hyperfixation station (MDNI)

Robby wanted it to be known that he really, really, really did not want to like you. 

You, who was headstrong, stubborn and particular. You were a Presby transfer, one of their prized senior residents who just didn’t get along with their team. It was hard and impacted your ability to work and after one too many cruel schoolyard jokes, you jumped ship. You took to the teaching hospital’s ways and its momentum quite quickly. You didn’t hesitate to correct an intern or med student. You never gave a second thought to questioning an attending or fighting a call someone made that you didn’t agree with. 

You, who was also patient and kind. You took extra time with struggling interns, calling them into labs to practise sutures or to go over procedures they couldn’t seem to crack after your shift - time you knew you wouldn’t be paid for. Any mistake a student made during procedures was gently amended, be it by putting your hand on theirs to guide them or just by giving additional verbal instructions.

This was all mostly fine to Robby. Really, he told himself he could handle it for someone Presby was borderline crying over losing.

It was all fine until you walked in on him absolutely whaling on Samira Mohan.

You stood at the door, expression changing immediately. You gawked at him when he told you he was busy, and to ask Dana if you needed something.

Mohan’s case was not too complicated, all things considered. A lady came in after being hit by a car. The car wasn’t going all that quickly, so she wasn’t too badly injured. You had overseen Whitaker doing some of her sutures and knew they had it handled. No internal bleeding, great GCS level, maybe a minor concussion at most.

Nobody had accounted for her general melancholy throughout the procedure. She was lamenting about how late she’d be for work. There wasn’t much anyone could say to that, she needed treatment and she was getting it in a very busy, very understaffed ER. Mohan ran it by you afterwards and you approved the discharge.

She was back in maybe an hour later. She had jumped from a three-storey height. It was hopeful when she first arrived, but things turned complicated and she never even made it to surgery. Time of death, 6:12PM.

Robby’s brows were so furrowed they were pretty much touching. He was going on and on about missed signs and how the car accident had clearly been a suicide attempt. You stood up and argued back - how could she possibly have predicted someone would do that? Her sadness was chalked up to the adrenaline leaving her system, and why wouldn’t that have been the answer? She was just in a car accident!

You sent Samira out, and he reminded you that you had absolutely no authority to do that. You told her to go, anyway. The two of you went back and forth and back and forth until he finally relented. This wasn’t anybody’s fault. You’re doctors, not mind-readers.

After that ‘blatant disrespect’ he had suffered, he was doing everything he could to try and find fault with you. He needed something to write you up, to ride you about. He needed to even the score, and remind you he was top-dog around here.

He followed you from case-to-case, watching how you spoke to everyone and did everything. This was when he noticed something about you.

You were very, very quick to dole out praise.

Whitaker assisted you in a really clean intubation? “Good man, that’s exactly what we want.”

Javadi catching a small symptom that could have turned fatal? “Amazing catch, we’d be lost without you.”

None of it was sarcastic or felt over-the-top. It was warm and fond and real. You loved teaching them, you loved seeing them gain their confidence.

You were shy, too. Not usually, but sometimes. When you got a taste of your own medicine with a ‘good save’ or a ‘nice job’, you got so bashful. All red and quiet, for once. He filed this information away, although he really didn’t know why.

You weren’t warm to him. You were strictly professional after you caught him with Mohan. You seemed to be good friends with her. He liked Samira, he really did. She was talented and could be brilliant if she applied herself like he wanted. Maybe he pushed too hard, she seemed to perform perfectly with you.

Abbot really liked you as well. You worked a double in your first week and you - unsurprisingly - got along just as swimmingly with the ‘night crawlers’ as you did with the day shift. It was starting to piss him off at this stage.

Every time he and Abbot met up at home, you were the first topic of conversation. He ranted and raved about what you did and what you didn’t do and why it annoyed him and why he didn’t think you were gonna be a good fit in the long run.

His husband listened, of course, and empathised with him. It’s hard to work with someone you don’t seem to like at all. But days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months. This time, when Robby started, Abbot had to intercept.

“Mike, baby. This is becoming an obsession." When Robby opened his mouth to argue back, Abbot couldn’t help but take notice of the slight flush on his cheeks. The same flush he had had every time he brought her up recently.

At first, he had assumed that he was just getting worked up about you, but now…

“Honey, I think you might have a little crush.” Abbot said softly. Robby scoffed in response.

“Well, I’m hardly gonna leave you at this stage.” He put his palms on his eyes and pressed hard. Abbot leaned over and gently lowered them before he hurt himself.

“She’s fake as fuck, brother. You should hear how she talks to the others. It’s like a fucking kindergarten.” He groans, squeezing Abbot’s hands.

“What, all this ‘cause she won’t call you a good boy?” He joked, but he smiled when Robby blushed harder.

“Ohhhh, brother.” He laughed, scooping Robby up into his arms and squeezing him. “You got a crush, it’s okay.”

“I’m married.” Robby whispered into his shoulder.

“Yeah, I know, champ. I was there.” Robby raised his head to glare at him.

“I can’t avoid her. She’s fuckin’ everywhere.” Robby moaned, sounding genuinely displeased.

“I wouldn’t want her to be anywhere else. I mean…” Abbot looked down at Robby, wiggling his eyebrows emphatically. “I wished she’d have preferred nights for a while.”

Now, Robby’s head flew up.

“You’ve thought about her?” He asked.

“Not as much as you, hon. But, yeah, I have.” Abbot squeezed him gently again.

“W- why?” Robby’s question was fair. They’d swung for a bit, yeah. But Abbot didn’t go for women. Not after his late-wife. Robby fiddled with Abbot’s blackened out band, resting underneath their matching ones.

“Well, she’s pretty. Seems like she’s a good girl, too.” Abbot said, shrugging off his concern.

“Don’t tell her that.” Robby huffed, rolling his eyes. “It fucks with her flow.”

“Does it now?” Abbot intoned. He found that very, very interesting.

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

It had been a few weeks since you last ran into Jack Abott. Robby was off and Shen had covered the day. He did a hand-off and ran for the hills. Abbot is secretly glad he doesn’t prefer the days. He’s a pretty vital part of his crew. Abbot met you just as you were surveying the board for the last time.

“Anything you need to warn me about?” He asked. You laughed, this guy was a sucker for gossip.

“Nothing too interesting. Central 12’s a biter, though. Relative distance is recommended.” You supplied, lips thinning even with your smile.

“Doin’ anything for the night?”

“Nothing, just sleeping.” You responded, sighing. This little tell was the closest to complaining he’d seen you. Abbot nodded. You looked like shit.

“Eat something nice and go straight to bed.” He didn’t quite order you to do it, but it definitely wasn’t a suggestion either.

“Sir, yes, sir.” You gave him a mock salute, standing up straight.

“Good girl.” He said, patting your shoulder and walking away. He looked back after a moment to look at you and sure enough, you were short-circuiting.

Very interesting, indeed.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Like Robby had been doing for you, you very much actively tried to avoid him. Which didn’t typically work. You couldn’t seem to stop running into him.

Your frosty demeanor didn’t waver with him, but his had softened greatly with you. He had taken to sticking around for your procedures again, nodding affirmatively when you did the right thing, or offering a gentle “ah-ah” when doing something he thought wrong.

He often went to you after a tough patient, asked if you needed anything or if you wanted to talk. You tried to be open to it, you really did. But he got under your skin. You were waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You had spoken to Samira about how Robby was when first started, kind and encouraging. How quickly he turned cruel and empathetic when he found a new ‘star student’. You didn’t want to be his star student, but you seemed to have had most of his attention recently. 

You knew he’d turn on you again, and when he did the others would follow. It happened at Presby, and it’ll happen here. You could feel it in your bones, you wouldn’t let them get the leg up on you like that.

The day finished up and like always, you searched the board. You wanted any reason to stick around for a bit, to chat to someone, to be useful to someone else. Robby walked over and prattled on about his weekend plans. Him and Abbot were both off, something that almost never happened.

“C’mon, you got here early. I’m not gonna let you do any overtime.” Hands on your shoulders, he gently steered you towards the exit. You hadn’t brought in anything other than your worn hoodie and your phone, both of which were in your possession, so you had no excuse to not follow.

“You got a ride?” He asked, eyeing your lack of keys.

“Car’s at the shop.” You admit sheepishly. “I’m walking today.”

Robby frowned.

“No, you’re not. I’ll give you a ride.” He shook his head, hand going to your shoulder to hold you in place before crossing the road. He used the same hand to lead you across the road. You couldn’t help but relax a little at the action. You liked just following along with whatever people wanted at the end of the day. I mean, your whole job revolved around making choices to save lives, who would want to make a decision about themselves after that?

“You really don’t have to, Dr. Robby.” You murmured.

“He’s not, I am.” A gravelly voice caused you to look up. Jack Abott stood by their car, dangling the keys until they made a jingleing noise. You clearly weren’t the only one surprised. Robby’s eyebrows shot up. He went over and kissed Abbot on the cheek.

“We actually had a question for you.” Abbot spoke, hand rubbing Robby’s back.

“If you don’t have plans tonight, would you have dinner with us?” Your brows shot up this time.

“But- you…” Your eyes shifted between Abbot and Robby several times.”

“Want you to have dinner with us? Yes.” Robby finished off what he assumed your sentence would have been.

“I- I’d hate to intrude.” Was all you could think to say, because one part of your brain immediately wanted to say ‘yes!’.

“Good thing you wouldn’t be, then.” Abbot smiled at you, winking. “Look, if you don’t want to, you don’t have to. We want you to, but your word is final. We won’t be offended.”

“We can pretend this never happened. We drive you home and we don’t talk about it again.” Robby confirmed softly.

“No, I- I don’t have any plans. Dinner would be nice…” You admitted, stomach starting to grumble. Robby’s did too, causing Abbot to laugh. 

He ushered both of you in the car and drove to what you could only assume was their house. A real nice, big townhouse a little ways outside the city. It was quiet, but thoughtfully decorated. The lawn was stunning and the colour pleasing to the eye. You were invited inside to see the gorgeous interior. The kitchen was a mix of modern furniture with retro colour schemes - reds, blacks and blue used interchangeably. The house seemed to be lit according to mood, with the kitchen lights on full whack and the dining room a little dimmer.

“I actually have it all ready, just sit down anywhere.” Abbot instructed, not caring that he admitted he assumed you were going to say yes.

“Can I help?” You asked.

“Yes, by sitting down.” Robby replied, pointing to one chair in particular. Right to the head of the table.

Abbot’s voice rang out again - “Do you drink wine?” - Upon hearing your affirmative, his head popped through the doorless frame.

“White or red?”

“Red, please. Will I help set out the drinks?” You asked for the second time.

“You can stay right where you are, please.” You are told for the second time.

After what feels like an eternity (it was 5 minutes), a small bowl is placed in front of you and your wine is topped up just slightly. Robby took the seat in front of you and Abbot beside you, at the head.

All three of you ate in relative silence, before you broke it to compliment the soup. It was potato and leek, so creamy and starchy that you didn’t even feel the crunchy onion-y texture.

“Thank you, you’re very sweet.” Abbot smiled at you. You tried to control your blush, ducking your head modestly.

“Isn’t she just?” Robby agreed, as you hurriedly spooned another mouthful of soup into your gob.

The first course passed quickly after that. Robby collected the bowls, pushing you down in the chair when you got up to help him. He disappeared into the kitchen.

“You don’t know when to give up, do ya?” Abbot asked, laughing slightly.

“I’m not good with being idle.” You admitted, laughing along. He stared at you for a bit.

“You can relax, you look so tense. Did you have a bad day?” He asked kindly.

“No, no. Everything went very well. I’m just… I’m just like this.” You laughed again, albeit a bit more nervously this time.

“Uh-huh, well, I want everyone who walks in here to feel better when they walk out. Is there anything I can do for you?” His gaze followed yours, ducking his head to look you in the eyes. It’s hard to ignore the husky undertone in his voice.

“Look up at me, please. It’s not good to slouch.” He gently corrected and you rushed to remedy yourself.

“Sorry, Dr. Abbot.”

“You’re okay, I just don’t want your back to get sore. And, call me Jack when we’re not working.”

“Yes, sorry Jack.”

“Good girl, you’re okay.” He doesn’t miss the way the tension leaves your shoulders. You stare at him for a moment, your eyes almost glazing over before Robby returns.

“Roast should be ready in 20.” He murmured, squeezing Abbot’s shoulder as he passed him. Him and Abbot exchanged a few looks before Robby began again.

“You’re a very smart girl.” He stated simply, you couldn’t help but whip your head over to him.

“Settle.” Abbot huffed a small laugh.

“I’m sure you can see we didn’t call you just to eat with you.” You didn’t know what to say to that. You simply hummed and nodded for him to continue.

“Jack and I have a particular… void that needs filling. And you seem to be the perfect candidate.” Robby continued, watching your face very closely. He saw your brows furrow.

“We aren’t asking you to have sex with us.” Abbot spoke very quietly, “That isn’t what we want.”

“Then what is this ‘void’?” You asked cautiously, not sure if you felt relieved or disappointed you attendings didn’t want to have sex with you.

“We’re old men, who make a lot of money and don’t have family to look after. We want someone to take care of.” Robby informed you.

“You want me to be your sugar baby?” You asked, a bit incredulously.

Simultaneously, you heard a ‘no’ and a ‘sort of…’. Abbot glared at Robby.

“Are you familiar with BDSM dynamics, honey?” You tried not to react when Abbot called you honey but judging by the way he looked at you, you failed.

“I-yes, I am.” You mutter, looking down again.

“Ah-ah, look up.” Abbot couldn’t help but remind you. Robby gawked at him, but you looked up automatically. Abbot tipped your chin encouragingly.

“Have you had any experience with it?” He asked and Robby turned his attention back to you.

“Uh, a bit, yeah.” You admitted in a whisper. God, this was so fucking embarrasing. Robby reached across the table for your hand, which had clenched around itself. He unwinded your fingers and placed his hand on top of yours, rubbing circles onto it.

“Can you tell us what you were doing?” He asked softly. Suddenly, it was hard for you to remember why you didn’t like Robby.

“I was- I was a submissive. Sometimes for sex, but usually domestically.” You murmured, feeling a bit lost in his gaze.

“Thank you for answering. You had a regular dom then?” He asked. You blinked up at him slowly.

“No, I was a part of this, like, group. You texted in and someone usually responded. I knew a few of them well but not all of them. I just… I just needed to be out of my head.” You shared, feeling a bit like a common whore. You went to look down again, but Robby clicked his tongue.

“I believe Jack asked you not to do that.”

“Sorry, Dr. Robby.”

“Michael, please.”

“Sorry Michael.” You murmur automatically.

“No apologies necessary, sweet girl. That must have been hard to tell me.” You nodded without thinking. Abbot piped up again.

“That’s exactly what we want. A submissive. You don’t have to fuck us. We want to feed you, bathe you, dress you up. We want you to listen, and do as you’re told, and to feel free.” Abbot took your other hand, thumb rubbing up and down your wrist.

“You don’t have to even try it. If you’re not interested, we eat dinner, drop you home and pretend none of this happened.” Robby promised, squeezing your hand.

“No pressure. If you want to think about it, then same thing.” Abbot assured.

“I… I do want to try. I haven’t done it in a bit, I might be a bit shit at it.” You admitted, feeling a bit exposed.

“You have been doing absolutely wonderfully.” Robby reassured you quickly.

“You wouldn’t have to worry about a thing, we’d do that for you.” Abbot added.

“Okay, I’ll try it with you. But if I don’t fall deep, don’t be upset.” You warned

“Stop getting in your own head about this, we’ll take it as we go, babe.” Robby brought your hand to his lips, kissing each finger between words. You revelled in the attention for a moment, and you knew they knew. You felt yourself settle down, the weight rolling off your shoulders.

You didn’t notice Abbot getting up beside you, so you jumped when a plate was placed in front of you. Abbot petted your hair soothingly.

“Hush, it’s only me. Here, Mike…” As he passed Robby his own. He placed his own down and quickly plucked the cutlery from your hands.

“Would you like it if I fed you, hon?” Abbot asked quietly, waiting for your response. You nodded slowly.

“Brave girl.” He noted you must have been wrecked to give in so easily.

The plan had initially been to just ask you tonight. Talk to you a bit about it, get to know you. You’d talk about expectations and fears and all of you would set a schedule. Which would still need to be made, but tonight was not the night. Abbot really hadn’t meant to start domming you before you’d even discussed it, but you were plain irresistible. It irritated him how you couldn’t see it. He could see you needed it tonight, Robby could too. You were barely hanging on.

“Do you like to try everything separately first or do you usually go straight in with your meal?” Robby asked before Abbot began.

“Separately, if it’s not too much trouble.” You disclosed, reaching to take the fork from Abbot’s hand preemptively. Abbot gently lowered it.

“Hands on your thighs or on the table, please. Thank you for telling me, I’d like to feed you.” They had a feeling you would need more than a simple instruction. You seemed to be a lot more insecure in yourself than they originally thought.

Clear instructions, easily-won praise often, and many reminders of the initial order or rules. They could remedy that, if you would let. They could only hope you would.

Abbot handfed you every bit, stopping every few to take some himself. When he was eating, Robby took the opportunity to feed you some of his own.

“You are taking this so very well.” He murmured, rubbing your cheek after a bit.

You had cleared the plate before you knew it, and Abbot smiled wide.

“Very, very good. Do you want anymore?” You shook your head lightly, muttering a small ‘no thank you’.

“Thank you for being so polite, sweet girl. You are doing so well. It’s hard to let someone take care of you, isn’t it?” Abbot asked empathetically, taking both of your hands in his own and kissing them. He turned to Robby, who was only watching.

“Mike, could you…” He asked Robby something, but you didn’t quite catch it. You watched him stand up and walk around to you.

“C’mere… That’s a good girl.” Robby spoke, bringing you into the living room. He plopped himself down on the middle of the couch and when he went to pull you into his lap, he was surprised to find you on the floor. You knelt between his legs, not needing to be told to get into position and falling into total habit for the first time tonight.

“Aren’t you a high achiever?” He crooned into your ear, petting your hair. He grabbed a pillow from the end of the couch and quietly ordered you to move for a moment. He could see the panic in your eyes and dropped the pillow. He brought his hands to your hips and looked up at you.

“I just wanted to move this underneath you so you’re not in any pain. You’re not in trouble, we’re all okay.” He assured quickly, thumbing circles onto your hip bones. You nodded and lowered yourself onto the pillow when he had it placed.

“Is that much better, honey?” He cooed at you from above.

“Mhm-hmm. Thank you, Michael.” You instinctively leaned against his left leg. He continued cooing at you until Abbot came back in. They said something to each other, but you weren’t listening. You didn’t feel like you needed to. You weren’t told to pay attention to anything.

“Feeling okay, baby?” Abbot looked down at you, gently tugging your chin upwards to meet his eyes. He was sitting on Robby’s left side. You nodded slowly, eyes glazed over. You smiled softly at him and he released his hold, letting your head fall back to where it was.

“Best girl.” He said, scratching your scalp, while Robby’s leg supported your body weight.

My legs parted instinctively. I hooked my heels against his back, pulling him closer, and tipped my head back as he trailed kisses and gentle nips along my neck. A shiver ran through me as his hands wandered over every curve of my body.

“We need to keep quiet.”

A low moan slipped from my lips, but he didn’t seem to care. In one firm motion, he lifted me onto the counter and started unbuttoning my jeans, sliding them down my legs.

Logan’s gaze met mine as he knelt in front of me. His lips brushed against my thighs without breaking eye contact. Caressing me over the delicate lace of my panties, he let a dangerously beautiful smile appear.

“So wet for me...” The words came out in a husky whisper as he pressed another kiss to my skin. “Always so good for me.”

When I felt his touch grow more insistent, a shiver shot through me, drawing an involuntary whimper from my lips. My head fell back.

“Johnny...”

“Want me to taste you, gorgeous? I really want to know what you taste like.” His voice reached my ears, and all I could manage in response was a hurried, embarrassed “Mhm,” which made a low laugh escape his lips. “I’m going to give you everything you want, beautiful.”

His tongue then brushed against my clit before licking a stripe through my wetness. Just as I started nearing my climax, a knock at the door made me open my eyes and huff in frustration at not having gotten to come.

“Yes?”

I shouted, still lying down, and heard Hannah say:

“Can you come deal with whatever is wrong with Logan? Because he’s been standing outside our door for fifteen minutes saying he needs to see you, and not even Garrett can make him leave.”

I frowned and looked down at my fingers, which now seemed dirtier than they had five minutes ago because the guy starring in my sexual fantasies was standing at my door.

What a fucking pervert.

“Are you listening to me?” Hannah asked from the other side of the door.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Great. Then come deal with this.”

I closed my eyes.

Took a deep breath.

Opened them again.

I got out of bed and ran my hands through my hair. Trying to rearrange the face of someone who had been seconds away from coming.

Trying to forget the last five minutes. Trying to forget that the man at my door had just starred in an extremely inconvenient fantasy.

“Did he say what he wants?”

“You.”

Great.

Fantastic.

Wonderful.

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“That’s it?”

“Basically.” Hannah paused. “But he looks nervous.”

That caught my attention immediately. So I walked to the bedroom door. When I opened it, Hannah was leaning against the hallway wall with her arms crossed. The amused smile that appeared on her face made me instantly suspicious.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Hannah.”

“Nothing.”

She was definitely lying. I rolled my eyes. Then walked past her. Across the hallway. Across the living room.

Every step seemed to make my heart beat a little faster.

When I reached the apartment entrance, I could hear muffled voices on the other side of the door.

When we entered the living room, Hannah immediately walked over to Garrett. She wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his arm.

“Good luck,” she said, trying to hide her amused smile.

I rolled my eyes, and Garrett chuckled.

“Don’t kill each other.”

“We already raised the white flag. Relax.”

They said goodbye to Logan and headed down the hallway. A few seconds later, Hannah’s bedroom door closed. Silence settled over the apartment.

When I turned my attention back to Logan, I found him standing near the entrance, his hands tucked into the back pockets of his jeans. He shifted his weight between his heels and the balls of his feet.

Nervous.

Restless.

And, for some reason, it was adorable.

A snort of laughter escaped me before I could stop it.

Logan immediately narrowed his eyes.

“What?”

I shook my head.

“Nothing.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“Maybe.”

“That’s rude.”

One corner of his mouth lifted, but the tension was still there.

I crossed my arms.

“What are you doing here, Logan?”

Instead of answering, he blurted:

“Did you sleep with him?”

I blinked several times.

“Who?”

“The guy who was at your door when I dropped you off. Who was he?”

“My ex.”

The answer seemed to hit him square in the chest.

“Your ex?”

“Yes.”

His jaw tightened.

“Funny. For someone nicknamed Ice Heart, a lot of men have passed through your life.”

A laugh escaped before I could stop it.

And that clearly caught him off guard.

“Definitely.”

His eyes swept across my face.

“Did you sleep with him?”

I frowned.

“Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know, I...” He ran a hand over the back of his neck. “I don’t know.”

I watched him for a moment.

The restlessness. The tension. The way he seemed to be fighting against his own thoughts.

“What are you doing here, John?” My voice came out softer this time. “It’s really late.” I paused. “Like, really late.”

He let out a breath through his nose, as if only then realizing the time. His gaze faltered for a second.

Then returned to me.

Steady.

Determined.

