we can’t be friends- john logan (3)
Pairing: John Logan x fem!reader
summary: No matter how hard you two try to stay friends, the truth is—you never were.
content: the timeline might be off just a little. but same content warnings as all the other fics. also, the boys are having practice on new year’s eve, which doesn’t make sense—something i realized after writing it, so just ignore that lol. google told me they do, so im honestly not sure anymore.
note: i’m so sorry this took forever! i’ve been in my head about giving them a perfect ending and i am still a bit unsure about how i feel about this so if you don’t like it, lie to me please! thank you all so much for the support you’ve shown during this series, i truly appreciate it and i love you all so much. it’s helped me a lot in my confidence! i hope you enjoyed this series and i concluded it well for you all :) also apologies if i forgot to tag you! there was a lot of comments so i feel i may have forgotten some 😭😭
How awful would it be if you ignored Logan for the entirety of summer break?
Because that’s exactly what you did.
Okay, okay, not exactly ignored. More like cautiously avoided. It was impossible for the two of you to completely cut contact since you shared the exact same inner circle, but you certainly never mentioned the kiss after it happened. And true to his word about not pushing you, he didn't bring it up either.
You didn’t know what that kiss meant to him. Honestly, you didn’t want to know. You didn't want to decipher if he was just feeling lonely and pathetic on that particular night and you happened to be there, or if it came from a genuine place. You especially didn’t want to explore the possibility of the latter. You had spent a long, exhausting time being in love with John Logan. You finally thought you’d gotten over the most gut-wrenching and impossible parts of it, but then you made out on his desk and it was like a dam broke. Everything came rushing back.
Worst of all, it was all you could think about. The way he clung to you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded—it was a feeling you couldn’t shake no matter how hard you tried.
When the school year finally resumes and everyone lands back on campus, a tiny part of you thinks Logan might actually hate you now. You’ve probably driven him completely insane by letting the silence stretch for months. But you're also well aware that he hadn’t forced the issue because he was terrified of cornering you, especially since you were the one who panicked and ran out of his room.
"You and Logan confuse me so deeply."
Allie’s voice pulls you sharply from your thoughts as she slides into the chair across from you. The two of you had agreed to meet up at the library during the very first week back to map out your semester syllabi in one sitting, saving yourselves months worth of mental breakdowns. Hannah was meant to join you in an hour or two, currently caught up in a panel meeting for a potential senior-year internship.
Allie sets a plastic iced coffee cup down in front of you, placing the second one in front of it. You glance at the printed receipt taped to the side, realizing it’s your exact, highly specific, perfect order.
You deliberately ignore her comment about Logan, reaching for the plastic cup instead. "Thank you. I needed this to survive the day."
Allie sighs, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. "Don't thank me. It’s from Logan."
You freeze, your straw halfway to your lips.
"I passed by him near the quad on my way over here," Allie explains, watching your expression closely. "I casually mentioned I was meeting you for a library date, and he handed me one of the coffees in his hand and said it was for you. He gave me the other, but I think it was for him. That’s why I say you two confuse me. Were you guys supposed to meet up today or something?"
"No," you say quietly, staring at the melting ice in your cup. Your stomach does a nervous flip. "But he was probably on his way to having a conversation that I've been successfully putting off for months."
Allie quirks an eyebrow, a keen, observant look taking over her features. "Is there something you’re not telling me?"
You chew on the inside of your cheek, looking around the quiet library rows before letting out a defeated sigh. Making a face, you lean across the table and tell Allie everything since St. Patrick’s Day. It’s nice to get out, you have to admit. You hadn’t really told anybody the specifics of it.
"Shut up!" Allie yells, her voice echoing off the high ceilings.
Several students at nearby tables immediately turn around and glare, issuing annoyed shushes. Allie quickly raises her hands, mouthing a breathless “Sorry, sorry," to the room before lunging back over the table toward you, her eyes wide and vibrating with excitement.
"Okay, so why the awkwardness?" she whispers in confusion. "If you guys finally crossed that line, why have you been acting like passing acquaintances all summer?"
"Because I ran out on him, Allie," you admit, the vulnerability cracking through your voice. "I’m scared of what it could mean. I'm terrified that it meant absolutely nothing to him—that it was just a fluke because we were close and emotional. Honestly, I’m even more scared if it does mean something to him."
Allie’s excited expression softens, shifting into one filled with empathy.
"Logan hurt me bad," you continue, your throat tightening. "It was hard enough trying to rebuild a basic friendship with him while carrying around the ghost of the love I used to feel. If that kiss was a mistake to him, it’ll kill me. But if he actually wants something more, it puts him in a position to hurt me worse than he ever has before. If we ruin it a second time, there’s no coming back from it. I just don't know if I can risk it. There’s no win for me here."
Allie studies you for a long moment, nodding slowly. As someone who knows exactly how intense and complicated the boys in that hockey house can be, she understands you perfectly.
