𝒟𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂𝓁𝒶𝓃𝒹

You'd been pretending to watch the movie for at least fifteen minutes.

Dean had been doing a terrible job of pretending he wasn't staring at you for just as long.

It was a terrible performance on both sides, especially considering the laptop was still playing some action movie at the end of his bed, and neither of you could've named one thing that'd happened in the last ten minutes. You were tucked under his sheets in one of his old Briar shirts, the hem brushing soft against your thighs because your underwear was the only thing you'd bothered putting on after your shower, and Dean was lying beside you with one hand behind his head and the other low on your hip like he was trying very hard to act like a gentleman.

He was trying to behave, which was sweet, really, but not exactly successful.

"You're staring again," you murmured, not even bothering to look away from the screen.

Dean's thumb moved in a slow circle over your hip. "You're in my bed wearing my shirt. You can't really blame me."

"You gave it to me," you pointed out, like that was supposed to make him less smug about it.

"I know." Dean's mouth curved like he'd been waiting for you to say exactly that. "Great decision, honestly."

You rolled your eyes, but the smile breaking through kind of ruined the effect. "You're impossible."

"Yeah." Dean leaned in, his lips brushing your shoulder through the fabric of his shirt. "But you like me anyway."

"Sometimes," you said, though your smile made it sound a lot less convincing.

"Right now?" he asked, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip.

You turned your head to answer, which was apparently all the invitation Dean needed, because then he was kissing you, slow and warm, one hand sliding up your side beneath the fabric like he'd planned the whole thing. It was easy to melt into Dean like that, a lot easier than you'd ever admit out loud. Dean kissed you like he knew exactly how much time he had, which apparently meant he had no problem spending it dragging every little sound out of you to see how much trouble it got him into.

His fingers slipped beneath the hem of the shirt, warm against your waist in a way that shouldn't have made you gasp as quickly as it did.

Dean smiled against your mouth, entirely too pleased with himself. "There she is."

"Don't start."

"I didn't even say anything."

"You were about to, and we both know it."

He laughed, low and entirely too pleased with himself, before rolling onto his back and tugging you over him like he already knew you'd follow. And you did, because apparently thinking was no longer part of the plan, one knee sliding across his hips until you were straddling his lap.

Then you froze beneath his hands, and Dean felt the change in you immediately.

His hands settled on your waist, thumbs brushing over your sides in a way that was soft enough to make your chest ache a little. "Hey."

You swallowed, suddenly very aware of the fact that you were in his lap with your thighs spread around his hips, his hard length pressing up beneath his sweatpants, and somehow his shirt still covering you didn't make you feel any less exposed.

"This feels like a lot of responsibility," you said, aiming for a joke and landing somewhere embarrassingly close to panic.

Dean's brow lifted like he wasn't sure whether to laugh or be concerned. "Responsibility?"

"I just..." You looked down, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt like that'd somehow make the words easier to get out. "I've never really done this before."

His expression softened, though that amused little spark in his eyes didn't go anywhere. "Been on top?"

Your cheeks warmed, which was annoying because Dean absolutely noticed. "Not really."

"Not really?" Dean repeated, thumbs still brushing over your waist like he was trying very hard not to look too pleased about that.

"Dean," you said, dragging his name out like a warning, even though the warmth in your cheeks made it pretty hard to sound threatening.

He smiled a little, his hands giving your hips a gentle squeeze like he'd decided to behave for once. "Okay. Not really."

"It's not a big deal," you said quickly, which was unfortunate because saying it that fast made it sound like it was definitely a big deal. "I just feel like I'd look stupid, or I wouldn't know what I was doing, and then you'd have to pretend it was hot, which is a very nice boyfriend thing to do, but also something I'd never emotionally recover from."

Dean stared at you for a beat, then laughed in this soft, disbelieving way that only made your face feel warmer. "Baby, I'm hard because you're sitting on my lap in my shirt. You could sneeze right now, and I'd find a way to be into it."

You blinked because, annoyingly enough, it had worked. "That was weirdly comforting."

"I'm great at comfort."

"You're absolutely not."

"I am when you're half-naked on top of me."

You tried to bite back a laugh, but it came out as this breathy little sound instead when Dean's hands guided your hips down, showing you exactly how slowly he wanted you to move over him. The pressure caught against your clit through your underwear, warm and steady enough to make your thighs tense before you could stop them.

Dean's eyes darkened like he'd felt the way your body reacted. "Does that feel good?"

You nodded, your thighs still tense beneath his hands.

His mouth curved. "Words, sweetheart."

"Yes," you breathed, because apparently that was the only word your brain had left to offer.

"There you go," Dean murmured, his voice soft enough to make your stomach flip.

The next kiss was messier, mostly because Dean kept guiding your hips over him like he had all the patience in the world, dragging it out until your underwear was damp, clinging to you, and making it pretty impossible to pretend you weren't affected. At first, the sounds you made were small and half-swallowed against his mouth, but Dean noticed every single one like he'd been waiting for them.

"Don't do that," he murmured.

You blinked at him. "Do what?"

"Hold back." His fingers tightened on your hips like he was making sure you couldn't pretend you didn't know what he meant. "I like hearing you."

Your stomach flipped, which was annoying because Dean absolutely felt it, and then he kissed you again until the friction dragged a moan out of you that you finally let him hear.

Dean groaned, as if he'd heard you'd done something terrible to his self-control.

That helped more than anything else could have.

By the time Dean had pushed his sweatpants down and rolled on a condom, your underwear was shoved to the side, your hands were planted on his chest, and the shirt was still hanging over you like a very pathetic attempt at feeling covered. Dean didn't try to take it off, which somehow made your chest feel tighter. He just held your hips, eyes fixed on your face as he guided himself through your wetness.

"Slow," he murmured. "Take your time."

You lowered yourself carefully, trying to take your time like he'd told you to, but your mouth still fell open the second the head of his cock pressed inside you. The stretch was familiar and different all at once, deeper like this, more intense because you were the one in control, which sounded nice in theory and felt a lot more terrifying with Dean watching your face like that. You sank inch by inch, trying very hard to look like you had any control over yourself, but the second he filled you, your fingers curled against his chest, and a shaky whimper slipped out before you could stop it.

Dean's jaw tightened. "Fuck."

You froze immediately. "Bad?"

His eyes snapped to yours as you'd just said something insane. "Are you joking?"

"You made a face."

"Yeah, baby, because you feel so good, I'm trying not to embarrass myself."

Your cheeks warmed, which was embarrassing enough on its own, but the praise still settled low in your stomach like your body had decided to enjoy it before you could overthink it.

"You're not just saying that?"

Dean's hands slid up your thighs, grounding you in a way that made it annoyingly hard to spiral. "Move once, sweetheart, and see if I sound like I'm lying."

So you did, moving slowly at first.

Your hips lifted, then sank back down, and Dean's head tipped against the pillow with this rough, helpless groan that made it pretty hard to believe he'd been lying about any of it.

"Oh," you breathed, and the second you moved again, it turned into something closer to a moan.

Dean's eyes opened, heavy and dark, like he'd been waiting for exactly that. "Yeah?"

"Feels good," you said, already sounding a little wrecked.

His hands squeezed your thighs. "Then keep going, sweetheart."

Your movements were awkward at first, mostly because your brain wouldn't shut up long enough to let your body figure it out, too busy worrying about the rhythm, whether you were doing enough, and whether you looked ridiculous hovering over him in his shirt with your thighs trembling.

Then Dean's hands tightened on your hips like he could feel you spiraling. "Stop thinking."

"I'm trying."

"No." His voice dropped, rough around the edges but still gentle. "You're trying to look good, which is insane, because you already do. Just move how you want."

The words hit harder than you'd expected, mostly because Dean sounded like he meant them, so you tried to believe him.

You rolled your hips instead of lifting so high, chasing the angle that made your clit catch against him every time you sank back down, and the moan that left you was loud enough to make Dean's cock twitch inside you like he was having a very hard time staying calm about it.

Your eyes flicked to his face, and Dean looked so wrecked that it made it pretty hard to keep worrying about whether you were doing it right.

His lips parted, jaw tense, and his hands kept flexing on your hips like Dean was having the world's hardest time remembering he'd told you to move how you wanted.

"You like this?" you asked, and even though your voice shook, it still came out bolder than before.

Dean laughed once, rough and breathless, as the question had actually offended him. "Like it?" His hips jerked up into you, dragging a gasp out of your mouth. "Baby, I'm trying not to lose my fucking mind."

That did something to you, mostly because Dean sounded like he meant it, and apparently, your body liked knowing you could mess him up that badly.

Your next movement was smoother, more confident, and the moan that came out of you wasn't even close to quiet, which Dean clearly noticed because his hands tightened on your hips immediately.

"Dean—fuck," you moaned, and the way his eyes darkened made it pretty clear he'd liked hearing his name like that.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."

You rode him slowly at first, then a little faster once you realized your body had apparently figured out what your brain kept trying to overthink, your hands sliding up his chest as his shirt rode higher over your thighs. Your cunt was soaked around him, every movement making it easier, wetter, and a lot harder to feel shy about, especially when Dean looked down to watch where you were taking him and groaned as he'd just lost whatever was left of his self-control.

"God," he muttered, hands tightening on your hips. "You were worried about this?"

You tried to laugh, but it came out closer to a whimper when he helped you grind down harder. "Maybe."

Dean looked like that answer personally offended him. "You're killing me."

His fingers tugged at the hem of the shirt, and you slowed immediately, like your body had decided to panic before your brain could tell it not to.

Dean noticed immediately, because, of course, he did, his eyes lifting back to yours, as if taking the shirt off suddenly mattered a whole lot less than making sure you were okay. "Can I see you?"

Your stomach fluttered.

His hands rubbed up your thighs, warm and steady. "You can keep it on if you want."

You hesitated for only a second before lifting your arms, which felt a lot braver than it probably looked.

Dean pulled the shirt over your head and tossed it aside, leaving you in your bra and still moving over him like your body hadn't quite figured out whether to be nervous or proud. His eyes dragged over you slowly, and for once, Dean Di Laurentis had absolutely nothing to say.

That made your chest tighten, mostly because Dean looking at you like that was a lot harder to handle than any stupid comment he could've made. "What?"

His hands slid up your waist, warm and certain. "You're so fucking pretty."

Your breath caught the second his palms covered your breasts through your bra, thumbs brushing over your nipples beneath the thin fabric, and your rhythm faltered immediately, because apparently, Dean touching you there made moving and thinking at the same time impossible.

"Oh—Dean."

His mouth curved, entirely too pleased with himself. "No, don't stop."

"You're distracting me."

"Good." His thumbs circled again, making you clench around him like your body had decided to prove his point. "Keep riding me anyway."

You moaned louder this time, hips rolling as his hands played with your tits through your bra, and every touch made you stutter in a way Dean very clearly noticed. Every bit of praise made you wetter, every look on his face made you a little bolder, until the embarrassment started slipping away as your body had finally decided to stop fighting him.

"Tell me," he said, voice rough. "Tell me what feels good."

You swallowed, still moving over him because apparently stopping would've been the worst idea. "Your hands."

"Yeah?"

"And your cock." Your voice was breathless enough to be embarrassing, but you said it anyway, and Dean's eyes went so dark that it made the embarrassment feel worth it. "Feels good when I move like this."

You rolled your hips harder to show him, and Dean's head dropped back as you'd just ruined him on purpose.