“I needed to talk to you. I told myself I'd text you, but I'm still blocked.”

Logan let out a frustrated laugh and dragged a hand down his face.

“And when you didn't answer my messages, I just... freaked out.”

He shook his head, staring through the windshield for a second before looking back at me.

“Because all I could think was, fuck. She's fucking with him. She's actually with him.” His jaw tightened. “And the worst part was knowing I had no right to be angry about it. Because I was the asshole first. I was the idiot who couldn't get his shit together long enough to tell you the truth.”

The room fell silent. Logan swallowed hard.

“Couldn't tell you that I was in love with you too.” My breath caught. He laughed once, humorlessly. “Do you know how pathetic that sounds? I spent an entire week trying to convince myself I was fine. That this was fine.”

His eyes finally met mine.

“I couldn't sleep.” The confession came out almost as a whisper. “I kept thinking about you. Thinking about us. Thinking about all the ways I'd screwed this up.”

He looked away for a moment before continuing.

“And I wanted to tell you in the car.”

His voice cracked slightly.

“I wanted to tell you that not answering you that day was one of the biggest mistakes I've ever made.”

The air inside the truck felt impossibly small.

“Because I'm falling in love with you too.”

The words settled between us.

Raw. Unavoidable.

“And fuck, it's terrifying.”

He let out a shaky breath.

“I don't know what to do with it. I don't know how to do this.”

His eyes searched mine.

“Because what if I get everything I've ever wanted... and it's you?”

For a second, I was sure I’d heard him wrong. The entire apartment seemed to fall silent. The clock on the wall. The refrigerator. My own breathing. Everything disappeared. Only those words remained.

Because I’m falling in love with you too.

Logan looked just as surprised to have said them as I was to hear them. His chest rose and fell rapidly.

His shoulders tense. His eyes locked on mine as if waiting for the impact. As if waiting for me to laugh. Or throw him out.

Or tell him he’d lost his mind.

But I did none of those things.

I just stared at him.

Because suddenly my brain had forgotten how to function.

The tension on his face grew with every second I remained silent.

“Okay.”

He nodded once. Without humor.

“Yeah, this silence is definitely not a good sign.”

That pulled a small laugh from me. Small. But enough. His shoulders relaxed almost instantly. Almost imperceptibly.

“Well, now you know exactly how I felt when I told you.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry. This is awful.”

“Logan, I don’t... I don’t know what to do. Are you doing this out of pity?”

He spread his arms.

“I’m standing here looking ridiculous in front of you and you’re asking if I’m telling you I’m falling in love with you out of pity?”

My laugh escaped before I could stop it. And for a moment, the tension eased. Just a little. Just enough for me to breathe.

Logan watched me silently. The smile faded slowly. Giving way to something more serious. More vulnerable.

“I didn’t come here expecting an answer.”

My eyes met his.

“No?”

He shook his head.

“No.”

His voice was steady.

“I just needed you to know.”

My heart tightened.

“Because you deserved to know.”

Silence settled between us again.

But it wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was different. Like we were standing at the edge of something important, without knowing exactly how to cross it.

“Did you really stay awake thinking about it?”

The question slipped out before I could stop it. A smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

“Are you talking about the confession or the part where I was spiraling because your ex showed up again?”

“Both.”

“Then yes.”

I rolled my eyes. But I couldn’t hide the warmth spreading through my chest. Logan watched me for a few more seconds.

Then took a step toward me.

Small.

Careful.

As if giving me space to back away if I wanted to.

“I’m not asking anything from you right now.”

My breath caught.

“I’m not asking you to decide anything today...”

But I wasn’t listening anymore. Because something inside me had simply broken. Or maybe finally clicked into place. Before I could think better of it, I took two long strides toward him. I saw surprise appear on his face.

Saw his eyes widen. And then I pressed my lips to his. For a second, Logan froze. As if he couldn’t believe it was really happening.

As if he’d spent so much time imagining that moment that he needed a second to understand it was real. Then his hands found my waist. And he kissed me back.

For a few seconds, there was nothing else but the feeling of finally stopping the fight against what we felt.

He pulled me closer, as if he were still trying to believe that this was real. My hands moved up to his neck, my fingers getting lost in his curls as I smiled against his lips.

When we pulled away, it was just enough to catch our breath. His eyes found mine immediately.

Gentle.

Almost incredulous.

As if they were waiting for me to change my mind at any moment. "I'm tired of pretending that I don't care about you. I had enough time to think if I hated you."

"So..."

His voice came out hoarse.

"Was that a yes?"

I couldn't contain my laughter.

"You're a college hockey player and you still need confirmation?"

"I need to."

His smile widened.

"Lots of confirmation."

I nodded my head, still smiling.

Then I touched his face with the tips of my fingers and he looked at me and held my face between his hands and kissed me again. Not with urgency. But with the certainty of someone who had spent too much time wanting to do it. My heart raced.

And, for the first time in weeks, it didn't seem scary.

It felt right.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and smiled against his lips.

Logan let out a low laugh.

"You're smiling."

"Maybe."

"I can feel it."

"Stop complaining."

"Never."

I rolled my eyes.

So I held his hand.

Intertwining our fingers.

And I started pulling him down the hallway.

His eyes followed my every move. As if he were still trying to process that it was real. When we reached the door of my room, I stopped.

For a moment, we just stood there. Staring at each other.

His smile was so ridiculously happy that I couldn't help but laugh again.

"What?"

He asked.

"Nothing."

"Lies."

"You seem like you won something."

"I actually did."

My heart stumbled. Because he answered without hesitation. No joking.

No sarcasm.

Just looking at me.

As if that were the most obvious thing in the world.

And, suddenly, I couldn't look away. Nor did I want to.

Because after so many misunderstandings, so many interrupted conversations, and so many missed opportunities, we were finally in the same place.

"What were you doing before I arrived?"

The question caught me completely off guard. I felt the heat rise immediately up my neck. Up my cheeks. And the reaction was so obvious that a laugh escaped my lips as they curved into an involuntary smile.

Logan noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His smile grew at that very moment.

Slow.

Too funny for my taste.

"Oh my. What were you doing? "

"Shh, stay quiet."

I pushed lightly against his chest, and he fell back onto the bed with a laugh. The sound filled the room.

That warm, carefree laugh I'd missed more than I cared to admit.

"Are you trying to silence me?"

"I am."

"It's not going to work."

"It's worth a try."

I shook my head, unable to hide the smile. Logan raised an eyebrow.

"So this is how it's going to be now?"

"How?"

"You smiling at me."

My heart stumbled.

Because he seemed so happy with something so simple.nSo genuinely happy.

"It was kind of difficult, to be honest."

I commented, settling into his lap.

"What?"

"Not smiling at you. Your face is very annoying, it makes me want to laugh at her all the time."

"Oh, for sure. That's why you're looking at me with so much disgust now. "

"Uh-huh."

I grumbled and went back to kissing him slowly. I slid my lips along his jawline covered by stubble and continued to his neck, teasing him near his ear. A low moan escaped him before his hands found my neck, guiding my face back so I could look at him.

"If you keep doing that, I'm going to come in my pants."

The statement made me burst out laughing. I hid my face in the curve of his neck, still laughing.

"Well, you should come somewhere else then..."

I murmured near his ear. Slowly, I got off his lap and stood in front of him. Then I took off the shirt I had put on just to answer the door and Logan's gaze immediately swept over my body.

His breath caught.

For a moment, he just watched me.

"Do you really want this?"

The voice came out quieter than usual.

Weaker.

More sincere.

I took a few short steps to position myself between his legs, allowing his hands to find my waist.

"I think you can imagine where my fingers were when you arrived and interrupted me."

The effect of my words was immediate. His eyes darkened and, for a second, John simply stared at me.

"Tell me what you were imagining before I got here, gorgeous," he whispered, pressing soft kisses and lingering touches down the center of my body.

"You were... um..." I stammered, my cheeks burning. "You were going down on me."

His eyes lifted to mine, and the corner of his mouth twitched into a smile.

"Was I?" he asked softly. "What was I saying to you?"

I closed my eyes, breathing unevenly as I felt his breath ghosting over my skin.

"You said..." I swallowed hard. "Fuck, Johnny. You said you loved the way I tasted. That you..." I broke off, heat rushing to my face. "That you wanted to taste me."

"I do want you. I have since the very first time I had to pretend I was fucking you when this fake relationship started."

As if he were trying to decide whether it was real or just another one of the fantasies he had been having about me. Then, in a swift motion, he leaned in to kiss the valley between my breasts once again, slowly moving up and making the friction of his beard against my skin send shivers down my spine.

"Uhum..."

I moaned, my fingers already tangled in his hair.

"God, I love your mouth."

He lifted his head just enough to look at me, a smug smile tugging at his lips.

"So tell me, gorgeous. Is this better than what you imagined?"

His arms wrapped around my thighs, opening me even more for him, and when his mouth focused exactly on the right spot,exploring my wet pussy, sucking, drawing with a pressure that bordered on obscenity, a loud moan escaped from me before I could stop it.

´´Fuck yeah.´´

"Shh," he murmured against me, and the vibration of his voice made my entire body tremble. "You're going to wake up our friends."

"I don't care. Hannah and Garrett are loud as fuck too."

He laughed, a low and dirty laugh, and shoved his tongue inside me. My jaw dropped back. My hands gripped his hair so tightly that he moaned, and that sound, the sensation of his tongue fucking me while I writhed, was almost too much.

"Logan," I gasped. "Fuck, Logan."

He stepped out just enough to speak, his lips glistening, his gaze fixed on mine. "Do you have any idea how good you taste?" he said, his voice hoarse.

"So sweet."

My response was a shameful whimper, what made him smile, dangerously, and returned to me as if he were starving. This time, he wasn't playing around. Two fingers entered me along with his tongue, and the air escaped my lungs in a gasp. He fucked me with his fingers while sucking me, rhythmic, cruel, perfect. Each thrust made a wet and obscene sound that filled the room along with my muffled moans.

"Come on, cum on my face," he ordered against me, his eyes raised to mine. That was what broke me.

My body arched violently, a scream caught in my throat as the contractions overwhelmed me. Logan didn't back away an inch, he licked me thru it all, drooling and dirty, licking every drop as if it were precious.

When I finally stopped trembling, he slowly climbed up my body. The wet lips. The chin shining. The smile of someone who had just won a prize.

"Look at what you've done," he murmured, running his fingers over his own lips and then bringing them to his mouth. "I messed up my whole face."

"You are disgusting," I managed to say, breathless.

"And you love it."

He leaned in and kissed me, and I felt my taste on his lips. I felt his saliva mixed with mine. I felt his tongue sliding against mine as if he were showing me exactly what he had just done. When we separated, we were both breathless.

"My turn," I said.

Before he could react, I pushed his chest. John fell back onto the bed, surprised, and I was already climbing on top of him. My body slid against his, and I felt his underwear wet, not just from me, but from him, because damn, he was leaking just from sucking me.

"Look at that," I whispered, running my hand over the fabric. He moaned, his hips pushing against my palm. "You're as dirty as I am."

"That's your fault," he managed to say, his voice faltering.

"I know."

I slowly pulled the elastic of his underwear down, feeling every inch of warm skin appearing, and when he was finally naked in front of me, my mouth watered as I watched every inch of his hard cock.

Hard. Wet. Throbbing.

I ran my tongue from the base to the tip in a slow motion, and the moan that escaped him was so loud that I was sure Hannah heard it.

"Quiet," I teased, using his words against him. "You're going to wake everyone up."

"Fuck it," he gasped and i smiled.

So I stuffed it whole into my mouth faster than he expected it to happen.

Logan's body arched entirely on the bed, his hands flying to my hair with a desperate urgency. Not to push me away, to hold on.

"Fuck," he hissed, his voice coming out in a whisper. "Fuck, gorgeous."

I kept it deep in my throat for a second, and two. And that was enough time to feel him pulsing against my tongue, enough time to hear the strangled moan that escaped his lips.

When I slowly went up, sucking hard along the way, Logan let out a sound that was almost a sob.

"You are going to kill me," he managed to say.

I looked at him thru my eyelashes, the mouth still around the head, the lips slippery with saliva. His gaze was fixed on me, his dark eyes and jaw slack.

"That's the idea," I murmured, and the vibration of my voice made his hips rise from the bed. I laughed, a low and satisfied sound, and returned to him eagerly.

This time there was no delicacy. I sucked him as if I were starving, as if the only thing that mattered in the world was that salty and masculine taste on my tongue. My hand wrapped around what didn't fit in my mouth, twisting on the way up, squeezing on the way down, and the sound I made was obscene, wet, greedy, erotic.

Logan was lost. His fingers tangled in my hair, pulling hard every time I got too close to the edge. His moans were constant now, guttural, uncontrollable.

"Stop," he gasped suddenly, pulling my hair harder. "Stop, stop, stop, if you keep going, I'm going to come in your mouth."

I raised my eyes to him.

And I didn't stop.

"Y/n!" he warned, his voice faltering.

I continued. Faster. Deeper. My hand and my mouth work

He laughed, a low, satisfied laugh, and pressed my hips against him.

"Shit, I'm screwed, totally fucked."

John Logan said, both hands on his head, and glancing down at me.

"Literally."

"Literally."

"Literally!"

English isn't my first language, so pls go easy on me.

This chapter wasn't written very well, and I want to apologize for that in advance. When they actually fuck, I promise I'll be able to write a proper smut scene for you guys, just like I always do with my other smuts.

I think that from now on, you can either be happy... or sad. Because the story is finally heading in a happier direction, which means we're also getting close to the end. Stick around, though. We still have more chapters coming throughout the week.

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The first time Tucker saw you, you almost took out an entire row of glasses at Malone’s. Not one, not two, but an entire row.

It happened on a Friday night, which meant the bar was already packed with students pretending they didn’t have assignments due, hockey players pretending they weren’t exhausted from practice, and Della behind the counter pretending she wasn’t five seconds away from throwing someone out for ordering another round only to forget what they’d asked for immediately.

You were new, and that much was obvious. Not because you were bad at the job, exactly, but because you still had the bright, nervous energy of someone who hadn’t yet learned that Malone’s on a Friday night was less a bar and more a sticky-floored battlefield.

You came out from behind the counter with a tray balanced carefully in both hands, brows pinched in concentration as your bottom lip caught between your teeth. You were wearing black jeans and a Malone’s blue shirt, your hair pulled back messily, as if you’d done it in a rush, and Tucker found himself noticing you before he could think better of it.

He noticed the way you smiled at a customer who was definitely being too loud. He noticed the way you thanked Della twice when she moved around you. He noticed how hard you were trying to do everything right.

And then you set the tray down on the bar too quickly, caught the edge of a napkin holder, and sent three clean glasses tipping into each other with a loud, terrible clatter.

Everyone at the table flinched. Dean was the first to turn around, Garrett’s attention snapped away from whatever Hannah was saying, and Logan started laughing before he’d even fully figured out what had happened.

You froze immediately.

“Oh my god,” you said, hands flying up like you were surrendering to the glasses. “I’m so sorry. I swear I’m usually less of a disaster when no one’s watching.”

Della sighed, though there was already affection in it. “Sweetheart, nobody expects grace here. Just survival.”

Dean grinned from the booth where he sat with the boys. “Ten out of ten entrance.”

Garrett kicked him under the table without even looking at him.

You winced, cheeks burning, and immediately started gathering the glasses before any of them could fall off the bar.

Tucker was on his feet before he’d even thought about moving.

“Here,” he said, already grabbing a stack of napkins from the end of the counter and stepping closer. “I got it.”

You looked up at him, startled, like you hadn’t expected someone to help instead of laugh. Something weird shifted in Tucker’s chest.

“Oh,” you said, your voice softening. “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, steadying one of the glasses before it could roll off the edge. He gave you a small smile. “First Friday?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Only a little,” he said, smile tugging at his mouth.

Your mouth curved into an embarrassed but sweet smile, and Tucker noticed the way your whole face seemed to warm with it.

Dean, because of course he did, leaned over the booth and said, “Careful, Tuck. She might make you work for free.”

You glanced between them, your smile still lingering. “Tuck?”

“Tucker,” he said, handing over the glass he’d rescued. “John Tucker.”

You took it from him, your fingers brushing against his for half a second.

“I’m [Y/N],” you said. Then you looked down at the glasses, sighed, and added, “Apparently also a public safety hazard.”

Tucker laughed, not because it was that funny, though it was, but because you were smiling at him like you were happy he had.

That was the first thing Tucker noticed. Not that you were the prettiest girl in the room, though you were. Not that you were the clumsy new waitress, though the boys would absolutely bring that up later. Not even that you were the transfer student Hannah had mentioned once, the one who’d started working at Malone’s because she needed extra money, and Della liked hiring people she could boss around.

The first thing was that you looked at Tucker like he was the one you were talking to — not the guy beside Dean, not Garrett’s friend, not one of the hockey boys. Him.

It was a stupid thing to notice, so of course Tucker noticed.

Over the next few weeks, you became part of Malone’s the way some people became part of a song — slowly at first, then all at once.

You were there on Fridays and sometimes Saturdays, always with your hair tied back in a way that never lasted more than an hour before pieces started falling loose around your face. You learned the regulars’ orders faster than anyone expected. You learned Della’s moods, learned that Dean always said he wanted something different before ordering the same beer anyway, that Logan would steal fries from whoever sat too close, that Garrett was polite because Hannah elbowed him when he forgot, and that Allie always tipped too much because she knew what the job felt like.

And Tucker — you learned his drink by the third Friday. That shouldn’t have affected him. It did anyway.

“You want the usual?” you asked, already reaching for it as he and the boys slid into their booth after the game.

Dean stopped mid-sentence and turned slowly toward Tucker, wearing the most irritating smile imaginable. Logan looked absolutely delighted. Garrett looked like he was trying very hard not to seem delighted. Tucker ignored every single one of them.

“You remembered?” he asked, which was the wrong thing to say because it made him sound surprised.

You blinked at him, then smiled. “You order the same thing every time.”

“So does Dean,” Tucker said.

“Yeah, but Dean changes his mind three times before going back to the same thing. You have to prepare for that emotionally.”

Garrett laughed quietly into his drink.

Dean put a hand over his chest. “I feel attacked.”

“You should,” Allie said, appearing beside him like she’d been summoned by the opportunity to tease him. “It was accurate.”

You grinned and slid Tucker his drink first, and he hated how quickly he liked it—hated how his eyes followed you when you walked away to help another table. Hated even more that Dean noticed immediately.

“Oh, you’re so in trouble.”

Tucker glanced at him. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t even say anything specific,” Dean said.

“You didn’t need to.”

Logan leaned forward, as if this were crucial evidence. “She gave you your drink first.”

“Because I was sitting closest.”

“You weren’t,” Garrett said.

Tucker shot him a look. “Aren’t you supposed to be mature now?”

Garrett shrugged, his arm around Hannah. “I’m in a relationship, not dead.”

Across the room, you laughed at something Della said, nearly dropped a pen, caught it against your chest, and looked far too proud of yourself for saving it.

Tucker tried not to smile, and failed.

Dean pointed at Tucker’s face as he’d just found evidence. “That. Right there. That’s pathetic.”

Tucker picked up his drink, unimpressed. “You’re literally dating Allie.”

“Yes, and I became pathetic in public. It’s part of the process.”

“I’m not becoming anything,” Tucker said.

“Sure,” Dean said.

Tucker knew exactly what they thought.

He knew how it looked: new girl, pretty smile, sweet enough to make everyone in the room feel like she was happy to see them. Of course, he liked her. Everyone probably liked her. You were the kind of person people noticed because you made it easy for them. You asked questions, laughed without trying to seem cool, apologized to chairs when you bumped into them, and once gave a drunk sophomore a full pep talk because he looked sad over mozzarella sticks.

You were sunshine in a place that mostly smelled like beer and fried food.

Tucker told himself that was all it was: you were friendly, and he was interested because of it. It didn’t mean you were interested back.

Girls usually went for guys like Dean: loud, confident, easy to flirt with because he did half the work for them. Or Garrett, with the captain thing and that accidental golden-boy charm, even though Hannah would probably murder anyone who tried. Or Logan, who looked like trouble and knew exactly how to make it work.

Tucker was the nice one, the safe one, the one girls asked to hold their coats while they danced with someone else.

He’d made peace with that a long time ago — mostly. Then, on the fourth Friday, you proved you were going to be a problem.

It was later than usual, with the crowd thinning out around midnight and the booths left sticky and half-empty. Tucker had ended up at the bar while the others argued over whether to go back to the house or order food. You were wiping down the counter with your sleeves pushed up, cheeks flushed from the long shift.

“You’re staring again,” you said, not even looking up.

Tucker blinked at you. “What?”

You glanced at him, eyes bright with amusement. “I said you’re staring.”

“I wasn’t,” he said.

“You were,” you said.

“I was just thinking,” he said.

“About the counter?” you asked.

“It’s a very interesting counter.”

You smiled, and Tucker felt stupidly pleased with himself for being the reason.

“You always do that,” you said, still smiling.

“Stare at counters?” he asked.

“No,” you said, leaning your hip against the bar. “Make jokes when I catch you looking at me.”

Tucker’s throat went dry.

That wasn’t fair. You couldn’t look that sweet and then say things like that.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You hummed like you didn’t believe him, which was fair, considering he sounded ridiculous.

Dean appeared at Tucker’s shoulder at the worst possible time, because of course he did. “He never does.”

Tucker closed his eyes like he was praying for patience. “Go away.”

Dean grinned at you because, apparently, subtlety had never been an option. “Has he asked you out yet?”

Tucker’s head snapped toward Dean. “Jesus Christ.”

You froze for half a second before your face went pink.

Dean looked like Christmas had just come early.

“Oh,” Dean said slowly, looking far too pleased. “Interesting.”

“Dean,” Tucker said, warning clear in his voice.

You cleared your throat and turned back to the counter, trying to hide your smile. “Does he need help with that?”

Tucker stared at you, Dean made a sound like he’d been shot, and Garrett yelled from the booth, “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Tucker said, far too quickly.

Dean turned back toward the table. “Tucker’s dying.”

“I’m fine,” Tucker said.

You were still smiling down at the counter like you hadn’t just caused chaos.

Tucker didn’t recover for the rest of the night.

After that, things changed. Not dramatically, and not enough that anyone else would’ve called it obvious — except maybe Dean, who called everything obvious if it helped him be annoying. But Tucker felt it.

You started lingering near him when the bar slowed down. You leaned across the counter when you talked to him, chin propped in your hand and eyes warm with focus. You asked about his classes. His practices. His stupid sandwich preference after Logan tried to convince you Tucker had “boring taste,” which somehow turned into a ten-minute argument about whether turkey counted as a personality flaw.

You also started touching him. Not much, just enough to ruin him.

Your fingers brushed his wrist when you set down his drink. Your knee bumped his when you sat beside him for five minutes during your break. Your hand landed briefly on his shoulder when you squeezed past him behind the bar, soft and apologetic and completely unnecessary.

Tucker told himself you were probably like that with everyone, right up until he watched you tell Dean to stop leaning over the bar because he was “ruining the ecosystem,” and decided maybe you weren’t.

By the sixth Friday, Della had started looking at both of you like she knew something neither of you had admitted yet.

That was also the night everything finally clicked into place.

The boys came in late after an away game, tired and loud, their faces flushed from the cold. Hannah and Allie were with them, bundled in coats and already claiming a booth while Dean declared he was starving with the drama of a man who hadn’t eaten in years.

