☄︎ Warnings: None! only proofread by myself, idk my tenses
☄︎ Pairing: f!Reader x John Logan (Past), f!Reader x Dean Di Laurentis (Main)
☄︎ Rating: PG
☄︎ Words: 3358
☄︎ AN: i've been to one (1) hockey game in my entire life and it was in switzerland so i cannot speak to how lore accurate my hockey knowledge is. Last chapter for the next two weeks, pretty please share thoughts🧍🏽♀️ xx
Series Masterlist 〣 Main Masterlist
The roar of the hockey arena is deafening; you had all but forgotten what a rush it is to be amongst the screaming crowd, all hyped for the evening’s events. The players aren’t even out yet, but your body is buzzing and the crowd is going wild for the pre-game activities.
The knots in your stomach from earlier slowly disappear as you, Hannah, and Allie take your seats next to the puck bunnies.
It’s your first game back from since you had broken up with Logan. You find it hard to believe that almost two months has passed from since you’ve last set foot in the arena.
Nothing much has changed; the smell of nachos and stale beer still clings to the air, the supporters still shout loudly at basically anything, and the building is the exact same colour as it was when you were last here. It’s all familiar, except you.
You think of all the work you’ve done from since the sleepover with your girls and then the night of the party with Dean and Logan. You have stayed true to your word; you didn’t close the door on what could be a potential future with Dean. While you were still unsure about his feelings, you were very sure on yours.
Over the past month, you cried on the floor, screamed into your pillow, and embraced the waves of grief that occasionally crashed over you until they held even less power. You have done the work to leave Logan in the past. You have proven to whatever demon that was in your head that you want Dean for who he is, and not for what he could do for your grief.
Maybe you are being naïve to think that his actions were mostly platonic. Maybe you aren’t. But, the important point is, you’re finally ready to find that out.
Dean has stayed true to his word too; he hasn’t brought up the actual reason for the breakup to Garrett or to Logan. And, even though your mind is finally settling, even though you’re no longer drowning, in desperate need of a lifeboat, Dean doesn’t walk away. He still calls you most nights. He still turns up to the library to distract you. He still shows up for you.
Throughout it all, Dean stays right by your side, offering a level of unconditional care that you never even thought was possible. You so desperately want to show him that level of devotion too.
So, now, here you are. Ready to face a hockey game, seeing your ex, and ready to challenge every painful memory that this arena could potentially hold. You want to do this to support Dean, to show him that you’ll support him no matter the personal challenge, as he has done for you.
To your relief, the puck bunnies welcome you back easily, catching you up on any of the gossip they think you’d be interested in. They don’t pry about your break-up with Logan nor do they side eye you when they spot the name of the back of the jersey you’re wearing.
On your chest, the massive red, white, and blue Briar U Hawks emblem is proudly displayed. On your back, in unmistakably bold white writing is DI LAURENTIS and his number 66.
Dean’s Briar Hawks practice jersey sits prettily on you, still smelling faintly like him despite Tucker’s reassurances that it had definitely been through a wash. The closer the time gets to when the players come out, the more nervous you get. You rub your sweaty palms against your jean-covered knees.
This was a good idea. ‘Still is a good idea,’ you tell yourself. Garrett goes crazy whenever Hannah wears something with his name on it. Even Logan, who wasn’t that into you, always loved it when you did the same. So, you have to assume that Dean will as well.
However, that doesn’t stop you from starting to think that maybe you should have just asked him. Now that you’re sat here, a wave of doubt hits you, making you wonder if it was completely weird of you to have gone behind his back and asked Tucker to sneak one of his jersey’s out for you.
You practise the upcoming moment in your head for the hundredth time. How you’ll turn to show him his name on your back. You mentally plan out how you’ll apologise if he feels weirded out.
“Stop overthinking it, the number suits you and he is going to absolutely love it,” Hannah says, nudging your shoulder and winking at you. She’s swimming in the matching jersey, proudly sporting 44 and GRAHAM on the back.
The buzzer rings through the arena, and the hawks flood out onto the ice for their warm-ups. You suck in a deep breath as the players loop around the ice in a blur of white and blue, tearing up the fresh ice as they intensely skate their laps.
As soon as he finishes his lap, Dean’s eyes scan the section that he knows you’ll be sitting in today. As you watch him look for you, the memory of your conversation flashes through your mind. The way his face had completely lit up the second you told him you planned to come and watch him had made you feel so wanted.
He spots you and takes off his helmet to get a better look at you, his eyes narrowing once he sees the logo on your chest. Seeing you in a Hawks jersey, clearly hits him. He stops skating mid-stride, the momentum carrying him across the ice to stop at the barrier in front of you.
“Mine?” He mouths through the glass, pointing a gloved hand to his chest.
You bite your lip, a nervous but excited energy racing through you as you nod. You stand up and turn around so that he can see his name and number across your back.
Dean’s smile back at you makes your legs wobble. He looks at you with pride and adoration. The feeling is intense; you haven’t been looked at like that by a man before. He bangs his hockey stick against the glass barrier three times and then points directly at you with a wink before skating away.
You feel a fierce heat rushing up your neck and to your cheeks. On either side of you, Hannah and Allie immediately burst into a fit of screams and giggles, shaking your shoulders.
Allie leans in close, a mischievous smile on her face. “He is so going to be taking that jersey off of you tonight.”
An unfamiliar sensation swirls deep in your stomach, likely a mix of anticipation and an almost lightness. For the first time in a long time, you aren’t walking on egg shells. You want to embrace whatever happens next.
The match kicks off and, for two periods, everything goes the Hawks’ way. Dean has the best defensive period of his life, twice. The team’s energy flows so well that it filters out to the stands. You’re screaming until your throat is raw, even when it’s Logan who scores in the second period.
But that doesn’t last.
The final buzzer cuts through the arena like a harsh whip. Disappointment rings through the home crowd. Harvard had scored two goals in quick succession 10 minutes into the final period, leaving the Hawks with no way to attack back.
They were winning up until the last 10 minutes, you know this is one that Dean will be mulling over for hours, running back over what he could have been done better to not let them slip through the defence. You’ve not had to comfort Dean in this state before, and you’re not sure how you’re going to.
The energy in the stadium is deflated as the players skate towards the tunnel with their heads hanging low.
Half an hour later, you’re standing with Allie and Hannah in the hallway outside of the locker room. Being in this corridor brings back a sudden rush of old memories with Logan. The last time you were in the hallway, waiting for the players to come out after a tough game, was the day that Logan broke up with you.
You brace yourself for the familiar ache but the memory doesn’t hurt as much as you thought it would. Your only real focus is being there for Dean.
The door swings open and the team filter out. Dean walks into the hallway, his hair still damp from the shower.
“Hey,” you say softly as he approaches the three of you.
Dean’s exhausted expression melts the second he looks at you. “Hey. Sorry about that. Not exactly the best welcome-back game for you.”
“Don’t apologise to me,” you say, laughing nervously. “Clearly, I’m a bad luck charm.”
Dean steps a fraction closer to you. “You aren’t my bad luck charm. But you were a distraction. It was incredibly hard to focus out there knowing you were in the stands, wearing my number. Letting everyone know you want to be Dean’s girl.”
He wiggles his eyebrows at you and your stomach does a dangerous flip. Allie immediately clears her throat. “So! What’s the plan for the night? I’m sure we won’t let this depressing energy ruin our Friday night.”
She makes a point of looking directly at the two of you, her eyes practically jumping out of her head.
“Let’s go to Malone’s,” you suggest. When Dean doesn’t look convinced, you wrap you hand around his bicep. “Come on, fries will cheer you up.”
He smiles down at you, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m already pretty cheered up.”
Before you can respond, the door swings open again. This time it’s Garrett who walks out with the same exhausted expression that Dean had.
“Garrett, Malone’s?” You ask.
You truly believe that there is nothing in the world that can’t be fixed by some fries.
“Honestly, food at Malone’s sounds amazing right now,” Garrett mutters, wiping a hand across his face. “Let me grab Tucker and-.”
“No!” Allie’s shout is so unexpected that everyone turns to look at her in surprise. Her eyes frantically shift between you and Dean before her gaze locks onto Hannah. “Hannah, didn’t you say that you and Garrett have that thing tonight?”
“We have a thing?” Garrett blinks, looking completely bewildered.
Hannah picks up on the hint immediately. “Yes, Garrett, we have that thing, so we have to leave. Sorry!”
Before Garrett can even ask, Hannah loops her arm around his and starts pulling him down the hall towards the exit. Garrett looks back over his shoulder at Dean, utterly lost as he’s dragged away.
The hall way has cleared now, so it’s just the three of you left standing there.
Allie clears her throat with a dramatic cough. “And I can’t go because I…”
“Let me guess. You also have a thing?” You say dryly, the set-up is so obvious it hurts. You’d think that someone as amazingly talented as Allie would be better at improve. Unless she planned to make it this obvious…
Allie doesn’t even have the decency to look guilty. Instead, she beams, walking backwards towards the exit. “I do! I have a thing. You two should still go though. Have fun!”
She spins on her heel and jogs down the corridor, her laughter echoing down the empty hall.
Dean watches her go. The corner of his mouth pulling up into an amused smirk. “Looks like we’ve been abandoned. Shall we go?”
Malone’s is, unsurprisingly, extremely busy. The bar is filled to the brim with students desperately trying to drown the memory of the evening’s loss in cheap drinks.
By some miracle, you and Dean are able to find a high table to stand around. It’s already sticky and you internally gag every time part of your skin unintentionally brushes against it.
Dean remains silent, idly dragging his finger through the ring of condensation on his glass of diet coke. He looks exhausted, yet despite the game and the heavy fatigue, he’s right here with you.
“Dean,” you say softly, leaning across the table so he can hear you over the band. “Are you okay? Seriously this time. We can go if you’re not feeling up to it.”
“Yeah,” he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck and offering you a tired, gentle smile. “Just a frustrating game, that’s all. We made some stupid mistakes that’s concerning so close to the Frozen Four.”
“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?” Your hand comes to rest gently over his, stopping his finger from trailing through the water on the glass.
“No, thank you though.”
You smile, taking a sip of your drink as you look around the bar. You spot three girls standing around a nearby table. They’re looking directly at Dean and you’re sure one of them is building up the courage to approach him.
‘This isn’t a date, and he isn’t yours,’ you have to remind yourself. It feels ridiculous to be standing in his clothes but not actually his. You pull your hand away from his.
The thought tastes bitter in your mouth and you feel a lump in your throat. You try to wash it down with a big gulp of your water.
It doesn’t go away.
Seeing those girls look at him like a prize up for grabs makes your chest tighten. You have spent weeks trying to convince yourself that you hadn’t imagined something in the air between the two of you, weeks trying to convince yourself that you weren’t just treating him as a rebound. But reality hits and reminds you that just because you have done that, it doesn’t mean this was mutual. This bar is his usual playground, and you wouldn’t be being a good friend to stand in the way of that.
The insecurity pulls at your vice as you look back at him. “You know, usually after a game like this…” you try again to swallow the lump in your throat as you jerk your head in the direction of the girls. “There are plenty of girls in here who would love to help you forget about the loss. Maybe you should go and talk to them.”
Dean doesn’t even glace toward their table. He keeps his gaze on you. “If this is your way of saying that you need space from me, I accept that,” he says, voice dropping an octave. “But if you’re telling me to go and sleep with other women then… no. I can’t do that.”
For a second, you’re sure you can actually hear the sound of your heartbeat over the roar of the bar.
“Why?” You ask, the word leaving your lips in a quiet whisper. You’re actually nervous for the answer.
Dean doesn’t blink. He just leans further forward towards you. “Because I know what I want. And it’s not any of them.”
“What do you want?” Your mind races as it tries to catch up to the gravity of his words.
He drops his gaze to his drink before looking back up at you. “Something that I’m not sure if I can have yet. But I’m very confident in what I want. So, just know, I am happy right where I am. Here. With you.”
The heavy implication hangs thick in the air between you, impossible to ignore.
Especially after what happened with Logan, you find it extremely attractive when a man knows exactly what he wants and is confident about it. You imagine any woman would.
Given how he treats women, you find it hard to believe that he’s never had a girlfriend.
You lean in slightly closer too. “You’re going to make some woman really happy one day, Dean.”
He tilts his head slightly, gaze unwavering as he responds, “I plan to.”
Silence falls around the table for a minute, the sounds of the rowdy bar around you fading into the background as he allows you to fully contemplate his words.
“Can we change the subject now?” Dean asks. “Tell me about your day.”
Grateful for the breather, you babble on about your day.
The drive back to your dorm feels incredibly silent compared to the chaotic of energy of Malone’s. Dean keeps one hand on the steering wheel, his other resting on the console close to where your hand is. You look out the window, staring at the world as you pass it by.
Dean kills the engine in front of your block. He stays seated for a moment, his hands tightly gripping the wheel. You watch his side-profile, your heart leaping into your throat when he turns to look at you.
“Come on,” he murmurs. “I’m walking you up.”
The midnight air bites sharply at your skin as you walk to your block. Dean wraps an arm around you to shield your face from the harsh breeze.
