existing | living | learning

1. if you feel judged and hurt by others, try sleeping

2. if you feel judgmental and resentful of others, try eating (the classics)

3. if you feel uncomfortable, try showering

4. if you feel directionless and afraid, go sit outside for a bit and maybe then you'll calm down. maybe even a walk if youre feelin crazy

✩.* found family fics!

✩.* found family masterlist

summary: in which garrett struggles with the quiet ache of feeling shut out by the person he loves most, as y/n seemingly leans on everyone but him.

notes: hi!! ahh my first angst for found family, i hope you all enjoy! thank you so much for this request, it broke my heart to write 🥹

ꪆৎ

it starts slowly. so slowly, garrett almost convinces himself he’s imagining it.

you’ve always had moments of quiet. moments where you disappeared inside your own head for a little while, where your smile softened at the edges and your answers became smaller, less detailed, like you were trying to preserve energy without admitting you were running out of it.

this feels different. this feels like watching you fold yourself smaller each day and pretending nothing is happening.

the first time he notices, you’re at the hockey house on a saturday morning, tucked into the corner of the couch with your laptop balanced on your knees, a half-empty mug of coffee cooling on the table beside you.

everyone else is loud. you’re there, technically, but not really. your eyes keep scanning the same paragraph on your screen, your fingers hover above the keyboard, your mouth pressed into a thin, tired line.

garrett watches you from the kitchen doorway. he has your favourite mug in his hand, the one you always reach for when you’re over.

he doesn’t say anything at first, just crosses the room quietly, setting it down beside your laptop before leaning over the back of the couch.

“you okay?” he asks softly. you blink like you’ve been pulled back from somewhere far away. you look up at him, and your face changes too quickly. smile first, answer second.

“yeah” you say. “just tired.”

garrett studies you. “you sure?”

you nod, already looking back at your laptop. “mhm.”

he doesn’t push because he knows you, sometimes pushing makes you retreat further. he kisses the top of your head instead, lets his hand rest briefly against the side of your neck, thumb brushing once beneath your ear.

“eat something soon,” he murmurs.

you hum. “i will.”

you don’t. he notices that too.

-

following that day, he notices everything.

garrett notices the texts that come hours later than usual, not absent, never fully absent, you still reply, still send him little updates when something funny happens, still send photos of your coffee, lecture slides, allie asleep in weird positions across your dorm bed.

but something about it feels thinner, as though you’re giving him proof of life instead of what's truly going on. he notices the way you stop coming by after class as often, the way you say you have readings to catch up on, the way you say you’re fine.

fine. fine. fine.

he starts hating the word.

one night, he calls you after practice. you answer on the fourth ring.

“hi,” you say, voice soft, clearly laced with exhaustion.

garrett leans against the wall outside the locker room, one hand still damp from his shower as he presses the phone closer to his ear.

“hey. you sound tired.”

you laugh lightly, too lightly. “rude.”

“not an insult.”

“still rude.”

he smiles faintly, but it fades quickly. there’s a pause, he can hear papers shifting on your end, the quiet hum of your dorm room, the faint sound of allie’s music playing somewhere in the background.

“what are you doing?” he asks.

“nothing.”

garrett’s brows pull together. “nothing with papers?”

you go quiet for half a second too long, then, “just study.”

“want help?”

“with law readings?”

“i can sit there and look pretty.” that gets a real laugh out of you, small, brief, but real. his chest loosens a little.

“tempting,” you say.

“i can also bring food.”

“also tempting.”

“so say yes.” another pause, this one feels worse.

“i think i’m just gonna sleep soon,” you say. garrett looks down at the floor, he knows you’re lying, not about being tired, about sleeping.

“okay,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to do without sounding like he’s accusing you of something.

“call me if you need anything.”

“i will.”

you won’t, he knows that too.

-

allie notices the shifts more clearly at first, mostly because living with you makes the changes harder to miss. she notices the light under your door staying on past midnight.

then one, then two. then enough that she stops thinking of it as unusual.

she notices the way your laundry piles up in the corner because you keep telling yourself you’ll do it tomorrow. she notices the untouched dinners, the cold coffee, the emails open on your laptop that make your face go blank.

she tries, gently at first. “y/n,” she says one night, leaning against your doorway in one of dean’s hoodies. “when did you last eat something that wasn’t toast?”

you don’t look up from your laptop. “toast counts.”

“that’s not an answer.”

“it was a good answer.”

“it was a concerning answer.”

you sigh, rubbing both hands over your face. “allie.”

her expression softens, not teasing now. “you’re scaring me a little.”

her words make you look up, guilt immediately settling into your chest. “don’t say that.”

“then stop looking like you’re one email away from fully combusting.”

you try to smile, it doesn’t work. allie steps into your room, sitting carefully on the edge of your bed.

“is this legal internship stuff?”

your throat tightens, you look back at your screen. “partly.”

“and exams?”

“partly.”

“and home?”

you don’t answer, that is an answer in itself. allie exhales softly, “does garrett know?”

your fingers go still. “know what?”

“y/n.”

you shut your laptop, not gently. “i’m handling it.”

allie gives you a look. “that wasn’t what i asked.”

“i know.”

“so?”

you stand, suddenly unable to sit still, moving around your tiny dorm room like you have somewhere to go even though there is nowhere. you grab your water bottle, unscrew the lid, screw it back on without drinking.

“he has enough going on.”

allie’s face shifts. “oh, babe.”

you hate that, the softness, the pity. you turn away. “don’t.”

“i’m not doing anything.”

“you’re looking at me like that.”

“like what?”

“like i’m sad.”

allie’s voice is careful. “you are sad, y/n.”

your eyes burn immediately, you hate that even more. “i’m stressed,” you correct, too quickly. “there’s a difference.”

“okay.”

“and i don’t need garrett worrying about me on top of everything else. he has hockey and captain stuff and phil being weird again and-”

“he’s your boyfriend.”

“i know that.”

“do you?”

you turn back to her. “what is that supposed to mean?”

allie lifts her hands slightly. “nothing. i just mean, he would want to know.”

“i know.”

“then tell him.”

your jaw tightens. “i can’t.”

allie’s face softens again. “why not?”

if you tell garrett, really tell him, he’ll look at you like he sees all of it. you don’t know if you can survive being seen that clearly.

if you say it out loud, that you’re overwhelmed, that you feel like you’re failing, that every rejection feels personal, and every conversation at home makes your chest tight, it becomes real.

garrett will care, deeply. somehow that feels like too much, for now.

“i just can’t.”

allie doesn’t push after that, but she remains even more worried.

-

garrett lasts another week. he tries, he really tries. he tries being patient, he tries being gentle, he tries letting you come to him when you’re ready.

every time he reaches for you, you slip away with a tired smile, a soft apology and a promise that everything is fine. the thing is, garrett knows fine. he knows your fine. he knows the difference between your annoyed fine, your sleepy fine, your 'don’t want to talk about it yet' fine.

this is none of those, this is a locked door, and he is standing on the wrong side of it.

the worst part is that you’re still sweet to him. you still curl into his side when you come over, still kiss him softly, still laugh when he says something dry under his breath, still steal his hoodies and forget to give them back.

but there’s distance, not physical, worse, emotional. you sit beside him and somehow feel incredibly far away.

it comes to a head on a friday night at the hockey house. it isn’t even meant to be a big night, just dinner after practice, everyone gathered around the living room with takeout containers spread across the coffee table and a movie playing in the background that nobody is watching.

you’re tucked beside garrett on the couch, knees drawn up, his hand resting lightly on your thigh. you’ve been quieter than usual. he can feel the tension in you, the way your body never fully relaxes against his, the way you keep checking your phone whenever it lights up, the way your face falls every time you read something before you smooth it over again.

he wants to ask, he has already asked, you have already lied. so he stays quiet.

dean says it. casually, carelessly, with no idea he’s stepping directly into something fragile. “oh,” dean says, pointing his fork towards you. “did you hear back from that firm yet?”

the room keeps moving for half a second, then stops. not dramatically, not all at once, but enough.

allie freezes, sabrina’s eyes flick towards you, logan stops mid-sentence, garrett’s hand stills on your thigh. you feel it immediately, your stomach dropping.

slowly, garrett turns his head towards you. “what firm?”

dean looks between you and garrett, his face changing.

