are you going to have to figure out how to spin this story, but the most pressing issue you two have in common is bubbling to the surface in an entirely new way.
Both of you have only ever been in love once.
You don’t know how to pretend to be in love with someone else.
With Jake, it was easy. You couldn’t remember a time where the two of you weren’t together before the break up. You think you must have been in love with him your entire life. Before the break up, it was a dream. Literally.
You’ve never really thought of anyone else in the same way, especially not Conrad. The two of you were always so stupidly in love with other people, it managed to bring you two into the same pit of despair and yearning together.
In the time the two of you have spent together, you have heard plenty about his strained relationship with his brother due to their mutual affections for the girl who had smiling at his so brightly in the living room only minutes before you had practically thrown Conrad up the stairs with the best smile you could muster up in return.
The only thing that may actually end up working in your favor is that in all of the stories that you have heard, it has never made any sense to you how Belly came into her choice of Fisher brothers at all.
Maybe it’s because this is the first time you are actually meeting Jeremiah and all you have heard are stories from a biased vantage point. Maybe it’s because you know exactly how the boy in front of you feels about the love of his life, and you selfishly want him to be happy more than anyone else in the world.
Or maybe because you have genuinely never met anyone as giving and overwhelmingly nice as Conrad.
Sure, he’s about as horrible a communicator as you have found yourself to be when it comes to feelings. He tends to make irrational decisions from time to time, hence your impromptu relationship that you have somehow found yourself in. He has just a smidge of both abandonment issues and the tendency to run away when things get a bit too complicated.
But he’s the kindest person you’ve ever met. He loves his brother, so much so that you are quite literally standing in his family beach house because he is going to watch his brother marry Belly. He buys you coffee when he knows you’re stressed. He’s helped you study regardless of how much he has to do himself, organizing your notes even though the two of you are in completely different majors.
He’s a good brother, despite what you’re sure other people may think. You can’t imagine having someone in your family being in love with Jake and deciding that you would bow out. You wouldn’t.
You’ve seen it eat at him over the years, but never once has he tried to uproot Jeremiah’s life in an attempt to make his own better.
You’re sure Jeremiah is great. He must be for the other two people in this house to care about him as much as they do, but you can’t imagine even seeing Jeremiah as an option with Conrad in front of you.
You can’t imagine a planet where someone is a better option than him.
If anything will help in this situation, you’re sure that it must.
“Do I have to wear one of those poofy dresses to declare us as courting or some shit?”
The question has his hand finally moving away from his eyes as he looks up at you, eyebrows pinched together.
”No,” He mumbles in confusion. “Why the fuck would you have to-“
“Then what are we apologizing for, Fisher?” You ask, putting your hands on your hips as you stand against the end of the bed. “I’m getting wined and dined in a million dollar beach house and all I’ve got to do is make goo-goo eyes at a decently attractive soon to be doctor. I think I’m making out pretty good.”
He rolls his eyes at the half-compliment you’ve given him before sitting up, pushing his hair away from his forehead as he lets the awkwardness of the situation leave his body.
Nobody is better at pulling him out of the whirlwind of his mind than you. He’s told you that a million times, but it’s nice to know it still works.
“Who said anything about wining and dining?”
”Oh,” You raise an eyebrow at him. “I will be wined and dined for this. I’m a very high maintenance girl, Connie.”
He laughs, the sound bubbling out of his chest and making the smile on your face grow. The two of you will get through this together. He just needs to know that.
”Somehow, I have trouble believing that.”
Luckily, you had already been staying in his room, not wanting to risk laying in stranger’s beds where they have occupied the space doing who knows what for years. Conrad had slept in his mom’s room, but to the couple downstairs, it would just look like you have been staying together since all of his things are still in this one.
You fling your suitcase open, fingers sifting through and pulling out quite literally everything you own and dropping it into piles on the floor by order of occasion. You had brought your nicest dress for the wedding, about thirty pairs of underwear because a girl can never have too many, and somehow a handful of shirts and only two pairs of shorts.
“I can be negotiable.”
”I’ll give you anything you want,” he says it like he’s joking, but when you glance back over your shoulder, you don’t miss the strange look on his face.
You’re not saving his life, but he certainly thinks so. From just one interaction, you’re not sure how he would have survived out here by himself like this.
“As long as your fake engagement ring skills are better than his, I don’t think you’ll have anything to worry about.”
That one earns you an eye roll and a laugh, which you will take as another victory, dissolving the serious corner you could practically feel the conversation backing into. You’d do anything for him. You haven’t had a large number of friends in your life, but you know a good one when you see it.
He’s the best one you’ve ever had.
Being his fake girlfriend might just end up being the easiest job on the planet.
“I think I could cut down a bottle cap for you,” He offers teasingly, twirling around an invisible ring on his finger like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
”My hero,” You put a dramatic hand over your heart before you are reaching out, pulling him as hard as you can off of the bed and right into the mounds of clothes you have organized on the floor. “Now, help me decide what the hell to wear. What says happily taken, but also available to a richer man?”
He narrows his eyes at you and knocks his shoulder against yours, a laugh erupting out of your chest as you toss a rolled up pair of socks at him.
Was this how you expected your summer to go? No, but you can’t say you are mad about it. You’ve always wanted to see the place that has been in the background of a majority of his stories. The place that holds his best, and probably also his worst, memories.
Seeing Conrad happy is exactly how you want to spend your summer, now that you are thinking about it.
At this moment, you’re pretty sure you would drown his brother in the pool if he kept the smile he has on his face for the rest of his life.
Breakfast turned out to be way easier than you had built it up to be in your head on the car ride over.
Besides your feet practically begging to be released from the sneakers you had to throw on because again, your packing skills aren’t always the greatest, you had a surprisingly good time trying to ease Conrad out of his awkwardness and hearing bits and pieces about his past.
As for Belly, well it was quite easy to see what has both of the boys so enraptured. She’s pretty. Smart. Knows when to throw in a joke or hold back if she thinks someone will be embarrassed or upset.
She was also incredibly messy in an endearing way, having whipped cream from her pancakes somehow get on her nose multiple times throughout the meal. The second time, she had gotten incredibly flustered, but you were quick to tell her the same thing happens to you all the time.
It almost felt natural to reach up and pinch Conrad’s cheek in a threatening way when he not only decided it was best to back you up in the statement, but to provide multiple examples of times you have had food, paint, ink, pretty much anything that comes in contact with your hands on your face.
The conversation flowed pretty well, getting better as time went on and everyone began to accept the fact that they are actually in the same room as each other and they weren’t just waiting to wake up from some twistedly awkward nightmare.
Jeremiah, on the other hand, was the only downfall.
Not that you would say he was anything short of nice, obviously raised in the same household as the polite boy sitting at your side, thigh pressed up against your leg under the table as if the two of you being apart would be what ripped the universe apart.
He was charismatic. An obvious flirt, which you had heard quite a bit about in the conversations you had with Conrad throughout the years.
Charming.
You could tell he was playing it up as best he could, the tension easing out of his face when he realized that his brother had not come back to steal his girl. That he had still emerged victorious in the battle over Belly, even though you might entirely be sure how he managed to do it yet.
You had caught the looks Belly kept catching herself giving the older Fisher across the table. You’ve been that girl, all doe eyed and trying to convince yourself that you are so completely over your first love.
While it seemed neither of you had managed to find your way out of that hole, Jeremiah’s focus never even drifted between the two people you had seen him be so worried about at the house.
His focus was on you.
Normally, you would make a comment about it to try to handle it in an amusing way. Laughing it off as you just being a stranger and he hasn’t really been around too many of those anytime he steps foot in Cousins.
But Conrad’s foot keeps tapping against yours, a nervous habit that you barely remember noticing when you guys were home. In any new situation, his foot ends up tapping under the table and only occasionally would end up coming in contact with yours.
The two of you have never really sat this close together before.
Not that you mind. Half of it is your fault actually. You had practically thrown yourself down in the booth next to him, nudging him with your foot to wink at him when you had asked the waitress if she minded taking the peaches out of the side of fruit he had ordered himself because you knew he was going to let it slide.
He’s just sitting next to you, trying to make himself not think too hard about the fact that he is sitting across from Belly and they are joking around like they used to.
Laughing like they used to.
And it’s got to hurt to lose yourself in the scene for a moment, to forget everything that has gone on with a smile only to snap out of the daze because your brother is now holding her hand on top of the table.
So, you don’t really want to draw attention to it at all.
Maybe he’s just trying to psych you out. Or see if he can piece you together without so much as getting to know you.
It’s an odd look. Almost like he’s caught between wanting to ask you your darkest secret and being afraid to actually find out.
You’re not even sure you really have a deep, dark secret, but you are entirely sure that if anyone at this table was going to find out what it was, it would not be Jeremiah Fisher.
At some point, the two of you had begun engaging in somewhat of a staredown, him continuing to seem like he was silently trying to place you in his mind while you refuse to let a man think you are going to be made uncomfortable in any situation.
He looks away first, a swell of victory flooding through your chest as he snaps his head over to his fiance at the sound of her laugh. Neither one of you has been paying attention to the conversation, too engrossed in trying to make the other break first that you had missed what must have been so funny to have Belly covering her laugh with her hand as other diners look around to find the owner of the noise and Conrad has the smallest smile on his face.
Not a big deal to you.
Big deal to Jeremiah it seems.
His eyes flicker between yours and Belly’s, trying to continue whatever weird thing he had been trying to accomplish with you while also figuring out what his brother could have said that was so funny to have her laughing.
Before you can finally ask the younger boy if you’ve done something to make him so insistent on staring at you, the back of Conrad’s hand drops across the top of your thigh. He’s not smiling anymore when you look up at him in question.
He had been so wrapped up in the conversation with Belly that he had only caught the tail end of your weird exchange with his brother, eyebrows pinching together as your eyes met.
Maybe this was the perfect time to say something, but you don’t miss the blush at the tips of his ears as his focus solely turns to you as he tries to figure out what is going on.
You’ve spent about two hours with the couple across from you and the world hasn’t gone up in flames. Neither Fisher has raised their voice, no glasses have spontaneously combusted. From one look at the color in his face and the lightness in his eyes, you’d almost say he looks the happiest you’ve seen him.
As happy as a Conrad in Cousins who isn’t smiling in a photo with his now ex-girlfriend can be.
So, you shrug your shoulders at his questioning gaze, dropping your hand into his open one as if it was an invitation and twisting your fingers together before pulling your freshly joined hands on top of the table like the couple across from you.
If it surprises him at all, nobody seems to be able to tell. His hand flexes between yours before giving it a small squeeze and he is turning back to the table like you’ve just answered his question rather than ignored it completely.
Belly’s eyes only flicker down once, flitting over where his fingers sit in between yours before she is back to smiling at you just as warmly as she had attempted to before.
Jeremiah leans back in his chair, shoulders relaxing as he asks Conrad when the last time he had talked to their father was.
You?
Well, you hadn’t put too much thought into what playing someone’s girlfriend would be like. You had just decided that you were going to play it up for the audience and hopefully get Jeremiah to quit looking at you like you were either his favorite thing on the planet or the thing he hated most in the world.
Thankfully, it worked, but you weren’t expecting that grabbing Conrad’s hand would feel-
Natural.
The two of you had never held hands before, not that you had ever even thought of the possibility. The only hand you had ever held was Jake’s, the ring around his index finger always sitting awkwardly against the bone of your knuckle. The only hand you ever wanted to hold was Jake’s.
So, you’d thought holding someone else’s hand would feel wrong. Not like you were cheating because the two of you were so incredibly over that even the delusional piece of your heart that thought you would get back together when the time was right knew you could do anything under the sun you wanted with anyone.
But wrong because he was supposed to be the person you were made to be with.
You thought your hands were made for holding his, but you’re sitting in this coastal diner with two almost strangers across from you and Conrad Fisher is holding your hand like you two have been doing it for your entire lives and it feels right.
Man, maybe you are losing it.
Or it’s just been too long since you’ve had any sort of romance in your life that you are capable of blurring the lines in your mind for just a second.
That’s all it is.
Just a little blur before you snap back into reality because you are not interested in Conrad Fisher.
”I’ve been meaning to get back to him,” Conrad’s voice drags you out of the slippery slope you had felt yourself sliding down, his foot now finally resting against your own instead of anxiously tapping against it. “I just haven’t really had the time with the internship and everything.”
The internship.
The one he no longer has because of Steven’s accident and how distracted he had become at the hospital. The one he had lost and called you right after with a pinched sound in his voice that you never wanted to hear again.
He had almost cried over losing that internship, but you’d never say that.
His relationship with his dad is complicated, which you can understand. Yours with your own isn’t much better, but there was certainly way more bad blood between the boy sitting next to you and the other half of his genetics than you think one person could possibly take.
It doesn’t shock you that he wouldn’t want to talk to him. You’d even told him on the plane that if you ran into Adam for even a moment, you weren’t sure you would be able to refrain from throwing a chair or screaming at him.
He’d told you that he doubts either of you would be seeing much of the guy since everyone was still highly combative about this entire wedding. Belly’s mom was the one most adamantly against it, but his father was way too upset with Jeremiah to even fathom the idea of showing up to do anything other than berate the boy across from you.
“Well, Jeremiah is actually about to start a job there, so maybe-“ Belly chimes in, squeezing Jeremiah’s hand like this is the best news possible. “Maybe you three could all go to lunch or something.”
Conrad’s hand twitches in yours, the first sign of his anxiety returning at the sight of Belly sitting across from him with that hopeful look in her eyes like him agreeing to go is somehow going to mend the fences that her fiancé has torn down.
He hates disappointing people, especially Belly. His entire life has been about how to fix any problems she could possibly have, which is why the two of you are even out here in the first place.
He’s got a laundry list of issues to fix around the house and a promise to his mother that he would look out for his brother. As of right now, you two are the only anticipated attendees from either family because of how deeply he feels the urge to fix everything.