He walks you all the way to your door. Instead of opening it and slipping in, you turn around to face him, your back pressing flat against the wood. The space left between you is thrillingly small.
“Thank you for tonight,” you blush.
“No,” Dean replies. “I should be thanking you for being there with me.”
“Anytime,” you whisper. You look up at him, your breath catching as he looks down at you.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t turn to leave even though he knows that you’re safe at your door. He should, but he can’t seem to stop himself from taking a step forward, crowding your personal space, essentially pinning you to the door. He holds your gaze, looking you dead in the eye before his focus drops to your lips.
Your arms hang straight down by your sides, your fingers instantly curling into the fabric of his jersey. The overwhelming anticipation makes it nearly impossible to breathe, a wave of dizziness washing over you.
Dean watches as your breath hitches, and takes that as his signal.
His hand moves to your chin, his thumb resting gently on your jawline as he tilts your face up slightly. He leans down at an agonisingly slow pace, giving you every opportunity to pull back if you want to.
But you don’t move; you can’t.
There is no guilt or negative thoughts in your mind, you’re fully in the moment. Your eyes flutter shut, your lips parting just a fraction as you completely surrender to the pull of him.
You feel a warm puff of his breath hit against your mouth; it smells faintly of the soda he drank earlier. His lips stop barely a millimetre away from yours, the tip of his nose gently rubbing against yours.
Your entire body tightens in anticipation as you lean forward to close the tiny gap between you, desperate to finally feel his lips on you.
But then, Dean pulls back just a fraction.
Your eyes flutter open in confusion. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, his pupils completely dilated. He closes his eyes and presses his forehead flat against yours, his breathing ragged and uneven.
His head tilts slightly, his lips pressing softly against your cheek, right at the corner of your mouth.
His lips stay pressed against your skin for a long second. It feels like a silent promise; proof that he’s here, completely yours and is just waiting for you to be ready. You appreciate the gesture but the touch leaves your body tinging and screaming for more.
When he finally pulls back fully, his usually light eyes are filled with an intense, dark, heat.
His voice is ragged when he calls your name, and it takes all of your restraint to not wrap your arms around him and drag him into your room.
“Goodnight,” he whispers.
“Goodnight, Dean,” you whisper back, your voice barely audible even to your own ears.
You stand by your door and watch him walk away. When you finally step into your room, your mind is completely consumed by him. An overwhelming wave of clarity hits you, bringing with it the realisation that you have both fallen for each other.
description: you and your attending butt heads—and it’s no secret around the ED that Dr. Jack Abbot is harder on you than the other residents. He pushes you further, critiques you sharper, expects more—and you’re done with it. Just as you’re about to go to Dr. Robby to request a switch to days and finally put some distance between you and him, your patient—and his patient—tests positive for COVID-19. Suddenly, you’re both exposed, and with hospital protocol leaving no room for argument, you have no choice but to quarantine together.
wc: 4k
tags/warnings: 18+, forced proximity, implied age gap, power imbalance, quarantining when no one does that anymore, tension, angst city (will repair tho promise), take a shot every time i say ‘twelve days’
series masterlist
I DONT HAVE A TAGLIST. Pls follow @meep-updates and turn your notifications on <333 the tags aren’t fully working so i want to make sure everyone gets notified
A/N: i literally adored writing this chap. Like the complexity of their feelings is giving me life idk hope yall enjoy
You ran out of underwear.
Yes, it finally happened.
Maybe it was silly, but something about going through every pair Santos had shoved into that duffel bag felt almost…symbolic.
You’d done laundry here before. Your tanks after yoga. Towels. Pajamas.
But this felt different.
As ridiculous as it sounded, running out of clean underwear meant time had passed.
Twelve days to be exact.
Twelve days of waking up in the same house. Ignoring each other. Sharing meals. Scheduling blocks of time to use the couch. Falling into routines that no longer felt novel enough to notice. Twelve days of learning which cabinet he kept the mugs in, and how he always checked the locks before bed without even seeming aware he was doing it.
Twelve days of becoming accustomed to someone.
All to turn into what?
The thought settled uncomfortably in your stomach as you stared at the washing machine, watching the fabrics tumble lazily behind the glass.
This was almost over.
Tomorrow would be your last full day here. Then, the following evening, you’d both walk back into Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center and somehow return to normal.
Or whatever normal was supposed to look like now.
You weren’t sure when Jack had become woven so tightly into your day. Maybe he always had been and you simply hadn’t noticed it before. At work, there had always been a reason to seek him out.
Here, there were no excuses.
Just you and him.
The machine hummed steadily beside you, pulling you from your thoughts only when footsteps sounded in the hallway.
A minute later, Jack appeared around the corner, fresh from a shower. His hair was still damp, a towel slung over one shoulder as he rubbed absently at the back of his neck.
His eyes landed on you immediately.
Then the washing machine.
Then back to you.
The pause that followed told you he was trying to determine whether you were having an actual problem or one of your moments that usually you brought upon yourself.
“…What happened?”
You sighed.
“I’ve reached the end.”
His brows furrowed.
“The end of what?”
“The underwear supply.”
For a moment, he simply stared.
Then his eyes drifted to the washing machine.
Understanding dawned.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“And just so I’m clear,” you saw him come to stand beside you in your peripheral vision. “Once they’re clean, you’ll have a replenished supply?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“I’m failing to see the issue.”
You groaned. “She only packed me enough to last the quarantine.”
“Oh, so she underpacked you?”
“No, it’s just—” Your head tilted back as you took a breath. “We’ve only got two days left.”
“Right.”
“And then this is over.”
“And by ‘this,’ you’re referring to…?”
Your head turned, giving him a look.
His turned to meet yours, face as expressionless as ever, as if he were asking whether it was going to rain and not where your entire relationship was headed in forty-eight hours.
“You know what I mean.”
“Do I?”
“Jack.”
“Use your words.”
You stared at him.
He stared right back.
Infuriating, infuriating man.
“The quarantine,” you finally said, as if it were obvious.
“Mhm.”
“And the living together.”
“Mhm.”
“The…” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “Whatever this has been.”
For the first time, something flickered across his face.
It wasn’t concern or uncertainty.
It could only be described as…understanding. Which, really shouldn’t surprise you. Over the last few days, you were starting to learn that it was very possible that he was the only one fully capable of that.
“Ah.”
You hated how small that sound made you feel. The pause that came after it, like it was your turn to respond again.
“That’s all you’ve got?”
A corner of his mouth twitched.
“I’m letting you finish.”
You rolled your eyes and looked back at the washing machine.
The clothes continued tumbling around as if they weren’t currently starring in one of the most uncomfortable conversations of your life.
“We go back to work,” you said quietly. “And everything gets complicated.”
Jack was silent for a moment.
“We always knew it would.”
“I know.”
“You’ve been thinking about this.”
You scoffed unpleasantly. “Jack, I’ve thought about this approximately every six minutes since day nine.”
That actually got a smile out of him.
“Only every six?”
“Don’t mock me.”
The smile lingered for a moment before fading into something gentler.
“You know what’s interesting?”
“What?”
“You keep saying this is over.”
Your brows furrowed.
“Because it is.”
“The quarantine is.”
His shoulder bumped yours lightly.
“I’m not.”
The response was so immediate, so matter-of-fact, that you almost missed it.
Like he wasn’t making a declaration—he was simply stating a fact. The sky was blue. Never shock for asystole. He wasn’t going anywhere.
Your chest tightened.
“Jack—”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“You say that like it’s just that simple.”
“No.” His gaze stayed on the washing machine. “I say it like it’s worth figuring out.”
The room fell quiet.
You wished his answer made it that easy.
Part of you desperately wanted it to be.
You wanted to take his confidence and wrap yourself up in it. To believe that because Jack Abbot said you’d figure it out, then somehow the universe would rearrange itself accordingly.
But your brain wouldn’t let you.
Because twelve days ago, you were convinced this man couldn’t stand you.
Twelve days ago, you’d been preparing to ask Robby for a shift change because working with him felt impossible. Twelve days ago, every interaction had felt like a battle you were somehow losing. Every critique was—or felt—personal. Every argument chipped away at the already-barely-there will to make it through the shift.
Twelve days ago, if someone had told you that you’d be standing in Jack’s laundry room discussing the future of your relationship while your underwear spun in his washing machine, you would’ve asked for a psych eval.
You huffed out a laugh at the absurdity of it.
Jack’s eyes slid toward you.
“What?”
“I just…can’t believe I’m the one being practical here.”
His brow furrowed.
“The practical one?”
“Yes, practical.” You gestured vaguely around the laundry room. “Because somebody has to be.”
The corner of his mouth slid into a grin, like he thought you were joking.
“Sweetheart—”
“No.” You pointed at him. “Don’t ‘sweetheart’ your way out of this.”
His expression immediately shifted.
Not angry, but alert. Almost…braced. Like he knew this tone and body language.
The same tone that usually preceded an argument in the ED. Your arms were crossed, feet planted in the only way you knew how to go toe-to-toe with this man.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” You scoffed. “That’s your response?”
“What would you like my response to be?”
“I don’t know, maybe something that acknowledges this is insane?”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“What part?”
You stared at him.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
A scoff escaped you, incredulous.
“Twelve days ago I thought you hated me.”
“I didn’t.”
“Well, yeah, I know that now.”
“Good.”
You threw your hands into the air.
“See? That’s exactly what I mean.”
“What?”
“You’re acting like that explanation just…fixes everything.”
His face hardened a fraction.
“It explains a lot.”
“It explains your side.”
“And your side is?”
You opened your mouth.
Then closed it.
Because there it was—that…feeling you used to get in the ED.
The feeling of being backed into a corner by Jack Abbot until you were forced to articulate what was actually bothering you.
“I don’t…know how to trust this.”
The words came out before you could stop them.
The room went quiet.
Jack’s expression immediately softened, which you hated.
Because it wasn’t supposed to. You wanted his expression to harden, with knowledge and agreement that this was, in fact, an insane fucking situation. Because at least then, you’d have an easy out.
“I mean, come on.” You looked away. “For years, every interaction we’ve had has been an argument. Every patient, every procedure. You made me feel like I was under a damn microscope.”
His jaw flexed.
“I know.”
“So forgive me if I’m having trouble immediately jumping to ‘we’ll figure it out.’”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“It kind of sounds like you are.”
“No.” His voice remained frustratingly calm. “I’m asking you not to decide it’s doomed before we’ve even tried.”
You crossed your arms.
“And that’s easy for you to say.”
Something flashed across his face.
For the first time since this conversation started, he looked irritated.
“Easy for me?”
“Yes.”
He barked out a short laugh.
“That’s an interesting assessment.”
“Is it?”
“You think this is easy for me?”
You shrugged.
Compared to the alternative—that he was just as scared as you were—that seemed safer.
Jack stared at you for a long moment before shaking his head.
“That’s your problem.”
“What is?”
“You still think I’m the confident one.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
Because standing in front of you wasn’t Dr. Abbot. It wasn’t your attending. It wasn’t the man who always annoyingly had an answer.
It was just Jack.
“I’m the one that was hesitant to do this,” he spoke, words sounding slightly strained now. “The one considering your role in this and the impact it could have on your success. Making sure I didn’t incriminate us in every single moment we’ve had because of how I felt towards you.”
Your jaw ticked.
“Congratulations?”
His eyebrows shot upward.
“No, seriously.” You laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “What am I supposed to do with that, Jack?”
“What does that mean?”
“It means twelve days ago I thought this was basically a prison sentence.”
The words landed harder this time.
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” You shook your head. “You keep saying that like it explains everything, but it doesn’t. For years, every interaction we’ve had has been through the lens of me thinking I wasn’t good enough for you. That I wasn’t smart enough, experienced enough, careful enough—pick one.”
He shook his head incredulously at your words as they continued.
“And now I’m just supposed to just flip a switch because it turns out you’ve secretly been in love with me the whole time?”
“I never said—”
“You don’t have to say it.”
The washing machine hummed steadily beside you.
Neither of you looked at it.
“I spent years convincing myself I was imagining things,” you continued. “Then I convinced myself I disliked you. Then, that I hated you. Do you know how hard that was? To convince myself that, while everyone had this amazing experience of you, I was the outlier?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw.
“…How hard it was to deprive myself of that?” It was barely even audible.
You’d heard the stories—the attending who stayed hours after his shift to help a struggling intern, the good guy who quietly paid for a patient’s medication, the mentor who somehow managed to be demanding and deeply respected at the same time.
Everyone seemed to get that version of Jack Abbot.
Everyone except you.
He was quiet for a moment, his broken gaze settling on you. “I do know.”
“Because you had years to process that.” The word came out sharper than you intended.
His gaze dropped briefly to the floor.
“And it wasn’t hard for me?”
You opened your mouth.
Stopped.
Because that wasn’t what you’d meant, but it wasn’t entirely wrong either.
“You had certainty,” you said finally.
His head lifted. “No.” The answer was immediate.
“You think I was certain?”
You blinked.
“Jack—”
“I spent years wondering if it was me reading too much into something.” His voice was rising now too, not angry, but frustrated. “Years making sure I wasn’t treating you differently because of how I felt. Years watching you date other people and convincing myself it didn’t bother me because there wasn’t another option.”
