Miguel Diaz x fem!reader / ib: Break Free - Ariana Grande
The air inside the dojo was thick with more than the familiar scent of sweat, rubber mats, and floor polish. It was heavy with everything left unsaid; a silent tension that seemed to linger between you and Miguel, crackling with every punch, every sidestep, every perfectly timed kick.
You both knew.
You could feel it in every lingering glance, every smile that lasted a second too long, every excuse to pair up during training. Yet neither of you had found the courage to acknowledge the feelings that had quietly taken root, growing stronger with every passing day until they occupied every corner of your thoughts.
It wasn't exactly difficult for everyone else to notice. In fact, according to your friends, it had become painfully obvious long before either of you admitted it to yourselves.
"You know," Hawk had said to Miguel a few days earlier, shaking his head with an amused grin, "I honestly don't know how you do it."
Miguel frowned. "Do what?"
"Not tell Y/N how you feel. Or, at the very least, not completely lose your mind over her."
Miguel blinked, caught off guard. "What are you talking about?"
Hawk let out a laugh, throwing an arm around his friend's shoulders. "Dude, she looks at you like you hung the moon and the stars." He smirked knowingly. "And don't even get me started on the way she watches you every time you show up in your gi."
Miguel's eyebrows drew together. "What way?"
"Oh, come on." Hawk rolled his eyes dramatically. "That completely lovestruck stare? Like she's trying to memorize every little detail about you? Like she is... starving." He laughed again, unable to believe his friend's obliviousness. "Seriously, Diaz... she's got it bad."
Miguel opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out.
Because, deep down... He'd caught himself looking at you the very same way.
Something similar had happened to you not long before that. Only this time, it wasn't Hawk; it was his best friend, Demetri, who had decided to plant an undeniably dangerous idea in your head.
The two of you were sprawled across your living room couch, halfway through Back to the Future. A bowl of popcorn rested between you, along with far too many snacks for just two people. The movie had your full attention...
Until Demetri, unfortunately, decided to speak.
"You know," he said casually, eyes still fixed on the television, "you're looking at Marty McFly like you're about to crawl through the screen and kiss him."
You let out a laugh, rolling your eyes. "Well, who wouldn't? It's Michael J. Fox."
"Fair point," he admitted with a shrug. A beat of silence passed before he added, almost absentmindedly, "Still... I don't think even that compares to the way Miguel looks at you."
Your head snapped toward him so quickly you nearly inhaled a piece of popcorn. "What?"
Demetri finally turned away from the television to face you, wearing the smug smile of someone who knew he'd just dropped a bomb.
"I'm serious." He reached into the popcorn bowl, completely unfazed. "I've seen the guy looking at you when you're not paying attention." He tossed a piece of popcorn into his mouth. "It's honestly embarrassing."
You stared at him. "...Embarrassing?"
"For him," Demetri clarified with a laugh. "The dude looks completely gone."
You scoffed, shaking your head. "You're making that up."
"Oh, please." He pointed a finger at you. "You really haven't noticed?"
"Noticed what?"
"The fact that Miguel watches you like you're the best thing that's ever happened to him."
Your heartbeat stumbled. You laughed it off because that was easier than entertaining the possibility. "You're insane."
Demetri simply smiled, turning his attention back to the movie. "Maybe." He grabbed another handful of popcorn. "But I'm not wrong."
And somehow, that was how you ended up standing across from Miguel in the middle of the dojo, hair up, feet planted against the worn blue mats as if this were just another ordinary training session.
It was supposed to be simple. Just a sparring match. Just another opportunity to sharpen your technique and burn off the nervous energy that had been coiling in your stomach ever since Hawk and Demetri had so casually dismantled the illusion that your feelings had gone unnoticed.
Except now, every time you looked at Miguel, and he looked at you, their words echoed in the back of your minds.
She looks at you like you hung the moon and the stars.
He watches you like you're the best thing that's ever happened to him.
You both wished they had never said a thing. Because before, you could pretend.
Pretend that the flutter in Miguel's chest was nothing more than excitement after a good match.
Pretend that your pulse didn't quicken whenever he smiled at you.
Pretend that the warmth spreading through him every time you called his name meant absolutely nothing.
Now every glance felt loaded, every smile lingered a little longer, and every second spent standing this close to each other made your hearts beat just a little faster.
Miguel bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, trying his best to look as normal as possible.
"Alright," he said, his voice calm, warm, and frustratingly familiar. "Show me that front kick we practiced."
His eyes met yours. "Don't hold back."
You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. You weren't holding back anymore.
Every movement carried the weight of months spent biting back words you had never found the courage to say. You lunged forward, feinting to the left before pivoting into a sharp front kick aimed at his midsection.
Miguel blocked it with practiced ease. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Good," he said, his breathing steady. "But you're telegraphing."
He stepped closer, just enough to demonstrate without breaking his stance. "You're looking at where you're about to strike."
You frowned. "I am not."
"You are."
Determined to prove him wrong, you surged forward again, throwing a quick combination of punches. Left. Right. Hook.
Every strike was met with the same effortless precision. Miguel slipped around each one as though he'd memorized your rhythm, his movements fluid and controlled, never wasting an ounce of energy.
It was infuriating.
Before you could reset your footing, he closed the distance. One of his hands caught your wrist with a firm but careful grip, and with a smooth shift of his weight, he swept a leg behind yours.
The world tipped sideways.
A surprised gasp escaped your lips as you landed on the mat with a muted thud, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs for only a second.
Miguel instinctively followed your momentum to keep the takedown controlled. One hand braced against the mat beside your shoulder while the other held your wrist lightly, making sure you landed safely.
He was on top of you, so close you could feel his warm, unsteady breath ghosting across your face like a summer breeze. His legs were caging you in, not with conscious intent but pure instinct, like keeping you as close as physically possible was a primal need his body refused to deny.
His weight pressed down on you, solid and grounding, yet you had never felt lighter in your entire existence. The world outside the dojo had dissolved into nothingness. There was only Miguel. There had only ever been Miguel.
Immediately, you fell into a trance, your soul surrendering to the intoxicating reality of the man hovering above you.
The man whose wrist was still wrapped around yours, whose body was a shield between you and everything else, the one you had loved in silence for what felt like an eternity.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, and you let your gaze begin its slow, worshipful pilgrimage across his form.
You started with his hands. God, his hands. The ones you had fantasized about for months, wondering what they would feel like tangled in your hair or cradling your face like you were something precious.
They were firm against your wrist, strong enough to shatter bone, yet his grip was impossibly gentle, as if he was terrified of breaking you, or perhaps terrified of how badly he wanted to hold on.
Then your eyes traveled upward, worshipping the corded strength of his biceps. You had never been particularly drawn to muscles before; they were just... there.
But Miguel's were different. They were sculpted perfection, every sinew and tendon defined with the kind of care that spoke of discipline and passion. They rippled with restrained power as he held himself above you, and you could see the slight tremor in them, as if maintaining control was costing him everything.
The heat radiating from his skin was intoxicating, carrying that distinct Miguel aroma: a blend of clean sweat, subtle cologne, and something uniquely, devastatingly him. You wanted to bury your face in the crook of his neck and inhale until your lungs burned. You wanted to press your lips to every inch of skin your eyes could devour.
When you finally lifted your gaze to his face, your breath caught in your throat, lodging somewhere between your heart and your soul. This face. This beautiful, achingly familiar face that had haunted your dreams every single night for months.
You had memorized every curve and angle in your mind, but nothing compared to seeing it right here, right now, inches away from your own.
You loved every single part of him with a ferocity that scared you. The proud slope of his nose and the subtle curve of his lips that you had imagined kissing a thousand times.
His dark brows were furrowed in concentration, and you noticed a single errant curl falling across his forehead; it took every ounce of willpower not to reach up and brush it away.
But if you were being honest, and you had never been more honest with yourself than in this moment, there was one feature that had always been your favorite. One feature that had captured your heart long before you even realized you were falling.
His eyes.
Those devastatingly beautiful brown eyes that held galaxies within them. They were the kind of eyes that made you forget how to breathe, that made you feel seen in a way no one else had ever made you feel.
They were soft, impossibly gentle, holding a tenderness that contrasted so beautifully with the fierce fighter he was. And right now, those eyes were locked onto yours with an intensity that made you tremble.
You had spent countless nights lying awake, wishing those eyes would only ever look at you. Dreaming that one day, when you turned to meet his gaze, there would be something more in them, something that mirrored the desperate, consuming love that had taken root in your chest and refused to let go. Something that said "you are mine" instead of just "you are my friend."
And now, as you stared up at him, drowning in the depths of his chocolate-brown irises, you could have sworn you saw it. A flicker. A crack in the carefully constructed wall he had built. Something raw and hungry and wanting that made your heart stutter and your skin prickle with heat.
"Perhaps Demetri was right..."
Miguel's voice pulled you out of your thoughts before they could carry you any further. "Hey, Y/N..."
The concern in his tone was enough to snap you back to reality.
His brows were slightly furrowed as he looked down at you, his grip on your wrist loosening the moment he realized you hadn't moved.
"Are you okay?" he asked quietly. "Did I hurt you?"
For a second, all you could do was blink, your mind struggling to catch up with the moment after wandering somewhere else entirely.
You realized you'd been staring far longer than you should have.
Heat rushed to your face as embarrassment settled in. "No," you said quickly, shaking your head. "I'm fine."
Miguel's shoulders relaxed, though the hint of concern lingered in his expression as he offered you a small, reassuring smile.
"But I'm not done yet," you said, a faint grin tugging at the corners of your lips.
Before Miguel had a chance to react, you shifted your weight and used the momentum of the position to reverse it, rolling the two of you across the mat until he landed flat on his back. You settled into a balanced stance above him, unable to hide the small, triumphant smile that spread across your face.
"Your turn," you teased.
And it was, in fact, his turn. His turn to take action, to finally shatter the suffocating silence that had been building between you for months.
His turn to express what his eyes had been screaming every single time they landed on you. He had to.
Your gaze lingered on the wall for a moment, trying to steady the frantic rhythm of your heart, trying to remember how to breathe when all the oxygen in the room seemed to have been stolen by the boy lying beneath you.
When you finally gathered the courage to look back at him, you didn't miss the way his brows furrowed slightly, a barely perceptible crease forming between them, as if he were wrestling with something deep within himself. Like he was trying to convince himself of something. Perhaps cheering himself up. Gathering his courage.
His jaw tightened, and you watched a muscle feather in his cheek as he clenched his teeth. His grip on your wrist loosened once again, and for a terrifying moment, you thought he was going to pull away... but then his hand moved.
Slowly, almost reverently, his fingers uncurled from your wrist and traveled upward. The pads of his fingertips brushed against your skin like a question, as if he were asking permission with every hesitant inch.
They traced the inside of your forearm, featherlight, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Your breath hitched, your entire body going still as his hand continued its pilgrimage.
When his palm finally cupped your cheek, you felt like the world had tilted off its axis.
His hand was warm against your flushed skin, trembling ever so slightly, and the contrast of his rough calluses against the softness of your cheek made your eyes flutter closed for a moment.
This was it. This was everything you had ever dreamed of and more. His thumb brushed across your cheekbone with such tenderness that it made your heart ache, tracing a path that seemed to say, "I've wanted this for so long."
You opened your eyes, and the sight that greeted you stole whatever air remained in your lungs.