You were working closing again, and Tucker tried very hard not to look too happy about that. Failed, probably.

From behind the bar, you caught his eye and smiled so brightly that his chest went warm.

“The usual?” you asked.

Dean groaned, as if he were personally offended. “This is disgusting.”

You laughed, confused. “What?”

“He’s smiling like an idiot,” Dean said.

Tucker elbowed him in the side.

You looked at Tucker, smile softening as you asked, “Are you?”

“No,” Tucker said.

“He is,” Logan called from the booth.

“He absolutely is,” Garrett added from the booth.

Tucker stared at Garrett. “You too?”

Garrett lifted his hands in surrender. “I’m just observing.”

You set his drink down in front of him, fingers brushing his for a second too long. “For the record, I don’t mind.”

Tucker forgot how to speak, and you walked away before he could find a response.

Dean leaned closer, his voice low enough that only Tucker could hear. “If you don’t ask her out tonight, I’m doing it for you.”

“You are not doing anything,” Tucker said.

“Then do something,” Dean said.

Tucker looked toward the bar, where you were reaching for a stack of napkins and laughing at something Hannah had said. You nearly knocked over a bottle with your elbow, caught it just in time, and then looked around to see if anyone had noticed.

Tucker had. You saw him seeing you, and your nose scrunched with embarrassment. He smiled before he could stop himself.

Dean sighed, as if this were personally exhausting. “God, you two are unbearable.”

Tucker looked away, like that settled it. “She’s just friendly.”

Dean stared at him.

“What?”

“Are you actually stupid?”

“Wow. Very helpful.”

“I’m serious,” Dean said, glancing toward you before looking back at Tucker. “That girl has been making heart eyes at you for a month.”

“She’s nice to everyone,” Tucker said.

“She threatened to pour soda on Logan last week,” Dean said.

Logan looked up from stealing Allie’s fries. “I deserved that.”

Dean continued, with the patience of someone explaining something painfully obvious, “She likes you.”

Tucker shifted, uncomfortable under the weight of the words. “You don’t know that.”

Dean’s expression softened slightly, which was somehow worse. “Tuck.”

“Don’t,” Tucker said.

“I’m just saying,” Dean started.

“I know what you’re saying,” Tucker said, his voice coming out lower than he meant. “But she’s new. She’s nice. And she has all of you literally sitting here every week. I’m not going to assume she’s looking at me like that just because I want her to.”

For once, Dean went quiet.

Tucker regretted saying it immediately. Not because it wasn’t true, because it was, but because he’d never said it out loud before. And, of course, because timing apparently wasn’t on his side, he looked up and saw you standing a few feet away with a tray in your hands, your expression caught somewhere between surprise and something softer.

Tucker’s stomach dropped. You had heard. Maybe not all of it, but enough.

You blinked once, then gave him a small smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Della said last call.”

Then you turned and walked back to the bar.

Dean leaned back slowly, the teasing finally slipping from his face.

Tucker dragged a hand over his face, guilt hitting all at once. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, quieter now. “That one might be on you.”

The next twenty minutes were horrible. You weren’t rude, and somehow, that made it worse. You were still sweet when you cleared the table, still smiling when Hannah hugged you goodbye, still telling Logan he couldn’t take the basket of fries with him because it was “not a souvenir.” But you didn’t linger near Tucker, didn’t brush his hand, didn’t smile at him first.

By the time the others left, Dean gave him one very pointed look from the door. Tucker ignored it, mostly because he deserved it.

He stayed behind while you wiped down the bar, sitting at the end with his coat folded beside him like he wasn’t sure where else to put himself. Della had disappeared into the back, clearly on purpose, and without the usual noise, the bar felt strange. Softer. Too quiet.

You didn’t look at him for a while, and Tucker let you have that.

Eventually, you set the rag down with a sigh. “Are you waiting for Della or me?”

“You,” he said. You glanced up, and he swallowed. “If that’s okay.”

You looked at him for a moment before nodding. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry.” You seemed surprised by that, so Tucker kept going before he could lose his nerve. “For what I said earlier. You weren’t supposed to hear it.”

“Would it be better if I hadn’t heard it?”

“No,” he said, looking down at his hands before meeting your eyes again. “Probably not.”

You crossed your arms and leaned against the bar. “Do you really think I’m just being nice?”

Tucker hated how gentle your voice was.

“I think you are nice,” he said.

“That’s not what I asked.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth before he could stop it. “No, it wasn’t.”

You waited, giving him time to answer.

Tucker exhaled slowly. “I don’t know what I think. I guess I’m trying not to assume.”

“Assume what?” you asked.

“That you’d choose me.”

The words settled between you, quiet and honest and too exposed.

Your expression softened when you said his name. “Tucker.”

He let out a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. “I know. It sounds stupid.”

“It doesn’t,” you said.

“It kind of does,” he said.

“No,” you said, walking slowly around the bar until you were standing in front of him. “It sounds like you don’t see yourself clearly.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Your face was still flushed from work, hair coming loose around your cheeks, your eyes tired but warm. There was nothing teasing in them now.

“You keep acting like I’m looking past you,” you said, voice soft. “I’m not.”

Tucker went completely still.

You swallowed, a little nervous now, and somehow that made the words hit even harder. “I saw all of them first. I still looked at you.”

For a second, Tucker couldn’t speak. He’d imagined you saying a lot of things. Not that. Never that.

“[Y/N],” Tucker said quietly.

Your smile wobbled slightly. “Too much?”

“No,” he said, voice rough. “No, not too much.”

Della chose that moment to appear from the back, took one look at the two of you, and turned right back around. “I forgot absolutely nothing. Continue.”

You laughed, breaking the tension just enough for Tucker to breathe again.

He stood and grabbed his coat. “Let me walk you home.”

Your eyes lifted to his, softer now. “Okay.”

Outside, the cold air hit your face, and you pulled your jacket tighter around yourself. Tucker walked beside you, close enough for your shoulders to brush every few steps, but not close enough to crowd you. The streets around Briar were quieter now, wrapped in the kind of late-night stillness that made every little sound feel louder — your shoes on the sidewalk, Tucker’s breath in the cold, the distant noise from another bar down the street.

For a minute, neither of you said anything, and then you laughed softly.

Tucker looked over at you. “What?”

“I just realized I basically confessed to you in front of a bar counter that still smelled like spilled beer.”

His mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “Very romantic.”

“I’ve always been known for my elegance.”

“You did knock over four glasses the first night I met you.”

“Three,” you said, pointing at him. “It was three.”

“One almost fell off the counter,” he said. “I’m counting it.”

“You’re cruel,” you said, trying not to smile.

“I did help.”

“You did,” you said, your voice softening. “That’s why I remembered you.”

Tucker’s chest tightened at that.

You kept walking for a few more steps before adding, “Everyone else laughed. Not in a mean way, but still. You just helped.”

“It wasn’t exactly heroic.”

“It was to me,” you said quietly.

He didn’t know what to do with that, so he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and looked down at the sidewalk like it might tell him what to say.

You smiled at him, and somehow Tucker felt it even without looking.

By the time you reached your apartment building, the tension had changed shape again. It was still soft, still warm, but there was something electric underneath it now, something that had been building for weeks across bar counters, half-finished conversations, and every smile you’d given him like it wasn’t ruining his day in the best way.

You stopped when you reached the door.

“This is me,” you said.

Tucker nodded, like he knew that and still wasn’t ready to leave. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moved. Then you looked up at him. “Do you want to come in?”

His eyes lifted to yours. The question was quiet, but there was nothing unclear about it.

Tucker’s voice dropped when he asked, “Do you want me to?”

You stepped closer, your eyes still on his. “Yes.”

That was all Tucker needed.

The elevator ride was silent, broken only by your uneven breathing and the small ding of each floor passing. Tucker stood beside you with his hands at his sides, not touching you yet, though the restraint in him was obvious. You could feel it — in the tight line of his jaw, in the way his eyes kept flicking to your mouth before he forced them away, in the way he seemed to be waiting until you were somewhere private before letting himself want you properly.

Somehow, it only made you want him more.

Your apartment was small and warm, a little messy in a way that made you immediately wince as you unlocked the door.

“Don’t judge,” you said as you stepped inside. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

Tucker looked around at the books stacked on the coffee table, the blanket slipping off the couch, the mug in the sink, and the tiny lamp glowing in the corner before looking back at you.

“I like it,” he said softly.

You smiled at him. “You’re very easy to impress.”

“Only when it’s you,” he said.

The words were quiet and simple, and they stole the air from your chest.

You closed the door behind him, then turned the lock.

Tucker’s eyes dropped to the movement, and his expression shifted. When he looked back at you, something had changed. He was still Tucker — still warm, still steady — but the softness in him had sharpened into something more focused.

You swallowed, voice suddenly smaller. “Hi.”

His mouth curved, just barely. “Hi.”

“You’re standing very far away,” you said.

“I’m trying to be respectful,” he said.

You stepped closer, eyes on his. “You can stop.”

His eyes darkened at that. “Yeah?”

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Tucker moved then, closing the small space between you in two steps. His hand came up to your jaw, gentle at first, like he was giving you one last second to lean away.

You leaned into his touch.

After that, the kiss wasn’t gentle. It was warm, deep, and immediate, like weeks of almosts had finally found somewhere to land. Tucker’s hand slid into your hair, the other settling at your waist as he pulled you close enough for your chest to press against his. A soft sound slipped out against his mouth, and Tucker’s grip tightened.

“There you are,” Tucker murmured against your mouth.

Your stomach flipped at the sound of his voice.

You kissed him harder, your hands sliding up his chest and feeling the solid warmth of him beneath his jacket. Tucker walked you back until your spine met the wall near the door, his body caging yours in without ever making you feel trapped.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he said, his mouth brushing your jaw.

Your head tipped back as his lips moved to your neck. “I wanted you to.”

His hand tightened briefly at your waist.

“Yeah?” His voice dropped lower. “Wanted me to walk you home?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

“Wanted me to come upstairs too?”

“Yes,” you breathed.

His mouth hovered near your ear, voice low. “Wanted me to touch you?”

Your breath caught before you could answer. “Tuck—”

He kissed the spot just beneath your jaw, pulling a sound from you that was almost a whimper.

His voice went rough. “Say it.”

You swallowed, your fingers curling into his shirt. “Yes. I wanted you to touch me.”

He groaned, low and restrained, before his mouth found yours again, hungrier this time. Your hands pushed at his jacket, clumsy with urgency, and Tucker helped you pull it off before shrugging out of it and tossing it somewhere near the couch.

You laughed breathlessly as it knocked into a chair.

“Sorry,” you breathed.

“Don’t care,” Tucker murmured, already kissing you again.

Your back hit the wall hard enough to make your whole body light up, but not enough to hurt. Tucker’s thigh slid between yours, and the second you rocked down against it without thinking, his hand tightened on your hip.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “You’re going to make me forget how to be nice.”

Your lips curved against his. “Maybe I don’t want nice.”

His eyes lifted to yours, and there it was again — that quiet intensity.

“I can do both,” Tucker said, voice low.

The words went straight through you, sharp and warm all at once.

His hands slipped beneath your shirt, his palms warm against your skin. He touched you slowly at first, almost reverent, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you. Then your hips moved against his thigh again, and his control slipped just enough that his fingers pressed into your waist.

“You’re so pretty,” he murmured, voice rough. “I’ve been thinking that since the first night.”

“When I dropped the glasses?” you asked.

“Especially then,” he said, like it was obvious.

You laughed, only for it to break into a gasp when his mouth found your neck again, his teeth grazing lightly before his tongue soothed the spot.

“Tucker,” you breathed.

“I know,” he murmured, his hand moving higher until his fingers brushed the underside of your breast through your bra. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You shook your head quickly, voice barely steady. “No.”

“No?” he asked, voice low.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered.

His eyes darkened at that, and then he kissed you like those words had undone something in him. The warm, steady Tucker from Malone’s was still there, but this version of him felt different — more confident, more direct. His hands knew exactly where they wanted to go, his mouth knew how to make you melt, and every quiet groan he gave you made your knees a little less reliable.

He pushed your shirt up slowly, and you lifted your arms for him. The second your shirt hit the floor, his gaze dropped to your chest, and his jaw flexed.

“Jesus,” he breathed.

You almost made a joke. Almost. But the way he looked at you made it hard to hide behind one.

His hands came up to cover your breasts through your bra, thumbs brushing slowly over the thin fabric. Your back arched off the wall as a soft moan slipped out before you could stop it.

Tucker’s mouth parted slightly, his voice rough. “Don’t hide that.”

“What?” you breathed.

“Those sounds,” he said, his thumb moving again just to make your breath catch. “I want to hear them.”

Your cheeks warmed, but your body answered before your mouth could, another quiet whimper slipping out when he leaned down and kissed the top of your breast.

“Like that?” Tucker asked, voice low.

“Yes,” you breathed, your fingers tightening in his shirt. “Like that.”

He undid your bra carefully, sliding the straps down your arms before letting it fall between you. His eyes moved over you more slowly this time, and something about the softness in his face made your chest ache.

Then his mouth closed around your nipple, pulling a moan from you as your head knocked back against the wall.

Tucker groaned against your skin, one hand firm at your waist while the other covered your breast, fingers rolling your nipple until you started shifting against him, needy and restless.

“You’re so responsive,” Tucker murmured, kissing across your chest. “Do you have any idea what that does to me?”

You swallowed, surprising yourself with how steady it sounded. “Tell me.”

His eyes flicked up, and for a second, he looked surprised. Then his expression shifted, a small, almost dangerous smile tugging at his mouth.

“It makes me want to take my time,” he said, voice low. “Makes me want to find out every way to make you sound like that again.”

Your thighs pressed together, and Tucker noticed immediately. Of course he did. His hand slid down your stomach, fingers pausing at the button of your jeans.

“Can I?” he asked, voice low.

“Yes,” you whispered.

He unbuttoned your jeans slowly, eyes fixed on your face as he pushed the denim down your hips. You kicked them off awkwardly, nearly tripping in the process, and Tucker caught you with a quiet laugh, his hands steady on your waist.

“Still clumsy,” he murmured.

“You’re very distracting,” you said.

“Good,” he murmured.

You were about to answer, but then his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your underwear, and every thought disappeared.

He touched you over your panties first, two fingers pressing against the wet fabric, and his breath caught.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re wet.”

Your face burned at the way he said it. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m not,” he said, fingers moving slowly over your clit through the soaked material. “Just trying to process the fact that you wanted me this badly.”

“I did,” you whispered.

The admission came out soft and honest.

Tucker’s eyes lifted to yours. You held his gaze, even though it made you feel exposed.

“I wanted you,” you said again, softer this time.

Something shifted in his face. Then he kissed you hard, fingers pushing your underwear aside and sliding through your wetness. The first touch of his skin against your cunt pulled a gasp from you, your hips bucking toward his hand before you could stop them.

“There you go,” he murmured, voice rough with satisfaction. “That’s what I wanted.”

His fingers circled your clit slowly, steady and precise, and you clung to his shoulders as pleasure sparked low in your stomach.

“Tuck,” you whimpered, fingers tightening on his shoulders.

“Right here,” he murmured, his forehead touching yours. “I’ve got you.”

He slid one finger into you, eyes fixed on the way your lips parted, then added another when your hips rolled against his hand. The stretch pulled a louder moan from you, and Tucker’s jaw tightened like the sound was testing every bit of his restraint.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice rough. “You sound so pretty.”

His touch grew deeper and more deliberate, his thumb finding you again as you stayed pressed against the wall, nearly bare while Tucker was still fully dressed. The imbalance should have made you embarrassed.

It didn’t. Not with him looking at you like that, not with his hand between your thighs, his mouth at your jaw, and his voice low in your ear.

“Tell me what feels good,” he murmured.

Your breath shook around the answer. “Your fingers.”

“Yeah?” he murmured.

“Yes,” you breathed, gripping his shirt tighter. “Right there. Don’t stop.”

His fingers curled again, and a moan broke from you into the quiet room.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice rough. “Let me hear you.”

The pleasure built faster than you expected, heat tightening through your stomach and thighs, but just before it could break, Tucker pulled his fingers away.

A frustrated sound slipped out of you. “Why—”

He dropped to his knees, and your mouth went dry as Tucker looked up at you from the floor, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs.

“I’m not done with you yet.” It should not have sounded as hot as it did.

Then he pulled your underwear down, slow and deliberate, before lifting one of your legs over his shoulder.

“Tucker,” you breathed, fingers tightening in his hair.

His mouth pressed against the inside of your thigh. “Hold onto me.”

Your fingers slid into his hair, and then his mouth found your cunt.

The first stroke of his tongue made your whole body jerk, a sharp moan slipping out as his hands tightened on your thighs. He ate you like he’d been waiting weeks for it, slow and deep at first, tongue dragging through your wetness before flattening over your clit.

“Oh my god,” you gasped.

He hummed against you, the vibration making your knees buckle slightly, and Tucker held you up.

His mouth worked over you with a patience that felt almost unfair, tongue circling your clit, lips sucking softly while his fingers dug into your thigh every time you tugged his hair. You could feel how wet you were, could hear it too, and the sound made your face burn even as your hips started moving against his mouth.

“Tuck—fuck, right there,” you gasped.

He groaned like the words had gone straight through him, focusing there until the pleasure turned sharp and bright. Your head fell back against the wall, one hand still buried in his hair while the other braced beside you.

You were close, close enough that your thighs started trembling.

“Tucker,” you gasped. “I’m—”

He didn’t stop. He didn’t slow down. He only held you tighter, mouth sealed over your clit until you came with a broken moan, hips jerking against him as pleasure rolled through you. He stayed with you through it, easing the pressure when you started to shake and pressing kisses to your inner thigh when you finally whimpered from the sensitivity.

When he stood again, his mouth was wet and his eyes were dark.

You could only stare at him.

He wiped his thumb across his lower lip before leaning in to kiss you. You tasted yourself on his tongue, moaning into his mouth as Tucker made a rough sound against you.

“Bedroom,” he said, voice rough.

You nodded quickly.

The walk there was not graceful. You bumped into the side table, Tucker knocked into the doorframe, and you both laughed against each other’s mouths until the laughter turned into another kiss the second you reached your room.

Tucker pulled his shirt off, and you finally got to touch him properly.

He was warm beneath your palms, solid and broad, and his stomach tightened when your fingers dragged lower toward his belt.

“You okay?” you asked, a small smile tugging at your mouth.

His eyes met yours, dark and unsteady. “I’ve been better.”

You laughed, but then your hand brushed over the hard outline of him through his jeans, and his smile vanished.

“Oh,” you whispered, your smile fading too.

Tucker caught your wrist gently, his voice rough. “Careful.”

You looked up at him, pulse jumping. “Or what?”

His expression shifted again, that quiet confidence settling over him like he knew exactly what you were doing.

“Or I’m gonna fuck you against that wall before we even make it to the bed.”

Your stomach dropped, but you held his gaze. “Maybe I’d like that.”

For a second, neither of you moved. Then Tucker kissed you hard enough that you stumbled backward.

Your back hit the bedroom wall, his body pressing close while his hands lifted you by the backs of your thighs. You wrapped your legs around his waist on instinct, and Tucker groaned when you rolled your hips against him.

“Condom?” he asked, his voice strained.

“Nightstand,” you said, breathless.

He carried you to the nightstand just long enough to grab one before returning you to the wall, laughing low when you kissed his neck impatiently.

“Eager,” he murmured.

“You’re the one who mentioned the wall,” you said.

“I did,” he said, voice low.

“Then stop talking,” you breathed.

Tucker’s mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “Yes, ma’am.”

He shoved his jeans down just enough to roll the condom on, then stepped between your thighs again, one hand sliding over your hip while his other arm kept you steady against the wall.

The head of his cock brushed through your wetness, and for a second, both of you went quiet.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, voice barely steady. “Tuck.”

His forehead pressed to yours. “I know.”

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you open while holding you like you were something precious and something he wanted badly enough to ruin all at once. The angle was intense, your back against the wall, legs wrapped around his waist, his body doing all the work as he filled you completely.

Your mouth fell open, breath catching in your throat.

Tucker groaned, the sound rough against your mouth. “Fuck, you feel good.”

“You too,” you breathed, fingers digging into his shoulders. “You feel so good.”

His eyes squeezed shut for a second before he started moving. Slow at first. Controlled. Deep enough that every thrust stole your breath, his hips pinning you to the wall while his hands kept you steady. You were still sensitive from his mouth, still wet and aching, and every drag of his cock pulled another moan from you.

“Tucker,” you gasped.

“I know,” he murmured, his mouth brushing your jaw. “I’ve got you.”

“You keep saying that,” you breathed.

“Because I do,” he said, voice steady.

Your chest tightened, but then his hips snapped a little harder, and the feeling turned back into heat.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasped.

“There?” he asked, his voice rough.

“Yes,” you gasped.

He adjusted his grip, holding you higher before hitting the same spot again, and your head fell back against the wall with a moan.

Tucker’s eyes locked on your face. “That’s it.”

His pace built slowly, not rushed but intense, every thrust dragging sounds from you that you couldn’t hold back. The wall was cold against your back, his skin hot against yours, and your whole world narrowed to Tucker’s hands, Tucker’s mouth, Tucker’s cock moving inside you like he’d been waiting weeks to prove exactly how well he could ruin you.

“You have no idea how hard it was,” he murmured against your throat, “watching you smile at me from across that bar.”

A whimper slipped out of you before you could stop it.

“Thinking you were just being nice,” he said, hips driving into yours harder until you gasped. “Thinking I was making it up.”

“I wasn’t,” you breathed, clinging tighter to his shoulders. “I wasn’t looking at them.”

Tucker’s grip tightened, and you pulled his face to yours, kissing him messily. “I wanted you.”

He groaned against your mouth.

The next thrust nearly tore a cry out of you.

“Say that again,” he rasped.

“I wanted you.” The next thrust hit harder, stealing the rest of the sentence from you. “Tucker—”

“Again.”

“I wanted you,” you moaned, nails dragging down his shoulders. “I wanted you so badly.”

That broke something in him. His pace turned rougher, still controlled but less careful now, hips snapping into yours as he held you against the wall. You clung to him, moaning his name, letting him hear every gasp and broken sound because he seemed to need them as badly as you needed the way he moved.

“Touch yourself,” he said suddenly, and your breath hitched.

His eyes met yours, dark and intent.

“I want to feel you come around me.”

Your hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and the first circle made your whole body jolt. Tucker cursed, forehead dropping to yours as you clenched around him.

“Fuck, that’s it.”

Your fingers moved faster, clumsy from how badly you were shaking, but the pressure built quickly with him still fucking into you, his voice low and constant in your ear.

“Look at you,” he murmured against your ear. “You’re so pretty. Doing so good for me.”

Your breath broke.

“Come on, baby.” His grip tightened. “Let me feel it.”

The orgasm hit hard, your body tightening around him as your moan broke into something helpless. Tucker held you through it, thrusting deep and uneven as you pulsed around him, until he followed with a rough groan, hips jerking as he came.

He stayed there for a moment, breathing hard against your neck, holding you up like letting go was not an option. Then he laughed softly.

You opened your eyes, still trying to catch your breath. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, his mouth brushing your shoulder. “Just thinking Dean’s never going to shut up if he finds out.”

You laughed, still breathless and warm. “Then don’t tell him.”

