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ive had this blog for awhile now but i only started writing in the last couple of years. i have a wide variety of characters/celebs i enjoy reading & writing about.
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summary: what's the worst thing that could happen when you start seeing your brothers best friend?
request: yes/no
warnings: swearing, drinking, illusions to smut if you squint?
word count: 4.19k
authors note: when I tell you I love this piece that is an understatement and a half. like I was writing it to set it up to be a series, I liked it that much. it's also to a point where I am ready to make mom and dad a series just so I can get this one. with that being said though I do hope you guys actually like this one.
series masterlist | next part
The first time you kissed Beau Maxwell, he taste like cheap beer and bad decisions.
Which honestly made sense considering the entire thing was one giant mistake.
But the frat party was a mistake before Beau got involved.
You hadn’t even wanted to go originally, but Hannah helped do your hair while Allie dug through her closet for something that was ‘slutty but classy’ which directly translated into tight jeans and some white top that now clung to your skin after some drunk idiot slammed directly into you with a cup full of whatever he had too much of “yo sorry girl!” He called out as he continued walking.
But you stood there staring in horror. Because that once white fabric was see-through now, and that meant that your red bra had to be on full display for everyone to see “shit.” Hannah’s eyes went wide as you let out a huff “I need a drink if I’m meant to deal with this.” You grumbled as both girls followed you.
They swore you would have gone home right when that happened, but instead you opted to fill your cup up again.
Then again.
And again.
Which is how you ended up upstairs half an hour later, annoyed, tipsy and actively trying to find a quieter space after you disappeared from the girls.
You weren’t thinking when you opened the door to the first semi-empty room that you saw. Until you realised it wasn’t empty.
Beau was stood there, leaning against his dresser as he looked for a new shirt for himself to wear, as he too was covered in someone’s drink.
If you had to put your money on it, it was probably your brother’s doing.
His eyes flicked to you immediately, then dropped before they snapped right back up “you okay?” His voice was soft, like it always was when he spoke to you.
You let out a dry laugh “do I look okay?” You asked as you shook your head.
Beau’s jaw tightened slightly. Because he was looking again.
Too long.
Too obvious.
You crossed your arms out of reflex and that almost made it worse pushing your boobs up. So the boy looked away as if it would quickly reset his mind “what happened?” He asked as he scratched the side of his arm.
“Some guy happened.”
His expression immediately darkened “relax.” You saod even though your stomach still felt irritated, “he just spilled his drink on me.” You ran your fingers through your hair.
Beau’s eyes flicked to your shirt again, the fabric clinging and the outline too visible. His throat moved as he swallowed “I can see that.” His voice was rougher; something about it made your stomach flip.
Without thinking, you stepped further into his room. Which was a bad idea, as you were now closer to him.
Close enough to smell him properly, beer, laundry detergent and something sharp yet masculine underneath it all.
Beau shifted slightly as he was suddenly aware of every inch between the two of you “here.” He reached for the Nike hoodie that was behind you “you should probably get out of that shirt so guys don’t look.” His words made your ears turn pink.
Because not once had you ever thought that Beau cared about what other guys did when it came to you.
You stared at him for a second too long “why?” You asked quietly as Beau blinked, “why what?”
“Why do you care?”
Silence.
The music downstairs thumped faintly through the walls. Someone laughed too loudly in the hallway.
Beau’s grip tightened on the hoodie “I just-” He stopped himself as he licked his lips “it’s just annoying, that’s all.” He said it like it was an answer that made so much sense.
You tilted your head as neither one of you moved, the hoodie was between you and Beau already regretted every second of this conversation “you’re drunk.” He gave you this look, as if it explained everything.
You shot back “so are you.“ And that got him.
A faint helpless nod came from the boy before a pause. It was longer this time.
The tension in the room shifted, never disappeared, just changed shape as if it was keeping up with the times.
You stepped closer without thinking.
Beau didn’t move away.
That was the problem.
He never moved away from you “you’re staring again.” You pointed out softly
The boy dropped his hands “you’re in my room in a see-through shirt. What do you want from me?” His question made you quietly laugh.
Because he was right, “fair,” but then you went quieter, “is it bothering you?”
Beau looked at you properly this time, no pretending, “yes” he said immediately.
Your breath caught slightly “because of the shirt?” You teased, voice no longer as steady as you wished it was.
He shook his head once “no.” That word changed everything as your stomach dropped “oh.”
Beau stepped forward without warning, it was just one step but ut closed the gap between the two of you.
His voice dropped, “you shouldn’t look at me like that.” His eyes hovered dangerously over your lips.
Your voice was barely a whisper, “like what?” You always thought he was cute, but you knew your brother would kill you if you ever vocalised it.
“Like you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”
Your heartbeat skipped.
That was it. The moment that everything snapped. The floodgates of emotion and desire flew open and everything was about to come tumbling out.
You didn’t think. You just grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down slightly. Beau froze for like half a second like he needed to reboot.
Then he kissed you. It was powerful.
Like he had been holding it back since he knew you and stopped pretending he could win.
His hand came to your waist, firm as it pulled you closer, making your back hit the dresser behind you.
You moaned against his mouth, and that only made him kiss you harder.
It was warm, dizzy, and completely unfair.
You didn’t even notice when he dropped the hoodie, or when your arms slid around his neck. All you knew was that Beau kissed you like he’d wanted it for longer than either of you was willing to admit.
When he finally pulled back, it was so he could take in the sight of you, how your lips were now swollen “this is such a bad idea.” He muttered, making you smile, “yeah it is.” Neither of you pulled away.
So when Beau kissed you again, he brought your legs around his waist before he used his foot to shut his bedroom door.
Because this was definitely going to be a case of night one and not one night.
The two of you had been sneaking around for a while now, and you made it through the summer, sneaking around the house in Cape Cod. You made it through sneaking into each other’s rooms as if Dean wasn’t feet away. And honestly, you were both feeling like you were on top of the world.
Because it was getting too easy, which meant soon that you’d both start playing recklessly.
That’s how you ended up in his car at 2 am after a late-night snack run that you practically had to beg the boy to go on.
You were sat in the passenger seat, one of his hoodies swallowing you whole. Beau was in the drivers seat, turned slightly towards you with his forearm resting on the steering wheel like he needed something to anchor himself to.
The windows were fogging up a little and neither of you acknowledged it “we need rules.” You announced as you sat up straight.
Beau quietly laughed “rules?” He cocked his head as you nodded.
Dean had asked you if you wanted to hang out with him tonight and you didn’t know what you were meant to say when you turned him down “because this is going to get messy.” You insisted even though your voice didn’t sound sure of it.
Beau’s eyes flicked to your mouth for half a second before snapping back up “it’s already messy.” He pointed out as the only thing going through his mind was how he really wanted to kiss you in that moment.
You sighed as you fiddled with your rings “okay what are you thinking?” Beau shifted in his seat to give you his full attention.
You nodded like you were in control of your entire life and not currently sat in his car after sneaking out of your dorm.
One rule should have been obvious: Don’t do this.
But neither of you said it, instead opting for “no public stuff.” You said it carefully as if you were testing the waters.
Beau nodded in agreement and your heart did something stupid because he didn’t even hesitate, “no kissing at parties or touching were people can see.” You continued knowing that it would be the first thing to blow the two of you up if it happened.
Beau’s jaw tightened at the second one but he nodded again “no Dean.” He added, making you laugh.
It earned a smile from him “yeah none of him.” He was the one you were trying to hide this from after all.
The first two felt manageable, the third was where things were going to get tricky ‘no telling anyone.” You knew that this was something he’d tell Joanna, and before you knew it, everyone would know.
Beau didn’t respond and that made you look at him properly.
His expression had shifted to something less joking and more serious, like he was actually thinking about the weight of it all “yeah,” he said eventually, “no telling anyone.” Your stomach dipped as you nodded.
Because telling nobody meant hidden, and hidden meant fragile.
Beau seemed to notice your face changed, his voice softened a little “we’re not doing this because we’re ashamed.” His words lingered in the air.
You licked your lips slightly “then why are we doing it?” Silence filled the car for too long.
Beau’s hand left the steering wheel and rested on your thigh like he was forcing himself not to reach for your hand “because I can’t stop thinking about you.” He said those words so simply.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t rehearsed and it wasn’t said as if it just made your stomach do flips.
You swallowed “that’s not a rule.” You pointed it out as your brows furrowed.
“No,” he agreed quietly “that’s the problem.”
The air between you both changed. It was thicker now; it was less about the rules you set to make.
More about everything you were trying not to say out loud. You shifted in your seat slightly, facing him fully, “Beau…” You trailed off as he looked a you immediately.
Always immediate. Always like you were the only thing in the room (or in this case, car) that mattered “are we okay with this?” You asked softly “like actually okay or are we just-“
“Already in it?” The boy finished your sentence as if he had been thinking the same thing.
You nodded, Beau exhaled through his nose, almost like he was annoyed at how true the statement was.
Then he leaned over the centre console, not fast, not rushed, just inevitable.
Your breath stuttered before he even touched you “yeah.” He said quietly as his eyes flickered between yours, “we’re in it.” That was all the warning you got before he kissed you.
Slower this time. Less frantic than before. But deeper in a way that made your entire body go warm instantly, like it had been waiting for him to do exactly that.
Your hand slid into his shirt without thinking, pulling him closer as his hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he still couldn’t believe that you were real.
The console dug into your thigh as your seatbelt clicked when you shifted.
None of it mattered.
Because Beau Maxwell kissed you like he meant it every time.
When he finally pulled back it was only slightly, resting his forehead against yours like he needed a break “rule four.” You whispered.
It made him laugh against your mouth, “theres more?” He asked as you nodded, “just one.”
He hummed against your lips “go on.”
You looked at him properly, your fingers still hooked into his shirt, “if this goes bad ever.” You said, trying to sound casual and failing completely, “we don’t ever talk about it.” Beau’s expression softened instantly.
He paused, “but it’s not going to go bad.” You gave him a look “you don’t know that.”
Beau smiled “I do.” That made your stomach flip again.
You held your pinky out and Beau stared at it for half a second before he laughed and did the same thing “taking this to the grave.” You said.
Beau squeezed your hand gently “to the grave.” He nodded.
You should’ve let go after that.
You really should’ve. But instead, you pulled him back by his shirt.
And Beau met you halfway, like he always would. Like there was never really going to be a rule strong enough to stop him.
But it was funny how that last rule really didn’t last long.
Because the girls were the ones who found out by accident.
Mainly because Beau was a football player and that meant that stealth didn’t come to him naturally.
It was nearly one in the morning when he showed up at your dorm wearing a dark hoodie and a baseball cap pulled low, “okay Stevie Wonder.” You let out a snort, seeing his sunglasses on him too.
He rolled his eyes “if you didn’t take so long to come get me I wouldn’t need a disguise.” He grumbled pecking your lips.
You grinned as you curled the string of his hoodie between your fingers “hey now I could leave you out here.” You taunted him, licking your lips in the process.
He let out a low whistle “now where would the fun be in making me go home?” His hands rested on your waist as your cheeks turned red “you’re lucky you’re cute.” You grumbled as you grabbed his hand.
It made him grin, “you think I’m cute.” He looked as if he had just been told he was the best looking man in the world “yeah so lets not let that change.”
You got to your floor as you looked around “c’mon be quiet.” You brought your finger to your lips as you had snuck him past the security desk for what felt like the tenth time that week.
Beau rolled his eyes “I know how sneaking works.” He snorted softly right before he walked into one of the random tables that were out.
It made this loud echo “do you now?” You crossed your arms as he grabbed your waist, shoving the two of you behind some corner before the RA had a chance to appear.
You bubbled into this silent laughter as you grinned, “you’re enjoying this too much.” Beau muttered as he shook his head “didn’t think you would be this bad at sneaking.”
“Usually I don’t need to.”
You were still laughing by the time the two of you got to your dorm suite.
Where you froze immediately.
Because the once empty living room now had both Hannah and Allie sit on the couch eating cereal.
With a perfect view of you and the man you were holding hands with “I knew it.” Hannah lowered her spoon as her mouth fell open.
Your eyes closed “Hannah-” Beau squeezed your hand, reminding him he was there with you.
“I knew it!” She shrieked louder as Allie clapped her hands, looking genuinely delighted, “oh my god, its Beau!”
Beau looked like he’d rather be taking a tackling drill to the face in that moment “that’s why Garrett said Dean was going on about you having some mystery girlfriend!” Hannah remembered how the hockey captain pointed it out as you were running to a lecture one day as the two studied in your living room.
Your head snapped “he what now?” Your eyes went wide as Beau groaned from next to you.
Allie gasped as her hand went over her mouth “you’re the one that give her the hickies!” It was after a party where you were in a low-cut shirt and Beau got a little annoyed seeing all the guys look at you.
So he made sure you were left forced to wear borderline turtlenecks in the middle of August “this is humiliating.” You groaned as you leaned into Beau.
Allie scoffed “correction, this is the cutest thing in the world.” She spoke in a duh tone as she placed her bowl on the table.
Beau slid his arm around your waist as your head buried into his chest, refusing to look at anyone.
And the girls noticed that immediately. And the worst part? So did you.
Because the tiny movement said more than either of you had yet “wait are you guys serious?” Her eyes darted between you.
You finally looked up from the boy’s chest to see his eyes looking right at yours, “yeah.” He nodded making your stomach flip.
Allie clapped her hands together as she squealed, “you’re dating Beau Maxwell.” It was a massive jump from when you swore you were off of guys last year after another failed hook-up.
You laughed despite yourself, “don’t make it weird.” You groaned, making the girls laugh.
Hannah shook her head “trust me it’s already weird.” She informed you “your brother literally thinks Beau is in love with some random girl while you’re literally sneaking him into our door.” She pointed out making you look up at Beau who sighed.
He knew what he was getting into when he started sneaking around with you “Dean’s gonna kill me.” Beau chewed at the inside of his lip.
Allie shook her head “while you’re probably not wrong.” She trailed off, looking at Hannah, who gasped.
“Oh my god, we can help keep them a secret!”
While the girls offer wasn’t something either of you needed to take just yet, it felt like as the weeks continued, something was changing between the two of you.
Somewhere along the way, the sneaking and fun around turned into something serious.
Beau had texted you all about how he had a bad practice, and that was how you ended up in his room without a second thought.
He was in his ensuite showering, blissfully unaware of what was sitting on his bed waiting for him.
You found his jersey and had kicked your jeans off, leaving you in your underwear and his shirt, “holy shit.” His eyes went wide as he took in the sight of you.
The first went down to your thighs leaving you looking as if you were about to be swallowed whole “hi handsome.” You grinned as you pushed yourself off of his bed.
Beau felt his brain short-circuit as he dropped his towel to the floor, forgetting what to do with himself “couldn’t you have waited until I got dressed?” He asked quietly as he reached for his boxers from his open drawer.
You swore you hadn’t seen him get dressed faster in his life “would that have been more polite?” You tilted your head, watching him turn back to face you again.
He was quick to shake his head, “it would have been a whole lot less distracting.” He countered, making you laugh softly.
Beau reached you as one hand automatically wrapped your leg around him. It was a move that made your pulse jump.
His thumb brushed absentmindedly against bare skin while he looked at you like he didn’t know where to focus first “you wore this on purpose.” He mumbled as he licked at his lips, “maybe I missed you.”
It made his expression soften. Every single time it happened. No matter how teasing the moment started, the second you said something genuine, Beau looked at you like you knocked the air out of him.
“I saw you this morning.”
You rolled your eyes, remembering how good he looked in your bed “long time.” Your words made him huff out a laugh before he lay you onto his bed.
The sight always made you squirm as his chain rested on your chin before he kissed you.
The kiss always started slow with Beau first. As he enjoyed the build-up far too much to rush anything.
His hand slid from your thigh to your waist, while your fingers curled into damp hair at the back of his neck.
He tasted like mint and Gatorade.
And god you swore you could feel the smile against your mouth when you tugged at his hair “you’re trouble.” He murmured as he looked away to look at you.
You grinned, “you like it.” He nodded as he caught your lower lip between his teeth “I’m obsessed with it.” Your heart skipped embarrassingly hard at that.
But Beau kissed you again before you could recover, this time going deeper. One hand pressed into the mattress under you while the other slipped under your shirt letting his palm spread against your bare waist.
You made this tiny sound into his mouth that made him shudder, “don’t do that.” He grumbled as his knee dipped into the mattress.
You cocked your head feeling a little confused, “don’t make noises like that unless you want me acting insane.” His warning sound have made you squirm but instead you smirked.
“Maybe I do?”
That line got the boy as he groaned before he kissed you harder again.
His body settled on top of you as his fingers traced up your ribs underneath the jersey, making your breath catch in your throat.
“Beau-“
A loud knock slammed against the door as you both froze “Maxwell!” Dean whined from the other side of the door, making your eyes widen in horror.
Beau dropped his forehead onto your shoulder “you’ve gotta be kidding me.” He groaned as he wanted to hit your brother in that moment.
Another knock came “c’mon Tucker is downstairs waiting for us!” And just like that you remembered why you weren’t meant to be seeing Beau until tonight.
He was seeing Dean and Tucker after practice “hide!” Beau whisper hissed as he motioned you to slide under his bed “not your bathroom?” You scoffed, matching his tone.
The boy panicked, “no time.” He pressed a kiss on your lips before you begrudgingly listened making sure that you hid behind where his practice bag was dropped “why aren’t you dressed?” Dean asked immediately, seeing the lack of clothing that his friend had on.
Beau looked down as he ran his fingers through his hair “sorry bro, the shower ran long.” It was a stupid excuse, but the first one that he could come up with.
Dean nodded as he crossed his arms “well just hurry up.” The blonde let out a dramatic huff that almost made you laugh.
Your brother looked at the bed, hearing your hand slap over your mouth “did your bed just make a noise?” He asked, making Beau’s eyes grow wide.
Dean shook his head as he sighed, “ignoring that are you gonna come out with us tonight?” Your brother asked but quickly groaned seeing Beau remain quiet “c’mon man mystery girl can’t be that special.”
That was the nickname the boys gave you. The reason why Beau smiled at his phone, left parties early, didn’t attend poker nights if the puck bunnies were coming along, and most importantly, stopped flirting with other girls. For weeks now, Dean had been trying to figure out who was the reason his best friend went soft, blissfully unaware that it was the very sister whom he spent mornings ransacking her snack drawer.
Everyone was trying to guess who you were and beyond for you, Beau, Hannah and Allie, nobody was going to be successful for as long as you all could help it.
Beau gripped his hand at his door “look dude I can’t do tonight but give me a sec to get dressed and I’ll be down for Tucker.” He didn’t wait for Dean to answer as he shut his door, making sure he locked it.
His head dropped as he helped you out from under his bed “next time I’m hiding you under my bed.” You grumbled as Beau sighed.
The boy pressed a kiss against your lips “sorry princess your brother would have killed me.” He sighed as his hands rested on your hips “wait for me to come back?” He didn’t want to leave you, he really, really didn’t want to leave you in his jersey looking like that.
But if you both wanted to make it through the night, you really had no other choice in the matter, “you know I will.” You leaned onto your tippy toes to kiss him again.
𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞 : john logan x sports med! reader
𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : suggestive content [making out, mild mild PDA], not secret but private relationship, hockey frat boys, probably alot of inaccuracies
𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : The Briar hockey team treats the sports medicine clinic like their personal emergency room, Logan Tucker treats it like a second home. But the team can't confirm nor deny your relationship... well until now
𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐜𝐞 : 3.8k words
𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲’𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 : Might not be my best work! but I am just getting used to the sports fandom in general. Also still deciding whether im leaning more towards book or show Logan, so I hope you enjoy my attempt at feeling out his character. diver credit : @cafekitsune
The sports medicine clinic at Briar somehow always smells the same no matter what time of year it is. Hockey gear, melting ice packs, and disinfectant.
And is technically supposed to close at six.
Technically.
In reality, it closes whenever the hockey team finally stops wandering in with mystery bruises, split knuckles, sore shoulders, or dramatic declarations that they’re "probably dying" before immediately asking for snacks five minutes later.
Which is why you’re still here. Somewhere along the line, what started as a second-year sports medicine placement had turned into unofficial emotional support for the entire Briar hockey team, half the roster had your number for “emergencies,” which unfortunately ranged anywhere from actual injuries to Garrett once texting you a photo of a bruise shaped vaguely like Abraham Lincoln at two in the morning.
The fluorescent lights hum quietly overhead while you reorganise rolls of athletic tape for the third time that evening, one AirPod in, paperwork half-finished beside you, when the clinic door swings open.
You don’t even look up immediately.
“You’re late,” you say automatically.
“Mrs Logaaaan,” Garrett sings back.
Tucker’s voice follows before you can respond. “Oh thank god, my favourite healthcare professional.”
“Can you legally prescribe me a girlfriend?” Dean winks at you, messing with his hair- spraying sweat onto the other players around him.
That makes you glance up and grimace.
“You need deodorant first,” you reply flatly.
Your comment earns a loud chorus of offended reactions.
“You’re so mean to us.” One of them whines
“You guys make it incredibly easy.”
Hockey players file into the clinic grinning like idiots, damp hair from practice still sticking up in random directions, one drags himself dramatically toward one of the beds clutching his shoulder like he’s been mortally wounded.
“See? I told you guys that Logan’s her favourite. She hates the rest of us.”
“That’s not true,” you say automatically.
It kind of is, though.
You’d known all of them for years at this point - through playoffs and fractured fingers and Dean getting banned from intramural basketball for “excessive dramatics” - but Logan had somehow become something else entirely before you even realised it was happening.
“Logan’s my favourite because he knows how to fill out injury forms without drawing smiley faces.” You snort quietly and reach for a fresh pair of gloves.
“That was one time,” Dean argues.
“It was four times. It doesn't get funnier the more you do it.”
The boys continue arguing over each other while you start sorting through who actually needs treatment and who’s just here for attention.
And from behind all of them, Logan steps into the room, looking unfairly good for someone who just spent two hours getting bodychecked into plexiglass.
His practice jersey is half untucked, curls damp at the edges from sweat, hockey bag hanging from one shoulder while he watches the entire scene unfold with the long-suffering expression of a man who absolutely could stop his teammates and simply chooses not to.
Your mouth twitches on instinct.
“Not a single one of you knows how to act in medical facilities.”
“We’re athletes,” one of them replies solemnly. “We’re fragile.”
“You’re twenty.”
“Exactly.”
His eyes find you. It’s subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice unless they were specifically looking for it, but you do. The way his expression shifts slightly the second he sees you, shoulders loosening a little like he’s finally somewhere he actually wants to be.
Unfortunately, the team notices too.
“There he goes,” Garrett says loudly to the room. “Looking at her like she personally invented happiness.”
“Actually disgusting,” another adds.
You shake your head under your breath, trying not to smile as you move toward the nearest bed.
“Alright, what happened?”
“Practice injury,” the player says dramatically.
“You got hit with a foam roller.”
“It was aggressive.”
From behind him, Logan laughs quietly.
The sound pulls your attention toward him automatically.
He’s already looking at you.
He always is, it started sometime last winter, subtle enough neither of you acknowledged it at first, until suddenly Logan had become this fixed point in your day without either of you meaning for him to.
And then, because apparently he enjoys making your job harder, he drops onto the stool closest to your station while the rest of the boys continue causing problems in the background.
You narrow your eyes slightly.
“You injured too?”
He shrugs once and glances at your clipboard.
“Are you busy?” he asks.
You look down at him. “No actually, this is all for fun.”
His mouth twitches.
Behind him, one of the guys points accusingly. “See that? Flirting.”
“We’re literally talking,” you say.
Which, admittedly, had become a problem sometime around November. Because Logan looked at you during conversations like every sentence mattered more than it probably did.
“That’s how it starts.”
Logan ignores them entirely.
“You look tired,” he says instead, quieter now.
You blink at him once, slightly thrown by the softness of it in the middle of all the noise, mostly because Logan only really sounded like that with you. Everyone else got easygoing sarcasm and dry one-liners. You got this version of him instead.
“Your team is exhausting.”
“That’s fair.”
“You included.”
“Less than the others.”
“Debatable.”
That finally gets a proper smile out of him, small but real, and it sits annoyingly well on his face.
You gesture toward the treatment beds with your pen. “Okay, which one of you is actually injured and which one of you just wants free medical attention?”
“My knee-”
“My wrist-”
“Emotionally, mostly-”
“Shocking,” you mutter, already beginning to inspect somebody’s wrist.
And through all of it, Logan stays where he is.
Closest to you.
Which, unfortunately, only makes the entire situation infinitely worse.. Because now he’s just sitting there. Watching you work.
You move from player to player while the clinic slowly dissolves into complete nonsense around you, someone stealing gloves from a supply drawer while another dramatically asks if bruising counts as a life-threatening condition.
“You’re literally holding an ice pack shaped like a cartoon penguin,” you deadpan, “meant for the kids who come for weekend lessons by the way.”
“It’s emotionally devastating.”
“You’ll survive.”
“That’s what they said about the Titanic.”
“Get out.”
Laughter breaks across the room in an undignified uproar.
Logan stays focussed on you with that same quiet gaze he always gets whenever you’re concentrating on something. One foot hooked loosely against the stool rung while he absentmindedly spun the little keychain attached to the back pocket of your scrub bottoms.
You glance back over your shoulder briefly.
He doesn’t even look guilty.
If anything, the corner of his mouth lifts slightly when he realises you noticed.
“You’re annoying,” you murmur quietly while digging through the drawer for bandages.
“Thought I was hot.”
You try to stay unimpressed, but your mouth still betrays you by twitching slightly while you go back to work, “You can be both.”
That earns the smallest laugh out of him.
Across the room, Garrett notices immediately, pausing mid-sentence and looking between the two of you suspiciously.
“Why are you looking at him like that?”
You don’t even blink.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to put him down.”
“Because he’s touching my keychain.”
“That’s weirdly domestic.”
“It’s literally a keychain.”
“Yeah,” Dean cuts in, grinning now. “A married couple keychain.”
Logan finally speaks again from beside you.
“Pretty sure married people have bigger problems.”
Dean chirps back, “Like taxes and children.”
Garrett points at Logan. “That man would thrive as a girl dad.”
Logan doesn’t even look embarrassed. If anything, he looks mildly annoyed at being interrupted.
You throw a roll of tape at them without looking.
The room erupts instantly.
“Okay,” you say over the noise, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh. “Everybody either sit down properly or leave.”
Shockingly, they obey.
You finish checking a plethora of oddly shaped bruises and superficial cuts while the clinic finally settles into a moderate calm around you, the post-practice energy finally starting to wear off.
The entire time, Logan stays close. Close enough that every now and then your thigh brushes his knee when you walk past, close enough that he occasionally reaches out to tug lightly on the edge of your hoodie sleeve just to get your attention for absolutely no reason.
Especially when Dean starts dramatically fake-flirting with you while you’re checking his wrist, only for Logan to look up from where he’s sitting and say,
“Relax.” Which is unfortunately the exact tone he uses whenever he’s jealous but is trying to pretend he isn’t.
Dean sharply bursts out laughing.
“OH MY GOD THERE IT IS, you’re actually possessive!”
“I’m not possessive,” Logan lies.
“You looked ready to fight me.”
“You’re annoying me.”
“That’s even worse!”
You shake your head, trying to hide your smile while Logan leans against the counter behind him, completely unbothered by the fact that the entire room is basically accusing him of being in love.
Eventually, when the bulk of the man-toddlers have left the clinic and you’ve handed out enough ice packs to survive a small natural disaster. You finally make your way back over to Logan, picking up the 100th incident form to fill out for the stragglers left behind,
“You sure you’re fine?” you ask eventually without looking directly at him.
“Mostly.”
That makes you glance up, you click your pen and drop it into your pocket,
“Mostly?”
He finally shifts slightly on the stool.
“My shoulder’s stiff.”
You stare at him.
“You waited until after I treated everyone else to tell me that?”
A shrug.
“You were busy.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
His mouth twitches again.
“You like me anyway.”
The worst part was that he said things like that with complete certainty now, like somewhere over the past few months he’d stopped questioning whether you’d stay.
One of the teammates gags dramatically somewhere behind him.
“There it is.”
“Shut up,” Logan says immediately.
You’re already moving toward the storage cabinet before the teasing can escalate further, only to realise halfway there that the tape drawer is nearly empty.
You stop.
Then sigh.
“Great.”
“What?” Logan asks.
“Your idiot teammates used the last of my shoulder tape.”
A couple guys cheer from across the room, “LET’S GO.”
Logan rolls his eyes at them, “That sounds like a team problem.”
“That sounds like your problem,” you huff.
He looks entirely unbothered.
“So,” you continue, ignoring them completely, “I need to go grab more from storage.”
Logan nods once.
“You can come back after your shower and I’ll tape it for you properly.”
He pauses.
“You want me to leave?”
“You smell like a locker room.”
“That’s hurtful.”
“And yet,” Garrett says from the hallway without even looking back, “she keeps letting you come over.”
Logan doesn’t miss a beat.
“That’s because she looooves me.”
“Disgusting,” Dean mutters.
You point toward the hallway.
“Go shower or change or whatever the hell you hockey people do after practice and come back in twenty minutes. I’ll restock from the storage room.”
One teammate gasps dramatically.
“She’s asking him to come back.”
“She asks all injured athletes to come back,” you say flatly.
“Yeah, but not like that.”
Logan looks up at you with the faintest grin tugging at his mouth, then he stands, tall enough that suddenly the tiny clinic space feels much smaller than it did thirty seconds ago.
He grabs his bag from the floor without taking his eyes off you properly.
“I’ll be back,” he says.
One of the players makes kissing noises immediately.
You throw a roll of bandage backing at them.
This time Logan laughs properly.
The rest of them filter out behind him in a mess of noise and complaints, leaving the clinic suddenly, almost suspiciously, quiet.
You thank the gods and take advantage of whatever time they've mercifully gifted you. Taking the minutes to do small tasks like restocking tape from the back storage room, reorganising supplies and finishing the paperwork you abandoned earlier.
By the time the clinic door opens again, barely fifteen minutes later, the noise of the team has completely faded into the distance.
You look up from where you’re reorganising a tray of supplies with immediate suspicion.
“You showered fast,” you say lightly.
Logan closes the door behind him with his elbow before answering, hair still damp around the edges like he’d towel-dried it in under thirty seconds and called it a day. He’s swapped into grey sweats and a dark Briar hoodie, duffel bag hanging lazily from one hand, and he looks far too pleased with himself for someone supposedly recovering from an injury.
“Yeah,” he says easily, walking toward you. “Wanted to see you.”
There was a time that line would’ve completely short-circuited your nervous system. Now it just settled warm somewhere beneath your ribs because Logan said things like that all the time.
You roll your eyes automatically even though warmth blooms under your skin anyway.
The corner of your mouth twitches before you can stop it.
“Wow,” you deadpan. “Romantic.”
“I know.”
“You’re laying it on thick today.”
He drops his bag by the wall with a heavy thud and sits himself up on the treatment bed while you grab the fresh tape you’d dragged out from storage, and hold it out toward him
“There,” you say. “Knock yourself out.”
Logan stares down at the tape for a second like you’ve personally betrayed him, then his mouth pulls into the most ridiculous pout you’ve ever seen on a grown man.
“…Baby.”
“What?” you ask.
“You’re just handing it to me?”
“You have hands.”
“But you do it better.”
The thing about Logan was that he got clingier when he was tired. Post-practice Logan in particular operated almost exclusively on physical contact and opportunistic whining.
You choke out a laugh. “Absolutely not.”
“But you do it better,” he complains, looking up at you from where he’s sitting. “You literally study this stuff. It’s like having a personal private healthcare system.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
You fold your arms, trying very hard not to smile while he keeps looking at you like a neglected house cat.
You stare at him for a second, then laugh softly under your breath despite yourself.
“Oh my God.”
“I’m injured.”
“You are literally sitting upright.”
“My shoulder hurts.”
“You survived practice.”
“Barely.”
He says it completely deadpan too, which somehow makes it worse.
You step closer eventually, taking the tape back out of his hand with a dramatic sigh.
“I cannot believe this works on me.”
“It does though.”
You roll your eyes, lean down, and kiss the pout right off his mouth.
It’s quick, barely more than a soft press of your lips against his, but it instantly wipes the smug suffering expression off his face.
“There,” you murmur against him. “Better?”
“Much.”
“you're so manipulative.”
“You love it.”
Unfortunately, he isn’t wrong.
Still shaking your head, you begin to pick at the tape, searching for a start, a grin breaks across his face.
“There she is.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“You love me.”
He leans back slightly while you move closer, between his parted knees,
“Take your shirt off.”
Logan’s eyebrows lift with mock dignity,
“Wow.”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m just saying, very forward of you.”
You point the tape threateningly.
“I can and will mess this up on purpose.”
That finally earns a laugh out of him before he grabs the bottom of the shirt and peels it up slowly over his stomach and chest before pulling it fully off. The movement flexes the muscles across his shoulders and arms in a way that makes your hands pause for just a second too long before continuing.
The first time you’d seen Logan shirtless, you’d nearly walked face-first into a supply cart. Now you liked to think that you mostly handled it with dignity.
But even though you have seen him shirtless before, plenty of times, your brain still stalls for a second. Of course he notices, a Cheshire smirk spreading across his face.
“Are you checking me out right now?”
You snap your eyes back up to his. “Relax.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’ve literally taken your shirt off in front of me like a hundred times.”
“Exactly,” he says, leaning back on one hand. “So why are you acting shy now?”
“I’m not acting shy.”
“You stopped moving.”
“I was thinking medically.”
That gets a laugh out of him, low and warm and entirely too satisfied.
