.✦ ݁˖ame

The drive back to your dorm felt longer than it should have. You kept the radio off, which probably wasn’t helping, since you had nothing to distract you from what had just happened.

Normally, after a night at Malone’s, you’d leave with a smile on your face. Sometimes you’d replay a conversation you’d had with Logan. Sometimes you’d laugh, remembering something stupid Dean said. More often than not, you’d leave with Logan and spend the night with him.

Tonight, all you could think about was the look on Logan’s face when you’d stood up from the booth. It wasn’t the irritation or even the surprise; it was the hurt. You hated that part.

You hadn’t left to punish him or because you wanted him to feel bad. You’d left because staying suddenly felt impossible. For weeks, you’d been swallowing little disappointments and brushing them away before they could become real.

Each one had seemed too small to fight about, and too small to make a big deal out of. But sitting in that booth tonight, hearing that sharp edge in his voice, something inside you had finally cracked.

Your phone buzzed when you stopped at a red light. You didn’t need to look to know it was him. Still, you waited until you were parked outside your dorm before checking. There were three texts.

Logan: Did you get back okay?

Logan: Y/N?

Logan: Can we talk?

The knot in your chest tightened. Of course, he wanted to talk. The problem was that you didn’t know what you would even say.

You typed the only honest thing you could think of.

You: yeah. I’m back.

A response came almost immediately.

Logan: Can I call?

You took a breath.

You: I’m tired.

The bubble popped up showing he was typing, and disappeared, before reappearing again.

Logan: okay

Logan: I love you.

The words hit you right in the chest. You believed them. You never doubted that Logan loved you.

You: I love you too

You set your phone on her nightstand and climbed into bed. For a long time, you stared at the ceiling. Sleep didn’t come quickly. Every time you closed your eyes, you found yourself replaying the same thought.

‘What if he doesn’t have anything left to give?’

That thought followed you into sleep.

--

The next morning felt strangely normal.

You woke up to a text from Logan.

Logan: Morning

Logan: Hope you slept okay

You stared at them while sitting up in bed. A month ago, you would’ve smiled immediately at those texts. Now, you felt something closer to sadness. You felt farther away from him than you had a month ago.

You answered anyway, and you texted throughout the morning. Nothing important, just surface-level things; as well as Dean apparently setting off a smoke alarm while trying to make breakfast.

By noon, he called. You answered on the second ring.

“Hey.”

“Hi.”

His voice sounded rough.  You talked briefly about what was happening that week and about an upcoming game.

Neither of you mentioned Malone’s, not once. The omission sat between you the entire time. When the call ended twelve minutes later, you stared down at your phone.

You used to regularly spend an hour on the phone without realizing it. Twelve minutes. Now, it felt like you were both rushing toward the finish line.

--

Mel noticed something was wrong on Monday. You should’ve known better than to think you’d get away with pretending.

You were sitting in a coffee shop near campus, both working on your laptops and accomplishing very little.

Mel had been watching you for nearly twenty minutes. Every time you looked up, Mel was looking at you.

Finally, Mel snapped her laptop shut.

“Okay,” Mel said.

You blinked, “What?”

“What’s going on?”

You immediately looked back at your screen.

“Nothing.”

“You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?” you asked.

“The thing where you stare at your phone every five minutes and pretend that you’re not doing that.”

You sighed and eventually closed your own laptop. The fight drained out of your shoulders.

“I don’t know,” you said.

Mel’s expression softened.

“What happened?” Mel asked.

For a moment, you considered giving the easy answer. Instead, you surprised yourself by telling her the truth.

“I just miss him all of the time.”

Mel frowned, “He’s your boyfriend.”

You let out a laugh, “I know. It’s just… I can be sitting right next to him, and he always feels like he’s somewhere else.”

The confession hung between you. Once it was out, you couldn’t take it back. Mel reached across the table and squeezed your hand. And for the first time in weeks, you admitted how exhausted you were, too.

--

By Tuesday, you had convinced yourself that you were being dramatic. Not completely, just enough to make yourself feel guilty. Every time you thought about Malone’s, you thought about everything Logan had on his plate: practice, games, scouts, classes, family, and the garage.

The endless stream of people who seemed to want something from him every hour of the day. Then, you’d think about the look on his face when you’d walked out of Malone’s, and you’d feel terrible all over again.

The problem was that feeling terrible didn’t make you feel better or make you less lonely. It didn’t make you miss him less.

Your phone buzzed while you were sitting in the library trying to finish an assignment.

Logan: Can you come to the garage after class?

You stared at the message. Not because you didn’t know what it meant, because you did. You had spent days carefully stepping around the thing neither of you wanted to discuss, and eventually, one of you had to force the issue. Apparently, that day had arrived.

You: okay

Logan: Around 5?

You: sure

The conversation ended there. There were no hearts, no jokes. Just a plan. The simplicity of it made knots in your stomach.

--

Logan & Sons looked exactly the same as it always did. The glowing, neon sign, the same cracked pavement in the parking lot, the same smell of oil and metal drifting from the open bay door.

You parked and checked the time; it was 4:52. You were early.

You headed inside, seeing Jeff working on a truck. He looked up when he saw you.