"Fuck," he groaned. "Don't stop doing that."

Hearing Dean sound like that ruined something dangerous to your confidence, mostly because it was a lot harder to feel embarrassed when he sounded like he was the one barely holding it together.

Your hands moved behind your back, unclasping your bra before your brain could show up and ruin the moment. It slipped down your arms and fell somewhere between you, and Dean stared as you'd just done something genuinely unfair to his ability to breathe.

"Look at you," he breathed, and the way he said it made your whole body feel warm.

The words made your chest warm in a way you weren't sure what to do with.

Then his mouth was on you, lips closing around one nipple while his hand covered your other breast, and you cried out so quickly it would've been embarrassing if Dean hadn't groaned like it'd done something to him. Your fingers slid into his hair, hips moving faster now as pleasure started building low in your stomach.

"Dean, I'm—" Your voice fell apart into a whimper when his thumb found your clit, because apparently your body had no interest in letting you finish a sentence. "Oh my god, right there."

"There?" he asked, smug in a way that would've been annoying if he didn't sound so wrecked.

"Yes. Fuck, yes."

He rubbed slow circles over your clit while you rode him, his other hand on your hip and his mouth moving from your breast to your throat like he wasn't already making it impossible to focus. You were close, so close your thighs had started shaking, but the rhythm was getting harder to keep, your moans turning messier and needier as frustration tangled with the pleasure your body kept trying to chase.

Dean caught it instantly, like every little shift in your body was something he'd been waiting for.

"Come here," he murmured.

Before you could even think about arguing, Dean rolled you beneath him and pulled the sheets over both of you, settling between your thighs without slipping out like he'd decided you'd done enough thinking for one night. The new angle made you gasp, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed deeper.

Then Dean caught both your hands and laced your fingers together, pinning them above your head so gently it made your chest ache a little.

Dean kissed you, slow and messy, like he had every intention of making good on that promise. "Let me finish what you started."

"Please," you whispered, and it came out a lot needier than planned, which Dean absolutely noticed.

Dean's expression flickered. Then his hips started moving. Slow, deep, steady thrusts that had you moaning into the space between you, thighs locked around his waist, your hands crossed with his over your head. The sheets tangled around your legs, heat building under the blanket, his body heavy and warm over yours.

"You did so well," he murmured, his mouth brushing your jaw like he knew exactly how badly the praise was getting to you. "Looked so fucking good on top of me."

"Dean," you whimpered.

"I know." His hips rolled deeper, pulling your back into an arch. "I've got you."

His hand slipped between your bodies again, thumb finding your clit like he already knew exactly what you needed, and your whole body tightened around him.

"Oh—fuck, don't stop," you gasped, which was probably unnecessary considering Dean looked like stopping would've killed him.

He groaned anyway. "Wasn't planning on it."

The pleasure snapped through you suddenly, hot and sharp, and your moan broke against Dean's mouth as you came around him. Your thighs locked around his waist, fingers tightening in his above your head like you needed something to hold onto while your body shook beneath him.

Dean followed right after, his thrusts going uneven as he'd finally lost the last of his control, face buried in your neck as a rough groan broke out of him while he held you close and came.

For a while, neither of you moved, both of you too warm and tangled beneath the sheets to do anything other than breathe.

"You okay?" he asked softly.

You nodded, still trying to catch your breath. "Yeah."

His grin appeared slowly, which was never a good sign. "So."

"No."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was just gonna say you're definitely not bad at being on top."

Your face warmed, and you turned it into the pillow like that might somehow save you. "You're so annoying."

"And you were so loud."

"Dean."

"I liked it," he said, kissing your cheek like he hadn't just made you want to disappear into the mattress. "A lot."

You tried to glare, but it came out pretty weak, especially when he slipped out carefully and disappeared to clean up like he hadn't just ruined your ability to function. When he came back, he helped clean you with a warm towel, gentle when your thighs twitched, before pulling his shirt back over your head as it belonged there.

"Putting me back in this?" you asked, glancing down at the shirt.

"Obviously." Dean climbed into bed beside you and pulled you into his chest, looking far too pleased with himself. "It's my new favorite thing now."

You laughed softly, settling against him while his arm wrapped around you like he had no plans of letting you go anytime soon.

For a minute, Dean only rubbed slow circles over your back like he was trying to make sure you'd fully melted into him. Then his voice came again, softer this time, though obviously still teasing because it was Dean.

"So..." His mouth brushed your hair, and you could hear the grin in his voice before he even finished. "You wanna do that again sometime?"

You pinched his side, which only made him laugh because apparently even that wasn't enough to make him less pleased with himself.

Dean laughed and pulled you closer, sounding far too pleased with himself for someone who'd just been pinched. "I'll take that as a yes."

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

💌lmk if you want to be added to my taglist

You hadn’t actually been introduced to him yet, but you’d felt his suffocating vibe the moment he walked through the door. He looked like absolute thunder. Briar had dropped a frustrating, tight game that evening, and while Garrett was channeling his nervous energy into playing the charismatic host, Logan was wearing his irritation like armor. Leaning against the kitchen counter with a dark scowl that practically screamed at people to stay away, his knuckles were white around his glass, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for a reason to snap.

​Navigating that crowded, chaotic kitchen with a brim-filled, sticky mixed drink was your first mistake. Your second was catching the rubber toe of your sneaker on the lifting edge of a rogue anti-fatigue mat near the sink.

​You stumbled forward, your arms flailing wildly in a desperate, ungraceful bid for balance. You didn’t fall, but your cup did a violent, mid-air flip, slipping from your fingers. A torrential wave of sticky, dark rum and cola splashed directly across the pristine gray fabric of Logan’s Henley shirt, soaking through the chest, darkening the material instantly and dripping down the front of his dark jeans.

​​Logan froze. His head snapped down slowly, looking at the huge, dark stain spreading across his clothes, and then his gaze lifted to yours. His eyes were blazing, a dangerous brown, entirely unamused and dripping with venom. "Oh, fuck!" he snapped, his voice cutting right through the ambient noise like a knife. He pulled the wet, heavy fabric away from his skin with two fingers, a look of pure annoyance twisting his features. "Are you serious right now? Watch where the hell you're going."

​The sheer aggression in his tone caught you completely off guard, instantly sparking your own deeply ingrained, stubborn nature. You had been about to apologize profusely, the words of remorse already forming on your tongue, but the bite in his words choked them right out of your throat. You squared your shoulders, refusing to back down under his glare. "It was an accident," you retorted, pulling a few crumpled, napkins from the counter and shoving them toward his chest. "You don't have to be a complete dick about it. It’s just a shirt, I'm pretty sure you'll survive."

​"It's a wet, sticky shirt at the end of a terrible, exhausting fucking day," he growled, his voice dropping an octave as he batted your hand away with a harsh flick of his wrist. He didn't take the napkins; they fluttered uselessly to the floor. Instead, he leaned down slightly, giving you a long, icy glare that made you feel about two inches tall, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle tick. "Next time, look up from your feet." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and storming down the hallway toward the stairs, muttering curses under his breath.

​You stood there rooted to the spot, your cheeks burning with a toxic mixture of intense embarrassment and sudden, deep-seated dislike. Garrett materialized at your side a split second later, a sympathetic, slightly apologetic grimace on his face as he patted your shoulder gently. "Hey, don't sweat it," Garrett reassured you quietly, glancing warily toward the stairs where Logan had disappeared. "Logan’s just in a brutal mood because of the game, and he hates losing more than anyone. He's usually a great guy, I swear. He’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow morning."

​You forced a tight, fake smile and nodded, but as you looked down at your empty, sticky hands, a bitter taste lingered in your mouth. Spoiler alert: he wouldn't forget. and neither would you.

Two — "Fuck you"

A few weeks later, the initial friction hadn’t dissolved; it had hardened into a permanent, icy chill. You tried your best to play nice for the sake of Hannah and Allie, but Logan made it incredibly difficult. You saw how he was with the rest of their circle—fiercely loyal, easygoing, and warm. He was the kind of guy who quietly made sure Allie and Hannah got home safe from their late shifts and spent his free afternoons helping Jules with media stuff. He was patient with the entire world. But the exact millisecond you walked into a room, his posture stiffened and his jaw set. You hated being the sole exception to his good nature, so you simply stayed out of his way.

​The breaking point came on a gray, rainy Tuesday afternoon. You and Hannah had walked over to the hockey house to help Tucker untangle a massive, soul-crushing history assignment he was drowning in. The three of you were spread across the dining table, surrounded by a chaotic mess of highlighters, laptop cords, and heavy library textbooks.

​The back door clicked open, and Logan walked in. He was wearing his Briar athletic gear, a damp towel slung over his shoulders from a post-practice shower, his hair messy and wet. He looked exhausted, his shoulders tense, carrying the unmistakable hangover of a brutal morning practice. Instead of walking past to the kitchen, he paused by the table, leaning over Tucker’s shoulder to scan the open pages. He let out a heavy, deliberate sigh. ​"You’re using the wrong primary sources for that era, Tuck," Logan said, his voice dropping into that effortless, uninvited authority. "You need the economic logs from the eastern front, not these political manifestos. You’re going to tank your thesis statement with those."

​Tucker blinked up, looking miserable. "Wait, really? I thought—"

​"We checked those, Logan," you interrupted, keeping your voice level and calm as you kept your eyes on your notebook. "We've got it handled," you smiled, trying to remain polite.

​Logan didn't move. His eyes slid slowly down to the side of your face, unamused. "Right. Because you're an expert on 20th-century economic trade?"

​"No," you said, your pen pausing on the page. "But I can read a syllabus. If you're so worried about Tucker's academic results, you could have sat down and helped him yourself already."

​Logan’s jaw tightened, a sharp spike of tension instantly replacing his usual easygoing demeanor. He took his hands out of his pockets and leaned forward, bracing his palms on the edge of the table, firmly invading your space. Tucker shot Hannah a wide-eyed, panicked look across the textbooks, both of them suddenly bracing for impact.

​"I gave him my old notes weeks ago," Logan shot back, his voice dropping into something smaller, tighter. "But sure, ignore the guy who actually passed the class because you're too stubborn to take a note from me."

​"I'm not being stubborn, you're just being a patronizing prick," you retorted, leaning back in your chair. "You’ve been hovering over this table for five minutes just looking for a problem because you had a bad day and want to take it out on someone."

​Logan let out a harsh, dry laugh, though there was a flicker of genuine frustration in his eyes—the look of a good guy who couldn't understand why he kept letting you bait him. "Take it out on someone? Trust me, if I wanted to take anything out on someone, I wouldn't waste my time on you. I'm trying to keep my friend from bombing a midterm because he made the mistake of letting you organize his thoughts."

​"My thoughts are perfectly fine, Logan," Tucker muttered quietly under his breath, his eyes glued to his laptop screen, desperately trying to dissolve into the background.

​"They're fine when you're left alone, Tuck," Logan said, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring his teammate's plea. "Not when you're letting someone drag their own contrarian agenda into your coursework."

​"A contrarian agenda?" You stood up, your chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. Hannah flinched at the sharp noise, withdrawing her hands from the table and motioning for Tucker to leave the potential future crime scene. They both complied quickly, knowing you both well enough to understand that trying to reason with you in that moment would be pointless. "Are you actually insane? I'm sorry that anyone else having a brain in this house threatens your need to micromanage every single thing that happens under this roof."