"Look, you are well within your rights to never want to give him that type of access to your heart again," Allie says gently, reaching out to give your hand a supportive squeeze. "Protecting yourself is smart. But I also want you to know. . . he’s been drowning in it. All summer, whenever your name came up, he looked like he was physically aching. He’s been trying so hard to make up for his mistakes, even from a distance."
You look down at your color-coded planner, letting out a long, heavy breath. "I'll sleep on it."
"You do that," Allie smiles softly, tapping the cover of your textbook to break the depressive mood. "Now, let's get started on this syllabus breakdown, because at the rate we're going, we won't be leaving this library until two in the morning."
The beauty of September always manages to make Briar look like a beautiful postcard, even when your chest feels like it’s being squeezed by a vice.
A few days have passed since your conversation with Allie in the library. You’ve slept on it—or rather, tossed and turned over it—and decided that you refuse to let the ghost of a four-month-old kiss dictate the trajectory of your entire senior year. You want a clean slate. You want to start this school year anew.
You pull out your phone, navigating to your contacts. His name is still saved in your phone under a remnant of your freshman year—johnny boy 🦭—a silly inside joke from a weekend trip you’d completely forgotten about until now.
can we talk? you type, the screen glowing against the overcast afternoon.
You barely have time to lock your screen before your phone buzzes in your palm.
that sentence is never followed by anything good
An unbidden laugh escapes you. Before you can even type a snarky reply back, his contact photo fills your screen and your phone starts vibrating with an incoming call. You slide the green bar to answer, pressing the phone to your ear.
"Hey," his voice comes through the receiver. You can hear that he’s slightly breathless, almost unnoticeably, but you pick up on it, able to tell that he’s already moving. "Yeah, we can talk. Where are you? I’ll meet you."
“Where are you?" you counter, adjusting your tote bag.
"Are you on my trail?" he asks, a hint of a tease in his voice.
You roll your eyes, though a smile tugs at your lips. "No, that’s my trail that you stole and started using, John."
Logan chuckles through the line, the sound cutting through all your lingering anxieties. "Fair enough. Guess I’ll meet you in the middle."
The campus around you perfectly encapsulates early-semester energy—freshmen traveling in packs, girls in oversized university sweatshirts carrying iced matcha lattes, and a lone guy near the physics building trying, and failing, to ride a bicycle. You don't look at any of them. Your eyes are fixed entirely on the gravel path that snakes toward the edge of campus, the direction that invariably leads toward Malone’s.
He comes into view soon after that.
He’s wearing a black compression shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing the tan forearms you know far too well. He slows his pace as he closes the distance, his intense gaze locking onto yours.
"Hey," he greets quietly, stopping a few feet away.
Without a word, you both turn and resume walking side by side. Neither of you explicitly states where you’re going, but your feet know the route by heart. The midday sun peeks through the turning maple leaves, casting dappled, golden shadows across the pavement.
You take a breath, trying to calm yourself, before tilting your head up. "How was your summer?"
Logan lets out a sudden, amused huff, shaking his head. "Is that really what you wanted to talk about?"
You shrug, shifting your gaze back to the path ahead. "Just breaking the ice. Things have been. . . weird. And thank you for the coffee the other day, by the way. Allie gave it to me."
He nods, his expression turning a little more serious. "No problem. Glad it was right." He walks a few more paces, then raises a dark eyebrow at you, his eyes searching your face. "Weird because of. . .?”
"Because you ran over my cat," you remark, your voice dripping with sarcasm. You huff, forcing the elephant out of the room. "The kiss, dork."
The ghost of a smile flits across his face, but it quickly fades into something attentive. He doesn't immediately jump in with a defense. He seems to be purposefully waiting on you to speak, deliberately granting you control over how to navigate the wreckage of that night.
You deeply appreciate the gesture—it proves he's trying to respect you—but a stubborn part of you was secretly hoping he’d be the one to lay his cards on the table first. But then again, if he didn't say what you wanted to hear, you know exactly how badly it would sting. So, you take the leap.
"I think the weirdness is just because we didn’t address it," you say honestly. "We just let it sit there all summer."
Logan stops walking completely, turning his body to face you. The sunlight catches the amber flecks in his eyes. "I know I crossed a line," he acknowledges, his tone lacking everything but sincerity. You wonder how long he’s been waiting to speak to you about this. "You trusted me to just be your friend again, and I. . . I couldn't control myself. I failed you on that. And the last thing I ever want is for things to be permanently broken between us, because I can’t imagine my life without you in it. But the ball is in your court. Whatever you need from me, I'll do it."
You look at him, translating his words through the protective filter you built around your heart over the winter. It was a lapse of judgement. He wants to stay friends. He wants to make sure he hasn't ruined the safety of the group, the comfort of the house. Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe protecting yourself means keeping him exactly where he is.
"I'd really like to be friends again," you tell him, a raw smile finally breaking through your defenses. "But the proper way. The way where we can actually be honest with each other without holding anything back. I don't want to spend the rest of senior year making you feel like I'm just waiting on you to fuck up again." You tilt your head, a playful spark returning to your eyes. "I mean. . . you don't intend to fuck up again, do you?"
