Break the Ice 𝚿
☄︎ Warnings: None! ☄︎ Pairing: Psych!Reader x John Logan ☄︎ Rating/Genre: PG. Fluff. ☄︎ Words: 1584 ☄︎ Summary: Logan goes to the library to escape the chaos of the hockey house, only to meet Psych!Reader
Original request here. 〣 Off Campus Masterlist here.〣 Logan Masterlist here. 〣 Meet Psych!Reader here.
Logan knew of library etiquette existed, which is how he knew that a library was the last place for him to be. He was far too restless, possessing too much nervous energy to sit still in a room that demanded silence.
However, in his defence, he had to come to here. The hockey house was almost impossible to study in. At any given hour of the day, someone was either fucking, yelling over a video game, or hosting a ‘small’ get-together that, more often that not, ended up with 50+ people taking over the living room.
So, here he was.
The campus library basement was unbearably quiet compared to what he was used to. Adjusting the heavy strap of his backpack, he wandered between the rows of desks, his eyes searching for any untaken spots. At this time of the day, most of the desks were already occupied by the organised students that had rushed to the library.
He was just about resigned to giving up and heading back to the chaos of the house when he finally spotted an opening... right across from you.
The quiet basement of the campus library was your sanctuary during midterms. It was the only place where the franticness of Briar U slowed down enough for you to actually get ahead on your readings.
Your desk was a testament to your love of organisation and control; three brightly coloured highlighters were aligned next to your notebook, your stack of case studies were meticulously tabbed with colour-coded sticky notes, and an iced matcha latte was dripping safely onto a napkin. You were in the zone, one hand absently twirling a black pen while the other carefully highlighted a paragraph in your textbook.
Logan’s eyes tracked the hypnotic spin of your pen for a second before he shook himself out of it. ‘Focus, Logan. Empty chair. Go.’ He walked over to your desk, intending to gently pull the chair out and carefully slide in as quietly as a 6’0” hockey player possibly could.
Miscalculating how narrow the aisle was, as he turned to pull out the chair, his backpack slid down his arm and swung at the table like a wrecking ball.
Time seemed to slow down for a horrific second. The index cards you had on the edge of the table fluttered to the floor like confetti, the highlighters on your desk also dramatically scattered across the floor. Your drink rocked dangerously, only saved by your hand instinctively reaching for the cup before it could tip over.
Logan turned to look down at you. You weren’t looking up yet; you were just silently staring at the destruction of your stationary.
“Oh, shit! I’m sorry,” Logan blurted out, his deep voice carrying far too loudly in the quiet of the library basement.
Your blinked, finally looking up to see Logan dropping down to his knees in the narrow aisle. His dark brown eyes were wide with panic as he began collecting your stuff.
“Somehow, you managed to knock over only the things that were perfectly organised,” you half-whispered.
“I noticed that,” Logan murmured quickly, a self-deprecating grimace touching his lips as he scrambled to gather a handful of your index cards. He paused, his eyes scanning the title of the index card in his hand. “‘Clinical Interventions for Performance Anxiety in Elite Athletes’ Huh. Heavy stuff.”
Logan tilted his head back, looking up at you from his position on the floor. The panic in his eyes melted when he saw you for the first time. He flashed you a smile that would probably work on you if you weren’t so guarded. “For the record, I don’t get performance anxiety.”
You leant your elbows on the desk, looking down at him with a thoroughly unimpressed expression. “Riiiiight. Anyways! You should probably pick that up.”
You gestured vaguely to a rogue highlighter that had rolled a good few metres away under an adjacent table.
Logan’s practiced smile faltered for a second, his posture freezing as he was caught off guard by your bluntness. He cleared his throat. “Right.”
He quickly retrieved the escaped highlighter, standing up to place it gently back on your desk.
“And the yellow one,” you added, not moving an inch to help. Afterall, it was him that ruined your desk.
“That is the yellow one,” he said, a light laugh escaping him as he referred to the neon one he had just handed back.
“No, that’s yellow,” you explained patiently, pointing your finger at the second one hiding under the chair. “What you just gave me was pastel yellow.”
“They’re all yellow,” he huffed, shaking his head in sheer amusement as he bent down once more to fish it out.
“Actually, they’re different shades and they all have different purposes,” you explained.
