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it's no secret that where garrett graham is, you're likely close behind. and everyone knows where you are, garrett graham is too. that’s the outcome of growing up best friends.
throw in the messy deal between garrett and hannah, it has you wondering if your so called ‘best friend’ even realises he's left you behind.
⤷ aka off campus social/text au! - garrett graham x fem!reader
series masterlist
Across campus, your apartment is eerily quiet despite the number of people inside it. The adrenaline was slowly wearing off, but concern and exhaustion had settled in its place.
You’re curled in the corner of your couch, knees pulled tightly to your chest. At some point in your panic, someone had practically shoved you into Garrett’s hoodie and pulled the hood over your head to let you hide. The sleeves are way too long, it smells like the laundry detergent and cologne that only belong to Garrett, and it lets you curl away from prying eyes.
It’s enough familiarity to help calm the shaking a bit.
The note sits on the counter, now sealed in a plastic bag. Nobody has touched it since you first read it, but nobody really knows what to do with it.
Allie sits beside you on the couch with an arm stretched across the cushions as she watches you carefully. In the armchair across from her, Dean is unusually quiet as his foot bounces rapidly beneath him. Logan is standing near the kitchen island with his arms crossed, annoyed, as he watches Tucker pace in circles.
“Do we call the cops?”
“Of course, we call the cops,” Allie answers Tucker’s question immediately.
Logan sighs, “And tell them what? Hey, we have a random phone number and this note that’s probably forged in someone’s handwriting. Please help?”
Allie glares at him. “That’s exactly what we say.”
You don’t really hear their argument. You know this is going to turn messy in so many ways. You’re going to be asked so many questions, and they’re going to go through every bit of your life for the past weeks in search of answers. As much as you want them, you’re so so tired right now.
Every once in a while, Allie’s hand rubs across your shoulders as a reminder that she’s there, a reminder you aren’t alone.
The problem is that’s exactly how you feel. Because the one person you keep expecting to walk through the door never does. The one person you’ve looked for every time someone’s phone goes off hasn’t called, hasn’t texted, hasn’t shown up.
Forget that everyone around you read the very real, very heavy insecurities you’d been plagued with since Garrett and Hannah’s deal started; you can’t even care. And despite everything that happened today, despite the fight and the hurt and the anger, you still just want Garrett.
Dean’s phone buzzes on the table, and everyone looks up like moths to flames. He glances at the screen and immediately sits forward.
“What?” Tucker pauses in his pacing for long enough to ask the question.
Dean’s eyes move from the phone to meet yours, and there’s relief on his face for the first time tonight.
“Looks like Graham finally found his phone.”
--
The second the apartment door opens, every head turns. For a moment, nobody says anything as Garrett and Hannah walk in. It doesn’t take a lot to realize this isn’t good - the atmosphere speaks for itself.
Nobody looks panicked anymore, but there’s still so much tension in the room you could cut it with a knife. Allie stands to join everyone else in the kitchen.
And then, Garrett sees you. Curled up on the couch, wrapped in his hoodie, and everything else just disappears. You’re looking right at him, trying to muster a smile like you’ve haven’t been torn through like scraps from everything.
“Bug.”
The tears are immediate, and Garrett is already halfway to you before anyone can blink. He feels physically sick at how scared you are, and the guilt is suffocating his heart right now. You practically collapse into him with a sob, and any energy you have left is gone.
Because Garrett’s here now, and somehow you just know everything will be okay.
--
Some time passes in quiet before someone makes a decision that it’s too tense in the room. Logan and Tucker offer to go pick up food for everyone, and soon enough, there are various takeout options on your counters.
Dean and Allie took your phone into your room at some point, saying they would print all of the evidence for when things moved forward. Garrett hasn’t left your side, but he’s on the couch now, and you physically can’t get any closer to him.
By the time they come back out, you’re fast asleep on Garrett’s shoulder. The room is much more comfortable and quiet now that everyone’s had food and space to process. But now the hard part needed to be addressed.
“Can someone tell me what the fuck happened?”
Dean hands him your phone, which Garrett takes and unlocks before looking up for an explanation. Nobody talks over each other, and nobody throws blame when it comes to addressing you being alone when you walked in that night. How would he have known that’s what you were walking into?
“We don’t know how, but someone got into her apartment. The note, the messages, it’s probably all the same person.”
Garrett tries not to wear his horror on his face as he starts scrolling. Weeks of messages, of comments about him, about you. Observations that are much too specific and personal. And then it gets worse when he sees the date from earlier this evening.
The photo of him and Hannah in his car. Posted to her Instagram story right before her phone died. Mocking you in a way that makes him want to throw up because it’s not true, it’s never been true.
Garrett’s jaw clenches so tightly it may break. He’s trying really hard not to lose his shit right now because how was this happening, and he had no idea?
He’s not surprised to find you blinking sleepily when he looks over. “When were you going to tell me?”
“I wasn’t.”
You can’t hide the tiredness in your eyes, nor are you strong enough to pull away from him as you let your fingertips glide under his shirt to feel the warmth of his skin on yours. And Garrett lets you, because fuck it, he knows you’re still terrified but don’t want to admit it. If he’s being honest, he wants you even closer.
“Why?”
You’re nearly asleep again when the second question arrives. There’s no time for the rational part of your brain (the part that refuses to let you lean on Garrett the way you let him lean on you) to talk you out of an honest answer.
“Didn’t wanna bother you.”
Garrett feels his heart crack when you let out a tired breath and fall back asleep. And he’s left in pieces in the wake because the damage is done, and the only person to blame is him.
Because Garrett knows what he said in the parking lot confirmed exactly what you had been scared of this whole time. You were falling apart, but still protecting him as much as you could, and he threw it all back in your face when you were vulnerable.
When he meets Logan’s gaze across the room, Garrett feels like the biggest fucking idiot in the world.
He has to tell you.
--
At some point, the cops are called and acknowledged. The night spirals from there into something messy, but Dean offers to handle it since he “has connections”.
You’re still sleeping on the couch, Allie and Hannah are packing clothes to take because it’s definitely not safe in your apartment anymore. Being at the hockey house, with at least four built, slightly terrifying athletes, was a better option than anything else at the moment.
Garrett Graham was scarily good at handling his emotions. It likely came at the price of his dad growing up and the walls he had to build. He had a process, but that didn’t mean things didn’t happen too quickly sometimes. 6’1 of muscle, strength, and determination still had cracks.
Logan’s too busy staring at Garrett to see anything else. He knows this timeline well, knows that it’s only so long before the outburst. It came with years of watching carefully and asking the right questions.
It’s the knowing that leads Logan to pull Garrett outside into the night air after Tucker swears no less than three times over that he’ll keep an eye on you.
Logan lets Garrett pace for a good five minutes, lets him mumble to himself and pull at his hair. He lets him because he knows the following conversation is not going to be easy.
“G, talk to me, man.”
Garrett shakes his head, his fingers picking at the skin of his lips. He’s clearly upset, but it’s a scary mix of anger, sadness, and frustration that he doesn’t know what to do with it all.
He doesn’t want to scare you. That’s the last thing Garrett wants to do. He knows he’s done enough damage, and then to show up with Hannah? Of all people? After everything that had been shoved in your face?
Garrett felt like he could throw up.
“I don’t know,” He answers Logan honestly, still pacing back and forth. “I don’t fucking know!”
The frustration in his tone is icy familiar. The kind that only slips out when Garrett feels like he's out of options against the opposing team and knows the end is near.
He’s mad. He’s mad you didn’t say anything, because fuck he could’ve had a PI on this weeks ago. He could’ve been protecting you from wandering eyes and keeping a lookout. He could not have been a fucking idiot in the parking lot earlier tonight had he known what was going on. Had he just said what he felt?
Garrett’s upset. He would’ve never wished anything like this on you. Out of any press, drama, and rumor that follows him, he knows damn well to keep you out of it. He would rather quit hockey than let your name be dragged through the mud on his behalf. He would hate for you to deal with half of the comments he hears per day, let alone when his dad gets involved. He’s done so much over the years to avoid questions regarding you, even when he’s cornered in a bad spot.
And he’s sad. He’s sad that you didn’t feel comfortable enough to fucking tell him what was happening.
“I should’ve seen it,” Garrett offers in response. His back is to Logan, regret settling deep in his bones. “I should’ve fucking known something wasn’t okay. I mean-“
“Don’t tear yourself up, man.” Logan shakes his head. “How would anyone-“
“I should’ve,” Garrett cuts him off, turning with a stern look. His frustration is with himself. In all the years, the moments, you’ve shown up for him. You’ve never asked, you never begged, you’ve just been there. “She’s everything to me, Logan. You know that.”
And all John Logan can do is nod, because yeah, Garrett fucked up. He fucked up.
“Yeah, dude. I’m not, I’m not gonna lie…” Logan shrugs his shoulders because it’s what he’s been thinking since he watched you run out of the house at night a few weeks ago. “It doesn’t look great. Bug’s never asked us for shit, Garrett. And you show up with Hannah? After everything?”
Garrett’s face drops, his hands pulling at his hair. He curses. To show up with his fake date? After yelling at you for hovering?
Logan crosses his arms. “Did you hear what she said?”
“I didn’t want to bother you, yeah. I heard it.”
“You know what she does after practice? She sits and waits in the living room because she wants to hear how it went. How was your day after class?”
“I know.”
“No, Garrett,” Logan’s voice sounds a bit more aggressive than he’d like, and he’s weighing his words carefully. “You used to know, and then Hannah happened. You stopped looking. So, Tucker, Dean, and I? We looked in your place.”
Garrett’s eyes are looking at the locked entry into your apartment building. He knows Tucker will be keeping an eye on you, still curled up on the armrest, still wearing his clothes. Tears still damp on your cheeks.
“I know you’re hurting because she didn’t tell you, G. But she’s been hurting for weeks, since she saw you cuddling with Hannah on movie night. Hell, maybe even before that.”
Logan moves a step back toward the door. He feels like an asshole for saying all of this to one of his best friends, but that also means he’s the perfect person to be saying it. He’s not scared to call Garrett out on his shit.
Garrett’s taking the hits at this point like their rivals in the tournament. But it’s about you, and that will always bite more than anything else. He knows he deserves every bit of this conversation, even if he’s already drowning in regret.
“I told her she was hovering.”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t mean-”
“I know, G.”
“I was so frustrated, and I wasn’t talking about her.”
“I know, man. But she didn’t know that.” Logan’s voice stays even despite the range of emotions he’s feeling right now. “And she was still the one hearing it.”
“Dean asked why she didn’t call you, and she said you had enough going on. She was having a panic attack until he pulled your hoodie over her head. She loves you so much that even when she’s fucking terrified, her first thought is to protect you, and if that doesn’t scare the shit out of you, it should.”
Garrett breaks, his eyes damp with emotions as he turns to keep Logan from seeing everything on his face. He’s been ignoring that pull in his chest that always wanted more, but fuck, he regretted not acknowledging it sooner. There’s nothing that’s mattered more in the moment than fixing whatever the fuck this mess has become.
