๋࣭⭑𝒜𝓎𝓁𝓊 🪽

You knew he would be there and it didn't take long to find him.

Logan was standing next to the kitchen island, talking with Dean and some other guys from the hockey team, with a beer in his hand. As always, he looked ridiculously handsome.

His eyes met yours. Logan raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised. He looked you up and down without hiding it, and for a second you felt your heart race. Then he smiled.

“Wow… Wonder Woman,” he said, walking over with a smile. “You look incredible.”

He gave you a warm, strong hug, the kind of hug friends or siblings give, but for you it meant so much more. When he pulled away, he kept his hands on your waist for a moment.

“Seriously, that costume looks really good on you. Since when have you been hiding that body?” he teased, laughing.

You knew it was just a joke. For Logan, you had always been just his friend. The girl he could talk to about everything, the one who listened when things weren’t going well or when the team lost an important game.

And even though it hurt, you had accepted your place. Being close to him, even if only as a friend, was better than nothing.

“Come on, I’ll get you something to drink,” he said, naturally taking your hand and leading you to the kitchen. “What do you want?”

You accepted with a smile and followed him. Logan made you a strong drink with vodka and cranberry juice, just the way you liked it. When he handed it to you, his hand returned almost immediately to your waist, resting there casually while you talked.

You stayed chatting for a while about the party, the team’s last game, and random things. Logan didn’t remove his hand from your waist. His fingers moved occasionally, as if he wasn’t aware of what he was doing, but that constant contact made your pulse race.

Suddenly, a familiar voice pulled you out of the conversation.

“There you are!” Mia, your friend, exclaimed, appearing with a huge smile. “Come on, let’s dance! You can’t stay here all night.”

Mia took your hand and started pulling you toward the living room where the music was louder. You looked at Logan with an apologetic smile.

“I’ll leave this with you,” you said, handing him your almost full glass.

Logan took it, but for a second his hand lingered on your waist, as if he didn’t want to let you go yet. He finally released you.

You walked away with Mia, and as soon as you reached the center of the room, you started dancing. The music was catchy and you moved with confidence, feeling how the costume accentuated your curves with every movement.

Not even five minutes had passed when a tall, blond guy approached you. He had an easy smile and good moves. Without saying much, he started dancing in front of you, getting closer little by little. You followed his rhythm, laughing and enjoying the moment.

From your position, you could clearly see the kitchen. And there was Logan, leaning against the island, holding your glass and staring at you.

He wasn’t taking his eyes off you.

He watched you dance with the blond guy, his jaw slightly tense and a serious expression you rarely saw on him. His eyes traveled down your body as you moved, stopping on your legs, your waist, and how the corset hugged your figure.

And you… liked it.

You liked it a lot that he was looking at you like that. So instead of moving away from the blond guy, you kept dancing with more energy, moving your hips to the rhythm while occasionally making eye contact with Logan.

You continued dancing with the blond guy, enjoying his attention and especially Logan’s intense gaze from the kitchen. For a few minutes you felt powerful and desired, but then everything changed.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw that Logan was no longer alone. A brunette girl dressed in a short police costume had approached him. She was laughing at something he said and had her hand resting flirtatiously on his chest. Logan was smiling at her, that easy, charming smile that hurt you so much when it wasn’t directed at you. He even put an arm around her waist while talking close to her ear.

Your stomach twisted.

Suddenly, all the fun disappeared. The warmth you felt just seconds ago turned into a cold pang of disappointment. You looked down and stopped dancing.

“I’ll be right back,” you told the guy with a forced smile.

You quickly moved through the crowd, feeling a lump form in your throat. You grabbed the first glass you saw on a table, took a long sip, and kept walking toward a quieter area of the house, near the stairs.

You hadn’t gone far when you felt a hand on your arm.

“Hey, are you okay?” the guy asked, having followed you. His expression was concerned.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you replied, trying to sound convincing. “I just… needed some air for a moment.”

He stepped closer, looking at you with interest. You didn’t say anything else. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe the disappointment, or maybe the desire to forget that Logan would never see you the way you wanted… but when he leaned in, you didn’t stop him.

His lips met yours. The kiss started soft but quickly became more intense. You placed a hand on his chest and he pulled you closer by the waist.

Suddenly, the guy was yanked backward.

“What the fuck?” he growled.

Logan was there. He had pushed the blond guy hard enough to pull him away from you. His expression was dark, jaw tight and eyes narrowed.

“Get lost,” Logan told him in a low, sharp voice. “Now.”

The blond guy looked confused and annoyed, but upon recognizing John Logan, one of the hockey team captains, he decided not to cause trouble. He raised his hands and walked away muttering under his breath.

You stood frozen, heart pounding, staring at Logan who was now standing in front of you.

Logan looked at you, still with that expression, and before he could say anything, you exploded:

“What the hell is wrong with you, Logan?” you snapped, furious. “Who do you think you are, coming over here pushing people and pulling them away from me?”

You didn’t wait for his answer. You turned around and started walking through the crowd, your heart beating hard from anger and humiliation. You went up the stairs without looking back. You tried the first door in the hallway: it was locked. The second one opened. You looked inside, saw the room was empty and dimly lit, and walked in, closing the door behind you.

Or at least you tried.

Logan was faster and stuck his foot in before you could close it completely. He entered behind you and closed the door.

“Why did you do that?” he asked, clearly upset.

You turned to face him, still angry.

“Why? Because you have no right to interfere with what I do! Who do you think you are to push a guy away from me just because you feel like it?”

Logan took a step toward you, jaw clenched.

“I don’t like seeing you kissing just anyone.”

You let out a bitter laugh.

“How ironic! Downstairs I saw you looking very comfortable with that police girl. You had her hand on your chest and you were hugging her like it was nothing. And now you come here telling me this?”

“That has nothing to do with it,” he replied sharply.

“It has everything to do with it!” you exclaimed, raising your voice.

Logan frowned.

“Why?”

You stayed silent, breathing heavily, and looked away.

“Why?” he repeated, taking another step closer.

You remained silent, your heart pounding in your throat.

Logan moved even closer until he was right in front of you. His voice dropped, more serious and deep:

“Tell me why.”