“Hey, Y/N,” he said.

You gave a small wave, “Hi, Jeff.”

He took one good look at your face and sighed. That wasn’t encouraging.

“That obvious?”

“Painfully.”

You gave a small laugh. Jeff set his tools down.

“He’s coming, right? I know he’s supposed to work on a car tonight,” he asked.

“Supposedly,” you said, the word slipping out before you could stop it.

Jeff’s eyebrows rose slightly, and you immediately regretted saying it. But Jeff was Logan’s brother, and probably could tell something was off.

“He’ll be here,” he said.

The certainty in his voice should have reassured you, but it just made you tired. That wasn’t really the issue anymore.

You sat on the edge of a workbench near the office while Jeff went back to work. For a while, the only sounds were music drifting through the garage speakers and the occasional clank of tools against metal as Jeff worked.

You checked the time. 5:01.

Then, 5:07. 5:12.

By 5:15, you’d stopped pretending you weren’t watching the parking lot.

At 5:18, your phone buzzed.

Logan: running late, coach kept us

You just stared at the screen. Always something, always another reason, another obligation.

You: okay

The clock ticked toward 5:30. As ridiculous as it was, you found yourself thinking about every other time that you’d waited. Standing outside the locker room after the game, showing up to movie night, checking your phone at night, waiting for him to call you, waiting for plans, and waiting for conversations that never seemed to happen anymore.

The realization made your stomach hurt, because you hadn’t even noticed you’d started keeping score.

At 5:38, you heard the familiar sound of Logan’s truck pulling into the parking lot. Your heart reacted before your brain did, and you felt the stupid, automatic flutter you’d gotten since the day they’d met.

Logan climbed out of his truck, moving fast into the building. He had spotted you immediately, his expression softening and the tension in his face easing. For a second, you remembered exactly why you fell in love with him. Then, he looked at his watch, and the moment vanished.

“Hey,” he said, reaching you and leaning down, pressing a quick kiss to your lips.

You kissed him back, out of habit. Out of love. Out of confusion.

When he pulled away, he let out a breath, “Sorry, coach kept us late.”

His hair was damp from practice, and his shoulders looked tight. He looked exhausted. Somehow, that made you angrier, because you knew exactly what came next. The explanation. The reason for what prevented him from being here. Something inside of you finally gave way.

“You’re late.”

Logan blinked; the words clearly caught him off guard.

“What?”

“You’re late.”

His expression tightened immediately. Not with anger, but confusion.

“I texted you.”

You laughed, and the sound came out sharper than you’d intended.

“Yeah.”

Now Logan frowned. The familiar defensive look appeared almost instantly.

“I don’t understand what you’re upset about.”

The sentence landed very badly. You crossed your arms.

“Really?” you asked.

“Yeah, really.”

The frustration in his voice was impossible to miss now. For the first time in weeks, neither of you backed down. You knew exactly where this conversation was headed.

For a few seconds, neither of you said anything. The tension settled heavily in the garage. Somewhere behind you, a song changed on the speakers. Jeff looked up from the truck, took one glance at your faces, and immediately disappeared into another part of the garage.

“Y/N, I texted you the second I got out of practice.”

You laughed again, the same humorless sound you’d started hating. Every time it came out of your mouth, you felt like someone you didn’t recognize.

“Do you honestly think this is about 30 minutes?”

Logan stared at you, “No. I think this is about something else, and I have no idea what it is because you won’t actually tell me.”

The words hit harder than they should have, mostly because there was some truth buried inside of them. You hadn’t told him, not really. You’d swallowed things down, ignored them. You’d made excuses for him, for yourself, and every time that something hurt, you’d convinced yourself it wasn’t important enough to bring up. Now all of it was sitting in your chest at once.

Logan scrubbed a hand over his face. He looked exhausted. The sight softened you for half of a second, but then you remembered. You remembered standing in the doorway of his house when Dean realized he had forgotten about movie night. You remembered watching Dean’s Instagram story from Malone’s.

“You forgot me.”

The words came out quietly, so quietly that Logan didn’t react at first. Then, his brow furrowed.

“What?”

“You forgot me.”

“Y/N, what are you talking about?”

You stared at him. Part of you couldn’t believe you were actually saying any of this out loud. The other part wondered why you waited so long.

“Malone’s. Movie night. The lack of calls. Texts. Conversations.”

Logan opened his mouth and closed it again. For the first time since you'd known him, he genuinely looked at a loss.

“You think I forgot about you?”

The hurt in his voice made something twist painfully in your chest. You knew how that sounded; cruel, unfair.

“Yes. No. Kind of.”

“Then what are you saying?”

You let out a shaky breath, “I’m just saying I feel like I keep ending up at the bottom of the list.”

Logan stared at you, and then actually looked angry. He wasn’t furious, he wasn’t yelling, but he looked angry. The kind of anger that came from feeling misunderstood.

“That’s not fair.”

There it was, the first real spark.

“Isn’t it?”

“No.”

Logan took a step back and ran both hands through his hair.

“I’ve been trying to balance a hundred different things.”

“I know you have.”

“Do you?” he asked.

The question landed hard. Suddenly, Logan wasn’t just frustrated; he was hurt, too.