“Sure you were.”
You shove lightly at his shoulder. “Sit properly before I ruin your tape on purpose.”
“Yes ma’am.”
He straightens up obediently, but the second you lean closer to inspect the swelling, his hands settle automatically on your hips, warm and familiar through the fabric of your leggings. Logan constantly touched you in ways so absentminded, they almost felt instinctive - a hand at your back, fingers catching your sleeve, knees knocking together under tables.
You glance down at them while peeling the backing off the tape.
“That’s not very professional of you.”
Logan looks at you innocently. “Neither is ogling your patient.”
You snort despite yourself and press your palm flat against his chest to push him back slightly so you can work properly.
“Shut up unless you want me to tape your arm to your torso.”
“Bit kinky for a medical facility.”
“John.”
You press the tape down slightly harder against his shoulder, he laughs quietly through the wince, shoulders shaking beneath your hands before finally relaxing when you glare at him.
“Abuse of power.”
“Keep talking and I’ll make it asymmetrical.”
That finally shuts him up.
The room settles into something quieter after that, the air hums softly around the two of you, close and warm and familiar in a way that makes the rest of campus feel very far away. You focus on the tape, fingers smoothing it across the curve of his shoulder and down his arm while Logan watches you with that same soft, steady attention he always gets when he thinks you aren’t noticing.
“You concentrate really hard,” he murmurs eventually.
“I’m trying to stop you from destroying your rotator cuff.”
“Hot.”
You roll your eyes so hard it nearly hurts.
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he says lightly, thumbs brushing absentmindedly against your hips, “you keep me around.”
You finish the final strip and smooth your hand over it one last time, making sure it’s fully adhered before tossing the empty backing aside.
“There,” you murmur, “Done.”
The clinic suddenly feels too quiet without the team in it.
Just the hum of fluorescent lights, the faint smell of your strawberry chapstick, and Logan looking at you like he has absolutely nowhere else he’d rather be.
You don’t step away and his hands tighten slightly at your hips while you’re still leaning forward over him, palms braced against the crinkling paper beside him on the treatment bed. Suddenly you’re very aware of how close your faces are.
You can feel his breathe against your parted lips, warm and steady
“You’re staring again,” he says quietly.
“You’re shirtless in a medical facility.”
“You invited me.”
Your eyes flick down to his mouth first and you lean in to kiss him before he can say something smug about it.
The first kiss is soft, more amused than anything, except Logan enthusiastically kisses you back. It’s not so chaste anymore.
His hand slides from your hip up along your waist while your fingers instinctively catch against the back of his neck, and the second you kiss him deeper, he exhales softly against your mouth like it nearly knocked the breath out of him.
You can feel the warmth of his skin beneath your hands, nails digging into his shoulder.
His mouth stays slow at first, then the kiss deepens steadily until your breathing catches halfway through it, a small involuntary sound escaping you before you can stop it, and Logan takes the opportunity to tilt his head and kiss you deeper like he’s been waiting for permission.
One of his hands slides into your hair, the other stays firm at your waist.
The new angle arches you against him properly now, your chest pressed lightly to his as he kisses you harder this time, slower and warmer and very deliberately not innocent.
His mouth is still curved faintly like he’s enjoying the fact that you started this, but the smugness fades quickly when your fingers slide into the damp hair at the base of his head and tug lightly.
The sound he makes against your mouth is quiet, but enough to make heat rush straight through you.
“Oh, you liked that,” you murmur before kissing him again. Logan’s hand tightens instinctively at your waist like he’s annoyed you noticed, which only makes you want to tease him more.
“Don’t get cocky,” he says, voice lower now.
“You literally started pouting for attention five minutes ago.”
“And it worked.”
He kisses you again before you can answer, his fingers creep below the hem of your scrubs and his palm flattens up on your spine, against your bare skin. The other slides down from your hair to your neck, guiding you harder into his lips, mouth parting to swallow your shallow breaths.
The paper beneath him crinkles loudly when he shifts forward toward the edge of the bed, and you can’t help laughing softly into the kiss at how absurdly obvious the sound is.
“You’re so clingy,” you whisper.
“Mm,” he hums against your mouth. “You love it.”
You pull away from him, chest heaving as you make room for his hands to skate up your sides, your scrub top going with them, "Actually...", his hands pause against you. You grin, going to press hot kisses to his neck, "I love you."
He groans at that, blunt nails digging into your ribs, just below your bra- itching to take it off.
You’re about to help him peel off your layers, when the clinic door suddenly slams open hard enough to hit the stopper behind it.
“YO LOGAN-”
You jerk back just enough to look toward the doorway while complete silence takes over the room.
You and Logan freeze for approximately half a second while the entire hockey team stands in the doorway staring in collective disbelief.
One teammate points aggressively.
“I KNEW IT.”
Another gasps dramatically.
“MRS. LOGAN CONFIRMED IN REAL LIFE.”
You bury your face briefly in Logan’s shoulder, mortified and laughing at the same time, meanwhile, Logan looks ready to commit murder.
He reaches blindly for the tape roll beside him and chucks it directly at them.
“Get out, you perverts.”
The tape bounces uselessly off one guy’s chest and nobody leaves.
If anything, they move further inside.
“HE’S DEFENSIVE!” someone yells.
“BRO WE INTERRUPTED FOREPLAY.”
“You guys are so annoying,” you groan, face burning.
Logan just watches you laugh for a second, despite the fact his teammates are actively ruining his life in real time, something in his expression softens completely.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” he mutters quietly.
You look back at him with teary eyes.
“You threw tape at them.”
“They interrupted me.”
“That sounded possessive. Maybe Dean was right?”
“It was, can't believe I'm proving him correct.”
"YES MRS. LOGAN" Dean cheers from within the pack.
That makes you laugh all over again.
Logan, meanwhile, tightens an arm around your waist and glares at them with absolutely zero shame. He doesn’t even bother to move away from you anymore, which is probably the most embarrassing part.
“Door,” he says flatly.
The boys finally retreat, still yelling over each other, and the second the door slams shut again, the clinic falls back into silence.
summary: what happens when the mom and dad of the group become, well, mom and dad?
request: yes/no
warnings: swearing, hints to smut if you squint, pregnancy.
word count: 2.63k
authors note: this was actually a lot of fun to write because the idea was like all mapped out in my head before I wrote it tbh after our last piece John Logan I figured we needed to give him something more cutesy so here it is.
series masterlist
The joke started the same way they always did with the group.
Casually, then completely unavoidable.
It was Dean who said this one first.
You were reorganising the boys fridge one night after he turned the takeout containers into a game of tetris “relax mom.” It made Logan laugh as he didn’t look up from his phone while he sat at the kitchen counter.
He claimed he was there as moral support, but it was really because he just wanted to be near you “don’t encourage her.” He warned “she gets worse when shes stressed.”
His words were met with a gasp “excuse me?” You scowled letting your mouth fall open when you turned to glare at him.
Tucker grinned as he stole the chicken wings from your hands “careful dad, mom might get ya.” And somehow it just stuck.
Mom and Dad. You and Logan.
It wasn’t even meant to be the case at first but somewhere along the way, the two of you became the glue that kept everyone together.
Logan kept track of the practice schedule and ensured that everyone ate the food that Tucker cooked.
You kept a list of everyone’s birthdays, deadlines, arguments, and who wasn’t talking to whom.
Logan calmed the chaos, and you seemed to organise it. And somehow the two of you worked perfectly together.
So of course, the jokes kept on coming.
“Ask mom if I can go out.” Dean would say as he peered into the living room where you read a book, “Logan said no.” You knew all about the house arrest Logan had Dean on because he needed to study for a major midterm.
Your brother huffed as he sprawled out on the couch, resting his feet on your lap “hey!” You scoffed, watching him grab a carrot stick from your plate, “your boyfriend is being dramatic again.” His words came as he stuck his tongue out at you.
The sound of Logan complaining about the blocked shower drain travelled down the stairs. And Garrett was surprisingly calm about it, which was saying something as he’d once sworn that Logan wouldn’t live long enough to graduate if he dated you.
Now he just complained like Logan was already a part of the family.
Which in a way, now that your dad didn’t totally hate the idea, he was.
Except lately, you couldn’t laugh at it the same way.
Because something had shifted and only you knew why.
It all happened three weeks ago.
You were standing in your bathroom, staring at the sink as if it had personally betrayed you.
Two pink lines and those words you hated so much to see.
You were pregnant.
And the world did not stop. That was the most terrifying part. It just kept on going.
Outside of that room, Hannah was laughing at something on her laptop while Allie was humming as she got ready for class. Someone could even be heard yelling in the hallway about how they needed coffee.
Normal life kept on going on, while yours had just split into two.
You pressed your hand to your stomach instinctively; it was still flat and still normal.
Nothing looked different about you, yet everything was.
You were meant to see the boys later that day for lunch and you had no clue how to tell them.
Garrett took so long to accept that Logan was your boyfriend, but this was a different ballpark.
And Logan loved you like you were something delicate that he had to protect.
You were terrified that this would break that.
Logan on the other hand, was feeling like an idiot.
He was ready to marry you, as if you asked him to go to Vegas tomorrow to do it he would.
But it felt like you were ready to break up with him.
So rather than talking about it, he picked up whatever he could. Odd jobs to fill the time that he wasn’t spending with you.
And for the most part, that really did work. He was able to make himself so busy that there wasn’t time during the day to think about what you might have been doing that didn’t involve him.
But at night?”
That was a whole different story.
He’d park his truck outside your building and send you a text begging to let him come up. He knew he could ask Allie or Hannah to let him in, but he wasn’t going to go against your boundaries like that. If you didn’t want to talk to him, well, he was convincing himself that he was okay with that.
So instead, he would hide away in his room, scrolling through the album on his phone of the two of you that you organised one day while he studied.
It had everything from the time the two of you used to sneak around before anyone knew you were seeing each other. All the way to when Dean and Tucker would crash your couple pictures, swearing that ‘your kids’ have to be in them too.
It made him laugh, honestly remembering how you’d shoo the boys away so that Allie could get a decent picture. Then Logan got to the one that Hannah took.
It was from a party after a big win when the couples were playing each other in beer pong, despite the fact that Garrett swore he should be the one to play with his sister.
Logan’s arm was wrapped around your waist as you had your tongue out, trying to focus on the throw. All the boy was focused on, both now and then, was you.
Hannah couldn’t help it when her eyes stayed glued to the sight “I know Wellsy, he loves her more than he loves hockey.” Garrett’s voice was louder than he intended it to be as he spoke.
The words made your cheeks redden as Logan tightened his grip on you “no I don’t.” He shook his head, convincing nobody, as his eyes were still on you.
Garrett let out a dry laugh “I’m pretty sure she could ask you to drop hockey and move to Vermont to become tree farmers, and you’d do it.” Logan couldn’t argue with that because it was actually true.
That boy was ready to move to the end of the world for you if you asked him to.
You furrowed your eyebrows “that's not true.” You mumbled, finally turning your attention back to your boyfriend. Your eyes settle onto his lips “we’d totally farm goats.” Your words made everyone laugh as you kissed Logan.
It earned a groan from Garrett with a complaint for you to just throw the ball. And all you did was flip him off in response.
The day when you knew you could no longer hide it from Logan came; it was gameday and also your one-year anniversary.
After the game, the two of you had plans to go out, but with the way you had been acting. Logan honestly wondered if you were even going to be at the game.
That was how Garrett ended up at your door.
Well more like in your room.
Because that’s where you found your brother sat, comfortably on your bed when you came back from getting a smoothie with Allie “oh please make yourself at home.” You grumbled letting your bag drop to the floor.
Your brother couldn’t help it when he let out a soft laugh “look are you okay?” The question made your eyes widen.
Because you were so clearly not okay “I’m perfect Gar.” You forced the lie out as you sat on your chair.
“No you’re not.”
You rolled your eyes “why’d you ask me if you already knew the answer?” You sucked at your teeth crossing your arms in the process “you’ve been avoiding your boyfriend.” The point made you feel nauseous all over again.
Garrett saw your reaction. It was like his little twinstinct to know exactly when your slight movement meant something so much worse “if he did something-” he was already getting up ready to march back to the house.
You were quick to press your hand into his chest, stopping him from leaving your room “he didn’t do anything I swear.” As much as you loved your brother, you knew that if he could. You’d be wrapped in bubble wrap and hidden away from the world. And even then he’d still worry himself sick over protecting you.
Garrett leaned against your table “then what is going on with you?” He knew that your dad had been blowing up both of your phones to meet his fiance but Garrett knew you ignored him in the best of times, so why would this affect you now.
Staring at the ground, you frowned, “I need to tell Logan first.” If you could have it your way you’d never tell your brother, and just say you fund your child on the street.
You couldn’t help it when you sighed, pulling your brother into a hug that usually made you feel better “I just need to find the right time.” You knew your answer didn’t make sense but when you were going with it.
Garrett nodded, not because he wanted to believe you but because he knew he had no choice in the matter “but please tell him before he eats himself up over something that isn’t his fault.” You wanted to point out that your boyfriend was in fact the exact reason why you were in this position.
But you couldn’t so instead you nodded “I promise I’ll tell him after the game tonight.” You nodded, forcing a smile onto your lips when your brother kissed your head.
The game should have been an easy win. A game where they could have put up a B team and still won by 3 goals. But instead, it was an utter shitshow.
Logan spotted you in the crowd immediately; he always did the moment he stepped onto the ice. But tonight it seemed that once he knew you were there, he actually didn’t want to see you. He got into a fight, was thrown against the boards and spent more time in the penalty box than actual time on the ice as the coach pulled him off, seeing that his head wasn’t in the right place.
Garrett actually pitied his teammate; he never thought there’d be a day when he thought you were in the wrong and that whatever issues you two were having would be your doing.
So when you saw the look your brother gave you at the end of the game, you knew you were to stand by Logan’s truck waiting for him as the game ended. Or else Garrett would get involved, and quite frankly, nothing ever went well when he did.
And that was exactly where Logan found you after the game “I’ll see you guys later.” He announced, no longer looking at Dean or Tucker; instead, his eyes had settled on you.
You sent him a soft smile as the boys waved at you “hey.” Your voice was quiet as your boyfriend threw his bag into the back of his truck.
He remained silent, “look we need to talk.” Your announcement almost made him laugh.
Because how was it that you got to decide that tonight was when you’d finally talk “nice to know that my girlfriend still knows how to do that.” The comment came off harsher than it was intended to.
The boy sucked at his teeth when you reached for him “look I know I have been an ass-“ Logan had to admit he was glad you had more emotional awareness than your brother “it’s our one-year anniversary and I didn’t even know if I still had a girlfriend!”
You wanted to respond, you really did. But you felt your stomach churn, and suddenly you were bent over in the direction of the nearest bushes.
Instinctively, he reached for your hair, pulling it out of your face as he rubbed your back “you eat something bad today?” Logan cocked his head, knowing that it wasn’t like you to throw up.
You spat out a glob of spit as you shook your head “it’s what I wanted to tell you about.” You groaned, feeling your stomach churn again.
To his credit, Logan didn’t push until you were standing upright again “I wanted to have some speech, but that clearly isn’t gonna happen.” you brought your sleeve up to wipe your mouth, not caring that you’d regret it later.
“I’m pregnant.”
Your words made him freeze as his eyes went wide “we’ve been careful.” He spoke as if his word was gospel.
Your cheeks reddened at the memory, “not always.” Your eyes trailed back to the truck. It was a night where both your place and his were busy and the two of you just couldn’t keep your hands off of each other. So you figured that his car was the best place for the two of you to be.
Logan frowned as he furrowed his eyebrows “this is what you’ve been avoiding me for?” He realised as he shoved his hands into his pockets, “did you think I’d leave you?”
He wasn’t angry.
He was hurt.
Hurt that you would think that he’d leave you, and especially hurt that you thought he’d make you deal with this alone.
But you shook your head as tears welled in your eyes, “i thought you’d hate me.” Your voice broke as it broke something in him.
He hated seeing you sad “hate you?” His voice broke as his hands cupped your cheeks “are you actually insane?” He would have laughed if you weren’t upset.
That was the thing that broke you. Finally, tears streamed down your cheeks and Logan didn’t think twice about pulling you into his embrace “I’m scared.” Your confession made his heart break as he could only think about how long you had been dealing with that emotion alone.
His fingers ran through your hair, immediately soothing you “we will figure this out together, okay.” His words made you nod as you looked up at him.
His eyes didn’t hesitate to meet yours.
He was still him.
He was still yours.
And just like that Logan let out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding “I thought you were leaving me.” It made your heart hurt that he could have thought that it was the issue.
You shook your head “I thought I was ruining your life.” You whispered back.
Just like that, his expression changed. It changed into something solid, yet protective in a way that made your knees weak “you are not ruining my life.” He said firmly, “you’re my life.” His words were easy to roll off his tongue as if he hadn’t said the one thing that finally made the last few weeks feel like they were nothing.
So the two of you stood there in silence as his hand rubbed slow circles on your back before his tired laugh finally broke it “I’m gonna be a dad.” You nodded, matching his tone “we’re gonna be parents.” He grabbed your hand, giving it a solid squeeze.
Before his face dropped, “your brother is actually going to kill me.” His words made you really laugh now, that was something you realised a while ago.
Logan guided you into the passenger seat of his car before he made his way to his own “you know,” you trailed off when he put the key into the ignition.
You leaned over to kiss his lips “we could always just become goat farmers in Vermont.”
He looked as if he was genuinely considering it “yeah but then our kid is gonna relate to Noah Kahan, and do we really want that?”
summary: in which your brother's best friend, john logan, helps you find yourself after a toxic breakup.
pairing: john logan x fem!grahamreader
notes: hi! my first john logan fic!! this one is slightly more angsty than normal. i hope you enjoy <3
warnings: protective john logan!
-
it was a phone call that logan really wished he didn't have to answer.
the unfamiliar voice on the other end comes in too calm, too casual considering the time of night.
“you were the last person she messaged,” the man says, like it’s obvious, like it means something. “so i just assumed you were her boyfriend or a friend.”
boyfriend.
logan exhales through his nose, already grabbing his keys before the call even properly ends.
“is she okay?” he asks, his voice tight, concern clearly laced within his tone.
a pause.
“she’s outside a club,” the man replies. “didn’t want to leave her alone. she’s pretty out of it.”
logan doesn’t need more than that.
“yeah,” he says sharply. “i’m on my way.”
three months.
three months since you and your ex tom had ended things.
three months since you started disappearing into nights that always ended the same way. too much alcohol and pretending you were fine when you very clearly weren't.
garrett had noticed immediately.
which was exactly why, when he left monday afternoon with hannah to spend the week visiting her parents, he refused to let you stay alone in your dorm.
“just stay at the house,” he’d told you, “logan and the guys will be there anyway.”
harmless.
except nothing about this arrangement had stayed harmless for very long. somehow, logan had become tangled up in all of it.
between the drunken phone calls, late-night drives, and the way he always showed up without hesitation, he’d quietly become the person you reached for whenever everything else went wrong.
your brother's best friend, the person he trusted the most.
the one who always came.
logan pulls up outside the club within minutes, taking in the scene before him. lights flood onto the street as people spill out into the cold, loud and careless against the quiet of the night.
and then he sees you.
curled on the curb.
your head buried in your knees.
completely still.
logan's stomach drops so fast it almost makes him dizzy.
“fuck,” he mutters, already out of the car.
the cold air hits him, sharp and unforgiving, but he barely feels it. not compared to the sight of you like that, folded in on yourself like you’ve been left there and forgotten.
there’s a man crouched beside you, one hand hovering near your back.
logan approaches quickly.
“hey,” he says, crouching down, voice controlled with effort. “thank you for calling me man. i appreciate it.”
the man nods. “no problem. i wasn’t going to leave her here by herself.”
“yeah,” logan replies quietly. “thanks, again.”
he nods his head, signalling a final thank you to the stranger who had helped you before his attention shifts on to you.
your skin is pale under the streetlights. lashes clumped slightly. lips parted like you’ve stopped noticing anything happening around you. your body is shaking, barely dressed for the weather, like you didn’t think past getting out the door.
logan swallows hard, his breathing turning irregular.
“hey, y/n,” he says softer now, hand resting gently on your shoulder, his thumb drawing circles ever so slightly.
you barely respond. just a small sound, half-conscious.
something twists in his chest.
“c’mon,” he murmurs. “up you get. let’s get you home.”
home.
because technically, it’s just garrett’s hockey house. technically, dean and tucker are there too.
technically you’re only staying for the week. none of that changes the way your body immediately relaxes when logan speaks those words though.
you don’t resist when he helps you up. you never really do. just lean into him like your body already knows where safety is, even when your mind doesn’t.
his hand stays at your waist longer than necessary.
he doesn’t move it.
in the car, logan buckles your seatbelt, fingers brushing your collarbone briefly as he leans in.
too close. closer than he needs to be.
your breath is warm in the small space between you. your eyes are half-lidded, looking at him like you’re trying to focus but can’t quite manage it.
logan's throat tightens for reasons he refuses to name.
“you’re freezing,” he says, already shrugging off his jacket.
“here...put this on.”
you mumble something incoherent, most likely out of protest, but he’s already pulling it over your head. careful and slow. like he has to remind himself not to linger too long when his hands brush across your hair accidentally.
you smell like alcohol and perfume and something familiar that makes his chest feel tight in a way he hates.
“how much did you drink?” he asks quietly.
no answer.
“y/n,” he says again, softer.
your eyes flicker open slightly.
“you’re always the one who shows up,” you murmur, barely conscious of the words leaving your mouth.
“yeah,” he says simply, voice low. “i’ve got you.”
silence.
-
garrett answers on the second ring.
“logan,” garrett’s voice comes through immediately. “you’ve got her?”
“yeah,” logan says, already locking the door behind them. “i found her outside a club. she’s okay. just a bit out of it.”
a pause.
then garrett sighs, heavy. “this is getting out of hand.”
logan runs a hand through his brunette hair. “i know.”
he lets out a deep sigh as the weight of the situation begins to settle in.
“you don’t have to keep doing this every time something like this happens” garrett continues. “i mean, i appreciate it, but you’ve got your own life, man.”
logan glances toward the bathroom door where you’ve disappeared and he breathes a sigh of relief as the sound of water fills the room.
“she’s not just some call i ignore, g” logan says quietly before he can stop himself.
another pause.
“what's that supposed to mean?” garrett asks, sharper now.
logan exhales. “nothing. i just mean that i’m here. i’ve got her...if and when she needs".
garrett’s voice softens slightly. “i know you do. just… don’t let it become your whole thing, alright? i'll be home soon, i don’t want you burning yourself out.”
logan doesn’t answer properly because he already knows he is.
and it’s not stopping.
-
when you get out of the shower, everything changes.
you step into the hallway wrapped in a towel, damp hair falling around your shoulders, skin still flushed from the heat. the house is dim now, only the living room lights on.
and logan is there.
sitting on the couch.
staring at nothing.
until he sees you. and then he just stops.
fully.
like his brain needs a second to catch up with what he’s looking at.
you pause under his gaze, feeling a sudden wave of insecurity wash over you as you stand before your brother's best friend, your body bare, covered in nothing but a bit of fabric.
“what?” you ask quietly.
he doesn’t answer straight away.
his eyes flick over you once. slow, unintentional, like he’s trying not to look too long but failing anyway. the towel sits loosely around your body, ends tucked just enough to be decent, but not enough that he isn’t suddenly aware of every inch of space between you and him.
his throat moves when he swallows.
“you okay?” he asks finally, voice rougher than before.
you nod slightly. “yeah.”
but neither of you move.
logan's looking at you like he’s trying very hard not to cross a line he hasn’t admitted exists.
“there’s a shirt on the bed for you,” he says, forcing himself to look away.
but he doesn’t immediately, and neither do you.
for a second too long, the air between you feels… suspended.
like something could happen if either of you stopped pretending not to notice it. then you finally break it, turning slightly down the hall.
you send him a brief smile before mumbling a quick “thanks” beneath your breath.
logan exhales like he’s been holding his breath without realising it.
and only then does he look away completely.
-
the sound of your phone buzzing against the table breaks the silence logan had found himself in.
he sees the name before he can stop himself.
'tom'
something in his chest hardens instantly and he doesn't hesitate this time, answering before he thinks twice.
“hey y/n,” tom says, too comfortable, almost too familiar.
logan's grip tightens. “why are you still calling her?”
a pause.
“who is this?”
“logan,” he says flatly. “and you need to stop calling her.”
a laugh. “relax, man. i was just checking she’s still on for tonight.”
logan goes still.
“on for what, exactly?"
“you know,” tom says casually. “to fuck.”
silence.
it stretches.
cold.
sharp.
then logan's voice drops. “don’t talk about her like that.”
there’s a brief pause on the other end of the line, the kind that stretches just long enough to feel deliberate.
“what, like what?” tom pushes, casual in a way that makes logan’s grip on your phone tighten, his jaw flexing once as if he’s physically restraining the urge to react more sharply than he already is.
“she’s fine with it,” tom continues, almost amused. “ask her yourself.”
that’s what does it. not the words themselves, but the ease of them. like you’re something disposable enough to be discussed without consequence.
logan goes very still.
his voice drops, “you’re done", drawing a line so clearly it doesn’t feel like part of a conversation anymore.
before tom can even process the shift or argue back, logan ends the call, the abrupt silence swallowing the last of it, and he places your phone down on the table with a kind of controlled precision, like it has become something he doesn’t want to hold anymore.
for a second after that, he just stands there, staring at it, breathing shallowly through his nose like he’s trying to reset whatever just changed inside him.
and then he hears it.
the bathroom door opening. he doesn't turn straight away, taking a brief moment to settle his heavy breathing.
you step out wearing his shirt.
it hangs off you in a way that shouldn’t matter as much as it does, loose at the shoulders, soft against your skin, the hem sitting too casually like it belongs there, and for a fraction of a second the entire house feels wrong, like the air itself has shifted its weight.
logan’s reaction is immediate, even though he tries to stop it from being obvious.
his jaw tightens. his eyes sharpen. his whole body goes still in a way that isn’t calm at all.
you were his best friend's younger sister, he shouldn't be looking at you this way.
“what happened?” you ask softly, your voice still carrying a hint of confusion, like you can already feel the tension in the room without knowing where it’s coming from.
logan doesn’t answer right away because if he speaks too fast, it won’t come out the way he needs it to.
and if it comes out wrong, he thinks you might finally realise just how much this has stopped being platonic for him.
so instead, he chooses the question that’s been circling him since the call ended.
“why is he still calling you, y/n?”
your stomach drops immediately.
it’s not subtle. it’s not something you can hide.
it just happens. in your face, in your posture, in the way your arms shift slightly like your body is bracing for impact.
“logan-” you start, already defensive.
his voice cuts in, sharper now, but still controlled in that terrifying way where you can tell it’s being carefully contained rather than expressed.
“you said you blocked him.”
a pause.
his eyes don’t leave you now.
“you told me you were done with him.”
you look away almost instantly, like holding his gaze is suddenly too much.
“it’s not that simple,” you say quietly, and even you sound like you don’t believe how thin that explanation is.
he lets out a short breath through his nose. there's no humour in it, just frustration layered over something heavier.
“it never is with him, is it?”
silence settles between you both, thick enough to feel physical, and you fold your arms slightly like that will make you smaller, or safer, or less exposed under the weight of the moment.
“you don’t understand,” you say, and there’s something in your voice now that’s less defensive and more exhausted, like you’re already bracing for the fact that he won’t.
those words alone click something inside of him.
he finally looks at you properly, his eyes softening as they meet yours.
when he speaks again, his voice is quieter, but it carries more weight than it did before.
“i understand enough,” he says, each word measured carefully.
“i understand i’ve been lying to garrett for months. he thinks you stopped talking to tom right after you broke up, y/n".
his jaw tightens briefly. frustration and hurt flickering across his features before he continues.
“and i thought there was only one time after that. one night you slipped up and saw him again.” he lets out a short breath through his nose, shaking his head slightly.
“but you’ve been lying to me too.”
your stomach drops instantly.
“logan-”
“don’t,” he cuts in quietly, not angry this time, which somehow feels worse. “i kept covering for you because i thought you were trying to move on. because i thought every time he came back around, it caught you off guard.”
your chest tightens immediately, the words hitting somewhere you didn’t prepare for.
“i didn’t ask you to cover for me-” you start, but he doesn’t let you finish.
“no,” he cuts in, not harsh, just immediate, like he refuses to let you take that path. then he exhales, dragging a hand through his hair once, slower now, like he’s trying to hold himself together physically.
“no, you didn’t. but i still did. every time.” his voice dips lower, almost quieter than the space between you.
“and i don’t know how to stop being the person you call when everything goes wrong.”
that lands differently.
it doesn’t fit into the argument anymore.
it doesn’t belong to his anger.
it belongs somewhere else entirely, and neither of you acknowledge that place, but it’s suddenly there anyway.
you blink once, thrown off by the honesty of it, and your voice comes out smaller than you intended.
“so don’t do it then,” you say, like it should be simple. like it should be a switch. “stop.”
he almost laughs at that, but there’s no humour in it at all, it’s a short exhale that dies before it becomes anything real.
“you think it’s that easy?” he asks quietly, his eyes fixed on you now in a way that feels heavier than before.
“you think i can just… leave you to deal with him on your own?”
“i can handle it,” you say quickly, too quickly, like you’re trying to reclaim control of something slipping.
“no,” he replies immediately, no hesitation at all. “you can’t.”
and that silence that follows is different again.
it’s sharper.
you flinch slightly without meaning to, and something in his expression shifts as soon as he sees it, just a flicker, but it’s enough, like he realises exactly how hard he’s coming down without meaning to.
his voice softens a fraction, though it doesn’t lose its edge completely.
“i’m not trying to control you, y/n,” he says lower, more carefully now.
“i’m just trying to make sure you’re okay.”
you swallow, your throat tightening around everything you’re not saying.
“then stop acting like i’m a problem you need to fix,” you say, and this time it comes out steadier, but there’s pain underneath it that neither of you miss.
that hits him too.
he looks away briefly, jaw tightening like he’s trying to contain something that wants to break through his restraint.
“that’s not what you are,” he says, almost to himself at first, then more firmly, like he’s correcting the entire direction of the conversation.
“you just keep going back to someone who doesn’t deserve you.”
your laugh is small, brittle, and it doesn’t sound like amusement at all.
“and what, you do?”
the room changes instantly. something in the air tightens so sharply it feels like it could snap.
logan goes still.
completely still.
like even his breaths are something he has to think about.
because that wasn’t supposed to come out.
your eyes widen slightly a second later, like the realisation catches up to you too late.
“i didn’t mean-” you start quickly, voice shifting, scrambling.
“no," he says quietly, cutting you off, but his voice is rougher now, stripped back in a way that shows he felt it more than he’s willing to show.
“you did.”
silence spreads again, heavier than before, like it’s filling the space between every word you’ve already said and every word you can’t take back.
he exhales slowly, and when he looks at you again, it’s not anger anymore. it’s something more controlled, more contained, but far more complicated.
“i’m not perfect,” he says quietly. “but i’m not him.”
your voice cracks slightly when you answer, because you can feel the conversation slipping into something you don’t know how to manage.
“you’re not my boyfriend either, logan.”
that should have been a boundary. clean. simple. clear.
but it lands wrong.
because he already knows.
and it shows.
something in his face shifts immediately. the words hitting somewhere deeper than you had intended.
he swallows once.
then, quietly-
“yeah,” he says. “i know.”
and the way he says it makes it worse, not better. there’s no argument in it, simply acceptance.
you turn first. not because you want to leave, but because staying feels like it would turn this into something neither of you are ready to deal with. your legs move before you can even begin to process the conversation that had just occurred before you. the insult you had just thrown at the one person who had constantly been there for you these past few months.
you find yourself walking down the hallway, your body finding speed as you feel tears begin to sting your eyes.
logan doesn’t move. he just stands there, finding himself staring at the space that you had previously occupied, realising that somewhere between picking you up off the street and standing here now, this stopped being just about helping garrett, about helping you.
his jaw is clenched so tightly it aches, and for a moment all he can hear is your voice repeating in his head.
you’re not my boyfriend either.
like he hasn’t been trying, every single day, not to become exactly that.
Summary: one random night. No names. No consequences. Except three weeks later you’re standing outside a locker room and the guy who had you pinned against a door is introduced as your fiercely protective older brother’s best friend. The same brother who makes his teammates promise to treat you “like a sister.” The same brother who will absolutely commit murder if he finds out. So obviously the only logical solution is to keep sneaking around behind his back. What could possibly go wrong?
Warnings: 18+ content
Read part one here
It becomes a thing. A dangerous, intoxicating, highly combustible thing.
Sneaking around behind the back of your fiercely protective older brother — who also happens to be the captain of Logan’s hockey team — is a recipe for absolute disaster. You both know this. You both know the stakes. If Garrett finds out, the fallout will be apocalyptic.
But neither of you can stop.
It starts with stolen moments. Custodial closets in the Briar University rink after games, the heavy scent of bleach and Zamboni exhaust mixing with the frantic, desperate slide of your mouths. You still attend the games under the pretense of supporting Garrett, cheering loudly from the stands. But Garrett is no longer the only reason you’re there. You’re there to watch number twenty-two fly across the ice.
The locations expand. The cramped, freezing backseat of your Toyota Corolla. The spacious, cologne-scented cab of his pickup. Your dorm room at Northeastern, whenever your roommate is conveniently away visiting family or out partying. Everywhere and anywhere you can find a locked door and ten minutes of privacy.
The only boundary, the one strict, unspoken rule you both adhere to, is the off-campus house Logan shares with Garrett, Dean, and Tucker. That is enemy territory. That is a step too far.