“uh.” you sit up straighter. “dean.”

he lowers his fork. “shit.”

garrett doesn’t look at dean anymore, only you. “what firm?” he repeats. his voice is calm, too calm.

you swallow. “it’s nothing.”

something shifts in garrett’s expression, not anger, not yet, hurt. quiet and immediate. “don’t do that, y/n.”

your cheeks heat. everyone is watching, even though nobody wants to be. you can feel it, you hate it.

“garrett,” you say quietly. he removes his hand from your leg, not harshly, not dramatically, but the absence of it feels like a clear slap.

“you applied for internships?”

your throat tightens. “yes.”

“when?”

you stare down at your hands. “a couple weeks ago.”

his jaw moves once. “a couple weeks.”

you don’t answer. dean looks like he wants the couch to swallow him. “g,” he starts. “i didn’t realise-”

“don’t,” garrett says. not sharp, not loud, just enough to stop him. dean shuts his mouth. garrett stands.

you look up quickly. “where are you going?”

he looks at you for a second, and it is awful. you would almost prefer anger. anger you could fight, anger you could meet with your own defensiveness, pride, hurt.

garrett just looks wounded, like something inside him has gone very still.

“upstairs” he says.

he walks away, the room is silent after him. for one unbearable second, nobody moves. allie says your name softly. you stand before she can say anything else. “i’m fine.”

nobody believes you, you follow him anyway.

garrett’s bedroom door is half open when you get there. he’s standing by the window, one hand braced against the sill, the other pressed to the back of his neck.

his shoulders are tense. you pause in the doorway, for a second, you almost leave. not because you don’t want to fix it, because you know this won’t be easy, you know he’s hurt, you know, deep down, he has every right to be.

you knock lightly, even though he already knows you’re there. garrett doesn’t turn around.

“can i come in?” you ask.

a pause.

“yeah.”

you step inside and close the door behind you. the sound feels too final.

the room is familiar in all the ways that usually comfort you. his hoodie over the desk chair, the water bottle by his bed, the framed photo tucker had taken after a home game, garrett’s arm around your shoulders, your face turned up toward him mid-laugh. you can barely look at it.

“i was going to tell you” you say.

garrett laughs once. it's quiet, empty.

“when?”

you flinch. he turns around then, and his face makes your chest hurt.

he isn’t yelling, he isn’t furious. he just looks tired, hurt.

“i don’t know,” you admit.

he huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “you don’t know.”

“i’ve had a lot going on.”

“yeah,” he says, voice roughening slightly. “i’m starting to get that.”

your arms fold over your chest before you can stop them. defensive, protective. “don’t do that.”

his eyebrows draw together. “do what?”

“make me feel like i’ve done something wrong.”

garrett stares at you. “you don’t think you did?”

your stomach twists. “i didn’t lie to you.”

“you didn’t tell me.”

“that’s not the same thing.”

“it feels the same.”

your mouth closes. garrett drags a hand over his jaw, looking away like he’s trying very hard to keep himself under control.

“do you know how shitty it feels,” he says, quieter now, “hearing about something going on with you from someone else?”

your own hurt rises fast, too fast. you’re embarrassed, overwhelmed.

you already feel like you’re failing, and now even garrett is looking at you like you’ve failed him too.

“i didn’t ask anyone to tell you.”

his head snaps back towards you. “jesus y/n, that’s not the point.”

“then what is?”

“the point is that i’m your boyfriend.” his voice cracks slightly around the word. he takes a breath, trying again. “i’m supposed to be the person you come to.”

your eyes burn. “you are.”

“no,” he says. one word, quiet, devastating.

“i’m not.”

you blink hard. “that’s not fair.”

“isn’t it?”

“no.”

“then tell me what’s going on.”

you look away, garrett’s silence deepens. there it is, the answer. your inability to answer. he nods once, almost to himself, and that hurts worse than anything else.

“right.”

“garrett-”

“no, seriously. tell me.” his voice is still controlled, but there’s something sharper underneath now. something fraying.

“because i’ve been asking for weeks. i’ve asked you if you’re okay, i’ve asked if you need help, i’ve asked if you want me to come over, and every single time, you look me in the face and tell me you’re fine.”

tears prick harder behind your eyes. you hate crying when you’re angry. you hate crying when you’re wrong.

“because i didn’t want to make it a thing.”

“it is a thing.”

“not everything has to be shared.”

garrett goes still. you regret it immediately, you see the words hit him, see his face close off in a way that terrifies you.

“okay,” he says.

your heart drops. “that’s not what i meant.”

“sounds like what you meant.”

“i meant i’m allowed to deal with things privately.”

“of course you are.”

“then why are you angry?”

“because this isn’t fucking private, y/n.” his voice finally rises, not loud enough to be yelling, but enough that the hurt cuts through. “this is you shutting me out.”

you shake your head. “i’m not.”

“you are.”

“i’m overwhelmed, garrett.”

“i know.”

“no, you don’t.”

“because you won’t let me.”

that silences you. he steps closer, not enough to crowd you, but enough that you have to look at him.

“you think i don’t notice?” he asks. “you think i don’t see you barely eating? you think i don’t know when you’re lying about sleeping? you think i don’t notice that you’re sitting right next to me and still somehow not here, not present?”

your breath catches, garrett’s face twists. “i notice everything.”

that is the problem, that is exactly the problem.

you press your lips together, but the tears spill anyway. garrett sees them and softens for half a second, instinctively. at the end of the day, he is garrett. even angry, even hurt, some part of him still wants to move towards you.

he stops himself.

“i wasn’t trying to hurt you,” you whisper. his expression crumples slightly. “i know.”

you breathe out shakily. “then why are you acting like i did this on purpose?”

“i’m not.”

“you are.”

“i’m acting like it hurt me.”

your chest tightens, garrett swallows, “because it did, y/n. you're killing me here.”

the room goes quiet. you stare at him, he looks away first. not because he doesn’t mean it, he does, but because saying it cost him something.

your voice comes out small. “i didn’t want you to worry.”

he laughs under his breath, but there’s no humour in it. “too late.”

garrett drags a hand over his face, jaw tight, trying to rein himself in before he says the next part. when he speaks again, his voice is lower. rougher.

“do you know what got me?”

you blink. “garrett-”

“dean knew.”

the words land hard. you freeze. garrett shakes his head slightly, like he still can’t quite believe it.

“dean fucking knew.” his voice cracks with frustration now, emotion finally slipping through. “and from the look on everyone else’s faces, they did too.”

his eyes lock onto yours. “i was the only one in that room left in the dark.”

your breath catches, “garrett…”

“and i keep asking myself why.” his voice softens then, somehow worse than when he was angry, hurt, raw.

“because i know you trust dean. i know you tell him things.” he swallows hard. “and of course i’m okay with that, more than okay."

he takes a step closer, but there’s tension in every line of him.

“i love that you have people. i love that you have dean, allie, sabrina, grace and everyone else.” his eyes search yours desperately now. “i don’t need to know every single thought in your head, y/n. i don’t.”

his voice drops.

“but this?”

his chest rises sharply. “something this important. something that’s clearly been eating away at you, something that’s been hurting you." he stops, jaw clenching.

“why didn't you let me in?”

garrett’s voice breaks just slightly. “it makes me feel like you don’t trust me.”

a single tear slips from your eye as you shake your head, trying to defend yourself. “you have so much going on i-"

“don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“decide for me what i can handle.”

your mouth shuts. garrett steps back, running both hands through his hair. “i can't keep watching you fall apart and standing here feeling completely useless because you won’t let me in.”

your tears are falling properly now. you wipe at them quickly, frustrated with yourself. “i can’t afford to fall apart right now, and if i say everything, all of my problems out loud to you, then it becomes even more real.”

the honesty comes out before you can stop it. broken, raw, too much.

garrett freezes. you cover your mouth with one hand, shaking your head like you can take it back, but you can’t. it’s out now, the room feels heavier around it, garrett’s voice is gentler when he says your name, that almost breaks you completely.

