summary: Three months of being in the doghouse, and John Logan has fully accepted the fact that there is no redemption for him. He’s accepted that, well aware that it’s a punishment brought upon by his own actions. But it’s St. Patrick’s day, so it seems his luck might just be looking up.
part two to this fic
content: more angst but it’s not as intense, reader gets drunk, logan painfully yearning, reader’s hair is mentioned to look a mess but i kept it pretty open for broadness, logan is taller than reader, brief making out (not while drunk!). the timeline gets a bit confusing towards the end because of the school year so just ignore that and pretend a bit more time has passed during the final stretch 😅
note: i was not expecting the love from part one?? thank you all so much!! i intend to create a part three, so no worries!! you all wanted to see groveling so i’m keeping him in the doghouse for a little bit longer 🫡
word count; 8.3k
The semester ended in a blur of final exams and a desperate need to escape. With the first-place grant completely covering your research expenses for the upcoming semester, the savings you’d painstakingly scraped together were suddenly yours to spend. It probably wasn’t the most responsible choice, but you were reeling from a devastating friendship breakup, suffocating under the weight of the Briar campus. So, you booked a holiday with a friend from your major and left the country.
That entire winter break, you went completely off the grid. You didn't speak to Allie, Hannah, Dean, or Garrett. You didn't even speak to Tucker, though you made sure he knew you were grateful about him berating Logan on your behalf after being told by Allie that he’d done that.
They all understood without you having to say it—you needed a total detox from their entire world. And it worked. Away from them all, you actually had fun. You laughed until your stomach hurt, drank too much wine on sun-drenched balconies, and breathed in air that didn’t smell like ice rinks. For the first time in a long time, the relentless urge to check in on John Logan completely vanished.
By the time the new semester rolled around, you had officially decided your life was better without him. Frankly, you didn’t entirely believe it—at least not when it came to the version of Logan before he changed—but you repeated the words like a mantra until they started to feel like truth.
Over the next three months, you learned how to coexist with the rest of the group again. You’d catch Allie and Hannah on the quad and chat, grab a drink with the boys, or occasionally sit with all of them at Malone’s. But through some miracle of scheduling and hyper-vigilance, you managed to never see Logan. The guys tried to bring him up at first, telling you how completely wrecked he was, how he wasn't the same guy on or off the ice. You shut it down every time. You refused to make his misery your problem.
If he was hurting? Good. He earned every bit of it.
You narrowly avoided him for the majority of the spring. Sometimes you’d end up at the same massive rowdy party, and across a crowded, red-cup-littered room, your eyes would accidentally lock with his. A familiar ache would flare in your chest, and you’d immediately break the contact, turning your back even as you felt his gaze burning a hole straight through you.
You didn't miss him.
You didn't miss his stupid jokes. You didn't miss how absurdly observant he could be, or the terrifying comfort of being known so deeply by another human being. You didn't miss having someone who knew exactly what you needed before you even had to ask.
You didn't miss him at all.
Except, you couldn't convince yourself of that lie when it was three in the morning and the silence in your dorm room was too loud. In those rare, weak moments when the loneliness crept in, your thumb would hover over his contact card, considering unblocking his number just to hear the phone ring. But the night would always end the same way—you shutting your phone off completely, forcing yourself to sleep before you could do something stupid.
Minutes away, in the hockey house, John Logan was doing the exact same thing.
He took long, aimless walks across campus late at night, his boots slowing down instinctively every time he passed your residence hall. It was a muscle-memory habit; he used to walk you back here almost everyday, making sure you reached the doors safely. Now, every time something exciting happened in his life—a great game, a funny incident, a good grade—his first instinct was to text you, only for reality to hit him moments later. He’d sit on the edge of his bed, staring down at the friendship bracelet still tied tightly around his own wrist. He’d then glance at the one you’d left on the floor the night you left his life. He picked it up and kept it in his room, ending his night by staring at it. It was torturous, staring at the one piece of jewelry that reminded him that he was the sole architect of his own ruin. He couldn't believe he’d fucked up this royally.
And to make it worse, you looked happy. Happier without him. You were absolutely glowing.
The first time he’d caught sight of you after winter break, laughing with Allie near the campus cafe, Logan realized that maybe the best thing he could do for you was to just leave you alone. He would have to live with a permanent ache in his chest, knowing you were still hanging out at the house, still going to Malone's, still breathing the same air—just never when he was around. He had caused you so much pain that you had actively rewritten your life to exclude him. He had no right to fight against your peace.
But leaving you alone didn't stop him from cheering you on from the shadows.
When the end-of-year STEM banquet arrived—the prestigious ceremony where you were officially recognized for winning the showcase—Logan made sure he was there. He didn't sit with your friend group despite everyone telling him that he should come. He’d ruin your night. He allowed them to leave the house without him, instead showing up on his own so he wouldn’t be the plague that prevents you from walking up to everyone and thanking them for coming.
Instead, when he arrived, John stood all the way in the back of the auditorium, blending into the shadows by the exit doors.
When your name was called and you walked up to the podium, you scanned the crowd and found him. He looked visibly worn, a subtle pain etching his features, but his eyes were wide and filled with a profound gratitude just to watch you succeed. You didn't smile at him. You didn't offer a nod. But in the space that existed between you, he knew you saw him, and he knew you understood why he was there.
When it ended, you found your friends—Allie being the first to pull you into a hug and Tucker forcing you to take solo pictures. Dean and Garrett wore grim expressions, thinking you’d be disappointed that Logan hadn’t shown his face.
You chose not to tell them that he came.
He hadn't shown up hoping for forgiveness. He hadn't done it to beg. He’d done it because Tucker had been right all those months ago. He needed to bask in the wreckage of what he’d done. He needed to let the weight of his failure truly sink in, to think about you, and to feel exactly what he had forced you to feel on the night of your presentation: the agony of being completely alone in a crowded room.
John Logan had spent three long months doing exactly that.
And when he watched you walk off the stage with your award, the truth finally broke through his chest, clear and devastating. He realized it wasn't just a best friend he had lost.
He realized it was a soulmate.
Yeah, Logan realized that he might’ve been in love with you.
No, he was. Totally and completely in love with you, and perhaps too late.
It was a cruel, cosmic sort of joke, Logan realized. The universe had waited until the exact moment you erased him from your life to finally open his eyes. He was meant to discover he loved you only after he lost you—a lifetime of yearning as a penance for his stupidity.
Lately, he found himself utterly at a loss for words whenever you crossed his path. He’d catch sight of you in the campus hallways, effortlessly beautiful, and the breath would leave his lungs. He’d hear your laugh echoing in the distance at Malone's, a sharp pang hitting his chest because he knew he hadn't been the cause of that sound in months. And through it all, you paid him absolutely no mind. You looked right through him, paying him dust as if he were nothing more than a stranger occupying the same air.
It was fitting, he thought.
He wasn’t really okay with it—the hollowness in his ribs bled every single day—but he was content to accept it. He figured he was blessed just to be capable of loving someone like you, even if those feelings were a heavy cross he’d have to bear alone for the rest of his life.
Until St. Patrick’s Day.
Beau had thrown a massive party at his summer house. Nobody actually cared about the holiday itself, but the team had just clinched a brutal away game, and Briar students never turned down an excuse to drink.
You had dressed up for the occasion, looking striking in a white cropped tank with an oversized, unbuttoned green flannel draped over your shoulders and a light-wash denim skirt. You’d leaned into the theme, tying a green ribbon through one of your belt loops and layering two gold coin necklaces with a green clover one. You felt good, you looked incredible, and as the night wore on, you accidentally drank far too much.
The pounding bass from the speakers downstairs had eventually become too much, making your head throb with a vicious rhythm. Looking for an escape, you stumbled upstairs, pushed open the door to a random, dark bedroom, and collapsed onto the mattress. You told yourself you just needed a minute to let the room stop spinning.
A minute turned into two hours.
When your eyes finally flutter open, the heavy vibration of the music is gone. The house is dead silent. A quick check of your phone reveals a barrage of missed calls and frantic texts from Hannah, Allie, and your other friends. Your thumbs move sluggishly across the screen, typing out a quick “i’m fine, fell asleep upstairs” to let them know you hadn't vanished into the night. Since the boys were all staying at Beau's for the night, you figured Allie and Hannah were in their boyfriend’s rooms. You decide to just head down to the living room and crash on the couch so you don’t disturb anyone. You don’t know whose room this was meant to be and prefer not to wake up next to a stranger because of it.
You notice that your throat feels like sandpaper when you sit up. You’re thirsty.
Stepping out into the hallway, you quickly realize the alcohol hasn’t entirely left your system. Your balance sways, forcing you to grip the wooden railing tightly as you navigate the stairs. The house was is absolute wasteland of red plastic cups, crushed cans, and stray green beads. You can see the faint remnants of a cleanup effort that had clearly been abandoned halfway through when everyone succumbed to exhaustion.
The only illumination in the entire house was the low glow coming from the kitchen.
Holding your flannel shut against the chill of the house, your bare legs shivering slightly in your denim skirt, you pad quietly toward the light. You round the corner, your eyes blinking against the brightness, and freeze.
Standing by the sink, a glass of water halfway to his lips, is John Logan.
You suddenly grow intensely conscious of how insane you probably look. Your hair is a bird’s nest, your eyeliner is almost certainly smudged beneath your lower lashes, and stray green glitter clings stubbornly to your collarbones and cheeks.
Funny enough, you can’t be more beautiful to him right now. Logan stands entirely paralyzed, his eyes tracking the slight sway of your shoulders, the oversized green flannel slipping off one side of your white tank. You find yourself staring directly back into his brown eyes for longer than five seconds. A new record in months.
He stays still, unsure of whether he should speak first, or if he should grant you the right to decide your own boundaries—whether he is going to be an invisible ghost in this kitchen, or someone actually worth your breath.
He knows he isn’t the latter. But right now, with the fog of sleep and alcohol muddling your brain, he isn’t entirely the former either.
You clear your dry throat. "Hi."
Logan blinks, his chest heaving as he swallows hard. He looks utterly terrified and entirely shattered at the same time, like a man waiting for a blow he knows he deserves.
“Hi," he replies, his voice a reluctant whisper.
The sheer absurdity of the tension finally gets to you. You let out a soft, raspy giggle, making your way past him toward the upper cabinets. "You can breathe, Logan. I’m not armed."
A sudden, breathless laugh escapes him, his shoulders visibly relaxing at your surprisingly calm demeanor.
He watches you approach the cupboards, quickly realizing you’re searching for a cup, and clears his throat again. "Beau moved them," he mutters softly, pointing a finger toward the absolute highest shelf. "To keep people from smashing them tonight."
You stop, staring up at the ridiculously high shelf. For a fleeting second, you silently contemplate climbing straight onto the counter, but you’re wearing a denim skirt and you have absolutely no intention of flashing the guy you’re supposed to hate.
Logan shifts his weight, his brown hues searching your face. "Do you. . . do you want some help?"
You cut your eyes at him, letting out a defeated sigh. "Yeah."
He steps into your space, the scent of him—soap and cedar mixed with alcohol—wrapping around you instantly. He reaches up, his large hand grabbing a clean glass from the top shelf. As he brings it down, you make absolutely no effort to step back. You stay right there, your shoulder nearly brushing his chest.
Logan’s brow furrows in surprise at your proximity, but the second he tries to hand you the glass, your fingers tremble against the heavy glass. Your balance wavers, just a fraction.
The realization that you’re still drunk hits him at once. Of course you’re tolerating his presence; you aren’t thinking straight.
"Hey, I've got it," he murmurs, his fingers gently brushing yours as he takes the glass back, completely ignoring your quiet grunt of protest. He turns to the fridge, filling it with crisp, cold water before turning back and pressing the smooth glass into your palm.
Logan hooks his boot around the leg of a nearby stool, pulling it out for you. "Sit down. Drink all of it."
You glare at him over the rim of the glass, the alcohol making you bold. "Don't tell me what to do, John."
A faint, melancholic smile touches his stupidly kissable lips. "You already hate me. It's not like it can get any worse."
You take a long, desperate gulp of the water, the cold liquid soothing your burning throat. You set the glass down on the counter with a soft clink, looking up at him through smudged lashes. "I don't hate you."
Logan blinks, the words striking him right in the center of his chest. He doesn’t know how true that actually is, and as much as his heart flares with desperate, pathetic hope, he refuses to push you for answers in this state. It feels invasive. It feels wrong to take advantage of the liquor softening your edges.
"How much did you have tonight?" he asks quietly, trying to redirect the conversation.
A clumsy giggle bubbles out of your throat. You lift your hands, trying to recount the tally of green jello shots and mixed drinks on your fingers, stumbling over the mental math until you just shake your head. Logan can’t help the genuine laugh that rumbles in his chest at the sight of you, his eyes crinkling.
"Right," he smiles softly, checking his watch. "Do you need help getting back upstairs?"
"I'm just gonna crash on the couch," you mumble, gesturing vaguely to the trashed living room.
"The couch is covered in stale beer and God-knows-what bodily substances," Logan counters gently. "Go back upstairs. The room you were sleeping in is mine. I came down here because I didn't want to wake you up."
You let out a soft oh, a sleepy smirk pulling at the corner of your mouth. "Look at you. A gentleman."
"I try," he says, the old banter sending a bittersweet jolt throughout his body. He steps closer, his voice turning into something protective. "Come on. I’m gonna help you get back up there, and then I’m gonna help you get that makeup off. I know you hate waking up with your face feeling gross."
Your defense mechanisms flare, a sudden prickle of irritation cutting through the alcohol-ridden haze. "I don't need your help, Logan. I haven't needed it for the past three months."
The words cut deep, a sharp reminder of the reality he’d built for himself. The pain flits across his features, but he just nods, taking the blow without a fight.
"I know," he says softly, his voice thick with regret. "I know you don't. But just let me do this. Come on."
You grumble under your breath, throwing a half-hearted complaint into the air, but you don’t fight him when his large hand settles gently against the small of your back. He guides you back up the stairs, his palm a grounding anchor as you stumble on the top step.
He walks you into his room, gently guiding your shoulders until you sit down on the edge of the mattress. You don’t protest. You just watch him with sleepy eyes as he murmurs, "I'll be right back."
Logan slips down the hall to the bathroom Allie and Hannah had used to get ready, quickly rummaging through the counter until he finds what he’s looking for. A minute later, he walks back into the bedroom, carrying a bottle of Micellar Water and a handful of cotton pads.
He sits down on the mattress right in front of you, his knees nearly touching yours, and pours a few drops of the liquid onto the cotton. His hands, usually so rough and aggressive on the ice, are entirely weightless as he raises the pad to your face, gently wiping away the first layer of smudged makeup.
You watch him observantly as he works, your eyes tracking the pure focus in his expression. The alcohol has completely stripped away your internal filter, and before your muddled brain can stop them, the words stumble out of your mouth. “You're pretty, John."
Logan stops for a fraction of a second, a soft laugh huffing out of him as he keeps his eyes on your forehead. "So are you."
"Yeah, I know," you mutter, your attempt at displaying an attitude failing due to your slurring of words.
A genuine smile breaks across his face at your bluntness, his shoulders shaking with a soft chuckle. He shifts his hand, bringing a fresh cotton pad to your other cheek to wipe away the stray glitter and blush. As his arm moves, his sleeve pulls back, and your eyes lock onto his left wrist.
The blue and purple friendship bracelet is still there. It looks like it’s being held together by a prayer, but it’s still securely tied.
"Why are you still wearing that?" you ask, your voice dropping its playful edge.
Logan blinks, not entirely sure what you’re referring to at first. He follows your gaze down to his wrist. His expression softens into something melancholy, a look of guilt taking over his features. "It’s the least I could do.”
He doesn't expand on it, moving the cotton pad down to the makeup and glitter on your neck and collarbone. You internally curse your own biology because, despite everything, your body is still completely conditioned to his presence. Without meaning to, you find yourself leaning slightly into his touch, letting your head tilt back to give him access. At least tomorrow you can blame the pathetic display on the alcohol.
Your filterless brain jumps straight to the next burning question. "Do you still like Hannah?"
You had never told Logan that you knew about his crush. Even during your massive blowout three months ago, you had kept that specific detail to yourself, refusing to out his feelings in front of the entire living room. The pure surprise on his face is clear as day. He halts entirely, his hand hovering over your collarbone before he slowly pulls back.
He doesn't answer right away. He stands up in silence, tossing the used, makeup-stained cotton pads into the small trash can by the desk, buying himself time. When he comes back to sit on the mattress in front of you, his gaze is serious.
"I don't know what you mean," he lies.
You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head. "I'm not stupid, Logan. That’s what ruined us, anyway. Your feelings for her."
Logan stares at you, seeing the certainty in your muddled eyes, and decides there is absolutely no use in denying it anymore. The truth is, he had long gotten over whatever infatuation he’d harbored. It had actually been Hannah herself who helped him realize the reality of his feelings months ago—that he hadn't been pining for her, but rather envying the effortless, ironclad bond she shared with Garrett. He had been looking for what you two used to have.
"I don't like her anymore," Logan says, his voice level, entirely devoid of the old longing. You’re too drunk to observe that detail. "Honestly. . . I'm not sure if I ever really did."
You let out another sleepy, cynical chuckle, looking down at your lap. "It’s okay that if you do. I know you did. I saw the way you looked at her." You pause, swallowing the sudden lump in your throat as the alcohol forces the ultimate truth to the surface. "It was the way I wanted you to look at me."
Logan’s features change so violently you wonder if it’s possible to get facial whiplash. His chest heaves, eyes widening as the breath is completely knocked out of him.
"What do you mean by that?" he whispers, his voice trembling, practically begging you to elaborate.
But you don't reply. The sudden emotional confession, paired with the strength of the liquor, sends a massive wave of exhaustion crashing through your veins. Your eyelids flutter, growing impossibly heavy.
"I'm tired, Logan," you mumble, your head slumping slightly.
He stares at you, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, but he forces himself to take a breath. He chooses not to pry. As desperately as he wants to get answers, he knows this is absolutely not a conversation to be had when you can barely keep your eyes open.
"You wanna change into something else?" he asks softly, glancing at your denim skirt. "I can get you some sweatpants."
"No," you groan tiredly, already shifting your body to crawl beneath the heavy duvet. "Too tired."
Knowing how stubborn you get when you're sleepy, he doesn't argue. He gently grabs the edge of the comforter, pulling it up over your shoulders and tucking you in against. Once your head securely hits the plush pillow, Logan crouches down to your eye level, lingering for a moment to ensure you're completely comfortable.
Your eyes are shut tight, your breathing slowing into a steady pattern. Thinking you’ve already drifted off, Logan places his palms on his knees, preparing to stand up and leave the room.
Before he can move, your hand shoots out from beneath the blankets, your fingers wrapping tightly around his wrist—right over the threads of his friendship bracelet.
"Thank you," you whisper into the dark room, your eyes still closed.
Logan’s throat tightens, a wave of affection and ache washing over him. "Don't thank me," he murmurs. He leans forward, his movement entirely natural and devoid of malice as he presses a soft, kiss to your forehead. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight," you mumble back, your grip on his wrist loosening as you sink deeper into the mattress. "This doesn't mean we're cool again, by the way."
An honest laugh escapes Logan, the familiar sharpness of your tongue bringing a bittersweet comfort to his heart. "I know," he whispers, his voice full of a quiet promise to earn every single inch of your trust back. "I know it doesn't."
He reaches over, gently clicking off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into warm, quiet shadows before slipping out to the living room, leaving you to finally sleep.
The morning sun slices through the blinds with a blinding brightness that makes your head immediately throb. You groan, rolling over, only to realize your skin doesn’t feel tight and clogged. Your face is clean.
Sitting on the dresser is a folded pile of oversized sweats and a sticky note from Hannah letting you know there’s a spare, unopened toothbrush in the bathroom. You let out a breath, extremely grateful for your friends. When you glance at the nightstand, you find a bottle of blue Gatorade and two ibuprofen tablets waiting for you. You assume those are from Hannah, too, and swallow the pills quickly, chasing it down with the blue liquid.
Once you’re changed, showered, and finally dragging your feet downstairs, you realize you are officially the last one awake.
Dean sees you step into the kitchen and immediately bellows, "There she is! The life of the party!"
You wince, pressing a hand to your temple. "Why are you yelling? Please don't yell."
Tucker lets out a low laugh from the kitchen counter and slides a foil-wrapped breakfast burrito toward you. “We ordered takeout. The bus leaves in thirty minutes so we’ve gotta head out in twenty.”
You take a bite, look over at Hannah and Allie, and offer a soft smile. "Hey, thanks for the clothes and the stuff on the nightstand."
They both nod, but Hannah frowns slightly. "No problem for the clothes, but what stuff on the nightstand?"
You pause, a sudden twist in your stomach cutting through the hangover. "The ibuprofen? The Gatorade?"
"Wasn't us," Allie says, popping a piece of toast into her mouth.
You quickly brush it off, and walk over to the kitchen island where Tucker is leaning. You figure it must have been his doing—the classic protective older brother move despite him being younger.
"Thanks, Tuck," you murmur.
Tucker just looks at you, a knowing, amused glint in his eyes as he takes a sip of his coffee. "Don't thank me. It was your lover boy."
Your heart does a violent flip-flop. Logan.
You glance around the room, but he’s nowhere to be found. Suddenly, the reality of last night crashes over you in a wave of mortification. Now that you’re sober, you don't even know how to approach it. You’re grateful he helped you, sure, but the baseline anger from the last three months is still burning in your chest. Worse, the unfiltered things you said start echoing in your mind.
It was the way I wanted you to look at me.
The memory makes you want to literally shrivel up and die on the kitchen tile. But since spontaneous combustion isn't an option, you clear your throat and look back at Tucker. "I'm, uh. . . I'm gonna go upstairs and finish packing my tote bag so I'm ready to walk out when you guys leave."
Tucker nods steadily, and you beat a hasty retreat back up the stairs. You figure Tucker would have warned you if Logan was up there, but you quickly realize your assumption is entirely incorrect.
The exact moment you pass the upstairs bathroom, the door swings open. You nearly collision-course right into a solid chest. You gasp, taking a sharp step back, and find yourself staring right into Logan’s eyes.
"Sorry," he says quickly, his hands instinctively twitching as if he wants to catch your elbows before he remembers he doesn't have the right to touch you anymore. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine," you say, your voice restrained.
An awkward silence stretches between you in the narrow hallway. He looks exhausted, dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes, his hair damp from his own shower.
You clear your throat, forcing the words out. "Thank you. For the ibuprofen. And for. . . everything else last night."
Logan’s expression softens. “I told you last night, you don't have to thank me."
You offer a quick nod, shifting your weight to walk right past him and end the interaction. You can practically feel the desperate urge radiating off him; he clearly wants to talk to you, but he doesn't think you want to speak to him. And truthfully, you don't.
But for some stupid, inexplicable reason, you still do.
You stop, your sandals gluing themselves to the ground. Slowly, you turn back around to face him. "I meant it, you know. When I said I don't hate you. I could never hate you, Logan." You look down at your shoes, your voice dropping. "I was just hurt. Honestly, I still am."
Logan takes a tentative step forward, closing a fraction of the distance between you. "I know," he says, "You have every single right to be."
He swallows hard, his gaze locking onto yours with such a focus that it makes you furrow your eyebrows.
"I'm not going to give you some pathetic excuse about the charity event," Logan says, his hands curling into loose fists at his sides. "The truth is, I was selfish. I got so caught up in trying to chase something new that I completely blinded myself to the person who actually mattered. I took years of your loyalty and I treated it like it was a given. Like no matter how careless I was, you’d just. . . always be there."