The room went quiet.
“I wasn’t certain,” he continued. “I was careful. For years I got to watch everyone else have the version of you that I wanted.”
The words knocked the breath from your lungs.
“I watched residents become your friends. Watched nurses invite you out after shifts. I listened to stories about your dates, your weekends, your life.” His gaze settled back on yours. “And every time I wanted to know more, I had to remind myself that it wasn’t my place.”
The frustration had drained from his voice now, leaving something quieter. Something painfully honest.
“You think you deprived yourself of some version of me?” He huffed a laugh. “I deprived myself of you, too.”
Your throat tightened.
“Every time you sat in the break room laughing with everybody else while I walked past. Every time I wanted to ask how your weekend was and couldn’t justify it. Every time I had to pretend I wasn’t looking for your car in the parking lot when I came in for a shift.”
His eyes dropped briefly.
“I know what it feels like to watch everyone else get something you don’t.”
It wasn’t enough to erase the fear—but enough to make you realize he’d been standing on unstable ground too.
“You got to think I hated you,” he said quietly. “I got to think you’d never look at me the way I looked at you.”
His smile was small.
Sad.
“Neither of us exactly won there.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The quiet swish of the washing machine rumbled in the background, water sloshing rhythmically through a load of laundry. It felt absurd, somehow. Such a mundane, ordinary sound accompanying a conversation that seemed to be rearranging years of assumptions in real time.
Just existing alongside two people standing in a laundry room, finally admitting things they’d spent years trying not to feel.
Your eyes drifted over his face to the tension in his jaw and the exhaustion around his eyes.
The vulnerability that still looked foreign on him, like he hadn’t intended for you to see this much of him when the conversation—or, hell, the day—started.
You thought back to all the times you’d imagined what was going on inside Jack Abbot’s head.
Every shift where you’d driven home angry.
Every critique you’d replayed in his voice.
Every argument you’d dissected with Santos over drinks on your days off.
He’d existed in every crevice of your life for years.
And somehow, despite all that time spent trying to understand him, you’d never once landed anywhere close to the truth.
Not until right now.
And for somebody who spent most of his professional life maintaining complete control over every room he entered, he suddenly looked remarkably unguarded.
Like he’d finally run out of places to hide—or, maybe, decided he didn’t want to anymore.
Jack was the first one to look away.
His hand rubbed across the back of his neck before he exhaled slowly.
“I think we should spend tonight apart.”
The words hit like a bucket of cold water, your face falling before you could stop it.
Jack noticed immediately.
“Not—not like that.”
“Then how?”
“Sweetheart, we’ve spent almost every waking moment together for nearly two weeks.”
You crossed your arms. “That’s kind of what quarantine is.”
A small smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.
“Fair.”
The smile disappeared just as quickly.
“But, I think we’ve gotten a little too good at avoiding this conversation.”
Your eyes dropped to the floor.
Because unfortunately, he wasn’t wrong.
Every time reality crept in, you’d found a way around it. A distraction in the form of avoidance. A passionate kiss against the counter. A joke about the ongoing bet.
Anything to postpone the inevitable.
“We don’t have to decide everything tonight,” he continued. “But I think we owe it to ourselves to actually think.”
Your stomach twisted.
“And if we don’t come to the same conclusion?”
The question escaped before you could stop it.
Jack went quiet.
When you finally looked up, he was already watching you.
“Then we’ll deal with that.”
He didn’t say we’ll be fine. Or don’t worry. He didn’t make some reassuring promise he possibly couldn’t keep.
He just told the truth.
And you hated how much you appreciated that.
“You really want to spend the night alone?”
A faint laugh escaped him. “No.”
The answer came so quickly that it caught you off guard.
His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners.
“Not even a little.”
That made something in your chest hurt.
“Then why suggest it?”
Jack glanced toward the washing machine. Toward godforsaken underwear tumbling endlessly in circles.
“I think I’ve wanted this for so long that I’m willing to accept almost any version of it.”
His voice was quieter now. “And that’s not fair to either of us.”
Your breath caught.
Because that was the most frightening thing he’d said all day.
You couldn’t sleep.
The room was quiet. Empty. Every shift of the mattress reminded you that for the last few nights, warm hands were only an inch away. A presence now so obviously absent.
Your mind went where it was told to—
Back to him.
Back to the quarantine.
It replayed itself in fragments rather than a sequence. The first day, in shock and irritated, convinced Jack Abbot was the worst possible person you could have been stuck with. The arguments that followed almost immediately after, sharp enough to feel personal even when they weren’t supposed to be. The way he never seemed impressed by you in the ways you wanted him to be, and somehow always noticed the things you were trying to hide.
Then it shifted, slowly, into something deeper.
The kitchen. The couch. The small ways you hadn’t realized you were letting each other in. Finding each other in different rooms without being surprised to find each other there. Falling into conversations that no longer felt like arguments just for the sake of them.
The way he had always paid attention.
Not loudly. Not obviously. But consistently, in a way that had been easy to misread when you were convinced he didn’t like you. Or worse, that he thought you weren’t enough.
Instead of paying attention to see you fail, he’d been paying attention to learn you.
You turned onto your side, pulling the blanket closer, as if that could keep the thoughts from spreading.
Because the worst part was realizing that the quarantine hadn’t created anything new.
It had only removed everything that usually stood in the way.
The hierarchy. The patients. The interruptions. The carefully maintained distance required by the hospital and social setting that had shaped every interaction between you for years.
And it had granted you time. Proximity. And honesty, whether you were ready for it or not.
Your thoughts drifted again to PTMC.
You had built an entire version of him in your head over the years.
A version that explained everything neatly: He was hard on you because you weren’t good enough. He was distant because he didn’t like you. He challenged you because he wanted you to fail.
It had made things safer, in a way.
Because if that version of him was true, then nothing more complicated had to exist underneath it.
You stared up at the ceiling, exhaling slowly.
Because the alternative—the one you kept circling back to no matter how many times you tried to avoid it—was that you had been wrong about the foundation of all of it.
Not just about him, but about the space between you.
And that meant the last twelve days hadn’t been an anomaly. They weren’t some isolated event. They had been what happened when neither of you had anywhere left to hide from it.
Your heart rate quickened as you thought about tomorrow. About the last full day. About what came after.
The return to work. The eyes on you. The roles snapping back into place out of habit more than intention. The version of yourself that knew exactly how to survive him professionally, even if you no longer trusted your understanding of him personally.
You pressed your hand against your face, letting out a slow breath.
Because no matter how many ways you turned it over, you kept landing in the same place: this wasn’t something you could un-know anymore.
You couldn’t unlearn the way his body felt against yours, the way that awareness had settled into your system so completely it no longer felt like something you could switch off.
It was in the smallest things, the ones your mind kept replaying without permission. The way his gaze would catch on you across the counter, a glint in his eye during a hushed compliment that you struggled to accept. That brief flicker of satisfaction he didn’t ever bother hiding.
Even the ordinary parts of the day had started to feel different now that you knew what it was like to be on the other side of him.
Breakfasts that used to feel like an unfortunate shared space had become something else entirely, especially when he’d lean in just slightly to say something under his breath, low enough that it felt like it was meant only for you, and you’d feel your face betray you before you could stop it. And he noticed.
Then there were the quieter moments, the ones that should have been easy to dismiss. Sitting on the couch in the late afternoon, some movie playing in the background that he’d insisted on putting on but wasn’t really watching. The two of you ending up closer than necessary without either of you moving away, like distance had slowly stopped being the default and started becoming optional.
At some point, you’d stopped paying attention to when you were touching and when you weren’t. An arm brushing yours. Your head resting against him without thinking. His hand finding your shoulder like it had always belonged there.
And now, lying alone in bed, it was all still happening anyway, just without him in the room.
You sat up suddenly, the movement sharper than you intended, like your body had finally decided it couldn’t stay still with all of this inside it anymore. Your head throbbed from the sheer weight of everything you’d been turning over and over in your mind until it no longer had clear edges.
Twelve fucking days.
That was all it had taken to undo years of push and pull.
You let out a breath that turned into something halfway between a laugh and a sigh, pressing your fingers briefly against your forehead as if that might slow your thoughts down.
“God damn it,” you whispered to yourself, shaking your head.
Because it wasn’t just confusing anymore. It wasn’t just annoyingly complicated.
It was obvious in a way that felt almost insulting, like your brain had been the last one to arrive at a conclusion everyone else had already seen coming.
You dropped your hand slowly, staring into the dark of your room, the realization sitting there with an infuriating kind of calm.
You were done trying to figure out what this was anymore.
Because you already knew.
And that was way worse.
Because it meant there wasn’t a version of this where you could go back to.
Not after the non-dairy milk. Not after the spoon-feeding you soup. Not after the way he looked at you like he had stopped pretending, even before you had.
You swallowed, the thought settling deeper than you wanted it to.
Of course it had happened like this.
Of course it couldn’t be gradual in a way you could ignore for a few months and mull over at a pace you were comfortable with.
Of course it had been him, of all people, undoing you in less than two weeks after years of intentional distance.
You leaned back against the headboard, exhaling slowly, staring at nothing.
And in the quiet, unhelpfully honest part of your mind, there it was.
It wasn’t framed as a question anymore. Not something you were still debating.
Just simply the truth, arriving late and unapologetic:
You were in love with Jack Abbot.
And you had absolutely no idea what you were supposed to do with that in the morning.
And then you're like "fuck it, I'll make my own" and once you've done that you toss it into the goodwill bin to be someone else's prada or container of human teeth
The party had started out exactly the way everyone expected it to.
Loud music. Too many people crammed into the hockey house. Someone had already broken a lamp. Dean was arguing with Tucker about something completely ridiculous. Garrett was somehow winning every drinking game despite barely paying attention. Hannah and Allie were sitting on the kitchen counter watching the chaos unfold like they were observing a wildlife documentary.
And then there was her.
The one person in the entire house who looked like she belonged absolutely nowhere near a party.
John Logan's girlfriend had a reputation.
Quiet.
Reserved.
Intimidating.
The kind of woman who walked into a room and instantly made people sit up straighter without even trying. She wasn't rude. She wasn't cold.
She was simply... calm.
Controlled.
Dangerously composed.
The hockey team often joked that she was basically a black cat in human form.
Sharp stares.
Dry sarcasm.
Zero tolerance for nonsense.
Meanwhile Logan was a golden retriever who somehow woke up every morning excited to exist.
Nobody understood how they worked.
Yet somehow they were perfect together.
At the beginning of the night she sat beside Logan on the couch, nursing a single drink and occasionally smiling whenever he leaned over to tell her something.
Normal.
Completely normal.
Then somebody handed her another drink.
Then another.
Then a mystery punch that nobody should have trusted.
And everything changed.
At first nobody noticed.
She seemed exactly the same.
Quiet.
Relaxed.
Maybe slightly pink around the cheeks.
Then Logan felt something poke his side.
He looked down.
His girlfriend was staring at him.
Not unusual.
The problem was that she was staring at him with the biggest smile he'd ever seen.
A ridiculously happy smile.
The kind that looked completely foreign on her face.
Logan blinked.
"You okay?"
She nodded aggressively.
Then she grabbed both of his cheeks.
"You're so pretty."
The room went silent.
Dean nearly dropped his drink.
Garrett choked on his beer.
Allie's eyes widened.
Hannah looked delighted.
Logan looked like he'd just won the lottery.
His girlfriend never said things like that in public.
Ever.
She continued squishing his face.
"So pretty."
Logan grinned.
"Yeah?"
"Very."
Then she kissed his forehead.
Everyone froze.
Then she kissed his cheek.
Then his other cheek.
Then his nose.
Then his jaw.
Then his forehead again.
"Oh my God," Dean whispered.
"She's broken," Garrett said.
Logan was practically glowing.
His girlfriend continued peppering kisses all over his face like she had suddenly forgotten how to stop.
Every few seconds she would pull back.
Look at him.
Smile dreamily.
Then kiss him again.
"You're my favorite person."
Logan looked seconds away from proposing.
Dean gagged dramatically.
Nobody paid attention.
A few minutes later she wandered into the kitchen.
The team watched nervously.
Like researchers observing a rare animal.
Dean happened to be eating a blueberry muffin.
She stared at it.
Dean stared back.
"Do you want some?"
She nodded.
Dean tore off half and handed it over.
She accepted it.
Took one bite.
Then immediately wrapped both arms around him.
Dean froze.
The entire kitchen froze.
His eyes widened in absolute horror.
"Guys."
Nobody moved.
"Guys she's hugging me."
His voice cracked.
The hug tightened.
"Dean."
"What?"
"You're nice."
Dean looked genuinely emotional.
"Nobody's ever said that to me before."
Then she kissed his cheek.
The room exploded.
Everyone started shouting.
Dean screamed.
"LOGAN SHE KISSED ME."
Logan nearly fell off his chair laughing.
His girlfriend looked completely unbothered.
She simply finished her muffin and wandered away.
A few minutes later she discovered Garrett's truck keys sitting on the counter.
Her eyes lit up.
"You let me drive your truck that one time."
Garrett nodded carefully.
