my comfy place☕️

[pucksandpower]

guardian angel

Beau Maxwell x medical student!Reader

Summary (implied spoilers for The Score): you stop on a dark highway for a stranger you have never met. He wakes up days later not knowing your name. What follows is a love story that starts with blood-stained scrubs, a neck brace, and the single worst pickup line ever delivered in an ICU. Aka … the fix-it fic where Beau lives

Warnings: descriptions of a car accident and critical injuries

The night stretches cold and endless along Route 2, the kind of February darkness that settles into your bones. You’re driving on autopilot, your mind still churning through pharmacokinetics and drug interactions, when the world explodes into motion ahead of you.

Metal screeches. Glass shatters. A black SUV careens off the road, spinning once, twice, before slamming into a massive oak with a sound that punches through the quiet night.

Your foot hits the brake before your brain catches up. Your car fishtails slightly on the slick road before coming to a stop thirty feet from the wreckage. For exactly three seconds, you sit there, hands still gripping the steering wheel, heart hammering against your ribs.

Then you’re moving.

You grab your phone, your emergency kit from the trunk — thank god for your mother’s paranoia — and run toward the smoking vehicle. The smell hits you first: gasoline, burnt rubber, something metallic that might be blood.

“Hello?” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Can anyone hear me?”

A groan from the driver’s side. You circle around, your boots crunching on broken glass and scattered debris. The driver’s door hangs open at an odd angle. A man in his fifties sits slumped against the steering wheel, a gash above his eyebrow bleeding sluggishly.

“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”

His eyes flutter open. Blue eyes. Dazed but focusing. “I—what happened? Where’s-” His head jerks toward the passenger side, and pure terror floods his face. “Beau! BEAU!”

He tries to unbuckle his seatbelt, but you put a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, please don’t move. You might be injured-”

“My son!” He shoves your hand away, stronger than he looks. “My son is in the passenger seat!”

Ice floods your veins. You circle to the other side of the vehicle, and that’s when you see him.

The passenger door is crumpled inward, the metal twisted like paper. The window is completely gone. And in the seat, surrounded by a spider web of cracks in what’s left of the windshield, is a young man about your age.

There’s so much blood.

“Oh god,” you whisper. Then louder, forcing yourself into action: “I’m calling 911 right now!”

Your fingers shake as you dial, but your voice comes out clear when the operator answers.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Motor vehicle collision, Route 2 westbound, approximately two miles past the Lexington exit. Two victims. Driver appears stable with minor head trauma, but passenger has severe injuries-” You’re moving as you talk, assessing with your eyes what you can’t yet touch. “Possible cervical spine injury, significant hemorrhaging from upper extremity, penetrating chest trauma. We need paramedics and ALS immediately.”

“Ma’am, are you a medical professional?”

“Second-year medical student. I have BLS and Stop the Bleed certification.”

“Paramedics are en route. ETA eight minutes. Can you provide care until they arrive?”

“Yes.” You set the phone down, speaker on, and force yourself to breathe. Eight minutes. You can do eight minutes.

You turn back to the passenger. The father is now standing beside you, swaying slightly.

“Sir, I need you to sit down-”

“That’s my son.” His voice breaks. “Please, you have to help him. Please.”

“I will. But I need you to sit down before you fall down. Can you do that for me?”

He nods shakily and lowers himself to the ground, never taking his eyes off his son.

You lean into the destroyed passenger compartment, and your medical training wars with your human instinct to panic. The young man — Beau, his father called him — is unconscious. His head lolls at an angle that makes your stomach drop. Not a natural angle. Not even close.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay, think. C-spine precautions. Don’t move him unless he’s in immediate danger.”

But he is in immediate danger. You can see it in the way his neck bends, the way his head threatens to fall further forward. If his cervical spine isn’t already severed, any more movement could do it.

You look around frantically. The car is stable. No fire. But you need to stabilize his neck now.

Your emergency kit. You dump it on the ground, hands moving fast, grabbing the rolled-up fleece blanket your mom insisted you carry. You carefully roll it into a tight cylinder and maneuver it around Beau’s neck, trying to provide support without moving him any more than absolutely necessary.

“Talk to me,” you call to the father. “What’s his name? Full name?”

“Beau. Beau Maxwell.” The man’s voice is thin with shock. “He’s twenty-two. He’s healthy, no medical conditions, no allergies. He’s—god, he’s the quarterback. He has a game next week. He has-”

“Okay, Mr. Maxwell, that’s good, that’s helpful.” You’re assessing as he talks. The makeshift cervical collar is in place. Now the bleeding. “I need you to keep talking to me. Tell me what happened.”

“A deer. There was a deer in the road, and I swerved, and-” His voice cracks again. “I felt the ice. I felt us sliding. I couldn’t stop it.”

You’re barely listening now, all your attention on Beau’s arm. There’s a shard of glass — thick, wickedly sharp — embedded in his right bicep. Blood pulses around it in rhythmic spurts. Arterial. Brachial artery, most likely.

“Fuck,” you breathe. “Dispatch, update — patient has arterial hemorrhage from upper extremity. I’m applying a tourniquet now.”

Your coat. You’re already shaking from the cold, but you strip off your heavy winter coat without hesitation. You need fabric, need pressure, need to stop the bleeding before he loses any more blood.

The glass shard is still embedded. Leave it or take it out? You run through your training in microseconds. In the field, with no surgical backup, no way to clamp the artery — leave it. But you need pressure above and below.

You wrap your coat around his upper arm, using the sleeves to tie it as tight as you can manage. Your fingers are already going numb, but you pull harder, watching the rhythmic spurting slow to a steady seep. Not perfect, but better.

You’re about to check his other injuries when you see it: a thick branch, maybe three inches in diameter, has punched through the windshield and embedded itself in Beau’s chest. Just left of center. Through the sternum, or maybe just missing it. Either way, it’s deep.

Your hands hover over it, trembling. Every instinct screams at you to pull it out, but you know that branch is the only thing preventing him from bleeding out right now. If it’s hit any major vessels, removing it without a surgical team standing by would kill him.

“Please,” Mr. Maxwell says from behind you. “Please tell me he’s going to be okay.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you lean back slightly, taking in Beau’s face for the first time.

Even like this — pale, covered in blood, unconscious — he’s striking. Dark hair matted against his forehead, strong jaw, features that would be more at home on a movie screen than a car wreck. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, minor compared to everything else, and his lips are slightly parted, each breath shallow and labored.

You find yourself reaching out, your fingers — cold and blood-stained — brushing against his cheek.

“Hey,” you whisper. “Beau. I know you can’t hear me, but I need you to hold on, okay? Help is coming. Just hold on.”

His skin is cooling rapidly in the February air. You grab the emergency blanket from your kit with your free hand and drape it over as much of him as you can without disturbing the branch or the makeshift collar.

“Six minutes out,” the dispatcher says through your phone speaker.

Six minutes. Six minutes for his brain to be without adequate oxygen if his breathing gets any worse. Six minutes for that branch to shift. Six minutes for his neck to-

No. You push the thoughts away.

“Mr. Maxwell, is anyone else hurt? Was anyone else in the car?”

“No. Just us. We were coming back from dinner. In the city. His grandmother’s birthday.” The man is crying now, quietly. “I told him I’d drive so he could relax. Have a few drinks. I told him-”

“This wasn’t your fault,” you say firmly. “The deer, the ice — this wasn’t your fault.”

You check Beau’s pulse again. Thready. Too fast. Shock, almost certainly. Blood loss, head trauma, possible internal injuries — the list spirals in your mind.

“His pupils,” Mr. Maxwell says suddenly. “Shouldn’t you check his pupils?”

You should. You know you should. But part of you is terrified of what you’ll find. Unequal pupils would mean increased intracranial pressure, brain herniation, things you cannot fix on the side of a dark highway.

Still, you pull out your phone flashlight and gently lift one of Beau’s eyelids.

Blue. His eyes are the same startling blue as his father’s, even closed like this. You shine the light across. The pupil constricts. Sluggish, but it constricts. You check the other side. The same.

“Equal and reactive,” you report to dispatch, relief flooding through you. “Sluggish but responsive.”

“Paramedics are three minutes out,” the dispatcher responds.

Three minutes. You can see lights in the distance now, hear the wail of sirens cutting through the night.

You check the tourniquet again — still holding. Check his breathing — still shallow but present. Your hand finds its way back to his face, and you realize you’re talking to him, a steady stream of words you’ll never remember later.

“They’re almost here. You’re doing great. Just keep breathing, okay? Keep breathing.”

Behind you, Mr. Maxwell is on his own phone now, his voice breaking as he talks to someone. His wife, probably. Telling her something no parent should ever have to say.

The ambulance screams to a stop, and suddenly there are people everywhere. Paramedics in dark blue, moving with practiced efficiency.

“We’ve got him, ma’am. We’ve got him.”

But you don’t move. Not until one of them — a woman with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair — gently touches your shoulder.

“You did good,” she says. “Really good. But we need you to step back now so we can work.”

You stumble backward, and Mr. Maxwell is there, catching your elbow.

“What do we have?” the lead paramedic asks.

Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Twenty-two-year-old male, restrained passenger in head-on collision with tree. Patient found unconscious, significant cervical spine angulation — I’ve placed a soft collar for support. Penetrating trauma to chest, large foreign object still in situ. Arterial hemorrhage from right upper extremity, tourniquet applied. Pupils equal and reactive but sluggish. Respirations shallow, approximately 20 per minute. Pulse thready at approximately 120. Obvious signs of shock.”

The paramedic’s eyebrows raise slightly. “You a doctor?”

“Med student. Second year.”

“Well, med student, you probably saved his life.” She’s already moving, her team swarming around Beau with practiced precision. C-collar. Backboard. IV access. They work with a choreography born of countless traumas.

You watch as they carefully extract him from the vehicle, maintaining spinal precautions, keeping the branch stable. Watch as they load him onto the stretcher. Watch as they cut away his blood-soaked shirt, revealing more of the damage underneath.

“We’re taking him to Mass General,” one of the paramedics calls out. “Trauma one.”

“I’m riding with him,” Mr. Maxwell says, but he’s swaying again, and now that the adrenaline is fading, you can see he’s not as okay as he first appeared.

“Sir, you need to be evaluated too,” another paramedic says, approaching with a second gurney. “We’ll take you both.”

“But-”

“We’ve got him, sir. We’ve got your son.”

You watch as they load Mr. Maxwell into a second ambulance. Watch as both vehicles pull away, sirens wailing, lights painting the dark road in red and blue.

Then it’s just you, standing on the side of Route 2 in just your scrubs and thin long-sleeve shirt, shivering violently as the adrenaline finally crashes. A police officer is talking to you — when did the police arrive? — asking questions you answer automatically.

Your coat is gone. Still wrapped around Beau Maxwell’s arm, probably being cut off by the trauma team right now. Your emergency kit is scattered across the asphalt. Your hands are stained rusty brown with blood.

“Miss?” The officer touches your shoulder. “Miss, are you okay? Do you need medical attention?”

“I’m fine,” you hear yourself say. “I’m fine.”

But you’re not fine. You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter. Your mind keeps replaying the angle of Beau’s neck, the branch in his chest, the feel of his cooling skin under your fingers.

The officer wraps a shock blanket around your shoulders and guides you to sit in your car, heater blasting. He’s still asking questions — your name, your address, what you saw. You answer them all, but part of you is still on that roadside, watching Beau’s chest rise and fall in shallow, struggling breaths.

“You’re a hero, you know,” the officer says after he’s finished taking your statement. “That young man — you probably saved his life.”

You nod numbly. All you can think is but what if it wasn’t enough?

The officer helps you collect your scattered supplies, guides you through the process of leaving the scene. Your car is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.

Except it’s not.

As you drive home, your hands won’t stop shaking on the wheel. You keep seeing Beau’s face, keep feeling the cold of his skin, keep hearing Mr. Maxwell’s broken voice. That’s my son. Please, you have to help him.

You make it to your apartment building, into your unit, into your bathroom before you finally break down. You sit on the cold tile floor, still in your blood-stained scrubs, and sob.

Because you’ve spent two years studying medicine, learning about trauma and emergency care, practicing on mannequins and in simulations. But nothing prepared you for the reality of holding someone’s life in your hands while their blood soaks into your coat and their father begs you to save them.

Nothing prepared you for looking into the face of a dying stranger and desperately, irrationally, needing him to survive.

You cry until you have no tears left, until the shaking finally subsides, until you can breathe without feeling like your chest is caving in. You peel off your ruined scrubs, scrub the blood from your hands, and sit on your couch in the dark.

Then you pull up Google on your phone, your hands steadier now, and type in a name. Beau Maxwell.

The results flood your screen. Articles about football, highlight reels, statistics. Briar University’s star quarterback. Twenty-two years old. Junior year. Dark hair, blue eyes, a smile that could sell toothpaste. Projected first-round NFL draft pick.

You scroll through image after image of him — in uniform, in interviews, at press conferences. Healthy. Whole. So full of life it seems impossible that just an hour ago you were watching him bleed out on a dark highway.

You close your phone and lean your head back against the couch, staring at your ceiling in the darkness.

“Please,” you whisper to no one, to everyone, to whatever forces govern life and death. “Please let him be okay.”

Outside your window, Boston sleeps on, unaware. Somewhere across the city, in Mass General’s trauma bay, a team of surgeons fights to save the life of a quarterback you’ve never met but will never forget.

All you can do is wait.

And hope.

And pray that your desperate, fumbling first aid was enough to give him a chance.

***

The weight room smells like sweat and rubber, the familiar clang of metal on metal providing a rhythm Dean has known since he was twelve. It’s barely seven in the morning, but he’s already on his third set of deadlifts, Garrett spotting him while Logan and Tucker argue about last night’s game on the bench press across the room.

“I’m just saying,” Tucker calls over, “if you’d passed to me in the third period instead of trying to be a hero-”

“If I’d passed to you, you would’ve whiffed it like you did in the second,” Logan fires back.

“Fuck off, I was screened-”

“You were too busy checking out that blonde in the third row-”

Dean tunes them out, focusing on his form. Up. Hold. Down. Controlled. His phone sits on the bench beside his water bottle, face down. It buzzes once — probably his mom checking if he’s coming home this weekend — but he ignores it.

He’s pulling the bar up for his fourth rep when the phone starts ringing. Properly ringing, not just buzzing. The specific ringtone that means it’s someone from his favorites list.

“Dude, your phone,” Garrett says.

Dean sets the bar down carefully and picks up the phone, expecting to see his mom’s contact photo. Instead, it’s Coach Jensen.

At seven in the morning.

On a Saturday.

“That’s weird,” Dean mutters, answering. “Coach? Everything okay?”

There’s a pause. Too long. Dean’s stomach does something uncomfortable.

“Di Laurentis.” Coach Jensen’s voice is careful in a way Dean has never heard before. Careful like he’s handling glass. “Where are you right now?”

“Weight room. With the guys. What’s going on?”

Another pause. Dean can hear something in the background — voices, maybe a TV.

“Is Garrett there? Logan? Tucker?”

“Yeah, they’re all here. Coach, what-”

“I need you to sit down, son.”

The weight room goes very quiet. Dean realizes his teammates have stopped talking and are now watching him. He doesn’t sit down.

“What happened?”

Coach Jensen takes a breath. Dean can hear it through the phone. “I got a call this morning from Coach Deluca. He called because he knows a lot of our guys are friends with players on his team.”

Dean’s hand tightens on the phone. “Okay?”

“It’s about Beau Maxwell.”

The world tilts slightly. “What about him?”

“There was an accident last night. A car accident. Dean, he’s-” Coach Jensen’s voice catches. “He’s in critical condition at Mass General. His father was driving them back from dinner in the city, and they hit ice, crashed into a tree. His dad’s okay, but Beau-”

Dean doesn’t hear the rest. The phone slips from his hand, clattering against the concrete floor. The sound echoes, distant and wrong, like it’s coming from underwater.

Beau.

Critical condition.

The words don’t make sense. They can’t make sense. Because Dean just saw Beau yesterday. They grabbed lunch between classes, argued about whether the Packers or the Patriots were going to make it to the playoffs, made plans to hit up a party tonight. Beau was fine. Beau was fine.

“Dean?” Garrett’s hand is on his shoulder. “Dean, what’s wrong?”

Dean opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His knees feel strange, like they might not hold him. The weight room spins slightly, or maybe he’s spinning, he can’t tell.

“Shit, he’s going down-” That’s Logan, suddenly on his other side, propping him up.

Tucker grabs the phone from the floor. Dean watches him lift it to his ear, watches his face go pale as he listens to whatever Coach Jensen is saying.

“Oh fuck,” Tucker whispers. “Oh fuck, oh fuck-”

“What?” Garrett demands. “What happened?”

“It’s Beau.” Tucker’s voice sounds hollow. “He’s—there was a car accident. He’s in critical condition.”

The words hit the room like a physical force. Garrett’s hand tightens on Dean’s shoulder. Logan makes a sound like he’s been punched.

Dean still can’t breathe right. Can’t think right. Critical condition. That means bad. That means really bad. That means-

No. No, he’s not going there.

“We need to go,” Dean hears himself say. His voice sounds far away. “We need to go to the hospital.”

“Dean, maybe we should-” Garrett starts.

“Now.” Dean pulls away from his friends, stumbling slightly. His legs feel like water. “We’re going now.”

“Okay,” Logan says quickly. “Okay, yeah. My car’s out front. Let’s go.”

Dean doesn’t remember the walk to the parking lot. Doesn’t remember climbing into Logan’s beat-up pickup. One minute he’s in the weight room, and the next he’s in the back seat, Tucker beside him, watching the familiar streets of Boston blur past the window.

Garrett is in the passenger seat, on his phone. “Yeah, Wellsy, it’s—yeah, it’s really bad. We’re going to Mass General now. Can you—yeah. Thanks, baby.”

The city passes in a haze. Dean stares out the window without seeing anything. His mind keeps trying to process the information and failing. Beau. Car accident. Critical condition.

They’re brothers. Not by blood, but by choice, which Dean has always thought means more. 

Beau is the guy who stayed up with Dean all night when his grandfather died, never saying much, just being there. The guy who taught Dean how to throw a spiral when some girl Dean was into invited him to throw a football around. The guy who knows Dean’s coffee order and brings him one without being asked when he’s had a rough day.

Beau is his brother.

And Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do if-

No. Stop. Don’t think it.

“We’re here,” Logan announces, pulling into the hospital parking garage with slightly too much speed.

They practically fall out of the truck, running for the entrance. The hospital is massive, gleaming glass and steel, and Dean has no idea where to go.

“Trauma wing,” Tucker pants, pulling out his phone. “Coach sent me directions. This way.”

They follow him through automatic doors, past a reception desk, down a hallway that smells like antiseptic and fear. Dean’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. His workout clothes are still damp with sweat. He should have changed. Why didn’t he change?

They round a corner, and Dean sees them.

The waiting room is full of Maxwells.

Beau’s mom, Debbie, sits in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, her face buried in her hands. Beau’s dad is standing by the window, a white bandage visible above his eyebrow. Beau’s grandmother is there too, being comforted by what looks like Beau’s aunt. There are others Dean recognizes from family gatherings and football games, all wearing the same expression of shock and grief.

They all look up as four hockey players in workout gear burst into the waiting room.

His moml’s eyes land on Dean, and her face crumbles.

“Dean,” she chokes out, and then she’s standing, crossing the room in three steps, pulling him into her arms.

She’s shaking. Or maybe he’s shaking. He can’t tell anymore.

“I’m so sorry,” she’s saying into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, honey, I know you two—I know-”

That’s what breaks him.

Dean Di Laurentis, who prides himself on being smooth, charming, always in control, shatters. His knees give out, and if Beau’s mom wasn’t holding him up, he’d be on the floor. A sob tears out of his throat, raw and ugly and completely beyond his control.

“I’ve got you,” she whispers, even though she’s the one who should be comforted, even though it’s her son in critical condition. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Dean can feel his teammates behind him — Logan’s hand on his back, Garrett’s voice saying something he can’t make out. But mostly he feels the weight of grief trying to crush him, the terror of possibly losing the person who knows him better than anyone.

“What happened?” He manages to gasp out. “Coach said—but he didn’t—what happened?”

Debbie pulls back, her hands still on his shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “You should tell them.”

Beau’s dad turns from the window. He looks like he’s aged ten years overnight. The bandage above his eyebrow is stark white against his pale skin.

“We were driving back from dinner,” he says, his voice rough. “In the city. For my mother’s birthday. It was late, almost midnight. I was driving because Beau had a few drinks. We were just—we were talking about the game next week. About his classes. Normal stuff.”

He stops, his jaw working. Beau’s grandmother reaches over and takes his hand.

“There was a deer,” Beau’s dad continues. “It came out of nowhere. I swerved, and the road—there was black ice. I felt the car start to slide, and I couldn’t—I tried to correct, but we just kept sliding. We hit a tree. Driver’s side hit first, then passenger side slammed into it.”

Dean’s stomach churns. He can picture it too clearly.

“I woke up a few seconds later. I was okay, just disoriented. But Beau-” Beau’s father takes a moment to gather himself. “He wasn’t moving. There was blood everywhere. And then this young woman appeared. Out of nowhere. She’d seen the crash and stopped.”

“She called 911,” Beau’s mom picks up the story, her voice steadier than her husband’s. “She was a medical student. She—god, the paramedics said she saved his life. She stabilized his neck, stopped the worst of the bleeding, kept him alive until they could get there.”

“What are his injuries?” Garrett asks quietly. He’s moved to stand beside Dean, solid and steady.

Beau’s dad closes his eyes. “Cervical spine trauma. The paramedics said his neck was bent at an angle that should have killed him. Should have severed his spinal cord. But this girl, she somehow stabilized it. Kept it from snapping completely.”

Dean tastes bile. He swallows hard.

“He also had a penetrating chest wound,” Beau’s dqd continues. “A tree branch went through the windshield and-” He makes a gesture toward his own sternum. “She knew not to pull it out. Knew it was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.”

“And his arm,” Beau’s mom adds, wiping her eyes. “Severe laceration from broken glass. She used her own coat as a tourniquet.”

The waiting room is silent except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant beep of monitors.

“Is he going to be okay?” Tucker asks. His voice is small, younger than Dean has ever heard it.

“They’ve been in surgery for four hours,” Beau’s mom says. “We don’t know yet. They said-” Her voice wavers. “They said the next few days are critical. That even if he survives the surgery, there could be complications. Infection. Brain damage from oxygen deprivation. Paralysis.”

“No.” The word comes out sharp, definitive. Dean doesn’t realize he’s the one who said it until everyone looks at him. “No, that’s not—Beau’s going to be fine. He has to be fine. He’s-”

He can’t finish the sentence. Can’t articulate what Beau means, what a world without him would look like. Can’t.

“We’re praying, honey,” Beau’s mom says softly. “That’s all we can do right now.”

Dean wants to scream that prayer isn’t enough. That there has to be something, anything, they can do. But he just nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat.

More people arrive over the next hour. Beau’s teammates, guys from the football team who Dean knows from parties and the occasional shared class. They fill the waiting room with whispered conversations and shell-shocked expressions. A few of them break down crying. Most just sit in stunned silence.

Dean ends up in one of the plastic chairs, his head in his hands. Logan sits on one side, Garrett on the other. Tucker paces by the window, unable to sit still.

“He’s going to make it,” Logan says quietly. “You know Beau. Stubborn as hell. He’s not going anywhere.”

Dean wants to believe that. Wants to believe that sheer force of will can overcome arterial bleeding and spinal trauma. But he’s seen enough hockey injuries to know that sometimes will isn’t enough.

“Did you know,” Dean says suddenly, his voice hoarse, “that his first word was ‘ball’? He told me that freshman year. Not ‘mama’ or ‘dada.’ ‘Ball.’ His parents said he was obsessed with any kind of ball from the time he could sit up. They knew he’d be an athlete before he could walk.”

“Yeah?” Garrett’s voice is soft, encouraging.

“And he-” Dean’s throat closes up. He forces himself to continue. “He wants to go pro. Obviously. But after that, he wants to coach. High school kids, specifically. He says college and pro players already have all the resources. He wants to work with kids who might not have anyone believing in them.”

“That sounds like Beau,” Logan says.

“He’s going to do it, too,” Dean insists, looking up. “He’s going to play in the NFL and then coach high school ball and probably turn some underfunded program into a state championship team because that’s what he does. He sees potential in people and brings it out of them.”

“Dean-” Garrett starts.

“I mean it.” Dean’s voice cracks. “That’s who he is. So he can’t—he has to-”

The doors to the surgical wing swing open.

The waiting room falls silent immediately. Every head turns. A surgeon walks out, still in his scrubs, pulling off his surgical cap. He looks tired. So tired.

Beau’s parents are on their feet instantly, crossing to meet him. Dean stands too, his teammates flanking him. His heart pounds so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs.

“Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell,” the surgeon says. His voice is neutral, professional, impossible to read.

“How is he?” Beau’s mom asks in barely a whisper. “How’s my son?”

The surgeon takes a breath. Dean holds his own, feeling like the entire world is balanced on whatever words come next.

“The surgery was successful,” the surgeon says, and the relief that floods the room is almost tangible. “We’ve stabilized the spinal trauma, repaired the vascular damage to his arm, and removed the foreign object from his chest. The object missed his heart by less than two centimeters. Any further to the right, and-”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.

“But he’s alive?” Beau’s dad asks. “He’s going to live?”

“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “He’s in critical condition, and the next seventy-two hours will be crucial. There’s still risk of infection, of complications from the spinal trauma. But he made it through surgery, which given the extent of his injuries, is remarkable.”

“Can we see him?” Beau’s mom asks.

“He’s being moved to the ICU now. You can see him once he’s settled, but he’ll be sedated. We need to keep him as still as possible to let the spinal repair begin to heal.”

“His spine,” Beau’s dad says. “Will he—is there paralysis?”

The surgeon’s expression is carefully neutral. “We won’t know the full extent of any nerve damage until he wakes up and we can do a thorough neurological assessment. The spinal cord itself wasn’t severed, which is extraordinarily fortunate. Whoever stabilized his neck at the scene saved his life and likely saved him from permanent paralysis.”

“The girl,” Beau’s mom says. “The medical student. Do you know her name? We want to thank her.”

The surgeon shakes his head. “The paramedics didn’t get her information. Just that she was a Good Samaritan who stopped to help.”

“We have to find her,” Beau’s mom says, turning to her husband. “We have to-”

“We will,” Beau’s dad promises. “We will.”

The surgeon continues, “I need to be clear with you. Your son’s injuries were catastrophic. The fact that he’s alive is nothing short of miraculous. But the road ahead is going to be long. Months of recovery, likely. Multiple surgeries. Intensive physical therapy. And there are still no guarantees.”

“But he’s alive,” Beau’s mom repeats, like it’s a prayer. “He’s alive.”

“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “You should be very proud of him. He’s a fighter.”

After the surgeon leaves, the waiting room erupts. Quiet at first — no one wants to celebrate when Beau is still critical — but there’s a shift. From hopeless to hopeful. From grief to cautious relief.

Dean sits down hard, his legs finally giving out completely. He drops his head into his hands, and this time when he cries, it’s different. Still scared, still shaken, but there’s something else mixed in.

Gratitude.

“He made it,” Logan says, his own voice thick. “Holy shit, he actually made it.”

“Seventy-two hours,” Tucker says. “That’s what the doctor said. Three days. He just has to make it three days.”

“He will,” Garrett says firmly. “You heard the doc. Beau’s a fighter.”

Dean lifts his head, scrubbing at his face. His eyes feel swollen, his throat raw. He probably looks like hell. He doesn’t care.

“I need to see him,” he says. “I need to see him.”

“Family only in the ICU, probably,” Logan says gently. “At least at first.”

“I don’t care. I need-” Dean’s voice breaks again. “I need to see him.”

Beau’s mom appears in front of him, crouching down so they’re at eye level. She takes his hands in hers.

“As soon as they let us bring visitors, you’ll be the first,” she promises. “I swear. But right now, I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

“I need you to take care of yourself. Go home, shower, eat something. Because when Beau wakes up — and he will wake up — he’s going to need you strong. Can you do that?”

Dean wants to argue. Wants to plant himself in this waiting room and refuse to move until he can see his brother. But her eyes are pleading, and she’s asking so little when she’s going through so much.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, but you’ll call me? The second anything changes?”

“The absolute second,” she promises. “You’re family, Dean. You know that.”

Family. The word cracks something open in his chest. He pulls Beau’s mom into another hug, holding on tight.

“Thank you,” he says. “For calling me. For letting me know.”

