this is a mess.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

you had been stranded in the commuter parking lot during a freezing september downpour, staring hopelessly at a completely dead engine and crying, when tucker had pulled up in his massive truck.

he hadn't just lent you jumper cables which would've been more than enough.

he had stood out in the freezing rain, hooking up the batteries, talking you through exactly what was wrong and then waited until you safely cleared the campus gates.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

now, a year later into your sophomore year, you two were inseparable.

you weren't just classmates anymore. you had become really good friends. he was one of your anchors on campus, a person you trusted.

and for over a year—for as long as you had known him, really—you had been desperately, quietly drowning in love with him.

your best friend, nadia, had been pushing you for months to just give in and finally make a move, insisting that the chemistry was entirely there.

but you would honestly rather walk face-first into oncoming traffic than risk your friendship by putting yourself out there like that.

so, you had chosen to keep it buried, agonizingly silent.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

you had been able to pinpoint the exact moment you truly fell for him, too.

it was during a chaotic karaoke night at malones.

tucker had practically dragged you up onto the sticky stage to sing mr. brightside with him.

he had wrapped a heavy, protective arm around your shoulder, holding the microphone directly in front of both of you as you both screamed the lyrics.

you had sung quite badly on your end, but he hadn't cared at all.

you even let out a breathless, private kind of laugh as you yelled the words, because the lyrics about jealousy and watching someone else with the person you wanted were so brutally, painfully ironic.

at the time, tucker was kind of seeing another girl, and it had lowkey broke your heart every single time you thought about it.

still, the entire bar had cheered for you, and when the song finished, amidst the flashing lights and laughing crowd, he had leaned down and kissed your forehead.

it was a completely casual, affectionate gesture to him, but it had sent a seismic shock through your chest, and you had had to fight with every ounce of your willpower just to stay composed.

your heart wasn't hammering against your ribs.

not at all.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the air in the crowded kitchen shifted.

a shadow fell over you, and the oppressive weight of the room seemed to lift.

"hey," a low, steady voice rumbled.

you looked up to see tucker was standing there. he was wearing a black t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders, his curly dark hair slightly mussed from the humidity.

he didn't look angry, just looked immovable.

tucker's eyes flicked briefly to the guy's hand near your head, then down to your face. he read the tight, exhausted strain in your smile instantly.

"sorry to interrupt," tucker said to the guy, his voice entirely polite but carrying an undercurrent that brooked zero argument.

he looked back at you, his brown eyes softening. "but you dropped your sweater on the stairs earlier. want to go grab it before someone spills something on it?"

"oh. uh yes. thank you," you breathed, the relief so sharp it made your knees weak.

the guy blinked and slowly backed away, raising his cup in a silent surrender.

tucker didn't look at him again. instead, he placed a warm, heavy palm against the small of your back.

the heat of his hand burned straight through the thin fabric of your top, guiding you through the crushing crowd and up the stairs toward the quieter, dimly lit second floor.

"you okay?" he asked as soon as the noise of the downstairs dropped by half. he stopped in the hallway, turning to face you fully.

he kept a respectful distance, but his eyes were entirely locked onto yours. "you looked like you were about to faint down there."

"i was just... trying to be nice," you murmured, staring at the collar of his shirt because looking into his eyes felt too dangerous. "i didn't want to make it weird. since you invited me, i didn't want to seem ungrateful."

tucker let out a soft, huffed breath, a mixture of amusement and genuine concern. "you don't have to be nice to people who don't respect your space. you are allowed to say no." he stepped a fraction closer, his head tilting down to catch your gaze. "if you want to leave, i can drive you. my truck is right outside."

you looked up at him then. tucker was the resident 'good guy' of the hockey team. he was the one who did the grocery shopping, the one who cooked the meals, the one who always seemed to have his life entirely together.

he was your friend, the boy who sat next to you in class with perfect posture, taking meticulous notes, always completely steady.

"i don't want to go home yet," you whispered, the alcohol in your system giving you a sudden, terrifying burst of reckless courage. "but i really don't want to go back downstairs either."

tucker's chest rose and fell in a slow, deep breath.

his eyes darkened, the easygoing, polite classmate fading away to reveal something much heavier, much hungrier. "okay," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a rough murmur. "well you know my room is at the end of the hall."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

you knew exactly which room it was.

you had been in tucker's room to study on multiple occasions before, whenever the house was chaotic and the living room was completely unusable.

you had sat cross-legged on his floor with your notebooks spread out whenever dean decided he was going to aggressively make out with some girl on the couch.

when garrett and logan would yell at each other while playing video games at maximum volume you had sat in his swivel chair.

back then, tucker's room had been a platonic sanctuary.

but the moment the bedroom door clicked shut behind you tonight, the polite boundaries dissolved.

tucker didn't pounce. he moved with a deliberate, agonising slowness that made your blood sing.

he walked up to you, his hands rising to gently cup the sides of your face. his thumbs traced your cheekbones, his callouses catching slightly against your skin.

he waited, his eyes searching yours in the dim light of his bedside lamp. "are you sure? tell me to stop if you want me to stop."

"don't stop," you choked out, reaching up to grip his wrists.

when his mouth finally met yours, it was like a dam breaking. tucker was patient, but there was an underlying desperation in the way he pulled you against him.

his hands moved down your bare back where the halter top exposed your skin, his fingers locking around your waist and lifting you slightly so you were flush against chest.

he tasted like mint and the dark beer he had been sipping, his tongue sliding against yours with a deep, consuming rhythm that made your head spin.

he guided you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of his mattress, and then you were falling, tucker coming down with you.

every single movement was an exercise in communication. even when his hands were trembling with the effort to hold himself back, he kept checking in.

"too much?" he whispered, his lips brushing the sensitive skin right beneath your ear, making an involuntary shiver rip through your body.

"no. it's perfect. please, tuck."

he groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated against your collarbone. his hands moved to the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it over his head, a few stray dark curls falling into his eyes before his fingers reached for the ties of your top.

he paused for a fraction of a second, waiting until you arched into his touch and gave him the unspoken permission he required.

with a gentle tug, he undone the straps, pulling the fabric away. his eyes roamed over your skin with a reverence that felt almost sacred.

he looked at you like he worshipped you.

his mouth followed the path of his hands, leaving a trail of burning, wet kisses down your throat, across the curve of your shoulder, down to the soft skin of your stomach.

when he finally rid himself of the rest of his clothes, the sheer scale of him took your breath away—all hard muscle and tan skin.

but when he slid between your thighs, he was incredibly gentle. he braced his weight on his forearms, framing your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, winding through it.

"hey, look at me," he asked you softly.

you opened your eyes, blinking through the haze of pleasure. tucker was staring down at you, his jaw clenched, a bead of sweat tracing the line of his temple. his eyes were burning, completely stripped of his usual easygoing charm.

"it's just you and me," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "just us."

you gasped, your fingers digging into his shoulders as a wave of intense, blinding heat flooded your system.

tucker froze, letting you adjust, his chest heaving against yours. he kissed away the tear that leaked from the corner of your eye, murmuring a stream of praise against your skin. "you're so beautiful. come here, sweetheart, i've got you."

you silently choked at the compliment, it almost felt real. but you knew what this was.

when he started to move, the pace was agonizingly perfect. it wasn't the frantic, uncoordinated fumbling you had experienced with other guys. tucker knew his body, and he wanted to know yours.

he set a slow, deep, devastating rhythm, his hips rolling into yours with a physical certainty that had you sobbing his name into the quiet of his room within minutes.

every time you tried to pull away from the sheer intensity of it, his grip on your waist tightened.

he anchored you to him, pulling you deeper into the sensation until the entire world narrowed down to the sound of his ragged breathing and the friction of skin against skin.

you felt the overwhelming, terrifying realization that you were completely, utterly undone by him.

when he finally came, his head buried in the crook of your neck and he gripped you so tight you could barely breathe.

and you held him just as hard, believing, with every fiber of your being, that everything had changed.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

what you could only describe as a cacophony of metal and chaos was coming from the kitchen downstairs.

the alcohol had completely worn off, leaving behind a pounding headache and a sudden, suffocating wave of reality.

the room was cold, but the heater in the corner clicking loudly. next to you, tucker was still asleep, lying on his stomach, the sheets pooled around his lower back, exposing the muscular expanse of his spine.

you sat up slowly, pulling the duvet tightly against your chest, and looked around.

tucker’s hockey gear was stacked neatly in the corner. his textbooks were lined up on his desk. everything about john tucker's life was orderly, structured, and deliberate.

and then there was you.

a heavy, sickening dread began to pool in your stomach. your brain, always hyper-tuned to the threat of rejection, immediately went into overdrive.

what did you do? the unwelcome voice whispered.

he's your friend. you've studied in this exact room so many times as just a friend, completely terrified of ruining what you had, and now you've gone and done exactly that because you basically threw yourself at him.

you remembered how he had said, "we don't have to make a big deal out of this," to a girl at a party a few weeks ago who had been clinging to his arm. you remembered how he valued his peace.

he's going to wake up, look at you, and realize he made a massive mistake and completely ruined our friendship, you thought, the humiliation already burning in your throat.

you wanted to disappear. to protect your own fragile pride, your defenses immediately slammed down.

you pulled your knees to your chest, your expression suddenly turning tight, closed-off, and rigid.

tucker stirred, a low groan escaping his throat as his eyes slowly blinked open.

he turned over, his face soft with sleep, a faint, instinctive smile forming on his lips as he looked at you.

"hey," he rasped, his voice incredibly deep from sleep. he reached out, his hand moving to rest on your thigh over the blanket. "how you feeling?"

you didn't move into his touch. you stayed perfectly still, your voice coming out clipped and distant. "i'm fine. i should probably get going before nadia thinks that i died."

tucker's smile faltered. his hand remained on your thigh, but his fingers went still.

his brown eyes, usually so warm, sharpened as he scanned your face. he saw the tension in your jaw, the way you were holding the blanket like a shield, the complete lack of warmth in your eyes.

he misread it instantly.

to tucker, a guy who prided himself on reading people and making them feel safe, your rigid posture looked like pure, unadulterated regret.

he thought you woke up, looked at him, and wished with everything you had that you hadn't slept with your friend.

a sharp pang of guilt sliced through his chest, followed closely by a dull, hollow ache. his jaw clenched, and he slowly pulled his hand back, tucking it under the pillow.

"right," tucker said. the softness vanished from his voice, replaced by that careful, polite, emotionally controlled tone he used when he was trying to manage a difficult situation.

he didn't want to pressure you. he didn't want to make you feel worse than you clearly already did. "yeah, of course. don't stress about it."

he sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, keeping his back to you as he grabbed his sweatpants from the floor.

"we don't have to make a big deal out of this," tucker murmured, his voice entirely deadpan as he pulled the fabric up.

he turned his head slightly, offering you a small, forced smile that didn't reach his eyes. "it was a crazy night. we're good. i can drive you home, or i can just head down to the kitchen and give you some space to get dressed. whatever you want."

to your ears, it was the ultimate rejection.

we don't have to make a big deal out of this, translated to: it was a mistake. let's forget it happened so our friendship isn't ruined.

"the kitchen is fine," you said, your voice entirely hollow. "and i can walk home. it's close."

tucker swallowed hard, the muscle in his jaw jumping. "okay. uh i'll see you later in class then."

he walked out, closing the door quietly behind him. and you sat in his bed, wrapped in his scent, feeling smaller than you ever had in your life.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the library basement was freezing.

up on the main floors, people actually studied, but down here in the archives, the air tasted like dust and old paper.

it was the perfect place to hide.

"if we use the third-quarter data for the mock marketing pitch, professor hayes is going to lose his mind," tucker's voice broke through the silence, rich and steady, dragging you back to the present.

you blinked before focusing on the heavy textbook open between you. this was your usual routine. monday and thursday afternoons, tucked away in the back corner, acting like you hadn't map-read every inch of each other's bodies three months ago.

you had become masters at it. you had learned how to position your notebooks so your elbows never brushed. you had learned how to look at his forehead instead of his lips when he spoke.

for three months, you had forced yourself into a grueling routine of emotional detachment. you had systematically taken every memory of that night and buried them under layers of cold logic.

you had forced yourself to fall out of love with him, day by agonising day, because surviving his presence required it.

and the hardest part?

tucker was a good communicator. everyone knew that about him. he was the stable one, the guy who spoke his mind, the guy who handled problems head-on.

so when he had gone completely silent about that night, you hadn't viewed it as hesitation. you had viewed it as an answer.

you assumed his silence meant he didn't want you.

you assumed that to him, it had just been a momentary lapse in judgment, an itch scratched with a convenient friend.

you had no idea how beautifully, tragically wrong you were.

you didn't see the war he was fighting every single day.

tucker wasn't silent because he didn't care.

he was silent because he was terrified.

in his mind, he had already crossed the ultimate line by having sex with you and he was absolutely paralyzed by the fear of losing the only thing he had left.

your friendship.

he was suffocating in his own caution, desperately trying to protect your comfort while his own heart tore itself to pieces in the process.

"right. third-quarter data," you muttered, your fingers hovering uselessly over your keyboard before you typed a string of nonsense sentences just to look busy.

beside you, tucker shifted. even without looking, you were acutely aware of him—the heat radiating off him in the drafty basement, the scent of his laundry detergent mixed with the crisp air he had brought in with him.

your phone buzzed on the wood. the screen lit up, cutting through the dimness of the booth.

isaiah: can't do dinner tonight, forgot i have a group project meeting. come over after? like 11?

you had started hooking up with isaiah a month ago after meeting him at a seminar.

you didn't even like him that much. he was careless, he left you on read for hours, and he never supported your goals.

just last week, when you told him about the competitive summer internship you were applying for, he had barely looked at you, and said, "why do that to yourself? it's a lot of work for a low payoff."

but isaiah was safe. he didn't know the exact cadence of your laugh. he didn't make your chest ache with a heavy, hollow longing every time he walked into a room.

most importantly, isaiah didn't make you feel like you were a mistake.

he was the buffer you needed to prove to yourself that you were over john tucker.

you reached out, your thumb hovering over the screen to type a quick no worries, see you then, but you never got the chance.

a hand suddenly moved across the desk and clamped down around the edges of your phone, and with a swift, deliberate motion, tucker flipped it face-down against the wood.

the sharp clack of the plastic hitting the table echoed in the quiet corner.

but he didn't pull his hand away.

his fingertips brushed against your knuckles, just a fraction of a second too long, a heavy, desperate warmth that sent a jolt straight up your arm.

you looked up, startled, your breath catching in your throat.

tucker was staring at you. the easy, relaxed posture he usually maintained was entirely gone. his jaw was clenched so tight a small muscle was leaping under his tan skin.

he had seen the text. because he sat right next to you, because he was always hyper-aware of your movements, he always saw.

"don't," tucker said.

"tucker, it's fine," you said, your voice shaking slightly as you reached out to pull your phone back.

you tried for a casual, dismissive shrug, but it felt brittle. "it’s just casual—"

"it's not fine," he interrupted.

he leaned forward, planting his forearms on the table, and his massive shadow completely eclipsed you, cutting off the rest of the library.

the polite, stable classmate you had forced yourself to get used to evaporated in a single exhale. in his place was something raw, volatile, and entirely starved.