"Yeah."
"I liked your truck."
"Thanks?"
Before Garrett could react she launched herself at him.
Full hug.
Both arms.
Maximum affection.
Garrett stood there looking absolutely terrified.
The hockey team immediately pulled out their phones.
"No."
"Take pictures."
"Absolutely not."
"Garrett is getting hugged."
"Delete that."
His girlfriend squeezed him tighter.
"You're nice too."
Garrett looked deeply uncomfortable.
Which only made everyone laugh harder.
Eventually she released him and wandered off again.
Like a very affectionate ghost.
The next victims were Hannah and Allie.
She found them sitting together on the couch.
Immediately pointed at them.
"You."
Allie looked concerned.
"Me?"
"You both bought ice cream."
Hannah burst out laughing.
This had happened months ago.
A random midnight ice cream run when she'd been stressed about exams.
Apparently drunk her never forgot.
"You bought me chocolate ice cream."
Allie nodded.
"You deserved ice cream."
Her expression softened instantly.
Then she practically collapsed onto both of them.
Wrapping her arms around them.
Allie laughed.
Hannah laughed harder.
The three of them ended up tangled together on the couch while she repeatedly informed them how much she loved ice cream.
And how much she loved them.
And how nice they were.
And how everyone should eat more ice cream.
The speech lasted nearly ten minutes.
Nobody interrupted.
It was too entertaining.
By now the entire party had become dedicated to watching Logan's girlfriend.
Nobody cared about the music anymore.
Nobody cared about the games.
The intimidating woman everyone knew had vanished.
In her place was a clingy, affectionate sweetheart who seemed determined to hug every person she'd ever liked.
Logan eventually found her curled up between Hannah and Allie.
Her eyes were drooping.
Her words were becoming slower.
She spotted him immediately.
"Logan."
His heart melted.
"Hey, baby."
She stood up.
Wobbled.
Then marched directly toward him.
The crowd watched.
Waiting.
She reached him.
Grabbed his hoodie.
Pulled him down.
And kissed his cheek.
Then his other cheek.
Then his forehead.
Then his chin.
Then his nose.
Then his cheek again.
Logan was laughing so hard he could barely breathe.
"Sweetheart."
"Hm?"
"I think you're drunk."
She frowned.
"No."
"You kissed Dean."
Her eyes widened.
Then she nodded seriously.
"He shared his muffin."
The room erupted.
Even Logan doubled over laughing.
Her logic seemed perfectly sound.
She ignored everyone.
Instead she pressed her face into Logan's chest.
Wrapped her arms around his waist.
And sighed contentedly.
The laughter slowly faded.
Because suddenly she looked exhausted.
Comfortable.
Safe.
Logan stroked her hair.
"You tired?"
"Mhm."
"Wanna go home?"
"Mhm."
She didn't move.
Logan smiled.
"Baby."
"Mhm."
"You have to stand up."
"No."
He laughed softly.
"Why?"
"Comfortable."
A chorus of groans echoed through the room.
The couple was disgustingly cute.
She mumbled something unintelligible.
Then snuggled closer.
Then closer.
Then somehow even closer.
A few seconds later Logan realized she wasn't responding anymore.
He looked down.
She was asleep.
Completely asleep.
Curled against him.
Arms still around his waist.
Face buried in his chest.
The entire house went quiet.
Dean looked shocked.
Garrett looked shocked.
Hannah smiled.
Allie looked like she might cry from how adorable it was.
Logan stared down at his sleeping girlfriend with the softest expression anyone had ever seen on his face.
Carefully he brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead.
Then kissed the top of her head.
"Best party ever," Dean whispered.
Nobody disagreed.
Because for one hilarious, unforgettable night, the house had gotten to see the impossible.
The black cat had become a golden retriever.
And Logan looked happier than he'd ever been.
The next morning began with a headache.
Not a terrible one.
Not the kind that made her want to throw up.
Just enough to make her regret every life decision that had led her to this exact moment.
A low groan escaped her as she buried her face deeper into the pillow.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains.
The room was warm.
Comfortable.
Safe.
Unfortunately, her brain was beginning to wake up.
And with it came memories.
Scattered at first.
Fragments.
Pieces.
A party.
Music.
A drink.
Logan laughing.
Then—
Her eyes flew open.
She sat upright so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash.
"No."
Her voice came out hoarse.
"No."
A horrifying image flashed through her mind.
She remembered kissing Logan's cheek.
Then another.
Then another.
Then another.
Then another.
Her stomach dropped.
"Oh no."
More memories surfaced.
Dean.
The muffin.
The hug.
The kiss on the cheek.
She stared blankly at the wall.
"No."
Garrett.
His truck.
The hug.
"Oh God."
Allie.
Hannah.
Ice cream.
Another hug.
Possibly multiple hugs.
A speech about ice cream.
Why had there been a speech about ice cream?
Why?
WHY?
She slowly lowered herself back onto the mattress and pulled the blanket over her face.
Maybe if she stayed there long enough she would cease to exist.
A moment later she felt movement beside her.
Logan.
Of course.
The worst possible witness.
He shifted and blinked awake.
Then he looked at her.
Then he immediately started smiling.
That smile alone told her everything she needed to know.
"No."
Logan's smile widened.
"No what?"
She dragged the blanket higher.
"No talking."
His shoulders started shaking.
"Sweetheart—"
"No."
"You don't even know what I was gonna say."
"I know enough."
At that point Logan lost the battle.
A laugh escaped him.
Then another.
Soon he was practically wheezing.
She wanted the earth to open beneath her.
She wanted a meteor.
An alien invasion.
Anything.
Anything except this.
The blanket suddenly disappeared as Logan pulled it away.
She immediately covered her face with both hands.
"No eye contact."
"Oh, we're definitely making eye contact."
"No."
"Absolutely yes."
She groaned.
Long and dramatic.
Logan looked completely delighted.
Which was honestly rude.
"You were adorable."
She made a sound somewhere between a scream and a dying whale.
"Stop."
"You called me pretty."
"Stop."
"You kissed my face approximately—"
"STOP."
"—forty-seven times."
She dropped backward onto the mattress.
Face first.
"I am never leaving this room."
Logan laughed harder.
A pillow hit him in the chest.
It did absolutely nothing.
"You also informed me that I was your favorite person."
The pillow hit him again.
This time harder.
"Go away."
"No."
"Please."
"Nope."
"Logan."
"No."
His grin was impossible.
Absolutely impossible.
The kind of grin that belonged on a man who had just witnessed the greatest event of his entire life.
Which, judging by his expression, he apparently had.
Then came the knock.
She froze.
Logan froze.
A voice sounded from outside.
"Rise and shine, Muffin Kisser."
Silence.
Pure silence.
Then her soul left her body.
Dean.
Dean was outside the door.
She closed her eyes.
Maybe if she didn't move, he would go away.
The door opened.
He did not go away.
"Morning."
She didn't look up.
"Leave."
Dean walked farther into the room.
"Can't."
"Why?"
"I came to relive one of the greatest moments of my life."
She pulled a pillow over her face.
Dean ignored her.
"Did you know I've never been kissed because of baked goods before?"
Logan immediately started laughing again.
"Dean."
"Yes?"
"Leave."
"No."
"Please."
"No."
She wanted to cry.
Dean sat on the edge of the desk chair.
Looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"You hugged me."
Silence.
"You called me nice."
More silence.
"You kissed my cheek."
Silence.
"You know what?"
She groaned.
"What?"
"I haven't washed that cheek."
The pillow flew across the room.
Dean barely dodged it.
Logan nearly fell off the bed laughing.
A second knock came.
Then Garrett appeared.
She immediately covered her face again.
"No."
Garrett looked amused.
Which somehow felt worse.
Much worse.
"Morning."
"Leave."
"Can't."
"Why are all of you here?"
Garrett shrugged.
"You hugged me."
She made a strangled noise.
"I know."
"You told me I was nice."
"I know."
"You thanked me for letting you drive my truck."
"I KNOW."
Garrett looked completely satisfied.
Dean looked equally pleased.
Logan looked like he was having the time of his life.
This was a nightmare.
A genuine nightmare.
Then Hannah appeared.
Followed by Allie.
"Oh no."
"Oh yes," Hannah said.
Allie was already laughing.
Her cheeks burned instantly.
"No."
Hannah sat beside her.
"You gave a very passionate speech about ice cream."
The room erupted.
She considered jumping out the window.
The fact that they were on the second floor suddenly seemed irrelevant.
"You also told us we were angels."
She buried her face in the mattress.
"I hate all of you."
"No you don't," Allie said.
"You're right."
A pause.
"I hate myself."
That only made everyone laugh harder.
The next hour was torture.
Pure torture.
Every single person seemed determined to recount a different embarrassing thing she'd done.
Every story was somehow worse than the last.
Apparently she had followed Logan around for half the party.
Apparently she had called him pretty at least twenty times.
Apparently she'd spent five straight minutes holding his face.
Apparently she'd hugged nearly everyone she liked.
Apparently she had become physically incapable of existing more than three feet away from Logan.
The horror never ended.
By the time everyone finally left the room, she was prepared to move to another country.
Possibly another planet.
The door closed.
Silence returned.
She remained face-down on the bed.
Motionless.
Defeated.
Logan sat beside her.
His hand gently rubbed her back.
For a few moments neither of them spoke.
Then she finally muttered into the pillow.
"I'm never drinking again."
He laughed softly.
"I believe you."
"I mean it."
"I know."
A pause.
Then she rolled onto her back.
Looking up at the ceiling.
"I kissed Dean."
"You kissed Dean."
"I hugged Garrett."
"You hugged Garrett."
"I gave an ice cream speech."
"You gave an ice cream speech."
She groaned again.
Longer this time.
Logan couldn't stop smiling.
Eventually she turned her head toward him.
His expression softened immediately.
The teasing faded.
Replaced by something warmer.
Something affectionate.
"You know," he said quietly, "I liked seeing that side of you."
She frowned.
"Seeing me embarrass myself?"
"No."
His fingers brushed through her hair.
"Seeing how much you love people."
Her expression softened slightly.
"You already know that."
"I do."
His smile became gentler.
"But they didn't."
She blinked.
Logan continued.
"They always see the intimidating version of you."
She rolled her eyes.
"I'm not intimidating."
Logan actually laughed out loud.
"Sweetheart."
"I'm not."
"You made Tucker apologize once by looking at him."
"That's different."
He shook his head.
"My point is everyone finally got to see how big your heart is."
The room fell quiet.
Because beneath all the teasing—
Beneath all the embarrassment—
There was truth in what he said.
She cared deeply.
She just wasn't always good at showing it.
Not the way Logan was.
Not the way sunshine people were.
Yet somehow one night and a little too much alcohol had stripped away every filter she'd ever had.
And apparently all that remained was affection.
An alarming amount of affection.
She sighed.
"I'm still mortified."
Logan grinned.
"I know."
"I'm going to think about this at three in the morning for the next ten years."
"I know."
"I might actually die."
He leaned forward.
Pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"You'll survive."
She narrowed her eyes.
"Easy for you to say."
"Why?"
"Because you weren't the one kissing people for muffins."
At that, Logan laughed so hard he nearly fell off the bed again.
And despite herself—
Despite all the embarrassment—
Despite wanting to disappear into a hole and stay there forever—
A reluctant smile finally tugged at her lips.
Because unfortunately for her, everyone seemed to think drunk her was adorable.
Especially John Logan.
And judging by the way he was looking at her now, she suspected she'd never hear the end of it.
He was sitting on the couch at the hockey house with his feet on the coffee table, half-listening to Dean tell a story that had started as a complaint about laundry and somehow became a full legal argument against fitted sheets. Garrett was in the kitchen making toast he did not need, Tucker was half-asleep in the armchair with a mug of tea balanced dangerously on his knee, and Logan was about four minutes away from calling it a night when his phone buzzed against his thigh.
He glanced down.
cherry 🍒
His body reacted before his brain had the chance to be normal about it.
That was becoming a problem. He looked around the room, hoping that Dean’s sixth sense for gossip hadn’t been activated. Luckily, he was still ranting about scent beads and which ones made his 24-carat skin itch.
He unlocked the phone
cherry 🍒
hi mechanic!! very sorry to ask this so late but do you and/or your truck have availability tomorrow morning for a very small livestock-related favour?
not dangerous livestock. mostly decorative. emotionally manipulative, though.
Logan stared at the message.
Read it again.
Then a third time, because surely “livestock-related favour” had not been part of his life ten seconds ago.
Across from him, Dean paused mid-rant, “You got your girl face.”
Logan locked his phone immediately, “I don’t have a girl face.”
“You do. It’s softer. Also suspicious.”
Garrett walked back in with toast, “Is it Cherry?”
Logan looked up, “Why would you assume that?”
“Because you lock your phone like it’s state evidence every time she texts.”
Dean leaned over the back of the couch, “What’d she say?”
“Nothing.”
Dean gasped, “She sent a nude.”
“She did not send a nude.”
“You answered too fast.”
Logan stood, because continuing this conversation from a seated position felt like giving them an advantage they didn’t need, “She needs help tomorrow.”