His gaze had softened completely, something raw and vulnerable and breathtakingly beautiful. His brown eyes, those beautiful, soulful eyes you had fallen in love with a thousand times over, were glistening with emotion.
"Miguel..." His name escaped your lips like a whispered prayer, barely audible, but he heard it. His eyes searched yours, looking for something: confirmation, permission, a sign that he wasn't about to make a mistake.
"Tell me I'm not imagining this," he said, his voice low and rough, barely above a whisper. The sound of it sent a shiver cascading down your spine, pooling in the depths of your stomach.
"Tell me you feel it too. Because I can't—" He broke off, swallowing hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with the effort of containing everything he wanted to say. "I can't keep pretending, Y/N. I've tried. God, I've tried so hard. But every time I see you, every time you smile at me, every time you're close enough to touch—I lose my mind."
His thumb continued its gentle exploration, mapping the contours of your face like he was memorizing every detail. His eyes dropped to your lips, lingering there for a moment too long, and when they met yours again, there was a hunger in them that made your pulse race.
"Tell me this is real," he breathed, his forehead resting against yours, closing the distance until there was barely any space left between you. "Tell me I'm not going to wake up from this dream."
You raised your free hand, your fingers trembling as they reached up to mirror his gesture, cupping his jaw with a tenderness that matched his own. His skin was warm beneath your touch. You could feel the slight tension in his muscles, the way he held himself so still, as if he were terrified that even the smallest movement would break this fragile, perfect moment.
"It's real," you whispered, your voice shaking with the weight of the truth you had held inside for so long. "It's always been real, Miguel. I—" You paused, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. "I love you. I've loved you for so long I don't remember what it felt like not to."
His eyes widened, and for a moment, you saw something break open inside him, a dam of emotion that had been holding back a flood for far too long. A shuddering breath escaped his lips, and the most beautiful smile you had ever seen spread across his face, soft, disbelieving, and full of wonder.
"Say that again," he breathed, his voice cracking with emotion. "Please, corazón. Say it again."
"I love you," you repeated, this time with more confidence, letting the words fill the space between you like a promise. "I'm completely, utterly, hopelessly in love with you, Miguel Diaz."
He let out a sound, and then his lips were on yours, and everything else ceased to exist.
The kiss was soft at first, almost tentative, as if he were still afraid you might disappear. His lips were warm and gentle against yours, moving with a tenderness that made your heart soar.
But then something shifted, and suddenly the kiss deepened, all the months of longing and frustration and desperate, aching want pouring into it. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair and tilting your head to deepen the angle. You felt his tongue trace your bottom lip, and you parted for him instantly, a soft moan escaping your throat as he explored your mouth with a hunger that matched your own.
His body pressed closer to yours, no longer holding himself back, and you could feel the rapid beat of his heart against your chest, could taste the faint salt of sweat on his lips, could smell that intoxicating Miguel scent that had haunted your dreams for months.
When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting together, your shared breaths mingling in the small space between you. His eyes were dark with emotion, his pupils blown wide, and a lazy, adoring smile curved his lips.
"I love you too," he whispered, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the nape of your neck. "God, (Y/N), I love you so much it scares me. I've wanted to do that for so long... wanted to tell you... but I was so afraid you didn't feel the same way. I thought I was just imagining things, hoping for something that wasn't there."
"Neither of us was imagining," you said softly, a smile spreading across your own face. "We're both idiots."
He laughed, a low, beautiful sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours. "Yeah," he agreed, pressing another soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. "But we're idiots in love."
You laughed too, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep inside you, releasing months of tension and uncertainty in one joyful exhale. You were still lying on the dojo mat, still pinning the boy you loved beneath you, but nothing had ever felt more right.
"So," you said, your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, "what now?"
His smile turned soft, almost shy, and he leaned up to press his forehead against yours once more. "Now," he murmured, his breath warm against your lips, "We stop pretending. And we figure out together."
"Together," you repeated, liking the way the word felt on your tongue. "I like the sound of that."
He smiled; that signature Miguel smile that made your heart flutter, and stole another kiss, quick and sweet, a promise of all the kisses yet to come.
"I like the sound of everything with you," he admitted, his eyes shining with adoration. "But right now, I really like the sound of taking you on a real date. A proper one."
"That sounds perfect," you said, your heart soaring.
The dojo lights hummed softly above you, the familiar scent of polish and sweat surrounding you both, but everything had changed. The tension that had been suffocating you for months had transformed into something beautiful, something electric, alive, and full of possibility.
Miguel Diaz had finally taken action. And neither of you would ever look back.
Miguel Diaz x fem!reader / ib: Break Free - Ariana Grande
The air inside the dojo was thick with more than the familiar scent of sweat, rubber mats, and floor polish. It was heavy with everything left unsaid; a silent tension that seemed to linger between you and Miguel, crackling with every punch, every sidestep, every perfectly timed kick.
You both knew.
You could feel it in every lingering glance, every smile that lasted a second too long, every excuse to pair up during training. Yet neither of you had found the courage to acknowledge the feelings that had quietly taken root, growing stronger with every passing day until they occupied every corner of your thoughts.
It wasn't exactly difficult for everyone else to notice. In fact, according to your friends, it had become painfully obvious long before either of you admitted it to yourselves.
"You know," Hawk had said to Miguel a few days earlier, shaking his head with an amused grin, "I honestly don't know how you do it."
Miguel frowned. "Do what?"
"Not tell Y/N how you feel. Or, at the very least, not completely lose your mind over her."
Miguel blinked, caught off guard. "What are you talking about?"
Hawk let out a laugh, throwing an arm around his friend's shoulders. "Dude, she looks at you like you hung the moon and the stars." He smirked knowingly. "And don't even get me started on the way she watches you every time you show up in your gi."
Miguel's eyebrows drew together. "What way?"
"Oh, come on." Hawk rolled his eyes dramatically. "That completely lovestruck stare? Like she's trying to memorize every little detail about you? Like she is... starving." He laughed again, unable to believe his friend's obliviousness. "Seriously, Diaz... she's got it bad."
Miguel opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out.
Because, deep down... He'd caught himself looking at you the very same way.
Something similar had happened to you not long before that. Only this time, it wasn't Hawk; it was his best friend, Demetri, who had decided to plant an undeniably dangerous idea in your head.
The two of you were sprawled across your living room couch, halfway through Back to the Future. A bowl of popcorn rested between you, along with far too many snacks for just two people. The movie had your full attention...
Until Demetri, unfortunately, decided to speak.
"You know," he said casually, eyes still fixed on the television, "you're looking at Marty McFly like you're about to crawl through the screen and kiss him."
You let out a laugh, rolling your eyes. "Well, who wouldn't? It's Michael J. Fox."
"Fair point," he admitted with a shrug. A beat of silence passed before he added, almost absentmindedly, "Still... I don't think even that compares to the way Miguel looks at you."
Your head snapped toward him so quickly you nearly inhaled a piece of popcorn. "What?"
Demetri finally turned away from the television to face you, wearing the smug smile of someone who knew he'd just dropped a bomb.
"I'm serious." He reached into the popcorn bowl, completely unfazed. "I've seen the guy looking at you when you're not paying attention." He tossed a piece of popcorn into his mouth. "It's honestly embarrassing."
You stared at him. "...Embarrassing?"
"For him," Demetri clarified with a laugh. "The dude looks completely gone."
You scoffed, shaking your head. "You're making that up."
"Oh, please." He pointed a finger at you. "You really haven't noticed?"
"Noticed what?"
"The fact that Miguel watches you like you're the best thing that's ever happened to him."
Your heartbeat stumbled. You laughed it off because that was easier than entertaining the possibility. "You're insane."
Demetri simply smiled, turning his attention back to the movie. "Maybe." He grabbed another handful of popcorn. "But I'm not wrong."
And somehow, that was how you ended up standing across from Miguel in the middle of the dojo, hair up, feet planted against the worn blue mats as if this were just another ordinary training session.
It was supposed to be simple. Just a sparring match. Just another opportunity to sharpen your technique and burn off the nervous energy that had been coiling in your stomach ever since Hawk and Demetri had so casually dismantled the illusion that your feelings had gone unnoticed.
Except now, every time you looked at Miguel, and he looked at you, their words echoed in the back of your minds.
She looks at you like you hung the moon and the stars.
He watches you like you're the best thing that's ever happened to him.
You both wished they had never said a thing. Because before, you could pretend.
Pretend that the flutter in Miguel's chest was nothing more than excitement after a good match.
Pretend that your pulse didn't quicken whenever he smiled at you.
Pretend that the warmth spreading through him every time you called his name meant absolutely nothing.
Now every glance felt loaded, every smile lingered a little longer, and every second spent standing this close to each other made your hearts beat just a little faster.
Miguel bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, trying his best to look as normal as possible.
"Alright," he said, his voice calm, warm, and frustratingly familiar. "Show me that front kick we practiced."
His eyes met yours. "Don't hold back."
You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. You weren't holding back anymore.
Every movement carried the weight of months spent biting back words you had never found the courage to say. You lunged forward, feinting to the left before pivoting into a sharp front kick aimed at his midsection.
Miguel blocked it with practiced ease. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Good," he said, his breathing steady. "But you're telegraphing."
He stepped closer, just enough to demonstrate without breaking his stance. "You're looking at where you're about to strike."
You frowned. "I am not."
"You are."
Determined to prove him wrong, you surged forward again, throwing a quick combination of punches. Left. Right. Hook.
Every strike was met with the same effortless precision. Miguel slipped around each one as though he'd memorized your rhythm, his movements fluid and controlled, never wasting an ounce of energy.
It was infuriating.
Before you could reset your footing, he closed the distance. One of his hands caught your wrist with a firm but careful grip, and with a smooth shift of his weight, he swept a leg behind yours.
The world tipped sideways.
A surprised gasp escaped your lips as you landed on the mat with a muted thud, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs for only a second.
Miguel instinctively followed your momentum to keep the takedown controlled. One hand braced against the mat beside your shoulder while the other held your wrist lightly, making sure you landed safely.
He was on top of you, so close you could feel his warm, unsteady breath ghosting across your face like a summer breeze. His legs were caging you in, not with conscious intent but pure instinct, like keeping you as close as physically possible was a primal need his body refused to deny.
His weight pressed down on you, solid and grounding, yet you had never felt lighter in your entire existence. The world outside the dojo had dissolved into nothingness. There was only Miguel. There had only ever been Miguel.
Immediately, you fell into a trance, your soul surrendering to the intoxicating reality of the man hovering above you.
The man whose wrist was still wrapped around yours, whose body was a shield between you and everything else, the one you had loved in silence for what felt like an eternity.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, and you let your gaze begin its slow, worshipful pilgrimage across his form.
You started with his hands. God, his hands. The ones you had fantasized about for months, wondering what they would feel like tangled in your hair or cradling your face like you were something precious.
They were firm against your wrist, strong enough to shatter bone, yet his grip was impossibly gentle, as if he was terrified of breaking you, or perhaps terrified of how badly he wanted to hold on.
Then your eyes traveled upward, worshipping the corded strength of his biceps. You had never been particularly drawn to muscles before; they were just... there.
But Miguel's were different. They were sculpted perfection, every sinew and tendon defined with the kind of care that spoke of discipline and passion. They rippled with restrained power as he held himself above you, and you could see the slight tremor in them, as if maintaining control was costing him everything.