He takes another small step, and you can tell he’s been wanting to say this for some time.
"When Tucker told me what happened—how you kept looking for me at the back of that auditorium, thinking that I was hurt because you couldn't conceive of a world where I'd just let you down. . . it made me physically sick. I have never hated myself more than I did that night. I broke a sacred promise to my best friend because I wanted to play the hero for someone else, and I left you to stand on that stage alone. You don’t deserve that, you have never deserved that.”
A painful silence falls over over the narrow hallway, the sincerity in his voice cutting right through your caged heart.
"I'm so sorry," Logan whispers, his eyes glossy. "I'm sorry I made you feel invisible. I'm sorry I ruined what should have been the greatest night of your life. I don't expect you to just forget it, and I know I don't deserve it, but I need you to know that I am so deeply, truly sorry. Even if you choose to never speak to me again, it’s well within your rights.”
Hearing it now, spoken with the emotion of a guy who has spent three months drowning in his own regret, feels like the exact piece of closure you’ve been suffocating without. You can see it in his eyes—how utterly desperate he is for just a sliver of another chance.
He’d done what you’d wanted him to, he basked in the actions of what he’d done. He sat with them, made them about you instead of him, and suffered in it.
"It's exhausting," you admit, a weary sigh escaping your lips. "Trying to avoid you all the time. It takes so much energy."
"I know," Logan whispers, his eyes swimming with guilt. "I'm so sorry I made you feel like that was your only option. I miss you. God, I miss you in my life so much."
You lean your shoulder against the wall, crossing your arms over your chest. You aren't going to let him entirely off the hook. "It won't be that easy, Logan."
"I know it won't," he says instantly, a determined certainty lighting up his gaze. "I don't expect it to be. But I am willing to work for it. Seriously. Whatever it takes. Throw it at me."
A sudden, wicked spark of mischief makes you perk up. You look him up and down. "Okay. You have to do my laundry for the rest of the semester and the next school year.”
Logan doesn't even blink. His jaw sets, and he nods with absolute dedication. "Done. I'll pick it up every Monday."
The seriousness on his face pulls a laugh out of you before you can stop yourself, the sound echoing in the hallway. "I'm kidding, dude! Oh my gosh, your face."
A massive, relieved smile breaks across Logan's features, his own laugh mingling with yours. It’s the first time you’ve shared a real, sober laugh in months, and the warmth of it temporarily banishes the void in your chest.
As the laughter dies down, Logan steps just a bit closer, his expression turning serious again, though the panic is gone. "Look, I know we’ll probably never be exactly how we were before. I know things changed. But. . . I'm willing to try, if you'll let me."
You take a good look at him and realize that the fortress you built over the winter break has officially been breached. You swallow the lingering nerves, offering a small nod.
"Yeah," you say softly. "We can be friends again."
Friends.
The word echoes in Logan’s head. It feels like a lifeline thrown to a dying man. It isn't everything his newly realized, aching heart wants—not after what you drunkenly confessed last night—but as he looks at your relaxed shoulders and the slight smile on your face, he thinks to himself—Friends.
I can do friends.
John Logan can’t do friends.
He’s learned that the hard way over the last two months.
Honestly, he doesn’t even understand how he was able to do it before. He looks back at the last ten years and wonders how he was ever blind enough to categorize what he felt for you as just a friendship. Especially considering how casually touchy the two of you used to be when you were closer. It had been second nature for you to be leaning your entire weight against his side on the couch, or mindlessly picking at a stray thread on his shirt, or tangling your fingers in his hair while you talked about your classes.
He had taken every single touch for granted. Now, he’d do absolutely anything just to have a fraction of that effortless closeness back.
But he has your friendship again, and he forces himself to remember that a thin slice of you is a million times better than nothing at all.
So, he sucks it up. He swallows the bitter lump in his throat when you ask Tucker or Beau to help you hold your heavy research bag, knowing damn well he used to be your automatic go-to for things like that. He forces a tight smile when you ask Allie or Hannah to go on a late-night walk with you, sitting on the porch and watching you walk away, aware of the fact that he’s the one being replaced.
And he especially sucks it up when he sees you laughing with another guy at a party. Logan will stand across the room, gripping his red plastic cup so tight his knuckles turn white, pretending he isn't completely sizing the guy up from a distance. He’ll stare at the stranger, a dark, possessive pettiness roaring in his chest as he wonders if the guy even knows your middle name or what your favorite flavor of chips is.
But then, there are the fleeting moments that make the torture entirely worth it.
Like when you’re standing in the entryway of the boys’ house, losing your balance for a split second, and you mindlessly drop your hand onto his firm shoulder to steady yourself while you adjust the heel strap of your shoe. Or when he makes one of his classic yet stupid jokes and without thinking, you roll your eyes, press your bare palm directly against his face, and tell him to shut up—just like old times. In those brief, beautiful seconds, the warmth of your skin completely blinds him, making him forget the crushing reality that he’ll never actually have you in the way he truly wants.
What you don't know is that Logan fixed your broken friendship bracelet.
He did it the very night after you agreed to rekindle things at Beau's summer house. He’d arrived at the house, gathered the ruined heap of strings from his dresser, and spent hours knotting them back together. It took him a long time, and he had to constantly switch through a multitude of YouTube tutorials, but it was worth it.
He’ll never tell you about it; he’s too terrified of what your reaction would be, afraid you'll think he's crossing a line. But every single night before he goes to sleep, he pulls that restored bracelet out and looks at it, reminding himself of the new beginning he’s been granted.
Maybe you really did love him at some point. Maybe you loved him in the exact same consuming, terrifying way he loves you now, your filterless words from St. Patrick’s Day echoing in his mind like a beautiful haunting.
But as he watches you navigate your life with a bright, independent glow, it’s brutally clear to him that you’ve passed that chapter. You don't look at him with longing anymore. You don't feel that way about him.
John Logan missed his window, and he’s just going to have to find a way to live with the view.
It’s ironic that the next time the two of you are truly alone again is in a kitchen. Only this time, it’s his, not Beau’s. And you’re not downstairs, stumbling around and reeling from a muddled, drunken nap. You are wide awake, the house is relatively dark, save for the moonlight peeking through the windows, and you are currently remembering that Tucker always keeps a tub of cookies n' cream ice cream from your favorite brand tucked away in the back of the freezer. He used to pretend to get mad whenever you’d eat his stash, but lately, you have a strong suspicion he buys it solely for you.
Malone’s had hosted a karaoke night, and Hannah had placed her dorm keys into Allie’s purse—which Allie had unfortunately forgotten at the bar. You hadn't seen the point in making everyone take a massive detour to campus just to drop you off alone, so you’d decided it would be perfectly fine to sleep on the boys’ couch. Garrett had continuously asked if you were sure about it, over and over, until you finally told him that if he asked one more time, you’d shove a car tire down his throat. He’d complied instantly.
Which takes you to now. It's one in the morning, and you're awake because the living room is freezing, but you didn't want to wake anyone up just to beg for a blanket. Eating ice cream when you’re already shivering isn’t exactly the brightest choice, but it’s easily the tastiest.
You are sharply reminded of just how cold the house is when you hop up to sit on the kitchen counter, your bare thighs making direct contact with the freezing tile. You’d been lent an oversized spare t-shirt to sleep in, but your brown ruffled shorts were surprisingly comfortable, so you’d decided to keep them on.
A floorboard creaks on the staircase, making you pause. Seconds later, John Logan enters the kitchen.
He stops, surprised to see you sitting there in the dark with a spoon in your hand. But funny enough, there is no awkwardness this time. The thick, suffocating tension that used to define your interactions has completely melted away over the last few weeks—even if things still aren't exactly back to old times.
Logan rubs a hand over his face, his voice groggy. "What are you doing still up?"
"Making myself significantly colder by eating ice cream," you reply easily, lifting your spoon. "I couldn't sleep because I'm freezing."
Logan frowns slightly, leaning against the counter a few feet away. "Why didn’t you wake one of us up and ask for a blanket?"
"I was going to," you admit, digging the spoon back into the tub. "But it was late, and I swear I could hear the cookies n' cream in the freezer literally begging to be eaten."
He laughs, the sound warming the kitchen. You remember, suddenly, that he loves this exact flavor just as much as you do.
You’re sitting right above the drawer where the utensils are kept. Leaning down slightly, you pull the drawer open, grab a clean spoon, and hold it out toward him. It’s an offering. An olive branch, if you will.
Logan stares at the spoon in your hand for a full minute, blinking before he slowly reaches out and takes it. You hold the tub of ice cream out between you. He steps in closer, scooping a bite directly from the container, and mindlessly cleans off the spoon with his lips.
As he does, you realize just how close he’s standing. For some reason, watching the slow, casual movement of his jaw makes a traitorous heat bloom, starting from your neck and spreading to your face. He’s standing right between your parted knees as you sit on the counter, close enough that his body heat is radiating against your cold skin, completely overriding the chill of the room. You internally hate yourself for the way your pulse immediately kicks up.
To make matters worse, he tilts the tub back toward you so you can take another bite.
Because you’re elevated on the counter, Logan is forced to look slightly up at you, his glimmering eyes wide and dark in the shadows. He shifts his weight, and his other hand—completely absentmindedly, just out of old, deep-seated habit—rests lightly against the edge of the counter, his knuckles slightly brushing against the bare skin of your thigh.
You don’t think he’s thinking much of it. To him, it’s probably just the casual, comfortable contact that used to be the norm between you two. But to you, it is absolutely terrible. You had managed to successfully drown out all of those impulsive, agonizingly loving thoughts for months, burying them deep beneath your anger. But they only ever seem to come roaring back to life during quiet, hyper-intimate moments just like this.
And that is exactly why you spent the last few weeks avoiding being alone with him like this.
You pray he can’t hear the way your heart is slamming against your ribs. Desperate to break the suffocating spell of his proximity, you hop off the counter, your bare feet hitting the cold floorboards with a soft thud.
"We should go get that blanket," you say, your voice sounding a little too quick, a little too breathless.
Logan studies your face for a lingering moment, his doe eyes searching yours before he gives a quiet nod. "Yeah. It's upstairs in my room."
You follow him up the stairs, the quiet of the house wrapping around you. But when you step into his bedroom, Logan stops by his closet, a sheepish look crossing his face as he remembers. "Ah, actually, I forgot. I threw it in the wash earlier. It’s probably still in the dryer downstairs." He offers an apologetic grimace. "Sorry."
"It's fine," you say, leaning against his doorframe. "At least it'll be fresh out of the heat."
He lets out a soft laugh. "Wait in here, I'll go grab it."
Once his footsteps fade down the hallway, you step fully into his room. It hits you all at once that you haven't been in this space in months. It looks the same—the rumpled sheets, the hockey gear tucked into the corner—but it feels entirely different.
Your eyes drift over to his desk, and you freeze.
Resting right on top of a stack of textbooks is a colorful weave of embroidery string. Your breath hitches. You know it’s not the one Logan wears, because you just saw his on his wrist seconds ago. You take a step closer, your fingers trembling slightly as you reach out and pick it up.
It’s fixed. Every single thread that had snapped apart on the night of your presentation has been carefully knotted back together. You had assumed it was thrown in the garbage. He never brought it up, never mentioned keeping it.
You lean back against the edge of his desk, staring down at the neat knots, completely lost in thought.
The door clicks, and you jump slightly as Logan returns, a warm, fluffy blanket cradled in his arms. He has an easy, happy smile on his face—one that drops instantly the second his eyes land on what is dangling from your fingertips.
“You still have it,” you observe quietly.
Logan’s movements turn hesitant. He walks toward you like he's stepping onto thin ice, gently dropping the warm blanket onto the edge of his unmade bed. Over the last few weeks, you’ve gotten so good at masking your emotions that he genuinely can’t read you right now. The unreadable expression is making him visibly nervous.
"I'm sorry," he says, his voice dropping. "I didn't realize I left that out."
You ignore his apology, your eyes still locked on the tightly woven strings. "When did you fix it?"
"The day we rekindled things," he confesses softly.
Your chest tightens. "Why did you never show it to me?"
"I didn't think you’d want to see it." Logan swallows hard. "I didn't want to push you."
"Why did you fix it, Logan?"
There is a sudden, fragile falter in your voice—one you didn't even realize was coming until the words left your mouth.
Logan stares at you, completely at a loss. He doesn't know how to answer that honestly without entirely blowing his cover and confessing that he is desperately, entirely in love with you. So, he falls back on the safest truth he has. "Because it was important to me. You're important to me."
Silence stretches over the bedroom. You quickly avert your gaze, looking down at the floor, and Logan’s stomach drops through the floorboards. He thinks he’s done it. He thinks he’s finally fucked up for the last time. All those weeks of careful groveling, of trying to respect your boundaries, and he ruined it because he was an idiot who forgot to hide a fucking bracelet.
But then, a soft, ragged sniffle breaks the silence.
"Hey," Logan calls your name softly.
Instinctively, your head snaps up to meet his gaze. The moment he sees the watery sheen glossing over your eyes, any hesitation he had vanishes. He rushes across the small gap between you, his large hands immediately reaching out.
He gently takes the bracelet from your fingers, murmuring, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
Before you can blink, his thumb reaches up, tenderly wiping away the single tear you allowed to escape down your cheek. His large palm doesn't leave your face; instead, his hand settles gently against your jawline, his fingers anchoring you, prompting you to look directly into the depths of his honey eyes.
The sudden proximity sinks into you. You are completely trapped between the solid breadth of his chest and the hard edge of his desk. And looking up at him, you can tell he is thinking the exact same thing you are.
Your gaze helplessly drops to his lips. When you snap your eyes back up to his, you realize with a jolt that he had just been doing the exact same thing to you.
"Tell me to stop," Logan whispers, his breath warm against your lips, his voice raw and begging.
You want to. You know you should. You know you’re supposed to be just friends, that you’re supposed to be protecting your heart. But the logic completely dissolves, and the moment his lips finally touch yours, you don't pull away.
You kiss him back.
The kiss is slow and absolutely intoxicating. You have never felt more utterly vulnerable in your entire life. Logan lets out a low, ragged sound against your mouth, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs, effortlessly lifting you up so you're sitting securely on the edge of the desk. He doesn't break the contact for a single second. His hands shift, his large palms wrapping firmly around your waist, holding onto you with a distinct desperation—like you’re a buoy in the middle of a crashing ocean and he’s a drowning man.
The familiar warmth of him fills you up, once again erasing the chill of the house. You almost entirely forget who you are, where you are, and what exactly you’re doing—until the kiss deepens, and a soft, involuntary moan of pure pleasure escapes your throat.
The sound shocks you right back to reality.
Panicking, you put your hands against his chest and break away from him immediately, sliding off the desk and backing up until your spine hits the wall. Your breathing is shallow and erratic, your lips tingling.
Logan stands there, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and completely dark with a mixture of shock and terror. "I'm sorry. I—“
"No, it's—it's fine," you stammer, your hands flying up to touch your face, your mind spinning into complete overdrive. "I just—can’t. I can’t, I’m sorry.”
Before he can even utter another word, you dart past him, tearing open the bedroom door and sprinting down the hallway, leaving him standing alone in the center of the room.
Logan closes his eyes, a frustrated huff escaping his lips as he rubs his hands over his face. He’s certain. He is absolutely, one hundred percent certain that he just blew everything. He just ruined the fragile friendship you’ve spent ages building.
Slowly, he reopens his eyes, his shoulders slumped in utter defeat as he looks over at his bed.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 : Jules spent years hating Theodore Nott. He was cruel, arrogant, and always knew exactly how to get under her skin. But in fifth year, everything changes when the two agree to a fake dating arrangement to make certain people jealous. What starts as teasing and stolen glances slowly turns into late-night conversations, lingering touches, and feelings neither of them were supposed to catch. Theodore becomes Jules’ escape from the pressure, expectations, and loneliness that follow her everywhere. But some people are destined to destroy each other no matter how hard they try to hold on.
warnings/tags: 18+ content (read responsibly!) fake dating trope, enemies to lovers , swearing, emotional constipation, sexual tension/ suggestive banter + character "glowup" & kissing.
word count: 2k
Trigger warnings will be placed before chapters when necessary.
Please read responsibly ♡
notes: This is like the 5th time I’ve tried to post this praying it goes through this time but Finally making a tag list so if you wanted be add comment so I can add you!! Leaving off this chapter here for now please don't hate me lolll im already finishing up the next chapter stay tuned!!
Jules folded her arms, narrowing her eyes at Theo lounging in his chair like he hadn't just been caught snogging some random Hufflepuff in the middle of the common room.
"I'm not staring, you idiot," she said flatly, even though her cheeks still burned. "But seriously — if you're gonna be snogging a girl mid–common room, don't be surprised when you're interrupted."
Theo gave a lazy grin, like he lived to get under her skin. "You seemed very interested, Greengrass. Could've joined in if you wanted."
"In your dreams, Nott."
He laughed softly, standing and stretching. "So. Have you thought about my offer? Tonight would be perfect to start it, just saying."
Juliet frowned. "You mean your ridiculous suggestion ?"
He shrugged, taking a step closer. "You said it yourself — you can't stand seeing Diggory and Chang together. And I can't stand Daphne parading round with that Prucey git. We might as well make them a little uncomfortable, yeah?"
Juliet huffed, crossing her arms tighter. "I'm not fake-flirting with you, Theo."
"Oh, come on. We'll flirt a bit, have a laugh, give people something to talk about. "
"You're such a tosser."
"Maybe," he said, smirking. "But I'm a tosser with a plan."
She hesitated. Merlin help her, part of her actually wanted to say yes.
"Fine," she said finally, glaring at him. "But we're setting rules. Clear ones."
Theo arched a brow. "Rules?"
"Yes. We don't get attached. No real feelings, no jealous fits, no actual snogging unless it's for show."
Theo smiled, clearly amused by her so-called rules.
"Alright then," he said, crossing his arms. "I'm listening."
Juliet blinked, half expecting him to roll his eyes and drop the whole thing. "I'm serious on the snogging part Nott."
Theo actually laughed, loud and disbelieving. "You're so oblivious."
"Why are you laughing? I'm being serious, you idiot." Her tone was so flat he stopped mid-chuckle.
"You've got to be joking," he said again, staring at her like she'd gone mad. "How are we meant to fake-date if I'm not allowed to kiss you?"
"You can— I don't know — put your arm round me, look at me like you adore me or whatever. Just no kissing. I don't go around snogging anyone for the sake of it." She avoided his eyes, pretending to fuss with a quill on the table.
Theo tilted his head, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "Don't tell me you've only ever kissed Diggory, Greengrass. Merlin's beard, you're more innocent than I thought."
Juliet's eyes snapped up, cheeks flushing. "That's none of your bloody business."
He laughed quietly, clearly enjoying how flustered she'd become. "Relax, princess. I'm only teasing."
"Add that to the list," she muttered. "No calling me princess either."
Theo grinned wider. "You're making an awful lot of rules for someone who's pretending not to care."
"I just don't want you getting the wrong idea."
He leaned back against the wall, eyes glinting. "These rules are starting to sound more for you than me, Greengrass."
Juliet glared at him, but her lips twitched like she was fighting a smile. "Keep talking, Nott, and I'll add no smug gits allowed to the list as well."
"I was only trying to help," he said with mock innocence, hands raised. "Alright then — no kissing, no pet names, no catching feelings. Anything else, Commander?"
She rolled her eyes. "Yes. no holding hands unless we have to, and absolutely no telling Pansy — she'll make it a whole thing."
Theo nodded thoughtfully. "Right. Got it. So basically, I'm to flirt with you in public, keep my hands to myself, Easy."
"Merlin, you're insufferable," she said, snatching her bag off the chair.
He just smiled, watching her head for the door. "See you tonight, then?"
"Don't be late, Nott," Juliet said, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
Theo's smirk deepened. "I wouldn't miss it for anything, princess. I'll see you later."
He blew her a kiss before strolling off down the corridor, still chuckling to himself.
Juliet rolled her eyes, but she couldn't fight the small, traitorous smile tugging at her lips.
"Bloody idiot," she muttered — though she wasn't quite sure if she meant him or herself.
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Juliet stood in front of the mirror in her dorm, muttering a charm to curl the ends of her hair. Her heart thudded annoyingly fast. It wasn't for Theo, obviously — it was because she knew Cedric and Cho would be there. She had to look good. Effortlessly good.
She rummaged through her wardrobe until she found it — a black fitted body suit that hugged her waist and jeans that flared just slightly at the hem. Paired with her black small heels that she stole from Astorias wardrobe , it looked perfect. She smirked at her reflection. "You're gonna be fine, Jules," she whispered. "You'll flirt with Nott a bit, look unbothered, and show everyone you're over Diggory how hard could that be."
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The Gryffindor common room was already buzzing when she and Pansy arrived. Fairy lights flickered across the ceiling, bottles of Firewhisky lined the tables
"Bloody hell, props to the Weasleys ," Pansy muttered, already eyeing the drinks.
Juliet spotted Theo across the room — sleeves rolled up, grin in place, chatting with Blaise and Draco Malfoy like he owned the place. He caught her eye immediately.
Of course he did.
She looked away quickly, heading for the drinks table, but he was beside her within seconds.
"You clean up nice, Greengrass."
She smirked. "Don't start."
"Not starting. Just appreciating the view."
"Merlin's sake, you're insufferable."
"Funny. You didn't think so when you agreed to flirt with me tonight."
Before she could respond, her breath caught — Cho Chang and Cedric Diggory had just stepped through the portrait hole, fingers intertwined, looking disgustingly perfect together.
Juliet froze. The sound of laughter and chatter around her dulled, fading into a low hum. All she could see was them.
Theo followed her gaze, and for a moment he didn't say anything. His smirk softened into something almost — almost — sympathetic. It was like watching a puppy watch another puppy get adopted.
Without a word, he shifted closer, his hand finding her waist. The warmth of his touch startled her.
"Let's get you a drink, yeah?" he murmured against her ear, low enough that only she could hear.
Juliet blinked, forcing herself to look away from Cedric and Cho. "Yeah," she said quietly, clearing her throat. "Yeah, alright."
Theo guided her toward the drinks table, his hand still resting lightly on her hip — protective, possessive, or maybe just for show. She wasn't sure, but she didn't push him away either.
Theo handed her a cup of Firewhisky, leaning casually against the table. "There we are, Greengrass. Strong enough to burn away your heartbreak."
Juliet rolled her eyes, taking a sip — and instantly coughing. "Merlin's beard, Theo, are you trying to kill me?"
He grinned. "If that's what it takes to make you loosen up, then maybe."
"you're real funny" she muttered, wiping her mouth
"Go on then, smile," Theo teased. "If we're meant to be convincing, you can't look like you're about to hex me."
She gave him a tight-lipped grin. "Better?"
"Not quite. Try again."
Juliet sighed, but when she looked up at him — really looked — he was already watching her, eyes glinting in the low firelight. Something in her chest fluttered annoyingly.
"You're staring," she said, taking another sip.
He smirked. "Maybe I am. Good for the act, isn't it?"
"Sure," she said, voice quieter than she meant.
Across the room, Cedric's laugh carried above the music. Juliet stiffened, catching sight of him with Cho — his hand resting low on her back, the way it used to rest on hers.
Theo noticed immediately. "Right," he said, downing the rest of his drink. "Time to give them a show."
