honey 🫧

perv!hollis who shares everything with you. his lips wrap around the same spot on the cigarette you were smoking earlier, and you’re often sharing the same drink. he doesn’t care about backwash. it’s pretty romantic if your saliva contaminates the next swig of the drink he takes. it’s like an indirect kiss when you take a sip after him, your lips on the same spot his were previously on the bottle or cup or whatever.

perv!hollis who is so helpful. he’s been watching you try on outfits for the past hour, assisting you in finding the best one for an event. he hasn’t glanced at his phone once. he’s too preoccupied with watching the fabric of each dress you try on cling to your curves, and when you strip down to your underwear out of frustration if you don’t like an outfit. he tries giving you input, but it’s all the same “wow, that looks amazing on you, baby.”

perv!hollis who’s favourite part is when you ask him to zip it up because it’s an excuse to touch you. he’s looming over as he stands behind you, tugging the zipper up with ease. his large hands rest on your hips, trailing up your sides as he admires you in the mirror. “i think this is the one,” he whispers, his warm hands squeezing your hips as he pulls you back into him.

perv!hollis who tries to convince you to sit on his lap any chance he gets. it’s movie night, and you’re both hanging out with friends, why don't you sit on his lap? it’s more comfortable than the floor anyway. on a trip and the car’s crowded, you should save some space and take a seat on his lap instead.

perv!hollis who bites his lip, holding in the moans that threaten to spill when you stir in his lap. his cock hardens in his pants, and he can feel your warm cunt through the layers of clothing. he’s surprised you haven’t freaked out yet, calling him a pervert and telling him to fuck off. he realizes too late you’re doing it on purpose each time you ‘accidentally’ grind against him. he can’t even tell you to stop moving without risking a whine slipping out and drawing attention to you two.

perv!hollis who jerks off to your pictures on instagram. he finds himself scrolling through your account when he misses you or when he’s horny. porn doesn’t cut it because even though he might find a pornstar that looks like you, it isn’t you, so he opens up instagram and finds an isolated picture of you instead. when he finishes, the post-nut clarity hits, and he’s filled with guilt. he tells himself it’s the last time, but it’s a lie. he’s going to be fisting his leaky dick to the innocent images of you the moment he feels a little bit pent up, or when you post a new pic.

perv!hollis who’s cock you struggle to take because he’s so big. he’s not even all the way in when his tip kisses the back of your throat. you have to wrap your hand around the length of him you can’t take. he’s enamoured at the sight of tears slipping down your cheeks and the wet gags that emit since he insists you take more of him, knowing you can’t. he’s mean, fucking into your mouth and bullying his cock further down your throat because selfishly he wants to cum, and ‘cause he thinks it’s hot when you’re practically choking around him, drool slipping down your chin and your glassy eyes staring up at him.

perv!hollis who smirks when you tell him “it’s too much,” but he’s only halfway inside you. your poor pussy is filled to the brim with him, leaking all over. even with him eating you out like a starved man and working you open with his long fingers, you’re still whining he’s too big. his cock pulses when you whimper about how “you can’t”, but you can, and you have multiple times. you’re a mess on his dick, the only words you can manage are how fucking huge he is, and that he’s splitting you in half.

perv!hollis who presses down on your lower tummy, asking, “can you feel me here, pretty girl?” when he finally stuffs you full of all of him. you gasp out a whiny “yes” as his thick cock stretches you out. everything about hollis was huge. from his dick, to his large palm, moving from your belly to grip your face, squishing your cheeks as he forces you to hold eye contact with him as he ruts desperately into you.

perv!hollis who’s pull out game is weak as fuck. without fail, hollis manages to finish inside you when you tell him not to. “i won’t come inside you this time,” he says—an empty promise. in the heat of the moment, it’s difficult to slip out of you, not when your cunt is convincing him otherwise. he tells you it’s an accident every time. he doesn’t mean to fill your pussy to the brim with his cum. he swears it’s a mistake anyone could make, but he makes sure he’s buried deep inside you when his orgasm nears. “i’m sorry, baby. i didn’t mean to. you feel so fucking good i can’t help myself,” he apologizes even though he never made an effort in pulling out in the first place.

perv hollis...

garrett hated the word possessive. it made him feel like some insecure loser harboring a complex bigger than his daddy issues. 

it’s something he didn’t want to be. something he was working on. fuck, it was something he had gone to therapy for. 

he’d spent countless hours processing why he felt insecure in his relationships. unpacking the destructive behaviors he was so prone to. 

and then you showed up. little, unassuming you. 

you — who styled your hair with lacy bows, smelled like a freshly baked lemon meringue pie, and smiled at him so sweetly your cheeks would turn bubblegum pink. 

he was fucked. 

had been since the first time he saw you on the quad. you’d been handing out flyers to join your volunteer group at the hastings animal shelter. 

he knew there was no going back. he was irrevocably fucked. 

that was months ago. now that he has you, old habits are bubbling up to the surface. 

he really doesn’t mean to be like this. he knows he shouldn’t be caging you in. keeping you all to himself. shutting others out. 

he shouldn’t always ‘forget’ to charge your phone when you’re over, or shove it between the couch cushions when you’re not looking. 

shouldn’t delete the dinners you’d planned with friends from your calendar when you’re in the bathroom. 

and he really shouldn’t have your wrists tied up to his bedframe when you’re supposed to be halfway across campus taking lecture notes on kafka’s the metamorphosis. 

but he can’t help how pretty you look pouting down at him while he stuffs his tongue up your tight cunt. watching you bite down on your glossy bottom lip. he can’t find it in himself to care one fucking bit. 

you’re rubbing your wrists together against the leather of his belt. wriggling against his grip to get more friction than he’s giving you.

“such a brat sometimes,” he mutters, only half-meaning it. really just meaning to rile you up.

he pulls his mouth away from your heat and you can see the pearly sheen of your last orgasm on his stubble. “sit pretty and take what i’m giving you, baby. know you can be a good girl f’me.” 

“i am a good girl,” you huff. you jostle the makeshift cuffs, and garrett’s bedroom echoes with the sound of the buckle clattering against his bedframe. 

garrett raises a brow, and your face goes pale. “not gonna tell you again, baby.” 

he decides maybe you need a little more guidance today. he sprawls his palm against your warm belly and pushes lightly on the soft skin of it. “stay.”

you sigh contently at that, and garrett knows he’s won. he knows sometimes you just like to test his limits. make him prove that he should be in charge. that he knows best. 

but when you melt under him so easily, what you’re really after is so obvious. 

“like being told what to do, don’t you baby? just turn your brain off and be a good little fucktoy.” 

he leaves a trail of kisses up your thigh, and inserts two fingers into your weeping cunt. your soft pink walls flutter as they open up for him.

“you like being used, huh? is that it? like it when i use this pretty cunt?”

he gets his mouth back on your clit, and sucks hard. 

“yes! love it so much…wanna come so bad, daddy!”

you’re a squealing mess. heart beating out of your chest like a jackrabbit. pretty manicured hands balled up into little fists above you. he can see your brain whirring, trying to get a hold of yourself. 

you know better than that, garrett thinks. 

“tell me you love it when daddy uses you,” he hums, and the vibration of it shocks your eyes wide open. he looks up at you and marvels at how fucked out you look. pupils dilated, and drops of sweat dripping down the valley of your breasts. 

your throat bobs as you gulp, wracking your brain. trying to find your voice

“c’mon, baby.”

“love it when you use my pussy, daddy.”

you look absolutely pathetic, hiccuping and whining as he inserts a third finger.

you’re usually all soft pleads and sweet moans in the bedroom. garrett never makes you talk dirty. but you want to make him happy. always such a good girl for him.

The man waited outside.

Your stomach sank.

You pulled out your phone and called Dex. It rang once before going to voicemail, which meant he was either working or already packing his things and moving towards you. You left the line open anyway, slipping your phone into your coat pocket as you stepped back onto the pavement.

“I’m on Stanton,” you said, quiet as you could, knowing the microphone would catch it. “I’m going on the safe route, and there’s a man following me.”

You headed towards the twenty-four-hour diner two streets away. At least there were lights, cameras, and most importantly, people there.

You almost reached it, but the man caught you when you passed the narrow service road behind an apartment building. One moment his footsteps were behind you; the next, his hand gripped around the back of your coat and dragged you hard enough that the thicker collar choked into your throat.

Your keys fell from your fingers, and all you could manage was a pathetic little scream before he could cover your mouth.

His palm immediately struck your lips and teeth, crushing the sound back into your skull as he hauled you into the darkness of some random New York alley. Your heel scraped uselessly across the pavement as you bit down until you tasted blood that wasn’t yours. It worked! He swore, jerking his hand away.

Immediately, you drove your elbow backwards.

Dex had shown you where to aim for, and you were trying to retrieve it from the rolodex of information in your mind, not quite the ribs, but lower in the soft tissue. 

The man grunted, but he didn’t let go. His arm locked around your throat instead, squeezing until firework-white sparks burst across your vision.

“You stupid fucking—”

You stamped on his foot before he could finish his sentence and threw your weight forwards, turning beneath his arm, exactly as Dex had taught you.

Eventually, his hold broke.

You stumbled free and ran, but the man recovered faster than you initially expected. His hand found its way and tangled his fingers in your hair, snapping your head backwards so violently that your neck burned.

He slammed you face-first against the brick wall.

Oh. Fuck. 

A burst of pain exploded through your cheek, teeth unintentionally biting into the inside of your mouth. Warm, fresh blood flooded on your tongue, thick and metallic, while his body pinned you against the wall.

The panic bells ringing in your head turned everything white-hot. “S-stop!”

He didn’t.

No. No. You were better than this.

You reached behind blindly, clawing for his eyes, his throat, anything you could find. Your nails found skin, raking down as he cursed and drove you against the brick again.

Maybe your nose broke, you couldn’t really tell.