A flash of his classic, witty charm returns to his eyes, a soft smirk breaking through his serious expression. "Not exactly part of the plan, no."
You giggle, the tight knot of anxiety that has lived in your stomach for months finally unraveling. "Good."
Standing there on the trail, you look at Logan and realize how exhausted you are of keeping him at a distance. You slowly raise your arms, opening them up in a silent, clear signal.
Logan doesn't hesitate for a second. He steps into your space, his large, solid arms snaking securely around your waist as he pulls you flush against his chest. He buries his face directly into the crook of your neck, his chest letting out a long, shuddering exhale as if he’s finally allowed to breathe after months of being underwater. He holds you tight, his fingers digging slightly into the fabric of your jacket, completely drunk on the familiar scent of your perfume. He hadn’t realized he’d been starving for it.
You bring your hands up, your fingers automatically finding the short, soft hairs at the nape of his neck, massaging the skin in a rhythm that is so deeply ingrained in your muscle memory it feels like breathing.
"I missed us," you whisper into his shoulder.
The real us, you think. The version of you that remained untouched by the sting of unrequited love, and the version of him who hadn’t yet learned the torture of being so close, yet holding so little.
The depressing scent of roasted turkey, expensive cologne, and forced pleasantries always lingers in the carpets of your childhood home, long overstaying its welcome.
Christmas has always been a complicated beast. Usually, if Jules and Logan’s mother is in rehab—which she is again this year—Logan and Jules migrate over to your place. You hate coming home. There’s an unspoken rule between you and Logan, a mutual understanding he has anticipated since you were kids. Every holiday spent under this roof invariably ends the exact same way: the two of you slipping away to the quiet sanctuary that was the roof, talking about things that don't matter in the slightest just to drown out the things that do.
You had broken that decade-long tradition last year when you packed a bag and left the country, fleeing the aftermath of your fallout. At the time, you had been so far away, so completely suffocated by your own hurt, that you hadn't let yourself think about what he was doing. But tonight, the guilt is all you can feel. Your older sister had been the one to give you that final push to take the vacation, swearing that you deserved it. She’d handled your parents alone so you wouldn't have to.
Your parents aren't bad people. You know you're luckier than most. But they possess a rare talent that is sweeping everything under the rug. They’ve done it to their marriage for decades, and inevitably, they do it to you. The house is always charged with unresolved resentment that you can only stomach for a few hours before you feel yourself teetering on the edge of actual insanity. To make matters worse, they love to host, packing the dining room with distant relatives and neighborhood acquaintances for a meal.
But you and Logan are back to normal now. Not the normal that lasted a few weeks after St. Patrick’s Day, but the bond you shared before the STEM showcase. The friendship has rebuilt its walls, sturdy and comfortable.
Still, you didn't think he’d be up for the roof tonight. Things are different now. Two years ago, you hadn't fallen out. You hadn't made up. You hadn't made out against his desk until your lungs burned. You weren't even sure if you wanted to go up there, afraid the ghosts of those memories would choke you. But by ten o'clock, the laughter downstairs is too loud, the adults are draining the life out of you, and the guests show absolutely no signs of leaving.
You climb out the hallway window, fully expecting the dark expanse of the roof to be empty.
Instead, someone is already lying flat on his back against the slope.
"You're in my spot," you say, your voice cutting through the crisp November air.
Logan doesn't lift his head, his eyes fixed on the stars. "I was here first."
"This is my house," you counter, crossing your arms against the chill.
He tilts his head toward you, a slow, familiar smirk tugging at his lips in the moonlight. "Touché."
He scoots over, making room on the thick wool blanket he’s already laid down. You kick off your shoes, the cold air biting through your socks, and lie down right next to him. The proximity is natural, his shoulder nearly brushing yours.
"What’s got you up here?" Logan asks quietly.
"The usual," you sigh, staring up at the dark sky. "Not to mention a dozen different adults asking me if I'm still a STEM major. They keep hitting me with that patronizing look, telling me it's 'super hard' and that I should switch to something simpler. Like a nurse or a teacher." You let out a dry, irritated chuckle. "Which is completely wrong in itself, because I tried being a substitute teacher once to make extra cash and that shit was horrifying. I don’t know how they do it. Don’t even get me started on nurses. I’ll take coding over the stuff they deal with any day."
Logan lets out a hearty laugh, the sound warming you. You glance over, suddenly realizing how fast the words had poured out of you.
"Sorry," you murmur, a slight flush hitting your cheeks. "I guess I’m surprisingly passionate about the labor conditions of nurses and teachers."
"Don't be sorry," he says, his eyes turning to meet yours in the dark. "It’s a respectable passion. And a true one."
You let out a soft breath, your shoulders dropping. "I'm just so tired of the interrogation. Last year was a serious relief."
