synopsis – it’s duet night at Malone’s and a random choice forces a unique meet-cute between you and Logan
warnings – FLUFF AND SO MUCH FUN, reader and Logan are basically Troy and Gabriella, reader can sing and loves karaoke, reader is referred to as she/her
note – this idea came to me on a plane while I was blasting the high school musical soundtrack. special shoutout to @lunatic--charm and @kiatjuddae for some ideas they both had that I added to this! enjoy!!! ♡
masterlist
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
Malone’s always had some unique events going on, tonight being no different. Rather than taking volunteers for karaoke, they decided to have fun some and do duet night - two people selected at random, singing a song of their choice. The concept excited you, getting up to sing with a stranger, having fun and entertaining the crowd.
Throughout the night, people were chosen, songs were sung, and a good time was had. Anticipation settles in your stomach, wondering if you'll get lucky enough to get picked. Before you know it, the spotlight choosing people lands on you, the other one landing on the opposite side of the bar where a group of guys and two girls were huddled around a bar top. Focusing more on getting up on stage, your friends cheer you on as you walk up, eager to start.
The mystery man ends up on stage next to you, nervously adjusting his letterman jacket as you glance up and down his frame. Tall, handsome, hopefully a good singer, as you wanted to put on the performance of a lifetime tonight. He must feel your eyes on him as he looks back at you. He's taken aback by your beauty and the confidence that seemed to radiate off of you. Once your eyes met, you gave him a small smile, him returning the smile.
“Alright you two, what are we singing?” the emcee asks. Before Logan can even butt in, you grab his arm, eyes widening slightly,
“I have an idea, do you trust me?”
“I just met you,” he chuckles, as you give his arm a reassuring squeeze, heading over to where the emcee was, whispering into their ear your song choice. Logan's curiosity got the best of him before the start of the song began, Logan instantly recognizing the piano keys, lyrics that he didn’t need popping up on the screen.
You rejoin him up on stage, both of you standing behind the mics sitting on the stands as you glance over at him.
"You know this one?" you ask, covering the mic with your hand. His answer doesn't come by talking, but by singing,
‘Living in my own world,
Didn’t understand…’
A smile graces your face as you look at him while he sings. The group he came from hoots and hollers, his friends evidently unaware of his singing abilities. Your eyes find the group, thinking it's sweet how he had the support from his friends. His voice was smooth like butter, hitting every note perfectly as you look back at him, baffled that this random choice brought someone like him to you. His part ends as you start.
‘I never believed in,
What I couldn’t see…’
He finds himself enamored as you sing, holding the mic with both hands as you look at him with a softness as you sing directly to him. An excited feeling settles in his stomach, hearing your beautiful voice. You both join in together, your voices harmonizing beautifully as the crowd claps and cheers,
‘I know that something has changed,
Never felt this way,
And right here tonight…’
You both start singing the chorus, the comfortability level between the two of you growing as Logan finds himself feeding off your energy, feeling himself relax seeing you so bright and confident on stage. Your bodies slowly angle towards each other, shy smiles finding each other as the tension of the moment grows stronger. Neither of you breaks eye contact until the second verse hits.
‘Now, who’d have ever thought that, mmm’
Logan faces his body back towards the crowd, taking his jacket off, tossing it to the side of the stage, clearly getting into character. You jokingly roll your eyes and fan him with both hands like he’s too hot (because he definitely is), as you laugh, joining him in singing,
‘We’d both be here tonight, oh, yeah,
And the world looks so much brighter (brighter, brighter),
Oh, with you by my side (by my side)’
Cheers radiate through the bar as you both continue singing, your on-stage chemistry undeniable. Yours and Logan’s friend groups watch you both smiling and laughing as you sing through the second verse, knowing something amazing was being created right in front of their eyes. The crowd can feel it too, the positive energy hyping everyone up even more.
As the bridge of the song comes up, you take the mic off the stand, Logan doing the same as he steps closer to you as he sings, both of you now facing each other,
‘I never knew that it could happen till it happened to me, oh yeah,’
‘I didn’t know it before, but now it’s easy to see, oh’
The crowd cheers loudly as you nail the high note, Logan’s harmonies blending once again with your voice. Singing through the last chorus, the crowd claps in beat with the music as you sing, both of you bopping to the music, singing directly to each other. Logan taking slow steps towards you as you continue to walk backwards.
‘I feel in my heart,
That it’s the start-’
Losing your footing for a half second, you feel yourself about to fall backwards, before Logan’s arm wraps around you, hoisting you back up. You laugh lightly as neither of you lose rhythm or lyrics, singing straight through the almost accident. Logan eventually moves his hand from your back to your waist, before dropping it to his side, the action sending butterflies in your stomach. Logan now takes backwards steps, you walking forwards following him as the song reaches the end,
‘And now, looking in your eyes (looking in your eyes),
I feel in my heart (feel in my heart)’
The claps die down, the end of the song slowing down as you and Logan are back to center stage, standing still and singing to each other,
‘The start of something new,
The start of something new,
The start of something new’
The close proximity distracting you both from the crowd getting even louder, everyone on their feet – cheering, pumping fists in the air, clapping. Breaking the intense staring contest you both seemed to be having, you both look out to the crowd, seeing the joy in the room before looking back at each other, large smiles on your faces.
“Logan,” he says, introducing himself as he holds his hand out. You return the introduction, giving him your name and shaking his hand.
✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧
note – walk with me here, the concept of turning this into a mini series and every chapter is the title of a high school musical song🤭
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Quietly Yours {Dean Di Laurentis x mute!reader} Part 5
Masterlist
Summary: Everyone at Briar knows Dean Di Laurentis. Nobody knows you. Not because you aren't friendly, but because people tend to make assumptions the moment they realize you don't speak. Some think you're shy. Others think you're rude. A few even assume you're deaf. You're used to correcting people with a tired smile and a note on your phone. Dean is no different...at first. Until he realizes your silence never stopped you from laughing, teasing, arguing, or caring. He starts discovering that you've always had a voice. It just isn't spoken.
Warnings: mentions of being mute, misunderstandings
By October, seeing Dean Di Laurentis walking around campus with you had stopped surprising people.
He'd meet you after lectures.
Walk you to the library.
Bring you coffee more often than either of you cared to admit.
Some days you barely exchanged ten words—spoken or typed.
Other days your phone battery suffered because Dean somehow managed to make you type paragraph-long responses to his endless questions.
He liked hearing what you thought.
Not because your answers were written.
Because they were always honest.
Dean had just finished practice when he spotted you sitting on the bleachers.
You always came a little early on Wednesdays.
The rink wasn't quiet—not with hockey pucks ricocheting off the boards and skates carving across the ice—but it was one of the few places Dean knew you'd never feel left out.
Everyone wore helmets.
Everyone relied on hand signals.
Communication wasn't just verbal.
He skated over to the glass, helmet tucked beneath one arm.
You looked up from your novel.
Dean knocked twice on the glass.
Your eyes lifted.
He grinned.
Then, with exaggerated concentration, he signed—
Hello.
You smiled.
Then signed back.
Hello.
He pointed to himself.
Very slowly.
How... are... you?
His brows furrowed in concentration.
You couldn't help smiling wider.
His grammar was a little clunky.
His movements still stiff.
But he'd clearly been practising.
You answered with slower signs so he could follow.
I'm good.
Dean managed to understand two of the three signs.
His face lit up anyway.
"I understood that!"
Coach blew his whistle from the other end of the rink.
Dean emerged from the locker room with damp hair and a hoodie pulled over his practice clothes.
"You waited."
You shrugged.
Your phone appeared in your hands.
I was reading.
"Still."
He smiled to himself.
"You waited."
You rolled your eyes, but there wasn't much conviction behind it.
As the two of you walked across campus, Dean hesitated.
"So..."
You looked at him.
"The guys are having everyone over tonight."
He rubbed the back of his neck.
"Movie night."
You raised an eyebrow.
Dean laughed.
"Okay... pizza, movie, Logan complaining about the movie, Garrett pretending he doesn't care, and Tucker cooking because apparently frozen pizza isn't good enough."
A small smile appeared on your lips.
"I wanted to ask if..."
He suddenly looked oddly nervous.
"...if you'd come."
You stopped walking.
Dean immediately panicked.
"You absolutely don't have to."
"I know parties aren't really your thing."
"This isn't a party."
"It's just us."
He realised he was rambling and shut his mouth.
You looked at him for a long moment before typing.
Quietly Yours {Dean Di Laurentis x mute!reader} Part 4
Masterlist
Summary: Everyone at Briar knows Dean Di Laurentis. Nobody knows you. Not because you aren't friendly, but because people tend to make assumptions the moment they realize you don't speak. Some think you're shy. Others think you're rude. A few even assume you're deaf. You're used to correcting people with a tired smile and a note on your phone. Dean is no different...at first. Until he realizes your silence never stopped you from laughing, teasing, arguing, or caring. He starts discovering that you've always had a voice. It just isn't spoken.
Warnings: mentions of being mute, misunderstandings
By the following week, Dean had become an unexpected regular in the library.
Not because he suddenly enjoyed studying.
He absolutely didn't.
But somehow, whenever he finished practice or had a gap between classes, his feet carried him toward the old brick building tucked away on the quieter side of campus.
It wasn't long before the librarians stopped looking surprised when he wandered in.
One of them even greeted him with a knowing smile.
"Your usual table is free."
Dean blinked.
"I have a usual table?"
"You do now."
He laughed under his breath.
"Guess I do."
You were already there.
Curled up in your favourite corner beside the window, surrounded by a fortress of books that looked heavy enough to cause structural damage if they toppled over.
Dean slid into the chair opposite you.
"You planning on reading all of those today?"
You glanced at the stack before shrugging.
Then you picked up your phone.
You: Probably not.
A second message appeared.
But it makes me look intelligent.
Dean grinned.
"You are intelligent."
You narrowed your eyes playfully.
Flattery won't get you my lecture notes.
"Worth a shot."
The afternoon slipped by comfortably.
Dean worked through an essay that had been due two days ago.
You highlighted passages from a novel for your seminar.
Every now and then one of you would break the silence.
Dean with a quiet comment.
You with a typed joke or a scribbled note pushed across the table.
It felt...
Easy.
Dean wasn't used to easy.
Eventually, you packed your books away.
Dean stood with you.
"Next class?"
You nodded.
The two of you stepped outside together, the crisp autumn air replacing the warmth of the library.
Students filled the walkways between buildings.
Bicycles rolled past.
Someone was playing music somewhere across the quad.
Dean walked beside you, matching your pace without thinking.
"So, what've you got now?"
You unlocked your phone.
History of Modern Literature.
"Ouch."
You smiled.
It's actually interesting.
"I'll take your word for it."
As you approached the humanities building, a voice called out.
"Excuse me!"
The two of you turned.
A girl hurried over, clutching a notebook against her chest.
She looked flustered.
"Sorry," she said, smiling nervously at Dean instead of you. "Could you tell her Professor Lewis moved today's seminar?"
Dean opened his mouth.
Then stopped himself.
He looked at you instead.
You'd already noticed.
With practiced ease, you stepped forward and gently tapped the girl's arm to catch her attention.
She looked at you, surprised.
You pointed to yourself before lifting your phone.
A few quick taps.
You turned the screen around.
Hi. You can tell me directly.
The girl's cheeks immediately turned pink.
"Oh my gosh."
She looked mortified.
"I'm so sorry."
You smiled warmly and shook your head.
She read your phone again before speaking, this time looking only at you.
"Professor Lewis moved the seminar to Room 204."
You nodded gratefully.
Another quick message.
Thank you for letting me know.
She smiled back.
"No problem."
After another embarrassed apology, she hurried away.
Dean watched her disappear into the crowd.
Neither of you moved for a moment.
Finally, he spoke.
"Does that happen a lot?"
You looked down at your phone.
Your fingers hovered over the keyboard longer than usual.
Every day.
Dean's smile faded.
People aren't trying to be rude.
Another message followed.
They're just uncomfortable.
He frowned.
"Still."
You shrugged lightly.
I'm used to it.
Dean looked at the words for a long moment.
He didn't like them.
Not because they weren't true.
Because they sounded like something you'd had to accept a long time ago.
The seminar room was already filling when the two of you walked inside.
Professor Lewis looked up from his notes.
"Morning."
You smiled.
Dean took the seat beside you.
Halfway through the class, Professor Lewis asked everyone to split into groups of four to discuss the week's reading.
Dean, you, and two other students pushed your desks together.
One of the students—a guy Dean vaguely recognised from another elective—started talking almost immediately.
"So, I think the narrator represents—"
He stopped.
His eyes landed on you.
Then shifted awkwardly to Dean.
"Can... um... can she..."
Dean could practically see the question coming.
Can she participate?
Can she follow?
Can she contribute?
You didn't wait for him to finish.
You calmly opened your laptop and turned it towards the group.
Across the top of the screen, in large letters, was a blank document.
Your fingers flew across the keyboard.
I have a few thoughts.
The sentence appeared almost instantly.
You rotated the laptop so everyone could read.
Then you typed again.
I think the narrator is unreliable because we're only seeing events through a very biased perspective.
For the next five minutes, your fingers barely stopped moving.
Every point was thoughtful.
Every observation insightful.
The discussion changed almost immediately.
Instead of wondering whether you could contribute...
They started asking what you thought.
Dean leaned back in his chair, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You hadn't needed anyone to speak for you.
You'd handled it yourself.
Just like you always did.
After class, the two of you walked out into the late afternoon sunshine.
Dean shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket.
"You know..."
You looked at him.
"I was about to jump in back there."
You tilted your head.
He laughed sheepishly.
"I know you didn't need me to."
You smiled.
But you wanted to.
"Yeah."
He sighed.
"I hate seeing people underestimate you."
You stopped walking.
Dean looked back.
You were watching him with that thoughtful expression he'd started to recognise.
The one that meant you were choosing your words carefully.
Your thumbs moved slowly over the screen.
Thank you for wanting to.
Dean waited.
Another sentence appeared.
But if people never learn to ask me... they'll always ask someone else.
He read the words twice.
Then nodded.
"I hadn't thought of it like that."
You smiled softly.
I know.
You slipped your phone back into your bag.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
Then, without saying anything, Dean lifted his hand.
Slowly.
Carefully.
He signed the one word he knew by heart.
Friend.
It wasn't perfect.
He was almost certain he'd bent one finger the wrong way.
You stared at his hand.
Then at him.
A smile spread across your face—bright enough to steal the breath from his lungs.
You reached up.
Corrected his fingers.
And signed the word back.
This time flawlessly.
Dean felt something settle warmly in his chest.
He still had a lot to learn.
But for the first time in years, learning didn't feel like work.
It felt like getting closer to someone worth knowing.
summary: you're facing the trials and tribulations of final's week as a fashion design major. luckily, your boyfriend logan is a sweetheart. requested!
Logan stands behind the glass doors, watching chaos unfold as he ponders if he really has to walk inside. Maybe his mere presence will be enough to disturb the energy, he considers, or maybe they can smell the fear.
He checks his phone again, in hopes that you’ll see his texts and meet him at the door, but he knows how you get once you’re too deep into a project: unaware of the rest of the world, completely locked in, no matter how much your phone buzzes. He drops his head a little, letting out a sigh as he faces reality. It’s time to face his own personal shark tank, best known as the fashion department studio.
It’s not always like that, really. Logan enjoys watching you work there most times, bringing coffee to the studio when you’re cutting garments, making you take a seat for the first time in hours to show him how every cut is done and how they’ll look, your sketches pretty and clean on your beloved journal. It can be a nice, peaceful place too. But right now, with the entire department working on their final assignments, Logan knows that the studio becomes a mined camp and every misstep of his will be reprimanded, because when deadlines are on the way, fashion people seem to get particularly insane over it — his girlfriend included, of course.
And still, he has to go in.
It takes roughly five seconds for someone to notice him and call for you across the packed room, “Babe, your knight in jock armor is here!”
Logan watches you snap your head up, face lit up. He almost feels the desperate need to let everyone know that he’s not being obnoxious, storming into the studio for no reason in the middle of final’s week when everyone has a million deadlines and no time to spare. No, he’s here on a mission.
Thankfully, you make sure of that, “You are an angel,” you say, heading in his direction as your eyes drop to his hands holding your journals, “You have no idea how fucked I’d be without these for my tech pack.”
“I think I have an idea,” he says through a chuckle.
You look a little manic as you approach him, and Logan wonders if you had a good night of sleep even though the answer is probably no. He moves to offer you a quick hug before handing you the journals, but you outright snatch it from his hands, holding it closer to your chest, “Ah, my babies,” you coo, your eyes closed as you rock left and right.
Logan clears his throat, “You’re welcome.”
You giggle, arms moving around his neck, “Thank you so much, my love,” you press a quick peck to his lips, backing off as soon as you feel his hand on your cheek, “You gotta go, though.”
He would’ve taken offence if he didn’t know it came from a place of genuine rush. His hands stay in the same spot in your face, thumb moving back and forth, “You look tired, baby.”
You are tired, you think. You haven’t slept at all, and you’re pretty sure (because you stopped counting them after the third one) you’re running on six caffeinated drinks, a stolen Liquid IV from Logan’s closet and a single breakfast muffin so far, having spent the night writing your paper on historical context behind your clothing choices, pages upon pages on French Revolution and how it led to Marie Antoinette becoming a fashion icon. Fun theme, but hours of research and typing needed, and among making sure you have all you need for your presentation — all the fabric you had used, every single pattern named right, the correct measurements and a proper paper, hell fucking yeah you’re tired.
“And you don’t usually leave your tech pack behind,” Logan adds, his doe eyes running over your face. Fuck, that too, “I knew you were acting weird when you texted me to go get it. This thing’s like– It’s your bible.”
You chuckle, “Yeah, I know. I didn’t get much sleep,” you watch as Logan’s mouth twinges up a little, not the reaction you are expecting, “What?”
“Sorry, it’s just– I literally just thought that.”
“Eh, you know me well,” you shrug.
“I do,” he smiles, “And you got the Liquid IV from my things.”
You shake your head in embarrassment, “I did.”
Logan lets out a laugh, “It’s fine. You need food, though, and I’d love to take you for lunch. But I suspect the answer is gonna be a resounding no.”
You give him a forced smile, “Sorry…” you murmur, raising your journals in explanation, “I gotta get the digital sketches done now that I have all the info.”
Logan gently pinches your cheek, dropping his hand and letting you go, “It’s okay. I’ll let you get back to work.” He gives you a final kiss on the forehead, “But I’ll bring you something to eat, how do you feel about Tucker’s pasta salad?”
You feel your stomach rumbling before you can answer, “Yes, thank you. Hey–” He turns to you, and your hand latches to his upper arm, squeezing it, “Thank you so much. Really.”
Logan shrugs, “Just being a dutiful boyfriend,” he says.
“And how does my lovely, dutiful boyfriend feel about staying the night tomorrow?” You say, getting a bit closer as you offer, “We can order take-out and you can help me rehearse for my presentation.”
Logan pretends to dwell on it, laughing as you tug on his arm, “C’mon, even Madonna is mentioned in this one. She wears this gorgeous gown in her Vogue performance—”
“Oh, if we’re talking Madonna,” he says, a twinge of sarcasm in his voice, but you know him just as much as he knows you. Logan likes your presentations, likes the way your mind works, and he always makes sure you know this.
“You say that now, but you’re gonna like it,” you say.
“Of course I am,” he says, “I always do.”
“And you like Vivienne Westwood,” you say through giggles, knowing exactly how he'll react.
You watch as he turns to you, eyes widened, “Baby, I fucking love Vivienne Westwood. Oh, this is gonna be good.” He says, suddenly invested, “No, forget take out— I’m making you dinner. I’m all in now.”
You pull him in for a kiss, “Knew it. Now move, I have work to do.”
Logan takes your face between his hands, his face stoney and solemn, “You go and make our girl Viv proud, yeah?”
notes: thank you for reading! if you're interested in what i had in mind for reader's project as i was writing this, please look up vivienne westwood's 1995 fall/winter collection. likes, reblogs and thoughts are much appreciated! <3
Quietly Yours {Dean Di Laurentis x mute!reader} Part 3
Masterlist
Summary: Everyone at Briar knows Dean Di Laurentis. Nobody knows you. Not because you aren't friendly, but because people tend to make assumptions the moment they realize you don't speak. Some think you're shy. Others think you're rude. A few even assume you're deaf. You're used to correcting people with a tired smile and a note on your phone. Dean is no different...at first. Until he realizes your silence never stopped you from laughing, teasing, arguing, or caring. He starts discovering that you've always had a voice. It just isn't spoken.
Warnings: mentions of being mute, misunderstandings
Dean had always been good at learning plays.
Coach would draw arrows across the whiteboard, bark out instructions, and by the end of practice Dean could skate them in his sleep.
American Sign Language?
That was an entirely different sport.
His fingers wouldn't cooperate.
His wrists felt stiff.
Every sign looked perfect on the video until he tried to copy it.
"...Ow."
Logan wandered into the kitchen just in time to find Dean sitting at the island with his laptop open, a notebook covered in hand drawings beside him.
"What are you doing?"
Dean looked up.
"Homework."
Logan glanced at the screen.
"...Since when does English Literature involve sign language?"
Dean slammed the laptop shut.
"It doesn't."
"So..."
"So mind your business."
Logan folded his arms, grinning.
"Dude."
"What?"
"You've got flashcards."
Dean looked down.
He did, in fact, have flashcards.
One side read:
HELLO
The other showed the handshape.
Logan burst out laughing.
"Oh, this is serious."
Dean threw one of the cards at him.
"Get out."
"I'm telling Garrett."
"You tell Garrett and I'll tell Hannah about that waitress you've been texting."
Logan froze.
"...Low blow."
"It worked."
"It absolutely worked."
Logan backed toward the hallway with both hands raised.
"I saw nothing."
You were shelving books in the campus library when someone tapped lightly on the edge of the shelf.
Looking up, you found Dean standing there with two takeaway coffees balanced carefully in one hand.
He smiled.
"I come bearing peace offerings."
You pointed to yourself with a questioning expression.
He nodded.
"You."
You looked at the cups.
Then at him.
One eyebrow lifted.
"I know," he admitted. "I didn't know what you liked."
He held one cup out.
"So I bought two different ones."
Your lips curved into a smile.
Taking the sleeve from the cup, you pulled your phone from your pocket.
You: That is either incredibly thoughtful...
Dean beamed.
"...Or?"
You typed another line.
...or incredibly inefficient.
He laughed loud enough to earn a stern look from the librarian.
"Sorry."
The librarian shushed him.
You bit your lip, trying not to laugh.
Dean leaned closer, lowering his voice dramatically.
"I've been publicly humiliated."
You nodded sympathetically before typing.
You deserved it.
"I definitely didn't."
You handed him your phone.
You were loud... in a library.
"...That's fair."
The two of you settled into a quiet corner by one of the tall windows overlooking campus.
Rain pattered softly against the glass.
Students hurried across the quad below, jackets pulled over their heads.
Dean stole a glance at you while pretending to stir his coffee.
You'd taken your headphones off, resting them neatly beside your notebook.
A tiny silver ring wrapped around your thumb.
There was a faint ink smudge on the side of your hand.
Your concentration settled fully on the article you were reading.
He smiled to himself.
"You always read this much?"
You looked up.
Nodded.
Your fingers danced through a quick sign before you remembered he couldn't understand.
You reached for your phone instead.
Escaping into books is cheaper than therapy.
Dean laughed softly.
"That's... actually relatable."
You smiled.
What about you?
He leaned back.
"I grew up with an older brother and a younger sister."
You blinked.
"...Talking was survival."
Your silent laugh made his chest feel strangely warm.
A comfortable silence settled between you.
Not awkward.
Not forced.
Just...
Peaceful.
Dean had never realised silence could feel so full.
Most people rushed to fill every quiet moment with chatter.
You never did.
You let silence breathe.
And somehow, sitting beside you, Dean found himself doing the same.
He cleared his throat.
"I've... uh..."
His confidence, usually effortless, seemed to disappear.
"I've been learning something."
Curiosity crossed your face.
Dean rubbed the back of his neck.
"Don't laugh."
You immediately looked amused.
"I mean it."
You folded your arms, smiling.
He took a deep breath.
Then...
Very carefully...
Raised one hand.
His movements were hesitant.
A little stiff.
Not perfect.
But unmistakable.
Hello, How are you?
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to stop.
Your eyes widened.
Not because the sign was flawless.
It wasn't.
His palm had been angled slightly wrong.
His wrist was a little tense.
But he'd done it.
He'd learned.
For you.
Dean immediately grimaced.
"I messed it up, didn't I?"
You were already shaking your head.
Setting your coffee down, you reached across the table.
Slowly.
Giving him every chance to pull away.
He didn't.
Your fingers gently touched his hand.
His breath caught.
Without saying a word, you adjusted the angle of his wrist.
Curled one finger a little more.
Relaxed his thumb.
Then you smiled and nodded once.
Perfect.
Dean looked from his hand to your face.
"So... that was right?"
You nodded again.
A little more enthusiastically this time.
His grin spread so wide it almost hurt.
"I knew YouTube wouldn't fail me."
You laughed silently, shoulders shaking.
People turned to look, drawn by Dean's unmistakable smile rather than any sound from you.
He didn't notice.
He was too busy watching your eyes light up.
You reached for your phone.
Thank you.
Dean frowned.
"For saying hello?"
You nodded.
He looked genuinely confused.
"You don't have to thank me."
Your thumbs hovered over the screen for a moment before typing.
Most people expect me to adapt to them.
You looked up.
You came halfway.
Dean stared at the words.
Something tightened in his chest.
He'd never thought of it that way.
To him, learning a few signs had seemed like such a small thing.
To you...
It meant someone had decided you were worth the effort.
He smiled, softer this time.
"I'm planning on learning a lot more than halfway."
Your eyes searched his face, looking for any hint that he was joking.
There wasn't one.
He meant every word.
For the first time in a very long time, someone had chosen to learn your language—not because they had to.
Simply because they wanted to know you.
Outside, the rain continued to fall.
Inside the library, with a cup of cooling coffee between you and Dean's hand still resting where yours had corrected it only moments before, something quiet and wonderful began to grow.
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pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader
summary – garrett finds out his girlfriend got his number tattooed on her body and reacts about as calmly as anyone could expect.
warnings – 18+, explicit smut, oral sex, fingering, rough sex, doggy style, spanking, praise kink, dirty talk, tattoo reveal.
notes from me – ANYWAAYYYYYYY!!!!!! as promised, yeah sorry i had to do it. this comes at the most 'recent' end of their timeline!! so i'll be going back and filling in gaps now, i was just desperate to post this!
word count – 6.9k
navigation – masterlist |
The second-skin comes off on Tuesday morning in the shower, which is less ceremonial than the tattoo probably deserves. She peels it carefully from one corner beneath warm water, watching the clear film lift away from her lower back in the fogged mirror with the awkward concentration of somebody trying to inspect a body part positioned almost specifically to prevent self-assessment.
The little forty-four underneath is darker than it will be once it settles completely, the skin around it faintly pink and shiny, but the numbers are clean. No leaking. No angry redness. No warmth beyond what she would expect from a healing tattoo and a hot shower.
She pats it dry with a clean towel, applies a thin smear of unscented moisturiser and spends the next two days pretending she hasn’t developed a habit of turning sideways every time she passes a mirror.
Garrett still doesn’t know. That part becomes funnier with time.
He spends Wednesday night in the hockey-house kitchen complaining that she’s been suspiciously affectionate since the weekend, as though her sitting sideways across his lap is evidence of organised crime. He pulls her closer each time she tries to stand, mouth finding the side of her neck while Dean watches from across the island with the hollow expression of a man being punished for sins committed in a previous life.
“What’re you hiding?” Garrett murmurs against her skin.
“Nothing.”
“You said that too fast.”
“You ask stupid questions.”
His hand slides under the back of her sweatshirt, warm palm settling over the curve of her waist less than an inch above the tattoo. She goes still for one sharp second, then catches his wrist and drags his hand around to her stomach before his fingers can wander lower.
Garrett narrows his eyes. She kisses him before the investigation can advance.
By Friday, the secret has begun to feel hot, because it’s his. A tiny private mark resting beneath her clothes while Garrett walks beside her across campus with one hand hooked through the strap of her bag, completely unaware that forty-four is inked into her skin.
He complains about practice. She complains about an exam question that used the phrase most appropriate intervention despite three answers being clinically reasonable. His thumb finds the bare strip of her wrist where her sleeve has ridden up. All the while, his number is sitting just above the waistband of her jeans.
The thought stays with her when he arrives at her dorm that night.
Her roommate has gone to visit her parents for the weekend, and Garrett appears just after nine in grey sweats and a black hoodie and cheeks pink from the cold. He has a backpack over one shoulder, though she doubts it contains a single item remotely connected to studying. The last time he brought a textbook to her room, it remained unopened beneath her desk for three days while Garrett insisted proximity counted as academic effort.
“Hi, baby,” he says when she opens the door.
She barely gets the lock turned before his hands are on her. It begins with one kiss, which is how most of their poor decisions begin now. Garrett catches her waist and pulls her into him with the deep, satisfied exhale of someone who’s spent the whole walk across campus anticipating exactly this.
His mouth is cold from outside and warm beneath it, lips moving over hers slowly while she hooks both hands into the front of his hoodie and walks him backward toward the bed.
“You missed me,” he murmurs.
“I saw you this morning.”
“Exactly.”
“You slept in my bed.”
He shakes his head. “Not long enough.”
The backs of his knees hit the mattress. Garrett sits and draws her down with him before she can pretend she intended anything else, her legs opening around his hips as she settles over his lap.
The first press of him beneath her is enough to strip whatever remained of the evening’s patience. He’s already half hard through the soft fabric of his sweats, heat and shape caught between them when she rolls her hips forward.
Garrett’s head tips back slightly. The smile that moves across his mouth is slow and knowing, his hands spreading over her hips beneath the oversized hoodie she’s stolen from him so many times it’s practically transferred ownership.
“There she is,” he murmurs.
She catches his curls at the back of his head and brings his mouth to hers before he can become any more pleased with himself. The kiss turns wet and deep almost immediately, Garrett’s tongue sliding over hers while she grinds down again, a little harder, friction catching warm between her thighs through the thin cotton of her sleep shorts and underwear.
He groans against her mouth. His fingers tighten. “Fuck, baby.”
Her hoodie is too warm suddenly. The dorm room is too small, too dim, the little lamp beside her bed throwing everything into soft amber while rain ticks faintly against the window. Garrett’s shoulders fill the space beneath her hands. His thighs flex under hers every time she moves, and she can feel him becoming fully hard beneath her, thick and insistent and still separated from her by several deeply unnecessary layers of clothing.
He kisses across the corner of her mouth, along her jaw, down the side of her neck with the greedy familiarity of someone returning to a favourite argument. His teeth scrape lightly beneath her ear.
She inhales and tightens her fingers in his hair. “Garrett.”
“Mm?”
“That feels good,” she breathes.
“I know.” His mouth drags lower. “You’re humping me like you’re trying to start a fire.”
She rolls her hips again because Garrett’s smugness has always been more effective encouragement than he understands. His hands guide the movement, pulling her forward over the hard line of him and then back, slower on the return so the pressure catches exactly where her body has already become embarrassingly sensitive.
Her next breath breaks against his cheek. Garrett smiles into her throat. “Yeah?”
“Don’t.”
“Wasn’t saying anything.”
She tugs hard enough on his curls to lift his mouth back to hers. Garrett laughs into the kiss, low and rough, then grips her beneath the thighs and stands. The movement steals a startled sound from her. Her legs tighten around his waist on instinct, arms locking behind his neck while Garrett takes one step, turns and lowers her onto the mattress. The bed gives beneath their combined weight, springs creaking a small complaint that neither of them acknowledges.
He comes down over her immediately. Their mouths meet badly at first, teeth knocking, her laugh caught between them while Garrett braces one hand beside her head and uses the other to drag her higher beneath him. Then the angle settles and everything goes hot again. His body fits heavily between her thighs, hips pressing down until she can feel the full hard length of him through his sweats.
She arches into it. Garrett’s breath catches. “Jesus.”
His hoodie becomes an obstacle. He sits back just long enough to grab the hem and strip it over his head, hair coming up with it in a dark, disordered mess. The shirt underneath follows, both pieces dropped somewhere near the foot of the bed while she pushes herself onto her elbows to watch.
Garrett catches her looking. His grin flashes. “See something you like?”
“Not especially,” she grins.
“Liar.”
He climbs back over her before she can improve the insult, one hand sliding beneath her hoodie and over her stomach. His palm is hot against her skin, callused fingers spreading over her ribs while he kisses her again and starts working the fabric upward.
She lifts her arms. The hoodie catches briefly around one wrist. Garrett frees it with a sharp tug and tosses it toward the chair, where it lands halfway over a clean pile of scrubs.
The air moves cool over her bare stomach and the little green lace bra she chose that morning with absolutely no ulterior motive. Garrett stills above her. His gaze drops. His eyes travel slowly over the lace, the soft rise of her breasts above the cups, the way her nipples have tightened beneath the fabric from cold air and attention.
“Fuck,” he says.
Her face warms. “You’ve seen this bra.”
“Don’t remember.”
She tilts her head. “You took it off with your teeth.”
“Must’ve been distracted.”
He bends before she can answer, mouth closing over one breast through the lace. Her head drops back. The thin fabric turns damp and warm under his tongue as he mouths her through it, one hand slipping beneath the other breast to lift it while his thumb presses over the sensitive peak. He sucks harder. Pleasure catches bright and immediate low in her stomach, dragging a helpless sound from her throat.
Garrett hums against her, he likes this part too much. Seeing the change in her breathing. Feeling her thighs shift more restlessly around his hips. Learning which pressure makes her voice climb and then repeating it with the focused persistence he brings to anything he has decided matters.
“You’re so fucking pretty,” he murmurs, mouth moving across the centre of her chest. “Know what you looked like all week?”