“Oh honey,” she says, pulling back to look at him. “There was never a question. You’re his brother.”

Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak.

His teammates drive him back to campus in silence. The shock is starting to wear off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Dean’s muscles ache from his workout, which feels like it happened years ago instead of hours.

They end up on the couch, the four of them, not talking. Just being there. At some point, Tucker orders pizza. At another point, Hannah and Allie show up with half the football team, bringing food and offering quiet support.

Dean’s phone buzzes constantly. Texts from teammates, from friends, from people he hasn’t talked to in months, all asking about Beau. He doesn’t answer any of them.

Instead, he pulls up his photos. Finds the album labeled “Best Bro.” Hundreds of pictures spanning three years. Beau throwing a touchdown. Beau at a party, arm slung around Dean’s shoulders. Beau asleep in the library during finals week, drooling on his American History textbook. Beau grinning at the camera, blue eyes bright, completely alive.

“He’s going to be okay,” Dean whispers to the photo. “You’re going to be okay.”

He has to believe it. Because the alternative — a world without Beau’s terrible jokes and unwavering loyalty and ability to light up any room he walks into — is unthinkable.

His phone buzzes again. They’ve settled him in the ICU. He looks peaceful. Still sedated. Doctors say next 12 hours are critical. Will update you in the morning. Try to get some sleep, honey. He needs you rested.

Dean stares at the message for a long time. Tell him I’m here. Tell him his brother is here and waiting for him to wake up.

Dean sets his phone down and leans back against the couch. Around him, his friends have settled into quiet conversation. Someone turned on a movie at some point, something mindless playing on low volume.

But Dean isn’t watching. He’s thinking about a girl he’s never met. A medical student who stopped on a dark highway and saved his brother’s life. Who thought quickly enough to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to give him a fighting chance.

Whoever she is, wherever she is, Dean owes her everything.

“We have to find her,” he says suddenly.

Garrett looks over. “Who?”

“The girl. The medical student. She saved him, and she just disappeared. Didn’t even leave her name.”

“Dude, Boston has like five medical schools,” Logan points out. “That’s thousands of students.”

“I don’t care,” Dean says. His voice is stronger now, steadier. “We’ll check every single one if we have to. But we’re going to find her.”

Because whoever she is, she gave Beau a second chance at life.

And Dean is going to make damn sure she knows how much that means.

***

The world comes back in pieces.

First, there’s sound — a steady beeping, rhythmic and insistent. Then sensation — something soft beneath him, something constricting around his neck. Then smell — antiseptic, that particular hospital smell that’s somehow both sterile and cloying at once.

Beau tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.

“-vitals are stable, Mrs. Maxwell. We’re going to start decreasing the sedation now-”

That’s a voice he doesn’t recognize. Professional. Clinical.

“How long until he wakes up?” That voice he knows. Mom. She sounds exhausted.

“It varies. Could be a few hours. His body’s been through significant trauma, so we’re taking it slow.”

Beau wants to tell them he’s right here, that he can hear them, but his mouth won’t cooperate. The darkness pulls him back under.

***

The next time consciousness surfaces, it stays a little longer.

The beeping is still there. But now there are other sounds too — quiet conversation, the rustle of fabric, footsteps in the hallway.

“-told you, you can’t give him solid food yet-” Mom again, but this time she sounds amused.

“I’m not giving it to him. I’m just … having it ready. For when he can.” Dean. That’s definitely Dean.

“You brought Dunkin’ Donuts to a hospital ICU?”

“Munchkins. They’re small. It doesn’t count.”

Despite everything — the pain starting to register in various parts of his body, the confusion, the way his neck feels completely immobilized — Beau almost smiles.

“Beau?” A different voice. Dad. “Beau, can you hear me?”

He tries to respond. Manages something between a grunt and a groan.

“Oh my god.” Mom’s voice cracks. “Oh my god, he’s—get the nurse. Get the nurse!”

Footsteps. Fast.

Beau forces his eyes open. The light is too bright, everything blurry. He blinks, and slowly the world comes into focus.

White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The edge of what looks like a massive amount of medical equipment.

“Beau?” Mom’s face appears above him, and she’s crying. “Oh, baby. You’re awake. You’re really awake.”

“Hey, Mom.” His voice comes out as barely a rasp, his throat raw and painful.

“Don’t try to move, sweetheart. Your neck—they had to stabilize your neck. You’re in a brace.”

That explains the constricting feeling. Beau tries to turn his head instinctively and immediately regrets it as pain shoots through him.

“Easy, easy.” That’s a new voice — a nurse, he realizes, as a woman in scrubs appears on his other side. “Welcome back, Mr. Maxwell. I’m Theresa. Can you tell me your name?”

“Beau Maxwell.” It hurts to talk, but he manages.

“Good. Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital.” Duh.

“Do you remember what happened?”

Beau tries to think. His memory is … foggy. Disjointed. “Car. We were in a car. Dad was driving.” He looks around, spotting his father standing near the foot of the bed, bandage still visible on his forehead. “Dad. You okay?”

His dad laughs, the sound wet and relieved. “I’m fine, son. I’m fine. You’re the one who-” His voice breaks. “You scared the hell out of us.”

“Language,” Mom chides, but she’s smiling through her tears.

The nurse runs through more questions — what year it is, who the president is, can he feel his fingers and toes. Everything checks out, apparently, because she smiles and says, “Looking good, Mr. Maxwell. The doctor will be by soon to do a full assessment.”

After she leaves, Beau takes stock. He can see Mom and Dad, both looking exhausted and relieved. And there, slouched in a chair by the window, is Dean, holding a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and grinning like an idiot.

“You look like shit,” Beau rasps.

Dean laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical. “Says the guy in the ICU. Welcome back, man.”

“How long was I out?”

“Two and a half days,” Mom says, stroking his hand gently. “They had you heavily sedated while you healed.”

Two and a half days. Beau processes this slowly. “What … what are my injuries?”

His parents exchange a look.

“Son,” Dad starts, “you had—it was pretty bad. Cervical spine trauma. They had to operate. And there was a branch, through your chest-”

“A branch?”

“Missed your heart by less than two inches,” Mom says quietly. “And your arm—there was a lot of glass. They had to repair the artery.”

Beau stares at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this information with the fact that he’s alive and apparently mostly functional. “How am I not dead?”

“Because someone saved you,” Dad says. “There was a woman, a medical student. She saw the crash happen and stopped to help. She stabilized your neck, stopped the bleeding, kept you alive until the paramedics arrived.”

A medical student. Random Good Samaritan. Beau tries to remember, but there’s nothing. Just darkness and then waking up here.

“The surgeon said if she hadn’t stabilized your neck, one more wrong movement and-” Mom can’t finish the sentence.

“We’ve been trying to find her,” Dean interjects, standing up and moving closer to the bed. “To thank her. But she didn’t leave her name, and the hospital doesn’t have her information. Just that she was a medical student who stopped to help.”

“I want to thank her too,” Beau says. His throat is killing him, but this seems important.

“The police have her contact information from the accident report,” Dad says. “We’re working on tracking her down. But for now, you need to focus on healing.”

A doctor arrives shortly after, running through a battery of neurological tests. Can Beau move his fingers? Yes. Toes? Yes. Feel pressure on his arms? Legs? Yes, yes. The doctor looks cautiously optimistic.

“The fact that you have full sensation and motor function is excellent news,” the doctor says. “But you’re not out of the woods yet. The next few weeks are critical. Any wrong movement could jeopardize the spinal repair.”

“So I’m stuck in this neck brace?”

“For at least eight weeks. And then extensive physical therapy.”

Eight weeks. Beau’s season is over. His entire junior year, gone. He closes his eyes against the wave of disappointment.

“Hey.” Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder. “One step at a time, yeah? You’re alive. That’s what matters.”

Beau nods minutely, the brace making even that small movement awkward.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of doctors, nurses, medications, and family. His grandmother comes by and cries all over him. His aunt brings flowers that the nurses say aren’t allowed in ICU but no one has the heart to remove. His uncle brings an embarrassing amount of Packers gear “for morale.”

Dean never leaves. He’s a permanent fixture in the chair by the window, occasionally trying to sneak Beau a munchkin when the nurses aren’t looking, even though Beau still can’t eat solid food.

“Dude, stop,” Beau finally says. “You’re going to get kicked out.”

“Worth it,” Dean says, but he puts the bag away.

It’s late afternoon on the third day post-accident — technically only a few hours since Beau woke up — when there’s a knock on the door.

“If that’s another neurologist, I swear to god-” Beau starts.

“Language,” Mom says automatically, but she’s already turning toward the door. “Come in!”

The door opens, and everyone looks up expecting another doctor or nurse.

Instead, a young woman steps in.

She’s around Beau’s age, maybe a year or two older, wearing jeans and a Harvard hoodie, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks nervous, clutching a worn messenger bag and hesitating in the doorway like she might bolt at any second.

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know you probably weren’t expecting visitors, but I—the reception desk said that—I asked how the patient from the accident was doing, and they said the medical student who helped at the scene was on the approved visitor list, so I thought-” She’s rambling, talking faster with each word. “I can leave. I should probably leave. I just wanted to check-”

“Oh my god.” Dad is on his feet. “You’re her. You’re the medical student.”

She nods, looking even more uncertain. “I’m—yes. I was the one who—I saw the accident, and I-”

She doesn’t get any further because Dad crosses the room in three strides and wraps her in a hug.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice thick. “Thank you for saving my son. Thank you, thank you-”

You stand frozen for a second, clearly startled, before awkwardly patting his back. “I—you’re welcome. I just did what anyone would-”

“No.” Mom is there now too, and as soon as Dad releases you, she pulls you into an equally tight embrace. “No, what you did — the surgeon said you saved his life. That if you hadn’t stabilized his neck, he wouldn’t have made it. You saved our boy.”

Beau watches from the bed, unable to turn his head much but able to see enough. The woman — the medical student who saved him — looks completely overwhelmed, her eyes suspiciously bright.

“I’m just glad he’s okay,” you manage. “I’ve been checking the news, looking for updates, but I couldn’t find anything, and I was worried-”

“He’s going to be okay,” Mom assures you, finally releasing you. “Thanks to you.”

Then Dean is there, and he pulls you into a hug that actually lifts you off your feet slightly.

“I don’t know who you are yet,” Dean says, “but you saved my brother’s life, so you’re stuck with me now. Fair warning, I’m a hugger.”

You laugh, the sound slightly watery. “I can tell.”

“What’s your name?” Mom asks, steering you gently toward the bed.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” you say. “I’m a second-year at Harvard Med.”

“Y/N,” Dad repeats. “That’s a beautiful name.”

You smile, still looking nervous, and then your eyes land on Beau.

Beau, who has been staring at you since you walked in.

Because holy shit.

You’re beautiful. Like, devastatingly beautiful. Even in casual clothes with no makeup and looking slightly anxious, you’re the most stunning person Beau has ever seen. There’s something about your eyes, warm and genuine, and the way you move, and-

Is this heaven? Did he actually die and this is some kind of afterlife? Because that would explain a lot.

“Hi,” you say softly, moving to his bedside. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a tree,” Beau rasps, then immediately winces. “Sorry. That was—I’m apparently still working on the whole talking thing.”

You laugh, and the sound does something strange to his chest. “The tree definitely won that round. But I’m so glad to see you awake. When I left the scene, I-” You pause, taking a shaky breath. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Your injuries were severe.”

“Apparently you’re the reason I did make it,” Beau says. He wishes he could sit up properly, look at you without the weird angle the neck brace forces. “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for stopping. For helping.”

“Of course.” You look genuinely confused by the gratitude. “I couldn’t just drive past.”

“Most people would have,” Dean interjects. He’s back in his chair but watching you with open fascination. “Most people would’ve called 911 and kept going.”

“I had training,” you say simply. “And someone needed help. It wasn’t—I mean, I just did what needed to be done.”

“You did a lot more than that,” Dad says. “The surgeon told us you stabilized his neck. That you thought quickly enough to prevent further damage. That you used your own coat to stop the bleeding.”

You duck your head, embarrassed. “I had an emergency kit in my car. My mom’s paranoid about me driving alone at night. The coat was just the closest thing I had.”

“Did you get it back?” Beau asks. “Your coat?”

“Oh.” You blink at him. “No, I—I assume they had to cut it off you. It’s fine, though. It was just a coat.”

“Just a coat that saved my life,” Beau says. “Along with you. So, not really just a coat.”

You smile at him, and Beau’s heart does something complicated in his chest. The monitors beside his bed beep slightly faster, and he desperately hopes no one notices.

“How are you really feeling?” You ask. “Pain levels? Range of motion? Are you experiencing any numbness or tingling?”

“Did you just go into doctor mode?” Dean asks, amused.

“Sorry.” You look sheepish. “Occupational hazard. I’ve been worried about—I mean, cervical spine injuries are serious, and I was so scared I’d made the wrong call at the scene-”

“You made exactly the right call,” Mom assures you. “Every doctor we’ve talked to has said so.”

You nod, but you still look anxious. Beau recognizes the expression — it’s the same one he wears after a bad game, replaying every mistake.

“Hey,” he says, waiting until you look at him. “I’m alive. I can move everything. The doctors say I’m going to make a full recovery. You did good. Better than good. You were amazing.”

You hold his gaze for a moment, and something passes between them. Something Beau can’t name but can definitely feel.

“I’m really glad you’re okay,” you finally say, your voice soft.

“Me too,” Beau replies. “Though I’m pretty sure I have the worst concussion in history because there’s no way someone as beautiful as you is real.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Dean bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, did you just use a pickup line while in a neck brace in the ICU?”

“It’s not a pickup line if it’s true,” Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you.

You’re blushing now, a pink tinge spreading across your cheeks. “I think your brain is working just fine,” you manage.

“That’s what I said!” Dean crows. “The boy’s got game even half-dead.”

“Dean,” Mom says warningly, but she’s smiling.

You laugh again, shaking your head. “I should probably go. Let you rest. I just wanted to check—to make sure you were okay.”

“Wait,” Beau says quickly. Too quickly. The movement makes pain shoot through his neck, and he grimaces.

You step closer instinctively, your hand hovering near his shoulder. “Are you okay? Should I get a nurse?”

“No, I’m fine. I just-” Beau takes as deep a breath as the chest wound allows. “Can I get your number? To, uh, keep you updated on my recovery. Since you saved my life and all.”

Dean makes a noise that’s probably supposed to be a cough but sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

You’re definitely blushing now, but you’re smiling too. “Sure. That—yeah. Let me write it down.”

Mom, bless her, immediately produces a pen and paper.

You write quickly, your handwriting surprisingly neat, and hand the paper to Beau. “Text me anytime. I mean it. I want to know how you’re doing.”

“I will,” Beau promises. He wishes he could take the paper himself, but his arm is still heavily bandaged and moving it is a production. Dean takes it for him, setting it on the bedside table with a knowing smirk.

You linger for another moment, looking like you want to say something else. Finally, you speak. “You know, I have to tell you something.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m a Harvard fan,” you say, and there’s a hint of mischief in your eyes now. “Which means I’m technically rooting against Briar. So you need to make a full recovery so we can beat you fair and square next season.”

Beau stares at you. Then he laughs, the sound rough and painful but genuine. “You save my life and then threaten to destroy me on the field?”

“Not a threat,” you say cheerfully. “A promise. We’re coming for that championship.”

“I love her,” Dean announces. “Beau, I love her. Can we keep her?”

“I’m working on it,” Beau mutters, which makes you laugh again.

“Okay, I really do need to go,” you say, backing toward the door. “But it was wonderful to meet you all. And Beau, heal up fast, okay? The rivalry isn’t fun if you’re not playing.”

“Yes ma’am,” Beau says, giving you a slight salute that his injuries allow.

You wave and slip out the door, closing it softly behind you.

The room is silent for exactly three seconds.

“Dude,” Dean says.

“Not now,” Beau replies.

“You just flirted with your guardian angel.”

“Dean-”

“In the ICU. While in a neck brace. While your parents were standing right there.”

“I was perfectly respectful-”

“You told her she was too beautiful to be real!” Dean is grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Your game is unreal, man. I’m actually impressed.”

“You asked for her number,” Mom says, and she sounds amused too. “That was certainly … forward of you, sweetheart.”

“I need to thank her properly,” Beau says defensively. “It’s only right.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean says. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“She’s a Harvard fan,” Beau continues, ignoring him. “Which means she’s smart but has terrible taste in football teams. Someone needs to educate her.”

“Someone being you?” Dad asks, his lips twitching.

“I mean, I feel like I owe her that much.”

Dean is full-on cackling now. “You’re going to date the girl who saved your life. That’s some romance novel shit right there.”

“I’m not—we just met. I’m just going to text her. To say thank you.”

“Sure,” Dean says, not even trying to hide his grin. “Just thank you. Nothing else.”

“Dean, I swear-”

“Boys,” Mom interrupts, but she’s smiling. “Beau needs to rest.”

“I’m fine,” Beau insists, even though he’s exhausted just from the conversation.

“You nearly died three days ago,” Mom says firmly. “You need rest. Dean, stop riling him up.”

“Yes, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says dutifully.

After his parents leave to grab dinner, it’s just Beau and Dean in the room. Dean is back in his chair, finally eating the munchkins he’s been carrying around.

“She was amazing,” Beau says quietly. “Not just—I mean, yeah, she’s gorgeous. But she saved my life, Dean. She stopped on a highway in the middle of the night and saved my life.”

“I know,” Dean says, and all the teasing is gone from his voice now. “I know, man. We owe her everything.”

“I was so close,” Beau continues. His throat is tight. “Dad said my neck … one more movement and that would’ve been it. And she fixed it. Some random medical student who happened to be driving by.”

“Not random,” Dean says. “Right place, right time. Some people would call that fate.”

“You believe in fate?”

“I believe in you,” Dean says simply. “And I believe you’re here for a reason. So yeah, maybe fate had something to do with putting her on that road at that exact moment.”

Beau thinks about you — your nervous smile, the way you brushed off the gratitude like it was nothing, the competitive spark in your eyes when you mentioned Harvard football.

“I think I was saved by an angel,” he says.

“Probably,” Dean agrees.

“And I think I’m in love.”

Dean nearly chokes on his munchkin. “What?”

“I’m in love,” Beau repeats. It sounds insane. It is insane. He just met you twenty minutes ago. But there’s something — a pull, a connection, something he can’t explain.

“Beau, buddy, I say this with love — you’re high as hell on pain meds right now.”

“I’m serious.”

“You just woke up from a medically induced coma like six hours ago.”

“I know what I feel.”

Dean studies him for a long moment. Then he sighs. “Well, shit. You really mean it.”

“I really mean it.”

“You’re going to marry the girl who saved your life, aren’t you?”

“If she’ll have me,” Beau says, completely serious.

Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “This is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed or the pain meds talking. I’m not sure which.”

“Maybe both,” Beau admits. “But I don’t care. I’m going to thank her properly. And then I’m going to get to know her. And then-”

“Then you’re going to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset?”

“Something like that.”

“She’s a Harvard fan,” Dean points out. “You know that’s going to be a problem.”

“I’ll convert her.”

“She literally told you she is waiting for Harvard to beat you.”

“She’s competitive. I like that.”

Dean laughs, shaking his head. “You’re insane. But okay. I’m here for it. Team Beau and his angel.”

“Her name is Y/N.”

“That doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

Beau doesn’t care. He’s already thinking about what to text you. How to thank you properly. How to convince you that stopping on that highway was the beginning of something, not just an isolated act of heroism.

His body is broken. His season is over. His recovery is going to be long and painful.

But for the first time since waking up, Beau feels hopeful.

Because somewhere out there is a girl who saved his life.

And he’s going to spend his recovery figuring out how to deserve her.

“Dean?” He says.

“Yeah?”

“Help me figure out what to text her.”

Dean grins. “Now we’re talking.”

They spend the next hour crafting the perfect message, with Dean offering increasingly ridiculous suggestions that Beau keeps vetoing. By the time visiting hours end and Dean is forced to leave, they’ve settled on something simple and genuine.

After Dean leaves, Beau stares at the piece of paper with your number, at your neat handwriting, and allows himself to smile.

Three days ago, his life nearly ended on a dark highway.

Today, looking at your number, it feels like it’s just beginning.

***

The physical therapy room smells like sweat and determination, which Beau has decided is just a nicer way of saying it smells like pain.

“Five more, Maxwell,” his PT says in that annoyingly cheerful voice that all physical therapists seem to possess. “You’ve got this.”

Beau grits his teeth and pulls himself up on the bar, his neck muscles screaming in protest. Four months ago, he couldn’t lift his head off the pillow. Three months ago, he couldn’t walk without assistance. Two months ago, he couldn’t turn his head more than thirty degrees.

Now, he’s doing pull-ups.

“One,” he grunts.

“Good. Keep that form.”

“Two.”

“Breathe through it.”

“Three.”

“Two more. You’ve got it.”

“Four.” His arms are shaking.

“Last one. Make it count.”

Beau pulls himself up one final time, holding at the top for a three-count before lowering himself down. His muscles feel like jelly, but he’s grinning.

“Hell yeah!” His PT claps him on the shoulder. “That’s what I’m talking about. Four months ago, you were in a neck brace wondering if you’d ever play again. Look at you now.”

“So I can play?” Beau asks hopefully.

“Nice try. That’s a question for your surgeon and your coach, not me. But I will say, physically you’re progressing faster than anyone expected.”

It’s not a yes, but Beau will take it.

After the session, he checks his phone. Seventeen texts in the group chat with the guys, mostly Dean sending increasingly absurd memes. Three texts from his mom checking in. One from Coach Deluca asking about his PT progress.

And one from you.

Y/N: How was PT? Did he make you cry today?

Beau smiles, typing back quickly.

Beau: Only a little. Mostly manly tears of triumph though.

Y/N: Sure. I believe you. Completely.

Beau: I did five pull-ups.

Y/N: FIVE? Beau, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!

Beau: Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without my guardian angel believing in me.

Y/N: Stop calling me that. I’m just a person who happened to be in the right place.

Beau: A person with a hero complex and really good instincts under pressure. AKA an angel.

Y/N: You’re impossible.

Beau: You love it.

There’s a pause.

Y/N: Maybe a little.

Beau’s grin widens. Over the past four months, texting you has become his favorite part of recovery. You check in daily, asking about his PT sessions, his pain levels, his progress. You send him terrible medical jokes. You quiz him on anatomy when you’re studying, claiming he’s helping you prepare for exams when really he’s just learning more about the exact ways his body almost failed him.

You’re funny and smart and competitive and kind, and Beau is more convinced every day that he’s in love with you.

The only problem? You’re still treating him like a patient. A friend, yes, but a friend you saved, which apparently puts him in some kind of off-limits category in your mind.

He’s been trying to change that. Slowly. Carefully.

Not carefully enough, according to Dean, who keeps telling him to “just ask her out already, you coward.”

But Beau wants to do this right. You saved his life. You deserve more than some half-assed attempt at romance from a guy who still can’t turn his head all the way without wincing.

His phone buzzes again.

Dean: Emergency. Get to the house ASAP.

Beau: What’s wrong?

Dean: Just get here. It’s important.

Beau’s heart kicks up. Dean doesn’t do “emergency” unless something is actually wrong. He grabs his bag and heads out, making the drive back to campus in record time.

He bursts through the door of the house he shares with Dean and half the hockey team, expecting — he doesn’t know what. Fire? Flood? Someone dying?

Instead, he finds Dean standing in the living room surrounded by streamers, balloons, and a banner that reads I LIVED, BITCH.

“Surprise!” Dean spreads his arms wide, grinning. “We’re throwing you a party.”

Beau stares. “You said it was an emergency.”

“It is an emergency. You’ve been back on campus for a week and we haven’t properly celebrated your return from the dead.”

“I wasn’t dead.”

“You were close enough that it counts.” Dean starts hanging more streamers. “Party’s tonight. Eight PM. Everyone’s invited.”

“Everyone?”

“The team. The guys. Some of the football players. Allie and her friends. That kid from your econ class who kept asking about you-”

“Dean-”

“And Y/N.”

Beau freezes. “What?”

Dean’s grin turns shit-eating. “I invited Y/N. She said yes, by the way. She’ll be here around nine.”

“You invited—without asking me-”

“You’ve been texting her for months and haven’t made a move. I’m helping.”

“By ambushing me?”

“By creating the perfect opportunity.” Dean hangs the last streamer and steps back to admire his work. “Come on, man. Party atmosphere, some drinks, you finally see her in person again — it’s romantic.”

“It’s manipulative.”

“It’s efficient.” Dean throws an arm around Beau’s shoulders. “Trust me. This is going to be great.”

***

The party is, objectively, insane.

By nine PM, the house is packed. Music thumps through the speakers. Someone has set up a beer pong table. Tucker is already three drinks in and teaching a group of freshmen the rules of some drinking game that definitely doesn’t have any rules.

Beau is nursing a beer and trying not to look at the door every five seconds.

“Dude, relax,” Logan says, appearing at his elbow. “She’ll be here.”

“I’m relaxed.”

“You look like you’re about to throw up.”

“That’s just my face.”

“That’s not your face. I know your face. This is your ’I’m freaking out’ face.”

Garrett joins them, holding two beers. “Is he doing the thing where he stares at the door?”

“He’s doing the thing,” Logan confirms.

“I hate both of you,” Beau mutters.

“You love us,” Garrett says cheerfully. “And you love Y/N, which is why you’re doing the door-staring thing.”

“I don’t—we’re friends.”

“Right,” Logan says. “Friends who text every day.”

“Friends who have inside jokes,” Garrett adds.

“Friends who he calls his guardian angel-”

“Okay, yes, fine, I like her.” Beau takes a long pull from his beer. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Dean says, materializing out of nowhere. “And you’re going to tell her tonight.”

“I’m not-”

“You are. Because life is short, Beau. You nearly died. You got a second chance. Are you really going to waste it being chicken about asking out the girl who saved you?”

Beau opens his mouth to argue. Then closes it. Because damn it, Dean has a point.

“What if she says no?” He asks quietly.

“Then she says no,” Dean says. “But what if she says yes?”

Before Beau can respond, the front door opens.

And there you are.

You’re wearing jeans and a simple black top, your hair down instead of in the ponytail you usually wear, and Beau forgets how to breathe.

“She’s here,” Logan whispers unnecessarily.

“I can see that,” Beau hisses back.

You spot them and wave, smiling as you make your way through the crowd. Allie intercepts you halfway, pulling you into a hug and saying something that makes you laugh.

“Go talk to her,” Dean says, giving Beau a shove.

“I am talking to her.”

“You’re standing here like a statue. Go.”

Beau takes a breath and crosses the room. You look up as he approaches, and your smile gets wider.

“Hey!” You say, and then you’re hugging him. It’s brief, casual, but Beau’s heart still does something stupid in his chest. “I can’t believe Dean threw you an I Lived, Bitch party.”

“I can,” Beau says. “Subtlety isn’t really his thing.”

“I brought you something.” You dig in your bag and pull out a small wrapped package. “I was going to give it to you later, but here.”

Beau takes it, curious. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Just open it.”

He unwraps it carefully. Inside is a keychain — a small football with the Briar University logo engraved on it and proof that miracles happen on the other side.

Beau stares at it, his throat tight. “Y/N-”

“I know it’s cheesy,” you say quickly. “But I saw it at this little shop near campus and thought of you. Because you are a miracle. You know that, right? The odds of you surviving what you survived, of recovering the way you have-”

“Hey.” Beau sets the keychain carefully on the nearest table and takes your hand. “Thank you. Really. This is—it’s perfect.”

You squeeze his hand, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in the crowded room.

Then Dean’s voice booms over the music. “EVERYONE! CAN I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?”

The music cuts off. Everyone turns to look at Dean, who’s standing on the coffee table with a beer raised.

“Oh no,” Beau mutters.

“Oh no,” you echo, but you’re smiling.

“Three months ago,” Dean announces, “my best friend nearly died. Car crash, black ice, the whole dramatic scene. And while I was sitting in a hospital waiting room having a complete breakdown, there was someone else on a dark highway saving his life.”

The crowd is silent, watching.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” Dean continues, finding you in the crowd. “Stand up. Come on, don’t be shy.”

You look mortified. “Dean-”

“Stand up!”

Reluctantly, you stand. The crowd turns to look at you.

“This woman,” Dean says, “stopped on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Could’ve driven past. Could’ve just called 911 and left. But she didn’t. She stopped. She used her medical training to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. The surgeon told us that if she hadn’t done what she did, Beau would have died at the scene.”

Beau can see your eyes are shiny. His are probably the same.

