six

New York City is all you have ever known your whole life. Private schools, private planes, grandeur manors your world was entirely walled off by old-money luxury, historic brownstones, and an overarching silence. Your mother had passed away the day you were born, a tragedy that left your father, Charles Verplanck, entirely single-minded in his purpose: to protect you from anything that could ever cause you a moment of pain. He didn't just provide for you; he fiercely insulated you. To him, you weren't just his daughter; you were the only piece of your mother he had left in the world.

In that quiet, structured upbringing, you naturally developed an eye for the arts. It started small—silly, disproportionate sketches scribbled on expensive heavy cardstock that you would proudly hand to your dad after he returned from the corporate office. While other millionaires collected pieces from Christie’s auction house, your father treated your childhood doodles like invaluable relics. He kept every single one. As the years slipped by and your technique matured, those silly drawings evolved into complex, sprawling landscapes and deeply observant portraits. Your dad remained your most loyal patron. By the time you turned fourteen, he had pulled strings across Manhattan to host an exclusive gallery exhibition entirely dedicated to your work.

But old money brings an invisible, crushing weight. Every gala, every dinner, and every formal introduction carried assumptions based entirely on your last name. You grew weary of being viewed through the lens of a family bank account. You wanted to breathe. You wanted a fresh start where you could just be an artist, evaluated purely by what you put on a canvas rather than what was sitting in your trust fund.

When you announced your desire to transfer to Briar University—a school miles away from the tight-knit circle of New York high society, your dad was deeply reluctant. He hated the idea of his only child being out of his immediate protective reach. But his soft spot for your happiness was absolute; he could never firmly put his foot down when it came to you. In the end, you had your way.

Which brought you to the current passage of your life.

Your belongings were packed into sleek, unmarked suitcases, moved into an oddly spacious off-campus apartment located exactly twelve minutes away from the university quad. Finding your front door on Saint Paul Street was always a bit of a running joke. You lived in apartment 6 or 9—the little brass plaque on the wood hung lazily by a single, stripped screw, spinning dynamically depending on how hard the front door was closed. No one really knew which number it was supposed to be. Some of the drafty corridor doors down the hall had no numbers left on them at all, just pale rectangular outlines where the old adhesive had long since given up.

Inside, however, the space was entirely yours. It featured a towering window that overlooked a secluded, quiet garden downstairs. Your easel stood right beside the glass, currently holding an unfinished, heavy oil painting of a hazy scenery. It was a peaceful sanctuary

Ever since your arrival at Briar, you had practically vanished into your own world. While other transfer students spent their first weeks navigating campus parties, joining clubs, and frantically trying to build a social circle, you had done the exact opposite. You holed yourself up in the campus art studio, retreating into the familiar, comforting scent of turpentine and linseed oil. Day after day, you would sit at your easel for hours on end, letting the campus life hum past outside the heavy glass windows without you.

The only real exception to your solitude was Maya. She was a fellow art student who shared a couple of your studio blocks—a bubbly, incredibly sweet girl who had practically adopted you on your very first day. Maya was the one who showed you where the best brushes were kept and which coffee cart on the quad actually brewed an edible espresso. You liked her genuinely, and the two of you would frequently exchange small talk about assignments or lend each other a hand when carrying heavy canvases across the room. But despite her warmth, you hadn't really let her all the way in. The walls you’d built to protect your identity as a Verplanck were still firmly intact, and while Maya was a great studio companion, she wasn't a confidante. You remained a friendly, quiet enigma, keeping her and everyone else at Briar at a polite, safe distance.

The following afternoon, you sought out the campus art wing to truly begin your new routine.

The soft, crackly croon of Elvis Presley was the only thing filling the high-ceilinged studio. Logan stopped by the half-open door, his gaze catching on the canvas first, then sliding to the girl in front of it. She was completely tuned out from the world, a smudge of dark oil paint on the edge of her jaw, moving her brush in sync with the slow tempo of the music.

The door gives a sharp, metallic squeak as Logan shifts his weight. She blinks, the brush freezing an inch from the canvas. She turns, her eyes wide, shifting from startled surprise to quiet curiosity as she takes him in.

Clearing his throat, instantly rubbing the back of his neck, "Sorry. I didn't mean to creep. The door was… yeah. I just noticed the painting."

Tucking a stray hair behind her ear, leaving a faint streak of paint on her temple, "Oh. It's fine."

Stepping entirely into the room, his eyes darting back to the canvas, "It's really beautiful. The lighting you're doing on the trees—it looks real." A small breathless laugh escapes her, shoulders dropping slightly, "Thank you. But trust me, it's not. It's actually missing…a lot. I've been staring at it for two hours and it feels completely unfinished." Logan gives her a quiet, genuine smile, "Well from where I'm standing, the unfinished version looks better than anything else on this campus."

He gives her one last look, a quiet nod, and steps out, closing the door softly behind him. She stands there for a moment, the room suddenly feeling a little bigger, before she turns back to her canvas. But for the first time all afternoon, her focus is completely gone.

"Well… I'll let you get back to it. Don't overthink the trees. They look good," he says. A smile touches her lips, "I'll try not to."

The next day, a quiet anticipation builds inside you, wondering if the mystery man from yesterday will actually come back. By 1:55 PM, you find yourself glancing at the clock, meticulously picking out a nicer playlist to fill the room. Meanwhile, Logan is rushing across campus after his lecture, intentionally slowing his pace at the last second just so he doesn't look completely out of breath when he reaches the art wing by 2:00 PM.

By the fifth day, a new rhythm forms. Logan shows up holding two coffees, setting one down on your stool without a word, and in return, you slide a spare sketch pad toward him.

"Still no name?" he asks, leaning back against the windowsill.

You look up from your canvas, a playful smile touching your lips. "Names carry too many assumptions. Let's see how long we can go."

He chuckles, raising his coffee cup in a mock toast. "Deal."

Multiple afternoons spent talking, sharing quiet laughter, and telling stories had turned the chilly studio into your own private world. You had spent weeks piecing each other together through quick glances and comfortable pauses, learning the rhythm of each other's thoughts over steaming paper cups.

Until one gloomy afternoon, the steady, gray autumn downpour finally washed away the last of our carefully guarded boundaries.

The rain blurred the high, arched windows of the studio, creating a rhythmic, isolated hum that made the vast room feel incredibly small, safe, and entirely cut off from the rest of the campus. Usually, Logan spent his hour leaning back in his chair, quietly observing you paint with a steady, grounding presence. But today, the heavy silence in the room felt different. He was sitting at the desk he’d claimed, a textbook open in front of him, but his jaw was tight, his large shoulders tense, and his eyes were staring right through the pages, completely lost in a dark headspace.

You set your paintbrush down in the jar of water, the soft clink of glass breaking the quiet.

"You're going to burn a hole through those pages just by staring at them," you said softly, tilting your head.

Logan blinked, snapping out of his thoughts. He looked up from the textbook, letting out a low, tired breath that sounded less like a laugh and more like a sigh. He rubbed the back of his neck, his posture deflating.

"Yeah," he admitted, his voice a bit rougher than usual. "Sorry. Just... a lot on my mind today."

You hopped down from your stool, picking up your lukewarm coffee cup and walking over to lean against the windowsill near his desk. "Want to talk about it? Or do you want to keep intimidating your homework?"

Logan looked out at the rain, his fingers tracing the edge of the wooden desk. For a long moment, the only sound was the storm against the glass. He hesitated, a rare flash of raw exhaustion crossing his face before he finally looked up at you.

"My dad called before I came here," Logan said quietly, his tone dropping into a flat, heavy register. "He was... drunk. Again. It’s usually a fifty-fifty shot whether he’s sober enough to hold a conversation, but today was bad." He let out a harsh, self-deprecating breath. "I spent twenty minutes on the phone making sure he hadn't burned the kitchen down or driven his truck into a ditch. It’s just... exhausting. Spending half your life playing parent to the person who’s supposed to be taking care of you."

Your heart ached for him. The image of this massive, confident hockey star being reduced to a worried, tired kid over a phone call hit you with a wave of fierce empathy.

"I'm sorry, Logan," you said softly, your voice carrying a deep, unhurried sincerity. "You shouldn't have to carry that. Especially not by yourself."

"It's just the fear, I guess," Logan murmured, looking down at his worn sneakers, a tight line forming along his jaw. "Watching someone destroy themselves and knowing that if I slip up—even a little bit—everything falls apart. I didn't grow up like most of the guys on the team, or the kids on this campus. My family didn't have money. There was no safety net, no savings account, no inheritance waiting for me."

He gestured vaguely toward the window, looking out at the sprawling, historic brick buildings of Briar University.

"The only reason I'm sitting in this room, the only reason I can afford to walk through these halls, is because of my athletic scholarship. Hockey is my only ticket," Logan admitted, his voice dropping to a vulnerable, raw whisper. "If I get a career-ending injury, or if my grades slip because I'm too busy worrying about whether my dad is conscious back home... the scholarship vanishes. And if that goes, I’m done here. I'm back to a small town with a broken father and zero options. It feels like I'm carrying the weight of my entire future on the blade of a skate every single night."

He shook his head, instantly looking apologetic. "Sorry. That’s heavy. I shouldn't be dumping that on you. You've got this peaceful life, and I'm out here ruining the quiet vibe."

"You aren't ruining anything," you countered gently, stepping a fraction closer. You looked down at your coffee cup, tracing the rim as you allowed your own guard to drop—something you rarely did with anyone on this campus.

"My life isn't perfect, Logan. It’s just... quiet," you admitted, a wistful smile touching your lips. "My mom passed away when I was young, so it’s just been me and my dad. And he is incredible. He supports everything I do, he protects me fiercely, and he has never, not once, placed an ounce of pressure on me."

Logan listened intensely, his dark eyes locking onto yours, sensing the underlying weight in your words.

"But because he’s so good, and because he gives me absolutely everything... I do it to myself," you whispered, looking up to meet his gaze. "The pressure doesn't come from him, Logan. It comes entirely from me. I look at how much he loves me, how hard he works to protect my world, and I construct this impossible standard in my own head. I feel this crushing, internal need to be flawless. To never make a mistake, to always hold myself with composure, and to be entirely worthy of everything he’s sacrificed. I moved a state from home just to try and escape my own head, but I’m still the one holding the rope tight around my own neck. I’m terrified that if I'm not perfect, I'll be the one who lets him down."

"But because he’s so good, and because I’m all he has left... the pressure is suffocating," you whispered, looking up to meet his gaze. "Every day, I feel this invisible, crushing need to be flawless. To never make a mistake, to never cause him a second of worry, to inherit this massive family legacy and carry it without tripping. I moved twelve minutes away from home just to breathe, but I still feel like I’m walking on a tightrope. I feel like I'm letting down the only person who matters."

You let out a small, breathless laugh, suddenly feeling exposed. "It sounds silly, I know. Sitting here accumulating my own internal panic over a family that loves me, while you're fighting just to stay here."

"Hey," Logan interrupted softly.

Before you could step back into your poised, guarded shell, he reached out. His large, warm hand closed gently over your forearm, his thumb resting against your skin with a steady, grounding pressure.

"It doesn't sound silly at all," Logan said, his voice incredibly thick with emotion as he looked up at you. "Internal pressure is just as heavy as external pressure. It doesn't matter where the weight comes from, it still cuts into your shoulders the exact same way. You're holding yourself to an impossible standard because you care so much. That doesn't make you spoiled. It just makes you human."

You looked down at his hand on your arm, the warmth of his touch radiating through your sweater, melting away the lingering chill of the rainy afternoon.

Logan smiled softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a deep, understanding tenderness. "I guess we both just need a place where we don't have to keep score against ourselves."

"Yeah," you breathed, a genuine, unburdened smile finally gracing your face. "I guess we do."

By the sixth week, he doesn't just linger by the door anymore. He claims a nearby desk, pulling out his homework or scrolling through his phone while you paint. The silence between you becomes a comfortable haven. Over these weeks, you gradually piece him together; you learn he plays hockey for Briar, and that every single afternoon before he heads off to practice, he chooses to spend his spare hour right here, with you.

The invitation didn’t come from a flyer or a massive group chat; it came in the quiet, low-lit printmaking studio on a Thursday afternoon.

You were meticulously cleaning an ink roller when your classmate, Maya, leaned against the heavy iron printing press, a mischievous look on her face.

"Dean Di Laurentis and Beau Maxwell are hosting a dynamic duo party tomorrow night for their birthday," Maya said, tapping a finger rhythmically against the metal. "The entire hockey team and half the student body is going to be there, and frankly, we've spent the last three weeks inhaling turpentine. We need to touch grass."

You had offered a faint, amused smile, initially inclined to decline. A loud party house was a far cry from the quiet galleries you preferred. But looking out the studio window at the autumn breeze, the thought of spending another weekend isolated in your spacious apartment felt a little too lonely. Besides, a small, quiet part of you wondered if a certain hockey player who frequented the studio at 2:00 PM might show up.

"One drink," you had negotiated with Maya, wiping your hands on a cloth with effortless poise. "And we leave the moment it gets too chaotic.

For the dynamic duo party, you and your classmate had opted for something that subtly nodded to your major: The Artist and the Masterpiece. Maya wearing overalls carrying a chisle, while your interpretation of the masterpiece was entirely high-fashion, like a sculpture—a beautifully draped, cream-colored silk midi dress that looked like wearable sculpture, your hair swept up into a loose, elegant twist secured by a vintage gold pin. It was understated, timeless, and effortlessly sophisticated.

Dean Di Laurentis’s off-campus house was a sensory overload of vibrating bass and cheap beer, a world entirely foreign to the quiet galleries and Manhattan brownstones you grew up with. You stood near the edge of the kitchen, observing the chaos with a detached, quiet amusement, holding a drink you had no intention of finishing.

That was when you spotted him across the living room.

The contrast was striking. In the art studio, he was a quiet, unassuming presence in dark hoodies. Tonight, he was surrounded by the loud, boisterous energy of the Briar hockey team, wearing a hawks shirt its sleeves cut off with a pair of metallic golden wings strapped over his broad shoulders. He looked entirely ridiculous, yet carried it with an easy, unbothered confidence.

Logan happened to glance toward the kitchen, his eyes scanning the crowd until they locked onto you. He stopped mid-sentence. A look of genuine relief crossed his face, and he immediately excused himself from the team, navigating the packed room with purpose until he stopped right in front of you.

Adjusting his costume, a self-deprecating smile pulling at his lips, "Please tell me you aren't going to hold this costume against me."

Amused, tilting your head slightly, "I don't know. Metallic gold is quite a statement outside of the art wing… Logan."

He stops, genuinely surprised, his eyes widening a fraction, "Wait—how do you know my name?"

A bit playful, taking a slow sip of your drink, "You play for Briar, and you're the star left wing. You're a little hard to miss on a campus this size. Besides, I do my research on the guys who steal my coffee warmth at 2:00 PM."

Logan gives a quiet laugh, a faint flush creeping up his neck as he rubs the back of his head, "Fair enough. Caught red-handed. As for the look... Tucker and I were supposed to be a dynamic duo. He went as a bumblebee, so I improvised. A hawk." He shakes his head, smiling. "We're calling it 'the birds and the bees' but honestly, it’s just a disaster."

His eyes trace the elegant drape of your silk dress, a look of genuine appreciation replacing his embarrassment. "You look incredible, by the way. What’s the duo theme?"

"The Artist and the Masterpiece. My classmate, Maya, has the chisle."

Logan looks down at you, his tone dropping into something soft and intensely sincere, "Masterpiece. Yeah. I can definitely see that."

Someone shoves past trying to get through, and Logan seamlessly shifts his weight, stepping in closer to shield you from the rowdy crowd. His focus narrows entirely to you.

"Look, the 'no names' rule was fun," he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours. "But since it's officially broken… I want to ask you properly. What’s your name?"

You offer him a small, genuine smile, extending your hand in a gesture that is entirely classic, poised, and polite.

"[Name]."

He takes your hand, his grip warm, large, and steady, reapeating it carefully as if committing it to memory, "[Name]. It's really nice to officially meet you. Honestly, I was wondering if you would go to the party tonight."

Before the moment can linger too long, Dean swagger-walks over, looking between you and Logan. "Yo, Logan. You skipped out right in the middle of my story. Who’s your friend?"

Logan turns to dean, his posture turning subtly protective as he introduces you, "Dean, this is [Name]. She's the artist from the studio."

Dean grins broadly, extending a hand, "Ah, the famous 2:00 PM appointment. I’m Dean. Welcome to the madhouse."

Before you could reply, a loud, booming laugh echoed from the living room, and a tall, athletic guy with an easy, commanding presence navigated through the crowd. Garrett Graham possessed the kind of effortless charisma that instantly marked him as the team captain. He had a gold medal prop looped around his neck—completely unbothered by the chaos around him.

Garrett slapping a hand on Logan's shoulder, "Don't let Logan bore you, [Your Name]. He’s been checking his watch all night waiting for you to walk through that door."

Shooting a warning glare at Garrett, a dark flush creeps up on Logan, "Shut up, Graham."

Right on Garrett’s heels was John Tucker, who looked remarkably too broad to be wearing a plush, striped bumblebee costume complete with bouncing antenna on a headband. He carried a plastic honey pot filled with punch, offering you a warm, southern, and genuinely polite smile that instantly made him feel approachable.

"Don't mind them, ma'am. I'm Tucker. And yes, before you ask, he’s the bird to my bee. We had a pact, though he clearly half-assed his end of the bargain."

You couldn't help the soft, genuine laugh that escaped your lips, the sheer absurdity of the hockey team completely contrasting with the stiff, formal galas you were used to. "It’s a pleasure to meet you all. The synchronization is... impressive, Tucker."

Logan, shaking his head, "Don't encourage him, please."

Finally, Beau Maxwell stepped up beside Dean, completing the core group. Beau possessed a sharp, discerning gaze, but it softened with an easygoing smirk as he took in your high-fashion silk dress and Maya's paint covered outfit nearby.

"The Artist and the Masterpiece. Clever. It’s definitely a massive step up from the usual crowd we get in this kitchen. I'm Beau. Happy to have you here."

As the guys fell into their natural, boisterous banter, a sharp, amused voice cut through the noise from the kitchen doorway.

"Oh, thank god. Someone with actual taste has finally entered this house."

You turned to see Hannah Wells walking in, holding a drink and looking at your draped silk dress with pure, unadulterated appreciation. Right behind her was Allie Hayes, who offered you an immediate, blindingly warm smile.

Hannah stepped past Garrett, who automatically looped a possessive arm around her waist. "I'm Hannah. And let me just say, your dress is spectacular. It's wearable art."

You smile, "Thank you. I'm [Name]. My classmate and I went as the Artist and the Masterpiece."

Allies eyes light up, "That is brilliant! I'm Allie. Honestly, [Name], please stay in this kitchen. If I have to listen to Dean talk about Top Gun flight trajectories for one more minute, I’m going to lose my mind."

Logan chuckling, though his posture remained subtly protective beside you, "Don't overwhelm her, ladies."

Hannah shooting a knowing and playful smirk to him, "Oh, please, Logan. We're rescuing her from you boys."

For the next twenty minutes, the initial barrier of the chaotic party completely melted away. Hannah and Allie effortlessly pulled you into the conversation, asking about your art major with genuine curiosity rather than the passive-aggressive scrutiny you usually feared from campus peers. For the first time since moving twelve minutes away from home, you felt a spark of true belonging.

But the dynamic shifted slightly when the kitchen crowd parted, and someone with a sharp, discerning gaze stepped up to the counter. Crossing their arms, eyes instantly sliding past Logan to lock into you with intense curiosity.

Sensing this, Logan cleared his throat, "Jules, this is [Name]. She’s the artist from the studio I told you—I mean, she’s from the art wing. [Name], this is my sibling, Jules."

You offered her a poised, elegant smile, extending your hand. "It's very nice to meet you, Jules."

Jules didn't just shake your hand; they took it, their sharp eyes taking in your beautifully draped, silk dress and your air of sophistication. They let out an appreciative hum.

"The costume suits you. Honestly, you're entirely too sophisticated for this house. And definitely too sophisticated for my brother."

Tilting your head, "Oh, I don't know. I think his golden bird wings are quite a statement."

Jules lets out a sharp, delighted laugh, "Oh, I like her. she's witty." She leaned her elbow on the counter, entirely disregarding Logan’s warning glare. "So, [Your Name]... give me the real story. What exactly is the nature of your relationship with my brother? Because Johnny here usually talks about hockey, hockey, and more hockey. But lately, all I hear about is a '2:00 PM appointment' and someone who apparently makes the absolute best coffee company on campus."

Logan groans out loud, rubbing a hand over his face, "Jules, please stop. Right now."

A burning blush hits your cheeks, but you maintain your quiet composure, a playful smile touching your lips) "We're just... breaking the rules of assumptions. No names until tonight, just coffee warmth and quiet sketching."

Jules’s eyes gave you a look of genuine, protective approval flashing in their expression. They tapped the back of their phone against their chin, giving you a playful wink.

"Well, if you can keep him quiet and compliant for an hour every day, you’re officially a miracle worker. I'll see you around campus." They say, quietly slipping back in to the crowd.

Eventually, the heat and noise of the kitchen grew a bit too suffocating. Sensing your subtle shift in posture, Logan leaned down, his voice a low, private rumble against your ear.

"Come with me. Let's get some air."

He guided you through the crowded hallway and out onto the quiet, shadowed wrap-around porch. The cool autumn air hit your skin like a relief, the heavy bass of the house instantly muffling behind the closed glass doors. You walked over to the wooden railing, looking out over the dark lawn.

Logan stepped up beside you, unstrapping the ridiculous metallic gold wings from his shoulders and setting them on a nearby bench.

"Much better," he sighed, running a hand through his hair, leaving it perfectly messy. "I love the guys, but they're a lot sometimes."

You tilt your head to look up at him, "I think they're charming. Especially Tucker's commitment to the bumblebee aesthetic."

Stepping a fraction closer, his large frame blocking the chilly breeze for you, "Yeah, well... Tucker is one of a kind. But honestly? I didn't bring you out here to talk about Tucker."

The playfulness in the air suddenly shifted, melting into something thick and magnetic. Logan’s eyes darkened, dropping down to trace the elegant slope of your jaw where the oil paint had been just days prior, before locking onto your lips.

His voice dropping a soft breathless whisper, "I meant what I said inside, You look absolutely breathtaking tonight."

Your breath hitched in your throat. The quiet confidence you usually carried around like armor suddenly felt fragile under the intensity of his gaze. He stepped in closer, his warmth radiating through his shirt. Slowly, intentionally, his hand rose, his thumb gently brushing against your cheekbone, tilting your face up just a fraction.

You leaned into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut as his head began to incline. The space between your lips vanished until you could feel the ghost of his breath—

SLAM.

The porch door flew open with violent force.

Tucker bursts out, completely oblivious, the bumblebee antenna on his head bouncing wildly, "Logan! Bro! Dean is about to do a keg stand into a bush and Garrett says you have to anchor him! Move, move, move!"

The spell shattered instantly. Logan froze, his eyes snapping open with a flash of pure, unadulterated frustration. He closed his eyes for a brief second, inhaling deeply as if praying for strength.

Logan, without looking at Tucker, his voice strained, "Give me a minute, Tuck."

Finally registering the atmosphere, Tucker's eyes widening, "Oh. Oh. Wow. I am an insect of bad timing. Carrying on! Buzzing away!" He scrambled backward, slamming the door shut again.

A small, breathless laugh escaped your lips, breaking the tension. Logan looked back down at you, utterly defeated smile pulling at his lips as he rubbed the back of his neck.

"I am going to kill him. I'm going to squash him."

Smiling softly, smooting down the front of your silk dress, "It’s fine, Logan. Duty calls. You should probably go make sure Dean doesn't break a bone."

Sighing, stepping back reluctantly, though his eyes remained intensely locked on yours, "Yeah, probably. But before I go..." He hesitated, a rare flash of nervousness crossing his features. "We have a home game this Friday. Against Harvard. It's going to be loud, and it's definitely not a quiet art studio... but I really want you there."

He reached out, his fingers briefly brushing yours.

Hannah and Allie always sit in the front section by the glass. If you come, you can sit with them. I'll make sure your name is on the list at the gate. What do you say?"

You looked at him—this broad-shouldered hockey star who spent his afternoons in a quiet studio just to be near you, now looking entirely vulnerable as he waited for your answer.

"I've never been to a hockey game before."

A smile breaks across Logan's face, "Then let me show you how it's done. Please?"

You offered him a small, sophisticated nod. "Alright, Logan. I'll be there."

His smile widening, taking a step toward the door backward, "I'll be looking for you on the glass. Don't overthink the trees tomorrow, okay?"

With a final, lingering look, he turned and jogged back inside to handle the chaos, leaving you on the quiet porch with your heart beating entirely out of rhythm.

Getting home after the party honestly filled with a buzz from the new friends made down to that moment with Logan. The heavy silence of your spacious apartment was a stark contrast to the thumping bass of the hockey house, but your mind was still racing, your heart doing a strange little flutter every time you pictured Logan’s eyes dropping to your lips on that porch.

The sharp ring of your phone abruptly disrupts your thoughts. Looking down at the caller ID, Dad it says.

You slide the screen to answer, a soft smile automatically gracing your face as you press the phone to your ear.

"Hi, Dad."

"There she is," his deep, familiar voice echoes through the line, instantly carrying the comforting warmth of Manhattan. You can hear the faint clinking of a crystal glass in the background—he’s likely winding down in his study. "I was starting to think my girl forgot about her old man. How is Briar treating you tonight? You aren't locking yourself away in that studio all weekend, are you?"

"Actually, no," you say, kicking off your heels and walking over to the large window, looking down at the moonlit garden. "I just got back from a party, believe it or not."

A brief pause hangs on the line, filled with genuine surprise. "A party? You? Who managed to drag my private little artist out into the wild?"

"A classmate from my major, Maya. We actually did a duo costume together," you explain, leaning against the window frame. "And it was actually... really nice. I met some great people. A girl named Hannah, and another named Allie."

"Well, look at you," your dad chuckles, the sheer relief and happiness in his tone palpable. He always placed your happiness above everything else in his universe. "I knew that campus wouldn't know what hit it. So, just a girls' night out, then? Or did some hotshot college boy try to sweep you off your feet?"

It was a standard, teasing dad question—one he’d asked a dozen times before over the years, usually met with your calm, indifferent dismissal.

Except this time, your throat completely locks up.

Logan's warm, steady grip on your hand flashes in your mind. Masterpiece. Yeah. I can definitely see that.

You open your mouth to give a smooth, poised reply, but nothing comes out. The silence stretches for one second. Two seconds. A sudden, burning blush creeps violently up your neck, coloring your cheeks in the darkness of your bedroom.

On the other end of the line, the clinking of his glass stops completely. Your dad’s voice drops an octave, the casual humor instantly melting into the hyper-alert sharpness of a protective millionaire father.

"Wait a minute," he says, his tone narrowing with sudden suspicion. "[Name]? Why are you quiet?"

"I'm not quiet," you squeak out, your voice a pitch higher than usual, completely betraying your carefully practiced composure.

"Oh, you are absolutely quiet. That is your 'I’m hiding something' quiet," he counters, his voice a mix of growing panic and fierce protectiveness. "Who is he? What’s his name? Is he one of those fraternity boys? Because I can look up his family records before sunrise—"

"Dad! No, please, stop," you interrupt, entirely flustered, burying your face in your hand as if he could see you through the phone. "It’s nothing like that. He’s... he’s just someone from the art studio."

Hearing the genuine panic in your voice, your dad sighs, softened by how fiercely he loves you. He knows he can never firmly put his foot down when it comes to you, especially when you sound this vulnerable. He lets out a breath, his tone turning incredibly gentle, persuasive.

"Sweetheart... you know you can tell me anything." He murmurs softly, a tender reminder of the bond the two of you shared since the day you were born. "If there’s someone making my daughter blush through a phone line twelve minutes away from campus, I think I at least deserve to know if he's a gentleman."

His gentleness completely disarms your guard. You look over at the canvas resting on your easel, a soft, helpless smile touching your lips as you decide to open up.

"His name is John Logan, but we call him logan" you admit softly, your voice barely a whisper in the quiet room. "He plays hockey here. And... we've been sitting in the art studio together every afternoon at 2:00 PM for the last three weeks. He brings me coffee."

There is a long silence on the line. You can practically hear your dad processing the words hockey player, wrestling with his internal protective instincts, before he sighs again, defeated by your happiness.

"A hockey player who frequents an art wing," your dad muses, a faint, reluctant amusement in his voice. "Well... at least he has good taste in coffee companions. Does he treat you right?"

"He's incredibly intentional, Dad. And observant," you say honestly, the memory of Logan shielding you from the rowdy crowd in the kitchen warming your chest. "He actually invited me to his game this Friday. He put my name on the guest list to sit with Hannah and Allie."

"Alright," your dad says quietly, though you can tell he's already mentally adjusting to this massive shift in your life. "You go to the game. Have your fun. But [Your Name]?"

"Yes, Dad."

"If he ever steps out of line, you tell me. I don't care how big he is on a skating rink."

You let out a soft, genuine laugh, the lingering tension from the party completely fading away. "I know, Dad. I love you."

"I love you too, sweetheart. Get some sleep."

As the call disconnects, you set the phone down, the apartment suddenly feeling a little warmer as you head to bed, the anticipation for Friday's game already building in your chest.

The morning after an account on instagram popped up on your feed named The fifth line in its post, a photo of you and logan at the party looking at each other eyes, him holding your hand.