The heat radiating from his skin was intoxicating, carrying that distinct Miguel aroma: a blend of clean sweat, subtle cologne, and something uniquely, devastatingly him. You wanted to bury your face in the crook of his neck and inhale until your lungs burned. You wanted to press your lips to every inch of skin your eyes could devour.
When you finally lifted your gaze to his face, your breath caught in your throat, lodging somewhere between your heart and your soul. This face. This beautiful, achingly familiar face that had haunted your dreams every single night for months.
You had memorized every curve and angle in your mind, but nothing compared to seeing it right here, right now, inches away from your own.
You loved every single part of him with a ferocity that scared you. The proud slope of his nose and the subtle curve of his lips that you had imagined kissing a thousand times.
His dark brows were furrowed in concentration, and you noticed a single errant curl falling across his forehead; it took every ounce of willpower not to reach up and brush it away.
But if you were being honest, and you had never been more honest with yourself than in this moment, there was one feature that had always been your favorite. One feature that had captured your heart long before you even realized you were falling.
His eyes.
Those devastatingly beautiful brown eyes that held galaxies within them. They were the kind of eyes that made you forget how to breathe, that made you feel seen in a way no one else had ever made you feel.
They were soft, impossibly gentle, holding a tenderness that contrasted so beautifully with the fierce fighter he was. And right now, those eyes were locked onto yours with an intensity that made you tremble.
You had spent countless nights lying awake, wishing those eyes would only ever look at you. Dreaming that one day, when you turned to meet his gaze, there would be something more in them, something that mirrored the desperate, consuming love that had taken root in your chest and refused to let go. Something that said "you are mine" instead of just "you are my friend."
And now, as you stared up at him, drowning in the depths of his chocolate-brown irises, you could have sworn you saw it. A flicker. A crack in the carefully constructed wall he had built. Something raw and hungry and wanting that made your heart stutter and your skin prickle with heat.
"Perhaps Demetri was right..."
Miguel's voice pulled you out of your thoughts before they could carry you any further. "Hey, Y/N..."
The concern in his tone was enough to snap you back to reality.
His brows were slightly furrowed as he looked down at you, his grip on your wrist loosening the moment he realized you hadn't moved.
"Are you okay?" he asked quietly. "Did I hurt you?"
For a second, all you could do was blink, your mind struggling to catch up with the moment after wandering somewhere else entirely.
You realized you'd been staring far longer than you should have.
Heat rushed to your face as embarrassment settled in. "No," you said quickly, shaking your head. "I'm fine."
Miguel's shoulders relaxed, though the hint of concern lingered in his expression as he offered you a small, reassuring smile.
"But I'm not done yet," you said, a faint grin tugging at the corners of your lips.
Before Miguel had a chance to react, you shifted your weight and used the momentum of the position to reverse it, rolling the two of you across the mat until he landed flat on his back. You settled into a balanced stance above him, unable to hide the small, triumphant smile that spread across your face.
"Your turn," you teased.
And it was, in fact, his turn. His turn to take action, to finally shatter the suffocating silence that had been building between you for months.
His turn to express what his eyes had been screaming every single time they landed on you. He had to.
Your gaze lingered on the wall for a moment, trying to steady the frantic rhythm of your heart, trying to remember how to breathe when all the oxygen in the room seemed to have been stolen by the boy lying beneath you.
When you finally gathered the courage to look back at him, you didn't miss the way his brows furrowed slightly, a barely perceptible crease forming between them, as if he were wrestling with something deep within himself. Like he was trying to convince himself of something. Perhaps cheering himself up. Gathering his courage.
His jaw tightened, and you watched a muscle feather in his cheek as he clenched his teeth. His grip on your wrist loosened once again, and for a terrifying moment, you thought he was going to pull away... but then his hand moved.
Slowly, almost reverently, his fingers uncurled from your wrist and traveled upward. The pads of his fingertips brushed against your skin like a question, as if he were asking permission with every hesitant inch.
They traced the inside of your forearm, featherlight, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Your breath hitched, your entire body going still as his hand continued its pilgrimage.
When his palm finally cupped your cheek, you felt like the world had tilted off its axis.
His hand was warm against your flushed skin, trembling ever so slightly, and the contrast of his rough calluses against the softness of your cheek made your eyes flutter closed for a moment.
This was it. This was everything you had ever dreamed of and more. His thumb brushed across your cheekbone with such tenderness that it made your heart ache, tracing a path that seemed to say, "I've wanted this for so long."
You opened your eyes, and the sight that greeted you stole whatever air remained in your lungs.
His gaze had softened completely, something raw and vulnerable and breathtakingly beautiful. His brown eyes, those beautiful, soulful eyes you had fallen in love with a thousand times over, were glistening with emotion.
"Miguel..." His name escaped your lips like a whispered prayer, barely audible, but he heard it. His eyes searched yours, looking for something: confirmation, permission, a sign that he wasn't about to make a mistake.
"Tell me I'm not imagining this," he said, his voice low and rough, barely above a whisper. The sound of it sent a shiver cascading down your spine, pooling in the depths of your stomach.
"Tell me you feel it too. Because I can't—" He broke off, swallowing hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with the effort of containing everything he wanted to say. "I can't keep pretending, Y/N. I've tried. God, I've tried so hard. But every time I see you, every time you smile at me, every time you're close enough to touch—I lose my mind."
His thumb continued its gentle exploration, mapping the contours of your face like he was memorizing every detail. His eyes dropped to your lips, lingering there for a moment too long, and when they met yours again, there was a hunger in them that made your pulse race.
"Tell me this is real," he breathed, his forehead resting against yours, closing the distance until there was barely any space left between you. "Tell me I'm not going to wake up from this dream."
You raised your free hand, your fingers trembling as they reached up to mirror his gesture, cupping his jaw with a tenderness that matched his own. His skin was warm beneath your touch. You could feel the slight tension in his muscles, the way he held himself so still, as if he were terrified that even the smallest movement would break this fragile, perfect moment.
"It's real," you whispered, your voice shaking with the weight of the truth you had held inside for so long. "It's always been real, Miguel. I—" You paused, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. "I love you. I've loved you for so long I don't remember what it felt like not to."
His eyes widened, and for a moment, you saw something break open inside him, a dam of emotion that had been holding back a flood for far too long. A shuddering breath escaped his lips, and the most beautiful smile you had ever seen spread across his face, soft, disbelieving, and full of wonder.
"Say that again," he breathed, his voice cracking with emotion. "Please, corazón. Say it again."
"I love you," you repeated, this time with more confidence, letting the words fill the space between you like a promise. "I'm completely, utterly, hopelessly in love with you, Miguel Diaz."
He let out a sound, and then his lips were on yours, and everything else ceased to exist.
The kiss was soft at first, almost tentative, as if he were still afraid you might disappear. His lips were warm and gentle against yours, moving with a tenderness that made your heart soar.
But then something shifted, and suddenly the kiss deepened, all the months of longing and frustration and desperate, aching want pouring into it. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair and tilting your head to deepen the angle. You felt his tongue trace your bottom lip, and you parted for him instantly, a soft moan escaping your throat as he explored your mouth with a hunger that matched your own.
His body pressed closer to yours, no longer holding himself back, and you could feel the rapid beat of his heart against your chest, could taste the faint salt of sweat on his lips, could smell that intoxicating Miguel scent that had haunted your dreams for months.
When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting together, your shared breaths mingling in the small space between you. His eyes were dark with emotion, his pupils blown wide, and a lazy, adoring smile curved his lips.
"I love you too," he whispered, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the nape of your neck. "God, (Y/N), I love you so much it scares me. I've wanted to do that for so long... wanted to tell you... but I was so afraid you didn't feel the same way. I thought I was just imagining things, hoping for something that wasn't there."
"Neither of us was imagining," you said softly, a smile spreading across your own face. "We're both idiots."
He laughed, a low, beautiful sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours. "Yeah," he agreed, pressing another soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. "But we're idiots in love."
You laughed too, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep inside you, releasing months of tension and uncertainty in one joyful exhale. You were still lying on the dojo mat, still pinning the boy you loved beneath you, but nothing had ever felt more right.
"So," you said, your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, "what now?"
His smile turned soft, almost shy, and he leaned up to press his forehead against yours once more. "Now," he murmured, his breath warm against your lips, "We stop pretending. And we figure out together."
"Together," you repeated, liking the way the word felt on your tongue. "I like the sound of that."
He smiled; that signature Miguel smile that made your heart flutter, and stole another kiss, quick and sweet, a promise of all the kisses yet to come.
"I like the sound of everything with you," he admitted, his eyes shining with adoration. "But right now, I really like the sound of taking you on a real date. A proper one."
"That sounds perfect," you said, your heart soaring.
The dojo lights hummed softly above you, the familiar scent of polish and sweat surrounding you both, but everything had changed. The tension that had been suffocating you for months had transformed into something beautiful, something electric, alive, and full of possibility.
Miguel Diaz had finally taken action. And neither of you would ever look back.
✩͏ cw: fem!reader, unprotected, established relationship, fingēring, overstim, bēgging, brēēding. brat taming? dirty talk, praise, light degradation. mdni.
dean wasn’t sure what led him to this.
never in his twenty-six years of life, and through all his many sexual experiences, had he ever thought of doing it raw. never.
not until he set eyes on his girlfriend’s pussy. your pussy.
it was glistening with your juices, sending an intoxicating scent straight to his nose; he simply couldn't look away. not while you clenched rhythmically around his fingers, following the precise movements he was working inside you.
was it normal that he wanted to take his cock out and breed you like a fucking animal?
he couldn’t even look at your face. not because he didn’t want to, but because he was too enthralled, watching the part of you that was practically devouring his fingers.
“deaaan,” you called out, your voice slightly slurred as your head finally lifted from the pillow to look at him. he has been fingering you for hours. literally, “hurry.”
you were desperate to come, you couldn’t lie. not since you'd seen him flirting with a pretty blonde at the bar—for work, of course, but you couldn’t help the spark of jealousy. not when he looked that good in his leather jacket and those perfectly fitted jeans that hugged his ass deliciously. you'd wanted to ride him the second you set foot inside the motel room, but he had insisted on 'making it up to you'.
and thats how you ended up on the bed with only your crop top left and no panties.
“you’ve got to be patient, sweetheart,” dean mumbled with a smirk, without even looking up. the wet, squelching sound resumed, and your walls clenched around his hand immediately. “see? you want my fingers inside you. it feels too good, doesn't it?”
your back arched cleanly off the bed, a broken moan leaving your lips.
he kept moving his fingers in and out, simulating the deep thrusts of his cock when he fucked you. a sharp shudder wrecked through you the moment he hit a sensitive spot. dean chuckled against your skin, hitting the same spot repeatedly, deliberately keeping you just shy of the release you were begging for.
“dean, s-stop teasing me.” you gasped out, eyes barely open. you couldn't even wipe away the stray drop of saliva on your chin before begging, “just fuck me.”
“you’re so whiny,” dean teased, his gaze finally snapping up to yours as he withdrew his slick fingers. you watched him unzip his jeans and push them down, the damp, dark spot staining the fabric of his boxers telling you exactly how hard he already was. “can’t even let your boyfriend play with your sweet pussy.”
a broken moan wrecked through you the moment he finally pulled his hog out, your thighs opening wider in a desperate instinct. dean let out a low chuckle, his large hands gripping your thighs to force them even further apart, exposing your dripping pussy to his hungry gaze. oh, god, how he absolutely loved that sight.