"he treats you like a late-night option, and you just take it because you think that's all you're worth," tucker hissed, his dark eyes boring into yours, practically stripping away every defense you had spent months building. "it kills me. it is physically killing me to sit here every week, pretending to read these damn chapters, and watch you let him do it."

his gaze dropped to your lips for a devastating, lingering second—a look full of so much unsaid hunger, regret, and agonizing yearning that it made your chest ache.

he looked like a man dying of thirst, staring at water he wasn't allowed to drink.

your breath hitched, your heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs.

for a second, the sheer intensity in his eyes made you dizzy.

but then, the reality crashed back over you, and the sheer hypocrisy of his words flared a sudden, angry fire in your chest.

"you don't get to say that to me" you whispered fiercely, leaning in too, refusing to let him back you into a corner.

"you don't get to judge who i spend my time with, tucker. not when you're the one who walked out of your room the next morning and told me not to make a big deal out of it. you're a communicator, tucker. you talk when something matters to you. you set the rules with your silence, and i'm just following them."

tucker flinched as if you had physically struck him.

the irony of your words clearly cut him to the bone. his desperate attempt to communicate respect had been read as total indifference.

when his eyes snapped back to yours, they were blazing, but the truth he so desperately wanted to scream was choking him.

he couldn't say it. not here.

not when he was still terrified that pushing too hard would make you run away forever.

he swallowed hard, his throat bobbing, his jaw working as he forced the raw, aching desperation back down, locking it behind a wall of sheer willpower.

"i told you that because you looked like you were going to cry," he said, his voice dropping to a harsh, strained whisper that vibrated with everything he was keeping back.

he ran a hand through his hair, gripping the strands tightly before letting go. his eyes searched yours, pleading, absolutely drowning in a longing he felt entirely unequipped to handle. "i thought i crossed a line. i thought i ruined us."

he looked down at your face-down phone, his mouth pulling into a grim, tight line, his hand twitching on the table as if he was fighting every instinct in his body to reach out, pull you against him, and never let you go.

when he looked back up, the vulnerability was guarded, but his eyes were still heavy with a crushing, silent ache.

"go to his place if you want to," tucker said softly, though the tension in his rigid shoulders betrayed him completely.

he picked up his pen again, his fingers gripping it so hard it looked ready to snap. "but don't pretend you're doing it because you actually want him."

the silence that followed his words was thick enough to suffocate.

tucker didn't look back up at you. he kept his eyes pinned to his textbook, his broad shoulders practically rigid as he turned a page with a sharp, aggressive snap that nearly ripped the paper.

he was completely retreating back into himself, locking the doors and pulling the blinds, leaving you stranded in the wreckage of whatever the hell had just happened.

your chest heaved as you stared at the side of his face.

you wanted to scream at him. you wanted to demand he explain what those words meant, what that look meant, why he was acting like your choices were tearing him apart when he was the one who had drawn the boundary lines in the first place.

but the sheer exhaustion of the last few months caught up to you all at once.

the anger drained out, leaving nothing but a hollow, heavy ache.

so without a word, you reached out, snatched your phone from beneath his hand and shoved it into your pocket.

you didn't text isaiah back and for the remaining forty minutes of the study session, neither of you spoke.

the only sounds were the scratching of tucker's pen and the frantic, chaotic thoughts screaming inside your own head.

when the clock finally hit four, you packed your laptop so fast the zipper caught on your cord, and you left without saying goodbye.

he didn't try to follow you.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

what followed was a brutal, agonizing stretch of silence that lasted for days. you skipped your usual thursday afternoon study slot, pretending you had a sudden conflict, unable to face the suffocating atmosphere again.

tucker noticed. of course he did.

by thursday night, the texts started coming. your phone would buzz against your nightstand, and every time you saw his name flash across the screen, your throat would go tight.

j.tucker: hey. can we talk? about tuesday.

you read it from your lock screen, then cleared the notification.

an hour later, another one.

j.tucker: i shouldn't have judged your situation. it wasn't my place. i'm sorry.

you actually opened that one. you let the chat stay open, letting the 'seen' status flash right back at him, a deliberate, quiet retaliation for the months of silence he had handed you first.

it felt petty and cruel, but it was the only armor you had left.

around midnight, one final text slipped through.

j.tucker: please don't freeze me out. i just want to make it right.

you left him on seen for that one, too, staring at the ceiling until three in the morning, wondering how a guy who was usually so perfect at finding the right words could have spent three months completely misreading yours.

you were trying so hard to stay mad at him, because being mad was infinitely easier than acknowledging the terrifying truth.

the truth was that his words had shaken every single defense you had built.

the friction of it all made everything else feel completely unearned.

by friday afternoon, looking at your phone felt like a chore, especially when a text from isaiah popped up asking if you were still coming over later.

tucker's words hung over your head like a dark cloud.

unfortunately he was right. you were using isaiah as a shield, and it wasn't fair to anyone.

so, you called him. it took less than two minutes. you told him it wasn't working out, that you weren't looking for the same things anymore. isaiah barely even sounded surprised—just muttered a careless "alright, cool, catch you around" before hanging up.

it didn't even hurt.

if anything, the lack of effort on his end only proved how right tucker had been.

but dumping him didn't fix the hollow ache in your chest.

it just stripped away your final buffer, leaving you entirely unprotected against the thought of tucker.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

by friday night, you were a complete wreck, which was the only reason you let your friends drag you to malones. it was suffocatingly hot, packed wall-to-wall with sweaty students looking to forget about midterms.

"nadia shoved a plastic cup of mystery liquid into your hand and yelled over the noise vibrating through the floorboards. "stop thinking about isaiah. stop thinking about everything. we are getting drunk."

"i'm trying," you lied to nadia, taking a sip that tasted mostly like foam.

you weren't thinking about isaiah. you were looking for a specific head of curly hair in the crowd, even though you told yourself you hoped he wouldn't show up.

the opening notes of a song started pulsing through the bar's speakers, cutting through the generic pop remixes the student dj had been spinning. it was slow, heavy, and drenched in bass.

love on the brain by rihanna.

a loud cheer went up near the small, makeshift karaoke stage in the corner.

"oh, shit, look who's up," nadia laughed, nudging your shoulder.

your eyes snapped toward the stage.

tucker was standing there, looking like he had been completely hijacked into doing this. he had a beer in one hand and the mic in the other, wearing a simple yellow t-shirt, his shoulders dropped in a lazy, unbothered posture.

down in the front row, dean di laurentis was leaning against a high-top table, a massive, shit-eating grin plastered across his face as he raised his glass toward the stage.

it took you exactly one second to realize what had happened.

dean had requested it.

he was the one who had submitted tucker's name to the dj and picked the track, completely intending to instigate.

dean had been watching the two of you dance around each other for months, picking up on the sharp drops in temperature whenever you walked into a room, and he was clearly done waiting for tucker to make a move.

tucker looked out over the crowd and gave dean a slow, warning glare, pointing a finger at him and mouthing you are dead toward the front row.

he was trying so hard to play it off perfectly—just a guy getting forced into a bad slot on the karaoke wheel by his roommate, keeping it light, keeping it casual so nobody would think twice about it.

but as he leaned into the mic and the first verse started, the athlete front began to quiet down.

tucker didn't do the usual dramatic karaoke bit. he didn't try to perform or work the room.

it was smooth, effortless, and entirely devoid of any theatricality. it was just him.

he kept his eyes on the back wall for the first few bars, entirely focused on maintaining that unbothered, nonchalant vibe.

but as the heavy, aching longing of the chorus started to swell, his focus shifted.

he didn't scan the crowd. his eyes cut through the haze of the bar, landing on the shadow of the pillar where you were standing with a sudden, quiet precision.

he didn't hold your gaze like a man putting on a show.

it was a heavy look—the kind that felt entirely accidental but completely deliberate.

in the brief moments his eyes locked onto yours, the casual act he'd been putting on for the room completely vanished.

the lyrics didn't feel like a performance instead they felt like a confession he was trying very hard to suppress.

his eyes stayed anchored to yours through the bridge. there was a raw, quiet desperation in his expression that he couldn't hide behind a grin anymore.

the noise around you seemed to dull into background static. you couldn't move.

you just watched him, the truth he had been suffocating under laying entirely bare between you across the crowded room.

he wasn't silent because he didn't care.

he was silent because he was drowning.

don't you stop loving me.

his eyes never breaking from yours for even a fraction of a second.

despite how hard he had tried to play it off just moments ago, john tucker was down on his knees, begging you to understand.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the second the song ended, the bar erupted.

his teammates started shouting, slamming their cups against the tables, and dean was laughing loudly, clapping tucker on the back as he stepped off the low stage.

but tucker didn't look at any of them.

his eyes stayed pinned to yours for one last, heavy second before the moving bodies of the crowded bar finally cut off his view.

"holy shit," nadia breathed next to you, her jaw practically on the floor.

you couldn't even hear her. your lungs felt entirely empty. the heat in the bar was suddenly suffocating, and the walls felt like they were closing in on you.

"i need air," you choked out, not waiting for nadia's response as you shoved your cup into her hand and began pushing your way through the dense crowd toward the exit.

you spilled out of the heavy front doors and into the cool, crisp friday night air.

you walked a few yards down the pavement, ducking into the dim, quiet alleyway beside the building just to get away from the bass vibrating through the brick walls.

you leaned your back against the cool brick, closing your eyes and trying to force your heart to slow down.

don't you stop loving me.

the words were still ringing in your ears, wrapped in that low, gravelly register.

"you left your drink with nadia."

your eyes snapped open.

tucker was standing at the mouth of the alley. the neon red light from the bar's sign caught the edge of his jaw, throwing the rest of his face into deep shadow.

he had his hands buried in his pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched against the night breeze.

he looked completely depleted, the confident front he had maintained on stage entirely gone.

"i didn't want it anyway," you whispered, your voice shaking.

tucker took a slow, deliberate step into the alley, his heavy boots clicking against the pavement.

"didn't know you had a future in r&b, tuck. that was... intense." you said not meeting his eyes.

"dean's a fucking idiot," he said quietly, his voice rough. "he thinks he's funny. i didn't mean to put you on the spot like that."

"didn't you?" you asked, a sudden spark of that old defense mechanism flaring up in your chest to keep you from crying. "because you looked right at me, tucker. you looked right at me and you sang those words like you wanted to kill me."

tucker stopped walking. he was only a few feet away from you now, his frame completely blocking out the streetlights behind him. he pulled his hands out of his pockets, his knuckles twitching.

"i looked at you because i couldn't help it," he confessed, his voice dropping into that low, raw register from the library basement. "i've been trying to help it for months, and i'm done. i'm entirely empty. i have nothing left to fight you with."

"you're the one who started the fight" you cried out, your voice breaking as the tears you had been holding back all week finally blurred your vision.

"you walked out of that room the next morning, tucker. you told me it wasn't a big deal. do you have any idea what that did to me? i had to force myself to fall out of love with you because i thought i was a mistake to you!"

tucker flinched as if you had physically struck him. the word love seemed to hang in the space between you, heavy and terrifying.

"you weren't a mistake," he choked out, stepping closer until the heat radiating off him completely wrapped around you.

his hands came up, hovering just inches from your face, his fingers trembling. "you were the only thing that felt real. i told you that because when i woke up, you were staring at the ceiling looking like you regretted every single second of it. you looked terrified. i thought if i pushed you, i would lose you completely."

he let out a ragged, broken laugh, his eyes swimming with the exact same yearning that had been burning on that stage.

"so i stayed silent. i tried to be the good guy. i tried to be respectful while you started going out with isaiah," tucker hissed, his jaw clenching. "and it was killing me. every single day. i didn't want to break the rules, but then i realized my silence didn't protect you at all. it just let someone else ruin you."

he looked down at his shoes, then back up at you, his eyes entirely bare. "today i saw you standing there, and i realized i would rather dean mock me for the rest the year than spend another day letting you think i didn't want you. it was killing me. you have no idea how much it was killing me."

you stared at him, your heart turning over in your chest.

all this time you thought you were the one drowning, but tucker had been completely underwater.

"i broke it off with him," you whispered.

tucker froze. his chest stopped heaving. "you what?"

"i called isaiah this afternoon. i broke it off," you said, looking up at him through your eyelashes. "because you were right. i was using him as a shield because being with him was safe. it wasn't fair to him, and it wasn't fair to me. because he isn't you."

a soft, fractured sound ripped from tucker's throat.

the next second, his hands were in your hair, his large palms cupping the back of your head as he tilted your face up and brought his lips down against yours.

it was like pouring rain after a drought. the kiss was deep, heavy, and desperate, his mouth moving against yours with a fierce, possessive hunger that made your knees go entirely weak.

you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, tangling your fingers in the short hairs at the nape of his neck as you completely gave in.

tucker groaned against your lips, his hands moving down to grip your waist, lifting you slightly off the ground to press you firmly against the brick wall.

he kissed you like he was trying to make up for every single day of silence, every single unread text, and every single second he had spent starving for you since october.

when he finally pulled back, just an inch, his forehead rested against yours. his breath was coming in short, ragged gasps, his eyes still dark and heavy with emotion as he looked down at you.

"i'm not backing off this time," tucker whispered fiercely, his thumbs wiping the stray tears from your cheeks with a tenderness that made your heart swell. "i don't care about the rules. i don't care about being casual. we are doing this right."

you let out a shaky, breathless laugh, burying your face in the crook of his neck. "okay." you whispered against his skin.

"about fucking time!"

the loud, booming voice shattered the quiet of the alleyway, making both of you jump.

you blinked against the sudden glare of the streetlights as you peeked over tucker's shoulder.

dean and logan were standing at the mouth of the alley, leaning against the brickwork like a pair of absolute menaces.

dean had his arms crossed over his chest, his trademark smug grin practically splitting his face in two, while logan stood beside him, shaking his head with a slow, amused chuckle.

tucker didn't let go of you. if anything, his grip on your waist tightened, a heavy protective weight as he let out a low, deeply irritated sigh.

"go away," tucker muttered, his voice still thick and rough from the kiss, not even turning around to face them.

"oh, come on, tuck, show me some gratitude," dean scoffed, taking a sip from a fresh plastic cup of beer. "i literally orchestrated your entire romantic awakening tonight. if it weren't for my flawless track selection on that karaoke machine, you would still be pining."

"he's right, you know," logan chimed in, tossing an arm over dean's shoulder with a lazy smirk. "we've been suffering through the tension in that house for months. we practically had to hold a house meeting just to discuss how miserable you were."

"seriously," dean agreed, shaking his head dramatically. "the yearning was getting a little pathetic. we had to intervene for our own sanity."

tucker finally turned his head just enough to give his teammates a deadly, unamused glare. "if you two aren't gone by the count of three, i'm letting garrett know who actually broke the blender last weekend."

logan's smirk instantly vanished, and dean straightened up, clearing his throat.