“With what?” Tucker asked, eyes still closed.
Logan looked at his phone again.
Then said, flatly, “Livestock.”
Tucker opened one eye.
Garrett stopped chewing.
Dean’s face lit up like Christmas had arrived early and shirtless.
“Sorry,” Dean said, “Did you say livestock?”
Logan ignored him and typed back.
Mechanic 🔧
Define small livestock.
The reply came almost immediately.
cherry 🍒
Winston.
Logan waited for what seemed like an obviously necessary follow up. There was none.
Mechanic 🔧
Who is Winston?
cherry 🍒
Clementine’s baby.
Logan stared at the phone.
Mechanic 🔧
Who is Clementine?
cherry 🍒
my childhood goat.
She was very elegant.
Winston is her son and a criminal.
Dean, who had silently crept close enough to read over Logan’s shoulder, made an unholy noise.
Logan shoved him away, “Stop.”
“Her childhood goat,” Dean repeated, delighted, “Bro, your girl has lore.”
“She’s not my girl.”
Garrett, Tucker, and Dean all looked at him; their silence worse than mockery.
cherry 🍒
sorry that sounds insane without context.
Mechanic 🔧
A little.
cherry 🍒
so basically. Winston is supposed to go to this children’s learning farm tomorrow because they’re doing a farm animals module and he is very good with children once he’s decided they aren’t trying to disrespect him.
normally Nana and Granddad would do transport because the big Boston farm has the proper van and crate situation but it’s last minute and they can’t. I said yes weeks ago and then forgot the transport was not magically attached to the promise.
I cannot drive him myself because Cherry can’t fit him and any rental company would almost certainly object to a goat.
But you have a truck.
And hands.
And mechanical intelligence.
A second later, his phone pinged before he could process that this girl had mentioned his hands and a goat in the same text thread.
cherry 🍒
that sounded like I’m objectifying your truck and hands. I apologise.
Logan read the messages twice, his mouth fighting a smile.
Mechanic 🔧
You’re asking me to transport a goat?
cherry 🍒
Clementine’s son.
Mechanic 🔧
Who is a goat.
cherry 🍒
Yes but it’s different.
Logan sat back down slowly.
Dean leaned in again, “Tell her yes.”
Logan jumped and covered the screen with one hand, “You don’t even know what she’s asking.”
“She’s asking you to be a farm boy tomorrow. Say yes.”
“I’m not a farm boy.”
“You’re gonna be.”
Garrett sat on the arm of the couch, “Is this the goat transport thing Wellsy mentioned?”
Logan looked up, “Hannah knows about this?”
Garrett shrugged, “She said she has a goat problem sometimes.”
“A goat problem sometimes,” Logan repeated.
Tucker, still mostly horizontal, lifted his mug without opening his eyes, “Sounds like a euphemism.”
“It’s not,” Logan said.
“Could be.”
“It’s literally a goat.”
“That’s what makes it good.”
Logan ignored them again and typed.
Mechanic 🔧
What time?
cherry 🍒
really?
like really really?
because you can absolutely say no. I know this is a weird favour and you did not sign up for Winston-related transportation when you gave me your number.
Mechanic 🔧
What time, Cherry?
There was another pause and Logan had to mentally lasso his brain from conjuring up the image of you at home, bundled up in your pajamas, biting your lip as you texted him.
cherry 🍒
8:15?
I will bring coffee.
Your favourite.
Which I don’t know yet.
What is your favourite coffee?
Mechanic 🔧
Anything’s fine.
cherry 🍒
That is not a coffee order.
Logan smiled despite himself.
Mechanic 🔧
Black coffee.
cherry 🍒
That is a cry for help.
Mechanic 🔧
Cherry.
cherry 🍒
Size? Roast? Hot or iced? Do you have a preference for milk? Sugar? Cinnamon? Are you anti-syrup or just pretending to be tough?
I am bribing you. Please let me do it properly.
Logan leaned back into the couch, aware of Dean watching him like a spectator at a tennis match.
Mechanic 🔧
Large hot coffee. Two sugars.
cherry 🍒
see? progress.
Do you want breakfast?
Mechanic 🔧
No.
cherry 🍒
That was too fast.
I’m bringing a croissant.
Mechanic 🔧
Then why ask?
cherry 🍒
Consent.
Logan laughed quietly, shaking his head.
Dean slapped Garrett’s arm and whispered, “He laughed at his phone.” That got him kicked without Logan looking up.
cherry 🍒
thank you, mechanic. genuinely. Winston and I appreciate you very much.
Winston will not express that respectfully because he was raised with too much confidence.
Mechanic 🔧
I’ll be there at 8:15.
cherry 🍒
okay!!
wear shoes you can live without.
Logan looked at that last message for a long moment, his mind suddenly reaching the moment 10 seconds late. He was going to pick up a girl that made his chest do very, weird, “just-friends” leaps. To transport a goat.
He locked his phone.
Garrett looked at him. “You’re going.”
“Yeah.”
“To transport a criminal goat.”
“Yeah.”
Dean leaned back dramatically. “Love changes a man.”
“She bribed me with coffee.”
“Love and caffeine.”
“She needs help.”
Garrett’s expression softened and he nodded, understanding enough that Logan hated him for it. Dean did not soften. Dean grinned.
“Your girl needs livestock support, and you’re providing livestock support.”
“She’s not my girl.”
Tucker opened both eyes this time, looked at Logan for one long, unimpressed second, and closed them again.
“Sure, man.”
Logan went to bed thirty minutes later and dreamed, annoyingly, of red ribbons, trailer straps, and goats with criminal records.
By 8:08 the next morning, he was pulling into the long gravel driveway of the small holding where you had told him to meet you.
It was not the big Boston farm, which was something he learnt minutes before leaving, this was “one of the smaller places,” which, to Logan, still looked like something from a lifestyle magazine about people who owned extremely good boots.
The low wooden gates had creaked open; he barely caught the copper hardware glinting in the pale morning light as he drove through, but he did notice the gravel of the driveway leading up to the entrance had been perfectly raked, and each structure of the yard had gentle, hand-carved crests etched into the wood.
There was a white farmhouse at the end of the drive, a red barn with clean black trim, a fenced paddock to the right, and a cluster of outbuildings that all looked more expensive than the hockey house despite being designed for animals.
Logan parked near the barn and cut the engine.
For one second, he stayed in the truck. Just looking around him.
A goat-related favour. Fine. He could do that. He could move things. He could drive. He could check straps and make sure nothing dangerous happened. He had been raised around tools, engines, towing weights, the basic principle that a truck was only useful if the person driving it knew what they were doing.
He could handle a goat.
Probably.
Then the barn door opened, a slow creak emanating from the bright red, black trimmed sliding door. And you stepped out.
Logan forgot the goat.
You were wearing denim shorts, not too short but short enough to make his morning a little more complicated, a fitted white baby tee with tiny cherries printed across the chest, and old brown boots that had clearly seen dirt, scuffed slightly on the leather soles.
Your hair was tied back with a red ribbon that should have looked impractical but somehow stayed in place, gold hoops in your ears, a little necklace at your collarbone, and your lips tinted cherry-red even though you were standing outside a barn before nine in the morning.
In one hand, you held two coffees.
In the other, a paper bag.
A canvas tote hung from your shoulder, decorated with embroidered cherries, Logan could already see a lead rope, a folded towel, a packet of wipes, and what appeared to be a small bag of animal treats poking out of the top.
You spotted his truck and brightened immediately. Physically brightened, like you had taken a straw to the sun and ingested its rays.
Logan’s hand tightened on the steering wheel, he dropped his forehead to his knuckles.
“Oh, I’m cooked,” he muttered to himself.
Then he got out, like the big boy he was.
“Hi!” you called, walking toward him with careful steps over the gravel. “Good morning. Thank you again. I brought the coffee and the croissant and also a banana, but the banana is technically for Winston if bribery becomes necessary.”
Logan shut the truck door, “Will it be necessary?”
“Yes.”
“For the goat.”
“For Winston.”
“Right.”
You handed him the coffee with both hands, like it was an offering.
“Large hot coffee, two sugars. I did not get milk because you didn’t specify it, and I didn’t want to assume your dairy boundaries.”
“My dairy boundaries are fine.”
“Noted for future bribes.”
Future.
His hand paused mid-acceptance while the word sat there for half a second longer than it needed to. You seemed to realise it too, because you blinked, then lifted the paper bag quickly. “Croissant.”
“Thanks.”
“You don’t have to eat it now.”
“I figured.”
“But you should eat something at some point because goat transport is tiring.”
Logan took the bag. “You say that like you’ve done it a lot.”
“I have.”
He looked past you toward the barn. “Where is the criminal?”
Your face changed. It softened first, then became stern in a way that was still somehow sweet.
“Winston is in the side pen. And he is not a criminal in the legal sense.”
“In the illegal sense?”
“He has tendencies.”
“Great.”
You turned toward the barn, and Logan followed.
Inside, the air shifted cool and earthy, full of hay, wood, clean straw, and the faint animal warmth of a place that was used properly. It did not smell bad. That surprised him, everything was swept, labelled, tidy in a way that made him think of your wardrobe, he wondered if it was just as organised, and then immediately regretted having a brain.
There were laminated charts on the wall. Feed bins with names written in marker. Hooks with ropes coiled neatly. A little shelf of medical supplies arranged with the precision of someone who believed antiseptic deserved order.
Near the doorway, a framed photograph hung slightly crooked, a younger you, maybe ten or eleven, kneeling beside a pale brown goat with a little white patch on her forehead. Your grin in the photo was missing one tooth. The goat wore a pink collar and looked, somehow, judgmental.
Logan stopped, holding the cup to his lips as he twisted his foot into the dusty floor. You noticed.
“That’s Clementine,” you said.
He looked from the photograph to you.
“She was your childhood goat?”
“Yes.” You stepped closer to the photo and gently straightened the frame with one finger. “She was technically my grandparents’ goat first, but she decided she belonged to me when I was seven. Nana said Clementine had excellent taste and poor boundaries.”
Logan smiled at your expression, soft in a way where thinking of clementine didn’t make your heart ache, instead it warmed the love you had for her like a soft marshmallow to a flame.
“She looks like she had opinions.”
“She had many. Strong ones. Mostly about breakfast and men in hats.”
“Men in hats?”
“She distrusted them.”
“Fair.”
You turned back to him. “Winston inherited the opinions, but not the elegance.”
A bleat came from the side pen. A loud, demanding one.
You closed your eyes briefly, “Speaking of.”
Logan followed you around the corner.
Winston was small.
Not tiny exactly, but small enough to be ridiculous. A young goat with soft cream-and-caramel colouring, white markings on his face, little horns just starting to look like they might someday become threatening, and the expression of a creature who had never once suffered consequences that stuck.
He stood on a low wooden platform in the side pen, chewing thoughtfully on something that looked like it had once been part of a bucket label.
You put both hands on your hips.
“Winston Clementine Junior.”
Logan looked at you. “His middle name is Clementine?”
“Technically, yes.”
Winston stopped chewing. Looked at you. Then resumed.
You inhaled through your nose, unimpressed, but clearly masking it.
“Do not embarrass me in front of our company.”
Winston bleated.
Logan looked at the goat. The goat looked at Logan.
For a moment, they simply assessed each other.
Then Winston jumped off the platform, trotted to the gate, stuck his head through the bars, and immediately tried to eat the drawstring of Logan’s hoodie.
Logan looked down, eyebrows furrowed- his hand came up to tug it from his teeth.
You gasped softly, eyes sparkling, “He does not do that.”
Logan lifted the string slightly out of Winston’s mouth. He grimaced at how the slightly frayed knot had become wet and dark, “Seems like he does.”
“No, but he doesn’t. He usually screams at men.”
“Good to know.”
“He once screamed at a veterinarian for eleven minutes.”
“Maybe he had notes.”
“He did not. Dr. Patel is very kind.”
Winston leaned to the hoodie string again. Logan pulled it back before he could snap his jaw around it.
The goat bleated with what sounded like personal offence. You stared at Winston like he had betrayed a family legacy.
“You like him?”
Winston bumped Logan’s thigh with his head.
Your mouth fell open, “Oh.”
Logan glanced at you. “Is that rare?”
“He likes children. He likes Nana. He tolerates me when I bring food. He does not like unknown men.”
“Maybe he likes trucks.”
“He has never met a truck in his spoiled life.”
Winston tried to climb the gate.
You snapped back into motion immediately.
“No. Absolutely not. Four feet on the ground, sir.”
Logan watched as you opened the gate just enough to slip inside, your whole energy changing the second you were in the pen. Not tense, not controlling, but focused. You moved like someone who knew exactly how close to stand and when not to reach. Your voice changed too, softening into something lower and coaxing, the rhythm of it easy and familiar.
“Come here, darling. We have a very important outing, and you are not going to make me look incompetent before nine in the morning.”
Winston backed up, bleating softly.
You dug in your pocket and held out a carrot shaped treat. He considered it, tilting his head at your offering.
Then darted left.
You sighed. “Okay. We’re doing that.”
“What?” Logan asked.
“He’s decided this is a chase day.”
Winston hopped onto the platform again.
Then off it.