She swallows. “What?”
“Like you were thinking about me.”
“I was doing other things.”
“Mm.” He slips one finger beneath the edge of the bra and drags it slowly along the skin there. “Didn’t say you weren’t.”
His mouth finds the other breast. One hand reaches behind her, and the clasp opens with the efficient little flick he’s far too proud of having mastered. Garrett pulls the straps down her arms, drops the bra beside them and immediately puts his mouth back on her.
His lips closing around one nipple while his hand covers the other, squeezing and rolling it between two fingers until her whole body pulls tight beneath him. She grabs at his curls. “Oh, fuck.”
Garrett looks up at her without lifting his mouth, dark eyes warm and wicked beneath the hair falling over his forehead. He gives one slow suck, then releases her with a wet little sound. “Sensitive tonight.”
“It’s been days,” she whines.
“Four.”
“That’s days.”
“My poor baby.” His voice drops into false sympathy while his thumb circles the damp nipple he has left behind. “Been walking around all needy because her boyfriend had practice?”
“I’ve had exams.”
“Those are over.”
“Exactly.”
His grin presses against the skin beneath her breast. “So now you’re mine.”
The words send a hot, liquid pull through the centre of her body.
Garrett feels the way she shifts against him. His hand slides down her stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of her shorts. “These off?”
She lifts her hips. He drags the shorts and underwear down together, impatient once they catch around her thighs, his mouth following the movement over her stomach and hip. The clothing disappears over one ankle and lands somewhere beyond the bed.
Garrett spreads her knees. The air touches her first. Then his eyes, and his face changes.
There’s something shamelessly gratifying about Garrett looking at her like this, the same boy who can stand beneath arena lights in front of thousands of people without blinking now visibly losing the thread of his own breathing because she is naked on a dorm bed. He presses one palm against the inside of her thigh and opens her wider. “Baby.”
She covers her face with one arm. “Don’t make it weird.”
“Make what weird?” His thumb skims along the crease where her thigh meets her body, close enough that her hips lift toward it. “How wet you are?”
Her entire face heats behind her arm.
Garrett laughs softly, then kisses the inside of her knee. “That’s not weird. That’s hot.”
“Garrett.”
“Been like this since I got here?”
She lowers her arm just enough to glare at him.
His mouth curves. “Longer?”
“Come here,” she groans.
“I am here.”
“Higher.”
“No.” He presses another kiss farther up her thigh, then another, slow enough to make every inch between his mouth and where she needs it feel deliberate. “Like it down here.”
She knows that. Everyone in a three-mile radius may know that.
Garrett Graham treats getting his mouth between her thighs less like foreplay and more like a personal calling. He’s arrived late to parties because he refused to stop. He’s missed the beginning of a movie, let Tucker’s dinner go cold and once remained there long enough that she had to pull him up by the hair and remind him she possessed other body parts.
Now he settles onto his stomach like this is where he intended to spend the evening, one arm hooking firmly around her thigh while the other hand spreads her open.
His first lick is slow. It moves from low to high with the flat of his tongue, collecting the wetness already gathered there before pressing deliberately over her clit. Her hips lift from the mattress. Garrett keeps her there with his forearm and does it again.
“Fuck,” she breathes.
His mouth closes over her. There’s nothing tentative about the way Garrett eats her out. He licks like he’s hungry and has never been embarrassed by appetite, tongue circling and flattening and flicking until her legs are tense around his shoulders and the fitted sheet has begun to twist beneath her hands. He kisses her between strokes, wet open-mouthed presses that feel obscene in the quiet room, then drags his tongue lower and pushes it inside her.
Her breath punches out. Garrett groans into her. The sound vibrates through her body, low and rough, while he fucks his tongue into her with one hand still holding her open. She reaches down blindly, finds his curls and pulls, to keep him exactly there.
He understands. His fingers tighten around her thigh. “Missed this,” he murmurs against her, the words broken by another slow lick.
“You saw me yesterday.”
“Didn’t do this yesterday.”
His mouth closes over her clit again before she can argue, sucking with enough pressure to make her legs jump. She gasps his name. Garrett answers by pressing two fingers against her entrance.
He pushes one in first, slow only because her body is already clenching around the intrusion. The second follows quickly, stretching her with the familiar pressure that makes her thighs fall wider even as the rest of her pulls tight.
His fingers curl. Pleasure strikes deep and sharp, the angle exact enough that her back arches from the mattress.
“There,” Garrett murmurs.
She makes a sound that has no language left in it. His fingers begin moving properly, pumping into her while his mouth stays fixed on her clit, the rhythm deliberately uneven at first as he listens to her breathing and watches the twitch of her stomach. Then he finds it. The pace that makes her hips start chasing him, makes her fingers clench in his hair and her other hand grab uselessly at the pillow beside her head.
The room has narrowed to wet heat, the sound of Garrett’s mouth and the steady drag of his fingers and rain brushing softly at the window like the whole campus has agreed to look away.
“Oh my God,” she whimpers. “Baby, I’m–”
Garrett moans against her, his fingers curling harder. He knows. The fact that he knows makes it worse. She comes with her thighs clamping around his head and his name breaking high out of her throat. Pleasure rolls through her in hard, pulsing waves, stomach tightening beneath the drag of his forearm while Garrett keeps licking her through it, slower only when her body begins jerking away from the sensitivity.
By the time he lifts his mouth, she’s breathing like she’s run somewhere.
Garrett wipes the lower half of his face against the inside of her thigh with no dignity whatsoever and starts kissing his way back up her body. Her skin feels loose and over-warm beneath him, every place his mouth touches sparking faintly in the aftermath.
He kisses her stomach, between her breasts, the base of her throat. Then he comes over her and catches her mouth.
She tastes herself immediately. Garrett doesn’t ease her into it, tongue sliding between her lips while one hand wraps around the side of her neck, thumb resting beneath her jaw and fingers spread gently along her pulse.
The hold is firm without pressure. Familiar. Enough to keep her face angled exactly where he wants it while he kisses her slow and filthy, swallowing the little post-orgasm sound she makes when his hips settle between her thighs again.
He pulls back by half an inch. “Hi,” he murmurs.
Her mouth curves before she can stop it. Her body is still humming, muscles heavy against the mattress. “Hi.”
Garrett kisses her once more, quick this time, then brushes his nose over hers. “Roll over.”
His eyes are dark, cheeks flushed and mouth still wet from her. Whatever version of Garrett arrived smiling at her door has disappeared beneath something rougher and hungrier, the easy confidence sharpened now that he has her naked and loose beneath him.
She turns. The movement exposes the tattoo before she remembers it exists.
For the last twenty minutes, she’s been too occupied by Garrett’s mouth to think about anything except Garrett’s mouth. Now she settles onto her stomach, forearms folding near the headboard while the cool air brushes over her back.
Behind her, the mattress shifts. Garrett stands long enough to shove his sweats and boxers down, fabric dragging over his thighs before landing somewhere near the edge of the bed.
Then his hand slides over the back of her thigh. He lifts one knee onto the mattress, catches the pillow near her head and says, “Up a little, baby.”
She raises her hips obediently. Garrett tucks the pillow beneath them, adjusts her with both hands and goes completely still. Every muscle in her body remembers at once.
Her eyes widen into the pillow. “Baby–”
Garrett’s hands close over her hips before she can turn. Firm enough that the message is immediate. Stay.
She swallows. The room is silent behind her.
Garrett’s thumbs rest on either side of her lower back, just beneath the small square of skin where the tattoo sits. She can feel him looking at it. The attention is almost physical, a line of heat dragging across the freshly settled numbers.
“Fuuuck,” he says eventually.
The word leaves him slowly, low enough to move through the mattress. She tries to glance back over one shoulder. His grip stops her from twisting too far.
“Is that real?”
The disbelief in his voice makes her want to laugh, though her stomach has gone tight beneath the pillow. “Mhm.”
“Is that…” He trails off. His thumb moves closer, hovering beside the tattoo without touching the healing skin. “That’s forty-four.”
She presses her face into her forearm. “Yeah.”
“When?”
“The other night.”
“What other night?”
“The girls’ night.” She bites her lip. “When we went out to the bar.”
Garrett says nothing. The silence stretches long enough that the heat in her body begins rearranging itself around nerves. She had imagined Garrett shocked. She had imagined him smug, turned on, maybe insufferable enough that she would have to threaten to remove his number with a vegetable peeler.
She hadn’t imagined silence.
She pushes herself onto one elbow. “Baby, are you… are you mad?”
“Mad?” His hands tighten and release against her hips. “I mean– shit. It’s…” He breathes out hard through his nose. “Baby, that’s a tattoo.”
“Yes.”
“That shit’s permanent.”
“I know how tattoos work,” she breathes.
“I’m just saying.” He sounds dazed. “You put my number on you.”
She turns her face enough that she can see part of him over her shoulder: broad chest, flushed skin, curls fallen over his forehead, eyes fixed helplessly on the tiny forty-four as though it's altered the known structure of the universe.
“Well,” she says, and the laugh caught in her voice makes it softer than she intended. “I love you.”
Garrett’s gaze lifts to her face.
She shrugs carefully beneath his hands. “And I think it’s hot.”
His mouth opens. Closes. Then his hand slides over her ass. The touch is slow, almost absent at first, his palm following the curve of one cheek while he continues staring at the tattoo. His thumb presses into the soft flesh. His fingers spread wider.
“Hot,” he repeats.
“Mhm.”
“You think this is hot.”
“I did when I got it,” she nods.
Garrett bends. His mouth lands on the curve of her ass, one open kiss followed by another. She gasps softly when his teeth catch the lower edge of one cheek, biting just enough to sting before his tongue smooths over the mark.
“Garrett.”
He kisses higher, across the small of her back, careful when he reaches the tattoo. His mouth stops just beneath it, breath warm over the healing skin without touching.
“No liquids on this yet, right?” he asks, voice rough.
A giggle slips out of her before she can stop it. “Not yet.”
Garrett closes his eyes. She feels the exhale against her lower back. “Fuck.”
His hands move suddenly. One catches beneath her hip and pulls her higher over the pillow. The other spreads firmly between her shoulder blades, pressing her chest down as Garrett shifts closer behind her.
She feels the blunt heat of him at her entrance. “Baby–”
He pushes in. The first thrust is controlled only in the technical sense that Garrett doesn’t injure either of them. He fills her in one hard, steady drive, stretching her around him so quickly that her mouth falls open and the sound tears out before she can soften it.
“Oh, fuck, Garrett.” His fingers dig into her hip. “Holy shit.”
He withdraws nearly to the tip and drives back into her. The force sends her forward against the pillow, breasts dragging over the sheets while pleasure catches deep and hot through her body. She reaches blindly for the headboard. Garrett catches her other hip and sets a rhythm before she has finished taking the second breath.
Hard. Fast. No adjustment period because her body is already wet and open from his mouth, already clenching around him with every rough stroke. The bed knocks softly against the wall. Her dorm mattress squeaks beneath them with increasing distress.
Garrett’s breathing turns ragged behind her. “This is…” Another thrust drives the sentence out of him. “Shit. This is the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”
She whimpers into the pillow. His palm comes down against the side of her ass – a sharp, hot smack that makes her body jerk and tighten around him.
Garrett groans. “Fuck, baby.”
Her hands lose their grip on the headboard. One slips back toward him, finding nothing but his thigh for half a second before Garrett catches her wrist and pins it against the centre of her back. The position lifts her shoulder slightly and arches her deeper over the pillow. Garrett looks down at the curve of her ass. His cock disappearing into her. His number sitting neat and dark above all of it.
Something in him breaks. He fucks her harder. There’s no uncertainty left in the movement now. Garrett’s hips slam against her with enough force that the bed shifts beneath them, one hand holding her wrist while the other grips her hip and drags her back to meet every thrust.
The room fills with the wet slap of their bodies, her broken moans and the low, filthy things Garrett keeps saying every time the sight of the tattoo seems to hit him again.
“My fucking number.” She nods into the pillow, though he cannot see it. “On this ass.” His hand tightens around her hip. “Jesus Christ. You’re insane.”
The laugh that tries to leave her turns into a cry when he changes the angle, lifting her slightly higher and driving in deeper. “Oh God!”
“That it?” Garrett’s voice is rough and breathless now, all the usual smug control fraying at the edges. “Right there?”
“Yes.” She twists her pinned hand beneath his palm. “Baby, yes.”
He gives it to her again. Same angle, harder. Her whole body pulls tight. The pleasure is building too quickly, dragged out of the soft aftershocks of the first orgasm and sharpened by every deep stroke. Her thighs have begun to shake against the mattress, knees slipping wider while Garrett keeps her exactly where he wants her.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Pretty girl can’t even hold herself up.”
She presses her forehead harder into the pillow, voice breaking. “You’re fucking me too hard.”
“You want me to stop?”
She shakes her head so fast her cheek drags against the pillowcase.
Garrett’s hand leaves her wrist only so he can reach around and catch her jaw, turning her face enough that he can see it over her shoulder. “Use your words.”
“Don’t stop.” Her eyes meet his badly from the angle, vision already blurred at the edges. “Please, baby. Fuck me.”
His expression goes wrecked. “Good girl.”
He pushes her hand back to the mattress and drives into her hard enough that the next sound comes out of her as a sob. The orgasm hits before she has time to announce it. Her body clamps around him, hard pulsing contractions that make Garrett swear and lose the rhythm for one brutal second. Then he keeps going, fucking her through it while her legs tremble and her fingers claw at the sheets.
“Garrett,” she cries.
“I know.” His hand spreads over the side of her ass, holding her open. “I know, baby. Give it to me.”
She comes apart around him, hips jerking beneath his grip. Pleasure rolls through her so hard that her ears ring faintly, body suspended in the bright, breathless place where everything hurts in exactly the right way.
Garrett doesn’t stop. He slows for perhaps two strokes, just enough to let her breathe, then pulls her hips higher again.
“Baby,” she gasps, oversensitive and loose beneath him.
His palm slides gently along her spine, avoiding the tattoo, while his hips continue moving. “You good?”
“Yes.”
“Still want me?”
“Yes,” she breathes, the answer comes without hesitation.
Garrett bends and kisses between her shoulder blades. “Then take it.”
His pace builds again. The third climb is different. Messier. Her body is already shaken open, every nerve sparking too close to the surface while Garrett keeps driving into her with the relentless focus of somebody who has discovered a new reason to lose his mind and intends to study it thoroughly.
He reaches beneath her, a two fingers find her clit. She squeals.
Garrett laughs once, breathless and filthy against her shoulder. “There she is.”
“I can’t,” she whines.
“Yeah, you can.”
His fingers circle faster while his hips maintain the same punishing rhythm. She tries to close her legs, but Garrett’s knees are between hers, keeping her open. The pressure builds with nowhere to go, every thrust feeding it higher while his number burns invisibly at the base of her spine under his fixed attention.
“My girl,” Garrett says. “Look so fucking good with my number on you.”
She nods helplessly.
“Whose good girl, huh?”
Her mouth opens. Nothing useful comes out. Garrett’s fingers slow. The loss is immediate. She whines and pushes back against him.
He catches her hip. “Asked you something.”
“I am,” she gasps.
“Yeah?”
“I’m your good girl.”
The words hit him like contact. Garrett groans and drives into her, his fingers returning to the exact pressure she needs. “That’s right.”
Her third orgasm catches at the edge for one impossible second, body stretched between too much and not enough. Then Garrett’s thumb presses harder.
She comes with a sharp little cry that turns into a squeal halfway through, legs shaking so violently the mattress trembles beneath her. Her arms give out completely. Garrett catches her by the waist before she collapses awkwardly, holding her up while he keeps moving through the contractions with short, desperate strokes.
“Fuck.” His forehead drops between her shoulder blades. “Fuck, baby.”
She’s barely inside her own body now. Everything feels warm, loose and distant, Garrett’s hands the only clear edges left. He slows. His breathing is rough against her skin. His cock is still hard inside her, every small movement enough to make her twitch.
She swallows, trying to rebuild language. “Lemme…”
Garrett stills. “What?”
She turns her head toward him, cheek against the sheet. “Want you to finish… in my mouth.”
The words come soft and dazed. She tries to roll. Her body responds in pieces, thighs trembling beneath her and arms gone soft enough that Garrett takes over almost immediately, pulling out with a low, wrecked groan before catching her hip and turning her carefully onto her back.
He snatches the pillow away before it can drag across the tender skin at her lower spine, tosses it somewhere toward the wall and hooks both hands beneath her arms to draw her upright.
For a second, she only sits there between his knees, naked and thoroughly ruined, hair tangled around her flushed face and lips parted around breaths that still haven’t found a sensible rhythm.
Her thighs keep giving tiny, involuntary tremors against his, the room blurred pleasantly at the edges while Garrett kneels in front of her with his chest heaving and his cock hard, wet and flushed between them.
He looks at her like she’s done something genuinely dangerous. The tattoo. His number sitting permanently above her ass, still hidden from this angle and branded into the centre of his brain now that he knows it exists.
His hand comes to her face, thumb dragging slowly over her swollen bottom lip. “Look at you.”
She turns her mouth into his palm and kisses it, then reaches for him. Garrett’s breath catches when her fingers wrap around his cock. He’s slick from her and from himself, hot and heavy against her palm, and the first slow stroke makes the muscle jump visibly beneath his stomach.
“Baby,” he groans.
She looks up at him through lashes still damp from everything he has already done to her. Her body feels boneless, loose and warm enough that even lifting her chin requires concentration, but wanting him is simple. Wanting to give something back after he has spent the last hour pulling pleasure out of her until she could barely remember her own name feels simpler still.
She loves him. Stupidly. Completely. Enough to put his number into her skin and kneel there afterward with her legs shaking, wanting to watch his face when she makes him lose whatever control he has left.
Garrett cups the back of her head. His fingers sink into the tangled hair there, holding without directing her, his thumb moving once near the base of her skull. “You don’t have to, baby.”
“I want to.” The answer comes quiet and a little hoarse.
Something in his face shifts. His jaw tightens, eyes dropping briefly to her mouth before finding hers again. “Yeah?”
She nods and leans forward. The first drag of her tongue along the underside of him tears a rough sound from Garrett’s chest. She feels it more than hears it, low and helpless above her while she kisses the tip, lips closing softly around him before taking him into her mouth.
Garrett’s head falls back. “Fuck.”
His hand tightens in her hair as she works him deeper, tongue flattened beneath the hot weight of him while her fingers curl around the base. She’s sloppy from exhaustion and want, mouth already wet, movements slower than they usually are because her whole body is still recovering from him.
Garrett seems to like that more. The soft mess of it. The way she has to pause for breath with her lips still brushing him. The way she looks up at him like there’s nowhere else in the world she has any interest in being.
“That’s my girl,” he breathes. “Fuck, you’re so good to me.”
The praise moves warmly through her, settling somewhere lower than the soreness and higher than her ribs. She takes him again, deeper this time, cheeks hollowing as her hand follows the rhythm her mouth sets. Garrett looks down, and his expression breaks open.
She can see the tattoo still living behind his eyes, the disbelief of it layered into every filthy, affected look he gives her. His girlfriend kneeling between his thighs with his cock in her mouth and his number newly inked above her ass. The thought appears to have stripped away the final useful part of his brain.
“Jesus Christ,” he says, voice catching when she swirls her tongue around the head. “You put my number on your fucking body and now you’re looking at me like that.”
She hums around him. Garrett’s stomach jerks. His hips push forward on instinct, not enough to take over, only enough to slide him deeper across her tongue. Her eyes water faintly. She keeps looking up at him through the blur, one hand braced against his thigh and the other stroking what she cannot fit.
His thumb brushes gently beneath one of her eyes, catching the dampness there. “So fucking pretty.”
Her thighs tighten beneath her. She takes him again, eager despite how tired she is, mouth moving wetly over him while Garrett praises every little thing she does as though he cannot stop the words now that they have started.
“Good girl. Just like that.” She sucks harder. “Fuck, baby, your mouth.” Her nails catch lightly against his thigh. “Love when you look at me.”
She does. She watches every part of it: the tension sharpening his jaw, the rise and fall of his chest, the way his curls cling slightly at his temples, the hard flex of his stomach each time she takes him deep enough to make his breathing fail.
Garrett’s fingers spread more securely over the back of her head. “You know how fucking crazy you make me?”
She pulls back just far enough to breathe, her hand continuing its slow movement over him. A thin line of saliva connects her bottom lip to the flushed head before breaking, and Garrett watches it disappear with an expression bordering on pain.
She kisses him there once. “How crazy?”
He gives a breathless laugh that contains no real humour. “You tattooed forty-four above your ass.”
“Mhm.”
“Then let me fuck you until your legs stopped working.”
She smiles, dazed and soft. “They still work.”
“Barely.”
His thumb passes over her cheek. She turns and kisses it, then takes him into her mouth again before he can say anything else. Garrett groans her name.
The sound makes her try harder, because she loves hearing him come apart for her. Loves that Garrett, who carries entire games on his shoulders and makes confidence look effortless, cannot hide a single thing when her mouth is on him. Every rough breath belongs to her. Every flex of his hand in her hair. Every broken piece of praise dragged out of him while she strokes and sucks and watches him lose control.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Fuck, baby. Don’t stop.”
She doesn’t. Her hand slides lower, fingers tightening around the base as she takes him deeply enough that her throat works around him. Garrett’s hips jerk once. His free hand braces hard against the wall beside her bed, forearm flexing while he tries to hold himself still.
“Gonna come,” he warns, voice wrecked.
She looks up at him and keeps moving. Garrett says her name again, rougher this time, but she only tightens her lips around him and strokes faster, wanting it. Wanting all of him. Wanting the moment his face finally loses every trace of control because of her.
His eyes drop to hers. That does it.
Garrett comes with a deep, broken groan, hips pushing forward once as his hand tightens helplessly in her hair. She takes him, swallowing around the first hot pulse while his whole body shudders above her.
“Good girl,” he breathes. “Fuck– such a good fucking girl.”
The praise turns even rougher as she keeps her mouth around him through every pulse, swallowing everything he gives her while his fingers stroke shakily through her hair. She doesn’t pull away until he has gone sensitive, easing him gently from between her lips before pressing one last kiss to the tip.
For several seconds, neither of them speaks. Garrett stands over her panting, one hand still cradling the back of her head while she kneels between his thighs with flushed cheeks, wet lips and the loose, pleased smile of someone who has been fucked far too thoroughly to experience shame.
His eyes move over her face. Then past her shoulder, toward the lower half of her body as though he can somehow see through her.
“Fuck,” he says again, apparently the only word left available to him. “Roll over. I need to see it again.”
She starts laughing. “Garrett.”
“Please.”
“You’ve seen it.”
“Not enough.”
Her legs are not especially reliable, so Garrett handles most of the repositioning. He lowers her carefully onto her stomach, makes sure the sheet beneath her is smooth and then shifts down the bed until his face is level with her lower back.
He doesn’t touch the tattoo itself. He only rests one hand across the top of her ass and stares at the little forty-four with the solemn concentration of somebody studying an artefact behind museum glass.
She folds her arms beneath her head. “You’re being weird,” she mumbles.
“I’m having a moment.”
“You’ve been having a moment for, like, an hour.”
“Yeah, because my girlfriend got my number tattooed above her ass.”
“Lower back.”
Garrett looks up. “Baby.”
She presses her smile into her forearm.
His thumb strokes the skin beside the tattoo. “You really did this.”
“I really did.”
“For me,” he murmurs.
He kisses one cheek, then the other, his mouth soft now, all the feral heat of ten minutes ago settling into something heavier. His chin rests briefly near her hip.
“You won’t regret it?” he asks.
The question is quiet enough that she turns her face toward him. Garrett’s still looking at the tattoo, but the thought behind his expression has moved farther than the bed. Farther than tonight. Permanent isn’t an easy word for him, no matter how hot the evidence looks above her underwear. Permanent has always carried too many promises made by people who didn’t know how to keep them.
“I might regret letting Paige choose the bar,” she says. “I might regret wearing jeans to get it done. I’m almost definitely going to regret whatever you tell Dean tomorrow.”
Garrett’s mouth twitches.
“But not the tattoo.” Her fingertips move gently along her own forearms. “Even if something changed one day– and I’m not saying it will– I’d remember how I felt when I got it. I was happy. I love you. You’re my favourite thing in my life right now.”
“Right now?” he asks, because he’s still Garrett.
She groans. “Don’t ruin it.”
His laugh presses warm against the side of her hip. Then he kisses the skin just below the tattoo again, careful, lingering there without touching the ink. “My girl,” he murmurs.
She closes her eyes. Garrett stays behind her for another minute, one hand moving lazily over her ass while he continues looking at the number like he expects it to disappear if he blinks incorrectly.
Then he says, “Can I take a picture?”
Her eyes open. “Absolutely not.”
“For me.”
“No.”
“Baby,” he argues.
“You’ll show the boys.”
Garrett starts laughing, forehead dropping against her lower back. She can feel the effort he makes to avoid the tattoo.
“Fine,” he says. “No picture.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m memorising it.”
“You’ve been staring for ten minutes,” she giggles.
“Need another ten.”
She sighs into the pillow, but her body goes softer beneath his hand. Garrett kisses her hip once more, then crawls back up the bed and folds himself around her without asking her to move again. His chest settles against her back, one arm sliding beneath the pillow and the other wrapping around her waist.
His mouth finds the back of her neck. “You’re the sexiest person alive,” he says.
“Mm.”
“Objectively.”
“Garrett.”
“And fucking insane.”
She smiles into the pillow. “Yeah, well, you match my freak.”
His arm tightens around her. “Yeah,” he murmurs, laughter warm against her skin. “Definitely.”
to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.
summary: when your fierce independence collides with hockey’s favorite playboy, a hidden reality forces you both to rewrite the rules of your future. (7.2k)
pairing: dean di laurentis x reader.
content: accidental pregnancy, pregnancy, generational trauma, feelings of loneliness, childbirth (implied), angst, language, initial lack of communication, domestic fluff, hurt/comfort.
author’s note: this is based on a request by @maellatargaryen (this request is from a long time ago i do apologise i didn’t forget). this is the first time i’ve wrote a fic that is heavily related to pregnancy i think so first time for everything i guess (hehehe).
you kept your eyes glued to the frayed cuff of your knitted sweater, deliberately avoiding the couple sitting three chairs down.
you had been staring at that loose thread for at least ten minutes, tracing the weave of the yarn just to keep your gaze from wandering.
but you could still see them in your periphery.
the man was gently rubbing the woman's lower back, his thumb making small, reassuring circles through the fabric of her shirt.
every few seconds, he would lean in, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh—a soft, tired sound. she looked exhausted, but she looked completely safe.
a heavy, suffocating lump formed in your throat, and you looked down, your fingers instinctively pressing lightly against the flat expanse of your stomach.
there was nothing there yet, not to the casual observer. just a secret wrapped in layers of wool and denim.
it was your choice, you reminded yourself, repeating the mantra that had kept you upright for the last twelve weeks. you chose to walk out of his room. you chose not to call.
"he's not your father," your roommate and best friend, trinity, had argued just the night before.
she had been pacing the worn linoleum floor of your shared campus apartment, her eyes tracking you with a mix of fierce worry and frustration while you sat on the bathroom floor, throwing up into a plastic trash can.
"dean is a lot of things. he's a flirt, he's loud, he's a massive distraction, and he lives in a house that smells like stale beer and hockey sweat. but he isn't a monster. you have to tell him, or i swear to god i'm going to find tucker at the rink and have him do it for you." she sighed as you shook your head.
you knew trinity meant well.
you really, truly did.
she was the one who bought you saltine crackers at two in the morning, the one who held your hair back, and the one who looked up single-mother grant programs on her laptop when you were too exhausted to think.
she wasn't trying to force your hand out of malice; she just hated seeing you carry an entire universe on your shoulders when there was a perfectly capable guy who helped put it there.
but trinity didn't have your history.
she hadn't grown up listening to the bitter, cautionary tales of a mother who got pregnant at a college party by a boy (your father) who vanished into thin air the second the test turned pink.
she hadn't seen the quiet, exhausting toll of a woman working two jobs just to buy school supplies, always reminding her daughter that boys with bright smiles and big reputations were nothing but a beautiful trap.
to you, dean di laurentis was the ultimate manifestation of that danger.
he was briar university's golden boy, a hockey legacy with a jawline carved by the gods and an easy, effortless charm that made everyone in his orbit feel like the center of the universe.
he possessed a reputation for a rotating door of admirers that preceded him everywhere he went, from the campus coffee shops to the crowded lecture halls.
you had been one of those quiet admirers for semesters, harboring a private, desperate crush from the safety of the upper student section at the arena.
you were a psychology major, someone who spent her days analyzing behavior and defense mechanisms, yet you couldn't analyze yourself out of the way your chest tightened every time he took the ice.
then came a party in early november.
emboldened by a little too much vodka and the sheer, infectious electricity of the team's victory, you had actually pursued him.
you hadn't just watched from the corner this time; you had walked right up to him at the kitchen island, matched his easy, arrogant banter with a sharp wit he hadn't expected, and when the chance arose to leave the noise behind and go up to his room, you took it.
and god, he had been wonderful.
that was the part that terrified you the most.
he wasn't the careless, selfish playboy you had braced yourself for; he was attentive and entirely intoxicating.
he had asked you questions, looked at you like he actually wanted to hear the answers, and held you like you were something fragile and precious.
but when you woke up the next morning wrapped in his sheets, the freezing weight of reality had set in.
the morning sun filtered through his blinds, illuminating the hockey medals on his dresser and the stray red plastic cups on the floor.
you were just a tuesday night after a massive win.
to save yourself the humiliation of a polite, dismissive text three days later, you had gathered your clothes from the floor, slipped your shoes on, and walked out of his life before he even stirred.
three weeks later, the morning sickness had started.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
"patient 114?" a nurse called out, holding an electronic chart and looking around the waiting room with an expressionless, practiced gaze.
you swallowed the lump in your throat, stood up completely alone, and smoothed down the front of your sweater.
you walked past the couple, feeling the immense, crushing gravity of a secret that was growing bigger by the second.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the briar u campus was experiencing an unseasonably warm spring afternoon two months later.
winter had finally cracked, leaving the quad packed with students lounging on blankets, tossing frisbees, and desperately trying to absorb enough vitamin d to survive the final stretch of the semester.
you sat under the deep, cool shade of a massive oak tree near the psychology building. you were wearing a loose dress—a highly tactical choice. at five months, you couldn't hide the changes with just oversized hoodies and clever posture anymore. the dress camouflaged the distinct, rounded curve of your belly perfectly, as long as you remained sitting down with your knees pulled slightly toward your chest.
you opened your heavy developmental psychology textbook, trying to focus on a chapter about early childhood attachment styles, but the heat and the persistent, dull ache in your lower back were making your eyes heavy.
your mind kept wondering how you were going to afford a crib and how you were going to explain to a child one day why their father was just a face on a hockey trading card.
more than anything, you were determined to continue your studies.
you hadn't spent years maintaining a high gpa just to drop out.
you were going to graduate from briar, baby or no baby.
your due date was calculated for mid-august, right before the fall semester began.
it was going to be a logistical nightmare, juggling a newborn and upper-level psychology seminars, but you were already mapping out a rigid study schedule in your planner.
you would survive it.
you had to.
a loud, booming laugh echoed across the lawn, instantly making your chest tighten so fast you lost your breath.
you looked up from the pages.
a dozen yards away, the hockey team was walking back from an afternoon workout at the campus gym.
they were a loud, boisterous pack, trailing duffel bags over their shoulders and laughing at some inside joke.
at the very center of the group was dean.
his damp hair was pushed back from his forehead, his gray briar athletics t-shirt clinging to his chest, and that trademark, effortless smile was polished across his face as he joked with garrett graham.
your hand moved automatically to your stomach, protectively covering the life growing inside you.
you pulled your massive textbook higher up against your chest, freezing like a deer caught in the high beams of a semi-truck.
please don't look over here. please just keep walking to the dining hall.
dean was laughing, his shoulders shaking as garrett gestured wildly, but as his eyes scanned the quad, his gaze inadvertently drifted toward the shade of your tree.
you looked down instantly, staring so hard at a paragraph on cognitive dissonance that the black ink blurred into meaningless lines.
dean paused mid-stride.
his brow furrowed, his sneakers digging into the soft grass.
the easy, permanent smile faltered as a sharp, incredibly vivid memory flashed through his mind.
the specific, soft scent of your skin, the quiet, grounding confidence you had shown when you walked up to him at the party, and the sudden, confusing sting of disappointment he had
felt when he woke up to a cold, empty bed.
he had looked for you for weeks after that night.
he had asked around, looked through social media, but briar was a massive university, and you had intentionally made yourself a ghost.
"hey, dean, you coming or what? the burrito place fills up fast on thursdays," tucker called out, noticing his friend had suddenly dropped back from the group.
"yeah. go ahead, man. i'll catch up with you guys in a minute," dean muttered, his eyes locked entirely on the girl under the oak tree.
he started walking across the grass.
every step he took felt like a countdown to an explosion you couldn't prevent.
you saw his shadow fall over your open textbook, blocking out the filtered sunlight, before you finally forced yourself to look up.
"hey," dean said. his voice was softer than it usually was, completely stripped of the loud, easy bravado he carried around his teammates.
he rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically nervous, his fingers twitching against his duffel bag strap. "it's... you. right? from my place, a few months ago? you kind of vanished into thin air."