The stadium was a towering cauldron of sound, vibrating with a chaotic, electric energy that was entirely foreign to the refined world you grew up in. Long before you even reached your seat, the deep, rhythmic thumping of student chants rattled through the concrete floors beneath your boots. The air inside the arena was a unique mixture of crisp, artificial cold and the heavy warmth of thousands of packed bodies. Bright, unyielding stadium lights reflected harshly off the pristine white sheets of the ice below, creating an intense, almost blinding glow.

You navigated the steep stairs of the arena, holding tightly to the railing as students in matching blue and white jerseys shouted over the blaring stadium speakers. It was a high-stakes rivalry game against Harvard, and the tension in the air was thick enough to taste.

True to his word, Logan had left your name at the gate. The security guard had scanned your ID, smiled warmly, and directed you straight down to the glass—the exclusive friends and family section.

"Over here! [Name]!"

You looked down toward the very front row to see Allie Hayes waving frantically, a bright smile on her face. Beside her, Hannah Wells was wrapped in an oversized Briar hockey hoodie, offering you an immediate, welcoming nod. As you slid into the row next to them, the immediate feeling of being an outsider completely vanished.

"You actually made it!" Allie beamed, pulling you into a quick, enthusiastic hug. "We were hoping Logan wasn't just hallucinating when he said you promised to come."

"I keep my promises," you said, offering a poised, genuine smile as you took your seat right against the thick plexiglass. "Though I have to admit, I have absolutely no idea what is happening."

"Don't worry," Hannah laughed, leaning over the back of her seat with an easy, comfortable familiarity. "Just watch the guys in blue. If they hit someone into the boards, you cheer. If Garrett scores, I scream. If Logan scores, you get to look smug."

Before you could ask what the 'boards' were, a deafening siren echoed through the arena, and the crowd erupted into a frenzied roar. The heavy metal doors of the home tunnel swung open, and the Briar varsity team flooded onto the ice. They looked massive, almost monstrous in their full pads and helmets, gliding across the ice with terrifying speed and precision.

Your eyes immediately began scanning the sea of jerseys, searching for a specific number.

And then you saw him. Number 22.

Logan looked entirely different out here. The quiet, gentle boy who sat sketching in the low-lit art wing was gone. On the ice, he was a force of nature. He skated with a lethal, effortless grace, his broad shoulders cutting through the air as he finished his warm-up lap.

As the team huddled around their goal for the final pre-game breakdown, Logan suddenly detached himself from the group. He skated backward toward your section of the glass, his eyes instantly tracking the front row until they locked onto yours.

Even behind the heavy cage of his helmet, you could see the exact moment his eyes softened. A brilliant, breathless smile broke across his face. He raised his heavy hockey stick, tapping the thick blade gently against the glass right in front of your hands—a private, incredibly intentional salute just for you in a room full of ten thousand people.

"Oh, wow," Allie teased loudly over the roar of the crowd, nudging your shoulder. "Look at that. Johnny is officially clocking in for duty."

A sudden, fierce blush rushed up your neck, warming your cheeks against the chill of the ice. You offered Logan a small, elegant wave, your heart doing that strange, rhythmic flutter it had been doing ever since the party. He gave you one last lingering look, a confident nod, and spun back around to face the center line.

The referee blew the whistle, the puck dropped, and the game began.

It was a brutal, dizzying blur of speed. You watched in absolute fascination as Logan commanded the left wing. He was terrifyingly fast, his skates throwing up sprays of ice as he shielded the puck with his massive frame, completely unbothered by the Harvard defensemen trying to crash into him. It was a violent, chaotic dance, yet from your vantage point on the glass, you observed it with the sharp eye of an artist, capturing the raw, powerful composition of his movements.

By the second period, the score was tied 2-2. The arena was deafening, the student section screaming for a breakthrough.

The puck was jammed in the far corner of the Harvard zone. Garrett Graham fought through a heavy check, somehow hooking the puck backward with his stick and blindingly centering it right into the slot.

Out of nowhere, a flash of blue jersey cut through the defense. It was Logan.

With a single, explosive motion, he caught the pass on his tape and unleashed a devastating, lightning-fast wrist shot. The puck vanished into the top corner of the net so quickly you barely saw it move.

A red light flashed behind the goal, the horn wailed with a piercing shriek, and the entire stadium exploded into pure pandemonium.

Logan didn’t go to the student section to celebrate. He didn't even high-five Garrett first. Instead, he skated hard straight toward your section of the glass, his teammates swarming after him. He slammed his gloved hands against the plexiglass right where you were sitting, laughing breathlessly, his eyes burning with a triumphant, electric adrenaline as he stared directly at you.

You stood up with Hannah and Allie, completely swept up in the roaring magic of the moment. Abandoning your usual guarded composure, a brilliant, unrestrained smile broke across your face as you tapped your hands against the glass, matching his energy.

Logan’s gaze trapped yours through the plastic barrier, his chest heaving as his teammates threw their arms around his neck, dragging him into a celebratory huddle. But even as he was pulled away, his focus never left you.

In that loud, chaotic, freezing arena, surrounded by thousands of screaming strangers, you realized your private little world was officially expanding—and you weren't sure you ever wanted to shrink it back down again.

The locker room was a chaotic sensory overload of spraying champagne, blasting music, and screaming hockey players. The adrenaline from the 3-2 victory over Harvard was still vibrating through the concrete walls. Coach had just finished a roaring, prideful speech, slamming his clipboard against the table to a chorus of cheers before the team began dismantling into the showers.

As Logan was stripping off his heavy shoulder pads, a heavy hand clapped down on his shoulder.

"Logan. A word in my office." Coach Jensen says, already walking towards the room.

Logan blinked, his heart instantly doing a nervous spike. On a athletic scholarship, being pulled into Coach's office right after a massive win usually meant something was wrong. He quickly tied a towel around his waist and walked into the quieter, fluorescent-lit office, the heavy thumping of the locker room music instantly muffled.

"Everything good, Coach? Did I mess up that defensive rotation in the third?"

Jensen, sitting back in his chair, a rare genuinely stunned expression on his weathered face. "Shut the door, son. And no, your rotation was fine. It’s not about the game." Coach picked up a piece of official university letterhead, staring at it before looking up at Logan. "I just got a call from the athletic director. An hour before puck drop, a private legal entity finalized a full institutional sponsorship for you."

Logan froze, his hand still resting on the doorknob. "A sponsorship? Like... gear?"

"No, Logan. A total financial package. They are covering your entire housing stipend, your meal plans, your training fees, and writing a blind check to cover the remainder of your tuition out-of-pocket. It removes you entirely from the standard athletic scholarship constraints. Even if you get injured tomorrow, your entire time at Briar is completely paid for."

The air left Logan’s lungs all at once. The room tilted slightly. He thought of his alcoholic father back home, the constant, suffocating fear of a single blown knee destroying his entire future, the absolute exhaustion of carrying his survival on the edge of a skate blade.

His voice barely a breathless whisper, complete baffled. "Who... Coach, who is it? Is it an agency? A scout?"

"They refused to give a name. The lawyers specified that the donor wishes to remain entirely anonymous. They just said it was an 'investment in raw talent.' I’ve been coaching twenty-two years, kid, and I’ve never seen a blind benefactor hand out a golden ticket like this."

Logan stood there, completely paralyzed by the sheer magnitude of the information. His mouth opened to say something—anything—but his brain couldn't process the sudden, overwhelming freedom. The invisible rope around his neck had just vanished.

Coach stood up, walking over to pat Logan’s soaked shoulder with a look of profound respect.

"Don't overthink it tonight, kid. Someone out there sees what you're doing, and they wanted to give you a level playing field. Go freshen up, get showered. You earned it."

Ten minutes later, Logan walked out of the varsity tunnel into the arena's quieter, chilly corridor. His hair was still damp from the shower, a duffel bag slung over his broad shoulder. He was completely numb, his mind spinning in a thousand different directions as he tried to comprehend the anonymous miracle that had just altered his entire life.

But the fog in his mind cleared the exact moment he saw you.

You were leaning against the concrete wall near the exit, your hands tucked into the pockets of your wool coat, looking entirely out of place in the sterile stadium hallway—yet completely, breathtakingly beautiful.

Hearing his footsteps, you looked up, an uncharacteristically wide, brilliant smile breaking across your usually calm face.

"There’s the star left wing. I believe you promised me a smuggler's look if you scored."

Logan stopped in front of you. He looked down at your face, your soft eyes, and the genuine happiness radiating from you. The urge to yell, to scream, to tell you that he was finally safe, that his future was secure, burned in the back of his throat.

But as he looked at your elegant composure, his pride—and the sheer, protective confusion of the anonymous gift—made him lock the secret deep inside his chest. He didn't want to ruin this perfect, unburdened night with heavy, complicated financial mysteries. He just wanted to be the guy who won the game for you.

A breathless, incredibly tender smile broke across his face as he stepped directly into your space, completely ignoring the lingering cold of the arena.

"Yeah, well... it’s easy to score when the prettiest girl in the stadium is standing right against the glass." He dropped his duffel bag to the floor, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. "Come here."

Before you could offer a witty reply, his large, warm hands cupped your jaw, tilting your head up as he brought his lips down to yours...

His lips were warm against yours, tasting like the faint chill of the rink and pure, unfiltered adrenaline. For a few short seconds, the sterile concrete hallway of the arena completely vanished. Your hands naturally found the fabric of his damp hoodie, anchoring you to his chest as his thumb swept gently along your jawline.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of your breaths coming out in short, ragged puffs.

Logan murmurs against your lips, "Yeah. I'm definitely never letting you miss a game again."

A soft laugh escaped you, your fingers lingering on his chest. But before you could reply, a harsh, synchronized vibration rattled through the corridor.

Bzzzzz.

It wasn’t just your phone. Inside his duffel bag on the floor, Logan’s phone let out the exact same heavy, rhythmic buzz. Then, down the hall, you heard two passing students gasp, their thumbs instantly flying across their screens.

A strange, sudden chill settled over your skin. You pulled your phone from your coat pocket, the bright screen illuminating a notification that made your stomach instantly drop.

@TheFifthLine: Spotted: Briar’s star left wing checking in for duty at the front row glass tonight. Looks like a budding romance is officially brewing between Number 22 and our resident studio recluse. But word around the quad is our mystery artist isn’t exactly what she seems on the surface. Looks like Ms. Shadow carries a very opulent, lengthy background. Is there a reason you left Manhattan behind, Verplanck? Who are you really hiding behind that canvas?

Your voice suddenly betrays you, cracking on the first syllable "I—Logan, it’s... the campus blogs, they just take random names and rumors to get clicks. They just..."

You stammered, your fingers tightening around your phone so hard your knuckles turned white. The sudden confrontation, combined with the paralyzing fear of being entirely exposed, sent a wave of pure panic through your veins. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't find the elegant, poised words you usually used to shield yourself.

Logan saw the exact moment the color drained from your face. He saw the slight tremor in your hands.

He didn't push. He didn't demand answers. Instead, he took a step closer, his large hands gently but firmly wrapping around your wrists, forcing you to lower the phone.

His voice dropping into a calm, steady directive. "Hey. Look at me. Breathe."

You looked up, your eyes wide and frantic, capturing his gaze.

The crowd is about to empty out into this hallway. Come on. Let’s get out of here."

The drive back to your apartment twenty minutes away from campus was entirely silent, save for the rhythmic, heavy swipe of the windshield wipers clearing the lingering rain.

You stared out the passenger window at the passing streetlights, your heart still hammering against your ribs. It wasn't that your identity was some dark, elaborate lie. Your last name had always been on the class rosters, and you'd never denied who your father was—you had just deliberately kept it down low. You didn't wear flashing logos, you didn't talk about Manhattan townhouses, and you let everyone simply assume you were just another art major struggling through midterms. You had finally found a place where you were liked just for you, not for your family’s checkbook. If he looked up the history of the Verplanck name tonight, would he look at you differently? Would he think you were just playing a game?

When the truck finally rumbled to a halt in front of your oddly spacious apartment building, Logan turned off the engine. The sudden quiet of the cabin was deafening.

He shifted in his seat, looking at your profile in the dim light of the dashboard.

"You're completely frozen," he said softly, his voice lacking any judgment, only carrying a deep, protective concern. "Whatever that post is talking about... it doesn't change anything for me tonight. You don't have to explain it right now if you aren't ready."

You finally turned your head, looking at his kind, honest eyes. The vulnerability of the moment made your chest tighten.

"Logan... I'm sorry I panicked. My family... it’s not a secret. I just never talk about it because I wanted a completely fresh start here. I wanted to be a normal student. I wanted to see what it felt like to exist outside the assumptions that come with my name."

Logan looked down at his own large hands, a small, slightly complicated smile touching his lips as he thought about his own massive, secret financial news from Coach.

I get it more than you think. Everyone on this campus wants to put you in a box based on a name or what you have. But I know who you are in that studio. That’s the only version of you that matters to me."

He leaned over the console, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering against your warm skin.

"Go inside, get some sleep. Let me worry about the hockey blogs. I'll see you tomorrow at two o'clock PM?"

A genuine, relieved breath escaping you. "two o'clock PM. Promise."

You offered him a soft, lingering smile before opening the truck door and stepping out into the cool night air. As you walked up the steps to your building, you felt a strange, dual sensation in your chest. You were completely, utterly safe in Logan's arms—but the storm brewing on at campus, on the student body, on the Fifth Line account was officially spinning out of your control.

Overnight, your privacy completely vanished.

The online discourse surrounding you rampaged across campus forums and social media threads. Some users were bewildered, a few were genuinely nice, but most comments carried a sharp, passive-aggressive sting that made your stomach turn.

"What’s a trust fund kid even doing at Briar lol," one comment read.

Another thread was filled with links to old Manhattan society pages and financial articles about your father’s corporate acquisitions. It was all out there now, laid bare in the worst way possible. Your background had never been intended as a dark, malicious secret—you had just always had a hard time introducing that part of yourself to new relationships. You didn't want to be put on a pedestal or treated differently. It was completely and entirely against the exact reason you had come to Briar in the first place. You just wanted to be an artist.

Now, the morning light filtered through your apartment windows, but you hadn't moved from your kitchen island. You sat staring at your laptop screen, reading the comments as more and more information was pulled from Google. Anxiety crept heavily into your chest, a suffocating weight that made it hard to draw a full breath. Your fingers fidgeted restlessly, picking at the skin around the sides of your nails until they were raw.

It wasn't that you weren't used to attention; growing up a Verplanck meant gala photographers and strict etiquette. But being scrutinized this publicly, this outright, and by the very peers you were trying to fit in with was a completely different kind of terrifying.

A sudden, loud knock at your front door made you flinch so violently your coffee spilled slightly over the rim of your mug.

Before you could even stand up to check the peephole, the door swung open. Hannah and Allie walked straight into your apartment, completely bypassing any formal greetings. Allie was carrying a massive brown paper bag that smelled strongly of greasy diner pancakes, and Hannah had three oversized iced coffees balanced precariously in her arms.

Hannah seting the coffees down on your counter with a loud thud, "Step away from the laptop, Verplanck. Seriously, close the lid right now or I'm throwing it off your balcony."

Allie—already opening your cupboards to find plates, "We brought carbs. Heavy carbs. Because when the campus anonymous boards go feral, the only logical solution is chocolate chips and whipped cream.""We brought carbs. Heavy carbs. Because when the campus anonymous boards go feral, the only logical solution is chocolate chips and whipped cream."

You blinked at them, completely stunned, your hand still frozen near your laptop. "How did you guys even get past the lobby gate?"

Hopping casually onto one of your barstools, looking around your spacious, beautifully styled apartment with an appreciative nod "Please. Allie smiled at the security guard, and I told him we were your personal emotional support team. Plus, this place is incredible. We are officially making this the designated Friday night pre-game spot. The lighting in here is way too good for you to keep it all to yourself." Hannah says.

Allie walked over, gently but firmly reaching across the marble counter and snapping your laptop lid shut. She looked down at your raw, picked-at cuticles, her expression instantly softening into something incredibly sweet and protective.

"Hey. We saw the Fifth Line post. And we saw the idiot comments."

Your throat felt tight, your defenses instinctively trying to build a wall around you. "I'm sorry I didn't explicitly tell you guys about my family. I didn't want you to think—"

Interrupting with a dramatic roll of her eyes, hannah says, "Oh, please. Do you think we care that your dad owns half of New York? Allie’s boyfriend is going to the NHL, and my boyfriend is Garrett Graham—who literally thinks he’s royalty. If anything, having a millionaire heiress in the group just solidifies our status as the most elite table at the diner."

Allie smiled, sliding a plate of pancakes in front of you. "Seriously. You're the girl who sits in the dusty art wing and lets Logan buy her cheap campus coffee every day. We know who you are. The rest of the school is just bored because it's a Friday."

A massive, crushing wave of relief washed over you, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest finally loosening enough to let you breathe. You looked at the two girls sitting in your kitchen, realizing that the fresh start you wanted hadn't been ruined by the leak at all. If anything, it had just brought the right people closer.

With a genuine smile, breathless laugh escaping your lips. "You guys are ridiculous."

Hannah replies. "We know. Now eat your pancakes. We have to get you ready for your 2:00 PM hot date in the art studio tomorrow, and I fully intend to raid your closet first."

The protective bubble Hannah and Allie had built in your kitchen lasted exactly until you stepped out and walked onto the campus quad.

Usually, the walk from the apartment to the art wing was an invisible, peaceful routine. You’d keep your head down, headphones in, blending seamlessly into the sea of oversized hoodies and backpacks. But today, the atmosphere was thick with a sudden, suffocating shift in gravity.

The moment your boots hit the brick walkway, you felt it—the weight of dozens of eyes pivoting in your direction.

A group of girls sitting on the stone steps of the library stopped talking entirely as you walked past, their heads huddled together over a phone before they all looked up to track your movement. You could hear the low, distinct hiss of whispering.

"That's her."

"The Verplanck girl?"

"Look at her coat. Yeah, that's definitely not from the campus bookstore."

A guy walking toward the athletic center nudged his friend, both of them blatantly staring at you with a mix of curiosity and amusement. Overnight, you had been stripped of your anonymity. You weren't just a quiet art major anymore; you were a walking headline, a spectacle, a piece of Manhattan elite dropped into a college town.

As you neared the student union, a girl from your art history lecture—someone who had never spoken a single word to you all semester—suddenly stepped directly into your path, a bright, overly enthusiastic smile plastered on her face.

"Oh, hey, [Name]! I just wanted to say, I absolutely loved your costume at the duo party. It was so chic. Hey, a few of us are heading to a gallery opening in the city next weekend, and we were wondering if you wanted to come? We could all totally carpool."

The sudden, transparent shift in her demeanor made your stomach turn. She didn't want to get coffee; she wanted an invitation into a world she thought you belonged to.

Forcing a polite, rigid smile, your composure automatically clicking into place like armor. "Thank you, that's very kind. But I'm actually going to be completely buried in the studio next weekend."

The smile faltering slightly, her eyes quickly scanning your face for any sign of weakness. "Oh. Right. Of course. Well, let me know if you change your mind! See you in class!"

As she walked away, you let out a slow, shaky breath, your fingers tightening around the strap of your shoulder bag. The passive-aggressiveness from the online comments was one thing, but firsthand, the treatment was dizzying. Some people looked at you with resentment, some with newfound awe, and others with opportunistic calculation. None of them were seeing you. They were just looking at a dollar sign.

By the time you reached the heavy wooden doors of the art wing, your heart was hammering against your ribs. You pulled open the door, practically escaping into the quiet, familiar scent of turpentine and old paper.

You hurried down the corridor toward the high-ceilinged studio, praying that the one room that had always felt like a sanctuary hadn't been compromised, too.

You pushed open the door to the studio, the clock on the wall ticking to exactly 1:59 PM.

Logan was already there.

Without a single word about the post, comments and the rumors, Logan stood up straight, picked up one of the coffees, and walked directly over to you.

Logan stopped just a foot away from you, the warm scent of the fresh hazelnut coffee cutting through the sharp sting of turpentine in the room. He didn't look at you like you were a headline, but as he handed you the paper cup, you noticed a slight tightness around his eyes that hadn't been there yesterday.

"Did you see them on your way in?"

Logan paused, stepping back to lean his hip against the edge of your painting stool. "See who?"

"Everyone," you said softly, looking down at your coffee. The composure you’d forced yourself to wear outside was completely cracking. "The girls on the library steps... people from my lectures. They're all staring, Logan. The Fifth Line post was right. My full name is [Name] Verplanck. My family has been in New York since the shipping boom. My dad is... incredibly successful, and I grew up in a world where everything is structured, expensive, and completely public."

You swallowed hard, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. "I didn't hide it to lie to you. I just wanted to see if I could be an artist first. Without a bank account attached to my introduction."

When you looked up, you expected his usual easy, reassuring smile.

But it wasn’t there.

Instead, Logan was staring at you, his dark eyes intensely searching your face. For a fleeting second, his expression was completely unreadable, a mix of caution, surprise, and a sudden, quiet distance. You could practically see his brain trying to reconcile the girl who sat on a dusty stool drinking cheap campus coffee with the historic, untouchable Manhattan dynasty of the Verplancks. To a guy who grew up with a scraping bank account and an alcoholic father, that name represented a world he couldn't even fathom.

The sudden silence stretched between you, heavy and uncertain. Your heart did a nervous flip. He’s looking at me differently.

Logan caught the flash of hurt on your face, and the defensive, brotherly instinct in him instantly overrode his own internal whiplash. He let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he stepped closer, closing the sudden distance between you.

"Sorry. It’s just... that’s a lot to take in. I’ve seen that name on news segments before." He looked down at his large, calloused hands, a slightly complicated smile touching his lips. "I’m not gonna lie to you and say it doesn't spin my head a little bit. We grew up on completely opposite sides of the track, [Name]."

You bit your inside lip, a wave of guilt hitting your chest. "Logan—"

"Hey, look at me," he interrupted softly. He reached out, his warm fingers gently wrapping around your wrist, his thumb brushing over the raw skin near your nails where you’d been picking at them. "I’m thrown off, yeah. But I’m not stupid. I know who you are in this room. I know you're the girl who stares at a canvas of trees for two hours. I know you're terrified of letting down a dad who loves you. None of those things change because your last name is on a building in Manhattan."

He squeezed your wrist gently, though his eyes still carried a trace of that lingering, cautious complexity.

"If people out there want to be fake, let them. But you don't have to carry that rigid posture in here. You don't have to be perfect for me. I’m still just the guy on a hockey scholarship, remember? We're still just us."

Hearing him say we're still just us made the tight knot of anxiety in your chest finally loosen. A genuine smile broke through your panic.

"We're still just us."

A playful, familiar smirk returning to his face as he let go of your wrist. "Good. Now, pick up your brush. You're losing light, and I didn't walk all the way across campus to watch you stress over a blog post."

You let out a real, unburdened laugh, turning back toward your canvas. Logan reclaimed his usual chair, pulling out his textbook, but as he stared at the pages, his mind was privately drifting.

He was thinking about his father. He was thinking about his sudden, massive anonymous financial sponsorship from an hour ago. And now, he was thinking about your millionaire background. The fragile, silent boundary between your two worlds had officially been drawn.

By the third week of November, the campus was practically vibrating with the frantic, excited energy of the upcoming Thanksgiving break. Students were already dragging duffel bags across the quad, and the air smelled like crisp frost and impending woodsmoke.

Inside your apartment, the radiators hissed a steady, cozy warmth against the freezing glass. It was Sunday night, and your living room had officially been overridden by the hockey team. Allie and Hannah were buried under a faux-fur blanket on your plush sofa, while Garrett, Dean, and Tucker had completely taken over your floor and lounge chairs, analyzing a game tape on your TV while aggressively demolishing three large pizza boxes.

Logan was stretched out on the opposite end of the sofa, his massive frame taking up almost the entire length of the cushions, one of his legs draped casually over your lap as you sat on the carpet, your back resting against his shins. Your fingers were idly tracing patterns on the denim of his jeans while Tucker and Dean argued over a defensive play.

Suddenly, your phone lit up on the coffee table, vibrating against the wood. The screen read: Dad.

His voice carries that familiar, wealthy, yet deeply warm New York register over the line) "Hello, sweetheart. I’m just leaving the office. I wanted to check in before the holiday rush hits. You're still coming home directly on Wednesday for Thanksgiving, right?"

"Of course. I already have my bags packed. I'll be there before dinner."

"Good. Because right along the holiday, we have the annual Verplanck Charity Gala. The board has been frantic about the catering, but everything is finalized. It’s our biggest night of the year for up-and-coming artists who need the financial backing." He paused, his tone softening into something incredibly intentional. "...And you've sounded happier over the phone these past few months than you have in years. You always talk about this new circle of yours at Briar. Why don't you invite your friends to come to Manhattan with you? Tell them I’m reserving a private table for them at the gala."

Your breath hitched slightly. You looked up at the absolute chaos in your living room. Tucker was currently trying to put Garrett in a headlock over the last slice of pepperoni, Dean was checking his reflection in your glossy media console, and Logan was looking down at you, his dark eyes observing your expression with a quiet, curious intensity.

"Dad... are you sure? They're a bit... loud."

Letting out a chuckle "I think a little noise is exactly what that stuffy ballroom needs. And don't worry about commercial flights, sweetie. I'll have the pilot fly the private plane up to the regional airfield near campus on Tuesday afternoon to pick them all up. They can fly down to the city, enjoy the gala, and the plane can take them wherever they need to go for Thanksgiving on Wednesday morning. Invite them, [Name]. Safe travels tomorrow. I love you."

"Love you too, Dad."

You clicked the phone shut, the living room noise instantly flooding back into your ears. You cleared your throat, setting the phone down.

Dean without looking up from his phone, adjusting his collar "Tell the old man I say hello. If he needs any real-estate tips for his next Manhattan high-rise, Di Laurentis is available for consultation."

Garrett snorting, shoving Tucker away "Shut up, Dean. What did he say, [Name]?"

"He wants me to invite you guys to Manhattan. My family hosts the annual Verplanck Gala on Tuesday night right before break. It’s a massive charity event dedicated to sponsoring and funding up-and-coming artists who need financial backing. He’s... reserving a private table for the entire group."

Tucker groans. "Man, I’d love to, but my flight back to Texas leaves early Wednesday morning, and trying to get to New York and back to the airport during Thanksgiving traffic sounds like a nightmare."

Rubbing the back of your neck, standard Verplanck luxury still feeling slightly awkward to say out loud "Actually... my dad said he’s sending our private plane to the regional airfield on Tuesday afternoon to pick you all up. You’ll fly into New York for the gala, and then the pilot will fly you guys directly to your hometowns on Wednesday morning so you don't miss Thanksgiving."

Complete, utterly stunned silence fell over the room. Tucker stopped mid-chew. Garrett blinked. Even Dean looked up from his phone, his eyebrows lifting in genuine shock.

Hannah's jaw practically dropping as she sits up straight. "Shut up. A private jet? We are flying to a Manhattan gala on a private jet?!"

A massive grin spreading across Tucker's face as he drops his pizza "Wait, a private plane? Does that mean free high-end catering in the sky and at the party? Paid for by millionaires? I am one thousand percent in!"

"Hell yeah. I’ve never been on a private plane in my life. Let's go!" Garrett exclaims.

Dean smirks leaning back. "Finally, a form of transportation suited to my natural preferences. I'll have to get my tuxedo shipped immediately."

Amidst the loud, chaotic cheering of the boys planning their impromptu luxury trip, your eyes instinctively drifted up to Logan

He hadn't joined in on the shouting. He was just looking at you, his jaw slightly tight as the staggering weight of your reality fully settled in. To a guy like Logan, who spent his holidays worrying about his alcoholic father and scraping by on a strict athletic scholarship, a family that casually sends a private jet to pick up a college hockey team just for a Tuesday night charity party was entirely unfathomable. It was a stark reminder of the opposite tracks you both lived on.

But as he caught the vulnerable, hopeful look in your eyes, the protective sweetness in him won out. He let out a low breath, a small, incredibly tender smile breaking through his caution. He reached his large hand down, his fingers wrapping around the back of your neck to gently pull you against his leg.

"A private jet and a charity gala, huh? Does that mean I actually have to brush my hair so I don't look like a stray hitchhiker?"

"You're renting a tuxedo, Logan. And I am personally approving it so you don't embarrass us on the tarmac." Hannah says.

Chuckling, his thumb gently caressing the skin of your shoulder "Fine. If it means supporting the artist, I'll fly in style."

You rested your head against his shin, the warmth of his presence grounding you completely. The invites were accepted. You were all heading into the holiday week on a private flight awaiting you in the glittering ballroom of the winter gala.

The transition from the cramped airport shuttle to the Verplanck estate was enough to give anyone whiplash. As the black SUV rolled through the massive wrought-iron gates and up the winding, tree-lined driveway, the chaotic chatter of the Briar gang slowly died down into a collective, awestruck silence.

The house wasn't just a house; it was a sprawling stone manor that looked like it had been lifted straight out of a classic film.

"Holy hell," Tucker muttered, his forehead pressed against the glass. "Are we staying here or auditioning for a period piece?"

Logan sat next to you, completely rigid. His large frame seemed to shrink back into the leather seat, his eyes taking in the manicured lawns, the pristine fountains, and the sheer, overwhelming scale of your world. You reached over, sliding your hand into his. His palm was damp, his knuckles tense, but he squeezed back immediately, desperate for the anchor.

