Tucker finally catches you staring at his thighs and decides a cooking lesson isn't what you actually need.
word count : 2.1k — explicit — thigh-riding — dry-humping — praise — tuck being super sweet and cute and a giver — tuck (he deserves a warning cause damn) — my boy tucker deserves the filth so i'm not sorry about that one — enjoy and please tell me what you think !
There was a fine line between patience and sheer torture, and John Tucker had been dragging you across it for months.
It wasn't his fault, that was the worst part. He wasn’t playing games—he was just genuinely, wholesomely oblivious. Every time you wore his favorite jersey, or intentionally leaned close to touch his forearm while he laughed, or made a pointed comment about how he’d make an incredible boyfriend, Tucker would just beam, give you that sweet, devastating dimpled smile, and say something like, "Appreciate you, darlin', always so good to me."
Always so good to him. His polite deflections were a special kind of psychological torture.
Right now, you were sitting at his kitchen island, supposed to be chopping garlic for the shrimp scampi alfredo he was teaching you to make. Instead, you were entirely hypnotized by the view.
Tucker was standing at the counter, leaning over a cutting board. He was wearing a pair of very, very thin, gray athletic shorts. Because he was leaning forward, the fabric was pulled tight, completely mapping out the staggering size of his thighs. They were dense, farm-boy quads carved out by years of heavy squats and explosive skating. You could see the distinct, powerful sweep of muscle definition, and the way they flexed every single time he shifted his weight.
You swallowed hard, your grip tightening on the knife. You wanted to bury your face in them. You wanted them gripping your waist. You wanted—
"Uh, darlin'?"
Tucker’s sweet voice shattered your trance.
You blinked, snapping your eyes up. He was looking at you, a half-bun of messy dark curls sitting on top of his head, holding a block of aged asiago cheese. He was frowning slightly, but his eyes were warm and amused.
"You've been hacking at that same clove of garlic for five minutes, and I think you're about to slice your thumb off," he laughed, stepping away from the counter.
"Oh. Right. Sorry," you muttered, looking down at the mangled garlic.
"Everything alright?" He walked over, stopping right beside your stool. He was so close you could feel the heat radiating off his bulky frame. "You've been quiet all evening. Not like you."
"I'm fine, Tuck. Just... distracted."
"By the cooking?" He smiled, entirely missing the mark. "I can take over the chopping if you need a break."
Amused, Tucker leaned closer, resting one hand on the edge of the counter to look down at your messy chopping board. The movement brought him directly into your space. Because you were sitting and he was standing, his broad chest was right at your eye level, and his solid leg was practically brushing against your knee.
The kitchen went dead silent, save for the low sizzle of the butter and garlic simmering on the stove.
You froze, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm. Up close, the sheer size of him was completely overwhelming, and your eyes helplessly darted right back to the thick muscle of his leg, just inches away from you. The weight of your own dirty thoughts made you dizzy, and a wave of mortification washed over you. You couldn't think, couldn't breathe, and you definitely couldn't handle him being this close while your brain was doing that.
"Tuck," you choked out, your voice tight as you gently pressed a hand against his chest to keep him from getting any closer. "Can you... can you back away just a little bit? Please?"
Tucker blinked, completely caught off guard. He froze, looking down at your hand, and then up at your face. The easy, golden-retriever warmth in his eyes instantly shifted into pure, panicked concern. He immediately took a large step back, his shoulders tensing.
"Did... did I do something wrong?" he asked, uncharacteristically quiet and hesitant. He looked entirely heartbroken at the idea that he’d made you uncomfortable. "I swear I didn't mean to overstep, darlin'. If I said something insensitive, or if I'm being a bad teacher—"
"No! No, Tuck, it's really not you," you interrupted quickly, your face burning a violent, hot shade of red as you looked away shyly. You wrung your hands in your lap, wishing the kitchen floor would open up and swallow you. "It’s... it’s a really silly thing. Honestly. I'm just being ridiculous, but I... I haven't been able to stop thinking about it all evening, and having you right there was just too much."
Tucker frowned slightly, his concern melting into soft, focused curiosity. He leaned forward just a fraction, throwing the dishtowel he was holding over his shoulder, trying to catch your eye, his tone incredibly sweet. "What is it? You can tell me. You know you can tell me anything."
You swallowed hard, your throat completely dry. You tried to find the words to explain the last three months of unrequited pining, but your brain entirely short-circuited. Instead of speaking, your gaze helplessly dropped again.
You just stared.
Tucker followed your line of sight. He looked down at his own lower half, at the thin, gray athletic shorts stretched taut over his quads.
He looked back up at you, his brows arching high in utter disbelief. He slowly raised a hand, pointing a thick index finger directly at his own leg.
You gave a tiny, incredibly embarrassed nod.
"You're... you're thinking about my legs?" he breathed, his voice dropping into a register that was completely new. The confusion on his face melted away, replaced by a sudden, breathless warmth.
He didn't back away this time. Instead, he took a slow, deliberate step forward, re entering your space again until your bodies almost touched. Up close, he was so bulky and warm, and as his eyes locked onto yours, his gaze softened into something... different. Heavier. His eyes dropped down, noting the deep flush spreading down your neck, the way your breathing had turned shallow, and the distinct, telling tension in your posture.
Tucker’s breath hitched. A slow realization hit him.
"Oh," he murmured, his voice deep and velvety.
A faint, endearing pink crept up his own neck, but he didn't back down. Instead, a sweet, slightly stunned smile touched his lips. He reached out, his large hands surprisingly gentle as they settled on your cheeks. He leaned in, leaving barely any space between your faces.
"Well, little darlin'," he whispered, his voice low and teasingly soft near your ear. "If it's bothering you that much... do you think you'd let me help you with it?"
You gave a tiny, helpless tremble. You couldn't even breathe, completely undone by the sudden, heavy hunger in his eyes.
"Yes," you whimpered.
The sweet, patient boy didn't hesitate. With one easy, seamless movement, Tucker took a step back, pulling up the barstool right next to yours. He sank onto it heavily, rotating his frame so his back was resting flush against the edge of the countertop.
He looked up at you through his long lashes, his chest heaving as he let out a low exhale. The golden-retriever innocence was far gone, replaced by a quiet intensity that made your pulse skyrocket. Without a word, Tucker raised his hand and firmly patted the top of his rock-hard thigh.
"Come here."
Your breath hitched, a sudden wave of nerves making you freeze. You stared at his leg, then up at his eyes, faltering on the edge of your seat.
Seeing your hesitation, Tucker's expression softened into a look of pure, reassuring patience. He reached out, sliding his hand over yours. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, warm and steady, and he slowly guided you off your stool. He pulled you into the narrow space between his knees, lifting you just enough to guide your legs apart until you were straddling his right thigh.
The contact was electric. Before you could pull away, he took both of your hands in his. He brought them down, pressing your open palms flat against the bare, burning skin at the hem of his shorts. He forced your fingers to curve around the thick, dense sweep of his quad.
"Touch it," he hummed, his voice a sweet command against your ear.
Even now, with the air thick and heavy between you, his true nature didn't change. Tucker was, at his core, a caretaker. He was the boy who always quietly made sure you were looked after, and this moment was another extension of that—him easing the ache you’d been carrying all evening, giving you exactly what you needed. But as your palms settled fully against his skin, his chest rose in a slow, deep breath, his eyes closing as he let out a shaky exhale. His thigh flexed under your hands—not to pull away, but leaning up into your touch, completely yielding to it. Because Tucker wasn't just doing this for you; he was sinking into it just as deeply, needing the closeness just as much.
The sheer sensation of his muscle flexing under your fingertips sent a jolt straight to your core. Your hips twitched instinctively, a helpless, desperate movement that ground your center right against the hard ridge of his leg.
Tucker let out a low, ragged growl, his hands instantly locking onto your waist to hold you right where he wanted you. "Do that again. Ride it, darlin'. Let me feel you."
All your built-up frustration broke. You shifted your weight, and slid your hips down against his leg in a heavy, deliberate rhythm. The friction through your clothes was devastating. Tucker leaned his head back, a choked sound escaping his throat as you rode him, his fingers digging possessively into your hips. He braced his foot against the bottom rung of the stool, angling his thigh up to give you more leverage, matching your frantic pace with steady, torturous upward thrusts.
The friction alone was sending him over the edge. Up close, you could feel the sheer, radiating heat rolling off him; he was burning up, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. Beneath the thin gray fabric of his shorts, his length had grown shockingly hard, straining painfully against his waistband as he watched you work yourself against him.
The pleasure built too fast, coiling tight and sharp in your stomach. You whimpered, your movements turning wild and uncoordinated as the edge rushed up to meet you.
As your body began to tighten and tremble, Tuck reached up. He brought his large hand to your face, cupping your jaw with a fierce devotion. His thumb brushed over your lips, parting them, and he pushed it ever so slightly into your mouth.
You didn't even think. Your eyes locked onto his blown-out pupils as you instantly wrapped your lips around his thumb, sucking on it desperately while your hips shuddered through a hard, breathless climax.
He leaned in close, pulling you up until your foreheads pressed flush together, his hot, heavy breath mingling with yours. As the waves of heat crashed through you, Tucker watched you shake, his attention entirely locked on you as he guided you through it.
"Good girl," he husked, the warm pad of his thumb moving gently inside your mouth. "Look at how perfect you fit against my thighs."
You cried out around his finger, your core pulsing helplessly against his solid quad as the release completely emptied you out. The intense, tight contractions of your climax clamped down on his leg, and the sheer sight and feel of you completely unraveling in his lap shattered whatever remaining restraint Tucker had left.
His jaw went rigid, his eyes rolling back as a harsh, violent shudder tore right through his bulky frame. He choked on a breath, his fingers digging bruisingly deep into your waist as his hips gave one last, desperate, involuntary jerk upward into you. He came hard right there in his pants, the thick heat of his release soaking through the front of his gray athletic shorts, matching the wetness you had left on his thigh.
For a long moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the ragged asymmetry of your shared breathing. Tucker’s forehead rested heavily against yours, his chest heaving as the tremors finally subsided, leaving him thoroughly spent and slumped against the counter.
Gradually, a slow, familiar warmth returned to his eyes. He slipped his wet thumb from your mouth and used it to gently tap the tip of your nose, that devastating dimple finally cutting through his dazed expression.
"You know," he chuckled breathlessly, looking up at you through his messy curls. "Next time you want to skip the lesson, all you have to do is ask."
He gave your waist an affectionate squeeze, his eyes dancing with mischief as he looked down at the dark wetness soaking through his shorts.
"You spent all that time on this one," he teased, his gaze dropping to where your hands were still molded around his right quad. A slow, playful grin touched his lips as he nudged his left leg slightly against yours, drawing your attention to it. "But I promise the other one is just as good."
The bass from the speakers downstairs was vibrating right through the floorboards of John Logan’s bedroom, but up here, the air was finally cool enough to breathe.
Logan leaned against the doorframe of his room, a half-empty red solo cup dangling from his fingers. He loved the guys, and he loved a good Briar University hockey house party, but tonight, the heat and the sheer volume of people were grating on his nerves. He was just about to head back down to find Tucker and Garrett when a flash of movement at the end of the hallway caught his eye.
You were trying to navigate the corridor, but your shoulder slammed heavily into the drywall.
Logan frowned, straightening up. He knew what a drunk college student looked like—hell, he looked like one most weekends—but something about the way you were moving set off immediate alarm bells. Your head was lolling, your knees buckling as if they were made of water, and your hands were scraping uselessly against the wall to keep yourself upright.
Before he could even take a step toward you, a guy emerged from the stairwell. Logan recognized him vaguely—some frat guy who frequented their parties but wasn't part of their inner circle. The guy had a tight, predatory grip on your waist, dragging you forward a little too forcefully.
"Come on, babe," the guy muttered, his voice slick. "Let's find somewhere quiet. You’re fine. Just a little more."
You mumbled something completely incoherent, your head dropping against his shoulder. You weren't hugging him back; your arms were hanging limply at your sides.
Logan’s hockey instincts—the ones that told him exactly when a hit was dirty—kicked into overdrive. He dropped his solo cup onto a nearby table and covered the distance between himself and the pair in three long, commanding strides.
"Hey," Logan said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that usually made opposing players back off the crease.
The guy blinked, looking up, trying to mask his sudden panic with a cocky grin. "Oh, hey, Logan. Great party, man. Just taking my girl upstairs to lie down."
Logan looked at you. Your eyes were open, but they were completely glassy, pupils dilated, unfocused on anything in the room. You looked beautiful, but terrified—trapped inside a body that wasn't responding to your commands.
"She's not your girl," Logan said flatly. He stepped directly into the guy's personal space, using his massive frame to completely cut him off. "And she's not going anywhere with you."
"Bro, chill, she's just had a few drinks—"
"I know exactly what a girl who’s had 'a few drinks' looks like, and this isn't it," Logan snarled, his jaw clenching. He noticed the slight tremor in the guy’s hand, the way he kept glancing toward the stairs. Logan reached out, his grip like a vice as he wrapping his fingers around the guy's wrist, forcing him to let go of your waist. "What did you put in her cup?"
"Nothing! Look, man, I don't want any trouble—"
"Then move." Logan didn't raise his voice, but the sheer menace in his tone was enough.
The guy let go completely, raising his hands in surrender, backing away toward the stairs. "Whatever, man. She's a buzzkill anyway." He turned and practically bolted down the steps, disappearing into the crowded living room.
The moment the guy's support vanished, your knees gave out entirely.
"Whoa, whoa, I got you," Logan breathed, catching you before you could hit the hardwood floor. He scooped you up into his arms effortlessly, lifting you against his chest. You were heavy, a dead weight, confirming his worst fears. You’d been roofied.
He didn't hesitate. He carried you straight into his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him and turning the lock. The sudden dampening of the party noise downstairs felt like a relief.
He walked over to his bed and gently laid you down on top of the covers. You groaned softly, your eyes rolling back as you tried to blink him into focus.
"Logan..." you slurred, the syllable barely escaping your lips. You didn't really know him—everyone at Briar knew who John Logan was—but seeing his familiar, handsome face seemed to cut through the terrifying fog in your brain just enough to make you feel safe.
"Yeah, it's me. You're safe, okay?" His voice transformed instantly, losing all of its harsh aggression and turning incredibly soft. He sat on the edge of the mattress, gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. Your skin was clammy. "I’ve got you. That asshole is gone."
A tear slipped down the side of your face, soaking into his comforter. "Can't... can't move right. Everything's heavy."
"I know. It's okay. It’s going to wear off," he promised, his heart aching at how vulnerable you looked. It made his blood boil all over again thinking about what would have happened if he had stayed downstairs by the keg. "Just breathe. I'm right here. I'm not leaving you."
Logan got up for a brief moment to grab a clean washcloth from his adjacent bathroom, running it under cold water. He came back, sitting on the edge of the bed again, and gently pressed the cool cloth to your forehead and then the back of your neck.
You let out a soft sigh, your eyes closing. "Thank you."
"Don't worry about it," he murmured. He grabbed a bottle of water from his mini-fridge, setting it on the nightstand. "I'm going to text Garrett to make sure that piece of shit gets thrown out of our house, alright? But I'm staying right here."
Logan pulled out his phone, typing a quick, furious text to his roommates:
G, guy in a grey hoodie and snapback just tried to slide something in a girl's drink upstairs. He's heading down. Throw his ass out and break his nose if he argues.
A second later, Garrett replied: On it.
Logan tossed his phone aside and looked back down at you. You had managed to curl slightly onto your side, your breathing shallow but steady. The cold cloth had helped a little, but he knew you just had to ride out the worst of the drug.
He didn't try to touch you inappropriately, didn't try to take advantage of the fact that a gorgeous girl was lying in his bed. Instead, John Logan—the smooth-talking, confident hockey star—just pulled a chair up to the side of the bed. He took your limp, cold hand in his own large, warm one, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.
"Just sleep it off, beautiful," he whispered into the quiet room, keeping watch like a guardian line-man. "I've got the night shift."
she looks so perfect (part 3) | john logan x reader
summary: john logan was your best friend and the guys, allie, and hannah were your family. everyone knows that you had liked logan for forever but you knew that he didn't feel the same way about you. logan was with grace and you respected it. you couldn't even hate her for it - she's perfect and she's perfect for him. it's okay though, your family's got you.
warnings: nothing really - but angst, sad!!! and yearning!! drinking? swearing, John logan and Garrett fighting :(
author's note: thanks for all the love!!! here is part 3!! let me know your thoughts!!! tell me if you have ideas about what should happen next!!! I love your guy’s comments loool they’re funny
The tires of Logan’s truck tore into the gravel of the driveway, kicking up a cloud of dust as he braked hard into his usual spot. He cut the engine, but the sudden silence inside the truck did absolutely nothing to calm the suffocating frustration vibrating in his chest. Shoving his way out, he slammed the truck door shut behind him with a heavy, metallic bang that echoed across the yard.
He stormed up the porch steps and pushed through the front door of the hockey house, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
Walking straight into the kitchen, he dropped his keys onto the granite island. They hit the surface with a sharp, loud clatter—not thrown, but heavy enough to instantly kill the casual chatter in the room.
"Whoa, everything alright, dude?" Tucker asked, pausing with a wooden spoon in hand.
The kitchen was warm, smelling of garlic and simmering marinara sauce. Garrett was standing by the stove, while Dean leaned against the counter, a glass of water in hand. The calm, familial atmosphere of the room felt completely at odds with the frantic, wounded energy radiating off Logan.
"Why the hell is she being like that?!" Logan burst out, running a hand over his face and through his hair in pure frustration. He began to pace a short, tense line between the fridge and the island, his shoulders tightly coiled.
Garrett set down the knife he was using to chop vegetables, exchanging a heavy, knowing look with Dean before looking up. An underlying edge of irritation was already creeping into Garrett's expression. "You found y/n?"
"Yeah, I found her. She was sitting at Malone's by herself," Logan said, his voice cracking slightly with a mix of disbelief and a sharp, defensive edge. "And she was just so cold, man. I skipped the second half of practice for her. I literally went to her usual library spot, went to Havenport lounge, her usual spots - because she wouldn't answer her phone, and when I finally get there, she barely even looked at me."
“And you two - won’t tell me shit.” He pointed at Hannah and Allie, who widened their eyes but stayed silent. “Is there something wrong - is her dad contacting her again or something?”
Everyone was silent.
Hannah felt so bad for Logan, it’s like an elephant in the room that everyone sees but him. She reached out her hand to comfort him, “No, Logan. Her dad isn’t, it’s just that we don’t even know what to tell you,” she sighed.
"What do you mean? She told me to leave her alone," Logan said, the words clearly stinging him deeper than he wanted to admit. He looked over at Garrett, his eyes wide with a desperate, furious confusion. "Like I was a total stranger. She refused to come to dinner. I don't get it. What the hell did I do? Why is she completely freezing me out?"
Garrett gripped the edge of the stove, an annoyed, incredibly tense breath escaping his nose. He looked at Logan— he thought Logan was being a total idiot, entirely blind to the way you loved him, and even more blind to his own buried feelings for you. Sure he was with Grace but he doesn’t act like this for anyone else other than you. There’s no one he’s this worried about or thinks about more than you.
But Garrett wasn’t trying to betray you.
"Maybe she just wants to be by herself. She will figure it out herself, just leave her alone and let her cool off." He continued prepping.
"Leave her alone?" Logan repeated, looking at Garrett like he'd lost his mind. "She's my best friend, Garrett. I'm not just going to let her treat me like garbage and walk away.”
Garrett let out a harsh, cynical breath, shaking his head as he picked up a towel to wipe his hands. He looked at Logan, completely exasperated by his roommate's sheer density. "Look, just drop it for tonight. I'll text her. I'll talk to her later and check in."
The words hit Logan like a physical slap.
A sharp, ugly wave of jealousy and indignation flared up in his chest, making him look at Garrett with narrow, peeved eyes. "You'll talk to her?" Logan scoffed, his voice dripping with sudden bitterness. "What makes you think she’s going to answer you?"
Garrett just stared at him. He thought Logan was acting childish.
It felt like a direct blow to his ego, a territorial instinct kicking in before he could even stop it. The idea that Garrett thought he could get through to you more than him was insulting.
"I know her better than anyone in this house, Garrett," Logan muttered, his jaw tight as he stared his captain down. "I know her better than you. If she’s pissed off, she talks to me. She always talks to me."
"Yeah, well, clearly not today," Dean said under his breath from the counter, taking a slow sip of his water.
Garrett put down the knife he was using to chop the vegetables for Tucker’s dish. “Alright, outside Logan,” everyone stared.
————————
He stormed out to the porch through the heavy glass door and Logan followed him immediately, the sliding door shutting behind them with a sharp click, cutting off the warmth of the kitchen and the watchful eyes of Allie, Hannah, Dean and Tucker.
Logan was fuming. “What? Did you guys fuck? Is that what everyone’s not telling me? You going to tell me you guys hooked up or something and she’s avoiding us all together or she’s feeling ashamed to tell me?” Logan asks in an accusatory tone, grasping at straws—making things up because he has absolutely no idea.
Garrett snapped to look at him, the irritation on his face had hardened into something much heavier. “You fucking serious right now?!”
He took a step forward, invading Logan's space. "You think this is about me and her having some cheap hookup? You think she’d freeze all of us out over that?"
He let out a harsh, humorless laugh that cut right through the chilly night air.
"I’d never do that to Hannah.” Garrett said, poking a firm finger into Logan’s chest. "Use that pretty fucking brain of yours. She’s hiding because of you. Because while you've been busy playing this oblivious, protective guy best friend routine and making up wild theories, you’re blind to her feelings - don’t act like you don’t know." Garrett scoffed.
Logan blinked, he was silent because he couldn’t lie that he didn’t have an idea of what Garrett was talking about. Logan knew how he used to feel about you, when he first met you - he wanted you, he had been trying so desperately to ignore any of those feelings since he thought you’d never want to settle for him.
Garrett stood in front of Logan, the height difference wasn't much, but right now, Garrett looked massive, fueled by a protective fury he’d been suppressing every silent smoke sesh you and him had and he had to watch you be so down. He looked at Logan—really looked at him—at the genuine confusion and desperation in his friend's eyes, and felt a wave of pure exhaustion.
"You really don't get it, do you?" Garrett said softly. "You are so blinded by your own need to keep her by your side that you refuse to see what you're doing to her."
"Doing to her? I'm not doing anything to her!" Logan defended, his voice cracking slightly. "I care about her. That’s it. I care about her, and I want to make sure she’s okay."
"And what about Grace, Logan?"
The mention of the name hung in the air like a sudden drop in temperature. Logan stiffened, his mouth opening slightly before closing again.
"Grace has nothing to do with this," Logan said, though the conviction had leaked out of his voice, replaced by a defensive edge.
Garrett took a step forward, invading Logan’s space, his eyes boring into him.
"You sure about that?" Garrett challenged, a lethal edge slicing through his tone.
He’s going to lay it all out there. This had to stop. “Logan, does Grace know you text Allie and Hannah to make sure y/n gets home safe from her evening class? Does Grace know that you sat in your car with y/n three weeks ago after your brother told you your mom went back to rehab? Does Grace know you’ve been fixing y/n’s dad’s car for free every three months and telling him not to talk to her - without telling her? Does she know you write in every single one of y/n’s finals in your calendar - just so you can wish her good luck?”
Logan flinched as if he’d been physically struck. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The blood drained from his face, leaving him pale under the porch light. He opened his hands, closing them into fists, looking suddenly small.
"How... how do you know about…th?" Logan whispered.
"Because I’m not a fucking idiot." Garrett hissed, stepping even closer, his finger hovering inches from Logan's chest.
"You have a girlfriend, Logan. But you liked y/n the moment you met her. You had feelings for her, you said that. Don’t even lie to me right now."
"It's not like that. I’m over her, I told you. I don’t- Gar, it’s not-“ Logan stammered, his eyes darting away, looking wildly around the empty yard as if looking for an escape. "I'm just... I'm just trying to be a good guy. Her dad's transmission was shot, he couldn't afford—"
"Fuck off man!" Garrett roared, the sudden volume making Logan jump. "Stop lying to yourself. You string her along. Constantly. You know you do. You keep pulling her back in. Every time she takes a step away, you show up with a toolbox, or a text message, or a 'good luck' call, reminding her exactly what she can't have.”
Logan opened his mouth to defend himself, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. He looked down at the extra key on his keychain—the one that fit y/n's front door, the one he’d had for two years after you had an anaphylactic allergic reaction - Logan had demanded you hand over the spare keys just in case anything ever were to happen and never given back. Logan had only told Garrett about his feelings for you two years ago - but you weren’t ready for anything then. So he moved on, and you both were hooking up with other people. You’d never want him, he thought.
"You want to talk about how you're just 'being a good guy'?" Garrett asked, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet rhythm.