“So this party isn’t just about Beau living, though that’s obviously the main event,” Dean continues. “It’s about Y/N. About the fact that there are still people in the world who stop to help strangers. Who run toward danger instead of away from it. Who save lives because it’s the right thing to do.”

He raises his beer higher. “To Y/N. Beau’s guardian angel. The reason we still have our quarterback. The reason I still have my brother.”

“TO Y/N!” The crowd roars.

You’re definitely crying now, wiping at your eyes with your free hand. Beau pulls you into a hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder.

“I hate your best friend,” you mumble into his shirt.

“I know,” Beau says, grinning. “Me too.”

Dean, having successfully made everyone emotional, declares that the situation requires shots. Multiple shots. A truly irresponsible number of shots.

“I don’t think this is medically advisable,” you protest as Dean lines up shot glasses on the kitchen counter.

“You’re not on duty,” Dean says. “And we’re celebrating. Celebrating requires shots.”

“That’s not-”

“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Tucker starts chanting. The crowd joins in.

You look at Beau helplessly. He shrugs. “When in Rome?”

“Rome didn’t have vodka.”

“Rome would’ve had vodka if they’d survived a near-death experience.”

You laugh and grab a shot glass. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when I regret this tomorrow.”

Dean passes out shots to everyone in the kitchen. “To Beau!” He shouts.

“To Beau!” Everyone echoes, and the shots go down.

One shot turns into two. Two turns into three. By shot four, you’re leaning against the counter, cheeks flushed, giggling at something Tucker is saying about his disastrous history midterm.

Beau stays close, not drinking as much because his tolerance is shot after months of not drinking, but enough that he feels warm and loose and brave.

“Having fun?” He asks, appearing at your side.

You beam up at him. “The most fun. Dean is insane. I love him.”

“Don’t tell him that. His ego can’t take it.”

“Too late!” Dean calls from across the room. “I heard! She loves me, Beau!”

“You’re the worst!” Beau calls back.

“You love me too!”

“Debatable!”

You laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Beau wants to bottle it. Wants to keep it forever.

“Come on,” he says, taking your hand. “Let’s get some air.”

He leads you through the crowd, out the back door to the porch. The April night is cool but not cold, the first real hint of spring in the air. The noise from the party is muffled out here, just the bass line thumping through the walls.

“This is nice,” you say, leaning against the railing. “Quieter.”

“Yeah.” Beau stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. “You okay? Dean didn’t overwhelm you too much?”

“Are you kidding? That toast was-” Your voice catches. “That was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”

“You saved my life. You deserve a lot more than a toast.”

“I was just doing what anyone would do.”

“No,” Beau says firmly. “You weren’t. You did something extraordinary. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for it.”

You turn to face him, leaning your hip against the railing. “The rest of your life, huh? That’s a long time.”

“Not long enough,” Beau says. His heart is pounding, but whether it’s from the alcohol or your proximity, he can’t tell. Probably both. “Y/N, I-”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been wanting to tell you something. For months, actually.”

You tilt your head, curious. “What is it?”

“I-” He stops. Starts again. “Do you remember what you said to me in the hospital? About Harvard beating Briar fair and square?”

“Of course. And I meant it. You guys are going down next season.”

“See, that’s the thing.” Beau takes a small step closer. “I’ve been thinking about that. About you being a Harvard fan and me playing for Briar. And I realized I don’t care.”

“You don’t care about football?” You sound skeptical.

“I don’t care that we’re rivals. I don’t care that you’re rooting against my team. I don’t care about any of it because-” He takes a breath. “Because I like you. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount for someone who’s supposed to be playing it cool.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Beau-”

“I know we’ve been friends,” he continues quickly. “And if that’s all you want, I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. But I need you to know that I think about you constantly. I look forward to your texts more than anything else in my day. When I was in PT, struggling through the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, the thought of texting you after kept me going.”

“Really?” Your voice is soft.

“Really.” He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, tentative. “You saved my life, Y/N. And then you kept saving it, every day, just by being you. By making me laugh when I wanted to give up. By believing I could recover when I wasn’t sure I could.”

“I always believed in you,” you whisper.

“I know. I felt it. Every text, every terrible medical joke, every time you called me out for pushing too hard or not hard enough — I felt it.”

You’re staring at him now, your eyes bright in the porch light. “I like you too,” you say. “I have for months. But I didn’t—you were recovering, and I didn’t want to take advantage-”

“Take advantage?” Beau laughs. “Y/N, I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you out since I woke up in that hospital bed and saw you for the first time.”

“You were on a lot of pain meds.”

“Doesn’t make it less true.”

You bite your lip, and Beau tracks the movement. “So what now?”

“Now,” Beau says, stepping even closer, “I’m going to ask you something.”

“Okay.”

“Can I kiss you?”

Your breath catches. For a moment, you just stare at him. Then you smile — that brilliant, beautiful smile that he’s dreamed about for months.

“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”

Beau cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and leans in.

The first touch of your lips is electric. Soft and sweet and perfect. You make a small sound and melt into him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt.

Beau kisses you like he’s been wanting to for months, which he has. Kisses you like you’re precious, which you are. Kisses you like he’s afraid you might disappear, which part of him is.

You kiss him back just as intensely, your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.

Someone starts whooping from inside. “YES! FINALLY! GET IT, MAXWELL!”

Beau flips him off behind your back without breaking the kiss, which makes you laugh against his mouth.

“Your friends are watching,” you mumble.

“Don’t care,” Beau says, kissing you again.

“They’re cat-calling.”

“Still don’t care.”

You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Your lips are kiss-swollen, your cheeks flushed, and Beau has never seen anything more beautiful.

“This is really happening?” You ask. “We’re really doing this?”

“If you want to,” Beau says. “I mean, I know it’s complicated. The rivalry thing-”

“Is football,” you finish. “Just football. This is more important.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smile. “Besides, it’ll make beating you next season even sweeter.”

Beau laughs and kisses you again. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it,” you say, echoing your earlier text.

“I do,” Beau agrees. “I really, really do.”

From inside, Dean is now leading a chant of “KISS! KISS! KISS!” that’s quickly spreading through the party.

“We should probably go back in,” you say, not moving.

“Probably,” Beau agrees, also not moving.

You stay like that for another moment, just looking at each other, before you finally step back and take his hand.

“Come on,” you say. “Before your best friend has an aneurysm.”

You walk back into the party together, hands linked, and the entire room erupts into cheers.

Dean tackles Beau in a hug, nearly knocking you both over. “FINALLY! Do you know how hard it’s been watching you pine for four months?”

“Get off me,” Beau laughs, shoving him away.

“I’m the best wingman ever. Admit it.”

“You’re the worst.”

“But I’m your worst,” Dean says, grinning. Then he turns to you. “Welcome to the family, Y/N. You’re stuck with us now.”

“I can think of worse fates,” you say, smiling.

Logan and Tucker appear, both looking entirely too pleased with themselves.

“So,” Logan says. “Are you guys like, official? Is this a thing?”

Beau looks at you. You look back.

“It’s a thing,” you say.

“It’s definitely a thing,” Beau confirms.

“Well fuck,” Garrett says, joining the group with Hannah. “Because Hannah bet me twenty bucks you’d get together before summer, and I bet after. So thanks for costing me money, Beau.”

“My pleasure,” Beau says dryly.

The party continues late into the night. Beau stays by your side, your fingers laced with his, and for the first time since the accident, everything feels right.

Better than right.

Perfect.

Later, when the crowd has thinned and it’s just the core group sitting around the living room, Dean raises his beer one more time.

“To second chances,” he says.

“To guardian angels,” Tucker adds.

“To love,” Hannah says, making everyone groan.

“To football rivalries,” you contribute, which makes everyone laugh.

“To all of it,” Beau says, looking at you. “To whatever brought you to that highway at that exact moment. To whatever made you stop. To whatever led us here.”

You lean your head on his shoulder. “To fate,” you say softly.

“To fate,” Beau agrees.

And as he sits there, surrounded by his friends, his arm around the girl who saved his life in more ways than one, Beau can’t help but think that Dean was right.

Life is short. Second chances are rare.

And he’s not going to waste a single moment of his.

***

The Briar University athletics facility smells like sweat and ambition at seven AM on a Saturday, which is exactly why Dean loves it. That, and the fact that most people are still asleep, leaving the weight room gloriously empty.

Well, mostly empty.

“Come on, Maxwell, one more set!” Dean calls from his spot on the bench press. “Or are you going to let your girlfriend out-lift you?”

Beau, currently doing bicep curls while watching you on the treadmill, flips him off without looking away from you. “She’s not trying to out-lift me. She’s doing cardio.”

“I can hear you both,” you call from the treadmill, your ponytail swinging as you run. “And I absolutely could out-lift Beau if I wanted to.”

“Oh, fighting words!” Dean sits up, grinning. “Beau, you gonna take that?”

“Yes,” Beau says immediately. “Have you seen her deadlift? It’s terrifying and hot.”

“It’s medical student grip strength,” you explain, not breaking stride. “Years of studying have given me callouses of steel.”

“And here I thought it was just natural perfection,” Beau says.

Dean makes gagging noises. “You two are disgusting. It’s been five months. The honeymoon phase should be over by now.”

“Never,” Beau says cheerfully, setting down his weights and grabbing his water bottle.

Dean watches as Beau wanders over to your treadmill, leans against it, and says something that makes you laugh mid-stride. You nearly trip, smacking his arm, but you’re grinning.

Five months. Nearly half a year since that party. Half a year of watching his best friend fall more in love every single day.

It’s been an adjustment, Dean will admit. Suddenly having to share Beau with someone else, having to accept that he’s no longer the most important person in Beau’s life. But watching Beau now — healthy, happy, whole — Dean can’t begrudge it.

Especially because you’re pretty fucking cool.

You finish your run and hop off the treadmill, breathing hard but not winded. “Okay, what’s next? Weights? Core? Please say core. I need to work off the stress of this week.”

“Rough rotation?” Beau asks, immediately concerned.

“Just long,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “Twenty-hour shifts don’t leave a lot of time for self-care. Hence why I’m here at seven AM on my one day off instead of sleeping like a normal person.”

“It’s the endorphins,” Dean says knowingly. “You’re chasing that dopamine high.”

“Exactly,” you agree quickly. “Purely scientific. Nothing to do with-”

“With wanting to see Beau shirtless and sweaty?” Dean finishes, smirking.

You turn red. “I—that’s not—I mean-”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Beau says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “I am pretty great to look at.”

“Your ego is showing,” you mutter, but you’re definitely staring.

Dean laughs. “Okay, lovebirds, let’s actually work out. Beau, you’ve got full medical clearance now, right?”

“As of last week,” Beau confirms, and there’s an edge of excitement in his voice that Dean recognizes. It’s the same excitement that’s been building since the doctors finally, finally said he could return to full contact practice. “Coach wants me back in peak condition before the season starts.”

“Which is three weeks,” Dean adds. “So we’ve got to get you whipped into shape.”

The effect is immediate and bizarre.

Beau and you lock eyes across the weight room. Something passes between you — some kind of silent communication that Dean has seen before but never understood. It’s like you share a brain sometimes, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.

Then, in perfect unison, you both gasp dramatically.

“Did you just say-” you start.

“Whipped into shape?” Beau finishes.

“Oh no,” Dean says, recognizing the gleam in both your eyes. “No. Whatever you’re thinking-”

But it’s too late.

You sprint to the corner of the gym where someone has left a pile of equipment. You emerge triumphantly holding two jump ropes.

“Where did you even—when did you-” Dean sputters.

“Shhh,” you say, tossing one rope to Beau, who catches it with a grin that can only be described as maniacal. “Let us have this.”

“Have what?” Dean asks, genuinely concerned now.

You and Beau exchange another look. Then you hold up one finger and suddenly you’re both jumping rope and singing.

“I WANT YOU WHIPPED INTO SHAPE!” You belt out, your voice surprisingly strong for someone who just ran three miles.

“WHEN I SAY JUMP, SAY ‘HOW HIGH?’” Beau joins in, jumping rope with enough enthusiasm to be concerning given that he had spinal surgery less than a year ago.

Dean stares. Just stares.

“YOU KNOW YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT,” you continue, now doing some kind of complicated jump rope move that involves crossing your arms.

“WHEN YOU START TO CRY!” Beau adds, attempting the same move and nearly tripping over the rope.

“IF YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD,” you both sing together now, jumping in sync, “YOU’VE GOT TO-”

“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!”

You finish with a flourish, both of you breathing hard, jump ropes held high like you’ve just won Olympic gold.

There’s a moment of silence.

Then you and Beau collapse into laughter, dropping the ropes and leaning on each other for support.

“What,” Dean says slowly, “the actual fuck was that?”

“Legally Blonde: The Musical,” you gasp out between giggles. “Brooke Wyndham is an icon.”

“And when you said whipped into shape-”

“We just had to,” you finish together.

Dean continues to stare. “You two are insane.”

“Probably,” Beau agrees, still grinning.

“Definitely,” you add, not looking remotely apologetic.

Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned that you both knew all the words.”

“Be impressed,” Beau says. “We also know the choreography to ‘Omigod You Guys.’”

“We do NOT need to see that,” Dean says quickly.

“Your loss,” you say cheerfully. “It’s iconic.”

Beau wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. You lean into him naturally, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’ve been doing it for years instead of months.

And Dean …

Dean has a moment.

He’s been Beau’s best friend for years. Has seen him date casually, has seen him hook up at parties, has seen him in relationships that lasted a few months before fizzling out. But this thing with you … it’s different.

It’s in the way Beau looks at you, like you hung the moon and stars. It’s in the way you know what he’s thinking before he says it. It’s in the stupid inside jokes and the synchronized musical numbers and the fact that Beau drove to your apartment in Cambridge just to bring you coffee before a tough rotation.

It’s in the way you saved his life, yes, but also in the way you keep saving it, every day, just by existing.

And Dean realizes, standing in a weight room at seven AM on a Saturday, watching his best friend and his girlfriend be ridiculous together, that you’re soulmates.

The thought hits him with unexpected force. He’s never believed in soulmates before — always thought it was romantic nonsense, something people made up to explain compatibility. But looking at you and Beau now, he can’t think of another word for it.

Whatever happened that night last February — the deer, the ice, the crash, the fact that you were on that exact stretch of highway at that exact moment — it wasn’t just coincidence.

It was fate.

It had to be.

Because the odds of everything aligning the way it did? Of you having the exact training needed to save him? Of you stopping when most people wouldn’t? Of Beau surviving injuries that should have killed him?

The odds were astronomical.

And yet here you both are.

“Dean?” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. “You okay? You look weird.”

“I’m fine,” Dean says. His voice comes out rougher than intended. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” Beau jokes, but he’s looking at Dean with concern now. “Seriously, man, what’s up?”

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. How does he even put this into words?

“I just-” He stops. Tries again. “You two are it for each other, aren’t you?”

The question hangs in the air.

You and Beau look at each other. Something passes between you again — that silent communication that Dean’s starting to understand is just how you two operate.

“Yeah,” Beau says finally, turning back to Dean. “Yeah, we are.”

“I love him,” you add simply. “Like, scary amount. Forever amount.”

“I’m going to marry her,” Beau says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Probably not today, because I think she’d kill me if I proposed in a gym-”

“I absolutely would,” you confirm.

“-but someday. Definitely someday.”

Dean feels his throat get tight. “Good,” he manages. “That’s good.”

“Are you crying?” You ask, peering at him.

“No,” Dean says. He’s definitely about to cry. “Shut up.”

“Oh my god, you are!” Beau looks delighted. “Dean Di Laurentis, notorious womanizer and emotionally unavailable hockey player, is crying over our relationship!”

“I’m not crying. It’s allergies.”

“That’s not-”

Dean crosses the gym and pulls both of you into a hug, one arm around each of them. “I’m really glad you didn’t die,” he tells Beau.

“Me too, man,” Beau says, returning the hug. “Me too.”

“And I’m really glad you stopped,” Dean says to you. “That night. I’m really glad you stopped and saved him. Because I don’t know what I would’ve done if-” His voice cracks.

You squeeze him tighter. “I’m glad I stopped too.”

“You’re stuck with us now,” Dean continues. “You know that, right?”

“I can live with that,” you say softly.

You stand there for a moment, the three of you, holding onto each other in an empty weight room while early morning sunlight streams through the high windows.

Finally, Beau pulls back, wiping at his eyes. “Okay, enough emotions. We’re supposed to be working out.”

“Right,” you agree, also suspiciously misty-eyed. “Working out. Building strength. Whipping into shape.”

“Don’t,” Dean warns.

“We’ve got to-”

“No-”

“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!” You and Beau shout together, dissolving into laughter again.

“I hate you both,” Dean says, but he’s grinning.

“No you don’t,” Beau says, slinging an arm around Dean’s shoulders.

“You love us,” you add, linking your arm through Dean’s other arm.

“Unfortunately,” Dean admits. “Now come on. If you two are done with your Broadway moment, Beau actually does need to get whipped into shape before camp starts.”

“I’m in great shape,” Beau protests.

“You’re in good shape,” you correct. “Great shape requires more work. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not my doctor.”

“I could be. Want me to check your reflexes?”

“That sounds like innuendo.”

“It wasn’t, but I like where your head’s at.”

Dean makes a strangled sound. “I did NOT need that mental image.”

“Then stop listening to our conversations,” Beau says reasonably.

“You’re having them three feet away from me!”

“Sounds like a you problem,” you say cheerfully.

The workout continues, but the energy has shifted. There’s something lighter about it now, something that feels like the future rather than the past.

Dean watches as Beau spots you during squats, his hands hovering near your waist, ready to catch you if needed. Watches as you correct Beau’s form on shoulder presses with the clinical precision of someone who knows exactly how bodies work. Watches as you both take a water break and Beau pulls you in for a kiss that’s probably too long for a public gym but that no one’s around to complain about.

And someday — maybe years from now, maybe at that wedding Dean is already planning in his head — he’s going to tell this story.

He’s going to tell everyone about the night Beau almost died. About the medical student who stopped to save him. About the months of recovery and the I Lived, Bitch party and the first kiss and the musical numbers in the gym.

He’s going to tell them about soulmates, about fate, about second chances.

And he’s going to tell them that he knew.

He knew from that moment in the weight room, watching them be ridiculous together, that you were forever.

And Dean allows himself to feel grateful. Grateful for black ice and bad timing and good Samaritans. Grateful for medical training and quick thinking and jump ropes in gyms. Grateful for musicals and inside jokes and the way love can find you in the darkest moments.

Grateful for second chances.

For all of it.

[rosiewrites28]

"Hockey Jackets Lead To Bad Decisions"

Summary: John Logan can flirt with anyone for fun, but the second y/n ties his hockey jacket around her waist, it starts feeling dangerously less casual. Between stolen touches, teasing confessions, and a growing inability to keep their eyes—or hands—off each other, one night at Malone’s turns into the beginning of something neither of them is prepared for.

wc: 2870

Pairing: John Logan x Reader

A/N: I was going to split this into two parts but then changed my mind. Formatting is kind of everywhere. Not edited.

Masterlist

The bass at Malone’s was loud enough to vibrate through the floorboards. 

Every surface in the place felt sticky, humid from too many students packed together under flashing lights, and the air smelled like cheap beer, perfume, sweat, and something aggressively fried from the kitchen. Which normally would have been my cue to leave after thirty minutes. 

But Hannah and Allie had cornered me before I could escape. 

So now I’m trapped in the middle of the dance floor while Allie screamed the lyrics to a JLo directly into my ear. 

“If you elbow me one more time, I’m reporting you to the authorities,” I yelled over the music.

“You look too hot to complain!” she shouted back immediately.

“That’s because this dress is cutting off circulation to my legs!”

Hannah burst out laughing beside us, dark curls bouncing as she danced. “Worth it!”

Easy for her to say.

The black dress looked incredible in my bedroom mirror two hours ago. Sleek. Tiny. Dangerous in a fun way.

Now?

Now it had decided it couldn't stay down on my thighs and kept trying to ride up. Every thirty seconds I had to yank the hem back down while trying to preserve what little dignity I had left. 

“I swear to God,” I muttered, tugging at the fabric again, “this dress is one wrong move away from becoming a crop top.”

Allie nearly choked laughing.

“You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m fighting for my life.”

“You’re winning, though,” Hannah assured me. “Half the bar has been staring at you since we got here.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It should be.”

Unfortunately, Hannah wasn’t wrong. I could feel eyes following us every time we moved through the crowd. And one pair in particular was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

Because leaning against the bar in a fitted grey Henley—with sleeves pushed up to his forearms like he personally wanted to ruin my mental stability—was John Logan.

He was currently talking to Garrett Graham. Laughing at something Dean said. Looking unfairly good doing literally nothing. I made the mistake of glancing over again. Big mistake. Huge.

Because Logan happened to look up at the exact same moment. Our eyes locked across the crowded bar. Then he smiled, not a polite smile, not a casual hey-I-know-you smile either. A slow, knowing smile like he’d caught me doing something I shouldn’t be. Heat immediately crawled up my neck.

“Oh my God,” Hannah said beside me. “You’re staring again.”

“I am not.”

“y/n,” Allie deadpanned, “you literally stopped dancing.”

I immediately started moving again out of pure embarrassment, nearly sloshing my drink onto the stranger beside me.

“I hate both of you.”

“You wanna know the worst part?” Hannah asked.

“No.”

“He keeps looking over here too.” 

I nearly choke on air. “Excuse me?”

But before Hannah could answer, the dress betrayed me again. Aggressively. I gasped, grabbing the hem before disaster struck. “That’s it. I’m taking this thing out back and setting it on fire.”

Allie doubled over laughing. “You brought extra clothes though, right?”

“Yes,” I said obviously. “Because unlike you two, I believe in preparation.”

Honestly, being roommates with Hannah and Allie meant always carrying backup options.

Backup makeup, shoes, advil, dignity. 

“My bag’s at the table,” I said, pointing toward the back booth where Tucker and Dean sat.

Hannah nodded sympathetically. “Go change before you accidentally traumatize the hockey team.”

“Excellent idea.”

I shoved my way through the crowd, muttering apologies. Heat clung to my skin from dancing, and by the time I reached the booth, I was already annoyed enough to change into sweatpants and never speak again. 

Tucker looked up first. “There she is,” he announced dramatically. “The only responsible person at this school.”

Dean snorted into his drink. “That’s a low bar.”

I laughed softly and bent down to grab my tote bag from beside the booth—Only for another hand to reach it first. Long fingers wrapped loosely around the strap. My stomach immediately did something humiliating. Slowly, I looked up.

Logan sat sprawled comfortably against the booth seat, one arm stretched along the back behind Dean. Up close he somehow looked even broader than he had across the room, shoulders straining the soft grey fabric of his Henley. His hair looked slightly damp at the ends and his eyes were absolutely full of amusement. 

“You leaving already?” he asked. His voice was rough from the noise in the bar, low enough that I felt my heart skip.

“No,” I replied. “My dress is trying to humiliate me.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I noticed.”

My entire body heated instantly. “You noticed?”

Dean made a choking sound into his beer while Tucker physically covered his face.

Logan looked completely unashamed. “It’s hard not to,” he said. “You’ve been fighting with that thing since you got here.”

I pointed accusingly at him. “You are a terrible person.”

“Nah.” He stood up from the booth in one smooth movement. “Just observant.”

Standing this close to him felt unfair. He was tall enough that I had to tilt my head slightly to keep eye contact. Then Logan glanced down toward my legs again. A slow grin spread across his face. “You know,” he drawled, already shrugging off his hockey jacket, “there’s a pretty obvious solution here.”

Before I could answer, he held the jacket out toward me. Navy blue with ‘Briar Hockey’ stitched across the chest. It was still warm from his body.

“You’re offering me your jacket?”

Logan lifted one shoulder casually. “Seems safer for the general public.”

Tucker laughed so hard he almost dropped a fry.

I should’ve said something smooth. Something flirtier than standing there staring at him like an idiot. But of course my brain had become occupied by the sight of Logan holding the jacket. Dear God. “You okay there, y/n?” he asked, clearly entertained now.

“Yes,” I lied immediately. “I am perfectly fine.”

His grin widened. “That’s good news for me.”

I blinked. “Why?”

“Because I’ve been flirting with you for the last ten minutes.”

My heart nearly stopped.

Dean made a loud gagging noise. “Jesus Christ, Logan. Buy us dinner before you start confessing feelings.”

“Shut up,” Logan muttered automatically. But he never looked away from me once.

And suddenly the noise of Malone’s felt farther away somehow., like the entire bar had blurred around us. Then Logan stepped closer, close enough that my pulse jumped stupidly hard.

“C’mere,” he said softly.

My brain short-circuited again.

Before I could respond, he took the jacket gently from my hands and moved behind me.

Every nerve ending in my body immediately became aware of the fact that John Logan was standing directly behind me.

I could feel heat radiating off him.

Could smell his cologne more clearly now—clean and warm and dangerously comforting.

Then his fingers brushed lightly against my hips as he wrapped the sleeves around my waist.

Not lingering.

Barely there.

Still enough to make my stomach flip violently.

“You’re freezing,” he murmured near my ear.

I swallowed hard. “It’s winter.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Oh.

Oh, that was flirting flirting.

His knuckles skimmed my waist one last time as he tied the sleeves securely in front.

“There,” Logan said quietly behind me. “Problem solved.”

I turned around slowly.

Big mistake.

Because now he was even closer.

Close enough that I could see the tiny scar near his eyebrow.

Close enough that I noticed his eyes weren’t just brown—they had these stupid gold flecks in them under the bar lights.

Close enough that my brain started making deeply unhelpful observations about how nice his mouth looked.

“You’re very smug for someone lending me a jacket,” I managed.

“Can you blame me?” His gaze dragged slowly over me, entirely unapologetic. “You look really good in my clothes, y/n.”

That should not have affected me that much.

And yet.

I crossed my arms mostly to give myself something to do. “Do you flirt with every girl like this?”

“Nah.”

His eyes held mine steadily.

“Only the ones who stare at me from the dance floor like they wanna climb me.”

My jaw dropped open.

Dean lost it completely beside us.

“Oh my God,” I laughed, horrified. “You saw that?”

“Baby,” Logan said, grinning now, “everyone saw that.”

I groaned and covered my face instantly while Tucker cackled loud enough to attract attention from nearby tables.

“This is my villain origin story.”

Logan laughed too then.

Not the cocky teasing laugh from before.

A real one.

Warm and low and ridiculously attractive.

Then his hand closed gently around my wrist.

The touch surprised me enough that I looked up immediately.

“Don’t hide now,” he murmured, tugging my hand away from my face.

The teasing edge in his voice softened just slightly.

And somehow that felt even more dangerous.

“I kinda like when you look at me.”

My stomach flipped so hard it was honestly concerning.

For one suspended second neither of us moved.

The lights flashed blue and gold across his face. Music pounded through the floor beneath our feet. Around us, Dean was still laughing at something Tucker said, people shouted over drinks, glasses clinked behind the bar—

But Logan’s attention stayed completely, entirely on me.

Like I was the only interesting thing in the room.

Then his gaze flicked briefly to the jacket tied around my waist before returning to my face.

“Plus,” he added casually, “now everybody knows you’re wearing my jacket.”

I blinked. “And why exactly does that matter?”

His grin turned lazy again.

“No reason.”

Liar.

And judging by the look in his eyes—

he knew I knew it too.

By the time I realized John Logan was still holding my wrist, it was already becoming a problem.

Not a real problem.

A dangerous problem.

Because his hand was warm, his thumb rested lazily against the inside of my wrist, and the look in his eyes was doing deeply irresponsible things to my nervous system.

Around us, Malone’s was still loud and chaotic—music blasting, people yelling over each other, glasses clinking behind the bar—but somehow the space directly around us felt weirdly smaller.

Focused.

Like the rest of the room had blurred at the edges.

Logan tilted his head slightly, watching me with obvious amusement. “You always get this quiet when a guy flirts with you?”

I narrowed my eyes immediately. “I’m not quiet.”

“You were staring at me like you forgot your own name two seconds ago.”

“That’s a medical condition.”

Dean nearly fell out of the booth laughing.

Tucker pointed a fry at me. “Honestly, y/n? Respect.”

“Thank you,” I said with dignity. “At least someone here supports women.”

Logan’s mouth twitched.

Still holding my wrist.

Still entirely too close.

“You okay there, hockey boy?” I asked sweetly. “You seem attached.”

His gaze dropped briefly to where our hands were touching before lifting back to my face.

“Nah,” he said easily. “Just making sure you don’t run away.”

My stomach flipped.

Which was ridiculous.

Absolutely ridiculous.