A sudden, uncomfortable silence falls over the two of you, the mention of last year hanging in the cold air like frost. You hesitate, the question slipping past your lips before you can stop it. "Were you up here alone last year?"
Logan is silent for a long moment, his chest rising and falling slowly. "Yeah," he confesses. "My mom was downstairs, but. . . it got to be too much. Jules is always way more forgiving with her, so it's easier for them to just smile through it. But at a certain point, I felt like I was completely pretending. I needed some air. Your parents were out on the balcony with some family friends, so your sister saw me. She read my face and let me up."
Your heart aches, a sharp pang of regret hitting you. "I'm sorry I wasn't there."
Logan immediately shakes his head, his jaw clenching slightly. "Nothing for you to be sorry about. You deserved that trip after everything. It was the only thing that made me feel better that night. That you were away from me, from everything.”
You swallow the lump in your throat, turning your head to look at his profile. "Well, you’ve made up for things. Honestly, I can’t remember the last time you’ve actually said no to me."
"I’m a changed man," he says, a faint, melancholic edge to his voice.
"I'm still not entirely convinced," you tease with a grin.
"Ah, but look at what I swiped from the kitchen."
You sit up on your elbows, watching as he reaches towards something to the side of him, pulling out an unopened glass bottle of sparkling cider.
A rush of pure nostalgia hits you so hard it makes you sick. In a good way. When you were ten years old, the two of you used to spend both Christmas and Thanksgiving hiding in your parents' bedroom upstairs, watching television while the adults conversed downstairs. Your older sister and Jules would always fall asleep on the rug, and the two of you had snuck a peek at Adult Swim. There was a clip of two characters passing a bottle of wine back and forth, sharing the deepest, heaviest secrets of their lives.
Naturally, at ten, you couldn't drink alcohol. So, you had successfully smuggled a bottle of Welch's sparkling cider from the pantry as your stand-in booze, migrated out onto this exact same roof, and talked about your lives. Back then, your tragedies consisted of stupid elementary school crushes and how badly your hands blistered from the monkey bars. You still had the beginnings of your familial issues, of course, but they hadn't yet grown into the giants they are today.
And even as the years went by, you knew Logan was wary about drinking because of his mother's alcoholism. He never said it, but you just knew. So, you had never upgraded the tradition to real alcohol, even when you both became heavily accustomed to drinking at Briar parties. The cider stayed.
It was an intimate tradition, but it had always been your normal. Yet, looking at the glass bottle now, the history of this past year presses heavily between you. Passing a bottle back and forth, sharing mouthpieces—it feels dangerously close to kissing. Which is a terrifying thought, considering the fact that you had actually kissed now. It shouldn't feel weirder, but it does.
Logan carefully peels off the shiny gold wrapping from the top of the bottle, the metallic crinkle loud in the quiet night. He pops the top and extends it toward you, his eyes glimmering.
"Ladies first," he murmurs.
A soft smile finally breaks across your face. You reach out, your fingers briefly brushing against his warm hand as you take the heavy glass. "A changed man and a gentleman."
You tilt your head back, taking a long swig of the sweet, bubbly liquid, letting the familiar taste wash over the residual bitterness of the evening. You lower the bottle, wiping your lip with the back of your hand, and pass it right back to him.
There is a silence that blankets the roof after that. You both just lay there, staring up at the starry sky, listening to the hollow rustle of the wind. It’s mostly quiet since it’s late December and the insects have long since died off. There is nothing but the two of you and the synchronized rhythm of your breathing. It’s painfully intimate.
So much so, that a question you’ve been keeping locked behind your teeth for months finally slips past your lips.
"Why’d you kiss me, Logan?"
He doesn’t turn his head, but in the corner of your eye, you see his chest hitch. The bottle of cider pauses halfway to his mouth.
"Why do you ask?" he asks, attempting to keep his voice level but failing.
"We talked about it. We closed that case," you whisper, your eyes tracing a constellation. "But I avoided asking you why. I didn't want to know."
"I think I have to." You reach out, your hand brushing his as you take the glass bottle back from him. It’s halfway empty now. You two grew, but the bottle didn’t. It always got emptier quicker now. You don’t drink it yet, you just hold it tightly against your stomach. "You know. . . I was in love with you."
You feel the exact moment his gaze snaps to you, heavy and burning, but you refuse to look back. You keep your eyes glued to the sky.
"I had it bad," you continue, a reminiscent smile on your lips. "And it was really no help that I happened to realize those feelings right when you started becoming this hot-shot athlete. You suddenly grew seven inches in the span of a few months, and suddenly everyone’s eyes were on you. And then we both got into Briar. It was just you and me again in a completely new place. We were terrified, but we had each other. Then you made the starting line. I was so incredibly happy for you, Logan. But I felt invisible again. It wasn’t your fault. Well. . . not until. . . you know."
