noise | john logan (2)
part one
Summary: Weeks after Dean's party, you encounter Logan by accident when you're asked to take pictures of the guys during a hockey interview.
Pairing: John Logan x fem!reader
Word count: 5.1k
Warnings/tags: mentions of childhood bullying, parental issues, reader has food sensory issues and trouble understanding social cues. leaning hard into her being ND just fyi <3 dean and garrett being kinda annoying but they mean well. hannah being a cutie. photographer!reader. this is kind of a slow burn so nothing really happens tbh except logan being a nice young man :)
Notes: this is a series now? maybe?? i have no idea what's happening but thank u for all the support on the first fic! i guess if u guys are still interested, i'll keep writing these two!
i don't do taglists but you can follow @sanguinelibrary for all fic updates
the divider
“Yo. Hey, Logan. Loooogan. Dude.”
Logan peeks one eye open. Dean is crouched in front of him, at the side of his bed, shirtless, which is pretty much the last thing he wants to see ever.
Dean smiles with all of his teeth. “Hey, sunshine. Drain's clogged again.”
Logan grunts. “What'd you do this time?”
“Absolutely nothing. It was Garrett.”
“It was not, asshole,” Garrett says, strolling into Logan's room. He throws a shirt at Dean. “I just got home. Someone thought it'd be a great idea to pour bacon grease down the drain.”
“Why are you both in here? This doesn't feel like a conversation that requires a town hall meeting,” Logan grumbles.
“Well, I don’t cook, so it can’t have been me. Must’ve been Tucker,” Dean says.
Tucker walks in then, as if on cue. “If you're spreading bullshit about me, Dean, I'm here to defend myself. For the record: yes, I did make bacon, and there's a plate downstairs. But I was not the one who poured grease down the drain, because I'm not a fool.”
They all look at Dean, who bobs his head. Logan really wishes he had a stack of pucks to chuck at them right now.
“Yeah, I lied earlier,” Dean says. “It was me. I wanted to use the cup.”
Logan smiles flatly. “I already knew it was you, dumbass. You clog every drain in the house once a week. Vote time. Everyone in favor of kicking Dean out forever?”
The three of them say aye. Dean squawks like a big blond bird.
“Nay! It's not my fault. How am I supposed to know what to do with bacon grease?”
“Yeah, how's the little prince supposed to know?” Tucker says, rolling his eyes.
Then he bolts for the door, Dean on his heels. Logan sighs and lies back, staring up at the ceiling. He dreamt about you again. You were on the ice, skating with him, telling him how much you like Taco Bell. He kissed you.
Then Dean clogged the drain and woke him up.
“Hey, don't forget that we still have that interview at the stadium today,” Garrett says, typing on his phone. No doubt texting Hannah. Logan is proud to say that he no longer has a crush on Hannah Wells, as fleeting as that was. No, he has a crush on her friend, who is smart and beautiful and who probably hasn't given him another thought since the party three weeks ago.
He missed you in class this week. He even stayed behind and pretended he had a question in order to scan the room to check if maybe he didn't see you the first time. But you were nowhere to be found. And it's not like he can text you. He scoured Instagram, Snapchat, and even Facebook for your account, until he felt like a fucking creep and stopped, the search fruitless. Hell, Logan would write you letters if it meant talking to you beyond the two sentences you exchange in class.
You did wave at him last week. Usually, you pack up your things as fast as possible and run out of the lecture hall. So when you lingered long enough to smile at him… well, that was pretty fantastic.
“Yeah, thanks,” Logan says.
Garrett nods. “I'll see you there. Wellsy wants to study.”
Logan lets his head fall back against the pillow as Garrett leaves. He thinks what Garrett's doing with Hannah will probably end with one or both of them getting hurt, especially since they’re both so obviously such soft hearts. Logan saw Garrett listening to Hannah’s Instagram songs more than once. Garrett’s absolutely in denial about how much he likes her. But at least they talk to each other.
“Fuck,” he says to himself, palms on his eyes.
You lost your silica gel.
It's not terrible… no, it is. It's thrown off your whole week, actually. You've been on websites longer than usual, looking at fidget toys, sorely tempted. You're especially taken with a moldable squishy with beads inside. It's like the mother of silica gel, and your fingers itch with anticipation of how it would feel.
But you can't. It's eighteen dollars, which is certainly one reason why you shouldn't buy it, but it also would make noise. And even if you used it outside of class… what if someone found it or caught you using it? How do you explain that?