When the car finally idled to a stop in the grand courtyard, the front doors of the manor swung open. Stepping out onto the stone portico was your father.

Logan braced himself, his shoulders squaring into his defensive, protective posture. He was expecting a titan of industry—someone cold, calculating, and intimidating. Someone who would look at a guy from a broken home with a father in rehab and see right through him.

Instead, your dad broke into a wide, genuine smile, his arms spreading out as he walked down the steps.

"They're here!" he called out, his voice warm and booming. He immediately went to you, pulling you into a fierce, loving hug that smelled of expensive cologne and familiar comfort. "Oh, it's good to have you home."

When he pulled back, his eyes landed directly on Logan, who was standing a step behind you like a bodyguard waiting for a blow.

"And you must be Logan," your dad said. Before Logan could extend a polite, terrified hand, your dad closed the distance and clapped a heavy, warm hand onto Logan’s shoulder, pulling him into a brief, hearty half-hug. "It is an absolute pleasure to finally meet you, son. This one does nothing but talk about you."

Logan froze for a fraction of a second, completely caught off guard by the effortless warmth. "Thank you, sir. It’s... thank you for having us."

"None of that 'sir' nonsense under my roof. It's Charles," your dad insisted, giving Logan's shoulder one last, affectionate squeeze. "Look at you, you're built like a linebacker. We're going to get some proper food into all of you. Come on inside, the staff will grab your bags."

As your dad turned to welcome the rest of the gang, Logan stood entirely still on the gravel. You looked up at him, smiling, but the smile faded when you saw his face.

His jaw was clenched so hard a muscle twitched in his cheek. His dark eyes were glossy, fixed on your father’s retreating back. It wasn't the intimidation that had shaken him—it was the casual, easy kindness. The realization of what a father could be hit him like a physical blow, casting a long, painful shadow over the memory of the quiet lobby and the marshmallow on a paper plate from that morning.

He looked so fiercely conflicted, tearing himself apart internally, that you could see the faint glint of unshed tears in the corners of his eyes.

"Hey," you whispered, stepping closer to him, blocking him from the view of the others. "You okay?"

Logan blinked rapidly, swallowing hard as he finally looked down at you. He forced a thick, tight nod, his voice rough. "Yeah. Yeah, fine. Just... a lot of flight time. Let's go inside."

By the time the rooms were assigned and everyone had settled in, the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the estate in deep twilight shadows. Your dad had set the gang up in the guest wing, but you had managed to slip away to your personal suite in the west wing to unpack.

A soft, hesitant knock sounded at your door.

"Come in," you called out.

The door pushed open, and Logan stepped through. He had changed out of his travel clothes into a clean henley, but he still looked entirely out of place among the antique furniture, the plush rugs, and the sheer elegance of your bedroom. He closed the door behind him, the click of the latch sounding incredibly loud in the quiet space.

"Am I allowed in here?" he asked, a faint, tentative trace of his usual humor returning, though his eyes were still heavy.

"I make the rules in this wing," you smiled, walking over to him.

Logan didn't smile back. Instead, he just looked at you, then looked around the room, taking in the framed photos of your childhood, the massive canopy bed, and the fireplace. The air in the room suddenly felt incredibly thick, charged with an undeniable, heavy tension. The distance between his reality and yours was laid out bare, yet here he was, standing right in the middle of it.

"Your dad," Logan began, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register. He stepped closer, closing the gap between you until you had to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. "He's... he's really great."

"He liked you a lot, Logan. I told you he would."

"It's not that," Logan whispered. He reached out, his large hands anchoring gently on your waist, pulling you just an inch closer. The heat radiating off him was dizzying. "It's just... seeing him with you. Seeing how he looks at you. It made me realize how much..." He trailed off, his throat moving as he swallowed the rest of the sentence. He didn't need to finish it. You knew.

"You deserve that kind of warmth too, you know," you said softly, reaching up to cup his jaw. His stubble scratched against your palm, a grounding, raw sensation against the backdrop of the pristine room.

Logan let out a shaky breath, closing his eyes for a brief second as he leaned into your touch. When he opened them, the vulnerability was gone, replaced by a dark, burning intensity that made your breath hitch. The sheer contrast of him, this massive, powerful force of a man completely unraveled by a little bit of kindness sent a shiver down your spine.

"Right now," Logan murmured, his eyes dropping to your lips, his hands tightening on your waist just enough to pull your hips flush against his, "all I want is to be right here. With you. Away from all of it."

The space between you completely vanished. The tension that had been building since the morning, the weight of his family secret, the shock of your wealth, the emotional whiplash of the day narrowed down into a single, breathless point.

"Then stay," you breathed against his lips.

Logan didn't answer with words. He leaned down, his mouth catching yours in a deep, bruising kiss that felt less like a greeting and more like a man desperately claiming his only safe harbor in a storm

The heavy, grounding weight of the kiss stayed with you long after Logan finally slipped out of your room, whispering that he didn’t want to push his luck on the very first night under your father's roof.

But down the hall in the guest wing, Logan couldn’t sleep. The mattress was too soft, the sheets had too high a thread count, and the silence of the massive estate was deafening compared to the familiar, chaotic ambient noise of the Briar house. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the stark contrast: the sterile, clinical lobby of the recovery center from this morning, and the bright, effortless warmth of Charles Verplanck’s smile from this afternoon.

His chest felt tight, a restless, heavy knot of emotion he couldn't shake. Needing to move, Logan threw on a dark t-shirt and quietly stepped out into the dimly lit corridor, tracking his way back downstairs by memory to find a glass of water.

The sprawling manor was dark, illuminated only by the faint amber glow of the nightlights lining the baseboards. When he reached the massive, professional-grade kitchen, he expected it to be empty.

Instead, a single pendant light was turned on over the marble island. Sitting on a stool, nursing a mug of tea with a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose, was your dad.

Logan froze in the archway, his instinct telling him to turn around and fade back into the shadows. But the floorboard gave a tiny creak, and Charles looked up.

"Ah, Logan," your dad said, his voice a low, warm rumble that didn't carry the sharp authority Logan had spent a lifetime associating with older men. Charles pushed his glasses up onto his head and smiled genuinely. "Can't sleep either?"

"Sorry, sir—Charles," Logan corrected himself quickly, rubbing the back of his neck, looking massive and slightly awkward in the doorway. "I didn't mean to interrupt. Just wanted to grab some water."

"You're not interrupting a thing. Come on in," Charles said, gesturing to the empty stool beside him. He stood up, walking over to a sub-zero refrigerator and pulling out a chilled glass bottle of water. He poured it into a heavy crystal glass and slid it across the smooth marble. "The first night in a new place is always a tossing-and-turning match. Especially a place this quiet."

Logan took a seat, his large forearms resting on the island. He took a slow sip, the cold water soothing the dryness in his throat. "It's beautiful here. Really. Thank you again for letting all of us crash."

"It is my absolute pleasure," Charles said, leaning back against the counter, looking at Logan with a quiet, observant gaze. It wasn't a judgmental look; it was the look of a father trying to understand the man who held his child’s heart. "You know, when they talk about you, their eyes completely light up. I haven't seen them this grounded in a very long time. I have you to thank for that."

The praise was so simple, so freely given, that it made Logan's breath catch in his throat. He looked down at his glass, his fingers tracing the condensation.

"I don't do anything special," Logan muttered, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a sudden rush of emotion he was fighting desperately to suppress. "I just... I care about them. A lot."

"It's not nothing, son," Charles said softly. He stepped closer, his expression softening as he noticed the tight, strained line of Logan's jaw and the slight glint of the amber light reflecting in his eyes. Charles had lived long enough to recognize a young man carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. "You don't have to carry it all by yourself, you know. Whatever it is."

That was the breaking point. The sheer, unadulterated kindness of this man—a man who had every right to be protective, elitist, or cold, but chose instead to offer safety—fractured the last of Logan's defenses.

A single, hot tear escaped Logan's eye, tracking down his cheek into his dark stubble. He quickly swiped it away with the back of his hand, his chest heaving with a silent, shaky breath as he stared intensely at the marble countertop, utterly mortified to be breaking down in front of his partner's father.

"Hey," Charles said, his voice dropping to a fierce, protective whisper. He didn't pull back or act uncomfortable. Instead, he reached out and placed a heavy, reassuring hand firmly on Logan’s shoulder. "It’s alright. You’re safe here."

"I'm sorry," Logan choked out, his throat burning as he squeezed his eyes shut, a few more tears spilling over. "My dad... he's not... he's in a facility right now. For alcohol. We dropped something off for him this morning before the flight. And then I came here, and I saw you, and..." He swallowed hard, his voice cracking. "I just didn't know a dad could be like this. I didn't know it could be this easy."

Charles didn't say a word. He just tightened his grip on Logan's shoulder, anchoring the young man through the storm. He let the silence stretch, giving Logan the space to breathe through the heavy, suffocating grief of what he had missed out on his entire life.

"Your father’s struggles are his own, Logan," Charles said firmly but gently after a long moment. "They are not a reflection of your worth. And they certainly don't define the kind of man you are turning out to be. From what I see standing in front of me? You are doing an incredible job."

Logan let out a ragged breath, the tight knot in his chest finally loosening just a fraction. He opened his eyes, wiping his face properly this time, and looked at Charles.

Charles kept his hand on Logan's shoulder, his expression shifting from comforting to deeply earnest. "I mean it. I’ve watched them grow up, Logan. I've seen them navigate a lot of different people, a lot of different phases. But I have never seen them this happy with someone. Not like this. You give them a kind of peace they've been looking for."

Logan’s chest swelled, the raw weight of the compliment landing heavily in the quiet kitchen.

Charles squeezed his shoulder one last time, his gaze intense, a father's fierce love laying itself completely bare. "Take care of her, Logan. She's the only one I've got."

The vulnerability in Charles's voice struck a chord deep within Logan. It wasn't a threat; it was a sacred trust being handed over from one protector to another.

Logan met Charles's eyes evenly, his jaw setting with absolute, unwavering certainty. "I will," Logan whispered, his voice rough but steadier than it had been all night. "I promise you, Charles. I will."

"I know you will," Charles smiled, finally stepping back and giving the young man his space. "Now, drink your water. And if you ever need to talk, midnight or midday, my door is open. Understood?"

Logan nodded, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through his exhaustion. "Understood."

The gala was held in the estate’s grand ballroom, a breathtaking space of soaring ceilings, massive crystal chandeliers that cast a warm, diamond-like glow over the crowd, and a full live orchestra playing a sweeping, elegant waltz on the raised mezzanine. The room was a sea of New York's elite, moving smoothly amidst champagne towers and velvet drapes.

But your eyes weren't on the crowd; they were on the entrance, where your friends were making their official debut. To say they cleaned up well was an understatement.

Tucker actually looked civilized, wearing a classic black tuxedo with a crisp white shirt, though he had already managed to smuggle three bacon-wrapped appetizers into his breast pocket and was actively trying to figure out if the ice sculpture was real.

Garrett looked effortlessly suave in a sharp, tailored midnight-blue suit that perfectly matched his confident smirk, a glass of expensive champagne already held loosely in his hand.

Hannah was wearing a sleek, floor-length emerald green satin gown that turned heads the second she walked in, her usual go to footwear replaced by heels she was practicing walking in with hyper-focused concentration.

Dean, looking every bit the brooding counterpart to the rest of the loud group, cut a devastatingly handsome figure in a sharp, all-black tuxedo and a dark silk tie, managing to look entirely sophisticated despite the slight, reluctant scowl he wore as he adjusted his collar against the stuffy atmosphere.

Allie looked absolutely radiant, wearing a stunning, flowing blush-pink gown that perfectly complemented her bright energy, her hair swept up in an elegant style that made her look like she belonged in a high-society magazine, even as she playfully nudged Dean to stop scowling.

And then.

Standing just a step behind them all was Logan, and the sheer sight of him made your heart do a slow, heavy thud against your ribs. He was adjusting the cuffs of a perfectly fitted black tuxedo that accentuated every single inch of his broad shoulders and commanding height. His dark hair was neatly styled, and his jaw was cleanly shaven. He looked like an absolute prince—classic, powerful, and utterly breathtaking.

When he finally looked up and saw you approaching, his breath hitched audibly, his dark eyes widening as they swept over your stunning formal gown and the way the chandelier light caught the fabric.

"Wow," Logan breathed, a rare, completely captivated smile breaking through his usual caution as he closed the distance between you. "You look... absolutely incredible. I don't even have a word for it. Beautiful doesn't cover it."

A blush crept up your neck as you reached out, your fingers gently smoothing the lapel of his jacket. "Thank you," you smiled, looking up into his dark eyes. "And look at you. You look incredibly dashing, Logan. I knew you'd clean up well, but this is almost unfair to everyone else in the room."

He let out a soft, rough chuckle, his hand coming up to gently cup your waist, the heat of his palm burning through the fabric of your dress. "I'm just trying not to trip over my own feet in front of your dad's friends," he murmured, leaning down so only you could hear. "But seeing you? It's making it a lot easier to forget anyone else is here."

Before the crowd could swallow you both up, the live orchestra transitioned into a slower, deeply romantic, sweeping melody, and Logan looked toward the dance floor with a sudden, nervous flash in his eyes.

"I don't really know how to waltz," he admitted softly, "but if you're willing to guide me, I'm not letting anyone else have this dance."

Whispering for him to just hold onto you, you let him lead you out onto the polished hardwood floor, drawing the eyes of several onlookers as he placed one massive, warm hand securely on the small of your back and pulled you flush against him. As you began to move, his natural athletic instincts took over, his long strides easily matching your pace in a rhythm that was surprisingly, intoxicatingly smooth.

You rested your head close to his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring thud of his heart as the anxiety from the previous nights, the weight of his family secret, and the fear of your different worlds all vanished under the canopy of the music. Spinning slowly beneath the glowing chandeliers, Logan looked down at you with a dark, burning devotion, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as his grip tightened just a fraction.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he murmured, his voice thick with an emotion so raw it made your chest ache. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm completely stuck on you."

You smiled against his shoulder, closing your eyes as the music swept around you.

The high of the dance shattered an hour later in the crowded gallery just off the ballroom. Logan had stepped away to grab you both fresh drinks, but on his way back, he was cut off by a man in a flawless, bespoke charcoal suit—a man whose face Logan had stared at on sports network broadcasts and athletic press releases for years.

It was Thornton Vance, the majority owner of the professional hockey franchise Logan had been training his entire life to break into.

"John Logan, right?" Vance asked, a sharp, business-like smile on his face as he stopped Logan in his tracks. "I thought that was you. Charles told me you'd be here tonight."

Logan’s heart stopped, his grip tightening around the crystal glasses in his hands. "Mr. Vance. Yes, sir. I didn't expect to see you here."

"Well, when Charles Verplanck invites you, you show up," Vance chuckled casually, gesturing out toward the grand ballroom. "Charles Verplanck has been our leading financial backer for the last five years. When he called me personally yesterday morning to tell me he had a phenomenal young defenseman staying under his roof this weekend—someone he wanted me to keep a very close eye on—I told him I’d make it a point to connect. Then told me how he sponsored your stay at Briar. You've got a hell of a fairy godfather in your corner, son."

Vance kept talking, offering a card, saying something about rookie camp invites, but Logan couldn't hear a single word over the sudden, violent roaring in his ears.

Yesterday morning. Before the flight. Before they even arrived.

The warmth he had felt from your dad, the safe harbor he thought he had found in your room, the magical dance under the chandeliers it all twisted into something transactional, something toxic, in a matter of seconds. He wasn't here because he was wanted. He was a charity case. A project. You had lined his future up like a chess piece, pulling strings behind his back because you looked at his messy, broken life and felt sorry for him.

Logan didn't put the drinks down; he practically slammed them onto a passing waiter's tray. His chest was heaving, his face pale and his dark eyes burning with a sudden, defensive fury as he stormed back into the ballroom, tracking you down near the edge of the crowd.

When he caught your wrist, his grip wasn't gentle like it usually was. It was desperate, tight, and trembling. He didn't say a word as he pulled you out of the noise, dragging you into a secluded alcove near the heavy velvet curtains.

"Logan? What's wrong?" you asked, your heart dropping at the sheer agony and anger radiating off him. "You're white as a ghost."

"Did you orchestrate that?" Logan rasped, his voice a low, jagged whisper that cut through you like a knife. He looked down at you, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might shatter. "Thornton Vance is out there. He just told me your dad is the primary sponsor for the team. He told me your dad called him yesterday morning to secure me an in."

Your eyes widened in genuine confusion. "Logan, I—I didn't know—"

"Don't lie to me!" he snapped, a harsh, broken laugh escaping his throat. He stepped closer, towering over you, completely consumed by the crushing weight of his own pride and insecurity. "Is that what this is? Is this whole relationship just a charity project for you? You look at my dad in rehab, you look at my broken-down house, and you think, 'Oh, let me save the poor guy from Briar'. Was this all just pity?"

The word hit you like a physical blow. Your breath hitched, the sheer injustice of the accusation tearing through your chest. "Pity? Logan, how can you even say that?"

"Because it makes sense!" he choked out, his voice cracking as his defensive walls slammed shut, completely mischaracterizing every single thing you were. "You're a Verplanck. You have everything. I'm just a guy with a messed-up family trying to scrape by, and you decided to fix me. You pity me."

Tears immediately flooded your eyes, hot and stinging, blurring the sight of the man you loved completely turning on you. Your chest heaved, a sob threatening to break through your throat. Unable to look at the cold, defensive mask he had put on, you tore your wrist from his grip, turned on your heel, and ran.

You fled the ballroom, ignoring the curious glances of the guests as you pushed through the heavy glass doors at the back of the mansion. You ran blindly into the sprawling back garden, where the cool night air hit your bare shoulders and the distant, rhythmic lull of the stone water fountains filled the quiet darkness. The heavy bass of the orchestra faded into the background, replaced only by the sound of your own ragged breaths and the tears spilling down your cheeks.

"Hey! Wait!"

Logan’s heavy footsteps crunched violently against the gravel path as he pursued you, his tuxedo jacket open, his tie slightly crooked. He caught up to you near the center fountain, reaching out to stop you, but you spun around, backing away from him until the stone rim of the fountain pressed against the back of your gown.

"Don't touch me!" you sobbed, your words stumbling over each other as the tears choked you. "I didn't know! I swear to God, Logan, I didn't know anything about the sponsorship! I didn't know my dad called him!"

"Then why did he do it?" Logan demanded, though the fiery anger in his eyes was starting to crack, replaced by a desperate, panicked confusion as he saw you breaking down.

"Because he loves me!" you shouted, your voice cracking completely, a sob escaping as you defended your father. "He saw how happy I was! All he had was pure intentions! He wanted to help the person who makes his child smile! How could you take something so kind and twist it into something ugly?"

Logan froze, his chest heaving as the weight of your tears began to pierce through his defensive armor.

"I don't care if you're penniless, John Logan!" you wept, the raw truth pouring out of you as you gestured wildly between the two of you. "I don't care if you have the entire world at your fingertips or absolutely nothing! I liked you for you. I loved your observantness. I loved how you always read me like a book, how you always knew exactly what I needed and when I needed it before I could even say it out loud!"

You took a ragged, trembling breath, wiping aggressively at your wet cheeks, your voice dropping into a devastatingly broken register.

"But I guess I was wrong," you whispered, the betrayal cutting deep. "I thought you knew me. All I ever had for you was admiration. I never, ever pitied you. How could you think so lowly of me?"

Logan blinked, the harsh reality of what he had just done crashing down on him. The defensive anger completely vanished from his face, leaving him looking hollow, horrified, and entirely exposed. "Hey... no. I—I didn't mean—"

"No, you did," you choked out, stumbling over your words as you took a step back, completely shutting down. You looked at him through your tear-stained vision, your heart breaking into a million pieces in the quiet garden. "John Logan... never talk to me again."

Before he could move, before he could open his mouth to beg, you turned and ran past the fountains, disappearing into the dark shadows of the estate, leaving him standing completely alone in the cold night air.

Logan walked back through the heavy glass doors of the ballroom, but the music, the laughter, and the glittering light no longer felt like a dream—it felt like a mocking indictment. His tuxedo jacket was completely unbuttoned, his collar felt suffocatingly tight, and the hollow, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach was growing by the second. He moved through the high-society crowd like a ghost, his dark eyes fixed entirely on the far corner of the room where the Briar crew was clustered near the bar.

Garrett was mid-laugh, gesturing with his champagne glass, while Tucker was currently trying to explain something to Allie and Hannah. Dean was leaning back against a marble pillar, his arms crossed over his chest, his sharp eyes scanning the room.

As Logan approached, the laughter at the table died instantly. Garrett’s smile faded, his eyes narrowing as he took in Logan’s pale face and the absolute devastation radiating off his large frame.

"Logan?" Hannah asked, stepping forward first, her green gown rustling against the floor. "What happened? Where is she?"

"Man, you look like you just watched your own dog get run over," Tucker muttered, his usual humor dropping away into immediate concern.

Logan stopped a foot away from them, his hands shoving deep into his pockets just so they wouldn't see how violently they were shaking. He couldn't look any of them in the eye. He stared at the polished hardwood floor, his throat working hard as he swallowed the thick, suffocating lump of regret rising in his chest.

"I messed up," Logan choked out, his voice so rough and hollow it barely sounded like him. "I completely blew it."

Dean straightened up from the pillar, his brooding expression shifting into something intensely focused. "What do you mean, you blew it?"

"I ran into Thornton Vance out in the gallery," Logan said, the words spilling out of him in a desperate, ragged rush. He finally looked up, his eyes glassy and filled with a raw, agonizing panic. "He told me... he told me her dad is the primary sponsor for the team. He said Charles called him yesterday morning to get me an invite to rookie camp and my stay in briar was from his sponsorship."

Garrett blinked, shaking his head. "Wait you got a sponsor— wait—okay... and that's a bad thing? Logan, that's a massive hookup."

"I thought she set it up," Logan whispered, his voice cracking as the full weight of his mistake crashed down on him in front of his friends. "I thought... with my dad being where he is, and this place being what it is... I thought she looked at me and just felt sorry for me. I thought the whole thing was a charity project. I went crazy. I confronted her, and I accused her of pitying me."

A heavy, horrified silence fell over the group. Allie let out a sharp, quiet gasp, her hand flying to her mouth, while Hannah’s jaw dropped in disbelief.

"Logan, tell me you didn't," Hannah breathed, her voice a mix of anger and pity.

"I did," Logan said, a single, rough breath escaping him that sounded dangerously close to a sob. He rubbed a hand aggressively over his face, his broad shoulders shaking. "She didn't even know about it. She swear she didn't know. Her dad just did it because he saw how happy she was with me. And I... I twisted it. I told her she thought lowly of me. "

"She ran out into the back garden," Logan choked out, his dark eyes turning to Garrett, then to Dean, completely unraveled. "She was crying so hard she could barely get the words out. She told me she loved me because I was observant, because I always knew what she needed... and then she told me never to talk to her again. Guys, I've never seen her look at me like that. Like I was a stranger. I completely broke her heart because I couldn't handle my own stupid pride."

The remaining days of the Thanksgiving trip passed in a punishing, agonizing blur for Logan. True to your word, you completely vanished from his sight. He had spent the long hours staring out the guest wing windows, desperately hoping for a glimpse of you in the gardens, or lingering by the grand staircase hoping to hear the sound of your laugh. But your suite remained closed, and the crushing weight of your absence echoed through the massive halls of the manor.

Now, instead of leaving rejuvinated, the air was heavy unusual for Thanksgiving.

The Briar gang stood out in the grand courtyard, their bags piled neatly by the waiting vehicles. The lively, chaotic energy they usually carried was entirely subdued, everyone casting quiet, worried glances at Logan, who looked like a shadow of himself—hollow-eyed, silent, and carrying a reservoir of pure, unadulterated regret in his chest.

Charles Verplanck walked down the stone portico steps alone. Logan’s chest tightened painfully as he looked past your father, searching the grand front doors one last time. They remained firmly shut.

"The cars are packed and ready to take you to the tarmac," Charles announced, his voice carrying that same calm, booming warmth as the first day, though there was a distinct note of quiet somberness to it now. "The plane is fueled and ready to take you all straight back to Massachusetts."

Charles stopped right in front of the group, his eyes softening as he looked over the solemn faces of your friends. Then, he turned his gaze directly to Logan.

Logan braced himself, his jaw tight, fully expecting the righteous, defensive anger of a father whose child had been deeply hurt. He knew he deserved it. He deserved to be thrown out, to be yelled at, to be banned from ever breathing the same air as you again.

Instead, your dad just looked at him. There was no fury in his eyes, no elitist coldness. There was only a profound, quiet understanding, and a gentle sadness that felt like a physical blow to Logan’s ribs.

"She won't be coming back to Massachusetts with you on the plane today," Charles said softly, his voice steady. "She's decided to stay here at the estate for a little while longer."

The words felt like a final, devastating verdict. Logan closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, his throat burning as he forced himself to nod, swallowing the bitter taste of his own failure.

Charles stepped closer, closing the distance between them. He didn't pull back his warmth. He didn't revoke the safe harbor he had offered in the kitchen. He simply reached out and placed that same heavy, reassuring hand firmly on Logan's broad shoulder. It was a gesture of complete, unearned forgiveness that made Logan's eyes sting fiercely.

"Do right by her, son," Charles murmured, his voice a low, protective register meant only for Logan. He gave the shoulder a tight, encouraging squeeze, a reminder of the sacred trust they had spoken about at midnight.

Logan looked up, his dark eyes glassy, his voice incredibly rough and thick with emotion as he managed to choke out the words. "I will, Charles. I swear to you, I will."

Your dad offered a small, sad, but genuinely hopeful smile, giving Logan's shoulder one last pat. "Safe travels, everyone," Charles called out to the rest of the gang, waving a warm goodbye before turning on his heel and walking back up the grand stone steps, disappearing into the quiet sanctuary of the estate.

The air inside the Briar off-campus house was heavy, suffocatingly quiet compared to its usual chaotic energy. Outside, the Massachusetts winter was bleeding into the gray afternoon, but inside, Logan hadn't moved from the worn leather armchair in the corner of the living room for hours. His duffel bag was still sitting unpacked by the front door, a bleak reminder of the sudden, silent flight back from the Verplanck estate.

Logan stared blankly at the floorboards, his knuckles white as his fingers locked together. He was drowning in it—absolute, unadulterated regret.

Every single time he closed his eyes, he didn't see the glittering ballroom or the professional hockey scouts; he just saw your face. He saw the hot, stinging tears blurring your eyes, heard the devastating crack in your voice, and felt the sheer, agonizing weight of the hurt he had inflicted on you.

How had he let himself get so blind?

He had allowed his own deep-rooted insecurities, his pride, and his shame over his father to completely hijack his mind. He had spun a twisted narrative in his head where he was a charity case and you were just a wealthy savior looking for a project. In that moment of blind panic, he had gotten so caught up in his own head that he had completely forgotten who you actually were as a person.

Now, in the quiet of the living room, the memories he had buried under his defensive walls came rushing back with agonizing clarity, forcing him to reminisce on the real truth of you.

He thought back to that afternoon in the art studio—the soft, dusty light hitting your face, the quiet focus in your eyes, and the effortless comfort of just being near you. He remembered the exact day he had first found out about your wealthy background. There hadn't been an ounce of arrogance in you. Not a single trace of superiority, and most importantly, not a single drop of pity.

That was just who you were. You were the person who loved unconditionally, who was always entirely willing to help the people you cared about, never expecting a trophy or a transaction in return. Your dad’s phone call hadn’t been a calculated setup; it was a reflection of the same pure, generous heart you carried every single day. And he had thrown it back in your face. He had called it ugly. He had called it pity.

Across the room, the heavy silence was wearing thin.

Garrett was leaning against the kitchen counter, a half-empty sports drink in his hand, his eyes fixed worriedly on his roommate. Tucker was sitting at the dining table, uncharacteristically quiet, lazily spinning a hockey puck on the wood but keeping his gaze glued to Logan's rigid posture. Even Dean, who usually kept to himself, had wandered downstairs and was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed, his brow furrowed with deep concern.

Logan was brooding so intensely, radiating a dark, hollow aura of self-hatred, that the guys were genuinely getting worried. He looked less like a fearsome athlete and more like a man who had completely broken his own soul.

"Hey," Garrett finally broke the silence, his voice unusually soft as he stepped into the living room, gesturing subtly to Tucker and Dean. "Logan. Man... you gotta breathe. You haven't blinked in ten minutes."

Logan didn't look up. He just let out a long, ragged exhale that sounded more like a fracture in his chest, the weight of your last words—never talk to me again—replaying on a merciless, agonizing loop.

A full week had passed since the disastrous night at the estate, classes at Briar resumed. Yet, your seat in the lecture halls had remained devastatingly empty. Logan had spent every morning scanning the campus crowds, his heart leaping at every glimpse of dark hair, only to be crushed by the reality that you still weren't there.

Until today.

When you finally walked down the quad, it felt as if a collective shift occurred in the air, but for Logan, the world simply stopped. You weren't hiding. You didn't look broken. Instead, you walked with an immaculate, chilling poise, your shoulders back and a beautifully constructed, polite mask firmly in place. Your eyes were entirely guarded, devoid of the bright, soft warmth that usually greeted the world. It was a terrifying sight for Logan; you looked exactly like the untouchable, high-society stranger you had been the very first day you met. The open, vulnerable person he had held in the ballroom was completely locked away behind iron gates.