"okay, okay, we're leaving," dean said, raising his hands in surrender as he started to back away toward the bright, noisy entrance of the bar. "but for the record, you're welcome!"

"don't forget to thank us in your wedding speech!" logan shouted back, laughing as dean shoved him back into the crowded bar.

the heavy metal doors slammed shut behind them, cutting off the bass and leaving the alleyway quiet once again.

tucker let out a soft huff of laughter against your hair, the rigid tension finally leaving his shoulders as he looked back down at you.

his eyes were softer now, warmer, but the heavy heat from moments ago was still simmering right beneath the surface.

He raised an amused brow, “Chocolate?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shook his hand and told him your name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” James shook his head. “I mean—”

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

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

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

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

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

“That whole thing,” you responded.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” You repeated.

Logan shrugged. “A normal interaction, no?”

“He was flirting with me before that.”

“Oh so you’re aware.”

Your expression dropped. Oh, is that why—

“Logan.”

“Hm.”

“Logan.”

“Hm?”

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

“I know,” he replied.

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

“I know.”

“I want to make sure you know that.”

“And I know that.”

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

“Okay.”

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

“You’re still upset,” you observed.

“I’m not upset,” he answered.

“So what are you feeling?” You asked.

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

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

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

“Y/n.”

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

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

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

“I hope so.”

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

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

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

“Wanna give it a try?” You offered.

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

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

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

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

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

“How’d he look at me?” You wondered.

“Like how I look at you.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Mine,” he breathed out under his breath.

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

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

“Hah?” he snaps, inching closer as he stares into the camera with furrowed brows. You easily ignore him.

“I’ve been meaning to break up with him sooner, but I just didn’t want to handle all the crying and stuff—from him, not me, just to be clear.”

“I’m not gonna fuckin’ cry over your stupid ass video—”

“Unfortunately, he’s a very emotional person. Very clingy, too.”

“I’m not clingy. You’re the one who spams me with texts while I’m on patrol!”

You dab concealer beneath your eyes as he defends himself against every accusation you make, and it becomes far too difficult to hide your laughter. You let out a soft giggle, and he throws you a very offended glare. (Yes, Katsuki is smart enough to know that this is a silly little joke on your part just to be funny. No, that does not stop him from treating this as a serious matter in which he has to protect his dignity. Lucky for you, that only makes for better views.)

“Now, some people might think breaking up with a pro hero wouldn’t be very smart for my brand, but luckily, mine is very easy to replace.”

“Easy to replace?”

You have to look away from him because the expression on his face is making it ten times harder to pretend to take this seriously, and you’re barely keeping a straight face. “There are lots of blonde men in the world, so I’m sure I’ll easily find someone else to fit the role.”

“Who the fuck are you gonna find better than me, huh?” He challenges, particularly irritated by that statement. 

“As you can see, he’s already in denial.”

“Oi! Don’t ignore me!”

“Anger is the next stage of grief.”

The phone is grabbed before you can dab on your blush, and he spins you around, pinning you against the bathroom counter as he gives you a dirty look. You break into a fit of giggles, wrapping your arms around his neck as you press an innocent kiss to the tip of his nose. 

“Hi, baby,” you hum.

He raises a brow. “Don’t hi baby me, dumbass. You make sure you tell that camera that you’ll never dump your boyfriend and that there’s no other man—blonde or not—like him, and—”

You roll your eyes, hands cupping his cheeks as you pull him into a soft, slow kiss, cutting his words off effectively. He melts into you, kissing back as soon as your lips touch his, and you like to think that your silly idea only makes him kiss you a little more seriously. A little more meaningful, just to prove something.

“Don’t worry,” you peck the corner of his mouth, “I was just kidding. I’d never dump someone with pro hero money from the number five spot.”

— — — — —

“Get ready with me to get proposed to by my pro hero boyfriend!”

You beam at your phone camera from your vanity. Behind you, Katsuki is sprawled across the bed, one ankle hooked over the other, scrolling on his phone while sipping on his morning coffee. The coffee immediately goes down the wrong pipe.

He chokes, and a terribly strained coughing fit erupts from behind you. You almost feel bad for disrupting his peace on his day off—almost. 

“Now, the proposal hasn’t been planned yet,” you explain to your hypothetical audience while reaching for your moisturizer, “but I’ve decided I want it to happen today.”

Another coughing fit. “What?”

“Katsuki, are you okay? You’re coughing a lot today. Do you have a cold?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, woman—what the fuck are you up to this time?”

You give him an innocent smile as you say, “Nothing!”

You’ve decided to keep this little game going for as long as you can—a new scheme whenever you can to keep him on his toes. Partially because you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy his reactions, but partially because, truthfully, you think seeing a softer, more human side of Katsuki will do him some wonders in the public eye. And what sort of doting girlfriend would you be if you didn’t take your chances at helping his public image?

“Why do you keep lying to your audience through these stupid videos?” he demands.

You gasp. “Lying?”

“Yes, lying,” he gives you a flat look, eyeing you like you’re crazy for denying the accusation.

“Why would this be a lie?” You challenge. Then, dramatically, you gasp, clutching your chest in mock hurt as you hiss, “So are you saying that you don't want to marry me?”

“W-what? I didn’t fuckin’ say that—don’t put words in my mouth—”

“So, I guess this video is now becoming a get-ready-with-me to get dumped, because apparently Katsuki wants to break up with me because he fell out of love with me and found someone new. I think he’s been emotionally cheating on me with someone—a sidekick, I’d bet. Always trust your gut, ladies—your gut never lies.”

“Hah?! You—” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face as he exhales tiredly and gives you a dry look. “You know what, that’s right. M’fuckin’ dumping your ass.”

You clap a hand over your mouth dramatically. “Everyone cancel him!”

— — — — —

“Get ready with me to make out with my pro hero boyfriend!”

You beam at your phone camera yet again. But today, for the first time in the history of these videos, there is no Katsuki behind you that is staring at you in disbelief or glaring at you in irritation. Instead, Katsuki is sitting on the bed, looking up from his phone as a wide, smug grin spreads across his face.

“Finally,” he says, setting his phone aside. “You thought of a good one.”

You blink. “Wait—”

“No, no, you can’t take shit back now. You wanna make out with your pro hero boyfriend, so that’s what your video is gonna be, baby.”

“Katsuki—”

He stands, hastily walking over as he says in approval, “Now we’re talkin. I like this video idea.”

He materializes in front of you, easily grabbing you by the wrist and tugging you up before he hooks an arm around your waist and pulls you flush against him. His lips start peppering kisses up your throat and along your jaw as he works his way up to your lips. You melt against your will, giggling a little as you hiss (weakly), “Kats! We can’t…you can’t kiss me yet!”

“And why the fuck not, huh? You got some other boyfriend to kiss? Bring ‘im here, I can fight.”

“I have to get ready first,” you huff, shoving him lightly, “that’s the point of a get-ready-with-me? You have to wait till my makeup is done.”

“What’s the point in that?” He hums, pressing a soft, delicate peck to your lips before he murmurs, “s’just gonna be a waste of all your hard work when m’done with you, yeah baby?”

You shiver at the tone in his voice, pupils dilating as you stare at him. His eyes are twinkling with amusement as he gives you a wolfish grin, reaching over and locking your phone, and cutting the camera off from recording. This video might not end up getting posted at all, you think—this one might just break community guidelines. 

Logan’s older brother Jeff was leaning against the workshop desk and sipping on a can of Coke when he saw you strut in. He sighed, “Here comes Lottie.”

The nickname was a running joke between the brothers. Jeff had muttered it under his breath when you first visited the shop and asked a question about diesel gas. He took one look at you and knew you were a clueless, rich girl who shouldn’t be visiting garages such as theirs.

Logan hadn’t entertained the nickname so much. He thought it was unnecessarily mean. Besides, Lottie was always a sweetheart in Princess and the Frog.

Jeff turned on his heels and disappeared into the garage’s office, leaving Logan to deal with you on his own.

Logan put down a spare part he was working on and turned around, leaning back against the counter.

You waved excitedly with a cheerful grin. “Hi, Logan!”

He smiled politely, “Hey…”

“Did you save my girl?” You asked, batting your lashes.

Logan nodded, “She’s all fixed up for you,” he said, walking over to the wall of car keys hung on hooks to retrieve yours.

You clapped your hands, “Yay!”

He chuckled whilst shaking his head. You got happy over the simplest of things. He thought it was endearing.

You walked over to your car. Nebula, as you called her. A fitting name for a sleek, black convertible with dark purple leather upholstery and shiny silver rims.

Logan came over and handed you your keys. “You wanna try her out?”

You nodded and unlocked your car before opening the driver’s side door. No beeping. Perfect.

You beamed at Logan. “You did it!”

He smiled with an easy laugh, feeling proud of his work. In reality, your car issue was a minor one; the door sensor just needed a replacement. Nothing about it required a lick of rocket science, and yet you looked at him as if he hung the stars in your galaxy.

You put your designer bag into your car and bent over to fish out your wallet. Logan stared at your body for a second before he caught himself, clearing his throat and looking away respectfully.

You stood up straight, holding your leather wallet between both hands, looking at him with a doe-eyed expression.

He scratched the back of his neck and gestured for you to follow him to the counter. The gritty sounds of his boots crunching the gravel below and the rhythmic click click click of your heels echoed through the garage.

Logan went around the counter and pulled out a receipt and wrote down the service you needed with the price. He slid the piece of paper to you but you just kept looking at his face with a smile. He blinked before realizing you didn’t care for the price. Right, he thought. Rich girls don’t worry about those things.

“Cash or card?” He asked.

You held up your metal black credit card.

Logan pursed his lips and nodded as he pulled out a card reader. You tapped your card without even glancing at the screen and clapped your hands when the machine beeped in satisfaction.

“Thank you, Logan,” you told him kindly.

He shrugged politely, “It’s no problem.”

You smiled at him. He returned it, “Do you want your recei—“

Before he could even hand you your proof of service, you were walking back to your car. He nodded to himself and stuffed the receipt into the cash register.

He watched as you exited the garage, waving at him enthusiastically as you drove by. He gave a small wave back.

+

A week later, your BMW pulled into the garage whilst Logan was working under a car.

He didn’t hear the sound of your heels this time as he had headphones in, blasting a classic rock song. He felt a shadow looming nearby so he turned and saw your heels appear. He paused and rolled out from under the car, meeting the sight of your broad smile peering down at him.

“Hi, Logan!”

“Hey…” He sounded confused. His eyebrows furrowed and he glanced around, “Didn’t you pick up your car last week?”

You nodded. “Yep. But my AC is broken now…” You pouted.

Hm, Logan thought. He sat up, “Oh, I didn’t see that when I did the diagnostic last week—“

“Must be a new issue, then. These foreign cars are all funny,” you replied, tilting your head.

He cleaned his hands with a rag before standing up. He had oil stains on his shirt and just a little smudge on his face. You thought he looked so ruggedly handsome.

“Let me take a look,” he said and you stepped out the way for him to crank open your hood and inspect the situation.

As he got to work, you leaned against your car and watched. After a moment, you asked, “How was your weekend?”

People don’t usually talk to Logan when he repairs their cars. Especially not pretty, rich girls like you.

“It was good, played hockey, worked here in the shop,” he responded casually.

You nodded along even though he couldn’t see you.

“Did you win?” You asked.

He laughed, an amused sound. “Yeah…yeah, we won.”

You clapped your hands, “Yay!”

Logan laughed again. It was cute, he thought, how you always clapped at good news.

“You like hockey?” He asked, looking over your hood to meet your eyes.

You hummed, “I only recently got into it. My family prefers watching polo, golf, or tennis.”

Rich people sports, he wanted to say. That made sense.

“Recently, huh?” He said instead, ducking his head to keep working. “Who should I thank for putting you onto hockey?” He joked.

You smiled shyly and said, “You…”

His hand paused. The parts of your car suddenly looking like alphabet soup moving in jumbled letters. He lifted his head to meet your gaze again. But before he could manage a reply, you changed the subject. “Is it broken beyond repair?” You asked, turning your attention to your car parts.

He snapped out of his daze and shook his head. “Uhh, no. No, you just need AC coolant.”

“Is that an easy fix?” You asked.

He nodded, “Yeah, the easiest.” He said.

You smiled in relief. “Thank goodness I have you fixing my car,” you told him.

He smiled at that.

He fixed your car, you chirped out a “Thank you, Logan!”, you paid without looking at the bill, and waved goodbye as you left.

“That the BMW girl again?” Logan’s dad asked as he stepped out the office.

“Yeah,” Logan replied, wiping his hands.

“Lottie back again so soon?” Jeff teased. Logan rolled his eyes at the jab.

“You overcharge her?” His dad asked.

Logan looked at him, “Why would I do that?”

His dad shrugged, “Luxurious car fee?”

Logan squinted his eyes, “We don’t do that.”

Jeff piped in, “We could. She doesn’t even check her receipts.”

Logan looked between his dad and brother, “So what? We charge her fair and square.”

His dad shared a looked with Jeff before he went back inside the office.

+

Week after week, you came by to the garage. First it was an oil change, then a rim replacement, then a loose window ribbon, then a tire with low air, and so on.

By week 7, Logan had had enough. It’s not that he didn’t like seeing you, no. Far from it. He actually enjoyed your company. He often looked forward to when you’d come by and say Hi, Logan! in that sing-song voice of yours, your joyful smile, and innocent questions.

But now he was noticing a pattern.

So when you rolled in that Thursday night like clockwork, he didn’t go up to you. He stayed by the workshop desk and watched you with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Hi, Logan!” You beamed with a gleeful wave.

But upon meeting his stern expression, your smile faltered and your hand slowly dropped back to your side. You looked around the empty garage before walking over to him in hesitant steps. The sound of your heels filled the space between the two of you. You stopped in front of him and flattened down your skirt, a nervous tic of yours that you never noticed before.

“Y/n,” he said, his tone serious. “This is the seventh time you’ve come to the garage.”

You nodded, “Nebula keeps acting up—“

“No, she doesn’t.”

You looked at your feet. No smile, no lively clapping.

His arms uncrossed and he stepped closer. He wasn’t angry. No, it wasn’t that. Logan isn’t an idiot. He knew. He knew you had a crush on him, knew the only reason you showed up time and time again was just to spend time with him. Why else would you come? He knew families like yours had their own repairmen at fancy dealerships who could fix any problem. You didn’t need to come into his family’s garage.

Yet, you did.

Logan figured it out by week 4. But truth be told, he never mentioned it because a part of him liked being around you too. He liked hearing your upbeat voice, the familiar tap of your heels, the sound of your laugh. So he stayed quiet, he fixed your tires, and refilled your car’s oil. He went along with it. Because he liked your company just as much as you liked his.

Unable to lie to him, you lifted your head and met his eyes. “I did those things to my car on purpose.” You confessed quietly.

Logan blinked. His stance eased at your admission and he looked at you with soft eyes.

“I watched a YouTube video on how to drain AC coolant,” you added. “And drove around until my tires lost some of its pressure, and—”

“Y/n,” he held your chin with his hand. “You didn’t have to do all that to see me.”