“I don’t think you do,” he added.

“What?”

“I don’t think you understand what the last few weeks have been like.”

The words were sharp enough to sting. He gestured vaguely toward the garage, and just everything.

“Every day it’s something. Practice, scouts, coaches, classes, interviews, meetings, the garage… everyone wants something from me all of the time.”

You folded your arms tighter across your chest.

“And you think I don’t know that?”

“No, I think you know it. I just don’t think you get what it feels like.”

The sentence hit you like a slap. You stared at him. Then anger arrived. Real anger.

“You’re right.”

Logan frowned.

“Y/N—”

“No, you’re absolutely right.”

You laughed once, and it was bitter.

“Because clearly the last few weeks have only been hard for you.”

His expression changed immediately, but you couldn’t stop now.

“You know what the worst part is?” you asked.

“Y/N.”

“The worst part is that I know you’re trying,” you said. Your voice cracked, “I know you are.”

You swallowed hard and then forced yourself to continue.

“Every single time something happens, I tell myself it’s not your fault. I tell myself you’re tired.”

Logan’s jaw tightened.

“Or stressed, or busy. Maybe that’s true,” you said, the anger draining, leaving something sadder behind.

“Maybe every single reason you’ve given me is completely valid.”

Logan didn’t interrupt; he just stood there listening.

“You didn’t see the look on Dean’s face when I showed up to movie night. I stood there like an idiot.”

“Y/N—”

“No. I don’t think you understand how humiliating that feels.”

The words echoed through the garage, and Logan looked stunned this time. But, you weren’t finished.

“Or seeing everyone at Malone’s because Dean posted a video. Or you snapping at me that night.”

You looked directly at him.

“I feel stupid waiting for you all the time,” you said.

The sentence landed between you. Logan didn’t look angry anymore; he looked devastated.

For a long moment, Logan didn’t say anything. The garage felt impossibly still. All of the anger that you had been carrying for days had finally come out, and now you felt exhausted.

“I didn’t know all of this,” he said quietly.

“That’s kind of the point.”

Logan looked away briefly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

“I didn’t realize it was this bad.”

You stared at him. Part of you wanted to laugh, and another part of you wanted to cry. Instead, you just shook your head.

“How could you?” you asked.

Logan’s eyes snapped back to yours. The question clearly caught him off guard.

“You’ve been so busy trying to survive every day that I don’t think you’ve noticed anything else.”

The words weren’t meant to be cruel. Logan wanted to argue; you could see it, his instinctive defensiveness. However, he stopped. Maybe he was finally hearing you.

“I spend half of my time missing you. I miss you all the time,” you whispered. The words hit him exactly where you’d expected them to.

Once you started talking, you couldn’t stop.

“I miss talking to you. I miss hanging out with you. I miss being excited to tell you things. I miss sitting next to you without wondering if you’re actually listening.”

You saw him flinch and the guilt arrive. Logan took a slow breath.

“I’m right here.”

The words hung between them, and you closed your eyes. It was the thing you’d been terrified he would say, because you knew he believed it. You knew he meant it.

You felt tears prick behind your eyes.

“I’m saying you’re not.”

You didn’t want to hurt him. You loved him. You loved him so much. If you didn’t love him with your entire heart, none of this would matter.

“You think this is about being late today?” you wiped quickly at her eyes, “I don’t care that you’re late.”

That lie lasted half a second.

“Okay, I care a little,” you said, a small laugh escaping you, “That’s not why we’re here.”

Logan looked exhausted emotionally, like the weight of the conversation was finally settling onto his shoulders.

You took a shaky breath and then said the thing you’d been carrying for weeks. The thing you’d been terrified to admit.

“Why am I always the thing that gets forgotten?”

Just like that, everything went silent. Logan didn’t have an answer, at least not a real one. Not one that would make any of this hurt less. You watched John Logan stand there completely speechless.

The question had been sitting somewhere deep in your chest for weeks, gathering weight every time you waited for a text that never came, or every time you watched Logan get pulled away by something else. Now it was out in the open.

Eventually, Logan looked away first. He dragged a hand through his hair and turned toward the workbench behind you, bracing both palms against the metal surface.

“I don’t forget you.”

His voice was quieter now.

“You make it sound like I don’t care about you, Y/N.”

You hated that you were hurting him. You still wanted to walk across the garage and wrap your arms around him.

“I’m not saying you don’t care. I’m just tired of being understanding all the time. I’m tired of always making excuses.”

“But it’s true.”

“I know it’s true, John. I know every reason. I’ve memorized them.”

“So what? What do you want from me?” he asked quietly.

You didn’t want flowers, or more texts, or grand gestures. You just wanted him back. Not the version everyone else got, just Logan. You wanted the guy who would sit up with you until two in the morning, talking about absolutely nothing. You wanted their dinner nights back at the diner.

“I know I’ve screwed things up. I know I’ve been distracted,” he said, his voice rising slightly, “You think I wanted to forget movie night?”

You looked at him, tears welling up in your eyes again.

“I feel like I’m standing here getting ripped apart over things I already know I fucked up.”

“John—”

“I don’t know how to fix this.”