Before she could ask what he meant, Theo slid an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer. Juliet tensed on instinct, but his voice was smooth when he spoke, loud enough for the people nearby — and for Cedric — to hear.
"Did I tell you you look gorgeous tonight?" he said easily.
Juliet blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. "You're laying it on a bit thick, Nott."
"That's the point, isn't it?"
She scoffed but played along, tilting her head up with a smirk. "Well, at least pick your compliments better. You sound like every other bloke at this school."
Theo grinned. "And yet, you're still standing here talking to me. Must be doing something right."
She was about to retort when Fred jumped up on a chair and shouted, "Alright, everyone! You know what time it is—SPIN THE BLOODY BOTTLE!"
A chorus of cheers and groans filled the room. Hermione muttered something about "juvenile nonsense" before being dragged into the circle by Ginny.
Juliet laughed, shaking her head. "You've got to be kidding."
Theo nudged her lightly. "Come on, Greengrass. Perfect opportunity."
They sat across from each other on the carpet, surrounded by students from every house — laughter, music, Fire whisky, and the kind of reckless energy that always came with Hogwarts parties.
Juliet could feel Cedric's eyes on her from across the room, Cho tucked against his arm. Good, she thought. Let him look.
Theo gave the bottle a lazy spin, the glass clinking against the floorboards as it turned — once, twice, then slowing... until it landed right between them.
The circle erupted with cheers. Fred shouted, "Go on, Nott, don't be shy!" while Pansy whistled dramatically.
Juliet groaned under her breath. "Oh, for Merlin's sake."
Theo leaned in, that infuriating grin back on his face. "You sure you don't want to add another rule?"
"Shut up and Kiss me" she muttered, but there was a hint of a smile on her lips.
He leaned in slowly, his usual smugness replaced by something softer — teasing, but charged. When his lips brushed hers, the room fell away for half a second.
Cheers exploded around them — wolf whistles, laughter, Goerge shouting, "Bloody hell, that's how you do it!"
Juliet pulled back quickly, face flushed. "Well. That's one for the list," she muttered, reaching for her drink.
He grinned, leaning closer so only she could hear. "You know, Greengrass... I think you like breaking your own rules."
She rolled her eyes, trying not to smile — and failing.
Laughter bubbled up around them again, the game spinning on to its next victim, but Juliet barely heard it. She could still feel the ghost of his mouth on hers — still taste the Firewhisky and mint.
She looked up for one reckless moment — straight across the circle.
Cedric was watching.
His arm was still around Cho, but his expression had faltered, a flicker of something — surprise? irritation? — crossing his face before he quickly looked away.
Juliet's chest tightened, and for the first time all night, the ache didn't sting quite as much.
Theo leaned closer, voice low. "Told you this would be fun."
She shot him a sidelong glare. "You're insufferable."
"Maybe," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching, "but you didn't hate it."
Theo didn't press it. He just sat there, watching her with that same infuriating half-smile — like he knew exactly what she was thinking.
Jules watched as the rest to her friends kissed one another as she kept drinking fire whiskey
Juliet's chest felt tight as she watched the bottle spin, the laughter and cheers around her fading into a dull hum. She tried to focus on something — anything — else, but Cedric and Cho were right there, sitting close, their hands brushing.
And then...
Cedric leaned in.
His lips met Cho's in a slow, casual kiss, the kind that made it look effortless, perfect, as if the whole world belonged to them. The sight stole the air from her lungs. Juliet's stomach lurched, a twist of envy and heartbreak that left her frozen in place.
She couldn't watch. She couldn't stand to see it, not after everything — not after what she thought she had with him, however fleeting it had been.
"Back in a sec," she muttered to Pansy, voice tight, a lump forming in her throat. Pansy's eyes flicked to hers, sharp and understanding, but she didn't ask questions. She knew better than to try.
Juliet pushed through the throng of students, ignoring Theo's teasing grin as he leaned close. "Everything alright, Greengrass?"
She shook her head, barely whispering, "I... I need air."
Every step toward the staircase felt heavy, her heart pounding as though it would burst. The noise of the party — the music, the laughter, the clinking of bottles — became unbearable, each sound a cruel reminder of what she couldn't have.
The stairs seemed endless. Her heels clicked against the stone, each step a small punctuation in the storm of emotions roiling inside her. By the time she reached the girls' dormitory, her chest ached, her throat raw from the words she hadn't said, and her hands trembled slightly as she shut the door behind her.
She sank onto her bed, curling up under the covers, wrapping herself in the one thing that felt safe — the quiet. Her mind kept replaying the image of Cedric and Cho, the careless ease of his kiss, the warmth of his hand on hers now just a memory.
Jules. Hey, are you alright in there?" Fred's voice interrupted her thoughts he was concerned, and his brow furrowed as he caught sight of the flush in her cheeks and the tension in her shoulders.
Juliet froze, caught off guard. She opened her mouth to brush him off, to say she was fine, but the words felt empty. Instead, she shook her head slightly. "I... I just need a minute, Fred."
He didn't let go. "Come on, love. You stormed off like you had seen your boggart or something. open the door Talk to me. What's wrong?"
She swallowed hard, blinked back the sting in her eyes, and forced a tight-lipped smile. "It's nothing. Really. Just... too much noise, that's all."
Fred's expression softened, though he didn't let her lie go unchallenged. "Too much noise, yeah? Or something else? You don't have to tell me if you don't want, but... you're my best friend Jules. I can tell when you're not fine."
Juliet hesitated, looking down at her hands. She wanted to explain — the ache in her chest, the sight of Cedric kissing Cho, the knot of jealousy and heartbreak twisting her stomach — but she couldn't. Not here, not with everyone around.
"I... I'll be fine," she whispered at last, voice small. "I just... need some sleep, alright?"
Fred gave her a small, knowing nod. "Alright. But if you need me... you find me. Don't just vanish on me, yeah?"
She smiled at the fact her red haired friend was ditching his own part to make sure she was okay grateful for his concern, and finally she opened up the door, and without saying anything she simply hugged the boy in front of her.
No words needed to be said. Fred knew that, he hugged her back immediately. "get some rest june bug i'll see you tomorrow"
Once inside her dorm, she kicked off her slippers and collapsed onto her bed, curling up under the covers. once again Her mind replayed Cedric's kiss with Cho over and over, the sting sharper than she expected.
Tears pricked at her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She hated that she cared this much. She hated that it hurt this much.
Her fingers gripped the sheets as if she could hold herself together by force alone. Sleep came slowly, each blink heavy with exhaustion and a gnawing ache in her chest. But when it finally claimed her, Juliet let herself go completely, if only for a few hours, letting the heartbreak recede into the quiet of her room. fingers gripped the sheets as if she could hold herself together by force alone. Sleep came slowly, each blink heavy with exhaustion and a gnawing ache in her chest. But when it finally claimed her, Juliet let herself go completely, if only for a few hours, letting the heartbreak recede into the quiet of her room.
Tomorrow, the world would be waiting — Freddie, Cedric, Theo, classes, everything. But tonight, she let herself retreat, even if only for a little while, into the safety of solitude.
Summary: You should’ve known better to study at your boyfriend’s house if you wanted to be actually productive.
Warnings: Fluff! Established relationship
Author’s Note: Thank you so much for the positive response to the last post!!! Here’s another draft that’s been sitting around. Stay tuned for more!
“Can you come to bed now?” Logan whines pathetically from his bed.
Despite being the same size of a small bear, he gives me large puppy eyes when I glance over my shoulder. I bite my lip to hold back a snicker. What would his teammates think?
“I’m almost done with this section,” I say, turning back to my notes.
“That’s what you said half an hour ago.”
Even though I’m not looking, I know for a fact he has his lips in an adorable pout. One day I’ll sneak a photo of him begging and pouting and send it to the entire hockey team. Logan always acts like a tough guy for the rest of Briar U but when it’s just us, he turns into a softie. Normally I appreciate this side of him but right now I’m having serious beef with this gen chem textbook.
“Sorry if I don’t wanna fail my quiz. I have to finish this section by tonight or else my whole study schedule is messed up.”
“For a quiz that’s three weeks away,” he grumbles, to which I roll my eyes and try to understand the sentence I’ve been rereading for the past few minutes.
I don’t hear another complaint from Logan which makes me smirk in victory.
The quiet doesn’t last as a pair of arms warp around my shoulders and the smell of aftershave invades my nose. A shiver goes down my body when I feel Logan’s stumble scratch against my skin as he buries his face into my neck.
“Logan please,” I squeak out.
“How about you study in bed baby?” He murmurs, lips brushing my ear.
I turn my head slightly to raise my brow at him.
“No funny business, I just wanna hold you,” he assures, giving a peck to my temple.
I pretend to think about it even though the answer is yes. He gives me a grin, releasing me from his arms to grab my textbook and notes and saunters to the bed.
“Why don’t you teach it to me?” he says, patting his lap, “It might help.”
I let out another scoff but it has no real heat to it.
I settle in the space between his legs, letting him pull me flush against his hard chest. My cheeks grow warm at the proximity but I force myself to open back up my notebook
He lets me angle the textbook on his leg while one of arms snakes around my waist to hold me close, drawing circles with his thumb against his my hoodie.
“Ok so this is basically…” I begin to explain, pointing at the textbook image and then jotting down my notes into the book balanced in my own lap. It’s not the best surface for writing but I’m not complaining when I feel Logan press his lips into my hair.
He hums a response, giving me a squeeze which takes everything in me not to melt into him. I continue to ramble about the different molecules and sometimes he’ll press a kiss on my temple and mumble something along the lines of “smart girl” or “good job baby”. And every time I have to give myself at least ten seconds to slow my heart rate.
Even though we’ve been dating for a couple months, he still has this effect on me. Probably forever.
I wasn’t even expecting him to listen but he surprised me by asking a few follow-up questions which helped me solidify my confidence in the topic. Even though Logan lives a completely different life with insane expectations and priorities, he always manages to still make me feel like the most interesting and important thing in his life.
After a few minutes go by, I feel his lips brush against the shell of my ear.
“You’re distracting me,” I murmur.
“Well I just saw we finished the section but you haven’t closed the book yet.”
Damn him. I forget how observant he is.
“Come on baby,” he says, “It’s almost one in the morning. You know I need my full eight hours.”
I glance over at the clock on his nightstand to see that it was way past the time I had planned to stay up. I blame Allie and Dean taking forever to make dinner tonight. What do you mean you forget to preheat the oven?
But Logan’s right, I’m already feeling the tiredness creep into my bones. No use fighting it. Especially when Logan continues to stroke my sides which makes me feel all fuzzy.
I let out a sigh of defeat and began to tidy up my things. Logan loosens his grip to let me quickly shove all the material into my bag by the desk. He shuffles to lay down and outstretches his arms when I turn to face him. He has a stupid grin plastered on his face making you think he just won a hockey game.
Nope. The smile is just for me which makes my heart clench.
“You’re so clingy,” I chide but take my proper spot next to him.
His eyes are already half closed when I shuffle to face him. I feel bad keeping him awake knowing that he already had a long practice.
Not too bad about it though because he was the one blowing up my phone insisting I come over tonight.
“You love it,” he hums.
One of his arms wraps around my waist to pull me close and his legs tangle with mine. He gives me a kiss, cupping my face with his free hand. Before I can even react, Logan is pulling away to settle into his pillow. I rest my head on his chest, listening to the soft rhythm of his heartbeat. His breath tickles the top of my head while his fingers are warm against my back.
summary: Being in love with your childhood best friend was no easy feat, but it was manageable. Until it wasn’t. When John Logan breaks a crucial promise, he’s forced to confront what’s been standing in front of him all along.
based on this request! i hope i did it justice <3
content: so.much.angst. like, so much. unrequited love, reader is a stem major. the characters are more accurate to their book counterparts occasionally, namely tucker. oops. some things may be ooc but it is for the sake of the plot. logan is unknowingly an asshole.
note: i may or may not do a part two, my motivation fluctuates! hope you enjoy because this was super sad to write.
He’s looking at her.
His arm rests along the back of the couch, the sensation of it familiar enough that you barely notice it anymore. Every few minutes, when someone says something particularly funny, his hand shifts and his fingers brush against the exposed skin of your shoulder blade. It’s casual, absent-minded contact. It means nothing to him and everything to you.
Around you, the boys’ house is lively. Tucker is arguing with Birdie about the game they’ve been at for hours on the TV. Every once in a while, someone tells them to shut up. They do that for a total of five minutes before someone inevitably raises their voice, leading the other to do the same.
You should be finishing up your story. It was a stupid tale, one about falling asleep during a lecture.
Instead, you’re watching him.
Or rather, you’re watching where he’s looking.
His gaze drifts across the room so often that you’ve begun anticipating it, finding yourself following the path before he’s even finished turning his head. It happens during conversations. During periods of silence. During moments when he’s supposed to be paying attention you.
His eyes always find the same person.
You wonder if anyone else notices.
Maybe they don’t. Maybe they haven’t spent nearly ten years studying every version of John Logan.
Ten years.
Long enough to remember the cracked sidewalks of your hometown and the suffocating certainty that neither of you belonged there. Long enough to remember sitting on the roof of his garage at thirteen years old, passing back and forth what was always bag of Hot Cheetos while making promises far too big for kids your age.
You had been determined to leave.
And somehow, against every odd stacked against two middle-schoolers with seemingly unattainable dreams and no real plan, you did.
You earned your place through a STEM scholarship that had consumed countless nights and enough caffeine to raise alerts towards your cardiovascular system. He earned his through hockey, through early mornings and bruises and a relentless dedication that you supported him all throughout.
Different roads, same destination.
For nearly a decade, the two of you had existed side by side.
And for six of those years, you’ve loved him.
You weren’t sure when you realized it, but once you did, it felt as though things finally clicked into place. There had always been that speculation from others that you two were something beyond a mere friendship—but there was no weight to it. Not while it wasn’t true, anyway.
You thought it may have been the puberty. John was no longer a scrawny kid who you hovered over. He’d grown into himself as the years passed—taller, stronger, more confident. It was a simple crush that came as a result of change, you told yourself.
But you had began to think it was more than that, that it always had been. Once the feeling arrived, it made no effort to fade—settling into the empty spaces between inside jokes and late-night phone calls, between shared victories and devastating failures. It lodged itself so deeply within your bond that you stopped looking for where friendship ended and something else began.
Maybe that was your mistake.
Across the room, Hannah laughs.
The sound is soft enough that most people would miss it beneath the chatter, but John hears it.
Of course he does.
Hannah Wells has a way of drawing attention effortlessly. Her smile comes easily, brightening her entire face like a Christmas tree. Honey-brown hair spills over one shoulder as she speaks. Her deep cerulean eyes crinkle when she laughs. Hearing her sing for the first time made it no better.
And she is so kind.
She remembers your birthday, she asks you questions on a subject you think had long been over. She makes you feel seen.
It’s impossible to blame him for looking.
The problem is that lately, he hasn’t seemed capable of looking anywhere else.
His fingers brush your shoulder again, mindlessly.
Across the room, Hannah says something to Allie that you can’t quite make out.
Logan smiles.
And suddenly, despite his arm around you and his knee pressed lightly against yours and nearly ten years of friendship sitting comfortably between the two of you, you’ve never felt further away from him.
Tucker notices your shift in mood before Logan does. You like Tuck the most out of all of Logan’s friends. He’s a year below the rest of you, though you like to say he’s the most mature out of all of them. He’s observant, you learned.
He tilts his head at you, silently asking if you’re okay. You send him a half-hearted thumbs up. Something clicks for him and he accepts your answer, redirecting his attention to the game.
You think Tucker knows about your crush on John. A part of you hopes he doesn’t, but another part of you knows that he does.
At some point, Logan notices you’ve stopped talking. By the time he has, you’re fiddling with your bracelet. He frowns, glancing at his own matching one on his left wrist. You were both surprised they had never broken. Logan enjoyed referring to it as a testament to your long-standing friendship. The blue and purple embroidery of both your bracelets have become a halo of fuzz, but they remain intact nonetheless.
Logan glances back at you, studying you once again—knit eyebrows, lip tucked between your teeth. You’re upset.
“What’s wrong?”
You meet his doe eyed gaze and hate yourself for thinking about drowning in them. He knows you as well as you know him. So much so that you can’t lie and pretend you’re okay. He’s read you and he’s decided that you’re not.
So you do the next best thing.
“It’s just stuffy in here,” you reply passively, maintaining a poker face when you push off the couch and his fingertips leave your shoulder blades. “I’m gonna get some air.”
The cool evening air hits you the second the front door clicks shut, but it does nothing to clear the sudden suffocating weight in your chest. You walk over to the edge of the porch, gripping the wooden railing just to have something solid to hold onto.
Behind you, the front door opens and shuts. Familiar footsteps thud against the wood. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him, you’d know the specific cadence of his stride anywhere.
"Hey," Logan says softly, stepping up beside you, jacket in his hand. He leans his forearms against the railing, his large frame blocking out the slight breeze. "You left your jacket inside. It’s freezing out here."
You make no effort to retrieve the coat from his grasp. You don’t look even at him. Instead, your eyes fixate on a tiny, industrious spider crawling across the top of a plastic patio chair a few feet away. It is small, frantic, and entirely unaware of the shifting plates of your universe, completely consumed by the monumental task of weaving a web between two cheap slats of faux-wicker. You envy it. You want to be anything else—a spider, a piece of dust, a thread on your frayed bracelet—anything but the girl standing under the porch light, slowly unraveling.
"I'm fine," you tell him, the words slipping out easily, rehearsed from a decade of practice.
"You're not fine," he insists softly. It’s not an accusation. It’s a statement of fact.
"I am fine," you repeat, but your voice is uneven.
You always are, somehow. It’s a reflex by now. Burn the midnight oil until your vision blurs, crash through exams on three hours of sleep, watch the boy you’ve loved for six years slip through your fingers like water—the answer is always the same: I’m fine.
"Don't do that," Logan mutters, turning his head to look at you. His eyes are swimming with an earnest yet frustrating concern that always makes you want to spill your guts. "We don't do that. Talk to me. Did someone say something inside? Did I do something?"
You let out a breath that cuts like a laugh, though there’s no humor in it. You look out at the dark front yard, at the dead leaves scattering across the pavement.
You finally turn your head to look at him. You note the exact way the yellow porch light catches the bridge of his nose, the slight shadow of stubble along his jawline. You know every iteration of this face. You know the childhood version, the teenage version, and this current, devastatingly handsome collegiate version.
And yet, looking at him right now, he feels like a stranger wearing your best friend's skin.
"That's just it, Logan. You haven't done anything." Your voice drops, stripped of its usual warmth. "You haven't been doing anything. Not with me, anyway."
He blinks, a small, defensive crease forming between his eyebrows. "I don’t understand.”
“I know you don’t,” you murmur.
“Then explain it to me.”
"It means you’re pulling away," you say directly, the words tasting like copper in your mouth, but you force them out anyway. You don't mention Hannah. You don't have to bring up the way his eyes track her, or the way his laugh sounds higher when she’s in the room. This isn't about her. This is about him. This is about the space where your best friend used to be. "You’re always somewhere else. I talk to you, and it’s like I’m throwing words into an empty room. You look right through me lately. You’re right here, and it feels like there’s a thousand miles between us."
Logan stiffens. For a second, his mouth opens to deny it, the knee-jerk reaction of a guy who prides himself on being loyal. But as he looks at you—at the tight line of your jaw, at the way you're holding onto your own arm like you’re trying to keep yourself from falling apart—you can see the fight slowly leave him.
The silence stretches, punctuated only by the joyous yells of your friends inside.
"I didn't. . .” Logan starts, his voice dropping an octave. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, looking down at his shoes. "I didn't realize I was making you feel like that. I swear to God, I didn't."
"Well, you are." Your voice trembles just a fraction, and you hate yourself for it, pulling your shoulders back to overcompensate. "I know that friends drift. But I don’t wanna be background noise in your life.”
Logan steps closer, closing the small physical gap between you. He reaches out, his large hand wrapping around your forearm—right over the frayed threads of your bracelet. You pray he doesn’t notice the hitching of your breath.
"You're not background noise," he says sincerely, his desperate eyes searching yours. "You could never be. I'm sorry. Seriously. I've had. . . I’ve just had a lot on my mind lately, and I’ve been distracted. I’ve been a shitty best friend, and there’s no excuse for it. I’m so sorry."
You look at his hand on your arm. You look at the genuine regret pulling at the corners of his eyes. He doesn't know that the distraction is killing you for an entirely different reason. He just knows he hurt his person, and he wants to fix it.
You swallow the ache in your throat, nodding slowly. You let the anger go, because holding onto it hurts worse than forgiving him does.
"It’s okay," you assure him. "Just don’t forget about me, dork.”
"Never," he promises, squeezing your arm before letting go. A small, relieved smile tugs at his lips, the tension leaving his shoulders. He makes no effort to back away from you. It’s all the more suffocating. "I promise. Hey, you still have that big winter showcase coming up in two weeks, right? For your department?"
"Yeah," you say, a genuine spark of nervousness lighting up your stomach. "It’s the Friday after this upcoming one."
"I'll be there," Logan says instantly, his voice full of the certainty that usually makes you feel safe. "Front row. I'll even wear a stupid button-down shirt so your professors think I'm respectable. Deal?"
You look at him, wanting so badly to trust the boy who used to share bags of Hot Cheetos on a garage roof.
"Deal," you agree.
The fluorescent lights of the auditorium are blinding. It is 5:30PM. The STEM showcase had officially kicked off at five, the culmination of sleepless semesters, data sheets that blurred into meaningless code by three in the morning, and enough stress to permanently alter your brain chemistry.
Your phone sits completely dark and powered down in the bottom of your tote bag. You hadn't sent Logan a reminder text today. You hadn’t wanted to seem needy, and besides, you figured he’d remember.
He knew what this meant to you. He’d been the one to hold you on the floor of your bedroom a week ago ago when the overthinking caught up to you, his large hands rubbing slow circles into your back while you sobbed into his chest, terrified that it wouldn’t be enough. He’d promised then, just like he’d promised on the porch, that he’d be here.
Last night, you had even swung by the hockey house, your presentation slides printed out and shaking in your hands, just looking for a final bit of reassurance to quiet the jitters. But Logan wasn't there. He’d been at Malone’s, helping Hannah setup tables and banners for the upcoming weekend showcase she offered to host for music majors.
It was fine, you told yourself. It really was. He was trying to be better, and you could see the effort. The crush was still a persistent ache in your ribs, but he hadn't let it bleed into your friendship the way he had before. You understood what it was like to be at someone’s beck and call—hell, you’d been at his for six years. You couldn't blame him for falling under Hannah’s gravitational pull.
Logan hadn't been there last night, but Tucker had.
Tucker had stopped chopping vegetables, wiped his hands on a dish towel, and sat you down at the kitchen island. He listened to you stumble through your abstract, giving you a supportive nod when you finished. When you told Tucker he didn't have to worry about coming tomorrow since it was so last minute and Logan would be there anyway, Tucker had just given you an easy smile.
“Then you’ll have two of us cheering you on," he’d promised.
Now, standing by your trifold and your laptop, the nerves are a sickening weight in your stomach. You’ve just finished presenting to the final round of judges. Your mouth is dry, your throat tight, but you’d gotten through it just fine.
Tucker had slipped into the back of the room right before your time slot, his broad shoulders cutting a reassuring silhouette against the crowded aisle. Seeing his familiar face had kept your knees from buckling.
But Logan’s seat in the front row—the one he’d promised to occupy in a stupid button-down shirt—remained completely empty.
