You swallow hard, blinking against the tears clouding your vision before forcing your feet to move. Your shoes feel strangely heavy as you make your way toward the staircase, your breathing uneven no matter how hard you try to steady it.
The first stair creaks beneath your weight as you sniffle, scrubbing impatiently beneath your eyes with the sleeve of your sweatshirt, but the tears keep coming anyway.
The staircase is dim, lit only by the warm glow from the kitchen downstairs. Your vision swims again, forcing you to focus on the next step before carefully lowering your foot.
You catch yourself against the railing before you can stumble, your fingers wrapping so tightly around the wood your knuckles ache.
You draw in a slow breath through your nose, willing your heartbeat to settle, but it only makes the ache spread further, every beat reminding you of his voice and the words he’d whisper to her.
I like us.
I haven’t stopped thinking about New York.
This feels different.
You’d spent years imagining what it might feel like to hear Dean Di Laurentis confess his feelings to you. You just never imagined you’d be the one he practiced them on before saying them to somebody else.
You weren’t jealous of Allie. You were jealous of the version of Dean she’d gotten to meet.
You didn’t want her life. You wanted the words he’d chosen for it.
The worst part was that the words sounded just as beautiful as you’d always imagined, but they weren’t yours. They were Allie’s.
“I get it now. You love love.” Dean smiles as he admits it, watching her closely. Allie stands almost perfectly still in front of him, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag before loosening again.
She glances up at him, biting her cheek, her eyes going wide before they dart away. He mistakes the color rising into her cheeks for something sweet—like maybe he finally understands what she’d been trying to tell him all along.
“That’s what you said you wanted, right? That night at the fire pit.”
He moves closer to her, the confidence he’d carried out of the house still holding despite his nerves. His hand rests on her hip and her shoulders turn away slightly.
“So, I came here to tell you that, uh… I didn’t complete the assignment.”
“What?” she asks, her expression changing so quickly he nearly misses it. Her lips part, but nothing comes. There aren’t any words that make this better, not when Dean matters to her and she already knows this is going to break his heart.
He sees the confusion but not the panic underneath it. Even now, with her staring at him like he’s said something impossible, he only thinks he’s caught her off guard.
“Why?” Her voice breaks around the word, her head tilting as she tries her best not to cry.
“Because I like you. I like us,” he answers surely, his thumb rubbing absently against her skin. “I know that’s not what we said, but I was hoping—”
“Hey, no, Dean. You can’t,” she blurts as he steps so close she can feel the warmth of his body, the smell of his cologne amplified with the heat of his anxiety.
Her hand comes up slightly between them, but Dean’s too caught up in the rush of finally saying it to notice how rigid her shoulders have become.
He thinks she’s scared. He is too, and somehow that only makes him more certain they’re standing in the same place. Both of them nervous. Both of them trying to figure out what comes after the agreement they’d made. His eyebrows lift as he looks down at her, the confidence returning to his voice before he says, “And yet, I am.”
Allie blinks up at him, her tears balancing on her waterline as the bar rages around them.
But she’s silent.
Dean feels a wave of unease, his eyes drifting around the bar as he realizes just how many people are there, everything closing in a little tighter.
“No, I mean, like, you have to complete the assignment,” Allie whispers, her voice barely carrying over the music. She draws in a shaky breath before finally forcing herself to meet his eyes. “Because—”
“Because why?” he asks quietly, his eyebrows pulling together.
His heart pounds so hard he can feel it in his throat. He’d been terrified she would laugh it off. Terrified he’d stumble over the speech he’d practiced with you. You had cried. You’d called it beautiful. You’d told him to tell her. Somehow, being here now, he realizes there had been one outcome he never once prepared himself for.
She nods once, looking sick to her stomach. “Because I did. I swear, it didn’t mean anything. I—Joanna set me up with this guy, like a total stranger at a bar.”
He stares at her, waiting for her to say there was more to it—that she hadn’t wanted to, that it didn’t matter, that she’d stopped before anything happened.
“You…” His voice comes out quieter than he means it to. “You actually did it?”
“I’m sorry.” The words barely leave her mouth before fresh tears gather in her eyes.
Nothing else comes. She doesn’t take it back. She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t tell him she misspoke.
Every sound in the bar swells until it becomes one unbearable roar. Somebody bumps his shoulder walking past, muttering an apology he doesn’t hear. A loud bark of laughter cuts clean through the noise.
Dean glances over his shoulder, watching as Hunter steps through the front door, eyes drifting across the room.
Hunter finds Allie almost immediately, a smile tipping at the corner of his mouth as he nods in her direction. The look of someone who’s on the receiving end of an assignment she completed.
Hunter’s smile falters for only a second as his eyes finally land on Dean standing beside her.
They’d spent years trying to get under each other’s skin. Dean sees it the moment it clicks. Hunter understands why Dean’s standing beside her. He doesn’t know the whole story, but the smile curling on his lips tells Dean Hunter’s enjoying every second of it.
Dean turns back to Allie, meeting her gaze. He doesn’t even need to ask—but he needs to hear it.
“Him?”
“No,” she croaks, eyes pinching shut as she shakes her head. “Yes—do you know him?”
And for the first time all night, Dean takes a step back, then another. His hand reaches up, raking through his hair as every sound around him crashes together like a freight train. The rose-colored glasses he’d walked in wearing had been ripped clean off, and all he could see now was red.
His skin crawls with the thought of it, heartbreak clawing at the back of his throat as his stomach sinks. How could he be so stupid? How could he possibly think either one of them would come out unscathed?
Maybe it’s because he never thought it would end like this when he agreed…
Maybe he thought the only person she could see herself with was him. He’d never even been the only option. And it broke his heart because he’d been the only one falling in love.
I like us. Not enough…
I haven’t stopped thinking about New York. I have.
This feels different. And it still isn’t enough.
None of this mattered.
“Dean, I’m sorry,” Allie whispers, taking one careful step toward him before stopping herself. “Dean…”
Dean doesn’t even look at her. His jaw flexes hard enough to ache as he turns away, forcing the people lingering nearby to shuffle out of his way.
“The fuck are you doing here?” Dean asks, grabbing onto the anger before the sadness can split him open in front of everyone as he turns to Davenport.
“I heard your team needs saving,” Hunter says, taking a beer from the bartender’s hand.
He takes a slow drink without taking his eyes off Dean, leaning his body against the edge of the bar like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
“Yeah?” Dean laughs bitterly. “Get the fuck out.”
Hunter huffs out a laugh, the corner of his mouth pulling higher as he sets his beer back down. Dean can see Garrett and Tucker already closing in.
“Hey,” Hunter scoffs, putting his hands up in surrender, his demeanor anything but. “Logan said this was your idea—”
Dean doesn’t answer him. His eyes drift past Hunter instead, landing on Garrett standing a few feet away, confusion written all over his face.
“You weren’t there. Logan had to make a call,” Garrett mumbles.
“I’m not skating with this prick.” Dean squares up to him, stepping closer as Hunter studies him. A crooked grin spreads across his face. Neither one of them looks away.
“Aww. What, are you scared I’m gonna dust your ass again?” Hunter closes the distance until they’re nearly chest to chest.
“You wanna try?” Dean asks, shoving Hunter backward with both hands.
Hunter plants his feet, catches himself, then steps right back into Dean’s space. “Yeah? Yeah, I do.”
Dean grabs the front of Hunter’s shirt, hauling him close enough that their foreheads nearly touch. “I’d like to see you fucking try.”
“Get the fuck out of my face,” Hunter shoots back.
Dean buries both hands in Hunter’s shirt, shoving him hard enough that he crashes into a high-top table. Glasses shatter and beer spills, the crowd parting as he surges forward, driving both palms into Dean’s chest.
Dean stumbles backward into the bar rail, his lower back slamming into polished wood. His fist connects with Hunter’s jaw almost on instinct, snapping his head sideways before Hunter answers with one of his own that catches Dean beneath the eye.
The two of them crash sideways into another cluster of people, chairs scraping violently across the floor as somebody dives out of the way.
Hunter lands a punch deep into his ribs that drives the air straight out of his lungs. Dean grabs onto him as he folds, dragging Hunter down until both of them hit the sticky hardwood in a tangled heap.
Hunter’s elbow catches the corner of Dean’s mouth—his lip splitting, blood flooding his mouth.
“Dean!” Garrett shouts. “Break it up!”
People reach for both of them from every direction, but neither man lets go. Dean tears free long enough to throw another punch that lands against Hunter’s ribs before Hunter answers with one across Dean’s cheekbone, his vision blurring again as people shout over one another.
Beau finally hooks both arms around Dean from behind, hauling him backward across the beer-slick floor while Garrett and Tucker wrestle Hunter the opposite direction. Dean strains against Beau’s grip anyway, shoes scraping against the bar floor as blood drips steadily from the corner of his mouth onto the front of his shirt.
“Enough!” Garrett barks into the space between, breathing hard himself.
Dean glances back, and Allie’s standing exactly where he left her, crying hard enough she has to cover her mouth. He tears himself out of Beau’s grip and storms toward the front door without another word.
“…Hey.”
Your stomach twists. You hadn’t even considered somebody else might still be here.
Logan’s leaning against the kitchen counter, dressed for the bar, absentmindedly eating a bowl of cereal. His eyes squint, taking a better look at you through the dark house, before his expression immediately changes.
Logan lowers the spoon back into the bowl, his eyebrows pulling together as he straightens away from the counter. “Hey, sweetheart…” he says carefully, his gaze moving over your face for less than a second before all the color drains from his own. “What’s wrong?”
You pull your bag a little closer against your side as you force yourself to look anywhere but at him, swallowing hard around the lump already sitting in your throat.
You open your mouth, fully intending to tell him you’re fine, but the words refuse to come, leaving you standing there in complete silence while another tear slips free despite your best efforts.
Logan sets the bowl down without taking another bite. “Hey,” he says again, this time much softer as he walks around the counter toward you. “C’mere.”
You suck in one sharp breath, another tear sliding down your cheek before you can stop it. You shake your head, blinking hard as you try to pull yourself back together.
“I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not.”
He reaches for you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders as carefully as if he thinks you might fall apart in his hands, and for the first time since Dean walked out that front door, you let yourself cry.
The front of his t-shirt grows damp beneath your face while one of his hands rubs slow circles across your back, his other resting gently against the back of your head.
You don’t remember the last time someone held you while you cried. Dean never had to. He’d always made sure you laughed before it got this bad.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs quietly. “I’ve got you.”
The cool night air hits Dean like a slap the second he shoves through the front doors.
His shoes pound against the sidewalk as he puts as much distance between himself and Allie as he can, dragging the back of his hand across his split lip.
Every breath stings his ribs—his left eye’s already swelling shut—but none of it hurts as much as the pressure sitting in the middle of his chest.
“Dean!” He doesn’t look back as he hears her voice. “Dean, wait!”
Allie hurries after him, weaving around the crowd standing outside Malone’s. She reaches for his arm, fingers barely brushing the sleeve of his jacket before he jerks away so fast it startles both of them.
He shakes his head, breathing hard through his nose. “Don’t.”
Her hand falls back to her side as she searches his face, tears continuing to roll down her cheeks. If she’d reached for him five minutes earlier, he would’ve melted into it.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m fine. Go back inside,” he huffs, turning back around to walk away.
He only makes it a few steps before she reaches for him again, her hand wrapping around his arm. “How is this fine, Dean? You’re not okay. We’re not okay—”
“We? We’re not okay?”
“Yes we—us, Dean.”
“Why are you acting like there’s a fuckin’ we here when you clearly… you—you just. Fuck! You weren’t supposed to say that,” Dean cuts her short, the words sounding almost childlike, leaving him mortified.
“…What?” she asks breathlessly, staring up at him.
“You weren’t supposed to say that.” His voice cracks this time. “I was supposed to come here.” He gestures back toward the bar with one bloody hand before letting it fall uselessly to his side. “I was supposed to tell you how I felt.”
“Dean…”
“You were supposed to tell me you felt the same way.” His breathing grows more uneven with every word, his chest rising sharply as he struggles to keep himself together. “You were supposed to tell me I’d been an idiot for waiting this long. We were supposed to laugh about that stupid fucking assignment. We were…”
His voice disappears completely. He swallows hard, looking away for a second before forcing himself to meet her eyes again.
“How do you not feel the same way? How, Allie? I don’t get it. And that's my issue to work through, not yours—”
“I never wanted this to happen.”
“Neither did I,” Dean whispers, his eyes glassy despite how hard he’s trying to keep himself together.
“I’m so sorry.”
“I know you are.” He presses his lips together for a second, his jaw flexing as he tries to steady his breathing. “I just… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this now.”
He’d spent so long wondering how good it would feel when he finally told her how he felt that he’d never once thought about what came after she said no.
Allie’s eyes drift back to the cut beneath his eye, another thin line of blood working its way down his cheek. “You’re bleeding.”
Dean reaches up, touching the corner of his mouth before looking at the blood on his fingertips, completely numb.
“It’s nothing.”
“Dean, it’s not nothing.” She fumbles through her purse until she finds a bar napkin, unfolding it with shaky hands as she steps closer again. “Just… hold still for one second.”
She barely gets close enough to lift her hand before Dean takes another step backward. “Please don’t.”
Dean holds her gaze for a moment before letting out a shaky breath, his gaze dropping to the cracked sidewalk.
“Forget it.”
She says something else. He sees her lips move. Another apology, maybe. Another explanation. He doesn’t hear a word of it because the thoughts in his head are so, so much louder.
She never asked him to come tonight.
…Hunter was there.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly where Allie wanted him to be. His throat burns as he swallows hard, his vision blurring again.
The front doors of the bar burst open behind them, music spilling out onto the sidewalk along with a chorus of raised voices. Allie looks back toward the entrance as tears of frustration stream down her cheeks.
“Where is he?” Beau asks, already looking past her.
Allie whips around toward where Dean had been standing, but he’s gone. “He…” Her voice catches before she manages to finish. “I don’t know.”
“You really don’t wanna tell me?” Logan asks against the rim of his beer bottle before he takes a sip.
You shake your head almost immediately, your head resting heavy on his shoulder as you look out onto the empty street.
Logan nods like he’d expected that. He glances down at the porch beneath his feet for a second, tapping the toe of his boot lightly against the wood before looking toward you. “…Alright,” he says quietly. “Then don’t.”
You let out a long breath through your nose before quietly agreeing.
“Mind if I take a guess?” he asks gently.
Your fingers tighten around your sleeve until the fabric bunches in your fist.
You keep your eyes fixed in front of you, blinking quickly as another sting builds behind them, but you can’t quite bring yourself to answer, so you nod.
“It has something to do with Dean?”
Your chin trembles as you try your hardest to stay still, telling him everything he needs to know anyway.
“Mhmm,” he hums. “…Dean and Allie?” The names hang in the cool night air swirling around you.
You draw in another shaky breath, staring out at the emptiness for another second before the words finally leave you. “I just…” You swallow hard. “I don’t want to lose my best friend.”
Logan shifts toward you, pressing a kiss against your hair before he rests his chin on the top of your head. He draws in a deep breath, letting it out nice and slow.
“That’s not gonna happen,” he whispers.
You shrug helplessly, your voice barely rising above a whisper. “Everything changes when people fall in love.”
He chuckles breathily. “Nah… It’ll change some things,” he admits honestly. “Life always does.”
He turns toward you, brushing a tear away with his thumb.
“You’re not gonna lose Dean.”
His arm tightens around your shoulder, headlights sweeping briefly over the porch, and your heart plummets—the thought of Dean and Allie stumbling out of an Uber, laughing and kissing, tearing away at your last thread of sanity. The car disappears and you blow out a breath, nodding because Logan is waiting for some kind of response.
“You can talk to me, you know? It’s me.”
“How are you so sure?” you whisper.
Logan’s lip pouts a little, so slight you barely catch it out of the corner of your eye, when he hears just how broken you are. He takes another drink from his beer. “You two have been attached at the hip since freshman year. One girl isn’t gonna change that.”
“One girl,” you breathe, the words leaving your lips like you can’t believe he could possibly think that’s all she is—but he doesn’t know Dean like you know Dean.
Like Allie’s no different from the dozens of girls that have walked in and out of that door behind you. Like she isn’t the first one who made him nervous enough to ask for your help—caring enough to ask you for the first time if what he was offering someone else was enough. If he was enough.
Another car turns into the neighborhood and chills fall down your spine. “She’s not just some girl.”
The ring on his finger clinks against the bottle before he speaks. “I just mean Dean’s had people come and go before,” he continues. “You haven’t. He trusts you more than anybody. You know that, right?”
“Yeah,” you manage.
“And he’s always gonna need you.” Logan dips his head, trying to catch your eyes. “That idiot barely knows what he’s feeling until he talks it through with you first. You really think he’s gonna stop calling because he has a girlfriend?”
The word settles between your ribs, sharp and heavy.
“He talks about you constantly,” he adds. “Half the time somebody asks him a question, he starts with, ‘Well, she said—’ like we don’t already know who he means.”
You shake your head quickly, trying to get Logan to stop being so kind because each comforting word he offers to “Dean’s best friend” just pulls the woman who would do anything to mean what he means to her deeper underwater.
“Besides…” Logan huffs quietly, shaking his head. “They’ve been… whatever this is… for what? Five minutes?”
“It doesn’t matter,” you press the words past your lips.
“Exactly. I mean… they literally made a deal to hook up with other people.”
“No,” you whisper. “I mean—I just,” you stumble over your words, trying to put your misery into something coherent but it’s too fucking much. “I’m being stupid.”
“No, c’mon.” His hand slips from your shoulder, lifting to cup your cheek, turning you gently so you finally have to look at him.
His expression softens, his eyebrows pulling together with worry.
“If you think Allie’s gonna have some issue with you being close to him, she won’t,” Logan says, like it should be obvious. As though the possibility is so unreasonable it doesn’t require more than a sentence to dismiss.
“Okay,” you whisper, wanting the honesty to stop, hating how small your voice sounds.
“She knows you.” He gives you a confused little smile, like he can’t figure out how you’ve managed to scare yourself this badly over something so simple. “She knows what you and Dean are like.”
And how is that?
Your breath catches in your chest and your lashes flutter anxiously. A tiny part of you waits for him to say you’ve got it all wrong.
That Dean’s just taking the long way around. That one day he’ll realize he’s been looking at you all this time and finally understand why he could never let you go.
He doesn’t.
“You’re not competition, sweetheart.”
His expression softens when he says it, like he’s finally found the sentence that should make all of this better. The tears fill your eyes, blurring him so much that you can barely see.
“Thank you,” you whimper. You turn away from his touch, face crumpling before you can stop it, wiping away your tears with the heel of your hand.
“Hey.” Logan’s voice drops. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to make it worse.”
“No.” You shake your head, drawing in a trembling breath as you stand up, crossing your arms tight over your chest. “I appreciate it.”
“She’s not gonna want to take away somebody who’s like family to him.”
“You’re right,” you whisper.
“Hell, you’re probably gonna end up with one of us anyway,” Logan laughs quietly before shaking his head. “I mean…” His cheeks redden ever so slightly as he scratches the back of his neck. “We all love you.”
You barely hear the first part. The last three words only make the ache inside your chest that much harder to bear because you know exactly what kind of love he means.
You nod, forcing the corner of your mouth upward, tight and unsteady, but Logan’s shoulders lower slightly in relief when he sees it.
“I don’t need to go to the bar,” Logan mumbles. “You wanna come back inside? Watch a movie or somethin’?”
And be here when he comes home? You try to keep your expression from changing, terrified that the question is painted all over your face anyway.
“No, you should go.” Your voice cracks at the end, so you clear your throat. His eyes search yours, moving over your tear-streaked cheeks before he finally lets out a quiet breath. “Everybody’s probably wondering where you are—”
“They’ll survive,” Logan stops you, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees as he looks up at you.
Silence stretches between the two of you.
Finally, Logan pushes himself to his feet, studying your face as he slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
He watches you for another long moment, and for one awful second you think he can see straight through it. You think he’s going to pull you back into his arms and keep asking questions until the truth spills out of you, but his shoulders slowly loosen.
“Text me when you get home.”
“I will.”
“And if you’re still upset, call me.” He reaches up, rubbing away a tear. “Don’t care what time it is, alright?”
Logan draws you into one last hug, and you let yourself sink into it as the pressure in your chest starts building again. “You’re not gonna lose him,” he whispers once more, pressing another kiss against the top of your head before giving you a final squeeze and letting you go.
He stays near the doorway, watching while you cross the yard, so you keep your shoulders straight and your steps steady. You even lift a hand when he reminds you to text him, pretending you can hold yourself together for another ten steps.
You make it out of sight before your hand flies over your mouth, a sob breaking through as the strap of your bag slips down your shoulder and you struggle to drag air into your lungs.
You were his best friend. His safe space. His family. Close enough to stay beside him through every part of the life he was about to build with someone else.
You weren’t going to lose him.
Dean was still going to choose you.
Just never the way you’d dreamed he would.
Dean runs until his lungs start burning.
His shoes hit the pavement as his heart pounds in his chest. He stumbles off the curb at the end of the block, catching himself before he goes down completely, his hands still trembling with adrenaline.
His phone vibrates against his thigh, but he doesn’t reach for it. He doesn’t want to know if it’s Allie. He doesn’t want to hear Garrett asking where he went or Beau telling him to come back. He can’t go back.
He gasps for a breath, his split lip tearing open more as the cold air bites at his skin. He’s a little drunk, and he hates to admit it. Those beers he threw back to calm his nerves are catching up with him at the worst possible time.
His shoe catches against a raised crack in the sidewalk and he stumbles forward, one palm scraping hard against the concrete. His knee drops to the wet ground, and he stays there for a moment, head hanging between his shoulders.
“Fuck,” he chokes out, shoving himself upright before his body can decide to stay down.
He makes it another block before the street opens in front of him, the familiar intersection finally slowing his feet.
His hands rake through his sweaty hair. He looks to the right, then the left toward the hockey house, before he glances back to where he wants to go.
Dean’s phone vibrates angrily in his pocket. He tugs it out, seeing a string of notifications, and a list of text messages stacked on top of each other. The latest one hits him like a gut punch.
Just talk to me please. Allie Hayes.
What if she comes looking for him? He doesn’t want to fold if she tells him she regrets what she did. He knows he will.
He doesn’t want to cry in front of her. He doesn’t want her to pity him while she patches him up after this stupid fuckin’ fight with Hunter. He doesn’t want to pretend it’s not shattering him while she tries to explain how it meant nothing.
He doesn’t want to fall asleep in sheets that smell like the two of them.
“I can’t fucking do it,” he whispers, because he knows the boys aren’t far behind. He doesn’t want Garrett or Beau. He doesn’t want Allie. He just wants you.
There’s nowhere else he goes.
He hopes you’re home.
You always know how to make things better.
But it’s gonna hurt. He can already picture the look on your face when he tells you he wasn’t enough. He can already hear your voice soften when he tells you Allie chose somebody else. He can already feel the way you’ll fit in his arms when you hug him and tell him he’s gonna be okay. He just wants to be okay…
He just wants to go home.
And so do you.
You keep your head down, not trusting yourself to look up if anyone passes by. Another tear falls, disappearing against the dark concrete before the next one follows.
Your sneakers scuff quietly against the sidewalk while you try not to think about what Dean’s doing or whether he’s already made it back to the house.
And, even though you don’t wanna know, you’re hyper aware of the phone weighing heavy in your pocket. A text from Dean—a social media update from Allie. Some public display of affection that will surely ruin you. But this limbo of knowing and not knowing what happened makes your stomach twist in knots.
What if you turned around right now? What if you went to Malone’s? Would that help? Maybe seeing them together would be the push you’d need to let that want go.
What’s a little more heartbreak?
You stop walking and in that moment you hear footsteps echo behind you. At first, you don’t think much of it. Briar’s campus is never completely empty, even this late, and somebody’s probably headed home just like you are.
You glance over your shoulder, the hair on the back of your neck standing straight as you catch a man walking toward you fast, too fast, so you move.
Your feet pound against the sidewalk as you look over your shoulder just as a pair of headlights rounds the corner.
For half a second, the headlights catch the face of the man behind you, and your heart nearly stops—his split lip, cheeks stained from tears and blood, his eye already swollen beneath blonde locks plastered to his forehead. He’s breathing hard, shoulders rising and falling with every jagged breath.
Your stomach drops and your voice breaks as you call out for him.
“Dean?”
Even from where you’re standing, you watch his head lift before tipping back toward the dark sky for a second, his shoulders sagging as another broken breath escapes him and his eyes squeeze shut.
“Dean…” You try again, your voice catching as you hurry the last few steps toward him. The streetlight finally catches his face, and your chest tightens. “Dean, what the hell happened?”
He doesn’t answer. The second you’re close enough, he reaches for you. His arms wrap around you so suddenly they almost knock you off balance, pulling you against his chest with enough force that you stumble into him.
Before you can even think to hug him back, he’s buried his face against the side of your neck, another broken sob tearing through him as his whole body shakes in your arms.
“Hey… hey,” you whisper, choking back tears of your own.
Your fingers tangle through the hair at the back of his head while your other arm wraps around his waist, holding him as tightly as you can.
“I’ve got you.”
His hands bunch the back of your sweatshirt in his fists. You can feel every tremor that moves through him, his forehead pressed against your shoulder while you continue stroking his hair over and over, your own heart breaking right alongside his.
“What happened?” you whisper. He draws in a deep breath, blowing it out slow.
You pull back just enough to look at him again, your thumb brushing carefully beneath the eye that hasn’t swollen shut.
His lashes lift slowly and the tears on his bruised cheeks shimmer. And, at this moment, you can’t remember a time when you’ve ever seen him this sad… but you know the feeling. You’ve been living it all night.
For a second, all you hear is the rustle of leaves and the uneven sound of the two of you trying to hold yourselves together.
“Just give me a minute,” he whispers.
“Okay,” you nod. “Where were you going?”
His lips draw to the side, his eyebrows softening as he looks at you like you shouldn’t even have to ask. Dean’s hand slips into yours, his fingers closing tightly around your own before he begins pulling you toward your place.
The two of you walk side by side without another word, your hands still linked between you. Dean keeps his head down, staring at the sidewalk as it passes beneath his feet.
You sneak another look at him beneath the streetlights, taking in the blood drying beneath his nose and along the corner of his mouth. He lifts his free hand, wiping at his mouth, hissing in pain before he pulls away.
Dean must feel you looking because his head turns slowly toward you, his bruised eyes finally meeting yours.
And still, he can’t bring himself to speak. Not yet. Normally, he wouldn’t have let the silence last this long. He would’ve made some joke about you staring at him or squeezed your hand until you finally looked over and smiled. He would’ve told you the other guy looked worse, even if you hadn’t asked.
You wish there was something you could say that would make any of this better.
Dean lifts his eyes, staring toward your place before letting out a long, unsteady breath. You fish your keys from your sweatshirt pocket as the two of you make your way up the short walkway.
You unlock the door and pull it open, holding it for him as he steps inside ahead of you.
The apartment is almost completely dark when the two of you step inside. You quietly push the door shut behind you, the soft click of the lock sounding impossibly loud in the silence.
He starts toward the staircase without saying a word, and you follow him just as silently. The steps creak softly beneath your weight as the two of you climb toward the second floor.
You can’t stop checking on him. Every few steps your eyes drift back to his face, the physical pain and heartbreak painted so clearly across it.
And even so, you hate yourself for the relief that’s settled somewhere deep inside you, quiet enough that you tried to keep it buried.
Dean’s heart is in pieces, and somehow a part of you is grateful that he isn’t spending tonight somewhere else. Grateful that he came looking for you instead of her. Grateful that he’s here.
The realization makes you feel sick.
That’s not what best friends are supposed to think. They aren’t supposed to find comfort in someone else’s heartbreak, no matter how desperately they’ve wished for them.
You swallow hard, forcing your eyes back to the steps beneath your feet as another sting settles behind them. This isn’t about you. Whatever’s left of your own heart can wait. Right now, Dean needs someone to put him back together.
The two of you step into your place and Dean kicks off his shoes, still refusing to let go of your hand, leading you toward the bathroom at the end of the hall, nudging the door open before stepping inside.
The room stays dim, lit only by the soft amber glow from the hallway and the faint wash of moonlight filtering through the small window above the shower.
He reaches up for the collar of his jacket, and slowly eases it from his shoulders, wincing in pain as he drags it off one arm then the next.
He nods toward the shower, waiting for your answer before he reaches for the handle. “Of course,” you whisper. He twists the metal handle until hot water begins pounding against the tile, steam slowly filling the small bathroom.
“…I got blood everywhere,” he whispers, and your eyes flick up to the mirror, the corners already fogging over from the heat.
His t-shirt is stained across the collar, dried streaks trailing down the front where he’d wiped at his face over and over throughout the walk home. There are rusty fingerprints smeared across the sleeves of your sweatshirt too, little reminders of how tightly he’d held onto you in the middle of the street.
“You’re okay,” you whisper.
He reaches for the hem of his shirt first, pulling the bloodstained fabric over himself before dropping it onto the bathroom floor. You quietly do the same with your sweatshirt, leaving it beside his before slipping out of your jeans.
Neither of you says anything about it. By the time the two of you step beneath the spray, he’s wearing nothing but his boxers, and you’re standing in your panties and bra.
The hot water runs over Dean’s hair, wetting dried blood, sending it ribboning down the side of his face. The chain on his chest flickers with every shaky breath, the tanned skin on his ribs a watercolor of purple and blue bruises.
Pink water circles lazily around the drain, carrying away blood and fresh tears.
He simply stands there with his eyes closed while you carefully press the damp cloth beneath the cut at his eyebrow, your other hand resting lightly against his shoulder to steady him. Every now and then he whimpers, but he never pulls away.
You rinse the washcloth beneath the spray before pressing it against the corner of his mouth. Dean’s head tips down slightly to give you better access, his eyes staying closed while you wipe away the blood still caught along his jaw.
“Who did this to you?”
He swallows hard enough that you see the movement in his throat. For a second, you think he might avoid the question but he doesn’t.
“Hunter.”
Your brows pull together in confusion. There are probably a dozen Hunters somewhere on campus, but there’s only one who could make Dean say it like that.
“Davenport?”
He nods, and the answer only leaves you with more questions. You look over his bruised face again, the cut at his eyebrow, the swelling already darkening beneath his eye, and the fresh scrape across his cheekbone that hadn’t been there when he left the house.
Hunter and Dean had never needed much of an excuse to get under each other’s skin, but this wasn’t the aftermath of another stupid chirp taken too far. Dean hadn’t run across campus crying because Davenport made some comment about hockey.
“Why?”
His lips part, but nothing comes out. Dean blinks a few times, unable to put his disappointment into words.
“Do you want me to guess?” you whisper. The question sounds painfully familiar the moment it leaves your mouth. A few minutes earlier, Logan had offered you the same mercy while the two of you sat on the porch, quietly filling in the spaces around everything you couldn’t bring yourself to admit.
Now Dean is standing in front of you with the same helpless look you must’ve worn then, and somehow you already know where to begin.
“She did the assignment?”
Dean bites down on his split lip, turning his face away from you before he nods.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
His jaw locks so tightly you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin.
And suddenly, everything starts to fall into place. Allie had completed the assignment. Dean had found out after telling her everything. Hunter had ended up with blood across his fists. But your heart still resists placing the last one where it belongs.
“With who?” you ask.
His nostrils flare and his arm circles your waist, pulling you closer beneath the water.
“No,” you breathe, but you can see Hunter stepping through the bar doors without having been there. You can see the look Dean must’ve caught between him and Allie, the one answer neither of them would’ve needed to say aloud. Your free hand rises to cover your mouth, but it does nothing to hide your emotions. “She couldn’t have known.”
“She didn’t,” he says, his voice breaking beneath the steady rush of the shower. “She had no clue.”
Dean lets out a slow breath, his forehead lowering until it rests against yours. “It…” His voice catches, forcing him to stop before he can get the rest out. “It could’ve been anybody. Would’ve hurt either way,” he whispers. He draws in another shaky breath, his lips flattening into a thin line before he finally forces himself to finish. “It just…” Another pause. “It being him fucking hurts.”
Your palm slides slowly over his shoulder before settling against the back of his neck, pulling him closer when a tremor moves through his body. “I’m sorry,” you whisper again, because there isn’t anything else you can give him.
“I really thought it was gonna go well.” Dean says it so quietly that the words almost disappear beneath the water, but you hear every one.
He had walked into that bar convinced the words he’d practiced with you would be enough to make Allie choose him. And fuck, if those same words had ever left his mouth for you, you think you could’ve lived on them for the rest of your life.
You can’t tell him that. You can’t admit that while he’s standing here broken over somebody else, not when he trusts you to be the one person who will hold him without asking for anything in return.
So you don’t.
“I love you,” he whispers, his voice cracking when he speaks as your fingers continue moving gently through his hair.
“I love you too.”
Your eyes burn all over again. The last traces of blood disappear down the drain beneath your feet, but neither of you makes any move to step away.
“You’re the only person I can count on.”
“Always,” you whisper.
He steps close enough that the tip of his nose nearly brushes yours. His hands slide from your waist, lifting between you to hold your face, his bruised knuckles resting beneath your ears while his thumbs sweep over your cheeks. Your mouth trembles when you try to give him a reassuring smile.
He’d been too consumed by everything that had happened to realize you’d already been crying long before he found you.
And after he’d left you crying on his bed, you’d probably never stopped.
Dean’s thumb slides along your bottom lip, feeling it tremble under his touch. The fact that you’re holding your breath to keep from sobbing makes his heart start to race all over again.
“Babygirl,” he whispers. “Hey.” He stops you when you look away, searching your face for another long moment, looking at you like he’s only just beginning to realize that he wasn’t the only person whose heart was broken. “What’s wrong?”
summary: after a nasty breakup that left both you and logan absolutely reeling, you moved across the country for college. when you suddenly transfer to briar your junior year, logan feels like the world is ending. (enemies (exes) to lovers)
each part alternates POVs between y/n and logan.
part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v
series expected to be completed by 07/20/26.
(anything with an asterisk (*) contains smut and/or tiny bit of spice. minors dni.)
edit: someone on tuesday, 06/30 sent me an ask requesting to be added to the taglist and i didn't write down their account name before replying. their account name started with a K. please let me know if i forgot to add you!
if you want to be added to a taglist to any ongoing fics, you can either message me, comment on the fic itself, or comment on the masterlist! once i either reply back to your message or like your comment, you're added to the list.
pairing: max verstappen x ex!reader
theme: fluff, angst, second-chance romance, secret baby/pregnancy
wc: 11.4K
from iris ◡̈ @freddiefromthefandoms for you to wake up to ❤️ I had the privilege of having a self-day today, which allowed me to find the time to finish this chapter early! (+ It was raining, and I get my writing done faster when I hear the pitter patter of rain against my bedroom window) Also, I just want to say thank you again for the continuous support for this series! I am overwhelmed (in a good way), to say the least. Please let me know what you think of this part!
⤷ ゛not proofread ˎˊ˗
Now that everything is out in the open, they all have to navigate the truth, balancing fragile toddler emotions, wounded pride, and the unresolved history lingering between them all.
masterlist
previous | next
listen to ♥︎ cherry, is there someone else?, officially missing you, the one that got away, deja vu, amnesia, la la lost you, can i be him?
“schat,” Max whispered, his lip quivering, his voice shaking as his blue eyes locked helplessly into hers.“Don’t call me that,” she choked out. Her voice was laced with a sharp, raw pain, but beneath the hurt, a dangerous thread of longing lingered in the air. He softly spoke her full name next, the sound of it instantly sending a violent chill straight down her spine. Don’t look into his eyes, she screamed at herself internally, knowing damn well how powerful they still are over her.
“We need to talk,” Max said, stepping closer.
“We’ve nothing to talk about,” she said, shaking her head before turning her body away to flee, but his hand shot out, catching her by the wrist. His fingers were trembling, yet his grip anchored her to the spot. “We have everything to talk about.”
Her throat ran bone-dry knowing goddamn well what he meant. “Is he mine?” he asked. The question dropped between them abruptly, sharp and pointed. He already knew the answer, he could see his own face staring back at him in the boy's eyes, but he desperately needed to hear the confirmation from her lips. “Let me go, Max,” she pleaded, straining against his hand, but his grip remained stubbornly tight. “Please,” he rasped, his eyes pleading. “Just tell me.”
Tears welled up at the corners of her eyes, blurring his face. “Max—”
“Is he mine?”
“Yes!”
And there it was.
The truth finally unraveled between them, hanging heavily in the quiet air. With a final, desperate tug, she managed to get her arm free from his grip. She instantly scrambled three steps backward, putting space between them as if he were a flame that would burn her alive. Max stood frozen, his breath hitching as tears filled his own eyes, threatening to spill over his lashes. “Why?” Max swallowed hard, his voice cracking down the middle. “Why would you hide him from me? How could you keep my own son away from me?”
She pressed her lips tightly together, her chin trembling as she stared back at him in absolute silence. She couldn't give him the real answer. She couldn't tell him how terrified she had been, how broken she was when she left, or how hard she had fought to rebuild her life away from the storm of his world. Max searched her face, begging for a defense, an explanation, anything. Still, as the agonizing silence stretched between them, his eyes flicked toward the paddock gates where Carlos had just walked through holding their sleeping boy. A terrible, bitter realization seemed to settle over his features, shattering whatever was left of his heart.
“Is it because of him? Are you with him?” Max asked softly, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. He took a hesitant step closer, his eyes wide, hollow, and desperately searching hers. “Do you... do you love him?”
She felt a sharp, agonizing pang in her chest, a sudden wave of guilt threatening to pull her under. Part of her wanted to scream the truth, to tell him that Carlos was just a friend who had pulled her out of the deep end when she was drowning, but looking at Max, seeing the raw, open wound in his eyes, she knew that letting him believe the lie was the only shield she had left to protect herself and her son.
So, she didn't deny it.
Instead, she held his tearful gaze, letting the heavy, unspoken silence crush him, directly echoing the painful misunderstanding of their very first meeting years ago. “I have to go,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the wind. Without waiting for another word, she turned on her heel and walked away, her footsteps retreating fast toward the parking lot. Max didn't chase after her this time. He was left standing completely alone at the gates, utterly wrecked in the shadow of the victory he had just won.
The drive back was suffocatingly heavy, the quiet hum of the engine doing little to ease the thick tension in the car. Thankfully, her son remained fast asleep, blissfully oblivious to the storm brewing around him.
She sat crammed in the middle of the backseat, wedged between Emilio's bulky car seat and Carlos, who, the second she had burst into the car, choking back sobs, had simply pulled her straight into his chest, holding her tight against him as the driver pulled away from the track without a single question. Now, her face was buried in his jacket, her shoulders still trembling with quiet, hitching breaths. Carlos kept one arm wrapped securely around her waist, his hand gently rubbing smooth, steady circles into her back, while his other hand held hers in a firm, grounding grip.
He rested his chin lightly on top of her head, his eyes staring out the dark, tinted window into the passing streetlights of Montreal, holding her, offering the same steady, unwavering protection he always had, letting her break into pieces in the safe space he had built for her.
𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩
Back at the hotel, after carefully tucking Emilio into bed, the heavy silence of the night finally settled over. She sat on the edge of the sofa, staring at her lap, her eyes swollen and red. Carlos walked toward her carrying two water bottles, setting one on the coffee table before sitting down beside her. Even then he didn't push, he just waited, giving her space to breathe.
"He asked if Lio was his," she finally whispered, her voice barely carrying across the quiet room. Carlos looked down at his hands, nodding slowly. "And you told him?"
"I had to, Carlos. He looked at me, and... I couldn't lie to his face." She swallowed hard, a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill. "And then he asked if... if I was with you. If I loved you."
Carlos stilled, his dark eyes rising to meet hers. "And what did you say?"
"I didn't say anything," she admitted, looking at him with immense guilt. "I let him believe it. I let him think we were together because... because if he thinks I've moved on with you, he might leave us alone." Carlos let out a quiet, soft breath, a mix of a sad chuckle and a heavy sigh. He reached out, wrapping his large, warm hand over hers, squeezing gently.
“If using me as a shield gets you through the night, then let him believe whatever he wants, but...” He hesitated, his dark eyes hardening with a quiet, intense seriousness. “...he’s not going to just let this go. He’s coming for his son. Max doesn’t walk away from things he cares about. You know that better than anyone.”
Carlos’s words sank deep into her bones, heavy with a truth she couldn't run from. Yet, a bitter, familiar ache flared in her chest. Max doesn't walk away, she knew that, but she also reminded herself of what another piece of truth was. He just left me out to freeze until I had no choice but to walk away myself.
“I’m terrified, Carlos,” she choked out, her voice barely a whisper above the quiet hum of the apartment. “What if he tries to take him?”
“He won’t,” Carlos said softly, but with absolute certainty. A faint, tender smile tugged at the corner of his lips, trying to pull her out of the painful idea. “First of all, because if he even tries, Lily will hit him with her expensive golf clubs.” A small, breathless laugh escaped her lips, her shoulders dropping just a fraction at the image of her best friend going ballistic.
“Second,” Carlos continued, his dark eyes brimming with steady warmth, “because Alex and I would happily risk our seats forever just to put him in the wall.”
Carlos shifted, gently pulling her back against him until her head rested against his broad chest. He wrapped a strong, steady arm around her waist, anchoring her in his warmth while his hand lightly rubbed her shoulder. “And most importantly... because you won’t let him.” He was right, as always. Looking at Carlos, she felt the sheer weight of the safety net around her. She and Emilio weren't alone; they had an entire army guarding them, a family built out of loyalty, love, and protection.
“And besides,” he murmured softly into her hair, his voice dropping into a quiet, grounded hush, “deep down, you know Max already loves that little boy too much to shatter his world. Just like deep down, you know damn well that Max still loves you, too.”
Too.
The word hung suspended in the quiet room, striking a nerve so raw it made her heart stop.
Did Carlos mean Max loved her in addition to Emilio? Or did he mean Max loved her the exact same way she still, helplessly, loved Max?
Her breath shook at the thought, trying so hard to push it all away because it was a truth that threatened to tear open every healed scar she had fought so hard to build over three long years. She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her back deeper into Carlos's chest, refusing to let the thought take root.
Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩
Over the next three days, the storm settled directly into her chest like a slow, heavy ache. They were back home now, but the relief she desperately hunted for never came. Instead, a suffocating weight expanded behind her ribs. Every breath felt thin, as if her heart were being slowly pulled apart, piece by agonizing piece.
They were sitting at the kitchen table for breakfast when the blade went straight in. Emilio reached out, his sticky, tiny fingers tapping gently against her forearm. “Mommy, Do you think Mr. Max would remember me?” he asked, his big blue eyes wide and entirely innocent.
Her heart violently seized, a sharp, tearing sensation ripping through her chest. Her brain instantly scrambled to find an answer, any answer, but as she did, her mouth failed her, and she remained frozen, unable to speak.
“Will he remember me when we go back?” the toddler pushed, swinging his small legs under the chair. Of course your father will remember you, the thought bled through her mind, raw, heartbreaking, and impossibly sharp. You have his hair. You have his nose. You carry his eyes and his smile. You’d be impossible to forget.
The words were trapped behind a lump in her throat so big it felt like swallowing glass. Thankfully, sitting across the table, Lily caught the sudden shift in her expression. Reading the room like the amazing best friend she was, Lily leaned forward with an exaggerated, sunshine-bright smile. “Hey, Lio! How about Auntie Mom take you to the playground right after lunch?”
Emilio’s eyes lit up like fireworks, the dangerous question instantly evaporating from his little mind. “We can go on the swings?” he asked enthusiastically, earning a big nod from Lily. Emilio squealed, scrambling off his chair and sprinting straight into the living room to conquer his toys.
The moment his pattering footsteps faded, the heavy silence slammed back down on the kitchen. Lily reached across the table, her hand warmly wrapping around her trembling fingers and squeezing tight. “Still thinking about the text?” Lily asked softly, her eyes filled with pure, protective worry.
Max hadn't stormed onto her doorstep demanding to talk some more. He hadn't even sent a single furious message. Instead, the approach had come through the only fragile bridge left standing between their shattered universes: Alex.
"He texted me," Alex’s voice cracked two nights ago, quiet and heavy with hesitation. "He said he hasn't slept. Said he hasn't eaten a thing since Sunday. He’s not looking for a fight. He just... he asked me to pass a message to you."
The memory alone brought a wave of nausea. When Alex had handed her his phone, her hands had shaken so violently she could barely hold it. Reading Max’s words had utterly shredded whatever was left of her composure:
From Max Verstappen Just tell her that I won't intrude on her life with Carlos. I won't disrupt Emilio's peace, but please, let me know about my son. Tell me what I need to do to prove I can be in his life. I will do anything she wants; I promise.
The devastating humility in those lines felt like a physical blow. The fierce, untouchable world champion was reduced to begging, completely submitting himself, with the ache of genuinely believing she belonged to another man.
“He tried texting Lily first,” Alex chimed in from the kitchen counter, taking a huge, defensive sip from his coffee mug. “He said Lily blocked his number.” Lily rolled her eyes hard, crossing her arms. “Because why wouldn’t I? I'm a good friend, unlike somebody who entertained him.”
“I did not entertain him!” Alex argued indignantly, nearly choking on his morning coffee. “I didn't even send a reply!”
“Alex, you reacted with a heart to his message!” Lily shot back, gesturing dramatically with her spoon. “A HEART!” As the couple’s familiar, chaotic bickering faded into background noise, the thoughts clawed at the inside of her mind, threatening to tear her completely apart.
Should she let him in? She swallowed the lump in her throat and gave Lily a small, quiet nod. Lily’s lips pressed into a tight line, her gaze softening with pure sympathy.
“You don’t have to do it if you’re not ready, you know,” Lily whispered, squeezing her hand so firmly it anchored her to the chair. “Alex can fake amnesia right now and pretend the message dropped off the face of the earth.”
Delete the message. Pretend it never happened. Protect yourself.
It was so tempting. She could still hide away from the intoxicating, dangerous pull he still held over her. If she kept the gates closed, if she let him go on believing Carlos was the one in her life, she could keep her distance. She could keep her heart from being torn open all over again.
Then her eyes drifted toward the living room.
Emilio was sitting on the rug in a patch of morning sunlight, surrounded by his toys. In his small hands, he held a tiny blue and red racing car, carefully lining it up on the floor. He made a soft, breathless engine noise under his breath, his face glowing with that pure, untouchable worship he always had whenever he saw the blue car on TV. A sharp, unbearable pang ripped through her chest, taking her breath away.
How could she let her own fear, her own pathetic, lingering desire to protect a heart that was already ruined, rob her son of the father he deserved? Emilio loved Max as his hero on screen, but Max... Max was meant to be the man holding his hand, teaching him, loving him.
I can't steal that from him, she thought, a suffocating wave of bittersweet sorrow washing over her. She slowly pulled her hand back from Lily’s, taking a shaky, unsteady breath that rattled through her lungs. Looking up, she met Lily’s soft eyes before turning her gaze toward Alex, who was watching her in heavy silence from the counter.
“Don't delete it,” she whispered, the words carrying a raw, desperate weight that made her voice crack. Lily’s chest rose in a quiet, painful sigh. “Are you sure?" She breathed, turning her gaze back to the little boy happily zooming his car across the rug. “I… I can't make Emilio pay for my heartbreak.”
She swallowed hard, turning to Alex, her hands trembling so violently she had to lace her fingers together to hide it. “Tell him yes,” she whispered, her heart aching with a deep, inescapable yearning for a past she could never reclaim. “But under my rules.”
𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩
She spent that night staring at the harsh glare of her laptop screen, trying to compose a carefully crafted, completely unflappable email. Since she’d blocked his number on literally everything, and had long since purged his digits from her memory, and because she knew for a fact he treated his social media DMs like a black hole, professional correspondence felt like her safest, most sensible weapon.
Dear Max, she typed. Delete. Too intimate. Max Verstappen, she tried again. Delete. Sounds like she’s serving him a subpoena. Mr. Verstappen. Delete. Unbearably petty.
“Ugh!” She dropped her forehead flat onto the wooden desk with a muted thud, utterly defeated by a salutation. Beside her desk, Emilio was sprawling on his tiny play-mat, lazily fumbling with a stuffed penguin, blissfully unaware. She lifted her head, straightened her spine, and typed out the headers with resolute determination.
───────
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Co-Parenting Emilio
Max,
I am sending this email to establish the boundaries and rules for our arrangement. I presume Alex has informed you that I have agreed to let you meet Emilio, but I need to make it abundantly clear that this will happen entirely under my provisions.
Please review the following terms carefully:
1. Visits are strictly limited to Mondays and Tuesdays. (Because despite everything, I am well aware of your chaotic race calendar, and these are your only predictable days off.)
2. I will be present for the entirety of every single visit. (Because as much as you are his biological father, you are currently a stranger, and I do not trust you. Yet.)
3. Visits will last no longer than five hours per day. (Because Emilio is three years old, and despite your championship endurance, he gets easily overwhelmed by big changes.)
4. You will not impose your lifestyle, publicity, or expectations on him (He is a toddler, not a PR opportunity or a junior driver in training. Let him just be a kid.)
5. You will not post him on any social media platform, nor will you mention him in your media. (Respect his and my privacy)
6. Absolutely no sleepovers. (Do not even ask. The answer is no.)
Before any of this begins, I will be sitting down with Emilio to gently explain who you are and what is happening. Once he fully understands (or at least grasps as much as a three-year-old can), we can schedule the first meeting.
If you have any questions or require clarification, you may respond to this email address. Do not attempt to bypass this protocol.
Sincerely,
Emilio’s Mom
───────
The phone on the dining table buzzed constantly, a relentless flood of notifications from PR teams, engineers, and news outlets. Max ignored all of it. He was sitting in the quiet dark of his room, staring blankly at what passed for his dinner: a dry piece of bread he’d picked at and a half-empty can of Red Bull. Then, a single banner popped up at the top of his screen.
Max nearly dropped his phone into his lap as his thumb scrambled to open it. His breath caught in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs as his eyes scanned the email, and then, despite the suffocating weight of the past few days, a quiet, breathless laugh broke through his lips. He couldn't help it. Even completely wrecked, even in the middle of a formal, cold bulleted list, he could see her so clearly it made his chest ache.
She hated writing formal emails. He knew for a fact she overthought every single line, every piece of punctuation. He could practically see her right in front of him: her brow furrowed tight, her nose scrunched up in that adorable, frustrated way, and that dramatic, quiet "Ugh!" she’d let out right before dropping her head onto the desk. It was a face uniquely reserved for administrative torture, and it was one of a million tiny, ridiculous things he deeply adored about her.
Max pushed the piece of his sad little bread aside, set his Red Bull down, and picked up his phone with both hands. His fingers flew across the screen, typing out his reply before he could overthink it too.
───────
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Co-Parenting Emilio
Hi Emilio’s Mom,
I accept every single rule.