Logan’s hand is on the door now, even though part of him wants to comfort his friend and fix the pieces. “I’m not trying to dig salt in the wound, G. I swear. She loves you enough that she will keep reaching for you, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t break her heart, either.”
The silence that follows his departure is painful. And Garrett’s soaking up every inch of the hurt.
A/N: a very much requested part 2 for y'all, as always if you see typos no you did not
summary: in which a surprise visitor leaves Dean desperate to fix things between the two of you.
pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x ex!fem!reader
wc: ~2.8k
warnings: swearing, confrontation, mending relationships, a lil suggestive towards the end, angst/hurt/comfort
-----
“Where the fuck is he?”
A loaded sentence that contained a million possibilities, the voice was however all too familiar and carried a one-in-four odds, so a 25% chance Dean was about to get his ass handed to him.
“Layla, slow down,” Beau could be heard chasing after his girlfriend—and as Dean remembers all too well, your roommate—as she tore through the hockey house on a mission.
Make that a 100% chance Dean was about to get his ass handed to him.
He could only sigh as he mentally prepared for the onslaught that was undoubtedly about to be his.
Sure enough, Layla made her way into the kitchen, her eyes burning with anger and her forehead creasing as she set her sights on the blonde man who was too hungover for whatever this was about to be about.
“You,” she practically seethed.
“Good morning to you too, sunshine. Can’t say I was expecting this fair greeting,” Dean rubbed his hand over his face as he nursed a lukewarm coffee.
“Hey D,” Beau listlessly waved from behind Layla.
“G’morning handsome,” Dean gave a tight-lipped smile as he nodded at his best friend.
“What the fuck is your problem?” Layla spat the words at Dean, anger mounting at him as he was still clueless to what initiated this confrontation.
“I could ask you the same question, can we start from the beginning? As in whatever pissed you off before you started yelling?”
“Sure, Dean. Let’s start from the part where my roommate and best friend came home absolutely wrecked last night and cried herself to sleep because she saw you wrapped around another girl,” Layla’s sarcastic undertone was riddled with pointed accusation and malice.
Dean’s ears perked up when he heard your name, his heartbeat picking up at the mention of you in tears.
“What are you talking about? When did Y/N see me with another girl?” Dean was riddled with confusion.
“The girl from your big hockey party last night, idiot. Are you so hungover that you can’t remember what you did or did you get brain damage from getting hit by the other team?” Layla taunted back, her irritation showing in emphasis she placed on her insults.
“Layla,” Beau tried to intervene, but one side-eyed look from Layla and he decided silence was the safer option.
Irregardless, Dean’s heart was fully pounding out of his chest. His mind began to spin as the hangover lifted and thoughts of you swirled around his brain.
“Wait, Y/N was at the party last night? She went home crying?”
“No, dumbass she wasn’t at the party. You’re plastered all over the Fifth Line with this other girl and Y/N saw it,” Layla was getting antsy as she continued to have to spell it out for Dean.
“You’re in the background of a picture Jules posted of Logan and Tucker,” Beau clarified.
“Show me,” Dean’s thoughts were racing, you at the center of them all as his concern continued to build.
Layla pulled up the picture on her phone, sliding it across the counter to Dean for him to see. Sure enough, he could see the image of him and one of the resident puck bunnies in a rather compromising situation.
“I can see why she was upset,” Dean slid Layla’s phone back to her.
“You need to fix this, Dean,” Layla was absolutely resolved in her desire to make you happy again.
“Layla, we broke up months ago and I haven’t heard a word from her. I thought she moved on,” Dean sat up, his spine straightening as he tried to process what Layla was saying.
“Moved on? That girl refused to admit she missed you because she saw this,” Layla held up her phone with the picture of Dean again.
“And assumed she’d lost the right, kept saying bullshit like she didn’t have time to be sad and her feelings didn’t matter because you had already moved on so it was all done and over,” Layla threw her hands up in the air exasperatedly.
“That’s crazy, I’ve been holding out hope that Y/N would call and tell me she needed me. I've missed her so much,” Dean stood from his seat at the counter, beginning to pace along the kitchen tile as he considered what to do next.
“You missed her so much that you got ultra cozy with someone else?” Layla challenged back.
“I’ll admit I talked to this girl for a bit last night, but it went no where. I couldn’t get past the fact that she wasn’t Y/N, so I left the party and sat outside with Logan at the fire pit. He can confirm that I spent the night alone,” Dean said.
“Trust that I will be interrogating Logan as well,” Layla confirmed.
“Please, he’ll tell you that I never shut up about wanting Y/N back,” Dean continued his pacing, his thoughts never once leaving you.
“She thinks I hate her? That couldn’t be further from the truth, I still love her. I just thought she needed space to sort out her life,” Dean ran his fingers through his hair, in utter disbelief that you could ever even consider such a thing.
“Yeah well she didn’t do that, she’s one group project away from losing it completely. She hasn’t taken a break since you broke up. I don’t know how she does it all and she keeps taking on more.”
“It’s the same problem from before though, Layla. I couldn’t make her slow down when we were together. What could I possibly do now?”
“Maybe it’s just a matter of being there, not backing down when she pushes back,” Beau broke his silence.
“What do you mean?”
“Show up for her, take one thing off her plate at a time. Or maybe she just needs someone to listen when she needs it,” Beau suggested with a shrug.
“And for the love of god get her to take a goddamn break,” Layla added.
Dean nodded, a plan formulating in his mind. He wasn’t sure that you would listen to him, but he would be damned if he didn’t try. He couldn’t bear the distance any longer, he needed you back no matter what.
———
A knock sounded at the door, disrupting the quiet you’d been studying in. Pulling yourself out of your bed, you caught sight of your reflection in the mirror. Your eyes were red and puffy from crying in the night, the shadows under your eyes seemed to grow deeper every day. Every feature seemed duller and like you had the life sucked out of you. You hid underneath an oversized Briar Hawks hoodie, the hood pulled up over your head as it seemed to swallow you whole.
The knock rapt again, more urgent this time.
“Layla, I told you I’m fine. I just need to finish these three chapters and my paper’s conclusion and then I’ll sleep,” you swung the door open, your heart dropping out of your chest.
Layla wasn’t the one at the door, silence settling as you stared up and into the eyes that haunted your dreams every night.
“Dean,” your voice was barely above a whisper, disbelief coating every word.
“Hi,” Dean was also uncharacteristically quiet, awkward silence settling as everything unsaid hung over the two of you.
“Why are you here?” You rasped out.
“I wanted to see you. I needed to see you.”
“We haven’t talked in months.”
“I know, it’s been killing me,” Dean affirmed.
“It has?”
“It has.”
“So why now?”
“I know what you think you saw, but I needed to set the record straight.”
“How did you—”
“Layla talked to me,” Dean interrupted.
“Shit. Listen Dean, I don’t know what Layla told you but—” Your eyes widened as you began to fear whatever Layla may have told Dean.
“No, Y/N, I am going to talk and you’re going to listen. Please, baby,” Dean sounded almost frantic, as if afraid you were about to turn him away.
You didn’t miss the way he called you baby, the simple action making you soften instantly.
You nodded, leaning against the door frame and giving him the floor.
“My biggest regret is letting you walk away from me that night. I know I said maybe we were always meant to be nothing but I don’t want us to be nothing. I was hurt because of the distance and I wanted you to see me and I still do. But I also need you to know that I see you. You give so much of yourself to others and it’s commendable, really. But you are burning yourself out. You cannot continue like this,” Dean pleaded with you.
“I can’t let people down, Dean. They need me, I have shifts to cover and someone needed help on this assignment and—”
“No, no Y/N. I’m not asking what others need. I’m asking what you need,” Dean came closer, his frame hovering above yours, your spine pressing into the wood of the door frame now.
“What I need?” You were baffled. The idea of adjusting around your own needs seemed foreign, almost. It was like you were unaware that was even an option.
“Or even just what you want, Y/N.”
You took a deep breath and sighed, this you at least knew the answer to. You wanted Dean, you had wanted him back since the night you walked out of that party and into the night. Even when you were upset, you craved his presence and ability to make you laugh despite it all. You wanted your Dean back, like you used to have him. You sniffled, the emotions from the height of your hurt last night rushing back.
“But that girl in the picture.”
“Nothing happened, Logan can confirm he had to listen to me talk about you all night. She wasn’t you, Y/N. I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” Dean swore to you.
“We’re not together, Dean. You’re allowed to see who you want and meet new people, it’s not my place to get upset anymore,” you played with the strings of your hoodie, unable to meet Dean’s gaze.
“Get upset then, Y/N,” Dean countered.
“What?” You looked up, confused.
“I don’t know, maybe it doesn’t make sense but maybe I want you to get upset. Just tell me that you care and that you feel like this is still worth fighting for. Tell me that you still want me as much as I want you,” Dean was borderline begging, his eyes frantically searching your face for any sign that you still cared for him like before.
“But Dean, I fucked us up last time.”
“No, we both made mistakes and we forgot what the name of the game was, Y/N. I don’t want to start over with someone new, I want the two people who fell in love because some asshole wasn’t paying attention and ran straight into the cute girl at Malone’s and spilled a vodka cran straight down her shirt,” Dean grabbed your hands, pulling them up to his chest.
You let out a quiet giggle, the memory of your first meeting never failing to bring a smile to your face as you remembered.
“I’m still really busy, that’s not stopping anytime soon.”
“And I know that, I know your studies and work are important for you, all I’m asking is that you take care of yourself and let me take care of you too.”
“What if I can’t be what you need?” You asked.
“You are what I need, Y/N,” Dean was adamant.
“Even when it’s hard?”
“Even when it’s hard, baby.”
“Even when I’m really busy?”
“Especially when you’re too busy for your own good.”
You nodded, Dean’s words ringing in your ears as they landed.
"Can we...can we try again then?" you sounded uncertain, as if afraid he might change his mind.
"Please, please I would very much like that," Dean said, relieved that you two seemed to be back on the same page for the first time in a long while. You smiled, burying your face in the center of his chest.
“I mean this with so much love, baby. But you look like shit, Y/N,” Dean looked you over head to toe, concern etched into his beautiful features.
“I feel like shit,” your throat was scratchy as you tried to laugh, wincing as it came out strained.
“Is your work due tonight?” Dean asked while glancing at your forgotten homework behind you.
“No,” you sighed before continuing, “I was just wanting to get ahead because then I could pick up extra hours.”
“When was the last time you got a full night’s rest?”
Dean’s question was met with silence as you stared down at your shoes.
“Yeah, I’m going to need you to take a break, baby,” his thumb was rubbing small circles into your hand.
You hesitated. You didn’t technically need the extra hours, you’d already worked a few doubles the past couple weeks and the opportunity for rest beckoned to you. Maybe it was time for a change, maybe it was time to stop running yourself ragged for others. Maybe Dean was right and it was time to start prioritizing what you wanted and needed over others. And if that was what it took to fix this relationship, you were willing to at least try.