And while he may feel some kind of unwavering loyalty to the people across the table, yours is completely wrapped up in the owner of the hand you are holding.
”Actually,” You speak before he has the opportunity to, words dying on the tip of his tongue as you tap your foot against his under the table with a smile at the couple in front of you. “I have been promised an extensive tour of Cousins and have been practically begging for him to let me look at that ceiling light in the living room, so we will have to see if there’s any time.”
You watch her shoulders fall just enough for you to practically feel Conrad psyching himself up to agreeing to a lunch that you know just as well as he does will only end badly.
“I can’t really be trusted on a ladder by myself,” You add on with a chuckle. “Super clumsy. Then all your wedding photos will have some random girl in the background in a full body cast, and I don’t think anyone wants to see that.”
That earns you a chuckle from both parties that quickly covers up the sigh of relief that you let out at how easily you switch the topic away from trapping your best friend into what you can only describe as a nightmare scenario for everyone involved.
While the two of them look visibly less tense and amused, Conrad’s mouth is pinched up like something you said left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Or maybe all that grilled chicken has finally gotten to him.
You don’t take time to dwell on it, turning yourself back to the happy couple across from you to eagerly turn the conversation completely away from anything to do with him having to do anything that he shouldn’t have to handle.
“How is the wedding planning going so far?”
Belly’s hands slip out of Jeremiah’s to cover her face with a sigh that you are sure if it sounds more frustrated or tired. You can’t help but feel bad for her, she thinks marrying Jeremiah is supposed to be this great thing and nobody else is on her side.
You can’t imagine trying to plan a wedding without anyone else by your side.
Not that you’ve ever come close, but you can imagine.
”Better than I expected, but we are nowhere near where we should be.”
Summary: Stanford was the dream. Your dream. And that’s exactly what it has become. You have a great life, a good job, three semesters left, and a best friend in the unlikely form of Conrad Fisher. The two of you are still trapped in love with people you can’t have, so when he asks you to spend the summer with him in Cousins while the love of his life marries his brother? The obvious answer is yes. What could you possibly have to lose?
Pairing: Conrad Fisher x Reader
Trope: Fake Dating
Non-canon compliant!! This work has been adjusted for the storyline in my head, so if events are out of order I KNOW AND IT'S OKAY I PROMISE
AN: Happy Wednesday to all those who celebrate! What started as me doing a character randomizer to get me back into my writing groove has very rapidly transformed into far too many words for a one shot...
pairing: college!basketball!captain!rafe x college!student!reader
content: fluff, college au, smau/irl, cursing,
summary: You were trying to make one problem disappear. You were tired, so you lied. That small lie led you to contact the last person you wanted to ask for help. It wasn’t that you didn’t like Rafe; only that you didn’t want to deal with his constant teasing more than you already did. Also, you two weren't that close, but this one lie was going to bring you two closer and maybe help some truths come to light.
word count: 1.9k
authors note: I know it's been a long time, I had writer's block, wrote the first scene and couldn't move past it but FINALLY I made it. Also taglist closed!
16 | 17 | 18
“Kiss me, now.” You demanded in a whisper. Rafe was dumbfounded, but he didn’t waste a second to cup your face. He caught a glimpse of Jordan when he did so, which fueled him even more. He was not only going to kiss you, but that asshole was going to be there for it, and he was going to make it worth it.
The kiss wasn’t soft or cute like it had been back at your house. It was a real kiss, the type of kiss that makes you dizzy and steals the breath from your lungs. He knew what he was doing, and you leaned into it. It felt good. Too good. Your lips parted, and your arms wrapped over his shoulders. He took the invitation of your parted lips and slipped his tongue in, deepening the kiss even more. His hands tightened on your waist at the same time.
You should stop this. The grocery store was no place to be kissing like this. So slowly, even if you truly didn’t want to, you pull away. You break the connection slowly. Rafe follows your lips for a second, and he stops himself when he sees what he is doing. You don’t want to look at him, but you have to. Your faces are still very close. You see how his gaze is locked on your lips; maybe they are red or swollen. You can see his lips are more pink; not sure if it’s from your lipstick or just the kiss. You want to reach out, but everything feels too intimate, so you don’t move.
“Okay…” you finally said in a whisper. He doesn’t answer, and it makes you anxious. “Rafe…?” his name sounded so soft coming from you after all this.
”Hm?” he only hums, like his brain can’t produce any full words.
“I-I think we should…” He takes a deep breath and nods as he steps away from you.
”Pay, yeah,” he nods as he makes his way to the cashier. You followed behind; the last thing on both your minds was Jordan, who had seen everything but left without you noticing.
The ride back to your house is quiet. You are not sure what to say after all that; he paid for everything before you could even protest about it or pay for it yourself.
—
“There you are!” Your mom’s voice resonates in the living room the second you two walk in together. You give her a small smile, trying to act as normal as you could. You were still in a post-kiss daze. Rafe was no better either, but he was used to compartmentalizing when needed.
“I think I want another piece of cake.” You say, moving to the kitchen to keep yourself busy. For once, Rafe didn’t follow. He went to sit next to Kelce, who gave him a questioning look. Then Angie followed you into the kitchen.
“What happened?” She could easily tell something happened.
“Uh…” you stuttered. “I saw Jordan and then rafeandikissed” you said that as quickly as possible.
“What? Wait, what?!” She widened her eyes and grabbed you by your shoulders.
“You heard me.”
“Did I though? What do you mean you saw Jordan, and what do you mean kiss? Like a peck? Like at the store? Wait, why?” She was bombarding you with questions, and you didn’t blame her. You understood where she was coming from because you had already asked yourself a lot more.
“Well, he was there, and last time Jordan contacted me he thought Rafe and I were together, and I never denied it, so… I told Rafe to kiss me,” you explained as you cut yourself another piece of cake.
“Are you insane?”
“I might be.” You might as well be, because you were still not sure how you just let your thought process land on asking Rafe to kiss you.
“This is getting a bit out of…” You don’t let her finish.
“The plan is good. We’re fine. This was just a slip-up, a bump on the road if you will.” She sighed, shaking her head.
“If you say so.”
Tuesday
Halloween
“No way!” The call had ended the second you saw Rafe. Anakin. He was Anakin, and the costume was so detailed and looked so perfectly made that you were half jealous, half impressed.
“What?” he said, smirking. He knew why you were shocked and how coincidental it was that now you two were matching.
“The costume is insane; how long ago did you plan this?” He could’ve answered truthfully, saying a week, but he wasn’t going to put himself on the spot like that.
“You know, just a few weeks”
“A few weeks? This is so…” You trailed off, looking all over the costume. “And we are matching!” you said with a smile, a smile that could turn Rafe into a mush
“Yeah, I guess we are. How cool, huh?”
“I told you last week I wanted to match and you didn’t even tell me about this!”
“Well, you didn’t tell me you were dressing up as Padme,” he said, lifting an eyebrow.
“Oh right, well now we need to take some pictures for sure.”
“Sarah has a camera; let’s go find her.” He motioned for you to come inside the house, trailing behind you. The party was full, a lot of people with the same costumes as every year, others that you couldn’t even decipher, and some others that made you think how you didn’t think of it first. You walked between the people, Rafe saying hi to a lot of them in the process. Meanwhile, you were looking at the details of the house. It looked big enough for at least four or five people to live in; you were guessing it was all guys by the lack of actual home decor that was not sports- or videogame-themed.
“Whose house is this?”
“Some of the guys from the team live here, so they decided to host the party. Or more like we made them. Two of them want Topper and JJ’s jersey number, and they kinda have to win that, so Topper made them host, and JJ made them wear a matching costume with him.” Rafe chuckled. “Why?”
“Just wondering, it’s very… manly”
“You hate it,” he smirked at you.
“I didn’t say that!”
“You are judging real hard right now”
“Just a tiny bit.” You chuckled as you finally made it out to the backyard, where Sarah was setting up a beer pong game with JJ.
After a few rounds of beer pong, in which you lost twice against JJ and a sophomore you didn’t know, it was time to take pictures. Sarah was more than ready with her camera; she was telling everyone how to pose, where to pose, and then she transferred those quickly to her phone so you could all post them as soon as you wanted. She was very efficient; you weren’t sure if it was the excitement of Halloween or the amount of energy drinks mixed with alcohol she had taken, but she was on a roll.
Thankfully, nature, aka the bathroom, was calling your name. This meant a few minutes in peace; you loved Sarah, but she was getting really bossy and loud. You made it inside the house and asked around so someone could point you to the bathroom. After your two minutes of peace, you walked out just to find Rafe reclining on the opposite wall.
“Oh, you’re here. What a coincidence,” He said with a small smirk.
“Second one tonight, actually.” You pointed at him.
“Right, the first one was this.” He pointed at his costume, and you nodded with a smile. “Tired already?”
“Your teammates are very loud drunks,” you chuckled
“Topper and one of the guys are giving them water; it’s all taken care of.” He paused and walked closer to you to then whisper. “Wanna go snoop around the house?”
“We can?” you smirked.
“Well, I’m kinda their captain, so they can’t say no to me,” he shrugged.
“Oh, they can’t?” you said teasingly, moving even a bit closer to him.
“No, it’s kinda like an unspoken rule to always say yes to me.” He teased back, his face leaning in closer to yours. You noticed but didn’t do anything to stop him.
“Is that so? Does that only apply to them?” Rafe noticed that for the first time in all the time he had known you, you were flirting back, and he wasn’t about to let this go to waste.
“Do you want it to apply to you too?” He slowly lifted a hand and placed it on the nape of your neck. You almost shivered at the sudden touch.
“Saying yes to you all the time seems a little bit risky”
“Mh, how so?” He glanced at your lips and then back at your eyes.
“For starters, your ego would get too big. A girl saying yes to you all the time? You’d be insufferable,” you said as you unconsciously leaned in a bit more. He noticed it and let it happen. He had been dying to kiss you again, just like in the supermarket. He just chuckled under his breath.
“But you’d like it, don’t you?”
“In what world would I like that?” you almost laughed.
“In this one, where you are smiling at me like that.” He knew he was pushing his luck, but still he moved his hand up to cup your face and touched the corner of your mouth with his thumb. Your heart skipped a beat when he did so.
In that moment, it fully sank in how close you two actually were. You stared at his face, then, for a second, your eyes moved to his lips, and all the memories of The Kiss came flooding back into your mind. The way he held you, how you didn’t want it to end, and now how much you wanted for that to happen again. He noticed how your eyes went to his lips, and he took it as a silent invitation to lean in a bit more.
“Yo! Rafe, there you are… Oh…” Kelce’s voice broke through, and the two of you almost jumped to opposite sides of the hallway. Rafe cleared his throat.
“Man, hey, what-what do you need?” he fake-coughed.
“We need help moving some of the tables inside; it’s getting too cold.”
“Yeah, okay.” He gave you a last look before going back to the party. Kelce lingered, lifting an eyebrow at you.
“Uh uh, no. Don’t give me that look.” You said as you walked past him.
—
After the party had moved inside, everyone was more cramped, but it still went on. By 11 PM, it started raining, which was weird since it rarely rained in October, but there was always the occasional storm, and with the weather you never really knew. It was enough for you to want to go home. Now you just had to go look for Rafe. You found him talking with Topper in the kitchen.
“Hey,” he said immediately when he saw you. “Wanna go?” It’s like he was reading your mind; you nodded. “See ya’” he told Topper and left the red solo cup on the counter.
“You weren’t drinking, right?”
“Nah, I had a beer at like 8 but didn’t drink more. I knew I had to be sober, plus we have practice tomorrow and can't have a hangover.”
“Right,” you smiled. “Let me go say bye to the girls,” he nodded.
“I’ll go warm the car up.”
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Summary: Heading into college, you were looking to spread your wings. Make some friends. Start a new life. What you aren't going to do? Let a boy run your life ever again. Even if that boy is Steve Harrington.
Word Count: 3k
Pairing: Modern!College!Steve Harrington x Reader
AN: Enjoy!!!!
<<Previous Part Masterlist
The next time you see Billy Hargrove, he’s leaned up against the wall outside of your English class, jacket damp from the rain outside and a look on his face that you can’t quite place. He can’t have been waiting long, but the unsettling part is that he knew exactly which class you walk back to your dorm alone after.
You’re not even fully out the door before he is hot on your tails, following you through your escape route to get away from him. It’s the class you have that is closest to your dorm, literally less than a five minute walk from door to door, but you aren’t going to lead him to where you live.
You might have gotten comfortable in the silence of the weeks that have passed without his interference, but you haven’t gone stupid.
“Had a really fun chat this morning,” Billy's voice sounds anything but enthused as he walks behind you, his hand pushing open the door at the end of the hall at the same time you do.
You tuck your hands into the pockets of your jacket, not even bothering to put your hood up as the rain droplets pour down on the top of your head. If you can’t go home with him following you, you’ll go to the place that never seems to lull in capacity: the cafeteria.
“Good for you.”
He chuckles at your disinterest, not deterred by the rain in the slightest as he continues on after you.
“Apparently someone went to the NCAA,” He continues to press, feet falling in step with yours with practiced ease, “Had enough to say that somehow landed me and my contract under review. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
“No.”
The answer is immediate, your face pinching together slightly as you continue moving. You’re not lying, you haven’t spoken to anybody about Billy. In your experience, trying to go over his head just usually ends up with a headache in yours and you don’t want to further connect yourself with him.
He’s in your past, and you have tried incredibly hard to keep it that way.
“I find that a little hard to believe,” He says, fingers reaching out and spinning you around by the elbow. Your feet stumble a bit at the force, but you don’t put your hands out to catch yourself. “Sounds a little too close to junior year, don’t you think?”
You’d rather have a face full of soaked concrete than to have your hands anywhere on Billy.
“Contrary to whatever you think, Hargrove,” You spit out through clenched teeth, water dropping on your forehead as you tug your elbow out of his hold. “I don’t spend my free time talking about you. Thinking about you. Hell, I hate that I’m even spending this time looking at you.”