Then behind a stack of hay bales.
You turned to Logan, expression very serious. “Do not chase him directly. He likes that.”
Logan nodded. “What do I do?”
“Block him in spirit. You can’t show fear.”
He stared.
You looked back at Winston. “And physically, if possible.”
That was how Logan ended up standing near a hay bale with one arm slightly out, trying to look like an uninteresting wall while you moved slowly across the pen with a banana slice in your palm and the patience of a saint.
Winston did not respect the wall.
He bolted toward Logan, then swerved at the last second with surprising speed, hooves skittering in the straw.
Logan lunged half a step.
Missed.
You laughed. Bright and breathless, cheeks flushed, ribbon slipping slightly in your hair, boots planted in the straw like you had been born there. The sound caught Logan off guard. You were not flustered in the way he had expected, not helpless or panicked. You were alive with it, amused, focused, clearly annoyed with Winston but never out of control.
“Sorry!” you called. “He feints.”
“He feints?”
“He has a strategy.”
“He’s a goat.”
“He knows.”
Winston jumped onto an overturned bucket.
You gasped. “Winston! That is not structurally approved.”
Winston bleated from the bucket like a king addressing subjects.
Logan should have been annoyed. Instead, he was worried he was currently being charmed by the little shit. By you, he knew that he was far past being charmed.
You crouched low, held out the banana, and stopped chasing entirely. Your voice softened again.
“Winnie. Come here. You have a job today.”
The goat stared.
“You like jobs.”
Winston did not move.
“You like children.”
Still nothing.
“You like being applauded by children.”
Winston’s ears flicked.
Logan looked at you. “He gets applauded?”
“He has a bowing trick.”
“He bows?”
“Only when he wants the tax benefits.”
Logan laughed.
Winston looked at him.
You did not move.
“See?” you whispered. “He’s deciding.”
“Deciding what?”
“If we deserve cooperation.”
“Do we?”
“No idea. He has a complex moral framework.”
Winston hopped off the bucket.
Took one step.
Then another.
You stayed perfectly still, palm open, banana slice waiting. Logan watched, breath held despite himself, as the goat approached with the theatrical caution of an animal who knew he was beloved enough to be forgiven.
Winston took the banana.
You clipped the lead rope to his collar in the same smooth motion.
“Ha,” you whispered.
Then looked up at Logan, eyes bright.
“Got him.”
Logan stared at you.
There was straw on your boot. A loose strand of hair had escaped your ribbon. Your red lipstick had faded slightly at the centre from where you had pressed your lips together in concentration. You were smiling with open, victorious delight over having outmanoeuvred a baby goat.
And Logan knew, with sudden, deeply inconvenient clarity, that he was in trouble. The kind that made a man want to be useful forever if it meant seeing that smile aimed at him even once.
You stood, brushing your knees off.
“Okay,” you said, all business again. “Now we need to get him into the truck.”
Logan blinked himself back into usefulness. “You have a crate?”
“Yes. It’s in the storage room. Not the big transport crate, because that’s at the Boston farm with Nana and Granddad, but this one is approved for short drives. It has ventilation and bedding and a little clip for his lead. I checked the latch twice.”
“Good.”
You glanced at him.
“What?”
“Nothing,” you said, then looked away too quickly. “It’s just nice when people don’t make me feel dramatic for checking latches.”
Logan’s chest did something strange.
“You’re transporting an animal,” he said. “You should check the latch.”
You looked back at him, “Yes,” a slow smile gracing your face, “Exactly.”
He carried the crate from the storage room to the truck while you walked Winston outside on the lead, narrating the entire process to the goat in a low, steady voice.
“The truck is not your enemy. The truck is simply a vehicle with strong masculine energy. We are not judging Logan’s truck. Logan’s truck is helping us.”
Logan, setting the crate carefully in the truck bed, glanced over.
“Strong masculine energy?”
You looked up. “It’s a compliment.”
“To the truck?”
“Yes.”
“What about me?”
You blinked, then your face went pink in the morning light.
“I was also referring to you adjacently.”
“Adjacently.”
“Please focus on the crate.”
He smiled and checked the truck bed.
The crate fit better than he expected. He grabbed two ratchet straps from behind the seat, checked the anchor points, and secured the crate while you watched with Winston at your side, the goat chewing slowly on nothing as if judging his technique.
“Is that okay?” you asked.
Logan tugged once on the strap. “It’s not moving.”
You stepped closer, careful with Winston’s lead, “Is the angle okay? For braking?”
“It’s against the cab. Weight’s balanced. Strap’s tight but not bending the frame.” He tugged and tapped at the points he was referring to for added assurance.
“Oh.”
He looked at you, “What?”
“No, nothing. That was…” You cleared your throat. “Informative.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
“Informative?”
“Yes.”
“You like truck safety?”
“I like competence.”
The second the words left your mouth, your eyes widened. Logan went still, his hands curled in his pockets as he watched you adjust the lead in your hand.
Winston sneezed.
You looked down at the goat like he might save you.
He did not care about the situation you got yourself into.
You pressed your lips together, then said, very quickly, “In all contexts. Competence is broadly positive. Nana always says you should marry someone who can deal with a leak without making it everyone else’s emergency.”
Logan’s eyebrows lifted.
“Marry?”
Your face went hot.
“No. Not- I didn’t mean- That was Nana speaking generally through me.”
“Through you.”
“Yes. Like a proverb.”
“A marriage proverb.”
“I am going to put Winston in the crate.”
You moved toward the truck before he could reply.
Winston immediately resisted, his hooves dug into the dirt beneath him. You coaxed him to the tailgate, then looked at Logan. “Okay. I need you to carry him.”
Logan stared at Winston. Winston stared back. Challenging him to try.
“You said he likes me.”
“He does. That doesn’t mean he respects the lift.”
“The lift.”
“Yes.”
You handed Logan the lead, then stepped close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm. “You have to support him properly. One hand under his chest, and the other here.”
Logan bent to reach for Winston.
“No, wait. Not like that.”
Your hands were suddenly on his.
Logan froze.
You had stepped in close behind his shoulder, your fingers wrapping over his wrist, guiding his palm into place beneath Winston’s chest. Your other hand moved his free hand lower, over Winston’s side.
“Here,” you said softly, focused entirely on the animal. “Around his waist. But don’t squeeze his stomach. He gets offended and then pretends he can’t walk.”
Logan tried to listen. He did. He was a respectful man.
But you were close enough that he could smell your perfume under the hay and grass, cherry and something warm threaded through the air. Your fingers were small and sure over his, your voice low and instructive, your body angled into his space like touching him meant nothing because Winston mattered more than self-consciousness.
It should not have affected him.
“You have to support him like he’s precious but valuable,” you said.
Logan looked down at Winston.
“He knows if we don't?"
Your laugh brushed his shoulder.
“Yes.”
Together, they lifted Winston.
The goat made one outraged noise, then immediately went quiet when Logan held him correctly.
You blinked.
“He settled.”
Logan adjusted his grip carefully. “Is that good?”
“That’s very good.”
Winston rested his little chin against Logan’s forearm.
You stared.
Logan looked down at the baby goat nuzzling into his chest, then at you.
“What?”
“He really likes you.”
He cleared his throat. “Good. He’s got taste.”
You smiled. The tilt of your lips was soft, unfair in the way it made him automatically copy your movements.
Then Winston tried to eat Logan’s sleeve.
“Moderate taste,” you corrected.
They got Winston into the crate with less drama than the chase had suggested. You clipped his lead safely, checked the bedding, checked the latch, asked Logan to check the latch, then checked it again after he did.
He did not complain, just stood behind you and clicked open your door when you were satisfied.
The drive itself began quietly.
Winston bleated once when the truck started, then settled into suspicious silence. You sat in the passenger seat with your coffee between your hands, knees angled toward Logan, the canvas tote at your feet.
Logan drove more carefully than usual, not slow enough to be annoying, but he reminded himself, no sharp braking. No quick turns. He kept checking the rearview, partly for traffic, partly for the crate.
You noticed out of the corner of your eye, glancing at him from your phone.
“You don’t have to keep looking,” you said after the fourth glance, your voice gentle with unplaced gratitude.
“I know.”
“He’s okay.”
“I know.”
You smiled into your coffee when the conversation paused.
“Thank you.”
“For driving?”
“For looking.”
Logan did not know what to say to that.
So he changed lanes carefully instead.
For a while, you gave him Winston’s biography.
Not because he asked, exactly, though he did ask one question about Clementine and accidentally opened your entire emotional archive. Clementine had been born at your grandparents’ Boston farm. She had been stubborn, elegant, and allergic to being ignored. She had once escaped a pen during your cousin’s birthday party and eaten half a floral arrangement. She hated rain but loved being brushed. She had slept outside your bedroom window during the summer when you were nine because, according to you, she believed you were emotionally unstable and required supervision.
“Was she right?” Logan asked.
You looked out the window.
Then said, “A little.”
He glanced at you.
Your expression was fond, but quiet.
“Moving around a lot made me weird with attachments,” you said, like you had not just handed him something delicate. “Animals were easier. They don’t care if you’re only somewhere for the summer or for school breaks or until adults decide logistics. They just care if you show up with food and remember where they like to be scratched.”
Logan kept his eyes on the road.
“You showed up for Clementine?”
“Always.”
“And Winston?”
Your smile returned. “Winston shows up for himself. Usually in places he is not allowed.”
He laughed.
You looked pleased.
The fields gave way to a smaller road lined with trees. Morning light flickered through the windshield. In the back, Winston made a small, conversational noise.
You twisted around. “You’re fine, darling.”
Another bleat.
“You are not being kidnapped. You have attended this programme before.”
Logan glanced at you. “Programme?”
“The learning farm does rotating animal visits for schools. Winston is very good with the younger children because he’s small and dramatic, which they respect. Today they’re doing a farm animals module, so he’s part of the goat section.”
“There’s a goat section.”
“Yes.”
“What’s in it?”
“Winston.”
“That’s the whole section?”
“He’s very engaging.”
“Clearly.”
You took a sip of coffee. “Mama helps coordinate some of the education partnerships. Not all. Just the ones connected to the smaller farms and a few community programmes. Daddy says children should understand animals as living creatures before they understand them as products, which sounds intense when he says it at dinner, but he means well.”
Logan processed that.
“Your family has more than one farm.”
You went still for half a second,“Yes,” you replied.
“How many?”
You looked down at your coffee, picking at the straw that had been stained with your lipstick, then out the window. Then back at him, smiling too brightly. “Depends how you define a farm.”
Logan’s mouth twitched.
“That many?”
“No. Not- Well. Some are farms, some are holdings, some are partnerships, some are more like educational land, and some are technically not ours but connected through Nana’s side or Granddad’s old agreements.” You took another sip. “It’s not as grand as it sounds.”
Logan looked at the barn-dirt on your boots, the gold around your wrist, the cherry ribbon in your hair, the canvas tote stuffed with goat supplies, and the coffee you had bribed him with because your grandparents’ Boston farm transport was unavailable.
“Sure.”
You glanced at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You said sure like you do not believe me.”
“I don’t know enough to not believe you.”
“That is a very careful answer.”
“I’m a careful guy.”
You watched him for a second.
Then looked away, but he could see your smile.
The learning farm was tucked behind a low stone wall and a wooden sign painted with cheerful animals and curling letters. It was not large, but it was busy in a familiar, organised way. The closer you got you could see into the centre, two staff members moved feed buckets, a group of children’s backpacks were stacked near a picnic table, little laminated signs marked animal areas, and a woman in green overalls and greying hair tied into a braid stood near the entrance with a clipboard.
She waved the moment she saw the truck. You waved back, instantly bright.
“That’s Marian,” you chirped. “She coordinates the visits. She loves Winston, but she pretends she doesn’t because he once ate the corner of her attendance sheet.”
Logan parked where you directed him.
Before he even got out, Marian was already approaching with a smile.
“Cherry!” she called. “You made it.”
You hopped out of the truck, coffee abandoned in the cup holder, “Yes. Sorry. Logistics were a little last-minute, but Winston has arrived emotionally intact.”
Marian laughed and hugged you like someone you’d known for years, “He usually does. Where is the little tyrant?”
“In the back.”
Logan got out offering her a polite wave, one hand braced on his door, Marian waved back, nodding while glancing at you approvingly. You didn’t notice, more focussed on Logan who had started towards the truck bed.
Marian’s eyes flicked to him.
Then back to you.
Her smile changed knowingly.
“Oh,” she said. “And is this the boyfriend?”
You froze. Completely. Logan’s hand paused on the tailgate latch.
For one impossibly long second, nobody moved except Winston, who bleated from inside the crate as if delighted by social destruction.
Your mouth opened.
“No,” you blurted, too quickly. You buffered, horrified by how fast you had said it.
Logan looked down at the latch because if he looked at your face, he was going to smile, and that felt unkind.
“Not no like-” you continued, already spiralling. “I mean, not that there would be anything wrong with- Logan is- he’s my friend. My very helpful friend. He has a truck. And hands. For carrying Winston! I mean-”
Marian’s eyebrows lifted with delighted restraint.
Logan bit the inside of his cheek.
