Abigail

bean there at 5?

You stare at your phone screen with reproach as if you hadn't just sent the message yourself. There's no immediate response, logically you know it is because he is probably on the ice at practice while his phone is in the locker room but the waiting makes you heart pound at twice the normal speed.

Absolutely, see you there

His response comes at 3:32, immediately after he gets off the ice.

It's been almost three months since you went on a break. A mutually agreed break, not a breakup but enough distance to feel the space and re-explore options.

It happened after you realized how much your lives revolved around each other. Your friends had pointed it out one night when he showed up to the bar you were at for girl's night with his friends, the catch? He hadn't shown up because he was a toxic asshole who didn't trust you, he'd shown up because you'd asked him to.

When you brought up your concerns he told you about the comments his friends had made, how it wasn't healthy that you two had met right at the beginning of freshman year and hadn't separated ever since, even when you swore up and down that you weren't a couple back then trying to prove it with random hookups (or a foursome, in Tucker's side) that ended with one of you calling the other straight after.

So yeah, you agreed a break would be beneficial for both of you. You however, disagreed on the terms of said break, you pushed for him to be able to sleep with other women, insisting that it was part of the reason you needed the break, he argued he didn't need to sleep with anyone else because he knew you were the one for him.

Now, almost three months later you had no idea if he'd stuck to his initial argument or not, but you had not slept with anyone. You'd gotten drunk one night and made out with Justin Kohl, but regretted it immediately after and hadn't been with anyone else since.

Bean there had been a popular date spot for the two of you, which was the reason you hadn't been back since the break. The place hadn't changed much, the polaroid wall had grown significally, but everything else looked the same, even the baristas who smiled at you when you walked in.

"I'll take an ice mocha and an americano please" You ordered at the counter.

"Absolutely" Mila, the barista you knew by name because of how often you used to come in before, said "You wanna add a cinnammon roll to that?"

You thought about it for a second, surprised that she remembered, Tuck would always order one for you to share, even though you'd end up eating most of it "Yeah, thanks"

Your usual table is occupied by three girls with their heads burried in text books and flashcards sprawled across the surface so you take a different one.

"Hey" He walks up behind you, because he always insisted he took the seat facing the door in case there was an emergency.

"Hi" You expected this to be a little awkward, but the way he's acting, with a tense frame and his hands stuffed in his pockets hesitating his every move, puts you in high alert "I got you an americano"

"Oh, yeah, uh, thanks" You motion for him to sit down and he hurriedly takes his jacket off and does so "I- uh- how are you?"

"I think I'm the one who should be asking you that" You chuckle nervously because he looks like he'd rather be anywhere but here right now.

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and then blurts out five words you never expected to hear out of him "I got a girl pregnant"

You're not sure you heard him right so you ask him to repeat himself.

"I… I hooked up with this girl a few weeks ago and… she's pregnant" You swallow thickly because what the fuck?

He expects you to get up screaming, dump your coffee on him, make a scene, anything, but instead you close your eyes, nod slowly, stand up and leave quietly.

He wants to get up and chase you but his body doesn't respond to his brain, or rather his brain is not working properly right now because this is not how he had wanted this meeting to go. He had a plan, you'd catch up and then he'd tell you about it and apologize and assure you that while yes, he was planning on being a part of his kid's life, he still wanted you more than anything else.

He wasn't supposed to freeze up and blurt those words like that, he had a speech prepared.

But now he sat there alone at your favorite coffee spot with a melting iced mocha, a cold americano and a hardening cinnammon roll.

You make it about a block away before you have to run into the, thankfully conveniently placed, campus toilets to puke. When you're done and rinsing your mouth you can't help but to wonder if Tucker's new girl is experiencing morning sickness.

Tucker's new girl.

The thought of calling another girl Tucker's girl is enough to make you nauseous again, you breath in and out, splash some water on your face and walk out, the clean air making your head feel a little less cloudy.

"Hey, you okay?" It's Hannah and Garrett standing in front of you.

Garrett calls your name after you don't reply "Shit, should we call Tuck?"

"No" Hannah replies fast "Or yes? I don't know… let's just… here, let's sit yeah?

They lead you to a bench nearby and sit with you.

"Are you okay?" She asks again.

"Yeah" You manage to let out, but your ears are still ringing and your hands are trembling.

"Do you want me to call Tuck?" Garrett's already pulling his phone out and that's what makes you snap out of whatever daze you were in.

"No!" You all but slap the phone out of his hands "No, no… I'm okay, I'm fine" You stand up.

"Wait! " Hannah calls, Garrett looks confused "Are you sure? Can we at least give you a ride?" You wonder if they know.

"I think I need to walk, thank you though" And you're gone.

"Should we like… follow her?" Hannah asks her boyfriend who's already standing up.

"Yup" He nods "And I'm absolutely calling Tuck and finding out what this is about, he said they were going out for coffee today"

Turns out, he doesn't have to call his friend because as soon as they make sure you're safely inside your apartment, even though you have no idea they were following, the 'SOS house meeting' text comes from Logan.

"Well that explains things" Garrett mutters after the news are dropped.

"The hell are you talking about?" Dean asks, he's still trying to catch up and he's sure he heard wrong because there's no way one of his best friends just announced he's having a baby with Sabrina James.

"Hannah and I saw y/n earlier, she looked like death. I imagine she got the news before us" The captain explains.

"Wait, where does she fall in all of this I thought you two were only on a break" Logan asks.

"We were… we are"

"No, if what you just said is true I'm pretty sure you're broken up with dude" Dean jumps in "And she's so valid for it, Sabrina James, really? Out of anyone you could've cheated on your perfect girl with, you went for Sabrina fucking James?"

"I didn't cheat on her, we were on a break" Tucker defends.

Dean snorts sarcastically "Yeah okay Ross"

"And you don't get to talk about the mother of my child like that"

"Like what? Like a fucking homewrecker? Because that's what she is Tuck! And it is cheating! Double cheating if you think about it because from what I can remember you were the one who pushed for not sleeping with other people while on break" Dean and Tucker are now face to face, Logan and Garrett flanking one each ready for the moment they inevitably will have to break up a fight.

"Shut the fuck up Dean, you have no idea what you're talking about"

"I think I do, you're ruining your life, she's ruining your life, and you know it, that's why you're this angry" Dean pushes through, done with the conversation and ready to leave the house.

"No, I'm angry because my best friends are not being supportive in a moment when I need them to be" Tuck lets out before the blonde can walk out.

"Of course I'm not going to support you when you're being a complete idiot" The blonde spats out and leaves.

You on the other hand, are in your apartment livingroom with all the lights off sitting in somewhat of a catatonic state. You imagine if someone saw you right now and knew the whole context of the situation they'd call you ridiculous.

But you can't believe you have found yourself in this situation, because months ago, before the break, you'd been talking about your plans for the future, about how Tucker felt like he needed to go back to Texas because he owed it to his mom, but how he wasn't sure that was what he actually wanted. You'd talked about the business possibilities for him back home that would allow both of you to live comfortably enough and maybe get a house up north to be close to your friends ar some point in the future.

You'd been in his family house with his mom showing you baby pictures and pointing out clothes he had ben wearing that she'd saved for his future children, your future children. You knew his grandmother's ring was tucked safely and, to his knowledge, secretly inside his latest skates box.

You had a future planned, you'd go back to Texas and work your assess of, him with whatever business he chose, you would make use of your special education degree, get married, have kids, eventually, and live happily ever after.

Those plans had disappeared in just 5 words.

And now you were left with the uncertainty of what came next.

Because the break was supposed to answer that concretely, and it had. It made you realize what you already knew, that you wanted it all with Tucker.

But you couldn't have that, not anymore.

Because he had broken his own rule, he had slept with someone else.

And now he was having a baby with another girl.

You didn't sleep that night, in fact you didn't even get up from your spot in the couch until your alarm went off at 6am.

You went through your morning routine like a robot programmed to move with eficiency. Then you walked to your first lecture because no matter how shitty your personal life was, the rest of it didn't stop.

Allie and Hannah found you on your way back to your apartment after your last class. You didn't even notice them by your side until Allie said your name.

"Are you okay?" She asked and then answered herself when you looked at her with glassy eyes "Right, dumb question"

Hannah gave her a look "Can we stay with you for a while?" You nodded and the three of you didn't speak until you were back inside your place.

"This is not me excusing him or trying to make you guilty of anything because I think he should be feeling this way but he does feel terrible" Allie says once you're all seated in your sofa.

"And we know you probably feel horrible but if I've learned anything in therapy is that you should talk about it" Hannah adds.

"I don't know what to say" You admit "It just feels like my life crumbled in an instant and I- I couldn't do anything about it" You shake your head "No, it feels like I had been blinded by this fake sense of safety while everything around me had already broken"

"Oh babe" Allie pulls you in when your shoulders start shaking and tears fall down.

"I went into the coffee shop thinking I'd come out of it in his arms" You say in between shaky breaths "And the worse part is that I don't think I can blame him for sleeping with someone else when I told him it was okay to do so, and him having this kid and being in their life is the most Tucker thing ever I can't even be mad at him for it"

"You can be mad" Hannah says "He told you he wouldn't sleep with anyone else and then he went and did it anyways"

"We were on a break"

"That was complete bullshit by the way" Allie adds "You kissed someone and then felt guilty about it for a week straight, you kept asking us for updates on him and I he wouldn't go a day without asking about you"

There's a knock on the door.

"That must be Grace" Hannah goes to open the door.

"Alright, crisis package, dinner from Malone's, half the shelves of candy from the gas station, every ice cream tub that didn't sound gross and wine curtesy of one John Logan because I still can't buy alcohol myself" Grace, who had been shy and skittish when you first met her but was now that you were friends a total firecraker, lifted her arms full of bags.

"Thanks Gracie" You mutter.

You're 30 minutes into Chicago when Dean, who'd joined right before you decided to start the movie informing that he was a part of the 'hating John Tucker club' spoke up "You know, I told Allie once that we could sic Logan on her ex, I think we could do the same with yours"

"You're not beating up your best friend" You tell him, no matter how messed up the situation is for your relationship with Tucker, you know he's going to need a support system now more than ever and the guys have to be that for him.

"And you're not using my boyfriend for your twisted ideas" Grace adds.

"Okay, fair, no Logan, but I think I can take him on myself" The blonde nods sipping on his wine, the sight of him is so comical that if you weren't teetering towards a meltdown you'd laugh. He has a sheet face mask on, his hair is held back with a bunny hairband and he's sipping on a half empty glass of cheap rosé.

"Sure you can big boy" Allie pats him on the arm and shakes her head at you from behind him.

"Thanks for being here guys" You say.

"Hey! We're family" You wish that was true, but you know things have to change, these are Tucker's people and you don't plan on taking them away from him or making them choose sides, you don't plan on abandoning them all together, but you do need to put some distance between you.

You nail the distance part, it's easy when everyone is rushing around during their last few weeks of class before graduation. You don't talk to Tucker at all, at some points his messages stop coming in and last you heard about him he'd decided to stay and move to Boston, you hadn't been looking for that information, rather his mom had called you and told you.

And while you still had no contact with Tucker, his mom was a whole other challenge. She'd called regularly, tried to convince you to talk to him and was dead set you would be getting back together.

You'd since chosen to forgive Tucker.

Not that you'd told him that, but you held no resentment anymore, you decided you needed to move on.

So you got a job, in Boston because you didn't have enough money to move anywhere else, plus even if you did, you had no idea where you'd go.

And then, when your life was just starting to take shape again, destiny, or whatever grand power that existed decided that you just needed to reconnect with him.

You are struggling with the books and binders in your arms that didn't fit into your bag, student papers threatening to fall out when you pump into a stroller.

"I'm so sorry" You look up only to be shocked by the person in front of you. Tucker.

"y/n" Your name sounds irrationally unnatural yet so familiar out of his lips.

"Tuck, hi" then the baby makes a sound, tiny and bothered, like a complaint to her father for stopping "Oh"

"Uh, this is James" He doesn't know what to say, over the past 8 months he's been trying to come up with multiple scenarios of what he would do if he were ever in this position again and now that he has you here he doesn't know what to say.

You nod and give him a small smile "Cute, congratulations" Then you lift up the books in your arms "I've gotta go, got some work to do, have a nice day"

"You too" Tucker lets out because he is an idiot but then he curses himself and turns around calling your name "Any chance we could meet up? I think we uh… I think I owe you a talk"

"Oh… I- um" You don't know what to say, you want to, you really want to, but you're not sure it is the best idea. You know him and Sabrina are not together, both his mom and the girls made sure you knew that, still, you can't help but to think you meeting up with him will mess something up between them, something neither of you can afford "I don't know Tuck"

"Okay" He sighs resigned "But if you ever decide you do want to talk, my number is the same"

You nod and walk away.

A week, it's all it takes for you to crumble.

In your defense, you weren't planning on texting him, not until Tucker told Logan that he'd seen you and asked to talk and then Logan told Grace who told Hannah who told Allie who told Dean, because thankfully the two were back to being friends, and Dean reached out.