It hurts. A sharp, localized sting right beneath your breastbone. You hadn't told anyone else in your life about the showcase because public speaking made you feel entirely naked, meaning Logan and Tucker were your only safety nets.
Everyone else would most likely be at Malone’s. You didn’t want them to choose between you and Hannah, because you knew they’d try to compromise, complicating things. You didn’t want a whole crowd, you were okay with just one person being there.
But you swallow the lump in your throat and smooth down the fabric of your slacks. It’s fine. Logan probably just got caught in campus traffic, or he had a handyman gig that kept him late. He missed the actual presentation, yeah, but there’s still time. The showcase goes until eight.
As long as he shows up before the winners are announced, it’ll be fine. He’ll still be there to celebrate with you. He has to be.
Two hours later, the auditorium is a blur of echoing applause and bright flashing cameras.
When the department head speaks your name into the microphone, announcing you as the first-place recipient of the showcase, the room erupts. Your peers are cheering, clapping you on the back as you walk up the stage, but the sound feels like it’s happening underwater.
Even the heavy glass they hang around your neck and the oversized novelty check—grant money that will entirely fund your next semester of research—do nothing to lift the leaden weight in your chest.
Tucker maneuvers through the crowd as soon as you’ve left the stage, a massive, proud smile lighting up his face as he pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. He hoists you slightly off your feet, laughing, telling you he always knew you had it in the bag.
But when he pulls back, his smile falters. He looks at your eyes, watery and strained, and the pride in his expression softens into a deep concern. He knows. He can tell exactly how badly you're hurting.
But even now, with a first-place medal heavy against your sternum, you find yourself building a fortress of excuses for John Logan.
You give him the benefit of the doubt, because the alternative is unendurable. He’d never do this intentionally. Not after last week. Not to you. Something had to have happened. A family emergency with his mom. Something with Jules. Maybe he’d taken a brutal hit at practice and was sitting in the training room with a concussion, his phone locked away. He had to be hurt. He had to be incapacitated.
"Let's get you out of here," Tucker says softly, his hand settling on the small of your back, shielding you from the lingering crowds as you pack up your laptop. "I can walk you back to your dorm."
"Actually," you say, your voice tight as you zip your tote bag, "can you take me back to the house? Honestly, after the day I’ve had, I’m dying for a home-cooked Tucker special. I need some real comfort food."
You try to make it sound like a casual request, but Tucker’s hand goes entirely still against your back. He doesn't laugh it off. Instead, an uncomfortable hesitation washes over his features. He looks away, his jaw tightening as he stares out at the emptying auditorium.
In that single beat of silence, a cold and sickening realization dawns on you.
Perhaps Logan isn't sick. Perhaps he isn't hurt. He isn't in a hospital or dealing with a family crisis. Tucker knows exactly where he is.
He forgot.
The thought devastates you, a physical blow that leaves you in theoretical agony, but right on the heels of the sadness comes a sharp, blistering wave of fury. You’re a winner. You just secured your future for the next semester. This should be one of the greatest nights of your life, and yet Logan has latched himself so deeply into the fabric of your existence that he can still ruin it without even being in the room. You hate yourself for letting him have that much power over you.
"You sure you want to go to the house right now?" Tucker asks, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, laced with a warning he isn't entirely voicing.
You stop, staring at him. Your chest heaves. "Why? Is he there?"
Tucker looks at you, his brown eyes full of a grim, reluctant pity. He stays silent. He doesn't say a word, but his silence tells you everything you need to know. He's there. He's perfectly fine, at the hockey house while you were standing on a stage alone.
A hot, dangerous spark ignites in your blood.
"Take me there," you say, your voice dropping all the compliance, hard as flint. He begins to say your name, but you don’t allow him to. "Tucker. Take me to the house."
The ride to the hockey house is quick, though you believe that’s a product of the heavy thrum of your own pulse. Tuck keeps one hand on the steering wheel, your grim mood proving itself to be contagious.
Every few minutes, his voice breaks through the quiet of the truck, telling you to take a breath, telling you to try to calm down. But you can hear the sharp undercurrent of his own anger fueling the engine. He’s pissed on your behalf, but you don't have the capacity to appreciate it right now. You just stare straight ahead.
When the truck comes to a stop in the driveway, you don't wait for Tucker to kill the ignition. You throw the door open and march up the steps, completely ignoring him as he calls your name.
You push the door open, not so much that it was disruptive, but it was noticeable nonetheless.
The warmth of the house hits you first, along with the loud, easy cacophony of a Friday night wind-down. The TV is on, and everyone is scattered across the living room. Allie, Garrett, Dean, and Hannah.
And Logan.
The sheer normalcy of the scene feels like a slap to the face. You stand in the entryway, the first-place medal swinging slightly against your chest, dressed in the gray slacks and blouse you’d picked out so carefully. For a fraction of a second, looking at their relaxed posture and happy faces, you feel entirely microscopic. Like an ant on the back of someone’s boot, completely insignificant to the world revolving around them.
Then, the room goes quiet.
Dean is the first one to look up from the couch. His eyes take in your sharp posture, the formal attire, and finally, the heavy piece hung around your neck catching the ambient light. A grin breaks across his face, completely ignorant of the storm cloud rolling off your shoulders.
"Look at that," Dean announces, raising his cup in a mock toast. "The prodigal daughter returns!"
He’s trying to be supportive. Under any other circumstance, you’d smile, you’d thank him through narrowed eyes. You know he doesn't know. He has no idea what Logan promised, or what it cost you to stand on that stage alone.
But you don't look at Dean. You don't look at Garrett or Allie or Hannah.
Your eyes lock onto Logan.
He’s sitting on the edge of the cushions, and the exact moment your gaze finds his, the color drains completely from his face. It’s like watching a man realize he’s stepped off a cliff. His eyes drop to the medal on your chest, then snap back up to your face, wide and absolutely crushed. The realization of what he’s done hits him in a ton of bricks.
Usually, that look on his face would undo you. Usually, seeing John Logan look that miserable would trigger every protective instinct you’ve harbored for him, making you want to soften the blow, to tell him it’s fine, to smooth it over.
But tonight, you feel absolutely nothing.
The reservoir of sympathy has completely dried up, replaced by a fury that has been bubbling beneath the surface for months.
He hadn't just missed a presentation. He had broken a promise. He had lied to your face on the porch, sworn he was back, and then willfully chose to be somewhere else.
You stare at him, the silence in the room turning suffocatingly loud as the others finally catch onto the tension, and the only thought roaring through your mind is how completely invisible you’ve been to him.
That look of shame is enough gratification for you. If he can feel only a fraction of the pain you’d allowed yourself to endure these past few years, that was good for you. You couldn’t stand staring into the eyes of the man you once thought you knew anymore.
You turn your heel against the floorboards, every instinct screaming at you to walk out that door, to erase John Logan from your life, and to leave him standing in the wreckage of a ten-year friendship.
"Wait," his voice cracks through the silence of the room as he calls your name. "Please wait. I’m sorry. Just—please, just wait!”
You halt entirely. Your flats glue themselves to the floor, the medallion thudding against your chest like a pendulum swinging into a dead stop.
Sorry?
The word tastes rancid just hearing it bounce off the walls of the hockey house. You hadn't known what you wanted him to say when you walked through that door.
You hadn't known if there was a combination of vowels and consonants in the English language that could possibly fix this. But hearing his apology serves as nothing other than gasoline thrown directly onto a grease fire.
Slowly, you turn back around.
Your friends look horrified. You almost feel bad that they’re forced to witness this. You almost want to turn around and leave, leaving this argument for when you’re less heated, less hurt.
But you can’t. He needs to hear you. If not last week or the week before that, now.
Logan takes a step toward you, his hands raised slightly as if approaching a wild animal. "I lost track of time. The showcase at Malone’s—"
"Shut up," you say quietly.
The words aren't screamed. They are quiet, sharp, and dripping with an edge that makes Logan freeze in his tracks.
"Just. . . shut the hell up, Logan." You take a step forward, your shoes clicking against the hardwood. "Don't you dare use that as an excuse for being a pathetic, spineless coward."
He glances at the group that has gone dead silent. You don’t know if what he says next is for your sake or his, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
“Let’s go outside,” he offers, his tone resembling something of a plea. “We can—“
“No!” you spat harshly. “You’re gonna listen to me.”
You’d never spoken to him this way. Not in such a venomous tone, stripped from all warmth. For once, Logan does exactly what you’ve asked of him—to listen. His lips part but no words escape them.
"You sat on the porch two weeks ago," you continue, your voice rising now, the heat finally breaking through the ice. "You held my arm, and you looked me in the eyes and promised me you’d change. Do you have any idea what today was?"
Logan swallows hard, his brown hues welling with a desperate, pathetic panic. "It was the department showcase."
"It was the biggest night of my academic career!" you explode, the anger tearing out of your throat. "I have spent months working on this! I broke down sobbing over this because of how tired I was, and you were the one who held me! You knew exactly how terrified I was. You knew I didn't invite anyone else! What would’ve happened if Tuck wasn’t there?"
You gesture wildly to the medal around your neck.
"I stood on that stage alone, John. I scanned that auditorium for two hours, giving you the benefit of the doubt. I thought something had happened. I thought you were lying in a ditch somewhere or bleeding out in a hospital, because that is the only reason the John Logan I grew up with would ever miss this!"
A tear escapes his eye, rolling down his tanned cheek. "I messed up. Fuck, I know I messed up. Let me make it up to you, please—"
"You didn't mess up, you chose!" you hiss, stepping right into his space, forcing him to look down at the fury burning in your eyes. "You’ve made it perfectly clear where I rank on your list of priorities."
"I am wearing a first-place medal," you continue, your voice trembling with a devastating mix of triumph and agony. "I just won enough grant money to pay for my entire next semester of research. This should be the happiest night of my life. But all I can think about is how my best friend couldn’t show up when I needed him.”
"Please," Logan chokes out, reaching a trembling hand toward your shoulder, his fingers twitching to make that familiar, absent-minded contact. "Just—“
You snap your shoulder back, avoiding his touch as if his hand were coated in acid.
But as you jerk away, the zipper of his jacket catches on the frayed, fuzzy threads of your embroidered bracelet. There is a sudden rip. The threads give out all at once, unraveling in a split second as the broken token of your childhood slips from your wrist and flutters uselessly to the floor.
Logan freezes, his eyes dropping to the colorful, ruined heap of strings resting on the hardwood between you two.
It’s symbolic, you think.
"Don't touch me," you say, your voice dropping into a flat, dead register. You stare at him, washing away every ounce of the six years of love, every ounce of the ten years of friendship, until there is absolutely nothing left between you but a void.
"Don't talk to me. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever. You’re dead to me, John."
You turn on your heel and march straight out the front door into the freezing night air.
Logan doesn’t even think before stepping forward to follow after you, but Tucker shuts the door, preventing him from doing so.
He doesn't yell. Instead, he steps into Logan’s space, grabs a fistful of his shirt right at the collar, and shoves him backward into the hallway leading toward the bedrooms. Logan doesn't even try to fight it—he stumbles back, his eyes wide and vacant, completely numb from the fallout.
Tucker slams the door of his room shut, but he doesn't bother locking it. He doesn't need to.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Tucker demands, his voice a growl that vibrates through the walls. He isn’t screaming, but he’s not exactly whispering. “Because right now, I’m having a hard time recognizing one of my best friends.”
“Tuck, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen—”
“You made her a promise, man!” Tucker cuts in sharply. “You told her you’d be there. You looked her dead in the eye and gave her your word. Do you have any idea what today was like for her?”
“I lost track of time. Hannah—”
“Don’t do that,” Tucker says, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t make this about Hannah. This is about you. You screwed up. You’ve been taking that girl for granted for long enough, and she’s been in your corner through every stupid decision you’ve made. Last night, I was the one sitting with her while she practiced that presentation because you were too busy being handyman.”
“She stood on that stage tonight. Every time those judges walked up to her, she checked those doors. Every damn time. She thought something happened to you, because that’s the only reason she could come up with for why you’d break your word to her. And the whole time, you’re moving tables at Malone’s? That’s your excuse?”
“I know I messed up,” Logan chokes out. “I know. I’ll fix it. I’ll talk to her—”
“No, you won’t,” Tucker says immediately. “Not today. Not anytime soon.”
He takes a step back, folding his arms across his chest.
“She told you to stay away. So for once, stop thinking about what you want and listen to what she asked for. You made this mess. If you actually want a shot at fixing it, give her some space and hope she decides you’re worth talking to when she’s ready.”
“Tuck—”
“I’m serious, Logan. Leave her alone. The last thing she needs right now is you showing up trying to make yourself feel better.“
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 : Jules spent years hating Theodore Nott. He was cruel, arrogant, and always knew exactly how to get under her skin. But in fifth year, everything changes when the two agree to a fake dating arrangement to make certain people jealous. What starts as teasing and stolen glances slowly turns into late-night conversations, lingering touches, and feelings neither of them were supposed to catch. Theodore becomes Jules’ escape from the pressure, expectations, and loneliness that follow her everywhere. But some people are destined to destroy each other no matter how hard they try to hold on.
warnings/tags: 18+ content (read responsibly!) fake dating trope, enemies to lovers , swearing, emotional constipation, sexual tension/ suggestive banter + character "glowup".
Trigger warnings will be placed before chapters when necessary.
Please read responsibly ♡
notes: Thank you all so much for the support! Sorry for for not uploading yesterday I had to work a 12 hr shift😣
Juliet had spent the next few days mulling over what Theo had said. Never in a million years did she think she'd even consider using Theo Nott to get back at Cedric bloody Diggory. She knew it was wrong — Merlin, she knew it — but she couldn't help thinking about it. The whole thing still hurt, no matter how many times she told herself to get over it.
And, of course, it had become the talk of Hogwarts. Cedric Diggory and Cho Chang — the shiny new couple everyone couldn't shut up about. Everywhere Juliet went, someone was whispering their names. She hated it. She hadn't even thought people knew about her and Cedric's "relationship," if you could even call it that.
"You with me, Jules?" George asked, sliding her a butterbeer across the table at The Three Broomsticks.
"Huh— oh, yeah. Where's Fred got to?" she asked, realising the other twin was nowhere to be seen.
"He's on his way with Hermione, Harry, Ginny and Ron," George replied, plonking himself down opposite her.
Juliet smiled faintly, looking down at her butterbeer. George clocked it instantly. "You alright?" he asked softly, though he already knew exactly what was on her mind.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just thinking," she said with a weak smile.
"It's alright to be gutted, Jules. Merlin knows I'd have chucked myself off the Astronomy Tower if I were in your place."
He gave a nervous chuckle, realising too late what he'd said. Juliet let out a small laugh too — she knew he meant well.
"In the sense that—" George tried to fix his words, scratching the back of his neck.
"It's alright, George. I know what you meant," she said, giving him a genuine smile.
The two friends shared a laugh before taking another sip of butterbeer. Just then, a loud argument and a burst of laughter sounded from the doorway — unmistakably the rest of their group.
"Ron, I'm telling you, I'm obviously Mum's favourite," Fred was saying, rolling his eyes.
"Just because you and George are twins doesn't make you Mum's favourite!" Ron shot back.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake, will you two shut it? I'm Mum's favourite," Ginny cut in, looking smug as ever.
Juliet couldn't help but giggle at the daily Weasley sibling bickering. George groaned.
"Jules, be darling and tell these two dimwits I'm Mum's favourite," Fred said, striding over.
"Uh... I mean, we all know the real favourites are Harry, Hermione, and me — but sure, whatever helps you lot sleep at night," she said, smirking.
"You know what, that might just be true," Fred admitted, laughing as he sat beside her.
Hermione and Harry chuckled while Ron and Ginny glared at their brothers. Juliet loved moments like this. No matter what her sister or friends thought of the "Golden Trio," she refused to let it affect her friendships with them.
Neville had been her first real friend at Hogwarts — they'd met on the train and clung to each other from day one.
At the Sorting Ceremony, they'd even wished to end up in the same house. Unfortunately, fate had other plans — Neville went to Gryffindor, and Juliet to Slytherin. She'd never understood it; she always thought she had more of a Gryffindor heart. Still, she loved her house — she had Pansy and her sister there, after all.
"So, tonight's our turn to throw a house party. We're all in, yeah?" Fred grinned, rubbing his hands together.
"By the way, I got Neville to sneak us some of that muggle herb he grows," Harry added.
"Merlin's beard, that stuff had me sick for three bloody days," Ron groaned.
"That's because you smoked by yourself, on your first time you absolute prat!" Ginny smacked him on the back of the head.
"Ouch! What was that for?"
"Hopefully to knock some sense into you," Hermione muttered, looking traumatised. "You nearly sent your mum an owl asking her to pick you up."
"Right, note to self — don't leave the weed unattended near Ron," Fred said with mock seriousness. "Jules, you're coming, yeah?"
"Obviously. Wouldn't miss the welcome-back party," she said with a grin.
"Merlin help us all," Hermione muttered. "Having all four houses together again is going to be chaos."
"Okay, add 'giving Hermione some of the weed to chill out' to the list," George quipped, earning a round of laughter.
"Come on, Jules, let's start setting up for later," Fred said, standing. Juliet nodded, following him out.
"You ready for tonight?" Fred asked, grinning ear to ear.
"To party? Absolutely. To see them together? Hex me now, please," Juliet sighed.
"You're gonna have such a good time you'll forget all about them," he promised, throwing an arm around her shoulder.
"If you say so, Mr Weasley," she said, smiling despite herself.
Fred and Juliet spent hours stringing up fairy lights and candles around the common room. Hosting always put Fred in a good mood, and helping him distracted her from Theo's words the other night.
Still, for some reason, Theo couldn't leave her head. Even though they'd never got on, he'd seemed genuinely hurt when he mentioned Daphne. She didn't want to admit it, but part of her sympathised.
When she finally headed back to the Slytherin common room, she stopped dead in her tracks.
Theo was there — with a blonde Hufflepuff girl perched on his lap, snogging him senseless.
Juliet's face flushed. She turned quickly, trying to ease the door shut before they noticed her — but of course, the bloody door creaked. Both heads turned.
"Sorry — didn't mean to interrupt," she said awkwardly, waving her hands in a small circle.
"No need. We were just finishing," Theo said lazily, removing the girl from his lap and wiping his mouth.
"You're really gonna let her ruin our fun, Theo?" the Hufflepuff snapped, fixing her hair and skirt, clearly irritated.
Juliet raised a brow. "I wouldn't have ruined your fun if you'd just gone up to his dorm like normal people," she said dryly.
"No need to get jealous, Greengrass. Just having a bit of fun," Theo said, crossing his arms with that infuriating smirk of his.
"So that's all I am, then? Just fun?" the girl snapped, glaring at him before storming off toward the door.
Theo barely flinched.
Juliet huffed. "You're unbelievable, you know that?"
"You know, Greengrass," he said, smirking again as he leaned back in his seat, "it's rude to stare."
summary: drunk reader confesses her feelings to logan. short fic, requested (via dm)
The glittery eyeshadow makes your eyes pop, Logan thinks as he stares down at you. It’s a shame he has to take it off.
“Why are you staring at me?” You say, giggling.
He shakes his head, “Nothing. Your makeup looks really nice.”
“Thank you.” You say, beaming up at him. “Your face looks really nice.”
Logan lets out an incredulous laugh, but how could he not? You’re stupidly drunk after one of the infamous Briar U Hockey Team parties, and the alcohol seems to have completely removed the filter between your mind and your mouth, leaving you rambling your every thought to him as he decided it’s time for you to go to bed.
Now, there you are, shiny eyes looking tired under the low lights of his room, wearing his clothes, sitting cross-legged on his bed, calling him pretty. It's both adorable and nerve wracking.
“You’re just drunk, honey.”
“I am so drunk.” You nod, chuckling, “But I’ve always thought you were pretty.”
He looks at you, “Yeah?”
“Yes, sir.” You say, solemnly.
Logan shakes his head, grabbing a makeup wipe he got from Hannah’s tiny box of supplies in Garrett’s bathroom. He sits by your side and delicately grabs your chin, holding you in place. “What are you doing?”
“Taking your makeup off.” He says, concentrating on wiping your face gently enough.
“Why? You just said you liked it.”
“Because it’s time for bed. Close your eyes for me?”
You do, and Logan carefully starts removing the smudged glitter on your eyes. You hum as he wipes the make up off of your eyes, “This feels nice.”
“Yeah? Not too harsh on your skin?”
You try shaking your head no, Logan’s hand still holding you in place. You giggle, “No, it’s not harsh at all. Well,” You say, “Your fingers are a bit callous.”
He smiles at your sincerity, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I like them,” You say, then a little more sure, “I like you.”
Logan’s grip completely falters, and he lets his hands fall to his lap.
He wishes he could’ve said it took him by surprise, but honestly, no, not really. Actually, he should’ve seen it coming tonight.
It was pretty obvious that Logan had a soft spot for you from the moment you got introduced into the group by Hannah, and he might be slow, but he’s not blind — he knows you like him too. It’s like you’ve been playing a silly game of will they, won’t they, both too coy to take the initiative. Until alcohol gets involved, that is. Then all your inhibitions are swallowed down, and next thing he knows, you’re a dream come true confessing your feelings for him.
It can’t be like that, Logan thinks.
You open your left eye just slightly, peeking through your lashes, “Logan?”
“I– I think you should go to bed,” he says, not giving you any time to repeat yourself, getting up from his bed, “We can talk in the morning, yeah?”
You blink, face turning from giddy-drunk to frowny-drunk, “Okay.”
Not okay, he can tell from your curved lips. “Yeah? You good?”
“Yeah.” You say, crawling to the top of his bed. “All good. Night, Logan.”
“Hey,” he says before you can close your eyes, “We talk in the morning, okay?”
You nod, then hide under the covers.
—
Logan doesn’t see you in the morning.
In fact, he wakes up with an awful back pain from sleeping on the big chair near his bed, just to find his bed empty, clothes carefully folded and not another sign of you.
Fuck, he thinks, grabbing his phone from the nightstand to check if there’s any phone calls or texts from you, to no success. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Logan gathers his last bits of hope to go downstairs, but the house is silent, and everyone seems to be asleep still.
He tries calling you, but you won’t answer. He texts you, hey, can we talk? Then, please? to no avail.
By the end of the morning, he’s desperately knocking on your bedroom door.
“Oh, my God,” You show up at the door, flunging it open, “What the fuck is wrong with– Oh. Logan. I– I wasn’t expecting you–”
“I called you.” He cuts you off, “I mean, you weren’t there this morning, and I tried calling but you wouldn’t answer. I– I was hoping we could talk?”
You frown, “So you can reject me to my face? Again? No, thank you. I’m too hungover for this.”
“No, no. What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about me reading this,” you point between you both, frustrated, “all wrong. Look, I’m sorry, but I thought–”
“I like you.” He says, watching as you close your mouth, taking a step back. He follows your step, getting an inch closer.
“You do?”
He scoffs, “Honey, you know I do.”
“I don’t know anything, Logan.” You answer softly, “I thought I did, but…”
“But you were really fucking drunk,” he says, hiding back a laugh as he gets closer, “And calling me pretty, and– And I was thinking, god, I like you so fucking much.”
You grin at him, “Really?”
