hey!

write the worries away. 

[probuccalfat]

dead serious normalize having an average boring ass life where you have enough to meet your needs we do not need to be remarkable we just need to be alive

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ i've got you.

pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader summary – a bad loss, a worse party, and garrett finding out exactly what kind of man used to make someone he cares about feel small. warnings – angst, emotional abuse references, slut-shaming, public humiliation, violence, physical fight, blood, strong language notes from me – i promised garrett would find out about her ex! based on this ask, thank u babe! word count – 6.5k

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The party is technically still a party, in the way a body is technically still alive when it’s lying very still and making everyone else uncomfortable. There’s music coming from the living room speakers, and the kitchen is full, and someone has already knocked over half a case of beer near the back door, but the usual post-game buzz hasn’t properly taken. 

The loss has followed the boys home like bad weather, clinging to the sharp set of Garrett’s jaw and the bruise darkening near Logan’s cheekbone and the way Dean keeps drinking. Even Tucker, who can usually make a room feel less like it wants to bite itself, has been standing at the counter for ten minutes making tiny sandwiches with the grim focus of a man assembling evidence.

“Don’t call them tiny sandwiches,” Tucker says, responding to something Logan had said that she'd missed. “They’re dippables.”

There's a beat of silence so beautiful and complete that she almost respects the universe for giving it to them.

Then Dean says, “I’m sorry, what the fuck did you just call them?”

Garrett laughs behind her, low and warm against the back of her shoulder, and the sound loosens something in her chest that had been sitting there since she spotted Nathan by the beer pong table twenty minutes ago. 

Garrett’s sitting on the kitchen counter behind her, one knee hooked loosely at either side of her hips while she stands between his legs with her back tipped into him like it happened by accident and not because his hand found her waist three seconds after she walked in and kept her there. 

He has a beer in one hand and the other at the back of her neck, thumb moving in slow, absent circles over the tender place where her shoulder meets her spine, like he’s decided her body is something he can keep track of without looking at it.

“They’re sandwiches, Tuck,” Logan says, leaning one hip against the island and reaching for one.

Tucker smacks his hand away. “They’re meant to be dipped. That’s the point.”

“In what?” she asks, because she loves Tucker and because she is weak.

Tucker brightens at her like he’s finally found a reasonable member of the group. “There’s au jus.”

Dean’s face twists. “There’s what?”

“Au jus,” Tucker repeats.

Garrett’s thumb pauses at the back of her neck. “Bro, did you make a French dip sandwich and then cut it into little slutty rectangles?”

She chokes on a laugh, and Tucker points at her with immediate betrayal. “Not you too. Don’t stoop to their level.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “Little slutty rectangles was actually a strong contribution.”

“Unbelievable,” Tucker mutters, turning back to his plate with the wounded dignity of someone surrounded by people too stupid to appreciate innovation. “Fine. None for any of you.”

Logan already has one halfway to his mouth. “Too late.”

It should be enough. This, Garrett’s knee warm against her thigh, Tucker in front of them with a plate of sandwiches he has emotionally overinvested in, Dean loose-limbed and loud, Logan eating in a way that suggests he has never once feared choking. 

It should be enough to keep her here, properly here, in the kitchen with the counter digging lightly into Garrett’s palm beside her hip and the whole house smelling like beer and aftershave and cheap chips and winter cold.

But every so often, her body remembers Nathan’s in the house. A quiet tightening under her skin whenever his voice comes close enough to recognise. The back of her throat going dry for half a second. Her stomach making one slow, unpleasant turn when she catches sight of him leaning in too close to some girl near the living room archway, smiling with that exact mouth he used to make her feel stupid for needing anything. 

She’s over him. She knows that. She has done the therapy-adjacent late-night self-reflection, the crying in the shower, the deleting screenshots, the learning how to take a compliment without waiting for it to become a trap. She's rebuilt too many little pieces of herself to mistake disgust for longing.

Still. Seeing him makes her feel like she needs to wash her hands. 

Garrett’s thumb presses a little more firmly into the back of her neck, and she realises, with a small, guilty jolt, that she’s gone still.

“Still sore from yesterday?” he murmurs, his mouth brushing the bare curve of her shoulder because her top has slipped slightly and because Garrett’s incapable of seeing available skin without acting like it exists for him personally.

She nods, letting the answer be easy because that’s what he’s asking about and because she would rather talk about a pulled shoulder than the way Nathan’s laugh keeps snagging at the edge of the room. “A little.”

Garrett’s hand shifts, fingers sliding beneath her hair to rub slow circles into the muscle. It hurts enough to make her inhale and feels good enough to make her want to lean back harder. “There?”

“Mhm.”

Dean watches the movement with narrowed eyes. “Are we witnessing foreplay or physiotherapy?”

“Could be both,” Garrett says.

“Clinical dual-purpose,” she adds, and Logan snorts hard enough to cough.

Tucker, because he’s the only person in the room with any decency, points a sandwich knife at all of them. “Can one kitchen interaction in this house not become sexual?”

“No,” Dean says immediately.

“No,” Logan agrees.

Garrett leans down and kisses the top of her shoulder, his grin pressing briefly into her skin. “Probably not.”

She laughs, and for one second it works. The room warms properly around her. Garrett’s body is solid behind her, his hand large and careful on her neck, and Nathan’s a thing somewhere else. A bad smell through a window. A person she used to know badly. Nothing more. Then he walks into the kitchen.

Nathan comes in with one of his friends behind him, shoulder first through the crowd, laughing at something already, like the house belongs to him because he’s decided to move through it. He looks the same in a way that feels almost rude. 

Same neat hair. Same watch he used to tap when she was late, even if late meant she'd stayed back on placement because someone coded and she couldn’t exactly tell a dying man to hurry up. Same pale blue button-down that probably took more effort than it wanted to admit. His eyes flick over the kitchen and land on her. Garrett’s hand stops moving.

It’s so quick she nearly misses it. Nathan’s gaze dips to where she’s standing between Garrett’s knees, to Garrett’s hand on her neck, to the easy, intimate line of her body leaning back into his. His mouth twitches.

She hates that she knows that twitch. He turns toward his friend as they pass the island, heading for the sink where half the drinks are buried in ice, and coughs something under his breath. Enough that it could be denied, just enough that the words are meant to land like spit without the inconvenience of accountability.

Dean hears something. She knows because the lazy angle of his body changes at once, his spine straightening, one hand dropping from the counter. “What’d you say, man?”

The kitchen thins in a way no one else seems to notice at first. Tucker looks up from the sandwiches. Logan’s chewing slows. Garrett’s fingers spread over the back of her neck.

Nathan looks back at Dean like he’s surprised to be addressed, which is rich, considering Nathan’s whole personality is built on saying things softly enough to make other people look crazy for reacting. “Nah, man. Nothing.”

Dean’s face goes very calm. It’s a bad calm. A Dean calm that belongs right before some guy at Malone’s realises he’s miscalculated the pretty one. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Nathan says, lifting both hands, one beer bottle hanging loose from his fingers. “Just grabbing a drink.”

Dean nods once. “Get the fuck outta my kitchen.”

Nathan’s friend mutters something, but Nathan only gives a thin little smile, the one that always used to make her stomach drop because it meant he would punish her later for something he had started. “All good,” he says, and backs out with the beer.

For a second, nobody speaks. The music from the living room fills the space badly. Someone yells at the TV even though the TV is only playing a muted sports recap. Garrett’s hand has moved from her neck to her waist, his arm coming around her middle like he’s pulled her back without thinking.

“What was that about?” Logan asks, eyes still on the doorway.

Dean looks at her for half a second, not long enough to make it obvious to everyone, but long enough that she knows. Long enough that something sour and hot slides down the back of her throat.

He heard. Maybe not all of it, but enough. Dean, who jokes like breathing is optional, looks at her like he’s measuring whether to tell Garrett and deciding, maybe, that detonating him in the kitchen is not the right play.

“Nothing,” Dean says, taking a drink and looking away first. “All good.”

It isn’t, but she lets him have the lie. Garrett’s chin lowers slightly, his mouth close to her ear. “You okay?”

She makes herself nod before her body can make a whole production out of it. “Yeah. Shoulder’s just being annoying.”

Garrett doesn’t believe her. She can feel that in the way his hand settles more securely over her stomach, palm warm through her top. But he lets it go for now, kissing her shoulder again, once, slower this time. “Same as yesterday?”

“Yeah.”

Logan blinks, grateful for the normal subject or maybe just willing to accept the one she hands them. “What’d you do?”

“Oh, uh.” She clears her throat and reaches for one of Tucker’s sandwiches mostly so her hand has a task. “Patient came in unconscious yesterday. We were shifting him from the gurney to the bed when he started waking up, and he moved weird, and I kind of caught the weight wrong.” She lifts one shoulder, immediately regrets it, and makes a face. “Tweaked it a little. It’s fine. Just stiff.”

“Jesus,” Tucker says, concern creasing his forehead. “You okay?”

“Yeah, genuinely. Nothing compared to you guys throwing yourselves into walls.”

“Hey,” Logan says. “We get scholarships for that.”

Garrett’s thumb resumes the slow work at her shoulder, but his body hasn’t relaxed behind her. His beer sits forgotten beside him on the counter now, sweating into a little ring. “You should’ve told me.”

“I did tell you.”

“After I noticed.”

“That still counts.”

“It counts less.”

She tips her head back against his chest to look up at him, forcing the corner of her mouth to lift because the alternative feels like letting Nathan keep something. “Are you going to be difficult about a stiff shoulder?”

Garrett looks down at her, jaw still tight, eyes too attentive. “I’m good at difficult.”

Dean makes a disgusted sound. “God, you two are nauseating.”

“You’re just jealous nobody wants to stand between your knees while you threaten medical neglect,” Logan says.

Dean crosses his arms. “Plenty of people want to stand between my knees.”

“Name two.”

“Your mom, for one.”

Logan throws a piece of bread at him. Tucker yells about waste. Garrett laughs against her hair, and she lets herself be folded back into the noise because the kitchen moves on around her, because Nathan is gone, because for a while that's enough.

The night loosens by degrees without ever becoming good. People keep drinking. The music gets louder as if volume can correct a bad final score. The boys split apart eventually, pulled into different conversations and arguments and games she doesn’t track. 

Garrett disappears toward the back porch with Logan and two guys from the team, his hand sliding off her waist only after he bends to murmur, “Come find me if your shoulder gets worse,” which makes Dean make such a vile kissing sound that Garrett shoves him on the way past.

She ends up in the living room with two girls from anatomy and one from her clinical group, talking about a professor who pronounces duodenum differently every lecture like he’s trying to keep them on their toes.

It helps. It really does. The room is warm and crowded, and someone has shoved a drink into her hand that she keeps forgetting to drink, and for ten full minutes she is almost normal.

Then Garrett’s voice cuts through the house. “The fuck did you just say to me?”

The conversation around her falters. Her head turns before she’s fully processed why her stomach has dropped. Garrett’s near the archway between the living room and hall, shoulders squared, one hand fisted at his side, the other pushing Nathan back by the chest hard enough that Nathan stumbles into someone behind him. Logan’s two steps away, already moving. Dean, by the couch, goes still in a way that makes the whole room feel suddenly smaller.

Nathan laughs. He’s drunk enough now that the edges of him are sloppy, his face flushed, hair falling out of its careful shape. “I’m just saying, bro. She’s fucking insane. You haven’t gotten to the part where she has a nervous breakdown every time–”

Garrett shoves him again. Harder. “Say that shit again.”

A low sound moves through the room, like everyone’s inhaled at once and forgotten the exhale.

“Garrett,” she says, but it disappears under the music and the blood rushing in her ears.

Nathan’s eyes flick past Garrett and land on her. It’s awful, how bright he gets when he sees her watching. Like this is what he wanted. Like all the soft, careful little comments, all the rumours, all the muttered half-words in kitchens and hallways and under his breath, had been leading toward the moment he could drag her into the middle of a room and make her feel sixteen inches tall again.

“There she is,” Nathan says, spreading his arms slightly. “Slut of the hour. Been wanting to talk to you.”

Her fingers go cold around her cup. Garrett turns his head just enough to see her face, and whatever is left of his restraint thins to a thread.

Nathan either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. His smile pulls wider. “Hey, Graham, does she do that thing when she sucks yo–”

Garrett hits him before the sentence finishes.

The sound is horrible. Clean and thick and immediate, Garrett’s fist catching Nathan square in the jaw with enough force to snap his head sideways and send his beer flying out of his hand.

For one suspended second, everyone freezes. Then Nathan’s friend lunges, Dean moves like someone released him from a leash, and the whole living room comes apart.

Dean catches Nathan’s friend by the shirt and drives him backward into the wall with a crash that knocks a picture frame crooked. Someone screams. Someone else yells, “Oh shit!” like they’re at a sporting event instead of watching a felony assemble itself in real time. 

Nathan swings wildly and catches Garrett’s shoulder, but Garrett barely seems to feel it. He shoves him back over the coffee table, follows him down, and the next punch lands against Nathan’s cheek. Then another. And another.

For half a second, some ugly, honest part of her likes it. It flares through her so fast she feels sick with it, hot and vindictive and horribly human. Nathan on the floor, finally not smiling. Nathan with his mouth split instead of using it. Nathan taking one clean consequence after months of turning her name into something dirty in other people’s mouths.

Then Garrett’s knuckles hit him again, and the thought snaps in half.

“Garrett!” She pushes forward, but the room is bodies and arms and spilled beer. “Garrett, stop!”

He doesn’t hear her. Or he hears and can’t get to it. His face isn’t the face from the kitchen, not the boy with his thumb at her shoulder and his beer forgotten beside him. His jaw is locked, eyes bright and empty with rage, every line of him driven toward the next punch like the world has narrowed to Nathan’s face and the words he almost got to finish.

This could be bad. The thought arrives clinical and brutal. His draft. The team. The school. Coach. Phil. The Bruins. Everything people are already waiting to hold against him because men like Garrett are allowed to be violent on the ice only when someone else is keeping score.

“Logan,” she says, grabbing his sleeve as he passes. Her voice cracks around the urgency of it. “Get him off!”

Logan looks at her once, then at Garrett, and whatever he sees makes his face go grim. “G!” He moves in fast, Tucker right behind him, both of them grabbing Garrett under the arms and around the shoulders. “Walk it off, man. Come on.”

Garrett bucks against them so hard Tucker swears, Garrett's elbow catching him in the ribs. “Did you hear him?” Garrett snaps, voice wrecked and furious. “You didn’t– did you fucking hear what he said?”

“I heard,” Logan says, jaw tight, hauling him back with everything he has. “I heard, okay? But you gotta walk it off.”

“He’s a piece of shit!”

“I know.”

“You didn’t hear what he said before–”

“I know,” Logan says again, sharper now, because Garrett’s still trying to surge forward and Nathan is coughing blood onto the carpet and Dean’s being dragged off Nathan’s friend by two defensemen who look like they’re not having a great time either. “Garrett. Look at me. You’re done. You hear me? You’re done.”

Garrett’s eyes cut to her.

The whole room seems to tilt around that look. He’s breathing hard, chest heaving, curls falling into his eyes, blood on his knuckles that might not be his. The rage is still there, hot and awful, but underneath it something else flickers when he finds her standing in the middle of the room with her cup still in her hand and her shoulder drawn too high and her mouth slightly open like she’s forgotten what shape to make.

For a second, he looks almost scared. Then Nathan groans from the floor, and Garrett surges again.

“Upstairs,” Tucker says, voice tight. “Get him upstairs.”

Dean, still red-faced and furious, points at Nathan from across the room while Beau keeps a hand on his chest. “Get that fucker out of my house.”

“Dean,” Logan snaps.

“No, get him the fuck out.”

Garrett’s shoved toward the stairs more than guided, Logan at his shoulder, Tucker at his back, both of them talking low and fast. Garrett keeps looking back. Not at Nathan now, at her. Like he can’t decide whether leaving her downstairs is another thing to be angry about.

She can’t move immediately. For three, maybe four seconds, she stands there while the room reorganises itself around the damage. Nathan’s friend is yelling. Dean’s yelling louder. Someone is crouching beside Nathan, asking if he can open his mouth, which makes her student nurse brain twitch with absurd, unwanted competence. 

The girls from anatomy are around her suddenly, one hand touching her elbow, another voice saying, “Hey, are you okay?” in that careful way people speak when they realise they’ve walked into someone else’s history without a map.

She looks at Nathan on the floor. There’s blood at the corner of his mouth. His eye is already swelling. He looks smaller than he used to. Or maybe he was always this size and she had just been made to feel so much smaller beside him that she forgot how to judge distance properly.

He turns his head slightly, makes eye contact with her and spits red onto the carpet. “Crazy bitch,” he mutters.

The girl beside her inhales sharply. Something in her goes very still, a clean little line drawn through the middle of her body.

She sets her cup down on the nearest shelf because her hand’s shaking now and she doesn’t want anyone to mistake that for weakness. Then she steps around the coffee table, careful of the broken glass, careful of the beer soaking into the rug, and looks down at him. Nathan’s eyes lift to hers, dazed and hateful.

“You need to leave,” she says. Her voice is quieter than she expects. It works anyway.

Nathan laughs, or tries to. It comes out wet. “Yeah? Gonna get your boyfriend to hit me again?”

“No,” she says. “I’m going to go check on him. You can bleed on someone else’s fucking floor.”

For once, Nathan has nothing ready. His mouth opens, then shuts, and the silence that follows is so much better than anything she could have made him say. She turns before he can recover.

The stairs feel longer than usual. Her legs are steady until she reaches the landing, and then they’re not, a little, the adrenaline making her knees feel too loose under her. She hears Garrett before she sees him, voice rough behind his bedroom door.

“I’m fine.”

Logan’s answer is immediate. “You’re not fine.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“And I said you just tried to turn her ex into ground beef in our living room, so maybe I'm not over the moon about leaving you alone right now.”

She pushes the door open.

Garrett’s standing near the bed with Tucker in front of him and Logan by the door like he’s prepared to physically block an exit. Garrett’s right hand is bleeding across the knuckles. His shoulder is tense under his shirt. His face is flushed, jaw still working like he's chewing through the last of the fight.

All three boys look at her when she steps in. Garrett’s expression changes first. “Baby,” he says, and the word comes out rough enough that it almost undoes her.

Logan looks between them, then exhales. “We’ll be outside.”

Garrett’s head snaps toward him. “No, you don’t have to–”

“Yes, we do,” Tucker says gently. “Bathroom’s across the hall if you need first aid stuff.”

“I know where the bathroom is,” she says automatically.

Tucker gives her a tiny, exhausted smile. “Right. Yeah. Sorry.”

Then they’re gone, the door clicking shut behind them and leaving the room suddenly too quiet around her and Garrett.

For a second, neither of them moves. The music downstairs is muffled now, mostly bass and shouting. Garrett stands by the bed with blood drying over his knuckles, chest still rising too fast, looking at her like he expects her to take one good look and leave.

She hates that. She hates that the anger is already curdling into fear in his face. “Sit down,” she says.

His mouth twists. “Are you okay?”

“Sit down, Garrett.”

He does, because her voice has gone into the place it goes when she has no interest in negotiating with hockey players, concussed or otherwise. He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, hand held awkwardly in front of him like he has only just remembered it exists.

She crosses to him and takes it carefully. His fingers twitch once, like he almost pulls away. She doesn’t let him.

“You’re bleeding,” she says, because it's easier to start with what her hands know how to fix.

“It’s not mine.”

“Some of it is.”

Garrett looks down at their hands, then away. “Did he touch you?”

“No.”

“Did he say anything else to you?”

She sighs softly. “Garrett.”

His eyes snap back. “Did he?”

She looks at him for a second, at the fury trying to relight itself because it's easier than whatever else is waiting in the room. “Not anything that matters.”

“All of it fucking matters.” 

The answer lands hard enough that she has to look down at his hand. The skin over two knuckles is split, red and swelling. 

She runs her thumb lightly around the edge of it, not over the broken skin, and Garrett sucks in a breath through his teeth. “That hurt?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

His mouth almost moves. Almost. It doesn’t make it to a smile.

She goes to the bathroom and comes back with the little first aid box she’s now reorganised three times. Garrett stays where she left him, which feels like a miracle or a warning. When she sits beside him on the bed, close enough that her knee touches his thigh, his eyes stay on her face.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

She pauses with an antiseptic wipe halfway open.

Garrett swallows, throat working hard. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have– fuck, I know. I know it was bad. I know what that looked like.”

She sets the wipe down unopened for a second. “What do you think it looked like?”

His laugh is short and ugly. “Like exactly what everyone thinks I am when I get pissed off.”

The room shifts around the words. Phil’s shadow under Garrett’s skin, waiting for any evidence it can use.

She turns toward him fully. “No.”

“You didn’t see my face.”

“I did.”

“No, you didn’t.” His voice cracks with frustration. “You saw after. You didn’t see what I– I couldn’t stop. I heard him say that shit about you, and I couldn’t stop. I– I blacked out. I wanted to fucking kill him.”

She doesn’t flinch. That feels important, so she makes sure of it. She sits there with his bleeding hand in hers and the open first aid box on the bed and makes herself stay steady, because Garrett is watching for fear like his life depends on finding it before it finds him.

“You stopped,” she says.

His eyes flash. “Because Logan dragged me off.”

“And because you let him.”

Garrett looks away, jaw clenching.

She picks up the wipe again and tears the packet open. “This is going to sting.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know. I’m saying it anyway.”

She cleans his knuckles carefully. Garrett hisses once and then has the audacity to pretend he didn’t, staring at the wall like the wall has asked him to perform masculinity. 

She would make fun of him on any other night. On this one, she only holds his hand more securely and works the dried blood from the torn skin until she can see what belongs to him and what doesn’t.

“He was shitty,” she says, after the silence has stretched too thin.

Garrett’s breathing changes.

She keeps her eyes on his hand. “Not just, like, bad breakup shitty. He was… he made everything feel really small.” Her thumb steadies the back of Garrett’s hand when his fingers start to curl. “Me, mostly. The things I liked. The way I talked. What I wore. Who I spoke to. If I cried, I was manipulative. If I didn’t cry, I was cold. If I needed reassurance, I was needy. If I pulled away, I was punishing him. It was always something. And then after we broke up, he started saying things because he knew I hated making scenes enough that I wouldn’t correct him.”

Garrett’s face has gone dangerously still.

She glances up. “Do not go back downstairs.”

“I’m not.”

“You look like you’re planning an escape route.”

His eyes flick to hers, and she can see the exact moment the anger gives way to something worse, something softer and more helpless.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.

It could sound accusing from anyone else. From him it just sounds hurt.

She folds the wipe into a small square because her hands need something to do. “Because I didn’t want to bring him into this.”

Garrett’s brow creases. “Into what?”

She looks at him then, and the room gets too warm and too quiet all at once. His hand is still in hers. His knees are still angled toward her. There’s blood on the wipe, music through the floor, and a fight downstairs with her name at the centre of it. 

Whatever this is has been refusing a name for weeks, living in Garrett’s bed and his kitchen and the passenger seat of his car, wearing his hoodies and eating his pizza and saying I’m not your girlfriend with his thumb tucked into her waistband.

“This,” she says.

Garrett’s face shifts, small and aching.

She looks back at his hand because it is safer. “I didn’t want to feel like I was handing him proof. Like he still mattered enough to affect something good. And I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”

“Baby,” Garrett says, rough.

“I know that’s stupid.”

“It’s not.”

“I’m over him.”

“I know.”

“No, I am.” She says it too quickly, then has to stop and take a breath because her chest has gone tight in a way she resents. “I am. I don’t want him. I don’t miss him. I don’t even care what he thinks of me anymore, not really. But seeing him still makes my skin feel weird. Like I’m waiting to be corrected.”

Garrett closes his eyes.

She tapes gauze over his knuckles with more care than is probably necessary. “And then you hit him, and part of me was like… good.” Her mouth twists with the honesty. “Which is not a very healing, future-healthcare-professional reaction.”

Garrett gives a broken little huff. “I don’t think healthcare professionals have to be saints.”

“No?”

“No.” His hand turns carefully under hers, catching her fingers. “Especially not when some asshole calls them that in my living room.”

She studies his face. “You can’t do that again.”

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“No, Garrett.” Her voice firms, not loud, but enough that his eyes stay on hers. “He’s not worth your team. He’s not worth hockey. He’s not worth giving anyone a reason to say you’re out of control.”

Something painful crosses his face.

She softens immediately, her thumb moving once over the edge of the tape. “And he’s not worth making you feel like this.”

Garrett looks down at their hands. “I scared you.”

“No.”

His jaw tightens. “Don’t lie to make me feel better.”

“I’m not.” She shifts closer, her knee pressing more firmly into his thigh. “You didn’t scare me. The situation scared me. What could happen to you scared me. The way you looked at me after scared me because you looked like you thought I was going to run.”

Garrett doesn’t answer.

She reaches up with her free hand and turns his face gently toward hers. He lets her, but barely, his eyes dark and wet in a way that makes her chest hurt. “You didn’t make me afraid of you.”

His breath leaves him unevenly.

“I was afraid for you,” she says. “That’s different.”

Garrett’s eyes close for half a second under her hand. When they open again, the fight has drained out of him enough to leave the tired underneath. He leans forward slowly, like he's giving her time to move away even now, and rests his forehead against her shoulder.

She brings her hand to the back of his head immediately. His curls are warm under her fingers, damp at the roots from the party heat and whatever adrenaline is still burning out of him. His good hand comes around her waist. Proof, maybe. Or asking for it.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, muffled against her shirt.

“I know.”

“I just heard him and I–”

“I know.”

“He doesn’t get to talk about you like that.”

Her throat tightens. She turns her face into his hair for a second and lets herself breathe him in, the beer and soap and sweat and Garrett underneath it all, so familiar now it makes something in her ache. “No,” she says quietly. “He doesn’t.”

Garrett’s arm tightens around her, then loosens at once like he’s checking himself. She hates that too, so she shifts closer until he can’t mistake it, one hand sliding down to his shoulder, her cheek resting against his temple.

“You can hold me,” she murmurs.

He goes still.

“I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”

A breath shudders out of him. Then he pulls her in properly, both arms around her now, careful of his taped hand but tight enough that she can feel the last of the tremor in him. It’s not the confident, lazy hold from the kitchen.

It’s not the smug arm around her waist in front of some guy he’s trying to intimidate. It’s messy and tired and a little desperate, his face tucked against her neck like he can’t look at her while needing her this much.

She lets him. More than that, she holds him back. Downstairs, someone shouts. Dean, probably. Then Logan’s voice cuts through, sharp and managerial, which means the cleanup has reached the stage where property damage is being assessed by people who have no business assessing anything.

Garrett lifts his head slightly. “Is he still here?”

“No. Dean was having him removed from the premises with… enthusiasm.”

Garrett’s mouth twitches against her shoulder. “Good.”

“Dean also fought his friend.”

“Yeah, I saw.”

“Really committed to the bit.”

“Dean likes a group project.”

She laughs before she can stop it. It comes out small and shaky, but it’s real, and Garrett pulls back just enough to look at her like the sound has physically touched something in him.

There’s blood near his collar, a bruise starting along his jaw that she hadn’t noticed before, and his eyes are still too bright. He looks wrecked. He looks guilty. He looks like the boy from the kitchen and the man from the fight and something younger underneath both, waiting to see whether the room will stay safe.

She brushes her thumb lightly over the unbruised side of his jaw. “You’re an idiot.”

His mouth moves. “Yeah.”

“A huge idiot.”

“I know.”

“With terrible emotional regulation.”

That finally gets the edge of a smile, weak but there. “Coming from the girl who diagnoses herself with being hungry instead of sad.”

“That’s a valid nursing assessment.”

“It’s not.”

“It absolutely is. Half of this house is one snack away from psychiatric stability.”