He didn't dare make a scene in the courtyard. He knew he didn't have the right. So he waited, tracking your schedule by memory, until he knew you would head toward the old campus art studio, the place where the noise of the university faded, and where you had once shared an effortless, quiet peace.

The door to the studio gave a faint, familiar creak as Logan pushed it open. You were standing by an easel near the back windows, the pale winter light washing over your profile. You didn't jump or startle when he entered. You slowly paused your brush, your fingers tightening slightly around the wooden handle, but you didn't turn around to look at him.

Logan closed the door softly behind him, stepping into the room with none of his usual commanding, athletic stride. He looked entirely undone, his eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights, his face gaunt, his large frame looking almost defeated in a simple dark hoodie. He kept his distance, stopping a few feet away, terrified that if he took one wrong step, you would vanish again.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice so raw, hoarse, and broken it barely carried across the quiet room.

You took a slow, steadying breath, your shoulders rising and falling with that perfect, distant poise before you finally turned your head to face him. Your expression was completely blank. "I believe I asked you never to talk to me again, Logan."

The coldness in your voice cut straighter to his chest than any physical blow ever could. A visible flinch went through him, his jaw trembling as he looked at the sheer emotional distance between you.

"I know," Logan choked out, his dark eyes immediately filling with a desperate, stinging heat. He dropped his hands to his sides, completely defenseless, his broad chest heaving with a shaky breath. "I know I have absolutely no right to be in this room right now. I have no right to ask you for a single second of your time. But please... please, just let me speak. Then I'll go. I swear to God I'll go if you want me to, but I need you to hear me."

You didn't answer, your silence acting as a heavy, agonizing barrier as you simply watched him with guarded eyes

"I am so incredibly sorry," Logan rasped, the first tear finally spilling over his dark stubble, his voice cracking entirely. "I am so sick with myself for what I did to you. I let my own pathetic, ugly insecurities completely hijack my head. I was so terrified of where I come from, so ashamed of my dad, and so scared of losing you to a world I didn't think I belonged in, that I went completely blind."

"I don't expect you to forgive me today. I don't expect you to ever trust me again," Logan whispered, his voice cracking on every syllable as he looked back up at you, his eyes entirely bare and filled with an absolute, unwavering devotion. "But if you will have me, I will make up for it."

The winter chill of the Massachusetts campus became the backdrop for Logan’s absolute, unwavering undoing. The afternoon in the studio hadn’t magically fixed the deep fracture between you, and he didn't expect it to; he knew that words were incredibly cheap after the damage he had inflicted, leaving him with only one path forward—to prove himself brick by brick. He threw himself into doing every single "boyfriend thing" imaginable with a desperate, reverent humility, not because he assumed it would buy his way out of the doghouse, but because he was entirely

The afternoon in the studio hadn’t magically fixed the fracture between you, and Logan didn't expect it to. He knew words were cheap after what he’d done; he had to prove himself brick by brick with a desperate, reverent humility.

Every single morning, before early lectures, a heavy cream envelope would be waiting in your locker or on your desk. They weren't frantic text blocks, but beautifully penned letters where he poured his soul onto the paper—noting specific things he admired about your mind and making quiet, steady promises for the future. He never demanded a reply, just wanting you to wake up knowing you were loved.

You never knew when or where they would appear. A small bouquet of white hydrangeas left on the stool you sat on to paint, or a single, perfect peony waiting on the counter of your favorite campus coffee shop because he paid the barista in advance. There were no occasion cards—just small tags that read, "Thinking of you. Siempre. — L."

He paid attention with a hyper-focused intensity. One rainy afternoon, while sitting in the back of the studio just to be in your orbit, he noticed the tiny crease between your brows as you squeezed the very last ribbon of cobalt blue paint from your tube. You didn't say a word, throwing the empty tube away—but by the next afternoon, a brand-new, professional-grade set of blue acrylics and oils was waiting neatly on your stool.

His texts became a steady, protective constant. Every morning at 7:00 AM sharp: "Good morning. I hope you slept well. It’s freezing out today, please make sure you wear the heavy coat." Every night before bed: "Checking in to make sure you got home safe. You don't have to text back, just wanted to say goodnight." He never crowded your space, but he made sure you knew he was standing guard.

No matter how late your studio sessions ran, you would step outside into the freezing air to find Logan's massive frame waiting patiently. He wouldn't push himself near you; he would simply stand a respectful two steps behind, acting as a silent, protective barrier as he walked you back to your apartment, carrying your heavy canvas bags and shielding you from the biting winter wind.

When you finally agreed to a date, he didn't dare bring you to a loud college bar. He drove you forty-five minutes out of town to a quiet, dimly lit botanical conservatory you had casually mentioned months ago. He set up a private table tucked deep into the lush greenery, surrounded by the faint, soothing sound of running water, a gentle, intentional healing of the painful memory from the estate garden.

He spent the entire evening pulling out your chair, hanging up your coat, and looking at you as if you were the only living thing left in the universe, proving he was finally ready to hold the world for you.

The air inside the botanical conservatory was warm and heavy with the scent of damp earth and blooming jasmine, completely shutting out the freezing Massachusetts winter outside. Across the small candlelit table, Logan was watching you. He wasn't talking about himself, and he wasn't making excuses. He was just there, completely stripped of the defensive pride that had ruined that night at the gala, his dark eyes reflecting the flickering flame between you with an absolute, quiet devotion.

You looked down at your hands, then out at the lush green canopy surrounding you. You thought about the stack of handwritten letters sitting on your nightstand. You thought about the fresh tubes of cobalt blue paint waiting in your studio locker, and the freezing nights he had spent standing outside the art building just to ensure you walked home safely.

How could you resist a love that was willing to entirely rebuild itself from the ground up?

The anger that had kept your shoulders tight for weeks finally, beautifully melted away, leaving only the simple truth that you missed him. You missed him—not just the attentive boyfriend he had been trying so hard to be lately, but the boy who knew exactly how to read you like a book.

Slowly, you reached across the table, your fingers trailing over the linen cloth until your palm rested flat against the wood.

Logan’s breath hitched. His eyes dropped to your hand, tracking the movement as if he couldn't entirely believe what he was seeing. Slowly, tentatively, his massive, warm hand came up, his long fingers sliding over yours, his palm burning against your skin with that same intoxicating heat you had missed so desperately.

"You don't have to walk two steps behind me anymore, John Logan," you whispered, a soft, genuine smile finally breaking through your guarded expression.

Logan let out a long, ragged exhale, his entire chest heaving as the crushing weight of the last few weeks finally lifted. A breathless, relieved laugh escaped his throat, his grip tightening around your hand just a fraction, secure, protective, and completely unyielding.

"I'm right here," he murmured, his voice thick with an emotion so raw it made your heart do that familiar, heavy thud. He leaned across the table, his dark eyes shining with an absolute, burning promise. "Right beside you. For as long as you'll have me."

An hour later, the drive back to campus felt entirely different than the quiet, tense rides of the past weeks. The interior of Logan’s car was warm, the radio playing a soft, low melody that filled the space between you with an effortless comfort.

When he pulled up to the curb outside your apartment building, he didn't just let you slide out. He hurried around to the passenger side, opening the door for you and taking your hand to help you down onto the snow-dusted pavement. But instead of letting go, he drew you gently into his space, his large hands coming up to secure themselves gently on the small of your waist.

You looked up at him, the amber glow of the streetlights catching the sharp lines of his jaw and softening the usual brooding intensity in his eyes. Without the walls of his pride blocking the way, he looked happier than you had seen him in a very long time.

"Thank you," Logan whispered, leaning down so his forehead rested gently against yours, his warm breath mingling with the cold winter air. "For not giving up on me. For letting me fix it."

"Just don't make me run into any more gardens," you teased softly, your fingers coming up to gently smooth the collar of his heavy coat.

He let out a low, rough chuckle, pulling you flush against his chest until you could hear the steady, reassuring thud of his heart beneath his layers. "Never again," he promised fiercely, his lips brushing against your temple. "You're stuck with me now."

Smiling against his shoulder, you closed your eyes and wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, finally back where you belonged. "Good," you whispered into the quiet night. "Because I'm never letting you go."

He raised an amused brow, “Chocolate?”

You nodded, sipping your beer. “Chocolate.” You confirmed, then pointed across the room to where Kendall was busy making out with one of the hockey players. “She’s vanilla. We’re chocolate and vanilla swirl.”

The football player nodded in understanding. “Ah. I see,” he said before looking over at Kendall. “Though vanilla isn’t very vanilla.”

You laughed at his witty joke, both of you watching Kendall as she did a body shot off of the hockey player she was kissing two seconds ago. She was dressed in the same tube top and bubble skirt set you were wearing, complete with the knee-high boots and matching headpiece; hers a whipped white color, yours a cocoa brown.

From the other side of the room, Tucker and Logan were talking when the former spotted you chatting with the tall football player.

Tucker nudged Logan, “Yo, is that your girl?”

Logan followed his line of sight and it landed on you, leaning against the kitchen counter and speaking to the good-looking stranger with an easy smile on your lips.

Logan looked away and gulped down his beverage. “She’s a big girl.”

Logan wasn’t one of those insecure, pompous boyfriends. He didn’t do jealousy. He’s convinced jealousy was invented by a short dick man with an easily bruised ego. Logan was secure enough in his relationship with you to never have any reason to feel jealous.

You turned to the jock and gave his costume a once-over. Knitting your brows together, you racked your brain’s storage full of pop culture references and iconic fictional characters.

“Timothée Chalamet in Call Me by Your Name?” You tried.

He let out a huff of laughter, “Close. I’m Luca from the Disney-Pixar movie.”

“Ahh,” you nodded. “Practically the same.”

He flashed a charming smile, dragging a sip from his bottle. He extended his hand to you, “James.”

You shook his hand and told him your name.

“Pretty name,” he responded. “Though…” he leaned in closer, “…cupcake fits better, don’t you think?”

Ah. At that, you picked up that he was attempting to flirt with you. Forever loyal to your boyfriend, you opened your mouth to turn his advances down. But before you could, you felt an arm wrap around your waist from behind and find purchase on your hipbone. You knew who it was without even looking.

“Hey, got you a refill,” Logan said, taking the half empty can from your hands and replacing it with a new one.

“Thanks,” you said. As your hand moved to pop the can open, Logan’s deft fingers beat you to it and he cracked the tab for you.

The football player, James, eyed the two of you, biting his lip whilst reconfiguring his whole plan. “You’re both…?”

“Air signs,” Logan teasingly remarked with a straight face, casually drinking from his red solo cup. You elbowed him with a small smirk.

“No,” James shook his head. “I mean—”

“Together,” Logan told him, putting his now empty plastic cup down on the counter. His newly freed hand joined the other by holding onto your other hip and giving it a squeeze.

James nodded to himself. “Got it.” And away he went. Probably off to find his Alberto.

Logan’s eyes followed his retreating figure, not easing up until he was out of sight. Only then did he drop his hands off your body.

You turned around and looked up at your boyfriend with a wide smile. “What was that?”

“What was what?” He returned, pouring himself a new drink.

“That whole thing,” you responded.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” You repeated.

Logan shrugged. “A normal interaction, no?”

“He was flirting with me before that.”

“Oh so you’re aware.”

Your expression dropped. Oh, is that why—

“Logan.”

“Hm.”

“Logan.”

“Hm?”

You tilted his face down to look at him. “I wasn’t going to entertain it.”

“I know,” he replied.

“I was going to shut it down right before you showed up.”

“I know.”

“I want to make sure you know that.”

“And I know that.”

You squinted your eyes. This was suspiciously too easy. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

You stared at one another for a beat longer than necessary.

“You’re still upset,” you observed.

“I’m not upset,” he answered.

“So what are you feeling?” You asked.

“I don’t like how he called you cupcake,” Logan told you.

“Me neither. Not when I’m so clearly chocolate.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

“Y/n.”

You sighed softly, “Okay, sorry. I thought humor would make it better.”

Your fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck, hoping to relieve some of his tension. It worked. A little.

“It was a shitty pickup line,” you said. “Wouldn’t work on me even if I was single.”

“I hope so.”

“Oh, please, Logan. Take me out the back and shoot me if you ever see me falling for that,” you commented. He let out a small laugh. That’s progress

His hands returned to your hips and he pulled you closer. Your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck. His large hands rested just above your ass.

“What if I called you that?” Logan said lowly.

“Wanna give it a try?” You offered.

He leaned in, his lips hovering right by your ear. You could feel his warm breath fanning over your sensitive flesh. “Would you be into that, cupcake?” He whispered, ending it with a gentle nibble on your earlobe.

You shivered, feeling goosebumps crawl over your skin. “Fuck, I guess you have to take me out back with a gun, Logan.”

He pulled back with a hearty chuckle. You gave a matching smile and he held your face, brushing his thumb across your cheekbone.

As he looked at you, his face turned thoughtful for a moment. You squeezed his hand reassuringly.

He leaned in again. “I didn’t like how he looked at you.”

“How’d he look at me?” You wondered.

“Like how I look at you.”

You stared up at him, biting your lip. “And how do you look at me?” You whispered.

He brought his forehead against yours, gazing deep into your eyes. “Like I want you.”

Oh screw your sexy boyfriend and his even sexier responses. And that’s exactly what you wanted to do now—if only you weren’t in the middle of Beau and Dean’s birthday bash.

You had enough of this game. You raised yourself up and pressed your lips to his. Logan was hungry; he seemed to devour your kiss, swallowing every soft sound you made. His hand strayed down to grip your ass, the other held your waist comfortably. His tongue was already begging to enter your mouth, and you obliged without hesitation.

When you pulled away several moments later, Logan chased your lips with eagerness, gently biting your bottom lip as you separated.

“Mine,” he breathed out under his breath.

You bared a dazed smile, “I only want you.” You mouthed silently.

Logan let out a soft sound of amusement, nodding more to himself than to you. Satisfied and high off your impromptu makeout session, he pressed one last kiss to your forehead before rejoining his friends, this time with a protective hand on the small of your back.

"Your left shoulder drops," he said.

You had looked at the penalty box. At the boy in it. At the hockey gear he was still wearing.

"Did I ask?" you said.

"No," he said. "But it does."

You had glared at him for a long moment. Then you had tried the sequence again with your left shoulder deliberately up and it had been better. Significantly better.

You had not told him that.

You had skated to the boards and looked at him.

"Why are you in the penalty box?" you said.

"Coach," he said, simply.

"What did you do."

"Argued a call."

"Was the call wrong?"

"Obviously," he said.

You had looked at him for another long moment.

"I'm (Y/N)," you said.

"Logan," he said.

Ten years later you were still talking.

one — the competition february, sophomore year

The thing about watching you skate was that it was completely impossible to be indifferent to.

Logan had been to enough of your competitions by now that he had developed what he privately considered a professional appreciation for figure skating, he understood the technical elements, the edge work, the difference between a clean landing and one that cost points. He had opinions about judging. He had once gotten into a fifteen-minute argument with Tucker about the scoring system.

He was, in other words, not watching you the way a normal person watched figure skating.

He was watching you the way he had been watching you for approximately five years without doing anything about it, which was with focused attention of someone who had accidentally learned the exact shape of their own feelings by observing them in a controlled environment and then never done anything with the information.

You were in the middle of your free skate program.

The arena was quiet, something that happen only when a competition in progress, a few hundred people all holding the same breath and you were in the center of the ice in a deep red costume that caught the light when you moved, and you were moving the way you always moved when you were doing this properly, like you were constantly sure of all the decisions and it was up to everyone else to accept it.

The triple axel was coming. Logan knew your program better than his own game tape.

He watched your set up for it and then you were in the air and rotating and landing clean, one blade, no stumble, the crowd exhaling around him in something close to relief.

Logan exhaled too.

You finished the program and stood in the center of the ice with your arms out and your chest heaving and your face doing something close to relief and the thin line with triumph.

He knew that face. He had photographs of that face going back five years.

Logan was completely gone.

After the scores were posted — first place, which was not a surprise to anyone who had been paying attention — Logan found you in the corridor outside the changing rooms, still in the costume, skates exchanged for boots, medal around your neck that you kept touching like making sure it was real.

You saw him and couldn't help but to smile.

"You came," you said.

"I always come," he said.

"I know." You were smiling the real one, not the competition smile, not the public smile. "How was the axel?"

"Perfect," he said. "Clean landing, good height, the rotation was exactly right."

"You sound like my coach."

"Your coach is correct."

You laughed and walked toward him and he opened his arms because that was what happened after competitions you walked into them and he held on and you smelled like the rink and some body lotion that he has been trying to steal for a long time, he had his chin on top of your head and everything was exactly the same as it always was.

Except that his heart was doing something extremely inconvenient.

"I have something to tell you," he said, into your hair.

"Mm?" You didn't move.

He had the words right there. Had been carrying them for approximately two years, which was when he had stopped being able to pretend to himself that what he felt was just friendship, had been practiced and ready and —

"You dropped your left shoulder in the step sequence," he said. "Third section. It cost you."

You pulled back and looked at him. "You can not be serious right now, Johnny."

"It's a small thing, but —"

"I just won," she said.

"I know. You also dropped your shoulder."

You stared at him for a long moment with a watchful expression.

"I hate you," you said.

"No you don't," he said.

"Maybe I do" you looked at him "No I don't," you confirmed.

You took his hand and pulled him toward the exit to find the others, and Logan walked behind you and thought about what he had almost said and hadn't. Logan had decided for once, to store away this information, maybe soon would come in handy.

two — the lazy day april, sophomore year

It was a Sunday in April, a Sunday that had decided to be warm for the first time all year, and you were lying on the floor of Logan's room with your legs up on his bed because the floor was cooler than the bed and you had been at the rink since six in the morning and every single part of you ached.

Logan was on the bed, technically reading something for class, practically staring at the ceiling.

You had been in this exact configuration approximately four hundred times over ten years. The comfortable silence of two people who had run out of things to say and were fine with that.

"My coach wants me to change the music for nationals," you said, to the ceiling.

"What's wrong with the current music?"

"She says it doesn't show enough range."

"What does she want instead?"

"Something more emotional apparently." You paused. "She used the word vulnerable which made me want to scream."

Logan made a sound that meant he was listening.

"I'm not un-vulnerable," you said. "I'm just — I show it differently."

"You show it on the ice," Logan said. "Anyone paying attention can see it."

You turned your head to look at him. He was still looking at the ceiling.

"That's a nice thing to say," you said.

"It's a true thing to say." He turned his head and looked at you. From this angle, floor to bed, you were looking at each other sideways, and there was something about the afternoon light coming through the window that was doing something to his expression, making it more open than usual, less managed.

"I've been thinking," he said.

"About what."

He looked at you for a moment. The open expression doing something more complicated.

"About —" he started.

Your phone went off.

The ringtone you had assigned to your coach, which you had made deliberately annoying so you couldn't ignore it. You grabbed it off the floor and sat up and mouthed sorry at Logan and answered.

Your coach talked for eleven minutes about the music change.

When you hung up Logan was reading again, or pretending to, and the afternoon light had shifted, and whatever the moment had been it had passed.

"What were you thinking about?" you said.

"Nothing," he said. "Doesn't matter."

You looked at him for a second longer than necessary.

Then you put your legs back up on his bed and went back to staring at the ceiling.

three — the boys september, junior year

The thing about you was that you were, objectively, extremely easy to be around.

Dean had arrived at this conclusion independently and over time, through the accumulated evidence of approximately a year of you being at various team events and group hangs and spontaneous Malone's trips, and it was not a controversial conclusion, Tucker had said the same thing, Garrett had nodded in agreement.

You were funny and direct and had opinions and didn't perform interest you didn't have, which was rarer than it should have been. You also had the unselfconscious ease of someone who had been comfortable on a competitive stage since you were fourteen, which meant you walked into rooms the same way you walked onto ice like you had already decided you belonged there.

Dean had been thinking about this for approximately three weeks when he cornered Logan after practice.

"Your figure skater friend," he said.

Logan looked at him over his equipment bag. "Her name is (Y/N)."

"Is she single?"

The locker room continued around them. Tucker was unwrapping tape. Garrett was checking his phone. Nobody appeared to be paying particular attention.

Logan's jaw did something.

"Yeah," he said. "She's single."

"Nice." Dean leaned against the locker with the easy confidence of someone who had made a decision. "Do you think she'd be open to —"

"She's focused on skating," Logan said. "Nationals are in February. She doesn't have time for —"

"I'm not talking about anything serious," Dean said. "Just —"

"She's busy," Logan said.

Dean looked at him.

Logan looked at his equipment bag.

"Sure," Dean said, slowly. "Right. Busy." A pause. "You sure you don't have a —"

"She's my best friend," Logan said. "Can you just — not."

Dean looked at him for a long moment with the expression of someone doing math.

"Okay," he said. "Sure."

He went back to his own locker.

Tucker caught his eye across the room and raised his eyebrows. Dean gave the smallest possible shrug, which in their particular shorthand meant: you are seeing what you think you're seeing.

Tucker looked at the ceiling briefly and then went back to his tape.

Logan texted you that night.

logan: what are you doing

yn: stretching. my hip flexors are staging a revolt. what's up

logan: nothing. just checking in

yn: at 10pm on a tuesday

logan: is that suspicious

yn: a little

logan: go stretch your hip flexors

yn: i am. you could come over and suffer with me

A pause. Longer than usual.

logan: be there in twenty

He showed up with food and sat on your floor and watched you stretch with the expression he sometimes had when he was thinking about something he wasn't saying. You didn't push. You had learned, over ten years, the difference between Logan processing something and Logan ready to talk about it.

You stretched your hip flexors.

He was quiet beside you.

It was, somehow, exactly enough.

four — the party november, junior year

Hannah had a very simple theory about Logan and you that she had shared with Allie approximately four months ago and had been collecting evidence for ever since.

The theory was: you were both completely in love with each other and were going to keep not doing anything about it until one of them finally cracked or they both graduated and went their separate ways, which would be a tragedy.

Allie's theory was identical, arrived at independently, and they had spent four months running what amounted to a covert observation project with no intervention component because, as Allie had said, correctly , very time anyone said anything to Logan he went quiet and every time anyone said anything to you, you laughed and changed the subject, and the only thing that was going to fix this was one of them actually doing something.

The party was in November, someone's house, the kind that happened naturally when enough people were in the same place with nothing specific to do. Allie and Hannah had come together. Logan and you had come separately and found each other within four minutes, which was, Hannah noted, always how it went.

You were in the corner of the living room now, in the configuration you always occupied at parties, close enough that yourshoulders touched, talking in the way you talked when you were somewhere loud, which was slightly lower and slightly more direct, leaning in.

"He's doing it again," Hannah said.

Allie, beside her, followed her eyeline. "The shoulder thing."

"He always does the shoulder thing when he's about to say something."

They watched. Across the room, Logan's shoulder had indeed done the thing, a slight forward tilt, the specific posture of someone turning toward something rather than standing beside it.

You were looking up at him with the expression you had when you were actually listening to someone, which was different from your polite listening expression and your processing expression and was reserved for maybe three people in your life.

"He's going to do it," Hannah said.

"He's not going to do it," Allie said.

"He's leaning in —"

"He never does it."

"There's always a first time —"

Someone across the room called Logan's name. Loudly. Urgently. Something about a game in the kitchen that required his participation immediately.

Logan closed his eyes very briefly.

Then he straightened up and said something to you — one second probably, or back in a minute — and went toward the kitchen.

You watched him go with an expression that lasted approximately two seconds before you reorganized it into something neutral.

Allie looked at Hannah.

Hannah looked at Allie.

"I'm going to lose my mind," Hannah said.

"Same," said Allie.

They looked at each other.

"We're not intervening," Allie said.

"We're absolutely not intervening," Hannah agreed.

They watched you drift toward the snack table looking slightly like someone who had been about to hear something and hadn't.

"We're not intervening," Allie said again, more firmly.

"Right," said Hannah. "Definitely not."

allie: okay so

hannah: i KNOW

allie: the shoulder thing

hannah: and her FACE when he left

allie: someone needs to do something

hannah: we said we weren't intervening

allie: i know what we said

hannah: allie

allie: i'm just saying

hannah: we are not telling them

allie: fine

hannah: fine

allie: ...fine

hannah: goodnight allie

allie: if they're still doing this at graduation i'm saying something

hannah: GOODNIGHT ALLIE

five — the almost january, senior year

You found out about the Dean thing entirely by accident.

You had been in the kitchen at the off campus house, making tea because it was January and you were cold and your coach had banned coffee during competition prep, and Tucker had come in and started making a sandwich and you had been coexisting peacefully until Tucker said, entirely unprompted and clearly without thinking:

"By the way, for what it's worth, I told Dean not to."

You looked at him. "Told Dean not to what."

Tucker looked at his sandwich. Then at you. Then at his sandwich again with the expression of someone who had realized, too late, that they had said something.

"Ask about you," he said finally. "Like — ask Logan if he could pursue you. I told him it was a bad idea."

You put down your tea.

"Dean asked Logan if he could pursue me," you said.

"Back in September. Logan said you were busy with skating." Tucker picked up his sandwich. "Which was — I mean, you are busy. But also —" he stopped. "I probably shouldn't have said anything."

"Probably," you said.

Tucker took a bite of his sandwich and left the kitchen with the energy of someone removing themselves from a situation.

You stood at the counter with your tea and thought about September and Logan showing up at your apartment at ten on a Tuesday for no reason, sitting on your floor, being quiet beside you in a way that had felt like something without ever becoming something.

She's busy, he had apparently said.

You looked at the doorway Tucker had disappeared through.

You looked at your tea.

Hm, you thought.

Logan found you twenty minutes later in the living room, already in his jacket, apparently on his way out.

"Hey," he said. "You good?"

"Fine," you said. "Where are you going?"

"Skate rental shop. I need new laces." He paused. "Do you want to come? We can get food after."

You looked at him.

"Sure," you said.

You got your coat.

one — the one time he did january, senior year.

The skate rental shop was quiet on a January afternoon, the mundane warmth of a place that smelled like rubber and old equipment, and Logan found his laces in approximately four minutes and then stood in the aisle for another ten not moving, which you had learned to recognize as Logan making up his mind about something.

You looked at a display of blade covers that you did not need.

"Tucker told me," you said, to the blade covers.

A pause.

"Told you what," Logan said.

"About Dean. In September."

The aisle was very quiet.

"She's busy," you said. "That's what you said, apparently."

Another pause. Longer.

"You were," Logan said. "You were in nationals prep."

"Logan."

"What."

You turned to look at him. He was looking at the laces in his hands with the expression he got when he was trying to decide something and hating that he had to decide it.

"Why did you say she's busy," you said. "Instead of — anything else."

He looked up. His jaw did the thing.

"Because," he started.

"Because why."

He looked at you. Really looked at you, the way he sometimes did when he thought you weren't paying attention, except you were paying attention and he knew it and he still wasn't looking away.

"Because it's you," he said. "And I couldn't just — I didn't want Dean to —" he stopped. Started again. "I didn't want anyone to."

The skate rental shop was very quiet.

"Okay," you said.

"Okay?" he said.

"That's — I needed to know that." You looked at the blade covers. You looked at him. "I also needed you to know that I'm not busy. I mean — I am. But I'm not. Not for — not for this."

Logan looked at you for a long moment.

"Not for this," he repeated.

"Not for you," you said, which was the more honest version, which you had decided to say because you were twenty-two and you had been doing this for five years and Tucker had accidentally said something in a kitchen and it was January and you were tired of not saying things.

The laces in Logan's hands had been thoroughly analyzed.

He put them back on the shelf.

"I was going to tell you after your competition," he said. "In February. Your sophomore year."

"You talked about my shoulder."

"I know," he said. "I know I did."

"And on the Sunday in April —"

"Your coach called."

"And at the party in November —"

"Dean," he said, simply, and you almost laughed.

"Five times," you said.

"Probably more," he said. "I stopped counting."

You looked at him. This person who had been in the penalty box when you were eleven and had told you your shoulder dropped and had come to every competition and had stood in a locker room in September and said she's busy when what he meant was something else entirely.

"So say it now," you said. "We're in a skate rental shop in January. There's nobody here. Say it now."

Logan looked at you.

"I love you," he said. Not dramatically just simply, the way he said true things, like it was information that had been waiting a long time to be delivered and was relieved to finally arrive. "I've loved you since you told me I didn't ask and then tried the spin again anyway. I love you and I'm sorry it took me this long."

The blade covers blurred slightly.

You reached up and took the lapel of his jacket in your hand.

"You talked about my shoulder," you said.

"I know," he said. "I'm sorry."

"I'm going to bring that up for years."

"I know," he said. "I deserve that."

You pulled him down by the jacket.

He kissed you in the skate rental shop in January, between the blade covers and the laces display, with nobody watching and nothing to interrupt, and it was warm and unhurried and tasted like something that had been a long time coming and had finally, simply, arrived.

When you pulled back he had the expression you had been trying not to notice for five years — open and certain and entirely unmanaged.

"For the record," you said, "my shoulder doesn't drop anymore."

"It really doesn't," he said. "You've completely fixed it."

"I know," you said. "I'm very good."

He laughed and pulled you back in, and the skate rental shop continued to be entirely quiet around you, indifferent and perfect.

You told Allie and Hannah together, which was the only way to do it.

You had barely gotten the words out before Hannah made a sound that could only be described as vindicated, and Allie said I told you to Hannah at the same moment Hannah said I told you to Allie, and then they looked at each other and then at you and both started talking at the same time.

"The shoulder thing at the party —"

"In sophomore year when you called after the competition —"

"The thing in September with Dean —"

"We knew," Hannah said. "We have known for so long."

"How long," you said.