Logan refuses to answer you, his lips finding the corner of your mouth, chasing your kiss over and over and over again til you’re dizzy again, drunk on something much stronger this time.
notes: thank you for reading! requests are open! likes/reblogs/thoughts are appreciated! <3
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 : Jules spent years hating Theodore Nott. He was cruel, arrogant, and always knew exactly how to get under her skin. But in fifth year, everything changes when the two agree to a fake dating arrangement to make certain people jealous. What starts as teasing and stolen glances slowly turns into late-night conversations, lingering touches, and feelings neither of them were supposed to catch. Theodore becomes Jules’ escape from the pressure, expectations, and loneliness that follow her everywhere. But some people are destined to destroy each other no matter how hard they try to hold on.
warnings/tags: 18+ content (read responsibly!) fake dating trope, enemies to lovers , swearing, emotional constipation, sexual tension/ suggestive banter + character "glowup".
word count: 1.5k
Trigger warnings will be placed before chapters when necessary.
Please read responsibly ♡
notes: Thank you all so much for the support so far. It means the world to me. Also wanna make it very clear incase if it's confusing . Jules is in 5th year just like Harry and the rest which would mean Cedric is in 6th!
September 5th, 1995
5th year
Juliet bolted into the arms of her best friend, grinning as she called his name.
"Jules! How are you?" Fred said, catching her in a tight hug.
"I've been great, Freddie. Sorry I couldn't visit over break—you know how my father gets," she said, pulling back and straightening her clothes . Fred just nodded, understanding as always. Her father never approved of her spending time with the Weasleys, but that had never stopped her. She adored them—they were family, in every way that counted.
"How about you? How've you been?" she asked, looking up at him.
"Doing good, though it's bittersweet—my final year at Hogwarts," he said, a frown tugging at his face.
"Don't remind me," she groaned, hugging him again. "I'll start crying on the spot."
"What are you going to do without me?" he teased, laughing into the hug.
"Die. That's what's going to happen," she joked, pulling back.
"How's the family?" she asked, smiling.
"They're brilliant. George and I have been testing our latest pranks on Hermione. Ron's still hopelessly in love with her."
."He's fancied her since first year so nothing new." Jules said unbothered
"Gross—you knew and didn't tell me?!" he said, pulling a disgusted face.
"Hey, not my business to tell," she said, hands raised.
"Fair enough..." Fred gave a grin, then tilted his head. "Look at you, Jules—you've grown up."
"Alright, alright, I get it," she laughed.
"No, seriously—you've got fit," he said bluntly.
"Why thank you for noticing " she giggled.
Then his tone shifted. "Have you seen him yet?"
Her stomach dropped. "Nope. And I hope I don't," she said firmly.
Fred knew. He had been the only one to truly understand how broken she'd been after Cedric. She'd written to him every day, and Fred always replied. Cedric's absence had stung, but not getting closure—that had destroyed her.
"Well," Fred said, nudging her arm, "once he sees you, he'll regret ever hurting you. Look at you, Jules—you're stunning."
"I know you're only trying to make me feel better, Freddie," she said softly, "but you know what would actually help? Helping me unpack."
He groaned. "Nope. Not a chance."
"Please? Pretty please? It'll be quick," she begged, giving him her best puppy eyes.
He sighed. "Fine. Let's get on with it."
As they walked toward her dorm, they caught up on everything missed—Fred and George's latest pranks, the usual banter about Hogwarts life. Juliet had missed this.
"You and George are going to smash it once you're out of here," she said.
"You sound very sure of that" he said, grinning. But her attention shifted. A familiar laugh echoed down the corridor.
She froze.
Cedric Diggory, with Cho Chang.
Her chest tightened. Foolish, really—why should she care? The whole summer had passed. But her body didn't seem to get the memo; she couldn't tear her eyes away.
"Come on, Jules, let's go..." Fred murmured, nudging her.
"Oh—hey, Jules!" Cho's voice was annoyingly sweet.
Juliet forced a smile. "Hey, Cho."
"Hey, Cho," Fred echoed, trying to break the tension.
"Greengrass."
Cedric's voice was cool and detached. Just Greengrass. Not Jules. Not beautiful. Not the girl he had kissed right here a year ago. Just a stranger.
"Cho—always a pleasure," she said evenly. "Diggory."
She nodded at him once, refusing to meet his eyes, and turned on her heel before the tears could spill. Fred didn't follow—thank Merlin for that. She didn't want him to see her break.
Her thoughts raced. He was kissing her—right here—Cho. The girl he had said not to worry about. Was that why he left without a word? Why wasn't she enough anymore?
By the time Juliet reached the Astronomy Tower, her mascara was running and her mind a blur. She froze. Smoke curled lazily through the air.
Brilliant. Just what she needed.
"Greengrass?"
Of course.
"Theodore bloody Nott," she muttered under her breath, turning.
"Merlin, why are you everywhere?" she said, wiping her eyes, trying to look composed.
Theo held out a cigarette—well, a joint. "Want some?" he asked casually. "Looks like you could use it. Don't feel you have to, though."
She hesitated, then took it. The smoke burned but numbed the ache just enough.
"So," Theo said after a moment, "you gonna tell me what's wrong?"
"No need," she murmured, staring down at the joint.
"Just because I'm asking doesn't mean I care, you know," he said, smirking.
"I suppose you're right," she muttered. "But if I tell you, you can't laugh."
"I won't," he said, holding up his pinky. "Promise."
She linked hers with his, forcing a small smile.
"It's Cedric," she admitted. "I saw him earlier—kissing Cho Chang."
Theo raised an eyebrow, half-chuckling. "Cho Chang? You're joking."
"I wish I was."
"I bet your boy's regretting that already," he said, looking her straight in the eye.
Juliet looked away. "Don't know, don't care."
He didn't believe her. She didn't even believe herself.
"It's just messing with my head," she admitted quietly. "Why her? The one girl he told me not to worry about—the one I never got along with. What did I do wrong?"
Theo exhaled, smoke drifting into the night. "Don't have an answer for you, Greengrass. But if it were me, I'd get back at him."
"Get back at him?" she asked, frowning.
"Yeah. Find someone he hates and make it look like you're close. Let him regret it."
She scoffed. "The only person he hates that much is you. And I've said I'd rather throw myself off this tower than be with you."
He grinned. "Then it's perfect. Pretend to be with me. You get your revenge, I get mine."
"You're mental," she said, laughing despite herself. "We just waltz around school pretending to be some couple? For a few months?"
He shrugged. "Until Christmas, maybe. You get back at Diggory, I get back at Daphne for dumping me for Pucey. Everyone wins. Think about it, yeah?"
With that, Theodore Nott flicked the joint away and left, the scent of smoke and trouble lingering in the tower.
Juliet sat in silence, staring at the stars, the smouldering joint between her fingers.
"Bloody hell..." she muttered. "What am I getting myself into?"
premise: you're in a "casual" relationship with logan, but you continuously refuse to spend the night at his place. in fact, you force yourself to never fall asleep in his bed. falling asleep next to him risks exposing him to your demons. and the last thing you want to do is place a burden on the man you're deeply in love with.
category: super super super light smut (minors dni), mostly fluff and yearning (incoming hurt/comfort in part ii)
word count: around 3.5k
content/trigger warnings: the lightest smut ever at the beginning (again, minors dni), vivid description of a night terror (brief mentions of blood, gunshots, screaming, suffocation in the night terror, but no other mention outside of it).
context notes: reader works at Briar's tutoring center. i originally was only going to make her a Psych major, but i added Bio because i wanted her majors to reflect her interest in figuring out how night terrors work (i never explored this angle in part i, but i will in part ii)
author notes: i've been in a creative writing rut for two years and off campus has pulled me out of it. sooo there's definitely room for improvement, please bear with me :) i'm also super inexperienced in writing smut, which is why you can barely consider the smut scene "smut" in the first place lmao. i originally wanted to write this fic all in one go, but i'm having some writer's block with the latter half, which is why i'm publishing it in two parts. feedback is much appreciated! (also very lightly proofread as of 06/02/26)
The afternoon sun slowly filters into his bedroom, basking your bodies in a soft, gentle glow. Though the entirety of Briar’s student body is still recovering from the brutal winter storm, you found shelter in his arms, feeling nothing but warmth while pinned beneath his body. As the end of February approaches, the promise of Spring weather reinvigorates Briar students as they deal with the exhaustion brought on by their grueling midterms. After all, the new season brought blooming flowers, brilliantly sunny days, and new beginnings.
Perhaps, the onset of Spring could mark a new beginning for you as well. Maybe you could experience a fresh start in your life by ending this bizarre arrangement that you have with this dazzling hockey player. Ending this “casual” relationship would be good for the both of you.
But ever since you stumbled into his bed on one October night during some Halloweekend festivities, Logan quickly became your comfort zone. And right now, as you restlessly writhe between his sheets, you have absolutely zero desire to leave this comfort.
“Fuck,” the man of the hour rasped and grunted, his head dropping unceremoniously onto the crook of your neck. He breathes frenzied exhales into your shoulder, hot air drifting towards the bottom of your ears. His body weight practically crushes you, leaving you with just the tiniest slot of air to supply your lungs. But you’re not complaining. You’re exactly where you want to be.
You gasp into his brown curls as his thrusts quicken, your hands desperately fisting and grabbing onto the fitted sheet as some sort of pathetic attempt to anchor yourself. Watching you twist underneath him with heavy-lidden eyes, Logan grasps your hands, carefully interlocking your fingers with his, your palms firmly sealing against each other. Like the satisfying connection of the final pieces of a puzzle.
The loving gesture tugs at your heart. This “casual” intimacy is too much to bear, but you can’t bring yourself to let go.
“Y/N,” He rasps into your skin, his frantic breaths imprinting themselves like love bites onto your neck. You know that he’s close, and judging by the tension breeding underneath your belly that’s threatening to release itself, you know that you’re not that far off either. With your elbows digging into his mattress, you arch your back, slightly lift your hips just a tad higher, and the sound that emerges from your throat reverberates off the walls of his bedroom. Logan immediately finds his own release as he moans your name into your neck, his stubble etching a mark onto your skin, and his own body shaking from head to toe.
After he takes off the condom, Logan’s chest makes its way on top of yours as you sink into his bed, trying to catch your breath as he lazily draws circles on your thigh. Though your mind flinches at the “casual” nature of your relationship with Logan, your heart eventually learns to return to slow resting state while around him. He’s a steady presence, and his company is much needed as you try to navigate around the various stressors in your life.
Already, your tortuous coursework and demanding work-study stint are clearly draining you. Hannah frequently points out the dark bags under your eyes and the sluggish, lethargic nature of your gait as you force yourself to attend class.
But you had another stressor that completely robbed the last morsels of life clinging on to your body. A hidden, yet dangerous stressor that you kept snapped shut in the corners of your mind, only giving the key to your therapist for her to unlock.
The reason why you always refused to sleep at Logan’s place.
“So beautiful,” Logan’s voice pulls you from your reverie, his hoarse whisper tickling your collarbone. He kisses over the hickeys he proudly implanted near your breast, admiring his view. “All for me.”
You bite your bottom lip at his comment, pressing down so hard that you’re sure blood will ooze out any minute now. You’re technically not “all for him.” Even though he skips hockey practice to help jumpstart your car on the side of the road. Even though he now uses a fragrance-free laundry detergent because his sheets would irritate your sensitive skin. Even though he looks at you with those eyes that compel you to answer his text every single time. Even though his bed feels so comfortable right now.
Control yourself.
“Back at ya,” You awkwardly laugh, delivering a very nervous and spur-of-the-moment reply. So smooth, Y/N. Did you flirt this badly when he tore your Tinkerbell costume off?
Chuckles rumble from his chest, pressing down onto your heart. You could play his laugh on repeat. Hell, even set it as your ringtone. “Still not used to receiving compliments, I see.”
You don’t offer a response. Suddenly, the bed feels way too warm and way too inviting. As his pillow swallows your head, your eyes start to close.
But you quickly force yourself to wake up, remembering that you do not, in any circumstance, want to fall asleep in his bed. You will not make that mistake.
Instead, you lean over to check the time on your phone. 4:09 PM.
“I need to get going to my shift,” You slide out from underneath him, removing yourself from his grap. The sudden loss of warmth feels like whiplash.
His dark eyebrows furrow as you grab the haphazardly laid clothes on the wooden floor. “Doesn’t it start at 5:00? You still have some time,” He pats your unofficial side of his bed, watching you shimmy yourself into your jeans. “Come ‘ere. Stay a ‘lil longer.”
You bite your lip even harder, using it like a stress ball, and you try to forget that your situationship remembers that tiny detail of your work schedule. Of course he does.
“I like getting there early, though. It’s much better than arriving five minutes before a session starts,” You zip up your jeans, chuckling softly when he flashes his signature sad puppy eyes at you. “I like to quickly refresh myself on the content beforehand.”
“As if you would need any refreshing, Mrs. Bio and Psych Double-Major,” He teases, and yep, you’re pretty sure that’s blood you’re tasting right now.
“Trust me, I don’t always remember the ins and outs of signal transduction.”
Logan tilts his head to the side, staring at you with those confused eyes that you find so absolutely endearing. “And what the hell is ‘signal transduction?’”
You sigh, kneeling onto the floor and tying your shoes. “That’s a story for another time. I better get going.”
“Wait, I’ll walk you down,” He says as he jumps out of the bed, rapidly putting on his sweatpants and grabbing a random flannel from his desk chair.
You roll your eyes as you open his bedroom door, hearing the noises of his roommates from downstairs. “I’ve been here plenty of times, Logan. I know my way around the house.”
He shrugs, buttoning up his flannel. “So? God forbid a guy wants to be a gentleman.”
“A gentleman?” You stifle a laugh, and he has the gall to put on a mildly offended face.
“Of course, my lady. I’m always on my best behavior for you.”
More blood seeps from your lip. You give him a playful shove on his shoulder, but he brandishes that signature crooked "John Logan smile" at you, and fuck, you’re in deep.
As the both of you walk downstairs, your peer at the living room and say a goodbye to the rest of the boys. Tucker and Dean were sitting on the couch, pouring over a textbook that you knew all too well. By the looks of it, Garrett wasn’t home. He was probably hanging out at Hannah’s dorm, per usual.
“Good seeing ya, Y/N,” Tucker smiles at you, lifting his head from the textbook.
“Yes, very good seeing ya,” Dean drawls, suddenly jumping up from his spot on the couch and making his way over to you. “And we are in desperate need of your guidance. This bio class is killing us.”
All of the boys knew you already. Though you and Logan weren’t “serious” by any means, neither of you kept your situationship a secret from others. At least Logan spared you the hurt and discomfort that comes from sneaking around.
Then again, all of his charming, boyfriend-coded compliments haven’t made the situation any better either.
You shake your head jokingly at Dean. “You guys have Professor Ragner, right? He’s chill. You’ll be fine.”
Dean gasps in fake shock, puting a hand to his heart as if he were in a melodramatic soap opera. “Wow, so you’re just leaving us to drown with no support? I see how it is, Y/N.”
You scoff. “No offense to y’all, but I don’t have time for free tutoring. I’m getting paid minimum wage, which is practically nothing to begin with, to tutor jocks like y’all in the first place. I’m sure as hell not doing any unpaid labor.”
“I can pay you in a different way,” Dean unabashedly flirts, blond waves falling over his eyes, voice dropping to a lower tenor. You raise an eyebrow in amusement, knowing that he’s joking.
Then someone behind you loudly clears their throat. You turn around to Logan, who is adorning an expression that you can’t quite decipher.
“Jesus, relax, Johnny,” Dean comes around and pats him on the back, which Logan rejects in fake disgust, pretending to flinch. “I was just suggesting an alternative method of payment.”
“Uh-huh, sure you were," Logan replies with a chuckle, though his smile doesn’t reach all the way to his eyes.
Tucker rejoins the conversation. “I don’t know about cash, but I’ll pay you back with free meals. I make a mean pasta carbonara.”
“Now that, I can get behind,” You point finger guns towards Tucker. “Well boys, I’m off to work. I’ll see y’all later.”
Tucker and Dean say their goodbyes. With a light touch of his hand on the small of your back, Logan leads you to the porch. He opens the door, and as you step outside, he wraps a hand around your wrist, wanting to say one last thing before you leave.
“Have a good shift,” He presses a kiss to your forehead. You force yourself to not bite your lip for the hundredth time. Control. “I’ll see you on Friday, yeah?”
You don’t know what to say. You knew that the team was throwing a party before their game on Saturday. A sharp inhale exits your nose.
“Yeah, sure,” You smile at him, starting to walk to your car. “See you, Logan.”
As you drive to the tutoring center, you chastised yourself for how close you were to falling asleep in his bed. This pathetic attempt at a situationship was going to tear you apart. And if you need to distance yourself from those warm eyes and beaming smile, then so be it.
Friday was two days away. You decided to not come over to the hockey players’ house for their party before playing Eastwood. Not only did you want some space between you and Logan, but you also had an upcoming midterm that made up a good chunk of your grade for your Psych class. You thus planned on devoting your entire weekend to studying for it.
So when Friday night came along, giving excuses to Logan felt easy. Somewhat easy.
(9:21 PM) Logan: Hey, I haven’t seen you yet. Are you on the way?
(9:46 PM) Y/N: I have a huge midterm on Monday. I need to study. Sorry, I forgot to tell you :/
(9:48 PM) Logan: Ahh I see, no worries.
(9:51 PM) Logan: I looked forward to seeing you.
(9:52 PM) Logan: I’ll see you after the midterm? Good luck, you got this.
(10:23 PM) Y/N: Thanks, good luck with the game.
A twinge of guilt spread through your chest and hammered at your heart when you didn’t confirm the rendezvous. You always came to the boys’ parties before their games, even though you continuously stuck by your rule of never sleeping over, which definitely took Logan a little bit of time to get used to. During Halloweekend, you surprised him when you slipped out of his bed at 3:00 AM, grabbing your car keys and opening his bedroom door.
“You don’t want to stay the night?” You recall his gravelly voice, utterly rattled with sleep, as he watched you put on your shoes. “It’s kinda late.”
“I have an early morning. And I didn’t drink at all, so…” You explained, giving him a tight smile before closing the door so that you didn’t have to stare any longer at his bare, toned chest. “See ya.”
Starting with a clean slate was necessary. After all, you needed to keep your commitment to both your grades and your job. Logan would only serve as a distraction.
That’s what you kept repeating to yourself as you went to bed later that night, putting your phone on the other side of your room in order to stop checking it.
The first thing that you notice is that you can’t speak.
You bring a palm up to your mouth, but your face feels completely numb. Anything you say just comes out extremely muffled, as if you never had a mouth in the first place. You gaze around your environment with blurry eyes, looking at the four corners of the dingy room. You try to touch one of the walls, but as soon as your hand comes into contact, the wall becomes translucent, your hand just floating around in open space. But as you pull your hand back, the wall comes up again, inching closer and closer to your face.
Your breath hitches as you try to find an escape—a trapdoor, a window, just anything will do. But the room starts to resemble a box the more you look at it, as if you were an inanimate object shoved inside a carton to never be seen again. The lump in your throat grows as your vision subsides with each passing second, complete murk and darkness clouding up your eyes.
You try to bang on the walls, but your balled up fists just fall into air. You try to scream for help, but you feel chains wrapped around your mouth, silencing your cries and greedily swallowing up any remaining shred of air needed for your survival.
The sound of falling objects tears your gaze away from the walls. You eyes widen as you watch clumps of your hair disintegrating into the floor and massive droplets of blood emanating from your fingertips. You frantically search your whole body for any sign of a cut, a wound, an injury, but your hunt is fruitless.
And that’s when the walls start closing in, devouring every inch of space that’s not covered by your trembling body.
You sink to the floor as your knees helplessly buckle, crawling up into a ball as a fresh flow of tears sprint down your cheeks. Soon those tears also turn to blood, drowning your limbs in a sea of red. And the ceiling feels so fucking close to you, you’re certain that it’s going to collapse.
Sounds of whining sirens and howling wind and quick gunshots and terrified screaming all fuse and merge tightly together in perfect storm, a cacophony where you can hear each individual occurrence happening at once. The walls are up to your nose, and you try so hard to scream. To cry for help.
The sound of a door slamming shut finally wakes you up.
You’re heaving as you sit up in your bed, your fists rapidly unclenching to rest your palms on your chest. Your body feels so unbearably hot, outlines of your sweat etching themselves onto your sheets. A fearful whimper tears out of you, and you wrap your hands around your curled-up body as you begin to frantically rock yourself back and forth on your bed. The sobs pour out of you in an instant, breaths clawing themselves up your throat in such a sharp, stiniging manner that you’re sure there’s clawmarks scarred across your trachea. You’ve had night terrors ever since elementary school, but you’ve never really adjusted them.
The tears completely wreck you. You move your hands from your body to the sheets, fists digging into the fabric, helplessly searching for security. What a stark contrast to your time with Logan, where you desperately fisted at his sheets while waves of pleasure cascaded through your body.
Both times, however, you were looking for control.
Nevertheless, as your sobs gradually begin to subside, you inhale shaky breaths to center yourself back to reality. When your vision starts to clear up, you go back to the 5-4-3-2-1 coping technique that your therapist suggested to ground yourself.
Five things you can see. Four things you can touch. Three things you can hear. Two things you can smell. One thing you can taste.
As you slowly list through the four things you can touch, your mind goes back to the hockey player you’re trying so desperately not to think about. But all you desire is to feel his callused palm on your cheek, his long arm around your waist, and his mouth trailing kisses on your neck.
And you hate how much you yearn to be in Logan’s arms right now. You ache for his comforting presence, but you know you can’t place this trouble on him, this overwhelming burden to bring you back to Earth after a night terror. He already has enough on his plate.
Sighing, you make your way to the bathroom to splash some water on your face. On your way there, you grab your phone, looking at the date and time. 2:38 AM, Monday, February 23rd.
So you had a night terror the morning of your big exam. Great.
At least you can thank your neighbors’ rowdiness for pulling you out of your dream. They loved to slam the door after a night out, and unfortunately for you, they seemed to go out every fucking night. You kindly asked them to close their door more gently, but clearly, your words had zero effect.
After wiping your face and staring too long at your bloodshot eyes in the bathroom mirror, you walk to your desk, deciding to fit in a last-minute study session now that you’re awake. You definitely don’t want to go back to sleep now.
After five minutes of flipping through some flashcards, you make the mistake of scrolling through the notifications on your phone. Your eyes immediately lock on to some notifications from Instagram. Specifically, some DMs from Logan.
When your trembling fingers open your message thread with him, the slight shaking in your body stops when you browse through his messages. All of them were either the silliest of reels or the stupidest of memes. And under each and every one of them, he wrote a message: This made me think of you; or you definitely need to watch this; or even this is so stupid, but it made me laugh so hard that I had to send it you.
As you laugh while watching cat videos and overplayed vines, the desire for Logan seeps through your veins. He has no idea of the effect you have on him.
But you’re still going to keep your distance. You have to, even when you watch all of the reels he sends you, despite telling yourself that you need to go back to studying any minute now.
It was Sunday night and you were looking forward to getting home after a night with the girls at the local bar. Hannah had decided to stay over at her boyfriend’s and Allie joined her, how those two managed to get partners who lived in the same house- you’d never quite understand. But you weren’t even bothered. Just looking forward to the relaxing night you were about to treat yourself with, a nice hot shower that involved your favourite berry scented soap and a blow-out that contained too many hair products, each of them as sweet smelling as the rest.
You rolled your eyes when the rain started pattering against Cherry’s windshield, the cherry-red chevy was your baby, and she was very resilient in all types of weather, but the water droplets just banged against her vintage exterior too aggressively for your liking.