He smiles then, gold tooth gleaming even in the murky early afternoon air. It’s not a friendly smile, despite what it may look like to the people passing you on the sidewalk. His curls are spilling all over the place and his jacket is completely soaked, but his eyes tell you everything you need to know.
He’s pissed.
“Really? Cause that seems to be all I spend my time doing,” He retorts. “I’m sure you’d love to hear what everyone else has been hearing.”
There it is again, the irritation in your chest battling with the craving to just go crawl in a hole somewhere and wait for the storm that is Billy Hargrove to blow over. Even now, he can’t help himself but to try to ruin any chance you have of ever having a life without him somehow in it.
You aren’t a kid anymore.
He’s not some monster hiding in your closet, waiting for your mom to shut the door and turn out the light. He’s the person responsible for you not having anything worth missing back home. The person who singlehandedly managed to get you to go to college across the country from everyone you know just for a chance to get away from him.
He’s not going anywhere.
You’ve decided you aren’t either.
“I genuinely don’t care,” You say, turning on your heel to resume the final stretch before you are in the doors of the cafeteria and can have Robin come find you.
His hand connects with your elbow again, pulling you closer this time to face him. You shove at his chest, fingers finally making their way out of your pockets and meeting with the soaked denim of his jacket.
You know it’s the wrong move the second you do it, his grin widening at you making contact with him as if it was all part of some elaborate plan that you had fallen victim to. As if your fingers simply touching him would be enough to erase just how crazy he is and you to fall madly in love with him.
“Got yourself a boyfriend now and all of a sudden you think you get to try to ruin my life?”
The eye roll you give him definitely doesn’t have the effect you were looking for as you take another step further back from him. He just cocks his head to the side, waiting for your inevitable rebuttal of the term because once you do, he will know that whatever game he is playing is still on.
“You’re doing a pretty good job yourself, Billy,” You respond, motioning around your eye in a circle at the spot where the bruise Steve had given him had finally faded away. “Don’t think you need my help.”
His laugh is hollow as you try to ignore the dread forming in your stomach at how completely unaffected he is by anything you have to say. Subtlety is clearly lost on him, but even being straight forward hasn’t proven to be productive either.
It’s the same song and dance, just in a new state, and it’s the saddest thing you’ve ever seen.
“And what is it you think I need, sweetheart?”
His voice is silk, charm dialled all the way up to a ten as he looks at you with the same blue eyes that seem to haunt you no matter where you go. He is enjoying this, having your attention in any way he can, way more than he should. You’re sure if you stabbed him right on this sidewalk, he would take it as a profession of love.
“To mind your own business.”
He lights up at that, smile sickeningly wide as his eyes scan over your face like he is trying to commit it to memory. You’d throw up on his shoes, but you’re not entirely sure he would take it in the way that you are meaning it.
“The sooner you realize everything you do is my business, the easier it will be for the both of us.”
You shake your head at his statement, disbelief settling in your features at just how ridiculous he sounds. He’s never going to leave you alone, you realized that when he stumbled his way out of that party, but why would you further insert yourself into his life?
The lesson has been learned in your book far too long ago that trying to involve anyone else in an attempt to keep Billy away only backfires on you.
Your feet move faster than you remember them being able to, practically flinging yourself in the direction of the building you had been heading to to seek solace. Rain is pounding on your face, or maybe it’s a stray tear at the realization that you have found yourself in the lion’s den once again despite your best efforts.
“You don’t have to go to the NCAA to get my attention,” Billy calls after you as he storms in the building right behind you, door slamming closed with a thud. “There’s only ever been you for me.”
The phone in your hand is heavy as you send out a quick SOS message to your roommate, dropping your location with a swift click before you are shoving it back in your pocket again. Billy steps into your space again, his hand pushing his wet curls away from the sides of his face.
The building is practically empty, too many people deterred by the storm outside to risk running out of their rooms. Hardly anyone had showed up to your class, but your professor had offered extra credit for coming in and you’ve never been one to turn that down.
Obviously that came back to bite you in the ass as you stare up at the boy in front of you.
“As cute as this little Miss Independent act is,” Billy says, waving his hand over in front of you. “It’s starting to get on my nerves, Princess. The sooner you stop living in this little fantasy-”
“The only one of us living in a fantasy is you,” You respond, crossing your arms over your chest. “How many other ways are there for me to say I’m not interested?”
He smiles at that, nose scrunching like you are some cute animal he’s spotted on the side of the road. The more uninterested you try to come off as, he still persists in trying to lay some kind of claim on you.
“Maybe you should try again,” He quips, crossing his arms over his chest and giving his shoulders a shrug. “Try it with a little more feeling this time. Maybe I’ll believe it.”
“You’re pathetic.”
“You’re-”
A loud bang from the front door of the building grabs your attention away from the blonde blocking your path, head snapping to see a soaking wet Eddie Munson charging his way across and beelining right towards you.
“My my,” Billy ticks, sucking his teeth as he steps away from you, a smirk still stamped on his face. “Don’t we have ourselves a nice little roster? Who’s next? I’m sure Mr. Cameraman’s girlfriend doesn’t mind sharing either.”
“Shut up, Billy.”
He doesn’t look shocked at your tone- part of you would even wager that he thinks you are funny- nor does he look put out when Eddie comes to a halt right next to you, a far too nice smile on his face already.
“How’s it going over here, ladies?” Eddie’s voice cuts off the beginning of what you’re sure was about to be some kind of foreplay-esque comment from the blonde in front of you, shoulder bumping yours lightly to silently question if you were alright.
For what little it’s worth, Billy doesn’t react to the slight dig at all. Instead, he just reaches out and drops his hand on Eddie’s shoulder with a tight smile on his face.
“Eddie, right? Millner or-”
“Munson.”
You chime in before he has a chance to correct him, the intrusion bringing that same smirk to Billy’s face as his eyes dance from yours back over to Eddie’s.
“Right,” He corrects himself, squeezing Eddie’s shoulder before dropping his hand back to his side. “You the same one that plays at Q’s? The Saturday night crowd?”
There’s no missing the tone as he says it. He’s doing what he does best, playing some kind of game that nobody else knows they are playing and you don’t like it one bit. As far as you’re concerned, he should stay as far away from Eddie as possible.
A fact that with one quick glance at you out of the side of his eye, you know Billy is more than aware of.
“Every Saturday for almost two years,” Eddie replies simply.
Billy reaches into his back pocket at that, holding up a finger to tell the two of you to wait a moment.
Like either of you was willing to make the first move of retreat.
He flicks his wallet open, rummaging through one of the slots before his fingers pull out a small white card, bent a little around the edges and probably just as old as the wallet is judging by the creases.
“My uncle’s a radio exec out in Tennessee,” Billy starts, charm creeping into his tone the same way it always does when he knows he’s going to get his way.
That’s been his game all along. Even if you’d like to pretend to be surprised, you should’ve known that the second Billy realized he couldn’t beat you out of your friend group or drag you back to California, the very next step would be to get them to join him.
Eddie, who has entered his band in countless contests and sat outside of radio stations all night long to try to get someone to pick up his band. It’s his dream, you know that without a shadow of a doubt, and it’s being offered up to him on a little cardstock platter.
“You should give him a call. He’s always looking for talent.”
It’s a gamble, both you and Billy are aware that this will only work if someone is willing to take the bait. And if you knew for a fact that he was lying, you would tell Eddie.
The smirk directed your way when he catches Eddie glancing over at you tells you everything you need to know.
You’ve heard enough from Max about Billy’s hotshot uncle who is capable of the million dollar dream every artist is looking for. This is everything Eddie has been looking for, and you can’t find it in yourself to tell him to not take it.
As his fingers reach out and pluck the card out of Billy’s hand, you know he’s not stupid enough to turn down a chance like this either. Your silence means that Billy is telling the truth and that with one phone call, he could be on his way to doing what he loves without any worry of having to give up his practical life for it.
“I’d rather get slowly ripped to shreds by piranhas, but thanks.”
The card is promptly ripped in half and flicked into Billy’s face before your brain can even process the words leaving Eddie’s mouth, your stomach dropping at the realization that he just threw a shot at his dreams away.
If the reaction was shocking, Billy doesn’t show it at all. Instead, he just brushes a torn piece of card off of his jacket, offering a smile to Eddie like he hadn’t just tossed trash in his face.
“Your choice, Munson,” Billy says with a curt nod before turning his blue eyes back to you. You hate the way his lips pull up even higher once he makes eye contact with you. “See you around, Princess.”
He’s on his heels and heading towards the door before you even have a chance to roll your eyes at him, instead opting for spinning to the boy next to you.
Eddie’s bent over, picking up the pieces he had tossed at Billy. You don’t miss the way he mumbles under his breath about trash and how some people should be taken out with it, his eyes glaring at the retreating figure before he dumps the scraps in the nearest trash can.
“What the hell did you just do?” You ask him, stepping into his line of sight and pulling his attention away from the front of the building.
“I’m not just going to leave litter-”
“The card, Eddie,” You cut him off, motioning towards the can he dumped the remnants in. “He’s a dick, but his uncle really is a-”
He lets out a sigh, shaking his head at you with an amused look on his face before his fingertips are curling into your shoulders and he’s standing eye level with you now, knees bent so awkwardly you almost want to laugh at how strange the two of you must look.
“Sweetheart, I don’t give a rat’s ass if his uncle is Ozzy himself,” Eddie’s voice is steady as his brown eyes stare right at you. “If the best it ever gets for us is the Q’s crowd, then so be it. I don’t want anything to do with him or his freaky spawns.”
“Eddie, you can’t-”
“Oh, but I did. I don’t just sprint across campus because some jackass is following you to turn around and use his name to get myself somewhere.”
“I sent that text to Robin.”
Eddie shakes his head, letting go of your shoulders and running a hand over his now drying hair, which seems to anger it somehow. Not that his hair isn’t always all over the place, but the rain has made it take a shape of its own.
Which is why going out in the rain would break his biggest personal rule.
Something he would only break if-
You unlock your phone without another word, fingers swiping to open your messages. Sure enough, you had opened the closest message on your screen, thinking that your last message had been to Robin.
Because it was.
You had typed a quick reply to Robin asking if anyone had seen her white Converse, telling her you were pretty sure the last place you saw them was in the common room of the dorms.
The message itself had been in the group chat, which you had sent not only your SOS message to, but also your location.
“I wasn’t trying to tell everyone,” You mutter, rubbing a hand over your face. “I was-”
“You were in trouble,” Eddie interrupts, knowing that you are trying to play everything off like it wasn’t a big deal. Involving everyone isn’t something you are enthusiastic about and they know it. “We got the message.”
We.
You don’t miss the way his eyes flicker over your shoulder, grabbing your attention as your stomach drops at the realization that all of your friends had received the same message. The second you turn around, you know two things.
One, Eddie had just chosen you over a guaranteed record deal in a move of friendship you are struggling to comprehend.
And two, even through the pouring rain, you and everyone else in the building have a perfect view of Steve Harrington body checking Billy and sending him sprawling back on the sidewalk.
Summary — If having a fairytale love story guaranteed a happy ending, then, uh, why are you and Rafe getting a divorce?
Content — angst, drama, marriage in crisis, hurt/comfort, brother's best friend, childhood friends to high school sweethearts to lovers to divorce
NAVIGATION
hea asks –
TABLE OF CONTENT —
Part 01 💍 Part 02 💍 Part 03 💍 Part 04 💍 Part 05
Part 06 💍 Part 07 💍 Part 08 💍 Part 09 💍 Part 10
Part 11 💍 Part 12 💍 Part 13 💍 Part 14 💍 Part 15
Part 16 💍 Part 17 💍 Part 18 💍 Part 19 💍 Part 20
EXTRAS —
💒 reposting a tiktok
IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications! however, if you want to be added to this specific taglist, let me know (but to remain tagged, you must interact with the posts).
I get on this app and just feel a crazy aura and then I see this and I know exactly why....... MY QUEEN HAS RETURNED lemme bow down real quick cause these graphics go CRAZY
Now, how much to get flopper out of here fr??????? because why is he always at the scene of the crime????????????????
Unfortunately, my home suffered from a utility box fire at the end of June, and I am slowly but surely trying to get back into the grove of things after having to abruptly move and leave the home that I have lived in for a majority of my life, but my daughter's only home as well. That being said, I'm sorry if I have missed any comments or anyone's work, I will be logging back in here shortly and hopefully getting some updates or at the very least some love out to my fellow creators and fanfiction enjoyers💙💙
Hey angel! I just wanted to know if Wishful Dreams is on hiatus maybe? No rush if it’s not, I just am in love with it and wanted to know if it’s coming back I miss it a lot (I check everyday like an idiot lol). Again no rush !!! Thank you 💞💞
This is genuinely so sweet! I have the next update about halfway done, but I am currently in the midst of moving so my work has gone a bit to the back burner for a minute... The second I get a chance, that will be the first thing I work on💙💙💙
Had to ask are you writing for Hunter??? I’m literally in a drought here for my mannnn (if you are literally anything you are willing to whip up)
Hi!!!! I don't have anything planned for Hunter at the moment, but he is on my randomizer, so it will be the luck of the draw!
This spreadsheet I made to help me try to branch out is truly so much fun, there is a high probability that I will be using it a lot to try to get my creativity back so keep an eye out!!!!
AN: Welcome to me trying to get out of my funk so I made myself a randomizer with different tropes and characters to make me have to branch out... enjoy???
You weren’t sure when the pretending started to tire you out, but by the end of that second week back home, it all sat in your chest, weighing you down.
Your days blurred into a weirdly perfect rhythm, beach days turning into bonfire nights, Sarah blasting her playlists from the speaker while everyone argued over who got the last s’more, Wheezie rolling her eyes at the whole group as if she were the adult in the room.
You’d laughed until your sides hurt, passed around lukewarm beers, and let the salt water stick to your skin until everything felt easy again.
Rafe was... there.