Sometime during your rambling, your hands had found each other. It was an act so deeply instinctual, so practiced over a decade of shared life, that you couldn't even remember who had reached out first. But it felt entirely right. His large thumb slowly swipes across the top of your knuckles, a tender, soothing caress that coaxes a shaky breath from your lungs. The touch gives you the courage to finally take another sip of the cider.
"I’m saying all this to tell you why I was so distant after the kiss," you murmur, passing the bottle back. "I’d gotten over it. I’d gotten over you. Then that night in your room happened, and the levee completely broke. I didn’t know how to feel. If I let you in like that, I’m putting you in a position to hurt me again. More than ever before. And I just. . . I wasn’t sure if it was worth it." You swallow hard, feeling him shift beside you. "Please don’t say anything. I’m not asking you to. I think I’ve just been needing to say it out loud."
Logan stares at your profile, the words cutting straight through him, leaving an ache in his chest that feels entirely too large for his midsection. He never truly understood how long you’d been waiting on him to finally open his stupid eyes. Hearing the timeline straight from you—realizing you had loved him through his awkward growth spurts, through the uncomfortable transition to college, through his own blind selfishness—leaves him entirely breathless.
Whether or not you blame him for the timing, he blames himself entirely. He wants nothing more than to roll over, cup your jaw, and tell you exactly how he feels. He wants to tell you that his year of being desperately in love with you feels like a drop in the ocean compared to the years you spent waiting for him. He wonders if it felt as suffocating for you as it does for him now, a relentless squeeze that leaves him completely breathless at the most random times of the day. He wonders if your chest used to tighten to the point of pain whenever he smiled at someone else, or if your voice used to catch in your throat whenever he walked into a room, your heart performing a violent, erratic dance that you had to frantically mask behind a casual eye-roll.
He wonders if you spent your nights staring at your bedroom ceiling, completely consumed by the memory of a fleeting, accidental touch—a hand lingering a second too long on a shoulder, a knee brushing against yours under a crowded table—wondering if it meant everything or absolutely nothing at all.
Logan wonders because that’s all he feels with you. He knows what it feels like to have your entire world narrow down to a single person, to have your happiness entirely tethered to the slight curve of their lips or the tone of their voice. He knows the terror that comes with wanting to offer someone everything you are, while simultaneously knowing they are the one person who possesses the exact power to ruin you.
It’s an absolute haunting, he realizes. To love someone this deeply is to be entirely stripped of your armor. He wonders if you felt that same frightening vulnerability every time you looked at him over the last few years, and he hates himself a little bit more for making you carry that weight all by yourself for so long. He hates that you felt as though you could never tell him.
He wants to look into your eyes and tell you that he does think it’s worth it—that love is always worth the risk, if it’s the right one.
But he can't do that to you. Not tonight. Not when you've just handed him your rawest vulnerability and explicitly asked him to just listen.
Instead, Logan takes the cider from your fingers and takes a large gulp of it, using the fizzy liquid to swallow down his confession.
"I miss when our biggest problem was getting to the swings during recess before everyone else," you say, shifting the conversation to steer you both back to safer ground.
A chuckle escapes his chest. "Tiffany Stone always did get there first."
"Yeah," you reply. "But then she’d give it up the second you asked."
"To be fair," he glances over at you, his eyes crinkling, "I’d give it to you right after."
"That didn’t land very well with her," you note, the memory of it painting itself in your mind.
"No," he agrees, rolling your head on the blanket to face you fully. "No, it did not. It landed pretty well with you, though. We stayed friends for another ten years."
"Thank you, Tiffany Stone," you whisper to the night sky.
Logan smiles, a quiet, comfortable silence falling between the two of you once more as the bottle passes back to your hands.
You had told him that it didn't feel worth the risk. And maybe Logan could be content with just having your hand in his for now. But deep down, as the warmth of your fingers laced through his settled into his bones, he knew that love—loving you—was worth every single petrifying risk the universe could throw at him.
By the time your friends finally decide enough is enough, it’s New Year’s Eve. The hockey house is destined to host a massive, sweeping rager to close out the year, but the real countdown isn't for midnight—it’s for the two of you.
For the past month, both the boys and the girls had been forced to watch you and Logan pretend that things weren’t radically different. To your credit, you sold the "just friends" act incredibly well. Maybe you even believed it. But knowing how you two actually felt about one another and trying to let nature take its course was beginning to get exhausting for the audience. It was a classic case of miscommunication. If left alone, it would either end with one of you breaking the friendship because staying "just friends" was too painful—most likely you—or the silence would just swallow you both whole.
It was senior year. They needed to orchestrate a collision.
So, they devised a multi-step plan. Phase one: isolate and implant the thought.
Phase one began with Logan.
He tended to zone out during practice. Not in a way that affected his play—he was still a lethal starting forward—but if you planted an idea in his head right before a drill, he would chew on it like a dog with a bone for the next two hours.
The team is running a grueling line-change scrimmage, skates slashing against the ice, the thud of hockey pucks hitting the boards echoing through the rink. They’d been talking about the party, and naturally—the conversation drifts over to you.