“Okay, I’ll take a break.”
Dean grinned as he hesitantly reached his hand up, gently cupping your face as if unsure if it was allowed. His touch was so soft and warm you almost melted into a sobbing puddle on the spot.
Dean immediately noticed the damp corners of your eyes. In a split second Dean made the decision to be bold, and leaned down to press feather light kisses to where the tears had started slowly falling down your face.
“If it’s okay with you, I’d like to stay with you tonight,” he murmured.
“Please?”
Your glassy eyes met his and watched as his pupils dilated, his hands finding your waist and pulling you in. Dean leaned in, watching your every reaction before hesitating and waiting for your permission. You gave him an almost imperceptible nod, a full-blown grin covering his face as his lips hovered above your own.
“I love you, I’m sorry for everything,” you started, Dean’s eyes never left your own. He could only give a small chuckle.
“No more apologies my love, let me show you how much I missed you.”
Goosebumps swarmed under your hoodie, Dean’s grip tightening as he tugged you impossibly closer. You inhaled the familiar smell of his body wash and cologne, your breath hitching as his lips finally met yours. His hands slid under your hoodie warming the skin across your back as his fingers created patterns. You let out a breathy sigh, Dean taking the opportunity to deepen the kiss as he gently guided you away from the door and towards your bed.
He broke away momentarily, gently moving your abandoned textbooks onto your desk before he was on you again, touching you with so light of a touch you could’ve sworn he thought he was handling the most delicate thing in his world.
———
“So, Layla talked to you?”
“Well, I think the more appropriate phrasing is she tore me a new one and about smacked the shit out of me. She was so mad, not even Beau could stop her,” Dean pressed a soft kiss to your hairline, the warmth of his lips bringing a familiar comfort you’d been longing for.
“She means well. And she’s only a little bit scary,” you rested your chin on Dean’s chest, gazing up into his eyes.
“Baby, I get thrown around the ice by a bunch of guys twice her size and I’m still more scared of her,” Dean grinned but you knew he was dead serious.
“Good to know,” you giggled slyly.
“Don’t you dare tell her I said that, her ego will skyrocket,” Dean laughed bringing you closer, nuzzling you into his broad chest.
“Hmm and god forbid you both enter a biggest ego competition, might take up all the space in the room,” you joked back.
“You love my big ego.”
You rolled your eyes at Dean, a lazy smirk covering his face as his hands grasped your waist, flipping you underneath him. He placed his forearms on either side of your head, rendering you utterly stuck underneath his immovable and sturdy frame.
“Among other big things,” Dean smirked, leaning down and capturing your lips with his.
You both laughed into the kiss, his chest reverberating against yours as you felt content for the first time in a long time. You knew things weren’t perfect with Dean and you would have to work to not repeat the mistakes from last time.
But right then and there in his arms, you couldn’t bring yourself to worry about that just yet.
You had him back, you had Dean.
Your Dean.
-----
A/N: guys I have so many drafts saved for diff fics it's getting scary. but I hope you enjoyed this part! as always it comes w a forehead kiss hehehe
it's no secret that where garrett graham is, you're likely close behind. and everyone knows where you are, garrett graham is too. that’s the outcome of growing up best friends.
throw in the messy deal between garrett and hannah, it has you wondering if your so called ‘best friend’ even realises he's left you behind.
aka off campus social/text au!
garrett graham x fem!reader (she/her)
childhood best friends -> lovers (lots of angst i love angst)
--
part one - profiles/intro/playlist
part two - the deal
part three - the unknown
part four - the shirt
part five - the game
part six - the concussion
part seven - the comfort
part eight - the fight
part nine - the threat
part ten
part eleven
part twelve
part thirteen
tbd…
dividers via @animatedglittergraphics-n-more
disclaimer: most media involved is from pinterest/actor socials! all texts/posts were generated by me via memi messaging & photonote. watermarks for @/evescole are my previous username.
general triggers: mdni!! dark humor, cursing, stalking, angst (hehehe), lowkey hannah erasure but i tried not to, mentions of phil graham.
absolutely NO artificial intelligence was used in the production of this series.!!!
A/N: surprise, I write for characters other than Logan lol.
summary: in which you and Dean broke up months ago because you overcommitted and put your relationship on the back burner. you're left to deal with the fall out, alone. angst.
disclaimer: I don't own off campus or any of the characters, all credits to the author/show writers.
-----
No New Notifications.
You sat in your car, one hand to your forehead as your other held your phone, the empty screen practically mocking you as the minutes ticked by.
Once upon a time you would’ve had a barrage of messages and updates waiting for you when you got off work. They’d include jokes and little daily anecdotes as well as little reminders to take care of yourself. Now there was nothing.
You could feel your breath hitching in your throat, a new round of tears threatening to boil over as you tried to steady yourself.
11:21 pm
The clock now read, you’d been sitting in your car for over 45 minutes.
It felt like your world was ending, absolutely nothing was going right for you lately.
Your department was struggling to make up a budget deficit, so you were at risk of losing some of your funding. You had only wanted to pick up some extra shifts at the café, but one of the new girls unexpectedly quit so you were working what felt like twice as much as before. You had a textbooks and assignments and a paper waiting for you when you got home. You had student org events to coordinate and a charity gala to help plan for your department’s annual fundraiser. Everywhere you turned, it was someone or something else requiring your attention and taking another piece of you and your time.
Not to mention your mom had called and left a voicemail asking when you were going to come home and visit but you couldn’t stomach the idea of looking her in the eyes and telling her everything you were dealing with and that you did not actually have it all under control like you always led people to believe. You were exhausted and overworked. Every single burden was chipping away at your resolve until tonight when a silly social media post made your heart drop right out of your chest.
Even now, swiping your phone lock screen away and hovering over the Fifth Line page, you could feel the bile rising in your throat and a shaky panic washing over your nerves.
The Briar U Hawks hockey team had won their game, which meant that a rager was being thrown across campus at the hockey house. Jules, never to miss any opportunity for drama or intrigue, faithfully recounted every bit of the night and documented it through photographic evidence that damned your feelings to hell.
The post had been at the very top of your feed when you opened the app, you scrolled through the carousel almost unwittingly. You knew you should stop looking at the page, you knew that it was really none of your business anymore. But you couldn’t help it, your heart was still in tatters and you were unable to put those pieces back together by yourself, not just yet. So, against your better judgment you checked the page. And tonight had been proof of why curiosity killed the cat.
It was a candid of Tucker and Logan, laughing and smacking each other in the chest. Unassuming to someone just scrolling through, but your eyes immediately flickered to the scene happening behind the two boys. In the background there was the outline of a tall, broad blonde pressing the willowy silhouette of a woman into a wall.
Dean. Your Dean.
Except he wasn’t yours, not anymore. Not since you two broke up months ago.
You had unconsciously been drifting away from him, something that haunted you even now. You had been tired and exhausted back then, pushing yourself too hard and it had taken a toll on your relationship. You had been ignoring messages, canceling dates and pushing Dean out to make room for everything else going on in your life. He could never reach you and every time he had tried to turn up and check on you, you turned him away. It all came to a head during a party you had been practically dragged to by your friends.
———
You had walked in and immediately noticed your boyfriend standing at the kitchen bar, watching as some girl was pouring alcohol into Tucker’s mouth while her friends cheered them on. One of the girls put her hand on Dean’s bicep, trying to get his attention. You stood there and stared, something akin to jealousy and annoyance flooding your features. As if feeling your presence in the doorway, Dean looked up and made eye contact right away.
Your feet felt like concrete bricks holding you in place as he made his way over, your friends having walked away momentarily to give the two of you some much-needed space. The tension was palpable between you two, like there was so much unsaid just waiting to spill over.
“I didn’t think you weren’t coming,” Dean said coolly.
“Why, didn’t want me to see your entourage of puck bunnies?” You scoffed, eyebrows shooting up to your hairline.
“More like I wasn’t even sure I still had a girlfriend, considering my messages have gone unanswered,” Dean was staring at you with an unnamed intensity burning in his eyes.
“You’re sure acting like you don’t have a girlfriend right now, wouldn’t you say?” You were getting progressively heated.
Dean rubbed his hand over his face, you noticed the shadows lingering under his eyes.
“Fucking hell, Y/N. I don’t want any of those girls, I want you. But you’re too busy to notice that,” Dean countered, his tone almost bitter.
“I can’t just stop what I’m doing, Dean! I have commitments and people relying on me."
“Last time I checked I was one of those commitments, Y/N.” Dean finished.
Silence stretched between the two of you, the meaning of his words hanging over you as your eyes began to fill with frustrated tears. He was right, you had been putting your relationship on the back burner. But that didn’t stop the hurt from flaring up inside you.
“And again, nothing. Maybe that’s all we were ever meant to be,” Dean sounded deflated.
“You—you don’t mean that,” your voice quivered, the reality of what was happening sinking in.
“Call me when you figure it out, Y/N. For now I think it’s best we walk away,” Dean couldn’t meet your eyes anymore, his gaze downward.
You could feel the anxiety crawling up, your lip trembling and vision blurring as tears gathered at your lash line.
You couldn’t bear to be in that house any longer. You spun around on your heel, and ran out of that kitchen and into the night air, your friends chasing after you as you passed by.
Dean could only stare sullenly at your retreating figure, a mix of regret and deep anguish filling him at once.
———
As you finally made your way out of your car and up the stairs of your building, the sound of light music playing could be heard in your apartment’s hallway. It would’ve brought a smile to your face any other time. But the sadness was beginning to morph into exhaustion, your emotions having wreaked their havoc on your body.
All you wanted was your bed, but you had a seemingly never-ending list of things to do before you could even consider sleep. You fumbled around as you slid your key into the lock, turning the knob and preparing yourself to face your roommate’s inquiry.
“Hey, you’re back! I made—oh whoa, you’ve been crying. Y/N what happened?” Your roommate, Layla, turned down the music before walking closer and gingerly resting her hand on your shoulder.
“Nothing, it’s nothing,” you weren’t sure if you were convincing her or yourself.
“It’s not nothing if you’re crying, you hardly ever cry,” she looked like she didn’t believe you.
Well, at least not in front of other people, you thought.
You stayed silent, it was easier that way if you just didn’t explain that you were still missing your ex months later. Your glossy eyes were fixated on the floor, unable to meet your Layla’s expectant gaze. She wasn’t going to drop this.
You sighed, pulling your phone out of your pocket and opening your social media. You pulled up the photo on the Fifth Line page that had set off the cascade of emotional turmoil and distress, almost reluctantly flipping the screen so Layla could see.
“Oh, Y/N. I’m so sorry,” sympathy coated every word. For some reason, it felt like a twist of the knife.
“It’s fine, it’s fine,” you murmured, your throat was turning scratchy from all the crying.
“It’s not fine, I’d be upset too if I saw a very public picture of my ex with a girl wrapped around him.”
You shrugged silently, as if resigned to feel this way.
“You miss him, don’t you?” Layla said softly.