“Logan, I’ve never seen you be so worried about literally anyone else. You always think about her, you think to get her an extra coffee or cookie when we go to Lucky’s with Hannah, you drop anything to drive her, you skip practice because you needed to find her to ease your mind, and when anything is ever wrong in your life the only person you want to talk about that stuff is - is with y/n. Don’t you think that’s odd and I don’t know, Logan? Fucking insane? considering you have a girlfriend?”
Logan flinched, his jaw tightening so hard a vein throbbed at his temple. "She’s like-my family. She knows me, I know her. We talk about these hard things okay? It’s just what we do, I mean, what we did. And sure I-I did want to be with her, but that was before. It’s done now."
“Yeah okay. Keep lying to yourself bud. Are you done playing house with two different girls Logan? Or you’re not ready to face yourself yet?” Garrett spat. He’d always defend you. A hundred fucking life times - he’d defend you. You were his family. And he was fucking sick and tired of you crying because of John Logan.
“You love Grace? Sure. Fine. Then go be with Grace - but you have to let y/n go. Stop stringing her along. It’s killing her,” he scolded Logan.
“But - you already knew that.” Garrett pushed passed Logan irritated, leaving him on the back porch with the weight of his own choices finally crashing down on him. He had to face himself.
she looks so perfect (part 2) | john logan x reader
summary: john logan was your best friend and the guys, allie, and hannah were your family. everyone knows that you had liked logan for forever but you knew that he didn't feel the same way about you. logan was with grace and you respected it. you couldn't even hate her for it - she's perfect and she's perfect for him. it's okay though, your family's got you.
warnings: nothing really - but angst, sad!!! and yearning!! drinking? swearing, John logan and Garrett fighting :(
author's note: thanks for all the love!!! here is part 2!! let me know your thoughts!!!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It had been a few days since the party and you made it your sole mission to avoid John Logan at all costs. You couldn't face him. It was embarrassing enough that he didn't want you, let alone the fact that all of your friends knew about your feelings - except him. You'd think that spending so much time with someone you cared about would make him have some sort of feelings towards you, but he's so oblivious it hurt.
So, you did what you’ve always done when things get too serious or too heavy: you pulled the disappearing act. It was a coping mechanism you inherited from your dad. He’d taught you, without ever saying a word, that if a problem gets too loud, you just walk out of the room until it goes quiet. If you don't let anyone in on what’s actually going on with you, they can't see you breaking. You avoid, you ghost, you bury it.
You can't help but compare yourself to her. The worst part was that she was absolutely, undeniably magnificent.
She was a walking, talking Euro-summer princess—all sun-kissed skin, linen dresses, and effortless grace. When she laughed, it sounded like wind chimes and sunshine. When she looked at Logan, her eyes lit up, and when Logan looked back at her, his entire rugged, hockey-player posture softened. You wanted to hate her. God, you tried to find a flaw, just a tiny crack in the porcelain, so you could justify the bitter ache in your chest.
But she was lovely. She was sweet to you. Grace Ivers was sweet to everyone.
And that just made the guilt you felt feel like a disease.
After watching Logan press a soft, lingering kiss to Grace’s temple at a party on Friday night, something inside you finally snapped. You couldn't do it anymore. You vowed to yourself to not be in any way associated with your feelings for john logan. Grace didn’t deserve it. You had to push him away.
Starting Saturday morning, you were unreachable.
By Sunday, your phone was blowing up with notifications. Logan texted you multiple times.
{John Logan 🤠🚙🎠} Saturday @ 3:27pm: hey, want to go play pool with gar later tonight?
{John Logan 🤠🚙🎠} Saturday @ 3:52 pm: Garrett said he could pick you up
my phone reminded me your final is tomorrow. Good luck 🤞
---- No answer. ----
{John Logan 🤠🚙🎠} @ 7:09pm :
dude, what’s going on? let me know where you are okay. Why is your location off?
———————-
On Monday, he tried calling. It had gone to voicemail after 3 rings. You knew he had gone to Allie and Hannah to ask where the hell you were, but you had already sworn them to secrecy. They didn't budge, though you knew they hated being caught in the middle.
Then came Tuesday afternoon, and the group chat blew up.
briar fam 🏒🎸❄️🍕🍻 -- groupchat
Garrett: Yo, who is down for dinner tonight? Tacos at our place? We have practice till 8. It’s firm review day so it’ll go over.
Tucker: we live together Gar so yeah
Hannah: meee!! :)
Allie: Dean and I are in.
Garrett: @[y/n]?
Garrett: Hellooo??
Logan: She’s not answering her texts.
Garrett: @[y/n], I know you’re seeing these. Stop being a brat.
Garrett: Seriously, it’s been four days. Don't make me come hunt you down. I know where you live. You're acting weird. Answer your phone.
The texts stopped coming after that.
You locked your screen, shoving the phone face-down on the wooden table. A heavy sigh escaped your lips as you stared at your laptop screen.
You were sitting in a corner booth at Malone’s. During the night, it was a loud, sticky-floored college bar, but during the day and early evening, it transformed into a cozy, dimly lit haven for students. It smelled like roasted coffee beans and old wood. It was the perfect place to hide. You had two coffees already, you were so tired.
Most importantly, it was Tuesday night. The Briar hockey team had a mandatory late-night practice and film review right now. Logan was safe behind a sheet of ice on the other side of campus. He couldn’t look at you with those perceptive, stormy eyes. Your heart could finally just rest, tucked away in the dark where it belonged.
You took a sip of your lukewarm coffee, trying to focus on your ethics essay.
Ding!🛎️
The front door of Malone’s opened, letting in a gust of chilly evening air. You didn’t look up. Students came and went constantly.
Suddenly, a heavy, leather Briar hockey duffel bag dropped onto the bench across from you.
Your breath hitched. Your eyes flew up.
There he was. John Logan. He was wearing his blue team hoodie, his dark hair still damp from the post-practice shower, smelling faintly of ice, mint, and that distinct, intoxicating scent that belonged entirely to him. He didn’t look angry; he looked exhausted, frantic, and entirely too focused on you.
"You're supposed to be at practice," you whispered, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.
"Skipped the film review," Logan said, his voice a low, rough rumble. He slid into the booth, effectively trapping you in your corner. "Garrett said you weren't answering. Hannah and Allie are the worst liars when I asked about you. But I knew you’d be right here."
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, forcing you to look at him.
"I know you. You can’t hide from me."
"I'm not hiding," you lied, pulling your cardigan tighter around your shoulders, retreating into yourself. "I've just been busy. I'm studying." You gesture to the pile of papers and books on the table.
"Bullshit." Logan’s eyes narrowed, scanning your face, reading the exhaustion in the dark circles under your eyes, the tension in your jaw. He knew you too well. That was the terrifying part. He could read your shifts in weather better than anyone else. "You've been totally ghosting me since Friday. Did I do something? Did someone say something to you? Did something happen with your dad?”
The genuine concern in his voice was a physical ache in your chest. He was totally, completely oblivious. He thought he was being a good best friend. He had no idea that every time he checked on you, he was tearing the wound wide open.
"Logan, seriously, it’s fine. I’m just stressed," you said, your voice cracking slightly. You began packing your notebook into your bag, your hands shaking. "I have to go—"
"Hey. No...stop." Logan reached across the table and caught your wrist. His grip wasn't tight, but it was firm, warm, and entirely grounding.
A jolt of electricity zapped straight to your core. You froze, staring down at his broad hand wrapped around your wrist. You pulled your hand away and you couldn’t look him in the eye.
"Just talk… to me," he pleaded softly, he pulled his hand away.. "You always do this. Whenever something is wrong, you shut down and run away. You've been doing it since I've known you. But you don't have to do it with me. Whatever it is, we can fix it. Just let me in."
I can't let you in, you thought wildly, the tears burning the backs of your eyes. Because if I let you in, you’ll see that I’m drowning in you. You’ll see that every time you talk about Grace, it kills me. And I can’t ruin your happiness.
"I can't," you said blankly. The loss of his touch felt like ice. Why did he have to do that?
Logan looked at you, a pained, utterly confused expression crossing his handsome face. He wanted to help, he wanted to be your anchor, but he didn't realize he was the storm.
"Why?" he whispered.
You looked away, staring out the window of Malone’s into the dark Tuesday night, wrapping your arms around yourself to keep from falling apart. "Because some things can't be fixed, Logan. Just... let it go. Please. It’s nothing. You can’t fix it. It’s also not your business,” you said, your tone biting and sharp, a defensive wall thrown up to force him away.
Logan blinked, looking like he’d just taken a hard hit to the chest. “Uh—okay. What does that even mean? Your business is my business...isn't it?”
He was so confused. It was written all over his face—the furrow of his brow, the slight parting of his lips, the utter helplessness in his gray eyes. He legitimately didn't get it. To him, you were his person, the one who was supposed to be by his side through everything. He didn't know that his proximity was suffocating you.
Since you wouldn’t budge, he tried to pivot - he faked a small smile and changed the subject “Okayy, come on, how much longer are you studying?” Logan sighed, shifting in the booth and trying to steer things back to normal. “Everyone’s coming over for dinner after film review ends. Which I skipped by the way!” He made a point to poke at the fact that he did that for you. It annoyed you.
You just stared at him. You didn't blink, didn't nod, didn't offer a single word. You just let the heavy, tense silence stretch between you, hoping the vacuum of it would finally force him to get up and leave.
Instead, Logan just sighed again, a sound full of stubborn resignation.
“I’ll drive us over. I can wait,” he said softly.
He didn’t push anymore. "Okay then." He didn't demand an explanation for your attitude or throw a tantrum. Instead, he unzipped his heavy duffel bag, reached inside, and pulled out his own laptop. He set it on the wooden table, opened the screen, and plugged in his phone to charge.
He was staying, apparently.
“What are you doing?” you asked blatantly. “What’s it look like? You’re studying, so I’m studying too. You won’t leave so I’m not leaving yet either.” He said it so matter a fact, he didn’t look at you - he just stated it like it was completely obvious.
You ignored him. You didn’t respond. You just stared back down at your notes.
He was bothering you. That’s what he was doing. He was sitting right across from you, taking up all the air in the booth, his broad shoulders practically filling your entire line of sight. Every time he shifted, his knee brushed yours under the cramped table, sending a sickening, beautiful jolt of adrenaline straight to your heart.
You stared down at your ethics essay, but the words blurred into a meaningless jumble of black ink. You could hear the faint, steady click-clack of him typing. You could smell the lingering scent of his body wash.
He was trying to be your protector, your steady ground, completely oblivious to the fact that his presence was a beautiful, agonizing torture. And you were trapped, forced to sit in the quiet ache of your own making, watching the boy you loved wait for a version of you that you couldn't afford to be anymore.
He peeked up at you above the eye line of his laptop a few times. He didn’t say anything, but you could feel his gaze—heavy, observant, and completely annoying. Every time his eyes flicked toward you, it felt like he was picking at a scab you were desperately trying to keep covered.
Finally, the pressure in your chest became too much to bear.
“Can you just leave, Logan? I’m not going to dinner.”
Logan lowered his laptop screen a fraction of an inch, his brow furrowing. “What? Why? I don’t get it. Whats happening? You get into a fight with Garrett or something?”
“I said—I’m not going.” The lid on your emotions finally blew right off. “Why do you have to be so fucking annoying?”
The words sliced through the quiet hum of Malone’s like a knife.
As soon as they left your mouth, the air in the booth turned to ice. You had never talked to him like that. Ever. Even in your worst moods, Logan was always the one exception, the person you treated with absolute softness.
The immediate flash of hurt in his gray eyes made your stomach drop. Instantly, guilt flooded your features, washing away the anger. You hadn't meant to snap like that. You didn’t want to hurt him—you just wanted to push him far enough away so he couldn’t see how badly you were hurting.
“Sorry, I shouldn't have sai-” you whispered, looking down at your hands, your voice thick and trembling. “I... I just don’t feel like going today, okay? I need to study.”
Logan didn't snap back. He didn't get angry. He just slowly closed his laptop, the quiet thud of the screen sounding like a gavel dropping. He stared at you, really stared at you, looking past the defensive wall, past the harsh words, straight into the raw vulnerability you were trying so hard to hide.
"Hey," he said, his voice dropping into a register so quiet and gentle it made your throat ache. "Look at me."
You forced your eyes up to meet his. You didn’t cry. You wouldn’t. The prickle of hot tears burned behind your eyelids, but you swallowed them down, locking your jaw so tight it ached. You weren’t letting him in. If you let even one tear slip, the whole dam would break, and he’d see every single messy, pathetic piece of your shattered heart.
“I can drive us over,” he repeated, his voice laced with a desperate kind of patience.
“Honestly, I’d rather walk," you said under your breath.
Logan scoffed, a bitter, disbelieving sound. “Jesus, [y/n]. God forbid you actually want to… I don’t know—talk to me?”
The patience evaporated, replaced by the raw frustration of a guy who had reached his absolute limit. He began stuffing his laptop back into his duffel bag, his movements jerky and aggressive. He zipped the bag with a sharp, loud snap.
“I don’t know what your damage is,” he said, slinging the heavy strap over his shoulder. He stood up from the booth, towering over you, looking down with a mixture of hurt and anger. “But you’d never speak to me like that. So either someone’s like possessed my best friend or some bizarre shit, or you, for reasons that are unknown to me, suddenly hate me?" He stares at you. You say nothing back.
He looks around at Malone's. Just confused as hell, "...I don’t even know which is worse, honestly.”
He rubbed a hand over his face, looking suddenly exhausted. “But figure it out. You know I’m tired too, okay? Garrett’s right about you being a brat sometimes. I skipped film review to come here, specifically to find you. Because I was worried about you.”
The word worried twisted the knife even deeper. He was worried about you as a friend. He was losing sleep over you as a friend. And it was infuriating how much he didn’t get it.
You leaned back against the vinyl booth, coldness masking the agony inside you.
“I didn’t ask you to do that,” you said, your voice flat, devoid of the warmth he was used to. “Do you want me to thank you, Logan?”
Logan flinched as if you’d slapped him. The anger in his eyes hardened into something cold and distant, a look he usually reserved for opponents on the ice, never for you. He stared at you for three long, agonizing seconds.
“No --,” he snapped, his voice was sharp. “I don’t want you to thank me, y/n. I just wanted to check in on you. But clearly, you’re too busy pushing everyone away.”
He grabbed his duffle off the booth seat with a strong force that almost startled you. He was about to leave, and he stopped, "You know you can talk to me. Whatever it is, we'd figure it out." He voice trailed off, he sounded like he was in pain and he almost reached out to place his hand on your arm, but he stopped himself. Then he walked out of Malone’s. Guess he learned that one from his dad too. The heavy glass door swinging shut behind him with a dull thud with the bell dinging again.
The silence he left in his wake was deafening. You sat completely still in the corner booth, staring at the empty seat across from you. The scent of him still lingered in the air, mocking you. Your hands were shaking so badly you had to fist them into your cardigan.
You had won. You had successfully pushed him away. You had protected your secret.
Hot tears brim up to your eyes, "Of course I like you, Logan. You’re a good guy." You thought in your head. It’s better this way, the further you were away from him is the further you are from being hurt by him not loving you - it kills you either way.
summary: john logan was your best friend and the guys, allie, and hannah were your family. everyone knows that you had liked logan for forever but you knew that he didn't feel the same way about you. logan was with grace and you respected it. you couldn't even hate her for it - she's perfect and she's perfect for him. it's okay though, your family's got you.
warnings: nothing really - but angst, sad!!! and yearning!! smoking, drinking? swearing
author's note: i love off campus!!! its too good, already on my 3rd re-watch and i just felt inspired to write :) pls be nice lol also garrett is a protector for sure and i love their friendships so much! also no, nothing is going on with yn and garrett - he's very much so in love with hannah wells, as he should because she's such a cutie i love her so much
________________
The music in the hockey house was way too fucking loud, the laughter too easy, and the air just a little too warm. It was a typical Friday night house party where there were so many people you literally didn't know except for your friends even though the guys lived here. There was yelling, beer pong, people making out and it was just a messy. Classic Friday night around here. You were over it though.
I sat on the arm of the couch, a half-empty solo cup in my hand, watching the room. My eyes, entirely against my own willpower, kept drifting to the kitchen counter.
To Logan.
Everyone called him Logan, but to me, the name always felt different in my mouth. It wasn’t a sharp syllable thrown across a crowded room; it was a quiet rhythm. I loved the way it sounded when I said it, loved the stupid, effortless way he’d look up and grin whenever I used it. I had been in love with him for months, a slow-burning ache that I kept tucked away behind easy banter and casual shoulder bumps.
But tonight, the ache was sharp.
Grace was standing next to him. She said something, her hand resting lightly on his forearm, and Logan threw his head back, laughing that rich, infectious laugh that usually made my chest ache. Tonight, it just made it tight. He looked down at her, his expression softening in a way that had nothing to do with friendship. He reached up, his fingers gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
It was a tiny gesture. She had every right.
It was completely devastating.
I forced a swallow of my drink, the burning liquid doing nothing to wash down the lump in my throat. I knew Grace was amazing. I liked her. Everyone did. That was the worst part—you couldn’t even be mad at her. But watching the way Logan’s gaze lingered on her face, the way his body naturally leaned into her space... it felt like watching a door quietly click shut right in front of me.
"You're going to burn a hole right through his jacket if you keep staring like that."
The quiet, low voice right beside me made me jump. I spilled a few drops of my drink onto my hand.
Garrett was standing there, leaning against the wall with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He wasn't looking at Logan and Grace; he was looking straight at me.
Garrett was like a brother to me. He was the anchor of our chaotic group—the guy who noticed when someone’s drink was empty, when someone was too quiet, or, in this case, when someone's heart was breaking in real-time. He was entirely too observant for my own good.
"I-I'm not staring," I lied, my voice a little too high, a little too quick. I wiped my wet hand on my jeans. "Just... zoning out. Tired."
Garrett didn't say anything right away. He just stepped closer, shifting his weight so he blocked my view of the kitchen counter. It was a small, protective movement, shielding me from the exact thing that was hurting.
"Yeah," Garrett said softly, his eyes full of a quiet, heavy sympathy that made me want to cry. "You look terrible. Have you been sleeping at all?"
I swallowed hard, looking down at my shoes. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to me," Garrett murmured, bumping his shoulder against mine. "Because I know you. And I know how you say his name."
A breathy, humorless laugh escaped my lips. I looked up at Garrett, my eyes stinging. "I really thought I was hiding it better."
"You're okay," he lied gently, offering a small, sad smile. "Come on. Let's go out on the balcony and get some air. It's fucking suffocating in here."
I glanced past Garrett's broad shoulders one last time. Logan was still talking to Grace, his hand now resting casually on the small of her back. He looked happy. He looked completely oblivious.
"Yeah," I whispered, letting Garrett guide me away from the noise and into the cool, quiet night. "Okay."
The cool night air hit my skin, making me shiver instantly. I grabbed a stray hoodie off the back of the kitchen chair on our way out—judging by the faint scent of laundry detergent and old spice, it belonged to one of the guys—and threw it over my tiny tank top and short skirt. It engulfed me, the hem reaching nearly to the bottom of my skirt, but it was exactly the shield I needed.
Garrett pulled open the heavy glass door, and we stepped out onto the porch. The chatter of the party instantly muffled into a low, thumping hum.
We sank into the two faded wooden deck chairs in the corner. The ones you'd see at overnight camp. Some of the boys stole it from somewhere - you don't even really know where. They're mismatched but they're your favourite. You pulled out a pack, tapping a cigarette loose and offering it to him first before lighting your own. He took a long, slow drag, the orange cherry glowing in the dark, before letting out a quiet puff of smoke. He’d only take a few hits tonight; he had a brutal practice tomorrow, and he never messed with his lungs before a training day. It was just a ritual to give his hands something to do. To give me some company. You tap the ashes on the little tray on the ground.
I took a drag of my own, staring out at the dark backyard, letting the silence stretch between us until the tightness in my chest loosened just a fraction.
“She’s literally perfect,” I said suddenly, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. I let out a breathless, self-deprecating laugh, shaking my head. “Even I love her so much. I'd be in love with her too, seriously. That's the worst part.”
Garrett didn’t interrupt, he rolled his eyes slightly. Grace was whatever to him, don't get him wrong - he liked her, he was fine with her around - he just hated how down you get because of some idiot oblivious guy to your feelings. He just exhaled another small puff of smoke, watching me intently.
"She's kind, she's funny, she's gorgeous," I continued, pulling the oversized sleeves of the hoodie down over my hands. "Grace is perfect—and I know that. I can't even be mad at him because his taste is flawless." You slurred your words as you sipped your drink again.
It sucked. It sucked so entirely, because Logan and I weren't just standard friends—we were best friends. For over a year, I had fought so hard to prove the stereotype wrong. I wanted so badly to be the living proof that a guy and a girl could be fiercely loyal, incredibly close, and completely platonic. I had prided myself on it. I had built a wall of "just friends" logic around us, telling myself that what we had was rarer and better than a stupid crush.
But somewhere along the line, the foundation had cracked. And while I was busy trying to prove a point to the world, I went and fell completely, irreversibly in love with him.
"You tried really hard," Garrett said quietly, his voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts. He flicked a bit of ash over the railing. "To keep it just friends. I watched you do it."
"I failed miserably," I whispered, leaning my head back against the cold plastic of the chair.
"What? The fuck. You didn't fail," Garrett countered softly, bumping his sneaker against mine. "You just humaned, rules-be-damned. You can't logic your way out of how you feel about Logan. Especially not when he's... well, Logan."
I looked over at Garrett, grateful for the dark masking the hot tears threatening to spill over my lashes. "What am I supposed to do now?"
Garrett took his last puff, stubbing the cigarette out entirely against the wooden arm rest before tossing it in the tray. He looked at me, his expression fiercely protective. "Y/N -seriously. Fuck him - who cares, Logan is my best friend but he's also an idiot. We sit out here, you wear that giant hoodie, and get to be sad." You sighed and gave a slight smile to him making fun of Logan for the sake of making you feel better. Garrett was a protector - you knew that. "For the record-" he said quickly, "You're the prize okay. Stop this self deprecating bullshit. State champ cheerleader, miss top of your class, makes us stop at the side of the road to help stray cats get to safety even when you make me fucking late to things. He's a loser for not seeing you but expects you to be there for him. Seriously pisses me off," Garrett spat. He gets annoyed at Logan because it's almost like he uses you. "Just drop it, it's okay," you say as you take another hit. You didn't want him to get worked up anymore or else he'll actually might go fight him or something.
Garret was right. He always was when it came to reading people, and right now, his quiet solidarity was exactly the anchor I needed.
We sat out there for a while, the initial heavy silence giving way to a comfortable, familiar rhythm. We split a couple of beers, the cold aluminum freezing my hands inside the giant sleeves of the hoodie. I smoked, and Garrett just leaned back, keeping me company and occasionally knocking his sneaker against mine to remind me he was there. Slowly, the tight knot in my chest began to loosen, replaced by the easy, comforting warmth of a friendship that didn't require me to pretend.
The heavy glass door slid open again, letting out a brief burst of the party’s bass before it clicked shut.
"Oh, look at this. The secret patio smoking society," Tucker’s voice boomed, completely shattering the quiet.
"And they didn't invite us. How cruel," Dean teased, shaking his head with mock offense as he stepped out right behind him.
Tucker was already holding two fresh cans of beer, and Dean had a half-eaten slice of pizza in one hand. Without asking, Tucker practically threw himself into the empty space between our chairs, dropping onto the deck floor and leaning his back against my legs. Dean grabbed a plastic crate from the corner, flipped it upside down, and claimed it as his throne with a satisfied sigh.
"Give me a hit of that," Dean said, nodding toward my cigarette. I handed it over, watching him take a drag before passing it back.
"What are you guys even doing out here? It's freezing," Tucker muttered, though he made absolutely no move to go back inside. Instead, he reached up and yanked the oversized hood of my jacket down over my eyes, laughing when I shoved his hand away.
"Getting away from your loud mouth, mostly," Garrett replied smoothly, a faint, genuine smirk finally touching his lips.
"Hey, my mouth is a national treasure," Tucker shot back, cracking open a beer and handing it up to me. "Drink. You look like you're drowning in that hoodie. Whose is that anyway? Is that Wellsy's?"
"Think it's mine, actually," Dean said, squinting at the faded logo in the dark. "Keep it. It looks better on you anyway."
Sitting there, surrounded by them, a sudden wave of fierce affection washed over me. The sharp, bitter ache in my chest from earlier didn't magically disappear, but it dulled into something manageable. Logan was inside, falling for Grace, and my heart was still a little broken about it—there was no denying that. But looking at Garrett, Tucker, and Dean, I realized I wasn't alone.
We were a little family. A messy, loud, fiercely loyal family built on hockey road trips, shared apartments, and unsaid understandings. They were my boys, and I was their girl. Logan was a part of this family too, but tonight, these three were holding the perimeter for me, keeping the cold at bay without even realizing they were doing it.
I took the beer from Tucker, took a long sip, and laughed out loud at some stupid joke Dean made about their coach. Out here on the porch, wrapped in a friend's oversized hoodie with my brothers around me, I knew I was going to be okay.