“here it comes, sweetheart. open wide,” dean murmured, his large hand guiding his thick cock against your dripping heat. your walls stretched painfully well around just the tip, and then he began sinking his cock into you with agonizing slowness.
“dean, hurry...” you pleaded weakly, your mind completely hazy as your head rolled back against the pillows.
dean grunted, keeping up the agonizingly slow torture just to tease you. but before he could pull back, you locked your ankles behind his lower back and pulled him hard against you. his entire length buried deep, filling you to the absolute brim, a sharp gasp leaving both of your lips at the sudden depth.
dean collapsed forward, heavy hands pinning the pillow on either side of your head, a look of sheer ecstasy taking over his rugged features. he swallowed hard, trying desperately not to lose his grip and spill his load right then and there.
a few tense seconds passed before his eyes finally opened, a dark, teasing smirk pulling at his lips. “fucking brat,” he growled. his large right hand immediately came up to cover your mouth, muffling your whimpers as he began driving inside you with a heavy, steady rhythm. “not even gonna ask me for a rubber? you really want my load that bad, huh.”
he continued to muffle your desperate moans with the heavy palm of his hand, his ruthless movements working your walls into a complete frenzy. your mind was short-circuiting; you just wanted him to come inside you. you needed it. there was nothing hotter than the thought of him filling you up.
“sweetheart, you gotta keep it down, alright?” dean grunted right against your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. “sammy’s just in the next room. we don't want him hearing his big brother fucking his girlfriend, do we, babe?”
you shook your head frantically, hot tears of pleasure rolling down your cheeks. a desperate whimper of denial tried to make its way out of your mouth, only to end up completely smothered by his heavy hand.
dean stared down at your tear-stained face, a deeply satisfied smirk stretching across his lips as his tongue darted out to wet them. “that’s a good girl,” he growled softly, the vibration hitting your ear. “keep it up for me, and i might just leak my entire load inside you as a reward.”
you nodded frantically, your legs locking even tighter around his hips to pin him deep inside you. you were right on the edge of coming, and he was right there with you; you could already picture his thick seed overflowing and running down your thighs.
“please, please...” the desperate pleas were completely muffled against his palm, but he heard them anyway. with a wicked, deliberate tilt of his thick shaft, your walls snapped—clenched in tight, violent waves around him as you came.
dean kept pumping his hips until a heavy grunt left his chest and he finally came inside you. he stayed buried deep, his thick shaft acting as the only barrier stopping his warm seed from escaping. moving his hand from your face, he captured your lips in a long, bruising kiss, his tongue thoroughly claiming yours.
pulling back from the kiss with a rough chuckle, he smudges away the saliva at the corner of your lips with his thumb, his fingers then trailing down to softly stroke your cheek.
“good job keeping it down at the end, princess,” he’d whisper against your mouth, a teasing glint in his green eyes. “sammy’s a heavy sleeper, but i think we definitely pushed our luck tonight. let’s just stay like this for a minute, yeah?”
oversize!men who could easily fuck you hard enough for your headboard to smash through your apartment walls, for your neighbours to complain about the pornographic racket echoing through your house, leaving you dragging your feet and struggling to walk straight for days after just one intense round.
oversize!men who instead choose to make love to you (at least on most days), treating sex between the two of you like the beautiful, treasured experience that it was instead of just a means to satiate his lust.
oversize!men who overpower you with ease; dwarfing you under his sheer size and the warmth of his weight caging you into the sheets while he gently reassures you with promises of " just relax, sweetheart. let me do all the work yeah ?" and "it's okay baby just let me take care of you."
oversize!men who always take ample time to prepare you before feeding you their biiiiig over-oversized cocks; his fingers scissoring you open with thick, knuckle-deep twists of his hands as you claw at his thick biceps and whine into his mouth engaging yours in wet, sluggish kisses that leave you gasping for breath.
oversize!men who thrust into you with slow, deep rolls of their hips; the pinky swollen- thick head of his cock nudging into your sweet spot with each reverent buck of his hips. each loving thrust dragging his heavy cock in and out of your pussy with a lewd schlick! sound, allowing you to feel — in extreme filthy detail— each and every bulging, now stretched tight vein adorning his shaft.
oversize!men who keep praising you and babbling about just how good you feel; his voice getting deeper and more pronounced than usual as he tells you "feelsogood baby. always such a good girl for me." and " always take my cock like a fuckin' champ, honey." — punctuating his words with sweet little kisses and bites against your neck.
oversize!men who always keep a large, heavy hand pressed softly against the bulge his cock creates in your belly; the sight of him reshaping your insides in that soft and pretty yet deeply intimate way makes arousal rush to his head like a freight train. his hand doesn't move even once, staying firmly planted on the soft bulge as he applies juuuust the right of pressure on it to heighten your pleasure.
oversize!men who only allow themselves to come after you do; fucking his cock into you with steady thrusts throughout your orgasm before he lets himself go with a deep groan of "i love you." before he's spilling into your already overstuffed pussy with stuttered little pumps of his hips.
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synopsis: One date leads to another, and Garrett slowly but surely works his way into your life. As tensions escalate with your roommate, it becomes harder for him to let you out of his sight.
A scared yelp escapes you as you open your front door. Garrett texted you I’m here just five seconds ago. You find him in the hallway dressed in a forest-green sweatshirt and dark sweatpants, which stand in contrast to your cozy yellow sweater and favorite yoga pants. “Sorry,” you apologize quickly, hands against your cheeks as you feel them heat with embarrassment, “I thought you’d be waiting in your car.”
His smile is soft and charming as he looks you over. You’ve applied a light layer of makeup similar to your look at the party last weekend. Your hair remains in a ponytail, but you’ve thrown on your lucky, sparkly headband for good luck. Not that you needed any luck. Garrett had assured you there was nothing to worry about.
You suddenly feel like you’re forgetting something. “Oh, my purse!”
You hurry back into your apartment to retrieve it. Your roommate, Paige, and her boyfriend are making pancakes for dinner in the tiny kitchen you share. She isn’t wearing pants, and he’s made himself completely at home in nothing but his boxers. The moment you told her you wouldn’t be back until later, she’d invited him over.
You climb over your neatly made bed to grab your purse from the side table, which leaves you more out of breath than it probably should. Even though it contains only lip gloss, your license, a stick of gum, and a debit card with approximately seventy dollars on it, you feel much more secure carrying it.
When you turn around, Garrett is standing fully in your doorway, his eyes roaming over your shoebox apartment before settling on the couple in the kitchen.
“No way, you're Garrett Graham, right?” Paige’s boyfriend doesn’t go to school at Briar. You remember her saying he was about five years older than her, although you thought he could easily pass for thirty.
Your heart pounds as Ethan makes his way over to your date, hand out for Garrett to politely shake. He’s close to rambling about Garrett’s last game, and then he brings up the score and some more terms you have no clue about. And because Garrett’s so good at commanding a room and taking up space, which you’ve never been good at, he cuts through the conversation.
“Ready now, Bunny?”
Paige’s mouth gapes at his words, and you’re left with no time to process your new nickname. “Yes.” You’re next to Garrett in a flash, and his hand becomes wrapped around your waist. “Uhm, I’ll see you guys later!”
You have to close your front door tightly to relieve the awkward tension. “I’m so sorry.”
He shushes you as he leads you down to the elevator, as if he’s already comfortable navigating the building. Once you were in the privacy of the old elevator, Garrett asked, “That’s her fucking boyfriend?”
You nodded quietly.
“How often is he there?”
“Well, they just got back together–”
“Before she started fucking Dean. How often was he over?”
You shrugged, “A few nights a week, I guess. He works from home.”
You watch as his face twists into something close to disappointment. Or disgust. “And how often does he walk around with no clothes on?”
“Not often,” You say almost to soften the blow, “He’s just comfortable there, I guess. And it’s okay. She makes sure I’m okay with it before he comes over.”
“Ha,” He laughs softly before his lips form a thin line. Bad start to the night, you thought. And it’s all because of Ethan’s Ninja Turtle briefs. The elevator dings, and the two of you walk out to his car. Like a gentleman, he opens your car door for you, and you take the opportunity to get a few deep breaths in as the door shuts and he rounds the hood of the car.
You’re not sure why it’s so much harder to breathe when you’re close to him. You chalk it up to the two of you practically being strangers and your nerves.
During the drive to Garrett’s house, he doesn’t push the subject of your roommate and her boyfriend, which you’re thankful for. He decides to talk to you about his own roommates instead. You knew Dean, of course, and Garrett makes the point that he’s sweeter than he looks. Although he’s just as sexual as he comes off. Logan is his hardworking best friend. Tucker is also kind and is an amazing cook, according to Garrett. You do your best to listen, but as he parks his car on the street in front of the house, you realize that you’re about to actually meet all of them. Not in the setting of a party being hosted, but a casual weeknight where they’re living life normally.
The seriousness of the situation hits you. Garrett assured you that the night would be low-key, but what was casual about meeting all of his best friends?
“You okay?” A smooth voice snaps you out of your spiral.
You nod, nervously smiling back at him, “Sorry, I’m okay …hungry.”
“Good. C’mon, Tuck made stir-fry.”
You find that you don't actually need the courage to go inside and say hello to his friends because Garrett's hand on your lower back does the work for you. You don't have to say much. You don't have to figure out where to walk or stand because Garrett guides you.
Tucker stands near the stove, an apron tied around his waist, while Logan and Dean sit on bar stools at the kitchen island. They've already started digging into their meals, and when Tucker presents the two of you with your dinner plates, you can't help but marvel at both the presentation and the amount of food piled onto each one.
"Oh my goodness, you really didn't have to, Tucker—"
"No worries at all. Our casa is su casa, Y/N," he says, his voice warm and welcoming. "And I won't be offended if you don't eat it all. We eat a lot here."
Garrett squeezes your hip, and it serves as a reminder to stop smiling at him like an idiot.
"Thank you so much."
"Thanks, Tuck." Garrett's hand finally leaves your waist so he can grab both plates. "You ready to go upstairs?"
"Yeah," you say, and Logan and Dean exchange a knowing glance.
Garrett tilts his head toward the stairs, and you take that as your cue to follow.
"I-It was nice meeting you guys," you manage to say, offering a small wave.
Logan and Tucker return it immediately. Dean, meanwhile, is already shoveling a spoonful of rice into his mouth. Before anyone can say much else, you hurry after your date.
Garrett's room is large and dark-toned. The windows are huge, but nighttime doesn't offer much light. You've only taken a few steps inside, but the air already feels intimate.
"Your friends seem nice," you say as you stand frozen, your eyes wandering over every poster and piece of memorabilia. "And this house is also... super nice."
"They are. And thanks." Garrett sets the plates down on his nightstand before patting a spot on the other side of the bed. "Sit down and get comfortable."
You'd already taken your shoes off at the door, even though Garrett insisted you didn't have to, so now you're walking around in socks covered with tiny strawberries. You take a seat where he gestures, leaning against his pillows and crossing your legs.
He hands you your plate of food before grabbing his laptop.
"So, what kind of movies do you like to watch, little bookworm?" Garrett asks casually as he settles beside you. He makes sure to close the gap between you, his knee brushing yours and his arm resting against your shoulder.
"We can watch whatever. I don't mind."
"Hmm, okay, but that's not what I asked."