Tonight, however, you have home-ice advantage.
Briar just crushed their out-of-state rivals, and Logan played out of his mind, netting two gorgeous top-shelf goals. He arrived at your dorm an hour later, still buzzing with leftover adrenaline, smelling of body wash and the crisp winter air.
Now, the adrenaline has bled out of him, leaving a heavy, sated exhaustion in its wake.
You are lying tangled in the sheets of your twin-sized dorm bed, your head resting comfortably on Logan’s bare chest. The room is dark, illuminated only by the amber glow of the streetlamps filtering through the blinds. Logan’s hand rests on your bare hip, his thumb slowly tracing lazy, absentminded circles against your skin. His heart is beating a steady, rhythmic thrum against your ear.
It’s quiet. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that makes it dangerously easy to let your guard down.
“You were incredible tonight,” you murmur into the warm skin of his chest, pressing a soft kiss right over his heart.
Logan chuckles, the sound vibrating through his ribs. “I had decent puck luck. And the defense was practically handing me the neutral zone. But thank you. I aim to please.”
“I’m serious,” you say, shifting slightly, pulling yourself up on your elbows so you can look down at his face. His dark hair is a messy, sweat-dampened halo against your white pillow. His sharp jawline is relaxed, his eyes soft and heavy-lidded. “I looked at your stats.”
Logan’s thumb stops moving on your hip. A subtle, almost imperceptible tension tightens the muscles of his stomach beneath you. “My stats?”
“Your draft year stats,” you clarify, your voice quiet but firm. “Logan, you scored seventy-eight points that season. Your plus-minus was off the charts. You were easily a second-round pick. Maybe third, at worst.”
“Stats don’t mean everything,” Logan deflects, his voice dropping an octave. He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, trying to distract you. “NBD. No Big Deal.”
“Don’t do the acronym thing,” you warn gently, catching his wrist and pressing his hand flat against the mattress. “Even if you pulled your name from the draft, why hasn’t an NHL team snapped you up as an undrafted free agent? They do it all the time. Guys with half your talent get signed. But you haven’t even gone to a development camp.”
Logan stares up at you, the easy, charming facade completely stripping away, leaving behind a raw, tired vulnerability that breaks your heart. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the dim light.
“Because I can’t,” he says simply.
“Why not?”
Logan sighs, a long, heavy exhale that seems to carry the weight of the entire world. He shifts, pulling you down slightly so he can wrap both arms securely around your waist, burying his face in your hair for a moment before he speaks.
“My dad was supposed to run the family business,” Logan begins, his voice quiet, almost a whisper in the dark room. “Logan & Sons. It’s a mechanic shop back home. Been in the family for three generations. But my dad ... he’s not exactly reliable.”
“Garrett said he has a drinking problem,” you offer softly.
“That’s putting it mildly,” Logan laughs, a harsh, bitter sound. “He’s a fall-down, blackout drunk. Has been since I was a kid. When I got the scholarship to Briar, everything was falling apart. The shop was going bankrupt. My dad was completely useless. I was going to turn the scholarship down. Stay home. Run the shop.”
You feel a sharp ache in your chest. You look at this guy — this funny, sarcastic, wildly talented guy — and realize just how much he’s been carrying underneath the jokes.
“But you didn’t,” you say.
“No,” Logan shakes his head against the pillow. “My older brother, Jeff, stepped in. He had a great job, a life he was building, but he quit. He moved back home to run the shop and keep an eye on the old man so I could come to Briar.”
Logan pauses, his grip on your waist tightening slightly. “We made a deal. Jeff puts his life on hold for four years so I can play college hockey and get a degree. But the second I graduate? We swap. I go back, take over the shop, take care of our dad, and Jeff gets his life back. He gets to go free.”
The silence in the dorm room is deafening. You stare at him, processing the sheer magnitude of the sacrifice he’s making. He is willingly walking away from a multi-million dollar NHL career, from a dream he is actively living, out of a misplaced sense of duty.
“Logan ...” you breathe out, the injustice of it making your blood boil.
“It is what it is,” Logan says, offering you a tight, forced smile. “It’s fair. Jeff sacrificed for me, I sacrifice for him. End of story.”
“No,” you say, your voice suddenly hard. You push yourself entirely out of his arms, sitting back on your heels near his waist. The sheet pools around your hips, leaving you completely exposed to the cool air of the room, but you don’t care.
Logan frowns, reaching a hand out toward you. “Y/N-”
“No, Logan, listen to me,” you interrupt, leaning over him, your eyes blazing. “You do not owe that man your life.”
Logan flinches slightly, dropping his hand. “He’s my dad.”
“I know exactly what it’s like to have a monster for a father,” you say, your voice trembling with a fierce, protective anger. “You know what my dad was. You know what he did to me, to Garrett, to our mom. Being a father is a biological fact, not a lifelong debt.”
Logan stares at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “It’s not just him. It’s the shop. It’s Jeff.”
“So sell the shop!” You practically shout, mindful at the last second to keep your voice down so you don’t wake the RA next door. You lower your volume, leaning closer, your hands pressing flat against his chest. “Sell it. Let it burn to the ground. Take the NHL contract, take the signing bonus, and give half of it to Jeff to start whatever business he wants. Why do you have to go back to a dead-end town to run a failing shop for a man who clearly doesn’t give a shit about either of you?”
Logan looks entirely taken aback. His eyes are wide, searching your face as if he’s looking for the punchline, but you are deadly serious.
“It’s family legacy,” Logan murmurs weakly, though the conviction in his voice is entirely gone.
“It’s an anchor,” you correct him fiercely. “Logan, you are brilliant on the ice. You are a star. You deserve to see that become a reality. You don’t have to set yourself on fire just to keep your father warm.”
Logan closes his eyes, a heavy shudder running through his large frame. He brings a hand up to drag over his face, completely overwhelmed. He’s spent the last three years perfectly resigned to his fate, perfectly compartmentalizing his impending doom, and you have just ripped the walls completely down.
“I can’t,” he whispers, shaking his head. “I gave my word.”
“You made a bad deal,” you counter, softening your tone. You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his temple, your fingers combing gently through his hair. “I’m not saying you have to screw your brother over. I’m saying you have other options. Better options. You just have to be brave enough to take them.”
Logan opens his eyes, looking up at you. The raw, desperate affection in his gaze makes your breath hitch. “You’re relentless, you know that?”
“It’s why I’m a good center,” you smile softly. “I don’t let the play die.”
“I’ll ...” Logan swallows hard, his eyes tracing the curve of your jaw, the line of your collarbone. “I’ll think about it. Okay? I can’t promise anything else right now, but I will think about it.”
“Promise me you’ll actually think about it,” you demand, holding his gaze. “Promise you won’t just bury this the second you leave this room.”
“I promise,” Logan says, and you can hear the sincerity ringing crystal clear in his deep voice.
The heavy, emotional tension in the air hangs between you for a moment longer. You look down at him, taking in the broad expanse of his chest, the heavy muscles of his arms, the faint, silver scars scattered across his collarbone from years of taking hits on the ice. He is so incredibly strong, yet he’s letting himself be completely vulnerable with you.
A fierce, possessive kind of affection swells in your chest. You want to take all the heavy burdens he’s carrying and completely erase them, even if it’s just for the rest of the night. You want to remind him exactly how good it feels to just exist in his own body, entirely for himself.
“Good,” you whisper, a slow, wicked smile curving onto your lips.
You slowly slide backward.
Logan’s breath catches in his throat as your knees drag down the sides of his hips. You catch the edge of the white duvet cover and pull it up over your head, plunging yourself into the warm, dark cocoon of the bed, right between his legs.
“Y/N,” Logan gasps, his hands instantly dropping to his sides, his fingers gripping the fitted sheet.
You ignore him, crawling further down. The heat radiating off his skin under the heavy duvet is intoxicating, mixing with his masculine scent. You settle between his thighs, the muscles in his legs instantly tensing against your ribs.
You reach out, your hands flattening against his lower stomach, feeling the sharp, defined ridges of his abs clenching under your touch. You press open-mouthed kisses along his hip bones, taking your time, letting your lips drag against his sensitive skin.
Logan lets out a ragged, trembling exhale above the covers. The mattress shifts as he tilts his hips up into your touch, completely at your mercy.
You trail your hands lower, your fingers wrapping around his thick, heavy length. The second your skin makes contact with him, Logan lets out a choked, desperate curse.
You lean down, flicking your tongue out to taste the salty, musky skin at the tip before taking him completely into your mouth.
The sound Logan makes is a guttural, wounded moan that vibrates straight through the mattress. You hear the rustle of the sheets above you as his hands completely let go of the bed, diving under the covers to find you. His large, calloused fingers tangle instantly into your hair, gripping the strands tightly, though he doesn’t push you down. He just holds on like he’s drowning and you are the only lifeline he has left.
You set a slow, torturous pace. You swirl your tongue around the sensitive ridge, swirling and sucking with a deep, deliberate suction that makes his hips snap upward involuntarily.
You slide your hands down to cup his heavy, warm base, your thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there while you take him deeper into your mouth. You love the contrast of this. Out in the real world, Logan is the untouchable hockey star, the guy with the easy grin who deflects everything, the guy who carries the weight of his family’s failure on his broad shoulders.
But right here, hiding under the sheets of your dorm bed, he is completely unraveling.
You increase your pace, your mouth working rhythmically, creating a tight, wet friction that is driving him completely insane. You can feel the rapid, frantic pulse beating against your tongue. You drag your teeth lightly — just enough to tease — against the underside of his shaft, and Logan’s entire body violently arches off the mattress.
“Don’t—fuck, don’t stop,” he begs, his grip in your hair tightening almost painfully as his hips begin to thrust up to meet your mouth.
He is losing whatever control he had left, his movements becoming erratic and desperate. You accommodate him perfectly, swallowing his harsh, rhythmic thrusts, letting him set the pace as he chases the high. The musky, intoxicating taste of him fills your mouth, the heat under the covers becoming stifling, thick with the scent of sex and sweat.
“Look at me,” Logan commands suddenly, his voice a harsh, breathless rasp.
He tugs firmly on your hair, pulling the duvet down just enough so you can see his face.
The sight of him makes your own core throb with a sharp, answering heat. Logan’s head is thrown back against the pillows, his neck arched in absolute agony. His chest is heaving, completely slick with sweat, every single muscle locked tight. His eyes are blown wide, his pupils dilated so completely that his irises are barely visible in the dim light.
He looks down at you, watching your mouth slide over him, and a dark, primal sound rips from his throat.
“You are going to kill me,” he groans, his hips snapping upward with a brutal, punishing force.
“Let me,” you dare him, your words muffled against his skin. You drop your head back down, taking him as deep as you possibly can, swallowing his moan entirely.
Logan shatters.
His body goes completely rigid, a massive shudder wracking his large frame. He cries out your name, a loud, broken sound that completely fills the small dorm room. He holds you tightly in place, his hips pinned upward as wave after wave of intense, blinding pleasure crashes through him.
You continue to use a gentle suction, milking every last drop of his climax, swallowing him completely. He tastes salty and rich, an incredibly intimate reward for completely breaking down his walls.
Slowly, the violent tremors wracking his body begin to subside. His hips drop back down against the mattress heavily, his chest rising and falling in deep, ragged gasps for air.
You pull back slowly, licking your lips, before crawling back up his body.
Logan’s eyes are closed, a look of utter devastation and absolute peace painted across his handsome features. As you settle back onto his chest, he wraps his arms around you instantly, crushing you against his sweaty skin with a desperate, terrifying strength.
He presses a fierce, bruising kiss to the top of your head, burying his face in your hair.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” Logan whispers, his voice still shaking with the aftershocks of his climax. “But I swear to God, Y/N, I am never letting you go.”
You wrap your arms around his torso, holding him just as tightly, ignoring the lingering threat of Garrett, the complicated mess of his family, and the terrifying reality that you are falling entirely, deeply in love with your brother’s best friend.
“Good,” you whisper against his skin. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
***
You are officially a terrible person, a liar, and a fraud. But as Logan drags his open mouth down the sensitive column of your neck, you decide you really, truly do not care.
It has been exactly three months and twelve days since that rainy night in Logan’s truck. Three months of sneaking around, of perfectly timed lies, of stolen glances across crowded rooms while Garrett remained blissfully unaware. You’ve mastered the art of the secret relationship.
Tonight’s masterpiece? Faking a debilitating stomach bug.
Your roommate had looked at you with deep pity before heading out to dinner. You coughed weakly, clutching your stomach, and promised her you’d just sleep it off. The second the door clicked shut behind her, you were texting Logan. Ten minutes later, he was slipping through your door, locking it behind him, and dropping his duffel bag to the floor with a heavy, hungry look in his eyes.
Now, the dorm room is suffocatingly hot, the air thick with the heavy scent of sweat, expensive cologne, and sex. The blinds are drawn tight, the only light coming from the small desk lamp in the corner.
Logan is a heavy, solid weight pressing you deep into your mattress. He’s completely bare, his broad, violently muscled chest slick with a sheen of sweat. You are tangled beneath him, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, your heels digging into his lower back to pull him as close as physically possible.
“You’re beautiful,” Logan rasps, his voice a dark, jagged sound that vibrates against your collarbone.
“Stop talking,” you manage to gasp out, your hands sliding up the slick, hot skin of his back to grip his broad shoulders. “Just please, Logan.”
Logan chuckles against your skin, a rough, devastating sound. He shifts his weight, rising up slightly on his forearms to look down at you. His dark hair is completely disheveled, hanging in his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, drowning out the color of his irises entirely. The raw, predatory hunger in his gaze makes your heart hammer a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
He aligns himself perfectly, his hips cradled securely between your thighs. He doesn’t hesitate. With one long, smooth, devastating push, he sinks completely inside you.
You cry out, the sound muffled entirely by Logan’s mouth as he swoops down to capture your lips. The kiss is deep and frantic, his tongue mimicking the slow, agonizing stretch of his body filling yours. You are stretched so perfectly, filled so completely, that a violent shiver wracks your entire frame.
He is quite literally balls-deep, the heavy slap of his hips meeting yours echoing sharply in the quiet room.
“God, Y/N,” Logan groans into your mouth, tearing his lips away to bury his face in the crook of your neck. He begins to move.
The pace he sets is punishing. There is no slow buildup tonight, no teasing restraint. It is raw, desperate, and entirely unhinged. Every thrust is impossibly deep, drawing a high, breathy moan from your throat that you can’t even try to suppress. Your nails drag down his back, leaving faint, pink crescent moons in his skin.
The mattress squeaks rhythmically under the violent force of his movements. Logan’s hands find your hips, his large, calloused fingers digging into your skin, anchoring you to the bed as he dominates the space.
“Logan,” you sob, throwing your head back against the pillow, your eyes fluttering shut. “I’m going to-”
“I know, sweetheart,” he grunts, his thrusts turning jagged and erratic as his own control begins to snap. “Come on. Let it go.”
You are completely lost to the storm. The tight, spiraling coil of heat in your lower stomach is pulling tighter and tighter with every heavy slide of his body. You arch up to meet him, matching his desperate, punishing rhythm. You are seconds away from shattering. Logan is right there with you, his jaw clenched tight, his entire body going rigid as he prepares to find his release.
And then, the sound of a key sliding into the lock of your dorm door echoes like a gunshot.
The heavy deadbolt clicks.
The door swings open.
“Hey, kiddo, Cammi told me you were dying, so I brought-”
Garrett’s voice fills the room.
Everything happens in a fraction of a millisecond.
Logan freezes entirely, his body locking up mid-thrust, still buried impossibly deep inside you. You freeze beneath him, your eyes snapping open in absolute, paralyzing horror.
Garrett stops dead in the doorway.
The plastic grocery bag in his hand — heavy with chicken noodle soup, a two-liter bottle of ginger ale, and a box of Saltines — slips from his fingers. It hits the linoleum floor with a sickening, wet crash. The plastic container of soup bursts open, sending hot broth splashing across the floorboards. The ginger ale bottle rolls lazily toward the edge of the rug.
For a single, agonizing second, the universe completely stops spinning.
Garrett is staring at the bed. At his best friend. At his baby sister. Tangled together in a mess of bare skin and heavy breathing.
The color drains entirely from Garrett’s face, leaving him a sickly, ghostly pale. And then, the shock violently transforms into pure, unadulterated, murderous rage. His face flushes a deep, dangerous crimson. The veins in his neck bulge against his skin.
“What the fuck?” Garrett roars, the sound shaking the very walls of the dorm room.
Chaos erupts.
Logan violently scrambles backward, pulling out of you so fast you gasp. He practically falls off the side of the narrow bed, desperately grabbing for his discarded sweatpants on the floor.
You scramble backward against the headboard, frantically pulling the thin white duvet up over your bare chest, your hands trembling so violently you can barely grip the fabric.
“Garrett!” You scream, your voice cracking with sheer panic.
But Garrett isn’t looking at you. He is looking at Logan.
With a guttural, animalistic snarl, Garrett lunges across the room. He clears the distance in two massive strides, his hands curling into tight, white-knuckled fists. Logan is only halfway into his sweatpants, entirely off-balance, when Garrett grabs him by the throat and slams him brutally against the cinderblock wall.
“Garrett, no!” You shriek, scrambling out from under the covers.
“I’ll fucking kill you!” Garrett bellows, drawing his right fist back, preparing to shatter Logan’s jaw into a thousand pieces.
Logan doesn’t even raise his hands to defend himself. He just stands there, pinned against the wall, taking it. He looks entirely resigned to his fate, his eyes locked onto Garrett’s furious face.
You don’t think. You just move.
You launch yourself off the bed, entirely uncaring that you are wearing nothing but a frantically grabbed bedsheet wrapped haphazardly around your body. You throw yourself directly between them, pressing your back flush against Logan’s chest and throwing your hands up to shove hard against Garrett’s shoulders.
“Stop it! Get away from him!” You scream, your voice tearing painfully at your throat.
Garrett’s fist stops mere inches from your face.
He freezes, staring down at you. His chest is heaving violently, his eyes completely wild. He looks down at your bare shoulders, at the white sheet clutched desperately to your chest, and then over your shoulder at Logan’s pale, terrified face.
The raw, physical betrayal hitting Garrett is palpable. It’s like watching a building collapse in real-time. He steps back, his hands dropping to his sides as if he’s been burned.
“Y/N,” Garrett whispers, his voice cracking, entirely devoid of the rage from a second ago. Now, it just sounds broken. “What ... what is this?”
You swallow a massive lump of panic, tears springing to your eyes. “Garrett, please. Just give us a second. Let us put some clothes on. Please.”
Garrett looks between the two of you, his jaw clenching so hard you can hear his teeth grinding together. He looks nauseated. He takes another step back, kicking the empty ginger ale bottle out of his way.
“Two minutes,” Garrett bites out, his voice a terrifying, deadpan monotone. “You have two minutes. And then I am coming back in here, and if you lie to me, Logan, I am going to end your fucking life.”
Garrett turns on his heel and storms out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him with enough force to rattle the hinges.
The silence he leaves behind is suffocating.
You let out a harsh, jagged sob, dropping your face into your hands. Your knees finally give out, and you slump down onto the edge of the mattress.
Logan is beside you in an instant. He pulls his sweatpants up, tying the drawstring with shaking fingers, before grabbing an oversized hoodie from the floor and pulling it over your head. He helps you guide your arms through the sleeves, his touch incredibly gentle despite the sheer panic radiating off him in waves.
“Hey,” Logan whispers, crouching down in front of you, gripping your knees. His face is pale, a faint red mark forming on his throat where Garrett grabbed him. “Look at me, sweetheart. Look at me.”
You drop your hands, looking at him through blurry, tear-filled eyes. “He hates me. He hates us.”
“He doesn’t hate you,” Logan says fiercely, though his own voice is shaking. “He’s shocked. He has every right to be pissed. I broke the one rule he gave me.”
“We both broke it,” you sniffle, grabbing a pair of sweatpants from your dresser and hastily pulling them on.
Logan stands up, running both hands through his messy hair, pacing the small stretch of floor. He grabs his own shirt, pulling it over his head. “I’m not going to let him blame you. This is on me. I’m the older guy, I’m his best friend. I should have ...”
Logan cuts himself off, letting out a frustrated sigh. “I’m not sorry. I can’t even lie and say I regret it.”
You look up at him, your heart aching. “Me neither.”
The door handle rattles angrily.
“Time’s up,” Garrett’s voice barks from the hallway.
“Come in,” Logan says, squaring his broad shoulders, stepping deliberately in front of you as if to shield you from the blast zone.
Garrett walks back into the room. He pointedly ignores the puddle of spilled soup on the floor. He looks at Logan, and the utter disdain in his eyes makes you flinch. Garrett crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back against the closed door.
“Talk,” Garrett demands. “And it better be the absolute, unvarnished truth.”
Logan exhales slowly. “It didn’t start the way you think it did, G.”
“Oh, really?” Garrett spits, his tone dripping with venom. “How did it start, Logan? Did you slip into her DMs? Did you corner her after a game? Did you look at the one person in this world I told you to protect and decide you wanted to screw her instead?”
“Garrett, stop,” you say sharply, stepping out from behind Logan. You refuse to let Logan take the entire firing squad alone. “He didn’t do any of that.”
Garrett’s eyes snap to you, the betrayal flaring up again. “Then how, Y/N? Because from where I’m standing, my best friend has been sleeping with my baby sister behind my back for God knows how long.”
“Since the first night of the season,” you say quietly.
Garrett’s brow furrows in confusion. “What? The first night ... you went out with your team.”
“Exactly,” Logan interjects, his voice calm, trying to de-escalate the vibrating tension in the room. “We were both there. I walked away from the guys to get a drink. I saw a girl on the dance floor. I went up to her. We ... we hooked up.”
Garrett’s eyes widen slightly. “In the club?”
“In the bathroom,” you clarify, a hot flush of shame creeping up your neck, but you refuse to break eye contact with your brother. “We didn’t know who each other was, Garrett. It was dark. We didn’t exchange names. We didn’t talk about schools. It was just a random hookup.”
“A random hookup,” Garrett repeats, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. He looks at Logan. “You didn’t know it was her?”
“I swear to God on my life, G, I had absolutely no idea,” Logan says fiercely, stepping forward, his hands held out pleadingly. “If I had known, I never would have touched her. You know me.”
“Do I?” Garrett laughs bitterly. “Because if that’s true, when did you figure it out? The diner?”
“Yes,” you answer for him. “Outside your locker room, when you introduced us. That was the first time we realized.”
Garrett stares at you both, processing the timeline. The anger in his eyes slowly, painfully shifts into a deep, profound hurt. “So, at the diner ... when I sat there, pouring my heart out to you guys. When I begged you, Logan, to treat her like a sister. To protect her. You sat there, looking me dead in the eye, having already fucked her. And you promised me.”
Logan physically recoils as if Garrett just punched him in the gut. He closes his eyes, a heavy shudder running through him. “I know. I know, G. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I felt like absolute scum.”
“You are scum,” Garrett snaps.
“Garrett, that’s not fair,” you plead, taking a step toward your brother. “We tried to stay away from each other. We really did. But we couldn’t. It just ... it happened. And it kept happening. It’s not just a physical thing anymore. I care about him. A lot.”
Garrett looks at you, his protective instincts warring violently with his sense of betrayal. He sees the absolute sincerity in your eyes. He sees the way you stepped in front of Logan’s body to protect him from the punch. You aren’t just some puck bunny Logan is using. You’re in deep.
Garrett drags a hand down his face, letting out a long, exhausted sigh. He looks at Logan, who is standing completely still, waiting for the verdict.
“How long?” Garrett asks, his voice entirely drained. “How long has it kept happening?”
“Since the night her car broke down,” Logan answers quietly. “Three months.”
“Three months,” Garrett shakes his head in disbelief. “You’ve been lying to my face for three months. Sitting in our living room, drinking my beers, playing video games, pretending nothing was going on.”
“I wanted to tell you,” Logan says earnestly. “I brought it up a hundred times, but we knew how you’d react. We knew you’d lose your mind. I didn’t want to ruin the team. I didn’t want to ruin our friendship.”
“Well, congratulations,” Garrett says coldly. “You managed to do both.”
“Garrett, please,” you beg, tears finally spilling over your lashes, tracking hot and fast down your cheeks. “Don’t do this. Don’t cut him off. Don’t cut me off.”
Garrett looks at you, seeing the tears, and his harsh exterior finally cracks. He has spent his entire life trying to protect you from getting hurt, from crying. The fact that he is the one causing it right now, even if he feels justified, breaks him.
He walks over to you, wrapping his large arms around you and pulling you into a tight, suffocating hug. You bury your face in his chest, sobbing quietly. Garrett rests his chin on the top of your head, glaring dagger at Logan over your shoulder.
“I’m not cutting you off, kiddo,” Garrett whispers into your hair. “I could never cut you off. You’re my sister.”
He pulls back slightly, keeping his hands firmly planted on your shoulders. He turns his head to look directly at Logan. The atmosphere in the room instantly shifts from a broken family to a deadly serious warning.
“But you,” Garrett points a thick, accusatory finger at Logan. “Sit down.”
Logan immediately drops into the desk chair in the corner of the room, looking up at Garrett with wide, cautious eyes.
“You listen to me, John Logan, and you listen to me very carefully,” Garrett begins, his voice low, deadly, and completely devoid of any brotherly affection. This is the captain speaking. This is the fiercely protective older brother who survived a monster.
Logan nods tightly. “I’m listening.”
“You and I are going to have a very long, very painful conversation about trust and friendship later,” Garrett says, his eyes boring into Logan’s. “But right now, we are talking about her.”
Garrett points to you. “You know what we went through. You know the hell our father put us through. You know how hard it is for her to trust guys, how hard it is for her to let anyone in.”
“I know,” Logan whispers, his eyes darting to you, softening entirely.
“I don’t give a shit about your daddy issues. I don’t give a shit about your family mechanic shop, or the deal you made with your brother, or how much you hate yourself for giving up the NHL,” Garrett continues, ruthlessly utilizing the deepest, darkest secrets Logan had confided in him over the years. Logan flinches at the casual weaponry of his secrets, but he takes it.
“If you make her your emotional punching bag,” Garrett snarls, taking a step closer to Logan, looming over the desk chair. “If you use her to escape your own miserable reality, and then you drop her when things get too hard ... I will not just punch you.”
Garrett leans down, his face inches from Logan’s. “I will systematically destroy your life. I will break both your legs so you can never step foot on the ice again. I will make sure you wish you had never met me. Do you understand?”
The room is completely silent, save for the hum of the mini-fridge in the corner.
Logan doesn’t look away. He doesn’t cower. The cocky, charming boy from the Briar team is completely gone, replaced by a man who knows exactly what he wants and exactly what it costs.
“I understand,” Logan says, his voice steady, entirely lacking the fear Garrett was trying to instill. He looks up at his best friend. “But you’re wrong about one thing, G.”
Garrett narrows his eyes. “Oh?”
“I’m not using her to escape,” Logan says fiercely, standing up from the chair. He is an inch taller than Garrett, and right now, he uses every bit of that height to stand his ground. “She is the only real thing in my life. I love her, Garrett.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and undeniable. You gasp, your hands flying up to cover your mouth. He has never said that to you. Not in the dark of his truck, not in the quiet of his bed. He chose to say it here, to your brother, facing down a firing squad.
Garrett stares at Logan, completely stunned. The anger deflates entirely, leaving him disarmed. He looks at Logan’s resolute face, then looks over at you, seeing the absolute awe and adoration radiating from your tear-stained eyes.
Garrett sighs, running a hand through his hair, looking suddenly incredibly exhausted. “You’re an idiot, Logan.”
“I know,” Logan agrees softly.
“And you,” Garrett points at you, though there is no heat behind it anymore. “You’re grounded.”
“I’m in college, Garrett,” you laugh, a wet, watery sound. “You can’t ground me.”
“Watch me,” Garrett mutters. He looks at the spilled soup on the floor, the puddle of chicken broth soaking into the cheap dorm rug. He groans. “I bought that soup for nothing. You aren’t even sick.”
“I have a slight headache,” you offer weakly.
Garrett rolls his eyes. He looks at Logan one last time, offering a slow, reluctant nod. It isn’t forgiveness. Not yet. But it is an acceptance of the reality.
“Clean up this mess,” Garrett orders Logan. “And then get the hell out of here. I don’t want to see your face for at least forty-eight hours.”
“Got it, Cap,” Logan says, the relief in his voice palpable.
Garrett walks to the door, pulling it open. He looks back at you, a small, tired smile on his face. “Call me tomorrow. We are having lunch. In public. Where everyone can see your hands.”
“Okay,” you nod.
Garrett leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.
The silence returns, but the suffocating tension is completely gone. Logan stares at the closed door for a long second before his knees practically give out. He leans heavily against the desk, letting out a massive, shaky breath, dragging his hands down his face.
You walk over to him slowly. You reach out, wrapping your arms around his waist from the front, resting your cheek against his chest. His heart is still racing.
Logan immediately wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your hair, holding you so tightly it aches.
“You love me?” You whisper against his skin, the words feeling incredibly fragile.
Logan pulls back just enough to look down at you. His eyes are bright, filled with a terrifying, absolute certainty. He brings a hand up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear.
“I love you,” Logan says, his voice completely clear. “More than hockey. More than anything. NFD.”
You let out a watery laugh, leaning up to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. “No Freaking Doubt.”
“Exactly,” Logan smiles, the familiar, charming smirk finally returning to his handsome face. He looks over your shoulder at the massive puddle of chicken soup on the floor. He sighs. “Now, where do you keep the paper towels?”
***
The roar of the crowd inside the TD Garden is a living, breathing entity. It vibrates through the concrete floors, rattling the expensive plastic of the seats in the lower bowl, and humming straight into your bones.
“I’m just saying,” Dean shouts, leaning over Tucker to make himself heard over the deafening noise of the arena. “That jersey is a literal crime against the sport of hockey. If the purists see you, they will drag you out of here and burn you at the stake.”
“It’s a masterpiece,” you shout back, smoothing your hands over the front of the heavy fabric.
You are wearing a custom-stitched abomination. The left half is a black and gold Boston Bruins jersey with GRA and the number 4 across the back. The right half is stitched directly down the middle, featuring GAN and the number 2. It is incredibly ugly, utterly confusing to the casual fan, and the most prized possession in your entire closet.
Tucker adjusts his glasses, looking at the jagged seam running down your spine. “It’s structurally unsound, Y/N. The tensile strength of that thread is fighting a losing battle against the heavy-weight polyester.”
“Shut up, Tucker,” you laugh, your eyes completely glued to the ice. “Just watch the game.”
It is the final game of the regular NHL season. The Bruins have already clinched their playoff spot and secured the top seed in their division. In a brilliant, strategic move to rest their battered veterans before the grueling post-season begins, the coaching staff called up their newest, youngest prospects to fill out the roster for the night.
To let the young guns show exactly what they can do.
Down on the ice, the game is tied 2-2 against the Panthers in the third period. And right in the middle of the offensive zone, weaving through professional, fully-grown NHL defensemen like they are training cones, is Logan.
Your chest swells with an overwhelming, suffocating amount of pride.
The last twelve months have been an absolute whirlwind of chaos, triumph, and sheer, stubborn willpower. You hadn’t let Logan back down that night in your dorm room. You forced him to see his own worth, and slowly, painfully, he had unraveled the heavy chains of his father’s legacy.
He had driven back home with Garrett for backup. He and his older brother had sat down and finally, honestly talked. They sold Logan & Sons to a commercial developer who wanted the land. It wasn’t a fortune, but Logan aggressively fought for Jeff to keep every single dime of the meager profit so he could start his own life. The hardest part had been their father, but with the money from the sale, they finally checked the old man into a long-term, specialized rehab facility.
For the first time in his entire life, Logan was free.
And he played like it. Free of the crushing weight of his future, Logan had absolutely dominated his senior year at Briar. He and Garrett had led the team all the way to the Frozen Four, culminating in a spectacular, nail-biting victory to win the NCAA National Championship just three weeks ago.
And then, the phone rang. Undrafted, overlooked, but undeniable — the Boston Bruins offered John Logan an Entry-Level Contract.
Now, he is here. Earning his ice time.
The puck cycles around the boards. Garrett, wearing the black and gold like he was born for it, digs the puck out of the corner with a vicious check that sends a Panthers defenseman crashing to the ice. Garrett doesn’t even look, he just knows. He fires a blind, spinning backhand pass straight across the slot.
Logan is exactly where he needs to be.
He doesn’t stop the puck. He doesn’t stickhandle. He drops to one knee and one-times the shot with the devastating, explosive power that has haunted goalies all year.
The puck goes top-shelf, completely blowing past the goaltender’s glove, pinging off the crossbar, and burying itself in the back of the net.
The goal horn absolutely shatters the air. The red light flashes. The TD Garden erupts into pure pandemonium.
You jump to your feet, screaming so loudly your throat instantly burns. Dean and Tucker are out of their seats, too, grabbing your shoulders and shaking you as the crowd completely loses its mind.
Down on the ice, Logan throws his arms in the air, a massive, blinding smile breaking across his face. Garrett is the first one to reach him, tackling his best friend into the glass. The rest of the line swarms them, a massive pile of black and gold celebrating the rookie connection.
“That’s my boyfriend!” You scream at the top of your lungs, not caring who hears you. “And my brother! Those are my boys!”
“Absolute filth!” Dean yells, high-fiving a random stranger in the row in front of you. “Did you see those hands? The Briar boys are taking over!”
The final five minutes of the game pass in a blur of frantic defense, but the Bruins hold the lead. When the final buzzer sounds, securing the 3-2 victory, you feel tears hot and heavy in the corners of your eyes.