"You don't owe him anything" He'd said "And I know he really hurt you, but I do think if there's even a speck of a chance of wanting to hear him out you should. I know I would've really regretted not talking with him"

And so here you are, walking into a coffee shop that reminds you a little too much of Bean There. Tucker's already at a table with his drink, yours and a cinnammon roll in between waiting for you.

"Thank you" It's the first thing he says after your initial, awkward, greetings "For hearing me out"

"Don't thank me yet" You try to joke "I just got here"

He nods "And you can leave whenever you want"

"So…"

"I hated myself the moment I realized what I'd done. Before I even knew she was pregnant, I'd already decided I was going to tell you about it" He cuts to the chase "But it wasn't something I thought I should tell you over a text or a call and then for one reason or another I never found the time to meet up with you, the team was drowning, I was swamped with assignments and Dean was going through his Allie crisis"

"Okay" You nod and take a sip of your iced mocha.

"I'm sorry, I know that doesn't change anything but I really am, because I promised I wouldn't do that to you and then I went and I broke that promise"

"We were on a break" You spew out the same words you've been using to justify the situation this whole time "You were free to sleep with whoever you wanted, in fact, I told you you should sleep with other people"

"I didn't want to though" He lets out "That's the thing. I was angry that night, mom was putting pressure on me for my plans to come back, and I still wasn't used to not being able to just call you and none of my friends seemed to be around and I just… I don't even know why I did it, I just know I regretted it the second it was over"

"I kissed Justin Kohl and then had a week long meltdown over it" You admit, you don't know why, but you feel like you have to.

He laughs because yeah, that sounds like you, you've always been an overthinker, never been able to acept things happened and move on quickly.

"I'm not with Sabrina" He tells you "I'm not telling you that thinking you'll just take me back, but I think you should know. We tried, a couple months after I told you about the pregnancy we thought maybe we could try to become something more, give our kid a typical family, but we couldn't. She was extremely busy with school and the pregnancy and I couldn't get you out of my head for a moment. So we decided we were better as just co-parents"

"I don't know what to tell you" You say.

He nods "That's fair"

"I'm not mad at you anymore, haven't been in a while" You don't look up at him while you speak, afraid of what you'll find in his eyes if you do "I think you did the right thing for yourself, the Tucker thing"

"I think so too" He nods even though you don't see him "But only halfway"

"You're missing your mom" You say remembering how his future plans always included his mom, no matter how much they changed, she was a part of every single one of them.

"No" He replies fast, you look up with raised eyebrows "Well yes, but… I'm also missing you" He admits "After we met there was never a version of my future I could picture without you in it. And then I went and I fucked up and I think about that every single day"

"Tuck-" He shakes his head stopping you.

"I know you probably want nothing to do with me anymore. But if this is goodbye I need you to know you'll always be it for me, I will spend the rest of my life wishing I could go back and do things right"

"Tuck" Your gaze softens and you place a hand on top of his "You can't say that. You don't mean that, because if things had gone differently you wouldn't have your daughter and I know for a fact you don't regret her, you wouldn't, ever, because that's not the kind of person you are John Tucker"

"So either way it's a lose lose huh?" He sighs, his fingers intertwining with yours.

You close your eyes and take a deep breath hoping you won't regret this "You haven't lost me" His expression lightens up "I mean, I don't know if we'll ever go back to the way it used to be, we're not that people anymore. But we also dont't have to be strangers, we can't, there's too much history between us"

"You have no idea what this means to me" He lets out a shaky chuckle "You know I'm a patient hardworking man baby, we'll get there, it will take time, and things will be different, I know that, but I also know we belong together"

"You're sounding awfully cocky over there sir" You joke.

"Oh honey you have no idea"

You really don't.

Because over the course of that year John Tucker embeds himself so deeply into your life without you realizing just how much he does so.

It's in the little things, morning messages, check in calls, lunch dates, iced mochas and cinnammon rolls.

By the time you catch up with him, he's showing you his new business, a bar.

A bar with a duplex on top of it, one unit completed as a safe space for his daughter and her mother, the other a work in progress, way smaller, something not definite, a place to rest until life gives him back all those plans he had with you.

Eventually you meet Sabrina and James and you're surprised to find the woman being so open about the father of his daughter dating another woman, she's a bit cold at first, overprotective of her daughter as any mom would if another woman was brought into her life the way you were.

But then, one night when Tucker was downstairs swamped with bar work she knocked on Tucker's unit, baby monitor in one hand, glass of wine in the other, a peace offering, even though there was no conflict between you. An apology that was not needed, and a new friendship request.

"We're going to be in each other lives for the rest of out time in earth" She'd said "I've seen the way Tucker looks at you, I saw him when you weren't around and there's no doubt in my head that he will never let you go again. But that also means you'll be in James' life and I just hope you can someday love her as much as you love him. So what I'm trying to say is, I'd like it if you and I were friends, or cordial at least"

You'd fallen in love with James from the first time you spent some time with her. The little girl was all the good traits of her parents combined, and you already loved Tucker and had come to respect Sabrina so much that the task seemed effortless.

She was the flower girl on your wedding, then there the day her little sister was born, and when her little brother did too, and her and Sabrina were there for first birthdays and first words and first steps. And you vacationed together at the family farm in Texas for a few weeks every year.

In the end, your life with Tucker seemed nothing like you'd planned, but you knew now that you wouldn't change a thing because you loved your non-typical family. You loved your kids having a bonus mom and you loved your three kids and you loved your husband and they were all healthy and happy and nothing else mattered.

John Tucker, Briar U's laidback forward was the kind of guy who took everything in stride. He had a heart of gold, infinite patience, and a Texas drawl that could melt the panties off a saint. But his life had recently become a massive, tangled wreck. Earlier in the year, a brief hookup with Sabrina James had resulted in an unexpected pregnancy. Tucker, being the thoroughly decent, stand-up guy he was, stepped up immediately, vowing to support Sabrina and the baby every step of the way.

But then, he fell in love with you.

Because of the fragile situation with Sabrina, you and Tucker had decided to keep your relationship off the radar. You didn’t want to add to her panic, nor did you want to deal with the relentless, vicious gossip of the Briar campus. But what started as a temporary protective measure had morphed into a heavy, suffocating weight. You were sick of hiding. Sick of slipping out the back door of the hockey house before his roommates could catch you doing the walk of shame. You were tired of feeling like a dirty little secret, and the brutal strain had caused a constant, underlying friction between you two.

Which led to the explosive argument in his bedroom just hours before the team’s victory party.

You were pacing the length of his floor, your arms crossed tightly over your chest, while he sat on the edge of his neatly made bed. He was watching you with those heavy-lidded, deep brown eyes, his large hands resting loosely on his spread knees. His unnatural stillness only fueled the anxious, clawing fire burning in your chest.

"I can't do this anymore, Tuck," you said, your voice trembling as you snatched your jacket off his desk chair. "I'm fucking done. We're done."

He went utterly, terrifyingly still.

"Come here, darlin'," Tucker commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that usually turned your knees to absolute water.

"No." You zipped up your jacket with shaking fingers, refusing to look at him because you knew if you met his gaze, your resolve would snap in half. "I mean it this time. I am so fucking exhausted. I feel like a ghost in my own relationship."

Tucker pushed himself off the bed. His massive, muscular frame seemed to swallow the small space of the room as he stepped directly in front of his closed door, effectively trapping you inside. His dark auburn hair was a messy halo, and beneath his calm exterior, his warm brown eyes were flashing with a dangerous mix of panic and pure, unadulterated male stubbornness.

"We are not doing this, Y/N," he said slowly, his Texas drawl thick with absolute refusal. "We are not breaking up."

"I am the goddamn side piece in my own relationship!" you yelled, the frustration boiling over as hot tears finally spilled down your cheeks. "I know you have to be there for Sabrina and the baby. I want you to be there for them. You're a good man, Tuck, the best I know. But I can't be your hidden fuck-buddy anymore. I can't watch you rush out of the room to take her calls, or drop my hand the second we step outside because someone might see us. It hurts too much. It's tearing me apart."

A muscle feathered in his tight jaw. Tucker closed the distance between you in two long strides. You tried to step back, but his large, callused hands gripped your shoulders, hauling you gently but firmly against the hard wall of his chest. You were instantly grounded in his signature scent of sandalwood and citrus, a scent that felt so much like home it made a broken sob rip from your throat.

"You listen to me," he rasped, his voice vibrating against your collarbone as he lowered his head to look you dead in the eye. "You are not second place. You are never second place. You are everything to me."

"Tuck, please—"

"No, you're going to let me speak." He brought one of his large hands up to cup your cheek, his rough thumb catching a tear before it could fall. "I know it's hard. I know I'm asking a hell of a lot of you to wait for me to sort this mess out. I hate that I'm the goddamn reason you're crying right now. But I am a patient man, Y/N. I will wait out any storm to keep you."

You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head as you pressed your hands against his chest, trying to physically push away the one thing you wanted most in the world. Beneath your palms, his heart was hammering wildly against his ribs.

"You have to," you whispered, your voice cracking. "Go figure out your life. Be a dad. Do what you have to do without worrying about keeping me happy in the shadows."

You pulled out of his grip, intentionally ignoring the raw, devastated look that flashed across his handsome face. You reached around him, your hand wrapping tightly around the cool metal of the doorknob.

"I'm going to be at Malone's tonight," you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the fact that your heart was breaking into a million jagged pieces. "I promised Allie and Hannah I'd celebrate the win with them. But don't look for me, I need space."

You slipped past him, yanking the door open. You left him standing there in the middle of his bedroom, his jaw clenched tight and his broad chest heaving, his heart full of absolute, uncompromising refusal to accept that this was the end.

By the time you pushed your way into Malone's, your hands were still shaking.

And the absolute worst part of being best friends with Allie and Hannah? It meant you were automatically dragged into the Briar hockey team's inner circle.

They had commandeered the massive, wraparound leather booth in the back corner, and you were squished right into the middle of the loud, rowdy chaos. Garrett, Dean, Logan, and Fitzy were practically shouting over the music, toasting their shutout win and passing around pitchers of beer.

And sitting directly across the wooden table from you was John Tucker.

He hadn't said a single word since you sat down. He just sat rigidly on the cracked vinyl cushion, a half-empty bottle of Miller gripped in his large hand. For Tucker, the booming bass of the jukebox and the chaotic crowd seemed to fade entirely into white noise. The only thing in sharp focus was you. Every time you dared to glance up, those heavy-lidded, dark brown eyes were already locked on you, burning with a heavy, volatile intensity that made it impossible for you to draw a full breath.

You felt like you were bleeding out invisibly. You’d done it. You’d looked him in the eye, told him you were done being his dirty little secret, and walked away. Now, forced to sit so close to him, it felt like you’d carved out your own heart with a dull knife.

Hannah nudged your shoulder, shoving a shot of cheap tequila into your hand. "Drink up! You look like you're at a funeral, Y/N/N, not a party."

Allie leaned in over Dean's shoulder, her blonde hair catching the harsh neon light. "Seriously, what's going on with you? You've been miserable all week."

You forced a smile that didn't reach your eyes and downed the shot. The liquor clawed down your throat, "Just tired. Let's go dance."

You dragged them out of the booth and shoved your way onto the small, packed dance floor near the jukebox. The music was deafening, the heavy bass vibrating through the soles of your shoes and rattling your ribs. You squeezed your eyes shut, letting yourself get lost in the chaotic, grinding rhythm of the crowd. You laughed loudly with Allie and Hannah, desperately trying to project the image of a girl having the time of her life. But all you were really doing was trying to ignore the heavy, scorching gaze you could feel burning into your skin from across the room.

Tucker was watching you.

Usually, he was the anchor of his friend group—observant, laidback, the quiet guy who kept his head and his temper when everyone else lost theirs. Tonight, he felt like a coiled spring pulled back so tight it was about to snap.

Every breath he took felt like inhaling broken glass. You’d told him you were done. You’d looked at him with tears in your beautiful eyes and told him you couldn't be his second-place secret anymore. And the worst, most agonizing part? He knew you were absolutely right.

His eyes tracked your every movement through the strobe lights. You looked fucking breathtaking—flushed, wild, and utterly out of his reach—and he wasn't the only one who noticed.

A tall guy from the lacrosse team slid up behind you on the dance floor, his hands hovering dangerously close to your hips. Another guy, some frat bro in a backward cap, was trying to catch your eye, shouting some garbage pickup line over the loud music.

Tucker’s jaw locked so hard his teeth ground together. A dark, ugly possessiveness flared in his chest, incinerating every ounce of his southern patience.

They saw a beautiful, single girl looking to get wrecked and have a good time. They didn't know you belonged to him. They didn't know the soft, needy sounds you made when he sucked marks into your neck, or how perfectly your body bowed up to meet his. And it was his own damn fault they didn't know. He had kept you in the shadows to protect Sabrina's privacy and manage the baby drama, but in doing so, he had left you completely unprotected. He’d made you feel like you didn't matter. He'd practically served you up on a silver platter to every thirsty dirtbag in Malone's.