Your eyes widened as you stared at him. He smiled gently, “I…like seeing you. With or without Nebula.”

“You do?” You asked.

He nodded, “I do.”

He leaned in slowly, giving you the chance to pull away. But you stayed. His lips met yours in a gentle kiss. Not hungry or desperate, just a soft sealing; a mutual understanding—I like you and you like me.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. You looked at him with a honeyed, dazed expression. He smiled down at you and pecked your lips once more. You weren’t a spoiled, rich girl to him. Not clueless or ditzy. You were just…you. A sweetheart with a crush on a cute guy who would do anything to see him. You were Lottie.

He glanced behind you at your car. He pulled away with a reluctant sigh, “What did you do to her this time?”

You smiled sheepishly, “I jammed my gearshift…”

He chuckled softly, both amused and fondly exasperated by you. “Okay…let me take a look.” He said, lacing his hand with yours and bringing it up to his lips to press a kiss.

You woke up the next morning, head still laying in Allies lap with drool dribbling down your chin and onto her leg, against your thigh Hannah lay soundlessly, her mouth parted with her hair splayed across her face. The room was a sight for sore eyes, in front of where the three of you lay sprawled, a small mountain of empty ice cream tubs, bottles of wine and tissue boxes half full sat- waiting for your attention. 

You smacked your lips together, wincing at the foreign, dry feeling that paired with the tangy taste of leftover wine stuck to your mouth. Stretching as carefully as you could, you managed to wiggle out from beneath Hannah, substituting your thigh with a throw pillow and got to work making your living room seem somewhat presentable. 

As you padded around, memories came back in chunks with each new piece of trash you picked up. 

Used tissue pile by the money plant? Hannah and Allie had found you curled up on the floor next to it, one hand messily discarding and using the tissues on your eyes while the other scrolled through Pinterest- a new wave was activated when you came across some cute couple on your feed.

Plastic cups smelling like coke and rum? Allie had suggested something stronger after you finished the stash of wine in the cupboard, perfect to pair with the magic mike re-run you were watching.

A small pile of Logans hoodies and t-shirts, soaked in…was that vodka? Hannah had drunkenly collected anything she could find in her haze, and somehow emerged with a half-full bottle of smirnoff. You and Allie had stopped her before she somehow found a matchbox. 

Slowly, the night was coming back to you in chunks and by the time the two girls on the couch had begun to wake at 11:00am, you had removed any trace of your, as you liked to call it, heart-broken psychotic adventure. 

You actually managed to use the shower first, returning to the main room whilst towel drying your hair- Allie called your name from her sleepy perch, “So..” She wiped at the crusted drool on her cheek, “Logan texted you? Is it actually over?”

Your eyes widened, that part didn’t register to you until now. You assumed that whatever conversation you had back at the house constituted an implied breakup, but that wasn’t Logan’s style. He would never leave things unsaid if he truly believed in following through. So, you lunged at your phone that sat innocently on the table, sure enough there were a few messages from Logan- along with one missed call and a few from the other boys. 

The phone mocks your bated breath, taking you through the lock-screen and slowly loading the messages that you were waiting for. 

“He said..” You squinted at them, that couldn’t be right? “Good morning? And… He can’t wait to see me in accounting?” 

Thumbing at the phone you scoff and shake your head, “Is that it?” 

Hannah had woken up during your narration and had scrunched her face up in disapproval, “Wow how avoidant of him,” She slowly rises from the couch, unbuttoning her sweater while yawning, “I’m next for the shower, tell me if he says anything else nonchalant.” She mocks your boyfriends..well? Ex? Or not? Behaviour with a silly voice and stumbles into her room. 

Allie groans and thumps her head against the headrest, facing away from you, “Great, I’ll take a cold one,” She lifts her hand and crooks her finger at you, “Get over here and show me those messages.”

Shrugging, you hand her your phone and continue to dry your hair, “Should I ask about yesterday?” 

You watch her analyse the texts like they would tell her the next bond movie lead, “I don’t know babe, I think he might just be trying to brush past it. Y’know, maybe he’s got used to it.” 

“Yeah maybe.. He seemed so out of it yesterday though.” You chew your lip, getting up to start breakfast. Or lunch. You settle for brunch. 

Allie stretches her legs out and slumps into the sofa humming whilst wrapping herself in the discarded throw, “We all were, you did pass out like. Fully.”

You roll your eyes and have half the mind to throw a rogue blueberry at her, but you decide against it when she continues, “Not saying it was fun for you- but in his eyes. He was in class and then suddenly got messages about his girlfriend not waking up.”

“It’s just,” You shake your head and break an egg into the pan which had been heating some oil, “You didn’t see him, Allie, he was so tired. Exhausted. Because of me.”

The scrambled eggs go blurry for a second before you blink it away, “I don’t want him to end up resenting me- especially for something I can’t control.”

The girl sighed sympathetically, “I don’t think he could resent you, even if you crashed his car into the workshop.” 

The pan sizzled behind you as you turned, spatula in hand, “I’ll ask in person, if he doesn’t want to talk about it. Then he must be okay.”

Allie nodded, the thin blanket slipped off her shoulder as she dashed to her room, Hannah had emerged from the bathroom and was tapping some moisturizer into her face. 

“Yeah, and if all else fails- just get with his brother!” The door slams, and the sound of the shower turning on replaces her voice. 

You stare at where she was sitting, Hannah slowly turned away towards you her mouth popped open in an O, “So..what did I miss?”

Logan claimed he was fine, so fine in fact that he had brought you your favourite breakfast to class. A brown paper bag that smelt suspiciously like an almond croissant sat at your desk, along with an iced latte. You smirked at the display and your gaze dragged to the seat next to you, rolling your eyes when Logan grinned at your amused expression.

You kissed his cheek and thanked him, already sipping at the sweet drink as the professor walked in, papers flying out of his satchel with each hurried step he took; it gave you the perfect opportunity to turn to Logan, leaning closer to whisper into his ear, “So about yesterday..”

The area between the two of you seemed to chill, a frigid feeling settled deep in your bones and made your smile fall. Logan had stilled, the fingers that twirled his pen between them froze, “We don’t need to talk about it,” he cleared his throat and adjusted in his seat, hunching his shoulders forward to bow his head down. 

“Oh,” You avert your eyes, fiddling with the straw in your coffee that somehow tasted bitter despite the gallons of sugary syrup pumped into it, “Yeah… of course. You just seemed so off, and I want-”

“It was nothing.” He gritted out, turning to you. 

His eyes were dark, as if overnight he had built a large, looming wall over them- just tall enough to keep his emotions at bay, and you out. 

You nodded silently, thankful for the fact that your professor had finally re-organised himself and was beginning the lecture. 

The worst scenario your brain could think of last night, had come true. He was tired of you, tired of what you brought to his life but just couldn’t find a way to tell you. So, in that moment, despite the fact that Logan had relaxed back into his seat, scribbling notes down as if he hadn’t ripped your heart in two with his words- you decided that if he wasn’t going to pull away, you were going to run. 

Thereafter, the entire week had been your own personal hell. You felt like a little doped up hamster, burdened to never leave its wheel- because nothing even changed. 

You still woke up to good morning texts. Still got updates about practice. Still got stupid blurry pictures of Tucker doing something deeply concerning in the background of the hockey house kitchen. Logan still sent you reminders to eat like muscle memory had taken over his nervous system.

Johnny boy 🏒 : have u consumed anything today besides caffeine and academic suffering

You: rude.

You: and yes

Johnny boy 🏒: that pause was suspicious

You: i had pasta at like 3

Johnny boy 🏒: okay good

Johnny boy 🏒: proud of u baby

And every single time your phone lit up with his name, your chest hurt, because he must have been trying so hard, to be normal, to make any of this normal. But you knew the truth, you couldn’t stop replaying the look on his face from that evening, the pure, exhausted fear etched into the deep lines of his face. 

That look followed you everywhere.

Back to your dorm. Back to class. Back to the library where you’d sit for hours pretending to read the same paragraph while your brain looped endlessly around the same horrible thought:

How long until he gets tired of texting you, tired of the constant check-ins, from the random times you'd become an inconvenience. 

Ever since the fainting started, you loathed your body- your brain, the elementary functions you were meant to be able to complete on a daily basis. But you couldn’t and it made people look at you differently. Like you were some sub-terranian alien, one that couldn’t handle the complexities of earth and would choose the most annoying parts of life to announce it to the entire world. 

The thing that nobody fully could comprehend was that the fainting itself wasn’t even the worst part anymore. Embarrassing sometimes, inconvenient always, but manageable. You’d lived with it long enough that it barely felt dramatic inside your own head.

It was everybody’s reactions that exhausted you, the panic, the hovering, the carefulness afterwards- the way they’d treat you like you were fragile. You learnt ways to make it easier for them, learning how to throw the first joke into the room, how to brush it off fast enough for the benefit of everyone, so that they would unpause and move on before it got weird. 

And it worked, most people would continue on. Which was exactly how you liked it. 

Logan never really had, you noticed it in the tiny things, the way he tracked whether you’d eaten without even realising he was doing it, the protein bars he shoved into every bag you owned, the way his eyes snapped toward you anytime you stood up too fast.

And maybe it should’ve felt romantic, and maybe a part of it did. But another part of you - the ugly, exhausted, matter of fact part - felt guilty every single time. 

Because loving you looked stressful.

And somehow, against all odds, he made it look worth it. Which only made you feel even worse.

𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊

The first time you actively hid a dizzy spell from him had been months ago, before the others really noticed how bad your stress had gotten during midterms.

You’d all gathered at the hockey house, a break from your regularly scheduled academic meltdown and junk food hoarding. You, Hannah and Allie were in the kitchen, grabbing some drinks and glasses while Logan and the boys argued loudly over some game in the living room.

You remembered leaning against the counter while Hannah talked about one of her classes, your vision slowly fuzzing around the edges in that horribly familiar way.

“Oh no,” you muttered quietly.

Allie looked over immediately, “What?”

You pressed two fingers against your temple. “I think I stood up too fast.”

Hannah’s expression changed instantly. “Sit down.”

“I’m fine.”

“You say that every single time before you’re not.”

You ignored her and reached for the fridge handle instead, horrible decision. Your stomach dipped sharply and the kitchen tilted for half a second.

“Okay,” you whispered immediately, grabbing the counter. “Maybe not fine.”

“Whoa, hey,” Allie rushed to your side, rubbing your back. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, breathing carefully through the dizziness. From the living room, you could hear Logan laughing at something Tucker said, the sound made your heart twist, he sounded carefree, happy. 

The kind of happy that someone would be if they were operating under the pretense that their new girlfriend was only fetching drinks from the kitchen with her friends, not currently making a mental deal with god, begging him to save her the ordeal of fainting in the kitchen. 

“No,” you said quickly when Hannah glanced toward the doorway.

“What do you mean no?”

“Don’t call him.”

Allie frowned. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.” You breathed out too fast. Too desperate, “Please.”

The girls exchanged a look.

“He’ll freak out,” you admitted quietly, still staring at the floor. “And it’s literally fine. I just need a second.”

Hannah softened, “Oh,” she opted to hand you a glass of cold water. 

You laughed weakly, even though your throat felt tight, “Everyone else gets over it eventually. I’ll tell him when it feels right. ”

Allie’s face fell slightly at that but before either of them could say anything, voices got louder from the other room. You could make out the familiar, soothing sound of Logan calling your name paired with footsteps approaching.

Your eyes widened.

“Pretend nothing happened.”

“You’re insane,” Hannah hissed.

“Please.”

And somehow, against their better judgement, they did.

By the time Logan wandered into the kitchen, you were sitting on the counter swinging your legs like nothing had happened.

His eyes landed on you instantly anyway.

“You okay?” he asked. His eyebrows furrowed when you blinked slowly and hummed, your knuckles whitening as your grip tightened on the platform. 

You smiled too quickly, “Peachy.”

You could practically see him sensing something off in the air, the way his gaze flicked between you, Hannah and Allie.

“You look pale.”

“I’m literally always pale.”

“That’s true,” Allie cut in suddenly, way too loudly.

Hannah stared at her.

Logan narrowed his eyes, “You guys are being weird.”

“No we’re not,” all three of you said at once.

Then Logan snorted softly and kissed your forehead, reaching for the pack of beer that had been thawing out next to you, “Okay. Freaks.”

You rolled your eyes at him, ignoring the throb that emanated from the action, and accepted his hand that helped you off from your perch.

And just like that, the moment passed.

At the time, you’d felt relieved. Victorious in some sick, twisted way.

Now, sitting alone in your dorm days after the fight, the memory made your chest ache instead.

Because maybe that had been the beginning of it, the beginning of you quietly teaching yourself that it was easier if Logan didn’t know everything.

Easier if he didn’t see too much.

Your phone buzzed against your blanket.

Johnny boy 🏒: u alive?

You: unfortunately

Johnny boy 🏒: good

Johnny boy 🏒: miss u

Your throat tightened instantly and you stared at the message for way too long before finally typing back.

You: miss u too <3

This felt worse than fighting, you felt like a fraud, because he still loved you exactly the same. And you still hadn’t been able to force your feet through the front door of the hockey house.

The problem with dating John Logan, and subsequently trying to avoid him. Was that it required an almost military level of strategic planning.

And unfortunately for you- he was everywhere. This wasn’t in the metaphorical sense, though you did feel the emptiness of your heart every night when you slept alone, without him. This was in the literal sense. 

You saw him in the cafeteria holding three protein shakes and arguing with Tucker about whether ketchup belonged on eggs. You saw him outside the lecture hall one afternoon with wet hair curling slightly at the ends from practice, hockey bag slung over one shoulder while Dean tried to wrestle his headphones away from him. You saw him through library windows, through crowds, through reflections on your phone screen when you accidentally opened old photos.

And every single time, your body reacted before your brain did, you felt it in the automatic loosening of your shoulders, the daily frown melting from your mouth, a deep exhale of breath you didn’t realise you were holding. Like you subconsciously still recognised him as your ultimate release. 

Which was deeply irritating considering you were actively trying to avoid being alone with him.

It also didn’t help that he was still oblivious. From the outside, you could've passed for your usual selves. 

Because he still texted you, at the same times with the same gentle tone that he had reserved for you.

Good morning baby.

Did you eat?

Professor still annoying as fuck?

Miss you.

And you answered. Always, which was betraying the very essence of your Logan-cleanse. Matching his energy so perfectly that it almost became cruel. 

Miss you too <3

Yes mom.

No but I’m plotting murder.

Practice go okay?

There were heart reactions. There were jokes. There were even selfies.

Meanwhile, you had not willingly stood in the same room as your boyfriend for eight days.

You skipped hockey house movie nights because you “had work.” You started studying in different library wings. You left classes through side exits. You timed your schedule around his practices without even meaning to.

He noticed early on, of course he did- and of course, at first, he tried to play along with whatever you were creating. His texts became impossibly softer, less pushy like he was trying everything in his power to not scare you off.