He did it. They both did it.
***
The tunnel underneath the TD Garden smells like millions of dollars of athletic equipment, sweat, and cheap champagne. You, Dean, and Tucker are waiting by the family and friends barricade outside the Bruins locker room.
The heavy double doors swing open, and a wave of massive, suited-up men begins to filter out.
Garrett spots you first. He is wearing a sharp, dark blue suit, his hair still damp from the showers. He looks completely exhausted, sporting a fresh cut on his chin, but he is glowing with sheer adrenaline.
“Get over here!” Garrett grins, bypassing the barricade and wrapping you in a massive, bone-crushing hug.
“You were amazing,” you laugh, squeezing him back just as fiercely. “That pass was unreal, G.”
“Hey, I just put it in his wheelhouse,” Garrett says, pulling back and ruffling your hair affectionately. “He had to do the hard part.”
Garrett turns to fist-bump Dean and Tucker, launching immediately into a breakdown of the defensive pairings.
You look past Garrett’s shoulder, and your breath completely stalls in your chest.
Logan walks out of the locker room. He is wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal gray suit, a crisp white shirt completely unbuttoned at the collar, and no tie. He looks older, sharper, completely transformed from the college boy in the messy hoodies. But when his eyes lock onto yours, the incredibly soft, reverent expression on his face is exactly the same.
He drops his duffel bag entirely. He doesn’t say a word. He just walks straight up to you, wrapping his large hands around your waist, and lifts you completely off the floor.
You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder, inhaling the scent of his expensive cologne.
“You did it,” you whisper against his skin, your voice shaking with emotion. “You’re in the NHL, Logan.”
Logan presses a hard, lingering kiss to the side of your head before setting you back down. He doesn’t let go of your waist, pulling you flush against his side. He looks down at you, his eyes scanning your face before dropping to the absolute monstrosity you are wearing.
A slow, highly amused smirk spreads across his face.
“Sweetheart,” Logan drawls, his voice a low, raspy rumble that instantly makes your stomach flip. “I love you with my entire heart. But that jersey is a profound tragedy. AFT. Absolute Fucking Tragedy.”
“Shut up,” you laugh, slapping his chest lightly. “It represents my dual loyalties. I couldn’t pick just one of you for your debut.”
“I think it’s beautiful,” Garrett chimes in, though his lips are twitching. “Even if my side is clearly the superior half.”
“Debatable,” Logan shoots back effortlessly. He looks down at you again, his thumb brushing a slow, deliberate line over your hip bone, right through the heavy fabric of the jersey. His eyes darken significantly, the adrenaline of the game bleeding seamlessly into a different, much heavier kind of hunger. “You ready to get out of here?”
You look at the tight clench of his jaw, at the raw heat burning in his eyes, and you instantly know exactly what he needs.
“Yeah,” you whisper, your voice dropping an octave. “Take me home.”
***
Logan’s new apartment in the city is a sleek, modern high-rise with massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Boston skyline. But tonight, you couldn’t care less about the view.
The second the heavy front door clicks shut behind you, locking the world outside, the remaining shred of Logan’s restraint violently snaps.
He drops his keys onto the console table, grabbing the lapels of your ugly, half-and-half jersey, and pulls you flush against his chest. His mouth crashes down onto yours with a desperate, bruising force. You gasp into his mouth, your hands immediately flying up to tangle in his damp, dark hair.
The kiss is explosive. It is loaded with the pent-up tension of the last year, the sheer relief of his father’s rehab, the triumph of the National Championship, and the blinding reality of his NHL debut. Every single emotion he has been bottling up is pouring directly into you.
“Logan,” you moan against his lips, tasting the faint, lingering salt of his sweat mixed with the sharp mint of his gum.
“I need you,” he groans, a rough, guttural sound that vibrates straight down to your core. “Right now. I need you right now.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. His hands grip the bottom hem of the jersey, pulling it up and over your head in one fluid motion, tossing the expensive, custom-made fabric carelessly onto the hardwood floor.
You are left wearing a small, black lace bra and your jeans. Logan’s eyes sweep over your body, completely blown wide with lust.
“My turn,” you breathe, reaching for the lapels of his charcoal suit jacket.
You push it off his broad shoulders, letting it join your jersey on the floor. Your hands move frantically to the buttons of his crisp white dress shirt. You manage to undo three before your patience entirely runs out, and you just grip the fabric and pull. Two buttons pop off, pinging sharply against the floorboards, but neither of you cares.
You push the shirt off his arms, leaving him entirely bare from the waist up. His chest is heaving, the heavy, defined muscles of his torso rising and falling rapidly under your touch. You press your palms flat against his hot skin, dragging your nails lightly down his stomach.
Logan lets out a harsh, jagged breath, his hands dropping to the waistband of your jeans. He pops the button and pulls the zipper down, sliding his large, warm hands inside the denim to grip the bare curve of your hips.
With effortless strength, he lifts you entirely off the floor.
You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, your ankles crossing behind his back. Logan walks you backward through the apartment, his mouth devouring yours the entire way, until your back hits the cool plaster wall of the hallway.
He pins you there, his body a solid, immovable weight against yours. The heavy friction of his slacks grinding against the soft denim of your half-undone jeans is maddening.
“You have no idea,” Logan mutters against your neck, his lips blazing a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jawline and over your collarbone. “You have no idea what you do to me. You saved my life, Y/N.”
“You saved yourself,” you whisper, arching your neck to give him better access.
“No,” he counters fiercely, biting down gently on a sensitive spot just below your ear, sending a violent shockwave of pleasure straight to your center. “I was drowning. I was perfectly content to drown. And you pulled me out.”
His hands slide around to cup the back of your thighs, lifting you slightly higher against the wall. The angle is agonizingly perfect.
“Show me,” you challenge him, your voice shaking with pure, unadulterated need. “Show me, Logan.”
His eyes flash with a dark, primal heat. He sets you back down on your feet just long enough to ruthlessly strip the rest of your clothes away. You kick your jeans aside, stepping out of your underwear, leaving you completely bare. Logan makes quick work of his slacks and boxer briefs, his eyes never leaving your face.
The second he is free, he crowds you back against the wall. The sudden, intense shock of his hot, bare skin pressing flush against yours draws a loud gasp from your throat.
Logan reaches down, his calloused fingers sliding between your thighs. He doesn’t tease. He doesn’t prep. He knows exactly how ready you are. He finds your center, his thumb pressing firmly against your most sensitive spot, and you completely shatter before he even truly begins.
“Logan!” You cry out, your knees buckling entirely.
He catches you, his arm wrapping securely around your waist to hold you up as the violent wave of the orgasm rips through you. You sob into his shoulder, your muscles clenching uncontrollably around nothing, desperate for the solid weight of him.
“I’ve got you,” Logan murmurs, his voice thick and rough. “I’ve always got you.”
He waits for the tremors to subside before shifting his grip. He parts your thighs with his knee, aligning himself perfectly at your entrance. He looks down at you, the raw, desperate devotion in his eyes making your breath completely stall in your lungs.
“Mine,” Logan whispers, the word a fierce, undeniable claim.
“Yours,” you agree instantly.
He pushes inside you in one long, devastating thrust.
The sensation is entirely overwhelming. You throw your head back against the wall, a loud, broken moan escaping your lips as he fills you completely. Logan groans deeply, resting his forehead against yours, his chest heaving as he takes a second to simply feel the incredible, suffocating tightness of your body wrapping around his.
“You feel incredible,” he breathes out, his voice shaking.
“Don’t stop,” you plead, your hands sliding up to grip his broad shoulders, your nails digging into his skin.
Logan pulls back almost entirely before driving forward again, setting a slow, agonizingly deep pace. The hallway is entirely silent save for the heavy, wet slide of bodies and the ragged, desperate sound of your synchronized breathing. Every thrust is precise, deliberate, completely burying himself inside you.
The friction against the wall is intense, the cool plaster a stark contrast to the boiling heat of his body.
“Wrap your legs around me,” Logan commands, his voice a harsh rasp.
You comply immediately, lifting your legs to wrap securely around his waist, locking your ankles together. The change in angle allows him to hit perfectly, impossibly deep.
The slow, torturous pace vanishes. Logan’s restraint completely snaps.
He grips your hips with bruising force, his thrusts becoming frantic, punishing, and entirely unhinged. He is completely lost in you, chasing the high, pouring every ounce of the night’s adrenaline directly into your body. You cling to him, matching his desperate rhythm, your moans bouncing off the walls of the quiet apartment.
“Y/N,” Logan groans, his pace becoming erratic. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a hard, bruising kiss against your pulse point. “I’m going to-”
“Me too,” you sob out, the second climax building with terrifying, blinding speed. “Logan, please.”
He thrusts deeply, pulling out, and driving forward one final, devastating time.
A harsh, jagged cry tears from his throat. His entire body goes completely rigid, his muscles locking tight as he finds his release. He holds you flush against the wall, completely pinning you in place, taking the full brunt of your own explosive orgasm as it crashes over you simultaneously.
You completely melt against him, your vision literally going white around the edges.
For a long time, the only sound in the hallway is the frantic, hammering rhythm of your hearts and the ragged gasps for air. Logan’s face is still buried in your neck, his heavy weight supported entirely by his own legs as he holds you up against the wall.
Eventually, slowly, the reality of the apartment seeps back in.
Logan carefully lowers your legs, sliding out of you with a soft, wet sound, keeping one arm securely wrapped around your waist so you don’t collapse onto the floor. Your knees are trembling so violently they feel like water.
He leans his forehead against yours, looking down at you with an incredibly soft, sated expression.
“Wow,” you breathe out, letting your head loll back against the wall.
Logan chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates against your chest. He leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your swollen lips. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed. Before you actually pass out in my hallway.”
He sweeps you up into his arms, carrying you effortlessly into the massive master bedroom. The city lights of Boston filter through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a soft, amber glow over the massive king-sized bed.
He sets you down on the soft sheets, pulling the heavy duvet up over your bare body before crawling into the bed beside you.
You instantly curl into his side, resting your head on his bare chest, your hand flattening over his heart. He wraps a heavy arm around you, holding you close, his fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on your bare shoulder.
“Are you happy?” You ask quietly, looking up at him in the dim light.
Logan looks down at you. He thinks about the heavy, suffocating pressure of his dad’s failing business. He thinks about the guilt of watching Jeff put his life on hold. He thinks about the terrifying moment he almost walked away from hockey forever.
And then he thinks about the moment the puck hit the back of the net tonight. He thinks about Garrett tackling him against the glass. He thinks about you, wearing that ridiculous, beautiful half-and-half jersey, screaming his name from the stands.
“I’m more than happy,” Logan whispers, the absolute truth of it ringing crystal clear in the quiet room. “I’m exactly where I am supposed to be.”
He shifts, pulling you up slightly so he can look you directly in the eyes. The cocky, sarcastic facade is completely gone. There is only John Logan, the man who finally got his life back.
“I love you, Y/N,” Logan says, his voice thick with emotion. “You gave me the courage to fight for my own life. And I swear to God, I am going to spend the rest of my life fighting for you.”
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You smile, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his jaw.
“You don’t have to fight for me, Logan,” you whisper against his skin. “I’m already yours.”
Logan smiles, that bright, devastatingly handsome smirk that first caught your attention in a dark, sweaty Boston bar over a year ago. He leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, sweet, impossibly tender kiss.
“HEA,” Logan murmurs against your mouth, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
You laugh softly, running your hands through his messy hair. “Happily Ever After?”
“No Freaking Doubt,” Logan promises, pulling you tightly against his chest, completely and entirely home.
Summary: one random night. No names. No consequences. Except three weeks later you’re standing outside a locker room and the guy who had you pinned against a door is introduced as your fiercely protective older brother’s best friend. The same brother who makes his teammates promise to treat you “like a sister.” The same brother who will absolutely commit murder if he finds out. So obviously the only logical solution is to keep sneaking around behind his back. What could possibly go wrong?
Warnings: 18+ content
Read part two here
The bass in the Boston bar is loud enough to rattle the ice cubes in Logan’s glass, but it’s not enough to drown out Dean’s incessant complaining.
“I’m just saying,” Dean mutters, leaning against the sticky mahogany of the bar and dragging a hand through his hair. “It’s the first weekend of the season. The energy is prime. The girls are out. And Garrett is sitting in his room icing a sprain that barely qualifies as a bruise.”
Logan smirks, taking a slow sip of his whiskey. “Leave him alone. The guy’s got a bruised ego more than a bruised ankle. Besides, it’s a classic case of NFP.”
Tucker, who has been quietly peeling the label off his beer bottle, looks up with a heavy sigh. “I swear to God, Logan. If you make me ask what that means, I’m leaving.”
“No Fun Permitted,” Logan deadpans, flashing that easy, charming grin that usually gets him out of trouble. “Garrett’s resting up. The captain’s gotta lead by example. Or whatever.”
“More like missing out by example,” Dean grumbles.
Logan lets his friends bicker, his gaze sweeping over the crowded dance floor. The flashing neon lights paint the sweating bodies in shades of electric blue and violent pink. He loves this city, loves the start of the hockey season. Out on the ice, he’s one of Briar University’s top players, a forward with hands so fast the scouts practically drool over him. They did drool over him. Up until the draft.
A familiar, heavy weight settles in Logan’s chest, dulling the buzz of the whiskey. He skipped the draft. Walked away from the NHL, from the millions, from the dream. The guys know he pulled his name, but they don’t really know the depths of the why. It’s easier to play the funny, sarcastic, reliable guy than it is to explain the deal he made with his older brother. His brother put his own life in a holding pattern to run Logan & Sons, the family mechanic shop, while Logan gets to play college hockey for four years. The shop was supposed to be run by their father, but their father is currently busy being a fall-down drunk. When graduation hits, the party is over. Logan goes back home, takes over the shop, takes care of the old man, and his brother goes free.
“Earth to Logan,” Tucker says, waving a hand in front of Logan’s face. “You’ve got that look again.”
“What look?”
“The ’I’m plotting a murder or thinking up a terrible acronym’ look,” Tucker points out.
“JCT,” Logan counters smoothly. “Just Chilling, Tucker. Relax. I’m going to go get another drink. Try not to marry anyone before I get back.”
Logan pushes off the bar, leaving his teammates to their own devices, and weaves his way through the crush of bodies. That’s when he sees you.
***
Across the room, the heat of the dance floor is exactly what you need. You throw your head back and laugh as your Northeastern teammate, a fiery winger named Cammi, spins you around.
“See?” Cammi yells over the pounding remix of a 2000s R&B track. “I told you coming out was better than sitting in your dorm organizing your hockey tape!”
“I don’t organize my tape!” You shout back, laughing as you sway your hips to the rhythm.
“Liar!”
You let the music wash over you, closing your eyes for a brief second. You’re a freshman. You made the Northeastern women’s hockey team as their starting center. You’re in Boston. You are finally, truly, free.
Whenever things get too loud, too chaotic, your mind always drifts back to the quiet, suffocating terror of your childhood home in New York. Your father, a star defenseman for the Rangers, was a god to the public and a monster behind closed doors. The memories of his explosive rage, the sound of things breaking, the way he treated your mother — it’s a dark stain on your mind. Garrett, your older brother, had been your shield. He took the hits, both literal and metaphorical, hiding you in his room, turning up the TV, doing whatever it took to keep you safe.
And then the lung cancer took your mother, and the house had grown even colder. But you survived. Garrett survived. You both got out. Garrett is across town right now, the captain at Briar, nursing a sprained ankle. You had texted him earlier to check in, and he’d ordered you to go out and celebrate the start of your own season.
So here you are.
You’re wearing a sleek, dark red slip dress that clings to your curves in all the right ways, paired with comfortable black combat boots because you refuse to ruin your feet in heels. Your hair falls in messy waves around your shoulders. You feel good. You feel electric.
Someone bumps into you, sending a splash of someone’s drink onto your boots, but you barely register it. You just keep moving, letting the heavy bass guide your hips, losing yourself in the anonymity of the crowd.
***
Logan freezes halfway to the bar.
He’s seen a lot of beautiful girls in his time at Briar, but the sight of you in that dark red dress stops him dead in his tracks. It’s not just the way the fabric slides against your skin, or the way you move with a natural, effortless athleticism. It’s the sheer joy radiating from you. You look like you don’t have a single care in the world, like you own the space you’re occupying.
He watches you laugh at something your friend says, the bright, genuine sound of it somehow cutting through the heavy thrum of the club’s speakers.
“Well, damn,” Logan mutters to himself.
He doesn’t think. He just moves. Logan has always been a player who acts on instinct — on the ice, and off it. He navigates the sweaty crowd until he’s right at the edge of your circle. He waits for the exact right moment, right as the DJ transitions into a slower, heavier beat.
You step back, and Logan steps in.
***
You feel the solid wall of a chest against your back before you even realize someone has approached. The sudden heat radiating from the stranger sends a shiver down your spine. A pair of large, strong hands settle lightly on your hips.
Normally, you’d shove a guy away. But there’s something about the confident, gentle pressure of his hands that makes you pause.
You glance over your shoulder.
He’s tall. Much taller than you. Broad shoulders, a mop of messy, dark hair, and a pair of sharp, amused eyes that lock onto yours. He has a ridiculously handsome face, a sharp jawline dotted with a faint hint of stubble, and a smirk that screams trouble.
“You’re in my way,” you say, shouting slightly over the music, though your tone is teasing.
“Actually,” Logan says, leaning down so his mouth is hovering near your ear, his voice a low, raspy rumble that makes your stomach flip, “I think you backed into me. Standard MVA.”
“MVA?” You ask, turning around fully so you are facing him. You have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze.
“Motor Vehicle Accident,” he replies smoothly, his hands sliding from your hips to rest casually at his sides, giving you space, which you internally appreciate. “But in this case, a Dance Floor Collision. DFC.”
You arch an eyebrow, trying not to smile. “Do you always speak in acronyms, or are you just trying to be annoying?”
“A little bit of Column A, a little bit of Column B,” Logan says, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer. The scent of him — woodsmoke, musky cologne, and something distinctly masculine — wraps around you. “I’m mostly just trying to keep your attention.”
“It’s a bold strategy.”
“I’m a bold guy.” He smirks, and there’s a genuine sweetness in his eyes that contrasts with the cocky tilt of his mouth. “You’re celebrating something. I can tell. Your vibe is extremely ... victorious.”
You laugh, the sound bubbling up from your chest. “You can read vibes now?”
“It’s a gift,” he nods solemnly. “So? What are we celebrating? A promotion? A birthday? Successful bank heist?”
“Start of the season,” you reply, the words slipping out before you can filter them.
“Ah.” Logan’s eyes light up with recognition. “An athlete. Should have known. You’ve got that ... balance.”
“Balance?”
“Yeah. And the combat boots. Very intimidating. I like it.” He leans in again. “I’m celebrating the exact same thing.”
“You play?” You ask, looking at the breadth of his shoulders. Obviously, he plays.
“I dabble,” Logan says, his eyes dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your gaze again. The shift in his attention is subtle, but it sends a rush of heat straight to your core. “What’s your sport?”
“Puck,” you say.
Logan’s smile widens. “A hockey girl. My favorite kind.”
He doesn’t ask what team. You don’t ask him either. It’s better this way. No names, no schools, no complications. Just the heavy, pulsing beat of the music and the electric tension pulling the two of you together.
“You talk a lot,” you murmur, stepping into his space. You don’t know what’s come over you tonight. Maybe it’s the freedom. Maybe it’s the whiskey you had before leaving the dorms. Or maybe it’s just him.
“I’ve been told I have a big mouth,” Logan whispers, his hands finding their way back to your waist. His thumbs brush against the bare skin at the low dip of your back, and you gasp softly.
“Prove it,” you challenge.
Logan doesn’t hesitate. He closes the distance, his mouth crashing down onto yours.
The kiss is explosive. It’s not hesitant or sweet; it’s hungry, demanding, and incredibly hot. Your hands immediately go to his hair, pulling him down, deepening the kiss. He groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your lips, and pulls you flush against his body. You can feel every hard line of him against the soft fabric of your dress.
The club is too loud, too crowded, but right now, there is only the frantic slide of his tongue against yours, the taste of whiskey and mint, the desperate grip of his hands on your hips.
“Too crowded,” Logan mutters against your mouth, his breathing jagged. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and dilated. “Let’s go.”
You don’t need to be told twice.
He grabs your hand, his fingers lacing through yours, and pulls you through the throng of dancing bodies. You follow blindly, your heart hammering against your ribs. The destination doesn’t matter, only the urgency.
Logan navigates the club with practiced ease, finally spotting a secluded hallway near the back that leads to the bathrooms. It’s dimly lit, the pulsing lights of the dance floor reduced to a soft, flickering glow. He pulls you down the hall, pushing open the heavy wooden door of what looks like an employee or VIP bathroom that someone forgot to lock.
He pulls you inside and kicks the door shut behind him, the lock clicking into place with a sharp clack.
The silence of the tiled room is deafening compared to the club outside. The only sound is the heavy, ragged breathing echoing between the two of you.
“You are absolutely gorgeous,” Logan breathes out, backing you up against the cool tiles of the wall.
“Less talking,” you demand, grabbing the lapels of his jacket and pulling him back down to you.
He laughs softly against your lips — a rough, breathless sound — before devouring your mouth again. His hands are everywhere, frantic and exploring. He maps the curve of your waist, the slope of your back, his large palms hot against your skin. You let out a soft moan as his lips leave your mouth to trail fiery kisses down your jawline and onto your neck.
“So impatient,” Logan teases, though his own voice is tight with desire. He bites down gently on a sensitive spot just below your ear, making your knees buckle slightly.
“You’re the one who dragged me in here,” you manage to say, your fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. You push the fabric aside, pressing your palms flat against his warm, hard chest. His heart is racing just as fast as yours.
“Correction,” Logan groans, as your hands slide over his abs. “We dragged each other. Mutually Assured Destruction. MAD.”
“Shut up with the acronyms,” you whisper fiercely, pulling his face back up to yours.
He kisses you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs. With a swift, effortless motion that reminds you how incredibly strong he is, he lifts you off the ground. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, your combat boots scraping against his jeans. Logan presses you against the door, holding you up with ease, his body a solid weight keeping you pinned.
The angle is perfect. The friction is maddening.
You reach down, your fingers tangling in his belt loops, tugging him even closer. The raw, desperate energy between you two is overwhelming. It’s completely out of character for you. You don’t do this. You don’t hook up with random guys in club bathrooms. But the way he looks at you, the way he touches you like he’s starving for it, strips away every inhibition you have.
“Tell me if I need to stop,” Logan says, his voice thick, his forehead resting against yours. Even in the haze of lust, that core of reliability, of fundamental goodness, shines through. He’s asking for consent. He’s making sure you’re okay.
“Don’t you dare stop,” you breathe, your hands sliding up into his hair, pulling gently.
Logan’s eyes flash with a dark, primal heat. He shifts his grip, one hand supporting your thighs while the other slides up to trace the edge of your red dress. He pushes the thin fabric up, his rough fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your upper thigh. You gasp into his mouth as his touch becomes more deliberate, tracing higher, sending bolts of pure electricity straight to your core.
He kisses you harder, swallowing your moans, his tongue tangling with yours in a desperate, wet rhythm that mirrors the heavy thrusting of his hips against yours. The heavy denim of his jeans grinds against you, and it’s simultaneously the best and most frustrating feeling in the world.
“You’re driving me crazy,” Logan mutters, his lips moving frantically over your neck, his teeth scraping lightly against your collarbone.
“Then do something about it,” you dare him, your voice shaking with need.
Logan chuckles, a low, dangerous sound. His fingers expertly work the clasp of your undergarments, and when his skin finally meets yours, you let out a loud, uninhibited cry that is completely swallowed by his mouth.
He moves inside you, and the sensation is so intense, so overwhelmingly perfect, that you see stars behind your closed eyelids. Logan groans loudly, his grip on your thighs tightening as he sets a frantic, punishing pace. He’s strong, so incredibly strong, pinning you against the heavy wood of the door, completely controlling the rhythm.
Every thrust sends a shockwave through you. The heat in the small bathroom is stifling, the air thick with the smell of sex and sweat and his intoxicating cologne.
“Look at me,” Logan commands, his voice ragged.
You open your eyes, meeting his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched tight with the effort of holding back. The sheer intensity of his stare makes your breath hitch.
“You feel unbelievable,” he rasps out, his hips snapping forward with a force that makes the door rattle in its frame.
“Faster,” you plead, your nails digging into his shoulders.
Logan obliges, his pace doubling. You cling to him, entirely lost in the storm of sensation. The world outside the bathroom ceases to exist. There is no abusive past, no dead mother, no heavy burden of the mechanic shop or the alcoholic father. There is only here. There is only now. There is only the sliding heat of his body, the rough texture of the wall at your back, and the mind-shattering pleasure building in your chest.
“I’m close,” you sob out, tossing your head back.
“Let go for me,” Logan whispers against your neck, his thrusts becoming jagged and desperate. “Come on. Let go.”
His words, the deep, encouraging rumble of his voice, are the final push you need. The climax hits you like a freight train, a cascading wave of blinding heat that tears a loud moan from your throat. Your body shudders violently against his, your muscles clenching tightly around him.
Logan grunts, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He gives one final, deep thrust, his entire body going rigid as he finds his own release. He holds you tightly against him, his chest heaving, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your own.
For a long time, neither of you moves. The only sound in the bathroom is the heavy, ragged sound of your synchronized breathing. Logan’s face is still buried in your neck, his lips pressing soft, absentminded kisses against your damp skin as his heart rate slowly begins to settle.
Eventually, the reality of the situation begins to seep back in. The muffled thud of the bass from the club outside reminds you both where you are.
Logan slowly lowers you down, his hands lingering on your hips until your boots hit the floor. Your knees are trembling so violently that you have to lean against the door for support.
He steps back, looking slightly dazed, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he buttons his shirt. He looks at you, his eyes sweeping over your flushed face, your swollen lips, and the messy tangle of your hair.
“Wow,” Logan breathes, a genuine, awe-struck smile breaking across his face. “That was ...”
“Yeah,” you manage to say, smoothing down the front of your red dress, feeling a sudden, intense flush of shyness. “It was.”
You avoid his gaze, quickly fixing your clothes and running a hand through your hair. The magic of the bubble is bursting. The anonymity is starting to feel heavy.
“Hey,” Logan says softly, stepping closer and lifting a hand to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The sweetness of the gesture makes your heart ache. “I never even got your name.”
You look up at him. You see the genuine interest in his eyes. He’s not just a frat boy looking for a quick lay. There is a depth to him, a heavy, quiet kind of reliability that you can sense even now. But you can’t. You’re Garrett’s little sister. You have a reputation to build, a life to start, and getting tangled up with a Briar hockey player — a guy who looks like trouble wrapped in charm — is a terrible idea.
“It’s better this way,” you say quietly, stepping around him toward the door.
Logan frowns, his hand dropping to his side. “Wait. Seriously? No name? No number?”
“No acronyms,” you reply, offering him a small, almost sad smile.
Before he can argue, you unlock the door and slip out into the dimly lit hallway. You don’t look back. You merge back into the sweaty, pulsing crowd of the dance floor, letting the music swallow you whole.
Back in the bathroom, Logan stands alone, staring at the closed door. He runs a hand through his hair, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.
“Well,” he murmurs to the empty room. “FML.”
***
The Matthews Arena is freezing, smelling sharply of Zamboni exhaust, stale popcorn, and that distinct, metallic tang of fresh ice. For Logan, it’s a scent that instantly feels like home, even if he’s sitting in enemy territory. Northeastern University’s rink is packed for the women’s game against Harvard, the crowd a sea of red and black.
Logan shivers, pulling the collar of his Briar University hockey jacket a little higher. He bumps his knee against the plastic seat in front of him, leaning over to look at his best friend.
“I still can’t believe you dragged us out of bed before noon on a Sunday,” Logan complains, his voice raspy from sleep. “It’s practically a human rights violation.”
Garrett doesn’t even look away from the ice. He’s practically vibrating with nervous energy, a half-eaten pretzel abandoned in his lap. “Shut up, Logan. You slept until eleven. And it’s my sister’s first home game against a rival. I wasn’t going to miss it, and I wasn’t letting you idiots miss it either.”
“We’re honored, truly,” Dean drawls from Logan’s right, suppressing a yawn. “But couldn’t we have been honored from the comfort of our couch? With, like, breakfast sandwiches?”
“Focus,” Garrett commands, pointing a finger toward the ice. “Puck drop is in two minutes. And I swear to God, if any of you embarrass me, I’m making you run stairs until you puke at practice tomorrow.”
Tucker, sitting on the other side of Dean, chuckles softly. “Relax, G. We’re on our best behavior. We just want to see if the Graham hockey genes actually transferred over, or if you stole all the talent in the womb.”
“Oh, she’s got the talent,” Garrett says, and for a second, the cocky, commanding captain of the Briar team melts away, replaced by a fiercely proud older brother. “Just watch number twenty-one.”
Logan leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He hasn’t met Garrett’s little sister yet. He knows they’re incredibly close, knows a little bit about the dark, heavy history they share with their father — a topic Garrett rarely touches, but when he does, it’s with a protective ferocity that Logan respects. The timing just never worked out for them to meet. When you were visiting Briar, Logan was usually back home dealing with his dad or at the shop. And since you started at Northeastern a few weeks ago, their schedules have been a nightmare of overlapping practices and away games.
The buzzer blares, echoing through the arena, and the starting lines skate out to the center circle.
Logan’s eyes immediately scan the red jerseys for the number twenty-one. He spots you lining up for the face-off. Even under the bulky pads and the caged helmet, there’s a distinct posture to you. A coiled, aggressive energy that reminds him so much of Garrett it’s almost funny.
The referee drops the puck.
You win the draw instantly, a sharp, precise flick of the wrist that sends the puck straight back to your defenseman. And then, you explode into motion.
“Whoa,” Dean says, sitting up a little straighter. “Okay. She’s fast.”
“Told you,” Garrett says smugly.
Logan watches in genuine awe as the game unfolds. You aren’t just fast; you’re brilliant on the ice. Your hockey IQ is off the charts. You anticipate plays before they happen, finding open ice where there shouldn’t be any. Halfway through the first period, you receive a pass in the neutral zone, weave through two Harvard defenders with a blindingly quick deke, and fire a wrist shot that pings off the crossbar and into the net.
The crowd erupts. Garrett jumps to his feet, screaming his head off, slamming his hands against the glass.
“That’s my sister!” Garrett roars, looking back at the guys with a wild grin. “Did you see those hands? Did you see that?”
“NFD,” Logan mutters, his eyes wide as he watches you celebrate with your team, slamming your gloves against your teammates’.
“Don’t do it, Tucker,” Dean warns.
“I have to,” Tucker sighs. “What does NFD mean, Logan?”
“No Freaking Doubt,” Logan says, a grin spreading across his face. “She’s lethal. G, I think she might actually be better than you.”
“Don’t push it,” Garrett warns, sitting back down, though he’s practically glowing with pride. “But yeah. She’s incredible. Has been since she was five. I basically taught her everything she knows.”
“Somehow, I doubt that,” Logan laughs.
For the rest of the game, Logan can’t take his eyes off the ice. It’s a distraction he desperately needs. For the past three weeks, his mind has been a broken record, constantly skipping back to the girl in the red dress from the club. It’s driving him insane. He’s the guy who lives in the moment, the guy who never gets hung up on a one-night stand. But that night in the bathroom wasn’t just a hookup. It felt like a collision. He’s spent the last twenty-one days scanning crowds, looking for that wild hair, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. He doesn’t even know her name. He’s half-convinced he hallucinated the entire thing.
But watching you play, the sheer aggression and skill you bring to the ice, it centers him. It’s a damn good game of hockey.
By the time the final buzzer sounds, Northeastern has secured a 4-2 victory, with you notching a goal and two assists. You’re the clear MVP of the match.
“Alright,” Garrett says, standing up and stretching. “Let’s head down to the tunnels. I texted her to meet us outside the locker room.”
The boys shuffle out of the stands, joining the flow of parents and friends heading down to the lower levels of the arena. The air down here is thicker, smelling strongly of sweat and sports tape. They find a spot against a cinderblock wall just outside the double doors of the Northeastern locker room.
“So, what’s the protocol here?” Dean asks, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. “Do we bow? Do we offer her a tribute for absolutely carrying her team today?”
“Just be normal,” Garrett snaps, suddenly looking a little anxious. “And keep your gross, flirtatious comments to yourselves. She’s my baby sister. Look at her, tell her she played well, and do not hit on her. I mean it. Especially you, Dean.”
“Hey! I am a perfect gentleman,” Dean protests.
Logan chuckles, leaning his head back against the cold wall. “Relax, Garrett. We know the bro code. Best friend’s sister is strictly off-limits. Untouchable. It’s, like, the fundamental law of the universe.”
“Exactly,” Garrett says, pointing a firm finger at Logan. “I trust you, Logan. You’re the only one of these idiots who actually respects boundaries.”
“I am a pillar of morality,” Logan agrees solemnly, placing a hand over his heart.
Tucker snorts. “You’re a pillar of something, alright.”
They wait for another fifteen minutes as players slowly trickle out, greeting their families. The heavy double doors swing open again, and Logan hears Garrett suck in a sharp breath.
***
You push through the locker room doors, a heavy duffel bag slung over your shoulder. Your hair is still damp from the showers, falling in messy, natural waves around your face. You’re wearing a pair of comfortable gray sweatpants and a massive, oversized Northeastern Hockey hoodie that swallows you whole. Your muscles are aching, your legs feel like lead, but there is a triumphant, soaring feeling in your chest.