Mondays and Tuesdays are perfect. Five hours is plenty to start. You can stay as close as you want; I wouldn’t expect you to trust me yet, and I won't do anything to break whatever chance you're giving me. No PR, no sleepovers, no press. Just me and him (and you).
Take all the time you need to talk to Emilio. I’ll wait until you say he’s ready.
I’ll be waiting for your word.
Max
P.S. I appreciate this. I know how hard it was for you to send this, scrunched nose and all.
───────
The morning was just beginning, as the pot of oatmeal bubbled softly on the stove. She stirred it absentmindedly with a wooden spoon, the quiet hum of the house giving her a rare moment of peace, until her phone buzzed against the marble top. Her heart did a violent, familiar flip. Taking a slow breath to still herself, she wiped her hands on a dishtowel and picked up the phone. The notification sat at the top of her screen: 1 new email from Max Verstappen.
She opened it, expecting something a bit guarded. Instead, her eyes swept over his brief, agreeable responses until she hit the penultimate line.
I know how hard it was for you to send this, scrunched nose and all.
She froze. A sudden familiar heat flushed up her neck and directly into her cheeks. That infuriating, observant idiot. Her nose involuntarily scrunched up right then and there out of sheer annoyance, and the sudden, breathless realization of just how intimately he still remembered her. After years of building a wall between them, and with one stupidly affectionate sentence, he had effortlessly reached right through it. She stared at the screen, her grip tightening around the phone. He hadn't argued a single point, surrendering completely to her terms, laying all his cards on the table, just waiting for her signal. Which meant there were no more excuses left to hide behind.
The ball was firmly in her court.
"Mommy? Is the soup ready?" A small, sweet voice pulled her out of the spiral. She looked down to see Emilio standing by the kitchen island, his messy bedhead sticking up in every direction, rubbing one sleep-heavy eye with his fist. He was clutching his stuffed penguin under his arm, looking so small. She smiled, setting her phone face down on the counter and turned off the stove burner.
This is it, she thought, her stomach twisting into a tight knot as a fresh wave of nerves washed over her. If she didn't do it now, she might never. "It's almost ready, baby, and it’s not soup, silly; it’s oatmeal," she said softly, forcing her voice to stay steady and light. She scooped a warm portion into his favorite Lightning McQueen bowl and carried it over to the small kitchen table.
As Emilio scrambled up into the chair, happily swinging his legs, she sat down directly across from him. She reached out, gently smoothing down a stray lock of his blonde hair, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "Lio," she began gently, her voice carefully pitched to sound comforting. "You know how yesterday you asked me if Mr. Max would remember you?"
Emilio paused, his spoon hovering halfway to his mouth, his big blue eyes lighting up instantly. "Yeah! Is he coming to see us? Is he friends with Papa and Uncle Dad?" She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat, taking a deep breath before opening her mouth to change their lives forever. The words tasted sour, if not entirely bitter, in her mouth, but she pushed through it, forcing a warm, gentle smile as she nudged his hand slightly. “Lio, Mr. Max isn't just Papa and Uncle Dad's friend." She paused, wanting to vomit out of anxiety. Just do it. Get it over with.
"Mr. Max is your dad. Your real dad.”
Instead of the sudden, joyous explosion of excitement she had braced herself for, the room fell dead quiet. Emilio’s little face dropped. The bright, sparkling adoration that usually lit up his eyes whenever he talked about the exact man completely vanished, replaced by a strange, sudden stillness. His tiny shoulders turned stiff. She looked at him, utterly puzzled. “Lio?” Emilio stared down at his oatmeal, his lip trembling slightly, before he looked up at her with a fierce, quiet certainty. “No mommy,” the three-year-old whispered firmly, crossing his small arms over his chest. “Papa is my real dad.”
Oh.
The single, innocent sentence hit her like a sudden douse of ice water, instantly knocking the air clean out of her lungs. Her mind scrambled, paralyzed in shock. In all her overthinking and panic, she had been so consumed by her own lingering history with Max that she had completely overlooked the only simple, unshakeable world her son had known.
Emilio’s eyes began to well with confused, stubborn tears, his little knuckles white as he squeezed his stuffed penguin tighter to his chest. “I don’t want Mr. Max to be my dad,” he sniffled, his voice cracking with the heavy, protective loyalty only a toddler could possess. “I already have Papa.” Panic surged through her chest. She reached across the small table, her hands gently taking his tiny, trembling ones. “Sweetie, listen to me,” she tried quickly, her voice betraying the sheer desperation rising in her throat. “Carlos will always be your Papa. Nothing changes that, I promise! Max is just... he’s your dad, too. You can have both.”
“NO!” Emilio shrieked, pulling his hands out of her grip as if he’d been burned. He scrambled out of his chair so fast it rattled against the floorboards, his face flushed red with pure, toddler rage. “I don’t want! I don't want! I only want Papa and Uncle Dad! No one else!”
“Lio, please—”
“NO!” he sobbed, stomping his tiny foot against the floor and storming straight back into his bedroom, slamming the door shut with all the force his three-year-old body could muster. The loud bang of the door echoed through the apartment, followed instantly by the heavy, suffocating silence of the quiet kitchen. She sat frozen at the dining table. The silence clawed at her, thick and unbearable. Slowly, her knees buckled beneath her weight as she slumped forward, burying her face into her hands. A choked, strangled breath escaped her lips as the tears finally broke free, hot and stinging against her palms.
What had she done?
In her desperate attempt to be fair, to stop being selfish, and to clear her own heavy conscience, she had walked straight into a landmine. Max was a hero on a television screen to Emilio, a cool driver in a fast car, but Carlos? Carlos was the steady warmth in his life. Carlos was the one who tied his shoes, who taught him how to kick a football, who wiped his chin, and whose chest he fell asleep against.
Carlos was his Papa.
And by trying to slot Max into a throne he hadn't built, she hadn't given Emilio a wonderful surprise; she had threatened the only truth he had ever known. She had made her baby feel like his Papa was being replaced. She pulled her hands away from her face, her eyes red, swollen, and stinging as she stared at her phone sitting face down on the table.
She pressed her knuckles against her mouth, fresh tears slipping down her cheeks into the quiet room. How was she ever going to fix this? Her hands shook so violently, her vision blurred by the heavy, hot tears spilling over her lashes. She picked up her phone with a trembling grip, opening her chat with Carlos. She didn't even bother writing a long explanation; she couldn't if she tried.
───────
To Carlos 🩷 I messed up so bad. Lio is crying in his room and I don't know what to do. Can you please come?
From Carlos 🩷 On my way, cariño
───────
She let out a shaky breath, staring at his text as the sheer weight of the situation crashed over her. Less than ten minutes later, the faint sound of a key turning in the front lock echoed through the apartment. Carlos pushed the door open, dropping his car keys onto the entryway table and stepping inside.
"Hey," Carlos said softly, his deep voice instantly cutting through the suffocating silence of the flat. The moment she met his eyes, the last of her composure crumbled. A choked sob escaped her chest, and before she could even stand up properly, Carlos crossed the room in three long strides, pulling her straight into his arms, cradling the back of her head as she buried her face into his shoulder and hands clutching at the fabric of his hoodie.
"Shh, I'm here. I'm right here," Carlos murmured into her hair, holding her securely against his chest as her shoulders shook with quiet, desperate tears. After a long moment, when her frantic breathing finally began to settle against his chest, Carlos gently pulled back just enough to look down at her, wiping a stray tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb.
"What happened?" he asked quietly, his dark eyes brimming with tenderness. "Where is Lio?"
"He's in his room," she choked out, her voice raw and broken. "Carlos... I tried to tell him. I told him Max is his dad..." Carlos’s expression softened into a quiet, understanding stillness, listening attentively.
"I thought he’d be happy," she whispered, the guilt tearing at her chest. "I thought he’d be excited because he loves Max, but he... he completely shut down. He got so angry, Carlos. He started crying and screaming that he doesn't want him, that he only wants you." She looked up at him, her red, tear-stained eyes wide with sheer guilt, frustration, and heartbreak.
"He thinks Max is coming to replace you. He thinks I'm trying to take his Papa away." Carlos listened to every word, his face softening with a deep, quiet tenderness. When she finished, he gently squeezed her shoulders, his thumbs smoothing over her upper arms.
"Let me go talk to him," Carlos said softly. "He... he told me he didn't want to see me right now," she whispered, her voice cracking as fresh tears threatened to spill. "I know," Carlos murmured, leaning down to press a warm, reassuring kiss to her temple. "He’s confused and scared. Little kids have big feelings, but it's going to be okay. I promise."
She nodded numbly, reminding herself that Emilio was only three, that his reaction wasn't a rejection of her, but a toddler's way of feeling big things. Still, the sharp, agonizing guilt tore through her chest. She had done this to him. Emilio was far too smart for his own good; he absorbed everything, understood more than anyone gave him credit for, and right now, his tiny heart was defending its fortress. Carlos turned and walked down the hallway, stepping quietly toward Emilio’s bedroom door. He gave two soft, slow knocks before turning the handle and slipping inside.
The room was dim, the blinds pulled down against the sun. Emilio was curled into a small, tight ball in the middle of his bed, hugging his stuffed penguin so tightly his knuckles were white. Carlos’s eyes swept the room, instantly catching the tragic detail on the floor. Every single one of Emilio's prized Red Bull cars, the ones he usually zoomed around the living room with endless pride, had been dumped into the furthest, darkest corner of the room, turned upside down.
On his nightstand, parked side by side perfectly, were the only two cars left standing: the #23 and #55 Williams. Carlos’s heart squeezed with a heavy, fierce affection. He let out a long, quiet sigh, closing the door behind him.
"Mi vida," Carlos called out gently, his voice soft as a whisper. The little boy on the bed stiffened, but Emilio didn't look up. Carlos walked over with slow, heavy steps and sat down on the edge of the mattress. The bed dipped under his weight, and without a word, Carlos reached out, gently rubbing Emilio’s shaking back through his small pajama shirt.
"Mommy said you were upset with her," Carlos began softly, his tone completely calm and unbothered, like a steady rock in the middle of a storm. "I don't want Mr. Max," Emilio’s muffled voice sobbed into his pillow, thick with tears. "I don't want him to be my dad. I already have you!" Carlos’s chest swelled with a painful, beautiful warmth. He carefully leaned over, gathering the small boy into his arms and pulling him up onto his lap. Emilio instantly buried his tear-stained face into the nook of Carlos’s neck, his tiny arms wrapping around Carlos’s hoodie like a vise. Carlos held him tight, resting his chin on top of Emilio’s messy bedhead, rocking him gently side to side.
"Listen to me, Lio," Carlos said softly, placing a hand on the back of Emilio's head. "Look at Papa." Emilio sniffled, pulling back just enough to look up with wide eyes, his lower lip still trembling violently. "Nobody is taking Papa away," Carlos said, looking straight into his eyes with absolute, unshakeable certainty. "Do you know why?"
Emilio shook his head, a tear spilling over his cheek. "Because I am your Papa forever," Carlos whispered, wiping the tear away with his thumb. "Nothing changes that. Not ever. Even if you grow bigger than papa, even if Mr. Max comes to play with you... I am always going to be here. I am still going to give you monster hugs. I am still going to carry you on my shoulders, and bring you to all the karting places. Okay?"
Emilio wiped his nose on his sleeve, his voice small and fragile. "You won't leave?"
"Never," Carlos promised, bumping his nose playfully against Emilio's, making the toddler let out a soft, wet sniffle. "I’m stuck with you forever, pichón, and you're stuck with Papa. Mr. Max just wants to be another person who loves you very, very much. The more people who love you, the better, right?"
Emilio looked over at his nightstand at the little car, then back up at Carlos, his breathing finally beginning to slow down. "So... you're still my Papa?" Emilio whispered, seeking that absolute reassurance one last time. "Always," Carlos smiled, his dark eyes brimming with pure devotion. "You are Papa's entire world, amor."
When the bedroom door finally clicked open, she was standing near the kitchen counter, her hands clasped tightly together. She looked up instantly, her heart slamming against her ribs as Carlos walked out holding Emilio in his arms; his little head was resting heavily against Carlos’s shoulder. His cheeks were still flushed pink and streaked with dried tears, his tiny nose entirely red, but the frantic, terrifying storm in his eyes had finally settled into a soft, quiet exhaustion.
As soon as he saw his mother standing there with her own eyes red and swollen, Emilio squirmed slightly in Carlos’s hold, reaching his small arms out toward her. "Mommy..." he whispered, his voice tiny and raspy from crying. A sharp, breathless sob caught in her throat. She didn't hesitate for a single second; she crossed the small distance between them and took him into her arms. The moment Carlos let go, Emilio wrapped his arms tightly around her neck, burying his face directly into the crook of her shoulder, holding onto her shirt with all the strength he had.
"I made mommy cry. Lio is sorry," he sniffled quietly against her skin, still clearly carrying the lingering ache of big, confusing feelings he didn't fully know how to process. "Oh, baby... no, no, sweetie, don't be sorry," she breathed into his messy blonde hair, pressing endless, desperate kisses to the side of his head as her arms held him tight against her chest. "Mommy is the one who has to say sorry, so, so sorry." Over Emilio's shoulder, she met Carlos's eyes. He gave her a quiet, reassuring nod, a soft, weary smile tugging at his lips as if to say, It's all going to be okay.
Emilio squeezed her tighter, letting out a long, heavy sigh that made his little body shudder. He was still upset, still distant about the terrifying idea of Mr. Max entering his safe little world, but right here, anchored between his mother’s heart and his Papa’s presence, he knew he wasn't going to be lost.
𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩
That night, once Emilio had fallen fast asleep, she and Carlos sat across from each other at the small kitchen table, two mugs of untouched coffee sitting between them. "I thought I was doing the right thing by laying down all those strict rules for Max, but I was so focused on managing him that I completely steamrolled Lio," she admitted quietly, her thumb tracing the rim of her mug.
Carlos reached across the table, covering her hand with his own palm. "We're all trying to figure this out as we go, cariño," he said gently, his dark eyes filled with steady resolve. "But if we want this to work without breaking his heart, we have to ease him into it." Carlos paused, taking a breath. "Which is why I think I need to be there." She blinked, looking up at him in surprise. "You want to be there? During the visits?"
"To be his safety net. If Emilio sees that I am calm, that I am okay with Max being around, he won't feel like he has to choose between us. Max needs to earn his trust, but we have to give Emilio the bridge to walk across." Carlos clarified with a small, fond smile, though his voice remained deeply serious. A heavy wave of gratitude washed over her, making her eyes sting all over again. Carlos wasn't just standing by her; he was shielding her son's world with everything he had.
"Okay," she breathed, nodding slowly. "Okay. Let's do it like that."
Later, after Carlos had left, she sat back down at her desk with her laptop open. The screen glowed white in the quiet room. Her hands didn't shake this time. The hesitation was gone, replaced by the fierce, protective instinct of a mother who knew exactly what her child needed. She opened the draft thread and began typing a new response.
───────
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Co-Parenting Emilio
Max,
Thank you for agreeing to the terms without argument. However, after sitting down to talk to Emilio today, there has been a slight change in the plan that we need to address before any of this moves forward.
Emilio is three years old, and he is fiercely attached to the routine and stability he has known his entire life. When I explained the situation to him, he did not react with excitement. He was confused, frightened, and deeply overwhelmed at the thought of a new dynamic. He loves you on the screen, but in his real world, Carlos is the only father he has ever known. He is terrified that welcoming you into his life means losing Carlos; because of this, we need to ease him into this slowly so he feels safe.
Here are the revised provisions:
1. Carlos will be joining us for the initial visits. (This is non-negotiable. Emilio needs his Papa present to understand that his world is expanding, not being replaced. Carlos has graciously agreed to help facilitate this transition for Emilio's sake.)
2. We move strictly at Emilio's pace. (If he shuts down or gets overwhelmed, we pause. You will need to be patient.)
I am telling you this not to hurt you or keep you away, but because I refuse to break my son's heart in the process of giving him his father.
Let me know if you accept this transition phase, and we will set the first date.
Sincerely,
Emilio’s Mom.
───────
The familiar notification chimed softly on Max’s phone, making him grab it instantly, his thumb sweeping across the screen to open the email, fully expecting to read a time and a location for when he could finally hold his boy. For the first few sentences, a faint smile tugged at his lips. She was talking to Emilio. It was happening. His heart pounded with a fierce, eager anticipation that made his hands sweat against the glass.
Carlos will be joining us for the initial visits.
Max froze. The soft smile on his face completely vanished. As he read through the rest of the message, about Emilio being frightened, about Carlos being his Papa, about needing Carlos there as a safety net, a sharp, suffocating heat flared up in the center of his chest. An irritation, hot and entirely uninvited, flared through his veins.
He gripped the edges of his phone so hard the case bit into his palm. He tried to tell himself to be rational. He tried to focus on her words, that Emilio was just confused and scared who didn't understand yet, but every single time his brain cycled back to the image of Carlos standing in the middle of his family, holding his son's hand, watching Max try to earn a place in his own child’s life, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.
It was a quiet, ugly bitterness he couldn't even fully explain to himself. Was it pride? Was it jealousy? Was it the excruciating realization that while he had been winning world championships, another man had been building a fortress inside the hearts of the only two people who actually mattered? He stood up from the bed, pacing the length of the room like a caged animal. He ran a heavy hand over his face, staring at the screen again.
Carlos. Always Carlos.
Max let out a sharp, harsh breath through his nose, his eyes burning as he stared down at the text. "Graciously my ass," Max muttered aloud, his voice dropping into a dangerous, dark rasp in the quiet room. He hated it. He hated every single second of it. He hated that he had given Carlos that opening, and he hated that he now had to swallow his pride, walk into a room, and play nice with the man who was currently living the life that should have been his. He stared at the blank reply field, his thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Max squeezed his eyes shut, taking a deep, ragged breath that rattled in his throat. He forced his fingers to steady, dropping his shoulders as he slowly began to type his response.
───────
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Co-Parenting Emilio
I understand.
If Emilio needs Carlos there to feel safe, then Carlos can be there. I won't do anything to make him uncomfortable, and I won't cause a scene. I just want to see my son.
Name the time and the place. I will be there.
Max
───────
𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩
It takes three weeks for a solid plan to take shape. Yet when the morning of their first meet-up arrives, nothing could have truly prepared her for its crushing weight.
Alex and Carlos had been pulled into an urgent, mandatory online strategy conference with their Williams team, leaving Carlos to promise Emilio that he would sprint over the exact second the call ended with three kisses to the forehead.
So Lily had taken the responsibility of driving them to a quiet, indoor playground. Ever since they had strapped Emilio into his car seat, the little boy hadn't stopped clinging to her.
“We’re here,” Lily said softly, pulling the car up to the curb and putting it in park.
He asked to sit on her lap the moment they parked, his small arms immediately wrapping tightly around her neck, burying his face into her shoulder like a shield. She didn't mind. She just held him, her chin resting against his soft hair, silently absorbing all his frantic, toddler anxiety into her own chest.
Her heart instantly hammered against her ribs, a wild, breathless rhythm. Instinctively, her eyes drifted toward the front entrance of the playground and caught him. Max was sitting on a concrete bench outside the glass doors, staring down at his phone.
Her breath hitched. What made a strange, unexpected lump form in her neck was how... normal he looked. For as long as she had known him, Max lived, breathed, and slept in his team kit. If he wasn't in his fireproofs, he was in a navy Red Bull polo or a dark hoodie with logos plastered across his chest. Today, there wasn't a single piece of merchandise on him. He was wearing a completely plain, muted grey t-shirt and dark casual shorts, his white sneakers dusty against the pavement. He looked stripped of the untouchable armor, reduced to a vulnerable, quiet, and startlingly human.
“I’ll see you guys later,” Lily said with a warm, encouraging smile, leaning over to press a gentle kiss to Emilio’s messy blonde head. “See you later, bud. Be brave for Mommy.”
“Thank you, Li,” she whispered, offering a small, nervous smile before taking a deep breath and opening the car door. The cool air hit her skin, but all she could focus on was the small weight in her arms. As her shoes hit the pavement, she felt Emilio’s tiny fingers dig frantically into the fabric of her jacket, his whole body tensing up.
She immediately lifted a hand, gently rubbing smooth, soothing circles onto his small back. "You'll be okay, baby," she murmured softly against his ear, her own heart leaping into her throat. "Mommy's right here. I've got you." Emilio buried his face deeper into the crook of her neck.
At the sound of their approaching footsteps, the man on the bench finally looked up. Max’s eyes locked onto them, and the breath visibly left his lungs. He stood up so fast his phone almost slipped from his grip, his gaze sweeping over her before landing on the small boy clinging to her for dear life. Max stayed rooted to the spot, his hands dropping to his sides as if he were afraid that making a single sudden move would send them bolting in the opposite direction.
The silence between them was deafening, heavy with unsaid words, broken promises, and a tiny, terrified child acting as the center of their universe. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs, but as she looked at Max, she was completely off guard. The fierce, unyielding driver who fought for every millimeter on the track was nowhere to be found. In his place was just a man looking at his son for the very first time, terrified to even breathe.
"Hi," Max whispered, his voice soft yet dangerously rough, cracking slightly on the single syllable. "Hi," she managed to reply, her own voice barely stronger than his. She tightened her arms around Emilio, feeling the little boy’s body trembling against her chest.
Max’s eyes shifted down, lingering on the back of Emilio’s messy blonde head. He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as he slowly took one small, hesitant step forward, keeping his distance respectful and safe. "Is he... is he okay?" Max asked quietly. "He's just nervous," she said softly, stroking Emilio's hair. She leaned in slightly to speak into her son's ear. "Lio, sweetie... Mr. Max is here to say hello."
Emilio didn't unclamp his arms from her neck, but slowly, tentatively, he turned his head just enough to peek out of the crook of her shoulder with one cautious, big blue eye. When Max saw those eyes, a mirror of his own looking back at him with suspicion. A tear threatened to break from the corner of his eye, but he quickly blinked it back.
"Hey there, Lio," Max murmured, offering the gentlest smile she had ever seen him wear. He carefully reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, plush stuffed animal, a soft, fluffy penguin holding a tiny checkered flag, the perfect mix of two of the toddler's favourite things (the adorable flightless bird and racing), and held it out on his open palm, not pushing it toward him, just offering it. "I... I heard you like penguins."
Emilio blinked, his tiny brow furrowing. He didn't pull away completely this time. His gaze locked onto the fluffy plushie sitting in Max’s open palm. For a long, quiet second, nobody moved. Then, with agonizing slowness, Emilio reached out one tiny, hesitant hand. His fingers wrapped tightly around the penguin’s soft wing, tugging it out of Max’s hand and immediately pulling it close against his chest alongside his old one.
He didn't say thank you. He didn't say hi. He just hugged the new toy tight, buried his nose right back into her shoulder, and went completely silent. A quiet, breathless exhale escaped Max’s lips. The tiny gesture was practically nothing, but to Max, it looked like he’d just been given the entire world. Progress. A genuinely warm, soft smile spread across his face, lighting up his eyes.
"Come on," Max said quietly, looking at her with a gentle, appreciative nod. "Let's get you guys inside out of the cold."
𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩
Max stepped up to the counter first, his tall frame leaning slightly over the register as he reached for his wallet, but right before tapping his card, he paused, turning his head back toward her. She was kneeling on the carpeted foyer, holding Emilio by both of his little hands while the toddler anxiously bounced on his heels, eyes scanning the colorful foam blocks and slides ahead.
"Where's Carlos?" Max asked, his voice suddenly stiff, a sharp edge cutting through the softness he'd held outside. She looked up, meeting his cool, questioning gaze without flinching. "He's running late. He was pulled into an unexpected meeting with James, but he'll be here in an hour." Max’s jaw set slightly, but he didn't argue. He turned back to the teenager behind the register, handing over his card. "Just three passes, please." Once the wristbands were securely around their wrists and their shoes were traded for colorful grip socks, the tension in Emilio’s small body instantly gave way to pure toddler instinct.
"Playtime?" Emilio whispered, looking up at his mother with wide, desperate eyes as he clutched his new penguin under one arm. "Playtime, baby," she smiled, letting go of his hands. Emilio didn't need to be told twice. He sprinted off toward the massive soft-play climbing structure, his tiny socks squeaking against the polished floor as he made a beeline for the low-level ball pit.
Neither of them said a word. The air between them was thick, surrounded by the chaotic, joyful screeches of other kids running around. They didn’t try to fill the space with awkward small talk. Instead, the focus remained entirely on the tiny boy currently navigating the soft-play kingdom. While she stayed close to Emilio, helping him climb foam steps and catching him at the end of small ramps, Max just lingered nearby like a shadow. He moved cautiously, constantly testing the waters, watching Lio with an attentive, guarded patience as he waited for any subtle sign or unspoken invitation to join in.
The breakthrough came at the big spiral slides. Emilio stood at the top platform, watching with wide, observant eyes as other parents slid down with their kids. His gaze drifted to Max, who was standing a few feet back, hands shoved into his shorts pockets, the only adult up there without a child. A tiny lightbulb seemed to go off in the little boy’s head. Emilio made up his mind completely on his own accord and stepped forward, pointing a small finger. "Mommy, you go with Penguin, and I go with Mr. Max!"
Max perked up instantly, his shoulders going straight as his eyes snapped to her, practically wide with disbelief. She caught Max's shocked expression and couldn't help the small, warm grin that tugged at her lips. She gave a quick, amused shrug. "Alright, bud. See you down there!"
Without missing a beat, she settled onto the drop zone with the stuffed penguin in her hands and zoomed straight down the curved plastic chute. Max didn't waste a single millisecond. He sat down at the top of the slide and opened his arms. Emilio scrambled right into the space between his legs, resting his back against Max’s chest. Max was intensely mindful of every move, careful not to hold too tightly or make the little boy feel trapped, so he settled on resting his hands firmly over Emilio's small shoulders, holding him steady and secure.
"Ready, Lio?" Max asked, his voice thick with a sudden, breathless emotion. "Ready!" Emilio squeaked.
They pushed off. The rush of air, the smooth speed down the red plastic chute, the sound of Emilio’s bright, pure laughter echoing off the walls that it felt absolutely electric.
It was effortless, it was fun, and it was—
"Mi vida!"
—agonizingly short-lived.
The loud, warm greeting echoed from the bottom of the landing zone just as Max and Emilio shot out from the mouth of the slide and came to a smooth halt on the padded mat. Carlos was standing right at the foot of the slide. His jacket was draped casually over his arm, his dark hair slightly windswept, and his arms were wrapped tightly around her waist, pulling her flush against his side as she laughed against his shoulder.
Emilio’s little eyes lit up like fireworks. "Papa!" the boy shrieked happily, instantly squirming right out of Max’s lap to throw himself straight into Carlos's waiting, open arms. Max sat frozen on the padded mat, his hands still shaped around the empty air where his son had been a fraction of a second ago. He looked at Emilio clinging frantically to Carlos's neck, then at Carlos holding her like she belonged entirely to him.
A dark, dangerous coldness flooded straight through Max's veins, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek.
Every single syllable that spilled out of Carlos' mouth was like nails dragging across a rusted chalkboard, shredding what little patience he had left to absolute ribbons. When Carlos had arrived, he’d offered a smooth, perfectly polite apology for being late. He’d even apologized directly to Max before gently taking her by the elbow and insisting they all step over to the playground cafe for a quick snack so Lio wouldn't play on an empty stomach.
And now? Now Max was trapped in a living, breathing hell.
The small metal table was crowded with juice boxes, half-eaten fruit slices, and a small basket of warm bread rolls. Emilio was squirming in his high chair next to Carlos, happily babbling with his mouth full, completely oblivious to the suffocating tension thick enough to cut with a butcher’s knife. "I went to the ball pool, Papa! Can we get a ball pool in the house?" Emilio asked, kicking his grip-socked feet back and forth in pure toddler excitement.
Carlos chuckled, leaning over to gently wipe a tiny crumb of bread off the corner of Emilio’s chin. "You can ask Mommy about that, pichón." The casual phrasing landed on Max like a physical blow. His ears instantly burned a deep, furious red, a sudden, suffocating panic flaring up behind his ribs.
In the house? Are they living together?
They weren't, but Max didn't know that. All Max heard was the seamless, practiced ease of a man who sounded like he spent every single morning sitting at her kitchen table, pouring juice and making decisions about their son's life. Max was getting viciously, blindly jealous, though he would rather die than admit it out loud. His pride was the only thing holding him together, but inside, his brain was spiraling into dark, agonizing territory.
It used to be him.
It used to be Max in every single kitchen with her. It used to be Max leaning against the counter in his socks while she cooked, Max wrapping his arms around her waist from behind while the coffee brewed, Max lingering in every room of her life like he owned the air she breathed, and now, sitting across from her, he was forced to endure the excruciating torture of imagining someone else in his place.
Someone else made her laugh in the morning. Someone else pulled the blankets over her at night.
From across the table, she caught the exact second Max’s posture went rigid, his eyes widening in a split second of unadulterated terror before his jaw snapped shut so tight the muscle twitched violently. A small, quiet smile tugged at the corner of her lips, but she bit her inner cheek to hide it, keeping her eyes fixed down on her water glass. She so clearly knew what was running through his head. Max looked like he was genuinely about to burst at the seams, practically vibrating with a mix of jealousy and sheer heartbreak, but she had to give him props for keeping his mouth shut despite it all.
Still, the sight of him silently suffocating under Carlos’s calm, unwitting dominance was almost too much for her to watch without laughing out loud. "We don't have room for a ball pit in the house, Lio," she said softly, though her eyes held a mischievous glint as she glanced between the two men. "Besides, the house is already full of racing simulators. Where would we put it?" Max’s head snapped up, his blue eyes locking onto hers with a sudden, sharp intensity, trying to read every single word between her lines. He was still seething, still dangerously close to snapping his plastic fork in two, but the silent game of tug-of-war in his head was only just beginning.
It was bad enough that he had to swallow his pride and share his son with another man, but sitting here, forced to watch her belong to someone else, Max absolutely hated it.
“Cariño,” Carlos called out to her, soft and effortless from across the table. “Yeah, sweetie?” she answered absentmindedly, resting a small hand on Carlos’s lap without even looking up from her phone. Someone just fucking stab him. Max genuinely couldn't take it. His knuckles turned white as his grip on his fork tightened dangerously.
"Pass me the bread, Lio wants some," Carlos murmured to her. Before she could even reach for the basket, Max shot out of his seat. He snatched the bread and set it down in front of the toddler himself. "Here you go, buddy," Max said smoothly, or as smoothly as a man practically vibrating with jealousy could manage.
The gesture caught both of them completely off guard. Carlos had to bite his lip to suppress an explosive laugh, which immediately earned him a heavy kick to the shin from her under the table. Max seethed in silence. He was the one who used to give her sweet names. Liefje. Lieverd.
And her absolute favorite, Schat.
He could still remember the very first time he’d called her that. She had stopped dead in her tracks, narrowing her eyes at him suspecting a trick. “Is that a cuss word?” He’d laughed, stepping into her space and pulling her firmly against his waist by her belt loops. “No,” he’d murmured, “It means darling.” pressing a warm kiss to her rapidly blushing cheek.
And now he was stuck sitting here listening to this Cariño bullshit. It didn't even come close to Schat.
Not even a little bit.
𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩
They went back inside the playground, this time with Carlos trailing behind Emilio and her lurking around the perimeter. Max was steadfast, though. He still tried to connect with Lio here and there, stubbornly pushing through the stinging reality of being a second option. He watched in silent agony as she took pictures, clicking as Emilio and Carlos threw plastic balls at each other, catching their bright, breathless smiles.
What made it ten times worse was that Carlos wasn't even being a jerk about it. Carlos made sure to allow him space, constantly being the one to invite Max into the frame just to show Lio that it was okay. Carlos would pass him a blue plastic ball or gently pull Max by the arm to join a game, making it infinitely harder for Max to hate him.
Fucking considerate bastard.
Then they were back at the slides. Max had a good feeling there, a tiny glimmer of hope from earlier, and he was right.
“Mama, I’ll ride with Mr. Max again!”
Max felt instantly proud, a booming fire igniting in his chest, but before the warmth could even settle, Emilio pointed a tiny finger toward his mother and Carlos.
“You and Papa can go together!”
What. The. Fuck.
The fire in Max's heart seemed to die down a bit, sputtering out into cold ash. Although he was happy, ecstatic, even, that the little boy now trusted him enough to stand close, even going to the lengths of reaching up to hold his hand, he still had a heavy, sickening pit in his stomach. She smiled softly at their son, completely oblivious to Max's internal execution. “Okay, honey.”
She stepped onto the slide, easily slotting between Carlos’ legs. When the Spaniard wrapped his long arms around her waist to pull her secure against his chest, Max wanted to scream. Half of him was happy to hold his son, but the other half of him, the desperate, pathetic half, wanted to be the one holding her, too.
“You ready, Mr. Max?” Lio asked, looking up. It was the very first time the boy had ever directly acknowledged him like that. Max forced a smile even as his heart broke into a thousand pieces behind it. “Ready when you are, champ,” he murmured, knowing full well that he wasn’t.
He wasn't ready to push off, and he sure as hell wasn't ready to slide down to the other side just to stare directly at everything he had lost.
𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩
Soon it was 6PM, time for them to head home before the toddler completely crashed. As usual, Emilio was already fighting his sleep demons and constantly failing, his heavy eyelids fluttering shut every few seconds. Carlos carried the boy in his arms as all four of them walked out into the cool evening air. Max walked alongside them, escorting them back to their car.
While Carlos gently set Emilio into his car seat, she turned to face Max. “I had a great time today. Thank you for allowing me this,” Max said, his voice surprisingly soft. She smiled, but Max knew her face too well, it was half-hearted. “Emilio had a great time, too. Thanks, Max.”
Max, despite the ugly annoyance clawing at his throat, swallowed his pride and walked over to Carlos, who was carefully buckling the toddler’s harness. “Thanks for today, mate,” Max offered quietly. Carlos looked over, his dark eyes earnest as he offered a genuine, warm smile. “Thank you as well.”
Max lingered for a moment, his gaze dropping down to his son. Emilio’s eyes were completely closed now, his chin resting against his chest, but his tiny fingers were still clutching the plush penguin Max had given him earlier. Before Max could turn around and walk away into the quiet parking lot, a tiny, sleep-slurred voice drifted from the car seat.
“Thank you for playing with me, Mr. Max...” The sleepy, quiet whisper melted Max's heart on the spot. All the bitterness evaporated for one glorious second. “Anytime, Emilio,” he whispered back softly, his son's name rolling off his tongue smoothly, like he was meant to say it. That single moment should have been a massive win for him. It was a win, but when Max stepped back and looked at her, watching Carlos’ hand rest naturally at the small of her back as he guided her gently into the passenger side... It felt like an absolute, devastating loss.
Max stood completely alone on the cold asphalt as the car engine turned over, its headlights sweeping across him before the car smoothly pulled out of the lot and merged into the evening traffic. In that silent moment, all he could think about was her. He knew the agreement was simple: focus on the child. The situation was designed to be nothing more than co-parenting. That was the only thing he was supposed to be after. Right?
He could convince himself that it was the truth, but as he stood there under the buzzing streetlights, his hands still clenched into tight fists in his pockets. If he wasn’t so damn prideful, maybe he would have reached through her open car window just now. Maybe he would have grabbed her wrist, pulled her out into the cold air, and begged her to stay. To wait. To leave Carlos behind.
Maybe then he’d have the courage to ask her to pick him, choose him, and love him all over again instead.
Dean Di Laurentis x CollegeSweetheart!Reader | word count: 1.9k
Summary: Dean finally getting his closure years after the break up over one last dance.
Warnings: Right person-wrong time, bittersweet, unrequited feelings, moving on with closure.
Off Campus Masterlist
The invitation arrived on a bleak Tuesday, and Dean very nearly tossed it into the trash along with the electric bill and a pre approved credit card statement. He was halfway to the wastebasket when his thumb caught on the heavy, cream colored cardstock.
He paused, flipping the envelope over. The elegant handwriting on the front was instantly recognizable, sending a familiar, quiet jolt straight to his ribs. Pulling the card free, he read the script: Y/N L/N and Ethan Carter request the pleasure of your company.
He read the names twice. Then a third time.
It wasn't that he couldn't believe she was getting married; Garrett had actually mentioned the engagement months ago over drinks, somewhere between complaining about travel hockey schedules and asking Dean if he ever planned on dating anyone he hadn't met through a screen. At the time, Dean had just smiled, smoothly changed the subject, and ordered another round. But seeing it printed in ink made it real. A date. A venue. A little RSVP card waiting for a checkmark.
Dean stared at it until his coffee went completely cold in his hand. Then, with a dry, self deprecating smile, he checked the box beside ‘accepts with pleasure’.
The drive out to the coast felt shorter than it used to, though that was probably because he was actively trying not to think about why this specific trip felt so heavy.
The small seaside town looked picture-perfect through the windshield. The historic downtown, the harbor, the narrow coastal road running behind the boardwalk. It all seemed like something out of a travel brochure. Before he could stop himself, his eyes drifted toward a small coffee shop near the pier. She used to talk about visiting a place like this after graduation, always detailing the exact kind of bookstore she wanted to open, always laughing when he told her he'd buy out the entire stock just to keep her in business.
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. Some memories never lost their edges, no matter how much time you put between them.
The rehearsal dinner was exactly the kind of upscale, perfectly manicured event Dean expected. The waterfront venue was practically drowning in fairy lights and flowing champagne. Garrett was already there, somehow putting himself in charge of corralling extended family members despite not being related to a single soul in the room, while Logan was actively cornering anyone who would listen to him complain about the dress shoes Dean had forced him to wear.
Before Dean could even get both feet through the door, Hannah caught him in a fierce, perfume scented hug.
"You came," she said, pulling back to look at him.
"I said I would, Hannah."
"I know." She squeezed his arm, her expression softening with a look that was far too perceptive. "I'm just really glad you're here, Dean."
He knew exactly what she meant, and it had nothing to do with the long drive. She was talking about Y/N.
He didn't spot her until nearly an hour later. She was standing by the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the water, laughing at something Allie was saying. Her hair was longer than he remembered, cascading over the shoulders of a pale blue dress, and the diamond on her left hand caught the light every time she gestured.
She looked happy. Not the manufactured, glossy kind of happy people put on for photographs, but something deep rooted and settled. Like she’d finally landed exactly where she belonged after years of searching. Dean had always thought that was all he ever wanted for her. He just hadn't expected how much it would sting to see it realized by someone else.
"Dean?"
He turned, and there she was. Her smile was identical to the one he’d kept locked away in his head, just a little older now. Softer around the eyes.
"Oh my God," she laughed, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around his neck.
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, a brief, muscle memory instinct to pull her closer, before settling his hands against her back. He held her for exactly as long as old friends were supposed to. Not longer, not shorter.
When she pulled away, her cheeks were slightly flushed. "It's so good to see you."
"You too," he said, and he genuinely meant it, even if looking at her felt like reopening a scar he’d spent years convincing himself had faded into nothing.
They fell into step surprisingly fast, the old, easy rhythm of their banter returning without much effort. They talked about his work, laughed over Logan’s latest public disaster, and caught up on Garrett and Hannah. Then she started telling him about her new city, the elementary school where she was teaching, and eventually, about Ethan.
Dean listened closely, noticing the way her voice didn't waver when she said his name. There was no apologetic glance his way, no careful treading around Dean's feelings. Just pure, unadulterated affection. She loved the guy. Really loved him. And watching her, something inside Dean’s chest quietly clicked into place, finally accepting what his brain had known for months.
Later that evening, as the venue staff began setting up centerpieces for the morning, the house band started testing their equipment. Most of the remaining guests ignored them, but someone pushed a classic, upbeat pop track through the house speakers.
Dean caught her eye and let out a low laugh. "Seriously?"
Y/N looked over from a stack of linen napkins. "What?"
"You still owe me a dance, L/N."
She blinked, looking genuinely baffled. "I do?"
"Winter Formal. Junior year."
A sudden realization struck her, and she laughed so hard she had to cover her mouth with her hand. "Oh my God, Dean."
"You bailed halfway through the night," he reminded her, crossing his arms with a mock offended look.
"I had horrible food poisoning from that sketchy diner down the road!"
"Well, you said you’d make it up to me."
"I absolutely did not say that."
"You did," he insisted, his tone dropping into something a bit quieter, a bit warmer. "I remember."
She studied him for a long beat, the laughter dying down into a fond, gentle expression. It wasn't nostalgic or heavy with regret, just a sweet acknowledgment of the past. "One dance," she consented, stepping toward him. "As friends."
Dean nodded immediately, extending a hand. "As friends." He repeated it because he needed the reminder more than she did.
He placed one palm lightly against hers, his other hand settling respectfully at her waist. He kept a deliberate, careful distance between them, enough space to account for the years and the lives that now separated them. Around the room, people carried on, lifting chairs and adjusting table settings, completely ignoring the two old college friends swaying in the center of the room. Dean only wished it felt as simple to him as it looked to everyone else.
She let out a soft breath of laughter when his wingtip accidentally clipped the hem of her dress. "Your skating might be flawless, Di Laurentis, but you've somehow gotten worse at this."
"I was never good to begin with."
"No," she agreed softly, looking up at him. "But I still danced with you."
"Because you were young and easily impressed."
"You make me sound ancient."
"Well, we're getting there."
The laugh that surprised him was loose and easy. For the length of a three minute song, the weight of the world lifted. It felt effortless, like the biggest crisis they had to face was whether Garrett had remembered to pack a matching tie for the ceremony.
And during that dance, it was easy to forget how much time had passed. Then the diamond on her left hand caught the light as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The years settled back between them all at once.
But as the track began to fade, Dean knew that if he didn't let go right now, he might lose his nerve entirely. So, he stepped back, dropping his hands.
She smiled up at him, breathless. "Thanks."
"No," he said, shaking his head slightly. "Thank you."
A faint line appeared between her brows. "For what?"
The real answers rushed to the back of his throat, nearly choking him. For showing me what love was supposed to look like. For being patient with a young me that was too stupid and damaged to love you back. For leaving before I managed to convince you that you deserved anything less than everything.
Instead, he smoothed his expression into a flawless, easygoing smile. "For finally making up that dance."
She laughed, the tension breaking. "I should've known you'd hold a grudge over a junior year formal."
"I've had a few years to practice the routine."
"Y/N?" A voice cut through the cavernous room, and she turned immediately toward the sound.
Ethan was walking toward them, balancing two glasses of champagne and looking around until his eyes landed on her. The exact moment he spotted her, his entire face lit up. It wasn't the look of a guy proud to show off a beautiful bride; it was the look of a man who genuinely couldn't believe his luck just being in her presence.
Dean watched as Y/N's smile widened instinctively, her hand already reaching out for Ethan's before he even reached the edge of the dance floor. It wasn't a polite, rehearsed gesture. It was pure instinct, the kind built from years of waking up and choosing the same person every single day.
Looking at them, Dean felt the final, jagged piece of his heart settle. It didn't break. It just quieted, like a heavy oak door softly clicking shut.
"I'll see you tomorrow," she said, turning back to him with a bright, happy glow.
Dean looked at her for one last, long second, memorizing the exact shade of her eyes before he smiled. "I don't think you will."
She frowned, confused. "What do you mean?"
He gestured vaguely toward the exit, his tone light and teasing. "You're going to be a little busy getting married. I'll catch you at the reception."
She laughed, stepping in for one final hug, quick, warm, and entirely comfortable. "I'm really glad you came, Dean."
He closed his eyes for a single beat, inhaling the familiar scent of her one last time. "So am I."
She pulled away, disappearing back into the crowd toward her fiancé. Dean stood there and watched as Ethan slipped his fingers between hers, the two of them walking away side by side.
And for the first time in years, Dean didn't try to picture what it would have looked like if it had been him standing by her side. He didn't wonder what would've happened if he'd loved her better. He just hoped that tomorrow, when she walked down that aisle, she wouldn't look back. Because she hadn't made a mistake. She had chosen the man who loved her the way Dean had spent years learning how he should’ve loved her from the start.
Sometimes, love didn't end with shattered glass or slammed doors. Sometimes it just ended with a quiet promise kept in an empty ballroom, and the peaceful understanding that the greatest gift you could give someone was letting them belong completely to the life they built without you.
(NOTE: i've opened up a google form to manage the taglist! if you wanna be tagged pls answer the form so i know which series/fic you'd want to be included in. thankiesss)
Note: thank you so much for the support 🥹🫶🏼 I didn't expect my post to be so successful! I appreciate all of you so much! let me know if you like this part. your encouragement gives me motivation to keep writing:)
CW: cheating/betrayal, family issues, smut, piv, fingering, oral, hair pulling, angst, a fight
MDNI please!
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"So you're telling me that you went to surprise this guy, found him screwing your sister, and still tried to fix things?"
Dean is gaping at you from across the table, a piece of toast in his hand. As soon as you two had sat down at Malones, he had begged to hear about how your sister had stolen your boyfriend.
"He wasn't screwing her. Don't be crude. They were making out." you mutter, stirring your oatmeal.
He sighs and pats your hand comfortingly. "It's okay. You've got me now."
You laugh, looking up. "That's... great. Thanks."
He grins and winks, taking a bite of his toast. "So..." he starts, swallowing, "what are the rules you made up?"
You nod, pulling your phone out of your pocket. You tap on your notes app, pulling up the list you had compiled after you got home last night.
"Rule one, this is a one time deal." you say, watching him nod thoughtfully. "Rule two, absolutely no one can know that this is fake. It's embarrassing.
He scrunches his nose up in offense. "Hey-"
"Rule three," you interrupt, "no sex between us."
He sighs and nods. "There goes one of my plans to assert my dominance." he says, feigning sadness.
You snort and shake your head, setting your phone down.
He grins, dimples flashing, when he hears your snort. "Cute." he remarks, resting his chin on his hand as he looks at you.
You shake your head, blushing a bit at his gaze. "Anyways, whose car are we taking? We have to go from Boston to Wisconsin to New York. That's a lot of driving." you say, already dreading it. The ride from Boston to Stockholm alone is almost a full day.
He pulls a face. "We aren't. I booked us both tickets to Minneapolis for two, and we can drive from there. It's only like two hours away from your family's house. We'll pull up in time for dinner." he says nonchalantly, like he didn't just single-handedly bankroll your entire trip.
You blink at him, spoon hovering in the air near your mouth. "You mean to tell me that you're having money troubles but you just so happened to drop four hundred dollars on plane tickets?" you ask, setting your spoon down.
He shrugs, smirking a bit. "Three hundred, technically. And I'm just investing in our relationship, baby. I expect a huge return once my dad sees how well I treat you." he says, winking.
You fake gag, laughing a bit. "Please don't ever try to flirt with me again." you quip playfully.
"Anyways, I'll meet you at the airport after my last final. I have one of the latest classes, so I get out at twelve. We can get airport lunch or something." you assert, grabbing your bag.
He nods eagerly and stands, setting down two twenties on the table. You set down your own ten. "I got myself." you say, watching him pout.
"Absolutely not. Keep your money." he demands, taking your hand. He puts the ten in your open palm, closing your fingers around it.
You both look up, eyes locking. He smiles at you softly. "Pretty..."
You laugh again, breaking the moment, stepping back. "Okay. I'll see you in five days. You have my number, right?"
He nods, closing his wallet. "Yeah, I got Hannah to send it to me. She had it from a study group you guys were in."
You nod, turning to walk away. His voice stops you.
"No kiss goodbye?" he teases, half expecting you to flip him off.
You grin and turn, walking over to him. Your arms go around his neck, fingers threading through his blonde locks. You pull him down, your lips brushing his lightly.
When you pull back, his lips instinctively chase yours. He opens his eyes, lips still puckered. He laughs slightly when he sees your face.
"Fuck. I need to stay away from you." he murmurs, watching you pull away.
You wink, copying his earlier gesture, and walk away. "Good luck with that, boyfriend." you call out as you open the door.
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Dean hates airport fries. Soggy, overpriced, unsalted. Yuck. He's just about to chuck his tray into the nearest garbage can when he spots you.
Shit. He needs to get a grip. He can't be sexually attracted to his fake girlfriend.
He grins at you, leaning back in his seat appreciatively. "Damn. Fashionably late." he murmurs, looking at your body clad in a cream sweater and a pair of jeans.
He grins when you brush off his compliment with an eye roll, sitting beside him with two slices of deli pizza in your hand. You offer him one. "I hope you brought drinks."
He nods and pulls two bottles of Dr. Pepper from his bag, handing you one. You two sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, eating your pizza before it gets cold.
Finally, Dean stands, crumpling his napkin up. "I'm gonna go check us in. Do you have your tags?" he asks. When you nod and hand them over, he smiles handsomely. "I'll be back, sweetheart." he says before be leaves.
He smiles to himself, a tiny one, as he hears you scoff behind his back.
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20 minutes.
20 minutes have passed since Dean went to check you two in. You've never been to an airport before, but you're pretty sure it doesn't take that long.
Maybe there's a line, you think as you stand, grabbing your carry on bag. You head in the direction that you saw him walk in.
You get to the front desk of your terminal, looking around for a familiar head of blonde hair. You spot him standing by the wall, head tilted down as he talks to someone.
Someone who happens to be a girl. A pretty one.
She smiles up at him, eyes shining with the look of someone currently falling into Dean's charms.
You feel your heart clench, a pit forming in your stomach. The feeling is odd, considering he technically isn't your boyfriend, but you can't ignore it.
You walk over to the pair, watching as the girl's eyes flick to you. Dean follows her gaze, and his eyes widen.
You wrap your arm around his waist, smiling up at him. "Who's this? New friend?" you ask casually, looking over at the girl.
She smiles awkwardly, glaring at Dean. She makes a random excuse about being late and slips away.
Dean looks down at you, brow furrowed. "Wow. That was cold, baby." he says, trying to be teasing.
You pull away, turning to the desk. "Don't call me that."
His smile fades and he follows you. "I'm sorry. She started talking to me, asked me for my Snap-"
You turn on him. "And you just can't help yourself, Dean. Don't worry, I expected nothing else." you snap at him.
His eyes, so big and blue, widen even more. He pouts a bit at your tone. "I'm sorry. Really."
You sigh at his words, rubbing your hand over your face. "It's fine. I don't care. Just... don't do that when we land, okay?"
He nods, expression brightening. He reaches for your hand, tugging you towards the front desk. "C'mon, we'll be late for boarding. Wisconsin here we come!"
You laugh quietly at his antics, your bruised ego already healing.
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Three hours on a plane and two hours in the car later, you're pulling up to your parents' house. It's seven in the evening, already dark outside.
Dean helps you with your bags, carrying both of your large duffels. You laugh when he nearly trips on a rock in the dark. "Idiot."
He limps dramatically up the steps of the patio, pouting at your words. You join him, watching as he examines his shoe in the dim porch light.
"You do realize that shoes aren't meant to be sterile, right? It's okay if you got some mud on them." you tease, ringing the doorbell.