His hand slid beneath your coat, and that’s when your vision went red. Rage flared hot inside you, burning through every thought in your head. You threw your skull backwards and felt his cartilage collapse beneath it.

His grip loosened, howling in pain.

You spun and shoved him with both hands.

He stumbled off the curb at the edge of the service road. His ankle twisted beneath him, and he went down hard. The man managed to catch himself on one palm before his shoulder struck the pavement.

You could have run.

The diner was less than a hundred yards away. You could see its red sign glowing at the end of the road, bright as a fresh exit wound.

That was when the man looked up at you.

A sick, satisfied feeling churned in your stomach as red poured from his nose and over his mouth.

And… he was smiling.

Oh. 

He still believed he was going to win.

He pushed himself onto one knee. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

Your hand found the loose brick beside the wall, and it was heavier than you expected. Its edges bit into your palm as you lifted it with both hands.

When the man saw it, his smile vanished in an instant.

You brought the brick down across his temple.

The sound that came off it was shockingly small. It sounded like a damp knock, followed by the scrape of his body collapsing onto the road.

He rolled onto his back, blinking rapidly. One side of his face had already begun to swell around the ripped skin as a blotch of blood ran into his ear and disappeared beneath his head.

You stood over him, panting.

He was still conscious. “Wait.”

You could’ve stopped. You could’ve shown mercy. 

Instead, you struck him again.

This time, the brick split the skin above his eyebrow. Blood sprayed across your coat and speckled your face in warm droplets.

He raised one arm to protect himself.

Huh. Cute. 

You hit that too.

His arm gave beneath the brick with a muffled crunch. His forearm bent where it shouldn’t have been bent, and he screamed, the sound travelling through the empty service road.

You dropped the brick.

For half a second, the sight of his ruined arm nearly pulled you back into your logical self.

Then, his good hand closed around your ankle.

You shrieked and kicked him in the face. Your heel connected with his mouth as teeth snapped together. One of them even skipped across the pavement and vanished beneath a parked car.

He released you, but you fell on top of him.

Your knees struck the ground on either side of his hips, and your hands seized the front of his jacket. His blood made the material slippery beneath your fingers.

Before you could think any better of it, you dragged his head upwards, then slammed it against the curb.

The back of his skull struck concrete with a thick, hollow crack.

His eyes rolled, and it horrified you how much you liked it, seeing the man who wanted to touch you fucking bleed out. 

So you did it again.

Blood spread beneath his hair.

Again.

The hard crack now sounded wetter as the skin split and bone began to cave in. His body jerked beneath you, heels scraping against the pavement, but there was no strength left in it.

He made a noise through his broken mouth. You didn’t know whether it was a plea or merely air left escaping.

“You followed me!” you sobbed. “You fucking touched me!”

You brought his head down again.

The edge of the curb disappeared beneath blood. It ran between your fingers, coating your palms each time you pulled him upwards.

“I did everything right.”

Again.

“I—”

Again.

“Have—”

Again.

“A—”

Again.

“Fucking—”

Again.

“Boyfriend—”

Again.

“You—”

Again.

“Asshole—”

Again.

“He’ll fucking kill you!”

The last word broke somewhere in your throat, ragged. You were crying now, maybe. You couldn’t really tell. Your face was wet, your hands were red, and the whole world had shrunk down to the most-likely-dead man in your grip and the curb beneath him and the memory of his hand on you where it never should have been.

The back of his skull was now the shape of the concrete underneath.

You felt the structure collapse beneath your hands where there should have been resistance. It didn’t feel dramatic or righteous. All you could think was how it felt gooey in the wrong places. 

You pulled him up again anyway.

“I told you,” you sobbed, or screamed, or whispered. You couldn’t tell anymore. “I told you to stop.”

But his eyes were open and empty, staring past you at nothing, and when you tried to lift him one more time, your hands slipped in all the blood and he dropped back against the curb with a sound that made your stomach sink

That was when the anger went out.

All at once, as if someone had blown out a candle inside your chest.

You stared down at your hands and the red beneath your nails. You saw a dark smear across your wrist where he had grabbed you. “I did everything right,” you said again, smaller this time.

His face had lost all expression. Blood bubbled faintly at his lips before spilling down his cheek.

He was dead.

You knew he was dead.

You screamed as you struck him again, though you no longer knew whether you were furious or terrified.

You remembered Dex telling you never to stop until you were safe.

Make sure they cannot get back up. 

You had done everything he told you to do.

The man’s head struck the concrete one final time and didn’t bounce.

You released him.

His ruined skull settled crookedly against the ground. The road beneath him shone black-red beneath the distant streetlights, and blood soaked through your tights at the knees and dripped from your hands in heavy threads.

The dead man’s head no longer looked human.

Your stomach heaved.

You tried to stand, but your legs folded beneath you. The world tilted violently, the brick walls stretching upwards as though the road had dropped away beneath your body.

Footsteps thundered behind you, but you couldn’t turn around.

Your vision narrowed until the alley became a tunnel.

Then a hand touched your face, but this time, the touch was gentle.

His thumb swept carefully beneath your eye, avoiding the swelling along your cheekbone, as an arm curved around your waist before you could collapse fully onto the body.

“There you are,” Dex whispered.

His voice sounded distant beneath the rushing in your ears.

You tried to tell him what you had done, but your lips would not let you.

Dex’s palm cradled the back of your head, carefully nudging your nose back into place. He pulled you into him, turning your face away from the ruin on the pavement.

“My smart girl,” he murmured, stroking your hair with bloodless fingers. “You remembered everything.”

The praise sank through your heart as he felt his lips press against your temple.

“You saved yourself.”

Eventually, dazed and overwhelmed by the adrenaline crash, your eyes closed.

The last thing you felt was Dex’s thumb moving across your cheek, wiping away a tear.

—

Dex knew you.

He knew you were nothing like him.

That much had been obvious almost from the beginning, though he hadn’t understood it properly. Dex’s first instinct had always been violence. Whenever a problem appeared, his mind found that the bloodiest way was often the fastest way to solve it. Even inconveniences made his skin crawl, from a jammed drawer, a car alarm that would not stop, to a man looking at you for half a second too long across a restaurant. 

You were different.

You were gentle in ways Dex had once found impractical.  

You apologised to furniture when you bumped into it. You cupped moths in your hands and carried them outside. You left sugar water out for bees in summer and lowered your voice around frightened dogs. You once stopped walking entirely because there was a snail on the pavement after rain, and you refused to let anyone step on it until Dex moved it safely into the grass with a leaf.

He had stood there watching you then, half-annoyed, half-fascinated.

“It’s just a snail,” he had said.

You had looked up at him like he had spouted bullshit from his mouth. “It’s alive.”

From then on, he realized alive mattered to you.

Even small alive. Even when it was inconvenient .

Dex hadn’t been raised with that as a natural instinct. As a boy, he had thrown stones at birds because he found that he liked the little burst of movement. He hadn’t thought of it as cruelty then. It was just aim, maybe boredom. 

Then you bought a bird feeder for your apartment.

You hung it outside the kitchen window with such bright delight that Dex hadn’t even known what to say. You filled it every morning, scattering seed with your bed hair falling over your face, then stood there with your coffee while sparrows and blue tits flickered down. You loved them. You loved their stupid little hopping, their bright feathers.

You loved listening to birdsong most of all.

You whistled back sometimes without realising it while you watered plants or folded laundry. At night, when you were deep enough asleep that your body forgot to be self-conscious, you made the same small breathy sounds in your dreams, sweet enough that Dex would lie awake beside you and listen as he calmed down.

So instead of throwing rocks at it like he used to, he learned how to imitate their songs.

At first, only because you smiled when he whistled them. Then, he did it because you looked at him like he had performed a miracle when a robin landed on the feeder while Dex stood still by the window, unknowingly calling them closer.

Without realising, he had learned to mimic their distinctive calls.

He even stopped exterminating annoying bugs because of you. 

You were afraid of spiders, yes, but when one of them showed up in the nightstand and you screamed, hiding behind him like a shield, you would make this horrified and pleading sound because he reached for a shoe instead of a cup. To you, being afraid of the little thing didn’t mean it deserved to die. 

“Dex, no. Outside. Alive.”

So for you, he learned to trap spiders beneath glasses and slide envelopes carefully underneath them. He learned to carry them to the windowsill instead of crushing them. 

Eventually, he learned not to flick beetles off the balcony, because you worried about whether the fall would hurt them. He learned to scoop flies out of half-open windows with hands while you hovered behind him whispering, “Careful, careful,” like he was defusing a bomb.

He learned to pretend he cared whether tiny, ugly things lived.

Eventually, he cared because you cared, and caring about what you cared about was the closest thing to general empathy Dex had ever understood.

And that was why Dex knew that you could not wake up knowing what you had done.

Because you had not even wanted him to kill spiders.

How the hell were you supposed to survive knowing you had killed a man?

Dex had known that the moment you went limp in his arms, your bloodied hands curled weakly against his shirt, your body giving up its adrenaline high only after it was finally safe to stop fighting. You had passed out before he could praise you properly, even before he could look you in the eye and tell you that you had done exactly what he taught you to do.

You had saved yourself.

Dex was proud of you in a way he knew he couldn’t show when you woke up.

Especially not with the body in the trunk of his car and your clothes stuffed into a sealed black bag hidden in the closet. His own clothes in there too, soaked with blood where he had held you, smeared bleach where he had poured it over the concrete. 

He would deal with it later, when you were properly asleep, because the body could wait and you could not.

So Dex got you, half-passed out and half mumbling nonsense, home. Perhaps it was simply your mind coping on a traumatic memory.

He stripped you carefully, cutting fabric where it stuck, easing sleeves down your arms, peeling everything off your skin piece by piece until there was nothing left between you and him. His clothes came off too, though nothing was ever sexual about that, but because his soaked shirt was evidence, too. 