“I don’t get to miss him, he has someone else now. Clearly, he doesn’t miss me,” you practically spat, the last part burning like acid as it rolled off your tongue.
“I don’t think you’re being fair to yourself. I know you blame yourself for what happened, but Beau said Dean was a mess without you, you know,”
“I know what Beau said, but this says otherwise,” you held up your phone in the air.
“Layla, I appreciate you and Beau being there for me. But I’m not what he wants anymore, I need to just get over it and move on,”
“But—”
“There’s no buts. I messed up, he ended it, he doesn’t want me. He moved on. It’s time I do the same. Besides, I have so many things to worry about, I don't have time to be sad right now. I can't change what happened and I can't just make it okay again so now I just want to drop it please," you practically begged at the end.
You could feel the tears as they started to track down your face, your emotions betraying you as it felt like the world was closing in on you.
“Y/N wait,” Layla called after you, but you had already turned away.
You didn’t want to continue the conversation, rushing into your room and letting the door slam as you threw yourself into your bed. You didn’t even wait to make sure your roommate’s music turned back on before breaking down for the second time that night. Your chest was heaving as you uncontrollably sobbed, your eyes aching and throat raw.
He moved on.
You’d have to accept that.
It was a cycle you kept repeating, telling yourself to move on and trying to distract yourself with everything else in your life. You kept praying it would stick, however it never helped nor did it ever stop the hurt that seemed to follow you everywhere. You still loved him, but you'd lost him.
Summary: Eight years ago, John Tucker and Y/N L/N fell in love. Unfortunately, they realized it three weeks before graduation. With Y/N leaving Briar for a journalism internship and John staying behind to figure out his future, they did what seemed easiest at the time—they walked away. Now, eight years later, a reunion weekend brings the old Briar crew back together. John is expecting nothing more than beer, hockey stories, and a trip down memory lane. What he isn't expecting is Y/N. The girl he never forgot. The woman he can't stop staring at. And the second chance he never thought he'd get. Sometimes timing is everything. Sometimes it's worth waiting eight years for.
You are in love with Garrett Graham BUT he's your bestfriend's boyfriend. You did'nt wanted everyone to know so one evening when your friends cornerned you about your love life, you lied about dating John Logan. As he is in love with Hannah you made the deal to play pretend so everyone could get off your both backs.
Pairing — John Logan (Off Campus Series) x Former!Gymnast!Reader
Written with black fem!readers in mind, however limited physical descriptions, so it is still open to most!
Warnings: 18+ Content MDNI! Eventual smut in chapters 3 & 4, sexual fantasies, wet dreams, unprotected p in v, car sex, slight masochism from both the reader and Logan, you might hate him in 'The Breakup', previous eating disorder, graphic depictions of a knee injury/surgery, self-deprecating thoughts, small panic attack, John Logan is an idiot, open ended in case I want to rewrite season 2 for this fic (who knows), some angst, some fluff
Chapters indicated with * signify sexual content
Meet The Reader!!
Summary/Prologue
The MeetCute
The Newspaper
The Milkshake*
The Breakup*
The Cold Turkey
The Leftovers
The Terms & Conditions*
The Games
The End???
A/N: OKAYYYY I got all the chapter names figured out (which was harder than you'd think). I settled on keeping the name for a couple episodes from the show because they were the most fitting for what I have planned to write. Thank you for sticking with me while I work out writing for my first ever fic. If it becomes questionable or just simply...not good, please feel free to leave some constructive feedback in my inbox, I need as much help as I can get!
He was sitting on the couch at the hockey house with his feet on the coffee table, half-listening to Dean tell a story that had started as a complaint about laundry and somehow became a full legal argument against fitted sheets. Garrett was in the kitchen making toast he did not need, Tucker was half-asleep in the armchair with a mug of tea balanced dangerously on his knee, and Logan was about four minutes away from calling it a night when his phone buzzed against his thigh.
He glanced down.
cherry 🍒
His body reacted before his brain had the chance to be normal about it.
That was becoming a problem. He looked around the room, hoping that Dean’s sixth sense for gossip hadn’t been activated. Luckily, he was still ranting about scent beads and which ones made his 24-carat skin itch.
He unlocked the phone
cherry 🍒
hi mechanic!! very sorry to ask this so late but do you and/or your truck have availability tomorrow morning for a very small livestock-related favour?
not dangerous livestock. mostly decorative. emotionally manipulative, though.
Logan stared at the message.
Read it again.
Then a third time, because surely “livestock-related favour” had not been part of his life ten seconds ago.
Across from him, Dean paused mid-rant, “You got your girl face.”
Logan locked his phone immediately, “I don’t have a girl face.”
“You do. It’s softer. Also suspicious.”
Garrett walked back in with toast, “Is it Cherry?”
Logan looked up, “Why would you assume that?”
“Because you lock your phone like it’s state evidence every time she texts.”
Dean leaned over the back of the couch, “What’d she say?”
“Nothing.”
Dean gasped, “She sent a nude.”
“She did not send a nude.”
“You answered too fast.”
Logan stood, because continuing this conversation from a seated position felt like giving them an advantage they didn’t need, “She needs help tomorrow.”
“With what?” Tucker asked, eyes still closed.
Logan looked at his phone again.
Then said, flatly, “Livestock.”
Tucker opened one eye.
Garrett stopped chewing.
Dean’s face lit up like Christmas had arrived early and shirtless.
“Sorry,” Dean said, “Did you say livestock?”
Logan ignored him and typed back.
Mechanic 🔧
Define small livestock.
The reply came almost immediately.
cherry 🍒
Winston.
Logan waited for what seemed like an obviously necessary follow up. There was none.
Mechanic 🔧
Who is Winston?
cherry 🍒
Clementine’s baby.
Logan stared at the phone.
Mechanic 🔧
Who is Clementine?
cherry 🍒
my childhood goat.
She was very elegant.
Winston is her son and a criminal.
Dean, who had silently crept close enough to read over Logan’s shoulder, made an unholy noise.
Logan shoved him away, “Stop.”
“Her childhood goat,” Dean repeated, delighted, “Bro, your girl has lore.”
“She’s not my girl.”
Garrett, Tucker, and Dean all looked at him; their silence worse than mockery.
cherry 🍒
sorry that sounds insane without context.
Mechanic 🔧
A little.
cherry 🍒
so basically. Winston is supposed to go to this children’s learning farm tomorrow because they’re doing a farm animals module and he is very good with children once he’s decided they aren’t trying to disrespect him.
normally Nana and Granddad would do transport because the big Boston farm has the proper van and crate situation but it’s last minute and they can’t. I said yes weeks ago and then forgot the transport was not magically attached to the promise.
I cannot drive him myself because Cherry can’t fit him and any rental company would almost certainly object to a goat.
But you have a truck.
And hands.
And mechanical intelligence.
A second later, his phone pinged before he could process that this girl had mentioned his hands and a goat in the same text thread.
cherry 🍒
that sounded like I’m objectifying your truck and hands. I apologise.
Logan read the messages twice, his mouth fighting a smile.
Mechanic 🔧
You’re asking me to transport a goat?
cherry 🍒
Clementine’s son.
Mechanic 🔧
Who is a goat.
cherry 🍒
Yes but it’s different.
Logan sat back down slowly.
Dean leaned in again, “Tell her yes.”
Logan jumped and covered the screen with one hand, “You don’t even know what she’s asking.”
“She’s asking you to be a farm boy tomorrow. Say yes.”
“I’m not a farm boy.”
“You’re gonna be.”
Garrett sat on the arm of the couch, “Is this the goat transport thing Wellsy mentioned?”
Logan looked up, “Hannah knows about this?”
Garrett shrugged, “She said she has a goat problem sometimes.”
“A goat problem sometimes,” Logan repeated.
Tucker, still mostly horizontal, lifted his mug without opening his eyes, “Sounds like a euphemism.”
“It’s not,” Logan said.
“Could be.”
“It’s literally a goat.”
“That’s what makes it good.”
Logan ignored them again and typed.
Mechanic 🔧
What time?
cherry 🍒
really?
like really really?
because you can absolutely say no. I know this is a weird favour and you did not sign up for Winston-related transportation when you gave me your number.
Mechanic 🔧
What time, Cherry?
There was another pause and Logan had to mentally lasso his brain from conjuring up the image of you at home, bundled up in your pajamas, biting your lip as you texted him.
cherry 🍒
8:15?
I will bring coffee.
Your favourite.
Which I don’t know yet.
What is your favourite coffee?
Mechanic 🔧
Anything’s fine.
cherry 🍒
That is not a coffee order.
Logan smiled despite himself.
Mechanic 🔧
Black coffee.
cherry 🍒
That is a cry for help.
Mechanic 🔧
Cherry.
cherry 🍒
Size? Roast? Hot or iced? Do you have a preference for milk? Sugar? Cinnamon? Are you anti-syrup or just pretending to be tough?
I am bribing you. Please let me do it properly.
Logan leaned back into the couch, aware of Dean watching him like a spectator at a tennis match.
Mechanic 🔧
Large hot coffee. Two sugars.
cherry 🍒
see? progress.
Do you want breakfast?
Mechanic 🔧
No.
cherry 🍒
That was too fast.
I’m bringing a croissant.
Mechanic 🔧
Then why ask?
cherry 🍒
Consent.
Logan laughed quietly, shaking his head.
Dean slapped Garrett’s arm and whispered, “He laughed at his phone.” That got him kicked without Logan looking up.
cherry 🍒
thank you, mechanic. genuinely. Winston and I appreciate you very much.
Winston will not express that respectfully because he was raised with too much confidence.
Mechanic 🔧
I’ll be there at 8:15.
cherry 🍒
okay!!
wear shoes you can live without.
Logan looked at that last message for a long moment, his mind suddenly reaching the moment 10 seconds late. He was going to pick up a girl that made his chest do very, weird, “just-friends” leaps. To transport a goat.
He locked his phone.
Garrett looked at him. “You’re going.”
“Yeah.”
“To transport a criminal goat.”
“Yeah.”
Dean leaned back dramatically. “Love changes a man.”
“She bribed me with coffee.”
“Love and caffeine.”
“She needs help.”
Garrett’s expression softened and he nodded, understanding enough that Logan hated him for it. Dean did not soften. Dean grinned.
“Your girl needs livestock support, and you’re providing livestock support.”
“She’s not my girl.”
Tucker opened both eyes this time, looked at Logan for one long, unimpressed second, and closed them again.
“Sure, man.”
Logan went to bed thirty minutes later and dreamed, annoyingly, of red ribbons, trailer straps, and goats with criminal records.
By 8:08 the next morning, he was pulling into the long gravel driveway of the small holding where you had told him to meet you.
It was not the big Boston farm, which was something he learnt minutes before leaving, this was “one of the smaller places,” which, to Logan, still looked like something from a lifestyle magazine about people who owned extremely good boots.
The low wooden gates had creaked open; he barely caught the copper hardware glinting in the pale morning light as he drove through, but he did notice the gravel of the driveway leading up to the entrance had been perfectly raked, and each structure of the yard had gentle, hand-carved crests etched into the wood.