You closed your eyes for a second, feeling like you couldn’t keep it in any longer. The words came out almost in a whisper:

“Because I love you, Logan…” you confessed, your voice trembling. “Because I hate seeing you with other women, touching them, smiling at them… when I want you for myself. Because I’ve been in love with you for over a year and you only see me as your friend.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Logan stared at you, as if your words had hit him hard. His expression changed completely.

Suddenly, something shifted in his face. Without saying a word, he closed the last distance between you, took your face in his hands, and kissed you.

It was a quick, intense, and desperate kiss. As if he had been holding back for a long time and couldn’t anymore.

You were completely surprised, eyes open for a second, but you closed them almost immediately and kissed him back. You placed your hands on his chest and let yourself go, the kiss growing deeper. His lips were warm and firm, and he kissed with an urgency you never imagined.

When you finally pulled apart for air, Logan rested his forehead against yours, breathing heavily.

“I’ve been a complete idiot,” he murmured in a husky voice. “I’ve wanted you for a long time, but I was so stupid I didn’t even realize it. I thought you were just my friend… until I saw you kissing that guy downstairs. I almost died of jealousy. I couldn’t stand seeing you with someone else.”

His words hit you straight in the chest. A mix of relief, surprise, and happiness washed over you. You let out a soft, almost incredulous laugh as you looked into his eyes.

“Really?” you asked, laughing.

Logan nodded, with a crooked smile that melted you.

“Yeah… really.”

Without thinking twice, you were the one who kissed him this time. You stood on your tiptoes, wrapped your arms around his neck, and kissed him with everything you had held back for over a year.

Logan responded immediately, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you tighter against his body.

The kiss became more and more urgent. Logan’s hands roamed your back anxiously, sliding down to your waist and pressing you against him. You matched his intensity, pulling at his black t-shirt to take it off. Logan helped you, lifting his arms, and the garment fell to the floor.

Your hands explored his chest and hockey-toned shoulders while he searched for the clasp of your corset. With fingers slightly clumsy from desire, he unhooked it and let it fall. Then he unzipped your blue shorts, sliding them down your legs along with your underwear.

When you were completely naked in front of him, Logan pulled back a little to look at you. His eyes traveled over your body with a mix of desire and awe. He swallowed hard and murmured in a husky voice:

“Fuck… I don’t understand how I was stupid enough not to do this before. You’re perfect.”

His words made you blush and smile at the same time. Logan didn’t give you time to respond. He lifted you easily, holding you by the thighs. Instinctively, you wrapped your legs around his waist as he walked toward the bed and gently laid you down on the mattress.

He positioned himself on top of you, resting his forearms on either side of your head. His body was warm and heavy in the best way. He kissed you again, this time slower but with much more hunger. His lips moved down your neck, leaving hot kisses while one of his hands roamed your waist, your hip, and up to your breast.

“I’ve wanted this for so long…” he whispered against your skin before kissing you on the mouth again.

Logan kissed you slowly, as if he wanted to savor every second. His lips moved down your neck while his hand caressed your body gently: tracing your waist, moving up your ribs until he took one of your breasts with care. His thumb brushed your nipple, making you sigh.

He positioned himself between your legs carefully, still wearing his jeans. You could feel his erection pressing against you through the fabric, but he kept going slow, kissing your collarbone and moving down to take your other nipple into his mouth.

“Logan…” you whispered, arching your back.

He looked up, his eyes dark with desire.

“I want to take my time,” he murmured against your skin. “I don’t want to rush with you.”

But you no longer wanted calm. You had wanted him for over a year, imagining this moment. You tangled your fingers in his hair and tugged gently so he would look at you.

“I don’t want you to go slow,” you said breathlessly. “I want more. I want you… all of you.”

Something changed in his expression. A crooked smile appeared on his lips and his eyes darkened even more.

He stood up for a moment to remove his jeans and underwear. When he returned on top of you, completely naked, you felt his hot skin against yours. His erection pressed against your entrance, hard and warm.

Logan kissed you deeply as he guided his cock with one hand, rubbing the head against your wetness. He entered slowly at first, inch by inch, stretching you carefully. You let out a moan against his mouth when he filled you completely.

“Fuck…” he growled, closing his eyes for a second. “This is… the best feeling in the world.”

He began to move with slow, deep thrusts, pulling out almost completely before sliding back in. Every time he pushed forward, a moan escaped your lips. Your hands roamed his back, feeling his muscles tense with every movement.

But you wanted more.

You dug your nails into his back and lifted your hips to meet his thrusts.

“Harder, Logan…” you begged.

He let out a low grunt and increased the pace. His thrusts became faster and deeper, hitting a spot inside you that made you see stars. The sound of skin slapping filled the room along with your moans.

Logan lowered his head and kissed your neck, biting gently while he kept fucking you hard. You could only moan his name. Every thrust made you tremble.

You felt your body tightening more and more around him.

At one point, you placed your hands on his chest and pushed him gently. Logan understood immediately and fell onto his back, taking you with him. You straddled him, positioning yourself on top. Without wasting a second, you sank down onto him in one smooth motion, drawing a deep groan from him.

You started moving eagerly, riding him with a steady rhythm. Logan’s hands gripped your hips, helping you move faster, watching you with dark, hungry eyes while your breasts bounced with every thrust.

“Just like that… exactly like that,” he growled through gritted teeth. “You’re incredible.”

The room filled with your moans, the sound of skin colliding, and your heavy breathing. Logan moved one hand up to caress your breast while the other held your hip firmly, guiding your movements when you started to tire.

You were close. Very close. And by the way he clenched his jaw and looked at you, he was too.

Your movements became faster and more desperate. Logan held your hips tightly, thrusting up to meet you with every downward motion. The pleasure grew almost unbearable, tensing every muscle in your body.

“Logan…” you moaned, digging your nails into his chest.

“That’s it, baby. Let go,” he growled, his voice rough and broken. “I want to feel you.”

With a few more deep thrusts, the orgasm hit you hard. Your body clenched tightly around him as you moaned his name, trembling on top of him. The sensation was so intense that for a few seconds you lost track of everything.

Logan didn’t last much longer. With a guttural moan he gave you several hard thrusts from below, holding you firmly against him as he came inside you. His body shuddered beneath yours, jaw tight and eyes closed in pleasure.