Each time his name popped up on your phone, you could feel the truth slam into your face like a wrecking ball. 

You missed him. God. You missed him.

You missed being folded into his side on the couch while he watched terrible action movies. You missed the absentminded way he played with your fingers during lectures. You missed waking up to his stupid bedhead and warm hands and the smell of laundry detergent clinging to his hoodies.

But every time you thought about seeing him properly again, your chest tightened. Not out of anger, you just couldn’t fathom feeling the way you did when you first heard his voice break, the way your stomach fell when his lip quivered and how an acidic burn leeched up your throat when his hand tightened around yours just as you’d woken up. 

You couldn’t stop hearing it.

I don’t know how many times I can do it.

You knew he hadn’t meant for it to be cruel, he’d said it like someone admitting they were drowning. And now every time you pictured yourself next to him, all you could think about was weight. Pressure that held his head below water. Responsibility that dragged him down to the sea-bed. Another thing for him to survive.

And you couldn’t be selfish and force him to survive you, just because you knew you wouldn’t make it out of the heartbreak alive.

The library lights flickered softly overhead as you rubbed at your eyes for what had to be the hundredth time that night. Your laptop screen blurred slightly, not in the way that made you push the device out the way in preparation for your body going limp, this was exhaustion. 

The kind of exhaustion that settled somewhere behind your eyes after too many hours staring at academic journals while pretending your personal life wasn’t quietly imploding in the background.

Around you, the library had mostly emptied.

A few students still lingered in distant corners, faces illuminated by laptop screens and caffeine-fuelled despair, but the heavy silence of closing time had already started settling over the building.

You checked the time.

11:47 PM.

Jesus.

No wonder your spine felt compressed. You stretched slightly in your chair, wincing as your neck cracked.

“Still alive over there?”

You looked up.

One of the older library staff members smiled at you from the circulation desk while stacking returned books into a trolley. You offered a tired smile back, shrugging weakly as you gave him a wry grin. 

“Debatable.”

He laughed softly, “You staying late again?”

You nodded with a sigh, “Big test tomorrow.”

“That boy of yours not dragging you home tonight?”

Your stomach dipped and forced your expression not to change.

“Oh,” you said lightly, eyes dropping back to your laptop screen, “he’s got late practice.”

It wasn’t technically a lie. That’s what you told yourself to soothe the childish guilt of lying to the sweet old man in front of you. 

The librarian hummed knowingly before disappearing toward the back office.

You exhaled slowly once he was gone, fingers hovering uselessly over your keyboard.

You were tired. Not only physically, something more than that. 

You were tired of thinking. Tired of calculating. Tired of trying to figure out whether love was supposed to feel this terrifying when someone finally saw all the ugly parts of you and stayed anyway.

Your phone buzzed beside your laptop. Flipping it over, you stared at the notification for a moment before opening it. 

Johnny boy 🏒:

practice finally over. u awake?

Your chest ached instantly but you typed back before you could overthink it.

You:

Unfortunately.

Three dots appeared almost immediately.

Johnny boy 🏒:

Baby go to sleep.

A reluctant smile tugged at your mouth.

You:

Can’t. Studying.

A pause.

Johnny boy 🏒:

Library?

Your stomach dropped as the message glared at you, maybe, if you didn’t move the universe would decide to be merciful. It was not. The universe evidently, enjoyed your suffering. 

Because less than three minutes later, footsteps echoed somewhere beyond the corner you had tucked yourself into. Heavy in a familiar way that made your heart skip a beat. 

You looked up before you could stop yourself. And you couldn’t look away even if you tried. 

John Logan stood halfway down the corridor in a backwards Briar hockey cap and grey hoodie, hair still damp from practice and curling slightly at the edges. His hockey bag hung from one shoulder while his other hand rubbed absently at the back of his neck.

For a second neither of you moved. Your muscles felt tight, yet somehow loose, as if you physically wanted to start packing up and haul ass- but mentally you knew there was nowhere you’d rather be; that staring into this man’s eyes was probably the calmest you’ve been throughout this entire week, and like an addict, it was better for you to get lost in the warmth of his gaze. 

Logan looked up from his phone, scanning the area- the moment he met your eyes the tension seemed to melt away from his posture. 

He looked at you like he loved you before anything else.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

Your throat felt weirdly tight.

“Hey.”

Logan adjusted the strap of his hockey bag slightly, glancing toward the study room beside you, “Forgot my charger here after practice last week. Thought I’d come by and grab it.”

You blinked once. Of course he did, the universe lacked both sympathy and subtlety. You looked back at your laptop quickly, pretending your pulse wasn’t behaving embarrassingly.

“Oh.” You pressed your lips together, brushing the pads of your fingers over your nails. The moment paused, hanging between the two of you. 

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Straight to the fucking point.

Your hands went limp and you took a pen that had been discarded nearby into your fist.

“No I haven’t.”

Logan stared at you for what seemed to be hours, but what was probably a few seconds, “Baby,” he said gently.

For some self-loathing reason, you wished he sounded angry. Instead he didn’t, he sounded like all he wanted was to bundle you up in his arms and hold you close; the thought made you swallow thickly, suddenly the entire library felt too warm. Too quiet. 

“I’ve just been busy.” You pushed off of your seat and began to walk towards the closest study room, hoping that despite its full glass exterior- it would somehow shield you from the crushing weight of this conversation, “Your charger should be in here..”

“How do you know I used this one?” Logan leaned against the door, tilting his head thoughtfully at you as you walked deeper inside, glancing momentarily at the plug sockets in search of this damn charger that brought him here.

Shrugging, you huff and fall into the sofa that sat on the edge of the space. “This one’s your favourite, perfect lighting.” You point outside where two large windows sat, normally during the day they’d spill the various hues of the hour onto the spacious desk in the centre, “Perfect placement where it’s not too noisy but not too quiet,” This was the second to last room, meaning it was never surrounded by too many students, just enough chatter to turn into a soothing white noise, “And I've been here since your practice started and nobody has used it since then.”

By the time you finished- he was looking down at his shoes, and you swore a faint blush had crept up to his cheeks, his hand came up to cover his mouth and scratch at his stubble. The nod he gave you was short, subdued- almost as if he had reigned himself in. He let himself shuffle further in, placing his bags down heavily.

Another beat of silence settled between you.

Then somewhere in the distance, a heavy door slammed shut, neither of you reacted- seeing as it was late, you figured it was the librarian closing up the other rooms for night. The overhead lights flickered. And then it went dark.

You both froze.

“Oh my god,” you whispered.

Logan looked toward the main entrance hallway.

Then back at you, “...Did they just lock us in?”

The first thing Logan did after realising they were locked in was laugh. Not because he was amused- he’d rather be doing 500 other things that didn’t involve the tension in this fish bowl of  a room but probably did include his girlfriend. It was more self-preservation, or insanity that made him chuckle, “You have got to be kidding me,” he muttered, pushing a hand through his hair as he stared at the firmly locked study room doors.

Behind him, you stood frozen beside the table, still clutching the highlighter you had brought in absentmindedly between your fingers like your body hadn’t fully processed the situation yet.

The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, a taunting soundtrack to this car wreck of an evening, the entire library had gone eerily quiet now that everyone else was gone, the silence somehow louder than it had been all evening.

You swallowed and mustered some hope, “Maybe they’re still outside?”

Logan looked back at you. The look in his eyes nearly undid you, there was no anger in it, no irritation at the unhelpfully positive suggestion and somehow no bitterness over the fact you’d spent nearly a week dodging him while texting him like everything was perfectly normal.

Just surrender, quiet surrender to the tiredness that had settled in his face. 

“I already checked,” he said gently.

Guilt bloomed hot beneath your ribs.

“Oh.”

The hush that permeated through forced you to become painfully aware of everything. 

The fact you were alone together for the first time since the fight. The fact you still knew exactly how his hoodie smelled. The fact his hair was damp slightly at the edges from practice. The fact your body still reacted to him instantly, stupidly, helplessly.

You cleared your throat and looked away first. “Well,” you said lightly, forcing brightness into your voice, “at least if I die in here, I’ll die academic.”

Logan stared at you for a second, then he huffed out a laugh despite himself.

Your stomach twisted and you cursed yourself for the relief that coursed through your body in response to his dry chuckle. Logan rounded the table and you froze, unable to take your eyes off of him, you barely noticed the small slump in your shoulder when he paused halfway.

“You cold?” he asked absentmindedly.

“No.”

“You’re shivering.”

“I’m stressed.”

“That too.”

You rolled your eyes automatically. 

Logan sat down heavily against the couch cushions, stretching his legs out in front of him with a groan, inches away from where you were perched before the both of you were locked in. 

You tried not to look at him too hard. Because if you did, the realisation would come crashing back into you, the one that you fought tooth and nail not to face. 

You’d missed him.

Not dramatically, not in a chick-flick, crying-on-your-bedroom-floor way. But there were several moments everyday you were close to those versions. You opted for the aching kind of grief, a constant pang in your chest. 

You missed him every time something funny happened and your fingers twitched toward your phone. You missed him every time you reached for coffee and automatically thought about how he always handed you the cream first because you hated black coffee. You missed him every time you woke up in your dorm bed without the weight of his arm across your waist.

It had only been a week, maybe more and that countdown made your heart seize, you were terrified if this is what barely a week felt like, you weren’t entirely sure what longer would do to you.

Logan looked over at you eventually, interrupting the rollercoaster of thoughts that bustled in your mind. 

“You gonna stand there all night?”

“I’m considering it.”

“You’re weird.”

“You’re trapped in a library at midnight because you forgot a phone charger.”

“That sounds like fate.”

“That sounds like an excuse.”

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and the feeling came plowing through you mercilessly. The one that made this entire situation unbearable.

This easy banter made everything work. Make all the noise fade away into the background until your brain was an oasis of calm.

You sat down finally, curling yourself up into the furthest corner of the couch. Away from him. 

Logan’s eyes flicked toward the distance between you before returning to your face.

Outside the library windows, the campus had gone dark and sleepy. Streetlights glowed gold against the pavement below, shadows stretching long beneath them. You tucked your legs beneath yourself and leaned your cheek against the back of the sofa, ignoring the way he watched you do it- like he was grateful for the chance. 

Then he broke the quiet, interrupting the sound of both of you breathing with a whisper, “Are you gonna tell me why you’ve been avoiding me?”

You shut your eyes, there it was. The other shoe dropped and thudded against your conscience. You were truly a terrible person. An emotional sado-masochist that had to enjoy the suffering, otherwise you wouldn’t have done this to either of you. 

You stared down at your hands, “I haven’t been avoiding you.”

Logan blinked slowly, “Baby.”

The nickname hit you like a physical blow and you looked away immediately. If he noticed you flinching, he didn’t say anything, “Every time I ask to see you,” he said carefully, “you suddenly have somewhere else to be.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You skipped movie night because you said you had a paper due.”

“I did have a paper due.”

“Hannah posted you eating Taco Bell in Allie’s room fifteen minutes later.”

You winced, “Traitor.”

Logan’s mouth twitched briefly before flattening again.

“Why?” he asked softly.

Your chest tightened, you would give an absurd amount of money to the higher power for him to stop looking at you like that. Like you were something precious he was trying not to scare away.

It made all of this harder. if he’d been angry, maybe it would’ve been easier. Instead his face was comforting, his hand itching to hold your face and coax your deepest darkest emotions out of you. 

You rubbed your palms against your jeans, “I just thought maybe you needed space.”

“From you?” His brows pulled together immediately.

You laughed quietly, but there wasn’t much humour in it. “You make it sound ridiculous when you say it like that.”

“Because it is ridiculous.”

Your throat tightened, “No it’s not.”

Logan leaned forward slightly now, elbows braced against his knees, “You fainted,” he said carefully. “I freaked out. We had one bad conversation. That doesn’t suddenly make you unbearable to be around.”

The words hit harder than they should have, because that wasn’t what you’d been trying to explain.Not really.

“That’s not the point,” You looked down and shook your head.

“Then what is?”

You bit your lip and the room filled with silence again, like some cruel torture device, where air was replaced with a void that steadily rose to your chin and swallowed you whole. Logan waited, eyes full of patience. He was always so fucking patient with you.

You hated how close tears suddenly felt, “I don’t know,” you finally admitted

Which was partially true, how were you supposed to explain something that had lived inside you for years?

The constant awareness of yourself. The humiliation of it. The way every fainting spell turned you into a problem people had to manage.

You remembered being sixteen and pretending you needed the bathroom because your vision had started going fuzzy during lunch. Locking yourself in a stall until the dizziness passed because your friends already thought you were dramatic enough.

You remembered learning how to laugh immediately after waking up because jokes made people less scared.

You remembered how relieved you always felt when people eventually stopped reacting. Because if they stopped reacting, it meant they still saw you normally.

Logan still reacted every time.

And that terrified you.

Because you knew, eventually people got tired. Eventually people realised loving someone medically inconvenient was exhausting. And you weren’t sure you could survive watching Logan reach that point.

So instead, you’d done what you always did. Pulled away first.

Your voice came out quieter this time, “You looked at me like I was dying.”

Logan went still and your throat closed up at the look on his face, like his heart had paused and brain malfunctioned.

“And I know I wasn’t,” you rushed out quickly, “I know it sounds dramatic, but that’s what freaked me out, okay? Everyone else moved on and you couldn’t and I just…”

Your laugh cracked slightly, “I don’t know how to be with someone who cares that much.”

The silence afterward felt enormous.

Logan stared at you, heartbroken in a quiet, devastating sort of way.

“Baby,” he said softly.

“No, because you don’t get it,” you twisted your fingers together tightly, “this is normal for me.”

“I know.”

“No, Logan, I don’t think you do.” You finally touched his hand, ignoring the immediate warmth that spread through your fingertips, “so much of my life has been people staring at me after it happens. Asking if I’m okay every five seconds. Acting weird around me. Watching me constantly.”

You swallowed, “And you looked terrified.”

“Because I was,” his jaw tightened as leaned back slightly, eyes still fixed on you.

“You stopped answering me,” he said quietly. “You weren’t moving.”

Your chest hurt, “I know.”

“And all I could think was what if one day you don’t wake up.”

Your breath caught. He laughed softly then, but it sounded miserable.

“Which logically, I know is insane. Garrett literally told me it’s never happened like that before.”

“Because it won’t.”

“I know.”

“But?”

Logan looked at you for a long moment, “But I love you,” he rubbed a hand over his face before continuing more quietly, “I know you hate being treated like you’re fragile.”

Your throat tightened as he continued, “And I know I probably make it worse sometimes.”

You opened your mouth but he shook his head, flipping his hand over to intertwine your fingers on the empty seat between you, “No, let me finish.” After a deep breath, and approximately four seconds of gruelling silence, “But you avoiding me doesn’t make me less scared, baby. It just means I’m scared without you.”

The silence after that felt different, painfully honest. You envied him for that, for his ability to say such devastatingly honest things as though it was like water flowing out of him. 

You stared at Logan from across the couch, your chest aching so badly it almost felt murderous. Slow understanding creeped into your mind, why he freaked out that evening, why he was so tense in class. 