​"It doesn't threaten me at all," Logan said, standing up straight and towering over you, using his height to crowd your space until his shadow completely blocked out the light from the window. The sheer, uncharacteristic anger rolling off him was suffocating; Tucker actually slid his chair back a few inches, completely done with trying to intervene at this point. "It annoys me. You annoy me, actually. I'm not going to walk on eggshells in my own dining room because you can't handle a basic correction."

​"I can handle a correction if it's respectful," you shot back, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you refused to take a step away from him. "You don't want to help Tucker. You just want to feel like the smartest guy in the room and that is annoying."

​"I dont—," Logan started, a nervous scoff escaping his lips. "You don't know anything about me. Please let's keep it this way, since you clearly can't stand me anyway."

​"You're the one who treats me like an absolute inconvenience the second I breathe in your direction!" you yelled, the weeks of being ignored, brushed off, and glared at finally boiling over into raw, unadulterated anger. "If you hate me being here so much, just say it. But stop acting like I'm the one bringing the venom into this house when you're the one dripping it."

​The air between you turned completely volatile, thick enough to choke on. A strange, angry electricity snapped between you, the argument completely detached from history or homework now, exposed and raw. Logan stared down at you, his breathing heavy and uneven as he tried to swallow down the sheer frustration rolling off him in waves. ​He leaned down slightly, bringing his face inches from yours, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle violently ticked in his cheek.

"Fuck you," he whispered.

​The words hit with a cold, deliberate weight that vibrated in the dead-silent room. ​Before you could fire back, Tucker's voice boomed from the kitchen archway, stern and completely done with both of you. "Enough! Both of you, cut it the hell out."

​But the damage was done. The look in Logan's eyes made something tight and painful twist in your chest. You refused to sit there and breathe the same air as him for another second. Blindly turning around, you grabbed your laptop and notebook, shoving them into your backpack with rigid, uncooperative hands.

​"I'm leaving," you muttered, keeping your eyes glued firmly to the floor as you pushed past Hannah’s reaching hand on the way out. You grabbed your jacket from the hook and left through the front door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the frame, stepping out into the pouring, cold rain with the echo of his voice looping in your head like a curse.

Three — "Fuck off"

​For the next month, you became an absolute expert at avoiding John Logan. You turned it into an art form. If he was at a crowded house party, you stayed firmly in the kitchen or on the opposite porch. If the entire group gathered at Malone's, you ensured you sat on the exact opposite end of the long table, hidden behind Dean's loud gestures.

Because of this, you never saw the way his eyes silently followed you when you entered a room, or the almost guilty look that crossed his face whenever your name came up in conversation. He knew he'd crossed a line by cursing at you like that—but your unbreakable silence gave him absolutely no room to apologize, and his own stubborn pride kept him from forcing the issue.

​There were small signs of his guilt, though. One random Thursday afternoon, he showed up at the place you shared with Hannah and Allie, claiming he was just dropping off a spare hockey hoodie Garrett had left in his truck. You had stayed in your room with the door cracked just an inch, watching through the tiny gap as he lingered by the entrance, his eyes constantly drifting toward your door,  silently checking to see if you'd come out. You hadn't moved an inch, holding your breath until he finally left.

​Eventually, Hannah and Allie staged a full-blown intervention. A brand-new club had opened downtown, and they absolutely refused to let you stay home and rot in your room, even though they openly admitted the boys were all coming along. You finally relented, numbing your spiking anxiety by pouring yourself two heavy pre-game vodka crans before leaving the house.

​The club was a massive sensory overload—flashing neon lights, artificial fog, and heavy, chest-thumping bass that made communication impossible. By midnight, everyone was comfortably, heavily drunk. You were leaning your back against the sticky mahogany bar, sipping a gin and tonic, when you finally caught sight of him through the pulsing crowd.

​Logan was laughing at something Beau said, a dark red bandana tied tightly around his messy hair, looking effortlessly, devastatingly handsome in a black fitted t-shirt. As if sensing the weight of your gaze, his head turned. His dark eyes locked directly onto yours across the smoky crowded room. He didn’t look away. He held your stare for a second, then two, then three — a strange, intense, unreadable heat settling over his features before a group of dancers blocked your view.

A few minutes later, a guy from one of the campus fraternities slithered up next to you on the edge of the dance floor. He was loud, sweaty, and smelled entirely too much like cheap cologne and whiskey — but a little bit of dancing could help taking your mind off of a certain hockey player, you thought. You enjoyed it at first, moving along, focusing on the music, the stranger getting closer and closer as the playlist progressed. But then, just as you started to feel good - just the right amount of alcohol in your veins to feel lighter and relaxed - he tried to grind his hips against yours. You tried to step back, laughing it off politely at first, pushing his hands away, but he didn't take the hint. His hands came down on your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you flush against him with a grip that was far too tight and aggressive.

​Before you could even raise your hands to shove his chest, a massive shadow loomed over both of you.

​A now familiar hand gripped the frat guy’s shoulder, spinning him around with enough force to make his sneakers squeak on the floor.

​"Fuck off," Logan snarled, his voice a low, lethal vibration that cut right through the heavy bass of the music. He leaned in until he was nose-to-nose with the guy. "Get your fucking hands off her and fuck off right now."

​The guy looked at Logan and wisely raised his hands in surrender, backing away rapidly into the foggy crowd without throwing a single punch.

​Logan’s breathing was heavy, his chest heaving, his fists still clenched tightly at his sides as his eyes scanned the immediate area like a wild animal looking for another threat. He looked ready to tear the entire club apart with his bare hands. Anxious that he might actually chase the guy down for a fight, you stepped directly into his line of sight, capturing his attention.

​"Logan," you breathed, your voice soft and entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. Without thinking about the consequences, you reached out, your bare fingers wrapping around his forearm.

​The exact millisecond your skin met the warm, rock-hard muscle of his arm, Logan froze entirely. It was the first time the two of you had ever willingly, gently touched, and the effect was instantaneous. The blinding anger seemed to drain out of him in a single breath, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of air. He looked down at your small hand resting on his arm, his skin tingling where you touched him, and then he slowly, deliberately lifted his gaze to your eyes.

​The noisy club, the flashing strobe lights, the roaring bass, the alcohol—it all faded into irrelevant background noise. You stood face-to-face on the crowded dance floor, completely motionless, just looking into each other's eyes. Your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, not from fear of the frat guy, but from a sudden, dizzying, terrifying realization. Looking into his wide, intensely focused eyes, you realized you didn't hate him. Not even close. And from the soft, almost vulnerable parting of his lips, he didn't hate you either. You weren't close to being friends yet, but the ice had officially shattered into a million pieces. 

Four — "What the fuck"

The shift between you was subtle, but it was absolutely undeniable. The sharp hostility was gone, completely replaced by a quiet, lingering, heavy awareness that neither of you knew quite what to do with.

​A week later, you were sitting in a sunlit corner booth at Malone’s. You were completely, entirely absorbed in a brutal, multi-chapter study session for your finals, a pair of heavy over-ear headphones clamped securely over your ears. The sweet, nostalgic melody of American Pie was playing through the speakers, and without even realizing it, you were softly humming along to the chorus, tapping the cap of your yellow highlighter rhythmically against the open pages of your textbook.

​You were so deeply focused on your notes that you didn't hear the diner's front door chime, nor did you see Logan walk in. He was there to finalize the last-minute details for the upcoming Hockey Fundraiser with Hannah and Della. But the exact moment his eyes scanned the room and spotted you sitting alone in the corner booth, he stopped dead in his tracks.

​He didn’t approach right away. He just stood near the counter, watching you. A soft, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he listened to your faint, slightly off-key humming.

​Prickled by the sudden, distinct sensation of eyes on you, you blinked and lifted your head from your textbook. Logan instantly wiped the smile from his face, clearing his throat roughly and pretending to read a missing cat flyer on the bulletin board.

​You pulled your headphones down, a small smirk playing on your lips. "You know, if you stare any harder, you're going to burn a hole right through my skull, Logan."

​Instead of snapping back with a sarcastic, biting retort like he used to, Logan let out a soft chuckle. He walked over to your booth and, to your surprise, slid into the bench by your side, his knee almost touching yours.

​"Just making sure you weren't torturing the rest of the innocent customers with your singing," he teased gently, his shoulder brushing against yours in the tight space.

​You rolled your eyes, but there was no spite left in your expression. "I happen to have the voice of a literal angel, thank you very much. You're just jealous."

​The playful banter slowly subsided into a comfortable silence. Logan looked at you, his expression turning a little more serious, his eyes softening as his voice dropped to a much quieter register. "Hey… are you doing okay?" Since what happened the other night, obviously implied by the way he looked at you right now, concern written all over his face.

You felt a warm flush creep up your neck and settle into your cheeks. "I'm okay, thank you" you smiled and he nodded, both silently agreeing not to discuss this unpleasant event anymore. You paused, looking down at his large hands resting on the table before forcing yourself to look back up. "How are you doing ? With the fundraiser and everything, I mean. You look like you haven't slept in a week."

​He seemed genuinely surprised that you were asking about him. Really, truly asking. He leaned back against the vinyl booth, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he completely opened up to you. He talked about the immense stress of managing the team's high expectations, his constant worries about Jules’ upcoming exams, and the suffocating pressure of the NHL scouts attending the next three games. You listened intently, never interrupting, offering gentle encouragement and a few dry, sarcastic jokes that had him laughing quietly into his palms. For a full hour, the two most stubborn, argumentative people at Briar University just… talked.

​"Well," you finally said, checking the diner clock and reluctantly packing your laptop into your bag. "I have to get to my shift at the library. Don't let Della bully you into paying extra for the tableware."

​"I won't," Logan said, his eyes tracking your every movement, lingering on your face. "See you around?"

​"See you around." You gave him a small, genuine smile—the first real one he'd ever received from you—and walked out into the crisp afternoon air, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks.

​Inside the booth, Logan sat completely still for a long, agonizing moment. He watched your retreating figure through the glass window until you turned the corner and disappeared from view. Slowly, he let out a shaky exhale, burying his face entirely in his hands. He rubbed his palms over his eyes, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

​"What the fuck," he whispered into the empty diner booth, his voice laced with a mixture of absolute awe and sheer, unadulterated panic. He was screwed. He was completely, utterly, hopelessly screwed, and he knew there was no turning back.

Five — "Well, fuck"

​The night of the Briar Hockey Fundraiser at Malone’s was a chaotic, high-energy, glittering success. The entire diner had been completely transformed for the evening—the regular tables had been pushed to the far perimeter to create a makeshift dance floor, strings of warm fairy lights hung across the ceiling, and a massive turnout of wealthy alumni, boosters, and students kept the bar utterly slammed.

​You had dressed up significantly for the occasion, wearing a form-fitting, emerald green silk dress that Allie let you borrow from her closet - of course. You spent the first half of the night talking to Hannah near the punch bowl, but your eyes kept unconsciously tracking a certain someone across the room.

Logan was entirely in his element—charming the older donors, laughing easily with his teammates, and looking entirely too edible for your own good.

​Around midnight, the formal event finally dissolved into a proper, rowdy college party. The DJ cranked up a heavy, slow, rhythmic pop song, the bass echoing through the floor, and the dance floor filled up with couples. You were navigating the edge of the sweaty crowd, trying to find Allie when a sudden, firm, yet gentle pull on your wrist guided you backward.