Garrett huffs, and the sound loosens the room by an inch. His hand lifts to her waist, thumb rubbing once through the fabric in the same absent pattern from earlier, like his body remembers tenderness even when his head is still catching up.

“I should’ve asked you,” he says after a moment. “About him. Before.”

She shakes her head. “You didn’t know there was anything to ask.”

“I knew you got weird when his name came up.”

“I get weird when people say wound vac too.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s a gross phrase.”

His eyes stay on her, too serious for the joke to fully land. “I’m sorry you had to deal with him alone.”

She swallows. “I’m not alone now.”

Garrett’s face changes so fast she nearly looks away. The words sit between them, too plain, too close to something they have both been circling with sex and rides to placement and coffee in his kitchen and sleeping pressed together like denial is a blanket they can share.

He touches her chin, careful with his taped fingers. “No,” he says quietly. “You’re not.”

Her chest aches. She wants to make a joke. She wants to say something about him being concussed by his own fist or reckless in a way that should be charted. Instead she leans in and kisses him.

It’s soft because his lip is split a little and his jaw is sore and the whole night has been too sharp already. Garrett makes a sound against her mouth, one hand sliding to the back of her neck like he wants to keep her there and is still remembering to ask.

She lets the answer be in the way she moves closer, in the way her hand settles over his chest, in the way she kisses him again when he starts to pull back.

When they separate, his forehead stays against hers.

“I’m still mad,” he whispers.

“I know.”

“I want to go downstairs and kick him again.”

“He’s gone.”

“I can find him.”

She gives him a look.

Garrett exhales, eyes closing. “Kidding.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No,” he admits. “But I won’t.”

“Good.”

His thumb moves once beneath her jaw. “You staying?”

She pulls back enough to look at him. “After that? I kind of have to. Someone should monitor you for post-fight stupidity.”

“That a real condition?”

“In this house? Endemic.”

He smiles properly then, real enough that something unclenches behind her ribs. She reaches for his hand again and checks the tape, pressing the edge down where it has started to lift.

Garrett watches her do it. “You’re really okay?”

She pauses, because the easy answer is there. Fine. Good fine. The one they both know how to use when the room is too full.

Then she thinks of Nathan on the floor, small and bleeding and still trying to make her feel dirty from beneath Garrett’s bloodied knuckles.

She thinks of the kitchen, Tucker’s dippables, Dean’s sudden calm, Logan dragging Garrett back because he understood the stakes before Garrett could. She thinks of Garrett’s face after, terrified of himself in a way he has never made her feel of him.

“I’m… a little grossed out,” she says. “And tired. And I probably want to shower even though he didn’t touch me, which is annoying.”

Garrett’s eyes soften painfully.

“But I’m okay,” she says, because this part is true too. “I think I’m okay.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

“And you’re going to sit here for a minute before you go anywhere near stairs.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you’re going to ice your hand.”

His brows pull together. “I just beat the shit out of a guy for you and now you’re giving me homework?”

“You beat the shit out of a guy for yourself too, Graham. Don’t get noble.”

His mouth opens, then closes. “Fair.”

“Thank you.”

He looks at her for a beat, then his mouth tilts faintly. “You’re kind of scary when you’re right.”

“I’m almost always right. You’re just new here.”

Garrett laughs, and it hurts him. She knows because his face twitches and his hand comes up toward his ribs like he can somehow protect every sore part at once.

She clicks her tongue before she can help it. “See? Post-fight stupidity.”

“I’m fine.”

She stares at him.

He sighs. “Manageable.”

“Better.”

Garrett reaches for her before she can get up fully for ice, catching her gently around the waist and pulling her back between his knees, echoing the kitchen without the noise, without the party version of themselves, without Nathan’s eyes from across the room.

His forehead drops to her stomach for a second, arms around her hips. She stills, then brings both hands to his hair. “I’ve got you,” she murmurs, because it’s the only thing that fits.

Garrett’s grip tightens once. Then, so quiet she almost misses it under the bass downstairs, he says, “I’ve got you too.”

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[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ just this.

pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader summary – garrett’s father shows up at a game, and the aftermath hurts worse than the black eye. warnings – mentions of domestic violence, abusive father, childhood trauma, emotional breakdown, crying, panic response, hockey injury/black eye, strong language notes from me – i've had a few requests for this moment, and wanted to write it v carefully! i took a lot of inspiration from the scene where garrett tells hannah abt his dad <3 word count – 7.5k

navigation – masterlist |

The thing about sitting in Garrett Graham’s letterman jacket at a Briar hockey game was that it made people stupid. Not her, obviously. She was being incredibly normal about it. Mature, even. 

She'd only rolled her eyes twelve times since they’d left the parking lot, which, considering Lucy had made a full production out of tugging the jacket collar up around her face and going, “Oh my God, babe, do you smell that? Commitment,” felt like a real exercise in restraint. 

Monique had been worse, because Monique had a quiet voice and a deadpan delivery. She kept looking over with her chin tucked into her scarf, eyes flicking from the jacket to the ice, then back again, like she was watching an organism evolve in real time.

“He is not my boyfriend,” she said, for what had to be the fourth time, settling deeper into her seat like the plastic could open up and swallow her if she pressed hard enough.

Lucy, sitting on her left with her knees angled toward her and a cup of something hot steaming between both hands, made a sympathetic little noise that had absolutely no sympathy in it. “Of course.”

“He isn’t.”

“Right,” Monique said. “He just kissed you goodbye in front of half the hockey house and gave you his jacket because you shivered once.”

“I was cold.”

“And he, famously, is the only man at Briar with access to outerwear.”

She huffed, sinking her chin into the collar because the arena was freezing and because, unfortunately, Garrett’s jacket was stupidly warm. It smelled like cold air and detergent and that clean, sharp soap from the bathroom at the hockey house, with something underneath that was just him in a way she was trying very hard not to examine in public. 

“You’re both being unbearable.”

Lucy brightened. “Because we love you.”

“Because you’re obsessed with my downfall.”

“Same thing.”

Down on the ice, the team was warming up, bodies cutting through the pale scratch of skate marks, pucks snapping hard off sticks and boards, the sound ricocheting up into the stands like little bursts of thunder. 

It always amazed her a little, how different Garrett looked out there. Like someone had taken the boy who sprawled across the couch at the hockey house with his knee nudging hers, stealing fries from her plate, and sharpened him into something clean and fast and almost vicious. He moved like he belonged to the rink. Like the cold had been made for him.

She spotted him before he spotted her, which felt like winning something small and embarrassing. He was skating backward near centre ice, helmet tipped enough that she could see the dark mess of his curls escaping beneath it, mouth moving around something he was saying to Logan. 

Logan shoved him lightly with one gloved hand, Garrett shoved him back harder, and then Garrett’s gaze drifted up toward their section like he’d felt her looking. It was ridiculous, how quick his face changed.

One second he was all hockey captain focus, jaw set, shoulders loose, stick held easy in one hand. The next, his grin cracked open bright enough that Lucy made a tiny gagging sound beside her. He lifted his chin at her, smug and warm at the same time, and she gave him a wave that was supposed to be casual and came out entirely too fond. 

His eyes dropped, caught on the jacket around her shoulders, and the grin did something worse. Softer. More private. Like he was trying to pretend he didn’t like it and failing so badly he should’ve been embarrassed.

“Oh, babe,” Monique said under her breath. “That is a boyfriend.”

“Shut up.”

“He saw you in his jacket and almost forgot he had legs.”

“Shut up.”

Lucy leaned over her knees, waving down at the ice with a wide grin like she was trying to get them married before the first whistle. “Garrett! We think you’re very brave for not having a girlfriend!”

Her stomach dropped straight into her shoes. “Lucy.”

Garrett, mercifully too far away to hear, only pointed his stick up in their direction before turning back toward the drill. But he was still grinning. The asshole.

By the time warmups started winding down and the arena filled properly, the air had shifted into that restless pre-game buzz that made even the metal railings feel charged. Students packed into rows with painted faces and cheap signs, somebody behind them was already yelling at a player who hadn’t done anything yet, and the announcer’s voice came in and out over the speakers while the lights washed everything in cold white. 

She had just turned her head to answer Monique, who was asking if she wanted to split fries at intermission, when an older couple paused at the end of their row.

The man looked familiar in the vague, unsettling way people did when you’d seen their face somewhere but couldn’t place the context. He was tall, broad through the shoulders even under his coat, with a square jaw, silver threaded through his hair, and the kind of presence that made space feel like it ought to rearrange around him. 

The woman beside him was polished, pretty in a neat, expensive way, her smile already prepared before she’d fully made eye contact.

“Oh– sorry,” she said automatically, shifting toward Lucy to make room. The jacket bunched at her elbows as she moved. “There’s space here.”

The man shook his head once, not dismissive, but close enough to it that her body noticed before her brain did. “It’s fine.”

He stepped past her, his knee brushing the edge of the row, then stopped halfway through lowering himself into the seat when his eyes landed on the jacket. The Briar lettering, Garrett’s number stitched into the sleeve.

Something in his expression flickered. Recognition, maybe. Possession, almost, though that was a strange thing to think about a jacket.

“Graham?” he said.

Her hand tightened slightly around the cuff before she realised she was doing it. “Mhm.”

He looked at her properly then. It was a quick look, assessing, the kind of look she’d seen from attending physicians when they walked into a room and decided in half a second whether you knew what you were doing. It didn’t feel rude enough to call rude, which made it worse somehow.

“Phil,” he said, holding out his hand. “Garrett’s father.”

For a second her brain went perfectly blank, like someone had dropped a sheet over every thought she owned. Phil. Garrett’s father. Garrett’s father, sitting next to her, with his hand out, while she was wearing Garrett’s jacket and had spent the last twenty minutes arguing that he wasn’t her boyfriend.

“Oh,” she said, and immediately wanted to walk into traffic. “Uh. Hi.”

His hand was firm around hers. Too firm, maybe, or maybe she was being ridiculous because her nervous system had just been handed a situation it hadn’t studied for.

She gave him her name, then remembered to smile, then hated that she had to think about smiling, because there was nothing actually wrong. People met parents. Normal people met parents. Girls met the parents of boys who were not their boyfriends all the time, probably. Maybe. Fuck.

Phil repeated her name like he was filing it away. “This is my fiancée, Cindy.”

Cindy leaned forward slightly, her smile warmer than his but still careful around the edges. “Lovely to meet you.”

“You too,” she said, and meant it enough. Cindy seemed nice. She had a gentle voice, pretty earrings, a hand resting lightly in her lap. Normal. Fine. Everything was fine.

Lucy, to her credit, had gone unusually still beside her, which meant either she was trying not to say something insane or she had also felt the temperature around them change by a few degrees. Monique gave a polite smile and then looked at the ice with the laser focus of someone pretending very hard not to eavesdrop.

The lights dropped. The crowd roared. The starting lineup began. She did what she always did when Garrett’s name came over the speakers. She cheered, because she liked seeing him win and because he was impossible not to cheer for when he skated out with his chin lifted and that loose, cocky glide like the entire arena was a room he’d already talked his way into owning. 

He came over the boards with his stick in one hand, shoulders squared, helmet low over his eyes, and she cupped her hands around her mouth, yelling loud enough for Lucy to laugh beside her. “Graham!”

Garrett looked up. For half a second, he found her and everything was exactly the way it had been during warmups. His face opened, instinctive and bright, because he had seen her. Then his gaze moved one seat over.

The grin fell off his face so fast it barely looked like an expression changing. It looked like something had been cut. Her hands lowered slowly from her mouth. 

His body went wrong in this tiny, awful way, one shoulder tightening, his stick hand flexing once, jaw locking hard beneath the cage of his helmet. From this far away, with the arena loud and the lights sharp and bodies moving everywhere, nobody else would’ve noticed, but she noticed. 

She noticed because she had watched Garrett relax under her hands on a couch, had watched him half-asleep in a kitchen at midnight, had watched him come back from games buzzing and smug and high on adrenaline. She knew the way his confidence usually sat in his body.

This wasn’t that. His eyes flicked back to her. Sharp. Caught. Like he’d walked into a room and found a door missing. She lifted her hand a little, uncertain, the motion barely more than a question.

Garrett’s mouth moved around something she couldn’t hear. Then Logan skated into his shoulder, saying something to him, and Garrett snapped his head away like he’d been caught staring. The anthem started. Everyone around them stood.

She stood too, because her body knew what to do even if the rest of her had gone strange and cold.

“You okay?” Lucy murmured, so low it barely made it past the noise.

“Yeah,” she said, eyes still on Garrett. “I just– yeah.”

Phil didn’t say anything. He stood with his hands folded in front of him, looking down at the ice with a flatness that made the fine hairs at the back of her neck lift.

The first period was bad. Bad in the way Garrett wasn’t where he was supposed to be inside his own body. His skating was still sharp, his passes still clean enough that anyone else might not have caught the seams coming loose, but she could see it in the half-second too late he turned his head, the unnecessary shove after the whistle, the way he kept taking contact like he wanted it to hurt. 

He was playing with his shoulders too high, jaw too tight, head whipping up toward the stands every time the puck moved out of his reach. Toward her. No, not toward her. Toward the seat next to her.

The first time he slammed another player into the boards hard enough to make the glass rattle in front of a whole section of screaming students, Lucy jolted beside her and muttered, “Jesus Christ.”

Monique’s mouth pressed into a line. “That was… a lot.”

She didn’t answer. Her fingers had found the edge of Garrett’s sleeve and were worrying at the stitching, rubbing the seam back and forth under her thumb until it started to feel raw. 

She kept waiting for Phil to react like a father. To lean forward. To swear under his breath because his son was losing his head. To look worried, even annoyed in a normal sports-parent way. Phil only exhaled through his nose.

It was quiet, almost nothing beneath the noise of the crowd, but she was close enough to hear it. Then he shook his head once, slow and disappointed, like Garrett had missed an open net in a peewee game instead of driving himself visibly off the rails in front of everyone.

Cindy glanced at him. “Phil.”

“He knows better,” Phil said, eyes still on the ice.

The words came out too controlled, worn smooth by use, like they belonged in a room where nobody else was supposed to hear them.

On the ice, Garrett clipped someone behind the play and got shoved back for it. The whistle blew. A ref’s arm went up. The crowd erupted into boos before the penalty was even fully called.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Logan barked from somewhere near the boards, loud enough that she caught it more by shape than sound.

Garrett didn’t look at the ref. He looked up. Right at her.

His face was flushed from exertion, mouth open around a hard breath, but his eyes were too dark from here, too fixed, and something in them made the noise around her go thin and far away. She could feel Lucy watching her now. Monique too. Phil was perfectly still beside her. The ref pointed Garrett toward the box.

Phil’s mouth tightened. “Undisciplined.”

It landed in her chest in a way it shouldn’t have. One word. Nothing, really. But her body did that quiet, clinical thing it sometimes did on placement, when a patient said something that didn’t match their injury, or a family member answered too quickly, or a bruise sat in the wrong shape under someone’s sleeve. Her brain started lining up details without asking permission.

Garrett didn’t talk about his dad. Garrett joked about everything until he didn’t. Garrett, who let her steal his hoodies and his food and half his bed, had never once said, You should meet my father.

Garrett, who could take a chirp from Dean, a shove from Logan, a full-body collision from a six-foot-three defenseman and grin through it, had looked up at the stands and gone pale under the arena lights because his father was sitting beside her.

The penalty clock started. She swallowed, and it felt like trying to get down a mouthful of cotton.

“I’m gonna…” she started.

Lucy touched her wrist under the jacket, gentle and immediate. “Yeah.”

Monique nodded once, already shifting her knees aside. “Go.”

She slipped out of the row with the awkward, whispered apologies of someone trying to move through packed seats without making a scene. Phil didn’t stand. He didn’t even really move his legs. She had to squeeze past him, Garrett’s jacket brushing his coat, and the whole time she could feel his attention on the side of her face.

“Nice meeting you,” Cindy said softly, and it was the first thing anyone in that little pocket had said that sounded human.

“You too,” she managed, then kept going.

The stairs down from the stands felt longer than usual, steeper, the concrete humming with the crowd above her. The arena had always seemed fun from the seats – cold and loud and bright, full of ritual and noise – but underneath it, past the ushers and the concession smell and the taped signs pointing toward restricted areas, it became something else. More industrial. Cinderblock walls, rubber mats, the metallic tang of skate blades and old ice, the sour-sweet smell of sweat and gear drifting from the corridor that led toward the locker rooms.

She wasn’t technically supposed to be there. She knew that. She also knew enough of the arena by now, had been kissed against enough back hallways and walked past enough equipment carts with Garrett’s hand warm at the small of her back, that nobody stopped her when she hovered near the mouth of the corridor and tried to look like she belonged.

The first period ended with the buzzer tearing through the building. A few seconds later, the team came off the ice in a rush of blades and noise and male anger, helmets shoved up, sticks clattering, voices overlapping. Someone slammed a glove into the wall. A coach barked something she couldn’t make out. 

Logan came through first, red-faced and furious, snapping, “What the fuck is up your ass, G?” over his shoulder.

Garrett followed behind him. He looked worse up close. He wasn’t hurt, not physically, anyway, aside from the usual flush and damp curls plastered to his forehead and the little nick at his cheek where someone’s glove must’ve caught him. 

But there was something too tight about him, something barely leashed beneath the pads and jersey, his breathing hard enough that his chest moved like he’d been sprinting. His eyes were flat with anger until they hit her. Then it all broke at the edges.

He stopped so abruptly Dean nearly ran into the back of him. “Jesus, Graham–”

Garrett shoved his gloves and helmet into Logan’s chest without looking at him.

Logan caught them on instinct, still scowling. “Yeah, sure, I’ll just hold your shit. Great talk.”

Garrett was already moving. She barely had time to step forward before he was in front of her, too close and somehow not close enough, his hands coming up like he wanted to touch her everywhere at once and couldn’t decide what was allowed. 

He settled on her waist first, then her elbows, then the sides of the jacket like he was checking that it was still around her. His palms were damp through the sleeves. His breathing was loud between them.

“Hi,” he said.

It was so wildly, heartbreakingly wrong as an opening that she almost laughed. 

“Hi,” she said, much softer.

His eyes moved over her face, quick and frantic in a way he was clearly trying to hide and failing. “You okay?”

That made her hand come up on its own. “Me?”

“Yeah.”

“Garrett.” Her fingers slid into the damp curls at his hairline, pushing them back from his forehead the way she had done half a dozen times in rooms where his biggest problem was pretending he didn’t like being fussed over. “Baby, what happened?”

His eyes shut for a second when she touched him, like his whole body had been waiting for permission to unclench and could only manage it in pieces. When he opened them again, they were still too bright, too focused.

“Please move.”

Her stomach dropped. Her hands started to come away from his face. “Oh. Yeah, sorry–”

“No.” His hands caught hers immediately, fast enough that she startled, but he softened his grip the second he realised. He brought her hands back to his face himself, pressing her palms to his cheeks like he could anchor her there. “No, not– fuck. Not you. Seats. Don’t sit there.”

She stared at him. “What?”

“Get your friends and move. Don’t sit there.” His voice cracked around the last word, barely, but she heard it. Garrett heard it too; she watched the flash of frustration cross his face, aimed inward, sharp and embarrassed. “Please.”

Behind him, the corridor was still moving. Players filing past, coaches calling, Dean hovering near the locker-room door with his helmet tucked under one arm and his brow furrowed in a way that looked too serious on him. 

Tucker had slowed a few feet away, his mouth set, eyes flicking between them like he was noticing more than he wanted to. Logan, still holding Garrett’s gloves, had gone quiet.

She tried to keep her own voice low. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. He just sat next to me, and then he saw the jacket, and I didn’t–” Her fingers tightened slightly against his jaw. “I didn’t mean to overstep if you didn’t want me to meet him.”

Garrett shook his head before she’d even finished. “It’s not that.”

“I swear, I wasn’t trying to make it a thing.”

“I know.” He said it too quickly. Fierce, almost. His thumbs moved once against her wrists, a small, restless stroke, like he was trying to reassure her while standing there with every muscle in his body pulled tight enough to snap. “I know. I don’t care that you met him. I mean, I care, but not like that. I just–” He stopped, jaw working. His eyes cut toward the tunnel that led back to the ice, then back to her. “I don’t want you sitting next to him.”

The fluorescent light overhead hummed. Somewhere down the hall, a coach yelled, “Two minutes!”

She looked at Garrett’s face. Really looked. There were things she could ask. A normal girl might have asked them. What do you mean? Why? What happened with your dad? 

But she wasn’t standing in a normal moment, and she wasn’t stupid, and the body learned its own language when you spent enough time reading other people’s fear in hospital beds. 

She knew what a person looked like when they were angry because anger was easier to hold than panic. She knew the tiny, devastating difference between protective and afraid. She knew what it meant when a grown man couldn’t stop checking the location of another grown man in a crowded building.

Her mouth went dry. She didn’t let her face change too much. That felt important. Garrett was watching her like he expected something to happen if she understood too quickly.

“Okay,” she said.

His shoulders moved with a breath he didn’t quite release. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” She nodded, slow and steady, because something in him needed steady more than it needed questions. “I’ll text Lucy and Monique. We’ll move sections.”

His fingers flexed at her waist. “You don’t have to leave the game.”

“I know.”

“I just don’t want–”

“I know,” she said again, and she didn’t know the details, not really, but she knew enough for now. Enough to understand this wasn’t about him being embarrassed. Enough to understand that whatever Phil Graham was, whatever he had been, Garrett didn’t want him beside her in a place where he could see but not reach. “We’ll move. I promise.”

Garrett’s mouth pressed shut. He turned his head just enough to kiss the centre of her palm. The gesture was so soft it hurt.

He shuddered on the breath after, barely visible under all the pads and noise and anger, and she had the sudden, awful urge to take him somewhere quiet and lock every door between him and the rink. 

Instead, she brushed her thumb over the cheekbone beneath his eye, feeling the damp heat of him, the faint scrape of stubble, the hard pulse ticking at his jaw.

“Graham,” Dean called from the locker-room doorway, voice rougher than usual. “We have a fucking game to play, man.”

Garrett didn’t look away from her. “Yeah.”

“Now would be good.”

“Yeah, I heard you.”

Dean’s eyes flicked to her. For once, he didn’t make a joke. That, more than almost anything else, made her chest tighten.

She lifted her brows at Garrett, trying for something like normal because normal was a gift she could give him in pieces. “You okay?”

The answer was obviously no. They both knew it. Garrett nodded anyway, because he was Garrett and because there was a game and because whatever had just opened between them was too raw to put words inside with half the team watching.

“Yeah,” he said, then swallowed. “We’ll– tonight, okay? I’ll–”

“Don’t explain now.” Her thumb moved once more over his cheek, and she let her voice soften around the command, because he listened better when he thought she wasn’t letting him off the hook entirely. “Just go win.”

Something in his face loosened by a fraction. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He bent before she could decide whether that was a terrible idea in the middle of a hallway full of hockey players and coaches and fluorescent lighting, and kissed her properly.

It wasn’t the kind of kiss he usually gave her in public, quick and obnoxiously smug, designed to make her roll her eyes and make his friends groan. 

This was quieter. Messier at the edges. His mouth warm and urgent on hers, one hand sliding up to the side of her neck, the other still fisted in the side of his own jacket around her. She kissed him back because there was nothing else to do with all the feeling in her chest, because if he needed to come back to himself through her mouth for three seconds in a cinderblock corridor, she could give him that.

When he pulled back, he didn’t go far. His forehead rested against hers, helmet gone, hair damp, breath warming her lips. “Thank you,” he said, so low it barely existed.

She swallowed. “Go, babe.”

His mouth twitched. It was tiny. Barely there. But it was Garrett enough that she felt her own lungs remember what they were for.

“Graham,” Dean snapped, but there was relief threaded through it now. “I swear to God, if you make me drag you into this room by your jockstrap–”

Garrett huffed, the sound scraping out of him half-laugh, half-breath. He kissed her forehead once, quick and hard, then stepped back. His hands lingered until the last second, fingers sliding off her wrists like he hated letting go, and then he turned, caught his gloves when Logan shoved them at his chest, and jogged toward the locker room.

Logan watched him go, then looked at her. For a beat, neither of them said anything. Then Logan lifted Garrett’s helmet slightly, like a sad little toast. “He’s gonna be less of a dick now, right?”

She let out a breath that nearly became a laugh. “God, I hope so.”

“Cool. Because he was doing the whole tortured captain thing and it was fucking up the vibe.”

“Logan,” Tucker said quietly.

“What? It was.”

Dean, from the doorway, pointed at her with two fingers. “You. Move seats. Tell your friends too.”

“I know.”

His expression softened, quick and uncomfortable, like sincerity made his skin itch. “Good.”

Then they were gone, swallowed by the locker room and the burst of voices inside, the door swinging shut behind them.

For a few seconds, she just stood there in the corridor with Garrett’s jacket heavy around her shoulders and the cold from the rink crawling along the floor. Her hands drifted up to the top of her head, fingers interlocking there, elbows out, like she needed to physically hold herself in place. The breath left her in one long, uneven puff.

“Holy fuck,” she whispered to no one.

“So that’s…” Garrett’s voice thinned out before it reached the end of the sentence, like it had snagged somewhere behind his ribs. He was sitting with his back against the headboard, one knee bent under the covers and one stretched out in front of him, still in the black sweatpants he’d pulled on after his shower, his hair damp and curling messily over his forehead. The bruising around his left eye had darkened since they’d left the arena, blooming purple-black beneath the bone, the skin there swollen enough to make him look a little unfamiliar if she stared too long. “Yeah.”

The hockey house had finally settled beneath them, the late-night noise thinned down to the occasional creak of floorboards, the muffled thump of someone closing a cabinet downstairs, the low murmur of voices from the living room that would rise for a second and then sink again like the boys were trying, badly, to be subtle about giving Garrett space. 

His bedside lamp was the only light on, soft and yellow across the rumpled sheets, catching on the water glass on his nightstand, the edge of his phone, the pile of discarded gear near his closet that still smelled faintly like ice and sweat and the metallic air of the rink.

She was sitting beside him with one leg folded underneath herself, close enough that her hip pressed into his thigh. Her hand had been in his hair for the last few minutes, fingers moving slowly through the damp strands at the back of his head, not because she had any real plan for comforting him, but because stopping felt impossible. Like if she stopped touching him, the room might tilt too far in one direction and take him with it.

She took a breath, careful and quiet, then leaned in and pressed her mouth to the bare slope of his shoulder. His skin was warm beneath her lips. Too warm, maybe, or maybe her body was just paying attention to everything now – the tension in his neck, the way his hand was curled loosely against the sheet, the uneven drag of his breathing as he stared at the wall opposite his bed and looked like he was seeing something that wasn’t there.

“Thank you for telling me,” she said.

Garrett nodded once. His throat moved. “Yeah.”

She let her mouth rest against his shoulder for another second before lifting her head. There were a hundred things she could have said, and almost all of them felt either too small or too big. I’m sorry felt thin. That’s awful felt obvious. You didn’t deserve that felt true, but she didn’t know if truth was something he could hold yet without flinching. 

So she stayed beside him, fingers still working gently through his hair, and asked the question that had been sitting carefully in the back of her mouth since he’d started talking. “Does anyone else know?”

His eyes flicked down to the duvet. The corner of it was caught beneath his hand, twisted tight in his fingers now, white-knuckled in a way he probably didn’t even realise.

“Logan,” he said after a moment. “Just Logan. I mean…” He swallowed, the sound rough. “The guys know I don’t–” His mouth pulled in a faint, humourless line, like even the phrase felt ridiculous for the size of it. “They know I don’t get along with my dad. They know he’s a dick. That’s all.”