He looks up, grinning. "Hey, sue me for wanting to look good for your folks. Do you want me to impress them or not?" he asks, leaning in.
Your noses brush, smiles on both of your faces. You're seconds away from making the biggest mistake of your life and closing the distance.
The front door opens, your mom catching you two in the middle of... whatever the hell this is.
Both of you turn suddenly to face her, eyes wide, breath coming in short pants.
She smiles, looking between you both. "Wow. Hello, come in! It's cold out here."
Once you're inside, the warmth of your childhood home warming your bones, you breathe out a sigh of relief. Despite all of the shitty sister drama, you love your family.
Dean walks in behind you, carefully nudging his shoes off in the foyer. He smiles at your mom. "Where can I set these down?" he asks politely.
She waves her hand wildly. "Oh, anywhere. Luke will take them up to you two's room. Wait, are you two sharing a room? One of you can use Victoria's room." she rambles excitedly.
"It's fine, mom. We'll share." you say, not too keen on your fake boyfriend sleeping in your sister's old bedroom. Dean smirks at you and you flip him off behind your mom's back.
Dean sets the bags down beside the doorway to the living room. As soon as he straightens back up, your mom crushes him into a hug. He stumbles a big, his arms wrapping around her noticeably smaller frame.
You smile at the sight. It's sweet, almost makes you wish this were real. No, that's a terrible thought. Dangerous, even. Dean doesn't do relationships. Hell, he hardly repeats hook ups.
You're snapped out of your overthinking when your mom turns her affections onto you. After more hugs, she sets you guys at the table while she whips up some chicken noodle soup.
The backyard door slides open as your dad comes in. He smiles at the sight of his youngest girl, ruffling your hair affectionately. "Hey bug. How was the trip?" he asks.
"Good. Dad, this is Dean. The guy I told you about? He's my... boyfriend." you say, standing as you introduce the two.
Dean also stands, offering your dad his hand to shake. "Hello, sir. It's nice to meet you." he says politely.
Your dad shakes his hand, smiling kindly. The crows feet in the corners of his eyes wrinkle with the movement. "Call me Luke, please. Sir makes me feel as old as I am." he jokes.
Dean laughs, looking over at you fondly. He clearly loves your parents, and they love him already.
Your mom sets two steaming bowls of soup on the table, smiling at you two. "Eat. You two need to sleep, I know you're exhausted."
You nod, sitting back down. Your parents sit down at the other two spots as you both eat gratefully.
Dean catches your eye across the table. You feel electricity rush through you at his heavy gaze.
How are you supposed to spend two weeks with him without falling for his charm?
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Dean stands in your small bathroom, toweling his hair dry after his shower. He pulls on a pair of pajama pants over his briefs.
He exits the bathroom, walking down the short hallway to your bedroom. When he opens the door, you're sitting on the bed in a random t-shirt and sleep shorts. You look up from your phone, gaze zeroing in on his shirtless chest.
He tosses his dirty clothes into your hamper, crawling into the bed beside you. He looks over just as you throw a shirt at him. He peels it off of his face, looking at the fabric, then at you. "The hell?"
You scowl at him. "You're half naked! In my bed!"
He scoffs, looking down at his body. "So? I'm sleeping, not going to town or something. It's fine."
You shake your head, pointing at the shirt. "On. Or you're on the floor. I'm being gracious enough as it is." you command.
He huffs, shaking his head. "You really are bossy." he mutters, pulling his shirt on. He lays down, adjusting your pillow.
You lay down as well, turning your lamp out. The room is blanketed in darkness, the only source of light being the moon through your gauze curtains.
Dean turns to face you. Your back is to him. He hesitantly scoots closer, watching your body for any cues. He doesn't want to make you uncomfortable.
When you don't stiffen, he scoots the tiniest bit closer, his hand finding your hip.
"What are you dong, Dean?" you ask, looking over your shoulder.
He smiles softly and leans up to kiss you. When you don't pull away, he deepens the kiss, his tongue running over your bottom lip.
You moan softly, your hands carding through his hair gently. Your hips tilt up into his touch, craving his affections.
He laughs lowly, pulling away a bit. "You're so fucking beautiful." he murmurs, kissing your jaw, then your neck.
You inhale sharply when he tugs at your shirt, looking up at you from beneath his lashes. Pretty, you think.
At your nod, he tugs the pesky garment up, over your head. His mouth dries out at the sight of your breasts. He leans down, his lips kissing the swell of one.
When you shudder, his lips quickly wrap around your nipple, his tongue laving expertly over the taut bud. He quickly moves to the other one, sucking greedily, soaking in all of your noises. His free hand, the one not currently kneading the fat of your hip, drifts down to his pajama pants, palming his erection.
Finally, he kisses down your body, grinning when you shiver at the pecks.
His lips finally stop at the edge of your panties. He laughs, looking down at the yellow fabric decorated with bananas. He grins devilishly at you. "Cute." he teases.
At your scowl, he laughs again, lowering his head. He kisses your clothed mound, listening to the way your breathing picks up. Perfect.
He places a few more kisses before shifting to take them off. "As much as I would love to tease you for hours, I've dying to taste this pretty pussy since I met you." he murmurs hotly, spreading your thighs. "There she is... so pretty. Look at how she's leaking for me." he says, groaning.
His thumbs spread your labia, his mouth watering at the sight before him. He lowers his mouth and licks you once, teasing.
You moan, looking down at him. "Fuck, Dean. Please." you whimper, panting. When he doesn't lower his head, you grip his hair roughly, nothing like your gentle touches earlier. You shove his head down, between your thighs.
He whimpers, his fingers tightening on your thighs as his lips are pressed to your cunt. He sucks immediately, craving every ounce of your fluids.
His hips rock as he grinds his cock against your mattress, trying to relieve the ache.
Your back arches as you feel his tongue wiggling near your clit. You sit up on your elbows, looking down at him. "Dean, I'm going to cum." you warn.
He looks up briefly, his mouth smeared with your slick. "Yeah? That's sort of the point, baby." he teases, spitting onto your folds before diving in again.
You groan, your head falling back onto your pillows. You pull a plushie, reminiscent of your childhood, over your face as you moan.
Finally, you cum, whimpering his name as he sucks hard.
He leans back up, crawling over your body. His lips, jaw, and cheeks are covered in your cum. He lowers his head, kissing you, smearing it all over your own lips. You don't even care, surprisingly.
When he starts to take his pants off, you place a hand on his chest. "I... I don't know if I want to do... that." you say, embarrassed.
He blinks, nodding immediately. "Of course, baby. Let's just cuddle?" he asks, handing you your discarded shirt.
You accept it gratefully, pulling it on over your chest. "I'm sorry. I don't want to blue ball you... I just haven't done that in a while." you admit.
He smiles softly, wiping his face. "Don't worry. When you're ready, I'm gonna fuck you so good." he promises.
At your laugh, he laughs as well. You both lay down, kissing softly. He lays on his back, watching you doze. He looks down at the tent in his pants, then back at you.
"Hey?" he says softly, breaking the comfortable silence.
"Yes Dean?" you murmur.
"Can I jerk off?"
Your answering kick makes him laugh as he sits up, heading to the bathroom to take care of himself
⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰
You wake up the next morning, pleasantly sore. You look over at the bed beside you, half expecting to see Dean gone. Fuck and chuck.
Except there he is, snoring with his mouth half open, his face buried into your teddy bear.
Much like you were doing last night while he ate you out. You blush at the memory, remembering how good it felt. It isn't surprising, given the amount of practice he's had.
You smile at him softly before elbowing him in the ribs. When he sputters awake, you sit up. "We have to help my parents prepare for dinner tonight. They always go overboard for Christmas."
Dean glares up at you, wiping drool from his chin. "You couldn't have, I don't know, shaken me awake? Maybe kissed me or something?"
You snort. "I'm your girlfriend, not your mommy." you say, standing.
When his eyes track down, you realize that you never actually put your underwear back on last night. You quickly pull your shirt down. "Creep." you mutter.
He laughs, sitting up, watching you waddle to your nightstand. "I literally ate you out last night." he reminds you.
You pull a fresh pair of panties out, along with a maroon sweater and black leggings. As you head to the bathroom, he wolf whistles, winking when you glare at him.
This is going to be a long day.
⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰
Nine hours later, the house is ready for Christmas.
You're wearing a nice dress, red with some lace detail. You have on a pair of low, black heels, your hair curled.
Dean has on a sweater, casual jeans, with loafers. Fucking loafers.
You snort at him as he walks into your room.
He frowns, walking over to you. "What? I look good." he says, his hands framing your hips. He ducks his head to kiss your neck, smiling when you shiver.
You look over at him, eyes tracking his face. "You look... posh." you admit, as close to a compliment as you'll give him.
The smile that he gives you makes it sound like you just compared him to a Leonardo DaVinci painting or something. He kisses you softly. "That means a lot, coming from you." he murmurs against your lips.
You're about to reply when the doorbell rings downstairs. You sigh. "That would be her. The devil on earth."
He straightens, kissing you once more. "We got this, baby."
You smile when he laces his fingers with yours, walking you downstairs.
⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰
"-And I just love vintage and retro china! It's to die for!"
Vintage and retro mean the same fucking thing, you want to tell your sister, watching her gesticulate wildly as she talks about her wedding.
It's all she's been talking about, really. Flowers and dessert and music and all stuff that you would rather stab yourself with a fork than hear.
By the bored look on Dean's face, you can tell that he feels the same.
Your mother interrupts Victoria, smiling gently. "Sweetheart, aren't you going to ask your sister about her new boyfriend? He's a hockey player." she says, winking at Dean. You almost burst out laughing from the way that he blushes.
Victoria's smiles fades a bit. "Mommy, this is my wedding. She's just dating him. Do we actually think he'll be here long? Honestly, no offense sis, but he'll probably be moved on by next Christmas." she says, voice saccharine and innocent.
Your mom laughs like Victoria just told a joke, trying to ease the tension. Mark looks vaguely sick, trying to catch your eye from across the table without Victoria seeing.
You look down at your plate, pushing food around with your fork. You can't cry, because then you'll look like a drama queen.
A warm hand on your thigh brings you out of your head, Dean's voice cutting through the silence.
"Actually, we've been going pretty strong. Who knows, maybe you won't be the only bride-to-be..." he says, smiling firmly at Victoria.
You watch her jaw clench, eyes flashing with annoyance. "Well... that's... great. Anyways, do you guys like my cranberry sauce? It's homemade. I'm trying to practice for when Mark and I host Christmas in our home."
Dean nods, your mother and father nodding as well. It honestly tastes like stale jello, but you don't say anything. Not until Dean does.
"It's great. Where did you steal the recipe from? Hm?"
Victoria's mouth pops open, Mark choking on his wine. Your mom looks between them and Dean, who is staring at Victoria with an icy calm that you only see when he's facing an opponent in the rink.
When he turns to face you, his breath hitches as you lean up kiss him chastely. You whisper in his ear. "Thank you."
He pulls back and smiles warmly. "I've got you. Always."
⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰
After you, your mom, and Victoria clean up, you find yourself sitting at your outside fireplace.
You hear footsteps behind you and turn. "That was amazing-"
You cut yourself off when you see Mark standing there instead of Dean. You frown and stub your cigarette out. "What do you want?"
He sighs and looks down, rubbing the back of his neck. "I wanted to apologize for Vic. She's been... difficult." he says sheepishly.
You laugh humorlessly, shaking your head. "She's being a bitch. She always has been." you say spitefully.
He huffs out a laugh and looks up, walking closer. He looks down at you, brown hair in his eyes like when you were kids and in love. "You look good. Happy." he says softly.
You nod, looking down. "I am. Dean is... amazing." you admit softly.
He nods as well, swallowing. "I miss you. A lot. I miss my best friend."
You look up sharply. "Don't say that. You don't get to miss me. Not when I spent two years chasing you while you fucked my sister and led me on." you snap.
His eyes widen, tears filling them. "I'm so sorry." he says, breath catching. "I-"
A hand landing on his shoulder cuts him off. Dean smiles, not politely, at him. "Hey, man. Are you taking my girl hostage?"
Mark steps back, scowling. "No. I can talk to her. She's my-"
"She isn't your anything. You lost that right years ago." he retorts, slipping an arm around your waist.
You look up at him, watching the way his jaw clenches. "Dean, baby, let's go upstairs, yeah? I'm tired." you murmur.
He looks down at you, the tense lines around his eyes softening. "Yeah? Okay. Let's go." he agrees, taking your hand as you start to lead him away.
Mark's voice cuts through the air, sharp and bitter. "I've fucked her too, you know. You aren't special, man. I'm actually surprised she's waited this long before jumping on the nearest guy."
Dean stops, back stiffening. One second, his hand is in yours, the next he's on top of Mark, punching him over and over again.
You run over to the pair, grabbing Dean by the wrist. "STOP! DEAN!" you yell, tugging.
He doesn't, continuing his wrestling with Mark.
The backyard door slides open, your dad rushing out. Victoria and your mom stand on the porch, yelling.
Luke rips Dean off of Mark, yelling for him to stop. Dean finally lets go, immediately searching for you. His lip is bleeding, a long scratch on his cheek oozing blood as well. He already has a bruise forming on his jaw.
You gently cup his face when he walks over to you. "Dean..." you whisper, still shell shocked.
Victoria storms over to you, grabbing Dean by the arm with her nails. "You crazy motherfucker!" she screeches.
Fuck this. She's done too much shit. You tackle her, slapping and hair pulling. She screams, kicking violently.
Dean lets you beat her ass for another few seconds before he gently lifts you up. "Good job, baby. C'mon, let's go clean up." he murmurs, carrying you inside.
When you get into the upstairs bathroom, he deposits you on the toilet, smiling as you touch your own split lip. "First fight?" he asks, gently holding a damp rag to your mouth. When you nod, he laughs again and presses a kiss between your eyebrows. "You did good." he remarks.
After your lip stops bleeding, you make him switch places, tending to his own wounds. You put some hydrogen peroxide onto a rag, pressing it to his cheek. He hisses in pain.
"Don't be a pussy, Dean." you mutter. He pinches your hip lightly in retaliation.
Finally, you look at him. He looks up at you sheepishly. "Did I fuck our holiday up?" he asks.
You smile and shake your head, cupping his face in both of your hands. "Nobody has ever fought like that for me." you admit, your thumbs gently rubbing circles against his skin.
He turns his head to kiss your palm, eyes closing. When he opens them, they're filled with tears.
Your breath catches as he presses his face into your belly. "Oh... Dean..." you murmur, fingers carding through his hair.
He shudders, his hands coming up to grip your hips. He finally looks up just enough to see you. "I... I would fight him a thousand times if it meant protecting you..." he confesses.
You inhale sharply. Then you pull his head away from your shirt. "Let's lay down." you say firmly.
He nods and follows you.
⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰
When he lays you down this time, it isn't desperate or frenzied like the previous night. It's sweet and slow. He kisses you, his hand on your cheek to bring you closer.
His other hand snakes down to your upper thigh, trailing back up under your dress. When his fingers make contact with your soaked panties, he groans lowly.
He pulls back and looks at you intently. "I don't want you to do this out of obligation. I need to know if you actually want this or not." he says.
You nod, leaning up for another kiss.
He gently stops you. "Words, baby. Verbal consent."
You swear you stop breathing. Then you nod again. "Yes, Dean. Yes."
He smiles softly and nods in turn, gently laying you back down.
He takes his time getting you undressed, savoring every inch of your body. He takes his own clothes off too. When you reach for his briefs, he stops you. "Wait a second." he murmurs. "Wanna do something."
He grabs a throw pillow, helping you lift your hips before you props them up with the pillow. Then he kisses you again as his fingers find your soaked cunt, the tips of them just barely tracing your mound.
At your moan of encouragement, two of his fingers gently prod your entrance, slowly sinking in.
You gasp in pleasure, gripping his shoulders hard with your hands. You inhale sharply when this thumb rubs your clit.
He moans softly, fingering you like his life depends on it. "So fucking tight. Is this all for me? What did I do to deserve this?" he says into your ear. "Hm? Don't you know how much I fucking love your pussy?" he asks, fingers going faster now.
When he hears your breathy moans hitching, he knows you're close. His thumb rubs your clit again, fingers speeding up.
When you come, he covers your sounds up with his own mouth, swallowing them into your kiss.
Finally, he pulls his fingers out, immediately shoving them into his mouth. He laughs when you look disgusted. "What? My girl tastes good." he says teasingly.
You sit up, pushing him to lay down on your bed.
He grins up at you. "Oh?"
You nod, climbing on top of him. "Is this... okay?"
He nods feverishly, already moaning. "Yeah, fuck baby. So okay. More than okay."
You nod as well, your hand drifting down to lead his cock to your entrance.
He watches you, biting his lip to stave off his groans. "Have you... done this before?" he asks.
You nod. "Once. Years ago." you admit.
He winces. "You should go slow, baby. Make sure you can take it all-oh fuck!"
His advice is cut off as you take him all in one drop. You gasp in pain and pleasure, mixed in a cocktail of bliss.
He glares at you, panting. "I almost came just then. I hope you know that."
You laugh, already rocking slightly. "You're so easy, Di Laurentis."
He helps you move up and down, slowing you down so you can both enjoy it.
"Feel good?" he asks, making sure you aren't in too much pain. At your nod, he moans.
Finally, you get a good rhythm going. You lean up to kiss him as he thrusts up into your movements.
You gasp in pure pleasure when the tip of his cock kisses your cervix.
At the sudden tightness around him, he groans and spills inside you, which triggers your own orgasm.
He hugs your sweaty body to his own as you both come down from your highs.
Finally, he pulls away, laughing at your fucked out expression. "Shit, sweetie. I really did a number on you." he says, cocky as ever.
You muster the energy to glare up at him, which elicits another laugh as he cleans you up.
Once you're clean, have peed, and are somewhat dressed, he lays beside you. He smiles at you softly.
"You're so pretty." he murmurs, kissing your cheek. "Goodnight, girlfriend." he says before he conks out.
You stare up at the ceiling, humming noncommittally.
You're overthinking again. Except this time it's one thought.
I think I'm in love with Dean Di Laurentis.
Fuck.
⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰
5k words
OML i love how this turned out 😭 as always, let me know your thoughts! There is going to be pt.3 soon, which will probably be a lot of smut:)
also, I have a list of info about me/rules in my pinned post, so check that out if you're interested!
if you want to be in my taglist for pt3, let me know! everyone who was in this taglist will automatically be added into the one for pt3, unless they ask me to remove them.
thank you to all of the people who support this series! love you all!
xo, claire
(ps, i apologize for any grammar or spelling mistakes. i was too lazy to proofread haha).
summary: duke max verstappen is the hottest bachelor on the ton, who wants nothing more than NOT to get married, and you've been forced into a courtship with zak brown and want nothing more than NOT to marry him.
naturally, you decide to marry each other instead. (a fake marriage regency au series!)
wc: 2.9 k
warnings: mentions of alcohol, gambling, period based mysogyny
➤ MASTERLIST
It was hot, almost suffocatingly so, and Max wasn't sure if he could blame it on the Monaco heat or how many people his family had managed to cram into their ballroom. It was a maze of mothers desperate to catch him and fathers eager to say hello, while his actual friends were nowhere to be seen. It was the sort of night Max aimed to avoid, but there was only so much bad manners and forgotten invitations before his reputation was at stake, and as much as he didn't care about it, his family did.
So, he did the next best thing when attending was forced upon him:
He hid.
You see, when Max joined the military, it was not to gain some title or rank - the Verstappens were mighty enough - but to escape his damned house and family, to get on a horse, and to do something with his life.
Afterwards, he would return to his fellow men, continue racing horses, and live a perfectly content life as a single man.
But, unfortunately, he was quite good in the military, and following his brief reprieve home filled with gambling, drinking, and general debauchery, he was gifted the title of Duke.
So, now every damned mother in Monaco wanted him to marry their daughter, and his family was more than happy to drag him along to every ball and outing to get him to settle down, or to host their own. At least, at his own estate, Max knew how to avoid the crowds.
Slipping out into the back garden was easy enough, with a small band playing on the grass, the soft music mixing with the spring breeze. Someone called for him, but he did his best to pretend that he did not hear and headed straight for the hedge maze. It had been a safe haven since his childhood, as few had managed to figure out the path to the little garden that lay in the centre, and few were willing to take the time on a night like tonight to do so.
After all, every unmarried person was too busy trying to find a partner, and every married person was trying to help the unmarried in their life. That left children, who were not allowed at events this late, and the elderly, who did not care to attend events this late. So, if Max's calculations were correct, it would be only him, in his little garden, and if his father demanded to know where he was, he would just say the yard, and he wouldn't be lying.
Only, as Max rounds the final corner to get to his little paradise, he finds that his calculations were not correct, because someone stands in his little garden, staring up at the carved statue some poor gardener had to drag in here years ago. You did not hear his approach, or if you did, you did your best to pretend that you did not hear. From the back of your head, Max cannot match you to anyone he knows, but then again, who knows others by the back of their heads?
Before he can make his leave, or try to stay, you turn, glancing over your shoulder as you startle, frozen in his gaze. You were not anyone he knew from the front of your head, either, and in your silence, he realized how wrong it was for you to be here, alone, and for him to be here with you. The last thing he needed was gossip to spread about your virtue and his role in defiling it. "My apologies, your grace." You say softly, offering a little curtesy. Despite him not knowing you, you obviously knew him.
Then again, every damned woman in this city seemed to.
"What for?" He asks, and watches your head rise in confusion.
"For the intrusion? Of your garden?" Oh, that.
Max sets himself down on the bench with a shrug. "It's a garden, it's meant to be enjoyed. Besides, you actually managed to find your way to the centre, so you have every right to be here."
"I take it not many do?" Oh, it was an unfortunately long list, the amount of people who got lost in this hedge maze. Staggering, really.
"No, no, not many do." He lets himself examine you, eyes slowly dragging over your figure, to try and determine who you are. "I don't believe we've met."
"No, your grace." Polite, for starters. But then again, most people use his title when they try to suck up to him. "I'm from the Southern Alps."
"Southern Alps?" He questions before he can help himself. "You're a far way from home."
You were likely sent here to find a match, maybe drag yourself into a house of somewhat higher standing. You were dressed the part, though not to the same standard as some. Your dress was a season or two old, a drab sort of purple colour that did absolutely nothing for you. His eyes finally return to your face, and you take his outburst in stride with a soft smile. "I'm being hosted for the season by my uncle, and Sir Zak Brown."
"You must be a Brown, then." Zak didn't really talk about family, but then again, Max couldn't really stand the man. No wonder he didn't know you, and no wonder you'd never been introduced.
"Ah, no." You state somewhat awkwardly, looking at him as if desperate for him to understand something unsaid.
You were hosted by Zak, but you weren't a familial relation? Then, something strange clicks into his mind. Zak is a bachelor this season, and as an American, a man of new wealth, he held no power besides his money. Marrying someone young from a somewhat statused family would help in that regard, and he cannot help the horror that dawns over his face. "You are-Surely not!"
"I'm afraid so." You let slip, before clenching your fists and letting out a soft sigh. "That was impolite of me. I am very lucky for Sir Brown's support for my family."
"Lucky? He's old enough to be your father. Grandfather, maybe." It's a disgusting thought, the two of you together. "How much is he paying for you?"
It's an improper thing to ask, but it's the truth. Zak was paying for a nice, young bride, and you were suffering the consequences. You chew on your lip for a moment, as if considering telling him the actual number, before you steel yourself again. "Enough." Max leans back slowly, hoping that by seeming uninterested, he could learn more. After a beat, you look to the sky and let out a soft breath. "Considerably less than what he charges for some of his steeds, or so I've heard."
"Sounds like him," Max answers with a snort. You might as well be another horse for the man. "So you are betrothed?"
"No." Oh. That Zak could be patient surprised him. "Sir Brown wants to do things traditionally, for me."
"How kind." Max deadpans. "And what about you?"
"What about me?" This cannot be your first choice.
Zak is no one's first choice. "What do you want?"
"A good match, who can provide for me and my family. I could not ask for more." Oh, so they trained you.
Max rises from his bench, and you startle again, and he wonders if that was a common thing with you. You stare up at him, and Max is struck by the thought that you were so utterly plain. Not in any bad way, but he was so used to the splendour and chaos of high society that you, haloed by moonlight and in a dress that probably cost less than one of his nice ties, were a new thing to behold. "That's a lie."
"It's a truth." Well, you got him there.
"And if money were not a concern? Or your family?" He watches the thought immediately rise in you, and you turn away as if to force the thought away. "What would you want?"
"If I may speak freely?" Max snorts, wandering over to the statue to look up at it, as you once had.
"If I may speak freely, there is no need for formality. I'd much prefer honesty." People stopped being honest when they wanted something from you, and it seemed like everyone did nowadays.
He turns to look back at you, and finds you still not looking at him, staring down into the dirt. "I would live in a cottage." Admittedly, not where he was expecting this to go. "It would be on the water, surrounded by nature." Your head rises, but your eyes close, as if slipping away into a fantasy you'd had for quite some time. "And I would have a maid, to take care of the cleaning, and a cook, to prepare me food, but that would be it. I would spend my days by the water or reading by a window, and if I got bored I could talk to my maid, or play chess against my cook, and perhaps befriend a dog or a bear or something if I were truly bored."
It was the sort of fantasy he didn't expect from you, or from anyone in this sort of society. They wanted riches and servants and respect, but you wanted a little house on a lake with a dog, or he supposes a bear, and nothing more. Your eyes finally open, turning to look at him, and he finds that he can see right through you. Every emotion, every thought is plain to see.
This is not the life you want, but it's the life you're supposed to. "I think I'd just like to be left alone." You finally settle on, and Max can't help but offer a smile in return.
"You and I are similar, in that regard." God, what he wouldn't give for solitude. "A nice house in the country with a nice farm for my horses." That sparks something in you, a little smile that pulls at your lips. If there was anything Max was known for, it was racing. Where he didn't connect with people, he connected with horses on the racetrack or on the battlefield. The whole reason he was a Duke was because of it, anyway. "I would spend my afternoon at the race tracks, or gambling, or doing whatever I please without a gaggle of mothers and daughters chasing after my hand in marriage. I would drink what I want and say what I want and do what I want. What a shame," He says, flopping back down onto the bench, "That despite status or money, we cannot have what we want."
"I am sure we will find solitudes in our lives." You say, but Max didn't really register it, because a rather cruel thought came to mind.
You both want to be left alone. That would make a good match for a marriage. After all, Max could find a beach house to fulfill your wishes, hell, he could give you his family's, and with you on the coast, he would be left to do what he wants. He could give your family whatever funds they need, and he could fuck with Zak, which really is just a highlight on top of all this. "However," Max says, fully cutting you off as he sits up, "I have a lake house."
"Excuse me?" He looks up at you, and decides that marrying you would be agreeable. You are the only person who hasn't thrown themselves at him, you've made good conversation, you solved his maze, you've been honest. Sure, he made rash decisions, but this one he thinks has merit.
"Our wants in life are to be left alone, yet marriage forbids it. What if we were to marry each other?" Slowly, you turn to look down at him, true befuddlement written across your face.
"Have you gone mad?" You whisper harshly, and Max can only shrug in response.
It's not the first time someone has asked him that, and he's sure not the last. All that being said, there's logic to his plan, and he knows you can see it too. "I always have been."
"You are a duke. I-I am not remotely close to your status," You begin, walking away from him and then back toward him somewhat frantically, as if trying to convince yourself to marry him. Or, perhaps, you're trying to convince yourself not to. "What would people think?"
"My family would be thrilled I found anyone at all, actually." Sure, it's not the status match anyone would expect, but they would think you're lucky and he's stupid, which they already think, so not much would change on his end.
"I could not be a duchess." Max tilts his head to study you and decides you are exactly the type of person who should be a duchess. Not in it for the title and money, but...well, not love, but like, for the right reasons. Well, if getting married to leave each other alone can be considered a 'right' reason.
"You'd only be adopting the title, but I see this as a business agreement. We marry, and live the rest of our lives in peace, separate from each other. We can work out the finer details later." If you wanted children, you could just take a lover, and he'd do the same. Sure, you might have to make occasional appearances, but it was the best future Max had pictured for himself in a while. It was far better than forcing some poor girl to marry him, who might throw themselves at him and get hurt trying, or forsaking his family to keep himself sane. For you, it saved you from Zak, from being a spinster, or whatever life might await back home. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer Zak?"
"Oh, Zak." It seems you had entirely forgotten the man, and Max doesn't blame you. "He would be furious."
"It would be fantastic. And I can assure you, any anger from Zak would come to me, not you."
Slowly, you extend a hand, and Max shakes it, sealing a deal no one could ever expect to be made. "You promise you're being serious?"
"I told you, I prefer being honest." He rises from the bench, dusts off his jacket, and begins to outline the plan to make this believable. "Now, my beloved, we should be getting back to the festivities."
-
You had heard from enough sources how mad Duke Verstappen was, but tonight proves it. This has to be some joke, that he's messing with you, but for some bizarre reason, you believe him. Maybe it's his own proclaimed desire for honesty, or the way you made easy conversation like lifelong friends and not strangers. Either way, you can't contain the thrill the future brings, eyes flickering around the crowd to try to spot him.
He had sent you ahead to avoid any rumours spreading about your time together in the garden, so you're left to make conversation with Zak without meeting his eye, doing everything you can think of to keep off his advances for once. "Perhaps I should get us something to drink?" He says, gesturing towards the tower of champagne flutes, and you're not sure you could stomach the alcohol, or at least keep your evening wth the Duke from spilling out of you.
"Perhaps the punch?" You say instead, trying to feign illness and not excitement. "I feel off, tonight."
"I could tell. I'll be right back." Zak is quick to the table, but in the gap he leaves, the Duke takes his chance to fill, appearing at the balcony doors and immediately drawing attention to himself. He is masterful in his way of dodging people and requests to dance, and you force yourself to look away, not sure if you could stand this ruse. You were a terrible liar, anyway, and your mind fills with whatever the Duke might have planned, and you're stuck with your heart pounding in your chest.
Zak returns with the punch as you peel off your gloves, needing to feel the cold glass in hand to keep you from sinking. However, one of the gloves tumbles to the floor, and the Duke materializes before you, bending down to pick it up, and the whole world stills.
It's not your heart deceiving you either; the whole room genuinely freezes, watching with bated breath as the Duke picks up the glove and gently extends it. "You dropped this." He says in a baritone that would make half the ladies in here swoon, but, dumbfounded, you simply take the glove from him with your best, practiced smile.
"Thank you, your grace." You answer, and the Duke smiles down at you, and then promptly walks out of the ballroom.
The moment he's gone, the room explodes into movement and chatter and, most of all, eyes on you. The Duke was a man who was hard to tie down, who had a reputation for vulgarity and a disregard for social life, so one simple act, of him bending to pick up your glove, and god forbid, smiling?
He might've already proposed. "That was...unlike Max."
Max.
His name was Max. "How so?" You say, pretending like it was news to you. "He was just being polite."
"Exactly." Zak answers, voice tight as he thrusts the punch into your hand. It was a good deal, you think, marrying each other for your own freedom, but if it messed with Zak in the process?
Then you were all the more for it.
a/n: I had some time off this summer and it turned into a full blown regency max series, so I hope y'all enjoy!!
DEAN DI LAURENTIS TEXTS -> ENEMIES WITH BENEFITS TEXTS (with secret feelings?) PT 7
'who dis?: offcampus!dean di laurentis x afab!reader
summary: you and dean really get on each others nerves, yet you're always each other go to fuck buddy, but is that really all? the after math.
warnings: mentions of sex, mentions of getting sick
note: this is the biggest text dump ever you’re welcome. i really hope everyone likes the different people in conversation! i tried to make it interesting. this was slightly rushed so if anything’s corny.. im sorry. I LOVE YOU ALLLL
finalizing a name for this soon, thanks for all your suggestions!! next post will be harry headcanons (ruby if you see this i 💓 you)
summary: you finally realize just how much you like dean back
a/n: im sorry i was gone for so long! ive been focusing on other stuff. thank you guys so much for 300 followers and over 2000 likes on all of my dean writes <3
the next morning, you woke up with dean already on your mind.
it wasn’t even a gradual realization. your eyes had barely opened before yesterday came rushing back in vivid detail, replaying behind your eyelids like your brain had decided it deserved a permanent spot in your memory. the tutoring center. the look on the other student’s face when dean called you his girlfriend. the way dean had looked so smug until you’d accused him of being jealous. then the way his confidence had completely cracked for just a second. you buried your face in your pillow with an annoyed groan, mostly because you already knew how the rest of your day was going to go.
you’d spent years making fun of people who got distracted by crushes. hannah had once nearly failed a quiz because she’d been too busy staring at a guy across the classroom, and you’d laughed at her for almost a week. now you couldn’t even brush your teeth without remembering dean leaning against your tutoring table with that irritatingly confident smile. every little thing seemed to remind you of him, and it was beginning to feel less like a coincidence and more like a punishment.
you tried convincing yourself it wasn’t a crush.
it was just surprise.
dean had been unexpectedly nice to you. that was all. anybody would’ve been caught off guard by someone like him paying attention to them. anybody would’ve thought about it afterward. that didn’t automatically mean you liked him. it definitely didn’t mean you liked him enough to spend twenty minutes staring at your closet wondering what to wear in case you accidentally ran into him on campus.
you froze halfway through pulling a sweater over your head.
“…oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
the words slipped out into your empty bedroom before you could stop them. you stood there for another few seconds, sweater tangled around your arms, while the realization slowly settled over you. you weren’t choosing an outfit because you wanted to feel confident today. you were choosing one because somewhere in the back of your mind, there was a tiny, hopeful voice wondering if dean would see you.
that was horrifying.
by the time you met hannah for lunch, you’d spent nearly three hours arguing with yourself and had accomplished absolutely nothing. she took one look at your face from across the student center and immediately smiled into her coffee. you hadn’t even sat down before she shook her head knowingly, and somehow that irritated you even more.
“what?” you asked, dropping your backpack onto the floor.
“nothing.”
“you’re smiling.”
“i am.”
“stop it.”
“honey, i haven’t even said anything yet.”
“exactly. you’re thinking something.”
hannah laughed, taking another sip of her drink before setting it down. “i just think it’s funny.”
“what is?”
“you’ve spent weeks insisting dean doesn’t actually like you.”
you frowned.
“and?”
“and now you’re the one who looks completely distracted.”
you looked down at the table, absentmindedly peeling the wrapper off your straw. “i’m not distracted.”
“you’ve been stirring an empty coffee for the last thirty seconds.”
your eyes dropped to the cup in your hands.
she was right.
there wasn’t any coffee left.
“…that’s irrelevant.”
“it’s incredibly relevant.”
you sighed dramatically and leaned back in your chair. “i don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“i do.”
“hannah.”
“you like him.”
three simple words.
they landed in the middle of your chest like a brick.
your immediate instinct was to deny it. the word no sat on the tip of your tongue, ready to come flying out without a second thought. except… it didn’t. somehow, for the first time since dean had started talking to you, you couldn’t make yourself say it.
because it would’ve been a lie.
you did like him.
you liked the way he always noticed when you were uncomfortable before anyone else did. you liked that he actually listened when you talked instead of waiting for his turn to speak. you liked that he’d remembered tiny details from conversations you’d forgotten having. you liked that he’d tracked you down when you kept avoiding him instead of deciding you weren’t worth the effort. most of all, you liked the look on his face yesterday when another guy had been flirting with you. dean hadn’t looked possessive in an arrogant way. he’d looked genuinely bothered, and for some reason, that mattered more than it probably should have.
“honey?”
you blinked.
“hmm?”
“you’ve been staring at the wall.”
your cheeks warmed.
“sorry.”
hannah’s smile softened. “you’re thinking about him.”
“…maybe.”
“that’s the closest thing to a confession i’ve ever gotten from you.”
you laughed quietly, rubbing your forehead with one hand. “i think i’m in trouble.”
“why?”
“because i really, really like him.”
saying it out loud made it feel real.
you’d admitted crushes before. middle school crushes. celebrity crushes. the occasional guy from class who you’d think was cute for two weeks before completely forgetting about him. this wasn’t like that. dean had somehow worked his way into your thoughts without you noticing. somewhere between the party and yesterday afternoon, he’d stopped being the cocky hockey player everyone talked about and become… dean. the guy who teased you for color-coding your notes but secretly thought it was adorable. the guy who’d spent half an hour sitting on a dusty library floor just because you were there. the guy who smiled differently when it was just the two of you.
“honey.”
“what?”
“you’re smiling.”
your eyebrows pulled together.
“i am?”
“honey, you’re practically glowing.”
you immediately covered your face with both hands.
“don’t say that.”
“why not?”
“because it makes me sound ridiculous.”
“you are ridiculous.”
you peeked at her through your fingers.
“thanks.”
“you’re welcome.”
she reached across the table and gently pulled your hands away from your face. “can i ask you something?”
“i guess.”
“if dean walked in here right now and asked you out, what would you say?”
you opened your mouth.
closed it.
thought about pretending to be unsure.
then sighed.
“…yes.”
hannah grinned so widely it was almost concerning.
“i knew it.”
“please don’t be smug.”
“i’ve earned the right.”
“you really haven’t.”
before she could answer, your phone buzzed against the table.
both of you looked down.
your stomach immediately flipped.
dean.
just seeing his name on the screen made your heart race in a way that honestly felt unfair. you hadn’t saved his contact with a heart or some embarrassing nickname. it was simply “dean,” yet somehow those four letters managed to make your pulse stumble anyway.
hannah noticed the change in your expression immediately.
“is it him?”
you nodded once.
she practically bounced in her seat
“open it.”
you hesitated for a second before unlocking your phone.
dean: are you avoiding me today, or do i actually get to see you?
your lips twitched before you could stop them.
“honey.”
“don’t.”
“you’re smiling again.”
you rolled your eyes, though there wasn’t much conviction behind it. your thumbs hovered over the keyboard while your brain worked overtime. every response suddenly sounded stupid. too eager. too cold. too obvious. after nearly a full minute of overthinking, you finally typed out the simplest thing you could think of.
you: i’m not avoiding you.
the three little typing dots appeared almost immediately.
then disappeared.
then came back.
finally, another message popped onto your screen.
dean: good. because i was planning on finding you anyway.
you stared at the text for several long seconds.
your heart felt impossibly light
“hannah.”
she leaned across the table.
“what’d he say?”
instead of answering, you simply slid your phone across the table toward her.
she read the message once.
then again.
then looked up at you with the most satisfied expression you’d ever seen.
“he likes you just as much as you like him.”
you bit down on the inside of your cheek, trying and failing to hide the smile spreading across your face. for the first time since this whole ridiculous situation had started, you stopped trying to convince yourself it wasn’t happening. you liked dean di laurentis. a lot more than you probably should have. and judging by the text sitting on your screen, he wasn’t planning on letting you disappear anytime soon.
for reasons you still couldn’t explain, that thought didn’t scare you anymore.
series masterlist . previous chapter. next chapter
Lesson 18
Summary: Problem #1: Harry’s proposal came when you least expected it. Problem #2: Your answer definitely wasn’t what he expected either. Solution: still under negotiation.
Warnings and WC: 13.8k ⚠️ 18+ SMUT/EXPLICIT CONTENT/ MDNI kissing, morning sex, oral sex -f- receiving, pregnant & soft & possessive sex, pregnancy, dirty talk, praise kink, fingering, multiple positions, mutual orgasm, Harry goes down on Reader while she’s on a work call, soft smut, aggressive oral fixation, cum eating, body worshipping, teasing, heavy sexual tension, established relationship, exes to lovers, nipple play, creampie, high-risk pregnancy mention, overprotective daddy-to-be!Harry, possessive romance, billionaire romance, rich people problems, upper east side drama, John is back, elite Manhattan society, jealousy, corporate politics, healing journey, family dynamics, emotional vulnerability, domestic fluff, romantic tension, Pedro Pascal mention, Ron is a Pedro Pascal fan apparently, banter, humor, old money aesthetics, love vs logic, soft Harry hours, overprotective husband energy, emotionally repressed man in love, rom-com vibes. OC Characters (Ron=Harry’s assistant, Emily=Reader's bestie, Chloe=Reader's elite friend, Mikey=Readers brother Scarlet&Richard=Reader's parents, Yuliana=Reader's maid, Vivienne=Harry's mother, Sienna=Harry's sister, Dana=Reader's EA (Executive Assistant), Eloise=Harry’s Grandmother.)
authors note: Sorry for the delay babies… My eyes were absolutely killing me for the past few days, but they’re finally doing a little better now. I really hope you enjoy this chapter. And please forgive any mistakes — I literally wrote parts of this wearing sunglasses because staring at the screen was hurting my eyes too much, lol🕶️ love you all💋
• The Song: Say Yes to Heaven by Lana Del Rey
Love Is Never Logical
Tribeca.
Monday - 8:32 a.m.
“Marry me,” Harry murmured against your lips.
Sleep still clung to you in soft fragments, your mind slow to catch up as warmth pressed around you from every side. For a second, all you registered was him.
Your lashes fluttered open slowly and there he was, leaning over you beneath the pale morning light spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his bedroom. His hair was slightly messy from sleep, dark curls falling carelessly onto his forehead, his jaw still rough with the beginnings of stubble. Bare. Warm. One arm braced beside your head while the other stayed wrapped around your waist beneath the sheets, like even in sleep he hadn’t risked letting you drift too far away.
His mouth brushed yours again, warm and slow, carrying traces of whiskey from last night mixed with his cologne and yours still lingering faintly on his skin. Beneath it all was the unmistakable scent of sex still clinging to both of you — slept-in sheets, bare skin, sweat, tangled limbs, and hours spent wrapped around each other instead of sleeping.
Your breath caught softly against his lips, somewhere between a laugh and disbelief.
“Mm… good morning to you too, handsome,” you murmured sleepily, stretching slightly beneath him.
Harry’s eyes softened instantly at the sound of your voice. “Marry me,” he repeated, lower this time, his lips leaving yours to press slow kisses along your jaw and down the side of your neck.
You let out a quiet breath at the sensation, fingers sliding lazily into his hair. “You’re very persistent this morning, Mr. Castillo.”
“Consistent,” he corrected smugly against your skin.
His mouth drifted lower, brushing over your collarbone now, lingering there just long enough to make your breathing deepen. You felt his smile against your skin when a small sigh escaped you.
You laughed softly under your breath. “Consistently trying to manipulate me while I’m half asleep, apparently.”
Harry hummed thoughtfully. “Worth trying.” His hand slid slowly along your bare thigh, his warm palm smoothing over soft skin as he pulled you closer against his naked body beneath the sheets, like there hadn’t been a single moment during the night where he hadn’t needed to touch you somehow. The lingering warmth between your thighs made you shift slightly, still sticky and oversensitive from hours earlier, the feeling clinging to your skin with every small movement beneath the blankets. Sleep still fogged your mind, but the faint reminder of him left against your body made your cheeks warm as you tucked yourself closer into his chest.
“Manipulation before breakfast. Impressive.”
“I prefer strategic persistence.”
Your stomach tightened instantly. “Harry,” you murmured, finally opening your eyes properly now.
Your hand pressed lightly against his chest, trying to push him back enough to look at him, but the moment his hand settled higher against your thigh, your breath caught again.
“Not wearing the ring yet is not the same thing as rejecting you.”
A slow smile pulled at his mouth. “Still sounded suspiciously close to rejection.”
You rolled your eyes lightly, fingers brushing through his curls before your gaze flicked toward the digital clock sitting on the nightstand beside the bed. “You proposed less than ten hours ago.”
“And I’m already prepared to ask again,” he murmured against your jaw. A kiss. “Repeatedly.” Another. “Until you say…” Then another, on the lips. “…yes.”
You laughed softly into the kiss this time, your arms slipping around his neck as you finally gave up trying to resist him entirely, letting yourself melt back into the sheets beneath him.
Eight hours earlier…
The Vestry— 8:17 p.m.
The Vestry had never looked like this before.
The restaurant still breathed with its usual elegance—low golden lighting, dark polished wood, the distant clink of crystal and silver somewhere far from the private section hidden deeper inside—but tonight, everything near your table had been transformed into something quieter. More intimate.
Every surrounding table had been cleared for the evening. Reserved. Untouched.
Deep red peonies bloomed across the room in low arrangements surrounded by candlelight, their petals scattered carefully along the dark floor leading toward the center table like someone had spent hours making sure every detail felt intentional.
And someone had.
Harry stood near the table in a black suit he very clearly had not worn all day. Everything about him looked deliberate tonight.
The sharp lines of the tailored jacket. The crisp black shirt beneath. The silver watch at his wrist. Even his curls had been styled back more carefully than usual, though a few strands had already fallen loose again from how many times he’d dragged his hand through them in the last twenty minutes alone.
Because Harry Castillo— was nervous. Actually nervous.
The small velvet ring box rested in his hand while he stared at it for what was probably the hundredth time tonight.
That ring.
Fresh from Harry Winston after being professionally restored only days ago, the diamond caught the candlelight in violent flashes every time he moved it.
Harry turned the ring slowly between his fingers, quiet for a moment as he imagined it where it belonged.
Back on your hand.
A faint smile pulled at his mouth before he could stop it.
Around him, the staff moved carefully, attentively, adjusting candles, straightening glasses, checking the flowers for what was probably the tenth time tonight. The Vestry had always treated the two of you differently. It was where you first met, where your first dinner turned into something neither of you had managed to walk away from afterward. Everyone here knew that.
And everyone in Manhattan knew Harry Castillo.
Some of the staff had watched your first marriage unfold in real time from these very tables. Some remembered the nights Harry used to come here alone after the divorce, sitting at the same table for hours with a whiskey in front of him he barely touched.
So the second the private reservations came in tonight, whispers had spread through the restaurant almost instantly.
Mr. Castillo is proposing again.
Which explained why every single detail tonight had been handled with almost ridiculous care. The red peonies. The candles. The completely cleared section of the restaurant surrounding your table. Even the musicians near the bar had been quietly instructed to hold At Last until the exact moment you arrived.
A few lingering guests near the main dining area had started noticing the atmosphere, especially the women openly watching Harry with varying levels of envy and emotional investment.
Because unfortunately for everyone involved— he looked devastating tonight.
One of the managers approached carefully.
“Mr. Castillo, the wine pairing has been prepared and the kitchen is ready whenever you are.”
Harry nodded once. “Thanks.”
“The flowers were refreshed twenty minutes ago as requested.”
Another nod.
“And the musicians have your timing.”
“Perfect.”
The manager smiled knowingly before stepping away again.
Harry exhaled slowly and pulled out his phone. Ron picked up almost immediately.
“Well?” Harry asked.
“She just left,” Ron said proudly. “Dana confirmed it herself.”
Harry’s stomach tightened instantly. “She’s on her way?”
“She’s on her way.”
Ron paused. Then—
“You okay?”
Harry looked down at the ring again. “…no.”
“Boss, relax. She’s going to say yes.”
“You sound very confident about that.”
“You’re wearing that suit. At this point saying no would qualify as a felony in at least three states.”
Harry laughed at that, then, before he could answer, one of the servers approached him quickly.
“Mr. Castillo,” he said softly, unable to hide his smile, “Ms. Queen just arrived.”
Everything inside Harry seemed to stop.
Then immediately start all over again twice as hard. His pulse slammed against his ribs. He swallowed. Adjusted his cuff. Straightened his jacket unnecessarily.
The server discreetly disappeared again while Harry reached for one of the untouched glasses of water on the table, taking a slow sip just to give his hands something to do besides shake.
Then— he turned toward the entrance.
And there you were.
The moment you stepped inside, the entire room seemed to narrow around you automatically.
The hostess greeted you softly while another employee carefully took your coat, but your attention had already drifted past them into the restaurant itself.
At first, all you noticed were the empty tables. The flowers. The candlelight. The scattered crimson petals across the floor.
Then your eyes lifted further.
And found him.
Harry stood waiting near the center table, one hand resting loosely near his pocket, the black suit fitting him so perfectly it almost knocked the breath from your lungs entirely.
No. Not almost. It did.
For one suspended second, you genuinely forgot how to breathe.
He looked— more handsome than you remembered. More handsome than your wedding day somehow.
And nervous.
That part hit you hardest.
His smile widened the second your eyes met, something vulnerable flickering behind all that composure so briefly most people would’ve missed it completely.
But you never missed things when it came to him.
Soft jazz drifted through the room around you.
At Last.
Without thinking, you started walking toward him. Drawn. Like your body already knew where it belonged.
Harry didn’t move either.
He just watched you approach him slowly, his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that made the entire room disappear piece by piece until it felt like only the two of you still existed inside it.
You stopped inches away from him. Close enough to feel his warmth. Close enough to smell the faint cedar and amber of his cologne.
Your lips parted slightly, but your thoughts had stopped functioning somewhere halfway across the restaurant.
“Harry…”
Your eyes flicked around the room once more before returning to him helplessly.
Harry smiled crookedly.
God. That smile.
“Welcome, baby.”
His voice gave him away immediately. Harry tilted his head slightly, wetting his lips once before extending one hand toward you.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
You automatically placed your hand in his.
His fingers closed around yours instantly before he lifted your hand and pressed a soft kiss against your knuckles.
And suddenly— you understood.
Really understood.
All of it.
The flowers. The empty room. The music. The way he looked at you.
Your heart climbed straight into your throat. Your eyes burned almost immediately, emotion crashing into you so fast it nearly made you dizzy. A small part of you—the part that still hated losing control, hated surprises, hated not being emotionally prepared—tried to panic for half a second.
But Harry’s thumb brushed slowly over your hand. And the panic disappeared beneath something louder. Something warmer.
Harry took one slow breath. Then another. Like he was steadying himself.
Finally— without letting go of your hand— he lowered himself onto one knee.
Your breath caught completely.
This felt nothing like the first proposal.
That one had been impulsive. Reckless. Like the two of you had collided into something inevitable too fast to stop yourselves from falling into it.
But this— this had been chosen. Thought about. Planned carefully. Earned through every mistake, every heartbreak, every impossible road that somehow led you back to each other anyway. Built carefully piece by piece by someone who knew exactly what this moment meant.
And because you knew him so well, you could see every emotion fighting behind his eyes all at once.
Hope. Fear. Love.
And something unbearably vulnerable underneath all of it.
Harry lifted your hand again, pressing another kiss against your skin before finally speaking.
“My love…”
Your tears spilled instantly at the way he said it.
“I wanted to do this here,” he said softly, glancing briefly around the restaurant. “At the place where I first held your hand. Where we had our very first dinner.” His gaze returned to yours. “It didn’t feel right anywhere else.”
Your lips trembled.
Harry smiled gently when you nodded through your tears.
Then he inhaled deeply and reached into his jacket pocket.
The moment you saw the black velvet box— your heart stopped.
Harry opened it carefully.
And there it was.
The same ring. The same one he had proposed with seven years ago. The same ring you wore for two years. The same ring you placed back into his hand on the courthouse steps the day your marriage ended.