They looked at each other.

"Since the first time we saw you two in the same room," Allie said.

You looked at them. "And you didn't say anything?"

"We said we weren't going to intervene," Hannah said, with the dignity of someone honoring a commitment.

"You could have said something to me," you said.

"We said we weren't going to intervene," Allie said, equally dignified.

You looked at them both.

"I cannot believe," you said.

"You're welcome," they said, simultaneously.

Logan told the team at dinner.

Or rather, Dean asked where you were and Logan said she's coming later and Tucker said she's coming? is she — and Logan said yeah in the even tone that contained a lot of information, and Dean looked at Tucker and Tucker looked at Dean and Garrett looked at his food and the table continued exactly as it always had except that something had shifted in the specific, settled way of something that had always been heading here finally arriving.

When you got there Logan moved over without being asked and you sat beside him and his shoulder was warm against yours and everything was exactly the same as it had always been.

Except that his hand found yours under the table.

And this time he didn't let go.

allie: so

hannah: SO

allie: we called it

hannah: from the beginning

allie: the penalty box story is the most romantic thing i have ever heard

hannah: RIGHT

allie: eleven years old

hannah: her shoulder dropped

allie: her SHOULDER DROPPED

hannah: i'm going to think about this forever

allie: same

allie: we did good

hannah: we didn't do anything

allie: we observed supportively

hannah: that's true

allie: that counts

You weren't dating, not really, John Logan didn't do relationships, but you were together in all the ways a relationship conveys without the formality of a title. You cheered for him on game day, he would call you every time he had a bad day, you would always find each other at parties and at some point along the way you'd found yourself a spot at the hockey house.

The change started slowly, so slow it was almost unnoticable at first. Your first significant meet with Hannah outside of Malone's was at the block party, you'd been having drinks with the guys and a few girls who had joined in hopes of scoring a hookup when Logan noticed how detached Garret had been from the party. That was the first time you noticed the longing glances, but they still didn't register fully because he still spent the rest of the party on your side and you still ended up in his bed that night.

"Lo I think someone's knocking" Tonight a bunch of people were over at the hockey house, it wasn't a party per se, but the entire hockey team plus a few other friends were around. You were currently sitting on the couch watching the guys play a hockey videogame.

"No one ever knocks" Logan replied not taking his attention off the tv.

"Exactly" You pointed out making it clear that if someone was knocking there must have been a reason.

"Fine" He sighed and handed you his controller, he started walking away and then turned back around "Wait no, she'll score an own goal, pause it!" But you were already moving your little guy around the ice, in circles really instead of actually playing the game.

He didn't seem to pay much attention to Hannah that night, just an extra look when a half naked, straight out of the shower Garrett took her upstairs.

Your next encounter with Hannah was Beau and Dean's party. You had coordinated outfits with one of your friends, Logan was a bird aliongside Tucker's bee and you were all throwing shots when she walked in. Hannah looked amazing in her head turning bunny costume that made Garretts magician make sense now.

In all honesty, you wouldn't have noticed anything weird with Logan if it hadn't been for the way his hold on your waist had instantly dropped when he noticed her. You played it off as nothing when Tucker appeared next to you and dragged him away for their little tradition, but your brain filed it away anyways.

"Mmm we're late" You mumbled into Logan's lips, you were parked on a lonely dark street a few streets away from Malone's because he, verbatim, had said 'you look too good I'm not making it the whole night without a taste'

"Mmhmm" He mumbled against your lips grinding his hips up to you "Don't care"

"Oh come on" You separate a little, he follows as if you were connected by a string, chasing your lips "Karaoke night is my favorite"

"You won't even sing" He complained pushing his forehead against yours.

"Maybe tonight I will" You tell him.

"You're telling me if I drive us to Malone's right now you'll actually sing tonight?" You nod, it's not true, you're most definitely not singing tonight, but you know if you're any late you're gonna fall victim to Dean, Tucker and Beau's incessant teasing the whole night "You're on baby"

When you get to Malone's you get the great surprise of Tucker on stage singing Save a Horse Ride a Cowboy "Holy shit" You gasp hitting Logan's arm.

He chuckles, Jules walks up to you with the song request clipboard "I'll put you and Garrett up for Summer Nights" They say already scribiling down the words.

"I know that's a joke but I would kill Sandy" Logan replies "Anyways, put this one down for Shake It Off"

"Noted" Jules writes down your name and song.

"Do not" You say but Jules smirks and walks away "Jules!"

They don't even turn around, just puts their hand up and waves approaching another group of people, Logan laughs "Come on, let's get a drink" He guides you to the bar, Tucker's voice flowing through the place with the crowd joining in every chorus.

Garrett and Hannah are at the bar, Hannah seems to be enjoying herself as she says hi to you all giggily sipping on what seems like a piña colada "I'll take one of those please" You call out to the bartended who nods getting to prepare the drink.

"Logan!" Hannah exclaims after pulling you into a drunken hug "You fixed my car" She points at the man, Logan nods with a strained 'yeah'. The girl turns to Garrett "He fixed my car"

Garrett looks confused "You have a car?"

The brunette gives him a weirded out look "No"

You stiffle a laugh at her response and squeeze her a little when you notice her somber expression "Had a car" Logan clarifies "Great car"

"I'm buying you a very special thank you drink" Hannah announces then "And you, for being a new friend" She turns to you, then there's confusion in her eyes "We can be friends right?"

"Yes Hannah, we can be friends" You chuckle, she beams.

"Great!" Then she leans over the bar and whispers something into the bartender's ear "Okay you're gonna love it!"

"Hannah has discovered the piña colada tonight" That explains the girl's drunken state, she's probably had too many but thankfully he is with Garrett who is probably the most responsible guy in this bar tonight.

"I've only had one, or four" Hannah laughs, she seems to be having fun.

"Is that what I'm getting too?" Logan asks, you don't miss the way he says 'I'm' but you ignore it, for now.

"Mmm nope" She turns back to you and Logan just as the bartender sets your piña colada and two very bright blue drinks "Okay, for my mechanic, and my new friend, I call this the bluebaru"

She hands you each a glass, you look behind her at Garrett as if asking for help but he just looks amused "Oh! It looks like wiper fluid" Logan says as he inspects the drink.

You take a sip, your face scrunching up at the taste of it at the same time as Garrett says "That might actually be wiper fluid"

"It's mostly blue curacao" Hannah explains "With the secret ingredient" She leans in closer to you and Logan "More blue curacao"

"Oh! I'm so excited" You laugh at Logan's clear suffering at the simple thought of drinking this, you already know you're handing this to either Dean or Beau the moment you see them, those two will drink pretty much anything.

You've just found Dean and Beau, the latter being occupied with his tongue down a redhead, when Hannah's name is announced. "Here have this" You shove the drink into Beau's hand and slip into the seat next to him.

"What's this?" He asks but is already taking a big gulp of it "Fuck!"

You smirk "Hannah Wells' creation, the bluebaru"

"You've got some competition" Beau nods at Logan who is staring intently at Hannah as she performs, that's the first time you really notice it.

"Oh hell no" Dean speaks making you realize the redhead's gone.

"She's with Garrett" You point out.

"Right" Beau nods but the damage is done, for the rest of the performance you can't stop noticing the way Logan looks at her like she's the most interesting thing in the planet and how his look changes to a more somber one when Hannah starts serenating Garrett more openly.

"Kinda sweet isn't it" Jules approaches their brother when they notice the looks he's been giving the girl performing "Garrett being serious about someone"

"You think he's serious?" Logan asks.

"Everyone on fifth line seems to think so" Jules replies "They get more likes than anything else I post" When their brother doesn't say anything they sigh knowing the conversation isn't going anyways "Not that you should care or anything"

"What are you talking about?" He asks, Jules doesn't reply, instead they nod to the booth where you and Beau are watching Hannah sing and Logan can't help but to feel a pinch of guilt in his gut.

You don't sing that night, and you're surprised when, after a few hours of him hanging out with everyone but you, Logan comes over and asks if you're ready to go. Your roomate is out and Logan takes full advantage of that giving you multiple orgasms, you don't think about why he's being so good to you, he'd already shown how interested he was earlier, but he can't help but think he has to make it up to you all night long.

The last thing Logan wanted tonight was to end up talking about Hannah with Garrett but here he was because he couldn't help himself but to ask, and he hated himself for the relief he'd felt when Garrett basically confirmed they weren't together "Hannah was just a distraction"

"Yeah, I mean, sometimes you don't get everything what you want" Logan said "But… you're Garrett Graham, alright? Things are gonna work out for ya okay? They always do"

Garrett chuckled "Yeah well for you too man, I mean, you've got the girl, and you make it look so easy" Logan felt a pang of pain at the mention of you and his friend's perspective of your relationship, things there weren't easy, hell he'd been ignoring you for a few days now, giving you dumb excuses as to why he couldn't see you and it all was because he couldn't get his friend's 'girl' out of his head "And it's me and you in the bruins, that's the plan, right?"

Another lie he was keeping, the one where he was pursuing hockey alongside Garrett when he graduated "Yeah, that's the dream"

The next few weeks are like torture for Logan, you eventually wear him down enough for him to start hanging out with you again but he's distant every single time. In the meantime, he's trying his hardest to stop thinking about Hannah while the girl spends every free moment she has in their house because apparently, her and Garrett are officially together now. Every few nights he has to actually leave the house and stay over at your dorm because he can't stand the sound of his best friend hooking up with Hannah and his headphones are not enough.

Thanksgiving had been, surprisingly nice, Garrett and Hannah had gone to his father's to celebrate, Dean was away in New York and that left Tucker, Logan and Jules, the last one inviting you over even before the invitation had been extended to everyone who didn't have a place to go.

"He's gonna burst something" You mumble into Logan's ear, the man being surprisnigly affectionate today.

"Hey, he wanted to do all this" Logan replies squeezing your waist as he hugs you from behind making you giggle.

"Yo lovebirds, get to work" Tucker points at you with the knife he was holding making both of you to put your hands up in surrender before moving to do whatever you were appointed to do.

Logan ends up leaving with Jules a while later, they go to visit their mom at rehab even though that's the last place he wants to be and you stay behind with the rest of your friends. The turkey, much to Tuck's dismay, ends up being a disaster and you all migrate to the rink instead.

You suck at skating but you manage to stay upright enough to glide around as the group plays hockey using parts of the charred turkey as a puck. You've found yourself in the middle of the rink, with the help of Kendall, when Logan and Jules return with their marshmallow attack. You shriek as one hits you square in the chest and glide your way to them as good as you can but you end up slipping and falling straight into the arms of Logan who laughs as he helps you up.

"What are you guys doing?" You ask laughing as your friends in the rink shriek when the siblings keep pelleting them with marshmallows as they skate around.

"It's a Logan thanksgiving motherfuckers!" Jules screams and continues their attack.

"Let's call G and Dean" Tucker suggests, pulling his phone out.

That's where your night changes drastically, when the illusion that you'd been keeping up shatters, because while you'd spent today in Logan's arms whispering jokes to each other and sneaking in kisses here and there the moment Hannah and Garrett's faces appear in Tucker's screen he drops your hand and his expression falters.

Your hand immediately feels cold at the loss of touch and you can't concentrate on the words being exchanged, you smile through it and then when they hang up you unlace your skates and replace them with your shoes and get the hell out of there.

Logan doesn't notice until Jules mentions it.

You stop reaching out to him, your replies come out short when he texts and you always have an excuse as to why you're busy or he can't come to your dorm. In just a week you've shifted your entire friend group from the hockey team to the football team. They greet you in with open arms, you've hang out with them before and Beau adores you, you also find out that the football girlfriends are real good friends who you can girl talk with even though you haven't been close for too long.

"Honestly, good for you" Mia, one of the wide receivers girlfriend's says, you're telling them the story of why you've ended up hanging out with them more lately while trying not to freeze your ass off while you watch the team practice "For having a backbone"

"Men can be so dense" Lily shakes her head "I bet you he's still wondering what he did to piss you off"

"I think he's taken the hint" You shrug "He's stopped spamming me at least"

"Sooo now that he's out of the picture… you and Beau?" Mia asks suggestively wiggling her eyebrows.

"Nope" You deny immediately "Been there, done that, we're friends and that's where we're staying"

"Wait you've hooked up before?" Lily's eyes are so impossibly wide "Okay share!"

You chuckle "We were freshmen, it happened a few times and then we figured out we enjoyed hanging out with each other but neither of us wanted a relationship so it kinda fizzled out" You shrug "But I also became friends with the hockey boys and Dean and Beau come as a package so we just stayed friends"

"I've always wondered" Mia trails, her eyes following Beau as he runs drills "When people say they come as a package, do you guys think they like… have threesomes and shit?"

You choke on nothing, heat rising up your neck "Oh. my. God" Lily jumps pointing at you "You dirty slut" But there's no real judgement in her voice, just curiosity.

"Would you look at that? I think I better go work on my psych paper" You stand up ignoring the girls asking you to come back behind you.

Malone's is packed by the time you make it in, Mia and Lily insisting they needed you there so here you were. You knew the hockey guys would be here, it was after all their fundraiser, Logan is at the entrance when you arrive "Hey you came" He looks surprised about your presence.

"Yep" You nod "Here I am"

The air is only awkward for a few seconds before your savior, Beau Maxwell, steals you away with a quick comment at Logan and soon enough he has you at the bar with a drink in hand.

"Hey!" Hannah greets you, you haven't seen her since before thanksgiving either and although she is, unknowingly, the reason why you and Logan fell out, there's not a single cell in your bone that resents her "Great party right?"

"It always is" You nod with a smile "Although I kinda like this venue better than the usual one"

Hannah curtsies "Thank you, all my idea. Have you met Allie?"

You nod and wave at Allie who's behind the bar "Yeah, hi"

"Hey" She smiles back but then her eyes track someone behind you. You turn to see who it is and your mouth falls agape when you find Dean walking by, a smirk on his face as he squeezes your waist and continues in. You look back at Allie who looks exactly like someone who's been caught doing something they shouldn't be doing "I-"

You chuckle and shake your head letting her know she doesn't need to give you any explanation, thankfully for her Hannah had been too distracted with the band on stage to notice.

"Give it up for after hours everybody" Dean says once he's up on stage "And a big round of applause to my buddy John Logan for putting on this killer event" You clap alongside everyone, for all his faults John Logan really cares about the Little Canes and has always pulled through for them "Look at him, doesn't get any more good looking than that. And he's single ladies" The crowd of girls around the room cheer, you chug your drink.

Allie gives you a look sliding another drink in front of you before going back to paying her full undivided attention to Dean "I thought you and Logan were…" Hannah says confused.

"Nope" You reply taking your drink and walking away to find either Mia and Lily or Beau.

"Ugh look at him" You grumble staring at Logan's smile as he talks to Hannah, you're now a few drinks in and your filter is running thin "Like her boyfriend is not his best friend who also happens to be 5 steps away lik get a grip dude"

Mia and Lily chuckle, you've found yourself in the middle of them while each of them has their boyfriend with them, luckily for you, because as upset as you are you don't want Logan's crush on Hannah being public knowlege, the guys are too busy engrossed on a conversation about how awful their season is going.

"I think" Lily says "You need a little distraction"

"Mhm" Mia agrees scoping the crowd out "How about… him?" She points at a brunette guy.

"Too complicated, he's on the hockey team" You tell them.

"That would just make things more interesting" You shake your head "Fine, no athletes then" She thinks about it for a few more seconds "How do you feel about artists"

You look the way she is, her gaze locked onto Justin Kohl "That… I might consider" The girls giggle next to you.

You do end up talking to Justin once his set is done and find yourself entertained enough to consider leaving with him. Key word: consider because when you are getting your coat while he waits by the door to join him Logan stops you.

"Hey can we talk?" He grabs your arm, soft enough to not hurt you but strong enough so you can't just slip away.

"Uh I gotta go" You say "Someone's waiting for me"

"What- I mean, what happened?" You give him a raised brow "We don't even talk anymore and I just need you to help me understand what happened"

"Logan come on, you're not that dumb" The dumb comment doesn't affect him but you calling him Logan makes him recoil. You never call him Logan, it's always Lo or John.

"Please" He says "I- I thought we were good" You scoff "What?"

"You're in love with your best friend's girlfriend Logan" You deadpan, if you had had one less drink tonight you probably wouldn't have said anything, but here you are.

"What? No I'm not" He argues.

"Yes you are!" You tell him "And honestly? That's a problem for you and them because you and I weren't even together"

"Don't say that" He shakes his head.

"Don't say what? It's the truth. We had fun while it lasted but now you clearly have your sights set on someone else and I think that's something you really have to deal with soon because it's not fair for anyone" You look at him for a few seconds, waiting for your words to sink in and then you say goodbye and walk away no longer in the mood to hook up with Justin.

It takes Hannah and Garret to breakup, fighting and then making amends with Garrett and Hannah and Garrett getting back together for Logan to start to accept his feelings, and once again, he hates himself for it. You were right the night of the fundraiser, this crush he had on hannah wasn't fair to anyone.

"Okay no, this is ridiculous and we need to talk" Hannah stops him as he tries leaving the kitchen as soon as she entered it even though he was halfway through making a sandwich. Something he'd been doing for weeks, avoiding her at all costs "Garrett said to ignore it, that it would eventualy go away, but I can't keep doing this"

"Wellsy I don't know what you're talking about" He tries to lie.

"Stop that!" She points at him with that scary authority the guys had come to know and fear "Do you have a thing for me?"

"Well, this has been fun, but I think I'll go upstairs and kill myself now" He says attempting to walk away but her voice stops him.

"Sit down" He does so because although Hannah is comparably smaller to him, she's scary.

"There's no point talking about this Wellsy I think we both know what the answer to your question is" He sighs.

"Just… answer it"

"Fine" He huffs "Yes I have a thing for you"

"Why?" She asks after a few moments of silence that felt like hours to him.

"I- What?"

"I'm so not your type and we both know it" She lets out.

"You don't know that" He accuses.

"Oh yeah? Prove it, what is it that makes you have a thing for me?"

"I'm tired of the parties and hookups and hopping from girl to girl, you made me realize that, you with your movie nights full of cuddles and cheering at our games and cooking dinner and the looks you give Garrett-" She snorts then interrupting his rant "Why are you laughing?"

"Because you're not hearing yourself, Logan… you don't want me, you want my relationship" Hannah tells him.

"I'm not into polygamy" He defends.

"No thats… thats not what I'm saying you idiot" She sits next to him "You say you're tired of hookups and hopping from girl to girl but tell me, how many girls have you slept with this year?" He thinks about it and the answer is easy, one, you're the only one he's slep with in over a year "You want cuddles and movie nights and someone cheering for you at your games and someone to cook you dinner and give you loving looks well I'm sorry to break it up to you pal but you had all that already" The 'pal' should've hurt but it just gets lost in the middle of the rest of the words as Logan realizes the truth in Hannah's words "Logan… you had the girl and you let her go and for the longest time I kept wondering why because it made no sense and here it is, the reason actually makes no sense"

"Shit" He cursed dropping his head onto the counter.

"Yeah, shit" The girl patted his back.

"Wellsy did you get lost on your way to the popcorn? Because- oh what happened?"Garrett entered the room.

"Logan here just realized he's been a bit of an idiot" Hannah explains and although he can't see them, Logan knows the couple is communicating with stares.

"Oh" Garrett lets out "Is this about…"

"Yeah"

"I've lost her haven't I?" Logan mumbles looking up to his friends.

"Uhhh" Garrett looks at Hannah for help.

"Noooo" But her tone doesn't sound sure "I mean… surely there's something we can come up with to help you get her back"

Logan groans and drops his head once more.

"Woah, what's with all the somber in here?" Dean walks in with Tucker trailing behind.

"Girl trouble" Garret lets out.

"Oh shit, finally got your head out of your ass huh?" The blonde slaps Logan on the back making him jump up.

"Dude" Tucker scolds him "Okay so… what are we doing? How are you fixing this?"

"I don't know" Logan admits.

"Right" Dean nods and pulls out a notepad and pen from one of the drawers "Operation GLGB starts now"

"GLGB?" Tucker questions.

"Get Logan's Girl back" Dean says in a 'duh' tone.

"You could've just said that" Garret argues.

"Well yeah but Logan here is always making up these terms so I thought it was fitting" The blonde counters.

"Okay whatever you wanna call it just… anyone has any ideas?" Hannah stops the argument before it gets too far.

It takes the group two whole weeks to come up with a plan and execute it.

"Beau I swear to God" You complained, Beau had come to your dorm earlier and dragged you out with no reason even when you complained you were working on an essay "If I don't get to finish my essay because of you I will cut your season short"

"You'd be doing me a favor honestly" He grumbles "Team's still doing so shit"

"Maybe because you spend your free time dragging girls out of their dorms instead of practicing" You point out sarcastically.

"Usually I don't have to drag them, they come on their own"

"Yeah cause you don't know how to get them there" You tease.

"Oh you know damn well I can" He smiles back.

"Ew no" You make a face, you'd rather leave those days in freshman year.

"Anyways, wait here" You're standing under a big tree in the middle of campus where the block party is usually held.

"Why?" You question.

"Just… stay" He pleads.

"Woof" You retort he chuckles and jogs away.

You sigh looking around, there's nothing Beau could be remotely interested in here, just people walking to and from classes and or dorms which your friend tends to stay away from as much as possible.

"Hey" You hear that familiar voice behind you, you don't turn, instead you're planning an escape that he doesn't let you complete as he stands in front of you.

"Hi"

"I'm sorry" He lets out "About everything, and I know you don't want to listen to me but please just hear me out"

"I can't" You try to say "I have an essay I need to finish, I'm just waiting for-"

"Beau" He interrupts you "Yeah, I know, I needed someone to lure you out of your dorm" You scoff running your hands through your hair "Please don't go just… just let me get this out and if you decide you want nothing more to do with me I promise I'll never bother you again"

"Two minutes" He nods.

"This is where I saw you for the first time, block party, freshman year, you were standing right here on your own" He motions to the spot you're standing in now "There were fairy lights on the tree and they glowed all around you like a halo. Garrett caught me staring, he told me to make a move, and I did, and honestly? I thought the most I was getting out of it would be a hookup but then we started talking and I knew that I needed you to be in my life as more than that"

"We didn't hook up in freshman year" You tell him "We barely spoke after that"

"True" He nods "Because you had that thing going on with Beau, and Beau was Dean's best friend and I didn't want to cause any drama within the team. But then one night we were out and he mentioned you two were just friends and I thought okay this is it, this is my chance" The two minutes are close to being over but you don't mention it "Sophomore year I realized no other girl made me feel the way you did, I stopped hooking up with random girls, I had no one night stands and I found myself looking for you in every room I walked into. And I've been the biggest idiot, I got in my head, I have a million things going on right now and the only good ones are you and hockey, in that order" He points at you "You and then hockey, but I let myself get wrapped up on the mentality of the other guys, the one where I couldn't possibly have a girlfriend because that meant leaving hockey behind"

In the entire time you've known John Logan you've never known him to be someone who can stand still for too long, a hockey player trait probably because all the guys are the same, but through this entire exchange he's stood right in front of you staring you in the eye as if he will spook you if he moves too much, the distance between you is a couple steps and it's probably the furthest he's stood since the night you met right here.

"But then, Garrett stated dating Hannah, Garrett Graham, the guy whose determination when it comes to hockey is so strong he's shaped his entire world around the sport, got a girlfriend, and he was doing great, he was thriving, he was happy. And seeing him like that made me jealous because I wanted that, I wanted to have the happy relationship and I confused that with wanting Hannah" He takes one step then, so small it makes nothing to decrease the distance "But I didn't, I didn't want Hannah, and I realized it too late. I realized that I had all that, I had it all with you I was just too much of a coward to call it what it was"

"Lo-" He cuts you off.

"Please" You've never seen him this broken "Please don't call me by my last name, I can't stand you calling me Logan"

You nod "John I don't know if I can just… move on from all this like it was nothing. We were together for over a year and never made it official, and it was okay back then because it was what we both wanted, but I'm not sure that's what I want anymore"

"But-" You put your hand out stopping him.

"I hear what you're saying, but what's to say we get back together and you realize it really is not what you wanted?"

"It is" He's basically pr¡leading my now, sure he said if you wanted to he would dissapear from your life, but he's sure as hell not going to do it without putting up a fight first "I know it is because we already had it and I loved it" He stops then and something flashes in his face, recognition "I love you"

Your eyes widen "Lo"

"I do, I love you" He chuckles shaking his head and gone is the man who stood still for so long because he's now cut down the distance and standing so close he's blocking your view of anyone else "I love going to parties and having you by my side the entire time, I love going to sleep with you in my arms and waking up to you basically on top of me, I love late nights snacking on Tuck's leftovers and I love seeing you in the stands at my games, I love you"

You're smiling now because you can tell he's being serious.

"I never had a crush on Hannah, baby you're the only one I've wanted so please, please cut me out of my misery and say you'll be mine again" His brown eyes bore into yours and you can't help but to pull him down by the neck and kiss him.

"Only if we do this right" You say once you separate, not that he let you go far, his hands are on your waist pulling you flushed against him and his forehead is on yours "No more situationship or casual or whatever it was"

He nods "It was never casual" And he pulls you in for another kiss.

You break out of the kiss when you hear your friends cheering behind you.

"Hell yeah I did that motherfuckers!" Beau exclaims clapping loudly.

Logan’s older brother Jeff was leaning against the workshop desk and sipping on a can of Coke when he saw you strut in. He sighed, “Here comes Lottie.”

The nickname was a running joke between the brothers. Jeff had muttered it under his breath when you first visited the shop and asked a question about diesel gas. He took one look at you and knew you were a clueless, rich girl who shouldn’t be visiting garages such as theirs.

Logan hadn’t entertained the nickname so much. He thought it was unnecessarily mean. Besides, Lottie was always a sweetheart in Princess and the Frog.

Jeff turned on his heels and disappeared into the garage’s office, leaving Logan to deal with you on his own.

Logan put down a spare part he was working on and turned around, leaning back against the counter.

You waved excitedly with a cheerful grin. “Hi, Logan!”

He smiled politely, “Hey…”

“Did you save my girl?” You asked, batting your lashes.

Logan nodded, “She’s all fixed up for you,” he said, walking over to the wall of car keys hung on hooks to retrieve yours.

You clapped your hands, “Yay!”

He chuckled whilst shaking his head. You got happy over the simplest of things. He thought it was endearing.

You walked over to your car. Nebula, as you called her. A fitting name for a sleek, black convertible with dark purple leather upholstery and shiny silver rims.

Logan came over and handed you your keys. “You wanna try her out?”

You nodded and unlocked your car before opening the driver’s side door. No beeping. Perfect.

You beamed at Logan. “You did it!”

He smiled with an easy laugh, feeling proud of his work. In reality, your car issue was a minor one; the door sensor just needed a replacement. Nothing about it required a lick of rocket science, and yet you looked at him as if he hung the stars in your galaxy.

You put your designer bag into your car and bent over to fish out your wallet. Logan stared at your body for a second before he caught himself, clearing his throat and looking away respectfully.

You stood up straight, holding your leather wallet between both hands, looking at him with a doe-eyed expression.

He scratched the back of his neck and gestured for you to follow him to the counter. The gritty sounds of his boots crunching the gravel below and the rhythmic click click click of your heels echoed through the garage.

Logan went around the counter and pulled out a receipt and wrote down the service you needed with the price. He slid the piece of paper to you but you just kept looking at his face with a smile. He blinked before realizing you didn’t care for the price. Right, he thought. Rich girls don’t worry about those things.

“Cash or card?” He asked.

You held up your metal black credit card.

Logan pursed his lips and nodded as he pulled out a card reader. You tapped your card without even glancing at the screen and clapped your hands when the machine beeped in satisfaction.

“Thank you, Logan,” you told him kindly.

He shrugged politely, “It’s no problem.”

You smiled at him. He returned it, “Do you want your recei—“

Before he could even hand you your proof of service, you were walking back to your car. He nodded to himself and stuffed the receipt into the cash register.

He watched as you exited the garage, waving at him enthusiastically as you drove by. He gave a small wave back.

+

A week later, your BMW pulled into the garage whilst Logan was working under a car.

He didn’t hear the sound of your heels this time as he had headphones in, blasting a classic rock song. He felt a shadow looming nearby so he turned and saw your heels appear. He paused and rolled out from under the car, meeting the sight of your broad smile peering down at him.

“Hi, Logan!”

“Hey…” He sounded confused. His eyebrows furrowed and he glanced around, “Didn’t you pick up your car last week?”

You nodded. “Yep. But my AC is broken now…” You pouted.

Hm, Logan thought. He sat up, “Oh, I didn’t see that when I did the diagnostic last week—“

“Must be a new issue, then. These foreign cars are all funny,” you replied, tilting your head.

He cleaned his hands with a rag before standing up. He had oil stains on his shirt and just a little smudge on his face. You thought he looked so ruggedly handsome.

“Let me take a look,” he said and you stepped out the way for him to crank open your hood and inspect the situation.

As he got to work, you leaned against your car and watched. After a moment, you asked, “How was your weekend?”

People don’t usually talk to Logan when he repairs their cars. Especially not pretty, rich girls like you.

“It was good, played hockey, worked here in the shop,” he responded casually.

You nodded along even though he couldn’t see you.

“Did you win?” You asked.

He laughed, an amused sound. “Yeah…yeah, we won.”

You clapped your hands, “Yay!”

Logan laughed again. It was cute, he thought, how you always clapped at good news.

“You like hockey?” He asked, looking over your hood to meet your eyes.