Because John Logan flirted with everyone. That was practically part of his personality. He was charming and hot and knew exactly how to look at someone like they were the center of the universe for five minutes at a time.

I knew that.

Unfortunately, knowing it did absolutely nothing for me when he smiled like that.

“You think I’d run away?” I asked.

“I think,” Logan said slowly, “you’ve been pretending not to notice me staring at you all night.”

Heat crawled up my neck instantly.

“Oh my God,” I muttered.

“That’s not a denial.”

“Please stop being observant. It’s ruining my life.”

He laughed softly, finally letting go of my wrist.

I immediately missed the warmth.

Which felt pathetic.

Before I could spiral about that too much, Logan leaned one hip against the edge of the booth beside me.

“So what’s in the emergency backup bag?” he asked.

“Gym shorts. Oversized T-shirt. Snacks.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Snacks?”

“I’m a woman in STEM. Survival is important.”

Dean pointed at me dramatically. “See? This is why she’s my favorite.”

“You told Hannah last week I looked like I’d poison someone for fun.”

“You do.”

“That’s just the eyeliner.”

Logan laughed again, shaking his head.

God, he laughed a lot around me.

That felt… nice.

Dangerously nice.

“What kind of snacks?” he asked.

I stared at him. “Are you flirting with me or trying to rob me?”

“Can’t it be both?”

I snorted despite myself and finally crouched to dig through my tote bag. “Goldfish crackers. Granola bars. Sour candy.”

“y/n,” Tucker said solemnly, “marry me.”

“No.”

“That’s fair.”

I pulled out the folded pair of black athletic shorts I planned on changing into and tossed the bag onto the booth seat.

Logan looked personally offended.

“You’re replacing the dress?”

“The dress betrayed me.”

“But the dress is winning.”

“That sounds fake.”

“No seriously.” His eyes dragged over me again, slower this time. “It’s a really good dress.”

My brain fully malfunctioned for half a second.

The confidence in his voice was what got me.

Not teasing now.

Not joking.

Just honest.

And somehow that was worse.

“You are aggressively good at this,” I informed him.

“At flirting?”

“At making people forget basic motor functions.”

A grin spread slowly across his face. “Yeah?”

“Unfortunately.”

Dean groaned loudly. “I can literally feel the sexual tension from here.”

“Then leave,” Logan said without looking away from me.

Tucker clutched his chest dramatically. “He’s in deep already.”

“I’m not in deep,” Logan shot back automatically.

I raised an eyebrow. “Interesting choice of wording.”

He looked at me for a second.

Then smirked.

“You catch everything, huh?”

“Occupational hazard.”

“What occupation?”

“Judging people.”

“Damn,” he said. “And here I thought it was pharmacy.”

I laughed before I could stop myself.

And Logan’s expression shifted immediately when he heard it.

Softer somehow.

Like he liked making me laugh.

That realization hit me right in the chest.

“You know what’s weird?” he asked suddenly.

“What?”

“You’re way less scary than Hannah made you sound.”

I gasped dramatically. “Excuse me. I worked very hard on my terrifying reputation.”

“She told Garrett you once made Dean reconsider his entire personality.”

“I did.”

Dean pointed at me. “She looked me dead in the eyes and asked if I had hobbies besides being loud.”

Logan barked out a laugh.

“To be fair,” I said, “you didn’t have an answer.”

“That’s not the point.”

The music switched songs, bass vibrating through the floor harder now as more people crowded onto the dance floor.

Across the room, Hannah spotted me and wiggled her eyebrows obnoxiously.

I immediately flipped her off.

She looked delighted.

Logan followed my gaze toward the dance floor. “You gonna keep dancing?”

“Eventually.”

“You were having fun before your dress declared war.”

“I was having fun until somebody noticed.”

“y/n,” he said, looking genuinely amused, “you were staring at me like you were conducting scientific research.”

“In my defense, your arms are upsetting.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Tucker made a strangled noise.

Dean physically bent over laughing.

And Logan—

Logan looked so pleased with himself it was unbearable.

“My arms?” he repeated carefully.

I immediately realized my mistake.

“Oh my God.”

“y/n likes my arms,” he announced to the table.

“I actually need everyone here to die.”

He laughed outright now, head tipping back slightly, and the sight hit me with embarrassing force.

Because Logan was pretty.

Like offensively pretty.

Especially when he laughed.

“You know,” he said casually, flexing one arm against the table edge just enough to be annoying, “most people compliment my face first.”

“You don’t need compliments about your face. You already know about your face.”

“That’s true.”

“Horrific answer.”

He grinned.

Then leaned closer suddenly, voice dropping lower.

“But for the record,” he murmured, “I noticed your legs first too.”

My entire train of thought derailed.

Completely.

Gone.

Dean slapped the table hard enough to rattle the drinks. “Jesus Christ, just kiss already.”

“Dean,” I said weakly, still staring at Logan, “I’m trying to have a nervous breakdown in peace.”

Logan’s eyes flicked down briefly to my mouth.

Just for a second.

Still enough to make my pulse jump.

Then he looked back up slowly.

“Would it help,” he asked softly, “if I told you I’ve been trying not to kiss you since you walked in?”

I forgot how breathing worked.

Actually forgot.

Logan noticed immediately too, because his grin turned lazy and unbearably smug.

“There she goes again,” he murmured.

“Shut up.”

“You get all wide-eyed every time I flirt with you.”

“Maybe because you flirt like you’re trying to cause structural damage.”

That earned me another low laugh.

And before I could recover from that either, Logan reached out and adjusted the collar of his hockey jacket where it sat tied around my waist.

His fingers brushed bare skin just above my thigh.

Tiny touch.

Barely there.

My stomach flipped violently anyway.

His eyes lifted back to mine.

“You keeping the jacket on?” he asked.

“Maybe.”

“Good.”

“Why?”

His gaze held mine for one long second.

“Because I like seeing my stuff on you.”

Oh.

Oh, he was dangerous.

[andy-15-07]

Late-Night Fuel

Pairing: John Logan  x Reader

Word Count: 1714

Request open!

Off campus masterlist

John Logan had been halfway through fixing a loose cabinet door in the hockey house when he heard the front door open, followed by the kind of tired shuffle that told him exactly who it was before he even looked up.

You.

He turned from the counter with a screwdriver still in his hand, and the second he saw you, his face softened.

You were still in your restaurant uniform, hair a little messier than it had been when you left that morning, shoulders slumped, bag hanging off one arm like it weighed a thousand pounds. You kicked the door shut behind you and gave him a weak smile.

“Hey,” you said.

Logan frowned. “Hey yourself.”

You made it three steps into the kitchen before you stopped and sighed dramatically, dropping your bag onto the nearest chair. “I’m so tired I think I might actually dissolve.”

He set the screwdriver down immediately. “Rough shift?”

You gave him a look that answered the question better than words ever could. “Two servers called out, the lunch rush was insane, one guy complained his fries were too crispy, and a woman asked me if the kitchen could make her burger ‘less burger-like.’”

Logan blinked. “What does that even mean?”

“I have no idea,” you said, throwing your head back in disbelief. “I’m too exhausted to unpack it.”

He crossed the kitchen in a few easy steps and pressed a quick kiss to your forehead. “Sit down.”

You squinted at him. “That sounded suspiciously like an order.”

“It was.”

You huffed, but you were already lowering yourself onto one of the stools by the counter. Logan watched you for a second, then glanced at your face, the dark circles under your eyes, the way you were blinking a little too slowly.

His expression changed.

“You ate?” he asked.

You hesitated.

He pointed at you. “That pause was very incriminating.”

“I had a fry.”

“Y/N.”

“It was one fry.”

Logan stared at you in disbelief. “That is not food.”

“It is if you’re emotionally committed to it.”

He let out a breath through his nose, somewhere between amused and concerned. “You need actual food.”

You leaned your cheek into your hand. “I need a nap.”

“Food first.”

You looked up at him. “You’re bossy when you’re worried.”

He gave you a slow, almost smug smile. “And you’re cute when you’re tired.”

You narrowed your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched. “Don’t start.”

“I wasn’t starting anything.”

“You absolutely were.”

Logan laughed softly and turned toward the fridge. “What do you want?”

You blinked. “What do I want?”

“Yeah.”

You looked at him like he’d asked a trick question. “Logan, I just told you I may be one bad shift away from becoming a ghost. I don’t know what I want.”

He opened the fridge and glanced over his shoulder. “That narrows it down exactly zero.”

You sighed and rubbed your face. “I don’t care. Surprise me.”

That made his eyebrows lift. “Dangerous answer.”

“Why?”

He shut the fridge and leaned against it. “Because I’m going to make something decent, and then you’re going to get attached to my cooking.”

You snorted despite yourself. “That sounds like a threat.”

“It is.”

He started moving around the kitchen with the kind of easy, quiet competence that always made you a little soft around the edges. Logan wasn’t loud about affection. He didn’t need to be. He showed it in small things: remembering the snack you liked, carrying your bag when you were too tired, checking your water bottle cap was screwed on before you left the house.

Right now, he was pulling ingredients out with focused, efficient movements like he had decided your exhaustion was a personal problem he intended to solve.

You watched him for a while, propping your chin in your palm.

“What are you making?” you asked.

“Grilled cheese.”

You blinked. “That sounds too simple.”

He glanced over at you. “You need simple.”

“That is painfully fair.”

“And soup.”

Your head lifted. “Oh.”

He paused, a little amused by your immediate reaction. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said, but your voice had gone softer. “That’s sweet.”

Logan shrugged one shoulder, but the tips of his ears went a little pink. “It’s food.”

“Soup and grilled cheese is very domestic of you.”

He looked at you over his shoulder. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I say it like I like it.”

That earned you a longer look, one that made your stomach feel warm even though you were exhausted. Logan had this habit of going quiet when he was affected, like he didn’t want to ruin the moment by talking too much.

He cleared his throat and turned back to the stove. “Okay. Then sit there and be impressed.”

You smiled and did exactly that.

A few minutes later, the kitchen was filled with the smell of butter and warm bread. Logan moved easily, flipping the sandwiches with one hand, stirring the soup with the other, like he had done this a hundred times. Maybe he had, in different ways. Maybe not with you specifically, but with the same steady care.

You stretched your legs out under the counter. “You know, I did technically survive tonight.”

Logan snorted. “Barely.”

“That’s rude.”

“It’s accurate.”

You smiled tiredly. “I forgot how annoying you are when you’re in caretaker mode.”

He looked over at you, expression amused. “You forgot?”

“Yes.”

“That’s because you’re usually too busy being charmed by me.”

You let out a laugh and immediately covered your mouth because it felt too good and too close to a yawn at the same time. “You are so full of yourself.”

“And yet you’re still here.”

You tilted your head. “That’s because I live here.”

“Convenient excuse.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

“Mm.” He plated the food and brought it over to you, setting the bowl and sandwich down in front of you like he was serving royalty instead of a sleep-deprived girlfriend in a wrinkled restaurant shirt. “Eat.”

You looked down at the meal. “You really didn’t have to do this.”

Logan’s face softened in a way that made your chest ache just a little. “I know.”

“So why did you?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just pulled out the stool beside you and sat down, close enough that your knees brushed.

“Because you looked wrecked when you walked in,” he said quietly. “And because I wanted to.”

The simplicity of it hit harder than it should have.

You looked at him for a second, then picked up the spoon and took a bite of soup. It was warm and comforting and exactly what you needed, and you made a little noise before you could stop yourself.

Logan’s mouth twitched. “Good?”

You nodded immediately. “This is actually amazing.”

“I know.”

You laughed through the bite and nudged his arm with your elbow. “You are such a menace.”

He leaned an inch closer. “You’re still eating it.”

“That is because I’m hungry.”

“And because I’m right.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile stayed. After a few bites, the tightness in your shoulders started to ease. The soup was warm, the sandwich perfect, and Logan was sitting beside you like he had nowhere else to be.

That, more than anything, made your throat tighten.

He noticed the silence and glanced sideways at you. “You okay?”

You nodded, swallowing. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He studied your face for a second. “You still want to go upstairs after this?”

You shrugged. “Eventually.”

He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Take your time.”

There was something so gentle in the way he said it that you had to look away for a second. When you looked back, Logan was already watching you with that soft, attentive expression he got when he thought no one was paying attention.

“You’re staring,” you murmured.

He didn’t bother denying it. “You’re beautiful when you’re half-dead.”

You laughed weakly. “That is not the compliment you think it is.”

“It’s the truth.”

You took another bite of your sandwich, then said around it, “I missed you.”

That made him go very still.

It wasn’t dramatic. Just enough.

When he spoke, his voice was quieter. “I missed you too.”

You looked at him. “You saw me like six hours ago.”

“And?”

You smiled a little. “And you’re dramatic.”

He leaned his shoulder into yours. “Maybe.”

The two of you sat there for a few minutes in easy quiet, the kind that never felt empty with Logan. Every so often he’d ask if you wanted more soup, if the tea he’d made on the side was okay, if your feet hurt, and every time he did, you felt that same tiny squeeze in your chest.

By the time you finished eating, your energy had started to come back in the smallest way. Not much. Just enough to feel human again.

Logan stood and collected the empty bowl before you could protest. “I’ll clean up.”

You frowned. “You already cooked.”

“And you’re tired.”

“I can help.”

He looked at you over the rim of the bowl. “You can absolutely not help.”

“That’s rude.”

“That’s caring.”

You made a face at him, and he laughed.

When he returned, he found you still sitting on the stool, eyes half-lidded now that your stomach wasn’t empty anymore. He leaned against the counter and looked at you for a long second before saying, “C’mon. I’m taking you upstairs.”

You blinked. “Like I’m a toddler?”

“Like you’re exhausted.”

You held out a hand. “Fine. But only because I’m too tired to argue.”

Logan took your hand immediately and tugged you up, then wrapped an arm around your waist when you swayed a little. “Yeah, I know.”

You leaned into him with a quiet sigh. “You’re really good to me.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head as he guided you toward the stairs. “You make it easy.”

You smiled against his shoulder, your tired body finally giving in to the comfort of being taken care of.

And when Logan pulled you closer on the way upstairs, warm and steady and quietly devoted, you decided that being this loved was the best kind of home.

[writingsforfandoms-multi]

confessions | dean di laurentis x reader

summary: what happens when reader is encouraged by the guys to confess her feelings to Dean

You were at the bar with Hannah and the guys except for Dean who was gonna meet up later 

Unfortunately, it seemed like everyone in the group, besides Dean, knew you had feelings for him, and now they were trying to convince you to tell him 

“Just tell him y/n” Logan said, “you won’t know how he feels until you say something, and who knows, maybe he likes you back” he tries to say nonchalantly 

you narrow your eyes, “Why? Do you know something?” you probe  

and before Logan can respond, Tucker jumps in, “nope we know absolutely nothing” he insists, “but he’s right you never know” 

you notice Garrett had been quiet, “garrett what do you think?” you ask 

he smiles, “I think you have a good chance of him liking you back and that’s all i’ll say on that” 

you stay quiet until, “when should I tell him?” 

logan grins, “do it now before you lose the nerve, he’s at the house getting ready to meet us” 

you take one gulp of your drink before you stand up, he’s right if you don’t go now you’ll lose the guts to do it, “okay okay I’ll go but you guys better be right” you warn 

—

you were walking up the front steps and hesitated before opening the door, you made it this far you can’t chicken out now. 

your heart was beating out of your chest. what if the guys were wrong and Dean didn’t see you as anything more than a friend? But then again the guys wouldn’t have encouraged you to tell him unless they knew something you didn’t right? 

you knocked on his bedroom door before opening it and your stomach dropped at the sight. 

dean was making out with another girl, both of their tops already off

you stood frozen for a second before he noticed you, “y/n!” dean says as he got off the girl

“I’m sorry for barging in! I’m just gonna-“ you close the door and run down the stairs, ignoring when he called your name.

dean takes a look at his phone to make sure he hadn’t missed a message from you about coming over and he feels like shit when he sees the guys had texted in the group chat 

dean heads up y/n is coming over, let’s just say now’s the moment you’ve been waiting for man 

—

you decided you might as well go back to malone’s. On the way back all you could think was of how much of an idiot you were

The boys were surprised to see you back so soon, and without Dean. They were expecting both of you to come back all giggly with each other 

“well you guys were wrong” you huff as you take a seat next to hannah and all the guys make eye contact with each other 

“what happened” hannah says as she takes in your teary eyes but you refuse to let them fall 

you laugh, “I walked in on him making out with some girl” you say as you reach for the pitcher of beer the guys had ordered and poured yourself some. you don’t even like beer but you needed something to distract yourself so you didn’t cry. 

“y/n” logan starts, his eyes sympathetic 

“no really it’s fine! Im fine I’m glad I didn’t say anything I mean can you imagine? and I’m glad this happened because it just reminded me that he’s not a long term relationship kind of guy anyway and I am definitely that type of girl so nothing was gonna come from it anyway” you ramble, trying to ignore the heaviness in your chest and the looks of pity the guys are giving you 

you take a deep breath, “but I do need a shot” all of them stayed quiet as you got up and made your way to the bar 

“what the hell? I thought you guys told me he had feelings for her” hannah asks the guys

“that’s what he told us a few days ago” Logan defends, choosing to omit that dean had also mentioned he hadn’t slept with anyone since he met you. 

“oh hell no” hannah says as she sees Dean walk in and immediately walks over to the bar when he spots you there

garrett stops her from getting up, “we should let them figure it out” he suggests 

“fine” hannah huffs

you weren’t expecting dean to pull up next to you at the bar and you look over at him, startled to see him there

“I’m sorry” dean says softly but you shake your head 

“sorry about what? I’m the one who’s sorry about walking in on you” you try to laugh, refusing to make eye contact with him 

“y/n, did you come over to tell me something” he gently asks, already knowing the answer 

“nope, nothing at all” you say as you take your shot, “we’re sitting over there by the way” you mention as you point to where the rest of the group was, all who were already looking in your direction but were to quick look away 

“can we talk? in private?” dean asks, his hand coming up to your arm to stop you from walking back to the table 

“talk about what?” you ask

“c’mon” dean leads you away from prying eyes to a quiet side of the bar where there’s more privacy 

“I know you were coming to tell me something, okay? the guys gave me a heads up but they didn’t say what” he says 

you groan, “of course they did. Listen, it was nothing, seriously let’s just pretend the last half hour never happened” you beg 

“y/n, I’ve been wanting to tell you what I’m hoping is the same thing for weeks now” he says quietly 

you scoff, “I doubt that, considering I just walked in on you about to have sex with someone” 

“but I didn't, okay? I haven’t slept with anyone since you and I started to hang out” he admits and you look at him shocked 

“really?” you ask quietly 

“really,” he nods, “I didn’t think you felt the same way so I tried to move on tonight but I couldn’t” 

you didn’t know what to say so he continued, “please, what were you coming to tell me tonight” he pleads 

“i think you know” 

“maybe, but I want you to say it anyways” he says, his hand coming to hold yours 

you look into his eyes for a moment, “i like you” and he lets out the biggest smile you’ve seen on his face, his dimples coming out 

“thank god because I like you too, have for a while now” he says as he leans in, leaning his forehead against yours 

“but you told me you don’t do relationships” you say quietly and his hand comes to cup your cheek 

“I want to, with you, if you’ll have me” he says, feeling vulnerable all of a sudden 

“I want to, but,” you trail off 

“but what?” he prompts

you ponder for a moment, “will we be exclusive?” you ask shyly 

he grins, “hell yeah, I don’t share” he says, his arms coming round your waist as yours go around his neck 

“good, because neither do I” you say and he leans in and kisses you 

both of you ignoring the whoops and hollering from your table of friends

—-

other off campus fics:

first kiss | dean di laurentis x reader

jealousy | john logan x reader

[minminn22]

Co-Dependent | John Logan

John Logan x Sororitygirl!Reader | word count: 1.1k

Summary: You are assigned a "RealCare" high-tech simulator baby that cries, needs feeding, and keeps you up at all hours of the night. Meanwhile, John Logan is on the verge of academic probation and needs to keep his grades up to stay on the ice. Because of this he begs you to let him do his fair share which leads to him practically moving into your place for the semester.

Tropes: Co-parenting, fake parenting, forced Proximity-ish.

NOTE: this is a blurb for a possible series. Let me know if you guys would be interested in it! Hope you all enjoy the read!

UPDATE: This has been expanded into a full series!

Off Campus Masterlist

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The rain had finally stopped by the time the weak gray light seeped through the curtains.

The second my eyes opened, memory hit me, and I immediately regretted being alive. After the 3:00 AM incident, I had practically scrambled out of Logan’s lap, mumbled a breathless goodnight, and fled to my bedroom, locking the door like a lunatic.

I felt like a coward. But standing in the kitchen now, waiting for the water filled kettle to hiss to life, I realized my actual problem: I just couldn't face him. I couldn't look at him and see that smug, unchallenged smirk. I hated that he knew exactly how much power he had over me.

Worse of all, I could still remember his hands on my waist when he caught me.

I took a sharp breath, smoothed down my shorts, and picked up my matcha. My hands shaking just enough to make the liquid splash up against the side of the ceramic mug. Be normal, I told myself. Just don’t make this weird. Do anything else but weird.

Logan was already awake. He was sitting on the couch, fully dressed in his Briar Hockey hoodie, staring intently at his phone while his thumb flew across the screen. He looked completely unfazed, which only irritated me more.

Simulator Number Four—the plastic, interactive medical doll we were supposed to be co-parenting for our ethics seminar—was resting on the coffee table between us, blessedly quiet for once.

"Good morning," I said, forcing my voice into the most casual, breezy tone I could muster. I tried to look anywhere but at him, settling for staring at the team logo on his chest. "Did our grade survive the night?"

Logan looked up. The intense focus on his face instantly melted, but to my absolute shock, the cocky smirk didn't reappear. Instead, his eyes tracked me as I walked across the room.

Looking at me for a second too long.

"Yeah," he said, his voice rough from sleep, which unfortunately did not help my situation.

"We’re at a ninety-four percent. I kept an eye on the sensor cycles after you went to bed. The simulator’s respiratory track cleared up around four."

"Oh. Wow. Thank you." I set my drink down. Suddenly hyperaware of myself standing there in sleep shorts holding a cup of steaming matcha.

"Well, since my shift is starting, you're free to head back to the hockey house. Tucker and Graham are probably wondering if you died."

Logan didn't move. Then, slowly, he got up from the couch and stretched. The hem of his hoodie riding up, exposing a flash of skin.

Fuck.

I forced myself to look literally anywhere else.

He walked over to the kitchen island, stopping just a foot away. Cold air followed him across the apartment. His scent invading my space.

"About last night..." he murmured, leaning his hip against the counter.

"It was three in the morning," I blurted out, the words tripping over each other. "The simulator was crying, we both grabbed it at the same time, the space was tight. Things happen when people are sleep-deprived. We don't need to overanalyze it."

Logan stared at me for a long, quiet moment, letting my frantic excuse just hang in the air. Then, a tiny, knowing smile broke through his expression, not his usual arrogant grin, but something softer. And that should not have affected me as much as it did.

“Right,” he said slowly, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Things got weird.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing against the counter, stopping just an inch from my hand. "But just so we're clear, partner... my heart wasn't beating that fast because of a plastic doll."

I forgot how to respond for a second. My entire facade threatening to splinter right down the middle. He knew. He absolutely knew he'd rattled me.

Logan gripped the strap of his duffel bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He took a step back toward the door, giving me one last, lingering look. Which somehow that look was worse than the flirting.

"See you tonight at eight. Don't forget to feed the kid."

The door clicked shut behind him. The silence rushed back to fill the apartment, and I finally let out the breath I'd been holding since he stood up. I had to grip the counter for a second afterward.

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ one shot.

pairing – garrett graham x reader notes from me – i know i usually only write rafe/drew but i'm on my second rewatch of off campus and i couldn't help myself!! warnings – alcohol, drunken silliness, soft/protective garrett, party chaos, mild innuendo word count – 4.1k

navigation – masterlist

The thing about Garrett Graham being on a one-drink limit was that it made him unbearably observant.

Usually, at parties like this, Garrett was loud in the easy way he always was when the room already liked him. Leaning against the kitchen island with a red cup in one hand, shoulder knocked against Logan’s while Tucker said something dry enough to make both of them laugh through their noses, still getting pulled into conversations every two minutes by guys who remembered Briar had a game tomorrow and thought “bury those assholes” counted as both analysis and encouragement.

He was still doing that, still smiling when somebody slapped his shoulder on the way past. Still nodding along when a freshman he vaguely knew started talking at him about the power play with the intense glassy-eyed sincerity of a man who had consumed too much cheap vodka and exactly one hockey podcast. Still charming people mostly by accident, because Garrett had never once walked into a room and thought maybe he should make himself smaller for everybody else’s sake.

But sober Garrett had range. Unfortunately for her, sober Garrett noticed things.

He noticed when Logan’s cup went from beer to something stronger. Not his problem. He noticed Dean talking with both hands while Allie stood tucked under his arm, laughing like she knew whatever came out of his mouth next was going to be either stupid or actionable. Also not his problem.

He noticed Tucker quietly moving somebody’s drink away from the edge of the counter before it got knocked onto the floor, because Tucker had always possessed the exhausting dignity of a man born already tired of everyone’s shit.

And he noticed the exact second his girlfriend put one hand on the kitchen bench again. That was his problem.

He’d already stopped this exact mission twice in the last ten minutes, which felt excessive for a girl who kept insisting she was literally fine while blinking a little too slowly and smiling at him like the lights had all gone soft around the edges.

The first time, he’d caught her by the waist and set her back on the floor with a calm, captainly, “Nope,” said close to her ear. The second time, he’d stepped between her and the counter like a very attractive barricade while she pouted at him like he'd personally cancelled fun.

Now she was trying again, because, apparently, the second a vodka cranberry and an Ariana Grande song got into the same room, her ability to retain recent history collapsed entirely.

Her skirt was too short for climbing. It was probably too short for several forms of normal standing, if Garrett was being honest, but that was between him, God, and the part of his brain currently doing threat assessment on behalf of her underwear.

Her heels were tall enough that Allie had called them hot but fucking dangerous when they arrived, and now one of them scraped against the cabinet front as she lifted her knee with absolutely no concern for balance, modesty, or Garrett’s long-term cardiovascular health.

Dean, from the other side of the kitchen, had been waiting for this. Garrett could feel it in the air. The man had made three separate comments about keeping her away from elevated surfaces and then looked personally enriched every time Garrett told him to shut the fuck up.

Garrett moved before the room really had time to understand what was happening. One second he was beside Logan, cup loose in his hand. The next he was behind her, cup abandoned somewhere near the sink, palm landing firm and warm against the back of her thigh as he tugged the hem of her skirt down with the grim focus of a man handling something highly flammable.

“Yeah, nope,” he said, low against her shoulder, his voice amused even as his hand stayed where it was. “Not doin’ that.”

She turned around like she'd been caught doing something cute instead of deeply stupid, her face bright with that pleased, unfocused warmth she got when the room had started moving a little faster than she could keep up with and Garrett was suddenly close enough to touch.

Her hands went straight to his chest, fingers sliding up the front of his shirt with drunken affection and absolutely no subtlety, and she beamed at him like she hadn't seen him in months. “Baby!”

Garrett looked down at her hands, then back at her face, his mouth twitching. “Hi.”

“Where were you?”

“Right there.” He nodded vaguely over his shoulder, where Logan had turned to watch them with the exact expression of a man who would rather die than become useful. “Saw you, like, ten seconds ago.”

“Oh.” She seemed to consider this very seriously, brows knitting for one whole beat before her face opened again, delighted by the rediscovery. “Hi.”

“Yeah, we did that part.”

She smiled anyway, her hands still sitting flat against his chest like she had every right to keep them there. Which she did. That was becoming a problem, actually. The newness of it. The fact that they were together enough now for people to know, for her to touch him without pretending it was accidental, for him to stand in a crowded kitchen the night before a game with one beer in his system and her skirt in his hand like this was a normal responsibility a man could acquire through dating.

She swayed into him. A small tilt of her weight, the kind someone else might have missed if they were drunker or less embarrassingly tuned to her. Garrett’s hand tightened at her waist before she seemed to notice she’d moved at all.

“Okay,” he said, dragging the word out in warning. “Bar stool. Right now.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re beautiful.”

Her eyes narrowed at him, suspicious and visibly pleased. “That’s not what I said.”

“No, but it worked better.” He turned her neatly by the hips before she could decide the counter still had unfinished business with her. “Sit.”

She made a noise of offence, but she let him guide her onto the stool, mostly because it was already there and because Garrett’s hands were warm and annoyingly sure and doing that thing where they seemed to make decisions for her body a full second before her brain managed to file an objection.