The same ring he had apparently kept through every year apart.
Every what if. Every almost. Every version of losing you.
But now— it somehow looked different.
Not because the diamond had been restored.
Because you had.
Your vision blurred completely.
“Harry you--” you whispered shakily.
“Wait,” he said softly, smiling through his own emotion now. “Please let me ask properly.”
You nodded immediately despite the tears slipping endlessly down your cheeks.
Because suddenly you realized— he had probably spent all night thinking about this moment.
Harry looked at you for a long second before speaking again.
“Do you remember what I said the first time I asked you?”
You didn’t even have to think.
“‘I feel like I found something everyone spends their whole life looking for.’”
Your voice broke halfway through repeating the words.
The memory hit both of you instantly.
Harry smiled softly.
“When we... lost each other…” he admitted quietly, “I thought I lost that too.”
Your face crumpled immediately.
“Harry…”
He shook his head gently before you could stop him.
“But somehow…” His eyes held yours completely now. “Years later, you still chose me again.”
A tear slipped down his cheek this time too.
“You have no idea how lucky that makes me feel.”
Your hand covered your mouth as another sob escaped you.
Harry looked down briefly at the ring before lifting his gaze back to yours one final time. Completely open. Completely in love.
He held the ring toward you carefully.
“Will you marry me again, baby?”
Your hand covered your mouth as another shaky breath left you. Tears blurred your vision so badly you could barely see him anymore.
Harry stayed there in front of you, still holding the ring carefully between his fingers, his eyes locked on yours with so much hope it almost hurt to look at him.
For a second— you couldn’t speak.
Your heart was screaming yes.
God.
Every part of you wanted to say yes. Right now. Immediately.
But another feeling crashed into it just as hard.
Fear.
Not of him. Never him.
Of everything else.
Your lips parted, but no sound came out at first.
Harry’s smile faltered only slightly. Just enough for you to notice.
“Baby…” he said softly after a moment, his voice careful now. “Talk to me.”
You shook your head quickly, tears slipping down your cheeks.
“Harry…” You pressed a hand against your chest helplessly. “This is… this is everything.”
The tension in his face loosened a fraction.
But only a fraction.
“I...” you whispered instantly. “I love you. Harry, I love you so much.”
“Then say yes.”
You let out another uneven breath, looking down briefly as you tried to steady your thoughts enough to speak.
Harry waited.
Silent now.
Watching you carefully.
Still kneeling.
Still holding the ring.
Like he would’ve stayed there all night if that’s what you needed.
And slowly— the hope in his expression began to shift into something quieter.
“…is it the ring?”
You blinked. “What?”
A faint, almost teasing smile pulled weakly at the corner of his mouth despite the hurt still sitting underneath it.
“Did I make a mistake not getting a new one?”
“Harry, no,” you sighed. “Of course not.”
His thumb brushed slowly against your hand.
“Then what is it?” he asked gently.
“Because I don’t want this to happen in the middle of chaos,” you whispered.
Harry’s mouth twitched faintly despite the disappointment still lingering there.
“Baby,” he murmured softly, “our entire relationship has been chaos.”
“Exactly,” you sniffled. “And look how that turned out for us the first time.”
Somewhere behind you, a tray of untouched champagne glasses shifted softly.
The staff had still been waiting. Watching carefully from a respectful distance near the back of the private room, all clearly expecting the moment the ring slipped onto your finger.
A few of the younger servers had started leaning forward slightly, curiosity getting the better of them the longer the two of you stayed there talking quietly instead of celebrating.
The manager immediately shot them a look.
The staff scattered subtly after that, pretending very hard not to be emotionally invested while absolutely being emotionally invested.
You bent down, your hands finding his jaw gently as you pressed a soft kiss against his cheek. Then another against his lips.
Harry closed his eyes briefly at the contact.
“Don’t do that,” you murmured softly against his mouth. “Don’t look so heartbroken.”
A quiet laugh escaped him despite himself, eyes glassy now too.
“How exactly am I supposed to look right now, baby?”
Your chest tightened painfully.
You brushed your thumb gently beneath his eye before kissing him once more.
Then softer—
“Come here,” you whispered softly. “Let’s sit down and eat something while we talk, okay? I’m sttarving.”
A tiny smile pulled at your mouth through the tears.
“Apparently I’m eating for three now.”
That finally made Harry smile properly.
You took his hand carefully, helping him back to his feet.
The second he stood fully again, he pressed his lips together briefly, the faintest pout pulling at the corner of his mouth despite himself.
It was subtle. Small.
But devastatingly obvious to you anyway.
Your chest ached instantly.
“Harry…”
“I’m okay.”
Which unfortunately sounded very much like he was not okay at all.
You let out the smallest laugh through your tears and reached for his hand again before he could retreat further into himself.
“Harry, listen to me.”
He looked up quietly.
“Okay, look…” You glanced around the room helplessly. The candles. The flowers. The music still playing softly somewhere behind you. “This is beautiful.”
Your voice softened immediately.
“No, actually, it’s more than beautiful. I swear, I couldn’t have imagined something this perfect.”
Harry stayed quiet.
You squeezed his hand gently.
“And thank you,” you whispered honestly. “For all of this.”
Some of the tension in his shoulders eased slightly at that.
“But…” You exhaled shakily. “You deserve an explanation.”
Harry’s eyes stayed locked on yours.
“And if I say yes… if we get engaged again…” You shook your head slightly. “I need it to feel right this time.”
A quiet silence settled between you before you continued.
“Our lives are already constantly in front of cameras, Harry. Every relationship headline turns into a business headline too.”
You swallowed softly.
“And now with the company barely stabilizing after the scandal…”
Harry’s jaw tightened slightly.
“The board’s watching every move I make right now,” you continued quietly. “I just became executive chair. Investors are nervous. The press practically lives outside my building.”
You let out a weak breath.
“If we announce another engagement now, it becomes another spectacle. Another distraction. Another thing people use against us.”
“Baby,” Harry said softly, “the company is not more important than us.”
“I know it’s not.” Your voice caught slightly. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
You stepped closer again.
“I’m saying this matters too much for me to let it become part of all that noise.”
That landed.
You saw it immediately in his face.
Not anger. Not frustration.
Just hurt.
Quiet hurt.
“And now we’re having twins,” you whispered shakily. “Everything in my life changed overnight again.”
A weak laugh escaped you through the emotion.
“Which apparently is very on brand for us.”
That finally pulled the faintest breath of amusement from him.
But your eyes filled again almost immediately.
“I just got you back, Harry.” Your fingers tightened around his hand. “And I’m terrified of something ruining this again before we even get the chance to really live it.”
Harry swallowed once before speaking quietly.
“You think marrying me ruins this?”
“No,” you answered instantly, stepping closer again. “God, no.”
Your free hand moved gently against his chest.
“I’m saying this matters too much.”
The honesty in your voice softened something in his expression immediately.
“I’m happy,” you admitted shakily. “Too happy, actually.”
A weak laugh escaped you.
“That’s what scares me.”
Silence settled softly between you again.
Jazz music drifted through the restaurant quietly behind you while candlelight flickered against the empty tables around you.
Harry looked down briefly at the ring still sitting in his hand before lifting his eyes back to yours.
“You’re not saying no,” he said softly.
Your answer came immediately.
“No.”
Relief flickered across his face so fast it almost hurt to look at.
You stepped even closer then, your voice gentler now.
“I want you to ask me again.”
Harry’s brows lifted slightly.
“When all of this settles down a little,” you whispered. “When I can actually breathe long enough to enjoy it properly.”
Your eyes dropped briefly toward the ring.
“Because when I wear that ring again…” Your throat tightened softly. “I don’t want it to feel tied to scandals or headlines or board meetings.”
You looked back up at him.
“I just want it to mean you and me.”
Harry stared at you quietly.
So you smiled through your tears and squeezed his hand again.
“So…” Your voice softened almost shyly now. “Give me a little more time.”
A tiny smile pulled weakly at your mouth.
“Then ask me again.”
Back to now.
Honestly, you still weren’t entirely sure how you had ended up back in his bed after not saying yes the night before.
Not that you regretted it.
Because, in your defense— Harry had looked unfairly good last night.
By the end of dinner, every time he glanced at you with those dark brown eyes and that heartbreakingly soft expression, heat had curled lower and lower in your stomach until simply sitting across from him had started feeling impossible.
And the worst part?
The sad puppy look had somehow made him even more attractive.
Which felt deeply unfair to your hormonal state.
So maybe— maybe that was why, the second you got into the limousine, you had looked over at him and quietly told him how devastatingly handsome he looked tonight.
Harry had blinked at you at first. Surprised.
Then slowly smiled.
And once your hand slid across his thigh beneath the dim lights of the car— everything after that had completely unraveled.
Because Harry had touched you back immediately.
And the second your mouths found each other— logic disappeared.
After that there had only been heat. Need. Hunger.
One kiss turned into another. Then hands. Then desperate grabbing and breathless laughter somewhere between kisses while the driver very professionally pretended not to notice anything happening in the backseat.
By the time you’d stumbled into Harry’s apartment, you were already pulling at the buttons of his shirt impatiently while he kissed down your neck hard enough to make you gasp.
Clothes disappeared somewhere between the hallway and the bedroom.
And sometime later— after being pulled apart and put back together by his hands and mouth more times than you could count— you found yourself completely naked beneath him, his tongue roaming all over your skin, his hips snapping against yours as you both moaned in pleasure over and over. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, along with your cries of his name echoing shamelessly through the penthouse, while Harry whispered against your skin like he planned to spend the rest of his life memorizing every sound you made.
The night blurred beautifully out of focus.
Until eventually—it became morning.
Again.
“Be my wife again,” Harry murmured, trailing kisses down your body, stopping to suck your nipples and dip his tongue into your belly button. He parted your thighs wider as he settled between your legs, his eyes staring intently at your pussy.
“Harry…” you breathed weakly.
His lips brushed the inside of your thigh, his mustache grazing your skin so deliciously.
“I want this every morning. Waking up with you.” Another kiss. “Starting my day exactly like this.”
A shaky breath escaped you.
“You do realize marriage isn’t technically required for that,” you managed, trying and failing to sound unaffected.
Harry lifted his head slightly to look up at you.
His curls were completely ruined now, his jaw rough with stubble, his mouth swollen from kissing you for most of the night.
And somehow— that only made him hotter.
“Is that so?” he asked, licking his thumb. “Then move in.”
His damp thumb grazed your folds, drawing a sharp breath from you.
Your thighs trembled as his thumbs spread your folds, revealing glistening pink flesh, and he didn’t hesitate—he dragged his tongue through your slit in one long, filthy stroke, savoring the tang of your arousal. You gasped, your fingers knotting in his hair as your back arched off the bed.
“Harr—rrgghhh...”
“What was that, baby? Couldn’t hear you,” Harry asked playfully, lifting his head to look up at your face from between your legs.
You pushed his head.
“That’s not fair and you know it.”
“Maybe,” he said huskily, his eyes darkening, “I need to be more convincing.”
Your pulse jumped violently.
Harry’s gaze stayed locked on yours as his fingers slid inside you, curving to caress the front of your mound, increasing the pressure as your loud moans turned into screams.
Suddenly— your phone started ringing loudly against the nightstand.
The pressure of his suction continued as he moved his tongue, trailing it along your lips. You groaned in both frustration and pleasure.
“Oh my God.”
Harry barely reacted.
In fact, if anything, the faint amusement at the corner of his mouth only deepened.
You grabbed your phone quickly and glanced at the screen.
Gerard.
“Harry, wait,” you whispered immediately. “I actually need to answer this.”
Harry hummed against your folds without looking up.
“Answer it.”
Your eyes widened.
“But... ugh... you are unbelievable. Please. Behave,” you warned weakly.
That only earned you a completely unapologetic smirk against your skin.
You swallowed hard before finally answering the call, forcing your voice into something resembling professionalism.
“Good morning,” you said carefully, looking at Harry’s head between your thighs, making your heart jump. “Yes, I’m awake.”
Eventually releasing you from his mouth, you thought he would behave, but instead he raised his hand to part your labia, licking across your slit and pausing to pay special attention to your clit. Another slow hum vibrated against your skin and you nearly lost your train of thought completely.
Your eyes flew shut instantly.
“Oh—”
You caught yourself at the last second, pressing your lips together hard.
On the other end, Gerard continued talking casually, thankfully oblivious.
You glared downward immediately.
Harry looked entirely unbothered.
“Such a good girl,” he murmured softly. “Still talking business while I’m trying to ruin your morning.”
“Yes,” you managed shakily into the phone, Harry’s praise made your head spin, only arousing you even more. “I’ll probably come in a little later today.” A sigh and pause. “Mmhm.”
Your free hand flew over your mouth suddenly as Harry’s arm wrapped around your waist, stilling your hips and holding you in place. He increased the pressure of the hand inside you, rubbing intently against your walls as he sucked harder on your clit.
“Oh,” you breathed out automatically before quickly correcting yourself.
Your eyes flew to Harry, silently mouthing ‘Fuck, oh my fucking God’ at him, lips moving without a sound as you fought to keep your composure. Gerard kept talking about business, and you had no IQ left to understand what he was saying. Thanks to Harry’s amazing mouth and what it was doing to you, your brain was completely gone; all you wanted now was to cum, hard.
“Oh—yes. Perfect. That’s fine.”
The slight stubble on his chin rubbed against your clit when he pushed his tongue inside you deeper. Worse, you felt his nose nestle into the curve of ass next and you bit down hard on your finger immediately to stop the sound threatening to escape.
“I’m listening,” you lied shakily.
Gerard asked if you were okay because you probably sounded like you were in pain.
“Sorry,” you said quickly, pressing your fingers against your forehead as heat flooded your entire face. “Morning brain.”
You felt Harry chuckle against your wet pussy lips.
“Easy, baby,” he hummed. “Breathe. Answer him properly.”
You shot him a warning look instantly.
He only looked entertained.
“Actually,” you said quickly, your voice shaky and thinner now. You felt your orgasm approaching, legs shaking, and there was no way you could stay silent from now on. “We can discuss the board updates after lunch… Yes.” Too fast. You swallowed quickly. “Yes. I just—” your breath caught again before you forced the sentence out, “I need coffee before I can think properly.”
That, at least, sounded believable.
“Perfect,” you whispered desperately. “Thank you.”
The second the call disconnected, you tossed your phone somewhere across the bed before collapsing back against the pillows with a shaky exhale.
Harry barely gave you a second to recover.
“Mm, good girl,” he murmured against your inner thigh, his voice low with satisfaction. “Knew I could make you forget all about that call.”
“Ungh— Harry—”
Your back arched instantly as his tongue slid through your folds again, slow at first, like he was savoring every sound you made for him. The wet sounds of his mouth filled the room alongside your breathless cries, and the realization of how quickly he unraveled you only made you wetter.
One hand slid up your body, squeezing your breast while the other kept you steady against the mattress as he worked you apart with devastating patience. Every flick of his tongue dragged another broken sound from your lips until you were squirming beneath him, thighs trembling around his shoulders.
He held your thighs firmly, completely unbothered by the way you kept squirming against him.
“Stay still for me, baby,” he murmured before diving back into your pussy, twisting his tongue around your tight, wet hole.
You groaned and grinded your hips on his face, riding his tongue. Your fingers tangled in his hair as your hips rolled helplessly against his mouth while he groaned softly like he enjoyed this just as much as you did.
Harry loved taking care of you. Loved watching you fall apart. Loved pulling every trembling sound from your throat until you couldn’t think about anything except him.
For five years, he’d tried to force himself to want someone else. Tried to lose himself in different faces, different touches, different women. But every time, something felt missing—like his body refused to forget you even when his mind begged it to.
Now he finally understood.
It had never been about them. It had always been about your absence.
And now that you were here, beneath his hands and in his arms, everything in him felt terrifyingly, perfectly right.
“Oh my God—”
“That’s it, my queen,” he said smoothly, one hand sliding up your stomach before curling around your breast. “There you go.”
The pressure building inside you snapped tight so fast it almost made you dizzy. You buried your face against the pillow, trying and failing to muffle your moan as your thighs shook around him.
Harry didn’t stop.
He kept licking into you through every tremor, dragging out the aftershocks until you were breathless and oversensitive beneath him.
Only then did he finally pull back.
His lips were swollen, his expression smug, and the sight alone nearly made you groan again.
He leaned down and kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
You melted into it immediately, kissing him back harder, your fingers sliding into his hair.
When he finally pulled away, you stared at him for a second before letting out a disbelieving laugh.
“Harry Castillo,” you breathed, still dazed, “you are an actual menace.”
“Menace?” he repeated softly, raising an eyebrow. “Baby, I was simply being supportive.”
You rolled your hips against his cock, your hand slides between your bodies and covers his erection, squeezing and stroking, your voice dripping with teasing impatience.
“If you really wanna support me, you can start by fucking me with this perfect CEO cock of yours.”
Harry groaned as you both felt his cock twitch inside your palm.
“That’s not CEO cock, baby.”
He pushed your hand aside and grabbed your ass with both hands.
“That’s your future husband’s cock.”
A loud moan escaped you as he slid deep inside you in one smooth thrust.
“Ohhhh!?” you teased softly between moans and breaths. “Sounds like someone’s trying to get a confession out of me under pressure.”
“Baby, this cock got you pregnant with twins.” Harry smirked against your skin. “Don’t you think it deserves to be worshipped?”
Harry chuckled quietly when your response dissolved into another broken moan.
“Use your words, baby. Tell me you love it.”
“I—” you gasped helplessly, nails digging into his shoulders. “Fuck, Harry—I love your cock.”
The sound that left him was somewhere between a groan and a smug laugh.
“Yeah...” he murmured. “I know you do.”
After that, you could barely say anything at all, completely overstimulated by everything he was doing to you. He kissed and bit at your neck, sucking marks into your skin while his hands gripped your hips tightly as he fucked you.
Even then, he forced himself to stay gentle, constantly reminding himself that you were pregnant with his babies now.
His babies.
That thought alone made him shudder, arousal curling even tighter in his stomach, his thrusts growing deeper, more desperate despite his restraint.
His breathing turned ragged against your neck, and you knew he wasn’t going to last much longer either.
You clutched at his shoulders, burning at the feeling of being fucked by him first thing in the morning. Deep down, you realized you wanted to wake up like this every day for the rest of your life.
A soft cry slipped from your lips as he moved inside you, filling you so perfectly it almost hurt.
Your thoughts scattered helplessly—Harry, your twins, everything the two of you had survived together—until pleasure drowned all coherent thought completely.
Your body suddenly shuddered hard beneath him as your orgasm crashed through you fast and overwhelming. You cried out his name over and over, hips bucking against his thrusts as wave after wave of pleasure tore through your exhausted body.
Harry came with you, your walls tightening around him and dragging the orgasm out of him with a rough groan.
Breathless, trembling, he finally collapsed beside you, careful not to put too much weight on you as he pulled you against his chest.
“So,” he murmured, voice rough with amusement and exhaustion, “after all those orgasms…”
He tilted his head just enough to look at you with a smug little smile.
“Any chance you’re finally thinking about marrying me?”
Before you could answer, another shaky breath left your lips, your body still trembling faintly beneath his.
“Hey.”
His entire expression changed as he pushed himself up, one hand cupping your face while the other slid protectively over your stomach.
“Baby, look at me.”
“I’m okay,” you whispered breathlessly, trying to steady your breathing.
His brows stayed furrowed anyway, concern written all over his face.
“You sure?”
You nodded softly, smiling lazily at him.
“Well, this is what happens when you overstimulate your pregnant girlfriend before breakfast.”
Harry exhaled quietly, still not fully convinced.
He brushed your hair away from your damp forehead before pressing a lingering kiss there.
“Come here,” he murmured gently, climbing out of bed first before reaching for your hand.
You blinked up at him.
“Harry—”
“Nope.” His tone turned softly stubborn. “You’re carrying my babies. I’m allowed to worry about you.”
A weak laugh escaped you as he carefully helped you sit up.
“Come on,” he said quietly, keeping one arm securely around your waist once you were standing. “Let’s get you into the shower.”
You stepped out of the shower wrapped in steam and warmth, toweling your hair dry as you wandered back into Harry’s bedroom.
That was when you noticed your clothes scattered across the hallway floor.
Wrinkled. Ruined.
And absolutely impossible to wear to work twice in a row—especially not as the executive chair of a company currently surviving off public image and fragile investor confidence.
You let out a long sigh. “Fantastic.”
After staring at the disaster for another second, you finally gave up and crossed toward Harry’s closet instead. Your fingers brushed over rows of dark fabrics before you pulled out one of his black t-shirts and slipped it over your bare skin.
It swallowed you whole.
And somehow smelled exactly like him.
By the time you reached the kitchen, the smell of breakfast had already wrapped around the penthouse. Butter, coffee, maple syrup, something warm and savory all at once.
Your stomach growled instantly, hunger hitting you so hard it almost made you dizzy.
Pregnancy was brutal.
Harry stood by the island pouring orange juice into a glass when he looked up—and immediately froze.
His eyes dragged slowly over you in his shirt. A slow grin spread across his face. “Well,” he murmured approvingly, “that looks dangerously good on you.”
You rolled your eyes automatically, but heat still crept up your neck.
Mostly because you knew exactly why he looked so pleased.
Harry loved seeing you like this.
Barefoot in his kitchen. Wearing his clothes. Looking like you belonged there.
Like old times.
Like the first few months after your engagement, when you used to steal his shirts and he’d act personally victimized every single time you tried giving them back.
You slid into one of the chairs at the island before finally looking down at the table properly—
—and blinked.
“Harry.”
The table was covered.
Fluffy scrambled eggs with herbs. Pancakes stacked high with fresh berries. Buttered toast. Avocado slices. Greek yogurt bowls. Fruit. Fresh juice. Coffee. Tea.
And sitting beside Harry’s plate was a folded piece of paper absolutely covered in notes.
Your brows lifted slowly. “…is that my pregnancy diet list?”
Harry glanced down casually. “Doctor’s recommendations,” he corrected while checking something off with complete seriousness. “Very different.”
You stared at him in disbelief. “You made all of this?”
“Yeah,” he said simply.
You looked over the table again before narrowing your eyes slightly. “No bacon?” you mumbled in disappointment.
Harry sat beside you, already reaching for the paper again. “No,” he said firmly after rereading a line. “Too risky.”
“But the doctor said I can eat it if it’s cooked properly.”
“Mm.” He didn’t even look guilty. “We’re still choosing the zero-risk option.”
You pouted immediately. “But I want bacon.”
Without missing a beat, Harry cut off a piece of omelet with his fork and held it toward your mouth instead. “But look at this,” he coaxed smoothly. “Way better. C’mon, open up.”
You stared at him. “…are you seriously airplane-feeding me right now?”
“Yes.”
The confidence in his answer made you snort softly.
Not wanting to hurt his feelings after all this effort, you finally sighed dramatically and opened your mouth. “…fine.”
Harry looked unbearably satisfied as he fed you the bite.
And annoyingly enough? It was delicious.
Every single thing on the table was.
You watched in disbelief as he kept trying to pile more food onto your plate afterward, stopping you from reaching for the jam just to hand it to you himself a second later.
It was ridiculous. Completely over the top. And if you were being honest, the intensity of his care was starting to overwhelm you a little.
Still…
After everything that had happened, maybe it made sense.
Maybe this was temporary.
Maybe in a few days Harry would calm down.
…right?
After finishing your plate, you glanced toward the clock and sighed.
“Harry, I need to go home.”
You wiped your mouth carefully before standing.
“I don’t have anything to wear here, and I still need to get my hair done.”
Harry stood immediately after you, catching your waist before you could fully walk away.
“Well…” he started carefully.
You narrowed your eyes instantly.
“Wait—did you handle that too? What’s next? You bought me a dress? Scheduled my glam team?”
Harry smiled faintly.
But the look in his eyes stayed strangely serious.
“Come here. There’s something I wanna show you.”
Curiosity flickered through you as he guided you through the quieter side of the penthouse until he stopped in front of a closed door you’d never paid much attention to before.
Harry rested his hand on the handle but didn’t open it immediately.
Instead, he looked at you. “If you’d said yes to me last night…” He exhaled slowly, tried again. “You would’ve woken up this morning as my fiancée.”
You raised your eyebrows. Harry swallowed once before continuing. “And this would’ve been your present.”
Then finally, he opened the door.
You stopped completely.
Because the room—
God.
The room was unmistakably yours.
Soft cream tones mixed with dark wood accents. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Warm lighting. A marble vanity already covered with your skincare products arranged exactly the way you liked them. A closet section filled with clothes in your exact style.
Not random designer pieces.
You.
Elegant silhouettes. Cashmere sets. Soft silk dresses. Structured coats. Evening gowns in shades you always gravitated toward. Casual pieces for mornings at home. Sleek heels lined beneath custom shelves. Jewelry trays. Satin robes.
Even your favorite perfume sat beside the mirror.
And tucked farther inside—
Your favorite candle from Paris. The one you thought had sold out years ago.
Your chest tightened painfully.
Because this wasn’t some extravagant billionaire gesture.
It was personal.
It looked painfully similar to the dressing room in your old house together—the one where you used to start your mornings and end your nights while Harry sat nearby pretending not to watch you get ready.
This version was smaller yet warmer.
More intimate.
A soft place carved into the middle of his minimalist penthouse solely for you.
Like the space you still occupied in his heart.
Your fingers drifted slowly across the vanity before your gaze caught something else.
Your initials.
Pressed subtly into the leather jewelry case near the mirror.
You blinked once. Then again.
“…you built me a dressing room?”
“I figured if life’s finally decided to give us something back instead of taking from us…” He said. “You probably missed your dressing room too.”
Then leaned casually against the doorway, watching you instead of the room itself.
“Well? Do you like it?”
Your vision blurred before you even realized tears had filled your eyes.
One slipped down your cheek, making you laugh softly in disbelief as you turned toward him.
“Harry…” Your voice cracked slightly. “I love it.”
You looked around again, overwhelmed by how perfectly everything reflected you.
“There are things here I would’ve picked myself,” you whispered. “You remembered everything.”
Harry’s mouth twitched slightly.
“I may have asked Mikey to send me photos of your room.”
You turned toward him immediately.
“You what?”
“In my defense,” Harry said calmly, “your brother took the assignment very seriously.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
“That idiot.”
Harry actually looked mildly traumatized for a second.
“He sent me a lot of voice notes,” he admitted carefully.
Your smile widened instantly.
“Of course he did.”
“I know more about your preferred closet lighting than any man ever should.”
“Ugh, Mikey talks too much. And when it comes to illegally sneaking into my room, apparently he sees it as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
“Mm.” Harry stepped closer slowly. “But he was right about one thing.”
Your breath caught slightly.
“What?”
His gaze moved around the room once before settling back on you, softer now.
“You deserve to have a place that feels like you in this house.”
The words hit somewhere deep in your chest.
Harry reached for your hand gently, lifting it to his lips without breaking eye contact as he pressed a slow kiss against your knuckles. Then his arms slid around your waist, pulling you closer until the front of your body rested against his. One hand moving up to smooth your still-damp hair back from your face, your eyes lifted to his instantly.
It wasn’t even the room.
It was the fact that he remembered.
Remembered the tiny rituals of your old life together. The mornings spent in front of the vanity while he sat nearby drinking coffee. The nights you’d end there together after galas and charity dinners, exhausted and still tangled up in each other.
Harry had remembered all of it.
Your throat tightened painfully.
“Thank you, Harry,” you murmured and kissed him softly. “Really.”
Harry smiled against your lips, his hands settling naturally on your waist.
“You know,” he murmured casually, “if you wanted to call yourself my fiancée after this, I probably wouldn’t stop you.”
“Shut up.”
“That’s not a no.”
You tried to hide your smile.
“Maybe yes.”
“Wait.” Harry tilted his head slightly. “Was that a yes yes?”
You turned away before he could fully see your smile, pretending to inspect the dresses instead.
“Mhmm.”
“Hold on. What kind of mhmm was that?”
You looked back at him innocently.
“Harry. No pressure, remember?”
“Right, right.” He nodded seriously, walking closer. “I’m just saying the option still exists.”
He held up one finger.
“Option A: yes.”
Then another.
“Option B…” His mouth curved slowly. “Also yes.”
You laughed and smacked his shoulder lightly.
“Oh my God, go get dressed already, Castillo. We’re gonna be late for work.”
Castillo Capital…
09:34 a.m.
Harry stepped out of the elevator looking too happy. Not subtle happy either. Actually happy.
The kind that made people immediately suspicious.
Ron looked up from the tablet in his hands the second Harry walked onto the executive floor and nearly dropped the damn thing.
“…good morning, boss,” he said, already grinning.
Harry barely glanced at him as he walked past.
“Morning.”
Ron’s grin widened instantly.
Oh, something definitely happened.
He followed Harry straight into the office.
“I prepared all the reports and presentation files for the meeting,” Ron said, falling into step behind him. “Also—good news from London.”
Harry loosened his scarf slightly as he moved toward his desk.
“The investors liked the revised presentation package. Looks like you won’t need to fly back anytime soon.”
Harry paused halfway through removing his coat.
“…really?”
“Mhm.” Ron watched him carefully. “Apparently John handled it.”
That got Harry’s attention immediately.
He looked over.
“John’s back?”
“He landed this morning.”
Harry leaned briefly against the desk, processing that quietly.
Things with John had changed recently.
Not perfectly.
But better.
Ever since you turned John down and he moved back to London to work as CFO at Castillo Capital’s European headquarters, something between the two men had slowly started repairing itself.
Carefully. Awkwardly.
A few weeks ago, they could barely get through a conversation without tension creeping in somewhere.
Now there were occasional phone calls. Business discussions that didn’t immediately turn hostile.
Tiny improvements.
But for Harry, even that felt like progress.
And handling the London situation without being asked— that meant something.
Harry exhaled quietly. “I’ll call him later.”
Ron nodded once before slowly approaching the desk with very obvious curiosity written all over his face.
Then—
“So…”
Harry looked up already annoyed. “What.”
Ron clasped his hands dramatically. “When exactly are we celebrating?”
Harry blinked once. “…celebrating what?”
Ron stared at him in disbelief. “The engagement?”
Silence.
Harry rubbed a hand across his jaw. “…there is no engagement, Ron.”
Ron froze. Completely.
“I’m sorry,” he said carefully. “I think perhaps I misheard that because it sounded incredibly odd.”
Harry opened his laptop. “She didn’t say yes.”
Ron’s mouth fell open. “YOU GOT REJECTED?”
“I did not get rejected.”
“Harry—”
“She said she needs time.”
Ron paused. Then grimaced slightly. “…that somehow feels emotionally worse.”
Harry leaned back in the chair, exhaling through his nose while rubbing tiredly at his forehead. “It’s not like that.”
Ron’s expression softened a little.
“Well…” he admitted carefully, “to be fair, her entire life exploded in less than a month.”
Harry’s eyes lifted back toward him immediately. “I know. I’m giving her time.” Then his mouth curved slightly. “But I’m changing her mind.”
Ron blinked. “…How?”
“She’s going to say yes eventually.”
Ron leaned against the edge of the desk, folding his arms. “Okay but—respectfully—she already did not say yes. So what exactly changes now?”
Harry smiled faintly. “First of all,” he said calmly, “I’m going to become an extremely good husband candidate.”
Ron stared at him. “…you already are one.”
Harry raised an eyebrow.
“I’m serious. You’re rich, attractive, emotionally obsessed with her which women weirdly love, and somehow still polite. Frankly, if I looked like you I’d be unbearable.”
Harry huffed.
“Thanks, I guess. Well...That’s not-.”
“Every other woman in Manhattan would’ve said yes before you even opened the ring box.”
“She’s not every other woman, Ron.”
“Well, obviously,” he said. “She’s Queen.”
Harry leaned back in his chair again, quieter this time. “I just need to remove the things she’s scared about.”
Ron narrowed his eyes immediately. “And how exactly are you planning to do that?”
A smug look slowly appeared on Harry’s face. “Already started this morning.”
Ron looked concerned instantly. “…should I be worried?”
“I made breakfast,” Harry said simply.
Not even slightly humble about it. “A very good breakfast.”
Ron blinked once. “…okay…”
Harry ignored the reaction entirely.
“I got the full dietary list from her doctor,” he continued casually. “Adjusted the temperature in the penthouse. Replaced half the kitchen. Checked every ingredient expiration date myself.”
Ron stared.
Harry kept going. “Less caffeine. Less stress. More sleep. More water. More iron.” He shrugged once like this was all perfectly normal billionaire behavior. “From now on she gets the most thoughtful version of me possible.”
Silence.
Ron slowly lowered the tablet in his hands. “…boss?”
Harry glanced up.
“That strategy feels…” Ron searched carefully for the right wording. “…a little dangerous for Ms. Queen.”
Harry frowned slightly. “Dangerous?”
“Pressure,” Ron corrected carefully. “Like… emotional pressure.”
Harry immediately looked offended. “I’m not pressuring her.”
Ron gave him a long look. “Would you like me to pull up the dictionary definition of pressure?”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Oh, shut up.”
Ron pointed dramatically.
“See? That right there? That’s the face of a man one scented candle away from becoming somebody’s husband again.”
Harry looked entirely unimpressed. “She likes me because I’m reliable.”
“No,” Ron corrected. “She likes you because you’re emotionally constipated in a very expensive way.”
Harry stared at him. Ron gestured vaguely with the tablet. “If you suddenly become aggressively attentive twenty-four hours a day, she might flee the country.”
Harry rolled his eyes again. “That’s ridiculous.”
Ron studied him for another second. Then— “…you know,” he said cautiously, “I could probably schedule an emergency therapy session for you.”
Harry looked up slowly.
Ron shrugged. “I’m just saying. This is exactly how it starts, by the way. First breakfast. Then matching pajamas. Then suddenly you own decorative hand towels.”
“Get out.”
“I’m leaving. I’m leaving.”
3 days earlier.
Le Bernardin — Private Dining Room
9:21 p.m.
Warm amber lighting reflected softly against crystal glasses and polished silver while the muted sounds of the restaurant drifted faintly through the private room doors.
Harry sat beside you at the curved velvet booth, one arm stretched comfortably along the back of your seat behind you, his fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder absentmindedly whenever he spoke.
Across from you, Ron looked one bite away from a spiritual experience.
He pointed dramatically at his steak with his fork.
“Okay,” he declared after another bite, “this is genuinely the best steak I’ve ever had in my life.”
Dana nudged him immediately beneath the table.
“Ron,” she whispered sharply, “could you maybe try sounding slightly more sophisticated? Our bosses are sitting right there.”
You and Harry exchanged amused looks instantly.
Ron looked deeply offended.
“But, honey…” He gestured vaguely with the knife. “We’re off the clock.”
Dana gave Harry an apologetic smile.
Harry just shrugged calmly.
“He’s right,” he said. “Tonight we’re here as friends.”
Ron grinned triumphantly.
“Mmph—double date,” he mumbled proudly through another bite.
You giggled as Dana immediately kicked him under the table.
“Ow—Jesus Christ.”
Harry rolled his eyes.
“Ah yes,” he drawled dryly. “Double date.”
Then he looked over at you, his gaze immediately softening.
“You should eat a little more, baby.”
You sighed quietly, already knowing exactly where this was going.
“Harry,” you murmured, leaning back slightly against the booth. “I’m full.”
And honestly?
You were.
The fitted black dress you wore tonight wasn’t maternity wear—couldn’t be, not yet. Not when half of Manhattan was still watching Queen Financial like vultures circling a wounded animal. The soft fabric still hid the slight curve of your stomach for now, but after an entire dinner, you could already feel the tightness around your waist becoming uncomfortable.
Harry’s eyes flicked downward instantly anyway, concern already forming on his face.
“You barely ate.”
“I ate plenty.”
“Then at least drink your juice. Vitamin C.”
You narrowed your eyes immediately.
“Yes, because what I really need tonight is a vitamin C overdose.”
Ron leaned back with a grin.
“You two genuinely sound like somebody’s married aunt and uncle.”
Dana laughed softly into her wine.
“No,” Ron corrected immediately. “Actually worse. You sound like a couple that owns matching vitamins.”
“Yeah, well…” You glanced briefly toward Harry before swirling your juice lightly. “I don’t think Manhattan’s emotionally prepared for us to start acting married again.”
A softer pause.
“Especially considering the pregnancy.”
Harry looked like he was about to say something—
—but Dana cut in first.
“You have no idea how many interview requests I declined today,” she muttered while reaching for her wine. “Forbes Women. Vanity Fair. The Financial Times. One podcast literally called you ‘the face of modern feminine capitalism.’”
You buried your face briefly in your hand.
“God.”
Ron looked genuinely impressed.
“…okay wow.”
Dana pointed at him immediately.
“One magazine referred to her as ‘the unattainable queen of Wall Street.’”
Ron blinked.
“…okay wait, that one’s actually kinda cool.”
You sighed dramatically.
“Until they find out I’m pregnant with twins from my ex-husband.”
Harry’s thumb brushed quietly against your knee beneath the table.
“Well,” he murmured smoothly, “technically I could solve the ex-husband part.”
You looked over at him instantly.
“We still need to stabilize the company first,” you said more quietly, taking another sip of your juice. “And considering this whole ‘powerful independent woman’ image is apparently helping the company and the market right now… maybe the word marriage shouldn’t be floating around Manhattan just yet.”
Harry’s expression barely changed.
But something calmer settled into his eyes.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, reaching for your hand beneath the table before lifting it slowly to his mouth, “you’re not staying away from me because of a few investors and gossip columns.”
His lips brushed gently against your knuckles.
“We’ll survive all of it together. Like we always do.”
The heat that rushed to your face was immediate.
Across the table, Ron sighed dramatically.
“See?” he muttered. “Marriage is beautiful. Love is real. I support this completely.”
Dana turned toward him slowly.
“Oh?” she asked pleasantly.
Ron immediately sensed danger.
Dana tilted her head slightly.
“I didn’t realize your thoughts on marriage had suddenly become so positive,” she said sweetly. “Especially considering how creatively you’ve been avoiding dinner with my parents for three weeks.”
Harry quietly leaned closer to your ear.
“…oops,” he murmured.
You bit your lower lip trying not to grin.
Dana set her wine glass down carefully without looking away from Ron.
“Good to know,” she continued sweetly. “Very enlightening, actually.”
“Dana, baby—”
“No, no,” she interrupted calmly while standing from the table. “Please continue your passionate pro-marriage speech.”
Ron looked horrified. “Wait—I didn’t mean—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Castillo. Ms. Queen.”
Dana smiled politely before walking toward the restroom.
Ron watched her leave in genuine panic. “…how did this become about me?”
You gave him a look over the rim of your glass. “Women don’t usually enjoy being kept waiting, Ron.”
Beside you, Harry nodded in agreement without hesitation.
Ron looked betrayed. “Oh God.”
You laughed softly before standing. “I should probably go save you.”
“Please do,” Ron whispered desperately. “Thank you.”
As you followed Dana toward the hallway, Harry watched you disappear around the corner before slowly leaning back in his chair.
Ron rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m fucked... Sorry, boss.”
Harry smirked faintly into his whiskey. “No,” he said calmly. “You’re right. You’re fucked.”
Ron groaned quietly while Harry’s gaze drifted toward the hallway again, the ghost of your words still lingering in his head.
Women don’t usually enjoy being kept waiting.
Harry was almost completely certain you hadn’t meant him at all.
Back to now…
You and Dana looked at each other simultaneously across the office.
Realization hit both of you at the exact same time. “…oh my God,” Dana muttered first.
Your eyes widened slightly.
“That’s why he proposed last night.”
“And Ron immediately started defending marriage which immediately backfired on him.”
You both stared at each other for one long second—
—before bursting into laughter.
Dana shook her head slowly, still laughing under her breath.
“Men.”
You sighed deeply, leaning back in your chair.
“It’s amazing they’ve survived this long.”
Chez Akiko…
1:14 p.m.
“I’m telling you, Emily, Harry’s being absurdly attentive right now,” you complained, leaning back dramatically in your chair. “Like… concerningly attentive. How am I supposed to survive nine months of this?”
Your voice came out slightly louder than intended.
Emily only smiled knowingly as she slid the warm cup of sakura tea toward you before sitting down across from you.
“Well,” she said carefully, “to be fair… Harry is trying very hard right now.” You stared at her. “I’m serious,” you complained, taking the tea. “He monitors everything now. What I eat, what I drink, how long I sleep.” You narrowed your eyes. “This morning he adjusted the temperature in his apartment because apparently my feet were cold.”
Emily placed a hand dramatically over her heart. “That’s actually adorable.”
“He turned my office into Poison Ivy’s apartment.”
Emily immediately burst out laughing. “Okay, first of all,” she said between laughs, “she’s my favorite DC character, so that sounds cute.”
You groaned quietly, resting your forehead briefly against your hand.
“And my mother keeps calling every two hours. I swear she’s tracking my breathing remotely somehow.” You lifted your head again. “This was her fifth call today.”
Emily laughed softly before reaching across the table to squeeze your hand.
“Hon… all of them went through a huge loss with you two. I genuinely don’t think they expected to ever see this again.”
Your expression softened slightly.
Emily smiled gently.
“They’re excited. Probably too excited. But they’ll calm down eventually.” A beat. “Harry included.”
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “You really think so?”
“No,” Emily admitted honestly. “But I think he’ll become easier to manage once you marry him.”
You blinked once. “…excuse me?”
Emily gave you an incredulous look. “Oh please. Why did you even reject him?”
“I did not reject him.”
“You emotionally delayed him. Same thing.”
You stared at her in betrayal. “Em.”
“What?” She shrugged unapologetically. “You’ve literally been waiting for that man to propose to you again.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. “…that is not the point.”
Emily sipped her drink calmly. “Then explain the point.”
You exhaled slowly, fingers tracing around the edge of your cup.
“I’m not the same person I was back then.” Your voice quieted slightly. “Everything’s different now. The company, the board, the scandal…”
You shook your head.
“I became executive chair less than a week ago. I can’t just immediately announce I’m engaged to Harry Castillo on top of all that.”
Emily sighed dramatically. “You people genuinely never rest, huh?”
You laughed softly despite yourself.
“No seriously.” She leaned back in the booth. “When exactly are you two planning to experience love like normal people?”
You snorted.
“We are normal people.”
Emily stared at you flatly. “You own private jets.”
“Okay fair.”
Emily pointed at you. “Everything with you two sounds emotionally expensive.”
You laughed again, shaking your head. “Sometimes being completely ordinary sounds amazing.”
“You could never survive being ordinary.”
“Rude.”
“You cried once because a hotel suite in Milan had bad lighting.”
“That happened one time.”
“Twice.”
You narrowed your eyes.
Emily grinned proudly.
Before you could answer, the entrance door opened, the small bell above it ringing softly through the restaurant.
Emily glanced up first.
“Oh—wait, isn’t that…”
You turned slightly in your seat.
And immediately froze.
John.
Your eyes widened in surprise.
He spotted you almost instantly too, that familiar crooked smile appearing on his face as he started walking toward the table.
You stood automatically.
“Hey,” he said warmly. “How are you?”
“Good,” you laughed softly, pulling him into a quick hug. “You’re back already?”
“Landed this morning.” He stepped back, looking at you properly now. “Dana told me you were here.” His brows lifted slightly. “Thought I should come see Manhattan’s newest public executioner.”
You groaned. “Oh God.”
“No seriously,” John continued, pulling out the chair beside you. “That speech was everywhere in London. People were talking about it at breakfast.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Well… someone needed to be humbled publicly.”
John laughed under his breath. “That was one hell of a way to do it.”
You gestured toward the seat beside you. “Sit. I was about to order lunch anyway.”
John glanced toward Emily politely. “Hey.”
Emily smiled instantly. “Hi.” Then, already grabbing the menu: “So,” she asked brightly, “what are we feeding the international businessman today?”
At the same time—
The executive meeting had finally ended. Which meant half of Castillo Capital immediately flooded toward elevators, coffee carts, lunch reservations, and emotional survival mechanisms.
Harry walked beside Ron down the hallway, loosening his tie slightly while scanning through emails on his phone. “So,” he said casually, “if John landed this morning, why didn’t he come upstairs?”
Ron shrugged. “Maybe he’s sleeping.”
Harry gave him a look. “At one in the afternoon?”
“Jet lag affects people differently.”
Harry hummed absently. Still suspicious.
Before he could say anything else, Ron’s phone buzzed loudly in his hand. His entire expression softened immediately.
Harry looked over slowly. “…Dana?”
Ron smiled shamelessly while answering. “Hi, baby.”
Harry pulled out his own phone and called you while they continued toward the office.
The line rang once. No answer. His brows furrowed immediately. He tried again. Still nothing. Harry slowed his steps slightly. “…Ron.”
“Mm?”
“Ask Dana where she is.”
Ron blinked. “Who?”
Harry stared at him.
“Right. Right.” Ron quickly covered the speaker with his hand. “Baby, where’s Ms. Queen right now?” A pause. Then Ron’s expression shifted. “…oh.”
Harry narrowed his eyes instantly. “What.”
Ron slowly pulled the phone away from his ear. “She’s at lunch.”
“Where?”
Ron visibly hesitated. “…Chez Akiko.”
Silence.
Harry stopped walking entirely. Then slowly turned toward him. “Emily’s restaurant?” His brows pulled together instantly. “She can’t eat half the menu there.”
“In fairness, they also serve cooked foo—”
“Ron.” Harry was already turning around. “My coat.”
Ron sighed dramatically but grabbed it from the office chair anyway before hurrying after him.
“Protective daddy mode activated,” he muttered under his breath.
Ten minutes later—they were in the back of the limousine heading downtown.
Ron looked over cautiously. “You know…” he started carefully, “this does feel a little stalker-adjacent.”
Harry didn’t even look up from his phone, already sending you multiple texts in a row. “They’re my babies too, Ron.”
Ron opened his mouth. Closed it again. “…fair.”
The car slowed near the restaurant windows.
Then Ron suddenly leaned forward. “Oh my God.”
Harry looked up immediately. And froze.
Inside the restaurant—you were laughing. John sat beside you. Too close beside you.
Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Ron stared through the window in disbelief. “Okay,” he said slowly, “Mr. Pitts returning from London and immediately ending up at lunch with your future fiancée does feel narratively suspicious.”
Harry didn’t answer. He was too busy staring at the way John leaned behind your chair casually, resting an arm along the back of the booth while talking to you.
Ron glanced sideways at Harry’s expression and immediately swallowed. “…oh boy.”
The limousine stopped. Harry stepped out first. Fast. Behind him, Ron’s phone buzzed again.
Dana.
Ron answered quickly while jogging to keep up. “Yes, baby?” A pause. “…sweetheart, I think you’re calling about this a little too late.” Another pause. Ron glanced toward Harry. “…yeah no, he saw John. I’m hanging up.” He ended the call immediately before hurrying after him. “Apparently,” Ron continued cautiously, “John stopped by the office first and asked Dana where Ms. Queen was—”
“Yes, Ron,” Harry said coolly without slowing down. “I gathered that from the part where he’s currently halfway inside her booth.”
Ron wisely stopped talking. Then looked through the restaurant windows again. “…did he change his hair?” Harry slowly turned his head. Ron immediately raised both hands. “I’m just saying—it looks annoyingly good.”
Harry stared at him blankly.
“But not as good as yours,” Ron added quickly. “Obviously.”
Ron pointed vaguely at him while still walking. “Honestly, you kinda look like Pedro Pascal if he slept eight hours a night, owned Manhattan, and had a private equity portfolio.”
Harry kept walking. “Ron.”
“No listen,” Ron insisted immediately. “Pedro Pascal never even accepted the Sexiest Man Alive title when they wanted him to do it. Which is honestly very you. Humble. Mysterious. Emotionally repressed.”
Harry looked deeply exhausted now.
“And if you ever saw his Tumblr fanbase,” Ron added seriously, “you’d understand this is an elite compliment.”
Harry pointed at him without even looking. “Stop talking.”
“Understood.” Ron dramatically zipped his lips.
The bell above the restaurant door chimed the second Harry pushed it open.
Emily looked up first. “Oh, shit,” she said slowly. “Well. This lunch just became a live-action soap opera.”
You turned at the familiar voice before she even finished.
“Baby.”
Your head snapped toward the entrance instantly. “Harry?”
Behind him, Ron gave you a tiny apologetic smile.
John looked up too before standing from his seat. “Harry,” he greeted evenly.
“John.”
The two men shook hands. And didn’t let go. At all.
You sighed immediately.
Harry smiled politely without taking his eyes off him. “Good to see you back,” he said smoothly. “Though I have to admit, I expected to see you at today’s executive meeting first. Especially considering I was waiting for the London reports.”
His grip tightened slightly.
John smiled pleasantly right back, matching the pressure instantly. “Funny,” he replied casually. “I figured the office would still be there later. Checking on her felt more important.”
“Oh?” Harry’s smile never faltered. “Immediately after landing? How thoughtful of you.”
Their smiles somehow got tighter.
Ron immediately stepped between them with corporate-level panic management instincts.
“Gentlemen,” he announced brightly while physically separating their hands, “let’s remember Castillo Capital remains deeply committed to workplace brotherhood.”
Neither of them looked at him.
Ron continued anyway. “And Mr. Pitts, we are all extremely grateful for your work handling the London investors.”
Harry finally looked away from John then. “Yes,” he said calmly.
Then stepped directly toward you.
His arm slid around your waist naturally before he pressed a kiss against your temple. “I’m especially grateful,” he added smoothly, “because it means I get more time with my girl.”
John smiled politely.
But there was tension behind it now.
You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Harry, what are you—”
“Baby,” Harry interrupted gently, glancing down at the table. “Why are you eating here?”
Emily blinked. “Uh…”
Harry pointed lightly toward the sushi menu. “The doctor literally gave us a list of things you can’t eat.”
You crossed your arms instantly. “She also said I need omega-3.”
Harry opened his mouth.
Emily beat him to it. “She’s eating grilled salmon and rice,” Emily informed him dryly. “I’m not poisoning your offspring, relax.”
Ron muttered under his breath: “Offspring is such an aggressive word.”
"Well,” she said dryly, “if you storm into my restaurant and start criticizing my menu, I’d suggest being grateful aggressive is the only word involved.”
You giggled. “Fair.”
John looked between all of you with visible confusion.
Harry noticed immediately. “Oh,” he said casually. “Right. You didn’t know.”
You closed your eyes briefly. “Harry—”
“She’s pregnant,” Harry finished proudly anyway. “We’re having twins.”
John blinked once in genuine shock.
You elbowed Harry immediately. “We are trying to keep that private.”
“Right.” Harry nodded once. “Temporarily private.”
John’s expression softened almost instantly as he looked back at you. “…wow.” A small smile appeared on his face. “That’s…” He exhaled quietly. “Honestly, I’m really happy for you both.”
Something about the sincerity in his voice made you soften too.
“You deserve another chance after everything.”
You smiled faintly. “Thanks, John.”
He grabbed his coat slowly. “I should probably head out anyway.”