You beat Harvard. You proved you belong here.
You scan the crowd of lingering families in the hallway, your eyes searching for a familiar face. And then you see him. Standing tall in his Briar letterman jacket, looking exactly the same as he always does.
“Garrett!” You call out, a massive, exhausted smile breaking across your face.
You drop your duffel bag instantly, not caring where it lands, and practically launch yourself at him. Garrett catches you easily, wrapping his large arms around you and lifting you entirely off your feet, burying his face in your damp hair.
“God, you were amazing,” Garrett murmurs fiercely into your shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. “I am so damn proud of you. That goal in the first period? Filthy. Absolutely filthy.”
“I learned from the best,” you whisper back, squeezing him tight.
In this moment, the rest of the world fades away. It’s just the two of you. The two kids who used to hide in a locked bedroom in New York, the two survivors who made it out to the other side. Every time you step onto the ice, you play for yourself, but you also play for him. Because he made sure you survived long enough to lace up your skates.
“Okay, okay,” Garrett laughs, finally setting you down, though he keeps one arm securely draped over your shoulders. He looks down at you, his eyes shining. “Let me look at you. You look terrible. Exhausted.”
“Thanks,” you scoff, punching him lightly in the ribs. “I feel terrible. But winning takes the edge off.”
“I brought the guys,” Garrett says, his tone shifting into his captain voice. He turns slightly, gesturing to the three tall, intimidating hockey players standing a few feet away. “They’ve been dying to meet the mythical little sister. Guys, this is her.”
You turn, a polite, friendly smile already plastered on your face. You’re ready to meet the famous Briar boys you’ve heard so much about.
“Hey, it’s nice to-”
The words die in your throat.
Your eyes sweep past a blonde guy with a cocky grin, past a tall, quiet-looking guy with curly hair, and land squarely on the third guy.
The tall guy with the messy, dark brown hair. The sharp jawline. The broad shoulders. The guy who, three weeks ago, pinned you against a heavy wooden door in a club bathroom and made you see stars.
The blood instantly drains from your face. The world tilts on its axis.
***
Logan freezes.
Every single muscle in his body locks up. He stops breathing. He stops blinking. The cinderblock wall behind him is the only thing keeping him from collapsing onto the floor.
He stares at you. At the damp hair, the gray sweatpants, the oversized hoodie. But it’s the eyes. It’s the sharp, expressive eyes that he spent an hour staring into in a dark, sweaty hallway. It’s the curve of your mouth that he had bruised with his own.
*No. No, no, no.*
The realization hits him with the force of a freight train colliding with a brick wall. The girl in the red dress. The girl who tasted like whiskey and mint. The girl whose moans he still hears when he tries to fall asleep.
It’s you.
It’s Garrett’s little sister.
Panic, cold and sharp, floods Logan’s veins. His heart begins to hammer violently against his ribs, a frantic, terrified rhythm. He is a dead man. He is literally going to die today, right here in the Matthews Arena. Garrett is going to murder him. Garrett is going to strip him of his hockey gear, drag him out onto the ice, and beat him to death with his own stick.
“Earth to Logan,” Dean says, elbowing Logan sharply in the ribs. “Introduce yourself, weirdo.”
Logan swallows hard. His mouth is completely dry. He tries to form words, but his brain is short-circuiting. Code Red. CR. Catastrophic Failure. CF. I Am Going To Die. IAGTD.
He looks at you, really looks at you, and sees the exact same horror mirrored in your eyes. You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. Your lips are slightly parted, your chest rising and falling rapidly as the shock registers.
“Hey,” Logan manages to croak out, his voice sounding entirely unlike his own. It’s an octave higher, strangled and tight. “I’m Logan.”
***
“Logan,” you repeat, the name slipping out of your mouth like a curse word.
John Logan. Garrett’s best friend. The guy your brother trusts more than anyone else in the world.
You slept with him.
You can feel the hysterical urge to laugh bubbling up in your throat, but you ruthlessly suppress it. Your mind races, trying to stitch together the pieces of that night. No names, no schools, no complications. What a spectacularly stupid rule that turned out to be. If you had just asked his name, if he had just mentioned he played for Briar ...
“Yeah, this is Logan,” Garrett says, oblivious to the nuclear bomb currently detonating in the space between you two. He claps Logan on the shoulder, and you watch Logan flinch as if he’s been burned. “And this is Dean, and Tucker. Guys, my little sister.”
“Incredible game out there,” Tucker says smoothly, stepping forward to offer a fist bump, which you return mechanically. “Your vision on the ice is insane.”
“Uh, thanks,” you manage to say, tearing your eyes away from Logan to look at Tucker. “I appreciate it.”
“Seriously,” Dean chimes in, flashing a bright, flirtatious smile that instantly makes Garrett narrow his eyes. “You didn’t tell us she was a superstar, G. Or that she was this pretty.”
“Dean,” Garrett barks, his voice low and dangerous. “I will end you.”
“Just stating facts!” Dean raises his hands in surrender.
You try to focus on the banter, try to act normal, but it’s impossible. You can feel Logan’s stare burning a hole into the side of your head. The tension radiating from him is palpable. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler.
“So,” Garrett says, turning back to you, completely blind to the silent panic attack Logan is having three feet away. “We were thinking of grabbing food to celebrate. There’s a diner a few blocks from here. You up for it, or are you too dead?”
“I ...” You desperately want to say no. You want to grab your bag, run back into the locker room, lock the door, and never come out. But you look at Garrett, at the sheer happiness on his face. He’s so excited to have you here, to introduce you to his world. You can’t ruin this for him.
“I’m starving,” you lie, forcing a bright smile. “Food sounds great.”
“I am?” Logan stammers, his eyes snapping to Garrett.
“Yeah, you drove us here in your truck,” Garrett points out, looking at Logan like he’s grown a second head. “Are you okay, man? You look like you’re going to throw up.”
“I’m fine,” Logan says quickly, too quickly. “Just hungry. Blood sugar is low. LBS.”
“Stop with the acronyms,” Garrett sighs, rolling his eyes. He turns to you. “He does this thing where he makes up acronyms. It’s annoying, but you learn to tune it out.”
“I know,” you say softly.
The words slip out before you can stop them.
The hallway goes completely silent.
Dean and Tucker pause. Garrett frowns, looking between you and Logan. Logan looks like he’s about to sprint down the hallway and jump into moving traffic.
“You know?” Garrett asks slowly, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “How do you know?”
Crap. Crap. Crap.
“I mean,” you backpedal frantically, your heart hammering against your ribs, “I assume it’s annoying. You know? Guys who do that ... it’s usually annoying.”
Garrett stares at you for a second longer before his face clears, and he laughs. “Yeah. See? Even she thinks you’re annoying, Logan.”
Logan manages a weak, strained chuckle. “Yeah. Hilarious.”
The walk to Logan’s truck is the longest walk of your entire life. Garrett walks beside you, excitedly breaking down the plays from the game, asking you about your linemates, while the three boys trail behind.
You can feel Logan’s eyes on your back the entire time. It’s a heavy, burning weight.
When you reach the parking lot, Logan clicks his keys, and a massive, beat-up black Chevy Silverado chirps.
“I call shotgun!” Dean yells, lunging for the front door.
“No way,” Garrett says, grabbing Dean by the back of his jacket and yanking him backward. “Sister gets shotgun. You animals get in the back.”
“Garrett, it’s fine,” you protest immediately, holding your hands up. “I can sit in the back.”
The idea of sitting in the passenger seat, mere inches away from Logan, in the enclosed space of his truck, sounds like absolute torture.
“Nonsense,” Garrett insists, opening the passenger side door for you. “You’re the VIP today. Get in.”
You shoot a desperate, fleeting glance at Logan over the hood of the truck. His face is pale, his jaw clenched tight. He looks completely out of his depth, which is terrifying, because Logan is supposed to be the guy who has it all together. The cool, calm, collected one.
You climb into the truck. The smell of the interior hits you instantly. It’s the exact same smell that clung to his skin that night in the bathroom. Woodsmoke and that same masculine cologne. It makes your head spin.
Logan climbs into the driver’s seat. He shuts the door, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles.
Garrett, Dean, and Tucker pile into the back seat, instantly filling the cab with noise and chaos as they argue over legroom.
“Alright, Logan,” Garrett says from the backseat, leaning forward to clap Logan on the shoulder. “To the diner. Let’s get some food in this champion.”
Logan starts the engine. The low rumble of the truck vibrates through the seat, sending a phantom shiver up your spine. He puts the car in drive, finally turning to look at you for the first time since the locker room.
His eyes are dark, filled with a chaotic mixture of panic, disbelief, and something else — something dangerously similar to the raw hunger you saw in the club.
“Buckle up,” Logan says, his voice a low, raspy whisper that is meant only for you.
You swallow hard, grabbing the seatbelt and pulling it across your chest. The click of the buckle sounds as loud as a gunshot in the tense silence of the front seat.
“Ready,” you whisper back.
Logan tears his gaze away, staring straight ahead at the road as he pulls out of the parking lot.
It’s going to be a very, very long lunch.
***
The bell above the door of Della’s Diner chimes a cheerful, tinny note that sounds entirely too happy for the funeral march currently playing in Logan’s head.
The diner is a quintessential college town staple — smelling of old frying oil, burnt coffee, and maple syrup, with neon beer signs buzzing faintly in the grease-stained windows. It’s usually Logan’s favorite place to recover after a rough practice, but right now, it feels like an interrogation room.
“Booth in the back,” Garrett declares, pointing to a circular corner booth upholstered in cracked red vinyl.
It’s a tight squeeze. Too tight.
Garrett slides in first, pulling you in right beside him. Dean drops into the opposite side, dragging Tucker with him. That leaves one spot left. Right in the middle. Directly across from you.
Logan stands in the aisle for a fraction of a second too long, staring at the empty space on the vinyl seat like it’s a trap door.
“Sit down, man, you’re blocking the aisle,” Tucker says, giving Logan a shove.
Logan practically falls into the booth. His knees immediately bump against something soft under the table.
You jerk your legs back so fast you nearly spill the glass of water the waitress just set down. “Sorry,” you murmur, your cheeks flushing a brilliant shade of crimson.
“My bad,” Logan chokes out. He pulls his long legs back, pressing his knees firmly together. He feels like he’s trying to defuse a bomb with a pair of chopsticks.
The waitress, a gum-chewing woman in her fifties named Stacy, pulls a notepad from her apron. “What can I get you boys? And the lovely lady?”
“Three orders of the lumberjack special,” Garrett says without looking at the menu. “Extra bacon for me. Tucker will have the chicken wrap, because he’s boring.”
“It’s called macronutrients, Garrett,” Tucker sighs.
“And for the lady?” Stacy asks, giving you a warm smile.
“I’ll just take a side of fries, please,” you say, peeling off your oversized Northeastern hockey hoodie to reveal the gray tank top underneath. “And a strawberry milkshake. Extra thick.”
Logan swallows. Hard.
“Coming right up, hon,” Stacy says, clicking her pen and sauntering away.
“Just fries?” Garrett frowns, shifting in the booth to look at you. “You played a hell of a game, you need protein. You want some of my eggs?”
“I’m too amped up to eat a heavy meal, G,” you say, leaning back against the vinyl. “You know how I get after a game. Adrenaline crash hasn’t hit yet.”
“Suit yourself,” Garrett shrugs. “But you’re eating at least half my bacon.”
Logan stares blankly at the laminated menu in front of him, seeing absolutely nothing. He is in hell. A very specific, vinyl-upholstered circle of hell.
You are sitting directly across from him. The diner lighting is catching the faint sheen of sweat still lingering on your collarbones. He can see the subtle shift of your athletic shoulders under the thin fabric of your tank top, and all he can think about is the way those shoulders felt under his hands when he pinned you against that bathroom door.
Stop it. Logan squeezes his eyes shut for a microsecond. Wayne Gretzky. 2,857 career points. 894 goals. 1,963 assists.
“So,” Dean starts, leaning his elbows on the table and giving you his best, most dazzling smile. The one that usually makes puck bunnies melt into puddles. “Northeastern, huh? Why didn’t you come to Briar with Garrett?”
You look at Dean, your expression perfectly composed. “Northeastern offered me a full ride and a starting position at center. Briar wanted me to sit on the bench for a year to develop. It wasn’t a hard choice.”
“Ouch,” Dean laughs, clutching his chest. “Brains, beauty, and she’s ruthless. You sure you’re related to Garrett?”
“Dean, I swear to God,” Garrett warns, his voice dropping an octave. “I will stab you with this fork.”
“Just making conversation!” Dean defends himself, picking up a sugar packet and tossing it at Garrett. “It’s nice to actually meet her. You’ve kept her locked in a tower for years.”
“I haven’t kept her in a tower,” Garrett grumbles. “She was back home. I was here.”
Logan keeps his eyes glued to the table, tracing the wood-grain pattern with his thumbnail. He needs to say something. If he stays silent, it’s going to look suspicious. He is the loud one. The funny one. The guy who never shuts up.
“So,” Logan forces his vocal cords to work, glancing up to meet your eyes. “Center. You like running the offense?”
Your breath hitches slightly when his eyes lock onto yours, but you recover instantly. You are incredibly good at this game.
“I do,” you nod, wrapping your hands around your glass of water. “I like controlling the pace. Setting up the plays. Better than waiting around for someone else to pass me the puck.”
Oh, Jesus. Logan’s brain completely short-circuits. She likes controlling the pace. Mario Lemieux. 1,723 points. 690 goals. 1,033 assists. Won the Stanley Cup in ‘91 and ‘92.
“She’s a control freak on the ice,” Garrett laughs, bumping his shoulder against yours. “Always has been. Even when we were playing street hockey as kids, she bossed me around.”
“Someone had to,” you shoot back, a genuine, easy smile breaking across your face. It’s the exact same smile Logan saw in the club right before he kissed you.
Stacy returns, balancing a massive tray of food. She deposits plates of eggs, pancakes, and greasy bacon onto the table. Finally, she places a tall, condensation-beaded glass filled with pink milkshake directly in front of you. It comes with a thick red straw and a mountain of whipped cream.
“Enjoy, sweetheart,” Stacy says, winking before she walks away.
“Thanks,” you say, grabbing the glass.
Logan watches in slow motion as your lips wrap around the thick red straw.
You take a long, deep pull of the milkshake. Your cheeks hollow out slightly from the effort, the thick ice cream requiring serious suction. You swallow, your throat working, and pull the straw away, your lips slick and shining with the pale pink liquid. A tiny drop of milkshake lingers on the corner of your mouth.
You dart your tongue out and lick it away.
Logan’s hands grip the edges of the table so hard his knuckles turn stark white. Bobby Orr. Number 4. Eight consecutive Norris Trophies. 270 career goals. It’s not working. The stats aren’t working.
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trying to adjust his jeans without anyone noticing the distinct, painful problem developing below the table. He is having a physical reaction to his best friend’s sister drinking a strawberry milkshake. He is a monster. A depraved, irredeemable monster.
He just wants to finish the season. He wants to play his final year of college hockey, graduate, and go back to his dad’s mechanic shop. That’s the deal. He just needs to survive these next few months before Garrett inevitably finds out and murders him with his bare hands.
“You okay, Logan?” Tucker asks, pausing halfway through a bite of his chicken wrap. He looks at Logan with narrow, analytical eyes. “You’re sweating.”
“I’m fine,” Logan rasps, reaching for his ice water and downing half the glass in one go. “It’s hot in here. HC. Heat Casualties.”
You let out a soft, sudden sound — a cross between a cough and a laugh — and choke on your milkshake.
Garrett immediately drops his fork and thumps you on the back. “Whoa, easy. Breathe. You good?”
“I’m fine,” you wheeze, covering your mouth with a napkin. Your eyes, bright and watery, dart across the table to glare at Logan. “Just went down the wrong pipe.”
“It’s Logan’s stupid acronyms,” Garrett sighs, handing you another napkin. “I told you, he’s insufferable.”
“They’re not stupid, they’re efficient,” Logan says defensively, though his voice is still a little tight. “Saves time.”
“Saves time for what? More terrible jokes?” Dean quips around a mouthful of pancake.
“Exactly,” Logan snaps back, finally finding his rhythm. The banter is safe. The banter is familiar. “At least I have jokes. Your entire personality is just hair gel and daddy issues, Dean.”
“Hey!” Dean protests, running a self-conscious hand through his perfectly styled hair. “I love my father, thank you very much.”
You laugh, and the sound does funny things to Logan’s chest. It’s warm and real, totally different from the dark, heavy lust that defined your first encounter. He realizes, with a sinking feeling of dread, that he likes you. Not just the physical memory of you, but you. The way you hold your own against his idiot friends. The way you look at Garrett with pure adoration.
I am so dead, Logan thinks, watching you steal a piece of bacon off Garrett’s plate. I am absolutely, definitively dead.
The rest of the meal passes in a blur of hockey talk, arguments over NHL standings, and Tucker quietly destroying everyone’s logic with statistics. You fit into the group seamlessly. You speak their language.
Under the table, it’s a different story.
The booth is small, and Logan has long legs. Twice, your knee brushes against his. The first time, he flinches so violently he nearly knocks over his coffee mug. The second time, he freezes, holding his breath as the soft denim of your sweatpants drags slowly across the heavy denim of his jeans.
He looks up. You are casually talking to Dean about Northeastern’s defensive lineup, sipping your milkshake, acting completely unaffected. But Logan sees the slight tremor in your hand holding the glass. He sees the high color in your cheeks.
You are feeling it too. The electricity. The undeniable pull.
It’s making the situation infinitely worse. If you hated him, if you were disgusted by him, he could back off. He could bury it. But knowing that the memory of that bathroom is playing on a loop in your head just like it is in his? It’s a ticking time bomb.
“Alright,” Garrett says, tossing his napkin onto his empty plate and reaching for his wallet. “I got this.”
“You don’t have to pay for me, G,” you protest, reaching for your own bag.
“Put it away,” Garrett orders, throwing a twenty-dollar bill onto the table. “Big brother privilege. Besides, you’re a broke freshman. Save your money.”
You roll your eyes but let your bag drop back onto the seat. “Fine. Thank you.”
“Okay, before we get out of here,” Garrett says, his tone suddenly shifting from casual to commanding. He looks at Dean, Tucker, and finally, Logan. “Phones out. All of you.”
Logan stares at him. “What?”
“Phones out,” Garrett repeats, pulling his own cell phone from his pocket. “You too, Y/N.”
You look just as confused as Logan, pulling your phone out of your hoodie pocket.
“Exchange numbers,” Garrett instructs, gesturing between you and the boys.
Logan’s blood runs cold. He stares at Garrett, convinced this is some sort of elaborate trap. “Why?”
“Because,” Garrett says, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. He looks at the three of them with deadly serious eyes. “You three are my brothers. You’re the only people I trust completely. My sister is living in this city now. She’s at Northeastern, dealing with a new team, new classes, new everything.”
Garrett pauses, looking at you, his expression softening slightly. “I’m not always going to be available. We have away games. I have practice. Sometimes my phone dies. If she ever needs anything — a ride, help moving a couch, someone to bail her out of a bad situation — and she can’t reach me, I want her to be able to reach you.”
You stare at your brother, your throat working. “Garrett, I’m fine. I don’t need a babysitting squad.”
“It’s not a babysitting squad,” Garrett says firmly. “It’s an insurance policy. Mom is gone. Dad is ...” Garrett’s jaw clenches, the muscles ticking violently. “Dad is dead to us. It’s just you and me. And these guys. This is our family now.”
The diner goes totally quiet. Dean drops the joking facade, his face sobering instantly. Tucker nods slowly.
Even Logan feels a sharp, painful ache in his chest. He knows better than anyone what it’s like to deal with a toxic father. He knows what Garrett has sacrificed to protect you. Garrett is handing over the most precious thing in his life to his best friends, trusting them to protect her.
“He’s right,” Tucker says quietly, unlocking his phone. “Read us your number, Y/N.”
You look overwhelmed, blinking rapidly as if fighting back tears, but you softly read out your ten-digit number.
Dean types it in, saving the contact. “Got it. And hey, for the record? I’m honored, G. We got her back.”
“Always,” Tucker agrees.
Garrett looks at Logan. “Logan?”
Logan’s hands are shaking as he unlocks his phone. He types your number into the keypad. The screen glows brightly, mocking him. He hits Save Contact.
Y/N Graham.
“Got it,” Logan forces the words past the massive lump in his throat. He looks up, meeting Garrett’s eyes.
“I need you to promise me,” Garrett says, his voice thick with emotion, looking specifically at Logan. “You treat her like a sister. All of you. She is off-limits to everyone on our team, everyone you know. You look out for her like she’s your own blood. Understood?”
“Understood,” Dean says solemnly.
“Got it, Garrett,” Tucker nods.
Garrett doesn’t look away from Logan. He knows Logan is the wild card. The guy who hooks up and moves on. The guy who never commits.
“Logan?” Garrett prompts.
Logan looks at his best friend. The guy who covered for him when his dad showed up drunk to a home game. The guy who let Logan sleep on his floor for a week when things got too bad at home. Garrett trusts him implicitly.
“I promise,” Logan says, the lie tasting like ash on his tongue. “Like a sister. I swear, G.”
“Good,” Garrett exhales, clapping Logan on the shoulder. The tension breaks, the heavy atmosphere dissipating back into the background noise of the diner. “Alright. Let’s get out of here. I need to ice my ankle again before practice tomorrow.”
They all slide out of the booth. You grab your hoodie, pulling it over your head to hide your face for a second.
As they file out of the diner into the crisp autumn air, Garrett walks ahead, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. You lean into him, laughing at something he says.
Logan hangs back, trailing behind with Dean and Tucker.
He stops on the sidewalk, looking up at the gray, overcast Boston sky. The clouds are thick, heavy with the promise of rain.
He promised Garrett he would treat you like a sister.
He thinks about the heavy wooden door of the club bathroom. He thinks about the way your nails dug into his shoulders. He thinks about the sounds you made when he pushed inside you, the desperate, uninhibited way you wrapped your legs around his waist and begged him not to stop.
Logan closes his eyes, tilting his head back toward the sky. He lets out a long, ragged exhale that turns into a white cloud in the cold air.
I have done things to her, Logan thinks, a feeling of absolute doom settling deep in his bones, that absolutely no one should ever do to their little sister.
He opens his eyes, staring at your retreating back as you walk to the truck with Garrett.
Fuck his life.
***
The dashboard of your beat-up Toyota Corolla flickers violently, a dying strobe light of warning symbols, before the entire console goes pitch black. The engine gives one final, pathetic shudder and dies, leaving you coasting in terrifying silence down a dark, empty stretch of road just outside the Boston city limits.
You wrench the steering wheel hard to the right, using the last of your momentum to pull onto the gravel shoulder before slamming the car into park.
For a moment, the only sound is the frantic beating of your own heart and the rhythmic, aggressive drumming of the freezing November rain against your windshield.
“Perfect,” you whisper to the empty car. “Just perfect.”
You slam your hands against the steering wheel, letting out a frustrated groan. It’s nearly midnight on a Tuesday. You were just driving back from a late-night study session at the library, your brain completely fried from staring at anatomy textbooks. Now, you are stranded in the freezing cold.
You grab your phone from the cup holder. Your fingers are already starting to go numb. You pull up your favorites list and immediately hit Garrett’s name.
The line rings once. Twice. Three times.
“Hey, this is Garrett. Leave a message, unless you’re Dean, in which case, stop calling me.”
“Damn it, Garrett,” you mutter, hanging up. You try again. Straight to voicemail. He must have finally fallen asleep after complaining all afternoon about the massive bruising on his ribs from practice.
You lean back against the headrest, staring blankly at the dark screen of your phone. You need a jump. Or a tow. Or a miracle.
Your thumb hovers over the contacts list. Garrett’s mandate from the diner echoes in your head. If she ever needs anything ... I want her to be able to reach you.
You never thought you’d actually have to use the emergency hockey-player hotline.
You scroll down. Dean? Absolutely not. He would show up with a stupid grin, probably hit on you while holding the jumper cables, and make the entire ordeal ten times more exhausting. Tucker? Tucker is a solid option. He’s quiet, respectful, and probably knows how to fix a car.
But then your thumb stops on the last name.
John Logan.
A hot flush of heat floods your chest, completely counteracting the freezing temperature of the car. It’s been weeks since the diner. Weeks of aggressively avoiding him. If you go to Briar to see Garrett, you make sure Logan isn’t around. If the boys come to your games, you keep a safe, polite distance. But avoiding him hasn’t stopped you from thinking about him. Every time you close your eyes, you’re back in that club bathroom.
You stare at his name. If you call Tucker, it’s safe. If you call Logan, you are willingly inviting the chaos back into your space.
But there is a strange, twisted logic forming in your tired brain. Logan has already seen you completely unraveled. He knows what you sound like when you lose control. The barrier of intimacy is already so irrevocably shattered between the two of you that calling him almost feels ... easier. There’s no pretense to keep up.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you press the green call button.
It rings twice.
“Hello?” His voice is rough, heavy with sleep, and the sound of it sends a sharp jolt straight to your core.
“Logan,” you say, your voice trembling slightly — mostly from the cold, but partly from the sheer adrenaline of hearing him say your name. “It’s ... it’s Y/N.”
There is a split second of silence on the line, followed by the sound of rustling sheets and a loud thud, as if he just vaulted out of bed.
“Y/N?” His voice is suddenly wide awake, sharp and entirely focused. “Are you okay? Where are you? Did something happen?”
“I’m okay,” you say quickly, not wanting to trigger a full-blown panic. “I’m not hurt or anything. I’m just ... my car died. I’m stuck on the shoulder off Route 9, a couple of miles past the exit for the campus.”
“Is anyone with you?” He demands, the protective edge in his voice so fiercely reminiscent of Garrett it makes your throat ache.
“No, I’m alone. I tried calling Garrett, but he’s not picking up, and-”
“I’m on my way,” Logan cuts you off smoothly. “Lock the doors. Keep the hazards on if the battery has enough juice for them. Do not get out of the car for anyone but me. Understood?”
“Understood,” you whisper.
“ETA is twenty minutes. Hang tight, sweetheart.”
The phone clicks dead. You stare at the screen, your heart doing a strange, fluttering gymnastics routine in your chest.
***
True to his word, exactly eighteen minutes later, the blinding headlights of a pickup truck cut through the rain, pulling up right behind your dead Civic.
You unlock the door the second Logan steps out of his truck. He’s wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and a dark Briar hockey hoodie, the hood pulled up against the freezing rain. He walks over to your window, his jaw clenched tight, scanning the dark road around you before he looks down at you.
“You okay?” He asks, his voice muffled by the glass.
You roll the window down an inch. “I’m freezing, but I’m fine. The engine just completely died.”
Logan nods, immediately shifting into a mode you haven’t seen before. It’s not the sarcastic jokester from the bar, and it’s not the panicked guy from the diner. This is Logan in his element. He grew up in a mechanic shop.
“Pop the hood,” he instructs, turning back to his truck.
You pull the lever under the dash. By the time you step out of the car, wrapping your thin jacket tightly around yourself, Logan is already hooking up a set of heavy-duty jumper cables to his battery.
“Get back in the car, Y/N,” Logan barks over the sound of the rain, glancing up at you. “You’re shivering. I’ve got this.”
“I want to help,” you insist, your teeth chattering.
Logan sighs, walking over to the front of your car. He effortlessly lifts the heavy hood, propping it open. He moves with practiced, confident precision, attaching the red clamp to the positive terminal of your battery, then the black clamp to a piece of unpainted metal on the engine block.
“It’s a dead battery,” Logan says, wiping his wet hands on his sweatpants. “Alternator might be shot, too, considering it died while you were driving. But this should get you enough juice to get to my place or back to your dorm.”
“Your place?” You echo, the words slipping out.
Logan pauses, the rain plastering his dark hair to his forehead. He looks at you, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light. “Yeah. My place. Or your dorm. Whichever you want.”
He turns away, walking back to his truck. “Start it up!” He yells over his shoulder.
You slide back into the driver’s seat, turning the key. The engine sputters, whines a pathetic, high-pitched noise, and then, miraculously, roars to life. The heat instantly blasts from the vents.
You let out a massive sigh of relief, leaning your head against the steering wheel. He saved you.
You step back out of the car into the rain. Logan is already disconnecting the cables, tossing them into the bed of his truck before slamming the tailgate shut. He walks back over to you, rain dripping from his nose and chin, a small, tired smile playing on his lips.
“Good to go,” he says, his voice a low rumble over the idling engine. “SRO. Successful Rescue Operation.”
You laugh, the sound bubbling up through the cold. You are so overwhelmed with relief, so utterly grateful that you didn’t have to spend the night freezing on the side of the road, that you don’t even think about what you’re doing next.
You step directly into his space.
“Thank you, Logan,” you say, looking up at him. “Seriously. You’re a lifesaver.”
Before he can respond, you rise up on your toes, press a hand flat against his damp chest for balance, and press your lips to his.
It is meant to be a thank-you kiss. A quick, friendly peck on the corner of the mouth. But the second your lips touch his, muscle memory violently hijacks your brain.
Logan freezes. For a millisecond, his entire body goes completely rigid under your hand. And then, with a sharp, desperate intake of breath, he breaks.
His large hands come up, gripping your waist with bruising force. He pulls you flush against his body, opening his mouth over yours, entirely swallowing your gasp. The kiss is instantaneous fire. It’s exactly like the bathroom at the club — frantic, hungry, and completely consuming. You tangle your fingers into the wet hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, your mouth opening to the familiar, intoxicating slide of his tongue.
The freezing rain soaking through your clothes suddenly doesn’t matter at all. The only thing that exists is the burning heat of his mouth, the solid wall of his chest, and the desperate, crushing grip of his hands on your hips.
Logan groans into your mouth, a rough, guttural sound that vibrates straight down to your toes. He walks you backward until your spine hits the wet metal of your car door, pinning you there just like he did before.
But then, as quickly as it started, the reality of the situation crashes down on both of you.
Logan tears his mouth away, his chest heaving violently. He rests his forehead against yours, his hands still gripping your waist in a vise. You are both panting, staring into each other’s wide, terrified eyes.
“What are we doing?” Logan whispers, his voice trembling.
“I don’t know,” you breathe back, your hands still resting on his chest, feeling the frantic, galloping rhythm of his heart.
“Garrett is going to bury me under the ice rink,” Logan says, his eyes squeezing shut. “He is going to murder me. He’s going to use my bones to make a new hockey stick.”
“And I’ll be shipped off to a convent,” you add, your voice tight with panic. “I’ll be the first ever hockey-playing cloistered nun.”
Logan lets out a breathless, choked laugh, his forehead still resting against yours. “We can’t do this. You know we can’t do this.”
“I know,” you whisper. “We really can’t.”
You wait for him to step back. You wait for him to let you go.
He doesn’t move an inch.
Instead, his thumbs slowly begin to stroke the curve of your waist, right through the wet fabric of your jacket. The touch is so agonizingly slow, so heavy with intent, that a small, broken whimper escapes your lips.
“I’ve been going insane,” Logan admits, his voice dropping to a harsh rasp. He opens his eyes, staring directly into yours. The raw vulnerability in his expression makes your heart shatter. “Since the diner. Since the club. I can’t sleep. I can’t think on the ice. Every time I close my eyes, I see you drinking that damn milkshake.”
“Logan ...”
“I know I’m supposed to be the reliable guy,” he continues, his hands sliding up your sides to grip the lapels of your jacket. “I promised Garrett. I swore to him. But Y/N, I can’t stop. You are all I think about.”
The admission hangs heavy in the freezing air between you, thick and undeniably true. You feel the exact same way. The rules, the brother, the consequences — none of it feels real compared to the overwhelming, magnetic pull you have toward this man.
“My backseat is practically a living room,” Logan whispers, his eyes darting down to your lips.
“Logan ...” you say his name again, but this time, it’s not a warning. It’s a surrender.
“Tell me to get in my truck and drive away,” Logan pleads, his face inches from yours. “Tell me right now, and I will.”
You look at him. You look at the rain dripping from his lashes, at the desperate, agonizing hope in his eyes.
“I don’t want you to drive away,” you say, your voice perfectly clear over the sound of the storm.
Logan lets out a sharp exhale, his restraint finally snapping completely. He kisses you again, hard and bruising, before grabbing your hand and pulling you away from your car. He drags you toward the truck. He throws open the heavy back door, practically lifting you off your feet and tossing you onto the wide, expansive upholstered bench of the backseat.
He climbs in after you, slamming the door shut.
The sudden silence inside the truck is deafening. The windows are heavily tinted, shielding you from the outside world. The only light comes from the faint glow of the dashboard in the front.
Logan wastes absolutely no time. He crawls over the leather seats, caging you in against the soft upholstery. He straddles your hips, looking down at you with a gaze so hot it could melt glass.
“You are so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, his hands instantly reaching for the zipper of your wet jacket. He pulls it down with frantic haste, tugging the damp material off your shoulders and tossing it onto the floorboards.
“You talk too much,” you breathe, reaching up to grab the collar of his hoodie, pulling him down to you.
The kiss is explosive. It’s different from the club. At the club, it was pure, anonymous lust. This is heavier. This is loaded with weeks of pent-up desire, forbidden attraction, and the terrifying realization that there are real feelings involved.
Logan’s hands are everywhere, exploring you with a desperate reverence. He pushes your tank top up, his large, warm palms flattening against the bare, shivering skin of your stomach. You gasp into his mouth as he trails his hands higher, mapping the curve of your ribs before pushing the fabric up entirely.
“God,” Logan groans, pulling back just enough to look at you in the dim light. His eyes trace the lines of your body, filled with a deep, consuming hunger.
