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.
💙Introducing Me💙
💙My Works💙
💙My Recs💙
💙Talk to Me💙
💙My Inner Thoughts💙
💙Join My Community for Sneak Peeks💙
WARNING: PLEASE BE AWARE THAT YOUR MEDIA CONSUMPTION IS STRICTLY UP TO YOU! IF YOU DO NOT LIKE A TOPIC BEING DISCUSSED, PLEASE JUST EXIT THE STORY. DO NOT BULLY CREATORS FOR CONTENT THEY WORK REALLY HARD ON.
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
You woke in the narrow confines of your off-campus apartment, sunlight filtering through the gauzy curtains you had chosen for your ethereal quality, casting the room in a forgiving glow. It made even the cluttered stacks of dog-eared novels and half-finished linguistics notes feel like the opening chapter of some delightful, meandering adventure.
Humming a barely remembered tune, you padded across the creaky floorboards in oversized socks, brewing a cup of early grey while mentally rehearsing your seminar presentation on the fluidity of emotional lexicons in modern prose. Your reflection in the bathroom mirror earned an approving wink.
Not bad.
You gathered your scattered belongings, laptop brimming with annotations, textbooks, and stepped out into the crisp air.
The drive started splendidly, windows cracked to let in the breeze that carried hints of blooming lilacs and distant lawnmowers. The old sedan had its quirks, unreliable but endearing. It had faithfully ferried you through countless late-night library runs and spontaneous road trips-
Today, though, as you turned onto the quieter residential street shortcutting toward Briar University, the engine began to falter. A sputter here, a hesitant cough there.
You coaxed it gently at first, patting the dashboard like a finicky old friend.
“Come now. Don’t do this to me."
But fate, ever the mischievous author, had other plans.
The car gave one final, theatrical shudder and fell silent altogether, coasting to a stop along the curb of a tree-lined street dotted with handsome houses. You simply sat there, blinking at the dashboard as if it might apologize and restart on its own.
No. No, no, no. You had a presentation. You could not afford to be the girl whose car died dramatically on the side of the road.
A disbelief bubble of laughter escaped your lips first before the frustration took its place. You turned the key again and again, the clicks mocking you with their empty rhythm.
“You gotta be kidding me,” You groaned, leaning back against the headrest with a dramatic sigh that bordered on theatrical.
Your phone battery hovered at a precarious twenty percent, and the campus still beckoned from beyond the next hill, you allowed yourself a few minutes to simply feel it—the absurdity of the situation.
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from that overwhelming rush of “why me, right now?” blended with a strange amusement at your own misfortune. You rested your forehead against the steering wheel.
The street around your felt curiously serene, those large houses suggesting a lively collegiate ecosystem you rarely brushed agains.
You could handle this. Call for assistance, transform the delay into an opportunity for people-watching or jotting down observations.
Before you could reach for your phone to summon roadside assistance—battery be damned—a knock sounded against the driver’s side window.
It made you jump so hard your knee slammed into the steering column.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” The words flew out of your mouth as you whipped your head around, eyes wide, one hand pressed to your chest as if that would calm the adrenaline surge. “What the actual fuck—”
Your heart was executing a fluttering pirouette as you swiped at your cheeks and smoothed the stray tendrils of hair framing your face.
Through the glass, a tall figure loomed, broad-shouldered and casually commanding, with a backward baseball cap taming dark, slightly tousled hair. Striking doe brown eyes met yours directly, carrying a blend of concern and easy amusement.
He wore a faded hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms corded from what you could only assume were hockey drills.
John Logan of all people.
He looked a little startled by your reaction but raised his hands slightly, trying not to spook you further. Even in your rattled state you registered that he was stupidly attractive up close.
Oh my god, he saw the forehead-on-wheel moment.
You cracked the window an inch, catching your breath.
“Sorry—shit, you scared the hell out of me. I didn’t hear you coming at all.”
He blinked at you, those striking eyes narrowing in concern and what looked like amusement.