“He’ll know,” Tucker said.

“Why?” you asked, smiling against his skin.

Tucker pulled back just enough to look at you, his smile softer now. “Because I’m not going to be able to stop smiling.”

Your heart did something stupid in your chest.

After that, he carried you to the bed and set you down carefully before disappearing to clean up. When he came back, he had a damp cloth in his hand, cleaning you gently and murmuring an apology when your thighs twitched from sensitivity.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded, still a little breathless. “Very okay.”

His mouth curved. “Good.”

He lay beside you, and for a second, a strange shyness settled between you again. Not awkward. Just new.

You turned onto your side to face him. “You can stay.”

His eyes softened at that. “Yeah?”

“If you want.”

“I want,” he said, without hesitation, and the answer came fast enough to make you smile.

Tucker pulled the blanket over both of you, and you curled into his side like it already felt familiar. His arm came around you, warm and steady, fingers tracing slow lines down your back.

For a while, neither of you said anything. Then you whispered, “I meant it, you know.”

His hand paused against your back. “What?”

“I saw all of them,” you said, tilting your head up to look at him. “I still looked at you.”

Tucker stared at you for a second, something tender and disbelieving crossing his face. Then he kissed you, soft this time, slow, like he finally believed you.

The next morning, Tucker woke with your leg thrown over his and your face tucked against his chest.

For a second, he didn’t move. He just looked at you — at the sunlight slipping through your curtains, your hair messy against his skin, the tiny crease between your brows like you were arguing with someone in your sleep.

He smiled before he could stop himself, which, as it turned out, was exactly the problem. Because when he finally left your apartment in yesterday’s clothes and walked into the hockey house just before noon, Dean was sitting on the couch with a bowl of cereal.

Dean looked up. Tucker froze. The spoon stopped halfway to Dean’s mouth as a slow, terrible smile spread across his face.

“No way.”

Tucker sighed. “Don’t.”

Logan appeared from the kitchen immediately, because he had a sixth sense for chaos. “What? What happened?”

Dean pointed his spoon at Tucker. “Our boy didn’t come home last night.”

Garrett looked over from the table, his brows lifting.

Logan’s face lit up. “[Y/N]?”

Tucker tried to walk past them. “I’m leaving.”

“You just got here,” Dean said, delighted.

“Then I’m leaving again.”

Garrett laughed under his breath. “Good for you, man.”

That was somehow worse than the teasing. Tucker shook his head, but he was smiling, and Dean noticed, because Dean noticed everything that made life unbearable.

“Oh, he likes her likes her.”

“Shut up.”

Logan grinned, leaning in like this was the best news he’d heard all week. “Did she finally get tired of waiting for you to make a move?”

Tucker paused at the stairs. Thought about your smile, your apartment, your voice saying, I still looked at you. Then he turned just enough to say, “Actually, she made the move.”

The room exploded. Dean yelled, Logan swore, and Garrett laughed properly this time.

Tucker headed upstairs before any of them could ask anything else, but he still heard Dean call after him.

“I’m proud of you, Tuck!”

He rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

💌lmk if you want to be added to my taglist

One of the few good things about being back in Delaware was knowing my father was buried there, beneath that stretch of land covered in soft grass where I had cried once before… and was crying again now.

Sitting in front of his headstone, I lowered my gaze to my hands and let out a heavy sigh.

Dad had been one of the best people in my life. He could be just as disciplined as mom, but unlike her, he carried light wherever he went. People changed when he walked into a room. The atmosphere shifted with him. And staying away from this place for two years straight only reminded me of how deeply his death had carved a hole into my heart.I still remember the first time I watched him win over an entire crowd with nothing but a smile. That was the moment my whole perspective on skating changed forever. After confessing everything that had been trapped inside my head to Logan, I changed clothes quickly, threw on something comfortable to run in, and an hour later found myself standing in the cemetery.

By the time I finally got home, it had to be close to twelve thirty. I could hear Tucker’s voice coming from the kitchen along with Beau’s and Garrett’s, while Logan and Dean were sprawled across the couch in front of the television with their backs turned toward the staircase. My only goal was to make it upstairs unnoticed, but the step betrayed me with a loud creak that made both Dean and Logan glance over their shoulders.

Dean immediately turned his attention back to the TV.

Logan didn’t.

He kept staring at me in silence, as if he were trying to read every thought moving through my head, only snapping out of it when Dean nudged him discreetly with his elbow.

I looked away quickly and headed upstairs. I found Hannah and Allie in the room Allie was staying in, both of them finishing getting ready while talking about something completely unimportant. I stopped in the doorway and forced a smile.

“Are we going out?”

“Obviously. We’re heading to the pier after Tucker finishes breakfast.”

Allie answered excitedly, and I let out a quiet laugh through my nose.

“You guys do realize it’s almost one in the afternoon, right?”

“They said it’s never too late for food.”

Hannah shrugged, and I nodded faintly, too drained to argue.

“Alright… I’m going to take a shower.”

I said it while walking toward the room I shared with Logan, though honestly, I didn’t think I could survive another night beside him after everything that had happened. Still, I didn’t have the courage to ask one of our friends to switch rooms and ruin their trip because of my emotional mess.

I grabbed a light dress from the bottom of my suitcase along with a bundle of underwear and stepped into the bathroom, turning on the shower a second later. I stayed under the water for a long time, letting the heat run over my shoulders while I tried to untangle the chaos inside my mind. But it didn’t work.

Every time I closed my eyes, I was back at the cemetery. Back in front of my father’s grave. Back to the suffocating ache in my chest after talking to Logan. I pressed my hands against the shower wall and took a deep breath.

I was exhausted from feeling everything so intensely.

The voices grew louder as I approached the kitchen.

Tucker was placing pancakes onto a serving tray while Beau stole pieces before they even made it to the table.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” Tucker complained, smacking his hand away.

“You cook way too well to expect manners.”

Garrett laughed softly from where he sat on the counter, and even Dean seemed invested in the stupid argument.

For a moment, watching all of them like that almost felt normal.

Almost.

Logan was leaning against the refrigerator with his arms crossed, and his eyes locked onto me the second I stepped into the kitchen. My stomach twisted instantly.

“Well, look who decided to come back to life,” Dean commented.

I rolled my eyes.

“Very funny.”

“Ooh, she’s in a bad mood,” Beau muttered while grabbing another pancake.

“She’s hungover. That’s different,” Tucker replied.

“Who the hell goes running with a hangover?”

Dean asked, and I actually laughed.

“It helps clear everything out of my system.”

“That’s literally the point,” Garrett agreed calmly before taking a sip of coffee.

Despite everything, I ended up laughing softly again. Small. Automatic. And Logan noticed. Of course he noticed.

His expression softened for a second, as if hearing that sound had lifted some invisible weight off his chest. I looked away before he could mistake it for hope.

“I was thinking we should light the bonfire outside tonight and make some s’mores. That’d be fun, right?” Beau said, clapping his hands and pointing at Dean, clearly far too excited about his own idea. Allie let out a squeal and immediately looked at me.

“Like old times!”

She said it, and I laughed, throwing my head back.

“Seriously? You actually suggested that?”

“Yeah!” Allie replied, already laughing. “Okay, so when we used to play S’mores All Fours, everyone made their own s’more however they wanted, and then someone from the group had to guess what ingredients were inside it.”

“Okay…” Hunter murmured slowly. “And where exactly is the fun part?”

I rolled my eyes and moved to stand beside Allie.

“Every guess came with a challenge attached to the round,” I explained. “So if you guessed someone’s ingredients right, you were safe and everyone else had to do whatever challenge you picked.”

Allie raised a finger, adding:

“But if you guessed wrong, you were the only one doing the challenge.”

“And obviously,” I continued, “if you lose, you stop drinking because that’s the punishment for being stupid.”

Dean burst out laughing.

“What kind of challenges?”

Allie instantly flashed a wicked smile.

“You choose. You can make people in the circle do whatever you want. Or dare someone to run into the ocean naked.”

“Send nudes to someone.”

“Flirt with the neighbor and steal a bottle of wine,” I added.

“Reveal a secret.”

Hunter nearly choked on his drink.

“Sorry...what?”

Allie shrugged as if that were completely normal.

“The rules always got more interesting after the third round, once everybody started losing.”

I shrugged while sitting on the backrest of the couch and shooting Allie a conspiratorial look.

“They scare me sometimes.” Hannah groaned, and both Allie and I looked at her.

“Baby, you’re on our team.” I said it, and she laughed. She raised her hands in surrender.

“Okay, that’s honestly even more terrifying.”

When we came back from the pier hours later, slightly drunk, the sky was already dark and the sound of waves crashing against the sand seemed louder in the nighttime silence.

The guys lit the bonfire behind Dean’s beach house, close enough to the shore for the ocean breeze to reach us, while Tucker and Garrett divided pizza boxes across the outdoor table.

The smell of smoke, saltwater, and melted cheese drifted through the air.

For some reason, it all felt dangerously comforting.

Allie was sprawled across a beach chair with her legs tossed over mine while we shared a joint, Dean argued with Beau about what music to play through the speaker, and Hannah filmed Tucker trying to set an entire marshmallow on fire. I had spent the entire day avoiding Logan.

Avoiding looking directly at him. Avoiding answering anything beyond what was necessary. Avoiding standing close enough to catch his cologne or remember the conversation from that morning.

And to a certain extent… it worked.

It worked while I stayed distracted.

While there was noise.

While everyone was laughing too loudly.

While my mind still had room to run from him.

But now, sitting beside the fire with my head light from the mix of weed and alcohol in my system, thinking about Logan felt unavoidable.

Worse.

It felt impossible to think about anything else.

I lifted my eyes without meaning to. He was sitting across the fire, sunk low in a beach chair with a drink balanced against his thigh, the flames reflecting against the sharp line of his jaw.

Beautiful.

Ridiculously beautiful.

As if the universe genuinely enjoyed punishing me. And as though he could feel me staring, Logan looked up at me that exact second.

My chest tightened painfully and i looked away too fast, grabbing the beer beside me just to pretend I was searching for something.

“Okay!” Beau clapped loudly, breaking the brief silence. “Time for S’mores All Fours.”

“That sounds like the name of a porn site,” Dean commented immediately.

“We literally named it that because...”

I started to say, but Allie slapped her ring-covered fingers over my mouth before I could finish, widening her eyes dramatically.

“You litlle crazy thing, shut up.”

“Sorry.”

My voice came out muffled behind her hand, and she finally let go while laughing and lightly shoving my face away.

“You get dangerously honest when you’re high.”

“And you get bossy.”

“Because someone here has to maintain at least a little dignity.”

Dean pointed at both of us with his beer.

“You two are assuming there’s still any dignity left in this group.”

The bonfire burned in the middle of the sand, crackling softly while the wind shifted the smoke every few seconds. Closer to the water, the waves rolled in with a slow, hypnotic rhythm, and the lights from the house behind us cast everything in that strangely nostalgic glow that only beaches at night seem capable of creating.

The pizza boxes were already half empty.

So were the beers.

Allie stood from her chair and walked over to the table where the ingredients were spread out.

“Okay, listen carefully because I’m not explaining this twice.”

“That sounds threatening,” Hunter commented.

“Because it is.”

She pointed dramatically at the ingredients like a completely unhinged cooking show host.

“Everyone makes a secret s’more. The rest of the group has to guess what’s inside.”

“And then comes the concerning part,” I added. Allie smiled slowly.

“Everyone also writes down a challenge.”

Beau threw his head back laughing.

“My God, this is genius.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Tucker muttered. Dean grabbed the notepad from Allie’s hand.

“How bad can these challenges really get?”

Allie and I exchanged a look immediately.

Hannah noticed right away.

“Oh, you two have history with this.”

“Unfortunately,” I answered.

Logan laughed softly from the other side of the fire while absentmindedly turning a marshmallow skewer between his fingers. The sound cut straight through my chest in the most irritating way.

Because he laughed at me yesterday, just like that, when we raised a white flag declaring peace between us… until the flag was stained with blood eight hours later. How is that even possible?”

I looked away before I could think too much about it.

Beau was already building some kind of culinary monstrosity while narrating his own choices like he was hosting a cooking competition.

“Sweet, salty, spicy… this is emotional depth.”

Hunter grabbed a jar and frowned.

“Why are there pickles?”

“Why wouldn’t there be?” Allie replied.

“Okay.” Dean clapped once. “Important rules: nothing illegal, nothing that could get us arrested, and nothing involving calling my mother.”

“Oddly concerning that you had to specify that,” Hannah commented.

Allie took the pen back.

“Perfect. Now write your challenges.”

Everyone grabbed paper plates and started building their s’mores while music played softly behind us and the ocean crashed nearby.

The fire crackled louder whenever the wind picked up.

And despite everything…

Despite the cemetery.

Despite the conversation with Logan.

Despite the constant knot twisting inside my chest.

I was having fun.

Even if only for a few minutes.

I watched Hannah hide something inside the chocolate while trying to suppress a guilty smile. Dean stole ingredients off everyone else’s plates. Beau narrated his own decisions like he was on a reality cooking show. And Logan…My stomach tightened involuntarily when my eyes landed on him again. He was too focused on assembling his s’more, sleeves pushed up to his forearms and a cigarette balanced between his fingers.

Beautiful in the most irritating way possible.

Ridiculously irritating.

As if simply noticing that wasn’t slowly destroying my sanity.

“Okay!” Allie clapped. “First victim.”

“Why did you say that like a saw host?” Hunter asked.

“Because it fits.”

She picked up one of the plates and lifted it dramatically.

“Who wants to start?”

“Me!”

Beau jumped up from his chair, pointing proudly at his own chest like he’d just been selected for a reality TV show. He grabbed the plate holding his s’more and stood in the center of the circle, staring at all of us with far too much excitement.

“Alright, you fuckers,” he announced. “I wanna know who’s brave enough to guess my s’more.”

Allie was already laughing before the game had even properly started, and Dean immediately stood up to inspect Beau’s s’more, crossing his arms with ridiculous confidence.

“I can do this,” Dean said, already getting to his feet before he’d even finished the sentence.

He dragged a hand over his mouth while staring at Beau’s s’more like it was a matter of personal honor.

“I know what this asshole put in here.”

Beau let out a short laugh.

“Everybody thinks that right before they fail spectacularly.”

Dean ignored him, stepping farther into the glow of the bonfire.

“If I lose…” he continued, pointing his chin toward the plate while trying to hold onto his confidence, “…I’ll do whatever challenge you guys choose.”

Allie grinned instantly, leaning forward in her chair.

“Now we’re talking.”

Dean paused briefly, looking around like he was actively choosing his fate.

“But if I get it right…” he added more slowly, “…you all spend one full round doing whatever I tell you.”

A brief silence settled over the group. Beau lifted an eyebrow.

“Okay.”

Dean stood there a second longer than necessary, like part of him still wanted to back out of his own bet.

But nobody there believed in regret.

Allie already had that dangerous smile of someone who lived to watch people suffer during group games. Beau held the s’more like it was evidence in a criminal investigation. Tucker watched silently with the expression of someone who had already accepted that this would end badly somehow.

Dean inhaled sharply through his nose and pointed accusingly at the dessert as if that would help.

“There’s chocolate, obviously. Marshmallow… obviously. And…” he narrowed his eyes. “…is that pickle?”

Beau burst into immediate laughter.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” Dean shot back, already losing some confidence.

He kept staring at it.

“And there’s something salty too… like… crushed potato chips.”

Allie slowly raised a hand.

“Okay, for the record, that’s actually not terrible.”

“That is not a compliment, Allie,” Dean muttered.

He hesitated again, trying to figure out the final ingredient.

“And… something sweeter. Like caramel… or Nutella.”

Silence.

Beau was already laughing before the answer even came.

Allie crossed her arms.

“Final answer.”

Dean closed his eyes for half a second.

“Chocolate, marshmallow, pickles, potato chips, and caramel.”

He opened his eyes again.

“That’s it.”

Allie snatched the s’more from his hand without ceremony.

“Wrong.”

The word was far too simple. And more than enough. Beau exploded into laughter.

“I FUCKING KNEW IT.”

Dean dragged a hand down his face.

“Just tell me what was in it.”

Allie counted on her fingers slowly, enjoying every second of it.

“Chocolate, marshmallow… yes, pickles. But also chili flakes, salt, and peanut butter.”

Tucker let out a disbelieving laugh.

Everyone took a shot afterward, and Dean made the most genuinely devastated noise imaginable over losing.

“Fuck my life.”

Dean ended up having to go to the neighbor’s house to ask for a glass of milk while completely naked, and Allie already had her phone raised like she was documenting a historical event

“This is absolutely going on my story,” she announced with way too much seriousness for the situation.

“Don’t even think about it!” Dean shouted while running back to us with a cup of milk.

“Oh, I’m definitely thinking about it!” Beau yelled back, laughing so hard he nearly fell out of his chair.

And honestly, nobody there even looked shocked — like there was some silent agreement that everybody on campus had already seen enough of Dean at some point in life for this not to count as news anymore.

The game only got worse after that.

Or better.

Depending on who you asked.

Allie somehow managed to make Hunter lose in the most ridiculous way possible, and the punishment turned into everyone stripping down to their underwear after correctly guessing his s’more — which immediately caused complete chaos filled with yelling, arguing, and somebody desperately trying to defend rules that had clearly never existed.

For some inexplicable reason, Tucker ended up with a challenge involving posting a story saying he “loved turkey in his mouth,” which left him staring at his phone for a solid ten seconds before accepting his fate with every ounce of dignity destroyed.

Hannah lost next, and without even arguing, ended up on Dean’s porch loudly serenading the other neighbor like it was a private concert — and the worst part was that she wasn’t bad enough to be ignored.

Garrett, laughing like he was watching a social experiment unfold in real time, eventually had to swap clothes with whoever was sitting to his right, which sparked a series of protests and negotiations nobody took seriously.

And then… the game reached him.

Logan. The atmosphere shifted slightly the moment Allie turned the plate toward him with a slow smile, clearly waiting for some kind of reaction.

“Okay,” she said, pointing. “Your turn to guess Hannah’s s’more.” Logan stared at the s’more like he was already exhausted by his own existence.

Then he looked at all of us. He let out a quiet sigh, dragging a hand through his hair before looking back down at the plate again.

And for a second, before any guesses or challenges, he just picked up the s’more far too calmly.

“Alright,” Logan murmured. “Let’s get this over with. I don’t think you’d be evil enough for this, Hannah.”

Hannah smiled like she already knew this was about to get interesting.

“You are severely underestimating me.”

“No,” Logan replied lazily. “I think you used graham crackers, marshmallow, and chocolate.”

“That’s your final answer? Basic?”

She narrowed her eyes at him and he narrowed his right back.

“Take the shot.”

“Wrong! I added bananas too.”

Allie lifted the notebook again, already enjoying herself while Logan raised his hands in surrender and laughter echoed across the beach.

“Fucking bananas, Wellsy?”

Logan was drunk, but it was a different kind of drunk than the one I’d seen during all those months at Briar U. He was relaxed, and unlike every other time when he always carried himself guarded and tense, his shoulders were loose now, like he was actually breathing for once. Which was agonizing, because looking at him stole the air from my lungs.

“Challenge.”

This time Logan didn’t even sigh. He just nodded once.

“Go ahead.”

Allie read it slowly, deliberately taking longer than necessary.

“You have to choose someone here to feed with your s’more… and then take a body shot off them.”

Silence fell immediately.

Different from before.

Heavier.

Sharper.

Dean let out a low “oooh.”

Beau was already grinning like this was premium entertainment. Hannah’s eyes widened, clearly proud of herself.

And Logan…

Logan stayed still for one second too long. His eyes moved slowly across the group. Until they stopped on me.

Again.

But this time there was no teasing there. No distraction. It was direct. Intentional. He took one step forward. Then another. The crackling of the fire sounded louder as he approached.

And when he finally stopped in front of me, he lifted the s’more slightly, like he was waiting for some kind of reaction before doing anything.

“What? Why do I have to suffer through their punishments too?”

“It’s the game, baby.”

I heard Allie say it, and I rolled my eyes upward — straight into Logan’s gaze, the same eyes I’d been crying over earlier that day.

“Open your mouth.” he said quietly, lifting a finger to my chin and brushing his thumb against my skin in a way that almost made me want to cry again.

“You don’t even say please?”

His eyes dropped to my face, and the corner of his mouth lifted into the faintest smile.

“Please, baby,” he murmured softly. “Do it for me.”

No teasing. No smirk. Just… Logan. The touch was gentle. Almost too careful.

His fingers slid beneath my chin while he held the s’more in his other hand, patiently waiting for me to open my mouth. And that… that ruined me in a way teasing never could have. Because i notice that Logan was never gentle with me when he was confused. He became distant. Cold. Closed off. But now, drunk and staring at me like that, he looked dangerously sincere. I opened my mouth without complaining. Without even being capable of complaining.

Logan slowly brought the s’more closer, and I took a small bite, immediately tasting sweet chocolate mixed with cinnamon. Around us, the group instantly started making noise on purpose.

“Ugh, this just turned pornographic.”

One of their voices made me tear my eyes away from Logan and roll them at the group.

“That sounds like a your problem.”

I answered, and that was apparently Beau’s cue to grab a shot. I looked at him and shook my head.

“No. Pick someone else.”

Everyone around us laughed immediately.

“Oh please,” Dean said with a grin. “You two might technically be nothing right now, but Logan’s probably licked you a million times already. Don’t act like this is groundbreaking.” I laughed nervously, the sound unsteady and drunk.

“Sure.”

I muttered while looking upward and pushing myself out of the chair. The wooden table on Dean’s porch was sturdy enough to hold me, so I climbed onto it while Logan grabbed my waist and helped me sit before laying back against the surface.

“You want me to choose someone else?” he murmured quietly. I looked at him coldly, trying not to reveal too much.

Beau handed me a lime wedge to hold between my teeth, and I answered before biting down on it.

“Just do the challenge, Logan.”

Then Logan’s fingers hooked into the waistband of my shorts, tugging the fabric down just enough to expose my stomach.

The cold beach air hit my skin immediately. Beau appeared beside the table holding the shot glass with a criminally excited grin.

“This officially turned into a banned reality show episode.”

“Shut up and pour it already,” Dean replied through laughter.

The cold liquor spilled directly into my belly button, making my entire body tense from the sudden temperature. I instinctively tilted my head back, staring at the dark sky scattered with stars while trying to ignore the way Logan was still holding my waist like he was steadying me.

Like I actually needed it.

And then I felt his mouth.

His warm tongue slid slowly against my stomach, collecting the alcohol while a violent shiver raced up my spine.

“Fuck…” someone muttered near the fire.

The laughter grew louder. So did the comments.

But everything felt distant the moment Logan lingered longer than he needed to. Longer than the game required. Longer than anyone there should’ve noticed.

My breath caught when his lips slowly moved upward along my skin until they reached mine. Or rather...the lime trapped between my teeth.

His eyes lifted to mine in that exact moment.

Dark.

Heavy.

Dangerously drunk.

And Logan stayed there for far too long. Too close. His warm breath mixing with mine while he slowly took the lime between his teeth with absolutely no hurry to pull away.

Like he’d forgotten the entire audience around us.

Like for a few seconds, only the two of us existed.

The lime finally left my mouth in a movement far too slow to be accidental. And when Logan finally pulled away, still close enough for me to smell alcohol mixed with his cologne, the entire group exploded around the bonfire.