You hummed, “I only recently got into it. My family prefers watching polo, golf, or tennis.”

Rich people sports, he wanted to say. That made sense.

“Recently, huh?” He said instead, ducking his head to keep working. “Who should I thank for putting you onto hockey?” He joked.

You smiled shyly and said, “You…”

His hand paused. The parts of your car suddenly looking like alphabet soup moving in jumbled letters. He lifted his head to meet your gaze again. But before he could manage a reply, you changed the subject. “Is it broken beyond repair?” You asked, turning your attention to your car parts.

He snapped out of his daze and shook his head. “Uhh, no. No, you just need AC coolant.”

“Is that an easy fix?” You asked.

He nodded, “Yeah, the easiest.” He said.

You smiled in relief. “Thank goodness I have you fixing my car,” you told him.

He smiled at that.

He fixed your car, you chirped out a “Thank you, Logan!”, you paid without looking at the bill, and waved goodbye as you left.

“That the BMW girl again?” Logan’s dad asked as he stepped out the office.

“Yeah,” Logan replied, wiping his hands.

“Lottie back again so soon?” Jeff teased. Logan rolled his eyes at the jab.

“You overcharge her?” His dad asked.

Logan looked at him, “Why would I do that?”

His dad shrugged, “Luxurious car fee?”

Logan squinted his eyes, “We don’t do that.”

Jeff piped in, “We could. She doesn’t even check her receipts.”

Logan looked between his dad and brother, “So what? We charge her fair and square.”

His dad shared a looked with Jeff before he went back inside the office.

+

Week after week, you came by to the garage. First it was an oil change, then a rim replacement, then a loose window ribbon, then a tire with low air, and so on.

By week 7, Logan had had enough. It’s not that he didn’t like seeing you, no. Far from it. He actually enjoyed your company. He often looked forward to when you’d come by and say Hi, Logan! in that sing-song voice of yours, your joyful smile, and innocent questions.

But now he was noticing a pattern.

So when you rolled in that Thursday night like clockwork, he didn’t go up to you. He stayed by the workshop desk and watched you with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Hi, Logan!” You beamed with a gleeful wave.

But upon meeting his stern expression, your smile faltered and your hand slowly dropped back to your side. You looked around the empty garage before walking over to him in hesitant steps. The sound of your heels filled the space between the two of you. You stopped in front of him and flattened down your skirt, a nervous tic of yours that you never noticed before.

“Y/n,” he said, his tone serious. “This is the seventh time you’ve come to the garage.”

You nodded, “Nebula keeps acting up—“

“No, she doesn’t.”

You looked at your feet. No smile, no lively clapping.

His arms uncrossed and he stepped closer. He wasn’t angry. No, it wasn’t that. Logan isn’t an idiot. He knew. He knew you had a crush on him, knew the only reason you showed up time and time again was just to spend time with him. Why else would you come? He knew families like yours had their own repairmen at fancy dealerships who could fix any problem. You didn’t need to come into his family’s garage.

Yet, you did.

Logan figured it out by week 4. But truth be told, he never mentioned it because a part of him liked being around you too. He liked hearing your upbeat voice, the familiar tap of your heels, the sound of your laugh. So he stayed quiet, he fixed your tires, and refilled your car’s oil. He went along with it. Because he liked your company just as much as you liked his.

Unable to lie to him, you lifted your head and met his eyes. “I did those things to my car on purpose.” You confessed quietly.

Logan blinked. His stance eased at your admission and he looked at you with soft eyes.

“I watched a YouTube video on how to drain AC coolant,” you added. “And drove around until my tires lost some of its pressure, and—”

“Y/n,” he held your chin with his hand. “You didn’t have to do all that to see me.”

Your eyes widened as you stared at him. He smiled gently, “I…like seeing you. With or without Nebula.”

“You do?” You asked.

He nodded, “I do.”

He leaned in slowly, giving you the chance to pull away. But you stayed. His lips met yours in a gentle kiss. Not hungry or desperate, just a soft sealing; a mutual understanding—I like you and you like me.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. You looked at him with a honeyed, dazed expression. He smiled down at you and pecked your lips once more. You weren’t a spoiled, rich girl to him. Not clueless or ditzy. You were just…you. A sweetheart with a crush on a cute guy who would do anything to see him. You were Lottie.

He glanced behind you at your car. He pulled away with a reluctant sigh, “What did you do to her this time?”

You smiled sheepishly, “I jammed my gearshift…”

He chuckled softly, both amused and fondly exasperated by you. “Okay…let me take a look.” He said, lacing his hand with yours and bringing it up to his lips to press a kiss.

You understood this in the first week. The girl who came before you, Liana, had walked you through everything: cameras, angles, schedules, the way the athletics department liked their content formatted. But had failed to mention that the players would not look at you so much as look through you at first. Like you were part of the furniture. A tripod with a heartbeat.

In a way, that was fine. Being invisible was a perfectly good way to do the job. Players acted more naturally when they forgot the camera was there, and natural content was always better than posed content. This was something you had understood instinctively from the beginning.

You had been doing this job since the beginning of fall semester. It had come to you not accidentally but not exactly sought either, you had always followed the team, always been a genuine fan. Liana, the former social media girl, was a friend from a very boring Thursday morning class you had both suffered through together. When she came close to graduating she recommended you for the job. You had been working the library circulation desk before that. When the athletics department called it had seemed like a no-brainer.

A few months in, you knew the inner workings of the team the way you knew the layout of your own apartment. Their training schedule, their game schedule, the subtle social architecture of a group of people who spent most of their waking hours together. You knew which players were camera shy and which ones had a natural appeal and actively enjoyed being filmed — cough Dean cough — and by now you knew everyone's best angle, best light, best moment.

Which brought you to Logan.

You were also, which was a separate and entirely unrelated issue, completely down bad for one of the players.

It had not happened all at once.

You had known who John Logan was before you got the job, everyone who followed Briar hockey knew who he was, which was most of the campus, but knowing of someone and being in the same building as them four times a week were different things entirely.

You had known about his escapades too. His romantic history was the kind of thing that Olivia, your friend and a woman of genuinely exceptional gossip quality, had mentioned more than once with the relish of someone who considered this information a public service. Before the job, you had laughed about it the way you laughed about things that had nothing to do with you.

Now that you actually knew him, not knew knew him, but saw him daily, which was its own specific category, you thought about his former, and hopefully past, escapades and felt something uncomfortably close to jealousy.

The crush had consolidated gradually and against your will, the way water finds its way through things. A practice here. A post-game there. The specific way he looked when he was focused on something, the way he talked to his teammates, the way he sometimes looked directly into your camera with an expression that suggested he had briefly forgotten it was there and was just looking.

And then there was the other thing, which was honestly the worst part: he was so unfairly polite. He said good morning and good afternoon. He smiled when he caught you filming something. He said goodbye when he left and apologized if the puck flew in your direction, which it occasionally did, and each time he said sorry about that with the specific sincerity of someone who actually meant it.

You knew you had a crush on him. Obviously. That part was not new information.

What was new information was the following Tuesday, late after practice, the rink mostly empty, you sitting in the stands with your laptop open and the tiredness of someone who had been on their feet for three hours. The players were filtering out through the doors and you were reviewing footage on autopilot, not really watching, when you looked up without thinking about it.

You were looking for Logan before you had decided to look for him.

When you found him, he was at the boards, removing his helmet and pushing a hand through his hair.

Fuck me, you thought.

And then it seemed like he had heard you, because he lifted his eyes and looked straight at you across the empty rink and smiled.

You smiled back and closed your laptop.

Time to go home and think about John Logan in bed.

You reached for your camera on the tripod — force of habit, you always checked the last few shots before packing up — and opened the gallery.

Logan drinking water. Logan laughing at something Garrett said. Logan tying his skates. Logan high-fiving Tucker after a good drill. Logan making a face directly at the camera, having clearly just noticed you filming him, looking entirely unbothered about it.

You stared at the screen.

Oh.

Oh no.

The real problem came later.

The game was at Harvard, which meant the bus, which meant a situation you had been successfully avoiding for six months. You never took the team bus, too much male energy, too many large people occupying space in a way that made you feel like you had accidentally wandered into someone else's environment. You usually went with the student bus, which was fine, which was your preferred option.

The student bus had a mechanical issue and couldn't make the drive in time.

So you, along with the other team staff, boarded the team bus with approximately forty hockey players and the quiet resignation of someone who had lost a negotiation they hadn't known they were in.

The game itself went fine, nothing groundbreaking, but Briar won, which was all that mattered. You packed up your equipment and joined the line filing back onto the bus, looking for the same seat you'd had on the way there.

You were making your way down the aisle when you spotted Logan sitting alone.

You slowed down. Made the calculation. Gave yourself approximately four seconds of internal encouragement.

A freshman defenseman sat down next to him before you could finish the thought.

You did not pout. You were a professional.

"Aw, look who it is." Dean's voice came from the seat directly behind Logan. He was sitting in the aisle seat, legs stretched out, watching you with the expression of someone who had seen everything. "You can sit with me."

"Sure," you said.

"Geez, don't look so happy about it." He pulled his legs in so you could slide past. "I even let you have the window."

"What a gentleman," you said, settling in and pulling your laptop from your bag.

"Are we watching a movie?" Dean pointed at the laptop.

"No. I'm working."

"Bummer," he said, shifting in his seat to get comfortable. Dean was a broad person and the seats were not designed with broad people in mind, which meant that when you sat down you were immediately, unavoidably in contact, arms pressed together, shoulders touching. You had briefly considered putting the armrest down for some personal space, but Dean seemed completely unbothered by the proximity, which somehow made it easier to be unbothered yourself.

This was the thing about Dean that had surprised you most when you first started the job: there had never been an awkward phase. No stiff introductions, no careful professional distance, no period of working out who you were to each other. He had simply decided you were friends and proceeded accordingly, and somehow six months had passed and it felt like you had known each other much longer than that.

You connected your camera to the laptop and started pulling up photos from the game. Selected the best ones. Started uploading them to the shared drive.

"Uh oh," Dean said, leaning over. "That's not my best angle."

You looked at the photo. He was facing almost entirely away from the camera.

"Shut up," you said, lightly slapping his hand away from the screen. "What do you mean not your best angle? Are you not proud of your very nice backside?"

This was a callback, and Dean knew it. He had said something similarly direct about you at a party two months ago in the shameless way that Dean said most things, and you had decided that the only appropriate response was to give the same energy back.

 "I am," he said, "but the front is much better. You should check it out sometime."

"Are you referring to your face as the front of your backside?"

Dean repeated the question back to you in a mocking tone.

You opened the photos and started scrolling through them, and approximately three seconds later you noticed the pattern and began praying, quietly and sincerely, that Dean would not notice it too.

Too late.

"Why do you have so many pictures of Logan?" He was looking at the screen with his eyebrows raised. "There are like ten Logan pictures for every one of anyone else."

"Logan just photographs well."

"He photographs well."

"Yes."

"That's your explanation."

"That's my explanation."

Dean looked at you with the expression of someone assembling a conclusion. "You have the hots for Logan."

"The hots? Dean, what is this, a Disney Channel movie? And no. I don't."

"Yeah? Explain the hundred photos of him drinking water. Sorry, but you can't use those for Instagram." He paused. "Unless you're using them for something else. Like, I don't know. Your spank bank."

You gasped and punched his arm. "Shut up."

"Admit it."

"I plead the fifth."

"That's not how that works."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You have to. I'm your best friend."

"No you're not. It's Olivia."

"On the team, I meant."

"It's probably Tucker."

"Tucker?" Dean looked genuinely wounded. "Tucker? Don't try to change the subject."

You closed the laptop.

"Go to sleep, Dean."

"This conversation is not over."

"Yes it is."

"No it's not."

"Yes it is."

"No it's not," he said, adjusting himself against the seat with the decisive energy of someone settling in for a nap. You let your head fall back against the window. A moment later his head dropped onto your shoulder with the comfortable weight of someone who had decided this was acceptable.

"Do not drool on me," you said.

"I bet if it was Logan you wouldn't mind," he said, eyes already closed. Of course not.

"Don't be disgusting."

"And by the way —" he opened one eye "— he has the hots for you too."

"Oh my god," you said. "Stop talking like this is iCarly."

He closed his eye again.

The bus moved through the dark and you sat there with Dean's head on your shoulder and the laptop closed on your knees and tried very hard not to look at the back of Logan's head in the row in front of you.

Oh no, you thought, again, for the second time that week.

A couple of weeks later, Dean found you setting up the tripod in the corner of the film room before pre-game interviews.

"So," he said, appearing at your elbow with the energy of someone who had been waiting for the right moment. "I saw that you didn't RSVP to the invitation for mine and Beau's birthday bash. And it's tomorrow."

You winced. You had been avoiding this topic.

"I have a thing," you said, very casually, adjusting the tripod height without looking at him.

"A thing." He repeated it back with the tone of someone who found this deeply insufficient. "What thing could possibly be more important than my birthday?"

"They painted a new wall in the hallway of my apartment so —"

"Shut up," he said, moving closer. "You're coming. Also —" he said it with the specific energy of someone deploying their strongest argument "— Logan is going to be there."

You kept your eyes on the tripod. "I would assume so. Since you live together."

"You know what I mean."

"I really don't."

"Yes you do."

"I'm working tomorrow night," you said.

"It's a Saturday."

"Content doesn't take weekends off."

"You literally schedule everything in advance and you know it." Dean leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. "Come to the party. Talk to him. He's going to be right there."

"I talk to him all the time. It's my job."

"Yeah, but when you talk to Logan you do the thing."

You looked up for the first time. "What thing."

"The thing." He gestured vaguely at your face. "The thing where you forget to be normal."

"I am always normal."

"You called his assist last Tuesday 'genuinely cinematic.'"

"It was a good play."

"To his face."

"As a professional observation —"

"He smiled about it for the rest of practice." Dean looked at you steadily. "Come to the party."

You turned back to the tripod.

"I don't think Logan has the hots for me, you know," you said. "He's like a hot athlete. And I'm like the social media nerd."

Dean stared at you with the expression of someone who had just heard something that offended him on multiple levels simultaneously.

"Geez," he said. "You're not the girl in every romcom who doesn't know she's pretty." He paused. "Also you may be a nerd but — with all due respect to you and to my buddy Logan — you're pretty hot."

You pushed his shoulder and muttered a low stop.

"I'm being sincere!" He caught himself on the wall, laughing. "Party. Tomorrow. Eight o'clock. Logan will be there." He pointed at you one more time. "You will also be there."

He walked away before you could respond.

You looked at the camera. The camera looked back at you.

Genuinely cinematic, you thought, mortified.

You were definitely not going to that party.

The thing about watching two people be completely oblivious to each other was that it was, at first, entertaining.

Dean had found it genuinely funny in the beginning, the way you would track Logan across a room without realizing you were doing it, the way Logan would find reasons to be wherever you were without announcing that was what he was doing. It was like watching a nature documentary.

It had been funny for approximately three weeks.

It was now week seven and Dean was losing his mind.

It was a Thursday practice, nothing special about it. Dean was on the ice going through drills with Tucker when he caught it, the peripheral awareness of someone who had been watching a situation develop for too long.

You were in your usual spot in the stands, laptop open, camera on the tripod, doing the thing you always did where you looked like you were reviewing footage but were actually, if you knew what to look for, tracking Logan across the ice without moving your head.

Logan, for his part, was doing the thing he always did where he skated past your section of the stands more than was strictly necessary for any drill that had been assigned.

"He's done that four times," Tucker said, appearing at Dean's elbow.

"Five," Dean said. "You missed one while you were talking to the coach."

Tucker watched Logan complete another unnecessary loop near the boards. "Are they ever going to do something about that?"

"Apparently not," Dean said.

On the ice Logan slowed near the boards not stopping, that would have been too obvious, just slowing and said something up toward the stands. You looked up from your laptop and said something back. Logan smiled. You looked back at your laptop immediately, in the specific way of someone using a screen as a shield.

Logan skated away looking slightly more cheerful than he had thirty seconds ago.

"It's painful," Tucker said.

"It's excruciating," Dean agreed.

"Wow, that's a big word" Tucker said mocking Dean and skating away.

After practice Dean was still thinking about it in the locker room.

He was unwrapping his tape when Garrett sat down across from him.

"You have a face," Garrett said.

"I'm thinking."

"About what."

"Logan and the social media girl, or as I call her, (Y/N)"

"So her name—" Garrett replied.

Garrett looked at him with the mild, steady expression he used when he was waiting for someone to either say something sensible or stop talking. "And?"

"And they've been doing this for like seven weeks and nothing is happening and I'm tired of watching it."

"So tell him to do something about it."

"I've told him." Dean had, in fact, told Logan approximately six times in varying tones of directness. "Telling doesn't work. Logan needs a push."

"A push," Garrett repeated.

"A significant push."

Garrett looked at him for a long moment. "What kind of push."

"A financial one," he said.

"Dean —"

"Hear me out."

"I don't think I want to."

"A thousand dollars," Dean said. "I bet him a thousand dollars that he won't ask her out. He needs the money, he likes her, this solves both problems simultaneously. It's elegant."

Garrett stared at him. "It's really not."

"It gets him to do the thing he already wants to do."

"By paying him."

"By incentivizing him."

"Those are the same thing."

"Garrett," Dean said, in the tone of someone who had considered the counterarguments and dismissed them. "They have been doing this for weeks. At this rate they'll still be doing it at graduation. I'm helping."

Garrett looked at the ceiling briefly. "You shouldn't do this," he said finally.

"Noted," Dean said.

He did not change his mind.

Logan came in from the showers to find Dean sitting on the bench across from his locker with an expression that meant something was coming.

Tucker was in the corner pretending to check his phone. Garrett was lacing his shoes with more focus than the task required.

"What," Logan said.

"I have a proposition," Dean said.

Logan looked at Tucker. Tucker looked at his phone. Logan looked at Garrett. Garrett looked at his shoes.

"What kind of proposition," Logan said.

"A thousand dollars," Dean said. "All you have to do is ask her out."

He didnt't have to specify who the her was.

The locker room was quiet.

Logan opened his locker. Got his jacket. "No."

"Logan —"

"No, Dean."

"You like her."

"That's not —"

"You've skated past her section of the stands five times today during drills that don't require you anywhere near the boards." Dean's voice was completely even. "I counted."

Logan said nothing.

"You check her posts before anyone else on the team," Dean continued. "You know her schedule better than your own. You said sorry to her last Tuesday when the puck went near her even though it didn't come close to actually hitting her." A pause. "You apologized preemptively."

"I was being polite."

"You were being in love with her," Dean said, simply. "Which is fine. Great, actually. And fixable. With one conversation and a thousand dollars."

Tucker made a small sound that was not quite disapproval and not quite agreement.

Garrett said nothing, which was its own kind of answer.

Logan looked at his jacket in his hands. He thought about the time that had passed, the practices and bus rides and the specific way you closed your laptop when you were trying to hide something. He thought about his bank account, which was having a difficult semester. He thought about the rent that was due. The equipment he needed.

He thought about asking you out, which he had been meaning to do, which he had been telling himself he was going to do, which he had not done.

I was going to do it anyway, he told himself. The money doesn't change what I was going to do anyway.

"Fine," he said.

Tucker made the sound again, slightly louder.

Garrett looked up from his shoes for the first time. His expression was not angry, not exactly. More like a person watching a decision being made and knowing already how it was going to cost someone.

Dean produced a check from somewhere — written on the back of a receipt, which was so Dean that Logan almost laughed — and held it out.

Logan took it.

He folded it once and put it in his jacket pocket and did not look at Garrett again.

I was going to do it anyway, he thought.

He almost believed it.

The subject of the party was a sore one.

Part of you wanted to go and part of you didn't, and the two parts had been arguing since Dean walked away from the tripod, and by the time you got back to your apartment you had resolved nothing except that you needed to talk to Olivia about it.

Olivia listened to the full recap of the Dean conversation with the focused attention of someone taking notes. When you finished she was quiet for approximately three seconds.

"We're going," she said.

"I said I wasn't sure —"

"I've made up my mind. You were invited so you need to go, and I'm coming with you because—." She looked at you with the expression of someone who had already decided the fun they were going to have and was simply waiting for logistics to catch up. "What's the theme?"

"Dynamic duo."

"Perfect for us." She was already opening her laptop. "I know exactly what we're wearing."

"I don't even know what to wear," you breathed out, dropping flat onto your bed and staring at the ceiling. "What kind of theme even is that? Dynamic duo? That's so vague."

"It's not vague, it's versatile." She turned the screen to face you. "Clueless. Cher and Dionne. The plaid."

You looked at the screen. You looked at Olivia.

"Obviously," you said.

You walked into the party in matching plaid ,short skirt, blazer, the whole thing and felt immediately, objectively, like you had made the right costume choice. Olivia walked in beside you with the confident energy of someone who had never had a bad entrance in her life.

The house was full and warm and smelled like every college party you had ever been to. You did a quick scan of the room in the completely professional way of someone who was not looking for anyone specific.

You found him in approximately four seconds.

Logan was in the kitchen with Dean, drink in hand, laughing at something. He was wearing a sleveless gray shirt with a pair of wings.

You gave a small wave in their direction. Dean spotted you first and his face did something immediately, and then he clapped a hand on Logan's back and pushed him in your direction with the subtlety of a person who had never heard the word subtle.

Logan crossed the room.

"Hey —" His eyes moved over you and something in his expression shifted slightly. "Clueless?"

"Yeah," you said, nodding perhaps a few more times than necessary.

Beside you, Olivia made a sound that she converted, barely, into a cough. She had been documenting your inability to form complete sentences in Logan's presence for approximately three months and found it genuinely hilarious.

"You look very pretty," Logan said.

"Oh — thanks." The blush arrived before you could do anything about it. Compose yourself.

Logan seemed to remember that you were not alone. "You too, Olivia."

"Yeah, right," Olivia laughed. "I'll go get a drink."

She disappeared into the crowd. As she passed behind Logan she turned to face you and mouthed make a move with the enormous unsubtle energy of someone who had been waiting three months to say it.

You looked back at Logan.

"I'm glad you came," he said. "Dean mentioned you weren't sure."

"I had some content to edit," you said.

"This is more important," he said, lightly, like a joke, but with something underneath it that wasn't entirely a joke.

"Yeah," you said.

And then you were both just standing there. Drinks in hand, the party moving around you, talking the way you had discovered you talked when you were alone together, which was easily, which was the specific ease of two people who had been in the same orbit long enough to have figured out each other's rhythms without officially acknowledging it.

"So what are you supposed to be anyway?" you asked, taking the opportunity to look at him properly. The gray shirt. The wings. The arms, which were — you looked at his face instead. "Jacob Elordi in Saltburn?"

Logan laughed — a real one, surprised and warm. "Bird and the bee. I'm the bird. Tuck's the bee."

"Oh," you said. "That tracks."

"Does it."

"The bee has better energy," you said. "No offense to you."

"I'll tell Tucker you said that."

"Please don't."

Dean chose this exact moment to appear between you.

"Hello, you two." He looked between you with barely concealed delight. "What are we talking about?"

"The birds and the bees," you said, and watched Dean's eyebrow go up in real time.

"Oh, I like where this is headed."

"No — I mean his costume," you said quickly. "What are you supposed to be?"

"Maverick." He pointed across the room to where Beau was talking to a very beautiful brunette. "Beau's Goose."

You considered this. "Was there not a dynamic duo where one of them didn't have a tragic ending? You could have been Ice."

"Ice and Maverick hated each other," Dean said.

"No they didn't! In your own words they had the hots for each other."

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Pointed at you. "That is actually a fair point."

"Thank you."

"You're insufferable," he said, smiling. He looked between you and Logan one more time. "I'm going to go find Beau. You two —" he gestured vaguely at the space between you "— continue."

He disappeared back into the crowd.

You looked at Logan. Logan looked at you.

"He's not subtle," you said.

"No," Logan agreed. "He really isn't."

The party continued around you. At some point you had moved slightly closer together. Neither of you had announced it. At some point his hand had found the small of your back, briefly, when someone pushed past in the crowd. It had stayed there a moment longer than strictly necessary. You had not moved away.

At some point Olivia had caught your eye from across the room and given you a look of such unrestrained triumph that you had been forced to look at the floor to keep from laughing.

"So —" Logan started. He stopped. Tried again. "I've been thinking. For a while actually." He looked at you with the expression of someone abandoning a rehearsed script entirely in favor of just saying the thing. "Would you like to go out? With me. On a date."

Inside your chest, something that had been very carefully managed for months made a sound like:

YESYESYESYESYESYESYESYES —

"Yes," you said, with great composure. "I'd like that."

Something settled in his expression warm and certain. "Good. I was hoping you were going to say that."

"I was hoping you were going to ask," you said.

He smiled. Not the polite one, not the team-photo one the real one, the one you had forty-seven saved clips of and only eleven of them were for work.

Across the room, completely uninvited into this moment, Dean let out a noise of triumph loud enough that Tucker turned around to look.

You and Logan both looked at Dean.

Dean pointed at both of you, then at himself, then gave two thumbs up with the energy of a man who had absolutely no shame about any of this.

"He planned this," you said.

"Obviously," Logan said.

You looked at Dean, who was now saying something to Beau that was making Beau look confused and Dean look extremely pleased with himself.

"I'm going to delete all his content," you said.

"Probably," Logan said. "But maybe tomorrow."

You looked back at him.

"Yeah," you said. "Maybe tomorrow."

What you did not know — what you would not know for three months — was what had happened two hours before that conversation.

The first date was a Tuesday.

Logan had asked on a Saturday and then spent the intervening three days being completely normal about it, which meant he had checked his phone approximately forty times and suggested three different restaurants to Dean who had not asked for his opinion and had given it anyway.

He picked you up at seven. You had worn something simple and he had looked at you the way he sometimes looked into the camera, direct, unhurried, like you were something worth paying attention t, and said you look great in the specific voice he used when he meant things, and you had said thanks, so do you and meant it, and the evening had been easy in the way that things were easy when they had been building for a long time and had finally found the right outlet.

You talked for three hours. Not about anything important about the team, about your job, about the things you had noticed about each other without ever saying so. He told you about the preemptive puck apology before you could bring it up and looked slightly embarrassed about it, which you found endearing in a way you did not make him aware of. You told him about the forty-seven saved clips and watched his expression do something warm and complicated.

He walked you back to your dorm. He kissed you at the door — soft and unhurried, the specific patience of someone who had been waiting a while and had decided that arriving was enough for now.

You went inside and stood in the hallway for a moment.

Oh, you thought. Not oh no this time. Just — oh.

What followed was three months that assembled themselves quietly and completely, the way good things tended to do when you stopped trying to manage them.

You learned the specific rhythm of being with Logan, which was different from the rhythm of being near Logan, which you had spent seven months memorizing from behind a camera. Being with him was easier. Less careful. The things you had noticed from a professional distance — the way he focused, the way he was with his teammates, the particular quality of his attention when he was genuinely listening were the same up close, just without the glass between you.

He remembered things. That was the detail that accumulated the most weight over three months small things you had said once, in passing, that he filed away and produced later in the specific way of someone who had been listening more carefully than you knew. The coffee order. The fact that you hated the overhead lights in the film room. The name of the professor whose class you had shared with Liana.

You told Olivia about the coffee order detail on a Thursday night and she looked at you with an expression that said everything she was choosing not to say out loud.

"Don't," you said.

"I'm not saying anything," she said.

"You have a face."

"I have my normal face."

"Olivia."

"I'm just glad," she said simply, and went back to whatever she was doing, and you sat with that for a moment and found that you were too.

Logan was also, three months in, still thinking about the check.

Not constantly. Not the way he had in the beginning, when it had surfaced at inconvenient moments, the first dinner, the first time you laughed at something he said, the first time you fell asleep on his shoulder watching something neither of you were paying attention to. Those early weeks it had been a persistent background noise, a low-level static of something he should have said and hadn't.

But the weeks had passed and the static had gotten quieter, the way noise does when you choose not to listen to it long enough. He had paid his rent. He had replaced the equipment. He had told himself, again and again, that he had been going to ask you out anyway, that the money had been incidental, that what they had built in the three months since was real regardless of how it started.

All of that was true.

The part that was also true, the part he didn't let himself look at too directly, was that you didn't know. And not knowing was its own kind of thing, a thing that existed in the space between you without you being aware of it, that he was aware of every time you said something honest to him, every time you looked at him the way you looked at him.

He had meant to tell you. In the beginning. There had been a window, early on, when it would have been a small thing — by the way, Dean made a bet, it's a whole thing, I was going to ask you anyway—. He had rehearsed it. He had not said it. The window had closed, and then it had been a week, and then a month, and then three months, and now saying it felt like dropping something large into a quiet room.

So he didn't say it.

He told himself it didn't matter because it hadn't changed anything real.

He was getting better at believing that.

It was a Saturday afternoon in February, the specific grey-white quality of a winter afternoon that had given up pretending it was going to improve, and you were in Logan's room doing nothing in particular.

This had become one of your favorite things — the doing nothing in particular. You had a tendency, left to your own devices, to fill time with productivity, with scheduled content and edited footage and the general sense that unoccupied time was time being wasted. Logan had, over three months, introduced you to the concept of lying on a bed on a Saturday afternoon and simply existing, which you had resisted and then accepted and now found genuinely necessary.

He was on his back, one arm behind his head, reading something on his phone. You were beside him, legs tangled, working your way through a Cosmopolitan from 2003 that you had found at the thrift store the previous weekend when you had gone with Allie. It had a younger Jennifer Lopez on the cover and approximately forty pages of advertisements for perfumes that no longer existed, and you had bought it for fifty cents because something about it felt like an artifact.