The room tilted pleasantly when she sat. The bass pushed through the kitchen floor and up into the bones of her legs. Someone had spilled beer near the fridge and the tile caught lightly under the heel she kept tapping against the stool rung. Across the room, Allie was tucked into Dean’s side, laughing at something Tucker said while Dean looked over her head with the bright, vicious joy of someone watching Garrett suffer a romantic inconvenience in real time.

Garrett went to the sink and filled a plastic cup with water. He came back holding it out like evidence.

She reached for it.

He lifted it just out of range.

She blinked at him.

His face went blank in that innocent way that always meant he was about to become deeply irritating. “What?”

“Gimme.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m trying.”

She pouted. “You’re being mean.”

“I’m providing medical care.”

“You’re making me work for water, Garrett.”

His laugh came out before he could stop it, quick and real, his head ducking for half a second as if he was genuinely annoyed with himself for enjoying her this much. He lowered the cup again. She reached. He moved it left. Her fingers closed around absolutely nothing.

“Garrett.”

“Reflexes are a little rough tonight, huh?”

“I will break up with you.”

“No, you won’t.” He brought the cup close again, then jerked it back when she lunged, and she burst into giggles so hard her knee knocked against his thigh.

“Baby, this is bleak. This is like watching a kitten lose a fight with a shoelace.”

“I hate you.”

He finally let her take it, but only after wrapping his hand around hers to steady the cup because she came in too fast and almost sent half of it down her front. “Slow. Drink it like you’ve used a mouth before.”

She glared at him over the rim while she drank, which would have worked better if he hadn’t still been holding the cup with her. The water was cold enough to make her teeth ache, cutting through the sugary film of whatever Allie had mixed earlier and landing hard in the warm, spinning centre of her stomach.

Garrett watched her with his head tipped slightly, all amused mouth and attentive eyes, and she hated, immediately and deeply, how much she liked it. Not the fussing, she would deny enjoying the fussing until the end of time. But the way he did it. Like he could tease her without making her feel stupid. Like the joke was never that she was embarrassing him. Like he had simply accepted that she was drunk, pretty, badly behaved, and his to keep upright for the next hour.

His hand settled on her thigh while she drank, thumb resting just under the edge of her skirt, not doing anything much except being there. The contact was casual enough to look like nothing from the outside. From inside her body, it had weight. A small, steady point in a room full of noise.

Someone yelled his name from the living room. “Graham!”

Garrett turned his head. “What?”

A couple of hockey guys were waving him over, one of them yelling something about the line changes tomorrow and another immediately shouting over him that they were not talking strategy at a party because some of us actually know how to live.

Garrett’s attention shifted for barely two seconds. Barely. His hand left her knee. His shoulders angled away. And then the opening presented itself. It wasn't her fault. It really wasn’t. Because Ariana came on.

The song that reached into the middle of her chest and hit whatever drunk, glittery emergency button existed in girls at parties. The one that made Allie gasp from across the room and point at her because Allie understood. Allie knew. This was not about Garrett and his very boring anti-countertop agenda anymore. This was bigger than him. This was practically civic duty.

She set the water down very carefully, which felt mature enough to balance the scales of whatever happened next, and slid off the stool.

Dean noticed first. Dean noticed anything with potential for either nudity or injury, especially if both were being offered at once.

His whole face lit up. “Wooo!” he shouted, lifting his cup. “Get up there!”

Allie smacked him in the stomach, laughing even as she did it. “Don't encourage her.”

“What? I’m supporting women.”

“You’re supporting Garrett committing murder.”

Dean’s grin widened.

Garrett turned.

The timing was, unfortunately, beautiful. Her knee was already on the counter. One hand braced against the surface. Her skirt was doing its absolute best in conditions no garment that short should ever have been expected to survive.

She looked back over her shoulder at the exact moment Garrett’s expression shifted from distracted amusement to flat, immediate disbelief.

His cup was gone again. Nobody knew where he kept putting them. One second his hands were empty; the next they were on her waist.

“Alright,” he said, hauling her backward before the second knee could get involved. “We’re done here.”

She made a sound that was half laugh, half protest, her feet finding the floor with such minimal commitment to the task that he had to catch more of her weight.

“We’re done.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You were halfway to a public incident.”

She furrowed her brow, glaring up at him. “I was dancing.”

“You were climbing furniture.”

“For art.”

“For urgent care.” He bent a little to look into her face, and fuck, he was so annoying like this. So sure of himself. So warm around the edges of his authority that it made arguing with him feel less like resistance and more like foreplay’s better-behaved cousin. “Up we go.”

Her eyes widened. “Where?”

“Anywhere that isn’t this kitchen.”

“Garrett, no–”

But she was already laughing, because he had that look. The one that said he had made a decision and her role in the next thirty seconds was mostly decorative. His arm slid around the backs of her thighs, the other braced firm at her waist, and before she could do anything more strategic than clutch at his shirt, the whole kitchen flipped.

Light, ceiling, cabinets, Logan’s deeply entertained face, Dean’s open-mouthed delight. All of it went upside down in one warm, dizzy rush as Garrett threw her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing and he had reached the end of negotiations.

She shrieked.

Everyone cheered.

“Garrett!”

“Yup.” He adjusted his hold like this was a normal thing to be doing in somebody’s kitchen, one hand firm across the backs of her thighs, the other keeping her skirt decent. “That’s my name.”

She smacked his back, badly, mostly because she was laughing too hard to aim. “Put me down!”

“No.”

“I’m serious!”

“You’re drunk and upside down. You’re not serious.”

Dean was losing his mind across the room, bent halfway over Allie’s shoulder while she tried and failed to look disapproving. Logan lifted his cup with solemn respect. Tucker, because he had chosen betrayal, called, “Honestly, I think this is the safest option available.”

“I hate all of you,” she announced to the kitchen, though it came out wobbly with laughter because Garrett had started walking and every step made her bounce lightly against his shoulder.

Garrett paused in the doorway and turned just enough for the room to see her dangling there, hair falling toward the floor, cheeks hot, both hands planted uselessly against his back while her skirt remained under the firm jurisdiction of his palm.

“Say goodnight, everyone,” he said.

She lifted her head with great effort, spotted Allie first, then Dean, then Logan, then the blurry, bright collection of cups and boys and bad decisions behind them, and waved with both hands like she was leaving a pageant. “Goodnight, everyone!”

The kitchen erupted again. Dean actually clapped. Allie blew her a kiss. Logan yelled, “Hydrate!” with the confidence of a man who had not had water since Thursday.

Garrett carried her through the house, past the crush of bodies in the hallway, past two people making out badly against the wall by the stairs, past somebody’s abandoned jacket and an open front door letting in a thin slice of cold night air.

The music followed them out in pieces, bass first, then voices, then the muffled whole of the party dropping behind them as Garrett stepped onto the porch and the night came up around her bare legs.

The air sharpened everything at the edges. Damp grass. Car exhaust. The metallic bite of early spring. Garrett’s cologne caught in the cotton of his shirt where her cheek had ended up pressed against his back.

For a few seconds she kept wriggling on principle, because it seemed important for the record that she hadn't gone quietly. Then the path dipped slightly and the world swung with it, and she decided stillness had a lot going for it.

Halfway down the walk, she stopped struggling altogether and just hung there, arms loose, one heel slipping lower on her foot.

“Babe,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“You have a nice butt.”

Garrett did not miss a step. “Thanks, baby.”

“Like, really nice.”

“I know.”

She gasped, offended despite having introduced the subject herself. “You’re so cocky.”

“You’re upside down staring at my ass and giving live commentary. I feel like the confidence is evidence-based.”

She giggled again, softer this time, the sound spilling out into the cold. Garrett’s hand shifted against the backs of her thighs, careful with her balance, careful with the hem of her skirt, careful in a way that shouldn't have been noticeable when she was upside down and full of vodka and openly objectifying him, but was.

He could have made a thing of it. Could have rolled his eyes harder. Could have acted like taking care of his drunk girlfriend was some massive inconvenience being inflicted on him by the universe and Ariana Grande.

But Garrett just carried her like it was easy. Like she was funny. Like she was his problem, and he was, privately and embarrassingly, kind of pleased about it.

At his car, he set her down slowly, both hands at her waist until her heels found pavement and stayed there. The world rushed upright too fast, porch light blurring behind his shoulder, and she grabbed his forearms while her stomach took a second to remember where it lived.

Garrett watched her face, his smile fading into something more focused. “Good?”

She nodded, then immediately leaned forward until her forehead touched his chest because nodding had been a little ambitious. “Mhm.”

“That was wildly convincing.”

“I’m graceful.”

“You tried to climb a kitchen counter because Ariana Grande told you to.”

“She did.”

“She didn't personally tell you shit.”

She pointed one finger up at him. “You don’t know our relationship.”

His mouth curved again, and he brushed her hair back from her face, knuckles grazing her cheek in a touch so light it made her eyes want to close. “Your relationship with gravity is a little unstable right now.”

She looked up at him. The kitchen light was still on him somehow, caught in the angles of his face, in the dark sweep of his lashes, in the small amused pull at the corner of his mouth. He was close enough that she could see the faint scrape near his jaw from shaving, the tiredness tucked under his eyes from practice, the way his attention kept moving over her in pieces. Eyes. Mouth. Balance. Mood.

He was still teasing her, still Garrett, still unfairly pleased with himself, but under it sat the thing he did without announcing it. The checking. The steadiness. The hand already there before the fall happened.

She slid her hands up his chest again because it was the easiest place to put them, fingers curling loosely in his shirt. “Are you mad?”

Garrett looked genuinely insulted by the question. “At you?”

“Mm.”

“For trying to flash half the hockey team and die on a countertop?” He pretended to consider it. “Nah.”

Her mouth turned down. “That sounded judgy.”

“That was the edited version.”

“You’re mean.”

“I’m driving you home, giving you water, and preventing you from becoming a cautionary tale. I’m a hero.” His hands settled at her hips again, thumbs warm through the thin fabric at her waist. “A hot one, apparently. Nice butt. Heard that somewhere.”

She groaned and dropped her forehead back against his chest, and his laugh moved under her ear, low and pleased.

For a few seconds they just stood there beside his car while the party carried on without them, muffled and distant now, her body still buzzing with music and alcohol and the delayed embarrassment of nearly becoming a story Dean would tell until graduation. Garrett’s hand moved once down her back, then up again.

When she tipped her face up, he was already looking.

“What?” she asked, suspicious.

“Nothing.”

“You’re doing a face.”

“That's because I have a face.”

“A smug one.”

“Yeah, that’s genetic.” He opened the passenger door and guided her toward it, one hand hovering near her head so she didn’t knock it against the frame. “In.”

She sat with less dignity than she would have preferred, knees bumping together, one heel catching awkwardly on the floor mat. Garrett crouched before she could fully process the problem, fingers closing gently around her ankle as he straightened the shoe and set her foot flat. The intimacy of it caught weirdly in her stomach.

“There,” he said. “Both shoes accounted for. Huge night for us.”

She stared down at him. “You’re really pretty from this angle.”

He looked up, one brow lifting. “From the floor?”

“Mhm.”

“Good to know.” He reached across her for the seatbelt, and she took the opportunity to press a messy kiss to his cheek, catching more jaw than anything else. Garrett paused with the belt pulled across her lap, mouth twitching like he was trying very hard not to smile too obviously. “You missed.”

“I didn’t.”

“That was my jaw.”

“I know what I did.”

“Terrifying sentence.” He clicked the belt into place and tugged once to check it, then braced one hand on the roof of the car and looked down at her. “You gonna puke in my car?”

She considered lying, then made a face. “No.”

“Very long pause.”

“I was thinking.”

“That’s what scared me.”

She laughed, head falling back against the seat, and Garrett’s smile went helpless for half a second. There and then mostly gone, swallowed back under the usual cocky tilt of his mouth before she could do anything devastating with it, like point it out.

But she saw it. The fondness. The stupid, pleased little crease near his eye, like this – her drunk and difficult and half-asleep in his passenger seat, mascara probably doing something unfortunate, skirt riding high enough on her thighs that he reached in and tugged it down again with a muttered, “Jesus, baby,” – was somehow not a nuisance to him.

Somehow, it was worth smiling about.

He shut the door and walked around the front of the car, and through the windshield she watched him shake his head to himself, still grinning.

When he got in, the party disappeared almost completely. Door closed. Engine on. The car filled with the low blue glow of the dashboard and the clean, familiar smell of Garrett’s hoodie thrown in the backseat.

He handed her a half-full water bottle from the backseat. “Drink.”

She took it with both hands. “You’re bossy.”

“You like it.”

She hummed into the rim, then looked over at him with her cheek pressed against the seat. “Maybe.”

Garrett pulled away from the curb with one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over without looking to settle warm over her bare knee.

“Next party,” he said, “we’re putting you in pants.”

She made a horrified noise. “Absolutely not.”

“Fine. Longer skirt.”

“No.”

“Flats?”

She turned her head very slowly, giving him the full weight of her disappointment. “Garrett.”

He glanced over, and the grin came back. “Yeah, okay. That was too far.”

“Thank you.”

“But no counters.”

She sighed like he had asked her to give up art. “You’re ruining my brand.”

“Your brand almost gave Tucker a full view of your underwear.”

“Was he impressed?”

Garrett’s hand tightened on her knee. Enough that she felt the shift before she saw the look he kept aimed at the road. “Careful.”

Garrett Graham, competitive down to the bone. Still warm, still amused, but with that little edge in his voice that made her grin against the side of the water bottle because he was so easy sometimes. Pretty and cocky and gone for her in ways he kept trying to disguise as confidence.

She reached over and covered his hand with hers, fingers slipping between his. “I’m kidding.”

“I know.”

“You’re my favourite.”

His mouth softened before he could stop it. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” Her eyes were getting heavy now, the night stretching into something blurred and honey-warm around the edges. “Even when you’re mean and anti-Ariana.”

“I’m pro-Ariana. I’m anti-head injury.”

She hummed again, sinking lower in the seat, her thumb moving lazily over his knuckles. The car rolled through the quiet streets around Briar, past porch lights and parked cars and the occasional burst of noise from other parties spilling out over lawns.

Garrett drove slower than usual, glancing over every so often like she might attempt to climb something inside the car if left unsupervised.

Maybe she loved that. Just a little.

Maybe that was the problem with him. The dangerous part wasn’t the grin, or the body, or the fact that half the girls at every party seemed to know where he was without looking directly at him.

It was this. His hand steady under hers. His hoodie in the backseat. His voice still teasing because he knew she would hate being fussed over too seriously, even while he kept watch like it mattered.

She turned her face toward him, smiling sleepily. “Garrett?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Next time she plays that song, I’m getting on the bench.”

He laughed under his breath, eyes on the road, thumb brushing once over the side of her hand.

“Mm,” he said. “We’ll see about that.”

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

[buckpunny1]

the dates that made us- dean di laurentis

Summary: You're close friends with none other than Dean Di Laurentis, oftentimes bordering on the edge of something more. What happens when he makes a mistake at a party and has to win you back?

Warnings: slight mature themes (sex, drinking, nudity)

You knew it would be a total mistake coming to this party.

The flashing lights did nothing to calm the headache you’d been staving off all day, and the frat house was packed full of drunk college kids bumping and grinding into each other. If it were any other day, you’d be down for a drink and some dancing, but tonight was just not your night.

Hannah had convinced you that it would somehow be a good idea to go to a frat house tonight. Garrett and his roommates would be there, including Dean, your crush of the past 6 months. She’d teased you gently about it because she knew you’d be unable to resist if you knew he was coming.

Your unlikely friendship with Dean began on complete accident. He’d bumped into you in the courtyard on campus while talking to Beau, causing your drink to spill all over your white tank top. He offered to buy you a new shirt before attempting to seduce you with his boyish charms, and much to his chagrin, you never fell for them despite his best efforts.

Or so he thought.

From there, you begin to hang out outside of classes. He’d invite you over to his shared living space with his friends, you’d watch a movie together or hang out, and you found the conversation to flow much easier than you’d expected it to. At some point, you noticed you caught butterflies in your stomach whenever he’d smile at you, and if you were brave enough to ponder his potential feelings, you’d convince yourself he felt the same. You never discussed inclusivity, but it almost felt like the two of you were slowly becoming a thing.

Somewhere along the way, Dean stopped seeing other girls. He’d seek you out at parties and social events, striking up conversations every time he found you and staying practically attached to your side. He started showing a softer side when it was just the two of you, and Beau swore he saw a change in his best friend after meeting you.

“Hey!” You shouted over the noise at Logan, who had slipped into the kitchen area for a beer. “Have you seen Dean anywhere? I kind of wanted to talk to him for a minute.”

Logan took a moment to think, scratching his head before responding, “Last I saw him, he was headed upstairs to use the bathroom. Maybe check the rooms to see if he got lost somewhere?”

You quickly thanked him before beginning your ascent upstairs. The lights were dimmer upstairs, with the noise fading slightly as you climbed the steps. Perfect location for couples to find some privacy or loners to sneak away from the noise and crowds.

Once you reached the top step, you noticed Garrett standing in front of a door to the far left. You headed toward him to say hello, quickly noticing the panic flooding his eyes and the way he tensed up immediately.

“Hey! Y/N! I totally wasn’t expecting to see you tonight.” His eyes flickered wildly back and forth between you and the closed door he seemed to be guarding. “W-what, uh, what are you doing here?”

Your suspicion at his sudden tenseness was growing by the second. “Hannah dragged me along and promised it would be fun. Plus, with all the studying for finals I needed a break. Have you seen Dean anywhere?”

“Dean? Dean Di Laurentis? My buddy Dean? No, no, haven’t seen him anywhere.” He rambled. “Matter of fact, have you checked downstairs?” Garrett gripped the doorknob tight in his hand behind him, looking like if he held on any tighter, he’d rip it from the door.

“Dude, why are you grabbing the door like that? You’re acting super fucking weird right now. Let me see what’s going on in there.” As you approached the door, you could hear a consistently loud thumping noise and what sounded to be girly, high-pitched moans.

“Wait! Don’t go in there!” Garrett desperately tried to keep the door shut, but to no avail. “Y/N, seriously, you don’t want to go in there.”

A busty blonde was perched atop a tall, muscular man, riding him into oblivion. You would’ve just turned around and forgotten what you’d seen until you noticed the head of hair and unmistakable voice. Wait, was that Dean? Your Dean? The guy who seemingly gave up casual hookups for you? Dean’s head popped up at the commotion before realizing it was you. The second his eyes met yours, all traces of drunken desire left his body. His eyes widened, hastily moving the blonde over and off him and scrambling to get off the bed.

“Hey, wait! I can explain! I swear!” Dean’s words fell on deaf ears- you were downstairs and out the door in seconds.

It had been a week since the incident, and you had yet to return any of Dean’s seemingly endless messages and calls.

baby please talk to me

I’m so sorry you had to see that

I thought it was fine to see other people since we aren’t a thing

are we a thing?

I miss you so much

please call me when you have a chance

You avoided him on campus like the plague. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker all attempted to talk to you and explain Dean’s side of things, but you turned and walked away any time they got close. Dean himself tried to wait for you every day after classes, but you went in the other direction.

You kept convincing yourself that you’d be fine, that you were just overreacting and you’d get over it soon. After all, Dean was right, you were just friends. No strings attached. You really didn’t have any reason to keep him from hooking up with girls other than the feeble hope that he’d fallen for you like you’d fallen for him.

After your self-declared ‘wallow in self-pity week’ you were ready to start fresh and get over Dean once and for all.

“You sure you don’t want to come out with me tonight? We can go to Malone’s together or catch that new movie you wanted to see.” Hannah was attempting to get you out of the house to start the weekend off right, but you felt more like staying in for the night.

“I’m sure, Han Han. Go have fun! Tell the guys I said hey for me.”

She shot you one last sympathetic look before walking out the door. You had all of your favorite snacks set up around you, you were freshly showered, and ready to binge shitty reality TV to your heart’s content before inevitably falling asleep. No more worrying about stupid Dean, his sexy body, his handsome face, his perfect personality….no, no, no! You were better than this!

You made it about 5 minutes into the show before the sound of a knock rang through the dorm. You ignored it, figuring they’d just go away, before the knocks became more persistent.

“Fine, fine! I’m coming!” You opened the door to find none other than Dean Di Laurentis himself gazing deep into your eyes, “Dean, what are you-”

“I need to get this off my chest before I lose the nerve,” He interrupted. “September 13th, the day I spilled your coffee on your tank top and accidentally embarrassed the hell out of you. The day I swore I’d make things right after seeing your gorgeous face and knowing I wanted to get to know you better.”

“September 22nd, the day you agreed to hang out with me and talk. That was the day I knew something was special between us, because every time you’d laugh or smile, I kept wanting to do it over and over just to make you happy.”

“October 31st,” he continued, “The day you came to the Halloween party wearing the sexiest cop costume I’d ever seen. Beau and I were prisoners and we happened to match each other. I had people telling me how good we looked together and desperately tried to ignore the way my heart raced every time I looked at you.”

“November 7th- the day you accidentally fell asleep on my shoulder for the first time, and I wished it could happen every night. November 11th- the night we went to see a movie together and I barely paid attention because I couldn’t stop staring at you.” He pops open his phone case and inside is one of the tickets from that day.

“November 18th, the day you went out with that business major and I couldn’t stop my stomach from lurching at the thought of you being with anyone other than me. November 24th- the day I went home for Thanksgiving and missed you so much it hurt. You were on my mind the whole time.”

He takes a deep breath, “…December 3rd- the day I realized I was completely, irreparably gone for you. My heart made the leap for me and decided to be tethered to you for the rest of my days.”

“You remember that?” You whispered.

“Baby, how could I ever forget anything about you?” He scoffed. “I know we’ve been dancing around our feelings for a while now, and I don’t deserve your forgiveness for leading you on like that. I realized my feelings and it completely freaked me out. I don’t do relationships. For you, though, I’d do anything you asked me to. I’m in love with everything about you and I’m so sorry I never told you. Go ahead and rip my heart out if you want to; it was always yours for the taking anyway.”

Your silence freaked Dean out. “Or I could just leave right now, actually. I didn’t mean to put all of this on you last minute and I just feel like-“

He was cut off by your sarcastic laughter. “You idiot! You slept with another girl because you love me?”

Dean winced, “Well, when you put it like that, it does sound kind of lame.”

“I can’t believe you’d do something like that.” Your sly grin broke any of Dean’s lasting tension and replaced it with pure, unadulterated joy.

“Okay, make fun of me all you want. I’m still gonna kiss you now.”

He leaned forward and your lips connected in a passionate kiss. One of his hands held your waist to keep you steady while the other snaked into the back of your neck, making you feel held and secure. The butterflies in your stomach had increased tenfold because of how happy you were.

Eventually the need for oxygen overruled your need to kiss each other and you broke away. Neither of you strayed far, however, sharing soft smiles and giggles while resting foreheads against each other.

“I guess you need to add another date to remember now.” You teased.

“What’s that, baby?”

“Today- the start of forever.”

A/N: eeeeek first fic kinda (very) nervous! I loved the off campus books and I'm so glad to see the love it's getting with the show. hope you enjoyed! likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated :)

[andy-15-07]

Sleepy

Pairing: John Logan  x Reader

Word Count: 1478

Request open!

Off campus masterlist

John was clingy when he was tired in a way that was almost unfair.

When he was fully awake, he acted like he had his life together. He was calm, easygoing, a little too charming for his own good, and just smug enough to be annoying when he wanted to be.

But when he was half asleep, all of that disappeared.

What was left was soft, warm, and deeply attached to you.

You discovered this on a Sunday morning when you tried to get out of bed before he woke up.

The room was still dim, the blankets tangled around your legs, and John was sprawled out beside you in one of those ridiculous positions that somehow looked comfortable only to him. His hair was a mess against the pillow, his face turned toward you, one arm draped over your waist like he had been holding on all night without letting go.

You moved carefully, trying not to wake him.

It almost worked.

You had one foot on the floor when a hand caught the back of your shirt.

You froze.

“Where are you going?” John mumbled.

His voice was rough with sleep, low and thick and far too cute for someone who had already decided to ruin your escape plan.

You looked back at him. “I was getting up.”

His eyes were barely open, just a sleepy sliver of blue looking at you like you had personally offended him. “No, you weren’t.”

You blinked. “Yes, I was.”

John groaned and tightened his grip on your shirt just enough to make his point. “It’s too early.”

“It’s nine.”

“That is early.”

You tried not to smile. “You have practice in an hour.”

He made a sleepy sound that was halfway between a sigh and a complaint. “I know.”

“Then you should get up.”

John opened his eyes a little more, looked at you for one long second, and then shook his head against the pillow. “Absolutely not.”

You laughed quietly. “John.”

He reached for you with the hand that had been holding your shirt and hooked it around your waist instead, tugging you back toward the bed with slow, sleepy determination.

You let out a surprised sound as your balance shifted. “John, hey,”

But he had already succeeded.

He pulled you back against him until your back hit his chest and his arm settled across your middle like that was where it belonged. Then, without even opening his eyes all the way, he pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder.

It was so gentle and so absentminded that it nearly made you melt on the spot.

“Five more minutes,” he mumbled.

You let out a laugh. “You always say that.”

“Because it always works.”

“It does not always work.”

John hummed, clearly unconcerned by the truth of that statement. His hand slid over your stomach once, then settled there, warm and steady. “It works on you.”

You turned your head just enough to look at him over your shoulder. “That is manipulation.”

He smiled against your shoulder without opening his eyes. “That is love.”

You gave him a scandalized look that he absolutely did not see. “You are impossible.”

John’s answer was a sleepy kiss to the back of your shoulder blade.

You made a helpless noise, half laugh and half sigh, and he took that as permission to cling harder. One of his legs tangled with yours under the blanket, and suddenly there was no chance of getting up unless you physically fought him for it.

Which, judging by the way he was holding onto you, would have been a losing battle.

“John,” you said, trying for stern and failing a little, “you need to let me get up.”

He buried his face for a second against the top of your shoulder. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

You twisted a little in his arms so you could look at him properly. “You are acting like a giant sleepy baby.”

That got his attention.

John blinked at you, still very much half asleep, then frowned with all the seriousness he could manage while looking like he had just woken from the deepest nap of his life.

“I am not a baby,” he said.

“You’re pouting.”

“I’m not pouting.”

“You are absolutely pouting.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re mean in the morning.”

You laughed and reached up to smooth his hair back from his forehead. “You’re the one refusing to let go of me.”

He caught your hand before you could pull away and pressed a kiss into your palm, eyes still heavy with sleep. “You’re warm.”

That made your expression soften immediately.

John noticed, because of course he did. Even half asleep, he was still annoyingly good at that.

He tightened his hold around your waist again and added in a much smaller voice, “And you were gone.”

You paused.

Gone.

It was such a simple thing to say, but it landed in your chest with quiet force.

You looked at him. “I was just getting up.”

“I know.”

His thumb moved absently against your side. “Still.”

That made the teasing in your expression ease away. “Still?”

John opened one eye just enough to meet yours, and there was something so soft there it made your throat go a little tight.

“Yeah,” he said. “Still.”

You let yourself relax back into him then, your hand settling over his where it rested at your waist. For a moment the room was quiet except for the sound of breathing and the faint noise of the city outside the window.

Then John sighed dramatically and pulled you closer with both arms this time, like he had finally decided subtlety was overrated.

“Okay,” he muttered into your hair. “Maybe five more minutes.”

You smiled into the pillow. “Only five?”

He was quiet for a second.

Then, very seriously, he said, “Maybe ten.”

You laughed. “That is not what you just said.”

“I changed my mind.”

“You’re negotiating in your sleep.”

“I’m very persuasive.”

You turned your head again and glanced at him. “You are very sleepy.”

“That too.”

He kissed your shoulder once more, this one lingering a little longer than the others, and you could feel the warmth of it right through your skin.

There was something impossible about the way John got like this when he was tired. He was still John, still quietly funny, still handsome in that unfair way that made you stare at him when you thought he wasn’t looking, but the edges were softer. Needier. More honest somehow.

Like sleep took away the part of him that tried so hard not to need anyone.

You reached back and let your fingers run lightly through his hair. “You know you’re being clingy, right?”

His answer was a sleepy grunt. “Mm-hm.”

“And you don’t care?”

Another kiss landed against your shoulder.

“Nope.”

That made you grin.

You shifted a little, just enough to face him, and found him looking at you with one eye open and the most stubborn expression you had ever seen on someone who was technically barely awake.

“What?” he asked.

You smiled. “Nothing.”