He watched, every thick muscle in his massive frame going violently tense, as the lacrosse player leaned in, his mouth entirely too close to your ear. Tucker saw you politely step back, your posture stiffening in clear discomfort, but the guy persisted. The asshole actually closed the distance again, flashing a cocky grin and reaching out to boldly wrap a hand around your waist.

That was it. Patience was officially dead.

Tucker’s grip on his beer bottle tightened until his knuckles turned stark white, the thick glass groaning dangerously under the pressure. With a harsh, ragged exhale, he slammed the bottle down on the sticky wooden table so hard the remaining liquid foamed over the top.

"Whoa, Tuck, where are you going?" Garrett asked, looking completely startled by the sudden, aggressive movement from the calmest guy on the roster.

Tucker didn't answer. He didn't even look at his captain. He was already moving, his broad shoulders cutting through the crowded bar, his dark eyes locked dead on the man touching what was his.

He parted the sweaty, grinding crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea, his massive frame shoving through the bodies without a single apology. The rational, endlessly patient part of his brain—the part that always played the long game, the part that had agreed to keep this relationship off the radar to deal with Sabrina's baby drama—was dead and buried.

Fuck the secret. Fuck the gossip. Tucker didn't care about the whispers, the rumors, or the stares that were bound to follow. He only cared about the fact that the woman he was completely, irrevocably in love with was slipping through his fingers, and half the bar was trying to swoop in and take his place.

You spun around, desperate to step away from the persistent lacrosse player whose hands were getting way too bold, but before you could tell the guy to back off, a blur of black and silver stepped into your line of vision.

You gasped as the lacrosse player was suddenly violently ripped away from you.

Tucker’s massive, callused hand was fisted in the collar of the guy’s shirt, lifting him nearly off his feet.

"Hey, what the hell, man?" the lacrosse player sputtered, throwing his hands up. He puffed out his chest, trying to look tough.

The words had barely left the guy's mouth before Tucker’s fist cracked across his jaw.

The sickening thud cut through the immediate vicinity of the dance floor. The lacrosse player stumbled backward, crashing into a nearby table and taking a couple of empty beer bottles down with him. The crowd gasped, forming an immediate, wide circle around you, but Tucker didn't even flinch. He stood over the groaning guy, his broad chest heaving, his fists clenched tight at his sides.

"Stay the fuck away from my girl," Tucker growled, his voice dropping to a low, lethal vibration.

The guy scrambled back, holding his bleeding jaw, and frantically nodded before disappearing into the crowd.

Tucker didn't spare him a second glance. He turned to you, the violence in his frame immediately shifting into a raw, desperate need. Large, familiar hands instantly gripped your hips, hauling you flush against his hard chest.

"Tuck—" you breathed, your heart doing a wild, violent somersault against your ribs.

"Mine," he murmured fiercely.

He pulled you seamlessly into the heavy rhythm of the music. His hands slid from your hips to trail possessively up your spine, sending a shiver of blistering heat straight to your core. He spun you around, pressing your back flat against his broad chest, his thick arms wrapping securely around your waist as he swayed with you.

He could feel you trembling, feel the exact moment the adrenaline bled out of your muscles and you melted against him. This was where you belonged. Not hiding in the shadows. Not sneaking out the back door of the hockey house. It was an undeniably intimate, blatantly sexual claim, loud and clear for the entire fucking bar to see.

Over by the booths, the reaction was instantaneous. Dean’s jaw practically unhinged, his drink freezing halfway to his mouth. Garrett actually choked on his beer, coughing violently while Logan thumped him on the back. Hannah and Allie exchanged wide-eyed, completely stunned looks. John Tucker, the quietest, most reserved guy on the roster, had just knocked a guy out and put on a very public, very unapologetic show.

Tucker spun you back around to face him, completely oblivious to the shocked stares of his teammates. He brought one hand up to cup your cheek, his rough thumb brushing over your trembling bottom lip, parting it slightly.

"I don't care who sees," Tucker said, his voice fierce, unwavering, and laced with absolute certainty. "I don't care how complicated it is. I am not hiding you anymore, Y/N. And I am sure as hell not letting you break up with me."

Before you could formulate a response—before your brain could even process the magnitude of what he had just done—he dipped his head and captured your lips in a searing, breathless kiss.

It wasn't a gentle, hidden kiss in the dark. It was a bold, desperate, world-stopping declaration. He kissed you like a starving man, his tongue parting your lips and claiming your mouth with a consuming, dominant heat that made your knees buckle. He caught your weight effortlessly, pulling your hips flush against the hard ridge of his arousal, showing his teammates, your friends, and everyone else in Malone's exactly who you belonged to.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathless, your chests heaving together in the smoky air.

There’s three games you play one of you wearing the cowboy hat…under no circumstances can you let it fall off your head whilst you ride John.

“Don’t fall off the bull, sweet thing” he says, bucking his hips and slamming his dick into your cunt. You squeal, not expecting the sudden fullness, but you’re bouncing on top of him chasing his movements in hopes of meeting his thrusts and taking him deeper.

You might be on top riding the waves, but John Tucker has all of the control. One of his hands are wrapped around your wrists and anchored to his chest, his heart beat drumming against your palm all so he can show how much you get him going. The cowboy hats askew, his finger flicking the rim and his dick slips out of you, slick with your mixed arousal between your legs and his body beneath you. Your stomach tightens, thighs squeezing around his hips in a bid to keep yourself on top on him as if you haven’t got a weight on his chest.

“Be careful there,” he smirks, the usual kind nickname going unsaid as you rock back and forth over his shaft. A groan breaks free from his parted lips and he arches his back off the mattress, eyes fluttering shut for a breath. His other hand trails down the column of your throat, fingers tracing your collar bone and the valley between your breasts. He detours his wanted path, rolling your nipple and twisting it between the pads of his fingers. He mimics your moan, gaze flitting to your lips. Your chest’s sweaty, sticky, but his touch trails after the bead of sweat rolling down your stomach. A shiver trembling down your spine. His palm cups your pussy, smiling as you grind down on his hand for a bit of friction.

John’s already coaxed two orgasms out of you. He pulls you back down on his cock, warmth burning between your legs and your stomach tightening. The hat’s still on, barely. Your boys close, his movements slow and timed, both of his hands now settling on your hips. You keep your palms on his chest not wanting to break your connection with him. John’s fingers press into the soft flesh of your hips, but your mind’s a haze, thighs trembling as you let him guide you. Let him take care of both of your releases, your forehead resting on his shoulder as he rides out his own.

He slips out of you as soon as you remove the cowboy hat, arm stretched over the mattress as he you curl into his side. Your ear listening to his steady heartbeat, his lips pressing to your hairline. He smoothes his palm up and down your leg, hooking it over his hip so he can massage the tender and sore aches of being on top of him. All whilst you eye the hat on the floor.

The second game is can John eat you out with the hat still on? If it falls off his head, he don’t get no head.

"hey," you murmured, stepping up beside him at the island.

you were leaning against the counter, a peeler in your hand, feeling the exhaustion of trying to salvage friendsgiving settling deep into your bones.

you had tried to dress up a little for the holiday, wearing an oversized, off-the-shoulder cream sweater that kept slipping down your arm, paired with dark fitted jeans.

now, you had the sleeves pushed up past your elbows, trying desperately to keep the knit out of the turkey grease.

"logan just walked in with like three guys from the junior varsity line. i don't think we have enough stuffing for this at all."

tucker let out a low, rough sigh, not looking up from the turkey he was meticulously basting.

the tension in his broad shoulders was palpable, a rare sight for a guy who usually let everything roll off his back. "we'll make it work," he said, his voice a little tighter and deeper than usual. "i just don't understand how a dinner for eight turned into a buffet for twenty, with zero notice. i planned this out to the ounce."

he stared down at the roasting pan, his knuckles gripping the handle of baster. "my mom gave me her exact timeline," he admitted, his voice dropping into a rare, vulnerable register. "down to the minute. i called her three times yesterday just to make sure i had the seasoning right. it's... it's the first time i haven't been home for it. i just wanted it to be right."

the irritation you had been feeling about the chaotic house evaporated instantly, replaced by a sharp pang of sympathy. tucker was always everyone else's rock, but right now, he was just a guy missing his mom's kitchen.

you tossed a peeled potato into the pot with a little more force than necessary, your own irritation flaring turning into gentle reassurance. "it will be perfect but i'm about two minutes away from locking the front door, turning off the oven, and letting everyone fight over the raw cranberries."

a faint, genuine smile finally broke through tucker's frustrated expression. the hard line of his jaw softened, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked at you.

he set the baster down, wiped his hands on a kitchen towel, and stepped directly into your space, cutting off the rest of the chaotic kitchen from view.

before you could say anything else, he leaned down. his lips pressed warmly against your cheek, lingering just long enough to make the noise of the crowded house fade into static.

he slid his hand down to find yours, his large, calloused fingers intertwining with yours, his thumb rubbing soothing, slow circles over the back of your knuckles.

"thank you," he whispered near your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "i would be losing my mind right now if you weren't here."

"you are losing your mind," you teased softly, turning your head just enough so your nose brushed against his jawline. "but i've got your back. always have."

"always have," he repeated, his voice softening with an undercurrent of fierce affection.

that was the thing about the two of you. anyone in your orbit knew that you and tucker were the blueprint.

you had been together since middle school, navigating the messy transition from kids to adults.

out of all the chaotic, fast-moving couples in your friend group, you and tucker were the stable foundation.

the absolute constants.

you had had your ups and downs, of course.

a couple of explosive, passionate arguments over the years that led to "breaks" that never actually lasted more than a week because neither of you could stand being away from each other.

looking at him now, you couldn't help but think about how far you had come.

your mind drifted back to the seventh grade, when a scrawny, blushing tucker had cornered you by the middle school lockers.

he had practically choked on his own spit asking you to go to the movies with him, shoved a crumpled pack of your favorite candy into your hand, and bolted before you could even say yes.

you had had to chase him down the hallway just to tell him you would have to ask your mom.

then there was the time you both turned sixteen.

after a brief, dramatic three-day breakup over something so stupid neither of you could even remember it now, he had showed up on your porch in the pouring rain.

he didn't just ask for you back.

he had asked you out properly. he had held a bouquet of actual flowers, his curls soaking wet and flattened to his forehead, and looked you dead in the eye with a seriousness that took your breath away.

"i don't want to just be your middle school boyfriend anymore," he had said, his voice steady and completely sure. "i want to be your real boyfriend."

and he meant it.

and to this day the love between you was an unspoken and unshakeable law.

tucker gave your hand one last squeeze before releasing it, the frustration completely melting out of his posture. "alright. let's execute a new game plan."

instead of letting the evening devolve into a disaster, the two of you shifted into a seamless, practiced rhythm born from years of knowing how the other worked.

you grabbed the potato pot and walked out into the living room to recruit some actual help.

your friends were currently being completely useless.

mila was sitting on the armchair with her legs tucked under her, scrolling through her phone, while her girlfriend aoife was standing by the window chatting with a couple of the cheerleaders.

across the room, your other friend rowan was sitting on the coffee table, looking thoroughly amused but completely lost as logan attempted to explain a hockey play to him.

they were all hanging out, but you knew they would step up the second you asked.

"i need you guys," you said, intercepting the room's separate pockets of energy.

aoife looked over immediately, offering a sympathetic smile as she stepped away from the conversation by the window. "is tucker finally cracking?"

"he's running his hands through his hair, so yes, we are at code red," you joked, setting the pot down on the counter by the pass-through window. "can you two take over peeling the rest of the potatoes? we have an army to feed now."

"on it," mila said, tossing her phone onto the chair and stretching as she stood up. "we'll save tucker from himself."

you turned to rowan, who was already raising his hands in mock surrender. "and what's my mission, captain?"

"you are in charge of muscle," you told him, pointing toward logan and the junior varsity players who were hovering by the tv.

"take logan and the freshmen downstairs and drag up every folding chair we own. we're going to be packed in like sardines."

"consider it done," rowan said, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he passed. "don't stress. the food smells amazing, you guys got this."

with your friends successfully deployed, the chaotic house turned into a well-oiled machine.

mila and aoife kept up a steady stream of banter in the kitchen, keeping the mood light while they helped tucker finish the sides, and devon successfully organized a makeshift seating arrangement that somehow fit everyone.

by the time everyone finally sat down, the table was packed shoulder-to-shoulder.

the noise level was deafening, filled with loud laughter, clinking glasses, and the chaotic, booming energy of a hockey team left to their own devices, mixed with the sharp wit of your own friends.

but against all odds, the food was absolutely perfect.

tucker sat beside you, finally completely relaxed. underneath the cover of the heavy, holiday tablecloth, his hand found your thigh.

his fingers squeezed gently, a heavy, warm weight that grounded you instantly.

it was a silent, private thank-you that only you could feel.

across the table, rowan was loading up his plate while aoife laughed at something jules said, and mila chuckled at one of logan's ridiculous stories.

everyone was mingling perfectly.

you caught tucker looking at you, his brown eyes soft.

while logan was distracted yelling across the table to rowan about a play from last week's game, tucker leaned in close.

his shoulder pressed firmly against yours, his scent of cedar and warm spices enveloping you as he stole a quick, quiet kiss from the side of your neck, his lips lingering against your skin.

it wasn't the quiet, perfectly orchestrated friendsgiving he had meticulously planned in his head.

but looking around at the full plates, all your laughing friends, and feeling tucker's hand steady against your leg, it was exactly what it was supposed to be.

stable and entirely yours.

hours later, the house was finally silent. the last of the guests had stumbled out, rowan had helped carry the heavy trash bags to the curb, and mila and aoife had kissed your cheeks goodbye after helping load the dishwasher.

upstairs in tucker's bedroom, the frantic energy of the day completely dissolved.

the door was locked, leaving the remnants of the party far behind.

you stood by the edge of the bed, finally tugging your sweater over your head, leaving you in just a soft lace bralette and your jeans.

before you could reach for one of tucker's oversized t-shirts, a pair of strong arms wrapped around your waist from behind.

tucker pulled you back against his chest, burying his face into the crook of your neck. he had already changed into low-slung sweatpants, his bare skin warm against your back. he let out a long, heavy exhale, the last of his residual tension melting away as he held you.