There was a white farmhouse at the end of the drive, a red barn with clean black trim, a fenced paddock to the right, and a cluster of outbuildings that all looked more expensive than the hockey house despite being designed for animals.
Logan parked near the barn and cut the engine.
For one second, he stayed in the truck. Just looking around him.
A goat-related favour. Fine. He could do that. He could move things. He could drive. He could check straps and make sure nothing dangerous happened. He had been raised around tools, engines, towing weights, the basic principle that a truck was only useful if the person driving it knew what they were doing.
He could handle a goat.
Probably.
Then the barn door opened, a slow creak emanating from the bright red, black trimmed sliding door. And you stepped out.
Logan forgot the goat.
You were wearing denim shorts, not too short but short enough to make his morning a little more complicated, a fitted white baby tee with tiny cherries printed across the chest, and old brown boots that had clearly seen dirt, scuffed slightly on the leather soles.
Your hair was tied back with a red ribbon that should have looked impractical but somehow stayed in place, gold hoops in your ears, a little necklace at your collarbone, and your lips tinted cherry-red even though you were standing outside a barn before nine in the morning.
In one hand, you held two coffees.
In the other, a paper bag.
A canvas tote hung from your shoulder, decorated with embroidered cherries, Logan could already see a lead rope, a folded towel, a packet of wipes, and what appeared to be a small bag of animal treats poking out of the top.
You spotted his truck and brightened immediately. Physically brightened, like you had taken a straw to the sun and ingested its rays.
Logan’s hand tightened on the steering wheel, he dropped his forehead to his knuckles.
“Oh, I’m cooked,” he muttered to himself.
Then he got out, like the big boy he was.
“Hi!” you called, walking toward him with careful steps over the gravel. “Good morning. Thank you again. I brought the coffee and the croissant and also a banana, but the banana is technically for Winston if bribery becomes necessary.”
Logan shut the truck door, “Will it be necessary?”
“Yes.”
“For the goat.”
“For Winston.”
“Right.”
You handed him the coffee with both hands, like it was an offering.
“Large hot coffee, two sugars. I did not get milk because you didn’t specify it, and I didn’t want to assume your dairy boundaries.”
“My dairy boundaries are fine.”
“Noted for future bribes.”
Future.
His hand paused mid-acceptance while the word sat there for half a second longer than it needed to. You seemed to realise it too, because you blinked, then lifted the paper bag quickly. “Croissant.”
“Thanks.”
“You don’t have to eat it now.”
“I figured.”
“But you should eat something at some point because goat transport is tiring.”
Logan took the bag. “You say that like you’ve done it a lot.”
“I have.”
He looked past you toward the barn. “Where is the criminal?”
Your face changed. It softened first, then became stern in a way that was still somehow sweet.
“Winston is in the side pen. And he is not a criminal in the legal sense.”
“In the illegal sense?”
“He has tendencies.”
“Great.”
You turned toward the barn, and Logan followed.
Inside, the air shifted cool and earthy, full of hay, wood, clean straw, and the faint animal warmth of a place that was used properly. It did not smell bad. That surprised him, everything was swept, labelled, tidy in a way that made him think of your wardrobe, he wondered if it was just as organised, and then immediately regretted having a brain.
There were laminated charts on the wall. Feed bins with names written in marker. Hooks with ropes coiled neatly. A little shelf of medical supplies arranged with the precision of someone who believed antiseptic deserved order.
Near the doorway, a framed photograph hung slightly crooked, a younger you, maybe ten or eleven, kneeling beside a pale brown goat with a little white patch on her forehead. Your grin in the photo was missing one tooth. The goat wore a pink collar and looked, somehow, judgmental.
Logan stopped, holding the cup to his lips as he twisted his foot into the dusty floor. You noticed.
“That’s Clementine,” you said.
He looked from the photograph to you.
“She was your childhood goat?”
“Yes.” You stepped closer to the photo and gently straightened the frame with one finger. “She was technically my grandparents’ goat first, but she decided she belonged to me when I was seven. Nana said Clementine had excellent taste and poor boundaries.”
Logan smiled at your expression, soft in a way where thinking of clementine didn’t make your heart ache, instead it warmed the love you had for her like a soft marshmallow to a flame.
“She looks like she had opinions.”
“She had many. Strong ones. Mostly about breakfast and men in hats.”
“Men in hats?”
“She distrusted them.”
“Fair.”
You turned back to him. “Winston inherited the opinions, but not the elegance.”
A bleat came from the side pen. A loud, demanding one.
You closed your eyes briefly, “Speaking of.”
Logan followed you around the corner.
Winston was small.
Not tiny exactly, but small enough to be ridiculous. A young goat with soft cream-and-caramel colouring, white markings on his face, little horns just starting to look like they might someday become threatening, and the expression of a creature who had never once suffered consequences that stuck.
He stood on a low wooden platform in the side pen, chewing thoughtfully on something that looked like it had once been part of a bucket label.
You put both hands on your hips.
“Winston Clementine Junior.”
Logan looked at you. “His middle name is Clementine?”
“Technically, yes.”
Winston stopped chewing. Looked at you. Then resumed.
You inhaled through your nose, unimpressed, but clearly masking it.
“Do not embarrass me in front of our company.”
Winston bleated.
Logan looked at the goat. The goat looked at Logan.
For a moment, they simply assessed each other.
Then Winston jumped off the platform, trotted to the gate, stuck his head through the bars, and immediately tried to eat the drawstring of Logan’s hoodie.
Logan looked down, eyebrows furrowed- his hand came up to tug it from his teeth.
You gasped softly, eyes sparkling, “He does not do that.”
Logan lifted the string slightly out of Winston’s mouth. He grimaced at how the slightly frayed knot had become wet and dark, “Seems like he does.”
“No, but he doesn’t. He usually screams at men.”
“Good to know.”
“He once screamed at a veterinarian for eleven minutes.”
“Maybe he had notes.”
“He did not. Dr. Patel is very kind.”
Winston leaned to the hoodie string again. Logan pulled it back before he could snap his jaw around it.
The goat bleated with what sounded like personal offence. You stared at Winston like he had betrayed a family legacy.
“You like him?”
Winston bumped Logan’s thigh with his head.
Your mouth fell open, “Oh.”
Logan glanced at you. “Is that rare?”
“He likes children. He likes Nana. He tolerates me when I bring food. He does not like unknown men.”
“Maybe he likes trucks.”
“He has never met a truck in his spoiled life.”
Winston tried to climb the gate.
You snapped back into motion immediately.
“No. Absolutely not. Four feet on the ground, sir.”
Logan watched as you opened the gate just enough to slip inside, your whole energy changing the second you were in the pen. Not tense, not controlling, but focused. You moved like someone who knew exactly how close to stand and when not to reach. Your voice changed too, softening into something lower and coaxing, the rhythm of it easy and familiar.
“Come here, darling. We have a very important outing, and you are not going to make me look incompetent before nine in the morning.”
Winston backed up, bleating softly.
You dug in your pocket and held out a carrot shaped treat. He considered it, tilting his head at your offering.
Then darted left.
You sighed. “Okay. We’re doing that.”
“What?” Logan asked.
“He’s decided this is a chase day.”
Winston hopped onto the platform again.
Then off it.
Then behind a stack of hay bales.
You turned to Logan, expression very serious. “Do not chase him directly. He likes that.”
Logan nodded. “What do I do?”
“Block him in spirit. You can’t show fear.”
He stared.
You looked back at Winston. “And physically, if possible.”
That was how Logan ended up standing near a hay bale with one arm slightly out, trying to look like an uninteresting wall while you moved slowly across the pen with a banana slice in your palm and the patience of a saint.
Winston did not respect the wall.
He bolted toward Logan, then swerved at the last second with surprising speed, hooves skittering in the straw.
Logan lunged half a step.
Missed.
You laughed. Bright and breathless, cheeks flushed, ribbon slipping slightly in your hair, boots planted in the straw like you had been born there. The sound caught Logan off guard. You were not flustered in the way he had expected, not helpless or panicked. You were alive with it, amused, focused, clearly annoyed with Winston but never out of control.
“Sorry!” you called. “He feints.”
“He feints?”
“He has a strategy.”
“He’s a goat.”
“He knows.”
Winston jumped onto an overturned bucket.
You gasped. “Winston! That is not structurally approved.”
Winston bleated from the bucket like a king addressing subjects.
Logan should have been annoyed. Instead, he was worried he was currently being charmed by the little shit. By you, he knew that he was far past being charmed.
You crouched low, held out the banana, and stopped chasing entirely. Your voice softened again.
“Winnie. Come here. You have a job today.”
The goat stared.
“You like jobs.”
Winston did not move.
“You like children.”
Still nothing.
“You like being applauded by children.”
Winston’s ears flicked.
Logan looked at you. “He gets applauded?”
“He has a bowing trick.”
“He bows?”
“Only when he wants the tax benefits.”
Logan laughed.
Winston looked at him.
You did not move.
“See?” you whispered. “He’s deciding.”
“Deciding what?”
“If we deserve cooperation.”
“Do we?”
“No idea. He has a complex moral framework.”
Winston hopped off the bucket.
Took one step.
Then another.
You stayed perfectly still, palm open, banana slice waiting. Logan watched, breath held despite himself, as the goat approached with the theatrical caution of an animal who knew he was beloved enough to be forgiven.
Winston took the banana.
You clipped the lead rope to his collar in the same smooth motion.
“Ha,” you whispered.
Then looked up at Logan, eyes bright.
“Got him.”
Logan stared at you.
There was straw on your boot. A loose strand of hair had escaped your ribbon. Your red lipstick had faded slightly at the centre from where you had pressed your lips together in concentration. You were smiling with open, victorious delight over having outmanoeuvred a baby goat.
And Logan knew, with sudden, deeply inconvenient clarity, that he was in trouble. The kind that made a man want to be useful forever if it meant seeing that smile aimed at him even once.
You stood, brushing your knees off.
“Okay,” you said, all business again. “Now we need to get him into the truck.”
Logan blinked himself back into usefulness. “You have a crate?”
“Yes. It’s in the storage room. Not the big transport crate, because that’s at the Boston farm with Nana and Granddad, but this one is approved for short drives. It has ventilation and bedding and a little clip for his lead. I checked the latch twice.”
“Good.”
You glanced at him.
“What?”
“Nothing,” you said, then looked away too quickly. “It’s just nice when people don’t make me feel dramatic for checking latches.”
Logan’s chest did something strange.
“You’re transporting an animal,” he said. “You should check the latch.”
You looked back at him, “Yes,” a slow smile gracing your face, “Exactly.”
He carried the crate from the storage room to the truck while you walked Winston outside on the lead, narrating the entire process to the goat in a low, steady voice.
“The truck is not your enemy. The truck is simply a vehicle with strong masculine energy. We are not judging Logan’s truck. Logan’s truck is helping us.”
Logan, setting the crate carefully in the truck bed, glanced over.
“Strong masculine energy?”