“don’t,” you whisper.

he looks pained. “baby-”

“don’t call me that right now.” he stops. you see that hurt him too. you hate yourself for it immediately.

everything in you feels too exposed. too tender, too raw.

“i should go,” you say.

garrett’s face changes. panic, brief and buried.

until pride covers it, hurt covers it. “if that’s what you want.”

it isn’t, that’s the awful part. it is the last thing you want. you want him to cross the room, you want him to pull you in, you want him to forgive you without you having to explain all the ugly parts.

you are too defensive to ask, too scared to stay, too tired to keep standing there with the person you love looking at you like you’ve made him feel alone.

so you nod. “yeah.”

garrett’s jaw tightens. “okay.”

you wait for him to stop you, he doesn’t, you leave. by the time you make it downstairs, allie is standing near the bottom of the steps.

one look at your face and hers falls. “oh, y/n.”

you shake your head quickly. “please don’t.” her mouth closes. behind her, dean is standing in the kitchen, pale with guilt. logan and grace are in the hallway, unusually quiet. tucker and sabrina are frozen near the couch.

you hate that they all know. you hate that they all saw enough to understand. you grab your bag from beside the couch.

allie follows you to the door. “i’m coming with you.”

“you don’t have to.”

“i know.” she grabs her keys anyway, you don’t argue. if you try, you’ll cry harder.

you are already barely holding yourself together.

-

garrett doesn’t come after you. he hears the front door close, he hears allie’s car start outside, he hears dean swear quietly downstairs.

then nothing.

he sits on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together. he feels sick, not because he thinks he was wrong to be hurt. he was hurt, he is hurt.

he can still see your face when you said it, because if i say it out loud then it becomes more real. the words keep replaying in his head until they start to hurt.

he reaches for his phone, opens your messages, staring at the last text from you.

you: do you want me to bring coffee when i come over? garrett: only if you’re part of the delivery you: gross garrett: romantic you: very debatable

that was two days ago. it feels like longer. he types, i’m sorry, deletes it, types again. are you home safe? deletes that too.

he doesn’t know what he’s apologising for yet, he is sorry, but he is also still hurt.

part of him wants to get in his car and go to you immediately, another part of him remembers how you looked at him and said not everything has to be shared. like loving you was something he had to stand outside of until he was invited in.

a knock sounds at his door. garrett doesn’t answer, the door opens anyway.

dean steps in. garrett looks up.

“not now.”

dean holds both hands up. “i’m not here to lecture.”

“good.”

“or yell.”

“also good.”

dean shuts the door behind him, then stands there awkwardly. garrett stares at him. “what?”

dean grimaces. “i’m sorry.”

garrett looks away. “you didn’t know.”

“yeah, but still.” dean rubs the back of his neck. “i shouldn’t have said anything.”

“it’s not your fault.”

“kind of feels like it.”

“it’s not.”

dean is quiet for a moment. then, carefully, “she’s been pretty bad, g.”

garrett’s chest tightens, he looks back at him. dean seems to regret saying it, but continues anyway. “not bad bad. just… not herself. allie’s really worried.”

garrett laughs once, bitterly. “everyone’s worried.”

dean winces. “yeah.”

garrett looks down at his hands. “everyone knew.”

“i don’t think she meant for it to be like that.”

“doesn’t make it feel any better.”

“i know.” dean leans back against the door. for once, he doesn’t make a joke.

“she does that sometimes.”

garrett’s eyes lift. dean shrugs, uncomfortable with his own sincerity. “acts like if she can keep everyone else from worrying, then nothing’s actually wrong.”

garrett’s throat tightens. “i know.”

“yeah,” dean says softly. “i figured you did.”

silence settles between them for a moment before dean breaks it. “for what it’s worth, i don’t think she was keeping it from you because she doesn’t trust you.”

garrett looks away again, that’s the part that hurts. because logically, he knows that, emotionally, it doesn’t matter.

“then why?”

dean exhales. “because you matter more.”

garrett’s face tightens. dean looks almost apologetic. “i know that sounds backwards.”

garrett says nothing.

“but i think it’s harder with you because she knows you’ll actually see it.”

that lands, quietly. he thinks of your forced smiles, your cold coffee, the way you had kept turning your face away from him lately, like eye contact was dangerous.

dean opens the door. “i’ll leave you alone.”

garrett nods once, before dean steps out, he pauses. “also, if you make her cry again, i’ll be very annoying about it.”

garrett huffs a humourless breath. “she made me cry internally first.”

“yeah, well. do that externally next time. might help.”

dean leaves. garrett sits there alone, phone still in his hand, he doesn’t text.

neither do you.

-

the next morning is worse. mornings are yours. saturday mornings especially.

usually, you come to the hockey house with allie. usually, garrett has coffee waiting or pulls you into him before you’ve even taken your shoes off. usually, dean makes some comment about how disgusting the two of you are, and you flip him off without looking.

today, you don’t come. allie does, alone.

garrett is in the kitchen when the front door opens. he knows it’s not you before he sees her. no soft footsteps beside allie’s louder ones, no familiar voice, no automatic call of, “where’s my coffee?"

he keeps his eyes on the mug in front of him. logan, sitting at the counter, notices. allie steps into the kitchen, face guarded. garrett looks at her, she looks back.

for a moment, neither of them say anything, then garrett breaks, asking the question he's been dying to know the answer to.

“is she okay?”

allie’s expression softens, however not enough to make him feel better.

“not really.”

his hand tightens around the mug. “did she sleep?”

allie hesitates, which is an answer in itself. garrett nods once, “right.”

allie steps closer. “she’s not trying to hurt you.”

“i know.”

“she just-”

“i know,” he says again, quieter this time. allie stops, studying him for a second before saying, “you’re allowed to be hurt too.”

garrett looks down at his mug of coffee. allie's words almost make it worse, everyone keeps giving him permission to feel something, and all he wants is for none of this to have happened.

logan waits until allie leaves the kitchen before speaking. “you want advice?”

“no.”

“cool. i’m giving it anyway.”

garrett sighs. logan leans back in his chair.

“you’re both doing that thing where you’re waiting for the other person to make it easier.”

garrett gives him a flat look. logan shrugs. “i’m just saying, y/n is stubborn when she’s scared, you’re stubborn when you’re hurt. horrible combination.”

garrett looks away. logan’s voice softens. “she looked awful last night.”

garrett closes his eyes briefly. “i know.”

“you looked pretty awful too.”

“thanks.”

“anytime.”

garrett exhales slowly. “i don’t know what to say to her.”

logan is quiet for a second, "then maybe you should start there."

-

you spend the day in bed. not sleeping, not studying, not really doing anything.

your laptop sits open beside you, the screen now dark. your phone is face down on the blanket. every few minutes you reach for it, check for a message, then put it down again like you weren’t hoping.

garrett doesn’t text. you tell yourself that’s fair, that he simply needs space and that you were awful to him. then you tell yourself he was unfair, that you were both hurt, and then you cry again.

allie brings you lunch. you take a few bites because she stands there until you do. sabrina texts you a photo of tucker looking sad.

sabrina 💌

he says the hockey house has been off ever since you stopped coming around. apparently your absence is affecting morale (and his appetite).

you almost smile, almost.

dean texts later.

dean

i’m so sorry, y/n. genuinely

i didn't know garrett didn't know

also please be okay, garrett is being weirdly silent and it's freaking everyone out

you stare at the messages for a long time before replying.

not your fault. i'm okay.

dean replies immediately.

love you, y/n

you don’t answer. by evening, your room feels too small. too hot, too quiet.

your chest has been tight all day, a constant pressure beneath your ribs, and the more you try to ignore it, the worse it gets.

you open your laptop, look at your applications, your unfinished cover letter, the rejection email sitting in your inbox, the lecture notes you haven’t caught up on, the email from home you still haven’t responded to.

everything blurs, suddenly, you can’t breathe properly. it isn’t dramatic at first, just one shaky inhale that doesn’t quite work.

then another, then your hands start trembling.

you stand too fast, knocking your water bottle off the bed. it hits the floor and rolls beneath your desk. the sound makes you flinch, your vision blurs. you press a hand to your chest. “no,” you whisper to yourself. “no, no, no.”

you try to breathe in, it catches.

you sit back down on the edge of your bed, then stand again immediately because sitting feels worse. your whole body feels wrong, too hot and too cold all at once.

your phone is on the bed, you stare at it. allie is out with dean getting food. you could call her, you should call her. instead, without letting yourself think, you call garrett. he answers on the second ring.