You rubbed along her steering wheel, “Almost there baby,” the squeak of the wipers was answer enough and you decided to flick on the radio, hopefully the soft melodies of you mother’s fleetwood mac CD would drown out the echoing of the torrential downpour, a significant increase from the initial patter.
For about one picturesque second , the vehicle was filled with Stevie Nicks’ vocals and you sighed, the song reminded you of when your parents would dance in the kitchen, your dad tickling your mothers sides in a way that would make her screech and slap his shoulder playfully- you and your siblings would cringe and run out into the backgarden, ignoring her calls for dinner in 10 minutes.
The next, the song gave one tragic little crackle and died.
You stared at your dashboard.
Cherry continued rolling down the road through the rain, wipers dragging water from the windshield in uneven arcs, the headlights turning the wet pavement ahead of you into a long black ribbon of reflected streetlights.
“No,” you said.
The radio did not respond.
You pressed the power button once, keeping your eyes on the road.
Nothing.
Twice.
Still nothing.
A third time, because sometimes persistence was the answer to everything.
You were still being assaulted by the hollow banging of the sheets of water splattering outside. Taking a slow breath, you remembered what mama always told you- a big deep breath before making expensive decisions or replying to emails sent by people who used, “just circling back” unironically.
“Cherry,” you said, very calmly. “Do not do this to me.”
The car gave a faint, worrying cough.
Not a human cough, obviously. You were not insane. You understood machinery. You had dated enough emotionally unavailable boys and owned enough temperamental objects to know that sometimes things made sounds without meaning anything dramatic.
But still, any reasonable person would agree that she coughed at you, a little, wet, mechanical throat-clear that vibrated beneath your feet and travelled straight up your spine.
You tightened your hands around the steering wheel.
“Absolutely not.”
Rain battered against the windshield hard enough to make the world outside blur at the edges. The road was mostly empty, which should have been comforting and was instead deeply insulting. Of course Cherry would choose an empty road. Of course she would not have the decency to make her point in front of a café or a supermarket or somewhere with lighting that did not make everything look like the opening scene of a horror movie.
The speedometer in front of you flickered, the little pointer rotated wildly before it settled on the big, red, zero.
Your stomach dropped.
“Cherry.”
Another cough, this time it wasn’t ignorable. Unlike the suspicious little shudders Cherry had been doing whenever you slowed down at traffic lights for the past three days, which you had been ignoring in a deeply optimistic way.
“Baby, no,” you whispered.
The engine stuttered beneath you.
You flicked your eyes toward the side of the road, searching through the rain for somewhere to pull over that did not look like the sort of place people disappeared in true crime documentaries. The headlights caught the edge of a sign ahead, blue and white and half-hidden behind rain-slick branches.
A garage.
Not even a proper one, at first glance. More like a family shop tucked off the road, with two wide bay doors, a small office light still glowing despite the late hour, and one battered truck parked outside beneath the awning. It looked open, though that might have been wishful thinking. Cherry lurched again.
“Okay,” you said quickly. “Okay, okay, I see it. We’re going. Don’t be dramatic.”
Cherry ignored you and rolled toward the garage with the exhausted dignity of someone arriving at the hospital after insisting all day that they were fine.
By the time you managed to pull into the small lot, the rain had turned violent. This wasn’t romantic rain. Not soft, rom-com, dramatic reunion with undying love confessions rain. Not like the rain you and your cousins would watch on TV, gathered around on the living room floor at your grandparent’s house, tummy first in the plush carpet, sharing a bag of crunchy baby carrots.
This was the type that slapped against the roof and pooled around tyres and turned every light into a smear. You parked beneath the edge of the awning, though not far enough beneath it to avoid the rain completely because you were stressed and Cherry had chosen that exact second to make another noise you never wanted to hear again.
The engine died before you turned the key.
You sat there for one long second, “Oh my God,” you breathed.
The rain answered.
You leaned forward and rested your forehead lightly against the steering wheel, careful not to smudge your lipstick because if everything else was going to fall apart, your mouth was not. The car smelled like your perfume, old leather, and the faint strawberry air freshener you had bought by mistake because the store had been out of cherry and settled for the next best option. Your hair was already frizzing from the humidity despite the fact you had not even left the car yet.
This was fine. This was a normal evening. Girls broke down outside strange, off the highway garages all the time.
Right?
You lifted your head and looked toward the lit office window.
There were people inside. Thank God.
You grabbed your purse, cursed when the strap caught on the gear shift, apologised to Cherry because none of this was her fault emotionally even if it was absolutely her fault mechanically, and shoved the door open.
The rain hit you immediately. Rude in the way it shoved you in its unforgiving momentum, thrusting against your clothes and drenching you down to the core. You wobbled on your feet against its forceful bullying.
By the time you crossed the short distance from Cherry to the garage office, your cardigan was soaked through, your hair was wet at the ends, and your ballet flats had made the deeply unfortunate discovery that puddles existed. You pushed open the office door with far more force than intended, stumbled inside, and brought half the storm with you.
Two men looked up.
One older, sitting behind the counter with paperwork spread in front of him and a pair of reading glasses low on his nose.
The other younger, standing near a workbench with a rag in one hand, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, dark hair slightly messy like he had been running a hand through it all night.
A third voice came from what you can only assume was the office, “Who the fuck is coming in at this time?”
You winced, biting your lip and wisely made the choice to look at the pair in front of you. The older man rolled his eyes at the remark, whilst the younger was more focussed on you.
Probably the state you were in, the chill had settled into your bones and goosebumps had erupted across your skin. The dress you had worn for girl’s night was not built for the weather and you wished you had bothered to look at the forecast before pulling the baby-doll peplum one piece out of your closet, but the length was just right and the white ruffles at the top were accented perfectly with the ruched red and white gingham against your chest. It didn’t help that Allie had hyped you up so much that you broke out your favourite ballet flats to finish off the outfit.
You felt like a little-girl’s barbie doll that somehow ended up in the washing machine as you stood in front of these two confused men, who were probably looking forward to closing down for the day.
“My car is dying,” you said.
Both men stared.
You stood there dripping onto the mat, clutching your purse against your chest, rainwater sliding down your jaw, red lipstick somehow still intact because at least one thing in your life had loyalty.
The younger one blinked.
“Dying?”
“Yes.”
The older man’s mouth twitched, “Mechanically?” he asked, folding his glasses off his nose and setting them down on the newspaper he was hunched over.
You gestured helplessly toward the window.
“Emotionally, mechanically, spiritually. I’m not sure yet. She coughed.”
The younger man looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.
“She coughed,” he repeated back to you, his arms folded over his chest.
“Yes.”
“Cars don’t cough.”
“Mine did.”
The older man leaned back in his chair, now openly amused.
The younger one looked past you through the rain toward the lot. “Which one?”
You turned and pointed, though the rain made Cherry look less like a car and more like a tragic red blur beneath the awning. “Her.”
“Her?”
“Cherry.”
The younger man had followed your finger, but turned back to you when you said her name.
“Cherry.”
You nodded.
“That’s the model?”
“That’s her name.”
There was a pause, perhaps this was the moment where a normal person might have realised they were giving a very strange first impression. However, you were cold, wet, and worried about your car, so self-awareness had been postponed.
“She’s a Chevy,” you added, like that cleared everything up.
The older man coughed once into his fist, badly hiding a laugh.
The younger one finally smiled. A crooked pull at one corner of his mouth that immediately made him look more dangerous than a mechanic in a rainstorm had any right to look.
“Right,” he said. “Cherry the Chevy.”
“Cherry the cherry-red Chevy,” you corrected, rolling onto your heels and back.
His smile got worse, but he brought a hand up to pretend he was running it down his stubble, he nodded as though you had just stated the sky is blue, “Of course.”
The older man stood, sliding his glasses off. “Logan, grab the umbrella.”
Logan.
So that was his name, it suited him. Wait what?
The younger man-Logan-tossed the rag onto the workbench and reached for a large black shop umbrella leaning by the door. “You drive her here like that?”
“She drove herself,” you said, then blinked, realising you sounded insane. “I mean, I drove. Obviously. But she made the decision for us both.”
Logan opened the door, and the sound of the rain surged in.
“You always talk about your car like she’s a person?”
You stepped toward him, trying not to drip directly onto the floor any more than you already had, "That feels a little unkind to say in front of her. She’s having a very hard night."
The older man laughed from behind you.
Logan looked at you, smile still lingering, “Fair.”
He opened the umbrella before stepping outside, and you followed him beneath it, close enough that your shoulder nearly brushed his arm. The rain hammered against the fabric above you, loud enough to soften the world into something smaller. The garage light spilled across the lot in a pale yellow wash, catching on wet asphalt, on Cherry’s red paint, on the strands of hair stuck to your cheek.
Logan was taller than you had realised inside. Which was not important. At all.
He held the umbrella more over you than himself, which you noticed despite trying not to, and by the time you reached Cherry, his shoulder was wet from rain blowing sideways.
“You’re getting soaked,” you said.
He glanced at you.
“You’re already soaked.”
“That doesn’t mean you should join me.”
“I’ll survive.”
“That sounds like famous last words.”
“You always this dramatic?”
“Yes,” you said immediately. “But only when my loved ones are in danger.”
He looked at the car, and pointed at Cherry, “Loved ones.”
“She’s family-adjacent.” Nodding, you patted her slippery bonnet, immediately regretting it as the frigid water numbed your hand. You shook it away, ignoring the amused expression Logan pinned you with.
“Family-adjacent.”
“My nana picked her out, and my parents bought her after Strawberry died.”
Logan had already crouched near the front of the car, but he paused at that.
“Strawberry?”
“My old Beetle.”
“Your old car was named Strawberry.”
“She was red too.”
“Was she also family-adjacent?”
You looked at him like the answer should have been obvious.
“She was my first car.”
Logan stared for half a second, then shook his head, but he was smiling as he moved toward the hood.
“Pop it.”
You leaned inside to pull the latch, immediately regretting the way cold rainwater dripped from your hair down the back of your neck. Cherry’s hood released with a dull click, and Logan lifted it, securing it with practiced ease. The garage light caught the line of his forearm as he reached inside, and you looked away so fast you nearly bumped your hip against the side mirror.
You busied yourself by smoothing one hand over Cherry’s door, “Don’t worry,” you murmured. “He seems competent.”
“I can hear you,” Logan said.
“I know.”
“Competent?”
“So far.”
He glanced at you over the engine. “That’s generous.”
“I’m a generous person.”
“You brought me a coughing car and called her Cherry.”
“I know. She makes a strong first impression.”
The rain kept falling hard around the edges of the umbrella. Logan leaned over the engine, focused now, and for the first time since you had burst into the office, he stopped looking amused and started looking entirely serious. His hands moved confidently through the engine bay, checking, adjusting, pausing. He asked you questions every so often-what happened before she stalled, how long the shuddering had been going on, whether any warning lights had appeared-and you answered as best you could, though it became significantly harder when he reached for a flashlight and the movement made the muscles in his forearm shift.
You forbade yourself from developing a crush in a parking lot.
Especially not on a man who had known you for seven minutes and already thought you were insane.
“You said it started with the radio?” he asked.
You blinked, grateful for the question because it gave your brain something to do besides betray you.
“Yes.”
“The radio died first?”
“Very dramatically.”
“Then the shuddering?”
“Then the emotional coughing.”
He gave you a look.
You shrugged.
“I stand by the description.”
His mouth twitched again.
The older man had come out at some point and was standing near the garage door, watching with the expression of someone who had seen enough late-night car emergencies to know when one was about to become entertaining.
Logan checked something deeper beneath the hood and muttered under his breath.
You leaned closer. What was in front of you was a whole lot of car, and you were subtly impressed that Logan could make sense of it.
“Is she going to live?”
He looked over.
You were close enough now that the umbrella barely covered both of you. Rain dripped from the edge between you and the scent of wet asphalt rose warm from the ground. Your perfume had shifted in the rain, less pungent than when you had sprayed it hours ago. Cherry and vanilla, yes, but softened now by cold water and damp wool and whatever impossible thing happened when perfume met skin and weather.
Logan noticed it. It hit him when you leaned in, one hand still resting anxiously on the car, your hair wet at the ends, your lipstick bright despite the storm, your eyes wide and serious as if he was examining a wounded animal instead of a temperamental Chevy. You smelled like rain and cherries. Like something sweet made sharper by the cold. Like something he was not supposed to be thinking about while working.
He looked back at the engine immediately.
“She’ll live.”
Your shoulders dropped with relief so quickly he almost laughed.
“Oh thank God.”
“But you’re not driving her far tonight.”
Your expression changed.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I can get her stable enough to move, but she needs a proper look. Alternator maybe. Could be wiring. Battery’s not loving life either.”
You placed a hand over your heart.
“Don’t say that in front of her.”
“She knows.”
“She’s sensitive.”
“She stalled in a parking lot.”
“Because she was overwhelmed.”
The repair took longer than you expected and less time than you feared. Logan worked in the rain and the garage light while you stood nearby, occasionally asked questions, and made deeply unhelpful comments whenever Cherry made a noise you disliked. At one point, you offered to hold the flashlight and then immediately aimed it at the wrong thing because you were telling him a story about the time your mother made you transport a lamb in Strawberry and forgot what your hands were doing.
“A lamb,” Logan said, voice muffled as he leaned under the hood.
“Yes.”
“In the car.”
“She was small.”
“The lamb or the car?”
“Both.”
“And your mom made you?”
“She didn’t make me. She strongly requested with maternal authority.”
“That’s making you.”
“You don’t know my mother.”
“I’m starting to get a picture.”
You smiled despite yourself, and Logan, still half-focused on Cherry, caught it out of the corner of his eye.
But he re-focussed on the engine in front of him just as quickly, this was going to be a problem if he didn’t get a hold of himself.
You were pretty when you walked in.
Obviously.
Soaked hair, red mouth, wide eyes, ridiculous car name. That had been easy to notice, but pretty was usually not enough to distract him in the way you were right now.
The problem was everything else.
The way you spoke to your car like she might feel neglected if you stopped. The way you apologised when you stepped in a puddle and splashed his boot. The way your laughter kept surprising him, bright even in the rain.
And the perfume.
That was definitely a problem too.
By the time Cherry started again, the engine turning over with a rough but steady sound, you looked at him like he had personally performed a miracle.
“She’s alive.”
“For now.”
“Don’t ruin this.”
“I’m being honest.”
“You’re being pessimistic.”
“I’m being a mechanic.”
“Mechanics can have bedside manners.”
He leaned one hand against the open door, looking into the car while Cherry idled. “You got someone who can pick you up?”
Your smile faltered slightly, barely slipping from almost-stencil like posture. But he noticed.
“I can call a cab.”
His father spoke from the garage doorway before Logan could answer.
“I’ll call one from the office. Weather’s bad.”
You turned toward him immediately, both your hands wrapped around the handle of the umbrella as your skirt billowed across your thighs.. “Oh, you don’t have to.”
Jesus, had you just fallen out of a black and white film, or had Dean finally smashed him hard enough into the boards to do serious damage?
“I know.”
The older man smiled.
You smiled back, softer now.
“Thank you.”
Logan looked away.
There was something strange about watching you smile at someone else, even his father, because your whole face changed when you meant it. Like warmth arrived before the expression did.
He closed Cherry’s hood and shook his head, his curls now fallen from the weight of the rain into his eyes, , “You’ll need to leave her here overnight.”
You looked wounded, pressing your lips together and somehow barely smearing the perfect red paint that he somehow kept glancing at every few minutes. One of your hands came to rest against your heart,“She’ll be inside?”
Logan glanced toward the bay.
“Yes.”
“Not out here?”
“No.”
“And nobody will be mean to her?”
He stared at you.
You stared back.
Logan sighed. “Nobody will be mean to Cherry.”
“Thank you.”
“You realise she’s a car.”
“Yes. But she’s been very loyal to me, and I think that should count for something."
His smile returned before he could stop it.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m getting that.”
When the cab arrived fifteen minutes later, you were mostly dry from standing under the lukewarm garage heating while still wearing wet clothes. Your cardigan clung uncomfortably at your sleeves. Your hair had started to dry into waves you were not sure you had approved. Your lipstick, by some act of divine intervention, had survived.
You thanked Logan’s father twice.
Then turned to Logan, handing him a small piece of paper from your purse. He looked at it curiously, the cardstock seemed to be perfectly ruffled at the edges, in the centre was looped handwriting that had your full name and number, along with a doodle of a… was that a goat?
He recalls seeing something similar in a vintage shop in town, tucked away from the general college crowd, the old lady at the till had chirped at him when he picked up the reminiscent stack of cards, “those are calling cards sweetpea, people used to leave ‘em for each other before all of this here, tikkytoky business.” Logan had smiled at her and left without a rogue thought.
For a second, the two of you stood in the garage bay beside Cherry, the rain still hammering against the roof, the air smelling of motor oil, wet asphalt, and your perfume lingering in the warm shop air. You noticed how comical he looked in front of you, studying the calling card in his hands, which looked more like doll’s furniture between his fingers.
Nana had started your interest in them, bringing down a large, oak box of what she called, “tinder on paper”. You fashioned the one in his hand by yourself, taking joy in the crafts project- and ended up with a hefty amount of them in your bag at all times.
“Someone will call tomorrow,” he said, blinking out of his stupor. He flicked the calling card and ran his thumb along the waved edges.
“About Cherry?”
“About Cherry.”
You nodded, then hesitated, eyes dropping briefly to his hand,“Will it be you?”
Logan looked up.
“Calling, I mean,” you added quickly, as if the distinction mattered. “Only because you’ve met her now. And you were very nice to her. I think she’d prefer continuity of care.”
His mouth twitched. “Continuity of care.”
“Yes.”
“For your car.”
“For Cherry.”
Logan nodded slowly, thumb still moving along the edge of the card like it needed his full attention,“I might be in class,” he said.
“Oh. Of course.” You nodded immediately, too quickly, like you had not felt the smallest pinch of disappointment.
You’d only known each other for 45 minutes. There was a very slim chance he'd consider calling you in the middle of his presumably busy day, just to give you an update about your chevy, “That’s fine. Someone else can call. I’m sure elder Mechanic is very capable.”
Logan scratched lightly at his brow, poorly hiding his bashful amusement, “Elder Mechanic?”
“Your father,” you clarified. “I didn’t want to be rude and call him old Mechanic.”
“Thoughtful.”
“I try.”
He turned the card between his fingers once more. “I’ll call if I can.”
Your face brightened before you could stop it, “Good,” you said softly. You looked at Cherry one last time, reached out to pat the side of her hood, then seemed to realise Logan was watching and immediately straightened. “She’ll like that.”
“Obviously.”
“You’re laughing at me.”
“A little.”
“That’s okay.” You smiled then, bright and sudden and unfair. “I’m very funny.”
You were. Unfortunately for him.
The cab driver honked once outside, impatient as he waited in the cold, and you startled slightly.
“Oh. Right.”
You stepped backward, then stopped.
“Thank you, Logan.”
It was the first time you had said his name. It sounded different coming from you, in your voice, from your pretty, painted lips.
He did not like how much he noticed that.
“No problem.”
You hesitated, then added, “And sorry for dripping on your floor.”
“Our floor’s seen worse.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is.”
You smiled again.
Then you were gone, ducking under the umbrella his father had insisted you take, hurrying toward the cab in the rain with your purse clutched against your chest and your wet hair bouncing against your shoulders.
Logan stood in the open garage doorway and watched until the cab pulled out of the lot.
He had no reason to.
Cherry was still in the bay behind him, ticking softly as the engine cooled. His father had already gone back inside, he could hear him and his brother chattering. The rain was blowing against his boots, and he was tired, and he had practice in the morning, and there were at least six logical things he could be doing that did not involve staring after a girl whose car had coughed dramatically into his life and then refused to leave quietly.
Still, he stood there, rotating the calling card long after the lot emptied again and the cab’s taillights disappeared into the rain. It was when the only sound remaining was water against concrete and the faint hum of the shop lights behind him, that his father’s voice came from the office.
“You coming in?”
Logan blinked.
Then he looked back at Cherry.
The car sat under the shop lights, red paint glossy from the rain, ridiculous little strawberry air freshener still hanging from the mirror.
He should have been thinking about the alternator, or the wiring, or the fact that he had an early morning ahead of him. Instead, for some morbid reason, he brought the card to his nose- curious if it was the entity still emanating the scent of cherries around him. Sure enough, the sweet scent enveloped him once again.
In fact, he was sure the entire garage still smelled faintly like rain and cherries.
premise: you're in a "casual" relationship with logan, but you continuously refuse to spend the night at his place. in fact, you force yourself to never fall asleep in his bed. falling asleep next to him risks exposing him to your demons. and the last thing you want to do is place a burden on the man you're deeply in love with.
category: super super super light smut (minors dni), mostly fluff and yearning (incoming hurt/comfort in part ii)
word count: around 3.5k
content/trigger warnings: the lightest smut ever at the beginning (again, minors dni), vivid description of a night terror (brief mentions of blood, gunshots, screaming, suffocation in the night terror, but no other mention outside of it).
context notes: reader works at Briar's tutoring center. i originally was only going to make her a Psych major, but i added Bio because i wanted her majors to reflect her interest in figuring out how night terrors work (i never explored this angle in part i, but i will in part ii)
author notes: i've been in a creative writing rut for two years and off campus has pulled me out of it. sooo there's definitely room for improvement, please bear with me :) i'm also super inexperienced in writing smut, which is why you can barely consider the smut scene "smut" in the first place lmao. i originally wanted to write this fic all in one go, but i'm having some writer's block with the latter half, which is why i'm publishing it in two parts. feedback is much appreciated! (also very lightly proofread as of 06/02/26)
The afternoon sun slowly filters into his bedroom, basking your bodies in a soft, gentle glow. Though the entirety of Briar’s student body is still recovering from the brutal winter storm, you found shelter in his arms, feeling nothing but warmth while pinned beneath his body. As the end of February approaches, the promise of Spring weather reinvigorates Briar students as they deal with the exhaustion brought on by their grueling midterms. After all, the new season brought blooming flowers, brilliantly sunny days, and new beginnings.
Perhaps, the onset of Spring could mark a new beginning for you as well. Maybe you could experience a fresh start in your life by ending this bizarre arrangement that you have with this dazzling hockey player. Ending this “casual” relationship would be good for the both of you.
But ever since you stumbled into his bed on one October night during some Halloweekend festivities, Logan quickly became your comfort zone. And right now, as you restlessly writhe between his sheets, you have absolutely zero desire to leave this comfort.
“Fuck,” the man of the hour rasped and grunted, his head dropping unceremoniously onto the crook of your neck. He breathes frenzied exhales into your shoulder, hot air drifting towards the bottom of your ears. His body weight practically crushes you, leaving you with just the tiniest slot of air to supply your lungs. But you’re not complaining. You’re exactly where you want to be.
You gasp into his brown curls as his thrusts quicken, your hands desperately fisting and grabbing onto the fitted sheet as some sort of pathetic attempt to anchor yourself. Watching you twist underneath him with heavy-lidden eyes, Logan grasps your hands, carefully interlocking your fingers with his, your palms firmly sealing against each other. Like the satisfying connection of the final pieces of a puzzle.
The loving gesture tugs at your heart. This “casual” intimacy is too much to bear, but you can’t bring yourself to let go.
“Y/N,” He rasps into your skin, his frantic breaths imprinting themselves like love bites onto your neck. You know that he’s close, and judging by the tension breeding underneath your belly that’s threatening to release itself, you know that you’re not that far off either. With your elbows digging into his mattress, you arch your back, slightly lift your hips just a tad higher, and the sound that emerges from your throat reverberates off the walls of his bedroom. Logan immediately finds his own release as he moans your name into your neck, his stubble etching a mark onto your skin, and his own body shaking from head to toe.