It really was the most beautiful, unspoken thing about them.
As the night wore on and the beer cans started piling up on the deck floor, it hit me with a sudden, warm wave of clarity. They all knew.
It wasn't just Garrett. Tucker might have acted like a loud, oblivious golden retriever, and Dean might have been focused on his pizza, but they weren't stupid. They had seen the way I looked at Logan when he wasn't paying attention. They had noticed how my voice softened when I called his name, and they had absolutely noticed the quiet, devastating shift in my posture the second Grace walked into the room tonight.
But the incredible thing about these boys was that they never made me feel pathetic for it. There were no pitying glances, no awkward silences, and absolutely no unsolicited advice. In total, fierce solidarity, they completely locked it down. They drew a protective line around me, ensuring that whatever heartbreak I was nursing stayed out here on the dark porch, completely safe from the rest of the party.
"Hey," Tucker said, nudging my shin with his elbow from where he was sitting on the floor. "You're getting that look on your face again. The 'I'm thinking too hard' look. Stop it."
"I'm not thinking too hard," I laughed, reaching down to shove his shoulder.
"She is," Dean pointed out, blowing a smoke ring into the crisp air. "She's definitely doing the deep-dive brain thing. Don't make me go inside and get the karaoke mic to distract you, because I will, and it will be terrible for everyone involved."
"Jeez, please don't," Garrett murmured, a rare, relaxed grin breaking across his face. "None of us deserve to hear your rendition of Shania Twain again."
"It's a crowd-pleaser and you know it, Gar," Dean shot back, gesturing with his beer.
I looked at the three of them, my heart swelling so much it almost eclipsed the ache from earlier. They were actively keeping the vibe light, throwing up a shield of stupid jokes and easy banter so I wouldn't drown in my own head. They knew Logan was inside with Grace right now. They knew he was probably holding her hand or leaning in close to hear her over the music. But out here, they made sure none of that existed. Out here, I was just their girl, wrapped in Dean’s oversized hoodie, being looked after by the best brothers anyone could ask for.
"Thanks, guys," I said softly, the words slipping out before I could think better of it.
Tucker looked up at me over his shoulder, his expression uncharacteristically soft for a split second before his usual grin returned. He reached up, taking a sip of his beer. "For what? Being incredibly handsome? You're welcome."
"For being tolerable," Garrett corrected smoothly, giving my shoe another gentle tap with his own.
I smiled, leaning my head back against the chair and looking up at the faint stars above the campus. The pain of loving Logan wasn't gone—it would probably be there for a long time—but with this little family around me, I didn't feel so heavy anymore. I felt protected.
summery: you didn’t meant to send nudes to the cute guy in your business class, obviously.
content: 18+ smau
⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･
imessage
josh 🚨❌
Pls yn, let’s talk
I promise i’ll change
Shes nothing like you
“can you believe the nerve of this guy?” hannah asks, handing back your phone after reading through the messages.
allie just sips her juice. she’s back on that ‘weird and green’ liquid diet again. “sounds exactly like sean. it’s not even worth it, babe”
you sigh, adjusting your bag. “i’m not going back to him, aj. i just wanted to show you guys in case he totally bombards us on the way to class and you don't know what to say”
“he’d actually do that?” hannah asks, her eyes wide.
“oh, they’ll do that and more” allie chimes in, setting her green juice down.
“well, i have to get to my business class” you stand up from the couch and head toward the door, pausing just before you grab the handle.
“oh, wait! can one of you swing by my dorm later? see if those dresses by my bed fit either of you. i might need to retake your measurements, han, i think i lost the old ones”
“yeah, i can totally do that” hannah reassures you.
you shout a quick goodbye and slip out the door.
instagram
yourusername
yourusername lil catch up :)
comments
user so stunning
user lovee
summer.d my girllll
user fashion major girlyyy
hannahwells very needed talk
↳ yourusername veryy
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imessages
my girls !!
aj
movie night tn?
you
yess
han
can’t, tutoring
ava (roomie) <3
who?? bruh, cancel rn
aj
garrett graham 🥵🥵
han
sigh
you
WHAT
ava (roomie) <3
WHAT
instagram
yourusername
yourusername digicam hardlaunching han’s..idk
comments
user waitttt teaaaa
alliehayes thanks 4 the coffee
↳ yourusername anything 4 u ;)
user wait i love them tg
graham44 send me that pic
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imessages
han :)
garrett is friends w that cute guy in ur business class
you
🤨 ?
han :)
i could totally put in a good word for u
you
HAHAH i love u but no
han :)
whyy don’t get stuck on josh now
you
it’s not that LOL but like we are classmates, wouldn’t it be awk?
han :)
ur not classmates forever
you
the rest of the semester is long enough
plus if i rlly wanted him, i already have his #
han :)
well, text him !!
you
so adamant
why
han :)
🤷♀️ u need to get laid?
you
HA, bye han
han :)
think abt it
think about it? of course you have! you’ve done more than just think about it — just not out loud.
well, maybe a little out loud. you mentioned it, very briefly, to hannah and allie, but that was back when the semester had just started and hannah wasn’t all buddy-buddy with the whole hockey team.
plus, jocks weren’t really your type anyway.
instagram
yourusername
yourusername don’t remember last night but ;)
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user cuteee
joshuaap 😍 so hot
user what camera ??!!
alliehayes don’t drink ever again
↳ yourusername i’m scared
↳ alliehayes no, ur screwed
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* @j.logan started to follow you *
you don’t really remember how it happened.
you were at the bar, building up the courage to finally talk to the cute guy from your business class — john logan, you’d remembered his name. hannah and allie were both there, hyping buying shots you up and pushing you to just go for it. but the exact second garrett, hannah’s new (and totally fake) boyfriend, showed up, your courage completely plummeted. you couldn’t believe you had actually been about to walk over there.
it wasn’t just the loud, unmistakably energy garrett brought with him everywhere he went, but the sudden realization that every other athlete on the team probably pulled that exact same level of attention. and you weren’t exactly wrong. by the time you downed your third— and what you had hoped to be your last — shot, logan was already chatting up a cute redhead. her hand was resting on his arm, and she was leaning in, giggling at whatever he was saying.
your disappointment didn’t last long, though. a few quick texts to josh, and you were out of the bar, hooking up in the back of his car.
which brings you to right now, a couple of days later.
you're standing here in a black, incredibly skimpy lingerie set. maybe it’s just your hormones, or maybe it’s the fact that ever since that night, the one you still can't fully piece together, logan has actually been making an effort to strike up small talk with you.
your head can handle it just fine. you can keep the conversation easy and casual. your heart, though, not so much. so, you pushed it away.
you snap another picture, your hair tossed messily to the side, framing your body perfectly. that makes three photos in total. josh will like them, of course he will. they’re simple and direct, and what guy wouldn't? you're horny, josh is a guy, and he’s easy. he’ll drop whatever plans he has to come over, satisfy you, and leave.
no strings, no effort. that’s what you wanted.
you open your contacts and type 'j' into the search bar. you don’t even hesitate, automatically assuming josh’s name will pop up first because he was the most recent. you hit send without a second thought, tossing your phone aside to change back into your cotton shorts and pj shirt.
imessage
you
*attachment: 3 images*
need you so bad
come over pls ;)
you understand he might be busy, but in josh time, twenty five minutes of silence after receiving nudes is crazy.
maybe he’s jerking off? whatever.
you open your phone again to look through the pictures you sent. there was the one on the bed, back arched and boobs pressed up. another one, taken through your computer's webcam, showing off all your curves. the last one is what you’d consider the most revealing, in the mirror, legs open, your fingers playing with your own arousal.
as you go to exit the chat, your eyes catch the icon at the top of the conversation, and you feel like you might actually go into cardiac arrest.
you freeze in bed, then slowly sit up. you might honestly have to erase yourself from planet earth, because there is absolutely no way this is happening to you. in the mindless, stupid, totally checked out state you were in, you didn't just send those pictures to the wrong person, you sent them to someone who makes you want to end either your own life or his.
fuck.
meanwhile, those exact images were popping up on john logan’s screen just as he was wrapping up practice.
he’d noticed your name flash on his phone earlier, which was weird since the cute girl from his business class had never texted him before. he figured maybe you just needed the lecture notes. but the second practice ended, his sweaty, bruised body won the debate, and he decided to hit the showers before checking his messages.
only ten minutes had passed since you sent them. half the team was already out of the locker room, and the few guys who remained were packing up to leave. it had been a genuinely shitty practice, with coach o’shea forcing the d-men to stay late for extra drills. but the moment logan actually opened your message, every ounce of that exhaustion completely vanished from his mind and body.
holy fucking smokes.
he blew a heavy breath out of his mouth and leaned back against his locker cubicle, his eyes locked onto the screen, unable to look away for even a second.
his dick seemed to work a hell of a lot faster than his brain did, because before he could even process what he was looking at, he was already sporting a semi.
he couldn’t tell if ten seconds or ten minutes had flown by, but he finally snapped out of the million racing thoughts in his head, one louder than all the rest.
this wasn’t meant for him. no way.
sure, he’d received plenty of unprovoked nudes from girls before, but you just didn’t seem like the type to do that.
fuck. he knew for a fact those pictures weren’t meant for him, but he couldn't simply just look away, and—
before his thoughts could spiral any further, another text from you flashed across the screen.
imessage
you
omg wrong person!!!
don’t look at those, or save them
not for u obvi
fuck, i’m sorry
john logan (business class)
sure, but only if u tell me who were they for?
because i’m pretty sure your pretty little pussy isn’t going to take care of itself.
you
???????????
just forget abt this pls
john logan (business class)
i can’t, baby
*attachment: 1 image*
you don’t understand anything anymore.
one second you are dying of total embarrassment, practically booking a one way flight to antarctica while begging john logan to forget about your... completely indecent, completely accidental pictures. the next, your airway almost entirely shuts down at the sight of his text, showing a clear image of logan gripping his dick right through his sweatpants.
oh my gosh. this cannot actually be happening to you right now.
you're usually the good one at texting. your friends always come to you when they need the perfect reply written for them, but you never, in a million years, thought you’d find yourself in a position like this.
you
thanks ?????
thanks? you truly are an idiot.
meanwhile, logan chuckles. yep, you definitely don’t do this very often, or ever, by the looks of it.
based on the last text he sent, he had been hoping for something a little more than your dry, unintentionally funny response.
he had already walked out of the arena by now and was sitting in his car. logan isn't blind, he obviously finds you extremely attractive. jumping from simple classmates to a quick, accidental hookup doesn’t sound like a bad idea at all to him. he knows you aren’t usually the type for that kind of thing, but maybe he can sweet talk you into it.
john logan (business class)
c’mon, don’t u need someone to take of u?
i’ll make it worth ur while, i promise
he almost gives up when five minutes pass and there’s nothing but a 'read' receipt under his message.
almost, though.
john logan (business class)
pls, baby
want u so bad
his dick twitches in his pants when he reads the message that comes through.
you
🙄 bristol house, door #67
he smiles at your text and immediately turns on his engine. before pulling out, he sends a quick reply.
john logan (business class)
good girl, i’m omw
i rlly like the set but im sure i’ll like u better without it so don’t bother having it on when i get there.
instagram
j.logan
j.logan thanks for letting borrow the cam, babe❤️
comments
deandilaurentis pussy whippeddddd 🤣
↳ beaumaxwell @alliehayes
↳ alliehayes pls 😭
user so cute
hannahwells i recognize that camera anywhere 🧐
↳ yourusername 🤭
j.tucker as long u don’t bring her around my kitchen anymore
Or how John Logan claimed every single day of your week—first as a milestone, now as a minefield.
word count : 3k — part 1/7 — the angst is cominggg — enjoy and please tell me what you think !
Chapter one — monday
The rain in Briar U always felt personal on Mondays.
You sat in the darkest, furthest corner of the coffee shop just off campus, tucked away in a small wooden booth where the shadow of a large decorative pillar partially blocked you from view. The oversized hood of your sweatshirt was pulled up so low it practically cut off your peripheral vision, anchoring you in your own tiny, isolated bubble. You were hiding in plain sight, your fingers tightly curled around a ceramic mug that had long lost its warmth. You didn’t want to be seen. You didn't want to talk to anyone. More importantly, you didn’t want him to know you were there.
Two tables away, a group of hockey players was laughing, their loud, easy confidence echoing against the brick walls and rising above the hum of the espresso machine. You didn’t need to look up to check. You knew the exact cadence of that deep, gravelly laugh. But today, it sounded entirely off. He was smiling at whatever story his teammate was telling, but his eyes weren't bright. They looked completely hollow. He was putting on a damn good show for the rest of the room, giving the perfect change to everyone around him, pretending everything was fine. You knew he was faking it. You knew it because you had spent countless Mondays sitting right across from him after that very first afternoon in this café, learning every single detail of his face.
You, on the other hand, couldn't even manage to fake it.
John Logan was sitting just a few feet away, and the simple act of breathing the same air felt like inhaling broken glass.
Don't look, you told yourself, forcing your eyes strictly back to the open notebook in front of you. You tried to focus on the text, but the lines of ink had blurred into a meaningless mess minutes ago. You couldn't sit here much longer. Hearing his voice, knowing the heavy, shifting undercurrent of whatever had actually happened between you, was utterly suffocating. Every memory, every quiet look shared in the dark, now carried a strange, cold weight you couldn't fully parse. It felt like walking through a house where the mirrors had suddenly been tilted—everything looked familiar, but entirely distorted. You just knew that the ground beneath your feet had given way, and the boy who used to be your anchor was now the very thing making you sink.
Before everything shattered into a million bitter pieces, Mondays didn't feel like a punishment. Back when the weather was just starting to turn and the leaves were first hitting the pavement, a Monday was just the day a stupid, rusty bike chain started everything.
The chain on your bike hadn't just slipped; it had completely jammed itself between the gear and the frame, leaving your hands covered in streaks of black grease and your frustration hitting its absolute peak. You were already late for class, the sky was starting to open up into a steady, annoying drizzle, and you were aggressively tugging at the cold metal, muttering every single curse word you knew under your breath.
"Need a hand, or are you just trying to paint your bike black?"
The voice was smooth, laced with a quiet amusement. You snapped your head up, your jaw set, ready to fire back a biting, sarcastic remark to whoever was bold enough to mock your misery, but the words caught directly in your throat.
Standing there was John Logan.
You recognized his face instantly. Just a few weeks prior, your roommate had practically dragooned you into following Fifth Line and you’d then scrolled past pictures of the boys a dozen times. But while players like Di Laurentis or Graham were legendary for their very public escapades, Logan was different. It wasn’t that he had a reputation for being difficult or totally unattainable—people just knew less about his private life.
And right now, that exact guy was standing over your broken bike, wearing a backward Briar cap, a damp grey hoodie, and a soft, genuinely amused smile.
"I've got it," you lied flatly, wiping your forehead with the back of your arm, which undoubtedly just smeared black grease across your skin.
"Sure looks like it," he chuckled, completely unbothered by your defensive tone.
He didn't hesitate for more than a second. Dropping his duffel bag onto the damp grass, he knelt down right beside you, completely ignoring the dirt and moisture soaking into the knees of his sweatpants. His hands were large, his knuckles slightly scraped and heavily calloused from years of gripping a hockey stick, but they were surprisingly deft as he reached into the tangled metal.
"Name's Logan, by the way," he said casually, his shoulder brushing against yours as he leaned in to get a better angle on the gear.
"I know who you are," you muttered, watching his fingers work.
He glanced up at that, his piercing eyes locking directly onto yours from just inches away. A playful, unexpected glint danced in his dark pupils. "Should I be worried, or are you just a hockey fan?"
"In your dreams, hockey boy. Just fix the chain."
Logan let out a laugh that vibrated straight through the damp air and right into your chest. With one quick, expert wrench of his wrist, the chain popped back into place with a loud, satisfying click. He stood up smoothly, pulling a white rag from his back pocket to wipe his stained fingers. He leaned in just close enough for you to catch the sharp scent of mint and cold winter air. "There. Good as new. You owe me a coffee for the rescue. Next Monday. Same time?"
You looked at him, then down at your bike. He was a complete stranger, a star athlete, and entirely out of your usual social circle. Between the sheer intimidation of having his full attention and the dark cloud of your upcoming final exams looming over your schedule, you didn't have the time or the energy for whatever this was. So you chose safety.
"I can't. I have exams coming up and I really need to focus," you said, grabbing your handlebars. You gave him a small, too formal nod. "But thanks for the help, Logan."
You wheeled your bike away, keeping your eyes straight ahead, though you could still hear the low, faintly amused chuckle that followed you down the campus path.
During the days that followed, you spent an embarrassing, deeply frustrating amount of time thinking about that brief interaction. You tried to force him out of your mind, but every time you closed your eyes to study, you saw that easy, dimpled smile. You were completely certain you would never cross paths with him again anyway. Briar U was a massive campus, and even if you happened to attend a game, it wasn't like you'd ever actually interact. At most, you’d just find yourself staring a little too much from the upper decks. It had just been a random, meaningless fluke.
Until Sunday night, when your phone buzzed with an unknown number.
You unlocked the screen, eyebrows knitting together as you read the message.
Unknown: Hey. You left your book behind at the quad last Monday. I picked it up so the rain wouldn't ruin it.
You stared at the text, completely baffled. You tapped out a quick reply, your mind racking through everything you had been carrying that day.
You: Who is this? And I didn't lose any books.
The response came back almost instantly, making your chest tighten slightly with an odd sort of anticipation.
Unknown: Pretty sure it's yours. It has your name written clearly at the top of the page.
A second later, a photo message popped up. You clicked it, your breath hitching. It was a close-up shot of a crisp, white page, and your name was indeed written at the top in neat, precise ink. But the framing of the photo was so tight and the lighting so specific that it completely blocked out the title or any actual text. You couldn't see what the book was about at all. A spike of pure bewilderment hit you. Were you losing your mind? Was this some kind of elaborate prank? Or were you just so completely exhausted by the crushing weight of your approaching finals that you had genuinely forgotten buying and losing a completely random book?
And then, it clicked.
The quad. Last Monday.
There was only one person who fit that timeline. Only one person who had been anywhere near you while you were fumbling with a broken bike chain. Your mind immediately flashed to a backward Briar cap, grey sweatpants, and a lazy, dimpled smile.
John Logan.
But a heavy wave of skepticism immediately followed the thought. It was impossible. You hadn’t given him your number. You hadn't given him anything except a sarcastic attitude and a flat refusal to grab coffee. How on earth could he have tracked down your contact info?
Determined to call his bluff, your fingers flew across the keyboard.
You: What the hell? What book is that, Logan?
You held your breath, staring at the screen as the little typing bubbles appeared, vanished, and then appeared again.
Unknown: So you do remember me. I’m flattered.
A small, uninvited smile tugged at the corner of your lips, but you quickly bit it down. He was deflecting.
You: Answer the question. And how did you even get my number?
Unknown: Come to the coffee shop tomorrow at two and find out. I'll bring it. Both the answers and the book.
You chewed on your bottom lip, staring at the flashing cursor. Part of you was entirely intrigued, but that same wave of hesitation from the week before washed over you. Looking into those intense brown eyes without the distraction of a broken bike made your stomach do a nervous, complicated flip. You didn't want to deal with the distraction, especially with your GPA on the line.
You: I told you last week, I have exams coming up and I need to focus. Just leave it at the library front desk or something.
You locked your phone and shoved it under your pillow, determined to ignore it. But three minutes later, it buzzed again. You swiped it open, your heart hammering against your ribs.
Unknown: It'll take ten minutes. Two o'clock. Don't flake on me.
You let out a frustrated, breathless laugh, throwing your head back against your pillow. He was relentless. Yet, as you stared at the cryptic message, you knew you were going to go. It was a crowded coffee shop in broad daylight—it wasn't like you were walking into a dangerous trap, and you desperately needed to know how he'd pulled this off.
When you walked into the café the next afternoon, your eyes scanned the crowded room until they landed on him sitting in a back corner booth. John Logan didn't look like a guy holding lost property. Instead, he had two steaming porcelain cups already waiting on the table and a lazy, triumphant grin spreading across his face.
As you slid into the opposite chair, you dropped your heavy bag and leveled him with a steady look. "Alright, hand it over. Because I checked my notes twice and I definitely didn't lose anything."
With a soft chuckle, Logan reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a brand-new, crisp paperback book, gently sliding it across the wooden table toward you.
You blinked, looking down at the cover. The title read: It's All About the Bike: The Pursuit of Happiness on Two Wheels.
You picked it up, flipping it open to the first page. There, written in bold, neat handwriting at the very top, was your name. You lifted your eyes to him, completely stunned, realization washing over you. "You bought this. And you wrote my name in it."
"Technically, I didn't lie," Logan said with a modest shrug, a massive grin breaking across his face as he rubbed the back of his neck. "It is your book. It has your name in it. I just hadn't officially given it to you yet. But I knew a regular text invitation would get me another 'I can't, I have to study' excuse," he shrugged. "I had to innovate."
"You are completely absurd, you know that?" you sighed, though a warm flush was rapidly creeping up your neck, your heart doing a stupid, uninvited flutter against your ribs. "And how did you get my number?"
"I asked around," he admitted smoothly, leaning his forearms on the table, bridging the distance between you without forcing it. "Turns out we have mutual friends." He pushed one of the steaming cups toward you. "Black coffee, right? Figured you'd want something strong enough to get you through all that studying."
You wrapped your hands around the warm ceramic, your defenses beginning to crack under his easy, attentive demeanor. "Don't get cocky, Logan. You're barely pushing past mildly annoying right now."
"Mildly annoying?" he chuckled, leaning in a bit closer, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Ouch. Come on, give me a little credit. I got you a book. I'm a local superstar, you know. My ego is fragile."
He placed a hand over his heart, mocking a look of deep, tragic injury, though his tone was entirely sarcastic.
You let out a genuine laugh, leaning your chin on your hand, a sharp, playful smirk matching his. "Oh, please. A superstar? No. I have a much better title for you now. I'm calling you Mavis."
Logan blinked, thoroughly amused. "Mavis? Like someone's grandma? Alright, what's the breakdown on that?"
"Mildly Annoying, Very Irritating Superstar," you proudly declared. "Since you insisted on it."
He threw his head back, a rich, booming laugh escaping him that made a few people at the counter turn around. He shook his head, looking down at his coffee with a warm smile. "You’re brutal. But honestly? I'll take it." He looked back up, his brown eyes locking onto yours with a sudden, quiet intensity. "What about you? I'll need a counter-acronym."
You spent the next hour trading sharp, playful barbs. You found out he was surprisingly intelligent, matching your wit at every single turn. Before you left, you noticed a small, neon-yellow post-it note sticking out from the middle of the pages he’d given you. Intrigued, you opened it to the marked page, your eyes landing on a heavily underlined quote:
“It was always scary, Charlie replied, but that was why you did it, right? If it was safe... it wouldn’t be fun.”
You had looked up at him, the comfortable, electric chemistry between you becoming so heavy it was almost dizzying. You had smiled then, thinking about the thrilling, terrifying rush of letting someone like him into your life.
The loud, obnoxious sound of a hockey player throwing a crumpled napkin at Beau snapped you brutally back to reality, the warmth of the memory instantly evaporating into nothingness. It was replaced by the freezing, hollow ache currently rotting your chest from the inside out.
If it was safe, it wouldn’t be fun.
God, what a joke. You had jumped right off the cliff with him, thinking the thrill was worth the fall. But it hadn't been safe. Not even close. And now, you were left completely alone, staring at the wreckage of a shattered heart, realizing exactly how unsafe John Logan truly was.
Shoving your laptop into your bag with trembling, rigid hands, you pulled your hood even lower over your face, zipped your jacket all the way up to your chin, and finally stood up to leave. You couldn't be here anymore. You couldn't listen to him exist, laughing with his friends as if he hadn't completely destroyed you.
You kept your head down, navigating the narrow, crowded space between the tables, intending to slip through the front door like a ghost. He hadn't noticed you earlier, tucked away in your dark corner, and you wanted nothing more than to keep it that way. But as you passed the exact edge of his table, a sudden, involuntary shift in the air pressure made you glance up through the shadow of your hood.
Logan’s head had turned.
Up close, the easy smile he’d been forcing for his teammates vanished instantly. He just looked tired, the tight set of his jaw giving away the exhaustion he was trying to hide from the rest of the room.
The moment his brown eyes locked onto yours beneath your hood, he froze.
The color drained from his face instantly, his chest hitching in a sharp, subtle yet audible gasp. For one agonizing, volatile second, the entire noisy coffee shop stopped spinning. His lips parted, trembling slightly, looking as if he wanted to jump up and shatter the space between you.
You didn't give him the chance. You tore your gaze away, a sharp, suffocating sob catching in your throat, and pushed past the heavy glass doors of the coffee shop, stepping out into the rain.
You walked fast, the icy drops hitting your face as you crossed the quad, your chest aching so badly you could barely draw a full breath. The moment you rounded the corner of the building and found a bit of shelter under the concrete awning, you stopped, trying to force the freezing air into your lungs.