He washed you in the shower while you leaned against him, barely conscious, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, your knees buckling every time the warm water hit another bruise. He did this all while murmuring sweet nonsense into your ear, words he knew your body understood even when your mind was tuned out. “You did so good, baby. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

He washed you until water at your feet ran pink, then red, then thin and clear.

Your hands took the longest as he held each finger between his own, washing beneath the nails, over the knuckles, around the raw places where the brick and pavement had scraped you open. You whimpered once, so quietly he almost missed it, and he kissed your wet temple before continuing.

He had to make them clean because you would look at your hands first.

When it was done, he carried you to bed and lay down naked beside you, pulling you onto his chest before the cold could bite.

The skin to skin was its own kind of intimacy, no barrier, but his body around yours.

By 2 a.m., he had not slept. He had tried, once or twice, mostly for the performance, because if you woke up and found him sitting upright in the dark watching you breathe, you would know something was wrong. 

So he lay with you until dawn, and every time your breathing hitched, Dex tightened his hold. Every time you made a frightened sound, he kissed your head and whispered until you settled. He kept one eye on the bedroom door, one ear tuned to the street.

But mostly he watched you.

You looked smaller when you slept after fear, lashes clumping from old tears. Your mouth was swollen and a bruise was blooming along your cheekbone where the man had slammed you against brick, and Dex had to look away from it more than once because all he felt was red-hot rage. 

But it wasn’t like he could do anything. The man was already dead.

You woke up sometime around 3 a.m.

Dex felt it when you choked on a breath, curled against him, cheek on his chest, one leg tangled with his. Your fingers twitched against his ribs, and he knew some part of you had surfaced too quickly.

Your eyes opened.

Almost immediately, panic tore through you.

You jerked upright so fast the sheet slipped from your chest. 

Your hands flew up in front of your face, fingers spread, as though blood might still be dripping from them. They were clean, but you stared anyway. 

You turned them over, looking at your palms, backs, nails, and wrist.

You seemed shocked to find them… clean. 

Dex sat up behind you. “Baby.”

You flinched at his voice, and that knee-jerk reaction hurt more than he expected.

You twisted towards him, naked and shaking, eyes wide with a terror that had no full memory attached to it yet. 

Dex could see your mind reaching and clawing through fog, finding only flashes of memories. Maybe you remembered a streetlight, maybe a hand on your throat. 

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

Dex reached for you.

You scrambled back half an inch, and he frowned immediately. 

He tried to make himself look harmless, like there was nothing hidden near the closet, nothing dead cooling in the back of his car.

“There you are,” he murmured.

Your face fell, but the sob didn’t come out. It got trapped in your chest, making your whole body shake. You looked down at yourself then, at your bare skin, at his bare skin, at the tangled sheets, and your confusion quickly became fear. 

Dex moved carefully, scooting closer until his thigh touched yours.

“You were cold,” he said, pulling the duvet back up around you before you could ask. “ I had to get you warm.”

Your eyes darted around the room.

The bedroom looked normal. That made it worse. 

There was no proof of anything, no blood, no alley, no proof of anything but your body remembering what your mind could not grasp.

Dex placed one hand over your knee.

You stared at it.

He expected you to pull away, but instead your breath hitched and your whole body tilted towards him, helplessly, like a compass finding north. He gathered you before you could think better of it.

You collapsed into his lap.

Dex wrapped both arms around you and pulled you against his bare chest again, tucking your face beneath his chin. You were shaking so hard it passed into him. You pressed your hands flat to his shoulders, then curled, then opened again, like you could not stand the idea of grasping flesh too tightly.

“There,” he whispered. “That’s it. Come here, baby.”

Your breath hitched against his throat, and he felt the first wet tear hit his skin.

Then you were crying without sound, which was worse than sobbing. Violent tears shook you from the inside while your body stayed stiff with shock.

Dex rocked you slowly, enough to give your panic a rhythm to follow.

“You’re home,” he murmured into your hair. “You’re with me. No one’s gonna touch you.”

Your fingers dug into him. “I—I…,” you whispered, not quite coming out with words yet

Dex closed his eyes for half a second. “It’s okay, baby.”

Your eyes darted in a panic. “I don’t know what happened.”

He tried shushing you. “You don’t have to know all of it right now.”

“I-I don’t know, Dex.”

“I know, baby. I know.”

Your breathing grew shallow, almost choking. You tried to pull back and look at your hands again, but Dex caught them between your bodies, folding them against his chest where you could feel his heartbeat beneath your palms.

Focus there.

You did.

“I-I remember him,” you managed to say.

Dex stroked the back of your head. “Okay.”

“I remember walking. I took the right way.”

“You did.”

“I did what you said.”

“You did everything right.”

The sentence seemed to be a trigger, ripping a sob out of you.

Dex held you tighter.

“I-I did everything right,” you repeated, smaller now. “I promise.”

“I know.”

“I went inside. I waited. I called you.”

“You were so smart.”

Your face pressed harder into his neck.

“So smart,” he whispered again. “My girl, you did so well.”

You shook your head, frantic, because praise did not fit beside the images cutting through you. 

You didn’t remember much, but you saw flashes of blood and concrete behind your eyelids. 

Your breathing stopped.

His hand slid up the back of your neck and held you close. “No,” he murmured, soft as velvet. “Stay with me.”

“I saw—”

“You saw too much.”

“I… did something.”

“You protected yourself.”

“No, I—”

“You protected yourself,” he repeated, more insistent this time. 

Your fingers twisted against his chest.

Dex let his voice warm up, like honey in warm water. “You were scared and hurt and you did what you had to do.”

He felt you take the information in, but your panic continued circling it like vultures on corpses.

Dex kissed the top of your head, then your temple, then the bruised corner of your brow. “You’re okay,” he breathed. “I promise.”

You made a wounded noise, and he knew exactly what he was doing.

The kindness was not accidental, it was architecture. He was building a room inside your memory, where the bloodier parts could be locked outside until you forgot where you held the key.

“Where is he?”

Oh. So you vaguely knew there was a he now. 

“He’s in the hospital.” He lied easily. 

Dex knew this was how it would happen. One lie was enough to sound like mercy, and you would hold on to it because you trusted him more than you trusted your own shattered memory. He was making you need his version of the truth because he truly believed it was the only one that would save you.

You froze in his arms, and Dex held you through it.

“The hospital?” you whispered.

“Mm.”

Your hands clutched him harder. “He looked...”

“I know what it looked like.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face.

Dex hated it, and not because he couldn’t lie to your face. He could, he had, and would again if it meant it would preserve and protect your sense of self. Instead, he hated it because you looked so desperate for him to make the world kinder than really it was, and he loved you so much it nearly made him crueler.

He cupped your cheeks.

“Head wounds bleed badly,” he said. “You know that, sweetheart.”

Your eyes blazed into his, and he knew he made a mistake then. You didn’t remember that part.

“H-head wounds?” You breathed out in disbelief, unable to claw the memory now. 

“He was breathing when I got there,” Dex lied again.

A strangled sob left you, but it didn’t sound like relief yet. For now, it was only the body realising it had been offered a way out.

“Head wounds a-are dangerous.”

“I know.”

You hiccuped. “I thought— I remember—”

“Pieces,” Dex murmured. “You remember pieces.”

“But I saw blood.”

“There was blood.”

“On me?”

“Yes.”

Your face fell, Dex pulling you back in before the horror could.

“That’s why I cleaned you up,” he whispered, and that part, at least, was not a lie. His thumb moved slowly along your cheek, careful in a way Dex was rarely careful with anything that wasn’t you. “That’s why we ended up like this. You were shaking so hard, and I couldn’t get you warm. I tried. I swear I tried.”

His mouth brushed your temple, barely a kiss.

“I kept trying to move,” he murmured. “I kept thinking I should get you a shirt, but every time I pulled away, you reached for me again like you thought I was leaving, and I couldn’t—” His voice snagged, just slightly. “I couldn’t make myself do it. Not when you looked at me like that.”

You stared at him, still heavy-limbed, your thoughts coming back to you in pieces. It sounded embarrassingly believable, because there was a warmth in your chest that remembered him. Your hands had always found him before the rest of you caught up.

“I did?” you asked quietly.

“Yes.”

Your eyes narrowed, weakly suspicious. “You’re lying.”

Dex leaned down and kissed your forehead, lingering there like the answer mattered more than the accusation. 

“About you needing me?” His voice dropped. “Never.”

You cried harder then, finally making messy little sobs that broke against his chest while Dex rocked you, He ran his hands up and down your back, whispering into your hair. He called you precious until the word stopped sounding like a word at all. 

You shook your head.

Dex closed his eyes and held you tighter.

“You’re my girl,” he whispered. “Nothing about you changed.”

His gaze drifted once, towards the closet.

The black bag waited.

Behind the wall, beyond the apartment, beneath the ordinary morning, the dead man waited too. 

Later, he would get rid of the body. Later, he would burn what needed burning. For now, you were shaking in his lap, believing him because you needed to.

“Dex,” you whispered.

“I’m here.”

“You promise?”

He knew what you were asking.

You promise I didn’t? You promise I’m still me? You promise whatever I don’t remember isn’t real?

Dex pressed his lips to your temple and held them there. “I promise you’re safe.”

It was not the answer you wanted, but it was the one he gave.

You sagged against him after that, emptied by tears, your body surrendering. Dex eased both of you down until he was lying on his back and you were draped over him, skin to skin beneath the sheet. Your cheek rested over his heart, hand curled weakly near his ribs.

He kept touching your scalp, your spine, and the back of your neck in gently repetitive strokes until your breathing evened out. 

Eventually, sleep took you again. Poor girl, still so tired after murdering an evil man. 

Every few minutes, you twitched. Every time, Dex whispered you back down.

My precious girl, he would praise. You did so well.

At last, your body grew heavy over his, your fingers stopped moving. Your mouth grew pliant against his chest.

Dex waited for five minutes, then ten, then twenty.