"Listen to this," you said.

"Mm."

"It's a quiz." You held up the magazine. "Is your relationship ready for the next level? I feel like we should take it."

"I feel like that magazine is older than some of our teammates."

"That's what makes it valuable." You turned back to the page. "Okay. Question one. When you picture your future, does your partner feature prominently? Options are: always, sometimes, or only when I'm feeling optimistic."

"Always," Logan said, without looking up from his phone.

You looked at him sideways. He was still reading, expression neutral, like he had answered a question about the weather.

"Okay," you said, and looked back at the magazine, and did not make anything of it, because making something of it would have required acknowledging that it had landed somewhere specific and stayed there.

You worked through several more questions — about communication, about conflict, about shared values — Logan answering in the same unhurried, matter-of-fact way, like the answers had already been decided and he was simply reporting them.

And then you got to the last one.

"Okay, last question." You shifted onto your side to face him. "If your partner made a serious mistake — something that hurt you — what would it take to make things right? Option A: a heartfelt conversation and genuine apology. Option B: time, space, and proof of change. Option C —" you paused, because option C was very 2003 "— a grand romantic gesture. Flowers, candlelight, the whole thing."

You said it like it was funny. You said it with the lightness of someone reading from an old magazine on a Saturday afternoon.

Logan put his phone down.

He looked at the ceiling for a moment. Then he turned his head and looked at you with an expression that was doing something complicated underneath the surface.

"What would you pick?" he said.

You considered it. "Honestly? C, but private. Like not in front of everyone. Just — showing up. With flowers, or peonies, they are my favorite. And meaning it." You paused. "The meaning it is the important part."

Logan looked at the ceiling again.

"Many flowers," he said. His voice was even. Carefully even.

"Like an unreasonable amount," you said. "Like someone made a decision about it."

"Right," he said.

He was quiet for a moment. You looked at him — at the careful evenness of his expression, the specific stillness of someone sitting with something — and almost asked what he was thinking about.

Then he turned back to you with the warm unhurried expression you knew, and kissed your temple.

"Good to know," he said.

You looked back at the magazine. Jennifer Lopez looked back at you, unbothered.

You did not know, lying there on a grey February Saturday, that you had just handed him the exact shape of something he was going to need.

Logan knew.

He stared at the ceiling after you looked away and thought about a check written on the back of a receipt and a conversation in a locker room and the specific, settling weight of something that had been waiting a long time to be said.

Too many flowers, he thought. Private. Meaning it.

He closed his eyes.

I have to tell her, he thought.

He did not tell her.

Allie had not been looking for information.

She had been in the kitchen at the off campus house on a Wednesday evening, waiting for Dean to finish getting ready so they could go to dinner, scrolling through her phone with the patience of someone accustomed to waiting for Dean to finish getting ready. She was not listening. She was not paying attention to anything except the particular injustice of being told seven-fifteen and it being seven-thirty-two.

And then Dean's phone rang on the counter.

She glanced at it automatically. Logan.

Dean came out of the bathroom still pulling on his jacket and picked it up. "Hey. What's up."

Allie went back to her phone.

"What do you mean you need to tell her." Dean's voice had shifted into something lower, more careful. "What's — Logan. Logan, have you not told her yet?"

Allie looked up.

Dean had his back to her, one hand pressed to the counter, the specific posture of someone having a conversation they hadn't prepared for. "It's been three months, man. How have you — okay. Okay, calm down. Just — tell me what happened."

A pause. Dean listening.

"So tell her," Dean said. "Just — tonight. Call her and tell her. It's been long enough, she'll —" another pause "— Logan, I know it's not going to be easy but you can't just — yes I know you actually love her, that's not the — okay, listen —"

Allie set her phone down on the counter very carefully.

"What," she said.

Dean turned around.

The expression on his face moved through several things in quick succession — surprise, recalibration, and then the specific, flattening look of someone who understood exactly what had just happened.

"Allie —"

"What did you do," she said. Not a question.

Dean lowered his phone slowly. On the other end Logan was saying something, unaware.

"Dean." Her voice was very even. "What did you do."

He told her.

He told her all of it — the bet, the thousand dollars, the locker room — and Allie stood in the kitchen and listened with the stillness of someone who was getting progressively more furious in a way that had not yet found its exit.

When he finished she said nothing for a moment.

"She's my friend," she said finally.

"I know —"

"She is my friend and you let her date him for three months without telling her."

"It wasn't supposed to —"

"Dean." She picked up her keys from the counter. "Do not follow me."

"Allie, please just —"

"I have to tell her," she said. "She's my friend. I'm not going to —"

"Please," Dean said, and his voice had lost all its usual confidence, stripped down to something that was just — asking. "Please just give me a chance to fix it. I'll tell Logan to tell her tonight. Just give me —"

"You had your chance to fix it three months ago," Allie said. "And two months ago. And last month." She looked at him for a long moment. "I love you. And you did something really wrong. And she needs to know."

She left.

Dean stood in the kitchen alone and listened to Logan's voice still coming from the phone in his hand.

He put the phone to his ear.

"She already knows," he said.

You were in your aparment when Allie knocked.

She told you everything standing in your doorway, quickly and directly, the way Allie did things — no preamble, no softening, just the facts arranged in order. The bet. The thousand dollars. The locker room. Three months.

You stood very still while she talked.

When she finished you said nothing for a long moment.

"Get your keys," you said.

"(Y/N) —"

"Get your keys, Allie."

The drive to the off campus house took four minutes. You did not speak. Allie drove and you looked at the road ahead and felt cold clarity of someone who had moved past the part where things hurt and into the part where they simply had to be dealt with.

The lights were on when you pulled up. Of course they were.

You didn't knock.

You walked in and Logan was already in the hallway, like he had heard the car, like some part of him had known — and the expression on his face when he saw you was the expression of someone who had been waiting for this and was still not ready for it.

Dean was behind him. Tucker and Garrett further back, in the doorway of the living room, with the expressions of people who understood the room and had decided to stay very still.

"Hey —" Logan started.

"Did you take a bet," you said, "to ask me out."

The hallway was very quiet.

"Yes," Logan said.

The word landed.

"How much," you said.

"A thousand dollars."

You looked at him. This person. This person whose coffee order you knew, whose preemptive apologies you had found endearing, whose smile you had forty-seven saved clips of and only eleven of them were for work.

"You had to be paid," you said. Your voice was very quiet. "Someone had to pay you. To ask me out."

"It wasn't —"

"A thousand dollars," you said. "That's what it cost. That's what asking me out was worth to you. A thousand dollars and someone else's idea."

"That's not —"

"I told you I loved you." The words came out steadier than you expected. "Three weeks ago. In your room. I told you I loved you and you said it back and the whole time —" you stopped. Started again. "The whole time there was a check. There was a check and you knew and you said it back anyway."

"I meant it," Logan said. "I mean it. I love you, that has nothing to do with —"

"It has everything to do with it." Your voice cracked slightly and you pushed past it. "Because maybe you do. Maybe you actually do love me. But I will never know that now. Do you understand that? I will never know which part was real and which part was a thousand dollars because you didn't tell me. You had three months to tell me and you didn't."

"I was going to —"

"When?" you said. "When were you going to tell me? After another month? After a year? Were you ever actually going to tell me or were you just going to keep it and hope I never found out?"

He said nothing.

"That's what I thought," you said.

You turned to Dean.

Dean was standing very still with an expression that had none of his usual ease in it, stripped down, uncomfortable, genuinely ashamed in a way that you recognized as real and that made it worse rather than better.

"I thought you were my friend," you said. Your voice was different now, not cold, something more broken than cold. "I thought — you were supposed to be my friend. I told you things. I told you how I felt about him and you used it. You turned it into a transaction and then you watched me fall in love with him and you said nothing."

"I know," Dean said. His voice was very quiet. "I know."

"I taught you how to use the camera," you said, which was not what you meant to say but came out anyway, and somehow it was the most honest thing — the small specific intimacy of it, the way you had shown him the angles and the settings and he had been genuinely interested and you had thought this is what a friend looks like. "I showed you everything. I thought you were —"

"I was," Dean said. "I am. I'm so sorry."

"Don't." You picked up your bag. "Don't apologize right now. I can't — I need you to not talk to me right now."

You looked at Logan one more time. He was standing in the hallway with his hands at his sides and the open, devastated expression of someone who had run out of words and knew it.

"Please," he said. Just that. Just the word, quiet and without any of the composure he usually wore like a second skin.

"I have to go," you said.

"Please just let me —"

"Logan." Your voice broke on his name, just slightly, and you steadied it. "I have to go."

You walked to the door. Behind you you heard him take a step.

You opened the door.

"You two fucking suck," you said, to the hallway, to both of them, to the three months of Tuesday practices and bus rides and magazine quizzes and I love you said and meant and received by someone who was keeping a check in his jacket pocket the whole time. "Never talk to me again."

You walked out.

Allie was waiting by the car. She took one look at your face and said nothing, just unlocked the doors, and you got in, and she drove, and the campus moved past the windows dark and quiet and entirely indifferent.

You did not cry until you got back to your aparment.

And then you did, for a while, with Olivia sitting beside you saying nothing because there was nothing to say, just being there the way people who actually loved you were there when things went wrong.

You had to be paid, you thought, in the dark.

A thousand dollars.

The house was very quiet after you left.

Tucker and Garrett had retreated to the living room. Nobody was saying anything.

Dean sat on the bottom step of the stairs and put his head in his hands.

Logan stood in the hallway where you had left him and looked at the closed door and thought about everything — the check, the locker room, the first dinner, the magazine quiz on a grey February Saturday, too many flowers, private, meaning it — and underneath all of it, constant and quiet, the thing he had known for three months and had managed to convince himself didn't matter:

You had deserved to know.

You had deserved to know from the beginning and he had chosen not to tell you and you stood in his hallway and said I will never know which part was real and he had had no answer because there was no answer that fixed that.

Garrett appeared in the doorway of the living room. He looked at Logan for a long moment.

"I told you not to," he said. Not unkindly. Just said.

"I know," Logan said.

"From the beginning. I told you."

"I know, Garrett."

Garrett looked at him for another moment. Then he went back to the living room without saying anything else, which was somehow the most devastating response available.

Logan sat down on the floor of the hallway with his back against the wall and stared at nothing.

I have to fix this, he thought.

He had absolutely no idea how.

The email to the athletics department went out the following morning.

It was professional and brief — you cited personal reasons, thanked them for the opportunity, offered to train your replacement, gave two weeks notice. You sent it before you could think about it too hard, before the part of you that loved the job could talk the other part out of it.

You were not going to sit in that rink anymore. You were not going to film those practices or those games or stand in that corridor outside the locker room with your tripod and your equipment bag and pretend that everything was the same as it had been before.

Your phone had messages from Logan and Dean by noon. You read none of them.

The football team's social media coordinator reached back out by the end of the day.

You started the following Monday.

The football team was different from the hockey team in ways that were both obvious and unexpected. Louder, in some ways. Different rhythms, different energy. The guys were nice and the work was interesting and you were good at it, because you were good at this, that had never been in question.

You were fine.

You were getting finer by the day, which was either progress or a very convincing impression of it.

Allie texted. Garrett texted — I'm sorry, for what it's worth I told him not to — which you appreciated more than you could say. Tucker sent a single text that just said I tried to talk him out of it and you believed him and told him so.

You did not respond to Logan.

Logan's days had a new shape to them and he hated it.

Practice was the same, same drills, same ice, same team, but the stands were wrong. The spot where you always sat, third row back on the left side, was empty now, and he knew it was empty without lookin. He looked anyway. Every practice, every morning skate, every film session, he looked, and the spot was empty, and he looked away.

Logan texted you every three days. Not long messages, just checking in, just your name sometimes, just I know you don't want to hear from me right now but I'm sorry. He did not expect responses. He sent them anyway because not sending them felt worse.

He watched your football content. Every post, every reel, every behind-the-scenes clip. He watched the way you filmed the new team — the same eye, the same instinct for the right moment, the same ability to make something look like something worth watching — and felt the specific, particular ache of someone who understood what they had lost because they had been paying attention to it the whole time.

He had always been paying attention.

That was the thing that made it so much worse.

Three weeks after you left, the hockey team got a new social media person.

Her name was Jade. She was a sophomore, enthusiastic, slightly overwhelmed, and she had asked you to walk her through the setup on a Tuesday morning when the team had a late practice, which meant you were in the rink, with your old equipment, showing someone else how to use the angles you had spent seven months learning, when the team came off the ice.

You had not planned for this. You had assumed they would be gone by the time you were done.

They were not gone.

You heard them before you saw them, he familiar noise of the team coming out of the locker room corridor and then Tucker saw you first and stopped walking so abruptly that Garrett walked into him.

"What —" Garrett looked up. Saw you. His expression did something complicated.

The rest of the team filtered out around them, and then Dean, and then Logan, and the corridor went through a specific collective recalibration.

You kept your face completely neutral. "Hey," you said, to the general group. "This is Jade. She's taking over the social media. I'm just showing her the setup."

Jade waved cheerfully, unaware of the atmospheric pressure of the corridor.

"Taking over?" Tucker said slowly.

"Yes," you said. "I moved to football." You said it simply, like it was information and not anything else. "Jade is great, she's going to do a really good job."

The team was looking at you with various expressions. Tucker looked pained. Garrett looked like he was doing math.

Dean was looking at the floor.

Logan was looking at you with the expression of someone watching something leave that they had already lost and were only now understanding the full shape of. You could feel it without looking directly at him. You had spent seven months learning the specific weight of his attention.

"You're actually leaving," Tucker said. "Like permanently."

"I already left," you said. "This is just the handover."

"But —" Tucker started.

"Tuck," you said, gently. "It's fine. Jade is great."

Jade smiled again.

"We kind of made you leave," Tucker said, in the specific tone of someone who had been holding something for three weeks and had finally said it out loud.

"Tucker —"

"No, like —" he stopped. Looked at Dean. Looked at Logan. Looked back at you. "We made you leave. That's what happened. And I just — I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say but I'm sorry."

The corridor was very quiet.

"You didn't make me leave," you said carefully. "You tried to talk him out of it. I know that."

Tucker nodded. Still pained.

"Right," Garrett said finally, in the tone of someone deciding to be graceful about something painful. "Good luck with football."

"Thanks," you said.

You turned back to Jade and kept going with the walkthrough, and the team filed past, and you did not look at Logan as he walked by even though you could feel him slowing down, even though you could feel him wanting to say something.

"Hey," Logan said. Very quietly. Just that.

You kept your eyes on the camera settings you were showing Jade.

He stood there for a moment. Then his footsteps continued down the corridor.

You exhaled very quietly and kept talking to Jade about angles.

Behind you, fading, you heard Dean say something low and urgent to Logan that you couldn't make out. And Logan's response, quieter still:

"I know."

Logan started showing up.

Not to you, he respected the never talk to me again enough not to push himself into your space. But he started showing up in the ways that were available to him.

He fixed the tripod mount in the storage room that had been broken since October — the one you had mentioned once, months ago, in passing, because it made the camera angle slightly off and you had learned to compensate for it. He left a note on it that said finally fixed it. sorry it took so long. No signature. He didn't need one.

He started showing up to the football team's games.

Not every game. Not in a way that was dramatic or obvious. Just there, in the stands, with the quiet patience of someone who had decided that if the mountain wouldn't come to him he would go to the mountain and sit in the stands and watch from a respectful distance.

Olivia told you the second time it happened.

"He was there again," she said carefully.

You said nothing.

"He's not doing anything," she said. "He's just — there. Watching."

You said nothing.

"I thought you should know," she said.

You knew.

You knew because you had clocked him the first time — third row back, left side,— and you had kept filming and not said anything and thought about it for three days.

He texted you after the third game.

logan: you got a good shot of the QB in the third quarter. the one right before the play call. it was good.

You stared at the message for a long time.

yn: how would you know

logan: i was there

A long pause.

logan: i'll keep coming if that's okay. i won't bother you. i just want to be there.

You put your phone down.

You picked it up.

yn: it's okay

Dean did not sleep the night you found out.

He lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling and thought about the specific expression on your face when you said I thought you were my friend — not angry, which would have been easier, but broken, which was not easier at all.

At four in the morning he picked up his phone.

dean: allie

allie: i'm awake

dean: i know i really messed up

allie: yes

dean: i don't know how to fix it

A long pause.

allie: you start by not trying to fix it. you start by just being sorry.

dean: i am

allie: i know. she needs to hear it from you. not a text. not through anyone else. you.

dean: she said never talk to her again

allie: i know what she said. give her time. and then go.

Dean put his phone down.

He stared at the ceiling until it got light outside.

You took your own sweet time.

Not to feel better, you were not operating under the illusion that time fixed everything, but to feel what you needed to feel without an audience. You went to classes. You went to work. You filmed the football team's Tuesday practice and focused on the angles and the light and the professional satisfaction of a job done well, and you did not think about hockey, and you did not look at your phone when certain names appeared on the screen, and you let Olivia bring you food and watch bad television with you without making you talk about it.

On the fourteenth day Dean was waiting outside your lecture hall.

He looked terrible. Not dramatically terrible — Dean was constitutionally incapable of looking terrible — but tired.

You stopped when you saw him.

He held up both hands. "I'm not here to make excuses," he said. "I know you said never talk to me again. I know. I just — five minutes. And then I'll go and I won't bother you again if that's what you want."

You looked at him for a long moment.

You stepped to the side of the path, out of the flow of people. He followed.

"Say what you have to say," you said.

Dean looked at you with the expression you had never seen on him before, no performance, no charm deployed at the right moment, nothing managed. Just a person who had done something wrong and knew it and was standing in front of the person he had done it to.

"I've never had a friend like you before," he said. "Like — actually. I have guy friends. I have girls I've hooked up, almost dated or whatever. But I've never had a girl who was just — a friend. Who I talked to and who talked to me and who I could be around without it being anything else." He paused. "And I took that and I made it into a scheme. And I told myself I was helping and maybe part of me was but part of me just — didn't think far enough ahead. Didn't think about what it would mean to you if you found out. Didn't think about you at all, honestly, which is the thing I'm most sorry about." He held your gaze. "I thought about Logan being in love with you and I thought about the bet being clever and I didn't think about you being a person who deserved to know the truth. And I should have. You should have been the first thing I thought about."

The path had mostly emptied. A bird somewhere was doing something aggressively cheerful.

"I miss my friend," Dean said. "I know I don't get to just say that. I know. I just needed you to know that it's real. You are actually my friend and I actually miss you and I'm actually sorry, not sorry like I feel bad, sorry like I understand what I did."

You looked at him.

You thought about the bus and his head on your shoulder and on the team, I meant and the way he had looked genuinely wounded when you said Tucker was probably your better friend on the team.

"It's going to take time," you said finally.

Something in his expression shifted — careful, not quite hope yet.

"I know," he said.

"You don't get to just be normal yet. We have to rebuild that."

"I know."

"And you have to actually be different," you said. "Not just sorry. Different."

"I will be," he said. "I already am. Or I'm trying to be." He paused. "Is that enough to start with?"

You looked at him for a long moment.

"It's enough to start with," you said.

The careful-not-quite-hope became something more than that.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"Don't thank me yet," you said. "We have a long way to go."

"I know," he said. "I'll go as slow as you need."

You looked at the path ahead.

"I have class," you said.

"I know. Go."

You went.

It was a start.

Logan was harder.

Not because you were angrier at him — you were, if you were being honest, angry at both of them in equal measure, just differently. Dean had betrayed a friendship. Logan had betrayed something larger, something that had your name on it, something you had handed him on a grey February Saturday when you said I love you and meant it with everything you had.

You saw him at the football games. Third row back, left side, every time. Not looking at you directly, just there, present, with the quiet patience of someone who had decided that showing up was the only thing available to him and had committed to it without reservation.

He sent you a text after every game. Not about him, not about them, about your work. Good shot in the second half. The one where you caught the receiver right before the snap. The slow motion reel you posted was really good. The timing was perfect. Small specific things that said I was paying attention without saying anything else.

You read them all.

You responded to some of them.

Small things. Thanks. I almost didn't post that one. Nothing that opened a door, just acknowledgment. The acknowledgment of someone who was not ready and was not pretending to be and was also not entirely gone.

He was not pushing. That was the thing you noticed most. He had shown up to three football games and fixed a broken tripod mount and sent careful specific texts about your work and he had not once asked for anything in return. Had not once said I think we should talk or please give me a chance or any of the things that would have made it easier to keep the door closed.

He was just — there.

Being different.

The grand gesture arrived on a Thursday, five weeks after the fight.

You were in the football team's equipment room going through footage on your laptop when someone knocked on the door. One of the managers looked in.

"There's someone outside asking for you," he said, with the specific expression of someone who had seen something and found it notable.

You went outside.

The path outside the athletics building was where you found him — Logan, in the cold, with flowers. Not a bunch. Not a normal amount. An amount that represented a decision — sunflowers and peonies and something small and white, wrapped loosely in paper, assembled with the specific intention of being too many, more than one person could reasonably carry, held in both arms with the careful energy of someone who had thought about this and decided it was not enough and added more anyway.

You looked at the flowers. You looked at him.

He looked tired in the same way he had looked tired since the night you left — not dramatic, not performing it, just genuinely worn down in the way of someone who had been carrying something for five weeks without putting it down.

"You said private," he said. "Too many flowers. Someone made a decision." He paused. "I made a decision."

Your throat did something inconvenient.

"Logan —"

"I'm not asking you to forgive me today," he said. "I just you said meaning it was the important part. And I needed you to see that I mean it. That's all. I'm not asking for anything."

You looked at the flowers. Peonies. He had gotten peonies specifically.

"You remembered the peonies," you said.

"You mentioned them once," he said. "A long time ago."

"You were paying attention," you said.

"I was always paying attention," he said quietly. "That was never the problem."

You stood there in the cold outside the athletics building and thought about I will never know which part was real and the third row left side and the texts about your work and five weeks of him being different without being asked to prove it.

"This isn't enough," you said.

Something flickered in his expression.

"I know," he said.

"I need more than flowers."

"I know," he said again, steadily. "Tell me what you need. Whatever it is. I'll do it."

You looked at him for a long moment.

"I need time," you said. "Real time. Not rushing. Not us going back to how things were because it was comfortable and we missed each other. Actually starting over and doing it right."

"Okay," he said.

"I need you to keep showing up," you said. "Not just when it's easy. When it's hard and uncertain and you don't know if it's working. You keep showing up anyway."

"I will," he said.

"And I need you to understand that I might get angry again," you said. "Even after I've forgiven you. It might come back and I might need to say something and you have to let me say it without shutting down."

"I will," he said. "I'll listen. Every time."

You looked at him.

"The texts," you said. "About my work."

"Yeah."

"You were at every game."

"Yeah."

"Third row back. Left side."

He looked at you quietly.

"I know," you said. "I noticed."

Something in his expression shifted.

"I was always going to ask you out," he said. "I need you to know that. Not as an excuse. Just as a true thing. The money didn't change what I felt. It just — it gave me a reason I shouldn't have needed and I took it and I'm sorry. But what happened between us was real. Every single part of it was real."

"I know," you said, which surprised you slightly, because you hadn't known you knew until you said it. "I know it was real. That's what made it hurt so much."

He nodded.

"Give me the peonies," you said.

He carefully extracted the peonies from the arrangement and held them out. You took them.

"The rest you can take home," you said.

"Okay."

"And Logan —" you paused. "The showing up. Don't stop."

Something broke open in his expression — not dramatically, not loudly, just quietly and completely, the expression of someone who had been holding something for five weeks and had finally been given a place to put it down.

"I won't," he said. "I promise."

You looked at him for one more moment.

"Slow," you said.

"As slow as you need," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

You went back inside.

You stood in the equipment room with the peonies and thought about everything — the check and the bet and the fight and five weeks of third row left side and too many flowers on a Thursday afternoon in the cold.

You were not okay yet.

But you were standing with peonies, which was somewhere.

It was enough to start with.

The getting back together did not happen all at once.

It happened the way the crush had happened — gradually, against nobody's will this time, the way things did when they had been building for a long time and had finally found the right conditions.

The first time you went back to the rink it was not for work.

It was a Saturday game, mid-March, the kind that mattered for standings, and you had told yourself you were going because Allie and Hannah were going and Olivia was going and it was a group thing and had nothing to do with anything else.

You brought your camera.

Not the work camera your personal one, the smaller one you used when you were filming for yourself rather than for a content schedule. You told yourself it was habit. You told yourself you just liked having it.

You sat third row left side.

The thing about watching hockey when you actually knew what you were looking at was that it was a completely different experience from watching hockey when you were just there for the atmosphere. You knew the plays. You knew the patterns. You knew which moments were about to become something before they became something, the specific pre-motion stillness that preceded a good play, the way certain players telegraphed their intentions without knowing they were doing it.

You knew Logan's tells better than anyone.

Which was why you had your camera up and ready when he got the puck in the second period the slight shift of his weight, the way his head came up a half second before anyone else's, and then the play unfolding exactly the way you had known it would, clean and fast and entirely worth watching.

You got the shot.

Forty-three seconds of it, actually.

You lowered the camera and looked at what you had captured and felt something settle in your chest that was warm and quiet and entirely familiar.

Genuinely cinematic, you thought, and smiled at the ice.

Briar won.

The team filtered out of the locker room in the usual way in ones and twos, loud and post-game, spilling into the corridor where the usual group had gathered. Allie found Dean. Hannah found Garrett. Tucker found someone to complain to about a call in the third period.

You were reviewing footage on your camera when you felt someone stop beside you.

You looked up.

Logan was still in half his gear, hair damp, and he was looking at you with the expression you had forty-seven saved clips of — the real one, the one that had nothing managed about it — except that now you were allowed to look at it directly, which was still something you were getting used to.

"You came," he said.

"I came," you confirmed.

"You brought your camera."

"I brought my camera."

He looked at it. He looked at you. "Did you get anything good?"

You turned the camera around and hit play. The second period play unfolded on the small screen — the weight shift, the half second of stillness, the clean fast movement of something that knew exactly where it was going.

Forty-three seconds of it.

Logan watched it. Something in his expression went soft in the specific way it did when he was actually feeling something and had decided not to manage it.

"That's —" he started.

"Genuinely cinematic," you said.

He looked at you.

You looked back at him.

And then he kissed you right there in the corridor.

It was warm and certain and tasted like relief of something that had been a long time coming and had finally, simply, arrived.

When you pulled back he was smiling the real one, the one you had been filming without quite admitting why for seven months.

"So," he said.

"Yeah," you said. "We're back together." You pointed at him. "Don't fuck up."

Logan laughed a real one, surprised and warm, the kind that carried down the corridor and made Tucker laugh too without knowing why.

"I won't," he said.

"I mean it."

"I know you mean it."

"Good." You tucked your camera back into your bag. "Buy me food. I've been at a hockey game for two hours and I'm starving."

"Done," he said immediately.

You started walking and everything was different from before, which was the whole point, which was exactly what you had asked for.

Better. Not the same. Better.

Behind you, fading, you heard Tucker say something to Garrett.

"Called it," Tucker said.

"You called nothing," Garrett said.

"I said they'd get back together —"

"You said that last week —"

"Which was a call —"

"Tucker —"

You and Logan kept walking.

"Do they ever stop?" you said.

"No," Logan said.

"Good," you said. "I missed it."

He looked at you sideways. That expression.

“Uh... thanks. I think?” 

You weren’t entirely sure if that was praise or exploitation — because with Mei-Mei, the line was always blurred. 

“Of course, baby!” she cooed. “Your ratings are exceptionally high. But... let’s kick it up a notch, shall we?” And grinning like a cheshire cat, she slid a detailed spreadsheet in front of you encouragingly. 

“We need a story so massive before Christmas. Don’t ask me why, but holiday trauma performs extremely well. I expect your report by early-December. Get back out there, hm?” 

Apparently, love is dead. Because people live for drama. For tragedy. It’s unfortunate, but it gets the clicks. And despite all the ‘new material’ you’re looking for? A part of you still aches — still yearns — for love. 

So, like a well-trained masochist, you swipe. Again. 

| Brett, 27 — Los Angeles, CA |   “Hey, kitten. I’m Sapiosexual. An INTJ. Love your profile. Let’s chat, yeah?” 

Sent a dick pic and texted “U up?” at 3:17 a.m. on a Tuesday. (You weren’t) 

Swipe. 

| Colin, 32 — Santa Monica, CA |   “Sup. I’m just a nice guy. Totally not like other guys.” 

Sent a three-paragraph spiral about how nice guys finish last due to unrequited love. (With his childhood best friend.) 

Swipe. 

| Naoya, 22 — Orange County, CA |   “What do you do for fun? Because let me set the record straight. I love a woman who knows their place. Preferably, three steps behind me. Or in the kitchen.” 

You reported him. Twice. (Just to be sure…) 

Swipe. 

| Greg, 25 — San Francisco, CA |   “Hey. Uh... I’m married btw. But it’s complicated, u know?” 

You almost admire the honesty. (Almost.) 

Swipe. 

Swipe. 

Swipe. 

You were about five more red flags away from joining a monastery when suddenly, you got an idea. Perhaps... it’s just California? You’ve been living here your whole damn life. Let’s try escaping the endless sea of self-proclaimed “entrepreneurs” — the gym bros, the surfer stoners. The men who think that being emotionally available is a liability.  

So? You expand your distance radius. 