You were still shivering, rain dripping from the edge of your hood, when a sudden vibration buzzed against your thigh.
Your fingers trembled as you reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. Just as the screen lit up, a fresh notification popped up across the glass. It was an unread text message from an unlisted, nameless string of digits—a quiet reminder of the night you had finally deleted his number.
Unknown: Don't run. Just give me five minutes, please. - Mavis.
Your thumb hovered over the screen, your heart hammering a wild, painful rhythm as you stared at the short message. No desperate pleading, no grand explanations—just that familiar nickname, a sharp echo of the days when things were simple.
With a shaking hand, you locked the phone without typing a single letter, shoving it deep into your pocket. You pulled your wet hood tighter around your face and kept walking into the storm.
One day down. Six more to survive. Then repeat.
But a few strides later, your phone buzzed in your pocket again.
you're adorable omg thank you for sharing my story ! glad you liked it 💕
your writing made my day!! Thank you for that masterpiece 🥹 you should definitely write more logan fics IF U CAN OFC and maybe the other boys too? I would love to see more of tucker tbh 😩 I don’t see anyone writing about him
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.
word count : 6.1k (sorry) — enemies to lovers, kind of — logan is moody — SMUT, minors DNI — Enjoy and please tell me what you think !
One — "Oh, fuck!"
The music wasn’t just loud; it was vibrating through the old floorboards and thumping directly against your ribs. You’d only been there for twenty minutes, entirely dragged along by Hannah, who was currently tucked under Garrett’s arm near the doorway. Watching them was sweet—almost nauseatingly so—but it left you feeling like a ghost drifting through a sea of oversized jerseys, loud hockey players, and the thick scent of cheap beer. For the most part, the rest of the boys were incredibly welcoming; even though you'd just met them tonight, they were already loud, inherently kind and easy to be around.
Except for John Logan.
You hadn’t actually been introduced to him yet, but you’d felt his suffocating vibe the moment he walked through the door. He looked like absolute thunder. Briar had dropped a frustrating, tight game that evening, and while Garrett was channeling his nervous energy into playing the charismatic host, Logan was wearing his irritation like armor. Leaning against the kitchen counter with a dark scowl that practically screamed at people to stay away, his knuckles were white around his glass, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for a reason to snap.
Navigating that crowded, chaotic kitchen with a brim-filled, sticky mixed drink was your first mistake. Your second was catching the rubber toe of your sneaker on the lifting edge of a rogue anti-fatigue mat near the sink.
You stumbled forward, your arms flailing wildly in a desperate, ungraceful bid for balance. You didn’t fall, but your cup did a violent, mid-air flip, slipping from your fingers. A torrential wave of sticky, dark rum and cola splashed directly across the pristine gray fabric of Logan’s Henley shirt, soaking through the chest, darkening the material instantly and dripping down the front of his dark jeans.
Logan froze. His head snapped down slowly, looking at the huge, dark stain spreading across his clothes, and then his gaze lifted to yours. His eyes were blazing, a dangerous brown, entirely unamused and dripping with venom. "Oh, fuck!" he snapped, his voice cutting right through the ambient noise like a knife. He pulled the wet, heavy fabric away from his skin with two fingers, a look of pure annoyance twisting his features. "Are you serious right now? Watch where the hell you're going."
The sheer aggression in his tone caught you completely off guard, instantly sparking your own deeply ingrained, stubborn nature. You had been about to apologize profusely, the words of remorse already forming on your tongue, but the bite in his words choked them right out of your throat. You squared your shoulders, refusing to back down under his glare. "It was an accident," you retorted, pulling a few crumpled, napkins from the counter and shoving them toward his chest. "You don't have to be a complete dick about it. It’s just a shirt, I'm pretty sure you'll survive."
"It's a wet, sticky shirt at the end of a terrible, exhausting fucking day," he growled, his voice dropping an octave as he batted your hand away with a harsh flick of his wrist. He didn't take the napkins; they fluttered uselessly to the floor. Instead, he leaned down slightly, giving you a long, icy glare that made you feel about two inches tall, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle tick. "Next time, look up from your feet." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and storming down the hallway toward the stairs, muttering curses under his breath.
You stood there rooted to the spot, your cheeks burning with a toxic mixture of intense embarrassment and sudden, deep-seated dislike. Garrett materialized at your side a split second later, a sympathetic, slightly apologetic grimace on his face as he patted your shoulder gently. "Hey, don't sweat it," Garrett reassured you quietly, glancing warily toward the stairs where Logan had disappeared. "Logan’s just in a brutal mood because of the game, and he hates losing more than anyone. He's usually a great guy, I swear. He’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow morning."
You forced a tight, fake smile and nodded, but as you looked down at your empty, sticky hands, a bitter taste lingered in your mouth. Spoiler alert: he wouldn't forget. and neither would you.
Two — "Fuck you"
A few weeks later, the initial friction hadn’t dissolved; it had hardened into a permanent, icy chill. You tried your best to play nice for the sake of Hannah and Allie, but Logan made it incredibly difficult. You saw how he was with the rest of their circle—fiercely loyal, easygoing, and warm. He was the kind of guy who quietly made sure Allie and Hannah got home safe from their late shifts and spent his free afternoons helping Jules with media stuff. He was patient with the entire world. But the exact millisecond you walked into a room, his posture stiffened and his jaw set. You hated being the sole exception to his good nature, so you simply stayed out of his way.
The breaking point came on a gray, rainy Tuesday afternoon. You and Hannah had walked over to the hockey house to help Tucker untangle a massive, soul-crushing history assignment he was drowning in. The three of you were spread across the dining table, surrounded by a chaotic mess of highlighters, laptop cords, and heavy library textbooks.
The back door clicked open, and Logan walked in. He was wearing his Briar athletic gear, a damp towel slung over his shoulders from a post-practice shower, his hair messy and wet. He looked exhausted, his shoulders tense, carrying the unmistakable hangover of a brutal morning practice. Instead of walking past to the kitchen, he paused by the table, leaning over Tucker’s shoulder to scan the open pages. He let out a heavy, deliberate sigh. "You’re using the wrong primary sources for that era, Tuck," Logan said, his voice dropping into that effortless, uninvited authority. "You need the economic logs from the eastern front, not these political manifestos. You’re going to tank your thesis statement with those."
Tucker blinked up, looking miserable. "Wait, really? I thought—"
"We checked those, Logan," you interrupted, keeping your voice level and calm as you kept your eyes on your notebook. "We've got it handled," you smiled, trying to remain polite.
Logan didn't move. His eyes slid slowly down to the side of your face, unamused. "Right. Because you're an expert on 20th-century economic trade?"
"No," you said, your pen pausing on the page. "But I can read a syllabus. If you're so worried about Tucker's academic results, you could have sat down and helped him yourself already."
Logan’s jaw tightened, a sharp spike of tension instantly replacing his usual easygoing demeanor. He took his hands out of his pockets and leaned forward, bracing his palms on the edge of the table, firmly invading your space. Tucker shot Hannah a wide-eyed, panicked look across the textbooks, both of them suddenly bracing for impact.
"I gave him my old notes weeks ago," Logan shot back, his voice dropping into something smaller, tighter. "But sure, ignore the guy who actually passed the class because you're too stubborn to take a note from me."
"I'm not being stubborn, you're just being a patronizing prick," you retorted, leaning back in your chair. "You’ve been hovering over this table for five minutes just looking for a problem because you had a bad day and want to take it out on someone."
Logan let out a harsh, dry laugh, though there was a flicker of genuine frustration in his eyes—the look of a good guy who couldn't understand why he kept letting you bait him. "Take it out on someone? Trust me, if I wanted to take anything out on someone, I wouldn't waste my time on you. I'm trying to keep my friend from bombing a midterm because he made the mistake of letting you organize his thoughts."
"My thoughts are perfectly fine, Logan," Tucker muttered quietly under his breath, his eyes glued to his laptop screen, desperately trying to dissolve into the background.
"They're fine when you're left alone, Tuck," Logan said, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring his teammate's plea. "Not when you're letting someone drag their own contrarian agenda into your coursework."
"A contrarian agenda?" You stood up, your chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. Hannah flinched at the sharp noise, withdrawing her hands from the table and motioning for Tucker to leave the potential future crime scene. They both complied quickly, knowing you both well enough to understand that trying to reason with you in that moment would be pointless. "Are you actually insane? I'm sorry that anyone else having a brain in this house threatens your need to micromanage every single thing that happens under this roof."
"It doesn't threaten me at all," Logan said, standing up straight and towering over you, using his height to crowd your space until his shadow completely blocked out the light from the window. The sheer, uncharacteristic anger rolling off him was suffocating; Tucker actually slid his chair back a few inches, completely done with trying to intervene at this point. "It annoys me. You annoy me, actually. I'm not going to walk on eggshells in my own dining room because you can't handle a basic correction."
"I can handle a correction if it's respectful," you shot back, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you refused to take a step away from him. "You don't want to help Tucker. You just want to feel like the smartest guy in the room and that is annoying."
"I dont—," Logan started, a nervous scoff escaping his lips. "You don't know anything about me. Please let's keep it this way, since you clearly can't stand me anyway."
"You're the one who treats me like an absolute inconvenience the second I breathe in your direction!" you yelled, the weeks of being ignored, brushed off, and glared at finally boiling over into raw, unadulterated anger. "If you hate me being here so much, just say it. But stop acting like I'm the one bringing the venom into this house when you're the one dripping it."
The air between you turned completely volatile, thick enough to choke on. A strange, angry electricity snapped between you, the argument completely detached from history or homework now, exposed and raw. Logan stared down at you, his breathing heavy and uneven as he tried to swallow down the sheer frustration rolling off him in waves. He leaned down slightly, bringing his face inches from yours, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle violently ticked in his cheek.
"Fuck you," he whispered.
The words hit with a cold, deliberate weight that vibrated in the dead-silent room. Before you could fire back, Tucker's voice boomed from the kitchen archway, stern and completely done with both of you. "Enough! Both of you, cut it the hell out."
But the damage was done. The look in Logan's eyes made something tight and painful twist in your chest. You refused to sit there and breathe the same air as him for another second. Blindly turning around, you grabbed your laptop and notebook, shoving them into your backpack with rigid, uncooperative hands.
"I'm leaving," you muttered, keeping your eyes glued firmly to the floor as you pushed past Hannah’s reaching hand on the way out. You grabbed your jacket from the hook and left through the front door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the frame, stepping out into the pouring, cold rain with the echo of his voice looping in your head like a curse.
Three — "Fuck off"
For the next month, you became an absolute expert at avoiding John Logan. You turned it into an art form. If he was at a crowded house party, you stayed firmly in the kitchen or on the opposite porch. If the entire group gathered at Malone's, you ensured you sat on the exact opposite end of the long table, hidden behind Dean's loud gestures.
Because of this, you never saw the way his eyes silently followed you when you entered a room, or the almost guilty look that crossed his face whenever your name came up in conversation. He knew he'd crossed a line by cursing at you like that—but your unbreakable silence gave him absolutely no room to apologize, and his own stubborn pride kept him from forcing the issue.
There were small signs of his guilt, though. One random Thursday afternoon, he showed up at the place you shared with Hannah and Allie, claiming he was just dropping off a spare hockey hoodie Garrett had left in his truck. You had stayed in your room with the door cracked just an inch, watching through the tiny gap as he lingered by the entrance, his eyes constantly drifting toward your door, silently checking to see if you'd come out. You hadn't moved an inch, holding your breath until he finally left.
Eventually, Hannah and Allie staged a full-blown intervention. A brand-new club had opened downtown, and they absolutely refused to let you stay home and rot in your room, even though they openly admitted the boys were all coming along. You finally relented, numbing your spiking anxiety by pouring yourself two heavy pre-game vodka crans before leaving the house.
The club was a massive sensory overload—flashing neon lights, artificial fog, and heavy, chest-thumping bass that made communication impossible. By midnight, everyone was comfortably, heavily drunk. You were leaning your back against the sticky mahogany bar, sipping a gin and tonic, when you finally caught sight of him through the pulsing crowd.
Logan was laughing at something Beau said, a dark red bandana tied tightly around his messy hair, looking effortlessly, devastatingly handsome in a black fitted t-shirt. As if sensing the weight of your gaze, his head turned. His dark eyes locked directly onto yours across the smoky crowded room. He didn’t look away. He held your stare for a second, then two, then three — a strange, intense, unreadable heat settling over his features before a group of dancers blocked your view.
A few minutes later, a guy from one of the campus fraternities slithered up next to you on the edge of the dance floor. He was loud, sweaty, and smelled entirely too much like cheap cologne and whiskey — but a little bit of dancing could help taking your mind off of a certain hockey player, you thought. You enjoyed it at first, moving along, focusing on the music, the stranger getting closer and closer as the playlist progressed. But then, just as you started to feel good - just the right amount of alcohol in your veins to feel lighter and relaxed - he tried to grind his hips against yours. You tried to step back, laughing it off politely at first, pushing his hands away, but he didn't take the hint. His hands came down on your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you flush against him with a grip that was far too tight and aggressive.
Before you could even raise your hands to shove his chest, a massive shadow loomed over both of you.
A now familiar hand gripped the frat guy’s shoulder, spinning him around with enough force to make his sneakers squeak on the floor.
"Fuck off," Logan snarled, his voice a low, lethal vibration that cut right through the heavy bass of the music. He leaned in until he was nose-to-nose with the guy. "Get your fucking hands off her and fuck off right now."
The guy looked at Logan and wisely raised his hands in surrender, backing away rapidly into the foggy crowd without throwing a single punch.
Logan’s breathing was heavy, his chest heaving, his fists still clenched tightly at his sides as his eyes scanned the immediate area like a wild animal looking for another threat. He looked ready to tear the entire club apart with his bare hands. Anxious that he might actually chase the guy down for a fight, you stepped directly into his line of sight, capturing his attention.
"Logan," you breathed, your voice soft and entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. Without thinking about the consequences, you reached out, your bare fingers wrapping around his forearm.
The exact millisecond your skin met the warm, rock-hard muscle of his arm, Logan froze entirely. It was the first time the two of you had ever willingly, gently touched, and the effect was instantaneous. The blinding anger seemed to drain out of him in a single breath, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of air. He looked down at your small hand resting on his arm, his skin tingling where you touched him, and then he slowly, deliberately lifted his gaze to your eyes.
The noisy club, the flashing strobe lights, the roaring bass, the alcohol—it all faded into irrelevant background noise. You stood face-to-face on the crowded dance floor, completely motionless, just looking into each other's eyes. Your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, not from fear of the frat guy, but from a sudden, dizzying, terrifying realization. Looking into his wide, intensely focused eyes, you realized you didn't hate him. Not even close. And from the soft, almost vulnerable parting of his lips, he didn't hate you either. You weren't close to being friends yet, but the ice had officially shattered into a million pieces.
Four — "What the fuck"
The shift between you was subtle, but it was absolutely undeniable. The sharp hostility was gone, completely replaced by a quiet, lingering, heavy awareness that neither of you knew quite what to do with.
A week later, you were sitting in a sunlit corner booth at Malone’s. You were completely, entirely absorbed in a brutal, multi-chapter study session for your finals, a pair of heavy over-ear headphones clamped securely over your ears. The sweet, nostalgic melody of American Pie was playing through the speakers, and without even realizing it, you were softly humming along to the chorus, tapping the cap of your yellow highlighter rhythmically against the open pages of your textbook.
You were so deeply focused on your notes that you didn't hear the diner's front door chime, nor did you see Logan walk in. He was there to finalize the last-minute details for the upcoming Hockey Fundraiser with Hannah and Della. But the exact moment his eyes scanned the room and spotted you sitting alone in the corner booth, he stopped dead in his tracks.
He didn’t approach right away. He just stood near the counter, watching you. A soft, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he listened to your faint, slightly off-key humming.
Prickled by the sudden, distinct sensation of eyes on you, you blinked and lifted your head from your textbook. Logan instantly wiped the smile from his face, clearing his throat roughly and pretending to read a missing cat flyer on the bulletin board.
You pulled your headphones down, a small smirk playing on your lips. "You know, if you stare any harder, you're going to burn a hole right through my skull, Logan."
Instead of snapping back with a sarcastic, biting retort like he used to, Logan let out a soft chuckle. He walked over to your booth and, to your surprise, slid into the bench by your side, his knee almost touching yours.
"Just making sure you weren't torturing the rest of the innocent customers with your singing," he teased gently, his shoulder brushing against yours in the tight space.
You rolled your eyes, but there was no spite left in your expression. "I happen to have the voice of a literal angel, thank you very much. You're just jealous."
The playful banter slowly subsided into a comfortable silence. Logan looked at you, his expression turning a little more serious, his eyes softening as his voice dropped to a much quieter register. "Hey… are you doing okay?" Since what happened the other night, obviously implied by the way he looked at you right now, concern written all over his face.
You felt a warm flush creep up your neck and settle into your cheeks. "I'm okay, thank you" you smiled and he nodded, both silently agreeing not to discuss this unpleasant event anymore. You paused, looking down at his large hands resting on the table before forcing yourself to look back up. "How are you doing ? With the fundraiser and everything, I mean. You look like you haven't slept in a week."
He seemed genuinely surprised that you were asking about him. Really, truly asking. He leaned back against the vinyl booth, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he completely opened up to you. He talked about the immense stress of managing the team's high expectations, his constant worries about Jules’ upcoming exams, and the suffocating pressure of the NHL scouts attending the next three games. You listened intently, never interrupting, offering gentle encouragement and a few dry, sarcastic jokes that had him laughing quietly into his palms. For a full hour, the two most stubborn, argumentative people at Briar University just… talked.
"Well," you finally said, checking the diner clock and reluctantly packing your laptop into your bag. "I have to get to my shift at the library. Don't let Della bully you into paying extra for the tableware."
"I won't," Logan said, his eyes tracking your every movement, lingering on your face. "See you around?"
"See you around." You gave him a small, genuine smile—the first real one he'd ever received from you—and walked out into the crisp afternoon air, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks.
Inside the booth, Logan sat completely still for a long, agonizing moment. He watched your retreating figure through the glass window until you turned the corner and disappeared from view. Slowly, he let out a shaky exhale, burying his face entirely in his hands. He rubbed his palms over his eyes, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
"What the fuck," he whispered into the empty diner booth, his voice laced with a mixture of absolute awe and sheer, unadulterated panic. He was screwed. He was completely, utterly, hopelessly screwed, and he knew there was no turning back.
Five — "Well, fuck"
The night of the Briar Hockey Fundraiser at Malone’s was a chaotic, high-energy, glittering success. The entire diner had been completely transformed for the evening—the regular tables had been pushed to the far perimeter to create a makeshift dance floor, strings of warm fairy lights hung across the ceiling, and a massive turnout of wealthy alumni, boosters, and students kept the bar utterly slammed.
You had dressed up significantly for the occasion, wearing a form-fitting, emerald green silk dress that Allie let you borrow from her closet - of course. You spent the first half of the night talking to Hannah near the punch bowl, but your eyes kept unconsciously tracking a certain someone across the room.
Logan was entirely in his element—charming the older donors, laughing easily with his teammates, and looking entirely too edible for your own good.
Around midnight, the formal event finally dissolved into a proper, rowdy college party. The DJ cranked up a heavy, slow, rhythmic pop song, the bass echoing through the floor, and the dance floor filled up with couples. You were navigating the edge of the sweaty crowd, trying to find Allie when a sudden, firm, yet gentle pull on your wrist guided you backward.
You spun around on your heels, your chest bumping right into Logan’s broad torso. "You've been actively dodging me all night," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating right against your skin as his large hand settled naturally around yours. The casual, unhesitating intimacy of the gesture sent a fierce, blinding jolt of electricity straight down your spine.
"I wasn't dodging you, I was letting you do your official host duties," you shot back, a wicked, playful smile spreading across your lips. The alcohol gave you a surge of confidence, and you looped your arms slowly around his neck, stepping closer into his personal space until there was absolutely no air left between you. "Besides, I didn't think you could actually handle me dancing with you."
Logan’s dark eyes lit up instantly, a dangerous, competitive challenge flaring in his pupils. He pulled you a fraction of an inch closer. "Oh, really? Try me, sweetheart."
You didn't hesitate. As the heavy beat of the music dropped, you shifted your weight, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, and sinfully against his. You leaned in close, your lips brushing the warm shell of his ear as you whispered, "You're all talk, John Logan. Let's see if you can actually keep up with me."
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding down his chest to grip the crisp fabric of his shirt, tugging him rhythmically, tightly against your body. The friction was immediate, heavy, and intoxicating. Logan’s breath hitched audibly in his throat. A dark, intense flush crept up his neck, coloring his sharp cheekbones as his hands settled on your waist, his fingers digging firmly into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress. He swallowed hard, his eyes dropping helplessly to your parted lips, entirely overwhelmed and undone by the sudden confidence of your movements. He could feel exactly how much you were affecting him, his body reacting instantly to the touch of your hips.
A breathless, desperate laugh escaped him. He jerked his head back for a split second, fighting a losing battle for self-control. "Well, fuck," he muttered, his voice raw, completely devoid of its usual composure.
"Did I break the big, tough hockey player already?" you cooed, tilting your chin up tauntingly, your noses almost touching as you continued to sway against him.
"You wish," he groaned, his thumbs stroking the bare skin of your lower back where your dress dipped low. He didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled you even tighter against his lower body, matching your sinful rhythm perfectly, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a burning intensity that made it very clear the playful teasing was rapidly turning into something much more dangerous and inevitable. When the night finally forced you apart, it didn't feel like a goodbye — it was a promise.
Six — "Fuck"
Some things are bound to reach a breaking point, and the agonizing tension building between you for months was no exception. Three nights later, Briar won a massive game and the ensuing after-party at the boys' house was pure chaotic madness. The house was packed to maximum capacity, a sweaty, pulsing mass of drunken celebration, loud music, and screaming students.
But you and Logan weren't paying any attention to the party. For the past two hours, you had been moving around the house like two high-powered magnets — constantly drawing closer, stealing long, heated glances across the crowded rooms, the unspoken, heavy weight of the fundraiser hanging between you.
Seeking a brief moment of quiet to cool down your flushed skin, you headed down the dark back hallway toward the upstairs bathroom. Just as you reached out for the brass doorknob, the door swung open from the inside.
Logan stepped out.
You nearly crashed straight into his chest, cutting your breath short as you ground to a halt mere inches from him. The hallway was swallowed by shadows, save for the frantic strobe lights bleeding in from the living room. Logan stared down at you, wide-eyed, his chest rising and falling in sync with the thick, suffocating heat pulsing through the house.
Neither of you said a single word. The months of toxic banter, the vicious, screaming arguments, the desperate avoidance, and the agonizing teasing all converged into a single, breathless, breaking second.
Logan reached out with lightning speed, his large hand wrapping around your waist, and shoved you backward into the bathroom, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind you and twisting the lock with a sharp, echoing click.
Before the sound of the lock could even fade, his mouth crashed onto yours.
It was an absolute explosion. The kiss was passionate, borderline feral, a violent release of pure, pent-up, crazy frustration. You let out a muffled gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to rip into his dark hair, pulling him down toward you out of sheer desperation. He groaned deep in his throat, a sound of pure hunger, pinning your body flat against the heavy wooden door, his thick thighs crowding tightly between yours. His hands were absolutely everywhere—clutching your face, tracing the line of your throat, gripping your hips with a bruising, desperate force that felt incredibly, entirely right.
"Logan," you whimpered against his mouth as he tore his lips away to kiss your jawline, your neck - his hands sliding down to frantically bunch up the silk fabric of your dress.
With a sudden burst of strengh, he hooked his large hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly into the air. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist as he deposited you onto the cold marble edge of the bathroom sink counter. He didn't waste a single second. His hands slid all the way up the bare, warm skin of your thighs, finding the edge of your underwear. His fingers quickly found your slick, burning, over-sensitized core, rubbing against you through the damp fabric with a rhythm that made your head tilt back and earned a large grin from him.
You arched your back off the counter, a loud sob escaping your lips, your fingers digging deep into his shoulders.
"You like that?" Logan growled against your neck, his voice dripping with lust. His fingers moved faster, driving you up a steep, agonizing cliff. "Tell me you want it."
"Logan," you breathed out, "please," you cried out, your head tossing back against the large bathroom mirror. Your hands flew down to his waist, frantically, blindly fumbling with the button of his jeans. You shoved the denim down his hips until his length snapped free—thick, heavy, and pulsing with heat. The moment your fingers wrapped tightly around him, moving in a fast, desperate stroke, Logan’s eyes rolled back.
His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his neck. He couldn't endure the exquisite torture for long, his quiet moans matching your own, before his large hand clamped over yours, freezing your movement. "Stop, stop," he panted, his chest wild, his forehead pressing against yours. "I'm going to come right now if you keep doing that. I need to feel you, right now."
With trembling, frantic hands, he reached into the small drawer next to the sink—Dean’s emergency stash—and ripped open a foil condom wrapper, spitting the plastic away and rolling it onto himself in one fluid, desperate motion.