Logan skates hard off the ice, chest heaving, and slams his stick against the bench as he sits down next to Dean.
Dean doesn’t even look at him, casually squirting water into his mouth, and saying, "Hear she’s planning on kissing someone tonight."
Logan freezes, his water bottle hovering inches from his face. He blinks, the sweat dripping from his forehead. "What? Who?"
"Dunno," Dean shrugs, staring blankly out at the ice. "Heard it from Allie. Apparently, she’s trying to find a New Year’s kiss."
"Why the hell are you telling me this?" Logan snaps, a sudden, ugly flare of panic rising in his throat.
Garrett skates up to the bench, spraying shaved ice over their skates, and leaned over the boards. He catches the tail of Logan’s reply, but he’s well aware of what the discussion had been about. "Don't be dumb, Logan. We all know you’re head over heels for her. You look like a kicked puppy every time she leaves a room."
"Shut up, Garrett," Logan speaks through a clenched jaw.
"Line two, out!" Coach Jensen bellows.
Dean stands up, tapping Logan’s shin guards with his stick. "Look, man, the friendship is gonna crash and burn anyway if you don't tell her how you feel. You can't keep doing this half-and-half bullshit." Dean hops over the boards and glides into the play.
Logan sits back, his heart hammering against his ribs. When the next whistle blows, Tucker skates off, taking Dean's place on the bench. He doesn’t waste any time. "You can’t keep using the missed window as an excuse, man.”
"It’s too late, Tuck," Logan mutters, staring at his gloves. "She told me that a few days ago. She used to be in love with me. Used to."
"The wording was loose, bro," Tucker counters, unstrapping his helmet to wipe his face. "Feelings like that don't just evaporate into thin air. What did she actually say to you on the roof? That she wasn't sure if love was worth the risk?"
Garrett chimes back in from the other side, leaning back. "Exactly. She didn't say no. She said she was scared. I feel like she’s basically giving you a roadmap, idiot. She’s telling you to show her otherwise."
"And if not," Dean shouts as he skated past the bench on a line change, "at least you won’t have this heavy weight on your shoulders until you’re gray and old because of what could have been!"
Tucker slaps Logan hard on his shoulder pads, pushing him toward the ice. "Go. Kiss the girl, Logan. Before someone else does."
Logan hops the boards, his skates hitting the ice with a weighty clack. As he glides into the offensive zone, his mind is entirely somewhere else. His friends are right. The realization drills into his skull with every stride. He has to do something tonight.
The second part of phase one ends with you.
While the boys are completing their hockey-bench therapy session, Allie and Hannah are executing their half of the operation.
They had invited you out for a casual brunch at a cafe near campus. You, bless your sweet soul, genuinely thought it was just a kind, stress-free girls' day to kick off the holiday. You are happily tearing into a croissant when the conversation shifts toward the rager scheduled for that evening.
"So, how are we spending the midnight countdown?" you ask, wiping a bit of jam from your thumb. "I’m probably gonna have to be eating grapes by myself this time around.”
A guilty look passes between Allie and Hannah. Two years ago, the three of you had crammed yourself under a dining table at midnight, eagerly shoving twelve grapes into your mouths for good luck in love. The tradition seemed to have a two-thirds success rate, considering Allie and Hannah had locked down six-foot-plus hockey players the following year, while you’re still single.
"Look," you laugh softly, stirring sugar into your coffee. "I won't be offended if you guys want to spend midnight with your boyfriends this year. I can survive the countdown alone."
Allie and Hannah’s faces light up so fast you’d think they had won the lottery.
You pause, your spoon hovering. "Damn. You guys really wanted to get away from me, huh?"
"No! Oh my god, no," Hannah brushes it off quickly, waving her hand a little too frantically. "We love you. It’s just. . . you know, New Year’s romance and all that."
"Right," you murmur, squinting at them. They’re acting incredibly weird.
Allie clears her throat loudly, leaning forward and casually playing with her plastic straw. "You know. . . the upstairs balcony at the house has a beautiful view of the campus fireworks. Hardly anyone goes up there because everyone assumes the second floor is totally off-limits during parties."
Hannah nods rapidly, taking a bite of her avocado toast. "Totally. You should really spice things up this year. If, by some random chance, a cute guy wanders up there. . . you should make him your midnight kiss."
They’re awful at being subtle. Lucky for them, you’re awful at picking up on their ulterior motives.
You stare at them, completely deadpan. "You want me to kiss a total stranger?"
"You only live once, girl," Allie says, shrugging with a practiced air of casualness.
"Yes, a total stranger," Hannah continues, leaning in. "As long as he’s cute. It’s a good way to start the new year—a clean slate."
"Absolutely not," you laugh, shaking your head. "Do you guys not fear mono? Because I definitely fear mono. I am not locking lips with some random frat guy who has spent the last four hours drinking jungle juice out of a trash can."