“Don’t stop,” you plead, your fingers tangling into his wet hair.
Logan leans down, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the slope of your breast. The contrast of his scorching mouth against your cold skin sends a violent shiver down your spine. He traces his tongue along the edge of your bra, biting down gently on the sensitive skin, eliciting a loud, uninhibited moan from your throat.
“You like that?” Logan rumbles against your skin, his hands moving to the button of your jeans.
“Logan, please,” you beg, arching your back off the leather seat.
He works the button and zipper with practiced ease, his fingers sliding beneath the denim. The second his rough skin brushes against your center, your entire body completely locks up.
Logan watches your face intently as his fingers begin to move. He sets a slow, maddeningly precise rhythm, his thumb circling and pressing exactly where you need it. You throw your head back into the leather seat, your hands gripping his shoulders like a lifeline.
“Look at me,” Logan commands, his voice thick with lust.
You force your eyes open, meeting his dark, intense gaze.
“You are mine,” Logan whispers fiercely, the words slipping out of him like an undeniable truth. He increases the pressure, his fingers moving faster, deeper. “You hear me? You’re mine.”
You can’t even form words to agree. The pleasure is too absolute, too consuming. The heat inside the cab of the truck is suffocating, completely fogging up the windows and isolating you both in a cocoon of raw, desperate need.
You feel the climax building rapidly, a tight, coil of energy in your lower stomach.
“Logan,” you sob out, your nails digging crescents into his shoulders.
“Let it go, sweetheart,” he encourages, leaning down to capture your lips in a devastating kiss. “I’ve got you.”
You shatter completely. The orgasm rips through you with a violent intensity, pulling a loud, muffled scream from your throat directly into his mouth. Your muscles clench tightly around his fingers, your entire body trembling uncontrollably as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you.
Logan holds you through it, his chest heaving, waiting until the violent tremors begin to subside.
When you finally open your eyes, you are gasping for air. Logan is looking down at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Without a word, he reaches down and grabs the hem of his own hoodie, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion. He tosses it aside, revealing his broad, heavily muscled chest.
He reaches for the waistband of his sweatpants.
“My turn,” he whispers, his eyes completely dark.
You reach up, helping him push the fabric down. The second he is free, he settles back over you, parting your knees with his thighs. He aligns himself perfectly, pausing for just a fraction of a second to look at you, to make sure you are ready.
You nod, lifting your hips to meet him.
Logan pushes inside you in one long, smooth, devastating thrust.
A sharp gasp leaves your lips, your eyes fluttering shut at the overwhelming sensation of being completely filled by him. It is infinitely better than the club. There is no door to pin you against, but the heavy, solid weight of his body pressing you deep into the leather seat is so much better.
Logan lets out a low, guttural groan, resting his forehead against yours as he takes a moment to adjust.
“Fuck,” he breathes out, his voice shaking. “You feel perfect.”
“Move,” you demand softly, your hands tracing down the hard, sweaty planes of his back to grip his hips.
He obeys. He sets a slow, agonizingly deep pace. Every thrust is deliberate, completely burying himself inside you before pulling almost entirely out. The friction is maddening. The truck rocks gently on its suspension with the force of his movements, the only sound inside the cab the wet slide of bodies and the heavy, ragged sound of your synchronized breathing.
“Wrap your legs around me,” Logan whispers harshly.
You immediately do as he asks, crossing your ankles over the small of his back, pulling him even deeper.
The change in angle is all it takes for Logan’s restraint to snap. The slow, deliberate pace vanishes, replaced by a frantic, punishing rhythm. He grips your hips so tightly it’s definitely going to leave bruises, his hips snapping forward with a force that drives you further and further into the seat.
You cling to him, entirely lost to the storm. The feeling of him inside you, the way his body covers yours perfectly, the desperate sounds he makes against your neck is intoxicating.
“Y/N,” Logan groans, his pace becoming erratic and entirely unhinged. “I’m going to-”
“Do it,” you sob out, your own second climax building with terrifying speed. “Logan, please.”
He thrusts deeply one final time, a harsh, jagged cry tearing from his throat. His entire body goes completely rigid as he finds his release, burying his face in the crook of your neck. The force of his climax pushes you directly over the edge, your body shattering around him simultaneously.
For a long time, neither of you moves.
Logan is a heavy, completely exhausted weight on top of you. His heart is hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against your chest, his skin slick with sweat despite the freezing temperatures outside. The windows of the truck are entirely opaque with condensation.
Slowly, the reality of the situation begins to creep back in. The rain is still drumming relentlessly against the roof of the truck.
Logan slowly lifts his head, looking down at you. His eyes are soft, devoid of the frantic panic that usually accompanies your interactions. He brushes a damp strand of hair out of your face, his touch remarkably gentle.
“Garrett is going to kill me,” Logan says quietly, the words lacking their usual terror.
You let out a soft, tired laugh, running your hands through his messy hair. “Yeah. He really is.”
“It’s worth it,” Logan says, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “For the record. I would let him kill me a thousand times if it meant I got to do this again.”
Your heart does a painful, stuttering flip in your chest. You look up at him, seeing the utter sincerity in his eyes. He isn’t joking. He isn’t deflecting with acronyms.
“Me too,” you whisper.
Logan smiles, a devastatingly soft expression that completely alters his face. He rolls off you gently, reaching down to grab his hoodie.
“Come on,” he says, pulling the hoodie over his head before handing you your damp jacket. “Let’s get you back to your dorm before you catch pneumonia. SVD. Safe Vehicle Drop-off.”
“You’re an idiot,” you laugh, sitting up and starting to re-dress.
“Yeah,” Logan agrees, watching you with an expression you can’t quite place. “I am.”
John had been warning you for the last ten minutes that taking the toddler to the grocery store this late was a bad idea.
Not because he was worried about the store. Or the list. Or the weather. He was worried about your daughter, who had been rubbing her eyes since the moment you loaded her into the car and had now reached the point where she was too tired to be difficult and too tired to be reasonable.
Which, in a toddler, was somehow worse.
You pushed the cart with one hand and checked the list with the other while John walked beside you with your daughter balanced against his shoulder like she belonged there. Her little arms were looped around his neck, her cheek pressed into the side of his jaw, and every few seconds she let out a soft, sleepy sigh that made his expression soften even more.
She had lasted exactly seven minutes after entering the store before asking to be held.
John had crouched immediately and picked her up without even glancing at you for permission, because of course he had. He was already in dad mode by then, and once he switched into that, he became annoyingly competent.
Now he was carrying a basket under one arm and your daughter with the other, one hand rubbing slow circles over her back as he steered them both through the produce section.
“She’s out,” he muttered.
You looked over. “Completely?”
He glanced down at the tiny hand fisted in the collar of his shirt. “Completely.”
You smiled. “You were right.”
John shot you a look. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not surprised.”
He gave you a flat expression. “You were absolutely waiting for me to be wrong.”
You grinned. “A little.”
He shook his head but the corner of his mouth twitched. “You’re lucky she’s adorable.”
“She gets that from me.”
John huffed a quiet laugh. “Sure.”
You were standing in front of the apples when your daughter shifted against his shoulder and made a sleepy little complaint.
John immediately stopped walking.
“What?” he asked in a whisper.
Your daughter’s eyes didn’t open. She just buried her face deeper into his neck and tightened her grip around him.
John looked at you with a helpless expression. “She’s getting heavy.”
You snorted softly. “That’s because you’ve been carrying her for half an hour.”
“And?”
“And nothing. You’re just dramatic.”
John adjusted her a little higher against his shoulder, then kissed the top of her head without thinking. “I’m not dramatic. I’m practical.”
You laughed under your breath and kept moving the cart. “You are absolutely dramatic.”
He followed after you, still holding the sleeping child like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You say that now, but when she wakes up and wants snacks in the middle of the pasta aisle, I’m going to be the only one dealing with it.”
As if on cue, your daughter lifted her head a little, eyes still closed, and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “snack.”
John looked down at her. “You heard that?”
You turned back, smiling. “She said snack?”
“She absolutely said snack.”
Your daughter made a tiny sound and pressed her face back into his shoulder. John looked very pleased with himself.
“You two are both ridiculous,” you said.
He raised one eyebrow. “And yet I’m the one carrying the child.”
“That is because she loves you.”
John glanced down at the little hand clinging to his shirt, his voice going softer. “Yeah. I know.”
That made your chest feel warm in the annoying, lovely way it always did when he got quiet like that.
You reached for a box of cereal and tossed it into the cart. “I thought she was going to fall asleep in the car.”
“She almost did.”
“She usually does.”
John nodded toward his shoulder. “This time she gave up halfway through.”
You smiled. “You mean because you’re comfortable?”
He gave you a look that made it very clear he knew exactly what you were doing. “You are not going to make me say something sappy in aisle three.”
“Says who?”
John tilted his head at you, deadpan. “Says me.”
You laughed softly and leaned your forearms on the cart handle. “You look cute like that.”
He blinked at you. “Holding a toddler?”
“Yes.”
“That is not something I expected to hear today.”
“Well, it’s true.”
John was quiet for a second, then looked down at your daughter and said in a low voice, “You hear that? Your mom thinks I’m cute.”
Her only response was a sleepy little hum.
You grinned. “She agrees.”
He made a face. “I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse.”
You bumped the cart into the next aisle and started scanning the shelves for pasta. John followed, one hand still under your daughter’s bottom to keep her supported as she drifted in and out of sleep against him.
By the time you reached the pasta aisle, she had gone from mostly asleep to properly out cold, her breathing slow and even, her fingers still curled into his shirt.
John noticed the way you looked at the two of them and immediately gave you a suspicious expression. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“That was a ‘something’ nothing.”
You smiled. “You just look very natural.”
He raised a brow. “At grocery shopping?”
“At this.”
John looked down at your daughter, then back at you. “Carrying our kid around the store?”
“Yeah.”
For once, he didn’t answer right away.
When he did, his voice was quieter. “I guess I am.”
That was enough to make your smile turn soft.
He saw it and immediately tried to cover his own brief moment of sentiment with practical concern. “We still need the bread.”
“Yes, John.”
“The yogurt too.”
“Yes.”
“And whatever you said we needed for dinner.”
You laughed. “Yes, John.”
He looked pleased to be useful again, which was very John of him.
You moved into the next aisle, and halfway down he stopped again when your daughter shifted and let out the tiniest sleepy whimper. His hand rubbed her back automatically, the motion slow and soothing.
“Poor thing,” he murmured.
“She’ll be fine.”
“I know.”
But he still sounded concerned.
You glanced at him. “You okay?”
John looked at you and then down at the toddler asleep against his shoulder. “I’m good.”
“You sound like you’re about to carry her home on foot if needed.”
He looked almost offended. “If that’s what it takes.”
You laughed. “You are so ridiculous.”
“I know.”
There was a short silence after that, the kind that only happened when both of you were relaxed enough not to fill it. The grocery store noise moved around you,cart wheels, low music, a child laughing somewhere farther away,but your little corner of the world stayed soft and quiet.
You reached for a loaf of bread, then paused when you noticed John had gone still.
You looked up. “What?”
He nodded toward the end of the aisle. “I think she’s fully asleep.”
You turned and saw it immediately. Your daughter’s face had gone slack, her cheek pressed against his shoulder, her hand loosened at his collar. Even her little mouth had fallen slightly open.
Your heart melted on the spot.
John noticed. “You’re doing that face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you look at her and forget anything else exists.”
You smiled. “It’s a good face.”
He gave you a quiet look. “Yeah.”
You stepped closer and smoothed a hand over your daughter’s back. “She’s so cute when she’s asleep.”
John’s mouth twitched. “She’s cute when she’s awake too.”
“Debatable.”
He gave you a long stare. “That is our child.”
You shrugged with exaggerated innocence. “And?”
“And you’re going to hurt her feelings someday.”
You laughed softly. “She’s asleep, John.”
He pointed at you. “That doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
Your daughter made another soft little noise, and John immediately fell quiet again, looking down at her with that same careful tenderness that always made him seem both older and softer than usual.
You took the opportunity to push the cart forward. “You realize you’re going to have to let her go eventually.”
John’s response came immediately. “No.”
You glanced back at him. “John.”
He looked fully serious. “She’s comfortable.”
“She’s asleep.”
“She could stay like this.”
You laughed. “You are actually considering carrying her around the store forever.”
“Not forever.”
You tilted your head. “How long, then?”
John thought about it for a second. “Until she wakes up.”
You blinked. “That is literally forever in toddler time.”
He sighed like he had been unfairly attacked by logic. “Fine. I’m aware of that.”
You smiled and reached up to brush your fingers along the side of his jaw. “You’re sweet.”
John glanced at you, then looked away a little. “I’m just carrying my kid.”
“Mm-hm.”
He gave you a look. “You’re really enjoying this.”
“A lot.”
He let out a quiet laugh and adjusted your daughter once more, careful not to wake her. “She’s going to be mad if we put her down.”
“She’ll be mad if we don’t buy the fruit snacks.”
That got a huff of amusement out of him. “True.”
By the time you reached checkout, your daughter was still asleep on his shoulder, and John had shifted into the kind of patient, efficient parent mode that made the cashier smile like she had already decided the two of you were adorable.
“Aw,” she said, glancing at the little girl curled against him. “She’s out cold.”
John nodded, his voice low. “Yeah. Long day.”
The cashier smiled at him and then at you. “She looks comfortable.”
John looked down at her with an expression so soft it almost made you laugh. “She is.”
You loaded the groceries onto the belt while John kept one arm around your daughter and the other on the cart, somehow balancing everything with the calm of a man who had done this a hundred times.
When the cashier handed back your receipt, she looked between the two of you and said, “You’re doing great.”
John blinked at that like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.
You smiled and reached for the bags. “Thanks.”
He gave the cashier a small nod, then turned to you as soon as you were out of earshot. “That was weird.”
You laughed. “She was being nice.”
“I know.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
He shot you a long-suffering look. “I had a baby asleep on my shoulder in aisle five. I think I’m allowed to be a little embarrassed.”
You smiled and bumped his arm lightly. “You were cute.”
He looked at you for a second, then down at your daughter, then back at you. “You’re both impossible.”
You leaned in and kissed his cheek before reaching for the bags again. “And yet you love us.”
John’s hand settled at your waist as the three of you headed toward the parking lot, your daughter still asleep against him, the groceries in the cart, the night quiet and cool around you.
He glanced at you, then down at the little girl in his arms, and his voice came out soft in a way that always made your chest ache.
The house was loud enough to feel like it was shaking. Music thumped through the walls, cups were scattered across every surface, people were packed into the whole downstairs so tightly that moving required shoulder-checking strangers just to get through.
Dean sat across from Logan at the dining table finishing a drinking game neither of them had been taking too seriously.
”You cheated,” Logan accused immediately.
Dean snorted. ”You say that every single time you lose.”
”Because you cheat every single time i lose.”
”Well, that sounds like a you problem.”
Logan flipped him off while Dean laughed and reached for his beer.
The instinctively glanced around the room. Looking for her. Without even realizing it.
But his smile faded when he didn’t spot her immediately. Weird. She’d been everywhere all night. Holding onto him earlier while he talked to Garret, stealing drinks from him and everyone around here every chance she got, dancing with Allie hard enough that she crashed into more people than she probably even realized. Talking about the most random things with Tucker.
Dean glanced around again. Still nothing.
Beau noticed immediately. ”What?”
Dean shrugged once. ”Haven’t seen her in a while.”
Beau looked around lazily. ”She’s probably just off terrorizing somebody for drinks.”
”Hopefully not.”
He quickly pulls out his phone and sends her a text. Asking her where she is. But no answer.
Across the room he spotted Allie and Hannah, he stood automatically and made his way through the crowd toward them. ”Allie.”
She looked up immediately.
”Where’s she at?”
Allie frowned slightly. ”I thought she was with you.”
”Well as you can see, she’s not.”
”we haven’t seen her since we were in the kitchen.”
”How long ago was that?”
”A while ago?” Hannah nodded in agreement.
Dean’s jaw tightened slightly. ”And?”
”She was fine,” Hannah said quickly. ”I mean, she was really drunk. But she seemed fine.”
Dean smiled tightly at them before turning away. Taking his phone out of his pocket. Attempting to call her. But yet again no answer.
”Maybe she went to your room?” Allie offered.
”Yeah. Probably”
He barely finished his sentence before he was walking towards his room. Pushing through the thick crowded room of people.
He checked his room. Empty. Bathrooms. Empty other than the ones with couples making out. The guys bedrooms were empty aswell.
He then checked the backyard. Nothing.
He pushed through the room again and walked out onto the porch. Cold air hit him instantly.
The noise from inside muffled slightly behind him as he closed the door.
He scanned the porch. Then froze. She sat on the front steps leaning against the railing. With her eyes closed and one arm dangling loosely across her lap.
”Baby.”
No response.
Dean crossed the porch quickly and crouched in front of her.
”Hey.”
She opened her eyes slowly. And her face softened when she realized who was sitting in front of her. Her boyfriend. Her Dean.
”There you are.” She slurred quietly.
Dean let out a breath through his nose. ”What are you doing out here baby? You must be cold.”
She blinked at him lazily. ”I just wanted some air.”
”Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve gone with you.”
”I don’t know.”
Her head lolled slightly against the railing while Dean looked her over carefully. Hair messy from the wind. Mascara faintly smudged underneath her eyes. Her tiny dress ridden dangerously high on her thighs from how she’d been sitting curled up. And she was shaking.
Then Dean’s eyes dropped lower. One heel. One bare foot. He stared.
”…where’s your shoe?”
She looked down slowly. There was a long pause before genuine horror crossed her face. ”Oh.”
”Yeah.”
”I had both earlier.”
”I know you did sweetheart.”
She kept staring at her foot like she couldn’t fully process it.
”When did that happen?”
Dean laughed quietly despite himself.
”You tell me.”
A weak laugh escaped her before another shiver ran through her hard enough Dean noticed almost immediately.
That settled it.
”Okay, let’s get up.”
She frowned slightly. ”Why?”
”Because you’re freezing.”
”I’m okay.”
”You’re literally shaking.”
Dean stood and reached for her carefully, sliding his hands around her waist to pull her upright.
The second she stood, her entire body swayed violently sideways.
”Whoa—”
Dean tightened his grip on her immediately.
She burst into startled laughter.
”Yeah,” he muttered. ”C’mon”
She leaned heavily against him while he steadied her, one hand firm on her waist while the other tugged the hem of her dress back down where it had ridden up.
She smiled at him. ”You love me.”
Dean looked down at her for a second. Completely drunk. One shoe missing. Barely able to stand. But still smiling at him like he hung the moon.
”Yes, i do.”
She giggled against him.
Dean kept his hands securely on her hips as he guided her back inside. Warm air and noise hit them immediately.
The second Logan looked up from his conversation and saw her climbing onto Dean, he barked out a laugh.
”Holy shit. You okay?”
”I’m fine.” She replied weakly.
”Where is her other shoe?” He asked Dean.
”I don’t know man.”
Dean guided her further into the kitchen. Every few seconds she drifted sideways into him. Practically melting against his chest while he moved her carefully around people.
He grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and twisted the cap off before placing it in her hands. ”Drink.”
She held the bottle with both hands like it required actual concentration.
Garrett leaned against the counter watching them. ”Dude. Maybe you should take her upstairs and put her to bed. She’s obliterated.”
”Yeah. Yeah, I will.”
She took two tiny sips before looking up sadly.
”Dean?”
”Yes, baby.”
”My shoe’s gone.”
”I know.” Dean said patiently.
”I really liked those shoes.”
”I’m sure they liked you too.”
That made both her and Garret laugh, before she nearly tipped sideways again.
”Okay. Let’s get you upstairs now.”
She clung onto him the entire way upstairs, arms looped loosely around his neck whenever she stumbled while Dean kept both hands steady on her waist to keep her upright.
By the time they reached his room, she was giggling at absolutely nothing.
Dean shut his bedroom door behind them, muffling the party downstairs slightly.
”Alright.” He said gently. ”Sit down.”
She dropped heavily onto his bed.
Dean crouched to pull off her remaining heel before tossing it near his closet.
Then he looked up at her properly. Still drunk. Still blinking slowly. Hair a mess.
He sighed quietly before standing and grabbing one of his t-shirt from his dresser. ”You need help to put this on?”
”Yes.”
Dean helped her zip of the tight dress she had been wearing, and pulled the t-shirt over her head. After some struggle she was now only wearing his shirt and a pair underwear.
”It smells like you.”
”That’s usually how my clothes work.”
That earned a laugh from her.
He kicked off his shoes. And took of everything but his boxers, and then climbed into bed next to her. Tugging a blanked over them as they laid down.
The second he settled against the pillows, she practically collapsed onto him.
Arms wrapping around his waist. Face buried against his chest. Legs thrown over his.
summary - you are absolutely shattered, but it’s the first off campus bonfire of the summer and you don’t want to let your boyfriend down
pairing - garrett graham x girlfriend!reader
word count - +1.8k
It was the first bonfire of the summer.
Every year the Off Campus house would throw a bonfire to celebrate the start of summer. Exams finished and parties beginning.
You had spent the afternoon with Garrett and the guys prepping for the party, whilst also attending an extra credit class for an hour. Safe to say, you were exhausted.
The kitchen was hectic as Tucker ordered people around.
“Dean, no! I swear to God, if I see you eat another marshmallow man…” Tucker threatened Dean with a wooden spoon. Terrifying.
You smiled to yourself, whilst continuing your delegated job of setting out the drinks on a portable table just outside.
The sound of a camera going off made you look to your right, where your boyfriend, Garrett, stood shamelessly.
“Really?”
“What? You look so pretty.” Garrett shrugged like it was nothing.
You had to stop yourself from blushing, because it was getting annoying how much he could make you blush with even just the tiniest of things.
Dick.
Garrett continued messing around on his phone as you finished lining up the cans of beer in the ice-cooler.
You sighed, tired but feeling accomplished.
“You okay?”
Garrett slid his phone in his pocket and wrapped an arm around your shoulders, so he could pull you in for a quick kiss on your head.
You melted into his hold, feeling like you could just close your eyes and drift off in the comfort of him.
“Mhm.”
You inhaled his presence. He slightly smelled of Tucker’s cooking from inside, but mainly the laundry detergent he used that was on your list of five favourite things about him.
“Sure?” He pulled you back away from him, meaning you had to pull on your fakest smile.
“Yeah.” You nodded, smiling up at him.
“Okay.” He leaned down to kiss you softly. He would have kissed you longer than a few seconds, but the guys started whistling and cheering on from the kitchen window. “Fuck off, creeps.”
“Y/N - can you help me with this?” Tucker shouted from inside.
Garrett rolled his eyes and you couldn’t help but let out a laugh.
“Duty calls.” You patted his chest.
“Cannot catch a break.” Garrett muttered - something he always said when you were forced from his side for more than 5 minutes. It did make you feel very loved.
——
The bonfire had officially started an hour ago, but people had only really started joining in the last five minutes or so.
You, Hannah, Allie, Grace and Sabrina had been playing cards in the living area with a couple drinks between you, but now there were more people arriving you’d decided to give it up for the day.
The girls had gone to get more drinks and join the guys out back, but you’d stayed back to clear up.
“Y/N!”
You turned to see Beau enter the house with a couple of his friends behind him.
“Hey, Beau.” You smiled, packing away the last of the cards.
The guys had a cupboard just beneath the TV where they kept all their board games - including the game of Twister that you and Garrett played on your second date, and it made you fall for him really hard (Literally).
“You doing okay?” He asked, hands in his jean pockets.
“Yeah, I’m okay.” You smiled.
“Cool.”
He left you to find the guys outside. No doubt he had some dramatic entrance or speech planned with Dean.
You sat back against the sofa, and took your phone out to give yourself literally anything to do rather than go back outside.
You opened up your texts, responding to a couple of people that were asking whether they could come to the bonfire. Garrett had said it was an open house, so you replied yes.
You opened Instagram next, smiling when you saw Garrett had a new story posted. You clicked it and smiled even wider when you realised he had posted the picture of you setting up the drinks before.
“Can’t get rid of her ❤️”
That’s what he’d written as the caption.
You chuckled to yourself as you replied saying, “No refunds or returns.”
You opened up your work calendar next, your smile instantly disappearing when you realised how many shifts you had upcoming. It was made even worse when you realised you’d be missing out on being with Garrett for the start of summer.
It sucked, having to work for money.
Of course Garrett always offered to help you out, but you enjoyed the independence of earning your own money. Lord knows that didn’t stop him for always paying for dates and days out together.
“Absolutely not.” Your phone was plucked out from your hand by your boyfriend, as he sat up on the couch behind you.
“Hey!”
“This is a party, baby.”
“I know.”
“So what are you doing sitting here on the floor, looking at the most depressing calendar?” He challenged.
You sighed, tipping your head back to lean against his thigh.
You closed your eyes, enjoying this quiet moment with him.
“Sure you’re okay?” He took your chin between his forefinger and thumb, causing you to open your eyes sleepily.
“Mhm.”
“You’re not about to crash out on me, hm?”
You shook your head.
“Okay, then. Come keep me company outside.” He said, not giving you the opportunity to choose because he knew you’d stay inside given the option. He knew you too well.
“I’m keeping you company right now.”
Garrett huffed out a laugh, dropping his hand from your face. Your head automatically went back to leaning heavily against his thigh.
“You’ve been hiding in here for like ten minutes, baby.”
“I haven’t.” You squinted at the accusation.
“Beau arrived a while ago and immediately came out to find me, completely bypassing Dean, because he wanted to check in with me to see if I knew you were in here alone.”
“You both worry too much.” You cupped his cheek at an awkward angle, which he leant into.
“Of course I worry.” His eyes furrowed as he tried to comprehend why you’d think otherwise.
“I’m okay. Promise.”
“Okay. C’mon then, please?”
And because he asked nicely, of course you went with him.
——
The music is loud and the conversations are louder.
The main group of your friends are sitting around the bonfire. Garrett had saved you a camping chair beside him, but it didn’t matter because you were more comfortable sitting on his lap.
Dean had been talking about summer plans when you’d last properly listening to the conversation.
Since then your friends had talked about hockey, then movies, which somehow turned into hotdogs. You hadn’t contributed one word to any of their conversations though.
You were too busy fighting your heavy eyes by playing with the tassels on your boyfriend’s hoodie. It didn’t help that he had been constantly rubbing slowly circles on your lower back with his thumb.
Your head was resting against his shoulder as you sat sideways on his lap.
“Should I be offended that Y/N hasn’t laughed at a single one of my jokes?” You heard Dean ask, cracking a small smile from you but you didn’t have the energy for anything more.
Garrett looked down at you, which you knew because you could feel his eyes on you.
His face leant down so he could be close to you, without anyone else interrupting or overhearing.
“Shall we call it a night?” He asked.
Your eyes flicked to his and you immediately softened.
Maybe it was unfair that Garrett could look at you like that. Like there wasn't anywhere else he'd rather be. Even with half the hockey team sitting around the fire.
You made no big protesting movement, which told Garrett everything he needed to know. You were shattered.
You shook your head. “It’s your party.”
“You know that’s not an answer, baby.” He gave you a half-smile.
“You should be down here, with your friends.”
“I just want to be with you.”
“Okay Troy Bolton.” You huffed, which turned into a proud smile when Garrett laughed because he understood your reference.
“Tell me honestly. If you’re tired, we can go.”
“I don’t want you to be disappointed or feel like you’re missing out.” You looked down from his eyes to focus on picking at his hoodie tassels again.
“I promise I won’t. I’d be more sad missing out on something with you than this lot.”
And you know he means it.
You gave him a small nod and that was all the confirmation that Garrett needed.
You stood up from his lap with all the strength you could muster, your muscles aching to sit back down and rest for at least twelve hours. Garrett stood up quickly after you, taking your hand in his.
“We’re heading out.” Garrett announced to the group.
“Already?” Dean complained and Allie hit him on the arm.
“Yeah. Deal with it.”
“Get home safe.” Hannah smiled at you both as Garrett led you away from the fire.
“Bye guys.” Logan smiled.
“Bye.” You mustered a smile and a wave, and followed Garrett away from the party.
——
Garrett’s room was surprisingly quiet, considering the party going on downstairs - or maybe you were just too tired to notice.
As soon as you’d gotten upstairs, Garrett handed you his sweatshirt that he knew you loved wearing.
He helped you get changed, after noticing how slow and groggy your movements were. He was always happy to help, especially when it earnt him a thank you kiss.
Now you were laying on your side of his bed, curled up under the duvet and feeling like this is where you were meant to be.
Garrett had continued to potter around his bedroom, tidying aimlessly.
“What are you doing?” You asked, eyes half open.
“Tidying.”
You watched him throw socks and pants into his landry basket without any care for whether they were clean or dirty.
“Why?”
“Because my girlfriend is staying over and it looked like a dumpsite.”
“Graham, just get your ass in bed.”
Garrett chuckled, throwing the last of his messy clothes in his laundry basket before joining you in bed. He wasted no time getting underneath the covers and sliding in tight behind you.
“Babe?” You prompted.
“Hmm?”
“The light.”
“Oh for—.” Garrett mumbled some profanity as he got back out of bed to turn off the big light - which honestly why he had it on in the first place was a mystery and disgrace.
He quickly got back into bed with you.
This time he all but merged himself with you, entangling your legs with his and wrapping his arms around your body tightly.
The smile on your face was completely valid.
Being held in Garrett’s arms like this was second to none.
“Garrett?”
“Yeah?”
“I think my social battery died five hours ago.”
“Baby, I know.” He chuckled, which caused his hot breath to tickle the back of your neck.
i cannot stop thinking about that scene where garrett calls hanna a “drunk bunny” oooghhh that was so hot… just imagine you being all worked up and trying to tease garrett only to be like “just a sec bunny”
just him calling you bunny tldr
I love that scene too bc you can tell how much he wants her but is holding himself back (hot consent king!!) And maybe it’s just my own size difference *thing* (which is going off like crazy with him) but the thought of a big, tough, hulking guy like Garrett calling you his bunny is just…mmhm. Well. Wait, what was I saying??
garrett graham x fem!reader
cw: 18+ mdni, smut piv sex, brief cock-warming, v fingering, oral f!receiving, he cums while eating you out <3
It started as an offhand comment one day.
You were kneeling next to Garrett on the couch, pressing soft kisses to the side of his neck, running a hand up and down his thigh while he tried to focus on his video game.
With his roommates away for the weekend and the normally crowded house all to yourselves, you had been counting on some quality time alone with your boyfriend.
And you were getting impatient.
When you sighed dramatically for what had to be the hundredth time, he chuckled at your exasperation. “Someone’s feeling needy, huh? Just give me a second, bunny.”
Caught off guard by the new term of endearment, you let out an almost imperceptible gasp.
When he glanced up from the screen and noticed the subtle change in your expression, his eyebrow lifted as a cocky smirk overtook his face.
“Oh, you liked that huh?”
Before long he had you naked and quivering in his lap, your soft thighs straddling his waist, fingernails gripping his broad shoulders as you slowly sank down on him, swearing you could feel each ridge of his thick cock as it stretched you open.
Taking your time to adjust to the sensation of almost impossible fullness, you let out a satisfied sigh. But before you could start to move, his big hands held you in place, firm on your hips as he gave you a devilish grin then picked up his controller to resume his game.
“Now be a good bunny for me and wait.”
Since that day he’s used the nickname to tease and torment you, saying it’s a fitting one because you’re so soft and sweet.
He likes how just whispering it into your ear when you’re alone gets you all worked up and whiny. How it makes your pussy drip for him. You can pretend you don’t like it, but knows you do.
He’s obsessed with the sweet way you whimper when he has you underneath him in his bed, rubbing slow circles over your clit with his thumb before stretching you out on his fingers to get you ready for him.
“Cum for me, bunny,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours until you gush all over his fingers, leaving your pussy a sweet, sticky mess that he loves to clean up with his tongue.
“Taste so good, bunny,” he groans, voice muffled by your pussy, big hands holding you open while you squirm beneath him. “Could eat you all day long.”
With his curly head buried between your soft thighs, he’ll greedily lap up every last drop of you like he’s starving, grinding his hips against the mattress while savoring in your exquisite taste.
Sometimes when you pull on his curls just right and let out the softest little moan, he’ll cum long before he’s ready, rutting into the sheets and leaving them a soiled, tangled mess.
“Look what you did to me, bunny,” he’ll gasp under his ragged breath with a smile, lips shiny to match the gold chain around his neck. “You’re going to have to make it up to me later.”
And you definitely don’t mind ;)
a/n: my apologies for any errors. i wrote this in an ovulation fever dream after reading your ask 😵💫🤍 thank you for sending this in!!
author's note — this is my first time writing for Off Campus, let me know if you'd like to see more <3
"Baby," Garrett practically croons when he sees you, leaning his elbows on the railing of the staircase. "Where've you been?"
You try and fail the urge to let your eyes travel downwards, the trail of hair from his chest to the waistband of his sweatpants, the ridges of muscles very much evident, especially because he isn't wearing a shirt.
"Studying," you reply, in a duh tone of voice, taking the steps one at a time to reach him. He winds his arms around your waist, fingers splaying on the exposed skin of your abdomen, brushing your hip bone.
You melt at the soft touch, and he leans down to press a kiss to the tip of your earlobe. "Do you have no shirts?" You tease quietly, letting out a soft gasp when his kiss grows fervent. "... I should buy you some."
Your boyfriend lets out a little scoff, tugging you closer to his front. "I have enough shirts, honey," he breathes, lips moving up to the underside of your jaw. "C'mon," he coaxes, pulling away much to your chagrin; to you letting out a soft, irritated whine. "Upstairs. Don't you wanna get comfy?"