You were bright red now. “He helped very kindly,” you added, as if determined to make it worse. “He woke up early, and he let me bribe him with coffee, and he knew how to secure the crate properly without making me feel silly for asking twice, and Winston likes him, which is actually significant because Winston has strong opinions about men, not that Logan is significant only because of Winston, obviously, he is significant as a person, all people are significant, but-”
“Cherry,” Logan called softly, mid-lean towards Winston, who had mysteriously gone silent.
You stopped, eyes flicking to him. He gave you a small smile that made your shoulders lower by half an inch.
Marian, who had absolutely seen everything she needed to see, smiled warmly. “Helpful friends are very useful.”
“Yes,” you said faintly. “They are.”
Logan opened the tailgate and checked Winston before unfastening the straps. The goat looked entirely pleased with himself, as if he had personally arranged the misunderstanding.
“You okay, buddy?” Logan muttered.
Winston bleated.
“Yeah, thought so.”
You stepped beside him, still pink-cheeked but trying very hard to recover professionalism. “We should bring him to the small pen first. The children don’t arrive for twenty minutes, so he can settle.”
Marian nodded, “Perfect. Do you want me to take the crate?”
“I’ve got it,” Logan said.
You looked at him quickly, “Are you sure?”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s awkward, not heavy.”
“I know.”
“And Winston shifts his weight dramatically.”
“I noticed.”
“And the left latch sticks.”
“I saw.”
You stared at him and pressed your lips together like you were trying not to smile.
“Okay.”
Logan carried the crate toward the small pen while you walked beside him, one hand hovering near the latch as if Winston might stage a political uprising. Marian followed, still smiling to herself.
“You’re good with him,” she said to Logan.
“He’s not bad.”
You made a noise, something between a snort and huff in the back of your throat.
Logan glanced at you. “What?”
“He is bad. You’re just being polite.”
Winston bleated from inside the crate.
“Do not act wounded,” you told him, “You know what you are.”
At the pen, Logan set the crate down carefully. You crouched to open it, murmuring softly to Winston before letting him step out. He emerged with great dignity, shook himself once, then immediately tried to eat the edge of Marian’s clipboard.
Marian pulled it away, “Absolutely not.”
You sighed, fingers pressed to the bridge of your nose, “of course he remembers.”
“He holds grudges.”
“He gets that from Clementine.”
“Clementine was a lady.”
“Clementine once climbed onto Nana’s dining table.”
“Still a lady.”
Logan watched the two of you bicker over goat lineage with the sober familiarity of people discussing a family member.
It should have been ridiculous. It was ridiculous. But he also realised this was not an aesthetic. Not a quirk designed to make you interesting. The goats, the farms, Clementine, Winston, the education modules, the way you checked latches and knew his tricks and spoke to him like a difficult cousin - this was a real, full part of your life.
A whole world Logan had only glimpsed from the outside, full of rules and routines and strange wealth you treated as logistics rather than status. And you had called him into it.
Winston settled into the pen after only one attempt at escape, which you predicted and blocked with your foot without even pausing your conversation with Marian.
Logan saw it happen. So did Marian.
The older woman laughed. “Still got it.”
You looked down at Winston, narrowing your eyes at the baby goat, who had the audacity to look innocent.
“I was trained by his mother.”
Marian turned toward Logan, “Clementine was her shadow when she was little.”
Your face softened, but you looked embarrassed too, “Marian.”
“She was. Followed her everywhere.” Marian smiled at Logan, “Cherry used to come here when she was tiny, all ribbons and muddy knees, telling every child within hearing distance that goats were emotionally intelligent and deserved better public images.”
Logan looked at you, pressing his lips together as he nodded. You covered your face briefly with one hand, pointedly avoiding his gaze.
“I was eight.” The defence was weak, and muffled by your hand
“You were correct,” Marian said.
Logan’s mouth curved, “Goats do have bad PR.”
You lowered your hand just enough to look at him.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Winston does not help the cause, but broadly, yes.”
Winston sneezed.
The first group of children arrived ten minutes later, escorted by two teachers and armed with the sort of excitement that made all small animals either beloved or doomed. Winston transformed immediately. It was almost alarming. The criminal goat from the barn became a patient, charming little ambassador, standing calmly while Marian explained basic goat care and you crouched beside a nervous child to show her how to hold out a flat palm.
Logan stood back near the fence, watching.
You were good with the kids too. Of course you were.
Not in a sugary way, the way where you would give them fake ideals and promises based on hypotheticals. In a calm, genuine way that treated their questions like they mattered.
“Does he bite?”
“He can nibble if your fingers look like snacks, so we keep our palms flat.”
“Is he a baby?”
“He’s young, yes, but he thinks he is a senior manager.”
“Why is his name Winston?”
“Because his mother was Clementine, and my grandmother said he needed a name that sounded like it had opinions.”
One little boy asked if Winston had a job. You looked very serious as you nodded.
“Yes. Today his job is to help you learn that animals have personalities and boundaries.”
The boy nodded solemnly and patted Winston on the head, thanking him for his service. Winston took the affection greedily.
Logan had to look away for a second.
He was so cooked. Completely. Irrevocably. Possibly medium-well. Dean would never let him live this down if he were here.
But he couldn’t find himself caring about what Dean would tease him for, or what Garrett would silently file away in his brain or even what Tucker would silently snap a picture off to use against him later.
Especially near the end, where a shy little girl, barely five years old came up to you and tugged at your shirt gently. You were crouched, murmuring at Winston as you scratched his head and offered him a treat- but you turned away from the baby menace when you felt her at your side. Smiling down at her, you offered your hand and introduced yourself, tilting your head when the little girl gave you her name, garbling slightly from her thumb that she had wedged between her teeth.
“My name is Emmy," She shifted on the tips of her toes and glanced between you and Winston- her large, blue eyes blinked up at you.
You reached for a treat in your back pocket, “Hi Emmy,” you tapped at her hand that was settled in front of her mouth, wrapping her thumb in a handkerchief he hadn’t even seen until you produced it out of thin air, “have you met a goat before?”
Emmy shook her head, blonde pigtails messily flowing over her shoulders, “No miss.” Emmy watched you rub her thumb clean, and take both clean hands into yours, resting them on the front of her dress- which was a simple baby yellow, and ended at her knees, “Is he scary?”
Logan bit his lip as you smiled at her, squeezing her hands, “Not at all,” You looked back at Winston, who was watching Emmy with wide eyes, his eyelashes fluttering at her, “You don’t have to touch him to meet him. You can just say hello first.”
You let go of her hands, and demonstrated a large open palm wave to Winston. Emmy copied, her small hand robotically oscillated in front of her, “Hi Winston.”
Winston bleated in response and Emmy jumped, her other arm curled into her side and you settled a comforting hand on her waist, “Winston! Manners please.”
The goat shuffled guiltily, and bumped his head against Emmy's hand, which had fallen quickly to her front- she stilled at the feeling of his soft, freshly washed and conditioned fur rubbing against her knuckles.
“Oh.” Emmy’s face broke into a shy smile as she giggled and rubbed Winston's head.
You looked up at Logan and grinned at his expression. To the untrained eye he looked enamoured with the heartwarming interaction. But only he knew that his heart thumped wildly against his ribs, watching you run your hand up and down the little girl's side as she clapped her hands at Winston’s bow.
When the first session ended, Marian took over with the teachers, and you came back toward Logan with slightly dusty knees and happiness all over your face.
“He was good,” you bounced slightly on your boot heels, like this was a miracle.
“He was.”
“Did you see the bow?”
“I did.”
“Wasn’t it good?”
“It was very good.”
You smiled so widely that he felt it in his chest.
Then your phone buzzed. You glanced down, face changing with affection.
“Oh. Mama.”
Logan tried not to react.
You stepped slightly aside and answered, your voice becoming softer and brighter at once.
“Hi, Mama. Yes, we got him here. No, Winston behaved in the car. Mostly. Logan secured the crate, so it didn’t shift at all. Yes, Logan from the garage. No, not garage Logan like he lives there- Mama”
Logan turned away and pretended to inspect the truck bed.
It did not help. He could still hear you on the phone with your mother.
“Yes, he brought the truck. No, I brought him coffee. Yes, the proper order. Large hot coffee, two sugars. I know. Yes, he was very helpful. No, Marian thought-” You stopped abruptly. “Nothing. She thought nothing.”
Logan bit back a smile.
A pause.
“Mama.”
Another pause.
“No, I did not say boyfriend. Marian did.”
Logan’s smile vanished into something warmer.
You turned further away, but your voice carried just enough.
“No, I didn’t correct her like that. I mean, I did, but then I sounded rude, so I clarified that he is a very helpful friend. Yes. No. Mama, please don’t say it like that.”
There was a long silence.
Then your voice softened, “Yes, I think you’d like him.”
Logan stopped inspecting the truck bed, hand resting on the tailgate.
You were quiet for a moment, listening, then you whispered, so softly he nearly missed it, “He doesn’t make me feel silly.”
Logan looked over.
You were standing near the fence, one hand wrapped around your phone, the other worrying at the end of your red ribbon. Your face was turned away, but he could see enough. The warm embarrassment. The honesty you had not planned to say out loud. The way you held yourself very still after saying it, as if the sentence had surprised even you.
A few seconds later, you cleared your throat.
“Yes, Mama. I’ll call you after. Love you.”
You ended the call and stood there for one beat too long before turning back, worrying your lip between your teeth. Your eyes found Logan’s and you knew he had heard. Not all of it, but enough that it made your face warm.
“My mother is nosy,” you started.
Logan’s voice came out quieter than he expected, “Most moms are.”
“Yes, but mine has resources.”
He smiled faintly watching you walk back toward him, tucking your phone into your pocket.
“Sorry.”
“For what?”
“The boyfriend thing. And the helpful friend monologue. And the part where I said you had hands.”
“For carrying Winston.”
“Yes.”
“Right.”
You looked at him, eyes narrowing despite your blush. “You are enjoying this.”
“A little.”
“It was a verbal car crash.”
“It was impressive.”
“It was not.”
“You called me significant.”
Your mouth fell open. Then closed. Then opened again.
“I said all people are significant.”
“After saying I was.”
“That was philosophical.”
“Sure.”
“It was.”
“And the hands?”
“For goat carrying.”
“Helpful hands.”
“Logan.”
“What?”
“You are being very smug for a man who was almost defeated by a baby goat less than two hours ago.”
He grinned when you looked away, poorly hiding your similar smile.
For a while, the day continued gently.
Winston did his second session. Logan helped move the empty crate back to the truck. Marian gave you a paper packet of thank-you notes the children had drawn for past animal visits, and you held them like they were something precious. One had a picture of Winston with horns the size of tree branches and the caption “Goat man.” You declared it accurate.
By late morning, Winston was settled for the rest of the module, and you were free to leave until pickup later that afternoon. Marian hugged you goodbye, shook Logan’s hand, and told him it had been “lovely meeting the helpful friend” with exactly the tone of a woman who had not retired her theory.
You nearly tripped over a pebble and Logan steadied you with one hand at your elbow.
Marian’s smile widened. You pointed back at her with a warm, warning glare.
The drive back was quieter than the drive there.
Without Winston in the back, the truck felt oddly empty. You sat curled slightly toward the window, your boots dusty, ribbon loose, lipstick faded from coffee and nerves. Logan kept both hands on the wheel.
The boyfriend's comment sat between you, not awkwardly, but heavy enough that he was aware every time you shuffled in your seat, fingers running along your phone case. Another nervous tic you had.
After ten minutes, you said, “I really am sorry.”
Logan glanced at you. “Cherry.”
“What?”
“You don’t have to keep apologising.”
“I know. I just…” You looked down at your hands. “I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
“I didn’t.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Because Marian can be very presumptive in a well-meaning way, and I know we’re friends, and I know sometimes people assume things when a boy and a girl arrive with a goat, but that doesn’t mean-”
“Cherry.”
You stopped, sucking in a breath.
He kept his eyes on the road, but his voice softened.
“I wasn’t uncomfortable.”
You looked at him for a long moment studying his face, then nodded, sinking back into your seat with a gentle exhale.
“Okay.”
Another quiet mile passed.
Then Logan, because he liked torturing himself asked, “Were you?”
“Was I what?”
“Uncomfortable.”
You stared at the road ahead, blinking as the familiar briar crowd leaked into the parts of the city you were driving through. The answer took longer than he expected.
“No,” you said finally. “Not uncomfortable.”
His fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel.
“But?”
You sighed, “But I don’t like lying.”
He glanced at you.
Your face was serious now, thoughtful in a way that made every part of you go still.
“And it wasn’t true,” you said, “so I had to correct her. But correcting her too fast felt like I was saying the idea was ridiculous, which would have been rude, because you are not ridiculous. And then I tried to explain that, but explaining made it worse because I accidentally complimented you a lot.”
Logan’s mouth twitched. You wore every emotion on your sleeve and didn’t realise it half the time, until you were halfway through a sentence you were going to regret by your next breath. It was endearing and startling all at the same time, and he wasn’t sure how he would survive it without eventually driving into a hedge.
You pointed at him immediately.
“Do not laugh.”
“I’m not.”