“You’re going to keep being busy. The scouts aren’t going to go away. I just feel you disappearing. I don’t know what happens now,” you whispered.

The truth was you loved each other, and you were both hurting. Neither of you knew how to bridge the distance that had grown between you.

Logan pushed away from the workbench and made his way a little closer to you.

“I kept telling myself it was temporary, and that I’d get back to normal. Then the next week came, and it was still busy.” He said.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.

“Somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling like your girlfriend,” you said honestly, “I started feeling like somebody trying to squeeze into whatever space was left.”

“I never wanted you to feel that way,” he said honestly, more sad than anything. That was the tragedy of it. Not once had you thought that he was purposely trying to push you away.

The painful part was that intentions weren’t enough anymore. Some people could love each other completely and still end up here. What scared you most was standing here in the garage, neither of you knew how to make it better.

You wiped the tears from your eyes. Later, when you thought back on the conversation, the details blurred together. The argument itself remained painfully sharp in your memory, every word etched into your mind with clarity, but the ending felt softer somehow.

Maybe because neither of you had wanted it; maybe because there wasn’t a villain. Maybe because you were both standing there, realizing that love wasn’t fixing the problem anymore.

The sun had disappeared by the time you looked at your phone. The sight of the time startled you; you’d been talking for nearly two hours. Both of you just felt exhausted.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, you picked up your bag from the workbench. The movement felt small, but it changed everything. Logan’s eyes dropped to the bag in your hand, and something shifted in his expression. Sadness. As though he knew what the gesture meant.

“I should go.”

Logan nodded once; the motion was barely visible. You thought he might tell you to stay. Instead, he looked down at the floor and shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants. It was a familiar gesture, one you’d seen a hundred times. Only this time, he looked completely defeated.

“Okay.”

That was all he said. No promises. No speech. No desperate attempt to fix everything before you reached the door. A lot of things were said tonight, and you both needed time to process them.

You took a few steps toward the open bay door and then stopped. Despite everything, you couldn’t just leave, not like this. Not after all of this.

When you turned back, Logan was exactly where you’d left him. He was standing beside the workbench, watching you. The distance between you wasn’t very far; it was maybe twenty feet.

“I love you.”

The words slipped out of your mouth before you could stop them. Logan’s eyes closed briefly. When he opened them again, you could see exactly how much those words had cost him, because he looked devastated all over again.

“I love you, too.”

His voice sounded rough, but his answer came immediately and without hesitation. You nodded lightly before forcing yourself to turn around.

The evening air felt cooler than you expected when you stepped outside. You reached your car and opened the door. You looked back one last time, and Logan was still standing in the garage, exactly where you’d left him. The sight lodged itself painfully in your chest, because he looked alone. The same way you’d felt for weeks.

The first crack was so small that you had almost missed it.

That was the dangerous thing about happiness: you never noticed the exact moment it started to change shape.

At first, everything still looked beautiful. Logan kissed you the second he saw you, still reached for you automatically, and still looked at you like you were the best part of his day.

But now, there was something else underneath it, too. Pressure. As the hockey season progressed and the Hawks kept winning, the pressure also started to mount for the team, and on Logan, specifically.

Grace started noticing it everywhere: there were the constant phone calls, scouts at games, exhaustion around Logan’s eyes, and how his shoulders tightened every time his phone buzzed.

The first time it really hit you was a Thursday morning. You woke in Logan’s bed, warm beneath tangled blankets while sunlight spilled softly through the curtains.

For one sleepy second, everything felt perfect. You cuddled up to Logan, who was stroking your bare back softly. It was quiet. Then, Logan’s phone buzzed. His whole body tensed before he even checked it. He moved to take it off his nightstand, reading the message.

“Is it Coach?” You asked quietly.

Logan rubbed tiredly at his face, “Yeah.”

You felt that awful ache again beneath your ribs, like you were missing him before he’d even left the bed.

--

The kitchen at the Hawks Hockey House was chaos later that morning. Dean argued with Garrett over breakfast while Tucker cooked. You sat on the counter wearing Logan’s hoodie while Logan stood between your knees, watching all of it.

It was normal.

“Scouts coming Saturday too?” Garrett said to Logan, handing him and you some coffee.

Logan nodded once, “Yeah, three teams.”

Garrett nodded, “Good to know. Which teams?”

Logan thought for a second, “Bruins, Rangers, Sharks.”

Garrett nodded, “Big ones.”

You felt Logan’s hand tighten against your knee. A tiny movement, but you could tell he was stressed.

--

On Friday night, you waited at Rosie’s for almost forty minutes before Logan finally arrived. You were about to leave and tell him he could just meet you later, but he strolled through the door, the bell signaling his arrival.

The second he spotted you, relief crossed his face so visibly it made your chest ache.

“Sorry,” he murmured, sliding into the booth beside you instead of across from you. You leaned automatically into his side while Logan kissed your temple softly.

Rosie arrived at their booth and set a coffee down with a pointed look.

“You’re running this poor girl emotionally ragged,” Rosie said.

Logan looked immediately guilty, and you hated that. You weren’t angry that he was busy, but you were scared of what being busy was doing to him. You watched as more and more things started filling his time, between hockey, classes, and the garage, and you hadn’t seen much of him lately.