You looked up. “It’s a compliment.”
“To the truck?”
“Yes.”
“What about me?”
You blinked, then your face went pink in the morning light.
“I was also referring to you adjacently.”
“Adjacently.”
“Please focus on the crate.”
He smiled and checked the truck bed.
The crate fit better than he expected. He grabbed two ratchet straps from behind the seat, checked the anchor points, and secured the crate while you watched with Winston at your side, the goat chewing slowly on nothing as if judging his technique.
“Is that okay?” you asked.
Logan tugged once on the strap. “It’s not moving.”
You stepped closer, careful with Winston’s lead, “Is the angle okay? For braking?”
“It’s against the cab. Weight’s balanced. Strap’s tight but not bending the frame.” He tugged and tapped at the points he was referring to for added assurance.
“Oh.”
He looked at you, “What?”
“No, nothing. That was…” You cleared your throat. “Informative.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
“Informative?”
“Yes.”
“You like truck safety?”
“I like competence.”
The second the words left your mouth, your eyes widened. Logan went still, his hands curled in his pockets as he watched you adjust the lead in your hand.
Winston sneezed.
You looked down at the goat like he might save you.
He did not care about the situation you got yourself into.
You pressed your lips together, then said, very quickly, “In all contexts. Competence is broadly positive. Nana always says you should marry someone who can deal with a leak without making it everyone else’s emergency.”
Logan’s eyebrows lifted.
“Marry?”
Your face went hot.
“No. Not- I didn’t mean- That was Nana speaking generally through me.”
“Through you.”
“Yes. Like a proverb.”
“A marriage proverb.”
“I am going to put Winston in the crate.”
You moved toward the truck before he could reply.
Winston immediately resisted, his hooves dug into the dirt beneath him. You coaxed him to the tailgate, then looked at Logan. “Okay. I need you to carry him.”
Logan stared at Winston. Winston stared back. Challenging him to try.
“You said he likes me.”
“He does. That doesn’t mean he respects the lift.”
“The lift.”
“Yes.”
You handed Logan the lead, then stepped close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm. “You have to support him properly. One hand under his chest, and the other here.”
Logan bent to reach for Winston.
“No, wait. Not like that.”
Your hands were suddenly on his.
Logan froze.
You had stepped in close behind his shoulder, your fingers wrapping over his wrist, guiding his palm into place beneath Winston’s chest. Your other hand moved his free hand lower, over Winston’s side.
“Here,” you said softly, focused entirely on the animal. “Around his waist. But don’t squeeze his stomach. He gets offended and then pretends he can’t walk.”
Logan tried to listen. He did. He was a respectful man.
But you were close enough that he could smell your perfume under the hay and grass, cherry and something warm threaded through the air. Your fingers were small and sure over his, your voice low and instructive, your body angled into his space like touching him meant nothing because Winston mattered more than self-consciousness.
It should not have affected him.
“You have to support him like he’s precious but valuable,” you said.
Logan looked down at Winston.
“He knows if we don't?"
Your laugh brushed his shoulder.
“Yes.”
Together, they lifted Winston.
The goat made one outraged noise, then immediately went quiet when Logan held him correctly.
You blinked.
“He settled.”
Logan adjusted his grip carefully. “Is that good?”
“That’s very good.”
Winston rested his little chin against Logan’s forearm.
You stared.
Logan looked down at the baby goat nuzzling into his chest, then at you.
“What?”
“He really likes you.”
He cleared his throat. “Good. He’s got taste.”
You smiled. The tilt of your lips was soft, unfair in the way it made him automatically copy your movements.
Then Winston tried to eat Logan’s sleeve.
“Moderate taste,” you corrected.
They got Winston into the crate with less drama than the chase had suggested. You clipped his lead safely, checked the bedding, checked the latch, asked Logan to check the latch, then checked it again after he did.
He did not complain, just stood behind you and clicked open your door when you were satisfied.
The drive itself began quietly.
Winston bleated once when the truck started, then settled into suspicious silence. You sat in the passenger seat with your coffee between your hands, knees angled toward Logan, the canvas tote at your feet.
Logan drove more carefully than usual, not slow enough to be annoying, but he reminded himself, no sharp braking. No quick turns. He kept checking the rearview, partly for traffic, partly for the crate.
You noticed out of the corner of your eye, glancing at him from your phone.
“You don’t have to keep looking,” you said after the fourth glance, your voice gentle with unplaced gratitude.
“I know.”
“He’s okay.”
“I know.”
You smiled into your coffee when the conversation paused.
“Thank you.”
“For driving?”
“For looking.”
Logan did not know what to say to that.
So he changed lanes carefully instead.
For a while, you gave him Winston’s biography.
Not because he asked, exactly, though he did ask one question about Clementine and accidentally opened your entire emotional archive. Clementine had been born at your grandparents’ Boston farm. She had been stubborn, elegant, and allergic to being ignored. She had once escaped a pen during your cousin’s birthday party and eaten half a floral arrangement. She hated rain but loved being brushed. She had slept outside your bedroom window during the summer when you were nine because, according to you, she believed you were emotionally unstable and required supervision.
“Was she right?” Logan asked.
You looked out the window.
Then said, “A little.”
He glanced at you.
Your expression was fond, but quiet.
“Moving around a lot made me weird with attachments,” you said, like you had not just handed him something delicate. “Animals were easier. They don’t care if you’re only somewhere for the summer or for school breaks or until adults decide logistics. They just care if you show up with food and remember where they like to be scratched.”
Logan kept his eyes on the road.
“You showed up for Clementine?”
“Always.”
“And Winston?”
Your smile returned. “Winston shows up for himself. Usually in places he is not allowed.”
He laughed.
You looked pleased.
The fields gave way to a smaller road lined with trees. Morning light flickered through the windshield. In the back, Winston made a small, conversational noise.
You twisted around. “You’re fine, darling.”
Another bleat.
“You are not being kidnapped. You have attended this programme before.”
Logan glanced at you. “Programme?”
“The learning farm does rotating animal visits for schools. Winston is very good with the younger children because he’s small and dramatic, which they respect. Today they’re doing a farm animals module, so he’s part of the goat section.”
“There’s a goat section.”
“Yes.”
“What’s in it?”
“Winston.”
“That’s the whole section?”
“He’s very engaging.”
“Clearly.”
You took a sip of coffee. “Mama helps coordinate some of the education partnerships. Not all. Just the ones connected to the smaller farms and a few community programmes. Daddy says children should understand animals as living creatures before they understand them as products, which sounds intense when he says it at dinner, but he means well.”
Logan processed that.
“Your family has more than one farm.”
You went still for half a second,“Yes,” you replied.
“How many?”
You looked down at your coffee, picking at the straw that had been stained with your lipstick, then out the window. Then back at him, smiling too brightly. “Depends how you define a farm.”
Logan’s mouth twitched.
“That many?”
“No. Not- Well. Some are farms, some are holdings, some are partnerships, some are more like educational land, and some are technically not ours but connected through Nana’s side or Granddad’s old agreements.” You took another sip. “It’s not as grand as it sounds.”
Logan looked at the barn-dirt on your boots, the gold around your wrist, the cherry ribbon in your hair, the canvas tote stuffed with goat supplies, and the coffee you had bribed him with because your grandparents’ Boston farm transport was unavailable.
“Sure.”
You glanced at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You said sure like you do not believe me.”
“I don’t know enough to not believe you.”
“That is a very careful answer.”
“I’m a careful guy.”
You watched him for a second.
Then looked away, but he could see your smile.
The learning farm was tucked behind a low stone wall and a wooden sign painted with cheerful animals and curling letters. It was not large, but it was busy in a familiar, organised way. The closer you got you could see into the centre, two staff members moved feed buckets, a group of children’s backpacks were stacked near a picnic table, little laminated signs marked animal areas, and a woman in green overalls and greying hair tied into a braid stood near the entrance with a clipboard.
She waved the moment she saw the truck. You waved back, instantly bright.
“That’s Marian,” you chirped. “She coordinates the visits. She loves Winston, but she pretends she doesn’t because he once ate the corner of her attendance sheet.”
Logan parked where you directed him.
Before he even got out, Marian was already approaching with a smile.
“Cherry!” she called. “You made it.”
You hopped out of the truck, coffee abandoned in the cup holder, “Yes. Sorry. Logistics were a little last-minute, but Winston has arrived emotionally intact.”
Marian laughed and hugged you like someone you’d known for years, “He usually does. Where is the little tyrant?”
“In the back.”
Logan got out offering her a polite wave, one hand braced on his door, Marian waved back, nodding while glancing at you approvingly. You didn’t notice, more focussed on Logan who had started towards the truck bed.
Marian’s eyes flicked to him.
Then back to you.
Her smile changed knowingly.
“Oh,” she said. “And is this the boyfriend?”
You froze. Completely. Logan’s hand paused on the tailgate latch.
For one impossibly long second, nobody moved except Winston, who bleated from inside the crate as if delighted by social destruction.
Your mouth opened.
“No,” you blurted, too quickly. You buffered, horrified by how fast you had said it.
Logan looked down at the latch because if he looked at your face, he was going to smile, and that felt unkind.
“Not no like-” you continued, already spiralling. “I mean, not that there would be anything wrong with- Logan is- he’s my friend. My very helpful friend. He has a truck. And hands. For carrying Winston! I mean-”
Marian’s eyebrows lifted with delighted restraint.
Logan bit the inside of his cheek.
You were bright red now. “He helped very kindly,” you added, as if determined to make it worse. “He woke up early, and he let me bribe him with coffee, and he knew how to secure the crate properly without making me feel silly for asking twice, and Winston likes him, which is actually significant because Winston has strong opinions about men, not that Logan is significant only because of Winston, obviously, he is significant as a person, all people are significant, but-”
“Cherry,” Logan called softly, mid-lean towards Winston, who had mysteriously gone silent.
You stopped, eyes flicking to him. He gave you a small smile that made your shoulders lower by half an inch.
Marian, who had absolutely seen everything she needed to see, smiled warmly. “Helpful friends are very useful.”
“Yes,” you said faintly. “They are.”
Logan opened the tailgate and checked Winston before unfastening the straps. The goat looked entirely pleased with himself, as if he had personally arranged the misunderstanding.
“You okay, buddy?” Logan muttered.
Winston bleated.
“Yeah, thought so.”
You stepped beside him, still pink-cheeked but trying very hard to recover professionalism. “We should bring him to the small pen first. The children don’t arrive for twenty minutes, so he can settle.”
Marian nodded, “Perfect. Do you want me to take the crate?”
“I’ve got it,” Logan said.
You looked at him quickly, “Are you sure?”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s awkward, not heavy.”
“I know.”
“And Winston shifts his weight dramatically.”
“I noticed.”
“And the left latch sticks.”
“I saw.”
You stared at him and pressed your lips together like you were trying not to smile.
“Okay.”
Logan carried the crate toward the small pen while you walked beside him, one hand hovering near the latch as if Winston might stage a political uprising. Marian followed, still smiling to herself.