How can you possibly resist, especially when his hands are on you, and he's using that tone, which begs to be listened to? You let out a little hum of affirmation.
Garrett grins, the corners of his lips tugging up in what looks to be a mix of amusement and pleasure at your easy obedience. "Good girl," he murmurs, fingers slipping off your waist, only to intertwine with your loose ones by your side. "Up," he says in the softest voice possible.
You blink up at him through your lashes. He tilts his head at you, resembling a bit of a golden retriever with those brown eyes fixed on you, solely on you. You're warm under his attention.
"Didn't anyone tell you it's rude to stare, baby?" Garrett says softly, a teasing chide to his words.
It's your turn to let out a scoff now, mirroring his, and his eyebrows soften in appreciation of the soft sound from your lips. "You're my boyfriend, I think I'm allowed to admire you."
His grin widens. "Oh, is that what you're doing? Admiring me?"
"Mhm."
"Huh," Garrett murmurs, lifting his free hand to cup your cheek, watching the way you melt in real time with adoring eyes. "When did you get so smooth?"
You smile prettily up at him, your best smile, and his breath catches in his throat. "Learned from the best."
"Did you?" he brushes your cheek with a calloused thumb, so gentle it makes something in your heart splinter and crack in two.
"Come on, sweetheart," he gentles his voice even further, giving your cheek a gentle pat. "Let's take a nap. You look exhausted."
You frown up at him, lips jutting out in a pout. "That's so mean, do I not look pretty?"
Garrett curls his arms around you, picking you up with an ease that still surprises you. Your legs naturally wind around his waist, head lolling forward to find rest on his shoulder. "You always look pretty, baby," he hums, kissing the side of your head. "My gorgeous girl, hm?"
Letting out a pleased sound of acknowledgement, you let Garrett climb the rest of the stairs and make his way down the hallway. You pass Dean's room on the way, and the door is wide open.
You don't bother lifting your head from Garrett's shoulder, you're already sure what's going on in there. Your boyfriend wrinkles his nose above you. "Dean, how many fucking times! Close the door, yeah?"
Dean lets out a sound to the affirmative, but makes no move to get up from where he's got a pretty girl perched on top of him.
Garrett pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out an annoyed sigh, shifting you on his hip to close the door with one hand. "Idiot," he mutters under his breath. He hitches you higher against his chest, and you go willingly, boneless and warm under his affections.
The floorboards creak under Garrett's weight as he moves to cover the distance from Dean's room to his. "Tired, sweetheart?" He asks, voice soft again, a low rumble to the timbre of his words.
"No," you mumble against his neck, pressing your nose against the space between his jaw and shoulder.
He lets out a laugh, opening his door with his foot, shifting you in his arms a little so he can flop onto his bed, back against the headrest, with you in his lap. "You're lying."
"Am not."
"Are too," he grins, watching you peer up at him with half-lidded, obviously sleepy eyes. "You're barely awake, pretty."
You let out an annoyed whine, hands finding home on his chest. "I'm awake, thank you very much. And I want a kiss."
Garrett's smile widens. "Do you now?"
"Don't be a jerk," you reply, narrowing your eyes at him. "I'm allowed to ask for a kiss."
"You are," he hums, tugging you closer, one big hand lifting from your waist for your neck, brushing idly at the tender skin of your jaw. "You do have to say please, though, honey. Manners."
Groaning frustratedly, you add, "please can I have kiss?"
Your boyfriend smiles, thumbing at your cheekbone. "You can, baby," he murmurs, leaning down to meet you halfway. Your hand slides up to the nape of his neck, thumbing at the baby hairs there, and he sighs against your mouth, deepening the kiss.
It's lazy, the kind of kiss that isn't going anywhere, and doesn't need to, either. His tongue brushes your lower lip, seeking entry, and you open for him. He tastes like mint, the gum he's always chewing.
"Garrett," you breathe when he pulls away for a second to get air.
"Shh." His lips trail to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the soft spot below your ear. "Just relax, sweetheart."
✮ Garrett fucking you in the showers after practice !
the last srchhh of his skates against the ice finally stopped, and you leaned against the boards, watching garrett coast to a halt. the rink lights had already dimmed, the zamboni humming somewhere in the distance, but he was still out here in the rink.
he caught your eye and grinned. that grin. the one that made your stomach flip every damn time. stupidly cute. stupidly effective.
"couldn't leave yet, huh?" he called, voice echoing off the empty stands. he skated toward you, stopping just short, close enough that you could smell the ice and salt and him.
you shook your head, smiling despite yourself. "you're the one who's still in your gear, genius."
"mm." he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the boards, his face level with yours.
"but you waited for me."
it wasn't a question. his hand came up, gloved fingers brushing your hair. "come on. help me shower."
your heart kicked. "that's not a good idea—"
"yes it is." he hopped over the boards with practiced ease, landing right beside you. "we've got the whole place to ourselves. no one's coming back ‘til morning." he pulled off his gloves, dropped them with a thud, and cupped your cheek. "please? i've been thinking about you since practice started."
his thumb traced your lower lip.
you lost.
×
steam billowed as hot water hit the floor, fogging the room. garrette had his jersey off before you could blink, undershirt following, revealing the lean planes of his chest and his happy trail disappearing into his pants.
"your turn" he said, voice low, fingers already working at the buttons of your jeans.
you helped him push them down, then your underwear, the cold air making you shiver. he pulled you into the spray, the water hot against your skin, and pressed you against the cool tile.
"been thinking about this," he murmured against your throat, kissing down to your collarbone. "about you. here."
his hand slid between your legs, fingers finding you slick and ready. he groaned, burying his face in your neck. "fuck, you're already wet."
"shut up," you breathed, but you arched into his touch anyway.
he laughed softly, that stupid cute laugh, and sank to his knees. the water ran over his back, over his shoulders, as he kissed the inside of your thigh, then higher. his tongue found your clit, flat and warm, and you gasped, fingers tangling in his wet hair.
he took his time—slow, deliberate licks, then a finger, then two, curling inside you while his mouth worked you closer to the edge. the tile was slick under your palm, the steam thick, and all you could hear was the water and his quiet, satisfied hums.
"garrette–please-"
before you could say anything else he stood, water streaming down his face, his eyes dark. he kicked off his pants, his cock already hard and flushed and ready before he pressed you back against the wall. one hand braced beside your head, the other guiding himself to your entrance.
"you ready?" his voice was soft, almost a whisper.
you nodded, and he pushed in – slow, deep, a stretch that made you both moan. he stayed there for a moment, forehead against yours, just breathing.
then he started moving. steady thrusts, each one hitting deep, the water sluicing over your joined bodies. his mouth found yours, open and hungry, muttering sweet, dirty things between kisses.
"feel so good–so tight–fuck, the sounds you make-"
you clung to him, legs wrapping around his waist and he fucked you against the tile until you came undone – a sharp, throbbing release that made you cry out. he followed moments later, buried deep, his groan lost between the hiss of the shower and your shoulder.
when he stilled, he didn't pull out right away. just held you, face tucked into your neck, breathing hard. the water had started to cool, but neither of you moved.
"totally worth getting caught" he mumbled into your skin. and god help you – you could feel that stupid, adorable smirk of his against your neck.
₊ ֹ ˖ GARRETT GRAHAM HATES LEAVING HIS GIRL FOR PRACTICE ᱺㅤㅤ ୨౿
you’re lying on garrett’s bed like a starfish, staring at the ceiling and genuinely questioning your life choices.
school is taking a toll on you and you just can’t stay focused.
this morning, when garrett left for practice, you’d sat at his table and tried to get work done. you did get some work done, but then you thought about him, his pretty curls and his pretty face, and you couldn’t help but get a little lazy thinking about him.
missing him.
that, of course, led to an hour of scrolling on your phone on his bed—aka procrastination.
after a couple more minutes, you hear footsteps and shouts downstairs, indicating that garrett and the guys are back, which explains the craziness and kitchen drawers being opened. they must be famished.
you wait upstairs; better for your boyfriend to get something to eat before you smother him with affection. you seriously miss him today—and as if the devil himself summoned him, you hear footsteps upstairs, toward garrett’s room, and you’re 110% sure it’s him.
the door opens gently as he leaves his stuff on the floor, quickly undressing, eyeing you up with his big grin, per usual.
it’s his trademark look when he sees his girl.
“hey,” you mumble, tossing your phone to the edge of the bed, watching him lose his pants. he’s only in his boxers as he walks around the bedroom, tossing his clothes away.
“hi, pretty,” he mumbles back.
“on a scale from one to ten, how sweaty are you?” you ask, staring at him with heart eyes.
“zero. took a shower already.” he’s already moving toward you, crawling on top of you, leaving kisses on your thighs before moving to your face.
“then c’mere. missed you,” you whisper, gripping his face, running your hands through his curls you adore so much.
“mhm, missed you too,” he says, already kissing you.
the soft glow of the sun outside casts a warm light across your faces as he gently cups your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. your eyes flutter closed as he leans in, your lips meeting in a soft, tentative press.
the kiss is gentle at first, a simple connection of lips that sends a spark through your entire body. you respond by parting your lips slightly, a silent invitation that he accepts with a soft sigh. his lips move against yours with a tenderness that makes your heart ache, a slow, deliberate exploration that speaks volumes without words.
“hate leaving you for practice,” he murmurs against your mouth.
your hands come to rest on his shoulders, fingers curling into them as you tilt your head, deepening the kiss just slightly. your tongues meet in a gentle dance, tasting each other without urgency. there is nothing frantic about your embrace—just a sweet, unhurried connection that feels both intimate and profound.
when you finally part, your foreheads rest together, both of you breathing softly in the quiet room. he keeps his hand on your cheek, thumb still stroking your skin as he opens his eyes to look at you. a soft smile plays on your lips as you gaze back at him, your eyes shining with emotion.
and lust.
noticing how hot he looks with his slightly damp hair and all those muscles, you just have to push him onto his back, straddling him as you kiss all over his neck.
“did you already eat?”
he laughs breathlessly, hands settling on your hips as he lolls his head to the side, letting you leave hickies.
“not yet. that’s why i’m here,” he says, voice low.
you pull back just enough to meet his eyes, a smile tugging at your lips.
Wearing Garrett Graham’s jersey hadn’t been part of the plan.
If anyone had asked you, you would’ve said you’d rather wear a rival team’s hoodie to a Briar game than give Garrett the satisfaction of seeing his name on your back — not because you hated him, despite what Logan kept saying, but because Garrett already walked around like half the campus was wrapped around his finger. You weren’t about to join the list of girls making that worse.
Which was exactly why you nearly dropped the case of beer when you heard his voice from the kitchen. “She’ll wear it.” Garrett sounded far too confident for someone who had absolutely no business talking about you like he had you figured out.
You stopped outside the doorway, brows furrowing as you balanced the case of beer against your hip. “You’re actually delusional.” Logan laughed, and a bottle clinked against the counter. “She called you a walking ego problem yesterday.”
Garrett chuckled. “Yeah, and ten minutes later, she stole my fries.”
“That doesn’t mean she likes you,” Tucker pointed out, sounding amused.
“It means she likes annoying me,” Garrett corrected, and you hated how easily he said it, like it was a fact he kept in his back pocket.
Dean scoffed. “Yeah, no. There’s no way in hell she’s wearing your jersey.”
Your stomach tightened when you heard your name.
There was a beat of silence before Garrett spoke again, slower this time, like he was smiling around the words. “Fifty says she does.”
And that was the moment you decided Garrett Graham was going to suffer. Not because you wanted him to win the bet. He absolutely wasn’t going to win the bet. You weren’t about to become a pawn in whatever stupid male-ego competition the hockey team had going on before the playoffs. Still, the idea had already lodged itself in your brain, and suddenly, refusing to wear the jersey felt like letting him think he’d gotten under your skin.
So you wore it — but on your terms.
The thing was ridiculously big on you, because of course it was, the navy fabric falling over your frame and nearly reaching mid-thigh. His last name stretched across your back like some terrible joke, bold white letters that made Allie stop chewing the second you stepped out of your room.
“Oh, my God.” She slapped a hand over her mouth, already laughing. “You’re evil.”
“I’m supporting the team,” you said, grabbing your bag from the counter.
“You’re actually trying to kill Garrett Graham.”
You shrugged. “Then I hope the team has a backup captain.”
The rink was already loud by the time you got there, the student section packed and buzzing with the kind of preseason excitement that made everyone forget about homework and actual responsibilities. You found Dean immediately because he waved like he hadn’t spent the last twenty minutes texting you to ask where you were. But the second his eyes dropped to the jersey, his entire face changed.
“No.” Dean shook his head before you even sat down. “Nope. Absolutely not.”
“What?” you asked, glancing around like you had no idea what he meant.
“Take that off.”
“In public? Dean, there are children here.”
Allie snorted beside you while Logan, who’d come up into the stands for two seconds before warmups, looked like Christmas had come early. “Oh, Graham’s going to be useless.”
“Why would he be useless?” you asked, all wide eyes and fake innocence.
Logan’s grin only got wider. “You’re a menace.”
The payoff was immediate, the second Garrett skated onto the ice.
He didn’t see you at first, too busy saying something to one of the first-years near the boards. Then Dean yelled something, Garrett glanced up toward your section, and his eyes landed on you — or more specifically, on his jersey.
The puck slid clean off his stick.
You smiled and gave him a little wave.
Garrett stared at you for a second too long, mouth slightly parted like his brain had short-circuited, before Logan shouted something from the bench that made half the guys turn to look. Garrett blinked, caught himself, and shook his head, but the tips of his ears had gone red.
It was the best thing you’d ever seen.
The whole game felt like that. Every time Garrett skated by, his eyes found you. Every time they did, you pretended to care about literally anything else — the scoreboard, your phone, the girl in front of you. Dean was losing his mind when Garrett took a cheap hit and immediately got back up like he hadn’t just given half the arena a heart attack.
But when he scored in the third period, his eyes went to you first. Not the bench. Not the crowd. You, wearing his name.
The grin on his face was dangerous — all adrenaline, ego, and something that made your thighs press together before you could stop them.
By the time the game ended, Briar had won, Dean had yelled himself hoarse, and you were starting to think this might’ve been a terrible idea.
“I’m riding with Allie,” Dean announced as you walked toward the parking lot, still glaring at your jersey as it had personally betrayed him.
You frowned. “Congratulations?”
“You need a ride or what?”
“I drove here.”
Dean narrowed his eyes like he already knew you were going to ignore him. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
You pressed a hand to your chest, deeply offended. “I would never.”
Allie coughed like she was hiding a laugh, but Dean was too distracted by Tucker calling his name to notice, which left you standing by your car in the half-empty parking lot, pretending very hard that you weren’t waiting.
You were shifting your bag higher on your shoulder when you heard his voice.
“Cute jersey,” Garrett said, sounding far too pleased with himself.
Your lips pressed together before you turned around, trying not to react to Garrett walking toward you with his gear bag slung over one shoulder, damp hair curling from his shower, and his suit jacket open like he hadn’t just spent sixty minutes trying to ruin your life on ice.
“Thanks,” you said, looking down at yourself. “Some guy gave it to me.”
Garrett stopped in front of you, his gaze dragging over the jersey slowly enough to make your stomach tighten. “Some guy?”
“Yeah. Tall, annoying, thinks he’s charming.”
His mouth curved. “Sounds like your type.”
“You wish,” you said, trying very hard not to smile.
He stepped closer, the smell of soap and cold air coming with him. “I think you wearing my name proves I don’t have to wish all that hard.”
You rolled your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. I only wore it because I overheard your stupid little bet.”
Garrett’s brows lifted, but the surprise lasted only a second before amusement settled over his face. “You overheard that?”
“Every single word.”
“And you still wore it?” he asked, like that proved something.
“To make a point, obviously.”
“What point?” he asked, voice dropping as his fingers caught the hem of the jersey and brushed your bare thigh.
The touch was light, barely there, and still made your breath catch.
Garrett noticed, because of course he did. His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back to your face with a look that made you want to kick him.
“That I can make you look stupid whenever I want,” you said, though your voice wasn’t nearly as steady as you’d hoped.
Garrett laughed quietly. “You think I looked stupid?”
“You dropped the puck,” you said, trying not to smile.
“I scored,” he said.
“Eventually,” you said, unable to hide your smile this time.
Garrett moved closer, and suddenly your back was against your car, his hand still caught in the hem of the jersey like he was trying to remind both of you whose name was on it. “You know, for someone who claims she doesn’t like me, you watched me pretty closely tonight.”
“You take up a lot of space.”
“And you like looking.”
“I like judging,” you said, even though your voice had gone a little too soft.
His thumb slipped beneath the fabric, brushing your hip, and your body betrayed you again with the smallest shift toward him. “You gonna keep lying to me out here, or are you gonna get in the car?”
Your eyes went wide.
Garrett tipped his head toward his truck a few spots over, expression far too calm for someone who’d just dropped that into the conversation. “Because if you want to prove another point, pretty girl, I’m all ears.”
You should’ve told him to fuck off. You should’ve gotten in your own car and gone home. Instead, you walked to his.
The second the door shut behind you, Garrett kissed you like he’d been holding himself back for hours. Messy and impatient, like every look across the rink had been building toward this. His hands found your waist and pulled you across the backseat until you were half in his lap, and your fingers immediately went for his tie because you’d been thinking about that since the parking lot.
“You’re so fucking smug,” you breathed against his mouth.
He smiled against your mouth. “You’re in my car wearing my jersey.”
“I hate you,” you muttered.
“No, you don’t.”
Garrett’s hand slid up your thigh, slow enough for you to stop him if you wanted to. You didn’t. You only parted your legs a little more, hating the way his breath caught like that alone could ruin him.
“Can I?” he murmured, his forehead pressed to yours.
You nodded, but his fingers stayed still.
“Words.”
“Yes,” you breathed, face burning. “Touch me.”
His mouth curved against your cheek. “Good girl.”
Your body reacted before you could be embarrassed, hips shifting into his hand as his fingers slid beneath your shorts and pressed against the damp lace of your underwear.
Garrett went quiet for half a second before laughing under his breath. “All this attitude, and you’re already soaked?”
“Don’t make me regret this,” you breathed.
“You won’t,” he said, like a promise. He pushed your underwear to the side, fingers sliding through your wetness. “I’ve been thinking about this since you walked in with my name on your back.”
A moan slipped out when his fingers circled your clit, slow and steady, and Garrett kissed you again to swallow the sound. His hand moved like he knew exactly what he was doing, fingers dipping lower to tease your entrance before pushing one inside.
Your head fell back against the seat. “Garrett.”
“There she is,” he murmured, mouth moving along your jaw. “I was wondering when you’d stop pretending.”
You wanted to respond. Really, you did. But then he added a second finger and curled them both, hitting a spot that made your hand fly to his wrist.
His grin turned infuriating. “Right there?”
“Shut up,” you breathed.
“That’s not what you meant.”
His thumb worked your clit as his fingers moved inside you, slow at first, then faster when your hips started chasing his hand. It was obscene — the sound of it in the quiet car, the fogged windows, the fact that you were riding his fingers in a parking lot because you’d been stubborn enough to wear his jersey.
“Look at you,” Garrett said, voice rough now, less teasing as his eyes dragged over your face. “Acting like you didn’t want this.”
“I wanted to prove a point.”
“You did.” He kissed the corner of your mouth. “Now come for me.”
The words pushed you over faster than you wanted to admit, pleasure snapping through you so sharply your thighs shook around his hand. You buried your face in his shoulder to muffle the sound, and Garrett kept going until you grabbed his wrist, too sensitive and breathless.
He moved slowly, eyes never leaving yours, and your stomach turned over at the expression that crossed his face.
“You’re disgusting,” you whispered.
He smiled. “You’re staring.”
You kissed him before he could say anything else, hands already reaching for his belt because one more smug comment would’ve ruined you completely. Garrett helped you, breath catching when your palm brushed over him, and suddenly, nothing was funny anymore.
“Condom?” he asked, voice rough as you shifted in his lap.
“I’m on the pill,” you murmured against his neck. “And I’m clean.”
“Me too.” His hands settled on your hips, thumbs brushing beneath the jersey. “You sure?”
You looked at him then, really looked at him, at his flushed cheeks and dark eyes and the way he was still waiting, even though tension sat in every line of his body beneath you.
“Yes,” you said, looking right at him this time. “I’m sure.”
The first stretch made your mouth fall open, Garrett’s grip tightening on your waist as you took him slowly, inch by inch, until your thighs were pressed to his and both of you were breathing like the game had only just ended.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his head falling back against the seat. “You feel so good.”
You braced your hands on his shoulders and started moving before you could think too hard about it. The angle was too much and still not enough, every roll of your hips dragging a rough sound out of him while the jersey bunched around your waist.
Garrett watched you like the sight of you was slowly undoing him.
“You look good like this,” he said, voice low and rough. “Wearing my name while you take my cock.”
Your walls clenched around him, and he cursed under his breath, hands tightening on your hips as he guided you faster. “Yeah? Does that do something for you?”
“Garrett,” you breathed, your nails digging into his shoulders.
“No, come on,” he said, thrusting up into you and cutting off whatever you’d been about to say. “You had a lot to say earlier.”
“You’re annoying.”
He laughed softly against your mouth. “And yet here you are.”
The worst part was that he was right. The even worse part was that it only made you move faster. His hand slipped between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, and your whole body jolted.
“There you go,” he murmured, voice rough with satisfaction. “Give me another one, pretty girl.”
You shook your head, even though your body had already started chasing it.
Garrett kissed you, softer than his voice, like he knew you were close before you did. “I’ve got you.”
That was what did it. Not the smugness. The softness. The way his hand held your waist like he was keeping you together while he let you fall apart.
Your orgasm hit hard, pulling a broken moan from you as you clenched around him, and Garrett followed with a groan against your throat, his hips jerking beneath you as he came.
For a few seconds, neither of you moved. Your forehead rested against his shoulder, his hands warm beneath the jersey as his fingers traced slow lines up your back like he’d forgotten this was supposed to be a joke. A bet. A bad idea.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
You nodded against his shoulder.
His hand stilled instantly. “Words.”
“I’m okay,” you breathed.
He kissed your temple, gentle enough to make your chest ache.
“You know,” he said after a moment, voice quieter now, “the bet was bullshit.”
You lifted your head enough to look at him properly.
Garrett’s eyes met yours, and for once, there was nothing smug about him. “I just wanted an excuse to see you wearing it.”
Before you could answer, Garrett’s phone lit up on the seat beside you.
Dean.
Then your phone buzzed too.
Dean: Where the hell are you?
Garrett glanced at the message, then back at you with a look that was dangerously close to a grin.
A knock sounded against the window, and both of you froze instantly.
Dean’s voice came from outside the truck, suspicious and entirely too close. “Graham?”
Summary: when the pre-med girl with the perfect GPA meets the hockey player with the far from perfect reputation, neither of you expects to become each other’s biggest distraction. You’ve got your whole life planned out. He’s never planned anything past Friday night. But somewhere between study sessions and split lips, you discover that the scariest thing isn’t falling, it’s admitting you want to
Warnings: 18+ content
Read part one here
Three weeks of sleeping in Dean’s arms, and you’re going insane.
Not in a bad way. In a “every morning I wake up pressed against him and it takes all my willpower not to do something about it” way.
You’ve never wanted someone like this. Never understood the appeal of physical intimacy. But Dean is different.
The way he touches you, always careful, always asking permission. The way he kisses you, like he’s got all the time in the world. The way he holds you at night, protective and gentle.
You want more.
The realization hits you one Thursday evening when you’re supposed to be studying healthcare policy but you’re actually just watching Dean work through a problem set. His brow is furrowed in concentration, and he’s absently chewing on the end of his pen, and you want to climb into his lap and kiss him until neither of you can think straight.
“You’re staring again,” he says without looking up.
“I know.”
That makes him look up. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” You close your textbook. Then your notebook. Set them both neatly on his nightstand.
“Done studying?” He checks his watch. “It’s only eight.”
“I’m done studying.”
There’s something in your voice that makes him set down his pen. “Y/N?”
“I want you to have sex with me.”
Dean blinks. Once. Twice. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
No sound comes out.
You forge ahead, because if you stop now you’ll lose your nerve. “I’ve been thinking about it, and it makes sense. I’m nineteen years old. I’ve never had sex. At some point, I need to cross this off my list of college experiences, and logically-”
“Wait.” Dean holds up a hand. “Wait. Did you just say—are you—are you a virgin?”
“Yes. I thought you knew that.”
“I thought—Maggie said you’d never had a boyfriend, but I didn’t think—I mean-” He runs both hands through his hair. “How are you a virgin?”
“I went to all-girls schools and I’ve been focused on my studies. It’s not that complicated.”
“It’s extremely complicated!” He’s staring at you like you’ve just announced you’re an alien. “Y/N, you can’t just announce you want to have sex like you’re ordering coffee!”
“Why not? It’s a logical decision.”
“It’s not supposed to be logical!”
“Why not?” You’re genuinely confused now. “I want to lose my virginity at some point. You’re clearly experienced. You’d make it good for me. It’s the most logical choice.”
Dean makes a strangled sound. “You think—you want me to—because I’d make it good?”
“Well, yes. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”
He stands up, starts pacing. “This is insane. You’re insane. I’m insane. This whole situation is insane.”
“Dean-”
“No.” He spins to face you. “No. You can’t just—Y/N, do you understand what you’re asking?”
“I’m asking you to have sex with me.”
“You’re asking me to take your virginity!”
“Is there a difference?”
“YES!” He’s practically shouting now. “There’s a huge difference! Your first time is supposed to be special! It’s supposed to mean something!”
“Why?”
The question stops him cold.
“Why does it have to mean something?” You continue. “It’s just sex. People have sex all the time without it meaning anything. You’ve had sex without it meaning anything. I’ve seen you with two girls at once who you didn’t even know the names of.”
Dean flinches. “That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because this is you!” The words come out fierce, almost angry. “This is you, and you deserve better than being another item on your checklist. You deserve romance and candles and someone who loves you.”
Your heart stops. “Someone who loves me?”
He looks away. “You know what I mean.”
“Do I?”
“Y/N-”
“Do you love me, Dean?”
The silence that follows is deafening.
“That’s not the point,” he finally says.
“I think it might be exactly the point.”
He sits back down at his desk, head in his hands. “You can’t ask me this.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll say yes!” He looks up at you, and there’s something raw in his expression. “Because I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you, and if you’re offering yourself to me like this, I’m not strong enough to say no. But you deserve better than that. You deserve better than me taking your virginity just because you’ve decided it’s time to check it off your list.”
You sit with that for a moment. “What if I told you it’s not just about checking it off a list?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Not entirely.” You pull your knees to your chest. “I want you, Dean. I’ve wanted you for weeks. Every time we sleep in the same bed and nothing happens, it gets harder to remember why I said we should take things slow. But I’m scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of losing focus. Of letting someone in and having it mess up everything I’ve worked for. Of feeling too much.” You look at him. “But I think I already feel too much. And I don’t know what to do about it.”
Dean’s staring at you like he’s seeing you for the first time.
“I’m not good at this,” you continue. “The feelings part. I’m much better with logic and facts and studying. So I’m approaching this the only way I know how — by making a logical decision. And logically, if I’m going to do this with anyone, I want it to be with you.”
“Y/N-”
“But you’re right. I don’t want it to just be another checkmark. I want it to matter. I just don’t know how to make it matter without losing myself in the process.”
Dean moves from the desk to the bed, sitting beside you. Not touching, just close.
“Can I tell you what I think?” He asks.
“Please.”
“I think you’re terrified of wanting something outside your plan. I think you’ve built your whole life around these goals, and anything that threatens them feels dangerous. And I think-” He takes a breath. “I think you care about me more than you want to admit, and it scares you.”
You can’t quite meet his eyes. “Maybe.”
“I’m scared too,” he says quietly.
“Of what?”
“Of not being enough. Of being exactly the guy you thought I was at that party — someone who’s just going to hurt you. Of caring about you so much it’s actually affecting my game.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Coach pulled me aside yesterday and asked if something was wrong because I’ve been distracted.”
“Really?”
“Really. I spent an entire practice thinking about the way you scrunch your nose when you’re reading.” He finally looks at you. “You’re in my head, Y/N. All the time. And I’ve never felt like this before, and I don’t know what to do about it either.”
You’re both quiet for a long moment.
“So where does that leave us?” You finally ask.
Dean thinks about it. “I’m not going to have sex with you tonight.”
Your heart sinks. “Oh.”
“Not because I don’t want to. Trust me, I want to. But not like this. Not as an item on a checklist.” He turns to face you fully. “But I could … teach you some things. If you want.”
“Teach me?”
“Yeah.” His eyes are dark now, intent. “Show you what it would be like. What I’d do. Without actually going all the way.”
Your breath catches. “How would that work?”
“I could talk you through it. Tell you what to do. Watch you.” His voice has dropped, gotten rougher. “Would you want that?”
Your heart is racing. “I—yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“It’s okay if you don’t.”
“No, I—I think I do. I’m just nervous.”
“We can stop anytime. The second you want to stop, we stop. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Dean stands up, and for a second you think he’s going to come to you. But instead, he moves to his desk chair, pulling it to face the bed.
“What are you doing?” You ask.
“Getting comfortable.” He sits, and there’s something intense in the way he’s looking at you. “I’m going to stay here. And you’re going to stay there. And I’m going to tell you exactly what I want you to do.”
Oh.
“Okay,” you whisper.
“First,” he says, his voice steady despite the heat in his eyes, “I want you to lie back. Get comfortable.”
You do, your heart pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it.
“Good. Now … you’re wearing my shirt.”
“Yeah.”
“I want you to take it off. Slowly.”
Your hands are shaking as you reach for the hem. “Dean-”
“It’s just me,” he says, and his voice is gentle now. “Just me, Y/N. Nothing you don’t want to do.”
You trust him. You realize that’s what this comes down to: you trust him completely.
So you pull off the shirt.
You’re in your bra and underwear now, and Dean’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move from the chair.
“You’re beautiful,” he says roughly. “I need you to know that.”
“Dean-”
“I need you to know that every time I look at you, it takes my breath away. Every morning when you’re still asleep and the sun comes through the window, I spend at least ten minutes just watching you. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Your eyes are stinging. “You can’t say things like that.”
“Why not? It’s true.” He shifts in the chair. “Now I want you to touch yourself. Nothing crazy, just run your hands over your skin. Your arms, your stomach. Learn what feels good.”
You do, feeling self-conscious but also … excited. Your skin is sensitive, every touch amplified by the way Dean’s watching you.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “You’re doing so good, baby.”
The endearment sends a shiver through you.
“Do you like being watched?” He asks.
“I-I don’t know. Maybe?”
“That’s okay. We’re figuring it out together.” He’s gripping the arms of the chair now. “Touch your breasts. Over the bra first.”
You do, and the sensation makes you gasp.
“Feels good?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s because you’re sensitive there. Most people are.” His voice is like honey, dark and sweet. “Now under the bra. I want you to feel how soft you are.”
You slip your hand under the fabric, and — oh. That does feel good.
“I wish I could touch you,” Dean says, and there’s something almost pained in his voice. “Wish I could put my mouth on you. Would you like that? If I kissed you there?”
“Yes,” you breathe.
“Maybe next time.” His eyes are locked on you. “Take the bra off. I want to see you.”
You hesitate for just a second, then reach back and unhook it. Let it fall away.
Dean makes a low sound in his throat. “Perfect. You’re absolutely perfect.”
“Dean-”
“Keep touching yourself. Both hands now. I want to watch you learn what you like.”
You’re lost in it now, in the sensations and the sound of his voice and the heat in his eyes. Every instruction he gives, you follow. Every word of praise makes you braver.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs when you arch into your own touch. “So responsive. So perfect.”
“I need-” You don’t even know what you need.
“I know. But not tonight.” He stands up, and you make a disappointed sound. But he just comes to the bed, pulls you into his arms. “You did so good. So, so good.”
You’re shaking. “That was-”
“Intense?”
“Yeah.”
“Too much?”
“No. Not enough, actually.”
He groans. “You’re killing me.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than you trusting me like that.”
You burrow into his chest. “This doesn’t count as sex, right?”
“Definitely not.”
“Good. Because I think I want to do it again.”
Dean laughs, and you feel it rumble through his chest. “Anytime you want, baby. Anytime you want.”
You fall asleep like that, wrapped in his arms, and for the first time in your life, you’re not thinking about medical school or your GPA or your carefully planned future.
You’re just thinking about Dean.
And how maybe, just maybe, letting someone in doesn’t have to mean losing yourself.
Maybe it means finding parts of yourself you didn’t even know were there.
***
The tutoring sessions become a ritual.
Thursday nights, after studying. Sometimes Tuesday nights too, when you can’t wait until Thursday. Dean in his desk chair, voice low and commanding. You on his bed, learning your own body under his careful instruction.
“You’re a quick study,” he says one night, watching you with dark eyes. “Best student I’ve ever had.”
“You’re a good teacher,” you manage, breathless.
“Yeah?” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “What have you learned?”
“That I like being watched.”
His jaw tightens. “What else?”
“That I like your voice. The way you tell me what to do.”
“Keep going.”
“That I trust you.” You meet his eyes. “Completely.”
Something shifts in his expression. “Come here.”
You go to him, and he pulls you into his lap, kissing you like he’s been holding back for hours. Which he has.
“I want you so badly,” he murmurs against your lips. “Do you know how hard it is to just sit there and watch?”
“Then don’t just watch.”
“Y/N-”
“I’m ready, Dean.” You pull back to look at him. “I’ve been ready. I’m just waiting for you.”
“I want it to be right.”
“It will be. It’s you.”