There had been an enormous amount of shoulder-checking you on the porch, stealing the aux when Sarah wasn’t looking, calling you shortstack in that same teasing drawl.
It felt normal, overwhelmingly, suffocatingly normal, except your skin buzzed like the annoying mosquitoes every time his hand brushed yours while reaching for the same drink, or you’d catch him staring across the fire, those blue eyes making you second-guess everything before he’d look away.
You noticed it now. He'd linger when helping you carry coolers down to the beach, fingers grazing the small of your back. He'd paddle out beside you every morning without saying much, matching your strokes out of habit.
The years of distance had carved that awkward gap between you, but this year, you felt Rafe come back to you. Part of you, the twenty-something girl who’d spent two years overanalyzing every text and building walls out of missed calls, wanted to scream.
You’d kissed him.
Or he'd kissed you.
Under that stupid tree, while missing him. You’d been avoiding being alone with him since the surfing sessions, that being all you could take.
That night, Sarah bailed early with John B for some spontaneous date thing in town—“Don’t wait up, we might crash at his place”—leaving Tannyhill quieter than it had been in weeks.
Wheezie knocked out hours ago in her room, dead to the world despite her attempts at acting like an adult, past midnight, and she was still curled up like she was eight, fairy lights glowing under her door.
Rafe had been out doing whatever Rafe did these days, probably with Kelce and Topper causing minor chaos, so you figured the house was yours. Perfect for wallowing in peace.
You’d changed into an oversized tee and tiny sleep shorts, grabbed a pint of ice cream from the freezer, and curled up on the massive sectional in the living room with the lights dimmed low.
A rom-com felt right, something cheesy and safe to distract from the loop in your head. You picked When Harry Met Sally, the classic you’d watched a million times as a teen.
Although you should've known better.
The dialogue hit different now, mirroring your life too closely. You were so sucked in, spoon halfway to your mouth, eyes glued to the screen that you didn’t hear the front door or the familiar footsteps.
The couch beside you suddenly dipped, a warm body settling into the cushions. You jumped so hard the ice cream spoon flew, your heart nearly falling out of your ass as you whipped around with a scream that died in your throat.
Rafe.
He was fresh from wherever he’d been, wearing a worn button-down over a tee that smelled of bonfire smoke and his cedar cologne. He leaned back casually, one arm stretching along the back of the couch behind you, legs spread.
“What are we watching?” he asked, eyes flicking from the screen to your wide-eyed face.
“Are you crazy!” you hissed, pressing a hand to your racing heart, cheeks burning as you scrambled to pause the movie.
The remote slipped in your grip, the rom-com freezing on a shot of Billy Crystal, and suddenly it was you and him on this massive couch where you’d piled in as kids for movie nights.
“You scared the shit out of me."
You tugged the hem of your tee down self-consciously, hyper-aware of how close his thigh was to yours, which he noticed because his gaze lingered on your bare legs before meeting your eyes again.
"C'mon, play it—mind if I stay?” Before you could say no, he was kicking off his shoes and settling deeper into the cushions, his arm still draped behind you.
"It's your house."
"Might as well be yours, shortstack."
You stabbed your spoon back into the melting ice cream and shoving a big bite in your mouth.
“I had the whole couch to myself."
Rafe snorted, reaching over without asking and snagging the pint from your hands, digging in with your spoon.
"You always hog the middle anyway."
To save yourself the embarrassment, you hit play again, trying to act normal even as your pulse refused to chill.
He took a massive bite, grinning around the spoon with that stupid boyish grin that made him look sixteen again instead of twenty-one.
It was easy bickering with Rafe; it let you forget for a second how you had your tongue down his throat. You snatched the pint back, bumping his shoulder, making him chuckle.
You tried to focus on Sally’s neuroses and Harry’s cynicism, spooning more ice cream into your mouth, hoping it could cool down the sudden warmth creeping up your neck. This was fine.
Two good friends watching a movie at midnight.
"Move your giant leg, it’s crushing mine.”
“That’s rich coming from the girl who used to beg me to carry her everywhere because her ‘little legs were tired.’”
He stretched said legs out further, pressing his thigh more firmly against yours under the blanket, his voice dropping into that teasing tilt.
Rafe moved after a few minutes, his knee brushing yours under the throw blanket you’d yanked over your lap.
“Why this one?” he asked casually, randomly making conversation.
Except you knew him better than he did.
That tone was the same one he used when he was circling something he cared about, back when you were kids and he’d pretend not to be invested in whatever dumb game you dragged him into.
"It’s a good movie. The friends-to-lovers thing is classic.”
“Friends to lovers, huh? That your favorite trope or what?”
Was he testing you?
Your stomach dropped straight through the couch.
It felt so fucking awkward.
“Uh, it’s a classic,” you repeated, aiming for a simple excuse, voice coming out squeaky and overly defensive even to your own ears. You kept your stuck to the screen. "Pass the ice cream back, you’re hogging it like always.”
He handed it over but didn’t pull his arm away, instead letting his fingers brush the ends of your hair. It let you pretend for a few more minutes that this was like old times—two kids fighting over snacks and blanket space.
"You think that shit actually works outside of movies?"
Kill me. Kill me right now.
You were fairly certain that your face was probably the same color as the stupid melting ice cream. Why did you pick this movie?
"How would I know?" You laughed nervously, elbowing him again to have an excuse to touch him without it meaning anything. “It’s fiction. Shut up."
Rafe chuckled, his fingers tangling lightly in the ends of your hair, twirling a strand, "Right. My bad."
His touch kept sending shivers down your spine. You shoved more ice cream in your mouth, the cold doing nothing to cool you down.
Rafe didn’t stay quiet for long; you felt him move closer under the pretense of getting comfortable, his fingertips grazing your shoulder.
“I’m just sayin',” he continued, “It's gotta mess with your head when things start feeling different. Don’t you think?”
You needed to bolt upstairs and hide under your covers.
You glared at the screen harder, willing Meg Ryan’s face to distract you.
You tried to move subtly under the blanket to create an inch of space, but his thigh stayed glued to yours.
“You’re hogging the blanket, too, by the way,” you muttered, reaching over to yank it back toward your lap.
Your hand brushed his stomach accidentally—accidentally, right—and you felt his abs tensing under your knuckles. You snatched the ice cream pint from where it sat on the cushion between you and shoved another bite in, the sweetness turning almost too much on your tongue.
Home had felt safe again this past week, but Rafe being here was ruining all of it in the best and worst ways.
You latched onto the first escape route you could find.
Bathroom. Yeah, say you’re going to the bathroom. Splash some water on your face, breathe like a normal human for two minutes.
“I need to pee,” you blurted out, shoving the ice cream pint onto the coffee table with a clumsy clatter. Your voice cracked on the last word, and internally, you were dying.
Who announces their need to pee out loud?
You pushed up from the cushions too quickly, legs tangled in the stupid throw blanket that had somehow wrapped around your ankle. One foot caught on the sectional, the other slipped on the edge of the blanket, and suddenly the floor wasn’t where it was supposed to be. Your arms flailed you, a mortified squeak escaping your throat, before gravity won and you pitched backwards—right into his lap.
This isn't happening.
Your knees hit the couch on either side of his hips in the most awkward straddle imaginable, your tiny sleep shorts riding up, and your oversized tee bunching around your waist. His arm was suddenly around your back on instinct, steadying you, while the other hand gripped your thigh to keep you from sliding right off.
Rafe let out a surprised huff, eyes inches from yours now, wide at first before that familiar teasing glint crept back in.
“Whoa, shortstack. You okay there?” You felt it rumble through his chest where your hands were resting. One of his fingers brushed the bare skin under the hem of your shorts, probably accidental.
Probably.
You stammered something incoherent, pushing yourself up but only managing to put your weight more firmly against him, which made everything ten times worse.
“This feels familiar, huh?"
That night flashed behind your eyes in vivid, mortifying detail. You wanted the couch to swallow you whole.
“What? No,” you managed all breathy and defensive, your hands still planted on his chest like you couldn’t quite commit to moving them.
This was bad, so, so bad.
Rafe tilted his head, not letting it go. His hand on your thigh gave a gentle squeeze.
“Don’t play dumb with me." His free hand came up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness. “Wasn’t complaining then. Not complaining now, either.”
You felt the anxiety grow until it was hard to breathe.
Don’t play dumb with me.
Were these feelings new, sparked by that drunk kiss under the tree and the way he’d been orbiting you recently? Or had they always been there, lost under years of friendship? You didn’t know.
You didn’t know anything anymore, and that uncertainty made you want to throw up.
Rafe meant everything, and if you let this change into something more and it went wrong, if you ruined what you’d just gotten back, it would shatter the version of home you’d been rebuilding.
Your eyes started burning, tears quickly welling up, blurring his face despite being inches from yours.
Rafe’s expression dropped instantly.
“Hey, hey,” he murmured while one hand left your thigh to cup your face, thumb brushing away the tear with a tenderness that only made more threaten to fall. “Shh, baby, calm down. It’s okay.”
He pressed a peck to your damp cheek, lingering there as if he could kiss the panic right out of you. His other arm wrapped around your waist properly, carefully pulling you down against his chest so your forehead rested near his shoulder.
"Breathe. You’re overthinking it like you always do, shortstack.” His fingers stroked through your hair in soothing passes.
Rafe always did that.
No matter how long you'd been gone, how angry you'd been at him, he'd always known what you were thinking before you said a word.
He'd always been the rational one out of the two of you.
Your face was buried against his shoulder, embarrassed tears soaking into his shirt while his hand caressed your back.
You remembered being thirteen and crying because some girls at school had been cruel. You remembered being sixteen and freaking out over finals. You remembered every stupid meltdown in between, and Rafe had always taken care of you.
He couldn't stand seeing you upset.
"Breathe," he murmured again, feeling the way your shoulders rose and fell too quickly against him.
"I wasn't—" you started.
"Yeah, you were."
You sniffed.
Your face was practically buried in his neck now, hidden from the world and, more importantly, hidden from him.
"Talk to me, baby."
The new nickname nearly made you start crying all over again.
"Don't call me that."
"Why?"
"You know why."
"I don't."
Liar.
You pulled back to glare at him and Rafe's mouth twitched, finally getting you to look at him. His blue eyes searched your face immediately, checking for damage.
You watched his expression soften in real time when he saw you weren't actively crying anymore.
"You get this little line right here." His thumb brushed between your eyebrows. "When you start thinking about seventeen different outcomes that haven't happened yet."
A watery laugh escaped you despite yourself.
"There she is."
This was the same boy who'd once patched up your scraped knees with crooked Band-Aids and declared himself a medical professional. His solution had been three Band-Aids, a roll of tape, and a popsicle he'd stolen from the freezer.
You'd thought he was a genius.
The sweet memory made your eyes sting all over again.
"Oh, c'mon." Rafe groaned softly, his thumb catching another tear before it could fall. "No, no. We were making progress."
"I'm not crying."
"You are crying."
"I'm not."
"You've got tears on my shirt."
You looked down, and unfortunately, there were, in fact, tears on his shirt.
Rafe's mouth twitched. "Thought so."
You sighed, brows coming together in a frown.
"You keep doing that."
His eyebrows mirrowed yours. "Doing what?"
"That."
"Very descriptive."
Rafe waited patiently. Which should've been your first clue that he already knew where this conversation was headed.
"You act like..." You gestured vaguely between the two of you. "Like this is simple."
He let out a short disbelieving sound. "Simple?"
"Yeah."
"You think I think this is simple?" His grin only widened when your glare deepened. And suddenly you were sixteen again, sitting on a dock at sunset while he annoyed the shit out of you.
Or fourteen.
Or twelve.
Or ten.
Every version of your life seemed to have Rafe somewhere in it. Laughing, arguing, stealing your food, protecting you, showing up.
That was the thing you couldn't explain: you weren't scared because things felt different. You were scared because they didn't. Being wrapped up in his arms was terrifyingly natural.
Talking to him felt natural. Wanting him felt—
Your stomach dropped.
"You wanna know what I think?"
"No."
His smile faded around the edges. "You know me, right?"
The question caught you off guard as you scoffed. "Obviously."
"Then stop acting like I'd let you do this by yourself."
Rafe’s thumb stroke that spot between your brows, smoothing it out, erasing every worst-case scenario spinning in your head. His other hand had slid under the hem of your oversized tee, palm warm and broad against the bare skin of your lower back.
Your breath hitched. You tried to look away, but he caught your chin gently, tilting your face back to his. He'd always seen straight through you.
“Rafe…”
“I missed you,” he said, simple and devastating. “I missed this.” His fingers flexed against your back. “You. In my house. In my space."
Rafe leaned in, forehead resting against yours, noses brushing. You could smell the bonfire smoke still clinging to his hair.
“You think I don’t feel that?” His voice dropped even lower, barely above a whisper.
“I kissed you back,” you breathed. Admitting it out loud felt like stepping off a cliff. “I kissed you back, and then I ran—”
“Because you’re terrified,” he finished for you, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck. “I know. I’ve always been right here.” Then he let out an almost sad laugh and shook his head. “You really don’t know, do you?”
You blinked at him, fresh tears clinging to your lashes. “Know what?”
He cupped your face with both hands now, “That you’ve been it for me since the night you slapped the shit out of me outside Wheezie’s third-grade showcase.”
Rafe had shown up late, his eyes glassy and unfocused, reeking of whatever he’d smoked with the older guys. Wheezie had been so excited about her recorder performance, and he’d stumbled in halfway through, nearly knocking over a row of folding chairs.
You’d been waiting in the hallway with Sarah, heart sinking, and when he tried to play it off… you’d hauled back and cracked him across the face. You'd dragged him outisde and tore into him like no one else ever had. He was better than that, you knew that. Wheezie deserved better and so did he.
You let out a watery, disbelieving chuckle, "I thought you were going to ruin everything.”
“You did ruin me,” he murmured, lips brushing yours in the ghost of a kiss. "You scared the shit out of me."
You wanted to believe him, let the fear go, and feel it. But the questions kept coming.