You both stayed still for several long seconds, trying to catch your breath. Slowly, you collapsed onto his chest. Logan wrapped his arms around you immediately, holding you close while you were still connected.

The silence in the room was broken only by your heavy breathing. Logan gently stroked your back, running his hand up and down tenderly. He kissed your forehead, your temple, and then your lips with great care.

“I’m never letting you go again,” he murmured against your hair, his voice still husky but full of emotion. “I was an idiot for not realizing what I felt sooner… but now that I have you, I’m not letting you go. I love you too much to lose you again.”

You lifted your head to look at him. His blue eyes watched you with a sincerity you had never seen before.

“Really?” you asked softly.

Logan smiled gently and caressed your cheek with his thumb.

“Yes. I love you. I’ve wanted you for longer than I want to admit, I was just too stupid to see it. But not anymore. You’re mine now… and I’m yours.”

He kissed you again, this time slow and deep, sealing his words. Then he adjusted you more comfortably on his chest, holding you tightly while his fingers continued tracing your back with affection.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two — "Fuck you"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fuck you," he whispered.

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

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

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

Three — "Fuck off"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Four — "What the fuck"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Five — "Well, fuck"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Six — "Fuck"

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

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

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

​Logan stepped out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seven — "Fuck it"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

this almost made you choke.

you: right because we do a lot of studying

garrett: mhm we do

garrett: what would you think about helping us both

garrett: at the same time

you: interesting

garrett: it is

garrett: but that’s too vague of an answer for me

you couldn’t believe he was going to make you admit this, but you knew he wouldn’t even consider it without being certain.

you: yes

garrett: yes what?

you: yes i want to

you: help you both

you: at the same time

garrett: good girl

garrett: i’ll think about it

now, it was officially impossible to stop thinking about it. the fact you didn’t know when made it so much harder. you already noticed the way logan looked at you and now, every little interaction was setting your body on fire. watching him chew on the back of his pen in class, crack his knuckles, lick his lips, everything made you ache.

and garrett… something about how open he was to this made you more desperate for him than ever.

the weekend finally came, so did your usual hang out at their house…

“garrett! this is a brand new top!” you complain at his drink that made its way spilled down your shirt.

“oh, please. it’ll come out. why don’t you head upstairs and dry yourself off? let me just help everyone else out and i’ll meet you in a minute.” garrett says with a wink.

the wink is the only thing that stops you from huffing. after all, you need him after this week so you’re more than happy to skip upstairs. except in his room, you find logan sitting on the bed.

“oh. h-hey. sorry– my shirt got a little wet.” you say caught off guard at finding him in here.

“i can see that.” logan says with a laugh, eyes darting away from your chest quickly even though you know he saw and have heard enough.

he pulls off the hockey tee he’s currently wearing, handing it to you without a word leaving him only in grey sweatpants. it takes so much strength not to eye him up and down for long.

“oh, thanks.” you say shyly, before turning around to take off the wet shirt. you hear him move, possibly to get out of your way and you can’t stop yourself. “actually, do you think you can help me get this off? the hooks are kinda tricky.”

“course.” he responds. he moves behind you before pulling all of your hair to one side, to expose the back hooks of your top. his warm fingers quickly brush your neck before finding the top button. at first you wonder if you’re overthinking every touch, until he starts to speak.

“y’know, you sounded really pretty the other night…” he mutters breathily in your ear. his bluntness catches you off guard.

he always seemed shy around you, but i guess that was technically before garrett gave permission. the first hook of the top opens with even just another inch of your back feeling exposed to him floods your stomach with butterflies.

“oh, right. sorry about that. i forget how thin the walls are.” you come up with nervously, holding your breath at how close he is. another hook comes undone.

“hm, really?” he asks playfully. “kinda sounded like you wanted to me to hear. i mean you’re always loud… trust me. fuck… especially when you beg– but something was different. wasn’t it?”

before you have to come up with a response, you’re interrupted by garrett who you almost didn’t hear sneak in. the sound of him locking the door behind you makes it click that this was a plan all along. if your face wasn’t already bright blushing red, it is now.

“there’s our favorite girl… god, you poor thing, got you so soaked. huh?” garrett mocks, chuckling at how your eyes look like a deer in headlights. he plays dumb at the play on words. “i mean the top, doll.”

as logan holds the last hook along your back closed, just two fingers holding it from showing your whole bare skin. he nods his head to the shirt in your hand now being gripped tight, “you still want to cover up?”

“or… we can show logan here what you’ve been thinking about… what all that noise is about.” garrett says, face to face with you now. he runs his hands through your hair looking into your eyes, his darkening with dominance.

“please.” you manage to get out.

“please what? gonna have to get specific if you really want it that bad.” logan teases, nipping down at your neck making you squeal.

“please, fuck me. both of you.” you admit. logan snaps the last hook of your top letting it drop to the floor with a cocky grin.

“atta girl. see, logan… look. when you want to keep her quiet, you just gotta keep her mouth full.” garrett says, gently pushing down on the top of your head to get you on your knees. you obey quickly turning around to face logan who’s already unbuckling his jeans.

“fuck. good idea. should’ve thought of that…” logan groans as you eagerly take his cock into your mouth. garrett’s hands grip your hair making you let out a choked moan around him.

you make eye contact with logan as you take him, heart fluttering as he lets out satisfied breath of relief. after all, you’ve been driving him crazy for weeks. “g-god. fuck yes” logan sighs in pleasure.

“she gets excited… not too much, sweetheart. didn’t show him the best part yet.” garrett taunts. you’re pulled away from his cock, making your own drool hang down your chin. you feel filthier than ever, and you love everything about it.

four strong hands on you all at once drives you crazy, to where you can’t even tell which is which as they pull you to the bed. one tugs your skirt down to the floor, another yanks down your panties.

you get on all fours on the bed, as both of their mouths explore your skin. garrett bites along your neck, certain to leave possessive hickeys. logan is much more gentle with his tongue tracing along your thigh until he reaches your pussy. his tongue pokes at your clit softly making you sigh in pleasure, until he quickly takes it away. “please,” you beg.