“I FUCKING KNEW IT,” Beau practically screamed.

Allie was doubled over laughing in her chair. Dean pointed at both of us like he’d just witnessed his own personal Super Bowl.

“You two seriously have unresolved issues.”

I let out a nervous laugh, still trying to catch my breath while Logan kept his hand on my waist one second longer than he should have before finally stepping away.

I climbed off the table dizzy and smiled at everyone, giving them a sarcastic little bow.

“You’re welcome for the entertainment.”

Twenty minutes later, everyone started getting sleepy, and we eventually moved inside once the cold settled in.

As people started heading upstairs to their rooms, I stayed curled up on the couch pretending to be distracted by my phone until only Hannah remained, carrying a bottle of water upstairs with her.

“You’re not coming up?”

“I will. I’m just looking at something important. Goodnight.”

I answered, my eyes already struggling to stay open, and then she left. But I wasn’t going upstairs.

I refused to lie next to Logan that night, not while I was still carrying the ache from earlier that day and the lingering heat of his mouth against my stomach.

So I ended up on the couch instead. I told myself it was temporary, that I’d just close my eyes for a minute. But I fell asleep before I even had the chance to decide otherwise. Or maybe I did decide—I just didn’t want to admit I couldn’t handle being in the same room as him without reaching for him.

Because I knew I wouldn’t make it up those stairs without feeling dizzy at the simple fact that Logan was there—too close, and still someone I wasn’t supposed to want like that.

After I blacked out, the next morning was worse.

When I woke up upstairs in his bed, wrapped in soft, unfamiliar blankets, and saw Logan asleep on the floor, something twisted in my chest. Not relief. Not comfort. Something heavier.

And somehow, that might have been almost worse than him not agreeing with me the morning before.

English isn't my first language, so pls go easy on me.

I really had fun writing this chapter. Maybe also knowing that things are going to get better.

He kisses like an athlete too, which is deeply annoying information to have about him because it makes too much sense. Confident, paced, unfairly good at changing pressure right when she starts thinking she’s adjusted to him. 

One hand is braced beside her head, the other curled around her thigh, thumb pressing absent little circles into skin like he doesn't know it’s making her thoughts get weird and slippery around the edges. He’s still wearing his t-shirt, which feels rude considering she’s in a bra and skirt and whatever dignity survived the trip up the stairs is now lying somewhere dead near his laundry basket. 

His chain has slipped out from under his collar while he kisses her, warm gold catching against the side of her throat every time he grinds down into her and makes her breath come out embarrassingly thin.

“Garrett,” she gets out, though it doesn't have much purpose beyond giving her mouth something to do when his is suddenly leaving it.

He hums like he’s heard her and decided to take it under advisement at a later date. His mouth drifts to her jaw, then lower, slow and pleased and entirely too smug about the way her body moves before she can stop it. 

He kisses down her throat, over the spot where her pulse is doing something humiliating, then lower still, along the top edge of her bra, and she should probably let him. She should probably enjoy the fact that Garrett Graham, Briar hockey captain, walking campus hazard, has decided her chest deserves sustained attention. 

But the second his mouth leaves hers properly, some spoiled little part of her lights up in objection.

“No,” she whines, which is not her proudest moment, and is made worse by the fact that Garrett pauses against her skin like he’s trying not to laugh. She reaches down and gets her fingers in his hair, gentle but insistent, tugging him back up until his face appears over hers again, curls mussed, mouth shiny, eyes bright with the kind of amusement that makes her want to either kiss him harder or shove him off the bed. “Come back.”

His grin spreads slowly. “Bossy.”

“You stopped kissing me.”

“I was kissing you somewhere else.”

She pouts. “Wrong somewhere.”

He gives one of those little laughs that starts in his chest before it reaches his mouth, warm and low and stupidly pleased, and then he comes back happily, because that’s the worst part of Garrett. 

He has all this cocky-boy resistance in theory, all this mouth and attitude and captain-of-every-room energy, and then she asks for him directly and his body gives him away before his ego can file an appeal. He kisses her again, deep enough that the complaint evaporates under her tongue, and for a few seconds she forgets about the chain entirely.

Then he pulls back to sit up on his knees, one thigh planted on either side of her hips, and reaches behind his neck for his shirt.

“Oh,” she says before she can stop herself.

Garrett pauses with the hem already half up his stomach, eyebrows lifting. “Oh?”

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

His teeth catch at his bottom lip. “I was about to ask if you needed a minute to process.”

She narrows her eyes at him, which would probably have more force if she were not lying under him with her skirt bunched around her waist and her hands already drifting up his exposed stomach. “You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah, but you’re still looking.”

And she is. Tragically. Openly. With no legal defence. The shirt comes off the rest of the way and lands somewhere near the chair, and Garrett is there above her in the soft lamplight, shoulders broad from hockey, stomach tight under her palms, chain resting against his chest like it’s been placed there for the express purpose of ruining her life. 

It's not even that fancy. That’s the insulting part. Just a gold chain. Simple. Warm from his skin. Sitting right at the base of his throat.

Her hands slide up his stomach, over the hard shift of muscle when he breathes, and she catches her bottom lip between her teeth without meaning to.

Garrett’s grin softens into something more dangerous because he knows. Because Garrett is many things, but oblivious is not one of them, especially not when a girl is looking at his chest like she’s discovered a new academic field.

“Baby,” he says, amused.

She doesn't answer. She hooks two fingers under the chain and pulls. Garrett comes down with it, one hand shooting to the mattress beside her head, the other catching her waist as he laughs into the space above her mouth. “Jesus. Okay.”

She smiles, breath already uneven again. “Come here.”

“I was here.”

“Closer.”

His mouth hovers over hers, his chain trapped between her fingers, the metal a little warm, a little slick where it’s been resting against his skin. “You always this demanding?”

She tugs again, smaller this time, mostly because she likes the way his eyes drop to her mouth when she does it. “Only when you’re slow.”

Garrett stares at her for one beat, and then the smile goes all bright and helpless at the edges, like she’s pleased him against his will. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, bending until the chain brushes her collarbone and his mouth is almost on hers again. “That’s gonna be a problem.”

The second time is quieter, though quiet in the hockey house is a relative concept and mostly means no one is actively breaking furniture within their line of sight. They're downstairs on the couch after dinner, the living room dim except for the television throwing blue-white light over everyone’s faces and the standing lamp Tucker keeps insisting gives the room ambience, which Dean keeps calling divorced dad lighting. 

A movie’s on, something Logan picked with the confidence of a man who would be asleep within twenty minutes, and sure enough he’s already slumped in the armchair with his head tipped back and one socked foot on the coffee table, snoring faintly through the loudest action sequence anyone has ever failed to respect.

Garrett’s stretched out behind her on the couch, one arm tucked under her head like a pillow, the other lying heavy over her waist. She’s settled half on top of him, half against him, legs tangled beneath the old throw blanket that smells faintly like fabric softener and Garrett’s laundry detergent and whatever popcorn crime Dean committed earlier. 

The whole room has that late-night, lived-in warmth to it. Empty bowls on the coffee table, Tucker leaning on the other end of the couch with his phone in one hand and his attention somehow still half on the movie, Dean sprawled on the floor with his back against Allie’s legs while she runs her fingers lazily through his hair like she’s rewarding a large, badly behaved dog.

Garrett’s chain has worked its way out again. She doesn't mean to start fiddling with it. Her hand is just there, resting against his chest, and the chain is right under her fingertips, cool at first and then quickly warming up. 

Her thumb catches the tiny curve of one link. Then another. Then she’s sliding it back and forth lightly against his skin, not really thinking, only listening to the movie and the steady sound of his breathing under her cheek and the occasional thud of Dean kicking the coffee table because he refuses to understand where his legs end.

Garrett lets it happen for a while. Long enough that she forgets she’s doing it. Long enough for the metal to move in a tiny, repetitive drag under her fingers, a private little rhythm tucked beneath explosions and the muffled rain starting against the windows. 

His chest rises under her palm. His hand at her waist flexes once, absent, and she shifts closer without lifting her head. Then his fingers close around her wrist. Warm and sure, stopping the motion.

She glances up. “What?”

Garrett looks down at her with the deeply patient expression of a man being tortured in a way he’s not allowed to enjoy too obviously. “You’ve been doing that for ten minutes.”

“Doing what?”

His eyes flick to the chain. Then back to her. “That.”

“Oh.” She looks down at her hand, caught in his like evidence. “Was I annoying you?”

“No.”

“You stopped me.”

“Because,” he says, lowering his voice as Dean makes a disgusted noise at the movie and Allie tells him to stop talking before she smothers him with a cushion, “you keep touching my neck, and I’m trying to be a decent citizen in a communal living space.”

Her mouth twitches. “Your neck?”

“My chain is on my neck.”

She bites back a smile. “That’s very scientific of you.”

“I go to college.”

“For hockey.”

He sucks at his teeth, a grin spreading across his face. “For hockey and the pursuit of knowledge.”

She laughs into his chest, and he immediately looks pleased with himself in that quiet Garrett way, like making her laugh while half the room is asleep counts as a personal win. 

His hand slides from her wrist to her fingers, lifting them to his mouth. He kisses her knuckles once, soft and warm, then again, slower, like he can get away with it because nobody’s looking directly at them. The contact sends a stupid little wave through her, low and gentle, a sudden looseness in her ribs and the sense that her body has settled another inch into his.

“Stop playing with it,” he murmurs against her hand.

“I didn’t know it was an activity with rules.”

“It is now.”

“Sounds controlling.”

“Sounds like you’re too hot for your own good and I’m a responsible man.”

She lifts her head just enough to look at him properly. “You’re so full of shit.”

Garrett smiles like that’s his favourite thing she’s said all day. “A little, yeah.”

Then he threads his fingers through hers and brings their joined hands down to rest against his stomach, trapping her there with him. Garrett’s hand stays wrapped around hers. Firm. Warm. His thumb moves once over the side of her finger, slow enough that it feels accidental and deliberate at the same time.

The third time, she should know something’s wrong with the whole arrangement because Garrett offers it too easily. It's the morning of her exam, a big one, the kind that has lived in the back of her head for three weeks like an unpaid bill and ruined several perfectly good evenings by existing near them. 

She’s already eaten half a banana, stared at her notes until the words lost meaning, changed shirts twice, and accused Garrett of breathing too loudly while he sat on her bed watching her spiral with the sort of affectionate calm that made her want to throw a highlighter at him.

“You studied,” he says, for maybe the fourth time, lying on his side with one elbow propped under him and his curls still damp from the shower. “Like, a disgusting amount. I know because you made me quiz you last night and I learned things against my will.”

She stands in front of the mirror, smoothing her top down and then immediately undoing the smoothing because now it looks too deliberate. “That doesn’t mean I know it.”

“That’s actually exactly what studying means.”

“No, studying means I knew it at midnight in your bed while you were half asleep and kept pronouncing things wrong on purpose.”

“I was keeping morale up.”

She turns to glare at him, and he grins at her from the bed, annoyingly gorgeous and unhelpfully relaxed, his chain sitting against his bare collarbone because he hasn’t put a shirt on yet. Which is also rude. Honestly, the whole morning has been a campaign of emotional terrorism.

“I’m serious,” she says, and the words come out thinner than she wants.

His face changes then. The grin doesn't disappear entirely, because Garrett without some amount of grin would be genuinely concerning, but it settles. He sits up properly, feet hitting the floor, and reaches for her when she comes close enough. His hands land at her hips, warm through the fabric, thumbs pressing once like he’s reminding her she has a body and it's standing here, not drowning somewhere in the imagined future of a badly answered essay question.

“I know you are,” he says. “I also know you’re gonna kill it.”

“Don’t say that.”

“What, kill it?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. You’re gonna… respectfully and academically dominate.”

“Garrett.”

He laughs under his breath and tugs her closer until she’s standing between his knees. Then, with the sudden seriousness of someone remembering an ancient ritual and not a bit he came up with seven seconds ago, he reaches behind his neck and unclasps the chain.

She looks down at it. “What are you doing?”

“Good luck.”

Her eyes lift to his. “What?”

He holds it up between them, gold catching the morning light from her window. “It’s lucky.”

She stares at him. “Your chain is lucky?”

“Extremely.”

“You’ve never said that.”

He looks almost offended. “I don’t tell everyone my deeply personal athletic superstitions.”

“You told Dean you had to wear the same socks for playoffs.”

“That was different. He touched them.”

“That feels like a public health issue more than a superstition.”

Garrett ignores this, and gestures for her to turn around. She does, suspicious but too nervous to fight him properly. He stands behind her, and for a second the mirror catches both of them: her in exam clothes and stress, him shirtless and too calm, chain hanging from his fingers. 

He lifts it around her neck, his knuckles grazing the sides of her throat as he brings the clasp together. The metal lands cool against her skin, heavier than she expects, and something in her chest gives one stupid little pull.

“There,” he says, hands settling briefly on her shoulders. “Guaranteed.”

She touches the chain with two fingers. “Guaranteed?”

“Yeah.”

“If I fail, I’m blaming your jewellery.”

“If you fail, I’ll fake my death and start over somewhere chainless.”

She laughs then, finally, and it comes out shaky but real. Garrett’s eyes meet hers in the mirror, his mouth tipped in a way that’s half smug and half proud of having pulled the sound out of her. 

He bends and kisses the side of her head, quick, easy, like he doesn't know the chain suddenly feels like some ridiculous little anchor against her collarbone.

“Go,” he says. “Ace it. Then come back and be unbearable about it.”

She does ace it.

She walks out of the exam hall two hours later with the weird, floating, slightly manic clarity of someone who knows the questions landed exactly where she needed them to, who wrote until her hand cramped, who remembered the thing from the bottom of page seven that she had absolutely expected to die with no audience. 

She calls Garrett from the sidewalk and says, “I think I nailed it,” and he shouts so loudly through the phone that a girl walking past looks over in alarm.

“Tell the chain I said thank you,” she says later that night, when she’s in his room again, sitting cross-legged on his bed with takeout containers open between them and his hoodie swallowed over her exam clothes because the adrenaline crash has finally arrived and brought a mild existential fog with it.

Garrett looks up from stealing one of her fries. “What?”

“The chain.” She taps it where it still sits at her throat. “Your ancient family luck charm.”

There's a pause. It's tiny. Almost nothing. But Garrett Graham has many gifts, and hiding guilt from his girlfriend while his mouth is full of stolen fries is not one of them.

Her eyes narrow. “Garrett.”

He chews slowly.

“Garrett Graham.”

He swallows. “Okay, before you get mad–”

“Oh my God.” She sits up straighter. “It’s not lucky?”

“It’s, uh, lucky adjacent.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve worn it to some good games.”

“You told me it was extremely lucky.”

“I was trying to get you out of your head.”

“You lied!”

“I motivated.” He points at her with a fry. “And you crushed your exam, so actually, where’s my thank you?”

She stares at him for one second. Then another. The chain’s warm now from her skin, and the fact that he made it up should be annoying. It is annoying. 

It's also so Garrett that something in her gives up and goes soft around the edges despite herself, because he saw her standing in front of the mirror two seconds from vibrating through the floorboards and decided the solution was to hand her something of his and make it sound official enough for her nervous system to believe him.

“You’re unbelievable,” she says.

His grin comes back immediately, bright with relief and bad ideas. “But effective.”

“You’re never getting this back.”

“Baby, I look really good in that chain.”

“I look better.”

He studies her for a second, eyes dropping to where the gold sits against the oversized neckline of his hoodie, and his mouth does something slower. 

“Yeah,” he says, voice rougher. “You do.”

Her fingers move to the chain. His eyes track the motion. The takeout goes forgotten between them, steam thinning in the cartons, the lamp laying warm light over his bed and the stupid little lucky-not-lucky object at her throat.

She crawls toward him, slow enough to make his brows lift.

“What?” he asks, though his hands are already moving to her waist when she pushes the cartons aside with the care of someone who doesn't want to get sauce on his sheets but absolutely does want to ruin his evening in other ways.

“You want a thank you?”

Garrett’s mouth opens, then closes. He tilts his head, trying for casual and missing by a heroic distance. “I mean, I’m not gonna say no to gratitude.”

“Good,” she says, and leans in to kiss him once, soft enough that he follows when she pulls away.

His hands tighten on her hips. “Good?”

“Mhm.”

Then she slides off the bed onto her knees between his legs, and Garrett goes very, very still. For once in his life, he doesn't have a comeback ready.

She looks up at him, the chain hanging forward from her neck, gold swinging slightly in the space between them, and his eyes drop to it like he’s experiencing several personal revelations at once.

“Still think it’s lucky?” she asks.

Garrett exhales through his nose, a smile breaking helplessly at one corner of his mouth as his hand comes up to brush her hair back, careful and warm and already a little wrecked. 

“Baby,” he says, voice low with absolute reverence and zero shame, “I’m about to start fucking worshipping it.”

The fourth time is after a home game, which means the hockey house is operating at a volume level that could probably be reported to local authorities if local authorities hadn't long ago made peace with the fact that Briar hockey players were simply going to make too much noise. 

The living room is packed in that loose, post-win sprawl of bodies and beer and boys shouting over one another from distances that don’t require shouting at all. Someone has put the game highlights on the television and every single person in the room is pretending they're not watching themselves while absolutely watching themselves. 

Logan is arguing with a guy from the second line about whether his assist should have been cleaner, Tucker is sitting on the arm of the couch with a beer in hand and the calm expression of a man who played very well and doesn't need to scream about it, and Dean is stretched in the middle of the room like a Renaissance painting sponsored by bad decisions, loudly explaining to Allie that his defensive effort has layers.

Garrett’s on the couch below her, sitting with his legs spread, one arm hooked along the back cushions, hair still damp from the post-game shower and curling messily. He looks good in the obnoxious, lived-in way he always does after a win. Tired under the eyes, mouth lazy with satisfaction, hoodie pushed up at the forearms, chain glinting at his throat every time he turns his head to answer someone. 

There's a faint bruise starting near one cheekbone and stiffness in the way he holds his shoulders that he’s pretending doesn't exist because men who willingly block shots with their bodies have a complicated relationship with the concept of pain.

She’s standing behind the couch with her arms looped around his shoulders, her cheek resting against the side of his head, close enough that when he laughs she feels it before she hears it. The room smells like beer and aftershave and pizza grease and wet pavement dragged in from outside. 

Her chin is tucked near his temple, and his hand comes up every so often to touch her wrist where it crosses his chest, as if checking she’s still there even though she’s been draped over him for fifteen minutes like an affectionate scarf.

“You’re tense,” she murmurs near his ear.

Garrett tilts his head slightly toward her. “I got checked into the boards by a guy built like a refrigerator.”

“I saw.”

“You also yelled ‘get up’ at me.”

“You did get up.”

He huffs. “Supportive.”

“I’m very motivational.”

He smiles, eyes still on Logan across the room. “Yeah, Coach, you’re a real asset.”

She presses her thumb into the muscle at the top of his shoulder before he can get too smug, and his mouth shuts in the middle of whatever he was about to say. There’s a small drop in his posture, a breath leaving through his nose, his head tipping forward half an inch because the pressure hits somewhere useful.

“Oh,” she says softly, pleased. “There he is.”

“Don’t sound so happy about my suffering.”

“I’m happy about being right.”

He hums quietly. “You usually are.”

She starts working at his shoulders properly, thumbs pressing slow circles into the hard knots there, fingers sliding under the edge of his hoodie collar. Garrett tries to keep participating in the conversation around him, because Garrett Graham could be dying and still find time to chirp a teammate, but she feels him lose focus by degrees. 

His answers get shorter. His hand drops from his beer to rest loosely on his thigh. When she presses into the muscle beside his neck, he makes a low sound under his breath that is almost nothing and somehow still deeply satisfying.

Dean notices, of course. Dean would notice a private moment through drywall.

“Oh, that’s cute,” he says from the floor, voice carrying with surgical precision. “Captain’s getting a little spa treatment.”

Garrett doesn't open his eyes. “You jealous, Di Laurentis?”

“Of a shoulder rub? No. Of your girlfriend looking at you like you just returned from war? Little bit.”

Allie leans around him. “He did get slammed pretty hard.”

Dean points at her. “See? This is why I date women. Compassion.”

Tucker takes a sip of beer. “You date Allie because she tolerates you.”

“That too.”

She ignores them, and keeps working her thumbs into Garrett’s shoulders. The only problem is the chain. It keeps getting in the way, slipping under her fingers every time she moves toward the base of his neck, catching lightly against her knuckle, dragging sideways over his skin. She shifts it once. Twice. The third time, Garrett reaches up without looking, catches her wrist, and then lifts his other hand to the clasp.

“Here,” he says.

She pauses. “What?”

He takes the chain off in one smooth motion, turning his head enough to glance up at her with that soft, amused look that always feels worse when other people are around because it's not performative. It's just his face, open for one second before he remembers to make a joke. “Here, baby. Wear it before you strangle me with it.”

The room hears baby. Naturally. The room reacts with the dignity of wolves spotting an injured deer. Logan’s head snaps over. “Oh, wow.”

Dean sits up so fast Allie has to move her knees. “Did he just give her the chain?”

Tucker’s mouth twitches. “Big night.”

Garrett points vaguely at all of them without turning around. “Everybody shut up.”

No one shuts up. That would go against the entire founding philosophy of the house.

She bends down anyway, smiling despite herself, hair falling forward over one shoulder. Garrett lifts the chain around her neck from where he sits, reaching back and up, his fingers careful as they brush the sides of her throat. It's an awkward angle, and he fumbles once with the clasp.

Dean gasps. “He’s putting jewellery on her. In public. Garrett Graham has fallen.”

“I will throw this beer at you,” Garrett says.

“No, you won’t. Your girl’s wearing your chain and touching your shoulders. You’re domesticated now.”

Logan lifts his cup. “RIP to a slut.”

Garrett finally opens his eyes and looks over. “I’m still alive, asshole.”

“Physically,” Logan says. “Spiritually, you’re picking baby names.”

She laughs into Garrett’s hair before she can stop herself, and his hands settle briefly at her collarbone once the clasp is done, thumbs brushing over the chain where it sits against her skin. 

The touch is quick. Almost hidden. But his eyes stay there for a second too long, and the whole loud room blurs slightly at the edges in that private way it sometimes does around him, even when Dean is three feet away preparing to be the worst person alive.

The chain is warm from Garrett’s skin when it lands against her throat. Something about that should not matter as much as it does.

Garrett’s head tips back until he can look up at her. “Good?”

She nods, fingers touching the chain. “Good.”

“Can I have my massage now, or are we hosting a ceremony?”

“Ceremony,” Dean says immediately. “I have a speech.”

“No one wants that,” Tucker says.

“I do,” Logan contributes, raising a hand.

Garrett groans and drops his head forward again, but she can see the grin at the corner of his mouth, tucked away where the boys cannot fully get to it.

She goes back to his shoulders, the chain now resting against her instead of him, rising and falling gently with her breathing as she works the tension out from under his hoodie.

The boys keep going, because of course they do.

“Whipped,” Dean says.

“Tragically,” Logan adds.

“Clinically,” Tucker says, which makes Allie laugh so hard she almost spills her drink.

Garrett lifts one hand just enough to flip them off without opening his eyes. “Keep talking. I’m cutting all of you from the power play.”

“You can’t cut me from the power play,” Dean says. “I am the power play.”