It was unadulterated fear that coursed through his blood, like someone had held a knife up to your throat and threatened him, and all he could do was stand there uselessly. 

You wished he’d been dramatic, maybe you could've brushed it off. If he suddenly became controlling, maybe you could've gotten angry. If he treated you like glass, maybe you could’ve pushed back and shattered in his grip. Any emotional outburst would’ve made it easier for you to walk away, to take the burden away from him. But he didn’t all he did was sit there in his emotions, solid, ready to hold yours. Because he loved you, purely, wholeheartedly, in a way that terrified you to your very core. 

Your eyes dropped to your hands, “I didn’t mean to punish you,” you admitted quietly.

Logan’s expression softened.

“Baby.”

“I know,” you interrupted quickly, rubbing at your face with exhausted fingers. “I know this whole thing probably feels insane from your side.”

“A little.”

Despite yourself, you laughed weakly, “There it is. ”

“There what is?”

“You, being annoying.”

His mouth twitched.

“You love when I’m annoying.”

“I tolerate it affectionately.”

“Liar.”

The ease of conversation made you want to bash your head against a wall, no matter how emotionally catastrophic things got between you, the two of you still somehow slipped naturally into this rhythm that belonged entirely to you.

You hated how much you missed it.

Logan watched you carefully for another moment before speaking again.

“Come here.”

Your stomach flipped and you looked up at him. 

“What?”

“Come here.”

You stared at him suspiciously, “You could also come here.”

“I could,” he agreed. “But you’ve been sitting as far away from me as physically possible for the last twenty minutes, so I’m trying to make a point.”

Heat crawled up your neck.

“I was not sitting as far away as physically possible.”

“Baby, there’s an entire couch cushion between us like we’re in couples therapy.”

You snorted, but you softened when he smiled at you, like hearing you laugh loosened something in his chest. Tearing your gaze away from him, you looked down at your intertwined fingers, tapping them randomly against his palm. 

“I’m still annoyed at you,” you muttered.

“What did I do?”

“You made me emotionally confront things.”

“Oh, tragic.”

“It was horrible actually.”

Logan huffed out another quiet laugh, and then let out a shaky breath,  “Please come here.”

There was something almost unfair in the way he said please, like he was asking for something so delicate, that you couldn’t possibly say no.

Your chest squeezed painfully as you shuffled slowly before your brain stopped you. The second you were close enough, his entire body relaxed and he tentatively wound an arm around your waist, pressing into the briar hoodie that you had carelessly thrown on that morning. He tugged you closer and unwrapped his hand, resting it instead on your thigh, like touching you was muscle memory.

You nearly started crying right there, sniffing quietly you looked down at your lap, “I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Logan looked down at you, his eyebrows pinched, “For what?”

“For making you feel crazy.”

His expression softened so fast it hurt.

“You didn’t make me feel crazy.”

You gave him a look, this close you could see the small lines in his face, grooves that had implanted themselves into his skin- like he had slept with a small frown on his face for days. 

“Logan.”

“Okay,” he admitted reluctantly. “Maybe a little crazy.”

“A little?”

“You were texting me hearts while actively fleeing every building I entered.”

You winced, “In my defence, I didn’t realise how often you exist.”

“I go to this school.”

“Unfortunately.”

His thumb brushed absently against your knee.

“You could’ve just told me you needed a second.”

Your nose burned, “I didn’t know how.”

He nodded slowly, watching you tuck a piece of hair behind your ear- he rested his chin on your head, before exhaling, “I need you to understand something.”

You glanced up.

“When you faint,” he said carefully, “I’m not upset at you.”

“I know.”

“No,” his voice stayed gentle as he murmured into your hair, “Baby, I’m scared because I love you. Not because you’re inconvenient.”

You didn’t say anything, scared that whatever words would spill out from your mouth would be garbled with emotion, instead you pulled at the hair tie around your wrist. His hand shifted from your knee, fingers curling lightly around where your fingers plucked.

“Hey.” He shifted, bent his head down to meet your eyes, “You don’t have to do that with me.”

“What?”

“Act like it’s not hard sometimes.”

You looked away from him, choosing a point on the grey carpet to focus on, “It is hard…” you admitted finally, voice small now, “for you, I know it is.”

Logan looked genuinely confused.

“Taking care of me.”

His entire face changed, something that resembled a profound sadness mixed with disbelief that made his eyebrows shoot up and mouth part, “Baby,” he said slowly, “do you seriously think I’m with you out of obligation?”

“No.”

“But?”

You laughed weakly.

“But eventually people get tired.” The words rushed out of you, like a fact. A proven knowledge in the world, that after a few bouts of your dizziness, people would stop trying.

This ugly truth that was patiently sitting beneath everything, was now visible. Exposed and ready to be poked at. 

Logan went very still beside you, and suddenly a wave of embarrassment and self-awareness washed over you, like you’d accidentally exposed something too raw. 

You shrugged lightly, pretending your exterior hadn’t just cracked, “It’s just easier when people move on quickly after it happens,” you admitted quietly. “Because then I can pretend it wasn’t a whole thing.”

Logan stared at you.

“You think I should care less?”

“No!”

You groaned immediately, pressing your palms over your face.

“Oh my god, this is why I avoided this conversation.”

Logan actually laughed softly then.

“You’re terrible at emotional vulnerability.”

“I’m aware.”

“You’re literally hiding inside your own hands right now.”

“Because this is awful.”

Warm fingers wrapped around your wrists gently.

“Hey.”

You resisted for approximately two seconds before letting him pull your hands away from your face. And he came into view again, a small, encouraging smile on his face- looking at you like you mattered more than anything else in his life.

“I don’t want you to care less,” you whispered.

Logan’s thumb brushed softly against your skin.

“Okay.”

“I just…”

Your voice wobbled slightly.

“I don’t know how to let someone love me this much without feeling guilty for it.”

Something in Logan’s expression shattered, “Oh, baby.”

You blinked hard and Logan moved before you could stop him. One second there was still a respectable distance between the two of you, the next he had shuffled closer, thighs pressing against yours- his hands cupping your face carefully. Warm palms and calloused fingers grazed against your cheeks tenderly, the familiar smell of detergent, cold air and Logan surrounded you instantly. 

You exhaled shakily, a hand coming up to wrap loosely around his. 

“You are not a burden to me.”

“Logan-”

“No.”

His voice stayed soft, but firmer now, “You don’t get to decide for me what loving you feels like,” he bumped his forehead against yours and admitted quietly, “yeah, sometimes I get scared.”

You swallowed.

“But that doesn’t make me love you less.”

Your chest hurt so badly now it was unbearable.

Logan’s eyes flitted between yours, “It just means I need you here long enough to keep doing it.”

That was what finally broke you. A small, devastated sound left your throat before your face crumpled against his shoulder.

He wrapped his arms around you, tucking you into his front with such certainty like there would never be world where he wouldn’t 

“Oh baby,” he murmured softly into your hair.

Your fingers twisted into the fabric of his hoodie.

“I hate this,” you whispered thickly.

“I know.”

“I feel insane.”

“You’re a little insane.”

You laughed through your tears.

“Shut up.”

“There she is.”

You shoved weakly at his chest, Logan held you tighter- burying his face into the crook of your neck. 

His hand rubbed slowly up and down your back, as he pressed soft kisses below your ear and whispered soft assurances whilst you sobbed into his sweatshirt. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek and you stayed like that for a long time, enough for your breathing to even out, hiccups turning into slow drags of oxygen.  

You pulled back slightly and Logan looked at you with an unbearably soft expression that made your stomach flip

“You done avoiding me now?” he asked quietly.

You sniffed.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I need time to recover from being emotionally perceived.”

His smile finally appeared properly then. God, you missed his smile.

Logan brushed his thumb beneath your eye gently, wiping away the last stray tear that leaked from the corner of your lashes. 

“You know,” he murmured, “most people just buy flowers after arguments.”

You stared at him.

“Did you just compare this to a normal couple disagreement?”

“Absolutely.”

“We got trapped in a library and trauma bonded.”

He grinned at you, like a vintage actor who was closing off the impossibly long black-and-white romcom, “That’s romance, baby.”

You laughed again.

And this time, Logan looked like hearing you laugh was the greatest relief he’d felt all week.

Eventually, the emotional devastation settled enough for both of you to remember you were still physically trapped inside a university library. You were curled against Logan’s side on the couch now, one of his arms wrapped loosely around your shoulders while the other lazily scrolled through his phone.

His thumb paused on Garrett’s chat.

Cap’n crunch 💪 : where are you?

Cap’n crunch 💪 : wait are u both together rn

Cap’n crunch 💪 : OH MY GOD

Cap’n crunch 💪 : DID YOU DIE TOO???

You snorted into Logan’s chest.

“He’s so dramatic.”

“Says you.”

You tilted your head up immediately. “Excuse me?”

“Baby, you vanished off the face of the earth for a week because I had emotions near you.”

“I was processing.”

“You were fleeing.”

“Processing while moving very fast. Away from you. ”

Logan laughed quietly and you flicked his forehead. You hadn’t just missed him, you missed this. The easy teasing and warmth of his words, the way he always made the world feel softer around the edges. 

You sank lower against him instinctively, your cheek pressed against the warm fabric of his hoodie.

His hand immediately slid into your hair.

“You know,” Logan murmured after a moment, “this would be significantly more romantic if we weren’t sitting next to a printer.”

You glanced toward the large copy machine three feet away.

“…I don’t know. It’s kind of giving academic enemies to lovers.”

“We’ve literally been dating for eight months.”

“Details.” You waved him off.

His chest shook with another laugh, he pressed his lips against your forehead and mumbled, “I missed you.”

You tilted your head slightly to look up at him.

“You texted me like… every day.”

“You know what I mean.”

You hummed and nodded. His hand slid from your hair to your jaw slowly, thumb brushing along your cheek, making your breath catch.

“You gonna run away from me again?” he asked softly.

You narrowed your eyes, “Not sure… It was going pretty well until you interrupted me.”

“Brutal.”

“I’m kidding.”

“You better be.” 

The words came out light, teasing almost- but you could feel the vulnerability beneath them, shifting upward slightly you brought your lips up to his; waiting for him to meet you halfway. He pressed into you so he could envelope your mouth with his. 

It shouldn’t have felt this overwhelming after one week. But it did.

His hand cupped your jaw carefully while he kissed you slow and warm and familiar, like he was still relearning the shape of your mouth after being denied access to it for days.

You melted instantly, fingers curling into the front of his hoodie while Logan smiled softly against your lips.

“Don’t think you’re going anywhere anytime soon,” he murmured.

You kissed him again to shut him up. It didn’t work, because the man kept smiling into every kiss like he couldn’t physically stop himself even if he tried.

“You’re so annoying,” you whispered.

“And yet.”

“And yet unfortunately you’re cute.”

“Unfortunately?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Baby, it’s been to my head.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically before kissing him again, this one was softer, sleepier in a way that wasn’t rushed, where you’d part slowly, barely a millimetre from each other just to feel the soft pants fan across your face before reconnecting, lips moulding together in soft caresses. 

Logan’s fingers rubbed absent circles into your waist through your sweater, outside the campus had gone completely dark- the yellow glow of the lamp posts bled into the isles of the library, the only guidance in the pitch black of your surroundings. 

You were vaguely aware that at some point this situation probably needed solving. But you were too preoccupied with your boyfriend, who smelt so good and was holding you like he’d been touch-starved for days. 

You priorities seemed very straightforward. 

“You know what’s crazy?” you murmured lazily, your head lolling onto his shoulder, cradled against his bicep.

“What?”

“We’re probably gonna have to explain this to everyone.”

Logan groaned immediately.

“Oh my god.”

You started laughing.

“Garrett is going to be unbearable.”

“Hannah’s gonna cry.”

“Allie’s gonna think we secretly got married.”

“She already basically thinks that.”

You smiled against his cheek, “…Do you think they’ll be worried?”

Logan looked down at you and shrugged, “Probably.”

Guilt flickered briefly through your stomach.

“Hey.”

His fingers tilted your chin upward gently.

“You’re allowed to have hard moments, baby.”

You looked at him quietly and scrunched your nose, “That still feels fake when you say it.”

“Yeah,” he whispered, “I know.”

Before you could respond, sudden footsteps echoed somewhere beyond the main circulation desk.

Both of you froze.

You blinked.

“…Wait.”

Logan sat up slightly.

“…There’s someone else here?”

Another noise.

Then a voice spoke from the darkness outside your glass prison.

“Jesus Christ, finally.”

You both whipped around to where the voice was coming from.

Mr. Donahue - the older overnight librarian with permanent reading glasses and the energy of someone spiritually exhausted by college students - appeared around the corner holding a janitor’s keyring.

You stared.

He stared back.

Then, with the same patience of an uninterested lion and its prey, he grumbled, “You two done?”

Your brain stopped functioning.

“…Done?” you repeated faintly.

Mr. Donahue gave you a deeply unimpressed look.

“With the world’s longest relationship crisis.”

Beside you, Logan went completely rigid.

“Oh my god,” you whispered.

Mr. Donahue sighed the sigh of a man who had worked at a university for too long.

“You think I didn’t notice you two sitting in here crying at each other?”

Your mouth fell open.

Logan looked horrified.

“You locked us in on purpose?”

The librarian shrugged.

“You seemed busy.”

You made a strangled noise somewhere between laughter and humiliation.

“Oh my god.”

Mr. Donahue pointed a finger toward Logan.

“You.”

Logan blinked, he pressed his palm at himself, in the centre of his chest. 

“…Me?”

“She’s clearly obsessed with you.”

You buried your face in your hands immediately, “Sir.”

“And you looked like someone kicked your puppy for a week straight.”

Logan made the mistake of looking smug for approximately half a second.

“You looked miserable without me?” you asked immediately.

His smugness vanished.

Mr. Donahue snorted.

“Kid looked one inconvenience away from writing poetry.”

You burst into helpless laughter and Logan whipped his head around to look at you, deeply betrayed by your amusement, “This is actually insane.”

Mr. Donahue shrugged again.

“I’ve worked here for fifteen years. You learn things.”

You were still laughing when the older man finally unlocked the door.

Before leaving, though, he paused. Then slowly turned to look directly at you, “Eat real meals,” he said firmly.

Your face heated instantly and you buried into your hands, “Oh my god.”

“And you,” he added, pointing toward Logan now, “stop looking at her like a Victorian widower every time she gets dizzy.”

Logan looked scandalised.

You wheezed.

Mr. Donahue nodded once, satisfied. And then jerked his thumb behind him, “Alright. Get out.” The doors swung open and he trotted away. 

Neither of you moved.

Then slowly, Logan looked down at you, “…Victorian widower?”

You immediately lost it again.

“He clocked you so bad.”

“I hate that man.”

“No you don’t.”

“No,” He admitted thoughtfully, “I kinda love him.”

You were both still laughing quietly when Logan finally stood, pulling you up with him.

And the second you were upright, his arms wrapped around your waist again automatically. Like he refused to stop touching you now that he had you in his grasp.