“You’re good with him,” she said to Logan.
“He’s not bad.”
You made a noise, something between a snort and huff in the back of your throat.
Logan glanced at you. “What?”
“He is bad. You’re just being polite.”
Winston bleated from inside the crate.
“Do not act wounded,” you told him, “You know what you are.”
At the pen, Logan set the crate down carefully. You crouched to open it, murmuring softly to Winston before letting him step out. He emerged with great dignity, shook himself once, then immediately tried to eat the edge of Marian’s clipboard.
Marian pulled it away, “Absolutely not.”
You sighed, fingers pressed to the bridge of your nose, “of course he remembers.”
“He holds grudges.”
“He gets that from Clementine.”
“Clementine was a lady.”
“Clementine once climbed onto Nana’s dining table.”
“Still a lady.”
Logan watched the two of you bicker over goat lineage with the sober familiarity of people discussing a family member.
It should have been ridiculous. It was ridiculous. But he also realised this was not an aesthetic. Not a quirk designed to make you interesting. The goats, the farms, Clementine, Winston, the education modules, the way you checked latches and knew his tricks and spoke to him like a difficult cousin - this was a real, full part of your life.
A whole world Logan had only glimpsed from the outside, full of rules and routines and strange wealth you treated as logistics rather than status. And you had called him into it.
Winston settled into the pen after only one attempt at escape, which you predicted and blocked with your foot without even pausing your conversation with Marian.
Logan saw it happen. So did Marian.
The older woman laughed. “Still got it.”
You looked down at Winston, narrowing your eyes at the baby goat, who had the audacity to look innocent.
“I was trained by his mother.”
Marian turned toward Logan, “Clementine was her shadow when she was little.”
Your face softened, but you looked embarrassed too, “Marian.”
“She was. Followed her everywhere.” Marian smiled at Logan, “Cherry used to come here when she was tiny, all ribbons and muddy knees, telling every child within hearing distance that goats were emotionally intelligent and deserved better public images.”
Logan looked at you, pressing his lips together as he nodded. You covered your face briefly with one hand, pointedly avoiding his gaze.
“I was eight.” The defence was weak, and muffled by your hand
“You were correct,” Marian said.
Logan’s mouth curved, “Goats do have bad PR.”
You lowered your hand just enough to look at him.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Winston does not help the cause, but broadly, yes.”
Winston sneezed.
The first group of children arrived ten minutes later, escorted by two teachers and armed with the sort of excitement that made all small animals either beloved or doomed. Winston transformed immediately. It was almost alarming. The criminal goat from the barn became a patient, charming little ambassador, standing calmly while Marian explained basic goat care and you crouched beside a nervous child to show her how to hold out a flat palm.
Logan stood back near the fence, watching.
You were good with the kids too. Of course you were.
Not in a sugary way, the way where you would give them fake ideals and promises based on hypotheticals. In a calm, genuine way that treated their questions like they mattered.
“Does he bite?”
“He can nibble if your fingers look like snacks, so we keep our palms flat.”
“Is he a baby?”
“He’s young, yes, but he thinks he is a senior manager.”
“Why is his name Winston?”
“Because his mother was Clementine, and my grandmother said he needed a name that sounded like it had opinions.”
One little boy asked if Winston had a job. You looked very serious as you nodded.
“Yes. Today his job is to help you learn that animals have personalities and boundaries.”
The boy nodded solemnly and patted Winston on the head, thanking him for his service. Winston took the affection greedily.
Logan had to look away for a second.
He was so cooked. Completely. Irrevocably. Possibly medium-well. Dean would never let him live this down if he were here.
But he couldn’t find himself caring about what Dean would tease him for, or what Garrett would silently file away in his brain or even what Tucker would silently snap a picture off to use against him later.
Especially near the end, where a shy little girl, barely five years old came up to you and tugged at your shirt gently. You were crouched, murmuring at Winston as you scratched his head and offered him a treat- but you turned away from the baby menace when you felt her at your side. Smiling down at her, you offered your hand and introduced yourself, tilting your head when the little girl gave you her name, garbling slightly from her thumb that she had wedged between her teeth.
“My name is Emmy," She shifted on the tips of her toes and glanced between you and Winston- her large, blue eyes blinked up at you.
You reached for a treat in your back pocket, “Hi Emmy,” you tapped at her hand that was settled in front of her mouth, wrapping her thumb in a handkerchief he hadn’t even seen until you produced it out of thin air, “have you met a goat before?”
Emmy shook her head, blonde pigtails messily flowing over her shoulders, “No miss.” Emmy watched you rub her thumb clean, and take both clean hands into yours, resting them on the front of her dress- which was a simple baby yellow, and ended at her knees, “Is he scary?”
Logan bit his lip as you smiled at her, squeezing her hands, “Not at all,” You looked back at Winston, who was watching Emmy with wide eyes, his eyelashes fluttering at her, “You don’t have to touch him to meet him. You can just say hello first.”
You let go of her hands, and demonstrated a large open palm wave to Winston. Emmy copied, her small hand robotically oscillated in front of her, “Hi Winston.”
Winston bleated in response and Emmy jumped, her other arm curled into her side and you settled a comforting hand on her waist, “Winston! Manners please.”
The goat shuffled guiltily, and bumped his head against Emmy's hand, which had fallen quickly to her front- she stilled at the feeling of his soft, freshly washed and conditioned fur rubbing against her knuckles.
“Oh.” Emmy’s face broke into a shy smile as she giggled and rubbed Winston's head.
You looked up at Logan and grinned at his expression. To the untrained eye he looked enamoured with the heartwarming interaction. But only he knew that his heart thumped wildly against his ribs, watching you run your hand up and down the little girl's side as she clapped her hands at Winston’s bow.
When the first session ended, Marian took over with the teachers, and you came back toward Logan with slightly dusty knees and happiness all over your face.
“He was good,” you bounced slightly on your boot heels, like this was a miracle.
“He was.”
“Did you see the bow?”
“I did.”
“Wasn’t it good?”
“It was very good.”
You smiled so widely that he felt it in his chest.
Then your phone buzzed. You glanced down, face changing with affection.
“Oh. Mama.”
Logan tried not to react.
You stepped slightly aside and answered, your voice becoming softer and brighter at once.
“Hi, Mama. Yes, we got him here. No, Winston behaved in the car. Mostly. Logan secured the crate, so it didn’t shift at all. Yes, Logan from the garage. No, not garage Logan like he lives there- Mama”
Logan turned away and pretended to inspect the truck bed.
It did not help. He could still hear you on the phone with your mother.
“Yes, he brought the truck. No, I brought him coffee. Yes, the proper order. Large hot coffee, two sugars. I know. Yes, he was very helpful. No, Marian thought-” You stopped abruptly. “Nothing. She thought nothing.”
Logan bit back a smile.
A pause.
“Mama.”
Another pause.
“No, I did not say boyfriend. Marian did.”
Logan’s smile vanished into something warmer.
You turned further away, but your voice carried just enough.
“No, I didn’t correct her like that. I mean, I did, but then I sounded rude, so I clarified that he is a very helpful friend. Yes. No. Mama, please don’t say it like that.”
There was a long silence.
Then your voice softened, “Yes, I think you’d like him.”
Logan stopped inspecting the truck bed, hand resting on the tailgate.
You were quiet for a moment, listening, then you whispered, so softly he nearly missed it, “He doesn’t make me feel silly.”
Logan looked over.
You were standing near the fence, one hand wrapped around your phone, the other worrying at the end of your red ribbon. Your face was turned away, but he could see enough. The warm embarrassment. The honesty you had not planned to say out loud. The way you held yourself very still after saying it, as if the sentence had surprised even you.
A few seconds later, you cleared your throat.
“Yes, Mama. I’ll call you after. Love you.”
You ended the call and stood there for one beat too long before turning back, worrying your lip between your teeth. Your eyes found Logan’s and you knew he had heard. Not all of it, but enough that it made your face warm.
“My mother is nosy,” you started.
Logan’s voice came out quieter than he expected, “Most moms are.”
“Yes, but mine has resources.”
He smiled faintly watching you walk back toward him, tucking your phone into your pocket.
“Sorry.”
“For what?”
“The boyfriend thing. And the helpful friend monologue. And the part where I said you had hands.”
“For carrying Winston.”
“Yes.”
“Right.”
You looked at him, eyes narrowing despite your blush. “You are enjoying this.”
“A little.”
“It was a verbal car crash.”
“It was impressive.”
“It was not.”
“You called me significant.”
Your mouth fell open. Then closed. Then opened again.
“I said all people are significant.”
“After saying I was.”
“That was philosophical.”
“Sure.”
“It was.”
“And the hands?”
“For goat carrying.”
“Helpful hands.”
“Logan.”
“What?”
“You are being very smug for a man who was almost defeated by a baby goat less than two hours ago.”
He grinned when you looked away, poorly hiding your similar smile.
For a while, the day continued gently.
Winston did his second session. Logan helped move the empty crate back to the truck. Marian gave you a paper packet of thank-you notes the children had drawn for past animal visits, and you held them like they were something precious. One had a picture of Winston with horns the size of tree branches and the caption “Goat man.” You declared it accurate.
By late morning, Winston was settled for the rest of the module, and you were free to leave until pickup later that afternoon. Marian hugged you goodbye, shook Logan’s hand, and told him it had been “lovely meeting the helpful friend” with exactly the tone of a woman who had not retired her theory.
You nearly tripped over a pebble and Logan steadied you with one hand at your elbow.
Marian’s smile widened. You pointed back at her with a warm, warning glare.
The drive back was quieter than the drive there.
Without Winston in the back, the truck felt oddly empty. You sat curled slightly toward the window, your boots dusty, ribbon loose, lipstick faded from coffee and nerves. Logan kept both hands on the wheel.
The boyfriend's comment sat between you, not awkwardly, but heavy enough that he was aware every time you shuffled in your seat, fingers running along your phone case. Another nervous tic you had.
After ten minutes, you said, “I really am sorry.”
Logan glanced at you. “Cherry.”
“What?”
“You don’t have to keep apologising.”
“I know. I just…” You looked down at your hands. “I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
“I didn’t.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Because Marian can be very presumptive in a well-meaning way, and I know we’re friends, and I know sometimes people assume things when a boy and a girl arrive with a goat, but that doesn’t mean-”
“Cherry.”
You stopped, sucking in a breath.
He kept his eyes on the road, but his voice softened.
“I wasn’t uncomfortable.”
You looked at him for a long moment studying his face, then nodded, sinking back into your seat with a gentle exhale.
“Okay.”
Another quiet mile passed.
Then Logan, because he liked torturing himself asked, “Were you?”
“Was I what?”
“Uncomfortable.”
You stared at the road ahead, blinking as the familiar briar crowd leaked into the parts of the city you were driving through. The answer took longer than he expected.
“No,” you said finally. “Not uncomfortable.”
His fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel.
“But?”
You sighed, “But I don’t like lying.”
He glanced at you.
Your face was serious now, thoughtful in a way that made every part of you go still.