You’d seen him around campus before, usually surrounded by the rest of the hockey crowd, but never this near.
Never while you were mid-meltdown with tear tracks probably still visible on your cheeks.
“No worries. Didn’t mean to give you a cardiac event."
You let out a watery giggle, trying to slow your racing pulse.
“That’s… an apt nomenclature for it.” You immediately winced, heat rushing to your face. “I mean—yeah. It just died. Stopped working. Sorry."
Logan’s eyebrows rose, that half-smile deepening as he tilted his head.
“Nomenclature? Damn. You okay if I take a look, or do you want me to call it something fancier first?”
"...Take a look?"
Logan's grin twitched. "Yeah."
"At the car?"
"That's generally what breaks down."
"Right, but..." You frowned. "Why?"
For the first time, he looked genuinely confused.
"Because it stopped running?"
"No, I understand the sequence of events. Car dies. Tragic. Very moving." You pointed at him. "I'm asking why you are volunteering."
His eyebrows climbed. "Why?"
"You're a hockey player."
"Okay?"
"That's all I've got."
"That's all you've got?"
"And you're in some of my general education classes." You shrugged helplessly. "But none of that screams automotive expertise."
Logan stared at you for a second before shaking his head. “That’s not usually a disqualification for basic car knowledge. Pop the hood."
"Are you sure?"
"Trust me."
"People who say 'trust me' are statistically responsible for a significant percentage of bad decisions."
He leaned one forearm on the roof of your car, ducking to meet your eyes better through the cracked window. "Pop. The hood."
You hesitated. "Do you know what you're doing?"
"Yes."
"Actually?"
"Yes."
You narrowed your eyes playfully. "Or in the way every guy who has watched three YouTube videos suddenly thinks he can rebuild an engine?"
Logan laughed outright.
"I know what I'm doing. I’ve been fixing cars since I could walk."
You hesitated, biting your lip as you searched his face.
“If you break it more, I’m going to cry in front of you, and that would be the ultimate humiliation.”
His expression softened, the cocky smirk becoming gentler.
“I won’t break it. Are you gonna keep interrogating me while your car stays dead?”
You let out a defeated huff, reaching down to pull the hood release.
“Sorry. Yes, please. That would be incredibly helpful."
Logan gave you a quick, reassuring nod.
“No problem. Sit tight.”
He moved to the front of the car as you watched through the windshield. He lifted the hood and propped it open as the morning light poured over him—faded hoodie stretched across a strong back, sleeves shoved up to reveal corded forearms dusted with faint scars and engine grease already smudging his skin.
The backward cap shadowed his eyes, but the sharp line of his jaw and the focused set of his mouth were impossible to ignore.
Oh. You swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of the warmth blooming in your body.
That was… that was a fine man.
You hadn't voluntarily noticed a man in months—possibly years—and yet here you were, cataloging the exact width of his shoulders as if you were annotating a particularly attractive stanza.
Logan leaned over the hood, one hand braced on the frame as he studied the engine bay. His brow furrowed in concentration, a small frown of thought crossed his face as he reached in and touched something, his fingers moving with surprising dexterity.
He looked completely in his element
You pressed your cool fingers to your flushed cheeks, trying to will the warmth away. Thank God he was completely focused on the engine and not looking at you right now. If those doe-brown eyes turned your way while you were blushing, you’d probably dissolve into the driver’s seat.
You would not get flushed over random hockey players who looked like they could carry both the heroine and the entire third-act climax without breaking a sweat.
You moved in your seat, pretending to check your phone even though the battery warning was glaring at you. Anything to keep from openly ogling the hockey player currently saving your morning.
After a minute, Logan straightened, still leaning over the engine.
“Looks like your alternator belt is shot,” he called out, voice muffled by the hood. “It’s pretty frayed. That’s why she died on you.”
You leaned toward the open window, trying to sound normal. “Alternator belt, right."
He let out a low chuckle and wiped his hands on his hoodie, finally glancing over the hood at you. Your eyes met for a brief second, and your stomach performed an unflattering somersault worthy of a Brontë heroine.