Then he stepped back between your open thighs. His hands gripped your hips with an iron hold, dragging you to the very edge of the marble counter. He aligned himself against you, waiting just long enough for your frantic nod of approval. With one heavy, unyielding, possessive thrust, he buried himself completely inside you.
The sheer, overwhelming pleasure of that sudden fullness hit you both at once, fracturing the quiet of the bathroom with a sharp, mutual gasp. Instead of slowing down, the friction only stoked the fire, drawing a long, ragged, shattered exhale from deep in Logan's chest. His pupils were completely dilated, dark and wild with pure lust as his forehead dropped heavily against your shoulder.
"Fuck," he groaned into the crook of your neck, his voice a raw, visceral prayer vibrating against your collarbone.
His hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like an anchor as he immediately established a rhythm. The restraint dissolved into pure instinct. He pulled you flush against him, his thrusts becoming powerful, deep, and utterly relentless from the very start. Every heavy drive forced a breathless cry from your lips, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. You rocked together on the cold edge of the marble sink, your bodies generating a feverish heat that defied the chilly stone beneath you.
The bass from the after-party still thudded through the floorboards, a distant, muffled reminder of the chaotic world outside, but within the locked walls of the bathroom, that world was entirely forgotten. There was only the slick, friction-heavy slide of skin against skin, the frantic tangle of your fingers in his hair, and the hot, primal rhythm consuming you both.
The friction was dizzying, driving you both toward a precipice that neither of you could fight anymore. Logan’s pace turned frantic, his breath coming in harsh, ragged stabs against your ear as his hips slammed against yours with an undoing, desperate urgency. Every stroke sent a white-hot wave of pleasure straight to your core, tightening the coil inside you until it was agonizing.
You choked out a breathless, broken sound, your hands clamping onto his biceps as your head thrashed back against the mirror once more.
He didn't need words to know you were right there. He buried his face in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he delivered three more devastatingly deep, relentless thrusts.
That was the final breaking point. Your walls clamped down around him tight and pulsing, fracturing your breath into a loud, ruined cry as your entire body shattered into a blinding, head-to-toe release.
Hearing you break completely ruined him. Logan let out a guttural, unhinged groan that vibrated deep in his chest. His jaw locked, his body rigid and trembling as he gave one last, deeply possessive shove, throwing his weight into you as he came violently inside the condom. He held himself deep within you, his hips shuddering against yours as he rode out the waves of his own release, the two of you panting heavily in the quiet aftermath, entirely spent.
Seven — "Fuck it"
Roughly thirty minutes later, the two of you finally emerged from the bathroom. You had tried your absolute best to fix your chaotic appearance in the mirror—re-applying a bit of smudge-proof lip gloss, smoothing down the wrinkled fabric of your dress, and trying to tame your wildly tangled hair with your fingers—but the physical evidence of what had just occurred was written all over your faces. Your skin was flushed a deep unmistakable pink, your lips were incredibly swollen and red, and Logan was walking with a loose, stupidly contented, proud stride, his hair completely disheveled and sticking up in directions where your fingers had repeatedly torn through it.
The exact moment you stepped back onto the floor of the crowded living room, a loud, piercing whistle cut through the air.
Dean was leaning against the back of the sofa, a beer dangling from his fingers and a knowing smirk plastered across his face. His eyes darted from you to Logan, zeroing in instantly on the faint trace of your lip gloss smeared along Logan’s jawline.
"Well, well, well," he said, loud enough to be heard over the music. "Must have been a pretty intense plumbing emergency in there. Either that, or you two just went ten rounds with a blender. You might want to wipe your face, Logan."
Your cheeks instantly burned. You took a step back. "Dean, shut up, we were just—"
But Logan didn't let you finish the lie. He looked down at you, catching the slight panic in your eyes, and then looked over at Dean, who was practically vibrating with smug satisfaction.
Instead of getting defensive, Logan just let out a short, quiet laugh. The stubbornness, the secrecy, the remnants of your old feud—it all suddenly felt completely irrelevant. He was tired of hiding it.
"You know what? Fuck it," Logan muttered.
Before you could process the words, his hand slid around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your jaw as he pulled you flush against his chest. Right there by the sofa, he leaned down and kissed you.
Dean threw his arms up in a dramatic, sweeping gesture. "About damn fucking time! Graham, you owe me twenty bucks!"
When Logan finally pulled back, his eyes were bright, a relaxed, genuinely happy smile playing on his lips as his thumb brushed your cheek. You looked up at him, the noise of the party fading into the background, finally realizing that the long, argumentative journey of seven dirty words had brought you exactly where you were supposed to be.
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.
word count : 6.1k (sorry) — enemies to lovers, kind of — logan is moody — SMUT, minors DNI — Enjoy and please tell me what you think !
One — "Oh, fuck!"
The music wasn’t just loud; it was vibrating through the old floorboards and thumping directly against your ribs. You’d only been there for twenty minutes, entirely dragged along by Hannah, who was currently tucked under Garrett’s arm near the doorway. Watching them was sweet—almost nauseatingly so—but it left you feeling like a ghost drifting through a sea of oversized jerseys, loud hockey players, and the thick scent of cheap beer. For the most part, the rest of the boys were incredibly welcoming; even though you'd just met them tonight, they were already loud, inherently kind and easy to be around.
Except for John Logan.
You hadn’t actually been introduced to him yet, but you’d felt his suffocating vibe the moment he walked through the door. He looked like absolute thunder. Briar had dropped a frustrating, tight game that evening, and while Garrett was channeling his nervous energy into playing the charismatic host, Logan was wearing his irritation like armor. Leaning against the kitchen counter with a dark scowl that practically screamed at people to stay away, his knuckles were white around his glass, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for a reason to snap.
Navigating that crowded, chaotic kitchen with a brim-filled, sticky mixed drink was your first mistake. Your second was catching the rubber toe of your sneaker on the lifting edge of a rogue anti-fatigue mat near the sink.
You stumbled forward, your arms flailing wildly in a desperate, ungraceful bid for balance. You didn’t fall, but your cup did a violent, mid-air flip, slipping from your fingers. A torrential wave of sticky, dark rum and cola splashed directly across the pristine gray fabric of Logan’s Henley shirt, soaking through the chest, darkening the material instantly and dripping down the front of his dark jeans.
Logan froze. His head snapped down slowly, looking at the huge, dark stain spreading across his clothes, and then his gaze lifted to yours. His eyes were blazing, a dangerous brown, entirely unamused and dripping with venom. "Oh, fuck!" he snapped, his voice cutting right through the ambient noise like a knife. He pulled the wet, heavy fabric away from his skin with two fingers, a look of pure annoyance twisting his features. "Are you serious right now? Watch where the hell you're going."
The sheer aggression in his tone caught you completely off guard, instantly sparking your own deeply ingrained, stubborn nature. You had been about to apologize profusely, the words of remorse already forming on your tongue, but the bite in his words choked them right out of your throat. You squared your shoulders, refusing to back down under his glare. "It was an accident," you retorted, pulling a few crumpled, napkins from the counter and shoving them toward his chest. "You don't have to be a complete dick about it. It’s just a shirt, I'm pretty sure you'll survive."
"It's a wet, sticky shirt at the end of a terrible, exhausting fucking day," he growled, his voice dropping an octave as he batted your hand away with a harsh flick of his wrist. He didn't take the napkins; they fluttered uselessly to the floor. Instead, he leaned down slightly, giving you a long, icy glare that made you feel about two inches tall, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle tick. "Next time, look up from your feet." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and storming down the hallway toward the stairs, muttering curses under his breath.
You stood there rooted to the spot, your cheeks burning with a toxic mixture of intense embarrassment and sudden, deep-seated dislike. Garrett materialized at your side a split second later, a sympathetic, slightly apologetic grimace on his face as he patted your shoulder gently. "Hey, don't sweat it," Garrett reassured you quietly, glancing warily toward the stairs where Logan had disappeared. "Logan’s just in a brutal mood because of the game, and he hates losing more than anyone. He's usually a great guy, I swear. He’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow morning."
You forced a tight, fake smile and nodded, but as you looked down at your empty, sticky hands, a bitter taste lingered in your mouth. Spoiler alert: he wouldn't forget. and neither would you.
Two — "Fuck you"
A few weeks later, the initial friction hadn’t dissolved; it had hardened into a permanent, icy chill. You tried your best to play nice for the sake of Hannah and Allie, but Logan made it incredibly difficult. You saw how he was with the rest of their circle—fiercely loyal, easygoing, and warm. He was the kind of guy who quietly made sure Allie and Hannah got home safe from their late shifts and spent his free afternoons helping Jules with media stuff. He was patient with the entire world. But the exact millisecond you walked into a room, his posture stiffened and his jaw set. You hated being the sole exception to his good nature, so you simply stayed out of his way.
The breaking point came on a gray, rainy Tuesday afternoon. You and Hannah had walked over to the hockey house to help Tucker untangle a massive, soul-crushing history assignment he was drowning in. The three of you were spread across the dining table, surrounded by a chaotic mess of highlighters, laptop cords, and heavy library textbooks.
The back door clicked open, and Logan walked in. He was wearing his Briar athletic gear, a damp towel slung over his shoulders from a post-practice shower, his hair messy and wet. He looked exhausted, his shoulders tense, carrying the unmistakable hangover of a brutal morning practice. Instead of walking past to the kitchen, he paused by the table, leaning over Tucker’s shoulder to scan the open pages. He let out a heavy, deliberate sigh. "You’re using the wrong primary sources for that era, Tuck," Logan said, his voice dropping into that effortless, uninvited authority. "You need the economic logs from the eastern front, not these political manifestos. You’re going to tank your thesis statement with those."
Tucker blinked up, looking miserable. "Wait, really? I thought—"
"We checked those, Logan," you interrupted, keeping your voice level and calm as you kept your eyes on your notebook. "We've got it handled," you smiled, trying to remain polite.
Logan didn't move. His eyes slid slowly down to the side of your face, unamused. "Right. Because you're an expert on 20th-century economic trade?"
"No," you said, your pen pausing on the page. "But I can read a syllabus. If you're so worried about Tucker's academic results, you could have sat down and helped him yourself already."
Logan’s jaw tightened, a sharp spike of tension instantly replacing his usual easygoing demeanor. He took his hands out of his pockets and leaned forward, bracing his palms on the edge of the table, firmly invading your space. Tucker shot Hannah a wide-eyed, panicked look across the textbooks, both of them suddenly bracing for impact.
"I gave him my old notes weeks ago," Logan shot back, his voice dropping into something smaller, tighter. "But sure, ignore the guy who actually passed the class because you're too stubborn to take a note from me."
"I'm not being stubborn, you're just being a patronizing prick," you retorted, leaning back in your chair. "You’ve been hovering over this table for five minutes just looking for a problem because you had a bad day and want to take it out on someone."
Logan let out a harsh, dry laugh, though there was a flicker of genuine frustration in his eyes—the look of a good guy who couldn't understand why he kept letting you bait him. "Take it out on someone? Trust me, if I wanted to take anything out on someone, I wouldn't waste my time on you. I'm trying to keep my friend from bombing a midterm because he made the mistake of letting you organize his thoughts."
"My thoughts are perfectly fine, Logan," Tucker muttered quietly under his breath, his eyes glued to his laptop screen, desperately trying to dissolve into the background.
"They're fine when you're left alone, Tuck," Logan said, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring his teammate's plea. "Not when you're letting someone drag their own contrarian agenda into your coursework."
"A contrarian agenda?" You stood up, your chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. Hannah flinched at the sharp noise, withdrawing her hands from the table and motioning for Tucker to leave the potential future crime scene. They both complied quickly, knowing you both well enough to understand that trying to reason with you in that moment would be pointless. "Are you actually insane? I'm sorry that anyone else having a brain in this house threatens your need to micromanage every single thing that happens under this roof."
"It doesn't threaten me at all," Logan said, standing up straight and towering over you, using his height to crowd your space until his shadow completely blocked out the light from the window. The sheer, uncharacteristic anger rolling off him was suffocating; Tucker actually slid his chair back a few inches, completely done with trying to intervene at this point. "It annoys me. You annoy me, actually. I'm not going to walk on eggshells in my own dining room because you can't handle a basic correction."
"I can handle a correction if it's respectful," you shot back, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you refused to take a step away from him. "You don't want to help Tucker. You just want to feel like the smartest guy in the room and that is annoying."
"I dont—," Logan started, a nervous scoff escaping his lips. "You don't know anything about me. Please let's keep it this way, since you clearly can't stand me anyway."
"You're the one who treats me like an absolute inconvenience the second I breathe in your direction!" you yelled, the weeks of being ignored, brushed off, and glared at finally boiling over into raw, unadulterated anger. "If you hate me being here so much, just say it. But stop acting like I'm the one bringing the venom into this house when you're the one dripping it."
The air between you turned completely volatile, thick enough to choke on. A strange, angry electricity snapped between you, the argument completely detached from history or homework now, exposed and raw. Logan stared down at you, his breathing heavy and uneven as he tried to swallow down the sheer frustration rolling off him in waves. He leaned down slightly, bringing his face inches from yours, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle violently ticked in his cheek.
"Fuck you," he whispered.
The words hit with a cold, deliberate weight that vibrated in the dead-silent room. Before you could fire back, Tucker's voice boomed from the kitchen archway, stern and completely done with both of you. "Enough! Both of you, cut it the hell out."
But the damage was done. The look in Logan's eyes made something tight and painful twist in your chest. You refused to sit there and breathe the same air as him for another second. Blindly turning around, you grabbed your laptop and notebook, shoving them into your backpack with rigid, uncooperative hands.
"I'm leaving," you muttered, keeping your eyes glued firmly to the floor as you pushed past Hannah’s reaching hand on the way out. You grabbed your jacket from the hook and left through the front door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the frame, stepping out into the pouring, cold rain with the echo of his voice looping in your head like a curse.
Three — "Fuck off"
For the next month, you became an absolute expert at avoiding John Logan. You turned it into an art form. If he was at a crowded house party, you stayed firmly in the kitchen or on the opposite porch. If the entire group gathered at Malone's, you ensured you sat on the exact opposite end of the long table, hidden behind Dean's loud gestures.
Because of this, you never saw the way his eyes silently followed you when you entered a room, or the almost guilty look that crossed his face whenever your name came up in conversation. He knew he'd crossed a line by cursing at you like that—but your unbreakable silence gave him absolutely no room to apologize, and his own stubborn pride kept him from forcing the issue.
There were small signs of his guilt, though. One random Thursday afternoon, he showed up at the place you shared with Hannah and Allie, claiming he was just dropping off a spare hockey hoodie Garrett had left in his truck. You had stayed in your room with the door cracked just an inch, watching through the tiny gap as he lingered by the entrance, his eyes constantly drifting toward your door, silently checking to see if you'd come out. You hadn't moved an inch, holding your breath until he finally left.
Eventually, Hannah and Allie staged a full-blown intervention. A brand-new club had opened downtown, and they absolutely refused to let you stay home and rot in your room, even though they openly admitted the boys were all coming along. You finally relented, numbing your spiking anxiety by pouring yourself two heavy pre-game vodka crans before leaving the house.
The club was a massive sensory overload—flashing neon lights, artificial fog, and heavy, chest-thumping bass that made communication impossible. By midnight, everyone was comfortably, heavily drunk. You were leaning your back against the sticky mahogany bar, sipping a gin and tonic, when you finally caught sight of him through the pulsing crowd.
Logan was laughing at something Beau said, a dark red bandana tied tightly around his messy hair, looking effortlessly, devastatingly handsome in a black fitted t-shirt. As if sensing the weight of your gaze, his head turned. His dark eyes locked directly onto yours across the smoky crowded room. He didn’t look away. He held your stare for a second, then two, then three — a strange, intense, unreadable heat settling over his features before a group of dancers blocked your view.
A few minutes later, a guy from one of the campus fraternities slithered up next to you on the edge of the dance floor. He was loud, sweaty, and smelled entirely too much like cheap cologne and whiskey — but a little bit of dancing could help taking your mind off of a certain hockey player, you thought. You enjoyed it at first, moving along, focusing on the music, the stranger getting closer and closer as the playlist progressed. But then, just as you started to feel good - just the right amount of alcohol in your veins to feel lighter and relaxed - he tried to grind his hips against yours. You tried to step back, laughing it off politely at first, pushing his hands away, but he didn't take the hint. His hands came down on your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you flush against him with a grip that was far too tight and aggressive.
Before you could even raise your hands to shove his chest, a massive shadow loomed over both of you.
A now familiar hand gripped the frat guy’s shoulder, spinning him around with enough force to make his sneakers squeak on the floor.
"Fuck off," Logan snarled, his voice a low, lethal vibration that cut right through the heavy bass of the music. He leaned in until he was nose-to-nose with the guy. "Get your fucking hands off her and fuck off right now."
The guy looked at Logan and wisely raised his hands in surrender, backing away rapidly into the foggy crowd without throwing a single punch.
Logan’s breathing was heavy, his chest heaving, his fists still clenched tightly at his sides as his eyes scanned the immediate area like a wild animal looking for another threat. He looked ready to tear the entire club apart with his bare hands. Anxious that he might actually chase the guy down for a fight, you stepped directly into his line of sight, capturing his attention.
"Logan," you breathed, your voice soft and entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. Without thinking about the consequences, you reached out, your bare fingers wrapping around his forearm.
The exact millisecond your skin met the warm, rock-hard muscle of his arm, Logan froze entirely. It was the first time the two of you had ever willingly, gently touched, and the effect was instantaneous. The blinding anger seemed to drain out of him in a single breath, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of air. He looked down at your small hand resting on his arm, his skin tingling where you touched him, and then he slowly, deliberately lifted his gaze to your eyes.
The noisy club, the flashing strobe lights, the roaring bass, the alcohol—it all faded into irrelevant background noise. You stood face-to-face on the crowded dance floor, completely motionless, just looking into each other's eyes. Your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, not from fear of the frat guy, but from a sudden, dizzying, terrifying realization. Looking into his wide, intensely focused eyes, you realized you didn't hate him. Not even close. And from the soft, almost vulnerable parting of his lips, he didn't hate you either. You weren't close to being friends yet, but the ice had officially shattered into a million pieces.
Four — "What the fuck"
The shift between you was subtle, but it was absolutely undeniable. The sharp hostility was gone, completely replaced by a quiet, lingering, heavy awareness that neither of you knew quite what to do with.
A week later, you were sitting in a sunlit corner booth at Malone’s. You were completely, entirely absorbed in a brutal, multi-chapter study session for your finals, a pair of heavy over-ear headphones clamped securely over your ears. The sweet, nostalgic melody of American Pie was playing through the speakers, and without even realizing it, you were softly humming along to the chorus, tapping the cap of your yellow highlighter rhythmically against the open pages of your textbook.
You were so deeply focused on your notes that you didn't hear the diner's front door chime, nor did you see Logan walk in. He was there to finalize the last-minute details for the upcoming Hockey Fundraiser with Hannah and Della. But the exact moment his eyes scanned the room and spotted you sitting alone in the corner booth, he stopped dead in his tracks.
He didn’t approach right away. He just stood near the counter, watching you. A soft, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he listened to your faint, slightly off-key humming.
Prickled by the sudden, distinct sensation of eyes on you, you blinked and lifted your head from your textbook. Logan instantly wiped the smile from his face, clearing his throat roughly and pretending to read a missing cat flyer on the bulletin board.
You pulled your headphones down, a small smirk playing on your lips. "You know, if you stare any harder, you're going to burn a hole right through my skull, Logan."
Instead of snapping back with a sarcastic, biting retort like he used to, Logan let out a soft chuckle. He walked over to your booth and, to your surprise, slid into the bench by your side, his knee almost touching yours.
"Just making sure you weren't torturing the rest of the innocent customers with your singing," he teased gently, his shoulder brushing against yours in the tight space.
You rolled your eyes, but there was no spite left in your expression. "I happen to have the voice of a literal angel, thank you very much. You're just jealous."
The playful banter slowly subsided into a comfortable silence. Logan looked at you, his expression turning a little more serious, his eyes softening as his voice dropped to a much quieter register. "Hey… are you doing okay?" Since what happened the other night, obviously implied by the way he looked at you right now, concern written all over his face.
You felt a warm flush creep up your neck and settle into your cheeks. "I'm okay, thank you" you smiled and he nodded, both silently agreeing not to discuss this unpleasant event anymore. You paused, looking down at his large hands resting on the table before forcing yourself to look back up. "How are you doing ? With the fundraiser and everything, I mean. You look like you haven't slept in a week."
He seemed genuinely surprised that you were asking about him. Really, truly asking. He leaned back against the vinyl booth, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he completely opened up to you. He talked about the immense stress of managing the team's high expectations, his constant worries about Jules’ upcoming exams, and the suffocating pressure of the NHL scouts attending the next three games. You listened intently, never interrupting, offering gentle encouragement and a few dry, sarcastic jokes that had him laughing quietly into his palms. For a full hour, the two most stubborn, argumentative people at Briar University just… talked.
"Well," you finally said, checking the diner clock and reluctantly packing your laptop into your bag. "I have to get to my shift at the library. Don't let Della bully you into paying extra for the tableware."
"I won't," Logan said, his eyes tracking your every movement, lingering on your face. "See you around?"
"See you around." You gave him a small, genuine smile—the first real one he'd ever received from you—and walked out into the crisp afternoon air, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks.
Inside the booth, Logan sat completely still for a long, agonizing moment. He watched your retreating figure through the glass window until you turned the corner and disappeared from view. Slowly, he let out a shaky exhale, burying his face entirely in his hands. He rubbed his palms over his eyes, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
"What the fuck," he whispered into the empty diner booth, his voice laced with a mixture of absolute awe and sheer, unadulterated panic. He was screwed. He was completely, utterly, hopelessly screwed, and he knew there was no turning back.
Five — "Well, fuck"
The night of the Briar Hockey Fundraiser at Malone’s was a chaotic, high-energy, glittering success. The entire diner had been completely transformed for the evening—the regular tables had been pushed to the far perimeter to create a makeshift dance floor, strings of warm fairy lights hung across the ceiling, and a massive turnout of wealthy alumni, boosters, and students kept the bar utterly slammed.
You had dressed up significantly for the occasion, wearing a form-fitting, emerald green silk dress that Allie let you borrow from her closet - of course. You spent the first half of the night talking to Hannah near the punch bowl, but your eyes kept unconsciously tracking a certain someone across the room.
Logan was entirely in his element—charming the older donors, laughing easily with his teammates, and looking entirely too edible for your own good.
Around midnight, the formal event finally dissolved into a proper, rowdy college party. The DJ cranked up a heavy, slow, rhythmic pop song, the bass echoing through the floor, and the dance floor filled up with couples. You were navigating the edge of the sweaty crowd, trying to find Allie when a sudden, firm, yet gentle pull on your wrist guided you backward.
You spun around on your heels, your chest bumping right into Logan’s broad torso. "You've been actively dodging me all night," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating right against your skin as his large hand settled naturally around yours. The casual, unhesitating intimacy of the gesture sent a fierce, blinding jolt of electricity straight down your spine.
"I wasn't dodging you, I was letting you do your official host duties," you shot back, a wicked, playful smile spreading across your lips. The alcohol gave you a surge of confidence, and you looped your arms slowly around his neck, stepping closer into his personal space until there was absolutely no air left between you. "Besides, I didn't think you could actually handle me dancing with you."
Logan’s dark eyes lit up instantly, a dangerous, competitive challenge flaring in his pupils. He pulled you a fraction of an inch closer. "Oh, really? Try me, sweetheart."
You didn't hesitate. As the heavy beat of the music dropped, you shifted your weight, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, and sinfully against his. You leaned in close, your lips brushing the warm shell of his ear as you whispered, "You're all talk, John Logan. Let's see if you can actually keep up with me."
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding down his chest to grip the crisp fabric of his shirt, tugging him rhythmically, tightly against your body. The friction was immediate, heavy, and intoxicating. Logan’s breath hitched audibly in his throat. A dark, intense flush crept up his neck, coloring his sharp cheekbones as his hands settled on your waist, his fingers digging firmly into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress. He swallowed hard, his eyes dropping helplessly to your parted lips, entirely overwhelmed and undone by the sudden confidence of your movements. He could feel exactly how much you were affecting him, his body reacting instantly to the touch of your hips.
A breathless, desperate laugh escaped him. He jerked his head back for a split second, fighting a losing battle for self-control. "Well, fuck," he muttered, his voice raw, completely devoid of its usual composure.
"Did I break the big, tough hockey player already?" you cooed, tilting your chin up tauntingly, your noses almost touching as you continued to sway against him.
"You wish," he groaned, his thumbs stroking the bare skin of your lower back where your dress dipped low. He didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled you even tighter against his lower body, matching your sinful rhythm perfectly, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a burning intensity that made it very clear the playful teasing was rapidly turning into something much more dangerous and inevitable. When the night finally forced you apart, it didn't feel like a goodbye — it was a promise.