“And it wasn’t true,” you said, “so I had to correct her. But correcting her too fast felt like I was saying the idea was ridiculous, which would have been rude, because you are not ridiculous. And then I tried to explain that, but explaining made it worse because I accidentally complimented you a lot.”
Logan’s mouth twitched. You wore every emotion on your sleeve and didn’t realise it half the time, until you were halfway through a sentence you were going to regret by your next breath. It was endearing and startling all at the same time, and he wasn’t sure how he would survive it without eventually driving into a hedge.
You pointed at him immediately.
“Do not laugh.”
“I’m not.”
“You are, I can tell.”
“Maybe.”
“I’m being vulnerable.”
The smile faded from his face, because you were right.
You were trying, in your own painfully honest way, to tell him something without stepping too far ahead of where either of you had agreed to stand.
Logan slowed at a red light and turned to look at you.
“You can compliment me,” he murmured into the comfortable silence.
Your face warmed, playing with the aux cord, “That is not the point.”
“It can be one of them.”
“Logan.”
“I’m serious.”
He switched gears when the light blinked green,
“You were good today,” you said after a while,
His chest tightened and he fixed his eyes on the road.
“With Winston?”
“With Winston,” you paused, “And with me.”
Logan swallowed, turning away from the city, back towards the yard he had picked you up from, “I didn’t do much.”
“You did.”
“I drove.”
“You showed up. You checked the crate. You didn’t laugh when I checked it twice. You listened when I told you how to hold him. You didn’t act like any of it was stupid.” Your hands twisted together briefly, then relaxed, “That matters to me.”
Logan was quiet.
He wanted to say something light. Something easy. Something that would let both of you step back from the sudden tenderness before it got too obvious.
He could not find it.
So he settled for, “It wasn’t stupid,” replying to you with a tenderness that should’ve been casual, but instead settled deep in your bones,“you care about him,” he continued, like it was the most normal, obvious conclusion in the world, “That’s not stupid.”
Your breath caught, “you’re very good at that,” you whispered.
“At what?”
“Making things sound simple.”
He smiled faintly, “Maybe they are.”
“They aren’t.”
“No,” he agreed, “But sometimes they can be.”
You looked out the window again.
When he pulled back into the holding, the barn glowed bright in the early-afternoon sun. Logan parked near the same spot as before and cut the engine. Neither of you got out immediately, you turned to him.
“Thank you, mechanic.”
His mouth curved, “You’re welcome, Cherry.”
Your smile widened, but there was something softer underneath it now, as you were reaching for the door handle- you paused, “Oh,” you glanced at the centre console, “your coffee.”
“What about it?”
“You didn’t finish it.”
“I was driving.”
“I’ll get you another one later.”
“Later?”
You froze, realising what you had just implied.
“I mean, if you want. For pickup. Or another time. As repayment. Not as a date. Unless- not unless. I mean- coffee is broadly available in many contexts.”
You snapped your mouth shut and closed your eyes. “I need to stop speaking.”
“No,”You winced at him,“I like when you speak.”
For once, you had nothing immediate to say. Your mouth parted slightly. Then closed. You looked down at your feet, pressing your lips together in the hopes it would dampen your bright smile.
Outside, somewhere inside the barn, an animal knocked against a bucket. The moment slipped away like sand as you both looked towards the sharp thud.
“The things I do before 1pm,” You inhaled slowly, shaking your head “That had better not be Winston’s cousin.”
Logan laughed, and you opened the truck door and hopped out.
This time, when he followed, you waited for him at the front of the truck instead of walking ahead. Logan noticed, because he was starting to notice every small thing you did, and he tucked his hands into his pockets to hide the realisation that bloomed in his chest.
You started back toward the barn together, dusty boots crunching over gravel, red ribbon loose in your hair, the smell of hay and cherries still caught in the morning air, he realised with a quiet kind of dread that he did not want this to be the last strange errand you called him for.
Not the last goat transport.
Not the last coffee bribe.
Not the last time you pulled him, accidentally and earnestly, into some corner of your life that made no sense until he saw you inside it.
He wanted the whole ridiculous ecosystem.
And it was a lot to realise before lunch.
But then, Logan thought, watching you turn back to smile at him before pushing open the barn door, in the short time he had known you- he liked your ‘a lot.
Winston’s cousin bleated somewhere inside.
You winced, recognising the short scream, “sounds emotional.”
Logan stepped in beside you, holding the door with a hand pressed above your head, “Does it?”
You looked up at him, eyes bright.
“I speak fluent goat. I can’t wrangle them easily though”
He nodded once, “Good thing I have helpful hands.”
Your mouth fell open.
Logan walked past you into the barn, smiling to himself as you spluttered behind him.
King Ghezo wouldn’t need multiple wives fucking with me. You need an heir? I’ll give you one with TWENTY TO SPARE. Twins run on both sides of my family, and I would never let him leave the bed. I would get him surgically attached inside me. Forget saving a horse to ride a cowboy. Marry a king, build our own living spermling army. Nick Cannon bitchass times a hunnid. Pull a Violet Bridgerton with alphabet names, and start over at A every time we reach Z.
Please 🤣🤣🤣🤣 spermling army took me SMOOOOOOTH OUT. But you so mf real for this one 🙂↔️
Its absolutely disgusting the things Id let this man do to me 😭
Ik breeding kink would go so hard with him too 😭 juss be trying every chance he mf get. And hes the king so who gonna check him on it 🤣🤣🤣
Ugh. I love all of my stories, but I cannot wait to get to the Ghezo request I have sitting. 🥵 plus a one shot that still got me buzzing 🙂↔️🤪
pairing: Armando Aretas x Reader
word count: 1,045
notes: I apologize for any typos. There are mentions of weapons (guns, knife). This kind of takes place in Bad Boys, it's a specific scene, but then it veers from that. Enjoy the read!
“Zwwaaayy- Looooo,” you sauntered up to him with an arm wrapping around his shoulder. His body tensed at the sudden contact. “I heard that Taglin is about to come into a lot of money, and I want in,” you whispered softly in his ear.
Zway-Lo nods his head slowly, before slowly looking at you. You pat his shoulders before you take a few steps, without looking back you take your knife from its holster around your thigh and throw it precisely in between his legs. “You know how to contact me” was all you said as you walked out of the building.
Zway-Lo: time:00:00 location: Miami Harbor
You made it to Miami Harbor, an hour before the scheduled meeting time, scouting the place out, learning the entrances, exits, and any security. As you were scouting the loading dock, the click of a gun grabs your attention, you slowly turn your head and there he is Lee Taglin himself. “y/n hands where I can see them, I’ve heard all about you”
Your hands slowly make their way up “Good things I hope” you say with a cheeky smile. One that he didn’t take lightly to, he grabbed both your wrists placing them behind your back and zip tied them together, his gun never leaving you, as he looked away to his men giving them silent orders.
You turned your head counting the men, clearly outnumbered you knew you’d have to wait for your opportunity to escape. Taglin turned back to you, a hand grabbing a fistful of your hair “You y/n are just what I needed to sweeten the deal, come on” he says before letting your hair go and pushing you forward.
His gun stayed hovering behind your back, as you all walked onto the loading zone of the harbor “on your knees” he says, “and don’t do anything stupid.” Taglin left, and another man replaced him with a gun hovering behind your head. You knelt there for 20 minutes before everyone had come, you watched as people piled in, you saw Zway-Lo look at you and the men behind him,
But one man had you enticed, he walked in carrying himself with a predator-like demeanor, intimidating to most but intriguing to you. As you analyzed him your head slowly tilted to the side, he was around 5 '10 maybe taller, his skin a deep bronze, and when you realized his physique was strong, muscular, and intense, your eyebrows raised ever so slightly. You could tell just from his haircut and the way he dressed he kept things efficient and he himself was just intimidating.
You watched the clattering of the metal falling, and the money falling to the ground, the exchange from him and Taglin.
“This is what you get to keep” tagline said pointing at the man
“What did you say, we had a deal”
“Renegotiating, oops” Tagline said as he shrugged his shoulders and pulled out a gun pointing it at the man. Taglin’s men shifted all their guns to that one man.
“I’ll even throw in the girl,” Taglin said, as one of the men pulled you up off the ground and shoved you into the man. Your shoulder pressed against the man’s chest, his hand instinctively wrapping around your waist lightly helping you as you regained your balance. Your eyes glancing at him and then to the men behind him. Just as quickly as you high kicked one of Taglin’s men in the head, he pulled his karambit knife and finished the rest of them. “Oops” was all he said.
As Taglin was choking on his blood, the man grabbed his head “come here, look at me” the man pressed the gun to Taglin’s head and boom “ I don’t renegotiate” he said before he dropped the body and stood up. He looked at you, his eyes scanning you. He whistled to one of his men, he whispered something into his ear. His henchmen then lightly guided you to the empty space outside of the loading zone.
You stood there with his henchmen, overhearing the mumbles from the others, you stared up at the stars awaiting his return. You heard his boots as they clunked against the pavement “leave us” he said to the henchmen. You looked at the man, a gulp falling down your throat, up close he was even more handsome, his facial features are sharp, symmetrical, and his strong jawline framed with his groomed goatee, and his freshly cut hair.
He watches you analyze him and says nothing, he walks behind you, and you feel the heat of his body radiating against yours, his height overbearing you. “Relax” was all he said “What’s your name?” you ask ,as he cut the zip ties that bound your wrists together. “Armando Aretas” he says, placing his knife back into his holster.
You turn around facing him, eyebrows furrowed. “Aretas? Isabel never told me she had a son” You look up at him, his eyes returning the confusion, neither of you says anything just looking at each other, gauging the other.
“How do you know my mother?” He breaks the silence. The wind from the sea breezes against your skin, goosebumps forming on your arms.
“She does business with my father, I’m Y/N Ramirez" you say shivering, using your hands you run your arms, hoping the friction warms you up. He notices, and starts guiding you back into the harbor building. “Stay here,” he says. He leaves you instructing each of his henchmen. You watched as a few more of his men appeared and disappeared as they carried the bodies out.
The clunking of Armando’s boots catches your attention as he approaches you. “Come with me” was all he said to you before walking past you expecting you to follow him.
And you did, you stayed a few steps behind him, the gravel crunching against each step you both took. He stopped in front of a motorcycle, and he grabbed his jacket, holding it open for you. You slid your arms through. “Where are we going? You asked. “Somewhere we can talk in private,” he says as he zips you up, he places his helmet on you, before grabbing a spare and placing that one on himself.
to be continued...
a/n: I've had a story about Armando sitting in my drafts for months now, this isn't the one, but every time I reread it, something is missing. So I wrote this instead, which is essentially the first part of it. We need more Armando fanfics, Jacob Scipio is so underrated .a
I honestly got writer's block, and stopped writing mainly because of that, and life got busy for me too. I write for fun, so I will upload when I can. I usually hyper-fixate on a character and try to write all my ideas for them, but once that hyper-fixation has moved on, it's hard to write with the same motivation/passion.
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