Abort. Abort. Maintain dignity.
“Want me to call a buddy?” he offered, “He’s got a shop nearby. Could tow it and fix it cheaply. Save you the drama.”
You stared at him, equal parts grateful and mortified.
“You really don’t have to do all that,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear in a futile attempt at composure. “You’ve already done more than enough."
Logan’s grin returned, crooked and far too charming.
“I don’t mind." He pulled his phone from his back pocket, thumbs moving across the screen. “He owes me a favor anyway. I’ll have him swing by with the tow truck. Shouldn’t take long.”
You hesitated, pride and practicality wrestling in your chest. The seminar clock was ticking louder by the second.
"I’m not trying to be a charity case for the Briar hockey team.”
Logan glanced up from his phone, one eyebrow arched. “Did I say anything about charity?”
“No, but… you have that helpful-athlete vibe. It’s suspicious.”
“Suspicious,” he repeated, entertained. He leaned against the side of your car, arms crossed over his broad chest, the faded hoodie pulling tight across his shoulders. “You always this cynical?"
You looked away, pretending to check the time on your dying phone.
“I— linguistics major. We’re trained to question everything. Especially smooth-talking men with tool knowledge.”
Logan’s smile widened dangerously. “Smooth-talking. I’ll take it.”
You groaned, covering your face with both hands for a second. “I’m going to stop speaking now.”
“It’s cute.”
Before you could spiral about his casual comment, he pushed off the car. “You got somewhere to be, right?”
“Seminar. I’m presenting.” You winced.
“Tell you what,” he said, tilting his head toward the row of pretty houses across the street. “My place is right there. The third one with the shitty basketball hoop out front. You can wait inside, charge your phone, and grab some coffee. No pressure.”
You stared at him.
He shrugged, almost boyish despite the six-foot-something of pure athletic competence. “Or you can sit here and stress. Your call.”
The logical part of your brain screamed stranger danger. The rest of you—the part currently cataloguing the way his forearms flexed when he crossed them again—voted yes immediately.
You hesitated, fingers tightening on the strap of your bag.
“I appreciate the offer, but… I don’t know. I can wait out here. I don’t want to impose.”
Logan kept his respectful distance.
“I get it. Random guy invites you into his house after your car dies? Sounds like the opening to every cautionary tale your mom ever told you.”
You let out a surprised laugh, and some of the tension in your shoulders eased.
He continued, rubbing the back of his neck in a boyish way that somehow made him even more disarming.
“But here’s the truth: it’s just me and three other idiots right now. One’s in class, the others are probably still passed out. The door stays unlocked the whole time. You can leave whenever you want.”
He shrugged, that half-smile softening into something sheepish. You searched his face. There was no pushiness or over-the-top flirting. He seemed like a genuinely decent guy.
You exhaled slowly.
“Okay. Yeah. That sounds really nice. Thank you.”
Logan’s smile brightened, but he didn’t make a big deal out of your acceptance, simply nodding toward the third house across the street.
“Cool. C’mon.”
That was your cue. You finally pushed open the car door and stepped out into the crisp morning air, slinging your bag and laptop over your shoulder. Logan waited patiently on the sidewalk, hands back in his hoodie pockets.
He kept pace beside you as you crossed the tree-lined street, maintaining a polite distance—close enough to talk comfortably, but never crowding. The morning sun filtered through the leaves, catching on his backward cap. You tried (and mostly failed) not to notice how good he looked doing absolutely nothing.
As you reached the steps of the third house, he unlocked the door and held it open for you with an easy gesture.
“After you. Fair warning, it’s a hockey house."
The place was surprisingly livable, with a worn couch, a decent kitchen, and a living room that smelled like fresh coffee and laundry.
Nothing smelled bad or screamed “frat hell.” It felt… normal.
Logan moved into the kitchen, “Phone charger’s right there on the counter if you need it. Help yourself. Coffee’s still hot, I made it before my run.”