You turn toward him and find that he's already watching you.
"What do you like to watch, Bunny?"
"Uhm." You're suddenly embarrassed as you think over your taste in media. "I like... romance. And historical dramas, I guess. But I understand if you don't want to watch—"
"So what's your favorite movie?"
And that's how you end up watching Little Women with Garrett Graham.
You do your best to tackle the mountain of restaurant-quality food Tucker provided. Garrett finishes his plate, and as the movie plays, he becomes more invested than you'd expected.
The movie reaches the Christmas scenes, where Beth is feeling better and their father returns home. Garrett asks a question—something about whether a certain moment happened in the book—when your phone starts to vibrate.
You pick it up to silence it, only to find five unread messages from your roommate. Worried something bad has happened, you open the text chain.
Paige: Are you still coming home tonight?
Paige: Also, is it cool if Ethan stays for the rest of the week?
Paige: Since you're gonna be busy with your new friend :)
Paige: BTW I can't believe you're hooking up with Garrett Graham and today is the first time I'm hearing about it
Paige: Oh and I need rent earlier than the 1st
"What's wrong?"
"What? Nothing."
You realize Garrett has paused the movie.
You know you should ignore her, but then you start thinking about what she'll think if you don't respond. You find yourself staring down at your phone.
"Your hands are shaking."
The deep timbre of his voice sends a shiver down your spine. His mouth is close to your ear, and he's looking down at your phone too.
Instinctively, you tilt the screen away.
"What did she say?"
"I'm sorry I interrupted the movie—"
"Y/N."
Garrett's voice is stern enough to silence the anxious thoughts racing through your mind.
Then he holds out his hand expectantly.
Your heart starts beating faster.
You hesitate—or at least it feels like you do—before handing over your phone.
You wipe your sweaty palms on your pants, uncrossing and recrossing your legs as you let him read the messages.
"So her boyfriend's moving in?"
"Just for the week."
"And she's making you pay half the rent when you sleep on the couch, and she's letting some asshole stay there?"
You can't meet his eyes.
"It pulls out," you mumble.
"Fuck that."
"You don't understand, Garrett. She's been there for me. She really has..."
"Do you even have the money to give her?"
"Yes. Well, I can use my savings until I get paid again—"
"Fuck that for sure. Tell her to fuck off."
A startled yelp escapes you at the shocking suggestion.
Garrett's jaw ticks.
You don't know him well, but even you can tell he's angry.
"Please, can we finish the movie?"
Your face falls as you pull your knees to your chest. Tears sting your eyes, and you know you can stop them from falling if he just... moves on.
Please.
Please.
Please.
You hear him sigh before you hear the click of your phone locking.
"C'mere."
His large arms wrap around your shoulders as the movie starts playing again.
You soften against him, resting your head on his shoulder.
His tone lightens.
"Just because she blows up your phone doesn't mean you need to answer. She can wait."
"Okay," you say, and you believe him. "I'm sorry I made you mad."
"You didn't do anything, baby," he reassures you.
You do end up crying that night, but it isn't because of Paige.
It's Beth March's death that gets you.
The two of you make it almost to the end of the movie. Mr. Dashwood is just about to publish Jo's book when your eyes begin to grow heavy. Getting up early for class that morning has finally caught up with you.
The rolling credits are the last thing you see.
And the last thing you feel is Garrett Graham pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
Garrett had no intentions of stalking you, given he’d already decided you were his now. And he could acknowledge that going through someone’s phone is bad behavior, but he had to understand this situation with your roommate more. How else was he going to solve your problem if you refused to admit it was one?
Your roommate sent you the occasional good luck for a test, and there were a few times she told you to have a fun weekend. At least through text, he didn’t see any indications that she was supportive. Half your conversations were her just asking you to do the most outlandish things for her. Just two weeks ago, she asked you to clean the entire apartment, including her room, because she wanted to have friends over. A week before that, she asked if you could stay out of the apartment from seven o'clock to ten o'clock at night because a guy was coming over and she wanted privacy.
And all of your responses were the same.
So sorry!!
Of course!!
That’s fine!!
I really don’t mind!!!!
His hindbrain was telling him to find a way to escalate the situation, blow up your life, and let him pick up the pieces. The more logical part of his brain knew it was a matter of time before this bad situation got worse and that he could be the one to save you when that inevitably happened. And maybe, just maybe, he could help it hurt a little bit less. He could also make someone else suffer for hurting you.
He watched you sleep for a short while, and when he inevitably settled against you, grabbing your waist and pushing your bottom against his crotch, you didn’t even stir.
Garrett felt grateful that you were here with him tonight and sleeping peacefully in his bed instead of squeezed onto that pathetic pullout couch. His own anxiety felt better knowing you were safe. Whatever feeling you had planted inside of him at that party was only growing.
Garrett pressed his face into your hair and closed his eyes.
He'd make sure this became a regular thing.
You were so embarrassed when you woke up the next morning and realized you'd fallen asleep. As if you were the one taking advantage of him. It took some time for you to regulate and for Garrett to convince you that you hadn't done anything wrong.
"I wanted you here, Bunny. You look good in my bed," he'd said.
Over the next week, the only time you spent apart from Graham was when you had class or work. Even then, he offered to pick you up and drive you everywhere. It just made sense. You had no car. He did.
"I want to send you money. I'm wasting so much of your gas," you said as the two of you drove back to the hockey house.
"I don't want or need your money, Y/N."
"There has to be something I can do." Garrett watched the wheels turning in your mind. "I know. I'll bake you something."
"You can bake?" Garrett's eyebrows rose.
"No, but I could try." You shrugged, and his eyes softened as he held your gaze.
"That would be nice, Bunny, but I know what I want."
"What?" you'd asked with a smile.
"A kiss."
You stared back like a baby deer caught in headlights. "A kiss? From me?"
"Yes, genius."
"I've never kissed anyone—"
Then it was Garrett's turn to blanch. "What? You're serious?"
"No, I mean, I've been kissed. I have. I've just never done the..."
"You've never kissed someone first?"
You nodded hesitantly.
"Then let me be your first."
A long silence passed between the two of you as the radio played softly through Garrett's speakers. After he parked the car and undid his seatbelt, he reached over, like usual, and unclicked yours. Garrett had started noticing more and more of your nervous tics. Right now, your leg was bouncing so hard it practically shook the entire car.
"I mean, you kinda owe me, right?"
You bit down on your lip as you pulled your knees onto the seat and folded them beneath you. Leaning toward the center console, your smaller hands found his shoulders. Slowly, they slid to his neck and then the sides of his face. Your thumb brushed over his stubble, and you watched his eyes darken.
Garrett's eyes closed when your lips pressed softly against his. The kiss was brief and sweet, but it still left his head spinning.
You were still holding his face when you asked, "How was that?"
Garrett answered by leaning in and kissing you again.
Your lips worked to keep up as Garrett set a steady rhythm. Your hands found his shoulders while he reached for your waist. Before you knew it, he was hoisting you over the middle console until you were straddling his lap.
If there was any control you had left, you let it go.
Making out was kind of like all your conversations. Garrett pushed, forcing you to open up, and he peeled back your layers slowly. And he decided when it ended.
His hands traveled up your waist and beneath your shirt, his large palms roaming over the expanse of your skin. You felt warmth gather low in your stomach as your hips shifted against him.
You only tried to pull away because you needed air.
He kissed you so thoroughly that your lips already felt sore and swollen.
"Garrett," you breathed.
Immediately, he loosened his grip.
"Can we... I feel..."
"You feel what, Bunny?"
"Overwhelmed."
"I'm not gonna fuck you if that's what you're scared about. I just wanted to taste you."
"Oh." You weren't entirely sure how to respond to such blunt honesty. "Okay."
Maybe you'd been wrong to assume he wanted some kind of relationship.
Maybe he wanted something in between.
You'd never been in a real relationship before, so it wasn't like you knew exactly what you wanted. But deep down, you knew you didn't want a casual situationship.
And if that was what Garrett wanted... how would you even say no to him?
"What's wrong? Do you want more, Bunny?"
He toyed with the waistband of your jeans before his hand slipped lower and grabbed a handful of your ass.
You couldn't help how flustered you became. Suddenly, the car felt far too small.
"I like you like this."
He pressed a soft kiss to your jaw, and your eyes threatened to roll back at the pleasure of it.
"Like what?"
"Squirming on top of me." His voice dropped lower. "I can't think about anyone else, you know?"
"You can't?"
"I'm crazy about you."
He kissed your cheek.
Then the other.
Teasing you.
And you found yourself melting against him.
"I hate when you leave."
"Why?"
"This feels right, doesn't it?"
A kiss against your nose.
"You with me."
Another brush of his lips.
"I think you need me."
"I do?"
He hummed as his lips hovered over yours.
"I'll take good care of you."
You leaned closer, but he still didn't close the distance.
"You'll let me take care of you, right?"
Your lips parted.
You knew you didn't fully understand what he meant.
But you knew exactly what he wanted to hear.
And somehow, you wanted to give it to him.
"Yes."
A dark satisfaction flashed across Garrett's face.
"Good fucking girl."
Then his lips were on yours again, and every sensible thought you'd ever had disappeared from your mind.
Paige is right. You find that you're barely home over the next month, mostly because Ethan has been there every day since they'd gotten back together. You have no privacy to study, no room for your groceries, and Paige and Ethan have sex loudly most nights. Worst of all, he uses up your favorite brand of overpriced conditioner, the only kind that helps tame your hair.
The hockey house, although it's full of rowdy college boys, ends up feeling more peaceful. Garrett protects your space, makes sure you always have quiet when you study, and even buys you another set of all your toiletries so you don't have to pack a toiletry bag every time you come over. Plus, there's a free dinner almost every night, and Garrett's friends seem to actually like you. They ask questions about your classes, and they don't talk over you even though their voices boom much louder than yours.
You've started to rely on Garrett so much that the situation with Paige becomes something you want to handle on your own.
It takes everything in you not to just give in. You throw up twice before you can bring yourself to face her, but you eventually do. You're logical. You explain that you don't think it's fair to keep paying half the rent for a quarter of the space and no privacy.
She agrees.
She actually hears you out and promises she'll find a split that's more proportional.
Your shoulders feel lighter when you finally tell Garrett. He's frustrated, of course, that you kept it from him, but supportive nonetheless. Feeling any sort of control in your relationship with Paige is strange.
And ultimately, short-lived.
A week later, you have a babysitting gig that Paige helped set up for you. A friend of a family friend of hers. It should be an easy night considering the child you're babysitting is less than a year old.
Garrett has a game that night at Harvard, and Paige promises she'll be able to pick you up from the nearby city when she tells you about the job.
So the clock turns to eleven, the baby's parents come home, and you expect to find Paige waiting for you outside the apartment building's lobby.
Except she's nowhere to be found.
The lobby doors lock behind you, and she isn't picking up her phone.
The bus isn't running anymore.
And Garrett is at least an hour away in Boston.
Maybe she's just busy driving.
11:20.
You sit down on the steps outside the building, glancing between your phone and the city street in front of you.
11:35.
Your body starts to shake, and your heart pounds so hard in your chest that you can feel it in your ears.
11:45.
Garrett's smiling face appears on your screen, and it takes you a long moment to muster the courage to answer.
"Hello," you say. Your voice sounds smaller than it ever has before.
"Why are you still in the city?"