“nah. you teased me for weeks behind that damn wall. think i’m gonna give you everything you want that easy? garrett spoils you too much.” logan says, giving your folds one last teasing lick before backing off even though he probably punished himself more doing so. garrett’s laugh feels evil creating goosebumps along your skin.

laying your head down on the bed with your ass up in the air, you turn your head to catch eye contact with logan behind you. he’s right, garrett spoils you. if you want it, you’re going to have to show him how you always get your way. after all, he apparently already knows what your begging sounds like.

“please, logan… i’m sorry… sometimes it just feels so good. then i get loud on purpose because i want you to fuck me too. please… i won’t wake you up anymore, i promise. i’ll be so good.” you plead, letting your eyes flutter with desperation. you know you’re as exposed as you’ll ever get right now, spread out for two guys and begging like a whore. but you need it, and you’re not ashamed anymore.

“fuck— what do you think garrett? sincere?” logan asks, refusing to look away from your eyes. he doesn’t want to think about how hard it’s going to be to probably have to forget them after this, refusing to waste a second. garrett reaches his hand to feel how wet you are, before responding “very.”

logan wastes no time at that answer pushing in to your entrance, groaning and throwing his head back immediately at the feeling. “fuck. if i didn’t hear it every night, i wouldn’t believe you were fucking her. so tight.”

garrett cups your face with one hand roughly making you look up at him, now with his other hand on his cock just inches away from your face. “she’s such a good girl, isn’t she?”

you cry out at the feeling of logan’s cock filling you up, dripping wet now as he slams in and out of you. garrett holds eye contact with you as he watches you take it, letting you enjoy it for a moment before he puts you to work.

you can’t help but smile as you look up at him, mumbling a “thank you” as he lets his best friend rail you. he smirks back as he rubs his thumb kindly along your cheek.

garrett’s cock fills your mouth, as you let out muffled moans around it. he grips your hair hard to keep hold while logan’s thrusts rock the bed too. the sound of both of their grunts is enough to send you over the edge.

your ears ring and your vision blurs, as you’re sent into pure bliss. you could hear a faint “fuck, yeah she’s cumming.” from one of them but are too fucked out to focus on which one. logan’s lips encouragingly kiss along your back.

your orgasm sends both of theirs quickly behind. logan pulls out of you, shooting his warmth along your back. your mouth floods with the familiar taste of garrett’s cum, swallowing every drop in obedience. your body falls apart on the bed, feeling sensitive in every part of you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two — "Fuck you"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fuck you," he whispered.

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

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

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

Three — "Fuck off"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Four — "What the fuck"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Five — "Well, fuck"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Six — "Fuck"

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

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

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

​Logan stepped out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seven — "Fuck it"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was Beau and Deans big birthday weekend. A weekend that had been marked in everyone’s calendars since the moment invitations came out. 

Your boyfriend was confused when you said that you and one of your friends opted to be a duo because he thought he would have been your logical pairing. But when you refused to tell him anything about your costume he should have known that something was up. 

And something certainly was because when you walked in, arms locked with your friend Logan finally realised why you had kept this from him. You were dressed as Poison Ivy and you may as well have gone out of a wet dream. 

The green corset that you paired with a little skirt and your black boots made him freeze “oh my god dude you’re so down bad!” Tucker laughed as his eyes landed on you. 

Your friend was dressed as Harley Quinn and Tucker then shut up when he realised that she was hot “if you will excuse me boys.” Tucker sent them a salute before he picked up another cup of beer to give to you. 

It made you laugh how quickly your boyfriend found you “told you he loves ya.” Your friend teased you seeing how your eyes brightened. 

You elbowed the younger girl “go.” You gritted through your teeth as you motioned to the football player that she had been hooking up with the week before. 

Logan held your cup out to you “my lady.” He smiled as if he hadn’t seen you in weeks. 

When he literally saw you at the end of the game just hours before “why thank you kind sir.” You giggled as you softly nodded taking the cup from the boy. 

His hand was quick to slide around your waist “miss me?” You teased as he rolled his eyes “you know it.” He mumbled as he kissed you. 

Garrett was stood talking to Dean when he watched the interaction go down “still don’t know how you’re okay with that.” The blonde shook his head knowing that if Summer was in your place he’d kill Logan with every chance that he could get. 

Your brother sighed as he shook his head “he makes her happy.” Garrett shrugged as he knew he couldn’t ruin the kind of love that the two of you had. 

Well that and when he tried to forebode Logan from seeing you, the puppy dog eyes from the two of you drove him mad after day two “they’re gross.” Dean shook his head as he gagged. 

Logan pecked your lips as you rambled on about some part of your costume you were worried you wouldn’t pull off “that’s because you are incapable of a long term relationship.” Garrett laughed when the blonde shoved him. 

You giggled running your fingers along Logan’s shirt “so you’re a bird?” You cocked your head as you were trying to understand his costume “an eagle baby.” He corrected you as he puffed his chest out. 

Your tongue darted out of your lips as you tried to figure out what to say “that’s literally a bird sparky.” You shot back crossing your arms over your chest. 

Logan’s eyes dropped to your corset, immediately seeing how it pushed your boobs up “my eyes are up here.” You teased the boy who immediately turned red “can’t a guy just enjoy how good his girl looks?” 

That practically did it for you. 

He always had some stupid rule that 48 hours before a game he wouldn’t touch you because it was one of his superstitions after the two of you had sex the one time and hours later he played and got ejected. 

So you were ready to jump his bones now as you felt like you were the hottest person alive “y’know after last night you kind of left me high and dry?” You rubbed your chin between two fingers. 

Since Logan said he wouldn’t touch you, you thought that phone sex was a good middle contender. But instead the boy hung up on you as quickly as he answered when he heard you moan his name. 

He frowned “you know I’ll make it up to you.” He rubbed his thumb in a circular motion on your hip. 

His lips nipped at your earlobe, “c’mon baby.” Logan mumbled “let me show ya what the bird from the bird and the bees knows.” 

Your eyes lit up when he said it “so you are a bird!” He pulled away with a sigh “I’m telling you I want to fuck you right now and this is all you are taking away from it?” Logan grumbled as his lips hovered over yours. 

You grinned “how am I meant to know that you’ll do a good job.” You teased him but as his eyes grew darker, you knew he took it seriously. 

He twirled a strand of red hair from your wig between his fingers “last time I checked you never complained.” He grumbled against your mouth as you giggled into his kiss “well what’s one more customer satisfaction test?” You asked as you shrugged. 