“I’m afraid to ask,” he murmured, handing it over.
You pointed to them as you lined each one back up, nudging them until they formed another perfect row. “Pastel yellow for definitions. Yellow for exam concepts. Warm yellow, or orange, for research findings.”
Logan looked at you as if you were speaking a foreign language, completely captivated by how intense you were about a set of highlighters. “If I say that you’re right, will you let me sit here?”
When you stayed quiet, simply tracking his expressions, his eyes turned pleading. “I swear, I don’t usually destroy strangers’ study setups.”
You tilted your head, resting your chin in your hand. “Usually? That sounds incredibly suspicious.”
“I’m worth the trouble, I promise,” he smiled, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners.
You looked at the empty chair across from you. Then at the heavy pile of books you’d been planning to spend the next four hours with. Finally, your gaze drifted back to the charming idiot who had disrupted your perfectly structured afternoon.
“You can sit there,” you allowed softly.
His face brightened instantly. “Really?”
“On one condition.”
“I’m listening.”
“You don’t touch anything.”
He held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “I solemnly swear to maintain a safe distance from all stationery.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, holding his gaze until he slid into the chair. This time, he moved with exaggerated care, easing his broad frame onto the seat.
“Phew.” He settled in, letting out a dramatic sigh of relief. “No casualties.”
You nodded approvingly, opening your textbook again. “You’re learning.”
Logan extended his hand across the small space dividing your desks. “I’m Logan, by the way.”
You hesitated for just a second, your brain checking his body language before you finally reached out. You released his grip and told him your name. “It's nice to officially meet the person who attacked my stationery.”
“Hey, this friendship will never work if you can't move past things that happened five minutes ago,” he joked, leaning forward on his elbows.
An unexpected laugh escaped you, just loud enough that a couple of students at the next table glanced over before returning to their work.
For the next hour, neither of you got nearly as much studying done as you’d planned. The pens stayed perfectly aligned, but you could feel his attention drifting over to you every few minutes.
Logan finally interrupted you an hour in, breaking your concentration. “So, are you gonna psychoanalyse me?” He asked, a playful tilt to his head.
“I try not to analyse people without consent,” you lied smoothly, keeping your eyes on your page.
“What if I volunteer?”
You stopped writing, lifting your head to study him for a quiet beat. You took in his relaxed posture, the confident tilt of his jaw, and the subtle, lingering signs of exhaustion around his eyes. “I don’t think you’d like my conclusions.”
“I think I'd love them,” he shot back effortlessly. His hand twitched forward on the table, his fingers tracing a line closer to your notebook, intentionally testing your boundaries.
Instinctively, you slid the entire row of highlighters an inch further away from his fingers.
Logan gasped dramatically, placing a hand flat over his chest. “I wasn't gonna touch them.”
“Liar.”
Logan conceded with a low chuckle, his brown eyes flashing with pure mischief. “Okay, I do kind of want to mess them up again.”
Your eyes widened slightly. “You wouldn't. You solemnly swore!”
“I mean, I probably wouldn’t,” he murmured, but the grin on his face said otherwise.
Though the pens stayed aligned for the rest of the afternoon, every few minutes, you caught Logan glancing at them with a smirk. And every single time he did, you quietly moved them another inch farther away from his side of the desk.
Finally, Logan checked his watch and let out a soft sigh, reluctantly packing his notebook into his bag. He slung the backpack over his shoulder, much more carefully this time, and looked down at you.
“Are you here tomorrow?” he asked.
“I am,” you replied suspiciously, “I'm here most afternoons.”
“Good to know,” he smiled, it was warm.
You didn’t respond, but you picked up your black pen, your eyes tracking his retreating figure as he walked down the aisle toward the stairs.
Your thumb mindlessly tapped the cap out of habit. You had spent three years studying exactly why people behaved the way they did. You had always believed there was an immense comfort in understanding someone, in diagnosing their patterns and decoding their defences, before ever letting them get close to you.
Unfortunately for you, John Logan didn't seem interested in following any of your patterns.
💭: i imagine them almost as grumpy x sunshine dynamic! where logan has an emotional intelligence that reader doesn’t expect. not sure how or if i want to continue this, but defo a dynamic that i’m actually excited to delve into, it’s a fun lil challenge, i think. let me know your thoughts! x