You looked up at him and pushed his damp hair off his forehead- the library lights that Mr. Donahue flicked on reflected warm gold across his face. And suddenly, everything from last week felt very far away. 

Logan leaned down slowly until his forehead rested against yours.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, “Yeah.”

And this time?

You both believed it.

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Once John Tucker’s got his mind set on something, he doesn’t back down. Whether that be on or off the ice. Cooking and baking normally helps him destress, but the fresh dark chocolate brownies in Logan’s hand has him bolting for the front door. He spots the familiar yellow bicycle, your ridiculous blue and white daisy helmet. The same delivery girl that’s been in Dean’s pocket since he admitted his love for sweet treats. He doesn’t think twice, hurtling in front of you and grabbing the handlebars to stop you before you knock him over. Your fingers clutching the brakes for dear life. The basket secured above your rear wheel shakes, no doubt more cakes and bakes packed inside.

“Dude! What the hell?” You snarl, your balance teetering to one side as you plant your platform sneaker to the ground. Sweat rolls down your forehead, your lilac eyeshadow smudged beneath your lower lashes.

“Uh, sorry. I…are you the one baking?” He lets go of the handlebars, scratching his nape as he inhales your vanilla scent. He’s not sure if the cinnamon’s coming from you or the baked goods in the basket.

“No im just making some extra cash working delivery,” you say, fiddling with the clasp of your helmet. “Never met ‘em, I pick up and drop off. You got a problem with the bakes, you email them.”

Tucker stumbles back, raising his hands. “Oh, no. There’s no problem with…” he shakes his head, “I didn’t mean to scare you.” only just realising he’d come on too strong.

“Riiight…” you say, adjusting your grip on the handlebars and looking between him and the pavement. “You wanna talk to the owner, you’ll have to email them.”

He steps out of your way, watching you cycle down the road. All of your orders were done strictly online, bigger ones requiring the buyer to fill out a form. No phone number, just an email that communicates the order confirmation and the scheduled delivery time, which is normally after studies and midday on the weekends. So you must be a student on campus. That’s all Tucker’s come up with.

The kitchen counters are piled with your boxes, courtesy of the party this evening to celebrate the big game win. Tucker can smell the rich cocoa without opening them, well that and the pot laced beneath it. Something for the guys to let loose to after a big game and a break between training. The pink ‘Brookies’ sticker on the box. A selection of brownies and cookies delivered to the mailbox. Apparently you’re the go to for pot brownies, Dean knows the pick up for that discreet exchange, but he doesn’t know who’s behind ‘Brookies’. No one does. Just two delivery girls and a pick up point as the address.

He’s tested your recipes, attempted to guess the exact ingredients and recreate them, but they’re never the same. Not even like the recipes he’s scoured online in hopes of finding his mysterious competitor. He’d launched a new e-book on desserts and it didn’t do as well as he thought it would. Even eyed the comments on his cooking profile mentioning ‘Brookies’. He’s getting sick of anything sweet, chocolate this, chocolate that.

Maybe he’ll stick to meal plans, cooking tutorials and recipe lists like usual. Or maybe he’ll figure out whoever’s behind this ‘Brookies’ and challenge them to a bake off. For now though he’ll fill the gap in your market and create a pastry e-book, branch out of the student shadow and aim for experienced bakers.

-

Business owner wasn’t ever the plan during studying, but it was something you dove straight into after you got fired from your hotel job. Luckily the room you rented from an old lady offered you a spacious kitchen to bake. The perks of living close to campus at a fraction of the cost meant helping out around the house and driving her to doctor appointments. Alba was a sweet old dear, letting you use her car for groceries and encouraging you to start from scratch. She’d usually be sitting at the breakfast table each evening whilst you baked and she boxed them up so that your friend and fellow renter Sen could deliver them.

Sen rented the bigger room, connected to a shared bathroom and your much smaller room. You baked straight after classes on the weekdays, paying Sen a percentage of sales to deliver them same day. The weekends were all on you though, baking and delivering. Not that you minded, it got you out of the house and increased your money. You just made sure you finished delivering by 2.pm Saturday and Sunday’s so you could catch up on studies and live a little. Riding bikes made you untraceable, plus you didn’t have to pay for gas.

The same yellow bike you used to ride to school, Sen of course has a high spec electric bike and that’s how the two of you got to/around campus. Now they carried ‘Brookies’ your cookie/brownie boxes. Simple desserts for the burnt out student. Not all had the time to bake or wanted to. You’d done a few parties too, those were your biggest earners, but they weren’t regular. What you didn’t expect was the target on your back and the hockey player who was hellbent on finding out who was behind your own tasty treats. You’re certain he coulda ran you over and crushed your bike in one charge, but you can’t help but think of the flex of his biceps and the front wheel of your bike between his thick denim clad thighs. He was too busy trying to grill you for information on the owner, yeah your details, to notice your blatant wandering gaze.

You stuff some off cuts of brownie in your mouth, prying the box open of a squashed batch of cookies. “Some hockey guy stopped me in the road asking about ‘Brookies’. Well the owner, me. Not that I admitted to being behind it,” you say, hand covering the food you’re chewing. A recipe for disaster if a disgruntled customer wasn’t happy.

Thankfully Alba’s taking her routinely afternoon nap and Sen’s nursing a hungover in the kitchen as you both pick at imperfect bakes. Which means weekend debrief, a.k.a catching up on gossip and the nitty gritty details of the week. Sen does most of the talking normally.

“Dark curly hair, moody Captain or dark curly hair cowboy, chocolate brown eyes and thick thighs?” Sen raises a brow, pouring herself another black coffee and topping yours up across the kitchen island.

“Thick thighs, chocolate brown eyed cowboy.” You say, sliding your cup back in front of you.

Oddly specific words Sen had chosen to describe him, but they fit him well. You didn’t follow sports or keep up with the hockey players on campus, only knowing Dean who had befriended you as his friendly neighbourhood delivery girl and John Logan who accompanied him last time you delivered. He’d invited you to a few parties, but you’d declined each one. Sen’s still trying to convince you to go to one with her.

“That’s John Tucker, he asked me the same last week,” Sen says, her gaze trailing after her finger tracing the grout between the tiles. Anything to avoid your gaze and the fact she didn’t warn you. Probably for the best, you’d only overthink the interaction like you are now.

“Why’s he so interested in me? Well ‘Brookies’ that is?”

“We should go to that party, you know to gather intel,” Sen pauses, turning her phone screen to you and tapping the campus wide message, the party invite. “Maybe even flirt with some hot hockey players and cute cowboys.”

There’s a string of replies, Sen seems to be in every social circle in Briar university. You have no idea who most of the people are.

“Only to gather intel.” You point to her, “no flirting, okay maybe a little.”

[ ]

A little short first part to set up for the part two. Thank you for reading :) I hope you enjoyed this first part. I’m dyslexic so there might be some mistakes I miss when editing.

One thing you learnt about Hannah Wells, being one of her best friends and all, was that she was normally- a very reasonable person. She was the one to keep electrolyte sachet’s in her bag during a night out, the one to book the uber a day in advance and the one to always text check-ins on the group chat during finals week. 

That was her, normally. 

Unfortunately, ever since she decided to become the first hockey WAG in the group, the captain she shared a bed with had spent their entire relationship testing that theory. The relationship was undoubtedly adorable, some may say to a disgusting, how-to-lose-a-guy-in-10-days level, but sometimes Garrett would feel the need to use Hannah's tightly strung mental stability as a pair of chopsticks.

“Just, tell me again why we’re doing this?” You watched Hannah with a concerned expression, she was aggressively highlighting a sentence that had absolutely nothing to do with the paragraph she'd just read.

The yellow highlighter squeaked angrily across the page,"You know why," She gritted out. 

"No, I know why you're angry,” You pointed at the highlighter.

"I'm asking why that textbook is suffering for it."

The answer never came, but that was attributed to the fact that Hannah was still busy glaring at her notes like they had personally offended her. Beethoven was a bitch. 

The study room had fallen suspiciously quiet about twenty minutes ago, with Allie laying on the sofa in the corner going through a script for class and you and hannah sitting on the large table in the centre of the glass box, you scribbling out statistics equations and Hannah trying to compose a new piece. 

That initial plan went out the window when Hannah began to complain about Garrett, either of you could have stopped her, put a pin in it and dealt with it at home. Instead, Allie and you happily discarded your work and quipped helpful bits of advice during her rant. 

"You know what his problem is?"

You exchanged a glance with Allie, both of you knew it was better if nobody answered- experience had taught you this was a trap.

"He says he'll call me."

Hannah pointed at her phone that she had flung across the table at the beginning of her speech, "then doesn't call me."

You nodded, the man had a habit of saying he’ll call after practice- then take hours in the locker room with the boys. Your own boyfriend had the bad habit, but you made peace with it very early on; assuming it was because the boys were engrossed in some weird, hockey bro hangout while they changed. 

It was nonetheless a reasonable complaint, because the team was AWOL for nearly the entire day, and the three of you were suffering for it. Ever since Garrett returned from the bench, training was 24/7 and you were lucky to get a morning kiss, a small whisper of seeing you later before the door shut and their phones seemed to have fallen off the face of the planet.

So, if Graham had promised he’d “see his girl tonight” because he “missed her so much” and then had the gall to not reply to her messages for half an hour. You were prepared to ride at dawn, and steal his skates to rub against concrete for as long as your drill sergeant ordered. 

However, currently the drill sergeant was pink in the face and grabbing at her phone, stretching herself over her textbook to wave the device angrily. 

"And then when I text him asking where he is-"

You already knew this wasn't going to end well.

"He sends me a thumbs up."

The silence was immediate, you gaped at Allie, she gaped back. It was two fishes staring at each other while Hannah slumped into her chair.

It shouldn't have been shocking, it was exactly the sort of thing Garrett would do. But he was an idiot for deciding to not fight against his nature during this trying time. 

Allie lowered the script she had folded against her legs, flopping it onto her chest as she sat up. Slowly, carefully, as if she’d been told there was a rabid animal that could sense her fear.

"A thumbs up?"

"A thumbs up."

"Oh."

"Exactly."

You shook your head and closed your eyes. This was rough, like Liverpool F.C rough. 

"I know he meant well."

That sentence was somehow worse, because she was trying to be rational. And when Hannah was angry and tried to be rational, it usually resulted in disaster. 

"Did he think?"

Allie's contribution was deeply unhelpful.

Hannah jumped and gave her a thankful clap, "THANK YOU."

"I'm just saying."

You groan and give her a look of deep regret, "You are not helping."

"I wasn't trying to." She grinned at you.

Hannah dropped her head onto the table, face first into her music sheets. The universal sign of academic and emotional defeat. 

You watched her lie there for a moment.

Then another

Then-

"I am going to kill him."

You roll your eyes and cross your arms, there it was. The threat you’d all been waiting for, Allie checked her phone, nodding her head.

"Only ten minutes."

"A personal best." You added.

Hannah stood up immediately, the chair scraped obnoxiously against the floor- as if warning her not to do the thing she was absolutely going to do. Both you and Allie looked up, concerned at the way she blinked quickly, the cogs in her head turning so fast that you were sure smoke would start spilling from her ears. 

You recognised the look on her face, a dangerous determination, masked by an eerie calm. In actuality it was a complete loss of common sense

"Hannah." Allie started, warningly. 

"No."

"You haven't even heard the question."

"I know the question."

The smile spreading across Hannah's face made your stomach drop. It was a Hannah Has An Idea smile and historically speaking, those had a terrible survival rate.

You racked your brain for what she could possibly be plotting. Then your face fell.  Practice had ended approximately fifteen minutes ago. Which meant the boys were currently finishing up at the rink. A fact that should've been irrelevant, so painfully ordinary that it was similar to breathing. Instead, it somehow became the most important detail in the room.

“Hannah, no-”

She had already grabbed her bag and started walking towards the door. Allie scrambled to her feet, shoving her stuff into the tote she randomly picked up when you left that morning. You did the same, not caring that you messily crumpled up your work into your bag, instead more focussed on watching Hannah strut out of the library, stomping through the isles- not paying you any mind. 

You panted when you caught up to her, dragging a hand through your hair,

"Oh no."

"Oh yes."

"Hannah."

"No."

"Hannah."

The door to the outside world opened and Allie squinted against the golden hour glow, Hannah’s smile widened dangerously, 

"I am going to find my boyfriend."

The first sign this was a terrible idea came when Hannah ignored the boys leisurely walking out of the athletes' building, their hair damp from showers, you recognised a few, some from the calisthenics club, you waved at the girls on the swim team and pointedly flipped off the lewd comments from the lacrosse team. Eugh. 

The second sign came when she didn’t listen to your warnings.

The third came when she barely blinked at the coach giving her a confused greeting.

By that point, frankly, the universe had done everything it reasonably could.

"Hannah."

No response.

"Hannah."

Still nothing.

The woman marched through the arena, stumbling sharply against the chairs. You inched through behind her, holding Allie's hand as she huffed and whipped her bangs out of her eyes, glaring at Hannah, who was already at the bottom of the staircase, about to turn into the back corridor. 

Neither of you were particularly interested in letting your best friend commit relationship homicide without witnesses.

"Hannah."

"What."

The answer arrived instantly. She stilled just before the dim pathway towards the locker room, hands braced on her backpack straps, her shoes tapped on the floor expectantly. 

"You do realise practice literally just ended."

"Correct."

"You do realise hockey players are probably changing."

"Correct."

You looked at Allie, whose eye was twitching at her best friend's unwavering need for vindication. 

"You're concerning me."

She rolled her eyes and dashed down the hallway, you recognised this part of the training facility instantly, it was embarrassing the amount of times you had waited here, leaning against the wall for Logan to emerge, his chain glinting in the yellow lighting as he hauled equipment over one shoulder, the other carried his own gear. 

He would kiss you quickly, mumbling against your lips about missing you, and then dump all the random sticks and bags of pucks into the storage before slinging an arm around your shoulder, slowing to a leisurely stroll as you recounted your day. 

You rounded the corner, and froze. Allie bumped into you, whining as she rubbed her nose. 

The locker room doors sat at the end of the corridor. You stared ahead, and blinked when Hannah barely stopped- charging forward.

"Hannah."

"No."

"Hannah."

You cupped your hands around your mouth and shouted after her, jogging behind. "What exactly is your plan here?"

"I am going to find Garrett."

"Then?"

"Then I am going to explain why sending a thumbs up was stupid."

Allie threw her hands up and blocked her pathway to the door, "Hannah."

"No." She tugged down Allie’s arms, and pushed the girl out of the way. Before either you or Allie could stop her, Hannah grabbed the door handle, and it was like the world slowed.

"HANNAH!"

The door opened and you immediately regretted the day you were born. The silence hit you like the torrential stream of water in a car wash, burning your eyes as a gasp got stuck in your throat. 

Then your brain caught up with what was in front of you- because unfortunately, disastrously, hockey practice had ended, extremely recently. So recently in fact, that half the team were still in the showers hooting and hollering, while the other half were dripping wet in front of their cubbies. Staring straight at you, towels paused mid-dry.