​You spun around on your heels, your chest bumping right into Logan’s broad torso. "You've been actively dodging me all night," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating right against your skin as his large hand settled naturally around yours. The casual, unhesitating intimacy of the gesture sent a fierce, blinding jolt of electricity straight down your spine.

​"I wasn't dodging you, I was letting you do your official host duties," you shot back, a wicked, playful smile spreading across your lips. The alcohol gave you a surge of confidence, and you looped your arms slowly around his neck, stepping closer into his personal space until there was absolutely no air left between you. "Besides, I didn't think you could actually handle me dancing with you."

​Logan’s dark eyes lit up instantly, a dangerous, competitive challenge flaring in his pupils. He pulled you a fraction of an inch closer. "Oh, really? Try me, sweetheart."

​You didn't hesitate. As the heavy beat of the music dropped, you shifted your weight, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, and sinfully against his. You leaned in close, your lips brushing the warm shell of his ear as you whispered, "You're all talk, John Logan. Let's see if you can actually keep up with me."

​You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding down his chest to grip the crisp fabric of his shirt, tugging him rhythmically, tightly against your body. The friction was immediate, heavy, and intoxicating. Logan’s breath hitched audibly in his throat. A dark, intense flush crept up his neck, coloring his sharp cheekbones as his hands settled on your waist, his fingers digging firmly into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress. He swallowed hard, his eyes dropping helplessly to your parted lips, entirely overwhelmed and undone by the sudden confidence of your movements. He could feel exactly how much you were affecting him, his body reacting instantly to the touch of your hips.

A breathless, desperate laugh escaped him. He jerked his head back for a split second, fighting a losing battle for self-control. "Well, fuck," he muttered, his voice raw, completely devoid of its usual composure.

​"Did I break the big, tough hockey player already?" you cooed, tilting your chin up tauntingly, your noses almost touching as you continued to sway against him.

​"You wish," he groaned, his thumbs stroking the bare skin of your lower back where your dress dipped low. He didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled you even tighter against his lower body, matching your sinful rhythm perfectly, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a burning intensity that made it very clear the playful teasing was rapidly turning into something much more dangerous and inevitable. When the night finally forced you apart, it didn't feel like a goodbye — it was a promise.

Six — "Fuck"

Some things are bound to reach a breaking point, and the agonizing tension building between you for months was no exception. Three nights later, Briar won a massive game and the ensuing after-party at the boys' house was pure chaotic madness. The house was packed to maximum capacity, a sweaty, pulsing mass of drunken celebration, loud music, and screaming students.

​But you and Logan weren't paying any attention to the party. For the past two hours, you had been moving around the house like two high-powered magnets — constantly drawing closer, stealing long, heated glances across the crowded rooms, the unspoken, heavy weight of the fundraiser hanging between you.

​Seeking a brief moment of quiet to cool down your flushed skin, you headed down the dark back hallway toward the upstairs bathroom. Just as you reached out for the brass doorknob, the door swung open from the inside.

​Logan stepped out.

You nearly crashed straight into his chest, cutting your breath short as you ground to a halt mere inches from him. The hallway was swallowed by shadows, save for the frantic strobe lights bleeding in from the living room. Logan stared down at you, wide-eyed, his chest rising and falling in sync with the thick, suffocating heat pulsing through the house.

​Neither of you said a single word. The months of toxic banter, the vicious, screaming arguments, the desperate avoidance, and the agonizing teasing all converged into a single, breathless, breaking second.

​Logan reached out with lightning speed, his large hand wrapping around your waist, and shoved you backward into the bathroom, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind you and twisting the lock with a sharp, echoing click.

​Before the sound of the lock could even fade, his mouth crashed onto yours.

​It was an absolute explosion. The kiss was passionate, borderline feral, a violent release of pure, pent-up, crazy frustration. You let out a muffled gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to rip into his dark hair, pulling him down toward you out of sheer desperation. He groaned deep in his throat, a sound of pure hunger, pinning your body flat against the heavy wooden door, his thick thighs crowding tightly between yours. His hands were absolutely everywhere—clutching your face, tracing the line of your throat, gripping your hips with a bruising, desperate force that felt incredibly, entirely right.

​"Logan," you whimpered against his mouth as he tore his lips away to kiss your jawline, your neck - his hands sliding down to frantically bunch up the silk fabric of your dress.

​With a sudden burst of strengh, he hooked his large hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly into the air. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist as he deposited you onto the cold marble edge of the bathroom sink counter. He didn't waste a single second. His hands slid all the way up the bare, warm skin of your thighs, finding the edge of your underwear. His fingers quickly found your slick, burning, over-sensitized core, rubbing against you through the damp fabric with a rhythm that made your head tilt back and earned a large grin from him.

​You arched your back off the counter, a loud sob escaping your lips, your fingers digging deep into his shoulders.

​"You like that?" Logan growled against your neck, his voice dripping with lust. His fingers moved faster, driving you up a steep, agonizing cliff. "Tell me you want it."

​"Logan," you breathed out, "please," you cried out, your head tossing back against the large bathroom mirror. Your hands flew down to his waist, frantically, blindly fumbling with the button of his jeans. You shoved the denim down his hips until his length snapped free—thick, heavy, and pulsing with heat. The moment your fingers wrapped tightly around him, moving in a fast, desperate stroke, Logan’s eyes rolled back.

His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his neck. He couldn't endure the exquisite torture for long, his quiet moans matching your own, before his large hand clamped over yours, freezing your movement. "Stop, stop," he panted, his chest wild, his forehead pressing against yours. "I'm going to come right now if you keep doing that. I need to feel you, right now."

With trembling, frantic hands, he reached into the small drawer next to the sink—Dean’s emergency stash—and ripped open a foil condom wrapper, spitting the plastic away and rolling it onto himself in one fluid, desperate motion.

Then he stepped back between your open thighs. His hands gripped your hips with an iron hold, dragging you to the very edge of the marble counter. He aligned himself against you, waiting just long enough for your frantic nod of approval. With one heavy, unyielding, possessive thrust, he buried himself completely inside you.

The sheer, overwhelming pleasure of that sudden fullness hit you both at once, fracturing the quiet of the bathroom with a sharp, mutual gasp. Instead of slowing down, the friction only stoked the fire, drawing a long, ragged, shattered exhale from deep in Logan's chest. His pupils were completely dilated, dark and wild with pure lust as his forehead dropped heavily against your shoulder.

"Fuck," he groaned into the crook of your neck, his voice a raw, visceral prayer vibrating against your collarbone.

His hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like an anchor as he immediately established a rhythm. The restraint dissolved into pure instinct. He pulled you flush against him, his thrusts becoming powerful, deep, and utterly relentless from the very start. Every heavy drive forced a breathless cry from your lips, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. You rocked together on the cold edge of the marble sink, your bodies generating a feverish heat that defied the chilly stone beneath you.

The bass from the after-party still thudded through the floorboards, a distant, muffled reminder of the chaotic world outside, but within the locked walls of the bathroom, that world was entirely forgotten. There was only the slick, friction-heavy slide of skin against skin, the frantic tangle of your fingers in his hair, and the hot, primal rhythm consuming you both.

The friction was dizzying, driving you both toward a precipice that neither of you could fight anymore. Logan’s pace turned frantic, his breath coming in harsh, ragged stabs against your ear as his hips slammed against yours with an undoing, desperate urgency. Every stroke sent a white-hot wave of pleasure straight to your core, tightening the coil inside you until it was agonizing.

You choked out a breathless, broken sound, your hands clamping onto his biceps as your head thrashed back against the mirror once more.

He didn't need words to know you were right there. He buried his face in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he delivered three more devastatingly deep, relentless thrusts.

That was the final breaking point. Your walls clamped down around him tight and pulsing, fracturing your breath into a loud, ruined cry as your entire body shattered into a blinding, head-to-toe release.

Hearing you break completely ruined him. Logan let out a guttural, unhinged groan that vibrated deep in his chest. His jaw locked, his body rigid and trembling as he gave one last, deeply possessive shove, throwing his weight into you as he came violently inside the condom. He held himself deep within you, his hips shuddering against yours as he rode out the waves of his own release, the two of you panting heavily in the quiet aftermath, entirely spent.

Seven — "Fuck it"

Roughly thirty minutes later, the two of you finally emerged from the bathroom. You had tried your absolute best to fix your chaotic appearance in the mirror—re-applying a bit of smudge-proof lip gloss, smoothing down the wrinkled fabric of your dress, and trying to tame your wildly tangled hair with your fingers—but the physical evidence of what had just occurred was written all over your faces. Your skin was flushed a deep unmistakable pink, your lips were incredibly swollen and red, and Logan was walking with a loose, stupidly contented, proud stride, his hair completely disheveled and sticking up in directions where your fingers had repeatedly torn through it.

​The exact moment you stepped back onto the floor of the crowded living room, a loud, piercing whistle cut through the air.

Dean was leaning against the back of the sofa, a beer dangling from his fingers and a knowing smirk plastered across his face. His eyes darted from you to Logan, zeroing in instantly on the faint trace of your lip gloss smeared along Logan’s jawline.

​"Well, well, well," he said, loud enough to be heard over the music. "Must have been a pretty intense plumbing emergency in there. Either that, or you two just went ten rounds with a blender. You might want to wipe your face, Logan."

Your cheeks instantly burned. You took a step back. "Dean, shut up, we were just—"

But Logan didn't let you finish the lie. He looked down at you, catching the slight panic in your eyes, and then looked over at Dean, who was practically vibrating with smug satisfaction.

Instead of getting defensive, Logan just let out a short, quiet laugh. The stubbornness, the secrecy, the remnants of your old feud—it all suddenly felt completely irrelevant. He was tired of hiding it.

"You know what? Fuck it," Logan muttered.

Before you could process the words, his hand slid around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your jaw as he pulled you flush against his chest. Right there by the sofa, he leaned down and kissed you.

Dean threw his arms up in a dramatic, sweeping gesture. "About damn fucking time! Graham, you owe me twenty bucks!"

When Logan finally pulled back, his eyes were bright, a relaxed, genuinely happy smile playing on his lips as his thumb brushed your cheek. You looked up at him, the noise of the party fading into the background, finally realizing that the long, argumentative journey of seven dirty words had brought you exactly where you were supposed to be.

just posted a new John Logan fic <3

The whole house goes a shade quieter and I become very aware of the distance between this couch and that bathroom. The specific number of steps. The door. The fact that in approximately two minutes John Logan is going to come out of that bathroom and we are going to have to look at each other in daylight for the first time since—

I sit up.

The blanket falls off my shoulders.

I sit there on the edge of the couch in yesterday's clothes, hair a mess, heart doing something medically questionable, and I stare at the hallway.

I can hear him moving. Quiet sounds — a drawer, maybe. The soft sound of a towel. Normal sounds. Morning sounds.

I should stay here.

I should stay exactly here and wait for him to come out and let whatever happens happen naturally and not make it weird and not overthink it and—

I stand up.

I don't make a decision exactly. My body just — stands. The way it had moved across the couch last night. Before my brain caught up. Before I could talk myself out of it.

I'm halfway down the hall before I've finished the thought.

The bathroom door isn't fully closed.

I notice that first. A sliver of warm air spilling out into the cool hallway, carrying steam, carrying the smell of soap and something warmer underneath it. The light inside is soft — the little frosted window above the shower letting in that flat grey storm-light, the kind that makes everything look like a photograph.

I raise my hand to knock.

I don't knock.