He poured you a mug without asking twice and slid it across the island, black and simple. Then he stepped back, giving you plenty of space as he leaned against the opposite counter.
You wrapped your hands around the warm mug, feeling the last of your nerves settle. You took a sip of coffe purely to avoid looking at him.
Unfortunately, that only gave you more time to be aware of him. The problem wasn't that Logan was attractive, plenty of people were attractive.
The problem was that he was sitting three feet away from you, looking unfairly good while doing absolutely nothing.
"So."
You were busy trying not to stare at his forearms, a losing battle, if you were being honest. Your gaze darted away the second you realized where it had landed.
You looked up cautiously.
"So," you echoed.
A corner of his mouth twitched. "You know who I am."
You nearly choked on your coffee. "What?"
"You knew I played hockey before I said anything."
"Oh."
"That means you know my name."
"Yes."
The realization hit him at the exact same time it hit you. You knew his name, that he played hockey, that he lived in this house. You knew his teammates' names and that he'd scored twice in the championship game last year because half the campus wouldn't shut up about it.
Meanwhile—
You had never actually introduced yourself.
"But I don't know yours."
A horrified sound escaped your throat, causing Logan to bark out a laugh. "Holy shit."
You groaned. "Oh no."
"There it is," he said.
"There what is?"
"The look."
"What look?"
"The one where you realize something embarrassing."
You covered your face, pointing at him from behind your hands.
"You also never introduced yourself!"
His eyebrows lifted. "I didn't think I had to."
You could tell by his face that it hadn't occurred to him that an introduction was necessary because you'd already known exactly who he was.
Which should have been annoying.
You snorted, "That's a crazy thing to say."
Normally, it would've driven you insane.
Male athletes had a very specific brand of confidence that usually made your eyes twitch. Half of them on campus walked around like they were personally responsible for the invention of oxygen. Every conversation somehow circled back to their stats, their workouts, their game schedule, their importance to society.
You typically found it exhausting and pretentious. Yet somehow—
"It is?"
When Logan said it, it didn't sound like ego. It sounded like confidence.
Your brain should have filed him neatly into the same category as every other cocky athlete you'd met. Instead, your brain had apparently decided: this one's hot.
To save yourself, you gave him your name.
"That's a pretty name."
The compliment was such a ridiculously low bar that you hated yourself a little for getting flustered for the millionth time. Then again, the bar for men was historically buried somewhere beneath the Earth's crust.
You murmured a thank you into your coffee mug before your dignity could stage a protest.
Logan's grin widened. "You're a linguistics major, right?"
You blinked. "How do you know that?"
"You said it."
"Oh, right."
His smile somehow got bigger. "Oh?"
"I say a lot of things."
"I noticed."
Wonderful, you were being perceived. You hated being perceived, especially by attractive men who seemed to find your awkwardness entertaining instead of alarming.
Logan took another sip of coffee, still watching you over the rim of the mug. "Emotional lexicons."
"What?"
"That's what you were talking about when I walked up."
"Oh my God."
"What?"
"You heard me talking to myself."
A laugh escaped him and it sounded so nice it made it impossible not to smile back.
"You were sitting alone in a dead car arguing with your steering wheel."
You groaned so hard your soul nearly left your body. "Please stop."
"Wait," he said suddenly. His eyebrows pulled together. "What is your presentation about?"
You lowered your hands. "Linguistics."
"That's not an answer."
"It is technically an answer."
"No."
You laughed. "No?"
"No."
He pointed at you. "What specifically?"
You rolled your eyes, though you couldn't stop smiling.
"The fluidity of emotional language in modern literature."
"Okay, say that again but like you're explaining it to a normal person."
"Wow. That was rude."
"It was honest." He looked genuinely curious.
You'd spent years explaining your major to people whose eyes glazed over halfway through the first sentence. Usually the conversation went:
What's your major?
Linguistics.
Oh cool. How many languages do you speak?