Only when he was certain you were properly asleep did he turn his head towards the closet again.

He had things that needed doing.

But you stirred faintly against him before he could move, and Dex froze. Your brow pinched, your hand tightening on his skin, some nightmare threatening to pull you under.

He settled back immediately.

Not yet.

The dead could wait a little longer.

Dex brushed his mouth over your hair and smiled.“My sweet girl,” he whispered.

His hand covered yours, pressing your clean palm flat over his heart.

“You did everything right.”

He adored you for last night, even if he could never let you know exactly what you had done.

He adored the shaking, furious thing you had become when there had been no one left to save you. He adored the fact that some part of you had remembered him, remembered every warning, every lesson, every instruction, just in case. 

He adored that you had survived. More than that, in some terrible private corner of himself, he adored that you had survived violently.

He adored that for a split second, you had become him. 

But he knew you best, and he knew you weren’t made for that. 

So he would take that truth to the grave, and you would wake up tomorrow with the love of your life beside you.

You would wake up believing you had done only enough to live.

And Dex loved you enough to make that true.

—end.

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That’s why I have Ko-fi! If you request there, it’s pretty much guaranteed I’ll write it within a month of responding as a token of appreciation (keep this post in mind for July and August 2026). If I’m uncomfortable with the request or don’t think I can do it justice, I’ll let you know and we can brainstorm something else.

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Dex taglist part 1:

Your day had started with a planned 10k, which had promptly been abandoned after you twisted your ankle on a curb.

Rookie mistake.

One you know John would chide you for. He's always telling you to not run with earphones in.

You've gotta be aware of your surroundings. Especially first thing. Don't want you becoming a case.

Grudgingly, under major duress, you can admit that he has a point.

But nothing gets you through a tough run like Hole's Live Through This, so you've elected to ignore all of his advice.

It's nothing he's not used to.

Growing up in the same town, it's really a miracle that you haven't known each other for longer.

But, thanks to your sixth grade teacher and her randomised seating chart, John Logan has been a fixture in your life for a decade.

He is, undoubtedly, your closest friend.

What started with teasing and bickering had quickly grown into deep heart-to-hearts and the kind of support you could only dream of. Neither of you had stellar family lives, but when you were together it didn't matter.

Most people had assumed you'd end up together, but there's never been anything romantic between you both.

Sure, there was that one time.

When you'd just broken up with your long-term high-school boyfriend, and John had come over to comfort you, before ending the night between your legs, licking and sucking at your clit until you cried.

Both of you had agreed to never talk about it again, or do anything to jeopardise your friendship further.

That had lasted a couple of years, until Briar won the League and you'd gotten him off in the showers after everybody else had left.

You've never actually slept together, though. A moot point for most, but you feel like it holds some weight.

You're not going to be John Logan's girlfriend, and that's fine. You've got something better - you're his friend.

God, even saying that in your head sounds pathetic.

You need to get over him.

As soon as possible.

After your entirely unsuccessful run, you'd been treated to your most boring classes, made all the worse by the fact that Logan had bailed, leaving you to conquer them alone.

The apology text had been measly at best.

John. 10:32

woke up with the worst hangover

notes for today's class please??

i owe u big time

whatever you want

You'd be furious with anybody else. Hell, you would normally be furious with John.

But your car had started making weird noises when you pulled into the campus parking lot today, and you figure it's going to need some TLC.

You. 10:31

connie's sick :((( was making a weird creaking noise

Yes, your car has a name. So what?

will forgive all your egregious sins if you come and take a look at her :)

You glance back up at the professor, trying desperately to seem vaguely interested, but she lost you about thirty slides ago. Were it not for John, you would totally be failing statistics.

If he's not here, you may as well both not be.

John. 10:34. after practice? i could swing by before maxwell's thing speaking of maxwell's thing you wanna come? i can drive

In normal circumstances, that would be fine. You like Beau - a lot more than most of the football team. But one of the other waitresses at O'Malleys just transferred to NYU, leaving the rest of you to pick up her slack until they've hired somebody new.

You. 10:35. can't working the close tonight tomorrow morning?

A thumbs up reaction, and then you're left to deal with Statistics by yourself for the rest of the class.

For all intents and purposes, the rest of your day isn't quite as terrible as the start was.

You get one of your Ethics essays done in the library, and your roommate texts to say that she's visiting her boyfriend for the weekend. You have the place entirely to yourself.

It's not that you don't like her - Hayley's great. Mostly. Her cleanliness habits leave something to be desired. But your apartment is tiny, and with her boyfriend over constantly, you feel like a constant third wheel.

Even the start of your shift is pretty good. There are a couple of groups of rowdy guys, but nothing you can't handle. It's just you and Lydia tonight, the newest hire.

You slide three pitchers of draft beer across the sticky bar top, flash a sharp, customer-service smile, and cut off the loudest guy before he can even start speaking.

It's like dealing with toddlers - keep them placated, and they'll leave you be. It's an art you've practiced extensively over the years with Logan's friends.

Especially Dean.

You still remember the first time you met him - he'd spent half the night hitting on you, and then never so much as winked at you again.

Part of you wonders if John had something to do with it.

Besides, it's not like you were ever in danger of hooking up with Dean Di Laurentis. He's not your type.

You prefer your men slightly broodier. Skinnier. Longer hair. First name John, last name Logan.

Lydia, however, is drowning. She stands frozen by the register, fingers darting between options as she tries to work out what to do next. The line is growing, and her uniform is still spotless - a testament to this being her first week.

She'll reach the myriad of stains that litter your apron soon enough.

"Take the shallow end," You murmur, bumping her shoulder gently. She still jumps at the interruption. "Just do bottled beers,and I'll handle the taps."

You pour the stouts and scan the room, eyes settling on a body in the corner. He's around your age - probably another Briar student, though he could be a recent graduate.

In most circumstances, being watched doesn't bother you.

It kind of comes with the territory of being a bartender. Especially a young, female bartender, with a clientele that consists largely of men.

Something about this guy creeps you out, though.

You don't recognise him at all, which is unusual. You're pretty familiar with most of the faces that pass through here.

Maybe he's an exchange student.

It isn't until an hour later that he finally approaches the bar, ordering a gin and tonic.

He pays in cash, is perfectly polite, and insists you keep the change. His eyes also never leave yours. Not once.

"Busy night," He comments, eyes flicking towards the crowds. "You handle it well. The other girl's not doing so great, though."

A flare of annoyance washes over you on Lydia's behalf. "It's her first Friday."

"Girl like you shouldn't have to work the twilight shift on a Friday night - you got a boyfriend waiting at home for you?"

From most of your patrons, you'd accept that question as an innocent, if nosy, attempt to make conversation.

From this guy, you're terrified of the implications.

"Yeah. I do." The lie comes out clumsily, and you're sure it must be entirely unconvincing. "A hockey player."

You hope the extra detail might make the whole thing seem more believable, but you think it might just make you look more like a liar.

He smiles, a slow, knowing expression, but doesn't press it. "Lucky guy."

You fight back a shiver as he heads for his booth.

*****

Since O'Malley's is a college campus bar, it has a strict midnight curfew, even on the weekends. Most people use it as a stepping stone to parties on Greek Row or clubs in the next town over.

But after a six hour shift on top of a full day of classes, you just want to get home. The crowd begins to think, and you're endlessly glad to see that the corner where the guy was sitting is empty now. He must have left during the pre-close rush.

Lydia is leaning against the ice machine, completely wiped out. Her apron is now stained, her mascara is running, and she looks like she might cry if she has to pick up a mop.

"Go ahead and clock out, Lydia," you say, tossing your rag into the dirty linen bin. "It was a long day."

"Are you sure?" She asks, her voice small. "Don't I need to learn how to lock-up?"

You dismiss her with a wave. "We can do it another night. Go home and get some sleep," you tell her, giving her a reassuring nudge towards the back room.

She doesn't need any more convincing, scurrying out the front door. You lock it quickly behind her, one of the first things Sally taught you.

As a student, O'Malley's was once robbed at gunpoint because of an unlocked door. While a layer of glass doesn't do much when your assailant has a gun, you've still lived by her advice anyway.

You get to counting the cash, getting bored about halfway through. You've never liked maths. There's a reason you're pre-law. As your gaze drifts across the windows,your blood runs cold.

The guy from earlier is hanging out on the corner by the bar.

He's looking at you, but his body is turned towards the street, and you try to tell yourself that this is all one horrible coincidence. He's probably just waiting for a cab.

But when you glance outside again, the man is still there. He's moved back from the door, to just across the sidewalk. There's no way you can do the lock-up while he's hovering there.

Not with the way he's been ogling you all night, and the way you'd need to have your back turned for at least thirty seconds.

You also don't trust your ankle to hold for long enough to out-sprint a fully grown man.

It's been fine for walking, but anything faster than a jog makes it ache like there's no tomorrow.

You slip out your phone, trying to keep an eye on the door.

You. 00:04

johnny

are you doing anything rn?

His reply comes immediately, and you have to fight the urge to roll your eyes.

John. 00:04.

is this a booty call?

You swallow. John's been your best friend since you were twelve, and you're still not used to the teasing and flirting.

You. 00:05.

ha ha

but no

some guy's being weird at work and i'm the only one here

can you phone me on my walk home?

A sudden rattle at the door makes you jump. The guy is back, nose practically pressed to the glass. "I left my jacket - can you let me in to pick it up?"

Immediately, your heckles are raised, but when your gaze follows his hand, you see that there is a coat draped across one of the booths. Your heart sinks. "Sorry, sir - we have a policy - you'll have to come by tomorrow."

"Come on, sweetheart. It's right there. Would be so easy for you to get it for me. Be a doll."

"I'm sorry, I can't-"

"You can't? Or you don't want to?"

I want you to leave me the fuck alone. That's what you want to say. Except you have a feeling that would buy you a one-way trip to Murdertown.