And just like that, with one more peck to your lips. His hand locked into yours as you two slipped upstairs to get to the room he claimed for the night. 

“You know he’s going up there to bang your sister?”

Garrett’s hand tensed around his cup so hard he almost cracked it “can we not use the term bang when we’re talking about my sister.” He groaned as it made the blonde snicker. 

Dean had a shit eating grin plastered on his face “would you rather have me say he’s gonna fuck her senselessly?” If they weren’t in public and Hannah was mere feet from them, Dean’s head would have been shoved against a wall. 

So instead he glared at him “I will drown you if you don’t shut up.” 

Upstairs neither one of you were any wiser as to what the boys downstairs were talking about “remind me to never buy something that cheap again.” You whined as you yanked the itchy wig off of your head. 

Logan leaned against the now shut door “gotta say that this is the real look.” He pointed to your hair net. 

You pulled it off of your head and threw it at the boy who laughed “c’mon baby you look cute.” He shook his head. 

If only he knew how quickly he’d regret those words because he was the one who had to get you out of all of it. 

You couldn’t understand how it was that he was able to lace his skates with such precision yet struggled with the laces of your corset “how about we cut you out of it?” He grumbled as he was in nothing but his boxers and you had this and your panties to get rid of “you dare.” 

You glared at him through the mirror as he laughed looking back at you “let’s all just be fucking glad that I got it undone.” He swore he could have cheered when he finally got you out of it. 

Watching as he let the fabric drop from your sides before he was quick to spin you around “fuck me you look good.” Logan huffed out a breath as he took in the sight of you. 

You grinned as you let your hands rest on his shoulders “thought you were meant to know what the birds and the bees were already Mr Bird.” You teased making him roll his eyes. 

His head dropped so that his lips were close to yours “an eagle remember.” He didn’t give you time to respond as he kissed you. 

His tongue swiped across your lower lip and the moment you let out this soft moan he didn’t think twice when he picked you up. Your legs wrapped around him on instinct as you enjoyed how the new angle let you kiss him. 

The boy carried you over to the bed as if you were nothing more than some clothes out of the dryer, tossing you onto the bed as you squealed, “god you’re perfect.” He muttered not wasting any time as he climbed over you, letting your leg rest between his. His teeth grazed at the skin on your neck as it made you squirm. 

“Tell me what you wanted me to do to you last night.”

His words made you look at him “huh?” You cocked your head as you were confused, “when you called last night.” Logan sucked on your earlobe. 

It made your eyes practically roll into your eyes “what were you thinking of as you fingered yourself?” His hand pressed against your clothed cunt, causing your hand to wrap around his wrist.

Sure you guys had good sex, great sex even. Sex in his car, sex in your room, sex in the bath (that was a personal favourite of yours), but you had never had done something like this before. 

Your mouth felt dry as your cheeks were warm “hey-” Logan took your silence as something that was negative “it’s just me okay?” 

His sweetness made you nod, letting your lips softly form a smile “I thought about it being your fingers.” Your words made his cheeks grow warm. 

He let out a deep breath as he smirked, “and what was I doing?” His voice felt dangerously low as he placed a string of open-mouthed kisses against your throat. 

You began to drive your hips against his hand, wanting to feel some kind of relief, “ah ah baby use your words.” He cooed as he kissed your lips. 

It felt almost sweeter than before as he looked at you again “you were getting me off.” Your cheeks felt flushed with embarrassment as you swore his eyes flickered with an idea. 

His fingers danced over the hem of your panties “please baby,” you cried out as you arched your back into the bed beneath you. 

Logan almost thought that your sheer level of desperation was cute. He would have fully believed it was cute if he didn’t feel like he was right there with you in it “I gotta cum.” Your words almost made him laugh. 

He knew you couldn’t without him anymore, no matter how hard you tried. It seemed that he ruined your cunt not only for any future man but also for you “let’s get you out of these then?” You didn’t need to be asked again as you forced your hips into the air, allowing him to pull your panties down your legs. Logan smiled when he saw your desperation. 

You rested on your elbows as you leaned forward to kiss him “please baby.” You begged, wishing that he’d stop taking the time to take you all in. 

He brought two of his fingers up to your mouth as he tapped at your lower lip “gotta make sure you’re ready for me.” He murmured as your lips instantly wrapped around his fingers. Bobbing your head as if it were his cock in your mouth instead. 

It made him grunt, pulling his fingers from your mouth as he watched a glob of saliva follow, the trail breaking over your tits. He ran his fingers up and down your slit, making sure to graze over your clit in a way that made your whole body respond “you’re being mean.” You whined making the boy look at you “you don’t think calling me last night was mean?” 

He didn’t wait for you to answer as he let his fingers into your cunt. Slowly stretching them out as he moved them back and forth in and out. 

Logan watched as your eyes rolled back, enjoying the new feeling of fullness, “so good.” You mumbled as you brought your hips up to meet his thrusts, thinking about what you were imagining when you called him. 

The boy ran his tongue across your jaw, making your skin shiver as nerves coarsed through your veins.

He watched as your thighs tensed around his wrist “you look so pretty doll.” Logan cooed as he sucked at your earlobe, “don’t stop,” You shook your head as you arched your back. 

The boy let his free hand land next to your head “ain’t going anywhere.” He nodded as he smirked. 

Incoherent whimpers escaped from your lips as you felt him curl his fingers, making his palm hit your clit “let them hear you doll.” Logan grumbled as he forced your mouth open “gnahhhh.” You moaned as you felt your toes curl.

Logan engulfed you in a kiss as he forced your legs open with his knees “I won’t last.” You warned, feeling a tightness form in your core. 

Your cunt was slick against his fingers as he hit your sweet spot “did I let you cum in your pretty little mind?” Logan asked as he leaned down to your tits. 

He let his lips nip at your skin. Leaving a trail of sloppy kisses down your chest. 

The boy reminded you of what started this “yes please.” You begged, letting your head dig into the mattress as you moaned. 

Your fingers gripped at his hair “make a mess around my fingers.” His voice was soft as he kissed you again. 

His cock throbbed against the comforter and he really didn’t think he could last much longer “fuck Johnny.” You moaned as your eyes screwed shut. 