He clearly did not believe you. “That means something.”

“I just think it’s cute.”

John stared at you for a beat, then went entirely still.

That was your first warning.

The second was the way his mouth twitched.

The third was when he suddenly reached out, grabbed you around the waist, and hauled you fully back into bed with him in one smooth motion.

You let out a startled laugh as he rolled closer, one arm pinning you gently against him while his face buried itself in the crook of your neck.

“John!”

“Too late,” he mumbled.

You were laughing harder now, trying and failing to push at his shoulder. “You are ridiculous.”

He made a low sleepy sound that was suspiciously close to a hum of contentment. “Mm. You love me.”

Your laughter softened.

You looked down at him, at the way his eyes had drifted shut again, at the way his arm stayed tight around your waist as if he was afraid the world might steal you away if he loosened his grip.

He was so obviously half asleep, and yet somehow he still managed to sound completely certain.

You brushed your fingers over his cheek. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “I do.”

John’s eyes opened just enough to catch your face, and something warm and lazy spread across his expression.

Then, because he was apparently determined to ruin every attempt you made at being coherent, he pressed one final kiss to your shoulder and sighed like he had finally found exactly where he wanted to be.

“Good,” he murmured. “Now stay.”

And with that, John closed his eyes again, held you tighter, and went right back to sleep like keeping you in bed was the most natural thing in the world.

[rosierecs13]

𝜗𝜚 John Logan Recs

⭒ Masterpost ⭒ 05/23/2026

⭒ Books Masterlist ⭒ TV Shows Masterlist

⭒ Off Campus Masterlist

I think we're like fire and water | @mutantvampireearthquake

John Logan meet cute

Best Friends Sister | @bitchinbarzal

logan falls for garretts twin sister. garrett is not happy.

Find You | @/bitchinbarzal

you broke up but still call logan when you need help.

PUCK ME SIDEWAYS | @conradsmirrorball

John Logan and Dean Di Laurentis are special guest on Puck Me Sideways podcast after Y/n said in a lie detector machine that he was her crush.

The Deal With The Devil | @/conradsmirrorball

Y/n is tired of her friends keep assuming she has a crush on Garrett Graham, her best friend’s boyfriend. Her best solution? Make everyone believe she’s dating John Logan.

Idiots in love | @residentheartache

you are at party when you get cornered by a guy who can’t take a hint luckily Logan is there to save you

Death Wish | @g0ldendesiree

john logan may be in love with you, only problem? if your brother finds out then he’s a dead man walking.

Unclaimed Baggage | @/g0ldendesiree

what happens when you've got the right person in front of you, but your pasts haunt you to the point of holding back?

Mom and Dad | @/g0ldendesiree

what happens when the mom and dad of the group become, well, mom and dad?

NUMBER TWELVE | @edawgz

John logan was a firm believer that love at first sight was fake, then he saw you get checked into the boards at full strength. That was enough to convince him you were his soulmate.

My Brothers Best Friend | @saturx5

while watching your best friend and brother start to fall in love you try your hardest to hide that fact that you’re dating your brothers best friend

Jealousy | @writingsforfandoms-multi

reader gets jealous at a party

a rom com kind of love | @buckpunny1

You’re a hopeless romantic who loves romcoms. John Logan is determined, through a series of grand gestures, to prove to you that true love can be even better than the movies.

Forever | @/buckpunny1

Your exes have left you with a ton of trust issues. Lucky for you, John Logan is the most patient, perfect man for you.

Unparalleled | @/buckpunny1

Your relationship with John is freshly in bloom and you find yourself struggling with puck bunnies throwing themselves at him. Logan is right there, through it all, to prove your love is truly unparalleled.

Imagine | @sourcherryandsprinkles

Ruin the friendship | @alierecss

Falling for your brother’s best friend is already a terrible idea. Falling for John Logan, while Garrett Graham watches the two of you like a security threat, is even worse.

I said “I love you”. You say nothing back  | @/alierecss

the arrangement was simple: keep it casual, don’t catch feelings, don’t ask for more than what’s on the table. 338 days later, you’re starting to think simple was never really an option with john logan.

Night Skates, part 2 | @baby-alien11

as long as you want | @folkloure

the first time you stay with him until the morning.

good luck charm | @/folkloure

logan looks really fucking hot in a suit and it just makes you a little unhinged.

Late-Night Fuel | @andy-15-07

Bed on Fire | Masterlist | @natywrites

No one knew about John Logan’s crush on Hannah Wells except for Y/N L/N, because every time she was looking at him, he was looking at her.

unprofessional conduct | @puckingcuckbunny

The Briar hockey team treats the sports medicine clinic like their personal emergency room, Logan Tucker treats it like a second home. But the team can’t confirm nor deny your relationship… well until now

pretty little baby | @/puckingcuckbunny

It’s the end of finals week! that means that John Logan’s long time girlfriend can finally let loose at the first party post-exams, but letting loose, means a whole lot more for this man than he thought. OR you teasing Logan by calling him pretty alot.

clinical notes on loving him incorrectly | @/puckingcuckbunny

They were never casual enough to survive pretending they were

Mr. Dating Coach | @gwellsy

you pour your thoughts to logan saying you've never fallen in love and he says that you should open your heart to be able to find your person, yet when you do, he regrets giving you that advice

GRAHAM’S LITTLE SISTER | @darkkdamsel00

You return to Boston for spring break determined to keep your secret relationship with your brother’s best friend hidden, but one look from John Logan is enough to unravel every boundary you swore you’d keep.

happy thanksgiving, baby | @myfictionalcorner

logan never had a proper thanksgiving, and his girl is about to change that...

John Logan x Garrett!Reader, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4 | @0miffytiffy0

ICE HEART | @beeewee

A frustrated figure skater who transferred from Illinois has only one goal: keeping her athletic scholarship this season, and she’ll do anything to change the way people on campus see her — especially if it means improving her image for pairs skating. Even if it costs her a fake relationship with the same person who spread the nickname that turned her into “Ice Heart.”

Seven steps, one word | @fezrus

from an irritated "oh, fuck!" to a confident "fuck it", your entire relationship with John Logan can be mapped out in seven specific exclamations of his favorite four-letter word.

Twelve Hours | @briarafterdark

Three weeks ago at Hannah's Halloween party, John Logan almost kissed you in a hallway. You panicked. You laughed. You stepped back. Neither of you has talked about it since. Now you're trapped in the hockey house during the worst snowstorm of the year — just you, just him, just twelve hours and nowhere to go.

NO HOCKEY PLAYERS | @jacksabbotts

Check Engine Light // Masterlist | @wildflowerxwords

What starts as a simple repair turns into late-night diner runs, coffee deliveries to the garage, and a growing attachment neither of you expects. Logan likes that you talk too much when you're nervous. You like that Logan becomes softer when nobody’s watching. But as pressure mounts with Logan's hockey career and real life starts pulling at you from opposite directions, you begin to wonder if you’re just a temporary stop in Logan’s fast-moving future. And Logan realizes far too late that somewhere between oil stains and midnight drives, you became the closest thing he’s ever had to home.

look at yourself | @ivysprophecy

[writingsforfandoms-multi]

jealousy | john logan x reader

yall the chain he wears has me in a chokehold 

tags: established relationship, smut after the *** 

summary: reader gets jealous at a party

You didn’t consider yourself a jealous person

Well, that was before you started dating Logan and had to deal with the puck bunnies constantly around him at Malone’s and parties. 

You trusted him, of course you did, but that didn’t stop the ugly green monster from making its way out of you. 

You were at a party at Logan's house when you had gone to the bathroom. When you had come back, your spot next to him on the couch was already taken by Piper and her friends. You turn around and head to the kitchen instead, your jealousy rearing its head considering Logan's past with Piper

He sees you headed toward the kitchen and immediately goes to follow you, leaving Piper while she was midsentence. He wasn’t listening anyway. 

“babe you okay?” he asks as he sees you filling up a cup with a drink

“yeah fine just go back to piper” you snap and take a swing from the cup

“woah where’s that coming from?” he asks, his eyebrows shooting up 

you close your eyes and take a deep breath, “Nothing just forget about it” you say as you try to leave the kitchen but he puts his arm out blocking your way 

“Let's talk about it, okay?” he says, eyes searching yours. “Are you upset because of Piper? because I promise I was saving your seat but she ignored it and sat down anyway”

“it’s not just Piper, it’s all the girls who come up to you like you’re not even in a relationship and it sucks and doesn’t make me feel good knowing you’ve been with most of them and i’m not blaming you or anything but these girls come up to you and say shit like remember this or remember that and it’s rude to do tha-” you’re cut off by logan crashing his lips onto yours. 

“You’re jealous” he says against your lips, “but you have no reason to be, I don't even look at anyone else, you’re all I want” he says and he picks you up and places you on the counter, he’s standing between your legs with his arms on either side of you. 

“Im sorry, I'm being ridiculous” you mutter, hit with a wave of embarrassment 

“You have no reason to be sorry baby, I kinda like seeing you a little jealous” he grins 

You laugh and hit his chest, “shut up” and you grab his chain and pull him towards you, lips meeting his. 

you break your lips away from his, his lips chasing yours, “can we go upstairs?” you whisper in his ear, “please?” you ask and he groans 

“fuck, of course baby” 

He lifts you off the counter and on your feet, and is quick to drag you through the living room and up the stairs. you barely lock the door before he pushes you against it, one hand coming up to your cheek while the other goes to the nape of your neck.

***

“clothes. off” you say between kisses and he takes off his shirt, taking yours off too and leaving you in your bra and the skirt you were wearing. 

he leads you toward the bed, his lips leaving yours only to take off his jeans. 

“you know John, I think I’m still a little mad at you” you sigh as he leaves kisses on your neck, his hard on against your thigh 

“oh really? I think I know how to make it better” he trails kisses down your stomach to your inner thighs. he lifts your skirt up and moves your panties to the side before his mouth makes contact. 

you moan, one of your hands going to john’s hair while his other hand finds your free one, “fuck john” 

you lose count of how much time passes before you feel your orgasm approaching, and john knows it too since he goes harder and faster until you come in his mouth. 

he trails kisses back up to your mouth, “is all forgiven baby?” asks, his eyes looking into yours 

“hmmm maybe” you tease, before it turns into a squeal from him turning you over onto your front and lifting you up on your knees before he enters you from the back, 

“oh my god john” you moan as you lean your head back onto his shoulder as his hand comes up to your throat. 

he groans, “I know baby I know I got you” he says as his other hand goes to your breast, “you’re the only one for me, you know that?” 

you whimper as his hand leaves your throat and he pushes you down so you’re on your hands and knees, his hands spanking your ass before he holds on and uses it as leverage to pound into you 

“fuck” you moan as you get close to your second orgasm. 

“I know, me too” he groans and he flips you around to missionary to finish, wanting to see your face as you come. 

while you’re both coming down, he’s leaving kisses all over your face and down your neck, “I love you” he says softly as you settle against his chest 

you look up at him to find he’s already looking at you with nothing but love in his eyes, “I love you too” you smile and press your lips against his 

—

requests are open for the briar U boys !

[conradsmirrorball]

PUCK ME SIDEWAYS | John Logan x Podcaster! Reader

John Logan x  Podcaster! Fem Reader

Summary: John Logan and Dean Di Laurentis are special guest on Puck Me Sideways podcast after Y/n said in a lie detector machine that he was her crush. 

Warnings: sexual themes mentioned. Not proof read. Sorry for any mistakes, English isn't my main language. 

Y/n L/n always had a lot of things to say. All her life people would make fun of her because she never knew when to shut the fuck up. Maybe it was the fact that she knew a lot about several things  or the fact that she just enjoyed talking shit. But the girl could talk hours on end about things not knowing when to stop. She would ramble about shows that were annoying, songs she was passionate about, hot hockey players and the list goes on. Thankfully, Y/n had a friend that enjoyed talking shit as much as she did. Allie Hayes and Y/n L/n could drag people like they were drinking water. So when they were offered a mini section to do a podcast the two of the girls agreed without hesitation. Getting paid to talk shit on the internet for an hour? That was an amazing deal. 

And by the looks of it, everyone around them agreed that talking shit was good since they were having a godly amount of streams daily. At this point it wasn’t only people from Briar, other students from different universities were tuning in.

Y/n had decided to name the podcast “Puck Me Sideways” wanting to mention their favorite things for her, hockey and for Allie, fucking.

It took place in a private classroom that was part of the schools radio station. The girls wanted the “studio” to look as cozy as possible. So instead of a serious looking podcast they decided to decorate the room with vibrant colors and random knick knacks, but there was two things that the girls had agreed on was having bean bags as chairs and the logo on the back. A hockey puck on each side of a hockey stick which Allie joked that it looked like a penis.

Yes, this technically was an “academic” podcast. But since you guys would occasionally talk about the hockey team, it would cancel out. They were supposed to be limited to 150 swear words an episode.

Their podcast “Puck Me Sideways” was popping off, so the girls had come up with several ideas to not make the podcast repetitive or boring. Costumes, themes, breakdowns and most importantly, special guests. Due to the fact that people actually like them, there were a lot of campus celebrities that surprisingly wanted to be on the show. But there were also some that didn’t give a shit like some hockey boys.

Y/n and Allie had the amazing idea that when Hannah, their best friend, had settled down with Garrett Graham captain of the hockey team they were going to have a one way ticket to puck city. They weren’t wrong. Hannah caved in and asked the only hockey player she knew aside from her boyfriend, that was going to say yes, Dean Di Laurentis.

So in preparation and to slowly hint at the listeners that they had gotten Dean on board, the girls decided to spend half their budget on a shitty lie detector machine. When Y/n was attached to the lie detector machine and was asked if she had a crush on a hockey guy. She had rambled about how Logan was an amazing hockey player. When no one had asked her about him specifically. Hannah was the one that usually edited the podcast and she had to painfully go through almost 10 minutes of Y/n describing Logan’s hockey stick. What she didn’t know is that not only was Dean showing up to the podcast but he was bringing one of his best friends, John Logan.

There he was, award winning smile, John Logan, sitting across from her. His hair was messily styled as he threw his head back laughing at something Allie had said, his pearly whites showing through.

For the first time in Y/n’s life she was speechless. John Logan was hot, Y/n knew that. She had seen him around campus several times but having him so close by made Y/n malfunction with his beauty. He was sculpted by God and being near him made Y/n feel things she couldn’t say on air, maybe Allie could.

Y/n wasn’t going to survive an hour of talking, she glanced at the timer that was behind the cameras noticing the 00:10  on the screen. Ten minutes and she hadn’t said a single word. Ten minutes of her staring at Logan while he talked about last nights game with Harvard. The only thing viewers could possibly see was her staring lovingly at Logan and if she had to see a compilation on a gossip page of her staring at Logan she was going to lose it. 

“Damn, Y/n. Cat got your tongue? See people…Y/n likes talking shit about how much game she has. But as of right now she barely said hello to John over here. May I remind you guys that in the  last episode she said that Logan was her dream man and that she could take h…” Allie started pulling the microphone towards her as everyone focused her eyes on Y/n, including those damn puppy dog eyes. Y/n could feel her body tense up but she quickly analyzed where Allie was going, so she slammed her hands on the table interrupting her. 

“Mister Logan, Do you have a girlfriend? The people want to know” Y/n managed to get out. But after hearing herself in her headphones  say those words she felt herself cringe instantly regretting asking that.

Mister Logan? Who the hell did she think she was speaking to? Y/n moved on her bean bag chair noticing how it sucked her up. Y/n closed her eyes not wanting to face even more embarrassment while she heard Allie and Hannah behind the booth attempting to hold in their laughs. 

“My boy here? he is single, not ready to be tied down and he’s ready to fuck. So people on the air be ready he’s as good in the sheets as he is in hockey” Dean answer pulling the mic toward himself.

“How do you know he’s good in bed? Have you guys..?” Allie starts but gets cut off by Dean.

“I live with him, babe. I have ears and I can clearly hear the five star reviews he has.”

“They say hockey players fuck. I’ve heard your name countless times, supposedly you're a pussy pleaser in the community. Opinions on that.” Allie read from her notes trying to stir up the pot for the episode. Y/n stared at Allie agape not believing the words that were slipping out of her mouth. Logan laughed and pulled the mic towards him, quickly shifting on the bean bag crossing his leg on top of the other one resting his hands. 

“The original question was if I was single, not how much I got laid. Isn’t this podcast about hockey?” Logan asked hiding his smile.

“Look around and see if that answers your question, Logan” Allie says pointing at the logo.

“Okay, okay. Fine I’m glad you’ve done your research. Not a lot of people mention my supposed pussy pleaser ways in interviews, which makes this one intriguing. So thank you for putting that out there” Logan said sarcastically while attempting to hold in his laugh. 

“Supposedly?” Y/n let out looking at Logan slightly. She quickly gripped on her head regretting letting that slip noticing the cocky look on Logan’s face. 

“Well, I can’t confirm the rumors myself but if you want, we can test that theory and you can give a review to answer the rumors.” Logan replied, sending a wink towards Y/n’s direction. Allie gasped loudly hitting the table once again. 

“You're good at leaving them speechless. I’ve never have I seen Y/n this quiet. What is going on?”  Allie said in between laughs while looking all around the set.

“I don’t want to be cocky but if we get past this pod, I’ll promise you she’ll be really vocal and loud when I’m done with her. But that’s not important right now…How about you? Are you single Miss L/n? The viewers need to know” Y/n looked up, her face completely flushed as Logan grinned towards knowing the effect his words had on Y/n. 

“What are you  supposed to be?” Y/n said quickly trying to change the subject off her once again. Logan looks down at her outfit trying to hide her smile while Allie instantly notices her discomfort so she takes the lead clearing her throat. 

“What Y/n is trying to ask is,  what is your costume? For all of you guys that don’t know we are doing halloween in may so. We have been doing different themes for each episode to dress up and all that.  By  the looks of it you two clearly dressed up. But if that’s what you regularly wear that’s fine, we don’t judge here. So why don’t we go around the room and say what we are dressed up as. The theme this week is crush. It can be a fictional crush, celebrity crush, real crush, whatever crush you want. So I decided on dressing up as my lovely boyfriend , Ryan Gosling. My biggest crush in the whole world. Shout out to you, babe.  I did my makeup and styled myself this morning. Who’s next? ” Allie said as she fixed her white button down as Dean applauded obnoxiously loud making Y/n cringe once again. Logan reached towards the water in front of his arms slowly grazing Y/n’s leg making her tense up once again. 

“Y/n, why don’t you go? Who are you supposed to be, A freshman hockey player?” Dean asked in a joking tone while turning towards her. 

“First off all, Fuck you. Second of all I was told that our costume today was going to be to dress up as one of the players not crushes.” Y/n started while fixing her hockey Jersey. Allie chuckled, pulling out her phone to check  the email while Hannah shook her head. 

“Don’t worry, Y/n. For you it’s the same person that’s why we didn’t tell you anything. We didn’t want you to be a more blushing mess than you already are. So don’t be such a baby and tell the camera who are you dressed up as” Allie continued pointing at the camera while Y/n rolled her eyes.  

“I’m dressed up as number 22 on Briar’s hockey team” She muttered into the mic while glaring at Allie ignoring Logan’s eyes. 

“Wait isn’t that, Logan’s number?” Dean started making Y/n groan throwing her head back clearly embarrassed. 

“You know what I want to know, what the hell is Dean dressed up as. Who’s your crush” Y/n said quickly, making Dean look down at his outfit. 

“I’m dressed as a JLO, obviously. I know Logan being here has taken your common sense but we need you to be attentive. Now, Logan. Who did you pick?” Dean asked, turning to Logan. He smiled widely, turning to Y/n, not unlocking their eyes. 

“Well, I decided to dress up as my favorite podcaster. I thought my outfit was pretty obvious.” Logan said standing up, giving an awkward turn. Y/n could feel her face turn completely red noticing that his outfit mimicked one that was recently posted on her instagram story. 

“You see guys, this is how we make love in this podcast. In the next episode we will probably talk about all the puss Logan’s going to get” Allie said screaming into the mic. 

The administration decided that that was the episode they wanted to watch from beginning to end. Making you guys end the end the show with your last episode: “The show is coming to an end and so is Y/n”

[bitchinbarzal]

Find You | J Logan

summary: you broke up but still call logan when you need help.

—

Logan had spent the last hour pretending he was having fun.

Which, honestly, should’ve been easy.

The hockey house was packed wall to wall, music loud enough to shake the floors, girls everywhere, beer shoved into his hand every five seconds. Dean was already half gone, Garrett and Hannah were making disgustingly in-love eyes at each other across the kitchen, and some brunette had been touching Logan’s arm for the better part of twenty minutes.

Normally, this would’ve been enough.

More than enough.

But all Logan could think about was you.

Which was pathetic considering you’d broken up three months ago.

Mutual, technically.

A complete load of bullshit if you asked him.

He was halfway through tuning out another conversation when his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He almost ignored it.

Then he saw your name.

Everything else disappeared instantly.

You free? My car broke down…

The brunette was still talking when Logan grabbed his jacket.

“Wait, where are you going?” she asked.

“Out.”

“Are you coming back?”

Logan barely looked at her. “No.”

Then he was gone.

Twenty minutes later he found you sitting on the hood of your car in an empty grocery store parking lot, arms wrapped around yourself against the cold.

The second your headlights caught his truck pulling in, your shoulders dropped in relief.

And Christ, that nearly killed him.

Logan climbed out quickly. “How long’ve you been here?”

“Like an hour.”

His jaw tightened immediately. “You should’ve called sooner.”

You shrugged lightly, trying for casual. “Didn’t wanna bother you.”

That made him look at you sharply.

Because once upon a time you never would’ve said that.

Once upon a time you would’ve called him immediately.

He stepped toward the car instead. “What happened?”

“Started making a weird noise. Then the engine died.”

“Pop the hood.”

You obeyed automatically while Logan got to work, broad hands moving confidently under the dim parking lot lights.

And there it was.

The thing that always undid you.

John Logan with grease on his hands.

Focused expression. Sleeves pushed up. Muttering to himself while fixing things like it was second nature.

You used to tease him that he loved broken engines more than people.

But that wasn’t true.

Because Logan loved hard. Too hard.

That had been part of the problem.

“You’ve got a busted hose,” he said finally. “I can patch it enough to get it home, but I wanna look at it properly tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

He didn’t even glance up. “Yeah, I do.”

Your chest hurt a little at that.

Twenty minutes later you sat in the passenger seat of his truck while Logan drove your car slowly behind it toward your apartment, towing it carefully.

The silence wasn’t awkward.

Even after months apart, being with Logan still felt easy.

Familiar. Like muscle memory.

You watched his hands on the steering wheel for a second before speaking quietly.

“You were at a party?”

“Yeah.”

“You left?”

Logan snorted softly like the answer should’ve been obvious. “Your car broke down.”

Something warm and painful twisted in your chest.

Outside, rain tapped softly against the windshield.

You stared out the window. “You always come save me, John.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Logan went quiet.

His grip tightened slightly on the wheel.

Then finally, “I’ll always find you.”

Your breath caught.

He said it so simply.

Like no matter how many fights or breakups or months apart happened between you, Logan would still come the second you called.

You turned toward him slowly.

“John…”

His jaw flexed.

“I mean it.”

And there it was.

Everything the two of you had been avoiding since the breakup sitting right there between you.

Because Logan still looked at you the same way.

Still loved you the same way.

Maybe he always would.

At the next red light, he finally looked over.

His expression softened immediately when he saw yours.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

That almost broke you.

Because that was his voice.

His voice when he knew you were overwhelmed.

When he was trying to handle you gently.

You looked down quickly. “We broke up for a reason.”

“I know.”

“You can’t just keep showing up every time I need you.”

“Why not?”

“Because it makes it impossible to get over you.”

Logan went still.

Then, after a long moment, “Maybe I don’t want you to.”

Silence filled the truck.

You looked at him again and immediately wished you hadn’t because Logan was already staring at you.

“I tried,” he admitted roughly. “I tried giving you space. Tried moving on. Tried acting normal.” He laughed once without humor. “I can’t do it.”

Your eyes burned instantly.

The light turned green.

Neither of you moved for a second.

A horn blared behind you.

Logan blinked and started driving again.

“I know we screwed things up,” he said. “But if you call me at two in the morning five years from now because your car breaks down somewhere?”

He glanced over briefly.

“I’m still going to come get you.”

[grahamsangel44]

That’s My Girl ♡ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ౨ৎ ‧₊ .ᐟ

𝒢𝒶𝓇𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓉 𝒢𝓇𝒶𝒽𝒶𝓂⁴⁴ 𝓍 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

1K words

c/w ᝰ.ᐟ slight exhibitionism (during online class), teasing, oral (fem. receiving), fingering, praise, pet names (baby, good girl, princess, pretty, that’s my girl + no y/n), possessive!garrett, unprotected p in v, cockwarming, established relationship + swearing

"Fuck, baby..." His eyes work up your skin slowly, hands holding and kneading the globes of your ass. Garrett's big hands trace your soft skin before cupping your breasts, squeezing, and watching the way you melt into him.

Grabbing for his t-shirt, you tug it over his head. Your lips claim his as your fingers trace over the deep indentations of his abs, his cut v-lines disappearing below the band of his sweats. You curl your fingers under the elastic as your tongue slips in his mouth, swirling with his as you pull his pants off.

Garrett lifts you clean off the floor, mouths still tangled as he walks you backward toward the bed. Heat curls low in your stomach when your thighs brush his bare skin, his grip tightening instinctively around you.

He throws you down on the bed and crawls on with you—the devilish grin on his handsome face spreading wider. "I needed this," he hums against your lips.

Your gaze drifts down his perfect body, Garrett's hard dick pressed between the band of his boxer briefs and his hot skin. His tip’s slick with precum, making your mouth water. You reach out your finger, teasing his fat tip, tracing his slit as his mouth falls open. Lifting your finger, you bring it to your lips, running it along your tongue.

"Yeah, baby?" You whisper. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

You look over at your phone, trembling on the nightstand.

Alarm: British and World Literature

"No... No, baby. C'mon," Garrett groans breathily as he hovers over you, reading it as well.

"I'm sorry," you sigh, running your fingers through your hair, trying to look half-presentable as you reach for your laptop, resting on your lap, before pulling it open for class.

"You're jokin' me," he rasps as he looks at you over your laptop as the faces of your classmates fill the digital classroom. You shush him, and he scoffs, his face twisting in disgust.

"M'sorry," you whisper, keeping your voice soft.

"Nah, baby... Don't be," he hums as he rests his hand on your thigh, making your brows draw together in confusion with his sudden change of heart.

Your professor's face pops up on the screen, delivering her usual greeting.

Your breath snags when his hand tightens on your thigh. The brief surrender in his expression disappears almost immediately, replaced by something sharper.

Your heart starts to race a little faster, pussy throbbing as Garrett's large hand traces up your leg, squeezing your upper thigh. "Present," you speak, pushing out the word for attendance as his rough fingers draw along your soft skin.

You feel your cheeks warm up, your thighs press in slightly, but he stops you, spreading you wider, making you bite your lips to keep your whimper inside. Garrett chuckles just under his breath at the sound that slips past your lips, angling himself slightly to get a better look at your pretty face.

"Pretend I'm not even here," he taunts through a whisper as his fingers cup your pussy, pushing against your sex.

You try your best to focus, your pulse stutters as class drags on. Garrett slides two long fingers inside you, pressing his lips against your clit, making you have to lift your laptop ever so slightly so he won't knock it. You clear your throat, pretending to ignore him, but it's useless.

Garrett kisses your thigh as he starts to fuck his fingers into you.

He curls his long digits, making you fight back moan after moan from his hand alone.

You try to close your legs, but he catches you immediately, pinning them to the mattress again, holding you open to look down at your drooling hole, giving you a few teasing licks.

"Holy shit," you breathe as Garrett flicks his tongue against your clit before sucking down. He drops one arm, pushing his fingers inside your pussy as his mouth works on you as well.

Your head gets fuzzy, your body quaking hard enough to make the screen shake visibly. Fuck, Garrett. You grab the top of your laptop, slamming it shut, letting a deep moan pour from your lips as you cum hard off his tongue and his fingers, throwing your head into the pillows.

Garrett crawls up to your lips, pressing a gentle kiss on your mouth as you come down from your high, tasting yourself on his lips. "Mmm... I love you, baby," he hums, and you want to be mad, but you just can't.

Your brows pinch together in confusion as Garrett rolls flat on the mattress. He grabs the elastic band of his boxers, looking up at you with a smirk as he pulls them down his thighs, his heavy cock slapping against his skin.