I just — stand there. Hand lifted. Knuckles an inch from the wood. And through the gap I can see the mirror, still fogged at the edges, and the edge of the sink, and—

And him.

Logan is standing at the sink with a towel wrapped low around his waist.

That's it. That's all. Just that. And I forget, momentarily, how to be a person.

He's not doing anything remarkable. He's just standing there, one hand braced on the edge of the sink, head slightly bowed, like he was looking at something or thinking about something or just existing in the particular quiet way he has — that stillness he carries, the one that always made me think he was somewhere slightly deeper than wherever everyone else was.

His back is to me.

I should announce myself. I know I should announce myself. I know that standing in a hallway looking at a person through a gap in a door they think is closed is not — that's not a normal thing to do. I know that.

I can't move.

Because his back is —

I didn't know. That's the thing. I didn't know what was under the hoodie and the worn t-shirts and the flannel. I mean, I knew, abstractly, the way you know things about people you've been determinedly not-thinking-about — hockey player, works out, obviously — but abstract knowing and this are two very different things.

His shoulders are broad. Not in a performative way, not in the way that announces itself — just quietly, solidly broad, the kind that comes from years of actual work. Warm tan skin. There's a faint scar on his left shoulder blade, small, silvery. His spine is a straight line down the center of his back, the muscles bracketing it shifting slightly as he adjusts his grip on the sink. The towel sits low on his hips. Dangerously low. Tied in that casual way that suggests he didn't think about it, that this is just what he does, that he has no idea—

He has no idea I'm standing here.

His hair is dark and full, loose waves that curl slightly at the nape of his neck where it's still slightly damp.

That's what gets me, somehow. Out of everything — the shoulders, the towel, the steam, the soap smell, the scar — it's the hair. The way it sits when it's dried without thinking about it. The way I've never actually seen it because I've been so careful, so deliberate about not being in morning spaces with him.

My chest does something I don't have a word for.

Something slow and aching and completely beyond my control.

He shifts his weight. Reaches for something on the counter — his watch, I think, or his phone. And in reaching, he turns slightly, just enough that the line of his jaw comes into view. The shadow under it. The sharp cut of his cheekbone catching the grey morning light. The stubble there, darker in the morning.

I press my palm flat against the doorframe.

Breathe.

I think about stepping back. Going back to the couch. Pretending I was never here. I think about it seriously, concretely, as a real option — I could do that. I could turn around right now and he would never know and we could do the rest of this day safely, at a distance, and I could keep my hands to myself and my heart at a manageable volume and—

He looks up.

Into the mirror.

And finds me.

He doesn't startle.

That's the first thing I notice — he doesn't flinch, doesn't spin around, doesn't do any of the things a person does when they realize someone is watching them. He just — stills. Goes that particular kind of quiet that is different from his regular quiet. Deeper. Like something in him that was moving has stopped.

His eyes find mine in the mirror.

And stay there.

The steam is still curling at the edges of the glass, the fog not quite cleared, and his reflection is soft at the margins — but his eyes aren't. His eyes are very clear. Very present. That dark, steady brown that I have been carefully, methodically avoiding for three weeks and am now, apparently, staring directly into via a fogged bathroom mirror at nine in the morning.

Neither of us says anything.

The storm fills the silence. Wind against the frosted window. Snow against the glass.

I should say something. I'm aware that I should say something — something normal, something casual, something that explains why I'm standing in the hallway looking at him through a gap in the door like a person with no self-control whatsoever. I have several options. I could say sorry, I was just going to knock. I could say I didn't realize you were still in here. I could say literally anything.

I don't say anything.

Neither does he.

He's just looking at me.

In the mirror, I can see my own face — hair from sleeping, yesterday's clothes, cheek still creased faintly from the couch cushion. I look exactly like someone who just woke up and walked down a hallway without thinking it through. I look exactly like what I am.

His jaw moves. Just slightly. Like he started to say something and decided against it.

His eyes drop.

Just for a second. Just a fraction of a second — down and back up, the way you can't help, the way your eyes do the thing your brain tells them not to. And when they come back to mine in the mirror there's something in them that wasn't there before. Something that makes my throat go dry.

He turns around.

Slowly.

Not fast, not sharp — just turns, unhurried, the way he does everything. The towel shifts with the movement, sitting even lower on his hips, and I am extremely aware of the specific geometry of his stomach, the faint definition of muscle, the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the white terry cloth, and I am also extremely aware that I am staring and that he can see me staring and that I cannot stop.

He leans back against the sink.

Crosses his arms loosely over his chest.

Looks at me.

Just — looks at me. Like he has all the time in the world. Like the storm outside has given him that, the unhurried patience of a man who isn't going anywhere and knows it. A drop of water tracks slowly from his hairline down his temple. He doesn't wipe it away.

"Hey," he says.

His voice is morning-rough. Low and quiet and slightly wrecked in the way voices are before they've fully warmed up, and it does something to me that I feel in my sternum.

"Hey," I say back.

It comes out smaller than I intended.

The corner of his mouth moves.

Not a full smile. Not even close to a full smile. Just that — the corner. The faint curve of it. The crooked thing that he does when he's trying not to do it, when he's keeping it contained, when he thinks if he lets it out fully it'll say too much.

It says too much anyway.

"You gonna come in?" he asks. Quiet. Like it's a simple question. Like it isn't the most loaded simple question anyone has ever asked me.

I look at him.

At the mirror behind him, still fogged at the edges.

At the drop of water on his temple.

At the towel.

At his eyes.

"Yeah," I say.

And I push the door open.

The bathroom is warm.

That's the first thing — the warmth of it, the contrast with the cool hallway at my back. The steam has mostly settled but it's still there, soft in the air, and it smells like him. His soap. Something clean and warm with something underneath it, something that isn't product, just — him. The smell I'd noticed in a Halloween hallway three weeks ago and had spent three weeks trying to forget.

I step inside.

He doesn't move.

He's still leaning against the sink with his arms loosely crossed and he's watching me cross the small distance between the door and where he's standing and he's not moving an inch, not coming to meet me, not making it easier. Just watching. Patient. Like he did last night on the couch when he'd said tell me to and waited, like he's always done this, like he knows something about me that I'm only just figuring out —

That I move when I'm ready.

That he just has to wait.

The floor is cool under my feet. The frosted window throws soft grey light across the tiles, across the edge of the sink, across his bare shoulder. Another drop of water tracks down from his hairline, past his temple, down the side of his jaw. I watch it.

I stop in front of him.

Close enough that I have to look up slightly to find his face.

He looks down at me.

Doesn't say anything.

Doesn't reach for me.

Just looks, the way he does — that particular quality of attention he has, the kind that makes you feel like the only thing in the room, like he's been paying attention to you for longer than you realized, cataloguing things quietly, storing them away. I think about the car he fixed freshman year. I think about Hannah waiting tables at Malone's for years before Garrett knew her name. I think about the way he'd noticed the grilled cheese was my favorite without me telling him, the way he'd tucked the blanket around me while I slept.

He notices things.

He noticed me.

My hand comes up before I decide to move it.

My fingers find the curl stuck to the side of his neck and I peel it away gently, slow, and smooth it back into the damp hair at his temple. My fingertips graze his jaw on the way back down.

He exhales.

It's barely audible. Just a slow breath out through his nose, controlled, like he's been holding something and just let a fraction of it go. His arms uncross. His hands find my waist — both of them, warm and certain, settling there like they already know the shape of me, like last night taught them something they haven't forgotten.

He still doesn't pull me closer.

Just holds.

Looks down at me with those dark quiet eyes and holds me at arm's length like he's giving me one more chance to think about this. Like he's being careful. Like he knows what it cost me to walk down that hallway and push open that door and cross the room to him and he doesn't want to rush the rest of it.

"Hi," he says again.

Softer this time.

"Hi," I say back.

"You sleep okay?"

"Yeah." My voice is still small. I don't know how to make it bigger right now. "You?"

"Yeah."

A beat.

His thumbs move. Slow circles against my waist, through the fabric of my shirt, barely-there pressure. I don't think he knows he's doing it.

"The storm's still going," I say.

"I know."

"Roads are still closed."

"I know."

"Hannah texted."

Something shifts in his expression. Barely — just a flicker at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah?"

"She wanted to know if I was okay."

"Are you?"

I look at him.

At the drop of water that has reached his jaw now, hanging there at the edge of it. At the scar on his shoulder that I can see from here, small and silver, that I want to know the story of.

"Ask me something easier," I say.

The corner of his mouth does the thing.

The almost-smile.

His hands tighten slightly on my waist — not pulling, just tightening. Just a fraction. Just enough that I feel it through the fabric, just enough that my breath catches on it, and he sees my breath catch, he notices, of course he notices.

He leans down.

Slowly.

His forehead drops to mine.

We just — stand there. Foreheads touching, the steam settling around us, the storm against the window, his hands warm on my waist and my fingers resting light against his chest now, against his bare skin, and I can feel his heartbeat under my palm.

It's fast.

He's as undone as I am.

He's just quieter about it.

"Y/N," he murmurs.

"Yeah."

"I'm gonna kiss you now."

"Okay."

"Just — wanted to say it this time."

Something cracks open in my chest.

Something wide and warm and terrifying.

"Logan," I whisper.

"Yeah."

"Kiss me."

He does.

He kisses me like he has nowhere else to be.

That's the only way I know how to describe it. Like the storm cleared his calendar. Like he looked at the next twelve hours and decided every single one of them could go here, could go to this, to me, and he has no complaints about that. No urgency. No rush.

Just this.

His mouth is soft at first. The way it was last night — that same careful softness, like he's still giving me room, still leaving the door open. His hands slide from my waist to the small of my back and he draws me in, slowly, closing the distance between us inch by inch until there's no space left, until I can feel the warmth of his chest against me and the damp of his skin through my shirt and the low, solid steadiness of him.

I exhale into the kiss.

He makes a sound. Low. Barely there. Like my exhale did something to him, like the feel of me going soft against him did something he didn't have a word for either.

His hand comes up.

Slow — deliberately slow, telegraphed, giving me every chance to see it coming — and cups the back of my head. His fingers thread through my hair, gentle, unhurried, like he's memorizing the texture of it. Like he has time to memorize it. Like he's going to.

He tilts my head back just slightly.

And deepens the kiss.

Not fast. Not desperate the way last night got desperate. This is something different — something more patient, more deliberate, like last night was the dam breaking and this is what comes after. The steady current underneath. The thing that was always there.

I grip his arms.

My fingers find the muscle of his forearms and hold on and I feel him register it — the slight flex, the breath through his nose, the way his hand tightens fractionally in my hair. Not rough. Just — present. Just I feel you.

He kisses me like he's been thinking about how to do it right.

Like he ran through it in his head and decided slow was the answer. Like he knows something about me that I'm still figuring out — that I needed this, specifically this, the unhurried version, the one that isn't running from anything or toward anything, the one that just is.

His mouth moves to my jaw.

Soft. Open. Warm.

He takes his time there. His lips trace the line of my jaw to the hinge of it, patient, and I feel my head tip back further on its own, feel my eyes close, feel my fingers tighten on his arms.

"Logan—"

"I know," he murmurs against my skin.

His lips find my neck.

And that's where he stays.

Like he knows. Like he figured something out about me last night and filed it away quietly the way he files everything away — the car, the blanket, the grilled cheese, all of it catalogued, all of it remembered. His mouth is warm and unhurried against my throat and his hands are moving now, slow and certain, mapping me like he has all morning, like the storm gave him all morning and he intends to use every minute of it.