"dean. hi," you managed to choke out. your heart was hammering against your ribs so violently you were certain he could see it through your clothes.
your palms were slick with sweat against the cardboard cover of your book. "yeah. i—i have a class to get to, actually—"
terrified of what he might see if he looked too closely at your posture, you scrambled to gather your things.
but your balance was off, your center of gravity completely shifted by the pregnancy.
your coordination failed, and the heavy psychology textbook slipped from your fingers, hitting the grass with a dull thud.
papers and highlighters tumbled out.
you instinctively reached down to grab it, but the physical restriction of your five-month belly made the movement clumsy.
as you bent over, the fabric of your dress pulled tight across your torso, outlining the unmistakable and beautifully rounded curve of your stomach.
dean bent down at the exact same time to grab the book for you, his large hand reaching for the cover, but his movements froze entirely.
from his angle, right at eye level with your lap, there was no hiding it.
the truth was standing between you, loud and undeniable.
dean's eyes widened, the blue of his irises bright with absolute shock.
his mind, usually so quick with a joke or a strategic play on the ice, ground to a screeching, chaotic halt.
he looked from your stomach, up to your terrified face, and back down again.
the timeline crashed into his head like a brutal body check against the boards. late fall. the championship party. five months ago. the night she left.
"is that..." dean's voice cracked, losing all of its usual suave composure. he dropped the textbook entirely back into the grass, his hands hovering in the air between you as if he were afraid to touch reality, his fingers trembling slightly. "wait. hold on. is that mine?"
panic, cold and sharp as ice water, flooded your veins.
the judgment of the campus, the ghost of your mother's past, the terrifying fear of him laughing or calling you a liar—it all hit you at once, blinding your senses.
you grabbed your tote bag, shoving the loose highlighters inside with trembling hands, and pushed past him, your boots skidding on the dirt.
"i have to go, dean. just leave it alone."
"hey, wait. please. stop." dean scrambled after you, his long, athletic strides easily catching up before you could even reach the paved pathway.
he didn't grab you roughly, but he placed a gentle, pleading hand on your forearm, just enough to anchor you, his grip warm and remarkably steady despite his shock.
when you spun around to face him, you had tears blurring your vision, the quad spinning around you.
dean looked entirely breathless, his chest heaving under his t-shirt as he stared at you. there was immense shock in his eyes, yes, but beneath it, moving in like a tidal wave, was an intense, unexpected expression of sheer protectiveness.
"please don't run away again," dean whispered, his gaze dropping down to the curve of your dress, then right back up into your tear-filled eyes. "just... talk to me. please. you don't have to run."
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
an hour later, you were sitting in the farthest corner booth of a quiet, dim, off-campus diner that was usually empty between the lunch and dinner rushes.
the jukebox in the corner was dark, and the only sound was the low sizzle of the kitchen grill behind the counter.
dean had bought you a grilled cheese sandwich and a massive, condensation-covered glass of milk.
he hadn't forced you to say a word since he had guided you into his car. he just sat across from you, his large frame filling the vinyl booth, watching you with an intensity that made your skin prickle, his hands clasped tightly on the table.
"why didn't you tell me?" he asked quietly, breaking the long silence.
his fingers traced the ring of water left by his glass on the tabletop. "i've been racking my brain for the last hour trying to figure out if i did something wrong that night. what did i do? did i hurt you? did i make you feel like i wouldn't care? did i say something stupid?"
"no," you said, your voice cracking as you looked out the window at the passing traffic.
your fingers tore off a tiny piece of the sandwich crust, though your stomach was too twisted to eat. "you were great, dean. it wasn't you. it was... everything else. it was me."
"it's obviously not just you," he said gently, leaning forward, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that demanded honesty. "help me understand. please. because waking up to an empty room was bad enough, but finding out you've been carrying this around for five months by yourself? that hurts."
and then, because the weight of the last twenty weeks was simply too heavy for your shoulders to bear anymore, the dam broke.
the psychological walls you had meticulously built up over years crumbled into dust.
you told him everything.
you told him about your mother.
you told him about growing up in a tiny house where every bill was a crisis, listening to the story of a popular college athlete who had promised your mother the world under the red solo cup lights of a fraternity house, only to pack his bags and transfer schools the second the word baby was spoken.
you told him about the terrifying statistics of single-parent households you read in your text books, the deep-seated fear of being a burden, and the agonizing weight of those clinic appointments where you sat alone in a sea of happy, supportive couples.
"i looked at them, dean," you whispered, a tear finally escaping and slipping down your nose. "i sat there every month, watching these guys hold their wives' hands, carrying their bags, looking at the sonogram photos like they'd just won the lottery. and i was just... patient 114. i didn't want to see the look on your face if you thought i was trying to trap you. i didn't want to see you walk away like he did."
dean listened to every single word, his body perfectly still.
his jaw clenched tighter and tighter with every sentence that left your mouth, not with anger directed at you, but with a profound, simmering fury at the ghost of the man who had raised you to believe that all men were cowards.
his chest rose and fell heavily.
when you finished, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand, dean didn't hesitate.
he reached across the table, his arm bridging the distance between your separate worlds, and took your hand in his.
his palm was rough from hockey sticks, warm, and incredibly solid.
"i am not him," dean said, his voice dropping an octave, completely fierce and steady. there was no hesitation in his eyes, no panic, no calculation. "i don't care about my reputation. i don't care that we're still in college. this is my kid, too. and more importantly, it's you. i'm not going anywhere. do you hear me? i am right here."
you looked down at his large hand covering yours, desperately wanting to believe the warmth of it, but the old survival instincts were hard to kill.
"dean, you don't have to pretend for my sake. you have a life. you have scouts coming to games, you have a professional career ahead of you, you have your friends—"
"hey," he interrupted gently, his thumb rubbing circles against the back of your hand, mimicking the gesture you had envied in the waiting room months ago. "let's make a deal. no pressure. i know i have a lot to prove to you. just let me be your friend. let me carry your bags. let me take you to the doctor. let me show you that you don't have to do this alone anymore."
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
true to his word, dean shifted his entire universe within forty-eight hours.
the transformation was nothing short of a statistical anomaly to anyone who knew him.
the guy who used to sleep until noon on days off and survive on cold pizza and protein shakes was suddenly standing outside your dorm building at 9:00 am.
he would be waiting in his idling car, the passenger seat already stocked with saltine crackers and pre-packaged ginger ale because he had spent the previous night reading medical forums about morning sickness trends in the second and third trimesters.
at first, it was kind of awkward.
you were protective of your routine, used to relying only on yourself and trinity but dean was persistent in the most gentle way possible.
he became your shadow on campus.
he would meet you outside your difficult seminars, completely unbothered by the lingering stares and whispers of his teammates or the girls who used to follow him around the quad.
he would silently take your heavy canvas backpack from your shoulders, slinging it over his own massive arm alongside his hockey gear, and walk at your slower, deliberate pace without a single complaint.
"you know people are talking, right?" you asked him one afternoon as you walked toward the library, your hand resting on the small of your aching back.
"let them talk," dean said, shrug of his shoulders easy and unbothered. "they're just jealous i get to hang out with the smartest girl on campus. besides, tucker tried to ask me about it yesterday, and i told him if he didn't shut his mouth i would chuck him into the net during practice. he hasn't brought it up since."
you couldn't help the small laugh that escaped you, the sound surprising even yourself.
dean looked down at you, his eyes softening at the sound, a faint spark in his gaze that made your stomach do a completely different kind of flip.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
by the sixth month, your apartment had become a secondary storage unit. dean had told his parents. you had been terrified of that phone call, expecting high-society rejection, but his mother had apparently gone into full grandmother mode within thirty seconds.
huge boxes began arriving weekly—baby blankets, organic cotton onesies, a high-tech stroller, and specialized maternity pillows.
but the most significant change was inside dean's shared house. he had cleaned out the small spare room on the first floor, moving out old fitness equipment and broken hockey sticks.
in its place, he had moved in a massive, incredibly plush velvet rocking chair.
"what is this?" you asked, standing in the doorway of the room during a saturday visit where he had insisted on making you lunch.
"it's a glider," dean said proudly, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel as he stood behind you. "i read that the movement helps with lower back pain during the third trimester.
and, you know... just in case you ever want to visit and your back hurts, you have a place that's yours."
you looked at the chair, then at the hockey star who had bought it, feeling the cold, icy edges of your old trauma melting away a little bit more every day.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the true turning point came during the eighth-month ultrasound appointment.
the clinic waiting room looked exactly the same as it had during your first trimester—same low hum, same couples holding hands.
but this time, the space felt completely different. you weren't hiding under an oversized sweater, and you weren't staring at a frayed thread.
you were sitting next to dean. his large frame was crammed into the small plastic waiting room chair, his knees nearly touching his chin, but he didn't look impatient at all.
he was reading a pamphlet on newborn sleep cycles with a level of concentration usually reserved for analyzing a rival team's defensive plays.
"patient 114—sorry, i mean, by your last name?" the nurse called out, correcting herself with a warm smile as she recognized you.
you stood up, and before you could even reach for your purse, dean was already on his feet, grabbing your coat and slinging your tote bag over his shoulder.
he extended his free hand to you, his fingers open, waiting.
you hesitated for a fraction of a second before sliding your hand into his, letting his warmth steady you as you walked down the narrow hallway.
the ultrasound room was dim, the monitor glowing with a soft blue light.
you laid back on the paper-covered table, pulling up your shirt to expose the massive, high, tight curve of your eight-month belly.
dean sat in the chair right next to your head, his eyes wide as the technician squeezed the cold, clear gel onto your skin.
he didn't look away for a second, his grip on your hand tightening as the technician pressed the transducer against your stomach.
at first, there was only static—a rushing, hollow sound of fluids and movement. then, with a slight adjustment of the plastic wand, the audio cleared, and a loud, rhythmic sound filled the small room.
thump-thump, thump-thump.
"there we go," the technician said gently, pointing a finger at the grainy, gray-and-white screen. "there's a strong heartbeat. looks like baby is growing right on schedule."
you looked over at dean, expecting him to look overwhelmed by the sheer finality of the sound.
instead, you found him staring at the monitor with thick, silent tears streaming straight down his cheeks.
his jaw was slightly slack, a soft, breathless laugh escaping his lips as he stared at the little flickering shape on the screen.
"that's... that's our baby," he whispered, his voice thick and raspy with an emotion so raw it made your own eyes well up with tears.
he leaned over the edge of the table, completely unbothered by the technician's presence, and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to the back of your knuckles, his forehead resting against your hand for a long moment. "look at that, sweetheart. we made a little athlete. listen to that pace."
in that exact moment, the final, stubborn, defensive walls around your heart—the ones built by your mother's warnings, the ones built by years of watching men walk away from hard things—completely crumbled into nothing.
you realized that trinity had been right from the very start. dean wasn't your father.
he was entirely, undeniably his own man.
and he was already a father.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
by the time your ninth month arrived, the unseasonably warm spring had turned into the suffocating heat of late summer.
walking across the campus pavement felt like trekking through a desert, and your ankles had reached a level of swelling that made shoes feel like instruments of torture.
the platonic friendship dean had insisted on maintaining had grown desperately fragile over the last few weeks—not because it was failing, but because the sheer, undeniable gravity of the romantic tension between you had become too loud to ignore.
every touch lingered a second too long; every look held a weight that had nothing to do with doctor's appointments or crib instructions.
one evening, a thunderstorm was rolling in over the campus, the sky a bruised purple color that brought a temporary coolness to the air.
you were sitting on the plush sofa in dean's living room, surrounded by a mountain of freshly washed baby clothes that needed to be sorted into bins.
dean's teammates were away for the weekend, leaving the house uncharacteristically quiet, save for the low rumble of thunder outside.
dean was sitting on the hardwood floor right by your feet, a bottle of lavender lotion in his hand.
he had your bare, swollen left foot resting on his knee, his large, calloused thumbs working in slow, rhythmic circles across your arch with a level of focus that made your heart ache.
"dean?" you said softly, breaking the steady sound of the rain against the windowpane.
"yeah, sweetheart?" he murmured, his gaze remaining down on his hands, his thumbs never stopping their steady, soothing pressure.
"why are you doing all of this?" you asked. the question had been sitting on your tongue for weeks, a final, lingering piece of uncertainty that needed to be aired out. "the baby isn't even here yet. you've spent every weekend for months building furniture, reading parenting manuals, handling my moods, and taking care of me. you didn't have to go this far just to prove you're a good guy. you proved that a long time ago."
dean stopped his movements.
his hands remained cupped around your foot for a long, silent moment while the thunder rolled outside the house.
slowly, deliberately, he let go of your foot and shifted his weight, rising until he was kneeling on the floor right in front of you, his face level with yours.
he reached up, his hands large and incredibly warm as he placed them gently on either side of your face, his thumbs wiping away the sudden, familiar spike of anxiety in your eyes.
"you really are a psychology student, aren't you? always trying to find the hidden motive," he said, a soft, incredibly tender smile breaking across his lips—a smile that was completely devoid of his usual arrogance, leaving only the raw truth underneath. "i stopped doing this just for the baby a long time ago."
your breath hitched in your throat, your fingers tightening against the fabric of the baby blanket in your lap. "dean..."
"i love this kid, yeah. i would do anything for them," he confessed, his blue eyes burning into yours with absolute, unshakable certainty. "but i fell completely, totally in love with you. i love how fierce you are. i love how hard you tried to protect this baby from the world, even when you were terrified. i love the way you laugh when you think i'm being an idiot. i don't want to just be a great co-parent, and i don't want to just be the guy who carries your backpack. i want the whole thing. i want you."
your tears, warm and entirely relieving, spilled over your eyelashes, wetting his thumbs.
for the first time in your entire life, the ghost of your mother's past was entirely gone, vanished into the air like smoke.
there was no trap here.
there was only the beautiful, terrifying, certain reality of the man kneeling in front of you.
"took you long enough to finally say it," you whispered, a watery, breathless smile breaking through your tears.
dean let out a low, rough laugh as he leaned up the remaining few inches to press his lips against yours.
the kiss was sweet, slow, and full of a million quiet promises he had already spent the last four months keeping.
it tasted like rain and lavender lotion and home.
his fingers slid through your hair, holding you close, while his other hand moved down, flattening completely against the large, warm curve of your belly, feeling the faint, rhythmic kick of the life you had created together.
when he finally pulled away, just enough to breathe, he rested his forehead against yours, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones.
"we're going to be completely fine," dean whispered against your skin, his voice a fierce, unbreakable vow meant for both you and the little heartbeat inside you. "the three of us. i promise you. i'm right here."
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the rhythmic click of a ballpoint pen was the loudest sound in the massive, tiered lecture hall.
you sat in the middle row of your advanced cognitive psychology seminar, your notebook laid out flat on the folding desk, your hand flying across the page to copy down the professor's slides on memory retrieval mechanisms.
beside your desk, tucked safely into the wide aisle, sat a heavy car seat wrapped in a soft navy blanket.
inside, just thirteen weeks old, rowan di laurentis was dead to the world.
his tiny fists were curled up next to his cheeks, a soft, rhythmic whistle puffing past his parted lips with every breath.
when the professor paused to switch slides, you glanced down, your heart swelling with a fierce, possessive warmth.
rowan had been born right on schedule in mid-august, and while the rest of your class spent the last week of summer partying, you and dean had been operating on two-hour sleep cycles, mastering the art of the swaddle, and staring at this tiny boy like he held the secrets to the universe.
some of your classmates had looked surprised to see you walk in three months after college had began with a stroller, but you had just offered them a polite, unbothered smile.
you were going to be a psychologist and rowan wasn't a reason to stop—he was the reason to run faster.
you dipped your hand down, gently brushing your index finger against rowan's minuscule knuckles.
his tiny hand instinctively locked around your finger, holding on tight even in his sleep.
you smiled, unhooked your finger, and went right back to typing your notes.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
across campus, the atmosphere was entirely different.
coach jensen's whistle blew, a sharp, piercing sound that sent the players scattering toward the benches for a two-minute hydration break.
dean skated hard over to the boards, his chest heaving under his heavy briar jersey, his face flushed red from the intense cardio drill. but he didn't reach for his water bottle first.
instead, he skated right toward the end of the team bench where a familiar, high-tech stroller was parked just behind the safety plexiglass, safely out of the way of any stray pucks.
trinity was sitting on the bench next to it, typing on her phone, fulfilling her promised shift of baby duty while she studied for her own classes.
dean ripped his heavy padded gloves off with his teeth, dropping them onto the ice, and leaned over the boards.
rowan was awake now, wearing a miniature, custom-made briar hockey jersey over his onesie, his massive brown eyes staring up at the bright stadium lights.
"how's my little winger doing?" dean breathed, his voice dripping with an absurd, high-pitched softness that made garrett graham laugh from three feet away.
dean reached over the plexiglass, his hand gently resting against rowan's tiny chest, his thumb stroking the soft cotton of the jersey. "you being good for auntie trinity? you watching daddy's skating form?"
rowan let out a tiny, erratic gurgle, kicking one foot up.
"he's been perfect," trinity said, looking up from her phone with a smirk. "a lot better behaved than you usually are during practice, di laurentis. now drink some water before jensen screams at you."
"yeah, yeah," dean grinned, finally grabbing his water bottle and taking a long swig. he looked back down at his son, a fierce, determined spark in his blue eyes.
balancing division one hockey and fatherhood was the hardest thing he'd ever done, but he had never felt more alive.
he was going to give his kid the world, and he was going to do it right alongside you.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
later that evening, the winter heat finally broke as dusk settled over the town.
dean's black suv pulled into the gravel driveway of a small, neat house on the edge of the university district.
the porch light was already on, casting a warm, golden glow over the front steps.
dean hopped out of the driver's seat, walking around to your side to open the door before you could even reach for the handle.
he offered you his hand, pulling you up gently, his fingers lingering against your palm before he turned to unbuckle rowan's car seat from the back.
you walked up the steps together, the familiar scent of garlic and homemade pasta sauce drifting through the screen door long before you even knocked.
before your knuckles could even touch the wood, the door swung open.
your mother stood there, her apron tied around her waist, her eyes instantly bypassing the two of you to lock onto the plastic car seat in dean's hand.
a massive, radiant smile broke across her face, smoothing away the lines of a lifetime of hard work.
"there's my grandson," she beamed, her arms already reaching out as she stepped onto the porch.
dean smiled, handing the car seat over with a practiced ease that showed just how natural this had become for him.
"hi, mom. he slept the whole ride over." you smiled as your mother carried the seat inside, cooing at the sleeping baby.
you and dean stood on the porch for a quiet second.
dean looped his arm around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest, his chin resting comfortably on the top of your head as you both watched your mother unbuckle her grandson through the front window.
there was no ghost of the past in this house anymore.
there was no fear of a running man or a broken promise.
there was only the smell of a warm dinner, a grandmother's laughter, and the solid, heavy weight of the man who had promised to stay—and meant every single word.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the dining room of your childhood home was small, but tonight it felt entirely full. the air was thick with the rich, comforting scent of your mother's signature marinara sauce, a recipe that had historically been reserved only for birthdays or the rare moments when a budget stretch allowed for a celebration.
dean was sitting at the worn wooden table, a space that had only ever known the quiet presence of two women.
his massive, athletic frame practically engulfed the modest chair, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow against the floral wallpaper.
yet, he looked completely at ease.
he had rolled up the sleeves of his cotton blue shirt, exposing his forearms as he expertly navigated a massive bowl of spaghetti, passing it to your mother with a respectful, easy smile.
"seriously, alisha, this is incredible," dean said, calling your mother by her first name just as she had insisted he do three visits ago. "if you ever want to open a restaurant near campus, the entire hockey team would probably fund it. tucker survives entirely on frozen burritos and sheer willpower. he would cry if he tasted this."
a sound of genuine, lighthearted laughter escaping her lips as she leaned over to scoop another portion onto his plate. "don't flatter a woman, dean. but please, eat up. god knows you burn enough calories on that ice rink."
you watched them from across the table, your fork twirling slowly in your pasta.
a strange, dizzying wave of emotion hit your chest.
for twenty-one years, this room had been a fortress of caution.
it was the place where you sat while your mother meticulously balanced checkbooks, reminding you that reliance on anyone else was a vulnerability.
it was where you learned to be fiercely independent, wrapped in the protective armor of her warnings.
and now, briar university's golden boy was sitting in the center of it, arguing playfully with her about whether garlic bread should be baked or broiled.
from the corner of the room, a soft, low grunt came from the portable bassinet.
rowan was waking up, his tiny limbs stretching beneath his blanket.
before you could even set your fork down, dean's hand was already moving.
he caught your eye across the table, offering a reassuring nod.
"i got him, sweetheart. finish your dinner," he murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, intimate tone he reserved just for you.
you watched as he stood up, his tall frame moving with a practiced, gentle fluidity as he navigated the tight space between the table and the bassinet.
he reached down, his hands completely cradling rowan's tiny torso as he lifted him out.
rowan let out a tiny, soft squeak, his little face puckering before he settled instantly against dean's chest, his small head tucking perfectly into the crook of his father's neck.
dean walked back to the table, shifting rowan effortlessly to one arm while he picked up his fork with the other, completely unfazed by the logistics of eating one-handed.
your mother stopped eating.
she watched dean—watched the way his thumb absentmindedly traced small circles on the back of rowan's custom jersey, the way his eyes constantly flicked down to check on the baby's breathing, the way he didn't even hesitate to put his own comfort second.
when she looked back at you, her eyes were bright with a quiet, profound sheen of tears.
she didn't say anything out loud but she didn't need to.
the unspoken apology and the sheer validation of your choices was entirely written in the soft smile she gave you across the table.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
by eleven o'clock, the drive back to the campus apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the car tires against the asphalt and the steady, rhythmic breathing of a fast-asleep baby in the backseat.
the apartment was dark when you unlocked the door.
trinity was out for the weekend, leaving the small living space peaceful.
dean carried rowan inside, the car seat clicking quietly as he set it on the floor, while you carried the diaper bag and the heavy tote containing your psychology textbooks.
you dropped the bags by the kitchen counter, a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion finally settling into your limbs.
finals week was creeping up, the stack of case studies you needed to analyze was growing, and your body was still recovering from the monumental task of bringing a human into the world.
you leaned against the counter, closing your eyes for just a second.
two warm hands slipped around your waist from behind, a familiar, solid chest pressing into your back.
dean buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.
"hey," he whispered, his lips brushing against your jawline. "go take a hot shower. i'll handle the nighttime bath and get him down in his crib."
"dean, you have a 6:00 am video review session" you protested softly, turning around in his embrace to look up into his tired, beautiful blue eyes. "you spent three hours on the ice today. let me do it."
"absolutely not," dean smiled, a faint, stubborn dimple appearing in his cheek.
"we're a team, remember? you aced your seminar quiz today, you took ten pages of notes, and you didn't complain once when rowan spit up on your favorite sweater earlier. let me take the night shift, sweetheart. go relax."
you stared at him, the old, defensive instinct to say 'i can do it myself' rising to your throat out of sheer habit. but looking at the absolute, unwavering certainty in his gaze, you let it go.
you let the breath out of your lungs, your forehead coming to rest against his chest, right over the steady, pounding rhythm of his heart.
"thank you," you breathed into his shirt.
"anytime," he murmured, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to the crown of your head before stepping back and picking up the sleeping bundle from the floor.
half an hour later, you stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a plush robe, your skin warm and smelling of vanilla soap.
the apartment was silent.
you padded softly down the short hallway toward rowan's small nursery.
the dim, amber light of the moon-shaped nightlight illuminated the room.
dean was sitting in the massive velvet glider he had proudly bought months ago.
rowan was freshly changed, wrapped tightly in a swaddle blanket, fast asleep against his father's bare chest.
dean was rocking back and forth in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, his hand completely cupping the back of rowan's head.
he wasn't asleep.
he was staring down at his son, his expression so fierce, so intensely protective, it took your breath away.
in his lap, balanced precariously on the armrest of the chair, was his hockey playbook, his eyes flicking between the diagrams of defensive strategies and the tiny, perfect face of the boy in his arms.
he was balancing it all. the pressure of the scouts, the demanding expectations of his legacy, the exhaustion of college life—he was holding it all in his hands, and he wasn't letting a single piece drop.
you leaned your shoulder against the doorframe, a soft smile tugging at your lips.
dean looked up at the sound of your breathing, his eyes softening instantly as he caught sight of you. he didn't speak, not wanting to break the fragile silence of the nursery, but he extended his free hand toward you, his fingers open.
you walked across the small room, sliding your hand into his warm palm.
dean pulled you down gently until you were sitting on the wide armrest of the glider beside him.
he leaned his head against your hip, his grip on your hand tightening into a silent, unbreakable vow.
you looked down at the two of them.
the future was going to be chaotic.
there would be exams to study for while rocking a crying infant; there would be away games where you would have to manage the nighttime routine alone and there would be endless loops of exhaustion.
but as the glider rocked gently in the quiet apartment, the absolute certainty of his warmth against your skin told you everything you needed to know.
best friends don't call each other baby ! garrett graham x childhoodbestfriend!reader
summary.ᐟ when your new roommate observes your 'friendship' with hockey captain garrett graham, she can't help but think your relationship with your childhood best friend is more than platonic
notes.ᐟ 2 year age gap (garrett is a junior and reader is a freshman) occ as garrett didn't go to boarding school (whoops!)
"Jesus, women. Is there anything left in your house or did you pack it all?"
You turn to look at your bestfriend, your eye's shifting down to the brown cardboard box he was lifting up into his arms. The box was nearly busting at the corners, threatening to break at any moment from the sheer weight of its contents.
"G, be careful. That ones really heavy" You gasped, reading the 'books' label you had scrawled onto the side during packing.
Your concern didn't phase him, Garrett not even bothering to look over at your dramatic expression.
"It's fine, baby. I got it" He spoke, rolling his eyes as he shifted the heavy box into one arm before reaching up to close the trunk of his jeep.
You huffed in reply, your eyes drifting down to his arms before you could consciously register it. His biceps strained against the fabric of his t-shirt, looking as if the fabric could rip at any moment at the sheer size of his arms. His tan skin glowed under the sun, the box you had to get your mother to help you lift seeming as if it weighed nothing to him as he held it with only one arm.
The sound of the trunk door closing snapped you back into consciousness, silently cursing at yourself for checking out the boy you had been best friends with since the in 1st grade. Thankfully, Garrett didn't seem to notice your clear ogling.
"Ok, We should only have to do one more round after this" He said, referencing to the fact you only had two more boxes of stuff left to bring up to your dorm.
You nodded in reply, your arms wrapping around your own cardboard box you were holding. One admittedly much smaller and much lighter in comparison to the one Garrett had.
He looked at you for a moment to make sure you were ready before he began leading you to your dorm building.
Garrett was two years older than you, being a junior while you were just a freshman at college. Meaning that he knew his way around Briar while you were still currently clueless on the layout of campus.
The age gap between you never bothered you and Garrett much, until it meant he was going to college while you stayed stuck in your hometown.
Saying it was a shock to your system would be an understatement, going from living a few doors away from Garrett to him moving hours away to Briar U.
But, the distance didn't mean he let you go, even though a small part of you thought the second he went to college he would forget about you.
He called you multiple times a week, staying on the phone with you for hours while you updated each other on your lives until you eventually dosed off on facetime. Thankfully, Garrett also came home to visit during the year. Once whispering to you as he fell asleep in your arms that he only came to see you, and not his father or friends from highschool.
You really didn't plan on going to Briar U.
I mean sure, you would have loved to ended up here because of Garrett, but he isn't the reason you ended up enrolling.
Ok, maybe his presence had a little, tiny influence on your decision to apply in the first place
However, you had received a full ride scholarship to Briar. And you knew you couldn't pass up on it, refusing to burden your Mom with college fees she would refuse to let you get student loans for.
Garrett almost squeezed you to death when you told him about your enrolment, hugging you so tight you could barely breathe.
Although he strongly, strongly encourage your apply to Briar, he would never admit to you how much he wanted you here, knowing this decision was yours to make without his influence.
Garrett had drove back home the night before the day you were moving to Briar to help out. Despite your insistence that it was definitely not necessary, he didn't budge, arriving to your house with his signature grin slapped across his face as he told you how excited he was for you to be with him at Briar.
Both his and your mom's car was packed to the brim with boxes, both of them rolling their eyes at your obvious overpacking.
Garrett wiped the tears that rolled down your face as you said goodbye to your Mom, you insisting that she didn't have to stay to unpack the rest of your things from Garrets car as you knew more time would only make the goodbye worse.
You were now trudging up the stairs to your dorm, your legs embarrassingly sore from having to go up and down them all morning.
"Garrett, you really didn't have to do this" You huffed as you finally reached your level and began walking beside Garrett who had been a few steps infront of you.
"What are you talking about?" He responded dumbfounded, scrunching his eyebrows in confusion.
"Help me move in. You've been lugging boxes upstairs all day, and you start classes tomorrow as well. Go home, please" You sighed, feeling terrible guilt about him helping you all morning and having to drive hours to and from campus.
"First of all, Rude. And that's stupid, of course i'm gonna help you. Now shush" Garrett replied, shutting down your unnecessary worry and pushing the door to your dorm open.
You rolled your eyes at his comment, deep down relieved he truely wanted to help and didn't just feel obligated to. Because, knowing Garrett, he would have just said so.
Your eyes drifted into the expanse of your dorm room, boxes filling your side of the dorm as the other half lay bare. Due to it being the morning, you knew your roommate probably wouldn't arrive till mid-day, about an hour from now.
Garrett closed the door behind you as you drifted in, placing the box you were holding down on your bed. He followed closely behind you in your actions, effortlessly placing the heavy box he had onto your draw.
He swiftly waltz over to you, standing behind you at your position stood at the foot of the bed. Bringing his hands to wrap around you at your waist, he held you close to his body as his head dipped to your shoulders, burying closely into the crook of your neck.
It was the night of your sixteen birthday party that you first noticed you and Garrett acted in a way that was closer than being solely friends.
He stared closely at you as you blew out your candles, his normally stubborn and blank face cracking into a grin and a twinkle in his eyes. He held you close in his arms as you two were hidden away in the corner of the room away from your guests, tucking your hair behind your ear and kissing you tenderly on the crown of your head.
It was only when your friends observed your actions with Garrett that you first noticed this was more than what childhood friends do. You denied their comments to the grave that you were more than friends.
Because you genuinely believed it, oblivious to the fact that you two acted like more of a couple than anything.
"Who brings books to college?" He teased, observing the label that was scrawled onto the cardboard, remembering the other 'textbooks and assigned reading' box he had lugged up earlier, signalling these books were simply for pleasure.
You could feel his breathe littering goosebumps on your skin, his teasing intertwined with soft chuckle that make his words vibrate onto your skin.
Ignoring his smartass comment, you turned around in his arms to look up at him, his dark curls creating what looked like a halo around his head. His hands didn't move from your body of course, only shifting slightly to lay warm around your waist once again, his hands pressing against you as he caged you into him.
He only brought you impossibly closer to his frame as you rested your head into his chest, sighing into his black shirt as he brought his head down to rest atop of yours. Your hands now wrapped around as well, feeling how his back muscles rippled against your palms.
"I'm so fucking glad your here with me now" His voice was almost a whisper, filled with relief. You could feel his lips press against the top of your head as he placed a tender kiss upon your hair.
You lifted your head to look up at him, finding his eyes filled with adoration swimming in the dark brown of his irises.
"Me too, G. Missed you" You replied softly, always quick with your the admittance of your feelings.
His lips up turned into a smile at your comment, bringing a hand up to your face and cupping your cheek, dragging his thumb softly up and down on your skin.
A soft silence fell around you as you rested in each others arms, a sense of relief filling you both at being together again.
"Ok, gonna go get the last boxes. You stay here, yeah?" While the words Garrett said left his mouth like a question, you knew it really wasnt.
You nodded at his words, untangling yourself from his arms and watching him grin at you once more before opening the door and striding out.
The room felt cold without his presence, the white bareness of your sterile dorm becoming more clear to you now.
Softly peeling off the tape off one cardboard box, you lifted your folded sheets up and placed them on the desk. Your fingers softly smoothed the light pink fabric, dainty flowers decorating the sheet.
After a few minutes, more than it should have probably taken you, you had got all of your boxes off your bed, reaching over to grab your matress cover.
The sound of your turn knob turning rang through your ears, the door creaking softly as it was pushed open.
Instead of Garrett returning, a girl stood in the door, holding an overflowing box and a suitcase handle in another. She squealed excitedly as she almost ran into the room, placing the box down on the bed on the other side of the room and dropping the suitcase to the floor.
"You're my roomate!" She said joyfully, pulling you into a tight hug before you could process it.
"I am!" You replied, laughing softly as you hugged her back.
She pulled back, looking at you. "And you're so pretty! We are gonna have the best year"
You smiled at her compliment, happiness flooding through you that you're roomate you were nervous about meeting was so kind.
"It's so nice to meet you" You exclaimed, introducing yourself with your name.
"You too! I'm Phoebe" She replied, grinning from ear to ear.
"I got here a bit earlier so i just put my stuff down on a random side, but we can totally switch if you want" You said, Phoebe replying instantly with a shake of her head "It's ok, i don't mind"
You two began to chat as you floated to either side of your room, eventually making no progress in packing and sitting together on your bed.
You learned that she lived only a couple of hours away from Briar, and her parents were crying so much this morning she sent them on a mindless task to the administration office so she could have a moment of peace.
You laughed at her bluntness, but was interrupted shortly after by the door of your room opening once more.
"Baby, we really gotta talk about your hoarding tendancies-" Garrett started, his voice floating into the room before he cut himself off at noticing your roomate had arrived.
You jumped up at his arrival, watching as he stood awkwardly in the doorframe, the last two boxes in his arms.
"Oh! Phoebe, this is Garrett. Garrett, this is my new roommate, Phoebe." You said, drifting over to stand near Garrett's side as you introduced one another.
"Hello" Garrett said shortly, barely polite as he came back to your side after placing the boxes on your desk.
"Hi" Phoebe replied, waving at him softly with her hand
"He's just helping me move in" You started, breaking the heavy silence "I promise you he will not be in here often" Garrett rolled your eyes at your comment, knowing you didn't want to make your new roommate uncomfortable with the thought of him always lurking in your dorm.
She laughed at your comment, walking over to her suitcase and packing more things into her draws.