She leans closer, thumbs pressing into Garrett’s neck, and murmurs, “They’re not wrong, you know.”

His eyes open slightly. “Careful.”

“What?” she says, voice innocent near his ear. “You gave me your chain in front of everyone.”

“You were choking me with it.”

“I was massaging your shoulders.”

“Poorly.”

She pinches him lightly.

He laughs, catching her wrist and bringing her hand down just long enough to kiss the inside of it, quick and warm and entirely too natural for a room full of men actively trying to ruin his reputation. Then he lets her go and sinks back against the couch, shoulders finally loosening under her hands.

Across the room, Logan makes a wounded noise. “Oh my God. He kissed her hand. We lost him.”

Dean presses his beer to his heart. “He was so young.”

Tucker, dry as dust, says, “He died doing what he loved. Pretending he wasn’t in love.”

Garrett’s jaw ticks once, but the smile wins. She feels it more than sees it, the small shift under her cheek when she bends down again and rests against him for a second, her arms around his shoulders, his chain warm at her throat, the whole loud, stupid house moving around them.

“Love is a strong word,” Garrett says, which is exactly the sort of thing Garrett says when everyone is looking and the truth has wandered too close to the middle of the room.

She smiles against his cheek. “Mm.”

His hand comes up and covers her forearm, fingers curling there, thumb sweeping once over her skin in a slow little pass that says more than his mouth is willing to risk with Dean waiting to pounce.

Around them, the boys keep chirping, the television keeps replaying Garrett’s goal from the second period, someone in the kitchen shouts about beer pong, and the chain rests against her collarbone like a tiny, ridiculous victory.

Garrett turns his head just enough that his mouth brushes near her temple, hidden from most of the room by the angle of her body.

“You look good in it,” he says quietly.

Her hands pause on his shoulders for half a second.

Then Dean yells, “I can see you whispering sweet nothings, Graham,” and Garrett closes his eyes like he’s begging a very unhelpful God for patience, and she laughs so hard into his hair that the chain jumps lightly at her throat.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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I opened the beer and looked at Allie while she forced a smile in the middle of the conversation. A little farther ahead, near the bonfire, Félix Kelsen was standing next to Logan listening to Dean talk with way too much excitement for that time of night.

And honestly?

Seeing those two in the same place felt wrong on almost impressive levels.

Félix Kelsen had been the first guy I ever slept with. And also the guy I kept sleeping with during the summers when Allie and I came back to Delaware. A kind of bad habit that had become way too comfortable to end. The problem was that it had been two years since the last time I’d seen Félix. Two years since the last time he pinned me against one of the pier walls after some stupid party. Two years since the last time he called me trouble bunny while laughing against my mouth. And now he was there.

Standing next to Logan.

My stomach twisted immediately.

Because Logan was already territorial by nature. Irritatingly territorial. And Félix had exactly the kind of personality that loved provoking people like Logan just for the entertainment of it.

“You’ve been staring at them for like five minutes,” Allie commented beside me before taking a sip of her drink. I looked away way too fast.

“I have not.”

“Yes, you have. And with that specific look.”

I frowned.

“What specific look?”

Allie let out a quiet laugh.

“The ‘this is going to end in disaster’ look.”

Because it probably would. I followed Allie toward the group, and the second Kelsen lifted his eyes to me, a huge grin spread across his face before he stepped forward. Félix had never had any trouble connecting with people. Especially not with people he already had history with. And that meant that even if he hadn’t seen me in two years, he still felt close to me — like those two years apart meant absolutely nothing.

“Holy shit, bunny. Damn, you look hot as hell.”

A laugh escaped me automatically as he spun me slightly off the ground before setting me down again. And maybe that alone already said too much. Because old intimacy was dangerous like that. It came back without asking permission.

“You’re still dramatic,” I murmured, lightly pushing against his chest while Félix kept his hands on my waist for way too long. His pale eyes quickly traveled down my body before returning to my face. Not subtle at all.

“And you’re still hot as fuck. So I guess not much changed here.”

My eyes widened a little while an embarrassed, raspy laugh escaped me. The kind that sounded like hahah.

“I think some things did.”

“So you two know each other too?” Dean asked, interrupting the small moment.

Félix stepped beside me and crossed his arms over his chest with a wide grin. The second he moved out of my way, I lifted my eyes to Logan, who was staring directly at Félix with an expression I couldn’t quite tell was disgust or anger because his jaw was clenched too tightly.

“Our parents were friends. You two...”

I started explaining before Félix nudged my waist, making me glance sideways at him briefly before looking back at the group, who were all very obviously watching the situation unfold.

“Sometimes we hung out when my parents came down to check the beach house for the weekend.” Dean nodded.

“So you were the other rich kid Dean mentioned sometimes,” Beau said, pointing at him, making everyone laugh while Félix accepted the joke easily.

“Yeah, man. I can also be the guy who got his heart broken the second a certain person stopped coming to see me.”

I rolled my eyes and took another sip of my beer while Allie and Hannah stared at me with wide eyes.

“You’re so dramatic. You know what happened.”

“It’s not dramatic if it’s true, bunny.”

My eyes widened instantly before I looked down at the sand while choking on my drink, making Félix laugh beside me.

“Sorry if you got out of practice with the nickname.” Another laugh rang out — but this one wasn’t amused. It was sharp. Bitter. Coming from Logan as he looked at us. To cover it up, Allie forced out a laugh too along with Hannah while the rest of the guys pretended to laugh as well. “Anyway, my parents are gonna freak out if they find out you’re in town. You have to come see them.”

“That’s a lie. Your mom didn’t even like me.”

I laughed, shaking my head at him.

“Nah, she loved you. And besides, Allie, you know Jaden would be happy to know you're back in town.”

Allie’s eyes widened immediately.

“Oh no,” she muttered, nearly panicked. Dean slowly turned toward her. Way too slowly. Félix’s smile widened instantly, clearly satisfied with the chaos he’d created.

“He’s a nice guy,” he explained to the people who didn’t know who he was, shrugging casually. “Surfer. Kinda obsessed with Allie that summer. You know how it is.”

“Félix,” Allie warned through clenched teeth.

“What? I’m being nice. I didn’t even mention the part where...”

´´Have you always been this unfiltered, or did I just forget?” I asked.

Logan glanced at me and smiled. That immediately should've worried me.

“You never really paid attention to how I was, bunny.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Excuse me?”

“You always had your mouth full.”

He said it casually.

Without thinking.

Without a single survival instinct.

My brain stopped working for a full second. Then I started coughing. Hard. Across from me, Logan's expression immediately shifted from smug to horrified as he realized what he'd just said.

“Oh, fuck.”

Dean nearly inhaled his drink.

“Who wants shots? Isn’t that why we’re here?” I interrupted quickly.

Hannah agreed way too fast.

“Yes. Shots. Lots of shots.”

“Finally, somebody with good ideas,” Beau announced immediately. Even so, the strange tension spread through the group. Dean still looked suspiciously between Allie and Félix while Beau started handing out plastic shot cups across the makeshift table near the bonfire.

And honestly? I appreciated the distraction because the tension between Logan and Félix was already starting to develop a personality of its own. I grabbed one of the shots the second Beau shoved the tray toward us.

“Perfect.”

Everyone raised their cups at the same time.

“To summer,” Hannah said first.

“To emotional irresponsibility,” Dean added.

“To questionable vacation sex,” Félix finished without hesitation.

The guys immediately burst out laughing. Even Logan. Quietly. But he laughed. And for some reason that was worse. Because when I looked at him over the rim of my cup, I found his brown eyes already fixed on me.

Watching.

Way too calm.

Like he was trying to piece together an entire puzzle inside his head. I swallowed the shot immediately just to break eye contact.

Mistake. Because that shit burned all the way down my throat.

“Oh my God,” I coughed. “This tastes like gasoline.”

“That’s because Beau mixes drinks like a criminal,” Tucker commented.

“And yet you idiots keep drinking them,” Beau replied, offended.

Félix grabbed another shot and held it out toward me.

“You still terrible at taking tequila?”

“I was never terrible.”

“Bunny, you climbed onto a table and tried to fight a guy dressed like a pirate.”

Allie instantly burst out laughing.

“I climbed onto the table and argued with him, not fought him.”

“I cannot believe I never got to witness that version of you,” Hannah said, laughing while covering her mouth with both hands. Félix grinned proudly.

“Oh, you should’ve seen her drunk that summer. Tiny, violent, and completely unhinged.”

“Oh shut up.”

I rolled my eyes, laughing. But the problem was that Logan didn’t laugh this time. I felt it before I even looked at him. The shift in the air. That silent tension that always appeared whenever Logan got irritated and tried pretending he wasn’t.

When I lifted my eyes, I found him leaning against a fallen tree trunk with his beer resting on his thigh, watching Félix talk to me like he was analyzing every detail of the interaction.

His jaw tightened the second Félix took my empty shot glass from my hand without even asking and replaced it with another.

Natural. Easy. Far too intimate.

As the night went on and I got drunker, I completely gave up on the idea of staying on my feet.

So I simply dropped down beside Logan on the ground, leaning my back against the tree trunk while he distractedly talked to one of the guys from the team.

My shoulder bumped against his the second I sat down, and I felt Logan glance at me quickly before returning his attention to the conversation.

“Dude, I still think you stole that traffic sign,” the guy across the fire said.

“I didn’t steal it,” Logan replied calmly.

“Logan, you literally used it as a sled in the snow.”

“Allegations without proof.”

I rolled my eyes with a quiet laugh while resting my elbows on my knees. The alcohol made everything feel slower. Warmer. Easier. Especially ignoring the fact that Logan’s leg was pressed against mine.

An idea suddenly popped into my head.

Before I could overthink it, I turned toward Logan and dropped to my knees beside him.

“What are you—”

“Logan!”

I grabbed his shoulders before he could finish.

His words died instantly.

My hands slid from his shoulders to the sides of his neck, then up to his jaw, forcing him to look at me.

Logan blinked.

Completely caught off guard.

“...What?”

I couldn't stop smiling.

“We should go swimming.”

For a second, he just stared at me.

Like he genuinely thought he'd misheard me.

Then a grin spread across his face.

Slow.

Dangerous.

Like I'd just handed him exactly what he wanted.

“Oh, now you want to go swimming.”

“Yes! I've never gone swimming in the ocean at night before, and you said you wanted to do it. Come on.”

Logan laughed.

A quiet, disbelieving sound.

“I don't know if that's a good idea, bunny. You're pretty drunk.”

I immediately frowned. My hands, which were still holding his face, slid up into his messy brown curls.

“Don't call me that.” My fingers tangled deeper into his messy curls as I frowned at him. “And I'm not that drunk.”

“Right.” Logan's mouth twitched. “He can call you that, but I can't?”

“That's different.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.” I rolled my eyes. “He calls me bunny. You call me gorgeous.”

For a second, Logan just stared at me before a laugh escaped him.

“That's your reasoning?”

“It's perfectly valid reasoning.”

“Gorgeous, that's not reasoning at all.”

“Logan.”

“Yeah?”

I narrowed my eyes.

“You are being incredibly annoying right now.”

“And you're drunk enough to think swimming in the ocean at two in the morning sounds like a great idea.”

I opened my mouth.

Then paused.

“...Okay, that part might be fair.”

His laugh escaped before he could stop it.

And somehow that only made me want to drag him into the water even more.

“Fine. But since you're not coming, I'm going by myself.”

Before he could argue, I pushed myself to my feet.

“Gorgeous...”

“Too late.”

I pointed a warning finger at him and started backing away from the fire.

Delaware was safe enough for us to go skinny-dipping, and honestly, we were far enough away from all our friends and the drunk people gathered around the bonfire that nobody would care. I pulled off my skirt, leaving myself in nothing but my panties, then took off the bandeau top that kept slipping down, leaving me completely half-naked.

I heard Logan call my name.

Glancing over my shoulder, I found him already walking after me, his expression somewhere between exasperated and amused.

The cold water rushed over my feet as the next wave rolled in.

I gasped.

“Oh my God.”

Logan immediately laughed.

“Still think this was a good idea?”

“Yes.”

“You sound miserable.”

“Yes,” I repeated, shivering. “But that's not the point.”

“The point being?”

I turned toward him with a grin.

“The point is that I've never done this before.”

I glanced back at him. Logan was already right behind m To my surprise, he was tugging off his shirt as he walked, tossing it somewhere onto the sand before kicking off the rest of his clothe A second later, he was following me into the ocean in nothing but his boxer

“See?” I called over my shoulder, smiling triumphantly. “You wanted to do this

“You make it sound like I had a choice

“You did

“No, I didn't

The water climbed higher as we moved farther from short.

“Please don't do this and then start a fight with me because you had to take care of me, Logan

Logan just shook his head, running a hand through his damp hai

“Nah. We're not fighting anymore. "

His eyes flickered over me briefly before returning to my face.

“Someone has to stop you from making terrible decisions. "

“That's funny coming from a hockey player."

Logan laughe

The sound was swallowed almost immediately by the waves crashing around us.

When the water reached our waists, I bent down and dipped beneath the surface, letting the cold ocean soak my hair.

For a second, everything disappeared.

The noise.

The bonfire.

The people.

The thoughts constantly running through my head.

When I came back up, pushing my wet hair away from my face, I turned around.

Logan was closer.

Much close

The dark water moved around us as the moonlight reflected across the surface of the ocean.

For a moment, neither of us said anything.

We just stood there, half-submerged in the water, looking at each other while the waves rolled around us. 

“Have you ever done this before?” I asked, reaching for his hand beneath the water.

Logan glanced down at our intertwined fingers before looking back at me.

“Gone swimming in the ocean at two in the morning?”

A smile tugged at my lips.

“Yeah.”

He shook his head.

“No. "

“Really? "

“Really..." I laughed softly " Not in the ocean and definitely not with a naked woman"

The corner of his mouth lifte

I immediately looked down at the water around us, laughin

“Well, look at that. I didn't even have to unblock you to show you my boobs. "

I meant it as a drunk joke.

A stupid on

The kind of thing that would've normally earned a sarcastic comment from Loga

But he didn't laug

The smile on his face faded slightl

And in the dim moonlight, I caught him running his tongue along the inside of his chee

My own smile faltere

"What? "

Logan shook his head onc

“Nothing. "

“That wasn't nothing

A wave rolled between us. His gaze dropped briefly to the water before returning to mine.

““I'm trying very hard to be respectful right now, gorgeous.”

I let the water carry me a little closer to his. The ocean had already risen past our waists, making it easy to drift through the waves without much effort.

Before he seemed to realize what I was doing, I wrapped my legs around his waist. My hands slid up to the back of his neck, my fingers disappearing into his damp curls.

“I love how your hair feels in my hands. "

The words came out absentmindedly, my attention completely drifting away from what he'd just said.

I smiled to myself, twirling one of the curls around my finger.

“You still haven't gone under.”

I looked at him with a small, toothless grin.

“Not even once."

For a moment, Logan just stared at me

Then his hands settled at my butt, holding me steady as another wave rolled between us

“That's because one of us has to be responsible here.”

"You're not responsible, John. Come on."

I said it lightly, leaning back just enough to put a little distance between us.

His eyes followed the movement.

I felt his gaze drift from my face to the curve of my collarbone before dropping lower right to my boobs.

For a second, he forgot to look away.

The realization made a genuine smile spread across my face.

"There you are," I murmured.

John exhaled sharply through his nose, already shaking his head.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"You know exactly what."

My smile only widened.

The ocean shifted around us, another wave rolling between our bodies. His hands tightened instinctively at my waist to keep me steady.

"Thought you were being responsible," I teased.

"I am."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

I raised an eyebrow.

His jaw flexed.

"Being responsible doesn't mean I'm blind."

Heat rushed into my cheeks before I could stop it.

For the first time all night, I was the one who looked away.

Instead of answering with words, I tightened my legs around his waist and pulled us both down since he let me push him down.

The water closed over our heads—cold, sudden, and completely silent. For one perfect second, there was nothing but the salt and the dark and the weight of him against me.

Then we surfaced together, gasping.

I didn't let go.

Neither did he.

Water streamed down our faces as I wrapped my arms around his neck properly, pressing my chest fully against his. Skin to skin. No space left to hide.

His hands found my lower back, fingers splayed wide like he was trying to memorize the shape of me through the night.

I tilted my head and pressed my lips to his jaw first. Then his neck. Just below his ear. Small, lazy kisses that tasted like ocean and something else entirely—something that made my stomach tighten.

Logan's breath hitched.

I felt it.

And then I felt something else.

The thin cotton of his boxers, clinging to him in the water, had started to change. A pressure. A length. Pressing up against the inside of my thigh where I had him wrapped around me.

My own underwear was already soaked through.

Not from the ocean.

I pulled back just enough to look at him.

His jaw was set. His chest was rising and falling faster than the waves around us. Water dripped from his lashes, and his curls were plastered to his forehead.

Slowly, he reached up and pushed my wet hair away from my face. The back of his fingers trailed down my cheek, then my neck, then across my collarbone—barely touching, just the very tips, like he was memorizing the path.

I shivered.

"Logan."

He shook his head once. Gently.

"I can't kiss you again."

The words landed soft but final.

"Why not?"

His hand kept moving—over my shoulder, down my arm, until his thumb found the inside of my wrist where my pulse was hammering.

"Because you're drunk," he said quietly.

I opened my mouth.

"Don't," he added, before I could argue. "Don't tell me you're not. You are. And I'm not, not like you" He stopped, exhaled, and looked down at where our bodies were still pressed together in the dark water. "I'm not going to be something you wake up and regret."

The waves rolled between us.

My heart was so loud I was sure he could hear it.

"I don't think you would regret.”

I whispered and his eyes came back to mine.

"I can wait."

He said this while kissing my cheek, then my nose, and then the corner of my mouth.

"You don't have to pretend you don't want me and pretend that it is because I'm drunk, Logan."

I whispered it with my eyes closed. Feeling his lips trail down my neck softly, licking the salty sea droplets off my skin.

"Don't put words in my mouth."

"I'm not," he said quietly, his voice close enough to blur my thoughts. "I just know… if I hadn't said that we were dating, nothing would've changed between us. You wouldn't be looking at me the way you are now, and I'd probably still hate you just as much."

"Maybe not," I whispered. "But you don't hate me that much anymore, so it doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does."

I said it, and then he lifted his eyes to mine. I let out a sigh at the loss of his tongue on my skin.

"I'm not having this conversation with you drunk, gorgeous."

He said it. I pouted at him.

"Not even kiss me?"

"No."

He said it while nibbling on my neck, making me let out a moan that made him groan in return. His cock pressed against my panties.

"But you can kiss my skin? "

He looked at me. "Fuck. That's not a good idea either."

I moved against him deliberately. "Don't you want to feel how my tits feel in your tongue?”

I asked and he looked at me.His hands tightened on my hips.

"Stop," he said, but his voice cracked.

"Make me."Instead, he pulled me closer—not kissing me, just holding me. His face buried in my neck. His breath hot and uneven.

I moaned his name, grinding against him. The thin cotton of his boxers did nothing to hide how hard he was. I felt every inch of it pressing against me through my soaked underwear, and I rolled my hips again just to hear the sound he made—a low, guttural groan that vibrated against my throat.

"Fuck," he breathed.

Then his lips trailed down.

Down my collarbone. Down my chest. His mouth was everywhere at once—licking, sucking, biting softly at the salt on my skin. His hands gripped my waist like he was trying to anchor himself.

And then his lips closed around my nipple.

I gasped. My back arched. His tongue circled slowly, then flicked, and I felt it all the way down between my legs. He sucked harder, and my fingers tangled in his wet curls, pulling him closer, begging him without words.

"Logan…" His name came out broken.

His other hand slid down my stomach, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of my bikini bottoms. He didn't go further. Just rested them there. Waiting. Asking.

I pushed his hand lower myself.

He groaned against my breast, and the vibration made me moan loud enough that the waves couldn't swallow it."Please," I whispered. "Please, Logan. I need-"

"I know what you need, and i can't give you."

His mouth moved to my other breast, sucking just as hard, just as hungry.

“Just feel.”

I grabbed his hand and brought it between us. Guided it inside my soaked bikini bottoms.

His fingers met wet heat immediately-slick, aching, ready.

"Fuck," he groaned against my skin. The word vibrated through my chest.

His fingers slid through me slowly, exploring, learning. His fingers dipped inside, and I gasped so loud I didn't recognize my own voice.I forced my eyes open. The moonlight caught his face. His lips were wet. His pupils were blown so wide there was almost no blue left. He looked feral. Hungry. Like he wanted to devour me and was barely holding himself back.

But then he pulled his hand away.

I looked at him with wide eyes.

"I can't do this."

The words landed like ice water.

My legs were still wrapped around him. My chest was still pressed against his. I could feel his heart slamming beneath my palms. He was still hard against me. Everything about his body was screaming yes.

But his eyes—his eyes were screaming something else.

"Logan—"

"No." He grabbed my hips and pushed me back. Not gentle this time. Not careful. He pried my legs from around his waist and set me down in the water like I was something burning his hands. "I can't."

The cold rushed back in.

I stood there, waist-deep in the ocean, staring at him. My body was still humming. I could still feel where his fingers had been.

"You just had your hand inside me," I said, my voice shaking. "You don't get to stop now and act like you're the good guy."

He flinched like I'd slapped him.

"You’re right." He ran both hands through his wet hair, tugging at the roots. His chest was heaving. His boxers were still straining. "I don’t get to act like anything. But I’m stopping anyway." He pushed me away, and I wrapped my arms around myself, a scowl on my face.

“Alright.”

I said it while turning to leave the sea, my head dizzy and my body confused. My drunk mind was screaming at me not to be dramatic.

When I got out of the water, I grabbed my clothes and started getting dressed, and I heard John right behind me calling my name.

“Y/n.”

“I’m fine. I already told you, all of this is nonsense. A mistake.”

“What?”

I looked at him while I finished putting my clothes on and ran a hand through my hair.

“I can’t be around you. I can’t. That’s why I blocked you, that’s why I’ve been ignoring you.”

"You want to be close to me, that’s the problem."

"Yes! That’s the problem and it’s stupid."

“Stupid?” he repeated, shaking his head. “You think wanting me is stupid?”

“Yes! Because we always end up fighting.”

“Well, you are choosing that. You run away from everything. I’m not saying I know how to deal with it, but you definitely don’t,” he said, calmer now, but more dangerous because of it. “You blocked me, you ran away, you keep saying you can’t be around me… but you’re still here arguing with me.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It is,” he insisted, taking another step closer. “Because if you really didn’t want me around, you wouldn’t keep coming back into my orbit every single time.”

My breath caught, and I hated that he noticed. Hated the way his eyes flicked down to my mouth for half a second before meeting my gaze again.

“That’s not fair. You do the same thing as me,” I whispered.

He tilted his head slightly.

“At least I’m being honest,” he said. “You ran. You do stupid shit because you’re scared and you can’t be honest. That’s why you’re called ‘ice heart’—you don’t let anyone see you.”

“Fuck that, John Logan. You also can’t be honest. You only say and do what benefits you—on hockey, on a fake relationship, whoever you’re going to slip with. I’m sorry that my parents fucked my head so I can’t trust anyone anymore.”

I turned my back on him then, walking back toward the bonfire and leaning against the palm trunk where we had been sitting before going into the sea.

While I was walking back, he followed behind me, his shoulders slumped, defeated, his voice breaking slightly in the middle of the words.