And you hate feeling like you need a toy to keep you grounded. Your stomach hurt so badly that you skipped class on Monday, which sucked because you didn't see Logan. But you were thinking about having to see your mother during the break and your upcoming finals and nothing, not even listening to music, helped the resulting pain in your stomach.
Your mother has always told you that it's psychological, and treats your anxiety like a moral failing on your part. If you would just try harder… but you don't know how to do that. You're already trying so hard. It's difficult enough to eat everyday, and go to class, and sleep enough, and not rot in your dorm.
Your mother would be pleased if you told her you went to a party. She'd dismiss the fact that a guy harassed you. She wouldn't believe you if you told her about Logan and his pretty curls and mouth. No man is looking to just be friends with you.
She was the one who wanted you to go away for college. You didn't mind staying local, but she said you'd never “grow into yourself” if you didn't move away.
Your nails have been bitten to stubs. You've been growing them for a month, and all your hard work is lost. The silica gel occupied your hands but now that it's gone, you've fallen back to nail biting.
Hannah said she would meet you at the stadium after her class this morning. Two days ago, you told one of the editors of the Briar newspaper that you bought a new camera. You've taken pictures for them before, but never during an event. Stupidly, you revealed your new purchase, and the editor excitedly asked you to attend an interview that some of the Hawks players were giving today, and take pictures for the paper.
If only you knew when to keep your mouth shut. Taking pictures of people is stressful. You hate it. They often want you to turn them into someone they're not through the camera lens. People can never just be themselves on camera. That's why you take pictures of birds or buildings or sunsets. They just are, and you can capture them in all their candidness. Most of the world doesn't perform for a camera—only people do.
Hannah is the first one to greet you when you get inside the stadium. You walk to the bleachers together, where a video crew is setting up.
“This is great,” Hannah says. “People are gonna see your pictures, as they should.”
You shrug. “I guess so. I didn't really want to do this.”
“Your photos are really good,” she says. “And getting them published in the school paper is huge. What are you worried about?”
You sigh. “I don't know. It's kind of scary when people see you through the camera.” Fourth wall breaks unnerve you for the same reason. “And what if the players hate the pictures?”
“Well, Garrett's doing the interview, and he wouldn't let anybody on the team say anything to you about your pictures. But it's only a few of them, I think. Do you want me to stand with you?”
You nod, the pit in your stomach loosening a little. Hannah always seems to know what to say.
She beams. “Of course I'll stay.”
But as everyone finishes setting up, Coach Jensen approaches you. Hannah explains that she's Garrett's tutor, and Coach tells her that she can stay, but only in the bleachers.
“I'm here to support my friend,” she says. “It’s her first time photographing for the team. Please?”
“Sorry. Only press and photographers can be here.”
She looks at you sympathetically. “I'll be right over there, okay? You'll be great.”
You watch Hannah go sit, wishing you had the silica gel.
Garrett is the first player interviewed. You take many pictures, so there are lots of options to choose from when you send them to the paper. He doesn't look at you once, which is splendid.
Next is Dean. He's fired up in his interview, swearing that Briar will crush the competition. Then it's Tucker, who seems a little nervous in front of the camera. You understand completely.
You lower your camera as you see Logan approach the local reporter. He shakes her hand and says something you can’t hear. Then he looks in your direction. He pauses, then grins widely, waving at you. You wave back, face suddenly warm.
“So John,” begins the reporter. “How is the team preparing to win the next three games? You’ll need three wins to keep Briar’s ranking.”
“Yeah, you know, we work really well as a team, and Garrett’s a great captain, of course, so I have no doubt we’ll win. We’ve been putting in plenty of hours of practice.”
He glances in your direction. Click. You’re not supposed to snap pictures when people are looking at the camera, but you can’t help it. You won’t send that one to the paper.
“How are you personally feeling about the season?” the reporter asks.
You take more pictures. Logan keeps glancing in your direction, so much so that the reporter eventually holds her hand up.
“John, sorry, but we really need you to look at the camera,” she says. “Is there something distracting you? A light? A noise?”
“Nope,” Logan says, standing straighter, shaking his head. “All good.”
He answers a few more questions. The reporter thanks all of them for their time and then the crew packs up. You put the lens cap on your camera and pack it up in its case.
“Hey.”
You look up from your case. Logan’s in front of you. This close, you can really take in his appearance: his swoopy hair, his azure jacket with the Hawks emblem on the chest. He smells like apples, as always.