"I'm just gonna walk him out, be back in a sec" You said, grabbing Garrett's hand as Phoebe replied with a wave of her hand to signal 'no worries' as she continued unpacking.
The door of your room shut with a click as closed it, turning to Garrett infront of you.
"Isn't she so nice! I'm so relieved." You exclaimed to him.
He nodded at your comment, reaching down to your other hand so he was not holding both infront of him. "See, i told you. Didn't need to be so worried" His voice calm as always.
Whenever you were around Garrett, you noticed he always needed to be touching you in some way. Whether it was simply holding your hand, resting his palm on your lower back, or holding you in his arms.
He watched as your lashes fluttered softly against your cheek as you blinked, your smile so radiant he thought it would probably put literal angels from the heavens above to shame.
Your eyes floated down to his watch, reading the time and sighing to yourself. "Garrett, you're late to practice."
"Nah, can't be late. They don't start without me" He quipped, your eyes rolling at his arrogance.
"Thank you" You said softly, pulling him into a hug that he gladly reciprocated, wrapping his arms tightly around your frame.
"For what baby?" He replied, the less than casual but ordinary nickname rolling off his tounge smoothly
"For helping me. For being there for me, always" You breathed out, refusing to look at him as you spoke.
You felt his his hand come down to your face, bringing his finger under your chin and tilting your head to look up at him.
"Hey, don't do that. Don't thank me for that" He whispered, his voice soft and sincere.
Garrett brought his face down to yours, resting a searing kiss onto your forehead. "Always be there for you"
You smiled softly at his words "You're the best bestfriend a girl could ask for G"
His body tensed under yours so subtly you didn't notice, a soft "Yeah" falling from his lips at your words
"Ok, go to practice now please Mr. Graham" You said, jokingly pushing him away, oblivous to how his face had fallen slightly at your words.
"Call me later, okay? Need to know you're all good" Garrett said, you nodding softly at his comment.
"See you, Baby." He said, walking away as you replied with a small bye, watching as he neared the end of your hallway before taking one look back at you and grinning.
You found yourself sighed at the interaction, bringing your hand up to the doorknob of your room and walking in before shutting the door behind you.
"You know Garrett Graham!?" Phoebe almost shrieked, all composure from before dissipating as her tone made you jump in surprise.
You laughed, slightly shocked "You know Garrett Graham?" You mimiced back, only your tone was one of genuine confusion.
"Uh, Duh. Of course i know Garrett Graham. I don't think there's one person at Briar who doesn't. I think i saw almost 10 posters of him walking in to campus today alone" Phoebe said
You knew how popular Garrett was. It had been like that since Middle school. People parting way for him in a crowd, whispers as he walked past, eyes glued to him for no apparent reason anywhere he went.
It wasn't any different at Briar. Especially since Garrett was the captain of the Division I Hockey Team, and had a grin that could make your knees lock and your heart beat out of your chest.
You noticed the way girls watched him as he walked through the hallway of your dorm building. Conversations that had stopped the second he walked past, but never taking his eyes off of you to notice.
"Oh, right. Yes." You replied, not knowing what to say in the moment. Phoebe's face quickly morphed into one of horror before she replied in a ramble. "Oh my god. I'm so sorry, that was weird to say. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable"
"No, no. It's fine" You replied in earnest, laughing softly to lighten the mood.
"I'm just in shock that my roommate is dating Garrett Graham" She said, genuine in her words as turned back around from standing in front of you.
You nearly spit out your metaphorical drink at her words, your eyes widening. "Oh, um. Garrett's definitely not my boyfriend."
Phoebe quickly turned at your words, her face written with confusion. "Shit, sorry. I shouldn't have assumed" She said honestly, cursing herself for saying another thing that probably offended you.
"No worries, we're just close friends. We've known each other since we were little"
Her eyes glinted curiously at your words, raising an eyebrow but not saying anything more.
You squinted your eyes at her expression "What?" You asked, dumbfounded.
Phoebe looked at you more seriously now, staring at you as if she were looking into your soul. "Sweetheart" She started, a mischievous, knowing look on her face.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Synopsis: Nursing school has been taking every piece of you, but with the end slowly coming into sight, you finally feel as though you're walking the correct path in life. It isn't until tragedy strikes that you realize how fragile those paths can be. And how much the most unexpected people will come to mean to you.
Warnings: Depictions of car accidents, injury, trauma. Not really a warning but Dean and Beau call reader Bub/Bubs. I know it's cringe. It's supposed to be.
Also, a little note, I went through a tiny amount of nursing school but I never made it to clinicals so I'm not 100% sure how they work but we're just rocking with it lmao.
I'm getting tired even for a phoenix
"Twenty year old male, trauma to the head and chest."
Drip.
Rain drums steadily against the hospital's roof as you scrub your hands.
"Shock advised. Stand clear of patient."
Drip.
He had only been a couple years younger than you. The thought makes you scrub your hands harder, angrier.
"Clear!"
The faucet shuts off, but you don't remove your hands from beneath it. The water dribbles down the edges of your fingers, landing with soft plops into the sink.
Drop.
"Time of death: Nine fifty eight."
No one said that nursing clinicals would be easy. Quite the opposite, actually. Many people had advised you that it was going to take everything out of you, that the hours would be long and hard. But no one could have prepared you for this.
No one could have prepped you for how working in the field would give you the perspective that maybe life was much more fickle than you could've ever imagined.
How in one moment you could be breathing, laughing, loving. And in the next, your life could be ripped away from you without hesitation.
On the way out of the hospital, the head nurse stops you, gives you the kind of smile that says, 'I know, kid. I've been there.' She doesn't say much, though. She tells you that you did good, that often being a nurse means being there for people in the scariest and hardest moments of their life. That it'll all pay off in the end.
But in that moment, you couldn't help but wonder if it was really worth it. If it was worth the hours, the lack of sleep, if you could stomach seeing people at their most vulnerable.
Not wanting to be alone for the night, you head to the hockey house. Beau said he'd be there, and now more than ever, you feel it in your bones that you need your older brother.
Beau was the kind of person that was there for you no matter what. Rain or shine, happy or sad, he was always there. Right in your corner. He had picked you up on endless occasions, never letting you be down for too long. If you were afraid of the future or afraid of failure, he knew all the right things to say to make you feel better.
And you needed that tonight.
"Hey, bubs!" The voice that picks up the call isn't your brother, but he might as well be with how much he's around.
You can't help the smile that tugs at your face. "Hey, Dean. Where's Beau?"
There's a moment of silence, and then a loud crash in the background. Shouting ensues, and you pull the phone away from your ear as the noise ricochets against the silence in the parking lot.
Through laughter, Dean says, "He just knocked an entire tray of cupcakes off the counter."
Typical behavior from Beau. You love your brother more than anything, but sometimes he does things without thinking. You joked sometimes that it was his Achilles Heel. If not for that one little flaw, he would probably be the perfect person.
"What am I going to give her now?!"
Tucker, you think.
"Give who what?" You ask, unable to help that nosy little part of you. You hoped that her meant Allie, Hannah, or Grace. Then again, you didn't think that Tucker was seeing anyone. He was one of your best friends, and you were pretty certain he would've told you if there was a girl in his life.
Dean coughs awkwardly, then mumbles something.
"What was that?"
"Oh wow, look at the time. I need to go now. Bye bye bubs, see you in a bit!"
Dean clicks off the call quickly.
You shake your head, and throw your phone into your backpack. Thankfully, tonight was the last night of this rotation of clinicals. You could kiss the emergency room goodbye, and say hello to med surge. Christmas break was a beacon of light in your future, and you genuinely couldn't wait to step into that light.
---
Always risin' from the ashes
The hockey house is surprisingly dark when you pull up.
From the sound of it, you had thought that when you arrived that there would've been a party happening. But there are only the usual cars in the driveway and on the street. Not that you minded. Not really, anyway. A quiet night was exactly what you needed after your 12 hour shift.
The foyer is so dark it's nearly impossible to see as the door creaks open. Worry roils through your stomach.
Did something happen? Was there someone waiting for you in the dark?
Every horror movie ever flashes through your mind.
Just as you're about to back out of the house, all of the lights flick on, and Beau jumps out from behind the couch.
A startled scream tears from your throat as he shouts, "Surprise, Bubs!"
A relieved breath releases from your lungs. Beneath your palm, your heart hammers painfully against your chest.
In your peripheral, Tucker inches away from the kitchen island, and toward you with a single cupcake in his hands. The cupcake is a little lopsided, the frosting smeared across the paper. Tucker smiles sheepishly as you look from the cupcake to him. "Your brother may or may not have knocked every single cupcake off the table earlier. I managed to catch this one before it landed, though. Sorry it doesn't look so nice anymore."
There's a little sugar candy shaped stethoscope precariously placed on top of the frosting. The sight of it makes your chin wobble as tears prick at your eyes.
"You don't like it?" Beau asks quietly. He places a palm against your shoulder, dipping his head so that he can see into your eyes.
"It's not that," you pull the front of your hoodie up to your eyes and wipe across them with the fabric. "It was just a bad night. This younger guy was in a car accident that wasn't his fault and he died. It made me feel like a failure, you know? I couldn't even do anything to help him."
Mendin' all her gashes
Allie steps out of Dean's hold, her arms crossed over her chest. In the light, her features are severe, but you know that she isn't anything but. "Babe, you are not a failure."
"Feels like it," you say quietly.
"What did you tell me about nursing when we first met?" Tucker asks.
You think back to that version of you, back during the fall semester of your freshman year, when you shared statistics class with Tucker. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep more tears from spilling over. "That I wanted to be a nurse so I could help people? But I don't feel like I am-"
"Bub, you are seriously like everyone's little ray of sunshine," Dean interrupts. "Yeah, maybe you and your team weren't able to save his life in the physical sense. But I'm sure your presence brought so much comfort to him. Don't let this knock you down, okay? You have come so far. And we are all proud of you."
Beau smiles at you encouragingly. "I couldn't have said it better. I love you, kid. We're gonna get through this together."
Life could be scary, and you questioned yourself more than you liked to admit, but with your brother and the help of your friends, you knew that you could do anything you set your mind to.
---
The night ends on a cozy note.
A blue glow from the TV casts a dim light over the living room. You shift beneath your blanket, your fuzzy sock clad feet nudging against Tucker's legs as you move. "Sorry," you say quietly.
A small smile graces his features, but he doesn't look away from the TV. From the angle you're looking at him from, you realize how sharp his jaw is. Your eyes follow the ridge of his nose down to his lips, and you find yourself wondering what it would be like to kiss him.
It's not completely new. You'd always liked Tucker. He was kind, and had the sort of quiet strength that you had always been drawn to. But sitting beside him, you realize how badly you want to be able to curl up into his side without the barrier of friendship being there.
You say nothing about it, though, as you do just that. He smells like bergamot and pine as you lean into him, your head resting against his broad shoulder.
Everyone else is asleep, curled up in various places around the living room.
On screen, Edward shoves Bella out of the way, just as the car almost hits her.
"Man, this movie sucks. But I love it so bad," Tucker shifts, wrapping an arm around you. His fingers draw slow circles against your bicep. "It's so bad I'm drawn to it, you know?"
Beau always had an obsession with Twilight. It started when you were kids, and it truly had never faded. You get where Tucker is coming from, though. The books weren't awful, and you supposed the movies weren't necessarily awful either. But they also weren't good. They were comfort in a movie.
Tucker's other hand rests over the blanket on his lap, stained blue from the frosting. The sight tugs at your heart strings. He went through so much trouble for you, and you probably hadn't even seemed grateful for it.
"Thank you, Johnny," you murmur, voice muffled by the fabric of his sweatshirt.
He shifts again, "What for?"
Ever the humble guy. "The cupcakes. I'm sorry if I didn't seem happy about them. I just..I don't know, I think I'm finding out that I have a hard time dealing with certain things."
He makes a low noise that rumbles through his chest. "You have nothing to apologize for. What you're doing isn't easy. But we're here for you. Every step of the way, you hear me?"
"I hear you, Tuck."
He squeezes your upper arm affectionately. "Good. Hey, you're going home for Christmas in the morning, right?"
Honestly, you'd sort of forgotten that was tomorrow. "Yeah, actually. Why do you ask?"
Tucker sits up straight, "Could you look at me?"
Your heart kickstarts a little, beating a little more rapidly than it had been before. You sit up, the blanket falling around your waist. You're thankful for the oversized hoodie you stole from Beau, because right now, with the way that Tucker is looking at you, it makes you feel naked. "What's up, Tuck?"
He swallows hard, his jaw working as he flicks his eyes from you to the floor and back. His tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip. "Well, I-"
The front door swings open, slamming against the wall. You and Tucker both jump hard as Grace unceremoniously stumbles into the house. "Babe!"
Logan follows close behind, his face set in a grimace as he grabs his girlfriend. "Shit, I'm so sorry, guys. She might've had one too many drinks. Oh, shit, here..no...throw up in the trash, baby."
You stand quickly, mind in autopilot as you grab the nearest trashcan and rush toward Grace. Afterward, you get her settled with a bottle of water before making your way back to your spot beside Tucker.
"Sorry," you say. "What was it you were gonna tell me before that?"
Tucker shakes his head, shrugging it off. "Oh, yeah, it was nothing important. It can wait until you get back."
He says it like he means it, but honestly? You've never been so sure in your life that he was lying.
---
Wisconsin is cold, clearly in the hold of Jack Frost.
Moonlight sparkles off the snow, making it look like a winter wonderland. From your spot by the fireplace, you watch Beau and your grandmother interact. She laughs loudly at something he says, her head tipped back to the sky. He grins in response, clearly pleased with himself.
All night, your stomach had been in knots. You couldn't quite place the reason for it, just that you felt like something was wrong. Maybe it was because you'd left Briar on an open ending. Tucker had acted a little weird the morning you left, clearly feeling nervous about something.
hey, you type.
The little typing bubble pops up within seconds of your text sending. It disappears a few times before he finally sends something.
Hey :P doing okay? You can't help but grin at Tucker's text. For whatever reason, he had been boycotting genuine emojis for his own version.
feelin kinda anxious rn. idk why tho.
Can I do something to help you? Tucker responds.
"You about ready to leave, kiddo?" Your dad calls from the hallway, shrugging his big puffer over his shoulders.
No! Your gut screams.
You choose to ignore it. You were tired, and out of your typical routine. Of course you felt weird. "Yep, just need to grab my purse and say bye to nana."
Nana is a sweet old thing, her fingers worn from years of knitting and sewing. She smiles wide as you approach. "Bye bye my darling girl, I love you, I love you, I love you!"
She smells like home as you lean down to wrap her in a warm hug. "I love you, Nana. Take care until I see you next, okay?"
You move out of the way so that Beau can say goodbye. For whatever reason, it makes you want to cry.
Were you okay? Maybe your period was coming sooner than you thought. Yeah, that had to be it.
You nearly fall on the way out to the car as you race Beau to the car. Some things never change, and that was one of them. No matter how old you got, you'd probably always fight him over who got to sit in the front seat. The cool metal of the handle touches your palm first, and you stick your tongue out triumphantly.
The roads are slick, but your dad drives slowly. In the backseat, Beau sings quietly to the song on the radio. You glance up at the road before sending another text to Tucker.
the roads low-key suck rn. & idk, i think i'm just tired tbh
The bubble pops up again.
"Oh, shit!" Beau shouts from the back seat.
You might just have dealt the final blow.
A deer darts out into the road, and time slows as you see the way that your dad instinctively turns the steering wheel in the opposite direction.
No.
You want to rewind time and say, no, don't do that. You never swerve for an animal. Especially not on ice.
The car hits a patch of ice and goes skidding across the road, time seemingly suspended in space as the car loses control.
"Fuck," your dad growls, "Fuck, fuck, fuck!"
You see the tree before you feel it.
In that moment, you had a horrifying feeling that once you hit the tree, that you weren't going to be okay. You weren't going to walk away from this.
Stop.
"Beau, Dad, I love you guys so much," you say, voice muffled as your ears ring from panic.
"Bubs," Beau says desperately, "I love you."
Your inches, or maybe miles from the tree, you can't be sure, when you hear the unmistakable click of a seatbelt unlatching.
You're losin' me.
Beau launches himself forward, his arms encircling you as the car slams into the tree. "I've got you. I've got you. I love you."
There's a moment of quiet.
A moment where you think, am I dead right now?
And then you realize, no. There's the taste of metal in your mouth, and pain rippling up the side of your leg when you look down to see that a shard of glass has lodged itself into your thigh.
But then the quiet becomes unbearably loud.
Because Beau stopped repeating that he had you. Stopped repeating that he loved you.
"...Beau?"
Beside you, something like a horrified wail or cry rips from your dad's throat. "My boy."
That tether you had to Beau snaps, and you find yourself afloat in the universe as your fingers find his wrist, desperate to find a pulse there.
Stop. You're losing me.
No pulse.
You don't know when you start screaming, only that it doesn't end until the paramedics arrive.
Even through the pain, you'd attempted to do CPR, tears spilling down your cheeks as you did chest compressions on your brother.
But it didn't work.
He was dead. Beau was dead.
I can't find a pulse. My heart won't start anymore.
And somewhere in the wreckage, your phone lays with an unopened message from Tucker. Tell your dad to drive safe!! Please text me when you get back to your dad's house. I'm gonna head to bed. I hope you sleep good tonight <3
Summary: Four days. Countless wedding rituals. One hockey player hopelessly out of his depth. One girl who was never supposed to matter this much.
Pairing: john logan x desi!reader
Warnings: alcohol consumption (it's a fucking cocktail party), reader and Logan almost kiss multiple times, flirting, flirting and flirting, also kissing, indian elders (i don't think I need to explain more) everything is consensual, reader and Logan are horny ass mfs
Word Count: 8k
💌: oml this was a fun one. it's got so many stereotypes and the thing about stereotypes is, that they're mostly true. I went to a wedding recently and all i could think of was this. Also, reader and Logan are in too deep, way too quick but I didn't have much to work with in a four day setting, they're just horndogs. I've written the translations for hindi words in brackets right under them.
Also I will be writing this in 4-5 parts, one part for each function. And the last one for the ending and alternate ending. It's about to be fun! comment for taglist <3
(texts in bold are Logan, texts in italics are readers)
If there was one thing John Logan had learned in the 7 hours since landing in India, it was that Americans have been doing weddings all wrong.
Back home, weddings were tame. They were plain and definitely ended in one day. A hundred guests if you were popular, three hours if you’re well liked. A ceremony, a reception, a few speeches, an open bar if you were spendy, and everyone went home before the night was over.
But here? In India? It was less of a wedding and more of a 4-day bender.
He stared at the itinerary that was sent to him the moment he had stepped through the gates of this gorgeous heritage palace in Jaipur, someone placed a marigold garland around his neck, he didn't know who, he didn't know why. Then he remembered Hawaii and the beautiful leis that were placed around their necks as they had entered their hotel, and assumed that it was similar to that.
‘You boys must be exhausted! Was the flight here okay? Have you eaten anything?’ A woman in an Indian dress appeared seemingly out of nowhere, cupping Garrett's face between her hands just after he finished wheeling his suitcase through the entrance.
‘Oh, look at him, Arjun didn't tell me his friends are this cute’
Garrett blinked, ‘Me?’
‘Yes, you sweetie, so handsome’ She pinched his cheek.
Dean leaned over to Logan, whispering in his ear, ‘Dude, she's talking to him like he's twelve’
‘Do you know who that is?’
‘I don't think she cares about that’
The woman had already moved on to Tucker, ‘Such curly hair, beautiful hair, beta’
Tucker subconsciously touched his hair, ‘Uh? Thanks’
‘Who do you think is next? I call dibs’ Dean stood up straighter.
She frowned, moving before Logan, ‘So thin, beta! You need to eat more to keep that pretty face, you’re all growing boys’
Logan didn't know how to respond; did she just give him a backhanded compliment? He didn't want to be rude. ‘I-uh, I appreciate that,’ he smiled.
‘No, beta, not appreciate, you eat’
Before Logan could answer, a waiter materialized out of thin air with a silver tray, consisting of four plates, each full of three different coloured round balls, a samosa (he was proud of himself for knowing that) and something covered in pistachios.
The woman shoved the plate into Logan’s hands, and the waiter did the rest.
‘There, now sit and eat,’ she waved towards the lobby’s sofa set.
‘All of it?’ she gave him a look, and Dean burst into laughter. Logan bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to look at her.
‘Dadi, leave my friends alone, they haven't even freshened up, and you're forcing food on them’
Logan saw Arjun run up from behind, clearly fed up with his family’s antics. The boys all kept their plates down and rushed towards him, taking him in a group hug. ‘Look at that, boys. The man of the hour’ Dean rustled the top of his head. The boys exchanged a few excited greetings, clearly excited for their friend.
The woman just shook her head, smiling, ‘Arjun, where are your manners? Are you not going to introduce me to your white friends?’
White friends? okayyyyy
Arjun went towards the woman, placing a shoulder around her, smiled fondly, ‘Guys, this is my grandmother, Mrs Hemlata Singh’
‘You all can call me Dadi’
‘Daddy?’ That earned Dean a very well-deserved elbow in the ribs, courtesy of Garrett.
‘She didn't even compliment me!’ he whispered furiously.
(Dadi= grandmother)
Another elderly woman marched over as she looked Logan up and down with narrowed eyes, he felt judged. And then she looked over to Arjun's grandmother with wriggly eyebrow gestures, and left?
Logan blinked, ‘What just happened?’
‘Don't mind her man, Nani is like that’, Arjun said, patting his shoulder while he called for the bellhop as both the women left, laughing.
‘Nani-chan?’
‘Dean, shut up’
Arjun continued as the bellhop collected their bags and took them to their assigned room. ‘Nani also means grandmother, also you all are together in one suite, I hope that is okay because you don't have another option’ Logan just shook his head, he was already against the idea of coming to the wedding and now all of this started to feel too much.
‘Wait, so why is she not the other name you called your first grandma? Dadi was it?’ Tucker was clearly the only logical one in the group.
‘So, the first one is my paternal grandmother, Dad's mom, and the other one is my maternal grandmother, Mom's mom.’
Logan looked at Garrett, super serious, face calm, ‘I'm having a hard time understanding this country, G’
Garrett patted his back, ‘I don't think we're supposed to’
Forty minutes later, they were all freshly showered and settled in their massive room suite situation talking about how insane it had been since they landed.
And boom, a knock on the door. Arjun walked in with four massive bags, handing each of the boys their named package. ‘These are clothes for the next four days, my friend has worked very hard on these. You have no choice but to wear them’
‘I'll bite, what kind of clothes?’
‘Traditional Indian Clothes, wedding appropriate’
‘Oh hell yes. I'm in baby’ Tucker was excited.
‘Yeah man, we’ll wear them, don't worry’ Logan replied, not even knowing what kind of clothes.
‘I've sent you all the itinerary for all the events, we're doing cocktail night today, so be ready on time, wear the suits today, tomorrow onwards it's clothes I've given you, okay?’ Arjun looked like he had 500 places to be at the same time, and flew out the door so quickly.
‘Yeah, thanks for the clothes! This is so my colour,’ He said, opening his packet first.
‘I really need a drink’ Logan got up to check his phone for the itinerary again.
The cocktail party was supposed to start at 8 pm IST, well, that's the alarm Logan had set on his phone. By 8 pm, all the boys were dressed to finesse, looking sharp in fitted suits, cufflinks and all that jazz. Garrett was on the phone with Hannah on one end of the room and Dean with Allie on the other end.
Tucker and Logan were out front, doing a full shoot for the gram.
8:30 pm sharp, they left their rooms thinking they would make a fashionably late entry. Only what they didn't expect was to be the first ones there.
‘Wait, are we early? Check the list again? This feels early’ Tucker said, looking around the set-up, only seeing waiters and people he assumed were wedding planners, taking videos and photos of the whole thing.
‘Logan, I told you, you read that shit wrong, and now we look like idiots,’ Dean chimed in.
‘Guys, we’re on time, it says 8,’ Garrett ends the taunts, as usual.
‘Maybe we’re in the wrong place? This looks like a fucking movie set anyways’
Before they could ask anything else, a voice boomed across the hall. ‘Well, someone is excited to drink, look at you guys, for the first time in your life, on time’ Arjun enters with a few others walking behind him.
‘It says 8, where is everyone? We thought it would've started by now’
‘Why aren't you dressed yet?’
‘Oh, young padawans, you've got so much to learn’ as he pats Logan on the cheek and moves ahead to talk to the planners.
The boys, confused, take a seat on one of the tables. 5 minutes later, Arjun leaves without any explanation, saying a quick sorry and that he has to get ready.
All four of them sit in silence as the low bass music plays in the background, not very loud. ‘I've actually never been this confused before and this coming from a man who has been concussed on several occasions,’ Logan grumbles as he gets up, ‘How are these people collectively late? Anyways, I'm gonna check if the bar is open yet, might as well have some fun while we wait’
2minutes later, he returns, his face even more distraught than before, ‘Well boys, the bar opens when people get here apparently’ He literally sounds like a child throwing a tantrum, which makes you laugh, as you're standing a few feet away, listening to him.
The boys hear a soft, amused laugh drifting from behind them.
‘You're on time. That's your first mistake’
The four of them turned around in unison, practically getting whiplashed as they turned.
‘Indian Standard Time is a real thing, guys’ you said, taking the spot right next to them, leaning on a chair. You were wearing an elegant, deep jewel-toned saree that seemed to catch every facet of lighting in the room. A small, knowing smile played on your lips. ‘If an invitation here says 8, it actually means 9:30 at the earliest. It’s an inherent cultural trait. You’ll learn’
Garrett let out a dry chuckle as Tucker started to ask follow-up questions about the schedule, but Logan didn't hear a word of it, the world around him simply ceased to exist.
It wasn't just that you were breath-takingly beautiful, though the realization hit Logan like a physical blow to the chest. It was the effortless grace you carried yourself with, the warmth in your eyes that seemed to put him at ease instantly, the room shrinking into a closed off moment. The noise of the venue faded into a ringing silence. The voice of reason in Logan's mind fractured completely, replaced by a sudden terrifying certainty that his life was about to be divided into two distinct eras- one before he saw a literal Indian goddess and second, after he saw a literal Indian goddess.
‘Wait, so you're saying that we have a whole hour before the thing starts?’ Dean’s voice echoed, breaking Logan’s spell.
‘Well, alcohol sure does make time feel shorter y’know?’ You laughed, ‘I, myself am in dire need of a good LIIT’
Tucker turned to Logan to get his take on the bar, but Logan wasn't even listening to them anymore. He had a slow, devastatingly confident smile that touched his lips as he got up to greet you, his stride easy and entirely deliberate, all the nervousness replaced by the confidence of a NHL athlete.
He stopped closer than standard etiquette required, his gaze locked onto yours with a heavy focus that made you a little nervous. You noticed the effortless way he carried himself, relaxed, completely unfazed, and entirely captivated. He looked deliciously handsome in all black shirt and dress pants that were fitting him so well, you were a bit flustered looking at his build. The red blazer covered his broad back as he outstretched his hand towards yours.
Garrett let out a low, impressed whistle behind him, but Logan didn't even blink. He just kept his eyes on yours, his expression pure charm and intent, ‘I'm Logan, John Logan’ he added, his tone a soft as his fingers brushed yours, taking your hand and bending down a little to kiss it, ‘And suddenly, I'm very glad we showed up on time’
Oh, he knew ball alright.
You matched his energy, the challenging tilt of your head showed him you weren't entirely bothered by how smoothly he stepped into your space.
‘Is that right?’ you replied, though the sudden heat of his gaze was doing dangerous things to your pulse. ‘Most people find the waiting part a bit tedious, John’
Logan let out a soft, genuine laugh, the kind that instantly melted away any edge of intimidation. He slipped his hands casually into his pockets, ‘Good thing, I'm not most people,’ he said, his voice dropping to a lower octave, ‘And honestly, looking at you right now, 'tedious' is the absolute last word on my mind’
Behind him, Dean cleared his throat rather loudly. ‘Hey, Romeo, if you're finished monopolizing the only helpful person in the room, let us also introduce ourselves’
‘Oh, I'm so sorry, I completely forgot about that. I'm y/n, Aanya’s best-friend’
The three boys stood up, shaking your hand as they introduced themselves, you already knew all of them but they didn't need to know that. Garrett immediately asked, ‘So where can we get a drink around here?’
Logan turned his head just enough to address his friends, his tone warning, ‘The bar is to the left, boys. I think you can handle the thirty foot trek without a guide’
‘I think remember you telling us they denied you drinks, boy genius’ Dean replied, clearly trying to ruin his game in front of you, laughing a bit as they gave each other looks.
‘What? They denied you guys drinks? You're guests here, that's unacceptable’ You immediately spring into action, walking towards the bar, all the boys looking at you with shock, damn.
Not even two minutes later, you return with a waiter, carrying a tray full of shot glasses.
‘Bottoms up boys’ as everyone takes a shot, immediately hit with the strong taste of tequila and salt.
‘Damn, I've decided that I like you’ Dean said, taking another shot as you laughed at his behaviour.
Suddenly you become overwhelmingly aware of Logan's presence behind you, as he reaches for another shot, grazing past your shoulder, picking up another one for you as well.
‘Well, thank you to our lord and saviour, y/n’ As you look at him almost laughing, your face betraying everything with a wide grin, ‘I definitely butchered the pronunciation of your name, didn't I?’
‘A+ for effort John’
‘Damnnit’
The boys fell into their own conversation, with Dean winking at Logan who couldn't help but smirk as he shifted his attention back at you. ‘So, my saviour, are you going to help a man out by saving him from his annoying friends with your awesome company?’
‘Awesome company? You met me not even 15 minutes ago’
‘What can I say, I'm just an empath like that. Please, teach me the ways to survive the next few days, I’m a quick learner, I promise’ he said, with his hands up in truce.
The corner of your mouth twitched upward, ‘A quick learner? I'll be the judge of that, John,’ you said, stepping toward the double doors that led out to the terrace as Logan stood frozen in his spot, ‘You coming?’
Logan smiled, a soft, triumphant expression that made him look devastatingly handsome, and fell into step right beside you, adjusting his pace effortlessly to match yours, keeping just enough respectful distance that your arms didn't brush, except the occasional brush of his fingers against yours.
The terrace was beautifully lit with strings of fairy lights, a soft golden glow over the stone railing of the palace.
‘So,’ Logan started, leaning one hip against the stone railing, turning towards you as you stopped near the edge. He looked at you, ‘An hour minimum, you said. Does that mean we have time to actually get to know each other, or are you going to keep rescuing clueless foreigners all night?’
‘That depends entirely on how well the clueless foreigners behave,’ you teased as he smoothly replied, ‘In that case, I'll be on my absolute best behavior,’ he murmured, ‘Because I really don't want to lose your attention to anyone else tonight’ as you turned to call a waiter for a small cocktail, smirking at his comment, ‘You want one?’
‘If you ever catch me saying no to a drink offered by you, shoot me’ and you laughed wholeheartedly.
The conversation flowed between the two of you like water, the initial awkwardness melting into a good chat with lots and lots of flirting. Logan was a masterclass in charm, he leaned into your space just enough to keep it at the edge, his eyes never truly leaving yours.
‘Oh, so you're telling me you wore a saree this stunning just to stand around and lecture tourists on punctuality?’ he teased, as you finished explaining exactly what you were wearing. His eyes did a slow, entirely appreciative sweep down the length of the rich fabric before snapping back to yours, you looked like a present wrapped in a beautiful black saree and he looked at you like it was christmas morning, ‘Because I’m pretty sure you knew exactly what you were doing’
You laughed, as a smirk settled on your face, ‘Maybe I just like watching arrogant boys sweat a little’
‘Is it working?’ Logan stepped a little closer, his face looking incredibly kissable, a smirk playing on his lips. He rested his hand on the stone railing just inches from yours, his knuckles almost brushing your skin. ‘Because from where I'm standing, you're completely running the show. I'm entirely at your mercy’
You shot him a look, your hand inching closer to his to the point where they're touching completely, ‘You look pretty comfortable for someone at my mercy, John’
‘It's all an act’ he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips for a second before lifting back up, ‘Inside, I'm trying to figure out how I'm going to convince you to dance with me later without making a fool of myself’
You looked at him with such soft doe-eyes that his knees nearly buckled, he wanted to kiss you so badly, and it wasn't helping his case when you were looking at him as if you would jump his bones any second now.
‘Oh, wow. Look at this. An hour in the country and he’s already managed to lock down the prettiest girl at the wedding’ The voice shattered the bubble.
You both blinked, turning to find Aanya’s cousin, Kabir, leaning against the open terrace doors. He was holding two glasses of champagne, dressed in a sharp sherwani, and looking at the two of you with a massive, highly entertained grin.
‘Kabir, when will you understand the concept of privacy’ you muttered, the heat immediately rushing to your cheeks as you stepped half an inch away from Logan.
You knew Kabir from ages, practically from when you were a child and he was the annoying older cousin every time you visited Aanya’s house.
‘You're literally standing on an open terrace that could fit at least two hundred people, open from all sides but don't mind me,’ Kabir chuckled, walking over and handing one of the glasses to you, entirely unbothered. He looked Logan up and down, his eyes dancing with pure mischief. ‘I was sent out to look for my cousin’s best friend because the family thought she got lost, but clearly, she just found better company. Hey, man, I'm Kabir.’
Logan didn't panic or look flustered at all. He straightened up, effortlessly shifting back into that charming demeanor, and shook Kabir's hand. ‘Logan. Nice to meet you.’