“Y/n… shit, no… I’m sorry, fuck, I don’t want to fight again.”

The heat from the fire should’ve been comforting, but it didn’t reach me properly—not with my chest still tight and my thoughts spinning too fast to settle.

“We’re good.”

I pulled my knees up slightly, arms wrapping around myself again as I stared into the flames, refusing to look back at him.

Behind me, I could feel him still there. Still watching. Still not leaving.

Of course he wasn’t.

The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable, like neither of us knew how to step out of what we had just said.

I swallowed hard, jaw clenched, forcing my breathing to slow down even though it didn’t want to.

My fingers dug lightly into my arms as I tried to keep myself steady, pretending the fire was enough to anchor me when everything else felt like it was drifting.

Then his voice came again, closer this time, quieter.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said and Félix showed up again a few minutes later with another beer in his hand and that smile of someone who had never learned the meaning of the word limit.

“You’re gonna kill her with tequila,” Logan commented before Félix even got close enough.

“Relax, hockey boy. She survived entire summers with me.”

“Unfortunately, I did survive,” I muttered.

Félix laughed under his breath before crouching slightly in front of me, resting his forearms against his thighs.

“So do you still dance on tables when you drink or did you finally mature?”

A drunken smile spread across my face as I shrugged.

“I think I matured. I don’t threaten people anymore.” I lifted one finger, making Félix laugh.

“Liar, i just saw you threatening the hockey boy.” he answered immediately. “I think you just got prettier while threatening people now..”

“That wasn’t a compliment,” I muttered, already laughing.

“It absolutely was.”

“I wasn’t threatening him, we were talking. I said, and Felix looked at Logan who was still standing behind us: ‘you were talking.’ Felix asked and Logan crossed his arms, looking down at my head.

‘something like that.’”

“You know my mom thought you disappeared because you got pregnant?” Félix said, alternating his gaze between me and Logan.

I laughed nasally at the absurdity of what had just come out of his mouth. Félix and I had never slept together without a condom, and I was on birth control. There had been absolutely zero chance of that happening.

“Shut up. That would literally never happen.”

“I still can’t believe you went from nighttime bunny to someone who gets sleepy when she drinks.”

“Mhm. Now I’m a sleepy sad bunny.”

I opened my eyes and saw him smiling at me.

“So are you two together?”

The question came out genuinely curious. I looked at Logan, then back at Félix. And before I could answer, Logan spoke first.

“We’re just friends, man. Nothing more.”

And somehow that made me lose hope all over again. Because deep down, I think I wanted him to lie.

“Friends like us?” Félix laughed.

I held my breath while shaking my head.

“No.”

“Friends like you two?” Logan asked.

Félix grinned widely.

“You get it, man.”

He slapped Logan’s shoulder before grabbing my hand.

“Come on. I think you need some water. You’re gonna throw up your organs tomorrow morning if you don’t drink like a trillion gallons.”

He stood up while pulling me gently with him, and I went because he was right.

“Yeah, you’re right.”

I stood, slipping away from Logan’s warm arms. But before I could fully step away, I felt his fingers brush against mine, stopping me.

“You sure?”

“I’m okay, I promise. I trust Félix. I don’t wanna ruin another one of your nights because of me. It’s okay.”

I gave him a soft smile before walking away from Logan again. And it hurt my chest a little because I didn’t want to. But I needed distance from his horrible charm that kept softening my heart. Félix still held my hand while leading me through the people scattered across the sand, avoiding crooked chairs, empty bottles, and couples too drunk to notice anything around them. The music came muffled from the speaker near the bonfire, mixed with the distant sound of waves.

And even walking beside Félix, I could still feel Logan’s eyes on my back. Which was ridiculous because he had literally just said we were only friends.

Just friends.

Nothing more.

My stomach sank again at the thought.

“You got quiet,” Félix commented while opening a cooler near the house’s porch.

“I’m drunk. My brain is functioning at twenty percent capacity.”

“Liar. Drunk you talks more. Way more. Including dangerously stupid things.”

A laugh escaped me while he handed me a bottle of water.

“You invent half those stories.”

“Me? Never.” He placed a hand dramatically against his chest. “You literally tried convincing a police officer the jet ski belonged to you because ‘spiritually you had a connection.’”

I opened my mouth in outrage.

“It was abandoned.”

“It was parked.”

“Details.”

Félix laughed quietly while leaning against the counter behind him. For a few seconds, he just watched me drink water in silence.

“You wanna go home? I know when you’re tired.”

The truth was that he didn’t know anything about me anymore. But I also didn’t want to go back to the house where I might find Logan with another girl or something like that.

“Yeah. I do.”

“Sweet.”

He clapped his hands together excitedly before we started walking back while talking. Félix was a really nice guy. But something still felt missing. When we got to his place, he kissed me. But when I climbed into his lap, I couldn’t feel anything. I pulled my face away from his, looking into his amused eyes that clearly found the situation funny.

I kissed him again.

But when I pulled away the second time, all I could think was that I wished it were John. So I huffed before sliding off his lap and throwing myself onto the bed while staring at the ceiling. Félix let out a quiet laugh beside me before dropping onto the bed too, resting his head on his arm while watching me.

“Hey.” He laughed again. “Relax, bunny. I’ll survive.”

I sighed in frustration into my hands.

“This is humiliating.”

“Nah.” Félix turned his head toward me. “I think it just means your head’s somewhere else.”

I closed my eyes for a second. Because he was right. Unfortunately.

“You wanna know the worst part?” I murmured.

“Always.”

I slowly turned my face toward him.

“I was literally kissing you while thinking about someone else.”

Félix widened his eyes theatrically before placing a hand against his chest.

“Cruel. Brutal. Destroyer of men.”

A laugh escaped me despite the embarrassment.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he replied, amused. “But I strongly suspect you might hate a very specific hockey player right now.” Groaning in frustration, I looked at Félix beside me.

“We’re just friends.”

Félix stared at me for two entire seconds before starting to laugh. Actually laugh. The kind of laugh that made his shoulders shake.

“Oh, bunny...” He dragged a hand down his face while still laughing. “You say that after practically melting in his lap all night.”

“Yep, and he still doesn’t want me.”

“I’m pretty sure he does. He looks at you the way I looked at you for years.”

I looked at him and Felix shook his head, making a face. ‘Relax.’ And he continued: ‘The point is, he doesn’t want you because you only tell him you want him when you’re drunk, or because you don’t let yourself give him a chance to show that to you when you’re sober.”

I rolled my eyes hard.

“You’re awful.”

“No. I just have perfect vision.”

He shifted into a more comfortable position on the bed, watching me for a moment more quietly this time.

“Want me to be honest?”

“That never brings me happiness, but go ahead.”

“I think you two are idiots.”

A nasal laugh escaped me.

“Wow. Deep.”

“No, listen.” He pointed at me. “You look at him like he could rip your soul out through your mouth.”

“Félix...”

“And he looks at you like he’s constantly five seconds away from committing a crime.”

My face heated instantly. Because unfortunately? That sounded way too accurate.

“Then why did he say we’re just friends?”

The question came out quieter this time. More honest than I wanted it to. Félix tilted his head slightly, studying me.

“Because maybe he’s stupid. Maybe he’s afraid of holding you close to him, I don’t know, it depends.”

He makes a pause.

“Or maybe he’s trying not to make things worse.”

I frowned.

“What things?”

“Things like clearly wanting you while also acting like it’s a terrible idea.”

That made my chest ache in an irritating way.

Because Logan really did do that.

Pulled me close. Looked at me like that. Got irritated whenever another guy came near me.

But then a second later he’d act like there was some invisible line between us he couldn’t cross.

“He pushes me away all the time.”

“But you keep coming back.”

I went quiet. Félix smiled slightly when he realized I didn’t have an answer.

“That’s the problem, bunny,” he murmured. “You’d never feel like this over someone who didn’t actually get to you.”

I huffed, sinking deeper into the mattress.

“But we don’t work.”

I whined. Félix exhaled through his nose, resting his head against the headboard while watching me silently for a few seconds.

No jokes.

No teasing.

Which was almost scary coming from him.

“Maybe you really don’t,” he finally said. “But that’s never stopped anyone from falling in love, bunny.”

My heart stumbled inside my chest instantly.

“I’m not in love with him.”

Félix slowly raised an eyebrow.

His entire expression screamed liar.

“You left this place for two years. Came back now. And in less than a week you’re already looking at this guy like he’s simultaneously your biggest problem and your favorite drug.”

I frowned immediately.

“I don’t think I know how to love someone, Félix…” “Of course you do, silly.” he answered calmly. “And that’s where you’re making the mistake...you can’t try to sabotage your own happiness just because someone broke you along the way.”

I opened my mouth.

Then closed it again.

Because that was the worst part.

Logan didn’t make me feel bad.

He made me feel everything.

And maybe that was exactly the problem.

“He just...” I rubbed a tired hand over my face. “Confuses me.”

Félix nodded slowly like he’d expected that answer.

“Then stop pretending this is friendship.”

“But he said...”

“I heard what he said,” Félix interrupted. “I also saw the way he looked at me when I talked to you.”

A short laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

“He was just drunk.”

“Oh, right.” Félix nodded, amused. “ Beacuse a drunk guy would have the sense to care whether they’re about to hook up with a drunk girl or not.”

I stared back at the ceiling.

Trying to ignore the fact that maybe Félix was right about literally everything. Comfortable silence settled between us for a few seconds until I heard him sigh dramatically beside me.

“You know what annoys me most about all this?”

“What?”

“I would’ve had a very solid chance of getting laid tonight if that emotionally repressed hockey player didn’t exist.”

A tired laugh escaped me.

“You’re still incredibly full of yourself.”

“And incredibly handsome. Don’t forget that part.”

“I never could. Your ego won’t let me.”

Félix grinned proudly before standing up from the bed.

“Alright. Executive decision. You’re going to sleep because you’re drunk, emotionally unstable, and clearly in love.”

“I hate that word.”

“Tough. Still true.”

He walked toward the bedroom door, but stopped before leaving.

“Oh, and just so we’re clear?”

“Hmm?”

“You still matter to me after two years, bunny. If you need me to beat him up, just let me know.”

I rolled my eyes, smiling.

“You don’t even like me that much.”

Félix placed a hand over his chest, offended.

“Bunny, you were literally my favorite disaster for three summers straight. Of course I like you.”

That warmed my chest in a way I hadn’t expected.

Because Félix had always been that: chaos, comfort, and terrible timing. He winked one last time before turning off the bedroom light. And the worst part? Even after everything. Even lying in another guy’s bed. The only thing on my mind was still Logan.

English isn't my first language, so pls go easy on me.

If you find anything that isn't in English, please let me know. Sometimes I write things in Portuguese to help me find my place in the story faster, and occasionally they slip through unnoticed.

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“Why are you both in here? This doesn't feel like a conversation that requires a town hall meeting,” Logan grumbles.

“Well, I don’t cook, so it can’t have been me. Must’ve been Tucker,” Dean says.

Tucker walks in then, as if on cue. “If you're spreading bullshit about me, Dean, I'm here to defend myself. For the record: yes, I did make bacon, and there's a plate downstairs. But I was not the one who poured grease down the drain, because I'm not a fool.”

They all look at Dean, who bobs his head. Logan really wishes he had a stack of pucks to chuck at them right now. 

“Yeah, I lied earlier,” Dean says. “It was me. I wanted to use the cup.”

Logan smiles flatly. “I already knew it was you, dumbass. You clog every drain in the house once a week. Vote time. Everyone in favor of kicking Dean out forever?”

The three of them say aye. Dean squawks like a big blond bird. 

“Nay! It's not my fault. How am I supposed to know what to do with bacon grease?”

“Yeah, how's the little prince supposed to know?” Tucker says, rolling his eyes. 

Then he bolts for the door, Dean on his heels. Logan sighs and lies back, staring up at the ceiling. He dreamt about you again. You were on the ice, skating with him, telling him how much you like Taco Bell. He kissed you. 

Then Dean clogged the drain and woke him up.

“Hey, don't forget that we still have that interview at the stadium today,” Garrett says, typing on his phone. No doubt texting Hannah. Logan is proud to say that he no longer has a crush on Hannah Wells, as fleeting as that was. No, he has a crush on her friend, who is smart and beautiful and who probably hasn't given him another thought since the party three weeks ago.

He missed you in class this week. He even stayed behind and pretended he had a question in order to scan the room to check if maybe he didn't see you the first time. But you were nowhere to be found. And it's not like he can text you. He scoured Instagram, Snapchat, and even Facebook for your account, until he felt like a fucking creep and stopped, the search fruitless. Hell, Logan would write you letters if it meant talking to you beyond the two sentences you exchange in class. 

You did wave at him last week. Usually, you pack up your things as fast as possible and run out of the lecture hall. So when you lingered long enough to smile at him… well, that was pretty fantastic. 

“Yeah, thanks,” Logan says. 

Garrett nods. “I'll see you there. Wellsy wants to study.”

Logan lets his head fall back against the pillow as Garrett leaves. He thinks what Garrett's doing with Hannah will probably end with one or both of them getting hurt, especially since they’re both so obviously such soft hearts. Logan saw Garrett listening to Hannah’s Instagram songs more than once. Garrett’s absolutely in denial about how much he likes her. But at least they talk to each other. 

“Fuck,” he says to himself, palms on his eyes. 

You lost your silica gel.

It's not terrible… no, it is. It's thrown off your whole week, actually. You've been on websites longer than usual, looking at fidget toys, sorely tempted. You're especially taken with a moldable squishy with beads inside. It's like the mother of silica gel, and your fingers itch with anticipation of how it would feel.

But you can't. It's eighteen dollars, which is certainly one reason why you shouldn't buy it, but it also would make noise. And even if you used it outside of class… what if someone found it or caught you using it? How do you explain that? 

And you hate feeling like you need a toy to keep you grounded. Your stomach hurt so badly that you skipped class on Monday, which sucked because you didn't see Logan. But you were thinking about having to see your mother during the break and your upcoming finals and nothing, not even listening to music, helped the resulting pain in your stomach. 

Your mother has always told you that it's psychological, and treats your anxiety like a moral failing on your part. If you would just try harder… but you don't know how to do that. You're already trying so hard. It's difficult enough to eat everyday, and go to class, and sleep enough, and not rot in your dorm. 

Your mother would be pleased if you told her you went to a party. She'd dismiss the fact that a guy harassed you. She wouldn't believe you if you told her about Logan and his pretty curls and mouth. No man is looking to just be friends with you.

She was the one who wanted you to go away for college. You didn't mind staying local, but she said you'd never “grow into yourself” if you didn't move away. 

Your nails have been bitten to stubs. You've been growing them for a month, and all your hard work is lost. The silica gel occupied your hands but now that it's gone, you've fallen back to nail biting. 

Hannah said she would meet you at the stadium after her class this morning. Two days ago, you told one of the editors of the Briar newspaper that you bought a new camera. You've taken pictures for them before, but never during an event. Stupidly, you revealed your new purchase, and the editor excitedly asked you to attend an interview that some of the Hawks players were giving today, and take pictures for the paper. 

If only you knew when to keep your mouth shut. Taking pictures of people is stressful. You hate it. They often want you to turn them into someone they're not through the camera lens. People can never just be themselves on camera. That's why you take pictures of birds or buildings or sunsets. They just are, and you can capture them in all their candidness. Most of the world doesn't perform for a camera—only people do. 

Hannah is the first one to greet you when you get inside the stadium. You walk to the bleachers together, where a video crew is setting up. 

“This is great,” Hannah says. “People are gonna see your pictures, as they should.”

You shrug. “I guess so. I didn't really want to do this.”

“Your photos are really good,” she says. “And getting them published in the school paper is huge. What are you worried about?”

You sigh. “I don't know. It's kind of scary when people see you through the camera.” Fourth wall breaks unnerve you for the same reason. “And what if the players hate the pictures?”

“Well, Garrett's doing the interview, and he wouldn't let anybody on the team say anything to you about your pictures. But it's only a few of them, I think. Do you want me to stand with you?”

You nod, the pit in your stomach loosening a little. Hannah always seems to know what to say. 

She beams. “Of course I'll stay.”

But as everyone finishes setting up, Coach Jensen approaches you. Hannah explains that she's Garrett's tutor, and Coach tells her that she can stay, but only in the bleachers. 

“I'm here to support my friend,” she says. “It’s her first time photographing for the team. Please?”

“Sorry. Only press and photographers can be here.”

She looks at you sympathetically. “I'll be right over there, okay? You'll be great.”

You watch Hannah go sit, wishing you had the silica gel.

Garrett is the first player interviewed. You take many pictures, so there are lots of options to choose from when you send them to the paper. He doesn't look at you once, which is splendid.

Next is Dean. He's fired up in his interview, swearing that Briar will crush the competition. Then it's Tucker, who seems a little nervous in front of the camera. You understand completely. 

You lower your camera as you see Logan approach the local reporter. He shakes her hand and says something you can’t hear. Then he looks in your direction. He pauses, then grins widely, waving at you. You wave back, face suddenly warm.

“So John,” begins the reporter. “How is the team preparing to win the next three games? You’ll need three wins to keep Briar’s ranking.”

“Yeah, you know, we work really well as a team, and Garrett’s a great captain, of course, so I have no doubt we’ll win. We’ve been putting in plenty of hours of practice.”

He glances in your direction. Click. You’re not supposed to snap pictures when people are looking at the camera, but you can’t help it. You won’t send that one to the paper.

“How are you personally feeling about the season?” the reporter asks.

You take more pictures. Logan keeps glancing in your direction, so much so that the reporter eventually holds her hand up.

“John, sorry, but we really need you to look at the camera,” she says. “Is there something distracting you? A light? A noise?”

“Nope,” Logan says, standing straighter, shaking his head. “All good.”

He answers a few more questions. The reporter thanks all of them for their time and then the crew packs up. You put the lens cap on your camera and pack it up in its case.

“Hey.”

You look up from your case. Logan’s in front of you. This close, you can really take in his appearance: his swoopy hair, his azure jacket with the Hawks emblem on the chest. He smells like apples, as always. 

“You’re here,” he says, before you can say hi back.

You nod, confused. “Um. Yes?”

“I didn’t know you were a photographer.” He’s smiling as hard as he does when the Hawks win a game. “I haven’t seen you photographing games.”

“I don’t. The paper’s editor asked me to take pictures for their article on the team.”

“Can I see?”

You hesitate. “I can’t retake pictures.”

“I know. I’m asking because I want to see your pictures, not ‘cause I care about how I look in them. You don’t even have to show me the pictures from today. Do you have more?”

“You want to see my other photos? They’re of birds and stuff like that.”

“I fucking love birds. And I mean that.”

You blink. “Oh. Okay. Me too.”

“I didn’t see you in class this week,” he says.

“I was sick.”

“That sucks, I’m sorry.”

You nod. You don’t tell him why you were sick. He doesn’t need to know. No one knows except Hannah. And speaking of, you can see her walking down the bleachers.

She stops next to you. “Hey! How was it?” She looks at Logan, and seems a little startled. “Hi, Logan. What’s up?”

“Hey, Wellsy,” he says. You try not to frown. It’s stupid to want Logan to have a nickname for you. Wellsy isn’t even his invention. 

“Logan wants to see my photos,” you say.

Hannah raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? I didn’t know you liked photography, Logan.”

“Oh, big time,” he says, looking at you. 

Hannah widens her eyes at you. You have no idea why. She pats your back.

“You did great,” she says. “I’ll see you later?”

“I thought you wanted to get lunch together,” you say. 

“Uh…” She glances between you and Logan. “I’ll catch up with you. I have to tutor Garrett anyway. He canceled on me yesterday.” She rolls her eyes. “Hockey players.”

“Ouch,” Logan says, nudging her.

Hannah smiles sweetly. “You and Tucker are the best players, and you can quote me on that.”

“Garrett will definitely be hearing that.”

“Good.” She squeezes your arm. “I’ll see you later, okay? Have fun.”

You watch her go, feeling lost. “She said we were going to eat lunch together. Why did she change her mind?”

“Oh, um, I don’t think Hannah meant anything by it,” Logan says. He chews his lip for a second. “Garrett’s such a diva, honestly—he’d probably whine about not studying today even though he canceled on her yesterday.”

You do know how important the philosophy midterm is to Garrett, especially since he’s currently failing. And Hannah has complained about how stubborn he is. 

“I guess that makes sense,” you say. “I’ll go eat by myself then. It’s one o’clock, so it’s lunchtime.”

“I could come with you.” Logan clears his throat. “Uh, if you want, I mean. No pressure. You can say no.”

“Oh. No, I’d like that.” You smile. “And I can show you my photos, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, sounding breathless. “Please do.”

Logan has three chicken thighs on his plate.

“Hockey season,” he explains as he sits. He bought your food with one of his meal swipes. You told him he didn’t have to; he said he wanted to.

You sit opposite him with your own food. Nothing had seemed appetizing, but you have a headache, which is your body’s way of telling you that you really need to eat. Sometimes you don’t feel hungry, but logically you have to eat at least three meals, so you try to time eating around the same time, so you don’t have to rely on faulty signals that never arrive.

And when Hannah eats with you, it helps, because then you aren’t distracted by other things, like listening to music or watching a show. You can’t do those things in front of another person, because it’s rude. When you eat alone, you frequently forget you’re supposed to be eating. And by the time you remember, the texture or temperature of the food has changed, and it’s no longer appetizing. 

“Eating that much chicken doesn’t make you feel sick?” The thought of eating that much meat in one sitting makes you want to vomit. Not to mention the chicken ick. Chicken is an extremely unsafe food—if you detect a hint of tendon or fat, you can’t eat it.

Logan shakes his head. “Nah, I’m hungry. Dean can easily tear up, like, five of these.”

He starts eating, scooping the chicken with the gravy, peas, and potatoes in one forkful. You watch, fascinated. Eating probably wouldn’t be such a chore if you could eat like that. 

You were going to try and convince Hannah to go to Taco Bell with you today because that’s the only thing that sounds edible today, but since you’re with Logan, you can’t do that. Probably you can’t go to Taco Bell every time you see him… still, you’re tempted. Maybe you can just sit here until Logan’s done eating, and then you can go get what you want. 

You take a deep breath. No, you should eat. You should eat like a normal person. You want your headache to go away—it’s too hard to talk to people when you have a headache, and you really want to talk to Logan.

You unwrap the foil your turkey burger is in. You take it out and remove the whole wheat repulsive bread, then put the meat on your plate. You cut it into small triangles with your knife and fork. 

“Not a fan of the bun?”

You look up at Logan, hunched over the plate. You eye him suspiciously. 

“This bread tastes like cardboard,” you say slowly, watching him for judgment. “I like fluffy white rolls only.”

“That’s my favorite too. Garrett’s always on me to eat more whole grains.”

“Maybe another brand would taste good. School food tastes like slop sometimes.”

Logan laughs. “Seriously. I think I’m spoiled by Tucker’s cooking. He’s a master chef.”

You squeeze a packet of mayo, then hot sauce, then mustard. This is your trick for when you don’t want to eat: you overdo it with sauces you like, to mask whatever you’re eating. At least you don’t have to taste the turkey burger, though that doesn’t dismiss the possibility of a bad texture. 

You chew, staring at your plate. You forget you’re not alone until Logan taps your shoulder. You jump.

“Sorry,” he says. “Again. Seems like I’m always doing that.”