“You’re here,” he says, before you can say hi back.
You nod, confused. “Um. Yes?”
“I didn’t know you were a photographer.” He’s smiling as hard as he does when the Hawks win a game. “I haven’t seen you photographing games.”
“I don’t. The paper’s editor asked me to take pictures for their article on the team.”
“Can I see?”
You hesitate. “I can’t retake pictures.”
“I know. I’m asking because I want to see your pictures, not ‘cause I care about how I look in them. You don’t even have to show me the pictures from today. Do you have more?”
“You want to see my other photos? They’re of birds and stuff like that.”
“I fucking love birds. And I mean that.”
You blink. “Oh. Okay. Me too.”
“I didn’t see you in class this week,” he says.
“I was sick.”
“That sucks, I’m sorry.”
You nod. You don’t tell him why you were sick. He doesn’t need to know. No one knows except Hannah. And speaking of, you can see her walking down the bleachers.
She stops next to you. “Hey! How was it?” She looks at Logan, and seems a little startled. “Hi, Logan. What’s up?”
“Hey, Wellsy,” he says. You try not to frown. It’s stupid to want Logan to have a nickname for you. Wellsy isn’t even his invention.
“Logan wants to see my photos,” you say.
Hannah raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? I didn’t know you liked photography, Logan.”
“Oh, big time,” he says, looking at you.
Hannah widens her eyes at you. You have no idea why. She pats your back.
“You did great,” she says. “I’ll see you later?”
“I thought you wanted to get lunch together,” you say.
“Uh…” She glances between you and Logan. “I’ll catch up with you. I have to tutor Garrett anyway. He canceled on me yesterday.” She rolls her eyes. “Hockey players.”
“Ouch,” Logan says, nudging her.
Hannah smiles sweetly. “You and Tucker are the best players, and you can quote me on that.”
“Garrett will definitely be hearing that.”
“Good.” She squeezes your arm. “I’ll see you later, okay? Have fun.”
You watch her go, feeling lost. “She said we were going to eat lunch together. Why did she change her mind?”
“Oh, um, I don’t think Hannah meant anything by it,” Logan says. He chews his lip for a second. “Garrett’s such a diva, honestly—he’d probably whine about not studying today even though he canceled on her yesterday.”
You do know how important the philosophy midterm is to Garrett, especially since he’s currently failing. And Hannah has complained about how stubborn he is.
“I guess that makes sense,” you say. “I’ll go eat by myself then. It’s one o’clock, so it’s lunchtime.”
“I could come with you.” Logan clears his throat. “Uh, if you want, I mean. No pressure. You can say no.”
“Oh. No, I’d like that.” You smile. “And I can show you my photos, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, sounding breathless. “Please do.”
Logan has three chicken thighs on his plate.
“Hockey season,” he explains as he sits. He bought your food with one of his meal swipes. You told him he didn’t have to; he said he wanted to.
You sit opposite him with your own food. Nothing had seemed appetizing, but you have a headache, which is your body’s way of telling you that you really need to eat. Sometimes you don’t feel hungry, but logically you have to eat at least three meals, so you try to time eating around the same time, so you don’t have to rely on faulty signals that never arrive.
And when Hannah eats with you, it helps, because then you aren’t distracted by other things, like listening to music or watching a show. You can’t do those things in front of another person, because it’s rude. When you eat alone, you frequently forget you’re supposed to be eating. And by the time you remember, the texture or temperature of the food has changed, and it’s no longer appetizing.
“Eating that much chicken doesn’t make you feel sick?” The thought of eating that much meat in one sitting makes you want to vomit. Not to mention the chicken ick. Chicken is an extremely unsafe food—if you detect a hint of tendon or fat, you can’t eat it.
Logan shakes his head. “Nah, I’m hungry. Dean can easily tear up, like, five of these.”
He starts eating, scooping the chicken with the gravy, peas, and potatoes in one forkful. You watch, fascinated. Eating probably wouldn’t be such a chore if you could eat like that.
You were going to try and convince Hannah to go to Taco Bell with you today because that’s the only thing that sounds edible today, but since you’re with Logan, you can’t do that. Probably you can’t go to Taco Bell every time you see him… still, you’re tempted. Maybe you can just sit here until Logan’s done eating, and then you can go get what you want.
You take a deep breath. No, you should eat. You should eat like a normal person. You want your headache to go away—it’s too hard to talk to people when you have a headache, and you really want to talk to Logan.