Was it simply attraction? That pull that made you want to get it over with—get under him, feel his hands everywhere, burn out whatever this was between you both so things could go back to normal? Or was it more? Had you been in love with Rafe Cameron this whole time and never allowed yourself to look at it straight because it was safer?
It felt like both.
“What if I’m still figuring it out?” you whispered, voice small.
“I’m not going anywhere." Sweet, but still so Rafe, he already knew how this ended and was waiting for you to catch up.
It’s both.
“What if I ruin us?”
He tilted your chin up again with that effortless charm. “You couldn’t ruin us if you tried, shortstack."
You let his words sink in. You couldn’t ruin us if you tried. It should’ve been enough. It almost was.
You pulled back to look at him properly, your knees still bracketing his hips. His eyes were so blue, so patient, so full of everything you were too scared to name yet.
Your heart hammered wildly. The fluttery feeling in your belly twisted with nerves, want, and confusion all braided together until you couldn’t tell them apart.
You bit your lip hard, tasting the faint salt from earlier tears.
“Can I… can I kiss you?”
You needed to know, test it—to see if that dizzy, electric rush from under the tree was real or just the alcohol and the missing-him haze.
Rafe’s breath caught. “Yeah, baby,” he murmured, “You can kiss me."
You hesitated even with his consent, teeth still sunk into your lower lip, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat. Your gaze lifted to his, and everything else faded. Your eyes dropped to his mouth, and Rafe’s gaze followed the same path, darkening as he watched you study him.
He breathed out then, and the warm rush of it brushed your lips, carrying the faint taste of ice cream and him.
Slowly—agonizingly slowly—you leaned in. Millimeter by millimeter, giving yourself time to feel every terrifying second of it. Rafe stayed perfectly still, letting you close the distance.
When your lips finally brushed his, it was feather-light at first. Once. Twice. Tentive and sweet, testing the waters.
Then he sighed again, deeper this time, a relieved sound that vibrated from his chest into yours, and it killed whatever was left of your hesitation. His hand slid up to cradle the back of your head as he tilted his head and kissed you back properly.
You hadn't imagined it. That night under the tree—the fireworks, the way your whole body had lit up like the Fourth of July—had been real.
It had been him. Rafe.
Emotion swelled in your chest so fiercely it hurt: the instant relief brought fresh tears to your lashes, along with the longing that had been buried so deep you’d forgotten its shape, and a bone-deep rightness felt more than natural.
He was right.
This was more.
Your hands, which had been resting flat on his chest, slid slowly upward, curling into the nape of his neck. The change from sweet pecks to this was consuming. His tongue moved against yours in lazy, exploring strokes that made your head spin.
You pressed closer, chests flush together now, the thin fabric of your oversized tee doing nothing to hide the way your breasts brushed against him with every ragged breath.
Your knees dug deeper into the couch on either side of his hips as you itched instinctively closer, tiny sleep shorts riding up further.
Kissing had never felt like this.
You smiled into the kiss before you could stop yourself, and Rafe pulled back to grin at you, eyes half-lidded and lips shining.
“What?”
“Nothing,” you whispered back, leaning in again because you couldn’t stand even those few inches of distance. “Shut up and kiss me.”
He laughed before obeying. This time he angled his head the other way, capturing your bottom lip between his, sucking before diving back in.
Rafe’s hands stayed painfully respectful, one of them fisted tightly in the side of your oversized sleep shirt, knuckles white, physically holding himself back from sliding down to grab a handful of your ass. You could feel it in his forearm while he twisted the fabric.
It was so stupidly sweet that it made you want him more. You knew he didn’t want to scare you off. Especially considering that night under the tree, you two had nearly fucked right there on the grass.
You knew you would’ve let him if Sarah hadn’t shown up and interrupted.
Your hands roamed his broad shoulders, his chest, feeling the eager thud of his heart under your palm. He kept stroking down your back over the shirt, never dipping lower.
At one point, he tilted his head back against the couch, letting you lead, and you took full advantage, kissing him until your lips felt swollen and your jaw ached in the best way. His free hand eventually moved to cup the side of your face again, thumb brushing your cheekbone.
You didn’t know how long you stayed like that.
When you finally pulled back, chests heaving, you rested your forehead against his again.
“Okay. I think I’m figuring it out.”
Rafe’s grin was devastating, his hand finally loosening its death grip on your shirt to smooth the fabric down your side.
definitely, undeniably, googly-eyed - john logan - chapter three
⭑.ᐟchapter one⭑.ᐟ ⭑.ᐟchapter two⭑.ᐟ
You spent the better part of that Saturday morning oscillating between academic discipline and the giddy distraction that made focusing on your latest draft impossible.
Your thoughts kept running around in circles.
Good luck charm, he had called you, and even now the phrase lingered in your head, the sort of endearment that should have felt too forward if it were someone else, you were sure of.
By late afternoon, you stood in front of your closet with Mia and Sophie hovering, the enthusiastic co-conspirators vetoed and approved outfits with ruthless efficiency. You had insisted on something understated, jeans that didn’t scream effort, a soft, oversized sweater in a deep blue, and practical boots that could handle whatever slush the evening might offer.
School colors and all, right?
“You look hot in an approachable way,” Sophie declared finally, adjusting the collar of your sweater with a satisfied nod.
Mia flopped backward onto your bed, scrolling through her phone.
"This is way better.” She glanced up at you, eyes narrowing. “But you’re doing that thing with your face again.”
“What thing?” you asked, smoothing the hem of the sweater for the tenth time. Why were your hands clammy?
Their excitement was stupidly infectious, a bright counterpoint to the nerves twisting through your stomach. You still wondered if this was all some elaborate friendly gesture; you hadn’t let yourself fully articulate until the question now: was this a date? A real first date?
"I can see the spiral happening behind your eyes.”
Sophie laughed, tossing a hairbrush your way. “She's processing. Big difference. Real talk—how are we feeling about the hair?"
“Down,” you said quickly. “Messy is fine. I don’t want it to look like I spent forty-five minutes on it.”
Mia propped herself up on her elbows. “Are we calling this a date? Or is it still in the ‘we’re hanging out after he called you his good luck charm and stared at you like you hung the moon’ zone?”
“It’s not a date. He said we should grab something after the thing. It's platonic.”
You couldn’t remember the last time you had carved out space for a date.
You didn't consider yourself a prude by any means; you’d done hookups and proper dates before, navigated the occasional messy situationship without much drama. But lately, no one had seemed interesting enough to pull you out of your academic cocoon, to make you want to invest the time and emotional energy when essays and etymological rabbit holes felt much safer and more rewarding.
“Platonic,” Sophie echoed, deadpan. "That man is not being platonic.”
It definitely wasn’t like you were thinking about hooking up with John Logan of all people... of course not. You two were friends.
“I don’t want to read into it too much,” you muttered. “Last time I did that, I ended up convinced some guy was into me when he was literally being polite about my notes from lecture.”
Mia snorted. “This is not that. This is different energy."
Sophie nodded sagely, spritzing some setting spray in your direction like holy water.
“Exactly. And you’re wearing the lucky sweater. If he doesn’t at least stumble over his words when he sees you, I’m revoking his man card.”
“Okay, but seriously,” you said, turning to face them, “if I start rambling about my thesis at any point tonight, you both have permission to manifest a meteor or something. I need to be normal."
“You’re already charming."
Sophie smirked, but her eyes were warm. “And text us updates. I want timestamps. If he does that thing where he looks at your mouth while you’re talking, I expect photographic evidence.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips felt real this time.
“You two are the worst.”
“The best,” they corrected in unison.
You arrived at the arena alone as the afternoon deepened, ticket in hand and heart doing these uncertain flops as you walked among the growing crowd.
Logan had texted you the details earlier, mentioning your seat was right next to Hannah Wells, Garret Graham’s girlfriend, which had sent a fresh onset of apprehension.
You weren’t great with new people on the best of days; you tended to get extra clumsy, words blurting out randomly, or overthinking every pause, especially in a loud, unfamiliar setting like this.
The idea of sitting beside a stranger for the whole game sounded incredibly awkward.
But the moment you found your seat in section 108 and the pretty brunette next to you turned with a welcoming smile, the tension was gone almost immediately.
She was an absolute angel, bright-eyed and effortlessly kind, patting the spot beside her and immediately launching into easy chatter that made you feel like you’d known her longer than five minutes.
“Hi! You must be Logan’s friend—I’m Hannah,” she greeted you warmly, scooting over to give you more space even though there was plenty.
Her voice had this gentle, genuine cadence that put you at ease right away. You could tell she was used to making nervous people feel included.
“I saved you the aisle spot in case you wanted to stretch your legs or escape if the guys get too rowdy. First hockey game?”
You nodded, sliding into the seat with a grateful laugh that came out breathier than you intended.
“Yeah, very first. I’m really glad you’re here, though—sitting by myself in all this would have been intimidating.”
Hannah’s eyes crinkled with easy amusement as she waved a hand.
“You’re going to be fine. Trust me, I was exactly where you are for my first time. I spent half the game whispering questions, you’ll pick it up quick.” She leaned in a little, her tone conspiratorial and kind. “Tell me about you, what do you study? Logan mentioned linguistics."
Oh, he talked about you to his best friends.
“Linguistics, yeah."
“And do you read a lot?"
You lit up at that, the earlier flutter of surprise settling into genuine comfort as you told her about your latest finds. Hannah listened with real interest, nodding along and sharing how she’d read something similar last semester that completely transformed her perspective on slow-burn stories.
By the time the lights shifted and the players began skating out for warm-ups, you felt surprisingly at home. The team poured onto the ice in a rush of motion and color, and you spotted Logan almost instantly.
Graham sighted Hannah immediately, blowing a dramatic flying kiss across the glass that made her blush a pretty pink as she waved back with a delighted giggle.
“He’s such a sap,” she murmured, but her smile was huge, and you couldn’t help letting out a soft, genuine “awwwww” at how sweet it was, nudging her with your elbow.
“That was adorable."
Hannah covered her face for a second, peeking through her fingers with a grin.
“It's embarrassing how much I still melt at stuff like that. He knows exactly what he’s doing.”
Then, out of nowhere, Logan’s gaze found yours from the ice. Even with the helmet and the distance, that cheeky wink he sent your way hit like a spark and was entirely uncalled for.
Damn it, you thought.
You had never seen him in his full uniform up close like this, the broad shoulders accentuated by the pads; his jersey moved with him as he glided across the ice with that effortless power. His loose chestnut curls peeked out from beneath the helmet in rebellious strands, catching the bright arena lights in a way that made the warm brown tones stand out vividly against the cool white of the ice.
What the fuck was going on with you, you thought, a rush of embarrassment hitting you and making you realize you were daydreaming about a man's hair.
Why were you making gooey eyes at a dude’s hair peeking out of a helmet? The man had impeccable timing for derailing every rational thought you possessed.
Your hands twisted in your lap, the deep blue sweater suddenly feeling too warm.
The players cleared the ice for a moment, then the announcer’s voice boomed overhead, hyping up the crowd. Hannah leaned closer, her shoulder brushing yours companionably.
“Crash course time,” she said with a grin, sensing your deer-in-headlights energy. “This is a friendly exhibition game—season hasn’t officially started yet, so it’s more relaxed. No standings on the line, but the guys still play hard because they’re competitive as hell. Two periods instead of three, shorter shifts sometimes. Think of it like a dress rehearsal with teeth.”
You nodded, trying to absorb it while your eyes tracked the players filing back out. “Friendly. Got it. So… they’re not going to full-on brawl or anything?”
Hannah laughed reassuringly.
“They might chirp each other a ton and throw a few shoulder checks, but nothing too vicious. Graham says these are the best games to watch because everyone’s loose. Watch Logan. He’s fast as hell on the breakout.”
The breakout?
The puck dropped, and the ice exploded into motion. Sticks clacked sharply against the ice, skates carving sharp lines as players surged forward in a blur of navy and white jerseys.
Okay… they’re chasing the puck. That part’s obvious. But then someone slammed into the boards with a resounding thud that made you wince, and the ref’s whistle cut through the noise.
“Wait, what happened?” you asked, half-laughing at yourself.
Hannah didn’t miss a beat, pointing fluidly.
“Offside. See how that guy crossed the blue line before the puck? You can’t enter the attacking zone ahead of the puck. Basic rule, but it trips everyone up at first.” She nudged your arm gently. “You’re doing great. Most people just stare blankly the whole first period.”
Logan flew down the ice on a breakaway, stickhandling the puck with this ridiculous ease that made your stomach do another annoying flip. He passed it off at the last second, and one of his teammates fired a shot that pinged off the goalpost with a metallic thwack.
The crowd groaned in unison.
“God, so close,” you muttered, surprising yourself with how invested you sounded.
Hannah beamed. “Right?” She paused as a fight for the puck broke out in the corner—sticks jabbing, shoulders shoving, “That’s a board battle. They’re fighting for possession; it’s strategic. The guy who wins that usually controls the next ten seconds of play.”
You watched, wide-eyed, as Logan circled back, calling something to a teammate that you couldn’t hear but could feel in the way the whole line moved. He was everywhere, darting, pivoting, that effortless power you’d noticed earlier translating into something almost graceful under pressure. When he took a hit along the boards and popped back up like it was nothing, shaking his curls out of his eyes, you caught yourself biting your lip.
Get it together. It’s hockey.
Another whistle. Icing, Hannah explained patiently, is when a player shoots the puck all the way down from their defensive zone, and it crosses the goal line untouched. Face-off in the defensive zone.
You repeated the terms under your breath like flashcards, determined not to look completely lost.
During a TV timeout, Hannah turned to you fully, eyes sparkling. “You're doing good!"
"I really don’t want to be the clueless girl in the stands."
“Trust me, you’re not. I still ask Graham dumb questions sometimes just to watch him get all excited explaining.” She glanced down at the ice where Logan was tapping his stick on the boards, looking up toward your section.