“y/n?”

his voice alone almost makes you break. you try to speak, nothing comes out. there’s a rustle on his end. he sits up, instantly alert.

“baby?”

you squeeze your eyes shut. the nickname ruins you. a tiny, broken sound leaves your mouth.

garrett’s voice changes completely. “where are you?”

you inhale shakily. “dorm.”

“are you hurt?”

“no.”

“can you breathe?”

you don’t answer fast enough. “okay,” he says, and you can hear movement now. keys, a door, footsteps. “i’m coming.”

you start crying harder. “i’m sorry.”

“don’t.” his voice is firm, but not harsh. “don’t apologise. just stay on the phone with me.”

“i can’t-” you choke. “i can’t calm down.”

“that’s okay.”

“it’s not.”

“it is. listen to me. put your feet on the floor.”

you do. bare feet against the cold ground. “okay,” you whisper.

“good. now tell me five things you can see.”

you cry through them. “my laptop. your hoodie. my lamp. allie’s stupid pink cup. the- the photo on my wall.”

garrett’s breathing is steady through the phone. “good girl. four things you can feel.”

your hand twists in the blanket. “blanket. floor. phone. my shirt.”

“three things you can hear.” you swallow.

“you. my fan. someone outside.”

“good. keep listening to me.”

“garrett.”

“i’m here.”

that makes you cry harder, because he isn’t, not yet. he is still somehow the only thing holding you to the room.

“i didn’t know who else to call,” you admit.

there’s a pause, not long, but you hear it. then garrett says, very quietly, “i’m glad you called me.”

you press the phone harder to your ear. “i’m sorry.”

“we’ll talk about it later.”

“okay.”

“right now, just breathe.”

by the time he gets there, you’re sitting on the floor beside your bed, knees drawn to your chest, phone still clutched in your hand even though the call is connected and he’s already outside your door.

he knocks once. “it’s me.”

you can’t get up. “come in.”

the door opens. garrett steps inside. the second he sees you, everything on his face breaks.

all the hurt. all the anger. all the careful distance. gone.

he closes the door behind him and crosses the room without hesitation, crouching in front of you.

“hey,” he says softly.

you look at him through tears. his eyes move over your face, your shaking hands, the laptop open on your bed, the mess of papers across the floor. “can i touch you?”

you nod immediately. he reaches for you, and you fold into him so fast it almost knocks him off balance.

garrett catches you. of course he does.

one arm wraps around your back, the other hand cradling the back of your head as you bury your face in his shoulder and sob. not pretty crying. not quiet tears. the kind that takes over your whole body. weeks of holding it in finally ripping through you all at once.

garrett says nothing for a while, just holds you. solid, warm, there. his hand moves slowly over your hair, again and again. “i’ve got you,” he murmurs. “you’re okay.” you clutch his shirt tighter.

“i’m not.”

his arm tightens around you. “okay,” he whispers. “then you’re not. that’s okay too.”

that makes you cry harder, because nobody says that.

everyone says you’ll be okay.

garrett lets you not be.

eventually, when your breathing starts to slow, he shifts carefully until his back is against the side of your bed and you’re tucked against his chest on the floor between his legs, his arms around you.

his chin rests lightly against the top of your head. neither of you speaks for a long time.

your room is dim now, lit only by your desk lamp. outside, voices pass faintly in the hallway. somewhere down the corridor, someone laughs. it feels strange that the world is still normal. you wipe your face with the sleeve of your jumper.

garrett reaches towards your bedside table, grabs the tissues, and passes them to you without a word.

you take one. then another. then you whisper, “i’m sorry.”

his chest rises behind you. “i know.”

your fingers twist in the tissue. “i should’ve told you.”

garrett is quiet for a second. then, “yeah.”

you close your eyes. “i just didn’t know how.”

his hand moves slowly up and down your arm. “you could’ve started with that.”

your mouth trembles. “i know.”

“i would’ve listened.”

“i know.”

“i wouldn’t have thought less of you.”

your throat closes. you turn slightly, looking up at him. his face is softer now, but still tired, still hurt. that might be the worst part. the fact that being loved by you has hurt him.

“i didn’t think you would,” you whisper.

garrett’s brows pull together. “then why?”

you look down. for once, you try not to run from the answer. it takes a while, garrett lets it.

“because you see me too clearly,” you say eventually. his hand stills. you keep staring at the tissue in your lap.

“and sometimes that feels really safe. and sometimes it feels terrifying.”

garrett says nothing. so you keep going, voice shaking.

“if i told you how bad everything felt, you’d know. and then i couldn’t pretend anymore. and i needed to pretend because i didn’t know what else to do.”

your eyes fill again. “i’m trying so hard, garrett.”

his face changes. you can’t stop now.

“i’m trying so hard and i feel like i’m failing at everything. i feel like i’m behind in classes, and i don’t know if i’m good enough for any of these internships, and every time i open my email i feel sick, and then there’s stuff at home and i don’t want to talk about it because everyone has their own problems, and i just-”

your voice breaks. garrett shifts, turning you more fully toward him.

“y/n.”

you shake your head. “i’m so tired.”

his eyes shine. “come here.”

you fold into him again. he holds you so tightly it almost hurts. in a good way, in a necessary way, like he’s trying to keep all your pieces together through sheer force.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper into his shirt.

his lips press against your hair. "i’m sorry too.”

you pull back just enough to look at him. “you don’t have to be.”

“yeah,” he says quietly. “i do.”

you shake your head. “i hurt you.”

“and i let you leave.”

your chest aches. “i was awful.”

“you were scared.”

“that doesn’t make it okay.”

“no,” he agrees softly. “but it helps me understand.”

you stare at him. he brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb, his voice lowering. “i wasn’t angry because you were struggling.”

your breath catches, garrett’s throat works. “i was angry because you were struggling alone.” your face crumples, he leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours.

“and because i love you,” he whispers. “and i didn’t know what to do with that when you wouldn’t let me near you.”

you close your eyes. “i’m sorry.”

“i know.”

“i love you.”

his hand slides to the side of your neck, thumb brushing softly beneath your jaw. “i love you too.” for a moment, neither of you move.

you eventually whisper. “are you still mad?”

garrett exhales slowly. “i’m still hurt.”

you nod, fresh tears spilling. “okay.”

“but i’m not going anywhere.”

that breaks you again, quieter this time. you lean into him, and he pulls you close, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“we have to talk about it properly,” he murmurs.

“i know.”

“not tonight.”

you nod. “okay.”

“tonight you’re going to eat something.” a weak laugh slips out of you. garrett pulls back slightly, looking down at you.

“not a joke.”

“i know.”

“and drink water.”

“bossy.”

his mouth twitches, barely. “you missed me.”

you breathe out a tiny laugh, watery and exhausted. “so much.”

his expression softens completely. “yeah?”

you nod. “i kept checking my phone.”

his hand cups your cheek. “me too.”

“why didn’t you text?”

he looks down for a second. “because i didn’t know how to say i was hurt without making you feel worse.”

your chest tightens. “you can tell me when i hurt you.”

his eyes lift back to yours. “same rule for you.”

you nod. “okay.”

“okay.”

the word settles between you. small, not a fix, not completely, but a start. garrett leans in slowly, giving you time to move away, you don’t. his mouth touches yours softly, carefully, not desperate, not heated, just gentle. forgiving.

you make a small sound against him, and his hand slides into your hair, holding you there like he has missed you more than he knows how to say. when he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours again.

“no more pretending you’re fine when you’re not.”

you let out a shaky breath. “i’ll try.”

“that’s all i’m asking.”

you nod. “and no more finding out important things from dean.”

you wince. “fair.”