She nodded, because that made sense in a way that made her chest hurt. Garrett could live with people thinking Phil Graham was an asshole. He could live with sharp jokes, with vague references, with a clean, manageable version of the story that didn’t require anyone to look too closely. 

He could live inside the gap between what the guys knew and what had actually happened, because Garrett was good at taking pain and turning it into something people could stand to be near. A chirp. A closed door. A shrug that said nothing to see here.

She pressed another kiss to his shoulder, softer than the first. “Okay.”

Garrett made a sound that was barely a breath. At first she thought he was going to speak. His mouth opened slightly, his brow drawing together, and she felt him pull in air against her side like he was trying to push something down before it could come up. 

Then his face changed. A crack through the careful flatness he’d been holding since the words had started coming out of him. His eyes squeezed shut, his lips pressed together, and his chin dipped toward his chest with this tiny, defeated shake like he was angry at himself for not being able to stop it.

“Oh, Garrett,” she whispered, and that was all it took.

He broke quietly. His shoulders folded inward first, as if his body was trying to make itself smaller despite every inch of him being built like a wall, and then the first sob dragged through him so hard she felt it before she heard it.

He turned toward her like he wasn’t fully deciding to, like some older, younger part of him had simply reached for the nearest safe place, and she caught him before he could apologise for needing it.

“Come here,” she murmured, already pulling him in.

Garrett went with a kind of helplessness she’d never seen from him. His forehead dropped into the curve of her shoulder, his arms coming around her waist, fingers fisting in the back of her shirt like he needed something to hold onto and hated that he did. 

She wrapped herself around him as much as she could, one hand sliding up to the back of his head, palm firm over the damp curls, the other across his shoulders where all that muscle and strength was shaking under her touch. 

He was too big for her to hold the way she wanted, too broad, too solid, but she tried anyway. She tucked her cheek against his temple and kept him there while he cried into her shirt, each breath leaving him broken and uneven.

“You’re okay,” she said, low and steady, though her own throat felt tight enough to bruise. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

He shook his head against her. “I couldn’t–” His voice tore on the word, and his hand tightened at her back. “I couldn’t protect her.”

Her eyes closed.

“My mom,” he said, and it came out smaller than anything she had ever heard from him. “I tried. I swear to God, I tried, but I was–” He sucked in a breath that didn’t go anywhere useful. “I was a kid. I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t make him stop.”

She held him harder, her fingers pressing into his hair, her other hand spreading wide over the back of his shoulder. “Garrett.”

“I’d hear it and I’d just– fuck, I’d just stand there sometimes. I’d freeze. Or I’d go in and he’d look at me, and I knew it would be worse, but I still–” His voice collapsed into another sob, rough and furious and devastated all at once. “I couldn’t protect her.”

She shook her head against his, because the blame in his voice was so old and so deep that it made her stomach turn. It had lived in him for years, packed behind his ribs, disguised under trophies and goals and that bright, cocky grin he wore like armour.

“You were a child,” she said, and her voice came out firmer than she expected. “Garrett, you were a kid.”

He didn’t answer. His breath stuttered into her neck.

“You shouldn’t have had to protect anyone from him,” she said. “That was never supposed to be your job.”

His fingers flexed in the fabric of her shirt, and for a second she thought he might pull away. He didn’t. He stayed folded into her, face hidden against her shoulder, and she kept her hand at the back of his head because he seemed to need the pressure there. Something to push against. Something that told him where the room was.

“I don’t want to be him,” he said, almost inaudible.

She pulled back just enough to try to see his face, but he kept his eyes down, lashes wet and clumped, the bruising under one eye making everything about him look rawer. His mouth trembled once before he clenched his jaw like he could force it still.

“I don’t want to be him,” he said again, more ragged this time. “I don’t want that in me. I get so fucking angry sometimes, and tonight I was–” He dragged a hand roughly over his face, then winced when his knuckles caught near the bruise. “Fuck.”

“Hey.” She caught his wrist before he could do it again, thumb slipping over the inside where his pulse hammered too fast. “Look at me.”

He shook his head, but only barely.

“Garrett,” she said, softer now. “Please.”

It took him a second. It took three. Then he lifted his eyes. She hated what she saw there, because someone had put that kind of fear in a boy and then let him grow around it like it was just another bone. 

Garrett Graham, who could strut across campus like he owned gravity, who could grin his way through almost anything, who could charm a room without even standing up straight, was looking at her like he was waiting for her to realise he was dangerous.

She brought his hand to her lap and held it between both of hers.

“You’re not him,” she said.

His face twisted.

“You’re not,” she repeated, and she didn’t make it soft this time. She made it certain. “You're not him.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“You don’t.”

“I do,” she said again, because this was one thing she could give him without hesitation. “I know you. I know how careful you are with people even when you’re pretending you aren’t. I know how you move Logan’s shoes out of the hallway when he’s drunk so he doesn’t trip over them. I know how you check the stove when Tucker falls asleep on the couch. I know you pretend Dean annoys you and then still save him the last slice of pizza because he gets pissy when he’s hungry. I know how you touch me.” Her voice caught, but she swallowed around it, leaning closer until her knee pressed into his thigh. “Garrett, you have never made me feel afraid of you. Not once.”

His eyes went wet again.

“You’d never hurt someone like that,” she said. “You’d never hurt me like that.”

The sound he made then was worse than the first sob because it sounded like relief and pain arriving at the same time. His face crumpled before he could stop it, and he folded back into her, harder this time, arms wrapping around her so tightly she almost couldn’t breathe. 

She didn’t care. She let him hold on. She held him back, one hand cupping the back of his head, the other moving slowly over his spine, feeling each shudder work through him and disappear into the space between their bodies.

For a while, there was only that. His breath against her neck. Her fingers in his hair. The lamp humming faintly. A car passing outside and washing headlights briefly across the ceiling. The ordinary world continuing in rude little pieces while Garrett cried.

Eventually, the sobs thinned. His breathing stayed uneven, but the worst of it loosened, leaving him heavy against her, drained in a way that made him feel younger and older all at once. 

She kept touching him until he shifted, and even then she didn’t let go immediately. He was the one who pulled back first, dragging in a rough breath and wiping at his face with the heel of his hand.

“Sorry,” he said, hoarse. “Fuck. Sorry.”

She shook her head.

He looked away, jaw tight again, embarrassment rushing in to fill the space grief had left behind. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to–”

“Hey.” She caught his face between her hands before he could retreat all the way into himself. Carefully, because of the bruise. “No.”

His eyes flicked to hers.

“No,” she said again, quieter. “You don’t have to apologise.”

Garrett let out a shaky breath through his nose, like he wanted to argue and didn’t have enough left in him to do it properly. “I just–”

“I know.”

“I hate this.”

“I know.”

He closed his eyes under her hands. For a second he leaned into her palms so fully that her chest ached. Then he opened them again, gaze dropping to her mouth, her chin, anywhere but directly into whatever softness he was afraid she had for him.

“I’m sorry about tonight,” he said. “At the game. I’m sorry I acted like that.”

She brushed her thumb lightly along the unbruised side of his face. “You were freaked out.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“No,” she said, because he was right and because she cared for him too much, in whatever unnamed, inconvenient way that lived between them, to pretend otherwise. “But I get why it happened.”

His throat moved. “I didn’t want him near you.”

“I know.”

“I saw you sitting there, in my jacket, and he was right there, and I couldn’t–” He broke off, frustration pulling at his mouth. “I couldn’t think. I just kept looking up and thinking, get away from him. And then I’d look back at the play and I’d be out of position, and then I got mad because I was out of position, and then I–” He shook his head. “It was stupid.”

“It wasn’t stupid.” She kept her hands on him, steady even when he looked like he wanted to fold away from the tenderness. “It was a lot.”

He let out something close to a laugh, but there was no humour in it. “That’s one word for it.”

She leaned forward until her nose nudged gently against his, careful of the swelling near his eye. “And you still came through.”

His brow creased.

“You did,” she said. “You moved me. You went back out. You played. You won.”

His mouth trembled, just once. He looked down, and she watched him fight the tears coming back, his face tightening with the effort of keeping it together. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” she echoed.

A long breath left him. His shoulders dropped a little with it, not relaxed, but less braced. He looked exhausted now, the adrenaline gone, the game gone, the confession gone, leaving only the boy under all of it sitting in the low light with a black eye and red-rimmed lashes and too many years of silence sitting open between them.

She slid one hand down to his chest, feeling the slow, uneven thud of his heart beneath her palm. “Do you need anything?”

Garrett shook his head.

“You sure?”

He looked at her for a moment, and there was something unguarded in it that made her breath catch. Then he reached for her, one hand settling at her waist and pulling her closer by degrees like he was asking without words. “Just this.”

Her eyes softened. “Okay.”

He shifted down the bed first, moving slowly like every part of him hurt more now that he had stopped holding himself so tight. She went with him, letting him guide her into the space beside him as he eased onto his back, then his side, then changed his mind and pulled her against his chest. 

It was clumsy in the way exhaustion made things clumsy, knees tangling under the covers, his breath hitching when her elbow brushed a sore spot from the game. She murmured an apology, and he shook his head into her hair, arm tightening around her middle.

The room settled around them again. She tucked herself against him carefully, cheek resting above his heart, one hand laid flat over his ribs. His skin was warm through the thin cotton of his shirt, his breathing still uneven but gradually finding a steadier rhythm under her ear. 

She kissed the edge of his jaw because it was there and because she couldn’t reach every place in him that hurt, but she could reach that. 

Garrett’s fingers flexed once at her back, then smoothed slowly over the fabric of her shirt, not quite a caress, more like he was reminding himself she was real.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. She stared at the soft blur of his room in the darkened edges beyond the lamp – the open textbook on his desk, the half-empty bottle of water, the heap of hoodie on the chair, the game tape paused on his laptop from earlier in the week – and tried to make the pieces of him fit around what he had told her. 

The boy who had tossed her his jacket that afternoon because she’d shivered. The captain who had come apart on the ice at the sight of his father beside her. The child who had stood in a house and listened for his mother. The man holding her now.

Her training wanted to make categories. To name responses. To trace the line between trigger and reaction, between fear and anger, between what a body remembered and what a mouth could bear to say. 

But this wasn’t a case study, and Garrett wasn’t something to be understood from a distance. He was under her cheek, breathing carefully, his arm heavy across her back, his fingers curled into the side of her shirt like he might wake up and need proof she had stayed.

So she let the clinical part of her go quiet. She pressed her palm a little more firmly to his ribs.

Garrett’s chin dipped, lips brushing the top of her head. “You okay?” he whispered.

The question hurt, somehow. That he could be lying there hollowed out and still asking after her.

She nodded against him. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

She closed her eyes. “I’m sure.”

His hand moved once over her back. She waited until his breathing had slowed more, until the tension in his stomach eased under her hand, until the house beneath them was nothing but distant pipes and settling wood and the occasional muffled voice. 

Then she lifted her head just enough to press a kiss to his chest, above his heart, and settled back down.

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[thebriarbunny]

Laundry Day… 𝓭𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝔀𝓲𝓽𝓱 𝓶𝔂𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓯?

𝒢𝒶𝓇𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓉 𝒢𝓇𝒶𝒽𝒶𝓂⁴⁴ 𝓍 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝒻𝑒𝒶𝓉𝓊𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝙳𝚒 𝙻𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜⁶⁶ + 𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙻𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗²²

c/w ᝰ.ᐟ pet names, swearing, suggestive content, sexual tension, jealous!garrett + hockey house drama

2.3k words

Silence. The house is empty.

More importantly? The washer finally is too.

Your laundry hamper sits overflowing in the corner waiting for an opening between three hockey players apparently trying to wash every single thing they own before the week ends.

If you don’t throw a load in right now, you already know you’re screwed.

You grab your hamper off the floor, nudging the laundry room door open with your foot. You look around at the state of the room—heaping towers of Nike gear and performative-male quarter-zips, jeans and towels upon towels stacked high enough to leave you hopeless instead of hopeful for another opening.

You wrap your arms around your body, pinching the hem of your shirt before peeling it over your head and wiggling out of your leggings, tossing everything into the wash.

By the time you dump the rest of your clothes into the machine, you’re standing there in nothing but panties, a bra, and the satisfaction of a blank slate. Nothing left to do now but soak in the silence and wait for your chance to move everything into the dryer.

You grab your phone and your headphones, popping them into your ears, thumbing through Spotify to find the playlist Garrett sent you last night, smiling when you spot a few of your favorites in the mix.

No Dean barging into your room to ask you if you’d seen his sweatshirt while fully wearing the hoodie in question. No Logan spilling some hockey tea that he can’t share “’cause they’d know it was him” if it got out.

No Garrett leaning in the doorway distracting you while you tried to study. Or crashing down on the couch beside you pretending he hated your reality TV until ten minutes later he was stealing your snacks and giving the entire episode play-by-play commentary like it was game seven.

Just you, yourself, and an open washing machine.

The laundry room’s hot from the never-ending run of the dryer, enough fabric sheets tossed in to dull the hockey smell a little. Music pours through your headphones as you lean over into Garrett’s hamper, stealing back a sweatshirt, adding it to the deep-water rinse.

You roll your eyes and laugh under your breath, letting the washer lid clap shut. The song changes and your hands start tapping along with the beat, hips moving, body twirling carelessly as you sing along with the lyrics.

Your hips sway harder when the chorus drops, moving between piles of laundry while you sing more confidently now that nobody’s around to hear it.

Your tongue catches between your teeth as you smile, reaching up to steal one of Garrett’s freshly pressed game-day button-downs for the bar later. The oversized shirt swings from your fingers while you dance your way back toward the washer, bending over as you hang it off the side of your finally empty basket without a second thought, still mouthing every word.

Thump.

Your heart jumps and your stomach falls as you turn too fast, socked feet slipping slightly beneath you, wide-eyed as you match the three sets staring back. And judging by the barely contained grin pulling at Dean’s mouth? They’ve been standing there way longer than they should’ve been.

The three of them stand there completely still.

Garrett swears under his breath instantly, eyes snapping anywhere but you before drifting right back to you like he physically cannot help it.

Dean slaps a hand over his eyes with a disbelieving laugh, peeking through his fingers before finally committing to covering his face completely. The sound that leaves his throat comes out strained. “Okay,” he mutters weakly. “That’s just unfair.”

Logan looks seconds away from cardiac arrest, hockey bag hanging from one hand while his entire face turns deep red.

“Shit,” you huff, ripping one side of your headphones off, fingers tangling in the other. “I—I’m sorry—” You lunge for the closest thing within reach, grabbing the first piece of clothing off the heap and throwing it over yourself as fast as possible.

The jersey flutters past your ass, oversized enough to swallow you whole in royal blue mesh. You look down at your chest.

Dean blinks once, leaning heavy against the doorway when he realizes just who the sweater belongs to, arms folding across his chest. “Well,” he says smug and slick, still staring, “that’s definitely my favorite thing you’ve ever worn.”

“Holy fuck,” Garrett mutters at almost the exact same time, rough enough to sound irritated, dragging a hand through his dark curls before he tugs his hat back on.

Logan looks down, laughing quietly through his nose. “I know this is your house too, sweetheart, but you gotta—you…” He clears his throat roughly as his voice breaks with nerves. “A warning first. I don’t know. Maybe an—”

“Invite,” Dean finishes his sentence for him immediately, rocking back on his heels with a shit-eating grin.

“—Stop staring at her like that,” Logan snaps, punching Dean hard enough in the arm to make him hiss out a breath, but somehow that still doesn’t stop him.

“Baby, you can’t just be standin’ in our house looking like that. That’s a crime. A fuckin’ felony. Arrest her. Put her in cuffs—I got cuffs.”

“How convenient,” Logan scoffs, shoving him away.

“And, that’s not all I got, angel—”

“Shut the fuck up, dude,” Logan grumbles but Dean only laughs harder, showboating some more while he winks at you playfully, muscles flexing beneath his t-shirt just enough to remind you exactly how aware he is of himself.

“That jersey thing made it WORSE, by the way!” He calls over his shoulder, looking at you until the last possible second.

You sigh, tilting your head while a smile slips across your mouth anyway, turning around without thinking it through and unintentionally flaunting the bold stitched 66 and DI LAURENTIS stretched across your back to the last man on earth who needed the ammo.

“Look at her—”

“Dean, c'mon,” you giggle bashfully, the man answering with a low whistle as Garrett stews in silence, pulling his phone out of his pocket like he's over it all, popping the lid off his shaker bottle, leaning back into the countertop.

“She’s gonna end me, I swear,” Dean hums dreamily.

“Enough,” Logan grunts.

“She looks good in sixty-six, boys—” A loud smack cuts him off as Logan slaps him hard across the back, grabbing a fistful of shirt before dragging him out of the hallway entirely.

Meanwhile Garrett still hasn’t moved, scrolling on his phone instead of looking directly at you, jaw tight every single time his eyes flick back up anyway.

You focus your attention on the wash and dryer instead, watching the dials tick down like it matters. A second later Garrett pushes himself off the counter with a deep exhale.

A duffle bag zipper pulls open behind you. You glance over your shoulder just enough to catch him tossing a handful of practice clothes toward his overflowing hamper, curls still damp beneath his backwards hat.

Then he steps up beside the dryer—beside you. Close enough that your shoulder almost brushes his. “May I?” He asks quietly.

You nod and smile sweetly, stepping aside just enough for him to reach past you. His arm flexes as he grabs the dryer handle, warm air spilling out the second he pulls it open.

“You got practice in like…” Garrett glances at his watch “…forty minutes, yeah?”

You hum softly as he reaches into the dryer, rummaging inside, pulling out a pair of gray joggers and one of his sweatshirts, offering them to you.

“You don’t need to wear that,” he says quietly, eyes dropping to Dean’s jersey hanging off your body before lifting back to your face again.

You reach for the clothes, fingers brushing his for half a second longer than necessary. Garrett shifts closer, rests his hand on the dryer, leaning into it, lessening the space between you. “Not letting you leave like that,” he mutters and you bite back a smile immediately.

“Garrett—”

“M’serious.” He huffs a laugh, shaking his head once while his eyes drag over you again. “You’re goin’ to cheer, right? Last thing I want them thinking is there's something going on with you and Dean—” The words tumble out before he can stop them, regret settling over him just as fast. “I just…” He clears his throat, trying to center himself, falling into something less frantic. “Please.”

“Thank you,” you smile softly, head tilting as the words ease some of the tension between you, a gentle smile curling onto his lips too.

“You goin’ somewhere after cheer?”

Your lashes flutter, looking back at him a little lost. “Huh?”

“You’re dressed up.” His eyes flick down your body before lifting back to your face. “I mean… You look like you're dressed for somebody.”

You look down at your body, but you know he's thinking about something past the jersey—something to do with the lace underneath.

“M’not dressed up,” you whisper.

“Seriously…” He lowers his voice, lifting an eyebrow like that can't be true. “You're kidding?”

“Seriously,” you answer, your hand resting on the edge of the washer. He shifts, adjusting his stance enough so your hands touch, like you wouldn’t notice. You smile at him and he laughs under his breath.

“So…” He asks, looking out toward the kitchen—looking out for the guys—before turning his whole focus back to you. “What’s umm…” He clears his throat nervously, laughing a little when your eyebrows lift at his obvious struggle to get the words out. “What’s dressed up then?” His voice softens with curiosity and a depth that makes your whole body pulse.

You bite your lip for a moment, thinking it through.

“Depends on who it’s for I guess,” you let the words breathe between you.

He gives you a little nod, so subtle you could ignore it if you like. But you don't.

“Something black…” You answer. His favorite. “Stockings, heels—”

“Heels?” He asks and you smile. “Stockings, huh? With… lace or?”

“Probably,” you giggle.

“Keep going,” he smiles through it.

“And, something he’d wanna take off first,” you smile, playing with the end of Di Laurentis’s jersey, but he's past that for a second, his mind already picturing something else.

“Shit…” He mumbles. “Yeah?”

“Mhmm…” You hum, the air between you thick. “But, I’m just wearing it for me.”

Garrett stills for half a second, attempting to wipe off the boyish smile playing on his lips. “Oh yeah?”

He teases, and you immediately regret phrasing it like that. “I just mean—”

“I know what you meant,” he says softly. “Just giving you shit.”

His eyes drop to the thin lace strap, peeking out of the neck of Dean’s jersey, taking a deep breath, the look in his gaze making your whole body buzz.

“You sure you're not seeing someone after cheer?” He asks like it can't be so.

You giggle and sigh, unable to even match his eyes. “You’re jealous?” You ask playfully, stealing a glance from the corner of your eye and he nods without hesitation.

“Absolutely.” The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles, the space between you getting less and less as a soft, self-deprecating laugh breezes past his lip. “Hopefully, it’s obvious.”

“I mean… A little.”

His hand reaches out, touching the fabric before drifting lower, pinching the mesh between his fingers. His eyes drop to Dean’s jersey still draped over your curves.

“You realize this is gonna make Dean insufferable,” he whispers.

“He already is,” you laugh.

His hand slips away, wrapping around the back of his neck, rubbing as he thinks. Garrett glances down again, tongue dragging once across his bottom lip before he looks back up at you. A quiet sigh slips out of him as his shoulders fall. “You look stunning. I told you that, yeah?”

You purse your lips, drawing them to the side, trying your best to take his compliment normally but it's impossible. “You’re sweet.”

“So fuckin’ sweet,” he lifts his voice a little to match yours, but he's blushing because of it. “I uh—I gotta head to campus in a little bit. Library.”

“Group project still?” You ask.

Garrett rolls his eyes, nodding his head. “An actual nightmare…. Lemme take you to practice.”

“It’s fine–”

“The parking lot gets dark as shit at night anyway,” he says quickly, tripping over your words. “And your practice ends late.”

“I need to move this over to the dryer.”

“Just ask Logan, alright? The guy will thank you for it,” he snickers at that, smiling a little harder when you roll your eyes, before returning your gaze to him, thanking him and nodding yes. “You eat yet?”

“I’m fine—”

“You’re not,” he says with a snort, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “There’s that place you like by campus anyway. If we hurry we can grab somethin’.”

“Yeah?”

“‘Course.”

“Okay,” you smile, sliding Dean’s jersey over your head in one quick motion.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

“Sorry—”

“No.” He stops you immediately. “You don’t—don’t fuckin’ apologize.”

Garrett laughs once under his breath, dragging a hand across his jaw like he’s trying to pull himself together.

“You’re killin’ me today, pretty.”

Your face hurts from trying not to smile while you step into his joggers, the loose waistband hanging low on your hips as you shove one arm through the sleeve of his hoodie.

The sweatshirt smells like detergent and warm cotton fresh from the dryer, but his cologne still clings faintly to the collar anyway. This shitty washing machine never gets anything all the way out.

His hand hooks around your waist before he can really think about it, the other bracing beside your hip against the dryer.

And suddenly the only thing you can focus on is him, the faint melody whispering out of your discarded headphones and the sounds of the washer falling away around you, replaced by the rhythm of your measured breathing and his.

“And you took my shirt?” He asks like he's offended, but you can tell that he loves it.

“Rich coming from you, Graham,” you counter.

“Thought I wouldn't notice?” He asks, tilting a little closer.

“Think we're past that.”

His eyes drift between you, the space between you all but gone. He lifts his hand, his hockey-taped finger tapping the embroidered 44 on your chest.

“Much better.”

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[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ team effort.

pairing – garrett graham x reader summary – everyone keeps asking for too much. garrett has a very simple solution. warnings – fluff, established relationship, people-pleasing, boundary issues, garrett being protective, strong language, alcohol mention notes from me – based on this ask!! so so cute, thank u babe! word count – 2.1k

navigation – masterlist |

Garrett notices it first at Malone’s, which is annoying because Malone’s is loud, sticky, crowded, and absolutely not the sort of place where he should be having emotional realisations over his girlfriend’s inability to say no.

She’s tucked into the booth beside him, one knee pressed against his thigh under the table, her drink sweating a wet ring onto the wood in front of her. The place is packed in the usual Friday-night Briar way, all flushed faces and hockey jackets and girls laughing too loudly over music. 

Dean’s somehow acquired a tray of shots no one asked for. Logan’s flirting with a girl at the bar. Tucker sits across from them, calm as ever, eating fries.

Garrett has one arm stretched along the back of the booth behind her shoulders, his fingers idly playing with the ends of her hair.

She looks pretty tonight in that slightly dangerous way she gets when she’s made herself look casual on purpose. 

Little skirt. Sweater slipping a little off one shoulder. Gloss on her mouth that he’s been trying not to stare at too obviously because she gets shy when he looks at her like that in public, even though she had been in his lap thirty minutes before they left, kissing him stupid in his bedroom while wearing that exact same gloss and making very few arguments about public decency then.

That’s the thing, she isn’t shy with him. Not when it’s just them and his door is closed and she’s stealing his shirts and talking shit from the middle of his bed like she owns both him and the mattress.

She can be bossy, ridiculous, soft in that greedy sleepy way after sex when she tucks herself under his chin and mumbles half-formed complaints about his cold feet even though his feet aren’t anywhere near her.

But out here, with everyone watching and liking her and wanting a piece of her, she gets quieter. She makes herself easy to need. Easy to ask. Easy to lean on. She smiles before she’s decided if she means yes. She nods while her fingers have already gone tense around her straw.

And Garrett, unfortunately for everyone, has started noticing. It happens three times before he says anything.

First, a girl from one of her classes slides up to the booth and asks if she can send over her notes from Tuesday because she missed half the lecture and you always write everything down so neatly, babe, you’re literally a lifesaver.

Garrett feels her knee press a little harder into his under the table. She smiles, quick and sweet, and says, “Yeah, of course, just text me,” even though she’d told him in the car she hadn’t even finished her own summary yet because the week had been brutal.

Second, some guy from a group project appears beside them holding a beer and a sheepish expression that Garrett immediately doesn’t like. “Hey, sorry, I know you’re out, but could you maybe fix the slides before Sunday? You’re just better at making them look, like, less shitty.”

Her mouth opens. Closes. Garrett watches the pause happen in her body before anyone else would catch it. The tiny lift of her shoulders. The way her thumb rubs once over the condensation on her glass. Then she says, “Yeah, I can look at them,” and the guy grins like he’s just successfully outsourced guilt.

Garrett’s jaw clicks. Dean’s eyes flick to him. Because Dean, for all his crimes against taste and door-knocking etiquette, has predator-level instincts for upcoming drama. His mouth twitches around the rim of his drink.

“Don’t,” Garrett mutters.

Dean lifts both hands. “Didn’t say anything.”

The third one is the one that makes Garrett set his beer down a little too carefully. A puck bunny named Kelsey, who’s sweet enough in a mostly harmless, very shiny way and has been around the hockey house enough to know better than to flirt with Garrett anymore, bounces up with her phone already in her hand. 

“Oh my God, there you are. Can you please help me with something? My roommate’s birthday thing is tomorrow and I told her you’d probably make those little cupcakes you brought to Tucker’s party because they were so cute, and I know it’s last minute, but you’re so good at that stuff.”

Tomorrow is Saturday. Tomorrow she has a paper to finish, a brunch with her friends she already tried to cancel once, and plans with him that he has been looking forward to with what he would personally consider a normal, chill, masculine amount of anticipation. 

He hasn’t been mentally organising the entire day around keeping her in bed until noon and then taking her to that diner she likes where she steals his hash browns. That would be insane. He’s very normal about his girlfriend.

She smiles anyway. “Um,” she says, soft enough that Garrett’s attention sharpens around it. “Yeah, maybe. I can probably–”

“Nope,” Garrett says.

The table goes quiet in the satisfying way a table does when the captain voice comes out without warning.

She turns her head toward him, eyes widening. “Garrett.”

He doesn’t look at her yet because he knows if he does, she’ll do that thing where she says his name like she’s embarrassed and fond and mortified all at once, and he’ll be tempted to soften before the point lands. So he looks at Kelsey instead and gives her his nicest, most public-facing smile, the one that has made professors extend deadlines and girls forgive him for sins he’d absolutely committed.