He searches your face. “You’re sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
***
It doesn’t happen that night. Dean insists on planning it, which is very unlike him but somehow perfectly him when it comes to you.
“I want it to be special,” he says when you protest.
“It will be special because it’s with you.”
“Still. Just let me do this right.”
So you wait. Another week of tutoring sessions that leave you aching and frustrated and more in love with him than you thought possible.
Yes, in love. You’ve stopped denying it, at least to yourself.
You’re in love with Dean Di Laurentis, and it’s terrifying and exhilarating and completely outside your carefully planned life trajectory.
And you wouldn’t change it for anything.
***
Friday afternoon, Dean texts you.
Dean: pack an overnight bag
You: Why?
Dean: because i’m taking you somewhere tonight and we’re not coming back until tomorrow
You: Dean, I have to study
Dean: no you don’t. i checked your schedule. you’re ahead in every class
You: How do you know my schedule?
Dean: i pay attention. pack a bag. i’ll pick you up at 7
You: Where are we going?
Dean: it’s a surprise. trust me?
You: Always
Dean: good. wear something comfortable. and y/n?
You: Yeah?
Dean: tonight. if you still want to. no pressure
Your heart stops.
You: I want to
Dean: okay. see you at 7
You stare at your phone for a full minute before Maggie notices.
“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Dean’s picking me up at seven.”
“Okay? You guys hang out all the time.”
“He told me to pack an overnight bag.” You look up at her. “I think tonight’s the night.”
Maggie’s eyes go wide. “Oh my god. OH MY GOD.”
“Stop screaming!”
“I’m not screaming! I’m just—oh my god, are you ready for this?”
“I think so. Maybe. I don’t know.” You stand up, start pacing. “What if I’m bad at it? What if I do something wrong? What if-”
“Y/N.” Maggie grabs your shoulders. “It’s Dean. He’s crazy about you. It’s going to be fine. Better than fine.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Like you’re the only person in the world.” She grins. “Plus, the guy’s had a lot of practice. He’ll know what he’s doing.”
“That’s not helping.”
“Okay, okay.” She pushes you toward your closet. “Let’s pack. Comfortable clothes, he said?”
“Yeah.”
“So jeans, a cute top. Definitely your nice underwear—you did buy nice underwear, right?”
You pull out a small bag from your drawer. “I may have gone shopping.”
Maggie opens it and whistles. “Damn, girl. Dean’s not going to know what hit him.”
“You think?”
“I know.” She hugs you suddenly. “I’m proud of you, you know. For letting yourself have this.”
“I’m terrified.”
“That’s how you know it matters.”
***
Dean shows up at exactly seven, looking unfairly good in jeans and a henley. He’s holding flowers — actual flowers, like this is a real date.
“Hi,” he says when you open the door.
“Hi.” You take the flowers. “These are beautiful.”
“Not as beautiful as you.”
“That’s incredibly cheesy.”
“Don’t care.” He leans in and kisses you, soft and sweet. “You ready?”
“I think so.”
He takes your bag, and you follow him down to his car. But instead of his Audi, there’s a different car waiting — a Range Rover you’ve never seen before.
“New car?” You ask.
“Borrowed it from my dad. Thought we could use the space.” He opens the door for you, and you see the back is loaded with bags. “I may have prepared a little bit.”
“A little bit?”
He grins. “Okay, a lot. But I wanted it to be perfect.”
The drive takes about an hour, heading west out of the city. Dean won’t tell you where you’re going, just holds your hand and lets you control the music. You talk about everything and nothing — your Healthcare Economics exam, his upcoming game, whether Dunkin is better than Starbucks (you say yes, he says absolutely not).
It feels normal. Easy. Like you’ve been doing this for years instead of months.
Finally, he pulls off the main road onto a smaller one, then onto a long driveway that winds through trees. At the end is a house — no, a cottage. Wooden and perfect, with warm light glowing from the windows.
“Dean,” you breathe. “What is this?”
“My grandparents’ lake house. They’re in Europe for the month, and I asked if we could use it.” He parks and turns to you. “I wanted somewhere private. Somewhere special. No roommates, no interruptions. Just us.”
You’re going to cry. “You did this for me?”
“I’d do anything for you.” He says it simply, like it’s obvious. “Come on, let me show you.”
The cottage is beautiful inside. Rustic but elegant, with a stone fireplace and wide windows overlooking a lake. There’s a fire already going — he must have come earlier to set up.
“Dean, this is-”
“There’s more.” He leads you to the bedroom, and you stop in the doorway.
There are candles everywhere. Not lit yet, but arranged carefully on every surface. The bed is made with fresh white linens, and there are rose petals scattered across the comforter.
“I know it’s over the top,” Dean says, suddenly nervous. “But you said I deserve romance and candles, and I wanted to give you the same thing. So if this is too much, we can-”
You kiss him. Pour everything you’re feeling into it — gratitude and affection and love and want.
“It’s perfect,” you whisper against his lips. “You’re perfect.”
“I’m really not.”
“You are to me.”
He pulls you closer, deepening the kiss, and you feel the shift. The way it changes from sweet to intense, from gentle to urgent.
“We don’t have to do anything tonight,” he says, even as his hands slide under your shirt. “We can just be here. Together.”
“I want to.” You pull back to look at him. “I want you, Dean. All of you. Now.”
His eyes darken. “You’re sure?”
“Stop asking me that.”
“Okay.” He kisses you again, backing you toward the bed. “But I’m going to take my time with you. We’ve got all night, and I’m going to make this so good for you.”
“Promises, promises.”
He laughs against your mouth. “Oh baby, you have no idea.”
***
Dean has thought about this moment for months. Dreamed about it, planned it, obsessed over it. But now that it’s happening, now that you’re here in his arms, trusting him with something so precious, he’s almost overwhelmed.
“Hey,” you say softly, touching his face. “Where’d you go?”
“Just thinking about how lucky I am.”
“I’m the lucky one.”
“We can both be lucky.” He sits on the edge of the bed, pulling you to stand between his knees. “I want to do this right. So if at any point you want to stop, or slow down, or-”
“Dean.” You run your fingers through his hair. “I trust you. Completely. Just be with me. Okay?”
“Okay.”
He takes his time undressing you. Peels off your sweater, presses kisses to your shoulders. Unbuttons your jeans, slides them down your legs. You’re wearing the new lingerie, and his breath catches.
“Jesus, Y/N.”
“Too much?”
“Not enough. Never enough.” He stands, turns you around so you can see yourself in the mirror above the dresser. His hands span your waist, and he meets your eyes in the reflection. “Do you see how beautiful you are?”
“Dean-”
“I need you to see it. See what I see.” His hands slide up, cupping your breasts through the lace. “Do you remember the first time I watched you touch yourself here?”
“Yeah,” you breathe.
“You were so nervous. So shy. And now look at you.” He kisses your neck. “So confident. So beautiful. So mine.”
“Yours,” you agree.
He turns you back around, and his hands go to his own shirt. But you stop him.
“Let me.”
You undress him slowly, learning the planes of his chest, the strength in his shoulders. He’s beautiful — you’ve always known that, but seeing him like this, knowing what’s about to happen, makes your breath catch.
“You’re staring,” he says, echoing your words from months ago.
“Can’t help it. You’re very watchable.”
He grins, and then you’re both laughing, and it’s perfect. This moment is perfect.
Dean lays you back on the bed, careful of the rose petals. “I’m going to make you feel so good,” he promises. “But first, I need to—I’ve been dreaming about tasting you for months.”
“Dean-”
But he’s already sliding down your body, pressing kisses to your stomach, your hips, the inside of your thighs. When he hooks his fingers in your underwear, he pauses.
“Still okay?”
“Yes. Please.”
He slides them off, and then — oh.
You’ve learned a lot in your tutoring sessions, but this is different. This is Dean’s mouth on you, his hands holding your hips, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs. “Let me hear you.”
You’re not quiet. Can’t be quiet. Every touch, every kiss, every clever thing he does with his tongue makes you louder.
“Dean, I—I’m going to-”
“Let go. I’ve got you.”
And you do, falling apart under his mouth, his name the only word you can remember.
When you come back to yourself, he’s kissing his way back up your body, looking incredibly pleased with himself.
“Okay?” He asks.
“That was—I don’t have words.”
“Good.” He kisses you, and you can taste yourself on his lips. “Want to keep going?”
“Yes. Please yes.”
He reaches for the nightstand, pulls out a condom. “I’m going to go slow, okay? Tell me if anything hurts.”
“I will.”
He settles between your legs, and you feel him there, hard and ready. “Look at me,” he says softly. “I want to see you.”
You do, meeting his eyes as he slowly, carefully, pushes inside.
There’s pressure, a brief flash of pain, and then-
“Oh,” you breathe.
“Okay?” His jaw is tight with the effort of holding still.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. You can—you can move.”
He does, slow and careful, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But there’s none. Just fullness and rightness and the feeling of being completely connected to him.
“You feel incredible,” he groans. “So perfect. Like you were made for me.”
“Maybe I was.”
Something flashes in his eyes at that, and his next thrust is deeper. “Say that again.”
“Maybe I was made for you.”
“Y/N-” His control is slipping. You can see it, feel it in the way he’s moving faster now, harder.
“It’s okay,” you gasp. “I want—I want all of you. Don’t hold back.”
“You’re killing me.”
“Good. Now stop being so careful and actually-”
He kisses you, swallowing whatever you were about to say, and finally lets go. The careful control disappears, replaced by raw need, and it’s exactly what you wanted.
You meet him thrust for thrust, finding a rhythm that has you both gasping. Your nails dig into his shoulders, his hand fists in your hair, and it’s messy and intense and absolutely perfect.
“Touch yourself,” he commands, his voice rough. “I want to feel you come around me.”
You do, and the added sensation combined with the feeling of him inside you is overwhelming. You’re close, so close-
“That’s it, baby. Come for me. Let me feel it.”
You shatter, and the feeling of you clenching around him sends Dean over the edge too. He buries his face in your neck, your name on his lips, and you hold him through it.
After, you’re both breathing hard, tangled together, and you’ve never felt more complete.
“You okay?” Dean asks, brushing hair from your face.
“Better than okay.”
“No regrets?”
“Not a single one.” You kiss him softly. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For making it perfect. For being patient. For caring enough to do all this.”
“Y/N, I-” He stops, and something vulnerable crosses his face. “I love you. I’m in love with you. I have been for months, and I can’t keep pretending otherwise.”
Your heart stops. “Dean-”
“You don’t have to say it back. I just needed you to know. Needed you to know that this … it wasn’t just sex for me. It was-”
“I love you too,” you interrupt. “I’m completely, terrifyingly in love with you.”
He stares at you. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I think I have been since that night at the party. I was just too scared to admit it.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m still scared. But I’m more scared of not being with you.”
He kisses you, deep and slow and sweet. “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?”
“Apparently.”
“So where does this leave us?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never done the relationship thing before.”
“Neither have I. Not like this.” He pulls you closer. “But I want to figure it out. With you.”
“Me too.”
“Even if it’s messy?”
“Even if it’s messy.”
“Even if your perfectly planned future gets a little derailed?”
“Maybe my future needed a little derailing.”
He grins. “I’m definitely telling everyone you said that.”
“Don’t you dare-”
He kisses you again, and you forget what you were protesting.
***
Later, after you’ve showered together (which led to round two against the tile wall), you’re curled up in bed, wearing one of Dean’s shirts, his arm around you.
“Can I tell you something?” You ask.
“Anything.”
“I kept a list. Of reasons why falling for you was a bad idea.”
“Oh yeah? How long was it?”
“Eighteen reasons.”
“Damn. That’s detailed.”
“I’m a detailed person.”
“What were they?”
“Different goals. Different lifestyles. Risk to my GPA. Risk to my focus. Your reputation. My inexperience. The fact that you’d probably break my heart.” You pause. “Among others.”
“And yet here you are.”
“Here I am.”
“What changed?”
“I realized that every reason on that list was just fear. Fear of feeling too much, of wanting something outside my plan, of being vulnerable.” You turn to look at him. “But being with you — it doesn’t make me weaker. It makes me braver.”
“Y/N-”
“I’m not done. You make me braver. You make me want to take risks I’d never take otherwise. You make me believe that maybe I can have both — my career and someone to share it with. And that’s everything.”
He’s looking at you like you hung the moon. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to deserve you.”
“The rest of your life? That’s a long time.”
“Better get started then.” He kisses you, slow and thorough. “Ready for round three?”
“Already?”
“What? I’m making up for lost time.”
“We have all night.”
“Exactly.” He rolls on top of you, settling between your legs. “And I plan to use every minute of it.”
And he does.
***
You lose count somewhere around four. Or maybe five. Dean’s insatiable, and you discover you are too. Every touch builds on the last, every kiss leads to more, until you’re boneless and satisfied and completely wrecked in the best possible way.
“I can’t move,” you announce as dawn starts to lighten the sky.
“Don’t need to move. Just need to stay right here.”
“We should probably eat something.”
“Food’s overrated.”
“Dean.”
“Fine.” He kisses your shoulder. “But only because I need to keep your strength up. We’re not done yet.”
“How are you not exhausted?”
“I’m a hockey player, baby. Stamina’s kind of my thing.”
You laugh, and he grins against your skin.
“I love that sound,” he says.
“What sound?”
“You laughing. You happy.” He props himself up on one elbow. “Promise me something?”
“What?”
“Promise me we’ll figure this out. Whatever happens next. Promise me you won’t let the logistics scare you away.”
Your chest tightens. “I promise. As long as you promise the same thing.”
“Deal.” He holds out his pinky, and you link yours with his, sealing it with a kiss.
“Now,” he says, suddenly energized. “Let me make you breakfast.”
“You cook?”
“I make a mean scrambled egg. Also toast. I’m very versatile.”
You follow him to the kitchen, stealing one of his hoodies because you’re not ready to actually get dressed yet. He puts on coffee and starts cracking eggs, and you sit on the counter watching him, and it’s so domestic it makes your heart ache.
“What?” He asks, catching you staring.
“Just thinking about how different this is from where we started.”
“When you told me I was just some guy?”
“When I was convinced you were going to be a disaster for my carefully planned life.”
“And now?”
“Now I think maybe you’re the best disaster that ever happened to me.”
He abandons the eggs to kiss you, thorough and deep. “Best disaster. I’ll take it.”
“The eggs are burning.”
“Don’t care.”
“Dean!”
He laughs and goes back to the stove, salvaging what he can. You eat breakfast at the small table overlooking the lake, your feet in his lap, talking about everything and nothing.
“I should take you home eventually,” Dean says reluctantly.
“Eventually. But not yet.”
“No?”
“No. We have the cottage until tomorrow night. I want to stay here. With you. In our little bubble before we have to face reality again.”
“Reality’s not so bad. We’ll still have Tuesday and Thursday nights.”
“And Friday nights? After games?”
“Every night if you want them. I’m yours, Y/N. For as long as you’ll have me.”
“That might be a while.”
“I’m counting on it.”
You spend the rest of the day in bed, learning each other, talking, making love until you’re both exhausted and satisfied. And when Dean finally, reluctantly drives you home Sunday evening, you’re already counting the hours until you see him again.
“Text me when you’re home?” You say at your dorm door.
“You’re literally watching me leave.”
“Still. I want to know you got home safe.”
“Yes, dear.” But he’s smiling. He kisses you one more time. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Inside, Maggie takes one look at you and squeals.
“Oh my god, it happened! Tell me everything! Wait, don’t tell me everything. Tell me some things. The appropriate things.”
“It was perfect,” you say, and you can’t stop smiling. “He was perfect.”
“And? How do you feel?”
“Different. Good different. Like something fundamental shifted.”
“You’re in love with him.”
“I’m in love with him,” you agree. “Completely, stupidly in love with him.”
“And your plan? Medical school? All of that?”
“Still the plan. But maybe the plan has room for him now.”
Maggie hugs you. “I’m so happy for you.”
“Me too,” you say.
And you are. Despite the fear, despite the uncertainty of what comes next, you’re happy.
Because for the first time in your life, you’ve let yourself want something outside of your carefully constructed goals.
And it turns out, it’s the best decision you’ve ever made.
***
Finals week is hell.
This is a universal truth, but it’s especially true when your girlfriend is pre-med with a 4.0 she’s determined to maintain.
“I haven’t seen you in four days,” Dean says into his phone, sprawled on his bed. It’s Tuesday night, which used to be your night, but you’ve been holed up in the library since Saturday.
“I know. I’m sorry.” You sound tired. “I just have two more exams and then I’m done.”
“When are they?”
“Thursday and Friday.”
“So after Friday, you’re free?”
“After Friday, I’m comatose. But yes, technically free.”
“I miss you.”
“I miss you too.” He can hear the smile in your voice. “But I really need to focus right now. Organic chemistry waits for no one.”
“Not even for your devoted boyfriend who’s slowly dying of Y/N withdrawal?”
“Not even for him. Sorry, babe.”
“Fine,” he sighs dramatically. “Abandon me in my time of need.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“It’s part of my charm.”
“It really is.” You pause. “I have to go. My study group is waiting. But I love you.”
“Love you too. Kick organic chemistry’s ass.”
“That’s the plan.”
After you hang up, Dean stares at the ceiling. Four days feels like four years. He’s gotten used to having you around — your presence in his space, your voice, your laugh. The bed feels too big without you. Everything feels too big without you.
“You’re moping,” Garrett says from the doorway.
“I’m not moping.”
“You’re absolutely moping. It’s pathetic.”
“She’s studying for finals. I’m being supportive.”
“You’re being miserable.” Garrett sits on the edge of the bed. “Dude, it’s been four days. You’re acting like she’s gone to war.”
“It feels like she’s gone to war.”
“Oh my god, you’re so far gone it’s actually painful to watch.”
Dean throws a pillow at him. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
“Nope. This is too entertaining.” Garrett grins. “Remember when you used to go days without seeing girls and you didn’t care? Remember when you had a different girl every week? Remember when-”
“Okay, I get it. I’ve changed.”
“You’re whipped.”
“I’m in love. There’s a difference.”
“Is there though?”
Dean considers this. “No, probably not. I’m definitely whipped.”
“At least you’re self-aware.” Garrett stands. “Just go see her. Bring her coffee. She’ll appreciate it.”
“She told me she needs to focus.”
“And you’re listening to that? Since when do you listen to reasonable requests?”
“Since she asked me to.”
Garrett shakes his head. “Man, you really are gone.”
***
By Wednesday afternoon, Dean’s desperate.
He’s tried texting. You respond, but they’re short, distracted messages. He’s tried calling. You answer, but only for a few minutes before you have to get back to studying. He even tried sending food to the library, but according to Maggie, you just smiled and kept highlighting your notes.
“I have an idea,” he tells Beau.
They’re at the gym, supposedly working out, but Dean’s been staring at the same weight for ten minutes.
“Does it involve you actually lifting that or are we just looking at it?” Beau asks.
“I need you to punch me.”
Beau doesn’t even blink. “In the face?”
“Yeah.”
“Hard enough to leave a mark?”
“Definitely.”
“Because you miss your girlfriend and you think if you’re injured she’ll take care of you?”
Dean stares at him. “How did you-”
“Dude, Garrett told everyone about the hockey stick thing. You’re not subtle.” Beau sets down his own weights. “And now you want me to punch you because she’s been studying too hard?”
“When you say it like that it sounds stupid.”
“It is stupid.”
“But you’ll do it?”
Beau sighs. “I can’t believe you went from being the campus manwhore to so whipped for one girl that you’re literally begging me to punch you in the face.”
“I’m not begging.”
“You’re absolutely begging.”
“Will you do it or not?”
“What’s in it for me?”
“My eternal gratitude?”
“Not compelling.”
“I’ll do your Applied Logic homework for the rest of the semester.”
“Now we’re talking.” Beau stands up, cracking his knuckles. “Okay. Where do you want it?”
“Somewhere visible but not too bad. I don’t want to actually break anything.”
“So cheekbone? Maybe split your lip again?”
“Lip’s good. She has a thing about my mouth.”
“I did not need to know that.” Beau positions himself. “You ready?”
“Wait-” Dean holds up a hand. “Not here. Too many witnesses. Let’s go outside.”
Five minutes later, they’re in the parking lot behind the gym. Dean’s bracing himself, and Beau’s looking at him like he’s crazy.
“Last chance to back out,” Beau says.
“Just do it.”
“You’re insane.”
“Frequently.”
Beau shrugs. “Your funeral.” And he pulls back and-
CRACK.
Dean’s head snaps to the side, stars exploding behind his eyes. His lip splits immediately, and yeah, that’s going to bruise.
“Jesus,” he gasps, tasting blood.
“You literally asked for that.”
“I know. Doesn’t make it hurt less.” Dean touches his lip gingerly. “How bad is it?”
“Pretty bad. Your lip’s bleeding like crazy and your cheek’s already swelling.” Beau hands him a towel from his gym bag. “You better hope this works because if Y/N finds out you did this on purpose, she’s going to kill you.”
“She won’t find out.”
“Famous last words, man. Famous last words.”
***
You finish your study session at six, exhausted but confident about tomorrow’s exam. Your phone has three missed calls from Dean, which is unusual. He’s been good about giving you space this week.
You call him back.
“Hey,” he answers, and his voice sounds weird. Muffled.
“You okay? You sound funny.”
“I’m fine. Just had a little accident at the gym.”
Your exhaustion evaporates immediately. “What kind of accident?”
“It’s not a big deal-”
“Dean. What happened.”
“I caught an elbow playing basketball. My lip’s split and my cheek’s a little banged up, but I’m fine.”
You’re already packing your bag. “Where are you?”
“At home, but Y/N, you don’t have to-”
“I’m coming over. Have you iced it?”
“Not yet-”
“Ice it. Now. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
You hang up before he can protest, throwing your books into your backpack with more force than necessary. Basketball. Of course. Because Dean can’t just go to the gym and work out like a normal person, he has to play contact sports.
The walk to The Boy’s House takes twelve minutes because you’re power-walking the whole way. You let yourself in — Dean gave you a key two weeks ago — and take the stairs two at a time.
He’s sitting on his bed, holding a bag of frozen peas to his face, and when he lowers it your heart stops.
“Oh my god.”
His lip is split badly, still oozing blood. His left cheek is swollen and already turning purple. There’s dried blood on his chin.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says.
“It looks terrible!” You drop your bag and go to him, gently tilting his face toward the light. “Have you cleaned this at all?”
“I was waiting for you.”
“Dean-” You stop, take a breath. “Okay. Don’t move. I need to get supplies.”
Ten minutes later, you’ve assembled everything you need from his bathroom and the first aid kit he keeps under the sink. Dean watches you work with something soft in his eyes.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says. “I know you have studying-”
“Shut up.” You’re cleaning the blood from his face with gentle swipes. “You’re hurt. Obviously I’m going to take care of you.”
“You’re amazing, you know that?”
“I’m aware.” But you’re smiling a little. “This is going to sting.”
“I can han—OW.”
“I warned you.” You’re applying antiseptic now, careful around the split. “How did this happen exactly?”
“I went up for a rebound and Beau’s elbow caught me right in the face.”
“Beau did this?”
“It was an accident. He felt terrible.”
“He should feel terrible. This is-” You stop, looking at the injury more carefully. “This is a really clean hit.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Beau’s elbow would have caught you at an angle if you were both going up for a rebound. But this-” You touch the area around the injury lightly. “This came straight on. Like a punch, not an elbow.”
Dean’s eyes widen slightly. “I-”
“Did Beau punch you in the face?”
“No! I mean, not exactly-”
“Dean.” You sit back, crossing your arms. “Did you ask Beau to punch you in the face?”
The silence is deafening.
“Maybe,” he finally admits.
“MAYBE?”
“Okay, yes. I asked him to punch me in the face.”
You stare at him. “Why would you-” And then it clicks. “You missed me.”
“So much.”
“So you had Beau punch you in the face because you thought I’d come take care of you.”
“When you say it like that it sounds stupid.”
“It IS stupid!” But you’re fighting a smile now. “Dean, you could have just asked me to take a study break.”
“You said you needed to focus.”
“I did need to focus. But I also need to eat and sleep and occasionally see my boyfriend. I would have made time.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.” You go back to cleaning his face. “You didn’t need to get punched.”
“It worked though. You’re here.”
“I’m here because you’re injured and I was worried about you, not because your manipulation tactics worked.”
“Semantics.”
You laugh despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“But you love me anyway.”
“I love you anyway.” You finish cleaning the wound and start applying butterfly bandages. “Although this isn’t the first time you’ve done something like this, is it?”
He freezes. “What do you mean?”
“After that game months ago.”
“I told you, I took a high stick in the-”
“Dean.” You meet his eyes. “Garrett told me.”
“He WHAT?”
“Told me. Right after it happened, actually. He said, and I quote, ‘I can’t believe Dean hit himself in the face with his own stick to get your attention.’” You’re grinning now. “He thought it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.”
Dean drops his head into his hands. “I’m going to kill him.”
“You’re not going to kill him. He was right, it was hilarious.”
“It was strategic.”
“It was unhinged.”
“It worked!”
“It did work,” you admit. “We did kiss that night. But Dean-” You cup his face gently. “You don’t need to injure yourself to get my attention. You already have it. You’ve had it since that first night at the party, whether I wanted to admit it or not.”
“Really?”
“Really. So next time you miss me during finals week, just tell me. I’ll make time. I promise.”
“Even if you’re drowning in studying?”
“Even then. Because you’re important to me. More important than a 4.0.”
His eyes widen. “Did you just say-”
“Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
“You said I’m more important than your GPA!”
“I said don’t make a big deal out of it!”
But he’s grinning now, wincing when it pulls at his split lip. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too, you absolute maniac.” You finish with the bandages. “There. You’re all patched up. But seriously, no more fake injuries. Deal?”
“Deal.” He pauses. “What if they’re really small injuries though? Like a paper cut or-”
“Dean.”
“Kidding. I’m kidding.” He pulls you into his lap. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
“Always.” You kiss him carefully, mindful of his lip. “Now, I really should get back to studying-”
“Or,” he says, his hands sliding under your shirt. “You could stay. Take a break. Let me thank you properly for being the best girlfriend in the world.”
“I have an exam tomorrow.”
“You’re going to ace it. You always do.”
“Dean-”
“Please?” He’s kissing your neck now. “I’ve missed you so much. Four days is too long.”
“You’re injured.”
“I’m fine. Better than fine now that you’re here.”
You should say no. Should go back to your dorm, review your notes one more time, get a good night’s sleep.
But his hands are warm and his mouth is on that spot below your ear that makes you melt, and you’ve missed him too.
“Fine,” you sigh. “But only for a little bit.”
“Whatever you say, baby.”
***
“A little bit” turns into three hours.
You’re lying in Dean’s bed, thoroughly debauched and completely relaxed, wearing his t-shirt and nothing else. He’s next to you, propped up on one elbow, just watching you with that soft expression that still makes your heart flutter.
“What?” You ask.
“Just thinking about how lucky I am.”
“Even with your busted face?”
“Especially with my busted face. It got you here, didn’t it?”
You shake your head, laughing. “You know what’s crazy?”
“What?”
“Six months ago, if someone had told me I’d be here — in your bed, in love with you, happy to blow off studying for you — I would have thought they were insane.”
“And now?”
“Now I can’t imagine being anywhere else.” You trace the line of his jaw, careful of the bruise. “You’ve completely derailed my carefully planned life.”
“Sorry?”
“Don’t be. It needed derailing.” You shift closer. “I had everything mapped out. College, medical school, residency, career. No room for anything else. Definitely no room for a relationship.”
“And now?”
“Now I have all of that plus you. And it turns out, I can have both. I can be focused and driven and still make time for someone I love. Who knew?”
“I knew,” Dean says softly. “From the beginning, I knew you could have everything you wanted. You just needed to let yourself want it.”
“When did you get so wise?”
“I’ve always been wise. You just thought I was a dumb jock.”
“I never thought you were dumb.”
“Just a jock?”
“A very hot jock,” you amend. “With surprisingly good political acumen and an unexpected talent for making me laugh.”
“Keep going. This is good for my ego.”
You laugh and kiss him. “I love you. Even when you’re getting yourself punched in the face for attention.”
“I love you too. Even when you’re so focused on studying you forget to eat.”
“That was one time!”
“It was three times.”
“Who’s counting?”
“Me. Because I care about you.” He kisses your forehead. “Speaking of which, when’s your last exam?”
“Friday at two.”
“Okay. So Friday at two-oh-five, you’re officially done with finals. What do you want to do?”
“Sleep for sixteen hours?”
“After that.”
“I don’t know. What did you have in mind?”
“Well,” he says, rolling on top of you. “I was thinking we could go back to the lake house for the weekend. Just us. No studying, no hockey, no responsibilities. Just us.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You wrap your arms around his neck. “But right now, I’m exactly where I want to be.”
“In my bed?”
“In your arms.”
His expression goes soft. “You’re going to make me emotional.”
“Big tough hockey player can’t handle feelings?”
“Not when they’re about you.” He kisses you, deep and slow. “You destroy me, you know that?”
“Good. You destroyed me first.”
“Best disaster of your life?”
“Best disaster of my life,” you confirm.
He grins and starts kissing down your neck. “You know what I just realized?”
“What?”
“You’re supposed to be studying right now.”
“Dean-”
“But instead you’re here. With me. Naked in my bed.” His hands are wandering now. “Priorities definitely shifted.”
“This is a one-time thing. Finals week exception.”
“Uh huh. Sure.” He’s at your collarbone now. “You keep telling yourself that.”
“I will. Now stop talking and-”
But you lose your train of thought when his mouth finds your breast.
“What was that?” He asks innocently. “Stop talking and what?”
“You know what.”
“I really don’t. You’ll have to be more specific.”
“Dean Di Laurentis, if you don’t-”
He moves lower, kissing down your stomach. “Don’t what?”
“Oh my god, you’re infuriating.”
“But you love me.”
“I’m starting to question that decision—oh.” Your hands fist in his hair as his mouth finds exactly where you need it. “Okay, I take it back. I love you. I love you so much.”
“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs against your skin, and then he’s making very sure all thoughts of studying — all thoughts period — leave your head completely.
***
Later, when you’re both thoroughly satisfied and drowsing in each other’s arms, you make one last attempt at responsibility.
“I should really go study,” you mumble into his chest.
“Mmm, no.”
“I have an exam in-” you crane your neck to see his alarm clock, “-fourteen hours.”
“You’ll ace it. You always do.”
“Confidence based on what data?”
“Based on the fact that you’re brilliant and you’ve been studying for days.” He tightens his arms around you. “Stay. Please. I’ll wake you up early and make you breakfast and quiz you on whatever you need.”
“You don’t even know what the exam is on.”
“I’ll learn. For you, I’ll learn organic chemistry overnight.”
You laugh. “That’s not possible.”
“Maybe not. But I’ll try anyway.” He kisses the top of your head. “Stay.”
You should say no. Should be responsible. Should-
“Okay,” you hear yourself say. “I’ll stay.”
“Best decision you’ve made all week.”
“Second best. Best decision was coming to take care of your ridiculous fake injury.”
“It was real! Beau really punched me!”
“You asked him to!”
“Details.”
You’re both laughing now, and it feels so good, so right, that you don’t even care about the studying you’re missing.
“I can’t believe I’m blowing off organic chemistry for you,” you say.
“I can. I’m very compelling.”
“You’re very something.”
“But you love me.”
“I really do.” You prop yourself up to look at him. “Even when you’re being an absolute disaster of a human being.”
“Takes one to know one.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You’re just as much of a disaster as I am. You just hide it better behind color-coded notes and perfect grades.”
“I am not-”
“You once stayed in the library for twenty-seven straight hours during midterms!”
“I was on a roll!”
“You forgot to eat three times in one week!”
“I was focused!”
“My point exactly. We’re both disasters. We just disaster differently.”
You consider this. “Okay, that’s fair.”
“We’re perfect for each other.”
“We really are.” You settle back against his chest. “Disastrous together.”
“But happy.”
“So happy,” you agree.
And it’s true. Despite the chaos, despite the derailed plans, despite every logical reason why this shouldn’t work — you’re happy. Happier than you’ve ever been.
“Hey Dean?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being patient with me. For waiting while I figured out what I wanted. For showing me that having you doesn’t mean losing myself.”
“Y/N-”
“For loving me even when I was too scared to love you back. For making me believe I could have everything.”
He pulls you closer, and you can hear his heartbeat, steady and strong. “You’re going to make me cry.”
“Big tough hockey player-”
“Can’t handle feelings about you. We’ve established this.” He tilts your face up to his. “I’d wait forever for you. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“And you’re not losing yourself. You’re just making room for one more thing. One more person who thinks you’re incredible and wants to support every single dream you have.”
“Stop it. I’m going to cry now.”
“We can cry together.”
You’re both laughing through tears now, and it’s messy and perfect and exactly right.
“I love you,” you say.
“I love you too.” He kisses you, soft and sweet. “Now go to sleep. You have an exam to ace tomorrow.”
“You’re letting me sleep?”
“You’re the one who keeps initiating round three.”
“That is—okay, that’s fair.”
“Get some rest, baby. I’ve got you.”
And he does. His arms around you, his heartbeat in your ear, his presence solid and real and yours.
You fall asleep thinking about how far you’ve come. From that first night at the party, convinced Dean was just another distraction. To study sessions that became something more. To falling in love despite every logical reason not to.
The best decisions aren’t always the logical ones.
Sometimes the best decisions are the ones that scare you. The ones that derail your carefully planned future. The ones that make you feel too much.
Sometimes the best decisions are the disasters that turn out to be exactly what you needed all along.
And as you drift off in Dean’s arms, you can’t help but smile.
Because if this is disaster, you never want to be safe again.