“I zoned out.”

“Yeah, you’re really focused on your food there.”

“I have to be, or I won’t finish it,” you say. “Nothing’s appetizing right now, so I have to make myself eat.”

You quickly finish the burger, which isn’t the worst, to be fair, but you’re not happy to eat like you were yesterday with the tater tot casserole the cafeteria served. They serve that once every two weeks, and it’s your favorite day on campus. 

“Okay,” you say. “Now I can talk to you.”

Logan smiles. “Awesome. Can you show me your pictures?”

“Oh, right. Yes, I can.”

You get out your camera and move to sit next to Logan. He leans in to look at your camera’s screen, but he doesn’t touch you. You kind of wish he would. You bet he’s warm and solid.

“Wait, go back,” he says.

You were skipping through the pictures from today’s interview. You press the left arrow to go back.

“There! Oh my God, that’s so funny. Please use that picture for the paper,” Logan says, snickering. 

It’s a picture of Garrett, mid-yawn. His face is scrunched, mouth wide open. 

“That was a mistake,” you say, but you’re smiling too. You can’t avoid Logan’s infectious giggles. 

“No, that was a gift from above,” Logan says, still laughing. “God, that’s perfect. If you don’t send it to the paper, please at least send it to me.”

“How?”

“Do you have Instagram?”

“No,” you say. “I deleted it. It made me feel bad about myself.”

“Honestly? Good for you. I’m not on it that much either.” 

“The only people who I want to talk to have my number anyway,” you say. “So it doesn’t really matter. I don’t care about random students’ lives.”

“You rock,” Logan says. “Seriously. You’re my hero.”

You can’t take it when he says things like that. All you can do is look away, your face heating up.

“Well, uh,” he continues. “This might be presumptuous of me, but… d’you wanna exchange numbers?”

“It’s not presumptuous,” you say. “I like talking to you.”

He lights up. “Same here.”

You type your number into his phone. 

Hi :) says the message on your phone.

Hi, you text back. You change his contact to Logan 🏒. 

“I’ll send the picture when I upload them tonight,” you say.

“I’m gonna terrorize him with it in the group chat. Show me more pictures? You said you saw some birds.”

“I did.” You shuffle through the photos until you find one of a hawk flying low. It’s one of your favorites; you were so proud to capture it. It’s only a little blurry too.

“That is so fucking cool, whoa.” Logan scoots closer to look, his arm touching yours. You don’t move away. “You’re amazing at this. What else did you capture?”

You show him pictures of the nearby lake, sunsets, a deer, the Boston skyline. Logan loves them all, and tells you many times how good of a photographer you are.

“You could do this professionally, seriously,” he says. “Like, you should photograph our games. You could get paid for it.”

You shrug bashfully. “I don’t know. It’s not even my major. It’s just a hobby.”

“So what? You’re really good.”

You gnaw the inside of your cheek. “Maybe.”

“Yeah, think about it. I could talk to Coach, see what’s open.”

You and Logan are pretty much curled up next to each other by now. Your arm and thigh are pressed against his. He is indeed warm, and you can feel his muscles shift against you. You think of him in the gray sleeveless shirt at the party. You couldn’t stop staring at his biceps. You want to hold them, trace the veins on his forearms. 

And when he turns to talk to you, he’s so close. Close enough to—

“Yo, Logan, you started without us?”

Raucous laughter breaks the moment. As soon as you see Logan’s teammates, you put a foot of distance between you two, shifting to the next chair over. 

“Hey, man,” Garrett says, tapping Logan's shoulder. “I thought you said you were gonna hit the gym.”

“Plans changed,” Logan says. He doesn’t look very happy to see them. You’re puzzled. 

“Hi,” Tucker says, waving at you, saying your name. You wave back.

And then Garrett and Dean seem to notice you. Dean grins, looking between you.

“Ah,” he says. “Plans changed. Got it.”

You don’t like the tone of his voice. You don’t like the way he and Garrett are smiling at each other. 

“How do you know Logan?” Dean asks. “You a hockey fan?” He winks.

“I’ve only been to one game. Logan and I are in developmental psychology together.”

“You guys study together?” Garrett asks, glancing at Logan. The table shakes, and Garrett winces. “Ow! What the fuck, man? Why’d you kick me?”

“Because you’re both asking idiotic fucking questions,” Logan says. “Lay off. She’s not a suspect.”

Your skin itches. You don’t like being watched. And they’re watching you, you can tell. They’re studying you. Figuring you out. 

“Actually, I should go,” you say, getting up. You try not to eye the others as you say it. 

“Are you sure?” Logan asks, getting up with you.

“Yes, I have finals to work on.” You gather your things, putting your backpack over your shoulders. “Thank you for the meal swipe.”

“Yeah, anytime,” Logan says. “I’ll see you in class on Monday?”

You nod. “You will. I’ve taken two unexcused absences and the syllabus said that Dr. Jenkins will demote us by a letter grade for any more than that.”

“‘S not a real threat,” Garrett says around a mouthful of rice. “They have to put that on the syllabus, but a lot of professors don’t care. Dean was absent eight times in that class.”

“And I still got a B minus,” Dean says, fist-bumping Garrett. 

Tucker shakes his head. “Yeah, and you failed the subsequent course because you missed so much of the semester, dude.”

“A win is a win.”

“So Dr. Jenkins lied?” you ask, brows furrowing.

Garrett shrugs, digging his knife into his chicken. “Kinda. More like a bluff.”

You squeeze your backpack straps, your chest feeling tight. “Why does everyone know the secret rules but me?”

All week you’ve been anxious about potentially missing a third class because of your stomach. You were prepared to chug as much Pepto Bismol to avoid that as you needed to. Has everyone else been living without a care in the world, not forcing themselves to go to class when they feel sick? You’ve gone when you were sure you’d throw up. You went to class in the throes of the worst gallbladder pain you’ve ever felt, right before you got it removed. 

Garrett stops chewing, looking at you. In fact, they’re all staring at you. Fuck. 

“Whaddya mean, secret rules?” Dean asks.

Fuck, fuck. You’re being weird. Stop it. Stop. 

“Hey,” Logan says gently, drawing your attention to him. He moves so he’s the only person you can see, blocking out the rest of the cafeteria. “If you don’t feel well, you should skip, but you aren’t, like, losing out on some grand life experience if you miss half the semester. That’s what college is for. You’re doing the right thing. It’s not a secret rule, it’s just a loophole that some assholes like to exploit.”

Dean scoffs. “Excuse me?”

Logan ignores him. “So I hope you come on Monday, but if you feel sick, rest up, okay? Tucker’ll make you soup and I’ll bring it over.”

Tucker leans around so you can see him and gives you a thumbs-up in confirmation. Your breathing gets a little easier; your shoulders soften. 

“Okay,” you murmur. You drift towards him, and Logan brushes your fingers. You aren’t brave enough to take his hand, so you touch and step back. 

“Can’t wait to see your pictures in the paper,” Logan says.

You smile. “They’re of you.”

“Yeah, but you took ‘em. Who cares what they’re of?”

You duck your head, feeling shy again. It’s a residual shyness, but sometimes you get so aware of how nice and handsome Logan is, and the fact that he goes out of his way to talk to you. Not that you’ve ever cared much about the college social hierarchy, but you aren’t immune to the charms of a hockey boy who sings praises about your photography. You’ve been trying to shake this aching want for more ever since the party. You can’t.

“Well, um, bye. I’ll drop off your wings soon,” you say.

“Stop by anytime.”

“See ya around,” says Tucker.

“Yeah, see you,” Garrett says. Dean nods. 

You mumble a short goodbye to them, still feeling flustered. You hope Logan won’t hold it against you. 

Once outside, you take out your camera outside and flip through some of the shots of Logan. You’re not sure what he likes so much about your photos, but now you’re a little glad that the editor asked you to take pictures.

“Hey, wait up!”

You turn around. Logan’s jogging toward you. 

“What are you doing?” you ask as he stops in front of you.

“Uh.” He puts his hands on his hips, breathing hard. “Um. Hm. Good question. I don’t know, actually. I just feel like we ended on a weird note in there.”

You frown, nodding. “I know. I’m sorry I was weird and freaked out in front of your friends.”

“What? You didn’t—”

“I did, Logan. I know I did. I saw Dean and Garrett’s faces. They thought I was weird. And I was, to be fair. I reacted too strongly to the absence thing. Sometimes I do that, and I don’t realize until someone’s really obvious with their face that I, you know, emoted wrong.”

“You did not emote wrong,” Logan says, shaking his head in disbelief. “You didn’t, okay? I promise that Garrett and Dean didn’t think that. They were probably just confused. You and Hannah are, you know…”

“Nerds?” you finish.

“Smart, studious, all that. And I know we keep it hidden, but we’re actually not winning any Nobel prizes in between practice. They’re not used to knowing people who worry about attendance. That’s all it was, I promise.”

You purse your lips, trying to figure out if he’s telling the truth. You can’t, so you just ask. “Do you mean it?”

“Yes,” Logan says. “I mean it.”

“It’s okay if you don’t. I wouldn’t hold it against you. Lots of people have thought I’m weird. Lots of boys. Lots of athletes. I was terrible at kickball in middle school, and people hated me for it. I would sit out early so they wouldn’t purposely kick the ball at me.”

His eyes get sad. That’s an expression you recognize on Hannah too.

“That’s fucking awful,” Logan says. “We aren’t all like that. I’m not, anyway, and the guys I hang out with aren’t either. Even if you are weird, it’s not a bad thing. Not at all.”

No one’s ever told you it’s okay to be weird. They’ve only ever denied that you are, even though you’re pretty sure you are. You can’t help it either. But Logan doesn’t mind. You’re still good. He still likes you. No one is going to kick a ball at you. 

“Okay. Can you tell me how to get to the Hawks house? I’m going to drop off your wings before Monday.”

“Sure, so you’re gonna walk down this little path here, Cooper Avenue. Then you’re gonna turn left, onto Montgomery. Then you’ll walk all the way down till you get to Pickett Lane. It’s like a dirt path. And you’ll turn right onto that. We’re the first house on the left.”

You nod, even though you’ve already forgotten all that. You’re terrible with street names. “I’ll be there.”

“I look forward to it,” Logan says, grinning. 

You start to walk away, then you turn around and return. “I actually don’t remember anything you’ve just said. I’m bad with streets and directions. Can you tell me in terms of landmarks?”

“I can absolutely do that,” Logan says softly. “Okay, you know the statue of the guy on the horse?”

“Yes, the famous horse wrangler who carried children on horseback to Briar’s first schoolhouse in 1846.”

He tilts his head. “How do you know that?”

“It’s on the plaque.”

“Huh. Embarrassingly, I’ve never stopped to read one of those plaques. I should do that.”

“He brought children to school for eighteen years. One of them ended up founding Briar University.”

“Shit, wow. That’s cool.”

“History is cool.”

Logan hums. “You’re cool. And that mentality is why Dean’s the loser for missing half the semester and you aren’t.”

You smile. “I guess so.”

“Okay, so, horse wrangler. Turn left when you get to him. Then you’re gonna walk past that student vegetable garden you photographed. Keep walking until you see that giant oak tree with the knots in the trunk. The one that students make out under. Or, uh… study?”

“Attempt to study, anyway.” You know the struggle well.

“There’s a path there, and you’ll walk until you see our house on the left.”

“Got it,” you say. “For real, this time.”

“Good. Then I’ll see you at some point, before class. If you want to stop by.”

You look at the cafeteria. “They won’t mind?”

“Nah, we always have people come over, don’t worry. Hey.” Logan bumps your arm gently. “They won’t bother you. And if you want, text me, so you’ll know I’ll be home.”

The sun is in his eyes. Speckled tree bark. Rich, black tea. You want to kiss him so badly.

“I really do like talking to you,” you say.

“Me too.” Logan steps closer. Your heart is in your throat.

“Okay, well, see you!” And you’re gone.

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: Enemies to lovers 😉, SMUT!! (Oral f!receiving), unprotected piv (wrap it before you tap it!), pet names (sweetheart and baby) and slight aftercare.

Masterlist

The first thing you learned about Garrett Graham was that he was impossible to ignore.

The second thing you learned was that he somehow made that everyone else’s problem.

You had known who he was long before you ever spoke to him. Everyone at Briar seemed to know Garrett Graham. Star hockey player. Campus celebrity. Walking ego with a sharp jawline.

Unfortunately, your schedules seemed determined to force the two of you together.

As a competitive figure skater, you spent most of your free time at the ice rink. Hockey practiced on certain days. Figure skating reserved the ice on others.

In theory, that meant you and Garrett shouldn’t have crossed paths very often. In reality?

It felt like every single week.

The first time you actually met him, you were lacing up your skates after a long practice. Garrett walked into the rink carrying his hockey bag over one shoulder.

The noise level immediately doubled.

His teammates followed behind him, laughing loudly.

You rolled your eyes. Typical.

You stood and grabbed your water bottle.

Garrett wasn’t even looking where he was going when he nearly walked straight into you.

You stepped aside at the last second. “Watch it.”

His head snapped up. “What?”

“You almost ran me over.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Pretty sure you were standing in the way.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Then he smirked.

A smug, annoying smirk.

And just like that, you disliked him.

A lot.

Over the next several weeks, your paths continued crossing. Sometimes he arrived early for hockey or had you stayed late after skating.

Somehow, Garrett always had something irritating to say.

“You figure skaters always use this much glitter?”

You glanced down at the rhinestones decorating your costume. “Do hockey players always have this much ego?”

His teammates burst out laughing.

Garrett pointed at them. “See? They like me.”

“They tolerate you.”

His grin widened.

“You’ve got jokes.”

“You make it easy.”

After that, the rivalry became almost routine. Whenever you saw him, one of you always had a sarcastic comment ready. Neither of you seemed capable of stopping.

“You know,” Garrett called one afternoon, “hockey actually requires contact.”

You adjusted your skate guards.

“And figure skating requires talent.”

Garrett placed a hand over his chest. “That was mean.”

“Good.”

“You’re scary.” He looks at you with a smile.

“I’ve been told.”

He laughed.

Actually laughed. The sound caught you off guard.

For a split second, he looked less like the campus superstar everyone worshipped and more like a normal guy. Then he ruined it.

“Still scary.”

You groaned.

“Go away, Graham.”

Weeks turned into months.

The strange thing was that your irritation started changing.

Not disappearing. Just… changing.

You noticed things. Like how Garrett stayed behind after practice to help younger players, and he always thanked the staff cleaning the ice.

It didn’t fit the image you’d built of him. And apparently, he’d started noticing things about you too.

One evening, you were alone in the rink working on a difficult combination. You landed badly.

Pain shot through your ankle.

You hissed and grabbed the boards.

Great.

Just great.

Before you could push yourself upright, a voice called from nearby.

“You okay?”

You looked up. Garrett stood near the entrance.

His expression had shifted instantly from relaxed to concerned. You hated how sincere it looked.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I said I’m fine.”

He walked closer.

You opened your mouth to tell him off.

Then your ankle protested.

Garrett noticed immediately.

“You’re limping.”

“No kidding.”

For once, he didn’t joke. Instead, he offered his hand. The gesture surprised you enough that you actually accepted it. He helped you off the ice. Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then Garrett said quietly, “You don’t have to act tough all the time.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“I’m just saying.”

His shoulders lifted.

“It’s okay to let people help.”

Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten.

You looked away first.

“Thanks.”

His grin returned.

“There she is.”

“What?”

“A human emotion.”

You immediately regretted thanking him. “Never mind.”

“Too late.”

By the middle of the semester, the two of you had reached an uneasy truce. You still argued. Still teased each other. Still acted like rivals.

But underneath it, something had shifted. The tension wasn’t entirely hostile anymore.

Sometimes you caught him watching your practices. Other times he stayed longer than necessary.

you often found yourself looking for him when you entered the rink.

Which was ridiculous.

Completely ridiculous.

At least that’s what you kept telling yourself.

Then came the party. And suddenly everything got a lot harder.

It was one of those massive college parties people talked about for weeks beforehand.

Music.

Crowds.

Too many people packed into one house normally, you avoided those kinds of events. But your friends had spent days convincing you.

So there you were.

Standing in a crowded living room.

Questioning every decision that led you there.

“You look miserable.”

You froze. That voice.

Turning around, you found Garrett leaning against the wall.

Of course.

Because apparently the universe enjoyed tormenting you.

“You would know.”

He laughed. “You came.”

“So did you.”

“Fair point.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The music pounded through the house. People danced nearby.

Yet somehow the conversation felt oddly private. Garrett looked different outside the rink.

More relaxed.

Less guarded, and his hair was slightly messy.

His sleeves were rolled up.

You hated that you noticed.

“You staring?” he asked.

Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t start.”

His grin widened.

“You’re annoying.”

“You keep talking to me.”

Unfortunately, he had a point.

You hated that too.

Over the next hour, your friend groups merged naturally. Conversations flowed.

People moved between rooms. And somehow you kept ending up beside Garrett.

Every time.

Neither of you seemed particularly eager to leave.

At one point, everyone else disappeared toward the kitchen. Leaving the two of you alone on the back porch.

The cool night air felt refreshing after the crowded house. Garrett leaned against the railing.

You stood beside him.

For once, neither of you spoke immediately.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable.

Just different.

Finally Garrett glanced over.

“You know, when I first met you, I thought you hated me.”

You laughed.

“Thought?”

“Okay. Bad wording.”

“Very bad wording.”

He smiled. The expression softened his entire face.

“I couldn’t figure out why.”

“You couldn’t?”

“No.”

You stared at him.

“Garrett.”

“What?”

“You walked around like you owned the entire campus.”

“I do.”

You groaned.

“There it is.”

He laughed.

“Sorry.”

“You aren’t.”

“Not even a little.”

The two of you smiled.

Then the smiles lingered. And suddenly neither of you were joking anymore. Something changed. The atmosphere shifted.

Garrett looked at you differently. Not like someone he argued with between practices.

Just… you.

The realization sent your heartbeat racing.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I actually like talking to you.”

Your stomach flipped.

“That’s unfortunate.”

His smile grew.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because I like talking to you too.”

For the first time all evening, Garrett looked genuinely caught off guard.

You couldn’t help smiling.

“Didn’t expect that, huh?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“You enjoy surprising me.”

“You make it easy.”

The familiar exchange felt different now.

Softer.

Warmer, and neither of you looked away.

The distance between you suddenly felt very noticeable.

“You know,” Garrett said, “I think we’ve been doing this backwards.”

“What?”

“The whole enemies thing.”

You laughed quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His eyes remained locked on yours.

Your pulse accelerated. The world seemed to shrink. Just the two of you standing beneath the porch lights.

Just this moment.

Nothing else.

Garrett took a small step closer.

You didn’t move away.

Neither of you were smiling now.

Not because anything was wrong.

Because suddenly this felt important.

Real.

“I don’t actually think you’re annoying anymore,” he admitted.

You raised an eyebrow.

“Only took you months.”

“You?”

You hesitated.

Then sighed dramatically.

“I suppose you’re slightly less terrible than I originally thought.”

His grin returned instantly.

“There it is.”

You laughed. And that was his downfall.

Because Garrett stared for a second too long. Then another.

And suddenly the air felt charged.

Your breath caught. His expression softened.

The noise from inside the house faded into the background.

“You know what?” he said quietly.

“What?”

“I think I’ve wanted to do this for a while.”

Before you could ask what he meant, Garrett gently cupped your cheek. Giving you plenty of time to pull away.

You didn’t.

Instead, you found yourself smiling. Then he leaned in.

The kiss was soft.

Brief.

Tentative.

Nothing like the arguments and teasing that had defined your relationship. When he pulled back, both of you looked equally stunned.

Then you started laughing.

Garrett laughed too.

“That wasn’t the reaction I expected.”

“Shut up.”

“So we’re back to insulting me?”

“Always.”

“Good.”

His smile lingered.

Yours did too. A few minutes later, you found yourselves walking back toward the house together.

Hand brushing against hand.

Neither of you quite willing to let the other go. The moment you stepped inside, the music and noise rushed back around you.

But it didn’t matter.

Because every time you glanced at Garrett, he was already looking at you. The former rival who had somehow become something else entirely. Something better.

He reached for your hand.

You squeezed it.

A smile tugged at your lips.

“Still think you’re annoying,” you informed him.

“Still think you’re scary.”

You rolled your eyes.

Garrett laughed and pulled you gently closer as the two of you disappeared down the hallway together.

You end up pushed against a random closed door of an unoccupied room. Before you can even think Garrett’s lips crash back onto yours while your tongues fight for dominance.

His soft and swollen lips dip down to the pulse point of your neck, sucking softly causing you to let out a small desperate moan. His knee is positioned in between your heat, only causing you to become more aroused as he continues leaving marks on your neck.

“You look so beautiful like this, all worked up f’me.” He whispers with an ear to ear smile. “stop teasing me Garrett.” You spoke obviously annoyed with his actions.

He pulls you from the door and lays you down on the bed, staring down at you with a smirk. “Are you gonna take my pants off? Or are you gonna keep staring.” You said with a laugh.

He took that offer very quickly already unbuttoning your jeans and pulling them down to your ankles. “Happy now sweetheart?” He said, his voice masked with lust. “Yeah..” you said with a breathless smile. He stared at you for a moment before throwing off his shirt to some random corner.

He rips your jeans all the off along with your shoes, before settling between your thighs, his huge hands holding both sides of you. You feel embarrassed by the very visible wet patch on your panties. “Look how soaked you are baby..” he says as he places soft kisses over your clothed pussy. “Garrett please..” you moan from the lack of skin to skin contact.

He hooks two finger under your panties and pulls them all the way off your soft legs, and the he kisses his way back up to your heat. Soon he licks a long stride through your lips which makes you shiver at the contact. “Please don’t stop—“ you whine, looking down at him to meet his perfect brown eyes. He soon takes your clit into his mouth sucking gently, but he’s surprisingly good at it. You feel yourself slipping away into pleasure as he continues eating you out like his life depends on it. “Oh—Garrett I’m gonna come.” You moan softly tangling your hands into his curly hair. “Let go sweetheart. I got you.” His voice was so reassuring that it made you feel safe.

You came with a loud moan as you back arches slightly off the soft surface. Garrett comes back up from between your legs and captures your lips in a kiss once more before unbuckling his belt. “You ready?” He looks into your eyes for consent, you nod, still recovering from your last orgasm. “I need words baby.” He strokes your cheek softly, “yes” you whisper softly.

He strips down his pants and boxer, and his hard cock, already leaking pre-cum hits his stomach. You stare at his length, not only surprised but worried. “Will it fit..?” You question with a slight uneasiness in your voice. “We’ll go slow baby, don’t worry.” He lines himself up with your pussy, slowly pushing in. You moan of pain that quickly becomes pleasure as he bottoms out inside you. His painfully hard cock hitting depths you didn’t even know could be reached.

He finds a steady rhythm allowing his hips to slam in and out of you. “So good— Garrett” you moan whilst wrapping your legs around his waist. “You feel so tight baby, wrapping around my cock do good yeah?” His hips thrust into you faster. “Y-yeah.” You respond to his question even though you can barely think for yourself.

“I’m so close Garrett—“ you moan while looking into his eyes and creating scratch marks onto his back. He started to chase his own release as well as making you come. “Come with me sweetheart”

Your orgasm hits you harder than ever before as you moan his name like a prayer. He collapses onto of you after his own release.