"You're—" I start.

"Mm."

"You're doing this on purpose."

I can feel him smile against my neck.

Not the crooked almost-smile. The real one — I can feel the shape of it against my skin and it does something catastrophic to my knees.

"Yeah," he murmurs. Low. Warm. "I am."

His hands slide under the hem of my shirt.

Palms flat against my skin, warm, warmer than the steam in the air, warmer than the grey morning light. He spreads his fingers wide like he wants as much contact as possible and draws them slowly up my sides and I—

I make a sound.

Not a gasp. Just — a sound. Low and involuntary and slightly embarrassing and I feel him register it the way he registers everything. Quietly. His hands still for just a fraction of a second and then his thumbs press a little harder against my ribs and I think oh he's absolutely doing that on purpose.

His palms are rough.

Not painfully rough — just textured, real, the kind of hands that have actually done things. Hockey and weights and fixing cars in parking lots at two in the morning. And there's something about that specific roughness against my bare skin that I wasn't prepared for. Something that makes the contact feel more real than I was ready for it to feel.

I reach for his shoulders without deciding to.

My fingers find the muscle of them and grip and I can feel the tension there — the particular held-back quality of him, the way his whole body is doing the thing his face sometimes does. Containing something. Keeping it at a controlled simmer.

He's warm. Genuinely, almost unreasonably warm. Warmer than the steam still soft in the air. I've been thinking about what John Logan feels like for three weeks straight and apparently I was wrong about this specific detail.

"Hey," he says quietly.

I look up. I have to tilt my head back to find his face — he's tall enough that even on the sink I'm looking up at him — and when I find it his jaw is tight and his eyes have gone very dark and he's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the room. Like I'm the only thing that's ever been in any room.

"Still here?" he murmurs.

"Still here."

"Good."

His hands slide higher.

And I stop thinking in complete sentences. Just fragments. Just — his hands and I've been avoiding this man for three weeks and now his hands are under my shirt and I literally cannot think in a straight line and this is insane and don't stop.

He reaches the edge of my bra and pauses there, looking at me, waiting.

"Yes," I say before he can ask.

His mouth curves. That real smile again.

"You don't know what I was gonna ask," he murmurs.

"I don't care. Whatever it is, yes."

Something shifts in his expression. Something heated and certain and I feel it land in my body before I understand what it means.

He reaches for the hem of my shirt.

His fingers curl into the fabric and he pauses there, giving me one more chance to change my mind, one more moment to think about this.

I lift my arms.

He draws the shirt up slowly. So slowly. Like he's unwrapping something he's been thinking about for a while. The fabric slides up my ribs, over my breasts, over my shoulders, and then it's gone and I'm sitting on the edge of the sink in just my bra and jeans and the cold air hits my skin and I shiver and think oh god I should have worn the good bra and then immediately are you seriously thinking about your bra right now what is wrong with you—

"Hey," he says quietly.

I look up.

He's watching my face. Not my body. My face.

"Stay with me," he says.

And it's such a Logan thing to say — practical, steady, bringing me back — that something in me settles.

"I'm here," I whisper.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "You are."

He steps closer.

His hands find my waist again and this time there's no fabric between his palms and my skin. Just warmth. Just contact. Just the particular way he spreads his fingers wide like he wants to touch as much of me as possible, and the roughness of his hands against my bare skin makes something in my chest crack open.

I reach for the towel.

I've been aware of it since I walked into this bathroom. The white terry cloth knotted at his hip. The way it sits low on his waist, the line of dark hair disappearing beneath it. I've been trying not to look at it directly. Trying not to think about what's underneath.

I'm done trying not to think about it.

My fingers find the edge where it's tucked against his hip.

The fabric is still slightly damp, warm from his skin. I can feel the knot — simple, practical, the kind of knot you tie without thinking when you're just getting out of the shower. My fingers work at it slowly, finding the end, pulling gently.

Logan goes completely still.

I feel it happen. The way his breathing changes. The way every muscle in his body seems to tighten and hold.

I look up at him.

He's watching my hands.

Not my face. My hands. Watching what I'm doing with an intensity that makes my own breathing stutter. His jaw is tight. His eyes are dark. There's something in his expression I've never seen before — something raw and unguarded and entirely focused on this moment.

The knot comes loose.

I pull the end free and the towel loosens but doesn't fall yet. It's still caught on his hips, held there by friction and nothing else.

I pause.

My hand is still holding the fabric. His eyes are still on my hands. Neither of us is breathing normally.

And then I let go.

The towel falls.

It puddles on the floor between us and I don't look right away. I keep my eyes on his face for one more second, giving myself one more moment before I see him, before this becomes real in a way I can't take back.

His expression doesn't change. He doesn't look away. Doesn't move to cover himself. Doesn't make a joke or deflect or do anything to make this easier.

He just waits.

Patient. Certain. Like he knows exactly what he's doing to me and he's willing to let me take my time with it.

I look down.

And—

He's beautiful.

That's the first thought. Not clinical. Not analytical. Just — beautiful in a way that makes my chest hurt.

The grey morning light catches the lines of his body. His shoulders are broad and defined, the muscle there earned from years of hockey. Warm tan skin. His chest is lean and solid, scattered with dark hair that trails down his stomach. His abdomen is cut with definition — not the exaggerated kind, just the real kind that comes from being an athlete. His hips are narrow, the V-line there sharp and pronounced, drawing my eyes down to—

To him.

He's hard. Fully hard. And I can see exactly how much he wants this, how much he's been wanting this, maybe since last night, maybe since three weeks ago in Hannah's hallway, maybe longer than that.

He's bigger than I expected. Thicker. The kind of size that makes something low in my stomach clench with want and nervousness at the same time.

There's a small silvery scar on his left shoulder blade, visible now from this angle. I want to know the story. I want to touch it. I want to kiss it.

I can't breathe.

My hands are shaking slightly and I press them against my thighs to steady them and I think I've been thinking about this for three weeks and you have no idea what you do to me and oh god what if I'm not—

"Hey."

His voice is quiet. Rough.

I look up.

He's still watching me. Still not looking away. Still letting me look at him like this is something he's giving me, like my eyes on his body is something he wants.

"You okay?" he asks.

And there's genuine concern in his voice. Genuine care. Like even now, even standing naked in front of me, he's more worried about whether I'm okay than anything else.

"Yeah," I whisper. "You're just—" I don't finish. I don't know how to finish that sentence. You're just perfect sounds ridiculous. You're just exactly what I've been thinking about sounds desperate.

"Come here," he says quietly.

I reach for him instead.

My hands find his chest. The warmth of his skin. The solid reality of him. I slide my palms up slowly, feeling the muscle there, the way his breathing changes under my touch. My fingers trace the line of his collarbone, his shoulders, and then around to his back where I find that scar.

I lean forward and press my lips to it.

He makes a sound.

Low. Rough. Like that did something to him he wasn't expecting.

His hands find my face and he tilts my head up and kisses me. Deeply. Desperately. His tongue slides against mine and I open for him and his hands are in my hair and mine are on his bare chest and we're pressed together now, skin to skin, warmth to warmth.

His hands slide down.

To my waist.

To the button of my jeans.

"Tell me if you need me to stop," he says quietly against my mouth.

"Don't stop," I breathe.

He undoes the button. The zipper. His fingers hook into the waistband and I lift my hips and he slides them down slowly, taking his time, his eyes never leaving mine. The denim catches on my thighs and he works it down carefully until they're pooled on the floor and I'm sitting on the edge of the sink in just my underwear and bra.

The porcelain is cold against the backs of my thighs.

The contrast between that cold and the warmth of him standing between my legs is stark and grounding and real and I think this is happening and I want this and I've wanted this since the moment he almost kissed me in Hannah's hallway.

He steps back.

Just for a moment.

Just to look.

I watch his eyes track over me — the grey morning light on my skin, the particular way I'm breathing, the flush across my chest. His jaw is tight. His hands flex at his sides like he's restraining himself.

"You're beautiful," he says.

The words land like something solid. Not performative. Not trying to charm me. Just — stated. Like a fact.

"Logan," I whisper.

He steps between my legs again.

His hands find my thighs. Slide up slowly. His palms are rough against my skin and I can feel every callus, every place his hands have been worn down by hockey sticks and weights and years of work. The roughness of it makes me shiver.

"You cold?" he murmurs.

"No."

"You're shaking."

"I know."

His hands slide higher. To my hips. His thumbs trace the edge of my underwear and he pauses there, looking at me, waiting.

"Yes," I breathe.

He reaches behind me. His fingers find the clasp of my bra and he undoes it slowly, deliberately, and draws the straps down my arms. The fabric falls away and then I'm bare to him from the waist up and the grey morning light is soft on my skin and his eyes are so dark they're almost black.

"Y/N," he says quietly.

It's just my name. But the way he says it — like a prayer, like a promise — makes my chest ache.

I reach for him. Pull him closer. His mouth finds mine and we kiss deeply, desperately, and his hands are on my bare skin now, sliding up my sides, cupping my breasts, thumbs circling, and I make a sound into his mouth and he swallows it.

"Your hands," I breathe against his mouth.

"Yeah?"

"I didn't know it could feel like this."

Something in his expression shifts. Softens. He kisses me again, slower this time, like he's memorizing the shape of my mouth.

His mouth moves to my jaw. My neck. Lower. His lips trace my collarbone and I tip my head back and my fingers tighten in his hair and I feel him smile again against my skin. He's learning me. Every sound I make. Every place that makes me react. Filing it all away.

His mouth moves lower still. To my breast. His tongue circles and I stop breathing and my fingers grip his shoulders and he does it again, slower this time, more deliberate, because he noticed what it did to me.

"God," I breathe. "That — right there."

"Yeah," he murmurs against my skin. "I've got you."

His hand slides between my legs. Over the fabric of my underwear. Pressing gently.

I make a sound I've never made before.

He pulls back just enough to look at my face, watching my reaction, and his fingers press again, circling slowly, and my hips lift on their own.

"That's it," he murmurs.

His fingers move with more purpose now. Circling. Pressing. Finding the rhythm that makes my breathing stutter and I think I've been avoiding this man for three weeks and this is insane and I never want this to stop.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

"Yes," I breathe. "God, yes."

He hooks his fingers into my underwear and draws them down slowly, and then there's nothing between us anymore. Nothing but skin and want and three weeks of waiting.

He touches me. Gentle. Careful. Learning.

And I exhale slowly and my head falls back against the mirror and my fingers grip his shoulders and he watches my face the entire time, cataloguing every reaction, every sound.

"Logan," I breathe.

"I'm here."

His fingers slide lower. Inside. And the sensation is overwhelming and perfect and I think this is what I've been wanting and don't stop at the same time.

"I need you," I say quietly. The words come out before I can stop them. Honest. Vulnerable. Slightly embarrassing.

He leans down. His forehead touches mine.

"You have me," he whispers.

"No, I mean—"

"I know what you mean."

His hand leaves me and I hear him moving, the rustle of fabric somewhere, a drawer opening, the tear of a wrapper, and then he's back, pressing close.

And I feel him.

Not against me yet. Just — there. Close. The heat of him radiating even though we're not touching.

He steps between my legs again and his hands find my hips and he pulls me closer to the edge of the sink and—

And then I feel him against my inner thigh.

The heat of him. The weight. He's pressed there, not deliberately, just — there. Because of how close we are. Because of where I'm sitting. Because of the angle.