"i mean it," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble against your skin that sent a shiver straight down your spine.

his lips pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to your shoulder, his hands sliding up your ribs, fingers lightly trailing over the exposed skin of your waist. "i don't know what i would've done today without you."

you turned around in his embrace, looping your arms around his neck, your fingers immediately tangling into his damp, post-shower hair. "you would have fed them raw cranberries and stared blankly at the oven."

tucker chuckled, the vibration thrumming through his chest against yours. his eyes darkened, softening with a deep, familiar heat that was reserved entirely for you. "probably," he admitted softly.

he leaned down, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that was a stark contrast to the quick, stolen touches from earlier.

this one was slow, deep, and heavy with years of unspoken promises.

his hands moved down to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him until there was no space left between you.

the intensity of it made your breath hitch, your heart hammering against your ribs as his tongue slid past your lips, claiming you completely.

when he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours. his thumb traced the line of your lower lip, his gaze dropping to watch the movement before rising back to meet your eyes.

"middle school, high school, college," tucker whispered, his voice thick with emotion as he guided you backward onto the mattress, his body following yours until he was hovering over you, his weight a comforting, familiar presence.

"i'm never letting you go. you know that, right?"

you smiled up at him, your hands sliding down his broad shoulders, feeling the solid, unshakeable reality of him. "i count on it."

Tucker was the undisputed anchor of the Briar hockey house. He firmly believed that being a team player was just as critical off the ice as it was on it. By default, he was the resident cook, the guy who cleaned up the post-party messes, and the one who quietly kept his three massive, hyperactive roommates from burning their townhouse to the ground.

You fell into step beside him so naturally it felt predestined. When he was fixing a broken railing on the porch, you were sitting on the steps handing him the screws. When he was cooking his legendary, carb-heavy meals for the guys, you were perched on the kitchen island, chopping vegetables.

You became the "Mom" to his "Dad." At first, playing house was a massive turn-on. There was something undeniably hot about domesticity when it was mixed with the raw, adrenaline-fueled energy of a D1 athlete. You’d help him organize the pantry, and he’d reward you by backing you against the wall, his callused hands gripping your thighs to lift you against his chest the second Garrett, Logan, and Dean left for gym. You loved him, and because you loved him, you took on his burdens.

But as the brutal New England winter thawed into spring, that shared weight stopped feeling like a partnership. It started feeling like a noose.

Senior year was a meat grinder. Tucker was quietly suffocating under the anxiety of his future, agonizing over whether to move back to Texas to take care of his mother, or risk his dad's insurance money to start a business in Boston. You were buried under the crushing, soul-sucking pressure of your final exams and post-grad panic.

You were both running on fumes, completely depleted. Instead of leaning on each other for comfort, you started treating each other like just another exhausting obligation on a never-ending to-do list.

The casual touches stopped. The sex evaporated, replaced by the sheer necessity of sleep. You were two ghosts haunting the same kitchen.

Tucker was standing at the stove, aggressively stirring a pot of marinara sauce. The muscles in his broad back were visibly knotted beneath his gray t-shirt. You were sitting at the kitchen table, staring blankly at your laptop screen, a dull, throbbing headache pounding behind your eyes from too much caffeine and not enough sleep. The silence between you was so thick it felt toxic.

"Can you hand me the garlic powder?" Tucker asked. His signature southern drawl, usually so warm and rich, was clipped and hollowed out.

You blinked, dragging your burning eyes away from your thesis paper, and blindly reached across the counter for the spice rack. Your sleeve caught the edge of a glass olive oil bottle. It tipped, fell, and shattered against the tile floor, sending a slick puddle of oil and jagged shards of glass across the grout.

You squeezed your eyes shut, letting out a ragged, trembling breath. "Shit. I'm sorry."

"Jesus Christ, Y/N," Tucker groaned. He dropped his wooden spoon against the stove with a loud clatter and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just... leave it. I'll clean it up. Like I clean up everything else."

The profound unfairness of the comment felt like a physical slap to the face. Your eyes snapped open, a hot, defensive spark of rage overriding your exhaustion.

"Excuse me?" you snapped, pushing your chair back so hard it screeched against the floor. "I spent three hours this morning doing the laundry you and Logan left piled in the hallway. I scrubbed the bathrooms yesterday so you wouldn't have to. Don't stand there and act like you're the only one keeping this place afloat."

Tucker whipped around, his brown eyes suddenly flashing with a raw, desperate anger. "I'm the only one holding us afloat! I am fucking exhausted, Y/N. I'm trying to figure out my entire goddamn future, I'm trying to keep this house from falling apart, and every time I look at you lately, you're a million miles away. It's like you don't even want to be here anymore!"

"Because I'm fucking tired, Tuck!" you yelled, your voice breaking as hot tears of sheer frustration flooded your vision. "I am so damn tired of being the caretaker! I'm tired of pouring everything I have into you and your friends and getting absolutely nothing back! If looking at me is so exhausting for you, then why am I even here?"

Tucker stared at you. His broad chest heaved with heavy, labored breaths. And then, the most terrifying thing happened.

The anger completely drained out of his face.

It was replaced by a hollow, devastating emptiness. The fight just left his body. He leaned back against the counter, looking at you like he was staring at a stranger.

"I don't know anymore," he whispered. His voice was completely broken. "I don't have anything left to give you. I'm empty. Maybe you shouldn't be here."

The words paralyzed you. He wasn't yelling. He wasn't fighting for you. He was just... letting you go. He was too tired to hold on.

A cold, protective numbness washed over your shattering heart. You closed your laptop, shoved it into your tote bag, and grabbed your coat off the back of the chair.

You walked down the hallway, your vision swimming.

Just as you reached the entryway, the front door swung open. Dean and Logan ambled inside, laughing loudly about something Coach had said at practice. Dean kicked off his sneakers, taking a deep, appreciative breath of the air.

"Oh, thank God. Smells like chicken parm," Dean said, his signature cocky grin spreading across his face as he dropped his heavy hockey bag to the floor. "Hey, Y/N/N. What time is dinner?"

You pulled your coat on, refusing to wipe your eyes. You looked dead at him, your voice dripping with cold, bitter heartbreak.

"Ask Tucker," you rasped. "I quit."

You walked out into the freezing night air, letting the heavy front door slam shut behind you.

Dean blinked, his grin slowly fading as he turned his head to look at Logan.

"Did she just..." Dean trailed off, the reality of your shattered voice finally cutting through his oblivion.

Logan winced, staring at the closed door. "Yeah, dude. I think Mom and Dad just called it."

For five days, the fallout of the breakup played out in two different apartments, mirroring each other in a devastating, silent tragedy. You and Tucker hadn't just broken up—you had both completely flatlined.

At Hannah and Allie’s dorm room, you had become a ghost haunting their hand-me-down couch. You hadn't showered in three days. You wore an oversized Briar Hockey hoodie that still faintly smelled of sandalwood and citrus, pulling it up over your nose every time your chest seized with another panic attack. You dragged your heavy textbooks onto the cushions with you, but you hadn't turned a single page.

Hannah tried everything. She brewed endless cups of tea and gently rubbed your back while you stared blankly at the wall. Allie took a fiercer approach, bringing over tequila and loudly threatening to march over to the guys' house and slash Tucker's truck tires.

But neither tactic worked. If you spoke the words out loud—if you admitted that the safest, most solid guy you had ever known had looked at you with utter defeat and let you walk away—it would make it real. And you weren't ready to live in a reality where John Tucker didn't want to be with you anymore.

Across campus, the house was suffering an identical, agonizing death.

Without Tucker functioning as the beating heart of the house, the ecosystem had violently collapsed. But it wasn't the towering stack of pizza boxes on the coffee table or the unwashed laundry spilling into the hallway that had Garrett, Logan, and Dean on edge. It was the absolute, hollowed-out shell of their best friend.

Tucker was drowning, and he was taking himself down quietly. He hadn't turned on the stove since the night you walked out. His bed felt massive and freezing without you curled against his chest. To escape the suffocating silence of his room, he punished himself at the rink. He woke up before dawn to run brutal suicide sprints, hit the boards with an aggression that had Coach Jensen screaming at him, and then came home just to stare at the spot on the kitchen tile where the olive oil bottle had shattered.

He had failed you. That thought looped in his head like a sick, twisted mantra. He was supposed to ease your load, and instead, he had been the one to finally break you.

By day five, your friends decided they had seen enough collateral damage. A secret meeting was called to order in a back booth at Malone's.

Garrett, Logan, and Dean were crammed into one side of the sticky vinyl booth. Hannah and Allie sat opposite them.

Dean was aggressively eating a stack of pancakes, inhaling them like a man who had been wandering the desert for forty days.

"Slow down, Dean, you're going to choke," Allie muttered, sliding her coffee cup out of the splash zone.

"I can't," Dean mumbled around a massive mouthful of syrup and carbs. "Tuck hasn't cooked a single meal since Thursday. We've been living on dry Cheerios and protein powder. My body is cannibalizing its own muscles, Allie-Cat. I'm wasting away."

"You're fine," Garrett sighed, unapologetically stealing a piece of bacon right off Dean's plate. Garrett looked across the table at Hannah, his dark eyes dead serious. "What's the status on Y/N? Because if I have to watch Tucker stare blankly at the wall for one more day, I'm going to lose my fucking mind. He's a ghost, Wellsy."

"Y/N isn't any better," Hannah reported quietly, wrapping her hands around her warm mug. "She's practically fused to our couch. She won't talk about what happened. If Allie or I even say his name, she just pulls the blanket over her head and pretends to sleep."

"We tried to get Tuck to talk, too," Logan chimed in, leaning forward. "He just told us to drop it. They're both completely shut down."

"Because they're both too damn stubborn," Allie said, crossing her arms over her chest as she looked between the three massive hockey players. "If we confront them, they'll just get defensive and dig their heels in. We have to be sneaky about this."

Garrett leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Allie's right. An intervention won't work. We can't force them to talk to us. We have to force them to talk to each other."

"How?" Logan asked, raising an eyebrow. "They're actively avoiding each other. Y/N even changed her route to class so she wouldn't have to walk past the ice arena."

"Think about it," Hannah said, a slow, wicked smile spreading across her face as she looked at Garrett. "What is the core issue here? They're both caretakers. They spent the entire year playing Mom and Dad to you guys. When things got hard, they stopped taking care of each other."

Dean swallowed his pancakes, his green eyes lighting up with realization. "So... we give them something to take care of."

Garrett grinned, tapping his knuckles against the diner table. "Exactly. We manufacture a crisis. Something so chaotic that their instincts override their stubbornness, and they have to team up to fix it."

The plan was executed with military precision.

Tucker was at the gym, violently punishing a heavy bag until his knuckles were bruised and aching beneath his wraps. He was trying to outrun the suffocating emptiness that had swallowed him whole, but it wasn't working. Without you to take care of, he had no idea what to do with his hands. 

His phone vibrated furiously in his gym bag. He ignored it. Ten seconds later, it aggressively buzzed again. Then again. Cursing under his breath, he finally tore his gloves off and swiped the screen open to see three frantic texts from Logan.

Logan: WE HAVE A SITUATION.

Logan: DEAN TRIED TO USE THE STOVE. THE KITCHEN IS LITERALLY SMOKING.

Logan: GET HOME NOW.

Tucker’s heart plummeted straight into his stomach. Dean was a disaster in the kitchen on a good day. Tucker grabbed his keys and sprinted out to his truck, breaking at least three speed limits on the drive back to the house.

Meanwhile, across campus, you were buried under your fleece blanket on Allie’s couch, staring blankly at the wall, when your phone started ringing.

"Hello?" you answered, your voice thick and raspy from disuse.

"Y/N, thank God!" Allie yelled through the speaker. She sounded completely out of breath and bordering on hysterical. "You have to get to the house right now!"

You sat up so fast your head spun, the protective numbness instantly vaporizing. "Allie, what's wrong? Is someone hurt?"