“She’s not making cupcakes tomorrow,” he says easily. “She’s busy.”

Kelsey blinks. “Oh. I mean, it’s totally fine if–”

“She’s busy,” he repeats, still pleasant. “Sorry, Kels.”

Kelsey looks a little surprised, then shrugs and laughs it off with a, “No, yeah, totally, sorry, babe, don’t worry about it,” before drifting back into the crowd with her phone still in hand, probably already searching for another girl with a functioning oven and weaker boyfriend security.

But beside him, his girlfriend has gone very still.

Dean’s grin spreads slowly across the table. “Wow.”

Garrett points at him without looking. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying. Very brave. Very feminist of you, speaking over a woman like that.”

“Dean,” Tucker says mildly.

“What? I’m processing.”

Logan appears at the edge of the booth, because the scent of Garrett doing something emotionally revealing has summoned him from the bar. “What’d I miss?”

“Garrett just became her secretary,” Dean says.

Garrett leans back, arm still behind her. “I became her union rep.”

Tucker nods like this is fair. “Better benefits.”

She makes a tiny sound then. She looks down at her drink, and Garrett feels the heat of her embarrassment without needing to see her face properly. It moves through her in little tells he knows too well now: fingers to the straw, mouth pressing together, knee shifting away and then back again like her body can’t decide whether to hide from him or lean into him.

Garrett’s humour softens before his mouth does. He ducks his head closer, voice dropping under the noise. “Baby.”

She gives him a look from under her lashes. “You can’t just say no for me.”

“I can, actually. Felt pretty natural.”

“Garrett.”

“What?” He lets his fingers slide from her hair to the back of her neck, thumb rubbing once under the edge of her sweater where her skin has gone warm. “You were about to spend your Saturday making cupcakes for some girl’s roommate because she called them cute.”

“She was being nice.”

“She was asking for free labour.”

Her mouth twitches before she can stop it, which feels like a personal win.

“I could’ve said no,” she says, but there’s not enough force behind it to convince either of them. Her gaze drops again, softer now, landing somewhere near his collar. “I just didn’t want to make it awkward.”

Garrett looks at her for a second. The whole bar keeps moving around them, bodies and noise and sticky light, but the booth seems to pull inward a little, shrinking down to the line of her shoulder against his ribs and the careful way she’s not looking at him too directly.

“Babe,” he says, low enough that Dean’s nosy ass has to pretend very hard not to listen. “You are allowed to make things awkward.”

She snorts, quiet and reluctant. “Easy for you to say. You make everything awkward on purpose.”

“Yeah, and look at me. Thriving.”

“You’re not thriving. You got banned from the student union coffee cart for arguing about oat milk.”

“That was a misunderstanding.”

She actually laughs, small but real, and some of the tightness leaves her shoulders. Garrett’s hand stays at the back of her neck, warm and steady. He watches her fight with the smile on her mouth like she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction, which is fine. He has plenty of satisfaction. He’s rich in it. Obnoxiously wealthy, really.

He bends closer, lips brushing her temple because he can get away with that in public and because he likes the way she tilts into him even when she’s trying to be cross. “Let me be the asshole sometimes.”

She turns her face slightly, just enough that her cheek brushes his jaw. “You’re already the asshole sometimes.”

“Exactly. I have experience.” His thumb moves again, slow over the delicate knobs at the top of her spine. “You don’t have to say yes to everybody just because they like you.”

She stares at the table for a second too long, at the fries, the damp glasses, the little chaos of napkins Dean has somehow shredded into a pile. When she speaks, her voice comes out quieter. “I know.”

Garrett doesn’t push. He’s learning that with her. The same way he’s learned that she gets overwhelmed at parties before she admits it, that she says I’m fine in a tone that means please notice but don’t make me explain this in front of people, that she can be the girl everyone loves and still go rigid when too many expectations hook into her at once.

So he keeps it simple. Keeps it warm and a little teasing because that’s where she can breathe. “Here’s the system,” he says. “You look at me. I say no. They get mad at me because I’m a huge dick. You stay perfect and beloved.”

She rolls her eyes, but her shoulder settles more fully into his side. “That’s not a system.”

“It’s a great system.”

Across the table, Tucker lifts a fry. “For what it’s worth, I support the system.”

Dean nods gravely. “Same. Mainly because watching Garrett politely tell people to fuck off is one of the few joys he provides.”

Logan slides into the booth beside Tucker with a fresh beer. “Wait, are we weaponising Garrett’s resting captain face? Because I’ve been saying we should do that for years.”

She groans and covers her face with one hand, but she’s laughing now, soft and helpless behind her fingers. Garrett feels it against his ribs and smiles down at her like an idiot, though he would deny the idiot part in court.

“See?” he murmurs, kissing the side of her head again. “Whole team effort.”

She drops her hand and looks up at him at last, eyes warm and slightly embarrassed and full of something that makes his chest go a little stupid. “You’re annoying.”

“Yeah,” he says, grinning. “But you picked me.”

Her mouth curves. “I did pull Garrett Graham.”

Dean gags immediately. “Please don’t say his full name during couple foreplay. Some of us are eating.”

Garrett flicks a fry at him without looking away from her. “You did,” he says, smug and soft at the same time because with her, apparently, he can be both and survive it. “So use me.”

Her eyebrows lift.

“Not like that,” he says, then pauses because, false advertising helps no one. “Also like that. But right now I meant for saying no.”

She laughs again, brighter this time, and tucks herself closer under his arm, her hand finding his knee beneath the table and squeezing once. Her fingers stay there afterward, warm through the denim, like some part of her has put down a weight she didn’t realise she’d been carrying.

A few minutes later, when the group project guy circles back and starts with, “Hey, sorry, one more thing–” she doesn’t answer right away.

She looks at Garrett. 

Garrett smiles. “Nope,” he says, cheerful as hell. “She’s off the clock.”

The guy blinks. “Oh. Okay. Yeah, no problem.”

He leaves.

She stares at Garrett for a second, then bites her lip around the smile trying to happen. “You enjoyed that way too much.”

He leans in, brushing his mouth over hers once, soft and quick and shameless enough to make her cheeks go pink. “Baby,” he says, voice low, grin right there against her lips. “You have no idea.”

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.

[chanelnara]

off limits | part 3

Paring: John Logan x Graham!reader

Summary: Logan knows better than to fall for his best friend's little sister.

wc: 7.10k not sorry; graham!reader; figure skater!reader; brother’s best friend; best friend's sister; hockey player x figure skater; tw: underage drinking (for americans)

Part I | Part II

The music was already loud before Y/N even made it up the front steps.

It blasted through the walls hard enough to shake the windows while bodies crowded the porch, half the campus apparently determined to celebrate Briar’s hockey team latest win like they’d personally scored the goals themselves.

Y/N adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder and glanced back at the three girls behind her. “This,” she said dryly, “is exactly how people get diseases.”

Her friend Chloe laughed. “Oh my God, stop acting like you’re above this. Your brother literally lives here.”

“Exactly,” Y/N replied. “I know what kind of diseases exist inside this house.”

Another girl, she didn’t even know beside her nudged Y/N’s shoulder excitedly. “Still can’t believe your brother’s Garrett Grant.”

“Graham,” Y/N corrected automatically.

“Whatever. The point is your family tree is carrying our social lives.” Y/N rolled her eyes, but she was smiling a little as she pushed the front door open.

Instant chaos. Bodies everywhere. Beer spilled on the floor already. Music too loud. People shouting over beer pong in the dinner table.

Home, basically.

“Baby G!”

Dean appeared first from the living room already drunker than he should. “There she is,” he announced dramatically. “My favorite Graham.”

“You say that every time just to piss Garrett off.”

“But I mean it every time.” he winked at her.

Dean immediately threw an arm around her shoulders and started pulling her through the crowd while her friends looked one second away from passing out from excitement.

Y/N heard one of them whisper: “Oh my God, that’s Dean Di Laurentis.”

She rolled her eyes. Poor girl.

“They are all freshman, Dean,” Y/N warned. “Behave.”

“I’m always behaving.”

The kitchen erupted into cheers suddenly as several hockey players stumbled in carrying cases of beer. And right in the middle of them. Logan.

Hoodie sleeves shoved up his forearms, curls messy under a backwards cap, and that lazy, effortless kind of confidence that made it seem like he belonged everywhere he stood. The warm glow from the kitchen lights softened the sharp edges of his face while he laughed at something one of the upperclassmen said, easy and unguarded for once.

Unfortunately for Y/N’s sanity, Logan always looked unfairly good without even trying.

Y/N’s friend beside her went completely silent. Then: “…holy shit.” one of them said.

Y/N snorted. Because ‘Yeah… holy shit.’ She thought

That was usually people’s reaction to Logan.

He looked up a second later, eyes scanning the room automatically before landing on her. And immediately smiled, walking towards them.

“Well, well,” he called over the music. “Graham brought friends.” His mouth curved into a smirk. He wasn’t interested in the girls at all, he just knew the comment would earn him an reaction from her, and for some reason, he never got tired of them. Like a boy annoying his crush on school because he doesn’t know how get her to notice him.

Y/N flipped him off instantly. “They’re innocent freshmen. Leave them alone.”

“I don’t want to be left alone,” one of her friends whispered weakly.

Dean and Logan chuckled. And Y/N rolled her eyes, but her gaze drifted back to Logan anyway. He looked different tonight.

Not physically, though the messy dark hair, flushed cheeks, and post-game confidence weren't helping.

No, it was something else.

Confidence was natural to Logan, but tonight it seemed different somehow. Brighter. Real. Not made up. Like he was carrying the energy of the entire arena with him.

Which, to be fair, he practically was. He'd scored a hat trick. The crowd had spent half the game chanting his name. The team had won because of him.

The worst part? He wore real confidence disgustingly well.

Y/N liked to think she knew better than most that Logan hid behind a smile. Behind the flirting, the confidence, the constant jokes, and sarcasm there was always something he kept carefully out of reach. A part of himself he rarely let anyone see.

But hockey? Hockey was different.

Hockey was the one place where nothing about him was rehearsed. There was no mask and not a carefully crafted version of John Logan. Just him. It was obvious in the way he moved on the ice. In the way his entire face lit up after a goal, a assist. In the pure, almost boyish excitement he could never quite hide after a win.

Whatever insecurities he carried, whatever demons he kept locked behind that easy smile, they disappeared the second he stepped onto the rink.

And maybe that was why Y/N enjoyed watching him play so much. Because for a few hours, she got to see the real version of him. The one who wasn't pretending to be anything at all.

As if sensing her staring, he glanced over.

"Careful, Graham," he said, pointing lazily at her with someone else's beer. "Keep looking at me like that and I'm gonna start thinking you're impressed."

Y/N snorted.

"It’s easier for me to walk barefoot through this kitchen.” she said sarcastically “You scored three goals and somehow became even more arrogant."

Logan grinned. Actually grinned. Like he'd been waiting for her to bring it up. And suddenly he looked pleased. Not because of the game. Because she'd noticed.

"So... you saw that?" He said, trying and failing to sound casual. The question slipped out before he could stop it.

Y/N stared at him and blinked.

"Logan."

"What?"

"My brother was playing."

Logan immediately regretted it. His smile melted instantly.

Of course she saw it. Her brother was the fucking captain of the team. Why the hell had he gotten excited in the first place? She watches practically every game. Like she'd been sitting in those stands watching him.

Idiot.

The stupid little spark in his chest fizzled out instantly. There it is, reality. He should've known better.

"Right," he said, taking a sip of his beer. "Yeah sure."

But then Y/N tilted her head slightly.

"and," she added, "you played really well."

Logan looked up surprised.

"What?"

"You did." She shrugged. "Three goals is kind of incredible, Johnny !"

For a second, he just stared at her.

Y/N fought the urge to smile but tried to hold it, keeping the cool girl character. Then break the character and finally smiled, when she saw his face light up again the exact moment the compliment landed.

He play it cool and was able to recover quickly.

"Well," he said, suddenly looking far too pleased with himself, "I am kind of incredible."

Y/N laughed and flipped him "Fuck off. I'm never complimenting you again"

Logan chuckled softly under his breath too. Too softly and naturally. Her friends exchanged looks and Y/N changed the subject.

“Where’s Garrett?” she asked.

“Somewhere upstairs with Hannah”

“Sounds right.”

As if summoned by the mention of his name, Garrett suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs.

He spotted Y/N instantly. Then spotted the freshmen girls behind her.

“Well,” Y/N sighed. “Speaking of the devil”

Garrett pointed directly at Logan before even reaching the bottom step.

“You.”

Logan blinked innocently. “Me?”

“Don’t try anything” throwing back to the conversation they had days ago in his room.

Y/N laughed innocently.

And Logan… Logan just grinned slowly like Garrett’s threats had become background noise years ago. Before he could say anything to defend himself Y/N spoke.

“Relax, Johnny wasn’t flirting with them…” Y/N said innocently. Then she paused. “…yet.”

Logan looked offended immediately. “That’s slander.”

“That’s experience.”

Dean chuckled somewhere behind them while Garrett looked one second away from developing a stress-induced migraine. Y/N ignored all three of them.

“Anyways,” she continued, turning toward the girls beside her, “come meet my brother since apparently he’s, like, a celebrity or something.”

“Oh my God,” Chloe whispered, panicking instantly.

Garrett groaned. “Y/N—”

Too late. Y/N grabbed his wrist and physically pulled him forward into the circle of freshmen girls despite his resistance.

“This is Garrett Graham,” she announced dramatically, like some kind of sports commentator. “Team captain, future NHL star, and unfortunately for you girls, very much taken, so let’s all be respectful and keep your crushes to yourselves.”

Garrett deadpanned. “I’m leaving.”

“No you’re not.” she held his arm keeping him in place.

Her friends looked fascinated. Which happened a lot around Garrett.

He had that effect naturally. Big presence, sharp stare, the kind of confidence that made people straighten unconsciously when he walked into a room.

Y/N, didn’t see him like that at all. Mostly because she’d spent her entire childhood bullying him.

“Hi,” one girl squeaked nervously.

Garrett softened almost immediately. Not by much, maybe two percent, but for him that was practically warmth. The girls standing behind Y/N didn't look like the kind of people she usually spent time with. If he were being honest, he wasn't even convinced most of them were real friends. They seemed far more interested in the house and the hockey players than in Y/N herself. But he knew that she was trying to branch out beyond the skating world, trying to fit in with normal college girls for once, and Garrett wasn't about to make it harder for her.

So he slipped easily into the role they were all expecting: Briar's captain, friendly, polite, approachable. If making a good impression helped Y/N feel a little more comfortable, then he could play the part for a few minutes. Besides, it was nice seeing her with people outside the rink for a change. "Hey," he said politely.

Y/N looked smug. “See? He’s house trained.”

“Shut up”

Behind them, Logan watched the entire interaction with amusement tugging at his mouth. His eyes stayed on Y/N a second longer than necessary as she laughed again, and as she walked around introducing her friends to different guys on the hockey team, head tipping slightly toward her friends, arguing with Garrett about something stupid.

Most people looked at Y/N and saw confidence. The loud laugh, the quick comebacks, the way she could walk into a room full of strangers and somehow end up talking to all of them within ten minutes. She moved through their house like she lived there, stealing drinks, insulting people affectionately, making herself comfortable wherever she went.

But Logan had always thought there was something a little misleading about that version of her. Not because it wasn't real. Y/N was genuinely funny and talkative and ridiculously easy to like. The thing was, people assumed that meant she was easy to get to know. She wasn't.

Growing up with their dad she had, she'd learned early how to smile through discomfort, how to hide pain behind politeness, how to make difficult things look effortless. Figure skating had only reinforced it. Years of performing had taught her how to stay graceful when she was exhausted, how to make every movement look intentional, how to let people see exactly what she wanted them to see.

It was almost funny, really. For someone who was such a social butterfly, Y/N kept her world surprisingly small. Most friendships drifted in and out of her life without ever getting particularly deep. The people she truly let in could be counted on one hand: Garrett, the boys, Hannah and Allie. That was it. And whenever anyone pointed it out, she'd just shrug and insist she already had everything she needed.

And she meant it.

For them everything with Y/N felt easy. And Logan still hadn’t realized yet that maybe that was his problem. And why it was so hard to push whatever weird thought was going through his head away.

Y/N was halfway through introducing another girl to one of the denfesemen when a girl appeared beside Logan near the couch.

“Congratulations on the game” she said with an already flirty undertone, leaning against the side of the couch beside him.

He ignored her for some seconds. Eyes still clued toward Y/N across the room. She was laughing at something Garrett said, one hand gripping his forearm while he looked deeply unimpressed by her existence.

Then the girl said “So... you’re Johnny?”

That made him finally look back at the girl beside him. He reconized the girl as one of Y/N’s friends. Pretty. Blonde. Smiling at him.

“…don’t call me that.” he said quite rude without even noticing.

She blinked. “What?”

“Johnny.” He took another sip of beer. “Don’t call me that”

The girl laughed awkwardly. “Oh. Sorry. Y/N talks about you guys all the time, so I guess it stuck.”

That made something strange settle low in his chest. Y/N talks about you guys all the time. Not just Garrett. But also not just him. But them.

And really, why wouldn't she talk about them?

Y/N spent so much time at their house that half her college memories probably happened within these walls. Movie nights, team dinners, study sessions, late-night food runs, stupid inside jokes that somehow never died.

Somewhere along the way, she'd stopped being Garrett's little sister who occasionally stopped by and simply become part of the group.

Logan wasn't sure any of them had even noticed when it happened and hadn’t really thought about it. But apparently Y/N had. And apparently it was an important subject for her.

“You don’t like it, huh?” the girl teased lightly.

Logan was lost in his thoughts and realized a second too late she was still talking to him.

“What?”

“The nickname,” she said. “You hate it that much?”

“No,” he answered automatically. Then quieter: “Just sounds weird from other people.”

Because he didn’t hate it. Not really. He complained every time Y/N called him Johnny, but half the time he was just pretending. When she said it, it sounded natural. When someone else did, it felt like they were using something that wasn’t theirs.

Her smile shifted slightly then, like she finally noticed he wasn’t really paying attention to her.

His attention kept drifting back across the room. Y/N had moved closer to Garrett again, still talking animatedly with her hands while her friends listened. Garrett pretended to look annoyed, but Logan knew him well enough to catch the tiny things underneath it.

The way Garrett stayed turned toward her automatically in crowded rooms. The way his eyes tracked her without thinking. The way Y/N leaned into him casually because somewhere deep down she’d never doubted he’d be there.

Protective. Constant. Safe

It made him think.

Maybe because ever since Garrett had finally told them the truth last year, Logan hadn't been able to completely stop wondering about it. Not about Garrett, about Y/N.

Garrett's stories had always revolved around bruises, shouting matches, slammed doors, and a father who seemed determined to turn every room he entered into a battlefield. Logan knew enough to understand why Garrett carried some of the things he did. Knew enough to understand where the anger came from. But Y/N had always been the missing piece of that story.

He'd never asked her. It wasn't his business. Garrett had trusted them with his memories, and Logan wasn't about to start digging for details that hadn't been offered. Still, he couldn't help wondering where Y/N fit into all of it. Where she'd been during those years. What she'd seen. What she'd heard through bedroom walls. How much of it she remembered, and how much of it Garrett had managed to shield her from.

Because sometimes Logan looked at her and saw someone who seemed completely untouched by that kind of childhood, bright, confident, quick to laugh. Then other times, he'd catch small things that made him think the opposite. The way she avoided conflict she couldn't joke her way through. The way she brushed off things that should probably bother her more. The way she seemed determined to carry every problem by herself rather than ask for help.

Like somewhere along the way she'd learned the same lesson Garrett had. Just in a different form. Hide the damage. Keep smiling. Make sure nobody notices.

Garrett had spent most of his life protecting Y/N. Which made this… Whatever this weird thing inside Logan’s chest was… feel worse somehow. It felt wrong in a way he couldn’t fully explain. Because standing here watching them, it was impossible not to see how much trust existed there. How much love.

And Logan was suddenly terrifyingly aware that he was looking at Garrett’s little sister too long again.

The girl beside him tried one last time anyway.

“So,” she smiled, letting her fingers brush lightly against his arm, “are all hockey players this antisocial or just you?”

Normally, Logan would've flirted back without thinking. Easy smile. Easy charm. Easy conversation. The girl was pretty. She was standing right next to him, clearly interested, practically handing him an opening. Usually, that would've been enough.

Instead, he barely reacted.

Because his attention kept drifting across the room.

Y/N was near the middle of the living room now, laughing as Hannah wrapped an arm around her shoulders. A second later, the two girls grabbed Garrett from opposite sides and started trying to drag him toward whatever disaster counted as dancing tonight.

Garrett immediately looked annoyed. Or at least he tried to. His mouth was already twitching before they even managed to pull him away from the wall, the corner of it betraying him as Hannah laughed and Y/N nearly doubled over from her own success.

The idiot was enjoying himself.

Logan felt a soft smile tug at his mouth before he could stop it.

The girl beside him followed his gaze.

Watched Y/N and Hannah continue harassing Garrett while he complained the entire time, letting them pull him farther into the crowd anyway.

Then she looked back at Logan. And suddenly went very quiet. “Oh,” she said.

For the first time all night, Logan actually looked at her and he realized exactly what she'd been seeing.

Understanding flashed across the girl's face almost instantly. Then came sympathy. Which was somehow worse. The girl looked back at Logan and laughed softly.

Logan frowned. "What?"

"Nothing," she said, still smiling. Then her eyes flicked toward Y/N again. 

Before Logan could come up with a response, she shook her head, amusement replacing whatever disappointment she'd felt.

"Good luck with that… Logan." she said sarcastically and he noticed she avoided the nickname. 

"With what?" he asked immediately.

But she was already backing away into the crowd.

"You'll figure it out."

And then she was gone.

No teasing. No accusations. No chance for him to explain that she had the wrong idea.

Logan stared into his beer for a moment.

Good luck with that, hockey boy.

Good luck whit what exactly?

He almost rolled his eyes. The girl didn’t even know them and had spoken like she’d uncovered some life-changing secret after one small interaction.

Please.

She didn’t know what she was talking about.

Y/N was just… Y/N.

Of course he looked at her. Half his friends were currently orbiting around her. Garrett was over there. Hannah too. Dean had practically appointed himself her personal bodyguard for the night.

Anybody would be looking in that direction. The girl had just misread the situation.

Completely.

Logan took another sip of beer.

Then, without thinking, looked across the room at Y/N again.

———————

The party kept moving around.

Music louder now. More bodies packed into the house. The heat unbearable from too many people dancing too close together.

And somewhere in the middle of it all that, Y/N.

She’d abandoned her jacket hours ago, now down to a cropped Briar U shirt and jeans, hair messy from dancing while Hannah and Allie screamed lyrics around her. Her "friends" were nowhere to be seen anymore, and honestly she felt way better around Hannah and Allie anyways.

She looked happy. Not polite-smiling happy. Not teasing-the-boys happy. Actually happy.

Free in a way Logan didn’t think he’d ever really noticed before. And maybe it was because this place felt safe to her. Their house, Garrett and the boys. She moved through the crowd without hesitation, laughing freely, accepting drinks from Tucker without checking them first, throwing her head back when her friends dragged her into another terrible dance circle.

Comfortable. Because she trusted that nothing bad would happen here. And that somebody would take care of her if it did.

Logan watched her spin badly with Hannah and Allie to some early 2000s song while Dean nearly fell over beside her and Tucker recorded the whole thing laughing.

A smile tugged at Logan’s mouth despite himself.

Logan huffed quietly into his beer and leaned back further into the couch cushions.

Conversation started around him, hockey schedules, classes, some argument about playoffs, but it all blurred together after a while.

Because every few minutes his eyes found her again.

Y/N stealing somebody’s drink. Y/N laughing so hard she doubled over. Y/N dancing terribly on purpose just to make everyone laugh harder. Every glance lasted a little too long. Every time he looked away, his attention drifted right back. He never noticed her like that before. And the more he noticed it the worse it felt.

Because Garrett trusted him.

Hell, Y/N trusted him. She was not only her best friend’s sister, she was his friend too.

She walked into this house without thinking twice. Safe enough to steal their drinks, fall asleep on their couches, and trust that nobody would ever see more of it.

The thought settled heavily in Logan's chest.

Because he'd always hated when people said men and women couldn't just be friends. Hated the idea that every friendship secretly came with an expiration date, that eventually one person always wanted more. And yet, watching Y/N laugh her way through the crowd, made Logan feel like an asshole.

Because as far as she knew, he just another one of the boys.

Then suddenly—

“Jooooohnny.”

A body dropped onto the couch beside him hard enough to make him jolt slightly. Followed by Garrett, Tucker, Dean, Hannah and Allie walking in the living room.

Y/N grinned at him lazily, very obviously drunk.

Her cheeks were flushed pink from dancing, her eyes bright and unfocused as she made a grab for the beer in his hand.

Logan dodged easily.

Drunk Y/N had terrible reflexes.

“People’s princess,” Dean said sitting on the armchair. “Finally tired of entertaining your subjects”

Y/N pointed at him dramatically. “It’s just a break… I’ll be right back”

“You spilled vodka on my shoes twenty minutes ago.”

“And yet you forgave me because I’m cute.”

“No,” Garrett muttered, appearing behind the couch suddenly. “he forgave you because you’re five seconds from falling over.”

Y/N gasped softly. “I’m not even that bad”

She leaned further into Logan’s side as she said it, completely unbothered. Logan went still instantly.

“Hi,” she said suddenly, squinting up at him. “Why do you look depressed?”

“I’m literally just sitting here.”

“Yeah,” she nodded seriously. “But, like… depressing.”

The boys chuckled

Y/N ignored tem completely and kept staring at Logan with drunken concentration like she was genuinely trying to solve a puzzle.

Then she narrowed her eyes.

“…you’re boooring. You just scored 3 goals in a important game, and spend the night sitting on this couch… you are no fun”

Logan looked down at her and suddenly realized just how close she was.

Close enough to see her melted make up and the faint glitter still stubbornly clinging near the corners of her eyes. Close enough to smell alcohol mixed with her perfume. Close enough that if she leaned even a little more—

Y/N blinked up at him slowly with heavy, sleepy eyes, still waiting for an answer to whatever nonsense accusation she’d just made. Completely unaware of the effect she was having on him. His throat tightened. Logan swallowed hard before he caught himself.

Then immediately leaned back, giving her shoulder a light shove.

“Shut up,” he muttered with a nervous chuckle. “You are dead-ass drunk.”

Y/N gasped dramatically like he’d deeply insulted her.

“I’m not drunk.”

“You almost walked into my lamp ten minutes ago.” Tucker accused

“The lamp moved.” she said dramaticlly

Dean nodded solemnly from the floor. “Honestly? I saw it too.”

“Thank you.”

Garrett looked exhausted. “I’m surrounded by idiots.”

Y/N ignored him entirely and stole Logan’s beer again before he could stop her.

“Hey—”

“You share,” she informed him.

“You’ve had, like, four drinks already.” he took his beer back

“And?” She tilted her head lazily against the couch cushion. “I want to have five" she pouted

And suddenly Logan felt hyperaware again of the fact that she was practically folded against his side.

This felt dangerously wrong. Not because she was doing anything inappropriate. Y/N was just being Y/N. Comfortable, loud, affectionate when drunk, the problem was that she didn’t know the effect this suddenly had on him.

“You are,” she insisted, poking his ribs weakly. “You are all weird and quiet.”

Logan nearly choked on his beer. “No, I’m not.”

Y/N chuckled again, soft and tired this time, until she suddenly dropped her head onto Logan’s shoulder like gravity simply gave up on her. Everything in Logan’s body locked instantly.