Your brows lifted slightly. “You don’t have to leave.”
John glanced briefly toward Harry. “No,” he said lightly. “I think I do.”
He leaned down slightly beside you. “Take care of yourself, okay?”
You nodded softly.
Then John looked toward Harry again. “I’ll see you at the office.”
Harry gave a short nod. “See you there.”
The second John walked out—Ron winced dramatically. “Ouch.”
Emily crossed her arms, looking between all of you with deep disappointment. “Oh, this is absolutely becoming a circus.” Then her eyes landed on Harry. “So,” she said dryly, “would Mr. Castillo perhaps like to retract his earlier comments about my restaurant?”
Harry blinked once before the faintest hint of amusement touched his face. “My apologies, Emily.”
Harry sat beside you briefly before looking back at her. “Maybe I can redeem myself by having lunch here after all.”
Emily narrowed her eyes. “…go on.”
Harry picked up the menu calmly. “I’ll take the grilled miso black cod. Steamed rice. And whatever soup she’s allowed to eat.” You rolled your eyes instantly. “And green tea,” he added smoothly without looking up.
Emily’s expression softened despite herself. “Okay,” she admitted. “That’s actually a respectable order.”
Ron immediately slid into the booth across from you. “Perfect,” he announced. “Because all this television-level emotional warfare made me hungry.”
Harry finally looked up from the menu. “We’ll also be leaving an extremely generous tip.”
“Okay,” she grinned. “Your orders will be out shortly. And the customer is always right.”
You turned slowly toward Harry. “…are you following me now?”
“No,” Harry said simply. “I’m caring about you aggressively.” You stared at him. He gently pushed your plate slightly closer toward you. “Eat before it gets cold,” Harry murmured, holding a bite toward your mouth. “Cold food lowers body temperature.”
With your mouth still full, you rolled your eyes. “My body temperature is currently very high, actually.”
Behind you, Emily slowly leaned toward Ron. “…okay,” she whispered. “She was not exaggerating.”
Ron nodded gravely. “You have no idea.”
Later That Night…
Queen Residence.
9:41 p.m.
The kitchen was quiet except for the soft clink of your spoon against the ceramic mug in your hands. You stared down at the swirl of melted chocolate absentmindedly, barely noticing the steam curling upward anymore.
Somewhere behind you— “Sweetheart?”
You blinked slowly. “Hm?” You finally looked up. “What?”
Lara frowned slightly as she stepped closer into the kitchen.
“I asked you three times if you were alright.” Her brows softened. “Bad day at work?”
You shook your head immediately. “No, everything’s fine, I just…” You exhaled quietly, leaning your hip against the marble counter. “I think I hurt Harry’s feelings.”
“What happened?”
You looked back down into your mug. “I told him a few days ago I was moving into his place. But tonight before we left, I told him maybe I needed to think about it again. He didn’t say anything,” you continued quickly. “Not really. But I think it hurt him.”
“Why did you change your mind?”
You sighed heavily. “He’s just…” You rubbed tiredly at your forehead. “He’s become so overprotective lately. About the pregnancy, about me, about everything.” You let out a frustrated breath. “I know he means well but sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe.”
“That’s probably normal.”
“Yeah. I just feel overwhelmed all the time lately.”
Lara stepped closer, gently lifting your chin between her fingers. “Harry loves you,” she said softly. “That’s all this is.”
“I know.”
“And trust me,” she added warmly, “that man is not capable of staying upset with you for longer than five minutes.”
A weak smile pulled at your mouth. But guilt still sat heavily in your chest. You looked back down again.
“He already thinks I rejected him,” you admitted quietly.
"Oh."
That hurt to say out loud. You covered your face briefly with both hands. “God, I’m awful,” you groaned. “I finally get the love of my life back and somehow I’m still hurting him.”
Lara looked ready to speak again—but Scarlet stopped her gently with one look; apparently, she heard your conversation. “Lara,” she said softly, “give us a minute?”
Lara hesitated only briefly before nodding. As she passed, she squeezed your cheek affectionately. “Don’t upset yourself over this honey… a love like yours isn’t going to fall apart over something like this.”
Then she disappeared quietly from the kitchen. Scarlet waited until the room settled again before speaking. “Come sit with me.”
You blinked slightly at her tone.
Soft.
Almost careful.
That alone surprised you enough to obey immediately. You pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat down slowly while Scarlet took the seat beside you. Usually when your mother said we need to talk, it meant discussions about business decisions, press appearances, wardrobe disasters, assistants quitting unexpectedly, or family reputation.
Not this. Never this.
Scarlet looked at you quietly for a long moment before finally speaking. “You know…” she murmured slowly, “I think I may have raised you a little too harshly.”
Your brows lifted slightly. “…a little?”
A small laugh escaped her despite herself. “I taught you to survive,” she admitted. “To think logically. To never let emotions cloud your judgment.” Her eyes softened as they held yours. “And you became extraordinary because of it.” Your throat tightened slightly.
“I’m proud of you, baby,” she whispered. “More proud than you’ll ever understand.”
“Mom…”
“Wait.” She shook her head gently. “Let me finish.”
You nodded slowly.
Scarlet rarely talked about feelings like this. Rarely talked about old pain at all. To her, heartbreak had always been something you survived privately and learned from quietly. Weakness was corrected. Mistakes were buried.
Emotions were controlled. And she had taught you the same thing.
Until Harry.
Scarlet looked down briefly before continuing. “But do you know something I learned too late?”
You stayed quiet.
Her eyes lifted back to yours.
“Logic keeps you alive.” A faint smile touched her lips. “But love…” Her voice softened. “Love is what makes life worth living.”
Your chest tightened instantly.
“There are people who spend their entire lives never feeling what you feel for that man,” she continued quietly. “Do you understand how lucky that makes you?”
Tears burned suddenly behind your eyes. Scarlet smiled gently this time. “Although,” she added, “Harry is probably the luckier one.”
A watery laugh escaped you immediately.
“He is.” She reached over, brushing your hair back softly.
You felt your vision blur completely now.
Scarlet held out her hand toward you slowly.
“Give me your hand.”
You did without hesitation.
She took it carefully and lifted it toward her lips, pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles.
Something about that nearly broke you entirely.
“Your mother, Scarlet Queen exaggerates sometimes and she does have a tendency to dramatize things,” she murmured lightly. “But this time,” she continued softly, placing your hand gently over your own heart, “don’t listen to your logic.” Your breath caught. “Listen to this instead.” Her hand stayed over yours for a second longer. “The company will survive scandals. The board will survive gossip. The world will survive headlines.” Her eyes filled slightly now too. “But life is very short, baby. You found your way back to each other after everything.” Her thumb brushed gently over your hand. “Don’t lose it again.”
You stared at her completely stunned.
Because this—
this version of your mother—
was something you had almost never seen before.
Not with you. Not about Harry. Not about love.
You moved suddenly, wrapping your arms tightly around her.
“Do you really think so?” you whispered shakily against her shoulder.
Scarlet held you immediately, one hand smoothing slowly through your hair exactly the way she used to when you were little. “No,” she whispered softly. You pulled back slightly. A tiny smile touched her lips. “I don’t think.” She tapped lightly over your heart again. “Love does.” A quiet breath left her. “That’s love speaking. Maybe it’s time you stopped listening to your logic… and started listening to this instead.”
“Wow.”
You and Scarlet turned simultaneously toward the doorway.
Mikey stood there holding a bottle of water, staring at the two of you in disbelief. “Scarlet Queen giving emotional mother speeches?” he said slowly. “Somebody alert the media immediately.”
Scarlet closed her eyes briefly. “Michael.”
“No seriously,” he continued while walking farther into the kitchen, “I think Manhattan just experienced a seismic event.”
You laughed softly despite the tears still clinging to your lashes.
Mikey placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “Maybe I should start listening to my heart too. Ah yes…” he sighed dreamily toward the ceiling. “My heart is saying Sienna… Sienna…”
Scarlet pointed at him coldly. “No. Your heart says ridiculous things.”
“And it sounds like a seventeen-year-old frat boy,” you added.
“You two can mock me all you want,” he declared confidently, “but Sienna invited me to her gallery opening.”
You blinked. “…she did?”
Mikey looked unbearably smug now. “Mhm.” He pointed between both of you proudly. “You’ll see. Soon enough, I’m gonna win her heart.”
A dangerous silence followed that statement.
Scarlet stared at him for a long second before slowly looking back at you.
Then back at him.
“…I cannot believe you’re both my children."
Saturday Evening
Castillo Estate — Rhineback.
7:17 p.m.
The entire estate felt warmer tonight.
Softer somehow.
Golden light spilled across the sitting room while the fireplace crackled quietly nearby, the scent of fresh espresso and vanilla lingering faintly in the air after dinner. Eloise sat between you and Harry on the large cream-colored sofa, still holding the ultrasound photos carefully in her hands like they were something sacred.
The second you had shown them to her after dinner, she had burst into tears immediately.
Now she kept looking down at the tiny blurry images every few seconds like she still couldn’t quite believe they were real. “Dios mío…” she whispered emotionally, pressing a hand over her chest. “Dos bebés…”
Harry smiled softly beside her while one of his arms rested around your shoulders. “Twins,” he corrected gently.
Eloise looked up at both of you, eyes shining.
“Double blessing,” she murmured in Spanish-accented English. “Two little angels…” Her voice trembled slightly. “Ay, gracias a Dios. I have never been this happy in all my life. Seeing you together like this…” Her eyes filled again. “Now I can die peacefully.”
“Eloise,” you groaned immediately.
Harry sighed.
“Mama…” Vivienne murmured.
“What?” she defended herself innocently. “I’m old.”
You laughed softly and leaned closer to squeeze her arm. “You’re literally healthier than half of Manhattan,” you told her.
“Exactly,” Harry added dryly. “You yelled at a gardener for touching your roses yesterday. You’re clearly surviving another twenty years minimum.”
“He deserved it.”
You and Harry laughed together while she continued clutching the ultrasound photos possessively against her chest.
“Besides,” she added smugly now, patting your hand, “I need to meet my great-grandbabies properly before I go anywhere.”
Harry’s entire expression softened at that word.
Great-grandbabies.
You felt his fingers tighten slightly around yours.
—
Later that evening, after dinner had settled and the house grew quieter, you stepped out onto the back veranda with your phone pressed between your shoulder and ear.
“…No, Dana, if one more magazine calls me ‘the feminine face of corporate resilience,’ I’m actually going to commit crimes.”
Dana laughed loudly through the speaker. “You say that now, but your approval ratings are terrifyingly high.”
You rolled your eyes fondly, pacing slowly beneath the soft terrace lights.
The evening air had turned cooler outside, enough to send a small shiver through you. “…okay, email me the revised board schedule tomorrow,” you murmured. “And tell Ron to stop sending me engagement ring memes.” You sighed before ending the call.
The second you lowered your phone, a soft warmth settled over your shoulders.
You turned slightly.
Vivienne stood behind you holding the edges of a cashmere shawl gently around you.
“There, ” she murmured warmly. “Better.”
“Thank you.”
Vivienne smiled faintly. “Do you have a minute?”
“Of course.”
She nodded toward the garden seating area, and the two of you slowly sat down together beneath the soft glow of the terrace lights.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then Vivienne smiled quietly to herself.
“You made Eloise very happy tonight,” she said softly. “She fell asleep smiling.”
A small laugh escaped her.
“She was mumbling about twins in Spanish ten minutes ago.”
You smiled down at your hands. “She deserved to know.”
“She did.” Vivienne’s eyes softened. “And honestly?” She exhaled quietly. “I think all of us needed something joyful again.”
A silence settled between you.
Gentle.
Comfortable.
Then Vivienne looked over at you fully.
“You bring light into this family,” she said softly. “Especially for Harry.”
Your chest tightened instantly.
You stayed quiet.
Vivienne’s gaze drifted somewhere distant now.
“When you left…” she admitted quietly, “he thought he lost that light forever.” You blinked slowly. “He tried not to show it to me.” A sad smile touched her lips. “But mothers know.” Her eyes glistened slightly now. “I used to hear him come home and sit in silence for hours. Sometimes I’d call him and immediately know he’d been crying before he answered.”
Pain twisted sharply in your chest.
Vivienne reached over then, taking your hand gently into hers.
“I was terrified,” she admitted honestly. “Terrified that his heart would never fully heal.” Your eyes burned immediately.
“But now?” Her expression softened beautifully. “Whenever he visits me… or even when I hear his voice on the phone…” She smiled through the emotion gathering in her eyes. “I always know when he’s just been with you.”
A weak smile pulled at your lips.
Vivienne laughed softly.
“He gets this ridiculous smile on his face.” She shook her head affectionately. “Even his voice changes.”
Your throat tightened painfully.
“And when you become a mother,” Vivienne continued gently, squeezing your hand, “you’ll understand exactly what I mean. How deeply you learn someone. How a single expression or change in tone can tell you everything.”
You looked down briefly, trying to steady yourself.
Vivienne waited patiently before speaking again.
“I suppose what I’m trying to say is…” She smiled softly now. “There are things in this world money can never buy.”
Her thumb brushed gently over your hand.
“Love. Peace. Belonging.” Her eyes held yours carefully. “Those feelings are what make life worth living.”
Your vision blurred slightly. “So don’t lose them,” she whispered. “And don’t lose each other.”
A tiny breath left her afterward before she added carefully:
“And I hope this doesn’t sound selfish…” You looked at her immediately. “…but I do hope you marry my son again someday.
A watery laugh escaped as you wiped quickly beneath your eyes. “Vivienne,” you whispered shakily, “are you trying to make me cry? Because my pregnancy hormones are already dangerously unstable right now.”
Vivienne laughed softly through her own tears before immediately pulling you into her arms. “Come here, honey.”
You held onto her tightly.
And for the first time in a very long time, it didn’t feel like you were being held by Harry’s mother.
It felt like family.
Vivienne kissed the side of your head gently. “Thank you,” she whispered emotionally. “For everything.” Your chest tightened painfully again. “You gave me my son back.” A tear slipped down your cheek. Vivienne only held you tighter. “And I hope the two of you spend the rest of your lives making each other happy.
Later That Night…
The bedroom was quiet except for the faint sound of rain tapping softly against the windows.
Warm lamplight spilled across the room in golden shadows while Harry sat against the headboard, sleeves rolled up slightly, distracted by something on his laptop.
You stood alone in the bathroom staring at yourself in the mirror one last time. Your heart wouldn’t stop pounding.
The silk babydoll Harry had bought for you in London draped softly against your skin, the deep shade of violet making your flushed cheeks even warmer somehow. Delicate lace traced over your chest and thighs, the matching set beneath it expensive enough to make you nervous all over again.
For a second, you almost laughed at yourself.
You had negotiated billion-dollar deals without blinking.
But this? This terrified you. Not because of the lingerie. Because of what you were about to say.
Out in the bedroom, you heard Harry shift slightly before the sound of his laptop finally closing.
“Baby? Everything okay in there?” A tiny beat passed. “You’re not getting sick again, are you?”
Your chest tightened painfully at the concern in his voice.
God.
You loved him so much.
Slowly, you opened the bathroom door.
And Harry froze. Completely. His eyes lifted from the bed—
then stayed there. On you.
The expression on his face changed instantly, somewhere between awe and complete devastation. “…fuck,” he breathed quietly.
You walked toward him slowly, pulse thundering in your ears beneath the soft fabric brushing your thighs.
Harry watched every step like he physically couldn’t look away.
“Do you,” he asked hoarsely, eyes dragging slowly over your body, “have any idea how dangerous you are?”
A nervous smile tugged softly at your lips.
Then you climbed carefully onto the bed and settled into his lap, your arms sliding around his neck while his hands instinctively found your waist.
Warm. Safe. Home.
“Harry…” you whispered softly against his lips.
He swallowed hard immediately.
Your fingers brushed lightly against his cheek before you slowly lifted your left hand between you.
The ring still sat there.
His ring.
Your eyes met his again.
“I was thinking…” you murmured quietly. “I don’t think I ever want to take this off again.”
Harry’s breath caught instantly.
You smiled faintly through the emotion rising in your chest.
“Pretending we were married again for Eloise, only made me realize something.” Your thumb brushed over the diamond carefully. “This was always mine anyway.”
Your voice softened even more.
“Whether I wore it or not.”
Harry stared at you silently now, his arms tightening around your waist almost unconsciously.
“And my heart…” you whispered shakily, “was always yours too.”
“Baby,” Harry breathed, visibly overwhelmed now as his forehead pressed briefly against yours.
You closed your eyes for one second before continuing softly:
“I think I spent so much time being afraid of losing everything again…” Your fingers curled slightly against his shoulder. “That I forgot losing you would hurt so much more.”
Harry’s entire expression broke open at that.
“So…” you whispered, finally meeting his eyes again, “if that offer still stands…”
Harry sat up straighter so fast it almost made you laugh through your nerves.
“…yeah?” he asked immediately, voice rough with hope. A watery smile touched your lips. “I’m ready to be your wife again.”
Silence.
For one breathtaking second, Harry just stared at you.
Like he couldn’t believe this was real.
Then his hands suddenly cupped your face and he kissed you hard.
Desperately.
Relieved.
Happy.
The force of it stole the breath from your lungs instantly as he pulled you closer against him, kissing you again and again like he physically couldn’t stop.
“Baby,” he whispered breathlessly between kisses. “Jesus Christ—”
Another kiss.
Then another.
His forehead rested against yours for half a second before he looked at you again, smiling so widely it almost looked boyish.
“Do you have any idea what you just did to me?”
You laughed softly through the emotion burning behind your eyes.
Harry kissed you again before you could answer.
Slow this time.
Deep.
Full of everything the two of you had survived to get back here.
“I love you,” he whispered against your mouth. “So fucking much.”
Your heart melted instantly.
“I love you too, Harry.”
He kissed the corner of your mouth again, smiling against your skin while his hands slid along your waist beneath the silk.
“Now,” you murmured softly, brushing your nose against his, “considering we’re officially engaged again…”
Harry’s eyes warmed immediately.
“I think you should kiss me one more time.”
“Only one?”
Then he kissed you again—
slowly pushing you back against the pillows while the rain continued falling softly outside the windows.
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summary: you haven’t talked to garrett or anyone else since he denied being in love with you. you’re eventually forced together by dean and have no choice but to figure it out.
warnings: fluff. angst. suggestive content.
it had been a couple of weeks since you last talked to garrett or any of the other guys. the truth bomb that dean dropped causing a strenuous rift between the two of you.
time felt like it had moved slowly since then, every day dragging it’s feet as though it was never going to end.
you still saw him floating around campus, the muscle in his jaw ticking whenever his eyes landed on you.
what did he have to be upset about? you were the one who got demoted to something even less than casual . . . whatever that was.
sighing, you slammed your textbook shut, resisting the urge to roll your eyes when everyone in the library shushed you.
they were acting as though you had just opened your mouth and screamed from the top of your lungs.
glancing around, your eyes narrowed when they spotted the big mouthed gossip that had outed his own best friend loitering in one of the aisles.
dean didn’t exactly seem like the type to even know what a book was, nevermind actually read one.
as if he could sense your eyes on him, he turned around, his expression changing to one you couldn’t quite decipher.
“please don’t come over here” you repeated to yourself almost silently, crossing your fingers under the table as if it was an absolute solution.
dean hesitated for a moment before rolling his eyes, pushing off the bookshelf as he headed in your direction.
“shit” you cursed, regretting your choice to study in the library instead of your isolated dorm room.
he tutted at you and shook his head, “i heard that, and here’s me thinking you were a lady”
you scoffed at him, “jesus, you’d know all about the ladies wouldn’t you? manwhore”
he perked up, grinning brightly as he sat down across from you, “thanks, gorgeous”
oh, did he think that was a compliment-
gritting your teeth, you clicked on the end of your pen in annoyance, “is there something you wanted? other than to piss me off, of course”
dean looked around the library and gestured for you to lean in closer.
you happily obliged so you could get this over with, resting your arms on the table and leaning in closer.
“you need to fix whatever high-school drama you have going on with g. i shouldn’t even be talking to you about this shit but we need our captain back” dean whispered, acting like someone could be spying on the two of you.
you were about to tell dean to mind his own business, but the sound of someone clearing their throat made you jump back in your chair.
the two of you turned your heads towards the sound, a beat of awkward silence now circling the room.
garrett graham was standing at the end of your table, and he looked pissed.
of course garrett was here right now! you had never even seen these idiots in the library before, and now you suddenly you couldn’t escape them.
it felt like someone was sat behind a big screen, laughing and pointing at you as if this was some sort of joke.
“can we help you?” dean says, trying to fight the mischievous grin that was forming on his face.
garrett looked between the two of you in annoyance, “what do you mean can we help you? why the fuck are you huddled together”
this whole interaction felt like a bad case of déjà vu, feeling a little too similar to the events of the last time all three of you were together.
you shrugged, “we were just having a chat, no need to get your panties in a twist”
dean snorted loudly, getting up and offering his empty seat to garrett who was still stood there with his arms crossed.
“i’ll leave you to talk and for fuck sake graham, be a man for once” dean says, patting garrett on the back before pushing the library doors open, winking at the two of you as he left.
garrett looked tired - he had dark circles under his eyes, his brown hair was a mess, and he had a face full of stubble which told you he hadn’t bothered to shave in a while.
pursing your lips, you tapped your pen against the stack of papers in front of you and waited for him to stop standing there like an idiot.
garrett eventually gave in, taking his jacket off and slinging it over the back of the chair as he sat down.
his tall frame made the chair look small, leaning back with his arms behind his head and his knees apart.
the way his muscles bulged through the thin material of his plain white t-shirt had you distracted, not even registering the words he was saying.
“and yeah, allie and dean slept together last night” he says, trying to pull your from your perverted daydreaming.
“that is the biggest lie i have ever heard! you could’ve picked something more believable” you huffed, slightly annoyed that his tactics worked.
garrett shrugged and his lips tilted up in a smug smile, “yeah, no shit - but it worked didn’t it?”
“ugh, whatever. are we going to talk about the elephant in the room or not?” you asked, feeling impatience start to creep in, wrapping around your mind like poison ivy.
he dragged his hands down his face like he was feeling the same impatience, “i don’t know what else there is to say”
unbelievable.
one minute garrett was supposedly “in love” with you and the next minute he was saying that you had been around “too much” lately.
there was plenty to say, you were just trying to remember a library was not the place to start anything more heated than a light discussion.
”do you love me, garrett?” you asked outright, not caring whether his answer was yes or no - you just wanted the truth for once.
“you can’t just ask someone if they love you” garrett exclaimed, throwing his hands up in frustration.
the air turned colder as the seconds ticked by, almost as if nature could feel the thick tension too.
“it’s a simple-“, “it is not a simple question at all and don’t pretend like it is” garrett says, cutting you off.
the people sat at the table next to you shushed the two of you.
“goddamnit, we’re having a conversation. if you don’t like it, fuck off” garrett whisper shouted in their direction, staring them dead in the eye.
they murmured amongst themselves before getting up and pushing their chairs in, heading for the exit.
he pushed his brown curls away from his face as he tried to find the right words to say, “look, i know i like spending time with you. my friends clearly seem to like you too which is the biggest achievement of all”
he huffed out a sigh of amusement and disbelief as he continued, “dean and his big fucking mouth”
you nodded in agreement, “dean and his big fucking mouth”
he gave you that dimpled smile that could melt icebergs as well as hearts, “you’re the first person i’ve wanted more than sex with. i just don’t know what that means yet” garrett admitted.
“uh, thanks?” you say.
he rolled his eyes dramatically, “you know what i mean”
you did know what he meant, he just had a very garrett graham way of saying it.
and although it felt like garrett still wasn’t telling you the whole story, it wasn’t up to your or dean to force it out of him.
“how about you take me on a date first before you kill me with these panty dropping declarations?” you say, wanting to lighten the mood, tired of the darkness that’s been following you like a shadow lately.
this caught his attention, “jesus, don’t talk about panties right now” he groaned, his mind going somewhere else, just like a typical man.
”or what?” you say, tilting your head in defiance as you looked up at him through your lashes.
he grabbed your hand that was flat against the wooden table, pulling you up and guiding you round until you were stood in front of him.
your ass was perched on the edge of the table and garrett placed his hands on your thighs, pulling them open so he could slot his body between them.
he fit perfectly, like he was made to fill any empty spaces you created.
garrett pulled you towards him and you landed on his lap, a squeal escaping your mouth at the unexpected move.
his gaze landed on your lips, a gruff groan leaving his mouth when your tongue darted out to wet them.
“fuck it” garrett said, hand wrapping around the back of your next as he pulled you in for a breathtaking kiss.
his other hand slid up the back of your t-shirt, his warm skin against your own feeling euphoric after going so long without touching him.
you could feel his arousal, the loose basketball shorts he was wearing doing nothing to conceal what he was feeling for you right now.
you were so wrapped up in each other that you didn’t hear the door creak open.
“damn, y/n. i didn’t know you had it in you” dean says, arms crossed as he leaned against the doorframe.
garrett’s hands slipped from your body as your heads simultaneously whipped to the side at the sound of deans voice.
“what the fuck?” you both say at the same time.
“when i said sort it out, this wasn’t exactly what i meant” dean whistled humourously, his watchful gaze full of heat.
garrett reached around you to grab one of your books from the table and threw it in deans direction, “why are you lurking like a fucking pervert, dude?
the book was just short of hitting dean, much to garrett’s annoyance.
“some of us have exams to study for, g. whatever, i’ll just come back later and leave you lovebirds to it” dean says, voice laced with mock sadness.
as if. everyone knew dean didn’t study, he just wrote what he thought was right and prayed for the best.
garrett closed his eyes and took a deep breath, looking like he was ready to chase dean out of the door himself.
“wrap it before you tap it, graham! i’m not ready to be an uncle yet” dean says, not turning back around as he headed out of the door, leaving you alone with garrett once again.
you rested your head on garrett’s shoulder, your body shaking with laughter at the blonde hair menace who always had the worst timing in the world.
when you were finally out of laughter, you pulled back and nodded at garrett to which he nodded back, coming to a mutual understanding without even having to say anything.
“hey, and no more secret meetings with dilaurentis because he’ll end up corrupting you with his bullshit. deal?”
“deal” you murmured in agreement.
this was a temporary resolution, but it wasn’t like love was the first thing on your mind either considering you hadn’t even been out with garrett off campus yet.
although, a date with a man known for one night stands was as close to love as you could get. for now at least.
summary: you talk with the guys while waiting around at the house and dean accidentally let's it slip that garrett is in love with you.
warnings: nothing specific.
frat houses were an unclean place full of boisterous men and they were a place no one with any self respect would be seen dead, and yet here you were.
in your defence, you were only here to see garrett. everyone else was a package deal apparently.
garrett graham was the star athlete at briar u, known for his supposed ice hockey skills. you say supposed because he's never actually invited you to a game, and you weren't about to show up all "go team" if he didn't want you there.
the two of you had been hooking up for a while now, but it was . . . casual. he was too busy for a girlfriend and you were too busy to try and change his mind.
sighing, you drummed your fingers against your thighs impatiently, waiting for garrett to come downstairs.
"is he even here?" you asked tucker, settling on talking to the most "normal" one out of all of them.
you had plans to meet garrett at his house today, but he wasn't exactly known for his top notch timekeeping skills.
he nodded, slapping deans hand away when he tried to reach for the spread of food that was being arranged on the table.
"dude, why do you keep making food if we're not even allowed to eat the damn stuff" dean huffed, throwing himself down on the couch next to you in defeat.
the blonde haired trouble causer turned to you with a big grin on his face, "so, what's the deal with you and graham? that boy doesn't tell us anything"
"i find that hard to believe. you're all his bro's or whatever aren't you?" you say, using your fingers to put air quotes around the word "bro's".
instead of answering, dean went on to pepper you with more invasive questions.
you huffed out a laugh despite yourself, "you're awfully nosey, you know that?"
dean's hand slapped against his chest in mock disbelief, "you're lucky that graham loves you because otherwise i would be-"
"he what?" you cut him off, not sure if you just heard him correctly.
"ohhh, shit" dean says.
the whole room went silent. tucker stopped chopping vegetables, logan paused his video game, and dean stared at you with wide eyes like a child that had just been caught sneaking candy.
a creak on the stairs broke the painful silence and you glanced up to see garrett stood there, his arms folded across his chest.
"what the actual fuck is going on down here?" garrett says, not moving from his spot on the stairs.
dean pursed his lips in thought, "i just told y/n that you love her"
okay, maybe it wasn't in thought at all. jesus christ this guy had no filter.
not knowing what to say, you chuckled awkwardly and pointed towards towards the door, "sooo, i'm just going to go"
you scooped up your bag and dashed out of the door before anyone could try to stop you, shutting it tightly behind.
even through the heavy wooden door you could hear the sudden arguments.
"jesus christ, dean. you're with a new girl every day and suddenly you can't have a normal conversation with one just because she doesn't want to fuck you?" garrett yelled.
the rest of the conversation became incoherent but you were sure you heard dean say, "how do you know she doesn't want to fuck me?"
your head was a mess as deans accidental confession actually started to sink in.
you didn't have a chance to make it off the porch before the door swung open again, revealing garrett stood on the other side.
dean popped his blonde head around the frame, "he has plans to kill me later so if you-"
someone decided to have mercy on you and dragged him back inside the house, the door slamming shut behind them.
here he was in all his glory. he had messy hair from the nap he clearly took not long ago and basketball shorts low his hips, toned abs on full display.
"see something you like?" he smirked, leaning back against the wall, the tension melting with every word he spoke.
you shrugged indifferently, "do you mean like or do you mean love? because who knows the difference these days"
he let out a long sigh of frustration, dragging a hand down his face, "listen, take no notice of that idiot. i never do"
"how come you don't invite me to your games? i mean, we've been seeing each other for months now and i haven't been to a single one" you say, frustration bubbling in your gut as words spill out of your mouth before you can stop them.
"i'm going to kill that little bastard- fine. i don't invite you to my games because you distract me. i can't focus on anything else when you're in the room and i can't risk being distracted out on the rink"
was that a compliment? it sort of sounded like one.
you nodded slowly, "so why couldn't you have just said that? why does everything have to be a mystery with you garrett"
"this was meant to be a casual one time thing, and suddenly you're in my house and you're talking to my friends" he says.
scoffing, you jabbed a finger against his bare chest, "you're the one who asked me to come over garrett and despite what you're clearly used to, i didn't beg to see you"
the audacity of men would never fail to amaze you. they ask you to come over and then wonder why you're suddenly in their house.
"can i finish my sentence?" he says, raising his eyebrows in amusement at your persistent rebuttals.
you shrug and gesture for him to continue, "if you must"
"jesus, what i'm trying to say is that it doesn't feel casual anymore. i see you more than i see those fuckers in there and i live with em'" he says.
"i'm not saying i'm in love with you ─ because shit, we've never even been on a date. unless fucking in a frat house full of other guys counts as a date to women"
"it does not" you add.
"i don't do girlfriends. you know this as much as every other girl knows this" he says.
the words taste bitter in his mouth. it wasn't a lie, he doesn't do girlfriends, but everything was telling him to break his own rules.
"wow, garrett, does this type of flattery usually work on these lucky girls?"
he grinned smugly, hands in the pockets of his shorts, "damn straight it does, baby"
your phone buzzed in your pocket and you internally groaned when you glanced at the time. you were only meant to be staying for an hour because you promised allie you would help her study for midterms.
"look, i've gotta go. i promised allie i would help her with the upcoming exams. we're all good, graham. casual it is!" you say brightly, jogging down the steps before he can respond.
garrett watches on until you disappear around the corner before going back inside to be met by the disappointed stares of his three friends.
"dude, really? i don't do girlfriends?" logan says, repeating garrett's earlier words.
dean sighed dramatically and shook his head, "yeah, you really fucked that one up"
garrett points a finger at dean accusatorially, "it's your fucking fault, dipshit. this is the last time i ever tell you anything" he says, breezing past everyone as he grabbed a beer from the fridge.
"practice is tomorrow" tucker says in concern, nodding towards the beer in garrett's hand.
"lay off, tuck" he says, jaw tense as he sat in his usual spot on the couch.
logan being the more empathetic one of the group, decided to take over the conversation before it got out of hand.
"so, you do love her then?" he says carefully, not wanting to end up on garrett's shit list along with dean.
garrett cursed and leaned back against the couch, "yeah? no? how am i meant to know if i love someone or not"
"the fact that you're instrested in more than just sleeping with her is answer enough" logan says, knowing garrett hasn't given this much time or thought to one person before.
"fuck this ─ someone pass me another beer" garrett muttered, needing a way to turn his mind off for a couple of hours.
Summary: Beau has hidden his best friend, Y/N, from the group for years. She and him had been friends since middle school, living next to one another growing up, and now the pair were in the same college. Then the day happens when Beau finally decides to introduce them to her. They all immediately are entranced by her and her personality, John Logan especially…
Warning(s) throughout the series: strangers to lovers, mutual pining, swearing, mentions of abuse, mentions of softball plays/games, mentions of PTSD, angst, fluff, smut (18+)
A couple weeks after the softball game, things had settled into something surprisingly normal. It was at least as normal as life could be when Y/N had somehow become part of Beau's friend group.
Now she regularly ended up hanging out with them after practices, grabbing coffee between classes, or getting pulled into whatever ridiculous situation Dean and Tucker had created that week. She dragged them out for late night food runs, which Beau had warned them about this becoming an overnight thing, but they loved the last minute adventures.
Which was exactly how she ended up in a library conference room with Beau on a Thursday afternoon, or at least, they were supposed to be studying. Instead, both textbooks sat untouched, and Y/N was highlighting notes while Beau spun slowly in his chair.
"You know," he said, making her snort.
"That's never a good way to start a sentence."
"I've been thinking."
"Your brain doing work? Now that’s much worse,” she retorts, earning a pencil at the head from Beau, causing them to both giggle.
"I haven't asked what you think about everybody."
Y/N glanced up, raising one eyebrow, highlighter in hand. "Everybody?"
"The group."
"Oh?” she trails off, and a small smile appears immediately.
"Well?” Beau leaned forward.
"This should be interesting,” Y/N laughed before letting out a sigh, and counting each person on her finger as she talked. "Dean's insane, but Tucker is somehow worse. I think it’s because of how he gets when he’s cooking, though."
"Correct, and very correct."
"Hannah's probably the smartest person I've ever met, and she really knows how to send positive messages,” she then moves her hand at him. “Did you know she even sent me a little happy message before my last game? I love her.”
Beau laughs and nods. “She’s great with everyone, she wants them to feel successful.”
"Allie is genuinely one of the nicest and funniest people alive. I need to shop in her wardrobe, and she knows this.”
"She has style, I can’t argue that."
"Garrett is definitely the dad of the group, though,” she jokes, and Beau purses his lips to muster a laugh. “He definitely will be that dad who runs into a friend in the Home Depot parking lot, pulls out a couple lawn chairs to sit and talk,” she adds, and Beau bursts out into laughter.
“Tucker has told him the same thing! He hates when people figure that out."
Y/N grinned and shrugged. "He gives off exhausted dad energy. After dealing with that group? I don’t doubt it for a minute."
Beau immediately laughed, pointing at her. "I'm telling him you said that."
"Oh, please do. I will say it to him,” she shot back making them both laugh, and then Beau tilted his head.
"And Logan?" he asks, his tone nothing but smug. Y/N's highlighter immediately stopped moving for exactly half a second. Beau caught it easily, his grin widening.
Because of course he did, and unfortunately, the faint pink appearing in her cheeks wasn't helping her case. Beau's laughs turned into little giggles."Oh my."
"Beau."
"You like him."
"No."
"You do."
"Do not."
"You absolutely do."
Y/N buried her face in her hands, which was essentially a confession. Beau knew her too well, and he laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. "This is absolutely incredible."
"And you're annoying."
"I've waited days for this."
Y/N groaned. "You sound like Dean,” she throws back at him, hearing him gasp loudly with a dramatic fall back against his chair. "That's the meanest thing you've ever said to me."
She laughed despite herself, and then threw another pen at him, in which only made him laugh harder. Eventually he calmed down enough to sit forward, but he was still grinning, probably still too pleased with himself.
Beau started to say something, and Y/N immediately pointed. "No."
"Oh, come on."
"Nope."
"Just one more question."
"No."
"One."
She narrowed her eyes, and Beau tried his best to look completely innocent. He asked her anyway. "How much do you like him?"
"You're the worst, Beau Maxwell,” Y/N groaned.
"Answer."
She looked down at her notebook, followed with a shrug. "He's nice."
Beau barked out a laugh, looking at her like she had two heads. "That's your answer?"
"What?"
"He’s nice?"
"He is!"
"Y/N."
"What?"
"You've watched Tucker accidentally set ramen on fire,” he pointed out, and she laughed.
"You've watched Dean climb through a window because he forgot his keys."
"Unfortunately."
"You know Garrett carries snacks in his backpack like a suburban father."
"So unbelievably true,” she laughs, and Beau’s eyes squint at her suspiciously.
"So when you say Logan is nice, I know that's not what you mean."
Y/N smiled despite herself, because Beau wasn't wrong. Logan was nice, but it was more than that. He listened, like actually listened. He remembered smaller things that she brought up once or twice, and always asked questions.
All of this kind of behavior also was not just with her, it was with everyone. It was one of the things she liked most about him.
Unfortunately Beau was still staring, waiting.
"You're smiling,” he sings out, immediately making her shake her head.
"I'm not,” she mocks back, and he hums.
"You are."
Y/N covered her face as she could feel Beau looking back at her victoriously.
Then his expression softened slightly, because underneath the teasing, there was something else there he always noticed. It was something protective. "You know,” he starts off, keeping his gaze on her, watching as Y/N glanced up.
"What?"
"I like that it's him. Logan, I mean,” he hums, the teasing disappeared completely.
Y/N looked surprised.
Beau shrugged, settling into his seat. "I'm serious."
"Why?" she asked with a slightly confused frown. Beau was silent for a moment.
"Because,” he sighs, his tone a bit more softer than the last, nodding at her knowingly. “I've seen who you date."
Y/N winced. "Beau."
"I'm serious, Y/N."
She looked down at her notebook, and immediately knew where this conversation was heading. Her ex.
The one topic neither of them liked discussing. He was the guy she'd spent nearly a year with, who had slowly convinced her she wasn't enough. Whether it was her talent, her skill, her looks, her body.
Every achievement somehow became something to criticize. Every mistake, whether it was their relationship or during her games, became ammunition.
He'd mocked her and made fun of her schedule, or how she played. He got angry, and would pick fights if she was hanging with teammates at any point after a game or practice had finished. He would absolutely lose it on her when she spent time at Beau’s.
By the end of it, she had spent more time apologizing than smiling, and taking the remarks or the fake apologies he’d tell her after he would abandon her on the side of the road, or shove her against a wall.
Beau had watched the whole thing happen, waiting for her to finally leave.
Y/N still remembered the day she told him it was over, and how hard Beau had hugged her. He had helped build her confidence back up piece by piece, with the help of their old friends and her teammates.
"He treated you like shit, Y/N. I will never blame you for what he did," he says, and she nods knowingly. She always understood Beau’s wording, even if it came off harsh. It was tough love that she needed to get back up again. “I just hated that you kept thinking you deserved that treatment, and that it was okay.”
Y/N looked away, not knowing what reflexed her to quickly respond. "He wasn't always-"
"Don't."
She stopped when Beau interrupted her, because Beau's voice wasn't angry. It was just firm.
"He wasn't,” Y/N went quiet, and Beau sighed.
"He made you cry more times than I can count,” he says, his voice never rising, staying calm as he talked to her. “Honey, he made you feel guilty for literally everything. He even told you softball wasn't important."
Y/N grimaced as she stared at the table, because that one still always hurts, even now. Beau's voice softened. "I cared. Still do."
Y/N swallowed, nodding slowly. "I know."
Beau leaned forward slightly. “And it’s not always just me who will care. It’s your team too, and the group? Shit, they were telling me how much of a crime it was that they didn’t get to meet you till that game,” he laughs, watching her chuckle. “But I also know, they would do anything to see you happy. They would never hurt you.”
Y/N nods, giving him a sad, but understanding smile. Beau lightens up the mood a bit as he wiggles his eyebrows. "And Logan would be standing at every single game, cheering you on in the stands, if you let him."
Y/N looked up, and Beau continued. "He wouldn’t have asked for stats or about your life story if he wasn’t serious about you. Drove me fucking insane, lemme tell you," he whines out, making her snort.
"So I’ve heard,” she giggles, and they both look at one another. Beau's expression turned serious again. “I just need you to know something,” He states as Y/N listens. "Logan isn't him."
Her smile faded slightly, but Beau's gaze never wavered.
"He doesn't play games, and he will never tear you down. Especially when you’re doing something you love."
She nodded as she swallowed. Because somehow that mattered more than she wanted to admit, which Beau noticed. He always did.
Suddenly he looked every bit like the overprotective best friend he was. "If he ever hurts you, I'll kill him."
"Beau!” Y/N burst out laughing.
"I'm serious."
"No, you're not."
"Oh yes, I absolutely am."
"You like him too much,” she snickered as she shook her head.
Beau nods, tapping his chin with his finger like he was thinking. "You may be right, and that's probably why he'd survive."
Y/N laughed harder, Beau finally smiled widely before he pointed at her. "But for the record."
"What?"
"You like him."
Y/N immediately groaned, knowing that their serious moment disappeared.
"I knew it."
"You're fucking impossible."
"And you're crushing on Logan, Y/N."
Y/N threw her highlighter at him, but this time he dodged it while laughing, still looking too pleased at his findings.
The conversation should have gone back to studying. Instead, almost forty-five minutes later, Beau was still sitting across from Y/N, who had completed approximately three lines of notes and thrown almost every one of her pens at him.
A very productive afternoon. "Anyway," Beau said, finally glancing at his phone, Y/N immediately narrowed her eyes. "We should go."
"Go where?"
"Malone's."
Y/N blinked as her eyebrows furrowed, going back to writing up some of her notes. "Why?"
"It’s karaoke night?"
“And? Karaoke night is every week,” she snorts, finishing up the last page of her notes. Y/N calmly started putting her books into her backpack. "Also, I can't."
Beau snorted. "Really?"
"Yep."
"Why?"
She opened her mouth, but then paused. "Homework."
Beau stared at her with confused wide eyes. "Homework?"
"Yupper."
"From the studying we haven't done?"
Y/N frowned. "That's not the point."
"Try again,” Beau laughed, and she grabbed another notebook.
"I have practice tomorrow. It was two-a-days week, so I am exhausted."
"So?"
"I need sleep."
"It's five o'clock, old lady."
"Exactly."
"Y/N."
"What?"
Beau crossed his arms. "You realize I've known you for years, right?” he trails off, causing her to immediately look away.
She was trying to hide a guilty look, but it didn’t get far, because now Beau knew. "Oh my," he giggles, making her look up at him as she starts to clean up her things.
Beau looked delighted. “Because you love me to death,” he snorts back, making her give him a look. "You don't want to go because Logan will be there."
"That's not true."
"It is very true."
"Not a chance."
"Y/N M/N."
She buried her face in her hands, freezing her movements at her middle name leaving his mouth, Beau nearly fell out of his chair laughing. "This is incredible! You’re getting nervous."
"I don't get nervous."
"You literally play softball in front of hundreds of people."
"Exactly, which is why I’m not nervous, Maxwell."
Beau ignores her denial, egging her on once more. "But one hockey player says hello and suddenly you're making up fake homework,” he snickers back, grabbing his backpack to stand up while Y/N pointed at him.
"I hate you,” she mumbles, going to walk out of the study room.
"No, you don't,” he answers, trailing behind her, Beau looked entirely too pleased with himself. He then grabbed his keys. "Come on."
"No."
"I wasn’t asking."
"I wasn’t agreeing."
"I'll buy food."
Y/N hesitated, and Beau smiled. "Aha."
"No."
"I saw that."
"You didn't see anything, Maxwell."
"The food almost worked,” he jokes, holding the door open for her as they leave the library. She shook her head, smacking his chest as she passed by him.
"It did not."
"I’ll buy you their basket of loaded fries."
Y/N looked away, stuttering in her steps, and Beau gasped. Because unfortunately Malone's fries were incredible, and Beau knew it.
"You're bribing me."
"Correct I am."
"You really fucking suck."
"Fine,” she huffs out, and Beau immediately throws both arms into the air. “I need to get changed.”
Almost an hour later they walked into Malone's, and they both immediately regretted absolutely nothing. Dean and Tucker were already on stage, Dean was singing entirely off-key, but Tucker was somehow worse because he was on key.
Neither seemed concerned, only amused and buzzed, but the crowd was losing their minds.
Garrett looked exhausted, while Hannah was crying laughing, and Allie had her head on the table because she couldn't breathe.
Y/N stopped walking, her face turning up in amusement, she held onto Beau’s bicep. "Now what in the fuck is this,” she laughs out, and Beau sighs with a nod.
"Yeah this is completely normal,” he laughs out, then watching as the song completely collapses after that. Mostly because Dean started laughing too hard to sing.
As they moved through the crowd, Y/N spotted Logan, almost immediately.
Because apparently her brain was programmed to do that now.
He was standing near a group by the stage, laughing at something somebody said with one hand wrapped around a drink, as he was looking completely relaxed.
Somehow that made everything worse, and Beau noticed instantly.
"Oh look,” he says slowly, his tone becoming smug as a smirk finds its way onto his face. She shook her head, avoiding his eyes. "Don't."
"I hate you."
Beau laughed, and then steered them toward the table. Garrett spotted them first, opening his arms up with a bright smile. "There they are."
Hannah immediately smiled, pulling Y/N in to sit next to her and Allie. "Finally."
Allie pointed toward the stage, a slight giggle leaving her lips. "You missed Tucker attempting a high note."
"Attempting?"
Garrett points over at her. “Now that's generous."
Y/N laughed as she slid into the empty chair, while Beau sat across from her. Almost immediately Garrett looked between them, and smirked. "Did Beau have to bribe you?"
Y/N froze, and they all looked over at her, then the entire table burst out laughing.
"How the fuck?" Y/N exasperates, her eyes wide with astonishment at how easy he was able to call that out, while Garrett looked smug.
"Easy,’ he chuckles with a shrug. "He just looked way too proud walking in."
“What was the bribe?” Hannah trails off, knowing Beau too well, and Y/N laughs. "Two baskets of loaded fries."
They all burst into giggles. “You’re kidding.”
Y/N pointed at Hannah. “Hey, don’t hate on the loaded fries, for one thing,” she laughs. “And for two, he's manipulative."
"I prefer persuasive."
"You're neither. You’re actually a pain in the ass."
The conversation continued, flowing so easily and comfortably. Exactly like it had become since she met them all. Talking about everything and nothing at the same time. Dean and Tucker finally stumbled offstage to thunderous applause, the two immediately headed toward the table.
"Y/N!" Dean dramatically collapses into the chair beside Beau, winking over at Allie for a moment who rolls her eyes playfully. Then he looked back at Y/N, who was sitting there with an amused smirk. "Did you see greatness?"
"I saw something," she offered with a chuckle, her arms crossed while leaning on the table, Dean pouted, and Tucker looked offended.
The table dissolved into laughter again, joking back and forth with the two for the next hour, the night stayed exactly like that. Dean and Tucker arguing over who had performed worse, while Garrett tried unsuccessfully to restore order.
Allie and Hannah laughing at everyone, Beau had a few wings in his system, and was now acting like a menace. Every now and then, whenever Y/N looked across the bar, she'd catch Logan smiling at something or laughing.
Which Beau absolutely noticed, but for once? He decided to keep his mouth shut, that was at least until the car ride home.
Logan had been halfway through a conversation near the stage when he finally glanced toward the table, and froze.
Y/N was there, sitting between Allie and Hannah, laughing at something Garrett had just said. For a second, he completely lost track of whatever conversation he was having, and the guy beside him noticed immediately. "You're not listening anymore."
Logan’s eyes snapped away from her, and back to his friend. "What?"
"Exactly,” he chuckled back, a knowing smirk on his face. Logan looked back toward the table, and unfortunately, Dean spotted him at the exact same moment. The grin that appeared on Dean's face was genuinely horrifying.
Logan immediately regretted everything, because before he could stop Dean, he stood up and yelled across the table. "John Logan, you better get your cute ass over here,"
Every head turned, including Y/N's. The second she saw Logan, a smile appeared, and somehow that made the walk over all the more nervewracking for Logan..
Logan shook his head as he got closer, he pointed at Dean. “I think it’s time you take a break from the cocktails."
They all erupted into a fit of giggles, Allie goes to stand up, and smugly eye Logan while nodding at her old seat. Right next to Y/N. Dean and Allie were both looking far too pleased about that coincidence. "Sit,” Allie offers sickeningly sweet, as she goes to sit on Dean’s thigh.
Logan glared at them both, only for them to smile wider. He eyes them as he goes to sit down. Y/N immediately tilted her head, giving him a bright smile, pushing down all the nerves that were trying to surface.
Logan smiles back at her before nodding. "I heard Beau had to bribe you to come,” he jokes, making her groan and point at him.
"Don’t even start."
Logan laughed. "What was the bribe?"
"Loaded fries."
"Wow, and in all honesty?" Logan nodded seriously. "That's reasonable."
"Thank you, see," she chuckles. “They all thought I was nuts, but they get me going. Every single time.”
Logan laughed, and Y/N found herself smiling again. The conversation drifted naturally after that. Everyone was talking and eating, but somehow Y/N and Logan kept ending up in little side conversations.
The kind that happened even in a crowded group. "How's practice?" Logan asked, wiping his hands on the napkin.
"Painful,” Y/N groaned dramatically. “Two-a-days ended this week, so we’re all feeling it a little bit more.”
"That bad?"
She throws another fry into her mouth, then side-eyes him with a look. “The pulls were so bad, one of our girls had to carry a mini trash bin with her. Our conditioning coach hates us."
"Sounds familiar,” he chuckles, and she looks at him.
"Hockey conditioning?"
"Unfortunately."
Y/N shook her head, taking a sip of her drink as she hissed. "Couldn't be me."
"You literally voluntarily squat for like seven innings,” he points out, turning his upper body towards her, leaning his elbow on the table while smiling in amusement.
"That’s different."
"Different how?"
"It just is."
Logan laughed. "Solid argument,” he laughs, and she smiles sarcastically. "I know."
The smile she gave him was playful, but he could see the confidence. It was the same confidence she'd had the first day they met, in which Logan found himself grinning right back.
Across the table, Hannah noticed immediately, then nudged over towards Allie. Allie followed her gaze, smiling widening. She snags Dean and Beau’s attention, trying to have them not make it obvious.
Dean turns to look at Beau with a knowing smirk, the two both nodding before they laugh, and go back to their food and conversations.
A little while later, Dean and Tucker got dragged back toward the stage for another karaoke round, which left the table slightly quieter.
Logan leaned back in his chair, eyes looking over at her as she sipped her soda. "You coming to any hockey games?"