Your hands cupped your boobs, rings grazing over your nipples as your legs shook. His lips swallowed your moans as you came, your ears rang as the boy fucked you through your high.

Logan pulled his fingers from your cunt while you were still regaining control of your breathing. He didn’t hesitate to slot his fingers into his mouth as he lapped at your release. 

When you saw what he was doing, you swore that you were going to cum again “you gotta fuck me while I lay here.” You announced making him throw his head back as he laughed. 

He leaned down to his jeans to grab a condom from his wallet. 

Logan swore that the sight of you laying on a bed waiting for him to fuck you was never going to get old “how did I get so lucky?” He asked as he rolled his condom over his cock. 

He crawled back into the bed as he pushed your legs towards your chest “wait,” you stopped him as he leaned down to kiss you. Your legs shifted to rest on his shoulders “ah you want to try this huh?” He asked as he ran his fingers along your thigh. 

You grinned as you shrugged, “don’t blame me blame my brain.” You caught your lip between your teeth as you looked at him. 

Logan looked at you like you were the only person on this planet that mattered. 

And when you saw how his torso tensed, practically itching to slide into you “god do you know you’re hot.” You groaned as he slid his cock into your cunt. 

The boy laughed “you do know that you’ve already got me right?” As he eased himself in, slowly bottoming you out as he let his head fall backwards “no need to flirt with me anymore.” He teased you as he scoffed. 

You enjoyed the way your legs burned at the new way that Logan stretched out your walls “you’re lucky I’m under ya.” Your words got caught in your throat as your eyes fluttered. 

He smirked as he shook his head “you’re lucky I’m fucking ya.” He forced out a harsh breath as he watched how your cunt swallowed his cock. 

You moaned as you nodded “asshole.” You forced out the words as he picked up his pace. 

Logan woud have usually given you some kind of cocky response. The way he loved to push your buttons when he fucked you. But tonight, he just wanted to enjoy it. 

The way your cunt would pull him back in each time he pulled back should have been borderline pornographic. The way it squelched right before the sound of skin slapping bounced off the walls. The party downstairs is now nothing more than just an afterthought. 

You were obsessed with the feeling of his cock dragging along your walls. How the head hit the sweet spot in your cunt over and over again. Logan continued to kiss your skin as if he wanted to check you were still there. His head rested in the crook of your neck “god you’re perfect.” He babbled as he pumped his cock in and out of you.

He swore he was going to cum as he groaned, “all mine.” Your cunt clenched around him, making his head buzz.

The room felt warm as you were slick with sweat “all yours.” You nodded, making Logan squirm. 

To hear you say that made him feel as if he was dreaming when you moaned, “go on baby.” He murmured when he licked the shell of your ear. 

You cried out a whimper as you shook your head “wanna feel you make a mess on my cock.” It sent you over the edge as your eyes rolled back. 

Stars painted your vision as you came. Logan wanted to fuck you through it but he could barely take it himself as he feels your cunt clamp around his cock. He barely processed that he was cumming as your body shook against him, as he felt his cock practically get sucked dry.  

Logan’s body practically went limp against you as he groaned. As you started to come back to earth you raked your fingers through his hair, softly tugging on the ends so that he was forced to look at you. 

You kissed his lips as you ignored the way your thigh cramped “I love you.” You mumured into his lips as he grunted in agreement, his cock throbbing as your body jumped under him.

It’s an awful habit Dennis has. And he should kick it. But he just can’t. It’s not even the dopamine release and the addiction to it that keeps him from putting down the cigarette, though that obviously plays a heavy role in it. No, he knows it’s bad for him. That’s why he can’t stop smoking.

Stress and worry clutch him by the throat and strangle him. He has never caught his breath and has therefore stopped chasing it. He can’t remember the last time he had an effortless intake of air. He chokes and chokes and chokes, and he wonders how he makes it through to the next day. His lungs burn as what little oxygen he can swallow combusts into flames, and it feels like this… all the time. Maybe less when he isn’t at work, but, for the most part, he is in a constant state of breathlessness.

In the mornings he wakes with invisible bruises around his neck, along with his seemingly permanent eyebags, and goes into work, where almost ninety-nine percent of everyone else there has the same bruises. Some are visible, unlike his, and more prominent than others because patients assault hospital staff—he has been extremely lucky to avoid such a fate thus far—and the expectation is that they just take it. With every drag of his cigarette, at least he’s the one in charge of stealing the air from his lungs and setting his throat on fire.

And he’s not the only one to find solace in such a nasty habit. Dana used to smoke. She has years of hospital experience under her belt as a charge nurse, and she only just retired her last pack. She knows what it’s like.

(There’s gotta be somethin’ else.

At first, he doesn’t think she’s speaking to him. But no one else is out here with them, and so she must be speaking to him. Still, he looks to his side and behind him, heavy snow coming down in thick chunks past the overhang of the emergency bay, just to be sure.

Whaddya mean?

Dana drops her cigarette to the ground and stomps it out. He knows better than to tell her not to litter.

Look at us, kid. You think we’d be out here freezin’ our asses off for a smoke if it weren’t for what’s back in there?

What’s back in there? he asks, stupidly.

Hell, Whitaker. Hell.

He hums around a drag of his cigarette, the ensuing exhale heavy in the air with both his frosty breath and the smoke. It makes sense. Hell is hot. We’re just cooling down.

She chuckles. The sound makes him smile. He hasn’t heard that from her in a while. Not since Driscoll a few months ago. He’s not good at a lot of things, but he’s good at pretending to be okay. But maybe Dana used to be good at it too.

While turning to head back inside, she says, you got me there. But you know what I mean.)

He slogs through the front door and lands face down on the living room couch, backpack still on his back, sneakers untied and still on his feet. He needs to shower. And make dinner for the both of you because you’re coming over later. And he needs to confirm with Trin if she’s staying the night at her friend’s because he doesn’t want her walking into what the two of you will get into after a day like today (and a day like yesterday and what will be a day like tomorrow).

He doesn’t do any of that, though. Not just yet. His nose fills with the familiar scent of old cigarette smoke trapped in the fibers of the couch, and he lets it steep for a bit.

When the scent molecules are no longer recognizable to his brain, he knows he’s had enough and ejects himself from the couch, pulling his phone out from his pocket to text his roommate.