Y/N was already half asleep.

“She’s done,” Tucker announced from the other couch.

“No shit,” Garrett muttered.

Y/N made a small annoyed sound without lifting her head. “I’m literally awake.”

“Congratulations,” Logan said dryly, staring very hard at the opposite wall instead of the warm weight resting against him. “Do you want a medal?”

“…yes. the golden one, in the olympics” she said sleepy

Tucker lost it laughing. Honestly, that was probably a sign he was drunker than he should’ve been, because it wasn’t even that funny.

And Logan smiled despite himself. Which was exactly the problem.

“Damn it,” Garrett muttered.

Logan glanced up.

Across the living room, Hannah and Allie were fully passed out on the opposite couch, tangled together next to Tucker.

And Dean suddenly disappeared , probably with the brunette he was hooking up with twenty minutes ago.

Garrett took a long breath and pinched the bridge of his nose like the entire party was personally attacking him. “This is why I hate throwing parties,” he muttered. “Everybody has fun, then somehow the house is destroyed, the beer's gone, and we're the ones cleaning up tomorrow.”

"That's leardship Gare" Y/N mumbled

Garrett ignored her and continued “And don't even get me started on freshmen who discover alcohol for the first time and immediately forget how to function.”

“Love you too,” Y/N mumbled sleepily against Logan's shoulder.

Garrett pointed at her immediately.

“You are exactly who I'm talking about."

“No, I'm not.” She cracked one eye open. “I'm your favorite.”

“You're currently drooling on Logan."

Logan nearly inhaled his beer wrong. Y/N lifted her head just enough to look offended "Liar ! I don't drool."

Then she dropped right back onto his shoulder anyway.

Logan was painfully aware of: Y/N curled into his side. His arm resting along the back of the couch behind her. The fact that he hadn’t moved away once.

Garrett sighed heavily.

“Hey,” he said finally, looking directly at Logan. “I gotta take Hannah and Allie home before it gets too late”

Logan blinked once.

“And?”

“And Dean disappeared.” Garrett jerked his head toward Tucker. “Tucker’s drunk off his ass.” Then finally: "So do you mind taking care of Y/N?”

The room seemed to go strangely quiet for a second. Garrett trusted him. And Logan felt like the world’s worst person suddenly. Because Garrett asked the question so easily.

No suspicion. No hesitation.

“Yeah,” Logan answered automatically, voice rougher than intended. “Course.”

Garrett nodded once like that settled it completely.

“Just make sure she drinks water before she passes out.”

Y/N lifted one finger into the air dramatically without opening her eyes. “Hydration is important for high performance athletes.”

“You had vodka mixed with an energy drink.”

“Balance.”

Garrett rolled his eyes and chuckled lightly shaking his head. Then he moved toward the couch, crouching briefly in front of Y/N.

“Hey,” he said quieter this time. “I’m taking Hannah back to campus.”

Y/N blinked slowly at him. “Kay.”

“You staying here tonight?”

She nodded immediately, not even thinking about it. “Mhm.”

“Okay.” Garrett brushed messy hair back from her forehead automatically. “Lock the upstairs bathroom door this time if you shower in the morning.”

Y/N looked offended. “That happened one time.”

Garrett laughed under his breath despite himself, kissed her forehead before standing again. Then he looked toward Logan one last time.

“Text me if she gets worse.”

Logan nodded once.

And just like that, Garrett handed over the most important person in his life without a second thought.

“I’m not even that drunk,” Y/N complained immediately after Garrett disappeared toward the front door with Hannah and Allie barely conscious behind him. “I don’t need a babysitter”

Her words blended together just enough to completely destroy her argument. Logan looked down at her incredulously.

“You can barely keep your eyes open.”

“I’m just relaxing.”

“You called the lamp hostile earlier.”

“Because it was.”

Y/N rolled her eyes dramatically before letting herself fall backward against Logan’s shoulder again with absolutely no concern for personal space.

“He’s so dramatic, I swear,” she mumbled. “Like, oh no, Y/N had fun at a party, somebody alert the authorities.”

Logan huffed out a laugh despite himself.

“G is just protective.”

Y/N groaned instantly. “He’s insane.”

“He worries"

“Too much.” she added.

She shifted again until she was practically folded into Logan’s side, one leg thrown lazily across the couch cushion beside him. Logan was trying very hard not to think about the fact that her face was tucked against his neck now. He swallowed once and stared straight ahead at the crowded living room like it personally offended him.

Y/N snorted softly against Logan’s shoulder, clearly amused. Then she tilted her head up suddenly to squint at him.

“You smell nice.” Everything in Logan’s body stopped functioning for a full second. Y/N blinked slowly, still completely serious. “Like laundry detergent,” she informed him.

Logan dragged a hand down his face. “You are never drinking again.”

Y/N smiled sleepily then, small and lazy and entirely too comfortable against him. Her fingers absentmindedly curled into the sleeve of Logan’s hoodie like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe for her, it was. That was the problem. Because for Y/N, this probably meant nothing. She wouldn’t even remember.

Meanwhile Logan was sitting there hyperaware of every point where she touched him while guilt slowly ate through his bloodstream.

Tucker noticed. Of course he did. His drunk eyes narrowed slowly between the two of them. Logan looked up noticing Tucker's eyes on them and stomach dropped immediately.

“I’m gonna take her upstairs,” Logan announced to nobody in particular.

Mostly because he desperately needed to get out of this couch before Tucker’s drunk ass accidentally developed observational skills.

Y/N barely protested when Logan stood and took her hand, helping her up from the couch carefully. The second she got to her feet, she swayed slightly. He reached out quickly and steadied her.

“Wow,” she said, sounding genuinely impressed. “So quick.”

Logan laughed. “You're a figure skater. You're supposed to have better balance than this.”

Y/N squinted at him. “I can skate backward.”

“You can't walk forward.”

“Details.”

She stumbled toward the stairs with all the confidence of someone who absolutely should not be walking unassisted. Logan followed automatically, one hand hovering near her elbow just in case.

Halfway to the staircase, she faltered. Not from the alcohol this time. A small wince crossed her face before she could hide it, her hand briefly brushing her knee. Logan noticed immediately.

"You okay?" he rushed to her side "Something hurts?"

"Nothing."

"That wasn't a nothing face."

"My knee's being dramatic." she said as if it was nothing.

"You mean injured?"

"I mean dramatic."

Y/N blinked at him. Then shrugged.

"Yeah. Probably danced too much."

"You dance for an hour and injure yourself?"

"I skate for six hours and injure myself," she corrected.

Logan narrowed his eyes.

She ignored him. Then she looked up at the staircase. And stopped completely. A look of deep suspicion settled on her face. "There's more of them than before." brushing the subject.

Logan stared. "The stairs?"

"Yeah... and they are moving."

"They are literally the same stairs."

Y/N squinted harder. "and multiplying."

"Jesus Christ."

Before she could attempt climbing again and accidentally throw herself backward down the staircase, Logan exhaled sharply and bent slightly to lift her instead.

One arm under her knees. The other around her back. Easy and effortless.

Y/N let out a startled laugh immediately as he picked her up bridal style. Her head tipped backward dramatically while her arms looped loosely around his neck for balance.

Logan rolled his eyes as he started upstairs carefully “You’re impossible.”

“No,” Y/N sighed dreamily. “I’m amazing”

Logan laughed quietly under his breath before he could stop himself. Y/N looked up at him then, smile softer now, eyes heavy and unfocused in the dim hallway lighting.

And God. That was dangerous. Very dangerous.

Then suddenly she spoke again.

“Did you know,” Y/N slurred thoughtfully, “I quit pairs when I was little?”

Logan looked down at her. “Yeah?”

He wasn’t really paying attention anymore, just giving her enough responses to keep up with whatever drunk train of thought she was currently riding. Most of her words had blended together into background noise by now.

She nodded against his shoulder.

“Uh-hu. My partners could never lift me properly.”   

Y/N just kept going. “I hated pairs, honestly. Being thrown around, being caught, trusting somebody not to drop you.” She wrinkled her nose. “None of my partners were ever very good at it. I hit my head a lot. Then she laughed softly. “One of them told me I was too heavy.”

The hallway suddenly felt very quiet. Logan stopped walking. 

“What? Does Garrett know about this?”

The look of horror on her face was immediate. “Oh my God, no. He would murder a second grader.”

Logan considered that for a second. “Maybe he should have.”

Y/N blinked up at him. “We were like seven.”

“I don't care.” The answer came so fast it almost surprised him.

A smile tugged at her mouth. “He was seven too, Johnny.”

“Then he was a seven-year-old asshole.”

That actually made her laugh.

Y/N yawned and rested her head against his shoulder again.

“Besides,” she mumbled sleepily, “it worked out. I was always better on my own anyway.”

Logan looked down at her for a moment. He had a feeling she wasn’t talking just about skating anymore. The worst part was that she sounded like she believed it.

Logan tightened his jaw and started walking again. "Sounds like your partners sucked."

Y/N laughed softly. "Most of them did."

"They had one job. To catch you."

She laughed softly. "That's not technically how pairs works."

"Maybe not." He glanced down at her. "Still. If somebody's trusting you enough to throw themselves into the air, you don't get to screw that up."

The words settled between them. For a second, Y/N just stared at him.

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the way he said it. But suddenly it didn't feel like they were talking about skating anymore too.

There was something strangely earnest in his voice. Something simple and solid. Like he genuinely couldn't understand how anyone could be trusted with something precious and then choose to let it fall.

A sleepy smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“That's a very nice thing to say, Johnny."

Logan huffed a quiet laugh. Y/N kept looking at him for another second, studying him like she'd discovered something unexpected.

Then her smile widened.

"You would've been a great partner."

Logan snorted. "I'm pretty sure figure skating requires grace and coordination. I'd be kicked out on day one."

That made her laugh. And he smiled to himself proud of it "Probably” Her gaze dropped to his arm where it was holding her effortlessly. "But at least I would've known you were gonna catch me."

The words were casual. The effect they had on him wasn't.

As she said them, her fingers tightened absentmindedly around his bicep where her arm rested. Logan nearly missed a step. Y/N blinked down at her own hand, then squeezed experimentally once more.

"...wow."

Oh no.

"I never realized how fit you were," she mumbled, squeezing again as if this were a perfectly normal thing to do. "This is insane."

"Y/N." he warned

"What?" she asked innocently, looking up at him while continuing her completely unscientific investigation.

"Jesus Christ." he groaned

She laughed softly, still completely unaware of the fact that she was actively shortening his lifespan. Or maybe she knew… Drunk Y/N was difficult to read.

Logan tightened his grip under her knees slightly and pushed Garrett’s bedroom door open with his shoulder. The room was dark except for the lamp near the desk.

Y/N immediately sighed dramatically once they entered. “Oooh my kingdom.”

“It’s your brother’s room.” he said unpatient.

Logan walked toward the bed carefully while Y/N kept talking nonsense against his shoulder.

“You hockey boys are weirdly muscular,” she informed him seriously. “Like… is concerning.”

“You are never drinking vodka again.”

“Okay but” she poked his chest weakly “your arms are ridiculous.”

Logan exhaled sharply through his nose. This was torture. Actual torture. Because Y/N sounded completely casual about it. Meanwhile Logan’s brain was actively trying to kill him. His body was betraying him. He lowered her carefully onto Garrett’s bed, expecting her to let go.

She didn’t.

Her arms stayed looped lazily around his neck while she looked up at him from the mattress with heavy eyes.

Too close. Again. Logan swallowed hard.

“Alright,” he said roughly. “You gotta let go now.”

Y/N frowned slightly like she genuinely needed a second to process the request.

Then finally “Oh. Sorry” she chuckled and slowly, she loosened her arms.

But instead of fully letting go, her hand caught the collar of his shirt lightly before he could pull away.

Logan froze instantly. Y/N squinted at him with sleepy concentration.

“You’re pretty,” she informed him very seriously.

Logan actually choked a little on air. Grabbing her hand on his shirt and pulling it away “Okay,” he said quickly. “Goodnight.”

Y/N started laughing again as he immediately tried stepping backward out of reach.

“Relax, Johnny,” she teased softly, falling sideways into Garrett’s pillows. “You look scared.”

Scared wasn’t exactly the word for it. Terrified felt more accurate. As he organized the pillows on the bed for her to sleep in. Y/N looked like she considered something for a moment before finally speak.

“So did you?”

Logan, halfway through pulling the blanket over her, looked up in confusion.

“I did what?”

Y/N shifted onto her back dramatically, squinting at him with a teasing little smile.

“Hook up with Chloe.”

Logan blinked once honestly confused “…who?”

“My friend,” Y/N clarified with an exaggerated eye roll. He still looked confused so she added “The blonde one.”

“Oh.”

“She wanted to hook up with you,” Y/N continued casually. “Has been talking about it all week.”

Logan snorted softly despite himself. Y/N looked deeply unimpressed. “Really annoying, by the way.” She threw herself harder into Garrett’s pillows like the entire situation personally offended her. “Acting like you guys are celebrities or something,” she muttered. “It’s stupid.”

Logan crossed his arms lightly, leaning against Garrett’s desk now and looking at her smirking.

“You literally introduced your brother like he was royalty downstairs.”

“That was ironic.”

“Sure.”

Y/N ignored him.

“She kept begging me to introduce you guys,” she continued. “I told her I wouldn’t, but then she was like, ‘I’ll just talk to him myself.’”

Her voice changed mockingly on the last sentence. Logan laughed quietly under his breath. Then Y/N looked back at him again.

“So?” she asked. “Did you?”

There was something oddly focused about the question despite how drunk she was. Curious and genuine watching him carefully.

Logan shrugged once. “No.”

Y/N blinked. “No?”

“No.”

“…why not?”

The question came too fast. Like she asked before thinking about it. Logan noticed immediately. Y/N noticed too, judging by the way her expression shifted slightly afterward. But instead of backing off, she doubled down.

“She’s pretty,” she said defensively. “Like... a lot”

“Never said she wasn’t.”

“She literally spent two hours fixing her hair before coming here.”

“Really? Didn't notice” he said crossing his arms.

Y/N narrowed her eyes at him from the bed. “You flirt with everyone.”

“That’s not true.”

“Johnny,” she deadpanned. “I’ve seen you flirt with the library lady.”

Logan laughed. Actually laughed. And Y/N hated for one brief second how good he looked doing it. Drunk thoughts. Dangerous territory.

“She wasn’t really my type,” Logan said finally. Find a reasonable explanation.

Y/N tilted her head slightly against the pillow.

“And what exactly is your type?”

You are

The room got quieter somehow. Suddenly Logan could hear every small sound in Garrett’s room: the muffled conversations dowstairs through the walls, Y/N’s breathing, his own heartbeat being deeply unhelpful.

Because Y/N was looking at him now. Really looking at him. Drunk curious eyes soft in the low light. Logan forced himself to shrug casually.

“Don’t know,” he lied.

Y/N hummed sleepily like she didn’t believe him for a second. Then, after a pause:

“Yeah... maybe blondies not your thing.”

Logan’s breath caught so subtly he almost thought he imagined it himself. Y/N, meanwhile, was already sinking deeper into the pillows, eyes half closed again. Completely unaware of the damage she was causing.

Logan walked away and stayed still near the doorway for a second, hand already on the light switch.

Y/N’s breathing had evened out. Her eyes were closed. And for one dangerously peaceful moment, he thought she’d finally fallen asleep.

Good. Because he needed distance. Cold water. Maybe psychological intervention. He reached for the switch.

Then—

“Don’t leave, please.”

The words were so quiet he almost didn’t hear them. Logan turned immediately. Y/N was still curled into Garrett’s blankets, eyes barely open now, voice rough with exhaustion and alcohol. But the teasing was gone.

“I don’t like being alone like this,” she admitted softly.

Something in Logan’s chest tightened painfully. Because suddenly she didn’t sound drunk anymore. She sounded vulnerable. Young. And underneath the sleepiness and slurred words, there was something deeper there too. Something sad enough that Logan felt it instantly without fully understanding why.

Y/N shifted slightly against the pillow, blinking toward the dark hallway behind him.

“Where’s Gare?” she asked quietly. Not Garrett. Gare. Like small. Childlike. Old habit.

Logan leaned against the doorframe slowly. “He took Hannah back to campus, remember?”

Y/N frowned weakly. “Oh.” she said in relization.

Silence stretched for a second. Then quieter:

“He always stays.”

And there it was. That deeper thing again. Logan knew enough about Y/N and Garrett’s childhood to understand what she wasn’t saying out loud. Garrett always stayed because growing up, somebody had to.

Somebody had to stand between her and the yelling and slammed doors and bruises Garrett pretended nobody noticed. Somebody had to make sure she felt safe. And apparently even now, drunk and exhausted, part of Y/N still searched for her brother first when she felt vulnerable.

Logan’s throat tightened unexpectedly.

“Hey... it's okay. I can stay.” he said softly before he could stop himself.

Y/N looked at him sleepily. Logan hesitated only half a second longer before walking back toward the bed. The mattress dipped slightly as he sat carefully on the edge beside her.

Y/N relaxed almost immediately. Like his presence alone settled something anxious inside her. That should not have affected him as much as it did.

“You gonna stay?” she asked quietly.

Logan looked down at her for a long moment. Then sighed softly through his nose.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

Y/N’s eyes closed again almost instantly after that. Trusting him without hesitation.

And Logan sat there in Garrett Graham’s room beside the girl he absolutely should not be thinking about this way, while guilt and something dangerously close to tenderness twisted together inside his chest.

an: i got a little carried away with this chapter and somehow it ended up way longer than i planned 😭 i really hope you enjoyed it! let me know what you think, i love reading your comments and ideas, also... should i make a taglist? if you'd like to be added, let me know! this fic somehow turned into an 18-chapter monster in my drafts (and it's still growing, which is honestly concerning). meanwhile i'm tagging: @archxve @mcueveryday new chapters every thursday ♡

[dilaurentispuckbunny]

Between Us {John Logan x reader} Part 12

Masterlist

Summary: They were never nothing—but John Logan made sure they were never something either. Until the night he sees her with someone else... and realises too late what he let slip away.

Warnings: angst

The thing nobody tells you about finally getting together with the person you've loved for years is that life doesn't suddenly become dramatic afterward.

At least, not most of the time.

There aren't constant fireworks exploding in the background of every moment. There isn't some invisible movie soundtrack following you around, turning every glance into a grand romantic scene. The world doesn't magically change overnight just because the two of you finally admitted what had been sitting between you for years.

Most of it is surprisingly ordinary.

And somehow, that's exactly what makes it feel so special.

Three weeks after your first date, you're sitting on the couch in Garrett and Logan's apartment, trying to finish an assignment that realistically should have taken you about an hour.

Instead, you've been working on it for nearly three.

Or at least attempting to work on it.

The problem is that Logan won't stop bothering you.

"You've read the same paragraph four times."

You don't even bother looking up from your laptop.

"I hate you."

A laugh comes from the other end of the couch.

"Five times now."

Without lifting your eyes from the screen, you grab the nearest pillow and throw it in his direction.

The annoying part isn't that you throw it.

The annoying part is that he catches it effortlessly.

"Violence isn't the answer," he says.

"It absolutely is."

Finally, you glance up.

Logan is stretched out across the opposite end of the couch, one arm draped over the back cushion, a grin spread across his face.

He's not doing anything.

Just grinning.

He's been doing it for at least twenty minutes.

At this point, you're beginning to suspect he isn't even paying attention to the hockey game playing on television anymore. Every time you've looked up, his eyes have been on you instead.

The realization sends a familiar warmth through your chest.

It also makes you suspicious.

Because no one should look that entertained by simply watching another person struggle through homework.

"You are being weird."

His grin somehow widens.

"Interesting."

You narrow your eyes immediately.

"Why is that interesting?"

"Because three weeks ago, you told me I was looking at you weird."

The second the words leave his mouth, you regret saying anything.

Logan notices your expression right away.

Of course he does.

His smile shifts into something smug.

Dangerously smug.

"Oh no."

You point a finger at him.

"Don't."

"Three weeks ago, you said I looked at you weird."

"You've already mentioned that."

"And now you're calling me weird."

"Logan."

The smugness becomes almost unbearable.

Across the room, Garrett finally looks up from his phone.

His expression suggests he's been listening to this entire conversation against his will.

"Please tell me you two aren't still flirting like you're twelve."

Without hesitation, you point directly at Logan.

"It's him."

Garrett doesn't even look surprised.

He just sighs heavily.

"Of course it is."

The strange thing is that Logan doesn't defend himself.

Normally, he'd have a comeback ready immediately.

Normally, he'd argue.

Instead, he just keeps looking at you.

The look is enough to make your stomach flutter.

Even now.

Three weeks later.

You still haven't fully gotten used to it.

You haven't gotten used to the fact that he's here.

That he's staying.

That every morning starts with a text message from him and every evening ends with him walking you home.

The consistency still catches you off guard sometimes.

And occasionally, it seems to catch him off guard too.

You notice it in small moments.

The way his expression softens whenever he realizes you're actually coming back after leaving a room.

The way he still looks surprised when you reach for his hand first.

The way he watches you sometimes, as though part of him is still waiting for everything to disappear.

At first, those moments broke your heart.

Now they mostly make you want to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him.

Because you're here.

You're not leaving.

And somehow, after everything, that's still taking him time to believe.

—

Later that night, after Garrett disappears into his room and the apartment settles into a comfortable quiet, you find yourself standing alone in the kitchen.

The sink is running as you fill a glass with water.

It's such an ordinary moment that you don't immediately notice Logan entering the room behind you.

Not until his hand brushes lightly against the middle of your back.

The touch is brief.

Gentle.

Barely there.

And somehow your heart still reacts instantly.

Three weeks.

Three entire weeks.

And he still has that effect on you.

It's honestly ridiculous.

"You okay?"

His voice is quiet enough that it blends into the soft sound of running water.

You glance over your shoulder.

Logan is standing close.

Not crowding you.

Not invading your space.

Just close enough that his presence feels familiar.

Comfortable.

The kind of closeness that has slowly become normal over the past few weeks.

The kind of closeness you spent years imagining before it ever became real.

You nod.

"Yeah."

His eyes linger on your face for another second.

Checking.

Making sure.

Not because he feels obligated to ask.

Because he genuinely wants to know the answer.

That realization still catches you off guard sometimes.

Then his gaze drops toward your hands.

"You forgot to turn the water off."

Confused, you look down.

Your eyes widen immediately.

The glass has been overflowing for several seconds.

Water spills continuously over the rim and into the sink below.

"Oh."

Logan starts laughing.

You groan.

"No."

"Oh, absolutely."

You cover your face with one hand.

"Stop."

Unfortunately, that only makes him laugh harder.

Within seconds he's leaning against the counter, struggling to catch his breath.

Which is rude.

Extremely rude.

"Three weeks," he manages between laughs.

You glare at him.

"Logan."

"Three weeks," he repeats, still laughing. "Three weeks and I finally distracted you enough to make you forget basic motor functions."

You stare at him in complete offense.

"You're impossible."

Almost immediately, his smile softens.

The laughter fades.

Something gentler takes its place.

Something that makes your chest ache in a completely different way.

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

The apartment is quiet around you.

The kitchen light casts a warm glow across the room, softening the edges of everything.

And Logan is looking at you again.

That look.

The one that always makes your heartbeat speed up.

Not because it's intense.

Because it's honest.

Because every time he looks at you like that, it feels as though he's still amazed this is real.

His voice is softer when he finally speaks.

"You know..."

Your pulse stumbles.

"What?"

A small smile appears on his face.

The kind that seems reserved only for you.

"I really like this."

The simplicity of the statement catches you off guard.

"This?"

His eyes move around the room.

The apartment.

The kitchen.

The overflowing glass of water.

The ordinary little moment the two of you are standing inside.

All of it.

"Yeah."

His smile grows slightly.

"Us."

Your chest tightens.

Not painfully.

Just enough to make breathing feel different for a second.

Because for years, everything involving Logan felt impossible.

Complicated.

Messy.

Like something you could never quite reach no matter how badly you wanted it.

And now?

Now you're standing in a kitchen while your boyfriend laughs at you for overflowing a glass of water.

Your boyfriend.

Even after three weeks, the word still feels a little unreal.

A soft, disbelieving laugh escapes you.

Logan notices immediately.

"What?"

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.

"Nothing."

His eyes narrow.

"You stole my line."

You laugh again.

And before you can stop yourself—

Before you can overthink it—

You take a step closer.

Logan goes completely still.

The way he always does when he's surprised.

The way he always does whenever you're the one choosing him first.

The realization makes your heart ache.

Because he still notices.

Every single time.

Slowly, you reach up and run your fingers through his hair.

The gesture immediately leaves it messier than before.

His eyes widen slightly.

You smile.

"There."

For a second, neither of you moves.

Then another second passes.

And another.

Logan just stands there staring at you, looking completely helpless.

Completely speechless.

And for maybe the first time in his life, John Logan has absolutely nothing to say.

Honestly, it might be your favorite thing that's happened all week.

Taglist {open}: @notsosweetcreature @dina2223 @haydee5010 @rexit-mo @kmc1989 @mads-writes-vibes @superbfishhumanoidweasel @brianna28483 @m3lodyxo @antisocialfiore @sunshinevansh @girlidekanymore @nihoshi17 @em1ly57 @jellybaby17 @jamesmackreideswife @ralilda @k3nz13a @wilmonyibo7 @solstice-333 @aajames217 @wintermoonly @f4ll-for-you @ilocuras24 @garrettgrahamssexysnaps

[edawgz]

# LITTLE MAXWELL

⤿ DEAN DI LAURENTIS seriously loved his best friend, Beau Maxwell, but when he reunited with his best friend's sister? Well, he was seriously in love.

!! wc: 2.8k. fluff. fem!reader. maxwell!reader. brother's best friend trope. tucker cameos of course. for reference beau and dean have been besties since childhood. flirting. innuendo. nothing crazy. protective beau bc i'm a sucker for that. taglist open. ENJOY. COMMENTS ENCOURAGED.

By the time you walked into the fraternity house, it already felt like the night had decided what it wanted to be.

Music was spilling through every open window in waves that made the floorboards vibrate under your heels, laughter curling up the staircase and out into the night air like it didn’t belong to any one room. Someone had turned the living room into something halfway between a party and a performance, colored lights thrown lazily across the walls, cups stacked on every available surface like they were part of the architecture.

And at the center of it all, unsurprisingly, was Beau Maxwell.

Your brother had that kind of presence that didn’t just fill a room but rearranged it around him. Star quarterback, frat legend, and somehow still managing to look like he’d been born in the middle of a crowd and never left it.

He spotted you the second you stepped inside, his grin breaking wide and immediate as he pushed through a cluster of people to get to you.

“There she is,” he cheered, like the entire night had been waiting for your arrival specifically.

You barely got a chance to respond before he pulled you into a one-armed hug that lifted you onto your toes.

“Asshole!” you protested through a laugh, adjusting your jacket as he let go, finally.

He looked you over like he was assessing a critical player coming onto the field. “You look like you're ready to fucking party.”

“I always look ready,” you said.

“That’s true,” he admitted easily, then gestured broadly at the house. “Welcome to Sig Tau.”

“You live like this voluntarily,” you pointed out with a crinkled nose and squinted eyes.

He smiled like that was a compliment. “It builds character.”

It did not, in fact, look like it built character. It looked like it built diseases and questionable decisions.

You followed him deeper inside, weaving through bodies and laughter, already feeling the familiar ease that came with being around Beau in his element. You had grown up orbiting this version of him, the version that belonged to crowds and energy and people who shouted his name like it meant something beyond just a game.

Which was exactly why you hadn’t expected the shift.

It happened when Beau paused mid-conversation with someone at the counter, glanced over your shoulder, and then did a double-take so sharp it almost looked painful.