And I become very aware of him.

The specific warmth of him against my skin. The solidness. The reality of what's about to happen settling into my body in a way that makes my breathing change.

I can feel him. Not inside me. Not yet. Just — there. Against my thigh. Hard and warm and real.

My brain goes quiet. Just — oh and that's him and I want—

I think about reaching for him. The thought forms slowly, deliberately. Not impulsive. Not panicked. Just — a decision forming in real time.

I could reach down. I could touch him. I could wrap my hand around him and feel the weight of him, the heat, the reality of him.

I want to.

The wanting is so sharp it's almost painful.

I look up at him.

He's watching my face. His jaw is tight. His eyes are dark. He's not moving. Not pushing. Just — waiting. Letting me decide.

And I decide.

I reach down. Slowly. Deliberately.

My hand slides between us and I feel the heat of him before I touch him, the warmth radiating, and then my fingers find him and—

He's so warm. Warmer than I expected. Solid and thick and the skin is softer than I thought it would be, stretched tight over the hardness beneath.

I wrap my hand around him.

He makes a sound. Low. Rough. His forehead drops to my shoulder and his breathing goes ragged and his hands tighten on my hips.

"Y/N," he breathes. "You don't have to—"

"I want to," I whisper.

I stroke him once. Slowly. Learning the weight of him, the heat, the way he feels in my hand. And I think I'm doing this to him and I have no idea what I'm doing and I don't want to stop.

"You're gonna kill me," he mutters against my skin.

"Good," I whisper.

I stroke him again and his hips jerk forward slightly and I feel the tension in every line of his body — the particular way he's holding himself back, keeping control by a thread.

"Logan," I say quietly. "I need—"

"Yeah," he breathes. "Me too."

He takes himself from my hand gently. Positions himself.

And then I feel him there.

Not inside yet. Just — there. Pressing against my entrance. The head of him hot and blunt and right where I want him.

The sensation is overwhelming before anything even happens. Just the pressure of him there. The heat. The specific feeling of him positioned right at the edge of me, my body already responding, already trying to accommodate him even though he hasn't moved yet.

I can feel how big he is. How warm. The weight of him. The reality of what's about to happen settling into my body in a way that makes my breathing stutter.

His hips shift slightly. More pressure. Not pushing in. Just — there. Letting me feel him. Letting my body adjust to even just this contact.

My hands find his shoulders and grip hard.

He's breathing roughly now too. I can hear it. Feel it. The particular raggedness that means he's working hard to keep control, to keep this slow.

"Look at me," he says quietly.

I open my eyes.

His face is right there. So close. His dark eyes almost black and entirely focused on me. The stubble on his jaw catching the grey morning light.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yes."

"You sure?"

"Yes," I breathe. "Please—"

"I've got you," he murmurs.

And then he pushes inside.

Slow. So slow.

The first inch is — it's everything. The stretch immediate and intense and I make a sound and my fingers dig into his shoulders. He's bigger than I expected, thicker, and the sensation of him pushing into me is overwhelming in the best way.

He pauses. Just that first inch inside. Giving me time to adjust. To breathe. To feel it.

"You okay?" he asks. His voice is strained.

"Yes. Don't stop."

He pushes deeper. Another inch. Then another. Slowly. So slowly. Like he's memorizing exactly how this feels. Like he wants to feel every moment of this, every inch of the way my body opens for him.

My breathing is coming in short bursts now. Every inch he pushes deeper I feel it everywhere — the stretch, the fullness, the particular way my body is accommodating him, wanting him, pulling him in.

"Logan," I breathe. His name comes out broken.

"Almost there," he murmurs. "Stay with me."

One more slow push.

And then he's fully inside. All the way. Every inch of him buried in me, his hips pressed flush against my inner thighs, his body against mine, no space left between us.

He goes completely still.

We both do.

Just breathing. Just feeling this.

The specific sensation of him fully inside me for the first time — the depth of it, the fullness, the weight of him against me and inside me and everywhere. The reality of this moment settling into both of our bodies at once.

I can feel everything. The way my body is stretched around him. The heat of him. The particular fullness that's almost too much and exactly right at the same time. The way his hips are pressed against me. The way his chest is rising and falling rapidly against mine. The way his hands are gripping my hips like he's afraid to let go.

"Oh my god," I breathe.

"Yeah," he says roughly. His forehead drops to my shoulder. "Yeah."

We stay like that. Just breathing together. His face buried in my neck. My hands in his hair. Both of us processing the gravity of this — the realness of it, the way it feels, the fact that this is actually happening.

I become aware of small things. The cold porcelain still under my thighs. His heartbeat against my chest — fast, hard, gradually slowing. The particular way my body feels right now — full, stretched, changed somehow.

He's still inside me. I don't want him to move. Not yet. Just — stay.

"You okay?" he asks quietly against my skin.

"Yeah," I whisper. "You?"

"Yeah." He lifts his head to look at me. His eyes are dark and soft and entirely focused on my face. "You feel—" He doesn't finish. Just shakes his head slightly like he doesn't have words for it either.

"Yeah," I whisper. "You too."

He kisses me. Soft. Gentle. Like we have all the time in the world now.

And then he moves.

Slow at first. Pulling out almost all the way and then pushing back in with that same unhurried patience. Like he has all morning. Like the storm gave him all morning and he intends to use every minute of it.

The sensation is overwhelming. Every time he pulls out I feel the loss of him. Every time he pushes back in I feel the fullness, the stretch, the particular way my body responds to him.

I wrap my arms around his neck. Pull him closer.

He groans and his pace increases slightly, still controlled but with more purpose now, more need. His mouth finds mine and we kiss messily, desperately, breathing into each other as he moves.

"God," I breathe against his mouth. "Logan—"

"Yeah. I know."

The rhythm builds slowly — not rushed, but steady, deliberate. His hands grip my hips and I can feel the roughness of his palms against my bare skin, the way his fingers dig in slightly when he thrusts deeper.

The storm is still going outside the frosted window. The grey morning light is still soft in the steam. The porcelain is still cold against my thighs.

But all I can feel is him.

"Y/N," he breathes against my mouth.

"Yeah."

"You feel so good."

"So do you," I breathe. "Don't stop—"

He kisses me harder and moves deeper and I make a sound into his mouth and my fingers tighten in his hair. I can feel the roughness of his jaw against my neck when he buries his face there, the stubble scraping gently against my collarbone, my shoulder.

His breathing is getting rougher now. Less controlled. I can hear the way it catches, the way he makes small sounds against my skin that I feel as much as hear. When I clench around him, his rhythm falters — just for a second — and a rough involuntary sound gets torn from him against my collarbone, something he couldn't stop, and his grip on my hips tightens hard enough that I know I'll have marks.

His hand slides between us. Finds where we're joined. Touches me there while he moves and the dual sensation makes my vision white out.

"Logan," I gasp. "I'm—"

"Yeah," he murmurs. His voice is rough. Strained. "I can feel it. Let go."

"I can't—"

"Yes you can. Let go. I've got you."

And hearing him say it — practical, steady, certain — is what does it.

His fingers press harder. His hips angle differently.

And I shatter.

The orgasm hits me and I cry out his name — desperate, undone, completely different from every other time I've said it — and my body clenches around him and he groans and his movements become less controlled, more desperate, chasing his own release. I can feel him everywhere — the weight of him above me, around me, inside me, the way his muscles shift and move under my hands as he thrusts deeper, harder.

"Y/N," he gasps. "I'm—"

"Yes," I breathe. "Please—"

He thrusts deep one more time and goes still and I feel him pulse inside me and his face buries in my neck and he makes a sound I've never heard him make before — raw and vulnerable and entirely mine.

We stay like that.

Breathing hard.

Tangled together.

His arms wrapped around me. Mine around him. The cold porcelain under my thighs and the warmth of him against me and inside me and everywhere.

And then—

Nothing.

Just breathing.

Just existing.

Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks.

The storm is still raging outside. I can hear it distantly — the wind against the frosted window, the particular howl that means not done yet. The grey morning light is still soft through the steam. The bathroom is still warm.

But all I can feel is him.

His weight against me. His chest rising and falling rapidly against mine. His face still buried in my neck. His arms still wrapped around me. His body still inside mine.

I become aware of things slowly. One at a time.

The cold porcelain under my thighs. Still there. Still grounding.

His heartbeat. I can feel it against my chest. Fast. Hard. Gradually slowing.

The particular way my body feels right now. Overwhelmed. Satisfied. Changed somehow. Like something fundamental shifted and I can't quite name what it is yet.

He's still inside me. I don't want him to move. Not yet. The thought forms slowly, quietly. Not yet. Just — stay.

His breathing is slowing. I can feel it. The way his chest expands and contracts against mine. The way the raggedness is smoothing out into something steadier.

I think this is real and the thought doesn't finish. Just — this is real and then nothing after it. Like my brain can't process what comes next. Like the sentence is too big to complete.

His arms tighten around me slightly. Not dramatically. Just — a small shift. A small increase in pressure. Like he's checking that I'm still here. Like he needs to feel me solid against him.

I tighten my arms around him in response. I'm here. I'm here.

The storm howls. The grey light stays soft. We stay tangled together.

And then, quietly, against my neck:

"Hi."

His voice is rough. Soft. Wrecked in the best way.

Something in my chest cracks open.

"Hi," I whisper back.

He lifts his head slowly. Looks at me. His eyes are softer now. Warmer. Still dark but with something tender in them that makes my throat tight.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

And I know he's not just asking about my body. He's asking about all of it. About this. About us. About whether I'm okay with what just happened, with what it means, with the fact that we can't take it back now.

"Yeah," I whisper. "You?"

"Yeah."

A beat.

His hand comes up. Cups my face. His thumb traces my cheekbone gently and I lean into the touch without meaning to.

"That was—" he starts.

"I know," I whisper.

He smiles. That real smile. The one that makes the corner of his eyes crinkle slightly.

And then he kisses me. Soft. Sweet. Like we have all the time in the world now.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.

We stay like that. Just breathing together. The storm still raging outside. The grey light still soft. The certainty between us settling into something solid and real.

Eventually, slowly, carefully, he pulls back. The whimper that escapes me is involuntary — desperate, barely audible — and he goes completely still, his hands gripping my waist hard enough that I feel the possessiveness in it, like he's fighting the urge to pull me back in. He helps me down from the sink. Steadies me when my legs shake. His hands are gentle on my waist now, holding me until I find my balance.

We stand there for a moment. Just breathing together. His hands on my waist. Mine on his chest. The storm outside. The grey light. The certainty between us.

He kisses my forehead. Soft. Gentle.

And then, quietly:

"Come on. Let's get you some dry clothes."

---------------------------------------------------------

He finds a t-shirt and a pair of sweats from his room — both his, both worn soft — and hands them to me through the gap in the door without looking, which makes something in my chest do a complicated thing.

I change in the bathroom.

Pull his t-shirt over my head.

It falls to mid-thigh. The sleeves hang past my elbows. It smells like his laundry detergent and something warmer underneath and I stand there for a second with my hands inside the too-long sleeves and think okay the way you think okay when something is happening that you don't have bigger words for yet.

I look at the sweatpants.

Then down at the t-shirt, which is already covering everything that needs covering and then some.

I leave the sweatpants on the sink.

I roll the sleeves up three times. They fall down immediately. I roll them up again. I look like I'm wearing a person. I look like I belong here.