"You got thirty minutes left, baby," he smiles smugly as he wraps his fist around his thick dick, waiting for you to climb on top.

"Garrett..." You chuckle breathlessly, still breathing heavily from your first release. "I don't know."

"Looks like you don’t know," he mumbles teasingly as he reaches for you, but you're already moving toward him, your actions telling a different story entirely. "Just be a good girl and sit on it," he hums.

You climb onto him backwards, Garrett's big hands slapping and kneading your ass, pulling you open slightly as he watches you trace his tip through your wetness.

"Goddamn, princess. C'mon... Shittt," he moans as you slide down on his dick, inch by inch, your pussy swallowing him whole 'til you're fully sat, nails clawing into his muscular thighs. "Atta girl. Fuck, you're wet, pretty," he praises as you let the oversized t-shirt Garrett gave you loose.

His hands slip beneath the fabric, settling on your ass while you grab your laptop again, trying desperately to keep a straight face with your boyfriend buried deep inside you.

He looks up from the pillow, seeing your face captured in the virtual classroom—watching as you bite your cheek and brows soften, to keep from cracking and letting the class know.

His big palm settles against your tailbone, chuckling under his breath as his thumb presses in your ass, making you gasp. Your composure slips and your eyes go wider, your pussy squeezes around his cock a little tighter, and he grits out a soft moan.

“Fuck,” he mumbles under his breath, head dropping back into the pillow. “That’s my girl.”

💻🍎taglist on my pinned post 🏒 @rafesthroatbaby @liss2709-blog @sushi-girl04 @judesgfirl @cdiaz18 @fiercetigerpoison @obsessedwrafe @vanillaiceyhot @maialopez23 @rexit-mo @georgiastars13 @princessaaa13 @dragonvalyria @livlovesfastcars @thebitchylibra @corvusmorte @st8rkey @imperfectlyperfect78 @winchestersbgirl @glitterandviolence13

[buckpunny1]

Can you do a dean imagine of yn trying to hide yn’s sick but he finds out? 🙏🙏🙏

in sickness and in health | dean di laurentis

Summary: You manage to get sick right before one of Briar U's biggest hockey games of the season. You try to hide it, but Dean always notices. Good thing he loves taking care of his best girl.

Warnings: some swearing, but besides that, just some tooth rotting fluff. wc 1.7k

The little annoying tickle at the back of your throat should’ve been your first red flag. It was the start of spring, when your allergies went crazy, so you had just chalked up the sudden cough to that. How foolish you were to believe the universe would ever actually be on your side.

The day after that, your nose started to run like a faucet. The cough had also grown more persistent, coming from deep in your chest and making both your throat and head hurt like a bitch.

You sat around the picnic table talking to all your friends, sitting outside and enjoying the nice weather after a particularly brutal winter. Your boyfriend, Dean, sat to your left with his arm around your shoulder, occasionally sneaking a kiss to your forehead or cheek during lulls in conversation. You’d been together for the last 5 months, and after he told you he loved you on the second date, you reciprocated and from there have been practically attached to the hip.

Beau cracked a joke that sent the entire group into fits of laughter, which was a big mistake on your part. Your laughter quickly gave way to a hacking cough, gasping for air as you reached desperately for your water bottle.

“Woah, baby, you alright there?” Dean questioned, a concerned frown etched on his face. His hand started rubbing small circles on your back, helping quell the sudden fit.

“Yeah, totally! Just choking on nothing over here, apparently.” You quipped, desperately trying to suppress the next round of coughs clawing its way up your throat.

See, that was the thing, you didn’t just not want to get sick, you couldn’t get sick. Briar U’s hockey team had a particularly hard matchup this Friday against Harvard, one of their biggest rivals. The guys had been training extra all week, taking more time practicing on the ice than usual and adding extra reps to their workouts.

If Dean found out you were sick, he’d drop everything and come to your dorm to nurse you back to health. With such a big game on the horizon, time spent caring for you was simply time he couldn’t afford to miss.

Eventually, everyone started to split off for their afternoon classes. You and Dean lingered for a bit longer before you stood up to head to your own class.

“Excuse me,” Dean scoffed. “Where do you think you’re going?”

He stood, grabbing your waist and giving you his signature smirk. “I know my favorite girl wasn’t planning on leaving without giving her guy a kiss, now, was she?”

You smiled, staring into his adoring eyes for a second longer before bringing your lips together in a brief kiss. Dean tried to sneak his tongue into your mouth, but your incredibly stuffed nose made oxygen even more of a necessity, so you broke it off sooner than you would’ve liked to. He gave you a questioning look before squeezing your waist quickly and pulling away.

“I love you, baby.” He smiled. “Have a good afternoon. See you after classes?”

“Love you too, handsome. I’ll see you later.”

You managed to make it to the other side of the courtyard before the overwhelming urge to cough took over again, leaving you gasping for air and chugging sips of water. Your head was throbbing; a kind of ache that stemmed from the base of your skull and spread everywhere it could reach.

Hey, honey. You shot Dean a series of quick texts. Forgot that I have plans with Hannah tonight- can’t hang later :(

aw, bummer, baby. have fun and be safe ok? can’t believe I have to go all night without seeing your gorgeous face…actually dying inside right now

You felt a knot in your stomach that tightened as you lied to him, but you knew that it would all work out in the end. You’d deal with whatever illness had decided to make its home within you, and Dean could focus on keeping his strength up for the game. It was a win win…at least for one of you.

You thought sleeping it off would be the proper solution, but you actually couldn’t have been more wrong.

You felt like absolute death.

The throbbing in your head had increased to what felt like someone beating you over the head with a baseball bat, and you could barely recognize your own voice. You’d coughed yourself hoarse and every swallow felt like pins and needles being shoved down your throat.

A mountain of tissues sat beside your bed. How the hell was it possible for your nose to be both so stuffed up it hurts and running like a hose? You were simultaneously hot and cold, which meant a ton of shivering and shaking.

You’d made the very easy decision to take the day off classes to rest and try to regain your strength. You texted Hannah to give her an update and asked her to take any important notes for you in the classes you shared. After hitting send, you put your phone on do not disturb mode, pulling the blanket higher over yourself. You were on the precipice of dreamland, your delirious thoughts making way for-

Tap, tap, tap

At first, you thought you misheard the knocks on your door. When they grew louder and more insistent, you pulled yourself out of bed with a groan, dragging yourself through the dorm to the door and looking through the peephole.

Shit! It was Dean!

“One second!” You yelled, sprinting back to your room to change. You ran to your closet, chucking off the drool-marked sweatshirt you were wearing and replacing it with a nicer top. Your sweats went next, replaced by a pair of leggings. You checked yourself in the mirror, willing your tired, glazed eyes to seem more awake and fixing your hair, before heading back toward the door.

You could hear Dean humming the Jeopardy theme from the other side, which made you smile softly before finally opening the door and meeting your boyfriend face to face.

“Hey, baby.” His smile would’ve sent your heart into overdrive if your chest wasn’t already tight from congestion. His smile slipped momentarily, “You alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” your voice cracked. You cleared your throat before continuing. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be? What’s going on?”

He stepped fully into your apartment, pausing a beat before turning around. “Okay, babe, cut the shit. You were acting weird at lunch yesterday. You lied to me and said you were hanging out with Hannah, but funny enough, I saw her at Malone’s with Garrett last night while I was out with Beau and she had no idea where you were.” Another pause, “…and Dexter may have let it slip to me that he saw you hacking your lungs out after one of your classes yesterday. He asked me if you were sick.”

You slouched slightly, your resolve crumbling, and that was all it took.

“Oh, baby.” He murmured, reaching out to hold you in his arms. One hand cradled your head and the other wrapped around your back, cocooning you in his warmth and his scent that calmed you as much as any medicine could. “You really don’t feel well, do you?”

You sniffled, shaking your head softly against his chest. His hand holding your head snaked down to your butt, lifting you in his arms and heading toward your bedroom. He set you down softly against the sheets, wrapping you in your soft blanket before leaning back again to look at you.

“Now I know you can’t fully feel comfortable in that outfit.” His eyes trailed downward, finding your discarded clothes from earlier in a heap by the closet. “Did you change just for me? You know you didn’t have to do that. I love you in all forms, even when you’re sick. Plus, you could wear a garbage bag, and I’d still find you sexy.”

Dean reached up, taking his shirt off, before taking yours off too and replacing it with his instead, along with replacing your leggings with the discarded sweatpants from the floor.

“See, all better.” He smirked. “Let Doctor Dean take care of everything.”

“Dean, stop,” You groaned, attempting to push his hands off you. “I’m serious! I don’t want to get you sick right before the matchup this weekend. And speaking of that, shouldn’t you be at the rink right now? There’s plenty more you could be doing than taking care of me and my stupid cold.”

“See, that’s how I know you’re sick and delirious.” Dean slid both fingers into your hair, massaging gently. “You think there’s any other place I’d rather be that you’re not, baby? You’re dead wrong. Hockey is important, but you know what’s even more important?”

“What?” Your eyes fluttered shut from the sensation of his fingers in your hair.

“You, my sweet girl. You top everything and everyone else. You’re sick, I’m there. You’re in jail, I’m right there to bail you out. You move across the world and adopt an alpaca while living in the woods? I’m building our hut and naming him Bob. There is nowhere I could go and not want you right by my side.”

His words covered you in a blanket of affection, but in your sick haze, you clung tightly to one specific detail. “You- you’d name our alpaca Bob?”

Dean laughed, “Yes, baby, I’d name him Bob. The point is, though, if you’re sick or hurting, I need you to tell me, okay? There’s nothing I’d rather do right now than hold you in my arms and feed you soup and medicine until you’re feeling better. In sickness and in health, forever. Got it?”

“Got it.” You sniffled, the added exhaustion of being sick catching up to you and causing your eyelids to drop slightly.

“Good, now scooch and let me hold my girl before I absolutely combust.” He flopped backwards onto your bed, already reaching and pulling you toward him.

You settled yourself on top of him before whispering, “Dean, we were apart for 12 hours tops.” You finally allowed yourself to relax and felt your chest loosening already. You were on the edge of long-awaited sleep when you heard him utter words that made your heart race once again.

“Yeah, and that’s 12 hours of my life absolutely fucking wasted.”

a/n: hope you enjoyed! who wouldn't want daddy dean caring for them when they're sick?? ;) as always, likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. requests are open for off campus!

[fleurcient]

★ THE TEACHING, DEAN DI LAURENTIS.

Sipnosis: Where the school playboy and your brother's best friend asks you for advice on how to be good "boyfriend material" to win over your best friend Allie. Part 1/?

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x reader. (Minor John Tucker x reader so small you miss it lol)

word count: 6.1k MDNI, hockeyplayerreader!, kinda friends to lovers but reader can’t stand dean, brother’s best friend, loss of v card, jealousy (both sides), fluff, teasing, needy dean, dean doesn’t know how to handle his feelings, angst (just a bit), pet names, kinda romcom, kissing for “practice”, fingering, oral (fem rec), pussydrunk dean, happy ending??

Part Two Here.

Part One.

You hated parties.

You had always hated them. Too many sweaty people dancing around you, an obnoxious playlist that should be banned from the country entirely, and not to mention, having to make sure two guys twice your size didn't die from their own drunkenness was undoubtedly a valid reason to hate fraternity parties.

But Beau had insisted you come. Something about "moral support" while he tried to pull Dean out of a psychotic hole filled with alcohol, excesses, and women—too many women. Did you already mention the women? Because seriously, it should be illegal to hook up with that many girls in such a short amount of time.

Your misfortune began thanks to your best friend.

But that was something you weren't supposed to know. Beau, however, had too loose of a tongue when drunk and had revealed all the juicy details about the "definitely not casual" relationship between his best friend, Dean Di Laurentis, and your best friend, Allie Hayes.

You didn't know the exact details of their fallout, but it was clear that even if it had been "nothing serious," it had really hit Dean hard, sending him back to the field of fuckboys harder than before.

"How many has he taken upstairs?" she whispered to Beau; the poor guy could barely breathe. He had been his friend’s personal babysitter the entire party.

It hadn't done much good. Dean was as slippery as a worm.

"Please, kill me," Beau replied, bringing both hands to his face with a sound of dramatic suffering. "Seriously, buggie. How is it humanly possible? I think he’s at five, and the party barely started."

You laughed at that. It was an exaggeration to say it was five girls; you weren't keeping count, but you knew that as much as they called him a "sex machine," you didn't believe it was humanly possible for Dean Di Laurentis to have that much stamina...

Right?

"I'm more worried about him ending up with chlamydia by the end of the night," you teased, and by the sound your brother made, you knew he believed it was a real possibility.

“Not even God can help him. He’s a lost cause; I give up,” Beau exclaimed, throwing his hands up in a white flag of surrender. “I don’t know what to do to snap him out of this miserable episode he’s in.”

“He brought it on himself.” You shrugged, earning a dirty look from your brother. “What? It’s true, Bee. Beating the crap out of Hunter in a crowded bar? Not to mention he spilled his dirty secret with Allie and caused a fight between my friends.”

“Even so… it’s been a month since that,” Beau muttered, his puppy-dog eyes fixed on the stairs, as if he were trying to summon Dean to come down. “Why can’t he just get over it?”

“Allie doesn’t want anything to do with him.”

“It was both of their faults and their disastrous relationship. Just look at the bags under my eyes. Have you ever seen me with bags under my eyes? I’ve been completely wrecked! Meanwhile, they’re just fine, sleeping with half the planet to see who has the bigger ego.”

Beau sighed, the sound ragged and exhausted, and slumped onto the couch next to you, burying his face in his hands. "I just miss my friend, okay? The guy who actually had a brain, not this... this wrecking ball of self-destruction."

You softened, just a little, despite your annoyance. You reached over and patted his shoulder, feeling the tension in his muscles. "I know, Bee. But you can't babysit his heart forever, especially when he’s the one holding the hammer, trying to shatter it into a million pieces."

"It's just exhausting," he whispered into his palms. "Watching them both pretend they aren't dying inside... it’s like a slow-motion car crash that never actually ends."

"Maybe he doesn't want to get over it," you said, your voice barely audible over the noise of the room. "Maybe as long as he’s hurting, he still feels like he’s connected to her. It’s a sick way to keep someone close, but for guys like Dean? It’s probably the only way he knows how to grieve."

Beau looked up, his eyes bloodshot and cynical. "That's deep, sis. Too deep for a fraternity basement."

"Whatever," you muttered, pulling your legs up onto the cushion. "I just want this night to be over. If he brings down another girl, I’m leaving, Beau. I’m not kidding. I’ll walk home if I have to."

Before Beau could answer, a loud crash echoed from the floor above, followed by a string of curses that could only belong to one person. The music suddenly cut out, leaving the room in a jarring, suffocating silence.

Everyone in the living room froze, looking up toward the ceiling.

"Oh, great," you whispered, a cold knot forming in your stomach. "What did he break now?"

The music cut out completely, turning the room into a stifling, heavy space where you could hear the thud of boots hitting the wooden stairs before you even saw him.

Dean descended like a hurricane, his face flushed—not from alcohol, but from pure, unadulterated rage. He wasn’t alone; the girl from earlier was trailing behind him, her face tear-streaked and her voice shrill with indignation.

"You are an absolute ass, Dean! Do you hear me? An absolute, pathetic ass!" she screamed, pointing an accusatory finger at his back.

Dean didn't even turn around. He just kept walking, his jaw so tight you could see the muscle pulsing in his cheek. He looked like he was vibrating with enough suppressed violence to shatter the floorboards.

"You’re a coward!" the girl yelled, her voice cracking. "You spend the whole night pretending you’re the king of the world, but you’re just a sad, lonely boy who doesn't know how to treat a human being!"

The room was deathly quiet. A few people exchanged nervous glances, but no one dared to intervene. Beau stood up, his face pale, sensing that things had moved from "drunken mess" to "public disaster."

Dean finally stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He spun around so fast it was like a whip-crack. The girl flinched, stepping back, but Dean didn't look at her—his gaze cut straight through the crowd and landed on you.

Beau stepped forward, trying to interject, "Dean, man, what happen—"

He whipped his head toward his best friend, his entire demeanor shifting from aggressive to ice-cold exhaustion.

"Beau. We're done," Dean spat, his voice raspy. He turned on his heel, shoving past the girl who was still crying, and headed for the front door without a second look back. "I'm sick of this place. I'm sick of the air, the noise, and everyone in it. Let's go. Now."

Beau looked at you, a mix of relief and panic in his eyes, before scrambling to follow. "Yeah. Yeah, okay, man. We’re going."

The drive home was an exercise in suffocating silence. Beau kept his eyes glued to the road, his knuckles white against the steering wheel, while Dean slumped in the passenger seat, staring out the window at the blurred streetlights. You sat in the back, nursing a headache that had nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the tension radiating from the front seat.

It felt like you were trapped in a car with a ticking time bomb.

After twenty minutes of nothing but the low hum of the engine, Beau suddenly veered off the main road and pulled into the bright, buzzing parking lot of a 24-hour convenience store. He killed the engine and let out a long, shuddering breath.

"I need air. And something to kill this hangover before it even starts," Beau muttered, mostly to himself. He glanced back at you through the rearview mirror, his expression unreadable. "Stay here. Don't let him jump out and start a fight with a gas pump."

He slammed the door shut, leaving you alone with Dean.

The silence was even heavier now that Beau was gone. Dean hadn't moved; he was still staring out at the parking lot, his shoulders hunched. The arrogance was gone, replaced by a sort of hollow stillness that was almost more unsettling.

You shifted in your seat, the leather creaking in the quiet car. You felt like you should say something, but the memory of his eyes on yours earlier—that desperate, dangerous look—kept your mouth shut.

Dean finally moved. He turned his head slowly, and for the first time, he didn't look angry. He looked exhausted. He rested his forehead against the cool glass of the window, his voice barely a whisper.

"You're not going to say anything else?" he asked, not looking at you. “I know you think I’m a fucking mess. Just… say it.”

You shifted slightly, the leather seat creaking in the small, confined space. The sharp, judgmental words you had ready to fire were still there, but looking at his reflection in the window—seeing how his shoulders slumped under the weight of everything—you felt the edge of your anger dull.

You leaned forward, your voice dropping to a low, quiet tone that carried none of the venom from earlier.

"I don't know why you're doing this, Dean," you said softly. "I don't know if you're trying to prove something to yourself, or to the rest of the world, or if you're just trying to burn everything down because it feels easier than dealing with the wreckage."

You saw his jaw tighten, his muscles corded as he stared out at the neon hum of the store, but he didn't interrupt.

"But you need to hear this," you continued, your voice steady. "All the girls, the parties, the fights... none of that is going to fix it. None of it is going to make Allie change her mind or agree to talk to you. Not after what happened. Not after everything you’ve broken."

The silence that followed wasn't suffocating anymore; it was heavy with the truth. Dean’s head remained pressed against the cool glass, his eyes closed. For a long moment, the only sound was the faint, rhythmic ticking of the cooling engine.

"You think I don't know that?" he finally muttered, his voice so fragile it barely sounded like him at all. He didn't turn around, but his hand gripped the armrest until his knuckles turned pale. "You think I'm doing this because I think it's going to win her back?"

He let out a short, hollow laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "I know exactly what I’m doing, and I know exactly who I’m not getting back. That’s the point, isn't it?"

Before you could ask him what he meant, the car door opened. A gust of cold night air flooded the cabin as Beau climbed back in, balancing a bag of snacks and a couple of electrolyte drinks. He looked between you and Dean, instantly sensing that the atmosphere had shifted, though he couldn't quite put his finger on why.

He dropped the bag in the center console and started the car, the engine roaring back to life and effectively ending the moment.

The ride to Dean’s place was agonizingly brief. Once you dropped him off—watching him trudge toward his front door like a man walking to the gallows—the silence in the car felt heavy with the weight of the secrets you now shared.

As soon as Beau pulled into your apartment complex and the engine cut out, he didn't move. He kept his hands gripping the steering wheel, staring straight ahead at the brick wall of the building.

"He's going to destroy himself, buggie" Beau said, his voice cracking. "I can’t do it alone anymore. I’m out of ideas, and I’m out of patience. You’re the only person he hasn't completely managed to alienate yet, mostly because he’s too busy trying to prove he’s 'above' your opinion."

You sighed, rubbing your temples. "Beau, we barely tolerate each other. We spend ninety percent of our time trading insults. What exactly do you expect me to do? Stage an intervention?"

Beau turned to you, his eyes pleading. The "funny guy" mask was completely gone, replaced by a raw, desperate exhaustion. "Help me get him back to who he was. Not the 'sex machine' act, not the angry drunk. The real Dean."

You scoffed, looking away. "And how am I supposed to do that? Magic?"

"Help him win her back," Beau whispered.

The air in the car seemed to vanish. You stared at him, stunned. "Are you insane? You know what happened. Allie hasn't even looked at his texts in weeks. She's finally starting to feel like herself again. Why would you want to drag her back into that hurricane?"

"Because he’s dying!" Beau leaned over, his voice urgent. "He’s doing all of this because he thinks he blew it permanently. If you could just… bridge the gap. Be the voice of reason. Tell her he’s actually falling apart, that he’s not just a jerk who moved on. If she hears it from you—someone who isn't biased toward him—maybe she’ll listen."

You looked out the window, your mind racing. The thought of being the middleman between Dean and your best friend sounded like a recipe for disaster. It was a betrayal of Allie’s peace of mind, but looking at Beau’s desperate face, you realized he was right about one thing: Dean was spiraling toward a point of no return.

"You're asking me to play with fire, Bee," you said, your voice low.

"I'm asking you to save my best friend," he corrected.

You sat back, the weight of the request sinking in. You didn't like Dean, but you hated seeing the wreckage he was leaving behind even more.

"I'll talk to him," you finally conceded, though the words tasted like ash. "But if I do this, you have to promise me something: if he starts acting like his usual arrogant self, I’m done. And if Allie tells me to back off, I’m pulling the plug immediately. No exceptions."

Beau let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for hours, his shoulders finally dropping. "Deal. Just… thank you. You have no idea what this means."

You nodded, though you already felt the headache of the upcoming week throbbing behind your eyes. You were about to enter the lion's den, and you weren't even sure if you were there to tame the lion or get bitten.

The next morning, the rink was the only place that made sense. The cold, sterile air of the arena was a welcome relief compared to the suffocating tension of the night before.

You were on the ice long before the rest of the team arrived, pushing yourself through grueling drills. The rhythmic thwack-thwack of your stick against the puck and the sharp bite of your blades carving into the ice were the only things that kept your mind from spiraling.

You were mid-stride, executing a sharp pivot around a cone, when you saw him.

Dean was already on the ice, far on the other side of the rink, skating with a terrifying, reckless speed. He wasn't doing drills; he was just flying, his edges screaming against the ice as he took corners at angles that should have sent him crashing into the boards. He looked like he was trying to skate away from his own shadow.

You watched for a second too long, and your stride faltered. A stray puck caught the edge of your blade, and you stumbled, though you quickly regained your balance.

Dean had seen the stumble. He didn't mock you—not today. Instead, he slowed down, his heavy, practiced breaths visible in the frigid air as he glided toward you. He looked different in his gear; the arrogance was replaced by a grim, focused intensity that made him look younger, less like a 'fuckboy' and more like the Dean he used to be before everything fell apart.

He stopped a few feet away, leaning heavily on his stick, his chest heaving. He didn't have his helmet on, and his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat.

"You're out here early," he noted, his voice sounding raspy, lacking its usual sarcastic bite. He wasn't looking at you so much as he was looking past you, toward the empty stands. "Beau usually drags his feet until the last possible second."

"Beau's sleeping off a hangover," you replied, your own voice sharp with exertion. You didn't soften your tone. You weren't here to coddle him. "And I don't need a babysitter to get my ice time in."

Dean let out a dry, humorless huff. "Right. The 'independent' one. I forgot."

He went to skate away, but you didn't let him. You slammed your stick against the ice, the sound echoing through the empty arena like a gunshot.

"Wait."

He stopped, his back to you. You saw his shoulders tense, a clear warning sign.

"I talked to Beau," you said, your voice cutting through the silence of the rink. "I know how bad it’s getting, Dean. I saw you last night. You're running on fumes, and you're going to get yourself benched or worse if you keep skating like a maniac."

He turned around slowly, his eyes dark and unreadable. The sweat dripped down his face, and for a moment, he looked genuinely miserable. "Is that what Beau sent you for? To give me a lecture on my form? I don't need your pity, and I definitely don't need your analysis, Maxwell.”

"It's not pity," you snapped, stepping closer, your blades biting into the ice. "It's a warning. If you want a way out of this—if you want a chance to actually fix the mess you made with Allie—you need to stop acting like a reckless idiot. Because right now, you're just making it impossible for anyone to even want to be near you, let alone talk to you."

Dean went rigid. The mention of her name hit him like a physical blow. He gripped his stick so hard his gloves creaked.

"You think you can fix this?" he asked, his voice low, vibrating with a dangerous mix of hope and fury. "You think you can just march in there and make her forget everything?"

"I don't think anything," you said, meeting his gaze head-on. "But I'm the only one she's still willing to answer the phone for. That gives me leverage. But I'm not using it unless you start acting like an adult."

Dean looked at you, searching your face for any sign of a lie. He was balanced on a razor's edge—one wrong word and he would either explode or break down right there on the ice.

Dean tightened his grip on his stick, his knuckles white against the black tape. He let out a long, ragged exhale that turned into a cloud of mist in the biting cold of the arena. When he finally looked up, the usual defensive sneer was absent, replaced by a weary, hollow kind of clarity.

"Look," he started, his voice rougher than before. "I appreciate it. Truly. I know Beau is about two seconds away from a nervous breakdown because of me, and I know you... well, you hate my guts on a good day. The fact that you're even standing here is more than I deserve."

He looked down at the ice, tracing a deep groove his blade had made. "But I’m not dragging you into this, Maxwell. I saw what happened with Hannah—I know how I blew that up, how I turned her against Allie just because I couldn't keep my mouth shut. I’m not going to be the reason you and Allie stop talking. She’s your best friend. She’s the only one who’s actually kept her head on straight through all this. If she finds out you’re playing messenger for me? She’ll shut you out, too. And you don't deserve that."

He looked back up at you, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that felt heavy. "You’re a good skater. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Don't waste it on a sinking ship. I’m a lost cause, and I’ve made my peace with that. Just... tell Beau to go get some sleep. And stay out of it. It’s better for everyone if you just let me be the villain."

He pushed off the ice then, his movements fluid and purposeful, turning his back on you to skate a wide circle around the rink. He was dismissing you, but not out of arrogance—he was doing it to protect you, or maybe just to keep from cracking entirely.

You stood there for a moment, the silence of the rink rushing back in. He had effectively shut the door on the plan before you could even start, but his refusal didn't feel like a victory. It felt like watching someone lock themselves in a burning room. And that was sad. Even for him.

You didn't hesitate. You dug your edges into the ice, accelerating with a powerful stride that caught up to him before he could complete his lap.

"Don't you dare," you hissed, your voice echoing off the glass partition. "Don't you dare act like you're doing me a favor by pushing me away. I’m not a kid, and I don’t need you to decide what’s best for my friendship with Allie."

Dean glared at you, his chest heaving, his face hardening back into a mask of defiance. "I’m telling you, it’s a bad idea. I am toxic, okay? Everyone knows it. I ruined everything, I ruined it with her—"

"You ruined things because you're an idiot who reacts instead of thinking!" you snapped. "Yes, what happened with Hunter in the bar was a disaster. But do you think Allie doesn't know that? She isn't just 'mad' at you, Dean. She’s confused. She’s hurt. She’s processing the fact that her boyfriend—or whatever you were—imploded in the most public way possible."

He went still. The mention of the situation with Hunter—the betrayal, the bar fight, the brief fallout between Allie and Hannah—seemed to drain the remaining color from his face.

"She’s not just done with you," you continued, your voice softening just a fraction, though you maintained your ground. "She’s grieving. And you're out there hooking up with half the campus, acting like you don't give a damn, which just confirms every single one of her worst fears about you. Of course she doesn't want to talk to you! You're making it impossible for her to see anything but the version of you that doesn't care."

Dean looked away, his jaw tight. "So, what? You think she wants me to act like a monk? Because that’s not going to happen."

"I think she wants to see that you’re a human being who actually felt something!" you countered. "I’m helping you, Dean. Whether you want it or not. I know you, I know Beau, and I know Allie. You’re both playing this stupid game of 'who can hurt the other more,' and I’m the only one standing on the sidelines with a clear view of the wreckage."