His phone buzzed a few times during dinner, and he checked each time.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you a lot this week,” Logan admitted quietly later. The honesty in his voice hit you directly in the chest. He missed you, too.

By the time you went to Logan & Sons later, because he had to fill out some paperwork at the garage, it had started to rain outside. The garage sat mostly quiet except for the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. Jeff had already left for the night.

You sat on the office couch while Logan stared blankly at the paperwork on the desk, trying to sort through invoices.

“You’re exhausted,” you noted.

A weak laugh escaped him, “little bit.”

“John.”

“Okay,” he admitted quietly, looking up at you, noting that you didn’t use his first name frequently, “A lot.”

You crossed the office without thinking and slid gently into his lap. Logan held you immediately, his forehead dropping against your shoulder like he’d been waiting for you to do exactly that.

The intimacy of it all nearly wrecked you. This. This was the version of him that no one else got.

“You’re carrying too much,” you whispered softly.

Logan stayed quiet for a second too long, “Yeah.”

You kissed his forehead gently while his hands tightened at your waist. This terrified you because you could see how much pressure this was starting to become for him.

Logan kissed you slowly before you could spiral further. You kissed him back immediately, his hands sliding into your hair while rain fell softly outside the garage.

Somewhere in the middle of kissing him, his lips softly tangling with yours, you had a true realization. You were no longer falling in love with him; you loved him. Completely.

--

The problem with loving someone before you said it out loud was that eventually the words started leaking into everything anyway.

It leaked into the way you looked for Logan first in every room, how Logan reached for you automatically whenever he got stressed, and the ache in your chest every time exhaustion consumed him lately.

Neither of you had technically said you loved each other yet, but it was there.

After the night at Logan & Sons, you felt like the words were sitting constantly at the back of your throat, which is why you’d been acting weird all weekend.

You weren’t cold, no, just… careful. You didn’t want to ruin anything.

Logan noticed something was off immediately, too. Of course he did.

You were lying in bed late at night one night when Logan’s phone buzzed. He hadn’t been home long, having a late practice earlier that night.

His shoulders tightened instantly. He silenced the call without answering it and rubbed one hand over his face.

“You can take the call,” you said quietly.

‘Don’t want to.”

The answer came too fast. Logan looked exhausted even while trying to protect your time together.

“You’re burning yourself out,” you said, moving some of the hair from his face as you turned to look at him.

He laughed weakly, “Probably.”

The casualness scared you. Logan moved his hand slowly along your back, and you got goosebumps as he traced your spine.

“You’ve been quiet and scared of something all week,” he murmured.

You looked down immediately, because yes, you had.

“I just…” You swallowed hard, “I’m scared hockey’s gonna demand more from you than you can give everything else.”

There was silence, and Logan stared at you for a second.

“You think I’m gonna leave.”

“No,” you said quickly, “Not because you want to.”

The sadness that crossed Logan’s face nearly broke you. You forced yourself to keep going anyway, to be honest.

“You’re exhausted all of the time. Everybody wants something from you constantly, and I don’t wanna become another thing pulling at you.”

The room went quiet, and Logan looked hurt. He was hurt that you could think he saw you that way.

“Y/N,” he said softly, touching your face carefully, “You’re the only thing lately that makes me feel like myself.”

You laughed weakly through the emotion climbing your throat.

“You keep saying things like that.”

“Because they’re true.”

You stared at him, then whispered, “When did you become everything to me?”

Logan inhaled sharply. His hands stilled on your waist.

“I think we knew that first night,” he admitted quietly.

A helpless laugh escaped you immediately, “The first night?”

“You arrived, soaked from the rain, your check engine light a bright orange, and it was like I just knew you’d be important.”

Emotion swelled painfully in your chest. You thought back to that first night at the garage, and then going to Rosie’s.

Logan’s thumb brushed softly beneath your cheekbone.

Suddenly, you couldn’t hold the words back anymore, not after this.

“I love you,” you said.

Logan froze instantly, and your heartbeat thundered in your chest. Then, Logan looked at you with this soft, overwhelmed expression that nearly made you cry.

“You said it first,” he whispered.

You laughed shakily, “Seriously?”

A real laugh escaped him then, warm and disbelieving.

“I love you, too. I think I’ve been in love with you for weeks.”

You kissed him immediately after that, and Logan kissed you back eagerly. For a little while, the pressure disappeared completely. No hockey, no scouts, no people pulling at him constantly.

The first sign that you were going to have a terrible Thursday happened at 8:10 that morning when you spilled cold brew directly down the front of your white sweater five minutes before class started.

Oh, it wasn’t a splash or a drip. It was a pour. Like the universe had taken deliberate aim at your sweater.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” you muttered, staring down at the spreading brown stain in horror while fellow Briar University students streamed around you outside the Business building.

A guy holding a door open up ahead glanced at you sympathetically. You smiled tightly.

“Livin’ the dream,” you said, holding up your empty coffee cup towards him as you entered the building.

By noon, the stain on your sweater had dried into a horrible stain you weren’t sure you’d be able to get out, you’d forgotten about a discussion post that was worth fifteen percent of your grade, and your mother had texted you three separate times asking if you had heard back from any internship coordinators yet.