You unwrap the foil your turkey burger is in. You take it out and remove the whole wheat repulsive bread, then put the meat on your plate. You cut it into small triangles with your knife and fork.
“Not a fan of the bun?”
You look up at Logan, hunched over the plate. You eye him suspiciously.
“This bread tastes like cardboard,” you say slowly, watching him for judgment. “I like fluffy white rolls only.”
“That’s my favorite too. Garrett’s always on me to eat more whole grains.”
“Maybe another brand would taste good. School food tastes like slop sometimes.”
Logan laughs. “Seriously. I think I’m spoiled by Tucker’s cooking. He’s a master chef.”
You squeeze a packet of mayo, then hot sauce, then mustard. This is your trick for when you don’t want to eat: you overdo it with sauces you like, to mask whatever you’re eating. At least you don’t have to taste the turkey burger, though that doesn’t dismiss the possibility of a bad texture.
You chew, staring at your plate. You forget you’re not alone until Logan taps your shoulder. You jump.
“Sorry,” he says. “Again. Seems like I’m always doing that.”
“I zoned out.”
“Yeah, you’re really focused on your food there.”
“I have to be, or I won’t finish it,” you say. “Nothing’s appetizing right now, so I have to make myself eat.”
You quickly finish the burger, which isn’t the worst, to be fair, but you’re not happy to eat like you were yesterday with the tater tot casserole the cafeteria served. They serve that once every two weeks, and it’s your favorite day on campus.
“Okay,” you say. “Now I can talk to you.”
Logan smiles. “Awesome. Can you show me your pictures?”
“Oh, right. Yes, I can.”
You get out your camera and move to sit next to Logan. He leans in to look at your camera’s screen, but he doesn’t touch you. You kind of wish he would. You bet he’s warm and solid.
“Wait, go back,” he says.
You were skipping through the pictures from today’s interview. You press the left arrow to go back.
“There! Oh my God, that’s so funny. Please use that picture for the paper,” Logan says, snickering.
It’s a picture of Garrett, mid-yawn. His face is scrunched, mouth wide open.
“That was a mistake,” you say, but you’re smiling too. You can’t avoid Logan’s infectious giggles.
“No, that was a gift from above,” Logan says, still laughing. “God, that’s perfect. If you don’t send it to the paper, please at least send it to me.”
“How?”
“Do you have Instagram?”
“No,” you say. “I deleted it. It made me feel bad about myself.”
“Honestly? Good for you. I’m not on it that much either.”
“The only people who I want to talk to have my number anyway,” you say. “So it doesn’t really matter. I don’t care about random students’ lives.”
“You rock,” Logan says. “Seriously. You’re my hero.”
You can’t take it when he says things like that. All you can do is look away, your face heating up.
“Well, uh,” he continues. “This might be presumptuous of me, but… d’you wanna exchange numbers?”
“It’s not presumptuous,” you say. “I like talking to you.”
He lights up. “Same here.”
You type your number into his phone.
Hi :) says the message on your phone.
Hi, you text back. You change his contact to Logan 🏒.
“I’ll send the picture when I upload them tonight,” you say.
“I’m gonna terrorize him with it in the group chat. Show me more pictures? You said you saw some birds.”
“I did.” You shuffle through the photos until you find one of a hawk flying low. It’s one of your favorites; you were so proud to capture it. It’s only a little blurry too.
“That is so fucking cool, whoa.” Logan scoots closer to look, his arm touching yours. You don’t move away. “You’re amazing at this. What else did you capture?”
You show him pictures of the nearby lake, sunsets, a deer, the Boston skyline. Logan loves them all, and tells you many times how good of a photographer you are.
“You could do this professionally, seriously,” he says. “Like, you should photograph our games. You could get paid for it.”
You shrug bashfully. “I don’t know. It’s not even my major. It’s just a hobby.”
“So what? You’re really good.”
You gnaw the inside of your cheek. “Maybe.”
“Yeah, think about it. I could talk to Coach, see what’s open.”
You and Logan are pretty much curled up next to each other by now. Your arm and thigh are pressed against his. He is indeed warm, and you can feel his muscles shift against you. You think of him in the gray sleeveless shirt at the party. You couldn’t stop staring at his biceps. You want to hold them, trace the veins on his forearms.
And when he turns to talk to you, he’s so close. Close enough to—
“Yo, Logan, you started without us?”
Raucous laughter breaks the moment. As soon as you see Logan’s teammates, you put a foot of distance between you two, shifting to the next chair over.