So, you plaster a smile on your face, and decide you need back-up. "I really can't. My boss is a dick."

Sorry, Sally. You're not a dick. But I need this guy to back off.

He's trying the handle again, and you type one final message without looking to see Logan's response.

You. 00:06.

pls come

The guy shrugs, and for a single second you think that you've won.

Of course, you'd never be so lucky.

"I won't tell if you won't." There's something about the way his lips are curling into an almost sneer that makes your stomach churn.

"I'm going to be a while," you call back. "Really, it would be easier getting it tomorrow."

Another shrug. Another shiver down your spine. "I can wait. No big deal, sweetheart."

"I'm not allowed to let anybody in without a manager," You reply, trying desperately to keep your voice level. You think it works - the layer of glass between you makes you feel a whole lot better. "We have cameras. I'd get reprimanded."

A total lie.

While yes, the bar does have cameras - one of them hasn't worked since last year, and the other hasn't worked since the mid 2000s.

You're banking on this guy not knowing that.

His brow furrows a little, as he squints through the tinted glass of the window. "Don't cameras normally have a light on when they're recording?"

Your heart hammers as you try and come up with a lie. "Boss wanted them to be covert."

A silence falls, but the man still doesn't move. Part of you wishes he would just speak again - the weight of his eyes is too much.

God, you hope John gets here soon.

"Here's an idea - you can bring it out here when you're done. Then you're not letting me into the bar, and none of your precious rules are broken."

"My boyfriend's on his way!" You squeak out, panic overriding your attempts to be suave and relaxed.

At this point you're too scared to glance away and check your phone, but you can only pray that John's checked his phone.

******

You are undoubtedly the coolest and calmest person that Logan's ever met. Never once have you been phased in all his years of knowing you.

Which is why the final text you send makes his heart drop.

You hadn't even acknowledged his reply.

John. 00:05. oh shit want me to come? let me just tell the guys i'm leaving - i'll come and get you be there soon

When the 'please come' had pinged against his phone, he'd abandoned all hope of trying to find Dean, Garrett and Tucker in the crowded frat house. Instead, he'd sent a quick text over to Hannah, knowing she'd be the only one sober enough to reliably check her phone.

God, he's glad he's designated driver tonight.

The concept of this amount of worry on top of beer and tequila is not a pleasant thought.

He shoots off another text as he jogs across the street.

u okay? i'm omw rn.

Delivered.

No read receipt.

You always reply.

Even if it's just a heart. A thumbs up. A gimme ten mins, because you inevitably got talking to a regular on your way out.

You hate worrying people.

And John Logan is really fucking worried right now.

His phone stays dark.

The unease triples when he calls you, again and again - each time going straight to voicemail.

Finally, he makes another call, to campus police.

He's not taking any chances.

*****

You realise, with a chilling certainty, that the back-door to the bar is unlocked. Lydia had taken the trash out earlier, and the lock is so fidgety that you're positive she didn't do it right.

Blood running cold, there's a flash of movement from the front. He shifts again, peering through the glass, and you realise you have to get that door shut now.

You turn and run, trainers squeaking against the hardwood as you sprint through the empty bar, weaving between tables you've only just finished wiping down.

There's a dull ache in your ankle, but you have no time to consider it.

Please let it be shut.

Please let Lydia be more competent than she looks.

You shove through the kitchen doors so hard they slam against the wall, and the back entrance comes into view. Very decidedly unlocked.

The handle sits slightly turned, the lock not fully engaged, and a sob catches in your throat.

You grab it with shaking hands, yanking the door closed with every ounce of strength you have.

The lock sticks.

Of course it does.

"No, no, no..." You plead, fingers slipping from the handle as you tug.

You try again, forcing the handle up before twisting the deadbolt. It doesn't work.

Stress levels rising, you hit it with your palm.

Once-

Twice-

It clicks into place, and the latch shuts fully. You don't even get a chance to breathe a sigh of relief.

The handle jerks violently beneath your grip, and you leap back, trembling.

You press both hands over your mouth, trying to dampen any sounds that might escape as the handle twists again.

Harder this time.

Your vision blurs instantly, tears spilling before you can even process what's going on.

You have to get back to your phone. Call the police.

Except by the time you make it back to the front of the bar, he's resumed his vigil at the entrance. "There you are. I was starting to think you were ignoring me."

"Fuck off!" You shout. "I-I have friends coming, and they've called the police." Each word comes out as a choked gasp, barely audible.

"I don't get why you're being so difficult - I just want to be friends." His smile widens, and you think you might be sick. "You can give me my jacket, I can walk you home, and it'll be a happily ever after."

He tilts his head, studying the empty room. "I mean..." He shrugs. "We're practically neighbours anyway. It's the polite thing to do."

On watching your expression crumble, he continues. "You live on North Street, right?"

There's no way.

He couldn't know that. Could he?

Your knees give out beneath you, and you find yourself sliding down the back of the bar until you're curled into yourself. One hand clamps over your mouth to stop the sob escaping, while the other reaches for something - anything - that you could use as a weapon.

A small knife seems to be your best option about now.

Tears blur your vision, and you reach for your phone.

There are some messages from Logan, but you go straight for the phone. You have to call 911.

The signal indicator in the corner flickers.

One bar.

Then none.

No service.

*****

The only noise you can hear are your own sobs. It might have been seconds, or hours, but the fear in your body is too great to try and get signal. Instead, you're trapped on the floor, praying that Logan's last messages are true, and that he's on his way.

A knock at the door has you flinching, fingers curling tighter around the knife. Any attempts to steady your breathing are met with fresh waves of panic, and you can feel tears start to trickle down your cheek.

He can't get you.

The doors are locked.

He doesn't know about the rooftop, and even if he did - there's no way he'd be able to get there without a ladder. Besides, Sally usually locks up there anyway. You're too scared to check.

A familiar voice cuts through the silence, calling your name.

You've never been more relieved to see Logan in your whole life.

"Johnny," You sob, rushing towards the door, fumbling with the keys as you try and open it. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, and your face is buried in his shoulder.

His lips brush against your temple comfortingly, a hand rubbing at your back. "What the hell happened?"

Tearfully, you recount it as quickly as you can, John's brow furrowing with each added bit of information. "He knows where you live?"

You know that he'd like to kill the guy, but you can't imagine anybody being stupid enough to–

There's another bang from the back entrance.

He must be trying it again.

You flinch inadvertently, tucking yourself back into Logan's side. "I think that's him - he must have missed you getting here."

Logan's expression hardens. "Stay behind me."

Your fingers are still intertwined with his, as he leads you both out of the bar and round the back. You don't want Logan to scare him off before you can work out who he is.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

In the moonlight, Logan suddenly seems far taller and scarier than he is.

The guy turns, eyes widening a little when he sees you both. "What?"

He doesn't get another word out. Logan closes the distance in three long strides, grabs a fistful of the man's shirt, and slams him back against the brick wall.

"Does scaring women make you feel good?" Logan taunts, a slap of skin as he forces the guy back into the surface behind him. "Huh? Make you feel like a tough guy?"

"I didn't-"

"You didn't what?" Logan's grip tightens, another shove ricocheting through the quiet street. "You weren't just trying to break in to her place of work?"

"I-I just wanted to talk," He chokes out.

"Bullshit. You knew where she lives."

You wish you could enjoy the twist of terror on the man's face, but you're still so shaken you're not sure how you're still standing.

Logan continues his rant. "If you ever go near her again, I'll-"

He's cut off by sirens, as the campus police officers pull in beside the bar, but he doesn't let go. Instead, he lowers his voice, and leans in just a little further. "I'll fucking kill you."

*****

The police interview feels like it takes days. Recounting the same hour, over and over again until you think you're going crazy.

The only solace is John at your side, hand drawing soft circles onto your palm.

You answer the same questions hundreds of different ways.

When did you first notice him?

Have you seen him before?

Did he touch you?

You shake your head where you can, and nod occasionally. At certain points Logan answers for you, filling in the details that you can't quite string together anymore.

You learn that the intruder is a Jeffrey Collins - a non-Briar student who's earned quite the reputation for stalking girls around campus.

It makes you feel a little better, knowing that there are girls out there who have experienced the same thing.

The officer' expression softens when he notices your hands haven't stopped shaking.

"We'll have an officer contact you tomorrow," He says gently. "Since he made reference to your home address, we'll make sure the local department is informed. Do you have somewhere to stay–"

"Yes," Logan interjects. "She's staying with me."

Finally, you're both allowed to go, and Jeffrey is locked up in the local sheriff's department.

Your body moves on autopilot, allowing Logan to bundle you into the back of his truck, and head towards the house. Thankfully, nobody seems to be around when he leads you upstairs to his room.

You don't have the energy to explain to anybody else tonight.

He's immediately finding you clothes to sleep in, busying himself in a way that's almost overwhelming. You reach out, fingers wrapping around his wrist to slow him to a stop. "Thank you," You whisper. "For coming for me."

"I'd always come for you. Always."

His voice is sincere, and there's no doubt in his tone.

You can't tell who moves first, but suddenly your lips are on his, and your hands are in his hair. Sighing into his mouth, it's the safest you've felt all night.

It's nothing like the kisses you've shared before - this is full of sheer desperation. You could've died tonight, and John would've been none the wiser to how you really feel.

"I love you."

It's a gasp between kisses, murmured into his mouth, and you worry he misses it.

"God, I love you too." It's practically a growl, hands tightening at your waist as he walks you backwards, twisting at the last second so that you drop onto his lap. "Loved you for so long, sweet girl."

His kisses steal the words from your lungs,and all you can focus on is the way he feels against you. The three day stubble against your jaw, the denim of his jeans against your core.

"Was so scared of what I was gonna find tonight," He finally admits, mouth no less frantic as it makes against you. "Scared the shit out of me, darling."

"M'sorry, Johnny." Your hips roll against his instinctively, nails digging into his shoulders for balance.

"Mhm, say my name again," He hums.