“because, honestly, devastating source.” that makes you laugh properly, small, but real. garrett smiles a little.

-

allie comes home twenty minutes later with dean behind her, both of them carrying food. she stops in the doorway when she sees garrett sitting on your bed, you tucked against his side under a blanket, eyes swollen but calmer.

dean almost walks into her back. “why did we stop?”

allie elbows him. then she looks at you. “all okay?”

you nod, embarrassed.

“okay.”

garrett’s arm tightens around your shoulders. dean peers around allie, “am i allowed to speak or is this a hostile environment?”

garrett gives him a look. “depends.”

dean nods seriously. “understood.” then he lifts the bag in his hand. “i brought fries as a peace offering.”

you sniffle. “for me or garrett?”

dean pauses. “both.”

allie rolls her eyes and steps inside. sabrina and grace appear in the doorway fifteen minutes later with tucker and logan, because apparently nobody in this group knows how to give anyone privacy for longer than thirty seconds.

“we heard there were fries,” tucker says. logan looks between you and garrett, assessing quietly, then his face softens.

“you good?”

garrett looks down at you, you look up at him. his thumb brushes once over your shoulder. you nod, “getting there.”

logan nods back. “good enough.”

sabrina climbs onto the bed on your other side without asking, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“you scared us, y/n.”

you lean into her. “sorry.”

“don’t do it again.”

“i’ll try.”

allie sits at the foot of the bed and starts unpacking food. dean leans against your desk, still guilty but trying to hide it. tucker steals a fry and immediately gets slapped by sabrina. logan takes the chair and pretends not to watch everyone with fond amusement.

garrett stays beside you through all of it. steady, quiet.

his hand never leaves you, not in a possessive way, not in a way that demands, just there, a reminder. you don’t have to hold yourself up alone.

later, when everyone has finally left and your room is quiet again, garrett helps you clear the food containers from your bed.

he plugs your phone in, closes your laptop, picks your water bottle up from under the desk and places it on your bedside table.

small things, garrett things. you watch him move around your room with tired eyes. “are you staying?” you ask softly.

he turns, his expression gentle. “do you want me to?”

you nod, "please.” he crosses back to you immediately.

“then i’m staying.”

you shift under the covers as he climbs in beside you, and for the first time in weeks, your body relaxes before you can think yourself out of it. garrett pulls you into his chest, you press your face against his shirt, his hand slides beneath the back of your hoodie, palm warm against your spine.

“i don’t want you to feel shut out.”

his hand stills for half a second, then continues moving slowly. “i don’t want you to feel like you have to be okay all the time.”

you close your eyes. “i don’t know how to stop.”

“we’ll figure it out.”

“what if i mess up?”

“then we talk.”

“what if i do it again?”

his lips press to your forehead. “then i remind you.”

you swallow. “what if you get tired of reminding me?”

garrett pulls back just enough to look at you. his face is serious, tender, a little wounded that you would even ask, but patient with it anyway.

"i’m not going to get tired of loving you, y/n."

your eyes burn again.“garrett.”

“i mean it.” you look at him for a long moment, then nod, because you believe him.

he kisses you once, soft and lingering, then tucks your head back beneath his chin. outside your room, the dorm is still noisy. voices in the hall, doors opening and closing, the faint sound of laughter somewhere far away. inside, everything is quiet. not perfect, not fixed, but honest. for tonight, that is enough.

garrett’s thumb moves slowly along your back. you let yourself breathe. this time, when he murmurs, “you okay?”

you don’t say fine, you don’t pretend, you press closer and whisper, “not really.”

garrett holds you tighter. “okay,” he says softly. “i’m here.”

and for the first time in weeks, you let that be enough.

𝐀 𝐬𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐥 ! 𝐂𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤 🐎

thank you @buyeons for the gif <3

𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐋𝐨𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲’𝐬 𝐓𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐫𝐦, 𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝. 𝐇𝐞’𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐠𝐨𝐚𝐭𝐬, 𝐟𝐢𝐱𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐫, 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐮𝐬𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐰, 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐨𝐬. 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤- 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬, 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐦𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐛𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐬, 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧-𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐝, 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐭-𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭.

this is a spin-off series from Cherry Red Chevy, reading this is not required but highly recommended

john tucker x fem!reader

summary 𓂃 tucker doesn’t think he’s the kind of guy girls pick first. after closing at malone’s, you decide to prove him wrong.

warnings 𓂃 18+ mdni, explicit smut, flirting, oral sex, fingering, protected sex, wall sex, praise, dirty talk, body worship, soft aftercare.

word count 𓂃 7,529.

author’s note 𓂃 requested by @myst3ryin0rperated 💌 this ended up being way longer than planned, but honestly? tuck deserves the attention. i love parts of this, but i’m also not fully sure how i feel about it yet, so i’d love to know what you think <3

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

*⁀➷john logan x fem!reader

➷ summary: after plowing down john logan during one of your volleyball games, you catch the man’s eye. and, to be totally honest, he caught yours, too. but you know you can’t give in that easily; you’ve got to make him earn it, and during that process, you discover that through getting to know and understand john logan, you’ve unlocked a whole new chapter of your life that you didn’t even know was possible to exist.

pt.2 of plowed down

➷ word count: 5919

➷ warnings: cursing, little bit angsty during one part (just about family stuff, nothing to do with their relationship so don’t worry), you’re the main character (sure me, idc), definitely inaccurate volleyball references. also, i know that with ncaa championships, they’re typically like a few days after the semifinals BUT FOR THE PLOT, we’re gonna pretend it’s like two weeks after (again, sorry, just bear with me).

omg also guys thank you so fucking much for the love that i received on plowed down!!! like it was genuinely bonkers waking up to all those notifications, so thank you so much!!!!

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

You weren’t exactly sure what you had going on with John Logan.

It had been two weeks since you plowed the man down– two weeks since you made out against your apartment door, since you told him you didn’t do casual; that you didn’t do hook-ups.

Two weeks since the guy started practically worshipping the ground you walked on.

You aren’t sure what you did to warrant this; you had quite honestly been playing hard to get after making out with him. Partly because you were maybe a little bit embarrassed by how easily you gave into his charm, but also partly because you knew how guys like John Logan worked. They were athletes who had sex with different girls every few days, who were texting multiple girls at once. Guys like John Logan were players, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing when they were honest about it. 

But you didn’t like to engage with players more than once, because, again, casual didn’t work for you. It was just something you swore off on in your sophomore year of college because for you, flings and hook-ups came with too much emotional baggage.

It was your own fault, quite honestly.

To you, intimacy was much more than a quick fuck. It always meant more to you. It had to be with someone you trusted, someone you had gotten to know over a certain amount of time. You learned that through a messy situationship, which is what created your personal rules.

That is why you tried to let John Logan down the easy way. With a playful grin, you had whispered the words, “I don’t do hook-ups. Or casual.”

And John Logan had fucking grinned.

Like he understood– like he was on the same page, which you knew he wasn’t.

Or, at least, you thought you knew.

But apparently you didn’t, because after you had said those words, he backed off you, his fingers lingering on your hips. He had still been smiling as he looked at you with gentle eyes and nodded, “Okay. Nothing casual, no hooking up. I can do that.”

“What?”

You blurted out the question, and you’re positive your face revealed how fucking shocked and baffled you were, because John had laughed, the sound warming your chest in the scariest way for a man you had only known for a few hours. He was dangerous, and yet you still felt the urge to dip your fingers into his flames.

He shrugged, and then said, “I can do that.”

“Okay, no.”

“No?”

“No! Isn't it your thing, to like, hook up with girls at parties?”

“I haven’t done that for weeks now–”

“Oh, how tragic,” you drawl, but you’re still smiling despite yourself. You let your hands trail up his arms and to his shoulders. You give them a quick squeeze, and then nod, “Well, this was fun.”

Now he looks baffled.

“So we’re done?”

“I don’t do hook-ups.”

“I won’t either.”

“That’s a lot of commitment for a girl you just met.”

He sighs, and he looks down at you, as if he’s searching your eyes for something, anything– and, you don’t know how, but the motherfucker seems to find what he’s looking for, because he nods, grins, and says, “Can I get your number, then? You should get to know me before you decide to get rid of me completely.”