"Dean decided he was tired of starving and tried to cook dinner!" Allie shouted, the shrill, piercing sound of a beeping smoke detector echoing faintly in the background. "There is smoke everywhere! Logan is panicking, Garrett can't find the fire extinguisher, and Tucker isn't answering his phone! You have to come help us!"

"I'm on my way!" you yelled, throwing the blanket off and shoving your bare feet into your boots. Your "Mom" instincts completely overrode your heartbreak. You didn't even bother grabbing a real coat, sprinting out the door in your oversized Briar Hockey sweatshirt.

Ten minutes later you slammed your car into park, ran up the front steps, and shoved the heavy wooden door open.

"Allie?!" you yelled, coughing as a faint, bitter haze of smoke drifted down the hallway.

You rounded the corner into the kitchen and stopped dead in your tracks.

The room was an absolute biohazard. A thick layer of white flour was dusted over every visible surface like snow. A pot was boiling over on the stove, hissing aggressively as starchy water hit the hot coils. The smoke detector had been ripped off the ceiling and was sitting on the island, its battery completely removed.

But there was no Allie. No Dean. No Garrett or Logan.

The only person in the kitchen was John Tucker.

He was standing in the center of the chaos, still wearing his sweaty gym clothes, staring at the boiling pot with utter, unfiltered confusion. He whipped his head around when he heard you gasp.

"Y/N?" Tucker breathed, his bloodshot brown eyes going wide.

"Where are they?" you demanded, your heart hammering violently against your ribs as you scanned the empty room. "Allie called me, she said there was a fire—"

"Logan texted me," Tucker interrupted, taking a cautious step toward you. His deep southern drawl was rough and entirely bewildered. "He said Dean was burning the house down."

You both froze.

You looked at the empty kitchen. You looked at the perfectly dismantled smoke detector. You listened to the absolute, unnatural silence radiating from the rest of the house.

"Those motherfuckers," Tucker breathed, dragging a heavy hand down his face as the realization hit him.

You let out a shaky, jagged exhale, leaning back against the doorframe as the adrenaline violently crashed out of your system. You had been set up. The boys weren't starving, the house wasn't burning down, and there was no emergency. Your friends had orchestrated a highly coordinated, incredibly cruel trap.

Tucker walked over to the stove, his broad back stiff as he clicked the burner off and dragged the hissing pot to a cool coil. The kitchen fell into a heavy, suffocating silence.

For the first time in six agonizing days, you were really looking at him.

He looked terrible. The shadows under his eyes were bruised and purple, his auburn hair was a sweaty mess, and he carried a rigid, defensive posture that absolutely shattered your heart. He looked like a man who had lost everything.

He grabbed a dish towel, keeping his eyes glued to the flour-covered counter. "I'll clean this up," he muttered, his voice sounding hollow and completely defeated. "You can go back to Allie's."

"Tuck..." you whispered.

"I mean it, Y/N," he rasped, aggressively wiping at the flour. His knuckles were turning stark white. He wouldn't look at you. "I know you don't want to be here. You don't have to stay just because they tricked you."

You watched him frantically scrub the counter, your chest physically aching. The anger and resentment that had fueled you for the past week completely evaporated, leaving only a profound, desperate sadness. You realized then what Hannah and Garrett had figured out days ago. You both had hard exteriors, but inside you were soft. You were both so damn busy trying to hold the house together for everyone else that you let yourselves fall apart. 

You walked forward, your boots stepping over a stray piece of burnt pasta on the floor, reaching for the roll of paper towels sitting on the kitchen island. You tore off a handful, wet them under the faucet, and stepped right up beside him.

In absolute, suffocating silence, you started wiping the flour off the counter next to where he was frantically scrubbing.

Tucker went completely rigid. The aggressive motion of his hands stopped instantly. He stared at your smaller hand moving in sync with his, his broad chest rising and falling with ragged, uneven breaths.

The silence stretched, heavy and agonizing, broken only by the hiss of the cooling stove.

"I love you."

The words were so quiet, so raw, they almost didn't register. Your hand froze on the counter. You slowly turned your head to look at him, your heart completely dropping into your stomach.

He had never said those words to you before.

Tucker finally looked up.

"I love you," he repeated, his signature southern drawl thick and trembling. "I realized it a couple of weeks ago. And it terrified the absolute shit out of me."

"Tuck..." you whispered, your throat painfully tight.

"I'm supposed to have a plan, Y/N," he choked out, swiping a shaky hand across his jaw. "I've been saving my dad's insurance money for years. But graduation is right there, and I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. If I move back to Patterson to take care of my mom, I lose you. If I stay in Boston and try to start a business, I have no idea if it's going to fail. I felt like I was drowning in all this uncertainty, and I..."

He swallowed hard, looking at you with complete, heartbreaking defeat.

"I didn't know how to integrate you into a future I hadn't even figured out yet. You work so hard, and you have all these goals, and I was so scared of dragging you down into my mess that I panicked. I pushed you away."

"You idiot," you cried softly, the hot tears you had been holding back for six days finally spilling over your lashes. You dropped the paper towels and turned fully toward him. "You don't have to have it all figured out. Nobody has it figured out."

"I'm supposed to be the one who fixes things," he rasped, his voice breaking. "And I was so terrified I was failing you."

"You never failed me," you whispered, stepping into his space and resting your trembling hands flat against his broad, tense chest. "And you aren't dragging me down. I don't care if we're in Boston or Texas. I don't care if your business plan takes years to figure out. I don't need a perfect plan, Tuck. I just need you."

A jagged, shuddering breath tore out of Tucker's chest.

He closed the distance between you in a heartbeat, wrapping his massive arms around your waist and burying his face deep into the crook of your neck. He held you so tight it bruised, lifting you slightly off your feet as his large frame collapsed against you.

"I can't breathe without you," he confessed, the words vibrating fiercely against your skin. "Don't leave me again. Please, darlin', don't walk out that door again."

"I'm right here," you promised, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your tear-stained cheek against his temple. You buried your fingers in his auburn hair, holding him just as desperately. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I’m just saying," John Logan argued from across the sticky table, pointing a french fry at Tucker, "if you actually passed the puck instead of trying to be the hero, we would’ve scored in the second period."

"I was open!" Tucker shot back. "You’re just blind, Johnny!"

Garrett Graham, wedged next to them, rolled his eyes and stole a sip of Hannah’s beer. "You’re both idiots. Just drink."

You tuned out the hockey talk, mostly because Dean’s fingers were currently drawing lazy, distracting circles on the denim of your jeans, right at your knee.

When you transferred to Briar to escape the wreckage of your last relationship, your plan was simple: keep your head down, go to class, and stay invisible. You didn't plan on meeting Dean Di Laurentis. You definitely didn't plan on sleeping with him.

Twice.

The problem? The sex was mind-blowing, and Dean was shockingly attentive, which meant you had to pull the emergency brake. Two hookups could be written off as a fluke. Three times was a pattern. Three times meant you were knocking on the door of a relationship, and you didn't do boyfriends anymore. Not after the suffocating mess you’d left behind in your hometown.

You’d drawn a hard line.

Dean, however, treated that line like a mild suggestion.

"I'm going to grab another round before Logan and Tuck start throwing punches," Hannah announced, sliding out of the booth. "Don't kill each other."

"You're ignoring me," Dean murmured. He dropped his arm over the back of the booth behind your head, leaning in so close you could smell his expensive cologne mixed with draft beer.

"I'm listening to Logan and Tuck," you replied, keeping your eyes on your cup. "It’s very educational."

"I can think of better things to do than listen to Logan." Dean's voice dropped to that low, raspy pitch he knew exactly how to use. His thumb dragged a fraction higher on your thigh."You're wearing that perfume again," he murmured, a sound that completely bypassed your brain and went straight to your stomach.

"Shut up, Di Laurentis," you shot back, taking a desperate sip of your drink.

"I know you have this ridiculous rule about a third time meaning we're suddenly married, but come on, beautiful," he chuckled, his breath ghosting over your jaw. " You can’t stop thinking about it either. I promise I’ll make you forget why you ever made that rule in the first place."

"Read my lips, Di Laurentis," you said, turning your head just enough to give him a flat look. "We are done."

He just smirked, his thumb pressing a little firmer against your thigh. "Liar."

You opened your mouth to tell him his ego was writing checks his charm couldn't cash, but Hannah suddenly slid back into the booth, thumping a heavy plastic pitcher onto the table.

"Malone's is officially a zoo," she announced, dropping into the space next to Garrett. She wiped condensation off her hands, then paused, her eyes darting over to you. "Hey, did you tell someone we were coming here?"

You frowned. "No. Why?"

"Because some guy just stopped me by the bar," Hannah said, her brow furrowed. "Tall, dark hair, preppy polo shirt. He had this crazy intense look on his face. He asked if I knew a Y/N who just transferred here. I told him no, but... It gave me the creeps, honestly."

The buzz from the vodka evaporated.

Your stomach did a horrific, Olympic-level flip. It was an instant, violent spike of adrenaline. A cold sweat broke out across the back of your neck, and suddenly the loud, chaotic noise of the bar felt like it was pressing against your eardrums.

He’s here.

You stared at the condensation pooling on the wooden table, your brain short-circuiting.

Beside you, Dean completely misread the situation. He thought you were just giving him the silent treatment. He leaned his weight against you, his chest pressing into your shoulder.

"Come on, beautiful," Dean coaxed, his voice dropping right into your ear. "Stop playing hard to get. Let's get out of here."

The feeling of being boxed into the booth suddenly shifted from annoying to terrifying. You felt trapped.

You snapped your head up to tell Dean to back the hell off, your heart hammering against your ribs. But as you looked past him, your eyes landed on the front entrance.

Standing by the bouncer, looking exactly like the entitled prick he was, was your ex-boyfriend.

Your breath caught in your throat. Fight or flight kicked in, and your body chose flight.

You didn't care about looking cool, and you didn't care about explaining yourself. You just needed to get out of his line of sight before he spotted you.

You shoved Dean’s arm away and scrambled to get your feet under you.

"Move," you choked out.

Dean looked startled. "Whoa, hey, what—"

"Dean, let me out!" you snapped, practically climbing over his knees. You abandoned your jacket, hit the sticky floor, and bolted toward the back hallway. You pushed past a group of frat guys and burst through the heavy metal door into the freezing alleyway.

A second later, the heavy door swung open again. You heard Garrett swearing under his breath, followed by Hannah’s worried voice.

The night was officially over.

The heavy front door of the house slammed shut, cutting off the biting wind.

Garrett took one look at you—at the way your arms were wrapped tightly around your ribs, your face completely bloodless—and didn't ask a single question.

"Upstairs. Now," he muttered, shoving Logan and Tucker down the hall before they could open their mouths.

Hannah hesitated, giving you a tight, worried smile, before following Garrett's lead.

You walked straight into the kitchen on autopilot, grabbing the edge of the marble island to keep your knees from buckling. You were shaking like a leaf, and it definitely wasn't the weather.

Footsteps squeaked against the hardwood floor.

Dean walked into the kitchen and stopped a good five feet away, leaning his hip against the opposite counter.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

"I’m an ass," Dean said.

His voice was flat, totally stripped of its usual lazy drawl. You looked up. He was running a hand through his blond hair, his jaw tight, looking genuinely stressed.

"Dean—"

"No, let me finish," he interrupted, holding up a hand. "I'm an idiot. I completely misread that," Dean dragged a hand down his face, dropping his gaze to the floor. "We had a deal—you said two times was it, and I kept pushing. I crowded you in that booth, and you looked like you were suffocating. I crossed a line, and I’m sorry."

You let out an exhausted breath. Dean Di Laurentis—actual playboy extraordinaire—was standing in his kitchen apologizing because he thought his flirting had sent you into a panic attack.

"Dean," you said softly, your voice shaking. "It wasn't you."

His brow furrowed, his hazel eyes snapping up to meet yours. "What are you talking about? You couldn't get out of that booth fast enough."

"I wasn't running from you," you admitted, hugging yourself tighter. "I panicked because of what Hannah said. And because when I snapped my head up to tell you to back off... I saw someone."

Dean went perfectly still. The confusion on his face lingered for a split second before sharpening into intense focus. "Saw who?"

"My ex-boyfriend." The words tasted like ash. "The guy I transferred here to get away from."

Dean didn't move. "He was at Malone's?"

You nodded, a humiliating tear spilling over your lashes. "I didn't move to Briar for a fresh start. I came here because I was running away from him."

Dean stayed quiet, letting you set the pace. He didn't pace the room, and he didn't raise his voice.

"He didn't hit me," you said, your voice cracking. "I know people always assume that's what it takes to run. But he just... he owned me. If we had an argument, he would literally stand in front of the door so I couldn't leave the room until I gave in and apologized. He alienated my friends. He made me feel like I was crazy for wanting to exist outside of his control. By the time I finally packed my car and left, I felt like a ghost."

You wiped angrily at your cheek, staring at the marble counter. "I moved here to be invisible. I thought I was safe. And he was standing right there by the bouncers."

The air in the kitchen completely changed.