‘Likewise. But listen, as much as I hate to interrupt whatever incredibly smooth line you were in the middle of dropping,’ Kabir teased, throwing a smirk your way, ‘You both need to get inside. The party has officially arrived, and if my aunts see you two hiding out here alone, you’re never going to hear the end of it’
Before either of you could protest, Kabir hooked his arms through both of yours, turning you around and ushering you back toward the building. ‘Come on, let's go, kiddo. Time to show the foreigner how we actually party’
The moment you entered the hall again the sound, color, and energy hit you like a truck, it was completely transformed, the empty hall from an hour ago was completely gone. The space was now packed to the brim with hundreds of people dressed in vibrant sherwanis, suits, sarees and glittering lehengas. The bass from the speakers was thumping straight through the floorboards, the DJ playing Bollywood music, servers with trays of appetizers and drinks weaving through the dense crowd.
As Kabir led you both into the thick of the festive chaos, Logan caught your eye, he leaned down slightly, his lips grazing your ear ever so slightly, making the hair on your neck stand up, ‘Remember,’ he murmured as he gave your arm a gentle squeeze. ‘You still owe me that dance’ as he moved alongside Kabir as if he didn't just turn you the fuck on.
Kabir immediately dragged the two of you straight toward the bar, where Garrett, Dean, and Tucker were already holding court, already a few drinks in, looking thoroughly impressed by whatever was happening around them.
‘Look who I found’ Kabir announced, nudging you forward as Logan smoothly slotted himself back right by your side.
‘Well, well, well,’ Dean grinned, raising a glass toward Logan, ‘Look who decided to rejoin civilization, had fun, John?’
‘Shut up, Dean,’ Logan muttered, though thoroughly pleased, a relaxed smile was written all over his face which served as proof, ‘I was just getting an education on the culture, unlike you, some people like to learn’
Before the boys could roast him any further, a loud cheer erupted from the main entrance of the room, the crowd cheering as the bride and groom stepped into the hall, looking absolutely radiant. Music boomed as they entered hand-in-hand dancing on ‘Dil Le Gayi Kudi Gujrat Di’, greeting all their family and others present as they waved through the crowd. (That's the song name it means that a girl from Gujrat has taken the heart of a man from Punjab)
A while later, the bride, Aanya scanned the crowd, her eyes locking onto you as she moved towards you in a brisk walk. Over the years, both of you had learned each and every look and what that meant.
‘Babygirl! I have been looking for you, where the fuck did you disappear off to? You okay? Why did you not pick my calls?’ she shrieked, abandoning her groom for a second to rush over and pull you into a massive hug.
‘Oh thank god you're here, she has been losing her mind, yaar’ Arjun laughed, catching up to her and giving you a side-hug. He turned directly to Logan and the boys, gesturing wildly at you. ‘Guys, I see you've met y/n, whatever this girl tells you to do, you do it. She’s the MVP of this entire wedding’
‘More like the MVP of my entire life,’ Aanya corrected, pulling back to fix your saree pallu which needed no fixing, ‘She has kept me from having three separate mental breakdowns this week. If any of you boys bother her tonight, you have to answer to me and trust me yall dont wanna do that’
‘Yeah, you hear that Logan?’ Kabir chimed.
Logan raised his hands in a playful mock surrender. ‘Message received, loud and clear. I’m on my absolute best behavior, I've actually promised people that I'll be on my best behaviour, right y/n?’
‘Yeah, yeah sure John’ Aanya immediately looked at you as if asking WTF is happening?
‘Okay, enough. Its shot-o-clock’ you tried to change the subject as a waiter came up with a tray full of vodka. He really is omnipotent wtf.
‘To Arjun and Aanya!’ The boys cheered in unison. Logan clinked his glass directly against yours, his eyes locking onto yours with intensity that made the loud room fade away for a second before throwing the shot back.
The heavy dhol suddenly started thumping through the speakers, and Kabir grabbed your hand, pulling you toward the center of the dance floor. ‘Oye chal, they're playing your song!’ As you were pulled into the swirling, laughing crowd of aunts, uncles, and cousins, you looked back over your shoulder. Logan was standing by the bar, entirely unbothered by his friends laughing around him. He caught your gaze through the flashing strobe lights, a slow, confident wink letting you know he was just waiting for his turn. (Oye is essentially just to address anyone casually, not random elders and chal means come with me/walk)
‘So, what happened out there’ Dean wriggled his eyebrows at Logan who only laughed in response, a faint pink tint on his cheeks. ‘Oh look at him Garrett, he's blushing, I never thought this day would come’ he dramatically wiped a non-existent tear from his eye.
Garrett stepped out shaking his head at Dean’s antics, trying to take a call, probably Hannah.
As the night went on, the dhol kept getting louder, Logan could feel the vibrations right through his chest as the dance floor dissolved into pure chaos, it was packed with relatives, even off the dance floor people were dancing. He couldn't understand the music and kept making a note of everything he wanted to ask you regarding what he was observing.
By 11 pm, everyone was knee deep in alcohol, the room was buzzing as the boys took a break from greeting everyone who came their way, asking intrusive questions. Logan noticed that no one had a filter, at least 6 people had asked him if he was married yet and that was one of the easier questions. One aunty asked Dean for his biodata? Whatever that means.
Garrett was talking hockey with some uncle who was severely invested. Tucker and Dean were on their phones and Logan was trying to find you in the crowd.
The aunties dressed in heavy silk sarees and zero boundaries decided the bar area was entirely too quiet and the American boys needed to have some fun.
‘Beta, why are you standing like statues? Have some fun, come on, chalo nacho!’ a loud, heavily jeweled Silky Aunty came swooping down on the group like a brightly colored hurricane. Before Tucker could even process what was happening, she grabbed him by the wrist, pulling him right into the center of the circle. (Chalo nacho means come dance)
‘Wait, wait, I don't know the steps!’ Tucker shouted over the booming music laughing as he stumbled, but a group of uncles immediately surrounded him, handing a glass of whiskey into his hands.
‘No steps needed, raja, just dance!’ Rajesh Uncle boomed, completely red-faced and already three pegs down, doing a highly enthusiastic bhangra step while spilling half his drink on his own coat. (Raja means king, here it is used in a sarcastic way, uncles be uncles what can I say)
Garrett and Dean were next. Two more aunties literally grabbed them by the waist, pushing them into the thick of it. Dean immediately gave up on trying to look cool, throwing his hands in the air and mimicking the uncles with hilarious moves. Garrett was laughing so hard he could barely stand, holding his drink high to avoid the swirling people around him.
Logan tried to use his smooth charm to slip away into the shadows but he didn't realize that the aunties and uncles were undefeated.
‘Ah, the handsome one is running!’ Kabir’s dad shouted, hooking an arm around Logan’s neck from behind and dragging him straight toward the crowd. Someone shoved a steel glass of whiskey into Logan’s hand, as the uncles cheered him on, ‘Drink, drink! No dancing without drinking!’, clapping Logan on the back so hard he nearly choked on his first sip.
Logan caught your eye through the flashing lights, his dark hair a little messy from the sweat, as a thoroughly helpless smile was plastered across his face. He downed the rest of the drink under a chorus of roars from the family, his eyes never leaving yours.
The dance floor was a sweaty, mess of spilled alcohol, heavy gold jewelry, glasses clinking, and people shouting the lyrics.
Suddenly, Silky Auntie pushed Logan right into you, you stumbled back as he grabbed your waist to stabilize both of you, ‘Dance with her! She will teach you! Ye humari best dancer hai’. (Shes our best dancer)
‘Aunty usko hindi nahi aati yaar’ (aunty, he doesn't understand Hindi) (yaar=friend)
And Logan didn't need to be told twice. The proximity was electric amidst the chaos. He leaned down, his breath warm against your ear, his voice thick with laughter and all the alcohol finally hitting him, ‘I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing,’ he shouted over the roaring bass, his hands gripping you a little tighter as Kabir threw a handful of marigold petals over both of your heads. Logan’s eyes crinkled, looking completely lost in the middle of the madness. ‘But if you're holding onto me, I don't care at all’
‘Very smooth, white boy, very smooth’ as you took his hand off your waist to show him some banger dance moves and he completely failed in trying to copy you.
The party had officially reached that peak, a beautiful hour of absolute, unfiltered masti where the ties were tied around foreheads, shoes were kicked off into random corners, and everyone was suddenly best friends.
‘Another round! Oye, Garrett, down it!’ Kabir yelled, swaying slightly as he poured bright green midori shots directly into Garrett and Dean’s mouths right there on the edge of the dance floor. Dean took it like a champ, threw his arms around Kabir’s shoulders, and started screaming the chorus to a song he definitely didn't know the words to.
The uncles had hijacked the DJ booth. Rajesh Uncle was now wearing Tucker’s expensive designer suit jacket over his own kurta, holding a plate of chicken tikka in one hand and waving a bottle of scotch in the other, leading a full blown train of people snaking through the hall.
In the center of the madness, Logan was completely gone. The smooth, collected guy from the terrace had been thoroughly replaced by a man who was delightfully drunk and utterly obsessed with you, after hours of dancing and drinking with you, he had been spent both physically and mentally as you had teased him to his limit, not even trying to hide it. ‘You,’ Logan breathed, stumbling slightly as a group of cousins rushed past, his arms instantly wrapping around your waist from behind to pull you flush against him. He buried his face into the crook of your neck for a second, inhaling the scent of your perfume and sweat, before lifting his head to look down at you. His eyes were heavy, incredibly dark, and completely full of you, ‘You are an absolute menace. My head is spinning’
‘Is it the whiskey or me, John?’ you rasped in a seductive manner, you were no worse than him, leaning back against his chest, your hands finding his forearms to keep yourself balanced.
‘You. One hundred percent you,’ he mumbled, his voice thick as he leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as the crowd around you started screaming, ‘Rail gaddi aayi!’ (the train is coming. It's an ageold Punjabi song, no Punjabi wedding is complete without the rail gaddi move)
And both of you were pulled into the chaos led by Rajesh Uncle as Pinky Aunty materialized out of nowhere, her hair completely coming out of its pins, holding two large brass plates of flower petals. ‘Chalo, chalo! Romance later, dance now!’ she yelled, dumping half a plate of marigolds straight over Logan’s head. (Chalo, chalo means keep it moving)
Logan just stood there, petals tangled in his messy hair, laughing so hard his shoulders shook. He reached up, casually brushing a stray orange petal from your cheek, his thumb lingering on your skin. Your hands found your way up to his hair, rustling it as the marigold petals fall around him and he bends down so you can easily reach the top of his head.
‘Come on, white boy!’ Tucker shouts from across the floor, currently doing a highly questionable version of the belly dance with two of your aunts cheering him on ‘Show 'em what you got!’
Logan looked down at you, a wicked, completely loose grin spreading across his face. He grabbed your hand, his fingers locking tightly with yours, and pulled you right into the sweaty circle. ‘Alright,’ Logan shouted, ‘Teach me the one where we screw the lightbulb again, I'm ready!’
The lightbulb-screwing step being performed by both Tucker and Logan was an incredibly inaccurate bhangra that had most people screaming with laughter. He started spinning you around, his jacket completely abandoned on a chair somewhere, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his collar completely open.
‘Look at him go!’ Kabir yelled, stumbling over his own feet as he tried to document Logan's dance moves on his phone.
The DJ suddenly dropped a classic, Alharaan Kuaariaan by Diljit Dosanjh, and the entire room erupted. A circle formed around the room as Aanya pulled you with her in the middle, this was your song. The uncles started clapping in a sync, throwing money into the air that rained down over your heads like confetti.
Logan didn’t even blink at the chaos, he was completely locked into your orbit. Every time the beat dropped, he saw you go harder, completely focused on Aanya as you both repeatedly copied each other.
He wanted to pull you close and that is exactly what he did the moment you took a break and stepped aside, his hand rested firm and warm against the small of your back, his eyes heavy and blissfully drunk as he looked down at you. ‘I think uncle just gave me another drink,’ Logan shouted over the roaring music, leaning towards your shoulder, resting his chin there. He smelled like expensive cologne, premium whiskey, and the sweet marigold petals still stuck to his clothes. ‘I can't feel my legs, y/n’
‘Do you want to sit down?’ There it was, the tone that pulled you in this evening as he complained about the bar being closed, you laughed, your hand resting on his cheek.
‘No’ he said, coming to face you as his gaze dropped to your lips with a focus that made the entire screaming room blur into a haze of colors. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping below the bass line, completely sincere. ‘If I sit down, someone might take you away from me. I'm staying right here’
Before you could answer, behind Logan, you saw Dean and Tucker crash into the circle, completely dynamic-duo style as Garrett filmed them with a drink on the other hand. Dean had a sequined dupatta tied around his head like a pagdi, and Tucker was carrying a whole plate of gulab jamuns, feeding them to anyone who opened their mouth. (dupatta is a long scarf like thingy worn over a kurta by both men and women, pagdi like a turban but more of a head gear, gulab jamun is an Indian sweet dish it's small balls of flour dipped in syrup which melt in your mouth if made right)
Logan turned with an amused smile, he really loved his boys.
Not even two minutes later,
‘Group shots!’ Garrett appeared out of nowhere with a bottle of tequila he had somehow stolen from the main bar. He tipped the bottle back for Kabir, then turned straight to Logan who didn't even hesitate. He grabbed the bottle, took a massive swig, and then immediately turned back to you, holding the bottle out for you to take as he looked a little messy, incredibly flushed, and so effortlessly attractive it was unfair.
You took a large sip, groaning at the taste and passed the bottle to Aanya as Logan started to speak to her, ‘Your family,’ Logan gasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before instantly wrapping his arm right back around your waist, pulling you so tight against his side, ‘Your family is officially my favorite group of people on earth. But,’ He bent down, his lips brushing the side of your neck as he said, ‘You're my favorite one’
Aanya laughed, ‘What did he say?’ She clearly heard him, the little minx.
‘Shut up, you're both losers’ your face was getting redder by the second as you left them standing there, joining the aunties gossiping at the corner table.
Neema Aunty smirked at you in a way you were too drunk to comprehend, ‘Aur beta, lagta hai damaad mil gaya’ as all of them started snickering. (what's up y/n, looks like we've found our son-in-law)
You got up shaking your head and went to join the three boys who were going nuts with Kabir being their personal videographer. They pulled you in as they danced wildly, doing anything and everything on the dance floor and all the uncles were eating their shit up.
The filter is completely gone now. The mixed alcohol and the champagne had finally caught up to you, turning the entire hall into a swirling kaleidoscope of flashing lights, loud music, and masti. You weren't just dancing anymore, you were floating, your head and body felt incredibly light and your laughter loud and free.
‘Oh, so now you're a bhangra expert?’ you teased Logan, your voice thick with giggles as you stumbled right into Logan’s chest watching him come up to you dancing. Your hands clutched the crisp fabric of his open collar for balance, your fingers brushing against the warm skin of his collarbone.
‘I'm a natural, beta’, his arms instantly locking around your waist to keep you both upright as you swayed. He looked down at you, his eyes completely glazed over but entirely fixed on your face. ‘Tell me I'm doing a good job. Please. All the aunties kept judging my hip movements.’ (beta=son/daughter, used in general context for a child/adult)
‘You're doing terrible,’ you whispered loudly, leaning in so close your noses brushed. ‘But you look really cute doing it’
‘Yeah? You think I'm cute?’ He tightened his grip on your waist, pulling you so close that the heavy fabric of your saree brushed against his trousers. He leaned down, his forehead resting heavily against yours, his eyes dropping to your lips with a desperate, drunken longing. ‘Because I think you are ruining me right now. I can't even remember what my friends look like right now. There's just you.’
Right on cue, Kabir stumbled past the two of you, giving you a pointed look, wearing a pair of giant novelty sunglasses he stole from the DJ booth, loudly singing the wrong words into a breadstick he was using as a microphone. You threw your head back and laughed and Logan watched you, he felt as if he was under a spell, his thumb tracing slow, heavy circles on your waist.
‘Oye’ you mumbled, tapping his chest playfully. ‘You're staring’
‘Can't help it,’ He leaned in, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear, making your full body shiver, holy shit, ‘I'm completely drunk on you, baby. And the whiskey. But mostly you.’
It was well over 1am now, most of the guests still on the dance floor, the alcohol working its magic. The room started to shrink as you felt a wave of Logan's perfume enter your nostrils, as you smushed your face into his chest.
‘You wanna steal a bottle and escape this jazz? The property is stunning. I know a spot?’
‘Once again, baby, shoot me if I ever say no’
You giggled as you told him to meet you on the terrace in 10 minutes with a bottle of whatever alcohol he would want. Then, you went to find Aanya, who you found cradled in Arjun's embrace. For the first time during the whole night, you took your phone out to grab a picture of the intimate moment as you stepped back, deciding not to interrupt them.
You went to the bathroom as Logan was standing right outside the gate of the terrace, waiting, as Kabir’s dad found him again. Walking towards Logan who was standing there supported by the door, he asked ‘You look overwhelmed, you okay?’ he grinned.
‘I'm adapting uncle’ Logan blushed.
‘You're waiting for y/n to come aren't you?’ Caught. Oops.
Logan couldn't help himself, the alcohol letting him free, as he giggled and said, ‘Nooooo’
Raghav Uncle only shook his head and left him there, laughing as he went back inside.
You quietly slipped through the hall, crossing the arched wooden doors, leaving the sweaty, glittering chaos of the banquet hall behind, as you found Logan, a small smile playing on his face as he watched you run towards him.
The night air of Jaipur hit you like a cool wave. You were completely drunk, the ground feeling slightly tilted beneath your bare feet as you carried your heels in one hand. In the other hand, you were loosely clutching a half-empty bottle of premium champagne you snatched from a waiter's tray on the way out.
‘We escaped,’ Logan giggled, stumbling over a stone as he rushed towards you in the courtyard. He caught his balance, a laugh tearing from his throat. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, and his dark hair sticking up in every direction. ‘We actually made it out alive’
‘Chup oye, chillao mat, the aunties will hear you!’ you giggled loudly, tripping right into his side. ‘What?’ as Logan’s arm instantly shot out, wrapping securely around your waist and pulling you against him. He didn't let go as you both wandered deeper into the massive, labyrinth like grounds of the heritage hotel. The palace looked breathtaking at night, lit by flickering torches and strings of amber lights, the view of the city looked like dancing lights. (Chup oye chillao mat= shut the fuck up, don't shout)
You stopped by a small pond-like structure with shallow clear water, marble fountain in the center, in a secluded courtyard, the water sparkling under the moonlight. You took a swig directly from the champagne bottle, wincing at the bubbles, and then held it out to him, ‘Here, fuel for us runaways’ as you moved out of his grip, moving towards the water.
‘Oye, careful!’ You turned around smiling, ‘Did you just say oye?’
Logan laughed, taking the bottle and throwing his head back to take a long drink. A drop of champagne caught the light on his lower lip, and your eyes locked onto it, your drunken brain registering just how attractive he was. Turning around as fast as you can, you sit down at the edge of the water, pulling your saree up and dipping your feet in the cold water. As Logan followed you like a puppy, he set the bottle down between the two of you as he sat down next to you.
‘My pants are gonna get wet if i dip my feet in here’ as if he was informing you why he didn't follow your lead.
‘Gimme your legs’ you said as he looked at you shocked, ‘What?’
You took his legs into your lap, folding his trousers upwards, ‘Now, they won't get wet’
The playful, chaotic energy of the dance floor shifted into something thick, warm, and entirely intimate. He dipped his feet in, as you took another large swig from the bottle, he shifted closer, his hands gently finding your waist again, his thumbs tracing lines on the exposed half of your waist. You leaned on him, head on his shoulder as he made a ridiculous ask, ‘Say something to me in Hindi’ You turned to look at him with a straight face, ‘Please, please please, I wanna hear you talk like you normally would’
‘What should i say?’ ‘Whatever you want to baby’
‘Mujhe tum acche lag rahe ho, tumhe ek chotii si chummi dedun?’ (I’ve started to like you, can i give you a little kiss?)
You don't use these words in your normal vocabulary but he doesn't need to know that .
‘Wow, I didn't understand a single word, did you call me hot?’
‘Shut up John’ you looked up at him and your stomach did the stupid flip again, you were so drunk, but at that moment all you could focus on was him. He looked at you with such a kind and inquisitive gaze, you could feel your cheeks heating up.
‘You are so beautiful, y/n,’ he said, his voice dropping into that low register that made your head spin faster than the alcohol. He leaned down, his eyes glazed with a mix of exhaustion, whiskey, and infatuation. ‘I mean it. I've never seen anyone like you.’
‘You're just drunk,’ you whispered, unable to look at him in the eyes, as you mushed your face in his chest.
‘I am drunk,’ Logan admitted softly, a sweet smile on his face, as his fingers brushed against your cheek as he tilted your head towards him, ‘But drunk words are sober thoughts baby and I've been thinking you're beautiful since before I got drunk so it doesn't count’
He lifted his hand from your face, gently tucking a lock of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your jawline in a way that made your breath hitch. His gaze dropped to your lips, he looked conflicted, then whispered, ‘Can I kiss you?’
You didn't make him wait. You pulled him down by the back of his neck, Logan met you halfway. It was so cliche, Logan felt the fireworks go off as soon as your lips touched his, and you, you experienced the ‘mann mai laddu phuta’ (i fear I have no explanation for this one)
The kiss was everything, it felt as if it consumed you. All you could think about was Logan, he was everywhere and you were hyperaware of his every action, his tongue swiping up your mouth, his hand on jaw, his other hand on your waist, the fact that his whole body was pressed up against you.
Then, Logan let out a soft, low groan against your mouth, his arms tightening around you, lifting you slightly off your feet as he pulled you on his lap.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing heavily. Logan let out a dazed laugh, his eyes crinkled as he pecked your face with small kisses, making you giggle.
You kissed him again, harder, more intense, making him gasp into your mouth as he took the reign again. Your hands slid into his hair as his mouth moved against yours feverishly.
‘Okay,’ he breathed, his forehead resting against yours, ‘If we stay out here, I'm going to keep kissing you, and Kabir will definitely manage to film it by materializing out of a bush’
‘He absolutely would. He has no boundaries’
‘Right. Safety first,’ Logan murmured, smirk playing on his lips. He reached down, putting you back on the ledge and got up, took your hand helping you up, anchored his arm on your waist, pulling you against his side as you both started the long walk back toward the palace suites.
The walk back was chaotic to say the least. Your bare feet kept tangling with the hem of your saree, making you stumble and laugh hysterically every few steps. Logan, not much steadier on his feet but utterly determined to keep you safe, would catch you every single time with a laugh of his own.
‘I've got you,’ he kept whispering. By the time you reached the door of your suite, you were both breathless from laughing.
‘John, guess what?’
‘What? Do you not have your key? I can go get it’
‘No gadhe, I've got pockets in my saree! See’ as you showed him the pockets hidden under the fabric, fumbling with the key card, your hands shaking slightly from the alcohol. (Gadhe=donkey)
‘Wow baby, cool pockets’ ‘Haina!’
He took the card from your fingers, his warm hand brushing yours, and clicked the door open. You kicked your heels into a corner and immediately collapsed onto the massive, plush bed, rolling onto your back, ‘Logan, the room is spinning and these clothes are killing me’
‘Let me help,’ he said softly, as he sat on the edge of the mattress and gently helped you sit up, helping you unpin the heavy pallu of your saree so you could breathe easier, and helped you clean your makeup with makeup wipes.
He didn't try anything, he just took care of you. He tucked you into bed, as you smiled getting under the covers. Logan backed up to leave, but you reached out, catching his wrist, ‘Stay, please’ you mumbled, your eyes already half closed.
‘You sure?’ ‘Yes, John’ you said, opening your eyes to scowl at him, ‘Take your shirt off, please’
He smiled as he slid out of his suit jacket, took his shirt off and kicked off his shoes, climbing into the bed beside you, as you peaked at his broad figure with the subtlety of a giraffe. He laughed, ‘You can open your eyes baby’
‘Shut up, John’
He stayed completely on the other end of the bed at first, maintaining a respectful distance, but you scooted closer to him, throwing your arms around him, trying to pull him towards yourself, ‘Has anyone told you you're heavy’
‘Are you calling me fat y/n?’ He faked a loud gasp, acting like that hurt.
‘Oh my god, NO, I'm so sorry I didn't mean it like that, my brain cells are actively dying from the alco-’ He started to laugh as you kept rambling your apology and as you noticed him laughing, your face turned into an angry expression. Your hands are taken back from his neck as you turn around to the other side, a cute scowl on your face as you scoot back to your side of the bed.
You hear him laughing silently, rolling your eyes as you hear him shuffling and moving under the covers. Two large hands wrap around your waist as he pulls you back towards his chest, engulfing you completely under his side as he spoons you from behind. ‘I’m sorry baby, that wasn't funny’
‘You've lost your cuddling privileges John Logan’
‘I don't think so’
You turn back towards him, resting your head against his chest. Logan’s arm wrapped securely around your shoulders, pulling you close but holding you gently, his large hand rubbing circles into your arm, the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear instantly anchoring you and making the spinning stop.
‘You're amazing, y/n’ Logan whispered into the quiet room, his voice vibrating against your cheek. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the very top of your head, his breath warm against your hair. ‘I’m so glad Garrett convinced me to come, the best wedding I've ever been to.’
You let out a sleepy giggle, tightening your grip on his waist as you snuggle closer into him. Logan just held you tighter, resting his chin on your head and exhaling a long, utterly content breath as you both drifted off to sleep in the quiet room filled with the sounds of your shallow breathing.
summary: in which the boys unknowingly praise y/n's ex-boyfriend, before garrett reveals he'll soon be spending a day filming ncaa media content with him.
notes: hi! get your tissues ready… we're diving into some angst. i hope you all enjoy the first of these 🤍 💌
ꪆৎ
sundays at the hockey house are rarely productive. by midday, every plan has been abandoned.
the television plays quietly in the background, some game nobody is paying proper attention to, while takeout containers cover half the coffee table.
grace is curled into one couch with her legs across logan’s lap, while sabrina and tucker argue from the floor over whether the movie they watched the night before was actually bad or whether tucker simply didn't understand it.
“i understood it” he insists.
“you asked me who the main character was forty minutes in, tuck.”
“there were too many men with the same haircut.”
“there were three men.”
“exactly.”
dean is stretched across the armchair with allie sitting sideways over his lap, eating fries from a carton balanced against his chest despite his repeated claim that they belong to him.
“you said you weren’t hungry” she reminds him.
“that was before you started eating my food.”
you barely notice any of it.
you're lying along the larger couch with garrett settled partly behind you, one arm wrapped around your waist, his chest warm against your back. your legs are tangled beneath a blanket someone dragged downstairs, his chin resting near your shoulder.
it's comfortable, quiet in the way only a full room can be quiet.
garrett’s thumb moves beneath the hem of your sweatshirt, brushing slowly over the skin at your side. not suggestive, barely conscious, just there.
you're halfway through reading an article for class when logan suddenly sits forward.
“wait.”
grace’s feet nearly slide from his lap. “what?”
logan points at the television. “did they just show highlights from the eastwood game?”
tucker looks up. “probably. they won last night.”
“no, but did you see the third-period goal?”
dean lifts his head. “the one from the top of the circle?”
“yeah.”
something inside you stills.
logan reaches for the remote, turning up the volume. the screen cuts back to the previous night’s highlights. players in dark uniforms spill across the ice, the commentary sharp with anticipation and excitement.
you know the colours before you see the number, you know the number before you see his face.
your thumb stops moving over your phone, the replay begins.
a clean pass across the blue line. the puck settles, then the shot comes hard and fast, the net moving before the goalie seems to understand what happened.
logan lets out a low whistle. “that’s fucking insane.”
“goalie had no chance” tucker says.
dean sits forward as the replay slows. “look where he releases it.”
the clip plays again.
you stop breathing for half a second. garrett feels it, his hand pausing against your waist.
on the screen, your ex-boyfriend turns towards the boards after scoring, teammates crowding around him. the camera catches his wide grin as he's pulled into the celebration.
you've seen that exact smile before.
outside your high school gym, through the windscreen of his car, across your kitchen table while your father joked that he was practically family already.
it used to make you feel chosen, later, it only made you feel stupid, incredibly, undeniably stupid.
“he barely had any space” logan says.
“he didn’t need it,” garrett replies behind you, his voice casual and thoughtful. “he gets the puck off too quickly.”
tucker nods. “goalie thinks he’s going high glove, then he changes the angle.”
“he does it all the time” garrett says. “defenders start closing too early.”
“then he passes through them" dean adds.
“exactly.”
the praise lands quietly.
garrett isn't exaggerating or trying to impress anyone. he simply means every word.
your body instinctively tightens before you can stop it. noticing, garrett’s arm shifts around your waist.
“you okay?” he murmurs, lips brushing your shoulder as he says it, absent-minded more than deliberate. the conversation continues around you as logan searches for another clip.
you force your shoulders to loosen. “yeah.”
garrett’s thumb brushes once over your side. “you sure?”
“mhm.”
you keep your eyes on your phone, refusing to look back at the television, at your ex.
garrett hums quietly, clearly unconvinced. a second later he reaches across the coffee table without moving away from you, stealing one of dean's fries.
dean points immediately, "oi."
"it's an emergency."
"what emergency?"
garrett drops the fry into your hand instead of eating it himself, "y/n forgot to eat."
"i've literally been sitting here."
"exactly."
you laugh before taking a bite. garrett doesn't mention the conversation again, yet continues to keep an eye on you.
logan finds another video. your ex carries the puck through the neutral zone, drawing two defenders before slipping a pass between them without looking. his winger catches it cleanly, before scoring.
dean whistles. “that pass is filthy.”
“he pulls both defenders towards him” tucker says.
“because they know they can’t give him space” garrett adds. “that’s what makes him dangerous. it isn’t just the shot itself.”
“he controls the whole shift” dean says.
“pretty much.”
“you’ve watched a lot of their tape” dean observes.
“jensen makes me.”
“that wasn’t a denial.”
garrett smiles faintly, answering dean easily, as though the answer is obvious. “he’s worth watching.”
the words go through you slowly.
he’s worth watching.
once, you had believed that too.
you spent entire winters following him from rink to rink, sitting in freezing bleachers with your hands hidden inside the sleeves of his jacket.
you watched the early mornings, the private coaching, summer training. you listened while he spoke about the nhl like it was less a dream and more an appointment he had to attend.
you had been proud of him, terribly, faithfully proud. until you found him tangled up in sheets, moaning your best friend's name.
“he’s probably going first round” logan says.
dean scoffs. “top ten.”
“he’ll play centre professionally” garrett says.
“even with his size?”
“he’s strong enough, and his defensive game is better than people realise.”
tucker checks his phone. “he’s above fifty-eight percent on faceoffs too.”
dean stares at him. “do you have his entire season memorised?”
“no.”
sabrina leans over, glancing at tucker's phone. “he's on his player profile.”
grace looks up, clearly bored with the conversation. “are any of you capable of discussing hockey without pretending you’re scouts?”
all four boys answer at once, in complete unison. “no.”
allie reaches across dean for another fry. “who exactly are we talking about?”
the name leaves logan’s mouth easily, you feel it like a hand closing around the back of your neck, suffocating you.
tom langford
allie hums in recognition. “is that the captain everyone online is obsessed with?”
“yes” dean says.
“he looks smug.”
logan points at her. “thank you allie!”
“you’ve never seen him play” dean says, turning his gaze onto her.
“i don’t need to. i have instincts.”
“terrible ones.”
“you’re dating me.”
“exactly.”
the room laughs. you try to join in, but the sound comes out thin.
beneath the blanket, garrett absentmindedly intertwines your fingers again. he doesn't even look at your hand when he does it, as though holding it is something as automatic as breathing.
the highlights end, but logan continues scrolling. “you know what’s worse?” he asks. “apparently he’s a really good captain too.”
garrett nods. “he is.”
you feel his chest move behind you.
dean turns. “you’ve heard that?”
“everyone has. he stays late with younger players, watches extra film, takes the blame publicly when they lose.”
“coach jensen likes him” tucker says.
“jensen respects him” garrett corrects.
“same thing from jensen.”
logan drops his phone onto his lap, before bringing his hands up to shield his eyes. “fuck sake. he's really making the rest of us look bad.”
garrett laughs. normally, you love the feeling of it against your back, yet today, it only twists strangely through your chest.
once, long before garrett knew you, you sat in bleachers and watched that same boy skate. you wore his number, waited after games in his jacket, knew which skate he tied first, what song he listened to before warm-ups.
you believed you understood him better than anyone, until you discovered someone else had been receiving the same messages. the same promises, maybe even sitting in the same passenger seat when you weren't there.
it was awful, really
dean looks at garrett, crossing his arms over his chest. “you’ll probably get matched against him if both of us make the frozen four.”
garrett shrugs. “probably.”
“golden boy against golden boy” logan says. “that’s the matchup everybody wants.”
something competitive sharpens in garrett’s expression. “it’d be a good game.”
dean scoffs. “boring answer.”
“you want me to start threatening him through the television?”
“a little.”
garrett laughs, before inhaling deeply behind you. “speaking of, jensen pulled me aside yesterday.”
dean turns, his eyebrows narrowing in confusion. “that sentence never ends well.”
“nah this time it's actually not bad. ncaa media wants to do some frozen four promotional stuff.”
logan sits up. “with you?”
“apparently. interviews, photos, some skills content.” garrett’s hand remains beneath yours. “they’re doing a captain campaign.”
you already know. your body knows before your mind catches up, your fingers tightening around his. garrett glances down at your joined hands, before looking back up, meeting the gaze of his friends. “they want the two of us together...”
"tom and i."
he says your ex's name, out loud. he says it here, in the hockey house. between his own easy, calm voice and the approving reactions of the people you love most, he unknowingly lets the one part of your past you've worked so hard to keep outside these walls slip inside.
for a moment, the room sounds very far away.
“that’s sick!” logan says.
dean gives a low whistle, “they know what they’re doing.”
“that’s going to be everywhere” tucker adds.
everywhere, it's going to be plastered everywhere. you won't be able to escape it, no matter how hard you try.
“they’ll probably make you compare shots" logan says.
“or do accuracy challenges” tucker adds.
something inside you folds in on itself.
speak up.
speak up.
speak up.
“when is it?” tucker asks.