You sat in the third row of your marketing class, trying very hard not to put your head through your desk.

Professor Cole clicked through slides at the front of the lecture hall while you stared blankly at your laptop. Your group presentation was in twenty minutes, and Tyler, who had contributed almost nothing for two weeks straight, still hadn’t uploaded the portion of his project.

Melanie leaned over from the seat beside you, “You look like you’re about to commit a felony.”

You didn’t look away from the screen. “I’m considering it.”

“Against Tyler?” Mia asked.

“Yes.”

“Fair.”

You finally turned your head toward her, lowering your voice. “If he doesn’t upload his part before this presentation, I’m actually going to lose my mind.”

“He’s probably just finishing it,” Mel tried.

You gave her a look.

Mel winced. “Okay, yeah. That sounded fake, even to me.”

You scrubbed a hand over your face.

The exhaustion sitting behind your eyes lately felt permanent. Not dramatic enough to ruin your life, not severe enough for anyone to really notice, but constant. Everything required effort.

Everyone around you seemed so sure lately. People are talking about internships and graduate schools, and moving to other cities. You're just trying to get through your junior year.

Your phone buzzed.

Tyler:  My bad just saw this lol

You stared at the message in disbelief. Then another message appeared.

Tyler: Think my wifi is messed up

“Your villain origin story,” Mel whispered.

You replied to Tyler: presentation is in fifteen minutes.

Three dots appeared, disappeared, and then reappeared.

Tyler: can u just cover my part?

You slowly lowered the phone. Mel saw your face immediately. “Oh no.”

“He wants me to cover his part,” You whispered.

“Absolutely not.”

“I know that.”

Mel sighed. “You’re going to do it anyway, though, aren’t you?”

You slumped back in your chair, because yes, obviously you were.

Professor Cole clapped once from the front. “Alright, let’s get started.”

Fantastic.

You stood on unsteady legs while your group, minus Tyler, gathered at the front of the room.

The presentation started badly and somehow continued to get worse. The projector lagged, one slide had the wrong chart. Then came your section.

Normally, you were good at presentations. Not amazing, but competent. Today, though? Today, your brain felt like static.

You clicked through to the next slide and immediately realized it was wrong. Not catastrophically wrong, just enough that every word in your head vanished at once.

“And, um…”

The room suddenly felt too warm. You swallowed.

Professor Cole looked up from his notes.

Panic crawled slowly up the back of your neck.

“And the consumer demographic,” you said finally, your voice thinner than normal, “shows a significant preference toward…”

Toward what? Your own slide looked unfamiliar. Heat flooded your face.

“…sorry.” Your voice sounded far away.

You kept talking anyway, grasping at anything to say as a few students focused in on you more.

By the time the presentation ended, you had no memory of half of what you'd said. You sat back down in your seat, your face flushed, while your heartbeat thudded painfully in your ears.

“That honestly wasn’t even that bad,” Mel said, leaning over.

You stared ahead blankly. “You’re lying.”

“A little.” “Thank you.”

The rest of the class dragged on endlessly. By the time you finally escaped the building, dusk had already started settling over campus. A chilly wind whipped between the brick buildings, as students hurried past in clusters, bundled in hoodies and jackets, laughing too loudly.

You felt disconnected from it all somehow.

Rain clouds rolled low overhead as you crossed the parking lot towards your car.

Your ancient silver Honda Civic sat wedged crookedly between two SUVs, looking vaguely apologetic about existing. This car was your baby, though, and had been with you all through high school and now into college.

You unlocked the car and got inside, sitting there for a minute before starting it up.

The check engine light glowed immediately when you started the ignition. It was bright orange and accusatory.

The light had flickered on three days ago.

You’d ignored it because:

1. You were broke,

2. You were stressed,

3. Denial was free.

The engine made a low, unhappy rattling sound. You gripped the steering wheel.

“Please don’t do this to me today,” you whispered to the car.

The car, apparently unmoved by your suffering, rattled harder.

You pulled out of the parking lot anyway.

The roads around campus crawled with evening traffic. Headlights reflected off of damp pavement while students crossed the streets without looking.

You turned up the radio slightly, trying to drown out the strange noise under the hood. For a few minutes, it almost worked.

Then, the grinding started. Loud, metallic, violently concerning.

“What the hell was that?” You said out loud.

Another awful clunk sounded beneath the car. The steering wheel vibrated faintly in your hands.

“No no no no—” you started.

You turned the radio completely off, which was a bad choice.

Now, all you could hear were the loud sounds of grinding, rattling, and what sounded suspiciously like mechanical death.

Your stomach twisted. Car repairs were expensive, like devastatingly expensive. You did not have the money for devastating right now.

Rain began falling lightly across the windshield. Perfect.

At the next red light, you grabbed your phone with shaky fingers and searched: “mechanic near me open now”.

Most places were closed, except for one. Logan & Sons, open until 9 p.m. It was twenty minutes away.

You looked at the clock. 8:14. The car made another horrifying noise. Decision made.

You took the next right turn abruptly enough that someone honked behind you. “Sorry!”