You'd forgotten he could see your location on his phone, a feature you'd never particularly used before but that Garrett insisted was for safety reasons.
"I'm, uh..." You hiccup. "Waiting f-for... Paige."
"She was supposed to be there an hour ago."
Not a question.
An observation.
"Why didn't you call me? Shit. Are you just standing outside?"
"I'm sitting outside the building."
"Jesus. Here's what you're going to do. Are you listening, Bunny?"
You nod before realizing he can't see you.
"Y-yes."
"Stand up. Turn to your right and start walking."
Although your knees wobble, you manage to do as he says.
"There's a fast-food place two blocks over. You're going to go inside and sit there. Don't talk to anyone, okay?"
You do your best to avoid eye contact with everyone you pass, from the twenty-somethings enjoying their night out to the shadier characters lingering on the sidewalks.
"Okay, Garrett."
You hold your bag tightly against your side. The night air has turned frigid, and your light blue crewneck does little to keep you warm. The cold motivates you to pick up your pace.
"I'm stuck here. I don't have my car, but I'm gonna call Jules, okay? I want you to wait there for them."
"Okay. I-I'm sorry I can't do anything right."
You're close to sobbing. You want to throw up. You're embarrassed, cold, and miserable.
"You just won your game. You should b-be celebrating."
"You're okay, baby. I'm gonna make sure you get home safely. I'm not mad at you."
His voice is deep and eerily controlled.
"Are you inside yet?"
The neon sign comes into view. It's still chilly inside, but you can finally breathe a little easier when you slide into an empty booth. A few people are scattered around the restaurant, but it's mostly quiet.
"I'm inside."
"Okay. I'm gonna call Jules. Stay put, okay? I'll call you right back."
"Okay. Thank you so much."
"Yeah, of course, baby."
Hope you enjoyed this chapter more from the reader's perspective!! If you were not added to the taglist, it's probably because you did not reblog or leave your thoughts on the last chapter :)
⌗ ⠀ jack abbot ⠀ ✗ ⠀𝒇 ! reader .⠀ ⠀ㅤ𓂅⠀ ⠀fluff ༝ smitten old man abbot ༝ younger ! senior resident ! reader ༝ age gap ༝ romance ✴︎ 𝒎𝓲𝗻𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁 .
⠀
⠀ 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 !
OO1 ⠀ ⠀ 𐂂 ⠀⠀˖⠀ ⠀jack doesn’t realize at first bc he’s too focused on his side hobby & job to notice the way his body reacts to your presence .. until dana throws a comment at him invading personal space more than he should
OO2 ⠀ ⠀ 𐂂 ⠀⠀˖⠀ ⠀once he realizes it , it causes a huge internal breakdown bc he thinks it’s way too inappropriate : you’re his resident ( the best one , but he would never say it ) . it’s strictly professional between the two of you . your relationship is pretty much based on reciprocal trust & the value you both have for each other’s competences . yet … the warmth in his stomach lingers and his thoughts always get confused between the need to praise you and praise your successful interventions with words that could been as inappropriate in a professional environment
OO3 ⠀ ⠀ 𐂂 ⠀⠀˖⠀ ⠀it’s a very long process but once he admits it after weeks of contemplating your beauty from afar . that’s when it become more insufferable bc it becomes harder to interact with you without letting anything on about his crush on you . yeah , he hards a very hard time but he actually nails it .. until you’re robby who immediately spotted the change in his body language when you’re around
OO4 ⠀ ⠀ 𐂂 ⠀⠀˖⠀ ⠀if you ever lose a patient ( yeah sadly , it happens ) he always make sure to check on you . most of the time you go isolate yourself somewhere — can be the break room , the roof .. no matter where you are he’ll come find you and gives you words of encouragement , even hug you if necessary .
“ it wasn’t your fault , okay ? you did what you could . ” he would way with a soft lower tones , which is apparently enough to make you feel better ( he hopes )
OO5 ⠀ ⠀ 𐂂 ⠀⠀˖⠀ ⠀jack is .. a gentleman ( some people would say he is so he started to believe it himself ) . he would do more for you than he does to other people : holding doors for you when you enter or exit a room , always brings you food at random times of the night and he apparently always choose the perfect moment bc it’s always when your system needs a boost . he’s also very observant because he always brings you your favorites snacks ( he saw you eat some a few times during your short breaks and immediately took notes )
OO6 ⠀ ⠀ 𐂂 ⠀⠀˖⠀ ⠀you ever have financial problems ? jack doesn’t mind paying things for you . got a little trouble to pay your bills ? he send you the money , tell you it’s not a big deal when you tell him it’s too much . don’t have money to go grocery shopping ? he’ll just send some delivery at your doorstep and when you ask him if it’s him he’ll just deny it
OO7 ⠀ ⠀ 𐂂 ⠀⠀˖⠀ ⠀his stomach always flips whenever you say his last name . he’s just the way you say it , really . and he think it’d be worse if you ever called him by his first name .. he’s a teenage boy all over again
OO8 ⠀ ⠀ 𐂂 ⠀⠀˖⠀ ⠀the first time he sees you without your scrubs and , it’s at some bar nearby the hospital where everyone is gathered to share a beer . he’s immediately in awe , as he never saw you in normal clothes before that night .
from an irritated "oh, fuck!" to a confident "fuck it", your entire relationship with John Logan can be mapped out in seven specific exclamations of his favorite four-letter word.
word count : 6.1k (sorry) — enemies to lovers, kind of — logan is moody — SMUT, minors DNI — Enjoy and please tell me what you think !
One — "Oh, fuck!"
The music wasn’t just loud; it was vibrating through the old floorboards and thumping directly against your ribs. You’d only been there for twenty minutes, entirely dragged along by Hannah, who was currently tucked under Garrett’s arm near the doorway. Watching them was sweet—almost nauseatingly so—but it left you feeling like a ghost drifting through a sea of oversized jerseys, loud hockey players, and the thick scent of cheap beer. For the most part, the rest of the boys were incredibly welcoming; even though you'd just met them tonight, they were already loud, inherently kind and easy to be around.
Except for John Logan.
You hadn’t actually been introduced to him yet, but you’d felt his suffocating vibe the moment he walked through the door. He looked like absolute thunder. Briar had dropped a frustrating, tight game that evening, and while Garrett was channeling his nervous energy into playing the charismatic host, Logan was wearing his irritation like armor. Leaning against the kitchen counter with a dark scowl that practically screamed at people to stay away, his knuckles were white around his glass, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for a reason to snap.
Navigating that crowded, chaotic kitchen with a brim-filled, sticky mixed drink was your first mistake. Your second was catching the rubber toe of your sneaker on the lifting edge of a rogue anti-fatigue mat near the sink.
You stumbled forward, your arms flailing wildly in a desperate, ungraceful bid for balance. You didn’t fall, but your cup did a violent, mid-air flip, slipping from your fingers. A torrential wave of sticky, dark rum and cola splashed directly across the pristine gray fabric of Logan’s Henley shirt, soaking through the chest, darkening the material instantly and dripping down the front of his dark jeans.
Logan froze. His head snapped down slowly, looking at the huge, dark stain spreading across his clothes, and then his gaze lifted to yours. His eyes were blazing, a dangerous brown, entirely unamused and dripping with venom. "Oh, fuck!" he snapped, his voice cutting right through the ambient noise like a knife. He pulled the wet, heavy fabric away from his skin with two fingers, a look of pure annoyance twisting his features. "Are you serious right now? Watch where the hell you're going."
The sheer aggression in his tone caught you completely off guard, instantly sparking your own deeply ingrained, stubborn nature. You had been about to apologize profusely, the words of remorse already forming on your tongue, but the bite in his words choked them right out of your throat. You squared your shoulders, refusing to back down under his glare. "It was an accident," you retorted, pulling a few crumpled, napkins from the counter and shoving them toward his chest. "You don't have to be a complete dick about it. It’s just a shirt, I'm pretty sure you'll survive."
"It's a wet, sticky shirt at the end of a terrible, exhausting fucking day," he growled, his voice dropping an octave as he batted your hand away with a harsh flick of his wrist. He didn't take the napkins; they fluttered uselessly to the floor. Instead, he leaned down slightly, giving you a long, icy glare that made you feel about two inches tall, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle tick. "Next time, look up from your feet." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and storming down the hallway toward the stairs, muttering curses under his breath.
You stood there rooted to the spot, your cheeks burning with a toxic mixture of intense embarrassment and sudden, deep-seated dislike. Garrett materialized at your side a split second later, a sympathetic, slightly apologetic grimace on his face as he patted your shoulder gently. "Hey, don't sweat it," Garrett reassured you quietly, glancing warily toward the stairs where Logan had disappeared. "Logan’s just in a brutal mood because of the game, and he hates losing more than anyone. He's usually a great guy, I swear. He’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow morning."
You forced a tight, fake smile and nodded, but as you looked down at your empty, sticky hands, a bitter taste lingered in your mouth. Spoiler alert: he wouldn't forget. and neither would you.
Two — "Fuck you"
A few weeks later, the initial friction hadn’t dissolved; it had hardened into a permanent, icy chill. You tried your best to play nice for the sake of Hannah and Allie, but Logan made it incredibly difficult. You saw how he was with the rest of their circle—fiercely loyal, easygoing, and warm. He was the kind of guy who quietly made sure Allie and Hannah got home safe from their late shifts and spent his free afternoons helping Jules with media stuff. He was patient with the entire world. But the exact millisecond you walked into a room, his posture stiffened and his jaw set. You hated being the sole exception to his good nature, so you simply stayed out of his way.
The breaking point came on a gray, rainy Tuesday afternoon. You and Hannah had walked over to the hockey house to help Tucker untangle a massive, soul-crushing history assignment he was drowning in. The three of you were spread across the dining table, surrounded by a chaotic mess of highlighters, laptop cords, and heavy library textbooks.
The back door clicked open, and Logan walked in. He was wearing his Briar athletic gear, a damp towel slung over his shoulders from a post-practice shower, his hair messy and wet. He looked exhausted, his shoulders tense, carrying the unmistakable hangover of a brutal morning practice. Instead of walking past to the kitchen, he paused by the table, leaning over Tucker’s shoulder to scan the open pages. He let out a heavy, deliberate sigh. "You’re using the wrong primary sources for that era, Tuck," Logan said, his voice dropping into that effortless, uninvited authority. "You need the economic logs from the eastern front, not these political manifestos. You’re going to tank your thesis statement with those."
Tucker blinked up, looking miserable. "Wait, really? I thought—"
"We checked those, Logan," you interrupted, keeping your voice level and calm as you kept your eyes on your notebook. "We've got it handled," you smiled, trying to remain polite.
Logan didn't move. His eyes slid slowly down to the side of your face, unamused. "Right. Because you're an expert on 20th-century economic trade?"
"No," you said, your pen pausing on the page. "But I can read a syllabus. If you're so worried about Tucker's academic results, you could have sat down and helped him yourself already."
Logan’s jaw tightened, a sharp spike of tension instantly replacing his usual easygoing demeanor. He took his hands out of his pockets and leaned forward, bracing his palms on the edge of the table, firmly invading your space. Tucker shot Hannah a wide-eyed, panicked look across the textbooks, both of them suddenly bracing for impact.
"I gave him my old notes weeks ago," Logan shot back, his voice dropping into something smaller, tighter. "But sure, ignore the guy who actually passed the class because you're too stubborn to take a note from me."