“next week, i think. they’re still finalising it.”
“whole day?”
“sounds like it.”
logan leans back. “you’re going to come home best friends.”
garrett snorts, shaking his head, yet smiling. “doubt it.”
“why? you clearly admire him.”
“his hockey” garrett corrects.
“same thing to you.”
dean grins. “g’s going to ask for his autograph.”
garrett huffs. “alright, i’m leaving.”
“you can’t. you live here.”
you stare straight ahead as the conversation around you fades into background noise.
next week, garrett and him in the same room. talking, laughing, being photographed together.
your past and present standing side by side.
garrett shifts beneath you, clearly eager to hear your opinion. “what do you think, y/n?”
everyone looks over, you turn to meet his gaze.
garrett's expression is open. not excited exactly, because he never enjoys media obligations, but there is interest there. professional respect and the quiet satisfaction of being chosen because he earned it.
you force a smile, squeezing his hand gently in assurance, “sounds like a pretty big deal.”
garrett nudges you gently, attempting to downplay the opportunity being presented, “nah, probably just a lot of standing around.”
“with one of the best players in college hockey” logan adds.
garrett glances at him. “you done?”
“not remotely.”
the conversation moves on to the kind of questions they might ask.
“best hands” dean says.
“tom” tucker answers.
“fuck you” garrett mutters.
“best defensive game.”
“garrett.”
“hardest shot.”
“garrett.”
“best release.”
there's a pause before dean points at the television, “tom.”
garrett exhales through his nose. “i regret ever telling you guys.”
“best overall player” logan says.
“garrett” you answer automatically, the words falling from your mouth before you're even able to stop them. the room goes quiet for half a second.
garrett looks down at you, surprised by how quickly you'd answered.
not because you've compared them, but because you need it to be true. if there was one thing to be certain of, it's that garrett is everything your ex never was, never could be.
garrett's expression softens, before he presses a delicate kiss to your temple, “thank you, baby."
you grab your phone, shifting your gaze onto it before he can see too much on your face.
“you really okay?”
you nod quickly, his eyes remain on you.
“you feel tense, y/n.”
“i’m just tired.”
“you weren’t tired ten minutes ago.”
you swallow. “headache, maybe.”
his thumb traces another slow circle beneath your sweatshirt. not fidgeting, soothing, almost as though he's trying to settle something he can't quite identify.
he's careful not to put you on the spot. “want to go upstairs?”
the offer is soft, private. part of you wants to say yes, to let him take you away from the name being passed around the room as though it means nothing. to curl into his bed and tell him the truth while there is still time.
garrett, that’s him.
my ex.
the one who cheated.
the one who made me feel impossible to love.
you imagine the change in garrett’s features, the promotional shoot disappearing, the boys never speaking about your ex the same way again.
the questions, the anger.
you shake your head. “no. i’m all good, i promise.”
garrett doesn't believe you, you can tell.
but he knows the difference between avoidance and a boundary, even when you're not brave enough to name which one this is, so he doesn't push. he only adjusts the blanket higher over your legs, pressing a kiss behind your ear. “tell me if it gets worse.”
“i will.”
another lie, small enough that you can pretend it doesn't count.
across the room, dean is still talking. “you need to ask him about that shot.”
“i already know how he does it” garrett replies.
logan points at the television. “then stop him.”
“that’s the plan.”
tucker leans back against the couch. “honestly, if anyone in college hockey can shut him down, it’s probably you.”
“probably?” garrett repeats.
“definitely” dean corrects.
logan grins. “that matchup is going to be insane.”
before reaching for the remote, garrett ducks his head slightly. "do you want a tea or anything?"
you blink. "what?"
"you said you had a headache."
your chest tightens in warmth, admiration. "i'm okay."
he studies you for another second before nodding once, "alright."
grabbing the remote, garrett rewinds the highlight before pressing play again.
the shot flashes across the television once more. the room falls back into analysis. release point, angle, timing, tom's passing, tom's edge work, tom's captaincy, tom's draft prospects.
the boys keep talking, not carelessly or cruelly, but with the uncomplicated admiration athletes have for talent that cannot be denied.
you hear every word. elite, smartest player on the ice, future nhl captain, the kind of player every coach wants.
garrett’s hand remains beneath yours the entire time. warm, steady, safe.
you tell yourself that this is enough.
this is only hockey, the shoot is only a day, your ex is nothing but a name from somewhere you no longer belong.
when the replay ends and his face fills the screen again, smiling beneath the arena lights, you feel garrett’s thumb move slowly across your skin.
he's still watching you, quietly, carefully, already noticing the first crack in a story you have not yet told him.
Summary: You grow up believing Rhysand is simply a naturally protective, affectionate friend, not realizing his behavior toward you is different from everyone else, until a confrontation forces the truth of his feelings and your connection to surface.
Warnings: trauma references, protective!Rhysand, smut, p in v, oral (female receiving), praising, mate… kink?
Authors note: I was given a request for this and I hope I achieved it!! I had so much fun writing this especially because I had an idea for one like this!! Hope yall enjoy🫶🏻
Main Masterlist:
Taglist: @booksstarryskies, @spookypersondinosaur
✷☽✦☾✷☽✦☾✷
From the outside, your place in the Night Court had always looked effortless—natural, even. You'd met Mor first, her bright laughter and easy confidence drawing you in before you'd even realized you were being claimed as one of her own. And through her, you'd met him—Rhysand.
At first, he'd just been Mor's cousin. The High Lord of the Night Court, yes, but also the male lounging with a smirk in the corner, violet eyes too knowing, too amused. You had expected distance, formality—something sharp and untouchable.
Instead, he had smiled at you like you already belonged.
It had been easy after that. Conversations that slipped from polite to playful without you noticing. Nights spent in the House with Mor that somehow always ended with Rhys nearby, leaning against a doorway or draped lazily across a chair, listening more than speaking. Then came Cassian, loud and impossible to ignore, dragging you into sparring rings and laughter; Azriel, quieter, shadows curling as if they were just as curious about you as he was; and eventually Amren, who studied you like a puzzle she hadn't decided was worth solving—yet.
You fit.
And Rhysand... Rhysand had simply always been there.
Your friendship with him had grown into something softer than the others, though you'd never quite been able to name why. It wasn't louder like it was with Cassian, or edged with the same quiet understanding you shared with Azriel. It wasn't teasing like Mor's affection, nor sharp like Amren's approval. It was something else entirely—something that felt... constant.
But you never questioned it. Because as far as you knew, this was just who he was.
Kind. Attentive. Warm in a way that didn't quite match the power humming beneath his skin.
There had been a night—one of the earlier ones—when sleep had abandoned you entirely.
The shadows of Velaris had felt too deep, too quiet, your thoughts turning restless and sharp. You hadn't meant to seek him out. Hadn't even realized your feet had carried you there until you were standing outside his door, hand hovering uselessly in the air.
It had opened before you knocked.
Rhys had taken one look at you—really looked—and whatever teasing remark had been on his lips disappeared.
"Come here," he'd said softly.
No questions. No hesitation.
You'd barely made it inside before he guided you toward the bed, pulling you down beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world. His arm had come around you, firm and steady, anchoring you against his chest as if he'd done it a thousand times before.
"Just sleep," he murmured, voice low against your hair.
And you had.
Safe. Completely, undeniably safe.
You hadn't thought twice about it afterward. Hadn't wondered why the High Lord of the Night Court had stayed awake half the night just to keep you grounded, his fingers occasionally brushing your arm as if to reassure himself you were still there.
That was just Rhys.
Another time, the memory surfaced more sharply.
A gathering—crowded, louder than you liked. Too many unfamiliar faces, too many eyes lingering a second too long. You'd tried to brush it off, to stay close to Mor and laugh it away, but at some point you'd drifted just far enough.
Far enough for someone to step in too close.
The male had been charming at first, his smile easy, his words smooth. But then his hand had lingered at your waist. Then your arm. Then just a bit too tight when you tried to pull away.
You hadn't even had time to react.
Rhys was simply... there.
One moment you were trapped in that uncomfortable space, and the next his presence had slid between you like a blade wrapped in silk. His hand settled at the small of your back—warm, grounding, possessive in a way that somehow felt more protective than anything else.
"Is there a problem?" he'd asked, voice pleasant.
Too pleasant.
The male had stiffened, muttered something you didn't catch, and quickly excused himself.
And just like that, it was over.
Rhys had glanced down at you then, his expression softening instantly, the tension draining from his shoulders as if it had never been there at all.
"You alright, darling?"
Darling.
You'd smiled, brushing it off. "I'm fine. Thank you."
His hand hadn't left your back for the rest of the night.
You hadn't questioned that either.
That was the thing about Rhysand.
He always seemed to know where you were. Always seemed to appear when you needed him—sometimes before you even realized you did. A steady presence at your side, a quiet touch guiding you through crowded rooms, a voice at your ear when things became too much.
He called you darling like it meant nothing.
Like it was just another habit.
Like the way his hand would rest at the small of your back, thumb occasionally brushing absentminded circles against your skin. Like the way his gaze would find you in any room, no matter how crowded. Like the way his voice would soften—just slightly—whenever he spoke to you.
It was easy to assume it wasn't special.
Because he was kind to everyone, wasn't he?
A good High Lord. A good friend.
You'd seen him smile at others. Laugh with them. Offer that same effortless charm that made people feel seen, important, safe.
So this—whatever this was between you—it couldn't be anything different.
Couldn't be anything more.
...Right?
You didn't notice the way Cassian sometimes choked on his drink when Rhys's hand lingered too long at your back.
Didn't catch the looks Mor and Azriel shared when you brushed it off so easily, when you laughed and leaned into Rhys without a second thought.
Didn't hear Amren's quiet, exasperated sighs.
And you certainly didn't see the way Rhysand watched you when you turned away—like you were something rare, something his, something he was holding himself back from claiming with every ounce of restraint he had.
Because to you, it was simple.
Rhysand was your friend.
And he was like this with everyone.
Wasn't he?
✷☽✦☾✷☽✦☾✷
The music in Rita's pulsed through your veins, warm and dizzying, the kind that made it easy to forget everything except the moment you were in. Laughter spilled from every corner, bodies moving, lights glinting off polished wood and silk and skin. It was loud—but in a way that felt alive.
And you had been enjoying it.
Dancing had turned into laughing, which had turned into accepting a drink from a male whose name you had caught once... and then promptly forgotten. He was charming in that overly confident sort of way, leaning in just a little too close as he spoke, clearly very pleased with himself.
"...and then I told him, if you want someone who can actually win, you come to me," he was saying now, grin wide as he gestured with his glass.
You smiled politely, nodding along, only half listening—
A hand waved in front of your face.
You blinked, snapping back into the moment.
"Still with me?" he teased.
"Yes—sorry," you said lightly, adjusting your grip on your drink.
But something felt... off.
A prickle at the back of your neck. A sensation you couldn't quite name.
Eyes.
You turned instinctively.
And there—across the room, in the familiar booth tucked slightly away from the chaos—was him.
Rhysand
He was already watching you.
Of course he was.
One arm draped lazily over the back of the booth, posture relaxed, expression composed—but his gaze was fixed. Sharp. Unmoving. Like the rest of the room had faded into nothing.
You softened immediately, a small smile tugging at your lips as you lifted your hand in a subtle wave.
Rhys returned it just as easily.
And then his voice slipped into your mind, smooth as velvet.
You alright, darling?
Warmth bloomed in your chest at the sound of it.
I'm fine, you sent back, easy and unbothered.
You didn't miss the way his gaze lingered a second longer before he leaned back slightly, though he didn't stop watching you.
"—so I was thinking," the male in front of you cut back in, pulling your attention away. "We could—"
You hummed in response, barely registering the question as your eyes drifted back to Rhys again.
It was... hard not to look at him.
Something about the way he was watching you tonight—more focused than usual, maybe. Or maybe you were imagining it.
The male shifted closer.
His fingers came up, tilting your chin back toward him.
Your attention snapped.
And before you could even react—
Rhys's voice, sharper this time, slid through your mind.
Why is he touching you?
You blinked, a little startled at the edge in his tone.
He's funny, you sent back, still trying to keep the moment light. I'm giving him a shot.
There was a pause.
A quiet, heavy pause.
Then—
Come back here, darling. We miss you.
We.
You glanced toward the booth again, catching a glimpse of Cassian's barely contained grin, Azriel's shadows curling just a little tighter, Mor watching with open amusement.
You hesitated.
"I was actually wondering," the male said, leaning in closer, voice lowering, "if you wanted to head back to my place."
That made you pause fully.
"I... don't really do that," you admitted, offering a small, apologetic smile.
His expression shifted immediately—annoyance flickering through.
"That's what they all say," he muttered, rolling his eyes.
Something in your chest tightened.
You leaned back slightly, uncomfortable now, ready to excuse yourself—
But his hand didn't drop.
Instead, his grip on your chin tightened just enough to make your breath hitch.
And then—
He was gone.
Or rather—blocked.
A presence slid between you so seamlessly, so suddenly, it was like he had always been there.
Rhys.
"I've been looking for you," he said smoothly, voice calm, pleasant—too pleasant.
His hand found your back instantly, warm and steady, grounding you as he guided you just slightly behind him.
Shielding.
You didn't even think about it.
Didn't question it.
You just exhaled softly, tension melting from your shoulders as you leaned back into him without hesitation.
Relief flooding through you like it always did when he was close.
The male's attention snapped fully as Rhys stepped in front of you.
He pushed to his feet quickly, circling around as if to reinsert himself into the moment—but the second his eyes landed on who stood between you, all confidence drained from his face.
Recognition hit.
Hard.
Rhys only smiled.
That easy, lazy smile that never quite reached his eyes.
"Thank you for watching her," he said lightly, giving the male a casual wink as if this were nothing more than a polite exchange.
His hand slid up your back, fingers brushing through your hair in a slow, absent motion that felt far too familiar—far too claiming.
The male's jaw tightened. "We were busy."
Rhys's brow arched slightly, amusement flickering across his face as he leaned down toward you.
"Trust me," he murmured softly.
You didn't even question it.
You nodded.
And then—
His lips brushed your neck.
It wasn't overt, not enough to draw attention from anyone else in the crowded room—but it was deliberate. Grounding. A quiet, unmistakable message.
The male scoffed, bitterness lacing his voice. "Gods, you're a whore."
Everything stilled.
For a fraction of a second, nothing happened.
Then Rhys moved.
Fast.
One moment he was beside you—the next his hand had closed around the male's throat, shoving him back with effortless strength. The air seemed to crack with the shift in him, that easy charm evaporating into something cold. Dangerous.
"What the hell did you say?" Rhys murmured, voice low and lethal.
The male choked, fingers clawing at Rhys's wrist, his earlier bravado completely gone as panic set in.
You pushed to your feet, heart racing—not from fear of Rhys, never that, but from the sheer intensity of the moment.
Cassian was there in an instant, stepping in close and gripping Rhys's shoulder.
"Easy," Cassian muttered under his breath.
But Rhys didn't even glance at him.
"Apologize to her," he said, tightening his grip just enough to make the male gasp.
You stepped closer, reaching out and touching Rhys's arm.
"Rhys," you said gently, shaking your head. "Let's just leave."
His jaw flexed.
"Darling," he replied quietly, not looking away from the male, "he needs to apologize."
The male nodded frantically, his eyes darting to you, voice strained and uneven. "I—I'm sorry."
You gave a small nod, wanting it to be over.
"Rhys," Cassian added under his breath, firmer now, "let him go."
But Rhys didn't.
Not immediately.
The tension stretched, thick and suffocating.
So you stepped closer again, your hand sliding more firmly over his arm.
"Rhys," you said softly, meeting his gaze. "I want to leave."
That did it.
Something in his expression shifted—just slightly. The rage didn't disappear, but it pulled back, reined in by your voice.
After a beat, his fingers loosened.
The male dropped back, stumbling as he sucked in air, scrambling away without another word.
Rhys didn't spare him a second glance.
Instead, his hand found yours instantly, gripping it a little tighter than usual.
And before you could say anything else—
Darkness curled around you.
The world vanished.
And then—
Wind.
Silence.
The cool, familiar air of the House of Wind wrapped around you as you reappeared, your hand still firmly in his.
Rhys didn't let go.
You barely registered the cold rush of wind before you were moving—your hand slipping from his as you turned and shoved at his chest.
"What was that?" you whispered, breath uneven, heart still racing.
Rhysand didn't resist the push, but he didn't move far either. He dragged a hand through his hair, the strands falling messily back into place as he exhaled.
"I'm sorry," he said, quieter now.
You shook your head quickly. "It's okay," you insisted, trying to steady yourself. "You were just being a good friend."
The word landed wrong.
You saw it the moment it did.
Rhys stilled—completely stilled—before letting out a short, disbelieving scoff. His hand dragged along the edge of a nearby desk, fingers flexing like he needed something to ground himself.
"A friend," he repeated.
Something in your chest tightened.
You looked up just as his gaze snapped to yours—and whatever you saw there made your breath catch.
He stepped closer.
Slowly.
"Is that all I am, darling?"
You instinctively stepped back.
Once. Twice.
Until your back hit the wall.
And he didn't stop.
Rhys followed, closing the distance with deliberate, measured steps, his gaze locked onto you in a way that made your pulse spike—like he was seeing you differently. Like he had been all along.
You swallowed, trying to hold onto something familiar. "Yes," you said, though your voice wasn't as steady as you wanted it to be. "You're like this with everyone."
Another scoff—softer this time. Sharper.
"Am I?"
You nodded, even as your stomach twisted.
And then—
His hands came up, bracing on either side of your head, trapping you there.
Your breath hitched, eyes fluttering shut for just a second at how close he suddenly was.
"So," he murmured, voice low, dangerously calm, "I always let my friends sleep in my bed?"
Your lips parted, but no words came.
"I always touch my friends to keep others away?" he continued, closer now, his voice brushing against your skin.
Your pulse was racing.
"I always kiss my friends when they don't want male attention?"
Your breath caught—
A soft gasp slipping free as his lips brushed your neck again, slower this time, deliberate.
"And I always choke out a male when he calls my friend a whore?"
The words sent a shiver down your spine.
Your mind scrambled, trying to hold onto the version of things that made sense—the version you had always believed.
So you whispered, barely audible, "Yes..."
Rhys let out a quiet, almost incredulous chuckle.
His hand lifted, fingers tilting your chin up until you had no choice but to meet his gaze.
"No, darling," he said softly. "I don't do that with my friends."
Your breath stuttered.
"I do it just with you."
The world seemed to tilt.
Your voice came out shaky, uncertain. "Why...?"
For a moment, he just looked at you.
Really looked at you.
And then—
Something pulled.
Sharp. Sudden. Unmistakable.
It snapped through your chest like a thread you hadn't even realized was there—tightening, glowing, binding. A warmth flooded through you, deep and undeniable, laced with something ancient and certain and—
Your breath hitched violently.
Your hand flew to your chest.
And your eyes widened as you stared at him.
At him.
"...my mate," you whispered.
Rhys's expression softened instantly, all that tension unraveling into something quieter—something almost reverent.
He nodded.
Slowly.
Then leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against yours.
"Yes," he murmured.
Your breath was still uneven, your heart struggling to catch up with everything that had just... shifted.
You swallowed, your voice barely more than a whisper.
"How long...?"
Rhysand let out the softest, almost pained sound as you pushed at his chest again—not hard, but enough to make space, enough to look at him.
"Since I met you," he admitted.
The words hit like a shockwave.
Your eyes widened, a sharp gasp leaving you. "You've... known for centuries?"
He nodded.
Just like that.
Like it hadn't been tearing him apart this whole time.
You brought your hands up, covering your face as everything crashed in at once—the memories, the touches, the way he'd always been there.
Rhys was there immediately.
"Hey—hey," he murmured softly, gently taking your wrists, pulling your hands away from your face. His thumbs brushed over your knuckles, and then he pressed soft kisses to your hands, one after the other.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't want to force it on you."
You stilled.
Your heart squeezed painfully in your chest as a new thought slipped in—sharp and fragile all at once.
"Did you... want me?" you whispered. "Being your mate... did you want that?"
For a second, he just stared at you.
And then—
Rhys let out a soft, disbelieving chuckle, his expression breaking into something so open, so bright it made your chest ache.
He nodded, a real smile spreading across his face.
"I was so happy," he admitted, voice almost breathless. "The moment I felt the bond... I wanted to tell you immediately. I wanted—" he huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head, "—everything with you. But I didn't want to push you. Not when you deserved the choice."
Your eyes burned.
You nodded slowly, your voice trembling just slightly.
"I'm... so happy it's you."
Something in his expression softened even further, if that was possible.
"You are?" he asked quietly, like he needed to hear it again.
You nodded, stepping closer, your hands finding his shirt and tugging him down toward you.
"I am," you whispered.
And then you kissed him.
Soft at first—uncertain, like you were learning something new.
But it deepened almost instantly.
Because it wasn't new.
It had never been new.
Rhys let out a low, quiet sound against your lips, his hands coming up to cradle your face, holding you there like something precious.
"Gods..." he breathed into the kiss. "I love you."
Your heart soared, the bond between you warm and bright and real now.
"I love you too."
Rhysand smiled against your lips, something softer now threading through the intensity as he tugged you right back into the kiss.
It wasn't hesitant anymore.
Not for either of you.
His hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you there as the kiss deepened, as if he had been waiting centuries for this exact moment—and now that he had it, he wasn't letting go.
A low, quiet sound rumbled from his chest, almost a growl, the bond between you pulsing warm and alive.
"No male," he murmured against your lips, voice rough with emotion, "will ever get to touch you, talk to you—won't even be able to look at you the same way again."
Your breath caught, a soft sound escaping you as your hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer.
"I'm yours," you whispered, the words slipping out without hesitation, without fear—because they felt right. Completely, undeniably right.
Rhys stilled for half a heartbeat.
Then he smiled—really smiled.
"And I'm yours," he said softly.
Not possessive.
Not demanding.
Certain.
His arms slid around you before you could even react, lifting you effortlessly off your feet. A small laugh bubbled out of you, surprised, as you instinctively wrapped your arms around his shoulders.
He didn't stop moving.
Didn't break eye contact.
Every step toward his room felt charged, like the world had narrowed down to just the two of you, the bond humming steadily between your chests.
When he reached the bed, he didn't rush.
Didn't drop you down carelessly.
He laid you back gently, like something precious, like something he had waited far too long to finally have.
And when he leaned over you again, his expression had shifted—still intense, still full of that overwhelming emotion—but softer now, reverent.
His fingers brushed your cheek.
"Are you sure?" he asked quietly.
Even now.
Even after everything.
You didn't hesitate.
Your hand came up to cup his face, pulling him back down to you, your answer spoken in the way your lips met his again—warm, certain, and full of everything you hadn't realized you felt all this time.
Your lips met his with a hunger that matched the fire building between you, the bond thrumming like a live wire as his fingers deftly began untying the laces of your dress. The fabric loosened under his touch, cool air kissing your skin as he exposed you inch by inch, his mouth never leaving yours.
You parted your thighs instinctively, inviting him closer, and Rhysand stepped between them, his body heat radiating against your core. Your hands trembled with need as you worked the buttons of his shirt free, revealing the hard planes of his chest, marked with faint scars that told stories of battles long past.
When you nipped at his lower lip, a deep moan escaped him, vibrating against your mouth. In a surge of possessive desire, he gripped the remnants of your dress and tore it away with a sharp rip, the sound echoing in the quiet room.
He eased you back onto the bed fully now, his lips trailing fire down your neck, over the swell of your breasts, nipping at your collarbone before descending lower.
His teeth grazed your hip, sending shivers racing through you, and then he hooked his fingers into your underwear, shredding the delicate fabric with a growl. Bare and exposed, you arched toward him as his mouth found your clit, kissing it softly at first, then with growing fervor.
"Gods," he whispered against your slick folds, his breath hot, "you taste better than I dreamed."
A moan tore from your throat, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, tugging him closer. Rhysand groaned into your pussy, the vibration making you gasp as he slid one finger inside you, curling it just right to stroke that sensitive spot.
You writhed beneath him, hips bucking, and he chuckled low, the sound dark and teasing. "Such a good girl," he murmured, pumping his finger slowly, "taking my finger so good."
Your moans grew louder, body squirming as pleasure coiled tight. You lifted your hips to his face, chasing more, and he moaned in response, his tongue flicking over your clit. "Come, baby," he urged, voice husky.
The command shattered you. You came hard, waves of ecstasy crashing through you, and he praised you through it, his words a soothing rumble. "That's it, so beautiful for me."
As your tremors faded, he slipped a second finger in, stretching you further, drawing a whine from your lips.
He chuckled again, leaning up to capture your mouth in a deep kiss, tasting of you. "Darling, I need to stretch you out," he said against your lips, eyes locked on yours with that tender intensity.
You nodded, breathless. "Kiss me," you whispered, and he smiled, obliging as he added a third finger, thrusting them in rhythm with his tongue against yours.
The fullness built the pressure again, and soon you were clenching around him, coming undone a second time with a cry muffled into his kiss.
He pulled back slightly, chuckling against your lips. "Oh, look at that—such a good mate."
Still panting, you reached down, palming his cock through his pants, feeling its hard length strain against the fabric. You pumped it firmly, and he moaned, hips jerking into your hand. "So needy for me," he rasped, voice thick with want.
You nodded, eyes pleading, and he cupped your face gently. "I'll take care of you, darling."
With a sigh of relief, you watched as he withdrew his fingers, standing to strip off the rest of his clothes. His shirt fell away, then his pants, revealing his thick cock, veined and throbbing, pre-cum beading at the tip.
You giggled softly at the sight of him, so powerful yet vulnerable in this moment, and scooted to the middle of the bed, the sheets cool against your heated skin.
Rhysand smirked, that wicked curve of his lips making your pulse race, and he crawled over you, caging you in with his arms. Your hand found his cock again, stroking it, and he moaned, kissing you fiercely. "Ready for me?" he asked, voice rough.
You nodded, heart pounding, and he rested his forehead against yours, the bond singing between you. Slowly, he guided himself to your entrance, slipping inside inch by inch, filling you completely.
A moan escaped you, head falling back into the pillows, exposing your neck. Rhysand's face buried there, lips brushing your pulse as he thrust deeper, setting a steady rhythm that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
You moaned louder, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him in until he bottomed out, the angle hitting every nerve. "Faster," you begged, nails digging into his back. "Harder, please."
He groaned, pace quickening. "Don't have to beg me, darling. I'll do anything for you."
You nodded, capturing his lips in a messy kiss. "Fuck me so good—so good for me."
He whined, a raw sound that sent heat pooling low in your belly. "Wanna be such a good mate for you."
"Gods, you're everything," you breathed, holding him tight.
He smiled against your skin, thrusts growing urgent. "Come for me," he begged, voice breaking with emotion.
You did, clenching around him like a vice, your release pulling his own from him. He came with a guttural moan, spilling deep inside you, bodies locked together as the bond flared bright, sealing this moment forever.
You think it's over, his whine vibrating against your neck as your bodies tremble in the aftershocks, but when you glance down, you see his cock still hard, buried deep inside you, twitching with renewed need.
A soft moan slips from your lips at the sight, and Rhysand catches it, his eyes darkening with fresh hunger. In one fluid motion, he flips your positions, rolling so you're straddling him, his hands settling on your hips. You start to grind against him slowly, rolling your pelvis in languid circles, feeling every inch of him slide within your slick heat.
This time, it's unhurried, a tender lovemaking that builds like a gentle wave. His thumbs trace soothing patterns on your skin as you move together, his thrusts meeting yours in a rhythmic harmony, the bond between you pulsing with quiet intimacy.
Your hands brace on his chest, fingers splaying over the firm muscles, and he watches you with reverent eyes, one hand coming up to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple.
It doesn't take long—the connection too raw, too profound—for the pleasure to crest again. You come first, a soft cry escaping as you clench around him, and he follows with a low groan, spilling into you once more, his grip tightening as waves of release wash over you both.
Gently, he eases you down beside him, pulling out with care, his cock glistening as he shifts to lay you back against the pillows. "You took me so good," he murmurs, voice husky with affection, pressing kisses to your forehead. "Such a good mate for me, darling—perfect, every part of you."
You nod, basking in his words, but a whine builds in your throat when he slips from the bed, the sudden absence of his warmth leaving you chilled. He glances back, concern flickering in his gaze, and returns quickly from the bathroom with a warm cloth.
Seeing you still whining softly, he coos, settling beside you. "Shh, I need to clean you up, love."
You nod, eyes heavy, and let him tend to you, the gentle wipes against your sensitive folds lulling you into drowsiness. As he works, your lids flutter shut, sleep claiming you in the safety of his touch.
When he's finished, he discards the cloth and slides back into bed, drawing you into his arms. "Love you, darling," he whispers, lips brushing your temple.
Instinctively, you snuggle closer, nestling into the crook of his body, and he smiles, kissing the top of your head. Wrapped in each other, you both drift into a deep, contented sleep, the bond humming softly like a lullaby.
summary: you find yourself in a brand new school, in a brand new city, basking in an unlikely friendship
content: swearing, alcohol consumption, fluff
wc: 9.5k
Briar University was the last place you'd expected to find yourself. The application for the 'Study Abroad Program' was only half serious, at least that's what you thought, and now here you were; in Boston, thousands of miles from home, planted in the hallway outside the hockey rink.
Your task was fairly simple; a research project athletes experiences with performance anxiety, featuring a couple interviews, stats, and observations.
Light work.
Aside the fact that it was already your second week here and you knew nobody. You'd already procrastinated for a week— the thought of the assignment looming in the back of your mind, knowing the due date was bound to ambush you sooner or later, and it was now or never. You mustered up enough courage to wander around campus, finding yourself stalking the track team from afar, loitering by the football pitch, stumbling into a hockey rink and just, watching. Rather, observing. The practice was standard. Warm-up, drills, power-skating etc, nonetheless still entertaining. You skulked around a while afterward, waiting for their re-emergence to ask around for willing participants. Or something along those lines— you'd hoped.
Your first victim appeared before you, hair damp with doe-eyes, glazed with exhaustion. Your presence startled him and he halted, studying you. His expression didn't give you much to work with and your voice surfaced smaller than intended.
"Hi."
"Hi?"
Something about him rendered you unable to speak.
"Were you the one watching us just now?" His voice raised in pitch, near accusatory, closer to curiosity.
"Oh, no. Well, yes but not like, watching watching. Observing."
"So... you were watching us?" His eyebrow twitched in response and his head tilted.
"Maybe." you exhaled in defeat. You introduced yourself with a weak smile.
"Logan." he nodded.
"I'm not a creep, I swear, I'm doing a project. On performance anxiety. And I need athletes." your voice failed you once again and your words landed clipped.
"Okay?" he answered with a breathy laugh and it set something inside you alight.
"What I'm trying to say is, can I, please, interview you. For my project."
His head tilted slowly. His demeanour emit very little once again and you immediately squirmed under his gaze, shifting your weight and you toyed with your fingers. Amused, he caved, offering a much desired reprieve from his scrutiny.
"Sure, why not."
The light behind your eyes returned and the tension in your shoulders thawed.
He noticed.
"Thank you, so much." You sucked in a sharp breath and he braced, "I'm gonna push my luck and ask if you know anyone else that'd be interested?" The pitch in your voice climbed and the tension in your shoulders returned.
He smirked and zeroed in on you once more, this time jabbing with playful offence, "What, you've known me for 2 minutes and you're already asking for favours?" The rasp in his voice entangled every word.
"Oh, I'm sorry-"
"No, please. Don't worry, I'm kidding." The silence sat long. Almost too long, just watching one another before he resumed, "I have three other guys I could round up. That enough?"
"Plenty. Thank you."
"Here. Let me grab your number."
He fumbled around in the pocket of his sweats, swiftly turning the phone to you and you obeyed, tapping your number into his phone.
He watched the screen in confusion and looked back up at you, lips parting and sealing, tight. "Hate to break it to you, this isn't-"
"Oh, shit." you grumbled.
"You're not, like, from here, are you?"
"I thought the accent was a dead giveaway."
"Hey, I don't like to assume." he held his hands up in mock surrender.
You shrugged, an amused exhale leaving you.
"How does Instagram sound?"
"Perfect."
He returned a smile that sent a blooming heat to your cheeks.
The exchange was short and sweet, followed by an unceremonious goodbye and a stolen glance at his retreating form.
The hum of Malone's functioned as a pleasant ambience, contrary to the mind-numbing assignments that chipped away at your will to live. Anything to distract from the impending doom that was your deadline— and the fear of finally reaching out to him.
Days passed, posts stalked, innumerous messages typed out and promptly deleted. It wasn't clear what made you so inept when it came to him, or anyone really, but you groaned and tossed your phone back onto the table, sliding out of your booth to make the most of your free refills and grab another coffee, effectively keeping you as close to consciousness as you could whilst teetering on the edge of death by boredom. Your eyes were sunken and christened with the birth of new eyebags. The golden tinge of daylight kept you looking somewhat alive— disguising you as functioning civilian when currently, you were everything but. And unfortunately for you, the disguise fell short as your iced-coffee came crashing into the solid torso of a poor, unsuspecting victim.
"Holy shit." you huffed, "I am so, so, sorry. I'm such an idiot."
You snatched up a fistful of napkins from behind you and haphazardly shoved, dragged and patted them along his abdomen. It wasn't lost on you how toned he was beneath the grey shirt, now partly-translucent as it stuck to his abs. The rusted cogs in your mind resumed their slow revolutions, eventually guiding you to meet the gaze of the receiving end of your clumsiness.
Logan.
Shit.
He watched with the same smile that hypnotized you in that hallway. His obvious amusement disarmed you amidst your frenzy.
"And hello to you too." he uttered with that familiar rasp that sat deep in his chest.
You shot a tight-lipped smile up at him and inwardly cursed at the misfortune of the predicament you found yourself in. "I am so sorry. I really wasn't paying attention, this is entirely my bad."