Rain intensified steadily as you drove farther from campus. The streets grew emptier, lined with warehouses and industrial buildings instead of student apartments and bars. Every strange sound made you more nervous.

What if the car died completely and you got stranded? What if you had to call your parents for money again?

You were twenty years old and still felt like you were constantly one bad week away from falling apart.

The grinding noise worsened as you turned onto Riverside Avenue. That’s when you saw the garage.

There was a neon sign that glowed blue against the dark street: LOGAN & SONS.

One bay door stood open, and warm light spilled out and across the wet pavement. For some reason, relief hit you immediately. The place looked alive. Music drifted faintly outside, voices echoed from inside, and tools clanged somewhere in the background.

You pulled into the lot carefully. The second you parked, the car let out one final, horrible, metallic groan before silence dropped heavily around you.

Rain tapped against the roof, and you sat motionless for a second with both hands still gripping the steering wheel. Then, you dropped your forehead against it, muttering, “Love this for me.”

Eventually, you forced yourself out into the rain, and cold water soaked instantly through your clothes and shoes as you hurried toward the open bay door.

The warmth hit you first, then the smell. Motor oil, metal, and coffee.

The garage itself was bigger than you expected, with three service bays stretching deep into the building. Toolboxes lined the wall, and old signs and license plates from across Massachusetts and the New England area hung crookedly overhead.

Classic rock played softly from somewhere near the back, presumably the office. It felt messy, loud, but comfortably imperfect.

One mechanic stood near a truck with its hood open. Another was halfway underneath a lifted SUV, legs sticking out from beneath it.

The standing mechanic noticed you first. “You need help?”

You tucked a piece of your wet hair behind your ear awkwardly. “Hopefully?”

The mechanic grinned. “That usually means definitely.”

Before you could answer, the guy beneath the SUV slid out smoothly, and you forgot what you were about to say.

His broad shoulders stretched beneath a faded gray thermal shirt that was pushed up at the sleeves. Grease was streaked across his strong forearms. A backwards black cap shadowed slightly messy dark brown hair curling at the ends.

It was John Logan. Briar University Hockey Star, John Logan.

He stood up, wiping his hands on a rag while walking toward her.

You blinked. Right. Words.

“The car?”

His mouth twitched slightly, his deep brown eyes locked onto yours.

“Yes. Usually the car.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.”

God, you sounded insane.

“It’s making a noise.”

The mechanic near the truck barked out a laugh.

Logan just looked at you patiently.

You gestured vaguely toward the parking lot. “Like… a horrible one?”

“Helpful.”

“I try.”

Something amusing flickered across his face.

“What kind of horrible?” he asked.

You frowned. “Metallic?”

“Mmhmm.”

“And clunky?”

“Those are technically words,” he said.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

Annoyingly enough, his voice was nice, too. Low. Rough around the edges.

You crossed your arms defensively. “I know absolutely nothing about cars.”

“That much is obvious.”

“Wow.”

He grinned suddenly, and it changed his entire face. Not prettier, exactly. Worse. More dangerous, because his smile was stunning.

He nodded toward the parking lot. “Show me.”

You followed him back outside in the rain. Up close, he was even taller than you realized. At least 6’3, probably. You had heard of Logan around campus, but who hadn’t heard of the star hockey players? He was a senior, and you ran in different crowds, so you’d never really seen him up close.

The rain darkened the shoulders of his shirt while he crouched slightly near the front tire of your car.

“Start it,” he said to you.

You climbed back into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The grinding noise erupted immediately. He physically winced, and your stomach dropped.

“Oh, that’s bad,” you said, seeing his reaction.

“It’s not ideal.”

“’Not ideal’ sounds expensive.”

He leaned closer to the hood, listening carefully while the engine rattled unhappily.

Rainwater dripped from his hat and his hair, making it much curlier. You tried very hard not to notice dumb details like that.

“Kill it,” he said finally. You shut the engine off quickly.

Logan stood fully upright and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

“How long’s it been making noise?”

You hesitated.

“That long, huh?” he asked.

“The light only came on a few days ago.”

“You kept driving it anyway?”

You folded your arms. “I had places to be.”

“The dashboard light is literally warning you something’s wrong.”

“I know that now.”

“You knew that before, too,” he said, smirking.

“Okay, are you always this judgmental, or is this a special service?”

That got another laugh out of him. The sound surprised you again. It wasn’t polished; it was real.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Y/N.”

“I’m John, but everyone calls me Logan.”

He nodded toward the car. “Pop the hood.”

You reached for the lever that was next to your left knee. You found the latch and popped the hood open.

“There you go,” he teased.

You pointed at him warningly while climbing back out of the car, with a smile.

He laughed as he lifted the hood and leaned over the engine. You tried not to stare, but failed almost immediately.

Not because he was objectively gorgeous, he was, but there was something deeply attractive about competence and a man who knew how to use his hands. There was an ease in his movements and a quiet confidence.

He had one hand braced against the frame while the other adjusted something deep inside the engine.

You stood awkwardly beside the car, and the rain slowed to a mere drizzle for the moment. The silence should have felt uncomfortable, but it wasn’t. Instead, it felt strangely… easy.