Y/N raised an eyebrow, smirking over at him. "Was that smooth?"
"Not a bit."
"It sounded like an invitation,” she hums, leaning her chin on his hand, elbow on the tabletop.
Logan nods with a light grin. "It kind of was,” he admits, and Y/N smiled.
"A little confident, I see,” she jokes, making Logan shrug.
"I learned from watching you,” he shot back, not missing the way her smile she gave him grew, and for a second neither looked away. Something felt different now, almost like it was more comfortable. The energy becomes more intentional.
Beau happened to glance over at exactly the wrong moment, or maybe the right moment, because he caught the entire thing.
The eye contact and the smiles when they talked. His protective instincts activated immediately, but he also pushed himself to let them be. He knew Logan, and he knew Y/N.
Y/N blinked, seeing the way Logan kept looking over at her every now and then. The grin he gave her made her roll her eyes, though it didn't hide her smile.
Somehow after their little moments, every conversation after that seemed to carry a little more weight. A little more teasing, where both definitely knew and could that something was there. It was building.
By the time the night started winding down, the tension between them had become obvious enough that even Tucker noticed, which was saying something.
He leaned toward Garrett.
"Have they been flirting all night?" he asks, making Garrett take one look across the table.
Y/N laughing at something Logan had said to her in a volume only they can hear, Logan looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Garret sighed with a nod. "Very much so."
"Wow."
"Yep."
Across from them, neither Y/N nor Logan heard a word, too busy talking to each other, and smiling.
By the time Malone's started turning the lights up, the crowd had thinned considerably, and the karaoke machine had finally been shut off which was probably a mercy for everyone involved.
Tucker had disappeared nearly thirty minutes ago, Dean left with Allie after arguing with Tucker about who sang better, and Garrett had left with Hannah. A few other groups were filing out and somehow Y/N was still sitting at their booth, checking her phone and waiting.
"Unbelievable,” she mumbles to herself, going to pull up Beau's contact, pressing call and letting it ring.
No answer.
Y/N closed her eyes, scoffing to herself. "Of course."
Because she already knew exactly what had happened, knowing Beau had absolutely gotten distracted by a girl she caught him eyeing up by the photobooth. Again.
She dialed him once more, but groaned when it went straight to voicemail.
"Dumbass," she chuckles to herself, knowing full well he would be apologizing up and down in the morning. A bartender called out sweetly to her that they were closing, Y/N sighed, thanking them warmly, and grabbed her jacket.
She'll figure it out. She usually does.
As she headed toward the exit while staring down at her phone, she rounded the corner, only to promptly walk directly into someone.
"Oh!" she squeaked out, as a hand immediately steadied her hips before she could stumble.
"Easy,” A familiar voice hums out, making her look up. She laughed, and used his forearms to steady herself.
"Sorry Logan,” she says. “Apparently I forgot how to walk."
"Good thing I was here,” he jokes back. “I’d hate to have to hear about that in the morning.”
"Such a hero."
"I know,” His grin appeared instantly, and unfortunately it made her smile. Logan glanced around the mostly empty bar. "You waiting for someone?"
"Supposedly."
"Beau?"
"Ding ding ding."
Logan immediately laughed, and that told her everything she needed to know.
"What?"
"Oh nothing."
"Logan,” her grip tightened a tad on his arms as he shook his head.
"No, that's exactly what I expected,” he says back. "You got abandoned, sweetheart."
"No shit,” she laughs back. "He probably got distracted by his photobooth girl."
Logan laughed, not realizing the little squeeze he did on her hips sent shivers down her spine.. "That's terrible."
“Yet, he’s still Beau,” she answers, before she checks her phone again. Still nothing.
Logan looked toward the parking lot, then back at her, and nodded down at her. "I can take you home,” he says simply, like the offer came so casually. Y/N blinked.
"You don't mind?" she asks him, and he shakes his head, already going to take her hand into his.
"Nope,” he says, holding open the door for her as they step outside. "Why would I?"
She smiled warmly up at him as they walked, and for some reason that smile made Logan's stomach do something weird.
"Okay,” she nods back, her answer being curt and simple, making him look back at her with slight surprise.
"Okay?"
"Yeah."
His grin widened, unlocking his truck. "Wow."
"What?"
"I thought I'd have to work harder than that,” he joked, and Y/N laughed.
"Sorry to disappoint."
He fake pouts while holding open the passenger door for her. "I had a whole persuasive speech prepared."
"Did you really?” she giggled, and he shook his head. "No."
She shoved his shoulder as he laughed, letting him close the door once she was in.
The drive started easily. The way conversations somehow always seemed to with them, with the radio playing quietly in the background.
"You really thought Beau ditched you?" he starts off, more so in a joking manner, making her snort.
"I know Beau,” She laughed, nodding at him before leaning her head against the seat as she looked at him. "What about you?"
"What about me?"
"Do hockey players always volunteer as chauffeurs?" she asks, and Logan looks thoughtfully at her for a moment, pretending to think.
"Only for elite softball players."
"Oh, is that the qualification? Does that include a minimum stat average requirement?” she snorted, and Logan groaned, going to shake his head. "Not you too."
"I'm never letting that go,” she laughs, making him huff with a pout.
"That is just wonderful,” he trails off, one hand on the wheel while the other sat comfortably on the gearstick.
"You should've seen your face when Dean exposed you,” she adds, shaking her head. “Totally worth it.”
"I wanted to disappear."
Y/N laughed, and Logan couldn't help noticing how easy it was to make her laugh, or the fact of how much he liked it.
The conversation continued, whether it was about classes, sports, embarrassing stories.
By the time they were halfway across town, it felt less like getting to know each other and more like continuing a conversation they'd somehow already started weeks ago.
"You know," Y/N said, she turned to face him fully, a small smile on her face. "You're different than I expected."
Logan glanced over, a confused expression on his face, leaning forward a bit. "Good different or bad different?"
"Good,” she assured him, watching as his smile appeared. "I thought you'd be quieter."
"I am quiet,” he snorts, and she gives him a look before looking outside. "No."
"No?"
"Not around people you're comfortable with."
Logan blinked because that was surprisingly accurate. "You figured that out already?"
She looks back at him with a look he can’t read. "I just tend to pay attention is all,” Y/N shrugged. Something about the way she said it made the air shift slightly, and Logan noticed.
Y/N noticed him noticing, and neither looked away immediately. Suddenly the inside of the truck felt a little smaller, even a little warmer.
Then Logan laughed softly. "Okay, now I know why Beau likes you."
Y/N smiled. "He loves me,” she fakes a dramatic sigh. “He'd be devastated if I disappeared."
"He'd put your face on milk cartons."
Y/N burst out into a fit of laughs, her eyes flickering between his own, soon the moment had passed. Though not completely.
Eventually they pulled up outside her house, the porch light was still on, and there were a couple cars sitting in the driveway.
Everything looked normal, she turned to face him one more time. "Thanks for the ride."
"Anytime."
Y/N smiled, and then leaned over the center counsel, pressing her lips firmly onto his cheek, then headed toward the house. Logan froze at the warmth from her lips, feeling the ingles they left behind, his face heating up from her touch as he watched her walk up the front steps.
She turned back once, giving him a sly smile, before unlocking her front door and stepping inside. Once the door had closed, he felt his breath fall out of his mouth, making him bite his lip as he thought back to her, and how they had been all night.
“Fuck, what’re you doing to me,” he chuckles lightly to himself, then finally pulled away.
Although, he didn’t end up getting very far, feeling his phone buzz in his pocket. He glanced down when he hit a red light.
Y/N.
A smile immediately appeared as he opened the message.
Y/N
Are you still nearby?
Logan frowned, then typed back.
Logan
Yeah. Why?
Her response came almost immediately.
Y/N
I may have a slight problem.
Logan
What kind of problem?
Three dots appeared, then disappeared, and then reappeared. Logan stared, and then laughed at her response.
Y/N
The kind where I walked into my living room and immediately walked back out.
Logan
Roommate?
Y/N
And apparently company.
Logan
How bad?
Y/N
I need bleach for my eyes, Logan
I don’t even know how they managed the position he had her in.
Logan nearly choked laughing, and then the next message arrived immediately.
Y/N
I'm sitting on my front steps right now. I was going to see if you were up for a late night adventure.
Maybe ice cream, commit a hate crime against Dean or Beau. Or just keep a girl company
He shook his head. Poor girl.
Then another text.
Y/N
Please laugh quietly.
That was too late, as he was already laughing. Finally he replied back, with a wide smile on his face.
Logan
How about a place to stay?
There was a brief pause as her bubbles kept disappearing and reappearing for a bit.
Y/N
Maybe.
Logan didn't even hesitate with his next message, his heart beating faster.
Logan
Come stay at the hockey house.
Y/N
Seriously? You don't mind?
Logan
Not even a little.
There was another pause, but longer this time.
Y/N
You're sure?
Logan smiled, shaking his head.
Logan
Y/N.
Y/N
Yeah?
Logan
I've had to unclog our pipes because Dean flushed too many condoms.
Y/N
That's horrifying.
Logan
Exactly.
Y/N
And?
Logan
Nothing your roommates are doing can be worse than living with these idiots.
So when I say I want you to come stay, I’m not asking
A laughing emoji appeared, followed by her response.
Y/N
Fair point.
As Logan grinned when he made a U-turn, another text appeared from Y/N.
Thank you :)
His smile softened.
Anytime.
For some reason, he found himself very glad he'd decided to wait until she got inside before driving away. Logan was back in front of her house less than five minutes later.
Y/N was still sitting on the front steps, her arms wrapped around her knees, probably trying very hard not to think about what she'd just accidentally witnessed in her own living room.
The second his truck pulled up, she stood, walking quickly back to his truck as he pushed the door open, Logan rolled down the window.
"Still traumatized?" he jokes, making her grimace.
"Deeply."
"Scale of one to ten?"
"Twelve."
Logan laughed as she climbed into the passenger seat. The moment the door shut, she pointed at him, seeing the look on his face. "Don't."
"I'm not saying anything!" he wheezed out, trying to muster his laughs.
"You were absolutely about to say something."
"Oh yes I was,” he admits watching as Y/N groaned.
Logan's grin widened. "What did you even walk in on?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Did he have her upside down?”
"LOGAN."
He nearly doubled over laughing, watching as she hid her face in her hands, trying to push away the images.
"That's not a no."
"I will jump out of this car."
"Who am I supposed to cheer for at softball then if you’re in a body cast?" he fake whines, and her eyes playfully glare at him. Unfortunately, she laughed a few moments later, which only encouraged him.
"Poor thing."
"I need therapy."
"You need different roommates."
"Also true."
Logan shook his head as he pulled away from the curb. "You know Beau is never letting them live this down."
"Oh he won’t be finding out, over my dead body."
They both continued laughing about it, as Y/N rested her head against the window. The exhaustion from the week finally caught up, and Logan noticed immediately.
"You look tired,” he pointed out, and she laughed softly.
"I am tired."
"Then sleep in."
She shook her head. "I'll be gone before you wake up."
Logan glanced over, frowning instantly. "What?"
"I'll head home early,” she shrugs. “So you don't have to stress about getting me out of there.” she jokes, and Logan shakes his head.
"No."
Y/N blinked. "No?"
"No."
"You don't get a vote,” She laughed.
"I absolutely do when it’s my house, and my guest."
"You don't have to-"
"That's not how voting works." he interrupts, watching Y/N roll her eyes, and Logan smiles.
Then his voice softened slightly. "Seriously, just get some sleep. I know how two-a-days can get."
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
The answer came immediately, like he'd already decided. Her breathing froze for a moment at his words, watching as he looked at her for a few moments, then back at the road.
Y/N frowned. "What?"
"You've looked exhausted all week, Y/N," he points out. “Mentally and physically. So sleep as much as you need, the house will be quiet. With being a full-time student, working, and balancing a college sport, you need to rest all of you. Sleep all day if you have to, don’t stress about leaving.”
She froze slightly, because that surprised her.
"You noticed?" her voice was a bit softer, a tone he has not yet heard. Logan looked back at her confused.
"Yeah, of course,” he says softly. “You work hard as a player, and the way you play is a gift. It will go places, but you need sleep, sweetheart.”
Y/N looked away, something uncomfortable twisted in her chest.
Because she hadn't expected that. Not the noticing, or the concern. Before she could stop herself, the words slipped out.
"Whatever you say,” she muttered, her gaze turning to look forward, missing the way Logan frowned.
"What?"
She shrugged, pursing her lips. "It's just softball,” it came out like a reflex. The second she said it, she hated it.
Because it wasn't just softball, it was her sport. Her passion. It was something she'd worked her whole life for. A job profession she was working into. She had scouts from AUSL and Team USA on her case, watching and sending multiple deals her way.
Yet somehow those words still existed in her head, like they belonged there.
Logan glanced over, his expression immediately changing.
"Don't do that,” he says immediately, shaking his head. Y/N blinked.
"What?"
"That."
She looked confused, Logan kept one hand on the wheel. "Don't talk about yourself like that." His answer came so fast she almost missed it, as Logan's brow furrowed.
Because her reaction wasn't what he'd expected, not at all. Her confident demeanor had slipped slightly, Logan seeing something flicker in her eyes.
"You okay?"
She laughed softly with a nod, but it sounded sad. "Yeah, I’m fine."
"No,” he says slowly. “That was something. The way you said it, I can tell.”
The concern in his voice caught her off guard. She contemplated with herself for a bit, letting out a small sigh. "I knew someone who used to say stuff like that,” she admits, letting the words hang there.
The truck suddenly feeling smaller, Logan's grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel. Y/N looked out the window.
"They said it so much it stuck with me,” she says once more, bringing her legs up to her chest. “I have and am currently still working on it, but most days are harder than others. Especially when things don’t go as planned.” She shrugged, like she'd already gotten used to it.
Logan noticed, and that realization genuinely upset him because she was saying it so casually. Like she'd spent far too long hearing it, eventually started believing parts of it.
"You know that's not true, right?" he said softly, and Y/N smiled faintly.
"Now I do,” she says with a nod. “I’m working on it.”
Logan nodded, letting them sit in the silence for a few moments.
"For what it's worth?" he spoke up once again, she glanced over. "I think you're incredible."
The words came out before he could stop them, and Y/N froze. She saw the complete honesty behind his eyes, the way he wasn’t hesitating, but he looked nervous. He didn't take it back though, and somehow that made it even more real.
The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfy. It felt meaningful. Finally Y/N smiled, one that was soft and real. "Thank you."
Logan smiled back. "Anytime."
The hockey house was surprisingly quiet when they arrived, most of the lights were off. The chaos temporarily slept or they were elsewhere.
A rare phenomenon.
Logan led her inside. "Welcome back to the zoo."
Y/N laughed, letting Logan lock up behind them before they climbed the stairs, eventually reaching Logan's room. The second they stepped inside, he headed straight for his dresser.
No hesitation whatsoever. "What are you doing?" she asks with an amused look on her face, and he looks at her for a moment.
"Grabbing clothes."
"For who?"
He gave her a look, and Y/N laughed. "Right."
A few moments later he handed her a t-shirt and sweatpants, both obviously way too big.
"These okay?” he asks her softly, she could see the nervousness behind his eyes flickering, and she nods.
“Absolutely,” she answers, grabbing them from his hands, then Logan immediately grabs a pillow.
Y/N frowned. "What are you doing now?"
He motions towards the door. "I'm gonna crash in Garrett's room."
She blinked. "What?"
"You take my room, I go to Garrett’s,” he chuckles.
"Logan."
"What?"
"This is your room."
"Glad you have eyes," he jokes, making her flip him off with a chuckle.
"So I’m saying,” she says walking towards him. “Sleep in your room, I can head downstairs."
"I'm not kicking you out."
"You're not kicking me out, I’m saying I will go sleep on the couch,” Y/N laughed as Logan crossed his arms, looking entirely too stubborn. She pointed at him. "No."
"No?" he trails off, stalking closer to her, now inches apart. She looks up at him, not backing down from her answer, smiling at him while shaking her head.
"No."
"Sweetheart, you can have my room."
"You deserve your bed."
"So do you."
"Logan."
"Y/N."
She rolled her eyes while he grinned. She hated how much she liked that grin. "You're impossible."
"I've been told that,” he mutters back softly, letting his eyes flicker down to her lips for a second. She must’ve caught his glance, because she bit her bottom lip after.
They stood there staring at each other, both refusing to budge.
The smile tugging at her lips grew, and Logan noticed immediately. He smiled right back, and she got closer to his lips, barely brushing.
“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he says before, kissing her nose and backing toward the door. Something in her chest tightened, it was the good kind.
The dangerous kind.
And judging by the look Logan gave her, and the way he was looking at her, he felt it too. Both of them ended up smiling long after the door closed.
The hockey house was completely silent. Just darkness and complete quiet.
Y/N woke up with a sharp inhale, and for a second she didn't know where she was. Her heart was pounding, and her chest was tight. The remnants of the dream are still clinging to her.
Not even a dream, really. A memory disguised as one.
Her ex's voice. The same comments, and the same criticism. His screams at her, his hands on her. It was flooding her mind that night. Every word and every wrong touch she'd spent months trying to forget.
Somehow her brain had decided to replay it. It had gotten more and more prominent as week passed by. She sat up slowly, the oversized Briar Hockey t-shirt Logan had given her hanging off one shoulder, wiping away the wetness on her face underneath her eyes. Her pulse gradually slowed, and the room came back into focus.
Logan's room.
The hockey house.
Safe.
Everything was okay.
Still, she knew she wasn't getting back to sleep anytime soon.
With a sigh, she climbed out of bed and quietly made her way towards the door.
A few minutes later she was standing in the kitchen, one of the dim lights over the counter was on. A glass of water in her hands as she found herself leaning against the kitchen island
The house remained silent, as she stood there, trying to shake the lingering feeling.
Trying to convince herself she wasn't back there, and that she wasn't that same version of herself.
The one who apologized for everything, who constantly second-guessed herself. She took a slow sip of water, eyes going into a daze.
She forced herself to think about something else. Anything else.
Softball.
Her team.
Beau.
The idiots she'd somehow become friends with.
Allie.
Hannah.
Garrett.
Dean being incapable of acting normal for more than three seconds. Tucker somehow surviving adulthood.
Logan.
A smile tugged at her lips despite herself. The smile faded slightly when she realized she'd been thinking about him a lot lately, more than she'd intended.
More than she probably should.
"You okay?" A soft voice says, which nearly made her jump. Y/N spun around, seeing Logan standing in the doorway.
Sweatpants, and messy hair.
He was clearly half asleep with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the doorway, and somehow still looking concerned.
She let out a breath. "You scared me."
"Sorry,” he chuckles, his voice quiet. He stepped further into the kitchen. "Couldn't sleep?"
Y/N hesitated, and then shrugged. "Something like that,” she answers back before taking another sip of her water.
Logan studied her for a moment, taking in her appearance. The way his t-shirt on her figure was sliding off her shoulder, her tired expression, hair a bit messy. She looked gorgeous.
His expression immediately softened, because now that he was closer, he could tell something was wrong. "You sure?"
Y/N looked down at her glass, knowing that the silence answered for her. Logan walked over and leaned against the counter beside her.
Not too close, but it was just enough. After a moment he spoke again. "Bad dream?"
“Yeah,” she answered as she looked over, a little surprised. "How'd you know?"
He shrugged. "You looked like I used to,” he admits, looking between her eyes, then studying her facial features. The answer caught her off guard.
She glanced away, and then nodded once. "Yeah,” she hums. The kitchen grew quiet again, neither rushing the conversation. Eventually Y/N let out a breath. "I haven't had one in a while."
Logan nodded, like he understood exactly what she meant. "The kind you hoped were gone?"
A small laugh escaped her. "Exactly,” she says. “Beau used to have to hold me. After I first started getting them. Him or my roommate did, otherwise I couldn’t relax. They were going away after a while, but not as permanent as I’d hoped.”
He was quiet for a second, and then asked gently, "Wanna talk about it?"
Y/N considered it, then shook her head.
"Not yet."
"That’s okay," he assures her softly, and she looks at him. He nods at her reassuringly. There was no pressure to push to talk. He was just showing he was open and understanding.
Which somehow made her chest ache a little, because she still wasn't entirely used to that. After another minute, Logan straightened slightly, nodding his head towards the stairs.
"Come on."
Y/N frowned, and Logan just held out his hand for her to take. "What?"
"I’ve got an idea,” he says, smiling lightly when she takes his hand.
"That's ominous."
He smiled.
"A little."
A minute later they were back upstairs in Logan's room. Y/N looked confused.
"Logan,” she says, and he goes to lay down in his bed. He looks up at her.
"Come here,” he says softly, patting the spot next to him. Y/N understood immediately. She padded over towards where he was laying, and crawled in next to him. He looked at her. “Do you trust me?”
She nods, not having to think twice, and he nods back at her. Logan doesn’t waste another second laying down, slithering his arms around her waist to pull her to him. Y/N’s entire body relaxed the second his arms wrapped around her, almost like she could feel the anxiety washing away.
They laid together for a while with neither of them saying anything. Y/N held onto Logan tighter, closing her eyes with a sigh. "You don't have to be alone with it,” he says softly, making her heart squeeze unexpectedly.
The simple sincerity of it, and the complete lack of judgment. The house is still quiet.
Safe.
Eventually she let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, her hands tightening around his hoodie sleeves. "I forgot how much I hated those dreams."
Logan nodded, a long pause between them both. "For what it's worth?" he says, Y/N glanced over her shoulder, looking back at him. He was already looking down at her. "They don't get to decide who you are."
The words were simple, but they hit harder than he intended.
Because they weren't really about the dream, and both of them knew it.
Y/N looked down, and then smiled slightly. The tension in her chest easing a little more, piece by piece, just until eventually exhaustion started winning. Logan noticed immediately, tucking his face into her neck. "Better?"
Y/N nodded. "Yeah,” she sighs with a hum, letting her body fully relax into him.
"Good,” he hums back, letting the room grow quiet again. Comfortable. Eventually she settled back against his chest, eyes slowly beginning to feel too heavy to keep open.
At some point they both drifted off, her nightmare forgotten, not even trying to hint at returning. The rest of the world is quiet. For the first time in a long time, Y/N slept peacefully.
Logan woke up to his phone vibrating against the nightstand, and for a moment he didn't move. He was still half asleep.
Then another vibration.
And another.
A groan escaped him as he grabbed his phone.
Garrett
Practice got moved up.
Coach is feeling evil
Dean
GET UP FUCKER
IF I'M AWAKE YOU SHOULD SUFFER TOO
Logan immediately regretted checking his messages, because then he became aware of something else. The warmth wrapped around him. His eyes drifted over, and instantly a smile appeared.
Y/N was still asleep ,curled up next to him, beneath the blanket. Hair was a complete mess, but she was looking more peaceful than she'd looked all night.
Logan's smile somehow got bigger, which was ridiculous. Yet here he was staring, just like he did at her softball game.
After another moment he shifted slightly closer, putting his phone away and snaking his arms back around her. "Y/N."
Nothing, the girl was fast asleep.
He smiled, and then gently brushed his lips against her shoulder. "Hey."
A soft groan, which was progress.
"Y/N,” he hums in a soft voice, watching as her eyes slowly opened.
Immediately squinting at him, sleep still evident. "What time is it?"
"Too early,” he answers, his chin on her shoulder, she made a face.
"Rude."
"I agree."
Her eyes drifted closed again, holding onto him tighter. Logan laughed quietly, his heart squeezing at how cuddly she was in the morning. He made sure to take mental note of it. "Unfortunately, I have practice."
"Worst sentence ever,” she says with a groan that escapes her.
"I know,” he answers back softly.
"Skip it."
"I would if I valued my life less."
That made her laugh. It was barely there and it was a sleepy one, her face still half buried in the pillow. Logan smiled. "I have to go,” he trails off softly, squeezing her once more before he slowly unwrapped his body from her own.
Y/N blinked up at him, and then frowned slightly. "Okay,” the confusion in her voice made him laugh.
"You don't have to leave,” he says while getting up from his bed, and she pauses.
"What?"
"You can stay,” Logan shrugged as he gathered his hockey bag and gear. He said it like it wasn't a big deal, and like his heart wasn't doing cartwheels. "Sleep in."
Y/N looked surprised. "Seriously?"
"Yeah."
A small, tired smile appeared. Logan nearly forgot how to function, and then he made the mistake of speaking honestly. "I kinda like waking up and seeing you here."
The words slipped out before he could stop them, making them both freeze.
Then Y/N smiled, and it was the kind that made his chest hurt. "Promise?"
Logan blinked, and then nodded with a grin. “Pinky.”
“Good,” she mumbles, snuggling herself back into his sheets. "Because I kinda liked waking up and seeing you too."
Well fuck, that was going to take everything in him not to play hooky for practice this morning.
Practice was awful, and not because of the actual practice. It was because Logan couldn't stop smiling, which immediately became a problem.
The second he stepped into the locker room, Dean narrowed his eyes. "What the fuck?"
"What?" Logan says, adjusting his skates.
"Why are you smiling?"
"I'm not."
"You are."
Garrett looked up from tying his skates, Logan looking back. Garrett narrowed his eyes, and then paused. “You are never this happy when there’s a six am practice.”
Tucker immediately looked over, and then frowned. "Why does he look happy?"
The entire room got quiet, because they all knew that Logan never looked happy before sunrise. This was deeply concerning.
Dean stood while pointing dramatically. "What happened?"
Logan looked back down while fixing his gear. "Nothing."
"You’re the worst fucking liar, Johnny Boy."
"Nothing happened."
Garrett folded his arms, a knowing and smug smirk on his face. "You're glowing, dude. It’s fucking scary," he giggles, making Logan flip him off with an eyeroll. "I'm not glowing."
"You kind of are."
Logan buried his face in his hands, knowing that the interrogation would not stop all morning.
Thirty minutes later it somehow got worse.
Because Dean noticed something, stopping mid skate. "Wait."
Everyone looked over, Logan froze, and Dean gasped. The loud dramatic kind, because Dean always caught on, somehow. "Wait."
"What now?"
Dean pointed. "Y/N."
The room froze, and Logan immediately knew where this was going. Dean’s eyes lit up. “It has to do with Y/N! I fucking knew it!”
"Oh no."
"OH YES,” Dean nearly lost an edge trying to skate backwards toward him. "Tell me I'm wrong."
"You're wrong,” Logan scoffs, trying to hide the bright red that his face was becoming. Maybe he could blame it on being all sweaty. "He's wrong," Garrett agreed immediately.
Dean pointed at him, then frowns. "Thank you. Wait-"
"No," Garrett interrupted. "I'm saying you're wrong because it definitely isn't just Y/N."
The entire group collectively made the connection, and then they stopped skating. Coach blew his whistle from the other end of the ice, but nobody cared. Tucker's eyes widened.
"Wait."
"No," Logan warned, pointing his stick over at his friend. Tucker’s wicked grin grew more and more.
"Did you spend time with Y/N last night?"
"I-No."
"You hesitated."
"I did not."
"You literally did,” Tucker wheezed out, putting his hands up in shock, and Dean's jaw dropped.
"No fucking way."
Logan closed his eyes. "Dean-"
"You slept with Y/N!"
The entire rink went silent.
Several heads turned, and Coach immediately blew the whistle again. "WHAT DID I JUST SAY ABOUT STANDING AROUND?"
Nobody moved still, because Dean was already having a breakdown. "You little shit, you did!"
"No I did not!” Logan groans.
"You absolutely did."
"I didn't."
"Then why are you smiling?" Tucker laughs, a smirk thrown his way as he crosses his arms, and Logan shrugs.
"I don't know!"
"Nobody smiles this much naturally. Especially at six in the fucking morning, at an early prac,” Dean snickers, pointing over at Logan while shaking his head.
Garrett skated over. "You know what?" he said thoughtfully. "Dean actually has a point."
"See? Thank you!" Dean nods, making Logan flip him off.
"I hate both of you."
Tucker looked horrified. "Wait,” he trails off as everyone groans. "No, seriously."
Tucker pointed. "He's lying," Tucker announced. Logan froze, and the entire team noticed. Dean looked ready to explode.
"He's absolutely lying," Garrett agreed.
Logan groaned. "Can we practice?" Logan looked like he wanted to jump into the ice and disappear.
"No," Dean said, ignoring Coach's whistle blowing from across the rink. "So where is she?"
Logan nearly dropped the puck. "What?"
"Y/N."
"What about her?"
Dean smirked. "You know exactly what about her,” he trails off, and Logan rolls his eyes. Garrett suddenly snapped his fingers pointing. "Malone's."
"Remember last night? She showed up with Beau, he was her ride,” Garrett says, looking too pleased with his brain slowly clicking into place. Logan rolled his eyes, seeing his friends turn to look at him.
“Beau left with photoshoot chick,” Dean trails off, squinting his eyes at Logan. He shrugs, like it was not a big deal. "Relax," Logan said. "He didn't leave her stranded. He left with some girl from Malone's, and I brought her home."
"Home?"
"She needed a ride."
Dean looked like he'd just discovered buried treasure. "You were alone."
"Dean.”
“So you brought her home?” Tucker asks with a curious expression on his face.
“Yes, her house,” he says, shooting a puck elsewhere. The boys immediately quieted.
"Okay," Garrett said, nodding slowly. "Reasonable, but there’s more. I can tell.”
Logan lets out a huff and nods. "Her roommate had a guy over,” he starts, and Dean furrows his eyebrows.
"Like a boyfriend?"
"No."
"Ah a hookup guy,” Dean nodded.
"The hookup guy."
Logan rubbed his face. "She walked in on them," he admits, and Garrett started laughing again.
"Oh, that's brutal,” he says between laughs, and Logan shrugs. "Apparently they didn't hear her come in."
Tucker cringed. "Oh no."
“What position were they in?” Dean says with an eyebrow raise, which got him a puck to the shins. Logan continued talking.
"So she texted me,” he said simply, and Dean's eyebrows shot up.
"She texted you?"
Logan immediately regretted saying that, and the entire group caught it.
"Interesting,” Dean trails off with a nod. “Very interesting."
"Shut up, Dean,” Logan groans, and then Garret cuts back in
"So she texted you," Garrett continued, "and then?"
"I picked her up."
"And then?"
"I brought her back to the house,” Logan says, like it wasn’t already obvious, but he catches the gleeful look on his best friend’s face.
"And then?"
Logan glared, while Garrett looked delighted. “And then she stayed over.” Dean nearly crashed into Tucker.
"Y/N stayed over?" he yells out, making Logan give him a crazed look.
"Keep your fucking voice down!"
"Why?"
"Because other guys are staring!"
"Good!"
Logan groaned, hearing Coach blow the whistle again, and still, nobody listened. Garrett was laughing too hard to breathe. "She actually stayed over?"
"Nothing happened,” Logan says, shrugging while skating away, but the boys followed.
"That's not what we asked,” Tucker points out, and Logan eyes him.
"Tucker."
"Logan."
Dean skated closer. "Did she sleep in your room?"
"No-” The answer came too fast.
Everyone gasped, Dean pointing at him with his stick. "HE'S LYING."
"I'm not lying!"
"You answered that way too quickly!” Garrett wheezes.
"Because I knew you fucks would ask!"
Tucker looked genuinely confused. Logan finally realized there was no escaping this. He didn't answer fast enough.
Garrett's eyes widened, smile doing the same thing. "So that’s a no."
Dean's mouth dropped open. “Logan?” he trails off knowingly. Logan immediately started skating away.
"NO." he yells back, but the boys chased him.
"John Logan!"
"Leave me alone."
"LOGAN."
Dean caught up first, skating in front of him to cut him off. "She didn't sleep in your room."
Logan stayed silent, and the screaming started instantly. “No fucking way!” Dean looked ready to pass out. "She slept in your room!"
"It wasn't like that."
"You shared a bed," Tucker adds.
"There was nowhere else to sleep,” he argues, and looks at them all. "We slept."
"You shared a bed-”
"Dean, I swear-"
Dean looked seconds away from tears. "Y/N. In your bed."
"Yes."
Coach started skating toward them. Fast, but none of them noticed. Tucker was grinning. "Oh shit."
"What?" Logan groans out.
"If she came back from Malone’s that means she had to sleep in something else."
Logan didn't answer, and the boys froze. Dean's eyes widened to impossible proportions.
"Oh boy, you are absolutely fucking smitten,” Logan immediately knew he'd screwed up but walking in as chipper as he did. He couldn’t help it. Coach finally reached them.
"What exactly is so fucking fascinating that you've all forgotten how to play hockey?" Nobody answered, because then Dean pointed directly at Logan.
"Y/N slept at the house."
Coach blinked. "...Okay?"
The team collectively stared, and Coach looked between them. Then Logan, and then back at them. Realization hit, and Coach shook his head. "You idiots are acting like they got married."
"They basically did."
"They absolutely did not,” Logan spoke back, throwing a puck at Dean’s head. Garrett wiped tears from his eyes.
"Logan, buddy,” Garret snickers.
"No."
"Buddy."
"No."
"When are you planning on admitting you're in love with her?"
Logan nearly choked, and the entire team erupted, but judging by how red his face got? Nobody needed an answer.
The rest of practice was torture.
Every drill, skate, or water break. Somebody brought it up. Dean was now convinced Beau orchestrated the entire thing. "He definitely had to have abandoned her on purpose."
"He did not,” Logan says between breaths, sitting on the bench while drinking some water.
"He absolutely did,” Garrett cuts in, coming in from the ice."The evidence is compelling."
"There is no evidence," Logan frowns in confusion. “You guys are fucking insane.”
"He's her best friend,” Tucker says, walking down to sit on the bench next to Dean. "He's playing matchmaker."
Logan wanted new teammates. Immediately.
By the time they got back to the hockey house everyone was starving, and ready to collapse Then they opened the door, and stopped.
The smell hit first. Breakfast.
Actual breakfast.
Not protein bars, or cereal. Real food.
Dean almost looked emotional. "Is that bacon?"
They followed the smell into the kitchen, and froze.
Because Y/N was standing at the stove, music playing, in what looked like her workout clothes.
Her hair was pulled back, Logan not wasting another second to scan her figure. She had on his oversized shirt from last night still, tucked under what guessed was her sports bra, so it looked a bit cropped.
The workout spandex shorts hugged her body right, showing off her softball ass and legs, his thought immediately thinking about how she could probably strangle him with them while he was tongue deep in between her-
"You fucking cook?" Tucker gasps, and Y/N turns around with a large smile of amusement.
"I think she needs to move in.”
"Marry me."
"Immediately."
Y/N laughed. "Good morning."
Logan stopped walking, because somehow she looked even prettier than she had last night. He felt like he was malfunctioning. Which didn't seem fair.
He didn’t know if it was her outfit, her smile, or the fact that she was casually making breakfast for everyone. He just knew he was doomed.
Dean noticed immediately, smirking wide. "Oh."
Logan glared, and Dean grinned. "I saw that."
"Saw what?" Logan says, playing dumb before going to drop his bag down.
"The look."
"There was no look."
"There really was,” Garrett cut in and nodded, and Y/N looked between them.
"You guys good?" she chuckles, setting down the plates on the counter.
"Very."
Logan wanted to die.
A few minutes later everyone was gathered around the kitchen, eating and talking while trying not to inhale food.
Y/N laughed. "I figured you'd be back around now,” she explains, when they asked her about breakfast. Dean pointed dramatically. "You made all this?"
"Yeah,” she shrugs. “I woke up and thought you guys might need the fuel.”
"You're an angel,” Dean moans out, taking another bite of food.
"That's what I keep saying," Garrett added, and Logan groaned.
Shitheads. All of them.
Then Y/N shrugged, pouring herself a smoothie she made. "I also used your guys’ backyard setup, if that was alright,” she says, and everyone paused.
"Our what?"
"The lifting area? In the backyard?"
Garrett blinked. "You worked out?"
"Yeah?” she trails off. “Sorry-”
“Don’t apologize, I think we just kind of forget you lift too,” Tucker says immediately, a wide smile on his face. The hockey players looked horrified especially, because she had voluntarily exercised before breakfast.
Psychotic behavior.
"Why?" Dean chuckles. “Voluntarily before noon?”
Y/N laughed. "Because I have practice later."
Dean looked personally offended. "She's one of those people."
"One of what people?"
"The productive ones,” Dean shot back, and she flicked him off, Garrett sighed dramatically while shaking his head. "Disgusting."
The table laughed, and then Y/N pointed at them, sipping on her smoothie. "Actually."
"What?"
"I rent field time sometimes,” she explains, and nods. Everyone looked over. "You guys should come."
Dean blinked. "Really?"
"Yeah, definitely," she nods. “Beau comes and helps me practice all the time. I can show you guys the works.”
The room immediately exploded, agreeing and beaming with excitement about getting to hang at the fields. Then Tucker casually looked toward Logan, then toward Y/N, and back toward Logan.
A dangerous smile appears.”Hm,” he trails off, making her smile in a confused way.
"What?"
"If he doesn't ask you out soon, I will."
The entire table erupted, Dean pointed dramatically. "Same."
Y/N narrows her eyes at Dean. “You have Allie, don’t even try that.”
Dean shrugs. “Honey, when I tell you she would try to beat me to it, she would. She wants you more than me,” he jokes, making her snort.
“Tell her give me a time and place,” she shot back, and his mouth dropped.
“Do not! She is mine, L/N!!” he says when standing up, Garrett palms his face.
"Sit down."
"No."
Y/N was laughing so hard she couldn't breathe, meanwhile Logan looked ready to throw everyone through a wall. Which only made the group laugh harder, and sitting across the table, Y/N couldn't stop smiling.
Especially when she caught Logan smiling right back.
Breakfast somehow turned into everyone lingering around the kitchen long after they finished eating.
Nobody seemed particularly interested in leaving, partly because the food was good, and partly because Y/N had somehow become one of their favorite people to have around.
Especially because watching Logan attempt to act normal around her was becoming a sport. A sport everyone enjoyed.
"Okay," Dean announced, leaning back against his chair. "New proposal."
"Oh no," Garrett muttered, hissing at his friend’s words, which made Y/N laugh. "That's usually how bad ideas start."
Dean flipped off Garrett, and then pointed dramatically toward her. "You should just move in."
The room exploded, and Y/N nearly choked on her drink.
"What?"
"I'm serious!”
"No, you're not."
"I am."
Garrett nodded thoughtfully. "The food quality has increased substantially."
"Hey!” Tucker calls out. Y/N points at him.
“He’s the chef of the kitchen, best food I have ever had was from that man,” she points out, and Tucker smiled sweetly at her
"I'm just saying,” Dean jokes, but then he pointed toward Logan. "And look how happy he'd be."
Logan immediately threw a grape at him, and Dean ducked still laughing. Y/N shook her head. The room dissolved into laughter again.
Then Dean's phone started ringing, causing everyone to look over. Dean glanced at the screen, and immediately grinned up at the group. He slid over to answer.
“Goodmorning, sunshine,” Dean says in a fake warm voice. turned the phone around.
"Dean?" Beau’s voice comes in, a couple quiet snickers and snorts leave their mouths.
"Unfortunately,” he laughs, the room got quiet with everyone listening. Y/N immediately narrowed her eyes because she knew that look. Dean was planning something.
On speakerphone, Beau sounded completely normal. "Have you seen Y/N?"
Dean exchanged a look with Y/N, and she gave him a knowing look. "Actually,” he trails off, while Y/N covers her face to prevent from laughing. Beau immediately sounded suspicious.
"What?"
Dean leaned back in his chair. "Funny story."
"Dean."
"The boys and I were actually gonna ask you something."
Silence, and then Beau spoke. "What did you do?"
The room lost it, trying their best to keep quiet because knowing that Beau immediately assumed the worst made it even funnier. Dean looked offended. "Nothing!"
"Liar."
Garrett jumped in. "Did you know how she got home?" he asks, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue. The line went completely silent, and Y/N nearly fell out of her chair trying to contain her laughs.
Because she knew exactly what was happening. Meanwhile Beau was rapidly approaching cardiac arrest. "What do you mean?"
Dean glanced around, trying not to laugh. "What do you mean what do I mean?"
"Dean."
The panic was immediate, and real.
Tucker decided to help, which made everything worse. "We haven't seen her since last night."
Y/N buried her face in her hands, while the boys were crying. On speaker, Beau sounded ready to drive through a wall. "What do you mean you haven't seen her?!"
Garrett had to bite his hand, Dean couldn't breathe, and Tucker nearly fell out of his chair.
Then, the call disconnected.
"He hung up."
"He absolutely hung up."
"He's in full panic mode."
"One hundred percent."
Less than ten seconds later, Y/N's phone started ringing. The entire table lost it again.
"Answer it,” Logan chuckled, and she shook her head. She froze, not knowing how to react.
She looked at the screen.
Beau
"Oh this is gonna be good."
Y/N waited, till it rang a few times, and then answered. "Hello?"
"Where are you?"
Y/N smiled innocently. "Huh?"
"Y/N."
"What?"
"Where in the fucking shit are you?"
She looked around the table, seeing everyone listening. Everyone trying not to laugh. "Interesting question."
"Y/N."
"Very philosophical, if you think about it."
"Y/N,” he says, now realizing she was fucking with him. She grinned.
"Could anybody truly know where they are?" she asks, and Beau made a noise that sounded genuinely homicidal.
The entire kitchen dissolved, and even Logan was laughing now. Finally Y/N took pity on him.
"I'm fine,” she laughs out, and then there was a pause. Then a very long exhale.
"You’re a little shit,” he says into the phone, which made Y/N smile slightly. Because for all his chaos, Beau genuinely worried. "You're unbelievable."
"I learned it from you,” she shot back. "No."
"Yes."
"No."
“You left me at Malone’s,” she shot. “I could’ve been kidnapped.”
The argument was automatic, and then Beau suddenly paused. “Y/N you’ve walked home with one shoe, and a forgotten purse before,” he chuckles, making her snort. “Plus, I knew Logan was still there."
The room immediately got quiet.
"Oh?" she lets out, looking over at Logan for a split second, who looked just as intrigued. A small smirk playing on his lips.
Beau groaned. "I knew he'd take you home."
Every head turned toward Logan immediately.
Dean slapped the table, pointing at Logan. "I FUCKING KNEW IT."
Garrett pointed dramatically. We so fucking called it at practice."
Beau groaned louder. "I fucking hate all of you."
Y/N laughed. "So you did abandon me," she trails off and looks at Logan. He smirks at her and mouths ‘I was right’ and she sticks her tongue out at him.
"I strategically relocated,” he answers back, earring an eyeroll from her. “You keep rolling your eyes, they’re gonna get stuck that way,” Beau calls out, her mouth dropping in awe.
"Rude."
"It worked, though didn’t it?"
"Still rude."
A pause, and then Beau asked her another question. "So where are you?"
Y/N smiled. "I'm at the hockey house."
The silence on the other end was incredible. “No shit, seriously? He brought you home?”
The room exploded where Dean actually stood up, Garrett nearly fell out of his chair, and Tucker was screaming. Y/N couldn't stop laughing.
Meanwhile Logan had buried his face in his hands because apparently this was his life now.
Beau sounded entirely too pleased with himself. "I am a fucking genius."
"No."
"I am."
"No."
"He absolutely is!” Dean hollers in, hearing Beau howl out a laugh.
Y/N rolled her eyes, and then glanced toward Logan, who already happened to be looking at her at the exact same moment.
For a second neither looked away, both smiling, and knowing exactly why everyone was losing their minds.
The moment lasted all of two seconds before Beau ruined it.
"Logan,” he calls out from the phone, causing Logan to look up.
"What?"
"You're welcome,” with that, Beau hangs up the phone, and the entire room erupts into hoots and hollers.
Logan groaned, and Y/N laughed. The kitchen immediately exploded into applause, talking nonstop about how well they knew Beau, and that this had been known all along.
Summary: Logan knows better than to fall for his best friend's little sister.
wc: 7.10k not sorry; graham!reader; figure skater!reader; brother’s best friend; best friend's sister; hockey player x figure skater; tw for this chapter: underage drinking (for americans)
Part I | Part II
The music was already loud before Y/N even made it up the front steps.
It blasted through the walls hard enough to shake the windows while bodies crowded the porch, half the campus apparently determined to celebrate Briar’s hockey team latest win like they’d personally scored the goals themselves.
Y/N adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder and glanced back at the three girls behind her. “This,” she said dryly, “is exactly how people get diseases.”
Her friend Chloe laughed. “Oh my God, stop acting like you’re above this. Your brother literally lives here.”
“Exactly,” Y/N replied. “I know what kind of diseases exist inside this house.”
Another girl, she didn’t even know beside her nudged Y/Nel’s shoulder excitedly. “Still can’t believe your brother’s Garrett Grant.”
“Graham,” Y/N corrected automatically.
“Whatever. The point is your family tree is carrying our social lives.” Y/N rolled her eyes, but she was smiling a little as she pushed the front door open.
Instant chaos. Bodies everywhere. Beer spilled on the floor already. Music too loud. People shouting over beer pong in the dinner table.
Home, basically.
“Baby G!”
Dean appeared first from the living room with the energy of a golden retriever who’d somehow learned how to drink alcohol. “There she is,” he announced dramatically. “My favorite Graham.”
“You say that every time jus to piss Garrett off.”
“But I mean it every time.”
Dean immediately threw an arm around her shoulders and started pulling her through the crowd while her friends looked one second away from passing out from excitement.
Y/N heard one of them whisper: “Oh my God, that’s Dean Di Laurentis.”
She rolled her eyes. Poor girl.
“They are all freshman, Dean,” Y/N warned. “Behave.”
“I’m always behaving.” he winked.
The kitchen erupted into cheers suddenly as several hockey players stumbled in carrying cases of beer. And right in the middle of them. Logan.
Hoodie sleeves shoved up his forearms, curls messy under a backwards cap, and that lazy, effortless kind of confidence that made it seem like he belonged everywhere he stood. The warm glow from the kitchen lights softened the sharp edges of his face while he laughed at something one of the upperclassmen said, easy and unguarded for once.
Unfortunately for Y/N’s sanity, Logan always looked unfairly good without even trying.
Y/N’s friend beside her went completely silent. Then: “…holy shit.”
Y/N snorted. Because– Yeah… holy shit
That was usually people’s reaction to Logan.
He looked up a second later, eyes scanning the room automatically before landing on her. And immediately smiled, walking towards them.
Well, well,” he called over the music. “Graham brought friends.” His mouth curved into a smirk. He wasn’t interested in the girls at all, he just knew the comment would earn him an eye roll from her, and for some reason, he never got tired of being the reason for them.
Y/N flipped him off instantly. “They’re innocent freshmen. Leave them alone.”
“I don’t want to be left alone,” one of her friends whispered weakly.
Dean and Logan chuckled.
Y/N rolled her eyes, but her gaze drifted back to Logan anyway. He looked different tonight.
Not physically, though the messy dark hair, flushed cheeks, post-game adrenaline and the heat of his first and probably only beer for the night certainly weren't helping.
No, it was something else.
Confidence had always followed Logan like a shadow, but tonight it seemed sharper somehow. Brighter. Real. Not made up. Like he was carrying the energy of the entire arena with him.
Which, to be fair, he practically was. He'd scored a hat trick. The crowd had spent half the game chanting his name. The team had won. Briar was on top of the world.
And Logan knew it.
The worst part? He wore real confidence disgustingly well.
Y/N liked to think she knew better than most that Logan hid behind a smile. Behind the flirting, the confidence, the constant jokes, there was always something he kept carefully out of reach. A part of himself he rarely let anyone see.
But hockey? Hockey was different.
Hockey was the one place where nothing about him felt rehearsed. There was no charm. No mask. No carefully crafted version of John Logan. Just him.
It was obvious in the way he moved on the ice. In the way his entire face lit up after a good play. In the pure, almost boyish excitement he could never quite hide after a win.
Whatever insecurities he carried, whatever demons he kept locked behind that easy smile, they disappeared the second he stepped onto the rink.
And maybe that was why Y/N liked watching him play. Because for a few hours, she got to see the real version of him. The one who wasn't pretending to be anything at all. The one who looked genuinely happy.
As if sensing her staring, he glanced over.
"Careful, Graham," he said, pointing lazily at her with someone else's beer. "Keep looking at me like that and I'm gonna start thinking you're impressed."
Y/N snorted.
"I'd rather walk barefoot through this kitchen. You scored three goals and somehow became even more arrogant."
Logan grinned. Actually grinned.
Like he'd been waiting for her to bring it up. He looked pleased.
Not because of the game. Because she'd noticed.
"Wait," he said, trying and failing to sound casual. "So... you saw that?" The question slipped out before he could stop it.
Y/N stared at him and blinked.
"Logan."
"What?"
"My brother was playing."
Logan immediately regretted it. Of course she saw it.
Her brother was the fucking captain of the team. Why the hell had he gotten excited in the first place? Like she'd been sitting in those stands watching him.
Idiot.
The stupid little spark in his chest fizzled out instantly. There it is, reality. He should've known better.
"Right," he said, taking a sip of his beer. "Yeah sure."
But then Y/N tilted her head slightly.
"and," she added, "you played really well."
Logan looked up.
"What?"
"You did." She shrugged. "Three goals is kind of incredible, Johnny !"
For a second, he just stared at her.
Y/N fought the urge to smile. Then break the character and finally did. Because there it was, the exact moment the compliment landed. He tried to play it cool and was able to recover quickly.
"Well," he said, suddenly looking far too pleased with himself, "I am kind of incredible."
Y/N laughed.
"Fuck off. I'm never complimenting you again"
Logan laughed softly under his breath. Too softly. Too naturally. Her friends exchanged looks.
“Where’s Garrett?” she asked.
“Somewhere upstairs with Hannah”
“Sounds right.”
As if summoned by the mention of his name, Garrett suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs.
He spotted Y/N instantly. Then spotted the freshmen girls behind her.
“Well,” Y/N sighed. “Speaking of the devil”
Garrett pointed directly at Logan before even reaching the bottom step.
“You.”
Logan blinked innocently. “Me?”
“Don’t.” throwing back to the conversation they had days ago in his room.
Y/N laughed. Her friends looked terrified.
And Logan—
Logan just grinned slowly like Garrett’s threats had become background noise years ago.
“Relax, Johnny wasn’t flirting with them…” Y/N said innocently. Then she paused. “…yet.”
Dean chuckled somewhere behind them while Garrett looked one second away from developing a stress-induced migraine. Y/N ignored all three of them.
“Anyways,” she continued, turning toward the girls beside her, “come meet my brother since apparently he’s, like, a celebrity or something.”
“Oh my God,” Chloe whispered, panicking instantly.
Garrett groaned. “Y/N—”
Too late. Y/N grabbed his wrist and physically pulled him forward into the circle of freshmen girls despite his resistance.
“This is Garrett Graham,” she announced dramatically, like some kind of sports commentator. “Captain, hockey future, and out of the market, unfortunately for you girls."
Garrett deadpanned. “I’m leaving.”
“No you’re not.” she held his arm keeping him in place.