"It's not a big deal— honest." he negotiated with you, finding your panic endearing almost.
"No, seriously, I owe you." you combatted. You finally paused with the frantic wiping once you realised it wasn't achieving much and met his eyes with a sigh.
"If I remember correctly, I owe you."
"Huh?"
"The interview? What happened to that?"
You swallowed down the pathetic truth and feigned indifference. "Yeah, I was getting around to it. I was gonna text you, actually" You gestured into the air toward him. "Just, been busy."
He nodded slowly, as he scanned you. You were sure he saw through you. "Well, I'm here now."
"Yes, you are."
You internally warred, wishing you had something witty to say, something fun to poke with. Nothing.
"I mean I guess this works out," he motioned gently at the mishap painted down his chest, "I don't actually have anything to do today. I'm ready if you are."
Your eyebrows knitted and you nodded with a false confidence that even had yourself fooled. "Yeah. Today, I'm ready."
He laughed in a way that melted you— like he still wasn't all too sure about you. Like you were something he was yet to figure out. Something worth the wait to unravel.
"Well, I'll need a new shirt, first and foremost. Then I'm all yours."
All yours.
It was deplorable how sweet those words sounded.
"Yeah. Sorry about that."
"If you don't mind sticking around, I can be back in 20?"
"That's perfect. Plenty time to get set up."
"Perfect." he echoed. "Be back in 20."
And with a pivot, he was gone almost as fast as he'd appeared. You cowered back to your booth, not before profusely apologising to the lady you'd come to understand was Della, the owner of the diner, now responsible for the syrupy mess splashed on the tiles and counter.
The crippling worry at the hands of the essay you'd been staring at for the past hour fragmented into nothingness once the reality of his return set in. You mocked your clumsiness and the entire interaction with a scoff, scrambling to finish up the interview questions you'd long abandoned, opening the document to find bones and incomplete sentences. You sighed and prayed to whatever universal power for mercy.
The minutes blew by quicker than you'd anticipated but somehow, the questions and prompts sat staring back at you, this time whole. Soon after, he returned, spotting you and sliding into the booth opposite with an ease you envied.
"Hello again."
You failed to supress the smile tugging on your lips.
"Thanks. For doing this."
"Don't worry about it." he assured, "Just promise there's no more coffee involved."
A blazing heat swelled beneath your cheeks at the memory.
"I promise." you returned, hoping he'd spare you the embarrassment.
"Okay," he grinned, "Ready when you are."
You rid yourself of humiliation and nerves, hoping to regain some semblance of professionalism or at least a fraction of normalcy that you seemed to lack in his presence.
You began the droning monologue about consent and data collection before punctuating its much needed end with a sigh and then, you began.
"How often do you experience performance anxiety, if at all?"
"Often. Whenever there's a big game, or, honestly any game". He let out a nervous chortle at his own admission.
"In what ways do you experience performance anxiety?"
"A lot, I guess? I get real sweaty, my breathing's all over the place, I can't think straight, my heart pounds - feels like it's in my throat. I get in my head a lot too, about what people are thinking of me. The audience, all the eyes, and my team."
You scribbled away as he spoke.
"Why do you think you experience performance anxiety?"
He thought for a moment, a solemness washing over him.
"The pressure— I gave up a lot to be here, to be out on the ice. Failing feels like I'm disappointing anyone who's ever believed in me. And- God, my team. I think any team sport is, honestly, terrifying. It's drilled into us that 'you're only as strong as your weakest link', and I think everyone, or at least, I'm always worried about being that. The doubt, the frustration, the exhaustion of it all. Don't get me wrong, I love what I do but, it's equally terrifying. Even after all these years."
You paused a beat, soaking it in. His calculated words. Not that you were anticipating him being a total airhead but he pleasantly surprised you.
The remainder of the interview followed suit; insightful, thoughtful responses that gave you exactly what you needed and some for this project. You jotted down the last of your notes and planted your pen down with a pleased hum.
"Thanks, again. I know this isn't exactly the easiest thing to talk about."
His natural affinity for ice hockey was extremely apparent.
Admirable.
"No worries at all. I'm glad I could help."
You smiled, genuinely.
"Could you direct the others my way at some point? I kind of procrastinated and only have a little over a week left."
"You and your favours." he scoffed playfully, "Of course."
"Thanks." you whispered.
"I'll get to see it right?"
"What?"
"Your finished project."
"That depends on how good it is."
"I have faith in you."
You scoffed and broke away from his gaze. "Thanks, but faith is one thing, a shitty professor is another."
"For what it's worth, I can tell you actually care. It crazy how many times I've been interviewed by people who wouldn't bat an eye if I dropped dead mid answer." he laughed.
You did too.
"I try."
"And succeed, it seems." he quickly added.
You shook your head, "We'll see about that."
A loaded silence settled.
"What are you doing here anyway? You said you weren't from here."
"No, you said I wasn't from here— you just happened to be right."
"You said it yourself, the accent was a dead giveaway. And I said I didn't like to assume."
"Yet you still did."
The playful back-and-forth left a buzz in the air between you.
"It was an accident actually," you continued. "There was this scholarship thing and they'd let you study at a sponsor school if you got accepted. One thing led to another and now I'm sat here with you."
"Huh, interesting."
"Terribly." the sarcasm dripping from your tone left a smirk tugging at his lip. This was, so far, the most interaction and character he'd gotten out of you.
"So, what's all this for? Sports Journalism?"
"Close. Sports Psychology."
"Oh, okay. Mind-reader."
"Not quite at 'mind-reader' level yet, but soon enough."
"Aspiring Houdini?"
"That's the plan!"
His laugh rattled through your entire body and echoed for a beat before he resumed, "How far away from home are you?"
"like 3000 miles. Ish."
"Ish." he chuckled to himself. "You're not homesick?"
"It comes and goes."
He hummed in acknowledgment. "Why ice hockey?"
"What do you mean?"
"For your project."
You chewed on your lip for a moment before speaking again. "If I answer honestly, promise you won't make fun of me."
"Promise." he spoke with an earnestness you'd hadn't heard before. He stuck his pinky out toward you, hovering in the middle of the table— an invite. Not too forward. Not too much pressure. You met him halfway, curling your finger around his. The brief contact was enough to brew fluttering in your lower stomach. You retreated. He let go.
"I don't actually know anyone here. Yet. I stalled for a week and realised I needed people to interview and fast. I may or may not have dug around for practice hours around campus. I figured I could find someone. And then I found you."
He didn't laugh. He barely even reacted. His eyebrows twitched involuntarily, almost as if lost in thought.
"Pretty brave."
"Barely."
"Well, you got me here somehow."
"By spilling my coffee all over you."
"So that was a part of your big plan?"
"I wish I was at least half that calculated. And again, sorry about that."
"Quit apologising."
"Sorry." you blurted without a second thought. He laughed again. With, not at.
"Well, now you can't say you don't know anybody."
"What?"
"You know me."
"I suppose I do."
"Yeah, you do."
You shied away from his gaze, fixating on the messy notes sat in front of you, twirling your pen between your fingers.
"I'll ask the other guys when they'd be available. Save you the headache of herding them up."
"That'd be great."
He tapped away, busied on his phone and you stole a generous helping of glances, his hair falling and framing his features just right, the stubble that adorned the lower half of his face.
Your tore yourself out of ogling at him. He was just being nice. Doing you a favour. It just happened to be that he's handsome. Painfully so.
"Tomorrow works. They're all home in the afternoon. You could come by if you'd like."
"Come by..?"
"Our house."
"You live with your teammates?"
"Yeah?" he answered as if it were the most obvious piece of information.
"Don't you get sick of eachother?"
"Oh, absolutely." You both smiled.
"Tomorrow is fine."
"I'll send you the address."
The last of your exchange was kind, to put it simply. 'Thank you's and praises thrown back and forth and his swift departure came once again.
You busied yourself with cleaning up your notes and making a start on the written portion of the project but you'd be lying if you denied replaying the entire interaction alongside it.
You shook your head, a futile attempt at ridding your mind of his all-consuming presence.
Tomorrow came quicker than you prepared for. Your heart pounded in your ears as you neared the sizable house. The front door before you made your stomach queasy and finally, you knocked. Quiet first. Then again, tainted with fervour.
The handle tilted.
And here he was again.
Black shirt. Skinny chain. Wads of brown curls tufting out the sides of a backwards cap— same smile.
Your name fell from his lips, a greeting.
You entered, soaking in the interior. Cleaner than you'd expected. Big couches, ice hockey table, shelves littered with trophies and knickknacks.
"They're just in here." he spoke, soft. He guided you towards the kitchen, peaking over his shoulder to see if you were following.
You were, closely.
You rounded the corner to find three guys, each possessing a unique demeanour you longed to unfurl.
He introduced you first, pointing to each of them:
"Dean," he waved gently, revealing soft dimples that sat comfortably in his cheeks, "Garrett," this one spoke, offering a quick 'Hey', "and Tucker", turning from the oven with a tray of what seemed to be freshly baked cookies, offered a kind grin.
"It smells delicious in here." your eyes trailed toward the source and back to the two boys sat around the island.
"All Tucker. If he's not on the ice he's back here with some new recipes." Dean responded.
"The kitchen is my happy place." Tucker added, now busying himself in the fridge.
"Okay, we won't take up much of your time." Logan spoke beside you, "Who's first?"
"I'll pass. I still have greens going on the stove and I gotta keep an eye on my cookies." Tucker explained as he glided through the room, appliance to appliance, back to the tray. Graceful, you thought. Near mesmerising how he moved.
"I got it." Garrett spoke.
"Great!" Logan turned to you, his scent breezing gently as he swerved. Rich cedar and something addicting. "Need somewhere private or..?"
You shook your head, "That's up to him really. Otherwise I'm happy to use the couch."
"Yes ma'am." he saluted and turned to Garrett, "Welcome to her office."
The interviews had long wrapped up, ending with Tucker who essentially coerced you into staying to have dinner, that then turned into dessert, that then morphed into cracking open a pack of beers and chatting away into the late night.
You'd learned a lot about each of them; how they all met, a peek into their respective lives before Briar U, endless stories that spiralled into random tangents and activated more stories. Cycles of laugher resounded throughout the room as the moon slowly began to hang in place of the once golden sky.
A deep comfort occupied the cavity in your chest that had since longed for anything that wasn't loneliness or homesickness upon stumbling your way into Boston. You'd initially believed that their civility had left room for your own anecdotes to slot amidst theirs but soon, endless curious questions gave you the floor and not before long, you noticed the authentic attentiveness and receptiveness to your every word. You'd grown comfortable, on your second bottle of beer, shoes long kicked off, melting into the cushions and dropping in one liners that had Tucker throwing his head back in amusement and spawning real smiles all around. For the first time in a while, your craving for companionship was sated.
"Hold on, Jules is calling." Logan rose and excused himself to the porch.
Logan's eyes caught yours as he stepped out. You thought nothing of it. Your pulse racing that little bit harder said otherwise.
The sound of your name leaving Dean's lips tugged you back to the conversation at present. "You should totally come to the party! The theme is dynamic duos and you're totally cool to bring a plus one, or two, or ten. The more the merrier, am I right?"
"I will... definitely consider." you laughed off the invitation.
"No, I'm serious! It'd be great to have you there."
You smiled at the sentiment and a reluctant sigh escaped you.
"I'll ask my roommate, Serena, and see what she says."
"Atta girl!"
"Plus, we can't not have you experience at least one of our many, many, almost too many parties." Tucker interjected.
"Too right, brother."
"You're only here for 10 months, right?" Garrett queried.
"Mhm."
"Oh, more than enough time to become a Hawk-house regular."
You shook your head at their kindness, "Thanks. Really. For the invite, and for the interviews, and dinner."
"Don't sweat it." the blonde waved you off.
"God- it's almost midnight, I'll get out of your hair."
Polite protests followed but you urged against prolonging your stay. With the rest of the assignment to finish, you mused over the lengthy day that lay ahead.
Tucker insisted on packing you two cookies to take home and soon enough you were out the door.
Logan's eyes shot up from his phone to meet you shutting the front door behind you. He straightened up from leaning against the pillar, his leisurely air dissipating at the sight of you.
"You're leaving? Already?" he questioned.
"Yeah, it's getting kinda late." you fidgeted with the aluminium in your hands, gaze dancing between that and him.
"It was great having you here."
"You guys are, super nice. Thanks, for all this, I had a great time."
"Least we could do." and he retuned a toothy grin. You couldn't help but mirror him.
"I guess I'll see you around." you nodded once and slipped away, starting toward the street.
You halted when you heard him call your name in that familiar rasp.
"Are you walking?"
"Yeah..?"
"Wait there." and he disappeared back into the house.
You obeyed.
He reemerged with keys in hand, bouncing down the stairs of the house.
"I'll take you back."
"Logan, you really don't have to, it isn't far and-"
"I'm not asking." he levelled you with his stare, adamant, and continued toward his truck.
You deflated, knowing he'd refuse to take no for an answer, and followed. Quietly climbing into his passenger seat and securing your seatbelt, the engine fired up and he backed out into the road with an vexing ease.
"Where we heading?"
"Forest Grant Building."
He nodded and his eyes latched onto the road.
Aside from his gentle rhythmic taps on the steering wheel, the air housed a stale silence. Nothing awkward, just stiff and begging a conversation to fill it.
"Who's Jules-?"
"What did you think-"
You both stilled and met each others eyes. Pools of deep amber and dark chocolate bore into your soul and instant laughter erupted between you.
"Sorry, go ahead."
"Please, you first." he challenged.
"Who's Jules?" you repeated.
"Sibling. Why?"
"Just curious. Your turn."
"What'd you think of the guys?"
"Oh, they're all great!" you beamed, "Definitely not as scary as I expected. And Tucker is insane, everything was delicious."
"Tell be about it!" he hesitated a beat, "Wait, you were scared? Of what?"
"Walking into a house of hockey guys I've never met before isn't exactly an every day thing."
"When you put it like that..." he squeaked in acceptance.
"See! Well, I can't thank you enough for tonight, I had a lot of fun. Unexpected, but fun."
"Yeah?" his eyes met yours briefly with a delicate upward quirk of his eyebrow.
Your lips twitched at that. "Yeah."
"Good. I'm glad."
"Me too."
"Your turn. Question. Hit me."
You inhaled, lips parted as you pondered, "Hidden talent?"
His cheeks puffed as he exhaled, "Uh, I can sing? You?"
"Jack of all trades, huh? And no fair, you stole my question."
"Answer."
"I can play the bass guitar."
"What?"
"What?" you mimicked.
"That's so much cooler than mine." he winced with a sigh.
"Favourite animal?"
"Hawk."
"Cop out." you grumbled.
"Favourite candy?"
"Snicker's bar. Favourite movie?"
"Okay, first of all, yuck—" he held his finger up between you in disapproval, "And 'Die Hard'."
"Logan. Really."
"What's wrong with 'Die Hard'?"
"Of all movies? Really?"
"That is blaspheme. You're never allowed in my car, like ever again."
"Fine by me."
The truck came to a slow halt, stop light casting a spotlight that engulfed you both in it's violent red hue. One hand on the wheel, the other hovering mindlessly on the console. Your gaze laved over him slowly. It irritated you to no end how pretty he was. The interior welcomed a hot amber, bathing him in a golden glow that accentuated every vein sat taut beneath his skin, the soft slope of his nose, every curl that sat perfectly in place at his nape.
So frustratingly pretty.
"Hey, throw a song on would ya?" he tugged at a wire between you and held it up.
"What do you want to hear?" you reached over and brushed his calloused fingers as you plucked it from his hold.
A luminous green melted over your faces and the vehicle was back in motion.
"Whatever you like."
You hummed in understanding and connected the jack into your phones port. You scrolled through your playlists a while, hands clammy. You landed on your most replayed song last month.
'Les - Childish Gambino' carouselled on the console screen.
The melody softly pulsed around you and his head immediately snapped toward you and his eyes widened.
"Oh yeah."
"Good pick?"
"Incredible pick." he reassured, flashing his canines beneath a dangerous smirk.
You began rocking gently to the beat, in tandem with his drumming on the steering wheel.
His fiddled with the small dial that rested beside the little screen, slowly twisting and the volume steadily climbed. The music gently vibrated your seat, buzzing through the air, totally consuming you both with the bass. The window's slowly rolled down of his own volition and sent a cool wind carding aimlessly through your hair, sending it whirling around your face.
"Logan!" you yelped, frantically attempting to smooth your hair down to no avail. He watched you, amused and you felt the car growl beneath you. He revved once, twice. Testing. And without warning he pushed a little more pressure than usual on the accelerate pedal. The combination of the cold gusts barrelling in from either side of the vehicle, hair fluttering in your face, pulsing bass of the music and sudden increase in velocity simultaneously tingled from the outside all the way in. Involuntary, rampant laughter was forced out of you and he relished in the sickeningly sweet sound of your raw joy, his own laughter now harmonising with yours.
"You're fucking crazy!" you yelled with no real force while the wind drowned you out.
"Huh, faster?" he yelled back, laced between that addicting chuckle.
"No, Logan-!"
You were immediately cut off by the sound of an even deeper growl erupting from the engine and somehow, the speed still managed to pick up. Your stomach ached from the unfamiliar change in force and sheer uncontrollable laughter. Your eyes clenched shut and your chest rose and fell with a newfound intensity.
You missed every one of his fleeting looks, completely and utterly enraptured by you. He didn't know it yet, but he would soon find himself innately searching for your pull and seeking refuge in your orbit.
The car slowed, finally, as he neared a corner, readopting the once responsible driver within him.
Your laughter equally slowed and you swept your hair out of your face— this time successful. You caught your breath and finally turned to him, "What the fuck was that?"
The sternness in your voice lacked any real foundation.
"What was 'what'?" he mocked, effortlessly circling the steering wheel with one hand.
"You're actually insane."
"I don't know what you're talking about," he ended the sentence with you name dripping from his lips like syrup.
You glared at him, any attempt at looking even slightly angered landed futile.
He lowered the volume and the windows slid higher slightly, as if ridding the evidence of his little stunt.
The remainder of the drive was short, orange streetlights basking your faces in their dull, flickering light. The quiet was nice. Not awkward. Easy.
He pulled up to the front of your building, putting the car in park. You turned to him, fumbling with the seatbelt.
"Thanks for the ride. And somehow not killing me."
"Anytime." he grinned.
"And, please, tell them all I said thanks for like, the millionth time."
He nodded once and his eyes never left you as you slid out his passenger seat, adjusting the falling strap of your bag on your shoulder and clutching onto the cookies. You offered a stiff wave as your feet adapted to solid ground once more. His hand rose and returned a single tilt of his hand. Effortless, cool, collected. Everything you failed to be around him. You pivoted on your heel and dug through your bag for your key card. Scanning yourself in, you glanced back quickly, only to fully turn and see him still parked.
Waiting.
You waved once more and he sent back another. The truck went unmoving until he saw you disappear into the building.
You scaled the two flights of stairs to your floor and pushed the door open with such diligence, fearing disturbing Serena, your efforts in vain when you heard her voice piercing from the bathroom.
"And where the hell have you been?"
"Out."
"Oh, I'm gonna need more than that missy." she stepped out, leaning against the doorframe and tapping her foot, unable to supress the smile creeping onto her face.
"I went to do those interviews for my project."
"And..?" she pressed.
"I ended up hanging out with them." you admitted. This time it was your turn for your smile to give you away.
"You've been hanging out with hot hockey players all day? Where the fuck was my invite?"
"It was an accident! It was supposed to be strictly business and then one thing led to another and we're having dinner and cracking open beer." you kicked off your shoes and shrugged your bag down beside them. "Will you forgive me for a cookie?" you waved the foil bundle in your grasp towards her.
"One, why on earth did they give you cookies and two, duh."
"One of them's a really, really good chef."
"You're kidding right." her voice fell flat and she eyed the little foil package in your hands.
"Somehow, no. They were all really nice actually."
"Okay so, one of them is totally into you."
Your breath caught and you spluttered out a weak cough. "They were being nice."
"Hockey players. Inviting you over. Cooking for you. Asking you to stay for dinner." she emphasised every word, sauntering over and plucking the cookies from your hold. You followed her over to the counter and rested your hip against it, watching her tear open the neat packaging like a barbarian.
"You're reading into it too much."
"You're not reading into it enough!"
"Eat your cookie and shut up." you nudged her.
"Don't have to tell me twice." she nudged you back and sank her teeth into one. "Hoooly shit, these are-" she groaned and her knees near buckled.
"You're an animal."
"You love me." she spoke with her mouth full.
"Yeah, yeah, don't choke." you pushed off the counter, scooping up your bag and heading to your room.
"Goodnight, puck bunny!"
"What are you talking about?" The confusion etched on your face amused her.
"That's the name for all the girl's trying to get in the teams' pants." she winked, crumbs stuck to her lips.
"Gross." you scoffed, shutting the door behind you.
Exactly a week had passed since that night. The project was submitted, essay complete, the turbulent, and frequently disturbed dust of student life ultimately settling. Now you lay in bed, classes done for the day, wasting away in the bliss of your freshly washed sheets. You'd be lying if you said you hadn't thought much about that night. About him. Because you had. A lot.
The way he'd silently watch you as you spoke with an intensity that hastened your pulse. The way he toyed with you on the drive back, revelling in the sound of your laughter, much closer to cackling. The way he loitered outside the building.
You'd tried to forget Serena's stray comment about the possibility of one of them maybe being into you. The thought mulled over a couple times, always being dismissed by the absurdity of it all. You made a conscious effort not to mention Logan around her, in partial fear of her even suggesting the idea of a crush and in greater fear of her being right.
He was just being nice, you'd convince yourself over and over again.
He's probably forgotten about me by now.
You'd debated sending him the project like he asked but talked yourself out of it. You'd reached a begrudging stage of acceptance that you probably wouldn't see him again.
His profile picture with a hot pink ring placed itself at the top of your screen, first in your list of your 'Following' stories— taunting you. It was comical how many times you'd unlocked and locked your phone.
You heard your name yelled from the front door in a tone you'd not yet discovered in Serena. Your bedroom door burst open.
"You little liar."
"Dude!" you sat up out of bed, "What if I was naked?"
"Don't care. You keeping secrets now, huh?"
"What the hell are you talking about, Rena?" you rubbed your eyes in exhaustion.
"You got invited to a party and just casually left that out of your story."
"Yeah, it's not like I was gonna go."
She let out an exasperated groan in annoyance. "There's no way you got invited to the party of the entire semester, by the hottest hockey team to walk this earth, with a plus one, and you're not going. We are so going."
"You won't take me alive." you mockingly sang at her.
"It's cute that you think you have a choice."
"Wait, how did you even find out about that?" you eyebrows screwed together.
"So you were keeping secrets!"
"Answer the question."
"Tucker is in my Econ class! That's the chef, right?"
You sighed and threw yourself back in bed.
"Yeah, so, we're in a group project together and he was all like, 'Huh, your name sounds familiar' and I was all like, 'Really? Weird.' and blah, blah, blah, we figured out we both knew you and then he asked if I was going to the party." She inhaled a long, replenishing breath after her word vomit. "Then he invited me and told me to bring you! So yes, you're going."
"Invite someone else." you retorted.
"What reason could you possibly have to not want to be there." her shoulders thawed of the pent up emotions and she sat on the edge of your bed, "You said it yourself, you wanna make the most of your time here!"
"I'm sure they invited me out of politeness, or like, pity. Plus, it's like, terrifying."
"An invite is an invite."
You rolled your eyes.
"So what costume are you thinking."
"None."
She furrowed her eyebrows at you. "You know what, I'll take care of the costumes. Sit pretty and stop worrying in that panic-y little head of yours."
You watched her expressionless and she beamed back at you, the corners of her eyes creasing and nose scrunching.
One day you'd figure out how to say no to her.
"Fine."
She squealed and threw herself onto you in something along the lines of an embrace. "I'm gonna make sure you have the most fun you've ever had in your life!". You grunted as your back hit the sheets and you felt a laugh being squeezed out of you.
The day finally rolled around. Serena settled on recycling last years Halloween costume and a sprinkle of improv; a witch and a black cat. Classic.
You'd pregamed a little (a lot) back at your dorm, a hot buzz stirring from deep within you thanks to the heavy handed drinks she'd made. Screaming the songs of your shared playlist together, applying the best faces of makeup you'd ever managed. She helped draw on your cat whiskers and button nose, clipping on a bell around your neck and a tail to the back of your little black dress.
"I've never seen a sexier kitty." she growled at you, extending her hands in a clawing motion.
"You weirdo!" you chuckled back.
She placed her witch hat on her head, askew at that, rendering both of you now complete, head to toe. With blurry photos taken and bottles in hand, you piled into the back seat of your Uber.
The party was in full swing by the time you had arrived and euphoric bliss washed over you. The perfect level of tipsy and the bass of the music buzzing at your feet, rattling through your bones and resonating deep in your chest, bodies on bodies and sly touches you'd forget about in the morning. The concoction in your red solo cup sloshed with every sway of your hips to the beat, Serena mirroring you perfectly. You were yet to find Logan but you'd briefly bumped into Tucker, thanking him profusely for the invite and watching him scurry along, his little bee wings flapping after him. Followed by Dean dancing his way over to the kitchen and waving as he passed, and Garrett discretely smiling at you while he weaselled out of conversation and busied himself with a pretty brunette dressed like a bunny. Since then, Serena had introduced you to a a couple people from her classes and funnelled an additional three shots into you.
The alcohol spoke before you did, "Hey, Rena?" you leaned into her so she could hear you over the music and cacophony of voices.
"Yeah?"
"I wanna tell you something but promise you won't, like, freak out."
She shot you a suspect glare and tugged at your wrist, rounding the corner into the quieter hallway.
"I think I have a tiny, literally microscopic, very, very mini crush on someone and I think he's here."
"Who!"
"One of the hockey guys I interviewed and spilt coffee on and drove around really fast with. I tried really hard to... not, but I can't stop thinking about him and I know he's around here somewhere and its killing me."
She absorbed every word with knitted eyebrows. "Okay— first of all I'm offended you didn't tell me sooner and second of all, you're talking to him. Tonight."
"Serena, I can't. I'm drunk and I have no idea what to say—"
"All the more reason to talk to him, idiot. Everyone here is drunk. Like ninety percent of these people are making bad decisions tonight and you will be joining them! This is your perfect chance."
"And what if he's not into me. What if he has a secret girlfriend?"
"Then you'll find out and never have to see him again! Or you hit it off and you do. There's no losing if you think about it."
You played with the idea for a beat, the thought rolling around your mind.
"Stop. I can literally see you overthinking it. Come on, show me who he is." she pulled you back in and through the crowd, right to the centre of the room. Your weak protests landed on deaf ears, now occupied by the music blaring from the speakers. She turned to face you and began to sway, leaning into your ear.
"Act natural. Just dance and tell me if you see him."
And you did just that.
For a hot minute, you'd forgotten entirely about your task at hand, losing yourself to 'Rock Your Body' by Justin Timberlake. It was too hard to resist in your blissed out state that instantly grinded to a halt as you caught those familiar umber eyes across the sea of bodies.
You hand clutched onto Serena's and you yanked her toward you with panicked force, "He's here! In the kitchen. Bird wings."
You both seamlessly manoeuvred to have your back to him and Serena head on. She examined a moment and leaned back in, you turning your head and meeting half way.
"Fuck, he's hot!"
"I know!" you whined.
"Okay, I have a plan. You're gonna dance, and you're gonna leave."
"What?" you spat.
"Just, trust me!" she punctuated her words by grabbing your hand and twirling you. You stumbled slightly, limbs loose from the warmth and liquor.
A handful of songs played, each somehow better than the last. You tossed your hair around, arms flailing to the rhythm, euphoric. Serena pulled you in once more, this time less inconspicuously: "He keeps looking over here. Go, now."
She's delusional, you thought. "Where?"
"Porch."
Your eyes creased and eyebrows furrowed before she ushered you away. With nothing left to fight back with, you weaved your way out of the crowd.
The air was crisp, a gentle chill nipping at your skin. You stood, phone and near empty cup in hand, watching the many circles now formed, scattered aimlessly across the space; a few smoking, some just talking, a few strays making out by the bushes. Standard. You rolled your eyes at Serena's odd plan that now seemed anathema to you.
"Didn't know you were coming."
A chill ran through you at the mere sound of his voice. You turned to welcome him and he planted beside you.
"Tucker invited me. Turns out he knows my roommate and invited her too."
"Ah." he nodded, bringing his beer bottle up to his lips.
"Are you a bird?"
"Bingo."
"Who's your duo?"
"Tucker. Bird's and the bee's."
You half scoffed, half snorted out a small laugh.
"Creative, you've gotta admit!" his voice rose to a defensive pitch.
"Sure, we'll settle on creative."
"Okay, and you're a cat."
"A black cat. And roomy is a witch."
His tongue clicked, "Basic."
"Classic." you corrected.
His laugh caught you like a snare. "Don't cats, like, kill birds?"
"We'll find out by the end of the night."
His breath caught and he angled to see more of your face. He quickly snapped forward once again, slowly swirling the bottle by its neck. You mentally applauded yourself for the quip, bordering on flirting. Testing the waters, mostly attributed to the liquid courage coursing through you.
"What are you doing out here anyways? Not a fan of parties?"
"No, I just needed some air. I'm having a lot of fun actually."
"Yeah, I could tell. Hidden talent should've been dancing."
She was right.
He was watching.
"You were watching me?" it was your turn to angle toward him and your head tilted slightly.
His lips parted and closed. He paused, eyes hardening in real time, "Hard not to."
That shut you up. Fast.
You exhaled an amused breath, at a loss for words, and you caught a glimpse of his wicked smile as he got down another sip from his bottle.
You downed the final sip of yours, eyes never leaving his as you did so. You could've sworn you saw his eyes flicker to your lips the second it was lowered.
Dangerous.
"Want another? You can't leave without trying the 'Logan Special'." he spoke the name like a motto and it awarded him with your lips curling up into a smile.
"Why not."
"C'mon." his head jerked gently back towards the door and your legs began before your mind caught up. Heat bloomed in your chest as you felt his hand rest, gentle as ever on your lower back— damn near hovering.
He led you to the kitchen, the sea of people automatically parting for him, almost biblical how effortlessly he commanded with presence alone. You handed him your cup and he got to work, very obviously eyeballing whatever mixture he was brewing up. His gaze found yours as he worked, dancing from you, to the cup, and back to you.
"Aaaaaand-" his voice stretched, spearing a straw into the cup and handing it to you, "Voila."
"Looks toxic." you spoke as you eyed the cup.
"Well, you gotta give it a review."
You sent a daring look his way and brought the straw to your lips, sipping gently. You tried but miserably failed to stop your face screwing up and it earned a chuckled out of him. "It's.. strong!"
"That's the point!"
"Like, really strong." you winced, turning the straw to the opposite side of the cup. Offering with a sardonic grin. Testing, once more.
He bent down slightly, lips catching the straw. His eyes never once left you. The sip he took made him squint, rising back to his full height and grimacing behind his fist. "Really strong was... accurate."
He scanned the island for a cup, pinching it and placing his hand over yours, tilting until both cups were evenly filled. He sloshed it around once, twice, calculating.
"Bottoms up?" he raised the cup an inch. You tapped your rip into the body of his, and down the hatch it went. You moved in tandem. In synchrony. Both curling into yourselves and cringing at the shockwaves it sent through your system.
"Remind me never to let you make a drink for me, ever again."
"Remind me never to make one."
You leaned into each other, equally humoured and buzzed.
"Hey, you never sent me that assignment." he ducked down, closer to you. His voice tingled through you, the proximity setting your skin alight.
"We're at a party and you wanna talk about my project?"
"You promised you'd let me see it."
"Yeah, well, curiosity killed the cat." you shrugged.
"And satisfaction brought it back." he smirked. "Plus, wouldn't that mean it's killing you?" he eyed the now smudged whiskers on your cheeks and the little ears that sat atop your head.
"Don't think about it too much."
He smirked and shook his head in amusement.
"Hey, I don't know if you-"
His voice was violently butchered by the bellowing of his fellow teammates, lining up their umpteenth round of shots.
'Logan, get your ass over here, man.'
'Get over here, bird boy!'
He left you with an apologetic look, sighing and rounding the table to join them.
You nodded once, watching him return to them. The crowd erupted in hoots and cheers for the team, every onlooker mesmerised by the sight. You spotted Serena among the Econ posse, equally engrossed in the scene before her and you made way over, every step garnished with a polite 'scuse me' to obstructing attendees.
"Holy shit, how'd it go."
"Good! Really good! I think I flirted..? I couldn't tell."
She couldn't contain her grin.
The following two hours flew by. Endless dancing, more drinking, shared glances from across the room. Serena had already caught your exchanged looks twice and teased you relentlessly for it.
Most of the crowd had fanned out by now, more people loitering outside and scattered along the halls and stairway.
You'd lost track of the story one of Serena's friends were telling once you'd seen him in your peripherals. You really did try to keep up, but between the heat of his stare and the convoluted tangents littered into the poor recount of events, your focus resided elsewhere.
You excused yourself to the bathroom, winding through meandering bodies and truthfully, getting a little lost on the way. The door shut with a quiet click behind you and you found yourself in front of the sink, shifting all your weight as you rested against it. You met your eyes in the reflection of the mirror ahead, vision taking a beat to properly fixate. The whiskers had melted into your cheeks, now a blurred reminder of what once was. You couldn't help but smile at the sight of your current state.
You appreciated the rush from the hit of quiet, savouring a moment of solitude. Once your head levelled, you emerged from the bathroom only to be met by none other than Logan perched against the handrail that overlooked the first floor— hair mused, wings awry.
You cocked your head slightly, approaching him, edging into his space "You're following me."
"No," he frowned and feigned ignorance, "Just coincidence, I think."
"Yeah, okay, bird boy."
"Oh, not you too." he whined.