Six — "Fuck"
Some things are bound to reach a breaking point, and the agonizing tension building between you for months was no exception. Three nights later, Briar won a massive game and the ensuing after-party at the boys' house was pure chaotic madness. The house was packed to maximum capacity, a sweaty, pulsing mass of drunken celebration, loud music, and screaming students.
But you and Logan weren't paying any attention to the party. For the past two hours, you had been moving around the house like two high-powered magnets — constantly drawing closer, stealing long, heated glances across the crowded rooms, the unspoken, heavy weight of the fundraiser hanging between you.
Seeking a brief moment of quiet to cool down your flushed skin, you headed down the dark back hallway toward the upstairs bathroom. Just as you reached out for the brass doorknob, the door swung open from the inside.
Logan stepped out.
You nearly crashed straight into his chest, cutting your breath short as you ground to a halt mere inches from him. The hallway was swallowed by shadows, save for the frantic strobe lights bleeding in from the living room. Logan stared down at you, wide-eyed, his chest rising and falling in sync with the thick, suffocating heat pulsing through the house.
Neither of you said a single word. The months of toxic banter, the vicious, screaming arguments, the desperate avoidance, and the agonizing teasing all converged into a single, breathless, breaking second.
Logan reached out with lightning speed, his large hand wrapping around your waist, and shoved you backward into the bathroom, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind you and twisting the lock with a sharp, echoing click.
Before the sound of the lock could even fade, his mouth crashed onto yours.
It was an absolute explosion. The kiss was passionate, borderline feral, a violent release of pure, pent-up, crazy frustration. You let out a muffled gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to rip into his dark hair, pulling him down toward you out of sheer desperation. He groaned deep in his throat, a sound of pure hunger, pinning your body flat against the heavy wooden door, his thick thighs crowding tightly between yours. His hands were absolutely everywhere—clutching your face, tracing the line of your throat, gripping your hips with a bruising, desperate force that felt incredibly, entirely right.
"Logan," you whimpered against his mouth as he tore his lips away to kiss your jawline, your neck - his hands sliding down to frantically bunch up the silk fabric of your dress.
With a sudden burst of strengh, he hooked his large hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly into the air. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist as he deposited you onto the cold marble edge of the bathroom sink counter. He didn't waste a single second. His hands slid all the way up the bare, warm skin of your thighs, finding the edge of your underwear. His fingers quickly found your slick, burning, over-sensitized core, rubbing against you through the damp fabric with a rhythm that made your head tilt back and earned a large grin from him.
You arched your back off the counter, a loud sob escaping your lips, your fingers digging deep into his shoulders.
"You like that?" Logan growled against your neck, his voice dripping with lust. His fingers moved faster, driving you up a steep, agonizing cliff. "Tell me you want it."
"Logan," you breathed out, "please," you cried out, your head tossing back against the large bathroom mirror. Your hands flew down to his waist, frantically, blindly fumbling with the button of his jeans. You shoved the denim down his hips until his length snapped free—thick, heavy, and pulsing with heat. The moment your fingers wrapped tightly around him, moving in a fast, desperate stroke, Logan’s eyes rolled back.
His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his neck. He couldn't endure the exquisite torture for long, his quiet moans matching your own, before his large hand clamped over yours, freezing your movement. "Stop, stop," he panted, his chest wild, his forehead pressing against yours. "I'm going to come right now if you keep doing that. I need to feel you, right now."
With trembling, frantic hands, he reached into the small drawer next to the sink—Dean’s emergency stash—and ripped open a foil condom wrapper, spitting the plastic away and rolling it onto himself in one fluid, desperate motion.
Then he stepped back between your open thighs. His hands gripped your hips with an iron hold, dragging you to the very edge of the marble counter. He aligned himself against you, waiting just long enough for your frantic nod of approval. With one heavy, unyielding, possessive thrust, he buried himself completely inside you.
The sheer, overwhelming pleasure of that sudden fullness hit you both at once, fracturing the quiet of the bathroom with a sharp, mutual gasp. Instead of slowing down, the friction only stoked the fire, drawing a long, ragged, shattered exhale from deep in Logan's chest. His pupils were completely dilated, dark and wild with pure lust as his forehead dropped heavily against your shoulder.
"Fuck," he groaned into the crook of your neck, his voice a raw, visceral prayer vibrating against your collarbone.
His hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like an anchor as he immediately established a rhythm. The restraint dissolved into pure instinct. He pulled you flush against him, his thrusts becoming powerful, deep, and utterly relentless from the very start. Every heavy drive forced a breathless cry from your lips, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. You rocked together on the cold edge of the marble sink, your bodies generating a feverish heat that defied the chilly stone beneath you.
The bass from the after-party still thudded through the floorboards, a distant, muffled reminder of the chaotic world outside, but within the locked walls of the bathroom, that world was entirely forgotten. There was only the slick, friction-heavy slide of skin against skin, the frantic tangle of your fingers in his hair, and the hot, primal rhythm consuming you both.
The friction was dizzying, driving you both toward a precipice that neither of you could fight anymore. Logan’s pace turned frantic, his breath coming in harsh, ragged stabs against your ear as his hips slammed against yours with an undoing, desperate urgency. Every stroke sent a white-hot wave of pleasure straight to your core, tightening the coil inside you until it was agonizing.
You choked out a breathless, broken sound, your hands clamping onto his biceps as your head thrashed back against the mirror once more.
He didn't need words to know you were right there. He buried his face in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he delivered three more devastatingly deep, relentless thrusts.
That was the final breaking point. Your walls clamped down around him tight and pulsing, fracturing your breath into a loud, ruined cry as your entire body shattered into a blinding, head-to-toe release.
Hearing you break completely ruined him. Logan let out a guttural, unhinged groan that vibrated deep in his chest. His jaw locked, his body rigid and trembling as he gave one last, deeply possessive shove, throwing his weight into you as he came violently inside the condom. He held himself deep within you, his hips shuddering against yours as he rode out the waves of his own release, the two of you panting heavily in the quiet aftermath, entirely spent.
Seven — "Fuck it"
Roughly thirty minutes later, the two of you finally emerged from the bathroom. You had tried your absolute best to fix your chaotic appearance in the mirror—re-applying a bit of smudge-proof lip gloss, smoothing down the wrinkled fabric of your dress, and trying to tame your wildly tangled hair with your fingers—but the physical evidence of what had just occurred was written all over your faces. Your skin was flushed a deep unmistakable pink, your lips were incredibly swollen and red, and Logan was walking with a loose, stupidly contented, proud stride, his hair completely disheveled and sticking up in directions where your fingers had repeatedly torn through it.
The exact moment you stepped back onto the floor of the crowded living room, a loud, piercing whistle cut through the air.
Dean was leaning against the back of the sofa, a beer dangling from his fingers and a knowing smirk plastered across his face. His eyes darted from you to Logan, zeroing in instantly on the faint trace of your lip gloss smeared along Logan’s jawline.
"Well, well, well," he said, loud enough to be heard over the music. "Must have been a pretty intense plumbing emergency in there. Either that, or you two just went ten rounds with a blender. You might want to wipe your face, Logan."
Your cheeks instantly burned. You took a step back. "Dean, shut up, we were just—"
But Logan didn't let you finish the lie. He looked down at you, catching the slight panic in your eyes, and then looked over at Dean, who was practically vibrating with smug satisfaction.
Instead of getting defensive, Logan just let out a short, quiet laugh. The stubbornness, the secrecy, the remnants of your old feud—it all suddenly felt completely irrelevant. He was tired of hiding it.
"You know what? Fuck it," Logan muttered.
Before you could process the words, his hand slid around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your jaw as he pulled you flush against his chest. Right there by the sofa, he leaned down and kissed you.
Dean threw his arms up in a dramatic, sweeping gesture. "About damn fucking time! Graham, you owe me twenty bucks!"
When Logan finally pulled back, his eyes were bright, a relaxed, genuinely happy smile playing on his lips as his thumb brushed your cheek. You looked up at him, the noise of the party fading into the background, finally realizing that the long, argumentative journey of seven dirty words had brought you exactly where you were supposed to be.
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.
word count : 6.1k (sorry) — enemies to lovers, kind of — logan is moody — SMUT, minors DNI — Enjoy and please tell me what you think !
One — "Oh, fuck!"
The music wasn’t just loud; it was vibrating through the old floorboards and thumping directly against your ribs. You’d only been there for twenty minutes, entirely dragged along by Hannah, who was currently tucked under Garrett’s arm near the doorway. Watching them was sweet—almost nauseatingly so—but it left you feeling like a ghost drifting through a sea of oversized jerseys, loud hockey players, and the thick scent of cheap beer. For the most part, the rest of the boys were incredibly welcoming; even though you'd just met them tonight, they were already loud, inherently kind and easy to be around.
Except for John Logan.
You hadn’t actually been introduced to him yet, but you’d felt his suffocating vibe the moment he walked through the door. He looked like absolute thunder. Briar had dropped a frustrating, tight game that evening, and while Garrett was channeling his nervous energy into playing the charismatic host, Logan was wearing his irritation like armor. Leaning against the kitchen counter with a dark scowl that practically screamed at people to stay away, his knuckles were white around his glass, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for a reason to snap.
Navigating that crowded, chaotic kitchen with a brim-filled, sticky mixed drink was your first mistake. Your second was catching the rubber toe of your sneaker on the lifting edge of a rogue anti-fatigue mat near the sink.
You stumbled forward, your arms flailing wildly in a desperate, ungraceful bid for balance. You didn’t fall, but your cup did a violent, mid-air flip, slipping from your fingers. A torrential wave of sticky, dark rum and cola splashed directly across the pristine gray fabric of Logan’s Henley shirt, soaking through the chest, darkening the material instantly and dripping down the front of his dark jeans.
Logan froze. His head snapped down slowly, looking at the huge, dark stain spreading across his clothes, and then his gaze lifted to yours. His eyes were blazing, a dangerous brown, entirely unamused and dripping with venom. "Oh, fuck!" he snapped, his voice cutting right through the ambient noise like a knife. He pulled the wet, heavy fabric away from his skin with two fingers, a look of pure annoyance twisting his features. "Are you serious right now? Watch where the hell you're going."
The sheer aggression in his tone caught you completely off guard, instantly sparking your own deeply ingrained, stubborn nature. You had been about to apologize profusely, the words of remorse already forming on your tongue, but the bite in his words choked them right out of your throat. You squared your shoulders, refusing to back down under his glare. "It was an accident," you retorted, pulling a few crumpled, napkins from the counter and shoving them toward his chest. "You don't have to be a complete dick about it. It’s just a shirt, I'm pretty sure you'll survive."
"It's a wet, sticky shirt at the end of a terrible, exhausting fucking day," he growled, his voice dropping an octave as he batted your hand away with a harsh flick of his wrist. He didn't take the napkins; they fluttered uselessly to the floor. Instead, he leaned down slightly, giving you a long, icy glare that made you feel about two inches tall, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle tick. "Next time, look up from your feet." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and storming down the hallway toward the stairs, muttering curses under his breath.
You stood there rooted to the spot, your cheeks burning with a toxic mixture of intense embarrassment and sudden, deep-seated dislike. Garrett materialized at your side a split second later, a sympathetic, slightly apologetic grimace on his face as he patted your shoulder gently. "Hey, don't sweat it," Garrett reassured you quietly, glancing warily toward the stairs where Logan had disappeared. "Logan’s just in a brutal mood because of the game, and he hates losing more than anyone. He's usually a great guy, I swear. He’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow morning."
You forced a tight, fake smile and nodded, but as you looked down at your empty, sticky hands, a bitter taste lingered in your mouth. Spoiler alert: he wouldn't forget. and neither would you.
Two — "Fuck you"
A few weeks later, the initial friction hadn’t dissolved; it had hardened into a permanent, icy chill. You tried your best to play nice for the sake of Hannah and Allie, but Logan made it incredibly difficult. You saw how he was with the rest of their circle—fiercely loyal, easygoing, and warm. He was the kind of guy who quietly made sure Allie and Hannah got home safe from their late shifts and spent his free afternoons helping Jules with media stuff. He was patient with the entire world. But the exact millisecond you walked into a room, his posture stiffened and his jaw set. You hated being the sole exception to his good nature, so you simply stayed out of his way.
The breaking point came on a gray, rainy Tuesday afternoon. You and Hannah had walked over to the hockey house to help Tucker untangle a massive, soul-crushing history assignment he was drowning in. The three of you were spread across the dining table, surrounded by a chaotic mess of highlighters, laptop cords, and heavy library textbooks.
The back door clicked open, and Logan walked in. He was wearing his Briar athletic gear, a damp towel slung over his shoulders from a post-practice shower, his hair messy and wet. He looked exhausted, his shoulders tense, carrying the unmistakable hangover of a brutal morning practice. Instead of walking past to the kitchen, he paused by the table, leaning over Tucker’s shoulder to scan the open pages. He let out a heavy, deliberate sigh. "You’re using the wrong primary sources for that era, Tuck," Logan said, his voice dropping into that effortless, uninvited authority. "You need the economic logs from the eastern front, not these political manifestos. You’re going to tank your thesis statement with those."
Tucker blinked up, looking miserable. "Wait, really? I thought—"
"We checked those, Logan," you interrupted, keeping your voice level and calm as you kept your eyes on your notebook. "We've got it handled," you smiled, trying to remain polite.
Logan didn't move. His eyes slid slowly down to the side of your face, unamused. "Right. Because you're an expert on 20th-century economic trade?"
"No," you said, your pen pausing on the page. "But I can read a syllabus. If you're so worried about Tucker's academic results, you could have sat down and helped him yourself already."
Logan’s jaw tightened, a sharp spike of tension instantly replacing his usual easygoing demeanor. He took his hands out of his pockets and leaned forward, bracing his palms on the edge of the table, firmly invading your space. Tucker shot Hannah a wide-eyed, panicked look across the textbooks, both of them suddenly bracing for impact.
"I gave him my old notes weeks ago," Logan shot back, his voice dropping into something smaller, tighter. "But sure, ignore the guy who actually passed the class because you're too stubborn to take a note from me."
"I'm not being stubborn, you're just being a patronizing prick," you retorted, leaning back in your chair. "You’ve been hovering over this table for five minutes just looking for a problem because you had a bad day and want to take it out on someone."
Logan let out a harsh, dry laugh, though there was a flicker of genuine frustration in his eyes—the look of a good guy who couldn't understand why he kept letting you bait him. "Take it out on someone? Trust me, if I wanted to take anything out on someone, I wouldn't waste my time on you. I'm trying to keep my friend from bombing a midterm because he made the mistake of letting you organize his thoughts."
"My thoughts are perfectly fine, Logan," Tucker muttered quietly under his breath, his eyes glued to his laptop screen, desperately trying to dissolve into the background.
"They're fine when you're left alone, Tuck," Logan said, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring his teammate's plea. "Not when you're letting someone drag their own contrarian agenda into your coursework."
"A contrarian agenda?" You stood up, your chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. Hannah flinched at the sharp noise, withdrawing her hands from the table and motioning for Tucker to leave the potential future crime scene. They both complied quickly, knowing you both well enough to understand that trying to reason with you in that moment would be pointless. "Are you actually insane? I'm sorry that anyone else having a brain in this house threatens your need to micromanage every single thing that happens under this roof."
"It doesn't threaten me at all," Logan said, standing up straight and towering over you, using his height to crowd your space until his shadow completely blocked out the light from the window. The sheer, uncharacteristic anger rolling off him was suffocating; Tucker actually slid his chair back a few inches, completely done with trying to intervene at this point. "It annoys me. You annoy me, actually. I'm not going to walk on eggshells in my own dining room because you can't handle a basic correction."
"I can handle a correction if it's respectful," you shot back, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you refused to take a step away from him. "You don't want to help Tucker. You just want to feel like the smartest guy in the room and that is annoying."
"I dont—," Logan started, a nervous scoff escaping his lips. "You don't know anything about me. Please let's keep it this way, since you clearly can't stand me anyway."
"You're the one who treats me like an absolute inconvenience the second I breathe in your direction!" you yelled, the weeks of being ignored, brushed off, and glared at finally boiling over into raw, unadulterated anger. "If you hate me being here so much, just say it. But stop acting like I'm the one bringing the venom into this house when you're the one dripping it."
The air between you turned completely volatile, thick enough to choke on. A strange, angry electricity snapped between you, the argument completely detached from history or homework now, exposed and raw. Logan stared down at you, his breathing heavy and uneven as he tried to swallow down the sheer frustration rolling off him in waves. He leaned down slightly, bringing his face inches from yours, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle violently ticked in his cheek.
"Fuck you," he whispered.
The words hit with a cold, deliberate weight that vibrated in the dead-silent room. Before you could fire back, Tucker's voice boomed from the kitchen archway, stern and completely done with both of you. "Enough! Both of you, cut it the hell out."
But the damage was done. The look in Logan's eyes made something tight and painful twist in your chest. You refused to sit there and breathe the same air as him for another second. Blindly turning around, you grabbed your laptop and notebook, shoving them into your backpack with rigid, uncooperative hands.
"I'm leaving," you muttered, keeping your eyes glued firmly to the floor as you pushed past Hannah’s reaching hand on the way out. You grabbed your jacket from the hook and left through the front door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the frame, stepping out into the pouring, cold rain with the echo of his voice looping in your head like a curse.
Three — "Fuck off"
For the next month, you became an absolute expert at avoiding John Logan. You turned it into an art form. If he was at a crowded house party, you stayed firmly in the kitchen or on the opposite porch. If the entire group gathered at Malone's, you ensured you sat on the exact opposite end of the long table, hidden behind Dean's loud gestures.
Because of this, you never saw the way his eyes silently followed you when you entered a room, or the almost guilty look that crossed his face whenever your name came up in conversation. He knew he'd crossed a line by cursing at you like that—but your unbreakable silence gave him absolutely no room to apologize, and his own stubborn pride kept him from forcing the issue.
There were small signs of his guilt, though. One random Thursday afternoon, he showed up at the place you shared with Hannah and Allie, claiming he was just dropping off a spare hockey hoodie Garrett had left in his truck. You had stayed in your room with the door cracked just an inch, watching through the tiny gap as he lingered by the entrance, his eyes constantly drifting toward your door, silently checking to see if you'd come out. You hadn't moved an inch, holding your breath until he finally left.
Eventually, Hannah and Allie staged a full-blown intervention. A brand-new club had opened downtown, and they absolutely refused to let you stay home and rot in your room, even though they openly admitted the boys were all coming along. You finally relented, numbing your spiking anxiety by pouring yourself two heavy pre-game vodka crans before leaving the house.
The club was a massive sensory overload—flashing neon lights, artificial fog, and heavy, chest-thumping bass that made communication impossible. By midnight, everyone was comfortably, heavily drunk. You were leaning your back against the sticky mahogany bar, sipping a gin and tonic, when you finally caught sight of him through the pulsing crowd.
Logan was laughing at something Beau said, a dark red bandana tied tightly around his messy hair, looking effortlessly, devastatingly handsome in a black fitted t-shirt. As if sensing the weight of your gaze, his head turned. His dark eyes locked directly onto yours across the smoky crowded room. He didn’t look away. He held your stare for a second, then two, then three — a strange, intense, unreadable heat settling over his features before a group of dancers blocked your view.
A few minutes later, a guy from one of the campus fraternities slithered up next to you on the edge of the dance floor. He was loud, sweaty, and smelled entirely too much like cheap cologne and whiskey — but a little bit of dancing could help taking your mind off of a certain hockey player, you thought. You enjoyed it at first, moving along, focusing on the music, the stranger getting closer and closer as the playlist progressed. But then, just as you started to feel good - just the right amount of alcohol in your veins to feel lighter and relaxed - he tried to grind his hips against yours. You tried to step back, laughing it off politely at first, pushing his hands away, but he didn't take the hint. His hands came down on your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you flush against him with a grip that was far too tight and aggressive.
Before you could even raise your hands to shove his chest, a massive shadow loomed over both of you.
A now familiar hand gripped the frat guy’s shoulder, spinning him around with enough force to make his sneakers squeak on the floor.
"Fuck off," Logan snarled, his voice a low, lethal vibration that cut right through the heavy bass of the music. He leaned in until he was nose-to-nose with the guy. "Get your fucking hands off her and fuck off right now."
The guy looked at Logan and wisely raised his hands in surrender, backing away rapidly into the foggy crowd without throwing a single punch.
Logan’s breathing was heavy, his chest heaving, his fists still clenched tightly at his sides as his eyes scanned the immediate area like a wild animal looking for another threat. He looked ready to tear the entire club apart with his bare hands. Anxious that he might actually chase the guy down for a fight, you stepped directly into his line of sight, capturing his attention.
"Logan," you breathed, your voice soft and entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. Without thinking about the consequences, you reached out, your bare fingers wrapping around his forearm.
The exact millisecond your skin met the warm, rock-hard muscle of his arm, Logan froze entirely. It was the first time the two of you had ever willingly, gently touched, and the effect was instantaneous. The blinding anger seemed to drain out of him in a single breath, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of air. He looked down at your small hand resting on his arm, his skin tingling where you touched him, and then he slowly, deliberately lifted his gaze to your eyes.
The noisy club, the flashing strobe lights, the roaring bass, the alcohol—it all faded into irrelevant background noise. You stood face-to-face on the crowded dance floor, completely motionless, just looking into each other's eyes. Your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, not from fear of the frat guy, but from a sudden, dizzying, terrifying realization. Looking into his wide, intensely focused eyes, you realized you didn't hate him. Not even close. And from the soft, almost vulnerable parting of his lips, he didn't hate you either. You weren't close to being friends yet, but the ice had officially shattered into a million pieces.
Four — "What the fuck"
The shift between you was subtle, but it was absolutely undeniable. The sharp hostility was gone, completely replaced by a quiet, lingering, heavy awareness that neither of you knew quite what to do with.
A week later, you were sitting in a sunlit corner booth at Malone’s. You were completely, entirely absorbed in a brutal, multi-chapter study session for your finals, a pair of heavy over-ear headphones clamped securely over your ears. The sweet, nostalgic melody of American Pie was playing through the speakers, and without even realizing it, you were softly humming along to the chorus, tapping the cap of your yellow highlighter rhythmically against the open pages of your textbook.
You were so deeply focused on your notes that you didn't hear the diner's front door chime, nor did you see Logan walk in. He was there to finalize the last-minute details for the upcoming Hockey Fundraiser with Hannah and Della. But the exact moment his eyes scanned the room and spotted you sitting alone in the corner booth, he stopped dead in his tracks.
He didn’t approach right away. He just stood near the counter, watching you. A soft, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he listened to your faint, slightly off-key humming.
Prickled by the sudden, distinct sensation of eyes on you, you blinked and lifted your head from your textbook. Logan instantly wiped the smile from his face, clearing his throat roughly and pretending to read a missing cat flyer on the bulletin board.
You pulled your headphones down, a small smirk playing on your lips. "You know, if you stare any harder, you're going to burn a hole right through my skull, Logan."
Instead of snapping back with a sarcastic, biting retort like he used to, Logan let out a soft chuckle. He walked over to your booth and, to your surprise, slid into the bench by your side, his knee almost touching yours.
"Just making sure you weren't torturing the rest of the innocent customers with your singing," he teased gently, his shoulder brushing against yours in the tight space.
You rolled your eyes, but there was no spite left in your expression. "I happen to have the voice of a literal angel, thank you very much. You're just jealous."
The playful banter slowly subsided into a comfortable silence. Logan looked at you, his expression turning a little more serious, his eyes softening as his voice dropped to a much quieter register. "Hey… are you doing okay?" Since what happened the other night, obviously implied by the way he looked at you right now, concern written all over his face.
You felt a warm flush creep up your neck and settle into your cheeks. "I'm okay, thank you" you smiled and he nodded, both silently agreeing not to discuss this unpleasant event anymore. You paused, looking down at his large hands resting on the table before forcing yourself to look back up. "How are you doing ? With the fundraiser and everything, I mean. You look like you haven't slept in a week."
He seemed genuinely surprised that you were asking about him. Really, truly asking. He leaned back against the vinyl booth, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he completely opened up to you. He talked about the immense stress of managing the team's high expectations, his constant worries about Jules’ upcoming exams, and the suffocating pressure of the NHL scouts attending the next three games. You listened intently, never interrupting, offering gentle encouragement and a few dry, sarcastic jokes that had him laughing quietly into his palms. For a full hour, the two most stubborn, argumentative people at Briar University just… talked.
"Well," you finally said, checking the diner clock and reluctantly packing your laptop into your bag. "I have to get to my shift at the library. Don't let Della bully you into paying extra for the tableware."
"I won't," Logan said, his eyes tracking your every movement, lingering on your face. "See you around?"
"See you around." You gave him a small, genuine smile—the first real one he'd ever received from you—and walked out into the crisp afternoon air, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks.