And then you had to spend ten minutes explaining that linguistics wasn't actually the study of learning languages.
You shifted on your stool. "It's basically about how people use language to communicate emotions."
His expression sharpened. "Like psychology?"
"Adjacent."
"English?"
"Adjacent."
"Made-up word science?"
"That one hurt."
His grin appeared immediately. "So basically yes."
You shook your head.
"I study how people choose words. Why certain phrases become popular. Why language changes. Why different people communicate emotions differently."
The sincerity caught you off guard. Everything about this man kept catching you off guard because you expected hockey-player responses, the typical disinterest.
Logan rested his forearms on the kitchen island. "So what do you wanna do with that?"
You srunched your nose in reply.
"What?" His forehead creased.
Somehow, you'd gone from talking about your dead car to discussing your future plans with a man you'd known for less than an hour, which felt oddly intimate.
You shrugged, tracing the rim of your mug with a fingertip as if the ceramic held the answers to your entire post-grad existential spiral.
“I’m not entirely sure yet,” you admitted, the words tasting surprisingly honest on your tongue. “Part of me wants to chase a PhD—dissect semantic shifts in emotional discourse across cultures, maybe publish something. The other part wants to teach, or write, or… I don’t know, help people find better ways to say the things they feel.”
Logan listened without that glazed, polite detachment you’d come to expect from most guys. His doe-brown eyes stayed on you, turning your words over in his mind instead of waiting for his turn to speak.
“That sounds important,” he said after a beat. “People suck at saying what they mean. Especially the important shit.” He gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m better at hitting a puck than hitting the right words most days.”
You smiled into your coffee, warmth blooming somewhere behind your ribs that had nothing to do with the caffeine. He’s not performing humility, your brain noted.
“You seem pretty articulate for someone who allegedly only speaks hockey,” you teased lightly.
“Give me twenty minutes and I’ll run out of big words. I save my limited vocabulary for important stuff. Like convincing pretty linguistics majors not to cry over dead alternator belts.”
Your cheeks heated instantly. Abort. Do not catalog the way he said ‘pretty’. You were level-headed enough to know this was probably standard charming-athlete protocol, but your traitorous heart did not.
“Flattery won’t fix my car,” you said, aiming for dry.
“Wasn’t flattery,” he replied simply, shrugging one broad shoulder. “Just stating facts.”
Oh no. He’s lethal.
Before you could spiral further into semantic analysis of that particular sentence, the low rumble of a tow truck sounded from outside.
Logan glanced toward the window. “That’ll be my buddy. I’ll go talk to him real quick—make sure he doesn’t overcharge you or anything.”
You nodded, watching as he headed out. The second the door clicked shut behind him, you let out a long, shaky breath and pressed your forehead against the cool kitchen island.
Get it together. You are a grown woman with a working knowledge of twelve linguistic frameworks. You are not going to develop heart palpitations because a hockey player has kind eyes and competent forearms.
Logan returned a few minutes later, wiping his hands on a dish towel.
“All set. He’ll tow it to his shop, replace the belt, and text you when it’s ready. Gave him my number as backup so you’re not stuck if anything goes sideways.”
You stared at him, gratitude and disbelief filling your chest. “Logan… seriously. Thank you so much."
Your phone buzzed on the counter, still low battery, but enough life left to show a text from your seminar group chat asking where you were.
Shit.
“I should get to campus,” you said reluctantly. “I’m already cutting it close.”
Logan straightened. “I can drive you. My truck’s out back. No big deal.”
You opened your mouth to protest—stranger danger, independence, etc.—but the offer felt so uncomplicated coming from him.
“If you’re sure,” you said carefully.
“Positive.”
The drive to campus was just as effortless as the conversation in his kitchen. Windows down, September air rushing through the cab, a quiet indie playlist humming low. You talked about everything and nothing—his upcoming hockey season, your hatred of semicolons in academic writing, the absurdity of off-campus parking.
By the time he pulled up near the humanities building, you felt giddy, a fizzy feeling you hadn’t experienced with a guy in years.