"Johnny."

You pout when he eventually pulls back, lips following his movements. "What's wrong?"

Your mind is suddenly clouded with a whole host of insecurities. Maybe he was just feeling bad for you, and now the regret is setting in. He doesn't have the heart to let you down.

Maybe you were stupid to think that this wasn't going to be another one of your half-hook-ups, meant to be forgotten entirely.

You don't know if you can take anything else tonight, so you decide to beat him to the punch. "Shit, I'm sorry - that was so stupid, I just... I wasn't thinking. I can go, and we can forget-"

"Hey, hey, hey," Logan interrupts immediately. "What? Why would I want to forget the best kiss of my life?"

Now you're stumped. "What?"

"Babe, tonight has been awful. Truly, one for the books. You really think I want you to associate us having sex for the first time with that creep?"

Oh. You hadn't considered it like that.

He makes a good point.

"Here's what's going to happen," He continues, thumb reaching out to run over your bottom lip as he watches you intently. "You're staying with me for the weekend - maybe longer. We're gonna watch all those shitty rom-coms you love to take your mind off it, and then tomorrow night I'm taking you out for dinner-"

You can't help the interruption. "Where?"

Logan just laughs. "Augusto's. Your favourite. As if it would be anywhere else."

You linger for a second, the dread from earlier starting to seep from your shoulders. "Johnny, you really don't have to do all this. I'm fine. It was fine. "

He lets out a soft hum, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "Do what? Don't think there's anything wrong with looking after my girl."

My girl.

“That’s disgusting,” Garrett’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts, “At least get a cold one.”

“Meh,” he downs the rest of his drink, “Had been nursing this one for like, an hour now.”

Garrett hums, “Not much for drinking tonight?”

“No,” he shakes his head, “Not much for anything, really. Just hanging out for a bit.”

“Fair. Tough week?”

Logan chuckles, “You know it. Did Wellsy come too?”

“Yeah, going rounds trying to find a friend.” Garrett looks around the room, “Matter of fact, I better go find her. Want me to bring you a cold beer?”

“No,” he stands up from the couch, “I’ll grab it myself. Thanks, man.”

Logan heads to the kitchen, an impromptu bar made from two massive coolers, and grabs a beer out of the ice. He’s still dwelling on the fizzy feeling down his throat when he spots the backdoor leading to the backyard slightly cracked open, and a girl sitting on the bench under a few lightstrings.

Your eyes are closed, head resting on the wall behind you and seemingly taking in the nice weather, so different from the stuffy atmosphere inside. With your peaceful face illuminated by the tiny golden fairylights, Logan thinks you look like a vision. 

He’s not one to believe in love at first sight, but he does believe in talking to pretty girls.

“You good?” He says, watching your shoulders tense all of sudden, a startled look on your face. He bites back a laugh, “Sorry, just checking.”

“‘m fine,” you mutter, “Just trying to listen to what they’re playing now.”

He steps out, moving in your direction slowly, “May I sit?”

You watch him for a moment, scanning his entire demeanour before making your mind. Your eyes stop on his left hand, and he holds his canned beer up, “This is my second one,” he says, figuring out what you’re thinking, “And I just opened it. I’m not drunk, in case you’re wondering.”

Your mouth twists, biting your lip before you give him a single nod, “Okay,” you scoot over to the side, opening space for him on the bench. Logan sits on the very far corner, not wanting to scare you at all.

Nineties’ pop music plays inside the house, and Logan’s pretty sure Hannah is the one queuing the songs. He watches as you bob your head in the rhythm, “You like it?”

You hum, “Yeah. Playlist’s good, it’s just too loud inside.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, “They tend to be.”

“You’re a regular at the hockey team house parties?” You ask, and it makes Logan realise you don’t know him at all. Bad for his ego, sure, but good that he has a clean slate. He doesn’t often get one of those.

“You could say that, yes.” He smirks, and you look at him like you’re trying to grasp what he meant by that. Or you’re just thinking he’s fucking weird, he thinks. Logan clears his throat, “You’ve never been over here?”

You shrug, “Maybe once during freshman year, I’m not sure. I don’t do parties that much, honestly,” you smile bashfully, “Boring, I know.”

“You don’t seem boring at all,” he says, smiling as he adjusts his position, turning his body to face you, “What brings you here, then?”

“Uh, my friend Hannah,” you smile, “She's been asking me to come ever since she started dating Garrett Graham. One of the Hockey guys, you know?”

Logan just nods, smiling, “I’ve heard of him. And how come you’ve never seen any of the hockey games?”

“It’s just not my thing,” you take a sip of your drink, like you haven’t just destroyed his entire world. He lets out a laugh, and you smile at him, “You didn’t tell me your name.”

“John. Uh, John Logan.”

He watches as your smile drops, and he’d feel slightly bad if your widened eyes weren’t so adorable. “As in Garrett’s best friend? From the hockey team?”

“Yeah, sorry.” He offers you a tight-lipped smile, “I thought you didn’t watch hockey?”

“I don’t,” you say, averting your eyes from him as you stand up from the bench, “I’m sorry, erm– Hannah talked about you, that’s all. Um, I should go find her.”

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he stands too, and you see a flash of earnest crossing his eyes as he steps in your direction. 

You shake your head, laughing incredulous, “No, I did that myself,” you chuckle, “I– I’ll see you around, yeah?”

And with that, you scurry back inside. 

Logan drops back into the bench, his lips curved into a tiny smile. Yeah, he’ll see you around.

“Logan, what is actually wrong with you?” Hannah shouts from halfway down the stairs. 

Logan sits in the kitchen next to Tucker as they share party leftovers for breakfast, and both Johns look up as she storms into the room. 

Tucker’s head snaps at him, “Nice meeting you,” he says solemnly as he pushes the plate of mini sandwiches in his direction "Enjoy your last meal.” 

Hannah stops in front of him, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed in a way Logan only sees when Garrett is being particularly annoying.

“I’m guessing your pretty friend rattled me?”

“She was mortified,” Hannah says, then in a slightly more invested tone, “You think she’s pretty, huh?”

“I didn’t mean to embarrass her,” He answers, “I just thought it was… Nice that she didn’t know me.”

Hannah rolls her eyes, turning away from him, “You hockey players and your big fucking heads.”

“Wait, Hannah,” Logan grabs the mini sandwich plate, moving around her, “I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to her next time.”

Hannah raises her eyebrow, “Next time?”

“If you bring her again. Please?” He smiles coyly, offering her the plate, “Here, turkey and spinach as an apology?”

She stares at the mini sandwiches, letting out a huff before snatching it off of his hands, “You’re lucky I’m hungry. Don’t try to be funny next time.”

He doesn’t know if it’s his luck or if you’re allowing him to find you so easily. Still, Logan murmurs a thank you to whoever’s listening when he spots you on that very same bench.

“Second time in a row,” he says, immediately disregarding Hannah's commands and being (debatably) funny, “Thought you didn’t do parties?”

You turn your head to face him, relief washing over him once he sees a smile on your face, “You’re one to talk,” you answer, “Mr. You Could Say I’m A Regular. You literally live here.”

“Which is exactly why I’m a regular,” he says, sitting down on the bench. “Sorry for not clarifying that before.”

You shake your head, chuckling, “It’s fine. Cruel, but fine.”

Logan’s hand finds his chest, feigning being offended, “Well, thank you for allowing me to rectify myself.” He says, “Why did you come back here, then?”

The yellow lighting dances over your face as you switch positions, “Hannah,” you say, simply.

“What, she dragged you here?”

“No. Can you imagine?” You look down at your cup, laughing, “No, she just said you were nice. That I should talk to you again.”

Oh, I gotta text Hannah a profound thank you after this, Logan thinks. “Yeah?” He mutters, “So it wasn’t about the good music?”

An upbeat, indie rock song plays in the background, muffled by the closed door separating you two from the inside. He doesn’t tell you that, but they’re playing his playlist tonight, a cheeky smile on his face as you rest your head in your hand, bobbing your head. 

“I don’t think I know this one, I think,” you say, “But I like it.”

“Me too.” He says, “You know, I promised Hannah I would make it up to you after leaving you mortified last time.”

You let out a surprised cackle, “Okay, mortified is a stretch,” you say through giggles, “I was mildly embarrassed.”

“Hey, her words, not mine.” He says, laughing with you, “Anyway, I was thinking– And feel free to like, I don’t know, say I’ve read this wrong, but– Um, do you think I could take you out sometime?”

You look up at him, the same glow of the fairy lights above you adorning your face and, god, you’re pretty. Logan would ask you out a hundred more times if he wasn’t waiting for an answer right now. 

“That’s a third meeting question, I think.” You smile at him, “But I can give you my number.”

He nods, the corners of his mouth going up, “I’ll take it.”

Logan’s thrilled that he gets to invite you for your third night over their house. Again, he feels extremely thankful for his friends’ disposition to party, even though this one barely counts as one. It’s a get–together at best, with his everyday housemates and their usual attachments, girlfriends, siblings and other close friends of friends. Maybe that’s why you seem much more comfortable as you walk inside, looking around.

“It’s a really nice house,” you say, “I can actually see the flooring when it’s not packed with people.”

He laughs, “Can I tell you a secret?” You nod, getting closer to him, and he takes the opportunity to drop his arm around your shoulder, “I like it much better this way.”

“Not much a party man yourself?”

Logan makes a face, scrunching his nose as he shakes his head, “It’s nice to just have music playing and chatter. Dean likes playing cards sometimes, I’m not against it.” “Me neither.” You say, like an open opportunity for invitation next time. He takes note, dragging you by your shoulders into the living room. 

You fit right into his friend group, he thinks as you sit on the couch, sandwiched between Allie and Hannah as you talk and talk — apparently Allie has heard wonders of you from her friend and was dying to meet you, in true Allie drama club fashion. He doesn’t mind losing your company for the next forty minutes, as long as he gets to watch you have a good time.