The guilt that had been weighing Dean down evaporated, swallowed up by a profound, heavy stillness. You could see the exact moment the pieces clicked together in his head—the realization of why you hated feeling cornered, why you were so fiercely independent, why you put up so many walls.

Dean was a hockey player; he had a temper. You could see the anger flare in his eyes, dark and sharp, but he brutally forced it down. He seemed to understand, instinctively, that you didn't need to see another man lose his temper right now.

"Okay," Dean said softly. His voice was incredibly calm, level, and steady. "Did he see you?"

You shook your head, "I... I don't think so."

"Good." He took a slow, deliberate step forward, keeping his hands visible and his body language completely relaxed. "He doesn't know where you live. He doesn't know who you're with."

Dean slowly reached out. He just offered his hand, palm up, resting it on the marble counter between you. An invitation, not a demand.

You stared at his large, calloused hand for a second before slowly sliding yours into it. His fingers immediately wrapped around yours in a warm, solid grip.

"I know we have an arrangement," Dean said, his thumb brushing a slow, rhythmic circle over your knuckles to help ground you. "You call your own shots. I respect that."

He paused, making sure you were looking him in the eye.

"But you are my friend," Dean continued, "And you are standing in my house. Which means you are officially under my protection. I don't care how annoying this guy is. He doesn't get to breathe the same air as you."

The quiet, absolute certainty in his voice did more to calm your racing heart than any loud threat ever could. He wasn't posturing for his own ego; he was just stating a fact.

A small, surprised laugh escaped you. "You're going to act like my bodyguard now, Di Laurentis?"

A faint, familiar smirk finally touched the corner of Dean's mouth, though his eyes remained entirely serious. "Somebody has to keep the country club rejects away from you. Besides, Garrett would kill me if I let a guy in a polo shirt terrorize our house."

It had been four days since Malone’s, and you were almost convinced you were safe.

You were sitting in your Tuesday morning Psychology lecture, tucked into your usual seats near the back. Dean slouched next to you, his long legs stretched out into the aisle. He tapped his pen rhythmically against his notebook while the professor droned on about cognitive dissonance.

The heavy doors at the front of the lecture hall swung open.

A guy walked in and handed a slip of paper to the professor. A transfer student.

One look at the arrogant set of his shoulders, the dark hair, and the expensive preppy sweater sent all the blood rushing out of your head. The air vanished from your lungs. You shrank back against your plastic chair, your hands immediately curling into tight fists in your lap as a cold sweat broke out across your skin.

He had actually enrolled at Briar.

Beside you, Dean felt the violent shift in your posture. The tapping stopped. "Hey," he whispered. "What is it?"

You gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of your head, keeping your eyes fixed on the front of the room.

Dean followed your line of sight. He studied the new guy finding a seat three rows down. The pieces clicked together instantly in Dean's head—the preppy clothes, the dark hair, and the sheer terror radiating off you. He recognized the guy from the door at Malone's.

Dean sat up straight, locking his jaw into a hard, rigid line. For the remaining forty minutes of the lecture, he remained terrifyingly still, his eyes burning a hole into the back of your ex's head.

"Class dismissed," the professor finally announced, snapping his laptop shut and briskly walking out the side door.

The hall erupted into the chaotic noise of zippers, scraping chairs, and overlapping conversations. You shoved your notebook into your backpack with shaking hands, desperate to blend into the crowd and escape through the back doors before he spotted you.

But your ex was already turning around. His eyes locked onto yours.

That familiar, entitled smirk crawled onto his face. He grabbed his bag and marched up the stairs, heading straight for your row.

Dean stood up. He slung his backpack over his left shoulder and stepped smoothly out of your row, planting his massive, athlete frame directly in the middle of the aisle to block the stairs.

Your ex stopped a few steps below him, letting out an annoyed sigh. "Excuse me, buddy. You're in the way."

Dean held his ground, staring down at him with a look of cold, absolute apathy.

Your ex scoffed, his ego flaring up. "Hey, deaf guy. Move. I need to talk to my girlfriend."

Dean dropped his backpack, shifted his weight, and threw a brutal, devastating right hook.

The sickening crack of Dean's knuckles connecting with bone echoed sharply in the thinning lecture hall.

The force of the punch lifted your ex entirely off his feet. He flew backward, crashing hard into a wooden desk before crumpling to the linoleum floor in a heap. A few remaining students gasped, freezing in their tracks. Nobody dared to intervene.

Your ex groaned, rolling onto his side. He clutched his face, blood instantly pouring from his shattered nose and dripping onto his pristine sweater. He looked up at Dean, his eyes wide with genuine shock and pain.

"What the hell?!" your ex yelled, his voice thick and nasally. He scrambled backward against the desks, staring at Dean like he was a monster. "What the hell was that for?! I don't even know you!"

Dean stood over him, breathing evenly, casually rolling his shoulders. He flexed his right hand once, his eyes dark and completely devoid of mercy.

"You know why," Dean said. His voice was deathly quiet, carrying a promise of so much worse if the guy ever tried to get up.

Dean held his gaze for three agonizing seconds, making sure the message was received loud and clear. Your ex stayed frozen on the floor, too terrified to reach for his fallen bag.

Satisfied, Dean smoothly bent down and picked up his backpack by the strap. The cold, lethal hockey player vanished in a fraction of a second as he turned back to you.

His hazel eyes softened instantly. He stepped back into your row, gently placing his uninjured hand on the small of your back.

The problem wasn’t that Jake was a massive tool. The problem was that he was a persistent tool with a massive crush. For some reason, he’d spent the last few months trying to win me over, completely incapable of taking a hint. Like, hello? No means no.

I needed a deterrent. Someone who commanded so much respect on campus that one look from him would make Jake back off for good.

Enter John Tucker.

Briar U’s resident Southern gentleman, star hockey player, and a guy so effortlessly charming he could probably negotiate world peace in a soft Texas drawl. We didn’t move in the same circles, but a few mutual friends and a brutal marketing seminar had landed me in his orbit.

And right now, Tucker had his own problem: his traditional, old-school Texas family was constantly breathing down his neck. They loved his hockey career, sure, but his parents were obsessed with him showing signs of "responsibility" and "settling down" before graduation.

"Let me get this straight," Tucker said, leaning against the brick wall outside the library. A slow, amused smile spread across his face. "You want me to be your attentive, deeply devoted boyfriend to make some guy back off?"

"It’s a strategic alliance, Tucker," I said, crossing my arms to keep from fidgeting under his hazel eyes. "In exchange, I’ll be the perfect, incredibly organized, adoring partner when your family visits next week. I’ll make sure you look completely focused, responsible, and like a man who has his entire life figured out. I'm great with parents."

Tucker tilted his head, watching me with a lazy focus that made my stomach do a stupid little flip. He was probably thinking about his mother's endless FaceTimes and his father's lectures on "finding a good partner."

He caught the edge of my coat sleeve and tugged me closer like he was already way too comfortable touching me.

"A strategic alliance," he murmured, his voice dropping into that smooth, low register. "Alright, darlin'. You've got yourself a deal."

To be honest, I didn’t think he’d take the "attentive" part quite so literally.

On Friday night, I found myself sitting three rows up at the Doug Mitchell Thunderbird Sports Centre. The longer I sat there, the more the arena smelled of ice, sweat, and burnt concession stand popcorn. Draped over my shoulders—completely swallowing my frame—was Tucker’s massive, heavy maroon and white Briar U hockey jersey. It smelled vaguely like laundry detergent and whatever he'd sprayed on himself before games. Weirdly enough, it made me feel some type of way.

Down on the ice, the buzzer sounded to end the second period. As the team started skating toward the tunnel, I noticed Jake sitting three sections over, staring at me with a mix of horror and confusion. He'd been doing it all night.

I caught Tucker’s eye right before he reached the boards.

He stopped.

Right there on the ice, John Tucker skated a small circle, looked directly up into the stands at me, and tapped his stick against the ice. Then, he lifted a hand to his helmet, giving me a slow, deliberate wink before disappearing down the tunnel.

I immediately ducked behind the collar of his jersey like that was somehow going to help hide my reddening cheeks.

"Jesus," my friend, Cindy, whispered next to me, nudging my shoulder. "If that's fake, the boy deserves an Oscar. I think I just melted, and he wasn't even looking at me."

The family dinner went perfectly. I was the absolute picture of support, seamlessly sliding into conversations with his parents and dropping genuine compliments about Tucker’s work ethic. By the end of the night, his mother looked ready to adopt me, completely convinced her son was on the path to becoming a settled, mature man.

The trouble was, the lines were blurring. Fast.

It all came to a head a weekend later at a packed hockey house party. The music was bass-boosted, the cups were red, and the air was stifling. I was standing by the kitchen island when Jake cornered me again.

"Honestly, it’s a joke," Jake scoffed, swirling his drink. "Everyone knows hockey players can't keep their focus. You're just the flavor of the week to him. A distraction. He’ll drop you the second the season ends."

I opened my mouth to snap at him, but I didn't even get a sound out before a heavy arm hooked around my waist, pulling me back against him.

Tucker.

"You got a problem with my focus, buddy?" Tucker asked. His voice wasn’t loud, but it had a dangerous, low edge that cut right through the kitchen noise.

Jake blinked, suddenly looking very small. "I was just saying—"

"I don't care what you were saying," Tucker interrupted. His grip tightened around my waist, pulling me flush against his side. "But if you look at her or speak to her again, you and I are gonna have a problem. Keep moving, man."

Jake swallowed hard, nodded frantically, and practically sprinted out of the kitchen.

I breathed out a sigh of relief, turning in Tucker's embrace. "Wow. Tucker, that was... incredibly convincing. You really went all in."

But Tucker wasn't smiling. His jaw was clenched, his hazel eyes dark and intense as he looked down at me. "Who said I was acting?"

Before I could even process that, a rowdy group of freshmen burst into the kitchen, shouting and knocking into the island. Tucker cursed under his breath, grabbed my hand, and pulled me through the crowded hallway, guiding me up the stairs and into the first empty room he could find—his bedroom.

The heavy wooden door clicked shut, instantly muffling the thumping bass from downstairs. The only light came from the stupid neon sign glowing through the window from across the street.

My heart was hammering against my ribs. "Tucker?"

He didn’t answer right away. He stood by the door, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

For once, Tucker wasn’t smiling. I think that scared me more than if he’d yelled.

"I'm sick of this," he said, taking a slow step toward me.

"This?" I stammered, backing up until the edge of his desk pressed against my lower back.

"The fake dating. The strategic alliance. The whole damn thing," Tucker muttered, stopping mere inches from me. He towered over me, his heat radiating in the small space. He reached up, his large thumbs gently tracing the line of my jaw, forcing me to look up at him. "Do you have any idea what it’s like? Watching you look at me like I'm the center of your universe in front of my folks, knowing you're just doing it for a deal?"

"Tucker, I—"

"I nearly lost my mind tonight when that asshole was talking to you," he whispered, his thumb brushing over my lower lip. His eyes dropped to my mouth, heavy with a jealousy he was no longer trying to hide. "I don't want to pretend anymore. I want you in my jersey because you're mine. I want to look for you in the stands because you're the only person I care about seeing."

My breath hitched. Brain short-circuited. Every little thing from the last month suddenly replayed in my head—the way he always handed me a drink before I could even ask, the casual weight of his hand on my back, those quiet looks when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.

God, I was so stupid. It wasn't a strategy. Not for him. And definitely not for me, either.

"Tucker," I whispered, my hands tracing up his chest to grip the fabric of his shirt. "You're a really good actor."

A small, breathless laugh escaped his lips, and he dropped his forehead against mine. "I'm a terrible actor, darlin'. That's the whole point."

"Good," I murmured, closing the final inch of distance between us. "Because I don't want to stick to the playbook anymore either."

Outcome one was like everyone else’s—have way too many drinks and spill a few too many secrets all while dancing like no one was watching. Sure, you probably misplaced your purse a while ago and the next morning you’d wake up with a killer hangover, but that was a future-you issue.

Outcome two was more pitiful. You likely had something important to do in the morning, so you decided against drinking, meaning your butt was glued to the booth that you shared with your best friend as he made googly eyes at the waitress.

It was nights like these that made you want to rip your heart out of your chest and stomp on it. That would hurt less than this.

“You know staring at her any harder won’t magically make her a mind reader, right?”

His eyes flickered back over to you with some poor attempt at confusion. “Who?”

“John Logan, do not play stupid with me, your smarts is the only thing you have going for you.”

A laugh escaped the boy, his lips spreading across his cheeks in a way that made your heart flutter. “Gee thanks, tell me what you really think.”

You attempted to mirror his actions, letting a similar smile find you that never truly reached your eyes. “If I told you what I really think, you’d be running for the hills.”

“Give me some credit,” he replied, bumping his shoulder into yours. “If I wanted to run, I would’ve done it ages ago.”

It was like something was tethering you to him wherever he touched you, urging you to seek him out. As he bumped his shoulder into yours, you leaned into it, smiling as the two of you met in the middle.

“I’ll hold you to it,” you smiled.

“Oh, I know you will.”