Inside the booth, Logan sat completely still for a long, agonizing moment. He watched your retreating figure through the glass window until you turned the corner and disappeared from view. Slowly, he let out a shaky exhale, burying his face entirely in his hands. He rubbed his palms over his eyes, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
"What the fuck," he whispered into the empty diner booth, his voice laced with a mixture of absolute awe and sheer, unadulterated panic. He was screwed. He was completely, utterly, hopelessly screwed, and he knew there was no turning back.
Five — "Well, fuck"
The night of the Briar Hockey Fundraiser at Malone’s was a chaotic, high-energy, glittering success. The entire diner had been completely transformed for the evening—the regular tables had been pushed to the far perimeter to create a makeshift dance floor, strings of warm fairy lights hung across the ceiling, and a massive turnout of wealthy alumni, boosters, and students kept the bar utterly slammed.
You had dressed up significantly for the occasion, wearing a form-fitting, emerald green silk dress that Allie let you borrow from her closet - of course. You spent the first half of the night talking to Hannah near the punch bowl, but your eyes kept unconsciously tracking a certain someone across the room.
Logan was entirely in his element—charming the older donors, laughing easily with his teammates, and looking entirely too edible for your own good.
Around midnight, the formal event finally dissolved into a proper, rowdy college party. The DJ cranked up a heavy, slow, rhythmic pop song, the bass echoing through the floor, and the dance floor filled up with couples. You were navigating the edge of the sweaty crowd, trying to find Allie when a sudden, firm, yet gentle pull on your wrist guided you backward.
You spun around on your heels, your chest bumping right into Logan’s broad torso. "You've been actively dodging me all night," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating right against your skin as his large hand settled naturally around yours. The casual, unhesitating intimacy of the gesture sent a fierce, blinding jolt of electricity straight down your spine.
"I wasn't dodging you, I was letting you do your official host duties," you shot back, a wicked, playful smile spreading across your lips. The alcohol gave you a surge of confidence, and you looped your arms slowly around his neck, stepping closer into his personal space until there was absolutely no air left between you. "Besides, I didn't think you could actually handle me dancing with you."
Logan’s dark eyes lit up instantly, a dangerous, competitive challenge flaring in his pupils. He pulled you a fraction of an inch closer. "Oh, really? Try me, sweetheart."
You didn't hesitate. As the heavy beat of the music dropped, you shifted your weight, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, and sinfully against his. You leaned in close, your lips brushing the warm shell of his ear as you whispered, "You're all talk, John Logan. Let's see if you can actually keep up with me."
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding down his chest to grip the crisp fabric of his shirt, tugging him rhythmically, tightly against your body. The friction was immediate, heavy, and intoxicating. Logan’s breath hitched audibly in his throat. A dark, intense flush crept up his neck, coloring his sharp cheekbones as his hands settled on your waist, his fingers digging firmly into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress. He swallowed hard, his eyes dropping helplessly to your parted lips, entirely overwhelmed and undone by the sudden confidence of your movements. He could feel exactly how much you were affecting him, his body reacting instantly to the touch of your hips.
A breathless, desperate laugh escaped him. He jerked his head back for a split second, fighting a losing battle for self-control. "Well, fuck," he muttered, his voice raw, completely devoid of its usual composure.
"Did I break the big, tough hockey player already?" you cooed, tilting your chin up tauntingly, your noses almost touching as you continued to sway against him.
"You wish," he groaned, his thumbs stroking the bare skin of your lower back where your dress dipped low. He didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled you even tighter against his lower body, matching your sinful rhythm perfectly, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a burning intensity that made it very clear the playful teasing was rapidly turning into something much more dangerous and inevitable. When the night finally forced you apart, it didn't feel like a goodbye — it was a promise.
Six — "Fuck"
Some things are bound to reach a breaking point, and the agonizing tension building between you for months was no exception. Three nights later, Briar won a massive game and the ensuing after-party at the boys' house was pure chaotic madness. The house was packed to maximum capacity, a sweaty, pulsing mass of drunken celebration, loud music, and screaming students.
But you and Logan weren't paying any attention to the party. For the past two hours, you had been moving around the house like two high-powered magnets — constantly drawing closer, stealing long, heated glances across the crowded rooms, the unspoken, heavy weight of the fundraiser hanging between you.
Seeking a brief moment of quiet to cool down your flushed skin, you headed down the dark back hallway toward the upstairs bathroom. Just as you reached out for the brass doorknob, the door swung open from the inside.
Logan stepped out.
You nearly crashed straight into his chest, cutting your breath short as you ground to a halt mere inches from him. The hallway was swallowed by shadows, save for the frantic strobe lights bleeding in from the living room. Logan stared down at you, wide-eyed, his chest rising and falling in sync with the thick, suffocating heat pulsing through the house.
Neither of you said a single word. The months of toxic banter, the vicious, screaming arguments, the desperate avoidance, and the agonizing teasing all converged into a single, breathless, breaking second.
Logan reached out with lightning speed, his large hand wrapping around your waist, and shoved you backward into the bathroom, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind you and twisting the lock with a sharp, echoing click.
Before the sound of the lock could even fade, his mouth crashed onto yours.
It was an absolute explosion. The kiss was passionate, borderline feral, a violent release of pure, pent-up, crazy frustration. You let out a muffled gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to rip into his dark hair, pulling him down toward you out of sheer desperation. He groaned deep in his throat, a sound of pure hunger, pinning your body flat against the heavy wooden door, his thick thighs crowding tightly between yours. His hands were absolutely everywhere—clutching your face, tracing the line of your throat, gripping your hips with a bruising, desperate force that felt incredibly, entirely right.
"Logan," you whimpered against his mouth as he tore his lips away to kiss your jawline, your neck - his hands sliding down to frantically bunch up the silk fabric of your dress.
With a sudden burst of strengh, he hooked his large hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly into the air. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist as he deposited you onto the cold marble edge of the bathroom sink counter. He didn't waste a single second. His hands slid all the way up the bare, warm skin of your thighs, finding the edge of your underwear. His fingers quickly found your slick, burning, over-sensitized core, rubbing against you through the damp fabric with a rhythm that made your head tilt back and earned a large grin from him.
You arched your back off the counter, a loud sob escaping your lips, your fingers digging deep into his shoulders.
"You like that?" Logan growled against your neck, his voice dripping with lust. His fingers moved faster, driving you up a steep, agonizing cliff. "Tell me you want it."
"Logan," you breathed out, "please," you cried out, your head tossing back against the large bathroom mirror. Your hands flew down to his waist, frantically, blindly fumbling with the button of his jeans. You shoved the denim down his hips until his length snapped free—thick, heavy, and pulsing with heat. The moment your fingers wrapped tightly around him, moving in a fast, desperate stroke, Logan’s eyes rolled back.
His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his neck. He couldn't endure the exquisite torture for long, his quiet moans matching your own, before his large hand clamped over yours, freezing your movement. "Stop, stop," he panted, his chest wild, his forehead pressing against yours. "I'm going to come right now if you keep doing that. I need to feel you, right now."
With trembling, frantic hands, he reached into the small drawer next to the sink—Dean’s emergency stash—and ripped open a foil condom wrapper, spitting the plastic away and rolling it onto himself in one fluid, desperate motion.
Then he stepped back between your open thighs. His hands gripped your hips with an iron hold, dragging you to the very edge of the marble counter. He aligned himself against you, waiting just long enough for your frantic nod of approval. With one heavy, unyielding, possessive thrust, he buried himself completely inside you.
The sheer, overwhelming pleasure of that sudden fullness hit you both at once, fracturing the quiet of the bathroom with a sharp, mutual gasp. Instead of slowing down, the friction only stoked the fire, drawing a long, ragged, shattered exhale from deep in Logan's chest. His pupils were completely dilated, dark and wild with pure lust as his forehead dropped heavily against your shoulder.
"Fuck," he groaned into the crook of your neck, his voice a raw, visceral prayer vibrating against your collarbone.
His hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like an anchor as he immediately established a rhythm. The restraint dissolved into pure instinct. He pulled you flush against him, his thrusts becoming powerful, deep, and utterly relentless from the very start. Every heavy drive forced a breathless cry from your lips, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. You rocked together on the cold edge of the marble sink, your bodies generating a feverish heat that defied the chilly stone beneath you.
The bass from the after-party still thudded through the floorboards, a distant, muffled reminder of the chaotic world outside, but within the locked walls of the bathroom, that world was entirely forgotten. There was only the slick, friction-heavy slide of skin against skin, the frantic tangle of your fingers in his hair, and the hot, primal rhythm consuming you both.
The friction was dizzying, driving you both toward a precipice that neither of you could fight anymore. Logan’s pace turned frantic, his breath coming in harsh, ragged stabs against your ear as his hips slammed against yours with an undoing, desperate urgency. Every stroke sent a white-hot wave of pleasure straight to your core, tightening the coil inside you until it was agonizing.
You choked out a breathless, broken sound, your hands clamping onto his biceps as your head thrashed back against the mirror once more.
He didn't need words to know you were right there. He buried his face in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he delivered three more devastatingly deep, relentless thrusts.
That was the final breaking point. Your walls clamped down around him tight and pulsing, fracturing your breath into a loud, ruined cry as your entire body shattered into a blinding, head-to-toe release.
Hearing you break completely ruined him. Logan let out a guttural, unhinged groan that vibrated deep in his chest. His jaw locked, his body rigid and trembling as he gave one last, deeply possessive shove, throwing his weight into you as he came violently inside the condom. He held himself deep within you, his hips shuddering against yours as he rode out the waves of his own release, the two of you panting heavily in the quiet aftermath, entirely spent.
Seven — "Fuck it"
Roughly thirty minutes later, the two of you finally emerged from the bathroom. You had tried your absolute best to fix your chaotic appearance in the mirror—re-applying a bit of smudge-proof lip gloss, smoothing down the wrinkled fabric of your dress, and trying to tame your wildly tangled hair with your fingers—but the physical evidence of what had just occurred was written all over your faces. Your skin was flushed a deep unmistakable pink, your lips were incredibly swollen and red, and Logan was walking with a loose, stupidly contented, proud stride, his hair completely disheveled and sticking up in directions where your fingers had repeatedly torn through it.
The exact moment you stepped back onto the floor of the crowded living room, a loud, piercing whistle cut through the air.
Dean was leaning against the back of the sofa, a beer dangling from his fingers and a knowing smirk plastered across his face. His eyes darted from you to Logan, zeroing in instantly on the faint trace of your lip gloss smeared along Logan’s jawline.
"Well, well, well," he said, loud enough to be heard over the music. "Must have been a pretty intense plumbing emergency in there. Either that, or you two just went ten rounds with a blender. You might want to wipe your face, Logan."
Your cheeks instantly burned. You took a step back. "Dean, shut up, we were just—"
But Logan didn't let you finish the lie. He looked down at you, catching the slight panic in your eyes, and then looked over at Dean, who was practically vibrating with smug satisfaction.
Instead of getting defensive, Logan just let out a short, quiet laugh. The stubbornness, the secrecy, the remnants of your old feud—it all suddenly felt completely irrelevant. He was tired of hiding it.
"You know what? Fuck it," Logan muttered.
Before you could process the words, his hand slid around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your jaw as he pulled you flush against his chest. Right there by the sofa, he leaned down and kissed you.
Dean threw his arms up in a dramatic, sweeping gesture. "About damn fucking time! Graham, you owe me twenty bucks!"
When Logan finally pulled back, his eyes were bright, a relaxed, genuinely happy smile playing on his lips as his thumb brushed your cheek. You looked up at him, the noise of the party fading into the background, finally realizing that the long, argumentative journey of seven dirty words had brought you exactly where you were supposed to be.
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.
word count : 6.1k (sorry) — enemies to lovers, kind of — logan is moody — SMUT, minors DNI — Enjoy and please tell me what you think !
One — "Oh, fuck!"
The music wasn’t just loud; it was vibrating through the old floorboards and thumping directly against your ribs. You’d only been there for twenty minutes, entirely dragged along by Hannah, who was currently tucked under Garrett’s arm near the doorway. Watching them was sweet—almost nauseatingly so—but it left you feeling like a ghost drifting through a sea of oversized jerseys, loud hockey players, and the thick scent of cheap beer. For the most part, the rest of the boys were incredibly welcoming; even though you'd just met them tonight, they were already loud, inherently kind and easy to be around.
Except for John Logan.
You hadn’t actually been introduced to him yet, but you’d felt his suffocating vibe the moment he walked through the door. He looked like absolute thunder. Briar had dropped a frustrating, tight game that evening, and while Garrett was channeling his nervous energy into playing the charismatic host, Logan was wearing his irritation like armor. Leaning against the kitchen counter with a dark scowl that practically screamed at people to stay away, his knuckles were white around his glass, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for a reason to snap.
Navigating that crowded, chaotic kitchen with a brim-filled, sticky mixed drink was your first mistake. Your second was catching the rubber toe of your sneaker on the lifting edge of a rogue anti-fatigue mat near the sink.
You stumbled forward, your arms flailing wildly in a desperate, ungraceful bid for balance. You didn’t fall, but your cup did a violent, mid-air flip, slipping from your fingers. A torrential wave of sticky, dark rum and cola splashed directly across the pristine gray fabric of Logan’s Henley shirt, soaking through the chest, darkening the material instantly and dripping down the front of his dark jeans.
Logan froze. His head snapped down slowly, looking at the huge, dark stain spreading across his clothes, and then his gaze lifted to yours. His eyes were blazing, a dangerous brown, entirely unamused and dripping with venom. "Oh, fuck!" he snapped, his voice cutting right through the ambient noise like a knife. He pulled the wet, heavy fabric away from his skin with two fingers, a look of pure annoyance twisting his features. "Are you serious right now? Watch where the hell you're going."
The sheer aggression in his tone caught you completely off guard, instantly sparking your own deeply ingrained, stubborn nature. You had been about to apologize profusely, the words of remorse already forming on your tongue, but the bite in his words choked them right out of your throat. You squared your shoulders, refusing to back down under his glare. "It was an accident," you retorted, pulling a few crumpled, napkins from the counter and shoving them toward his chest. "You don't have to be a complete dick about it. It’s just a shirt, I'm pretty sure you'll survive."
"It's a wet, sticky shirt at the end of a terrible, exhausting fucking day," he growled, his voice dropping an octave as he batted your hand away with a harsh flick of his wrist. He didn't take the napkins; they fluttered uselessly to the floor. Instead, he leaned down slightly, giving you a long, icy glare that made you feel about two inches tall, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle tick. "Next time, look up from your feet." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and storming down the hallway toward the stairs, muttering curses under his breath.
You stood there rooted to the spot, your cheeks burning with a toxic mixture of intense embarrassment and sudden, deep-seated dislike. Garrett materialized at your side a split second later, a sympathetic, slightly apologetic grimace on his face as he patted your shoulder gently. "Hey, don't sweat it," Garrett reassured you quietly, glancing warily toward the stairs where Logan had disappeared. "Logan’s just in a brutal mood because of the game, and he hates losing more than anyone. He's usually a great guy, I swear. He’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow morning."
You forced a tight, fake smile and nodded, but as you looked down at your empty, sticky hands, a bitter taste lingered in your mouth. Spoiler alert: he wouldn't forget. and neither would you.
Two — "Fuck you"
A few weeks later, the initial friction hadn’t dissolved; it had hardened into a permanent, icy chill. You tried your best to play nice for the sake of Hannah and Allie, but Logan made it incredibly difficult. You saw how he was with the rest of their circle—fiercely loyal, easygoing, and warm. He was the kind of guy who quietly made sure Allie and Hannah got home safe from their late shifts and spent his free afternoons helping Jules with media stuff. He was patient with the entire world. But the exact millisecond you walked into a room, his posture stiffened and his jaw set. You hated being the sole exception to his good nature, so you simply stayed out of his way.
The breaking point came on a gray, rainy Tuesday afternoon. You and Hannah had walked over to the hockey house to help Tucker untangle a massive, soul-crushing history assignment he was drowning in. The three of you were spread across the dining table, surrounded by a chaotic mess of highlighters, laptop cords, and heavy library textbooks.
The back door clicked open, and Logan walked in. He was wearing his Briar athletic gear, a damp towel slung over his shoulders from a post-practice shower, his hair messy and wet. He looked exhausted, his shoulders tense, carrying the unmistakable hangover of a brutal morning practice. Instead of walking past to the kitchen, he paused by the table, leaning over Tucker’s shoulder to scan the open pages. He let out a heavy, deliberate sigh. "You’re using the wrong primary sources for that era, Tuck," Logan said, his voice dropping into that effortless, uninvited authority. "You need the economic logs from the eastern front, not these political manifestos. You’re going to tank your thesis statement with those."
Tucker blinked up, looking miserable. "Wait, really? I thought—"
"We checked those, Logan," you interrupted, keeping your voice level and calm as you kept your eyes on your notebook. "We've got it handled," you smiled, trying to remain polite.
Logan didn't move. His eyes slid slowly down to the side of your face, unamused. "Right. Because you're an expert on 20th-century economic trade?"
"No," you said, your pen pausing on the page. "But I can read a syllabus. If you're so worried about Tucker's academic results, you could have sat down and helped him yourself already."
Logan’s jaw tightened, a sharp spike of tension instantly replacing his usual easygoing demeanor. He took his hands out of his pockets and leaned forward, bracing his palms on the edge of the table, firmly invading your space. Tucker shot Hannah a wide-eyed, panicked look across the textbooks, both of them suddenly bracing for impact.
"I gave him my old notes weeks ago," Logan shot back, his voice dropping into something smaller, tighter. "But sure, ignore the guy who actually passed the class because you're too stubborn to take a note from me."
"I'm not being stubborn, you're just being a patronizing prick," you retorted, leaning back in your chair. "You’ve been hovering over this table for five minutes just looking for a problem because you had a bad day and want to take it out on someone."
Logan let out a harsh, dry laugh, though there was a flicker of genuine frustration in his eyes—the look of a good guy who couldn't understand why he kept letting you bait him. "Take it out on someone? Trust me, if I wanted to take anything out on someone, I wouldn't waste my time on you. I'm trying to keep my friend from bombing a midterm because he made the mistake of letting you organize his thoughts."
"My thoughts are perfectly fine, Logan," Tucker muttered quietly under his breath, his eyes glued to his laptop screen, desperately trying to dissolve into the background.
"They're fine when you're left alone, Tuck," Logan said, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring his teammate's plea. "Not when you're letting someone drag their own contrarian agenda into your coursework."
"A contrarian agenda?" You stood up, your chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. Hannah flinched at the sharp noise, withdrawing her hands from the table and motioning for Tucker to leave the potential future crime scene. They both complied quickly, knowing you both well enough to understand that trying to reason with you in that moment would be pointless. "Are you actually insane? I'm sorry that anyone else having a brain in this house threatens your need to micromanage every single thing that happens under this roof."
"It doesn't threaten me at all," Logan said, standing up straight and towering over you, using his height to crowd your space until his shadow completely blocked out the light from the window. The sheer, uncharacteristic anger rolling off him was suffocating; Tucker actually slid his chair back a few inches, completely done with trying to intervene at this point. "It annoys me. You annoy me, actually. I'm not going to walk on eggshells in my own dining room because you can't handle a basic correction."
"I can handle a correction if it's respectful," you shot back, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you refused to take a step away from him. "You don't want to help Tucker. You just want to feel like the smartest guy in the room and that is annoying."
"I dont—," Logan started, a nervous scoff escaping his lips. "You don't know anything about me. Please let's keep it this way, since you clearly can't stand me anyway."
"You're the one who treats me like an absolute inconvenience the second I breathe in your direction!" you yelled, the weeks of being ignored, brushed off, and glared at finally boiling over into raw, unadulterated anger. "If you hate me being here so much, just say it. But stop acting like I'm the one bringing the venom into this house when you're the one dripping it."
The air between you turned completely volatile, thick enough to choke on. A strange, angry electricity snapped between you, the argument completely detached from history or homework now, exposed and raw. Logan stared down at you, his breathing heavy and uneven as he tried to swallow down the sheer frustration rolling off him in waves. He leaned down slightly, bringing his face inches from yours, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle violently ticked in his cheek.
"Fuck you," he whispered.
The words hit with a cold, deliberate weight that vibrated in the dead-silent room. Before you could fire back, Tucker's voice boomed from the kitchen archway, stern and completely done with both of you. "Enough! Both of you, cut it the hell out."
But the damage was done. The look in Logan's eyes made something tight and painful twist in your chest. You refused to sit there and breathe the same air as him for another second. Blindly turning around, you grabbed your laptop and notebook, shoving them into your backpack with rigid, uncooperative hands.
"I'm leaving," you muttered, keeping your eyes glued firmly to the floor as you pushed past Hannah’s reaching hand on the way out. You grabbed your jacket from the hook and left through the front door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the frame, stepping out into the pouring, cold rain with the echo of his voice looping in your head like a curse.
Three — "Fuck off"
For the next month, you became an absolute expert at avoiding John Logan. You turned it into an art form. If he was at a crowded house party, you stayed firmly in the kitchen or on the opposite porch. If the entire group gathered at Malone's, you ensured you sat on the exact opposite end of the long table, hidden behind Dean's loud gestures.
Because of this, you never saw the way his eyes silently followed you when you entered a room, or the almost guilty look that crossed his face whenever your name came up in conversation. He knew he'd crossed a line by cursing at you like that—but your unbreakable silence gave him absolutely no room to apologize, and his own stubborn pride kept him from forcing the issue.
There were small signs of his guilt, though. One random Thursday afternoon, he showed up at the place you shared with Hannah and Allie, claiming he was just dropping off a spare hockey hoodie Garrett had left in his truck. You had stayed in your room with the door cracked just an inch, watching through the tiny gap as he lingered by the entrance, his eyes constantly drifting toward your door, silently checking to see if you'd come out. You hadn't moved an inch, holding your breath until he finally left.
Eventually, Hannah and Allie staged a full-blown intervention. A brand-new club had opened downtown, and they absolutely refused to let you stay home and rot in your room, even though they openly admitted the boys were all coming along. You finally relented, numbing your spiking anxiety by pouring yourself two heavy pre-game vodka crans before leaving the house.
The club was a massive sensory overload—flashing neon lights, artificial fog, and heavy, chest-thumping bass that made communication impossible. By midnight, everyone was comfortably, heavily drunk. You were leaning your back against the sticky mahogany bar, sipping a gin and tonic, when you finally caught sight of him through the pulsing crowd.
Logan was laughing at something Beau said, a dark red bandana tied tightly around his messy hair, looking effortlessly, devastatingly handsome in a black fitted t-shirt. As if sensing the weight of your gaze, his head turned. His dark eyes locked directly onto yours across the smoky crowded room. He didn’t look away. He held your stare for a second, then two, then three — a strange, intense, unreadable heat settling over his features before a group of dancers blocked your view.
A few minutes later, a guy from one of the campus fraternities slithered up next to you on the edge of the dance floor. He was loud, sweaty, and smelled entirely too much like cheap cologne and whiskey — but a little bit of dancing could help taking your mind off of a certain hockey player, you thought. You enjoyed it at first, moving along, focusing on the music, the stranger getting closer and closer as the playlist progressed. But then, just as you started to feel good - just the right amount of alcohol in your veins to feel lighter and relaxed - he tried to grind his hips against yours. You tried to step back, laughing it off politely at first, pushing his hands away, but he didn't take the hint. His hands came down on your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you flush against him with a grip that was far too tight and aggressive.
Before you could even raise your hands to shove his chest, a massive shadow loomed over both of you.
A now familiar hand gripped the frat guy’s shoulder, spinning him around with enough force to make his sneakers squeak on the floor.
"Fuck off," Logan snarled, his voice a low, lethal vibration that cut right through the heavy bass of the music. He leaned in until he was nose-to-nose with the guy. "Get your fucking hands off her and fuck off right now."
The guy looked at Logan and wisely raised his hands in surrender, backing away rapidly into the foggy crowd without throwing a single punch.
Logan’s breathing was heavy, his chest heaving, his fists still clenched tightly at his sides as his eyes scanned the immediate area like a wild animal looking for another threat. He looked ready to tear the entire club apart with his bare hands. Anxious that he might actually chase the guy down for a fight, you stepped directly into his line of sight, capturing his attention.
"Logan," you breathed, your voice soft and entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. Without thinking about the consequences, you reached out, your bare fingers wrapping around his forearm.
The exact millisecond your skin met the warm, rock-hard muscle of his arm, Logan froze entirely. It was the first time the two of you had ever willingly, gently touched, and the effect was instantaneous. The blinding anger seemed to drain out of him in a single breath, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of air. He looked down at your small hand resting on his arm, his skin tingling where you touched him, and then he slowly, deliberately lifted his gaze to your eyes.
The noisy club, the flashing strobe lights, the roaring bass, the alcohol—it all faded into irrelevant background noise. You stood face-to-face on the crowded dance floor, completely motionless, just looking into each other's eyes. Your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, not from fear of the frat guy, but from a sudden, dizzying, terrifying realization. Looking into his wide, intensely focused eyes, you realized you didn't hate him. Not even close. And from the soft, almost vulnerable parting of his lips, he didn't hate you either. You weren't close to being friends yet, but the ice had officially shattered into a million pieces.