“We’re following each other on Instagram now.”

“This is different.”

You’re slightly shocked by his words, but you’re watching his face, and you can’t help the way your lips quirk up. But you don’t nod, and you don’t give in. You smile and watch as his eyes glimmer when you respond.

“You’ve gotta earn it, Logan.”

As you said those words, you figured he’d get bored of you within a couple days. Forget about you completely, be a failed sexual encounter in the back of his mind, who he would forget about in a few months time.

Yeah, that absolutely did not happen.

Not even two days later the man somehow found your practice schedule– you had deep suspicion Jade was his source– where he had waited outside for you to finish up, standing on the cold with not even an ounce of exasperation.

“... You waited for me to finish practice?” You question, your practice bag slung over your shoulder. You stared at John Logan, dumbfounded. He was standing outside of the Briar gymnasium where your practice was held, hands shoved in the pockets of his Carhartt jacket, a happy smile on his face.

“You said if I wanted your number, I’d need to earn it. Here I am, earning it.”

“You’re being serious?” You question, and you look back to your teammates, all of whom had stopped in their tracks, watching the scene with a mixture of expressions. Some shocked, some giddy. The only part of the expressions that stayed consistent was how everyone was smiling from ear to ear.

“Yes.”

You falter– stammer, quite honestly– and you feel like your head is about to explode, because you never expected that John Logan would take you to your word. You stand there for about thirty seconds, baffled into silence, when Louisa finally nudges you in the ribs, knocking your thoughts back into your head. 

“I mean, a deal’s a deal,” you say after leaving the poor guy standing in silence for far longer than necessary. You don’t miss the way his face lights up, and you watch as he hurries over to you, digging out his phone from his pocket. 

He unlocks it, passing you the phone, and you go to his contacts, creating your own. 

You look back up at him, face held with faux seriousness, “What number should I be? Girl thirty-five? Thirty-six?”

“Number one works.”

You snort, “Number one? Be serious.”

“I am,” he says with a playful grin. “I’m not a total player. Anymore, at least.”

“Mhm,” you nod. “Well, you’re number fourty-seven in my phone, so–”

He snorts at that, a loud laugh escaping him, and his smile is still wide on his face as you hand him his phone back. He looks down at the screen, clicking onto your contact. You’ve written your name and put a little volleyball emoji next to it, which has him looking up at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Just so I won’t get lost in your sea of girls,” you elaborate.

“It’s more like a plastic fair bag now, but okay.”

For whatever reason, that had you seeing hearts because holy shit he was funny. But you compose yourself enough to not tackle him to the floor with a frenzied kiss. 

In fact, ever since that encounter, you’ve learned to compose yourself in many ways. Basically whenever you guys hang out. Because, despite wanting to kiss the ever-loving shit out of him every time you guys were together, you had composed yourself with major difficulty. In the two weeks he’d had your number– the two weeks that you guys had been doing random, stupid shit together– you had only made out with John Logan three times. And each time, it had only been making out. Nothing more.

As it turned out, John Logan really was a man of his word. He had no expectations for whatever the fuck was going on between you two. During the three times you two had made out, it had caught him by surprise each time. Not that he wasn’t into it; he was extremely into it. He just hadn’t been expecting any kissing. 

You had been the one to initiate it each time, and he was there to happily oblige. 

Which, unfortunately for you, only made him hotter.

Still, most of your hangouts would be what many would deem as boring. He’d pick you up from your practice most nights, and then you guys would get food; always your choice, even when you tried to make him choose. You’d sit in his car and talk about whatever– you had even gone on a rant one time on how a block of cheese was technically a loaf of milk, and the guy had nodded along with full seriousness as if you had just said the most logical thing he’d ever heard.

You’d also gone over to his house a few times, gotten to know the teammates that he lives with (his best friends). And their girlfriends, of course. As it turn outs, Allie and Hannah were fun as fuck. The number of times you guys had played Just Dance on the guys’ TV was astronomical for the limited amount of time you’d known the group; you had become fluent with the Rasputin dance. And, God, you didn’t even want to calculate the number of late nights you had stayed at the house, beating the absolute shit out of Tucker and Dean in Mario Kart with Allie. 

You swore sometimes you had more fun with John’s friends than him. 

You had even told John that to his face once; his response was to give you the most dramatic pout he could muster, which, in turn, caused you to make out with him for the third time. He was smiling after that.

Out of all your hangouts, though, most of them were dedicated to you doing something of importance while he just sat beside you and watched.

Such as right now.

You were in the Briar U library, flipping through one of your textbooks as you took notes for an upcoming midterm. You weren’t all that worried about it since the class was relatively easy, but you still wanted to study. Just in case.

You would’ve been nearly done with studying had a little leech not been bothering you the entire time.

You side-eyed Logan as he flipped through your stack of notecards, watching as he let out a bored breath of air. He then reached over, grabbing your pencil pouch, where he opened it, grabbing an orange sparkly pen from inside. 

Instantly, you snatch it from his grip.

“Absolutely not.”

“What?” He asks, eyes wide in a playful manner. His boredom was swept away in a matter of seconds, and he straightened up, leaning closer to you.

“That’s my lucky pen, and I swear to everything if you took away its luck with your grubby hands–”

“Grubby?”

“– I will kill you.”

He smiles, something he can’t seem to stop doing around you, and sinks back into his chair. “Fine.”

“Good,” you say, returning to your notes. But not before you lift your eyes to look at him, where you mutter, “Just sit there and look pretty.”

“You think I’m pretty?”

“Why else would I have kept you around?”

He laughs quietly, “So my looks are all I’m good for?”

“That and your friends.”

“Wow.”

This time it’s you who smiles and you can’t stop yourself as you lean over, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. 

You’re quick to get back to the task at hand– studying– because if you don’t, you know you’ll see the dopey expression on John’s face. If you see that, you know that three make-out sessions will immediately turn into four. And you know that can’t happen in the middle of a fucking library where people are studying, so you distract yourself instantly, flipping back through the pages of your textbook.

It’s silent for a couple minutes as he watches you, completely content with where he’s at. But he sits up suddenly, seemingly remembering something, and then he says, “You should come over tonight.” His fingers were tapping against the wood of the table as he spoke, his eyes watching your hands as you paused on a page, a flash of confusion corrupting your expression. His eyes soften as a result, “Tucker said he’s trying out a new dish. You’d like it.”

“I can’t,” you respond without much thought, furrowing your brows as you flip back a few pages in your textbooks, and then in your notes. You’re trying to find a specific concept that you remember reading, but for some reason, you can’t find it anywhere; it’s the pure source of your confusion and it will stay that way until you find what you’re looking for. “The fuck?” You mumble, and then you look at John when he lets out a little snort, “Sorry– what’d you say?”

“You should come over,” he repeated, this time with a soft grin as he watched you. His eyes flickered over your face, scanning. It was something he always did when you spoke, like even the tiniest change in your facial expression was a portal to something holy.

“Oh, right,” you nod. You shake your head immediately after. “Can’t.”

“I heard.”

“Sorry,” you apologize, but your tone isn’t very sincere. Not as you flip a few more pages in your textbook, looking for the concept that seems to have vanished off the face of the earth. John doesn’t seem to care, his pretty smile still on full display.

“Why can’t you?”

“Late practice tonight,” you say, and then you turn to look at him, finally smiling at the softness in his eyes. “Y’know, for the championship in a couple days.”

“After, then. Come over. I’ll pick you up.”

“I won’t get out of practice until after 9. I’ve been sloppy with my saves these past few practices, and Coach Peters is really getting worried, so–”

“God, I love it when you talk volleyball to me,” he interrupts, to which you lose your smile and shoot him a harsh look because he knows what that does to you. 

It was the reason for the other two times you had made out with him. And, fuck, it was about to be the fourth, because the man was unreasonably hot. You shake your head, deciding to scoot your chair away from his. Your self-restraint is quickly wavering, especially after you glance him over, allowing you to really absorb how good he looks in the sweatshirt he’s wearing. And, watching as you scoot away from him, he lets out a small sigh, scooting his chair closer. You give him a look, and he grins, scooting even closer, the side of his knee pressing against yours. Your eyes turn annoyed, and he innocently asks, “What?”