When his eyes locked on yours again, he flashed that same cheeky grin, visible even through the cage of his helmet, and gave a tiny nod like you good?
You waved awkwardly, and he skated off with an extra spring in his stride. He was showing off. And it was working.
The second period flew by with fast breaks, near-misses, and Hannah’s running commentary. One of Logan’s linemates scored on a beautiful wrist shot, top shelf, as Hannah called it, and the arena erupted.
You found yourself cheering along.
By the final buzzer (a 3-2 win for your team, Hannah informed you with a proud fist pump), your voice was hoarse and your cheeks hurt from smiling so much. The players started filing off the ice, helmets tucked under arms, faces flushed and hair damp with sweat.
Logan lingered near the glass, scanning until he found you. That wink again, goddamn it, followed by a quick gesture toward the exit that clearly meant meet me after.
Hannah bumped your shoulder as you both stood, gathering your things. “See? Not so confusing once you get the rhythm."
You let chuckled, nerves and giddiness twisting together again as you headed toward the exit.
“I’m still convinced I hallucinated half those rules, but… yeah. It was fun. Really fun.”
Hannah walked with you toward the designated meeting spot near the players’ exit, her arm looped casually through yours like you’d been friends for semesters instead of hours.
“You did great."
You snorted, warmth blooming in your chest at how effortlessly she’d reassured you. “I caught myself wondering about the etymology of ‘icing’ during that second penalty kill."
Hannah’s giggle rang out, bright against the post-game chatter echoing through the concourse.
“That’s adorable."
The side door swung open, and the team started spilling out, damp-haired, hoodie-clad, buzzing with leftover adrenaline.
Logan had changed into a dark crewneck that stretched across his shoulders and joggers that somehow made his post-skate walk look annoyingly athletic. A duffel bag hung off one shoulder, and when he spotted you, his whole face lit up in that disarming way.
“Hey,” he called, voice carrying that slight rasp from shouting on the ice. He jogged the last few steps, stopping close enough that you caught the clean scent of his soap mixed with something colder, like arena air. “You came. And survived. Wellsy didn’t scare you off?"
“Hardly,” you said, aiming for casual even as your pulse did stupid things. “She’s an excellent guide. I now know what a ‘biscuit’ is, though I’m still debating whether that counts as a proper metaphor or lexical borrowing.”
Logan’s grin widened, as he fell into step beside you.
“There she is. My good luck charm dropping linguistics facts.” His gaze lingered, tracing your face, “And you're wearing our colors."
He noticed the sweater.
“School colors, you mean. Strategic camouflage so I didn’t stand out as the obvious newbie.”
Hannah waved at Graham across the way, giving you a quick, knowing squeeze on the arm.
“I’m gonna go rescue my boyfriend before he starts flexing for the cameras again. You two have fun. Text me later!” She shot you a wink that felt suspiciously like Sophie’s energy before disappearing into the crowd.
Alone with Logan now, the arena noise dulled. He shifted his bag to the other shoulder, glancing down at you with that same spark from the ice.
“So… that coffee? Or food? I can adapt. I’m flexible.”
You bit the inside of your cheek, thoughts racing. Adapt. One minute, he was the guy barreling down the ice yelling plays, the next, he was the sweetest guy on earth to you.
Something about the way he said it made it sound less like I can adapt and more like I'll happily spend the next several hours wherever you want me to be.
Which was, frankly, dangerous.
"You say that," you replied, falling into step beside him as the crowd streamed around you, "but if I pick somewhere with a thirty-page tea menu and start talking about historical phonology, you'll regret it."
"No chance."
"You don't know what historical phonology is."
"No," he admitted easily. "But I like hearing you talk about things you care about."
You forgot how to formulate a reply, which was annoying, considering language was supposed to be your thing.
Logan noticed immediately, you knew it because the corner of his mouth twitched.
"See?" he said. "Got you speechless."
"That's insufferable."
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"Sounded like one."
You were beginning to understand why everyone seemed incapable of saying no to him. He was completely comfortable with himself without tipping into arrogance.
Outside, the evening air hit your face immediately. Autumn was starting to settle over campus in earnest now, street lights glowed against fresh leaves piled along sidewalks.
Logan shoved his hands into the pockets of his crewneck.
"So."
You glanced at him. "So?"
"You never answered."
"About?"
"Coffee or food."
You pretended to think, mostly because it bought you a few extra seconds to look at him.
His cheeks carried the faint pink flush that came from exertion and the colder weather. There was a small scrape along one side of his jaw you hadn't noticed before.
Probably from hockey.
The realization that you'd become the kind of woman who noticed tiny details about a man's face was deeply concerning.
"Food," you decided.
"Food?"
"I've been informed hockey games are athletic events."
"They are."
"And athletic events require energy."
"They do."
"So if you drink coffee right now on an empty stomach, you'll start vibrating through walls."
Logan nodded solemnly. "A valid concern."
The thing about flirtation—real flirtation, the good kind—was that it wasn't a sequence of lines. It was attention.
You'd spent enough time studying pragmatics to recognize that meaning wasn't always encoded explicitly. Often, it emerged through implication. Through what wasn't said.
You tore your gaze away first because self-preservation remained a worthwhile instinct.
"There a place nearby?" you asked.
"Yeah."
"Any good?"
"Depends."
"On?"
"If you trust my judgment."
Of course you did. Which was, admittedly, a slightly alarming realization. Most men you'd met during your first college years inspired varying degrees of skepticism.
There had been the philosophy major who quoted Nietzsche exclusively to justify being emotionally unavailable, the economics student who thought interrupting women was a personality trait, and an unfortunate situationship who once described himself as "brutally honest" right before saying something needlessly cruel.
"Close enough."
"So you trust me?"
Logan was absurdly trustworthy.
He gave you the impression he was the kind of person who returned borrowed books in better condition than he'd received them. Who showed up when he said he would. Who made everyone around him feel seen without seeming to notice he was doing it.
Which, now that you thought about it, was probably why everyone on the campus adored him.
You scoffed lightly to disguise the fact that you'd taken an embarrassingly long time to answer.
"Moderately."
"Wow."
"Don't get greedy."
"You wound me." He pressed a hand dramatically against his chest. "You know, I played a great game tonight."
"Did you?"
"Three assists."
"I don't know enough about hockey to know whether that's impressive."
"It is."
"Hm."
"Hm?" Logan stopped walking.
You turned. "What?"
The noise of campus seemed to recede, because was looking at you like he'd meant something more than the words themselves.
You suspected he had.
Logan held your gaze for another second.
Then two.
Then three and your pulse started behaving irrationally, you became acutely aware of every tiny thing.
The fact that his eyes weren't just brown, exactly, it was more complicated than that. Warm amber around the center and darker near the edges.
A ridiculous observation to be making.
You blamed Sophie and Mia for this, and mostly John Logan himself.
Then, mercifully, "Come on."
You exhaled without realizing you'd been holding your breath. "Where are we going?"
"There's a diner about ten minutes away."
You echoed "A diner?"
"You sound disappointed."
"No, I sound surprised."
"Why?"
"I don't know. You seem like the kind of guy who'd take someone somewhere trendy."
Logan looked genuinely puzzled. "Why would I do that?"
"Because you're—" You stopped yourself.
"Because I'm what?"
Popular, the captain of half the university's collective consciousness.
Instead, you went for "Social?"
His beam returned instantly. "Coward."
"I'm not a coward."
"You were absolutely about to say something else."
You hated how accurately he read you. It was becoming a problem, a serious one. Every conversation with him felt like he was quietly collecting data, learning the shape of you and the rhythm of your thoughts.
And attention, you were discovering, was far more intimate than most people realized.
The walk continued easily after that.
Which struck you as odd.
Campus wasn't exactly empty, but the usual Saturday night energy had settled. Students drifted between residence buildings in small groups. Music leaked from open windows somewhere in the distance. Fallen leaves skittered across the sidewalk every time the wind picked up.
You became aware of how close Logan was walking.
When he looked down at you, you could see the tiny crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes. You found yourself wondering if everyone noticed those.
Thankfully, the diner appeared around the next corner before your brain could die on you.
A neon sign glowed warmly against the darkening evening, casting red and gold reflections across the front windows. The place looked like it had existed for decades, all polished chrome trim and worn booths and the sort of comforting atmosphere that suggested generations of exhausted students had survived exam seasons within these walls.
The second you stepped inside, warmth enveloped you.
Coffee. Fresh fries. Something sweet baking somewhere in the kitchen.
"Oh," you said before you could stop yourself.
Logan glanced over. "What?"
"I get it."
A smugness immediately appeared. "You get it?"
"The diner."
"Ah."
The waitress arrived before you could argue further, and after ordering—burgers for both of you, though Logan somehow managed to consume enough calories to sustain a small village—you settled back into the booth.
Then Logan rested his forearms on the table.
"Okay."
His eyes settled on you. You immediately knew what was coming.
"Oh no."
"Oh yes."
His forearms, still faintly marked from the game’s exertion—veins standing out beneath the skin in a way that made your thoughts scatter—rested casually on the scarred laminate table.
“Okay,” he repeated, his voice carrying that low timbre that easily cut through the clatter of silverware and distant laughter from the counter. "Tell me about you."
You felt the shy grin tug at your lips before you could school it, an involuntary curve that betrayed how utterly disarmed you were. You’d literally never had a guy sit across from you like this, like he had all night and nowhere better to be, wanting the whole archive of your life.
Most dates—if you could call past attempts that—had been polite interrogations at best, fishing for compatibility checkboxes or quick anecdotes to fill the silence. Logan made it feel different.
"Grew up in a quiet town where the biggest excitement was the annual library book sale. Books were my escape hatch, still are. I’d disappear into them for hours while everyone else was out playing sports or whatever normal kids did.”
Logan’s smile deepened, not the broad, crowd-pleasing one he wore on the ice or in the quad. It crinkled the corners of those amber-flecked eyes, drawing you in like gravity.
“That tracks. What kind of books?"
You shifted in the booth, crossing your legs beneath the table and feeling the brush of his knee against yours, accidental or not. It sent a spark up your spine.
“All of them, honestly."
"What got you into it? Was there a moment, or did it just… click?”
There it was. Very few ever asked why.
The shy grin returned, wider this time, accompanied by a flush you hoped the lighting would conceal. No one had ever framed curiosity about you like this.
“There was this professor in sixth grade who tore apart a political speech in class—not for the content, but for how the pauses and implicatures did the real work. I was hooked." Your fingers curled around your water glass. "But I think..." You paused, considering. "I was probably doomed from the beginning."
Logan chuckled. "That's reassuring."
"No, seriously. When I was five, I used to read dictionaries."
His expression froze. "Dictionaries?"
"Don't look at me like that."
"I'm trying very hard not to."
You pointed at him. "This is why people don't open up. I don't know," you admitted, stirring your straw absentmindedly. "Words always felt important to me."
Logan listened quietly, not waiting for his turn to speak.
"The fact that language changes. That entire histories survive in vocabulary. That people reveal things they don't mean to reveal." You shrugged. "It felt like the closest thing to magic that actually existed."
"I like that."
You felt unexpectedly self-conscious even though you talked about your major all the time. Somehow, talking about it with him felt different.
"What about you?" you asked. "Why hockey?"
"I loved it."
"Profound."
"I'm serious."
"Okay. So why hockey and not cars?"
That got his attention. His eyebrows lifted, his head tilted, trying to remember where you'd gotten that information. Panic blew through your nervous system at approximately the speed of light.
Maybe you'd dragged up something uncomfortable.
Maybe—You should stop talking.
His fingers flexed once, unconsciously, before stilling again. Not 100% comfortable. You wondered, briefly, what that was about, but you weren’t going to be invasive. He’d tell you eventually, if he wanted to.
"It's fine if you don't want to—"
"No. Genuinely, it's okay."
The conversation suddenly felt closer to him.
You looked down at your fries, prepared to let it go despite his reassurance.
Instead, Logan spoke. "Hockey's louder."
You glanced up. "What?"
"People notice hockey." Logan let out a low, self-deprecating chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “Cars were always around, yeah. Family thing. But hockey… that was mine. It’s just you, the puck.”
You caught the careful detour, how he steered the conversation back to the game, the team, the rush of a perfect assist without shutting you out entirely.
He was still super nice about it, looking at you like you were the most interesting person in the diner, and that only made your expression with a helpless curve at the corners of your mouth. God, he was good at this, you thought. Giving pieces of himself without giving everything.
You nodded, letting the moment breathe, your fingers still curled loosely around the cool glass.
“That makes sense,” you meant it. “Language does the same thing for me. It’s just… You and the words.”
"Tell me more about the dictionary phase. Five years old? I need details. Were you walking around correcting everyone’s grammar like a tiny professor?”
You’d never had a guy pivot so smoothly, so genuinely, back to you-.
“I had this ridiculous phase where I’d memorize random entries and test my parents at dinner."
“Are you close with your parents?"
It had been a few years now, and you’d grown practiced at carrying the grief without letting it eclipse every room or conversation that led to it.
“My mom, yeah. We’re close—talk on the phone most weeks. She’s the one who kept buying me new dictionaries even when I outgrew them.” You shrugged, voice even and untroubled. “My dad passed a few years ago."
Logan’s reaction was instant and unguarded; his pretty face fell, that charming beam dimming as genuine dismay etched across his features, the faint pink flush from the cold deepening with discomfort.
“Shit,” he breathed, rubbing a hand over his mouth, eyes widening with regret. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I wouldn’t have asked if I’d known."
He seemed so genuinely upset, as if he’d inadvertently stepped on something fragile, that it only made you like him more.
“You couldn’t have known. And I don’t mind talking about him. He’d probably get a kick out of me analyzing diner conversations like this.”
Your inner thoughts swirled warmly. You'd made peace with the shape of the absence years ago, still as a teen. You processed loss and grief fairly steadily. You talked about your dad when you wanted to; he was the one who taught you to pay attention to bedtime stories.