"I'm not being stubborn, you're just being a patronizing prick," you retorted, leaning back in your chair. "You’ve been hovering over this table for five minutes just looking for a problem because you had a bad day and want to take it out on someone."
Logan let out a harsh, dry laugh, though there was a flicker of genuine frustration in his eyes—the look of a good guy who couldn't understand why he kept letting you bait him. "Take it out on someone? Trust me, if I wanted to take anything out on someone, I wouldn't waste my time on you. I'm trying to keep my friend from bombing a midterm because he made the mistake of letting you organize his thoughts."
"My thoughts are perfectly fine, Logan," Tucker muttered quietly under his breath, his eyes glued to his laptop screen, desperately trying to dissolve into the background.
"They're fine when you're left alone, Tuck," Logan said, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring his teammate's plea. "Not when you're letting someone drag their own contrarian agenda into your coursework."
"A contrarian agenda?" You stood up, your chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. Hannah flinched at the sharp noise, withdrawing her hands from the table and motioning for Tucker to leave the potential future crime scene. They both complied quickly, knowing you both well enough to understand that trying to reason with you in that moment would be pointless. "Are you actually insane? I'm sorry that anyone else having a brain in this house threatens your need to micromanage every single thing that happens under this roof."
"It doesn't threaten me at all," Logan said, standing up straight and towering over you, using his height to crowd your space until his shadow completely blocked out the light from the window. The sheer, uncharacteristic anger rolling off him was suffocating; Tucker actually slid his chair back a few inches, completely done with trying to intervene at this point. "It annoys me. You annoy me, actually. I'm not going to walk on eggshells in my own dining room because you can't handle a basic correction."
"I can handle a correction if it's respectful," you shot back, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you refused to take a step away from him. "You don't want to help Tucker. You just want to feel like the smartest guy in the room and that is annoying."
"I dont—," Logan started, a nervous scoff escaping his lips. "You don't know anything about me. Please let's keep it this way, since you clearly can't stand me anyway."
"You're the one who treats me like an absolute inconvenience the second I breathe in your direction!" you yelled, the weeks of being ignored, brushed off, and glared at finally boiling over into raw, unadulterated anger. "If you hate me being here so much, just say it. But stop acting like I'm the one bringing the venom into this house when you're the one dripping it."
The air between you turned completely volatile, thick enough to choke on. A strange, angry electricity snapped between you, the argument completely detached from history or homework now, exposed and raw. Logan stared down at you, his breathing heavy and uneven as he tried to swallow down the sheer frustration rolling off him in waves. He leaned down slightly, bringing his face inches from yours, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle violently ticked in his cheek.
"Fuck you," he whispered.
The words hit with a cold, deliberate weight that vibrated in the dead-silent room. Before you could fire back, Tucker's voice boomed from the kitchen archway, stern and completely done with both of you. "Enough! Both of you, cut it the hell out."
But the damage was done. The look in Logan's eyes made something tight and painful twist in your chest. You refused to sit there and breathe the same air as him for another second. Blindly turning around, you grabbed your laptop and notebook, shoving them into your backpack with rigid, uncooperative hands.
"I'm leaving," you muttered, keeping your eyes glued firmly to the floor as you pushed past Hannah’s reaching hand on the way out. You grabbed your jacket from the hook and left through the front door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the frame, stepping out into the pouring, cold rain with the echo of his voice looping in your head like a curse.
Three — "Fuck off"
For the next month, you became an absolute expert at avoiding John Logan. You turned it into an art form. If he was at a crowded house party, you stayed firmly in the kitchen or on the opposite porch. If the entire group gathered at Malone's, you ensured you sat on the exact opposite end of the long table, hidden behind Dean's loud gestures.
Because of this, you never saw the way his eyes silently followed you when you entered a room, or the almost guilty look that crossed his face whenever your name came up in conversation. He knew he'd crossed a line by cursing at you like that—but your unbreakable silence gave him absolutely no room to apologize, and his own stubborn pride kept him from forcing the issue.
There were small signs of his guilt, though. One random Thursday afternoon, he showed up at the place you shared with Hannah and Allie, claiming he was just dropping off a spare hockey hoodie Garrett had left in his truck. You had stayed in your room with the door cracked just an inch, watching through the tiny gap as he lingered by the entrance, his eyes constantly drifting toward your door, silently checking to see if you'd come out. You hadn't moved an inch, holding your breath until he finally left.
Eventually, Hannah and Allie staged a full-blown intervention. A brand-new club had opened downtown, and they absolutely refused to let you stay home and rot in your room, even though they openly admitted the boys were all coming along. You finally relented, numbing your spiking anxiety by pouring yourself two heavy pre-game vodka crans before leaving the house.
The club was a massive sensory overload—flashing neon lights, artificial fog, and heavy, chest-thumping bass that made communication impossible. By midnight, everyone was comfortably, heavily drunk. You were leaning your back against the sticky mahogany bar, sipping a gin and tonic, when you finally caught sight of him through the pulsing crowd.
Logan was laughing at something Beau said, a dark red bandana tied tightly around his messy hair, looking effortlessly, devastatingly handsome in a black fitted t-shirt. As if sensing the weight of your gaze, his head turned. His dark eyes locked directly onto yours across the smoky crowded room. He didn’t look away. He held your stare for a second, then two, then three — a strange, intense, unreadable heat settling over his features before a group of dancers blocked your view.
A few minutes later, a guy from one of the campus fraternities slithered up next to you on the edge of the dance floor. He was loud, sweaty, and smelled entirely too much like cheap cologne and whiskey — but a little bit of dancing could help taking your mind off of a certain hockey player, you thought. You enjoyed it at first, moving along, focusing on the music, the stranger getting closer and closer as the playlist progressed. But then, just as you started to feel good - just the right amount of alcohol in your veins to feel lighter and relaxed - he tried to grind his hips against yours. You tried to step back, laughing it off politely at first, pushing his hands away, but he didn't take the hint. His hands came down on your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you flush against him with a grip that was far too tight and aggressive.
Before you could even raise your hands to shove his chest, a massive shadow loomed over both of you.
A now familiar hand gripped the frat guy’s shoulder, spinning him around with enough force to make his sneakers squeak on the floor.
"Fuck off," Logan snarled, his voice a low, lethal vibration that cut right through the heavy bass of the music. He leaned in until he was nose-to-nose with the guy. "Get your fucking hands off her and fuck off right now."
The guy looked at Logan and wisely raised his hands in surrender, backing away rapidly into the foggy crowd without throwing a single punch.
Logan’s breathing was heavy, his chest heaving, his fists still clenched tightly at his sides as his eyes scanned the immediate area like a wild animal looking for another threat. He looked ready to tear the entire club apart with his bare hands. Anxious that he might actually chase the guy down for a fight, you stepped directly into his line of sight, capturing his attention.
"Logan," you breathed, your voice soft and entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. Without thinking about the consequences, you reached out, your bare fingers wrapping around his forearm.
The exact millisecond your skin met the warm, rock-hard muscle of his arm, Logan froze entirely. It was the first time the two of you had ever willingly, gently touched, and the effect was instantaneous. The blinding anger seemed to drain out of him in a single breath, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of air. He looked down at your small hand resting on his arm, his skin tingling where you touched him, and then he slowly, deliberately lifted his gaze to your eyes.
The noisy club, the flashing strobe lights, the roaring bass, the alcohol—it all faded into irrelevant background noise. You stood face-to-face on the crowded dance floor, completely motionless, just looking into each other's eyes. Your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, not from fear of the frat guy, but from a sudden, dizzying, terrifying realization. Looking into his wide, intensely focused eyes, you realized you didn't hate him. Not even close. And from the soft, almost vulnerable parting of his lips, he didn't hate you either. You weren't close to being friends yet, but the ice had officially shattered into a million pieces.
Four — "What the fuck"
The shift between you was subtle, but it was absolutely undeniable. The sharp hostility was gone, completely replaced by a quiet, lingering, heavy awareness that neither of you knew quite what to do with.
A week later, you were sitting in a sunlit corner booth at Malone’s. You were completely, entirely absorbed in a brutal, multi-chapter study session for your finals, a pair of heavy over-ear headphones clamped securely over your ears. The sweet, nostalgic melody of American Pie was playing through the speakers, and without even realizing it, you were softly humming along to the chorus, tapping the cap of your yellow highlighter rhythmically against the open pages of your textbook.
You were so deeply focused on your notes that you didn't hear the diner's front door chime, nor did you see Logan walk in. He was there to finalize the last-minute details for the upcoming Hockey Fundraiser with Hannah and Della. But the exact moment his eyes scanned the room and spotted you sitting alone in the corner booth, he stopped dead in his tracks.
He didn’t approach right away. He just stood near the counter, watching you. A soft, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he listened to your faint, slightly off-key humming.
Prickled by the sudden, distinct sensation of eyes on you, you blinked and lifted your head from your textbook. Logan instantly wiped the smile from his face, clearing his throat roughly and pretending to read a missing cat flyer on the bulletin board.
You pulled your headphones down, a small smirk playing on your lips. "You know, if you stare any harder, you're going to burn a hole right through my skull, Logan."
Instead of snapping back with a sarcastic, biting retort like he used to, Logan let out a soft chuckle. He walked over to your booth and, to your surprise, slid into the bench by your side, his knee almost touching yours.
"Just making sure you weren't torturing the rest of the innocent customers with your singing," he teased gently, his shoulder brushing against yours in the tight space.
You rolled your eyes, but there was no spite left in your expression. "I happen to have the voice of a literal angel, thank you very much. You're just jealous."
The playful banter slowly subsided into a comfortable silence. Logan looked at you, his expression turning a little more serious, his eyes softening as his voice dropped to a much quieter register. "Hey… are you doing okay?" Since what happened the other night, obviously implied by the way he looked at you right now, concern written all over his face.
You felt a warm flush creep up your neck and settle into your cheeks. "I'm okay, thank you" you smiled and he nodded, both silently agreeing not to discuss this unpleasant event anymore. You paused, looking down at his large hands resting on the table before forcing yourself to look back up. "How are you doing ? With the fundraiser and everything, I mean. You look like you haven't slept in a week."
He seemed genuinely surprised that you were asking about him. Really, truly asking. He leaned back against the vinyl booth, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he completely opened up to you. He talked about the immense stress of managing the team's high expectations, his constant worries about Jules’ upcoming exams, and the suffocating pressure of the NHL scouts attending the next three games. You listened intently, never interrupting, offering gentle encouragement and a few dry, sarcastic jokes that had him laughing quietly into his palms. For a full hour, the two most stubborn, argumentative people at Briar University just… talked.
"Well," you finally said, checking the diner clock and reluctantly packing your laptop into your bag. "I have to get to my shift at the library. Don't let Della bully you into paying extra for the tableware."
"I won't," Logan said, his eyes tracking your every movement, lingering on your face. "See you around?"
"See you around." You gave him a small, genuine smile—the first real one he'd ever received from you—and walked out into the crisp afternoon air, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks.
Inside the booth, Logan sat completely still for a long, agonizing moment. He watched your retreating figure through the glass window until you turned the corner and disappeared from view. Slowly, he let out a shaky exhale, burying his face entirely in his hands. He rubbed his palms over his eyes, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
"What the fuck," he whispered into the empty diner booth, his voice laced with a mixture of absolute awe and sheer, unadulterated panic. He was screwed. He was completely, utterly, hopelessly screwed, and he knew there was no turning back.