“You’re distracting me, and you know it,” you answer. “You do this on purpose.”

He hums, “So you’ll come over?”

“Yeah,” you say, as if it was the most obvious answer. When he smiles, you quickly add on, “only for the meal, though.”

“Obviously,” he nods with fake seriousness. “Why else would you?”

“Don’t get any ideas.”

“No ideas are coming to mind.”

“Good. Because I’m just coming over to eat.”

“Yep.”

“So no kissing.”

“No kissing?” He whines, completely dramatic and not at all serious. You can see him fighting to keep the smile from his face, “Why not?”

“Keep it in your pants, Logan.”

“Oh, it hasn’t left my pants. My pants have remained perfectly intact, thank you.”

You laugh, covering your mouth with your hand before you piss off the librarian. You shake your head, and you look at him with a level of affection that is far stronger than it should be with how little time you have known the hockey boy.

“You’re insufferable,” you whisper with a big smile.

“I think you love it.”

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

You get out of practice at 9:34 p.m.

It’s later than you had been expecting, and you’re absolutely exhausted as you trudge over to John’s truck. You pull open the passenger side door, and he looks up from his phone with a soft smile as you toss your back to the floor, pulling yourself into your seat with a long sigh.

“You okay?”

“Sleepy,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes before turning your head to look over at him.

“You want me to take you back to your apartment?” He asks, his tone gentle as he watches you buckle your seatbelt. “You don’t need to come back to mine if you’re too tired. We can hang out another time–”

You shake your head, “No, I’m starving, and all I’ve been imagining for the past two hours is Tucker’s food.”

He laughs softly and nods, “Okay.”

When you finally get to the house that’s situated off campus, John cuts his engine, exits the vehicle, and walks around the front of his truck. He opens the passenger side door before you can even unbuckle, and you smile softly as he reaches over you, unbuckling the seatbelt for you.

“I could’ve done that myself, y’know?” You say, taking the hand that he held out for you. “I’m perfectly capable.”

He gave your hand a short squeeze as you hopped out of his truck, and he nodded, “I know. But you’re tired.”

Your eyes follow as he grabs your practice bag and slings it over his shoulder, using his foot to shut the passenger. His hand remains threaded with yours, and you him softly, “You’re playing gentleman tonight?”

“I’m always a gentleman. Get it straight.”

You laugh softly, giving him a slight nudge with your shoulder as you guys reach the front door. John opens it, and you walk in alongside him, instantly greeted with the delicious smell of whatever the hell Tucker cooked. Your stomach growled as a result, and your hand– still linked with John’s– squeezed his as you tugged him along to the kitchen, where his entire friend group was gathered, hanging out casually as they usually did.

Hannah notices you first, and she smiles softly, “How was practice?”

“Tiring,” you respond, finally releasing John’s hand. You slip into one of the island chairs next to Allie, and you thank Tucker quietly as he slips a bowl of fancy looking pasta in front of you. You grab your fork, twirl some pasta onto the prongs, and bite into it with a satisfied hum, “This is so fucking good, Tuck.”

He grins happily, “Logan said you would like it. It has parsley!”

“It’s delicious,” you nod, taking another bite. And as you do, you feel Logan come up behind you, his arms snaking around your front, his chin resting on the top of your head. You promptly ignore the warm feeling that flutters in your chest, eating more of the amazing pasta dish. 

After finishing up the food, you and the rest of the group somehow migrate to the living room. You’re sitting on the couch beside Logan, tucked beneath his arm, your head resting against the crook of his shoulder as you watch Dean and Garrett play the worst game of silent charades that you had ever seen. Allie seemed borderline aggravated as she yelled out words that she thought aligned with the movements of the men only to then be pissed off because ‘Dean, what the fuck even was that?’.  

You had to admit, it had been the funniest thing you’d witnessed in awhile.

And, you’re not sure when you fall asleep, all you know is that you’re woken sometime later in the evening by the soft touch of Logan, his eyes gentle as he carefully shifts you awake. You blink your eyes open, only to realize that all the others are heading to bed, and reach over Logan, grabbing his phone from his lap. You tap on the screen, checking the time; 12:17 a.m.

“Want me to drive you home?” He asks, using his thumb to swipe an eyelash from your cheek. 

You groan in response.

“No?” He laughs, the hand that’s around your shoulders rubbing up and down your arm. 

“Can I just stay here tonight?”

“Absolutely.”

He says the words immediately, and you’re caught entirely off guard as he stands from the couch, scooping you up in his arms with a scary amount of ease. Your eyes widen, arms scrambling to latch around his shoulders as you let out a quiet sound of panic, voice rushed as you breathe out, “John, what the fuck–”

“You’re tired.”

“Yeah, but I can still walk, you idiot. Oh my God, put me down–”

“We’re half way up the stairs and you want me to drop you?”

“If you drop me I’m never speaking to you again.”

He laughs again, this time filled with pure amusement as he continues scaling the stairs with you in his arms. Your arms stay hooked around his shoulders as he walks in the direction of his room, and carefully opens the door, stepping inside. Still, he doesn’t bother to put you down just yet. He holds you as he shuts the door behind him, his grip on you steady while he walks over to his desk, switching on the lamp.

When he finally sets you down, he plops you onto his mattress, not giving you much time before he’s draping himself over you with a satisfied sigh, and you can’t help the smallest giggle that leaves your chest, your hands pressing against his front.

“You’re crushing me.”

“Whoops.”

He makes no attempt to move, and again, you push against his shoulders, “You’re comfy, but I’m still in my volleyball clothes, and I want to change–” You stop suddenly, groaning with dismay. 

Instantly, he pushes himself off you.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, eyebrows furrowed with concern.

“I have no clothes to change into.”

“Just wear my stuff,” he says, pulling himself from you completely. He stands with a stretch, and you watch as the bottom of his sweatshirt rises just enough for you to see a sliver of his stomach. Fuck, you were going to go feral.

You clear your throat, and clap your hands once, “Then chop chop, hockey boy.”

It only takes him a few seconds to grab you something to wear; he comes up with a pair of plaid boxer shorts and a Briar hockey sweatshirt with the number 22 on the back. As you take the clothing, you raise your eyebrow, “No other sweatshirts?”

“Nope, that’s my only clean one. Sorry.”

And the man’s a fucking liar because behind him, where is closet is just partially open, you can see at least four more regular sweatshirts hanging, completely clean.

“Huh,” you mutter. “You must be blind.”

“That’s the only clean one,” he repeats. “So, better go ahead and change into it.”

You laugh, shaking your head. Standing, you clutch the clothing in your hands, and as you pass him, you press a soft kiss to his lips– which, holy shit, it’s the first time you’ve ever done that as if it were second nature– and you mumble, “You really are insufferable, Logan.”

He hums against your lips, his hand going to your jaw as he presses a couple more soft kisses to you. You can’t help but smile, and you lean back, gazing up at him. You don’t say anything, just run a hand through his hair, and your smile turns giddy as you pull back fully, your bottom lip tucking beneath your teeth as you try to bite back your grin.

You point to the bathroom that’s connected to his room, “I’m gonna go change.”

He nods with a happy smile, responding in that soft voice that you realized he only uses with you, “Okay.”

Once changed, you exit the bathroom, finding John already in his bed, wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt. You walk over to his bed, not saying a thing as you plop down on his mattress, stretching out across his mattress.

“Cozy?” He asks as he turns on his side to face you.

“Yeah. It’d be better if we were cuddling, though.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Not that I expect you to do that, though,” you say the words playfully. “I mean, I’ve never watched you play, but I assume you’re the same on and off the ice.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re not good at taking the shot, if you get what I mean–”

“Shut up,” he laughs, and he grabs your arm, gently tugging you to him. You grin, getting situated against his body, one of your legs draped across his while your arm rests over his torso, your head settled comfortably on his chest with your ear pressed right over the beating of his heart.