Her friends looked fascinated. Which happened a lot around Garrett.
He had that effect naturally. Big presence, sharp stare, the kind of confidence that made people straighten unconsciously when he walked into a room. Y/N, didn’t see him like that at all. Mostly because she’d spent her entire childhood bullying him frequently.
“Hi,” one girl squeaked nervously.
Garrett softened almost immediately. Not by much, maybe two percent, but for him that was practically warmth. The girls standing behind Y/N didn't look like the kind of people she usually spent time with. If he were being honest, he wasn't even convinced most of them were real friends. They seemed far more interested in the hockey house and the players than in Y/N herself. But she was trying to branch out beyond the skating world, trying to fit in with normal college girls for once, and Garrett wasn't about to embarrass her in front of them.
So he slipped easily into the role they were all expecting: Briar's captain, friendly, polite, approachable. If making a good impression helped Y/N feel a little more comfortable, then he could play the part for a few minutes. Besides, it was nice seeing her with people outside the rink for a change. "Hey," he said politely.
Y/N looked smug. “See? He’s house trained.”
“Shut up”
Behind them, Logan watched the entire interaction with amusement tugging at his mouth.
Most people looked at Y/N and saw confidence. The loud laugh, the quick comebacks, the way she could walk into a room full of strangers and somehow end up talking to all of them within ten minutes. She moved through the hockey house like she'd been born there, stealing drinks, insulting people affectionately, making herself comfortable wherever she went.
But Logan had always thought there was something a little misleading about that version of her. Not because it wasn't real—it was. Y/N genuinely was funny and talkative and ridiculously easy to like. The thing was, people assumed that meant she was easy to know. She wasn't. Growing up with their dad she had, she'd learned early how to smile through discomfort, how to hide pain behind politeness, how to make difficult things look effortless. Figure skating had only reinforced it. Years of performing had taught her how to stay graceful when she was exhausted, how to make every movement look intentional, how to let people see exactly what she wanted them to see.
It was almost funny, really. For someone who looked like such a social butterfly, Y/N kept her world surprisingly small. Most friendships drifted in and out of her life without ever getting particularly deep. The people she truly let in could be counted on one hand: Garrett, the boys, Hannah and Allie. That was it. And whenever anyone pointed it out, she'd just shrug and insist she already had everything she needed.
And Logan was sure she meant it.
Logan’s eyes stayed on Y/N a second longer than necessary as she laughed again, and as she walked around introducing her friends to different guys on the hockey team, head tipping slightly toward her friends, arguing with Garrett about something stupid.
Easy. That was the word for her.
Everything with Y/N felt easy. And Logan still hadn’t realized yet that maybe that was the problem.
Y/N was halfway through introducing another girl to one of the denfesemen when a girl appeared beside Logan near the couch.
Pretty. Blonde. Smiling at him.
“Congratulations on the game” she said with an already flirty undertone, leaning against the side of the couch beside him. “So... you’re Johnny.”
Logan’s eyes was still clued toward Y/N across the room.
She was laughing at something Garrett said, one hand gripping his forearm while he looked deeply unimpressed by her existence.
Logan looked back at the girl beside him. He reconized the girl as one of Y/N’s friends.
“…don’t call me that.” he said quite rude without even noticing.
She blinked. “What?”
“Johnny.” He took another sip of beer. “Don’t call me that”
The girl laughed awkwardly. “Oh. Sorry. Y/N talks about you guys all the time, so I guess it stuck.”
That made something strange settle low in his chest. Y/N talks about you guys all the time. Not just Garrett. But also not just him. But them.
And really, why wouldn't she talk about them?
Y/N spent so much time at the hockey house that half her college memories probably happened within these walls. Movie nights, team dinners, study sessions, late-night food runs, stupid inside jokes that somehow never died.
Somewhere along the way, she'd stopped being Garrett's little sister who occasionally stopped by and simply become part of the group.
Logan wasn't sure any of them had even noticed when it happened. But apparently Y/N had. And apparently she'd been carrying them around in her life ever since.
“You don’t like it, huh?” the girl teased lightly.
Logan realized a second too late she was still talking to him.
“What?”
“The nickname,” she said. “You hate it that much?”
“No,” he answered automatically. Then quieter: “Just sounds weird from other people.”
Her smile shifted slightly then, like she finally noticed he wasn’t really paying attention to her.
Because he wasn’t. Not really.
His attention kept drifting back across the room. Y/N had moved closer to Garrett again, still talking animatedly with her hands while her friends listened. Garrett pretended to look annoyed, but Logan knew him well enough to catch the tiny things underneath it.
The way Garrett stayed turned toward her automatically in crowded rooms. The way his eyes tracked her without thinking. The way Y/N leaned into him casually because somewhere deep down she’d never doubted he’d be there.
Protective. Constant. Safe
It made him think.
Maybe because ever since Garrett had finally told them the truth last year, Logan hadn't been able to completely stop wondering about it. Not about Garrett, about Y/N.
Garrett's stories had always revolved around bruises, shouting matches, slammed doors, and a father who seemed determined to turn every room he entered into a battlefield. Logan knew enough to understand why Garrett carried some of the things he did. Knew enough to understand where the anger came from. But Y/N had always been the missing piece of that story.
He'd never asked. It wasn't his business. Garrett had trusted them with his memories, and Logan wasn't about to start digging for details that hadn't been offered. Still, he couldn't help wondering where Y/N fit into all of it. Where she'd been during those years. What she'd seen. What she'd heard through bedroom walls. How much of it she remembered, and how much of it Garrett had managed to shield her from.
Because sometimes Logan looked at her and saw someone who seemed completely untouched by that kind of childhood, bright, confident, quick to laugh. Then other times, he'd catch small things that made him think the opposite. The way she avoided conflict she couldn't joke her way through. The way she brushed off things that should probably bother her more. The way she seemed determined to carry every problem by herself rather than ask for help.
Like somewhere along the way she'd learned the same lesson Garrett had. Just in a different form. Hide the damage. Keep smiling. Make sure nobody notices.
Garrett had spent most of his life protecting Y/N. Which made this… Whatever this weird thing inside Logan’s chest was… feel worse somehow. It felt wrong in a way he couldn’t fully explain. Because standing here watching them, it was impossible not to see how much trust existed there. How much love.
And Logan was suddenly terrifyingly aware that he was looking at Garrett’s little sister too long again.
The girl beside him tried one last time anyway.
“So,” she smiled, letting her fingers brush lightly against his arm, “are all hockey players this antisocial or just you?”
Normally, Logan would've flirted back without thinking. Easy smile. Easy charm. Easy conversation. The girl was pretty. She was standing right next to him, clearly interested, practically handing him an opening. Usually, that would've been enough.
Instead, he barely reacted.
Because his attention kept drifting across the room.
Y/N was near the middle of the living room now, laughing as Hannah wrapped an arm around her shoulders. A second later, the two girls grabbed Garrett from opposite sides and started trying to drag him toward whatever disaster counted as dancing tonight.
Garrett immediately looked annoyed. Or at least he tried to. His mouth was already twitching before they even managed to pull him away from the wall, the corner of it betraying him as Hannah laughed and Y/N nearly doubled over from her own success.
The idiot was enjoying himself.
Logan felt a soft smile tug at his mouth before he could stop it.
The girl beside him followed his gaze.
Watched Y/N and Hannah continue harassing Garrett while he complained the entire time, letting them pull him farther into the crowd anyway.
Then she looked back at Logan. And suddenly went very quiet. “Oh,” she said.
For the first time all night, Logan actually looked at her and he realized exactly what she'd been seeing.
Understanding flashed across the girl's face almost instantly. Then came sympathy. Which was somehow worse. The girl looked back at Logan and laughed softly.
Logan frowned. "What?"
"Nothing," she said, still smiling. Then her eyes flicked toward Y/N again.
Before Logan could come up with a response, she shook her head, amusement replacing whatever disappointment she'd felt.
"Good luck with that, Logan." she said sarcastically and he noticed she avoided the nickname.
"With what?" he asked immediately.
But she was already backing away into the crowd.
"You'll figure it out."
And then she was gone.
No teasing. No accusations. No chance for him to explain that she had the wrong idea.
Logan stared down into his beer for a moment before his eyes drifted right back across the room. Straight to Y/N. And somehow that only made the girl's comment worse. But the worst part is he still didn’t even know what exactly he’d been caught doing.
———————
The party kept moving around.
Music louder now. More bodies packed into the house. The heat unbearable from too many people dancing too close together.
And somewhere in the middle of it all that, Y/N.
She’d abandoned her jacket hours ago, now down to a cropped Briar U shirt and jeans, hair messy from dancing while Hannah and Allie screamed lyrics around her. Her "friends" were nowhere to be seen anymore, and honestly she felt way better arounf Hannah and Allie anyways.
She looked happy. Not polite-smiling happy. Not teasing-the-boys happy. Actually happy.
Free in a way Logan didn’t think he’d ever really noticed before. And maybe it was because this place felt safe to her. The hockey house, Garrett and the boys. She moved through the crowd without hesitation, laughing freely, accepting drinks from Dean without checking them first, throwing her head back when her friends dragged her into another terrible dance circle.
Comfortable.
Because she trusted that nothing bad would happen here. And that somebody would take care of her if it did. Logan watched her spin badly with Hannah and Allie to some early 2000s song while Dean nearly fell over beside her and Tucker recorded the whole thing laughing.
A smile tugged at Logan’s mouth despite himself.
“Dude.”
Logan blinked and looked back toward the couch.
One of the upperclassmen frowned at him. “Are you even listening?”
“…not really.”
“No shit.”
Logan huffed quietly into his beer and leaned back further into the couch cushions.
Conversation started around him again almost immediately, hockey schedules, classes, some argument about playoffs, but it all blurred together after a while.
Because every few minutes his eyes found her again.
Y/N stealing somebody’s drink. Y/N laughing so hard she doubled over. Y/N dancing terribly on purpose just to make her friends laugh harder. Every glance lasted a little too long. Every time he looked away, his attention drifted right back. He never noticed her like that before. And the more he noticed it the worse it felt.
Because Garrett trusted him.
Hell, Y/N trusted him. She was not only her best friend’s sister, she was his friend too.
She walked into this house without thinking twice because somewhere along the line, the boys had become safe too. Safe enough to steal their drinks, fall asleep on their couches, and trust that nobody would ever see more of it.
The thought settled heavily in Logan's chest.
Because he'd always hated when people said men and women couldn't just be friends. Hated the idea that every friendship secretly came with an expiration date, that eventually one person always wanted more. And yet, watching Y/N laugh her way through the crowd without a second thought, Logan felt like an asshole.
Because as far as she knew, he just another one of the boys.
Then suddenly—
“Jhooooonny.”
A body dropped onto the couch beside him hard enough to make him jolt slightly. Followed by Garrett, Tucker and Dean.
Y/N grinned at him lazily, very obviously drunk.
Her cheeks were flushed pink from dancing, eyes bright and unfocused while she stole the beer directly from his hand without asking.
“People’s princess,” Dean said sitting on the armchair. “Finally tired of entertaining your subjects?”
Y/N pointed at him dramatically. “Dean understands me.”
“You spilled vodka on my shoes twenty minutes ago.”
“And yet you forgive me because I’m charming.”
“No,” Garrett muttered, appearing behind the couch suddenly. “he forgave you because you’re five seconds from falling over.”
Y/N gasped softly. “I’m not even that bad”
She leaned further into Logan’s side as she said it, completely unbothered. Logan went still instantly.
“Hi,” she said suddenly, squinting up at him. “Why do you look depressed?”
“I’m literally just sitting here.”
“Yeah,” she nodded seriously. “But, like… depressing.”
Dean burst out laughing.
Y/N ignored him completely and kept staring at Logan with drunken concentration like she was genuinely trying to solve a puzzle.
Then she narrowed her eyes.
“…you’re thinking too loud. You just scored 3 goals in a important game, you are no fun”
Logan looked down at her—
really looked at her—
and suddenly realized just how close she was.
Close enough to see the faint glitter still stubbornly clinging near the corners of her eyes. Close enough to smell alcohol mixed with her perfume. Close enough that if she leaned even a little more—
His throat tightened.
Y/N blinked up at him slowly with heavy, sleepy eyes, still waiting for an answer to whatever nonsense accusation she’d just made. Completely unaware of the effect she was having on him. Logan swallowed hard before he caught himself.
Then immediately leaned back, giving her shoulder a light shove taking his beer back.
“Shut up,” he muttered with a nervous chuckle. “You are dead-ass drunk.”
Y/N gasped dramatically like he’d deeply insulted her.
“I’m not drunk.”
“You almost walked into my lamp ten minutes ago.” Tucker accused
“The lamp moved.” she said dramaticlly
Dean nodded solemnly from the floor. “Honestly? I saw it too.”
“Thank you.”
Garrett looked exhausted. “I’m surrounded by idiots.”
Y/N ignored him entirely and stole Logan’s beer again before he could stop her.
“Hey—”
“You share,” she informed him.
“You’ve had, like, four drinks already.” he took his beer back
“And?” She tilted her head lazily against the couch cushion. “I want to have five" she pouted
And suddenly Logan felt hyperaware again of the fact that she was practically folded against his side.
This felt dangerously wrong. Not because she was doing anything inappropriate. Y/N was just being Y/N. Comfortable, loud, affectionate when drunk, the problem was that she didn’t know the effect this suddenly had on him.
“You are,” she insisted, poking his ribs weakly. “You are all weird and quiet.”
Logan nearly choked on his beer. “No, I’m not.”
Y/N chuckled again, soft and tired this time, until she suddenly dropped her head onto Logan’s shoulder like gravity simply gave up on her. Everything in Logan’s body locked instantly.
Y/N was already half asleep.
“She’s done,” Tucker announced from the other couch.
“No shit,” Garrett muttered.
Y/N made a small annoyed sound without lifting her head. “I’m literally awake.”
“Congratulations,” Logan said dryly, staring very hard at the opposite wall instead of the warm weight resting against him. “Do you want a medal?”
“…yes. the golden one, in the olympics” she said sleepy
Dean lost it laughing again.
And Logan smiled despite himself. Which was exactly the problem.
“Damn it,” Garrett muttered.
Logan glanced up.
Across the living room, Hannah and Allie were fully passed out on the opposite couch, tangled together next to Tucker.
And Dean—
disappeared suddenly, probably with the brunette he was hooking up with twenty minutes ago.
Garrett took a long breath and pinched the bridge of his nose like the entire party was personally attacking him. “This is why I hate throwing parties,” he muttered. “Everybody has fun, then somehow the house is destroyed, the beer's gone, and we're the ones cleaning up tomorrow.”
"That's leardship Gare" Y/N mumbled
Garrett ignored her and continued “And don't even get me started on freshmen who discover alcohol for the first time and immediately forget how to function.”
“Love you too,” Y/N mumbled sleepily against Logan's shoulder.
Garrett pointed at her immediately.
“You are exactly who I'm talking about."
“No, I'm not.” She cracked one eye open. “I'm your favorite.”
“You're currently drooling on Logan."
Logan nearly inhaled his beer wrong.
Y/N lifted her head just enough to look offended "Liar ! I don't drool."
Then she dropped right back onto his shoulder anyway.
Logan was painfully aware of: Y/N curled into his side. His arm resting along the back of the couch behind her. The fact that he hadn’t moved away once.
Garrett sighed heavily.
“Hey,” he said finally, looking directly at Logan. “I gotta take Hannah and Allie home before it gets too late”
Logan blinked once.
“And?”
“And Dean disappeared.” Garrett jerked his head toward Tucker. “Tucker’s drunk off his ass.” Then finally: "So do you mind taking care of Y/N?”
The room seemed to go strangely quiet for a second. Garrett trusted him. And Logan felt like the world’s worst person suddenly. Because Garrett asked the question so easily.
No suspicion. No hesitation.
“Yeah,” Logan answered automatically, voice rougher than intended. “Course.”
Garrett nodded once like that settled it completely.
“Just make sure she drinks water before she passes out.”
Y/N lifted one finger into the air dramatically without opening her eyes. “Hydration is important for high performance athletes.”
“You had vodka mixed with an energy drink.”
“Balance.”
Garrett rolled his eyes and chuckled lightly shaking his head. Then he moved toward the couch, crouching briefly in front of Y/N.
“Hey,” he said quieter this time. “I’m taking Hannah back to campus.”
Y/N blinked slowly at him. “Kay.”
“You staying here tonight?”
She nodded immediately, not even thinking about it. “Mhm.”
“Okay.” Garrett brushed messy hair back from her forehead automatically. “Lock the upstairs bathroom door this time if you shower in the morning.”
Y/N looked offended. “That happened one time.”
Garrett laughed under his breath despite himself before standing again. Then he looked toward Logan one last time.
“Text me if she gets worse.”
Logan nodded once.
And just like that, Garrett handed over the most important person in his life without a second thought.
“I’m not even that drunk,” Y/N complained immediately after Garrett disappeared toward the front door with Hannah and Allie barely conscious behind him. “I don’t need a babysitter”
Her words blended together just enough to completely destroy her argument. Logan looked down at her incredulously.
“You can barely keep your eyes open.”
“I’m just relaxing.”
“You called the lamp hostile earlier.”
“Because it was.”
Y/N rolled her eyes dramatically before letting herself fall backward against Logan’s shoulder again with absolutely no concern for personal space.
“He’s so dramatic, I swear,” she mumbled. “Like, oh no, Y/N had fun at a party, somebody alert the authorities.”
Logan huffed out a laugh despite himself.
“G is just protective.”
Y/N groaned instantly. “He’s insane.”
“He worries"
“Too much.” she added.
She shifted again until she was practically folded into Logan’s side, one leg thrown lazily across the couch cushion beside him. Logan was trying very hard not to think about the fact that her face was tucked against his neck now. He swallowed once and stared straight ahead at the crowded living room like it personally offended him.
Y/N snorted softly against Logan’s shoulder, clearly amused. Then she tilted her head up suddenly to squint at him.
“You smell nice.” Everything in Logan’s body stopped functioning for a full second. Y/N blinked slowly, still completely serious. “Like laundry detergent,” she informed him.
Logan dragged a hand down his face. “You are never drinking again.”
Y/N smiled sleepily then, small and lazy and entirely too comfortable against him. Her fingers absentmindedly curled into the sleeve of Logan’s hoodie like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And maybe for her, it was. That was the problem. Because for Y/N, this meant nothing.
Meanwhile Logan was sitting there hyperaware of every point where she touched him while guilt slowly ate through his bloodstream.
Tucker noticed. Of course he did. His drunk eyes narrowed slowly between the two of them. Logan looked up noticing Tucker's eyes on them and stomach dropped immediately.
“I’m gonna take her upstairs,” Logan announced to nobody in particular.
Mostly because he desperately needed to get out of this couch before Tucker’s drunk ass accidentally developed observational skills.
Y/N barely protested when Logan stood and took her hand, helping her up from the couch carefully. The second she got to her feet, she swayed slightly. He reached out quickly and steadied her.
“Wow,” she said, sounding genuinely impressed. “So strong.”
Logan laughed. “You're a figure skater. You're supposed to have better balance than this.”
Y/N squinted at him. “I can skate backward.”
“You can't walk forward.”
“Details.”
She stumbled toward the stairs with all the confidence of someone who absolutely should not be walking unassisted. Logan followed automatically, one hand hovering near her elbow just in case.
Halfway to the staircase, she faltered. Not from the alcohol this time. A small wince crossed her face before she could hide it, her hand briefly brushing her knee. Logan noticed immediately.
"You okay?" he rushed to her side "What hurts?"
"Nothing."
"That wasn't a nothing face."
"My knee's being dramatic."
"You mean injured?"
"I mean dramatic."
Y/N blinked at him. Then shrugged.
"Yeah. Probably danced too much."
"You dance for an hour and injure yourself?"
"I skate for six hours and injure myself," she corrected. "I dance for an hour and I feel it"
Logan narrowed his eyes. She ignored him. Then she looked up at the staircase. And stopped completely. A look of deep suspicion settled on her face. "...there's more of them than before." brushing the subject with jokes.
Logan stared. "The stairs?"
"Yeah... and they are moving."
"They are literally the same stairs."
Y/N squinted harder. "and multiplying."
"Jesus Christ."
Before she could attempt climbing again and accidentally throw herself backward down the staircase, Logan exhaled sharply and bent slightly to lift her instead.
One arm under her knees. The other around her back. Easy and effortless.
Y/N let out a startled laugh immediately as he picked her up bridal style. Her head tipped backward dramatically while her arms looped loosely around his neck for balance.
“Show off,” she mumbled drunkenly.
Logan rolled his eyes as he started upstairs carefully. “You’re impossible.”
“No,” Y/N sighed dreamily. “I’m graceful.”
Logan laughed quietly under his breath before he could stop himself. Y/Ne looked up at him then, smile softer now, eyes heavy and unfocused in the dim hallway lighting.
And God. That was dangerous. Very dangerous.
Then suddenly she spoke again.
“Did you know,” Y/N slurred thoughtfully, “I quit pairs when I was little?”
Logan glanced down at her. “You did?”
She nodded against his shoulder.
“Yeah. My partners could never lift me properly.”
There was something about the way she said it casually, even though this was brand new information, that immediately put Logan on edge.
Y/N just kept going. “I hated pairs, honestly. Being thrown around, being caught, trusting somebody not to drop you.” She wrinkled her nose. “None of my partners were ever very good at it.”
Then she laughed softly. “One of them told me I was too heavy.”
The hallway suddenly felt very quiet. Logan stopped walking.
“What? Does Garrett know about this?”
The look of horror on her face was immediate. “Oh my God, no. He'd literally murder a second grader.”
Logan considered that for a second. “Maybe he should have.”
Y/N blinked up at him. “We were like seven.”
“I don't care.” The answer came so fast it almost surprised him.
A smile tugged at her mouth. “He was seven too, Jhonny.”
“Then he was a seven-year-old asshole.”
That actually made her laugh.
Y/N yawned and rested her head against his shoulder again.
“Besides,” she mumbled sleepily, “it worked out. I was always better on my own anyways.”
She looked completely unbothered, like comments like that happened all the time. Like she'd already accepted them as normal. Somehow, that made it worse.
Logan tightened his jaw and started walking again. "Sounds like your partners sucked."
Y/N laughed softly. "Most of them did."
"They had one job. Catch you."
"That's not technically their only job," she informed him. "But that is a very hockey-player way of looking at it."
"Maybe." He glanced down at her. "Still. If somebody's trusting you enough to throw themselves into the air, you don't get to screw that up."
For a second, she looked thoughtful. Then a sleepy smile spread across her face.
"You would've been a great partner."
Logan snorted. "I'm pretty sure figure skating requires grace and coordination. I'd be kicked out on day one."
That made her laugh. And he smiled to himself proud of it "Maybe... But at least you would've caught me."
The words were casual. The effect they had on him wasn't.
As she said them, her fingers tightened absentmindedly around his bicep where her arm rested. Logan nearly missed a step. Y/N blinked down at her own hand, then squeezed experimentally once more.
"...wow."
Oh no.
"I never realized how fit you were," she mumbled, squeezing again as if this were a perfectly normal thing to do. "This is insane."
"Y/N." he warned
"What?" she asked innocently, looking up at him while continuing her completely unscientific investigation.
"Jesus Christ." he groaned
She laughed softly, still completely unaware of the fact that she was actively shortening his lifespan. Or maybe she was. Drunk Y/N was difficult to read.
Logan tightened his grip under her knees slightly and pushed Garrett’s bedroom door open with his shoulder. The room was dark except for the lamp near the desk.
Y/N immediately sighed dramatically once they entered. “Oooh my kingdom.”
“It’s your brother’s room.” he said unpatient.
Logan walked toward the bed carefully while Y/N kept talking nonsense against his shoulder.
“You hockey boys are weirdly muscular,” she informed him seriously. “Like scientifically concerning.”
“You are never drinking vodka again.”
“Okay but” she poked his chest weakly “your arms are ridiculous.”
Logan exhaled sharply through his nose. This was torture. Actual torture. Because Y/N sounded completely casual about it. Meanwhile Logan’s brain was actively trying to kill him. He lowered her carefully onto Garrett’s bed, expecting her to let go.
She didn’t.
Her arms stayed looped lazily around his neck while she looked up at him from the mattress with heavy eyes.
Too close. Again. Logan swallowed hard.
“Alright,” he said roughly. “You gotta let go now.”
Y/N frowned slightly like she genuinely needed a second to process the request.
Then finally “Oh. Sorry” she chuckled and slowly, she loosened her arms.
But instead of fully letting go, her hand caught the collar of his shirt lightly before he could pull away.
Logan froze instantly. Y/N squinted at him with sleepy concentration.
“You’re handsome,” she informed him very seriously.
Logan actually choked a little on air. “Okay,” he said quickly. “Goodnight.”
Y/N started laughing again as he immediately tried stepping backward out of reach.
“Relax, Johnny,” she teased softly, falling sideways into Garrett’s pillows. “You look scared.”
Scared wasn’t exactly the word for it. Terrified felt more accurate. As he organized the bed for her to sleep in. A few seconds of silence, that honestly felt like forever. Y/N looked like she considered something for a moment before finally speak.
“So did you?”
Logan, halfway through pulling the blanket over her, looked up in confusion.
“I did what?”
Y/N shifted onto her back dramatically, squinting at him with a teasing little smile.
“Hook up with Chloe.”
Logan blinked once. “…who?”
“My friend,” Y/N clarified with an exaggerated eye roll. He still looked confused so she added “The blonde one.”
“Oh.”
“She wanted to hook up with you,” Y/N continued casually. “Has been talking about it all week.”
Logan snorted softly despite himself. Y/N looked deeply unimpressed. “Really annoying, by the way.” She threw herself harder into Garrett’s pillows like the entire situation personally offended her. “Acting like you guys are celebrities or something,” she muttered. “It’s stupid.”
Logan crossed his arms lightly, leaning against Garrett’s desk now.
“You literally introduced your brother like he was royalty downstairs.”
“That was ironic.”
“Sure.”
Y/N ignored him.
“She kept begging me to introduce you guys,” she continued. “I told her I wouldn’t, but then she was like, ‘I’ll just talk to him myself.’”
Her voice changed mockingly on the last sentence. Logan laughed quietly under his breath. Then Y/N looked back at him again.
“So?” she asked. “Did you?”
There was something oddly focused about the question despite how drunk she was. Curious and watching him carefully anyway.
Logan shrugged once. “No.”
Y/N blinked. “No?”
“No.”
“…why not?”
The question came too fast. Like she asked before thinking about it. Logan noticed immediately. Y/N noticed too, judging by the way her expression shifted slightly afterward. But instead of backing off, she doubled down.
“She’s pretty,” she said defensively. “Like... a lot”
“Never said she wasn’t.”
“She literally spent two hours fixing her hair before coming here.”
“Really? Didn't notice” he said crossing his arms.
Y/N narrowed her eyes at him from the bed. “You flirt with everyone.”
“That’s not true.”
“Johnny,” she deadpanned. “I’ve seen you flirt with the library lady.”
Logan laughed. Actually laughed. And Y/Nel hated for one brief second how good he looked doing it. Drunk thoughts. Dangerous territory.
“She wasn’t really my type,” Logan said finally.
Y/N tilted her head slightly against the pillow.
“And what exactly is your type?”
The room got quieter somehow. Suddenly Logan could hear every small sound in Garrett’s room: the muffled conversations dowstairs through the walls, Y/N’s breathing, his own heartbeat being deeply unhelpful.
Because Y/N was looking at him now. Really looking at him. Drunk curious eyes soft in the low light. Logan forced himself to shrug casually.
“Don’t know,” he lied.
Y/N hummed sleepily like she didn’t believe him for a second. Then, after a pause:
“Yeah... maybe brunettes are more your thing.”
Logan’s breath caught so subtly he almost thought he imagined it himself. Y/N, meanwhile, was already sinking deeper into the pillows, eyes half closed again. Completely unaware of the damage she was causing.
Logan walked away and stayed still near the doorway for a second, hand already on the light switch.
Y/N’s breathing had evened out. Her eyes were closed. And for one dangerously peaceful moment, he thought she’d finally fallen asleep.
Good. Because he needed distance. Cold water. Maybe psychological intervention. He reached for the switch.
Then—
“Don’t leave, please.”
The words were so quiet he almost didn’t hear them. Logan turned immediately. Y/N was still curled into Garrett’s blankets, eyes barely open now, voice rough with exhaustion and alcohol. But the teasing was gone.
“I don’t like being alone like this,” she admitted softly.
Something in Logan’s chest tightened painfully. Because suddenly she didn’t sound drunk anymore. She sounded vulnerable. Young. And underneath the sleepiness and slurred words, there was something deeper there too. Something sad enough that Logan felt it instantly without fully understanding why.
Y/N shifted slightly against the pillow, blinking toward the dark hallway behind him.
“Where’s Gare?” she asked quietly. Not Garrett. Gare. Like small. Childlike. Old habit.
Logan leaned against the doorframe slowly. “He took Hannah back to campus, remember?”
Y/N frowned weakly. “Oh.” she said in relization.
Silence stretched for a second. Then quieter:
“He always stays.”
And there it was. That deeper thing again. Logan knew enough about Y/N and Garrett’s childhood to understand what she wasn’t saying out loud. Garrett always stayed because growing up, somebody had to.
Somebody had to stand between her and the yelling and slammed doors and bruises Garrett pretended nobody noticed. Somebody had to make sure she felt safe. And apparently even now, drunk and exhausted, part of Y/N still searched for her brother first when she felt vulnerable.
Logan’s throat tightened unexpectedly.
“Hey... it's okay. I can stay.” he said softly before he could stop himself.
Y/N looked at him sleepily. Logan hesitated only half a second longer before walking back toward the bed. The mattress dipped slightly as he sat carefully on the edge beside her.
Y/N relaxed almost immediately. Like his presence alone settled something anxious inside her. That should not have affected him as much as it did.
“You gonna stay?” she asked quietly.
Logan looked down at her for a long moment. Then sighed softly through his nose.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”
Y/N’s eyes closed again almost instantly after that. Trusting him without hesitation.
And Logan sat there in Garrett Graham’s room beside the girl he absolutely should not be thinking about this way, while guilt and something dangerously close to tenderness twisted together inside his chest.
an: i got a little carried away with this chapter and somehow it ended up way longer than i planned 😭 i really hope you enjoyed it! let me know what you think, i love reading your comments and ideas, also... should i make a taglist? if you'd like to be added, let me know! this fic somehow turned into an 18-chapter monster in my drafts (and it's still growing, which is honestly concerning). meanwhile i'm tagging: @archxve @mcueveryday
new chapters every thursday ♡
Summary: All your life you had been a commoner. Till over night you became a princess due to your father's inheritance you had no idea off. Under your grandmother's wing, you adjust to your new life. Attending your first ball at the Bridgerton household.
"Y/n, the hour is getting late." One of the maidens called out to you from the doorway. "I'll be there in a second." You replied loudly. Keeping your focus on the baskets before you.
Hearing her groan softly in response. "They will still be here in the morning and you can go over them again before the morning glow." She answered, tapping impatiently with her foot.
"I know, I know. I just need to be certain." Waving your hand her way to dismiss the comment. "Why do you always work like you're running out of time." She questioned. "Leave for home, it will be enough." Calling you one last time to call it a night.
Taking a deep breath, you set your hands down on the table. "It will be no longer than a minute. I promise." Folding your hands pleadingly her way. She sighed. Muttering under her breath as she turned.
The faintest of words reaching that you promised it as well last time. A promise you did not uphold. Brushing it off, you continued to focus on the baskets. Counting it to the last vegetables to be right for the order.
They would be disputed to several households across Mayfair. In a few hours with the rise of dawn, lines of house maidens and men would line up for their households order. To keep their kitchens filled with food supplies.
You knew everything would be in order, but still you wanted to be certain. You couldn't afford complains from ladies or gentlemen of the ton. One bad word and your employement could be history.
The employement was what you needed. Needed in order to stay away from poverty. With a few final counts, you exhaled deep. Biting your lip subtlety.
You knew you were exaggerating, still you couldn't shake the feeling off. Taking your coat and small pouch, you glanced one more time over your shoulder. Taking a deep breath, you closed the door behind you.
Early in the morning, before the rooster rose, you were running towards your working place. "Morning Monsieur Jean." Waving happily at the distributor of the vegetables coming from the fields.
He tipped his hat to you with a smile. Humming a tune, you made your way to through the kitchens to the back area. Helping a few fellow workers move the baskets to another area.
By the time the sun had settled on a certain height, the first households came. Head maids and gentlemen. Taking delivery for their lords or ladies. Paying up and leaving with a content smile.
You helped along. Providing each person with their basket for their kitchens. At first you barely noticed it. An eager man in royal colours and a white wig shoving their way through the others to reach the front.
"A miss Y/n, I need a miss Y/n!" Waving his hand with a paper high above his head. Receiving a nudge from one of the other girls made you look up. Hearing the man's calling.
"A miss Y/n!" The desperation growing thicker in his voice. Clearly being out of place and wishing to get away from the large crowd. Wiping your hands down on your apron, you moved a bit to the side.
"Here!" Calling out with a good wave above your head. There was a sigh of relieve from him. Pushing a way through to you. "Miss Y/n?" He asked again for confirmation. You nodded with a hum. Staring curiously at the odds figure.
Wondering why a member of the royal staff would come to the workinh class area...voluntarily. He gestured for you to move more aside for privacy. "Who is your father." He asked.
You found it an odd question, but replied anyways. Giving him your father's name. The man held out a letter in his gloves hands.
"I have instructions to bring you along afterwards." He spoke. Blinking confused, you gawked at him. "Bring me where?"
"The palace, your highness." He said, dipping into a bow. "I'm sorry what?" You blurted out, hand up to stop him. The man cleared his throat, pointing at the letter.
"All is in there. Your grandmother wishes to meet you. Did you not know? Your father was a prince." He explained. Stunned, you didn't know how to react.
So perhaps uncivilized you laughed loud. "Are you a joke?" Rushed out of your mouth in a rather blunt manner. The man ushered a hand to his chest. "I beg your pardon?" Stunned by it.
Still in shock, you couldn't process the news. "My father was a simple middle class worker." You let out in disbelief of his words. The man cleared his throat. "He was a prince." Reassuring you.
"He might have chosen a life away from the crown, but he is ...was still royalty." He pointed at the letter in your hand. "You'll find all in there."
Nervously you looked down at it. Taking a deep breath, you followed him through the crowd. Leaving with just a small word to the others.
Hopping onto the carriage that was too fancy for your taste. Made you feel like the talk of the town. Closing the little curtains almost immediately. Carriage riding over cobble stone.
Once the busy bustling town had made way for peacer fields, you dared to open the letter. A part of you felt like it was a ruse. An un-true. But it was true.
All the royal delivery gentlemen said was true. Your father was indeed of royalty. Renounced the crown many years ago before you were born. Not even on his death bed he shared a thing.
It made you wonder if your mother knew. Perhaps she was a reason he took upon a simple life. Now your grandmother must have gotten word about your existence, wanting to meet you.
The nerves and thrilling shakes cloaked you. Feeling nervous and excited at the same time. The carriage stopped at a long driveway. An entire line of staff at both sides of the stairways to welcome you.
Getting off you nervously cleared your throat at your simple appearance. Undoing your apron and handing it over to one of the gentle footmen. Keeping focus on your breath, you followed the staff inside.
Passing by halls of paintings. Grand chandeliers and exquisite vases and flowers. At one painting you stopped. Eyes wide with surprise at the portrait of your young father by the queen's side.
A queen that had come to Mayfair as a retreat of her own country. Upon this view, all became true. Knees buckling for the change your life was drastically going to have.
Hurrying after the man, you followed him into the trone room, where you would meet your grandmother for the first time.
The royal life was still uneasy to adjust for you. You had been used to do everything yourself, it felt out of place that everything was getting done for you.
The simplest of tasks that they acquired to do slightly frustrated you. There were quick lessons of behavior. Greetings and titles and which person should sit next to whom.
All a great fuss to you, that a first invitation to a ball became an exciting experience. The first being as it is a masquerade ball. Finding it more exciting to be able to hide.
There had been some news about the newly found princess. Both good and bad. It felt nice to be able to experience the beauty of it anonymously. The mask was a surplus, the crown not so much.
They insisted on you wearing one since it had become an extension of you. An accessoire you couldn't go without. With wonder you stared out of the carriage window. Moving startled back when they opened the door.
Offering you a hand. There were a few eyes upon you, but you only had eyes for the exterior covered in beautiful flowers.
Adding on to the mystic. Taking the lead, you ventured inside behind a group of others. Taking in every side to not miss out a detail.
"Your dance card, miss." You heard, making you jump lightly out of your skin. A smiling footman offered you the tray of dance cards. Curling up a smile, you offered him your hand.
Looking funnily for a moment before the chuckle came. "Is your chaperone around to do it for you or should I do it for you?" He asked. Ashamed you pulled your hand back. You were so used to everyone jumping at every occasion to do everything for you, it felt silly doing it now.
Awkwardly you took a dance card with a cheeky smile. Turning around, you nearly bumped against the chaperone the queen had provided. He bowed at you, making you shush him for being so obvious.
He placed the card around your wrist. Taking a position three steps behind you. Moving forwards, you entered the main hall. Bathing in the shimmering and glittering. Smiling at the costume wear.
Eyes falling on a flickering shimmer in your eye. Lifting your head up to the chandelier. Twinkling like a thousand stars.
Hands behind your back, you slightly swayed your hip in admiration. Lips parting in wonder. The music taking you on a mystical journey.
Benedict Bridgerton had finally arrived. Able to just escape his mother's fury for he knew he was late. Late to their own ball.
Nearly bumping against a gentleman, he hopped on his foot to maintain balance. Taking half a turn to avoid a bump-in. Chuckling at himself.
Eyes going forwards, his movement slowing. Staring half in wonder at the girl who's eyes were elsewhere. Following the gaze, upwards to the chandelier. Lips parting with a breathy smile at the view.
The lights dazzling in his eyes. Resting back on her with a new wonder. Swallowing hard, he approached. Clearing his throat before arriving.
"Everyone is watching each other while your interest lays with the chandelier." He spoke joining your side. Startled by the sudden approach, you blinked surprisingly.
Smiling bashful with a glance away. "Was it that obvious." You replied. Benedict wiggled his hand with half a pout. Making you laugh. Making way for a lady, you started to walk.
Benedict joining you. "I like the princess look. Whom do you represent?" He asked pointing at your crown.
"Oh..." cheeks changing shades. "Right... a costume..." you answered sheepishly. Benedict noticed the man following you. Putting two and two together.
"Wait are you the commoner turned princess?" He questioned. "So much for anonymity." You puffed out. "I....I'm sorry I didn't mean." He immediatley uttered out. Seeing him try to recollect himself made you laugh.
"You know my identity now, may I know yours." Asking in return. He nudged, making you follow him to the outdoors. "Benedict Bridgerton." He introduced himself with a chuckle.
Dismissing the idea that the masks would be removed after midnight. Leading you to the pavilion. "How is the princess life?" He asked with curiosity.
You hummed loud, wandering around in a circle. "There has not been a single simple task that I handled myself. They even won't let me dress myself." You laughed out.
Benedict laughing along. Joining you when you paused at a side. Leaning against the railing. Looking up to the stars. "They are beautiful." You whispered, taking off the mask.
Benedict gasped breahtlessly at you. Taking off his own mask. "Yes." Whispering out. Placing his hand down, it fell down over yours. Making you look up to him.
Gaze caught at each other. Benedict fluttering with his eyelashes. Recognizing the beauty of the little things in your eyes. Giving your hand a soft squeeze. Curling up a smile, you leaned fondly closer.
The clearence of a throat made you pull away. "Your highness." Your chaperone spoke. Nodding you took a step back from Benedict. "I must return." Telling him. "But...but the night isn't over yet." He let out.
Pulling your shoulders up, you knew you had little say in it. Following your chaperone away from the pavilion. Benedict rubbed his hand over his lips. Coming to rush after you.
"When can I see you again?" Calling out. "I don't know." You shouted back. "I will find you!" Saying with a hint of desperation. Watching the new princess dissapear into the night before the stroke of midnight.
summary: in which you take quite a bad fall while snowboarding on a mountain trip, luckily a handsome hockey player is there to take care of you. the only problem? you're the media manger for his team.
part 1
warning: mention of concussion
word count: 1,9k
authors note: had to spoil you guys with a part 2 😝 you guys seem to like john logan but luckily for you guys so do i !!!. i have another john logan request in the works along with a little something for our angel boy beau, i haven’t gotten time to finish it up because i’ve been prioritising my requests, i love getting requests as a new writer so please don’t be shy!!!
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watching the boys snowboard made it look easy. unfortunately, the moment you decided to try it yourself, you realized it wasn't.
you spend a few minutes watching the boys effortlessly glide down the mountain before clipping your own board on and giving it a try, eventually you got the hang of it, surprising even yourself.
“you okay there bambi” dean says teasing as he spots you.
you roll your eyes at his comment.
after a few more minutes of testing the waters, you decide to pick up a little speed, catching yourself laughing with the boys. dean being the only one who had noticed your mood, happy to see that his plan had worked.
“see y/n/n! i told you it would be fun.”
you roll your eyes while not being able to hold back you smile any longer.
for the first time all day, you weren't thinking about work. you weren't thinking about logan. you weren't thinking about the awkward tension that had followed you onto the trip.
you were just having fun.
"I knew this was a bad idea."
the thought flashed through your mind as your snowboard caught an edge. one second you were laughing at something a player had shouted from further down the slope and suddenly , the ground disappeared beneath your feet.
then came the impact.
pain exploded through your side as you tumbled through the snow.
you could hear the laughter between the boys quiet down, a hum of one the boys saying oh shit, and the snow crunching as someone runs towards you. your eyes feeling heavy as you hear someone ordering for ski patrol to be called.
the first thing you felt was the cold, then the feeling of your head pounding, throbbing, pulsating, like a rhythmic ache that mirrors a heartbeat or a drum beat. the pain may felt explosive, you could feel a pulsing sensation affecting your entire head along with your temples.
you could feel someone move you closer, even though it was freezing you could still feel body heat radiating through their snow suit.
a familiar voice causes your eyes to flutter open while squinting and groaning from the pain that felt as if it was now in your eyes as well.
“there she is” says dean while a soft but guilty smile.
next to him you see what looks like the whole team surrounding. a voice causes everyone to take what looked like 10 steps back
"back up. give her some room, to breathe”
you could see dean gently pulled tucker back when he tried to hover over your shoulder.
"but—"
"tucker."
"right. sorry." he said feeling just as guilty as dean did
logan barely spared them a glance, his attention fixed entirely on you.
"hey," he said softly. "can you hear me?"
“can you tell me your name?” he asked even softer than
you blinked up at him, your head spinning.
“john logan,” you mumbled.
his eyebrows shot up, while as face had concern written all over it
“that’s me,” he said, a nervous laugh slipping from his lips. “try again.”
you frowned, still struggling to focus, his voice sounding like an echo in your ears.
“i know.”
the concern look still painted across his face.
“okay, that’s not exactly the answer I was looking for.”
“you’re john logan,” you repeated stubbornly.
despite the situation, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“good to know you remember me,” he said. “now how about you tell me your name?”
before you could reply a voice cut off your train of thoughts
“ski patrol should be here soon, you should probably go with her.” garret told logan while his concerned gaze shifting from logan to yours.
“was planning on it”
logan turns his attention back to you, his facial expression still not relaxing.
“how many fingers am i holding up?” he asked.
you squinted at his hand, taking a second longer than it should have to answer.
“four.”
it was two
“do you know what-“ is question cut off as he hears a vehicle, a look as relief flashes on his face.
he slowly picks you up, supporting your head as you groan in pain.
“i got you baby”
it felt as if your mind had shut off. one second you were laying on the snow, the next your opening your eyes to a bright light and voices of what sounds like logan speaking to what your guessing was a doctor or a medical professional of some sort.
“is she okay?” logan asked.
the doctor nodded. “she has a mild concussion, but she should be fine with plenty of rest over the next few days.”
logan let out a breath of relief.
“we’d like someone to keep an eye on her for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours,” the doctor continued.
“I’ll do it.”
the words left logan’s mouth before he could stop them.
the doctor raised an eyebrow.
“ i mean, I’ll take care of her,” logan corrected quickly.
the doctor smiled. “then make sure she gets plenty of rest and let us know if anything changes.”
logan nodded, glancing back toward hers, seeing her now awake state.
“got it.”
“my head hurts” you practically whisper afraid that your own voice would make the pounding in your head and ringing in your ears worse
the doctor sends you a soft smile while letting you know he has a bag of meds ready for you and that your free to go home whenever your ready.
as the doctor steps out logan slow walks towards the hospital bed.
“ready to go?” he asks quietly
“where?”
“i’m taking you back to the hotel room, to take care of you.”
before you can say anything he beats you to it
“doctors orders”
“logan you don’t have to do that”
“i do” he says with a soft smile “i want to”
as you guys make it back to your room, you notice his bags littered on your floor. the only problem? there’s one bed, no pull out couch, actually no couch at all, only a chair that sits infront of a vanity table.
that’s tonight’s problem you tell yourself
you leads you towards the bed and tells you to point him towards your bag. as you do he opens the bag to see no warm clothes. without a word he goes to open up his bag pulling out a briar u hockey hoodie along with matching bottoms.
“change, i’ll wait in the bathroom” he walks away without hesitation
as you hear the door click shut you immediately start changing while thinking to yourself, this is so not professional.
you call him out when your done. his eyes do a slow sweep up and down, taking in his clothes on you body. he hands you your meds with a bottle of water telling you to get rest, and that he’ll be back in a hour.
a thought flashes through your mind, wondering if you should’ve asked him to say, the thought long forgotten as you feel your eyes flutter close.
you wake up to the smell of food, slowly turning your head towards the sound of the door clicking closed you see logan walk in with a brown paper bag.
after you guys had finished eating it was quiet, not a bad silence, it was more comforting, almost like you both had something to say but didn’t know how to say it.
logan glances towards you, catching your attention.
“can i ask you something?”
“sure” you answer with a soft smile
“when we were driving to the medical facility, you said something.” he lets out a breathy laugh “and i can’t seem to get it out my head.”
as those words leave his mouth it was like a flicker of memory came to your mind, almost as if you were hungover remembering something you did the night before
“logan”
“i’m here” he says while holding your hand
“i lied”
he hums to let you know he’s listening while brushing the hair out your face and tucking it behind your ears.
“i was mad when i saw you and that girl in the classroom” you whisper out so softly almost, logan not even sure how he managed to hear that.
before he can ask you anything your eyes flutter closed leaving him alone with his thoughts”
you let out an “oh” as you start to remember
he scans your face taking in your expression while letting out a slow breath
“she meant nothing to me, that whole thing was nothing”
your suprised to hear yourself let out the words “didn’t look nothing”
he turn so his body is fully facing yours
“she wasn’t important”
you finally meet his gaze maintaining eye contact
“why do you care so much if i believe that?”
he lets out a breathy laugh, it was more like a nervous laugh.
“because the only person whose opinion I care about is yours”
“logan…”
the room felt silent
your pounding head long forgotten, the only thing you feel is your heart racing.
“i’m serious”
he shook his head
“i was trying to convince myself to move on.”
his laugh was humorless.
“I tried to ignore it, i tried to ignore every long stare every longing smile. I tried to move on. It didn’t work.”
the look in his eyes made your breath catch.
“because it’s you. It’s always been you.”
“logan…”
his name came out as little more than a whisper.
the look in his eyes made your stomach twist.
“this can’t happen and you know that”
or the first time all evening, he looked away.
“I know.”
“then why are you looking at me like that?”
the question slipped out before you could stop it.
his jaw tightened.
“because I’ve been trying not to for months.”
your breath caught.
the room suddenly felt too small.
you should’ve stopped or pushed him.
instead, you found yourself unable to look anywhere but at him.
“this is a bad idea,” you said.
a small smile tugged at the corner of Logan’s mouth.
“probably.”
neither of you moved.
meither of you looked away.
then logan leaned in even closer, your noses touching.
“if you want me to stop,” he said quietly, “tell me now.”
every sensible thought in your head screamed at you to do exactly that.
but the words never came.
his eyes flickered to your lips for the briefest moment.
then he closed the gap between your lips.
the kiss was soft, almost hesitant, like he couldn’t quite believe it was happening either, you felt yourself freeze and pull away only to smile and find yourself leaning back into the kiss.
for a second, everything else disappeared, the rules, the job, the reasons this shouldn’t happen.
there was only logan.
when you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathing a little harder.
“still a bad idea?” logan asked.
you stared at him for a moment.
“definitely.”
his grin returned.
immediately leaning back in.
“yeah.”
neither of you sounded very convinced.
authors note: and that’s a wrap yet again, this might actually be my favourite so far. if you enjoyed this and love logan, stay tuned as i am working on another request for him
summary: You've been filming John Logan for many months. Forty seven saved clips, only eleven of them for work. You know his tells, his angles, his best light. You know him better than you probably should for someone who is just the social media girl. What you don't know is that the night he finally asked you out, there was a check involved. A thousand dollars. And three months of the most real thing you've ever felt sitting on top of a secret that was always going to cost someone.
notes: hii i'm back!! after a week of writing between breaks this one finally came to life and i really hope you guys enjoy it, also i've been informed that puck flying accidents are not very common but we're all going to pretend together, also may contain some hockey inaccuracies, i love the game but i'm definitely not a pro. as always thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think, your comments genuinely keep me writing!!
warnings: swearing, a bet that was a terrible idea, one thousand dollars, dean being dean, forty seven saved clips, angst with a happy ending.
word count: 12.2k
When you started working on the social media position for the hockey team at Briar U, you didn't understand how it was possible for people to take you even less seriously than you already took yourself. But then there would come the moment that they needed you, and things would change, and you would think oh, how the tables have turned.
You understood this in the first week. The girl who came before you, Liana, had walked you through everything: cameras, angles, schedules, the way the athletics department liked their content formatted. But had failed to mention that the players would not look at you so much as look through you at first. Like you were part of the furniture. A tripod with a heartbeat.
In a way, that was fine. Being invisible was a perfectly good way to do the job. Players acted more naturally when they forgot the camera was there, and natural content was always better than posed content. This was something you had understood instinctively from the beginning.
You had been doing this job since the beginning of fall semester. It had come to you not accidentally but not exactly sought either, you had always followed the team, always been a genuine fan. Liana, the former social media girl, was a friend from a very boring Thursday morning class you had both suffered through together. When she came close to graduating she recommended you for the job. You had been working the library circulation desk before that. When the athletics department called it had seemed like a no-brainer.
A few months in, you knew the inner workings of the team the way you knew the layout of your own apartment. Their training schedule, their game schedule, the subtle social architecture of a group of people who spent most of their waking hours together. You knew which players were camera shy and which ones had a natural appeal and actively enjoyed being filmed — cough Dean cough — and by now you knew everyone's best angle, best light, best moment.