“Oh,” he cursed under his breath, but recovered with a grin nonetheless.

You turned slightly. “What?”

Beau didn’t answer right away. His expression had gone from relaxed to something faintly alarmed, like he’d just spotted a problem he had actively avoided thinking about for a long time.

You turned fully this time.

Some blonde who was unfairly attractive was standing a few feet away, still in that effortless post-practice presence he always carried even outside of hockey. His hair slightly mussed, shirt open at the collar, eyes already on you like the rest of the party had been filtered out of existence the moment he arrived.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then Dean tilted his head slightly, like he was trying to place something that had just clicked into focus.

And then he laughed once, low and disbelieving.

“No,” he said, pointing lightly between you and Beau. “That’s her?”

Beau’s hand came up in a slow, resigned motion. “Yeah.”

Dean blinked.

Then looked at you again, properly this time, like he was re-evaluating every interaction you had ever had.

“Little Maxwell, holy shit,” he said with a grin that was both fond and something a little more.

You raised a brow, did you know this guy? Had Beau just talked about you too much?

Something in his expression shifted immediately. Interest sharpened into recognition, then into something distinctly more entertained.

“Oh,” he mumbled again, slower this time, like the realization had weight. “Okay, I get it now.”

Beau sighed. “Don’t start.”

Dean ignored him completely, still looking at you like the conversation had already moved somewhere the rest of the room couldn’t follow.

“Listen, I get it. It's been years since we've seen each other cause you're always off doing some random shit with family in the summer, and I'm always rising and grinding during the season. But come on you don't even recognize these dimples?” He beamed at you as punctuation to his statement. His dimples pressing into his cheeks as his eyes closed in pure exaggeration.

You glanced at Beau with wide eyes, then back to the blonde.

"Dean?" Your jaw was practically on the floor at this point. This was not the little kid with a perfect side part that you grew up hanging out with. There was no way.

Beau looked vaguely like he was reconsidering every life choice that had led him to this moment.

Dean laughed again, shaking his head slightly as if he genuinely couldn’t decide whether this was impressive or insane.

But before he could answer, Beau stepped in half a pace, subtly but firmly placing himself between the two of you like a defensive line that had just been activated.

“Nope,” Beau put an arm between you and his best friend with a firm shake of his head.

Dean lifted a hand innocently. “What?”

“You’re not doing whatever you’re about to do,” Beau continued.

“I’m literally just standing here.”

“That’s how it starts,” Beau said flatly.

You laughed under your breath at that, and Dean’s eyes flicked briefly to you like that sound had been more important than anything else in the room.

Which Beau noticed too, because of course he did.

His jaw tightened slightly. “Tucker,” he called without looking away from Dean.

From somewhere behind the crowd, Tucker appeared like he had been summoned specifically for this purpose. He took one look at the situation, then at Beau, then at Dean, and immediately groaned.

“Oh, come on, bro.”

“Watch him,” Beau said.

Tucker pointed at himself. “Why am I always the emotional support in this house? This feels like it's just a fucking punishment at this point.”

“Because you’re reliable,” Beau said.

“That's really not a compliment in this context.”

Dean exhaled, amused, watching the entire exchange like it was a show he had not paid for but intended to enjoy anyway.

“I feel like I’m being managed,” he said.

“You are being managed,” Beau corrected immediately.

You leaned slightly toward Beau, lowering your voice just enough to be conspiratorial. “This is ridiculous, he's your best friend, why are you being such a weirdo about this?”

Beau didn’t look at you. “This is necessary, you don't know the newer Dean.”

Dean’s gaze shifted back to you again, softer at the edges now that Beau wasn’t fully blocking his view. “So,” he drawled, like he was testing the waters carefully despite the chaos around him, “you here all night, or does your brother have a curfew for you too?”

You opened your mouth to answer.

Beau answered first. “She has a curfew.”

“I do not,” you said at the same time. An offended, but exaggerated gasp escaped your lips as you glared at your brother.

Beau pointed at you like that proved his point anyway. “See?”

Dean smiled, clearly entertained now in a way that made him even more infuriating to the person trying to contain him.

“Good to know,” he hummed with a wink that was shot in your direction.

And just like that, Tucker stepped in closer, casually inserting himself between you and Dean with the exhausted resignation of someone who had accepted his role in life.

“Alright,” Tucker said, clapping Dean on the shoulder. “Let’s go get you a drink... far away from here. Preferably outside. Or in another state, fuck it, let's just go all the way to Texas for a drink.”

Dean didn’t move immediately.

His eyes stayed on you a moment longer than necessary, like he was memorizing the fact that you existed in the same room as him now in a way that couldn’t be undone.

Then, slowly, he nodded once, “Yeah,” he said. “Sure.”

But as Tucker started steering him away, Dean looked back over his shoulder one last time.

And mouthed, very clearly:

Maxwell.

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling anyway. Behind you, Beau let out a long, suffering sigh.

Your brother didn’t stop watching you even after Dean had been physically removed from your immediate vicinity.

Which, considering the fact that Tucker had successfully dragged him toward the bar like he was escorting a dangerous but extremely social animal, was saying something about how seriously your brother was taking this entire situation.

You leaned against the kitchen counter with a drink you hadn’t actually decided to drink yet, watching the party unfold. People spilling through doorways, laughter rising and falling in uneven waves, someone already attempting a very confident but very incorrect rendition of a song you vaguely recognized.

Beau stayed beside you like a shadow, except he unfortunately had opinions.

“I don’t like the way he looked at you,” he said finally.

You didn’t even glance at him. “He looked at me like we were friends who haven't seen each other in years... Oh wait- maybe that's because we are.”

Beau made a noise of disagreement. “No, he looked at you like he was calculating something.”

“That’s called having eyes and a brain, Beau.”

“That’s called being Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis.”

You finally turned your head slightly toward him. “You’re being so dramatic. At this point you should be on broadway.”

“I’m being observant,” Beau corrected immediately, though his second glance in your direction and the way his lips pursed made it seem like he may have just briefly considered asking if you were serious.

From across the room, you caught sight of Dean again near the drinks. Tucker was still beside him, one hand planted firmly on Dean’s shoulder like a human barricade, while Dean leaned casually against the counter, looking entirely unbothered by the fact that he was being monitored like a public safety concern.

Except his eyes flicked up, and immediately landed on you like they’d been waiting for you to look back.

You did, of course you did... how could you not.

Dean’s mouth curved slightly, just enough to be noticed, not enough to be subtle. He lifted his drink in a small, lazy gesture that somehow felt like it belonged only to you and no one else in the room.

Beau saw it too.

“Absolutely not,” he said flatly.

You blinked. “What now?”

“He just-” Beau gestured vaguely across the room. “He just acknowledged you like that in my house.”

You looked back at him, not even bothering with arguing the my in that statement, instead you figured a better use of your time would be to get another opinion... Y'know, make sure you weren't misreading the hints that Dean was putting down. “Like what?”

Beau stared at you like you were intentionally missing the point. “Like you’re a person he’s interested in.”

You took a slow sip of your drink finally, like you needed something to occupy your hands before you said something stupid. “Maybe I am a person he’s interested in.”

That got Beau to turn fully toward you with a look of shock and appallment.

“No,” he shut down immediately.

You raised a brow. “No?”

“He’s my best friend,” Beau said, like that explained everything.

“And I’m your sister,” you replied.

“That’s exactly why this is a problem.”

You laughed under your breath. “So your logic is I’m allowed to exist as a concept, but not as a dating option?”

Beau exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re not a dating option.”

“That’s not how people work,” you said, your arms crossed as your eyebrows furrowed. You had been able to humor this whole protective brother ordeal for a little bit, but now you were starting to wonder if you could push this as far as you wanted it to go.

Across the room, Dean said something that made Tucker immediately react like he’d just been personally offended by the universe. Tucker grabbed Dean’s arm again, physically turning him slightly away from your direction.

You watched it happen.

Then you looked back at Beau. “Is Tucker always like this?”

“Yes,” Beau said without hesitation. “And I’m paying him in friendship points.”

“That feels like hazing.”

“It’s fraternally sanctioned, don't mention it out loud though....”

You hummed, glancing back again just in time to see Dean make eye contact with you over Tucker’s shoulder.

He lifted his brows slightly, like he was asking a question without saying it. You tilted your head, and he seemed to read that like a book.

Beau noticed immediately... again.

“No,” he said again, his rink resting on the counter now as he leaned towards you with crossed arms.

You didn’t respond.

Because Dean had just shifted, subtly shaking Tucker’s hand off his arm with a pat that looked friendly but firm, and started walking.. directly toward you.

Beau straightened instantly.

“Oh my god,” he muttered.

“Relax,” you teased, even though your attention was already fully on Dean now.

Beau stepped slightly in front of you again out of pure instinct, like blocking access was muscle memory at this point. “I am relaxed. I am very relaxed. I am so relaxed I am about to throw up.”

“Beau.”

“Do not ‘Beau’ me right now.”

Dean arrived anyway, and he stopped just short of your brother -- his bestfriend -- smiling like this was exactly the reaction he had been expecting, and maybe even hoping for.

“Tucker’s not very good at his job,” Dean said casually.

“I heard that,” Tucker called from across the room.

Dean didn’t look away from Beau. “Yeah, I wanted him to hear it.”

Beau pointed at him immediately. “Stay on your side of the room.”

Dean glanced at the finger like it was mildly amusing. “Which side is that?”

Beau’s expression tightened. “The side that is not my sister.”

That made Dean finally look past him, his eyes landing on you.

And when he did, his voice dropped slightly, the teasing still there but softened around the edges like he was aware of exactly what he was doing.

“I was just coming to say hi,” he said all too casually with a cheeky shrug.

Beau didn’t move. “You said hi from across the room.”

“I feel like it’s better up close.”

“Why.”

Dean paused, then shrugged lightly. “Higher accuracy.”

You let out a quiet laugh before you could stop yourself. That, of course, got Dean’s attention again immediately.

“Okay,” Beau interrupted, stepping slightly closer to Dean now like he was ready to physically negotiate boundaries if necessary. “You’re done.”

Dean looked at him, eyebrow quirked, and head resting to the side just slightly. “With what.”

“With whatever this is.”

“This is a conversation,” Dean informed him, like he was struggling to find the simple word.

“This is a threat,” Beau corrected.

From somewhere behind Dean, Tucker reappeared, clearly having abandoned all hope of containing anything at this point.

“I tried,” Tucker said, holding up his hands. “I genuinely tried.”

Dean finally exhaled, looking between Beau and Tucker like he was evaluating the situation in full now.

Then he leaned slightly closer to Beau, voice dropping just enough to turn private.

“I’m not doing anything,” he said. “I’m talking to her.”

Beau didn’t budge. “That’s how it starts.”

Dean’s mouth twitched. “You’ve said that already.”

“I will keep saying it,” Beau replied.

There was a beat, then Dean looked past him again, directly at you.

And this time, there was no teasing in it at all, just something unapologetically interested.

“I’ll be over there,” he muttered, nodding slightly toward the quieter side of the house. “If your brother decides to stop guarding you like you’re a national treasure.”

Beau immediately opened his mouth, but you made sure to speak first.

“I’ll find you,” you nodded with a small smile.

Beau froze, and poor Tucker made a sound like he was witnessing the end of something inevitable.

Dean, however, smiled and for once it wasn't the usual smug one.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I was hoping you would.”

And then he walked away again, slow enough not to look like retreat, confident enough not to look like permission, while Beau slowly turned his head toward you like he was trying to process the fact that you had just said that out loud.

“No,” Beau said again, but weaker this time.

You took another sip of your drink.

“Yes,” you corrected.

Behind you, Tucker sighed deeply and walked away in surrender.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2026.

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[dilaurentispuckbunny]

Off Limits {Garrett Graham x reader} Part 5

Masterlist

Summary: You never asked to be the daughter of Briar University's hockey coach, and you definitely never asked to spend a week being chauffeured around campus by Garrett Graham. The problem? You can't stand each other.

Warnings: enemies-to-lovers, forced proximity, banter, panic attack comfort, and a very inconvenient crush.

The first person to figure it out was Logan.

Unfortunately, that was probably the worst possible outcome.

Logan had an almost supernatural ability to notice things other people missed. Small details, strange habits, lingering looks—nothing escaped him. Worse, once he noticed something, he treated it like public information. Privacy wasn't a concept he respected, especially when he thought something was entertaining.

You discovered this on Monday afternoon when you made the mistake of stopping by the hockey house.

Your father needed Garrett to sign some paperwork related to the team. Garrett was at practice, and rather than waiting until later, Coach Jensen had handed the papers to you and asked you to drop them off.

Apparently being the coach's daughter came with a long list of unofficial responsibilities.

You stood on the front porch for a moment, staring at the front door and questioning every decision that had led you there.

The hockey house looked exactly the way you'd imagined it would.

Loud.

Chaotic.

And probably violating several health codes.

You knocked once.

Then again.

When nobody answered, you let out a sigh and pushed the door open.

You regretted it immediately.

Music blasted from somewhere upstairs, loud enough to shake the walls. Several voices overlapped from different rooms. Something crashed in the distance.

"DON'T TOUCH THAT!" someone shouted.

A second voice immediately yelled back, "THEN WHY IS IT ON FIRE?"

You froze in the doorway.

What the hell?

Before you could decide whether to leave, a familiar face appeared around the corner.

Logan.

The second he spotted you, his expression lit up with far too much enthusiasm.

That alone made you suspicious.

"Well, well, well."

You narrowed your eyes immediately.

"No."

His grin widened.

"I didn't even say anything."

"You were about to."

"Fair."

You held up the paperwork before he could continue.

"I need Garrett."

"Practice."

"I know."

Logan leaned against the wall.

"Then why are you here?"

You stared at him.

"Because he needs to sign this."

He looked at the papers.

Then at you.

Then back at the papers.

A slow smile spread across his face.

The kind of smile that usually meant trouble.

"Oh no."

"No?" he echoed innocently.

"No."

"There is definitely a story here."

"There isn't."

"You came looking for Garrett."

"I came looking for a signature."

"You know where he lives."

You folded your arms.

"Everyone knows where he lives."

Logan placed a hand dramatically over his chest.

"She's defensive."

You hated him instantly.

Unfortunately, things only got worse from there.

Garrett showed up about twenty minutes later, fresh from practice and carrying his hockey bag over one shoulder.

The moment he stepped through the front door, Logan practically lit up.

"There she is."

Garrett blinked.

"What?"

Logan pointed directly at you.

"Your girlfriend."

The room fell silent.

Several heads turned.

You froze.

Garrett froze.

Then both of you spoke at exactly the same time.

"What?"

Logan looked delighted.

Like Christmas had arrived early.

"Oh, this is incredible."

"We're not dating," you said immediately.

"We're absolutely not dating," Garrett added.

Neither of you sounded particularly convincing.

Logan certainly didn't look convinced.

To be fair, neither did anyone else.

Especially when Garrett finally noticed you'd been standing there for nearly half an hour.

Without even thinking about it, he dropped his bag, disappeared into the kitchen, and returned a moment later with a bottle of water.

Then he handed it directly to you.

No hesitation.

No thought.

Just instinct.

Like he'd done it a hundred times before.

The room somehow became even quieter.

Garrett looked down at the bottle.

You looked down at the bottle.

Across the room, Logan looked like he'd just solved a complicated math equation.

Slowly, a grin spread across his face.

"Oh my God."

Garrett looked horrified.

The problem was that once someone pointed something out, it became impossible to ignore.

Suddenly everyone seemed to notice things.

Little things.

Things neither you nor Garrett had ever thought twice about.

The fact that Garrett knew your coffee order without asking.

The fact that you knew exactly what days he had practice and what time games started.

The fact that he kept a phone charger in his truck specifically because you always forgot yours.

The fact that during exam weeks he somehow always had snacks available because he knew you'd get stressed and forget to eat.

The fact that you stole food off his plate without asking.

Apparently that one was particularly suspicious.

You hadn't even realized you were doing it until Logan pointed it out.

"You two are disgusting."

You looked up from your fries.

Logan was staring at you again.

Across the table, Garrett groaned.

"What now?"

Logan pointed dramatically.

First at Garrett.

Then at you.

Then back at Garrett.

Neither of you understood.

Logan looked genuinely offended.

"You don't even realize you're doing it."

"Doing what?" Garrett asked.

Logan shook his head.

The disappointment on his face was almost impressive.

"Exactly."

Neither of you asked for clarification.

Mostly because you were afraid of the answer.

By the time Garrett drove you home later that night, you were exhausted.

Hours of teasing had left both of you mentally drained.

The second the truck doors closed, Garrett let out a long groan.

"They're idiots."

You laughed.

The sound surprised you.

Lately, Garrett seemed responsible for most of your laughter.

That realization felt more dangerous than it should have.

"Logan's never going to let this go."

"Nope."

"He looked way too happy."

"Definitely."

You smiled despite yourself.

Garrett glanced over.

Then smiled too.

And suddenly neither of you were laughing anymore.

The atmosphere shifted.

Again.

It kept happening lately.

These strange moments where conversations faded away and everything seemed to narrow until there was only the two of you.

Neither of you ever seemed quite sure what to do when it happened.

Garrett's gaze drifted briefly to your mouth.

Then immediately returned to your eyes.

Your heartbeat stumbled.

Again.

At this point, your heart was becoming a serious inconvenience.

Garrett looked away first.

Clearing his throat.

"You have class tomorrow?"

Coward.

You smiled to yourself.

"Eight a.m."

He winced.

"That's disgusting."

"You play hockey before sunrise."

"That's different."

"It really isn't."

Garrett laughed softly.

The tension eased.

Not completely.

It never completely disappeared anymore.

But enough.

When he finally pulled up outside your apartment building, neither of you rushed to leave.

The truck idled quietly at the curb.

Streetlights cast soft pools of light across the pavement.

For a moment, everything felt strangely peaceful.

Comfortable.

And that realization scared you more than anything.

Because somewhere along the way, Garrett had become part of your routine.

Part of your day.

Part of your life.

You hadn't noticed it happening.

But now that you had, it was impossible to ignore.

Eventually Garrett glanced over.

"You good?"

The question sounded casual.

Simple.

But you knew better.

There was always something underneath it.

The same concern he'd shown outside the student union.

The same concern he'd shown after your panic attack.

The same concern he constantly tried to disguise behind sarcasm and teasing.

Your chest tightened slightly.

"Yeah."

His eyes lingered on yours for a moment.

Checking.

Making sure.

Only when he seemed satisfied did he nod.

"Okay."

Neither of you moved.

Again.

The silence stretched comfortably between you.

One second.

Then another.

Finally, you reached for the door handle.

"Goodnight, Garrett."

His smile was small.

Real.

The kind he rarely showed anyone else.

"Goodnight."

You climbed out of the truck and headed toward your building.

Halfway there, you glanced back.

Garrett was still sitting at the curb.

Still watching.

Making sure you got inside safely.

The sight sent an unexpected warmth through your chest.

As you stepped through the front doors, one thought kept circling through your mind.

Maybe Logan wasn't entirely wrong.

That realization was terrifying.

Because if everyone else could see what was happening between you and Garrett...

How much longer could the two of you keep pretending you couldn't?

Taglist {Open}: @raynetargaryan2 @freezing82 @kmc1989 @hannahwestt @lennonpotterf1 @ilocuras24 @persasseajackson @superbfishhumanoidweasel @garrettgrahamssexysnaps

[andy-15-07]

jealous!Logan!!!!! jealous!Logan!!!!

He Doesn’t Like It

Pairing: John Logan  x Reader

Word Count: 1658

Request open!

Off campus masterlist

 John was not the kind of jealous boyfriend who made a scene.

That was the problem.

If he had been loud about it, if he had gotten obviously possessive or shoved himself between you and whoever was talking to you, it would have been easier to deal with. You could have rolled your eyes, laughed at him later, maybe even teased him until he admitted he was being ridiculous.

But John did not do ridiculous very often.

John got quiet.

And quiet John was dangerous.

You noticed it at the party in Garrett and Dean’s house, when you wandered into the living room with a drink in your hand and found yourself stuck in conversation with one of John’s old teammates. He was nice enough, probably. He was also talking to you with a little too much interest, standing a little too close, smiling a little too long.

You were already halfway through a polite laugh when you caught sight of John across the room.

He was watching.

Not glaring. Not scowling. Just watching with his drink in hand and that still, unreadable expression he got when something had his full attention. His jaw was set. His eyes were locked on the two of you.

The moment your eyes met, something flickered in his face.

Then he took a slow drink and looked away.

Your stomach tightened.

The guy beside you kept talking. “And then I realized I had the wrong study guide the whole time, which was honestly embarrassing.”

You smiled politely. “That sucks.”

“It really did.” He laughed, then leaned in just a little. “You’re easy to talk to, though.”

Before you could answer, a hand settled at the small of your back.

You almost jumped.

John’s voice came from directly behind you, calm and even and somehow worse than if he had sounded annoyed. “There you are.”

You turned your head. “Hi.”

His eyes flicked briefly to the guy beside you, then back to your face. “Hey.”

The silence that followed was immediate and awkward in all the obvious ways.

The guy looked between the two of you, then smiled. “Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realize you were,”

“Not a problem,” John said.

It wasn’t rude.

That somehow made it colder.

The guy cleared his throat. “Right. Yeah. I was just talking to her.”

John nodded once. “I can see that.”

You could practically feel the tension under your skin.

You gave John a small look that said what are you doing?

He ignored it.

The guy shifted his weight, suddenly less confident. “Well, I should probably find my roommate.”

“Probably,” John said.

That was it. Just that.

The guy gave you an awkward smile and disappeared into the crowd.

The second he was gone, you turned fully toward John. “What was that?”

John took another sip of his drink. “What was what?”

“You know exactly what.”

He looked at you, and his expression was too neutral by half. “I came to get you.”

You crossed your arms. “From a conversation?”

John glanced in the direction the guy had left, then back at you. “A very long conversation.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “He talked to me for maybe four minutes.”

John’s mouth twitched. “Felt longer.”

That was when you knew.

You tried not to smile. You really did. “Are you jealous?”

He didn’t answer right away.

He just looked at you.

That should have been answer enough.

You tilted your head, trying to hide your amusement. “John.”

“I’m not jealous.”

You blinked. “That was the least convincing thing you’ve ever said.”

His jaw moved once, like he was fighting the urge to say something sharp. “He was standing too close.”

You stared at him for a beat.

Then your smile spread before you could stop it. “You are jealous.”

John gave you a flat look. “I said I’m not.”

“You walked over here like you were claiming territory.”

“That’s not what I did.”

“You put your hand on my back.”

“I was guiding you.”

“You interrupted my conversation.”

“He was rambling.”

You laughed softly. “Oh my God.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t start.”

“I can’t believe this.”

He leaned in a fraction, lowering his voice. “Believe it.”

Your face warmed instantly, because of course it did. He had that tone. That low, steady, very John tone that made teasing him feel a lot more dangerous than it should have.

You bit back a grin. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Don’t call me cute.”

“That’s not a no.”

John set his drink down and stepped closer, close enough that your back was nearly against the wall beside the hallway. “You think this is funny.”

You looked up at him, trying very hard to stay composed. “A little.”

He stared at you for a long second, then said, “He was flirting.”

You blinked.

The words were so direct that your smile faltered.

John’s expression stayed steady, but there was tension in his shoulders now, a quiet kind of possessiveness he usually kept better hidden. “I don’t like it.”

That hit different.

Not because it was dramatic. Because it wasn’t.

John wasn’t making a scene. He wasn’t accusing you of anything. He was just telling you the truth, plainly, like he always did when something mattered.

Your teasing softened automatically.

“John,” you said, a little quieter, “he was just talking to me.”

“I know.”

You frowned. “Then why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because I don’t like him looking at you like that.”

Your heart gave a stupid little jump.

You studied him for a second, the jealousy still there but now mixed with something warmer, something protective and almost shy underneath the surface. John was trying very hard not to turn it into a bigger deal than it was, which somehow made it more endearing.

You reached up and touched his arm. “You know he meant nothing, right?”

John’s gaze dropped briefly to your hand, then back to your face. “I know.”

“Then what’s the issue?”

He hesitated.

That alone made your chest tighten a little.

Then he said, very quietly, “I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

The honesty of it made you go still.

There was no performance in his voice. No ego. Just that low, straightforward truth that always got past your defenses before you had time to stop it.

You softened immediately. “Okay.”

John studied your face like he was trying to decide whether you were laughing at him.

You weren’t.

You were looking at him with a fondness that only made him more alert.

His voice dropped another notch. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” You shifted closer and let your fingers slide lightly into the front of his shirt. “I get it.”

John’s expression changed a little at that. The tension in his jaw eased, though he still looked guarded.

“You do?”

You smiled. “You got jealous.”

“I did not,”

“You did.”

He stopped.

You gave him a soft, knowing look. “And for the record, it was kind of hot.”

That did it.

John stared at you for half a second, then his hand came to your waist and pulled you closer in one smooth motion. Your breath caught, but he didn’t kiss you right away. He just looked at you with that quiet, intense expression that always made your knees forget their job.

“Don’t say things like that if you don’t mean them,” he murmured.

Your pulse jumped. “I mean it.”

His thumb brushed once against your side. “Yeah?”

You smiled. “Yeah.”

John leaned in, his forehead almost touching yours. “Then tell me why I had to watch some guy stand there acting like he had a chance.”

You blinked, then laughed softly despite yourself. “You really are jealous.”

“I already admitted that.”

“No, you didn’t.”

His mouth twitched. “I’m admitting it now.”

That made your smile widen.

He stared at you for a second longer, then added, quieter, “I don’t like sharing your attention.”

That hit you right in the chest.

Because John said it like it was a simple fact. Not dramatic. Not needy. Just true.

You reached up and touched his cheek. “You have my attention.”

He looked at you.

All the tension in his face eased by degrees.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

You brushed your thumb along his jaw. “And for the record, nobody else is getting it like you do.”

Something in his expression softened completely then.

His hand at your waist pulled you in just enough that your bodies lined up, and his mouth brushed your temple in a quick, almost absent kiss.

It was such a small gesture, but it made your stomach go warm.

John rested his forehead briefly against yours. “Good.”

You smiled, a little breathless now. “You still being jealous?”

He was quiet for a second.

Then, very dryly, he said, “A little.”

You laughed. “That is so obvious.”

“I’m trying.”

“You’re failing.”

His eyes narrowed, but there was no real heat in it. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“A lot.”

John huffed a small laugh and kissed you properly this time, slow and steady and just possessive enough to make his point without actually making one. When he pulled back, his hand stayed at your waist.

You looked up at him, grinning now. “So. We’re done pretending you’re not jealous?”

John held your gaze for a beat, then said, “I never said I wasn’t.”

You laughed, soft and delighted, and he finally looked a little less tense.

Then his mouth curved, barely there but unmistakable.

“You coming back to the couch,” he said, “or do I need to keep rescuing you from bad conversation all night?”

You smiled and slipped your hand into his. “Depends. Are you going to keep glaring at everybody?”

He squeezed your hand once. “Only if they deserve it.”

And the way he said it made it very clear that, apparently, John Logan was willing to be jealous for as long as it took.

[andy-15-07]

Heating Pad & Hockey Boyfriend

Pairing: Garrett Graham  x Reader

Word Count: 1979

Request open!

Off campus masterlist

Garrett Graham knew something was wrong the second you walked into the kitchen.

You tried to act normal. You really did. You even gave him a small smile, which would have worked on almost anyone else.

But Garrett had spent enough time around you to know that the smile was fake, your shoulders were tense, and you were moving like every step had to be negotiated with your own body.

He leaned against the counter, one eyebrow lifting. “Okay,” he said. “What happened?”

You blinked at him from the fridge door. “What makes you think something happened?”

“Because you look like you’re about to fight the entire human race,” he said. “And lose. Badly.”