For that small bit of time as the music continued on and the world spun around the two of you, you were able to forget and play pretend just for a bit. Pretend that the way he leaned into your touch meant something more. Pretend that he also felt something every time your eyes would cross.

You could even imagine a world where you got over yourself and admitted everything that has sat on your chest since what felt like the beginning of time.

“Hey guys, welcome to Malone’s, I’m Hannah. What can I get started for you today.”

And in a flash, the moment would slip away to the nothingness you were dealt with as John sat up in his seat, leaning forward so his eyes were centered on her.

You felt it as that dagger in your chest twisted itself as you watched his eyes light up at the sight of her. Your eyes trailed over him observing the way his smile grew shy and how seemed to be fiddling with his hands as he talked to her.

Flicking your eyes up to Hannah, you could feel the way your heart sank. Some deep, selfish part of you wanted nothing more than to hate the girl. If you hated her, then maybe you’d find some weird twisted vindication for the way it all made you feel.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to hate her.

In turn, all you were left with were these cruel comparisons that lingered in your mind. How she seemed to carry herself with this assurance—like she knew exactly what she was going to do and nothing would get in her way. How she seemed to make people laugh without even trying. Even how she looked so effortlessly beautiful even after working the fifth hour of her nighttime shift.

It made you feel rather dull in comparison.

“And for you?”

You blinked back to attention, realizing both of their eyes were on you. “Oh um…just water please.” Your smile felt weak, reminding you that you’d be happier watching some rom-com back at your dorm instead of putting yourself through this hell.

“Y’sure you don’t want anything else,” John asked, his brow quirking up at you curiously.

You nodded, pulling your arms under the table and squeezing them together as you shoulders pulled in. “Yeah. I’m not all that hungry if I’m being honest.”

“Alright then,” Hannah smiled. “Just let me know if you change your mind, everything should be out shortly.”

Once she left the table, you remained silent. Your eyes swept across the room, seeing the live band playing from the front and the crowd forming around them, but you weren’t really watching them.

You kind of drifted off, staring aimlessly ahead of you as your thoughts and frustrations swirled heavily in your chest.

Then you felt the warmth that wrapped around your hand, threading between your fingers and holding you carefully. “Hey, you okay?”

And like a boulder being pushed back up the hill again, you felt the spiking of your heartbeat as you looked over to see John looking at you with concern. His brows pinched together in a way that made you want to cup his face and smooth over his frown lines.

You tried your best to push out the best ‘yeah!’ and inwardly cringed as it sounded to bright and chipper.

He squeezed your hand, bringing it to the table as he leaned in, tilting his head to you inquisitively. “You’re a terrible liar, y’know?”

You scoffed and smiled lightly. “Says you.”

John let out a drawn out hum. “Well now your deflecting.”

“Nothing gets past you, huh?”

A beat of silence passed over the two of you for just a moment as he his eyes scanned over your face carefully, a small frown taking his lips.

“Talk to me.” His tone was deeper now, softer as he lowered his voice just for you. “You always have.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to say anything at first, just staring back at him with a melancholic admiration. He could always read you. He knew it, his friends knew it, and you knew it all too well.

It swirled all too many feelings in your chest every time you were presented with that fact. Your heart bleeding at the thought that no one on this earth knew you better than him. Then it froze over with fear at the idea that one look too long would send him into the realization that you are hopelessly in love with him. And of course, it all shattered in hurt as you were forced to realize that he didn’t know.

He didn’t know the biggest, all-encompassing secret that kept you up into the long hours of the night and prevented you from being alone and drunk with out of the fear of spilling everything.

It made you wonder how much he truly knew you, and how much you fabricated in your head to cope with the fact that he wasn’t yours and probably never will be.

“I know,” you smiled convincingly enough, squeezing his hand back. “I’m just a little tired. It’s been a long week.”

You felt as his hand untangled itself from yours as he lifted his pinky up to you. “Promise?”

A short moment passed as you blinked at his finger. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you smiled and interlocked your pinky with his. “Promise.”

“Alright, guys. I’ve got two waters, an order of burgers and fries, and an extra fry.”

And just like that his gaze was back on her. “Thank you, Hannah.”

“Of course,” she smiled, throwing her hands up on her hips. “Did you guys want anything else?”

You only shook your head and smiled halfheartedly. “No, that’ll be all.”

“Great! If you need anything else, I’m Hannah!”

At first you watched as she walked away, then you let your eyes drift back to John where he had just the similar thought.

You bit your lip in thought, deeply mulling over the words that you knew you’d come to regret.

“You should talk to her…outside of here I mean.”

He whipped his head around to face you, his brows knitting back down in a form of confusion. “What,” he laughed. “No, I couldn’t.”

“Why not,” you joked, bumping your shoulder into his again. “If you stare at her longingly like that any longer then you’ll just look like a creep.”

His mouth fell open and shut as he searched for his words—or excuses. “I’m not her type—she doesn’t even like hockey guys.”

You nodded skeptically. “And how do you know that?”

He responded with a wince, his face contorting into a cringe as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I may or may not have overheard her telling her friend about it the other day at the counter.”

This time, it was your turn to laugh as your mouth fell open in disbelief. “Oh my god, you are a creep. I take it back, maybe you shouldn’t talk to her.”

“I’m not a creep,” he scoffed, hiding his smile. “It was an accident. I meant to talk to her, I just…froze up I guess.”

You could’ve teased him for it, but you didn’t. Instead you met him with sincerity. “You gotta take your chance at some point. Before someone swoops in and takes that chance before you. Then you’ll sit there regretting every action you didn’t take.”

You looked at him absentmindedly, not meaning it to come off as profound advice, but when you met his eyes again, they were back on you in a way that made your eyes widen a bit.

“Woah,” he commented half jokingly. “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”

You rolled your eyes, snagging a fry from his basket. “Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy.”

John hummed and rolled his eyes. “Can’t go a moment without saying something sarcastic, can you?”

You grinned. “Nope. I’d die without it.”

He smiled again, making your heart sparkle once more.

“Here,” he replied, pushing his extra basket of fries in your direction. “That’s for you.”

“What? I didn’t order any.”

“I know,” he murmured. “But you always say you’re not hungry before eating half my fries. Can’t have you going hungry on me.”

You looked at the basket, hand hovering over it before flitting your eyes back up to him.

“…thank you…”

“Of course. What are friends for?”

[2]

You were 15 when you met John Logan—the guarded yet kind boy that ended up being your partner for the class project. From then on, the two of you were practically attached at the hip.

He was there for you at every bad day and rough moment and you were there whenever his world became too much.

The two of you balanced out the chaotic lives you lived and over those years, you learned a few things about him.

You knew that he had the tendency to bite his tongue, never wanting to step on someone else’s toes unless he pushed to his limit. You knew he was especially hard on himself because no one else was; because if he wasn’t he’d have to face the reality of losing everything he worked hard to build. You also knew that if he didn’t want to be found, he knew just how to make himself sparse.

The past few days had been fine, the both of you focusing on your respective schedules and finding time for each other in between, but then out of nowhere, it was radio silent from him.

You let it go on for a day, giving him the time to breathe because you knew he likely needed it if he was avoiding you, but after that you decided you should find him. And you knew exactly where to find him.

With a zip, you closed up your hoodie as you walked into the doors of the skating rink. Sure enough, he was right where you expected him to be: pushing himself beyond his limit as an excuse to get his mind off is life.

Wordlessly, you sat there and watched him as he paced back and forth on the ice, smacking the pucks aggressively into the goals. You didn’t flinch or react as the sound echoed through the room, only kept your eyes trained on him as he finally slowed to a stop and skated in your direction.

“Hey stranger,” you called once he was close enough. “Y’wanna talk about it?”

His breath was shallow as he looked at you through the metal of his helmet. You could see the sweat dripping off him as he shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

“Okay then,” you replied coolly, nodding before holding up a pair of skates for him to see. “Can I join you?”

He looked at you with a sense of disbelief. “You wanna do drills with me?”

You shrugged. “I don’t wanna play. I wanna skate. It’ll be kinda hard though with a big angry hockey player smacking his shit around on the ice.”

After a beat of contemplation from him, a small victorious smile slipped onto your lips as you saw his shoulders slump in defeat. “For old times sake Johnny.”

The boy lost the helmet and stick by time you slipped your skates onto your feet and made your way on the ice.

You didn’t wait for him as you kicked off, skating a jogging pace around the ice. You didn’t need to look back to know what he was already slowly catching up to you before finding his pace right next to you.

At first, the two of you skated in silence. Only the noise of the blades meeting the ice could be heard. Then he broke the silence.

“Garrett and Hannah got together.”

His words were blunt and spit out—you almost missed them. But when they eventually caught up to your ears, you came to a sudden stop, John stopping and turning around just a few feet ahead of you.

“What?”

He shook his head. “I really don’t wanna repeat it.”

Apart of you wanted to be gleeful. That recurring selfishness that wanted nothing more than to let Hannah be out the picture. But then you saw that hurt and frustration covering his face and it all melted into guilt.

“I–you were right. I should’ve said something when I had my chance. It’s just…pisses me off.”

You skated up to him slowly. “That she’s taken?”

“That it’s Garrett!” His voice rebounded off the walls as it raised slightly. “He—he didn’t even know her name a week ago and I just—,” he cut himself off.

His face was flushed red when you reached him, refusing to even look you in the eye. “Garrett’s great. My best friend or whatever but,” he looked up at you and shook his head, “I know him. He’s gonna be over her in less than a month and she doesn’t deserve that…”

You hated that feeling that rushed over you as you stood before him. Frustration and self-pity welling up in a bile that rested somewhere in your chest, waiting to just engulf you. The only thing worse than the feeling itself had to be shoving it away like your feelings were worth nothing.

Yet with a gentleness reserved for very few, you slipped your hands into his and gave it a squeeze. “John…I’m gonna tell you something. I know you’re not gonna wanna hear it but you need to.”

He didn’t look up at first, just glared at the ice below him.

“John.”

With stubborn defiance, he let his eyes meet yours and behind all that anger you could see the real vulnerability pouring through.

“It’s not your place to decide what’s good for Hannah.”

You could see his jaw clench as you continued, not in anger but when he knew you were right and didn’t want to admit it. “She is a grown woman who can date or hook up with whoever she likes…even Garrett.”

“I know,” he pushed out. “I just feel like he gets all these wins and I’m just…fucked. Like I can’t stop pulling the short end of the stick.”

You nodded, staring at him intently as you kept your grip on his hands. “I know. And unfortunately, that’s life. Sometimes you get shit and sometimes you get gold and most days you can’t control which hand you’re dealt. What you can control is what you do with it. Are you gonna obsess over this girl that isn’t yours, or are you gonna find a way to move past it?”

His breath was even now and his eyes stayed concentrated on you as his anger slowly slipped away. Wordlessly, he nodded and squeezed your hands one last time and let you ground him in this moment.

[INTERLUDE]

John was a man of consistency. Growing up the way he did, he chased that rhythm of knowing exactly was going to happen next in his life; whether that be with his academics, his career, or just sticking to a weekly schedule of class, gym, practice, studying, and sleep (save room for a party or two of course).

Within that schedule was movie night with you every week.

The two of you sat on the couch, lucky to snag the tv before any of the other boys. He sat in the corner of the couch, arm thrown over the back while you cozied into his side.

If he was being honest, he lost the plot of the movie a while ago; it had been a long day and practice was particularly rough so he felt dead. But he enjoyed these smaller moments with you when the world quieted itself just for the two of you.

“You’re not falling asleep on me,” you asked, looking up at him knowingly.

A rumble moved through his chest as he blinked himself awake. “Of course not. I could never miss the fundamentals of Jane Austen adaptations.”

“Don’t act like you don’t force me to watch your movies too,” you shoot back with a laugh while poking him in the side.

But before he could respond, a pain flared from his chest, forcing him to sit up with a groan. “Fuck.”

“Shit,” you murmured. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he grunted, trying to shake it off before you got too worried. “Probably just a bruise.”

But John eventually learned that a world that you weren’t worried about him was a world that simply didn’t exist.

“Let me see.”

He laughed it off at first, looking up at you. “What?”

“You heard me.” Your voice was stern and stubborn, not offering much room for him to argue back. “Lift up your shirt.”

“Jesus, buy me dinner first.”

You frowned at him. “John Logan—,”

“Okay, okay fine,” he ushered, moving his hand that kept his shirt from riding up. “Forget how stubborn you can be.”

You didn’t give him much of a response as you reached for the hem of his shirt and lifted it up to reveal the large scrape running up the side of his abdomen.

“Jesus Christ, you’re bleeding.”

His mouth fell open a moment, looking down at his injury then back up at you. “I’d hardly call it bleeding. I’ve had worse.”

“Doesn’t mean you should be bleeding out on the couch.”

“I’m not bleeding out,” he tried. “The boys just got a little carried away during practice okay? I’ll go patch myself up right now if you’re so worried.”

“No,” you demanded, pushing him lightly back onto the couch as you now knelt above him to stand up. “You stay put, I’ll do it.”

“That’s really not necessary.”