Logan didn’t stumble out of his way to fill the silence with the usual clumsy condolences. He nodded once, thoughtfully.
“I get that,” he said quietly. “My grandpa was like that. Still miss hearing them."
He offered a piece of his own without making it a competition, making it too easy to keep handing over pieces of yourself. You didn't have to bother rehearsing the words in your head first.
“I’m glad you can talk about him,” Logan continued amid the diner’s gentle clatter. “Sounds like he gave you something really good.”
"He’d do all the voices, even the dramatic pauses. I think that’s where my obsession with implicature started—who says what, what they leave unsaid, how silence can carry more weight than the words themselves.”
“Implicature. That’s a good word. You’re going to have to explain that one to the hockey player over here.”
“When someone implies something without stating it outright. Like when you said hockey is louder instead of diving into the car thing earlier. You were implying the family stuff was complicated, but you didn’t have to spell it out.”
He raised a brow, impressed. “Caught again. You’re dangerous.”
You didn’t have to filter yourself or second-guess every reply. He listened and wanted the full shape of your thoughts, not the polished version.
You could do this all night.
"Logan, buddy."
You'd spent the last hour analyzing Logan's facial expressions like a deranged linguistics student with a crush, which meant you immediately clocked how his body locked on sight.
The smile died first, his shoulders tightened, followed by the look of a man who had recognized the specific sound of a train heading directly toward him.
You turned and spotted two very large hockey players standing beside the booth, both grinning with the confidence of men who had never once faced consequences for anything in their lives.
Dean Di Laurentis and John Tucker.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Logan muttered.
"Tucker, look."
"No way."
Logan dropped his forehead into his hand.
"Hey, Logan!"
"Leave."
"Rude."
"Extremely rude."
Neither moved, both staring directly at you, then back at Logan, then back at you.
"Oh my God," Dean snapped his fingers. "The English girl."
The English what? Across from you, Logan looked like he wanted death. Immediate death.
The flush on his face had started as a faint warmth along his cheekbones, easy enough to blame on the diner's heat after walking through the cold. Now it had spread visibly across his tan skin, climbing up the sides of his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his crewneck.
Every time Dean opened his mouth, the color got darker.
"The English girl?" John Tucker repeated.
"The English girl," his friend confirmed.
You gawked at them, then at Logan, then back again.
"...I'm sorry," you croaked out. "The what?"
Both hockey players exchanged a glance. A terrible sign.
"The English girl," Dean said again, as though repetition would somehow help.
You stared in mild confusion. "I'm not English."
Dean frowned.
Logan made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a strangled laugh.
"Stop calling her that."
Tucker narrowed his eyes. "You sound English."
"I don't."
"You absolutely do."
"I literally don't."
Dean pointed at you. "See?"
"See what?"
"The accent."
You looked at Logan, who was glaring at the ceiling.
"Help me."
"I'm from—" You stopped yourself. "No, wait. I need to understand this."
Dean immediately sat down in the booth beside Logan, who grew horrified by his friend's actions as Tucket slid into the empty space beside you.
"John Tucker." You shook his hand because social conditioning was stronger than self-preservation.
"Nice to meet you."
"It isn't." You glanced at Logan when he spoke. He looked furious. "You're interrupting my dinner."
John looked around dramatically. "Oh. Was this dinner?"
Logan closed his eyes, and you had to bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing at the way his nostrils flared. You absolutely could not laugh; if you did, it would encourage them.
Yet, the expression on Logan's face was one of the funniest things you'd ever seen.
Dean ignored him, turning toward you.
"So. The English girl."
"I'm not English."
"Right."
"Not even slightly."
Dean pointed toward Logan. "Tell Graham that."
Your eyebrows lifted. "Garret Graham calls me that?"
"All the time."
John nodded. "Literally all the time."
You stared at Logan, who was growing restless in his seat; you could feel his leg jumping up and down. He was gorgeous, objectively, universally.
His best friends looked like children who'd discovered hidden treasure.
Dean's face lit up like the Fourth of July. "He never talks about girls, y'know? This is huge."
Watching Logan interact with his friends was unexpectedly fascinating; the version of him you'd mostly known so far was attentive, thoughtful, and patient. This version was pure exasperation, all long-suffering sighs and irritated threats.
It was adorable.
"Dean."
"This is huge!"
The grin threatening your mouth became impossible to contain, Logan caught it instantly.
His eyes narrowed. "You."
You pointed at yourself. "Me?"
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Whatever you're about to do."
You lost the battle as a chuckle eventually escaped.
Logan whipped around, and the look he shot you said it all. Complete traitor.
Your shoulders shook. "I'm sorry."
"No, you're not."
You smiled sheepishly, "You do really do sound like brothers."
Three heads turned toward you. "See? She gets it."
One second, he was sitting there enduring the humiliation, then he pushed both palms against the table and stood. The movement was so sudden that Dean nearly fell over.
Logan pointed to the door. "Out."
Dean looked up. "No."
"Out."
"Logan—"
"Get up."
He very much sounded like a man whose patience had been beaten to death with a hockey stick.
Tucker laughed nervously. "You're serious."
"I'm extremely serious."
Dean looked between the two of you. "Oh my God, you want alone time."
Logan physically grabbed him by the shoulder as his friend yelped.
You were laughing so hard your stomach hurt, with actual tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. Somehow that only seemed to make Logan more embarrassed.
Every time he glanced at you and saw you laughing, the flush got darker. "You think this is funny."
A helpless noise escaped you and his eyes closed briefly, most likely praying for strength.
Dean immediately pointed. "See? She likes us."
"Nobody likes you."
"She does."
"She's laughing at you."
"You like her." The entire diner might as well have disappeared.
You're fairly sure all sound vanished from your head. For one horrifying second, everything stopped. Logan seemed more than ready to launch himself directly into traffic, and your brain, traitorous thing that it was, immediately supplied every possible outcome at once.
What if he laughed? What if he rolled his eyes and told Tucker he was being an idiot? What if he denied it so fast it became embarrassing for everyone involved?
You weren't even sure which possibility made your stomach drop more.
Actually, you were.
Denial would sting for approximately twelve seconds before your dignity recovered. You'd spent years studying language, entire courses dedicated to meaning, inference, implication, and conversational intent.
Silence was never neutral. You were hyperaware of every possible interpretation. If he denied it, at least you'd know.
You had never seen a human being regret having friends more.
"Okay." His voice came out strained, dangerously calm. "Okay."
Dean got up in seconds and started backing away. "Oh."
"You've got five seconds."
"Logan—"
"Five."
"Buddy—"
"Four."
Dean bolted, and Tucker, being smart enough, followed. Both idiots stumbled toward the door, laughing so hard they could barely walk.
Halfway across the diner Dean turned around.
"Bye, English girl!"
"I'm not English!"
Then the door swung shut behind them, silence. Finally, beautiful silence.
"You are the least supportive person I've ever met."
You buried your face in your hands. "I'm so sorry."
Across from you, Logan dropped back into his seat and rubbed both hands over his face. When he looked up again, his neck was still burning up from his interaction with the boys.
There was the smallest smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, and for you, that was infinitely worse for your heart than all the flirting had been.
Hockey-star Logan was charming. Confident Logan was attractive.
Embarrassed Logan, blushing because his friends had exposed him in front of you, was devastating.
He exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping as he visibly shook off the mess his teammates had left behind. You watched the change happen in real time—the tension easing from his jaw, the playful spark returning to his eyes. He was recovering his game, confidence sliding back into place like he’d never lost it, fixing you with a look that made you second guess yourself.
“Well…” His voice had dropped back into that teasing drawl. “Guess you’re gonna have to let me take you out again so we can have a proper date.”
Oh my god.
“A date, huh?” you managed, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. Your voice came out a bit too delighted.
He tilted his head, studying you like you were the only person in the entire diner. His attention dropped to your lips, lingering there before slowly drifting back up to your eyes.
“What did you think this was, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart.
You fought hard to keep your cool, pretending to consider his words with a thoughtful hum, even though you were dying inside at how hot he looked.
The first cute, loving nickname he’d ever used on you, delivered so naturally it sounded like he’d been calling you that for months. Your brain went full meltdown, all thoughts dissolved into glitter.
The affectionate glint in his eyes was making it ten times worse (or better, depending on how you looked at it).
He reached across the table and brushed his thumb lightly over the back of your hand.
Giving him your best playful, skeptical look, you replied. “And what makes you think you deserve another date?”
You were a complete mess—equal parts thrilled and terrified at how easily he was getting under your skin.
"You'll find out soon enough."
Your mind immediately wandered to dangerous places, his hands on your waist, that same smirk hovering inches from your lips, the way his broad shoulders would feel under your palms. You had to press your thighs together under the table to control yourself.
definitely, undeniably, googly-eyed - john logan - chapter two
⭑.ᐟchapter one⭑.ᐟ
The past two weeks had turned into one long, caffeine-stained fever dream of essay deadlines, seminar critiques, and a lot of academic tunnel vision that made the rest of the world a forgotten background hum.
You'd picked up your car six days after the whole alternator-belt debacle—Logan’s buddy had been true to his word, fixing it cheaply and without any unnecessary theatrics—and after that, life had simply swallowed you whole.
Between drafting a twenty-page analysis on the semiotics of longing in nineteenth-century novels and trying not to drown in peer review sessions, texting had become a casualty.
You were, and always had been, a terrible texter: sporadic replies hours (or days) later, half-formed thoughts sent at 2 a.m., emojis standing in for actual sentences.
Still, Logan had kept the thread alive with surprising consistency, casual check-ins about whether your car was behaving itself, a random meme about terrible drivers that made you snort-laugh in the library, and the occasional gentle reminder that you still owed him coffee.
You'd smiled at each one, replied when you could with something breezy and distracted, but in your head, it was friendly noise.
Logan was a nice guy, being nice.
He most likely had a schedule packed with hockey practices, workouts, and whatever else golden-boy athletes filled their days with; surely he wasn’t actually waiting on some linguistics nerd to make good on a polite offer.
You were little old you, perpetually ink-stained fingers and a brain too busy chasing etymological rabbit holes to entertain the idea that he might be genuinely interested in grabbing that coffee.
It was all civilized goodwill.
The universe had tossed a kind stranger into your path and then let the current carry you along separate streams.
That particular Wednesday afternoon found you tucked into a corner booth in the student cafeteria, sunlight slanting through the tall windows and catching dust motes in lazy spirals. Your friends were all off in their respective academic orbits, different classes, different deadlines, which led you to claim the space for yourself with a tray of lukewarm fries, a questionable smoothie, and your latest literary escape propped open against a napkin dispenser.
The book was a worn copy of The Enchanted April, its pages soft as whispered secrets, and you'd fallen headfirst into the Italian countryside prose, letting the words wrap around you. Your linguistics notes sat neglected beside it, while you absentmindedly dipped another fry into ketchup and lost yourself in the rhythm of the sentences.
Yet even as the story pulled you toward sun-drenched terraces, your mind kept slipping, drifting back to Logan in these interstitial moments that felt traitorous to the academic rigor you usually prized. It wasn't that you were pining...but you liked him.
You set the book down for a moment, fingers tracing the embossed title, and took a slow sip of the smoothie, the artificial berry notes clashing with the salt of the fries.
A sudden tap on the table right beside your elbow jolted you so violently that you nearly launched your smoothie across the booth.
Your knee slammed into the underside of the table with a painful thunk, and the book tumbled shut as you whipped your head up, chest executing that familiar pirouette of pure startlement.
“Jesus Christ—?!”
Your hand was flying to your chest as John Logan stood outside your booth with his hands raised in that same placating gesture from the day you met, loose brown curls shadowing those warm eyes that crinkled at the corners.
He looked unfairly good for a random Wednesday, a simple white tee with a striped flannel, athletic shorts showing off the legs that clearly spent serious time on the ice, and that easy, disarming grin.
“Sorry,” he said, voice smooth like good coffee. “You were really in there, huh?”
That voice should come with a warning label.
“You have got to stop sneaking up on me.” You managed, pushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear and hoping you didn’t look as flustered as you felt. You gestured vaguely at the empty seat across from you, trying to play it cool. “Uh. Sit?"
Logan slid into the seat across from you without a second thought, as if you'd done this a hundred times before. He set down his own tray—protein-heavy, predictably—and leaned forward on his forearms, those corded muscles you definitely had not been thinking about for two weeks flexing casually, his broad shoulders making the space feel cozier
“You looked like you were a thousand miles away." He nodded towards The Enchanted April with a chuckle that made something unfurl in your chest.
Your cheeks warmed at the casual observation. He’d noticed the title.
“The south of Italy, actually. Four women reinventing their lives under wisteria and lemon trees.” You have now fully closed the book, marking your place with a stray receipt. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have practice or weight training or some athletic ritual that involves sweating?”
He shrugged, popping a fry from your tray without asking, bold, but somehow charming in its familiarity.
“Raiding my fries." You tsked as you swatted at his hand, " Most people at least ask.”
“Practice got moved. Figured I’d refuel before my next class. And I saw you sitting here looking all mysterious and bookish, so…”
Another easy grin.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” You grinned back, a little helplessly.
You caught up in long, meandering paragraphs: you rambling about your essay-induced madness, him sharing a funny story about one of his teammates, Tucker, accidentally locking himself out of the hockey house in nothing but a towel.
"How’s the car treating you? No more dramatic roadside betrayals?”
“She’s been suspiciously well-behaved since the fix,” you replied, dipping another fry.
“Glad to hear it. I told him to take it easy on the parts. Didn’t want you cursing my name if it died again.”
“I could never curse your name. My eternal gratitude is yours.”
Logan’s grin turned a shade more playful, his eyes locking onto yours.
“Eternal gratitude, huh? I’m gonna hold you to that. Might cash it in sooner than later… preferably over that coffee you still owe me.”
Oh. That was flirty.
You blinked, genuinely surprised.