You shut the fridge a little too hard. “I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I am.”

Garrett pushed off the counter and crossed the kitchen in a few easy steps, stopping in front of you. “Sweetheart,” he said, softer now, “that is absolutely not the face of a fine person.”

You opened your mouth, ready with some sharp reply, but another cramp ripped through your stomach so suddenly you had to grab the edge of the counter.

Garrett’s expression changed instantly. “There it is.”

You shot him a glare. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t do that thing where you act like you know everything.”

He gave you a flat look. “You are literally bent over in the kitchen.”

“Not helping.”

“I’m aware,” he said. “I’m trying to help in a very Garrett Graham way, which, for the record, is still better than most people’s way.”

You let out a breath that was halfway between a laugh and a groan. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are.”

You made a face, but the pain hit again, and your hand went to your lower stomach. Garrett noticed immediately. Of course he did. He was infuriatingly observant when it counted.

He lowered his voice. “Period?”

You stared at him.

He stared back, then pointed at your sweatpants. “I’m not asking because I want details. I’m asking because I know the look.”

You exhaled. “Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay,” he said, as if this was the easiest answer in the world. “What do you need?”

You paused.

Because that was Garrett Graham, captain of Briar hockey, loudmouth, smug genius, and somehow also the guy who could go from teasing you mercilessly to gentle in a single second.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “Heat maybe. And painkillers. And maybe to not be perceived by anyone for the next twelve to forty-eight hours.”

He nodded once, all seriousness now. “That can be arranged.”

You gave him a skeptical look. “By who? You?”

“Obviously.”

You huffed. “You don’t even know where the heating pad is.”

Garrett pointed at you like you’d just made his case for him. “You see? This is why I’m asking. Because I am a man who solves problems.”

“You also leave your laundry on the floor.”

“That is unrelated.”

“Is it?”

He stepped around you and opened the cabinet over the sink. “Heating pad’s in here, right?”

You blinked. “How did you know that?”

He looked over his shoulder, that arrogant little grin showing up again. “Because I pay attention.”

You crossed your arms, trying very hard not to smile and failing a little. “You’re unbearable.”

“And yet,” he said, pulling out the heating pad, “I’m the one who knows where the stuff is.”

He plugged it in at the outlet near the counter, then turned back to you. “Come here.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why does that sound suspicious.”

“Because you’re dramatic.”

“Garrett.”

“Y/N.”

You stared each other down for one beat, then two, until he sighed and held up both hands in surrender. “Fine. No tricks. I just want to get you on the couch before you decide to act tough and pass out dramatically on the kitchen floor.”

“That is not a thing I do.”

He lifted one brow. “Last month you almost cried because your socks were wet.”

“Those socks were the worst socks in the history of socks.”

“Exactly my point.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched. Garrett noticed, because of course he did, and his face softened again.

“C’mon,” he said. “Couch. Blankets. Water. Painkillers. I’ll be your full-time service boyfriend for the evening.”

“That is not a real title.”

“It is tonight.”

He guided you toward the living room with a hand on your lower back, warm and steady. You hated how much that helped. You hated even more that he knew exactly how to move with you without making a big deal out of it.

Once you were settled on the couch, Garrett disappeared into the kitchen and came back carrying a water bottle, a bag of chips, and the heating pad wrapped in one of his hoodies because, apparently, he had decided basic competence was suddenly his brand.

You stared at the pile in his arms. “Did you just assemble a period survival kit?”

“Yes,” he said. “Try to sound less impressed.”

You snorted and took the water bottle. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re pale. Which is a problem, because I prefer you looking less like a Victorian ghost.”

You laughed despite yourself, then winced and pressed a hand to your stomach.

Garrett sat beside you immediately. “How bad is it?”

You shrugged, but it was a useless motion. “Annoying. Sharp. Stupid.”

“On a scale from one to ten?”

You looked at him. “Since when are you so organized?”

“Since I became responsible for your wellbeing,” he said, like it was obvious. “Now answer the question.”

You sighed. “Six? Maybe seven.”

His jaw tightened a little. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

“Because I’m not trying to be a problem.”

Garrett turned fully toward you. “Hey.” His voice was gentle, but there was steel in it too. “You are never a problem.”

That made you go quiet.

He rubbed a thumb along the side of the water bottle, then added, “You could’ve woken me up, texted me, yelled across the campus, whatever. I don’t care. I’d rather know.”

You studied him. “You’d really help?”

He looked offended. “Y/N. I am insulted on a spiritual level.”

You laughed again, then made a face as another cramp hit.

Garrett was up in a second, setting the heating pad onto your stomach and adjusting the hoodie around it so it stayed in place. He was careful, almost reverent about it, like he didn’t want to do anything wrong.

“Better?” he asked.

You nodded, already feeling some relief from the warmth. “Yeah. Actually, yeah.”

“Good.”

He leaned back and stretched an arm along the top of the couch behind you. “Now tell me what else I need to do.”

You glanced at him. “You’re taking this very seriously.”

“I’m a serious guy.”

“That is the funniest thing you’ve ever said.”

He looked offended again. “You wound me.”

“You mock me every day.”

“That’s different.”

You smiled into your water bottle and took a sip. The room was quiet for a few seconds, just the low hum of the heater and the distant noise of the guys somewhere upstairs.

Then Garrett said, “Do you want ice cream?”

You stared. “You just asked me that like it was a medical treatment.”

“It is.”

“It is not.”

“It absolutely is. Comfort food counts.”

You bit your lip to hide your grin. “We don’t have ice cream.”

“I’ll get some.”

“You’re not going out just for that.”

He looked at you like you were being unreasonable. “Why not?”

“Because it’s raining.”

“So?”

“Garrett.”

He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Sweetheart, I play hockey. Rain does not scare me. Neither does a grocery store.”

Your eyes narrowed. “It’s 10 p.m.”

“And?”

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re still not answering the question.”

You sighed. “No ice cream. I’m fine.”

He gave you a look that said he did not believe you for one second, then nodded toward the blanket folded on the armchair. “At least let me get you that.”

You hesitated, then said, “Okay.”

He got up, grabbed the blanket, and came back to drape it over you with way more care than he needed to. It covered your legs, your shoulders, and part of the hoodie warming your stomach. You looked like you had been wrapped up by someone who actually wanted you comfortable instead of just out of the way.

Garrett sat back down and crossed one ankle over the other. “There.”

You looked over at him. “You really don’t have to babysit me, you know.”

He smirked. “That’s funny. Because I’m pretty sure I volunteered.”

“I didn’t accept your application.”

“I’m not sure you have the authority to reject it.”

You laughed, then rested your head against the cushion. “You’re smug.”

“Correct.”

“And annoying.”

“Also correct.”

“And weirdly good at this.”

That made him go quiet for a beat.

Then he glanced at you, something softer moving across his face. “Yeah?”

You nodded once. “Yeah.”

He looked almost shy for half a second, which was so unlike him you would have missed it if you weren’t paying attention. Then he cleared his throat and reached for the remote. “Okay. Movie?”

You made a face. “You’re picking?”

“Obviously.”

“That means some ridiculous action movie where people explode for no reason.”

“First of all, there are always reasons.”

“Garrett.”

He grinned. “Fine. Romantic comedy.”

You stared at him. “You? Choosing a romantic comedy?”

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

“You once said love stories were ‘predictable nonsense.’”

“That was before I learned they’re useful for distracting my girlfriend from murdering me with her period cramps.”

Your face warmed. “Your girlfriend?”

He looked at you with that easy, devastating smile that always made your heart stutter. “Yeah. You.”

The words sat in the space between you, simple and warm and unexpectedly perfect.

You looked away first, but not because you wanted to. Because if you kept looking at him like that, you were going to melt into the couch like a stupid puddle.

Garrett, apparently satisfied with the effect he had just had on you, selected a movie and settled in beside you. After a few minutes, you shifted closer without thinking, your head brushing his shoulder.

His arm came around you right away.

“You comfortable?” he asked.

You nodded against him. “Mhm.”

“Pain any better?”

“A little.”

“Good.”

A pause.

Then, in a lower voice, he said, “You know you don’t have to act tough with me, right?”

You went still.

He continued, carefully, “You don’t have to smile when you feel like garbage. You don’t have to pretend you’re not hurting. I’d rather you be honest.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten.

You swallowed. “I don’t like feeling helpless.”

“I know.”

“That’s part of it.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “You’re not helpless. You’re just cramping your ass off and pretending you’re not.”

A laugh escaped you, quiet and real this time. “That was terrible.”

“I know.”

“It was very bad.”

“I’m still right.”

You turned your face into his shoulder to hide your smile. “You’re unbearably sweet when I’m miserable.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“I wouldn’t survive the embarrassment.”

He snorted softly, then squeezed you a little tighter. “Go to sleep if you want.”

“You’ll wake me up?”

“Nope. I’ll carry you to bed eventually.”

“Eventually?”

He looked down at you with a lazy grin. “Right now, I’ve got the couch. You’ve got the blanket. And I’m winning.”

You shook your head, smiling despite the pain, despite the bad mood, despite the whole unfairness of your body deciding to punish you on a random Tuesday night.

“Garrett?”

“Yeah?”

You hesitated, then said quietly, “Thank you.”

He brushed his thumb over your arm. “Always.”

And for the rest of the night, he stayed right there with you,warm, steady, annoyingly smug, and somehow exactly what you needed.

[worldimaginedreaming]

SLEEP HERE TONIGHT!

Pairing : Beau Maxwell x fem!reader Warning : fluff, mutual pining, late night intimacy, insomnia, one bed trope, soft beau, kissing... word count : 6.2k Summary : After another sleepless night during finals week, Beau lets you stay in his dorm “just this once” but sharing a bed with your best friend starts feeling a little too real.

Being Beau Maxwell’s girlfriend was exhausting.

Not because Beau himself was difficult — quite the opposite, actually.

The problem was that your boyfriend was:

the starting quarterback at Briar,

best friends with the hockey team,

and physically incapable of acting normal around you.

Which meant everyone knew exactly how obsessed he was with you.

Especially Dean Di Laurentis.

“Maxwell,” Dean groaned dramatically from across the cafeteria, “if you stare at her any harder, I’m calling campus security.”

You nearly choked on your drink.

Beside you, Beau didn’t even look embarrassed.

“She’s pretty,” he answered simply.

Dean slapped a hand against his chest. “Oh my God. I’m witnessing real love.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled immediately, face burning.

That only made Beau grin wider. God.

This was the issue. You were naturally quiet, shy around most people, the type who avoided attention whenever possible. Meanwhile Beau acted like loving you was his favorite hobby. He walked you to every class. Held your hand constantly. Kissed your forehead in public like it was instinct. Looked at you like you personally hung the stars in the sky. It should’ve embarrassed you. Instead, it made your heart feel dangerously full.

“You’re blushing again,” Dean pointed out smugly.

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“Unfortunately,” Beau added, stealing fries from Dean’s plate.

Dean gasped dramatically. “Betrayal.”

You laughed softly despite yourself, and Beau immediately looked at you like he’d just won the lottery.

The entire table noticed.

Dean gagged loudly.

“You two are disgusting.”

Finals week hit Briar like a truck. The football team was stressed. The hockey team was stressed. You were especially stressed. Mostly because no matter how exhausted you felt, your brain refused to shut off long enough to sleep. Which was exactly why you were awake at one in the morning sitting alone in the student center wrapped in Beau’s hoodie. Your eyes burned from exhaustion. At this point, you honestly felt miserable.

“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

Your head lifted immediately.

Beau stood a few feet away wearing sweatpants and a Briar football hoodie, hair messy like he’d just gotten out of bed.

Your chest softened instantly.

“How did you even find me?”

He shrugged casually while walking closer.

“You stopped answering my texts.”

You blinked.

“Oh.”

Concern immediately crossed his face.

“Baby.” His voice softened. “Have you slept at all?”

You looked away. That was enough of an answer. Beau sighed quietly before crouching in front of you. His hands settled gently on your knees.

“You should’ve called me.”

“I didn’t wanna bother you.”

The second the words left your mouth, Beau frowned.

“You could never bother me.”

Your heart squeezed painfully. He said things like that so naturally. Like loving you was the easiest thing in the world.

“I just can’t shut my brain off,” you admitted quietly. “Every time I try to sleep, I start thinking about exams and papers and—”

“Okay.” Beau stood suddenly before grabbing your bag from the floor. “You’re coming with me.”

You blinked rapidly.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“To your dorm?”

“Yeah.”

Your stomach flipped nervously. Beau noticed instantly. His expression softened.

“Hey.” He tilted your chin gently upward. “You know you’re always safe with me, right?”

God.

How was anyone supposed to survive a man like him?

You nodded quietly.

“Okay.”

Beau’s dorm room felt warm. Comfortable. A complete contrast to the cold panic that had been sitting in your chest all week. Football hoodies were thrown over his desk chair. His playbook sat open beside an unfinished protein shake.

It smelled like his cologne.

Which honestly made things worse.

Because you were already too in love with him.

“You can sleep here tonight,” Beau said softly while fixing the blankets on his bed.

Your pulse skipped.

“You don’t mind?”

He looked up immediately.

“Baby.” His expression turned almost offended. “I literally sleep better when you’re here.”

Your heart melted instantly.

“You say things like that way too casually.”

A grin appeared on his face.

“Only because I know it makes you blush.”

You hid your face in the sleeves of his hoodie while Beau laughed quietly. Cute. Your giant football-player boyfriend was ridiculously cute. Nobody would ever believe it. Especially because most people on campus only saw Beau Maxwell:

quarterback,

flirt,

sexy athlete.

But you saw the version of him nobody else really noticed. The soft one. The one who kissed your knuckles absentmindedly while studying film. The one who held your hand under tables.

The one who texted you:

did you eat today?

every single afternoon without fail.

“You’re staring again,” Beau said suddenly.

Your eyes widened.

“I was not.”

“You absolutely were.”

He stepped closer slowly, amusement glowing in his eyes.

“What were you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

Heat flooded your face immediately. Beau smiled softly before brushing hair away from your face carefully. The gesture was so gentle it almost hurt.

“You’re tired,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“C’mere.”

Before you could react, Beau pulled you gently against his chest. Your entire body relaxed instantly. Safe. You always felt safe with him. His arms wrapped around you securely while your cheek rested against the fabric of his hoodie. And suddenly all the anxiety in your chest felt quieter.

“You okay?” he murmured against your hair.

You nodded slowly.

“Better.”

“Good.”

Silence settled between you both. Comfortable silence. The kind that only existed when two people knew each other completely.

Then, A loud knock hit the dorm door. Beau groaned immediately.

“Go away.”

The door swung open anyway. Dean Di Laurentis walked in carrying snacks. Then paused dramatically.

“Oh my God,” he whispered.

You immediately stepped away from Beau, embarrassed. Dean pointed accusingly.

“Did I interrupt football boyfriend cuddles?”

“Dean,” Beau warned.

“This is insane.” Dean looked genuinely emotional. “The quarterback is whipped.”

Beau rolled his eyes. “She hasn’t slept in days.”

Dean’s expression changed immediately. “Oh.” He looked at you softer then. “You okay, sweetheart?”

You nodded shyly. “Just stressed.”

Dean placed the snacks on Beau’s desk.

“Well.” He pointed at Beau. “This idiot has been worried all night.”

Beau groaned. “Dean.”

“No seriously.” Dean ignored him completely. “He literally almost fought someone earlier because they said you looked tired.”

Your eyes widened slowly.

“What?”

Beau looked suddenly very interested in the floor. Dean burst out laughing.

“Oh my God, you didn’t tell her?”

“Tell me what?”

Dean grinned wickedly.

“Our quarterback here is obsessed with you.”

“Okay, get out,” Beau snapped immediately.

Dean backed toward the door dramatically.

“You’re welcome!”

The door slammed shut. Silence. Then you looked up at Beau carefully.

“You almost fought someone?”

He looked embarrassed now. Which almost never happened.

“He was rude.”

A soft laugh escaped you.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” Beau muttered while stepping closer again. “But you love me.”

Unfortunately for your emotional stability… He was right. Your fingers curled lightly into the front of his hoodie.

“I do love you.”

The words came out quieter than expected. Real. Beau froze instantly. Not because you’d never said it before. But because every single time, it still affected him. His entire expression softened like you’d just handed him the universe.

“Come here,” he whispered.

Then he kissed you slowly. Soft. Careful. Like he wanted you to feel every ounce of love behind it. One of Beau’s hands settled against your waist while the other cupped your cheek gently, keeping you close. And somehow, kissing him always felt like peace. When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.

“You’re sleeping here tonight,” he murmured. “And I’m gonna hold you until you finally get some rest.”

Your chest ached.

“How are you real?”

Beau smiled lazily.

“Quarterback privilege.”

You laughed quietly while he guided you toward the bed. A few minutes later, you were curled against his chest beneath warm blankets while his fingers traced slow patterns against your back. The room was dark now. Quiet. And for the first time all week, your body finally started relaxing.

“You sleepy?” Beau whispered.

“Mm.”

“Told you I could fix you.”

You snorted softly. “You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah,” he said proudly. “But I’m your annoying boyfriend.”

Your eyes drifted closed while Beau pressed one last kiss against your forehead. And honestly? Maybe being loved by Beau Maxwell was the safest thing in the world.

A/N : Here's my second imagine one off campus about the cute and pretty quaterback Beau Maxwell , best friend of Dean Di Laurentis! Hope you like ! Don't forget to Like, share & Subscribe !!! Next is gonna be Dean Di Laurentis !! If you have any idea, the request on this tv show are open !

[sanguineterrain]

noise | john logan

Summary: John Logan smells like apples and lends you pencils and tells you it's okay to wear your headphones in his car. He brings you to Dean and Beau's party after you misunderstand who's invited. He's your friend now, apparently. You're starting to think that maybe you don't just want him as your friend, though.

Pairing: John Logan x fem!reader 

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings/tags: drinking, a guy harasses reader. reader being a little weird (affectionate). maybe a little ND coded <3 misunderstandings. reader is friends w/ hannah. logan being a sweetie pie.

Notes: hi hello i am writing for off campus apparently (?) we'll see. i love u john logan

the divider

“That was so good!” Hannah says in your ear, her arm around you. “Wasn’t it?”

“It was,” you say, your smile a little strained.

She’s flushed from the excitement of the game. She cheered and clapped almost the whole time. You did a little. It’s not that Briar didn’t do well—they crushed Eastwood, in fact, 6-2. But you’re a little overwhelmed by all the noise. You’d like to leave as soon as you can.

“Are you sure you don’t wanna come?” Hannah asks as you go down the bleachers.

“I’m okay. I have a paper to write.”

She pouts. You don’t know why—after all, you weren’t invited. You couldn’t attend Dean and Beau’s birthday party even if you wanted to.

“Okay,” she says, finally acquiescing. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Sure. Good luck with your hard launch.”

Hannah bites her lip, her eyes shining. “Yeah, we’ll see what Garrett has planned. Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you to the dorm?”

“I’m alright, really. I can take the shuttle.”

She’s not happy about it. Something you like about being friends with Hannah Wells is that she wears almost every emotion on her face. Once you deciphered her expressions, it was easy enough to figure out from there what she’s feeling. It makes everything much simpler. You wish everyone were as easy to read as Hannah.

She lets you go with one last affectionate goodbye. You start walking, not sure where you’re supposed to go to find the shuttle from the stadium. Part of you doesn’t really care as much about that. Mostly, you want to get away from the noise. Tonight was just a cacophony of buzzers and slammed pucks and chants and shouts. Players getting shoved against the glass was the worst. You jumped every time.

You pull out your phone. It feels like you’ve gone in a circle. The stadium is a maze.

“Hi.”

You look up. John Logan—everyone calls him Logan, which throws you off—is about ten feet away, and he’s coming closer. He’s still in uniform, even his skates. You’re always impressed when you see players walk on skates. His hair is damp with sweat and at its curliest. Usually, it’s in fluffy waves.  

“Hey, are you coming to the party?” he asks, coming to a stop in front of you.

“I wasn’t invited,” you say.

He tilts his head, eyebrows scrunching. You focus, trying to figure his face out. A look like that usually means you’ve said something that doesn’t make sense, but you can’t imagine what that would be. You don’t even talk much with Logan, so how can he already be confused by you?

“You’re friends with Hannah, right?” he asks. “And Hannah’s bringing her friend Allie?”

You nod. “Yes, they were invited.”

“It’s a campus-wide invite,” Logan says. “No one got invited specifically—Dean and Beau posted the details expecting the entire student body to show up.”

“Oh. That’s confusing.”

He shrugs. “It’s usually the same group of people who go to the parties, so I guess people don’t think about it. But uh, you know, if Hannah and Allie are going, it’s safe to say that you can go too.”

People don’t think about a lot of things. They tell you even less, which makes you feel stupid and lonely sometimes. But you don’t say any of this, because your mother would say those are inside thoughts. Instead, you shove your hand in your pocket and play with a silica gel packet that came in your new camera box.

You like to roll the beads inside the packet, and you’ve discovered that if someone asks what you’re fiddling with, it’s acceptable if you show them the silica gel. You used to fiddle with a ball of plastic wrap, but that made too much noise in class.

“Okay, well, congratulations on your game,” you say when Logan says nothing else. “Bye.” You turn to leave the stadium.

“Wait!” Logan jogs around to face you again. “Uh, wait. Did Hannah not invite you?”

“She asked me to go, but I declined because I have a paper due next week, and because I wasn’t invited. It’s rude to go to parties you aren’t invited to.”

That’s a rule that took a few times to learn in middle school, but you’re very proud that you know it now. Except apparently it doesn’t apply in college. Rules are always changing, and sometimes it makes you so frustrated, you could spit.

“Well, what if I asked you to go? Invited you officially. I live with Dean, and I helped set up the party. Is that enough of an authority?”

“I don’t really know what constitutes an authority to invite people to parties,” you say. “Why do you want me to go?”

“Uh, well…” Logan steps forward, bowing his head a little. One thick curl falls into his eyes. He has such beautiful hair. You wonder what conditioner he uses. A few times you’ve sat next to him in class, and he smells like apples. “I feel like we’re kinda friends now.”

“We are?”

He winces. “I mean, kinda? Is that okay for me to say? We’re in class together, and you stop by with Hannah.”

“I stopped by once because she left her bag. I didn’t come inside.”

“True, fair enough. You can come in though, you know? Like that’s totally okay. Just for the future.”

You doubt you’ll stop by the Hawks House again. You have no reason to. But you nod anyway.

“Plus we compared notes that one time,” Logan says, snapping his fingers. “That’s a friend thing to do, right?”

You let his words wash over you. John Logan says you’re kinda friends. You like Logan. He’s nice to you, and to Hannah. You haven’t spoken much, but he lent you a pencil a few weeks ago in your developmental psychology class. And he always waits and holds the door for you, even if you’re a few people behind him. He doesn’t scare you like athletes often do. He isn’t loud, and he doesn’t say rude things about women, or make fun of how clumsy you are. When you tripped on a step in class, he didn’t snicker like other students—he reached out to catch you, and asked if you were okay.

Then again, you’ve hardly hung out together. There’s always time for him to change his mind, show a different side. Plenty of people have done that.

But you like making friends. You’re not good at it. You want to be. 

“Okay,” you say. “We can be friends.”

Logan grins. “Awesome.”

“You have nice teeth.”

He grins wider. “Thanks. I think that’s the first time anyone’s complimented my teeth.”

“That surprises me,” you say. “I don’t have a costume. Can I still enter the party, or will I be banned for life?”

Logan laughs. You squint. What’s funny?

“Normally, you’d get banned, but as an official party planner, I can get an exception made.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh…”

“I’m kidding,” he says gently, nudging your shoulder. It’s a soft nudge because of his padding. “You don’t need to wear a costume, but if you want, I have an extra pair of wings. You can be a bird with me. Tuck’s a bee.”

You’ve never been a part of a group costume. “I thought it was supposed to be costumes for two people.”

“We make our own rules. I’ll drive you there, okay? I don’t think you’ll wanna be on the party bus. It gets loud.”

You’re relieved. “Yes. Thank you.”

“No sweat. I’ll be out in a sec.”

You watch him disappear into the men’s locker room. You sit on a nearby bench. People are still filing out of the stadium. You put your headphones on, lean your head against the wall, and close your eyes. 

Seven minutes later, a hand on your elbow makes you jump, eyes flying open. You tear off your headphones.

“Sorry,” is the first thing Logan says. He’s in a gray sleeveless shirt and dark jeans. Water drips from his hair onto his shoulders. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay.” 

People don’t really touch you, mostly because you don’t care for it. Hannah and Allie like hugs, and sometimes you give them one, especially if they’re sad, because that’s what you do for sad friends. But mostly, you avoid it. People hug too hard, or too long, or they’re sweaty or smell funny. Logan doesn’t smell bad—he smells like orange Dial soap and his apple shampoo or conditioner, and you realize he must’ve showered. 

“Tuck is waiting for us in the car,” he says. “The wings are in the trunk.”

You follow him outside, into the mild night. His curls are even curlier when wet. You want to reach out and tug one, watch it spring back into place, but that’s definitely not an appropriate thing to do. You shove your hands in your pocket and squeeze the silica.

“What were you listening to?” he asks.

“Brown noise.”

“Is that a band or a song or…”

“No, it’s like white noise, but softer.”

He nods slowly, eyebrows knitting. “Oh. Huh.”

“There’s also pink noise and black noise, which I listen to at night to sleep. White noise feels like needles in my ears.”

“So you don’t listen to music?”

“I love music,” you say. “But sometimes it’s too much. The arena was loud, and sometimes I need something quiet to reset my brain, you know?”

“I definitely get that. I’m gonna check those out.”

“Will you really?”

Logan looks surprised. “Yeah, I will.”

You meditate on that, trying to figure out how that makes you feel, Logan meaning what he says.

Tucker greets you happily, and says that more’s the merrier when you tell him about Logan’s idea to join their costume. He has a girl named Kayla with him, and they sit in the backseat on the ride over, kissing and giggling. So you sit in the front with Logan, who keeps the radio turned low.

“If you wanna wear your headphones, I don’t mind,” he says.

You don’t, but the offer makes you beam at him.

Before you go inside, Logan gives you a pair of glossy black bird wings to wear. He steps back, smoothing the feathers, and looks at you.

“You look good. Those really suit you,” he says, and you wonder if he means that too. You’re not brave enough to ask.

The party is already in full swing by the time you arrive, which astounds you, considering the game officially ended less than an hour ago. Dean and Beau are at the center of the party, doing shots. Everyone cheers when they finish. Tucker and Kayla go to greet Dean, but Logan hangs back with you. He leans in to talk in your ear.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks.

You shake your head. “I don’t like drinking.”

“That’s cool. I’m gonna get a beer. Do you want to come with me?”

You eye the swell of people in the kitchen and grimace. “No, that’s okay. I’ll be here.”

He smiles, dark eyes warm. Your stomach flips. “Okay. Be right back.”

As he goes, you scour the room for food. If you’d known you were going to the party, you would’ve eaten before the game. But you find an untouched plate of pizza rolls, which is probably the most exciting thing that’s happened tonight, besides Logan telling you that you’re friends.

You put three on a napkin and stand to the side, watching people dance. Allie’s in a beautiful green dress, and you see Dean dance with her. Jealousy strikes you—not because you want Dean, but because you wish you were adept at all of this. Dancing, talking, making friends. Making a boyfriend. Going to college. Living. Hannah understands your struggle a little, but even you can see how well she and Garrett are hitting it off, fake relationship or not.

You finish your pizza rolls and fold the napkin, bouncing your head in time to the music. You don’t like parties, but this isn’t so bad, you suppose. It’s certainly reasonable enough to withstand in the name of friendship, and that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?

“Can I refresh that for you?”