“Hey, man,” Garrett says, tapping Logan's shoulder. “I thought you said you were gonna hit the gym.”
“Plans changed,” Logan says. He doesn’t look very happy to see them. You’re puzzled.
“Hi,” Tucker says, waving at you, saying your name. You wave back.
And then Garrett and Dean seem to notice you. Dean grins, looking between you.
“Ah,” he says. “Plans changed. Got it.”
You don’t like the tone of his voice. You don’t like the way he and Garrett are smiling at each other.
“How do you know Logan?” Dean asks. “You a hockey fan?” He winks.
“I’ve only been to one game. Logan and I are in developmental psychology together.”
“You guys study together?” Garrett asks, glancing at Logan. The table shakes, and Garrett winces. “Ow! What the fuck, man? Why’d you kick me?”
“Because you’re both asking idiotic fucking questions,” Logan says. “Lay off. She’s not a suspect.”
Your skin itches. You don’t like being watched. And they’re watching you, you can tell. They’re studying you. Figuring you out.
“Actually, I should go,” you say, getting up. You try not to eye the others as you say it.
“Are you sure?” Logan asks, getting up with you.
“Yes, I have finals to work on.” You gather your things, putting your backpack over your shoulders. “Thank you for the meal swipe.”
“Yeah, anytime,” Logan says. “I’ll see you in class on Monday?”
You nod. “You will. I’ve taken two unexcused absences and the syllabus said that Dr. Jenkins will demote us by a letter grade for any more than that.”
“‘S not a real threat,” Garrett says around a mouthful of rice. “They have to put that on the syllabus, but a lot of professors don’t care. Dean was absent eight times in that class.”
“And I still got a B minus,” Dean says, fist-bumping Garrett.
Tucker shakes his head. “Yeah, and you failed the subsequent course because you missed so much of the semester, dude.”
“A win is a win.”
“So Dr. Jenkins lied?” you ask, brows furrowing.
Garrett shrugs, digging his knife into his chicken. “Kinda. More like a bluff.”
You squeeze your backpack straps, your chest feeling tight. “Why does everyone know the secret rules but me?”
All week you’ve been anxious about potentially missing a third class because of your stomach. You were prepared to chug as much Pepto Bismol to avoid that as you needed to. Has everyone else been living without a care in the world, not forcing themselves to go to class when they feel sick? You’ve gone when you were sure you’d throw up. You went to class in the throes of the worst gallbladder pain you’ve ever felt, right before you got it removed.
Garrett stops chewing, looking at you. In fact, they’re all staring at you. Fuck.
“Whaddya mean, secret rules?” Dean asks.
Fuck, fuck. You’re being weird. Stop it. Stop.
“Hey,” Logan says gently, drawing your attention to him. He moves so he’s the only person you can see, blocking out the rest of the cafeteria. “If you don’t feel well, you should skip, but you aren’t, like, losing out on some grand life experience if you miss half the semester. That’s what college is for. You’re doing the right thing. It’s not a secret rule, it’s just a loophole that some assholes like to exploit.”
Dean scoffs. “Excuse me?”
Logan ignores him. “So I hope you come on Monday, but if you feel sick, rest up, okay? Tucker’ll make you soup and I’ll bring it over.”
Tucker leans around so you can see him and gives you a thumbs-up in confirmation. Your breathing gets a little easier; your shoulders soften.
“Okay,” you murmur. You drift towards him, and Logan brushes your fingers. You aren’t brave enough to take his hand, so you touch and step back.
“Can’t wait to see your pictures in the paper,” Logan says.
You smile. “They’re of you.”
“Yeah, but you took ‘em. Who cares what they’re of?”
You duck your head, feeling shy again. It’s a residual shyness, but sometimes you get so aware of how nice and handsome Logan is, and the fact that he goes out of his way to talk to you. Not that you’ve ever cared much about the college social hierarchy, but you aren’t immune to the charms of a hockey boy who sings praises about your photography. You’ve been trying to shake this aching want for more ever since the party. You can’t.
“Well, um, bye. I’ll drop off your wings soon,” you say.
“Stop by anytime.”
“See ya around,” says Tucker.
“Yeah, see you,” Garrett says. Dean nods.
You mumble a short goodbye to them, still feeling flustered. You hope Logan won’t hold it against you.
Once outside, you take out your camera outside and flip through some of the shots of Logan. You’re not sure what he likes so much about your photos, but now you’re a little glad that the editor asked you to take pictures.