In all your distracted replies over the past two weeks, you'd assumed those mentions were polite filler, the kind of thing people say and then forget. That a guy like him, with his chaotic schedule and campus-wide reputation, would remember, let alone gently follow up on a throwaway offer to a flustered girl whose car died dramatically on his street.
“You were serious about that?” You asked, tilting your head with a small, self-deprecating smile.
He shook his head, leaning back but keeping his full attention on you.
“I don’t say shit I don’t mean. I’ve been looking forward to it. So what do you say? Coffee this weekend? I promise not to scare you when I show up."
The butterflies blooming in your stomach felt dangerously whimsical, like the first tentative pages of a story you hadn’t known you wanted to read.
“Alright,” you agreed easily, smiling despite the flutter in your ribs. “Real coffee, not this cafeteria sludge. My treat, as promised. Maybe this weekend, if you’re not out saving more stranded damsels?”
He stole another fry, seriously, the audacity, and leaned in, elbows on the table. “I’ve got a warm-up home game Saturday afternoon. You could come watch, and afterward we'll grab that coffee. The arena’s got a decent stand by the main concourse."
A game, an actual hockey game? With crowds and sticks and ice?
“I’ve never been to a hockey game before.”
Logan froze mid-chew, brown eyes widening in genuine shock, gawking at you like you’d confessed to never having seen the sun. He let out a dramatic scoff, pressing a hand to his chest as if wounded.
“Never been to a game?” he repeated, voice laced with exaggerated horror. “You’re killin' me here."
"I'm sorry?"
He shook his head.
“You’re coming. I’ll get you a good seat, and after we win, which we will, you can buy me that coffee."
The butterflies in your stomach did another full spin, equal parts nerves and delight. The idea of sitting in a crowded arena, watching him glide across the ice like the golden-boy athlete he was…
“C’mon. It’ll be fun. Say yes?”
You met his gaze across the sticky cafeteria table, the afternoon sunlight catching in his curls.
“Yeah,” You nodded, the word coming out softer than you meant. “Yes. I’ll come to the game.”
Logan’s whole face lit up, and damn if it didn’t make you want to touch his hair.
“Atta girl,” he murmured, the praise casual but laced with something that made your pulse trip.
You took a slow sip, the artificial berry sweetness doing little to ground the whirlwind in your head. Two simple syllables, yet they landed with the weight of an epithet, warm and proprietary, curling around your thoughts like marginalia in an old manuscript.
As you lowered the cup, your gaze drifted beyond the safe confines of your booth for the first time since he’d sat down. That was when you noticed it.
A group of girls at a nearby table, freshmen, kept stealing glances in Logan’s direction. One of them was openly staring, her chin propped on her hand while her friends whispered behind strategic palms. Another pair of tables over had gone conspicuously quiet, their conversation tapering off into what you could only diagnose as fawning.
Even a few guys nearby offered respectful nods, the kind athletes gave one another in recognition of shared territory.
Of course they were looking, you thought, a etymological note surfacing unbidden. Logan. From the Gaelic lagan, little hollow, yet there was nothing diminutive about the way he filled space.
“You okay?” His voice pulled you back with concern. “Italy still calling your name?”
“You tend to rewrite the social text wherever you sit, don’t you?” You blurted it out without thinking.
He raised an eyebrow. “That a fancy way of saying people are staring?”
A wry smile touched your lips. "It’s quite the phenomenon.”
Logan laughed, the sound rumbling through you.
“They’re probably wondering why I’m lucky enough to be sitting across from the prettiest girl in the cafeteria.”
He was so direct and unapologetic. You rolled your eyes to cover the gidiness growing on your features. The flirtation was unmistakable now, and you, perpetual overthinker, found yourself wanting more of it.
“Flattery won’t get you out of buying your own coffee if you lose on Saturday.”
“We’re not losing,” he said with absolute conviction, “And even if we did, I’d still want to grab coffee with you after."
You found yourself leaning in, the sticky table between you feeling less like a barrier. It was refreshing, this straightforwardness of his, no games or layered meanings to unpack like you did with every guy you tried to date lately.
"What if I bring bad luck or something?"
Logan’s eyes sparkled as he leaned in a bit more, voice dropping into that warm register that made the noisy cafeteria feel surprisingly intimate.
"Nah, you’re gonna be my good luck charm. Can’t let a little ice and bad luck get in the way of collecting on eternal gratitude, right?” He stood to leave for his next class, brushing your shoulder with a gentle hand, not giving you time to recover or say goodbye. “I'll text you the ticket info.”
You watched him walk away.
The eyes followed him, of course. But he glanced back at you once, that disarming smile flashing like sunlight off ice, and suddenly the only gaze that mattered was the one that had chosen to linger on yours.
God damn it, he was good.
Later that evening, you found yourself sprawled across the threadbare couch in your shared apartment, legs draped over the armrest while the faint scent of microwave popcorn lingered in the air. Your two closest friends, Mia and Sophie, had descended upon the living room armed with mugs of herbal tea and an insatiable appetite for gossip.
Your mind was elsewhere, running back to warm chcolate brown eyes and the effortless cadence of Logan’s laughter, replaying the cafeteria conversation on a loop that refused to fade.
“Soooo,” Mia began, tucking a strand of her vibrant curly purple hair behind her ear as she fixed you with a shrewd, expectant stare, “You’ve been suspiciously quiet. Spill. What’s got that dreamy little smile playing on your lips every time we look away?”
You hesitated, fingers tracing the rim of your mug as a rush of effervescent excitement bloomed in your whole body.
Logan wanted you at his game.
“Nothing monumental,” you said lightly, though the words felt gilded with understatement. “I made plans for Saturday night.”
Sophie nearly choked on her tea, setting the mug down with a decisive clink as her eyes widened in delight.
“Plans? As in, actual social plans that don’t involve burying yourself in etymological dictionaries until dawn? Oh my god, you have a date!”
“Uh, I do not,” you protested, sitting up straighter and waving a hand dismissively, though your voice wavered with poorly concealed mirth. “It’s not a date. It’s… coffee. After a thing.”
Mia leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her grin sharpening like a well-honed rhetorical device. “A thing? Come on, details. Who is this mysterious ‘thing’ with? Is he cute? Please tell me he’s not another brooding poetry major.”
You laughed, the sound airy and unrestrained, even as your thoughts spiraled into a cascade of fervent appreciation. Logan was so disarmingly sweet, wasn’t he?
“It’s really not a date,” you insisted again, though your smile kept betraying you, curving wider with every syllable. “He invited me to his hockey game on Saturday. Said the coffee stand there isn’t terrible, and we could grab some afterward. That’s all.”
Sophie’s jaw dropped in exaggerated shock, while Mia let out a gleeful squeal that echoed off the apartment walls.
“A hockey game? Who even are you right now?"
You buried your face in a throw pillow for a moment, muffling your own laughter before peeking out, cheeks aflame.
“Fine,” you relented, voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush as you hugged the pillow closer. “It’s John Logan.”
The room went pin-drop silent for a beat before exploding.
Mia’s eyes bulged. “What the fuck—John Logan? As in, the John Logan? Campus heartthrob with the curls and the ridiculous arms?”
Sophie clutched her chest dramatically, “Oh my god. You’re joking. How? When?"
You sat up on the couch, pulling your knees up to your chest as their expectant stares burned into you.
“Okay, fine,” you conceded, a reluctant pout tugging at your lips as you recounted the tale. “It happened two weeks ago. My stupid car broke down—alternator belt, apparently—right in the middle of his street. Logan just… showed up. He was super nice about it. Helped me call for a free tow, let me wait inside his place while his buddy sorted everything out. Even drove me back to campus afterward."
Mia’s eyebrows shot upward, her expression a perfect tableau of dawning realization. “Wait. He let you stay over? In his house? While your car was being fixed?”
“Not like stay over stay over,” you clarified quickly, though your while body buzzed at the implication. “It was ten minutes in the kitchen. It was all very chivalrous and practical. No big deal.”
Sophie leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper laced with glee. “And then?”
“We've been texting a little, or he has, you know I suck at it,” you continued, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sweater as another wave of inner euphoria crested. “He’s kept in touch since then. I’ve been terrible at replying because of deadlines.” You shrugged, aiming for nonchalance even as your voice laced with undeniable fondness. “He’s just being nice, you guys. I think we’re friends! That’s all. He probably does this kind of thing for everyone.”
“Girl,” Mia groaned, throwing a pillow at you with affectionate exasperation, “He wants you bad. Are you stupid? No straight guy lets a random cute girl hang out in his house, drives her around, and then keeps texting for two weeks just to be ‘nice.’ That’s boyfriend behavior!”
You scoffed, "That's not true."
Sophie nodded vigorously, her eyes sparkling with mischievous insight.
“Yes, it is. He invited you to his game, for crying out loud. Hockey players don’t hand out tickets to their games and promise post-game coffee to ‘friends.’ Especially not when they look like him. He’s been courting you in the most low-key way possible, and you’re over here saying he wants to be friends."
Could he really? John Logan, wanting you? You had developed somewhat of a crush, yes; that much was evident in the way your thoughts kept circling back to his voice, the easy generosity of his gestures, the way he had transformed a moment of roadside vulnerability into something tender.
Yet it wasn’t an all-consuming fixation that would break your heart if it remained unreciprocated. No, this was measured.
You would happily linger in the realm of friendship, exploring the contours of his personality through late-night texts, shared fries, and post-game coffee. Learning the rhythms of his world, the camaraderie of teammates, the discipline beneath the golden-boy exterior, that would be reward enough.
“I don’t know,” you mumbled into your palms, peeking through your fingers, "You think so? He just comes off as a really easy-going guy."
Sophie reached over and squeezed your arm, her smile warm and encouraging.
“He wants you there because he wants you. Full stop. Stop overthinking and enjoy the fact that a hot, nice guy is clearly pursuing you.”
if he did want more… if those flirtatious undertones and lingering glances signified genuine interest rather than habitual banter…
You weren’t saying no to the possibility of his hand brushing yours with intent, or conversations that went well beyond polite pleasantries into something deeper.
“I don’t know if it’s quite like that,” You admitted your doubts, “But… he has been surprisingly consistent. He remembered the coffee, he seemed really happy when I agreed to come to the game. It’s… nice. More than nice, really.”
Mia sighed dreamily.
"That’s ‘guy who is invested and hoping you notice.”
You nodded absently, letting their words wash over you. He could simply be the rare dude who extends kindness without second intentions.
“Either way, I’m looking forward to Saturday. It’ll be good to get out of my head for once and watch something different."
Sophie beamed, already pulling out her phone.
“We’re helping you pick an outfit. Something cute but not trying-too-hard, he’s going to forget there’s even a game happening.”
She had already opened three different shopping tabs by the time you managed to pry the phone from her hands.
“No,” you said immediately.
“Yes,” Mia countered.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You two are impossible.”
By the time they finally retreated to their rooms, the apartment had fallen quiet. You carried your empty mug into the kitchen and rinsed it out before wandering back toward your bedroom.
Your phone buzzed, you picked it up right away.
John Logan: Got your ticket.
A second message appeared.
John Logan: Thought I'd warn you now. We tend to be loud when we score.
You: Bold assumption.
Three dots appeared almost instantly.
John Logan: See? This is why I like you. No faith in me whatsoever.
You: I'm trying to keep your ego manageable.
John Logan: Too late. Been told I'm a superstar.
You: By your friends?
John Logan: Mostly by them, yes.
A photo appeared moments later, it was a screenshot of the digital ticket. Section 108, right behind the team's bench.
Your eyes widened.
You: These seem like really good seats.
John Logan: They are.
You: Should I be worried?
John Logan: Only if you're planning on cheering for the other team.
You: I don't even know who the other team is.
John Logan: Perfect. You're already our ideal fan.
He had such a way of making conversation feel easy. Before you could overthink your response, another message appeared.
John Logan: Seriously, though. Glad you're coming.
You beamed down at the message for longer than was probably necessary.
You: Me too.
The typing indicator appeared, disappeared and returned within a minute.
John Logan: Good. See you Saturday, good luck charm.
You bit your lip, containing the sudden urge to kick your feet up. The silly nickname shouldn't have affected you as much as it did.
Yet, staring at those three words, you found yourself giggling in the dark like an idiot, crawling beneath your blankets with your phone resting against your chest.
This was nice.
Across campus, several miles away, Logan lay stretched across his bed staring at the same conversation. The bedroom door swung open without anyone bothering to knock, which wasn't unsual.
Garrett wandered in carrying a protein shake. "You look stupid."
Logan didn't bother glancing up, raising an uninterested thumbs up instead.
"Thanks."
Garrett eyed him suspiciously. "Who are you texting?"
"No one."
"Bullshit."
Logan sighed, finally locking his phone and tossing it onto the mattress, to which his best friend's eyes narrowed immediately, then widened.
"Holy shit."
"What?"
"It's the English girl."
Logan groaned, already regretting confiding in his best friend about you. "Can you not call her that?"
"It's absolutely the English girl." Garrett pointed dramatically. "You like her."
Logan shrugged, avoiding the accusations. "I like lots of people."
"Nope."
"Yep."
"Nope."
Garrett dropped into the desk chair and folded his arms.
"You've got the look."
Logan snorted, resting a hand behind his head. "The look?"
"The one where you're trying not to smile at your phone."
Logan threw a pillow at him.
Garrett caught it effortlessly. "Dude."
"What?"
"You got her coming Saturday, don't you?"
A reluctant smile appeared.
"There it is."
"Shut the fuck up."
"You're cooked."
For once in his university life, when he thought about Saturday, John Logan didn't think about the game.
Not first, anyway. He thought about a girl who had crashed into his life with a broken-down car and had easily gotten into his head, taking hold of every one of his thoughts lately.
A girl who still didn't seem to realize how much he wanted to see her.
I genuinely don't know what we have done to deserve your brilliance because truly EVERYTHING you make is genuinely so good it actually drives me insane....... Giggling and kicking my feet at them so bad I should be asleep rn
The banter, the flirting, the everything.... you are so talented wtf