You squint at your now empty napkin, where your pizza roll crumbs now lie. Then you look at the guy who asked. He might be a hockey player, you’re not sure. You pretty much only know Logan and Garrett, because Hannah’s your friend. You know Tucker, you suppose, since you’ve now ridden in a car with him. You know of Dean, because it’s impossible to go to Briar U without learning Dean Di Laurentis’ name and seeing his bleach blond head of hair on campus. But you couldn’t pick any other player out of a lineup. 

“It's a napkin,” you say. “It had food, not a drink.”

He holds up his hands and laughs. “Yeah, duh. It was an opener. I wasn’t being literal.”

Opener to what? You don't ask. He keeps talking, evidently not needing you to participate in the conversation.

“I’m Ben Pembroke. I just tried out for the team, but I’m pretty much a shoo-in. My dad played for Briar. Do you come to a lot of parties?”

“No,” you say. “I came to this one because Logan asked me to.”

Ben frowns. “Are you together?”

“He drove me here in his car.”

He rolls his eyes. “I mean, are you dating?”

“No,” you say. “I'm not dating anybody.”

His smile returns. It looks wrong on his face. He has nice teeth too, but they don’t look as nice as Logan’s. “Good.”

“Why is that good?”

“Because.” Ben suddenly creeps a hand up your back. “It means you're available tonight. You're cute.”

You push his hand off. “Don't touch me. I don't like strangers touching me.”

Ben scoffs. “C'mon, enough with the ‘hard to get' act. I get it, you're ‘not like them.’ You're a nice girl. Whatever.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, but whatever it is, I want no part of it. Leave me alone.”

Ben gets closer to you. You flinch. He's tall and he's angry. You think so, anyway. 

“The fuck? You were sending me signals. You want me.”

Definitely angry. You ball up your empty napkin in your fist. You hate arguing. You usually have to get loud to make people take you seriously, and shouting gives you a headache.

“I was not sending you signals,” you say, voice rising. “I don't want anything to do with you. You came over here.”

Ben smiles again, full of ice. “Look, babe, it's cool, okay? None of your nerdy little friends will know we were together.”

“Together for what? Sex?”

Ben winks. You make a noise of irritation. 

“I did not send you sex signals, you creep. I don't like you! Go away!”

Ben reaches for you again. You yell, throwing your napkin on the ground. 

“Get away from me!” People start to look at you. You scream without words, so angry you feel like you might die. “Go away, go away!”

“Fuckin’ weirdo,” Ben snaps, but you ignore him. You don’t care what he calls you as long as he leaves.

“Hey.”

Logan’s wings are suddenly in front of you. He glances at you. 

“You okay?” he asks, holding out his hand behind him. He doesn’t touch you—you think his hand might be an offer, if you need it.

You chew the inside of your cheek. You don't feel okay, but you don't know if this is one of those times when you should lie. Sometimes lying makes things easier, but you never know when that is. 

Logan turns back to Ben after you take his hand. “What the fuck, Pembroke? You're harassing women?”

“Man, she wanted me, I swear—”

“I did not send you sex signals,” you shout. “I don't like you!”

Ben's face spasms. Logan puts a hand on Ben's chest. 

“Take it somewhere else. She's not interested.”

Ben flings a finger at you. “But she—”

“Get. The fuck. Out.” Logan's hand curls in Ben's shirt. A warning. Jules said that in one of their videos about Briar’s games. When John Logan touches people and gets in their faces, he “means business.”

Ben scowls at you. Logan steps back so he can block you from Ben's face. 

“Fine. Fucking whatever.”

He stomps away. You squeeze the silica gel so hard, the beads dig into your palm. You fear the packet might burst. Your brain aches with the fight and the anger and anxiety that accompanied it. You promised yourself you wouldn't make a scene like you always do. It's why you can't keep friends, and you brace yourself for Logan to tell you something similar. 

He leans in so you can hear him over the music. “Let's go outside. It's too loud here.”

Relief softens your body, even if Logan’s only taking you somewhere quieter so he can tell you off. “Okay.”

You pick up your napkin and throw it away. Then you follow him to the backyard. It's big too, and you're glad everything is well-lit and marked. It'd be too easy to get lost in this house. Logan takes you to two chairs on the deck where there's less people. Most of the guests are inside since Beau didn't fill the pool.

You sit. People hate it more when you defend yourself, but Logan has to know that you really did try not to make a scene. You care about things that your friends like, and you want to keep Logan as a friend. You like him, especially after tonight. 

“I tried to tell him I wasn't interested in my quiet voice,” you say. “So many times. I didn't want sex. I swear I didn't send him signals, Logan, I didn't even approach him firs—”

“Whoa, hey.” He pushes his hair back, leaning in. “Hey, hey. I know you don't like Pembroke, and you don't have to try to convince me that he started it. He was a total jerk.”

You’re miserable. “People don't like when I use my loud voice, but sometimes they just won't listen to me. I had to.”

“Is it okay if I take your hand?” Logan asks softly. 

You nod. Logan takes your hand in both of his, resting them on his knee. He’s quiet for a moment. 

“You didn't do anything wrong,” he finally says. “When someone is harassing you, you have the right to be as loud as you want. It fucking sucks, and I’m sorry he did that. I’m gonna tell the guys and make sure he doesn’t make the team next year. He’s a shit player anyway.”

You fiddle with the silica gel again. “I wanted to be good at the party. You like parties, and a video I watched about making friends in college said that I should do things that other people like to become their friend.”

“Oh,” he says gently, rubbing your knuckles. “We’re already friends. You don't have to go to any parties to be my friend. Parties are fine, yeah, but they aren't the only thing I like. I'm not Dean.” He rolls his eyes and laughs. 

You smile, pleased to catch onto his joke. “He was dancing with Allie.”

“Yeah, I think we may have witnessed a historical event: Dean Di Laurentis not getting what he wants.”

“Because she didn't kiss him?”

Logan snorts. “Exactly. Look, do you wanna ditch this party and do something else? There's a guest house on the property if you just wanna chill. I would drive you home, but I’m still a little tipsy.”

He's still holding your hand. You like it. You like how rough his palms are, his cool skin against your warmth. You link your fingers with Logan's. He looks down, then looks back up at you.

“I'm hungry, actually,” you say. 

He hums. “Good.”

“How is that good?”

“No, I mean, it's good you're being honest with me and telling me what you want. Don't force yourself to go to any more parties, okay?”

“Okay, Logan. Is there a Taco Bell nearby?”

“You’re a genius,” Logan says, his mouth full of Crunchwrap. He chews, then swallows before speaking again. “Taco Bell should be a post-game tradition. Garrett’s a health nut, but I think I could convince him.”

The Taco Bell is only a few blocks away from the house, so you and Logan walked here. He paid for your food even though you have money. He said it was to make up for the shitty party. You told him he didn’t need to do that. He said he wanted to.

“It’s my favorite fast food,” you say, working on your potatoes. You stick a fork into one, then carefully dip one corner in sour cream and the other in the nacho cheese.

“I thought they put the sauces on top,” he says.

“Normally they do, but I ask for them on the side because otherwise all the potatoes don’t get an equal distribution of sauce.”

It’s quiet, and you find Logan staring at you as you chew. You swallow, frowning.

“What?”

He shakes his head, grinning. He does that a lot. “Nothing, just… you’re different.”

“Oh.” You pull your food closer to you, shoulders curling in.

“Not in a bad way! I like it. You know what you want.”

“Not really.” You suddenly remember Allie and Dean dancing. “Or if I do, I don’t know how to get it.”

“I think that’s pretty common,” Logan says, resting his chin in his hand. “I’ve been in that situation plenty of times.”

“What did you do?”

“Hmm.” He takes a long sip from his coke. “Depends on what I wanted. For the most part, I just went for it. No one else is gonna give it to you, you know?”

“I guess so.”

“What do you want?”

It strikes you now that Logan’s eyes are not just brown; they’re speckled gold, like spattered sunlight on tree bark. They’re lovely even in the harsh fluorescent light. He’s like some kind of fantasy novel angel with the wings and his swoopy curls. His lashes are long and thick. He licks his lips, and now you can’t stop staring at his mouth. Your heart starts to pound, the longer he looks at you.

Oh no, you think. Oh no. I don’t want to be his friend. 

Yet another thing you’ve misunderstood. 

“I don’t know,” you say hoarsely. You clear your throat. “I really don’t know.”

“Well,” Logan says. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out. And whatever it is, it’ll be there for you.”

You can hardly speak. You twirl the silica gel between your fingers. You do that the whole car ride home. Logan leaves the radio on low again. He gets out and opens your door after he pulls up to your dorm. Again, he offers his hand, and again, you take it.

“You look really pretty in those wings,” he says, like he’s telling you a secret, even though he already told you that earlier. He must really mean it. 

It’s just you two here; campus is pretty much dead because almost everyone else is at the party.

“So do you.”

He laughs, and you think you’d really like it if he gave you a hug right now. But you’re not a hugger. You don’t know how to ask for such a thing from John Logan.

“You played really well,” you say.

Logan hums. “Thanks. I’m really glad you came.”

He’s still holding your hand. He squeezes it. 

“Well, um, bye,” you say, letting go.

“Goodnight,” he says after you.

It’s only after you get to your room that you realize that you’re still wearing Logan’s wings.

[rosiewrites28]

"Hockey Jackets Lead To Bad Decisions"

Summary: John Logan can flirt with anyone for fun, but the second y/n ties his hockey jacket around her waist, it starts feeling dangerously less casual. Between stolen touches, teasing confessions, and a growing inability to keep their eyes—or hands—off each other, one night at Malone’s turns into the beginning of something neither of them is prepared for.

wc: 2870

Pairing: John Logan x Reader

A/N: I was going to split this into two parts but then changed my mind. Formatting is kind of everywhere. Not edited.

Masterlist

The bass at Malone’s was loud enough to vibrate through the floorboards. 

Every surface in the place felt sticky, humid from too many students packed together under flashing lights, and the air smelled like cheap beer, perfume, sweat, and something aggressively fried from the kitchen. Which normally would have been my cue to leave after thirty minutes. 

But Hannah and Allie had cornered me before I could escape. 

So now I’m trapped in the middle of the dance floor while Allie screamed the lyrics to a JLo directly into my ear. 

“If you elbow me one more time, I’m reporting you to the authorities,” I yelled over the music.

“You look too hot to complain!” she shouted back immediately.

“That’s because this dress is cutting off circulation to my legs!”

Hannah burst out laughing beside us, dark curls bouncing as she danced. “Worth it!”

Easy for her to say.

The black dress looked incredible in my bedroom mirror two hours ago. Sleek. Tiny. Dangerous in a fun way.

Now?

Now it had decided it couldn't stay down on my thighs and kept trying to ride up. Every thirty seconds I had to yank the hem back down while trying to preserve what little dignity I had left. 

“I swear to God,” I muttered, tugging at the fabric again, “this dress is one wrong move away from becoming a crop top.”

Allie nearly choked laughing.

“You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m fighting for my life.”

“You’re winning, though,” Hannah assured me. “Half the bar has been staring at you since we got here.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It should be.”

Unfortunately, Hannah wasn’t wrong. I could feel eyes following us every time we moved through the crowd. And one pair in particular was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

Because leaning against the bar in a fitted grey Henley—with sleeves pushed up to his forearms like he personally wanted to ruin my mental stability—was John Logan.

He was currently talking to Garrett Graham. Laughing at something Dean said. Looking unfairly good doing literally nothing. I made the mistake of glancing over again. Big mistake. Huge.

Because Logan happened to look up at the exact same moment. Our eyes locked across the crowded bar. Then he smiled, not a polite smile, not a casual hey-I-know-you smile either. A slow, knowing smile like he’d caught me doing something I shouldn’t be. Heat immediately crawled up my neck.

“Oh my God,” Hannah said beside me. “You’re staring again.”

“I am not.”

“y/n,” Allie deadpanned, “you literally stopped dancing.”

I immediately started moving again out of pure embarrassment, nearly sloshing my drink onto the stranger beside me.

“I hate both of you.”

“You wanna know the worst part?” Hannah asked.

“No.”

“He keeps looking over here too.” 

I nearly choke on air. “Excuse me?”

But before Hannah could answer, the dress betrayed me again. Aggressively. I gasped, grabbing the hem before disaster struck. “That’s it. I’m taking this thing out back and setting it on fire.”

Allie doubled over laughing. “You brought extra clothes though, right?”

“Yes,” I said obviously. “Because unlike you two, I believe in preparation.”

Honestly, being roommates with Hannah and Allie meant always carrying backup options.

Backup makeup, shoes, advil, dignity. 

“My bag’s at the table,” I said, pointing toward the back booth where Tucker and Dean sat.

Hannah nodded sympathetically. “Go change before you accidentally traumatize the hockey team.”

“Excellent idea.”

I shoved my way through the crowd, muttering apologies. Heat clung to my skin from dancing, and by the time I reached the booth, I was already annoyed enough to change into sweatpants and never speak again. 

Tucker looked up first. “There she is,” he announced dramatically. “The only responsible person at this school.”

Dean snorted into his drink. “That’s a low bar.”

I laughed softly and bent down to grab my tote bag from beside the booth—Only for another hand to reach it first. Long fingers wrapped loosely around the strap. My stomach immediately did something humiliating. Slowly, I looked up.

Logan sat sprawled comfortably against the booth seat, one arm stretched along the back behind Dean. Up close he somehow looked even broader than he had across the room, shoulders straining the soft grey fabric of his Henley. His hair looked slightly damp at the ends and his eyes were absolutely full of amusement. 

“You leaving already?” he asked. His voice was rough from the noise in the bar, low enough that I felt my heart skip.

“No,” I replied. “My dress is trying to humiliate me.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I noticed.”

My entire body heated instantly. “You noticed?”

Dean made a choking sound into his beer while Tucker physically covered his face.

Logan looked completely unashamed. “It’s hard not to,” he said. “You’ve been fighting with that thing since you got here.”

I pointed accusingly at him. “You are a terrible person.”

“Nah.” He stood up from the booth in one smooth movement. “Just observant.”

Standing this close to him felt unfair. He was tall enough that I had to tilt my head slightly to keep eye contact. Then Logan glanced down toward my legs again. A slow grin spread across his face. “You know,” he drawled, already shrugging off his hockey jacket, “there’s a pretty obvious solution here.”

Before I could answer, he held the jacket out toward me. Navy blue with ‘Briar Hockey’ stitched across the chest. It was still warm from his body.

“You’re offering me your jacket?”

Logan lifted one shoulder casually. “Seems safer for the general public.”

Tucker laughed so hard he almost dropped a fry.

I should’ve said something smooth. Something flirtier than standing there staring at him like an idiot. But of course my brain had become occupied by the sight of Logan holding the jacket. Dear God. “You okay there, y/n?” he asked, clearly entertained now.

“Yes,” I lied immediately. “I am perfectly fine.”

His grin widened. “That’s good news for me.”

I blinked. “Why?”

“Because I’ve been flirting with you for the last ten minutes.”

My heart nearly stopped.

Dean made a loud gagging noise. “Jesus Christ, Logan. Buy us dinner before you start confessing feelings.”

“Shut up,” Logan muttered automatically. But he never looked away from me once.

And suddenly the noise of Malone’s felt farther away somehow., like the entire bar had blurred around us. Then Logan stepped closer, close enough that my pulse jumped stupidly hard.

“C’mere,” he said softly.

My brain short-circuited again.

Before I could respond, he took the jacket gently from my hands and moved behind me.

Every nerve ending in my body immediately became aware of the fact that John Logan was standing directly behind me.

I could feel heat radiating off him.

Could smell his cologne more clearly now—clean and warm and dangerously comforting.

Then his fingers brushed lightly against my hips as he wrapped the sleeves around my waist.

Not lingering.

Barely there.

Still enough to make my stomach flip violently.

“You’re freezing,” he murmured near my ear.

I swallowed hard. “It’s winter.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Oh.

Oh, that was flirting flirting.

His knuckles skimmed my waist one last time as he tied the sleeves securely in front.

“There,” Logan said quietly behind me. “Problem solved.”

I turned around slowly.

Big mistake.

Because now he was even closer.

Close enough that I could see the tiny scar near his eyebrow.

Close enough that I noticed his eyes weren’t just brown—they had these stupid gold flecks in them under the bar lights.

Close enough that my brain started making deeply unhelpful observations about how nice his mouth looked.

“You’re very smug for someone lending me a jacket,” I managed.

“Can you blame me?” His gaze dragged slowly over me, entirely unapologetic. “You look really good in my clothes, y/n.”

That should not have affected me that much.

And yet.

I crossed my arms mostly to give myself something to do. “Do you flirt with every girl like this?”

“Nah.”

His eyes held mine steadily.

“Only the ones who stare at me from the dance floor like they wanna climb me.”

My jaw dropped open.

Dean lost it completely beside us.

“Oh my God,” I laughed, horrified. “You saw that?”

“Baby,” Logan said, grinning now, “everyone saw that.”

I groaned and covered my face instantly while Tucker cackled loud enough to attract attention from nearby tables.

“This is my villain origin story.”

Logan laughed too then.

Not the cocky teasing laugh from before.

A real one.

Warm and low and ridiculously attractive.

Then his hand closed gently around my wrist.

The touch surprised me enough that I looked up immediately.

“Don’t hide now,” he murmured, tugging my hand away from my face.

The teasing edge in his voice softened just slightly.

And somehow that felt even more dangerous.

“I kinda like when you look at me.”

My stomach flipped so hard it was honestly concerning.

For one suspended second neither of us moved.

The lights flashed blue and gold across his face. Music pounded through the floor beneath our feet. Around us, Dean was still laughing at something Tucker said, people shouted over drinks, glasses clinked behind the bar—

But Logan’s attention stayed completely, entirely on me.

Like I was the only interesting thing in the room.

Then his gaze flicked briefly to the jacket tied around my waist before returning to my face.

“Plus,” he added casually, “now everybody knows you’re wearing my jacket.”

I blinked. “And why exactly does that matter?”

His grin turned lazy again.

“No reason.”

Liar.

And judging by the look in his eyes—

he knew I knew it too.

By the time I realized John Logan was still holding my wrist, it was already becoming a problem.

Not a real problem.

A dangerous problem.

Because his hand was warm, his thumb rested lazily against the inside of my wrist, and the look in his eyes was doing deeply irresponsible things to my nervous system.

Around us, Malone’s was still loud and chaotic—music blasting, people yelling over each other, glasses clinking behind the bar—but somehow the space directly around us felt weirdly smaller.

Focused.

Like the rest of the room had blurred at the edges.

Logan tilted his head slightly, watching me with obvious amusement. “You always get this quiet when a guy flirts with you?”

I narrowed my eyes immediately. “I’m not quiet.”

“You were staring at me like you forgot your own name two seconds ago.”

“That’s a medical condition.”

Dean nearly fell out of the booth laughing.

Tucker pointed a fry at me. “Honestly, y/n? Respect.”

“Thank you,” I said with dignity. “At least someone here supports women.”

Logan’s mouth twitched.

Still holding my wrist.

Still entirely too close.

“You okay there, hockey boy?” I asked sweetly. “You seem attached.”

His gaze dropped briefly to where our hands were touching before lifting back to my face.

“Nah,” he said easily. “Just making sure you don’t run away.”

My stomach flipped.

Which was ridiculous.

Absolutely ridiculous.

Because John Logan flirted with everyone. That was practically part of his personality. He was charming and hot and knew exactly how to look at someone like they were the center of the universe for five minutes at a time.

I knew that.

Unfortunately, knowing it did absolutely nothing for me when he smiled like that.

“You think I’d run away?” I asked.

“I think,” Logan said slowly, “you’ve been pretending not to notice me staring at you all night.”

Heat crawled up my neck instantly.

“Oh my God,” I muttered.

“That’s not a denial.”

“Please stop being observant. It’s ruining my life.”

He laughed softly, finally letting go of my wrist.

I immediately missed the warmth.

Which felt pathetic.

Before I could spiral about that too much, Logan leaned one hip against the edge of the booth beside me.

“So what’s in the emergency backup bag?” he asked.

“Gym shorts. Oversized T-shirt. Snacks.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Snacks?”

“I’m a woman in STEM. Survival is important.”

Dean pointed at me dramatically. “See? This is why she’s my favorite.”

“You told Hannah last week I looked like I’d poison someone for fun.”

“You do.”

“That’s just the eyeliner.”

Logan laughed again, shaking his head.

God, he laughed a lot around me.

That felt… nice.

Dangerously nice.

“What kind of snacks?” he asked.

I stared at him. “Are you flirting with me or trying to rob me?”

“Can’t it be both?”

I snorted despite myself and finally crouched to dig through my tote bag. “Goldfish crackers. Granola bars. Sour candy.”

“y/n,” Tucker said solemnly, “marry me.”

“No.”

“That’s fair.”

I pulled out the folded pair of black athletic shorts I planned on changing into and tossed the bag onto the booth seat.

Logan looked personally offended.

“You’re replacing the dress?”

“The dress betrayed me.”

“But the dress is winning.”

“That sounds fake.”

“No seriously.” His eyes dragged over me again, slower this time. “It’s a really good dress.”

My brain fully malfunctioned for half a second.

The confidence in his voice was what got me.

Not teasing now.

Not joking.

Just honest.

And somehow that was worse.

“You are aggressively good at this,” I informed him.

“At flirting?”

“At making people forget basic motor functions.”

A grin spread slowly across his face. “Yeah?”

“Unfortunately.”

Dean groaned loudly. “I can literally feel the sexual tension from here.”

“Then leave,” Logan said without looking away from me.

Tucker clutched his chest dramatically. “He’s in deep already.”

“I’m not in deep,” Logan shot back automatically.

I raised an eyebrow. “Interesting choice of wording.”

He looked at me for a second.

Then smirked.

“You catch everything, huh?”

“Occupational hazard.”

“What occupation?”

“Judging people.”

“Damn,” he said. “And here I thought it was pharmacy.”

I laughed before I could stop myself.

And Logan’s expression shifted immediately when he heard it.

Softer somehow.

Like he liked making me laugh.

That realization hit me right in the chest.

“You know what’s weird?” he asked suddenly.

“What?”

“You’re way less scary than Hannah made you sound.”

I gasped dramatically. “Excuse me. I worked very hard on my terrifying reputation.”

“She told Garrett you once made Dean reconsider his entire personality.”

“I did.”

Dean pointed at me. “She looked me dead in the eyes and asked if I had hobbies besides being loud.”

Logan barked out a laugh.

“To be fair,” I said, “you didn’t have an answer.”

“That’s not the point.”

The music switched songs, bass vibrating through the floor harder now as more people crowded onto the dance floor.

Across the room, Hannah spotted me and wiggled her eyebrows obnoxiously.

I immediately flipped her off.

She looked delighted.

Logan followed my gaze toward the dance floor. “You gonna keep dancing?”

“Eventually.”

“You were having fun before your dress declared war.”

“I was having fun until somebody noticed.”

“y/n,” he said, looking genuinely amused, “you were staring at me like you were conducting scientific research.”

“In my defense, your arms are upsetting.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Tucker made a strangled noise.

Dean physically bent over laughing.

And Logan—

Logan looked so pleased with himself it was unbearable.

“My arms?” he repeated carefully.

I immediately realized my mistake.

“Oh my God.”

“y/n likes my arms,” he announced to the table.

“I actually need everyone here to die.”

He laughed outright now, head tipping back slightly, and the sight hit me with embarrassing force.

Because Logan was pretty.

Like offensively pretty.

Especially when he laughed.

“You know,” he said casually, flexing one arm against the table edge just enough to be annoying, “most people compliment my face first.”

“You don’t need compliments about your face. You already know about your face.”

“That’s true.”

“Horrific answer.”

He grinned.

Then leaned closer suddenly, voice dropping lower.

“But for the record,” he murmured, “I noticed your legs first too.”

My entire train of thought derailed.

Completely.

Gone.

Dean slapped the table hard enough to rattle the drinks. “Jesus Christ, just kiss already.”

“Dean,” I said weakly, still staring at Logan, “I’m trying to have a nervous breakdown in peace.”

Logan’s eyes flicked down briefly to my mouth.

Just for a second.

Still enough to make my pulse jump.

Then he looked back up slowly.

“Would it help,” he asked softly, “if I told you I’ve been trying not to kiss you since you walked in?”

I forgot how breathing worked.

Actually forgot.

Logan noticed immediately too, because his grin turned lazy and unbearably smug.

“There she goes again,” he murmured.

“Shut up.”

“You get all wide-eyed every time I flirt with you.”

“Maybe because you flirt like you’re trying to cause structural damage.”

That earned me another low laugh.

And before I could recover from that either, Logan reached out and adjusted the collar of his hockey jacket where it sat tied around my waist.

His fingers brushed bare skin just above my thigh.

Tiny touch.

Barely there.

My stomach flipped violently anyway.

His eyes lifted back to mine.

“You keeping the jacket on?” he asked.

“Maybe.”

“Good.”

“Why?”

His gaze held mine for one long second.

“Because I like seeing my stuff on you.”

Oh.

Oh, he was dangerous.

[teeposting]

I don't think I've seen an actor who is this passionate about their role ever

[slavery]

[macbethz]

Fuck I’m at a fencing tournament and literally a minute after I reblogged this my dad told me that he talked to the point people and I’m probably going to win a medal.

[seananmcguire]

BURN BAGEL BURN

[gothiccharmschool]

OH WHY NOT?

[harukami]

I need to follow up to say I reblogged this last night, and this morning I got some of the best news of my life, like, a life dream come true news thing.

Bagel what are your powers

[acabosetotal]

FUCK, I though it was just another lucky meme but LISTEN. Since a week ago I was waiting a phone call to confirm me if I got a job or not in my university. I reblogged this yesterday’s night “just for fun and because I don’t want any bagel to be mad with me”, and today’s afternoon, while I was losing my time as always, the professor I was supposed to work with called me and asked me for my personal information to start working with her.

THE BAGEL POWERS ARE WAY TOO MUCH FOR THIS WORLD

[token-white-friend]

I GOT A JOB THE DAY AFTER MY QUEUE POSTED THIS THE FIRST TIME AND I JUST REALIZED IT WHEN I SAW IT AGAIN HOLY GOD

[noodle-dragon]

The bagel hasn’t let me down yet!

[blackcatgodess]

I got a job offer after reblogging the bagel. Believe in the bagel!

[anayely420]

🙏🏼

[sonsfantasies]

Worth a try lol

[theblizzardsix]

i could use some good news or even a good girl 

[pantspooplover]

Go lil bagle! Show me your power!

[itaachiyama-moved]

Okii then!

[blastlight]

THIS IS THE FIRST THING ON MY BLOG

I GOT ASKED OUT FOR THE FIRST TIME AFTER I REBLOGGED IT

[cuappatea-deactivated20200216]

wait but whats happening with the bagel tho

[dukemz]

It’s burning, as is everything I’ve hoped for whenever I’ve reblogged a post like this

[gone-dw-abt-it-deactivated20260]

I just kinda wanna watch something burn?

[dukemz]

Mood

[rip-paramour]

You guys didn’t listen when I said Bagels hold an ancient and wonderous power.

[teathattast]

Bagel time

[castielismyhusband2266]

I need this

[dwintu]

do it

[hmspoguee]

i need smth good right abt now

[invaderxan]

Heard some important information on Twitter today, and thought I’d post it here for anyone who may not have heard it. This is actually a thing, devised by human rights organisation called Karma Nirvana.

Reblog to save a life?

[theindependentconservative]

Reblog to save a life.

[libertarirynn-deactivated202006]

Sharing because it’s actually a verified and sourced thing and not one of those dumbass fake tip posts.

[lordfreemanofficial]

Fuck me thats clever, actually worth reblogging

[sciapod]

For what it’s worth!

Take care of yourselves out there 💜💜