After he takes off the condom, Logan’s chest makes its way on top of yours as you sink into his bed, trying to catch your breath as he lazily draws circles on your thigh. Though your mind flinches at the “casual” nature of your relationship with Logan, your heart eventually learns to return to slow resting state while around him. He’s a steady presence, and his company is much needed as you try to navigate around the various stressors in your life.
Already, your tortuous coursework and demanding work-study stint are clearly draining you. Hannah frequently points out the dark bags under your eyes and the sluggish, lethargic nature of your gait as you force yourself to attend class.
But you had another stressor that completely robbed the last morsels of life clinging on to your body. A hidden, yet dangerous stressor that you kept snapped shut in the corners of your mind, only giving the key to your therapist for her to unlock.
The reason why you always refused to sleep at Logan’s place.
“So beautiful,” Logan’s voice pulls you from your reverie, his hoarse whisper tickling your collarbone. He kisses over the hickeys he proudly implanted near your breast, admiring his view. “All for me.”
You bite your bottom lip at his comment, pressing down so hard that you’re sure blood will ooze out any minute now. You’re technically not “all for him.” Even though he skips hockey practice to help jumpstart your car on the side of the road. Even though he now uses a fragrance-free laundry detergent because his sheets would irritate your sensitive skin. Even though he looks at you with those eyes that compel you to answer his text every single time. Even though his bed feels so comfortable right now.
Control yourself.
“Back at ya,” You awkwardly laugh, delivering a very nervous and spur-of-the-moment reply. So smooth, Y/N. Did you flirt this badly when he tore your Tinkerbell costume off?
Chuckles rumble from his chest, pressing down onto your heart. You could play his laugh on repeat. Hell, even set it as your ringtone. “Still not used to receiving compliments, I see.”
You don’t offer a response. Suddenly, the bed feels way too warm and way too inviting. As his pillow swallows your head, your eyes start to close.
But you quickly force yourself to wake up, remembering that you do not, in any circumstance, want to fall asleep in his bed. You will not make that mistake.
Instead, you lean over to check the time on your phone. 4:09 PM.
“I need to get going to my shift,” You slide out from underneath him, removing yourself from his grap. The sudden loss of warmth feels like whiplash.
His dark eyebrows furrow as you grab the haphazardly laid clothes on the wooden floor. “Doesn’t it start at 5:00? You still have some time,” He pats your unofficial side of his bed, watching you shimmy yourself into your jeans. “Come ‘ere. Stay a ‘lil longer.”
You bite your lip even harder, using it like a stress ball, and you try to forget that your situationship remembers that tiny detail of your work schedule. Of course he does.
“I like getting there early, though. It’s much better than arriving five minutes before a session starts,” You zip up your jeans, chuckling softly when he flashes his signature sad puppy eyes at you. “I like to quickly refresh myself on the content beforehand.”
“As if you would need any refreshing, Mrs. Bio and Psych Double-Major,” He teases, and yep, you’re pretty sure that’s blood you’re tasting right now.
“Trust me, I don’t always remember the ins and outs of signal transduction.”
Logan tilts his head to the side, staring at you with those confused eyes that you find so absolutely endearing. “And what the hell is ‘signal transduction?’”
You sigh, kneeling onto the floor and tying your shoes. “That’s a story for another time. I better get going.”
“Wait, I’ll walk you down,” He says as he jumps out of the bed, rapidly putting on his sweatpants and grabbing a random flannel from his desk chair.
You roll your eyes as you open his bedroom door, hearing the noises of his roommates from downstairs. “I’ve been here plenty of times, Logan. I know my way around the house.”
He shrugs, buttoning up his flannel. “So? God forbid a guy wants to be a gentleman.”
“A gentleman?” You stifle a laugh, and he has the gall to put on a mildly offended face.
“Of course, my lady. I’m always on my best behavior for you.”
More blood seeps from your lip. You give him a playful shove on his shoulder, but he brandishes that signature crooked "John Logan smile" at you, and fuck, you’re in deep.
As the both of you walk downstairs, your peer at the living room and say a goodbye to the rest of the boys. Tucker and Dean were sitting on the couch, pouring over a textbook that you knew all too well. By the looks of it, Garrett wasn’t home. He was probably hanging out at Hannah’s dorm, per usual.
“Good seeing ya, Y/N,” Tucker smiles at you, lifting his head from the textbook.
“Yes, very good seeing ya,” Dean drawls, suddenly jumping up from his spot on the couch and making his way over to you. “And we are in desperate need of your guidance. This bio class is killing us.”
All of the boys knew you already. Though you and Logan weren’t “serious” by any means, neither of you kept your situationship a secret from others. At least Logan spared you the hurt and discomfort that comes from sneaking around.
Then again, all of his charming, boyfriend-coded compliments haven’t made the situation any better either.
You shake your head jokingly at Dean. “You guys have Professor Ragner, right? He’s chill. You’ll be fine.”
Dean gasps in fake shock, puting a hand to his heart as if he were in a melodramatic soap opera. “Wow, so you’re just leaving us to drown with no support? I see how it is, Y/N.”
You scoff. “No offense to y’all, but I don’t have time for free tutoring. I’m getting paid minimum wage, which is practically nothing to begin with, to tutor jocks like y’all in the first place. I’m sure as hell not doing any unpaid labor.”
“I can pay you in a different way,” Dean unabashedly flirts, blond waves falling over his eyes, voice dropping to a lower tenor. You raise an eyebrow in amusement, knowing that he’s joking.
Then someone behind you loudly clears their throat. You turn around to Logan, who is adorning an expression that you can’t quite decipher.
“Jesus, relax, Johnny,” Dean comes around and pats him on the back, which Logan rejects in fake disgust, pretending to flinch. “I was just suggesting an alternative method of payment.”
“Uh-huh, sure you were," Logan replies with a chuckle, though his smile doesn’t reach all the way to his eyes.
Tucker rejoins the conversation. “I don’t know about cash, but I’ll pay you back with free meals. I make a mean pasta carbonara.”
“Now that, I can get behind,” You point finger guns towards Tucker. “Well boys, I’m off to work. I’ll see y’all later.”
Tucker and Dean say their goodbyes. With a light touch of his hand on the small of your back, Logan leads you to the porch. He opens the door, and as you step outside, he wraps a hand around your wrist, wanting to say one last thing before you leave.
“Have a good shift,” He presses a kiss to your forehead. You force yourself to not bite your lip for the hundredth time. Control. “I’ll see you on Friday, yeah?”
You don’t know what to say. You knew that the team was throwing a party before their game on Saturday. A sharp inhale exits your nose.
“Yeah, sure,” You smile at him, starting to walk to your car. “See you, Logan.”
As you drive to the tutoring center, you chastised yourself for how close you were to falling asleep in his bed. This pathetic attempt at a situationship was going to tear you apart. And if you need to distance yourself from those warm eyes and beaming smile, then so be it.
Friday was two days away. You decided to not come over to the hockey players’ house for their party before playing Eastwood. Not only did you want some space between you and Logan, but you also had an upcoming midterm that made up a good chunk of your grade for your Psych class. You thus planned on devoting your entire weekend to studying for it.
So when Friday night came along, giving excuses to Logan felt easy. Somewhat easy.
(9:21 PM) Logan: Hey, I haven’t seen you yet. Are you on the way?
(9:46 PM) Y/N: I have a huge midterm on Monday. I need to study. Sorry, I forgot to tell you :/
(9:48 PM) Logan: Ahh I see, no worries.
(9:51 PM) Logan: I looked forward to seeing you.
(9:52 PM) Logan: I’ll see you after the midterm? Good luck, you got this.
(10:23 PM) Y/N: Thanks, good luck with the game.
A twinge of guilt spread through your chest and hammered at your heart when you didn’t confirm the rendezvous. You always came to the boys’ parties before their games, even though you continuously stuck by your rule of never sleeping over, which definitely took Logan a little bit of time to get used to. During Halloweekend, you surprised him when you slipped out of his bed at 3:00 AM, grabbing your car keys and opening his bedroom door.
“You don’t want to stay the night?” You recall his gravelly voice, utterly rattled with sleep, as he watched you put on your shoes. “It’s kinda late.”
“I have an early morning. And I didn’t drink at all, so…” You explained, giving him a tight smile before closing the door so that you didn’t have to stare any longer at his bare, toned chest. “See ya.”
Starting with a clean slate was necessary. After all, you needed to keep your commitment to both your grades and your job. Logan would only serve as a distraction.
That’s what you kept repeating to yourself as you went to bed later that night, putting your phone on the other side of your room in order to stop checking it.
The first thing that you notice is that you can’t speak.
You bring a palm up to your mouth, but your face feels completely numb. Anything you say just comes out extremely muffled, as if you never had a mouth in the first place. You gaze around your environment with blurry eyes, looking at the four corners of the dingy room. You try to touch one of the walls, but as soon as your hand comes into contact, the wall becomes translucent, your hand just floating around in open space. But as you pull your hand back, the wall comes up again, inching closer and closer to your face.
Your breath hitches as you try to find an escape—a trapdoor, a window, just anything will do. But the room starts to resemble a box the more you look at it, as if you were an inanimate object shoved inside a carton to never be seen again. The lump in your throat grows as your vision subsides with each passing second, complete murk and darkness clouding up your eyes.
You try to bang on the walls, but your balled up fists just fall into air. You try to scream for help, but you feel chains wrapped around your mouth, silencing your cries and greedily swallowing up any remaining shred of air needed for your survival.
The sound of falling objects tears your gaze away from the walls. You eyes widen as you watch clumps of your hair disintegrating into the floor and massive droplets of blood emanating from your fingertips. You frantically search your whole body for any sign of a cut, a wound, an injury, but your hunt is fruitless.
And that’s when the walls start closing in, devouring every inch of space that’s not covered by your trembling body.
You sink to the floor as your knees helplessly buckle, crawling up into a ball as a fresh flow of tears sprint down your cheeks. Soon those tears also turn to blood, drowning your limbs in a sea of red. And the ceiling feels so fucking close to you, you’re certain that it’s going to collapse.
Sounds of whining sirens and howling wind and quick gunshots and terrified screaming all fuse and merge tightly together in perfect storm, a cacophony where you can hear each individual occurrence happening at once. The walls are up to your nose, and you try so hard to scream. To cry for help.
The sound of a door slamming shut finally wakes you up.
You’re heaving as you sit up in your bed, your fists rapidly unclenching to rest your palms on your chest. Your body feels so unbearably hot, outlines of your sweat etching themselves onto your sheets. A fearful whimper tears out of you, and you wrap your hands around your curled-up body as you begin to frantically rock yourself back and forth on your bed. The sobs pour out of you in an instant, breaths clawing themselves up your throat in such a sharp, stiniging manner that you’re sure there’s clawmarks scarred across your trachea. You’ve had night terrors ever since elementary school, but you’ve never really adjusted them.
The tears completely wreck you. You move your hands from your body to the sheets, fists digging into the fabric, helplessly searching for security. What a stark contrast to your time with Logan, where you desperately fisted at his sheets while waves of pleasure cascaded through your body.
Both times, however, you were looking for control.
Nevertheless, as your sobs gradually begin to subside, you inhale shaky breaths to center yourself back to reality. When your vision starts to clear up, you go back to the 5-4-3-2-1 coping technique that your therapist suggested to ground yourself.
Five things you can see. Four things you can touch. Three things you can hear. Two things you can smell. One thing you can taste.
As you slowly list through the four things you can touch, your mind goes back to the hockey player you’re trying so desperately not to think about. But all you desire is to feel his callused palm on your cheek, his long arm around your waist, and his mouth trailing kisses on your neck.
And you hate how much you yearn to be in Logan’s arms right now. You ache for his comforting presence, but you know you can’t place this trouble on him, this overwhelming burden to bring you back to Earth after a night terror. He already has enough on his plate.
Sighing, you make your way to the bathroom to splash some water on your face. On your way there, you grab your phone, looking at the date and time. 2:38 AM, Monday, February 23rd.
So you had a night terror the morning of your big exam. Great.
At least you can thank your neighbors’ rowdiness for pulling you out of your dream. They loved to slam the door after a night out, and unfortunately for you, they seemed to go out every fucking night. You kindly asked them to close their door more gently, but clearly, your words had zero effect.
After wiping your face and staring too long at your bloodshot eyes in the bathroom mirror, you walk to your desk, deciding to fit in a last-minute study session now that you’re awake. You definitely don’t want to go back to sleep now.
After five minutes of flipping through some flashcards, you make the mistake of scrolling through the notifications on your phone. Your eyes immediately lock on to some notifications from Instagram. Specifically, some DMs from Logan.
When your trembling fingers open your message thread with him, the slight shaking in your body stops when you browse through his messages. All of them were either the silliest of reels or the stupidest of memes. And under each and every one of them, he wrote a message: This made me think of you; or you definitely need to watch this; or even this is so stupid, but it made me laugh so hard that I had to send it you.
As you laugh while watching cat videos and overplayed vines, the desire for Logan seeps through your veins. He has no idea of the effect you have on him.
But you’re still going to keep your distance. You have to, even when you watch all of the reels he sends you, despite telling yourself that you need to go back to studying any minute now.
you were sprawled across logan’s bed, legs kicked up against the headboard, scrolling through your phone while he sat at his desk, half-heartedly pretending to study.
the conversation had drifted. like it always did with logan—from stupid shit your ex did to sex, and somehow landed on the one thing you’d never admitted to anyone.
“wait, wait, wait.” he spun around in his chair, textbook forgotten.
“you’re telling me you’ve never-”
“squirted? no.” you rolled your eyes, not looking up from your phone. “it’s fake, logan. porn shit. girls fake it for views.”
he was quiet for exactly two seconds. then his chair rolled against the floor.
“the fuck y’mean it’s fake?”
you finally glanced up. he was standing now, arms crossed, jaw tight like you’d just insulted his entire bloodline in one sentence.
“i mean…” you said slowly, “that i’ve come before. orgasms are real. but squirting? that whole gushing thing? no chance. my ex tried once, ended up practically elbow-deep, and nothing happened. so i’m pretty sure it’s a myth.”
john’s eye twitched. like proper twitched when you insult a man’s beliefs.
he walked over to the bed, grabbed your ankles, and yanked you flat before you could protest. your phone clattered onto the sheets.
“logan!” you squeak out in surprise, laughing softly.
“you’re telling me..” he said, voice low, “that some useless fuck tried to make you squirt, failed, and now you think it’s not real?”
“that’s...yeah, basically.”
he ran a hand through his hair, let out a breath, and then his gaze dropped to your hips like he was solving a fucking equation. “that’s offensive.”
“are you serious?” you snort, laughing at the look on his face.
“yeah! you’ve been walking around thinking your body can’t do something it absolutely can!” he climbed onto the bed, knees bracketing your hips, hands planted on either side of your head.
“and that i’m gonna have to be the one to prove you wrong.”
you should’ve laughed. should’ve shoved him off and called him an idiot.
instead, your thighs pressed together. “log-”
“shut up.” but he said it softly, thumb brushing your jaw. “you trust me?”
you nodded before you could think.
his mouth found yours, deep and soft, like he was tasting you for the first time. his tongue slid against yours, and his hand traveled down, down, past your stomach, fingers curling under the waistband of your shorts.
“these need to go.” he murmured against your lips.
you lifted your hips, let him peel them off along with your panties. the cool air hit you, and you shivered, suddenly hyperaware of how wet you already were.
logan looked down. let out a low whistle.
“fuck. you’re soaked. just from talkin’ about it?”
heat crawled up your neck. “shut up.”
he grinned, not fading even as he settled between your legs, broad shoulders forcing them apart. his thumb found your clit without even looking – calloused, rough, rubbing lazy circles that made your back arch.
“’m gonna show you exactly what your body can do,” he said, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. “and you’re gonna feel so good you forget every single idiot who couldn’t get it right.”
“logan – i’m telling you, it’s not gonna-”
he shoved two fingers inside you without warning. no build-up. no teasing. just the sudden stretch, the curl of his knuckles against your walls. you gasped, back arching.
"feel fake?" he pumped once, twice, watching your face. "feel good?"
"..yeah."
he shoved two fingers inside you.
the words died in your throat. your walls clenched around him, slick and hot, and he curled his fingers just right, pressing up against that spongy spot that made your vision blur.
“that feel fake to you?” he pumped slowly, watching your face. “feel good?”
“..yeah” followed by a breathy sound.
“good.” he added a third finger, stretching you open. the stretch burned in the best way, and you gasped, grabbing his hair on instinct. “i got you. just breathe.”
he kept a steady rhythm – in, out, curl. his palm slapped against your clit with every stroke, wet sounds filling the room. your legs tried to close, but he pinned your thighs over his shoulders, holding you open.
“thaaat’s it. you’re so fucking tight, baby. taking my fingers so well.” he murmured softly, eyes fixated on the way your hole was moving around his fingers.
he pulled his fingers out, and before you could complain at the loss, he lowered his head. his tongue dragged through your folds, flat and wet, then his mouth closed over your clit. he sucked hard, fingers still inside you, curling against that spongy wall.
then he pulled back, dragged his tongue down, and spat directly onto your clit. you cried out, fingers twisting in his hair. he looked up at you then, chin glistening, smirk sharp.
"that got your attention."
his fingers resumed – fucking you fast now, three of them, while his mouth worked your clit in rough, sucking strokes. the pressure built like a dam about to break. your whole body trembled, legs shaking, hands fisting the sheets.
"i can't – i can't-"
"you can." his voice vibrated against your skin. "you're gonna squirt all over my hand, and i'm gonna watch you fall apart. c’mon."
he curled his fingers hard, hit that spot dead-on, and sucked your clit into his mouth at the same time.
your orgasm hit like a freight train. it gushed out of you – hot, uncontrollable, soaking his hand, your thighs, the sheets beneath. it kept coming, pulse after pulse, while you screamed into the crook of your arm. your whole body convulsed, vision white, ears ringing.
john didn't stop. he groaned against you, drinking it down, fingers still pumping you through it. when you finally collapsed, limp and trembling, he pulled back.
his palm was glistening. his chin and shirt were wet. he brought his fingers to his mouth, licked them clean, and grinned.
"still think it's fake?"
you couldn't even answer. just stared at the ceiling, chest heaving, thighs sticky and sore.
he leaned up finally, kissed your forehead, and whispered,
Pairing: Theo Nott X Cedric Diggory x Fem! Character
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 : Jules spent years hating Theodore Nott.
He was cruel, arrogant, and always knew exactly how to get under her skin. But fifth year changes everything. The teasing turns into lingering stares, late-night conversations, and feelings neither of them are supposed to have.Theodore becomes her escape from the pressure, expectations, and loneliness that follow her everywhere. some people are destined to destroy each other no matter how much they try to hold on.
notes: hi hi! I hope you enjoy chapter 2 of splintered<3 part three is coming your way today as well!! alsoooo i’ve been posting edits, sneak peeks, and little moodboards over on my tiktok if you wanna see more content for this fic !!📱 tiktok: @theodorelvr reblogs, comments, screaming, crying, and emotional damage are always appreciated <3
warnings/tags: 18+ content (read responsibly!) fake dating trope, enemies to lovers , swearing, emotional constipation, sexual tension/ suggestive banter + character "glowup". Kissing & fluff.
word count: 1.5k
Trigger warnings will be placed before chapters when necessary.
The Hufflepuff stands went absolutely mental as Cedric Diggory held the golden Snitch high above his head. Cheers and whistles echoed through the stadium, and the first thing Cedric did was glance toward Juliet, raising the Snitch with that familiar cocky grin before winking. Her stomach flipped.
He looked pleased with himself—always a brilliant Quidditch player, but seeing him this proud after beating Slytherin made her grin. She should have been annoyed at losing, but she wasn't. Not even a bit. Cedric and she had been mates for years, and she genuinely felt happy for him.
Still, she wondered if Cedric had noticed her feelings. Probably. Half of Hogwarts seemed to know, and yet he never acted differently. Maybe it was mercy. She couldn't bear things getting awkward between them.
Before this year, Cedric had always treated her like a little sister. But something had shifted. Flirtatious jibes had replaced teasing, playful arguments about Quidditch skills, and weekly chats in the Astronomy Tower that promised they'd never forget each other. The "world's best Quidditch duo" jokes were no longer just jokes.
She turned to Fred, grinning. "I'll be right back, Freddie. I need to find Cedric."
Fred smirked. "Yeah, go on then, love. Try not to confess your undying love and snog him senseless, yeah?"
Juliet rolled her eyes. "Oh, shut it. Cedric and I are just mates."
"Right. Because mates tell the whole Quidditch team they're planning to ask you to the Yule Ball," Fred said, one eyebrow arched.
"What?" Juliet gasped, lowering her voice. "Fredrick Gideon Weasley, start talking—or I'll hex your ginger hair off."
Fred winced. "Oi, no need for the full name, Greengrass. That's cruel."
"Spill it, then," she pressed.
"Fine," he said, glancing around. "Diggory told the lads he's planning to ask you to the Yule Ball tonight."
"Bloody hell, Fred! You couldn't have told me sooner? I'd have worn something half-decent!" she groaned.
Fred chuckled. "Relax, Jules. You'll be fine. Now go talk to him before I regret telling you."
"Thanks, Freddie." She leaned in and kissed his cheek before darting off, grinning as his ears flushed pink. "Wish me luck!"
She hurried down the corridors and nearly collided with someone.
"Oi! Watch it, yeah?" she said, rubbing her head.
"Oh—Jules! Sorry, I was actually looking for you," Cedric said, slightly out of breath, his cheeks flushed from the match.
She smiled. "No worries, Ced. My fault. And congratulations on the win—I'm proud of you."
"Thanks, Jules," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know it's last minute, but... would you let me escort you to the Yule Ball?"
Juliet froze. And then, without thinking, she threw her arms around him. Cedric wrapped her close, chest rising and falling against hers. For a moment, it felt like the rest of the castle didn't exist.
When she pulled back slightly, hands still on his chest, his honey-brown eyes met hers, soft and careful. Slowly, he leaned in.
Her heart raced.
And then—he kissed her.
Soft at first, gentle, like he was testing the waters. His thumb brushed her cheek as he pressed his lips again, firmer this time. Her hands slid into his hair, tugging slightly, and he let out a quiet groan.
He pulled back slightly, breathless. "Is this okay?" he murmured.
"Yeah," she whispered, leaning in again.
The moment broke with a voice that made her stomach drop.
"Bloody hell, Greengrass. I knew you were a slag, but I didn't take you for the public sort."
Juliet spun around. Of course, it was Theodore Nott—leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a smug grin on his face.
"Watch your mouth, Nott," Cedric snapped, stepping in front of her.
"Or what, mate?" Theo drawled. "You gonna hex me? Go on then."
Cedric glared. "You really don't want to find out."
Theo smirked, stepping closer. "Didn't think so."
"That's enough, Nott," Juliet said sharply. "Don't you have some Slytherin girl to snog?"
He arched an eyebrow. "Why? Jealous, Greengrass? 'Cause I can make that happen if you're desperate."
Juliet scoffed. "I'd rather fling myself off the Astronomy Tower than touch you."
Theo chuckled low. "Oh really? Because I reckon I'm ten times better than pretty-boy Diggory'll ever be." He leaned down, voice low enough for only Cedric and Juliet.