And you stay like this for a while, just until you’re on the brink of falling asleep. But before you can slip into that peaceful state of bliss, a question you had been meaning to ask– a question you had been too nervous to ask– comes to mind.

You’re not able to stop yourself from asking it.

“You wanna come to the championship and watch me play?” You question from where your head is still tucked against his chest, your voice whispers into the fabric of his sweatshirt and against his skin that lies beneath it. “It’s a three hour drive away.”

You feel him let out a soft breath of air, his fingers dancing gently along the fabric of his sweatshirt that covers the dip of your back. His voice is low and gravelly as he speaks, coated with a layer of sleepiness, “I want to, and I tried to find tickets, but they’re all sold out. Even Allie tried to find some and she couldn’t, which means I’m shit out of luck.”

“I’ve got tickets,” you say. “My teammates and I each got six tickets. Thought you might want them. You and your friends can go. They’re good seats.”

You can practically feel the frown in John’s expression as he asks quietly, “You’re not gonna give them to your family?”

“No,” You swallow thickly and do your best to keep your eyes shut because you know John’s looking at you now. His fingers stopped trailing along your spine as a result of the change in your tone and your body language, and you sigh against him. Might as well get it out of the way. “I just– I did everything I could to get out of my house as a teenager. To get away from my parents and the rest of my family. I don’t really feel like giving them a straight ticket back into my life, y’know?”

He’s quiet for a second before he nods, speaking softly, “Yeah, I know. I get it.”

“I’ve never had anyone in any of the seats during my games,” you continue. “I just thought it would be kinda nice to have that for once. You don’t need to, though. I know it’s really last minute, and–”

“No, I’ll go,” John interrupts you before you can finish. “We all will. Me and the guys. And Hannah and Allie. The six of us will go.”

“You sure?”

He laughs softly, tiredly, and nods, “Yeah, baby, I’m sure.”

Oh my God, you were going to fucking implode. But you hold in the desperate need to squeal like a dumbass, and instead bite the inside of your cheek to fight against the wide grin that wants to break out on your face. 

After composing yourself enough to not make a complete and utter fool of yourself, you nod, and tilt your head up, pressing the softest kiss to his jaw. 

He smiles as a result, the smallest shade of pink flushing his cheeks.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I’m excited.”

“Me too.”

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

John Logan was your goodluck charm.

The guy had to be, because this was the best fucking game you had ever played in your life. Sure, the first set wasn’t the best for Briar U, but that was okay given you guys were playing against Penn State. The team had won every single game so far this season, so, in short words, they were good as hell. They’d also won the NCAA Championship for the past five years, which was devastatingly nerve wracking knowing you were against the best team D1 volleyball currently had.

Still, tonight, you and your teammates came with a mission; you were going to win.

And, fuck, was it looking promising.

Despite Penn State winning the first set, Briar U had won the other two.

They weren’t wipeouts, but that didn’t matter, because you had won them.

That meant that if you and your teammates somehow managed to win this fourth set, you’d place Briar as the fucking NCAA Women’s Volleyball Champions for the first time in over ten years. It’d be an insane feat, and you had to fight from getting too excited about the possibility, especially because right now, it was looking very likely.

So far, you’ve saved every stray ball, hitting it back to your teammates or over the net with ease. As you played, your smile never left your face. Not even as you dove for the ball, saving it as you slid across the polished wood floor.

That didn’t mean Penn wasn’t doing good, though. Because they absolutely were.

They were playing with a fierceness of a team who wanted this win just as badly as you did; it felt like an even playing field, and while that could be fun, tonight it was terrifying.

Right now, the score was 22 to 23. The set was almost over, and it was in Briar’s favor. If you guys got two more points, you were winning the match. If you won, you’d be the first captain in over ten years to lead Briar to a volleyball victory and that’s exactly what you were planning on doing. 

No way did you fight this hard only to lose.

You were hovering near the back of the court, watching as Jade surged forward, tapping the ball over to the right of the court. Instantly, your teammates rallied toward the ball, leaving the left side of the court completely unguarded, and your eyes lingered on the ball, watching as Louisa sprinted forward, feet fast as she jumped up, spiking it over the net.

The middle hitter on the Penn State team hurried forward, blocking the spike with a bump of her arms, and you watched as the ball practically hovered over the net.

Right to the spot that was unguarded.

You’re not sure how you moved as fast as you did– one second, you were at the back right of the court, and the next, you were flying in the upper left, body in the air as you threw yourself forward, your right hand bumping the ball back to your teammates just before it hit the ground on your side of the net.

Your body hit the floor with a thud, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care, because the moment you had successfully executed the move, your side of the room erupted in loud cheers. It shook the floor as you stood up, and you didn’t waste any time as you sprinted back to the center of the court.

Just in time, too, because the setter of Penn State sent a lethal spike in your direction, and you dropped to a knee, forearms out as the ball bounced from your skin and back over the net. Two saves in a matter of seconds, and you could literally see your coaches losing it from pure happiness in the corner.

You probably looked like a cocky motherfucker, your lips upturned in the smallest of smiles as you shuffled backward, and then dove sideways, saving yet another ball from being spiked into the ground.

And yeah, you were definitely right– John Logan was totally your lucky charm tonight because holy fuck, you were even impressing yourself.

More cheers sounded throughout your side of the room, increasing tenfold as Liliana jumped, spiking the ball down to the back corner of Penn State’s side, earning Briar U their 24th point of the fourth set.

It was an exhilarating sound, and you laughed with pure joy as you ran over to Liliana, the rest of the girls on your side of the court meeting halfway. You huddled with pure glee; one more point, and you guys were winning. 

All you needed was one more point.

Leaving the huddle, you guys got back into your positions. You watched as Macey served the ball, starting what would hopefully be the final round of the night.

The Penn girls were quick to rally on the ball; they moved it over the net with ease, and you watched as Jade ran, hitting it back over the net. It went back and forth for a bit, the round intense. It felt like it was purely silent save for the cheers from supporters that erupted when either side had a good save or hit.

You watched as the libero for Penn bump the ball with her wrist, causing it to go over the net. And then you see as the entire team moves away, going near the back of the court, like they knew what the next play was going to be; a spike ball.

Except it wasn’t that at all.

No, it’s the complete opposite, because you’re in the exact spot that you’re meant to be in for this current play. You’re close enough that the ball clearly belongs to you at this moment, and you run up, arms carefully bumping the ball over the net.

It barely catches the top before it topples over to Penn State’s side.

The girls hadn’t been expecting it; they’re unable to move fast enough from where they had migrated to the back of the court with the expectation that Liliana or Louisa were going to spike the ball over the net, a move that had earned you guys many wins this season.

They hadn’t been expecting you to run up and hit the ball with your forearms in such a way that it only just made it over the net.

You watched as the volleyball hit the floor on Penn’s side.

Holy fuck.

You’d scored the winning point.

You can’t even process the fucking thing, because you’re instantly bombarded by your teammates– ones both on and off the court– as they swarm into a pile around you, the deafening cheers of the crowd blocking out the cheers from your own teammates who stood around you. 

You guys are jumping up and down, and you’re not even sure when you stop, because one moment you’re celebrating with your teammates and coaches, and the next you’re following after your teammates, running towards the people who had come to watch you in the stands.

And you find him instantly.

John Logan is standing in the front row– because, yes, the seats were great– with his friends next to him, all of them grinning ear to ear as they cheered for you. 

Your feet moved like they had a mind of their own; you’re sprinting to John like he’s the only thing you’re even capable of thinking about at the moment, and that’s because he is.

When you finally reach him, you practically leap into John’s arms, your hands threading around the back of his neck with a tight grip, and you have the widest smile on your face as you press your lips firmly against his. 

He reciprocates the kiss instantly, hands clutching your waste as he leans down to match your lips.

It’s soft, not anything over the top, but fuck does it have you wanting more.

As you pull away, you stare up at John with an excited spark in your eye.

“So kissing’s a thing we do regularly now?” He asked, the happiest grin you’d ever seen on his face. “That’s okay now?”

“Yeah,” you nod, your grin matching his. “I’d say so.”

“Yeah?”

You laugh gleefully.

“I think you’ve earned it.”