"Don't write it off yet," Allie teases, kicking your foot under the table. "The grapes under the table are a total cop-out. You need real luck."
"Easy for you two to say," you joke, gesturing between the two of them. "You’ve successfully locked down starting line athletes."
"Who knows?" Hannah offers a mysterious, cat-like smile. "Maybe you’ll catch a real prize on the balcony tonight."
"Yeah," you roll your eyes, leaning back in your chair. "Or a very drunk guy who is trying to find a quiet place to puke."
Even though you don’t explicitly say it, Allie and Hannah exchange a quick, victorious glance across the table. The thought has been planted. You’re officially considering the balcony. Now, they just have to make sure the right guy is waiting for you when the clock strikes midnight.
You’ve spent the last few hours of the night silently debating Allie and Hannah’s ridiculous brunch pitch. It is slightly pathetic, but then again, a New Year’s kiss is a completely normal tradition. You had one last year during your solo vacation with some attractive European guy. It had been a phenomenal kiss, you’d never spoken to him again, and the world hadn't ended. Who was to say you couldn't just replicate that effortless, zero-stakes energy tonight?
Downstairs, Logan has spent the exact same hours doing everything in his power to ensure his staring isn’t incredibly obvious. Every time you cross the living room, his eyes track you. You seem focused, hyper-fixated on the crowds, and it is driving him absolutely insane wondering if you’re scouting out the person you plan on kissing. He spent the night sizing up every guy in your vicinity, concluding under a heavily biased lens that not a single one of them is worthy of being near you.
Logan is trapped in a brutal internal war. Is it nobler to be selfless and let you move on, or to be selfish and finally tell you how he feels, knowing it could open a can of worms? But then he realizes the ultimate irony: isn’t it actually selfish not to grant you the right to make that choice yourself? To assume he knows what’s best for your heart without even asking? His head is spinning.
By 11:50, the countdown is turning the house into a pressure cooker of anticipation. Your European-stranger plan has officially lost its appeal; you just want a familiar face to ring in the midnight slot. You start scanning the crowd for Tucker, figuring a comfortable, safe friend is exactly what you need.
But Tucker is nowhere to be found.
Unbeknownst to you, the entire friend group banished Tucker to the freezing garage. They know your exact habits. They knew that instead of heading to the balcony, you would try to find a safety-blanket friend to sit out the countdown with. If Tucker vanishes, and Allie and Hannah are locked at the hip with their respective boyfriends, your only remaining option for quiet air is the upstairs balcony. Tucker, extremely loyal to the cause, had willingly sacrificed his warmth, clutching a beer bottle under the garage rafters.
At 11:52, you finally give up the search and head up the stairs.
From across the kitchen island, Logan watches your retreating back. Garrett and Dean soon flank him, watching the conflict twisting his features. Logan sits on the arm of the couch, twitching uncomfortably for two solid minutes while the clock ticks closer to midnight. Garrett looks ready to physically throw him up the staircase by his collar.
Finally, with a low curse, Logan stands up and makes a break for the stairs.
Once given the green light, Tucker slips back inside from the garage, lifting his beer toward the group. "Here’s to hoping this actually works."
The circle clinks their cups in a tight, triumphant circle. Allie takes a sip of her drink, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. "If they don’t come downstairs holding hands, I’m literally gonna go insane.”
You have to admit, Allie hadn't lied to you. It is beautiful up here. The bass of the house thumps beneath your shoes, reminding where you are, but the air on the balcony is fresh, and best of all, entirely free of people.
You lean your forearms against the wooden railing, your fingers mindlessly tracing the woven knots of the friendship bracelet on your wrist. On your trek up here, you passed Logan’s bedroom. His door had been flung wide open—another deliberate piece of staging by your friends that you completely overlooked. You slipped inside, your eyes landing on the desk, and you’d swept the bracelet into your pocket before your brain could talk you out of it.
Logan had never asked if you wanted it back after everything. You didn't blame him, considering the emotional detonation that had occurred the last time you held it. Yet, here you are, wearing it anyway. You can feel the truth press itself into your chest as it sinks into your brain: you don’t want to kiss a stupid stranger tonight. You want Logan up here. You want him looking at the city lights beside you.
Below the balcony, the massive crowd in the backyard is beginning to gather, faces tilted toward the night sky, waiting for the clock to run out.
At 11:55, the click of the balcony door cuts through the cold air. Someone joins you.
Your shoulders tense. You keep your eyes locked strictly on the distant horizon, refusing to look over. You’re under absolutely no obligation to kiss whoever this is, but a stubborn, pathetic part of you is terrified of confirming that it isn’t the one person you actually want. The unknown person steps up to the railing next to yours.
Instantly, a familiar, comforting wave of body heat wraps around your left side. There’s no overwhelming reek of stale jungle juice or cheap liquor—just the familiar scent of cedarwood, winter air, and the exact soap you’ve smelled on his skin for the last ten years. Maybe your mind is playing tricks on you.
At 11:56, his voice breaks the silence.