That last thought I don't look at directly.

Stop, I tell myself. Just go downstairs.

I go downstairs.

The smell hits me before the kitchen does.

Eggs. Butter. Bad coffee doing its best.

I stop in the doorway.

Logan is at the stove with his back to me.

Grey sweatpants sitting low on his hips. No shirt.

Just — no shirt. Just his back, bare in the grey morning light. Warm tan skin. The particular lines of muscle shifting slightly as he moves the spatula through the pan with the focused patience of someone determined to do this right. The small silvery scar on his left shoulder blade. His hair dark and full, loose waves that curl slightly at the nape of his neck.

I stand there for a long moment.

Just looking.

Three weeks, I think. I avoided this man for three weeks.

I genuinely don't know how.

Standing here in the doorway in his t-shirt with the sleeves falling over my hands again, watching him make eggs in the grey morning light like it's the most ordinary thing in the world — I don't know how I managed it. How I sat across rooms from him and looked at the floor and found reasons to leave before he arrived. How I laughed in a hallway and walked back to a party and spent twenty-one nights lying awake thinking about a man I was too scared to want out loud.

I push off the doorframe.

I cross the kitchen quietly.

He doesn't hear me. Or he does and he's giving me this — the approach, the moment before, the way he always gives me room to move at my own pace without making me feel like I'm being waited on. His attention stays on the pan. Adjusting the heat. Tilting the handle slightly.

I stop just behind him.

Close enough to feel the warmth coming off his skin.

I reach out.

My fingers find his back first — just the tips of them, barely there, the lightest possible contact — and I feel him register it immediately. The way his shoulders tighten. The way his breathing changes, just slightly, just enough. But he doesn't turn around. Doesn't speak. Just — holds still. Lets me have this.

So I take it.

I press my palm flat against the center of his back.

Warm tan skin under my hand. The particular solidity of him. I spread my fingers slowly and I just — feel him. The warmth radiating up into my palm. The faint definition of muscle under smooth skin. The way his back expands and contracts as he breathes, slower now, more deliberate, like he's concentrating on it.

I start to move my hand.

Not going anywhere specific. Just — learning him. The way his muscles shift when he breathes. The plane of his shoulder blade, the slight ridge of his spine. I find the silvery scar on his left shoulder blade and trace it with my thumb — slow, the full length of it — and he makes a sound. Low. Barely audible. His head drops forward slightly.

I lean in and press my lips to it.

Just that. Just my mouth against that small silvery mark.

His breath hitches.

The spatula goes completely still in the pan.

His whole body goes that particular kind of still — not tense, not braced, just — suspended. Like he's holding everything very carefully so as not to break whatever this is.

I keep going.

My lips move from the scar to the warm tan skin beside it. A soft kiss. Then another. My hands moving slowly across his back as I go, fingers spreading wide, palms pressing gently like I want as much contact as possible. Like I'm making up for three weeks of carefully not touching him.

I find a small mark on his right shoulder — a freckle, barely visible against the tan of his skin, the kind you'd only find if you were paying very close attention. I press my lips to it.

He exhales shakily.

"Y/N." His voice is rough. Low. Like he had to work to get even those two syllables out.

"Mm."

"What are you—"

"Shh."

He goes quiet.

I keep moving. My fingers find another mark, lower this time, just below his left shoulder blade. Something small and faint. I trace it with my fingertip first, then follow with my lips, and I feel the shiver that moves through him — involuntary, barely there — and I think I'm doing this to him and it cracks something open in me.

John Logan.

Who notices everything. Who says nothing. Who waits.

Undone, right here in his own kitchen, because I'm kissing his back.

My hands are moving still — slowly, mapping him, the warmth of his skin and the muscle underneath and the scattered marks I keep finding like small secrets — and my lips follow wherever my fingers lead. Up the line of his spine. Across the plane of his shoulder. Back to the scar.

His breathing is ragged now.

The eggs have definitely stopped being the priority.

"Y/N," he says again. Quieter this time. More careful. Like he's trying to hold something together. "Can I — can I say something."

"Yeah," I murmur against his skin.

"I need you to—" He stops. Tries again. His voice is strained. "You need to stop hiding from me."

I still.

My hands flat against his back. My lips just above the scar.

And something in my chest just — opens.

Wide and warm and completely certain.

"I love you," I say.

He goes completely still.

Not the patient waiting stillness. Not the held-back controlled stillness. Something different. Something I've never felt from him before — genuine surprise moving through his whole body like a current, everything going motionless under my hands.

"I love you," I say again. My voice is quiet. More certain the second time than the first. "I've probably loved you for a while and I kept laughing at the wrong moments and stepping back when I should have stayed and making it into something smaller than it was and I'm—" I press my palms flat against his back one more time. Feel his heartbeat. Fast and hard and real. "I'm done doing that."

A long moment of silence.

Then he turns around.

Slowly.

The spatula still in his hand. His dark eyes finding mine immediately — wide, just for a second, the surprise still there, the most unguarded I've ever seen him. Then something else moves through his expression. Something warm and certain and slightly wrecked.

He sets the spatula down.

"Say it again," he says quietly.

"I love you."

Something in his face breaks open completely.

He reaches for me.

Both hands finding my face, warm and certain, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones, and he looks at me the way he looks at things he's been paying attention to for a long time. The stubble on his jaw catching the grey morning light. The warm tan of his skin. The dark eyes that have gone soft in a way I've only seen a handful of times.

"I was going to say you need to stop hiding," he murmurs.

"I know."

"You cut me off."

"I know."

The corner of his mouth does the thing. The real one. The crooked smile that costs him something every time it comes out.

"I love you too," he says. "Have for a while." His thumbs trace slow circles against my cheekbones. "Since before I had a good reason to say it."

"You had reasons," I whisper.

"I was waiting for you to be ready to hear them."

I look at him.

At the man who fixed a car and remembered it three years later. Who made grilled cheese and lit fires and tucked blankets around sleeping people and stood in hallways with glasses of water and waited. Who has been paying attention to me quietly and saying nothing and waiting for me to stop running.

I reach up.

My fingers find his hair — dark and full and loose — and I push it back from his forehead slowly. My palm resting against his face the way it has before, the way it already feels like it belongs there.

"I'm not running," I say.

"I know," he murmurs.

"I'm done."

"I know." He turns his head slightly. Presses his lips to my palm. "I know, baby."

And something in my chest settles so completely and so finally that I feel it in my whole body.

He kisses me.

Soft. Unhurried. Like the eggs can wait and the bad coffee can wait and the storm can keep going for as long as it wants.

Outside it does.

Inside the kitchen is warm and grey and quiet and his hands are on my face and I am not running and I am not laughing at the wrong moment and I am not making it small.

It was never small.

I just needed to stop pretending it was.

---------------------------------------------------------

He smiled and pulled you closer, his arm around your waist.

‘’Our boy’s finally becoming famous,” Dean teased, slapping Logan’s shoulder harder than necessary.

‘’Shut up,’’ Logan muttered, shaking his head.

‘’No, seriously,” Garrett cut in. ‘’That goal was insane. Even I was impressed.’’

Logan snorted. ‘’Wow. I should frame that compliment.’’

The captain laughed in response and Logan just shook his head, smiling softly as he looked at you. There was still disbelief in his expression, like he couldn’t fully process that tonight was about him. That people were chanting his name instead of someone else’s.

‘’You deserve this, baby,’’ you said quietly, thumb brushing against his stubbly jaw before kissing him. 

More people filled the kitchen, raising their cups and congratulating Logan on his goal. He smiled back at them, taking in the good words, then let himself be pulled away to a quieter corner of the house. 

Was it selfish of you that you wanted to have him to yourself for a moment? 

To your surprise, the couch was empty. You sat down and snuggled up to Logan, smiling when he instinctively pulled you closer as he took a sip of his beer. 

‘’Did you see my victory move after I scored? I aimed right at you.’’

Of course you did. ‘’I hope to see that victory move again,’’ you replied before kissing him, tasting the beer he was holding. ‘’You might get another reward.’’ 

Logan pulled back slightly and raised an eyebrow at your mischievous grin. 

Without saying anything, you began unbuttoning the top buttons of your shirt, giving him a glimpse at the light blue lace bra you had underneath. Logan’s eyes lowered to your chest as his grip tightened slightly on his beer bottle. He’s never seen you in this bra before — other than when you sent him a picture from the store’s dressing room, which he went feral over. 

‘’Is that..?’’

You hummed.

Setting his beer down on the table, he leaned in closer, one hand gliding up your side, thumb brushing just beneath the delicate lace at the edge of your bra cup as he tilted your chin up to meet his lips again. The kiss was slow at first — until you nipped at his lower lip and he groaned, your fingers tangling in his hair as Logan deepened it.

Somewhere in the background, the party noise faded into a distant hum, just the two of you and the couch creaking under the shift of Logan’s weight as he pulled you even closer, gliding one hand up your body to cup your left breast over your shirt. 

‘’Let’s go upstairs,’’ you declared, standing up. 

Once you made it to Logan’s room, you shut and locked the door behind. 

Gripping the front of his shirt, you pressed him against you and kissed him hard and deep, almost desperate. The sudden intensity caught him off guard for half a second, but then he melted into it as desire grew below the belt, his hands finding your waist and reaching to unbutton the rest of your shirt. 

‘’Looks even better in person,’’ Logan complimented, focusing on the lace and beaded details as his fingers traced the delicate fabric. His voice was low, rough with want, and it sent a shiver down your spine. 

You smirked, sliding your hands under his shirt to feel the taut muscles of his abdomen. ‘’I bought the matching set.’’ 

‘’Fuck.’’ 

The revelation of your matching lingerie set sent an electric thrill through Logan's senses. One thing no one knew about John Logan was that he was a sucker for lingerie. Nothing overly fancy. Just pretty bras and panties. He let out a low, appreciative growl, his gaze roaming over you with a hunger that was becoming increasingly hard to resist. 

He reached to lift your skirt, but you pushed his hands away and grabbed his belt instead, shaking your head. Once you unbuckled it and pulled his pants down to his mid-thighs, you dropped to your knees and wasted no time with getting him in your mouth. You swirled your tongue around the head a few times before sliding your lips down the whole length. Slowly, you hollowed your cheeks and started bobbing your head, the tip of Logan's cock hitting the back of your throat.

‘’Fuck, baby…’’ 

You looked up as you kept sucking him, eliciting a grunt of pleasure from your man above, low and deep in his throat. 

‘’You know I can’t last when you look at me like that.’’ 

His eyes darkened with a combination of desire and anticipation as he watched you on your knees, the lace of your bra peeking out from under your shirt, a tantalizing peek of something just for him. The sight of you like this, looking up at him with those pretty eyes and shiny lips, was nearly too much.

Logan’s breath hitched as your tongue swirled just the way he liked it, his hand falling to your hair. His hips jerked forward slightly — just enough to let you know he was close — before he forced himself to hold still, letting you take control and grip his thick thighs.

A ragged groan tore from his throat as he came, fingers tightening reflexively in your hair before he immediately loosened his grip, his other hand coming up to brush your cheek. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. 

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand while looking up at him.

Raking a hand through his hair, Logan let out a breath. ‘’If that’s the reward I get when I score a goal, I better score more goals.’’ 

‘’I want a hat trick next.’’  

‘’Hat trick?’’ He repeated. ‘’This is college hockey. It rarely happens.’’ 

You shrugged. ‘’Make it happen.’’

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