You froze.

Hannah froze.

Allie froze.

The hockey team froze.

Time itself appeared to freeze.

"Oh my God." Allie giggled shrilly, her eyes wide as her hand came up to stifle a mix between a gasp and sob.

It wasn’t the shirtless hockey players that disturbed you. It was the penis’.

Everywhere. 

Anywhere. 

Dicks floor to ceiling, no matter where your troubled eyes would take you, it was phallic body parts all around. A sight that would haunt you until graduation.

The team were the first one to snap out of the trance, some of them barely phased at the intrusion, the other half silently covered their junk and shouted brokenly for the people you were actually looking for. 

“What?” Logan’s voice shouted from beyond the showers, luckily you were far enough away to avoid the sight of your boyfriend and his teammates in the steamy, tiled cheap porno setting. 

You accidentally made eye-contact with one of the freshmen on the team, and he winked at you. The expression on your face must've been unbelievably unimpressed because he rushed to get dressed immediately after his failure. 

That made your survival instincts finally activate.

You spun around immediately, a sensible decision on your part. 

Unfortunately, Allie had chosen the exact same strategy.

The two of you collided at full speed.

"OW."

The yelp escaped simultaneously. One second you were turning around, the next your shoulder crashed into Allie's.

Your foot caught on your other ankle, and suddenly gravity joined the party. The floor rushed upwards, the world tilted and you were convinced this was your rapture. 

Two seconds away from meeting your untimely demise, strong arms caught you before impact.

"Oh my God, babe?" The voice sounded familiar and you braced yourself for his bewildered expression when you squinted your eyes open. Logan’s face was approximately six inches away and you felt the towel he had hurriedly wrapped around himself slip low down his hips against your waist. 

"Nope, don’t ask." You closed your eyes against the water droplets splashing onto your face from his hair. The tickle of his silver chain against your cheek made you wave your hands between the two of you. You could feel him gearing up to ask something, 

A finger wag in his face and a simple, "Nope." made him laugh as he hoisted you up. 

Across from you, Dean had already reached Allie, looking equally concerned and delighted.

"Are you okay?" His arms were bound securely around her, pressing in front of him.

Allie flicked his forehead, "Stop smiling."

"I'm not smiling."

"You absolutely are."

Dean was moments away from framing the incident and hanging it on a wall, it was when Allie had steadied herself and stepped fractionally away from him that you noticed Dean hadn’t managed to grab a towel. And stood naked, right in front of you. As bare as the day he was born. 

You retched loudly and tried to run out the door, forgetting that Logan was still holding you upright, an arm around your waist- hand steadying your shoulder.

Deeply and violently, you groaned- accepting that this was your life right now,  "Please tell me I died."

The laughter around you doubled in volume, a few of the guys chirping at you.

Somewhere behind Logan, Garrett appeared, towel around his waist- completely oblivious to the chaos playing out with his team. 

"What happened?"

The silence that followed was immediate, the boys pursed their lips together, you and Allie were engrossed in anything that didn't involve Hannah. 

She glared at him slowly, dangerously. Garrett took one look at her expression, and his eyes ping ponged around the changing area, the open door, the duo of embarrassed girlfriends- one of them looking at her boyfriend seductively, the other hiding her face in her hands. And finally the boys, Dean who was playing into Allies flirting- butt naked. And Logan who was stifling a laugh against your shoulder as you shook your head silently into your palms.

Understanding dawned, making him rush over to his bag and dig out his phone, his eyes widening at his girlfriend, "Oh."

The idiot actually laughed. Hannah looked ready to gouge his eyes out with his stick.  And somehow, unbelievably, things were about to get worse.

By dinner the same day, everybody knew, not just the team, not just other teams. The entire student population. 

People in your classes, people in the library, people in the campus cafes. Somehow all of them must've collectively received an email.

You still didn't know how, no matter how hard you searched the gossip account, your dm’s, hunted through stories. There was no way to determine how the hell the situation had reached every set of ears at Briar. You'd spent the better part of twelve hours trying to figure it out.

The incident had happened at approximately 9 am that morning.

By six-fifteen, two members of the lacrosse team had smirked at you in passing.

By seven, somebody in a study group asked if you were "recovering."

By eight-thirty, a girl in your dorm-block had winked.

"Tell me again why I haven't transferred,” You dropped your forehead onto the cafeteria table.

Across from you, Hannah looked equally traumatised as she picked at her dinner, Allie looked murderous as another pair of irrelevant students giggled as they passed by. 

The three of you had spent the entire day suffering.

Allie slumped in her chair, "Because we're seniors."

You stabbed aggressively at your salad. "Unfortunately,” mouth half-full of lettuce you continued, "You know what the worst part is?"

Nobody answered, mostly because nobody wanted to encourage you.

"The fact we literally didn't do anything."

"THANK YOU."

Allie pointed dramatically.

"THANK YOU."

The cafeteria table rattled slightly, you winced and gave her an accusing stare. While the passion was appreciated, the volume was not.

"We walked into a room." Hannah shrugged

"Accidentally." Allie added.

"Then left."

"Immediately."

You threw your hands up, "And somehow everyone is acting like we joined an orgy."

The three of you sat in offended silence, completely justified silence. Silence that lasted approximately four seconds.

Then somebody cleared their throat and you closed your eyes, praying to whatever god that put you in that situation this morning, wasn’t just deciding to test your self control.

You swore, if you opened your eyes, and the person who you thought it was, was standing in front of you. There would be a search warrant for your name, and a blown up ice rink in your wake. 

"No."

Across the table, Hannah groaned and Allie made a sound like she was ready to throw something. The answer came before you opened them, pressing your lips to your hands that were held together in a praying position, you shook your head, "No."

Because standing directly behind you was, Dean who was grinning so wide, you’d think Santa Clause gifted him a dildo, Garrett, currently more occupied in flashing his puppy dog eyes at Hannah and Logan, the only useful one, who came bearing gifts with an apologetic yet amused smile on his annoyingly handsome face.

The Three Horsemen of Making Things Worse.

"Oh, come on.” Dean looked genuinely offended, hand on his chest as he pulled out the seat next to you, in front of Allie.

She threw one of Hannah’s chips at his face, which he caught in his mouth, "We came to support our girlfriends! amidst their public cancellation from society."

"You came to laugh at us." You corrected, ignoring the paper container that slid in front of your tray and the weirdly shaped Logan entity that sat on the other side of you. 

The smile on Dean's face widened, "How ‘bout both?"

Hannah dropped her fork and lunged at him, only held back by Garrett- who had two fingers looped into her belt loop. 

During this, you peeked into the container, flicking open the lid to see a slice of your favourite cake- red velvet from the bakery just outside campus.

You glanced at Logan and stuck your tongue out at him in response to his pleading expression. There it was, you thought- your eye twitching, the complete lack of shame astounded you.

You hated the smug bastard. A deep, passionate hate. But you still gave him a quick peck, intertwining your hands beneath the table and placed them on his thigh. He suppressed a grin and leaned back in his chair watching you cut into the pastry with your fork.

"How's recovery going?" Dean rested his chin on his palm, twirling a blonde strand with his finger.

Allie flipped off her boyfriend, "Leave."

Garrett laughed immediately, "You have to admit-"

"No." Hannah interrupted, hands slapping at his wrist which comfortably kept his hand looped into her jeans. 

"You don't even know what I was going to say."

"Because it doesn't matter."

"It was funny."

"It wasn't."

"It really was."

The idiot looked entirely too pleased with himself, which was particularly annoying because he wasn't even the one receiving the worst of it.

That honour belonged to you and Allie. Specifically because both of your boyfriends had apparently become the main characters of the story. A fact you deeply resented.

"You know what?" You sat up, “How come nobody is talking about Hannah?”

The entire table went quiet.

Hannah blinked.

"Oh my God." Allie said slowly, "You're right."

"I know."

Hannah immediately looked suspicious, "Why aren't they talking about me?"

Then Allie pointed dramatically, "THAT'S WHAT I'VE BEEN SAYING."

"You haven't said that."

"I've been thinking about it."

Somehow, the entire college manipulated the story into a desperate cliche- that you and Allie were dying to see your boyfriend’s and just. couldn't. wait. for them, so you burst into the changing room, ovulation phase at it's peak and boned down in front of the entire team.

Completely cutting out the bit where you both were trying to stop Hannah from social suicide.

Mission accomplished apparently. The problem now, was that you’d stepped in front of the bullet, and forgot that it meant you’d get shot. 

"You started the whole thing." You whined at her.

"EXACTLY."

Dean and Garrett looked delighted.

"You stormed across campus." You held up one finger.

"Correct." Hannah nodded.

"You opened the door." Another finger.

"Correct."

"You ignored approximately fourteen warnings." A third.

"Correct."

"And somehow everyone else became the main characters." You harrumped and slumped back into your seat, glaring at Logan whose arm came up to rest behind you- but you didn’t pull away when he pecked your forehead.

Hannah looked genuinely aghast at her lack of involvement within the gossip mill, "You know what?" She folded her arms, "That is offensive."

"There she is." Dean blew an exaggerated kiss at her, "The victim complex."

Hannah threw a napkin at him.

The situation somehow got worse, a possibility you never thought could be true.

By Wednesday morning, people had started inventing details, ones that didn’t even make sense. Especially because the original story was already embarrassing enough.

Now there were rumours.

Terrible rumours.

Wild rumours.

Factually incorrect rumours.

"I heard somebody say we were recording."

Hannah looked flabbergasted, the pen in her hand creaked as her first tightened.

Across the corridor, Allie stopped walking, "We weren't?"

"Exactly."

"We were too busy being surrounded by cockfest 2026."

The three of you continued toward class, united by shared trauma- forged entirely through public humiliation. 

The campus buzzed around you, students heading between lectures, athletes carrying equipment bags, people drinking coffee they absolutely couldn't afford. The usual. Until somebody shouted out your name, the voice was gratingly familiar in a way that made you want to spit out your tonsils. 

The guys sitting outside the student centre weren't even subtle about it, the one who called out for you nudged another, the second looked up and smirked.

They were two guys from the lacrosse team. Arguably, you’d think such a fancy sport would produce gentlemen, but the game manufactured slime-balls like the two currently snickering at your deadpan expression. 

"Oh look." The smile spread, "The locker room girls."

You stopped mid-step, and you’d known it was a mistake the minute your foot paused, because now they knew you'd heard. The embarrassment hit instantly, like a slap to the face that reached down your throat, hot in a way that made your body burn. 

Beside you, Hannah looked ready to throw hands, her eyes narrowing at the boys. 

“You got only fans? We’d love to see what happened in the locker room.” 

Allie grit her teeth and just as she was about to bite back, a voice interrupted her.

"Say that again."

The atmosphere chilled behind you, one second the lacrosse pair were giggling like little goblins, the next, their faces were frozen with teetering smiles. 

You felt an arm wrap around your shoulders. Logan stood next to you, his thumb rubbing soothingly on your arm. 

Dean was walking up to Allie, his hands still cupped around his mouth from his interruption. Garrett hung back, but welcomed Hannah into his side when she begrudgingly shuffled up to him. 

They had apparently finished a team strategy session, an unfortunate coincidence for the boys in front of you, who suddenly looked significantly less dick-ish. 

The one with slicked back, blonde hair looked to his friend- who shrugged and patted him on the shoulder, his lip visibly quivered when he spoke, "What?" the question came out weak.

Dean smiled, two hands braced on his girlfriend's frame. Leisurely almost. "Oh, don't do that." He tilted his head with a pout, "You were really confident thirty seconds ago."

Nobody answered.

Garrett called out, still maintaining a generous distance from the situation- probably not wanting to get too involved with another team as the captain, “You seem like the type to be on only fans Jackson. Is that what you do when you lose to Eastwood?” The disappointment in his voice somehow made it worse.

"Seriously,” Dean shook his head, "Dude, if you're going to talk shit about my girlfriend at least be creative." Allie smacked the front of his chest, but nodded in agreement. 

Then Logan spoke, "Find something else to talk about."

Jackson, and the other guy- equally as greasy, dissolved into pitiful excuses and throwaway comments, scoffing as they retreated into the building.

"Holy shit."

Dean grinned, "You're welcome."

"You enjoyed that." Allie poked him accusatorially, leaning up on her toes to kiss his cheek a few times, leaving lipstick prints against his dimple. 

"I enjoyed that immensely."

Nearby, Garrett wrapped an arm around Hannah's shoulders and joined the rest of you.

"You know," Garrett said thoughtfully, "I feel like people would've stopped talking about it sooner if Dean hadn't told literally everyone."

The silence was beautiful. The three of you slowly turned to look at Dean, who was gritting out threats at Garrett, a horrified expression gracing his features as he timidly caressed Allie's hair. 

"I did not."

Logan punched his shoulder jokingly, like bros talking about whose basketball team won last night, "You absolutely did."

"I told one person."

The universe was finally smiling down on you, since Tucker walked up to the six of you, pushing his curls out of his face.

"You told Tucker." Garrett laughed. 

Tucker blinked between the two, who were now engaged in a heated conversation using their eyes. 

"That's still one person."

"Dean."

"One person."

"You told the biggest gossip on the hockey team that our girlfriends walked into the changing room after practice and saw everyone's dicks. by accident."

Tucker finally nodded his head with an affirmative sound, “Oh yeah, I’m just annoyed I left practice early for a doctor's appointment.” He patted Dean on the shoulder, grinning as he stirred the proverbial pot, “luckily Dean here, my best friend, the person who tells me everything. Recounted it in perfect detail.”

An argument exploded instantly, involving Allie smacking Dean upside the head and she bickered about how the last 48 hours had been a living hell.

Hannah wasn’t letting Garrett off the hook easily, nagging him that if he had just “replied to her goddamn messages” the three of you wouldn’t have been in there, she quietened and blushed when he whispered in her ear.

Tucker had joined Allie in bashing Dean, but the three of them groaned when Dean promised, “mind-blowing orgasms on every surface of the house”. Allie didn’t say anything further, just glared at him when he hooked a hand onto her waist and pulled her in.

They drifted ahead while they bickered. Leaving you slightly behind with Logan, who had somehow presented an iced coffee from behind his back and was watching you sip it. 

"You didn't have to do that." You said mid-sip.

Logan looked over, "What?"

"That."

You gestured vaguely toward the now-empty student centre steps. Logan’s expressions softened slightly as he took your bag from your shoulder and pulled you into him, tucking a hand into your back pocket. 

"Yeah." he paused, "Actually, I kind of did."

Your stomach performed a deeply inconvenient little flip.

"Why?"

Logan looked ahead, then to the ground in an almost bashful kind of way, then he shrugged. Like the answer was obvious, "I don't like people making you feel bad."

You cooed at him, grabbing his face with your free hand and squishing his face between your fingers, “You’re such a softie.” 

Smacking a kiss to his stubbly cheek, you returned to the drink, gulping it down appreciatively.

He snickered to himself and added unhelpfully, “Plus, kind of owed you since you saw Dean’s cock.”

“Logan!”