“Hey, wait up!”
You turn around. Logan’s jogging toward you.
“What are you doing?” you ask as he stops in front of you.
“Uh.” He puts his hands on his hips, breathing hard. “Um. Hm. Good question. I don’t know, actually. I just feel like we ended on a weird note in there.”
You frown, nodding. “I know. I’m sorry I was weird and freaked out in front of your friends.”
“What? You didn’t—”
“I did, Logan. I know I did. I saw Dean and Garrett’s faces. They thought I was weird. And I was, to be fair. I reacted too strongly to the absence thing. Sometimes I do that, and I don’t realize until someone’s really obvious with their face that I, you know, emoted wrong.”
“You did not emote wrong,” Logan says, shaking his head in disbelief. “You didn’t, okay? I promise that Garrett and Dean didn’t think that. They were probably just confused. You and Hannah are, you know…”
“Nerds?” you finish.
“Smart, studious, all that. And I know we keep it hidden, but we’re actually not winning any Nobel prizes in between practice. They’re not used to knowing people who worry about attendance. That’s all it was, I promise.”
You purse your lips, trying to figure out if he’s telling the truth. You can’t, so you just ask. “Do you mean it?”
“Yes,” Logan says. “I mean it.”
“It’s okay if you don’t. I wouldn’t hold it against you. Lots of people have thought I’m weird. Lots of boys. Lots of athletes. I was terrible at kickball in middle school, and people hated me for it. I would sit out early so they wouldn’t purposely kick the ball at me.”
His eyes get sad. That’s an expression you recognize on Hannah too.
“That’s fucking awful,” Logan says. “We aren’t all like that. I’m not, anyway, and the guys I hang out with aren’t either. Even if you are weird, it’s not a bad thing. Not at all.”
No one’s ever told you it’s okay to be weird. They’ve only ever denied that you are, even though you’re pretty sure you are. You can’t help it either. But Logan doesn’t mind. You’re still good. He still likes you. No one is going to kick a ball at you.
“Okay. Can you tell me how to get to the Hawks house? I’m going to drop off your wings before Monday.”
“Sure, so you’re gonna walk down this little path here, Cooper Avenue. Then you’re gonna turn left, onto Montgomery. Then you’ll walk all the way down till you get to Pickett Lane. It’s like a dirt path. And you’ll turn right onto that. We’re the first house on the left.”
You nod, even though you’ve already forgotten all that. You’re terrible with street names. “I’ll be there.”
“I look forward to it,” Logan says, grinning.
You start to walk away, then you turn around and return. “I actually don’t remember anything you’ve just said. I’m bad with streets and directions. Can you tell me in terms of landmarks?”
“I can absolutely do that,” Logan says softly. “Okay, you know the statue of the guy on the horse?”
“Yes, the famous horse wrangler who carried children on horseback to Briar’s first schoolhouse in 1846.”
He tilts his head. “How do you know that?”
“It’s on the plaque.”
“Huh. Embarrassingly, I’ve never stopped to read one of those plaques. I should do that.”
“He brought children to school for eighteen years. One of them ended up founding Briar University.”
“Shit, wow. That’s cool.”
“History is cool.”
Logan hums. “You’re cool. And that mentality is why Dean’s the loser for missing half the semester and you aren’t.”
You smile. “I guess so.”
“Okay, so, horse wrangler. Turn left when you get to him. Then you’re gonna walk past that student vegetable garden you photographed. Keep walking until you see that giant oak tree with the knots in the trunk. The one that students make out under. Or, uh… study?”
“Attempt to study, anyway.” You know the struggle well.
“There’s a path there, and you’ll walk until you see our house on the left.”
“Got it,” you say. “For real, this time.”
“Good. Then I’ll see you at some point, before class. If you want to stop by.”
You look at the cafeteria. “They won’t mind?”
“Nah, we always have people come over, don’t worry. Hey.” Logan bumps your arm gently. “They won’t bother you. And if you want, text me, so you’ll know I’ll be home.”
The sun is in his eyes. Speckled tree bark. Rich, black tea. You want to kiss him so badly.
“I really do like talking to you,” you say.
“Me too.” Logan steps closer. Your heart is in your throat.
“Okay, well, see you!” And you’re gone.
There’s a photo from this morning’s interview you took of Logan. He’s looking at you—well, the camera—smiling, a curl falling into his eyes. You don’t send it to the editor, even though it’s one of your best photos. Instead, you set it as his contact picture on your phone.