Which brought you to Logan.
You were also, which was a separate and entirely unrelated issue, completely down bad for one of the players.
It had not happened all at once.
You had known who John Logan was before you got the job, everyone who followed Briar hockey knew who he was, which was most of the campus, but knowing of someone and being in the same building as them four times a week were different things entirely.
You had known about his escapades too. His romantic history was the kind of thing that Olivia, your friend and a woman of genuinely exceptional gossip quality, had mentioned more than once with the relish of someone who considered this information a public service. Before the job, you had laughed about it the way you laughed about things that had nothing to do with you.
Now that you actually knew him, not knew knew him, but saw him daily, which was its own specific category, you thought about his former, and hopefully past, escapades and felt something uncomfortably close to jealousy.
The crush had consolidated gradually and against your will, the way water finds its way through things. A practice here. A post-game there. The specific way he looked when he was focused on something, the way he talked to his teammates, the way he sometimes looked directly into your camera with an expression that suggested he had briefly forgotten it was there and was just looking.
And then there was the other thing, which was honestly the worst part: he was so unfairly polite. He said good morning and good afternoon. He smiled when he caught you filming something. He said goodbye when he left and apologized if the puck flew in your direction, which it occasionally did, and each time he said sorry about that with the specific sincerity of someone who actually meant it.
You knew you had a crush on him. Obviously. That part was not new information.
What was new information was the following Tuesday, late after practice, the rink mostly empty, you sitting in the stands with your laptop open and the tiredness of someone who had been on their feet for three hours. The players were filtering out through the doors and you were reviewing footage on autopilot, not really watching, when you looked up without thinking about it.
You were looking for Logan before you had decided to look for him.
When you found him, he was at the boards, removing his helmet and pushing a hand through his hair.
Fuck me, you thought.
And then it seemed like he had heard you, because he lifted his eyes and looked straight at you across the empty rink and smiled.
You smiled back and closed your laptop.
Time to go home and think about John Logan in bed.
You reached for your camera on the tripod — force of habit, you always checked the last few shots before packing up — and opened the gallery.
Logan drinking water. Logan laughing at something Garrett said. Logan tying his skates. Logan high-fiving Tucker after a good drill. Logan making a face directly at the camera, having clearly just noticed you filming him, looking entirely unbothered about it.
You stared at the screen.
Oh.
Oh no.
The real problem came later.
The game was at Harvard, which meant the bus, which meant a situation you had been successfully avoiding for six months. You never took the team bus, too much male energy, too many large people occupying space in a way that made you feel like you had accidentally wandered into someone else's environment. You usually went with the student bus, which was fine, which was your preferred option.
The student bus had a mechanical issue and couldn't make the drive in time.
So you, along with the other team staff, boarded the team bus with approximately forty hockey players and the quiet resignation of someone who had lost a negotiation they hadn't known they were in.
The game itself went fine, nothing groundbreaking, but Briar won, which was all that mattered. You packed up your equipment and joined the line filing back onto the bus, looking for the same seat you'd had on the way there.
You were making your way down the aisle when you spotted Logan sitting alone.
You slowed down. Made the calculation. Gave yourself approximately four seconds of internal encouragement.
A freshman defenseman sat down next to him before you could finish the thought.
You did not pout. You were a professional.
"Aw, look who it is." Dean's voice came from the seat directly behind Logan. He was sitting in the aisle seat, legs stretched out, watching you with the expression of someone who had seen everything. "You can sit with me."
"Sure," you said.
"Geez, don't look so happy about it." He pulled his legs in so you could slide past. "I even let you have the window."
"What a gentleman," you said, settling in and pulling your laptop from your bag.
"Are we watching a movie?" Dean pointed at the laptop.
"No. I'm working."
"Bummer," he said, shifting in his seat to get comfortable. Dean was a broad person and the seats were not designed with broad people in mind, which meant that when you sat down you were immediately, unavoidably in contact, arms pressed together, shoulders touching. You had briefly considered putting the armrest down for some personal space, but Dean seemed completely unbothered by the proximity, which somehow made it easier to be unbothered yourself.
This was the thing about Dean that had surprised you most when you first started the job: there had never been an awkward phase. No stiff introductions, no careful professional distance, no period of working out who you were to each other. He had simply decided you were friends and proceeded accordingly, and somehow six months had passed and it felt like you had known each other much longer than that.
You connected your camera to the laptop and started pulling up photos from the game. Selected the best ones. Started uploading them to the shared drive.
"Uh oh," Dean said, leaning over. "That's not my best angle."
You looked at the photo. He was facing almost entirely away from the camera.
"Shut up," you said, lightly slapping his hand away from the screen. "What do you mean not your best angle? Are you not proud of your very nice backside?"
This was a callback, and Dean knew it. He had said something similarly direct about you at a party two months ago in the shameless way that Dean said most things, and you had decided that the only appropriate response was to give the same energy back.
"I am," he said, "but the front is much better. You should check it out sometime."
"Are you referring to your face as the front of your backside?"
Dean repeated the question back to you in a mocking tone.
You opened the photos and started scrolling through them, and approximately three seconds later you noticed the pattern and began praying, quietly and sincerely, that Dean would not notice it too.
Too late.
"Why do you have so many pictures of Logan?" He was looking at the screen with his eyebrows raised. "There are like ten Logan pictures for every one of anyone else."
"Logan just photographs well."
"He photographs well."
"Yes."
"That's your explanation."
"That's my explanation."
Dean looked at you with the expression of someone assembling a conclusion. "You have the hots for Logan."
"The hots? Dean, what is this, a Disney Channel movie? And no. I don't."
"Yeah? Explain the hundred photos of him drinking water. Sorry, but you can't use those for Instagram." He paused. "Unless you're using them for something else. Like, I don't know. Your spank bank."
You gasped and punched his arm. "Shut up."
"Admit it."
"I plead the fifth."
"That's not how that works."
"I don't want to talk about it."
"You have to. I'm your best friend."
"No you're not. It's Olivia."
"On the team, I meant."
"It's probably Tucker."
"Tucker?" Dean looked genuinely wounded. "Tucker? Don't try to change the subject."
You closed the laptop.
"Go to sleep, Dean."
"This conversation is not over."
"Yes it is."
"No it's not."
"Yes it is."
"No it's not," he said, adjusting himself against the seat with the decisive energy of someone settling in for a nap. You let your head fall back against the window. A moment later his head dropped onto your shoulder with the comfortable weight of someone who had decided this was acceptable.
"Do not drool on me," you said.
"I bet if it was Logan you wouldn't mind," he said, eyes already closed. Of course not.
"Don't be disgusting."
"And by the way —" he opened one eye "— he has the hots for you too."
"Oh my god," you said. "Stop talking like this is iCarly."
He closed his eye again.
The bus moved through the dark and you sat there with Dean's head on your shoulder and the laptop closed on your knees and tried very hard not to look at the back of Logan's head in the row in front of you.
Oh no, you thought, again, for the second time that week.
A couple of weeks later, Dean found you setting up the tripod in the corner of the film room before pre-game interviews.
"So," he said, appearing at your elbow with the energy of someone who had been waiting for the right moment. "I saw that you didn't RSVP to the invitation for mine and Beau's birthday bash. And it's tomorrow."
You winced. You had been avoiding this topic.
"I have a thing," you said, very casually, adjusting the tripod height without looking at him.
"A thing." He repeated it back with the tone of someone who found this deeply insufficient. "What thing could possibly be more important than my birthday?"
"They painted a new wall in the hallway of my apartment so —"
"Shut up," he said, moving closer. "You're coming. Also —" he said it with the specific energy of someone deploying their strongest argument "— Logan is going to be there."
You kept your eyes on the tripod. "I would assume so. Since you live together."
"You know what I mean."
"I really don't."
"Yes you do."
"I'm working tomorrow night," you said.
"It's a Saturday."
"Content doesn't take weekends off."
"You literally schedule everything in advance and you know it." Dean leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. "Come to the party. Talk to him. He's going to be right there."
"I talk to him all the time. It's my job."
"Yeah, but when you talk to Logan you do the thing."
You looked up for the first time. "What thing."
"The thing." He gestured vaguely at your face. "The thing where you forget to be normal."
"I am always normal."
"You called his assist last Tuesday 'genuinely cinematic.'"
"It was a good play."
"To his face."
"As a professional observation —"
"He smiled about it for the rest of practice." Dean looked at you steadily. "Come to the party."
You turned back to the tripod.
"I don't think Logan has the hots for me, you know," you said. "He's like a hot athlete. And I'm like the social media nerd."
Dean stared at you with the expression of someone who had just heard something that offended him on multiple levels simultaneously.
"Geez," he said. "You're not the girl in every romcom who doesn't know she's pretty." He paused. "Also you may be a nerd but — with all due respect to you and to my buddy Logan — you're pretty hot."
You pushed his shoulder and muttered a low stop.
"I'm being sincere!" He caught himself on the wall, laughing. "Party. Tomorrow. Eight o'clock. Logan will be there." He pointed at you one more time. "You will also be there."
He walked away before you could respond.
You looked at the camera. The camera looked back at you.
Genuinely cinematic, you thought, mortified.
You were definitely not going to that party.
The thing about watching two people be completely oblivious to each other was that it was, at first, entertaining.
Dean had found it genuinely funny in the beginning, the way you would track Logan across a room without realizing you were doing it, the way Logan would find reasons to be wherever you were without announcing that was what he was doing. It was like watching a nature documentary.
It had been funny for approximately three weeks.
It was now week seven and Dean was losing his mind.
It was a Thursday practice, nothing special about it. Dean was on the ice going through drills with Tucker when he caught it, the peripheral awareness of someone who had been watching a situation develop for too long.
You were in your usual spot in the stands, laptop open, camera on the tripod, doing the thing you always did where you looked like you were reviewing footage but were actually, if you knew what to look for, tracking Logan across the ice without moving your head.
Logan, for his part, was doing the thing he always did where he skated past your section of the stands more than was strictly necessary for any drill that had been assigned.
"He's done that four times," Tucker said, appearing at Dean's elbow.
"Five," Dean said. "You missed one while you were talking to the coach."
Tucker watched Logan complete another unnecessary loop near the boards. "Are they ever going to do something about that?"
"Apparently not," Dean said.
On the ice Logan slowed near the boards not stopping, that would have been too obvious, just slowing and said something up toward the stands. You looked up from your laptop and said something back. Logan smiled. You looked back at your laptop immediately, in the specific way of someone using a screen as a shield.
Logan skated away looking slightly more cheerful than he had thirty seconds ago.
"It's painful," Tucker said.
"It's excruciating," Dean agreed.
"Wow, that's a big word" Tucker said mocking Dean and skating away.
After practice Dean was still thinking about it in the locker room.
He was unwrapping his tape when Garrett sat down across from him.
"You have a face," Garrett said.
"I'm thinking."
"About what."
"Logan and the social media girl, or as I call her, (Y/N)"
"So her name—" Garrett replied.
Garrett looked at him with the mild, steady expression he used when he was waiting for someone to either say something sensible or stop talking. "And?"
"And they've been doing this for like seven weeks and nothing is happening and I'm tired of watching it."
"So tell him to do something about it."
"I've told him." Dean had, in fact, told Logan approximately six times in varying tones of directness. "Telling doesn't work. Logan needs a push."
"A push," Garrett repeated.
"A significant push."
Garrett looked at him for a long moment. "What kind of push."
"A financial one," he said.
"Dean —"
"Hear me out."
"I don't think I want to."
"A thousand dollars," Dean said. "I bet him a thousand dollars that he won't ask her out. He needs the money, he likes her, this solves both problems simultaneously. It's elegant."
Garrett stared at him. "It's really not."
"It gets him to do the thing he already wants to do."
"By paying him."
"By incentivizing him."
"Those are the same thing."
"Garrett," Dean said, in the tone of someone who had considered the counterarguments and dismissed them. "They have been doing this for weeks. At this rate they'll still be doing it at graduation. I'm helping."
Garrett looked at the ceiling briefly. "You shouldn't do this," he said finally.
"Noted," Dean said.
He did not change his mind.
Logan came in from the showers to find Dean sitting on the bench across from his locker with an expression that meant something was coming.
Tucker was in the corner pretending to check his phone. Garrett was lacing his shoes with more focus than the task required.
"What," Logan said.
"I have a proposition," Dean said.
Logan looked at Tucker. Tucker looked at his phone. Logan looked at Garrett. Garrett looked at his shoes.
"What kind of proposition," Logan said.
"A thousand dollars," Dean said. "All you have to do is ask her out."
He didnt't have to specify who the her was.
The locker room was quiet.
Logan opened his locker. Got his jacket. "No."
"Logan —"
"No, Dean."
"You like her."
"That's not —"
"You've skated past her section of the stands five times today during drills that don't require you anywhere near the boards." Dean's voice was completely even. "I counted."
Logan said nothing.
"You check her posts before anyone else on the team," Dean continued. "You know her schedule better than your own. You said sorry to her last Tuesday when the puck went near her even though it didn't come close to actually hitting her." A pause. "You apologized preemptively."
"I was being polite."
"You were being in love with her," Dean said, simply. "Which is fine. Great, actually. And fixable. With one conversation and a thousand dollars."
Tucker made a small sound that was not quite disapproval and not quite agreement.
Garrett said nothing, which was its own kind of answer.
Logan looked at his jacket in his hands. He thought about the time that had passed, the practices and bus rides and the specific way you closed your laptop when you were trying to hide something. He thought about his bank account, which was having a difficult semester. He thought about the rent that was due. The equipment he needed.
He thought about asking you out, which he had been meaning to do, which he had been telling himself he was going to do, which he had not done.
I was going to do it anyway, he told himself. The money doesn't change what I was going to do anyway.
"Fine," he said.
Tucker made the sound again, slightly louder.
Garrett looked up from his shoes for the first time. His expression was not angry, not exactly. More like a person watching a decision being made and knowing already how it was going to cost someone.
Dean produced a check from somewhere — written on the back of a receipt, which was so Dean that Logan almost laughed — and held it out.
Logan took it.
He folded it once and put it in his jacket pocket and did not look at Garrett again.
I was going to do it anyway, he thought.
He almost believed it.
The subject of the party was a sore one.
Part of you wanted to go and part of you didn't, and the two parts had been arguing since Dean walked away from the tripod, and by the time you got back to your apartment you had resolved nothing except that you needed to talk to Olivia about it.
Olivia listened to the full recap of the Dean conversation with the focused attention of someone taking notes. When you finished she was quiet for approximately three seconds.
"We're going," she said.
"I said I wasn't sure —"
"I've made up my mind. You were invited so you need to go, and I'm coming with you because—." She looked at you with the expression of someone who had already decided the fun they were going to have and was simply waiting for logistics to catch up. "What's the theme?"
"Dynamic duo."
"Perfect for us." She was already opening her laptop. "I know exactly what we're wearing."
"I don't even know what to wear," you breathed out, dropping flat onto your bed and staring at the ceiling. "What kind of theme even is that? Dynamic duo? That's so vague."
"It's not vague, it's versatile." She turned the screen to face you. "Clueless. Cher and Dionne. The plaid."
You looked at the screen. You looked at Olivia.
"Obviously," you said.
You walked into the party in matching plaid ,short skirt, blazer, the whole thing and felt immediately, objectively, like you had made the right costume choice. Olivia walked in beside you with the confident energy of someone who had never had a bad entrance in her life.
The house was full and warm and smelled like every college party you had ever been to. You did a quick scan of the room in the completely professional way of someone who was not looking for anyone specific.
You found him in approximately four seconds.
Logan was in the kitchen with Dean, drink in hand, laughing at something. He was wearing a sleveless gray shirt with a pair of wings.
You gave a small wave in their direction. Dean spotted you first and his face did something immediately, and then he clapped a hand on Logan's back and pushed him in your direction with the subtlety of a person who had never heard the word subtle.
Logan crossed the room.
"Hey —" His eyes moved over you and something in his expression shifted slightly. "Clueless?"
"Yeah," you said, nodding perhaps a few more times than necessary.
Beside you, Olivia made a sound that she converted, barely, into a cough. She had been documenting your inability to form complete sentences in Logan's presence for approximately three months and found it genuinely hilarious.
"You look very pretty," Logan said.
"Oh — thanks." The blush arrived before you could do anything about it. Compose yourself.
Logan seemed to remember that you were not alone. "You too, Olivia."
"Yeah, right," Olivia laughed. "I'll go get a drink."
She disappeared into the crowd. As she passed behind Logan she turned to face you and mouthed make a move with the enormous unsubtle energy of someone who had been waiting three months to say it.
You looked back at Logan.
"I'm glad you came," he said. "Dean mentioned you weren't sure."
"I had some content to edit," you said.
"This is more important," he said, lightly, like a joke, but with something underneath it that wasn't entirely a joke.
"Yeah," you said.
And then you were both just standing there. Drinks in hand, the party moving around you, talking the way you had discovered you talked when you were alone together, which was easily, which was the specific ease of two people who had been in the same orbit long enough to have figured out each other's rhythms without officially acknowledging it.
"So what are you supposed to be anyway?" you asked, taking the opportunity to look at him properly. The gray shirt. The wings. The arms, which were — you looked at his face instead. "Jacob Elordi in Saltburn?"
Logan laughed — a real one, surprised and warm. "Bird and the bee. I'm the bird. Tuck's the bee."
"Oh," you said. "That tracks."
"Does it."
"The bee has better energy," you said. "No offense to you."
"I'll tell Tucker you said that."
"Please don't."
Dean chose this exact moment to appear between you.
"Hello, you two." He looked between you with barely concealed delight. "What are we talking about?"
"The birds and the bees," you said, and watched Dean's eyebrow go up in real time.
"Oh, I like where this is headed."
"No — I mean his costume," you said quickly. "What are you supposed to be?"
"Maverick." He pointed across the room to where Beau was talking to a very beautiful brunette. "Beau's Goose."
You considered this. "Was there not a dynamic duo where one of them didn't have a tragic ending? You could have been Ice."
"Ice and Maverick hated each other," Dean said.
"No they didn't! In your own words they had the hots for each other."
Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Pointed at you. "That is actually a fair point."
"Thank you."
"You're insufferable," he said, smiling. He looked between you and Logan one more time. "I'm going to go find Beau. You two —" he gestured vaguely at the space between you "— continue."
He disappeared back into the crowd.
You looked at Logan. Logan looked at you.
"He's not subtle," you said.
"No," Logan agreed. "He really isn't."
The party continued around you. At some point you had moved slightly closer together. Neither of you had announced it. At some point his hand had found the small of your back, briefly, when someone pushed past in the crowd. It had stayed there a moment longer than strictly necessary. You had not moved away.
At some point Olivia had caught your eye from across the room and given you a look of such unrestrained triumph that you had been forced to look at the floor to keep from laughing.
"So —" Logan started. He stopped. Tried again. "I've been thinking. For a while actually." He looked at you with the expression of someone abandoning a rehearsed script entirely in favor of just saying the thing. "Would you like to go out? With me. On a date."
Inside your chest, something that had been very carefully managed for months made a sound like:
YESYESYESYESYESYESYESYES —
"Yes," you said, with great composure. "I'd like that."
Something settled in his expression warm and certain. "Good. I was hoping you were going to say that."
"I was hoping you were going to ask," you said.
He smiled. Not the polite one, not the team-photo one the real one, the one you had forty-seven saved clips of and only eleven of them were for work.
Across the room, completely uninvited into this moment, Dean let out a noise of triumph loud enough that Tucker turned around to look.
You and Logan both looked at Dean.
Dean pointed at both of you, then at himself, then gave two thumbs up with the energy of a man who had absolutely no shame about any of this.
"He planned this," you said.
"Obviously," Logan said.
You looked at Dean, who was now saying something to Beau that was making Beau look confused and Dean look extremely pleased with himself.
"I'm going to delete all his content," you said.
"Probably," Logan said. "But maybe tomorrow."
You looked back at him.
"Yeah," you said. "Maybe tomorrow."
What you did not know — what you would not know for three months — was what had happened two hours before that conversation.
The first date was a Tuesday.
Logan had asked on a Saturday and then spent the intervening three days being completely normal about it, which meant he had checked his phone approximately forty times and suggested three different restaurants to Dean who had not asked for his opinion and had given it anyway.
He picked you up at seven. You had worn something simple and he had looked at you the way he sometimes looked into the camera, direct, unhurried, like you were something worth paying attention t, and said you look great in the specific voice he used when he meant things, and you had said thanks, so do you and meant it, and the evening had been easy in the way that things were easy when they had been building for a long time and had finally found the right outlet.
You talked for three hours. Not about anything important about the team, about your job, about the things you had noticed about each other without ever saying so. He told you about the preemptive puck apology before you could bring it up and looked slightly embarrassed about it, which you found endearing in a way you did not make him aware of. You told him about the forty-seven saved clips and watched his expression do something warm and complicated.
He walked you back to your dorm. He kissed you at the door — soft and unhurried, the specific patience of someone who had been waiting a while and had decided that arriving was enough for now.
You went inside and stood in the hallway for a moment.
Oh, you thought. Not oh no this time. Just — oh.
What followed was three months that assembled themselves quietly and completely, the way good things tended to do when you stopped trying to manage them.
You learned the specific rhythm of being with Logan, which was different from the rhythm of being near Logan, which you had spent seven months memorizing from behind a camera. Being with him was easier. Less careful. The things you had noticed from a professional distance — the way he focused, the way he was with his teammates, the particular quality of his attention when he was genuinely listening were the same up close, just without the glass between you.
He remembered things. That was the detail that accumulated the most weight over three months small things you had said once, in passing, that he filed away and produced later in the specific way of someone who had been listening more carefully than you knew. The coffee order. The fact that you hated the overhead lights in the film room. The name of the professor whose class you had shared with Liana.
You told Olivia about the coffee order detail on a Thursday night and she looked at you with an expression that said everything she was choosing not to say out loud.
"Don't," you said.
"I'm not saying anything," she said.
"You have a face."
"I have my normal face."
"Olivia."
"I'm just glad," she said simply, and went back to whatever she was doing, and you sat with that for a moment and found that you were too.
Logan was also, three months in, still thinking about the check.
Not constantly. Not the way he had in the beginning, when it had surfaced at inconvenient moments, the first dinner, the first time you laughed at something he said, the first time you fell asleep on his shoulder watching something neither of you were paying attention to. Those early weeks it had been a persistent background noise, a low-level static of something he should have said and hadn't.
But the weeks had passed and the static had gotten quieter, the way noise does when you choose not to listen to it long enough. He had paid his rent. He had replaced the equipment. He had told himself, again and again, that he had been going to ask you out anyway, that the money had been incidental, that what they had built in the three months since was real regardless of how it started.
All of that was true.
The part that was also true, the part he didn't let himself look at too directly, was that you didn't know. And not knowing was its own kind of thing, a thing that existed in the space between you without you being aware of it, that he was aware of every time you said something honest to him, every time you looked at him the way you looked at him.
He had meant to tell you. In the beginning. There had been a window, early on, when it would have been a small thing — by the way, Dean made a bet, it's a whole thing, I was going to ask you anyway—. He had rehearsed it. He had not said it. The window had closed, and then it had been a week, and then a month, and then three months, and now saying it felt like dropping something large into a quiet room.
So he didn't say it.
He told himself it didn't matter because it hadn't changed anything real.
He was getting better at believing that.
It was a Saturday afternoon in February, the specific grey-white quality of a winter afternoon that had given up pretending it was going to improve, and you were in Logan's room doing nothing in particular.
This had become one of your favorite things — the doing nothing in particular. You had a tendency, left to your own devices, to fill time with productivity, with scheduled content and edited footage and the general sense that unoccupied time was time being wasted. Logan had, over three months, introduced you to the concept of lying on a bed on a Saturday afternoon and simply existing, which you had resisted and then accepted and now found genuinely necessary.
He was on his back, one arm behind his head, reading something on his phone. You were beside him, legs tangled, working your way through a Cosmopolitan from 2003 that you had found at the thrift store the previous weekend when you had gone with Allie. It had a younger Jennifer Lopez on the cover and approximately forty pages of advertisements for perfumes that no longer existed, and you had bought it for fifty cents because something about it felt like an artifact.
"Listen to this," you said.
"Mm."
"It's a quiz." You held up the magazine. "Is your relationship ready for the next level? I feel like we should take it."
"I feel like that magazine is older than some of our teammates."
"That's what makes it valuable." You turned back to the page. "Okay. Question one. When you picture your future, does your partner feature prominently? Options are: always, sometimes, or only when I'm feeling optimistic."
"Always," Logan said, without looking up from his phone.
You looked at him sideways. He was still reading, expression neutral, like he had answered a question about the weather.
"Okay," you said, and looked back at the magazine, and did not make anything of it, because making something of it would have required acknowledging that it had landed somewhere specific and stayed there.
You worked through several more questions — about communication, about conflict, about shared values — Logan answering in the same unhurried, matter-of-fact way, like the answers had already been decided and he was simply reporting them.
And then you got to the last one.
"Okay, last question." You shifted onto your side to face him. "If your partner made a serious mistake — something that hurt you — what would it take to make things right? Option A: a heartfelt conversation and genuine apology. Option B: time, space, and proof of change. Option C —" you paused, because option C was very 2003 "— a grand romantic gesture. Flowers, candlelight, the whole thing."
You said it like it was funny. You said it with the lightness of someone reading from an old magazine on a Saturday afternoon.
Logan put his phone down.
He looked at the ceiling for a moment. Then he turned his head and looked at you with an expression that was doing something complicated underneath the surface.
"What would you pick?" he said.
You considered it. "Honestly? C, but private. Like not in front of everyone. Just — showing up. With flowers, or peonies, they are my favorite. And meaning it." You paused. "The meaning it is the important part."
Logan looked at the ceiling again.
"Many flowers," he said. His voice was even. Carefully even.
"Like an unreasonable amount," you said. "Like someone made a decision about it."
"Right," he said.
He was quiet for a moment. You looked at him — at the careful evenness of his expression, the specific stillness of someone sitting with something — and almost asked what he was thinking about.
Then he turned back to you with the warm unhurried expression you knew, and kissed your temple.
"Good to know," he said.
You looked back at the magazine. Jennifer Lopez looked back at you, unbothered.
You did not know, lying there on a grey February Saturday, that you had just handed him the exact shape of something he was going to need.
Logan knew.
He stared at the ceiling after you looked away and thought about a check written on the back of a receipt and a conversation in a locker room and the specific, settling weight of something that had been waiting a long time to be said.
Too many flowers, he thought. Private. Meaning it.
He closed his eyes.
I have to tell her, he thought.
He did not tell her.
Allie had not been looking for information.
She had been in the kitchen at the off campus house on a Wednesday evening, waiting for Dean to finish getting ready so they could go to dinner, scrolling through her phone with the patience of someone accustomed to waiting for Dean to finish getting ready. She was not listening. She was not paying attention to anything except the particular injustice of being told seven-fifteen and it being seven-thirty-two.
And then Dean's phone rang on the counter.
She glanced at it automatically. Logan.
Dean came out of the bathroom still pulling on his jacket and picked it up. "Hey. What's up."
Allie went back to her phone.
"What do you mean you need to tell her." Dean's voice had shifted into something lower, more careful. "What's — Logan. Logan, have you not told her yet?"
Allie looked up.
Dean had his back to her, one hand pressed to the counter, the specific posture of someone having a conversation they hadn't prepared for. "It's been three months, man. How have you — okay. Okay, calm down. Just — tell me what happened."
A pause. Dean listening.
"So tell her," Dean said. "Just — tonight. Call her and tell her. It's been long enough, she'll —" another pause "— Logan, I know it's not going to be easy but you can't just — yes I know you actually love her, that's not the — okay, listen —"
Allie set her phone down on the counter very carefully.
"What," she said.
Dean turned around.
The expression on his face moved through several things in quick succession — surprise, recalibration, and then the specific, flattening look of someone who understood exactly what had just happened.
"Allie —"
"What did you do," she said. Not a question.
Dean lowered his phone slowly. On the other end Logan was saying something, unaware.
"Dean." Her voice was very even. "What did you do."
He told her.
He told her all of it — the bet, the thousand dollars, the locker room — and Allie stood in the kitchen and listened with the stillness of someone who was getting progressively more furious in a way that had not yet found its exit.
When he finished she said nothing for a moment.
"She's my friend," she said finally.
"I know —"
"She is my friend and you let her date him for three months without telling her."
"It wasn't supposed to —"
"Dean." She picked up her keys from the counter. "Do not follow me."
"Allie, please just —"
"I have to tell her," she said. "She's my friend. I'm not going to —"
"Please," Dean said, and his voice had lost all its usual confidence, stripped down to something that was just — asking. "Please just give me a chance to fix it. I'll tell Logan to tell her tonight. Just give me —"
"You had your chance to fix it three months ago," Allie said. "And two months ago. And last month." She looked at him for a long moment. "I love you. And you did something really wrong. And she needs to know."
She left.
Dean stood in the kitchen alone and listened to Logan's voice still coming from the phone in his hand.
He put the phone to his ear.
"She already knows," he said.
You were in your aparment when Allie knocked.
She told you everything standing in your doorway, quickly and directly, the way Allie did things — no preamble, no softening, just the facts arranged in order. The bet. The thousand dollars. The locker room. Three months.
You stood very still while she talked.
When she finished you said nothing for a long moment.
"Get your keys," you said.
"(Y/N) —"
"Get your keys, Allie."
The drive to the off campus house took four minutes. You did not speak. Allie drove and you looked at the road ahead and felt cold clarity of someone who had moved past the part where things hurt and into the part where they simply had to be dealt with.
The lights were on when you pulled up. Of course they were.
You didn't knock.
You walked in and Logan was already in the hallway, like he had heard the car, like some part of him had known — and the expression on his face when he saw you was the expression of someone who had been waiting for this and was still not ready for it.
Dean was behind him. Tucker and Garrett further back, in the doorway of the living room, with the expressions of people who understood the room and had decided to stay very still.
"Hey —" Logan started.
"Did you take a bet," you said, "to ask me out."
The hallway was very quiet.
"Yes," Logan said.
The word landed.
"How much," you said.
"A thousand dollars."
You looked at him. This person. This person whose coffee order you knew, whose preemptive apologies you had found endearing, whose smile you had forty-seven saved clips of and only eleven of them were for work.
"You had to be paid," you said. Your voice was very quiet. "Someone had to pay you. To ask me out."
"It wasn't —"
"A thousand dollars," you said. "That's what it cost. That's what asking me out was worth to you. A thousand dollars and someone else's idea."
"That's not —"
"I told you I loved you." The words came out steadier than you expected. "Three weeks ago. In your room. I told you I loved you and you said it back and the whole time —" you stopped. Started again. "The whole time there was a check. There was a check and you knew and you said it back anyway."
"I meant it," Logan said. "I mean it. I love you, that has nothing to do with —"
"It has everything to do with it." Your voice cracked slightly and you pushed past it. "Because maybe you do. Maybe you actually do love me. But I will never know that now. Do you understand that? I will never know which part was real and which part was a thousand dollars because you didn't tell me. You had three months to tell me and you didn't."
"I was going to —"
"When?" you said. "When were you going to tell me? After another month? After a year? Were you ever actually going to tell me or were you just going to keep it and hope I never found out?"
He said nothing.
"That's what I thought," you said.
You turned to Dean.
Dean was standing very still with an expression that had none of his usual ease in it, stripped down, uncomfortable, genuinely ashamed in a way that you recognized as real and that made it worse rather than better.
"I thought you were my friend," you said. Your voice was different now, not cold, something more broken than cold. "I thought — you were supposed to be my friend. I told you things. I told you how I felt about him and you used it. You turned it into a transaction and then you watched me fall in love with him and you said nothing."
"I know," Dean said. His voice was very quiet. "I know."
"I taught you how to use the camera," you said, which was not what you meant to say but came out anyway, and somehow it was the most honest thing — the small specific intimacy of it, the way you had shown him the angles and the settings and he had been genuinely interested and you had thought this is what a friend looks like. "I showed you everything. I thought you were —"
"I was," Dean said. "I am. I'm so sorry."
"Don't." You picked up your bag. "Don't apologize right now. I can't — I need you to not talk to me right now."
You looked at Logan one more time. He was standing in the hallway with his hands at his sides and the open, devastated expression of someone who had run out of words and knew it.
"Please," he said. Just that. Just the word, quiet and without any of the composure he usually wore like a second skin.
"I have to go," you said.
"Please just let me —"
"Logan." Your voice broke on his name, just slightly, and you steadied it. "I have to go."
You walked to the door. Behind you you heard him take a step.
You opened the door.
"You two fucking suck," you said, to the hallway, to both of them, to the three months of Tuesday practices and bus rides and magazine quizzes and I love you said and meant and received by someone who was keeping a check in his jacket pocket the whole time. "Never talk to me again."
You walked out.
Allie was waiting by the car. She took one look at your face and said nothing, just unlocked the doors, and you got in, and she drove, and the campus moved past the windows dark and quiet and entirely indifferent.
You did not cry until you got back to your aparment.
And then you did, for a while, with Olivia sitting beside you saying nothing because there was nothing to say, just being there the way people who actually loved you were there when things went wrong.
You had to be paid, you thought, in the dark.
A thousand dollars.
The house was very quiet after you left.
Tucker and Garrett had retreated to the living room. Nobody was saying anything.
Dean sat on the bottom step of the stairs and put his head in his hands.
Logan stood in the hallway where you had left him and looked at the closed door and thought about everything — the check, the locker room, the first dinner, the magazine quiz on a grey February Saturday, too many flowers, private, meaning it — and underneath all of it, constant and quiet, the thing he had known for three months and had managed to convince himself didn't matter:
You had deserved to know.
You had deserved to know from the beginning and he had chosen not to tell you and you stood in his hallway and said I will never know which part was real and he had had no answer because there was no answer that fixed that.
Garrett appeared in the doorway of the living room. He looked at Logan for a long moment.
"I told you not to," he said. Not unkindly. Just said.
"I know," Logan said.
"From the beginning. I told you."
"I know, Garrett."
Garrett looked at him for another moment. Then he went back to the living room without saying anything else, which was somehow the most devastating response available.
Logan sat down on the floor of the hallway with his back against the wall and stared at nothing.
I have to fix this, he thought.
He had absolutely no idea how.
The email to the athletics department went out the following morning.
It was professional and brief — you cited personal reasons, thanked them for the opportunity, offered to train your replacement, gave two weeks notice. You sent it before you could think about it too hard, before the part of you that loved the job could talk the other part out of it.
You were not going to sit in that rink anymore. You were not going to film those practices or those games or stand in that corridor outside the locker room with your tripod and your equipment bag and pretend that everything was the same as it had been before.
Your phone had messages from Logan and Dean by noon. You read none of them.
The football team's social media coordinator reached back out by the end of the day.
You started the following Monday.
The football team was different from the hockey team in ways that were both obvious and unexpected. Louder, in some ways. Different rhythms, different energy. The guys were nice and the work was interesting and you were good at it, because you were good at this, that had never been in question.
You were fine.
You were getting finer by the day, which was either progress or a very convincing impression of it.
Allie texted. Garrett texted — I'm sorry, for what it's worth I told him not to — which you appreciated more than you could say. Tucker sent a single text that just said I tried to talk him out of it and you believed him and told him so.
You did not respond to Logan.
Logan's days had a new shape to them and he hated it.
Practice was the same, same drills, same ice, same team, but the stands were wrong. The spot where you always sat, third row back on the left side, was empty now, and he knew it was empty without lookin. He looked anyway. Every practice, every morning skate, every film session, he looked, and the spot was empty, and he looked away.
Logan texted you every three days. Not long messages, just checking in, just your name sometimes, just I know you don't want to hear from me right now but I'm sorry. He did not expect responses. He sent them anyway because not sending them felt worse.
He watched your football content. Every post, every reel, every behind-the-scenes clip. He watched the way you filmed the new team — the same eye, the same instinct for the right moment, the same ability to make something look like something worth watching — and felt the specific, particular ache of someone who understood what they had lost because they had been paying attention to it the whole time.
He had always been paying attention.
That was the thing that made it so much worse.
Three weeks after you left, the hockey team got a new social media person.
Her name was Jade. She was a sophomore, enthusiastic, slightly overwhelmed, and she had asked you to walk her through the setup on a Tuesday morning when the team had a late practice, which meant you were in the rink, with your old equipment, showing someone else how to use the angles you had spent seven months learning, when the team came off the ice.
You had not planned for this. You had assumed they would be gone by the time you were done.
They were not gone.
You heard them before you saw them, he familiar noise of the team coming out of the locker room corridor and then Tucker saw you first and stopped walking so abruptly that Garrett walked into him.
"What —" Garrett looked up. Saw you. His expression did something complicated.
The rest of the team filtered out around them, and then Dean, and then Logan, and the corridor went through a specific collective recalibration.
You kept your face completely neutral. "Hey," you said, to the general group. "This is Jade. She's taking over the social media. I'm just showing her the setup."
Jade waved cheerfully, unaware of the atmospheric pressure of the corridor.
"Taking over?" Tucker said slowly.
"Yes," you said. "I moved to football." You said it simply, like it was information and not anything else. "Jade is great, she's going to do a really good job."
The team was looking at you with various expressions. Tucker looked pained. Garrett looked like he was doing math.
Dean was looking at the floor.
Logan was looking at you with the expression of someone watching something leave that they had already lost and were only now understanding the full shape of. You could feel it without looking directly at him. You had spent seven months learning the specific weight of his attention.
"I already left," you said. "This is just the handover."
"But —" Tucker started.
"Tuck," you said, gently. "It's fine. Jade is great."
Jade smiled again.
"We kind of made you leave," Tucker said, in the specific tone of someone who had been holding something for three weeks and had finally said it out loud.
"Tucker —"
"No, like —" he stopped. Looked at Dean. Looked at Logan. Looked back at you. "We made you leave. That's what happened. And I just — I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say but I'm sorry."
The corridor was very quiet.
"You didn't make me leave," you said carefully. "You tried to talk him out of it. I know that."
Tucker nodded. Still pained.
"Right," Garrett said finally, in the tone of someone deciding to be graceful about something painful. "Good luck with football."
"Thanks," you said.
You turned back to Jade and kept going with the walkthrough, and the team filed past, and you did not look at Logan as he walked by even though you could feel him slowing down, even though you could feel him wanting to say something.
"Hey," Logan said. Very quietly. Just that.
You kept your eyes on the camera settings you were showing Jade.
He stood there for a moment. Then his footsteps continued down the corridor.
You exhaled very quietly and kept talking to Jade about angles.
Behind you, fading, you heard Dean say something low and urgent to Logan that you couldn't make out. And Logan's response, quieter still:
"I know."
Logan started showing up.
Not to you, he respected the never talk to me again enough not to push himself into your space. But he started showing up in the ways that were available to him.
He fixed the tripod mount in the storage room that had been broken since October — the one you had mentioned once, months ago, in passing, because it made the camera angle slightly off and you had learned to compensate for it. He left a note on it that said finally fixed it. sorry it took so long. No signature. He didn't need one.
He started showing up to the football team's games.
Not every game. Not in a way that was dramatic or obvious. Just there, in the stands, with the quiet patience of someone who had decided that if the mountain wouldn't come to him he would go to the mountain and sit in the stands and watch from a respectful distance.
Olivia told you the second time it happened.
"He was there again," she said carefully.
You said nothing.
"He's not doing anything," she said. "He's just — there. Watching."
You said nothing.
"I thought you should know," she said.
You knew.
You knew because you had clocked him the first time — third row back, left side,— and you had kept filming and not said anything and thought about it for three days.
He texted you after the third game.
logan: you got a good shot of the QB in the third quarter. the one right before the play call. it was good.
You stared at the message for a long time.
yn: how would you know
logan: i was there
A long pause.
logan: i'll keep coming if that's okay. i won't bother you. i just want to be there.
You put your phone down.
You picked it up.
yn: it's okay
Dean did not sleep the night you found out.
He lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling and thought about the specific expression on your face when you said I thought you were my friend — not angry, which would have been easier, but broken, which was not easier at all.
At four in the morning he picked up his phone.
dean: allie
allie: i'm awake
dean: i know i really messed up
allie: yes
dean: i don't know how to fix it
A long pause.
allie: you start by not trying to fix it. you start by just being sorry.
dean: i am
allie: i know. she needs to hear it from you. not a text. not through anyone else. you.
dean: she said never talk to her again
allie: i know what she said. give her time. and then go.
Dean put his phone down.
He stared at the ceiling until it got light outside.
You took your own sweet time.
Not to feel better, you were not operating under the illusion that time fixed everything, but to feel what you needed to feel without an audience. You went to classes. You went to work. You filmed the football team's Tuesday practice and focused on the angles and the light and the professional satisfaction of a job done well, and you did not think about hockey, and you did not look at your phone when certain names appeared on the screen, and you let Olivia bring you food and watch bad television with you without making you talk about it.
On the fourteenth day Dean was waiting outside your lecture hall.
He looked terrible. Not dramatically terrible — Dean was constitutionally incapable of looking terrible — but tired.
You stopped when you saw him.
He held up both hands. "I'm not here to make excuses," he said. "I know you said never talk to me again. I know. I just — five minutes. And then I'll go and I won't bother you again if that's what you want."
You looked at him for a long moment.
You stepped to the side of the path, out of the flow of people. He followed.
"Say what you have to say," you said.
Dean looked at you with the expression you had never seen on him before, no performance, no charm deployed at the right moment, nothing managed. Just a person who had done something wrong and knew it and was standing in front of the person he had done it to.
"I've never had a friend like you before," he said. "Like — actually. I have guy friends. I have girls I've hooked up, almost dated or whatever. But I've never had a girl who was just — a friend. Who I talked to and who talked to me and who I could be around without it being anything else." He paused. "And I took that and I made it into a scheme. And I told myself I was helping and maybe part of me was but part of me just — didn't think far enough ahead. Didn't think about what it would mean to you if you found out. Didn't think about you at all, honestly, which is the thing I'm most sorry about." He held your gaze. "I thought about Logan being in love with you and I thought about the bet being clever and I didn't think about you being a person who deserved to know the truth. And I should have. You should have been the first thing I thought about."
The path had mostly emptied. A bird somewhere was doing something aggressively cheerful.
"I miss my friend," Dean said. "I know I don't get to just say that. I know. I just needed you to know that it's real. You are actually my friend and I actually miss you and I'm actually sorry, not sorry like I feel bad, sorry like I understand what I did."
You looked at him.
You thought about the bus and his head on your shoulder and on the team, I meant and the way he had looked genuinely wounded when you said Tucker was probably your better friend on the team.
"It's going to take time," you said finally.
Something in his expression shifted — careful, not quite hope yet.
"I know," he said.
"You don't get to just be normal yet. We have to rebuild that."
"I know."
"And you have to actually be different," you said. "Not just sorry. Different."
"I will be," he said. "I already am. Or I'm trying to be." He paused. "Is that enough to start with?"
You looked at him for a long moment.
"It's enough to start with," you said.
The careful-not-quite-hope became something more than that.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"Don't thank me yet," you said. "We have a long way to go."
"I know," he said. "I'll go as slow as you need."
You looked at the path ahead.
"I have class," you said.
"I know. Go."
You went.
It was a start.
Logan was harder.
Not because you were angrier at him — you were, if you were being honest, angry at both of them in equal measure, just differently. Dean had betrayed a friendship. Logan had betrayed something larger, something that had your name on it, something you had handed him on a grey February Saturday when you said I love you and meant it with everything you had.
You saw him at the football games. Third row back, left side, every time. Not looking at you directly, just there, present, with the quiet patience of someone who had decided that showing up was the only thing available to him and had committed to it without reservation.
He sent you a text after every game. Not about him, not about them, about your work. Good shot in the second half. The one where you caught the receiver right before the snap. The slow motion reel you posted was really good. The timing was perfect. Small specific things that said I was paying attention without saying anything else.
You read them all.
You responded to some of them.
Small things. Thanks. I almost didn't post that one. Nothing that opened a door, just acknowledgment. The acknowledgment of someone who was not ready and was not pretending to be and was also not entirely gone.
He was not pushing. That was the thing you noticed most. He had shown up to three football games and fixed a broken tripod mount and sent careful specific texts about your work and he had not once asked for anything in return. Had not once said I think we should talk or please give me a chance or any of the things that would have made it easier to keep the door closed.
He was just — there.
Being different.
The grand gesture arrived on a Thursday, five weeks after the fight.
You were in the football team's equipment room going through footage on your laptop when someone knocked on the door. One of the managers looked in.
"There's someone outside asking for you," he said, with the specific expression of someone who had seen something and found it notable.
You went outside.
The path outside the athletics building was where you found him — Logan, in the cold, with flowers. Not a bunch. Not a normal amount. An amount that represented a decision — sunflowers and peonies and something small and white, wrapped loosely in paper, assembled with the specific intention of being too many, more than one person could reasonably carry, held in both arms with the careful energy of someone who had thought about this and decided it was not enough and added more anyway.
You looked at the flowers. You looked at him.
He looked tired in the same way he had looked tired since the night you left — not dramatic, not performing it, just genuinely worn down in the way of someone who had been carrying something for five weeks without putting it down.
"You said private," he said. "Too many flowers. Someone made a decision." He paused. "I made a decision."
Your throat did something inconvenient.
"Logan —"
"I'm not asking you to forgive me today," he said. "I just you said meaning it was the important part. And I needed you to see that I mean it. That's all. I'm not asking for anything."
You looked at the flowers. Peonies. He had gotten peonies specifically.
"You remembered the peonies," you said.
"You mentioned them once," he said. "A long time ago."
"You were paying attention," you said.
"I was always paying attention," he said quietly. "That was never the problem."
You stood there in the cold outside the athletics building and thought about I will never know which part was real and the third row left side and the texts about your work and five weeks of him being different without being asked to prove it.
"This isn't enough," you said.
Something flickered in his expression.
"I know," he said.
"I need more than flowers."
"I know," he said again, steadily. "Tell me what you need. Whatever it is. I'll do it."
You looked at him for a long moment.
"I need time," you said. "Real time. Not rushing. Not us going back to how things were because it was comfortable and we missed each other. Actually starting over and doing it right."
"Okay," he said.
"I need you to keep showing up," you said. "Not just when it's easy. When it's hard and uncertain and you don't know if it's working. You keep showing up anyway."
"I will," he said.
"And I need you to understand that I might get angry again," you said. "Even after I've forgiven you. It might come back and I might need to say something and you have to let me say it without shutting down."
"I will," he said. "I'll listen. Every time."
You looked at him.
"The texts," you said. "About my work."
"Yeah."
"You were at every game."
"Yeah."
"Third row back. Left side."
He looked at you quietly.
"I know," you said. "I noticed."
Something in his expression shifted.
"I was always going to ask you out," he said. "I need you to know that. Not as an excuse. Just as a true thing. The money didn't change what I felt. It just — it gave me a reason I shouldn't have needed and I took it and I'm sorry. But what happened between us was real. Every single part of it was real."
"I know," you said, which surprised you slightly, because you hadn't known you knew until you said it. "I know it was real. That's what made it hurt so much."
He nodded.
"Give me the peonies," you said.
He carefully extracted the peonies from the arrangement and held them out. You took them.
"The rest you can take home," you said.
"Okay."
"And Logan —" you paused. "The showing up. Don't stop."
Something broke open in his expression — not dramatically, not loudly, just quietly and completely, the expression of someone who had been holding something for five weeks and had finally been given a place to put it down.
"I won't," he said. "I promise."
You looked at him for one more moment.
"Slow," you said.
"As slow as you need," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."
You went back inside.
You stood in the equipment room with the peonies and thought about everything — the check and the bet and the fight and five weeks of third row left side and too many flowers on a Thursday afternoon in the cold.
You were not okay yet.
But you were standing with peonies, which was somewhere.
It was enough to start with.
The getting back together did not happen all at once.
It happened the way the crush had happened — gradually, against nobody's will this time, the way things did when they had been building for a long time and had finally found the right conditions.
The first time you went back to the rink it was not for work.
It was a Saturday game, mid-March, the kind that mattered for standings, and you had told yourself you were going because Allie and Hannah were going and Olivia was going and it was a group thing and had nothing to do with anything else.
You brought your camera.
Not the work camera your personal one, the smaller one you used when you were filming for yourself rather than for a content schedule. You told yourself it was habit. You told yourself you just liked having it.
You sat third row left side.
The thing about watching hockey when you actually knew what you were looking at was that it was a completely different experience from watching hockey when you were just there for the atmosphere. You knew the plays. You knew the patterns. You knew which moments were about to become something before they became something, the specific pre-motion stillness that preceded a good play, the way certain players telegraphed their intentions without knowing they were doing it.
You knew Logan's tells better than anyone.
Which was why you had your camera up and ready when he got the puck in the second period the slight shift of his weight, the way his head came up a half second before anyone else's, and then the play unfolding exactly the way you had known it would, clean and fast and entirely worth watching.
You got the shot.
Forty-three seconds of it, actually.
You lowered the camera and looked at what you had captured and felt something settle in your chest that was warm and quiet and entirely familiar.
Genuinely cinematic, you thought, and smiled at the ice.
Briar won.
The team filtered out of the locker room in the usual way in ones and twos, loud and post-game, spilling into the corridor where the usual group had gathered. Allie found Dean. Hannah found Garrett. Tucker found someone to complain to about a call in the third period.
You were reviewing footage on your camera when you felt someone stop beside you.
You looked up.
Logan was still in half his gear, hair damp, and he was looking at you with the expression you had forty-seven saved clips of — the real one, the one that had nothing managed about it — except that now you were allowed to look at it directly, which was still something you were getting used to.
"You came," he said.
"I came," you confirmed.
"You brought your camera."
"I brought my camera."
He looked at it. He looked at you. "Did you get anything good?"
You turned the camera around and hit play. The second period play unfolded on the small screen — the weight shift, the half second of stillness, the clean fast movement of something that knew exactly where it was going.
Forty-three seconds of it.
Logan watched it. Something in his expression went soft in the specific way it did when he was actually feeling something and had decided not to manage it.
"That's —" he started.
"Genuinely cinematic," you said.
He looked at you.
You looked back at him.
And then he kissed you right there in the corridor.
It was warm and certain and tasted like relief of something that had been a long time coming and had finally, simply, arrived.
When you pulled back he was smiling the real one, the one you had been filming without quite admitting why for seven months.
"So," he said.
"Yeah," you said. "We're back together." You pointed at him. "Don't fuck up."
Logan laughed a real one, surprised and warm, the kind that carried down the corridor and made Tucker laugh too without knowing why.
"I won't," he said.
"I mean it."
"I know you mean it."
"Good." You tucked your camera back into your bag. "Buy me food. I've been at a hockey game for two hours and I'm starving."
"Done," he said immediately.
You started walking and everything was different from before, which was the whole point, which was exactly what you had asked for.
Better. Not the same. Better.
Behind you, fading, you heard Tucker say something to Garrett.