"But it's fitting, no?"
"We'll work on it."
"Ah, I have to say I'm a big fan of 'bird boy'."
"I can't tell whether I should be flattered or offended."
"Both?"
He chuckled. "Hey, uh, sorry about earlier. We didn't get to finish our conversation."
"It's okay, duty calls."
"Yeah, well." he swallowed. For the first time since meeting him, he looked something that resembled close to nervous. "You should come to our game next week. If you're into that kind of thing."
Your eyebrows raised on instinct. Those were the last words you expected from him.
"I get it if you don't-"
"I'd love to."
His mouth stalled, ajar.
"Yeah? Great! And, bring whoever you want, it's on me."
"Just as long as you promise there's no driving involved."
You watched his expression soften and lips curl as the memory of that night came flooding back.
"I'm an amazing driver, thank you very much." his tone matched that of exasperation as he waved his finger at you, accusatory.
"We have very different definitions of 'amazing' drivers."
"Well I remember you having a great time."
You forced a stern look that fell through immediately. "My heart was in my throat, if that's what you mean by 'great time'."
"Sure didn't sound like it."
His words were all air. His voice melted to almost nothing— quiet and restrained.
Derisive.
It captured with you for a split second, forcing you to recalibrate before you acted.
"You're crazy."
"And I'm right."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night, bird boy." the ridiculous name rolling sweetly from your tongue, settling comfortably for his ears only.
"No driving. You'll be there?"
"I'll be there."
"There's probably gonna be an afterparty at Malone's too, y'know, if you wanted to stick around."
"Noted."
"You've not ever been to Cape Cod, have you?"
You shook your head slowly.
"Here, come on." he started down the hallway, leading you to the penultimate door. He pushed the door open gently, pressing his back up against it to allow you entry. Your arms brush, his bicep instinctively tensing at the contact.
You pretend you don't notice.
The room was warmly lit, the overhead light dimmed to a humble gold that cascaded over the walls, the small vanity planted in the corner and an almost comically large bed that resided in the middle of the room, embellished with too many pillows. The door creaked as it swung back into place. He made sure it didn't completely lock, a subtle gesture that solidified honest motive.
He slid beside you, circling the bed and yanking away a curtain, unveiling a sliding glass door that led to what looked like an abyss. He pushed one side open and beckoned you over with a single glance thrown over his shoulder and a gentle jerk of his head. You followed, shuffling across the room. You were hit with a cool breeze that kissed your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. Carefully stepping out onto what you now understood was a balcony, you were met with a black sky, bruised with a deep indigo at its seam where it met the sea. The moonlight twinkled against the body of water that danced with each gust of wind.
Breath-taking.
You watched the view, in awe, while he watched you.
"It's beautiful."
You voice matched the serenity of the sight.
He finally turned to stare ahead, now hunching over and resting his arms on the balcony railing beside you, "The best out here, especially after being cooped up on campus all the time."
You hummed in agreement.
Time stood still as you both basked in the sight before you.
"You enjoy the party?" he chirped.
"I loved it. I'm glad I came. And thanks."
"For?"
"For basically being my ticket here."
"That was all you."
"Not really."
"Look, if Tucker—If any of us" he corrected without second thought, "didn't like you, you wouldn't be here. You made a great first impression."
He side eyed you, hoping to catch something. Anything. And he did. Your lips twitched and your gaze fell to your hands, now tightly wrapped around the railing.
"That's sweet."
"So are you." he blurted.
You couldn't decipher whether that was him or the copious amount of shots you'd seen him take.
Silence returned once more, only interrupted by infrequent hums of wind that wove through between you.
"It's really nice out here. It's helping that awful drink you made earlier wear off." you chimed.
"It was really bad, huh?"
"Terrible." you added without missing a beat.
"There goes the lifelong dream of being a bartender." his tongue clicked against his teeth after his words.
A soft, humoured exhale left you. "So, what is?"
"Huh?"
"The lifelong dream. Hockey?"
He pondered, overlooking the glistening ripples of sea. He sucked in a breath of salty air and shrugged, "I mean— maybe?"
You fully turned to him, resting your hip against the cold railing, a little less harsh now from the warmth of your hands. "Why 'maybe'?"
He sighed.
"I hope! I fuckin' love hockey, but unless I get drafted..." his voice trailed off and disappeared in the wind, "...y'know?"
"Yeah." you offered quietly.
"I guess there's my mom's garage. I help out a lot but, I don't want that to be my forever."
"You close with your mom?"
His jaw tensed and the rest of him stilled.
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry."
"You're good, really. We just," he searched carefully for his next choice of words, "she's far from perfect. It was hard, especially on Jules and I."
You nodded as he continued.
"It's a long story but, I can't stay there."
"I get it."
"What about you. What's your 'forever'?" his deflection was painfully apparent.
"I don't know." you shrugged, "After I get out of school, I have no idea what to do with myself. I've never not been in school before so—"
"You big on travelling?"
"Not really. Coming here was the most spontaneous thing I've ever done. Plus, I hate planes."
He turned to you with woven eyebrows, equally confused and in awe. "But you flew, 3000 miles here..?"
It was your turn to paint confusion across your face, "How'd you know that?"
"You told me that. After the interview?"
"Why do you remember that?" a nervous laugh was drawn out of you.
"It's a pretty big deal, it's pretty hard not to."
"Yeah, well, I don't plan on ever doing another 3000."
"You don't wanna stay here?"
"It's great— sure, but I don't know if this is 'home'. That being said, I still have another 10 months to decide."
"You're only here for 10 months?"
"Yep."
"How you gonna spend it?"
"What?"
"What do you mean 'what'? You can't just come all this way, do school and then leave." he scoffed, eyes locking onto yours in shock.
"Why can't I?" you pushed.
"Because that's literally insane!"
"Is it?"
"Extremely."
"Well, help me wise bird boy, what do I do?"
"What do you like?"
You.
"Uh, sports psychology?"
He groaned your name with an exasperated sigh.
"What?! I don't know, I feel like I don't know myself enough yet."
"Then get to know. Isn't now a good time? Arguably a perfect time?"
Your eyebrows furrowed, urging him to continue.
"Okay— you're young, you're free, in a brand new city to play around with for 10 months." he emphasised the list with a point to each additional finger.
"You may have a point." you rolled your eyes playfully.
"I do! And you know I do. So, be stupid, be reckless, know yourself, and what you like and spill coffee on people you've just met!" he laughed. You joined.
The sound of your amused symphony rang out into the vastness around you. The height difference between you finally sank in as he watched you through hooded lids, crows feet kissing the corners of his eyes as he was busied with laughter. The stiff wings pinned to his back jolted in tandem with every sound that escaped him. The air rose in heat around you, and would've been comfortable if not for the lingering alcohol.
You cleared your throat and attempted to excuse yourself, "I'm gonna go grab some water, I'll be right—"
"Hey, you're good. I can go get it."
"You sure?"
"Positive, I don't mind." and he slipped back into the room and into the hallway with a final look over his shoulder at you.
The breeze bit colder with a newfound ardour, and you returned back into the room, silencing the whisps of wind as the door slid closed. You studied the room for a moment, eyeing the meticulous decor before landing on the king sized bed that drew you towards it. You stood by the edge, thighs pressing into the plush of the sheets, tucked attentively into the frame before you pivoted with a jump and landed on your back, bouncing once and drowning in the luscious silk. You somehow sank impossibly deeper. You weren't sure how it happened but within seconds, your eyes fluttered shut, losing yourself in the embrace of the glossy fabric swallowing you up.
a/n: omg im tweaking this has been in my drafts for so long anywaaaays i hope you enjoyed reading, i love logan sm, any and all interactions are massively appreciated <3 plsplspls lmk if you'd be interested in a part two or being added to a possible taglist, im in a writing slump and idk if this is even worth finishing BUT THANK YOU FOR READING i love u
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Summary: You and Dean are just friends… with benefits. Until you’re not.
Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x Reader
Warning: Nothing overly explicit in this. I’ve said before I don’t write that. But that being said the ending does get a smidge hot 🥵 Possessive Dean
Note: Me writing for people other than Logan?? 👀🤭 I have range okay? Hope y’all enjoy 🫶 Send me any request and ideas. Also should I have a taglist? If I do one it will be a different taglist for each character.
The bass from the speakers inside the Briar University hockey house didn't just vibrate through the floorboards; it rattled deep within your chest, pulsing in perfect, frantic sync with your heartbeat. The air was thick, a suffocating cocktail of cheap, stale beer spilled on hardwood, expensive cologne, and the distinct, rowdy adrenaline of a post-game win.
Usually, you slipped into these massive, chaotic parties like a ghost. You’d wear an oversized Briar hockey hoodie—often one stolen directly from Dean’s closet—and a worn pair of jeans, blending seamlessly into the background noise of the crowded living room. You were comfortable acting as "one of the guys." More accurately, you were comfortable hiding behind the unspoken, low-stakes title of Dean Di Laurentis’s "best friend with benefits." It was a safe title. It kept your heart protected, tucked neatly away where his notorious, casual charm couldn't smash it to pieces.
Tonight, however, a reckless impulse had taken root. You had chosen a completely different tactic.
The dress was a sleek, ruby-red silk slip that hit dangerously at mid-thigh. It clung to the curve of your hips, skimmed your waist, and exposed the bare, pale skin of your collarbones and shoulders—assets you usually buried beneath layers of thick fleece. It was the kind of dress that demanded an unshakeable, spine-straightening confidence that you weren't entirely sure you possessed. Your hands had shaken as you zipped it up in your apartment, but the moment you stepped across the threshold of the hockey house, the atmosphere shifted instantly.
A sudden, noticeable pocket of quiet bloomed around the front door. A few ongoing conversations among the crowd sputtered out entirely. A couple of sophomores on the hockey team stopped mid-laugh, their Solo cups pausing halfway to their mouths as they openly stared, their eyes tracking the unfamiliar silhouette.
But you didn't look at them. You only cared about one single reaction.
Across the sprawling, chaotic room, Dean was leaning casually against the scratched kitchen counter. He looked effortlessly handsome, his post-game hair still damp at the edges, a red Solo cup dangling loosely from his long fingers.He was laughing easily at something Tucker was gesturing about, the picture-perfect image of Briar’s untouchable star player.
Then, almost as if sensing the subtle shift in the room's energy, his eyes began to lazily scan the crowd.
And he completely froze.
The easy, devastating smirk was wiped clean off his face in an instant. It was pure, unadulterated tunnel vision; the rest of the crowded, roaring party seemed to blur into a meaningless smear of background noise around him. Tucker said something else, clapping Dean firmly on the shoulder to emphasize a point, but Dean didn't even blink. He didn't turn his head. His knuckles turned stark white around the plastic of his cup, the material crinkling sharply under the sudden,immense pressure of his grip.
The effortless, cocky charm he wore like bulletproof armor simply vanished. In its place, a dark, intense hunger flared to life in his blue eyes, so raw and predatory that it made your stomach flip in a violent mixture of thrill and nerves.
You swallowed the sudden, dry lump in your throat. Your fingers clenched into your palms, forcing yourself to plaster on a casual, unaffected smile as you began the long walk across the hardwood floor toward the kitchen. Play it cool, you fiercely told yourself, the silk of the dress whispering against your thighs with every step. It’s just Dean. You see him half-naked three times a week. It’s just Dean.
Except, as you drew closer, it became blindingly obvious that it wasn't just Dean tonight.
He didn't move an inch to greet you. He didn't lean back or offer his usual playful wink. He just stood there, rooted to the floor, his heavy gaze tracking the slow, deliberate sway of your hips, the bare skin of your shoulders, and the sharp,elegant dip of the neckline. The air between you grew heavier, hotter, shrinking the distance until the thumping bass of the party felt miles away.
"Hey," you said lightly, your voice sounding a little breathier than you intended. You reached out, your fingers brushing against his as you plucked the Solo cup right from his hand, raising it to your lips to take a slow sip. Anything to break the suffocating, magnetic tension coiling between you. "Good game tonight, Di Laurentis."
Dean didn't answer. He didn't tease you back with a slick one-liner or complain about you stealing his drink. Instead, his hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around your wrist. His grip wasn't painful, but it was firm, heavy, and completely unyielding, stopping you dead in your tracks. You looked up, and the breath caught in your throat. His pupils were so completely blown out that the blue of his irises was reduced to a thin, electric rim.
"Upstairs," he muttered. His voice was a low, gravelly rasp that barely carried over the blaring music, but it vibrated straight through your skin. "Now."
Your heart took a violent leap against your ribs, but you tried to hold your ground, gesturing faintly to the room around you. "Dean, come on, I just got here—"
He didn't argue. He didn't offer an explanation. He simply tightened his fingers around yours, intertwining them, and began cutting through the densely crowded living room like a snowplow. His broad shoulders parted the sea of drunk college students effortlessly. You had absolutely no choice but to follow in his wake, your heels clicking against the floor,your mind racing as fast as your pulse.
The moment he pulled you across the threshold of his bedroom, he shut the heavy wooden door behind you. He turned the lock with a sharp, metallic click that sounded like a gunshot in the sudden, isolated quiet of the space.
The bass from downstairs was reduced to a muted, rhythmic thud beneath the floorboards. Dean turned around, instantly running a frustrated hand through his hair, pacing the small, familiar distance between the edge of his unmade bed and his wooden desk. He looked entirely unraveled—a sight you had never, in all your months of knowing him, witnessed. The golden boy of Briar hockey was visibly sweating the details.
"Dean, come on," you said, letting out a forced, airy laugh as you tried to summon your usual emotional armor. You walked over and leaned your lower back against his desk, crossing your legs casually, desperate to appear unaffected."The team just won a massive game. You’re supposed to be downstairs celebrating your hat trick, not locking yourself away with your casual Friday night distraction."
Dean stopped pacing. He didn't laugh. He didn't even drop his eyes to look at the exposed length of your legs, which would have been his usual move. Instead, he kept his gaze locked dead on yours. His blue eyes were dark, incredibly intense, and entirely stripped of their trademark, playful glint.
"Stop," he said, his voice dropping an octave, raw and gravelly. "Stop doing that."
You tilted your head, swallowing down the panic rising in your chest. "Doing what?"
"Acting like you didn't put that on tonight specifically to drive me insane," he said. He took a slow, deliberate, heavy step toward you. The distance between you was shrinking fast, and with it, your ability to think logically. The cocky,untouchable Dean Di Laurentis was entirely gone. In his place was a man who looked like he was running out of oxygen in a room entirely devoid of air.
He paused, gesturing vaguely but fiercely at the red silk hugging your body. "Like, seriously, what is this?"
"It's a dress, Dean," you said, your voice cracking slightly. You crossed your arms defensively over your chest, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed under the weight of his absolute focus. "I wanted to dress up for once. I wanted to feel pretty at a party. Is that a crime?"
"Don't play dumb, Y/N. You knew exactly what you were doing when you put that on," he snapped. He closed the remaining distance, stopping only when he was close enough to loom over you, completely eclipsing the light from the hallway under the door. The raw, unmasked frustration rolling off him was staggering. It frightened you, but deeper down,a dangerous thrill sparked in your veins. "I think it's time that I confessed something to you, because I am losing my goddamn mind."
"Dean, we have a good thing going," you interjected quickly, the words tumbling out in a panicked rush. Your voice was trembling now, the armor completely cracking. "We agreed on this. We have a routine."
"A good thing?" He let out a harsh, humorless laugh that sounded like a bark. He closed the final inches of space between you until you could smell the faint, intoxicating scent of his expensive cologne, the mint on his breath, and the crisp,lingering winter air from the ice rink.
He reached out, his large, warm hand moving with a sudden gentleness that made you shiver. His thumb caught the edge of your chin, tilting your face upward, forcing your eyes to meet his stormy gaze.
"You think watching every single guy in that house look at you tonight, knowing I don't have the right to tear them apart,is a good thing?" His voice trembled with a terrifying level of honesty. "You think pretending I don't want to wake up next to you every single morning—without having to make up some bullshit excuse about why you should stay over—is easy?"
The sheer weight of his words pushed you backward until the back of your calves hit the firm edge of his mattress. You felt cornered, not by him, but by the reality of what he was saying.
"We're friends," you whispered desperately, trying to ground yourself in the rules you had built to survive him. "We're best friends who happen to... you know. It's safe, Dean. If we change things, if we try to make it something else, it gets messy. Relationships at Briar end in flames. I don't want to lose what we have. I can't."
Dean closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, his chest heaving under his shirt as if he were trying to contain a physical ache. "You are so beyond insane," he whispered callously, though there was no malice in it, only a profound, exhausted desperation. "You are completely out of your mind if you think I'm just going to let you walk away after everything we've done. After months of this? No. Not happening."
"Dean—"
He let out a sharp, breathless laugh that lacked any real humor, stepping deeply into your personal space. He took away every last bit of air between you, his shadow completely enveloping you against the backdrop of his quiet bedroom.
"Don't do that," he interrupted, his voice dropping to a fierce, desperate plea that cut straight to your core. His eyes dropped to your lips for a agonizing second, tracking the rise and fall of your breathing, before snapping back to lock onto yours. "Don't stand there looking like that and tell me we're just friends, when we both know we could be so much more."
"It's safer this way," you whispered back, the words tasting like ash. Panicking at the raw, unfiltered honesty bleeding from his tone, you tried to pull back, your internal walls slamming up in a frantic bid for self-defense. A guy like Dean Di Laurentis—a guy who had the entire campus catering to his every whim, a guy who could have anyone he pointed a finger at—didn't do real commitment. He was a heartbreaker by trade. He was going to break your heart into a million pieces if you let him all the way in. "Guys like you... you don't do commitment, Dean. I'm just being realistic. I'm protecting myself."
"Guys like me?"
Dean’s voice cracked. It was a tiny, rare fracture in his otherwise flawless, golden confidence, and it sounded incredibly heavy. He reached out with both hands, his large, calloused palms gently framing your face, his thumbs wiping softly across your cheekbones as if you were made of glass. The sheer vulnerability in his expression was staggering, stripping away every ounce of the campus legend until he was just a boy, completely bare before you.
"I’ve been patient for months, Y/N," he murmured, his gaze searching yours with a burning intensity. "I let you set the rules. I let you dictate terms. I let you pretend that I don't hold your breath in my hands every single time I touch you. But watching every guy downstairs look at you tonight? Hearing you call this 'safe' while my chest feels like it’s ripping apart?"
He leaned down slowly, the distance vanishing entirely until his forehead rested heavily against yours. His breath was hot,ragged, and uneven against your flushed skin.
"You're out of your mind," he murmured passionately, his hands sliding down the column of your neck, over your bare shoulders, to grip your waist tightly. He pulled you forward, lifting you slightly until you were flushed entirely against his hard chest, feeling the frantic, hammering rhythm of his heart beating against your own.
"You are completely out of your mind if you think I'm just going to let you walk away after everything between us," he vowed, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke the words. "I don't want safe anymore. I want you. All of you. The good, the messy, the entire damn thing. And I am completely done pretending otherwise."
The sheer, terrifying vulnerability of his admission shattered the very last of your resistance. The arrogant, untouchable facade he used to shield himself from the world was entirely gone; he was utterly exposed, placing the match directly into your hands and giving you the power to either burn him down or pull him into the dark.
As you looked into the eyes of the boy who had captivated the entire university, the feeling finally washed over you,warm and undeniable: he wasn't the danger. He wasn't going to break you. He was completely, utterly captive to you.
The realization that he was the one who was terrified, that he was the one trembling under your touch, flooded your veins like an intoxicating venom.
You looked at his hands. Those massive, capable hands that gripped a hockey stick with lethal precision and handled women with practiced, easy grace—they were shaking. A slight, unmistakable tremor racked his fingers as he reached out toward you, only to drop them to his sides, as if he didn't have the right to touch you anymore.
The siren in you, long buried under oversized hoodies and careful boundaries, fully woke up.
It stretched its limbs, feeling the sudden, intoxicating rush of absolute power. For months, you had been the one on guard, holding your breath every time he looked at you, terrified that you would slip up and reveal how deeply you were falling for him. You had built a fortress around your heart, convinced that Dean Di Laurentis was a storm that would leave you ruined. But looking at him now, stripped of his easy confidence, you realized the storm wasn't outside. The storm was raging inside him, and you held the key to the weather.
A slow, devastating smile curled the corners of your lips. The fear that had gripped your throat just moments before dissolved, replaced by a dark, simmering confidence. You didn’t pull away; instead, you leaned back just an inch, enough to look down at him, your hands coming up to rest lightly on his broad, solid shoulders.
The fabric of his shirt was warm beneath your palms, the heat of his body radiating outward. The sudden shift in your demeanor—from panicked girl to absolute ruler of his domain—made Dean’s breath hitch audibly. His eyes, usually a bright, piercing blue, darkened until they were almost black, the pupils fully dilated as he tracked the movement of your hands.
"You want all of me, Di Laurentis?" you purred, your voice dropping into a smooth, velvety register that made his grip on your waist tighten until it was almost bruising.
He hadn't even realized he’d reached out to touch you again, but his hands had found their way to your hips, his fingers digging into the fabric of your hoodie, desperate to anchor you to him.
"The king of casual?" you continued, your tone dripping with a mocking, dangerous sweetness. "The guy who literally wrote the rulebook on no strings attached? The man who told me, in this exact room, that feelings are just a distraction from a good time?"
"Y/N, please," he groaned, the word a ragged scrape against his throat.
He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, as if looking at you while you picked apart his past armor was too much to bear. He looked physically pained, his chest heaving as he stared up at you when his eyelids fluttered back open. The sheer vulnerability in his gaze was staggering. "Don't play with me right now. I am begging you, don't."
"But playing is what we do best, isn't it?"
You shifted closer, the tips of your shoes brushing against his sneakers. The physical proximity was overwhelming, a suffocating heat rising between your bodies. You trailed a single, sharp fingernail down the column of his throat, tracing the erratic, frantic jump of his pulse. You felt the precise moment a shiver racked his massive frame, a low shudder that started in his chest and vibrated all the way through his shoulders.
"We agreed to this, remember? No feelings. No messy endings. You told me yourself the night we started this that commitment was a trap. A cage for people who didn't know how to enjoy the present."
"I was a fucking idiot," he choked out.
The words came out raw, unpolished, stripped of the smooth eloquence he usually possessed. The aching in his voice was thick, almost sickeningly potent. He looked genuinely intoxicated, completely overwhelmed by the scent of your perfume—that familiar, sweet vanilla scent that he had admitted, in weaker moments, haunted his sheets long after you left. He was drowning in the heat of your skin, and the maddening, mocking friction of the red silk dress you wore beneath the hoodie, which was now peeking through as you shifted against him. He was a man dying of thirst, and you were holding the water just out of reach, teasing his parched lips with the promise of a drop.
"I lied," he continued, his voice dropping to a harsh, desperate whisper. He took a step forward, closing the microscopic gap between you, his chest pressing against yours. "To myself, to you, to everyone who asked why I wasn't seeing anyone else. I’ve been sick with this for months, Y/N. Every time you leave this room in the middle of the night because 'the rules' say you can't stay... every time you put on my clothes, look at yourself in my mirror, and then walk out that door like I’m just a placeholder... it’s killing me. It’s tearing me apart from the inside out."
You tilted your head, your eyes darkening as you drank in his unraveling. A fierce, possessive thrill shot through your stomach. You wanted to see how far the golden boy would fall. You wanted to see him completely stripped of his crown, stripped of the easy escapes and the smooth excuses. You wanted him raw, bleeding, and entirely yours.
Slowly, deliberately, you reached down and unzipped your hoodie. You let the heavy fabric slide off your shoulders, pooling at your elbows before it dropped to the floor with a soft thud. Beneath it, the red silk slip dress clung to every curve of your body, a stark, fiery contrast to the dark shadows of his room.
Dean’s breath caught completely. His gaze swept down your body like a physical touch, his jaw tightening so hard you heard his teeth grind.
With a slow, deliberate movement, you took a step backward, breaking the physical contact. The sudden loss of your heat made him let out a small, fractured sound of protest. You didn't care. You sat down on the edge of his high mattress, crossing one leg over the other. The smooth, red silk slid effortlessly up your leg, revealing a dangerous, pale expanse of thigh in the dim light of the bedside lamp. You leaned back on your hands, arching your spine slightly, looking down at him like a queen on a throne, demanding tribute.
"Prove it," you whispered.
Dean didn’t hesitate. The absolute, primal need driving him bypassed every ounce of his pride, every shred of the arrogant hockey star the world knew. He didn't pause to think about his reputation, about what his teammates would say if they walked through that door, or about the rules he had spent his entire college career defending.
With a low, broken sound—a mix of a sob and a growl—Dean sank to his knees.
The sight was dizzying. It sent a heavy, throbbing pulse of desire straight to your lower abdomen. Briar University’s untouchable god, the man who had the entire campus at his beck and call, who walked through life with an effortless, untouchable swagger, was on the floor at your feet.
He closed the distance between his knees and the bed, stepping directly into your trap with zero regard for his own survival. His large hands slid up your calves, his palms burning hot against your bare skin. The contrast of his rough, calloused athlete's hands against the softness of your legs was electric. He traced the line of your shins, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin behind your knees with a desperate, worshipful reverence.
He didn't care about his pride. He didn't care about the rules. He just needed you. He needed to touch you, to consume you, to prove to himself that you were real and that you weren't going to slip through his fingers like smoke.
"Please," Dean whispered, his voice cracking completely.
He leaned forward, burying his face directly into the silk covering your stomach.
A sharp, breathless gasp escaped your lips as his hot breath soaked through the thin, fragile fabric, sending a violent shockwave of heat straight to your core. Your fingers automatically flew to his shoulders, digging into the firm muscle there as your hips involuntarily twitched against him.
He wrapped his powerful, muscular arms around your waist, pulling himself flush against your lap, burying his head deeper into you. He anchored himself to your body like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline in the middle of a violent, unforgiving sea.
"I’ll do whatever you want," he begged against your skin, his chest shaking violently against your thighs as he spoke. "I’ll give you everything, Y/N. My name, my heart, my fucking sanity. I don't care anymore. Just tell me I have you. Tell me I’m not losing you to some random guy downstairs. I can't breathe knowing someone else might look at you the way I do. I can't live knowing someone else might touch you like this."
He turned his head slightly, his lips pressing a desperate, feverish path up toward your ribs through the silk. He kissed your skin through the fabric, his breath hot and damp, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. The sheer, unadulterated longing radiating off him was heavy, thick, and deeply primal. It wasn't just lust anymore; the casual boundary had snapped weeks ago, leaving behind an all-consuming obsession that had been festering in the dark for months. He was sick with love, completely ruined by you, and as he gripped your hips tighter, pressing his face into your hip bone, it was clear he was reveling in the destruction of his own ego.
"Look at me, Dean," you commanded softly, your voice trembling slightly now, infected by the absolute gravity of his surrender.
He lifted his head instantly, obeying without a second thought. His face was flushed, his jaw tight, his blue eyes glassy and wild with a dark, predatory hunger that was entirely directed at you. But beneath the hunger was a desperate, aching vulnerability. He looked completely wrecked, his bottom lip trembling slightly, waiting for your verdict like a man standing before a firing squad.
You reached down, burying your fingers in his damp, thick hair, gripping the strands tightly. You pulled him up just enough to bring his face closer, forcing him to rise slightly from his knees until his lips were inches from yours. The scent of him—expensive cologne, the clean sweat of an athlete, and pure, unbridled desire—overwhelmed your senses, shattering the very last remaining wall of your defense. Your heart was hammering against your ribs, a frantic, wild rhythm that matched his own.
"No more rules," you whispered against his mouth, your voice thick with a sudden, matching passion that you could no longer contain. "No more playing it safe, Dean."
Dean let out a harsh, triumphant growl that vibrated deep in his chest—a sound that was pure, unfiltered animal release. The vulnerability vanished, replaced instantly by the raw, dominant power of a man who had just been given permission to take what he desired most.
He surged upward, his massive frame launching off the floor. He threw his weight forward, his hands slamming into the mattress on either side of your head, pinning you flat against the bed.
The red silk dress bunched drastically around your hips as his large body came down over yours. He was heavy, completely overwhelming your smaller frame, his chest crushing against your breasts, but it didn't feel suffocating—it felt like a homecoming. He was entirely dominant, taking up your entire field of vision, but he was entirely yours, shivering with the force of his own desire.
His mouth slammed onto yours with a feral, bruising intensity.
It wasn't a gentle kiss; it was a collision of months of repressed longing, a desperate, breathless sealing of a vow. He tasted like mint and fire, his lips moving against yours with a desperate hunger that made your head spin. His tongue tangled with yours, demanding, deep, and relentless, establishing a dark, intoxicating rhythm that left you completely breathless, your gasps swallowed down his throat.
His hands were everywhere, moving with a frantic, electric speed. He gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your skin through the thin silk, before his hands flew up to tangle in your hair, tilting your head back to gain a deeper, more punishing angle on your mouth. He pinned your wrists to the bed for a split second, feeling the frantic leap of your pulse beneath his thumbs, before releasing them to tear frantically at his own clothes.
He tore at the buttons of his flannel shirt, a couple of them snapping off and flying into the darkness of the room, completely unheeded. He pulled the shirt off his shoulders and flung it somewhere onto the floor, desperate to get rid of any barrier between you.
When he came back down, his bare, heavily muscled chest pressed flat against your silk-covered breasts. The sensation was electric—the rough, hot skin of his chest frictioning against the smooth silk, sending sharp jolts of pleasure straight to your thighs. You arched up into him instinctively, your hands flying to his back, your nails digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders, tracing the broad span of his shoulder blades as he groaned into your mouth.
Every touch was a primal claim, a searing brand that wiped away the king and queen of casual, leaving only two people entirely consumed by a fire they had spent too long trying to put out.
"You're mine," Dean growled against your neck. He broke the kiss, his mouth traveling down to the sensitive skin of your jawline, his teeth biting gently, possessively, at the junction where your neck met your shoulder.
"Ah—Dean," you arched into him with a fractured, breathy cry, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling him closer as a violent shiver raced down your spine.
"Say it," he demanded, his voice a low, gravelly rasp against your wet skin. He nipped at your collarbone, his hands sliding down to grip the hem of your red dress, bunching it up further until it was around your waist, his bare thighs crowding between yours, thick and unyielding. "Tell me you're mine. Tell me no one else gets to touch you like this. Tell me you’re fucking mine, Y/N."
"I'm yours, Dean," you gasped out, your voice breaking as his fingers found the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, sending a jolt of pure heat through your veins. You gripped the muscles of his back, pulling him down, deeper into your space until there was absolutely no air left between you. "Always. I’ve always been yours."
My Best Friend's Brother is the One For Me! ~ John Logan
There's an unspoken rule when it comes to best friends and dating. Whether it's other friends, exes, or crushes, it's just best not to get involved with them romantically. But the number one thing to stay away from to avoid damaged friendships and broken hearts is siblings.
You met Jules in your first year at Briar U, when you found a spot together in your Mathematics in Context class. It was an unlikely pair, but they entertained you with all the gossip they picked up from their brother and loudmouthed classmates. On occasion, you'll help them form an Instagram post of the latest campus news, and the likes will roll in. You're very careful to not say anything too crazy in front of Jules.
You weren't in the school spirit to go to the hockey games for no reason, but when Jules asked you to join them for their livestream, you accepted. Even though you knew nothing about the sport, it was only slightly entertaining to watch both teams toss each other around for fun. It was hard to make out the players' features under their helmets and uniforms, but you made sure to keep an eye on number 22, per Jules's request.
You've never met Jules's brother. They always hugged you with a playful whine, "I just want you for myself!" every time you questioned who he was. Every time you asked, every time you were shut down. It took a while, but you eventually gave up looking. You weren't sure why you cared so much anyway; he was probably just a normal guy working at a GameStop or a nearby restaurant.
So imagine your surprise when the game ends and a gorgeous stranger makes his way towards Jules before giving them a hug.
"This is my handy brother, John Logan," Jules said to you. "The hockey player."
Damn, he was gorgeous. His brown locks were perfect and styled. You were a little jealous. Not to mention how built he was.
And he's 6'3!?
"Yeah, hi." You said a little breathlessly, with your hand out. He chuckled a little but shook your hand. His hands were gentle despite having just used them against the opposing team on the rink. He seemed nice, but it was unlikely you'd see each other often.
But 'often' was an understatement. At events, parties, even Malone's, you always seem to find him, like an optical illusion you can't unsee. Was he always here before you knew him? Right under your nose?
Of course, the only person who looked like heaven was the only one off-limits. Did Jules explicitly tell you to stay away from their brother? No... But it was a given.
Best friends and brothers just don't mix.
But you could still look at him at parties when he guzzled beers with his teammates. You could still cheer for him at hockey games when he took the puck from the opposing team. You could still talk to him about your favorite songs. But if you brought up old-school Madonna, he'd tease you about choosing a song from 'this millennium'.
What draws the line, though?
If no one knows what you two do, is it really a betrayal? Surely a kiss here and there doesn't count. An occasional hookup in your room doesn't mean anything. Sending each other posts on Instagram to laugh about is just being friendly...
Okay, the line is drawn, erased, and blurred now.
Neither you nor John Logan knew what the line was or what was too far. Maybe it was a friends-with-benefits situation. The benefits did outweigh the friends part, though.
Well, you were technically dating your best friend's brother. The only thing to do is not let Jules know, unless you both want to face their wrath.
"I don't know why you're acting so weird. I know you're seeing my brother." Jules said to you one night during an afterparty. You snorted into your drink before taking another swig. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Please," Jules rolled their eyes. "My brother doesn't play Holiday during his workout for no reason. Only one person would sucker him into that." They muttered.
You eyed them skeptically. "You're not mad?"
Jules shrugged. "That's your taste, not mine. It's... totally cute." They said, lifting their cup at you. You shook your head with a chuckle and tapped your cup against theirs.
"But this is totally going on my page."
"It's a deal."
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