“You’re staring, loverboy,” Hannah says, his head snapping out of it, turning away from you in her direction, then again at your mocking face. He smiles, embarrassed from getting caught. 

“Sorry, hard not to,” he says, getting an eyeroll from Allie and giggles from you, which he counts as a win. “Mind if I steal her back?”

He’s asking you, you can tell because his big eyes don’t move from your face, even when his demeanour does. You give him a small nod, and he offers you his hand.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Is that even a question?” he says, moving from the living room to the kitchen, pitstopping to grab two drinks and hand you one, his arm going back to your shoulders as he leads you to the backdoor, “Our place, obviously.”

You chuckle as he closes the door behind him, your usual bench still in its place, fairy lights very much the same. The sky isn’t as dark tonight, a blue tinted colour around the both of you mixing with the yellow glimmer that decorates the backyard. You sit, and he follows you. This time, he doesn’t leave much space, and you don’t mind his legs so close to yours as you rest your head against the brickwall. 

“Is it our place now?” You ask. 

Logan does a hand motion, gesturing for you to look around, “I don’t see anyone else here,” he says, “I don’t think I was even aware of this bench until I found you here.”

“So you’re saying this is my bench,” you joke. 

“I mean, feel free to get it engraved or something. As far as I’m concerned, this is yours,” he says. 

You laugh, fingers moving across the wooden armrest, “Thank you,” you say, your hand traveling over the bench, reaching until it meets his upper arm, “And thank you.”

He shrugs, moving his face so his chin gently touches your hand on his shoulder. You touch his face, caressing his cheek like you just did with the armrest, pulling him a bit closer.

“I know I’m supposed to ask you on a date,” he murmurs, “But is it okay if I ask for a kiss now?”

You chuckle, not giving him any response but your lips touching his gently. His hand goes to your other cheek as you kiss him, the first of many kisses that backyard bench gets to witness. You giggle as Logan’s hands in your face keep you in place, continuing to press quick kisses over your mouth and face.

“I might take you up on that engraving offer, you know?” You say, “I like this place. It’s sort of romantic.”

“Sort of romantic?” He asks, his voice muffled as he presses his lips against yours again, getting a smile from you. 

Logan might just carve your initials into that bench now, make it real romance, just for you.

notes: genuine question how do we feel about the dividers. also i believe this is my biggest john logan fic so far! thank you for reading and sorryyy it took me some extra time, i'd love to hear your thoughts on it! <3

Fairy tales had been thrust into your life as a young girl since before you could walk, you knew all the lyrics to every Disney princess song by the time you were six. 

By your tenth birthday, you had a book made that had every single wish and want that you had for your future boyfriend. 

Your parents swore that if your second love for running hadn’t come into your life. You would have lived each day to dream. 

By the time that you were 18, you had experienced twelve new kisses, three boyfriends, one of whom was a sexual partner too. 

You had nothing against any of them, but when each one ended, you never seemed that phased, as if you knew it was going to end.

It was because you knew that you hadn’t met your person. 

Or at least that was the case until Garrett Graham came into your life.

You'd met at a hockey party, argued over a game of beer pong, and kissed in the kitchen an hour later. Garrett Graham had smiled against your lips and you laughed at everyone else who swore that he was going to be the boy to break your heart.

With every anniversary or milestone that you two have reached. You swore that they were all wrong and that you and Garrett were truly meant to be. 

Your friends joked that he was your very own Noah Calhoun, as the man was practically a shadow of himself if you weren’t around. 

He showed up to every track meet with flowers as he sat right next to your parents, cheering you on while you ran down the finishing straight. And if your parents couldn’t make it, then Garrett gave them the world’s longest play-by-play afterwards. 

The two of you were perfect together. By the end of sophomore year, the boys joked that your wedding would happen before you both graduated. Tucker had these long thoughts about how he’d design your wedding cake. While Dean and Logan argued over who would be the officiant of the wedding.

You never told either boy, but you knew that it would actually be Beau who filled that slot. 

Most days when you had downtime, you spent them sitting on the boys’ couch. Most of the time, you were attempting to do work or edit your training schedule. Before, it was Garrett who would try to distract you. 

Smothering you in kisses or pulling you into his arms as he shut your laptop. But now, it was Dean looking over your shoulder to see what you were working on or Tucker offering you a snack. Occasionally, you even got an appearance from Logan, who taught you the basics of mechanical work. 

And that day seemed no different “sorry babe, I can’t do our date tonight.” Garrett leaned over the couch as he pressed a kiss on your cheek. 

You held back a sigh as you turned your head to face him “why is that?” You asked as you frowned, a little upset, actually, “Hannah rescheduled our tutoring session.” 

Dean awkwardly sat next to you as you forced yourself to smile, “tell her I say hi!” The blonde swore in that moment that you were squeezing your laptop so hard you might almost break it. 

Garrett nodded before he left for the door without a second thought “okay so am I just like a fucking idiot or does everyone else see that?” 

Logan nodded from the kitchen, “third time this week now?” And that was what almost made it official.

You got up as you shook your head “I am going to go throw myself off of a cliff before I hit him.” You announced to the boys who all frowned “just talk to him seriously.” 

You knew Tucker came from a good place, which is why you didn’t tell him how wrong he was “we have just found a way to stop fighting with each other-” you sighed as you looked to the front door where Garrett left from. 

The truth was that for the past three weeks, the two of you couldn’t go a few minutes without fighting. 

The topics varied. 

Sometimes, Garrett felt like you didn’t care that he was stressed with being captain. Other times, you felt like the little time left in your schedules should be used on each other. 

And when it got particularly bad, you actually stopped keeping track of what seemed to set the two of you off. 

This date night that Garrett kept bailing on was meant to be the real proof that the two of you had turned a page. 

That the rough that you had been dealing with was just weeds in a garden, not rot within the house. 

Dean clicked his tongue “bit hard to fight him when he keeps on seeing her instead.” She was Hannah Wells. 

You met her a few times in passing, the girl complimented your pace and you always loved the way that she was so friendly at Malone’s.

She had started tutoring Garrett in philosophy a few weeks ago and was Garrett’s newest excuse for why he was too busy for you. 

Training, film review, school, tutoring, if there was an excuse to get out of seeing you, you had heard it. 

At the beginning, you really didn’t mind, you knew he was busy because he had all of these responsibilities. 

But a responsibility is telling your girlfriend that you need to reschedule your anniversary date, hours in advance. Not when you were sat at the restaurant, a glass of wine in and the waiter actually ended up giving it to you on the house as he felt bad. 

For every excuse that he gave you, you found another help make his case. 

And by now you were starting to get a little more than just irritated “I am going to bid you boys farewell and hope that you are having more sex than your captain before I say anything else!” You shoved your laptop in your bag as Logan frowned when Dean laughed.

He stopped what he was working on in the kitchen as he came out to face you before you left “you know, girlfriend or not, we are your friend too.” Dean and Tucker nodded at his words. 

It made you softly smile “love you, boys.” You kissed your fingers before you waved them goodbye. 

As you left the house, your nose scrunched, because that place stopped feeling like Garrett’s. In fact, it was starting to feel a whole load like there was a river between the two of you that neither one was ready or willing to cross.

Garrett called out your name when he saw you.

You didn’t turn right away.

That was new for you. Normally, you’d turn instantly, instinctively, like muscle memory. Like gravity.

But this time, your body lagged behind your pride and even your brain as you contemplated ditching the heels you were in to break into a sprint.

He caught up quickly anyway.

Athletic stride, slightly out of breath, like he’d been running through excuses before he even got to you.

When he stepped into your line of sight, you finally looked at him.

And something in your chest tightened at how normal he looked. Like he hadn’t just not shown up to one of the most important nights you’d had planned in weeks “I got held up,” he said immediately.

Not an apology.

Not yet.

Just the explanation he must’ve rehearsed on the way here.

You blinked once, “you didn’t come.” He looked at how gorgeous you looked that night. 

You’d never tell him that you bought the dress specifically for that night.

His mouth opened, then closed again. Like he’d expected you to argue with him instead of just stating it plainly, “I tried,” he said, softer “coach pulled me in after practice and I lost track of time. Then film ran longer than it should’ve and-”

You nodded slowly, cutting through it without raising your voice “I sat there for an hour without anything from you.”That stopped him.

Properly stopped him.

Because now it wasn’t a scheduling issue or a misunderstanding or something messy he could rearrange into something forgivable.

It was just time“I know,” he said, rubbing a hand through his hair, frustrated at himself more than anything else now.

Garret sighed as he rubbed his face with his hand “I should have called or texted or.” Then list stopped when he noticed how you frowned 

You weren’t interested in an excuse, especially not from him tonight “you should’ve come,” you interrupted quietly as you knew Coach Jensen would never force the guys to stay for review.

Silence settled between you.

Not the loud kind. Not the angry kind.

The kind that felt like it had been building for weeks and finally found somewhere to land.

You looked past him for a second, at the path behind him, at the restaurant district lights in the distance “I kept telling myself it was fine,” you said, almost to yourself. 

You pushed your hair up behind your head “that I just needed to be understanding this week.” A big game was coming up against another highly ranked team

Your fingers tightened slightly around your phone “but I’m starting to feel like I’m always the one making space for you.”His jaw flexed. He looked like he wanted to interrupt, but didn’t.

That was the worst part.

Not denial.

Not defensiveness.

Just him listening like he knew he didn’t have a clean answer, “I really didn’t mean for tonight to go like this.” And that was the problem. 

Because Garrett never meant for anything to ever go like this.

Yet somehow it always did “I know,” you replied.

And you did.

That was what made it worse.

Because even as you stood there, remembering how embarrassed you felt when you left the restaurant alone. Your throat tightened, but your voice stayed steady “I just wish you were there tonight.” You felt stupid for keeping things to yourself; you wanted Garrett to act like things actually mattered. 

That landed differently.