Four — "What the fuck"
The shift between you was subtle, but it was absolutely undeniable. The sharp hostility was gone, completely replaced by a quiet, lingering, heavy awareness that neither of you knew quite what to do with.
A week later, you were sitting in a sunlit corner booth at Malone’s. You were completely, entirely absorbed in a brutal, multi-chapter study session for your finals, a pair of heavy over-ear headphones clamped securely over your ears. The sweet, nostalgic melody of American Pie was playing through the speakers, and without even realizing it, you were softly humming along to the chorus, tapping the cap of your yellow highlighter rhythmically against the open pages of your textbook.
You were so deeply focused on your notes that you didn't hear the diner's front door chime, nor did you see Logan walk in. He was there to finalize the last-minute details for the upcoming Hockey Fundraiser with Hannah and Della. But the exact moment his eyes scanned the room and spotted you sitting alone in the corner booth, he stopped dead in his tracks.
He didn’t approach right away. He just stood near the counter, watching you. A soft, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he listened to your faint, slightly off-key humming.
Prickled by the sudden, distinct sensation of eyes on you, you blinked and lifted your head from your textbook. Logan instantly wiped the smile from his face, clearing his throat roughly and pretending to read a missing cat flyer on the bulletin board.
You pulled your headphones down, a small smirk playing on your lips. "You know, if you stare any harder, you're going to burn a hole right through my skull, Logan."
Instead of snapping back with a sarcastic, biting retort like he used to, Logan let out a soft chuckle. He walked over to your booth and, to your surprise, slid into the bench by your side, his knee almost touching yours.
"Just making sure you weren't torturing the rest of the innocent customers with your singing," he teased gently, his shoulder brushing against yours in the tight space.
You rolled your eyes, but there was no spite left in your expression. "I happen to have the voice of a literal angel, thank you very much. You're just jealous."
The playful banter slowly subsided into a comfortable silence. Logan looked at you, his expression turning a little more serious, his eyes softening as his voice dropped to a much quieter register. "Hey… are you doing okay?" Since what happened the other night, obviously implied by the way he looked at you right now, concern written all over his face.
You felt a warm flush creep up your neck and settle into your cheeks. "I'm okay, thank you" you smiled and he nodded, both silently agreeing not to discuss this unpleasant event anymore. You paused, looking down at his large hands resting on the table before forcing yourself to look back up. "How are you doing ? With the fundraiser and everything, I mean. You look like you haven't slept in a week."
He seemed genuinely surprised that you were asking about him. Really, truly asking. He leaned back against the vinyl booth, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he completely opened up to you. He talked about the immense stress of managing the team's high expectations, his constant worries about Jules’ upcoming exams, and the suffocating pressure of the NHL scouts attending the next three games. You listened intently, never interrupting, offering gentle encouragement and a few dry, sarcastic jokes that had him laughing quietly into his palms. For a full hour, the two most stubborn, argumentative people at Briar University just… talked.
"Well," you finally said, checking the diner clock and reluctantly packing your laptop into your bag. "I have to get to my shift at the library. Don't let Della bully you into paying extra for the tableware."
"I won't," Logan said, his eyes tracking your every movement, lingering on your face. "See you around?"
"See you around." You gave him a small, genuine smile—the first real one he'd ever received from you—and walked out into the crisp afternoon air, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks.
Inside the booth, Logan sat completely still for a long, agonizing moment. He watched your retreating figure through the glass window until you turned the corner and disappeared from view. Slowly, he let out a shaky exhale, burying his face entirely in his hands. He rubbed his palms over his eyes, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
"What the fuck," he whispered into the empty diner booth, his voice laced with a mixture of absolute awe and sheer, unadulterated panic. He was screwed. He was completely, utterly, hopelessly screwed, and he knew there was no turning back.
Five — "Well, fuck"
The night of the Briar Hockey Fundraiser at Malone’s was a chaotic, high-energy, glittering success. The entire diner had been completely transformed for the evening—the regular tables had been pushed to the far perimeter to create a makeshift dance floor, strings of warm fairy lights hung across the ceiling, and a massive turnout of wealthy alumni, boosters, and students kept the bar utterly slammed.
You had dressed up significantly for the occasion, wearing a form-fitting, emerald green silk dress that Allie let you borrow from her closet - of course. You spent the first half of the night talking to Hannah near the punch bowl, but your eyes kept unconsciously tracking a certain someone across the room.
Logan was entirely in his element—charming the older donors, laughing easily with his teammates, and looking entirely too edible for your own good.
Around midnight, the formal event finally dissolved into a proper, rowdy college party. The DJ cranked up a heavy, slow, rhythmic pop song, the bass echoing through the floor, and the dance floor filled up with couples. You were navigating the edge of the sweaty crowd, trying to find Allie when a sudden, firm, yet gentle pull on your wrist guided you backward.
You spun around on your heels, your chest bumping right into Logan’s broad torso. "You've been actively dodging me all night," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating right against your skin as his large hand settled naturally around yours. The casual, unhesitating intimacy of the gesture sent a fierce, blinding jolt of electricity straight down your spine.
"I wasn't dodging you, I was letting you do your official host duties," you shot back, a wicked, playful smile spreading across your lips. The alcohol gave you a surge of confidence, and you looped your arms slowly around his neck, stepping closer into his personal space until there was absolutely no air left between you. "Besides, I didn't think you could actually handle me dancing with you."
Logan’s dark eyes lit up instantly, a dangerous, competitive challenge flaring in his pupils. He pulled you a fraction of an inch closer. "Oh, really? Try me, sweetheart."
You didn't hesitate. As the heavy beat of the music dropped, you shifted your weight, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, and sinfully against his. You leaned in close, your lips brushing the warm shell of his ear as you whispered, "You're all talk, John Logan. Let's see if you can actually keep up with me."
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding down his chest to grip the crisp fabric of his shirt, tugging him rhythmically, tightly against your body. The friction was immediate, heavy, and intoxicating. Logan’s breath hitched audibly in his throat. A dark, intense flush crept up his neck, coloring his sharp cheekbones as his hands settled on your waist, his fingers digging firmly into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress. He swallowed hard, his eyes dropping helplessly to your parted lips, entirely overwhelmed and undone by the sudden confidence of your movements. He could feel exactly how much you were affecting him, his body reacting instantly to the touch of your hips.
A breathless, desperate laugh escaped him. He jerked his head back for a split second, fighting a losing battle for self-control. "Well, fuck," he muttered, his voice raw, completely devoid of its usual composure.
"Did I break the big, tough hockey player already?" you cooed, tilting your chin up tauntingly, your noses almost touching as you continued to sway against him.
"You wish," he groaned, his thumbs stroking the bare skin of your lower back where your dress dipped low. He didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled you even tighter against his lower body, matching your sinful rhythm perfectly, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a burning intensity that made it very clear the playful teasing was rapidly turning into something much more dangerous and inevitable. When the night finally forced you apart, it didn't feel like a goodbye — it was a promise.
Six — "Fuck"
Some things are bound to reach a breaking point, and the agonizing tension building between you for months was no exception. Three nights later, Briar won a massive game and the ensuing after-party at the boys' house was pure chaotic madness. The house was packed to maximum capacity, a sweaty, pulsing mass of drunken celebration, loud music, and screaming students.
But you and Logan weren't paying any attention to the party. For the past two hours, you had been moving around the house like two high-powered magnets — constantly drawing closer, stealing long, heated glances across the crowded rooms, the unspoken, heavy weight of the fundraiser hanging between you.
Seeking a brief moment of quiet to cool down your flushed skin, you headed down the dark back hallway toward the upstairs bathroom. Just as you reached out for the brass doorknob, the door swung open from the inside.
Logan stepped out.
You nearly crashed straight into his chest, cutting your breath short as you ground to a halt mere inches from him. The hallway was swallowed by shadows, save for the frantic strobe lights bleeding in from the living room. Logan stared down at you, wide-eyed, his chest rising and falling in sync with the thick, suffocating heat pulsing through the house.
Neither of you said a single word. The months of toxic banter, the vicious, screaming arguments, the desperate avoidance, and the agonizing teasing all converged into a single, breathless, breaking second.
Logan reached out with lightning speed, his large hand wrapping around your waist, and shoved you backward into the bathroom, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind you and twisting the lock with a sharp, echoing click.
Before the sound of the lock could even fade, his mouth crashed onto yours.
It was an absolute explosion. The kiss was passionate, borderline feral, a violent release of pure, pent-up, crazy frustration. You let out a muffled gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to rip into his dark hair, pulling him down toward you out of sheer desperation. He groaned deep in his throat, a sound of pure hunger, pinning your body flat against the heavy wooden door, his thick thighs crowding tightly between yours. His hands were absolutely everywhere—clutching your face, tracing the line of your throat, gripping your hips with a bruising, desperate force that felt incredibly, entirely right.
"Logan," you whimpered against his mouth as he tore his lips away to kiss your jawline, your neck - his hands sliding down to frantically bunch up the silk fabric of your dress.
With a sudden burst of strengh, he hooked his large hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly into the air. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist as he deposited you onto the cold marble edge of the bathroom sink counter. He didn't waste a single second. His hands slid all the way up the bare, warm skin of your thighs, finding the edge of your underwear. His fingers quickly found your slick, burning, over-sensitized core, rubbing against you through the damp fabric with a rhythm that made your head tilt back and earned a large grin from him.
You arched your back off the counter, a loud sob escaping your lips, your fingers digging deep into his shoulders.
"You like that?" Logan growled against your neck, his voice dripping with lust. His fingers moved faster, driving you up a steep, agonizing cliff. "Tell me you want it."
"Logan," you breathed out, "please," you cried out, your head tossing back against the large bathroom mirror. Your hands flew down to his waist, frantically, blindly fumbling with the button of his jeans. You shoved the denim down his hips until his length snapped free—thick, heavy, and pulsing with heat. The moment your fingers wrapped tightly around him, moving in a fast, desperate stroke, Logan’s eyes rolled back.
His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his neck. He couldn't endure the exquisite torture for long, his quiet moans matching your own, before his large hand clamped over yours, freezing your movement. "Stop, stop," he panted, his chest wild, his forehead pressing against yours. "I'm going to come right now if you keep doing that. I need to feel you, right now."
With trembling, frantic hands, he reached into the small drawer next to the sink—Dean’s emergency stash—and ripped open a foil condom wrapper, spitting the plastic away and rolling it onto himself in one fluid, desperate motion.
Then he stepped back between your open thighs. His hands gripped your hips with an iron hold, dragging you to the very edge of the marble counter. He aligned himself against you, waiting just long enough for your frantic nod of approval. With one heavy, unyielding, possessive thrust, he buried himself completely inside you.
The sheer, overwhelming pleasure of that sudden fullness hit you both at once, fracturing the quiet of the bathroom with a sharp, mutual gasp. Instead of slowing down, the friction only stoked the fire, drawing a long, ragged, shattered exhale from deep in Logan's chest. His pupils were completely dilated, dark and wild with pure lust as his forehead dropped heavily against your shoulder.
"Fuck," he groaned into the crook of your neck, his voice a raw, visceral prayer vibrating against your collarbone.
His hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like an anchor as he immediately established a rhythm. The restraint dissolved into pure instinct. He pulled you flush against him, his thrusts becoming powerful, deep, and utterly relentless from the very start. Every heavy drive forced a breathless cry from your lips, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. You rocked together on the cold edge of the marble sink, your bodies generating a feverish heat that defied the chilly stone beneath you.
The bass from the after-party still thudded through the floorboards, a distant, muffled reminder of the chaotic world outside, but within the locked walls of the bathroom, that world was entirely forgotten. There was only the slick, friction-heavy slide of skin against skin, the frantic tangle of your fingers in his hair, and the hot, primal rhythm consuming you both.
The friction was dizzying, driving you both toward a precipice that neither of you could fight anymore. Logan’s pace turned frantic, his breath coming in harsh, ragged stabs against your ear as his hips slammed against yours with an undoing, desperate urgency. Every stroke sent a white-hot wave of pleasure straight to your core, tightening the coil inside you until it was agonizing.
You choked out a breathless, broken sound, your hands clamping onto his biceps as your head thrashed back against the mirror once more.
He didn't need words to know you were right there. He buried his face in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he delivered three more devastatingly deep, relentless thrusts.
That was the final breaking point. Your walls clamped down around him tight and pulsing, fracturing your breath into a loud, ruined cry as your entire body shattered into a blinding, head-to-toe release.
Hearing you break completely ruined him. Logan let out a guttural, unhinged groan that vibrated deep in his chest. His jaw locked, his body rigid and trembling as he gave one last, deeply possessive shove, throwing his weight into you as he came violently inside the condom. He held himself deep within you, his hips shuddering against yours as he rode out the waves of his own release, the two of you panting heavily in the quiet aftermath, entirely spent.
Seven — "Fuck it"
Roughly thirty minutes later, the two of you finally emerged from the bathroom. You had tried your absolute best to fix your chaotic appearance in the mirror—re-applying a bit of smudge-proof lip gloss, smoothing down the wrinkled fabric of your dress, and trying to tame your wildly tangled hair with your fingers—but the physical evidence of what had just occurred was written all over your faces. Your skin was flushed a deep unmistakable pink, your lips were incredibly swollen and red, and Logan was walking with a loose, stupidly contented, proud stride, his hair completely disheveled and sticking up in directions where your fingers had repeatedly torn through it.
The exact moment you stepped back onto the floor of the crowded living room, a loud, piercing whistle cut through the air.
Dean was leaning against the back of the sofa, a beer dangling from his fingers and a knowing smirk plastered across his face. His eyes darted from you to Logan, zeroing in instantly on the faint trace of your lip gloss smeared along Logan’s jawline.
"Well, well, well," he said, loud enough to be heard over the music. "Must have been a pretty intense plumbing emergency in there. Either that, or you two just went ten rounds with a blender. You might want to wipe your face, Logan."
Your cheeks instantly burned. You took a step back. "Dean, shut up, we were just—"
But Logan didn't let you finish the lie. He looked down at you, catching the slight panic in your eyes, and then looked over at Dean, who was practically vibrating with smug satisfaction.
Instead of getting defensive, Logan just let out a short, quiet laugh. The stubbornness, the secrecy, the remnants of your old feud—it all suddenly felt completely irrelevant. He was tired of hiding it.
"You know what? Fuck it," Logan muttered.
Before you could process the words, his hand slid around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your jaw as he pulled you flush against his chest. Right there by the sofa, he leaned down and kissed you.
Dean threw his arms up in a dramatic, sweeping gesture. "About damn fucking time! Graham, you owe me twenty bucks!"
When Logan finally pulled back, his eyes were bright, a relaxed, genuinely happy smile playing on his lips as his thumb brushed your cheek. You looked up at him, the noise of the party fading into the background, finally realizing that the long, argumentative journey of seven dirty words had brought you exactly where you were supposed to be.
Summary: 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.
Warnings: none! Just John Logan being happily down bad for his girl, plus plenty of romcom references :)
Being a hopeless romantic comes with plenty of pros and cons. You’re able to romanticize the world, but you feel the desperate ache that simply comes from wanting to be truly loved and seen. In your case, you love romcoms, which is part of the reason why it’s so hard for you to date and find love today. Who could come close to Heath Ledger’s irresistible charm in 10 Things I Hate About You? Who would possibly marvel at you in a beautiful butter yellow dress as if you were an angel like Matthew McConaughey in How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days?
Nobody at Briar University, that’s for sure.
So, although you dreamed of hearing a confession at midnight on New Years Eve after years of being best friends, or sharing a first kiss over your birthday cake, you’d basically given up on modern love.
Your best friends, Allie and Hannah, had made sure to keep you as an integral part of their lives even despite finding true love in the form of handsome hockey players. This often meant hanging out with them at the boys’ house off campus.
John Logan had been trying to get closer to you for months. Although you could be shy, your smile lit up the entire room, and Logan had found himself in plenty of pleasant conversations with you over the past semester. The more he got to know you, the more he fell for your sweet personality and caring demeanor. He was finally ready to ask you to be his, but he wanted to make it special.
“What movie genre were we thinking tonight? Action? Horror? So-bad-it’s-good B movie?” Allie asked the group of you surrounded around the TV.
“Ooh, I’m down for horror.” Dean piped in.
“Nah, I think I’d rather watch an action movie tonight.” Tucker disagreed.
“What about you, Y/N/N?” Hannah asked you.
“Oh, that’s easy,” Allie answered for you. “She looooooves rom coms.”
“Really?” Garrett questioned. “Didn’t see you as a chick flick kind of gal.”
“She’s seen just about every romance movie ever made.” Hannah interjected. “That’s not even an exaggeration. Her standards for men are entirely based around the rom coms she loves so much.”
Logan’s attention piqued at Hannah’s statement. Oh, so you liked rom coms? The gears were already shifting in his head. Y/N Y/L/N, prepare to be romanced in every film worthy way imaginable. After all, you deserved the best of the best.
Step 1: The Princess Bride
A Halloween party was being thrown at one of the frat houses, and almost everyone on campus planned to attend. Logan knew this would be the perfect time to integrate phase one of his plan to sweep you off of your feet. He’d texted Hannah his plan and told her what to have you dress as, hoping you’d be willing enough to go through with it.
As he adjusted the black mask over his eyes and made sure the rest of his costume was in the right place, Logan suddenly began to feel extra nervous. What if you hated this? What if you just thought he was lame and never talked to him again?
He shook off the nerves, reassuring himself that if you truly loved romance movies as much as he suspected, you’d be touched by the gesture.
The music was blaring when he entered the house. People were packed into the rooms like sardines, and the smell of booze was evident. Logan slowly worked his way through the crowds, searching everywhere for at least a glimpse of you. Eventually, he spotted the familiar red dress and realized with immense relief that you had, indeed, gone along with it.
“Dude, quit staring. You’ll catch flies with that open mouth.” Dean jabbed.
“Oh, cut him some slack, Dean. Our little Logan’s in loooooove.” Garrett teased.
Logan wanted to give them some sort of snarky response, but truth be told, he was simply too mesmerized by your beauty to form a proper response. He took a deep breath before heading your direction.
“I think I’m gonna need a refill, guys.” You told Allie and Hannah, gesturing toward your empty solo cup.
“As you wish.” You heard a familiarly handsome voice say from behind you before your cup was grabbed. You whipped your head around to find Logan, dressed as Westley, smirking at you.
“Well, I’ll be damned, if that isn’t the cutest thing ever.” Allie cooed, sharing a knowing glance with Hannah.
“Oh hey, we match! What a funny coincidence.” You spoke, trying to ignore the butterflies creating a tornado-like storm in your stomach. “How are you, Logan? Or should I say, the Westly I’ve been looking for?”
“I’m doing good for the most part, even better now that I’m with you. How about you? How’s the prettiest Buttercup I’ve ever seen doing?”
You laughed. “I’m doing great, thank you. I didn’t think you liked The Princess Bride!”
“I sure do. How cool is it that we accidentally matched like that? I think we make a good-looking pair if I do say so myself.” He smirked. “Both in and out of costume.”
You smiled back, about to respond to the flirty banter, but suddenly, Thriller started blaring over the stereo. You gasped, “I love this song! Want to dance?”
Shit, there was no way he could deny you, even if John Logan was far, far from a good dancer. “Sure, let’s do it.” And thus began a VERY impromptu Step 2: 13 Going on 30.
Did he make an absolute fool of himself attempting to do the Thriller dance with you on the dance floor in front of everyone? Absolutely. Did he regret any of it, especially hearing your laughter and seeing how brightly you smiled at him? Not a chance in hell.
Step 3: Say Anything
So, Logan had a very embarrassing confession to make. He’d never seen Say Anything before, but who doesn’t know the iconic boombox scene? When he added it to his list of planned steps, however, he had no idea that in the movie, she doesn’t take him back after his gesture, not until much later at least, and now he just felt like an idiot. Hopefully you didn’t read too much into it like the movie and just appreciated the gesture.
It was 8 AM and Logan was standing outside the dorms where you resided, getting ready for the next step of his plan. He took a deep breath, pressed play, and raised the boombox over his head.
From your dorm room, you heard what sounded to be a male voice singing from the courtyard below. Damn, they had a pretty good voice! …wait, was that Peter Gabriel?
You opened your window to find none other than Logan himself once again. He was holding a boombox high about his head, the unmistakable In Your Eyes blaring from the speakers. He was looking up directly at you, making it clear that the gesture was meant just for you. He smiled softly before calling out to you above the noise of the boombox.
“To the most beautiful girl in all of Briar University.” He shouted up at you. “I hope you have the most incredible day, today and every day.” You gasped before breaking out into a huge smile, giving him a wave, and Logan swore his heart stopped momentarily. “Meet me for lunch in the café later?” You nodded happily, shooting him a quick “Sure!” in response.
Logan clutched over his heart in one hand, the other slowly bringing the boombox back down. Nothing in the world could wipe the giant smile off his face. Now, if only with his last two steps, he could show you just how far gone he truly was for you. One thing was for sure, though, for this last part, he had a lot of favors to ask.
The rest of the week leading up to the hockey game had passed in a blur, at least to Logan. With each day that passed, his worries grew once again. What if you never felt the same way he did? What if his attempts were truly just a lost cause?
You, on the other hand, had no clue what was in store. At the game, Hannah and Allie sat on either side of you as the boys fought for yet another hard-earned victory. You cheered when they scored, groaned at the minimal times the other team scored, and enjoyed eavh other’s company. You noticed how Logan’s gaze kept wandering over to you more than normal, stares often interlocking and sharing secret smiles.
Briar University beat the opposing team 6-1 in an undeniable victory. The crowd was alight, cheering loudly and sharing in the joy of a win. All three of you jumped up and down, proud especially of each of your respective boys.
Eventually, fans began to make their way out of the stadium. “Shit, I left my purse with Dean’s stuff.” Allie told you. “Mind watching my jacket for a minute?”
“I’ll go with you. I’ve gotta use the bathroom.” Hannah agreed.
“Oh, sure, leave me alone in the rink with the stragglers and drunks.” You joked. “Of course, just make it quick.” With that, they were off, leaving you alone in your seat to scroll on your phone until they returned.
After a few minutes, a loud noise jolted you, and you looked up to find a mixture of your friends and hockey players standing on the opposite end of the stands, all holding up white poster boards. One by one, they flipped them over.
Step 4: Love Actually
John Logan has many words to describe Y/N Y/L/N…
Smart, kind, funny, drop dead gorgeous…
Too many to name on a single poster…
But for now, let him say…
With the utmost hope and an overfilled heart…
(And the biggest nerves imaginable)…
Just because you deserve it more than anything in the world…
To him, you are perfect…
And he promises, if you let him…
To love you, with all of his heart…
For the rest of his days.
Hannah held up the last card, flashing you a big grin and two thumbs up, before the speakers crackled back on and a song began to play over the speakers.
“You’re just too good to be true…”
Step 5: 10 Things I Hate About You
The voice of Frankie Valli serenaded you over the speakers as Logan stepped onto the stands at the other end of the rink. Wait, no, was that Logan’s voice? His nervous, hopeful little smile flashed at you, microphone held in one hand.
As the song progressed, he slowly made his way across the stands, his dramatics increasing with the song as he gained confidence, egged on by your big smile and laughter. His voice definitely could use some work, but the passion and the way he moved toward you with purpose made up for it.
“Oh, pretty baby, don’t bring me down, I pray,” He knelt at your feet. “Oh, pretty baby, now that I’ve found you, stay. And let me love you, baby, let me love you…” He grasped both of your hands in his. The music faded in the background as he began the speech he’d been practicing to the guys all week.
“Sweetheart, I’ll be honest, I’ve been trying to think of the best way to ask you to be mine for weeks now, before ultimately realizing you deserve nothing but the best of the best. You’re the only girl on my mind, all the time, and I know I can give you that same love story you’ve been dreaming of. I’ll kiss you in the rain, I’ll choose you again and again. I’ll make sure you know how much I love you, and I promise to keep laughter and joy in our relationship for the rest of our lives. So, what do you say? Will you let me love you, baby?”
You sighed, attempting to act nonchalant, mouth betraying you and breaking into a huge smile as you responded, “Well, you know, I am just a girl, standing in front of a boy…”
He laughed before pulling you forward and joining your lips together in a passionate kiss. You were broken apart by the sound of your friends cheering and hollering from the other end of the rink, only to gravitate back into each other as if wrapped in your own bubble of love.
Okay, so maybe you’d never get a dramatic confession on New Year’s, or have a man build your dream house, or have a song sung to you on a plane to get you back. None of that really mattered to you, though, because in the end, you did get your very own romcom.
You’d finally found your very own happily ever after with John Logan.
a/n: can you tell i love romcoms? ;) i love logan so much, he's such a cutieeeee. requests for all 4 lovely boys are still open! likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated as always.
movies referenced, but never explicitly named (in order): when harry met sally, 16 candles, the notebook, the wedding singer