“You are, I can tell.”
“Maybe.”
“I’m being vulnerable.”
The smile faded from his face, because you were right.
You were trying, in your own painfully honest way, to tell him something without stepping too far ahead of where either of you had agreed to stand.
Logan slowed at a red light and turned to look at you.
“You can compliment me,” he murmured into the comfortable silence.
Your face warmed, playing with the aux cord, “That is not the point.”
“It can be one of them.”
“Logan.”
“I’m serious.”
He switched gears when the light blinked green,
“You were good today,” you said after a while,
His chest tightened and he fixed his eyes on the road.
“With Winston?”
“With Winston,” you paused, “And with me.”
Logan swallowed, turning away from the city, back towards the yard he had picked you up from, “I didn’t do much.”
“You did.”
“I drove.”
“You showed up. You checked the crate. You didn’t laugh when I checked it twice. You listened when I told you how to hold him. You didn’t act like any of it was stupid.” Your hands twisted together briefly, then relaxed, “That matters to me.”
Logan was quiet.
He wanted to say something light. Something easy. Something that would let both of you step back from the sudden tenderness before it got too obvious.
He could not find it.
So he settled for, “It wasn’t stupid,” replying to you with a tenderness that should’ve been casual, but instead settled deep in your bones,“you care about him,” he continued, like it was the most normal, obvious conclusion in the world, “That’s not stupid.”
Your breath caught, “you’re very good at that,” you whispered.
“At what?”
“Making things sound simple.”
He smiled faintly, “Maybe they are.”
“They aren’t.”
“No,” he agreed, “But sometimes they can be.”
You looked out the window again.
When he pulled back into the holding, the barn glowed bright in the early-afternoon sun. Logan parked near the same spot as before and cut the engine. Neither of you got out immediately, you turned to him.
“Thank you, mechanic.”
His mouth curved, “You’re welcome, Cherry.”
Your smile widened, but there was something softer underneath it now, as you were reaching for the door handle- you paused, “Oh,” you glanced at the centre console, “your coffee.”
“What about it?”
“You didn’t finish it.”
“I was driving.”
“I’ll get you another one later.”
“Later?”
You froze, realising what you had just implied.
“I mean, if you want. For pickup. Or another time. As repayment. Not as a date. Unless- not unless. I mean- coffee is broadly available in many contexts.”
You snapped your mouth shut and closed your eyes. “I need to stop speaking.”
“No,”You winced at him,“I like when you speak.”
For once, you had nothing immediate to say. Your mouth parted slightly. Then closed. You looked down at your feet, pressing your lips together in the hopes it would dampen your bright smile.
Outside, somewhere inside the barn, an animal knocked against a bucket. The moment slipped away like sand as you both looked towards the sharp thud.
“The things I do before 1pm,” You inhaled slowly, shaking your head “That had better not be Winston’s cousin.”
Logan laughed, and you opened the truck door and hopped out.
This time, when he followed, you waited for him at the front of the truck instead of walking ahead. Logan noticed, because he was starting to notice every small thing you did, and he tucked his hands into his pockets to hide the realisation that bloomed in his chest.
You started back toward the barn together, dusty boots crunching over gravel, red ribbon loose in your hair, the smell of hay and cherries still caught in the morning air, he realised with a quiet kind of dread that he did not want this to be the last strange errand you called him for.
Not the last goat transport.
Not the last coffee bribe.
Not the last time you pulled him, accidentally and earnestly, into some corner of your life that made no sense until he saw you inside it.
He wanted the whole ridiculous ecosystem.
And it was a lot to realise before lunch.
But then, Logan thought, watching you turn back to smile at him before pushing open the barn door, in the short time he had known you- he liked your ‘a lot.
Winston’s cousin bleated somewhere inside.
You winced, recognising the short scream, “sounds emotional.”
Logan stepped in beside you, holding the door with a hand pressed above your head, “Does it?”
You looked up at him, eyes bright.
“I speak fluent goat. I can’t wrangle them easily though”
He nodded once, “Good thing I have helpful hands.”
Your mouth fell open.
Logan walked past you into the barn, smiling to himself as you spluttered behind him.
The house was quiet in the way it only ever was after midnight.
Not silent, exactly. There was always the soft hum of the fridge, the faint creak of settling wood, the low hiss of rain against the window if you listened closely enough. But the rest of the world had gone still, and Dean was stretched out on his side in bed, one arm thrown over his eyes, breathing slow and even in the dark.
You were half asleep beside him when you felt it first.
A tiny shift near the door.
Then another.
Then the softest little sound, like someone trying very hard not to cry too loudly.
Your eyes opened at once.
Dean mumbled something unintelligible beside you and rolled onto his back, still deeply asleep. You listened for another second, and then you heard it again: the quiet, shaky sniffle of a child trying to be brave.
You were already sitting up before you fully realized it.
The bedroom door creaked open just enough to let in a sliver of hallway light.
And there, clutching her teddy bear against her chest with both arms, stood your five-year-old daughter.
Her hair was a mess, her nightgown twisted slightly at the hem, and her face,
Your heart dropped at the sight of her face.
Tears had already tracked down her cheeks, and her eyes were wide and wet with the kind of fear that made children look heartbreakingly small.
She didn’t call out.
She just stood there, looking at the bed like she wasn’t sure whether she was allowed to wake the world.
Dean stirred beside you, blinking awake before your daughter even made it all the way into the room. He lifted his head, squinting into the dark. “What’s,”
Then he saw her.
He was instantly fully awake.
Your daughter sniffled once, and that was all it took. She crossed the room in three tiny steps and climbed up onto Dean’s side of the bed with the kind of desperate urgency that made your chest ache. Dean reached for her immediately, one arm opening before she even got close enough to fall.
“Hey, hey,” he said softly, voice rough with sleep. “Baby, what’s wrong?”
She crawled right into his side and buried her face against his chest, teddy bear trapped between them. Her little shoulders shook once, then again.
Dean’s face changed completely.
Every trace of sleep vanished.
He shifted onto his side and pulled her close, one hand smoothing carefully over her back while the other cupped the back of her head. “Sweetheart,” he whispered, “talk to me. What happened?”
Your daughter only clung tighter.
You sat up fully and reached toward them, brushing a hand over her hair. “Hey, honey. You’re okay. You’re safe.”
That seemed to make her cry harder.
Dean looked up at you over her head, already worried. “Was it a bad dream?”
She nodded against his shirt, muffled and shaky.
Dean’s voice softened even more. “Can you tell us about it?”
She sniffled and pulled back just enough to wipe at her cheeks with her free hand. Her teddy bear dangled from the other arm, one ear bent from being squeezed too hard.
“I had a dream,” she whispered.
You moved a little closer, tucking the blanket around the three of you where you could. “What kind of dream?”
Her lower lip trembled. “There was a big noise.”
Dean’s hand kept moving over her back, slow and steady. “Okay.”
“And I couldn’t find you.”
Your heart gave a hard, painful squeeze.
Your daughter looked between you and Dean as if afraid one of you might disappear if she blinked too hard. “And the lights were all off.”
You swallowed. “You were dreaming, baby.”
She nodded, but the tears kept coming. “I was looking for you and I couldn’t, I couldn’t,”
Dean kissed the top of her head. “You found us now.”
She held onto him for another second, then looked up with teary eyes. “I was scared.”
Dean’s expression broke right there in front of you.
There was something so gentle and helpless on his face when it came to her that it always undid you a little. He kissed her forehead, then brushed his thumb under her eye.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I know you were.”
She hiccuped once.
He gave her a soft, almost crooked smile. “But you’re here. You’re with us. And it was just a dream.”
Your daughter nodded, but she still looked frightened.
So you shifted closer and tucked a curl behind her ear. “Do you want to tell us more about it?”
She hesitated. Then, in the smallest voice, she whispered, “There was a shadow.”
Dean’s hand paused briefly on her back.
You noticed.
He did too, because his eyes flicked to yours for only a second before returning to her face.
“A shadow?” he repeated gently.
She nodded.
And then, very carefully, as if she knew it sounded silly but was too scared to keep it inside, she said, “And I couldn’t call for Uncle Beau.”
The room went still.
Not heavy. Just still.
Your daughter looked up at Dean, then at you, worried now that she had said something wrong. “He wasn’t there.”
Dean’s jaw tightened for a second, not in anger, but in that quiet, aching way grief sometimes lived in him even now, long after the sharpest part of it had softened.
You reached over and touched his arm lightly.
He exhaled and looked back at your daughter with a calm he clearly had to work for.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he said softly, “Uncle Beau would’ve hated that dream.”
That made her blink through the tears. “He would?”
“Absolutely,” Dean said. “He would’ve marched right in there and told that shadow to get lost.”
A tiny sniffle escaped her, almost a laugh.
You smiled despite the ache in your chest.
Dean continued, gentler now. “You know what else?”
She shook her head.
“He’s still looking out for you.”
Her little brows knit together. “He is?”
Dean nodded, very sure. “Yeah. He is.”
Your daughter looked uncertain, but calmer now than she had been when she first appeared in the doorway. “Even when I’m sleeping?”
“Especially when you’re sleeping,” you said softly.
She looked up at you.
You brushed your fingers over her hair again. “Uncle Beau loved you very much, remember?”
She nodded.
“He still does,” you said. “And he would never let anything bad happen to you if he could help it.”
Dean’s voice was quiet when he added, “You know Uncle Beau is there, right? And he’ll always protect you.”
Your daughter looked between the two of you, her teddy bear pressed close against her chest. “Always?”
“Always,” Dean said.
His voice was so steady that it made it feel like a promise, not just comfort.
She studied his face for a second, then leaned back into him again, trusting the answer enough to let her shoulders loosen a little.
Dean held her carefully, one hand rubbing circles between her shoulder blades while the other rested protectively around her tiny frame.
You watched them both for a second, and the sight of it nearly made your throat close.
There was something so unbearably tender about the way Dean held her when she was scared. He was careful in every way that mattered. Not performative. Not loud. Just there. Solid. Steady. The kind of parent who made safety feel like a physical thing.
Your daughter sniffled one more time and mumbled, “Can I stay with you?”
Dean looked at you first.
You nodded immediately. “Of course.”
His expression softened.
He shifted slightly to make room on the bed, and your daughter climbed right back against him, still clutching her bear. Dean drew the blanket up over her small body and kissed her temple.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed about nightmares,” he murmured. “Everybody gets them sometimes.”
She looked up at him with sleepy, tear-wet eyes. “Even you?”
Dean made a face. “Unfortunately, yes.”
That got the faintest little smile out of her.
“Even Daddy?” she asked, turning to you now.
You smiled. “Especially Daddy.”
Dean pointed at you, mock offended. “That was uncalled for.”
Your daughter gave a tired giggle, then tucked herself against his side again. The sound was small and fragile, but it was enough to make the room feel warmer all at once.
Dean looked at her and smiled in that quiet, private way he only ever used with the people he loved most.
“See?” he said softly. “You’re okay.”
She nodded, but her eyelids were already starting to droop.
You lay back down beside them and brushed a kiss over her hair. “Go back to sleep, baby.”
She shifted a little and mumbled, “Stay.”
“I’m staying,” you whispered.
Dean reached over with his free hand and found yours under the blanket, squeezing it once.
Your daughter’s breathing slowed.
Her teddy bear was mashed halfway against Dean’s chest now, one arm trapped under his hand, but she didn’t seem to care. The fear had started to drain from her little body, leaving her tired and soft and safe between the two of you.
Dean watched her for a long time after she quieted.
When he finally spoke, his voice was nearly silent. “It still gets me.”
You turned your head toward him in the dark. “What does?”
He looked down at your daughter, brushing the back of his knuckles lightly along her blanket. “How small she gets when she’s scared.”
Your chest tightened.
You understood exactly what he meant.
“She’s safe,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“She knows that now too.”
Dean nodded once, but his expression stayed thoughtful and a little sad around the edges. “I just hate that she has to be scared of anything.”
You shifted closer and rested your head lightly on his shoulder. “That’s part of loving someone.”
He was quiet.
Then he looked at you with that same deep, soft seriousness he got when he was feeling more than he could easily say.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”
A few minutes passed in silence.
The rain tapped quietly against the window. The room stayed dark and warm. Your daughter slept deeply now, one small hand curled around the edge of her bear, her face finally smooth and peaceful again.
Dean kissed her hair once more, then leaned over and kissed your forehead too.
You smiled sleepily. “You good?”
He gave a quiet hum. “Better now.”
You knew what he meant.
Because no matter how many sleepless nights, nightmares, or little heartbreaks came your way, the three of you always seemed to find your way back to one another.
And when your daughter stirred in her sleep and nestled even closer between you, Dean’s hand settled automatically over her back like he was protecting her even in dreams.
You closed your eyes, listening to the soft rhythm of her breathing and the steady beat of Dean’s heart beside you.
In the dark, wrapped around your sleeping child and the love that held your family together, the house felt a little less empty, a little less heavy, and a lot more like home.
this pride month, don't forget to shout out asexuals and aromantics. sometimes even pride month can make us feel isolated so DON'T FORGET US!! WE'RE HERE AND WE'RE QUEER!!
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