>> will you be back home tonight?

<< why? is your girlfriend coming over?

>> yes. like i told you yesterday.

<< i won’t be home.

<< try not to set the place on fire while i’m out, hucks.

The shower water is scalding on his skin, just as he likes it. Back on the farm, he didn’t have the luxury of hot water at his fingertips. Sometimes it’d be ice cold, other times lukewarm at best. His family never did end up replacing that janky water heater. Maybe when he goes back to visit, he can buy them one as a gift. He can afford it now.

If he goes back. Though he has intentions of working in rural medicine, he likes Pittsburgh. He likes being away from home. He should return his mom’s calls, though. It’s the least he can do.

If Dennis stands under the water long enough, with the temperature set to its highest, his skin pinks up in scattered patches along his arms and down his legs, sensitive to touch. The effect doesn’t last long, about an hour or so after stepping out from under the water, but it’s almost as if he baked out in the sun for too long.

After a shift like today (and the shift like yesterday and what will be like the shift tomorrow), a shower like this is just what he needs.

Dinner is simple. Spaghetti and frozen meatballs and tomato sauce with that parmesan cheese that looks like dandruff. You knock on the door not too long after he turns off the burner, and he opens it to your weary but sweet, heaven-sent face.

You greet him with a simple, “hey.”

“Hey,” he says back.

You open your arms to hug, and he falls into you, your scent, warm vanilla and sweet honey, enveloping him in its own hug. The comfort you bring him feels better than a smoke ever could.

You two eat dinner in relative quiet, occasionally commenting on your cases from earlier today or something another one of your coworkers said. You tell him about your friends’ birthday party next weekend and how you’d like him to join you so you can finally introduce them to your boyfriend. He says, “sure, I’d love to go,” and means it.

What you two have is easy, like breathing air, and for him, with you, he can do it even around the familiar hand that has his windpipe in its grip.

You wipe your lips with a napkin, and it comes back red with the tomato sauce. He licks his thumb, reaches over, and swipes the corner of your mouth at the small bit that was left behind, popping it into his mouth and licking it clean.

“Thanks. Are you almost done? Do you want to…”

“Uh, yeah, I’m finished. Leave the dishes. I’ll run the dishwasher later.” He rubs the nape of his neck, stalling a bit, before reaching over and clasping your hand in his and leading you to the couch. You take a seat, and he tells you, “I’ll be right back.”

He comes back from his room to you with his pack of Marlboro cigarettes and a lighter, trepidation beading along his brows. No matter how many times you two do this or you reassure him you won’t, he always has the fear that you’ll find him disgusting or weird. Or even worse, a horrible boyfriend and person.

He takes a seat beside you, the cushion of the thrifted couch sinking low under his weight. He helped Trin, or more like did most of the heavy lifting, in getting it up to their floor and through the door into their apartment not long after he moved in. In return, she gifted him this lighter.

It’s in the shape of a hammer, and the claws act as the pusher. She thought it was in good taste, considering he had also helped her fix up a lot of the broken appliances that their landlord wouldn’t bother sending someone over for. It ran out of fluid ages ago, but he didn’t have the heart to throw it out and replace it. He refills the fluid instead, as tedious as it is.

He holds out the box of cigarettes and lighter to you, which you gently take, brushing your fingers over the back of his hand reassuringly.

You pull out a cigarette, setting the box in your lap, and flick the lighter, lighting it. You bring it to your lips and take a few puffs of it, making sure the flame is properly lit and burning evenly, before asking Dennis, “where do you want it?”

He holds out and pats his inner forearm. “Just here.”

You nod, a small smile cracking from your lips, and flick the ashes of the cigarette onto his forearm. You hold it high above both of your heads, so by the time the ash hits his skin, it’s cool enough to cause no more than a superficial burn, affecting just the surface of skin. The powdery mixture of chemicals land hot on his forearm, burning him for just a second before going cold and falling away.

When you two first slept together, you gasped in horror upon seeing the few cigarette burns on his upper left arm, over the skin of his deltoid muscle. They were long healed but clearly there, roundly scarred and a tone lighter than his natural skin color. It was a few too many for you.

Dennis, what happened here? Did someone—

—It’s not what you think. It was me. But it won’t happen again.

Didn’t it hurt?

Well, yeah. That’s kind of… why I did it.

As two doctors, you both knew the risks that came with cigarette burns. He was already smoking them. He didn’t need to chance a skin infection or sepsis on top of lung cancer. He couldn’t care less about the scars; he had many of them as the youngest of four brothers, but he knew that he had been toeing a dangerous line and had reeled himself back before he fell. Seeing how sad you were as you looked at the scars in turn made him sad.

They had been a mistake.

Later, you came to him with a safer alternative for fire play: no judgment, no lectures, just unbridled support and understanding for something he felt like no one, except Trin, maybe his mom, could ever understand.

Dennis didn’t know where the impulse came from, though he knew how they had made him feel afterward. Good, if but for a fleeting moment. But upon further reflection, it was likely born from when he was younger and watched his mom put her lit cigarettes out on herself, as if it were normal.

Don’t worry, baby. It looks scarier than it is.

Trin doesn’t like the smell of smoke in the apartment, and Dennis gets it. He’s used to it by now, but she isn’t, and he’s not going to subject her to what he knows is the foul stench of cigarette smoke. So he made sure to open the window in the kitchen before you got here—it also helped air out the smell of the spaghetti he made—and the one connected to the little porch as well as in his bedroom and filled a bowl with white vinegar to leave on the coffee table. The air filter in the corner of the living room was already turned on. She hasn’t made any complaints as of late.

The danger of something lighting aflame is always there, and really, this should be taken outside, but this is the ritual. What you two have done from the start, sitting on this couch, though admittedly stupidly. He cannot change the ritual. It’s hard to tell the ash burns from the dark colors of the couch, and he’ll vacuum the remnant ash later. No big deal. The couch came with a smell—Trin had gotten a good deal on it—and quite frankly, it is better off with a little bit of the cigarette smoke scent rubbed off on it.