You took a step closer, invading his space intentionally. "I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this because I’m tired of watching my brother lose his mind trying to babysit you, and I’m tired of seeing my best friend acting like she didn't lose a huge part of her spirit. So, you can either cooperate and listen to what I tell you to do, or you can keep acting like a clown and stay in this miserable cycle. Your choice."

Dean stared at you for a long, agonizing minute. His eyes searched yours, looking for a sign of hesitation, but he found none. Finally, he let out a sharp, jagged laugh—not of amusement, but of pure, exhausted resignation.

"You're terrifying, you know that?" he muttered, leaning on his stick. "Fine. You want to save me? You want to be the bridge? Go ahead. But don't come crying to me when she slams that door in your face."

"I’m not crying, Dean," you retorted, though your heart hammered against your ribs like a caged bird.

You knew the risks—if Allie felt even a whiff of manipulation, she would cut you off without a second thought. But the look in Dean’s eyes, that fleeting glimpse of vulnerability beneath the layers of bravado, was enough to keep you anchored.

"And for the record, I’m not doing this because I like you, Di Laurentis. I’m doing this because I’m sick of the collateral damage."

You pushed off the ice, your blades carving a deep, clean arc into the surface. "We need to talk properly. Not in a locker room, and definitely not at some frat house where you’re liable to start a brawl with the furniture or worse, fucking some of your ‘bunnies’. Be at the city park tonight at seven. The one by the old fountain—it’s quiet, and there’s no booze, no drama, and no 'audience' for your performance art."

Dean watched you glide away, his posture shifting as he leaned back on his skates, a dark smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The sudden transition from his earlier gloom to this cocky demeanor was jarring, like watching a switch flip. He pushed off after you, skating alongside you with an infuriating, easy grace.

"The park, huh?" he teased, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that usually made the girls at parties swoon. He leaned in closer, his shoulder brushing against yours in a way that felt like a deliberate challenge.

"Seven o'clock? That’s awfully specific, Maxwell. You’re sure you want to involve me in a late-night rendezvous? People might start talking. They might even get the impression that you’re finally tired of hating me and decided you’d rather date me instead."

You rolled your eyes so hard it physically pained you, but you kept your stride steady, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a flustered reaction. "Don't flatter yourself, Di Laurentis. It’s a strategy session, not a rom-com. If you show up with that attitude, I’m leaving, and I’m taking my leverage with me. You’ll be back to being the sad, lonely guy in the basement, and I’ll be back to having a peaceful life."

Dean let out a low, vibrating chuckle that echoed against the arena walls. He slowed down, allowing you to get a few feet ahead, but his gaze remained fixed on you, heavy and intense. "You’re really going to hold it over my head, aren't you? The big, bad hockey player, brought to his knees by a little planning and a girl who refuses to be impressed by his ego."

"Try to be on time," you called back over your shoulder, not looking back at him. "And try to leave the ‘sex machine’ persona at home. If you want to talk to Allie, you need to show her you’re actually capable of a conversation that doesn't involve your reputation."

As you skated toward the exit, you felt his eyes burning into your back, tracing every movement. He was still playing the game—he was always playing the game—but for the first time, you felt a crack in his armor. He was terrified, you realized.

Not of you, and not of the park, but of the possibility that for the first time in his life, he might actually have to be honest.

You shoved through the heavy doors, the rush of the arena’s lobby hitting you with a wave of warmth. You had a date, of sorts, with the most complicated guy in school, and the weight of what you were about to do—the inevitable confrontation with Allie—started to sink in. You were walking straight into the fire, and you were pretty sure you were going to get burned, but for once, the prospect of doing nothing felt even more dangerous.

⋆˚꩜｡

Now you understood why Dean teased you by saying you looked like you were on a date.

And perhaps it hadn’t been the best idea to be together, alone, in such a public place and so close to the university. Just by seeing the ‘discreet’ glances thrown in your direction, you knew everyone thought you were just another one of the endless conquests of the hockey team's sex machine.

Also, you knew Dean was amused by the situation.

"Don’t you say a single word," you warned him, well before the blonde guy sitting across from you could say anything.

He raised his hands innocently, playing with the lollipop on his lips. "I didn't say anything, Maxwell. Half the school is already saying it for me."

"Ugh, shut up. I'm already ruining my reputation enough as it is."

He let out a mocking laugh. You hated yourself for looking up, your gaze falling like a magnet to the small dimple forming on his cheek.

And that was when you noticed he was writing something. Dean? Writing? With his own hands? In this economy?

"What is that?"

"A notebook."

You couldn't help yourself, letting out a cackle that made you cover your mouth. You hated that laugh; it was too much of a duck quack, but you couldn't help it. Why the hell did he have a notebook?

"Are you seriously writing down everything I'm saying?"

"Well, they're lessons, aren't they?" Dean said defensively, letting out a small huff, hiding the notebook in his lap as if that would improve the situation. "Leave me alone and keep talking."

"What I was saying is that it’s best if you set your bunnies aside."

Dean let out a laugh. But this time it was less genuine, more of a defensive reflex.

"And why would I do that? She slept with Hunter, Maxwell," Dean remarked. As if he hadn't made that perfectly clear during the fight he had at the bar a month ago. "Hunter fucking Davenport."

"I don't judge her."

Dean looked at you as if you had grown two heads.

"What?"

"I said I don't judge her," you repeated, shrugging, bringing your lips to the straw of your soda. "He has a baby face, he's cute."

"Ugh, not you too." Dean rolled his eyes so hard it physically hurt you. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that, Maxwell. Besides, since when do you show interest in the male species? I thought you were a lesbian."

That earned him a french fry thrown directly at his face.

"Sexist."

"What?" He squawked, throwing his head back while laughing, clapping like a moron. "Sexist for thinking you were a lesbian? Even Jules posted it! I thought it was true."

"Why do you think Jules and I aren't friends anymore, you idiot?"

"Like Regina George and the emo girl?"

You were more surprised that he knew that reference.

"What? I watched the movie with Summer."

"I’m not a lesbian, you absolute moron," you clarified. Although you didn't know why.

You didn't owe explanations to him, or to anyone, much less to Jules. Not after she "outed" you—from a closet you hadn't even been in in the first place.

"Actually, I kind of liked Tucker."

Dean almost choked on his lollipop. Why was he so dramatic?

"Tucker?" Dean repeated, thinking he was going deaf. "Like... my Tucker?"

"I didn't know he had an owner."

"Fuck you, you know what I mean. Tucker? You liked Tucker of all people?"

You made a face. What right did he have to judge your taste? At least you weren't known for having more stains on your sheets than passed classes, like him.

"I don't think you're the right person to talk about taste," you defended yourself, pointing at him with your finger. "What’s wrong with Tucker? He’s funny, he cried watching La La Land just like I did, and besides, he knows how to cook. Like... the other day Beau brought me some of his Alfredo pasta and I fell in love."

Dean froze, the lollipop stick halfway to his mouth, staring at you with such genuine horror that you almost felt bad—almost.

"You're obsessed with a guy who cries during La La Land and makes a decent Alfredo," Dean deadpanned, his voice dripping with mock-judgment. "Wow. I didn't know your standards were subterranean, Maxwell. I thought you had taste."

"Oh, please," you retorted, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms. "It’s called emotional intelligence, Dean. Something you clearly left behind in that frat basement along with your dignity. And for your information, Tucker is a catch. At least he doesn't treat every girl he meets like a disposable accessory."

Dean winced—a small, quick flicker of pain that he tried to hide behind a scoff. He reached for his notebook again, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the cover. "Whatever. If you want to settle for the guy who cries at musicals, be my guest. But don't expect me to be the one to give you dating advice after that revelation."

"I'm not asking for your advice," you reminded him, your tone sobering as you leaned forward, dropping the playful banter. "I'm here to fix the disaster you created. So, back to the point. You're going to stop the revolving door of girls. You’re going to stop acting like you’re in a competition to see who can be the most miserable. It’s pathetic, Dean. It’s not 'bad boy,' it’s just sad."

Dean stared at you, the amusement finally draining from his face. He looked out toward the fountain, his expression hardening into something more contemplative. "You think that's why I do it? Because I want to win?"

"I think you do it because you’re terrified," you said, your voice quiet and steady. "You’re terrified that if you stop moving, if you stop making noise, you’ll have to sit with the fact that you screwed up the one thing that actually meant something to you. And you're using these girls as a shield so you don't have to look at the wreckage."

He didn't fire back a sarcastic comment. He didn't make a joke about your taste in men. He just sat there, looking unnervingly still. The wind picked up, rustling the leaves around the park, and for a second, the bustling world around you seemed to fade into the background.

"You're very sure of yourself for someone who's never had her heart broken," he murmured, his gaze shifting back to yours. There was a challenge in his eyes, but it wasn't the usual aggressive one—it was softer, curious.

Have you had your heart broken? That was a good question.

"Maybe I haven't," you replied, holding his stare without blinking. "Or maybe I'm just better at hiding it than you are."

Dean let out a short, dry breath that might have been a laugh if he’d had the energy for it. He clicked his pen, scribbling something down in the notebook with a rough, heavy hand.

"Fine," he said, closing the notebook with a sharp snap. "No more girls. No more 'sex machine' antics. I'll go to ground. I'll act like a ghost. Is that what you want? Because I’m telling you, it’s not going to make Allie come running."

"No," you agreed, "but it’s the only way she’ll ever agree to see you again. You have to prove you can exist without being the center of a storm. And that starts now."

Dean let out a short, incredulous laugh, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. He tossed the pen onto the table, the metallic clack punctuating his sudden shift in mood.

"Wow, Maxwell. I’m actually impressed," he drawled, his signature smirk creeping back onto his face, though it didn't quite reach his eyes this time. "I didn't realize that was the goal of this little intervention. What’s next? You’re going to teach me how to sing to woodland creatures? Maybe find me a glass slipper that fits?"

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and pinning you with a gaze that felt entirely too heavy for a park bench. "Is that what you’re trying to do? Turn me into some kind of Disney prince? Because spoiler alert: I don’t have a castle, I don’t own a horse, and I’m pretty sure the last time I tried to be 'charming' for someone, it ended with a drink thrown in my face. Oh, it was you, actually.”

He gestured vaguely with his hands, as if presenting himself to you. "Look at me. I’m not a prince, and I’m definitely not a 'good guy.' I’m a hockey player with a short temper and a worse reputation. Trying to polish this up into a fairy-tale ending isn't just optimistic, it’s delusional."

"I'm not trying to make you a prince, Dean," you countered, refusing to back down, even though his proximity was making your skin prickle. "I’m just trying to make you someone who doesn't act like a complete sociopath when he’s upset. There’s a massive gap between 'Disney Prince' and 'total disaster.' I’m aiming for somewhere in the middle. Like, maybe just a decent human being?"

Dean stared at you for a long beat, his smirk fading into a more contemplative expression. He seemed to be weighing your words, searching for the sarcasm, but finding none.

"A decent human being," he repeated, the words sounding foreign on his tongue. He let out a low, humorless chuckle and ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even further. "That’s a tall order for someone like me. But..."

He paused, looking down at his notebook, then back up at you. The playfulness was gone, replaced by a raw, flicker-of-honesty look that caught you off guard.

"But fine. If you’re so obsessed with fixing me, let’s see how far you can get before you realize I’m not worth the effort." He sat up straighter, his tone sharpening. "So, 'Princess'—since you’re in charge now—what’s the first step of this transformation? Do I need to start reading poetry, or should I just start by apologizing for being a complete dick to everyone I know?"

You were about to deliver a biting retort—something about how he could start by not being a total nightmare—when the sky suddenly betrayed you. A heavy, gray curtain of rain didn't just start; it slammed into the park, turning the peaceful evening into a chaotic deluge in seconds.

"Great," you grumbled, shielding your head with your purse. "Just perfect."

Dean didn't hesitate. He grabbed your arm, his grip firm but careful, and pulled you toward the parking lot. "Run, Princess! Unless you want to turn into a drowned rat before we finish our 'lessons'!"

You scrambled after him, your sneakers slapping against the wet pavement. You were both laughing—a breathless, genuine sound—as you sprinted through the downpour. You reached his car, breathless and soaking wet, and Dean fumbled with his keys, unlocking the doors just as a particularly violent clap of thunder shook the ground beneath your feet.

You dove into the passenger seat, gasping for air, as Dean jumped in right behind you. The interior of the car was suddenly cramped and warm, smelling of pine air freshener and the lingering scent of the rain clinging to your clothes.

The sound of the rain drumming against the roof was deafening, turning the world outside into a blurred, watery smear of neon lights. You sat there for a moment, chest heaving, trying to wipe the water from your face.

You looked over at Dean. His hair was plastered to his forehead, droplets of water running down his jawline and onto his collarbone. The arrogance was gone, washed away by the storm, replaced by a strange, quiet intensity. He wasn't looking at his notebook; he was looking at you.

"Well," he breathed out, his voice low, his eyes dark and dilated. "So much for the park being the 'safe space' without any drama."

You felt the shift in the air—the way the space between you suddenly felt charged, humming with something that had nothing to do with hockey, or Allie, or lessons. The rain had trapped you both in this little glass bubble, and for the first time, you weren't thinking about the plan. You were just thinking about how close he was, and how the rain had managed to strip away every layer of performance he usually wore.

"I guess the universe doesn't want you to be a prince tonight," you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.

Dean shifted in his seat, leaning slightly toward you. The smirk was gone, and his voice was barely a murmur over the sound of the storm. "Maybe not. But I think I like this a lot better."

[andy-15-07]

jealous!Logan!!!!! jealous!Logan!!!!

He Doesn’t Like It

Pairing: John Logan  x Reader

Word Count: 1658

Request open!

Off campus masterlist

 John was not the kind of jealous boyfriend who made a scene.

That was the problem.

If he had been loud about it, if he had gotten obviously possessive or shoved himself between you and whoever was talking to you, it would have been easier to deal with. You could have rolled your eyes, laughed at him later, maybe even teased him until he admitted he was being ridiculous.

But John did not do ridiculous very often.

John got quiet.

And quiet John was dangerous.

You noticed it at the party in Garrett and Dean’s house, when you wandered into the living room with a drink in your hand and found yourself stuck in conversation with one of John’s old teammates. He was nice enough, probably. He was also talking to you with a little too much interest, standing a little too close, smiling a little too long.

You were already halfway through a polite laugh when you caught sight of John across the room.

He was watching.

Not glaring. Not scowling. Just watching with his drink in hand and that still, unreadable expression he got when something had his full attention. His jaw was set. His eyes were locked on the two of you.

The moment your eyes met, something flickered in his face.

Then he took a slow drink and looked away.

Your stomach tightened.

The guy beside you kept talking. “And then I realized I had the wrong study guide the whole time, which was honestly embarrassing.”

You smiled politely. “That sucks.”

“It really did.” He laughed, then leaned in just a little. “You’re easy to talk to, though.”

Before you could answer, a hand settled at the small of your back.

You almost jumped.

John’s voice came from directly behind you, calm and even and somehow worse than if he had sounded annoyed. “There you are.”

You turned your head. “Hi.”

His eyes flicked briefly to the guy beside you, then back to your face. “Hey.”

The silence that followed was immediate and awkward in all the obvious ways.

The guy looked between the two of you, then smiled. “Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realize you were,”

“Not a problem,” John said.

It wasn’t rude.

That somehow made it colder.

The guy cleared his throat. “Right. Yeah. I was just talking to her.”

John nodded once. “I can see that.”

You could practically feel the tension under your skin.

You gave John a small look that said what are you doing?

He ignored it.

The guy shifted his weight, suddenly less confident. “Well, I should probably find my roommate.”

“Probably,” John said.

That was it. Just that.

The guy gave you an awkward smile and disappeared into the crowd.

The second he was gone, you turned fully toward John. “What was that?”

John took another sip of his drink. “What was what?”

“You know exactly what.”

He looked at you, and his expression was too neutral by half. “I came to get you.”

You crossed your arms. “From a conversation?”

John glanced in the direction the guy had left, then back at you. “A very long conversation.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “He talked to me for maybe four minutes.”

John’s mouth twitched. “Felt longer.”

That was when you knew.

You tried not to smile. You really did. “Are you jealous?”

He didn’t answer right away.

He just looked at you.

That should have been answer enough.

You tilted your head, trying to hide your amusement. “John.”

“I’m not jealous.”

You blinked. “That was the least convincing thing you’ve ever said.”

His jaw moved once, like he was fighting the urge to say something sharp. “He was standing too close.”

You stared at him for a beat.

Then your smile spread before you could stop it. “You are jealous.”

John gave you a flat look. “I said I’m not.”

“You walked over here like you were claiming territory.”

“That’s not what I did.”

“You put your hand on my back.”

“I was guiding you.”

“You interrupted my conversation.”

“He was rambling.”

You laughed softly. “Oh my God.”

John’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t start.”

“I can’t believe this.”

He leaned in a fraction, lowering his voice. “Believe it.”

Your face warmed instantly, because of course it did. He had that tone. That low, steady, very John tone that made teasing him feel a lot more dangerous than it should have.

You bit back a grin. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Don’t call me cute.”

“That’s not a no.”

John set his drink down and stepped closer, close enough that your back was nearly against the wall beside the hallway. “You think this is funny.”

You looked up at him, trying very hard to stay composed. “A little.”

He stared at you for a long second, then said, “He was flirting.”

You blinked.

The words were so direct that your smile faltered.

John’s expression stayed steady, but there was tension in his shoulders now, a quiet kind of possessiveness he usually kept better hidden. “I don’t like it.”

That hit different.

Not because it was dramatic. Because it wasn’t.

John wasn’t making a scene. He wasn’t accusing you of anything. He was just telling you the truth, plainly, like he always did when something mattered.

Your teasing softened automatically.

“John,” you said, a little quieter, “he was just talking to me.”

“I know.”

You frowned. “Then why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because I don’t like him looking at you like that.”

Your heart gave a stupid little jump.

You studied him for a second, the jealousy still there but now mixed with something warmer, something protective and almost shy underneath the surface. John was trying very hard not to turn it into a bigger deal than it was, which somehow made it more endearing.

You reached up and touched his arm. “You know he meant nothing, right?”

John’s gaze dropped briefly to your hand, then back to your face. “I know.”

“Then what’s the issue?”

He hesitated.

That alone made your chest tighten a little.

Then he said, very quietly, “I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

The honesty of it made you go still.

There was no performance in his voice. No ego. Just that low, straightforward truth that always got past your defenses before you had time to stop it.

You softened immediately. “Okay.”

John studied your face like he was trying to decide whether you were laughing at him.

You weren’t.

You were looking at him with a fondness that only made him more alert.

His voice dropped another notch. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” You shifted closer and let your fingers slide lightly into the front of his shirt. “I get it.”

John’s expression changed a little at that. The tension in his jaw eased, though he still looked guarded.

“You do?”

You smiled. “You got jealous.”

“I did not,”

“You did.”

He stopped.

You gave him a soft, knowing look. “And for the record, it was kind of hot.”

That did it.

John stared at you for half a second, then his hand came to your waist and pulled you closer in one smooth motion. Your breath caught, but he didn’t kiss you right away. He just looked at you with that quiet, intense expression that always made your knees forget their job.

“Don’t say things like that if you don’t mean them,” he murmured.

Your pulse jumped. “I mean it.”

His thumb brushed once against your side. “Yeah?”

You smiled. “Yeah.”

John leaned in, his forehead almost touching yours. “Then tell me why I had to watch some guy stand there acting like he had a chance.”

You blinked, then laughed softly despite yourself. “You really are jealous.”

“I already admitted that.”

“No, you didn’t.”

His mouth twitched. “I’m admitting it now.”

That made your smile widen.

He stared at you for a second longer, then added, quieter, “I don’t like sharing your attention.”

That hit you right in the chest.

Because John said it like it was a simple fact. Not dramatic. Not needy. Just true.

You reached up and touched his cheek. “You have my attention.”

He looked at you.

All the tension in his face eased by degrees.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

You brushed your thumb along his jaw. “And for the record, nobody else is getting it like you do.”

Something in his expression softened completely then.

His hand at your waist pulled you in just enough that your bodies lined up, and his mouth brushed your temple in a quick, almost absent kiss.

It was such a small gesture, but it made your stomach go warm.

John rested his forehead briefly against yours. “Good.”

You smiled, a little breathless now. “You still being jealous?”

He was quiet for a second.

Then, very dryly, he said, “A little.”

You laughed. “That is so obvious.”

“I’m trying.”

“You’re failing.”

His eyes narrowed, but there was no real heat in it. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“A lot.”

John huffed a small laugh and kissed you properly this time, slow and steady and just possessive enough to make his point without actually making one. When he pulled back, his hand stayed at your waist.

You looked up at him, grinning now. “So. We’re done pretending you’re not jealous?”

John held your gaze for a beat, then said, “I never said I wasn’t.”

You laughed, soft and delighted, and he finally looked a little less tense.

Then his mouth curved, barely there but unmistakable.

“You coming back to the couch,” he said, “or do I need to keep rescuing you from bad conversation all night?”

You smiled and slipped your hand into his. “Depends. Are you going to keep glaring at everybody?”

He squeezed your hand once. “Only if they deserve it.”

And the way he said it made it very clear that, apparently, John Logan was willing to be jealous for as long as it took.

[uwtloml]

does it hurt? john logan x reader

in which everyone knows that john logan is head over heels with you, and it’s not like you don’t feel the same way, so what’s the issue?

cw: angst, comfort if you squint

word count: 1.5k

an: this is unlike anything i’ve ever written but i’ve had so much fun writing it!! please be gentle xx

“Dean, sit down and shut up.” You pleaded, trying to shove the obnoxiously large and drunk blonde into your passenger seat. 

“I’m not sure why I’m sensing such a tone in your voi- ow fuck!” Dean was quickly cut off by hitting his head on the top of the door.

You took your hands off of his shoulders, taking a slow breath in, “I am seriously trying my hardest to not kill you right now.”

“Dean, can you just get in the car?” A slightly less drunk Tucker asked from the backseat.  

Reluctantly, Dean slowly lowered himself down into the seat. You closed his door, attempting to walk as fast as you could to the driver's side before Dean tried anything else. You had been trying to wrangle him into the car for the past five minutes. 

“Does anyone know if Logan is coming with us?” You asked, looking out of your windshield as you sit down. There was a large group of people but you didn’t see Logan anywhere. 

“Oh please, if anyone would know it would be you.” Dean slurred, laughing to himself. 

The rest of the car remained quiet, causing Dean to look back at Tucker. “I mean come on, you know it's true too Tucker.” Dean turned his head back to you, “You know, you’re just so confusing. Fuck, I’m getting a headache just thinking about it.” 

You narrowed your eyes at him, “I’m not sure what you mean by that, but if you have any hope of making it back to your house tonight I would sit there and be a good passenger princess, okay?” 

Dean held his hands up in defense, “Just trying to lighten the mood. I feel some animosity coming from you.” 

Whatever response you were going to come up with was quickly cut short by the feeling of your phone vibrating in your pocket. Logan’s name flashed on the screen. 

You answered, bringing your phone up to your ear. “Hey.” 

“Hey, Y/N. You got Tucker and Dean, right?” He asked you. 

“Mhm, I got Tucker in the back and Dean up front unfortunately.” You laughed.

Dean threw his hands up, “Okay, seriously what the hell?” He whispered. 

You brought your finger up to your lips, trying to silence Dean.

Logan’s voice “Good, I’ll just ride back with Garrett. I’m sure you have your hands full as is. Um, but I’ll see you at the house, right?” 

You clear your throat, “Yeah sounds good, I don’t know if I’m staying the night but we’re about to leave so I’ll just see you there.”

“Alright just let me know, drive safe.” Logan said. 

“I will, bye.” You replied, hanging up and throwing your phone into the cupholder. “Okay everyone has their seatbelt on, yes?” 

“All clear.” Tucker replied, leaning forward to check Dean.  

You nodded and began to reverse out of the driveway. You were about ten minutes out from the party when Dean grabbed your phone and asked to play music. 

“Spotify?” He asked, already unlocking your phone. 

“Yeah, you can play whatever.” You trailed off, trying to focus on the road. After Dean had played nothing for thirty seconds you looked over at him only to be met by a puzzled look on his face. “Dean? Music?”

He quickly snapped out of it, shaking his head. “Sorry, just trying to find the perfect song you know?” 

He settled for some 90’s rock song. The car was mostly silent for five minutes besides the aux, and you were pretty sure Tucker had dozed off in the back. 

The silence in the car was broken by Dean clearing his throat. 

“Does it hurt?” 

You snapped your head to look at him, confused. “I’m sorry, does what hurt?” You asked.

He simply gave you a knowing look. “You know what I’m talking about.” 

You let out a short laugh, thinking he was going into another drunken rant. “No, I really don’t. Care to enlighten me?” 

“John Logan.” He said leaning forward to pause the music. 

It took every fiber of your being to not slam on the breaks right there.

“Dean, why would it hurt? We’re just friends.” You immediately knew what he was talking about, feeling heat rise to your face.

“Y/N, I literally just saw a yearning playlist on your phone, don't even. I mean this is like some The Notebook yearning type shit. I know you’re not just friends. He knows you’re not just friends. Fuck, literally everyone knows. Everyone but you apparently.” 

“I know too.” Tucker chimed in from the back. You glared at him in the rearview mirror. 

Was it really that obvious? 

“Look, me and Logan are friends. That’s it, nothing more. Besides, it just wouldn’t work.” You argued, briefly glancing away from the road to look at both of them. 

“See, I just don’t know why you say that.” Dean shook his head in disbelief, Tucker silently nodding, agreeing in the back. “I mean he’s practically on his knees for you, that’s blatantly obvious. 

“I really thought after the last game, you two were going to lock it down. Instead, everything just went back to normal. You and Logan being friends again and you trying to pretend like you don’t see the way he looks at you.” Tucker added. 

You bit your tongue, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation without absolutely airing out all of the things wrong with you. You took the turn onto the boys’ street. “I think you both are just drunk and barely know where you are.” 

“No, we’ve all been thinking about it for a very long time.” Dean replied. 

“I would just fuck it up, okay?” You finally snap, “He doesn’t deserve that, especially not after everything.” 

As you began to approach the house, you already saw Garret’s car in the driveway. You quickly pulled into the driveway attempting to get these two out of your car as soon as possible. You put the car in park, sitting there quietly. 

“Well, I guess we’re here now.” Tucker said, unbuckling his seatbelt. He opened his door, walking, well, slightly tumbling into the house. 

“You know you’re my friend and so is Logan,” Dean said as Tucker shut the door, “and I also know that you’re hurting and he is too. I just don’t know how much more of it either of you can take.” You simply sat, looking down at your hands trying to stop the tears from welling in your eyes. “If you ever want to talk about it, maybe when I’m a little less drunk,” he laughed, “I’m here. Okay?”

“Okay.” You murmured quietly. A new light emerged from the porch, Logan was coming down the stairs and coming straight to your car. Dean unbuckled, starting to open his door. You quickly stopped him, shooting your hand out. “Dean, please don’t say anything to him.”

The blonde turned to you, “I won’t, this is between the two of you. Don’t worry about it.” He smiled, fully opening his door to meet Logan. 

Dean slightly stumbled, standing out of the car. 

“Jesus, I knew you should have stopped after the eighth shot.” Logan laughed, letting Dean lean into him. “Are you coming in?” He asked, turning his attention to you. The sight of your teary eyes caused him to draw his brows together in confusion. 

He lightly pushed Dean up off of him, “Dean, think you can get inside by yourself?” He asked.

Dean nodded, slowly trudging up the stairs before it was just you and Logan. He sat down into the passenger seat, looking at you. “You good?”

You cleared your throat, blinking rapidly. “Oh, yeah I’m fine.”

The look on his face told you immediately that he didn’t believe that. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah!” You said, trying to pull off your best smile. “Sorry, I’m just like really tired and I honestly don’t feel good so I think I’m just going to go back to my place tonight.”

“I don’t know if you should be driving if you’re that tired. You can totally sleep here if you want to. I’ll even let you have the bed all to yourself.” He responded, slightly leaning towards you. 

“Haha, no it’s okay. I think I might have caught something so it’s probably best if I’m not around everyone.” You lied, trying to hint to him to get out of the car. 

It was clearly not true, but Logan nodded, getting out of the seat before turning back to you, “Just um- just text me when you get home, yeah?” 

“Will do.” You promised, fingers thumping against the steering wheel. 

He smiled in response, closing the door and heading towards the porch before turning to take one last look at you. You hoped he couldn’t see right through all of the bullshit you just told him. 

Finally, he reached the door and stepped inside. 

You let out a long breath, rubbing your hands on your face.

Fuck me.

part 2???