Cedric's fists clenched. "Leave, Nott."
Theo shrugged. "Alright, alright." He raised his hands in mock surrender, then walked off. "But you know where my dorm is, witch—always open for you." He winked. "Nice rack, by the way."
Juliet's jaw dropped. She fumbled with her shirt, realizing it was half undone. Cedric's glare could have set Theo on fire.
"Sorry about that," she muttered, mortified.
"Don't apologise, love," Cedric said gently, brushing his thumb across her cheek, wiping away smudged lipstick.
"Well, I should head off. Got a Potions exam tomorrow," she said, forcing a smile.
"You'll smash it, like always," he said, pulling her into a hug.
"See you tomorrow, yeah?"
"Always."
As Juliet walked away, she couldn't help laughing. "Oh—and Ced? You've got lipstick on your face."
He chuckled. "Goodnight, beautiful."
And for the rest of the way back to the common room, she couldn't stop smiling.
Summary: John Logan thought he understood exactly what his feelings for Hannah meant—right up until Hannah’s intimidating, sharp-tongued roommate walked into the Briar house and flipped his entire world sideways in a single afternoon. What starts as teasing banter and an unexpected walk across campus quickly turns into something far more dangerous: the realization that the easiest connection Logan’s ever had might be with the one girl he absolutely didn’t expect.
wc: 2256
Pairing: John Logan x Reader
A/N: this has been sitting in my drafts for a few days now, enjoy
Masterlist
The first thing John Logan noticed was the combat boots. Not because combat boots were unusual at Briar, but because the girl wearing them looked like she would rather be anywhere else.
Dean had been talking for the last five minutes—something dramatic about being “psychologically bullied” by Hannah’s roommate—but Logan stopped listening the second the front door opened wider behind Hannah.
“She doesn’t hate you,” Hannah said, dropping her backpack near the stairs while cold winter air swept into the house. “She just thinks you say dumb things.”
Dean looked personally wounded. “That’s basically hate.”
Garrett snorted from the kitchen island where he was digging through the fridge for beer. “To be fair, you do say dumb things.”
“I say emotionally honest things.”
“You asked her if pharmacy school was ‘basically legal drug dealing.’”
Dean pointed defensively. “That was a valid question.”
“No,” Hannah said flatly. “It wasn’t.”
Logan leaned one shoulder against the kitchen doorway, only half paying attention. The house smelled like stale beer, detergent, and whatever mystery takeout Dean had abandoned on the coffee table three days ago. A hockey game quietly played from the TV while Tucker yelled upstairs about someone stealing his shampoo again.
You know, the normal chaos.
Then Hannah stepped aside.
And suddenly Logan’s full attention locked onto the girl behind her.
Oh.
Okay.
He understood Dean’s problem immediately.
The girl standing in the doorway looked nothing like Logan expected from Hannah’s descriptions.
Not prettier—
Actually, no. Definitely prettier.
But not in the polished Briar-girl way he was used to. She looked rougher around the edges. Cooler somehow. Like she’d thrown herself together in ten minutes and accidentally looked incredible anyway.
Dark curls spilled messily over one shoulder beneath a black beanie. Heavy eyeliner framed deep brown eyes that scanned the room once—quick, sharp, unimpressed. Tattoos wrapped around both forearms beneath the sleeves of an oversized vintage Metallica shirt, disappearing beneath silver rings and stacked bracelets.
Black cargos.
Combat boots.
Leather jacket despite the freezing weather outside.
And an expression that said she’d already decided everyone in the room was slightly embarrassing.
Logan immediately wanted to make her laugh.
Which was weird.
“She’s staring again,” Dean muttered under his breath.
Without missing a beat, the girl replied, “I can hear you.”
Dean straightened instantly. “See? Terrifying.”
Hannah sighed like this exact interaction happened hourly. “Everyone, this is my roommate, y/n.”
y/n lifted two fingers lazily in greeting. “Unfortunately.”
Garrett laughed under his breath.
Logan bit back a smile.
Then y/n’s gaze landed on the three hockey sticks shoved beside the kitchen counter.
She blinked once.
“…Why are there hockey sticks in the kitchen?”
“Storage issue,” Garrett answered immediately.
“That sentence should never exist.”
Dean pointed toward her dramatically. “See? Judgmental.”
“You’re using sports equipment as interior design.”
“It’s temporary.”
“There’s dust on them.”
Garrett looked genuinely offended. “Wow.”
y/n finally smiled a little.
And Jesus Christ.
That smile changed her whole face.
Up until then she’d looked intimidating. Guarded in that cool, detached way that made people keep their distance automatically.
But the smile softened her.
Not completely.
Just enough to feel dangerous in an entirely different direction.
“Your house looks exactly how I imagined,” she said.
Garrett narrowed his eyes cautiously. “What does that mean?”
y/n looked around once more. “It smells like protein powder and poor decisions.”
Logan laughed before he could stop himself.
Not just a quick chuckle either—a real laugh that escaped unexpectedly.
y/n’s eyes flicked toward him instantly.
And stayed there.
Just for a second longer than normal.
Interesting.
There was no instant swooning recognition in her expression. No “oh my God, hockey player” energy.
If anything, she looked mildly entertained by him.
That almost never happened.
Hannah nudged y/n’s shoulder. “Ignore them. We’re gonna study upstairs.”
y/n shook her head slowly like she couldn’t believe these people functioned independently.
Then she adjusted the heavy backpack hanging off one shoulder.
Logan noticed immediately how full it looked.
“You heading out?” he asked before thinking too hard about why he cared.
y/n looked over at him again.
Close up, her eyes were darker than he thought. Warm brown under the kitchen lights, framed by smudged eyeliner that somehow made her look even more exhausted.
“Yeah,” she said. “Lab shift.”
Dean frowned. “You voluntarily go to labs?”
“She’s in pharmacy,” Hannah reminded him.
“That still sounds fake.”
y/n looked at Dean with complete seriousness. “You’re right. I made the entire degree up for attention.”
Tucker wandered downstairs just in time to hear that. “Honestly? Respect.”
“Thank you,” y/n replied.
Logan grinned.
There was something weirdly easy about talking to her already.
Normally conversations with girls at Briar went one of two ways:
Flirting.
Or boredom.
Sometimes both.
But y/n talked like she genuinely didn’t care who he was, and somehow that made him want her attention more.
“What kinda lab?” Logan asked.
“Antibiotic resistance research.”
Dean blinked. “I don’t know what that means.”
“It means bacteria are becoming resistant to treatment.”
“Oh.”
“Which is bad.”
“Right. Yeah. That part I got.”
y/n gave him a slow nod like she was encouraging a small child through a difficult learning experience.
Logan laughed again.
And this time y/n’s attention shifted fully toward him.
Like she hadn’t expected him to actually find her funny.
“You really like it?” he asked her.
Something in her expression changed immediately.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Like someone quietly lit a match behind her eyes.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “A lot.”
No sarcasm this time.
No teasing.
Just honesty.
And for some reason, that hit Logan harder than it should’ve.
Most people at Briar liked things.
Hockey.
Parties.
Classes sometimes.
But y/n loved what she studied.
He could hear it in her voice instantly.
Could see it too.
It made her look different somehow. More awake.
“Jesus,” Tucker muttered. “That’s terrifying.”
y/n nodded solemnly. “Women in STEM. Horrifying.”
Logan laughed hard enough to duck his head briefly.
God, she was funny.
Not try-hard funny.
Just naturally quick in a way that kept catching him off guard.
Hannah checked her phone and groaned. “We’re late.”
Garrett perked up immediately. “Wait—before you disappear, can you make that cherry pie again?”
y/n paused halfway to the door.
“Cherry pie?”
Garrett pointed dramatically at Hannah. “See? She gets it.”
y/n looked interested now. “I’m listening.”
“She makes homemade pie,” Garrett explained reverently.
y/n stared at Hannah for a beat. “Why are you hiding this from the public?”
“Because every time I bake for you people, you act like Victorian children seeing sugar for the first time.”
“That’s because we’re broke,” Logan said automatically.
y/n immediately pointed at him. “Exactly.”
There it was again.
That tiny flicker of connection.
Like they’d accidentally stepped into the same wavelength.
“I spent twenty minutes debating whether generic ramen tastes different from brand-name ramen yesterday,” she admitted.
Logan nodded seriously. “It absolutely does.”
“Emotionally?” y/n asked.
“Emotionally.”
She laughed softly under her breath.
And Logan felt stupidly victorious about causing it.
A few minutes later, Hannah disappeared upstairs with Garrett while Dean and Tucker argued loudly in the kitchen about frozen pizza.
y/n headed for the front door again, pulling her beanie down tighter over her curls.
Logan moved before he fully thought it through.
“I’m heading to campus too,” he said casually. “I’ll walk with you.”
Dean looked up so fast it was almost violent.
The expression on his face screamed gossip.
y/n noticed too.
One eyebrow lifted slightly.
But after a second, she opened the door anyway.
Cold air hit instantly.
Outside, Briar looked gray and slushy beneath the overcast sky. Snowmelt soaked the sidewalks while groups of students hurried past in scarves and winter jackets.
For the first block or so, they walked quietly.
Not awkward.
Just… settling into each other.
y/n shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. Logan kept stealing glances at her beside him.
At the way her curls escaped beneath the beanie.
At the tiny silver hoop through her nose.
At the tattoos winding around her wrists.
He caught himself staring at her mouth once and immediately looked away.
“So,” Logan said finally, “what do Hannah and Allie say about us?”
y/n’s mouth twitched.
“You want the honest answer?”
“Always.”
“They think you’re the least emotionally constipated of the hockey players.”
Logan barked out a laugh. “That’s somehow insulting and flattering.”
“It gets worse.”
“Oh no.”
y/n looked entirely too pleased with herself now.
“Hannah specifically said—and I quote—‘Logan acts like a frat boy but has the emotional energy of someone who wants to hold hands at a farmer’s market.’”
Logan stopped walking for half a second.
“What?”
y/n burst out laughing.
Not just smiling now.
Actually laughing.
Head tipping back slightly, eyes crinkling at the corners.
And Christ.
That was dangerous.
Because suddenly Logan wanted to hear that sound again immediately.
“You enjoy ruining lives, huh?” he asked.
“A little.”
They crossed the street together while snow crunched beneath their shoes.
Then y/n glanced sideways at him.
“So,” she said casually, “you like Hannah.”
Straight to the point.
Logan exhaled sharply through his nose. “Am I really that obvious?”
“Yes.”
“That’s brutal.”
“You look at her like she invented sunlight.”
“Well,” Logan muttered, “now I’m never recovering from that sentence.”
y/n laughed softly again.
But then her expression gentled slightly.
“She looks at Garrett the same way, though.”
That landed harder than Logan expected.
Not painful exactly.
Just true.
“Yeah,” he admitted quietly.
“You okay with that?”
He thought about lying.
Instead he shrugged.
“I think maybe I got attached to wanting something I couldn’t have.”
y/n was quiet for a second beside him.
Then she nodded slowly.
“I get that.”
Logan glanced over.
“You do?”
“My entire life’s kinda built around it.”
“How?”
y/n adjusted her backpack higher on her shoulder before answering.
“My parents came to Canada with nothing,” she said. “So for them, success isn’t optional. It’s survival.”
There wasn’t resentment in her voice.
Just exhaustion.
Logan understood that immediately.
“My dad’s different,” he admitted slowly. “But… similar outcome.”
y/n looked over at him more carefully then.
Not teasing now.
Just listening.
“Family stuff?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t have to explain.”
The fact that she said it so casually made him want to anyway.
Which was new.
“He’s an alcoholic,” Logan admitted after a moment. “Money’s always been bad.”
y/n’s expression softened instantly.
Not pity.
Never pity.
Just understanding.
“That’s hard,” she said quietly.
Logan shrugged automatically even though tension tightened in his chest. “I’ll survive.”
y/n looked at him for a second longer than necessary.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “You probably will.”
Something warm settled low in Logan’s stomach.
Because she sounded like she meant it.
The conversation flowed easier after that.
Lighter again.
They talked about classes, textbooks, terrible cafeteria food.
y/n admitted she once fell asleep in the library during finals and woke up four hours later with keyboard marks on her face.
Logan told her about Garrett accidentally breaking a table while wrestling Tucker.
At some point, Logan realized he hadn’t thought about Hannah in almost an hour.
Which felt strange.
Not bad strange.
Just unexpected.
They reached the science building too quickly.
y/n slowed near the steps, staring up at the giant concrete building with visible disappointment.
“Ah yes,” she said flatly. “My prison.”
Logan smiled. “You love it though.”
“Unfortunately.”
Then she turned toward him fully.
Cold wind pushed curls across her face while students streamed around them toward the entrance.
Up close, Logan noticed details he hadn’t before.
Smudged dark nail polish.
Faint shadows beneath her eyes from exhaustion.
A tiny tattoo behind her ear.
Pretty.
Really fucking pretty.
“You know,” y/n said casually, “you’re not what I expected.”
“What’d you expect?”
“Hockey player.”
Logan grinned. “I am a hockey player.”
“You know what I mean.”
Yeah.
He did.
“And you’re not what I expected either.”
y/n folded her arms. “What was your expectation?”
“Honestly?” Logan admitted. “Someone scary.”
A slow smile spread across her mouth.
“I can still ruin your life if you want.”
Logan’s stomach flipped embarrassingly fast.
“Good to know.”
For one suspended second neither of them moved.
The chemistry between them felt sudden now.
Heavy.
Noticeable.
y/n tilted her head slightly.
“You flirt a lot for someone supposedly in love with another girl.”
Logan groaned instantly. “I am not in love with Hannah.”
“Mhm.”
“I’m serious.”
y/n’s eyes flicked briefly toward his mouth before lifting again.
“You’ve spent this entire walk staring at mine.”
Logan froze.
y/n looked unbearably smug.
“That’s different,” he said weakly.
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
Because talking to you feels stupidly easy.
Because you actually listen.
Because I forgot about Hannah the second you laughed at me.
Instead Logan just stepped a little closer.
Close enough to smell vanilla and cold winter air clinging to her jacket.
“You ask too many questions, scientist,” he murmured.
y/n smiled slowly.
“And you deflect too much, hockey boy.”
Then she backed toward the doors, still looking at him.
Still smiling.
And Logan stood there in the freezing cold watching her disappear inside like a complete idiot—
grinning to himself the entire way back to the house.
heyy could you do a john lohan x gf reader where like she goes to his games and wears his number and all and she gets a temp tattoo of 22 on her back and shows him after the game when they’re celebrating
22 for you | john logan
john logan x reader!gf
summary: you have always been a supportive girlfriend. wearing your boyfriends jersey, attending every game, and defending him in every hockey debate. after a big win, logan discovers a surprise that’s meant just for him.
word count: 1,7k
warning: fluff, kissing
authors note: guys i’m not gonna lie im really enjoying writing for logan he is just such a cutie
————————————————————————
it all started after you and your best friends, hannah wells and allie hayes had watched one tree hill the morning before your boyfriends would play.
“wait, wait, wait,” allie sat up straighter on the couch. “I just had the funniest idea.”
you immediately groan, remembering the last time allie had a ‘funny idea’
“that’s never a good sign.” hannah said
“oh come on” turning to hannah while saying “hannah back me up on this”
“ y/n should get a fake tattoo of logan’s number.’”
“why?” hannah said with confusion written on her face, not quite sure where this was leading to.
“to see lover boys reaction, duh.” allie said
the entire room went silent for a second.
before you could tell allie it was a stupid, hannah started backing up allies plan
“wait, that’s actually hilarious.’”
“seriously hannah.” you say staring at her with a fake offended look
“y/n, please do it.” allie said while looking at you with a pleading look
you looked at your friends like they’d both collectively lost their minds.
“you want me to pretend I got a tattoo?”
“yes.”
“of logan’s number?”
“exactly”
“you people need hobbies.”
“no, seriously,” allie laughed. “don’t tell him it’s fake. just walk up and be like, ‘surprise!’”
“he’d have a heart attack.” hannah said
“exactly”
you tried not to smile, because unfortunately they weren’t wrong. you could practically picture logan looking at the tattoo trying to figure out why just happened.
trying to hide your smile from the girls and failing miserably. allie starts shaking hannah while saying “she’s going to do it”
“guys, he’d freak out.”
“in a good way or a bad way?” hannah questions
“both.”
the two girls burst into laughter.
“he’d be so proud of himself.”
“that’s what I’m saying!” allie pointed dramatically. “his ego would grow three sizes.”
“he’d tell every single teammate.” hannah said agreeing with allie
“immediately.”
“dean would never let me live it down.”
“which makes this even better.”
you buried your face in a pillow.
this was such a terrible idea.
a terrible, hilarious idea.
“okay,” you mumbled giving in.
the room exploded.
“WAIT, REALLY?” the girls said collectively.
“only if one of you buys the tattoo.”
the cheering got even louder.
“logan is about to have the best and worst day of his life.” allie said while she and hannah pulled out their phones looking for somewhere they could find the temporary tattoo.
“okay movement of truth” hannah says while slowly removing the film of the tattoo, while allie nervously stands looking over her shoulder.
as she removes the film, allie gasps.
“oh my go-”
“stop allie what”
“it looks so good”
hannah takes her phone out to take a picture of the tattoo to show you, as she’s doing so you she starts agreeing with allie
“it does, and it looks so real too”
she shows you the picture and a cheesy smile starts forming on your face.
“guys why do i kind of love it?”
the girls start cheering, ending the cheer with a high-five.
“maybe you should get a real one” allie says excitedly
you smirk at her while saying “depends on his reaction”
you guys get ready to go, late as always but this time you guys actually have an excuse.
not that you could tell them
watching logan on the ice never got old. everything seemed effortless when he played. the speed, the confidence, the way he weaved through defenders as though they weren’t even there. sometimes you found yourself forgetting to breathe whenever he had the puck.
the boys were on fire tonight, finishing the game with a win and a huge score difference. a win for the briar boys always meant a huge party afterwards at the hockey house.
you, hannah and allie wait for the boys after the game to congratulate them. starting obviously with your boyfriends and moving on to your friends.
you see logan walk out the changing rooms. he always looked so good after games and practices, cheeks flushed, wet hair, you just loved it.
he makes his way towards you with a grin.
“hey”
before you could say hey back he cuts you off with a soft kiss to your lips. between kisses you congratulate him, praising him for how good he played.
he pulls away halfway to kiss your forehead then pulls away completely.
“thank you baby.”
logan’s hand found your waist, pulling her a little closer. what started as a quick kiss quickly turned into something more, neither of them eager to pull away. resting his hand on your lower back not realising what was hiding underneath. every time you broke apart for a breath, you found yourselves leaning right back in, unable to stop smiling.
eventually getting cut off as dean knocks his hockey stick against logans leg.
“come on guys, party tonight” he says excitedly.
the party was in full swing but you had spent the last twenty minutes avoiding logan.
which, unfortunately, only seemed to make him more determined.
“there you are.”
you groaned as logan appeared beside you.
“i’ve been looking for you.”
“really, i’ve just been with the girls.” you say trying to convince him he was just imagining it
his eyes narrowed.
“why are you being weird?”
“I’m not.”
“you are.”
across the room, hannah and allie exchanged looks.
you pointedly ignored them.
logan crossed his arms.
“what are they smiling about?”
“nothing.”
“what are you hiding?”
“nothing.”
his eyebrows shot up.
“you’re definitely hiding something.”before you could stop yourself, you glanced toward hannah and allie.
mistake.
a huge mistake.
because now logan looked even more suspicious.
“y/n.”
she sighed.
“fine.”
you grabbed the bottom of his shirt pulling him behind you and dragging him close to his room.
out of the corner of your eye you can see hannah and allie trailing behind you giggling as they do so.
“then what’s going on?”
for a moment, you considered dragging this out longer.
then you remembered hannah and allie were probably lurking trying to eavesdrop.
“gfine.”
logan waited.
you set down your drink.
then you began to lift your shirt just enough to reveal his number on your body.
for a second, logan just stared.
then he blinked.
looked at the tattoo.
looked at you.
looked back at the tattoo.
“is that…”
his mouth fell open.
“no way.”
you immediately started laughing.
“omg, your face.”
“Y/N!”
from behind a wall came the sound of hannah and allie losing their minds.
“we knew he’d react like that!”
logan pointed toward them.
“they knew about this?”
“maybe.”
“i knew it”
his gaze returned to the tattoo.
“you put my number on you?”
“It’s fake.”
“I don’t care!”
his grin was impossible to miss.
somehow, that only made you laugh harder.
because you friends had been right.
his reaction was absolutely worth it.
he pulls you to him, your waists touching.
“i actually liked it” he said while staring at your lips slowly leaning in with a smirk just before he could close the gap hes cut off by hannah and allie.
“right, that’s our cue to leave”
“yeah we’re just gonna go”
as they leave you and logan break out in giggles, he gently grabs your face pulling you in for a soft kiss. the kiss going from soft and sweet to more passionate.
it felt as if he was your oxygen
after a few minutes, your lips bruised, each breath coming out shaky your chest rising too fast to calm down, your cheeks flushed, logans hair slightly messy from your hands in it, his eyes half-lidded, dazed if this was his reaction to a temporary tattoo, how would he react to a real one
you guys made your way back to your friends, immediately when you get to them dean is practically floating after hearing about this tattoo
“alright let’s see it.” deans says enthusiastically like you were about to show him your first born
“wait.”
dean held up his hand after seeing the tattoo
“hou’re telling me,” he said slowly, his eyes moving between you and logan, “that she got your number tattooed on her?”
“It’s fake,” you immediately said.
dean ignores you and carries on.
“that’s not the point.”
“It’s literally the entire point.”
dean turns to logan and immediately starts to interrogate him.
“did you cry?”
logan immediately dismissing that while looking offended
“I didn’t cry.”
“you look like you cried.”
“I didn’t cry.”
dean pointed dramatically.
“see? that is literally exactly what someone who cried would say.”
“shut up.”
“no, because I need to know.”
dean stepped closer.
“when you saw it, did wedding bells start playing in your head?”
logan groaned.
“dean.”
“logan i am being so serious right now.”
“well dean i amnot having this conversation.”
dean gasped.
“omg.”
“what?”
“you totally imagined your future together, are you guys having kids together, no wait what’s the colour scheme for the wedding.”
“I hate you.”
“you did!”
logan buried his face in his hands.
across the room, garrett looked seconds away from falling off the couch laughing.
meanwhile, was just getting started.
“you know what this means, right?”
“no.”
“she’s officially your biggest fan.”
“she’s my girlfriend.”
“not anymore.”
logan looked up.
dean pointed towards you.
“that girl has got your jersey number tattooed on her body, come on logan”
you snorted.
“It was temporary.”
dean waved her off.
“details, immediately.”
then he looked back at logan.
“you’re never recovering from this.”
the grin spreading across logan’s face completely ruined any chance of arguing that.
dean immediately pointed.
“just look at him.”
“what about me”
“he’s smiling again.”
“am not.”
“he’s smiling.”
“am not.”
“he’s smiling at the tattoo.”
logan groaned.
dean leaned back triumphantly.
“best prank ever.”
“best prank ever,” hannah agreed.
“best prank ever,” allie echoed.
logan looked towards you.
unfortunately, the stupid smile returned instantly.
dean saw it.
and immediately started screaming.
authors note: guys if i’m being honest im not sure how i feel about this, love the idea but i think i could’ve done better. after he finds out about the tattoo, i wasn’t sure how to go on from there so i decided to throw dean in just to make it longer.
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