Five — "Well, fuck"
The night of the Briar Hockey Fundraiser at Malone’s was a chaotic, high-energy, glittering success. The entire diner had been completely transformed for the evening—the regular tables had been pushed to the far perimeter to create a makeshift dance floor, strings of warm fairy lights hung across the ceiling, and a massive turnout of wealthy alumni, boosters, and students kept the bar utterly slammed.
You had dressed up significantly for the occasion, wearing a form-fitting, emerald green silk dress that Allie let you borrow from her closet - of course. You spent the first half of the night talking to Hannah near the punch bowl, but your eyes kept unconsciously tracking a certain someone across the room.
Logan was entirely in his element—charming the older donors, laughing easily with his teammates, and looking entirely too edible for your own good.
Around midnight, the formal event finally dissolved into a proper, rowdy college party. The DJ cranked up a heavy, slow, rhythmic pop song, the bass echoing through the floor, and the dance floor filled up with couples. You were navigating the edge of the sweaty crowd, trying to find Allie when a sudden, firm, yet gentle pull on your wrist guided you backward.
You spun around on your heels, your chest bumping right into Logan’s broad torso. "You've been actively dodging me all night," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating right against your skin as his large hand settled naturally around yours. The casual, unhesitating intimacy of the gesture sent a fierce, blinding jolt of electricity straight down your spine.
"I wasn't dodging you, I was letting you do your official host duties," you shot back, a wicked, playful smile spreading across your lips. The alcohol gave you a surge of confidence, and you looped your arms slowly around his neck, stepping closer into his personal space until there was absolutely no air left between you. "Besides, I didn't think you could actually handle me dancing with you."
Logan’s dark eyes lit up instantly, a dangerous, competitive challenge flaring in his pupils. He pulled you a fraction of an inch closer. "Oh, really? Try me, sweetheart."
You didn't hesitate. As the heavy beat of the music dropped, you shifted your weight, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, and sinfully against his. You leaned in close, your lips brushing the warm shell of his ear as you whispered, "You're all talk, John Logan. Let's see if you can actually keep up with me."
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding down his chest to grip the crisp fabric of his shirt, tugging him rhythmically, tightly against your body. The friction was immediate, heavy, and intoxicating. Logan’s breath hitched audibly in his throat. A dark, intense flush crept up his neck, coloring his sharp cheekbones as his hands settled on your waist, his fingers digging firmly into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress. He swallowed hard, his eyes dropping helplessly to your parted lips, entirely overwhelmed and undone by the sudden confidence of your movements. He could feel exactly how much you were affecting him, his body reacting instantly to the touch of your hips.
A breathless, desperate laugh escaped him. He jerked his head back for a split second, fighting a losing battle for self-control. "Well, fuck," he muttered, his voice raw, completely devoid of its usual composure.
"Did I break the big, tough hockey player already?" you cooed, tilting your chin up tauntingly, your noses almost touching as you continued to sway against him.
"You wish," he groaned, his thumbs stroking the bare skin of your lower back where your dress dipped low. He didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled you even tighter against his lower body, matching your sinful rhythm perfectly, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a burning intensity that made it very clear the playful teasing was rapidly turning into something much more dangerous and inevitable. When the night finally forced you apart, it didn't feel like a goodbye — it was a promise.
Six — "Fuck"
Some things are bound to reach a breaking point, and the agonizing tension building between you for months was no exception. Three nights later, Briar won a massive game and the ensuing after-party at the boys' house was pure chaotic madness. The house was packed to maximum capacity, a sweaty, pulsing mass of drunken celebration, loud music, and screaming students.
But you and Logan weren't paying any attention to the party. For the past two hours, you had been moving around the house like two high-powered magnets — constantly drawing closer, stealing long, heated glances across the crowded rooms, the unspoken, heavy weight of the fundraiser hanging between you.
Seeking a brief moment of quiet to cool down your flushed skin, you headed down the dark back hallway toward the upstairs bathroom. Just as you reached out for the brass doorknob, the door swung open from the inside.
Logan stepped out.
You nearly crashed straight into his chest, cutting your breath short as you ground to a halt mere inches from him. The hallway was swallowed by shadows, save for the frantic strobe lights bleeding in from the living room. Logan stared down at you, wide-eyed, his chest rising and falling in sync with the thick, suffocating heat pulsing through the house.
Neither of you said a single word. The months of toxic banter, the vicious, screaming arguments, the desperate avoidance, and the agonizing teasing all converged into a single, breathless, breaking second.
Logan reached out with lightning speed, his large hand wrapping around your waist, and shoved you backward into the bathroom, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind you and twisting the lock with a sharp, echoing click.
Before the sound of the lock could even fade, his mouth crashed onto yours.
It was an absolute explosion. The kiss was passionate, borderline feral, a violent release of pure, pent-up, crazy frustration. You let out a muffled gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to rip into his dark hair, pulling him down toward you out of sheer desperation. He groaned deep in his throat, a sound of pure hunger, pinning your body flat against the heavy wooden door, his thick thighs crowding tightly between yours. His hands were absolutely everywhere—clutching your face, tracing the line of your throat, gripping your hips with a bruising, desperate force that felt incredibly, entirely right.
"Logan," you whimpered against his mouth as he tore his lips away to kiss your jawline, your neck - his hands sliding down to frantically bunch up the silk fabric of your dress.
With a sudden burst of strengh, he hooked his large hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly into the air. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist as he deposited you onto the cold marble edge of the bathroom sink counter. He didn't waste a single second. His hands slid all the way up the bare, warm skin of your thighs, finding the edge of your underwear. His fingers quickly found your slick, burning, over-sensitized core, rubbing against you through the damp fabric with a rhythm that made your head tilt back and earned a large grin from him.
You arched your back off the counter, a loud sob escaping your lips, your fingers digging deep into his shoulders.
"You like that?" Logan growled against your neck, his voice dripping with lust. His fingers moved faster, driving you up a steep, agonizing cliff. "Tell me you want it."
"Logan," you breathed out, "please," you cried out, your head tossing back against the large bathroom mirror. Your hands flew down to his waist, frantically, blindly fumbling with the button of his jeans. You shoved the denim down his hips until his length snapped free—thick, heavy, and pulsing with heat. The moment your fingers wrapped tightly around him, moving in a fast, desperate stroke, Logan’s eyes rolled back.
His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his neck. He couldn't endure the exquisite torture for long, his quiet moans matching your own, before his large hand clamped over yours, freezing your movement. "Stop, stop," he panted, his chest wild, his forehead pressing against yours. "I'm going to come right now if you keep doing that. I need to feel you, right now."
With trembling, frantic hands, he reached into the small drawer next to the sink—Dean’s emergency stash—and ripped open a foil condom wrapper, spitting the plastic away and rolling it onto himself in one fluid, desperate motion.
Then he stepped back between your open thighs. His hands gripped your hips with an iron hold, dragging you to the very edge of the marble counter. He aligned himself against you, waiting just long enough for your frantic nod of approval. With one heavy, unyielding, possessive thrust, he buried himself completely inside you.
The sheer, overwhelming pleasure of that sudden fullness hit you both at once, fracturing the quiet of the bathroom with a sharp, mutual gasp. Instead of slowing down, the friction only stoked the fire, drawing a long, ragged, shattered exhale from deep in Logan's chest. His pupils were completely dilated, dark and wild with pure lust as his forehead dropped heavily against your shoulder.
"Fuck," he groaned into the crook of your neck, his voice a raw, visceral prayer vibrating against your collarbone.
His hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like an anchor as he immediately established a rhythm. The restraint dissolved into pure instinct. He pulled you flush against him, his thrusts becoming powerful, deep, and utterly relentless from the very start. Every heavy drive forced a breathless cry from your lips, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. You rocked together on the cold edge of the marble sink, your bodies generating a feverish heat that defied the chilly stone beneath you.
The bass from the after-party still thudded through the floorboards, a distant, muffled reminder of the chaotic world outside, but within the locked walls of the bathroom, that world was entirely forgotten. There was only the slick, friction-heavy slide of skin against skin, the frantic tangle of your fingers in his hair, and the hot, primal rhythm consuming you both.
The friction was dizzying, driving you both toward a precipice that neither of you could fight anymore. Logan’s pace turned frantic, his breath coming in harsh, ragged stabs against your ear as his hips slammed against yours with an undoing, desperate urgency. Every stroke sent a white-hot wave of pleasure straight to your core, tightening the coil inside you until it was agonizing.
You choked out a breathless, broken sound, your hands clamping onto his biceps as your head thrashed back against the mirror once more.
He didn't need words to know you were right there. He buried his face in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he delivered three more devastatingly deep, relentless thrusts.
That was the final breaking point. Your walls clamped down around him tight and pulsing, fracturing your breath into a loud, ruined cry as your entire body shattered into a blinding, head-to-toe release.
Hearing you break completely ruined him. Logan let out a guttural, unhinged groan that vibrated deep in his chest. His jaw locked, his body rigid and trembling as he gave one last, deeply possessive shove, throwing his weight into you as he came violently inside the condom. He held himself deep within you, his hips shuddering against yours as he rode out the waves of his own release, the two of you panting heavily in the quiet aftermath, entirely spent.
Seven — "Fuck it"
Roughly thirty minutes later, the two of you finally emerged from the bathroom. You had tried your absolute best to fix your chaotic appearance in the mirror—re-applying a bit of smudge-proof lip gloss, smoothing down the wrinkled fabric of your dress, and trying to tame your wildly tangled hair with your fingers—but the physical evidence of what had just occurred was written all over your faces. Your skin was flushed a deep unmistakable pink, your lips were incredibly swollen and red, and Logan was walking with a loose, stupidly contented, proud stride, his hair completely disheveled and sticking up in directions where your fingers had repeatedly torn through it.
The exact moment you stepped back onto the floor of the crowded living room, a loud, piercing whistle cut through the air.
Dean was leaning against the back of the sofa, a beer dangling from his fingers and a knowing smirk plastered across his face. His eyes darted from you to Logan, zeroing in instantly on the faint trace of your lip gloss smeared along Logan’s jawline.
"Well, well, well," he said, loud enough to be heard over the music. "Must have been a pretty intense plumbing emergency in there. Either that, or you two just went ten rounds with a blender. You might want to wipe your face, Logan."
Your cheeks instantly burned. You took a step back. "Dean, shut up, we were just—"
But Logan didn't let you finish the lie. He looked down at you, catching the slight panic in your eyes, and then looked over at Dean, who was practically vibrating with smug satisfaction.
Instead of getting defensive, Logan just let out a short, quiet laugh. The stubbornness, the secrecy, the remnants of your old feud—it all suddenly felt completely irrelevant. He was tired of hiding it.
"You know what? Fuck it," Logan muttered.
Before you could process the words, his hand slid around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your jaw as he pulled you flush against his chest. Right there by the sofa, he leaned down and kissed you.
Dean threw his arms up in a dramatic, sweeping gesture. "About damn fucking time! Graham, you owe me twenty bucks!"
When Logan finally pulled back, his eyes were bright, a relaxed, genuinely happy smile playing on his lips as his thumb brushed your cheek. You looked up at him, the noise of the party fading into the background, finally realizing that the long, argumentative journey of seven dirty words had brought you exactly where you were supposed to be.