Logan was sarcastic, a little rough around the edges, but infinitely charming. He was calm in a way that made you hyperaware of how scattered you felt standing next to him.

Logan straightened slowly, wiping grease from his hands against the rag that was hanging from his back pocket.

He stepped around the front of the car and crouched briefly near the front wheel, checking something else while rainwater darkened the knees of his jeans.

You shoved your hands deeper into your coat pockets.

“So…” you said carefully. “How bad is it?”

Logan looked up toward you.

Close up like this, his eyes were a deep chocolate, with flecks of amber.

“You need brake pads,” he said. “Probably rotors too.”

You nodded like that meant anything to you.

“Okay.”

“And your front bearing sounds rough.”

“…Okay.”

“And if you kept driving it, it would have gotten significantly worse. I think we need to do some further digging to make sure everything else is ok.”

You exhaled slowly. This is the part where adulthood cost money.

“How much?” you asked quietly.

Logan studied you for half a second too long before answering.

“Depends on what parts we use.”

That was not a number, and you noticed immediately.

“I don’t like that answer.”

“It’s the answer I have.”

“How bad,” you said, more quietly.

He stood fully upright again. “A few hundred,” he said.

Your stomach dropped hard enough that you physically felt it. Your current bank account contained a little bit of money, but not “a few hundred” to just spend.

You looked away toward the dark street. “Cool.”

Logan’s expression shifted slightly.

“Long day?” he asked.

“You have no idea.”

He waited, not pushing. And for some reason, that made words start slipping out before you fully decided to say them.

“I go to Briar, and my group presentation imploded today,” you admitted. “One of my group members basically disappeared and didn’t show up to class, and then I had to cover half of his section while actively blacking out in front of thirty people.”

“Sounds fun.”

“It was devastating.”

“Mmm.”

He was about to say something, when the other mechanic came to the bay door.

“Logan! You alive out there?”

“Yeah,” he yelled back.

He spotted you again, and grinned.

“Oh, still with the customer,” he said.

Logan looked exhausted already. “Jeff.”

“What?”

“Don’t.”

Jeff looked at you, “He gets cranky when he skips dinner.”

You blinked, and then immediately betrayed yourself by glancing toward Logan.

“Have you skipped dinner?”

Logan shot Jeff a look. “You can go inside now.”

Jeff looked delighted by this entire interaction and disappeared back inside, laughing.

You looked back toward Logan carefully. “You’re mean when you’re hungry?”

“No.”

“You kind of seem like you might be.”

“That’s because I’m currently hungry.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself. Logan noticed. You knew he noticed, because something subtle changed in his expression for half a second.

The rain started to pick up again, this time with a wind that made it so cold that you shivered involuntarily. Logan noticed that too.

“You shouldn’t be standing out here.”

You looked toward your car helplessly. “I also apparently shouldn’t drive that.”

“No.”

“Great.”

Logan glanced back toward the garage thoughtfully. “Do you have someone who can pick you up?”

You immediately thought of your options. Mel was probably studying. Your roommates would complain. Calling your Dad would turn into an entire conversation you emotionally could not survive tonight.

And honestly? The idea of explaining this whole disastrous day out loud to someone sounded exhausting.

“I can figure it out,” you said automatically.

Logan looked unconvinced. The problem was, you sounded unconvinced, too.

He shoved both hands into his pockets.

“You can leave it here overnight,” he said. “We can take a better look at it tomorrow.”

You nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“Would you like a ride?”

The question came casually. You hesitated. Logan must’ve seen the uncertainty on your face, because he immediately added, “Or I can wait here while you call someone.”

The fact that he offered you an out so quickly made something clench in your chest. He wasn’t pressuring you, not even slightly.

You glanced back toward the street, then toward the warm garage behind him, then finally back at Logan.

“…You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t even know me,” you said.

He smiled. “You’ve got a very trustworthy face.”

You laughed softly. There it was again, that weird feeling of the day getting lighter around the edges every time he made you laugh. This should still objectively qualify as a terrible day, and yet…

Logan nodded toward the garage, “Come on.”

You followed him back inside as warmth wrapped around you immediately as you entered.

Logan grabbed a dark hoodie hanging off a chair near the office and pulled it over his thermal shirt. He had an extra hoodie that he offered to you, and you put it on.

“Okay,” he said, grabbing keys from the counter. “You hungry?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Are you hungry?” he asked again.

Yes, you thought. Very. You hadn’t eaten since noon, and stress always killed your appetite until suddenly it didn’t, and you realized you was starving.

“…Maybe.”

Logan nodded once like he’d expected that answer already.

“There’s a diner nearby,” he said.

“You’re taking me to dinner?” you said, your eyebrows raising.

His expression turned immediately unimpressed. “I’m taking you to fries.”

“That still counts.”

“Not really.”

“Come on,” he said as he walked out the door. The rain had slowed slightly again.

Logan’s blue truck sat parked near the edge of the lot beneath a flickering streetlamp. It was clean enough to tell he cared about it, and messy enough to tell he actually used it.

He held the passenger door open as you climbed in. He rounded the hood, getting in the driver’s side. The inside was warm and smelled like coffee and pine-scented air freshener.