He stepped closer, slower this time, like he was afraid of pushing you further away “I’m here now,” he said, wishing that it was enough.

A young couple exited one of the buildings behind Garrett with their hands locked into each others and grins on their faces. 

The boy leaned over to say something that made the girl laugh and you knew exactly how that felt. 

Because Garrett used to be like that with you.

You could feel it in the way you weren’t reaching for him. In the way he wasn’t touching you yet either.

Like both of you were suddenly aware that something fragile had been stretched too far “I don’t want this to become normal,” you said, making the boy clench his teeth.

His eyes snapped to yours at that.

“What?”

“This,” you clarified, gesturing slightly between you “you not being there. Me convincing myself it’s okay.”

His expression tightened “I promise that it won’t,” he said immediately. Too fast. Too certain.

You shook your head once “please don’t promise me that if you don’t mean it.” That hit him harder than anything else you’d said.

Because you were right.

He couldn’t say he’d give you the world if he only planned on showing you one town. 

He stepped closer again, but slower now, more careful “I messed this up,” he said honestly “I did. And I hate that I did it tonight of all nights.”

You looked at him for a long moment.

Really looked.

Not at the hockey player everyone talked about.

Not at the captain people relied on.

Just at the boy who was standing there like he didn’t know how to fix something he couldn’t outwork.

The same boy who told you during your freshman year that he couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have you “I don’t need you to hate it,” you said softly. “I just need you to show up.”

That time, he didn’t argue.

He just nodded once, like he was taking the weight of it fully.

Then he stepped forward, and you didn’t resist it.

But you didn’t fully lean in either.

His arms wrapped around you anyway, steadying you like he could physically hold together something he was scared he was losing.

After a moment, he shifted slightly, and you felt his hand rest at the back of your head.

And then he pressed a kiss there.

Just quiet.

Like a promise, he didn’t know how else to say out loud.

When he pulled back slightly, his voice was low “I’ll make it up to you,” he announced as he hooked his fingers under your chin. 

Garrett wanted to tell you that you looked gorgeous, but somehow the words never left his lips “I’ll make it up to you properly.” And as you nodded, Garrett let his jacket hang on your shoulders before the two of you walked back to your dorm.

By the time that drunken Shakespeare had come and gone, it was official that everyone knew something was going on between the two of you. 

The IT couple of Briar U had cracked, because they weren’t as perfect as everyone had started to believe. 

You tried to ignore the rumours about Hannah and Garrett, but you knew you were just an idiot. 

It had been days since the two of you had spoken, almost a month since Garrett sent you a good morning or goodnight text. 

The boys kept their promise as they continued to check up on you. In the first two weeks, it was because they really did miss you. But by now they were worried. 

It was the fact that there was no real end in sight because Garrett still spoke about being your boyfriend, when he seemed to remember your existence. 

And you still let your eyes settle on the door, as you waited for your Garrett to walk back in.

For him to tell you that he was so sorry for the way he had you feeling like it was your fault.

It had been weeks of you swearing that you were fine. 

And that should have been something that the boys listened to, but they knew you better than that. 

You had been going on late-night runs every day, and each time you wanted to stop you couldn’t.

The two of you had texted occasionally, throughout the time apart. But you hadn’t see the boy in person. 

It wasn’t even vocalised between the two of you that there was something wrong. 

And that was what left your runs to be the longest ones you ever did. 

Because somehow, your anger drove your feet.

Further and harder than you ever thought was possible.

The quiet and clear sky somehow managed to soothe your mind. 

And on this particular night, it seemed that Garrett had the same idea when he stood outside of the library. 

He was in the middle of a tutoring session, and he craved the break he got from the solitude. 

So when he saw you running, part of him thought that he would have ducked to go back inside. 

But instead, his feet drove him directly into your path “hey,” he nodded as you pulled your AirPod out of your ear.

You cocked your head “hi.” You pursed your lips together, a little surprised that he was talking to you. 

It had probably been over a month since Garrett initiated a conversation with you in person. 

You crossed your arms as you waited for him to talk “how are you?” The small talk between the two of you felt weird.

And you had to admit that you weren’t a fan of it “I’m glad to hear you still remember how to talk to me.” Your words were honest, and it was what hurt. 

Garrett scoffed, “of course I know how to talk to you.” The look you gave him said otherwise. 

“Yeah but can you look at me for more than five minutes?”

The boy pinched the bridge of his nose “what are you playing at?” He looked up at the sky, making you almost laugh.

You felt tired, actually, you felt exhausted “when you got onto that stage with her, you didn’t even look at me.” You weren’t accusing him about anything. 

You knew that Garrett would never cross a line with Hannah. But it was getting hard to make your heart hear it in the same way your brain did.

Garrent let out a harsh sigh, unsure of wht he was having this fight with you again “you know I love you,” if you weren’t paying attention, you would have sworn that he was actually asking you a question. 

Your chest ached as you fiddled with the ring on your finger. It had been one that Garrett gave you for your 20th birthday “but are you in love with me?” Silence followed, and that was the true nail in the coffin.

Of course he did, his brain almost short-circuited at the absurdity of the question, “what’s that supposed to mean?” His hands landed on his hips as he grew defensive.

You sighed as you paused your run time on your watch “look I don’t want to fight tonight.” You announced as you watched the boy scoff. 

The hockey player frowned, “don’t push me away like this.” He pleaded as he shook his head. 

Tears welled in your eyes “I am holding on for dear life Gar,” you had felt like you were barely able to keep your head above water for weeks now and you hated it. 

You hated that you cared so much for someone who felt like they were pushing you away. 

But you hated more that Garrett could check out of the relationship that made you feel like you were in a fairytale. 

That he could stand in front of you like every time he made up an excuse to not see you, wasn’t killing your confidence every time “I need you like you are the best reason that I have each day to smile.” The words pressed into his chest as he couldn’t remember the last time that he made you smile, “but I need you to need me back!” 

Silence loomed over the two of you. 

And that somehow hurt the most. 

Not that you didn’t think that Garrett no longer cared, but that he couldn’t even try to offer an argument to you.

You pressed your hands against the sides of your head “why won’t you just let me all the way in!” The question came as Garrett backed away. 

Throughout the years he always found the perfect excuse to not have you meet his dad. It seemed that everyone in his circle knew his father but you “of course I let you in I love you!” Garrett argued back as you shook your head. 

It was a topic that you knew came with baggage “I know your comfort meals.” You found out after your first fight when Garrett begged Tucker to help him make it for you “I know that your favourite movie to watch is a chick flick.” 

The edges of his mouth curved upward as he smiled “but I don’t know what scares you in this world.” Your voice broke “or why you love hockey.” 

“Or why you’ve met my whole family and your dad doesn’t even know that I exist.”

It cut deep as Garrett always envied how sweet and loving your parents were, they looked at you like you were the best thing since sliced bread. 

Garrett reached for your hand but you pulled away “I am so tired of feeling sad.” You shook your head as tears openly streamed down your face now. 

You sniffled harshly, “god I’d rather feel nothing at all than have to go through one more fucking moment of whatever this is.” Your heart felt lighter as you spoke, getting the thoughts you so desperately needed to let go of out of your mind. 

The boy shoved his hands into his pockets “what am I meant to do about that?” He rolled his eyes, feeling like this was another fight. 

But instead, you merely sighed, “I don’t know anymore, Gar.” You chewed at the inside of your cheek to try to convince your mind that this wasn’t the thing that was hurting.

You used the back of your hand to wipe the snot coming from your nose “y’know, I really thought that in this break we’ve had for the last week that you would come back first.” You actually laughed at that, cursing yourself for how clearly foolish you had been. 

He stayed quiet “that you would come back and tell me that you realised there was no one else you could be with but me,” Garrett watched as you looked away, Hannah had started walking towards the two of you. 

You couldn’t even fault the girl as she sent you a comforting smile, stopping in her tracks when she saw that you had been crying “I wanted you to tell me that you would rather be alone than live one second in this place without me.” Venom laced your words even if you didn’t mean for it to happen. 

Garrett sighed as he raked his fingers through his curls “I never meant to hurt you,” his words should have provided you with some comfort. 

They should have made you realise that this wasn’t your fault “but you did Garrett.” You shrugged as you somehow were left feeling worse. 

You stepped back as he stepped forward, as the cold autumn breeze brushed around campus, it was clear much like how the seasons were changing from fall to winter, that there was an end between the two of you too. 

Still you hoped that Garrett would find a way to fight. 

And still you ended up disappointed “I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you needed,”  Garrett knew that when things were going well he was a part of the reason why you were on cloud nine. 

But when he was gone, he was the reason why you were sad. Even if it was an event for you, his lack of presence would be the thing your brain lingered on. 

Part of you wanted to tell him that he was your dream in human form. 

But that part had been hurt one too many times by him to speak, “and I’m sorry I wasn’t a girl worth loving.” In that moment, your words captured everything that you had been feeling for weeks. 

Garrett watched as you turned around, not bothering to put your AirPod back into your ear as you carried on the rest of your run. 

He clenched his hands as he knew he couldn’t go after you. Yes Garrett loved you, but he wasn’t sure how he was meant to treat you with the value that you deserved.

You were the one who reminded Garrett how to laugh in rooms where he was meant to be quiet. How the worst days could be made better by simply talking to you, because somehow you always knew what to say to put his mind at ease. 

The boy never spoke to Phil about you because you were a light in his world that his dad worked so hard to keep dark. 

So when he watched you leave, Garrett didn’t know what to do, because part of him wanted to run after you. 

But there was a quieter part that knew you deserved the right to leave him and the shitshow that was his world. Because that was what he always assumed would happen anyway, so that was why he never let you in fully. 

Because at least once you left you wouldn’t pity him if you didn’t know his full story “you should go back inside, it’s cold out here.” Hannah’s voice was kind, but Garrett didn’t let his eyes fall from where you ran to. 

“I’m good.”