You threw your hands up on your hips and glared at the boy. “How about this, either you let me help you or you let the doctor in the emergency room help you? Your pick.”

Once again, he let his mouth fall open and shut incredulously as a scoff of a laugh left. “Fine, okay. If you insist.”

You eventually returned with this silent concentration that he rarely ever saw in you. Wordlessly, you sat back down on the couch next to him.

He watched as you worked on him and somewhere between you lightly wiping the wet cloth over his wound and tearing open the bandage packet, something changed.

Suddenly he took notice of the way your eyes trained so heavily on him, the way you bit your bottom lip, the way your fingers brushed against his skin so lightly in a way that trailed a flame with every touch.

It was like you set him on fire and he had no clue what to do with it.

[3]

The library was typically where you found the most peace. Most times you were there with John, studying until your eyes hurt and you couldn’t bear to type another paper or jot down another formula. Tonight was meant to be no different.

But your study partner’s mind seemed to be wandering elsewhere.

“Okay I’ll bite,” you huffed out, tossing your pen down to the table. “What’s wrong?”

John’s eyes flickered up to you in confusion. “What do you mean?”

You stared at him. Hard. Your eyes scanned all over his face before leaning back in your chair with a sigh. “I thought you were done with all this Hannah mess.”

“I-,” he stammered. “I was—I am! What are you on about?”

You quirked a brow up at the boy. “You’re making that face you always do. That face when you see Hannah and you want her to look at you. Except now it’s worse because she’s not even here.”

“That’s not—I don’t—,” he cut himself off, rubbing his hand over face. “It’s not Hannah…not anymore.”

You paused, suddenly afraid of moving as he avoided your gaze. You knew the question you wanted to ask—it weighed on your chest, fat, heavy, and waiting to be addressed.

“But there is someone?”

The silence in the air was enough of an answer for you, but his responses that tumbled out only seemed to taunt you more, beating the dagger deeper into your chest.

“Yes? No. Maybe. I don’t know…it’s complicated.”

That silence sat uncomfortably with you, as if the room was closing in. You wanted nothing more than to take down the walls so hellbent on closing in on you.

“Two lovers in a month,” you joked, your smile half-assed. “Quite the Casanova, huh Johnny?”

You didn’t expect him to snap back at you.

“Don’t be like that.” It wasn’t harsh or mean, but you could sense the edge in his voice as he looked back up at you.

“Like what,” you bit back, your voice cautious on the air.

“Like…” he trailed off, searching for the words in his head. “I don’t know.”

You looked at him patiently, rolling the ball of thought in your head before finally speaking up. “Tell me about them?”

He looked up at you and in his eyes you found something new, something strange. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, either.

“I…I just don’t want to fuck it up. I’m not good at this and you know I’m not but this time…they’re not like Hannah. I’d actually have something to lose if I do anything.”

God it felt like someone was punching you in the gut, watching him go on with this sparkle in his eyes that seemed to intensify from the times he’d go on about Hannah.

But you still did what you did best. You gave him advice.

“Well…I know it’s corny to say but, I think the best thing for you is listen to yourself…I can tell you that you need to man up or that you need to focus on yourself, but at the end of the day, it all comes down to what you’re willing to risk for what you want.”

He didn’t respond at first. Only sat there quietly and you weren’t really sure how he felt about what you had to say.

“I can say this. Ever since I met you, you always carefully picked the people you were friends with. If this person means as much to you as you say then something like this won’t chase them off.”

You leaned forward and let your hands cover his, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles in a way that only felt selfish.

You could only bring yourself to wonder why you kept putting yourself in positions like this with him.

[+1]

Finals season was finally over and you were free. It felt like one of the many weights were lifted off your shoulder and you were finally free to do what you really wanted to do.

Maybe on another night you would’ve stayed in and slept until the next semester, but somehow (with very little convincing) you were at Malone’s once again with your friends.

One thing led to another and suddenly you were settling on one of your two inevitable outcomes that came from Malone’s: enough drinks in your system to want to dance on a table. It was the kind of confidence you weren’t even sure where it came from.

You had already found the chair to help you reach the table before you felt someone tugging you down into their chest.

You whipped your head around suddenly before your shock melted into a dizzy smile as you recognized him.

“Johnny! I missed you. Where have you been?”

“Well,” he started with an amused smile, slowly leading you away from the crowd and towards the door. “One of your friends called and told me you were a bit to drunk to drive home.”

You let out a dramatic gasp, halting in your step before turning around to face him fully. “Was is Mackenzie? Or was it Kris? Traitors…”

John huffed out a laugh as he took you by your hand and continued to pull you toward the exit, guiding you to his car with the looming fear of you suddenly falling over or puking. Or both.

“I’m not supposed to be alone with you when I’m drunk,” you groaned as he began his drive. “Sober-me made drunk-me swear by it.”

He looked at you with a raised eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

“Because,” you hissed. “I have secrets! Big secrets. If I’m drunk then I’ll want to tell you my secrets.”

He could only let himself smile a bit as he tried to brush off your words. “Well then I’ll be sure you don’t spill any secrets to me.”

You only giggled and grinned as you turned to him. “That sounds like a challenge.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to have your secrets,” he laughed.

“That’s sober-me,” you replied with a feigned coolness. “Drunk-me doesn’t associate with them.”

“Talk about self-sabotage,” he chuckled lightly to himself.

His hand rested on the console between the two of you, drumming lightly in a way that caught your attention. Absentmindedly, you reached for it, running your fingers up and down to trace where his veins trailed.

“You have pretty hands, Johnny.”

His eyes flickered to look at you from his peripheral. “Thank you.”

His voice was clipped. Restrained.

“Johnny?”

A beat of silence passed between the two of you before he spoke up. “Yeah?”

“Can I tell you something?”

A small smile spread across his lips again. “Is it a secret?”

You giggled again, looking back at him. “No…it’s a question. I always give you advice, I think it’s about time you give me some earth=shattering advice.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at that before releasing a soft sigh. “Go for it.”

“If I have a this big fat secret that I technically shouldn’t tell, I know that I shouldn’t ever bring it up.”

“That’s typically how secrets work.”

“Okay smart-ass,” you frowned, flicking his hand before sitting back in your seat. “But what if this secret is like huge. Like…it makes me want to throw up, explode, and vomit all at the same time.”

“Aren’t vomiting and throwing up the same thing,” he questioned.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, throwing your head back to stare at the ceiling of the car. “Stop trying to be funny, a piece of me dies every time you try to be funny.”

“Wow,” he muttered, failing to even try to hide his smile. “I think a secret like that should be told to the right person. You should find someone you trust with it if you can’t share it.”

The car finally came to a stop, allowing him a moment to fully look at you as your eyes drooped back down to him. “And if the secret is about the person I trust the most in the world?”

The silence that passed between the two of you was typically short and quick, shoved under the rug before it could even be processed. This silence was not like that.

It laid in the air with heavy existence as John struggled to come up with anything to say. All he could focus on was the way your eyes seemed to glimmer under the lights of the nearby street lights.

And of course, he was always the one to break it. “Look at that, we’re here. C’mon.”

Even drunk, you knew the routine whenever you spent the night at John’s. You’d take the bathroom first, then him and he’d let you take the bed while he took the floor (no matter how hard you fought him over it). You had stayed over so often that he already had your clothes waiting for you in his bottom drawer.

It didn’t take long for the two of you to get ready. You sat on his bed, watching him expectantly as he made his own makeshift bed on the floor beside you.

“You should know my secret,” you blurted out.

“I really don’t think I should,” he replied softly.

“I really think you should.”

“y/n.”

“It’s really important actually—been eating me alive since freshman year.”

“y/n.”

“I’m in love with you John Logan.”

With his back to you, the man froze in his actions. Unable to move as the words fully moved through his head. But you kept going.

“I wanted to tell you immediately actually, but then there was her. Yo—you liked her for so long and y’know it was always Hannah. Always. And a part of me, a really really selfish part of me, wishes it stayed Hannah. Because then…it means less. Hannah is amazing and kind and beautiful, and so so so funny. Hell I’d be in love with Hannah if I wasn’t so in love with you.”

He knew he should stop the words free-falling from your lips, but he couldn’t even gather himself to move much less convince you to stop saying all the things he knew you’d regret in the morning.

“But then you met someone else and then I finally realized it. It was never about me not being like Hannah. It was about me not being right…for you. I’ll never be right for you, will I?”

Not enough words could describe everything John wanted to say in that moment, but it truly didn’t matter. For when he turned around to face you, you were already fast asleep.

[the aftermass]

You weren’t sure exactly what time it was when you eventually woke up, all you knew is that you were drenched in regret as a headache pounded incessantly in your head.

The night came back to you in pieces, like a puzzle waiting to be put back together slowly. You remember your friends inviting you to Malone’s, having a few too many drinks, the dancing, the attempts to climb on the table.

It got fuzzier as you tried to recall. John had shown up, dragging you out the bar, convincing you not to spill—

You sat up suddenly, headache be damned, as your memories slammed itself back into your mind.

And then the voice you dreaded to hear. “Good morning.”

He was seated there on the floor, just like he always was when you woke up. You would exchange your ‘good mornings’, laugh about whatever happened the night before, talk about what you had planned that day.

“You remember much from last night,” he asked, sounding as if he’d been up for hours.

You only nodded.

If you were being honest, you wanted to skip over the entire routine. You swung your feet over the bed, planting your feet on the ground while avoiding his gaze.

“Do you want to talk about it,” he asked.

You shook your head at first. “No.”

You didn’t need to look at him to register how much he was thrown off. “No?”

“No just…not yet.” You began for the door, hand landing on the doorknob. “I need coffee before I can talk about anything.”

You knew he was following and you really wished you didn’t. Knowing he was just a few steps behind you only made the thudding in your heart all the more intense.

It was a huge awkward silence that settled between the two of you as he stood there, waiting for the moment you gave any indication as to wanting to continue the conversation.

“You want some,” you ask, back turned completely to him.

“y/n.”

You let out a sigh as you gripped your now full mug, glaring into the pool of brown liquid before eventually turning around to face him from where he stood at the other side of the island.

“Guess that’s a no,” you attempted to joke, but he didn’t quite return the sentiment. He only seemed to look back at you with that look of conflict he wore so often.

“If you don’t want to talk about it…”

“No,” you blurted out suddenly. “I just…”

You pinched the bridge of your nose before tossing your hand up and letting it fall to the side. “I kinda said everything I needed to say last night. Yes, I’ve liked you or been in love with you since we moved here. Yes, I was jealous of Hannah and I’m jealous of whoever you seem to like right now and no, I had no intention of telling you.

First it was Hannah and then it was your mystery person and I just don’t want to stand in the way of what you have going on and ruin thin—”

“y/n.”

He was beginning to make it a habit of saying your name in that specific tone that made you all dizzy inside.

“Can I have a turn to speak,” he asked softly.

You let out a brisk sigh before motioning for him to speak.

“Do you remember that one night a few weeks ago? When we were watching Pride and Prejudice in the living room?”

Your brows furrowed down in confusion before nodding slowly. “Yeaaah…? What about it?”

He took a step around the island, walking just a bit closer to you while still offering you that space. “Well, when I was sitting there, watching you patch me up, I realized something.”

He took another step. “I realized that you’re stubborn. And you rarely let other people have their way. But I like that about you.”

Another step. “You’re considerate. You always put other’s feelings before your own…even if it means sacrificing something for yourself.”

He took a final step forward, landing barely even a foot away from you. “I also learned that no one else in the world cares for me like you do. And I was blind to miss it for so long.”

Your mouth fell open, looking at him in with a mix of disbelief and skepticism. “I don’t understand. Your…your mystery person.”

With a gentle hand, he reached for your coffee mug and placed it down on the counter before grasping your hand to squeeze it tight, just like every time you did so to ground him.

“You are that person. It’s always been you. And if I’m being honest…ever since that night I have been doing everything in my power to not kiss you on the spot.”

And for a moment, neither of you moved. Neither of you was sure if one should. But then you saw that flicker of doubt in his eyes and the way he slowly leaned back from you.

In a split moment of decision making, you finally let your impulses speak for themselves and you grabbed the fabric of his shirt and pulled him into you, letting your lips collide.

He didn’t react at first, his eyes blowing wide as his senses caught up to him. But when they did, everything seemed to melt in place. With one arm wrapping itself around your waist, he let his other hand find the nape of your neck, cradling you close as you tried to breathe in every inch of him.

Your hand buried itself in his hair, nails scratching gently at his scalp, only making him sigh into the kiss. “Damn,” he mumbled against your lips, his breathing shallow as he pressed his forehead against yours.

You let out a soft laugh, unable to believe everything that’s finally happened. “Took you long enough to catch up, Johnny. You were killing me here.”

A smile blessed his lips as he continued to kiss you, like a vice. “I know. How will I ever make it up to you?”

You grinned devilishly. “I can think of a few different ways.

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a/n: this was NOT meant to be this long omg. I just finished this show earlier this week and I'm obsessed with Logan, he's honestly one of my favorites. I hope this gets all the love, please comment and reblog it would mean so much to me!!