Like...  

Way out.  

Just to see what would happen. 

| Satoru, 26 — Kyoto, Japan |   “Hey. I’m not here to play games. Unless it’s Mario Kart. But don’t cry, because I’d totally win, sweetheart.” 

It’s a miracle. Because for once, there’s no shirtless mirror selfie. It’s just a guy on a front porch, wearing a hoodie. There’s a coffee cupped in his hands, with long raven hair falling against the violet hue of his eyes.  

He has gauges, a sleepy smile, and oh my god he’s— 

…gorgeous.  

And not the curated, flex-for-attention kind of gorgeous you’ve learned to dodge. No. There’s something… approachable about him. Soft. Stupidly warm. Like if you sat beside him, he wouldn’t talk — he’d listen. 

~  ♡ ︎ You’ve matched with Satoru Gojo!  ♡ ︎  ~  ...typing  Satoru: Did you know that the universe is 13.8 billion years old? There are billions of galaxies. Trillions of stars. And yet… here we are. Matched on a dating app.  Satoru: So… hi! Satoru: Wanna test fate?  You: lol 😂 You: well then... You: that’s one way to say hello!! 😝 Satoru: Yeah... figured I’d lead with existential dread instead of wyd 😉

He was... normal. 

Stupidly normal. Maybe a bit nerdy.  But somehow? It worked. He made you smile. 

...typing  Satoru: Okayokayokay... but REAL question...   Satoru: Do you pour milk before cereal??? 🤨 Or are you a functioning member of society?  You: 😨😨 You: excuse you!!   You: what kind of monster do you think i am??? 😒 Satoru: Phew 😩 Satoru: Just needed to be sure!! People have surprised me before 

And just like that, you were hooked. 

You talked while brushing your teeth. On your lunch break. In bed, half-asleep, phone screen dimmed but still open to his thread. He’s got opinions on everything. 

Anime, horror movies, why candy canes are overrated, the superiority of old-school consoles, and the tragic fall of Yahoo Answers. 

One day he asked: 

...typing  Satoru: Are you more of a salty girl or a sweet girl? 

You paused, halfway through folding laundry, holding one sock while you reach for your phone. 

...typing  You: hmmm..... You: are we talking snacks?? or personality type?  Satoru: 👀 Satoru: Well shit... Satoru: Now I wanna know the answer to both...  You: hehehe 😇 You: what do YOU think i am?  Satoru: Oh, hell no... Satoru: I’m not falling for that Satoru: Bc if I guess wrong, you’ll never let me hear the end of it.  You: pshhh...  You: that response answers for me 😛  You: but hmm... i guess i’m both? You: bc it depends on the day... OR the person.  Satoru: Okay cool Satoru: Soooo... I’m either incredibly lucky, or you’re about to ruin my life in a really interesting way. You: ruin you?? You: never!! You: ...you're one of the few people i actually wanna be sweet to ❤️  Satoru: ❤️  Satoru: Guess it's a good thing that I'm a sweet guy 😉 both snack AND personality wise Satoru: Which brings me back to the important question... Satoru: Snacks Satoru: Salty or sweet. Answer wisely, sweetheart. You: hmm...  Satoru: This data could make or break us 🤨 You: imma salty kinda girl Satoru: ...  You: but i don’t dislike sweet things! 😘 Satoru: Siiiiiigh...  Satoru: Fine. I respect it Satoru: Even though it’s OBJECTIVELY the wrong answer 🙄 guess I’ll just have to be the sweet one in this relationship

Somehow, it never felt forced. You didn’t have to explain your jokes. You didn’t have to shrink yourself or play dumb or brace for silence. He got it. He got you. And he made you laugh — constantly. But more than that… he made you feel safe. 

It was easy to forget you’d never seen him move. Never heard his laugh in real life. 

Until you started calling each other. 

What started as a five-minute “just wanted to hear your voice” spiraled into two hours. Then three. Now it’s just… what you do. The sound of his voice has become background music — familiar and warm, the kind of thing you could fall asleep to. Soft, a little raspy, warm around the edges when he laughs. 

He talks fast when he gets excited — usually about Digimon lore, bad anime dubs, or some absurd theory he read online at 3 a.m. He jumps from tangent to tangent like he’s chasing thoughts through constellations — but somehow, never leaves you behind. 

And when he’s really into something, you can hear it. His voice lifts like gravity can’t hold it. 

“Hmm… if we were two particles traveling at the speed of light,” he murmured, “do you think we’d still find each other in another timeline?” 

“Oh my god…” you smiled against your pillow; voice thick with sleep. “Is this your version of ‘Would you still love me if I was a worm’ Satoru?” 

His laugh was soft and breathy, wrapping around your ribs like ribbon.

“Pshh… no,” he scoffed, and you could hear the pout in his voice as he shuffled against his own bedsheets. Then, with a huff he drawled. “This is my scientifically superior version of that question.” 

“Mmm… I see,” your hum was sleepy, curling deeper under the blanket. Grinning, your eyes fluttered closed as you murmured. “Yes. I think we would”

A comfortable silence settled, and you could hear the line crackle softly as he exhaled.

“I wish…” he said after a beat, “…we could spend Christmas together. It’s not fair you’re so far away.”

His voice was quiet, like he was afraid to say it too loud. And somehow, it landed harder than any confession. You pressed your ear closer to the phone, like maybe, if you try hard enough, you’ll feel the weight of him on the mattress beside you.

“Yeah…” you whispered. “Me too.”

You’d been talking to Satoru for a month now — and honestly, every other man you come across can’t hold a candle to him. So, when Mei Mei saunters to your desk December 1st, silk blouse pristine and judgment already locked and loaded, you know she’s not going to like what she finds.

“It’s officially December, my dear,” she hums, lowering herself into the chair across from you, tilting her head in that familiar, patronizing way. “So. Where are my lines?”

Your fingers still over the keyboard. Time to come clean.

“I know, I know…” you say, rubbing at your temples before finally looking up. Your heart thumps harder than it should. “And… don’t be mad. But… just hear me out. What if this year… I don’t write about heartbreak?”

It’s like you might as well have told her you quit. The silence is deafening while she blinks at you, deadpan — like you’ve grown a second head.

“Darling,” she says coolly, with a bitter laugh. “Christmas is in three weeks. I don’t need pleasantries — I need pain.”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it?” you push gently, sitting a little straighter in your chair. “Christmas is supposed to feel… good. Warm. Like something you lean into, not brace yourself against.” You gesture vaguely toward the window, the gray sky.

You’ve always been alone for the holidays. No family. No one asking when you’ll be home.

“I mean… people are… tired. Stressed. Lonely. The world already feels cold enough without another reminder that love is awful. Right?”

Mei scoffs, flipping her hair over one shoulder, repulsed by the suggestion. “That mushy shit doesn’t sell…” And her eyes sharpen, flicking back to you. “You sound dangerously sentimental. Very unlike you, darling.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

Little does she know… this is you. Or at least, the you that’s been kept hidden your entire career — doing something that feels so… empty. You’re tired. Tired of pretending that love is dead. For once, you want to believe in it. Believe that all this with Satoru — the potential for love — could be real.

“…I met someone.”

That gives her pause.

“Oh?”

Her snobbish tone is hard to ignore, but you don’t let it diminish the excitement you feel from the thought of him.

Satoru.

“Yeah… he’s—” you begin with a breathless laugh, tucking your chin into your palm like it might hide your grin. “Ugh. He’s good, Mei. Like… really fucking good. Funny… smart… thoughtful…”

But Mei’s sculpted brow arches as you continue to gush.

“Ohmygod and so handsome too,” you breathe, face lighting up. “Like. It’s unfair how good-looking he is, I swear. Plus, he remembers the little things I say, and he always checks in when I’ve had a rough day. It’s like…” you pause, breath catching as your heart aches with longing.

“It’s like… he sees me, Mei.”

At that, a knowing hum rumbles through your boss.

“I see…” she nods, lips tugging upward. “Well. Can you show me a picture, then?”

“Oh, sure!” you chirp, already digging for your phone in your bag. Your heart flutters at the sight of his photo, and after navigating to his profile, you hand the device over to her.

Her eyes narrow, then flick back to you. “This guy is in Japan…” and you can already hear it, that condescending tone, syrupy sweet. “I wonder… have you seen him yet?”

“W-What?” you blink, crossing your arms, instantly on guard. “Well… no. But it’s a sixteen-hour time difference! It’s hard to line up video calls, but we talk all the time and—”

“Mm.” That’s all she needs. She’s handing the phone back with a noise you’d describe as infuriatingly smug. “No way he’s that perfect,” she says, already rising to her feet. “I bet he’s catfishing you.”

Your heart drops.

God. That’d be just your luck.

“What?! N-No!” you argue, unwilling to entertain the idea. “It’s real, Mei. He’s real.”

“Mmm. So is Santa Claus~”

You scoff, brows furrowing.

“No, seriously. He said he wanted to spend Christmas with me. I was actually thinking of surprising him — flying out and —”

“Oh, that sounds wonderful,” she interrupts, saccharine and sharp. “Flying to Japan? To meet a man you’ve never met?” a loud pompous laugh bursts out of her lips, making your blood boil. “Ahhh… what a story! I expect lines, my dear~”

And as her heels are clicking away, you glare after her, cheeks hot, heart thudding with equal parts embarrassment and fury.

That… bitch.

Fine. You’re going to prove her wrong.

You must.

It hadn’t taken much convincing to get Satoru’s address.

You told him you wanted to send a Christmas present. He teased you, of course.

“A present? For little old me?” he drawled. “Awh… what is it? Is it scandalous? Oh!! Is it Digimon related??” You could practically hear the grin in his voice. And sure enough, a minute later, he sent his address with a laughing “Fine. But only if it’s Digimon-related, sweetheart.”

Little does he know…

It’s you you’re sending.

(Though yes, he’s still getting something Digimon-related too. You spent two weeks hand-knitting a Gabumon scarf hat — complete with floppy ears, tiny claws, and a ridiculous little horn. It’s absolutely absurd. You hope he’ll love it.)

Kyoto is blanketed in snow when you land — your breath visible in the air as you drag your suitcase outside the airport, gloved fingers fumbling with your phone. You manage to request a car (thank god for global apps), but the second the driver steps out and starts speaking rapid-fire Japanese, your brain goes static.

“Uh…. sumimasen?”

It’s the only word you know that seems remotely polite. That, and arigatou. Oh, and you know, baka, (thanks to Satoru’s anime rants about how “sub is superior to dub.” He swears by it, so naturally, you’ve started watching anime. In sub. Maybe because it feels like holding onto a piece of him.)

As you enter the car, you press your face to the frosty window and Kyoto whirls past — ancient shrines nestled between sleek buildings, power lines framed by snow-laced branches, vending machines glowing like beacons in the dark. The city is beautiful. Foreign. Dreamlike.

But then, the car pulls up to his house — and suddenly, you’re the one who feels foreign.

Because what the hell.

The place is huge.

It’s walled off with an iron gate, and a winding stone path leading up to a home that looks like a cross between a modern compound and a high-end ryokan. He’d told you his family was well off, but you didn’t realize well off meant a fucking dynasty.

Great. Now you’re standing here with your thrifted suitcase, the handmade gift for him, wrapped in a flimsy bag, wearing your own knitted scarf and a coat you borrowed from your roommate because your own has a busted zipper. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of every chipped nail, every dollar you don’t have in your bank account.

God. What are you even doing here? This man seems ever more too good to be true. What if he’s playing you? What if… Mei’s right. Does he even want you? What’ll he do when he sees you? What’ll he say?

Fuck.

You take a deep breath, tugging your scarf a little higher, gripping his present like a lifeline. It’s fine. Whatever. You came all this way. No turning back now, right?

When you ring the doorbell, a faint chime echoes inside the estate. The air bites at your cheeks while voices murmur on the other side. Footsteps near the entrance and then—

Click!

The shoji slides open. You’re grinning nervously — heart hammering in your chest, steadying yourself as a figure comes into sight. A figure whom is—

A woman.

“えっ…誰？何かご用ですか？”

She stands with one hand on the frame, backlit by the warm glow of the house behind her. Dark hair pulled into a lazy bun, a cigarette balanced between two fingers, smoke curling lazily into the night air. She’s tall. Cool. Effortlessly poised in a way you’ve never been. And she looks… young. Maybe your age.

Mei’s laugh is echoing in your goddamn ears.

Double fuck…

Did Satoru lie? Is this his girlfriend? His wife? A casual fling he forgot to mention? God. Is this why he never video chatted you?

It feels like a kick to the chest.

What the hell were you thinking?? Flying across the world for a guy you’ve never met in person?!

 “ちょっと、聞こえてる？”

She’s still looking at you, head tilted slightly, eyes narrowed with vague curiosity — and you realize with a jolt you haven’t said anything. Not a word.

“Oh! I—uh—sumimasen?” you stammer, fumbling with the little Japanese you know. “S-Sorry, I… I don’t speak Japanese,” you laugh, awkward and breathless. “I think I have the wrong house, though. I was looking for someone named Satoru but—” with a glance past her, you try not to look desperate.

God. You’re such an idiot.

“Uhhh… never mind,” and clutching your suitcase, you attempt to retreat. “I’m so sorry. This was a mistake.”

Though her hand shoots out, catching your sleeve.

“Oh. Satoru? That idiot?” she says casually, in English this time — voice smooth, tinged with amusement. She flicks ash off the edge of the porch. “Yeah, you’re at the right house. He’s just at the FamilyMart with Yuji right now. Craving strawberry shortcake, apparently.”

As your brain begins to short-circuit, she takes one last drag of her cigarette, then steps aside, gesturing toward the entryway.

“C’mon. You’ll freeze your ass off.”

“Oiii,” Shoko calls. “We have a guest, guys! Say hello to—oh, um… sorry, what’s your name again?”

Before you know it, you’re stepping inside – toeing off your shoes at the entrance. Your feet pad against the tatami as you round the corner, and you’re greeted with a group of three other men sitting casually around a low table, with an abundance of snacks at the center.

Though, despite how laid-back the room appears, with pillows and drinks and half opened bags – there’s an underlying tension so thick, you swear it could cut glass.

They’re all staring at you with stone faces.

One man is blonde, with a chiseled jawline and a stern demeaner. Another has bubblegum-pink hair and tattoos crawling up both arms, and the third is a teenager with messy black hair who looks like he’d rather be literally anywhere else.

Are these Satoru’s… friends? Family? He’s never mentioned them before.

Shoko takes another drag from her cigarette, unfazed. “I’m Shoko, by the way,” she says lazily, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. “Known Satoru for years. Unfortunately.” She smirks. “This is Kento, Sukuna, and Megumi.”

“H-Hello…” you murmur, gripping the handle of your suitcase as you hold a tight, nervous smile. “Nice to meet you. Sorry for… dropping in like this. I just flew in from America and… I was hoping that — well, Satoru would be here?”

“Gojo?” Sukuna gruffs, leaning back on one elbow. He plucks a piece of pocky from the snack tray and chews it without breaking eye contact. “And who the fuck are you supposed to be? His secret girlfriend or somethin’?”

The words hits harder than it should.

Girlfriend? Secret?

God, what are you to him?

And now, it dawns on you that they haven’t a clue who you are either. Of course, they don’t. Why would they?

You feel your cheeks heat. “O-oh, no. No, it’s not like that,” you say quickly, waving your hand like it’ll brush the embarrassment away. “I mean… we talk. We’ve been talking. But—”

You trail off and they’re all looking at you with raised brows.

“We don’t have a label or anything. We’re just… friends.”

“Friends?” Sukuna perks up, grin widening. “So lemme get this straight. You flew twelve hours across the globe for that pretentious dick?” He scoffs. “And he hasn’t even put a label on you?”

There’s something dangerously amused in his tone now, and he tosses the half-eaten pocky stick back onto the tray.

“Damn. Lucky bastard.”

You blink, unsure whether to feel insulted or embarrassed or both.

"Don’t you worry sweet thing. You decide to stay and I can show ya how a real man can take care of ya, hm?"

Kento shifts, cutting him a glance. “Sukuna…”

“What?” he says, raising both hands innocently. “This girl is hot as fuck. And I’m just saying — if it were me? I’d at least make sure she knew what she was walking into. Or out of. I'm not like that asshole.”

You blink again.

Is he… hitting on you?

“Great... here we go…” Megumi mutters.

And Kento sighs, removing his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “Please ignore him,” he tells you, voice calm but firm. “Everything is a pissing contest with Gojo where he’s concerned.”

“Okay, first of all — fuck you,” Sukuna snaps, sitting up straighter now, suddenly defensive. “It’s not about competition. I’m just not blind. Look at her!”

You blush subtly, and Megumi mutters, barely glancing up.

“Don't take him seriously... trust me. He says that. But every time Gojo brings a fangirl around, he's always trying to take her home like it’s a fucking game.”

...fangirl?

The word slams into your chest like a hammer. Is that what they think you are? You stiffen, heart dropping. Because that proves it. You shouldn’t be here. Of course someone like him would get dozens of women throwing themselves at him.

What made you think you were any different?

You shouldn’t have come.

“I-I’m sorry,” you whisper, grip tightening around the suitcase as you fumble to gather your things. “I shouldn’t have… I didn’t mean to barge in. I’ll just—”

And bowing your head, you spin on your heel, until suddenly you collide into someone. But it all happens so quickly; you don’t register who. Because with a gasp, you stumble backwards, entirely focused on how your giftbag slipped from your grip, making Satoru’s scarf fall to the floor.

“W-What… what are you doing here?!”

“Shit, I’m sorry.”

'Sorry' must be your go to word tonight. You’re too embarrassed to look up and see more of Satoru’s friends judging you. You’re dropping on your knees, scrambling to gather things with shaking hands mumbling under your breath.

“I’m leaving now… god, I shouldn’t have come. Please don’t tell Satoru I was—"

“WHOA, is that Gabumon?!” a new voice exclaims, bright with curiosity. “Hey Gojo, who’s this?”

At the mention of his name, you freeze.

Your head slowly lifts, eyes tracing up to catch sight of another pink-haired boy, peeking out from behind the man directly in front of you.

But… the man doesn’t look like Satoru. Not the Satoru you’ve come to know.

No. He has snowy-white tousled hair, tucked beneath a beanie, with bright blue eyes, blinking behind thick-rimmed glasses.

Nothing like his profile pictures.

“Satoru?” you breathe.

His mouth parts, speechless while he’s looking at you like you’re a ghost.

“Dude, that’s so cool! Did you make that?” Yuji asks, eyes sparkling. “Gojo she’s a keeper, huh?”

“Mmm… clearly.” Nanami glances over. “Because since when do you let girls know you like Digimon?”

“About damn time,” Shoko snorts, already lighting another cigarette like this is the most amusing thing she’s seen all week.

“And, she flew here for you,” Sukuna laughs from the back, sounding far too smug for someone uninvolved. “Shit, I’ll marry her if you don’t, asshole.”

The voices layer over each other — praise, laughter, awe. But it’s too bright, too loud, and you’re frozen in the middle of it. Feeling completely detached from reality while the blatant truth stands directly in front of you.

He lied.

And the worst part? You believed him. You came all this way. Mei Mei was right.

Love is dead.

“Um, actually. I—I left something outside,” you blurt, shoving the scarf back in the bag and clutching it to your chest, blinking back the tears. “Excuse me a moment.”

And before anyone can stop you, you’re slipping past them — out the door, out of breath — your chest aching with something you can’t yet name. While behind you, footsteps follow as he calls your name.

“Wait—shit. Wait!”

Satoru knows he fucked up. And by the time he barrels out the front door, you’re already halfway down the street, boots crunching through the snow like you’re marching to war.

He feels like a grade A idiot. Because somehow, against all odds, you — this ridiculously perfect girl — came all the way to Japan thinking he was someone worth showing up for.

And now he’s watching you walk away.

“Waitwaitwaitwait…” he groans, jogging after you, breath puffing white in the air. “Slow down and just… can you just—fuck. Just stop for a second?!”

“Stop?!” You whirl around, eyes wet and furious. “Why should I? Who the fuck even are you? What kind of psycho catfishes someone for months and then just lies to their face?!”

He blinks, defensive instinct kicking in before his brain can catch up.

“W‑Well—what kind of psycho flies across the country and shows up on someone’s front lawn?” he fires back, hands flailing. “In Japan, might I add!”

A bitter scoff tears out of you. “You said—and I quote—‘I wish you were here with me for Christmas,’” your arms fold tight across your chest like you’re holding yourself together. “Why the hell would you say that if you didn’t mean it?”

He backpedals immediately. Because fuck — he did mean it. Every late‑night call. Every laugh. Every stupid wish whispered into the dark.

But instead of admitting that, panic takes over.

“L‑Look—that’s just—something people say, okay?” he rambles. “Like… ‘your baby’s so cute,’ or—um— ‘my diet starts tomorrow,’ or—”

He’s waving his hand, scrambling for humor — something to soften it — but the words die on his lips when he sees your face drop. You blink hard, like something inside you just broke. And the sight of it makes his stomach twist into knots.

Great. Now he feels like even more of an asshole.

“Shit… okay,” he blurts, voice softer now. “That was... yeah. Um. That was a dick move. I know...”

“Fuck you…” you mutter, turning back around.

“Hold up! Please… just come inside, yeah? We can talk it out. If you'll just let me explain—"

“I don’t want to talk to you. Ever again.”

He can hear the hurt underneath the edge of your voice, and he stands there, watching you trudge through the snow – your figure getting smaller against the snow-washed street. He knows there is no salvaging this. He fucked it up. But still… reality slams into him all at once.

You don’t speak the language.

You don’t know the city.

You don’t have a car.

Fuck. Do you even have anywhere to go?

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck… fuck!” he breathes, running a hand through his hair as he begins to jog back toward the house, bursting through the door.

“Guys, I’ll be right back!” he shouts to no one in particular as he grabs his keys off the counter, hands shaking. “She left something at the airport!”

Then, he’s gone again. Chasing the only girl who ever made him feel seen.

It’s cold. Too cold for someone with no plan and no fucking clue where you’re going. But the cold doesn’t sting as much as your heart does.

You don’t even know how far you’ve walked. Five minutes? Ten? Your fingers are numb, your phone battery is nearly dead, and your boots are soaked through.

By pure luck, you stumbled into some sort of Japanese bar. And the kanji on the glowing sign outside might as well be ancient runes, but the warmth spilling through the door felt like something close to safety. Like maybe if you just stepped inside, you’d stop feeling so fucking alone.

Because hey, at least the sake tastes good.

You have no Wi-Fi, no plan, not a single ounce of pride left. All you have is the stupid hope that maybe if you drown yourself in enough of this bitter rice wine, it’ll burn the ache out of your chest.

The edges of the bar blur slightly. Everything’s warm and loud. Someone’s laughing too hard in the corner. Across the room, beyond the haze, there’s a man with a dark bun and violet eyes, sipping from a bottle with his head tilted back.

Beautiful.

Almost like…

The photos on Satoru’s profile?

Are you delusional? Drunk? No... that is him. Right??

You’re blinking through the blur, trying to make sense of it. But then? The room begins to spin and sure enough, nausea hits.

“Shit—” you whisper, grabbing the edge of the bar.

You’re pushing off your stool, stumbling outside the icy curb, before you double over and hurl into the snowbank.

Great. Fucking perfect. Can this day get any worse?

“Hey—hey! There you are!”

Oh, yeah. It can.

Tires crunch as a car jerks to a stop beside the curb. The door flies open, left swinging in the cold and Satoru rushes out, barely remembering to throw the gear into park before he’s crossing to you, boots skidding slightly on slush.

“Jesus—fuck. Are you okay?” he drops beside you, crouching low. “What the hell happened—”

“Don’t touch me,” you snap, pushing at him weakly while your body sways. He pulls back like you burned him.

“I’m fffine,” you slur, though your stomach still churns and your face is damp with cold sweat. “Gooo away.”

He sighs, exasperated.

“You’re not fine. You’re pale and shaking and—wait. Are you… drunk?” He exhales, brushing his hand through his hair like he’s trying not to lose it. “Come on. Let me take you home.”

“Home?” you laugh, bitter and sharp, scoffing as you shove at him again. “You mean your home?”

“No. I meant… wherever you’re safe. I just—can we not do this right now? Please?”

You snort, head lolling as you stare at the ground. “You’re a liarrrr,” you mutter, voice thick and sloppy. “Jus’ like everyone else.”

The words land heavier than he expects. Wind howls between you, carrying the smell of snow and alcohol and regret. Satoru opens his mouth—closes it. For once, he doesn’t have a smart comeback.

“I’m gonna stay right here,” you announce suddenly, sliding down until your back hits the wall. You cross your arms, chin lifting like it’s some kind of moral victory. “I don’t need you.”

“…in the snow?” he asks flatly.

“Yup,” you nod, blinking too hard. “Maybe I’ll meet someone who doesn’t lie for fun.”

“Jesus, woman—” he drags a hand down his face. “You’re in a foreign country. You don’t speak the language. You’re drunk off your ass. I’m not just gonna abandon you in an alley behind a bar you can’t even read the name of!”

“Pffft... well I liiike this bar,” you say bitterly, voice cracking. “S'greeat. They poured the sake fast. And nobody lied to me.”

Every time you say it, it hurts him even more. Satoru exhales hard, pacing a few steps like if he stops moving, he might actually lose it. But when he turns back, ready with another argument — another plea — he freezes.

Because you’re... crying.

Not quiet tears. Not dignified ones. Ugly, shaking sobs that pull from somewhere deep in your chest, shoulders hitching as you scrub at your face with the sleeve of your coat.

“I hate you,” you mutter, voice wrecked.

His chest tightens. He doesn’t know what to do with that. With this.

“I really liked you,” you continue, words tumbling out now, unstoppable. “Like—really liked you. I don’t do this. I don’t fly across the world for people. I don’t—” you hiccup, laughing wetly through the tears. “S'bullshit…” you mutter bitterly.

He blinks, lips pressing in a thin line like he’s unsure what to say. The cold wind blows as you sniffle.

“Plus… you’re hot as fuck. I don’t get it. Like… you didn’t even need to lie…”

You mutter, shifting in the snow. And that one makes him flinch.

“S’stupid… you could’ve jus' been you,” you say, gesturing vaguely at him. “But no. Instead you make up this whole fake version. Lying about everything. Liarrr. And now I can’t trust you. Betcha lied about liking me too, huh? All of it.“

He opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Because that’s the cruel part.

He didn’t lie about everything.

He thinks of the way people’s eyes light up when they recognize his last name. The way conversations shift the second they realize he’s that Gojo. He thinks of years spent being wanted for the wrong reasons — money, status, face value.

And you’re the one person who ever made him feel like it’s okay for liking what he liked. The nerdy, cocky, compulsively sarcastic guy who collects Digimon cards and corrects Wikipedia entries in his spare time.

“Oh yeah… ya know who I saw in there?” you suddenly say, jerking your thumb toward the glowing doorway behind you. “That hot guy from yer pictures.”

Satoru stiffens.

“Uh… Suguru?”

“Oh,” you sniff. “So he’s a real guy?” You laugh again, hollow and dizzy. “Figures. Y’know what? He looks like he wouldn’t lie. Bet he’s honest. Bet he doesn’t make fake profiles and pretend to be someone else.”

You’re too drunk to notice the flinch in his jaw, the way he shifts his weight like the words physically hurt. 

“Maybe I’ll go back in and see if he’ll take me home, huh?”

You try to shove off the wall and nearly trip again, but Satoru steadies you without thinking — hands warm and steady under your arms.

“Look…” he murmurs, voice gentler now. “I know you’re mad. And I deserve it. But I’m worried about you.”

His grip adjusts — one hand rising to gently cradle your elbow, the other slipping around to the small of your back as he lowers his head to meet your bleary, mascara-smudged eyes.

“It’s cold,” he says, voice pitched just above a whisper. “It’s late. You’re probably jet-lagged out of your mind. Just… come back to the house with me, alright? Sleep it off. And if you still hate me in the morning—fine. I’ll even help you hook up with Suguru… if you want.”

Your head jerks back slightly, eyes narrowing. “W-What?” You squint at him, breath curling white between you. “Seriously?”

He shrugs with the ghost of a smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I mean, me and him used to be friends. I’m your best bet.”

“That’s insane,” you mutter.

“I’m aware,” he says dryly. Then, more cautiously: “All I’m asking is that you pretend to be my girlfriend. Just until Christmas is over.”

You scoff, half stumbling again as you try to push away from him. “Why the hell would I do that?”

He hesitates. Then breathes out through his nose, gaze flicking away for a second.

“Because… you saw how excited my friends were to meet you. I don’t have a great relationship with my family, okay? Those guys… they’re all I have. I’ve spent holidays alone more years than I haven’t.” His voice cracks a little, just a hair. “I don’t wanna ruin this one… please?”

Something in your expression softens. It hits you all at once, stupid and sharp: how close he is. How blue his eyes are. Maybe it’s the crack in his voice, or the tired honesty in his face, or the fact that for the first time tonight, he doesn’t look like a liar. He just looks… sad.

“…okay,” you whisper. “Fine. Let’s just… go.”

But when you step forward, you falter slightly, ankle twisting in the snow, and he moves without hesitation — an arm looping under yours, the other bracing your elbow as he helps you upright.

“Shit—okay. Easy, sweetheart. I got you,” he murmurs, adjusting his grip.

And maybe it’s the alcohol, or the heartbreak, or the fact that your guard’s been sanded down to nothing. But for a second? You let yourself lean into him. Just a little. Just enough.