You’re not a smoker, not a heavy one, at least, so once the ash from your initial few puffs has already landed on his arm, with a twist of your wrist, you hold out the cigarette to him, by the pointer and middle finger, to take a few drags. He leans his head forward just a bit, closing his lips around the end of it and inhaling. His nose and throat burn as he sucks the smoke out of the lit end of the roll of nicotine through the porous filter into his mouth, taking a breath in so it infiltrates his lungs and exhaling out, away from your face.

The nicotine hits his system immediately, giving him a light buzz, his senses heightened. It won’t last long, probably just a minute or two past once the cigarette is done, but that’s not the point of this.

You take the cigarette away, flicking more of the ash onto his forearm. The pain is like getting stabbed by the needle of a tattoo gun, only in a smaller, more fleeting dose. He’s gotten used to it; he has felt worse literally stubbing the lit end into his skin back when, but along with the head rush of the nicotine, it feels nice. Or doesn’t feel nice. Both, he supposes.

What he is sure feels nice is that you’re here with him. You don’t have to do this with him; it’s something he can do on his own, but, truth be told, he wouldn’t be able to find it in himself to. This is a him and you and a you and him thing.

He reaches the arm not currently being rained upon by ashes out to you to rest his hand on your knee, rubbing it to soothe you but also himself.

“Thank you for this,” he says. “For being here with me.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know.”

The cigarette is over halfway through, and at this point you typically hand it over to him to finish off on the porch while you wait for him in his bedroom before falling asleep together. His forearm is bright pink and irritated, but just as with the shower burns, these marks too will fade away, like nothing happened.

You surprise him tonight when you ask, “could I try?”

“Try?” he repeats, brows raising to his forehead. “This?” he holds his arm out to you in emphasis, glancing between it and you. “No. No way.”

You roll your eyes with a little huff he can’t help but find cute. “Oh, so you’re the only one who can have a pain kink? C’mon. It’ll be fine.”

He knows you know it’s not just a kink for him, but still, he can’t help the blush that spreads all over him. When you’re intimate together and you scratch your nails down his back deep enough to draw blood or bite his neck and leave ugly bruises or do as you’re doing now and use him as an ashtray… He’s turned on by it all. But that’s love, isn’t it? You bring that out of him tenfold.

“Let’s stay on topic, shall we?”

You shrug. “I’m just saying.”

Dennis sighs, squeezing your knee in an effort to refocus you to the conversation. “Where are you going with this. Why do you want to do this?”

“I just want to feel what you feel, Dennis.”

You wait for his response with pleading eyes, tugging on his heartstrings. He would never want to hurt you. Or make you believe that he would want to. But when you look at him like that, he can’t help but begrudgingly say, “fine.”

You make a little gleeful noise, adjusting yourself on the cushion and handing him the rest of the cigarette. He gently places your arm over his lap, glancing at you for your consent, which he is met with with a nod, and reignites the flame with a few puffs before tapping the ashes high over your arm.

The ashes flutter down, and when they land on your skin, you jump at the contact, hissing a bit. He already regrets this. He reaches over and sets the rest of the cigarette on the actual ashtray beside the bowl of vinegar.

“Shit, are you okay? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have let you—”

You shake your head. “—I’m fine. I just wasn’t expecting it to hurt that much, I guess. I just wanted to try it once. Please don’t feel bad.”

He breathes a sigh of relief, saying, “I won’t,” but he will for a short while. He supposes this is sort of how you felt when you first saw the scars on his upper arm. Guilt-ridden and scared. “Let me finish this off, and I’ll meet you in bed.”

“Can we try one more thing?” you return your arm to your lap and sit up on the couch, bringing up your legs to sit sideways on your feet.

“What is it this time?” he asks, fear in his voice.

“Can you put it out on my tongue?”

His heart stutters for a moment before beating normally again. “Baby…” he trails off. “I really don’t think—”

“—Please?” you whine, grabbing the crook of his arm and shaking it a bit. “For me?”

He relents. Again. How could he not? Still, he sighs and says, “just this once,” in as stern a voice as he can muster.

You nod. “Just this once.”

He looks at you for a few seconds, just in case you change your mind (you do not), and then scoots closer to you, his outer thigh knocking into your knees. “Can you gather some spit for me? Pool it on the tip of your tongue.”

You do as he says, watching as he retrieves the cigarette, taps the excess ash into the ashtray, and draws the lit end closer to your mouth.

“Open,” he says, and you open your mouth and loll out your tongue.

With his free hand, he draws you even closer to him by the nape of your neck, close enough that the tips of your noses touch, smoke and warm breath mixing between you two. He places the cigarette on the saliva-wet tip of your tongue, blushing as he meets your eyes. Hot ash meets a wet tongue, a sizzling noise, and then silence with the snuffing out of the flame. He twists the roll between his fingers, thoroughly stubbing it out, and then lifts it from the wet muscle.

Though your tongue is blackened with ash, you avoided getting burned. A breath he didn’t know he was holding falls from his lips, his shoulders sagging in relief.

Never. Again.

Your tongue returns to its rightful place in your mouth when you say, “thank you for indulging me, Dennis,” with a small smirk and a gleam in your eye.

Maybe once in a while. If only to make you happy.

In a sudden movement, he places the dead cigarette on the ashtray and kisses you, hands cradling the sides of your neck and jaw, tasting the ash on your tongue. You moan into the kiss, wrapping your arms around him and scratching his nape lightly with your fingernails. The flavor of you and the ash and the bit of mint lip balm still clinging to your lips even after dinner goes straight to his cock. He would have you ride him out here if Trin hadn’t made it a rule to keep bodily fluids in their respective bedrooms. She lets him smoke out here, though, so he can’t complain too much.

He bites your lower lip and parts from you, a string of saliva connecting you both before breaking in half. He whispers against your lips, rubbing his nose against yours, “go. I’ll run the dishes and clean up a bit here.”

You nod, pecking him on the cheek. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Dennis feels a lot better now than he did when he got home. As he did last night and as he will tomorrow night because you’re here and will be there with him, taking and giving in tandem the bittersweet tang of pleasure and pain.

He rejoins you in the bed a little time later. You have changed into some of the spare clothes you leave in his closet and have fallen asleep. He wraps his arms around your middle, lightly caressing the exposed skin where your shirt has ridden up, warm and soft and all his, pressing kisses to the nape of your neck.

Every night ends like this, with you two in each other’s arms.

Ritual.