“Thanks again,” you said, unbuckling. “For everything. I owe you one. Seriously.”
Logan rested his wrist on the steering wheel, looking over at you with those warm brown eyes.
“You don’t owe me anything. But if you wanted to grab coffee sometime—when your car’s not actively trying to ruin your life—I wouldn’t say no.”
Your stomach did that stupid Brontë somersault again.
“Yeah,” you said, smiling before you could overthink it. “I’d like that.”
I was gonna say you can keep it goin forever and it’ll always be amazing (which it would!) but I just remembered you said you use canva for it and other smaus which is SO AMAZING OF YOU and like whew I hope people appreciate what you do cause I struggle so hard w canva lmao so for you to do all that, the time, the dedication- is amazing, you’re amazing. Cause let’s remember people this is a lot of work going into multiple works that we enjoy & read for free!
You are literally so sweet! Canva is definitely something that takes a lot of time to figure out, but I am really glad that you enjoy the story enough to see the dedication!!!!
Kildare Elementary was originally only supposed to be ten parts, so who knows how long it will actually end up being 😭😂
Ok truth be told I didn’t read the parts before so funny I could laugh, it came up in my feed and I read it and I can’t read the others cause the 💔 lol it’s too much sadness for me to bear! But I did want to ask, so he did sleep with his “fake” fiance? Or was that just for the public? Cause with how he acted after she said that now I’m like dumbass slept w her. Also while I’m here, wanna let you know Kildare elm has me in a CHOKEHOLD I’m constantly checking for updates and rereading what’s already published lol thank you for your amazing work
It truly is an angsty story 😭 I don't want to spoil anything, but I will say that a lot of issues in their story is because a certain someone is a bad communicator and also doesn't think about how people will see things from the outside....
AHHHHH thank you so much!!! Kildare Elementary is literally my BABY, and I genuinely want to have it done so soon!!! Thank you so much for being so sweet!!!!
Heyyy!! Your smaus are so interesting and i LOVE them,i only read about steve but because of you i read about rafe too! How do u make the smaus?? Especially for the steve one,as its in emails,do u use a specific app??
Hi! Thank you so much! You have no idea how happy it makes me to see stuff like this!!!!!
I actually make all of my SMAUs on Canva, so there isn't really any app! Every piece of them is made by me unless it is a group chat text that has a white background! For that, I use the app Memi Messages, but I am trying to branch away from that, so if you see any text messages in dark mode, those I have made myself!
My Steve fic was just me goofing around with trying some different SMAU formats😂
sysnopsis: rafe cameron never saw the need for something serious until he met y/n, and then he knew that he wanted her in anyway he could. y/n didn't do commitment after being burned one too many times, but when rafe cameron walks into her life again, that seems to be thrown out the window. will these two be a match made in hell or will forever be the sweest con?
author's note: sorry y'all this year of college has honestly kicked my ass so hard. this has been sitting my drafts for a second. i have at least one more chapter so that will be out maybe next week.
Don't Forget Where You Belong- R.C. SMAU: Part Four
Summary: You and Sarah have been best friends since you were in diapers. In fact, it is hard to remember a single moment in your life that a member of the Cameron family hadn't been involved in. They had been by your side for everything, no matter what. So, when you all got into the college of your dreams and discovered your financial aid wouldn't cover it, there wasn't really a question in Rafe's mind when he suggested you get married after rejecting a personal loan from them. It would just be some quick paperwork, and you would be able to cover your semesters yourself. Did it help that the two of you were already in love with each other? Sure. Lines blur through your sophomore and junior years, but even fairytales don't last in the Cameron family. Rafe disappears for the summer before your senior year, leaving you and your friend group trying to find a new normal in your break-up. Is it really a break-up when you two are still married and Rafe returns still calling you his wife? Even if you won't talk to him, the KU Anon App keeps his attempts anonymous. Well, at least he thinks so...
Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader
Trope: Best Friend's Brother/ Marriage of Convenience