"I didn't think you’d be alone out here."
Your head snaps around, surprise instantly painting your features. John Logan is standing there, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his hair slightly rumpled by the winter wind. It’s the exact thing you just wished for, but seeing him in the flesh makes your throat instantly go dry. It’s a hell of a lot harder to execute a casual New Year’s plan when the boy in question is Logan.
You quickly force your eyes back toward the city skyline, swallowing the sudden lump in your throat. "Allie and Hannah told me the view up here was beautiful. Turns out they were right. It’s stunning.”
Logan doesn’t look at the sky. He just stares at the side of your face, his eyes set on you. "Yeah," he murmurs, "They were."
The moment you turn your head to meet his gaze, he sharply tears his eyes away, suddenly looking out at the horizon as a sudden realization begins to dawn on him. He starts tracing the math of the evening—the guys’ sudden on-ice warnings, Allie and Hannah recommending this intimate space to you, Tucker’s abrupt disappearance.
You’re tracking the exact same breadcrumbs in your own mind. The wide-open bedroom door. The insistence on the balcony.
The realization hits you both at the exact same time.
"They set us up," you both say, your voices speaking in a synchronized harmony.
A sudden, laugh breaks from Logan’s chest, and the crushing pressure of the night finally fractured. You let out a soft chuckle of your own, shaking your head at the odd yet admirable creativity of your friends.
"Tucker’s in the garage, isn't he?" you mutter, leaning back against the railing.
"One hundred percent," Logan smiles, though the humor quickly fades from his eyes as he looks back down at you.
It’s 11:59. The countdown is vibrating through the very floorboards beneath your feet, and with the humor gone, the proximity between you becomes all the more apparent.
He’s well aware that it’s now or never.
Logan takes a single step closer, completely closing the gap until his shoulder is brushing against yours.
"I don't want to be selfless anymore," Logan whispers suddenly, the words rushing out of him as if he’s running out of time. He reaches out, his large hand warming yours where it rests on the railing. "I spent the whole night trying to convince myself that letting you go was the right thing to do. But I can't. I'm too selfish."
Your heart suddenly begins to thump frantically against your ribs, your breath hitching in your throat. "Logan. . .”
The backyard below erupts into a deafening, unified roar, the collective voices of a bunch of people beginning the final descent of the year.
"I'm in love with you," he confesses, the raw truth finally out in the air. He steps fully into your space, his other hand rising to gently, desperately cup your jaw, his thumb smoothing over your cheekbone just like he had before. Only this time, he isn’t trembling. He seems entirely solid. "I loved you when you offered your friendship back. I loved you when we kissed that night in May. I loved you when you poured your heart out to me on that roof as we passed a bottle back and forth. And I know you're scared. I know I put that fear in you. But I swear to god, I will spend every single day of my life proving to you that it's worth the risk. Just let me show you."
The sky above explodes into a magnificent, deafening canopy of brilliant whites, greens, and golds, the thunder of the fireworks echoing across the roof.
But you don’t look at the sky.
You look at John Logan, the boy who has held your heart in his careless hands for years, the boy who is currently looking at you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. The fear is still there, a tiny ache in your chest—but looking at the vulnerability in his eyes, you realize you don’t want to be safe anymore.
"Show me," you whisper against his lips.
Logan doesn’t waste another second. He leans down, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that completely obliterates every single month of silence, separation, and yearning that had built up between you.
It isn’t like the slow, tentative kiss on his desk. This is consuming, intense, but completely devoid of uncertainty. Logan lets out a ragged groan into your mouth, his arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you so tightly against his chest that the air leaves your lungs. His fingers massage the back of your neck, holding you there, deepening the kiss as the fireworks thunder overhead.
The familiar taste of him, the safety of his embrace, the desperate way his hands hold onto you—it was everything you had been drowning without. You reach up, your fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you at all. You’re kissing him back with all you have left, completely surrendering to the emotions that have long made their mark on you.
When he finally breaks the kiss for air, he doesn’t pull away. He rests his forehead against yours, both of your breaths coming in short, ragged puffs of white mist in the winter air. His hand remains on the back of your neck, his thumb soothing your lower cheek.
Logan lets out a breathless, disbelieving laugh, a massive smile breaking across his face in the flashing light of the fireworks. "I guess that means you like me too.”
You look up at him, a radiant smile of your own finally clearing away the last of the shadows. You hit his chest. “Don’t push it, dork.”
Logan chuckles, the sound cozy against your mouth, his eyes squinting. But as the laughter dies down, his gaze softens. He captures your hand—the one that just hit his chest—and laces his fingers through yours, pressing your knuckles right over his heart.
"I mean it," he murmurs. "I'm not going anywhere."
You look at your intertwined hands, the last of your fears melting away into the cold night. You tilt your head up, meeting his eyes with a serious but soft look. "I'm giving you my heart, John Logan. Don’t break it."
Logan leans down, pressing one more soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your smile. "I wouldn't dream of it."
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